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Chapter Text

Will you give me your hand

And the world it can see,

That we can be free,

In peace and harmony?

“Tabhair Dom Do Lámh”, Irish folk song

The girl was running through the dark forest; from fire to fire. Dark branches grabbed at her red cloak, and the menacing eyes of the monsters watched her from under the gnarled roots and dry leaves. Perhaps, she was a monster herself, an unnatural beast who was trying to escape into the light, to the warmth of the people who could convince her that she was actually not an evil beast, despite the evidence to the contrary. She had magic; magic was forbidden.

Morgana stumbled painfully over a rock, fell on the ground and the dark monstrous shadows crept up on her, surrounding her, chittering. She thought that was her end. But a moment before losing consciousness, the fugitive princess heard someone's soft voice and felt someone's soothing presence at the very border of her mind and the black abyss.

That someone out there felt her sorrow and fear, and he was hurt because she was hurt. He raised his head anxiously and peered into the forest darkness through the campfire's flames, seeking for her in the shadows.

"My Lady, arise. The danger has passed over," a calm, kind voice pulled her out of the darkness.

Morgana opened her eyes. The sky was brightening above, and a tall, black middle-aged man dressed in a tattered burnt umber cloak was sitting beside her. He smiled kindly at her and helped Morgana up, picked up her bag from the ground and handed it back to her. He looked at her with a wise and kind gaze.

But no, he was not the one who shared Morgana's raw fear. She stared around vaguely, trying to find him, the one.

"You...You are a druid, right?"

"Welcome to the Brocéliande Forest, Princess. We have been warned about your arrival. I am Aglain the Leader," the man introduced himself, calming her down with his comforting tone and friendly manners. "Fear not, Morgana. We are friends."

"Thank you," Morgana blinked, and smiled faintly. She immediately forgot everything but relief. She did it, finally. She has found the Druids. Uther and his terror were left behind, she will find people like her and get all the answers she needed so here, among the magical people of the woods. Her search was over.

Aglain gave have a quick reassuring hug, his cloak smelled of wild herbs and smoke, and Morgana sighed in relief.

Chapter Text

"Although this forest can be dangerous, you have nothing to fear with us, Morgana," Aglain reassured Morgana in a calming tone, leading her down a hidden forest path. "Let our home become your home, for you and we are one kind."

Morgana was nervously fidgeting with the edge of her luxurious red velvet cloak. It looked so out of place in this humble forest sanctuary. This part of the woods was bright and pleasant, the oak trees' tops sheltered them like the dome of a majestic cathedral of light. It was nothing like the dark ravine where she was attacked by the evil shadows. Or perhaps everything just changed with the sunlight.

"Thank you," Morgana managed to say again, looking at the ground and berating herself for only being able to utter these two simple words. As the princess of Camelot, she should be thanking the Druids on her knees for saving her and taking her in. They were supoosed to be enemies, after all. Her emotions, everything she had been through to get to this point, her fear, her escape, had all silenced her ability to speak, suffocated her.

But it seemed Aglain understood everything. He gave her a small kind smile and took her by the elbow to lead her to the secret camp of the druids. She noticed its bright hospitable tents among the trees and smelled the mixture of the autumn smoke and roasted chestnuts.

As they came closer, someone from the Druids separated from the camp and approached them. They stopped. Morgana quickly lowered her eyes, shrinking.

"Who is this?" Morgana heard the deep male wary voice. "I sense distress here. And fear, so many fear," the man added thoughtfully, coming closer as the autumn leaves rustled under his feet.

"This is the Lady Morgana," Aglain introduced her to the stranger.

"A lady? From Camelot?"

Morgana's cheeks flared out with shame at the sound of his disapproving voice, as if being a lady was not a privilege but a disadvantage. It was here, on the other hand. She lowered her head, hiding behind the safety of her red hood and a veil of her long black locks.

"It's quite strange for someone like her to be here with us, Aglain."

Morgana heard footsteps approaching her, and that druid circled around her, inspecting her expensive gown and carpet-bag with the few belongings she managed to take from Camelot inside. His presence made her even more nervous. Peeking from under her lashes, she saw that this Druid was tall and young, dressed in green-brown druidic robes.

"Lady Morgana is a runaway. She had to escape Camelot, Mordred," Aglain explained protectively, placing his hand on Morgana's shoulder. "Be polite, please. What have I taught you, my son?"

A strange shiver ran through Morgana at the sound of that name. Mordred. Could it be possible that she had heard it before? No, it was impossible.

"Why?" the man he called Mordred asked, stopping in front of her.

Morgana finally lifted her head, looked at him, and froze in place.

He was slightly taller than her, perhaps a couple of years younger, but his face bore the stamp of wisdom that comes with power and life on the run; a wisdom that Morgana has not yet possessed. He wore simple linen druid clothes, but his long brown cloak was fastened with a bronze fibula of spirals and knots of exquisite craftsmanship, and his blade on a woven belt gleamed with amber inlays. His face was beautiful yet stern and pale, framed by wiry black curls; his large eyes of piercing crystal blue colour stared at Morgana's tearful face with a strange attentive but unreadable gaze.

It was him, she felt it. He had heard her fear, her silent plea last night.

Morgana felt how her heart skip a beat, then beat harder; each stroke deep and thick like the bells ring in the Camelot Cathedral. She shifted from foot to foot, frowning slightly, studying the mystical figure of him. Mordred. There was something off about him. Why did she suddenly feel something strange inside her, awakened from centuries of sleep, as if something great and terrible has touched her soul with its shady wing and then flew away? Why does he seem so familiar to her even though she sees him for the first time in her life? Who is he?

"Why?" repeated Mordred, no longer asking the Druid Leader but looking directly in Morgana's eyes. The tension of his expression vanished, and he looked puzzled, not taking his perplexed gaze off her.

Did he feel the same way up in seeing her? He did. Mordred couldn't help but feel struck by Morgana's beauty and strangeness. Absentmindedly, he took a step back. All his senses sharpened, and he became almost scared: who is she?

Morgana reached her hands out to him, as if wanting him to take them in his. "I have magic," she said softly. Small lonely flame danced in her palms. "And I can't stand to see everything that's happening in Camelot anymore... I've never shared Uther's hatred of magic, and now... He will kill me if he find out I'm a sorceress."

"So you're King Uther Pendragon's daughter?" Mordred's face softened, despite the dark promise that the name of the Pendragons carried for any magical being, was it an animal or a human.

Morgana shook her head violently. "No. Of course not. I'm just his ward."

"Now I understand why you're so scared. Calm yourself."

Morgana lowered her hands and hid them into the soft velvet folds of her cloak. Showing someone her awkward magic was still scary.

"Mordred, you're an orphan too, take care of Morgana, please." Aglain requested paternally. "From now on, she will become a member of our clan. She will learn everything about her powers and herself with us."

Morgana was unsure if she wanted this Mordred to take care of her. More than unsure; the unsettling feeling he has stirred up in her was too intense. It was nothing she's ever felt before. And besides, he didn't seem to like her either, judging by the darkened expression on his face and the quick nervous glance he quickly cast at her and then at the Druid Leader again.

"At first, I must take care of us, Aglain. We must leave immediately. Immediately. Otherwise, she will kill us all."

Indignant, Morgana raised her chin. She wanted to defend herself from his rudeness, but Mordred interrupted her. "The King or the Prince and his knights may follow your trail," Mordred sensed her offence, undoubtedly, "They will search for you and spare no one they find near you. We can all die because of you, Princess."

She fell silent, struck by the cold truth of this statement.

"Mordred is right, Morgana, alas." Aglain sighed sadly, "Unfortunately, we must leave as soon as possible. I will go and warn the others." He left, his shoulders hunched, his hands put in the pockets of his wide cloak.

"I'm sorry," Morgana pleaded to him as he walked away. She felt like a burden, out of place everywhere: in Camelot and here, in Brocéliande.

"It seems that everything will change because of your arrival, Milady," Mordred broke a thin supple branch of a young oak tree entwined with ivy and began bending it, forming a crooked spiral out of it.

Feeling guilty — and Mordred clearly had no intention of comforting her, rather the opposite — Morgana said cooly, "The Milady stayed in Camelot. It's Morgana. And may I ask what are you doing?"

Mordred rummaged in his black belt bag, pulled out a twine and hung his strange spiral creation on the tree branch. "This is how our people leave messages for other clans or mark the way. We need to write to your royal family so that they do not think we kidnapped you. Otherwise they will seek revenge on us."

"They are not my family," Morgana clipped, but her voice trembled slightly.

Mordred took out a scrap of papyrus from the bag, and looked at her with a sincere interest. "Family does not necessarily make blood, and blood does not necessary make family. Not all druids are related by blood, but all are related by magic and faith, Morgana." he said quietly.

He called her by name. Her own name, this simple set of sounds, spoken by him sounded somehow different than usual, as though it was truly magical and ancient, and meant something among the threads of destiny. Mordred focused on the paper again, and suddenly his eyes were the colour and brightness of the pure liquid gold heated in a forge; and the paper burst into the red fiery letters that turned into text written in black. The text burned out in the paper.

Morgana was spellbound, a quiet gasp escaped her lips. She has never seen another person performing magic before and did not know that a sorcerer's eyes always flashed magical light when using their gift. Had her own glowed too? She has never seen anyone using their magic so freely and confidently as Mordred did. So beautifully. His power was something mystical and fierce. She craved to be a part of what he had, to have a power like his.

"What did you write there?" she took a step forward, but Mordred stopped her. He attached the paper to the center of the leafy spiral and turned to her. "It's just that you left your family of your own free will and that your destinies will now go separate ways." These words, final words, for some reason resonated with a sad note in Morgana's soul. Although just a day ago she dreamed of this, just a few minutes ago she rejected Arthur, Gaius, Guinevere, Merlin and Uther when she denied the word "family".

"Now give me your things and let's go to the camp. You'll help us with the move since all of this fuss is because of you," Mordred approached her and tried to take her bag off her shoulder. "You'll have to work for your keep, Princess. Aglain is just too soft to say it."

"No, thanks," Morgana flashed her eyes at him and tossed her head back in that proud way she had, and kept her bag with her. "And don't think I don't know how to be grateful."

"Well, you may keep your precious bag, it means you're just not tired enough," Mordred shrugged, turned away from her and walked ahead, "And it means you'll easily make it through the forest with all the things on your back."

"I will," Morgana gritted her teeth, and, on her tired legs, followed her inhospitable guide; his shoulders proudly straightened, his dark cloak dragging through the grass.

The oak spiral with the farewell letter hidden in it, remained hanging on the tree, swaying in the cool autumn wind.

Chapter Text

"I'll help you," Mordred said, hurrying over and raising his head to look into her eyes.

Morgana looked pointedly at him, as if mentally saying do you think I can't do it myself? but Mordred continued to stare at her with the unblinking gaze of his, his hands outstretched towards her. Morgana slipped off her horse into his embrace, and his arms encircled her waist and closed on her back.

"I think it's here. Do you feel it, Morgana?" His face under his black hood was serious and excited, his quiet voice trembling slightly. "It's living. I can feel it."

This meant that the Valley was still breathing, can be sensed like other places. Mordred's gift never failed. Morgana squeezed his shoulders in a reassuring gesture, brushing his cloak's thick wool with her thumbs.

"I can't feel it yet. But it should be here. If it isn't, then I don't know where to look anymore."

Mordred let go of her, they tied their horses to the trunk of a beech tree and quietly and cautiously made their way through the lush forest floor. Morgana had to lift and tuck her green skirts into her girdle to walk through the ferns and deadwood.

The forest was full of light and birdsong, of buzzing bees, of rustling deer and hares; and Morgana finally felt it within herself, the thing close to what Mordred was talking about. It felt like an excited tickle under her skin, like yearning in her heart, like a desire that resonated deep within her soul. The air was filled with an exciting ozone scent, and the sunlight shining through the leafage looked so soft and yellow warm. They were close.

Morgana squeezed Mordred's hand as they stopped at the edge of a rocky cliff, looking out at the bushes and trees below. There lay the Valley of the Fallen Kings, a place of myths, superstitions and danger. A place they have been seeking for, fearful of being too late.

"Well, where is it, Mordred? I feel like it must be here." Impatience rang in her voice. "I can feel it now."

"Right here, look." He pointed down.

Morgana, still not letting go of his warm hand, took a step forward and cautiously looked down. They stood at the top of a large cave.

"The Crystal Cave. We found it, Mordred." Morgana smiled widely, filled with happiness and relief, and rushed down towards the entrance of the Cave, but Mordred held her back.

"Quiet. This place is sacred."

Morgana looked back at him, slightly bewildered, and nodded. Mordred was always able to hold her back when Morgana could go too far, when magic could lead her too far. His firm touch was her guide, a rock for her to cling to to stop the wild currents of destiny from carrying her away to places of no return.

They carefully descended the stone steps to the bottom of the Valley. Seven mossy boulders arranged in a neat semi-circle lay around the entrance. This was the work of the previous generations of druids or even of the Ancient Folk, the first people of magic who had delved so deeply into the mysteries of nature and destiny that they ceased to be human, forever departing into the hills and taking their knowledge with them.

"Our magic is nothing compared to what the Ancient Folk once possessed," Aglain told them one evening in the Brocéliande camp. "They were talking with Goddess like friends."

They were all sitting around the campfire. Morgana was leaning on Mordred' and almost felt asleep, but Aglain's story made her shake off her drowsiness and sit up straight. Something in the legends of the ancient days and Old Ways always made her soul ache, as if she had lost something precious that could never be regained in the days she was not even born.

"Do you think they know what's happening to magic? Why don't they help us?" She asked.

Aglain shrugged, looking thoughtfully and sadly into the forest darkness. He answered nothing.

"If they do know, they're probably glad they escaped underground long before the Pendragons came to Albion," Mordred replied with a grim little smile.

Morgana stirred and looked down at his hands clasped around her waist, and sadness made her heart ache with pity. First, the Ancient Folk left, then the Druids escaped to the woods. And when they disappear, who will stay to keep the primal forces of nature? Will the Earth become barren, devoid of the Gifts?...

Everything around them breathed with life and magic; the brightness of the green hurt their eyes. The ground was strewn with dense patches of delicate white flowers with crimson centers – trilliums. Their tall, slender stems did not sway in the wind, frozen in awe before the Crystal Cave. Its soft dusk seemed to invite Mordred and Morgana inside. How far underground did its passages and halls go? What secrets had its dark vaults hidden?..

Morgana turned her head to Mordred. He was staring into the Cave's void. "We did it. The source of all magic..." her voice broke with anxious excitement. They have been searching for this place for so long, dedicated themselves to it, and when they finally found it, Morgana suddenly asked herself a question she had never asked before, What's next?

Mordred seemed to sense her hesitation, "I believe the Cave will guide us. We'll understand whether it agrees to let us help it and whether it will help us."

"Let's go?" Morgana took his hand for courage, feeling once again how Mordred's touch gave her strength.

Looking at each other, they entered the Cave, its cozy, damp darkness.

And suddenly they got enveloped in a cloud of lavender smoke.

A golden flash flickered, and a man in a long, dark, tattered cloak emerged from the stone. He was old and sorrowful, his hair and beard white, and his wrists were adorned with ancient silver bracelets. Mordred made a sharp movement, as if he wanted to draw his blade from its sheath.

"In my time, the druids sought peace first before answer with violence," the old man uttered calmly. "I have not threatened you, boy."

Suddenly ashamed, Mordred straightened up. "Who are you?"

"I am Taliesin. Once I was called the Bard of Bards. Now I am the Keeper of the Crystal Cave."

Morgana and Mordred bowed to him, realising who they have encountered. "And we..." Morgana began, but the Keeper interrupted her, raising his hand.

"Do not continue, child. I know who you are. The moment of our meeting has been written for many, many years. You are Morgana. And Mordred." Taliesin looked them both over carefully, lingering on Mordred. "While you have been able to bypass dangerous kinks of destiny that were meant to trap you in, the end of the road is still shrouded in mist. However, the future is not carved in stone, it is only a shadow in the crystal. Remember that, Morgana."

Mordred frowned, trying to comprehend Taliesin's cryptic words.

"We came to the Crystal Cave to ask for strength and protection," Morgana explained quietly, looking at Taliesin with reverence. "You know what is happening, don't you? We came to help, Sir Taliesin."

"I know." Taliesin sadly lowered his gaze, remembering other places of power. "I feel the Weakness, I am fading away. However, the fate of magic is not for me to decide, for I am only a Keeper. But I will let you pass, for it was meant for you to find the Cave. And there is something else there, Morgana, just for you," Taliesin's warning expression made Morgana's heart rise, "You are one of the few who can see the future. The crystals will help you, giving you the knowledge you need. But use what you see for good. Use it for good."

Before Morgana could ask anything else, Taliesin raised his hands and the Cave was illuminated by the light of a dozen golden floating fireballs. "Follow the light, my children."

And he disappeared.

Morgana and Mordred looked at each other, their faces painted in gold by the magical lights,  "Did you understand anything?" they asked each other almost simultaneously.

Morgana held herself back from pulling her hand out of Mordred's grip and running ahead. Her inner tremble urged her to move faster, but Mordred held her back. Golden lights floated in the air, leading them deeper into the corridors of the Crystal Cave, reflecting off its glistening damp walls overgrown with fluorescent blooming green and blue moss. Small stones crunched under their boots; it grew darker with each step as they followed the lights. The warm thick air was tickling their skin with a sense of power and force.

Suddenly, the lights went out, stopping before a passage in the wall. Taking a deep breath for courage, Morgana and Mordred entered, and shut their eyes, adjusting to the sudden brightness. The walls and the floor here were covered with the softly glowing pink, white, and blue crystals full of primal energy. The ceiling was lost in darkness, and in the distance, a water stream was murmuring.

"This is where magic had come into the world..." Mordred observed the place quietly and reverently. He let go of Morgana's hand and looked round, hesitating to touch the crystals or glowing mossy boulders. "This is our home."

Morgana also felt elated. It seemed that all the energy of the world lay in this dark underground place. She walked along a row of crystals, catching her own dizzy reflection in them. Taliesin had said that something was waiting here specifically for her. Show us the way, Morgana mentally asked the forces of the Cave. How do we save magic?

Stopping in front of one of the crystals, a large milky-blue one that was protruding from the dark damp rock, Morgana leaned forward. She cautiously reached out her finger to its smooth matte surface. After a moment of hesitation, she pressed it to the stone. The crystal lit up — Morgana flinched and withdrew her hand, afraid that she did something wrong. But the mist inside of the crystal dissipated, and within its empty space, blurry shadows moved, merging into some strange figures and cryptic signs, becoming clearer and more familiar.

The crystal showed her something.

Chapter Text

After three days of grueling trek through the forest with almost no rest, Morgana has finally crawled into her tent — Leader Aglain and his daughter Elaine had been so kind as to give her a tent made of red canvas and all the necessary items for survival.

"Here, take this, dear," Elaine had said, handing Morgana a bundle and a large wicker basket. Elaine, the daughter of Aglain, was tall and strong, her black skin glowed with sweetness, her hair were braided into a dozen of beaded and feathered braids. "We spare nothing for our own."

Morgana had passionately and wholeheartedly vowed to be forever grateful to them. He passionated devotion surprised Elaine, causing her to raise an eyebrow in bewilderment. "You're welcome," she cleared her throat and smiled friendly.

Morgana's feet ached — the princess had never been walking this long and far on foot; the druids used their few horses only to carry heavy things and wagons. Morgana's raw velvet and sheer silks were forgotten, now she was wearing a long linen shirt, breeches, and a brick-red woolen sleeveless dress embroidered with a black cord.

In the evening, the druids have lit fires and stopped their tents and wagons at a cozy sheltered forest clearing. After taking a beat of barley flatbread, Morgana apologised to Aglain and Elaine and retired to her tent. She sat on a messy bed of woolen blankets, hugged her knees and bowed her head down. Shadows of flames could be seen through the red thick tent's fabric, and the soft murmur of voices and songs could lull her to sleep if Morgana could sleep.

No, everything was good, better than she could have dreamed of. It was wonderful and amazing to live among people who freely practiced what was hated and feared in her former home; to see people who lived their truth and just were themselves. The druids were beautiful, their magic was white and good, their ways peaceful. Everything they said about them in Camelot — that they were a dark blood-hungry cult — was a lie. Camelot was a lie. Morgana was welcomed to no longer fear anything — except being found by her former friends — she was among her people.

But her nightmares have returned. They told her not about Arthur's death, which she hadn't seen for a pretty long time, but about war and dragon fire, smoke and darkness rising. And about Mordred.

She woke up in fear on the first night in Brocéliande. Sticky sweat trickled down her forehead and neck, although it was pretty cool to lie on the blankets here in the woods. Morgana stared into the darkness in a pure consternation, breathing heavily. Her back ached from sleeping on the ground.

In her dreams, Mordred, dressed in a black knight attire, stood surrounded by fire, beside her. A flaming sword in his hands, anger in his eyes, his left hand painfully squeesing hers. It took Morgana a long time of that night to stop thinking about him, trying to push away thoughts that something tied her to Mordred — otherwise, why would her visions obsessively show him to her? This both drew her to him and repelled her from.

Walking a secret hidden path somewhere near the end of the druid procession, Morgana could feel Mordred's presence at her side; his vigilant gaze scanned the forest left and right, his hand lay on the hilt of his blade. If the Druids had knighthood, then Mordred would undoubtedly be a druid knight, Morgana noted, furtively observing him.
He didn't talk much with anyone, seeming to be a closed off person. After the fiasco with Arthur — he always mocked her visions — Morgana didn't even think about telling anyone about her odd dreams, much less Mordred. Especially when she was catching his strange wistful look on herself now and again; or noticing his skeptical smile if he saw how weary she was or didn't know how to help the others with the chores.

Princess, it seemed like she could almost hear how mockingly that word sounded in his head.

At the day's rests, Morgana always tried to stick with Aglain and Elaine, still feeling a little awkward with the rest of the Druids; though she absorbed every word they said, watched them, admiring every glimpses of druidic magic. It was so natural. There was so much love and care in their power.

"I want something to read, Aglain," Morgana once asked, eyeing eagerly the scroll he was reading making some notes with a charcoal stick from time to time.

"Missed reading?"

"I want to learn more about magic."

Aglain rummaged in his knitted bag and pulled out a thin scroll. "Here you go."

Morgana unfolded it with curiosity trying to make sense of the drawing of a circle divided into four sections and inscriptions next to each of it.

Aglain closed the bag, and looked somewhere over her shoulder with a slight smile. "I think someone wants to talk to you."

Morgana looked back and noticed Mordred's dark figure lurking among the trees.

"Who? Mordred? I acrually think he kind of hates me," Morgana suddenly wanted to confide in Aglain, to tell him about her insecurity, about her dreams of Mordred, to tell the Druid Leader that Mordred was the reason she still felt like a trouble.

"I think you're wrong, Morgana." The Leader stood up. "We're not stopping for long." And he went to his daughter. At every rest stop Elaine took up her knitting needles from her pocket and knitted with abandon.

Morgana felt awkward sitting alone under the tree, so she buried her face in the scroll. But after a moment, none other than Mordred himself indeed came to her oak and just sat down across from her, just like that. Morgana gave him a quick sideglance and glued her eyes to the scroll again, pretending that his presence didn't bother her. Mordred took out his amber blade from its plain brown sheath and started playing with it, tossing it into the air and jabbibg it into the ground.

"What?" Morgana finally asked sternly.

"Nothing." He shrugged. "What are you reading?"

"About magic...of the elements," Morgana finally realised the meaning of the symbols in the circle, proud not be embarrassed with her ignorance in front of him.

Mordred leaned over and stretched his neck, peering into the scroll. Morgana tensed, sensing how close he was to her. He smelled of smoke and something woody.

"Ah, the circle of four elements. It's about healing. See this weird human being drawn in the centre?" Morgana stared at the drawing of the hermaphrodite in the centre of the circle. "Druidic knowledge says that the human body, like all of nature, consists of four elements, and each part of the body is governed by one of them. If one element gets out of harmony, a person becomes ill. A good healer restores the balance."

"Interesting..." Morgana was genuinely amazed.

"It's the simplest basics. I learned this when I was eleven." Mordred caught the blade deftly by the edge with the lightest of smiles.

"I'm happy for you." she remarked sardonically.

For a while they were sitting like that in silence. Mordred was playing with his blade, Morgana was silent, but acutely being very aware of his presence next to her. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it distracted her.

Finally, he put the blade back in its sheath and stood up. "Let's go. It's time."

"No, not yet," Morgana stubbornly objected; and at that moment she heard Aglain's sonorous voice calling everyone to go. The camp came to life, filled with noise, fuss and a promise of the road.

"You see?" He smiled demurely and held out a hand to help Morgana stand up, but she ignored it, and Mordred returned to his usual occupation – guarding the clan. A thin shadow of sadness passed over his face at her rejection, and then was gone.

The other druids, except for Mordred, were friendly to her, but Morgana, of course, understood everything. She felt ashamed that she had made others suffer, made them running away. Moreover, even though it was just a little bit, she missed home, the fragile illusion of a home that Camelot sometimes seemed to be. Everyone there was a stranger to her as well, but she had grown accustomed to caring for them. She had grown accustomed to respecting and fearing Uther, to hoping for Arthur, to laughing with him. But that was all left in the past. The doors were slammed, the bridges burned. She had made her choice and would never go back, even if Arthur himself came begging for her to return. Even if it was him. And it didn't matter how much it hurt her to have to run away in the night because of who she was and what she couldn't give up: her magic, her soul.

The past was no more; the future was hidden in the mist and fire of her visions, visions that had never been able to help anyone. It seemed like they only existed to exhaust her.

Now, Morgana felt quiet tears rolling down her cheeks. She hadn't allowed herself to cry during these hectic days, but now the dam finally broke.

There was an awkward rustle outside, a deep breath, and then someone has pulled back a woolen striped blanket that covered the entrance to her tent. Morgana looked up. Of all people, it was the strangest thing for her to see Mordred at her place.

"Mordred?" She cleared her throat, embarrassed, and quickly wiped away the tears with her sleeve.

He walked in as if nothing has happened, as if he didn't see anything, sat down on the mat next to her bedding, and stared at her intently, as if trying to unravel an enigma she was.

"Do druids always just walk in like this without asking?" She tried not to let him hear the tears in her voice.

"Yes." It was a lie, but Mordred wasn't about to enlighten her. "I sensed you crying." Now he was no longer smirking mockingly like during these days, but looking at her sympathetically. Of course, all of Morgana's attempts at pretence have failed.

She quickly wiped away the last traces of tears. "No, you weren't."

"I was. The past cannot let you go?"

"It's the future." Morgana shook her head.

"You're a seer." He didn't ask, he asserted as if he had known her for all of his life.

"How do you know? Did Aglain say something?.."

"I realised it as soon as I saw you, Morgana. My gift is to sense."

Mordred's presence so close to her was overwhelming. Morgana could hear his breathing and the rustle of his clothes when he moved slightly. His light eyes were shining in the red semi-darkness of the evening tent; but not like in her dreams, not at all, where he was like a different person, a dark shadow of his true self. They were shining with kindness.

"And what do you sense?" Her voice sounded both irritated and expectant.

"That you have absolutely no idea about anything."

"And where do you think I would learn?" She parried, suddenly getting angry. "My own guardian could burn me at the stake if he found out who I really was, I dream of death and war, I ran away from home when I almost set my room on fire — that's how my magic awakened, I almost burned Camelot down — to join the druids, the state's number one enemy..." She took a breath. "And I don't know if I can really belong here, or if I'll ever find peace!"

And immediately, Morgana regretted her outburst. Sorry, she almost said, looking at him guiltily.

"You could go back home and continue hiding your magic." Mordred spoke quietly after a minute's pause during which they were sitting silently not looking at each other. Morgana didn't know what made her open up to him; Mordred was playing with something in the pocket of his dark grey tunic, staring at the tent's walls and at her exquisite Camelot possessions: a silver comb, a small round mirror, a candlestick, an embroidered beaded pouch, a glass bottle of perfume that Morgana had neatly arranged on a low, rough-hewn table. "Living like everyone else lives there in your white proud city trapped behind high walls. Concealing everything." A hint of coldness rung in his voice.

"No, Mordred, I..." Morgana quickly blinked away a new tear. "I know that my presence puts you all in danger, but I won't survive if I go back to Camelot again. Darkness will consume me, I know it, I know that I won't be able to give up a part of myself and be afraid to even breathe... Don't send me away." She exhaled, finding his eyes in the dusk.

Morgana felt, she just knew that if she returned to Camelot, all hope for her would be forever lost, and her life would become a nightmare not in a dream, but in the light of day.

"Calm down, Morgana. I don't want you gone." Mordred suddenly smiled, surprisingly gently, at her and pulled something out of his pocket. "Brocéliande accepts everyone who comes to us in peace. You have magic, which means we are one. Here, take this, you need it."

He handed her a round pendant dangling from a silver chain. Morgana cast a quick uncertain glance at Mordred, held out her palm and he lowered his gift there. It was a beautiful silver circle engraved with a triskelion, a symbol of the Old Religion.

"This will mark you as one of the Druids." Mordred was pleasant to see that she liked the pendant, the corners of his lips lifted in a tantalising smirk. "Cause you couldn't be marked as a child."

"What do you mean?" She looked at him curiously, feeling suddenly drawn to talk to him and get to know him.

Mordred unlaced his tunic collar, pushed the fabric aside, and showed her the black tattoo on his fair skin. The triskelion. "Every Druid-born has such mark. So we don't forget who we were and who we are and where we are going."

"Then where did you get this?" Morgana asked quietly, warming the noble metal of the pendant in her palms.

"Seven days before you came, I found a piece of silver in a stream. I cleaned it and kept it. Maybe I sensed that something was coming. You. And today I enchanted it into a mark for you, Morgana."

"Thank you..." Morgana felt that this piece of jewelry has indeed marked some new age in her life. As if by accepting Mordred's gift there would be no turning back. She brushed her hair over her shoulder, and tried clumsily to fasten the chain around her neck.

"Need a hand?" Mordred leaned over and reached out to her.

"No." Morgana finally managed to fasten it, and the pendant confidently rested in the middle of her chest with a pleasant weight of the heavy silver.

"Don't reject help. We're all here for each other."

Morgana put her hand on the pendant and for the first time, smiled slightly at Mordred. Maybe he wasn't as cold as he seemed at first.

"I will take care of you, Morgana. I will help you with your magic. I know a lot." He briefly touched her fingers that were clutching his gift, lingered his bright gaze on her hair falling over her shoulders, and a warm thrill passed through her.

Morgana suddenly wanted to roll her eyes and smile at the same time. "Thank you," she replied, a little surprised, feeling touched. Has he changed his attitude towards her? Or did his sudden gentleness come only from Aglain's request? But perhaps she did need help in this sea of unknowns. Even if the help was coming from him. She decided to trust Mordred despite her dreams. Maybe the future is not set in stone. 

"May the Moon give you good dreams," he said, stood up, and left her.

He returned to his watch post and lay down on the grass by the campfire. He folded his hands behind his head, and stared up at the blue stars above. He was thinking about what he could tell her: about the twelve magical beasts in the sky, about how druids were once advisors to great kings and queens, about all the secrets of Brocéliande. He could tell Morgana something he hadn't told anyone else yet.

Morgana curled up cosily under her blanket, still clutching Mordred's triskelion in her hand. The voices of the people outside faded, giving way to the chirping of crickets and the trills of nocturnal birds. It smelled of fire and river water. Morgana fell asleep, and when she awoke, she didn't remember if she'd had nightmares.

She didn't know that Mordred wanted to be with her of his own free will, for Aglain's quick request had long since been forgotten by the Leader. She didn't know that Mordred had sensed her in the forest even before Aglain set out to search for her, that his entire soul craved for hers. When Morgana was sitting up in her bed, consternated, that first night, Mordred knew she had dreamed about something terrible, and his first impulse was to run to her, to asks what's wrong, but he stopped himself: they were still strangers on the physical level. But not on the souls', he knew it.

As Morgana stepped out of her tent in the morning, the first thing she saw was Mordred sitting on a log near the entrance, looking vaguely out of place. Noticing her, he stood up quickly and walked over to her.

"Elaine asked us to get the horses drunk. Do you know how to conjure water, Morgana?"

"Good morning, Mordred," Morgana greeted him ironically. "And, um... No. I've only tried making fire so far."

"I see. I'll teach you."

"But what about breakfast?" Morgana wanted to walk towards the main campfire, but Mordred tugged at her sleeve.

"I brought you some." He gave her a honey berry flatbread wrapped in a burdock leaf.

Morgana raised an eyebrow, but took the offering. It was surprisingly delicious. The camp was slowly waking up in the kaleidoscope of the colourful fabrics of tents and wagons, voices and children's laughter, horse neighs, the smell of breakfast, rustling golden oak leaves under their feet as they plunged deeper into the woods, ravens' cawing. Morgana was glancing at Mordred from time to time, trying to tie the dream of him with the reality before her, studying his movents, his roundish face and beautiful hands. No, he wasn't evil, so forget the dreams, she whispered to herself.

"Do you know why fire is the first thing every sorcerer learns?" He asked out of the blue, looking at the clear autumn sky and then at her; his eyes were the same fresh colour as the cool dome above. "Why is it the easiest magic that doesn't need the words of the Old Tongue?"

Morgana shook her head.

"Because the basis of all magic is the fire element. The primary element. Each of us, no matter what gift we possess, was born with a flame in our blood from which this world came into being, and in which it will die."

The way Mordred spoke deeply, achingly impressed Morgana; they way something in this calm words was close to her own fiery visions. "How do you know so much?" She dared to ask.

"When other children played, I preferred to sit with the elders." He smiled mysteriously.
And she imagined a quiet child rejecting other children who shunned him, the boy who was silently and attentively listening to adult conversations, refusing toys and games his peers enjoyed.

The dew has not yet dried on the withered grasses, and the autumn morning was cool and smoky. The horses were grazing in a glade not far from the camp. Morgana and Mordred approached the wooden drinking bowl, which was now empty except for a silver coin at its bottom.

"Do you see this coin? Water needs metal."

"Why?" Morgana saw the blurry Uther's proud profile etched in the coin. Long time no see, she told him mentally.

"You already know that even for a magical fire, we still collect firewood?"

Of course, she did; she gathered them several times, helping Aglain and Elaine.

"That's because the fire needs to devour something to give birth to something. But water is merciful, it doesn't destroy a thing completely as fire does." Mordred took a deep breath as if such a long conversation has tired him, and shifted.

Morgana stared at its dried dark bottom and sighed, "What do I need to say?"

Mordred stood behind her, his warm breath ruffled the hair in her careless braid, "Before you speak, first visualize. The essence of water itself. The coldness. The wetness. And then, say 'wazzar'." He took her hand in his, squeezed her wrist and lifted it above the trough.

Nothing came out of it. She bit her lip, ashamed that she failed in front of Mordred, and broke their touch.

"Try again, Morgana. Have patience. It's because water is opposite to fire, and you have a lot of fire in you."

Goosebumps ran down her spine at his words.

Her clumsy attempts at sorcery made the white horse beside her give a startled neigh, buck and rear up.

"Quiet, girl, calm down." Morgana rushed to the mare, soothing her, stroking her silver mane. "I'm sorry I scared you." A gust of wind blew Morgana's hair, and she felt Mordred's overly attentive gaze on her.

"Something's wrong?" She brushed her locks out of her face.

"Nothing."

Morgana glanced at his fine face, probably feeling herself blush, and in order to avert her eyes from his she lowered her gaze, and suddenly noticed what was carved on his fibula. "Triskelion. The same as mine."

"Yes. It's my father's."

Morgana fell silent, releasing the now calmed horse to graze further.

"I think you want to ask me what happened with my father, Morgana," Mordred turned back to the trough and filled it with water.

It was true. Morgana touched her pendant again; it became her habit whenever she was worried or felt unsure.

"He was killed when I was a boy. On your Guardian's orders. Of my entire clan, only I survived, and that's when Aglain found me." He said evenly.

A fiery mixture of anger, regret, and shame in her heart was about to make her cry again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Mordred turned to her, his hand gripping his blade's hilt. "It's not your fault, Morgana."

"How long ago was that?" She approached him, a water spell swirling on her tongue ready to snap and flood the entire forest.

"Ten years ago. Also in autumn," Mordred replied.

Morgana shuddered. The same time she'd first had her prophetic dream about her father's death. The autumn of ten years ago. She turned to the trough, spat out the incantation and the water overflowed and spilled over the wooden edge.

From that day on, something intangible had changed.

The Brocéliande Clan moved once again even deeper into the forest, just in case of pursuers, and Mordred had been by Morgana's side all the time, sticking to her wherever she went, asking her what she saw or thought, demanding her diligence and attention in their studies at mornings, writing startlingly long sheets of the Old Tongue's words for her to memorise and leaving them at the entrance of her tent at nights; all so unlike his initial unfriendly welcome.

And Morgana has really begun to feel something like home, even though the camp never stayed in one place for more than a month. She has begun to feel something so much like freedom and family. Aglain and Elaine were her true support; and it felt like when Mordred, the last of them all, has accepted her, she was able to find herself again. With him and Aglain, Morgana studied to control her magic and learn how the Triple Goddess had built the three worlds: the heaven, the earth and the underground; learned many new spells — oh, magic was so alluring, and she was so greedy for it — and was glad to help those who accepted her as their daughter wherever she could.

She was glad to forget the princess and become a druidess.

Chapter Text

Morgana and Aglain were sitting in his stripped tent embroidered with the patterns of trees and crescents; the autumn breeze blew through along its long way South, refreshing them. Scrolls, pouches of herbs, various crystals braided with cords lay on low tables all around them; on the nearest table, stood a wooden bowl of nuts and berries that Aglain offered Morgana.

"So, Morgana, how do you do? How's Brocéliande?" the Druid Leader asked, smiling understandingly at her.

Morgana hugged her knees and sighed. "Thank you, Aglain. I feel better than I've ever been since my father died. Everything here is different from what I'm used to... But here with you, I feel like a human, not a monster."

Aglain's deep dark brown eyes filled with sympathy for the fugitive princess. "Have you found the answers you were looking for?"

"Mordred told me that I am a seer, and I am sure he is right. And thanks to you all, now I know for sure that there is magic in me, and that it is not a bad thing. I know who I am. I'm not bad."

"My boy can sense these things. Yours is a rare gift, Morgana. Only a few possess it, and it seems that you, the lady of Camelot, was gifted with it for a reason. You seem to have a great role in destiny, Morgana."

"But why me?" Morgana asked pleadingly.

Aglain was about to answer but was interrupted by Mordred, who silently entered the tent, as though sensing that Morgana mentioned his name. As though sensing her confusion.

"Talking about me?" He sat cross legged between them, silently listening and looking at Morgana. She blinked, focusing on Aglain again, but Mordred's attentive gaze on her was almost palpable.

"Everything in the world happens for a reason, Morgana," Aglain continued. "This is called destiny. But sometimes we only learn the reason later, when things have already happened."

"Then how can we know the right way if the reasons for everything that is happening become known only when it's too late?"

"That's what seers like you are for, Morgana. You can see the paths to take and the ones to leave behind."

"I don't understand," Morgana shook her head. "All I see is someone's death. Evil." Her chin quivered, and she cast a quick glance at Mordred. He in her dreams, the black knight with a flaming sword and he now, the peaceful druid who looked at her with curiosity, were like different people.

"There is always another way, Morgana. The future can be changed."

"Another way? Sometimes I don't think there is, Aglain," Morgana could feel the tension building in her shoulders as a spasm clenched her throat. "Not when we live in a world where we are executed and persecuted for being born different from them!"

"You shouldn't be afraid of Uther," Mordred spoke up.

"I'm not afraid," she lied, looking at him with incomprehension. Mordred, whose entire family fell at Uther's hand — and he's not afraid?

"We should pity the King, Morgana," Aglain spoke softly.

"Pity him? Why?" Morgana exclaimed indignantly, shaking her head and curling her lips. She had never yet seen a man less in need of anyone's pity and love than Uther Pendragon.

"Uther is a broken man, consumed by fear. His hatred for magic has driven goodness from his heart."

"It's all because of him. People die because of him." Morgana clenched her fists, tears threatening to break free "If it weren't for him, we could live freely and justly. Why do we have to endure and submit to what he does? Why should his fear rule us? When will the peace we deserve come? I don't want everything to be like this." She gestured towards the camp and themselves — the exiled outcasts with power and initiation of the heaven in their hands, who were forced to hide from men with rough swords and prejudiced, ignorant, and hardened hearts.

Mordred suddenly looked at her admiringly, and Morgana felt her cheeks getting hot. He liked what she's saying?

"That's right, Morgana. But fear shouldn't rule us either. If Uther is evil, drunk on the power he thinks he has over people, it doesn't mean we should respond in kind." Aglain explained, hoping that the goodness in the depths of her soul would understand him.

"Love that binds us is more important than the power we wield." uttered Mordred, leaning towards her and touching her hand. "They have no love, but we do."

"I see that you remember well what I taught you, Mordred." Aglain smiled kindly at them. "And it's good that you pass on this knowledge..." He smirked secretly. "Peace will surely come, Morgana, have faith in it. The golden age has been foretold."

"Evil is not for ever." Mordred added, and his unexpectedly humble smile made Morgana feel warm.

"And now, let's calm down, don't be sad." Aglain said cheerfully, using magic to heat a kettle of herbal tea and poured it into wooden painted cups. Morgana warmed her hands on her cup and took a sip of the hot flavoured drink.

"This is marvelous, Aglain," she smiled sadly. "I've never seen anything bad come of your magic, but Uther would burn us just for having tea. I've always heard that magic is evil and corrupts soul, but..."

"Let's not talk about that." Mordred mumbled behind his cup.

"No matter what Uther says, he knows nothing but you can see another way here with us," Aglain said firmly. "You can see that magic is not a dark art practiced in secret. It's a gift. And it can be a force for good."

Morgana weakly smiled at him and took another sip.

As she walked out after saying goodnight to Aglain, Mordred immediately set his cup on the table and was about to follow her, but happened to see Aglain's meaningful smile. "Don't say anything, Aglain. I'm just doing what you once did for me."

"Of course, son. Go after her."

A force for good. Those words echoed in Morgana's mind as she maneuvered between the trees, making her way back to her tent to sleep, feeling Mordred following her. It wasn't the first time this happened, him accompanying her. She turned round. Mordred was closer than she anticipated, he has silently crept up on her.

"Sometimes I think you follow me because you still don't trust me, Mordred," she smirked.

He suppressed a smile. "I do trust you."

"Or are you afraid that something will happen to me just a stone's throw away from Aglain and Elaine's tent? I'm not that helpless."

"It's called caring, Morgana. Have you heard of it?" He shrugged, turned around, and headed back to his place at the other side of the camp.

Morgana clutched her pendant in her hand, sighed frustratedly, and settled into her cosy bed, listening to the night's rustlings. Brocéliande breathed in unison with her; her drifting off to sleep mind was running Aglain's teachings over and over in her foggy thoughts.

Elaine, returning to her father and seeing Morgana and Mordred talking in the distance — and hearing them — covered her ears with her hands, lest she accidentally, as she thought, overhear their love confession.

Other women scattered into the forest, their melodic voices were fading away. Only Morgana and Elaine remained on the wooded hillside. They were gathering late herbs and hunting for the last chestnuts. It was a peaceful quiet afternoon, and Morgana was truly enjoying it. She wore a cloak of soft green wool, a new gift Elaine had given her again, insisting that green was her beauty colour.

"Look, Morgana, there's comfrey over there!" Elaine pointed with her long stick at the bed of a small patched creek. "It'll come in handy for runny noses, they'll all start leaking soon."

Morgana eagerly rushed towards a plant of long greyish-green leaves and unsightly pale pink flowers, and knelt before it. She took out a knife with a twine-wrapped handle from her brown girdle and dug up the comfrey's root from the earth, placing it in a basket with the other herbs and elderberries she had already gathered. As she touched the rough dark root of the comfrey, Morgana felt a whiff of healing magic within it, like a gentle breeze against her fingertips. This herb belonged to the element of air, she decided, whereas elderberry was of the earth element. Air would drive excess water out of the body, draining it, she concluded. The art of healing exited her.

"Morgana...I had a dream..." Elaine said, pushing aside fern leaves with her stick in search of fallen chestnuts or nuts.

Morgana looked up and studied her closely. Elaine's usual sweet and friendly expression changed to one of turned inward and pensive.

"You can tell me, Elaine, but—"

"It was two doves, beautiful white forest doves. They were sitting sweetly on the windowsill of some cabin. I felt that I loved them. But suddenly, seeing me, they took off in fright, dropping an engagement ring on the floor," Elaine paused to catch her breath, "And then, as they flew farther and further away from me, a black raven attacked them. What could that mean?"

Morgana stood up, shaking off dust from her skirts. "Honestly, I don't know. If I have dreams, it doesn't mean...My dreams...they're of a different nature, not like those of normal people. I'm sorry."

"Never mind. I just thought it might be a sign..."

"Not a good one, Elaine. Sounds like a bad omen," came a deep voice from behind them. Mordred stepped out from behind a chestnut tree, his brown hood pulled low over his face.

Morgana's heartbeat treacherously rose at the sight of him. Mordred came and she was glad for no reason.

Elaine rolled her eyes. "I wasn't talking to you, Mordred."

"You never talk to me, Elaine." He walked closer to Morgana and peered into her basket, and then stared at Elaine.

"Wrong. There were days when I was the only one of the entire clan talking to you. And I also always chased away the boys who wanted to beat you up and would have succeeded if it hadn't been me," she smiled broadly.

"She's lying, Morgana," Mordred assured her with a completely serious expression.

"Yeah, sure," Elyan snorted.

Morgana hid a smile.

They descended into the low ground and walked further along the glen. Tall golden oaks surrounded them on both sides. Mordred walked a little behind the women. He broke off a branch from a young rowan tree and with his blade began striping the bark from it, pruning it, intent on making it into something only he knew. His energy made Morgana feel this day and this place differently. She felt a surge of excitement; and the greyish autumn day suddenly became brighter and more cheerful next to him. She plucked a few more herb shoots one by one.

"What are you doing here, anyway, Mordred?" Elaine asked, looking round and winking at Morgana.

"I'm guarding you."

"You know perfectly well that Morgana and I don't need guards. You're just laaaazy, Mordred," Elaine teased him.

He rolled his eyes and snorted, and Morgana laughed, perhaps for the first time truly carefree laughed in months. Mordred turned his head to her, enchanted by her laughter, and Elaine couldn't help but notice it, smiling sadly to herself. The three of them continued to slowly wander through the Brocéliande forest, inhaling its magical sparks.

Morgana glanced at Elaine again, at her crimson cloak and matching gloves, thinking of her dream. If she could interpret dreams, she would have helped her; she wanted so badly to help everyone.

"Why do I see the future? Who sends me these dreams?" she suddenly asked, feeling moved. "Where do they come from?"

Elaine shifted her stick from one hand to the other and exchanged glances with Mordred just a little bit nervously. "I'm not sure, but they say it's spirits."

"What spirits?" Morgana frowned slightly.

"The spirits of our ancestors." Mordred answered in Elaine's place, "So they say. That when people die, they gain knowledge and want to warn those who were dear to them. About something bad."

Elaine nodded.

Morgana shuddered. The thought of being contacted by the spirits of the dead was not a pleasant one.

"Who died in your family?" Mordred asked very quietly.

"My mother and father." she replied sadly; the hole they had left in her chest never fully healed. "But why can't people know anything while they're alive? Knowledge is needed by the living, isn't it? Why couldn't my father know for sure beforehand that he shouldn't go to that battle?.."

Her first prophetic dream was about that, about how her father falls off his horse on a desolate windy hill and stops moving staring in the grim sky above, his big dark eyes empty. Then, being a little girl, she hadn't understood anything. Or rather, she understood it when it was already too late, when the beautiful red and gold carriage took her away from her home to Camelot, to Uther and his son.

Morgana raised her eyes with a question in them to Mordred. He was now walking beside her, with his branch and blade in hand.

"As I said, I don't know." Elaine interjected in a tense tone, "That's what they say. I already regret giving that dream any importance. Forget it."

"Magic is not something you choose, it's something that chooses you." Mordred's thoughtful voice sealed the subject of Morgana's visions.

They all have been chosen, and all were responsible for their gifts, for making sure that magic was bringing good to the world, not evil; that's what Aglain and the elders had taught them.

They continued on their way; it was more like a simple walk of friends than foraging, as Elaine suddenly bent down for something. "Look! It's a porcini mushroom!" she picked it up in her hand, "We've found a mushroom spot."

Elaine was so happy as if they had come across a gold mine, Morgana noted to herself with a small smile.

Staring at the grass around her, she realised that they were standing in the middle of a large circle of mushrooms encircling them. Back in Camelot, that was called a witch's circle. And, to some extent, all three of them were witches. Morgana smirked at the sort of scandalous thought, settling into it. Here, witch was not an insult but something to be proud of.

Elaine quickly filled her basket with mushrooms from the circle. "And that's all?" she exclaimed, muttered something, and stretched her stick towards the forest. Suddenly, the transparent golden threads spread across the clearing leading in different directions along the deer path they were following.

"Is that a seeking spell just for mushrooms, Elaine? Wasting your energy on this?" Mordred asked skeptically, "And wait, are you using your plain stick like a magical wand?"

"Why not?" Elyan shrugged, leading them on, "And I've found that it helps me focus my energy better. I'm not a great sorcerer as you two, after all."

Morgana followed the threads, and indeed they have marked the places where mushrooms were growing. Soon she and Elaine had to pile the mushrooms into their dresses' hems. Mordred ignored the mushrooms, busy with his rowan branch and stuffing his cloak's pockets with crow and owl feathers.

"It's a good thing there's no sorcerer in Camelot who could use such a spell. Otherwise, we would have been found in less than a day." Morgana muttered quietly, but they heard her.

"In the past, a court sorcerer used to do this kind of work for the royal family. But there are also counter-spells and amulets from this." Mordred explained. "Fortunately, the King and Prince won't be able to find you this way now for they have not a sorcerer on their side. Fear not, Morgana."

"I'm not afraid." she retorted.

Elaine straightened up, holding her skirts and looking at Morgana with sympathy in her eyes. "I wonder... What's it's like to run to the ends of the Earth from someone who loves you? I can't even imagine that my father..."

"They would stop loving me if they found out who I really am, Elaine," Morgana replied firmly, stopping. "If they knew that I have magic. And Uther Pendragon is not my father."

"Well... then it's not true love."

Morgana remained silent. She agreed, however.

"What do you know about love, Elaine?" Mordred asked with a slight sneer, deftly twirling the now white, cleanly peeled rowan branch in his hand.

"More than you do. Or maybe not, Mordred?" Elaine snorted, "Maybe you love someone since you speak so knowingly? It's hard to believe you are able to, however."

He rewarded her with a threatening look, and the daughter of the Druid Leader chuckled.

That same evening, Elaine sat up next to Morgana with a bowl of a mushroom stew and poked her lightly in the side.

"Elaine?" Morgana was admiring the camp and the people resting around cosy campfires after a long day of work. Men and women dressed in cloaks and linen dresses smiled, helping the old and laughing at the mischief of the young. They were not so different from the people in Camelot in that.

"Do you know what day is coming soon?" Elaine whispered, so as not to be heard by Aglain and Mordred, who were sitting on a log a little further away talking about something.

"Hmm, the full moon?"

"Yes, but not only that. Samhain is coming," Elaine smiled meaningfully, "Have you all in Camelot completely forgotten about the All Spirits Day?"

"Ah, no, that's just me" Morgana was slightly embarrassed, "Usually we had a small feast with music and dancing..." Memories suddenly knocked on the door again.

"Not bad, but in Brocéliande this night is much more eventful."

"What do you mean?" Morgana was curious, seeing that Elaine was smiling strangely.

"We perform the Horned God ritual..." Elaine explained what the ritual was about, and Morgana blushed, trying her best to remain composed and unfazed.

"Don't worry, Morgana, the second part is not mandatory," Elaine giggled excitingly, "Although it does have an important spiritual significance, symbolising the union of the Goddess with the Forest... Most couples still arrange things to end up together anyway..."

Morgana coughed, quite sure she won't be participating in the ritual. "And do you... have anyone in mind, Elaine?" she asked, picking at the mushrooms boiled with roots and potherbs. She was trying no to look at that side of the log where Aglain was sitting. "Maybe...Mordred?" She asked cautiously.

Elaine snorted loudly. "What? No way. He's like a brother to me, besides, he's moody; it's not my type." She fell silent for a while, and her expression grew melancholic. She surveyed the camp, lingering on the laughing young druid men sitting around a nearby fire. "No. There's no one here to make my heart grow fonder. The closest clan to us is hiding in the caves by the Great Seas of Meredor, and it's hopeless. I'm hopeless."

Morgana gave her a sympathetic look, even though she didn't share her sadness about not being loved. And suddenly she remembered how she had told Arthur, the eternity ago, that she couldn't even imagine a man loving her.

"And you, Morgana?" Elaine looked at her friend and then at her right when they were sitting. "Do you care for someone here ot maybe your heart stayed in Camelot?"

"I care about everyone here, Elaine. You have no idea how I feel about this place."

"You're a sweetheart, Morgana." Elaine softly chuckled, fidgeting with one of her braids.

The darksome night of Samhain came quietly, with gusts of wind and the smell of wild apples rotting in the grass. The Brocéliande Clan shared a festive meal of ritual mooncakes and the merry music of the flutes. Pots of fragrant smoke were placed around the camp to ward off evil and restless spirits. All the young and unmarried druids went to the Stone Circle, their sanctuary — a glade decorated with four huge mossy carved monoliths — while the others stayed behind to enjoy supper and singing.

Morgana was there as well. Elaine had delicately hinted to her that refusing would be disrespectful. Morgana had her doubts about this ritual, but since she had converted to the Old Religion, she felt that she should follow its customs, she decided nervously. Well, to a certain extent.

They walked to the Circle together, holding hands. Elaine had unbraided her braids, and her voluminous curls weightlessly framed her face; all Druid girls had to take off their belts and jewelry, and let their hair down; for belts, rings and ribbons were a sort of a protective circle, and the Samhain magic needed them bare, in plain white shirts. Torches burned in the Stone Circle, stuck into the ground; and someone was beating an enticing and ominous rhythm on a drum. The men, despite the evening chill, were bare-chested, their torsos and arms painted with blue patterns of spirals and runes, their faces hidden behind stag half-masks.

The rhythm quickened as each woman stood opposite a man. Morgana let go of Elaine's hand and swallowed a lump in her throat, staring at the stranger in front of her. The horned mask made it impossible to recognise his face. She didn't know what would have been worse, for it to be him, or someone else. But before Morgana would let her inner turmoil to consume her, the horn signal was given and all the girls ran off into the woods.

Boom-boom-boom, it thundered in her ears as Morgana ran as if her own life depended on it. It was dark and blue in the thicket, she was nimbly jumping over rocks and fallen trees, and the wind howled after her. She proudly thought she was even faster than the wind. But when hen she ran out of breath, Morgana stopped and bent in half, trying to catch her breath to fill her aching lungs, her hair fell over her face. It seemed like she had managed to shake off the pursuers, she realised as she looked round.

But suddenly a suspicious rustle came from her left, a man jumped out of the bushes and rushed towards her. Morgana jumped in fright, and scurried away like lightning, dodging the hanging branches that threatened to claw at her tousled hair, jumping over ditches, and running, and running away from him.

After an unknown number of long minutes or hours? Morgana stopped again, hiding behind the broad trunk of an oak tree. Her weakened legs were shaking, and white sparks danced in her eyes. It was now pitch dark; and Morgana suddenly became scared, not of a druid man, but of other creatures. Who came up with such a ritual, she thought sacrilegiously, for this place could be crawling with monsters or spirits?! How many people haven't returned from this celebration?

All of a sudden she was grabbed by her wrists and pinned against the tree.

The unknown man in the stag mask towered over her, breathing heavily, blue dye smudging all over her dress where their bodies touched. Morgana jerked, trying to free herself from his grip, but he wouldn't let her go so easily. The man pinned her hands to the tree. His eyes in the dark abyss of the mask were almost indistinguishable. Heated by the chase, he pressed his body even closer to hers, she felt his desire, and tilted his head to the side, his lips parted as if he wanted to kiss her, devour her, and he did want; but when he was less than an inch away from her lips, and his hot breath burned her mouth, he suddenly let go of her and took two trembling steps back, almost stumbling on the ground.

After a moment of confusion, Morgana wasted no more time, took a chance, and scrambled off to the side, disappearing behind the trees.

Quickly throwing the seeking spell in the air, she ran along the golden lines leading her back to the camp. He, whoever he was, did not follow her. Morgana ran, and for some reason she wanted to laugh, as if the wild horned spirit of the Forest tickled her, his goddess. Collapsing tiredly on the bed in her tent, Morgana smiled, feeling so free and wild and beautiful.

The autumn moon high in the sky was brightly wheat-yellow.

The Year Wheel was slowly turning towards winter, the winds grew colder, and the rains lingered longer. In the mornings the grass was adorned with silvery hoarfrost, and the wild geese moved towards the south, dropping their farewell cry into the grey clouds. People and animals were preparing for winter, trying to survive the darkest period of the Cycle in warmth and safety, waiting for spring; which for the poor and homeless was a real golden age that not everyone would live to see.

He dismounted and approached the oak tree, on the branch of which hung this strange thing that had attracted his attention. The Prince frowned, studying it gloomily.

"What's it?" He asked a tired and shivering Merlin.

"I'm not sure, but..."

Merlin and Arthur had wasted almost an entire season searching for Morgana, scouring the surrounding forests and villages; several times they were so close to death when they run into bandits, crazy witches, and giant scorpions — all to no avail. Morgana was nowhere to be found. Arthur became more and more despondent as time passed. Morgana was becoming a mere memory as her presence faded from Camelot little by little.

Arthur couldn't even remember his early years without her, Morgana seemed to have been around his whole life. And so he had vowed to his father to find her at all costs. Merlin felt terrible too, but for a different reason. He knew she must be all right — if, of course, she had made it to the Druids — but he couldn't tell Arthur the truth, he couldn't give him any words of comfort. He could only follow him and watch in silence as Camelot he got used to was falling apart without Morgana.

Arthur plucked the weird ragged spiral of oak twigs and dried leaves from the tree, and pulled out a scrap of papyrus from its middle. His heart pounded like crazy, and his head spun with rage as he read the message.

If anyone from Camelot is reading this, know that I, the Lady Morgana, have left of my own free will. Don't look for me, for I no longer belong to Camelot.

Arthur crumpled the paper, tossed it onto the grass, and then pressed it violently into the ground with his boot.

"What's there, Arthur?"

"A letter from 'Morgana'. And they expect me to believe she abandoned us on her own?" The Prince gritted his teeth.

"A letter? How?..." Merlin collected his courage and dared to ask, "Don't you think that, well, just by chance, it could be true? Maybe Morgana doesn't want to be found?.."

"Don't be stupid, Merlin," Arthur rudely cut him off, "This isn't her handwriting. And have you forgotten that they wanted to burn her alive in her room with their magic? Have you forgotten that they kidnapped her? Let's go home, I'll report to Father." He picked up the false letter again and shoved it in his cloak's pocket.

Merlin's face fell, and he trudged himself obediently after Arthur, his mouth bitter from his lies.

"Blessings. Morgana, are you awake?" she heard Mordred's voice from outside.

"Blessings. I am."

"Winter is coming," Mordred declared as he entered and gave her a suspiciously carefree smile.

"I've noticed," Morgana echoed him, still smiling. She couldn't help but feel happy to see Mordred again. She was sitting wrapped in her cloak and black knitted shawl, braiding her hair, which had grown quite long during her time away of Camelot coiffeurs. On the bed next to her lay one of the long scrolls on healing full of odd diagrams that Aglain continued to supply her, seeing her interest in this particular art.

"You don't look like a lady. No one would have guessed," Mordred remarked, sitting down on a large round basket and looking her up and down. He folded his hands across his chest, and Morgana noticed the residual traces of the blue dye on his wrists. Would she recognise him if that was him?...

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you realise how that sounds, Mordred?"

"How? You've become just like us. You look like a druidess. Is that a bad thing?"

Morgana looked at him carefully, finding no insincerity in his clear eyes. "No, of course not. Thanks," Her neck flushed slightly. Mordred has never complimented her before. That was appreciated. Very.

"Aglain told everyone to pack up. We're leaving. Someone whispered to him that the Knights of Camelot have been spotted somewhere nearby."

Morgana froze. Fear. Terror. They seemed to have left her completely — but just a few words, knights, Camelot, and it turned out that all this time they have been standing at the door, waiting.

"You have not dream about this, by any chance?" Mordred looked around her tent for a moment, then focused back on her face.

"No," she blinked away the fiery image of him coming to her in her dreams, and saw only a druid in plain clothes again. "I still can't control my visions."

"Well, everything has its time." He watched for a while as Morgana stood up and gathered her things to prepare for the move.

"By the way. We, you and I, are not going with the others," he remarked nonchalantly.

Morgana dropped her bag and turned to him. "Why? I mean..."

"Where are your things from Camelot? The clothes you came in."

"You're sitting on them," Morgana said, still confused.

Sometimes Mordred was... strange. Quite often, actually. She had never met anyone like him. And though she had gotten to know him better during their time together; and perhaps, if she dared to call it by its true name, they had grown closer, Mordred continued to surprise her.

She had learnt to miss Mordred when he was out in the woods hunting, or was talking with others instead of her, she missed his mystical gaze, his calmness, the way he had slowly and imperceptibly become her shadow. There was something about him; the way his charming naïveté and honesty combined with his dark reticence. Morgana found herself longing for his attention, his loyalty, his goodness to belong only to her. She found herself caring for. She has never felt such a bond or closeness for someone before. There was simply no one like him in Camelot.

Mordred stood up, his head almost reaching the tent's ceiling. "Elaine told me something last night. The cold weather is coming soon enough. We need to make supplies, renew warm clothing for the children. We need money."

"Oh." Morgana immediately understood. She had to contribute to the community. They showed her the way, they saved her and accepted her, and her belongings were such a small thing to share in thanks. "Of course. I'll give everything to you." She quickly pulled out her velvets and silks from the basket.

"Really? Thank you," he smirked sweetly, and Morgana cringed at herself. "To you, the druids." she emphasised.

"We'll get good money for them at the fair," Mordred added.

"And you... are you coming with me?" Morgana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Mordred looked at her as if she had asked if he had been at the moon. "Aglain told me the location of the new camp. We'll join the others soon."

Morgana, flustered, quickly packed her things into her bag and walked outside. Turning to face the plain red tent that became her true home more than the luxurious chambers of Camelot had managed to in ten years, she used magic to quickly fold it up into a neat little bundle on the ground. She lowered her hands, feeling the golden trail of force emanating from them. It was great to be powerful.

"It's nice to touch the limits of your power and test them every day," Mordred whispered almost in her ear. "You learn fast."

"I don't know anything more satisfying," she looked back at him.

"Don't you?" he enveloped something unclear in this piece of a question she didn't quite catch.

"When I do magic, I feel like I've been created for this."

"You were. Let's go." He flashed her a fleeting smile.

They donned their hoods and disappeared into the forest haze walking hand in hand. Being escorted by an unkind look of a girl in a grey cloak.

Chapter Text

A familiar face suddenly appeared in the crystal's transparent grey mist.

It was Arthur.

He stood on the mountain slope, looking down at the army ready for a battle, his red cloak furiously was billowing in the wind behind him. Morgana gasped. She had stopped thinking about Arthur, but now an alarm filled her heart anew. What was happening to him? Was he in danger in the future? Streams of bright colours, purple and red, flashed in the nearby crystal, and Morgana bent over it. In the grand throne room, Arthur sat on the throne, and none other than Gwen, her maidservant, dressed in gold-embroidered purple brocade stood beside him. The Pendragon crown elegantly adorned her head. Morgana blinked several times, stunned and unable to believe her eyes.

How could this be? Since when has Arthur started loving Gwen? Not that she minded, she once loved Gwen — but she knew full well who would be against a serving girl becoming a queen of Camelot. Uther. He will never let this happen.

Morderd approached her from behind, and the blissful smile brought on by the ecstasy being in this sacred place faded from his face when he saw what Morgana was seeing. "So this is what your Pendragon looks like. The King who will inherit Camelot..." his voice trailed off, and he shrugged.

"He's not always so fancy and majestic," Morgana snorted. "He's usually sweaty or smelling of ale from the tavern and always carries around his dirty, battered swords. Did I mention his stinky crazy dogs?"

