✧ 𝔉ᴀᴛᴇ / ℭᴀᴍᴇʟᴏᴛ's 𝔈ᴍʙʀᴀᴄᴇ「ƒᴇʀᴀʟ + ᴄʜᴇᴠᴀʟɪᴇʀ」

[Chevalier]

ᴄʜᴇᴠᴀʟɪᴇʀ                           ♫                             ƒᴇʀᴀʟ

​

Shimmering rays broke over the horizon, the sky lightening as daybreak pierced through velvet curtains. At the center of the spacious room, a single figure stirred beneath satin sheets, tugging them with her across a slender, naked frame. The sun's embrace eventually fell upon her lids, which drew languidly upwards to reveal a vibrant, azure gaze. The lone woman who lay underneath the warm duvet had rested upon a vast bed, like a stick navigating the vast expanse of the sea. Upon emerging from her slumber, the woman reached out, her lithe digits rolling across the empty space that waited beside her.

"Oh my Lion, why do you insist on being away for so long?" A breathy sigh drew between supple lips, "Come back to me." She whispered softly, eyes half-lidded as fingers continued to glide across the desolate sheets. "This castle is so torturous without you..." Her index finger swirled in place, as if drawing out the exact spot where her King once lay. Eventually, her morning of peaceful tranquility was interrupted by a sudden pounding against the King's door.

"Get out here right now, you decrepit old hag." A familiar voice bled through the doorway. The voice was deep and masculine, its distinctive, low-pitch eliciting a single word from the 'old hag's' throat: Gawain.

"Mmm. Ask nicely and I shall think about it, Sun Knight." The sorceress groaned, slowly emerging from bed. She wasted no time plucking her dress from the nearby desk, slipping her arms into the dark sleeves before placing her crown upon her head.

"I'm going to count to ten, Sorceress, before the knights and I-" The renowned Knight of the Round Table was unable to finish his sentence when the door suddenly drew open, revealing the Sorceress that so freely occupied the King's chambers. The man standing in the doorway was tall with chiseled features, flanked on each side by several armored knights, "Hmpfh. You seem to have forgotten your place, Morgan. If the King were to find out that you were sleeping in his bed, he would-"

"She would say nothing, because she is not here, is she?" Morgan retorted, once again seizing Gawain's opportunity to finish his thought. "Unless of course..." Morgan took a step forward, eyes narrowing as a grin drew across the corner of her lip, "a little blonde bird decides to fly up the wrong tree." Slowly, she placed her dainty finger upon the man's breastplate, before slowly drawing a line upwards towards his stubborn jawline, "But then that King would hear all about how her favorite knight managed to misplace the greatest wizard in all of Camelot." She was of course referring to the disappearance of Merlin, whose absence threatened to bring the kingdom into turmoil. Whether or not Morgan had anything to do with such a feat - was a secret that only she knew the answer to.

"Watch your tongue, Morgan. You are only kept alive because of the King's mercy... and your blood. You would do well to remember that." The Sun Knight swatted Morgan's hand away from his stalwart form, his fiery gaze becoming more intense with each passing moment. "I came here to clear you from the King's chambers, as his carriage has already arrived upon the outskirts of the city. You should consider this a favor. Lest you deal with his wrath yourself."

"The King has returned?" Sapphire pools lit more vibrantly, seemingly more alive at the thought of the King returning to the palace. "So she returns victorious." Morgan attempted to hide her enthusiasm, though it was difficult after several weeks being surrounded by such boring men. But her relief at the King's return was short-lived, for a messenger soon arrived to deliver grave news.

"My Lord! My Lord!" A messenger ran to Gawain's side, gasping for air as he paused to deliver his message. "It's the King! He's been wounded!"

"Wounded? Nonsense. The King cannot be killed so long as he wields Avalon." Gawain was sure of himself, the very thought of the King having been injured in battle was a notion that he was unwilling to entertain.

"That's just it, my Lord. Avalon was lost in the battle. They have no idea where it went. Some say it was broken, others say it was lost on the battlefield."

The assured look upon the Sun Knight's face soon dissipated into fear and confusion. "What?! What do you mean lost?! Where is the King? Is he alright?"

"Bring the King here immediately." Morgan commanded, "Have her placed upon her bed. I will tend to her."

"Y-yes, Lady Morgan. I will command the knights to carry her to bed immediately!"

