[The king of Camelot, named Uther Pendragon, although appearing to have no great achievements and unable to be called a truly great monarch, was, according to what you know, and also according to the later records of the Historia Regum Britanniae, in his early years supported by the "sage" Merlin. He inherited the kingdom that his father and grandfather had built in the vacuum left by the Roman Empire's decline and loss of control over Britain, becoming King Uther—yet in doing so he angered his elder brother, Vortigern Pendragon. Though King Uther was the rightful heir and Vortigern was reviled as the "Wicked King," Uther lacked the strength to suppress his rebellious brother in the north and instead suffered a crushing defeat.]
[He could not suppress rebellion within, and outside he had no power to expand. He could not stop Vortigern from bringing in the Germanic Angles from the far north, nor could he unify the petty "lords" scattered across the three British isles.]
[Yet King Uther was never a tyrant, nor a foolish monarch. In fact, he was a man of ability, merely beset by the harshest of times—an "evil dragon" born from the filth of Britain, and the ceaseless famine that wracked the land. Were he on the European continent, with his talents, he might not have conquered Rome to become an "Emperor" as you did, but he certainly could have built a unified and prosperous kingdom of his own.]
[In his life he rarely erred, at most failing in private morality. The natural disasters he faced were countless; the man-made ones caused by himself, vanishingly few.]
[Because of this, King Uther was deeply beloved.]
[He was once protected by a hundred and fifty warriors who bore the name of "knights"—a rare honor in Britain. Even in an age when knighthood was not yet an established class, on this sea-locked isle, even a single horse was rare. In his kingdom, his wisdom and benevolence were sung of widely.]
[You could feel this.]
[On the return journey, as news of King Uther's grave illness spread, all of Camelot fell under a shadow.]
[The "king" was near death.]
[With grave illness comes rumor. Though some of it was exaggerated, the situation was indeed dire.]
[Morgan too grew heavy-hearted along the road—for after all, he was her father, and until now he had shown her no neglect.]
[You did not comfort Morgan. You knew that in such times, words of comfort are useless.]
[You only joked, in the tone of an elder brother "protecting" a younger sister.]
[And received yet another elbow for your trouble.]
[Yet Morgan's mood did lighten, if only a little.]
[You soon arrived at "Camelot Castle." Without altering your route, it lay in the southern heartlands of Britain, along one of the very roads that led to Equinus, the Windmill City.]
[You entered the palace.]
[And soon were summoned.]
[But not by King Uther, rather by the one acting in his stead—the "First Court Magus," the sage Merlin.]
"You've finally returned..."
As ever, with messy silver hair, clad in a fur-lined mantle, wearing his ever-false smile, Merlin strolled across the wide hall of Camelot's palace. The clean, polished floor shimmered faintly. Staff in hand, the youth stood below the steps of the throne, and upon seeing the boy and girl who had just arrived from outside, could not help but move to greet them:
"This really has left me running ragged!"
"Merlin, just what have you done!?"
The moment they met, Morgan raised her staff, magical light flaring at once, her voice sharp: "Why have you sealed the palace? Do you mean to crown yourself king!?"
"Cough..." The words made Merlin's face twitch. Beside him, Lucan couldn't help but cough twice, half-choking on Morgan's bluntness. In truth, with the king gravely ill, Merlin indeed wielded the kingdom's highest authority—but however insufferable he was, he was certainly not the sort to make himself king.
Merlin hastily said: "No, no, not at all."
"Ah, this was one of the king's commands... I only obeyed his order, nothing more."
"You'd best hope that's all it is."
Morgan only meant to intimidate him, not truly suspecting he meant to usurp. With a huff, she lowered her staff and dispersed the light. Merlin quietly wiped imaginary sweat from his brow, and looking at the pair before him—boy and girl seeming a fine match—he said:
"In truth, this illness has been long in coming."
"Ten years ago, after his defeat to Vortigern, the king suffered hidden wounds. Until now he endured them by the blessing of the 'King of Britain,' but with the passing of years, he can no longer suppress it..."
"The king has... perhaps two or three years left."
Was it truly the weight of years?
Lucan eyed Merlin suspiciously, then glanced at the curtained gates behind him that led to the palace depths. In an age where the remnants of the Age of Gods still lingered, and mystery had not yet faded, kings and emperors alike bore "authority"—known in the tongue of magecraft as "blessings."
But Lucan, who bore the authority of an emperor himself, knew: such power might shift with the will of the people, might transfer, but never did it fade with years.
—More likely, this was because a "new king" was nearly grown.
Morgan, however, thought no such thing.
She only drew a breath: "I will see my father."
"Your Highness, please."
Merlin stepped aside.
Before leaving, Morgan turned to Lucan: "Wait here. I'll come find you later."
Leaving those words, the golden-haired girl in her traveler's garb strode into the depths...
"Morgan has certainly grown."
Merlin stroked his chin, then looked at Lucan: "And what does Duke Subutai think?"
"Too soon."
Lucan, understanding what Merlin hinted at, did not deny it, only said: "I am still young."
He was two years younger than Morgan. For now, he had no intention of marrying.
Merlin gave a thin laugh: "Indeed, a bit early."
"But sometimes, early can also be... advantageous."
He sounded very much like a man intent on arranging a marriage.
"Is this also King Uther's will?" Lucan cut him off before he could say more. "That I should support Morgan, but in doing so strip her of her chance to inherit the throne—and that together we might sire numerous descendants, who could one day serve as 'knights'?"
Those later known as the Knights of the Round Table—gathered about King Arthur, seated at his round table. In later legend, part of that fellowship were Morgan's descendants—embryos of mighty warriors she created by mysterious means.
At these words, touching upon the "future," Merlin's expression froze. Not alarm, only surprise.
Yet recalling how Lucan had once, in the rainforest, forced him to speak of the "King of Knights," he found it unsurprising.
This youth...
Lucan gave a crooked smile: "Don't think I cannot see, Merlin."
"Though I lack your 'eyes' that pierce the world entire, many things... do not need eyes to perceive."
"I know much—far more than you imagine."
"About the future. About the present."
"And about what you and King Uther are scheming—the creation of the most perfect heir to the throne."
That one who would bear the name Arthur.
"—You mean to set aside Morgan's right of inheritance, and instead 'choose' a new king, do you not?"
That one destined to be the King of Knights.
"You wouldn't want your secret known to others, would you?"
Merlin: "..."
Not surprised.
But the tone of those words... how strangely did they sound.
"What do you want?"
After a moment's thought, Merlin chose to compromise. With King Uther gravely ill, the kingdom could not endure the least disturbance.
In the end, Merlin, half-fae nightmare magus though he was, a meddler and disturber of hearts, still bore a sense of responsibility.
In the end—
If he wished to "feast upon" a beautiful dream, the stage must remain intact.
[It's Merlin, not "Merry"][How truly... both fortunate, and unfortunate.][So you thought to yourself.]