"You always tend to exaggerate, Morgana." Morderd chuckled, trying to picture the golden image of the king from these visions in the unimpressive form that Morgana has painted.

But everything here was about him, many different images of Arthur were refracting in the misty facets of the magical crystals. Sometimes he was with Merlin in the woods or in the chambers, sometimes alone. Arthur was the only prominent figure in the swirl of crystalline shadows, he was at the center of everything.

"Emrys." uttered Mordred, focusing on an unremarkable man in Arthur's shadow.

"Arthur's only friend, I guess."

"Why did he choose his side?"

"I don't know. I think I never knew real Merlin."

Morgana took a step to the side to stare avidly into another milky grey crystal. Inside, she saw Uther on his bed, sick and pale, and she tensed up. Arthur and Gaius sat around him, their faces full of sorrow.

"King Odin's wound is not fatal in itself, Your Highness," The court physician said quietly to Arthur. "It is the grief that is eating him from within. It is killing him."

Arthur sighed and ran his hands through his hair in a helpless gesture. "It's all because of her. He misses Morgana."

At the sound of her name, Uther stirred. "Morgana..." the old King croaked.

"She's not here, Father," Arthur explained wearily.

Uther opened his eyes. "Arthur...I'm dying."

Arthur mouthed a "no," but Uther continued, "There's one thing you must to know, Son...something I've never told anyone..." He took a painful breath, "Morgana is my daughter. I was with Lady Vivienne when Lord Gorlois was on a war campaign on my orders," Uther grimaced and the ugly tears of regret and shame dripped down from his cheeks onto the pillow. "I want my daughter back. Bring her back."

Pale-faced, Arthur stared at Gaius, who looked just as shocked, and the scene became shrouded in mist.

"Father? What are you talking about?" they heard the prince's trembling voice.

Morgana reeled as if knocked backward by the vision and would have fallen had Mordred not supported her by the elbow.

"So...Arthur is your brother, Morgana?" he asked barely audibly, peering into her frightened, hurt green eyes. "And you, as the elder sister, are the true heir to Camelot, not Arthur?" He didn't know what made him say this, it was strange at the moment when Morgana looked so anguished; a sight he never thought he'd see.

So, her true father wasn't among the knights he killed. But that was even worse: the father of the woman he loved was a living nightmare of the whole Albion.

"Do you think I care about power, Mordred? That I would overthrow Arthur?" She began crying silently, but kept frantically looking into other crystals as if they could refute the terrible truth. "What does it matter?"

"Of course, not," reacted Mordred. This wouldn't be the Morgana he knew. The Morgana he knew and wanted to follow everywhere she went was kind, compassionate, her heart was full of love that she wanted to give away to every unfortunate creature on this cursed isle. If she wanted to become queen, it would only be to save the people. Nothing more. He cast another glance at Arthur on the throne again, with a smiling Emrys standing next to him.

"Who is that?" Morgana asked, mesmerised by the new vision of another crystal.

Mordred looked at the it from over her shoulder. In it, an old man with a long white beard stood against a dark outcast sky; his fierce blue eyes seemed to shoot lightning bolts.

"I feel like I've seen him somewhere..." Mordred muttered. The sight of the old man evoked unpleasant feelings in him. There was no goodness emanating from the vision. "But I can't remember where or when."

Morgana turned away.

Chapter Text

By noon, they had left the cozy shade of Brocéliande, and Morgana hesitantly stopped, and turned to look back at the forest that had become her refuge and soul.

"No one will recognise us, Morgana. We're just townspeople going to the fair."

"I know."

They turned south and began climbing a hill, the long yellowed grasses reached up to their waist. A lone tree loomed like a beacon for them at the top.

"Mordred," Morgana looked sideways at him.

"I'm listening." He turned at once to her, seeking her gaze.

"Are you going to tell me where the new camp is located? What if you die and I wander alone in the woods, not knowing how to get home without you?"

He laughed as if her sarcasm was the funniest joke he's ever heard. "You think it's my destiny to die like that, leaving you alone? I don't think so."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. I won't tell you on purpose so that this knowledge won't allow us to part, understand?"

"No." Against her will, Morgana grinned at him and stumbled over a rock sticking out of the ground.

Mordred held out his hand to her. "Let me help you. Why do you reject me, Morgana?" he asked after she hesitated, looking at his gloved hand given to her.

"I don't." She took it, and Mordred gave her a small satisfied smile that made her heart beat harder.

"Isn't waking together easier?" He pressed her arm closely to his side, "Admit it, Morgana. Why do you never admit anything?"

"I do. And stop asking questions." Walking alongside him was warm and comfortable. Morgana secretly enjoyed his closeness. Maybe she wanted more; a dream of them always walking together like this on the destiny's roads. But when has everything changed so far that she, a former princess, longed for this strange druid to be by her side? When has she begun to care for him?

"I can't help asking. I can't help notice. Can't help but feel."

Morgana wondered with emotion if Mordred meant his senser's gift or something else. She wanted to look into his face to read the answer, but he lowered his head, and his hood hid his expression.

"By the way, I noticed that you called Brocéliande home." he noted after a pause, enjoying the hillside view.

"I did." She didn't even realise how her fingers returned to the pendant in the habitual gesture, and her voice took on a harsh note. "Maybe Camelot has never been my home. I only went there when my father died. I was thirteen."

"Tell me about Camelot. What is it like?"

When Mordred was a little mute boy he sometimes wondered what the great and terrible Camelot was like, a kingdom which has been casting a shadow over his life for as long as he'd known himself. What it's like for the people who lived in that big castle, he engaged himself with these peculiar reflections. And now a person from that very castle was walking with him.

Morgana sighed. "Beautiful. Some say it is the greatest and most beautiful of all the kingdoms of the lands here and on the mainland. I don't know, I haven't been anywhere else but my father's manor in Cornwallis, Camelot and Brocéliande."

"Would you like to visit somewhere else?"

"Camelot Castle is built of pure white stone," Morgana continued without answering, "Small cottages in the Lower Town are surrounded by cozy gardens, the market in the fairground is always selling overseas goods, brave knights patrol the city, sons of scholarship exercise in wisdom; there are tournaments, feasts and dances...Every day is a surprise."

"That's how I imagined it."

"And also," Morgana clenched her jaw, "The King can get the most out of what his subjects have at any moment, just at his whim — his power is unlimited, his authority is never questioned. There is an execution ground in the main square, and someone dies there in agony almost every week. Cruel witchfinders prowl the streets, and these noble knights capture anyone who practices the Old Ways or defy the will of the King. There is no place for people like us there. Camelot is a doom."

"I imagined that too." Mordred replied sadly, squeezing her hand a little tighter.

"No, Camelot is not my home." Morgana declared with exasperation. "Never has been."

They finally reached the top of the hill and sat down under the tree to rest. The overcast sky greeted them with a drizzling rain, but the branches kept them sheltered. Mordred pulled their simple meal and a flask out of his bag, but waited until Morgana had a drink before refreshing himself.

"Don't you dream of Camelot becoming a different place, Morgana? A happy and just place where our kind no longer suffers?" he returned to the conversation.

Morgana looked down; Brocéliande from the high seemed like one of Elaine's coloured kniited patchwork of rust, scarlet and gold.

"I want this more than anything. And not just for sorcerers, for those in need too. But time is passing by, and I have less and less faith in me that there is anyone who could stand up for what is right. Aren't we becoming fewer and fewer? Won't magic run out with the last of us?" Morgana admitted hotly.

"Don't say that. I believe that attitudes will change someday." Mordred hopefully reassured Morgana, and turned his head to her.

"I thought you were thinking like me."

"I am."

"So what makes you keep believing?" She met his gaze, wanting him to tell her that everything will be all right, to give her something to believe in.

"Two things, and each one is no less important than the other. The first is you, Morgana."

She frowned and looked at him questioningly.

His answer made his stern face softer. "You came from the other side, but you are sympathetic and kind, and you don't hate magic. You have it. Who knows, maybe you're not the only one out there like that. Maybe there are merciful people who want change as well. King Uther won't last forever, King Arthur comes after him..."

"Arthur..." She looked back at the forest again, and the corners of her lips lifted slightly. "He's a good man, I know that. But he can be weak in front of his father. He doesn't have a solid foundation, you know."

"But that's something. Sometimes the smallest thing can be enough to change destiny." He finished the last drops of water from the flask, then refilled it with magic.

Morgana felt something in her soul respond to his words. "And the second reason?"

"The Druids believe in one thing. When the Great Purge began, the prophets foretold that when the hour came, Emrys the Great would appear to save us. They said he will be the most powerful sorcerer who has ever walked the Earth. He will free magic and bring a golden age of Albion."

Morgana reflected for a moment on what Mordred had said. "Do you really believe that? To me, this Emrys seems to be late if he exists."

"I hope he knows what he's doing." Mordred lay down on the grass, putting his bag under his head and looking dreamily at the yellow foliage above.

"And how do we know who he is, and if he's already been born? What if you're Emrys, Mordred?" she teased him, settling herself more comfortably and hugging her knees. "You're a powerful sorcerer."

Mordred chuckled softly. "Believe me, Morgana, I would know. Emrys must be someone special, unforgettable. Like when you look at him and immediately understand, it's him, the one."

Morgana remembered their first meeting, how she had been afraid to look at him, and how he had been annoyed that she had come and disturbed the peace of the forest. And when she had looked into his crystal-blue eyes she realised right away that they were connected, bound by something stronger than just magic.

A raindrop fell on his face, and Mordred wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Mordred..." she almost whispered and leaned in.

"You know, Morgana, it happened here. Almost in this very spot, only this tree was young and thin then."

"What happened?" Morgana blinked, and the enchantment, the yearn to touch him faded away.

"Here they wiped out my clan and killed my father," Mordred began recounting in an even voice; he hasn't told anyone about it yet, not even Aglain. But he have been dreaming of telling someone for so long.

"We were walking through these hills to the south shores, my father was searching for something...we were attacked by the knights. It was like a nightmare... We tried to fight back but we were outnumbered, they were hiding in ambush over there," he pointed down at the slope of the neighboring hill, "They were King Uther's men, red and gold; but there were others as well, honoured with the crest of a black crowned raven. For some reason, I remembered this raven very well. It was everywhere. I wasn't born with magic like others, it woke up in me that day. I remember I screamed, I was so scared, a storm rose up... And when I opened my eyes, all the knights were dead."

Mordred remembered his own scream, it sounded so much like a stranger's; and he remembered how it suddenly became weirdly funny to see this desolation made by hin and hear this silence when everyone was shot dead. He did it. He had been left all alone, and since then loneliness has forever settled in his soul.

Morgana, shaken by his story, cowered into herself.

"Then I ran down into the forest, and wandered there in a daze for a long time until Aglain found me. I was ten."

A druid was moving through the forest on his way to the fair, and accidentaly found a little boy curled up under an elder bush. The drenched, shaking blue-eyed boy didn't answer any of his questions, just stared at him blankly, but he was marked by the triskelion just like the druid himself. The druid abandoned his plans, and it was for good because going further he could run into a squad of Camelot knights who returned to pick up the bodies of the brothers fallen from the inconceivably sinister sorcery. They would have no mercy if they had suspected him. He took the boy in his arms and brought him to his camp. And became his new father. His name was Aglain and he was a Leader of the Brocéliande clan.

"That's terrible, Mordred," Morgana whispered in a wounded voice, "How could you forgive Uther after that and not want to avenge your family?.. I'm not sure I could." something in the back of her mind kept her so uneasy with his story.

"Perhaps it was Brocéliande that helped me. It's so peaceful here. Spirit lives here. And I've found my people. But sometimes I feel bursts of anger, and it's hard to tame them. Do you know what I mean?" he rolled over onto his side and looked up at her, propping his head with his hand.

Morgana was surprised. She always thought of Mordred as the calmest person she has ever met. "Yes, I do." she paused, just for a moment; and then suddenly found cold fear creeping up her throat to choke her, it came faster than the brain figured the truth out, "Wait, Mordred. You said you saw knights with the crest of a crowned raven? And that was ten years ago, in autumn?"

"Yes."

"But..." Insight smacked her face, "That's the emblem of the House Gorlois and the Duchy of Cornwallis. My crest. A raven in a crown on the blue and green field. And my father died when I was thirteen, ten years ago. I was told he died in a battle with Uther's enemies, serving faithfully his best friend and king..."

Mordred sat up abruptly, turning pale. "Morgana..." he uttered hoarsely.

Her chin quivered, "And three days before that, magic awakened in me, and I'd seen the future for the first time." Yes, she had seen the dead Gorlois on this very hill. Morgana jumped up and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stop a shivering fit, her eyes painfully dry. "I'd seen him dead in the tall yellow grass."

Mordred also stood up and walked over to her, wanting to hug her but Morgana recoiled. "So this was the battle my father died in...He hunted druids on Uther's orders..." she looked at Mordred with a blank stare. "It was here, the same day."

"Morgana." Mordred was as shocked as she was.

Her father may have been killed by someone of his native clan of wanderers, by his father; or, a chill ran through him at the thought, or by his own meltdown of rage and fear, when his magic broke free and exterminated all those who had caused him and his clan harm. Mordred tried to strain his memory to recall if he had seen anyone resembling Morgana among the silent bodies lying on the ground: dark-haired and insanely beautiful. But his memory left them all faceless. He only remembered finding his father's body and taking his fibula and blade with himself, nothing else.

Why did destiny bind him to Morgana like this? Why could they only be together through someone else's death?

Morgana quickly picked up her bag from the ground and then, hiding her face, ran down the hill.

"Morgana!" Mordred ran after her. He could sense her grief, loss, anger, and deepest sadness bordering on disappointment in life. It was a terrible mixture that could burn her soul out if given the chance. "And what are you going to do with all this hatred? Go back to Camelot? To do what? To kill the King?" he raised his voice.

She stopped, breathing heavily, hating that he has read her. Mordred slooked at her from a few steps away, the wind whipping their cloaks.

"Do you know I already tried to kill him once before, but I was such a fool that I spared him at the last moment? Yes, I almost killed him! I hate all of this, Mordred." she blurted out, turning to face him, "And no, I will never go back there."

"I hate all of this too, Morgana." he cautiously, gently touched her mind and exhaled with great relief. There was no hatred towards him for being Lord Gorlois's undoing, but only a burning rage towards Uther, "Believe me, I do too. But."

"What, Mordred?" a gust of wind shook the hood off her bloodless upset face, "Are you going to tell me that we shouldn't stoop to their level and let hatred even towards enemies drive love out of me? That I should forgive?" she snorted, shaking her head and twisting her lips in anger. "Uther killed my father. He ordered him to do this...My father killed druids, he killed your father." The lovely image of her parent she cherished in spite of Uther has just cracked at this words, but she reminded herself it was all Uther's fault, even if Gorlois went for this. It was his King's order.

"I know. But what does that have to do with us, you and me? It wasn't us. Now you may not believe it, but that's the only thing that can save us." he looked at her pleadingly, "Morgana. We need to break the chain." This horrific chain of killing and vengeance.

"I have the right to grieve, and you can't silence me. I have the right to be angry."

"You think I wasn't angry?!" he raised his voice, irritated, "You think I am not angry, Morgana? I was mute for a year after that, just couldn't say a word. But what are you going to do? What's the point of hatred if you don't do anything but let it burn you? What are you going to do?" he repeated, demanding clarity.

Morgana lowered her head and wiped a lonely angry tear from her cheek. "And you?"

Mordred approached her cautiously. "Let's go," he put his arm around Morgana's shoulders, pulled her close to him and led her further away from the cursed hill where their fathers had died at each other's hands, "We have to get to the fair in time." He was afraid she might push him away at any moment and run away. "We need to make it to the fair. That's what I'm going to do."

"I don't care about any stupid fair." Morgana mumbled exhaustedly, relaxing in his embrace. He smelled so good. Like the forest.

"Perhaps. But you care about us, don't you?"

"Now we have enough to get through the winter," Mordred said contentedly as they left another shop.

He was laden with bundles of goods that would be useful in the camp: fabrics, a roll of leather, threads, bronze tools and hooks, dried vegetables and fish, papyrus, lamp oil, and other stuff they had bought with the money earned from selling Morgana's belongings. And they still had money left. Morgana felt the heaviness of the pouch in her cloak's pocket.

When they had arrived at the fair, they easily lost themselves in the motley crowd, amidst the noise, bustle, and smells of the rich market town named Dorset.
Its merry atmosphere allowed them to distract themselves from bad memories and revelations. Morgana was quiet all the way, but she was so grateful to have Mordred's silent support at her side, was grateful not to be alone with all this shame and pain of the past. And she hoped she was his support too, she wondered what feelings he was harboring behind this calm and enduring expression of him. Knowing all this, Morgana didn't blamed him for what had happened there at the hills, he was just a child. They shoot first. Her sense of justice overcame the pain of loss. Every time she was ready to lose control, forget herself and make a mistake she would regret for the rest of her life, Mordred managed to remind her of goodness and love, of who she really was in her heart.

Oh, how he has managed to save these in his heart, she wondered melancholically.

Morgana had been the first to spot the pawnshop, a darkened wooden building with closed carved shutters. She went inside, with Mordred behind her, his hand on his blade just in case.
Inside the pawnshop, Morgana's eyes widened at the sight of all the treasures on display. The walls were lined with shelves full of jewelry, daggers, old books, skulls of unusual creatures, encrusted caskets and other weird and valuable items. She felt a refreshing rush of excitement as she scanned the room, wondering what treasures she might find there.

Mordred watched her with amusement. He was surprised how much she loved to explore and discover new things, and he was happy to see her so excited.

"Good afternoon," she called to the merchant, an old grizzled hunched man in a blue cap and a long black robe.

"What are you seeking for, oh wayfarers?"

"We're not seeking, we're offering," explained Mordred.

The old man studied Morgana's clothes and garnet necklace, murmuring approvingly and admiring the quality of the workmanship and the costliness of the materials.

"Very nice, lass, very nice. Your Lady's things? I hope you haven't stolen them to run off with your lover," he chuckled, winking at her; but then he froze, staring at Morgana's triskelion pendant.

Morgana instinctively covered it with her palm, and Mordred stepped closer, gripping the amber hilt of his blade threateningly.

But the merchant removed his black knitted glove and showed them the tattoo on the back of his left hand — a triskelion. Morgana and Mordred gasped.

"Blessed be, my children," he took out a pouch of silvers coins from his box. It seemed there was more in it than the things were actually worth.

"Blessings, and thank you," Morgana replied emotionally, and Mordred bowed to the old druid. He happened to be one of their kind. But she wouldn't make such a mistake again, Morgana decided, hiding the pendant under her dress. It might have been fatal.

"Are you from Brocéliande, children? Once, I had lived near there...That was so long ago..." the old man chattered, tears glittering in his dim eyes, "We called ourselves the Clan of the Oak... I'm the last one left alive. Only me and the Oak, both too old for this world..."

"We're so sorry," Morgana assured him, touched; but then some suspicious-looking ragged fellow entered the pawnshop, and the old druid put on his mask of a miserliness again.

Morgana and Mordred walked out onto the main street and looked over the crowd that was spreading through the town like a bubbling noisy river. Mordred didn't like the noise and the smells.

"Let's go grab a bite at the tavern, Mordred? We can afford to spend a couple of coins." Honestly, she wanted to drink a goblet or two of wine to drown out the pain and shock that still lingered inside, albeit numbly dulled.

"Ladies don't frequent taverns," he replied seriously, adjusting his heavy big backpack on his shoulders.

"You know who else doesn't?" She tugged his sleeve towards the tavern and inn marked as "Sun and Moon."

"I don't. Who?"

"Druidesses. And I'm both, aren't I? Two wrongs make a right." Morgana looked back, hoping to see him laugh, but Mordred, frowning, was trying to make sense of her statement with a completely serious expression.

She snickered at his lack of a sense of humour. His naivety was charming. The fact that Mordred remained so pure-hearted despite everything he had been through endeared her. Where she was bitter, he was soft; and her melancholy drew her to his steadfastness like a thin moth to the candle.

Inside the "Sun and Moon" tavern, it was a bit cramped, but quite cozy. (Morgana noted, however, that in her past life as a princess, her presence in such a place would still have been considered inappropriate). The fire in the large ornate fireplace warmed the travelers on this autumn evening; the tables were clean, and the food looked edible, Morgana remarked, sneering, as she sat down at a table. Mordred took the money pouch and left his backpack with their purchases under the table. She stole a glance around. There were hardly any suspicious fellows in sight, apparently only simple good fairgoers were dining here at this hour.

Morgana idly reflected on whether she and Mordred looked like suspicious fellows or good fairgoers when he approached her with a small basket of apples and bread, two bowls of bear meat chowder, and two goblets of mead.

"Keep your hood on," he whispered barely audible. "There's a wanted notice for you at the counter."

"What?!" she hissed. Startled, Morgana slightly lifted herself on her stool and noticed a papyrus sheet there, the piece with an imprint of her formal portrait, the one where she posed in a white brocade dress and tiara. "Wanted by the Crown," was written below in red ink.

"Oh, no. No. No."

"Don't worry," muttered Mordred quietly, piling on the bread and meat, "No one will recognise you in such attire. Calm down. Eat."

Morgana drank the mead in a gulp, couldn't finish the chowder, and began cutting an apple, lowering her head so that her green hood completely concealed her face. "I don't understand..." She muttered, "Didn't Arthur find your letter? Why hasn't they calmed down yet? What do they want from me? I don't want the clan to suffer because of me!"

"They won't find us unless someone guides them on purpose. Brocéliande is huge, and we've long since broken away from them." Mordred tried to keep himself nonchalant for her sake, but Morgana could see he was tense too. "No one knows all the paths and trails of the woods except the Druids."

Morgana put a slice of apple in her mouth, thinking grimly that the people she considered family were hunting her like prey. "What does Arthur want from me?" She repeated, "I'm tired of living in fear, Mordred." Her voice trembled with tears.

"Maybe he's worried about you, Morgana? Have you ever thought about anyone but yourself?" someone else's voice answered her instead of Mordred, and a stranger sat on the stool to her left, squeezing her forearm painfully.

Morgana barely suppressed a scream, Mordred drew his blade, nearly knocking over his plate of the leftover chowder, and then the stranger took off the hood of his blue cloak and smiled at Morgana incredulously. He was black haired and tall, his dark blue irises eyed her fixedly.

"Merlin!" she peeped.

"Hello, Morgana. Long time no see."

"Who is this, Morgana?" asked Mordred, staring dumbfoundedly at Merlin as if he has seen a ghost.

"It's a friend." She turned to Merlin and tried to free herself from his not so friendly grip, but to no avail. Arthur's manservant continued to hold her tightly.

"I can ask the same question. Who is this, Morgana?" He looked suspiciously at Mordred. The strangely frightened expression on Morgana's companion's face made him uneasy.

"A friend. Mordred is a druid." She finally managed to wrest her 
arm from him. "What are you doing here, Merlin? What's going on?"

"What's going on?.. Everyone is searching for you. Morgana! Uther can't live without you. You must come back home." He looked at her pleadingly.

"No!" Morgana hissed, looking round warily to see if anyone had noticed anything suspicious. "How can you ask me to return to the cage? I have magic, Merlin."

"I do know. But Uther executes everyone he suspects of your abduction. You have to come back, otherwise he will never rest. Please. And Arthur misses you!" he let go of her arm to her relief.

"Then tell them that I left of my own free will!" Morgana was horrified, shaking her head. "You want me dead?"

"Of course, not," Merlin blurted out, persuading her, "But I can't tell them the truth, they won't believe me. Are you suggesting I give away my complicity? Morgana, please, you must come back. Arthur is here too." Merlin was on edge. He tugged at her sleeve, but Morgana, overwhelmed, pushed him away.

"I'm sorry, Merlin." Morgana sobbed nervously, but her expression was adamant to his entreaties, "I'm not going back to a place where I'll be executed for who I am. How can you ask me to do such a thing? You're the one who told me to go to the Druids. I have found my place and it's with them. I'm no longer the Lady of Camelot, I'm a new person." Stated she, "Mordred and I are going home." She took Mordred's hand to show Merlin who she was loyal now.

Mordred shifted his gaze back and forth between Merlin and Morgana, completely astonished.

"Morgana, don't make me do this," Merlin muttered quietly and mournfully, folding his hands over his chest.

"Are you threatening me? I thought we were friends," Morgana stood up abruptly. "Goodbye, Merlin. I hope we meet in a better place in the future," she clipped. Mordred followed Morgana's lead, grabbing his backpack and blade.

"We are still friends, Morgana. I want you remember this— KNIGHTS, COME HERE!" Merlin shouted thunderously throughout the tavern. "Alert! The Lady Morgana is here!..COME HERE!"

Poor "Sun and Moon" got enveloped in the utter chaos.

The fairgoers and the tavern owner, a fat man in yellow and red shirt, screamed in fear as a squad of Camelot knights rushed into the dining room with crossbows and unsheathed swords.

Morgana and Mordred rushed to flee, but Merlin set off in pursuit. They ran, dodging people and flipping tables to block Merlin's path, but he still managed to grab Mordred by his cloak and yank him towards him.

"Offerswing!" Mordred was forced to shout, turning around with a frightened expression sealed on his face; and Merlin was thrown backwards onto overturned stools and plates of food, and then he collapsed through them to the floor, desperately trying to catch his breath.

"Sorcery!" someone from the knights yelled, probably Sir Leon. "SORCERY!"

"Mordred, this way!" Morgana pushed him out the back door of the tavern, and they ran across the meadow towards the nearby forest. But all of a sudden, Mordred jerked and fell face down on the ground with a cry of pain, sliding on the mud.

An arrow has pierced his back.

Morgana turned round sharply with a loud cry and saw Leon lowering his crossbow while the other knights surrounding them on the flanks, ready to capture her and possibly finish Mordred off.

"You left me no choice," she threatened them darkly, standing up straight. Stretching her hand forward and clenching her fingers into a solid fist, Morgana shouted the same spell that Mordred had just used on Merlin — Offerswing! — and the knights were lifted into the air in a whirlwind of their red cloaks, and then cruelly slammed into the ground like the helpless rag dolls.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, running down the stairs; his red shirt unbuttoned, the sword ready in hand.

He had soon fallen asleep when they arrived at "Sun and Moon" to rest after another failed quest to find Morgana, but was awakened by the terrible noise, dire shouts of "Morgana!" and "Sorcery!" and the crash downstairs.

"What happened?" he looked round the ransacked room with widened eyes.

"There's Morgana!" Merlin, still out of breath and holding onto his bruised, possibly broken rib, ran out through the back door where the others had disappeared earlier.

He had never before, except maybe when he met Nimueh, felt or seen such power as he saw in Morgana now. Her eyes blazed with fiery anger as she effortlessly threw the knights back as if they were weightless. What was she studying out there in the woods with that weird druid guy of hers?

Merlin saw as Morgana knelt down and hugged Mordred's body to herself, him breathless on the ground; he probably have been severely wounded. Merlin took a step forward, he didn't know what he was going to do or say her. Morgana looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, and they evanesced in the blink of an eye.

Arthur ran out onto the meadow and closed his eyes against the gush of the cool wind that had risen due to Morgana's disappearance.

"Morgana! Where are you?" he yelled, frantically staring into the dark forest wall ahead. "Don't go, come back!"

"She's gone, Arthur," Merlin ran to check on the state of the knights, hoping that at least one of them was still alive.

"And who will pay me for damage, eh? Who?!" The "Sun and Moon"'s owner ran up to them, panting, and clutched at Arthur's shirt. "My inn is ruined!"

"Don't touch me." Arthur waved him off irritably, "If you haven't figured out it yet, I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot and I will pay for everything."

Morgana opened her eyes. All around her, wherever she could look stood a forest. The familiar, beloved forest of Brocéliande, not dangerous streets of Dorset. It seemed she had unconsciously transported them here, but their exact location remained unknown to her. This was a part of the forest she had not stepped her foot on.

Morgana trembled as she looked down at Mordred. He lay, seemingly unconscious, in her arms. His backpack, her bag, and his blade were dropped nearby. The arrow of red feathers had pierced his shoulder and was embedded in his flesh.

"Mordred..." Morgana called out to him, gently stroking his cheek and feeling the roughness of his stubble under her fingers. She carefully laid him down on the ground, only to find that her red dress was blackened with Mordred's dark blood. She took off her black shawl and covered him with it, trying to shield him from the cold wind. Through the panic-induced fog in her mind, she tried to remember everything she had ever known about healing, both conventional and magical.

"Morgana..." Mordred's voice was weak, "Is that you? Are we home?"

"Not quite. We're in Brocéliande, but I don't know where. How are you feeling?"

"Good as long as I don't breathe. Where are our things?" He tried to look around but immediately winced in pain.

"Here, we haven't lost them, don't worry" Morgana stood up and picked up his blade before sitting back down on her knees in front of him. "Can you sit up? Please."

Groaning, Mordred leaned against the trunk of the old oak tree with her help.

"I'm sorry, Mordred This is all my fault." Morgana unbuttoned his cloak and set aside his triskelion fibula before cutting open his green tunic to expose the wound site. Her hands shook slightly. "I bring bad luck on everyone around me. Because of me, you're hurt, and people in Camelot are being executed. Maybe I should just leave and die in the woods and never see anyone again and never endanger anyone..."

"Stop it. You're not responsible for their choices..." Mordred spoke weakly but then shut his eyes again.

"Mordred..." Morgana called out to him, "Just don't fall asleep, please. I'll go crazy if anything happens to you. I'll heal you." She pulled a clean Camelot handkerchief from her pocket and soaked it with water from the flask to clean the wound around the arrow, gently touching the injured area.

Mordred, struggling to keep his eyes open, smiled faintly at her fussing. "Are you a healer now?"

"Of course," she choked back a sob, "I know how to heal this. Look at me."

He complied.

She leaned in very close, placing one hand on the triskelion tattoo on his bare chest, stroking his skin with her thumb; while placing her other hand on his back, closing her fingers around the arrow. Mordred forgot about the pain, just for a brief moment, opening his eyes wide and looking smitten by her touch. Morgana tilted her head, her face an inch away from his, her lips parted to kiss him. "I love you," she breathed out; and just a millisecond before the desired touch of their lips, when nothing else but their breaths mingling into one and the echo of those words existed, she slapped him painfully across the face and at the same time plucked out the arrow from his shoulder with one sharp and sure movement.

Mordred's scream frightened a flock of ravens that took off in panic into the sky, and his cursing could wake up a sleeping dragon. The pain was so intense that a bit more and he would have fainted. Mordred couldn't keep his eyes open anymore; they were squeezed tightly shut.

Morgana shushed him and placed her hands on his wound — fortunately, the arrow hadn't broken inside him and was now lying on the grass nearby. Closing her eyes, she focused on the magic within her; that golden threads that flowed through her bloodstream, enveloping her entire being and seeking to merge with the gold she felt in Mordred's blood. Morgana thought of pure, bright energy of goodness and love, of sunlight and cold lake water. The place where her hands touched his wounded skin suddenly glowed with a warm, golden shine of energy.

And that glow mended the torn tissues, replenished the blood, and fixed the dislocated joint.

Morgana healed Mordred with her hands and her inner fire.

For several very quiet minutes, she was afraid to breathe, looking fearfully at her hands, shaking off to the ground the grey shadow of his pain she had taken upon herself.

Mordred moved and opened his eyes. "It doesn't hurt." He breathed deeply, looking at her in shock, then lowered his gaze to examine his perfectly smooth skin and unbroken bone. "It doesn't hurt." He straightened up.

"I promised I'd heal you." Morgana smirked nervously, but relieved. She picked up the arrow and threw it as far away from them as she could. Glancing at Mordred again, she remembered what had happened just a few minutes ago. What she had said. It was just a trick to distract him, however, she reminded herself.

"I don't know where we are. And honestly, I don't even know how I managed to transport us here. It just worked itself out," Morgana said quickly, taking out of her bag the small leather needle case she always carried with her.  needle and thread lay inside, and Morgana sewed the edges of Mordred's tunic with a few rough stitches as best as she could.

He watched her every move, her fingers touched his chest from time to time, sending shivers down his spine. "It usually takes a long time to learn evanescence. It's a strong and rare magic that usually takes an ordinary sorcerer out of balance for several days." He paused, inhaling and exhaling deeply, smelling her floral scent so close to him, still getting used to the absence of that numbing pain, "You're a traitor, Morgana."

Her hand froze, and she met his clear eyes with an incomprehensible hurt look. "Pardon?"

"It was an unfair, dirty trick. You deceived me to cause me pain." The corners of his lips lifted just slightly in amusement.

Morgana felt heat rush to her neck. He meant that. The way she had almost kissed him on the lips and stopped only because of the arrow. The way she had almost confessed to him. Could she have been more embarrassed than she was now?..

"It had to be done." Striving to make her voice firm, Morgana snipped the thread and put the needle back into the case, not looking at Mordred. "After all, you're healthy now."

"The end does not justify the means, Morgana." Mordred raised his hand and cupped her face, caressing her lower lip with his thumb, sensing her trembling and longing for him, feeling the same, falling into the light of her green as Brocéliande eyes. "End it. Kiss me."

Morgana no longer saw any point in denying that he had come to mean everything to her.

"Stop reading my mind," she whispered, her breath quickening. She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. He responded; it was so intense and earnest that her head spun, and warmth spread through her as she enjoyed the pleasant soft feeling of his lips against hers. Morgana cradled his head in her hands, tangling her fingers in his locks. Mordred held her tightly, stroking her back, taking all her breath with his lips.

Morgana, she heard it suddenly, loud and clear, but not a single sound disturbed the still forest. Mordred's voice sounded inside her like her own thoughts, and it was so queer and incredible. He exhaled and smiled shyly, pressing his forehead against hers, stroking her ruffled hair. She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder, pressing her cheek to the rough fabric of his cloak and thanking the Goddess and all the spirits for the miracle that Mordred was alive, and with her.

Let's go home? he led them both to the place Aglain had told him.

Chapter Text

"What is this?" murmured Morgana, gazing into another crystal to the right of the ominous old man's image.

The new crystal showed her herself, but at the same time, not quite her. The grim woman in black, sitting on a granite throne, looked like her evil elder sister. Crucibles with the fire blazing inside stood around her. To her right was Mordred with an indifferent expression on his face. He was leaning lazily against the back of her throne and resting his hand on her shoulder; and Morgana shuddered, realising that the Mordred-from-the-crystal was just like the Mordred from her dreams. The black knight with the flaming sword.

It was all becoming too much for her to bear. She felt herself suffocating under the weight of destiny on her shoulders.

"Look, Mordred, it's us..."

But he didn't focus on this vision, staring fearfully at the other crystal, his hands gripping the rock until his knuckles turned white. Morgana peered into it too.

There was a cave illuminated by torchlight. Inside, several people in dark hooded cloaks stood in a circle. They chanted a hymn, and then one person stepped out of the circle, bowed to the others and went outside. For a moment, the crystal showed her face.

"Wait..." muttered Morgana, "That's the girl from our clan, right? She looks a little familiar to me."

"Kara." Mordred watched as Kara, dressed as a maidservant of Camelot, crept up to Arthur with a dagger in her hand.

Morgana gasped and covered her mouth with her hand when she saw a pale, bloodless Arthur on the bed and crying Gwen in black kneeling beside him.

"No, no." Morgana moaned in despair. Whatever it was, however much she criticised Arthur in the past, she couldn't lose him. Never, and especially not now when she found out he was her brother. One blood and flesh. "Arthur."

The rest of the crystal visions flashed before her tearful eyes like a lightning: Uther's men destroying the sources of magic, herself, Mordred, Arthur in a forest clearing, the golden light, a fiery dragon in the sky — all of it suddenly lost its importance, giving way only to fear for the life of the one dear to her. Her brother.

Morgana was so tired of being afraid.

She turned around and was about to run out of the cave, but Mordred grabbed her arm. "Morgana, wait! Where are you going? What else have you seen?"

"Leave me alone." she snapped, and ran towards the exit.

Mordred, feeling offended, sighed heavily. It was hard with her. He prayed to the Cave silently. We need your power.

The feeling of sacred awe at finding the crystals was gone, and loneliness and worry for Morgana have taken over. Mordred sadly left the crystals behind and walked into the pitch black corridor. Taking a few steps, he suddenly realised that he didn't know how to find his way back. Which turn to take? He started to move right, but ran into a wall.

"Morgana?"

No answer. Mordred fumbled his way in the other direction as suddenly a ball of light came on to his left. It was inviting him to follow it, glistening in the darkness.

"Taliesin?" Mordred called out, no longer hoping for an answer. Turning back to the darkness where Morgana had disappeared, he decided to follow the light. Going deeper and deeper into the Cave.

The small circular chamber was damp, water stream gurgled louder than in the Crystal Hall. The light ball did not go out when Mordred entered there, but froze in the air above a small pond. Mordred cautiously leaned over the surface. Why had Taliesin — if it was Taliesin, of course — brought him here? He hoped to find a way out, not this.

Through his own reflection in the black water, Mordred saw IT.

A sword in black scabbard trimmed with nielloed silver, was gleaming in the dark current of the cool underground stream. The most beautiful sword Mordred has ever seen or dreamed of. He dipped his hand into the water and touched the sword reverently, touched its sturdy and comfortable handle wrapped in dark grey leather. And then he quickly drew it out, gasping in admiration. Carefully wiping the sword with his cloak, Mordred pulled the blade halfway out of its sheath. The purest steel was untouched by rust or dirt.

"Magic..." Mordred murmured, and his voice was carried away by the echo. Who had left the sword here? Why had the light brought him here? What if this was the sword of the Ancient Folk, the sword that could defeat mortals and immortals alike?

Mesmerized, he drew the sword out of the sheath completely. It was made as though for his hand, the perfect balance and forging. Raising the blade higher, Mordred caught the reflection of the light ball and suddenly the sword catch fire.

Out of fear, Mordred almost dropped it, but the fire did not burn him. It was soft and warm and full of energy. The blade burned from the tip to the hilt, and a striking flash of bright golden light illuminated the cave. Mordred covered his eyes with his left hand, his eyes ached, and in an instant everything went dark again.

The loaded silence was broken by a quiet but distinct sound — the sharp clang of metal against stone.

Cautiously, Mordred opened his eyes and directed the still-flaming sword at the floor — and found it. A dark disk on the stones before his feet. Frowning, Mordred bent down and picked it up. It was something like a coin, but instead of a number or a coat of arms, it was engraved with some strange markings.

GIVE THIS, they whispered

TO THE KING, they ordered

ARTHUR PENDRAGON, they sealed

Three strange ominous voices were ringing simultaneously, not outside, not directly in Mordred's mind. Frightened, he looked around. There was no one, and yet he felt a supernatural presence, as if someone was watching him and waiting for him too obey.

Mordred dropped the coin in his best bag and ran out of the circular cave with a chilling fear. The fiery sword in his hand not only lit his way, but also led him in the right direction. When sunlight showed ahead, the flame on the sword went out, and Mordred put it back in its sheath. With one last look back, he left the Crystal Cave with a feeling of weight removed from his shoulders.

Morgana was sitting on the ground with her knees drawn up her chest and her back resting against one of the mossy boulders. Her right hand was clutching the soothing silver of her triskelion pendant. She was plucking the trilliums' heads and tossing them on the ground with her left hand. When she heard Mordred's footsteps, she raised her head up to him.

"I thought you left without me." Morgana said slowly with bitterness in her voice. She looked depressed.

Mordred sat down beside her, placing the sword on his lap. He could sense the confusion and fear and grief in her. "How can you think that? I will never leave you, Morgana. Even though it was you who told me to."

She lifted her head and looked up at him, "I'm sorry, I'm just... Oh, what is this? Where did you get this sword from?"

"I found it in the Cave. Or rather, it was shown to me," Mordred stroked the sheath, running his finger over its patterns of silver spirals and dragon heads, "You know, this can be the sword of the Ancient Folk. I think it's magical." He half pulled it out, admiring the steel in the sunlight. The striking beauty of the sword made him want to touch it. He pressed the cool surface of the blade against his cheek and closed his eyes. "I feel like it was made for me, Morgana. I can sense it."

Morgana raised an eyebrow as she watched Mordred almost kissing the sword. "Men. You're all in love with your swords. Let me remind you, they're still toolls of murder, nothing more. Besides, you already have a blade." She gestured towards his old amber dagger.

For a moment, Mordred looked deeply offended, glaring at Morgana fiercely. But just as quickly, his face softened and he sheathed the sword back, "You're right, Morgana. I don't know what came over me. Father's blade truly is better."

That was the reason why he didn't tell her that this sword could flame with fire.

"Alright." Morgana plucked another trillium. She felt so heavy, she seemed unable to stand up anymore, weighed down by the burden of her past and future, both of which were unpredictable. Her life was a mess and every new revelation made it harder.

"Uther Pendragon is my father," she confided to the forest. "And Arthur is my brother. Everything I believed in was a lie. Absolutely everything."

To find family, true family among those she had rejected. To discover that the one she feared and hated...was her father. Suddenly, everything bad he had done paled in comparison to that truth. Uther was the reason she existed in the first place. And the thought of Arthur being her brother filled her heart with warmth. Sweet insufferable Arthur. She smiled faintly, remembering moments from their childhood...Oh, if only she had known then. Kinship to her meant loyalty.

"Arthur..." Mordred suddenly remembered the coin in his bag. "Look, Morgana. I found it right there in the Cave. And some voice, maybe it was Taliesin's, told me to give it to Arthur."

Morgana felt curious as she took the coin from Mordred's hand. It was made of old brown metal, a bronze and copper alloy. Cryptic symbols and letters were engraved around its edges. She recognised some of them as zodiac signs, but others were unknown to her.

"Or maybe it wasn't Taliesin's." Mordred added a moment later.

"What is it?" This disk seemed to be special and very ancient. Clearly, it was an artifact of the Old Religion. And what was ancient was true.

"I don't know. But They, or She, or...The voice told me to give it to the King Arthur Pendragon, Morgana."

"But...Arthur isn't king yet and won't be for many years." Morgana suddenly became anxious. In the crystal, Uther had said he was dying.

"I only know what I was told."

"Mordred," she stood up, "We can't let Arthur die. I don't know when what was predicted in the crystal will happen, but we have to warn him. Maybe we'll even have time before Uther dies..." Her voice trailed off, it felt weird and wrong to care about Uther, especially in front of Mordred who knew the truth about how she used to feel about him; who knew the truth that both her fathers, Uther and Gorlois, were involved in the death of his clan.

"We can't." He stood up as well, picking up the fiery sword. "Arthur is our hope for the new Camelot. But we need to finish what we came here for, wait for the others."

Morgana looked helplessly at his darkened face and sat back down on the ground. "Good. Then go send a bird with the message and bring our horses here, please."

Mordred nodded and walked off into the woods. Morgana stayed behind, staring at the Cave as visions of the crystals flickered before her eyes. She suddenly wanted so badly to run to Arthur and tell him everything. She wanted to approach Uther, take his old hand in hers and ask, "Why?" And maybe forgive him if he would ask.

As Mordred returned to the clearing with the horses — he hid the sword under his horse's cloth — he sensed a shift in her mood and got afraid. Although he himself had asked her not to poison herself with hatred towards the King, he was unprepared for the outpouring of love for her family that he suddenly discovered in her. Her emotions were so extreme. Morgana could switch from hate to love in an instant.

"Morgana." He returned to her.

"What?" She looked away from the mysterious darkness of the Cave.

"Are you going to abandon everything and return to Camelot? Are you going to abandon us?" Mordred left the horses grazing nearby and sat down in front of her. "You said you hated Uther. Now you love him?"

"No, Mordred. The truth hasn't changed my decision."

"Are you with me, Morgana?" He peered inquisitively into her face.

"I'm with you." Answered she with all her devotion.

He smiled shyly and stroked her sickly pale cheek. Princess. He believed blood meant nothing, only the soul was important. And he coveted her soul.

Morgana closed her eyes, covering his hand with hers, it was so bigger than hers, and a tear slid down her cheek. Yes, the fact that Uther and Arthur turned out to be her blood relatives changed everything, but not that she didn't belong with them anyway. Because of her gift; because she was a sorceress, a seer, a healer, a druidess. Because of the walls their creeds had built between them.

They lit the campfire, prepared meal, and laid out the mats — there was no telling when the druid squad would arrive here, and they all needed rest. Morgana was nervous and couldn't eat and soon just lay down by the fire, watching Mordred eating.

"What else did you see? In the crystals?" he asked cautiously.

"I saw a dragon, a sword, a battle... Our fears have been confirmed, Mordred. Uther's men are destroying the sources of magic." She explained in a thin voice. "But most importantly: it wasn't Merlin. It wasn't Emrys who helped destroy the shrines."

The Camelot knights' squad — but neither Arthur nor Leon, her old friends, traveled among them — landed at a lake that lay surrounded by rocky cliffs like in a bowl. The squad was led by a knight unfamiliar to Morgana. He was dressed in white, a golden lily emblem shined on his chest. Tall and handsome, with long golden curls and graceful slender fingers, he ordered the other knights to place some wooden crates in the rocks crevices on the shore. And then — Morgana didn't fully understand what happened —  the knights scattered to hide, the warm brown eyes of the white knight suddenly turned golden, and an fiery explosion thundered over the lake. A cloud of gray and black dust rose into the air like an ugly mushroom; the earth shook so hard that the white knight could barely stand on his feet. But when the smoke settled, Morgana saw that the lake was buried under the masses of earth and rock debris that had fallen into it. The magic lake was destroyed, and before the inner eye of the seer the gold dimmed and turned black.

"There's indeed a sorcerer working on their side. And it's not Merlin as we and the High Priestess believed before. I don't know who it is, but he's definitely dressed like a knight."

Mordred choked. "But Emrys allows this? What is he doing? Just looks at this?!" He was deeply relieved, however, to learn that Emrys wasn't involved in this sacrilege. The almost extinct flame of his faith rose just a little higher.

"I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." Morgana looked into the dancing fire, as if trying to find answers there.

Chapter Text

"Lie down, you need to rest and regain your strength," Morgana said caringly, taking her shawl and covering Mordred with a blanket.

Mordred lay on the bed in his tent. This was Morgana's first time here, although she was terribly curious to see his private space before. Mordred's tent was sewn from scraps of different fabrics — he had made it by himself from pieces other druids gave him. Inside, everything was similar to the simple furnishing of Morgana's tent: a bed, a low table, a basket, a chest; except that Mordred had decorated his place with numerous dreamcatchers suspended above. They were made of colourful woolen threads with feathers of forest birds, glass beads and bones of small animals woven into them; they jingled softly swaying in the wind.

"I'm going to go talk to Aglain myself about everything that's happened," Morgana reached up to his face and stroked his cool forehead. He took her hand.

Elaine, who was already fussing over their purchases, was so worried seeing a dirty, weakened Mordred and a tired Morgana and demanded answers.

"And forgive me," Morgana repeated again.

"I told you to stop," Mordred said slowly, his fingers in her hand relaxing. He was sleepy. "I need to tell you something, it's important...."

"Tomorrow." Morgana smiled and walked out, heading towards Aglain's tent. The other druids watched her go, feeling that something seemed to have happened.

"Aglain, Elaine?" Morgana climbed inside and sat on a cushion, wrapping herself in the shawl.

Aglain, dressed in a big knitted cloak of thick woolen threads, was drinking tea, and Elaine was sorting through Morgana and Mordred's purchases. But when she saw Morgana's downcast expression, she sat down next to her and put her hand on her shoulder.

"What happened in the town, Morgana?"

Morgana sighed, looking guiltily at Aglain, and told them about the knights' attack and Mordred's injury, and how she had healed him with her energy.

Elaine looked at her admiringly, fiddling with a bead on the tip of one of her braids. "What a blessing!. You are a healer, Morgana. Our clan is blessed to have you."

"Blessed? Because of me, Mordred was almost killed and Uther went mad, and..."

"You can only be responsible for your own actions, Morgana. You haven't killed anyone, have you?"

Morgana shook her head. She prayed that the knights would stay alive. She was slightly frightened by the power of her anger but they had wounded the one she loved. Her fierce desire to protect and punish had blinded her for a moment, but what else could she do? Returning to Camelot would be her undoing. And knowing Uther, he would still execute any sorcerers or those involved in magic, whether she returned or not. She had no other way.

So she tried to rationalise her decision to stay with the druids.

"Your hands are clean, then." added Aglain.

"There is something else..." Morgana rumpled the tip of her black shawl. "Mordred told me something... It turned out that my father, on Uther's orders, participated in the massacre of Mordred's clan," she confessed, not knowing for sure if Aglain knew about the rest of Mordred's story. He must have known that Mordred's clan, like many others, had been exterminated; she left the rest, the dead knights, in silence. Mordred bared his soul to her, and Morgana appreciated that dearly. It was not her secret. If Aglain suspected that something else had happened on that cursed day, he did not condemn him.

Aglain and Elaine were silent, glancing over at each other.

"I'll understand if you tell me to leave, if someone like me can't live with someone like you...."

Elaine looked at her father. "You see, Father? This is destiny. I told you."

"How heavy is she, my children." Aglain placed a cup of herbal tea in Morgana's hands. "Drink this, Morgana, these herbs will help you calm down and sleep. And try to understand."

Morgan hesitantly raised her eyes to him. "So you'll allow me to stay?"

"As Elaine said, can you see? Our destinies are intertwined, their threads run side by side in the tapestry the Maiden, Mother, and Crone are weaving. It's not for us to tear them apart. Think about what awaits them," he meant Camelot, "It's much worse than what we face, for there is no peace within them and their hands are stained with blood that screams in their dreams. You, on the other hand, are pure, Morgana. Besides, I do not want to lose our best guard. I fear that if you leave, someone will abandon everything and follow you," the Leader gave her a warm smile.

Morgana blushed, and Elaine suppressed a giggle, worrying her lower lip.

"I will do everything to redeem my guilt," Morgana sipped her hot tea quickly. "I will be loyal to you forever. I will do anything."

"Follow our ways and that will be enough." Aglain poured himself more tea. "You can go to sleep, Morgana. Today was a hard day but tomorrow the sun and stars will rise again."

She smiled, feeling a coming of peace in her soul. No one saw her as a monster or a curse. She was loved and could be herself.

Through his drowsiness Mordred heard someone enter his tent and place an oil lamp at his head. Through his closed eyelids, the fire resembled a red mist.

"Morgana?" He coughed. "You're back?"

"No," a stranger's voice answered.

Mordred opened his eyes and sat up. A brown-haired girl in a grey cloak was squatting in front of him, looking at him with a deep and hurtful gaze.

"Kara," he noted quietly. "You've returned."

"You were expecting someone else," she pursed her lips.

Mordred lowered his eyes for a moment, but then met her gaze boldly. "I was."

"A Pendragon woman then? After everything they've done to us! I heard you've got injured because of her."

"Past doesn't mean anything. Past must not rule us."

"Don't be stupid, Mordred!" Kara snapped. "I've known you since childhood, you've never been. Past is what makes us. Do you love her?" Her eyes filled with tears and she lifted her head proudly, blinking them away.

His heart skipped a beat, blood stopped flowing through his veins for a moment, the truth rang in his heart. "It's destiny," Mordred replied, and that meant enough. "And you left me first. It's been a year. Where have you been?"

Kara stood up, shaking off dust from her cloak. "Great. I do know my destiny too." And she stormed out of his tent, accidentally knocking over the lamp to the ground.

Mordred quickly doused the fire before it could spread beyond his scorched blanket. He collapsed onto the pillows and replayed the events of the day. He was falling asleep thinking about the great secret he had learned today in the *Sun and Moon". About Morgana kissing him. Morgana saving him. An uncomfortable thought flashed through his exhausted mind that Kara, knowing her, could do something to Morgana. But no, no druid ever hurts their own no matter how hurt they were.

The next morning, they discovered that Kara left the camp again, this time for good.

Merlin slowly descended into the caves, a torch in his hand was lightning his path. The Great Dragon was sleeping in his usual spot on the rocky, uncomfortable cliff.

Merlin waited for a few seconds, certain that Kilgharrah could not have failed to hear his footsteps, but in vain. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

"So, Kilgharrah, you still refuse to help?" he asked loudly. "What should I do now?"

The dragon opened one yellow eye and snorted, the echo reverberated off the walls. "I've already told you more than enough, young warlock — kill the Witch. But you don't listen to me, Emrys, so what's the point? It's not my problem anymore."

"Can't you come up with something new for once?" an irritated Merlin demanded a response.

"Just not for her. She threatens everything you dream of. It's crucial that the Lady Morgana doesn't know how powerful she is, and what have you done? You've allowed her to learn magic from the druids! People are already dying because of her. And many more will die in the future."

"I didn't want to keep her in the dark," Merlin objected stubbornly.

"Then why do you want her back? Changed your mind about where to keep her?" the dragon snorted sarcastically, settling comfortably on the hard stones. "After all, she'll have to hide her true nature at the King Uther's court."

Merlin grumbled, unable to find the right argument.

"By the way, when were you going to tell me?" Kilgharrah asked after a pause.

"About what?"

"A young druid you just met."

Merlin frowned, trying to remember him. "You're talking about that Morgana's new friend...what was his name..Mordred. What about him?"

"Mordred," growled the dragon, raising his head. "You speak so lightheartedly about him, and yet, Emrys, he's another one of your big mistakes."

"What now? What does he have to do with this, and how do you know him, Kilgharrah?" Merlin shivered from the cold of the caves.

"How do I know him?" The dragon grinned. "It was prophesied that Morgana and Mordred, united in darkness, would overthrow Camelot, for King Arthur was destined to fall at the hand of a druid child. So it shall be. Morgana and Mordred are already walking this path together."

Shocked, Merlin shook his head, remembering suddenly Morgana and this Mordred in the "Sun and Moon". Nothing about them seemed evil. They were just lost children in tattered clothes who had no one but each other. "No way."

"Prophecies do not lie." If Kilgharrah could, he'd probably shrug.

Merlin felt himself getting angry. "So you're not going to help me?"

Kilgharrah rolled his eyes. "My answer is the same today and tomorrow — kill them. Neither the Witch nor the Druid must live if you want to see your great future."

"Well, you know what, Kilgharrah? I'm going to change the future! I don't care if it's great or not, at least I won't be a murderer of innocents!" He spun on his heels and headed back up, taking the fire with himself.

"I'd like to see you try, Emrys," the dragon replied, clanking his chains as he flew deeper into the cave to dive into the black waters of the underground lake.

In the morning, Morgana wanted to leave the tent, but at the entrance she was met by Mordred. His face was too white against the black of a fur pelt he draped over his brown cloak. She flinched slightly and took a step back.

"Blessings," Morgana greeted him with an excited trembling in her voice.

Yesterday was over and today something new has begun. She was evidently a bit uncertain about how she was supposed to act around him. His presence here at her place, the meaningful deep looks they exchanged were pleasantly and intimidatingly stirring. All she knew about love was a lady and knight courtship, but that wasn't the case here in the Brocéliande forest.

Mordred followed her inside. "Blessed be. As I said yesterday...there's something important I need to tell you, Morgana."

"No, let's go have breakfast first." Morgana bent down to go outside.

"Wait, we need to talk. It's extremely important."

"I guess it's not as important as breakfast. Unlike you, I couldn't eat that awful bear meat yesterday. You, on the other hand, pounced on it like a starving wolf," she chuckled.

"Morgana, listen to me..." a note of displeasure slipped into his voice.

But she stubbornly disobeyed and continued her way.

The real winter was in the air, and Morgana pulled her warm shawl tighter around her neck. The grasses were adorned with silver hoarfrost, the bare tree branches swayed in the wind, lazy snowflakes were falling from the dense cloudy grey sky. But the druid's camp was cosy and warm around their welcoming campfires on this first snow day.

More than once Morgana wondered if life here would be so easy for her if they have no powers. If they couldn't create and heat water, keep fire, clean with magic, quickly pack and unpack their belongings, and many other things that were hard to imagine without magic. Camelot truly didn't know what it had lost and what she had found. Magic was a force for good: in big things they hoped for, like a new better world and heavenly truths that balm the soul; and in small things, like warming a child in the midst of the wild forest. Magic was freedom. She was free at last.

The chowder was quite tasty. Mordred, out of breath, caught up with her and took her by the wrist.

I take you word for it. Morgana tried to reach Mordred's mind for the first time, pleased to note that she succeeded on the first try. Her power has really increased over these months, thanks to their lessons.

She led them, as usual, to Elaine and Aglain's campfire in the center of the camp. Looking around, she noticed the friendly and interested looks of the other druids on herself and Mordred.

Is it just me, or is everyone looking at us? she asked him.

It's because of you. Everyone must have by now heard that you're a healer. Soon you will find queues of the old people and the children who have eaten too many sour berries at your tent. He snorted.

No, I think it's because I'm with you. Everyone is surprised that you talk to people, considering how unsociable and boorish you are. Morgana smirked.

Mordred clenched his jaw to keep from smiling, but impatience still shone in his eyes.

"Blessings," Morgana greeted Elaine and Aglain, sitting down opposite them.

"Blessings," Aglain replied. "How are you both?"

"Good. Mordred?"

"Fully healthy." He was stomping his foot impatiently on the ground.

"'Cause you're lucky, Mordred, always have been," Elaine said with a slightly sad smile, glancing quickly at how close Morgana and Mordred sat to each other, how their hands lingered the touch when Morgana handed him a bowl of elk and salted wild plums soup. She wished she had this with someone her heart could love forever.

"Yes? I always thought everyone believed I had the evil eye, and that's why no one wanted to be around me."

"Don't be like that, Mordred. Everyone appreciates you," Aglain hummed and gave him a pat on the shoulder.

As soon as Morgana thanked the Leaders for the meal and stood up, Mordred immediately took her hand in a commanding gesture and led her deeper into the woods, before she left to wander around the camp or read in her tent or practice spells — her favourite occupation. The ground was already covered in a thin white snowy blanket, the still green grass poked out through.

"What's the importance?" Morgana asked in surprise when Mordred finally stopped and turned to her, his face deeply concerned.

"Yesterday. When we were in the tavern..."

"And?" she stepped closer.

"Your friend. The one who called the knights." He sighed deeply, as if preparing for something.

"Merlin? What about him? Speak up, Mordred!"

"It's Emrys."

Silence fell once again. Small chirping of birds outside and the neighing of horses that grazed between the trees, digging up grass from under the wet snow, stilled, before Morgana broke it again.

"I beg your pardon, what? Merlin?" her heart raced; in disbelief, she shook her head.

"Yes, it's him." Mordred was deadly serious.

"Wait, THAT Emrys? But Merlin isn't even a sorcerer! I would know!" Suddenly, the possibility that Merlin was hiding the truth from her, leaving her with her fears and doubts all alone seemed scarier than an outright deception.

"He is Emrys." Mordred repeated stubbornly.

"How can you know that?" Morgana frowned and bit her lip until it bled.

"I understood it the moment I saw him."

"How?!"

"The triquetra."

"What the hell is that?" snorted Morgana.

"Any druid can see this: an invisible for the rest fiery rune inscribed on the chosen one's forehead. It is an ancient magical symbol, the unity of the trinity. Three faces of the deity; present, past and future; life, death and revival."

"And MERLIN, of all people, has this?"

"Why are you like that? Is there something wrong with him? It's him, Morgana. The one we've been looking for so long: Emrys the Great!"

"Then why can't I see anything? Does he know?" Morgana began pacing back and forth across the clearing.

"Because you weren't born into our faith, you became a druidess by convert. And I have no idea if he knows. He's your friend after all." Mordred spread his hands in a dramatic gesture, his eyes shining excitedly, "I didn't believe it myself at first when I saw him with you, Morgana. But his power...I sensed a great sorcerer in him."

"This is terrible." Morgana felt deeply betrayed by somebody she used to know as a friend in the midst of a lonely and hostile Camelot. Why didn't he trust her? What have she done wrong to him?

"This is wonderful. It's foretold that he will free us."

Morgana stopped and turned abruptly to him. "How? You don't know Merlin as I do, Mordred. He's Arthur's manservant, nothing more. A country lad, a serving boy. And he didn't even tell me he was a sorcerer."

"A Prince's manservant?" Mordred was surprised.

Morgana nodded, still trying to come to terms with the truth. They fell silent for a long uncomfortable moment.

"But does it matter?" Mordred spoke again, "Is it not the person that matters to you, but their status? I thought you were bigger than this, Morgana. I'm a commoner too." He looked aggrieved.

"You're a druid, Mordred, that's different. And it's not about status, believe me, it's that Merlin does nothing but polish Arthur's weapons. That's why it's so hard for me to believe. Emrys? I've known him for two years, and he's never once shown that he's going to save anyone." Morgana parried, and suddenly something inside her mind clicked.

Of course, Arthur. That's why he miraculously survived every calamity, even after all her dreams.

"Anyone but Arthur," she continued, "Merlin seems to be secretly helping him. Does Arthur know everything too and is hiding it from me? Arthur knew that Merlin had magic and yet they didn't say a word to me?!." She felt resentment swelling in her chest like a heavy storm cloud in the sky.

Mordred stepped nervously from foot to foot, deep in thought. "I've been thinking about Emrys all morning. Tell me more about him... So, Emrys is living disguised as a servant and secretly saves Prince Arthur's life. Sounds like Emrys is putting everything on the line for him." Mordred wanted to believe that this was not just an accident, but the part of a bigger plan.

"He's not disguised, he IS a servant!" Morgana blurted out, annoyed. "And you said that Merlin was meant for us the druids? There's no mistake here, right?" Morgana sighed deeply, trying to suppress her hurt. If Merlin was around here now, they would have had a difficult conversation, whether Emrys he was or not. She would have walked over to him, made him sit down and explain himself to her for his unfriendly deceptive behavior.

"Yes. I'm absolutely sure."

"And what are we going to do about it?" Morgana asked, twirling her cloak in her hand. "We will keep him a secret?"

"I'm going to tell Aglain and the others that thanks to you, Morgana, we have found Emrys. You'll be celebrated among our clan and beyond. And then... we'll wait for destiny to take its course."

"We'll be just waiting for Merlin and Arthur to come and do something?" Morgana responded disappointedly.

"That's our faith. Emrys is destiny. Let's go see Aglain."

She sighed, and they walked back, each lost in thought.

"Mordred, you do realise that we can't just go to Merlin and ask him By the way, aren't you Emrys by any chance? after what has happened yesterday. I know he's a good person deep down, we used to be friends...but I'm afraid he's not on our side." Morgana broke the tense silence.

Mordred swallowed down the bitter truth of her words. "I understand." That was something they had yet to think about.

"I don't understand..." Arthur sighed heavily and stepped away from Leon's bed, where his faithful knight lay feverish from Morgana's spell. "How could she do this to us? Morgana is a sorceress...Morgana, hurting my knights...Morgana, willingly running away from us. I can't get my head around it. Why?"

All three, Arthur, Merlin, and Gaius were sitting in the healing rooms. King Uther was devastated by the news Arthur had brought him: Morgana had fled with some druid man, she had magic and she had used it against Camelot. Uther cried, shed real tears; it was so unlike him. Arthur was trying to keep his distance from his father's bitter gloom by spending more time with Merlin and Gwen these days, though the prince himself, sleep-deprived and walking around in a sloppy shirt, didn't look well either.

Gaius adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked reproachfully at Merlin, silently blaming him for helping Morgana and taking her to the druids. "I told you so," was all the court physician said when Merlin recounted everything to him. But Merlin was still convinced he did the right thing leading her to them, even though it had changed Morgana and put them in danger. As Morgana herself liked to say, "sometimes you've got to do what you think is right and damn the consequences." He just didn't think it would go this far.

All this, though, didn't change the fact that she was needed here now.

"Sir Leon will recover, Your Highness, I promise you. I have taken all the necessary treatments." Gaius assured him.

Arthur got up and paced the room. "But what if it wasn't her?"

Gaius raised an eyebrow, while Merlin simply asked, "Pardon? What do you mean, not her? I've seen her and spoke to her."

Merlin had spotted her purely by accident.
He went downstairs to get something to eat while Arthur was sleeping upstairs. At the counter, while he waited for the inn's maid to serve him, his attention was caught by a weird guy in a forest brown cloak. He was literally eating with his eyes the advertisement for Morgana that Uther had ordered to be put up across the kingdom. The advertisement where Morgana was pictured in all her splendour. Merlin chuckled to himself; the runaway princess was indeed sheerly beautiful and he didn't blame him for this.
Standing there and staring at the paper, the guy didn't even notice that the people in line behind were grumbling at him.
Following him with his eyes, Merlin discovered that he sat down at a table next to a woman in a mossy green cloak who didn't removed her hood even when she was eating. A wild guess struck Merlin, but he watched them secretly from behind his mug of ale for a whole longer. The woman's gestures, the way she sat with her head down...He crept quietly towards them and recognised Morgana's voice.