​

The sun's once vibrant rays had dissipated into the evening now, giving way to the moon's light that now peered through the palace curtains. Within the King's Royal Chambers, a lone silhouette clawed her way into bed, settling upon all fours above the slumbering King that lay peacefully beneath her. "Welcome home, my Lion." She cooed underneath her breath, drawing her portrait downwards until silvered bangs kissed the very tip of the King's golden mane. The wounds that had been scattered across Artoria's shape had been closed now, healed through a mixture of accursed magic and healing salves that the Sorceress had prepared. It had been an admittedly easy task for the powerful Sorceress, one that had little repercussions on the King's still-perfect ivory hue.

But without Avalon, the King was so weak... so vulnerable.

It was in the privacy she had demanded that Morgan had hatched her nefarious plan, for without the scabbard to Excalibur, there was nothing stopping her magic from taking root within the King's body. Her seductive lips trailed upwards into a mischievous smirk as those fingertips that once pined for her Lion now rolled across satin sheets, grabbing hold of the white fabric before tearing it away from the King's chest. She had been left bare, her half-sister's eyes ogling the forbidden flesh that always lay beneath her armor or dress. But she did not waste time staring for long, for eventually her fingers lowered themselves to the King's naval. "A present, for my King." Her fingers danced above the King's midriff, an otherworldly red glow emanating from the King's exposed crotch as a symbol etched itself into her skin.

"Sleep well, my King."​

​

 

[ƒeral]

Artoria Pendragon slept fitfully.

Her dreams were a sanguinary affair, the clings of ringing metal overlaid with the dying gasps of men. That wet, sickening sound parroted times and again as she yanked Excalibur from each fresh corpse, uncaring and unblinking even as fresh blood bathed her gleaming silver full plate. Crimson matted the pristine white of her cape, tracked down the acute edges of that lion helm, caked into the joints of her gauntlets and dyed the fabric of her garments a macabre shade. All around her, banners furled and unfurled in the wind. The vivid colors clashed against one another times and again until all that stood was the three gleaming crowns etched upon royal blue, the heraldry of King Arthur bearing witness to his triumph over his latest foes.

But behind the legend of the larger than life man stood only a woman. At age thirty-one, she was no longer as bright-eyed and naive at she had been when she first severed sword from stone. Somethings never changed though. She knew, just as she had known back then, that Britain needed a rightful King. That its people yearned for peace, for the security that could only come from Arthur Pendragon seated upon the throne. That these lands needed tranquility for farmers to till and to huddle with their loved ones before a warm hearth, untroubled as they placed their hope and faith in their legendary King of Knights. And she, as she had sworn at her coronation, would vanquish each and every threat that dared tread upon Britain’s borders or arise within.

And so, much as she did not enjoy the slaughter, her sword arm was unflinching and merciless. She had known since before drawing Caliburn that ‘becoming a king means no longer being human’, and, she has had sixteen years to perfect it. Even without the lion helm, her features were serene and spoke of nothing but lineage and royalty, unperturbed by her turbulent dreams. Artoria might as well have been cut from marble and carved by the greatest artisans that the world has ever known, such was her utter perfection. Beneath the white linen, her body was unlined and unscarred. Years and years of warfare have failed to chip away at her flesh the same as it failed to weaken her resolve.

If anything, she had only grown more splendid with age. She was tall and well-proportioned, sublimely curvaceous where it counted and slender everywhere else. Unlike the wide shoulders of her armor, she was not built quite the same way, a leanness that she always augmented with an overabundance of furred capes. She was toned from decades of knightly training, but it seemed that no matter what marital endeavors she took to, muscle mass was something that was destined to evade her. Just another bitter reminder, she supposed, of the fact that she had not been borne as the son Uther Pendragon desired.

It was only when the dreams, or perhaps nightmares, receded, that Artoria begin to come to. The gold of her brows dimpling as those incandescent chartreuse greens came into view, a shade so bright, so achingly beautiful, that it only added to her nearly inhuman appeal. But, before she even had a chance to fully assess her surroundings, a familiar voice cut through the thick fog of sleep.

“My King, you are finally awake!” Gawain stood guard over the door to her chambers, and, as she roused, pushing up into a seated position, he was quick to take notice. Artoria had been careful enough to pull the sheets up with her, but, even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. While all of Britain worshipped the mythical figure that was King Arthur, her gender was merely an unspoken secret amongst her knights. And, despite her state of undress, she knew that when her Knights of the Round Table gazed upon her, they saw not a woman, but only their King. As it should be.

