=== Artoria Pendragon — Five Days After Returning to Camelot ===
“Your Majesty, I must object.”
The voice echoed through the great hall.
“You cannot possibly bring someone like that into your household.”
Artoria sat upon the throne of Camelot, her face concealed behind the enchanted helm that had become inseparable from the image of their king.
Before her stood the gathered nobility of the kingdom, each house occupying the stone galleries built into the walls of the throne room.
The houses closest to the throne represented the oldest and most influential families in Camelot, while those farther away belonged to lesser nobles whose voices carried far less weight within the court.
The man who had spoken stood among the foremost houses.
Marquess Grasso.
He was an enormous man, carrying his weight with the same arrogance he carried his title.
His greasy blond hair was slicked neatly back, framing a round face adorned with a carefully trimmed mustache.
His clothing was made from expensive fabrics and decorated with more gold than practicality required, while a jeweled cane rested in his hand despite the fact that he was clearly capable of standing without it.
Whether he needed it or not, he enjoyed the image it gave him.
Artoria said nothing.
Her attention remained on the matter before her.
The boy.
For the past five days, the child had refused to leave her side.
The moment he had awoken within Camelot’s walls, terror had taken hold of him once more.
He had clung to Artoria with the same desperation he had shown in the village, refusing food, refusing sleep, refusing even the gentle attempts of Camelot’s finest healers to separate him from the only person who had protected him.
Only Mordred had succeeded.
The young girl had approached him without hesitation or pity, simply treating him as another person rather than something fragile.
Slowly, carefully, she had managed to earn enough of his trust that he allowed her to coax him away from Artoria.
Seeing the interest her daughter had taken in the boy, Artoria had made her decision.
The boy needed a home, and he needed protection.
And Camelot needed to show that those who bore the Dragon’s Crest would never be abandoned.
“Perhaps one of our houses could take him in,” another noble suggested.
The man’s tone carried false kindness.
“Surely Your Majesty has greater responsibilities than caring for some slave-born child.”
Several nobles murmured in agreement.
“Oh yes!”
Grasso pointed his cane toward the other noble, nearly losing his balance as he shifted his considerable weight.
“A wonderful suggestion indeed.”
He adjusted himself before continuing.
“The boy would be far better served being raised by a proper household. He would learn discipline, loyalty, and his place in society.”
Artoria’s gaze slowly moved across the gathered nobles.
Her silence lasted only a moment.
“Enough.”
Her voice was deep and distorted beneath her helm, yet the single word carried enough authority to silence the entire hall.
“I have considered this matter carefully.”
She rose from the throne.
The movement alone caused several nobles to straighten.
“I will not abandon a child who was tortured beneath the banner of Camelot.”
Her gaze settled upon them.
“And I will not permit the circumstances of his birth to determine whether he is worthy of protection.”
The hall fell completely silent.
“The boy will enter my household, and that is final.”
No argument followed.
Not because the nobles agreed, but because there was nothing left to argue.
Artoria turned away from the throne and began walking toward the exit behind the dais.
Merlin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, followed after her with his usual unreadable expression.
As the doors closed behind their king, the gathered nobles slowly began to rise and leave.
All except one.
Marquess Grasso remained behind.
His pleasant expression vanished the moment he was certain Artoria was gone.
“That stupid bastard…”
His grip tightened around his jeweled cane.
“How dare he dismiss me like that?”
His attendant remained silent.
Grasso turned toward the exit, his face twisted with resentment.
“He will learn.”
The words were spoken quietly.
“He will learn exactly what happens when he forgets who truly holds power.”
With that, the Marquess turned and waddled from the throne room.
Artoria walked through the quiet halls of Camelot alongside her mentor, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
For several moments, neither spoke.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable, exactly, but it carried the weight of countless conversations left unfinished.
Merlin had always been one of the few people in the world who could see beyond the armor and the crown, and perhaps that was precisely why Artoria found him so frustrating.
Eventually, he broke the silence.
“I agree with your decision, Artoria.”
The King of Knights nearly missed a step.
She stopped mid-stride.
Slowly, she turned her helmet toward him.
“…You dare call me that?” Her voice lowered into a quiet warning.
“Here?”
Merlin only smiled, continuing down the hallway as though he had said nothing unusual.
“Oh, please. There is nobody here except the two of us.”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
“Well… aside from your sister, Mordred, and the child.”
The playful tone in his voice made it very clear he knew exactly what he was doing.
Artoria lifted one hand and dragged it down the front of her helmet, an old habit she had developed whenever Merlin managed to irritate her.
“Your personality has not improved with age.”
“Neither has your ability to relax.”
She ignored the comment.
“What can you tell me about the child?”
Merlin’s smile remained.
“Many things.” He said before pausing.