"I mean...magic. Charms, sorcery," Arthur made an uncertain gesture. "What if magic brainwashed her? What if someone is controlling her mind, making her do all this? That druid man Morgana was with, for example. Merlin, you said she was with some renegade?. We don't know how long she's known him. Maybe they've been seeing each other for a while and he got her on his side..."

"Um, that's highly unlikely, Your Highness." Muttered Gaius politely, "We can't explain every incomprehensible choice other people make with spells."

"You don't believe that, Arthur, do you?" Merlin asked, scraping his stool on the floor. "You don't believe that magic is always evil?"

Although Kilgharrah had said something dark about this Mordred, Merlin just wasn't feeling it. The Dragon had been saying bad things about Morgana as well, but she had a good heart, he believed in that. It was hard to imagine her being under the control of this druid; Morgana seemed sinserly to care for him. Such dark magic was simply not peculiar to druids.

"All I know is that the Morgana I knew would never hurt innocent people. The Morgana I knew would not run away from people who love her. And let me remind you, Merlin, of Morgause and her manipulations and what you said to me then."

Merlin suddenly stood up and stared at Arthur, annoyed. "First of all, druids only practice white magic; second, what if she was scared and confused because Leon and the others wanted to bring her back to Camelot? They hurt her friend, Arthur!"

Arthur was quite surprised by Merlin's sudden boldness, and perhaps that's why he considered his words. "I never knew you were a druid expert, Merlin," Arthur's tone was sardonic, "But why wouldn't she want to come back home?"

Merlin rolled his eyes at his stupidity. "And what do you think, Arthur? Morgana has magic, and your father executes anyone suspected of it!" He breathed out, not even understanding himself what had come over him.

Arthur's face darkened, he stopped and folded his arms across his chest. "You're talking about the King, Merlin. Be careful. And Father would never have executed Morgana."

Especially in such a state as he was now — a lost man, staring lifelessly out of his bedroom window, not even finding the strength to change into his royal clothing; a shadow of his past self, of the once formidable King Uther Pendragon.

"How can you know, Arthur? How could Morgana possibly know? All she could feel was fear and ostracisation! She could have been caught and punished at any moment just for who she is!" Merlin's hands unconsciously clenched into fists.

Arthur stared at him as if seeing his manservant for the first time. "You actually wanted to find her and bring her home yourself, didn't you, Merlin?" Arthur dropped his hands in confusion. "And I would never allow her to be harmed."

"How, when magic is forbidden on pain of death? You wouldn't break Camelot's law even for her, Arthur, would you?" Suddenly frightened by Arthur's pained expression, Merlin sat down, trying to calm himself.

"I don't believe any of this is really happening." Arthur shook his head. "I can't take it anymore."

"And what do you believe in?" Merlin asked quietly, studying the prince's face.

"I said, enough." Arthur snapped and stormed out of the healing rooms.

Gaius shook his head, watching him go. "What was that, Merlin?"

"I'm probably just stressed, Gaius. I hope he doesn't fire me." Merlin rubbed his hands on his trousers. He already regretted his outburst. He has almost gave himself away. He hoped he won't lose his destiny because of Morgana.

Arthur was stopped in the gallery by a servant. "A guest awaits in His Majesty's study, Your Highness. I'm afraid you'll have to receive him yourself since..." he hesitated, trying to find a polite excuse to explain Uther's inability.

"I got it." Arthur cut him off irritably and headed for his father's study.

It seemed that if this continued, he would have to take over the realm even while the king was still alive. Uther Pendragon has abandoned all his affairs. The news that Morgana has magic has broken him completely. Arthur himself, though surprised like everyone else found himself not affected by the fact that deeply. He was more frustrated that he failed her, than anything else. Maybe there was always something about Morgana... Maybe that's why she so often defended those unfortunate souls whom his father executed. Because she was one of them herself.

He entered the chamber, and the guest turned and respectfully bowed to Arthur. Arthur stopped, examining him.

He was a young, handsome knight about his age and height, dressed in simple long white robes with a modest short sword on a black baldric. His long golden curls touched his shoulders, and his big brown eyes looked respectfully and intelligently at the prince.

"Your Highness. Sir Galahad, son of Sir Agravaine De Bois and Lady Anne, at your service."

Arthur softened, pushing his bad mood away. "Oh, it's been so long since I've heard news from my uncle. How do he and Lady Anne do? Please sit down, Sir Galahad. I'm always happy to meet my dear mother's relatives."

Arthur sat down in Uther's place, feeling somewhat uncomfortable there but ready to fulfill his duty.

Agravaine's son has evoked a strange sense of déjà vu and an immediate surge of affection in him. His cousin looked ridiculously similar to Queen Ygraine as he had seen her in the Lady Morgause's vision, as if Galahad too was her son and his brother. Merlin said it was a lie, but Arthur knew deep down in his soul that he had seen his mother, no matter what she said about magic and his father. Galahad sat opposite him and folded his hands on his knees, bathing in a pale pearl daylight flowing from a big window behind Arthur's back.

"I have been on a long pilgrimage and could not attend the Court until this day, Cousin, but as soon as my father heard of the calamities and losses that have befallen Camelot and his beloved nephew, he deemed it necessary to send me to serve you, Your Highness."

"You may call me Arthur, Galahad. We are family, after all" Arthur smiled a little sadly. "And yes, in times like these, I need the help of any man of goodwill."

"Thank you, Arthur," Galahad smiled in relief, but his kind smile was quickly replaced by a sad expression again. "We are saddened to hear of yet another trouble on the House of Pendragon because of the dark force known as magic."

Arthur tensed and replied nothing.

"But I have come to offer you help, Brother. Another way, one that will not harm anyone you love. Please, let me help you."

"What do you mean?"

"No one else knows better than me how magic perishes a man's soul," Galahad began, a small melancholy smile played on his beautiful full lips.

Arthur raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I am a sorcerer, Arthur." Galahad's irises glowed with a golden magical fire.

Arthur jumped to his feet, making an incredible effort not to recoil in fear from his cousin. For a moment, there was a dead silence in the study as the two knights glared at each other, waiting for a blow that did not come.

"That was...unexpected." Arthur cleared his throat. "You are a very brave man, Sir Galahad. To confess such a thing in front of me...Are you not afraid?"

He was both frightened and impressed by Galahad's courage, such a man would be worthy of a place among the knights of Camelot. If he was not a sorcerer, of course. But for the sake of their kinship bonds, Arthur endeavoured to open his mind and listen to his cousin. Although it was a breach of Camelot's law, the Prince decided he could compromise in the name of someone close to him.

"Pardon me," Galahad bent his head on his breast. "But when one sees the evils of this world with his own eyes all commonplace fears, such as fear for one's life, recede. I am ready to accept death at any moment."

Arthur, after hesitating one more moment, sat back down. "Why are you telling me this?.."

"Let me tell you my story. To vanquish the evil inclinations within myself, I had taken a vow of poverty... And in my many wanderings and quests, I have learnt something, Arthur," Galahad began talking, his countenance was inspired and pure. "People cursed with magic... You do not choose it. Magic chooses you. And I found something: those weak of us who are born with this wormhole seem to be infected by it, and the infection comes, like in case of any other disease, from filthy soil and sick water. No family can be an exclusion, high or low, even the Pendragons and De Bois."

Arthur frowned. "Go on." He felt mesmerised by Galahad's confident tone and conviction. As he spoke, it was as though a golden shine emanated from him.

"Magic, like a water stream, has sources, places of its birth. These are lakes, caves, forests, rocks. To the common man's eye, they are just ordinary objects of nature, but in reality they emit miasmas of magic."

"And so what?" Arthur asked, feeling dull in such matters. He had always preferred history and sword training to lessons of natural philosophy.

"That's where the key lies," Galahad placed his hands on the table and leaned towards Arthur. "If the sources of magic were suddenly gone, then all the power in the infected would dry up, and our loved ones would not suffer anymore. They would become just like they were before, the ordinary people. No violence."

He reflected about this a little more. "And...so you're suggesting that I eradicate the sources of magic, you, cousin? Even though you are..."

Perhaps, something in Galahad's rhetoric about infestations clung unpleasantly to Arthur, something was off; but at the same time, his way gave hope that no one else would have to be executed, something Arthur hated doing; and now that it was discovered that Morgana also had magic, it horrified him — that he would have to harm her, her whom he considered a dearest sister. Maybe magic wasn't their choice, but their misfortune. He lingered on this thought. Maybe he could save her.

"Exactly," Galahad nodded eagerly. "Exactly because I was born a sorcerer myself, Arthur. You are not to do anything, it's my lot. I'm offering you my help, but I also need your help, yours and your men's."

Arthur pondered it carefully. "I'm yours, Galahad. Come to my chambers tonight after supper, we'll talk about everything. And for now, I'll send my manservant, Merlin, to help you to settle and rest."

Galahad, looking reassured and hopeful, stood up and held out his hand to him to shake. "Arthur. Nice to meet you. You lived up to my highest expectations."

"Likewise, Galahad." Arthur shook his strong hand and smiled lightly, thoughtfully studying his brother's fair face.

The Brocéliande clan had organised a celebration in honour of Emrys' revelation: honey treats, "for honey is golden like magic", singing and dancing around the fires, betrothal promises and dedications of newborn children to the Triple Goddess and Emrys. The trees around the large clearing were decorated with ribbons and lanterns, the people wore their best jewelry of sea glass and silver beads.

Morgana sat apart from everyone, feeling so strange — she still couldn't take seriously the fact that Merlin of all people, the clumsy and funny Merlin, was seen as the great saviour whose coming was awaited and hoped for. Even though Merlin hid his magic — a small painful needle of betrayal pricked her chest at this thought — Morgana was certain that he did not know that he was the revered figure among the Druids. He could not have known that he was Emrys.

Still, she was hurt by Merlin's lack of trust. But if it weren't for him, if he hadn't led her to the Druids, she would have never embraced her magic. She would have never met Mordred, Aglain, Elaine and the others.

In the festive bustle that arose after they had informed everyone about him — the Druids made Morgana and Mordred retell their story several times — Morgana did think over sending Merlin a message, inviting him to Brocéliande, letting him know, but then remembered his ruthless gaze and his cry of "Knights!" again and again. This could be dangerous not only for her but also for the clan.

His loyalty remained unclear: was he Emrys or was he Merlin, after all?

But even Mordred who had seen what Merlin could be like, and what he's capable of, was interested in him. He played the flute for the dancers around the fire, and Morgana watched him, unable to take her eyes off him; it seemed she had never seen him so animated and eager to socialise. He smiled brightly at her across the flames when noticed that she was looking.

Mordred was proudly emphasising to everyone that it was them, they have found Emrys; and people thanked them, making Morgana feel embarrassed. What was her part in all this? But it seemed that for the others her role was much greater than it seemed to Morgana herself.

Mordred separated from the crowd and sat close to Morgana on a log covered with a carpet, his eyes glowing with devotion, the bone flute in his hand. Morgana's stomach made a flip as their knees touched.

"I have a gift for you."

Morgana smiled at him absently. "Really?"

"Come with me."

They walked to his tent. Mordred stepped inside, stopping her on the threshold and then he came out, hiding something under his cloak.

"What's that?" Morgana smirked, trying to see the gift by moving aside his hand but Mordred, chuckling, dodged.

"Everything has its time. And now let's go to your tent."

The night camp was lit up with fires and filled with music and magic. As all people, the Druids had joy in their hearts from being with their kind and sharing bread with each other; and no one could harbour such great faith in the future as the hunted ones.

Mordred magically lit the lamps in her tent, his eyes so beautifully sparkled, and turned to Morgana who took a step closer to him.

"Look. It's to keep you from having bad dreams." Mordred pulled out from under his cloak and showed her a dreamcatcher, which of course he had made himself. It was woven from red and black threads; shiny raven feathers and thin reddish dry twigs were suspended to the bottom of its large circle. "I've wanted to make this for you for a long time."

"It's beautiful." Morgana looked at it dreamily.

Mordred magically lifted the dreamcatcher into the air and hung it on to the ceiling of the tent, just above her neatly made bed. "Done. It won't help with big dreams, but the little nightmares will get tangled in the feathers and threads and dissipate with the first rays of the sun. You won't see them anymore."

"Thank you." She thanked him wholeheartedly.

Mordred once again shifted his gaze from the dreamcatcher to her, taking a quick breath. Looking nervous, he came closer, his bright eyes roamed over her form and face.

"You don't mind if I-" he shifted, "Do you?" He leaned closer to her, looking straight into her eyes, waiting for her answer, his voice got low and quiet. His face was pale and funny focused in the red twilight of the tent.

Morgana managed to shake her head absentmindedly, not immediately guessing what he meant, but when she did, she felt like she took wings; her expression softened.

Mordred let out a quick little smile of relief, leaned in and kissed her gently on the lips, cupping her face; his thumb stroked the sensitive spot just under her earlobe. Morgana's hands landed on his warm forearms and squeezed them. It was so simple to love and feel loved. Mordred was lovely, kind, reserved and strange, and she felt like he was made for her and she for him. She had so many sweetness for him in her heart.

"Do you like my gift?" He stepped back a little, smiling.

"I do." she replied, tilting her head as she stroked the silky black fur on his cloak.

"Goodnight then." and he left her alone.

Three days later, despite Mordred's magical dreamcatcher, Morgana has received it for the first time: a vision of the golden light fading, dulling under the pressure of the creeping lustrelles darkness.

She awoke with a feeling of everlasting loss.

Chapter Text

The sound of rustling bushes made Mordred tense and he exposed his amber blade. But he immediately relaxed when he felt the familiar auras glowing with warm green light. "It's them," he told Morgana, who woke up and sat on her cot.

Elaine appeared in the clearing, she was in a bright tangerine cloak. Other druids followed her. "Relax, Mordred. It's us," she chuckled, noticing the dagger in his hand.

"I've already figured that out, Elaine," he replied when she and the other four friends settled next to them.

"What's up, Morgana? You look terrible, sorry." The Leader's daughter asked quietly. The rest of the team retreated to the Cave, admiring this sacred place with reverence. "You've found the Crystal Cave. Together we will protect it."

"I've seen... Some bad things. The Cave showed me," Morgana sat down and hugged her knees.

"Kara is planning to kill prince Arthur," Mordred interrupted her. He deliberately didn't tell Elaine about Morgana's true kinship. They already had a lot of things to explain to their friends.

"Kara?!" Elaine gasped, shocked, "That's why she was constantly running away and was so secretive. She was planning something."

"I don't know when it will happen, but the visions showed me the future." Morgana replied grimly, "This Kara is involved with some dark people. And we want to save Arthur, please, can you understand me?" She looked in Elaine's dark-brown eyes, searching for condemnation but found compassion and mercy.

"Perhaps the Prince is our last hope for peace before the magic-deprived kingdom plunges into chaos. Besides, Emrys is on his side." Elaine encouraged Morgana.

Morgana sighed shortly, "We have good news about Emrys, Elaine. It wasn't him."

Elaine's face brightened, and she smiled shyly. At least one thing was not wrong in this wrong world.

"But there's also something else." Morgana continued, "Mordred, can you show the coin, please?"

"Ah, yeah." He took the disk out of his bag and handed it to Elaine. "Do you know what this is, Elaine? I was given it in the Cave with an order to pass it to Arthur."

Elaine was interested in the coin and twirled it in her fingers thoughtfully. "Who gave this to you, Mordred? Spirits?"

"Uh, I don't know," Mordred shrugged. "You know that communicating with spirits is not my gift."

"Why it was you then..." the druidess muttered, staring at the symbols on the coin. "I don't know what the coin means, but these inscriptions... It's an ancient ogham, the script of the Ancient Folk. Do you see this symbol?"

Mordred leaned closer and suddenly recognised the same sign he had seen shining on Emrys's forehead. Triquetra. How had he missed it?

"I cannot read it. But my father can." Elaine returned the coin to Mordred.

"Well, we have to return to camp, ask him about the coin and then head to Camelot," Morgana said in one breath. "Then we give it to Arthur and warn him about the attack. I know that the circle must consist of seven people, and we wanted to stay with you, but...Can you understand?"

"My father always said that there is always a chance. But first, we need to wait until sundown and perform the ceremony."

Morgana nodded in agreement.

While the others settled down to rest and replenish their strength, Elaine led her aside.

"I am very disturbed about the news about Kara... Who did she get involved with that she decided to go on a killing spree? It makes her not any better than them," she shook her head. "Her long disappearances; now I realised everything."

"They were dressed in dark hoods and lived in some cave. I don't know who they were..."

"But do you know... I mean, did Mordred tell you?" Elaine blushed a little and nervously looked at Morgana again.

"About what?"

"That Mordred and Kara...were once together. Sort of. I saw that she liked him, but he has never been with anyone like he is with you, Morgana. With you, he became a different person. And maybe that's why she left and decided to do this. I mean, Kara. Because of you," muttered Elaine.

Morgana turned round to look at Mordred. He was laying on the grass with his eyes closed, but he wasn't sleeping and was just listening to the chatter of the other druids. Perhaps it was good he hadn't told her that he had a past. Morgana was aware she was a jealous person and needed those she loved to belong only to her; so poisoning the magic that have been blossoming between them with jealousy would have tasted bitter. Everything that had been before them didn't matter. Morgana nodded briefly to Elaine, walked over and sat down next to Mordred. He, still not opening his eyes, found her hand in the grass and squeezed her fingers. And Morgana was struck by the chilling thought that maybe she and her love were the reason her brother was in mortal danger. She didn't want to think that their union was doomed to a bad fate.

At sundown, five newly arrived druids along with Mordred and Morgana stood in a circle of stones Morgana and Elaine have laid out in the form of a triskelion. The seven joined hands and, bathed in golden sunset light, began reciting a hymn. They called upon the power of the Crystal Cave for help and prayed for blessings. Magic currents hidden in every tiny speck of dust rang out, resonating with them, weaving a golden thread around their circle. The power of the Cave flowed through them, renewing and sanctifying them. When Elaine hit the highest note, Taliesin suddenly appeared next to them, summoned by their spell, and stood eighth in the circle. "I will teach you. Together," he said loudly. Inspired, the druids did not immediately notice that he disappeared again, but his presence was still felt nearby.

"Here, in the name of the Triple Goddess," said Morgana, and everyone repeated after her.

The golden threads turned into stardust, it was gently floating in the air around them. The new guardians of the Cave, the seven druids of the Brocéliande Clan, stepped out of the circle, feeling that the fate of magic lay on their shoulders. They will hold the post here for as long as necessary and protect the Crystal Cave even at the cost of their lives.

"Thank you," Elaine smiled at Morgana and Mordred, old sadness leaving her eyes, "Without you, we would be in danger. Will you stay with us for the night?"

"No," Morgana said firmly, looking at Mordred questioningly, "I feel that we have little time. Destiny's calling." She couldn't hide the tension in her voice.

"She is right," Mordred agreed, and Morgana felt pleased beyond belief that he sided with her, that he remained loyal, "Elaine, Uther's men may come, we don't know how much they know. If they find out about the Crystal Cave, it's over for us. Beware of the White Knight, he's our main enemy. He's the sorcerer who helps Uther. Not Emrys."

Elaine nodded seriously. "That's why we're here. See you, friends." She reached out to them and they shook hands tightly, sharing a surge of friendly affection and support.

Morgana and Mordred, saddling their horses, looked back one last time at the small camp of magic guardians and rode off into the night.

Chapter Text

"I have a strategy, but I need money and people. And your royal support, Arthur," Merlin overheard Sir Galahad's melodic soft voice. "Some peasants may not understand... But they cannot resist the name of the Crown."

Merlin put a silver jug and goblets on the table in front of the prince and the knight, and poured them some honeyed wine. Standing behind Arthur, Merlin listened to the conversation with increasing concern. Something was off about this new guest. In the dimly lit room, his dark eyes turned completely black.

"What is your strategy?" Arthur asked cautiously.

"Knowledge, that's the most important thing," Galahad replied, not touching the wine. "In my quests, I have acquired the old forgotten secrets of all-conquering weapons. May I speak in front of your servant, Arthur?" Galahad looked at Merlin awkwardly.

"Merlin has my whole trust."

With a small movement of his hand, Galahad magically opened a cabinet, a scroll of parchment and a metal box flew out of it and landed on the table before them.

Merlin was startled by the unexpectedness of it all and dropped the tray. It fell to the floor with a loud clang. Using magic right in front of Arthur?! Galahad is a sorcerer? It didn't make any sense to him; shocked, Merlin wanted to stand in front of Arthur, shield him from possible attack — but the prince gestured him to stop, turning to his manservant.

"Don't be afraid, Merlin. I know what's going on, everything is under control, you're safe. Galahad is our friend. Sometimes magic can exist with good intentions. Right, Galahad?"

"Very rarely, unfortunately, Arthur." Galahad sighed and placed his hands on the box. "Don't think that when our mission is successful and the Sources are gone, I will regret such small domestic comfort of magic as this. I won't."

Arthur glanced at him thoughtfully and took another sip of wine in lieu of a reply. Merlin quickly picked up the tray and stared at Galahad with trepidation, all possible protective spells racing through his mind, ready to be picked.

"So, here's my plan." Galahad unrolled the scroll and handed it to Arthur to ponder.

"Romaine fire?" Arthur looked at Galahad in bewilderment, then back at the intricate drawings and diagrams on the scroll.

"'Or the flaming water'" Galahad nodded, "And in case that doesn't work, I have something else." He opened the box and pushed it towards Arthur.

The prince carefully examined the pale gray powder inside. It looked like ash. "And what is this? Something magical?"

"A perfectly ordinary science. A very rare thing in our parts. Fire powder from the distant oriental lands given to me by a merchant I healed. All of this together will help us to destroy the Sources of magic — you just burn them. Drown them in fire."

Merlin's blood ran cold. Until then, he didn't understand what Galahad meant by "the Sources", but now a terrible realisation settled over him. Galahad was suggesting that Arthur burn the sources of magic?!... How could that be possible?

"Merlin, are you not well?" Galahad asked worriedly, seeing Merlin gasping and becoming sickly green. "I can help if you need it."

Arthur turned to him, and Merlin had to summon all his willpower to appear calm. "No. Not at all, Sir. It's just little stuffy." He forced himself to smile.

"Merlin, be normal for once," grumbled Arthur silently.

The prince of Camelot sighed, crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated for a moment, looking at the candle flame on the table. Why not? He couldn't find any rational arguments against Galahad's plan. Remove magic, not people — why not? His father had been trying for years to do something against magic, but all he had come up with were executions. Something Arthur had always really wanted to avoid. Uther wanted to deal with the chaos and bring law and order upon the people, but Arthur wanted to establish peace and prosperity. And irrational reasonings and folk superstitions should not be an argument for him as a future king.

"You can try, Galahad," he finally spoke up, "What do you need?"

Galahad beamed and bowed his head in a respectful gesture, his golden locks spilled over his shoulders. "I need alchemical substances and the help of someone versed in the science. Someone who knows how to handle rosin and sulfur, for example. Do you have such people in mind? I also need workers and guards."

Arthur turned to Merlin again and looked at him appraisingly.

"What?" Merlin nervously asked.

"Galahad, I think our court physician and his apprentice can help you with everything you need."

"Thank you, Arthur. Thank you, Merlin. I believe that together we can find a solution. I am so happy to have found a kindred spirit in you both." Galahad stood up, looking enthusiastic.

Merlin watched as he reached out his hand to Arthur and the prince shook it — something Arthur had always refused to do with Merlin himself. Despite everything he has done for him; and that was hurtful. Arthur has known this strange Galahad for a day(well, he was Arthur's cousin, but still) and already had accepted his magic and bestowed him with respect. Feeling bitterness in his mouth, Merlin had to remind himself that Arthur knew nothing of what he has been through for him. And if this continued like this, he would never.

When Galahad's white cloak finally slipped out the door, Merlin began clearing the table. Arthur couldn't help but notice his sharp awkward movements and tightly pressed lips.

"What, Merlin?"

"Nothing."

"Come on. I can see that something is bothering you. What's wrong?" Merlin's irritation amused Arthur, "You can talk to me openly, Merlin. Spit it out, trust me." He smirked.

"Can I?" Merlin silently asked, feeling frustrated, "I just think how easily you trust people, Arthur. Sir Galahad just showed up in Camelot today, and you're already helping him."

"And why shouldn't I trust Galahad, Merlin?" Arthur stood up and began to undress for bed, "He's my family, my Mother's nephew. And I think I like his ideas. Take off my boots."

Merlin has to leave the tray of dishes and the cloth on the table and busy himself with Arthur's black boots. "He's a sorcerer," he muttered quietly, watching Arthur's reaction cautiously.

Arthur considered the answer for a few moments, "I don't want to think that magic as it is makes a person bad. Is Morgana bad?.. I think you said something similar yourself just today, Merlin, didn't you? Galahad is on our side. He, though a sorcerer himself, wants to eradicate magic so that no one suffers anymore. He's an honest and selfless man."

Chills ran down Merlin's spine. He impatiently threw Arthur's boots by the door to clean them tomorrow morning and straightened up. "Do you think that if we destroy nature it will help? I don't know..." he swallowed a lump in his throat and turned to Arthur, who was sitting on the bed, looking questioningly at his servant, "Somehow it sounds almost sacrilegious."

"It may be. But I'm not a follower of the Old Religion, in case you didn't know. If the Old Religion is true, let it, I don't know, show me this somehow or let it do something about it. Believe me, Merlin, if I could do better... But my father spent twenty-two years fighting magic and all he came up with," Arthur lowered his voice, "Was to execute and punish. Destroying people not some soulless rocks. I've had enough of that. Galahad has suggested another way, you see?"

"I got it," Merlin replied sadly, once again feeling cornered, "But a world without magic? What if it will upset the balance of the world?"

Arthur snorted carelessly, "The balance of the world? Since when have you become a philosopher, Merlin?.. Don't be silly."

The next day, Galahad arrived at Gaius' quarters and asked for help in equipping a laboratory in the rooms that Arthur has allocated to him. Gaius agreed, of course; and he, to Merlin's great displeasure, wasn't entirely against the White Knight's plan.

"I'm old, Merlin, and I want to live in peace for at least the few years I have left. If there's no other way, then maybe we can try to eradicate the very root of the problem," Gaius explained as he packed things into crates.

"I don't believe this is coming from you, Gaius," Merlin shook his head. "You, who taught me..."

"I taught you to control your power, Merlin. To use it for good. But not everyone is as responsible as we are. How many times you were in trouble because of those who exploit magic for evil? Besides, I still can't refuse Prince Arthur's orders. It's a command," Gaius shrugged.

"But the prophecies..." Merlin stubbornly continued, hunched over in his chair. He felt defeated.

"They said that Arthur would bring peace and unity to Albion and that a golden age would come during his reign. What if this is it, Merlin?" the physician adjusted his glasses. "Our chance for peace and tranquility. You've followed your destiny well protecting Arthur; and maybe now we're entering the final phase of our journey."

"I find that hard to believe. It doesn't sound right... A world without magic is a world without spirit," Merlin replied sadly.

Gaius shrugged once more, carefully placing glass flasks and vials in the box.

"What are these Sources that Galahad speaks of anyway? Would destroying them all just make us powerless?"

Gaius looked over at his bookshelf, searching with his eyes for the right books, but then gave up and sighed. "By and large he's right to call them sources. There are special places in the world, the places of power from which divine energy flows, which is magic. In the days of the Old Religion, it was said that the Triple Goddess touched the land in these places. These are ancient lakes, large old trees, stones of strange shapes... Usually, that's what they are."

"And they can die?" Merlin suddenly felt like crying.

"Everything can die, Merlin, from a great love to a tiniest snowflake. But until the main Source of magic is destroyed, the force will only be undermined, but not completely eradicated."

"And what is that?" Merlin straightened up.

Gaius muttered something to himself and finally walked over to the bookshelf. Rummaging through the back rows of books, the old physician pulled out a dilapidated volume and irritably placed it on the table in front of Merlin, pushing the entire pile of his things aside.

Merlin leaned over the book. It was covered in shabby green fabric, with white flowers on long stems drawn on the cover — Merlin recognised them as trilliums. The title of the book read "Taliesin Chronicles."

Seeing Merlin's curiosity, Gaius opened the book and began carefully leafing through the thin pages. "This book tells of a wandering bard who went so far in following a mysterious song he dreamed of repeating on his harp that he has become the keeper of the Source of magic. The Source of all magic." Gaius lowered his voice, finally finding the right picture.

It depicted a forest and a cave in a clearing of trilliums. "The Crystal Cave. They say, and not just in this book, that magic was born from here. Underground fire broke free, breaking the Earth's crust and a cave was formed, and crystals in which one could see the future and the past were melted in this fire. They say that this is where the first people gained power — it was the so called "Ancient Folk", long before they went into the hills. This place is governed by the element of earth." Gaius jabbed at the picture with his finger.

Merlin stroked the drawing reverently. "Gaius, please. Let's don't tell Galahad about this. Let him not know."

Gaius hesitated. "I don't think the Chronicles are the only place where you can learn about the Cave. Taliesin was once a legendary figure."

"But we don't have to make it easy for Galahad either, you know?" Merlin pleaded his mentor. "Please, do it for me."

Gaius sighed and put the book back. "Sometimes I think you have no idea what you're doing, Merlin. Let's see how this goes."

"I knew you were on my side, Gaius," Merlin beamed.

Gaius just shook his head.

This time, Morgana sat in front of Mordred's tent, waiting for him to come out and start the new day. She fiddled with the triskelion pendant, and the metal warmed up at her touch.

"Morgana," his face lit up when stepped out, wearing a thick grey winter cloak. He was so flattered to see Morgana waiting for him. Joining her by the small campfire, he wrapped his arm around her waist comfortably and stared into the flames. It was a late, dark winter morning, and many druids remained in their tents due to the cold, even their horses huddled closer to the camp.

"What's wrong?" Mordred asked after a while, still not taking his eyes off the fire. He sensed her anxiety and uncertainty, similar to the avalanche of emotions he had discovered in her when they had first met.

"Your dreamcatcher doesn't work."

"I told you it wouldn't work against strong visions. Didn't you stop having recurring nightmares?"

"I did. And for that I'm so grateful to you, Mordred." Morgana really didn't dream of him in fire anymore, and it was a relief to see and know only his true real self, not that dark evil twin of him. "But I saw something special tonight. Something scary."

She took his hand and squeezed his fingers painfully. "I saw a lake surrounded by an cherry orchard and in the middle of it, an island. It was shining with a golden light. But then something happened... Both the island and the lake were covered in black, sticky darkness. It died. And I felt such fear, such terror..." Morgana's pale face expressed extreme anxiety. "What was that?" she looked at Mordred with agitation, seeking answers and comfort in his piercing blue eyes.

Mordred looked off into the distance, into the white space between the trees, "The gold is clearly magic. As for the rest, I don't know. An orchard?... Shall we ask Aglain?" He asked quietly.

"Alright." Morgana stood up, shaking inside with the feeling that something bad was coming.

As always, they could only rely on the wisdom of the Druid Leader. Aglain was hemming his new leather bag when Morgana and Mordred came to his tent and Morgana, stuttering, recounted him her dream. Putting aside his sewing, Aglain rummaged through his favourite chest and pulled out a scroll wrapped in green ribbon. "Island, lake, cherry blossom... Sounds very familiar. This sounds similar to the Isle of the Blessed."

Morgana moved closer to Aglain to get a better look at the black and white coal drawing of the said island. It was exactly like the one in her dream. "This is it! Only this beautiful castle is now ruined."

"But then what does the darkness that swallowed the gold mean? This is magic, right, Aglain?" asked Mordred quietly.

"I'm not sure. The symbols of a seer's visions can be difficult to interpret," Aglain replied seriously, looking at them. "But one thing I can tell you, children," he continued, "The Island of the Blessed, though King Uther destroyed the shrines during the Purge, still remains a powerful place of power. It used to be guarded by the High Priestesses of the Triple Goddess, but now... Everything had gone wrong long ago."

"What can we do?" Morgana asked fervently.

"Nothing. We don't even know what will happen to the Island. Maybe your dream, Morgana, has a spiritual meaning..." Aglain began to explain about the negative energies of dark magic that eat away a sorcerer's ability to regenerate, which could be symbolised by the gold and darkness of her vision, but Morgana barely listened to him, disappointed. Everyone always told her not to do anything and wait, while she wanted to help and prevent trouble.

Mordred sensed her mood and politely excused them to Aglain, who seemed to have become engrossed in the lesson.

"Time will tell," the Leader said as they left.

"Shall we go for a walk?" Mordred asked, trying to keep his tone soothing.

"It's cold," Morgana replied and still walked off into the forest at a quick pace, leaving Mordred behind.

"You need to learn to summon your visions to understand what will happen, not wait for them to come," Mordred said, catching up to her.

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Morgana stopped and turned round.

"I don't know. The Brocéliande Clan hasn't had a seer since the Purge."

"Then why are you talking about things you don't know?" Again Morgana didn't understand what was happening to her, and this clammy feeling of impending threat was driving her crazy.

"The truth dies in silence."

Morgana burst out laughing, raising an eyebrow. For a brief moment, her anxiety disappeared. "Where do you get all this stuff from?"

Mordred smiled shyly, with a smile Morgana found adorable, and stepped closer, "I don't know. Perhaps I heard it somewhere."

She looked up at him. His eyes were the colour of the winter sky above them, his warm breath a dissolved cloud in the cold air. Mordred brushed the stray strands of hair from her face, his fingers cool against her skin. Morgana raised herself on tiptoe and hesitantly placed her lips on his, kissing him; their tongues brushed together. Mordred wrapped his right arm around her neck and his left around her waist and Morgana melted, floating in his caress.

We are safe, his voice reassured her in her mind. And she almost believed him.

"If anything goes wrong, we can turn to Emrys, Morgana. We can let him know about what's happening," Mordred murmured the other day.

They walked slowly along the forest, the sound of the never-freezing waterfall to their right soothed their souls. Heavy, wilted ferns bent under the weight of wet snow. The air was full of cold spicy moisture. To keep their hands busy, they gathered deadwood for the fires.

"And what can he do?" Morgana snorted skeptically, picking up a piece of wood from the ground. "What does Merlin have to do with the Island of the Blessed?"

"I don't know. But...our people always believed that Emrys can fix everything."

Morgana wanted to remain silent out of tact, but still remarked, "Don't forget that he wanted to deliver us up to Uther."

"It was probably just a mistake..." replied Mordred with a doubt in his voice.

Three days later, Morgana was in her way to Aglain's tent to study. Memorising the Old Tongue's vocabulary was so easy for her, she had dozens of spells learned. The snow had melted, and the forest was grey and wet, with green grass standing out against the rotting brown leaves beneath her brown boots.

Morgana was almost at the leader's colourful tent when something made her stop suddenly.

She noticed how a knight in full armour and a heavy dark blue cloak had just stormed out from Aglain's. Frightened, Morgana froze for a moment, but then forced herself to hide behind a tree. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously peered out from behind its trunk. Has the knight come for her? Surely, he would demand a ransom, threatening to kill everyone if she refused to go with him. Mordred, Aglain, Elaine...Their lifeless bodies stood before her inner vision.

Meanwhile, the knight — he was fair-haired and agile — walked angrily towards other tree, unhitched his black horse and galloped out of the camp, not even giving the druids a parting glance. Some of them remained silent, watching him leave, while others returned to their daily duties with a serious look on their faces. Something in the atmosphere of the camp was not right. Something in the knight's appearance, in his demeanour, though Morgana didn't even see his face, gave her an indistinct, anxious feeling of impending disaster.

A twig crunched behind her, and she turned round, startled. Mordred's blue watchful eyes stared at her from beneath his brown hood.

"Mordred!" Morgana exhaled in painful relief. "Stop doing that," she hissed.

He ignored her and stepped closer, looking into the forest where the mysterious knight had just disappeared. "I sense anger and impatience here. A lot of anger."

"He came after me, Mordred," Morgana said hopelessly, clenching her fists. The trap was closing in on her again.

"I won't give you up to them," he assured her firmly. "Let's go to Aglain and find out." He took her hand and led her towards the Druid Leader's tent.

At that moment, grim Aglain and Elaine peeled back the entrance flapper and noticed Morgana and Mordred approaching them.

"Not today, children. Practice your spells without me," Aglain addressed to them.

"I have seen everything," Morgana interrupted him, doomed. "You don't have to sacrifice yourself for me." Treacherous tears welled up in the corners of her eyes.

"What? It's not what you think, Morgana," Elaine glanced up at her father, "We have to tell her, Father. It concerns Morgana too."

"Well, come in, Morgana. Morderd?" Aglain looked questioningly at the young druid who followed Morgana, pulling back the curtain.

"You stopped trusting me, Aglain?" I'll be where she is, he added mentally.

Aglain grumbled something under his breath and entered the tent after them. Inside, flat river stones were warming on a crucible of the magical fire, heating the place.

Everyone settled on the fur rugs and Elaine poured each of them a cup of tea of thyme and mint.

"So what's happening?" Morgana was impatient.

Aglain first took a slow sip of tea, wrapped himself tighter in his knitted cloak, then looked at his daughter again.

"I'm afraid we'll have to change our camping place soon, even though it's not a pleasant thing to do in winter. I've always tried to avoid it. I'm afraid," he repeated, "that we've brought the High Priestess's wrath upon ourselves. And your vision was indeed prophetic, Morgana." His deep brown eyes looked directly into Morgana's green ones.

At the words "High Priestess," Mordred, who almost brought the cup to his lips, stopped abruptly.

"The Lady Morgause came to us with an offer. As the leader, I took it upon myself to refuse her."

"Morgause?..." Morgana echoed quietly. Something in that name resonated in her heart with a tremor. So, the knight was a woman?

"She's the new High Priestess of the Triple Goddess, she has recently ordained her initiation after the death of the previous Priestess."

"Your dream was true, Morgana," Elaine intervened, looking at her sympathetically. "Lady Morgause said that the Lake at the Isle of the Blessed had perished, and the ruins of the shrines and priestesses' abodes were burned down."

Morgana clapped her hand over her mouth.

"The Lady suspects King Uther of this," Aglain explained gravely, "But more than that..." His voice lowered, "She believes that Emrys is working on his side, because he killed the Lady Nimueh, a past Priestess a few months ago. She lived on the Island of the Blessed all these years after the Purge among the ruins of our memory. I didn't know her well, alas, I was still very young during the Purge, but what I saw and heard told me that Lady Nimueh was a very wise and knowledgeable person and a true servant of the Goddess. She was the one who advised our clan to hide in Brocéliande after my mother died."

"Emrys could not have done such a thing! How can the prophesied saviour of magic kill one of its ministresses?" Mordred spoke with hurt disbelief written on his face.

Morgana experienced something similar, if not more. An unpleasant surprise. Has she really knew the one who called himself Merlin? Who was he? To imagine his funny boyish image killing, let alone the great Priestess of magic...It was borderline impossible.

"Merlin? Killed? Impossible!" she snorted finally, echoing her thoughts.

"I have no reason not to believe the Lady Morgause, although it's hard to accept..." Aglain sighed heavily, "We don't know what happened between Lady Nimueh and Emrys. But we, druids, cannot be against Emrys either. Lady Morgause offered us to join her side and go to war against Camelot and Emrys while it's not too late, before their combined power becomes too great. I refused her offer. We are a peaceful people and cannot strike even if something threatens us."

"But what will happen next? If Merlin destroyed the Island of the Blessed..." having said that, Morgana was once again struck by how absurd such assumptions about Merlin sounded. Arthur's manservant. Her friend. And her enemy?..

Aglain frowned. "When we don't know what's going on and whose side to be on, there's only one thing left — to go away in the woods."

"Just hide?" something in Morgana rebelled against such an easy path. "Are you sure that the Priestess is wrong and we shouldn't join her?"

"Could you go against Arthur, Morgana?" Mordred asked quietly.

She turned sharply to him, opened her mouth to say "yes, if necessary," but couldn't. The memories of her and Arthur's former friendship were still too strong.

"We won't stain our hands with blood even if we die ourselves. I am the Leader of the Clan of Brocéliande, and that's what I said." Aglain stated firmly, seeing a storm of doubts in Morgana. "You stay with us, Morgana?"

"I'm with you." she sighed. Mordred lightly touched her cold, despite the warmth of the fire, fingers in a reassuring gesture.

Aglain, relieved to realise that Morgana has overcome her crisis of faith, stood up, shaking off his robe. "I'll go talk to the others. And you, children, start packing to leave. Please, help each other."

He walked out. Elaine immediately stood up and fussed with their belongings, neatly using magic to send her father's crystals and her own handicrafts into wooden chests and willow baskets.

Morgana and Mordred sat in silence for a while, watching her. "Hey, you," Elaine chuckled, turning to them, "Have you not understood what Father said? We're packing up!"

"My greatest fear isn't war or attack, but the lack of understanding of what's happening, where the blow will come from." Morgana ignored her, murmuring, "What does the destruction of the Island mean? In my dream, it was sad and painful to see it like that. There was darkness..." she shuddered.

"Nothing good." Mordred replied grimly, playing with the handle of his blade.

"If only I could control my gift of foresight. If only I could see the future at will!" Morgana exclaimed in frustration.

"That's why the gift of a seer is considered the rarest and hardest gift of all." Elaine replied sympathetically, "It's not as fun as, say, kitchen magic like mine or crystal energy like Father's. By the way, maybe the Neahtid crystal could have helped you, Morgana."

"What is it?" Morgana tensed.

"They say it helped to curb the Sight of the Lady Branwen, the High Priestess who was before the Lady Nimueh. But maybe it's just a legend." Elaine shrugged.

"So, it's pointless." Morgana frowned, twirling her pendant in her hand.

Elaine closed the chest. "Just so you know."

"Even if it exists, it belongs to the High Priestesses." Mordred defused the situation in a conciliatory tone. "And we, Druids, do not always follow their ways, although we share one faith and they are the leaders of the Old Ways. They can be harsh and unmerciful. That's why we're leaving."

"Hush!. Enough sitting. Let's go catch the horses and goats," Elaine called them with a fake cheerful tone.

They spent the rest of the day helping others to pack up the camp, and in the evening the Druid procession, torches in their hands, eyes on the road, always on the road, moved deeper into Brocéliande, leaving behind their old places. Morgana and Mordred walked on opposite sides of the procession, protecting people from the flanks; he with his father's blade, Morgana ready at any moment to use on the enemies the spell she had tried on the knights of Camelot.

The Druids were leaving again.

On the very first night at the new campsite, Morgana dreamed of it again: gold swallowed by darkness.

This time it was a huge oak tree with a spreading crown and a mossy trunk so thick that three adult men would not be able to embrace it. A warm golden glow emanated from the tree, and its powerful branches would protect you from any danger if you just sat under its shade and hugged its trunk. But as soon as Morgana focused her gaze on it, the old oak suddenly burst into flames and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

"Sir Galahad, His Highness has asked me to bring you lunch." Merlin muttered, opening the door with his foot to Galahad's laboratory.

It was light and spacious, with a couple of chairs and a long table laden with brass instruments and various books. Against the wall, Galahad had placed a bed so that he would never leave the laboratory even for sleeping. Boxes of many bottles and powders of strange origin were piled by it.

The White Knight was sitting there unmolested, rarely going downstairs, and if he dined with his uncle and cousin he was silent and shy. Apparently he had become reclusive and unaccustomed to human society during his vow quests. Merlin would say he had gone mad, for his desire to eradicate magic from the world was somehow even more perverse than Uther's, for Galahad was a sorcerer himself and by all accounts a gifted potion master.

"Ah, thank you, Merlin," Galahad said nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off the vial; in it, some sticky black liquid was bubbling on a quiet fire. He sat hunched in front of it, and it seemed that nothing in the world was more important to him.

Merlin recognised the fire as a magical one.

Arthur had confessed to Uther that Galahad was a sorcerer who sided with Camelot, but the King reacted blankly, only breathing out Morgana's name again. Merlin sometimes wondered why Uther was so broken by her escape and "betrayal." He seemed to have suffered too much for a mere ward.

"Will you take the old tray?" Galahad asked, picking up a piece of bread and still not looking at Merlin.

"Of course, Sir." Merlin replied demurely, and took the tray of leftovers from the far end of the long table.

On the white wall nearby, a large map of Camelot and the surrounding kingdoms was pinned. The map of many markings scribed in sanguine chalk by Galahad's hand. A bunch of craps of paper with his drawings of various places and objects were also attached to it. A drawing of a cave, a tree, a rock. Merlin found the Island of the Blessed, Galahad's first victim — it was crossed out. Merlin had lived some of the worst moments of his life on this island and had no particular affection for its feral Priestesses, but even he shuddered at the destruction of such an ancient place of power as the Island was.

But Galahad was only finishing what Uther had started, for it was already half-destroyed.

"After our success with the Isle of the Blessed, I may need an assistant," Galahad said suddenly, and Merlin turned sharply away from the map. Galahad looked at him curiously, noticing that Merlin was immersed in studying the map. "We still have a lot of work to do."

"Er, pardon me, Sir, I'm very busy with the Prince... Cleaning weapons, cleaning his room, accompanying him everywhere...This takes all my time." Merlin got embarrassed.

"Would you like me to ask Arthur to hand you over to me, Merlin? My cousin will not refuse my request. He agrees with me on everything."

"I'm sorry Sir...I have to go, His Highness will need me soon." Merlin clutched the tray and hurried away from the laboratory.

Galahad looked after him thoughtfully, twirling a strand of his golden hair around his finger.

Merlin has lied. Arthur was at the council meeting and would stay there for hours, probably. Since Uther had withdrawn from all duties, Arthur was forced to take care of all business and deal with the obstinate barons on his own. Merlin slipped the tray into the hands of some passing maid and hurried into the Dragon's dungeon.

"Kilgharrah!"

The dragon moved lazily, and opened one eye. "What is it this time, young warlock?"

Merlin, shifting the torch to his other hand, confusedly tried to explain to the Great Dragon what was going on.

"Oh...." He  grumbled slowly, "Now I see why I've been feeling so weak these past days...I got a vision that something was wrong with the Island of the Blessed, but I didn't realise it was your fault again."

"What's it got to do with me?!" exclaimed Merlin, offended, "I told you, it's Arthur's brother, Sir Galahad."

"You should have killed him, Emrys, you shouldn't let him touch the sacred places of magic. But you didn't." The dragon grunted sluggishly, closing his eye.

Merlin snorted indignantly, "Do you have at least one plan that doesn't involve killing, Kilgharrah?"

"You are foolish and disobedient, Emrys."

"So?"

"Nothing. Your Galahad will destroy the Sources and undermine the magic. But, to you luck, until the cornerstone is touched we will be weakened but not defeated completely. Until then."

"And what does that mean?" Merlin blinked irritably.

"That all of this could have been avoided if you had killed Uther, Morgana, Mordred and that Galahad the first day you saw them. You were born to free us and help Arthur unite Albion, but lo and behold, the very existence of magic — and mine — is threatened! Because of you." Kilgarrach exhaled heavily, as if uttering such a long rant was hard for him.

"Oh. Everything is clear with you." Merlin stormed out of the cave, choking on annoyance.

The Great Dragon just snorted.

Morgana woke up in a bad mood again because of the dreams.

After she had learnt what happened to the Island of the Blessed, visions began tormenting her even more. Aglain said that the description of the old tree from her last vision was similar to the Old Elias, a magical oak tree that grew a few miles from Brocéliande, in a place where the forest gradually climbed up into the mountains, dissolving in the high meadows. This oak was numerous hundreds of years old. It had lived since the time of the Ancient Folk, had seen the rise and fall of great monarchs, and had even had a clan that worshipped it alone before the Purge.

"Will Merlin, I mean Emrys, destroy Elias too?" Morgana exclaimed in despair. She did not understand what was happening to all of them, but somehow she felt, deep down where the magic lay, that the death of the Island of the Blessed and then of the Oak was a great tragedy and just the beginning.

"We can't know what's on Emrys' mind. Maybe there's something we don't understand." Aglain kept exhorting her.

"Like what?" asked Mordred, a grim expression on his face. It pained Morgana to see him losing faith. It was as if the fragile candle flame began fading, leaving them in darkness. "The destruction of the Sources of magic has no other interpretation. Face it, Aglain."

The same thing was happening to the rest of the druids. The disturbing news of Emrys' true identity had planted a grain of doubt and unbelief in many. But most tried not to speak of it; as though saying it aloud to another would make it worse, as if it was the other, your friend and relative, would break down and lose his soul to faithlessness. So silence seemed to everyone more merciful to his neighbour. But not to Mordred; he did not hesitate to ask uncomfortably challenging questions.

"What if it's not the King's men doing this, but someone else we don't know? Maybe Lady Morgause is mistaken." Aglain asked with a tortured smile.

Mordred and Morgana looked over at each other. Merlin siding with Arthur in the "Sun and Moon" tavern and Merlin killing the High Priestess were quite consistent with Merlin helping to kill the sacred shrines of the Old Religion. As much as it was hard for them to think so.

Fearing the High Priestess' possible wrath for refusing to participate in her war, the Brocéliande Clan moved north, taking refuge by the banks of the Ivy River. Setting up tents and wagons among the trees, surrounding themselves by a palisade of freshly cut woods, the Druids began preparing for wintering and the Alban Arthan that, as the bright guiding star, was shining at the last turn of the Wheel of the Year.

In the mornings, Morgana would leave her old red tent, breath in the cold air and look out at the empty grey hills across the river. It made her frustrated that just as she was beginning to feel confident in her powers, tamed her magic, comprehended spells and healing, another sorrow has come with no delay — the threat to the sacred druidic places. The Stone Circle was now far from their new camp and so the clan prayed by the water. Morgana harboured a fear that when they returned to the old site in the spring, the Circle would be gone, that only charred, crumbled stone shards would lie in its place.

Feeling cold and anxious, Morgana made her way to Mordred's tent. He always knew how to ease her anxiety, even when he himself was unsure. She needed him to feel the solid ground beneath her feet.

The entrance to his tent was decorated with antlers adorned with ribbons and dreamcatchers. Morgana loved to feast her eyes upon them.

Mordred, she called to him mentally, stopping in front of the entrance and adjusting her hair and shawl, trying to look pretty. Mordred?

No one answered. Morgana looked around. The camp was long awake: smoke curling over the fires, children playing with a leather ball, adults talking. Mordred? Once more she called out. Why couldn't he hear? She peered cautiously inside and saw that the tent was empty.

With a slight annoyance rising in her, Morgana made her way to Aglain and Elaine's tent which, as always, stood in the centre of the camp; for Aglaine and Elaine were not just the leaders but the true heart of the clan, the heart where all the news flowed, where people came for guidance, for a bundle of herbs, a crystal or a clew of wool from Elaine.

The latter was sitting at the entrance, combing out a small goat and putting the wool into the basket, watching the people's fuss around her. Alhough Elaine usually ordered the wool to be spun by magic, she always preferred to knit it herself, for "not everything in the world is worth simplifying."

"Blessings, Elaine, do you know where Mordred is? Did he go hunting or something?" Worrying her lower lip, Morgana asked.

"Blessings. He didn't tell you? I thought he was telling you everything." Elaine smirked.

"Didn't tell me what?" demanded Morgana, her hands fisted at her sides.

"After your dream about the Old Elias, many were alarmed. And Mordred, Gareth and a few other men travelled to the mountains before dawn to try to forestall tragedy."

Morgana pressed her lips together, feeling the resentment of being left behind rearing its angry head, "What?! Why did he leave without warning me? I could have helped. I wield a sword and I was the one who saw the Old Elias!"

"So that's why Mordred didn't tell you, because he knew you couldn't be stopped otherwise. He cares for you, Morgana." Elaine explained in a soothing tone, stroking the goat's fluffy head.

"It could be dangerous out there! They could fall into Arthur's hands!" Morgana dropped her hands.

"You could have too, Morgana. Don't be angry."

But it was too late. Morgana was angry. She turned abruptly and walked away, striding briskly towards the riverbank, leaving the camp that was so empty without Mordred behind her. The snow crunched beneath her feet, the cold air was burning her face. Morgana sat on a rock with her feet overhanging the dark water covered in a thin, silvery layer of ice. She was trying to cope with the storm of negative feelings inside. She didn't like how suddenly scared she was for Mordred, how she wished she could be near him, how resentful she was that she was left alone, and that Elaine saw this all. But she couldn't help it, her emotions were taking over.

She picked up a small pebble from the ground and threw it into the river, breaking the ice. Then, taking a deep, heavy breath, Morgana straightened up and prayed the Druid prayer that Aglain had taught her.

O Triple Goddess, O Maiden, Mother and Crone, the one in one!. Show me the way. Protect your people who have sworn allegiance to you, O Mother of the world.

Morgana immersed herself in prayer. She had always felt a special connection to the Goddess' third face, the Crone, the mother of wisdom, full with magic; ever since the first time Aglain had taught her the beginnings of the Old Religion. Had she not been distracted by healing, which was considered an inherent practice of the druids, perhaps Morgana would have found herself drawn to the priestesshood. It was a shame that the former centre of the priestesses, the Island of the Blessed, had been completely destroyed and she had nowhere or no one to learn serving the One Above.

She was snapped out of her meditation by a slight noise to her left.

Morgana opened her eyes and turned her head at the noise. A lovely, slender graceful forest deer cautiously approached her. He stood looking at her, red and black against the white snow, but his very spirit seemed to carry the brightest lush green of the spring forest. In awe and desire for spring, Morgana forgot how to breathe. They, the girl and the deer, gazed at each other, there was nothing separating their souls. Morgana carefully reached into her pocket and pulled out a small green apple. Stretching out her hand to the deer, she waited in excitement for him to take her offering. The deer tilted its head to the side, took one step towards her, then another. Morgana tensed, awaiting for his touch.

But before he could take the apple, a shout came from the direction of the camp.

"Morgana!"

The deer recoiled and she barely had time to blink before he ran off into the woods, a shadow disappearing between the trees. Feeling as if a true miracle had slipped from her grasp, Morgana stood up and turned around.

A worried Elaine ran up to her, breathing heavily. "Morgana, come quickly! Gavyn's back, and he's hurt!"

Morgana ran after her. In the middle of the camp, people crowded around a large campfire. Morgana waded through them and saw Gavyn, a thin man in his forties, long brown hair and a light blue cloak. He was lying on a chequered blanket spread out on the snow. His bow and bronze knife were lying beside him, and the snow around him was painted bloody.

"Morgana, I need your help." Aglain turned to her, his dark eyes widened with fear.

She cautiously stepped closer. Aglain has already cut Gavyn's black shirt open, revealing long, ragged wounds on his arms, chest and shoulders. They looked as if someone had slashed him several times with a curved sabre, cutting painfully deeply into his flesh.

"I've already treated the wounds with snakeroot, but the blood doesn't want to stop, the wounds are too deep." Aglaine informed her in a low voice, a jar of balm clasped in his hands.

"What's happened?" Morgana knelt down beside them, her heart clenched with pity.

"The monster..." wheezed Gavyn, his eyelids fluttering.

"He says he was attacked by a giant panther while hunting."

"A panther in Brocéliande?.." Morgana fearfully examined Gavyn's wounds once more. Indeed, it wasn't a saber, but long claws. "I'll...try to help. Everyone stand back!" she raised her voice.

The alarmed Druids backed away.

Morgana took a deep breath, closed her eyes and laid her hands on Gavyn. He twitched at her touch, but Aglain held him in place, pinning his knees to the ground. The blackness behind Morgana's closed eyes changed to the goldness, and she felt the warmth of fire and the cleansing power of water growing in her palms. Together it was a pure goodness she was willing to share with the person she touched. A gasp was heard behind her back. The healing power of her hands saved Gavyn.

When it was over and she shook of the energy of the druid's pain from her palm, Aglain placed a hand on her shoulder approvingly and smiled at her with relief, "Thank you, Morgana."

Morgana, pleased with herself, opened her eyes and looked round as Gavyn lifted his head and sighed lightly. "I hope the claws weren't poisoned." she turned quietly to Aglain.

"I don't think so," the Druid Leader shook his head, "As far as we know only Basilisks are known for poisoned claws, but they were almost all exterminated during the Purge..."

Gavyn was carried to his tent where Aglain and Morgana applied bandages to the scars with a mush of soaked yarrow and calendula and turned the fire in the crucible up to keep him warm. Almost immediately, he fell into a dream, mumbling words of thanks to the healers.

Morgana wiped her hands with a wet linen cloth and went out, feeling strangely weak and light and floating in her whole body. A woman with pale, sad eyes, dressed in a brown knitted dress, came up to her.

"I am Shinna, Gavyn's wife. Goddess bless you, Morgana. I am so grateful to you." she took her hands in hers and smiled at her welcomingly. The Triskelion was tattooed on her neck adorned with a wooden beads necklace.

"I'm happy to help however I can." Morgana returned her smile.

Shinna released her and walked to the tent to be with her husband, and Morgana, with a nod of worried eyes to Brocéliande, went to Aglain and Elaine to discuss what had happened. Her fatigue at having given away her energy became clearer, stronger. Somehow when she healed Mordred, when she had experienced her first foray into energy healing, it hadn't been there. Something has changed a little in her energy balance.

Mordred still hadn't returned by evening. Morgana went to bed half angry, half worried. Her heart was heavy with anxiety for him. Her mind was consumed with fear. Knights, monsters, bandits. Emrys. So much has been intended to destroy them.

And when she finally fell into sleep, she dreamed of pain, someone's hand in a black sleeve, of a sharp cruel movement, and a heavy body falling to the floor in a pool of blood. There was so much pain, and she could feel it in her, but the images were like a misty blur; more a sensation has pierced her heart than anything she could really comprehend.

The dreamcatcher was blocking the truth.

Morgana whipped her head round, feeling something cold tickle her cheek and eyelids. Groaning at the foreign pain, she blinked the dream off, and opened her eyes. Nothing hurt her. She was alright. It was just a dream. Mordred was squatting in front of her, smiling broadly, dressed in a snow-covered cloak. He was stroking her face with a trillium flower he'd dug out of the snow and brought to life with magic; its delicate white petals were gently caressing Morgana's skin.

"Morgana." His eyes were shining when he looked at her.

She sat up abruptly, brushing his hand away from her face. "What are you doing here! Don't you dare sneak up on me while I'm sleeping."

"I just sensed you weren't feeling well." he threw the flower to the ground. The cute expression on his face disappeared.

"Where have you been? Why did you leave without telling me anything! You could have been killed!" Morgana exclaimed indignantly.

"I didn't want you to risk going out there."

"You think I'm weak?" Morgana got out from under the blankets and threw a shawl over her white undershirt. "What can you do that I cannot?"

"I don't." Mordred pressed his lips together, averting his eyes modestly from the translucent fabric of her shift, "But sometimes it's easier to explain after than before."

"Listen to yourself!" Morgana scoffed indignantly, "People who trust each other don't do that. People who trust trust each other with everything, do not do things behind each other's backs! Don't you trust me, Mordred?"

An irritated silence hung in the air. After a moment Mordred stood up, and looking at the wall of the tent, asked very calmly, "So you don't want to know anything about the Old Elias and what I've seen there?"

"I'll find out later from Aglain." Morgana turned away from him.

Mordred shrugged and walked away.

Morgana's anger and irritation only increased from seeing again.

When she arrived at Aglain's for breakfast, she caught snippets of their conversation: "—so much ash..." Mordred was sitting with his back to her, and only cast a quick glance at her, waiting for her reaction, but Morgana simply sat down next to the Leader and began chewing hot flatbreads, clearly ignoring Mordred.

They found themselves in the strange situation of Morgana's first few days in Brocéliande, when they had bern trying to avoid each other. Morgana swallowed the bitter taste of her own resentment along with the flatbread and listened to the conversation. Mordred was emphatically having a conversation with Aglain alone, no longer expecting a favour and a sign of affection from her.

He told Aglain that the Holy Oak had been completely burnt down. A pike of ashes, the stump uprooted from the ground, its huge old roots rising up into the sky like the tentacles of a dead sea monster, that's what he's seen.

"Here, Aglain. I gathered some ashes." Mordred held out a small white bundle to the Leader.

"Thank you, son. In the spring we will mix these ashes with seeds, and if the green spirits bless, a new tree will grow from it. Death is not the end. It carries the seed of life, just as life carries the seed of death."

Mordred smiled weakly, but immediately remembered something else and the smile quickly vanished. 

"And I did sense a trace of magic there. Aglain. A sorcerer was at that spot...Those golden footprints cannot be confused with anything else." Mordred turned his head slightly towards her, and Morgana quickly looked away, realising that she has been struck by his horrible story and forgot to not look at him; and he sensed it. "And it can't be anyone other than Emrys. He is the only sorcerer who works for Camelot."

"It means...I'm afraid the Lady Morgause was right..." Aglain said quietly and mournfully, his face turned into a dejected mask, "Emrys is not on our side."

"If Emrys betrays us too, we will have nothing left," Mordred echoed him.

The unseemly but pleasant feeling that they had lost without her grew louder in Morgana. "You wanted to avert disaster without me? I'm a seer, I know everything that will happen." Morgana thought.

"What about the belief that a golden age will come no matter what? Are we just going to watch this happening?" she blurted out, exploiting their vulnerable spot. "What does all this even mean? Do they hate us so much that they want to wipe out anything that might even remind them of us? The Purge isn't enough for them anymore?"

Mordred visibly tensed, apparently fighting the urge to answer her, but it was Aglain who spoke up first, "What can we do, Morgana? We have tried with the Old Elias and what? It's not up to us. We can't throw ourselves into fire. It's not as simple as it seems to young and inexperienced people like you, but that's a conversation for another, more appropriate time." Aglain admonished, furtively glancing round at Morgana and Mordred, maybe feeling that something was amiss between them. "This could be a trap. Maybe the King wants to anger us and lure us out of the forest."

Morgana fell silent, evaluating that option.

"I heard someone was attacked by a monster?" Mordred asked carelessly after a pause.

"Don't worry, Mordred, our dear healer has already taken care of everything. Gavyn is fine." Aglain smiled at Morgana. "All thanks to Morgana."

"Good." Mordred muttered, pressing his lips into a thin line. He stood up, still with a cup of herbal tea in his hands, "I'll go to my tent, Aglain. To sleep. Then I'll go on duty in Gavyn's place."

Morgana gave his back a quick glance, her hand rushed to her beloved pendant , his gift, again. She turned to Aglain, "Aglain, let me read some new books, please. I've already mastered the Elements, and I want to learn something new."

He dug through his scrolls. "There, I think you're ready."

She glanced at the title of the new scroll he offered her. "Dolls and figures?"

"Sometimes, when a healer lacks energy, or potions don't work for deep-seated ailments, imitation helps. By manipulating the image of a sick person in the form of the doll you can affect his body. As above, so below. That's what my mother used to say, and much of what I'm giving you is left from her," Aglain sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Your mother...?"

"Her name was Macha of the White Mountains. She was one of the first to challenge King Uther. And she had failed, just like the others." Aglain closed his eyes for a moment, remembering  her execution. Uther personally lit up the pyre. "I'm more into herbs and crystals."

"I'm so sorry..." Morgana looked avidly at his collection of crystals, neatly arranged by colour on the lid of the chest.

"Don't sit alone for long at the magic books, Morgana. Loneliness can do strange things to a person. I think you should help Elaine and other girls weave fir wreaths for Alban Arthan. There's a prayer and feasting tonight."

Morgana nodded demurely and walked out, clutching the scroll to her.

Deprived of Mordred's usual presence at her side, her thoughts wandered freely and turned to her morning dream. Today was the day of the Winter Solstice, and Arthur's birthday. How is he doing without her? The dream was only a hazy tangle of shadows and feelings, but somehow Morgana perceived it had something to do with Camelot, but she didn't know how. Could it be another bad omen for Arthur, someone she thought warmly of as a brother?

Morgana did not know, nor could she have known, that on this very day King Odin will come to Camelot to avenge his son, killed by Arthur in a duel; and Uther will not defended himself but allow himself to be stabbed with Odin's dagger; for he no longer cared about life. She did not know that the Prince will rush in terror into his father's bedroom and fall on his knees beside him, and that her name alone will flow from the bloodless lips of the wounded king. She had only foreseen the pain and grief.