“Gawain,” she answered, without the slightest inflection to her voice. Even despite having freshly woken, Artoria was nothing but the image of the perfect King. But, the further she slipped back into the realm of the waking, the more she could not shake the persistent feeling that something was wrong. There was a heat coursing through her veins that she could not name, just a hint of something profane that gnawed at her consciousness and agitated her instincts. Before she could take stock of just what the problem was however, Gawain was already drawing to her bedside, pulling up a nearby stool and gazing at her with relief and worry in equal measures.

She didn’t need to ask; Gawain had never been one to be shy with his words. “You have been sleeping for a whole day; if you didn’t wake soon, we would have had that witch’s head--” He continued, leaning forward just a tad as if to access her wellbeing for himself, but kept a wide respectful birth between the two of them. A whole day? That surprised her. Artoria blinked. Her memories churned slowly; she had encountered the Anglo-Saxon forces heads on at River Bassas. Despite her soldiers being badly outnumbered, the Knights of the Round proved their valor in combat. And she had charged, as she always did, at their forefront.

But then the weather had turned suddenly. Heavy, nearly opaque sheets of rain battered down against friends and foe alike, obscuring sight and separating her from her knights. The storm had been so sudden and so vicious that it could not have been natural. A suspicion confirmed after she dismounted - the muddied bank proved too much even for her faithful steed - and followed the river swollen by rain to its mouth. And there, she clashed with the enemy alone. It seemed the Anglo-Saxons had wised up after their series of defeats, and brought their own wizard this time around.

The man was no Merlin, she remembered thinking, even as she parried those foul dark rays with ease and pressed ever forward. But, to her chagrin, it had been she who underestimated the enemy. Artoria was always a cautious combatant, but a decade with Avalon by her side had left her feeling just a tad too invulnerable. Concealed within the rain, the assassins moved with deadly grace, their footsteps impossible to discern in the heavy downpour. She reacted too late even as the metal fastenings that secured Avalon to her back had been severed by magic-augmented serrated blades, and, as she spun around to face her underhanded assailant, another three closed in to cover his escape.

But no man could withstand the might of King Arthur. With resolve and finality, she cut all three of them down, and gave pursuit, and if in the process, the wizard had lacerated her back and limbs with his dark bolts, she simply powered through the pain. The assassin was fast, but she was faster. However, as she closed in, sword at the ready, the man committed the unthinkable. Avalon flew from his grip even as she skewered his chest with her sword, and she could do nothing but watch the scabbard soar in slow motion, plunging into the rain-swelled river.

“No!” She had cried, diving after it, but her plate weighed her down and the currents were too much. The river battered her against rocks as she chased her armament, and, nearly blinded by rain, the task was doomed before she even began. Before she passed out, she heard Merlin’s words again, that time when he had asked if she preferred the sword or the sheath. "Please make no mistake here. The sword slashes the enemy, but the sheath protects you. As long as you have the sheath on you, you will spill no blood and take no wounds. You should truly value the sheath, not the sword."

“Merlin,” she gritted out then, snapping out of her recollection even as a rare flash of emotion besmirched her chiseled features. “Where is Merlin.”

And it was then Gawain fell to a knee, apologizing profusely and rambling on and on about the unfortunate affairs that had stricken Camelot in her absence. She listened and did not interject, pardoned his self-assigned blame when he was done, and, after delegating to him the task of locating Avalon, dismissed him from her chambers.

Her thoughts were as heavy as the crown wreathing her brilliant blonde mane as she dressed herself in the gold-etched royal blue garment and donned the fur-lined white cape.

There was no mistaking the perversion of nature that laid between her legs, mercifully asleep, for now at least. And when she laid eyes upon the crest that could only be the result of sorcery, she sneered and stared at it, as if she could erase it with the enmity of her gaze.

♫​

There was only one suspect on her mind that would dare, and Gawain had made it clear of her sister dearest's involvement. She didn't fault her knights for leaving her alone with that conniving woman; it was her fault alone that Avalon had been lost, necessitating any desperate measures to cure her injuries. The mere thought of Morgan le Fay made the fine hair on her nape stand on end. She didn't trust her half-sibling, not one bit, and this was proof of why. But, after the initial shock faded, she forced her misgivings down. Her mind was already turning, and in the privacy of her chambers, those typically unperturbed jades shone with more fury than what she demonstrated even in combat.

