Crazy Britain:They’re All Raising Me

"That person..."

Seeing Artoria in the distance, Mordred instinctively stepped behind Gawain, using his body as a shield from her gaze. Peeking cautiously from behind him, she scrutinized the energetic figure approaching them.

Her eyes widened slightly in disbelief. Then, moving closer to Gawain, she whispered nervously, "Is she... really my father?"

But as if fearing a misunderstanding, she quickly added, "I mean—I'm not saying I acknowledge her as my father or anything! I just meant... she's the one who's supposed to be my—ugh, forget it. You know what I mean, right?"

Seeing the way Mordred looked utterly conflicted, Gawain blinked. "It's her, no doubt. What's wrong? Don't tell me you can't recognize your own father's face?"

"She's... way too lively... not the least bit dignified..."

Mordred pursed her lips and sized up the distant figure critically. "Why's she waving so wildly? And shouting across that distance like that... Ugh, so immature. There's no way I'd recognize someone like that as my father!"

"Alright, alright, she's not your father, she's not," Gawain said, clearly amused by her reaction. "So, how about just treating her like someone who coincidentally happens to look a lot like your dad? Try approaching her with a neutral mindset."

"...Fine," Mordred grumbled reluctantly.

By then, Artoria had already broken into a run, quickly closing the distance.

"I knew you'd come back to look for me—Wait, what's with those expressions? Gawain—Jackyll, what are you whispering about back there? And who's that girl hiding behind you?"

Since Mordred had been actively avoiding eye contact, Artoria hadn't seen her face clearly—just two figures whispering behind each other suspiciously. Her blood pressure spiked.

Excuse me? How long has it been? I haven't even dealt with that flirty dream version of you and Ritsuka Fujimaru, and now your real-world nice-guy persona is cozying up to another girl?

As her suspicion intensified, Artoria's pace and voice quickened with subtle interrogative force.

But before Gawain could say a word—or even have the chance to feel guilty—Mordred reflexively straightened her back and shouted:

"Yes! Father, it's me—ah...!"

The moment the words left her mouth, Mordred immediately realized what she had said. She clapped her hands over her mouth in horror.

She had meant to treat this Artoria as nothing more than a stranger—a lookalike—but seeing that familiar face and hearing that familiar voice made her heart flutter uncontrollably.

The air turned stiff with awkward silence.

Everyone was now staring at Mordred, making her feel as though she were sitting on pins and needles.

"I-I mean... um..."

Mordred could feel her soul leaving her body.

Come on, Mordred, get it together! What are you doing?! That woman's not your father! She's just some random blonde stranger, so why are you freaking out?

Stay calm. Treat this like any other interaction...

"—Mordred?"

Just as she tried to steady her breathing and get her composure back, Artoria spoke.

"You're Mordred, aren't you?!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Mordred reflexively stood at attention again, hands rigidly at her sides like a student being grilled during boot camp. The moment she responded, she regretted it.

"W-wait, how do you know my name...? Your world shouldn't have me in it, right...?"

Artoria nodded softly. "True. But in my dreams, I caught glimpses of the life of the version of me from Proper Human History. So, I recognize you—my child, from that other me."

She scratched her cheek awkwardly, clearly unsettled by the fact that a child who looked her age had just popped into her life.

But the impact was far more severe for Mordred.

"C-child...?"

Mordred stood frozen for several seconds, jaw slack, before snapping out of it with a gasp.

"You... you're willing to acknowledge me as your child?"

"?"

Artoria blinked, clearly baffled.

"What an odd thing to ask. You were created using the blood of the Proper Human History version of me, weren't you? Of course you're my child. Isn't that obvious?"

But as soon as she said it, a flicker of realization crossed her face. She quickly added, "Ah, I guess if you think I'm too different from that version of me, that makes sense. I'm technically not human either, but a fairy from Paradise... so if you don't think I have the right to call myself your parent, that's fair too."

"Huh?" Mordred panicked. "No, no, no—it's not that, not at all...!"

