Unknownfate
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Chapter 88
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 15:45:27 +0000 UTC“Scan complete,” the A.I. announced. “Foreign metal fragments: none detected. Palladium toxicity: zero. Vital signs… optimal. Congratulations, sir. You are, by all medical and mechanical measurements, healthy.”
Tony let out a sound. It wasn’t a laugh, not exactly—more of a choked exhale, somewhere between disbelief and quiet relief. He reached up and touched his chest again, fingertips brushing over the housing of the reactor.
“I don’t… I don’t feel anything,” he murmured.
“No pain?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “Nothing. No burn. No weight. It’s like—” His voice cracked for a heartbeat. “It’s like nothing happened at all. But I trust JARVIS.”
He turned toward me, expression open, stripped of pretense.
“You really did it,” he said. “You actually did it.”
“I told you I would.”
“I’ve had surgeons tell me it was impossible. The best minds I know said it would kill me to even try. And you just—” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “—waved a glowing stick at me and now I’m fine.”
“It’s not a stick,” I said, lips curving. “It’s Avalon.”
Tony gave a short huff of breath that might have been a laugh. “Right. Of course it is. Avalon. King Arthur’s holy scabbard. Naturally.”
He sat down heavily, running both hands through his hair. “God, my life is weird.”
“Only going to get weirder,” I said knowingly.
“Sir, given that you are perfectly healthy, I have no need to fear that you will suffer a sudden heart attack, so I will report a situation.” JARVIS said, getting both Tony’s and my attention.
“What situation?” He asked his AI.
“Miss Mordred has, while you were preoccupied, broken all your entertainment systems, she managed to cause critical damage to the combat simulator, and is currently going through your wine collection, opening bottles and throwing them around, ruining the wine.”
Tony stared at the ceiling as if hoping the words he just heard were part of an elaborate joke.
“She’s what?”
“You heard him,” I said calmly, folding my arms. “I did warn you that she’s spirited.”
“How!? That combat simulator was only installed a few days ago! It was supposed to be able to stand up to nearly everything!” He seemed both shocked and distressed.
“She… just punched it, and kicked it a few times… she also broke into the lab and punched your suit, Sir. It didn’t come out of it without serious damage; it is currently in an unusable state.” JARVIS continued his report.
“Did she use her sword?” I couldn’t help but ask, concerned that Mordred might have pushed things too far.
“Miss Mordred hasn’t produced a sword, no.”
His reply had me release a sigh of relief. “That’s good, I was worried she would take things too far.” I said, trying to reassure them, and myself.
Tony didn’t look reassured.
“She punched the suit?” he echoed, tone brittle. “Not shot it. Not blasted it. Just bare-knuckle slugged a suit of next-gen combat armor—and won?”
“Technically, she also elbowed it,” JARVIS offered helpfully. “And headbutted the helmet plate.”
Tony slumped back in his chair, hands limp at his sides. “This is why I don’t host guests. They ruin my things and drink my wine.”
“I’m sorry for the trouble, but I assure you, she means no harm, she is just… careless is all.” I tried to cover for Mordred, but even I found it difficult.
“Miss Mordred had loudly and repeatedly proclaimed her intent to ensure Mr Stark is left bedridden for the rest of his life.” JARVIS instantly shot down my defence.
Tony raised an eyebrow at me, deadpan. “Careless?”
I looked away for a moment, clearing my throat. “Very… enthusiastic.”
“She’s a walking lawsuit,” he muttered. “And I’m the only one on the planet dumb enough to invite her in.”
“Please, if you hadn’t invited us in, her path of ruin would have started from the door, she isn’t used to taking no for an answer.” I gently reminded him that he never really had a choice.
He stared at me, flat and unimpressed. Then sighed.
“JARVIS, status report on the damages.”
“Beginning assessment. Total estimated loss exceeds seventy million dollars and is still climbing. Fire suppression in the wine cellar is currently active. Miss Mordred appears to be attempting to light a bottle of Château Margaux on fire ‘to see if vintage affects combustion.’”
Tony buried his face in his hands. “She’s going to burn down the house.”
“She won’t,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Probably.”
Another pause.
Tony lifted his head again, looking at me through tired eyes. “I just got a second chance at life. Why do I feel like I’m going to regret it?”
Before I could answer, a distant crash echoed through the mansion, followed by a shout of “This bottle tastes like horse piss!” and what sounded suspiciously like more glass shattering.
Tony stood. “Nope. That’s it. I’m cutting her off.”
“Let me remind you that she is doing this because she wants an excuse to treat your face like she did the helm of your suit.”
That caused him to stop in his step. Clearly, he knew how hard his helm was, and now understood how thick Mordred's head was.
“Let me take Mordred away before she goes further. And I’m sure you want to review that new element, and you need time to prepare what I'm owed, so how about I return in three days' time to collect?
Tony stared at me for a long moment, then let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I only just finished installing that combat simulator, never got around to using it,” he groaned.
I couldn’t blame him, one moment he was elated about getting his life saved, the next he heard that his house was getting torn apart. It couldn’t compare to the high, but it was still a rain on his parade.
“Well, then it's hardly Mordred’s fault, it would likely have broken the first time you used it as well, if anything blame the guy who sold it to you.” I quickly shifted the blame off my child who was no doubt at fault.