Night came very quickly after a short grey and misty day of thin wet snow and black branches. Torches were lit around the camp and along the river shore, and candlesticks decorated with spruce boughs and holly stood everywhere, stuck in the snow. People surrounded themselves with fire to drive away the darkness and bring the dead Sun back to life, to remind her of the warmth and light she had once had and been sharing with them. Now it was their turn to give her the warmth and love that could save her fiery spirit from the winter darkness and dreariness. Morgana presented Elaine with a silver box of dry perfume that she had brought with her from Camelot, and received in return a pair of beautiful knitted gloves with a shamrock pattern. The evening was magical and cosy, the whole clan was like a family and not only with each other, but spiritually with all the other believers across Albion who were waiting for the rebirth of the Sun and the fresh new round of the Circle.

Except Mordred. Morgana was furtively searching for him with her eyes all evening, but he was not there. In the frustrated tension of waiting for him to appear, she felt his absence as a disappointment even though she was still angry with him. When everyone chorused the hymns to the New Sun, she was sure he would come, but no. Elaine, perhaps noticing where Morgana's eyes were, told her finally that in the past years Mordred had often done this: he took a guard post on holidays to allow others to have time with their loved ones; he spent nights in the forest alone. Morgana imagined she could find him there, come to him and apologise for her outburst, but immediately dismissed the thought. She had never considered to make the first move if she thought she was right, if she felt hurt. "I'd rather move on than let myself be humiliated. It's all his fault; and if he doesn't reach me himself, well, so be it." she thought, falling asleep. The festive mood was gone.

Morgana lay in the dark tent, listening to the familial voices and the distant lone wolf howl; for miles there was no one in this forest but her and these people, the only ones she thought of in her thoughts about destiny. Mordred guarded them behind the palisade; to keep himself awake he was throwing the dagger into the trunk of a fir tree, trying to distinguish the flames of Morgana's campfire among a dozen others.

The first three days after Alban Arthan were bright and sunny, as if the star answered the prayers of the people.

For the first few minutes when Morgana was awaking she felt uplifted and renewed, for the Circle has begun a new turn, the fresh wind blew, snow glittered like magic crystals, but then she inevitably remembered that she and Mordred were no longer talking, and felt the corners of her lips droop and a wicked crease deepen between her brows.

She'd convinced herself she didn't need him, feeling so stupid and empty at the same time.

It was still autumn, Mordred had only recently given her the triskelion, marking her as a druidess; the clan was modestly celebrating the full moon. Morgana found Elaine. She was sitting on a log, holding a lute adorned with a narrow green ribbon. Sitting across from the Druid Leader's daughter, Morgana noticed Mordred beside her. He was lazing on the grass, chewing on a sweet-bitter stalk of horsetail.

"Morgana, blessed be!" Elaine brightened, "Tell us, do you like it here?"

"Blessings," Morgana greeted her with the traditional druidic greeting, "I like the camp and the Forest very much." She replied sincerely, looking around a little shyly. It was the first time she'd just relaxed among the druids, the first time she tried to be a friend to Elaine, and the first time Mordred was around since they'd sort of made up. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome." Elaine put her palm on the strings and they made a muffled melodic sound. "Do you like music?"

"Of course." Morgana smiled warmly at her.

Elaine picked up the first chords. "I want to play you our favourite song. Mordred?" she turned her head towards him.

"Don't dream of me singing with you, Elaine." he snorted.

"You're shy of our guest, aren't you, Mordred? " Elaine mocked at him. "So sweet of you."

He chose to ignore her with a nonchalant look.

Beginning to play a sweet, sad tune, Elaine spoke, "It's an old song, called 'The Last of Our Kind.'"

Long ago the forest was so gold

Nothing slowly turned to snow

I was young, my life had just begun

Time had almost surely gone

When the land was free as the forest and sea

And the kingdoms once shone like the sun

And now this meet the last of my line,

The last of my blood and kind

"This song was written in the time of the Purge." Mordred said quietly to Morgana. He took a flute out of his pocket and began accompanying Elaine.

"It's beautiful." Morgana exhaled, feeling how the sadness of this song of loss, and the depth of his gaze overwhelm her.

She didn't feel like eating. After a few words with Elaine, Morgana walked towards the Ivy River again. In her hands she held a shiny sickle-shaped knife. She found an oak tree among the willow trees and bushes on the bank and cut a few mistletoe shoots from it, tying them with red ribbon. Going down to the water and quietly casting a spell to melt the web of ice, Morgana sent the offering down the winter waters.

Looking away through the haze over the water, the first thing she caught was the noise. It hit her ears like a slap in the face.

Crackling and rumbling have come over the Ivy River; men's muffled but loud and rough voices have broken the peaceful calm of winter.

And then Morgana saw it.

A huge, dark ship was sailing along the river, cracking the ice with its iron bow. The ship's wood was blackened and its metal rusty, its sails were stitched together from red and white stripes, smoke rose above the deck, a huge carved figure of a dragon adorned the stern. Bravely and shamelessly, the ship lumbered forward. Morgana froze to the spot, mesmerised with fear like a young deer before the hunter's bow. It was too close. She had never seen anything like this before. The ship's crew was dressed in dark furs and black leathers, their long fair hair plaited into thick braids. Some were pulling up the rails, some were hauling things, and others were surveying the shores around them, hanging over the sides of the ship. Their countenances were notable for their strangeness and obscureness.

In a moment, Morgana was snatched from her stupor. A strong hand tugged at her cloak, her knees buckled, and she fell back to the sand.

"Mists, hide us! Trees, cover us!" the words in the Old Tongue were spoken over her and in an instant the riverbank was covered with mist and the bushes moved to surround them in a saving circle.

"Mordred!" Morgana exhaled in a squeezed breath.

It was him. He was obviously frightened, dark shadows under his eyes, his face flushed with fear and rage. He squeezed her shoulders, squatting down beside her, staring strainedly at the river now hidden by the mist. "Have you lost your mind, Morgana? You were just standing there staring at the drakar?" he whispered, his left hand's whitened fingers nervously clutching the hilt of his dagger.

"At what?" She sat up, shaking the sand off her red dress.

"The ship." he whispered in relief, making sure the drakar disappeared behind the bend in the River. They hadn't been spotted.

"What was that?" Morgana raised her head, meeting his gaze, and was confused, remembering their quarrel.

He was returning from the forest after his watch and had spotted her lone dark figure on the riverbank, looking out over the hills on the other side of the river, exposed in front of the enemies' ship.

"The Saxons. Very bad people. Strangers. If they spotted you, they'd take you away as a slave and I'd have to kill them all." He removed his hand from her shoulder and Morgana felt orphaned. The illusion that they have returned the way they used to be was gone.

"And what were they doing here?" she gazed into the mist as well. "I don't remember Arthur or Uther ever talking about them."

"They say they occupy empty castles in the north. They kidnap and sell people as cattle, and the King does nothing about it." Mordred stood up. "We will have to be very quiet for a few days. Have to cancel the celebrations. And to use the mist."

He turned away and walked towards the camp. Sighing, Morgana followed, catching up with him; they walked side by side, but their hands did not touch as they used to. The spoken and unspoken held weight in the air, dangling between them.

"Thank you?" She asked cautiously, stepping on her pride. It hurt, but Mordred, his closeness and affection suddenly became more precious than her own righteousness.

"You're welcome. So...you have...forgiven me? Even though I did nothing wrong." He grinned crookedly.

"Yes, I have forgiven you." Morgana stopped, taking his elbow and forcing him to look at her. 'I was just worried about you. And I hate it when people hide things from me." She said louder, looking up into his eyes.

"I wanted to protect you." Mordred's cold gaze softened and he stepped a little closer to her.

"Truth dies in silence, remember how you said? Forgive me too." Something inside her, trembling, tensed like a bow string, an arrow was about to pluck. Reaching her hand up, Morgana touched his cheek softly.

Mordred smiled at her, and his smile was breathtaking. "You remember. Forgive me." And, leaning down, he covered her face with a dozen small, feather-like kisses.

Morgana giggled, melting under his caress and wrapped her arms around his neck, snuggling closer to him. Mordred hugged her tighter, his palms circling her back.

They were together again.

"Let's go to the camp." he uttered slightly hoarsely after another achingly sweet moment. "There's still danger here. And I must report the drakar to Aglain and the Concil of Elders."

His hand slipped into hers and they walked home together. Morgana promised herself never to quarrel with Mordred again, for even a brief separation from him was becoming a bleak lonely valley.

This promise was not always fulfilled, and they argued and quarrelled many more times; Morgana always had a temper, never hid her thoughts; and Mordred usually preferred to shut himself up, being stubbornly silent and letting his anger burn him from within; but this no longer was an abyss that could not be bridged.

"Would you really kill for me?" Morgana asked quietly with excitement as they approached the camp.

"Not even Aglain would have stopped me."

"I would have done this for you too," Morgana promised Mordred with all her heart. For those she loved she was capable of killing for.

A quarter of an hour later, Mordred returned to her tent and sat to her right on the cushions and furs, removed his thin dagger belt and put it off. The place was warm inside from the burning stones and the herbal smoke Morgana had lit to calm herself and attract positive energy.

"Aglain said for a few days we'll keep an eye on the situation. We're not leaving here yet. But we will maintain stealth." Mordred yawned and closed his eyes. "I've been so eager to share everything with you, Morgana." He rested his head on her shoulder. The gesture gifted her with the weightless warm feeling of affection. He was so dear to her. She has been so wrong and foolish, she would forgive him everything, even betrayal. Eventually, Morgana found herself being less implacable and stubborn than she thought when it came to Mordred and the profound feelings he evoked in her.

"We will always do everything together now." she smiled confidently.

"How was Alban Arthan? I haven't slept in forever."

Mordred told her about Brocéliande at night, about the feel of magical eyes on him, about the mysterious lights that danced in the branches after midnight. Morgana listened to him, spellbound, slowly running her fingers through his curls. He retold her the story of the Old Elias again. Morgana knew that the tragedy of the Holy Oak and Emrys' betrayal had wounded Mordred more deeply than he showed, and bitterness was tingling in his voice as he spoke.

Gradually the conversation turned to her visions and Morgana could not help but share her fear of what she would yet be forced to witness in the future, bending helplessly under the charm of the seer's weight.

"I've had a long night to think..... We had failed with the Old Elias and though we cannot forestall the demise of other shrines, but as long as the Source of all Magic lives, we will remain alive. They will not win."

"But we must do at least something..." She was sure that Goddess and the spirits of her ancestors were sending her prophecies for a reason. "What is the Source?" fretted Morgana.

"Even some druids say it's a myth, but I believe in it. My father told me about it," in a quiet slightly sleepy voice Mordred began, "My clan was dedicated to finding the Crystal Cave, but in fact we were just wandering around with no home. The Cave was abandoned long before the Purge, and many who could have found the lost threads died in it..."

"The Crystal Cave?"

"The place where all three kinds of magic were born. Where it all began. Three in one, one in three." Sensing Morgana's piqued interest, he continued, "There are three kinds of magic in this world: the High magic, the Wild magic and the Old magic. The high was used by the Ancient Folk, it is the magic of the Goddess, dragons and the Sidhe on Avalon. It disappeared. The wild magic is the magic of nature, the magic of the visible world itself. The cornerstone. The magic of the Old Elias and the Island of the Blessed, of sprites and goblins. That is what...Camelot is trying to destroy now..." Mordred wanted to say Emrys, but didn't, "And the old magic, it is our magic, the magic of people, witches and druids. It is closely related to both High and Wild magic, being the quintessence of the two."

"If they succeed, all Three Branches of magic will be destroyed." Morgana concluded quietly and resolutely, feeling the walls of the ancient forest recede, the towers of the castles grow taller and the strangers in iron ships approach the shores: the old world as they knew it was weakening, disappearing into the mist. The New Ways were coming. 

There was no more high magic, the sources of wild magic were being destroyed right now, the bearers of the old magic have been hunted for twenty three years. The last of their kind.

"As long as the Cave lives, we still have hope."

"So where is it? You said it's lost?"

"Yes." Mordred put his hand in her lap, green wool rubbed his skin pleasantly, and twirled the tip of her girdle between his fingers, "The legends of my clan said that only Taliesin knew the way there. They say the Cave is close by, but few can see it. Only the purehearted."

"I think I've heard that name somewhere...Taliesin..."

"Perhaps," Mordred shrugged slightly, "It is the matter of the ancient days."

"Come on, Mordred, tell me," Morgana nudged him insistently, "You started it first."

"My father told me that in the old days, there lived a bard named Taliesin. He made himself famous for the beauty of his songs, but he was still missing something. He was searching for divine beauty. One day, walking through the forest and thinking that he would never be perfect in art, he accidentally found the Valley of the Fallen Kings."

"That's what I've heard about," Morgana was content to interject, "The first battle of Albion took place there, the battle where the Sidhe, Dragons and Humans fought and the Humans won."

"The Druids teach that dark and light mages fought there, and the white magic won, and the dark has since been banished and languishes in ignominy." Mordred pointed out delicately.

"Whatever." muttered Morgana. It was another time she was convinced that what she believed to be true, what she had been taught always had a downside. And that she had to make a choice about what to believe.

"So, Taliesin. He was walking and playing his harp, making beautiful sounds. But to his ears they seemed bland and earthy. But suddenly he was answered. Every note he plucked from the strings of his harp was answered by another, more beautiful note. Together with the mysterious forest voice, they wove a new lovely melody. He followed the music, and the magical harp led him to the Crystal Cave, the Source of All Power and Divinity of the world. And it seemed so beautiful to him that he hung his useless mundane harp on a tree and went there. Into the Cave. Forevermore."

"That's sad." sighed Morgana.

"No. He found what he's been looking for." muttered Mordred quietly.

Morgana pondered over his words, trying to find her way from the legend to reality. She wanted to ask more questions but realised that Mordred fellasleep on her shoulder. She felt a small flutter flick through her stomach at the endearment, at his trust. She stared at the quiet fire of her crucible, afraid to fall asleep herself.

But it came again, for there is no escaping destiny, especially the destiny of a seer.

Dead, burnt trees, blasted stones, springs of pure water covered with earth and mud, the waters like the sorrowful tears of the heavens weeping at this cruelty.

Camelot has successfully repelled the attack of the Lady Morgause's dead knights with the help of the illustrious Sir Galahad. King Arthur, the Regent Prince, triumphed. The Crown grew stronger the less wild the world became, the more memory was erased.

"One more place," Elaine said sadly, making an X sign in charcoal on the map she had drawn on a sheet of papyrus. She listed all the dead sacred places of power they knew of.

They sat in Morgana's tent, discussing her latest visions over and over again. The conversations went round and round, soothing with the feeling of a friendly supportive shoulder, but offering no escape.

Winter was coming to an end, the Wheel has already rolled over Imbolc, the day of the Maiden and the snowdrops. This winter was mild and rainy, the snow had not stayed long and in other years all the inhabitants of the vast Brocéliande valleys would have thanked the green spirits for such a favour, but not in this dark time when the power of the sword and alien magic was trying to uproot the very core of their lifeforce and strength. In the past Camelot had sought to strike only the body, but now the Kingdom was targeting their ancient souls.

"Look..." Mordred suddenly mumbled, staring at the map, "Is it just me, or do all the marks, if you connect them with a line, form a triskelion?"

Morgana frowned, trying to figure out what he was talking about. And indeed, a realisation hit her.

"Elaine, give me the charcoal." she demanded and drew black lines, connecting the dead places of power to each other on the map. The three spirals joined in a central circle, which she guessed lay somewhere to the east, beyond the three rivers and the wastelands of heath. "How did no one realise this before? The sacred places of the Old Religion are located on the ground in the form of a triskelion..... Uther must operate according to a plan."

"We never thought of that." Elaine muttered bemused.

"That way we can guess the spot they'll hit first." Morgana raised her voice enthusiastically.

"And then what? You're going to fight Camelot's army, Morgana? How?" Elaine's eyebrow raised sceptically, discouraging Morgana who bit her lip in annoyance.

"If the triskelion closes, it's all over." Mordred sealed, "It must be Emrys' work. Emrys wants to destroy magic, we can no longer deny it. That's what I told Aglain. There is no other explanation for what is happening. First the Island of the Blessed, then the Old Elias, the Diamond Spring, the Leprechaun Stone, and others.... If he finds the Crystal Cave... If he has already found it, it will be over. Emrys is our enemy."

"Mordred, you speak unbelief." Elaine shook her head, "Emrys is magic itself, it is what we have been taught. And you must realise...That no one knows where the Cave is." she looked at him sympathetically. She knew about his father's clan.

"I'm sure it exists. How else can you explain all this?" he jabbed his finger at the map.

"What does the Cave have to do with it?" she challenged.

"We have to do this first." Morgana intervened firmly. Elaine and Mordred both stared at her with wide-open eyes. "We must get ahead of Uther and Merlin and protect the Cave. By ourselves."

Everyday, Merlin had to wash tubes for Galahad's laboratory as well as sweep the floor and rub powders in the mortar. He was unhappy and tried to shirk his new duties on any occasion, but Arthur has eventually noticed the worried state of his mind.

"What is it, Merlin?" asked Arthur, twirling the dagger in his hands.

The prince's face was dark, he looked older and more mature than he actually was. It was as if the attack on King Uther had wounded Arthur as well. Now his father could not get out of bed at all, and no amount of Gaius' medicine could stop the inflammation, and heal the wounds, and mend the broken rib inflicted by Odin's cruel dagger. Revenge had reaped its bloody harvest again.

Arthur was disgusted by the idea of revenge with all his heart, he was not going to unwind this death spiral and hurt Odin back. Deep down, Arthur blamed himself. King Odin thought Arthur killed his son, even though it was only a jousting match. And now Uther was suffering because of it, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn't heal his father, couldn't find Morgana, couldn't bring order to all this chaos.

"Nothing." Merlin muttered sullenly, wiping his irritated chemical-laden hands with a damp cloth.

Arthur looked at his friend carefully, his eyes reflecting deep thoughtfulness. "I know what this is about, Merlin. You don't have to keep the truth from me any longer."

Merlin froze. "What do you mean?" he asked, coughing nervously. Has Arthur found out the truth?

"Come on, tell me. You can trust me, Merlin, I promise." Seeing that he continued to remain silent, Arthur began to speak himself, "I've only just realised that I've been underpaying you. I think now that you're helping Galahad you deserve a pay rise." Arthur smiled slightly guiltily. "Three gold crowns monthly."

Yesterday Arthur had a sudden urge to do something kind to someone, to dispel a little of the gloom of the last months and Merlin was the obvious target. Merlin forced a smile out of himself and mumbled something approving. Arthur was a little disappointed with the lack of Merlin's smile, but he didn't say anything and let Merlin go.

He couldn't tell Arthur the truth. Money was such a small thing to him, who was bearing the burden of destiny and his fears.

The fear of exposure was gone but the disappointment that the harsh life of lies would continue has come instead. Merlin grudgingly went to Galahad's to get new vessels for washing. He admitted to himself that he had gradually begun hating Sir Galahad. On the contrary, Arthur had grown to love him even more after he had fought Morgause's necromantic sorcery alongside him. Arthur did not make Galahad a Knight of Camelot, as that would have been too blatant a violation of the Law because of Galahad's magic, but otherwise he made his cousin his favourite in everything from the Council to the feast where he sat at the right hand of the King-Regent.

And Merlin couldn't help it. He had no reason to do anything to Sir Galahad, for Galahad did not threat Arthur on any way and seemed to serve him faithfully; he seemed to be a crystal honest and righteous man. What Galahad wanted to do with the sources of magic did not threat Arthur's life and safety, nor did the latter cared, so Merlin had no excuse.

"Good evening, sir."

Galahad muttered something unintelligible, leaning over an ancient folio.

Sighing with relief that he wouldn't have to talk to him, Merlin began putting the soiled vials into the basket.

The map of Camelot and Albion was filled with new markings, with new Galahad's victories over magic and its folk.

"Merlin, what do you think of this," Galahad's voice suddenly came up from behind. The knight stood up impulsively and walked over to the map with charcoal pencil in hand. "If we have small chapels and large cathedrals, then maybe magical cults too have simple shrines and some sort of...a centre? A cathedral of magic. A vessel." His dark hazel eyes pinned Merlin in place.

"Pardon me, Sir?" Merlin looked away.

Galahad carefully began to draw something on the map. "Look."

The drawing was sketchy and crooked, but it clearly formed a triskelion. "You see? There's a pattern here. It's their symbol. Perhaps it's the main treasure I have yet to find..." Galahad sounded so longingly. "Sometimes I feel like I'm wandering around in the mists trying to find something...This. And I cannot find it, something important keeps slipping between my fingers..."

"Very interesting, Sir." muttered Merlin, concentrating on his basket and the clinking of the glass vials inside.

"You know, a knight can wound a man, maybe even chop off an arm or a leg, but until a blow is struck to the heart, the wounded man can survive if he gets a good healer. What if magic has a heart too? That's my new theory."

Merlin remained silent, feeling the dormant tension spreading across his shoulders. "But why are you saying this to me, Sir?"

"What do you think?" Galahad seemed genuinely eager to share his thoughts with at least someone. "I feel that you might understand me. You, not Arthur. He is first and foremost a warrior and does not understand many subtle and smart things. Gauis has a rigid conservative mind, pardon me for the truth. But I somehow feel that you, Merlin, are an understanding man. Am I right?"

Feeling like a butterfly pinned to the canvas for all to see, Merlin looked up, giving his voice a hard edge. "Though I know nothing about magic for I'm just a servant, I don't think, Sir...that something as wild and barbaric as magic can have any system. This..." he pointed at the map, "Probably means nothing."

"You are free to go. Thank you." Galahad gave a slightly disappointed sigh and returned to the table and his studies.

Just hold me. Morgana squeezed Mordred's hand tighter.

Alright, but you do the talking, he swallowed hard.

They stood surrounded by the wise, appraising and sceptical gazes of the Druids. The Council of Elders has gathered at Morgana and Mordred's request on the banks of the Ivy River under the blue-hazed sky; and the men and women who had earned the right to enter were seated on the shore stones, agreeing to hear their youth.

These people were dressed in shabby clothes and were a mere prey to one and all, but Morgana knew what they were really like. Her people she wanted to protect and help. They were bound. They made her their family.

"What did you want, Morgana?" asked Aglain kindly, folding her hands in his lap.

She coughed and squared her shoulders. "Brothers and sisters, we are all aware of what is happening. The druid sanctuaries are in danger of being destroyed. We, myself and Mordred believe that magic itself is threatened with destruction, for these shrines are also the sources of magic, as we all know."

All present grew dark, a shadow of grief and underlying fear made the Elders frown and some lower their eyes. Morgana said aloud what the others refused to think.

"I am new here, and I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life for saving me," Morgana swallowed nervously, and Mordred sensed her inner trembling hidden behind her confident facade. "And that's why I want to help."

"How can you help?" the bald druid asked her in a low voice, clutching a knotted staff with his slender wrinkled fingers. "You know Emrys, daughter. Can you reach him? What does he think? He's the One who promised to free Albion."

"I'm sorry." Morgana shook her head. "But he turned against us. Mordred sensed his magic at the site of the Old Elias' death."

"Then what can you counter the power of the Chosen One?"

"We will not fight Emrys, Alator." Aglain addressed the druid in a warning tone. "Whatever happens."

Alator bowed his head down and tucked his staff deeper into the white sand. "I wasn't talking about war."

"And I don't want to fight either, I want to protect." Morgana raised her voice, "We have to do something. We may take the first step, not just wait until we're left defenceless against Camelot. There is a legend here that I'm sure you all know. The legend of the Crystal Cave."

Some of the druid elders muttered something under their breath, some glanced round, and judging by the intensity of their gazes, talking mentally to each other.

"My father's clan was dedicated to finding the Crystal Cave," Mordred spoke up, stepping from foot to foot, "From early childhood I have heard tales of it."

"Then you must have also heard that the Cave is hidden and not open to random people, but only to the worthiest and purest of hearts. Or if you enlist the help of the Keeper himself." The druid sitting to Aglain's left raised an eyebrow sceptically. He was dressed in a tattered dark cloak fluttering in the wind. "Do you think you are worthy of this, son?"

Mordred reddened painfully, and mentally chided himself for allowing Morgana to involve himself in such humiliation in front of the Elders. She carried him away so easily with her ideas. Too easily.

"Mordred is a praiseworthy young man, Ruadan, you know that. He grew up before your eyes." Aglain clucked his tongue. The Leader was clearly holding his opinion until everyone had spoken, trying to keep the atmosphere peaceful.

Morgana lifted her chin stubbornly. "I was not born a druidess, alas, and I don't know if the magic of the Cave will find me worthy — so send others, those you deem deserving. If there is any chance of finding the Cave and accessing its power, if there is any chance of protecting the last harbour of the Old Religion we must take it. We have to find it." She exhaled, circling the Council with a worried look. "And so I ask for your help, O Elders. Tell us everything you know. Tell us what to do."

"You can't find what isn't there." an older woman in a blue hooded dress, called Gwyneth, shook her head sadly.

"There is."

"Has you dreamed about it, Seer?"

"No." hesitated Morgana a little, "But I believe Mordred. Aglain?"

But before Morgana could answer, Ruadan intervened, "Personally, I believe in the Source of All Magic, Gwyneth. But we really have no idea where it is. So many of our books have been burned, so many treasures destroyed, so many knowers have gone to the spiritworld taking their knowledge with themselves. Did you know, Morgana of Camelot, that somewhere in the dungeons of your castle is hidden a whole room of stolen items of magic? Including the legendary Fire Crystal, full of Primordial Flame." Ruadan gave Morgana a piercing glance.

Shocked, Morgana shook her head. Uther was hiding magic artefacts in his possession?! That was so uncharacteristic of him, almost unbelievable. She thought he hated the very thought of magic, let alone touching something of it. "We could sneak into Camelot and search this room." she suggested, "Maybe there's something about the Crystal Cave?"

"No, you can't go into the belly of the beast. I won't let you." Aglain finally spoke up. His usual indulgent gentleness was gone from his face, and he looked at Morgana and Mordred with determination and sternness, crossing his arms over his chest. "You both will die there. We can't lose you."

A quick thought, "I don't have to ask your permission," flashed through Morgana's mind, but she immediately chided herself for it. It would sound like ingratitude and disloyalty to those who had saved her and taught her everything she knew about her true self.

Mordred pulled Elaine's drawing out of his pocket and handed it to Aglain. "Then perhaps we should look here? See where the centre of the triskelion is? We think it makes sense."

The elders stepped closer to study the map over Aglain's shoulder. "It's a vast, wild area and it's crawling with bandits. There's nothing there." came Gwyneth's voice as she sat down on the rock again.

"So are we just going to sit here, drinking tea and waiting to be killed? Or wait until the magic disappears with us? Can't you feel it?" Morgana took a step forward, drawing her hands to her elders, "Don't you feel something is wrong? A weakness? The fire getting lower, the water having a putrid taste, your arms getting heavy after a simple spell? Something is wrong. We need power. What if by finding and obtaining the power of the Cave, we can restore lost places of magic?"

"Power comes with responsibility." Ruadan glanced at Morgana with a sincere interest.

"The power we need is always within us." Aglain spoke up. "What you say means war, Morgana."

"It is not for you to tell us what to do." it was Alator, "There is no escaping destiny. If Emrys wills it so, then so be it."

Morgana, captured by the heat of emotion opened her mouth, thinking of something to tell them, thinking of convincing them that the real Merlin was not the Emrys they blindly believed in, the one they stubbornly continued to defend even before the face of his betrayal.

Calm down, Morgana. She heard Mordred's warning voice in her mind. Calm down. He stepped closer to her and squeezed her elbow. Don't make them angry.

"Even if we wanted to, there is nothing we could do, Morgana of Camelot." retorted Ruadan, much more kindly than Alator, "You need to think of something better, Healer."

Morgana, feeling foolish and defeated lowered her head, trying to stifle her disappointment. But Mordred's touch helped her distract herself and come to her senses.

"This is the end of this conversation." Aglain stood up, "We thank you for sharing your anxiety with us. We all share the same heart. We share the same destiny. But sometimes there are things that are bigger than us. You are brave, Morgana, but..."

"I don't want to be brave," Morgana's eyes filled with tears, "I'm not. I just want to be myself."

Aglain sighed heavily. "I have made my decision. We are leaving the Ivy River since the danger has passed over. The clan should meet Alban Eilir in the Stone Circle. It will raise our spirits."

The elders began to disperse. Gwyneth, passing Morgana, put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a quick, condescending smile. "Thank you for your care, daughter."

When they were alone, Morgana sat down on the rock where Aglain had just sat and stared at the opposite shore. The hills had greened.

"I told you there was nothing they could do to help." Mordred shrugged, "After Macha, Aglain's mother and once a famous woman of power and wisdom, was killed by Uther Aglain will never risk again."

"We must not be afraid to protect what we hold dear."

"I know." Mordred sat down beside her, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Do not be sad. Good will win through." He paused a second, gazing spellbound at Morgana, at her white profile, then reached up to kiss the corner of lips but Morgana turned her face away.

"What is good...?" she asked the river and her beloved. "Tell me what it is."

He answered nothing. Apparently the answer was something one had to find for oneself, an answer that is standing right next to you, and you know it, always have. All that matters is not to push it away.

It didn't go well? Elaine's timid voice sounded in their mind. She approached them slowly. Mordred turned to her. She already knew the answer, he guessed, judging by her furrowed brow.

"I don't know what I was hoping for. It was stupid." retorted Morgana sadly. "But what if..." Her thoughts flitted like birds in a cage, beating against the bars in search of a way out, "If I can get to the next place of power in time, get Merlin and the others there and fight them? What if there is no other way?"

Mordred and Elaine looked back at her like she was crazy, and Morgana stood up, rolling her eyes. "Alright, let's go to the camp."

The great and ancient giant Brocéliande was growing cheerful and young again. He dressed himself in the green and colourful airy cloak of spring. New life was awakening and would awaken again and again until the last fire consumes everything.

Those people and animals who had survived the time of darkness were reborn to meet the golden age of the sun. Delicate flowers were blooming, caressed by the little sweet hands of green spirits, to be eaten by innocent baby fawns and to be woven in people's wreaths; and druids will be dancing in them among the mossy stones and wild apple trees. Spring was the wedding of the Maiden ready to become the Mother again.

The knight in white garment was going up and down the mountain slopes, climbed into dark gorges and castle ruins. His pure heart knew no rest, searching for something he lacked to obtain the peace and light he desired. His heart was seeking to destroy. A trail of living fire and ash followed him wherever he went.

The old King in the Castle was dying. The young King was ready to rise. His servant was a powerful wizard who had made himself powerless.

The fugitive princess in the woods wanted to save the world. Her beloved druid whose heart kept so much love was destined to become a murderer.

Destiny was closer than they all thought.

A startled murmur rippled through the Brocéliande Clan's camp as its guard Mordred burst in, leading a prisoner on a rope.

Morgana and Elaine were sitting together by the campfire. Morgana's hands were raised in front of her, wrapped in green woollen threads — Elaine was skeining yarn into clews with her help. But when Morgana looked up at the alarmed voices and saw Mordred with that man in the dark, dirty hooded cloak, she threw the work off her and the threads fell on the young grass.

"Mordred! What's going on?" she ran up to him, gravely concerned.

Mordred shoved the captive in the back, and he fell to his knees on the ground before Morgana. His hands were tied behind his back, his head bowed down. His bloody blue shirt's torn at the forearm.

"Who's that?" came Aglain's warm voice from behind her and Morgana turned quickly to look at him, then focused again on Mordred who looked pretty pleased.

"I was skirting the Forest and spotted him. He was sneaking towards the camp, sniffing out our location. And he has a knight's sword." Mordred tossed the sword in its brown scabbard and a travelling bag to the ground beside his captive.

The motley crowd of Druids who watched this scene recoiled, gasping. A knight!

"What do you have to say for yourself, O Wayfarer?" frowned the Druid Leader.

Elaine peered out from behind her father's shoulder and gazed, mesmerised, at the mysterious captive, trying to make out his face beneath the black hood.

The captive knight coughed and said in a firm, loud voice after a pause, "I care not for my fate. Punish me if you fing me guilty, O good people of the woods. But if you are no stranger to mercy and love, I ask only to message Lady Guinevere Smith of Camelot that all I have done, all my deeds have been done in her name. I am dying with her name on my lips." He stilled, silent.

Morgana gave a start.

"What are you talking about? Don't you realise who you're dealing with?" one of the younger men of the clan, Gareth, asked loudly. "Mordred, reveal his face."

The hood was removed and the captive raised his head, looking at the people around him with deep concern. He was dark haired and tall, his bright brown eyes were running back and forth trying to figure the Druids' intentions.

Morgana gasped, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. "Sir Lancelot! It's you...!"

"Milady Morgana?! But how...?" Lancelot focused on the beautiful druidess standing before him. He did not immediately recognise her as King Uther's Ward. "What are you doing here?!"

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"Yeah, that sounds like Morgana," Merlin hummed good-naturedly. "Will stop at nothing to protect what she believes is right."

They were travelling through the forest on their way to Camelot, and Mordred has just finished talking about how they were trying to find and protect the Crystal Cave, the centre of magic. Mordred was pleased and honoured when Merlin confided in him that he was 'working' to ensure that Sir Galahad knew nothing of the Crystal Cave, that he himself was not only innocent of destroying their sacred places, but was actually trying to resist Galahad as best he could.

"I admire you, Emrys. You do so much for all of us yet you hide in the shadows and expect no reward. This is virtuous."

Merlin looked bashful. "My reward is peace in the united Albion." He paused, "And now, after what have happened in Brocéliande I feel it is closer than ever."

The call of destiny was very loud and demanded an action, a response. No one can ignore the voice of destiny for ever, there just was no time left for avoiding the truth.

"We don't know how many days he has." A gust of wind ripped Mordred's hood off, and he pulled it back.

"I'm going to talk to Arthur as soon as I help you and Morgana. This runemark may be the sign I've been waiting for."

"We've waited so long for you." Mordred did not question Emrys' mysterious actions; it was enough for him that here he was, Emrys himself, riding with him to rescue Morgana. He was on their side and this was all that mattered.

Merlin smiled modestly at him. Once one source of anxiety would be removed – Morgana's return to the Druids – he could finally sort out the chaos that Camelot had become and set Arthur, who was all alone without him, on the right path. The path revealed by the Triple Goddess herself. It's now or never, he felt it. Stopping for one last rest before the end of the journey, they built a campfire and a cover in the hills surrounding the Castle. It lay below in a haze of darkness and the golden window lights, and the wind rustled the trees around them; the green giants trunks creaking as they moved reluctantly in the age-old beds of the Earth.

None of them had any food left, and so they just were sitting in silence, trying to keep warm.

"Alright, Mordred. I'll do everything myself, you don't have to worry." Merlin stated, crushing the soundless comfort, "You stay and wait for us here."

"But, Emrys...!"

"No."

"Merlin, please. I must—" The helplessness left Mordred confused. He had to help Morgana at all costs.

"Your job is to get Lady Morgana back to Brocéliande safely. Camelot is my responsibility. Trust me, I can do it." Merlin sounded very confident.

"Are you sure you don't need help? Let me help you."

"No. I'd rather work alone." Merlin wrapped the flaps of his suede jacket tighter, trying vainly to protect himself from the wet currents of air. "I know Camelot like the back of my hand."

Mordred seemed to him a man without a shadow of malice, but there was something not entirely comfortable about his company. His stares, excessive praise and quiet gestures were out of sync with something in Merlin himself. Maybe Kilgharrah's words had left a bigger imprint on him than Merlin was willing to admit. Maybe that was why he was helping them – the further away from Arthur he could keep Morgana and Morderd the better for everyone.

Mordred sensed the unpleasant change in Merlin's mood, though he had no idea why. Still, he decided to try to be useful to him one last time. "You say you do know Camelot so well. But do you know of the secret tunnel in the hills, for example?" Mordred pointed downwards in the direction where he guessed – it was hard to see anything in the darkness – hid the entrance behind the boulder and rhododendron bushes.

"Of course. A knight friend of mine told me about it long ago." Merlin narrowed his eyes, "Wait, how do you know about it, Mordred? It's a military secret, actually."

"A knight friend of mine told me." Mordred smiled softly.

"So that's how you and Morgana snuck into the castle and robbed poor Gaius!" Merlin chuckled. He, of course, now already knew it was done for a good cause. "Wait, how can you have a knight friend? Do I know him?"

Mordred thought for a moment, remembering and collating the facts he knew. "He seems to know you. He spoke of a magical friend who saved him."

Merlin finally understood. He smiled broadly. "Lancelot. How did it happen that you two met?"

"Sir Lancelot by fate ended up in Brocéliande fleeing the fiends from Amatha. Our Leader gave him shelter. He taught me to fight like a knight and gave me these clothes. And then he was gone again."

Merlin sighed sadly. Someday he would come back. Someday everyone would come back, and in that moment he would know that the happy ending has finally come.

Mordred gazed reverently at Merlin's face through the fire's tongues; and then, obeying a deep impulse of his soul, reached into his collar and removed the Crystal of Fire from his neck.

"Emrys."

"Mer—" Merlin wanted to correct him, but fell silent. He focused on the misty white stone dangling from a leather cord. "What is it?"

"The Crystal of Primordial Fire," Mordred answered simply. "According to our beliefs, it contains the fire through which the world came into being."

"Holy— This is what you took from Uther's Treasury?!"

"Wherever we took it, it doesn't matter anymore. It has always belonged to us magickfolk, not to Uther. I have no use for it. Take it, Emrys, only you are worthy to wear it."

Merlin didn't move, only stared at the Crystal. Mordred stubbornly kept his hand outstretched until Merlin, shocked and captivated by the sight of the Crystal, took it. At his touch, the gem instantly warmed and glowed with little golden balls of light that looked like living fireflies. They were dancing.

"I can't..." but there was no way in hell his hand would want to part with the Crystal. It was beating for him.

"You can."

"It's wonderful. Thank you, Mordred." Merlin put it on and hid it under his shirt. The Crystal was pulsing faintly, like the warm living heart of a magical fragile creature.

"Magic to magic." Mordred replied enigmatically and smiled. "This is my thanks to you, Emrys. For everything."

"I haven't done anything yet." Merlin placed his hand on the Crystal, feeling its warmth even through the fabric of his shirt and the suede of his jacket.

"But you will. The prophecies say so. Please, could you promise to visit our camp? The people long to see you." Mordred froze, waiting for an answer. This was a big deal for all of his clan.

"Of course." Merlin blinked awkwardly. "But later, of course. When I save Arthur from the judgement." It will be a truly embarrassing scene for a man used to living unrecognised and overlooked, to open himself to all these people who believed he was a saviour, but it has become his duty since the first time the Great Dragon called him by his true magical name. Emrys of the Druids.

"Thank you. I'll find you."

"I'm always in Camelot."

Mordred lay on his side, covering himself head to toe with his cloak and drew his knees up to his chest, trying to get better shelter from the piercing wind in the shade of the hillside. He looked at the Camelot lights below and thought of Morgana. It was so hard to leave her there even for another moment. There, where she was unloved, unappreciated, unwanted. His heart ached without her, but he must obey Emrys' order to stay and wait here.

"Mordred, don't you think this wind is strange?" Merlin sounded thoughtful. "Unnatural."

Mordred raised his head. Emrys seemed to be right. Something was definitely wrong.

Arthur sat at his desk in the study, leaning back in his chair. His face expressed deep thoughtfulness. He could not let go of the runemark. His fingers reached out for it the moment he tried to put it aside, and the ghostly echoes of the supernatural voice sounded in his ears. The visions of his sister's face becoming alien, and her lips speaking against her will, telling terrible, judgemental words couldn't leave his mind. A judgement on him and his kingdom.

He was twirling the metal circle that never warmed between his fingers, rolling it across the table, tossing it into the air and catching it again, covering it with his palm. Repeated it again. He couldn't help not touching the coin. As soon as he put the runemark on the table and tried to do his paperwork, his hands would seek for it again.

Never before had Arthur had to make a decision of such importance, a decision not of his own making, a decision that went against everything he had been raised up with and moulded into as a man and a future ruler. To lift the Ban, to free the Old Religion. Not by choice, but under the threat of the three "Plagues". He has barely begun to rule and he is already being punished. And it's not just him, but all of Camelot. For what? He always meant well. Arthur squeezed the coin so that its roughly hewn out edges dug into the flesh of his palm.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Gwen slipped quietly and gracefully into the room. She was always like that, calm and graceful. Not like Morgana, who would open the door with a bang and rush in, demanding answers and action.

"Hi." She called softly to him, glancing anxiously at the runemark.

"Hi. How is she?"

"Sleeping for now. Gaius said he's never encountered anything like this before. Physically she's fine, but it's like her spirit can't come back home." Gwen sat down on the table and covered Arthur's hand with her own. "You haven't decided anything yet?"

"No." Arthur replied somewhat dryly, suddenly tired of the subject. "Gwen, do you know where Merlin is? He didn't come to dress me this morning."

"That's the thing I came for: I don't know. I thought you knew. He's nowhere to be found, so I had to take over his duties as a head servant myself. Also, I've taken on a new maid, a girl from a distant village, since I'm now going back to my duties at Morgana's. Do you mind?"

Arthur shook his head. "Do as you wish. You are my mistress."

Gwen smiled with the corners of her lips and blushed, and then there was another knock on the door and a pale and tired Sir Leon accompanied by an only slightly better looking Sir Gwaine entered the study.

Gwen quickly jumped off the desk and stepped aside, bowing her head demurely and clenching her hands on her stomach.

Sir Leon coughed quietly. "Your Majesty."

"Leon, do you know where Merlin is loafing about? Sir Gwaine, judging by the fact that you're here, he's not in the tavern with you." Arthur hummed.

Sir Gwaine bowed, hiding a smile. "Merlin is crafty, he must be around somewhere."

"If he doesn't show up tomorrow either, I'll send you out to look for him, alright?"

"Yes, Majesty. Merlin has already become my friend and I too await his return."

"Milord," Sir Leon intervened, "A disturbing news."

Arthur straightened, the runemark still in his hand. "Report, please."

"The wind, Milord. It's intensifying and approaching the capital. It is something abnormal. Many trees have been broken – there are dead people on whom they fell. Somewhere children are being knocked down. The Great Mill on the West Road broke just in half, and its wheel is spinning in the air." As he spoke, Leon finger-counted trying not to forget anything. "I was told the fishermen couldn't get out to sea today, the sea just went crazy."

Arthur stared at him tensely, waiting for Leon to finally say out loud what everyone was thinking.

"I think this is it, Arthur. The curse."

"The Plagues." Arthur corrected quietly and turned to a frightened Gwen.

It has begun.

She was crying.

The moaning breaking through her throat was unstoppable. Tears choked her, her eyes could barely open, her whole body stiffened. Her hands lost the ability to move and could only tug at her hair; her legs could no longer walk, but only curl up, buckling under the weight of her trembling, exhausted body; her mouth did not speak, only howled. And the grief in its dark alchemy was transformed into hatred.

But why was she crying?

Why couldn't she wake up?

Morgana opened her eyes.

Not the dark red dome of her tent towered above her, but a white ceiling decorated with delicate floral mouldings. She knew them by heart, every flower and leaf. Pearl greyish daylight poured in from a large window on the left. The wind was howling through the window frames as if it was winter.

She sat up abruptly, breathing heavily. Her eyes and cheeks were completely dry, the tears were just a nightmare. With panic spreading like wildfire, Morgana realised where she was. She was in Camelot, in her old bedroom, dressed by someone in a snowy white silk négligée that gently caressed her skin at every move. Who and how could this have been done without her knowledge? Why was she here and not in Brocéliande? She must be there! Morgana jerked back the blanket, and at the same moment she heard a quiet tinkling, and finally detected a strange alien weight on her wrists.

Focusing, she realised that her hands were bound by a thin and long silver chain attached to the handcuffs. She lifted her arms, spread them apart, and yanked the chain with effort. Despite its apparent fragility and thinness, it was very strong. Morgana stared at her hands in agonised bewilderment. They were washed and smelled of rose oil, as did her neatly curled hair which had lost the scent of campfire and herbs. On the index finger where the pixie had bitten her, someone had replaced Aglain's herbal bandage with a clean, alcohol-scented one.

She couldn't remember anything. Someone had done something to her without her knowledge, touched her, put her where she didn't want to be. The feeling was sickening. She yanked the chain once more to no avail.

Bitter tears of resentment burned Morgana's eyes. How dare they chain her! It was strange, though, that she wasn't chained to the bed. She got off it and listened. The room was quiet. Not a sound came from the door. The months of her absence had cast a strange foreignness over everything in her chambers, though not even the smallest trinket had been moved from its usual place. Even flowers decorated the table by the bed as they used to do; the bright purple anemones.

Morgana rushed to the window, tangling in her long skirts. She gripped the marble sill with her whitened fingers, she saw how a gust of wind tore the roof off a shop in the market square beyond the castle wall, and carried it away like a weightless autumn leaf.

Camelot was captured in a windstorm.

She remembered Arthur touching the runemark and then...the darkness fell. What happened next? And where was Mordred? Morgana's mind was gripped by anxiety just as the Kingdom below was being tormented by the squalls of wind. She's in Camelot in chains, so she was captured while she was unconscious. But why she was unconscious? Then something has gone wrong with the meeting. Where is Mordred? If he was captured too, he could face the death penalty. Mordred is a Druid, and that's a crime in Camelot. They must have thrown him in the dungeon below. Morgana turned away from the window, frantically looking round the room for her clothes, but found none.

'It's time to get out from this,' she thought. Nothing could keep her here away from Mordred and Brocéliande, nothing and no one. Not even Arthur. She focused on the chain to tear it down and whispered the spell quietly but clearly. "Torri fe."

Nothing happened. Morgana shook the chain and tried again. It remained intact. At the bells of her heartbeat, Morgana closed her eyes, tensed and tried again to imagine being transported to the castle dungeons, as she did in the "Sun and Moon" tavern when Mordred was wounded by Sir Leon and she sent them back to Brocéliande.

It didn't work. Maybe because this magic was too hard and irregular for her in this state? Feeling her legs shaking from fear, Morgana lifted her hand and made a sharp gesture, intending to mercilessly knock the vase to the floor, but it remained standing still, not even a petal fell down.

"Goddess, what's going on?.."

It was a nightmare in broad daylight. She has lost her magic. It couldn't be because the White Knight had managed to destroy all the Sources and the Crystal Cave itself, could it?

There was a noise at the door and Morgana turned round.

Gwen entered the chambers with a stack of clothes in her hands, and shuddered when she noticed Morgana awake standing at the window.

"Gwen!" Morgana ran up to her and stopped, looking down at her former maidservant. Gwen was dressed in a modest black sleeveless dress over a dark grey shirt – she kept mourning for King Uther like all the people of the court.

"Morgana, how are you?" Gwen looked embarrassed and averted her eyes.

"What is it, Gwen?" Morgana brought the chain up to Gwen's face. 

She looked away. "I'm sorry, but these are Sir Galahad's order."

"Whose orders? Who is he?"

"King Arthur's cousin, son of the Lord Agravaine De Bois. You must remember him..."

Morgana recalled something vague about the De Bois. It had been a long time since she had last seen Arthur mother's relatives. 

"And why on earth is Sir Agravaine's son giving orders here? He has no authority over me! I am a Pendragon!"

"Much has changed in the time that...you've been gone, Morgana." Gwen stepped aside and put her things on the dresser.

Morgana just noticed that it was actually her Druid clothes, freshly laundered by Gwen's caring hands: the trousers, green dress, long shirt and black cloak.

"Sir Galahad is now Arthur's chief counsellor and seneschal. His Majesty's, I mean," Gwen quickly corrected herself. "He ordered you to wear that thing..."

"So what is it?" Morgana walked up to Gwen and peered into her face.

"Some special iron. Because you have magic." Gwen said the last words quite quietly, as if she was afraid.

Morgana's heart dropped very low. The coldiron that blocks magic. This was a lot worse than if they'd chained her to the bed. She was a prisoner in her own home. A prisoner of her own brother.

"How long have I been here? Where's Arthur?" her voice was almost breaking. "What's going on?"

Gwen opened and closed the drawer, turning away from Morgana. "His Majesty is in the Lower Town, he is surveying the devastation and trying to help the people. There is a storm, as you can see."

"How long have I been here, Gwen? Why won't you speak to me?" Morgana touched Gwen's shoulder. Did she really hate her because of magic?

"Three days. You were brought in here unconscious, Morgana. Gaius and I took care of you. I don't know anything else." Gwen smoothed her apron and hid her hands in its pockets.

Three days. That's a catastrophe. Morgana rushed to the window, opened it against the wind with an effort, and peered out from there to get a better look at the central square, to see if there were any gallows or burning places prepared. The square was empty. A gust of wind let into the rooms, knocked over a vase and the anemones fell to the floor in a mishmash of purple petals and white porcelain. Gwen shrieked softly and rushed to clean up the mess.

"Morgana, close the window!"

"Where's Mordred, Gwen?"

"Who?" A perplexed expression on her face.

"Mordred, what have you done to him?" Morgana's chin quivered.

"I don't know anything, Morgana. Please close the window."

Morgana slammed the window shut, walked back to the bed and plumped down on the covers, clenching her chained hands. "Please tell me the truth, Gwen."

Gwen stood up, holding the scoop of the vase's splinters in her hands. "Is Mordred the druid who kidnapped you? I haven't heard of him being brought at the Castle..." she bit her lip awkwardly.

"If anyone kidnapped me, it was Arthur!" Morgana spat out, "I went to Brocéliande of my own free will, and believe me, Gwen, I'll be back there again!.."

Gwen sighed and tossed the rubbish into the basket behind a drape. "You're home now, Morgana. Lie down, get some rest. All the bad stuff can't hurt you now."

"I'm not tired! By the way, where's my bag?" Morgana jumped up.

"Sir Galahad took it back to his laboratory."

Morgana turned cold. "Look, Gwen, does this Sir Galahad happen to be a fair-haired, tall knight who wears white robes with a golden lily emblem...?"

"Yes, that's him." Gwen nodded.

Morgana jumped out of bed again and rummaged through her old clothes. He was Arthur's brother, that's why he was standing beside him, that's why he was allowed to do what he was doing. Fumbling through the pockets of her dress, Morgana was horrified to find that the Dochraid's coin of life was missing. The White Knight stole her bag. And the books of the Crystal Cave stayed in it. He stole the gift of the Witch of Earth.

"Isn't that what you're looking for?" Gwen pulled the coin out of her own pocket and smiled awkwardly.

Morgana snatched the runemark out of her hands and clenched it in her fist. "What am I supposed to do now, Gwen?" she almost whispered. "I can't stay here. They'll kill me."

Gwen noticed that Morgana's tone changed, she noticed that she was genuinely scared and concerned. But Gwen didn't understand why. "What are you saying, Morgana? Arthur loves you. We've all missed you so much all this time. Do you want me to get you something to eat? Your favourite apple pie?"

Morgana took her former friend's warm hand. "Help me escape, Gwen. I'm needed out there. I have to find Mordred."

Gwen shook her head sadly. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. There are guards here. Calm down, Morgana."

"I am calm!" she shouted out and flung Gwen's hand away. "Let me out of here. I am your friend, always have been."

"It's out of my power. Please, Morgana, be quiet. You are safe here..."

Morgana turned away from her. "You are not yet his wife but you are already subservient to Arthur in every way. It's pathetic, Gwen. I'm not sure he loves meek women."

"I am not–"

"Hasn't he proposed to you yet?" Morgana snorted carelessly. "Lancelot would already have."

Gwen was shocked that Morgana knew everything. She remained silent.

"Now go away. I need to be alone."

"Morgana–"

"If you're not going to help me, Gwen, then why do I need you here? Though, you can bring Arthur to me, that's enough of you."

Gwen drew in air sharply, clearly offended. "When His Majesty returns I'll tell him you wish to see him. My Lady." she did a curtsy and was gone, slamming the door shut.

Morgana swallowed a bitter feeling of guilt. She shouldn't have spoken to Gwen like that. She lay back on the bed and hugged her knees. A tear rolled down her cheek and fell onto the crème satin bedspread. Her heart ached for Mordred, for her Mordred. Where was he? What happened to him? Did he return to the clan? She sighed, clenched her teeth in pain, and allowed herself to think the worst: that he had been killed. If so, a part of her would die with him. And without that part, she would no longer have anything to live for.

Maybe this was all a mistake.

"Coming here was a mistake," Daegal muttered quietly.

His face was barely visible in the darkness, but Kara could hear the frustration and underlying fear in his voice. "What if they start suspecting you now because of me, Kara? I shouldn't have listened to you."

They stood in the dark shadow of the outer castle wall. There was no one around but them.

"Don't be afraid, Daegal. You've already helped me a lot. When I'm done with the mission I can offer you a better recommendation. I'll put in a good word for you in the Circle."  She put a hand on his shoulder and smiled.

Daegal covered it with his own in an grateful gesture.

She managed to get a job as a serving girl in Camelot. All this fuss with the weather and the Pendragon girl of the last few days was good for her. She was halfway to her goal, to the greatest accomplishment since the Purge ended.

Daegal and his Master belonged to the remnants of the tiny surviving community of the followers of the Old Religion in Camelot. They have grown accustomed to this shadow of a life. The Circle's aims frightened them. At first they refused to help her, though they still offered her a bed in their bookshop. But then Camelot has come after them anyway. The Master's imprisonment convinced Daegal that she was right all along. He found her in the town and promised her his help and support. They've wanted to get a job in the Castle together, but Daegal was denied a place as a guard because of his lack of references.

"How soon, Kara?"

"I think I'll get my chance pretty soon. Arthur's sick sister has been brought to the castle and the best knights have been assigned to guard her chambers. A certain king has let his guard down..." She took a deep breath. She didn't care how this Morgana ended up back in Camelot. Kara had no intention of returning to Brocéliande. She had buried the past deep down. "You just wait for me here, Daegal. Every day."

"I promise." he squeezed her hands and nodded. "We'll leave together."

Kara worked alone, trying to stay out of the way of the other maids, but picking up every rumour, absorbing every movement, catching the slightest knowledge of the royal family's daily routine, the movement of guards, Royal Council's meetings. She brushed cobwebs in forgotten corners of the Castle, dusted off the late Queen Ygraine's clothes, each of which could have provided a Druid clan with a year's supply but just hung there, unwanted. With every movement she felt the cold of the dagger strapped to her thigh. It was hungry for Arthur's blood.

When it all works out, the day she had found the Circle would become the second happiest day of her life. Kara was sure it would work out. As it had been explained to her, all predecessors and fellow fighters trying to kill the Pendragons made one mistake: they used magic. The Circle thought the cursed family was shielded from magic as though someone was protecting them. But simple mundane metal had already succeeded once with Uther; and if Goddess allow it, it would work on his son as well. Simple mortal blood was flowing in Arthur's veins, red like in all of them.

And they would be free at last. Freedom was what the Circle's brothers and sisters had given her. They were druids like herself, the druids who refused the weakness and cowardice of druid elders. And she will give the freedom back to them in a return gift.

There was a soft knock on the door, but the knocker was slow to enter.

Morgana opened her eyes and sat up on the bed. She has lost her sense of time, sinking into a stupor of pain and anxiety, already familiar, all too familiar to her from the day Uther had thrown her into the dungeon. The knocking was repeated.

"Is that you? Come in, please." 

Someone entered, but because of the bed curtains, Morgana didn't see who it was. "You know, I'd like to apologise..." she muttered. "I didn't mean it."

"Apologise for abandoning me and Father alone?" a male voice came, and Arthur showed himself.  It wasn't Gwen. He, too, was clad in mourning black. "For practising forbidden arts?"

"Arthur!."

As soon as Morgana cast one glance at her brother, the memory flooded back on her. She clenched her temples to the point of pain, fighting the suffocating avalanche of feelings and memories.

The runemark flashes of golden fire and She fills her entire being. There is no more pain, no more joy, no more despair or hope. There is only light and will in which Morgana's personality has melted like the hot metal in a forge. She becomes the vessel of the Triple Goddess. The greatest honour the entire generations of the Priestesses have been dreaming to see for decades. She, the Maiden, the Mother, the Crone sees through her eyes. Her mouth speaks words not hers, utters words of sinister threat and great promise. 

That's why she is here.

"Morgana, is everything all right?" Arthur became alarmed at her condition and leaned towards her, touching her shoulder.

Morgana recoiled, raised her head and met his gaze. "No, I'm not alright, Arthur." She jingled her enchanted chain. "Is this how you repay me for my tries to save you?"

"I'm sorry, but Galahad said that's what had to be done."

"Since when do you listen to anyone but yourself, Arthur Pendragon?"

Arthur sat down on the bed beside her. Morgana moved away. "In case you haven't noticed, I listened to you many times, Morgana."

She turned away. "I've never abandoned anyone."

"Then who have? Was he the one who turned you against us? Has he...seduced you? You should know that I will not judge you, Morgana. I can understand."

Morgana turned her angry face to him, her fingers crumpling the bedspread. "It is all a lie. Where is Mordred, Arthur? Don't you dare say you did anything to him. From that moment on, you will no longer have a sister but a bitter enemy."

The grave serious way she uttered this threat almost frightened Arthur. "You fell unconscious, and your...companion stayed in the forest." He tried to make his words not as false as they might have been. In a way, it was true. He had stayed there.

"Mordred would never have left me." Still, that assumption hurt her deeply.

"Morgana, I came to talk about you, not Mordred, whoever he is. Tell me what it was all about? Where have you wandered in poverty and hunger all this time and then come back only to curse Camelot?"

"I may be poor now, but I have found true riches you have never had."

"What is it?"

"Freedom. And my people."

For a few minutes the room heard only the sound of the wind outside the windows.

"I know what you're thinking, Arthur. That I was kidnapped and held against my will. But that's not true, I have left willingly because there was and is no place for the likes of me here."

"Morgana–"

"I have magic, Arthur." she boldly confessed in his face, "Knowing this you now hate me as much as the rest of my kind?"

"I don't. But that's the thing, Morgana, magic. What if you were made to think so?" Arthur suggested meaningly.

"Have you come to insult me? Wasn't it enough for you that I'm in chains in my own house? Do you know who else did that? Uther! You're not so different from him."

"Stop it, Morgana. Have some respect for Father." Arthur raised his hand, annoyance slipping into his tone, "You always bring down all the accusations on me."

"And what exactly do you want to hear?" Morgana stood up and started pacing around the room. Resentment mixed with tears wanted to break through her walls.
"Yes, I fled Camelot because I've never considered it home! Because my true father was ashamed of me all my life and because he would burn me in the square because I am a witch! I'm a witch, Arthur."
Morgana took a deep breath. A tear slipped through after all, and ran down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with her fist. "I was born this way."

Arthur winced at this insult Morgana inflicted on herself. "Don't say that. Father died with your name on his lips."

"Why didn't he recognise me a his daughter then?"

"Maybe because he cheated on my mother with yours because the Queen could not bear a child? And then he blamed himself for that all of his life?" It was extremely hard for Arthur to talk about his father like that, but he wanted to explain it to her, to shake her up so she'd stop dwelling on the bad things.

"You mean I was a mistake, don't you, Arthur? Thank you." Morgana stopped and crossed her arms over her chest. "I always knew you thought of me that way. That I was a disgrace to your family."

"You know nothing, Morgana!" Arthur raised his voice and Morgana flinched, "I have been searching for you for weeks without rest, and believe me, I know this better than everyone, Father loved you more than he loved me! You've never been a disappointment. If you had come back then he would have given you everything. He'd even lift the Ban if you'd only asked."

Morgana couldn't believe it. She sighed sadly. "It's too late and it doesn't change anything."

Arthur looked down at the floor for a moment, then folded his hands in his lap. The runemark burned the pocket of his black tunic. "Father is dead. This is where we are now, it's just you and me, Morgana. I don't want to live at enmity with you. What are we going to do?"

She stepped towards him. "Then let me go." Arthur remained silent, but Morgana continued, "You are right, Arthur, there is only you and me. And I'm asking you to be like I've always known you to be. Be yourself, Brother."

"What do you mean?" Though he seemed to know, and was afraid to hear it.

Morgana sat down beside him again, this time all her attention on Arthur. "I ask you to free magic, Arthur. Uther was wrong. There's nothing dark or bad about it, it's a gift, not a curse."

"Shall I remind you how many times someone has tried to kill me with magic?"

"Shall I tell you how many times I have healed people with these very hands, dear brother? If you'd set me free, I'd show you that magic can be a force for good."

"So all these years have been in vain? Everything Father built was a mistake? Camelot is bad?"

"Yes." Morgana didn't notice that those words hurt Arthur. "But the past is in the past." She lowered her voice, made it reverent. "The Goddess is real, Arthur."

"Galahad said it was an evil spirit."

"He is a fool. She is beautiful, she's our Mother. She is Nature, she is the Earth, she is the Heaven. Listen to Her and stop hanting us and our sacred places. Bow to Her, otherwise it will only make things worse for you."

This time it was Arthur who stood up. He didn't like the way Morgana emphasised "us" and "our." As if she'd never had a part in Camelot. He went to the window and gazed gloomily out at his kingdom being battered by the wind. All the loveliness of spring was gone. "Look at what Camelot has become. Do the people, the common people deserve this?"

"It's a just punishment. They were against magic too."

"Sometimes you are so ruthless in your justice, Morgana."

"Am I? Then you be merciful, Arthur. Mordred's father was killed for nothing like so many innocent druids. They did nothing wrong, but their lives are worth nothing in this world. Is that a good thing? Put your hand on your heart and answer me, is it good?"

"What's in it for me if I say yes? Does your Goddess have anything but punishment in store?"

"Do not speak blasphemy, Arthur, and you will have a peaceful spirit and a clear conscience. What more does a man need to live honourably?"

Arthur could not bear the tension and pulled out the runemark. "I need more time to ponder." He traced his fingertip over one of the symbols on the coin.  The scales. "This is a big change."

"What else is there to think about?" Morgana stood up. "What do you want, to think about new executions? Do you choose Galahad over me, your sister?"

"There are no executions, Morgana." Arthur responded irritably, twirling the runemark between his fingers. "They're only in your head."

Morgana forced herself to calm down a little, though Arthur was driving her out of patience. Stopping the hunt in the name of honour and virtue seemed to her the most natural thing to do. It stood beyond question for her. Especially when his own sister is a sorceress and the Triple Goddess Herself was threatening him.

"Good. Now let me go."

"Not yet, Morgana." She didn't have time to object. Arthur stepped out the door and slammed it shut.

Morgana rushed towards it and pounded her fists on the wood. "Arthur, wait, please!" The footsteps in the corridor stopped. "Arthur... Please, do it for me if you don't feel sorry for the others. And remember the danger I warned you about. Whatever it is I don't want you to die. I came back only for you."

"Thank you, Sister." After a moment's silence, the footsteps withdrew and eventually fell silent, leaving Morgana with an emptiness of her chambers.

She slid down the door to the floor and hugged her knees, trying not to break and don't let the anger fester her. Her destiny, her life, and whether or not she would ever see Mordred again now depended not on her or even Heaven's will, but only on Arthur Pendragon's wishes.

In his laboratory on the floor below, Galahad felt as though destiny has broken out of its cage and flown straight into his hands. Flasks with strange liquids were emitting coloured smoke, a large stone mortar with a mixture of powders inside stood behind stacks of dusty books and papers – Galahad was conducting an experiment trying to work out the formula of the overseas explosive powder that helped him so much.

Lady Morgana's bag lay on the table in front of him. A stone knife, an empty sack, a rope, a towel, two spoons, some other rubbish. And two books. Treasures. The Songs of Taliesin and the Chronicles of Taliesin.

The White Knight reverently stroked the pages of the Chronicles, at the very spot where the Crystal Cave was depicted in a glen of trilliums. The source of all magic, the secret place of power. What he has been searching for so long, bartering for petty quests, was sought and found. Turned out Arthur's sister was involved in far more serious matters than anyone thought. She really wasn't the poor and innocent captive Arthur wanted her to be. But he had sensed that from the start.

Now he realised he had been on the right path all along. He would put the last end to magic and free himself and others. He will save them. Even the beautiful witch Morgause, who touched his heart.

After dinner, Arthur sat in his chamber at the table with a goblet of wine and a dish of apple slices arranged in the shape of a flower. Gwen brought the dessert; he was pleased to tak to her, but she would have to return to her duties after all.

"What do you think I should do, Gwen? I value your opinion above all else."

She casted a glance at the window where the trees were creaking in the wind, bending to the ground. "You are the king, Arthur. This is your decision."

"If I am king, you know what I see you as."

She blushed. "I know is that my father died unjustly. And that any sword forged by a blacksmith can either punish or protect. Do you get it?"

With that, Gwen walked away, leaving Arthur alone. He was suddenly bored without her, without Morgana, without Merlin —he still didn't come back. Galahad closed himself in his laboratory again, he was not a man who could cheer up another. He would not have shared Arthur's doubts, believing wholeheartedly in the corruption of magic.

