King Arthur Won't Die by Accident

"From what I know, you came to Camelot and became my knight because you were exiled. Since your appointment as a guard, you've hidden your identity well, but never once have you slacked off in your duties. The other guards admire you deeply."

Arthur looked at Tristan—truly looked at him—for the first time. This was the man who, in the histories he remembered, had once stood tall among the Knights of the Round Table.

"Yes. You are very observant," Tristan replied quietly.

"I'd like to say I took you in when you were down and out. But in truth, with your abilities, you could have held high rank anywhere. My charity was no charity at all. And yet… I still don't understand why you betrayed me."

Tristan answered without hesitation. "Because of the one I love."

"Tell me your story." Arthur silently drew the holy sword from its scabbard.

Just in case. You're a small king, remember? You must protect yourself out here.

"I fell in love with a girl named Isolde. Because of her, my uncle exiled me. You must already know all this. Isolde later became the wife of my uncle—King Marco. I should have remained loyal to you as a knight of Camelot and died in your service, never seeing her again. But King Marco, wary of Camelot's growing power, came to me and threatened Isolde's life. I… I couldn't abandon her. No matter the cost."

"Shut your mouth, you shameless traitor!" Agravain exploded with fury.

"Stand down, Lord Agravain," Arthur said, calming him with a glance before turning his gaze back to Tristan.

"I see. Betrayal for love. Shameful—but understandable. Even I could not easily choose between loyalty and the life of someone precious to me," Arthur admitted. "And that's exactly why I despise human nature."

Tristan gave a bitter smile.

As a member of the royal guard, he had long studied King Arthur.

No—he believed he understood Arthur better than anyone. Better even than Gawain, Elegy, or Merlin. The King, always composed, always rational, revealed traces of emotion only occasionally… but enough for someone like Tristan to see through.

Yes. Arthur Pendragon, beneath all the intellect and steel, was just as sentimental—and just as deeply pessimistic—as he was. Perhaps even more so.

No one knows the King better than I do.

"My king," Tristan said, lowering his head, "I have committed a sin that cannot be forgiven."

Arthur nodded. "Yes."

"So please, judge me yourself. But before that—tell me something. Why do you think it was me? Since coming to Camelot, I've only had one encounter with King Marco. I haven't once betrayed you in action."

Arthur's expression did not change.

"It's simple. I never trusted you. Not even for a moment."

The words cut like a blade.

Cruel. Heartless.

And yet, if one were honest—it was also cowardice.

Because only a coward keeps his knight close, and still refuses to trust him. Only a man who lives in fear watches his own guards with suspicion every day.

Yes. Arthur was timid. Arthur was afraid.

So what?

He had lived a quiet, modern life in the 21st century—a world of comfort and peace. Now he walked a land soaked in blood, where killing and dying weren't dramatic scenes in films, but daily truths.

A weak king like Arthur could be killed at any moment.

So wasn't it natural—no, necessary—for him to protect himself by any means? Caution, suspicion, survival—these were not flaws. They were instincts.

And if that meant distrusting Tristan, so be it.

"Human nature is fickle, Sir Tristan," Arthur said coldly. "And that fickleness is most dangerous in those whose identities shift as drastically as yours."

"As expected of you, my king," Tristan murmured.

But this time, there was no sorrow in his voice.

He was glad.

Because if Arthur possessed such wariness, then even if Tristan died—his king would live on.

"My king, remember this. You are weak compared to the great Knights of the Round Table. So you must not trust anyone—not fully. Only then will your light endure. Only then will you bring salvation to Britain. That is what I believe."

He knelt and held out his sword, presenting it with both hands.

"Now, please punish me as I deserve. Let King Arthur's glory be eternal."

His sword trembled in his grasp. Not out of fear—but reverence.

Arthur's holy sword rested in the king's hand. The real one.

But Tristan would not die by it.

He didn't deserve to.

He was a traitor. And traitors don't deserve divine judgment.

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Wise choice, Sir Tristan. Now get up. Don't make me repeat myself."

"My king… Why won't you—?"

"Hmph! Have you ever seen me execute my own men?" Arthur scoffed. "Everyone has value—nobles, knights, commoners, even prisoners. Your value hasn't disappeared just because you committed a crime. You want to die? Fine. But I'll make sure I wring every ounce of use out of you first. You don't get to die easily. That'd be far too kind."

"My king… You…!" Tears streamed down Tristan's face. He trembled.

"You mean to say… Even someone like me… Even a traitor like me is allowed to live…?"

"Don't ask me dumb questions. Figure it out yourself." Arthur turned away. "I just thought: if I already sent someone to fetch Isolde, wouldn't it be a waste if she couldn't see you one last time? That's all. Don't read into it."

He glanced sideways with disdain.

This pitiful man. This son of sorrow.

Arthur had no sense of safety to begin with. If he kept someone like this—someone drowning in grief—by his side any longer, he'd end up with depression himself.

Yes. That settles it. I'll assign him to Kikyo's unit tomorrow. Out of sight, out of mind.

Eventually, Tristan managed to collect himself.

Just then, several guards arrived—escorting a woman.

Tristan froze.

His breath caught.

"…Isolde?"

"Half a month ago, someone came to me," she said, head bowed. "They told me the truth. About you. About everything. I didn't want to live with regrets."

She was still the wife of King Marco.

Even if her heart once belonged to Tristan, that truth was buried now—buried beneath her new identity.

By coming to Camelot, she had betrayed them both: her past and her present.

She was a traitor, no matter which way she turned.

She looked up, met Tristan's eyes, and whispered a few soft words into his ear.

He stood, frozen, unable to respond.

She smiled—quietly, almost peacefully—then walked to the edge of the city wall.

And jumped.

Arthur stood motionless, watching it unfold with a cold, expressionless gaze.

So it's confirmed.

Tristan is well and truly cursed.

Even now, he cannot escape his wretched fate.

And far below, at the foot of the wall, a king let out a furious cry.

It was Marco.

The moment he saw them—Tristan and Isolde—he understood everything.

And that realization drove him to madness.

His roar was filled with rage… and beneath that rage, a grief so deep it threatened to swallow him whole.

-End Chapter-

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