And so, it was with uncharacteristic force that she slammed open the door that laid to Morgan le Fay’s chambers, closing it behind herself. There was a tension about her neck and shoulders. The King always stood ramrod straight, and she was even more stiff than usual. She bridged the distance between them in a few brisk steps, stopping only when she was no more than a sword’s length away. Despite her shimmering indignation, Artoria was King and the King did not yell. Her voice was as cold and as steady as an arctic glacier as she towered over the seated sorceress.

“Morgan, What did you do.”​

 

[Chevalier]

​

A lithe silhouette shifted from within the darkness, illuminated by the scant flicker of but a single candle's light. Cerulean kaleidoscopes turned ever slowly to meet the emerald glare that pierced so vibrantly in her direction. The sorceress remained silent at first, calmly sitting atop a royal blue duvet that almost matched the color of her eyes. The King's words dribbled from her regal lips like poisoned honey, sweet and delectable, yet dangerous at the same time. Morgan knew better than to speak against the Lion, or even leave her waiting for too long.

"You mean besides saving your life?" A grin laced her seductive portrait, a single finger rising to brush the silvered strands that fell between her nose from her visage. "Ah, my apologies, your Majesty. I forget myself, sometimes." Though she voiced an apology, the very corner of her lips still curved upwards into a smirk as if to tease the King. Morgan always had a penchant for testing the King's patience, but this time, the sorceress was taking it to a whole new level.

"Merlin has disappeared. Not even the Sun Knight knows where he is. Before you ask, I had nothing to do with it." A lie. "You were wounded, almost mortally, in fact. I pooled what magic I could to save you." She rose from the side of her bed, drifting across the sword's length that still separated them. She moved closer still, until her breathy words could be felt upon the King's face, singeing her royal features between hazy exhalations.

"I would never allow my King to fall so easily." She leaned inwards, fleshy mounds pancaking themselves upon those opposite of her. Shimmering sapphires gazed deeper into the King's visage, as if reveling in the disdain that furrowed within her dangerous, smaragdite gemstones. "Is everything okay, your Majesty? You seem to-" Morgan wasted no time pressing herself further against her King, until she could feel it, that rising mound that pressed outwards with each passing moment, until the sorceress could practically feel the sweltering heat which emanated from beneath the King's garments.

"Well, well... what do we have here?" Morgan's gaze drifted downwards, a feminine hand trailing down the King's center to meet the growing frustration between her legs. The wayward hand continued to saunter downwards, until her fingertips were rolling over the protrusion in the King's dress. Her index finger moved teasingly at first, rolling over the very tip of the royal blue mountain before the remainder of her hand joined suit, grabbing ahold of its center and allowing the fabric to wrap along its flourishing girth.

"Hm. I didn't expect something like this would happen." Another lie. "It must have been an unintended side effect from your recovery. I had to resort to quite unsavory magics to keep you alive." Though she was eager to blame it on happenstance, Morgan was a far more powerful sorceress than she let on. Healing the King was easy, but knowing that she no longer possessed Avalon meant that the Lion lay defenseless within the palm of her hand.

"I will need to see it." She smiled, beckoning her towards a nearby couch that awaited them at the center of the room. "Have a seat." She knew that the King would detest such a command, so the sorceress hovered beside her, intertwining her arm through the King's in a fashion that was almost too friendly. "Don't worry, my Lion. Your secret is safe with me. But I must see what we are dealing with if I am to reverse it." She mused, her possessive grip slowly tightening upon the King's arm. ​

​

 

[ƒeral]

"You mean besides saving your life?"

The response gave Artoria pause, and drained a fraction of the vitriol from her posturing. Her brows furrowed. Had she been that injured? She searched Morgan’s eyes but found no answers; those lapis lazulis met her questing malachites with far too much self-assurance. Although she doubted still, it was impossible to discern truth from fiction, and as the sorceress continued to talk, her chivalrous nature compelled her to at least offer some acknowledgement.

“You have my gratitude for your aid,” she said, stiffly, polite enough but the clench of her jaw revealed her unease. Morgan had never struck her as the type to do something for nothing, and her proclivity for the darker arts only contributed to Artoria’s mistrust of her. Had the sorceress been a stranger, she would have banished her to a corner of Britain long ago. But, though they did not spend their childhood in common, she was not quick to forget the Pendragon blood they shared. While the Sword of Selection had legitimized Artoria’s rightful rule, it seemed cruel to the King of Knights to eject Morgan from her ancestral home.

