Unknownfate
patreon
Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:07:06 +0000 UTCThe clang of metal against metal rang out as Mordred and Lancelot faced off in a heated spar. Clarent met Arondight in a storm of sparks, their battle an outlet for emotions too raw to be voiced.
Years of resentment, admiration, and wounds that had never healed bled into every strike.
“You think you can just waltz back in here as if nothing happened?” Mordred spat, breaths heavy but stance firm.
His attacks were swift, unyielding, yet precise; Mordred wasn’t merely a wild fighter; he was his father’s heir, a knight shaped by fire and betrayal.
He launched into a brutal sequence of strikes, battering at Lancelot’s defenses with the raw strength that had made him feared on the battlefield. His blows were not merely meant to wound but to break—to shatter the man before him, as if in doing so, he could erase the past.
Lancelot met the onslaught with practiced ease, his blade moving with the fluidity of a river, redirecting each attack with controlled deflections. His footwork was light yet purposeful, a dancer amidst a storm.
But though his body responded with the grace honed over decades of battle, his heart was heavy. Every time he parried, every time he dodged, he saw the rage in Mordred’s eyes—the reflection of his own betrayal.
“I don’t expect forgiveness, Mordred,” Lancelot declared, his tone calm yet resolute. He twisted, parrying a downward slash and countering with a precise thrust, forcing Mordred back.
“But I will demonstrate my worth through actions, not words. Strike me down if you must; it’s your right.”
Mordred hesitated for a split second—a fleeting moment, barely noticeable, but significant enough for the keen-eyed knight Gawain to observe from the sidelines.
“This might actually benefit them,” Gawain murmured, his hand remaining close to his sword hilt. “Let them confront the past before it becomes a festering wound.”
Bedivere nodded in agreement but remained silent, his full attention on the duel. He also carried the burden of past errors—his own and those of the unwavering king he had served.
The duel escalated. Mordred, regaining his composure, abandoned restraint. He swung Clarent with such force that it sent shockwaves through the ground upon impact. Lancelot barely sidestepped in time, rolling with the momentum to avoid a crippling blow.
He countered with a sweeping arc, forcing Mordred onto the defensive. Their blades met again in a ringing clash, followed by a rapid exchange of feints and parries, each testing the other’s endurance.
Sir Gareth leaned toward Sir Tristan, who stood nearby without playing his harp for once. “Do you think they’ll become friends after this? Or will we have to haul one of them off the field in pieces?”
Tristan smirked. “Friends? Unlikely. Mutual respect? Perhaps. That depends on how hard they hit each other.”
Mordred, as the son of their king, possessed monstrous strength. But Lancelot was the greatest warrior among them, and skill could often surpass raw power.
Sir Palamedes joined the conversation, arms crossed. “They won’t forgive each other. Mordred has always hated Lancelot, and he always will. But this is necessary.”
His remarks elicited nods from the surrounding knights, many of whom could not forgive Lancelot for his actions, even as they shared similar feelings towards Mordred.
Gawain was one of those knights; He had been cut down by Mordred once before. That was not something easily forgiven.
But for now, his blade remained sheathed. He would follow his king’s will, and if his vengeance was to deny Mordred his claim to the throne, then so be it.
Lancelot exhaled, planting his feet firmly. Enough. He sidestepped another furious strike, shifting his stance. Mordred’s momentum betrayed him, leaving him open—Lancelot seized the moment.
He twisted, his blade striking Mordred’s gauntlet with enough force to send Clarent flying from his grip. The sword tumbled through the air before embedding itself in the dirt several feet away.
Mordred stood frozen, breathing hard. Lancelot’s blade hovered just above his shoulder, his expression unreadable.
A long silence stretched over the field before Lancelot pulled back, lowering his weapon. “You are strong, Mordred,” he said simply, offering no gloating, no scorn—only truth.
Mordred’s jaw tightened. And without a word he went over and picked up his sword. “We aren’t done, again!”
-----
The camera feed sprang to life, broadcasting across the UK.
A well-dressed reporter grasping a microphone stood before an expanding crowd. Behind him, the towering white walls of Camelot sparkled in the morning sunlight, a striking and unreal sight against the English countryside.
“Good morning, Britain.” The reporter began, his voice steady despite the evident disbelief in his eyes. “This is Alistair Hughes, live from Wiltshire, where an extraordinary—and frankly, unexplainable—event has occurred overnight. As you see behind me, a colossal medieval city has seemingly emerged from nowhere.”
The camera shifted to reveal the crowd—locals with their phones, amazed tourists, and a few law enforcement officers trying to maintain order. Some waved at the camera while others stared, their expressions a blend of curiosity and unease.
“Initial reports suggest this site was vacant just yesterday.” Alistair continued, “but as of this morning, a magnificent walled city now occupies what used to be rolling hills. Experts are perplexed, with no immediate explanation for this sudden phenomenon.”
The feed cut briefly to aerial footage, taken from a helicopter circling the site. The city’s gleaming white walls, intricate towers, and sprawling architecture were clearly visible, an image more suited to the pages of a fantasy novel than modern England.
“Authorities are advising people to stay back.” Alistair stated as the feed reverted to him. “Yet, as you can see, that hasn’t prevented hundreds from gathering here to catch a glimpse of what some are already dubbing ‘The Return of Camelot.’”
He paused, glancing back at the imposing gates. “Indeed, there’s considerable speculation that this might be none other than the legendary city of King Arthur, somehow revived.”
The camera zoomed in on a group of bystanders. “It’s mad, innit?” a man in a football jersey said to the reporter. “I mean, we’ve all heard the legends, but to see it like this? It’s unreal. You reckon King Arthur’s in there?”