Being alone in the company of the runemark and the shadow of his dead Father who berated him for even the mere thought of liberating the Old Religion was driving Arthur mad. There was no way to go to the training field, he didn't want reading or sleeping, and he would only be able to return to the town and see the new destructions left by the wind when the elements will have a break. If they ever will.

And just as Arthur was beginning to feel sick, there was a sudden knock on the door. "Merlin?" Arthur rejoiced, but a strangely pleased Leon entered his chambers instead.

"Your Majesty, there's a surprise waiting for you in the study."

Arthur stepped inside and a man standing at the window turned to him. Tired face; dark, sad eyes. The simple clothes did not hide his noble features, though he had become very thin during the time he was away, living the adventures they couldn't share.

"Sir Lancelot!" Arthur couldn't believe his eyes.

He smiled modestly and bowed his head. "Your Majesty, Arthur."

Arthur walked quickly up to him, shook his hand, and then hugged him tightly. "What brings you by? How do you do? Why didn't you come sooner? What feats have you managed to accomplish? How did you not get blown away by the wind while you got to Camelot? You're so skinny!" Arthur smiled broadly.

Lancelot laughed softly, "So many questions at once, Sire. But I got to you not least thanks to the help of my new friend, Percival."

Arthur turned to his right, and marvelled at how could he fail to immediately notice an impressive huge muscular figure in the corner.

"Your Majesty." Percival bowed low.

"Percival is an applicant for the position of a Knight of Camelot, Arthur. I can vouch that he is a man of virtue and loyalty."

"With your reference, mate, he is already accepted." Arthur kindly prompted a flattered Percival to approach Sir Leon and receive his place and belongings.

As the tall man stepped out, Arthur grinned at Lancelot. "There were no giants in his line, were there?"

"Who knows." Lancelot chuckled.

They sat down at the table and Arthur himself poured the wine into goblets. "I'm sorry, Merlin's been on a bender since Morgana came back...I'll fire him soon, I'm telling you."

"Lady Morgana is in Camelot?" Lancelot exclaimed. "But how..."

"And what surprises you so much? And how do you know she was not in Camelot?"

"I had the honour of meeting the Milady and Sir Mordred along the way. They and the Druids helped me greatly at a difficult time of my life."

Arthur frowned slightly. "Who did you call 'sir'?"

Lancelot coughed, "A friend of Lady Morgana's. Of course, he has no knightly title. Nor do I."

"You do."

"The late King stripped me of it."

"Consider it is returned to you." Arthur began rolling the runemark on the desk. "Guess I should be sorry this Mordred died, huh?"

Lancelot was clearly saddened by this news. "Will you tell me how this happened?"

"You tell your story first."

Lancelot took a sip of wine and briefly touched on his adventures in the neighbouring kingdoms, the captivity in Amatha, the stay at the druid camp in Brocéliande and how he found Percival(in a cave, hunting the same cursed beast he was) and returned to Camelot. "When Percival and I finished that monstrous bear off, finally got out of the cave and made it to a village we learnt that King Uther had passed away. My condolences, Arthur."

Even though the late King had been unkind to Lancelot and dishonoured him, Lancelot still felt sorry for Uther, and Arthur was touched by this expression of sincerity and empathy. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Lancelot. You are my best man, and I need you, especially on days like these." Arthur covered the runemark with the palm of his hand.

"I am with you, Arthur, wherever you are and whatever path you choose," Lancelot promised.

A surge of pride and affection filled Arthur's chest with warmth. "Make yourself at home. Have you seen Gwen?"

Lancelot coughed up wine. "I would not wish to present myself to a lady's gaze looking like this."

Arthur hummed. "Come on, you're a handsome man even in rugs. By the way, you'll be the first I tell the news, even our sneaky Merlin doesn't know about this yet. I'm ready to propose to Gwen."

"Оh. I'm happy for you." Lancelot straightened up and hid his face behind his goblet, "So what's going on in Camelot anyway? This windstorm... We saw a lot of houses with their roofs ripped off and dead livestock on the way here – it was lifted into the air and then slammed into the ground."

"My friend, that's a very strange story, and it has something to do with my sister...." Arthur told his friend about the threats and conditions of the Triple Goddess.

Sir Lancelot had a cordial meeting with Sir Leon, met Sir Galahad, whom Leon introduced as King Arthur's counsellor, and together with Percival embarked on his first task as the full-fledged knights of Camelot – to stand guard at Lady Morgana's chambers.

Their formal knighting was canceled because of the wind cataclysm, but this did not prevent them from enthusiastically embarking on their service.

He had seen Gwen. At first she recoiled from him as if he was a ghost, but that quickly passed and she smiled at him, greeted and said she was glad to see him back at court. Lancelot could barely act normal, so enchanted he found himself by her presence; his love for her sweet appearance and modest pleasant manners left him speechless. He tried not to see more in her words and looks than was there, but it was hard. The hope to be loved again has bloomed in his heart.

Later Gwen has come again, with a tray of deliches of food for Lady Morgana who was a prisoner in her own room, but soon Gwen came out with the same tray untouched – her Mistress refused to eat. She left, giving Lancelot a soft look that made his heart ache. He straightened up and decided to distract himself just a little, to remind himself that this was not why he arrived in Camelot. He was here to serve goodness.

"My Lady Morgana." he called softly but distinctly from behind the door.

Percival looked at him curiously, but remained silent.

Some noise came from the room. "I told you, I don't— Wait. Who's that?" He heard footsteps approaching the door. "Who called me?"

"It is me, Milady, Sir Lancelot."

"Lancelot, you've returned!" Morgana's voice sounded almost joyous.

"I have, Milady. You too. My condolences."

She answered nothing.

"I'm sorry my help was of no use to you." Lancelot added.

"It was, believe me. The rest is no longer your fault, Sir Lancelot."

"How is Lady Elaine?"

"Fine. She's where she should be, doing good deeds."

"I'm glad." And this was sincere, though echoed with sadness. He hoped she'd forgotten him. If only Guinevere had loved him as much as this Druid princess did... But Lancelot immediately chided himself. For if she had, it would have been a betrayal of Arthur and knightly honour.

"Sir Lancelot, I am so glad you are here..." Morgana moved closer to the crack in the door and spoke quickly and feverishly. "You can help me now. Let me out before anyone sees me so I can go back to Brocéliande and find Mordred. Help me, please."

Lancelot looked anxiously at Percival, giving him a sign that he wasn't going to do anything. "Milady..."

"We can do it at night, just help me. I can't sit around and wait for Arthur to buy a brain and a conscience somewhere." She snorted indignantly. "I fear for Mordred. I have a bad feeling about him." Wasn't he the one she was crying for in that dream, she reflected.

Poor Lady Morgana, thought Sir Lancelot, such beauty and power ruined in the bloom of years. She got maddened by the Spirit and the death of her lover.

"I am sorry, Milady Morgana, but I cannot defy the King's orders." He could almost feel Morgana tense.

"You helped me and a druid sneak into the Castle and rob the Treasury, Sir Lancelot. That breaks all the rules."

Percival looked at him with a bewildered interest at this news, and Lancelot shook his head. "That is different, Milady. Back then I was free and acted out of my own notions of what was right. Now I no longer belong to myself, but to your brother."

"And what if he is wrong?" her voice cracked.

"What if he is right?"

Morgana slammed her fist on the door with force in frustration, and Lancelot flinched. Even the imperturbable Percival wrinkled his nose.

"I helped you in Brocéliande, I defended you in front of the whole clan, and you reject me!.. We are no longer friends, Sir Lancelot." She stated angrily.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Milady." He sighed sadly.

"By the way. What are you more sorry about, your heartless refusal to help a friend in need or Gwen choosing Arthur over you? Didn't I tell you Goddess gave me the gift of foresight? Gwen will marry Arthur and they will live happily ever after. I've seen it." With grim satisfaction, Morgana plunged a sharp dagger of these words into Lancelot's heart and turned it.

Hearing no answer, she lay back on the bed.

Lancelot stared detachedly out the window grey and blind from the storm. There was no revelation in Morgana's words to him, magical vision it was or not. 

When darkness fell, Merlin sneaked into Camelot just like that, without the tunnel. He knew all the nooks, corners and hideouts of the Castle enough to get through unnoticed. No one remembered about him anyway. He was used to lurking in the shadows with the shaky hope of the future as a single light at the end of the path.

Hiding in a corner behind a niche covered by a tapestry of a maiden and a unicorn, he cautiously poked his head out from under the dusty cloth and saw the silhouettes of two knights outside Morgana's chambers. Of course, Arthur wouldn't have put Morgana in a tower or anything. But why this, and why the knights and not just the guards? Strange that Morgana didn't use the trick that got her and Mordred out of the "Sun and Moon" tavern that autumn. Strange that she didn't stun those knights. What was happening with her?

He'd never tried mental communication before but the magic in him whispered how to do it. Just like it always did. Merlin took a deep breath and mentally reached out to Morgana. Her magic sparkled with a greenish misty sheen and easily responded to his invitation.

Morgana. Morgana.

Mordred, is that you?! her voice rang panickedly through his mind, and Merlin cringed at the sensation. Morgana was loud even when she was silent.

Do I sound like him? It's me, Merlin. I've come to help you.

The silence lasted so long that Merlin thought Morgana had fainted or suddenly lost the ability to speak mentally. But when she finally spoke, her inner voice sounded unpleasantly affectionate and mocking. Ah, it's you, Emrys. Long time no see, dear friend of mine. Not since you lied to me, tried to betray me to Uther, and then helped lock me up in my own chambers.

The last one wasn't me! Merlin was offended, I wasn't in Camelot all these days. Arthur took you home himself. And do you know why? Because you were unconscious from giving Arthur some cursed coin!

Did you not hear what Goddess said? It's not a curse, it's an offer. Morgana argued fanatically.

You know, "I will destroy you and your kingdom" doesn't sound very promising.

How can you say that?! It's blasphemy! Morgana gasped at such an insult to Heaven, Don't you want magic to be free? Don't you want the whole kingdom, not just Arthur, to know who you are? Aren't you tired of hiding?

Arthur doesn't know. Merlin grumbled.

Morgana mentally laughed, but the laughter was quickly cut short, Wait, really? Seriously? You've lied not only to me but to my brother all this time? Oh, Emrys.

Lying is when you tell an untruth, and I keep quiet about the truth. It's not the same thing.

Oh, sure. So why are you helping me?

Look, Morgana. Merlin talked faster, I'm sorry about the past, but I've come to help you because you are of magic and my friend. Why are you even still here?

Arthur's cousin put an enchanted iron on me! He also stole my bag with the Chronicles of Taliesin. He's the one destroying the sacred places, isn't he? What if he finds out about the Crystal Cave?

Hell, Merlin cursed, But don't worry, we are getting you out of here. I'll take care of the rest.

Merlin, do you know where Mordred is? Morgana seemed to have softened.

Back from the dead and waiting for you outside the Castle walls. Now, sit here and wait. I have a plan.

The plan, however, did not work. Merlin used his good old and tested tactic of knocking over a random thing at the far end of the corridor with magic and hoping that the knights would run to the noise to catch a possible intruder, but this time something went wrong.  One of the knights – Merlin didn't recognise him in the semi-darkness – wanted to dart that way, but the big man next to him stopped him and muttered something in a low voice. The knights remained standing at their post.

Merlin? Morgana called out worriedly. Are you still here?

Time for plan B. He crawled out from under the unicorn tapestry and raced down the deserted gallery towards Gaius'. On the way, another mental call entered his mind.

Emrys. A hoarse voice screeched in his ear. Emrys.

I have no time, Kilgharrah.

But, Emrys...

Yes, I know Morgana's in the castle, thank you. Merlin descended to Gaius's quarters.

What are you going to do?

I'll send her away from Camelot like you wanted, didn't you?

Sometimes I think you were right, and there should be another Arthur and Emrys.

Then you'll have to be patient with us until they come along. Merlin snorted and closed his mind.

Gaius was already asleep, and though Merlin missed his mentor, he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn't have to explain anything. Siding with the druids and helping the King's sister escape second time sounded dubious to any outside observer, even to Gaius. Merlin lit the candles by magic, opened the cupboard and began rummaging through the stock of herbs neatly catalogued by his own hand. When he had first joined Gaius as an apprentice, the collection was a dump, and now Merlin's own diligence served him well.

"Here it is." Grabbing a bundle of the right herbs, Merlin flew away Gaius' quarters and ran upstairs again.

When the knights, inhaling the vapours of the sleepy herbs, collapsed at the door Merlin dragged them carefully into a corner; as carefully as he could, for the new big man weighed an inordinate amount. Merlin turned the other one over and froze, gazing into his face. It was Lancelot. He had returned! It lifted his spirits.

"I'm sorry, Lance," he murmured quietly.

"Merlin, where are you?" Morgana asked aloud from behind the door.

"Quiet!" His spell unlocked the door and Morgana almost fell out, since she was standing leaning against the door.

"Go!" Merlin immediately rushed down the stairs, cringing nervously at the noise Morgana was making.

"Merlin, stop!"

"What again?" Merlin turned around and only at that moment did he notice that Morgana was dressed in her white négligée. She was holding a bundle of clothes and glaring angrily at him.

"In case you haven't noticed, my hands are restrained by an anti-witch chain and so I can't change."

"Sorry." he slapped himself on the forehead. "Let me see."

He studied the chain with interest; it seemed so flimsy but could completely strip Morgana of her sorcerous will. A serious tool from the Purge times, now little used by anyone anymore. "It would take either a key or something special to break it... Maybe even a dragon fire."

Morgana's eyes widened in fright. "Not the dragon, please."

"Wait, you know Kilgharrah?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind. Hold out your arms, Morgana. I'll try something...." A fire lightning flashed in his eyes, and the coldiron chain fell to the floor with a soft clang. "Emrys' power." he smirked.

"Thank you. I think I can forgive you." Morgana rubbed her wrists, though the chain was light and didn't physically hurt her. "Give me a minute."

She stepped around the corner, quickly changed into comfortable Druid clothes, and hid the negligée under a chair for some maid to find it in the morning.

"Come quickly, Morgana."

"Wait, what about that Sir Galahad?"

Merlin's head began to ache, the pain was crinkling somewhere far behind his eyeballs. "He won't have time to do anything. I'll make sure he's kicked out of Camelot. Just trust me."

Morgana snorted, looked up at the stairs but agreed. They stealthily made their way down the small hall without meeting anyone.

Merlin opened the door against the wind with a certain difficulty – it creaked eerily loud – and they slipped out into the night. A gust of wind nearly knocked them off their feet. Bending down, Merlin and Morgana ran out beyond the castle wall and up into the hills.

Freedom.

Chapter Text

"What are you going to do next?" asked Merlin.

Camelot remained below them, and he and Morgana, struggling against the headwind, lost themselves in the wooded hills surrounding the Castle.

"We'll go back to the camp. What about you?" Morgana turned her head to him. Merlin realised from the softened expression on her face that she was no longer angry with him.

"I'm going to persuade Arthur not to be a fool and accept the Old Religion until it's too late."

Morgana's heart gave a leap of hope. "Tell him that if he doesn't, I won't give him any rest."

"I suppose so." chuckled Merlin.

"You're just going to confess your magic to him? When we talked in my chambers he seemed conflicted about magic despite my arguments and the windstorm behind the window."

Merlin shook his head uncertainly. "I'd rather not... For now, I'd just press the point that Camelot is under threat. Arthur will do anything for his people."

"All that remains is to convince him that we are his people too. I'm his sister, but he doesn't seem to think I'm his because I have magic," Morgana muttered, trying to make a look of indifference.

Merlin didn't answer anything. Any words he could bring to Arthur's defence would not convince a hurt Morgana now.  He would rather reconcile the siblings with deeds.

At last he has led her to the secret clearing where he and Mordred made a shelter of blankets and spruce branches. The hillside on one side gave some protection from the wind, while a dense group of trees on the other side shielded the camp with their towering wall.
The flickering flames of the campfire showed them the way.

Mordred was there, waiting for them.

Morgana went forward faster, ahead of Merlin. She couldn't wait anymore to see Mordred, to see for herself that he was all right, to touch him and feel that he was alive. That her dream and the strange premonitions have been nothing more than an ordinary nightmare.

Mordred was thoughtfully playing with Galahad's dagger, trying to recreate that sensation of this cold metal burning his flesh, when he heard a noise behind the trees. He jumped to his feet fearfully, holding the dagger out in front of him.

"Emrys? Is that you? Show yourself!"

"It's me." Morgana smiled widely, stepping into the light. "Morgana."

Mordred's face changed, he dropped the stranger's dagger to the ground and rushed towards her.

Merlin stopped in the shadows and couldn't contain his smile seeing Mordred and Morgana locked in a passionate embrace. Mordred lifted Morgana off the ground and spun her round, laughing softly. It was the first time Merlin has ever heard Mordred laugh, his laugh was kind and his smile so touching. Morgana also surprised him with the open joy she showed her love for this druid. It seemed that the bond she felt for him was stronger than the one she has ever had with her family in Camelot...Killgharrah told him something about this.

But seeing them like this Merlin was once again convinced he did the right thing, that he has multiplied love in this cruel world, a little less darkness got to be around, a little more light was born. Glad, he shyly looked away as they kissed.

"Merlin." Morgana called out to him as Mordred set her on the ground, the delight still not left her face. "Come here, please."

Mordred's arm was still around her waist when Merlin stepped into the circle of light and faced them.

"I want to thank you again. I was wrong about you."

"Now we owe you, Emrys. You saved us both and you have the right to ask anything you want from us." Mordred added quietly.

"I did not do it for debt and reward. Friends again?" Merlin held out his hand for a handshake.

"Friends." Morgana shook his hand first, Mordred followed her.

Merlin's heart tingled slightly with sadness. Those whom the dragon's prophecies spoke of as villains shook his hand willingly, but the one who was called his destiny would never touch him so simply and openly.

"Merlin, for all you do for my obnoxious brother he owes you his life. Don't be shy and ask him for what's owed to you." Morgana chuckled, not knowing that she has just added a drop of bitterness.

Merlin just modestly smiled and shook his head. "Thank you both for trying to help and warning us. I'll do my best to make sure we meet on better days next time."

Mordred reached out and touched the Crystal of Primordial Fire under Merlin's shirt. "Take care of magic, Emrys."

"I will." Merlin nodded briefly, "See you later." he wanted to leave but Mordred stopped him.

"So soon? Wouldn't you like to stay with us for a bit, Emrys? I've made a tea of thyme, birch and linden buds."

"Um, no thanks." Merlin squinted his eyes at the darkish thick brew in the iron ladle over the coals, "I'm not hungry."

Morgana snorted, but Mordred didn't get the hint and smiled innocently. "We'll be waiting for you, Emrys."

"Bye, friends." Merlin trailed off.

"Blessed be" Morgana and Mordred said goodbye to him in druidic farewell. He turned around and waved to them one last time.

The wizard rushed back to Camelot, back to his King. But he was not the only one sneaking late at night through the passages and galleries of the Camelot Castle. Two others were awake that night.

When Merlin was out of sight Morgana turned to Mordred and took his face between her hands, eyeing his every feature, as if she would never withdraw her eyes anymore. He looked tired but glowing from within.

"Morgana."

She rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheeks, his closed eyelids, his chin. Mordred responded and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to him and kissing her lips. Something subtly shifted in the way they kissed each other; it was not like before.

"I missed you so much." she whispered, her cheek pressed against his.

"Me too. I was afraid I'd never see you again. I feared they'd lock you away in the palace for years." Mordred hugged her tighter, resting his head on her shoulder.

"Never." she almost whispered, pressing her whole body against him.

"Maybe you want my tea, Morgana?" he asked into Morgana's hair. He stroked her back and cradled her head. He wondered, if a man could have something more fulfilling than a woman he loves back in his arms. Her hair smelled intoxicatingly of the flowers he hasn't known before.

"Of course I do."

Mordred, melting at her words, took Morgana to the campfire and set her down on a carefully spread plaid on the fir branches.

He took the ladle off the fire and set it on the moss to cool. The cups were still in the stolen bag.

"What happened, love?" she asked before Mordred could question her about the bag's fate, "Why did Merlin say you had risen from the dead?"

"Don't you remember anything?"

"I remember Her presence in me and then I just woke up in Camelot. I couldn't escape on my own because they'd restrained my magic by the coldiron."

Mordred took her hands in his and fondled them. They were so soft. "I guessed something wasn't right. You are not so easy to capture, Morgana. As for me, the White Knight – his name is Sir Galahad as Emrys said – wounded me. But that's all right, don't worry," he added as Morgana turned pale and angry, "Gwinny's seal worked perfectly. Though it was a disturbing experience...But I feared for you the most."

"More than for your own life?" Morgana blushed deeply.

"Much more." His voice tenderly lowered.

"Where was the pain?" Morgana placed her palm on his chainmail, "Show me."

"It's gone now."

"Mordred."

He quickly removed his cloak and chainmail, unbuttoned his black gambeson and unlaced his shirt to show her the reddened scar on his chest just below his heart. She expected to see this mark of betrayal.

"Arthur has lied to me. He said you left without me." Morgana pressed her fingertips to his bare skin.

The light touch sent a trill through his body and a rush of dark blood to his cheeks.

"I don't understand why did he lie? Was this Galahad killing on his orders?" Morgana muttered.

Mordred stroked her cheek and tangled his fingers in her hair. The desire to touch her surged upward like a flash of fire heating him from the inside out.

"After you gave Arthur the runemark there was such chaos... Arthur must have been in a trance, too. The coin connected you both in a magical union."

"He refuses to liberate the Old Religion, Mordred. My brother turned out to be more foolish than I thought. If even the voice from heavens can't change his mind, I don't know what and who can."

Mordred had an idea of who it might be. "Aglain would say that since we have done our part, since we have brought the word of the Triple Goddess to the King, it is up to him and Emrys to carry the rest from here." Mordred leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the lips in an uncharacteristic daring manner. After a second he did it again.

Morgana closed her eyes and gently caressed his scar with the pads of her index and middle fingers, healing the mark of Sir Galahad's dagger with the golden warmth of her magic. It felt so good to feel the power again. Magic made her feeling so free and light.

Mordred lowered his head and saw that his skin was pristinely smooth again. "I like that."

"You're welcome." Morgana smiled softly and removed her hand. "Me too."

"And this." He took her hand again and put it on his heart; the reverent look in his eyes. "I like this very much." He ran her hand over his chest, making it caress himself.

Her stomach flipped at his tone and touch, "Me too." she added, sweetly flustered.

"Do...that again."

Morgana dared to move closer, fondling him. Her fingers traced every black line of the triskelion on his smooth chest, melting under his spellbinding gaze glued to her.

"More. Please. Touch me."

Morgana obeyed, and bit her lip, smiling softly.

Mordred gustily breathed in the air and then drew Morgana to him, and kissed her neck. Timidly at first, then feverishly he lost himself in the oblivion of finding her, devouring her. This almost predatory move instantly ignited a wave of desire in Morgana, flaring up with the soft warm sensations of his kisses.

"Hold me tighter." Mordred whispered. He straightened up and looked into her shining with love eyes.

Morgana's heart raced and she threw away the reason and rules. Her hands slid up Mordred's neck, her fingers curled around the back of his head as she tried to pull him closer. She embraced and held and caressed Mordred, and he did her. They just couldn't get enough of each other. Morgana soared in a haze of euphoria when his tongue swept over her lips, his hands gripped her hips and passionately lifted her skirts up.

They were together all night long.

Arthur looked round. The stairs behind him were empty and silent. Strange. He thought he heard something, someone creeping behind him. He shrugged and continued down the spiral staircase, tossing the runemark up into the air and then catching it deftly. He just couldn't sleep. The echo of "FREE MY PEOPLE" didn't let him. 

Merlin's absence, the horrifying reality of the plagues, wondering of what would happen next, the conversation with Morgana, all this had robbed Arthur of his peace. The worst of it was that he felt like he was being torn apart.

It seems to him that he is just about to accept the terms of the Triple Goddess and allow the Old Religion to be practised freely. His benevolent heart urges him to be merciful to these people who remained faithful to the old ways and the old days of his own kingdom. His hand seems to reach for a sheet of parchment, and the words of the royal decree almost form in his mind; he is choosing wording that might please Sister, whose shadow seems to stand behind his shoulder and smile encouragingly at his brave decision.

But then a shadow of apprehension, a shadow strangely similar to the Late King looms over him and Arthur hesitates. To be forced to do something was degrading to his dignity; and the thought of the chaos that magic could cause, a power whose bearers he could not control frightened him, to his shame. Besides, if he agreed, what about Galahad? He had promised Brother his support...

He stands up and gets to the window of his chamber where he stands for a long time, listening to the roars of the wind, when suddenly he hears a creak downstairs. His first thought is of Merlin

The young King came down the hall just as his panting manservant rushed into the doors followed by the wind. Merlin bent over with his hands on his knees, trying hard to fill his lungs with air again.

"Cough-cough. Merlin. Where-the-hell-have-you-been?" Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and made a scolding face so Merlin wouldn't know he was glad he'd finally come back.

"Arthur...I was...out…for a...walk."

"What walk?! You've been gone for three days!"

Merlin straightened up, smiled nonchalantly and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets. "Well, you know, the charm of Brocéliande's natural beauty drew me away!"

Arthur was at a loss for words at such impudence. Was Merlin even aware of everything that was going on? Had he forgotten about the Triple Goddess' trial? That he actually had a job? He opened his mouth, the harsh words forming on his tongue.

There was a barely audible rustle behind him. The quiet step of worn grey shoes, the rustle of a long skirt, a whiff of the air. But Arthur was focused only on ideas of how to teach Merlin a lesson for abandoning him and his duty.

"Come here, Merlin." Arthur stepped forward, still not sure if he wanted to hug his friend or give him a sound thrashing. "We need to talk."

"Arthur, I–" Merlin's eyes widened in shock.

The girl in maid's clothes lunged her dagger into the King's back.

She tried to put all the rage and bitterness of these years of exile into the blow, all the desire for freedom in the attack. She tried.

"ARTHUR!..." Merlin shouted, and instinctively thrust his arm forward. "OFFERSWING!"

"What the—"

Arthur turned round in fear ready to fend off the unknown stab, and saw how Kara fell backwards onto the marble floor and slid straight towards the huge stained glass window of a rose and dragon on the opposite side of the hall, how she hit her head on it. The dagger clanked loudly, falling out of her hand.

Before anyone could move, the glass cracked screechy and a waterfall of green, blue, and red shards rained down on her.

Feeling the blood drain from his face, Arthur turned around and caught a fading alien gold of magic in Merlin's familiar dark blue eyes.

"Merlin..."

Merlin lowered his hand, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and blurted out, "Iamsosorryarthur!"

Arthur threw a quick wary glance at Kara over his shoulder. She lay immovable, her eyes rolled up in her head, trickles of blood running down her face to her neck.

"So this is what Morgana was talking about."

Morgana woke up but didn't open her eyes right away. She was warm. Two cloaks, her own and Mordred's covered her. His body sheltered her against the wind.

The birds did not sing as they usually did, or they did but the sound was drowned out by the wind's dull song. Fleecy clouds obscured the blue of the sky, young leaves plucked from the branches fell to the ground like whispering rain. It was a dawn of the new era.

She opened her eyes and met Mordred's keen but at the same time soft gaze on herself. How long has it been since he was awake and looking at her? In the shifting light of this strange morning, his eyes were the same colour as the sky and the misty shadows around him.

She moved, wanting to get up, but his arm hugged her tighter, not letting her leave his embrace. "We still have time. You could sleep some more."

"I slept well." a warm little smile touched her lips, a visible manifestation that right now in this moment there was no one and nothing more precious to her than him. "Mordred." She murmured under her breath and put her hand on his cheek.

Mordred sensed her mood and his heart got beating harder. While Morgana was sleeping he was fighting the irrational fear that in the morning she would fall out of love with him or act as if nothing has happened between them, as if yesterday they have not become one flesh and soul; that this unearthly happiness was only a dream or a vision like the one he'd experienced on the edge of the manifested world and the world of the dead. Morgana chose him and gave herself to him this night...it felt like a legend. But her aura of pink and gold colours has told him that there seemed nothing to fear, Morgana loved him.

He kissed her sensually on the corner of her lips.

Yesterday was the best day of my life. I've never felt anything like this before.

Morgana cupped his cheek, stroking his light stubble with her thumb. You make me happy.

I love you, Morgana. May Aglain betroth us in the Stone Circle tomorrow.

A lovely picture flashed through his mind. He had seen this many times; a lonely boy standing behind the festive crowd of druids, watching other people's happiness: the bride and groom dressed in red garments, the wild cherry-blossom wreaths on their heads. The clan singing songs and blessings for them and then sending them off in a boat lined with flowers to a hidden place in the forest glen carefully prepared just for the pair. Only now the two will be he, Mordred, guard of the Druids and she, Morgana Pendragon, Princess of Camelot and healer of Brocéliande, named by the Sidhe as Le Fay.

Morgana let out a chuckle, but quickly became serious. She sat up and brushed her tangled hair back with a hand.

"What did you find so funny, Morgana?" Mordred propped himself up on one elbow, growing darker by the second. "Am I not enough for you?"

"If I ever loved anyone, it's you, Mordred," she convinced him wholeheartedly, and the sincerity of the confession left Mordred defenseless, "But there are the Plagues. And I completely forgot to tell you what I found out," her cheeks pinked slightly at the memory of the night they have become one, "That this Sir Galahad is Arthur's cousin—"

"And he's a relative of yours, too?" Mordred raised an eyebrow. Perhaps that would be too much even for him.

"No, not mine, Arthur's mother's. We have different mothers. Galahad is now Arthur's advisor and favourite and wields great influence at court. While I was unconscious he stole my bag and took Taliesin's books. Do you realise what that means, Mordred?" she looked at him worriedly.

It meant that by wanting to protect the Crystal Cave they had put it in danger.

"I do realise. It's not your fault. Shall we steal the books?" He reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Morgana sighed heavily. "Too late, he's already had time to read everything he needs to. Let's go home like Aglain asked, the Clan has the right to know what's going on and then we'll return to the Cave. Elaine and the others may need us these days. We'll be waiting for the end there." Morgana stood up, picked up her cloak from the ground, put on her hood, drank some water from her flask and not caring about breakfast they couldn't have anyway walked back to their horses.

Mordred quickly stomped out the nearly extinguished coals and finished the rest of last night's bitter herbal tea, listening to Morgana cooing with the horses, watching her every move. The wind strangely ceased but the sudden quiet did not bring a comfort.

Unable to resist the pull he walked over to Morgana, and wrapped his hands around her waist from behind "At another time, would you have agreed?"

"Did you hear the refusal?" Morgana relaxed for a moment and snuggled into him.

"I didn't."

They left the outskirts of Camelot and the first drops of rain fell on the dusty ground.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed, the weight of realisation and responsibility pressed down on him. "So it was you, then. It was you all along, Merlin. You've been saving me. I can barely believe it."

"I was doing it for you, Arthur. Only for you."

Arthur looked up at him. He had heard or said something similar once before. From Galahad? He was having trouble concentrating.

He and Merljn have spent the rest of the night in his study, talking, shouting at each other; and then again, unable to bear the guilt any longer, explaining themselves to the other, trying to convince the other that they were right.

"Then why didn't you tell me sooner? How could you stand everything that was going on? The devil, Merlin, Galahad was talking about destroying magic in front of you!"

It was the first time Arthur really saw Merlin as his equal, and so he lost the Merlin he understood. A man of power, living like a poor servant? Mocked in return for his sincere help? Arthur found himself ashamed. And then he immediately got even more ashamed that he has became ashamed just because Merlin was a mighty sorcerer, not a friend of his. Arthur couldn't get him. Merlin wasn't like the other people close to him who possessed magic: Galahad, with his holy passion for cleansing the world of it, and Morgana, with her passionate defence of their powers. Galahad and Morgana demanded, they protected their rights, they fought for what they believed in. Who was Merlin then?

"Why didn't you tell me?" he repeated.

"I didn't want to lose..."

"Lose what? You have nothing, Merlin! You're a servant!"

"This..." Merlin made an undefined gesture with his hand, "Camelot. A friend." His eyes moistened suspiciously.

Arthur tensed. What if all this time Merlin has actually been his best and, frankly, only friend?

"I was just waiting for the right moment." Merlin added quietly.

Arthur couldn't stand it and laughed an unhappy laugh. "Could you not have procrastinated until an omnipotent deity and a vengeful maidservant wanted my head?"

"Arthur, I'm sorry that I hid it from you. But this is the time to make the right choice, not just for fear of punishment but for mercy." Merlin stared at Arthur intently.

The last facade of the cheerful carefree servant he knew was gone, and a something new, confident, deep and strong has appeared in Merlin, and Arthur was astonished to see it. It was something easily bending the young King's will to the Wizard's side. In an instant, Merlin seemed centuries older and wiser than Arthur.

"Magic has always been at the heart of Camelot. It was built on it. Now is the time to embrace it. Please, Arthur." A distant echo of greatness rang in these words and Arthur's heart instinctively responded to the calling.

"If I agree, what should I do with the coin?" Arthur glanced down at the dark circle on the desk.

"When it's done, throw it into a lake. Magic of the Old Religion will take it back."

Arthur fell silent. The silence lasted for a very long time. Merlin waited agonisingly, almost palpating Arthur's thought process.

"Morgana was trying to tell me that not anyone who possesses magic is evil. She knew about you?"

Merlin shrugged, not telling the truth, not saying a lie. "Her mind is an enigma to me."

"Go wake Gwen, I won't make this decision without her. Please." Arthur hurried to add awkwardly. How to act around Merlin now, he wondered. Who was the master and who was the servant? And what if it's no one?

"And, Merlin...You wouldn't have. You wouldn't have lost a home and a friend if you told me earlier. And thank you for saving my life."

"You're...welcome." Merlin nodded, calmly rose from his chair and walked out. Arthur pulled a blank sheet of parchment towards him and imagined the fateful words written on it, his signature, the royal dragon stamped on the red wax. The signature of Arthur Pendragon. Not of the son of Uther Pendragon, but of the King Arthur Pendragon, the man of his own destiny.

Mentally, he said goodbye to his father's shadow with a final "I'm sorry" uttering. Uther must have understood that he is doing this for the people of Camelot.

A few minutes later, a sleepy but excited Gwen entered the study, wrapped in a grey shawl. Merlin followed her in.

Arthur walked over to her and took her hands in his. "Has Merlin told you everything? That I want to make an agreement with the Old Ways?"

"He has." She was clearly surprised, the least that could be said, but willing to help.

"What should I do, Guinevere?" Arthur stiffened, waiting for her assessment.

She hesitated a moment. "You have the right to say no, and maybe it would even be fair. But will it be the road to the world you have always dreamed of building? Would it be grateful? Will it lead to the unity and peace of all Albion?"

Arthur was deeply moved. Gwen has always been the one who believed he was destined for something greater. That's what she'd told him when he lay suffering from the wounds of the Questing Beast. The creature of the Old Religion that had been given as a sign to him. A sign he'd been overlooking for so long.

He took a deep breath. "If I agree, will you marry me? You have the right to say no." He grinned crookedly. "It would even be fair."

"Yes, of course I do." Gwen shone like the sun they lost behind the overcasting clouds. "With all my heart."

Arthur took his mother's golden ring off his little finger and gave it to her. "This is my promise. Once we settle the matter with the Old Religion..." He noticed Merlin's approving glance from over his bride's shoulder.

Merlin stepped closer to them, smiling radiantly. "I'm proud of you both."

Arthur released Gwen's hands and sat back down at the table. "Now you all help me put together a speech. I'm thinking of announcing my decision at the coronation. As soon as possible. And then the wedding. Or vice versa?"

Gwen giggled. She sat down on the arm of the chair Merlin had settled into.

But just as the three of them were discussing "The Royal Decree to Pardon the Old Religion and its Followers and to End the Persecution of Sorcerers Innocent before the Crown, Life and Estate of Residents of Camelot", Sirs Percival and Lancelot burst into the study without knocking.

They looked dishevelled and dazed, especially Percival.

"Let me guess. Something's happened." Arthur set aside the parchment again. He managed to write down only the title of the future Decree.

"Arthur, the Lady Morgana has run away!" Lancelot reported, his eyes immediately fixed on Gwen; he has not expected her to be here at this early hour.

Gwen gasped.

"She has bewitched us with something, Majesty. We overslept." Percival added, hardly believing that such a shameful thing could really happen to him.

Merlin remained unperturbed by the news. Everything was going as it should.

Arthur's face took on an extremely annoyed expression, "And how could this have happened? Galahad said her magic was blocked by the coldiron! Oh, Morgana." he threw away his quill in frustration. "You have chosen a very bad time to run away again. Just when I was about to..."

"May I ask, is there something important?" Lancelot stepped closer, his smart intuition told him something was going on.

"Yes. I've just decided to take charge..." Arthur took a deep breath, preparing to announce his decision to someone outside the inner circle for the first time, "In the light of the Plagues that have befallen the Kingdom and in a reassessment of Camelot's previous politics, I have decided to amnesty the Old Religion. What do you think, friends?"

Lancelot's eyes widened and he stared at Merlin. He nodded faintly and smiled. Percival stepped from foot to foot and spoke up, "A Druid clan helped me a lot when I was a boy. I don't follow their beliefs, but like them. Good people."

"Your Majesty!" the familiar voice of Sir Leon exclaimed from behind. He heard everything, and was rather shocked at Arthur's declaration.

"Leon."

"I was just about to report the news..." he caught his breath, "The first reports of flooding in some villages have come in. The rivers are overflowing their banks and people will soon be running to the capital. I'm afraid that—"

Arthur stood up, pulled the red curtains sharply apart, and stared at the wall of rain outside the window.

"Water." he muttered.

"The second plague." Merlin sealed.

"Why won't it stop? Am I not enough for you?" Arthur raised his head and asked loudly into the air, calling out to a power unknown to him. "I'm going to pardon your people! Stop it...!"

Everyone present scowled and exchanged gloom glances. Destiny had a cold heart.

Chapter Text

Mordred stretched himself on a blanket in his tent, his hands under his head. Darkness descends on Brocéliande very early in winter, and many druids go to bed with the setting sun. But he did not sleep. Lying with his eyes closed, he dreamed.

His dreams were a hazy web of daily chores, of memories of his past life, of his father's stories of how things had been before the Purge, of Aglain's fairy tales the Leader told him, a small mute boy; and of yearning thoughts of Morgana's embrace. He didn't notice how much he'd grown to care for the "princess" that at first annoyed him. She had been a source of danger to the Clan and had no idea of anything, not even about how strong she was. But now when she was looking at him he felt uneasy for another reason, not because of fear.

The emotion was warm and numbing every time Morgana shifted her green gaze to him. It was alive, having a will of its own. This new entity inside him wanted to break through his shell of aloofness, and rush to her, save her, help her. It was willing to do anything for her wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him again. For Morgana's kind word the entity would curl up at her feet and do anything she wished. It was wild and foolish.

Slowly he began falling asleep. In his dreams, Morgana fed the entity from her hands.

But then something that did not belong to him invaded his sea of tranquillity.

Mordred opened his eyes, sat up on the bed, and shook his head, shaking off the delusion and becoming serious and focused again.

It was the pinching feeling of loneliness. It was Morgana's. He didn't sense any alarm or danger from the outside, it came from within her. She must have just felt lonely alone in the descending darkness. The families sat together in their tents, Aglain and Elaine were already asleep.

It was like that autumn night when he had first sensed her, first seen her. Morgana had invaded his mind and hadn't left since. They'd just been connected from the beginning. Fascinated by the sensation of her, then a stranger, by her utter fear and devastation, he'd ran to Aglain. He hadn't understood what was happening, who was trying to find their camp. But Aglain had seemed to know. He had silently grabbed his knitted bag and ran deep into the thicket. If it hadn't been for Mordred, Morgana would have died out there in the forest, all alone.

Mordred knew what loneliness was. The few days, hours, centuries he had spent alone as a small boy at the outskirts of Brocéliande had given him a deep knowledge of that feeling, the feeling so similar to fear and the abyss of endless falling. After Aglain had found him he was never truly alone again, but something in his soul chipped away for ever after that day.

Sometimes that shard of loneliness reminded about its absence. Mordred always felt that loss in Morgana too. Maybe because it was the same event that cleaved their souls. Death. His clan's by her father, Lord Gorlois; and Lord Gorlois and his men's by his own hand. Death had created two lonely children who were seeking to regain home and wholeness. A druid boy hiding in the woods, and a little princess in the citadel of fear, Camelot. They were of the same kind.

Mordred threw his brown cloak over his shoulders and stepped out into the damp darkness. Campfires lit the way between the tall trees, owls hooted overhead. Snowflakes melted as soon as they touched the ground. He walked slowly, hesitant to enter her tent and offer himself. He walked round and stepped on a branch. It crunched.

Mordred, it's you, isn't it? her enchanting inner voice rang through his mind. It made his heart jump in a strange and profound way.

"It's me."

"So come in."

Mordred paused at the blanket flap. The entity made his lips stretch into a smile and his heart beat painfully faster. He adjusted his hair and clothes in a fruitless attempt to look better. He has been wearing the same clothes for years, druids could not afford to dress in the fine silk and brocade gowns Morgana was accustomed to in the palaces. He assumed a calm demeanour and stepped inside.

Morgana stood in front of the entrance, wrapped in her black shawl. Behind her back, a new dress was magically sewing itself. The green wool fabric was hanging in the air, and the needle and thread was going in and out of it, sewing the skilfully cut cloths together.

"Blessings. How did you know it was me?"

"Blessed be. I've foreseen you coming," joked Morgana. She'd actually noticed his shadow through the tent's fabric.

"You're wasting energy." Mordred remarked. The rebuke was clearly not what the entity wanted to say in the presence of a woman special to him, and Mordred cringed at his embarrassment.

"Oh, don't be like that." She chuckled.

Several magical scrolls that she was reading while watching the dress lay on the patchwork coverlet of her bed. Morgana has spent all day today helping Aglain make wild wax candles with herbs and flowers for each moonday of the week and she deserved some rest. Expressing her magic, her true self always brought her joy, the sense of excitement, light and freedom. The miracle has not yet gone away replaced by the confident habit of a skill developed through years of practice.

"It's going to get worse."

That was the obvious consequence of the Sources's destruction. A weakening of the force that was hidden in the essence of the Earth and their blood, the need to store energy. Long ago, before the Purge, sorcerers could go on pilgrimages to the places of power and stay near the sources of magic in prayer for several nights to strengthen their powers, but now that was impossible. Every sacred place they knew was threatened by King Uther.

"You are so optimistic, Mordred." Morgana looked at him with a derisive but kind smile.

"I am. In the end all would be well, you can ask me how but only time will tell." He cited.

"What's this?"

"Don't know for sure. A saying." He shrugged and smiled.

After a moment, Morgana's tone shiffted. "Thank you for visiting me. I was feeling lonely."

The clan were the only people for miles of forest depths around, only their lights shone in the darkness, only they had warmth to kneel to.

"Anytime."

Mordred sensed that Morgana was enjoying having him around, that she had been lonely before she met him, and now she was no longer. It put the entity into a state of euphoria. She liked his soul.

"Shall we go for a walk? When a person is unwell he needs the Goddess's touch."

"Does it help you?"

"For a while."

Morgana left her sewing to take care of itself and they stepped out into the cool air. Morgana held out her gloved hand to him. Mordred took it, and squeezed it slightly. He regretted that she was wearing gloves. They walked slowly through the forest, unlocking their hands only to go round a tree and then locking them again.

"Even now when nature is in the guise of the Crone she can soothe and heal the soul."

"When I heal I feel it, Mordred. The nature elements. Fire, water inside my palms..." Morgana didn't know if what she was saying made sense to anyone else, but she wanted to share it with someone.

"Magic in nature, and nature in magic..."

They walked out to the Ivy River and sat side by side on a rock under a large old willow tree. Its bare branches reached down to the dark water. The surface was covered with broken, thin ice that resembled a broken mirror's shards. Then Mordred surprised Morgana. He took her hand, lovingly removed her knitted glove, and placed her palm on the rough grey bark of the willow tree. "Druids teach that trees are mediators. Know why?"

"I don't." Morgana shook her head.

A strange feeling suddenly came to her. It was like not only she and Mordred were touching the willow, but the tree was touching them in return too. Morgana stared at the tree as if she were seeing a willow for the first time in her life. Perhaps it was. She has never really looked at trees before. Before she had come to Brocéliande, trees had been just a backdrop. Here, however, they were inhabitants equal to people and animals. They are and have always been the living beings.

"Look." With his left hand, Mordred pointed upwards into the web of thin, supple branches of the crown. "The branches touch the sky above. And below, the roots go underground." He turned Morgana's attention to the knotty, strong brown roots. "Currents of energy flow from the sky to the ground and back again. If you turn a tree upside down, it will look exactly the same. The branches and the roots are one. The same. Trees are not Sources but those that connect heaven and earth. As above so below." Mordred finished his speech and released her hand. "Do you get me?"

"I think so," Morgana said reverently, running her finger over the cracks in the bark, finding old seeds and silver dust from a long-fallen dandelion there.

Mordred pulled a tangled clew of multicoloured fibres, jay feathers and wooden beads from his cloak's pocket, and began weaving a net for a new dreamcatcher. He watched with pleasure and quiet pride as Morgana worshipped the tree as his people did. A sense of peace and rightness of the world came over him. His family slept quietly in the safety, he and Morgana were sitting together, Brocéliande watched them quietly and approvingly.

For a while they just sat together, not looking at each other, but the proximity was almost palpable, in something subtly more intimate than when they kissed. Morgana was humming some tune softly, and Mordred smiled secretly. Morgana's voice was sweet, her movements graceful. And Mordred knew that if a person sings in your presence, it means he is happy and at ease with you. It was flattering, and the entity reached for Morgana.

"Did you dream anything tonight?" he asked in an attempt to show his care.

"It's nothing new." she shrugged. After a pause, she asked without taking her eyes off the willow. "Sometimes I wonder, if the golden age does come, what's next? What will we do then?"

What do people do after the happy ending comes? This question somewhat threw Mordred off balance. He had grown up with the faith and the expectation of salvation, but perhaps he had never really thought about what it meant to be saved and what it meant to live afterwards.

"We'll stop roaming here." he came up with an answer.

"We'll leave Brocéliande?" wondered Morgana. This magical forest and the druids have always been one in her mind, even before she has come here and became one of them.

"Most likely. Druids haven't always lived nomad lives, away from other people. We will return to our abandoned villages by the White Mountains. Common people will come to us again for help and advice. Magic is our survival now, but long ago before the first knights came along we were saving people. We will return."

"Me too?"

"Of course. I mean, if you want. You'll be the healer and I'll be the guardian. It's just like it is now. Aglain will remain Leader, and Elaine will run the household. Everything will stay the same."

And you will love me for ever, Mordred added; only the entity heard him.

"The same..."

"Do we need more than that?"

"We don't. You're right. We'll get our dignity back and we can be ourselves and that's enough."

"Is that what you want most, Morgana?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

A gust of dank wind blew past the Ivy River. The wind's ethereal white eyes saw the young man leaning in towards the woman and kissing her tenderly, for he wanted love more than anything.

Chapter Text

Water was stronger than air, so the punishment of rain was stronger than the punishment of wind. Calamity came quickly. Drop by drop, the rain became a torrential downpour.

Camelot found itself defenceless against the elements, and in a matter of days all of the normal life ceased to exist. Streams of water rushed down the streets of the town flooding flimsy old cottages, washing away vegetable gardens where the citizens were waiting for the harvest of young vegetables, flooding hencoops and cowsheds. People were forced to take young cattle into their rooms, which led to even bigger unsanitary conditions. The weak began to fall ill from the dampness and filth, some of the poor children were even carried away by the water streams into the sewage pit. Merchants were losing their supplies, foreigners were leaving Camelot in a hurry.

They all begged young King Arthur for help and an end to their suffering. Gloomy and confused, he walked around the Lower Town promising his people to put things right.

After his last visit to the town, a drenched to the skin and shivering Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, Sirs Leon, Lancelot and Gwaine gathered in Arthur's study. Arthur heard Leon's latest reports on how the incessant rain washed away the young seeds that the peasants in the countryside had just put into the soil. The autumn harvest was in jeopardy, if not completely lost. People would have nothing to eat in the winter and next spring.

"And if the rain doesn't stop, the current grain reserves will simply rot in the barns." Lancelot added quietly. "We are on the verge of starvation."

"We can unseal the king's vault." Arthur stared out the window at the slanting rain jets relentlessly turning his land into a foul-smelling rot.

"It won't be enough." objected Gwen. She stood by the fireplace wrapped in the grey shawl, her wet locks stuck to her face.

"Arthur, you must sign the pardon act right now, without delay," Merlin said. He stood by the table eyeing Arthur's back in the damp camisole. "There's no point in waiting for the Coronation."

Arthur sighed heavily. "What if it doesn't stop?"

"No, you heard what was said. Accept the Old Religion and the Plagues will go away."

Arthur turned round and sat down at the table. "I want to do it, but it's not that simple, Merlin. I can, you know, just sign a paper, but I can't expect everyone to honour it without justification or ceremony. We need to convene the Royal Council, send heralds around the kingdom, perhaps assemble a commission to oversee the implementation of the new laws, gather lawyers to make new codes on magical offences... I thought I had time before Beltane."

"We'll help you. We all." promised Merlin. Nods and murmurs of approval confirmed his words. "But right now, nothing is more important than signing the amnesty as soon as possible."

"Can you guarantee that...?" Arthur hesitantly reached into his desk drawer to pull out the draft, but he was interrupted again.

"What are you talking about?" a cold voice came from behind the doors.

Everyone turned round.

Sir Galahad stood at the door, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over his chest. He had thrown a cloak of thick black coarse wool over his usual white robes, fleeing the damp as they all did and paying tribute to the mourning for King Uther.

"Why didn't you call me to the meeting, Arthur?" he strode into the room, took a chair, pulled it to the table and sat down beside Leon and Lancelot.

"I meant to. I just forgot, Galahad, sorry."

"Why is Sir Lancelot still here?" Galahad glanced at Lancelot.

The latter straightened, surprised that the King's brother would even notice him.

"Where else would a knight and a friend be but by his king's side?" Arthur didn't get the question.

"In the guardroom. Our sister, as I understood, has escaped."

Merlin tensed, but no one noticed it. Everyone was looking at Arthur and Galahad.

"There was the sorcery involved. I do not blame Sir Lancelot, it's not his fault."

"Exactly. Witchcraft. It always is." Galahad drawled. His handsome face now had a strangely tense, wary expression, and his body tensed as if preparing for a strike.

"I've already sent men to look for her, don't worry, please."

"Where she was they won't be able to find her again, you know that, Arthur."

"I do know, Galahad." Arthur lowered his voice.

"Good." nodded Galahad, but his eyes expressed neither approval nor agreement. "And as for the grain, we can send delegations to neighbouring kingdoms. To Gorre, for example. And when things get better, we can marry Morgana to King Urien in gratitude for his help. She will have been brought home by our brave knights by then, I'm sure."

Gwen curled her lips. She didn't like that suggestion, didn't like it at all. Despite their quarrel she still considered Morgana a friend, and she couldn't see how Morgana could be forced to submit to an unloving husband. She would never. Gwen observed that Sir Galahad seemed to dislike Morgana, perhaps wishing to punish her for, as he believed, bringing a curse upon Camelot.

Arthur was taken aback. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest in a protective gesture. "Em, Galahad. I don't think that's a good idea. Firstly I don't want to fall into dependence on other kingdoms by going into debt. I can't allow Camelot losing its primacy in Albion. Besides, I wouldn't want to do that to my sister. I don't want forcing her to marry a man she loves not."

Gwen let out a small smile of approval.

"Responsibility is above love, Arthur. Then what are you going to do?" Galahad grimaced as if his worst fears have come true.

"We were just discussing that. I have an idea." Arthur said slowly, looking into his face.

"What is it, Cousin?"

The air between the two members of the royal family was like a taut bowstring. Each of them realised the next words would change everything between them for ever and there would be no going back. So be it, they both decided.

"I wish to accept the terms of the Triple Goddess. I intend to pardon the Old Religion and allow its practices."

Galahad drew in air noisily. "Are you going to permit magic, Arthur?"

"Well, I am. As far as I know, followers of the Old Religion often practice magic, though not always."

"You cannot, Arthur!" Galahad raised his voice nervously, "Not now that I'm close to destroying the Sources of magic completely!" Galahad slipped his hand into his pocket where a page torn from Taliesin Chronicles lay, and crumpled it.

Arthur frowned. "I fear, Galahad, I must withdraw my support from your project. I no longer wish to destroy the sacred sites of the Old Religion. Nor do I want you to touch the Druids from now on."

Galahad shook his head slowly, his face expressing utter shock. "I don't recognise you anymore, Arthur. You cannot betray me and your father like this. For the sake of what? For who?"

Arthur put his hands on the table and leaned towards Galahad, begging him to understand, but still already preparing himself for rejection. "Galahad, look what is happening to Camelot! I don't know how long you've been listening at the door but the people are on the verge of starvation! Camelot will perish if we don't agree to this small favour that will cost us nothing! I care about the people of Camelot, not whatever ideas you and my father have got in your heads."

Galahad stood up, clearly offended. "Ideas we've got in our heads? That's how you are talking about your father the great king Uther? So you're agreeing to a contract with an evil spirit, Arthur. Am I understanding this right? And where's the guarantee that the curse will stop? You can't make deals with evil and remain unaffected! What if all this is God testing us? You?"

"Exactly, Galahad. What if? Evil is when my people die having done nothing wrong." Arthur stood up as well. "Magic is not inherently evil, it depends on the master. Like my or your sword."

The two majestic fair men met each other's gaze. Both looked at each other with deep disappointment and resentment.

"It is evil! It is a sin, Arthur." Galahad spat out, "If you free magic, you won't live a year. These people are spoiled with their power and you will never be able to control it. They will come after you. You have no idea what you're agreeing to."

"Not everything in this world needs to be controlled." Merlin interjected with a dare.

Galahad gave him an annoyed look. "I'm talking to the King, Merlin. Keep quiet when you're not asked."

"But Merlin is right." Arthur intervened. "Let the people decide for themselves what to believe in. Whose faith is right, that is what will survive. A king cannot meddle in matters of spirit, our share is elsewhere."

"A king is what God chooses him to be!"

Merlin, filled with gratitude and pride, listened to Arthur and could not believe his ears, could not believe that the image he had only dreamed of before, the image of the strong and brave king who was born to speak these words of truth and mercy was real. It was his Arthur. By revealing the truth about his magic and how it has been saving him all this time Merlin has finally shown Arthur the path he needed to take and walk on his own, more and more confidently with each step.

Now all will see that the prophecies were right and magic will flourish under Arthur's rule.

"And what do you think I'm doing?"

"You doom the people to darkness!." Galahad shouted, losing control.

"I am giving them freedom and choice. Just like it was before the Purge." Arthur objected. His face fell at the sight of his cousin's despair and anger. "Galahad, you are a sorcerer but you are not dark."

"You don't know, Arthur. You know nothing." Galahad covered his face with his palms, and then ran his hands through his golden hair, smoothing it back. "Please tell me you've changed your mind," He begged, "Let me send Sir Allan to Gorre for grain. Let me destroy the last shrine."

"No, Brother. I forbid it. Besides, whatever you do you cannot destroy the Higher Power anyway. If you continue destroying these places you may bring even more danger upon us." Arthur sat down again. "Don't touch what you don't understand."

"You are making a huge mistake, Cousin. I can't support you in this. I can't watch you…" Galahad stopped talking and straightened his shoulders, the grim determination gleamed in his eyes.

"I will understand if you decide to return home to Sir Agravaine and Lady Anne. But for now, I ask that you convene the Royal Council and attend this meeting. You are still my seneschal."

"You have not yet been crowned to order everyone around, Arthur." Galahad turned on his heels and walked away of the study with a heavy step.

Somewhere further down the corridors, the door of his laboratory slammed loudly.

Arthur sighed and looked at his friends. "I think I've just lost not only my sister but my brother as well."

"He will calm down." Sir Leon remarked. "Sooner or later."

Merlin lowered his head and hid a faintly satisfied smile. He didn't even have to somehow trick Arthur into persuading him to kick Galahad out of Camelot. Galahad did it himself. Very convenient. "Arthur." he called out to him. "I have an idea."

"What's on your mind, Merlin?" Arthur turned to him, still saddened by the argument with Galahad.

"Something that might help Camelot." Merlin pulled a shabby scroll from the inside pocket of his jacket and unfolded it on the table. The Knights and Gwen stepped closer to gave it a look.

The scroll depicted a hunched old man wearing a hooded cloak. The long wavy lines seemed to depict a rain, but the old man was protected by a semi-circular sphere above that protected him from the drops.

"And who is that?"

"Not who, but what. It's an anti-rain spell. It won't be able to cover the whole kingdom, of course, but the castle... We can try."

Arthur first looked at Merlin with cautious interest, then back at the drawing.

"Sounds good, mate." Sir Gwaine spoke up, "Pity we don't have a benevolent wizard around, you know." He grinned. "So we'll have to keep getting wet."

Merlin closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. "Well, why not." He said slowly and clearly. "We have one." Then he opened his eyes and looked meaningfully at his friends.

Gwaine's face expressed an utter confusion, then he cursed quietly. Leon frowned, trying to figure out what he has probably missed. Lancelot coughed quietly, and Gwen widened her eyes in realisation, she was the first to realise what Merlin meant. Who he meant. Everyone turned to their King, waiting for his reaction to this stunning news. Arthur smiled approvingly.

When the truth finally settled, everyone gasped. "Merlin!..." Everyone but Lancelot.

"You're the only one not surprised, Lance." Arthur remarked, watching his friends' reactions.

"I'm only here with you because Merlin had saved me with the help of his magic."

"You too?" wondered Arthur.

Merlin hummed. Being himself in front of his friends was so odd. They didn't hate him. Sure, they're shocked, maybe it's hard for them to comprehend, but he didn't find hatred and terror of himself in them.

"How I didn't realise it before!" Gwen gave Merlin a quick hug and smiled supportively at her friend. "Why didn't you come to us sooner? Arthur, how long have you known?"

"I guess if it wasn't for the threat to my life Merlin would never have confessed, would he? Our Merlin prefers to act behind the backs..." Arthur smiled crookedly. Merlin hadn't trusted them enough to tell them earlier, it was a shame, but the past was in the past.

Merlin shrugged nervously and giggled, he was in the verge of crying. He hoped Arthur would never find out about his role in Morgana's escape – or rather, escapes – and about other dubious things he had to do for him.

"So you can cover us all like an umbrella, Merlin?" Gwaine gave a whistle.

They all saw their good old Merlin in a new light.

"I'll try." he shrugged once more and smiled charmingly. "But don't tell anyone else. Keep the magic secret." 

Mordred snapped his fingers and a transparent protective dome covered him, Morgana and their horses. "Druid trick." he hummed.

"Thanks." Morgana shivered slightly. She didn't like damp. "Do you think it's not just rain? Could it be the next plague?" She looked around Brocéliande. It was flooded with torrents of water from the sky, they were tormenting leaves and eroding paths. The hooves of their horses got stuck in the wet soil and clay.

Mordred closed his eyes and listened to the aura of the Forest. Something was not quite right. The greens and golds were covered in a patina, in some grey shadow.

"It usually rains in the spring when nature smooths the ground to receive seeds. But this... In my memory, there have been no such rains in the worst of autumns. This must be Goddess's work."

Morgana agreed with him. In her first autumn in Brocéliande, the rains had been less frequent. They were more like a transparent veil of moisture and mist than those merciless torrents that bent sprouts and fragile flower stems to the ground, washed roots out of the earth that would no longer serve as food, flooded animal dens and the newborn cubs in them.

"I can't wait to get home."

They turned onto the secret druid path, riding together under the protection of the magic dome. But not even the rain could stop the nauseating bitter smell that found them long before they have reached the camp of the Brocéliande clan.

"What is that smell?" Morgana wrinkled her nose. "Meat? Did someone burn dinner?"

Mordred opened his mouth, wanting to think of a joke to make Morgana laugh, but the words stuck in his throat and his thoughts messed into a panicked knot.

"Morgana..." his voice fell lifelessly.

"Mordred? What's up?" Morgana turned to him and was alarmed to see that her lover has turned deathly pale, his eyes darted from tree to tree unable to focus, and the reins fell from his weakened hands.

"Mordred?" She frowned, "Are you not feeling well?" Morgana rode closer to him and that moment the protective dome disappeared.

Mordred no longer had enough energy to maintain the spell. The downpour rained down with renewed fury on the druid and the healer once more.

"What's happening? Tell me!" Morgana got instantly soaked.

"I can sense...the aura of death all around. Everywhere..." he muttered weakly with a numb tongue. "Morgana... I'm scared...."

Morgana's eyes widened with horror. She turned sharply round to where the druid camp was supposed to be hidden behind the tall trees. Spurring her horse, she dashed there.

"Aglain! Ruadan! Shinna!... We've come back!" she shouted into the trees.

But no one answered.

"Sir Galahad won't like this," Merlin quietly remarked, secretly expecting to hear from Arthur that he no longer cared what Galahad thought.

Arthur answered nothing, however. He made an indefinable sound and walked down the stairs. "Open the doors." he ordered the guards, and was the first to enter the cell.

On the floor, leaning against the bars of a nearby empty cell, sat a girl in a grey cloak thrown over a maidservant's dress. Her hands were shackled with the same anti-witch coldiron chain Morgana had been shackled with earlier. Her scratches had been healed with the same ointment Gaius used on Morgana.

Arthur gave a cough.

The girl instantly opened her eyes and jumped to her feet, clasping her chained hands to her chest in a protective gesture. But her eyes, they looked at Arthur without fear, she held her chin high.

"What, has the King himself come to observe my execution? Know that I will never admit my guilt! Never!" Kara shouted in his face.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not going to execute you, druidess."

"I need no your pity, King!"

"Fine. For I'm not going to pity you either." Arthur stated dryly. "You are sentenced to banishment from Camelot for the rest of your days. The chains will be removed as soon as you cross the border."

Kara looked shocked, but soon pulled herself together. "I will return, and finish what I started! Or any other of my brothers and sisters will return, we will know no rest until we are free!"

"You will be free. His Majesty is preparing a pardon for the Old Religion." Merlin stepped out of the darkness and looked at the one that almost became the end of everything he hoped for. "Tell your brothers and sisters about this."

Kara stared at his triquetra visible only to druids. She stared at him as if he was a ghost, and covered her mouth with her hand, weakly squeezing out an "E-emrys..."

"Guards! Take the condemned and escort her to the courtyard." ordered Arthur.

He didn't notice anything particularly unusual in the way she looked at Merlin. Arthur has never been an observant man. The girl must not have expected to hear about the amnesty, as they all did. Arthur himself was admittedly shocked at himself.

A quarter of an hour later the cart, swaying and stumbling, took the drenched Kara and the castle guards out of the castle.

As soon as they were outside the castle walls, a young man in dark clothes jumped out of the bushes and ran after the cart. Kara lifted her sad, pensive head, and brightened at the sight of him. Daegal soon caught up with them and jumped in.

The guard turned round sharply. "Hey you, get out of here right now! We don't take travelers in!"

"She is my friend."

"I don't give a damn! That lass is an outlaw and soon she'll be thrown out of Camelot for good! Get out of here unless you want to go with her, lad!"

"And what if I want to?" Daegal smiled sweetly at Kara and held out a flask of water to her and a piece of bread wrapped in a cloth. "How are you? I feared for you."

"I saw Emrys, Daegal..." she whispered, taking a sip.

He tensed, remembering that druidic legend he'd either read about in one of the books from the "Scrolls and Codices" or heard from Kara herself. "Wait, the Emrys? The one you the Druids believe in?"

"Yes."

And they left Camelot.

Mordred fell to his knees in the middle of the camp, his black cloak spread across the grass like a lake of ink. Morgana stood beside him, a petrified statue. The only living moving part of her was her tears. They flowed downward relentlessly, washing her face with grief. She just cannot stop crying.

"How...who did this?" Mordred wheezed out, rubbing his face with his hands, as if what he has seen here could be wiped out, as if it was not forever imprinted on their faces, in their eyes, in their hearts.

A pile of blackened bones, scraps of cloth, a pyre. Abomination; devastation.

"Who did this?!.."

At this cry, Morgana sprang to life. She noticed it, the sinister signet. She broke her stupor, and strode swiftly to the nearby oak tree. She plucked Sir Allan's dagger from the trunk with a fierce fury. Furiously she crumpled the damp paper in her hands and threw it at Mordred's feet.