Then, without warning, Artoria bent slightly to meet Mordred at eye level.

"But... there's something I really need to say, and I won't feel right until I do."

"Eh?" Mordred blinked, thrown off again.

"Because Mordred, you've worked so hard, haven't you?" Artoria frowned slightly, her tone brimming with emotion.

"You were born not long ago as a homunculus, right? At your age, you should've been allowed to enjoy a normal childhood. But instead, you dedicated yourself to helping the other me from Proper Human History. You fought as a knight, trying to build a better Britain."

"Even though you tried your best, that version of me... she was too stiff, too obsessed with governance. She never truly tried to understand you. Never once thought to care for you. And because of that—I believe she failed as a parent. Completely."

The words came tumbling out in a rush. But once she was finished, Artoria was met with silence.

"Uh... why are you all so quiet?" she asked hesitantly, glancing nervously between Gawain and Mordred.

The silence stretched unbearably. Guilt bubbling up, Artoria began to panic. Her gaze flitted about, her limbs trembling with shame. She didn't even think to use her fairy eyes to read Mordred's thoughts.

Lowering her head, she blurted out apology after apology.

"Sorry—so sorry! I probably just made a fool of myself, didn't I?! I was way too presumptuous just now! I mean, I'm not the Proper Human History version of me, I'm not even Mordred's real father—how dare I say all that stuff, right? Ha... hahaha..."

She glanced nervously at Mordred again, her confidence rapidly evaporating—

And what she saw made her freeze.

Mordred's eyes were wide, her breaths short and sharp. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her expression unbearably raw.

A tear trickled down her cheek.

Wait—was she... crying?

Had she really said something that hurtful?

"I'm—"

But before Artoria could finish apologizing again, Mordred suddenly shouted:

"I—!"

And choked.

Tears blurred her vision, and her voice caught in her throat. She tried again:

"I... I want to—"

She furiously rubbed at her eyes, desperate to hold back the tears. That single sentence—burning in her heart—pushed her emotions to the brink.

Forget the Fairy Kingdom. Forget Proper Human History.

Forget everything else.

Only one thing mattered now:

Father acknowledged me.

Father acknowledged me!

My father... finally acknowledged me!

The overwhelming joy struck her like lightning.

She wanted to laugh—laugh until her stomach hurt. To jump, to shout, to run through London screaming her joy for all to hear. But the next wave to hit was sorrow.

How long?

How long had she been waiting for this one moment?

In her lifetime, she had yearned for it. She died pursuing it. She became a Heroic Spirit haunted by the lack of it.

And now, out of nowhere, it arrived.

No warning. No preparation. No armor could've withstood it.

All she'd ever wanted was recognition.

Just for her father to acknowledge her. To say, "You've done well."

For that... she would've given her life a thousand times over.

Unable to hold back, Mordred began to sob.

But she still wanted—needed—to finish the question.

Raising her head, her tear-streaked face turned toward Artoria. She opened her mouth.

Even if her voice broke, even if she could barely speak, she had to ask:

"I... I can... I can call you—"

"Call me what?" Artoria gently prompted.

But Mordred didn't answer right away.

Instead—

Hic!

She hiccupped.

Gods, no. Why now? Why did she have to hiccup now?!

Mordred wanted to scream. She hunched over, trying to steady her breath, but every breath just made it worse. She couldn't get a single word out.

Beside her, Gawain said nothing. He had a guess what she was trying to say—but he knew this was Mordred's moment. She had to say it herself.

And he could tell, Artoria knew it too. She didn't interrupt, didn't fill in the blanks. She just waited.

Waited patiently.

Until, at last—

"I... I want to call you... F-Father!"

She paused.

Then shouted again, louder:

"I—I can call you Father, right?!"

"—"

Artoria's gaze softened.

She nodded firmly.

"Of course."

She reached out and gently ruffled Mordred's head.

"I might not deserve it..."

"But if that's what Mordred wants—"

"Then yes. Of course you can."