Footage of an armored figure standing firmly outside the museum filled the screen. “This knight, donned in elaborate medieval armor, reportedly stood still for hours before vanishing. Witnesses claimed they referred to someone named ‘Agravain,’ a name tied to Arthurian legend.”
The feed returned to Alistair, his demeanor serious yet tinged with excitement.
“It’s important to note that this event has garnered international attention. The UK government and private organizations are closely monitoring the situation. However, officials have yet to release any public statements.”
As Alistair spoke, the camera panned to local officers cordoning off an area near the walls. Beyond them, several figures in suits—likely government agents—were seen gesturing animatedly.
“With no official explanations, people are resorting to social media to share their opinions.” Alistair remarked. “Some deem this a hoax, while others see it as a miracle.
Nevertheless, one thing is crystal clear: whatever this is, it’s unprecedented.”
The crowd shifted, drawing the camera’s attention. A deep, rumbling noise, akin to distant thunder, echoed faintly from within the city walls. Gasps rippled through the onlookers as a faint golden light began to emanate from the tallest tower.
“This just in!” Alistair exclaimed, his voice rising with urgency. “Something is unfolding inside the city!”
The camera zoomed in, capturing the ethereal glow now illuminating Camelot’s skyline. The walls appeared to hum softly, a vibration that could almost be felt through the screen.
“We’ll remain live here, providing updates as this astonishing story develops,” Alistair concluded, stepping closer to the camera.
“For now, this is Alistair Hughes reporting from Wiltshire—where history, it seems, is coming to life.”
The broadcast then shifted to the newsroom, but the image at Camelot’s gates lingered in the minds of viewers throughout the nation—and beyond.
-----
The overhead lights hummed, barely masking the tension in the room. Nick Fury occupied the head of the conference table, his solitary eye riveted on a screen displaying live drone footage of Camelot.
Phil Coulson stood nearby, tablet ready, prepared to brief the Director on the latest updates.
"Alright, Coulson," Fury said, voice edged with impatience. "You pulled me away from three different disasters for this. So tell me—why should an oversized medieval theme park be my top priority?"
Coulson tapped his tablet, and the screen transitioned to a close-up view of Camelot’s interior, captured by SHIELD's drones. The footage revealed the central keep, where rows of armored knights emerged with impeccable precision.
“Director, this isn’t merely a medieval city.” Coulson stated. “Thirty minutes ago, we observed organized activity within the walls. These aren’t civilians; they’re soldiers—five hundred powerful, heavily armed, emerging directly from the keep.”
The footage displayed knights in shining blue-tinted armor marching systematically. Some wielded large halberds, others held swords and shields, while a smaller group carried longbows. Their movements were methodical, disciplined, and eerily synchronized.
Fury leaned forward, his expression intense. “And the gates?”
“Still locked.” Coulson confirmed. “No one’s exited the city. It appears they’re securing their perimeter. Our observations suggest they’re fortifying the walls—archers are taking positions, and patrols are forming pairs. These individuals exhibit tactical knowledge.”
The camera zoomed in on a figure commanding the soldiers. A man clad in black and silver armor stood on the wall, his stern demeanor demanding respect. He moved with authority, issuing commands with sharp, efficient gestures.
“This individual appears to be in charge.” Coulson continued, indicating the figure. “We’re labeling him ‘Priority Target One.’ We lack a name, but his leadership is evident. The soldiers react to him like clockwork.”
Fury grunted, skepticism lacing his voice. “A medieval cosplay with a command structure. Impressive. But just because they wear shiny armor and show discipline doesn’t make it my problem. What else do you have?”
Coulson tapped his tablet once more, showcasing footage of another figure on a balcony overlooking the city. This man wore luminous white armor, a golden lance emanating a faint glow, and watched the events below with a royal demeanor.
“This presents a serious concern, sir.” Coulson said. “We’re dubbing him ‘Priority Target Zero.’ His minimal movement doesn’t lessen the unease his presence evokes.”
The footage zoomed in on Arthuria Pendragon, clad in her full Lion King regalia. The bright silver of her armor, the flowing white cloak, and the golden brilliance of Rhongomyniad made her a commanding figure. Even through the screen, her presence was undeniably formidable—a mix of authority, divinity, and peril.
“That’s a confirmed match to the London Knight.” Coulson noted. “Considering the weapon’s magical appearance, this situation appears more mystical than technological.”
Fury recognized the improbability, yet acknowledged the unforeseen possibilities, like a time machine. However, it reminded him more of the Tesseract than anything else.
Leaning back, Fury exhaled slowly. “Alright, Coulson. Any indications of them moving outside the walls?”
“None,” Coulson replied. “They remain contained for the moment. However, we can’t predict how long that will last or if additional entities will appear.”
Fury drummed his fingers against the table, contemplating the scenarios. “And what about the locals?”
“The crowd outside the walls is growing,” Coulson said, switching to live footage of civilians gathering at a safe distance. “But so far, there’s been no attempt at communication. The only thing the city has responded with… is silence.”
Fury nodded thoughtfully, his expression darkening. “Continue investigating. I need to know who they are, their origins, and their intentions. And Coulson?”
“Sir?”
“Let’s hope they stay behind those walls. If they don’t, things could become chaotic—very quickly.”
Coulson nodded grimly. “Understood, Director.”
Fury rose, his eye lingering on the screen a moment longer before exiting the room. “And Coulson? Find out the nature of that lance. My instincts say it’s not merely ornamental.”
“Yes, sir,” Coulson replied, already formulating plans to expand SHIELD’s surveillance network around Camelot.
As the door shut behind Fury, Coulson looked back at the screen. The knights continued their movements—an ancient force gearing for action in a modern world. No matter what lay ahead, SHIELD would be prepared—or so he hoped.