“Though I suspect you will not understand all of them.”
Artoria gave him a questioning look.
“First, he is still very young. No more than four years old.”
Merlin’s expression became slightly more thoughtful.
“And his lineage…”
He looked ahead.
“I cannot determine it.” He lied.
Merlin knew exactly what the child was.
He knew the blood that ran through his veins, the history that followed him, and the consequences of what would happen if that truth was revealed too soon.
But some secrets were not his to share.
“Which means his bloodline must be an extraordinary one,” he continued.
Artoria watched him carefully, but said nothing.
“There is one thing I can say with certainty.”
Merlin’s expression softened slightly.
“That child possesses remarkable physical strength. It is unlike anything I have seen in one so young. It is almost as though the earth itself blessed him.”
He smiled faintly.
“Truly extraordinary.”
Before Artoria could question him further, they arrived before a large wooden door reinforced with iron bands.
Merlin knocked twice.
After waiting only a moment, he opened it and stepped inside.
The room beyond was unlike most chambers within Camelot.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with medical supplies, magical instruments, and ancient texts.
Runes had been carved into several surfaces, allowing healing spells and examinations to be performed with greater precision.
At the far end of the room rested a large bed.
The boy lay upon it, face down, his injured back exposed as he slept.
Two figures were already present.
The first was Mordred.
Her short hair and tomboyish features often caused those unfamiliar with her to mistake her for a young knight rather than the heir of Camelot’s king.
She sat beside the bed, her small legs swinging back and forth as she quietly spoke to the child despite the fact that he was asleep.
The boy had not responded, but Mordred continued anyway.
The second figure stood near the opposite side of the room.
Morgan.
Artoria stopped the moment she saw her.
Her expression immediately hardened.
“Morgan.”
The greeting was cold.
“I hope you are not conducting experiments on our young ward.”
Morgan turned her gaze toward her sister, her own expression equally devoid of warmth.
“Of course I am.”
She looked back toward the boy.
“Why else would I be here?”
A faint, humorless smile appeared.
“Surely you do not believe I came because I wished to assist you.”
The tension between the sisters was immediate.
Merlin, standing between them, sighed.
“My, my. You two truly are wonderful company whenever you are together.”
Neither acknowledged him.
The mage simply walked toward the child’s side and examined the injuries upon his back.
“Have you discovered why healing magic has failed?” he asked Morgan.
The witch was silent for a moment.
Then she turned toward the table beside her.
“I believe I have.”
She picked up a small glass vial and held it toward them.
Inside were several tiny fragments.
A coarse strand of hair, a small piece of bone, and a fragment of metal.
“These were recovered from the wounds.”
Morgan placed the vial down.
“The remains of the weapon used against him. Most likely fragments from an enchanted whip.”
Her expression darkened.
“The weapon was modified with a powerful curse designed to prevent regeneration and healing.”
Artoria’s gaze shifted toward the boy.
“That is why healing magic cannot affect him.”
“Yes.” Morgan said as she nodded.
“The curse remains embedded within his flesh. Every attempt at healing magic is being rejected because the wound itself has been altered.”
She looked toward the brand covering the child’s back.
“And the mark…” She asked, voice lowered.
“That is worse.”
“The brand was created with similar enchantments. I believe it will remain with him for the rest of his life.”
Artoria’s hand slowly tightened.
“Can it be removed?”
Morgan looked at her.
“Do you truly think I would leave it if I had already discovered a method?” She mocked, the sharpness in her tone returned.
“Will you two stop?”
Merlin’s voice cut through the room as he looked between the sisters.
“For once, perhaps you could focus on the injured child rather than your own grievances.”
Morgan closed her eyes and took a slow breath.
After a moment, she returned her attention to the boy.
“Very well.” She answered as she folded her arms.
“To answer your question, no, my beloved sister, I have not found a way to counter the enchantment,” Morgan replied, the frustration in her voice impossible to miss.
“These fragments have told me much about the curse itself, but not enough to undo it. If I wish to find a way to break it, I will need the weapon they came from, or at the very least a complete understanding of the magecraft woven into it.”
The room fell silent after her explanation, the only sounds being the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the child’s slow, uneven breathing.
After several moments, the boy stirred beneath the blankets and let out a weak murmur, causing Morgan’s attention to shift to him immediately.
She leaned over the bed, listening as he whispered something too faint for anyone else to hear before giving him a small nod.
Walking to the nearby table, she poured a cup of water from the waiting pitcher and returned to his bedside, gently supporting his shoulders as she helped him drink.
Once he had taken a few careful sips, she lowered him back onto the bed before beginning to inspect the bandages covering his back, replacing those stained with fresh blood with practiced hands that were far gentler than most people would have believed her capable of.
