Camelot's rise in Marvel

Natalia Alianovna Romanova, better known as Natasha Romanoff or the Black Widow, sat in a poorly lit debriefing room inside SHIELD headquarters.

Across from her, Nick Fury leaned forward, his single eye locked onto hers with an intensity she had long grown accustomed to.

"We're taking over the UK operation," Fury stated directly, sliding a folder across the table.

 "They're dispatching a diplomat, a historian, a linguist, and one of their MI5 agents for security. That last one—Agent Emily Ross? She's out."

Natasha opened the folder to reveal a grainy satellite image showcasing the radiant white city walls of Camelot, alongside personnel files for Sir Richard Cole, Sir Andrew Farrow, Professor Alan Marlowe, and Agent Ross.

"So you want me to take her place."

Fury smirked. "You catch on fast. We've managed to convince their people it's in their best interest to let you take her place. Something about needing someone with more experience in navigating special circumstances."

"Does the rest of the team know?"

"Need-to-know basis," Fury replied. "You'll play nice, keep them alive, and report back to me if this city and its king are anything more than shiny medieval cosplayers. Understood?"

"In particular, I want to know what you can say about their power, this special-looking Lance in particular." He said, showing a picture.

She nodded, tucking the folder under her arm. "When do I leave?"

"Right away, you will be needed in London tomorrow morning. London's already briefed on the switch. Your new name is still Emily Ross. Don't blow your cover."

…

Early morning sunlight pierced through the mist and illuminated the towers of Camelot while Natasha walked with the UK delegation.

The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of grass and earth. She adjusted her plainclothes jacket, seamlessly blending with the rest of the group.

Sir Richard Cole, the historian, was practically vibrating with excitement.

"This is monumental."

"The architecture is beyond impressive." He muttered more to himself than anyone else.

Natasha tuned him out, her focus directed at the massive gates ahead that loomed like a vision from a dream—or a nightmare.

The city was pristine, imposing, and oddly out of sync with the modern world. She observed the walls, noting the armored figures standing sentinel.

Knights. Actual knights.

Her hand itched for the comfort of her Widow's Bite, but she reminded herself to play the part. Unarmed. Discreet. Harmless.

As the delegation approached, the gates creaked open with deliberate grandeur, revealing two figures standing at the forefront. One was polished and serene, with an air of calm authority. The other was brash, arms crossed, smirking as if spoiling for a fight.

"Welcome to Camelot."

"I am Sir Bedivere, Knight of the Round Table and loyal servant to King Arthur. You stand before the sacred city, the heart of a kingdom of justice and unity."

"And I'm Mordred," the other added with a sharp grin. "True heir to the throne of Camelot."

Sir Richard Cole couldn't contain his excitement. "The infamous Knight of Rebellion!"

That clearly struck a nerve as Mordred flared up angrily. "Don't you dare call me that!"

Natasha tensed, instincts flaring. Even unarmed, she could feel the weight of an imminent fight. Fortunately, before Mordred could draw his sword, Sir Bedivere stepped forward. "Please, calm down. They meant no disrespect."

"But please, understand that the past is a delicate subject here." His words smoothed over the tension. 

Mordred clicked his tongue but finally backed down.

Sir Richard wisely stepped back. "My apologies, Sir Mordred," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I merely meant to express my awe at meeting such a figure from legend."

Mordred's glare lingered before softening into grudging annoyance. "Awe or not, watch your words, scholar. I'm not some storybook character here for your amusement."

Despite his earlier faux pas, Sir Richard remained eager and stepped forward slightly. "We are honored by your welcome, Sir Bedivere," he said, inclining his head. "To stand before Camelot itself is an extraordinary privilege."

Bedivere nodded graciously, his gaze shifting to Mordred as if weighing his reaction. Mordred stayed silent with crossed arms, his stance less tense.

 Natasha recognized that it wouldn't take much to provoke him again.

Sir Bedivere gently placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "That's enough, Sir Mordred. Our guests come in peace. Let's not forget the King's orders." With the tension eased, Sir Bedivere faced the delegation.

