Unknownfate
patreon
Chapter 140
🕑 Added 2025-05-27 08:09:03 +0000 UTCAcross the city, in the small, cramped break room of a waste management facility on the outskirts of Camelot, two men sat hunched over a battered, grease-stained table, their stained, high-visibility jackets draped over the backs of their plastic chairs, the faint, sour smell of sweat and diesel fumes clinging to their clothes.
A small, battered television sat on the corner of the table, its cracked plastic casing held together with strips of duct tape and hope, the faint, flickering glow of the broadcast casting sharp, jagged shadows against the grimy, smoke-stained walls.
“Oi, look at that,” one of the men muttered, his thick, calloused fingers wrapped around a chipped, stained mug of strong, bitter tea as he nodded toward the screen, his broad, ruddy face creasing into a faint, bemused grin. “Would ya look at ‘er? King of bloody Albion, and she’s got a face like a bleedin’ angel. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes.”
His companion, a tall, wiry man with a crooked nose and a patchy, graying beard, let out a low, snorting laugh, his dark, sunken eyes flicking briefly to the screen before returning to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
“Yeah, well,” he grunted, his thick, gravelly voice muffled slightly by the wad of bread and meat in his mouth, “I suppose that explains all the fuss lately, eh? Whole bloody world losin’ its mind over the fact that the King’s a bird. Like it matters, long as she keeps the lights on and the roads clear.”
The first man snorted, leaning back in his chair and taking a long, slow sip from his mug, his thin, watery eyes never leaving the flickering screen.
“Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s a bit of a shock, innit? I mean, ‘King’ Arthur, the Lion of Albion, the bloody Once and Future King, and it turns out she’s a lass? Bit of a twist, that.”
His companion just shrugged, swallowing the last of his sandwich with a loud, satisfied grunt and wiping his greasy fingers on the front of his already stained coveralls.
“Eh, don’t make much difference to me,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair and scratching absently at the stubble on his jaw. “Long as she keeps the pay comin’ and the bills down, which is doing mighty fine, so all is good, innit?”
The first man let out a low, wheezing laugh, his broad, ruddy face splitting into a crooked, toothy grin as he set his mug down on the edge of the table with a quiet, satisfied clink.
“Aye, that’s true enough,” he chuckled, his small, beady eyes glinting with a faint, mischievous light as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Still, gotta admit, I wouldn’t mind seein’ her in a proper dress, just once. Bet she scrubs up nice, eh?”
His companion let out a low, snorting laugh, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned back in his chair, the faint, bitter edge of old scars and hard lessons lurking beneath his rough, gravelly voice.
“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath, mate. Lass like that don’t seem the type to play dress-up for the likes of us. She’s a warrior, that one. A proper fighter. I reckon she’d cut your head off soon as ya look at her if you tried to tell her otherwise.”
The two men shared a quiet, knowing laugh, their voices low and rough, the faint, bitter echoes of old scars and hard lessons lingering in the cramped, smoke-stained air of the break room as the flickering glow of the battered TV cast strange, jagged shadows against the grimy, grease-streaked walls.
The TV crackled slightly, the faint hum of the poorly maintained speakers cutting through the low, rumbling hum of the break room’s ancient, wheezing air conditioner, and the camera panned across the grand, stone-walled hall of Camelot’s inner keep.
Seated at one end, her posture straight and regal, her eyes calm and unwavering, was Arthuria Pendragon, the King of Albion. She wore a striking, deep blue armored dress, the rich fabric woven with intricate golden patterns that traced the curves of her form, the design both elegant and imposing.
Over her shoulders, she wore a flowing, white shawl edged with delicate blue patterns, the ends fringed with soft, white tassels that swayed gently as she moved. Her long, golden hair was neatly braided and rested over one shoulder, a few loose strands framing her sharp, blue-green eyes, which gleamed with quiet, unbreakable resolve.
Opposite her sat David Dimbleby, the veteran journalist leaning slightly forward in his chair, his hands loosely clasped on the table before him, his sharp, inquisitive eyes fixed firmly on the ruler of Albion.
