"My King, welcome home," was the refrain of the day, heard from chauffeurs, butlers, cooks, maids, guards—even the groundsmen.
Uther Pendragon was returning to Buckingham Palace after nearly two weeks recovering in hospital; surgery to remove the bullet and repair the muscles was finished in a couple days, but his doctors advised a fortnight of physical therapy and rest to make sure his recovery was thorough. A man of his age, they said, should take precautions whenever he could.
How polite of them.
He responded to the enthusiastic welcomes of his staff with a friendly nod and a personalized thank-you, as expected from a man of his position.
Inwardly, though—
He was tired.
How much longer must I endure?
I have given my all for Britannia for nearly thirty years.
I don't know how much strength I have left to give.
It'll be out of my hands soon enough…
"It's good to see you, sir," said a man in a nondescript black suit as the King entered his office. "Congratulations on your recovery."
"Thank you, Thomas," he replied. "What do you have for me?"
"Master Arthur has been training with Ms. Lafayette, and I understand it's going well, if perhaps a bit slowly."
Morgan… my dear niece… please remember that blood is thicker than water.
"Anything else?"
"Mistress Loche has expressed her desire to see you as soon as you're recovered," said Thomas. "Shall I have her come over?"
"Yes, please," the King answered with a smile. "Have her meet me in my war room."
"Right away, sir."
The King hung his coat on the rack by the door; as he did so, he gently tugged one of the hangars, and a bookshelf across the room slid across the wall to reveal a 'secret' elevator. It had truly been a secret many decades ago, but now it was more of a novelty which the King enjoyed with some frequency.
He arrived in the war room minutes later and settled into a large, leather-backed chair behind a desk adjacent to the main conference table. A stack of papers awaited him there: classified reports from the Directors of various clandestine agencies.
Scotland Yard has arrested the assassin, who appeared to have worked alone.
MI7 has issued a formal complaint against MI5, who they claim has violated interdepartmental cooperation.
A 'welcome back' card from the Magi.
A tariff notice from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs…
…a king's work is never done, is it?
A gentle knocking at the door of the war room redirected Uther's attention, prompting him to stand.
"Come in! Come, come."
The door opened, and Vivianne Loche entered.
"Vivi, my child, how have you been?"
"Are you kidding me, grandfather?" she asked, rushing to embrace him while barely resisting tears. "You were shot!"
"Oh, never mind that. 'Twas only a flesh wound," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Still—you're the only family I have left."
The King smiled as his granddaughter gently.
"Well now, Vivi, that's not exactly true anymore, is it?"
In a flash, Vivianne's mood soured.
"Oh, you mean the uncle who's younger than me, who I've yet to meet?" she asked, her eyes dripping with sarcasm and criticism alike. "You sure were quick to replace my mother, weren't you?"
"Vivi—"
"Don't 'Vivi' me!" she exclaimed. "Do you have any self-control?!"
"Is that really what you think?" asked the King, his eyes gentle, stinging, red-rimmed. "That I wanted to replace your mother? That I wanted to replace you?"
Vivianne's ire waned.
"No, not really," she admitted, "though I did wonder about it."
"Vivianne…"
The King sighed and sat back down in his leatherback chair.
"I loved your mother immensely, and I had great respect for your father. He would've made an excellent King Consort. I had high hopes for the both of them."
Vivianne walked over and tried to console him.
"You know what she said to me, before it happened?"
'It', Vivianne noted. He still can't bring himself to reference the event directly.
Well, neither can I, I suppose.
"What?"
"She asked me if you were destined to share the same fate as her. If you would be in the spotlight once she ascended the throne, just as she was then. I didn't know what to say."
Vivianne looked to the ground, trying to hide the tears forming in her eyes.
"That's why I named him my heir, Vivianne."
She looked up at him sharply.
"Is that supposed to be an excuse?!"
"No, no," he replied. "I'm not offering any excuse for my indiscretions. My sins are my own and I accept that. I'm just—I'm just trying to tell you why—why I chose him over you."
Vivianne looked at her grandfather, Uther Pendragon, but the man she saw now was not the man she had always known.
She had vague memories of her mother bringing her to see him as a child, and she remembered the joy on his face when he held her in his arms.
She remembered vacations at Windsor, her grandfather indulging her every whim behind his daughter's back—a normal grandparent in an abnormal situation.
She remembered the flash of cameras as he held her in his arms once again at her parents' funeral.
She remembered report cards, graduations, the moment she joined the military, her transfer to Intelligence; all of which met with her grandfather's pride and approval, though maybe less so when she enlisted.
I wonder if he accelerated my transition to MI5, she wondered.
But now: he was old.
Scared.
Afraid of losing the only thing that remained of his precious daughter…
Me.
Has he changed? Or has he become tired of pretending to be someone else?
"I understand, grandfather," she said. "Thank you."
She offered a kind smile, one that filled the King's heart with love beyond the point of overflowing.
"I'm glad," he said, smiling. "I'm glad I was at least able to do this much."
"It never made much sense for me to wield Excalibur, anyway," she said. "I suppose you'll want me to give it to him, then."
"You're not upset?"
Excalibur was the pinnacle of runic technology, forged shortly after the second Great War as Britannia sought to secure its presence on the global stage. Every inch of the blade was intricately carved with secret runes taken from the Ravensleigh Grimoire, runes which would never be made public and which would never be discovered by any magical researcher. Only the Headmaster of the Royal Academy of Magick had a complete printout of the blade's runes, and even then, he lacked the knowledge of their purpose. His role was simply to ensure that information about those particular runes was kept confidential.
It was called 'Excalibur' for a reason: one of the magic spells engraved in its blade was a simple energy-inversion spell, which would convert the sword's gravitational potential energy into downwards kinetic energy if it was handled by someone the sword deemed 'unworthy'. Essentially, the more someone tried to lift the sword, the stronger resistance they would receive.
It was the perfect tool for validating a claim to the Throne of Britannia, and it had been passed down by the House of Pendragon from heir to heir since its creation.
Vivianne had been in possession of Excalibur ever since she enlisted, and though she had used it a couple times, she found it difficult and unwieldy.
"No, I'm not upset," she replied. "If anything, I'm glad the burden will be on someone else."
"Well, that's a relied," said the King. "I was worried you had grown attached to it."
Vivianne laughed and began making her way to the door.
"I'll deliver it to him myself. It'll be tricky, seeing as he's around Morgan so much these days, but it should be doable."
"Oh, Vivi?"
She turned.
"Yes?"
"Would you please try to smooth over this conflict between MI7 and MI5?" he asked, gesturing to a piece of paper in his hands. "I know each section has its secrets, but I'd greatly appreciate it if you could satisfy MI7 enough for them to withdraw their formal complaint. Otherwise, the press may get hold of it."
"I'll do my best, grandfather."