He groaned. “That simulator was state-of-the-art. Adaptive pressure plates, magnetic resistance fields, full kinetic feedback systems. I hadn’t even run the full diagnostics yet.”
“And now you won’t have to,” I said gently. “Mordred already tested its limits.”
Tony gave me a look so flat it could’ve been used as a building material.
“Enough. Three days, and next time, I won’t stick around for long, since that won’t give Mordred a chance to make a mess, and as a token of my goodwill, should you visit Camelot, I shall let you taste wines you never could outside it.”
A final crash sounded in the distance, followed by a sharp curse and the unmistakable hiss of foam flooding a wine rack.
Tony rubbed his temples. “Is it too late to start charging you by the bottle?”
“Yes.”
I replied, turning toward the hallway with a sigh. “Mordred!”
Silence, then the thudding of heavy boots. Mordred emerged moments later, carrying three half-empty bottles under one arm and licking red wine off her fingers.
“This place has terrible taste,” she announced. “Everything under three hundred years is vinegar.”
I stepped forward and took the bottles from her, handing them off to the nearest flat surface. “That’s enough. We’re leaving.”
“But I haven’t tried the brandy cellar yet.”
“Mordred.”
She groaned like a child being dragged away from a candy shop, then glanced at Tony and gave him a wide, fang-toothed grin. “Hey, tin man. That simulator of yours was trash. Next time, build one that fights back.”
“I’ll be sure to consult a medieval warlord for my next design,” Tony muttered.
Mordred’s grin only widened. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
She slung her jacket over one shoulder, shot a wink at JARVIS’s nearest camera, and walked toward the hallways like she owned the place. I followed with far more grace, pausing beside Tony once more.
“Three days,” I said quietly. “You have until then.”
He nodded, shoulders still tense. “I’ll have it ready. Just do me a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Next time… bring fewer knights.”
I smiled. “That depends entirely on how well you behave.”
-----
The Vatican had not slept well since Camelot returned.
Cardinal Salviati sat in a deep leather chair beneath the golden vaults of the Apostolic Palace, thumbing through the latest translation of Albion’s Declaration of Unity—a doctrine freshly signed and sealed by King Arthuria Pendragon himself.
One Crown. One Faith.
The Church of England was now the state religion of Albion. Not merely tolerated, not preferred—enshrined and renamed as the Church of Albion.
He had been tasked by His Holiness, the Pope, to write the Vatican’s official response. It was a challenging task; there was a great deal to unpack.
The name alone—Church of Albion—carried weight. Not just a rebranding, but a proclamation. A shift from the legacy of Henry VIII toward something mythic, nationalistic, and powerful. And behind it all stood the returned King.
Or rather, the king returned.
Salviati sighed, setting the parchment aside and reaching for his pen. The wording would have to be immaculate. A condemnation would risk alienating an entire nation. But silence might be interpreted as approval.
He began his draft slowly, whispering the words as he wrote them:
“The Holy See recognizes the significance of Albion’s declaration and the deep spiritual yearning it reflects. In these uncertain times, we acknowledge the reaffirmation of divine providence…”
He paused. No. That wasn’t strong enough. Not when the world was calling it a miracle. Not when the Holy Grail itself has been confirmed real.
He drew a line through the sentence and tried again.
“While the Church holds the Sacred Magisterium to be the sole interpreter of divine truth, we understand that faith takes many forms. We urge caution, unity, and continued dialogue in this new era…”
Still too soft.
He stared at the words, then glanced once more at the front page of his favourite newspaper.
“Magic is real. The Grail was real. So now, God is real too.”
The words had already sparked revival across Europe—and confusion. More so since the proclamation had also claimed that the Vatican possessed holy relics of great power. Which it indeed did, though none on the level of the Holy Grail, but could they admit that? Should they?
Salviati rose and walked to the window. From the Apostolic Palace, the city of Rome lay quiet beneath the early dawn. But even here, he felt the tremor.
“God is not a trophy to be confirmed,” he whispered to himself. “He is the source of all truth… not its conclusion.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he called, voice steady.
A young monsignor stepped in with a folder. “More reports from Albion, Eminence. Transcripts of the King’s interview. The public ceremony with the Archbishop of Canterbury. And… footage of the so-called ‘Knighting of the Church.’”
Salviati took the folder and nodded. “Thank you. Has His Holiness seen these?”
“He’s waiting for your summary, Eminence.”
“Then I must give him one worthy of the times.”
The door closed behind the monsignor, leaving Salviati alone once more.
He returned to his desk and began a new draft. This time, the words came slower—but with purpose.
“The Vatican recognizes the spiritual significance of recent events in Albion. However, we caution against conflating myth with divine revelation. The Church of Rome maintains that salvation lies not in relics, but in the Resurrection. Yet we extend our prayers to the faithful of Albion, and hope that their renewed conviction may serve the cause of peace and Christian unity.”
He set down the pen. Not perfect. But perhaps—perhaps—it was enough for now. If nothing else, it would reassure the faithful long enough for a better response to be made.
After all, the King of Camelot may have returned.
But the Church still served the King of Kings.
(End of chapter)
So, here we have the last bit of Tony, for now at least. And a bit of a reaction, the Church is after all a massive organization, and must know about magic, they play a role in some stories, so here they know about magic, have some magic items.
Whether they really are holy relics or just magic items is unknown, but they at least have them in this story.