He picked up the sheet of the golden dragon and the inscription "House of Pendragon" from the muddy, wet ground.

Realising in whose name this was done, Mordred gasped. His eyes went blank and his face contorted in a mask of evil agony. The ground around him began vibrating and shaking, and leaves and blades of grass lifted into the air and swirled in a whirlpool around him. His throat gave a low moan that threatened to become an all-deafening scream. And then Morgana got truly frightened. She realised that in a moment this scream, this power of rage that lurked in Mordred, would kill her too, kill her unknowingly to him as it had killed her father Gorlois and the Knights of Cornwallis; and she herself would join the dead druids and lie here deathless among those who were her spiritual family.

"Mordred. Hush. Hush. Be quiet."

Morgana knelt down in the wet dirt beside him and cradled his head, pressed him to herself. Her arms held his body tight, keeping him from leaping into the abyss. He nuzzled into her neck, squeezed her sides painfully, and suppressed the cry that become only a sob lost in the wet shabby fabric of her cloak.

Slowly, the air around them calmed, and the strain of the deadly magic subsided.

"All will be well. You can ask me how but only time will tell." Through a sob, Morgana muttered Mordred's favourite saying.

And they stood like this, knelt, embracing each other in the middle of the dead druid camp.

It had been reduced to ashes. Completely destroyed. The goats, dogs and geese had already scattered when they arrived. All that remained were charred broken tents, burnt and overturned wagons, their household goods and trinkets crushed by armoured feet. Things and houses lay in disarray, torn down by the all-destroying hand of Camelot. And the people... They were ash. The ash the bodies of their friends had turned into; they were just the blackened bones. The last traces of them were being washed away by the rain streams.

When Mordred finally let go of Morgana, he seemed a little relieved, she thought briefly, it was only rain and not tears on his dead pale cheeks, but then his gaze fell on that dark thing at the pyre, that deformed thing that might once have been Aglain, and he vomited.

"Hold on, please." Morgana put a flask of water into his weakened hand.

She got up and set off to wander around the camp.
She was already forgetting, inevitably forgetting how cosy and peaceful this forest refuge had been, the refuge that had saved her. Those welcoming voices and the calm warmth of the magical fires. Their feasts and prayers, their songs, their pure-hearted help. The Druids were a family that shared everything with each other, that believed in peace, good vibes and love that united the world. They never wanted to repay evil with evil. They ran and hid and waited for the New Age.

What if she will be able to remember only this, only the darkness and death? These people deserved more from her. Her tears mingled with the rain; bitter smell of burnt human flesh and wood made her dizzy. Morgana stepped over the mess of planks and cloth, walked between the trees, and stepped into the Stone Circle.

There was a chopped wound on one of the monoliths, where the rune of some forgotten language was carved. It was as if someone had struck it with all his might, either with an axe or a halberd but had failed to destroy it, and then abandoned it to do something else. Burn the camp to the ground, for instance. Morgana touched the sacred stone, and the touch echoed in her with a strange ache. It was as if the green spirits that frequented this place were weeping with her. And with an effort of will she forced herself to think about what had happened and what to do next.

Arthur knew everything. He had lied to her that Mordred had gone into the forest without her, when in fact he was sure Mordred was dead. He had locked her away so that she would not return to the camp and see what he had done, what he had turned it into. Into the mountain of dead bodies dragged and piled in one place and set on fire. Arthur hid it even from Merlin. He was not going to listen to the Triple Goddess and bow to the Old Religion, otherwise why was the rain still lashing the ground mercilessly, carrying the ashes of her loved ones in its streamlets?

Arthur Pendragon is a traitor, oppressor and cruel murderer.

Morgana turned away from the damaged stone. On the edge of her consciousness, she noted how the tiny spark of hatred inside of her ignited by the water of her tears flared into a black, intense flame. She averted her gaze and let it burn.

In the centre of the Stone Circle, a tiny oak tree sprouted from the ground.

Morgana squatted down and touched it with her fingertip. Somehow the sight of its fragile stem and single bright green cheerful leaf made her weak again. Why was a tree growing here now? What for? No one would live and pray here anymore, no one would be here to celebrate the turn of the Wheel of the Year and feast with the food so hard gathered and preserved. No one will come to the place of death, forever cursed by the druid's cries of pain. Even non-sensers will always feel the dark energy of what happened here.

The history of the Brocéliande clan began with the High Priestess Nimueh's advice to come, and ended with Leader Aglain who didn't manage to leave. Both the one who showed the way and the one who followed it were now dead. The distant sea clan of Leader Iseldir remained the last druidic clan of Camelot.

Morgana bit her lower lip. Just as she was about to unleash her anger and rip the oak sprout out of the ground, step on it with her boot and crush it down, there was a rustle of leaves to her right. Morgana stood up and turned round.

A grey wolf with golden eyes was looking at her from the bushes covered in silvery drops of water. His intelligent and keen eyes showed her that he knew everything and could smell the ashes coming from the Druid healer. A healer who could now only wound, not treat. For those she cared for were dead, those she hoped for betrayed her.

Morgana froze as the wolf took a step towards her. His silvery fur shimmered in the dim misty light, its strong paws crumpled trilliums in the grass. In an instant, there was no one and nothing in all of Brocéliande but the two of them. She stretched her hand out towards him.

But when she almost touched the wolf, he raised his narrow muzzle and howled. It was a wail of sorrow and a battle cry; and then he turned and fled swiftly and silently into the woods, leaving Morgana alone.

Morgana, come back. Mordred's voice sounded in her mind.

"Sir Lancelot!"

Arthur found him and Gwen in the castle courtyard.

Merlin's magic dome protected the castle and the courtyard quite well, and refugees from the flooded villages flocked to Camelot in search of warmth and shelter. Many forgot their fear of magic when they saw kindness and care in the sensational, tremendous gesture of the young king who decided to use magic as a force for good. Arthur and Merlin agreed not to tell anyone that the 'good wizard' who had helped Camelot was actually Merlin, for it could still be unsafe to reveal his true identity.

Sir Galahad reacted to the sacrilege of placing a magical defence over the castle with suspicious calm. Arthur, however, was pleased that his cousin hadn't made a scene, had not imposed his beliefs on him, and had simply gone about his business.

Now Arthur was watching with amusement as Gwen and Lancelot together walked through the open galleries of the castle, took care of sick children and old people, kept the fire burning in bronze barrels placed in the corners, as they shared food and blankets with the poor. Guinevere and Lancelot were the perfect embodiment of goodness and true beauty. "See, Father? And this despite the fact that they are both commoners." Arthur remarked to himself, once again convinced that he made the right choice of fiancée and friend.

"Lancelot!" he called louder again, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled.

At the sound of his voice, Lancelot and Gwen flinched and jumped away from each other as if frightened. Lancelot hurried over to Arthur and bowed his head. "Arthur."

"Lance. It's time. I need to talk to you."

"At your service."

Gwen followed them with a glance. She put her hand on the head of a coughing, frail little boy, and caressed it absentmindedly. Soon a Royal Council would gather in Camelot, where Arthur would announce an amnesty for the Old Religion. Of the servants, only Merlin and the other personal helpers of the barons, lords and nobles would be present. Despite the rain, many made every effort to come to Camelot for the event. Those who weren't able to attend the meeting in person sent their squire entourage, and where squires failed to come merchants of the first guild took their place.

Gwen returned to her work, consumed by mixed feelings: guilt that she has spend too much time with Lancelot, and excitement at how the Council would go.

Arthur and Lancelot left the courtyard occupied by the refugees and went inside the castle.

"Where is Merlin?" asked Lancelot, "I expected him to be helping the refugees with me and Gwen."

"Merlin helps Sir Ector, Baron of the Camlann Mountains. Alliance with him was valued by my father; he had not always been on the side of the Pendragons as he is now. When he and his son Sir Kay have come for the Council, I sent Merlin to assist them as a mark of special respect." Arthur explained, his energetic stride and squared shoulders didn't really suit his inner state.

"Are you nervous, Arthur?" Lancelot touched his shoulder lightly.

"I am." Arthur was honest. "I'm about to destroy what my father spent two decades building. What do I have in return? The hope that my kingdom won't sink. My sister ran away, my cousin doesn't speak to me, and my servant turned out to be a secret sorcerer. Everything's changing too quickly. At least, I can count on you, Lance."

Arthur looked up at the ceiling as if he wanted to see the magic dome that Merlin had set up earlier. It was a miracle. While the whole kingdom was soaking and drowning, Camelot Castle was a haven of dryness and cleanliness.

"You'll do good, Arthur." Lancelot stopped, and Arthur looked back at him after walking a few more steps. "You should now that we are with you. I believe you are on the right path."

"Thank you." Arthur found himself flattered and smiled. But it didn't last long. He took a deep breath, remembering the unpleasant news about Morgana. They walked on, heading towards the Council Hall.

"The guards have returned. They scoured the city and surrounding villages, my sister was not found."

"I'm sorry." Lancelot said politely, unsure however of whether that was a good or bad thing. "Arthur, I know you care about the Lady Morgana but have you ever considered that, given the circumstances, Milady might have been better off with the druids? They are good people."

Arthur's voice was quiet and depressed. "Even if that were so, what I doubt, she can't be with them anymore."

"What do you mean, she can't?"

"As kidnappers of the King Uther's Ward and the Princess of Camelot they were executed."

Lancelot stopped again, unable to believe his ears. "How, Arthur?" his voice trembled, "Lady Morgana did not say she was kidnapped...She would have given me a sign...I would have understood. I saw she was loved at that place."

Arthur noticed that Lancelot was deeply distressed by the news. In truth, it was making him uncomfortable too. "Legally they were. I feared for Morgana. The voice, the chaos, you have no idea what it was like...It was Galahad's idea, and I permitted it. No prisoners were taken."

"I see." Lancelot's heart sank. He remembered Leader Aglain, Lady Elaine, the other Druids who had welcomed him so warmly despite his knightly origins...It was a loss to Lancelot's good heart, even though he had known them so briefly.

"I consider it a mistake. A foolish mistake." Arthur confessed. "Lance?"

"I understand."

"But will Morgana do...?"

After a moment, they continued on their way, streaks of light and shadow sliding across their faces.

The guards opened large doors decorated with the carvings of dragons, swords and suns, and the King and the Knight entered the Council Hall.

Mordred has re-established the protective dome over the glade that had once been the camp. He curled himself up under a tree, his knees drawn up to his chest. A campfire was lit nearby. Light tear tracks traced their way down his dusty face. A flaming sword was stuck into the ground in front of him, catching the reflection of the campfire. Soft flickering tongues of flame flowed like water down the pure metal of the sword and dissolved into the black earth; and at the touch, the circle began again.

Morgana approached him slowly. She finally saw the real him.

Mordred was that Black Knight with the fiery sword from her dreams and visions, always has been, that shadow was always lurking beneath the druid humble guise. And alongside the Black Knight should be the Dark Queen as well. How has she not realised this before? Morgana widened her eyes, gasped quietly, and felt the final revelation descend upon her from the heavens, wash over her, make her lips stretch into a smile of no joy. And she realised the reason for her prophetic dreams and the true meaning of all this, and clung to that understanding tighter than to her own crumbling poor excuse of a life.

Morgana sat down on the ground next to Mordred. Her skirts were stained with mud, her cloak tattered, her wet tangled hair stuck to her neck. Never had she felt worse, but never more confident.

"What kind of magic is this?" she muttered hoarsely, eyeing the sword of the Crystal Cave. She's been seeing this very sword in her dreams for months but it was there all along, with her. 

"I don't know. It's always been like this." Mordred shrugged absently, then, with an effort, focused on Morgana. "You left me here alone. Alone with them. Why?" with his gaze he pointed to the ash and bones in the centre of the glade, an ugly grey-black heap. "Their energy is...still here, Morgana. It's driving me mad."

"I'm sorry, Mordred. But it's hard for me, too. I needed to think."

Mordred looked at the sword again. Its flame hypnotised him. He found that thinking only of the sword dulled the pain, took away the cold shiver in his body and the urge to destroy and kill every breathing thing around. The fiery blade comforted him.

"Why didn't you tell me the sword was magical?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I didn't share something with you either." Morgana pulled Dochraid's coin from her pocket and held it out to Mordred. 

He took it and studied it without interest. Unlike the runemark of death, which was inscribed with symbols and ogham of the Ancient Folk, the runemark of life had only a simple engraving of a spiral and nothing else.

"What is it?" he handed it to Morgana again.

"The rune of life. Dorchraid gave it to me."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I got the feeling she didn't want you to know. I really don't know why and it doesn't matter anymore. She said the coin can bring the dead back to life." Morgana spoke faster, "Do you know what that means, Mordred? We can bring them back to life, bring back Aglain and the others!" She froze and waited, discouraged by Mordred's lack of joyful response.

"It won't work." Tears in his eyes welled up again, and his lips curled in disappointment. "Necromancy doesn't work on burnt bodies. Only on a buried and preserved form. Neither Lady Morgause nor even Dochraid herself can revive them." He managed not to cry again, and continued, "That is why we the Druids still adhere to the ancient custom of burning bodies. So that the souls of the dead have no place to return to, so a necromancer will have nothing to retrieve and revive. Burial and crypts for the nobility have come much later when the Old Ways started to be forgotten. But rumoured that those who returned would be but a shade of who they were."

Morgana's heart fell yet again, and she tucked the coin into her pocket.

"Do you think this is my fault, Mordred?" she looked up into his face, afraid to see agreement there.

"It is Pendragon's fault." he spat out in disgust. "He turned out to be the wrong person." Morgana has never before seen such an embittered expression on his previously calm kind face. "It wasn't you, Morgana. Nor Emrys; he helped me."

For some reason, it was still important to him to stick with Emrys.

"I feel differently," Morgana muttered despite the relief she felt – Mordred didn't blame her, thanks Goddess — "I feel I must atone for this blood. Druids shall not die in vain."

"What do you mean?" Mordred frowned grimly.

"I've got it all figured out, Mordred." With a fanatical gleam in her eyes, Morgana moved closer to him and gripped his wrists. "My dreams, why I was shown whose daughter I am, why you were given the sword, it was all for a reason. I have seen this all in my dreams, but they weren't predictions, they were indications of a path. That's what we have to do. You and me."

"I don't get it. I thought you were a seer? Seers see the future."

"I used to think so, too. But now I see things differently." she explained fervently, "What is the future but the path we choose to follow? Arthur is a murderer and an oppressor of our faith. Do you remember what Goddess said?" Mordred could not remember for he had technically been dead, but she continued, "For refusing to bow to our faith his reign will be destroyed. He has refused. And it will be done by us, Mordred, with your sword of fire and the power I wield. That is what our Goddess wants us to do." Morgana declared with gloom satisfaction.

Mordred, stunned, stared at her.

"We will avenge our Clan. I am the eldest daughter and I have more right to Camelot throne. I will overthrow Arthur and do what must have been done years ago – the Old Religion will reign again. Do you know what Dochraid had said when she gave me the coin? That it is for me, not Emrys, to bring the Old Ways back to Albion!"

"Morgana, calm down." Mordred fidgeted uneasily. "You want to kill the King?"

But on the contrary, she only grew more agitated, the green fire of determination and conviction burned in her eyes bright. "No, if I have a chance not to...He's still my brother."
She would only drive him away to wander homeless in poverty and fear. If she'll be lucky, he will be casted away from Albion to the mainland.

"Then what do you mean?"

"I already said. We will be Her hand and judgement. Don't you want them to pay for what they've done? Mordred, our life is over because of Arthur. We have nothing and no one!."

He sighed heavily. "Revenge. It goes against everything Aglain taught."

Morgana leaned over to him, took his face in her hands and turned it towards her, forcing Mordred to look into her eyes. "And where did that get him? Aglain is gone forever. Forgiveness and love are remedies for times of peace. But they have declared a war of annihilation on our kind and magic itself, and I don't know about you, Mordred, but I want to win. I can't stand it anymore. I want to save what's left of our people, or they'll get us all killed! Do you think we deserve this? That our family deserved all this?"

"No. You don't say so." He clenched his jaw. "And how do you intend to do that, Morgana?"

"I have an idea." Morgana stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, and Mordred saw the hot tears streaming down her face again.

"What is it?" He suddenly felt so sorry for her, from the bottom of his heart. Morgana clearly did not want to go down the path of judgement, but they were left with no choice but to do what is right. Arthur's men killed not only the Clan, but also his and her former selves, killed who they wanted to be and would never be again; and for this Mordred was angry. He suddenly wanted to hurt Pendragon the way they were hurting now, to see him weeping, lost and defeated.

And it was more than hatred, it was justice. She was right.

Morgana stood up, and unhooked the Saxon sword from her saddle. Turning back to Mordred, she stuck it next to his flaming sword into the ground. The foreign runes glittered in the firelight.

"This." 

Chapter Text

"My Friends." Arthur's loud voice echoed solemnly off the white walls of the Council Hall. "First, I would ask you to honour the memory of my father and king, Sir Uther Pendragon..." He closed his eyes and bowed his head in prayer.

Everyone stood up and followed his example. Sir Galahad waited a few seconds and opened his eyes. He glanced furtively at Arthur. The young king wore a modest crown prince circlet and the red cloak of a Knight of Camelot over his black mourning robes.

Despite the look of sadness on Arthur's face, Galahad concluded that he was merely pretending to be grieving. A sincerely loving son could not have so disappointed his father by setting himself on a path that is not good, on a path of treachery and heresy. If he, Galahad, was Uther's son, if he and Arthur switched places, he would never have done such a thing. But alas, if he was the son of such great King as Uther Pendragon, he would left home much sooner to avoid disgracing his father with his shameful illness. His magic had already prevented him from joining Uther"s court earlier, although he wanted to.

Still, he decided to give Arthur one last chance. Galahad looked at Arthur, and the brotherly feelings echoed in his heart with sorrow, it pained him to tear them away from there, but there was more at stake than just familial love.

"Please Arthur, don't do this. Stop." Galahad prayed quietly these days, but it seemed Arthur has fallen away more than even he expected. Perhaps his sister had bewitched him? Perhaps he shouldn't have let Arthur go to see her, shouldn't let him visit her in her chambers. He hadn't listened to his own misgivings and now things had gone too far.

When Arthur announced at breakfast that he has enlisted the help of some "good wizard" to set a protective dome over the Castle, white rage blinded Galahad's sight for a moment. But he kept silent, clenching his jaw, or he might have ruined everything he's been harbouring these days. Only the sudden movements of his hands and head, the way he threw the fork and knife loudly onto his plate when he finished, could give him away. But Arthur could never see past the end of his nose.

Galahad was preparing a rescue in case Arthur really was as bad as he feared.

He ran out of the dining room and rushed to the window. The castle courtyard was clean and dry, an invisible force field protected the Castle and the town from the disaster. This wizard must have been very powerful to be able to build such a large dome, Galahad concluded with a slight fright. And the destruction of the Sources has not affected him in any way, though even Galahad himself kept noticing signs of weakness in himself with satisfaction and scientific interest. Just in case, he opened the sash and tried to destroy the magical shield, but only a slight golden ripple in the dome showed he ever tried to bother it.

Disappointed, Galahad lowered his hand, which had no magic strong enough to resist this sorcery, and maybe for the first time in his life he regretted he has never been a truly powerful mage. Years of self-torture and denial had drained him of his potential might.

If there were still powerful wizards like this suspicious "friend" of Arthur's, it meant that everything he had been working on this winter was not as important as he wanted to believe, and the destruction of the small Sources had not undermined the magical world as much as he hoped.

And now Galahad just stood in the Council Hall and watched Arthur assassinating himself, his country, assassinating their kinship. His empty, hypocritical words of hollow mercy and acceptance, peace and second chances, despite the beautiful shell he enveloped them in, were rotten and false inside.

"And that's what I want to build. To take the first step towards Unity, Peace, Equality," Arthur spoke, gesticulating his strong emotions with his big hands.

His silly Merlin glowed as though he has won the best prize, and Arthur's loyal knights looked proudly at the others.

"And so I declare to you, Sirs and Lords, that by my first Royal Decree I intend to grant amnesty to the followers of the Old Religion and those of their practices that do not harm the peace and order of the Realm of Camelot...!"

Galahad turned away and screwed his face up. The worst has happened. Arthur has sealed his fate. King's loud voice melted into the silence that followed the impact of those words, but a moment later the council hall exploded with gasps, shouts, cries of outrage and surprise, exclamations of support and denial, arguments and commotion.

"Gentlemen, please, listen!" Arthur raised his voice, "You have nothing to fear! My sister the Lady Morgana of Cornwallis saved me, she prevented an assassination attempt on me, and my wizard friend saved our castle from the rain! Don't you see that magic can work for us!"

"So let him and your sorceress sister work for you, it doesn't mean you should let do magic everyone else!" someone from the barons shouted.

Galahad saw Arthur look confused at the revolted barons. He has clearly expected otherwise. Did he think that all nobles only dreamed of getting their old opponents in power? Dreamed of falling back into the chaos of anarchy that reigned in Camelot before King Uther? Dreamed of tolerating the Priestesses and their girls in their lands again? Did Arthur think that barons want shaking in fear at night and wear protective amulets again? Galahad hummed softly and shook his head at Arthur's naivety and feeble efforts.

Chaotic sea of noise was suddenly silenced when Abbot Ambrosius of the Isle of Éire, the founder of the first New Religion abode in Albion, stood up from his chair beside Galahad's and coughed. He was old and bald, but still sturdy. During his years of wandering through many marvellous and uncharted lands in each of which he had left a monastery, the Abbot gained wisdom and great patience. He had shown sympathy for Galahad's ideas and worries, and Galahad knew he had his support.

"So, Sir Arthur Pendragon, you claim you intend to sign the blood pact with a demon? Your Father, before his untimely death, promised me and my brothers quite the opposite and I trusted that our arrangements would be continued by you, his Son. May I remind you, Arthur Pendragon, that he promised us freedom and peace and a place for a monastery in the Brocéliande Forest."

Galahad nodded supportively to the Abbot.

Arthur turned to them and took a deep breath.
"My Father acted out of consideration for what his epoch dictated, the way he understood it. But a new age is coming, an age of unity in which there is a room for your monastery and the camps of the forest people. Abbot, how can you see the suffering of the people of Camelot and close your heart to them? I cannot bear to see the punishment meant for me fall upon them...The lesson Our Lord once gave to the King of Egypt taught me well."

Now the colourful crowd of Camelot nobles and ambassadors from other Kingdoms had eyes only for Arthur.

"And I assure you, Abbot, I have no intention of signing anything other than this Decree. In plain ink no blood. Merlin," he asked, and the manservant gave him the scroll, "I will only give my people and us freedom and peace. What if magic is not a pure evil? Didn't God Himself teach us to be merciful and forgiving to others?"

Abbot Ambrosius turned to Galahad, confused, at a loss for words; and Galahad cringed, growing darker by the second.

Only Arthur and he have remained calm and collected among the panicked and excited barons. They were sitting at opposite ends of a long rectangular table covered with a red and gold satin tablecloth. Their gazes met above the heads of the barons and crossed sharply like the gleaming sword blades. Arthur stood up and stepped resolutely from the table, took three steps and stopped in the middle of the room opposite the window. He lifted the scroll with the Pardon Decree higher.

"Sirs and Lords, who is with me for the united Albion?"

Galahad pushed back his chair, stood up, stepped forward, and approached Arthur with a brisk step. Arthur looked surprised; an uncertain, friendly smile lit up his face. Has his dear cousin changed his attitude and decided to support him at last?

But then Galahad snatched the decree from his hand, tore it in two part, and threw the ruined parchment at Arthur's feet as if it was a dueling glove.

"Camelot will not accept the revival of the Old Ways." he declared solemnly, "It is a violation of everything Camelot was founded on. You can't live in the past, Arthur. Accept it and start acting like a righteous king should."

"But Camelot was built on magic too, it is an unbreakable bond..." Arthur repeated some of Merlin's words, less confidently than he would have liked. "The common people still respect the Old Religion, and certainly don't want the Plagues to continue..."

Galahad stepped back. Abbot Ambrosius and Sir Allan, Knight of Camelot, walked proudly up to him. Then many of the barons slowly rose from their seats and joined Galahad's side. They looked at Arthur with challenge and wariness.

Galahad smiled slightly. Everything has turned out as he wanted, as he has been working on these days, coaxing the Council to oppose Arthur's madness, to oppose a young and inexperienced monarch who had fallen under the influence of evil forces and his forsaken sister's deception.

"Galahad...What are you doing?" Arthur, deeply wounded, asked, seeking his cousin's gaze. He looked round the council chamber, at the people he was used to trust, used to respect, many of whom he had known since childhood, taking not his sides, betraying him. "What is this? I'm your brother." He accepted him despite his magic, made him his seneschal and this is what he gets?..

Galahad raised his head proudly and hid his hands in the white folds of his cloak. He wasn't moved by this not in the slightest. "And so, in the name of our brotherhood, I call you out one last time, Arthur. Come to your senses and do not ruin the Realm. Look at how many people are protesting you." Galahad made a gesture with his hand, showing the enormity of dignitaries who sided with him.

"Now look, Sir Galahad, at those who remain on His Majesty's side." Sir Leon thundered, stepping up to Arthur and placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of firm support. "Look at those who remain loyal!"

"We believe in what King Arthur wants to build." Sir Lancelot added, and stood beside Arthur.

In a moment, Arthur was joined by the other knights of Camelot (all but Sir Allan) and Merlin. There were fewer barons on his side than on Galahad's but among them, to the surprise of both parties, were the powerful Lord Ector, his son Sir Kay and their knights. Arthur smiled gratefully at them and cheered up. He was not alone, he was not left without support.

The Royal Council has split into two parts each looking hostilely at the other, each seeing the other as traitors and wrong doers.

"You can't build a New Age by looking at the past. The future is ours." Galahad shook his head. With the support behind him he suddenly looked so strong and spirited, he was glowing despite the tragedy of separation.

"All right," Arthur squared his shoulders proudly. "If you are unwilling to listen to me as your brother, then you will listen to your King, Sir Galahad. I order everyone to cease the rebellion immediately. We will all ratify the Decree and all this will finally end." Arthur, losing patience, pointed his hand at the window, where the rain was poring down steadily.

"You are a king, Arthur, but not an emperor," one of Galahad's barons, Lord Leodegrand, spoke up, "We too have freedoms and rights guaranteed in our lands. We have our holy right to disobey when the king is autocratic and leading us all to ruin."

They rallied tighter around Galahad.

"You may be king, young Arthur, but all authority is from the Heavens, not the Earth." Abbot Ambrosius muttered, he alone remained seated at the table not joining to either party.

"You are not yet crowned, Arthur. Not a drop of the holy myrrh has yet touched your golden locks," Galahad allowed himself an ironic smile, but a moment later he sounded serious and more confident, "And you are not the only heir to the Pendragon throne. There's your older sister, Lady Morgana...And me."

Arthur gave a sharp gasp as if he's been slapped.

"Through Her Majesty Lady Ygraine, I am entitled to the throne. But you know perfectly well I'm not seeking power, Arthur, I—"

"Enough of this pompous talk! Bow to the will of the King, you pathetic usurper!" Sir Gwaine exclaimed indignantly, drew his sword, and swung at Sir Galahad.

The latter did not even touch his own sword. "Offerswing!" he shouted, and Gwaine flew backwards, hit his back against the wall and fell to the floor unconscious.

Merlin twitched instinctively at the manifestation of Galahad's magic and almost gave himself away. He almost lost control. The only thing that stopped him was that Galahad immediately lowered his hand and hid it in the folds of his cloak again, clearly not intending to use any more of the power he was ashamed of in himself. "See what you've made me do, Arthur? I expect chivalrous behaviour from you, and I intend to stick to it myself. You are not yet so steeped in the Old Religion that you have rejected chivalry code, are you?" Galahad hurled an accusation.

He turned on his heels and walked away. The guards obediently opened the doors and Galahad quietly left the Council Hall. He was followed by the barons, their knights and servants, Abbot Ambrosius and Sir Allan.

Arthur's men were left alone. They exchanged glances and mentally promised themselves to go to the end with Arthur, no matter what happens next.

Arthur rushed to the window and watched Galahad and his men saddle their horses and leave Camelot, disappearing behind the veil of rain. Merlin came closer from behind him. He was silent, but Arthur felt his presence. "Why didn't you stop him immediately, Arthur? Why let them get away?"

"Because it would have covered me with dishonour. A coward king is a disgrace to the realm. Galahad and the Barons have challenged me and my credo, and I must accept the trial by all the rules."

Arthur turned to Merlin and the warlock read the confusion and mental struggle, the surprise at finding himself on the side of magic against his father's men on his face. "Please, Merlin, tell me I'm doing the right thing." he begged quietly.

"You are. I'm so proud of you."

"When servants are glad with the master it means he spoils them too much," Arthur hummed and clapped Merlin on the shoulder, but there was a look of genuine appreciation and gratitude in his eyes.

"But this is war, Arthur." Merlin turned serious. "Albion has never been as divided as it is now."

Arthur didn't answer, looking sadly out the window again.

Destiny has decreed that only war, the greatest division known to man, could unite Albion.

"Before we go, I want to pay them one last tribute," Mordred muttered quietly and detachedly.

"So do I."

Morgana foolishly hoped that she would not have to know the druidic funeral ceremonies for a long time yet, but lo and behold, Arthur had made her find out. He made her do and wish for things she would never have imagined.

"But wait until Tristram arrives." She had summoned the raven, but so far he seemed to be far away.

They were sitting under the oak tree for a long time, silent, until Mordred reached for Morgana and put his arms around her, pulling her closer. He did not cry, but that was worse, for in silence goodness burned and melted into bitterness. Mordred could not understand why his clan had to be killed, why King Arthur could not transcend his fear and hatred of magic. He could not get why it was so simple for Arthur to deprive him of his entire family. He wanted to deprive him of Morgana too, and his cousin almost killed him. For what all this? What kind of man he was?
When they had met in the clearing, Arthur seemed like a nice person, and Emrys had been defending him wholeheartedly... But neither he nor Emrys knew that all this time his family had already been murdered, and the smoke from their bones was rising over Brocéliande. All this time.

It seems Morgana was right and Goddess's judgement on Arthur was just. Goddess knew all along.

A low rustle from above them indicated Tristram's arrival. The raven landed on the grass in front of them. He tilted his head to the side, looking at the depressed and drenched Mordred and Morgana sympathetically. Morgana stroked his head. "Tristram, you must take the letter east, through the marshes, the woods and the three rivers to the Valley of the Fallen Kings, alright?"

Tristram cawed.

Since all of the druids' possessions had been burned, Mordred had to use the scrap of papyrus he had picked up at the pixie's Buckthorn Tree for the letter. It still had "You'll pay for it" written on the back, and now it seemed to him a bad omen from the past.

"Give it to me." asked Morgana.

She focused on the paper, her eyes flashed gold and the fiery letters were imprinted on the paper. Now she herself could do the magic art Mordred had once shown her.

Elaine, your Father and our Leader are dead, as is the entire Clan. Our home is no more. It was the work of King Arthur Pendragon. But worry not, they will be avenged and never forgotten.

She tied the tiny scroll to Tristram's leg, and let him fly. While Morgana watched the black dot of her raven getting lost in the grey wet sky, Mordred stood up, shook himself off, put the fiery sword back in its scabbard, and looked down at her. Morgana met his gaze, and for a brief moment the cold hardness in his eyes startled her. Maybe because the emotion was so similar to her own, to what she herself felt. But if they could be one in love, they could be one in hatred.

"Let's do this, Morgana." Mordred held out his cool hand to help her stand, and Morgana squeezed it gratefully.

They turned to face the mournful place of death. "We shall summon the green spirits and ask them to cleanse the Forest and the souls of the Clan of the energies of death and violence. We'll let the spirits escort them to the other side sooner."

They raised their joined hands, Mordred closed his eyes and began singing softly, invoking the green spirits.

His memorial lament was a marvellously beautiful pattern of the Old Tongue words and melodious glossolalia. Morgana did not understand many of the words spoken, perhaps Mordred himself didn't, but she could feel the power flowing out of her and merging with the trees. She could feel how together they were making magic, deep and primal.

Tiny green lights, floating in the air appeared from behind the trees. They flowed into each other, becoming long, flexible glowing threads. The threads crawled across the former druid camp, covering everything on the ground, shrouding the oak trunks, gently hiding the fallen in a green haze. They crept even to the feet of Morgana and Mordred, making the black hems of their cloaks ripple slightly like in a warm summer breeze.

Morgana opened her eyes and looked round and saw that they were standing in the centre of the green glowing sea of light. And there was something, someone.

She squinted her eyes trying to see what the strange shadows were, what the unblinking eyes were watching her from the green streams of forest magic. But as soon as she caught the sight of them, as soon as she focused on someone's small round face with no mouth or nose but with huge almond-shaped eyes and spinning spirals instead of irises in them, the world around her flashed green, the glow broke through the protective dome and disappeared into the rainy sky. Morgana held her breath, and squeezed Mordred's hand tightly, somehow afraid to let go of it.

When her eyes recovered from the blinding green, Morgana saw that the forest around them was empty. Literally empty. The place where the druid camp had recently been was now a pristine patch of wild nature. The gaps in the grass where the tents and wagons had stood, the beaten paths to the goat and horse pen and back, the path to the Stone Circle, every place where man and his animals had once trodden their way was wiped from the face of Brocéliande, covered with the bright wet-green grass and white constellations of trilliums.

Gone, too, were the remains of bodies, broken things, and broken lives.
All that remained was the emptiness of the forest, full of the young energy of renewal and oblivion.

"O Crone, shelter and rest your children in peace." Mordred called to the third face of Goddess that plucks away the threads of destiny and coils them into her starry tangle. He lowered his head reverently, but after a few proper seconds he turned sharply to Morgana grasped her forearms and shook her.

"Morgana, have you made an eye contact with the green spirits?!"

Morgana was taken aback. Mordred hovered over her, looking either angry or frightened.

"I don't know... Maybe I saw something..." she muttered, perplexed.

"That wasn't supposed to happen. That light...that's not how the ceremony usually goes." he frowned thoughtfully, his eyebrows knitted, a deep concerned line deepened between them.

"So what will happen?"

"I don't know." he let go of her and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I thought you knew everything..."

Mordred taught her so much. He was the gateway to her true initiation into Druidic magic, he took her hand and led her there allowing her let go of her fears. The first words of the Old Tongue she heard flied from his lips, the first gold of magic she saw was found in his eyes.

"We were told...Maybe it's a superstition. But now they will look back at you."

"So what? Whatever." Morgana shrugged and took a step closer to him. The small spiral-eyed faces haven't scared her. "You haven't changed your mind? Are you with me Mordred?" she lifted her head, seeking his gaze.

"I am with you, Morgana." he gave her his honest promise.

A sad little smile touched Morgana's lips as she took one last look around what had briefly but so happily been her home. Strange, but grief gave her strength, fired her spirit and gifted her with a purpose and vision for a new world, a world she would have to build, a world in which there would be no place for such evil. A world in which there would be no place for Arthur Pendragon and the like of him.

"I vow to wipe his kind from the face of the Earth." she promised herself and those who could hear.

She did not know that the fulfilment of this vow was already written in the Book of Destiny, for neither she nor Arthur, the last Pendragons, would ever have offsprings.

Morgana and Mordred mounted their horses and left Brocéliande, leaving pieces of their heart here forever; another shard made, the loss of which no one and nothing could ever replace.

The silence of the Forest was broken only by the relentless sound of the rain. In the middle of the Stone Circle, a very young but already tall oak tree towered in the wind.

On the stony and misty hills of the Camelot-Essetir borderlands, a camp of colourful tents and carts was placed. But this was not a welcoming druid camp, it was a formidable military assembly. The enchanted rain from Camelot had all but dried up in this land, only rare drops were wetting the dry severe rocks and the barren land of lichen and heather.

The Essetir banners with its steel eagle, and the black and red rowan flags of the Isle of the Blessed fluttered on the flagstaffs. Though the Isle and the Rowan Tree were lost in the Purge, High Priestess Morgause always insisted that the memory of her great heritage was proudly lifted in every battle she fought.

"I like it when you are like this." King Cenred murmured, turning his head to Morgause.

The royal tent was a practical but pretty comfortable place for a building of sticks and cloth, with a table and chairs, a camp bed, and even an oriental carpet on the ground.

Cenred was sitting at the table over a map of Camelot, but he wasn't looking at it. He was drinking old wine from a silver goblet and eyeing Morgause. She was leaning over the map, studying it thoughtfully, though she knew the White Castle and the Higher and Lower Towns well since her first failed capture of them with the army of the dead.

"Like what?" she asked, and smiled when she felt Cenred's arm slide around her waist and rest on her hip. She was fully armoured, but his touch still echoed a pleasure in her.

"Well, like..." his voice was suddenly hoarse. "Like when you're with me, instead of being sad about your vagrant sister or performing your wild rituals on the lakes and forests." Cenred drew her closer to him, and Morgause let him settle herself on the arm of his wooden chair.

She traced her finger slowly along his chin, outlining his sharp jawline, "Don't you dare touch my sister, Cenred. Ever." she smiled sweetly at him, leaned down and brought her lips close to his. "And what I like, it is when you listen to me and fight my enemies..."

Cenred moved forward and their lips locked in a languorous kiss.

"Be my queen then, Morgause," he caught his breath after. "And I will always be whatever you want me to be."

Morgause threw her head back and laughed carelessly. "I am the High Priestess of the Old Religion, Cenred, and you know it. No Priestess can bind herself to a man, for our souls are bound to the Triple Goddess."

He put one arm around her neck, still clutching the goblet in the other, and prepared to kiss her again to prove to her and her Goddess that they were bound, when suddenly an Essetir scout, a dirty and drenched lad in green baggy clothes, has burst into the tent.

"Your Majesty. Lady Orkney." he bowed quickly, eyes fixed on the carpet to avoid the spectacle of the intimacy of his monarch and the dangerous sorceress-knight. "I have news you may find important."

Morgause grew serious in an instant and rose from the chair.

"Tell then." Cenred ordered.

Coughing, the obviously sick boy depicted the dramatically changed situation in Camelot. "King Arthur has been declared war on by his cousin Sir Galahad De Bois and more than half the Barons of Camelot. There's a fratricidal war coming in the kingdom."

Brother turned on brother, and rage drove former friends to destroy what was important to the other. Estates were seized, villages destroyed along the way, squads were equipping themselves for the final battle under the merciless strikes of rain.

Cenred was pretty surprised at the news. He set his goblet down and leaned to the scout. "The reason for such enmity? They are kin, after all, and acted against Lady Orkney together,"

Morgause gave him a quick glance, then fixed her dark gaze back on the poor lad who was quite uncomfortable with her unseen but such real pressure.

"Sir Galahad and the Barons refuse to recognise Sir Arthur's authority or even the succession because, as I have learned, Sir Arthur intends to amnesty the Old Religion and repeal the laws of his late father."

"Wait, what?!" exclaimed Cenred. The lad repeated everything.

Morgause's eyes widened in amazement. She turned away from the messenger and cupped her chin, thinking hard and assessing the fundamentally changed circumstances.

"That's all?"

"For the moment, Your Majesty."

"You may go," Cenred waved his hand. The scout went away.

The King of Essetir whistled and grinned excitedly. "Now that's the news, Morgause. This is something even I didn't expect, and I've seen things. It turns out Uther's puppy went against his dead daddy! And he has been ready to give you, my dear, what you so desired on a silver platter? But something gone wrong again?" Cenred's dark eyes were full of genuine surprise mingled with ironic provocation. He had so much fun waiting for Morgause's reaction. "It seems Arthur will have to take your glorious share of vengeance on that annoying De Bois. He's just beat you again."

"Nonsense. Galahad is mine." Morgause cut Cenred off stiffly.  She took a few anxious steps back and forth across the tent. Then she steeled herself, and her keen attention focused back on Cenred. "Goddess knows, I never thought I'd say this, but it looks like to get revenge on Galahad I'm going to have to take sides I never thought I'd be on." Her voice was firm, some new and special fire ignited in her eyes.

Cenred gave a feigned grieving sigh and smirked. "What an abomination. I like it."

Chapter Text

Sir Lancelot du Lac walked quietly into the Council Chamber. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters of King Arthur's army and those barons who stayed loyal to him. Now, however, the chamber was almost empty. Only Geoffrey, the secretary and librarian of the royal family, was hurriedly finishing the record of the last meeting; Gaius, the court physician, was talking quietly with Arthur; and Arthur himself, dressed in full armour and red cloak but in no crown occupied the place.

Over the days, Lancelot has seen Arthur transformed. The change was seamless, but obvious. He became more mature, responsible, able to stand up for his word; he has gained his own authority rather than acted in his father's shadow. But only the inner circle of the young King knew how hard it was for Arthur to stand on this newfound foundation. Without their support, he would have fallen long ago. And they were happy to lend a shoulder and keep him on the pedestal of greatness they saw in him, which he often failed to recognise in himself.

"Lancelot, my friend." Arthur finally noticed him. Gaius fell silent, took a step back and clasped his hands on his stomach in a gesture of modesty and politeness.

Lancelot walked towards them, catching the view from the window on the way: the castle courtyard was a chaos and medley of horses, armoured men and their brightly coloured crests and flags dominated by Camelot's Golden Dragon, established by the late King Uther in honour of his victory over the Great Dragon and the Old Ways. Camelot's old ancient emblem, the Rowan Tree of the Island of the Blessed has been under an unspoken ban for twenty two years. Nothing in the new regime was to remind the people that High Priestesses and magic had once reigned over this land in time immemorial.

Some warriors arrived, some departed; they were preparing and cleaning weapons, filling carts with equipment and provisions. The refugees were sitting in the gallery, trying not to disturb the King's army. Somewhere between them, Gwen's graceful figure glimmered, helping here and there.

"Arthur." Lancelot stood beside him. A huge map of Camelot and the surrounding kingdoms skillfully drawn on fine thin leather in purple ink lay unfurled on the table before them.

"Lance." Arthur sighed as if preparing for something hard. "I have a favour to ask of you. A quest, if you will. It's very important to me."

"I'm with you, Arthur."

"Actually, it's about you leaving me..."

Lancelot's eyebrows rose in surprise. For a knight to leave his king in the midst of a war when half the Kingdom's forces rebelled against the rightful monarch...?

"Yes." Arthur noticed Lancelot's reaction. "I charge you and ask you to find and bring my sister Lady Morgana back to me."

Somewhere off to the side, Gaius coughed quietly, and Geoffrey's quill stopped writing for a moment.

"But, Arthur...It is war...I must fight beside you, fight for you." the ping in Lancelot's chest hurt at the unfortunate thought that he would not be able to gain glory in the first and most important battle of Arthur's Age, that he would have to leave it for the sake of wandering fruitlessly through the woods in search of a woman who did not want to be found.

"Yes, there is war now. Havre you heard what Galahad said at the council? That he considers Morgana the heir to Camelot. In his treason, he may want to kill her to clear his path to the throne. Or he may use her, manipulating her bloodline "right" against me if he doesn't want the crown for himself, if he wants to put her on the throne as a cover. After his betrayal, I think I don't know what else he's capable of. Therefore, Morgana must be returned to my control. Besides," Arthur placed a hand on Lancelot's shoulder and squeezed it lightly, "This is my personal request as her brother. I don't want Morgana to go missing alone or fall into the hands of bandits. You know what they can do to a woman. Lance, you are one of my best knights, maybe the best. You're the only one who can find her. You're friends, aren't you?"

"Sire." Lancelot lowered his gaze. Morgana was angry with him over his refusal to help her escape, but obviously, he hadn't let Arthur know of this. "At your service."

"Thank you. I know I can count on you when I leave Camelot." Arthur reported, surprising Lancelot once more. "So when you find her, bring her not here, but to Baron Ector's manor."

Arthur pointed to a spot on the map and Lancelot bent down to get a better look. The estate and the Manor, a respectable building of grey stone and ivy, were nestled in the forests near the Old Religion's famed Lake of Avalon on one side and the rocky Camlann Mountains on the other.

"Lord Ector has offered to assist me in any way he can, and provide his lands for the troops. This place," Arthur placed the white chess king and knight figures on the spot, marking the Valley of Camlann that gave its name to the entire mountain range, "I see it as a place for battle. We will meet Galahad and the barons here and fight them off."

"But why leave at all?"

"The estate of one of my allies near the capital was burnt down by Galahad's men yesterday. Perhaps one of the old castle servants who knew of the underground tunnels is missing or has been kidnapped..." Arthur sighed heavily, and looked at Lancelot carefully. "I cannot risk my people here, innocent peaceful people. Galahad needs me. As long as I'm alive the people will not accept a different authority over Camelot. Also, the Castle can't withstand a siege. We just won't have enough food. So I have made the decision to leave and take the danger away with me." Arthur touched once more the place on the map called Camlann. "Besides, there's an old stone road leading into Ector's lands. Convenient, considering what regular roads are likely to have become after the current Plague."

"Alright, Arthur. I understand. I'm off."

Arthur smiled gratefully at him. "I hope to see you and Morgana as soon as possible."

"You will make it, Arthur. You will pass all trials, whether they are from heaven or earth. I believe in you." against his own hurt feelings, Lancelot assured him and left the Hall with a quick step.

He was sad to be left behind again, but duty and reason have again triumphed over his heart, that was accustomed to humility.

"We're not saying goodbye to you, Merlin," Lord Ector muttered good-naturedly as Merlin adjusted his cloak and tightened the straps on his horse's bridle.

"His Majesty and I will follow you tomorrow or the day after."

Lord Ector, Baron of Camlann Mountains, was a stately black man in his fifties, with a silver beard framing his square face. He wore a long blue and brown doublet, grey cloak and a reddish baldric.

Ector has decided to side with Arthur because he has never been a true opponent of the Old Religion, and his peace with Uther was rather forced. However, giving his lands and money for the war had a price that Arthur agreed to pay: for instance, making his son Sir Kay the First Knight in place of Sir Leon and a commandant of the Camelot Castle in Arthur's absence. Perhaps he wanted something more, but for now it remained a figure of silence on the horizon of a possible future victory.

The more they became immersed in this war, the more both Arthur and Merlin realised that perhaps this was only the beginning, and the unification of Camelot must be followed by the unification of all Albion. Arthur must become the High King, that was his higher calling, but what did unification really mean, just the peace between the parts of the whole, or the creation of some new entity out of them? The prophecies were vague on this point, as they were on many others.

Merlin was distracted from these strange and utterly impractical at the moment thoughts by the appearance of Sir Kay, an affable young black man; he had long brown hair and wore a copper pendant with the engraving of two dragons, the big and little one intertwined. He was already dressed in the Knight of Camelot's apparel.

Leaving the father and son alone to say goodbye in the courtyard, Merlin hurried to the castle, to Arthur. Serving Ector and Kay was nice and easy, they did almost everything on their own and were as polite and pleasant as Arthur has never been on his best days. But even so, Merlin would never trade the promise of Albion and the feeling of being alive that his friendship with Arthur gave him for someone else's peace and comfort.

He was walking along the gallery whistling softly and thinking that his intuition and his magic have not been frightened by the war with Sir Galahad and the Barons that much; in his mind Arthur just could not lose to them, not now that it has just begun and they flied free for the first time, when suddenly a swift black shadow fell upon him from the sky.

A black raven swooped down on Merlin's back with a loud cawing sound, and dig his claws into his back painfully, flapping his wide inky wings. Merlin shrieked and spun round, trying to get rid of the big bird. Just as he was about to throw caution to the wind and get rid of the aggressive raven with a spell, the bird let go of him and dropped a piece of parchment on the floor.

"Caw!" the raven creaked low and flew away beyond the protective dome.

"Damn it, wait! Raven! Don't you want an answer?" Merlin swore, rubbed his scraped back, and picked up the parchment.

The first thing he noticed was its fine leather work, comparable to that used in the Castle's chancery. When he unfolded it, he noticed an unfamiliar emblem: a black legless and wingless dragon swallowing its own tail. The beast looked more like a serpent.
Under the ouroboros in black ink, in beautiful strong handwriting, was written:

I give you, Merlin Emrys, an ultimatum: either you will join me in a righteous fight for our faith and heritage or I will henceforth consider you my personal enemy and my wrath will fall on your head. Make it known to the Court of Camelot that from now on I declare a Holy War against Arthur Pendragon for the treacherous and cruel murder of the Druid Clan of the forest of Brocéliande, for the destruction of the sacred places of the Old Religion, my kidnapping and the attempt on the life of my close ally, Mordred of Brocéliande. I am the eldest daughter and heiress of the Pendragons and I will establish the Old Ways in Albion or die trying. Time to choose a side, Merlin Emrys. I await you now or I will see you on the battlefield.

Morgana Le Fay, Righteous Queen of Camelot, Duchess of Cornwallis and Queen of Saxons

Dots of colour danced before Merlin's eyes, he heard ringing in his ears, his fingers clawed at the edges of the fateful parchment. He was probably close to fainting or vomiting on the floor. He reread the impossible letter one more time, then rushed forward.

"What happened, young warlock? Haven't I warned you? Am I not always right?" the Great Dragon's poisonous voice purred in his mind. "The darkness has caught up with the Witch and the Druid as foretold."

"Get out of my head!" Merlin roared, startling a passing servant girl who hurriedly hid behind the nearest door.

The future isn't carved in a stone monolith, it's just a shining light in the mist, is it? Kilgharrah was wrong, wasn't he? On the run, Merlin magically erased all the mentions of "Emrys" from the letter. Running into the council chamber, Merlin called out to Arthur loudly and desperately. "Arthur!"

"Merlin? Why are you yelling like that?" Arthur threw his head up and snorted derisively at the sight of his dishevelled and panting friend. "Where's Sir Kay?"

Lancelot put on a heavy cloak of brown tarred cloth, picked up a small black bag, and walked out into the castle courtyard. He hid behind a pillar, and watched Gwen. Flitting lightly across the courtyard, she comforted one, fed another, supported a third; a lady as beautiful in heart and soul as she was in face and grace. To Lancelot, Guinevere Smith has always been a truer lady than many highborn women, more so than even the Lady Morgana in whom there was always something wild and alien.

Lancelot did not want to disturb Gwen any further, for the news of her betrothal to Arthur was already known throughout the court, and evidenced by his mother Queen Ygraine's ring on her finger. He just wanted to look at her one last time before the quest. But when Gwen, carrying a basin, slipped on the splashing water, Lancelot couldn't help but rush to her aid.

"Got you!" he whispered in her ear, holding her up from behind, his hand touching her waist.

Gwen blushed, and straightened up, finally getting into a stable position.

"Lance, it's you..." She turned her head slightly towards him so he could see her cute profile, "Why are you in a travelling suit? Are you leaving with Lord Ector?"

"I won't be at Lord Ector's at all. Arthur told me to go in search of Lady Morgana." Lancelot breathed in the lavender scent of her hair.

A sweet thrill ran through Gwen's body and she broke free of Lancelot's embrace, put the basin on the floor, and turned to him, frowning in embarrassment.
She doubted Morgana would ever return to Camelot. And even if they could bring her back in body, she would remain there in the woods in spirit. She was too far gone already, not in a physical sense, but in a spiritual sense. The Morgana she knew and loved has turned into someone else, a person who was hard to understand. She had more than this now, more than what the two of them shared here, their humble friendship. She had magical powers, Brocéliande, the Druids, that mysterious man named Mordred...And it had all started with simple nightmares. Who would have thought it would go this far?..

"It's bad...I'll miss you there at the Manor...As a friend, of course."

"You're going to Camlann? Why, Gwen? You must stay safe!"

"I have to be there with him... Besides Gaius needs an assistant since Merlin will be devoting all his time to him now."

Lancelot sighed sadly. "Stay away from the battle."

"I'm not afraid, Lance." Gwen raised an eyebrow slightly.

"But I am afraid for you. Very, My Heart." He took her left hand in his, leaned in quickly and pressed his lips to Ygraine's ring. "For my sake, be careful. See you later, My Lady."

Without looking back, he walked across the courtyard to the stables, leaving a longing after him Gwen alone.

"What?!" Arthur roared, after listening to Merlin.

"I've just read it twice, Arthur. Morgana has declared herself the true heiress to Camelot."

Arthur roughly snatched the parchment from Merlin's hands and reread the letter again. His eyes jumped quickly from line to line, every now and then stumbling over words of betrayal that were so hard, so desperately unwanted to believe.

"Why does she call herself Le Fay? What is that?"

"I have no idea." Merlin caught the shocked looks of Gaius and Geoffrey who has completely stopped pretending to do the paperwork.

"And what the hell is this 'Queen of Saxons'?!"

"Sounds like the Lady Morgana has entered into an alliance with the brigands from the Germanic Barbaricum. Your father, Majesty, perhaps didn't pay much attention to them," Gaius suggested cautiously. "We've known for a long time that they occupied the Wastes north of Brocéliande, but we didn't think it would go this far and they'd become a force that could threaten us."

Arthur snorted and shook his head, as though all this could disappear like a nasty, lingering dream if only he woke up and realised the true reality.

"Geoffrey. Can my sister really claim the throne?"

"Well, Your Majesty, not since the daughters of the legendary Queen Boudicca have the fairer sex occupied the throne of Camelot, but...it's not impossible. Of course, the circumstances of the Lady's birth is a factor—"

"I got it. Merlin, why does she call you specifically to her side? Why does she need you?"

"Well, we were friends..."

"You and Morgana?" Arthur refused to understand what was happening. "She knew your secret after all?"

"Arthur..." Merlin lowered his voice, stepped closer and covered the letter with the palm of his hand, forcing Arthur to raise his head. "Is it true? The thing she's writing about?"

"You know very well what Galahad has been up to all this time, Merlin. Yes, the Druidic shrines were being destroyed. But since I have withdrawn my permission, it no longer matters."

It does to the Druids, Merlin wanted to argue, but went straight to the bitter truth. "That's not what I'm talking about. The Clan. Why does Morgana say you killed them?" Merlin's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Druids are dead? Is that how you're going to start the New Age?"

Arthur lowered his gaze, strangely guiltily, and crumpled the letter up. To this moment, he didn't care about the druids at all, for in the past he had even participated in raids against their kind himself. But he has changed now. He wanted to change and never do anything like this again. "It's not me. It's Galahad. Of course I authorised him. Technically he's done it under my order...When Morgana fell breathless I was so scared...I believed she was kidnapped until the last moment...But don't worry, I've already sent Lance after her, Morgana won't be alone with the brigands."

"Damn it, Arthur!" Merlin bellowed, snatching the crumpled letter from his hand with force.

Arthur froze, shocked at such rude behaviour.

Merlin spread the crumpled parchment on the table, snatched the quill from the inkwell, spilling black ink all over the picture of Camlann, and began scribbling feverishly on the back of the letter. When he has finished and thrown the quill on the table, he rushed out of the room.

"Where are you going again, Merlin?!" Arthur shoutred after him.

"To save you from the prophecy, you fool...!" Merlin mumbled, rushing down the stairs. "What a fool!...How could you..."

Was this the fatal mistake that would turn Morgana and Mordred away from Arthur, and Kilgharrah turned out to be right? Merlin couldn't let that happen.

Arthur collapsed into the nearest chair, dropped his shoulders tiredly and hid his face in his palms. His heavy sigh echoed through the Council Hall. "Why me..?"

The division of the Kingdom, the split of his own family, even nature was against him... Arthur felt as if his whole world was coming apart at the seams.

"Your Majesty, the way to the future is through blood, sweat and tears. If a man truly intends to fight for his credo, he will inevitably have to go through it." Geoffrey of Monmouth wisely spoke up.

"Thank you very much, Geoffrey. That's very comforting." groaned Arthur.

"It is said that only the strong are sent hard trials, Arthur." Gaius added consolingly. "The weak live their whole lives without ever being tested."

Arthur raised his head. "I like that much better. Thank you, Gaius."

"That's what your father was fond of saying in the days when he and I were building Camelot..."

He meant, at the times of the Purge.

Arthur bit his lip thoughtfully. "Well... I can question many things of my Father, but not the wisdom."

As soon as Sir Lancelot has driven beyond the town wall and left the magical dome, the rain fell on him with all its accumulated fury. The world outside the dome were a grey, wet semblance of its former self.

"Go, boy." he put on his hood, patted the neck of his white horse, and directed him towards the hills.

The unknown, the almost exile, again was lying before his sight; but there was nothing left for him to do but keep moving. Kings rule, wizards conjure, peasants grow food, and knights walk the world obeying the orders of their Lord. If a knight is lucky and favoured by God, then it's the orders of the Lady of his heart. Lancelot was not one of these favourites of fortune.

"Lancelot! Lancelot!...." suddenly, a call came through the wall of rain. Lancelot stopped his horse abruptly. For a moment his heart clenched with anticipation, but then his reason recognised that it was a male voice.

Slipping on the wet ground, a pale and out-of-breath Merlin was running towards him.

"Merlin! What are you doing here?"

"Lance, I just found out you're off to find Morgana. Here, take this." he hastily shoved a crumpled parchment and a clew of twine into his hands.

"What is it?" Lancelot nearly dropped these strange things into the dirt.

"A letter. Be sure to give it to Morgana, it is crucial. And the ball is a seeking spell I weaved in it. When you step into the forest, throw it on the ground and follow the thread."

Lancelot brought the ball closer to his eyes. It was a small skein of coarse brown hemp at first glance, but a light shimmering golden aura glimmered softly along its stiff fibres. As though the twine has been sprinkled with a gold jewelled powder.

"Thank you. You have helped me so much, Merlin, again." Lancelot smiled kindly and tucked the clew into his pocket, and hid the letter near his heart, under the protection of the chainmail and the waterproof fabric of his cloak. "It will be safe here."

"Take care." Merlin nodded and ran back to the castle to Arthur.

"You too." Sir Lancelot quietly echoed after him.

Chapter Text

The world has darkened when Morgana set out on the path of vengeance, turned grey, but in that darkness it seemed to her that the true colours of everything popped up. She thought she cognized Arthur's indifferent cruelty, Gwen's lust for the crown, her crown (why else would she reject Sir Lancelot, whom she had professed to love, and suddenly choose Arthur?), Merlin's blindness and betrayal, Lancelot's weakness, and the world's evil. The latter, though, was nothing new to her.

Only Mordred's love shone for her in this darkness, only he was good, only he remained her thread to everything that remained good in this pathetic existence.

Albion's greatest sorceress, Dochraid said she would become. But in daring to do so, taking the Judgement of the Goddess into her own hands, Morgana has already become all this, her power was meant for this from the beginning. She is the greatest sorceress.

Where the sleeping giant of Brocéliande ended and the roads that criss-crossed the whole foggy Albion in a web of leading patterns began, stood an old, ramshackle inn. The darkened walls of crumbling clay and plaster were propped up with planks; stubborn weeds and marsh mallows were growing by the wattle fence and the horse feeders, the trees were seemingly last trimmed before the Purge. Despite this decay, however, a cheap signboard with a faded image of a hare sword pierced through the heart proclaimed proudly: "White Hare. Your last safe place on the edge of nowhere."

Two lone figures in black approached the inn and dismounted, eyeing the building.

"If only you knew, Morgana, how I hate to do this..." Mordred muttered, pursing his lips in displeasure, "I'm not afraid. It's just disgusting."

"Oh, so you're disgusted? And because of such a simple thing you won't go? I am sometimes disgusted with life itself, but I can move on and find strength to do the right thing!"

Mordred looked at her askance. "I'm going, don't you see? You're talking too much."

"Too much? Do you want me to be silent for hours like you? I won't be silenced." she pouted her lips stubbornly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I don't want to." his body stiffened under her resentful gaze and he rolled his eyes.

Morgana sighed, and wrapped an arm around his sharply squared shoulders. "I feel the same way, we're in this together. But this is the way it has to be. It's not what we choose, it's what chooses us."

Mordred softened and relaxed under the touch of her lean arm, the hard line of his frown eased. "You just should know, I will not fail you." He looked into Morgana's eyes for another second, and found strength and comfort in their warm green; then turned on his heels, tied their horses to the hitching post, and disappeared behind the door of the inn.

Morgana stood alone in the silence of the night for a few minutes, hiding from the incessant rain under the spreading crown of an old chestnut tree. She wished Mordred would show her more dedication, that he would be involved and passionate as she was. So that she wouldn't feel he was closing himself off from her. She has never felt so strongly for anyone as she did for him. Her devotion was inexplicable and so deep that Morgana was afraid to look in there, afraid to see the depths of what she could do for him. If he has truly asked she would have refused even her mission, risking the Goddess' wrath. Morgana did know he wanted this too, she saw the forbidden rage hidden where hers was open. But maybe it was enough that Mordred was here with her, that he has not abandoned her, that having lost everything that had once brought them together: Brocéliande, the Clan, their belief in happiness, they still remained connected. Their bond was more true and eternal than anything else, more inward than outward, larger than circumstances.

Morgana closed her eyes and mumbled something silently. Her lips were moving as a golden mist enveloped her face, growing thicker with each word of the spell. When the enchantment was cast, she drew air into her shocked lungs and folded in half, as though an unknown force has just punched her in the belly. Panting for breath, she slowly crept over to the "White Hare."

The door creaked loudly as Morgana entered, but since it was a mess inside no one heard it.

It was exactly what one would expect from the exterior of the place. Shabby round tables, alcoholic fumes, smoky oil lamps, noise, coarse laughter, muffled fist bumps – some men were fighting in a dark corner, colouring each other's faces in bruises — and the smell of hare stew. Morgana's stomach rumbled, she's forgotten the last time she ate; she was soaked and dirty and so tired that her princess feelings weren't even tainted by the vulgarity of this place. She had grown accustomed to the simple life and had lost her sense of the disgusting.

Morgana. His inner voice sounded almost ominous.

Mordred had deliberately sat down in the center of the inn to attract attention. He has already ordered a plate of the stew and a large jug of a strong sour ale. He was drinking goblet after goblet in a manner strange to anyone who knew him, recklessly and greedy. He knocked the empty goblet loudly on the shabby round table, and then, spilling the contents, poured the ale to the brim again.

I see you. You're suspiciously believable as an drunkard, Mordred. Her lips curled into an ironic smirk.

Should I regard this as an insult, Milady? Mordred hid the smile behind the goblet. 

Morgana walked slowly to the counter, and then suddenly she felt a strong, large hand grab her waist, then slide down to her bottom and pinch it violently.

"Hey Beauty, why are you all in black?" a rough and loud voice with a foreign accent cut across her ears, the man's hot hard body pressed in very close to her, "Mourning for your hubby? Come sit at our table, sweat widow — we'll comfort you!"

Morgana turned round sharply, and the man recoiled. The face of an angry grey-haired hag stared back at him. She hissed through her clenched teeth, barely able to keep her magic from smashing him against the wall.

"Ooh, old witch." he muttered, and walked back to his table to join other similarly blond and red-haired tall men in leather and furs. As he sat down, his cronies threw their heads back and laughed; and judging by the intonation began to taunt and mock him in their language.
They were Saxons. Just the ones Mordred and Morgana come here for when Mordred had sensed their trail in the forest.

"Hey, you barbarians! Don't you even have respect for a granny?" the tavern mistress, a tall, full-bodied woman with a mop of curly chestnut hair and big brown eyes, exclaimed reproachfully.

The Saxons waved her off, but grew quiet. They didn't want to be thrown out in this rain for nothing.

"Here, Granny, take it." The mistress, sympathetically smiling, handed Morgana a clay plate and a cup of hot cider, covered with a piece of a coarse black bread.

"Thank you, kind soul." Morgana muttered, not recognising her own senile trembling voice. She handed her a coin with Uther's profile on it and hurried away.

Are you all right, Morgana? Mordred asked worriedly as Morgana huddled in the corner next to a family of silent peasants who were quickly eating their bread and broth, clearly eager to escape to the bedrooms upstairs.

It's all right. Carry on with the play.

Morgana went on with her meal, not caring what it tasted like, it was food, after all; not forgetting to glance furtively at Mordred and the Saxons. Some of them have finally focused on Mordred, a lone handsome young man in fine clothes who seemed to be losing control. They didn't know that Mordred was dissolving the ale with magic before it touched his lips.

One of the Saxons elbowed the other in the side and whispered something in his ear. Mordred rocked back and forth in his chair to reinforce the impression of a dead drunk person.

They noticed.

"Ping!" came a sudden loud, melodic, strangely tugging sound, and the whole "White Hare" froze, turning to look at its source.

A tall thin young man in simple loose robes of red and brown linen stood behind the counter next to the mistress. His long ginger hair was tied back over his forehead with a red ribbon, and in his hands he held a finely carved white ash harp.

