The crisp clink of porcelain striking porcelain was like a massive stone flung into the surface of a still lake, shattering the heavy silence that hung over the Emiya residence in an instant.
Artoria's body became entirely rigid. Her usually calm, emerald-like eyes now flew wide in utter astonishment. All color drained from her face, leaving nothing but the pale, almost porcelain shade of her skin behind.
Steve, seeing her as if her very soul had been wrenched out, refrained from asking any questions. Instead, he reached out silently and topped up her empty teacup with more tea.
The steam that rose brought a scant trace of warmth to the cold air.
He continued, his voice gentle and composed.
"Calm yourself, Artoria," he said, "I know this news may be even harder for you to believe than your defeat at the Battle of Camlann."
His voice was steady, carrying a mysterious power to soothe the mind.
Artoria, hearing his words, found her breathing quicken. She pressed her lips together tightly, as if trying to restrain a surging tide of emotion from bursting out.
Even if—no, especially if—what she was hearing seemed utterly impossible.
Steve pressed on, clear and logical, leaving no room for argument.
"But we've both seen living examples of the impossible — haven't we?"
Merlin was, after all, a half-incubus, half-human. Half of his existence belonged to the Inner World, meaning he wasn't bound by the flow of time in the Outer World.
"He witnessed your coronation directly, and then — a thousand years later — could observe humanity landing on the moon through the internet."
"If he could do that, then why can't your own sister, Morgan le Fay, do the same?"
The name "Morgan" stabbed into Artoria's heart with the cold force of a sharpened thorn. Merely hearing that name set her body to trembling.
For her, it was far more than a name. It embodied the most tangled blend of love and hate, of the deepest betrayal, but also… the distant, almost-forgotten warmth of their sisterhood she'd long buried deep in her memory.
"Your sister's existence is even more unique than Merlin's."
Steve ignored the pain flickering across her face and continued with a surgeon's cold precision, staring straight into the truth.
"As an aspect of the Lady of the Lake, Vivian, she's something like an extension of the will of the planet itself—a being close in essence to a fairy bound to Gaia."
"For her, a mere fifteen hundred years might have passed like a particularly long nap."
This explanation cracked, if only slightly, Artoria's ironclad worldview.
That's right… Merlin's very existence upended all sense of normalcy.
If Merlin managed it, then her own sister—who was at one time even more gifted in magecraft than Merlin—might not find it impossible after all...
As a flicker of hesitation flashed in Artoria's eyes, Steve knew it was time to drop the next, most explosive truth.
"And Artoria — I assure you, your sister is not simply alive."
"For these past fifteen centuries since Camlann, she's harbored exceedingly complex emotions toward you, full of guilt and something more."
"...Guilt?"
The word came from Artoria's throat, barely a rasp; it sounded as though it had been dragged over sandpaper.
This, to her, was even more absurd than the claim that Morgan was still alive.
Would the witch who orchestrated the Round Table's collapse, stole her sheath, and indirectly caused Artoria's fall — truly feel guilt?
Such a notion… was pure fantasy!
"Yes, she has felt guilt."
Steve answered firmly. "There's an old cemetery in Glastonbury called Blackmore, believed to be your final resting place, right?"
"In reality, it's been a monumental beacon your sister spent millennia establishing for you."
"She left behind an unbelievable magical command, compelling generations of a family to guard that place, all in wait for the one opportunity to revive King Arthur."
With that, Steve's gaze sharpened, a trace of pity mixing in.
"Artoria, just think—could a grand, thousand-year spell, fueled by obsessive purpose, whose ultimate end is to revive you… really be something you'd expect of someone who just hates you?"
His words struck her like thunder, exploding in the core of her heart.
Now, she remembered the look in Morgan's eyes, full of pain and resolve, the day she stole the holy sword's sheath, before Camlann.
She remembered her elder sister at the court of Camelot—how, despite their endless conflicts, at crucial moments Morgan would warn her or intervene in her own awkward way.
She remembered times even further back, before she became queen, when her sister, just a girl herself, would take her hand and play with her in the forest—her only relative.
Love and hatred; betrayal and sheltering; ruination and redemption…
A rush of such conflicting emotions surged forth, smashing down, in a single instant, the dam of peace she had built in her heart over a decade.
She could no longer keep up her kingly composure.
Suddenly, she stood, hastening out to the veranda in the courtyard, turning her back to Steve.
Her shoulders shook uncontrollably as she struggled to suppress the violent flux of feelings.
She stared out across the neatly kept lawn, bathed in warm sunlight; everything seemed so calm, so beautiful, and yet—utterly unreal.
She didn't want Steve to see her face at that moment.
It was the kind of expression—a weakness so profound—that even she herself found unbearable.
Much later, with a trembling voice barely holding together, she asked the question she most dreaded, and also needed, to know:
"...Where is she now...?"
Just asking spoke to the choice she had already made.
Steve watched her trembling back, a knowing, meaningful smile forming on his lips.
He knew: The knot in the stubborn King of Knights' heart that had refused to come undone for fifteen centuries was finally beginning to loosen.
"You've already made your decision."
He spoke gently, in reassuring tones. "Then, why not take this chance to meet her face to face?"
"Let us seek out the truth behind those histories buried by time."
"Perhaps… this is the only key that can unlock all your lingering regret and all your mysteries."
….