The Apple Thieves
“Apple thieves?”
“Y-y-yes, Magister Militum.”
“Apples...?”
Thieves in winter. If you just looked at that one sentence in isolation, sure, it could happen. Do thieves really care about the season when it comes to their trade? They spot a gap and just loot whatever they can.
But the moment words like ‘Avalonia,’ ‘Artorius,’ and ‘lake’ get thrown into the mix, that sentence falls apart. Who the hell would dare try to pilfer(?) from my land, my lake—the place under the Lady of the Lake’s watchful eye—in all of Britannia?
I couldn’t believe it, so I asked again.
“You’re telling me what I just heard is true? Thieves broke into the lakeside, and of all things, they only stole apples? Hell, if you think about it, they don’t even ‘steal’ them—they just pick the ones that ripen and drop every week, or every fortnight at the latest. Just apples?”
“Y-yes! Dominus!”
This poor guard looked like he’d drawn the short straw in some brutal lottery. My questions, born of sheer absurdity, had him squeezing his eyes shut like he’d stumbled into a cave to escape the rain, only to come face-to-face with a starving bear in the dead of winter.
It stung more that he was treating me like some monster than the ridiculous news of apple thieves itself. I mean, come on—I’m a person. That reaction was over the top.
“Who said I’m gonna eat you? Get a grip.”
“Y-yes, sir! Magister Militum!”
“Alright, what do we know about these apple thieves?”
“Right away, sir!”
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, they say. Remembering that, I bit into an apple from the Round Table shelf—skin and all—and settled in to hear this ridiculous ‘apple thief’ tale.
It turned out to be even funnier than I’d imagined, so I took another bite.
In short, these apple thieves were about to include citizens of Avalonia, Londinium, Camulodunum, and soon every corner of Britannia.
What does that mean? Well, Avalonia’s lake was already famous for its mysteries, but now with the revelation from the lake spirit (a woman) to her champion (me), leading to the birth of Caliburnus, it had transcended sacred ground. It fused with Britannia’s dreams of independence, the thick layer of ancient superstitions, and even the relatively new cross faith, turning it into something almost apocalyptic.
Layer in the loving Virgin Mary and Jesus storylines with the lake goddess and me as characters, add a dash of Greco-Roman myth, the Druids’ nature worship, animism, totemism—and boom, the lake became a holy site. The goddess evolved into this new hybrid faith.
Honestly, I couldn’t blame anyone. I pulled Caliburnus out with my own hands as clear proof, and even now, she whispers all sorts of mysteries to me. If I hadn’t experienced it myself, fine—but I’m chatting with real supernatural forces from this world. Me, a former atheist, now believing in anthropomorphic gods? Hell, I can talk to them? Caliburnus isn’t just some ordinary sword? And now I even think God and his ever-chosen Jesus might’ve existed. They could’ve walked Jerusalem centuries ago. They’re not responding now, so maybe they’re in deep slumber like the Lady of the Lake once was. But one thing’s sure: I can’t flatly say “no gods exist” anymore.
Still, dredging up ancient memories from her, our goddess seems pretty old (not in a bad way) and powerful. So even if God suddenly wakes up like, “Time to rise! Hiya!” he probably won’t split the seas, trigger earthquakes and tsunamis, and drown all of Britannia for worshiping the wrong deity.
We might even get along. God and the Lady—primal flames, water, the first forces humanity revered—probably have history. Hell, God never invaded India under Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, or wiped out the nasty Egyptians and Babylonians like that. I’ve never heard such tales.
Or, to be brutally honest? I still doubt every god out there except my Lady. In my past life and this one, I’ve never witnessed a miracle from God, Buddha, or Allah. My parents weren’t devout either, so maybe it’s less about belief and more about zero exposure. I never took faith seriously. In both lives, believers believed hard; casual ones treated church like a social club.
Of course, that’s just me. Point is, with her miracles through me and Caliburnus in my grip, her renown will spread far and wide across Britannia. People’s urge to snag even one bite of those sacred apples will only grow fiercer.