"All right, folks, listen up!" the mistress announced loudly, hands put on her plump hips, "You have a great honour today! My friend Aodhan the Bard will delight your ears with his heavenly music! He has not been in these parts for three springs, so spare no coin for the man of song!"

"Thank you, Kaylynn." Aodhan leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, then stepped out into the room. It was then that Morgana noticed his strange tattoos, wide coal-black smoky circles around his eyes. She'd never seen such a thing before. It gave the Bard's spirited face a depressed expression. He again gracefully ran his fingers over the strings of the harp, and the silvery sound, the flow of water over the stones in a forest stream, captivated the hearts of everyone, even the Saxons. All eyes were fixed on Aodhan now. He felt like a fish in water in the attention.

The bard strummed a few more captivating chords and walked slowly down the room.

"We're sitting warm and safe now..." Aodhan's full velvet voice enveloped everyone's heart with warmth, "It's raining outside the door, the rain that washes away all traces...Let it wash away the darkness from our hearts." The bard walked round the inn with the chords of the harp accompanying his speech. As he approached someone, he would say a word or two about each guest, extract the enchanting sounds from the harp, and walk off often with a coin from the person.

As it neared the Saxons, he said in a singsong voice, "Some have left home in search of a new one...," Then he turned to Mordred who sat nearby and paused, "And some have lost it forever..." Aodhan fell silent and looked at Mordred strangely, as though he was reading his face and didn't like what he read.

Morgana saw that Mordred grew nervous and fidgeted in his seat. But the wandering bard couldn't possibly know him, could he? Aodhan finally broke the strangely intense eye contact with Mordred and moved on. "Men come and go, but Brocéliande remains..." The harp was singing, supporting him. "The eternal forest, travelling from eternal spring to eternal winter and back again..." The harp. "It's a circle...All goes away and then comes back..."

Do you know him? What was that? Morgana asked a little anxiously from her place.

It's the first time I've seen him. But for a moment I sensed...That he knew me.

That's impossible. Morgana nervously noted the bard approaching her corner.

I know. Mordred took another pretence at his ale. He is not of our kind. No magic here.

"In the spring we put seeds in the soil so that in the summer the sprouts of life can burst through..." Aodhan stopped in front of Morgana's table.

"That's so true, Bard. Not with this plague of a rain, though." The unassuming peasant next to Morgana raised his voice for the first time. He dug into his leather purse, and slipped Aodhan a small coin.

"And that's real magic," the bard continued as if he hasn't heard him. He met his eyes with Morgana's. Beneath the charcoal black paint, his bright green eyes seemed to see right through her aged face. "For true beauty will break through all obstacles." the bard sang to her and took a graceful chord that echoed with longing in the hearts of all present.

Who are you? Morgana called out to him in her mind at her own risk, but nothing in Aodhan's face gave away that he was a sorcerer and could hear the mental talking. Yet Morgana felt that he was special, that he saw the truth. She shoved their last coin into the bard's hands. The Uther disappeared into the bard's pockets and he smiled gallantly at Morgana.

"Thank you, My Lady." Aodhan walked away from them and stood in the center of of the inn under the hanging chain lamp, resting the harp comfortably on the elbow of his right hand – he was left-handed.

I don't like this.

He can't hear.

"Thank you, dear mates." Aodhan smiled mysteriously, "Now open your hearts and prepare to listen. I will give you the gift of song. Though my art is far from the songs of Taliesin the Bard of Bards, all music, from the gooseherd's song to the palace minuet is a divine gift." he began playing. The melody was both sad and cheerful, and the sounds of the harp were like the silver and crystalline mountain dew on a summer morning.

"How surprised would this Aodhan be if he knew I'd met the very Taliesin ..." mused Morgana. "It would definitely sadden him if he knew that Taliesin stopped making music long ago in the chase of perfection..."

Aodhan sang out, and his warm voice didn't take a single wrong note.

Just give me your hand,
In a gesture of peace…
Will you give me your hand and all troubles will cease
For the strong and the weak
For the rich and the poor
All peoples and creeds, let's meet their needs.…

With a passion, we can fashion a new world of love…

For a moment it seemed to everyone, even to the Saxons, even the vagabonds, even the tired labourers and stolen goods dealers, that what the Bard was singing about was possible.

But no enchantment lasts forever.

Mordred finally "finished" the ale, and laid his head on the table, pretending to be senseless. From her corner, Morgana saw the Saxon who had pawed her whisper something to his crony, glancing sideways at Mordred.

They are ready.

Mordred drawled from the chair and staggered towards the exit, a picture of weakness and vulnerability. The Saxons looked up and followed him out.

I'm following you. Morgana sent Mordred a promise.

Three minutes later she stood up. She didn't want to leave Aodhan's songs, but the future wasn't waiting for them. She cast a farewell glance around the dark but suddenly cosy dining room of the "White Hare" and walked out, slamming the door.

Bard's hand froze on the strings for a moment. He stared at the back of the hag who was the most beautiful woman he ever met.

She huffed, her old legs carried her forward slower than she would have liked. By the time Morgana has reached the crossroads where Mordred's plan was to lure the Saxons out, her back was aching and her lungs were burning.

"Hey you, pretty boy!" she heard their voices. The Saxons gathered round Mordred in a tight ring. They didn't even draw their weapons, so easy prey they considered the "drunken" young man.

"What is it, friends?" Mordred blinked innocently.

"You don't happen to need a job, do you?" they laughed and came even closer.

"No, friends, I have land..."

"So do we." they grinned predatorily, "And you, lad, would make a fine strong worker..." One of the Saxons pulled a rope from his bag and tied up the unresisting Mordred, the other took the horses. They were about to drag him further down the road when suddenly Morgana sprang out of the tree to meet them.

"Hey, hag! I don't care you liked me, get the hell out of here, I don't have time for you!" that Saxon mutterrd and tried to drive her away with his whip.

"I don't think so," Morgana uttered ominously.

A flash of golden light dazzled the night, and a moment later Morgana appeared before the Saxons in her true young and powerful form instead of the shaking weak hag. The rope that has bound Mordred suddenly snapped and fell on the ground; and her and his double, and thus strengthened, spell spread over the deserted place.

OFFERSWING!

The breathless Saxons were scattered in different directions by the shockwave of air. The horses gave a startled yelp, but Mordred caught their own, and let the Saxons' ones roam in the rain.

"Are you all right, Mordred?" Morgana walked over to him and placed her palm on his elbow, squeezing it. "They didn't hurt you?"

"No. But I did them..." his face suddenly turned cold. He walked over to the Saxon who had insulted Morgana in the inn, bared the fiery sword and thrust it sharply into his stomach. "Your transformation was quite impressive, Morgana." He remarked calmly.

Morgana gave a shuddering gasp. She didn't feel sorry for the despicable rogue that this barbarian was. It was just that the violence was unexpected from Mordred of all people. But hei did it for her, avenged her honour, and that filled her heart with a grim gratitude and pleasure that could get addictive.

Mordred wiped his sword on the enemy's fur cloak. The action has been so easy for him. In a moment of rage, the magic sword was suddenly lighter than a swan's feather, but Mordred felt that to the Saxon it was more crushing than a pound anvil. Morgana came up behind him and threw her arms around him, below his heart, looking at the dead man on the ground. Mordred's obsession of revenge passed, and fatigue came over him again. He lowered the sword.

"What of the others? Deal with them too...?" She asked thoughtfully. If they woke up, they could chase after them, couldn't they?

"Not worth it." Mordred muttered. "Shall we go?"

Morgana let him go and sent a seeking spell at the Saxon's intent. A golden thread flashed in the darkness, and crawled along the road through the soaked hills.

They saddled their horses and left the Saxons to lie in the rain. Only when they were far away Morgana wished they have finished them all off. For surely Mordred was not the only weak one they would take as a slave. Perhaps it would have been more merciful to kill them and save future victims? Morgana has found that with the death of the Clan, the concept of right and wrong slipped from her grasp.

Shaking off the raindrops, Sir Allan, an athletic young man with dark brown hair cut pretty short, entered the dark green tent of the Barons' army. He carried a wax tablet on which he has scribbled his latest reports. He was surprised to find Sir Galahad packing for a journey. He was opening and closing chests, throwing something into a leather rucksack, rolling up a sleeping roll. Abbot Ambrosius was sitting at his book and silently watched Galahad's unhurried and measured movements.

"Sir, might I ask, where are you going? I wanted to bring you word of the situation... The Traitor Arthur's troops are moving towards the Camlann Mountains..."

"Really? I think, I got his idea, but it may be turned to our advantage, don't worry." Galahad left his bags and walked over to the map spread on the table.

One glance was enough for him to assess the situation. A convenient mountain valley, a stone cup where they could clamp down on Arthur's troops and simply overwhelm and outnumber them. It was next to a lake shrouded in the many superstitions of the mob, the lake called Avalon. Galahad had visited it in his wanderings, but he had never encountered anything magical there. "Go not that way, but this one," he pointed, "The shortest way through the Camlann Mountains is here." Galahad drew Sir Allan's path with a confident, graceful stroke of the sanguine.

Long ago, when he was still so youthful, he and his squire had lost their way in a winter blizzard in the vicinity of these mountains. On a slope they met an ugly old beggar woman. Galahad felt sorry for her and gave her his portion of bread and butter. In return she showed them an old path that only the people of the extinct village who once lived here, by the magical lake, remembered. It was only much later that Galahad realised why her village had died out. The Purge.

"More reinforcements have arrived," Sir Allan added, "King Odin wishes to continue his quest for vengeance against Arthur."

"Very well. Allocate three men to me and prepare the horses." Galahad fastened the lilly fibula of his cloak and pulled the hood over his head. His white robes had lost its purity and were covered in splashes of dirt. "I'm going away for a while. I'll meet you soon on Camlann."

"But Sir, you are the face of resistance to the wickedness, Barons need your support..."

"You take my place, Sir Allan, please. I have better things to do than brandish a sword." Galahad picked up his box and bags and walked out.

"Sir Galahad has a mission." Abbot Ambrosius informed thoughtfully a confused Sir Allan. "And ours is to support him."

Galahad and his three aides passed between the resting troops, rode through the drenched meadow and disappeared behind a veil of the silver rain and heavy fog. He kept a neatly folded page torn from the Taliesin Chronicles beneath his chainmail at his heart.

North of Brocéliande, in the northern Wastes, was located the infamous and notorious Valley of No Return. It was named long before the barbarian slave traders settled here. Three centuries ago, it was inhabited by giants. Their line had died out naturally when they refused to procreate, succumbing to the vice of smoking some mixture of magical sleepy herbs. Apart from the legends of their outrageous cannibalism and nasty wealth, they left behind the ruins of their huge, gigantic black volcanic stone castles. In the current century, the ruins were home to many black sorcerers, vagabonds and daredevils until in the late era of King Uther the Purifier they have become home to the cruel strangers from the mainland — Saxons, Danes, Jutes and others.

That was where Mordred and Morgana were headed. They stopped on a dark hillside and looked at the ruins of the black castle below. A golden light burned in the surviving windows of the first floor. No guards were posted at the gate, not just because of the merciless rain, but also because it was obviously unnecessary, for who but madmen would willingly enter the Valley of No Return?..

The druid and the healer were mad enough.
Morgana raised and slowly lowered her hand, and the glittering thread of the seeking spell faded into the twilight.

"Here." she turned her head to Mordred. His focused face beneath his wet black hood had grown greyish and had lost the mark of innocence. Surely she must look like a different person herself, she thought, beholding his beloved face.

"If anything, even the slightest...goes wrong, just kill them all and leave." Mordred said sharply, fastening his baldric, preparing to enter the Saxons' lair and slash without mercy if he had to. "I will kill myself if I lose you too, Morgana."

"It will be done, for it is meant to be, Mordred." Her heart clenched painfully at that admission, and then was filled with the biggest of love. "I saw us there, together. We will survive and ascend the throne." Morgana deftly jumped off her horse.
She watched as Mordred dismounted, adjusted his cloak, took the reins and approached her. Raising her hand, Morgana gently wiped the raindrops from his face with her fingertips, tracing them to his stubborn chin, placed her fingers to his lips in a tender 'shhh'. "As long as we're together, we're invincible."

Mordred closed his eyes, and Morgana felt his weak, lifeless smile beneath her fingers.

"Let's go. And let the Triple Goddess lead us."

They entered the deserted outer courtyard through a broken, once magnificent cast iron gate. Nothing and no one occupied the place but emerald green grass and the rubble of black stones. At the entrance to the castle, the huge iron riveted doors, there was a deep, ginormous footprint, the ominous mark of the castle's previous owner. The poor ground had not healed in three centuries from the impact of the angry giant stomping his foot.

Leaving the horses to graze peacefully in the courtyard, Morgana and Mordred stepped inside.

It was dark, cold, and smelled of smoke and damp. The ceiling of only one floor was almost as high as the entirety of the Camelot Castle, and the tiny yellow crescent moon was shining in the gaps high above. The stairs looked like a mile to ascent, so it was no surprising that the inhabitants decided to stay only on the lower floors. Morgana and Mordred crept quietly forward, to where a faint noise could be heard and a flickering light could be seen at the end of the long sombre corridor.

The light grew brighter the closer they got to the habitable part of the ruins. Morgana was wary of the every step of her mud-stained boots, of every fear-stifled breath.
As they turned the corner, they saw the tall wooden doors hanging askew on their hinges. Three grim-faced Saxons were standing at them. Standing at the "post" that has never been threatened was a punishment from the foremen, none of them actually expected danger; and so they noticed the witch and the black knight emerging from the shadows when it was too late.

One of the Saxons jumped up and was about to shout something in his language, but a sharp gesture of Morgana's hand sent his weak body into a painful flight to a far corner. His comrades followed him, hit by Mordred. Their halberds were utterly powerless against magic.

Mordred drew the fiery sword from its sheath, held it up to the torch on the wall, and caught the reflection of the fire with the blade. The sword ignited, not burning the wielder but threatening any other human being.

Morgana stood at the door and caught her lover's gaze. "Ready?"

He nodded and with a thunderous bang, kicked the door open with his foot. It clattered against the opposite wall with a deafening horrible sound.

It was a medium-sized hall, about the same size as the Council Hall in Camelot, except for the height of the ceiling and the fact that, unlike the white comfortable stone chambers of the White Castle, it was dark, dirty, cheerless. The Saxons were sitting at a long table against the left wall. It had no tablecloth, and was set with wooden plates of food and smouldering candle burns. Two young blonde women in blue kirtle dresses and aprons were pouring wine and serving the food. At the opposite end of the hall, where two copper crucibles of fire stood, on a large granite throne, sat what appeared to be their leader, a bald middle-aged man with a light beard. Like the other Saxons, he was dressed in leather and dark, tattered fur.

Everyone froze for a moment when they noticed the strangers, then jumped up from their seats, clutching their weapons.
No one, however, took the first step, the first lunge. Seeing a woman in black and a man with a sword flaming like a torch was like seeing a ghost. Too unbelievable and weird.

Morgana took a deep breath, forced her fluttering heart to petrify, squared her shoulders, and walked with a firm step towards the Saxon sprawling on the throne. Mordred walked behind her, the fiery sorcery of his sword warding off anyone who might wish to stab her in the back.

"Who are you, woman?" the chieftain spat contemptuously, straightening up, and through a haze of wine, focusing on the strange intruders. He squinted his evil eyes, scrutinising her face and body in the light of the crucible. "The market is closed tonight."

"I'm your new queen, you impostor!" Morgana pulled the Saxon sword from under her cloak and threw it to the floor. With a loud clang, it crashed to the cracked black slabs and slid straight to the pedestal of the throne.

The pseudo leader turned pale and instantly sobered up.

After the true ealdorman of their tribe, Orkowulff and his crew had gone missing in the enchanted woods, he as the commandant of the castle had naturally taken control of the surrounding lands and the slave market to himself. However, his position had no legal foundation, everyone was just fine with it. Until this moment when that girl with the sword showed up. How can it be?! The old glorified sword in her weak hands implied that their best warriors had fallen by her hand and now she could claim the throne and everything they had. It was unthinkable.

Slightly staggered from the wine, he stood up, hurried down from the throne and picked up the sword. It was scrawled with the runes and amulets of their distant homeland, the three dozen notches marked the number of mothers Orkowulff had robbed of their offsprings.

"Rodulff, it is...indeed the Orkowulff's blade..." the Saxons seated closer to the throne murmured, frightened, and an excited whisper travelled through the hall like a breeze stirring the calm waters of a lake.

A gnarled, skinny hunchbacked Saxon, their fortuneteller, ran up to the impostor Rodulff and stared at the sword. "It is true!" shocked, he exclaimed in a squeaky voice, "It is the sword of our late ealdorman Orkowulff! I testify! That's why the Ingwaz fell to me three days ago, comrades! Brand new power!"
At these words the Saxons went into a frenzy, and the fortuneteller continued to shout something in their language.

Morgana and Mordred exchanged worried glances. The barbarians were like the unruly elements of a foreign sea they have rushed in a flimsy little boat into.

"SHUT UP, all of you!!!" Rodulff shouted deafeningly. All became silent. He threw the ealdormen sword to the floor again, spat, and retreated to the table to his men.

Morgana get round his spit, lifting her skirts with an utter contempt, bravely climbed the steps of the pedestal and placed herself on the granite throne. Mordred, with raised flaming sword, stood proudly at her right hand. She put her hands on the armrests and looked around the hall haughtily. Some looked at her in awe, some with shock, bewilderment, anger or even despise, like the loser Rodulff and his mates he was bantering right now with. But one of the maids with the wooden tray whose gaze Morgana happened to catch over the men's heads, examined Morgana from head to toe with a mixture of surprise and admiration. None of them could believe that this was happening, that Morgana would have such utter audacity.

"You can't rule us and be an ealdorman! You are a woman! There is no such thing as ealdorwoman!" shouted Rodulff at last. The Saxons answered him with an anxious rumble. Rodulff turned to Morgana and rose his head defiantly and shook his big fist at her.

"I killed your magnificent Orko-what-was-his-name with his own sword. With this, one." she nodded at the Saxon sword that lay at her feet, "Law is law, sword is sword. His power and authority have now passed to me. Admit it, my proud warrior." Morgana's voice oozed cold, mocking venom.

The recognition that the Ealdorman had fallen by his own sword made a depressing impression on the crowd of Saxons, especially on the fortuneteller who fell to his knees and began pulling out his hair and scrapping his sunken cheeks, moaning something in his language.

"Maybe you stole it." one of Rodulff's friends muttered scornfully.

"Come closer and I'll show how I'd steal yours. Come on. Why aren't you coming, huh?"

"You are not of our kind! You're a Briton!" tried Rodulff once more.

"And you're sitting on Britons' lands, Saxon," Morgana parried. Fury was boiling within her.

Rodulff shouted something to his men and they ran and swung their swords and axes at Morgana and Mordred. The first was struck by the fiery sword that scorched his insides to blackness, and the others were swept away by Morgana's spell.

"WITCH! WITCH! MAGICK!" the rest of the terrified Saxons yelled.

"It's sorceress." Morgana made a careless gesture with her wrist.

The invisible merciless hand of the force squeezed the throats of Rodulff and his friends. They collapsed and went into convulsing fit, squirming with suffocation. Morgana concentrated better, and curled her fingers. The faces of the Rodulff's Saxons turned purple, their feet jerked helplessly on the floor. The gruesome sight gave Morgana a strange sense of safety and peace. Her power protected her, and no one else would ever be able to harm her or those she loved. The feeling of being strong overwhelmed her. She could do whatever she wanted to with no fear, none will threat her from now on.

But when Rodulff and the rebellious Saxons were ready to draw their last breath, Mordred's hand lay gently on her shoulder and squeezed it lightly. Morgana lowered her hand, and looked up at him. He smiled slightly sadly at her and shook his head.

The rebels, freed from the suffocating sorcery, sprawled out on the floor, catching air with their mouths as if they have just drowned and then been rescued on the shore.

"Throw them in the dungeons." Morgana drawled. Mordred was right in his silent request. Enough, she decided; she asserted her power over these men, put their law into practice. "There must be some kind of dungeon here, right?" Morgana smirked defiantly.

Afraid to raise a glance at the sorceress queen, some Saxons carried a moveless Rodulff and the others away.

Morgana rose from her throne, bent down and picked up Orkowulff's sword, now her sword, from the floor. She lifted it, gripping it with both hands, and in a wave of grim triumph that swept over her, she thrust it into the floor between the slabs.

"I, Lady Morgana Le Fay of Cornwallis hereby declare myself Queen of Saxons!" her strong voice echoed through the giant ruins. "A new era awaits you. Tomorrow we are going to march on Camelot...!"

The hall erupted in battle cries. Many of the warriors were stamping their feet or brandishing their axes in the air. The Saxons were glad of the new glory and new booty. They have already forgotten how embarrassed they were by the coming of the sorceress-queen.

"I give you the estates of of Camelot!" continued Morgana in a louder voice, "Go and take! Plunder and burn!"

Morgana turned to Mordred, she wanted to see his face at the moment of their greatest triumph when destiny's light shone over them like a full moon, share her feelings with him; but he was looking down at the steps. Suddenly, he frowned and jerked sharply, raising his flaming sword in her defence.

The hunchbacked Saxon fortuneteller crawled up to the throne. "Allow me to divine your future, Lady." he wheezed in a tearful voice.

"I have the gift of foresight myself," Morgana condescended. Mordred still did not lower his sword, fearing deception and threat even in the creature as pathetic as the fortuneteller.

"It is the ancient custom..." he snuffled.

"Fine." Morgana nodded briefly and sat back on the throne, gracefully spreading the folds of her black and green skirts.

The fortune teller removed a burlap pouch from his belt, shook it and dumped its contents on the floor. It was painted bones and round sea pebbles, scrawled with signs of simple straight strokes that neither Morgana nor Mordred have ever seen before.

The fortune-teller gasped and seized one of the pebbles which lay inscribed upwards. "This is the Teiwaz! Victory!"

Morgana's lips stretched in a bitter smile. She knew.

"You have given Camelot to the barbarians to plunder." Mordred stated evenly.

They have sealed the doors with a protection spell – a spiralling golden seal was glowing over the old grey wood. Though Rodulff's rebellion had been crushed and his men were chilling somewhere in the dungeons, and the rest of the Saxons had a deep fear of magic, they could not afford to trust any of these men, to trust this creepy place itself.

The room they have been assigned by the servant-slaves used to belong to the previous ealdorman but there was little in it to indicate the personality of the owner. Orkowulff's belongings must had been scavenged by Rodulff and his crew. There was a gaping hole in the black wall to the right, boarded up and covered with a tattered tapestry of an evil giant who tore an oak tree out of the ground and was shaking it over his head. But the fireplace, the chests, the furniture, and the bed covered with furs of black foxes and squirrels were decent enough to spent a day or two before the war began.

"Since when do you care for the people of Camelot? They're not our kind."

"They aren't." But everyone does good to their own kind. It's glorious to show mercy to a stranger, Mordred thought. "But the subjects are not Pendragon."

"I did not want this, Mordred, but I had no choice. What else could I offer them as motivation? Could I hold an entire army together by fear of sorcery?" Morgana sat down at the long, narrow table and lit the yellow candle ends stuck to the tabletop with a spell. "Don't worry, when this is over we'll be rid of the Saxons, they're just a tool. When we get magic back, the land will heal, that's what Dorchaid was talking about. And as for the barons...Well, they'll be more amenable when all they have left is to rely only on their new queen..."

Mordred stood at the curtainless window and looked down into the courtyard and at the tributary of the Ivy River lower down the hill. There on the choppy waters, two Drakars were moored, their striped sails were mangled by the wind and nailed to their masts by the rain.

"Tell me I'm right. Please." Morgana called ou to him.

"You are right." That truth brought him no joy. He wanted it to be over soon. Fate, duty, whatever. To dull the pain and exact the same revenge on Pendragon, to finally bring peace back to this evil tainted land. His entire life and future have narrowed down to one goal. The fiery sword, drunk with blood, now rested in its scabbard on the table. It has already killed two in this century, and Mordred has promised it that the Clan of Brocéliande's assassin would be the third.

The inner courtyard of the ruined castle was lined with low outbuildings. Long, rain-darkened wooden barracks served as slave dwellings, stables, and warehouses. The latter were arranged even better than places for the people. Lawns werre turned into vegetable gardens, the monstrous wooden and metal structures of mines and ugly blazing metal smeltery towered farther up in the hills of the Valley of No Return. And the slaves, their grey, scrawny figures that had lost all identity marks, were poking about at the ruins of black stone here and there. The Saxons made them work even in this weather, even at night.

"Why don't they run away?" Mordred thought melancholically. They must have no place left to go back to. Just like him and Morgana. And he who has no home cannot be truly free, for life is not only a journey, but also where you come to when all quests are completed.

"There are slaves here." He informed Morgana. "I used to dream of freeing them..."

"So did I. But we can't now." Morgana replied sympathetically, nervously rubbing her triskelion pendant. She was truly sorry. She mentally begged these unknowingly unfortunate people to wait a little longer. She was about to get up and go over to look at them, but there was a knock at the door.

"Lady Morgan. Supper." The Saxons were now calling Morgana "Morgan" for their liking; as for Mordred, they confined themselves to "Milord Knight."

Morgana broke the seal and a fair-haired maid entered the chambers with two trays of food. Morgana recognised her as the girl who had not been frightened or angry.

"Oh, the fireplace is already lit." the girl muttered quietly. She didn't seem to be familiar with the magical aids the druids were used to.

"It is a magical fire." Morgana remarked. She decided it was important to establish the idea of the omnipotence of her powers in the superstitious minds of the Saxons, and mentally raised the flames higher, made it stronger and noisier. The maidservant shuddered and gasped, as expected.

Mordred sat down at the table opposite Morgana, and the girl set out metal platters of goose, venison, vegetable stew, bread, cheese, and honeyed berries for them. The fruits of slave labour. Morgana has not eaten so well since last autumn, since the Camelot dinners, or even before, for in the last weeks before her escape to Brocéliande her dreams, her anxiety, her waking magic had robbed her of her appetite, and poor Gwen had been carrying the untouched trays back to the kitchen.

Mordred, forgetting the etiquette, gorged on the venison. The maid stepped closer to Morgana and carefully placed a linen napkin beside her plate of goose, then leaned over and poured some barley whiskey into a metal goblet. Morgana turned her head and noticed an unusual silver amulet peeking out from under the girl's collar. It was made in the shape of an inverted T, and was engraved with lines like those on the fortuneteller's pebble.

"What is it?" Morgana took the pendant in her hand.

"Thor's Hammer, Lady Morgan." the maid froze in a half-crouched position fearfully.

"Whose?" Morgana released the amulet, and let her straighten up and exhale in relief. "What's your name?"

"Eira, Lady."

"Sit here on the side, get yourself some food, Eira." Morgana said friendly, but without a smile.

The girl darted her intelligent grey eyes at Morgana. Sitting with the rulers...?

"You may sit. Tell me and Milord Mordred about yourself. Are you a slave?"

Eira somewhat awkwardly pushed back her chair and sat down at the table. Then carefully took herself a piece of bread and placed a piece of cheese and turnips on it like on a plate; meat she still did not dare to touch.

Morgana and Mordred continued to eat and listen to Eira. She spoke with a pleasant, soft accent, and Morgana liked her.

"I am Eira, and I am free." she stated with some pride. "I arrived here three years ago with my brother Eric. We are not Saxons, Lady. We came from Norge. It is very cold there, bad crops, and the evil Jarl took away our plot of land. My brother Erik decided to seek new warm lands and service on Alba. We boarded a drakar and sailed here, along with some other men of our blood. But soon Eric fell ill, the evil fog killed his lungs and he died. And I was left to serve here, for I had no one and nothing else in the whole world."

"That sounds familiar." Morgana twirled the goblet of scalding drink in her hands, "Arthur...the Jarl of Camelot also hurt us. So what is this amulet? Do you wield magic, Eira?"

"Not at all!"for some reason, Era was frightened by the suggestion, "This pendant, the symbol of our god, belonged to Erik. The runes on it are a charm. But our magic doesn't work the way yours does here, Lady. It is not as strong. We are incapable of doing the great things you all do here on Alba." she explained respectfully, "We just write letters, or combinations of letters, and wait for them to come true. For example, thanks to the protective words on this amulet, no man has violated my body in three years."

"Interesting sorcery," Morgana remarked approvingly.

"What if we used the Old Tongue in a similar way, Morgana?" Mordred spoke out, took a large swig of whiskey from his goblet and grimaced at the taste.

"If you wish, Milord Knight, I can teach you the futhark." Eira said, eager to help and become a favourite of the new rulers.

She tried to stay away from the former ealdorman, though the hammer protected her. In Morgan and her Knight, however, she felt the winds of change; they were new people she has never happened to meet before. Here in a slavers castle, dignity and honour were rare guests, cruelty or despair far more common. To see a woman behave like Morgan, with power and authority... It impressed Eira and she wanted to stand under her shadow.

"Thank you, Eira, but you have no idea how powerful we are." Morgana unaccountably disliked the idea of some girl teaching Mordred anything, "You know why? Because we work directly with our Heavenly Mother. The energies of the Triple Goddess flow directly to us without any intermediaries." Morgana assessed Eira's Thor nonchalantly.

"That is splendid, Lady." Eira echoed, she wasn't offended in the least. The hammer was more a memory of her brother, Eira herself was leaning towards the New Religion she had heard about from some of the castle slaves, or the faith of Alba, both of which she found having something in common.

When the rulers have finished the supper, Eira stood up and gathered the dishes onto the trays.

"Prepare us a bath, please." Morgana smiled almost as she had before, almost as she had before she left Brocéliande leaving the graves behind. The vile barley drink softened her strangely, and warmed her from the inside like fire.

"Then you'll have to wait a while, Lady Morgan, while I boil the water downstairs," Eira fussed.

"Don't. We don't need water. Just bring the necessary things and a change of linen, if you have any there."

Eira froze not understanding how the rulers wouldn't need several buckets of hot water, but then she remembered their powers. "Ah, yes, of course. Excuse me. I won't be long."

She stepped out, and Morgana looked at Mordred. He had unbuttoned the collar of his gambeson, and spread out in a chair with his feet on the table.

"Things are going well, are they not, my Queen?" he asked with a strange strained irony.

"Milord Knight." Morgana smirked archly and lowered her gaze to the table, blushing at his savage charm.

Soon Eira returned with the sheet she would drap over the bronze bath that happened to stand behind the parchment screen, a pumice stone, soap, linen towels and other things.

"Have a coin? I'll return it later when I explore the treasure of...what's-his-name."

"Orkowulff?" Eira rummaged in her pockets and gave Morgana a copper.

"Yeah. Thank you. You may go."

As the doors closed behind her, Morgana sealed them with magic again. She and Mordred were left alone. She threw some energy into the bathtub and within seconds steam came from the hot water.

Mordred stood up and walked over to Morgana, a depth of sorrow and longing desire in his eyes.

"You need rest."

"So do you." Morgana undid his nine-rayed fibula and the black cloak fell to the floor with a soft noise. Then she slowly helped him rid himself of the bracers and chainmail. Mordred's arms went round her back, get under the cloak and found the lacing on her dress. So, slowly and reverently, they rid each other of their armour and for the first time stood before each other like this, stripped bare in all their vulnerability. The steam enveloping them felt like the lake mist.

"You're so tense." Morgana ran her hand over his square naked shoulders, lingering on the triskelion tattoo that alone remained the mark of his Druid lineage. Then she kissed the corner of his jaw, traced her lips to his earlobe and skimmed it, her stomach fluttered at the sensation of his warm flesh, his uneven breathing on her neck. "Do you like it?" she asked with sudden uncertainty.

"Who doesn't like affection and love?" Mordred leaned over and eased a kiss on the hollow of her throat, then unclasped and removed his gift, the triskelion pendant. The silver circle slid between her breasts and fell onto the clump of her dress, underwear and cloak on the floor.

Morgana stepped into the water, sat down, closed her eyes and let her long black locks spill over the surface. Mordred followed her. He leaned back, tilted his head up, and stared up at the black ceiling high above. As sorrowful thoughts and fear of the future circled over him like the black crows again, Mordred's hand slid under the water and found the silky surface of Morgana's inner thigh. She opened her eyes and moved forward between his legs for a kiss on the mouth.

After making love, when the flame faded, they lay down in the stranger's bed and covered themselves with furs; they lay touching along the length of their bodies. But then suddenly Mordred remembered something.

"Where are you going?"

He stood up and quickly pulled out of the pile of his clothes the new little dreamcatcher he had weaved for Morgana the night before she escaped Camelot the second time.

"Look. I made it for you." With magic, Mordred attached it to the bedpost.

Morgana rolled over onto her back and focused on the simple ribbons and feathers protecting her from the horrors of knowledge. Mordred lay on his side beside her again, pressed against her and hugged her as if he could lose her. She put her arm round his neck, felt safe, and in that moment she thought she could handle anything and defeat anyone.

When Morgana awoke in the morning, she did not find Mordred beside her in bed. The furs caressed her bare skin, not his arms. She rolled over onto her side. Mordred, fully dressed, sat on the windowsill polishing his magical sword, staring gloomily out the window.
Morgana thought she didn't know where she would have been now or what she would have done if he wasn't there, if Mordred wasn't inspiring her to keep going again and again. She never thought she could have something like this, someone for whom she mattered, for whom she was first. Morgana always felt she was just a shadow in other people's lives, a known stranger. She has never really liked any man, no one she thought as worthy of, and Uther never seemed to have any intention of marrying her off to anyone. She had been grateful to him, to her guardian as she had thought then, but now knowing the truth, Morgana realised that maybe Uther didn't want to disgrace with her, a bastard, some noble family. He might have trembled with fear at the thought of anyone finding out about his sin. They thought she'd live as a powerless outcast for the rest of her life and never bother anyone.

She won't. She wouldn't be weak, she wouldn't submit to evil will.

Morgana stood up, threw the furs on her shoulders, and walked silently over to Mordred.

"Blessings," he turned his head to her when he felt her hand on his back. "They are already gathering. The slaves are collecting provisions for the troops."

The deep sadness on Mordred's colourless face, the cool spark in his eyes echoed with pain in her heart. "You have changed." she didn't know what made her say it.

Mordred lowered his eyes to the sword, "You have too."

There was no mirror in the giant's castle and Morgana thought of how she has changed, thought of what the poison of pain and betrayal had done to her. Who would she see in the reflection? Not a frightened, tormented by nightmares princess for sure.

"I know." she stroked the longer curls at the nape of his neck.

"You know..." He looked down at the floor.

"Tell me, Mordred. You can tell me everything.'

"It's such a strange feeling, like I'm broken. Something inside...They were my light. It's like I can never be the same. I know that I cannot survive a third loss."

Morgana suppressed her tears, and instead, a lava of anger swelled inside her chest.

"We will restore everything, Mordred. Justice will be restored."

A new idea came to her. What if she wrote to Merlin and urged him to choose a side? Surely having learnt of the innocent deaths of the druids he would no longer be able to love Arthur as he used to. They don't need Arthur and his permissions anymore. They will come and take what is rightfully theirs. Moreover, Arthur is but an obstacle to the Golden Age, he is what keeps it from coming, he is what restrains hers and Emrys' powers, whatever they may be. The more Morgana settled with the thought that Arthur was not a brother but an enemy, the deeper the poison penetrated, but she thought it was the cure.

Mordred raised his head and stared at Morgana in the morning grey light. He felt the flaring fire of her conviction. Morgana's strength anchored him, and made him stronger, but still he said, "Whatever we do. Whatever means of fighting for a better future destiny forces us to take...The important thing is not to let them...We must try to keep love and compassion in our hearts..."

Morgana met his gaze, the blue shifting with the green, together becoming like the Holy Lake's waters, "I love you, and that is what I will keep. No more, no less. Come, we have much to do."

She dressed herself, took the Saxon sword, broke the golden seal, and the doors opened softly in front of them.

Chapter Text

Lord Ector's banqueting hall – sturdy grey stone walls, blue velvet, bronze, lancet windows – could barely accommodate all those gathered here. There were knights of Camelot, the loyal barons, the head of the peasant volunteer militia, and the heads of soldiers.

Arthur, still in mourning but wearing a red cloak over his black tunic, sat at the head of the table, at Lord Ector's usual place. Merlin stood behind his chair, and on Arthur's right hand sat the master of the Manor himself. Gwen, of course, was not here, and Arthur missed her. She was either with Gaius in the healing tents set the yard — for now they were empty but everyone knew they would soon be filled with moans of pain — or serving Ector's daughter, Lady Lisanor.

Ector's formerly peaceful lands have become a military camp; the meadows around the estate and the slopes of the Camlann Mountains bloomed with warriors' tents instead of joyful spring flowers.

The Lord coughed, and stood up. The light barely breaking through the heavy rain clouds glinted on the heavy silver chain on his chest. He rummaged through the papyruses on the table and picked up one of the sheets. "Your Majesty, Knights, Barons, Warriors, Yomen. A report has just arrived from the capital. My son and the garrison are holding the defences of the city, all is well there. The traitor forces are approaching us from the other side of the Camlann Mountains. King Odin has joined them..."

Arthur sighed heavily. He had decided not to pursue retribution for his Father assassinated by Odin, but it stopped nothing, and the malicious king still intended to have his revenge.

"And the King of Mercia."

"I knew he would never side with me, but I expected at least neutrality." Arthur remarked unhappily.

"Caerleon and the other kingdoms have decided to remain neutral."

"What a shame!" Sir Gwaine muttered over his kingdom's lack of support.

Ector coughed delicately, "Some troop movements have also been noticed on the Essetir border. I fear that King Cenred wishes to join the war."

"Whose side?"

"Given that the High Priestess of the Old Religion, Lady Orkney, is his ally..." Ector trailed off and picked up another paper.

"All clear." muttered Arthur quietly. Only Merlin, Gwaine and Leon heard him. "Morgause will not rest but avenge her failure. Why does everyone in this kingdom have something to avenge? What if we all just let it go...?" Arthur asked the world dramatically.

"But I want to gladden your hearts, friends." Ector smiled kindly, "Queen Annis and King Rodor of Nemeth have sided with the True Heir of Camelot. They will be coming to our aid soon."

Arthur's men perked up at this news. Despite everything, more faith and hope than fear and doubt shone in their faces.

"We also have peasant volunteers on our side." Ector nodded respectfully to a man in simple clothes and a fur-trimmed cloak, the head of the yomen. "We can defeat the rebels, and we shall. The only thing is, Sire...The hundred of of men could drain my lands. If the war drags on beyond a single battle we may need additional funds..."

Arthur straightened in his chair and felt Merlin shift from foot to foot. "What do you suggest, Lord Ector?"

"There is a monastery three miles from the border of my lands, these are the men of Abbot Ambrosius. Since he has sided with the enemy we could take–"

"No, Ector." Arthur raised his hand in a negative gesture. "The common brothers are not to blame for what their head does, they should not suffer." Arthur looked round the hall. His decision not to sack the monastery seemed to rather please those gathered, especially the Yoman, for the number of followers of the New Religion was only growing among the peasants. "We will not run from the battle and will strike them first. The ones who started the whole thing will be the ones who pay for it." Arthur stood up proudly, and looked round at his men, "The property of the traitor barons will go to pay for the campaign."

Arthur's Barons exchanged meaningful glances. The stakes were very high. If they won, they would get everything. If they lost, the Galahad's Barons would devour them.

"Know that I do not seek victory, I seek peace," Arthur raised his voice, "I fight for a united Camelot where no one will be disadvantaged, no one will suffer without guilt. I seek the country in which the law of mercy and justice will reign. And I urge you to follow this credo, friends."

As he spoke, the sunlight finally broke through, reaching for the young King.

Merlin was the first to give a ripple of applause. Soon, catching up on the spark, others joined him, honouring Arthur. When the applause died down, Arthur bowed briefly to them, his cheeks burning.

Half an hour later, the meeting was dismissed. Arthur stayed in the hall alone watching the signifier people who chose him leave. Each of them wanted something different, each of them saw the future in a different way, and Arthur would have to meet their expectations. He cannot let them be disappointed that they had chosen him to fight not just for the end of the Plagues or his place on the throne, but for the future of Albion.

Merlin looked back from the door. "Arthur, are you coming?"

"Any news about Morgana?" Arthur put his hands on the wooden back of his chair and looked out the narrow lancet window. The rain has stopped. And they haven't even noticed how, haven't heard the silence, haven't paid attention to the stilled light. Arthur was mesmerised by the abruptness of the peace.

Merlin shrugged sadly. "Nothing so far. No word of the Saxons yet. We'll see, if she shows up, she'll do soon."

"All right, thank you. You may go, Merlin. I want to be alone for a while. I need to think."

"To think? You? Give me back the real Arthur, it's his evil twin!" Merlin exclaimed jokingly, clasping his hands in exaggerated dismay.

Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted, but he didn't feel like laughing. In the past, he would have thought of a joke for Merlin but now he couldn't seem to beat the mood with fun.

"Is everything all right, Arthur?" Merlin frowned slightly.

"It is."

"You look a bit bored. Maybe this can cheer you up?" Merlin smirked, conjured a red gerbera and threw it in Arthur's face.

"Merlin, what—" Arthur threw the flower back at Merlin, "Are you crazy? What if you get noticed?"

"I'll cast an oblivion spell on them, it's simple." Merlin shrugged and dissolved the gerbera in the air with a flick of his fingers. "Next time it will be a toad, if you prefer it that way. I'll lay your path with toads."

Arthur shook his head and headed for the doors. "You just try it. I need to rest, but don't patronise me."

Merlin threw another flower at the back of his head, making Arthur smile after all.

As Arthur walked out of the Manor, he was blinded by a waterfall of sunlight and silence pouring down on him from the heavens. The iron clouds, the hissing of rain on the ground were gone. The sun came out to meet him, the rain drops on the grass and leaves glistened like precious crystals of light. It seemed to be a good sign, surely a good omen. Have the Plagues ceased? The soldiers and servants cheered up and looked up at the blue sky, smiling. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back and walked round the Manor's front lawn. Knights and squires noticed him and gave him salutes as he passed.

His feet carried Arthur outside the iron gates decorated with the shields of Camelot's knights, House of Pendragon and Ector himself. He crossed the bridge over the small green creek and walked slowly along the forest road to nowhere in particular.

Arthur mentally prepared himself for what was soon to come. Yes, he was trained to kill since childhood, and his sword knew the blood of man, but he has never been happy about it, it was only a necessity. But never before this moment had so much been at stake. Not just a quest, or a skirmish in the woods with bandits, not a raid on enemies of the Crown, but a War. A lot of blood would be spilled on Camlann, Arthur could foresee it, and he felt guilty. He wished he could bear all the blame on himself. Why couldn't the Triple Goddess curse his entire clan to the seventh generation if that was what it took, why did judgement and battle have to involve everyone? Was it inevitable?..

Arthur ran his hand into his pocket and clutched the cold metal of the runemark. He might doubt, but there was no turning back now, the country's conflict has gone too far, and has been here too long in the need of resolution. Even if he changed his mind now, refused in his heart to "let Her people go" and burned a new draft of the Amnesty Decree, the draft he never has time to finish, in the fireplace, it would make no difference for it has become bigger than just his doing, no longer just his decision. The forces and wills of hundreds of people took and carried him on their shoulders, cheering him, not noticing that their hero was not so heroic.
Besides, he didn't want to break Merlin's heart. His magical friend believed in him.

Ahead, a sparkling white streak popped up among the lush, tender thickets of alder, buckthorn and light weeping willow. A fresh breeze carried to him the smell of damp, heavy waters. Arthur stepped out onto the quiet, sandy shore of a lake.
The lake of Avalon was steeped in legends of the days of the Old Religion. It was once called a Holy Lake because of the blessed magical Sidhe folk who lived somewhere on a mysterious island beyond the shroud of mists. It was said that their island was called the Island of Apples for the orchards there never knew autumn and winter, the bloom there always changed into fruit and then back into flowers.

Arthur never gave a thought for them. Whether the Sidhe remained there or not, they had not been seen in Camelot for over a hundred years and had not reacted in any way to the Purge or other storms that tormented Albion. After Arthur's great-great-grandfather Vortigern and his court wizard Cornelius Sigan had managed to defeat the Wild Hunt, the cruel amusement of the Sidhe's Queen, everyone in the kingdom believed that since then the High Fae could no longer set foot on Camelot's lands. No longer did the Fairy Queen go hunting in the lands of mortals, trapping unfortunate peasants and draining them of the lifeforce drop by drop.

But there was still something special about the lake, and so Lord Ector would not allow its shores to be built upon.

The waters of the lake splashed quietly and joyfully in the sunlight, and the sight of them brought peace to Arthur's troubled heart. He walked slowly along the shore, clutching the coin in his fist, breathing in the smells of trilliums, crocuses and the spicy spring herbs growing along the green shores. He remembered what he had to do. The coin was a debt and a payment, and he had to give it back to the One who had given it to him.

As if in answer to his wish, a small grey boat was found tied to the trunk of a willow tree.

Arthur wanted to stretch his arms, to feel the blood rushing through his veins again, burning away the swamp of melancholy and apprehension. When something like this happened to him before, he would took his faithful horse Llamrai, Merlin, and gallop into the hills behind the Castle, letting his thoughts run to the wind until his head got empty and peaceful.
He walked down to the sand and got into the boat. Strangely, despite its small size it felt quite comfortable, as though it has adjusted to the weight and height of the person sitting there. Arthur took the rough warmed by the sun oars, pushed off the shore and sailed. He was rowing measuredly, calmly, strongly, accompanied only by the quiet splash of the water and the rustle of the green coastal reeds.

When the boat reached the middle of the lake, Arthur took the runemark out of his pocket to look at it one last time, wondering about the odd attraction this ancient sign of death and misfortune evoked in him. The sky above him was bright cloudless blue.
Arthur lifted his head and looked up at it, to the pain and tears in his eyes. "I'm ready to do what you want. What do you want? Whoever you are, have mercy and forgive me," he said to the heaven, swung his arm and threw the runemark into the depths.

There was a quiet gurgle and the waters swallowed the coin. A fragrant floral wind blew over the surface, a quiet laughter rang out… 

And Arthur's boat lied over on the waves. Arthur shrieked and clung to the sides, trying to regain the balance, the boat was shaking. "What's the—"

When everything calmed down and he looked up, a pale woman's hand was slowly raising out of the lake, strained, as though the waters were a quicksand. In her long graceful fingers she was clutching a sword of marvellous beauty, the blade inscribed with golden marks. The hand was holding it easily as though it weighed nothing, and the dark waters around it were glistening with golden sunny reflections.

Arthur opened his mouth in astonishment and stared at the sword like a fool. The hand didn't move, still holding it, waiting for Arthur.

"Erm..." Arthur marvelled at how out of place his so earthy and rough voice sounded in this magical moment. He cleared his throat quietly. "Do you want me to take it, Milady?"

A ray of sunlight slid down the silver blade of the sword, getting lost in the ancient golden oghamic runes. Maybe it was the answer. Arthur imagined what an uplifting sign that God was on his side it would be for his people if he took possession of such a sword. He carefully raised and stretched forward his trembling hand, his fingers ready to close around the hilt…

But suddenly the boat bucked again like an unbroken stallion, and Arthur almost fell out into the water.

"I wouldn't advise you to do that, King Arthur, I really wouldn't!" a high-pitched girl's voice, the voice tinkling like a tiny silver bell, came from behind him.

Arthur flinched and turned round sharply, gripping the boat's sides until his shaking fingers ached. But he couldn't see anyone.

"Don't take that sword, the Once and Future King!" Now, the voice has come from the opposite side.

This time Arthur turned round slowly, cautiously.

A tiny girl with transparent wings was sitting at the bow of the boat. Her head was adorned with a mop of wild red curls, her sheer bright yellow dress resembled a saffron flower. She was sitting casually in Arthur's boat, chattering her feet, and her freckled round face expressed the highest degree of mischief and mockery.

Arthur stared at the girl with wide eyes. "What?" he finally squeezed out.

She snorted. "King or commoner, you humans are so stupid! I repeat, I said you better not touch that thing!" the girl glared disapprovingly at the sword and the hand that continued towering calmly above the water.

"Who are you?..."

"Oh Holy Waters!" she cried sarcastically, "Isn't it clear? You are in the middle of Avalon! I am of the fairyfolk, my name is Gwinny and I give you advice, free and with no conditions – don't take the sword!"

Arthur relaxed a little, realising that the tiny pixie wasn't going to attack him, but he still kept his grip on the sides of the boat just in case. He could swim, of course, but Avalon was a very deep lake full of hidden undercurrents, and this fairy seemed to like pushing people around.
"Erm... Thank you for the advice, O dear Gwinny," really feeling silly in his big heavy body in the face of this delicate creature of the Old Religion, Arthur asked, "Let me ask you why I shouldn't take this sword? Isn't it good?"

Gwinny giggled and flew closer to him. "Well, firstly it's iron!" Her turned-up nose wrinkled amusingly, "Secondly, it's a sword of destiny! It is strong, but if you take it you will manifest a huuuge," she grotesquely showed with her little hands how huge it was, "A huge trail of events that cannot be avoided, pure and simple! You will alienate friends and befriend enemies, you will win battles that have no impact, but you will lose battles that will determine the future of Albion! With Excalibur in your hands, you will walk the road of no return and drink the cup of the future to the bottom!"

"W h a t ?...."

As Arthur frantically tried to process Gwinny's strange warning, she made fearful eyes and moved even closer to him, now almost touching his elbow in the iron armour. "Is it worth sealing your future forever over some sword, King Arthur? You already have one curse upon you!"

Arthur's face fell.

Gwinny has played on his superstitious fear of the mystical; and his desire to touch the sword – what did the pixie call it? Excalibur? – plummeted down. What could he understand that the inhabitant of the Holy Lake did not? What could he know of magic and destiny? The shining of the sword's steel seemed to fade in his eyes.
He turned away from the Lady of the Lake's hand and sank his eyes to the grey floor of the boat and his black boots. Gwinny fairly smirked when the Sword that knew no defeat went underwater again and dissolved without a trace.

"Well done!" Gwinny soared up in the air and stopped in front of Arthur's confused face, her wings rising and falling in a quick excited rhythm, "A decision worthy of the Once and Future King! Responsibility and reason in spite of such foolish face!"

"Thank you, O Fairy of Avalon!" Arthur's responded awkwardly to her insult. Gallantry was always an option when a man was at a loss of words before a lady. Even if the lady was a pixie.

Gwinny chuckled condescendingly. "And now it's time for you to go home, King Arthur! When you get there go to the cellar, there's a surprise waiting for you!" She snapped her fingers in front of his nose, and the fabric of space around him ripped, the wind rumbled coldly in his ears and the next moment Arthur found himself, along with the boat, on the shore from whence he had come.

"By the way, greetings from your sister!" Gwinny flipped herself over in the air and evanesced.

Merlin's golden thread pretty surprised Sir Lancelot. It led him not to Brocéliande as he has expected, but in a very different direction, northwards.

He looked to where he thought the Lady Morgana should be hiding, then looked at the magic clew that was rolling down the road on its own to somewhere only Merlin's magic knew where. Deciding to trust Merlin, he set off after the clew. He drove and drove and drove. The rain surprisingly stopped, but Lancelot, falling into the monotonous rhythm of the wanderings' song, did not realise that it might have something to do with what Arthur was or was not doing at Lord Ector's lake manor. Lancelot was just glad the returned sun has dried the road mud at last and he could take off and put away the hot, heavy tarred cloak.

The golden thread led him through meadows and sparse groves, up and down hills, and finally established its path.

"This can't be the Northern Wastes, can it?" thought Lancelot.

He pulled at the thread, and stopped the clew. The knight decided to detect his locations. Jumping off his horse he nimbly climbed up the branches to the top of the tallest beech tree. As a boy, before his parents were killed by bandits for money, leaving him with nothing but their desire for him to become a knight, he often climbed the trees in the garden of their cottage, desiring to see the big world around him. He looked around. Camelot remained behind him, Brocéliande to the west, the distant high peaks of the White Mountains could be seen to the east. In the sea of forest below, two long narrow heads came into view. The giant stone crowned heads, sticking out of the trees as if they have surfaced from the sea of green.

As Lancelot gazed at the statues with curiosity, somewhere very close by horrible, heart-rending screams were heard.

All of Lancelot's senses were immediately heightened to the extreme. Someone was in trouble, and so it was his duty as a knight to help them! Arthur surely would understand why he temporarily disobeyed the orders to seek only for the Lady Morgana.
He quickly climbed down from the beech, jumped on his horse and rode towards the sounds.

But it was too late. When he came to the clearing, he saw four people lying flat in the grass, bleeding. One woman's face was disfigured by the brutal blows and her skirts were torn.

They wore the druidic garb. And looked suspiciously familiar.
Lancelot rushed towards them, horrified to recognise them as the Leader Aglain's people, the people who had so hospitably welcomed him after his escape from the evils of Amatha. He knelt down before a belly-wounded man with long brown hair. The druid was writhing on the ground.

"You are of the Brocéliande clan, are you not? Gavyn, right? What happened?" Lancelot prayed that the unfortunate man was able to speak.

Gavin opened his dimmed eyes slightly. His hands tried to stop the bleeding, pressing the blood-blackened grey cloak against the wound.  "Knight? Are you...Lance?"

"Yes, it is me, Lancelot." Lancelot hadn't brought any medicine with him and was now forced to just watch the poor druid die. Once more, for Lancelot had thought they all died at the hands of Sir Galahad. Tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to fall down on Gavyn's face. "What happened, dear friend?"

"We...received a letter from the Healer Morgana..." with each inhale and exhale, the strength drained from the druid.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know...Our clan, our family...all killed. We went back to...." a spasm ran through the Gavyn's body, "Elaine stayed behind...But they came..."

Lancelot shuddered at the mention of the Druid princess' kind name. Lady Elaine, she was alive! "Who are they? Gavyn? Who did it to you?"

The druid's calm grey eyes glazed over, losing the breath of life. Lancelot recoiled from him, an unaccountable fear suddenly gripping his soul. "Who?.."

"We."

The voice was rough and yet quiet. And familiar to Lancelot, all too familiar.
He turned around slowly. Behind him, on the black horse, sat an ugly old King of Amatha, Lord Sarrum himself. His clad in black "knights", or rather just thugs without honour and conscience surrounded him from left and right.

"Well, well, well, well." Sarrum stretched the vowels with mocking sarcasm. He looked Lancelot over from top to toe; the Camelot red and gold colours clearly did not escape his attention. "We just were on our way to war against Uther's foolish son, and here is such a surprise! Two, even." He smirked, and his retinue grimaced with a rude chuckle following. "Sir Lancelot du Lac himself! A knight whose debts and deceit can be paid with nothing but...blood."

Lancelot bared his sword and prepared to defend himself. "Have you killed these innocents, you scoundrels?"

"Of course we have." Sarrum raised a grey eyebrow in slight bewilderment. After they had killed the druids and pocketed their amulets, they were about to ride on, but then they heard Lancelot's rushing hoofsteps and decided to see who was following them. "But these tramps are not innocent. They're druids, the outlaws. You may consider it a last posthumous favour I've done for my old comrade Uther."

Sarrum's vile men hooted approvingly.

"But you, Sir Lancelot, should care of yourself... First you damage Amatha with your unfit service, and then you escape your rightful punishment! This is very bad, Lancelot, very bad..." Sarrum growled like a vicious stray dog.

"I did nothing wrong, you didn't pay me and threw me in the pit!" Lancelot  objected proudly.

"It's only a fine for what you've done. Don't lie to me, never lie to me..." Sarrum clenched his teeth angrily, "You think I didn't recognise who let those prisoners out of my dungeon, eh, Lancelot?...My prisoners! It was you, Lancelot!"

Lancelot swiftly rushed to the attack. Sarrum's men encircled their king, protecting him from Lancelot's merciless blows. In the end, of course, he would have dealt with them all, for Sir Lancelot was one of the fainest. But the valour of the sword, alas, could never match the cunning of insidious tricks.
Sarrum made a swift, light movement with his wrist, a silver flash cut the air, and Lancelot cried out in pain.

A jagged metal disk protruded from his throat.

The brave knight wheezed and collapsed to his knees, his sword falling from his weakened fist.

"You think you're noble, Lancelot, but you're just a fool." was the last thing he heard, Sarrum's smirk the last thing he saw before the world blurred into a fog of pain.

The men of Amatha rode on, and Sir Lancelot was left alone in the unfamiliar forest.

Arthur got out of the boat with some difficulty. He did not trouble himself to tie it up to the willow. Fearful of looking back at Avalon, he hurried back to the Manor, where everything was so comfortable and simple. All these things of the Old Religion, however beautiful, frightened him. They were known to Merlin, to Morgana, but not to him. Perhaps he was glad he didn't touch that Excalibur.
Having returning to the Manor, Arthur has indeed found neither Ector nor Merlin either in the yard or in the rooms. The servants told him that they were not in the camp either.

Go to the cellar! squeaked the memory of the pixie's voice, echoing in his head.

"Well..." he muttered, heading down the stone stairs to the underground part of the house. The torches were burning along the way, that meant someone really has passed there not so long ago. It wasn't like Camelot, where a network of underground tunnels and hidden rooms permeated the entire foundation of the castle. The basement of Lord Ector's cosy manor was just a large, dusty room, crammed with forgotten thing of the previous generations of his wealthy family.

"Anyone here?" Arthur called, picked up a brass candlestick that stood at the door and peered into the dark shadows in the cluttered up corners.

There was a rustling sound behind the row of ebony cabinets and a low startled shriek. Someone has dropped something heavy. "Arthur, is that you?" It was Merlin's voice.

Arthur have a relieved sigh, and went behind the corner. There, among the bronze chests and a huge, shapeless grey pile of old clothes, motheaten furs and dusty fabrics, he found Lord Ector and Merlin. The latter's face was tied up in his famous blue scarf in an attempt to hide from the dust.

"Greetings. What are you doing here?"

Ector turned round to him. "Oh, it's just I'd remembered something... Merlin, keep searching, please. And you, Arthur, sit next to me."

Arthur sat down on the chest next to Ector, set the candlestick on the floor, and watched a poor dirty Merlin pick his way through the thicket of antiquities in search of something unknown for Lord Ector.

"Been out for a walk?"

"Yes. And I feel better, Sir."

"A walk around the Lake has always helped me." Ector was silent for a while, studying Arthur thoughtfully like a parent looks at his grown child trying to remember the infant in the adult person before him, "Today when you spoke at the meeting, I saw something in you... Something bigger than yourself, son. A great king shining through the boy's face."

Arthur was taken aback and felt hot colour flood his face and ears. His father never said anything like that to him.

"Er, thank you, Sir. You flatter me. I'm doing what any of us would do in my position."

"No, not anyone." Ector's face lit up with a brief, understanding smile and he paternally patted Arthur on the shoulder, "And that's why I sided with you. I see that you can transform the world for the better. You know, I only made peace with your father because I had no other choice, no allies. All the other barons and kings agreed to his regime. I am more of a New Religionist at heart, but I pride myself on never having killed a single follower of the Old Ways. However, I was forced to expel them from my lands. I remember when the Clan Leader who lived here at Avalon two decades ago, fell to his knees before me and begged for mercy...I let them go. His name was Iseldir. I wonder where he is now, if he's still alive..." Ector sighed sadly. "But then you have come, boy. You, Arthur, are something new. You can unite and pacify sword, magic and faith."

"Thank you, Sir. I won't fail you." Arthur suddenly felt so warm. Maybe he even welled a tear or two. But before he could embarass himself with such a reaction to the praise, Merlin called out to Ector.

"Your Lordship! I think this is it!"

Ector immediately jumped to his feet. Arthur followed him.

Merlin had pushed the unwanted things into a pile against the wall and was now standing in front of something huge and round, covered with the layers of ancient tapestries.

"What is it?"

"Yes, that's it..." Ector echoed awe-inspiringly. "I knew it had to be here. Come on, Arthur, it should be you. Take off that filthy rag."

Arthur was surprised at this unusual request, but obeyed. He sharply tore the cloths off the mysterious object, and a cloud of dust rose into the air. All three of them, Ector, Arthur and Merlin coughed. But when the dust has settled and the ability to see and breathe without sneezing returned to them, a large, magnificent table was revealed to their eyes.

A round table. An old but beautiful round table made of sophisticated silver marble, decorated with skilful plaited and knotted carvings.

"You should have acted more carefully, Arthur, son." Ector's eyes and nostrils reddened with dust itching, but he smiled anyway. "Come closer. What do you think it is?"

"A table?"

Merlin suppressed a chuckle and stood next to Arthur, admiring his find.

"Of course it is. But this is no ordinary table.  This table belonged to the son of the great Queen Boudicca. It is said to have come to him from the Sidhe of Avalon...Notice those fancy patterns and runes."

Arthur picked up the candlestick from the floor and brought it closer. Through the dust, dirt and perhaps dried blood, he could make out patterns and icons representing the four elements and the four sides of the world. Air, water, earth, fire; west, north, east, south.

"You ask me how it ended up in the basement of my manor? I will answer."

Arthur didn't, but listened with interest.

"You must remember that our lineage, Arthur, comes from the same royal root. Of course, my branch has long since drifted away from your elder branch, but we were once united. Yours is the big dragon, ours is the small, but we are one kind. We know of Boudicca's two daughters, Bonvicca and Epona. The Pendragons and the kingship of Caerleon are descended from them, but the Queen had a younger son, often forgotten in history. Prince Marlow, my distant great-great-great ancestor. How the fairy table came to him is unknown, but in ancient times it served the kings of Camelot until it was left and preserved here in Boudicca's old place. This dusty cellar was once the foundation of her ancient castle."

Merlin looked up at the dark vaulted ceiling with delight, as though he could imagine the meetings and feasts of the ancient kings on it.

Arthur pretended he remembered this all from his childhood genealogy lessons. "It's a beautiful thing, Sir Ector."

"The table is yours, Arthur." Ector smiled favourably and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "It will be a sign to the people that true heritage never dies. That our future is woven from both Old and New Ways. We cannot tear something away of our own free will; the thread can only be severed by God."

"Thank you, Ector..." An emotion of gratitude gripped the whole Arthur's being, "I don't know how to thank you for all you do for me..."

"I have a couple of ideas, son. When we win the war, and I'm sure we will, I'd like to assist you as Lord Protector."

"Of course." Arthur nodded vigorously. "Your help will be invaluable to me."

"You've already become a second son to me. And, like my Kay, you are not yet married." Ector stepped away from the round table, sat down on the chest again, and crossed his big arms over his chest, looking over Arthur with a good-natured smirk. "My daughter Lisanor is single. I have one impossible dream: to unite the branches of the tree again."

Arthur felt embarrassed. Even if his heart was free, he would hardly consider Lisanor as his wife. She was beautiful; glowing dark skin and the longest golden locks he's ever seen, but her beautiful face expressed nothing but arrogance. As much as her father was well-wishing, she was rebarbative.

"I am truly sorry, Sir Ector," he lied, "But I love another, and that is forever." He emphasised the last word pointedly.

A shadow of disappointment darkened Ector's deep brown eyes. "Well. And your sister, Arthur? Is she free? I've heard she's very beautiful. I'm sure Kay will like her."

"There is more in Morgana than her beauty..." he thought of an objection.

"Undoubtedly."

"Sir Ector, have you forgotten that—"

Ector gave a wave of his silver-ringed hand carelessly. "The fact that Lady Morgana is not of legitimate marriage is of no importance. Her mother's blood means little, only her father's lineage does, it's the way things are. Besides, she is the eldest daughter. If you're worried that her...adventures will cloud my or Kay's judgement, they won't, I assure you, Arthur. I am a man of modern views. Who hasn't rebelled against the rules in their youth?."

"I would dream of seeing my sister again and bringing her home." Arthur found an evasive answer.

"I am sure that sooner or later you will bring her back to where a noble lady should be."

"I hope so." Arthur could neither agree nor refuse Ector after such gifts and favours, and he was agonising over what else to say when a quick Merlin came to his rescue.

"I'll get the other servants and together we'll get the table upstairs and clean it!" Merlin chattered cheerfully. He pulled the scarf off his face, revealing his wide disarming smile. "Just imagine, Arthur, you and the knights sitting in the Council Chamber together at this table, no one is first, no one is last, for the circle makes all equal."

Arthur considered the idea and liked it. "Sounds very good, Merlin. The ancient kings valued equality above all else." He used the excuse of turning away from Ector and his requests, and touched the rough surface of the table. "I like it."