The camera cut to a close-up of Dimbleby’s gray eyes as he prepared to ask the first question, the faint, familiar tension of live broadcasting settling over his shoulders like an old, comfortable cloak.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his tone respectful but firm, the careful, polished cadence of a man who had spent decades in front of the camera, “you have recently revealed to the world not only your true face, but your true nature – that of a woman, a fact which has surprised, and in some cases shocked, both your allies and your enemies alike. How do you respond to those who question the legitimacy of your rule, who claim that you are not the Arthur Pendragon of legend, but an imposter, a pretender to the throne?”
The two garbage collectors leaned forward slightly, their eyes narrowing as they waited for Arthuria’s response, their battered, calloused hands tightening briefly against the edges of their plastic chairs.
Arthuria met Dimbleby’s gaze without flinching, her blue-green eyes steady and unyielding, the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips as she considered his question.
“I understand their confusion,” she replied, her voice low and clear, the faint, musical lilt of her accent carrying easily through the echoing hall. “But maybe you will also understand the answer. I am Arthur, and Caliburn is proof enough, so I will not waste time on that; instead, the better question is why history remembers a lie.”
Dimbleby nodded along, signaling that he was fine with the change.
“Many places today will not accept a woman in charge, certain roles aren’t meant for women, this is true today, and far more so back then. People could not accept a woman ruling a land. That was the downfall of my sister Morgan, and could have been mine too.”
Dimbleby leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he processed Arthuria's words, the faint, crackling hum of the broadcast cutting through the tense silence of the break room.
One of the garbage collectors let out a low, impressed whistle, leaning back in his chair as he folded his thick, calloused arms across his chest, his eyes never leaving the flickering screen.
“Blimey,” he muttered, a faint, bemused grin splitting his broad, ruddy face as he reached for his mug of tea. “She’s got a bit of a sharp tongue, don’t she? Ain’t afraid to cut right to the bone.”
His companion just snorted, scratching absently at the patchy stubble on his jaw as he leaned forward, his dark, sunken eyes fixed intently on the screen.
“Yeah, well, good on ‘er,” he grunted, his rough, gravelly voice tinged with a faint, grudging respect. “’Bout time someone told the truth for once. Whole world’s full o’ liars and politicians, and she ain’t neither.”
On the screen, Arthuria continued, her eyes never leaving Dimbleby’s steady, unblinking gaze.
“In my time,” she said, her voice low and clear, the faint, musical lilt of her accent carrying easily through the echoing hall, “a woman who took up the sword, who led men into battle, who sat upon a throne, would have been seen as an abomination, an affront to the natural order.”
“So,” She continued. “Merlin and my father worked together to hide the truth; no one knew that I was a woman. It was kept secret, and it was a secret all the way until my death. At one point, my knights learned the truth, and much to my shame, that played a part in Mordred’s rebellion.”
The two garbage collectors exchanged a quick, surprised glance, their rough, calloused hands tightening briefly against the edges of their plastic chairs as they processed Arthuria’s words.
“Bloody hell,” one of them muttered, leaning back in his chair and scratching absently at the patchy stubble on his jaw. “Didn’t see that comin’. She kept it a secret all the way back then? Must’ve been a right mess when the truth came out.”
His companion just snorted, taking a long, slow sip from his chipped, stained mug, his broad, ruddy face creasing into a faint, bemused grin as he leaned back in his chair, the thin, plastic seat creaking faintly beneath his weight.
“Aye,” he grunted, his voice low and rough, the faint, bitter edge of old scars and hard lessons lurking beneath the words. “Can’t imagine the lads takin’ that too well. All those bloody knights, fightin’ and dyin’ for a king they thought was a fella, only to find out he’s a lass. Bet that caused a bit of a stir.”
They gave the woman on screen a good, hard look. “But how in the hell did she keep that a bloody secret? I mean, that body she got, bloody fine it is.”
They weren’t the only ones with that question; even Dimbleby on screen couldn’t picture someone like her pretending to be a man. “Well, excuse me for asking Your Majesty, but how was it ever a secret? I mean, look at you?”