“So, we can’t stop these ‘apple thieves’ from multiplying, huh.”
“W-we could stop them, Magister Militum. Beat ’em senseless if—”
“No, no. Beat who? Just let ’em be. The manor only needs a couple trees’ worth anyway. For the overly rowdy ones, pull ’em aside, give ’em a talking-to, and send ’em off.”
“Yes, sir! Dominus! I’ll relay the order!”
[Snap!]
The guard saluted sharply and hurried off, his helmet’s red plume fluttering wildly.
My guards and the city watch patrolling the roads all sported those flashy plumes—a blatant warning to any fool harboring bad ideas. This is my turf; don’t even dream of mischief.
This ‘apple thief’ fiasco was just faith, curiosity, and Britannia’s plucky defiance mashed together. People gonna people.
Even last spring, amid end-times vibes with border troops gone and barbarians rampant, villains cropped up everywhere. Biggest name? Probably Vortigern. The rest? Petty crooks seizing quiet roads like their own, charging ‘tolls,’ then escalating to robbery—taking goods, sometimes lives.
But after I smashed Isca Dumnoniorum, rebuilt the roads, and set up proper city patrols, those reports dried up. They might’ve fled overseas or into the deep western mountains.
Eventually, as our revived cities expand naturally, they’ll get spotted slipping down for a peek—or blend back in. Either way, no more highway scams on my roads.
And roads are power. Marching trackless land takes ten days; a paved, maintained road? Four. In Rome, it’s huge—we exaggerate a bit, but every season starts with road talks at Londinium’s forum (now my Avalonia garden Round Table) to plan ahead.
Pedestrians are fine, but chariots and cavalry demand upkeep. Bad roads cripple not just one city, but managing all Britannia as a super-unit—policies crumble.
[Crunch—]
But pestering the Lady desperately about everything taught me there’s more than man- or beast-made roads: paths of mystery. Some with keen senses faintly feel them, but without wielding mystery, it’s meaningless. Beasts can’t match human thought; humans can’t match some beasts’ instincts. Sensing mystery is rare; wielding it? Another realm entirely.
And with Caliburnus in hand, I could.
“Poke!”
“Hm?”
“Ow!”
A cold finger jabbed my firm cheek and bounced off. I turned—Guinevere. We’re married now, so I’m the old man, she’s the old lady, but no words fit that fresh, crisp beauty welling tears as she thrust her finger under my nose.
“...!”
“...?”
...I wasn’t the one poked. She shook her finger like I owed compensation for some injustice. I grabbed it, blew warm breath a few times, and she beamed.
“What’re you thinking about?”
She poked my nose with her other finger, then unpacked documents from home. Naturally scanning the ‘Camulodunum Wheat Expansion Plan’ parchment, I watched her. Damn, she’s pretty.
Even accounting for dating buffs, marriage buffs, honeymoon glow—trying objective view—she’s stunning. Lately, she’s gone full vixen: pretending to read docs while craving my gaze. Her flushed nape was juicier than apples.
“People are taking apples?”
“Huh? Apples?”
Her eyes went wide like a squirrel robbed of acorns. She gazed at the lake, then the dense apple groves beyond, spotting ones rolling on the ground that even beasts ignored. She nodded, smiling.
“They’re just the ones animals won’t touch anyway. Why not let ’em take some? If it gets too heated, we’ll think of something else then...”
“Same thought. Told the guards that.”
She scooted closer, twirling her long brown locks, answering. Trying to braid my short hair, she failed—we both laughed. Laughter sparked tension, heat rising...
Then footsteps at the main gate. I glanced over; she pulled back, composing herself.
A frantic messenger dashed up, saluting wildly.
[Snap!]
“Magister Militum! News from the west! Barbarians attacking Hibernia outposts! Comes Caius is engaging—word from Comes Peredir on Manavia Island!”
“...In this winter?”
Snow fell just yesterday? Bewilderment faded, rage seeping in.