"Welcome to Camelot, the great city and home of the king. We invite you to meet His Majesty." He spoke with a warm smile.

While Natasha was no expert on the legends, she had read them on the way here and felt he embodied them well.

As he spoke, a group of knights in blue lined up beside them, almost resembling an honor guard, though it gave Natasha the uneasy impression they were ready to defend against an attack.

Which she honestly couldn't fault them for. Especially with Mordred, the heir himself, there to greet strangers who might harbor ill intentions.

As they entered the city, massive gates closed behind them. Natasha noticed there seemed to be no visible mechanism for closing them, she made a mental note of it but didn't ponder it too deeply.

Walking through the city was an astonishing experience.

Nothing short of breathtaking.

Towering white stone buildings, pristine streets, and banners with heraldic emblems filled her view.

The air itself had a refreshing quality, unpolluted by modernity, making it feel like stepping into a painting of medieval ideals.

Natasha's keen eyes missed nothing, and what she didn't see was more revealing than what was apparent.

She observed a striking absence of wear from the environment, and most notably, besides the patrolling knights, the place was nearly deserted.

Based on SHIELD's estimates, the city could accommodate between 20000 and 100000 people, yet it appeared there were not even a thousand present.

"This is… extraordinary," Sir Andrew Farrow whispered, his voice saturated with awe. "The architecture, the craftsmanship—it feels as if time has held this place in stasis."

"It's beyond preservation," Sir Richard added in a hushed tone. "This is perfection. It's as though the Camelot of legends has come alive."

If it weren't for the knights leading them, Natasha felt certain that the two would have paused to marvel at every sight along the route, taking hours to reach their destination. Thankfully, their escort allowed them to maintain a steady pace.

"Is that!?" Sir Richard exclaimed as they arrived at a large market.

The shock in his voice caused the entire group to look towards what he was looking at.

There, in the center of the open square, stood a massive white stone fountain with shimmering blue water.

The fountain held an enormous statue at its core. The figure depicted a young boy standing over a stone, holding a sword aloft with the tip aimed at the sky.

Natasha noticed that the boy's expression was remarkably lifelike yet harbored a peculiar sadness and grim resolve—it felt unsettling.

Sir Richard, oblivious to her thoughts, stepped forward, his excitement surging.

 "It's the Sword in the Stone! The moment Arthur retrieved Excalibur and embraced his destiny. Simply remarkable."

He turned to Sir Bedivere, eyes wide with wonder. "Is this truly how it happened?"

Bedivere hesitated, glancing at the statue. "No, the king drew Caliburn from the stone; he acquired Excalibur later." He kindly clarified.

Sir Richard blinked, his enthusiasm dimmed slightly by the correction. "Ah, of course, Caliburn! The sword of selection," he nodded to himself as if cataloging the correction. "Nonetheless, this moment... it's iconic. Was Arthur truly so young?"

Bedivere's gaze lingered on the statue, his expression inscrutable. "He was younger than most believe," he remarked thoughtfully. "Only 15 summers when he became the rightful king."

"It remains an incredible piece of craftsmanship," Sir Andrew interjected, ever the diplomat.

"But that stone… surely it couldn't be?"

While the rest of the sculpture was pure white, almost marble-like, the stone beneath Arthur appeared ordinary and old.

"Yes, that's the stone from which Father pulled the sword," Mordred answered, pride evident in his tone as he regarded his father's likeness. Natasha noted their striking resemblance.

"The stone itself?" Sir Andrew's voice quivered with a mix of disbelief and astonishment. "You're saying this is the very stone from the legend?"

Mordred smirked, his pride shining through. "What? Surprised the old thing still exists? Nobody thought to defile a relic like this. Camelot knows how to preserve its history."

"Preservation indeed," Sir Richard mused, moving closer to inspect the stone. "It's extraordinary to ponder the events this stone has witnessed. To see it still here, still intact…"

Bedivere cleared his throat softly, redirecting the group's focus. "Well, it was mostly Merlin who moved it to Camelot… And we've had no reason to move it; it stands as a fitting monument."