Arthuria let out a quiet, almost amused breath, her sharp, blue-green eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned back in her chair, her armored fingers resting lightly against the polished wood of the table.
“I suppose that is a fair question,” she replied, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips, the warm light catching the angles of her face and glinting off the polished curves of her armor.
There was a brief, stunned silence in the break room, the two garbage collectors exchanging a quick, surprised glance, their rough, calloused hands tightening briefly against the edges of their plastic chairs as they processed her words.
“Oi,” one of them muttered, leaning back in his chair and scratching absently at the patchy stubble on his jaw. “She’s got a point, don’t she? She’s been runnin’ around in that bloody armor since she appeared, and no one had a clue.”
His companion just snorted, taking a long, slow sip from his chipped, stained mug, his broad, ruddy face creasing into a faint, bemused grin as he leaned back in his chair, the thin, plastic seat creaking faintly beneath his weight.
“Aye,” he grunted, his voice low and rough, the faint, bitter edge of old scars and hard lessons lurking beneath the words. “She’s been runnin’ circles around the whole bloody world, and no one even noticed. Gotta respect that.”
Dimbleby chuckled lightly, his sharp, gray eyes glinting with genuine amusement as he leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lightly against the polished surface of the table.
“Alright, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, his voice growing a touch lighter, a touch more conversational as he prepared to move on to the next topic. “Now, if I might steer the conversation back to matters of state – Albion has undergone a remarkable transformation in the past year, rapidly modernizing and building infrastructure at a pace that has left much of the world scrambling to catch up.
But one of the more ambitious projects your government has announced is the complete overhaul of the kingdom’s energy grid. Could you perhaps shed some light on what your plans are in that regard?”
Arthuria inclined her head slightly.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice low and clear, the faint, musical lilt of her accent carrying easily through the echoing hall. “You are correct – Albion’s energy infrastructure has been a priority of mine since the very beginning. A strong, independent kingdom must be self-sufficient, must be able to sustain itself without relying on the whims and mercy of foreign powers. And that means building a stable, reliable, and sustainable energy grid.”
She paused for a moment, the firelight dancing across her composed expression, casting long, restless shadows from her braid onto the stone wall behind her.
“I am pleased to announce,” she continued, her voice growing slightly sharper, slightly more confident as she straightened in her chair, “that our new reactors – reactors designed using some of the most advanced technology available – are nearly complete,
and will be operational within the coming months. These reactors will produce enough green, renewable energy to power the entire kingdom, providing clean, affordable electricity to every home, every business, every workshop, every forge in Albion.”
She paused for a moment, her eyes gleaming with quiet, unbreakable resolve as she met Dimbleby’s steady, unblinking gaze.
“And more than that,” she added, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips, her sharp, angular features cast into sharp relief by the flickering firelight, “the efficiency of these reactors will allow us to reduce the cost of electricity to roughly 5% of what it currently is. That means lower bills, more disposable income, and a higher quality of life for the people of Albion.” #3
There was a brief, stunned silence in the break room, the two garbage collectors exchanging a quick, wide-eyed glance, their rough, calloused hands tightening briefly against the edges of their plastic chairs as they processed her words.
“Oi,” one of them muttered, leaning back in his chair and scratching absently at the patchy stubble on his jaw. “Did she just say... 5%? As in, we’ll be payin’ a fraction of what we’re payin’ now?”
His companion just snorted, setting his chipped, stained mug down on the edge of the table with a quiet, satisfied clink as he leaned back in his chair, the thin, plastic seat creaking faintly beneath his weight.
“Aye,” he grunted, his voice low and rough, the faint, bitter edge of old scars and hard lessons lurking beneath the words. “That’s what she said. Bloody hell, mate, that’s... that’s a proper game changer, that is. Imagine the money we’ll save. Could actually put a bit aside, maybe take the missus somewhere nice for once.”
The two men shared a quiet, slightly disbelieving laugh, their voices low and rough, the faint, bitter echoes of old scars and hard lessons lingering in the cramped, smoke-stained air of the break room as the flickering glow of the battered TV cast strange, jagged shadows against the grimy, grease-streaked walls.