Artoria watched the scene in silence, unable to ignore the contradiction before her.
Morgan possessed a cruel streak that few could deny, and she had often pursued her magical studies with a frightening disregard for conventional morality, yet there were moments such as these when another side of her emerged.
The same woman who could terrify seasoned magi with a single glance now worked patiently to ease the suffering of an injured child, adjusting his bandages with remarkable care so as not to cause him any unnecessary pain.
“Does he have a name?” Artoria finally asked.
Morgan looked down at the boy and brushed a loose strand of hair from his face before speaking quietly.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The child looked back at her with tired, unfocused eyes but offered no reply.
Whether he could not remember or simply lacked the strength to answer, neither woman could say.
After waiting another moment, Morgan slowly shook her head as she looked back toward her sister.
“No.”
Artoria had expected as much.
Ever since bringing the child back to Camelot, she had considered the possibility that he either could not remember who he was or had never been given the chance to tell anyone.
This was the first day since his rescue that he had remained awake long enough to respond to those around him, yet even now he seemed too exhausted to do more than whisper a few words.
“Very well,” Artoria said after a thoughtful pause.
“Then from this day forward, he shall be known as Godrick.”
At those words, Merlin’s lips parted as though another name had nearly escaped him, only for him to stop himself at the last moment.
Artoria noticed the movement immediately.
“What is it?”
Merlin smiled in that familiar, unreadable way of his and gave a small shake of his head.
“Nothing at all. I was simply thinking that the name suits him.”
In truth, he had nearly spoken the boy’s true name without thinking.
Fortunately, he had caught himself before the mistake could leave his lips.
The fewer people who knew the child’s identity, the greater the chance that he could live without the shadow of his birth hanging over him.
Artoria accepted the answer with a small nod before turning toward the door.
“Notify me the moment he is well enough to hold a conversation,” she instructed as she reached for the handle.
“There are many questions I wish to ask young Godrick once he has recovered enough to answer them.”
Without another word, the King of Knights stepped from the room, the heavy wooden door closing quietly behind her.
=== One Week Later ===
Artoria sat beside the bed in the small chamber that had become Godrick’s room over the past week, quietly watching the boy as he recovered.
His color had begun to return, and though the wounds upon his back still prevented him from moving without discomfort, he no longer looked as though he stood upon death’s doorstep.
Sitting upright beneath the blankets, he stared back at the armored king with wide blue eyes, each iris encircled by a striking ring of gold that caught the light whenever he shifted his gaze.
“So,” Artoria began after allowing the silence to linger for a moment, “what do you think?”
Godrick tilted his head.
“If you wish it, you may remain here in Camelot. You would live with me, along with Mordred and Morgan. You would never have to return to that place again.”
The boy blinked once, then twice.
“I’m hungry.”
Artoria stared at him through the visor of her helm before letting out the faintest sigh.
“Of course you are.”
It seemed the conversation would have to wait.
Rising from her chair, she offered him a hand.
“Come. Do you think you can walk to the kitchens?”
He looked down at the distance between himself and the floor before slowly scooting toward the edge of the oversized bed.
Once his legs dangled freely, he lowered himself as carefully as he could before dropping the remaining few inches.
The moment his feet touched the floor, he winced.
A quiet hiss escaped through his teeth as the movement tugged at the healing wounds across his back.
He remained where he was for several seconds, allowing the pain to settle before finally looking up at the waiting king.
Without hesitation, he slipped his small hand into hers.
Artoria gently closed her fingers around his small hand and led him from the room, matching her pace to his short, careful steps as they made their way through the broad corridors of Camelot.
The castle fascinated him.
His head turned constantly, trying to take in everything around him.
Suits of polished armor stood proudly within alcoves along the walls, each bearing different crests and wielding different weapons.
Ancient swords, shields, and banners decorated the stone halls, preserving the memory of heroes long since passed.
“What are those?” Godrick asked, pointing toward one of the displays.
Artoria followed his finger.
“The armor belonged to knights who served Camelot many years ago. Their weapons and armor are displayed so that their deeds will never be forgotten.”
Godrick looked at them for another moment before nodding thoughtfully.
Then he asked the question every adult eventually comes to dread.
“Why?”
Artoria considered the question.
“Because we honor those who gave their lives protecting others.”
Godrick accepted the answer without comment… for approximately three seconds.
“Why?”
“Because remembering those who came before us teaches us who we should strive to become.”
The boy frowned as he thought that over.
“…Why?”
Artoria looked ahead, already sensing where this was going.
“Because it reminds us that courage should never be forgotten.”
“…Why?”
The king lowered her head ever so slightly.
“I have a feeling…” She sighed.
“…that this is going to be a very long walk.”
Godrick looked up at her.
“…Why?”