Mordred's gaze remained fixed on the statue as they lingered by the fountain. For a moment, his typical bravado faltered, replaced by a mix of emotions almost contemplative in nature.

"Hard to envision," Sir Richard remarked, his voice now subdued.

"Fifteen summers, and he drew that sword as if it were effortless. The first step toward becoming the King of Knights."

"He was chosen," Bedivere interjected, his tone steady but gentle. "Chosen because no one else possessed the strength, resolve, or purity of purpose to lead."

Mordred scoffed lightly, his bravado resurfacing. "The only reason no one else possessed the strength was because I wasn't born yet."

Natasha noticed Bedivere's slight wince at Mordred's remark, but the older knight remained silent, allowing the comment to linger.

"We should move on," Bedivere finally stated, reverting to the calm authority that defined him since their arrival. "The King awaits, and it would be unwise to keep him waiting."

As the group progressed past the fountain and deeper into Camelot, Natasha glanced back at the statue one last time. The young boy, with such a lifelike expression, appeared to watch them as they departed.

She couldn't shake the sense that the sorrow in his eyes wasn't merely an artistic choice but a genuine reflection—something that spoke to the weight of destiny and the sacrifices demanded by it.

Mordred walked ahead, a swagger in his step, as if he owned the place, though Natasha noticed his gaze dart back to the statue briefly before they turned the corner and left it behind.

Whatever his connection with Arthur may be, it was evidently complicated. Natasha suspected this complexity would become even clearer as they neared the castle.

Their next stop, prompted by their collective slowing, was another open square, this one filled with what looked like remnants of an artisan's market.

Although the stalls stood empty, their structures were artistic in their own right—crafted from wood and wrought iron, each adorned with designs of leaves, dragons, and stars.

Sir Richard stepped forward, his gaze surveying the intricately painted signs above the stalls. "Jewels of Avalon," he read aloud, pointing to a faded inscription. "And this one—'Myrddin's Charms.' Merlin himself?"

"Merlin was a meddler, not a shopkeeper," Mordred replied, though a smirk revealed his hidden amusement. "He wouldn't stoop to something so mundane."

"Perhaps not," Bedivere acknowledged. "But this square once thrived with craftsmen and merchants, their creations renowned far beyond Camelot."

Their journey next led them past a grand structure with wide archways and soaring spires. Natasha's attention was instantly captured by the banners hanging from its walls—each showcasing a crest or sigil, their vivid colors unblemished by time.

"The Hall of Tournaments," Bedivere elaborated, nostalgia coloring his voice. "A venue for celebration and competition. Here, knights would demonstrate their courage, and the populace would gather to cheer them on."

Sir Richard approached with renewed enthusiasm. "The tournaments! I've read about them—the tests of skill, the jousts, the feasts that followed. Did you participate here, Sir Bedivere?"

Bedivere allowed himself a slight smile. "Once or twice, though the true glory of such events belonged to knights like Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain. They always shone brightest under the crowd's gaze."

"And Mordred?" Natasha inquired, her tone neutral but her curiosity evident.

Mordred grinned, crossing his arms. "Oh, I competed. Won a fair share too. Not that anyone ever gave me the credit I merited."

Bedivere's brow furrowed, but he opted to hold his tongue. Natasha noted how Mordred's smirk faltered for a brief moment before he turned away, his steps quickening as they passed the hall.

Soon enough, they reached their destination, the great and imposing castle, standing tall, its white stones sparkling in the sunlight while the flags atop its spires fluttered in the wind.

"Welcome to the heart of Camelot."

Bedivere stopped, giving them all a moment to take in the breathtaking sight of the building, a true work of art.

"Come, the King awaits within."

(and we done with the chapter!)

So, yeah, SHIELD couldn't stay away, sending in one of their best. Getting a little tour of the place, seeing the sights meeting some knights.

Mordred getting a lil angy, seeing the stone. but what we really want it meeting the king! and we will, try after this sponsored break!