Gratitude is gratitude.
Love is love.
Even after reuniting with Lot and the main forces, Tristan's expression remained melancholic.
Yet within that sorrow, there was a flicker of joy.
He loved Iseult.
And Iseult loved him in return.
Love could not be surrendered.
Even if it meant bearing guilt,
He would grit his teeth and press forward.
For the sake of love.
"Now, King Mark is probably furious and will come seeking revenge," Lot mused, stroking his chin as he observed the pair. "Say, should we set up an ambush along the way?"
"No, absolutely not!"
Tristan panicked.
He hurriedly protested, "This entire matter is already my fault. If my uncle suffers further losses because of me, I wouldn't be able to atone for my sins even in the depths of hell!"
"So, we just… run away?"
Lot's tone was teasing.
"Your Majesty, please forgive my impertinence."
Tristan dropped to one knee.
"…Fine."
Lot nodded.
He realized his earlier judgment of King Mark had been unfair.
According to legend, Mark had stabbed Tristan in the back with a poisoned blade, leading to his agonizing death. Given that, Lot had assumed any retaliation against Mark would be justified.
But the current reality was different.
King Mark had treated Tristan with genuine care.
This time, it was Tristan who had wronged him.
By pushing further, Lot would only deepen Tristan's guilt.
Seeing Tristan's plea, he relented.
"Thank you."
Relief washed over Tristan's face.
Internally, he swore an oath:
From this day forth, I will serve King Lot and Queen Morgan with unwavering loyalty. I will prove myself worthy of their trust.
Thus, Lot and Morgan gained another formidable knight.
Soon after, Lot led his forces now including Tristan away from Cornwall.
King Mark, enraged, mobilized his troops to intercept them.
But Lot's group had already slipped away.
Mark could only fume in frustration.
"Damn you, Tristan… Damn you, King Lot. I won't forget this."
His gaze turned toward Wales.
A dark resolve settled in his heart.
Since this is how you treat me, don't blame me for what comes next.
I will make you pay.
I will pledge myself to Vortigern.
And on the battlefield, I will crush Camelot.
In the days that followed, Cornwall's hostility became evident.
King Mark allied himself with Vortigern of Wales, jointly opposing Camelot.
This outcome was predictable.
Trading the strategically vital Cornwall for Tristan was it a loss or a gain?
Purely in terms of interests, Lot couldn't say.
But some things transcended cold calculations.
To tear apart two lovers who cherished each other?
That was something Lot could never bring himself to do.
So be it.
Let the chips fall where they may.
Facing Vortigern was already a given. Adding King Mark to the list hardly mattered.
For now, Cornwall could wait.
A far more pressing matter demanded Lot's attention.
Something more important than Vortigern's invasion, more critical than the Romans crossing the sea
Morgan was going into labor.
While Lot had been aiding Tristan at the Scottish-English border, Morgan her belly heavy with child had been escorted by Artoria to Camelot.
Now, after the Cornwall affair, the timing aligned perfectly.
The due date was near.
Upon receiving the news, Lot abandoned all other concerns.
Nothing was more important than being by his wife's side during childbirth.
Seeing his urgency, the army marched at double speed toward Camelot.
Despite Lot's haste, he arrived half a step too late.
Or perhaps the baby was simply eager.
By the time Lot reached the castle, the makeshift delivery room was surrounded by layers of servants.
By the era's standards, Lot and Morgan were exceptionally kind rulers.
Naturally, the maids were deeply concerned for their queen.
They crowded outside the room, offering prayers for her safety.
Lot burst in, dust-covered from the road.
But at the delivery room's threshold, he froze.
No one barred his entry
He simply realized how filthy he was after the frantic ride.
Who knew how many germs clung to him?
Entering now risked infecting Morgan.
Unthinkable.
"Your Majesty!"
The maids chorused as they noticed him.
From inside the room, Morgan's voice rang out:
"Horndog I mean, Lot! You're back!"
"Yes, I'm here."
Lot smiled.
[At a time like this, who cares about dignity? Call me 'Horndog' in front of everyone I don't mind!]
Morgan, hearing his thoughts through their bond, let out a sudden laugh.
"No way. 'Horndog' is our private nickname."
The mental retort eased her tension.
The pain seemed to dull slightly.
Outside, Lot paced anxiously.
Morgan's labor was difficult.
Eventually, the midwife emerged.
Thanks to Lot's influence, certain anachronistic professions had taken root in Camelot.
Yet he couldn't help regretting one absence
Why had he never fished up an obstetrician from the river of time?
Sigh…
"How is she?" he demanded.
"The baby is halfway out."
"I don't care about the baby how's Morgan?"
Without hesitation, Lot declared:
"Save the mother. Prioritize Morgan's safety above all else."
"…Save the mother, not the child?"
The midwife blinked.
"Yes! Hurry! Morgan mustn't come to harm!"
"Um… Your Majesty, the child is still salvageable at this stage."
She whispered awkwardly.
"…"
"Then save both."
Lot deadpanned.
What kind of idiot midwife says things like that?
Before long, a crisp, vigorous cry echoed from the delivery room.
Morgan had finally given birth.