An unease that only spiked when the smirking sorceress insisted upon invading her personal space. Her frown deepened. She considered pulling away - no, that would be regarded as weak and King Arthur never showed weakness. But to push Morgan away was just plain rude, and she refused to trample upon the principles of gallantry. “I’m fine.” She gritted out instead, with more sting than she should have, as she tried to look anywhere but down. While her own outfit did not hide her curves, Morgan’s bordered on obscene.

And, as the woman insisted upon all but smooshing their bodies together, she could feel those supple spheres that all but burst from that flimsy joke of a dress. On any other day, such lasciviousness would not have affected her - magic always came at a cost, and the limited immortality bestowed upon her first by Caliburn, then by Avalon, came at the cost of a fraction of her humanity. But today, armed with neither, she was without recourse as baser urges stirred and pushed to the forefront of her thoughts.

It was trying enough to keep the chill of her gaze and to feign nonchalance, but there was no controlling the way her abs clenched and-- Artoria loosed a low, irritated noise as that treacherous organ reacted eagerly to the titillating situation, bulging against the fabric of her gown and all but preening under Morgan’s attention. Her garment was designed to proclaim royalty while simultaneously allowing freedom of movement. The cut was stately and refined, and ordinarily, appropriately modest. However, it certainly wasn’t meant to contain this, whatever this was.

And, when the smugness dripping from that lilting voice grew and Morgan seemed far too pleased with herself, Artoria’s ire grew also. Though true to her nature, her irritation was less with Morgan and more with herself. Was her self-control truly this lacking without Avalon? But she wasn’t given much of a chance to ponder that thought longer when the sorceress sought to confirm her suspicions. At least, that’s what the words that continued to spill indicated. She should have pulled away - this was far exceeding any lines of propriety Sir Ector had taught her, but she was almost shocked into stillness. Even through her cloth, Morgan’s touch had felt so good, in a way so different from anything she had ever experienced that she couldn’t make sense of it.

Beneath that investigative touch, the cock that was most certainly not hers throbbed with approval. Her lashes fluttered and she forgot an exhale. Was this why her men, why even her Knights of the Round Table, always joked and ribbed one another about their latest lady friends whenever they relaxed around the campfire? For so long as she had Avalon, pleasure of the flesh was as immaterial to her as fame or wealth; she had been so doggedly focused on being a good King that all else warranted not even a modicum of her attention. But, without that sacred sheath and its purifying aura, her emotions and instincts were not so easy to control. As it were, it was all she could do to not whine when that grip tightened.

“I-,” she started, her voice fractionally deeper and losing some of its usual iciness, and humiliation dyed the regal cut of her cheekbones a lovely rouge. But she swallowed down whatever protest that had welled up when Morgan continued to talk. Her mind felt sluggish and, she supposed that with Merlin indisposed one way or another, there really wasn’t anyone else with any expertise in this arena around.

“Fine,” she answered instead, and shook the possessive touch on her arm easily; a sorceress’ grip was paltry to her strength, honed from decades spent on the battlefield. At that far too cozy nickname though, her lips tightened, and her rebuke was sharp even as she strode towards the couch.

“I am your King, and you will do well to remember it.”

With as much bravado as she could muster, Artoria seated herself on the upholstery. And, in an almost exaggerated attempt to project confidence, she draped an arm behind its back and parted her legs, as if she could suppress her frayed nerves by taking up as much room as possible. With the other hand, she lifted the fabric that concealed the juncture of her thighs from view and shoved it aside with careless haste. She hadn’t bothered with undergarments - nothing she owned was meant to fit around this unholy spear.

She trained her gaze firmly on Morgan, refusing to look down, as if her refusal to acknowledge the jutting pillar could eradicate its presence. But her affected indifference was contradicted entirely by that accursed length; it hardened even more under Morgan’s watchful gaze, and proof of her arousal beaded at the tip. The shaft was smooth, like the rest of her skin, and the head was a pleasing shade of blushing coral. Its existence was one thing, but the size of it was another entirely. Although nothing monstrous, the girth of it juxtaposed obscenely against her slender build. It rose with impunity, stabbing upwards, and, still half-concealed by her cloth, that crest glowed a faint pink.

“Well? Can you reverse it or not?” She practically growled out the words, glaring fiercely at Morgan as her patience thinned all too rapidly in this embarrassing situation.