"You could start a new knightly order, Arthur!" Merlin was really fired up about the idea, he gesticulated vigorously, waving a dusty cloth, "The Knights of the Round Table!"

"Listen to him, Arthur." Ector smiled behind their backs, "Merlin is a remarkably wise boy, not only for a servant but for many noble men."

"I think I will." Arthur winked at Merlin.

"And so I never saw my Eleanor again..." a quiet, sad voice was coming from the shadows of the Crystal Cave, "But the hope that she lived a long life without me doesn't hurt, it heals."

Elaine sighed.

She was laying on the grass at the entrance to the Crystal Cave, staring with her hooded eyes into the forest, her hands folded under her cheek. Taliesin, apparently sensing the young druidess' sadness, was comforting her with the stories of his life and his music, with the songs he had once shared equally with the kings and the poor. He did not come out into the light, invisible, he remained somewhere in the depths of the magical Cave, but she could hear him as close as if he were whispering tales in her ear, as her father once had been doing when she was a girl.

Her father, Aglain. The kindest person she'd ever known.

Morgana's letter had crushed her formerly cheerful spirit and caused grief and division in the druid circle. Everyone but her wanted to leave the Cave and return home to Brocéliande. They lost all sense in sitting here and waiting for the unknown threat when the danger and death had come to their home. The druid circle blamed themselves for leaving and not protecting their loved ones, they wished they could be there with their families; and if they were to accept death, they would have accepted death.

Elaine was strongly against it. After all, if Camelot could still find their secret camp, then the Crown was closer to getting their hands on magic and everything that was sacred more than ever. But the others, blinded by their grief, disobeyed her and left. Elaine was left alone with Taliesin's shadow, and it seemed to her that she would never wake from that terrible dream of loss.

But suddenly the harmony of the quiet song of Taliesin's invisible singing harp was broken by a cry of pain and terror. Elaine jumped up as though struck by lightning. The sound was not so far away, it came from the statues of the nameless Fallen Kings. The fear was first scalding cold and then boiling hot. Through a sheer force of will, Elaine made herself to snap out of her stupor and do something.

She rushed to her small tent.

"Elaine, the daughter of the druids." Taliesin's disembodied voice echoed off the damp walls of the Crystal Cave. "When choosing between the duty of greater love and joy of smaller love, think twice."

Elaine turned round, and thought she caught his dark outline at the entrance. Sure, she had sworn to protect magic, but how could she ignore a cry for help? What if it was her clan? They couldn't be far away. She grabbed her bag and rushed into the woods.

"I'm not going far!" she assured Taliesin.

When she saw the horrific scene on the road, she barely had time to hit her palm to her mouth to hold back the scream inside.
None other than Sir Lancelot in the garb of a Knight of Camelot lay on the ground before her. Away from him lay the lifeless bodies of her family, the last of the Brocéliande druids.
Stumbling, Elaine ran up to Lancelot and collapsed to her knees before him. A streak of blood girdled his throat like a red necklace. It had been cut with a sinister metal disk.

"Lancelot! My beloved... What happened... My family..." Elaine lamented. She touched his cheek gently, and suddenly Lancelot's eyelashes fluttered. Elaine gasped. She thought he too was dead, like the druids, she thought he has fallen at the hand of the evil she did not know was lurking here very near her and the sacred place of the Crystal Cave.

"Gwen? Is that you?" he whispered. In the haze of oblivion, he was able to see only a blurred face of a black woman.

Elaine quickly wiped away her tears and shook her head sadly. "It's me, Elaine..."

"Lady Elaine..." he echoed and a faint dying smile curved his lips. "I'm sorry."

"No." Elaine raised her head and begged for help from the forest. If she pulled the disk out, Lancelot would die instantly. If she didn't take it out, he would die too. All her pathetic ointments couldn't heal such a wound. It would take a true healer, and it wasn't certain he'd have time at all if the metal shard was already floating in the rivers of Lancelot's blood.
Her grief-stricken eyes fell on a snow-white trillium where Lancelot's dark head was resting on the soft grass, the flower that was caressing his ear; and a terrible but salutary thought occurred to her.

She needs power. And so she made up her mind.

"Taliesin! Taliesin, come to me for I release you!" Elaine shouted. She shut her eyes and balled her fists tight before she could change her mind.

The cloaked, pale figure of Taliesin the Bard immediately rose from the grass in a puff of lilac mist. "What did you say, druid daughter? Do you realise what you just said?"

"I do! Quick, give me your power and free yourself!"

Taliesin sighed and smiled. Through his old appearance, old not from the age of his enchanted body but from the age of his soul, his true image of a young man suddenly emerged.

"Elaine, Elaine, a maid more beautiful than ever lilies." he sang and his enchanted harp in the oak struck a gentle but loud chord, unraveling the magic. For there was something that the legends did not speak of, but Talesin himself has told the Druid princess.

The Bard of Bards was actually a prisoner of the Crystal Cave.

Long long ago, saddened by the rejection of his beloved Princess Eleanor of Nemeth and his inability to create the true beauty, the Bard willingly followed the miraculous music of the Cave and gave it his harp and himself. The magical music healed his yearning, but there was no turning back from initiation as such and so he became the Keeper. Princess Eleanor regretted her coldness when it was too late and searched for Taliesin, but he had gone too far, too deep. She searched for him throughout the twelve kingdoms, heard many different stories, received revelations from witches but never managed to find him, for the Crystal Cave has never since been opened to those whose hearts were not pure or those not invited by the Keeper himself. To atone for her regrets, Princess Eleanor wrote the books of Chronicles and Songs, not knowing that Taliesin could not be free from his service until someone else took his place. Centuries have passed.

"I release you!" Elaine cried the third time, and a golden cloud of light enveloped her and Taliesin together.

When it faded, in the old man's place stood a lovely amiable young man with a golden harp in his hands, the harp the oak tree just released. "Thank you, Elaine." he smiled with relief and vanished into thin air like mist at noon. Taliesin was finally gone in the spiritworld, floating away to the other side.

Transformed and renewed, with Talesin's silver bracelets on her wrists, Elaine touched the metal disk in Sir Lancelot's throat and it melted away. The death necklace left Lancelot's neck.
Elaine's beloved knight opened his eyes. He was feeling the streams of lifeforce return to him from the power of her love. "Elaine, is that you?" She no longer looked like herself. She was like a sister of angels, so full of light was she.

"Yes, it's me, my beloved Lancelot." She stroked his cheek with the back of her palm and smiled sadly.

Lancelot kept trying to open his eyes wide but there was no way he could, it was as though he was falling asleep and couldn't wake up. Everything was blurred. "Where am I?"

Elaine sobbed. The tears were back again, the tears that would never be wiped away by a loving hand. "Can't you hear? We're at the Crystal Cave."

This told Lancelot nothing. For he has not heard the gentle lonely singing of the Cave; Lancelot was not pure-hearted enough for he loved another man's wife.

"Farewell, Lancelot. Farewell forever." Elaine whispered quietly, leaned in, and kissed him weightlessly on the forehead.

But before he could focus his gaze on her, Elaine placed one palm on his shoulder, the other on the ground and Lancelot was gone. She covered her face with her hands and wept at the realisation of what she has done for love, and her tears fell to the ground and bloomed trilliums.

There was no other way.

Chapter Text

"I name you, Sir Percival, Knight of the Round Table!" Arthur uttered solemnly, but with a friendly smile. The shining tip of his sword lightly touched Percival's shoulder.

"For Camelot!" Percival said, his masculine face very serious.

"I name you, Sir Gwaine..."

The Knights were standing on one knee around the Round Table. Sir Ector's banqueting hall's furniture was moved to the walls, but the ancient table still took the lion's share of the room's space and people's attention.
Arthur dreamed of a different initiation ceremony. It was supposed to happen after the festive coronation in his own castle rather than at the stranger's place in the midst of the war; but seeing his knights swear allegiance to him was a profound, incomparable experience. Their faith made Arthur believe in himself. They saw him as the true heir to Camelot over Sir Galahad or Lady Morgana, and were willing to fight for him.

When the ceremony was over Arthur invited the Knights to sit at the table. When everyone but him was seated, he noticed Merlin shifting embarrassedly against the wall. Obviously, he didn't know where to place himself. Arthur simply gestured to the seat next to him.

Merlin couldn't believe his eyes. "Me?" he touched his chest and turned around to see if anyone else was around, "You mean me? Like me to sit down?.."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Merlin, stop embarrassing yourself and sit down already."

Merlin blushed, and then a cheerful grin lightened up his face. With pride, he sat down at the round table next to Arthur and Sir Gwaine, looked around and settled back into his chair. "It's quite comfortable!"

Arthur smiled down at him. "Not just sword but magic," he remarked and lifted up his voice, "Not just nobility but equality, not just strength but mercy, not just law but justice. These will be the values of the Round Table Order, and you and I, friends, will spread and establish them throughout all Albion. We will fight for the good, we will help the disadvantaged, we will defend our fair ladies."
Arthur spoke, and light was rekindled in the hearts of the men listening to him, and Merlin almost wept. It was really happening. The prophecies he has suffered so much for have come true.

"And the first battle of the New Age and of our Order will be the battle of Camlann. We will crush the rebellion of the Barons and pass the laws we need." Arthur sat down and returned his casual tone. "Is there news, friends?"

"The royal allies have arrived at the Manor, now being received by Lord Ector and Lady Lisanor," Sir Leon reported, "King Rodor of Nemeth has arrived with the Princess Mithian."

"Glad to hear that. Anything else?"

Suddenly the hall doors swung open and Gwen stepped inside. She was crumpling her black apron awkwardly, her rosy face a mixture of bewilderment and suppressed laughter.

"Guinevere! Has something happened?" Arthur brightened at the light and sweet sight of her.

"No, Milord. I mean, yes." she muttered awkwardly, "There's someone to see you...A lady.'' She quickly glanced back to the doors. "She's demanding to let her in."

"What is she waiting for? Come in!" Arthur waved his hand to indicate his approval.

Gwen stepped aside with a "I wish I'd never seen that" look on her face, and a hunched creepy old hag entered the banqueting hall.

Her face and hair were hidden beneath a huge, crude mask of tree bark and long withered straw "hair", and she wore a wide cloak woven of moss and brown furs of an indistinguishable but pretty ugly animal. It covered her gaunt figure like a tent. She was indeed a loathly sight to look at. The guest walked forward through the room, her clothes squeaking and clanking. The Knights of Camelot looked on, amazed at her ugliness and freakishness.

Arthur coughed to hide his laughter and confusion, then glanced quickly at Gwen to see if she was laughing. She was biting her lower lip to not to. "What do I owe this honour, Milady, and why have you so insistently demanded my audience?"

The old woman stopped, hiding her hands under her mossy cloak and pointed the dark slits of her wooden mask – her gaze – directly at Arthur's face. "I have demanded King Arthur. Is that you, Sire?" her voice was low and ringing.

"By the grace of God."

"I have come to your aid."

"Really, Milady?" Arthur's eyebrows crept upward. "And how did you...um, know we needed help?"

"Has not a word of the brave King of Camelot fighting for a new world order and his right to the throne of the Pendragons travelled across Albion? It has reached the kingdom of Caerleon. King Madduin has sent me to your aid."

Sir Gwaine first flinched, then chuckled at the mention of his homeland. Such "help" was borderline insulting. "Is this all his majesty Madduin has turned out to be capable of?" snorted the knight. "And how can you help us, hag? You can't even show us your face, apparently it's too scary!"

The other knights suppressed smiles as they looked down at the round table. Merlin cringed and Arthur watched the scene with an amused look.
The loathly lady slowly turned to Gwaine, pointing her creaky mask at him. "Is there a Knight of the Crossroad among the glorious knights present?"

Gwaine buzzed a curse and crossed his arms over his chest, but then answered more cautiously, "Well, there is. That's me, hag. I don't remember anyone like you at the Crossroad...If I once got the better of you, don't be bitter about this, I beg you. This happens."

"I challenge you to a duel, Sir!" The old woman suddenly straightened up, revealing her tall stature, and dropped her mossy cloak to the floor. A shining knightly armour and a rich baldric were hidden beneath it.

Gwaine gasped and gave her a shocked look. "Who are you? This is nonsense! I don't beat ladies!"

"Do you not carry a knightly sword, Sir Knight of the Crossroad, like I do?" the loathly lady asked – or was she loathly? Her figure was too graceful, her voice no longer senile and low – and bared her sword, pointing it at Sir Gwaine. "The law is the law."

Gwaine turned to Arthur with a confused expression on his face.

"Sir Gwaine, in the name of honour, accept the challenge." Arthur recommended.

"Well, well, I always fancy a good fight. Even if it's against the rules." Gwaine drew his sword with a rush of excitement, and ran out from behind the table, attacking the loathly lady. "You'll regret what you asked for, Milady!"

She parried the attack.

Arthur, Merlin, Gwen and the Knights of the Round Table watched with amazement and interest as Gwaine and definitely not an old woman but a lady-knight dueled. It was a beautiful and fast-paced battle, full of sparks and passion between the partners, but of course Sir Gwaine was stronger.

He pinned the loathly lady on the table and pointed his sword at her heart. "Who are you?" he asked hoarsely, breathing heavily and hovering over her laying defenseless beneath him. "I won!"

"I have come to give you my greetings, Gwaine." The woman lifted her foot and shoved him sharply in the chest with her iron armoured boot. "Hello again."

Gwaine recoiled from the blow, dropped his sword and nearly fell, losing his balance. The loathly lady got up, put her sword in its scabbard in a swift elegant motion and looked down at him in triumph. "You lose."

"You witch..." Gwaine muttered and hid his sword in its sheath as well.

The loathly lady pulled a muslin handkerchief from behind her chainmail and threw it right in his face, "This is from Lady Viola, your poor mother."

Gwaine unfolded the handkerchief in shock and stared at the monogrammed "V" and his coat of arms embroidered on it. "Who are you?" he repeated loudly.

She abruptly dropped the bark mask, releasing her true appearance. She was young, two long ashy braids fell over her shoulders; she had a round face with a snub nose, her dark grey eyes stared back hurt at Sir Gwaine.

"Ragnelle!" he exclaimed, stunned by the surprise. His bride was the last woman he expected to see under the mask of the ugly hag of the woods.

She turned away from him, gripped her sword's hilt tight, and bowed briefly to Arthur, Merlin and the knights. "Your Majesty, Sirs! Please, let me introduce myself. My name is Lady Ragnelle, daughter of Sir Keegan, Knight of Caerleon, and Lady Anwen. Sir Gwaine and I were engaged, but he ran away before the wedding, leaving me and his mother alone."

Gwaine cautiously stepped closer to Ragnelle. Strangely, she didn't seem so non beautiful now as he had thought she was before. The evil gleam in her grey eyes, the fierce blush on her cheeks, her courage, her strength, and the knightly attire instead of a dull heavy velvet of her usual dress suddenly revealed a new side of her to him. It was as though he was seeing his unlucky bride for the first time.

"Ragnelle..." he whispered. "What are you doing..."

Arthur frowned disapprovingly at Gwaine, "If you wish, Lady Ragnelle, I will immediately order Sir Gwaine to marry you. You have been treated dishonourably, and you deserve satisfaction."

"Allow me to decline, Your Majesty." Ragnelle lifted her chin, hiding her eyes from Gwaine, "I no longer desire this marriage. My honour was satisfied enough with winning this duel."

Gwaine found a strange new ping in his heart at these words, at the realisation that he has lost her completely by her own choice, not by his own. He clutched his mother's handkerchief in his fist and stepped closer to Ragnelle to look into her eyes, but she lifted her chin higher and kept talking, focusing only at Arthur and Merlin.

"However, I have spoken the truth, Your Majesty. I have indeed brought a dozen of Caerleon's finest warriors to your aid, Sire, as King Madduin's gift. They await your orders in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Lady Ragnelle. I appreciate it greatly. Will you escort me to the courtyard to meet them, Milady?"

"At your service, Sire."

Arthur stood up and held out his hand to Ragnelle as suddenly the entire manor shook with a thunderous boom, the stone and wood shuddered from the roof to the cellar like a living being.

BOOM!...

Arthur staggered and fell on the table, Ragnelle swayed and fell on Gwaine, they both collapsed on the floor. Before anyone realised what was happening, there was another vibrating hit, and a third, until all the relics and tableware left the shelves and candles fell from the chandeliers.

BOOM!

"Arthur!" shrieked Merlin. He had fell backwards along with the chair. He tossed it aside, rolled to his feet and took Arthur by the shoulders in alarm.

"I'm fine." Arthur straightened up and looked around. Ector's heritage shields had fallen from the walls, the floor was smeared with wax from fallen candles, his noble knights were helplessly floundering about on the floor, the glass in the windows had blown out, Gwen was shaking her hair and dress off the dust and plaster that had spilled on her from the ceiling. "Gwen, are you all right?!" He shouted.

"Yeah, thanks." she managed a smile.

"What was that?"

"Must be an earthquake, Your Majesty." Ragnelle refused Gwaine's helping hand, pushed him away roughly, and stood up on her own. "When I was a girl one happened in Caerleon."

"I do remember it..." Mused Gwaine.

Ragnelle rolled her eyes.

"It never happened in Camelot before..." Arthur muttered, alarmed.

Merlin got a grim hunch. He leaned over to Arthur and whispered in his ear, "Earth, Arthur."

"What?"

"The elements. The third plague. Air, Water, Earth."

Arthur's heart sank and his brows came together, the corners of his lips dropped down. Just when he thought it was over, a new punishment struck. He seemed to be doing everything he needed to do, he was packing for the battlefield of the New Age, but lo and behold, the suffering didn't stop. What's the point?.. He sighed and forced himself to take his ease.
"Merlin, Gwen, let's quickly find Sir Ector, we have to see if everything is alright. He needs our help." Arthur decided that If he couldn't affect the big things, at least he could help on something small.

Lord Ector's manor wasn't so badly affected by the earthquake. It was mostly fallen furniture, jammed door locks, people frightened by nature's sudden rebellion.
But the further away, the closer to the Kingdom's capital, the louder and stronger the tremors were, the more devastating the effects. In the outskirts of the town, the first tremor caused the ground to shook violently. The second tremor caused many townsfolk's cottages and noble estates to collapse like a house of cards, burying people beneath the rubble. The third hit caused the very foundations of the Camelot Castle to crack in half to the depths of the earth. The dungeon doors flew off their hinges and the happy prisoners ran free.

Deep in the underground caverns, the Great Dragon awoke. He felt the shaking of the earth, the crushing of rocks, and the shifting movement of the titanic masses. And after that, he found the chain that was pinning his leg to the rock become very light.

Sir Lancelot was on the road again, again Merlin's magic golden thread was leading him onwards. He was alive and healthy, and shifted miles ahead by Elaine's magic. Apparently, she knew where he should have to be. The sad expanse of the Northern Wastes lay ahead of him. The snow didn't melt yet in some places there.

Why the Wastes, Lancelot asked himself again and again.
He stopped his horse and dragged the golden clew to himself. The end of the way was there, in the scattered ruins of the giant's castle. How could Lady Morgana happen to have such bad fortune and get here in the Valley of No Return? He guessed she must have been captured by the Saxons. He prepared himself to die rescuing her from the hands of the cruel slave traders. Perhaps that was why God had sent Lady Elaine, Lancelot thought, and bravely made his way to the black remains of the castle.

Morgana and Mordred inspected the armoury and the barracks where the slaves lived. It was heartbreaking for them, but they still had to select young and healthy male slaves to take the place of those Saxons who would remain to guard the castle, the slave dwellings and the mines. And now, the Saxon army stood ranked on the courtyard lawn beneath the gloomy shadow of the gigantic ruins. The sunlight they had gained made the place even uglier, bringing out the decay more vividly.

Morgana was carrying a Saxon sword in a baldric behind her left shoulder, and every Saxon was frightened by the murderous magic of their new sorceress-queen as much as by the glorious sword of the great ealdormen she had taken possession of. Not to mention the fire-breathing sword of her grim companion.
The fact that these big rough men bowed down before her made Morgana dread the coming war less, and feel more in control.

She took a step, and suddenly there was a vibration in the ground beneath her dusty boot, as if their Mother has shuddered. The echo of a distant rumble reached the unfortunate inhabitants of the Valley of No Return. The grey-robed slaves stirred, but the overseer shouted harshly at them and slashed their shoulders with his whip. "Shut up and stand still!"

"What is it?" Morgana turned to Mordred to hide the fear in her eyes from the warriors.

"Nature rejects those who defile her," Mordred leaned in and whispered in her ear. The molten breath of his lips made her cheeks grew warm.

"Lady! Your Majesty!" a gate guard burst through the ranks of black-clad warriors – Morgana had made sure that the story of her own entry into the castle would not repeat itself. The entrances to the castle were now guarded.

"What?" She turned arrogantly to the Saxon.

"We have captured a knight of Camelot, Lady! He wanted to sneak into the castle!"

Only Mordred noticed how she gone slightly pale.
"A knight of Camelot? Excellent. Lead him into the throne hall."

"Will do, Lady." He bowed and ran at the gates.

Morgana slipped her arm under Mordred's and they returned to the castle, leaving the army to the care of the barbarian centurion.

"How did Pendragon know where we are?" Mordred asked quietly as they walked down the dark filthy corridors.

"There's a chance it's not a scout, but a random wandering knight. Or," she turned her head towards him, "Merlin has betrayed us and is watching us in Arthur's favour..." She looked up, as if she could see the invisible eyes of the watcher on the walls and ceiling. Now that Arthur had Merlin's magical aid, she was more vulnerable than ever.

Mordred's face petrified, his hand in hers stiffened. "We need to create anti-seeking amulets. Until it's too late."

"I wonder how they managed to find the Clan without Merlin..." Morgana reminded him painfully.

"It doesn't matter now." Mordred averted his eyes. Some in the clan had the amulets...But not all of them and that left a gap in their defense. They just couldn't ever imagine that anyone of their own could harm them by magical means.
He stopped at the doors letting Morgana step forward in the throne room.

The Saxon guards pushed Sir Lancelot into the hall. Most of it was lost in the cold gloom. Only at the far end of it, copper crucibles of fire were burning. There, on a granite throne sat the Lady Morgana herself, her one leg crossed over the other. She wore the same clothes Lancelot had last seen her in – a green dress and a black cloak – but he hardly recognised her. So dark and sorrowful was her face, and with such anger and apprehension she looked down at him. Leaning against the back of Morgana's throne stood Sir Mordred, with an indifferent and detached expression plastered on his face. He leveled his former friend with a murderous glare and stared at the wall again.

At the foot of the throne, a hunchbacked Saxon in wolf's furs sat, hunched over some pebbles and bones. He gave Lancelot a baleful glance and hissed when the guards forced the knight to his knees so that Lancelot and the Fortuneteller were on the same level – so much lower than Morgana and Mordred's.
The guards pressed on the back of Lancelot's head and forced him to lower his eyes to prevent him from looking at the rulers.

"Well, hello, old friend. Has my brother sent you to spy on me? Did he think one knight could handle some of the strongest sorcerers in Albion? Silly, isn't it, Mordred?" Morgana smirked wickedly, and Mordred snorted. "Underestimating an enemy leads to losing, doesn't it? Arthur must learn this. And he will."

"Milady Morgana, Sir Mordred!" Lancelot raised his head to look at them. He was immediately shoved in the back by the Saxon guard. "What's going on, why are you here?"

Coming here Lancelot least expected to see something like this. He did not know whether he was more shocked that the supposedly dead Mordred was alive and healthy or that Morgana sat on the throne in the giants' castle as queen and the barbarians obeyed her. He thought the Camelot princess was a prisoner here and he would have to rescue her from their hands....

"Don't pretend you are fool, Sir Lancelot." Morgana snapped through her clenched teeth, "I have declared war on Arthur Pendragon and therefore you are my enemy as is every knight of Camelot! You have the blood of innocents on your hands!"

"What?!." Lancelot twitched, but the Saxons again prevented him from looking at their queen, pressing his neck down painfully, "It is not true!"

Morgana rolled her eyes in disgust and turned away from him.

"Where to put him, Lady?" the Saxon asked, grabbing Lancelot's long hair in his fist. "To the spiritworld, to the slave barracks or the dungeon?"

Morgana turned to Mordred and for a few seconds they stared at each other in silence as if reading each other's minds. "Throw him in the dungeon," Morgana finally ordered nonchalantly.

Obediently, the Saxons picked up Lancelot from the floor and dragged him away.

"No, wait! Morgana, Mordred! I come in peace! Let me speak!" cried Lancelot, but a moment later the heavy doors slammed in his face leaving Morgana and Mordred, in whom he no longer recognised his former friends, behind him.

As the hall emptied, Mordred sighed heavily and sat down on the armrest of the throne. "We're not going to kill him, are we?"

"I wouldn't want to." Morgana pursed her lip in concern, staring unseeingly at the feasting table that was empty at this time of day. "But Lancelot has chosen his side. He is still Arthur's scout. We need to find out what mission he sent him here on. Do you happen to sense a magical trap or curse on him?"

Mordred frowned, trying to recover his senses from the encounter. It had seemed to him that there was indeed a transparent and barely perceptible trace of unusual white magic lingering above Sir Lancelot, but it was too elusive for even his gift to determine what it was. "I've noticed nothing dark or malicious. But if Emrys is behind this...He's stronger than I am."

Morgana looked up at her lover, "You are strong, Mordred, and you have been entrusted with the sword of destiny for a reason. Probably even Merlin cannot defeat you if you have been chosen."

"Why didn't Emrys come himself..." Shadows lingered beneath his eyes. Absently, he touched Morgana's hair and twirled a lock around his finger. Emrys, always an appealing enigma to him.

"I hope we don't have to torture Lancelot to find out the truth." Morgana shuddered at the thought. She hooded her eyes against the crucible's flame. She already knew how to do it, how to make a man squirm in agony with just a twist of her magic; but it was one thing to use it on a Saxon and another thing to try it on a friend, albeit a traitor.

"If anything, I'll do it, Morgana. I don't want you doing this kind of..." Mordred's voice was very quiet.

Morgana hesitantly squeezed his cold fingers and nodded softly.

Lancelot fought back, and tried to break free, but he was alone against four Saxons, disarmed and still weakened from Sarrum's wound.

He was dragged down the stairs and thrown into a dark, smelly cage. Before he could even stand up, the doors slammed shut with a loud clang. The guards stomped away, and Lancelot was left alone in the darkness.
It was like that time in Amatha's well again. He sat down on the floor and sighed heavily.

"What is this for again?" he cried to the darkness sorrowfully.

"So, what have you done to her?" A male voice suddenly broke the dull silence. It came from the cell on his right and spoke in a foreign accent.

Lancelot flinched and tried to see a human face in the shadows of the neighbouring cell. "Er, nothing?"

"Just like the rest of us." It was another voice, from the cell to the left. "I was only joking about her, but I didn't know it was her in a crone disguise!"

"And I just didn't want to see a woman on the throne of ealdormen! I didn't deserve this!"

"Alright, gentlemen, tell me what's going on here. Please." asked Lancelot. He would do well to get to the bottom of what was going on in these cursed ruins before he tried to escape.

"We don't know much... The witch showed up here out of the blue..."

Sir Galahad has barely set foot in the Valley of the Fallen Kings when he heard it. The gentle music of the wind, the song of white trilliums, the whispers of young grasses.

"What's this song? What's this love?.." he mused as he walked through the forest so fairy-beautiful after the rains. The newborn sunlight played on the water drops, refracting into hundreds of little rainbows. Galahad harked to the song that only the purehearted could hear. He no longer needed the map, he followed his heart.

His men with crates and sacks followed him. They neither heard nor saw, but could only follow the White Knight.
Galahad ran down the forest slope, his modest sword stripped of its scabbard, his white cloak blowing in the wind; and there it was, the end of the way, the purpose he has been looking for so long and almost lose faith he would find. The centre of all the power of nature, the diamond of all magic, the hidden cup of light surrounded by seven green boulders.

Galahad took a step inside, into the velvet scented darkness of the Crystal Cave. No one met him, it was empty. Was it really that easy? He almost wished he had to fight for possession of it, had to prove his dignity and right; for an easy victory does not give a knight glory. But perhaps he had already paid the price for this miracle with his suffering and wanderings. Galahad closed his eyes, lowered his sword and relaxed his shoulders with a sigh. He let his tortured, lashed and ravaged magic cowered in the dark corner of his being raise its head. Warmth filled his veins, and the touch of the Cave's raw and sacred magic made him feel so light and good for a moment; and his spirit soared free. Before his mind's eye he could see the glittering green and gold spirals tangling one into the other in the eternal dance of nature; and his magic was a part of that cycle too, like the magic of all the other gifted...or cursed.

After a moment, Galahad suppressed the temptation to walk away and do nothing, or worse, to go inside and take this power and become the most powerful sorcerer in Albion. Doing that would make him despise himself for the rest of his days. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. Power wasn't worth righteousness in the eyes of God.
With one last look at the mysterious depths of the Crystal Cave, Galahad stepped out of there and gestured for his men to begin the end. Magic was not a spiritual power. It was material, elemental, understandable by the principles of natural philosophy and alchemy he knew so well, and therefore it was susceptible to physical coercion. Mortal as any comprehensible substance.

Galahad left, and a burning wall of fire stood behind him, like a sea wave in a storm, higher than the treetops, all-consuming. The purifying fire of his wrath slammed into the forest and the heavy black masses of rock and soil exploded, blasted by the strongest of his powders and liquids. The song fell silent. For a brief moment, Galahad thought he heard someone screaming through all the noise, but he did not bother to inquire, jumped on his white horse and hurried away from the Valley of the Fallen Kings.

Having won one battle, he wanted to get to the next one as quickly as possible.

Miles away in Camelot, Kilgharrah was crawling up over the sharp rocks. His paws have weakened, were trembling from decades of captivity, but he was relentless in his efforts to make his way upwards, towards freedom, towards the clear moon high above. A cool spring-scented evening air blew over his scaly face, and the Great Dragon almost wept. He was free at last.

His huge form slowly crawled out from the black crack and got on the surface, blinking at the moonlight.
The tall white tower he had been chained under all these years was tilted by the earthquake.

Kilgharrah took off and collapsed on the tower first. The chain with a piece of a boulder that had broken away from the rock still was dangling on his leg, but it was almost weightless to him.
"How nice," the dragon exclaimed in the Old Tongue, "How nice to be free again...! Tonight, I rejoice!"

His cry was only a terrifying thunderous roar that shattered the twilight peace of the common people below; they couldn't understand his dance of triumph. All they have seen was a huge black shadow circling over the city before he descended sharply and unleashed a deadly bolt of fire upon them.

The wind lifted the dragon's wings, and they moved up and down with a force such as he had not had since the First Days. And his fire...It breathed out an energy too great even for him. Kilgharrah opened his jaws and exhaled, releasing all that was stored and captured free; and a fury of fire spilled over Camelot. The small people below were running in panic, screaming, and Kilgharrah laughed at them. They could run, but he had been chained because of them. They had killed all of his kind. He breathed out again, this time not with laughter but with lingering resentment, and they screamed again.

He flew over the town, burning it; then calmed down and flew on, leaving flaming roads in his wake.

And that was the fourth and final plague, the Plague of fire.

Morgana opened the dungeon door. The door, hanging on its old, squeaking hinges, continued creaking as it slowly closed. The sound made Morgana shiver. She walked down the three padded steps towards the cells. Mordred slammed the door behind her irritably, breaking the creak.
The prisoners stirred as Morgana lit a torch with magic. But Sir Lancelot stood up and come closer to the bars.

"Lady Morgana. Sir Mordred." Cautiously, he checked for their reaction, fearing it would be violent.

They stood opposite him. The torch on the wall lit them from the left, making the right side of the druid and seer's faces – who Lancelot has only recently known them to be — drowned in the dark shadow.

"Sir Lancelot..." Morgana said in a slow, low voice. "Why do you think we came to see you?"

"To execute me?" he froze in anticipation, clutching the bars of the grate, his knuckles whitened.

Morgana and Mordred traded glances and identical crooked smirks. "So you think you deserved it?. Actually, we are going to ask you a couple of questions for now. How did you find us here and why did you come?"

Lancelot wrapped his fingers around the bars tighter. "Mordred...I am so glad you are alive. I remember our lessons of the sword arts fondly."

"I am. I'm not as easy to get rid of as other druids." Mordred raised his voice coldly, a frown on his lips. His hand rested on the hilt of a beautiful large sword of a black and silver scabbard Lancelot had never seen with Mordred before.

"What is going on? I don't understand anything. What happened? I don't recognise you. Believe me I'm still your friend." Total incomprehension and resentment darkened Lancelot's beautiful melancholic face.

"Friends help each other in times of trouble. True friends choose each other before duty." With hidden pain, Morgana echoed, her arms folded across her chest. "Answer the question."

"I'm so sorry, Morgana...Milady. I just wanted to help..."

"So is that what they call help in this age?" asked Mordred.

"Well, look." Lancelot nervously sucked in air and squeezed the bars tighter, "I don't understand why you're doing what you're doing, and why you said you have declared war on Arthur...But just let me explain. Please!"

"Explain what exactly, Lancelot? I don't think you really get a thing." Mordred raised an eyebrow coldly.

"Why do we do what we do?" Morgana stepped a little closer to the bars, looking more intimidating than ever. "We didn't start the fire, we are only responding to the evil done to us! We want to save what can still be saved!"

"Don't think we want war out of greed for power or malice. We do it out of love." added Mordred quietly.

"We are the golden age." Morgana declared. "A New Age where no one will suffer."

Lancelot shook his head, feeling that either he or they might be losing the grip on reality. "What? The New Age is King Arthur and Merlin."

Morgana threw her head back and laughed unhappily. "Who, those two? A coward servant and a bloody oppressor who kill innocents? What have they done good for anyone?" Tears glistened in her eyes. "He's just like his father! Just like Uther!"

"What?! Morgana, Arthur didn't kill anyone!" Out of shock, Lancelot even forgot to add the title to her name.

Mordred pounded his fist on the bars in anger, and Lancelot recoiled in fright. "Did you ask why we're stuck here in this rotten hole, Lancelot? Look! Because Pendragon massacred our clan!" he pulled a dirty, crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket, pushed it through the bars and pressed it at Lancelot's chest painfully.

Lancelot quickly bent down, picked it up and unfolded the sheet adorned with the golden dragon. That parchment that Galahad had pinned to the tree.

"My beloved friends, you've got it all wrong!" Lancelot tossed the paper away and pulled Merlin's letter from under his chainmail. "In the name of all the light and good that we shared together in Brocéliande, let me tell you the truth."

He handed Morgana the letter. She at first just stared at it blankly, then let out a little sob, and snatched it sharply from Lancelot's hand.

"The tribulation caused to our dear friends the Druids...Arthur did not commit this crime," Lancelot began explaining, the passion to make things right, to heal the wounds in his friends' hearts was ringing in his voice, "It was Sir Galahad, he used his magic. I swear it's true."

"What? The White Knight?"

"Don't lie, Lancelot!" Morgana's lips quivered, "Don't try to defend Arthur! Do you think I don't know he's been in Uther's raids since he was sixteen? He's made it perfectly clear what he thinks of me and my kind!"

"It was Galahad, and him alone," Lancelot assured them, convincing himself that keeping silent about Arthur's negligence was salutary, "Arthur deeply regrets what happened!" This was the truth, after all. "Morgana, Mordred, you probably haven't heard what is happening in Camelot. Arthur and Merlin are preparing an amnesty for the Old Religion and because of that, the Barons and Sir Galahad have declared war on Arthur! The battle for magic and freedom will happen at the Camlann Mountains!" he took a breath, "Please, please, read the letter. Merlin asked me to give it to you."

Morgana opened the letter, her hands shaking. It was written unevenly, with blots and scrawls. Mordred read the written from over her shoulder.

Morgana!

I swear on the name of the Triple Goddess, it wasn't Arthur. Galahad is the one to blame. He destroyed the Sources of Magic, he killed the Druids and he wanted to kill you and Mordred. Arthur wants to pardon the Old Religion, and I swear he will. I've already talked him into it. Please cancel the war and we'll find another way.
P.S. In case you don't believe me or Lancelot. Remember I helped you and Mordred? You owe me for that. In the name of duty, you will stop the attack and not a hair from Arthur's head will perish.

Emrys knows what words to use. Mordred snatched the letter from Morgana's hands and reread it once more, his tearful blue eyes were running feverishly from line to line. If we don't pay the debt, we'll be oathbreakers and bad luck will descend upon us.

"Swear in Gwen's name that this is not a fraud!" Morgana demanded furiously of Lancelot. "If you lie, she will be damned!"

Lancelot coughed and carefully chose the words they wished to hear, "I swear in the name of Guinevere Smith that Sir Galahad is responsible for the tragedy that befell the Druid clan of Brocéliande, and that Arthur will free Magic. I was personally present at the Royal Council when he announced this in front of all the barons of Camelot."
Lancelot hopefully waited the truth bringing love for their friends back into Morgana and Mordred's hearts. After all, if Arthur had really killed the Druids, he wouldn't be taking down the Ban now...It seemed pretty logical to him.

Morgana turned her back to Lancelot to hide her confusion. Tears flowed down her cheeks again, but this time the crying was more catharsis than grief. It wasn't Arthur, it wasn't her only brother. This truth set her free. Somehow, in that moment, the realisation that she had been wrong, that she had misinterpreted the prophecies was marked for her by relief rather than the bitterness of defeat. She would not have to fight against Arthur. What seemed inevitable has passed over. Morgana wished she could always lose like this: Arthur has finally done it. He has finally opened his heart to the Old Ways and it was her ultimate win.

"He's only doing this because he's afraid of punishment!" she still sobbed out and clung to the calm light of Mordred's eyes like it was her lifeline. Her chest clenched, her stiffened shoulders lifted, another breath became so difficult to take.

"But even a forced peace made on the field of battle is peace," Lancelot objected softly. He invoked hopefully to Mordred, he could see that he softened, that the truth settled into him and changed him.

The dam broke, and her soul's move brought Morgana into Mordred's arms. She fell against his chest, resting her heated cheek against his cool chainmail. Mordred hugged her tightly, crumpling Merlin's letter in his fist. Her relief transferred to him and he buried his face in her hair, sucking in its rosy scent noisily.

It wasn't Pendragon. It's good. But they're still dead. He said mentally. It was both a statement and a question. He would accept any decision from his love. But although there was still some good left in Pendragon, the war still seemed like the obvious answer. He has never wanted it and knew he would inevitably regret it in the end, but the fate of everything he had ever dreamed of, the fate of the Golden Age was at stake. And Emrys will be there at Camlann.

I think I know what you mean...
Morgana let go of Mordred, but her palms still rested on his shoulders, stroking and squeezing them nervously. She knew what they had to do. The Goddess' punishment would pass over Arthur, but someone must eliminate the White Knight and avenge his violence. In this battle, their side was clear.
We will have our revenge. We will fight, the battle is not over.

Not against King Arthur, but alongside. Mordred gathered a tear-soaked strands from Morgana's pale cheek.

A pained smile touched Morgana's lips, but her nod was firm and resolute. It was destined to be so. She turned again to the cage where Lancelot watched their silent conversation anxiously.
The depth of their bond moved him but he had no idea what their decision would be.

"We will not stop the war, Sir Lancelot," Morgana announced loudly, her eyes sparkling with pride. She looked much stronger then a moment before.

The thin thread of hope in Lancelot's soul clinked pitifully and broke at those words. He lowered his head in defeat. But suddenly, the loud clang, and the confident golden flash of magic in Morgana's eyes opened the door of his cage wide. He almost fell out.

"We will go to Camlann to fight for magic and take revenge on Sir Galahad."

Mordred held out his hand for Lancelot. "Thank you. You saved us."

Lancelot smiled uncertainly, took Mordred's hand, then wrung it hard.

The dark, unfriendly peaks of the Camlann Mountains showed up ahead. This was to be the last stop before they stormed the battlefield in search of the White Knight.

King Cenred ordered the camp to gather, and Morgause and he emerged from their tent, watching the bustle of servants as they rolled up the royal belongings. The king and the priestess paused for a moment, looking at the majestic landscape: the green wet meadows turning to an umber-brown windswept forest disappearing at the grey misty mountains.

"I've decided that we'll flank them unexpectedly. Agree, Morgause?" he glanced at her sideways.

She nodded tensely, mentally imagining the battlefield.

Cenred walked to his horse, put his foot in the stirrup, but suddenly Morgause gave a quiet shriek and fell unconscious. Cenred turned round and barely had time to run up to her and prevent her from falling headlong to the ground.

"Morgause!" He shook her by the shoulders, brushed her pearl hair away from her face. Her eyes were tightly closed. Morgause turned very pale, her face took on an unusual for her soft expression: usually, even when she was asleep, her countenance radiated strength and thought. Now Morgause's lips moved soundlessly and her eyelashes twitched.

"Morgause!..." Cenred was confused, he didn't know what to do.

Essetir servants ran up to them. They had to lay the High Priestess on the grass and remove her armour – has the powerful sorceress-knight fainted like some court lady? Alas, none of them had a salt of hartshorn or a fan to blow over her face.
But as soon as someone other than Cenred touched her, Morgause flinched, pushed their hands away from her, and sat up. She took three deep breaths in and out. Then she looked up with cleared eyes to where the Camlann Valley lay in the stone cup of the mountains.

Cenred reached for her, his gaze genuinely troubled. "What happened, Morgause? Are you sick?"

A crazy thought suddenly flashed through his mind. She might be pregnant. By him, of course; it was possible that she would give him an heir. Morgause always said priestesses didn't marry, but could they bear children? Cenred never wanted to ask, the fact that he'd offered Morgause the crown of Essetir three times and she'd refused was humiliating enough.

"No. It's Goddess..." she muttered, turning away. "She said..."

Cenred fell silent. His lover's role and connection to magic and higher powers have always instilled in him something like superstitious apprehension.

Morgause stood up and shook herself off, not even glancing at the confused servants. "She said we should hurry to Camlann." A hidden shiver ran through Morgause's body at the memory of the dreadful words.

The magic was gone. It was over. It could still be fixed. But She didn't say how. Does that mean that a High Priestess was not destined to save magic? Who has committed this terrible crime? How was it possible? Sir Galahad? But he was supposed to be there on the battlefield, wasn't he?
The last time Morgause had experienced something like this, this connection to the heaven, was many years ago, during her initiation. She was thirteen years old. She remembered the forest cave where Nimueh had lit a fire of fragrant herbs, the starry summer night, the silence. She remembered the ritual, the circle in the sand Nimueh made with the rowan staff and the words of invocation. And then Her fleeting heavenly glance looked at the little Morgause and approved her as the servant. Morgause had awoken just like this, lying on the ground, but it was Nimueh who was holding her tight, not Cenred. O Lady Nimueh, the one who replaced her mother!. Nimueh, now brutally murdered. When she's done with the White Knight, she'll take care of the so-called Emrys. Let no one think she'd forgotten. Morgause of Orkney never forgets.

She raised her hands in front of her and tried to summon a fire sphere between her palms, her favourite fighting move. It didn't work, devastatingly didn't. The power was gone.

"What's wrong, Morgause?" Cenred asked with annoyance. He frowned unhappily at her, his hands in the pockets of his dark brown leather breeches. "You're acting weird. Why don't you ever explain anything?"

Morgause turned to him abruptly, opened her mouth, hesitated, and pressed her lips tight again. She changed her mind about speaking the truth. She must not show anyone how powerless she has become without her magic, how much fear she has found inside because now she had to rely only on her sword. No one must know that she was helpless. Not even Cenred.

"I... I've received a vision. This battle is very important to the fates of us all." Morgause stepped away from him, quickly jumped on her horse, and sank deeper into her dark blue hooded cloak. "More than we realise."

Cenred buzzed something, casting doubt on her words, and shrugged. He thought this was just another revenge mission of hers and a chance to maraud he would give to his soldiers. Well, she may believe in any visions. He followed her.

When magic disappeared there was no thunder and lightning, the world didn't shake, not even the clouds covered the sun in sorrow. No, it was only the Earth's slight sigh, the rustle of leaves as it exhaled. The people did not notice that the soul of the world has gone; they went on living their mundane lives. They would notice the strange yearning inside themselves much later, but they would think of other reasons to explain it.
Even the magickfolk did not notice the border has been crossed, did not feel the drying of the last Source.

The three maidens, the High, Wild, and Old Magic left this mournful vale. The thread between humans and magic had already been thinner than a silver spider's web.

Somewhere between the swamps and the woods, in an old oak hut, an ugly blind crone cried out and fell to the ground, trying to feel the energy that once nourished her, but finding only desolation. Dochraid stopped breathing.

Chapter Text

"Lady." Eira poured the last portion of wine into Morgana's metal goblet.

Morgana tasted it and frowned. It was disgusting, even compared to the wine that was served in Camelot taverns. Eira stood at the door, holding a tray in her hands.

"Well, Sir Lancelot, you have fulfilled your promise to my brother and found me," Mischievous smirk lifted a corner of Morgana's lips, "It just didn't turn out the way he expected. I will not return as a humble prisoner of Camelot, but I will help him make it a livable place and get back at the murderer of the Druids."

"I understand your argumentation, Morgana." Lancelot nodded. "It is reasonable." He found something similar to her in himself. If someone harmed Gwen he too would avenge the offender. Whoever it was.

The three friends were sitting at the table in the ealdorman's chambers and Lancelot has just finished telling Morgana and Mordred in detail what was happening in Camelot these days. The tale of the great division at the Royal Council and Merlin's magical dome had specially impressed them.

"I am surprised that you have managed to gain the support of the barbarians. But how are you going to repay them?"

Morgana met Mordred's gaze, he hid his face behind his goblet and shook his head faintly. Not everything was to be known, even to a friend.

"They obey me just like that." Morgana shrugged, "All because of this thing." she touched the Saxon sword behind her shoulder. "This is the sword of their ancient chiefs and anyone who gets hold of it can rule these people. They literally worship it."

"A pretty interesting custom."

"They are good at killing people and so their god is sword." Mordred remarked and looked intently at Morgana again.
He didn't really care what the Saxons do or what would happen after the battle. Whether they would ravage the estates of this or that baron, leave Albion or become King Arthur's foreign legion, who cared about them? Who cared about what happens after revenge is over or what happens after salvation?

And at that moment the sound of a war cry and the clang of swords hitting the paving stones came from outside the window. 

"What is that?" Lancelot stood up.

"The troops are ready to march, and they're calling for you, Lady." Eira explained.

"Well then." Morgana stood up proudly from the table. "Let's ride to Camlann."

"To Camlann." Lancelot and Mordred echoed her.

They were the first out of the room, chatting about Saxon fighting manners and weapons; Morgana was about to move after them, but Eira rushed towards her and grabbed the fabric of her black cloak in her fist.

"Lady Morgan!" she clung to Morgana pleadingly.

"Yes, Eira?" Morgana looked back at her in bewilderment.

"Take me with you! I can't stand to live here anymore, I want to serve you!" her accent grew stronger the more nervous she was.

Morgana smiled sympathetically, the smile was small but kind. "I'm sorry but I don't need a maid on a bloody battlefield."

Eira's face fell. "I've never met anyone like you, Lady Morgan. I can be useful. Please."

That touched Morgana. She patted Eira's hand. She didn't know how, but she wanted to give this woman, probably the only person in this den of slavetraders who had a heart, hope rather than a cold rejection. "I will not forget you, Eira. But for now, you'll have to wait here."

There was a noise at their feet, and the women flinched.
While they were talking, the Fortuneteller has crawled into the unsealed chamber and was now crouched on the floor by the doors, shaking the runes out of his pouch onto the floor.

"The Wyrd rune!" he exclaimed, and raised his hand with a blank pebble to Morgana's face. "ORLOG! The rune of destiny and doom!.."

Morgana winced in displeasure. "Please, put those toys away, Saxon. I receive visions of the future from Goddess, your stones are nothing to me."

Stepping out, she thrust the runes away with her boot.

"Let's go, friends." Arthur uttered the last words, this simple.

They have set on their way to Camlann.

He came down the stairs accompanied by Sir Ector, both dressed in full armour and regalia; the elder Lord in blue and brown, Arthur in red and gold. Arthur had finally took off his mourning and put on the royal crown of Pendragon to show who really owned by right what the enemy side was contesting. He crossed the Manor's corridors, the wind was blowing his flaming red cloak, the heavenly gold of the clear spring sun was glistening on the earthly gold of his crown. The Knights of Camelot and Ector's men joined him, determination and conviction on their faces. Merlin, gripped by a captivating mixture of pride and anxiety, walked at Arthur's right hand.

Arthur did not feel triumph or pleasure at what was going to happen, but he fully prepared his soul for the fact that he might have to give his life for Camelot he had always dreamed it would be. And he was going to fight not only his own barons, his cousin, his sister, but the ghost of his father as well; the shadows of his doubts and fears, and the unknown divine will. A will that punishes but also promises good. If he survives this forge of fire and blood, he will emerge twice strengthened.

That's what Gwen, the blacksmith's daughter and his betrothed, has told him this morning. She knew all about making a perfect tool out of a crude piece of substance. She was here now, too. Shying away from the stares of Lord Ector and the Knights, she approached him at the door and asked for his arm. Arthur gave it to her. She tied a purple silk ribbon taken from her soft curls around his elbow.

"With the shield," she begged, blushed, made a quick curtsy and ran off to Gaius.

"I promise." he whispered after her.

In the courtyard, everything was ready. Knights and yomen militia ranked in even boxes; armed, strong. Everything was ready in the camp in the foothills of the Mountains as well; the traitor warriors were already approaching the battlefield from the other side of the Camlann Valley.
A stable boy led the horses towards them and helped Sir Ector to climb on. Arthur easily mounted Llamrei himself. He turned to see where Merlin was, why he has not yet saddled his horse and joined him; and to his amazement, he saw Merlin's lean, tall body behind them, stretched lifelessly on the grey stone steps of the Manor.

"Hey, Merlin!" Arthur shouted roughly, "Damn it, are you drunk again? Get up!"

Merlin didn't answer. Lord Ector and the knights looked at each other perplexed. "Neither my son nor I have noticed Merlin's penchant for drinking. He is a decent young man."

"Perhaps he decided to stifle his fear. Merlin is not a warrior after all, though he is a brave fellow." One of the knights remarked and gave a chuckle.

Arthur muttered a silent scowl. In earlier days, he might not have noticed that Merlin wasn't with them, or left him lying there to shame himself further. But not now, not after he'd learnt what Merlin had been doing for him all this time. Not in his first and most important battle. He needed Merlin by his side tonight.
He was still annoyed, though. Arthur grunted, jumped off his horse and walked over to his fainting friend. He didn't smell of ale or whiskey. Arthur patted Merlin cheeks and shook him by the shoulders, not caring to do it delicately.

"Merlin, get up, it's not bedtime!"

But Merlin wasn't asleep. The moment the fire finished burning on the ruins of the Crystal Cave miles away and the gold turned black, a glacial pain pierced through Merlin's entire being and he lost the sense of self.

It was winter; wet, black and white. The druid procession was returning from the Ivy River to the centre of Brocéliande, to their favourite place near the Stone Circle where the oldest and tallest oaks in the entire forest were growing. Wagons and carts creaked, mothers carried babes in slings, older children sang songs of the forest imitating the melodies of birds.

Morgana slowed her step a little, gave way to an elderly man who was pulling a cart with his belongings himself instead of a horse. "How are you feeling, Mouinn?"

"Thank you, Healer. I feel like I'm twenty years old again. Bless you, Healer."

Morgana smiled back at him. Then she opened her leather worn bag and pretended to look for something in there. Meanwhile, the druids overtaken her and she found herself at the end of the procession. Usually Mordred or another guard would go there, covering their rear. Today Mordred was on duty. He was what she needed.

"Lost something, Morgana?" she finally heard his voice behind her and felt him stop and take her arm.

"Found it already. How's it going?" she asked, flustered but having achieved her goal.

His silver-blue eyes gleamed brightly from beneath his brown hood. "Excellent. Just great." He bestowed a beaming loving smile on her.

They walked together, a little apart from everyone else. Walking hand in hand was so pleasant and fun. The forest was becoming more beautiful when the beloved was near.
Eventually their conversation shifted to what was happening in the world. Brocéliande was so quiet and secluded, especially in winter, but thanks to Morgana's dreams they knew that changes were happening in the magical and ordinary world and it intrigued them both. Morgana liked to voice her worries to Mordred, it was easy to be frank with him. She always felt better when she opened her soul to him, though he was usually either silent or told some fable of druidic life in return. But even in his silence there was the sound and the heart.

"If Uther and Merlin, I mean, Emrys, destroy the Sources of Magic, will his own magic disappear? Is he not afraid?"

Mordred frowned at her uneasy question. Of course, Morgana's quick mind rarely ever tired, she was always thinking of something, looking for a way out, thinking of how to save everyone, she tried to stay one step ahead of everyone else. And for her, the problem of Emrys' betrayal was not as painful as it was for those born into the Druidic faith.

"I think he will remain the world's only mage. Our people believe that Emrys is magic itself. That's why it's so hard for us to accept...what he does...That he doesn't save us."

Morgana tangled their fingers, squeezed and brought their joined hands to her soft cheek, and Mordred shared the knowledge with her in gratitude for her passionate comfort.
He told her that the Druids believed Emrys was the embodiment of the very essence of magic closeted in a man. Magic lives in him instead of a human soul, and if Emrys ever dies, nothing will pass through the mists and fire to the other side, for there is nothing to go. There is only his body.

"Somehow, this sounds sad."

"I don't know." Mordred shrugged.

They walked deeper and deeper into the forest, and the tall trees closed in behind them.

Merlin fell on the steps, hitting the back of his head, but felt no pain. He opened his eyes, but not where he wanted to be, not in the Manor's front yard with Arthur.

He found himself standing in a strange misty place. The silver mist that smelled of white flowers was moving around him, fogging him in, crawling into his ears and nostrils.

"Where am I?" he called out confusedly. "Arthur? Where are you?.."

Suddenly a golden halo flashed ahead of him. A beautiful maiden stepped out of this golden cloud of light towards him. Her black skin glowed from within, her big eyes looked kind and sympathetic. Her long dark hair was braided into dozens thin plaits and her head was crowned with a wreath of trilliums, as white and tender as her flowing long robes.

"Emrys!" she called out, holding out her hands to him, a tearful plea in her voice, "Magic is dead. You are our last hope. Come to the Crystal Cave, come! Only you can save us! Emrys, come to your destiny!"

His terror mounted with her every word. "How? What's happening? Who are you? Where am I?"

"The White Knight has found the Source of All Magic when it was defenseless, but as long as there is Emrys there is magic and hope. Come, please!" the maiden began drifting away from him, falling back into the shadows.

"What do I do?!" Merlin shouted, panicked, "Who are you?"

"I am Elaine, the Keeper of the Crystal Cave." All that was left of her was her gentle voice, but even that soon melted away into the mists.

"Merlin!" Arthur patted his cheeks. "Wake up, come on!" Arthur was really starting to worry.

"Elaine? Don't go!" Merlin dazedly opened his eyes and sat up abruptly.
He was sitting on the steps of Lord Ector's manor, a worried Arthur, fully armoured, bowed before him; the entire courtyard was full of armed men. They all were waiting for him.

"Your girlfriend's name, Merlin? Why I do not know her?" Arthur sniggered mockingly, "But it is not she who awaits you now, it is just me and Camlann. Alas."

"Camlann?!.." Merlin jumped to his feet, he was still having trouble realising what reality he was in. The Keeper Elaine's dreadful words almost unmanned him. He wanted to run he didn't know where and do something. For Sir Galahad had made it to the Crystal Cave after all, despite the Barons War. He hated magic even more than he wanted Camelot.

That meant he, Merlin, was in the biggest trouble since he met Prince Arthur. He has failed. His heart filled with shame.

"Yes, Merlin, the Camlann Valley. The battle, remember? I hope you haven't lost your memory?"

"What? No. Arthur," Merlin put his hands on his shoulder and spoke softly so the others wouldn't hear, "Go without me, alright? I'm...not feeling well, but I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Are you serious?" doubt and resentment flashed in Arthur's eyes. He roughly threw Merlin's hands off himself. "You're leaving me?"

"Yes. I need to...rest for a while."

"Well." Arthur pressed his lips a little tighter, straightened up, put his palm on the hilt of his sword and squeezed it hard, "If you think you can afford to lie down while I fight alone on Camlann...You're a free man, Merlin, and you can do as you please. However, I thought you were braver than that."

"I will be back Arthur!..." but Arthur could hear no more. He returned to the knights, jumped on his horse and rode to the gates.

"It's important..." Merlin muttered frustratedly, but he didn't waste any more time and ran off into the house.

Sir Gwaine read the last words on his lips. He was sorry that Merlin wasn't going with them. Unlike Arthur he didn't buy the version with illness or drunkenness. And obviously, he couldn't imagine that Merlin chickened out at the last moment. Merlin wasn't that kind of man.

Merlin, of course, didn't go to the servants' bedrooms to lie in bed, but ran down the corridors towards the back door. On the way he muttered the first spell he could think of and two candle-like lights flared up on his palms.  Merlin even laughed in relief. His power was still with him. But had magic really disappeared from the rest of the world and remained only in him...?
He sprinted out into Lord Ector's blossoming garden full of buds and young leaves, then stopped, but didn't give himself time to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, prepared himself, and drew a special sign in the air in front of himself with his shaking forefinger. The movement of his hand left behind a glowing golden trail.

He had only read about it in Gaius's forbidden books before and had never thought of trying the art of Transformation on himself. It was dangerous. If a sorcerer spends more than three days under the spell, he will remain in this form forever, the magic books warned the inquisitive reader. But he needed time, he needed to make it. He had hours, perhaps a day to save the Crystal Cave and then return and help Arthur win.

The golden rune released glittering threads that braided Merlin's body into a shining cocoon. He fell to the ground, his bones melting as they were plunged in the liquid hot metal; but three seconds later, a nimble little white falcon spread its wings freely over the garden. It caught the wind and flew away, away from the Manor. A white gemstone tied in a black cord hung from the bird's neck.

Sir Gwaine looked up, saw the merlin's graceful silhouette in the sky, watched it until it disappeared into the pink clouds, and muttered to himself, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

"Why are you staring up at the sky like a lunatic, Gwaine?" A knight whose face was hidden under the helmet asked in an unpleasant tone.

"To choose which star to get for you, Ragnelle," he sneered.

Ragnelle scoffed and rode forward, surrounded by Caerleon knights.
Gwaine followed behind them.

The procession of warriors has just reached out of the Manor when suddenly two young men in dusty robes ran up to Arthur and Ector from two sides. Gwaine's hand instinctively rushed for his sword to defend his King (the only one worthy of his title) but then realised Arthur knew them and was listening attentively to them. They were Camelot scouts.

Gwaine and, he noticed, Ragnelle, rode closer to hear the details.

"Terrible news, My Lord!" the scout who came from the right reported. "The Great Dragon has broken free! He's burning everything in his path! Dozens of villages on the outskirts of the Capital have been burned, the city itself has suffered tremendous damage!"

"Sire, Essetir's troops and...the Saxons..." the one that came from the left mumbled, our of breath. "They're coming."

Arthur grimaced and slumped his shoulders. He thought of duty and freedom. He thought about who he was, who he wanted to be; and in that instant those two identities merged into one. One new person.
A moment later he spurred his horse and galloped forward into the wind, fearlessly leading his men to Camlann.

The Saxons slept on the bare rocky ground, while the rulers had a tent set up. They has had a stand on the northern slopes of the mountains. If they climbed higher, they could see the Camlann Valley below, the battleground of Camelot's future, the place of judgement, the cup which King Arthur must empty.

"It is said that somewhere on the other side of the mountains there is a lake called Avalon, and the beautiful Sidhe fairyfolk lives underwater..." Sir Lancelot said dreamily.

He lay a little apart from Morgana and Mordred, and was entertaining them with tales of his brave adventures from the times of exile. However, he was silent on the fact that he had witnessed the death of the last druids of Brocéliande. It would have added pain to the already wounded souls of his friends, and would not have mended anything.

"They don't live underwater, but on an island in the middle of a lake..." Mordred corrected sleepily.

"How do you know that? Druids communicate with the Sidhe?" marvelled Lancelot.

"No one communicates with the Sidhe. With the pixies, on the other hand..." Mordred felt Morgana smile at the memory of the terrible Gwinny and her unfortunate Buckthorn Tree.

She was lying with her head on his chest, his cloak covering them both. Slowly, with Lancelot and Mordred talking softly, Morgana fell asleep, and the dreams came to her.

They were full of fire, of death ravaging, of pain and fear. The golden sighted forest was turning black and blind with heavy silvery smoke. Her vocal cords frozen from the soundless scream.

Morgana, breathing heavily, sat up. It was the darkest hour before dawn; the Saxons slept outside.

"Morgana?" Mordred whispered, "Another prophecy? What did you see?" He sat up too, and put his arm around her thin tense shoulders.

"No." She was blinking fastly to keep her tears from breaking free. "It wasn't the future. I dreamed about the camp burning down."

He remained silent, only hugging her a little tighter, then smoothed his hand through her tangled black curls.

"I guess, I won't be able to sleep now." Morgana leaned back on the blanket dejectedly.

"I can't sleep at all. There's just something inside that doesn't let me. I forgot the last time I did."

Sir Lancelot stirred at their voices and rolled over onto his other side.

Mordred...Morgana called to him mentally. But he did not answer.

Mordred!

He lay still beside her, unresponsive to Morgana's mental connection to him. "Fall asleep already? Why aren't you answering?" Morgana poked him in the side.

"You were calling for me? I didn't hear anything."

Morgana rolled over onto her side and stared straight into his eyes, their starry light barely visible in the darkness. Mordred, can you hear me? She tried again. She strained all her strength, but to no avail. Her thoughts banged uselessly against her skull, not reaching Mordred's mind.

"What the hell is going on!" Morgana spoke loudly and stood up. "I'm...it's not working!. Now, say something to me mentally."

Mordred stood up as well, closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists. For several long moments he stood like that, frozen like a statue of tension. "Morgana. I can't sense anything. I can't connect with you, I can't sense your aura... Nothing!" The sudden emptiness stunned him. How long has it been since he lost his magic and didn't even notice it, immersed in the numbing grief for his clan...? He had no idea.

His harsh voice finally woke Lancelot up. "Is something wrong? We're attacked?" He reached for the sword that lay on the ground next to him.

"It's much worse than that, Lancelot...." Morgana put her hands out in front of her and tried to light fires on her fingertips. The first manifestations of her magic had begun with fire, and she belived that this simplicity, this kinship with the element, would be with her forever. "Our magic... Someone has blocked it!" she started thrashing around the tent in panic, "Who could have done this? And how? Could it be a dark artifact? Or a curse?!"

"Morgana, stop. You must not be heard." Mordred grabbed her wrist and forced her to calm down. "I'm afraid it's not a blockage."

Worried, Lancelot walked over to them. He fixed his rumpled clothes, and fastened his sword to the baldric. "Then what?" He knew little of the magical arts, but he could surmise that for one who possessed the gift losing magic meant more than losing power. It meant losing a part of oneself, the part that made one's life complete. Like an arm or a leg.

"Crystal Cave. The White Knight. Our friends didn't manage to protect it."

The Circle of Seven has broken up almost immediately, then the others left it as well, Elaine chose Lancelot over the Cave; this all happened because of Sir Galahad.

All three exchanged glances, trying to figure out what to do now. Morgana panicking, Mordred grim, Lancelot realising the enormity of what had happened and struggling with the need to confess to his friends the death of the druids he had witnessed. All that they feared and tried to prevent has finally come to pass. The clan was dead, the promise of the new Camelot threatened, and the greatest Source of magic destroyed.

"Friends..." Lancelot started at last. He looked away to avoid seeing the pain in their eyes, "I was there, probably a couple of hours before everything happened."

"Where?" Mordred didn't understand, his eyes widened.

"In the Valley of the Fallen Kings. That's where your Cave is, right? And I saw... The druids were killed. Lady Elaine is the one who survived."

"Galahad?!" Morgana trembled with anger.

"No, the others. The Knights of Amatha, the ones who imprisoned me in the well. I fought them to avenge our good friends the druids, but was wounded."

"Why didn't you take Elaine with you?!" Mordred shut his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against his scull until it hurt to keep himself from crying again.

"I wanted to, but before I could say a word she magically sent me to you to the Valley of No Return. I'm so sorry."

Morgana put her hand on Mordred's forearm and squeezed it. Even without his sensor abilities, he could feel that the terrible news ignited a new wave of violent hatred in her.
Just like it had in himself. With each misfortune, each injustice, he grew more and more distant from Aglain and his teachings. His late adoptive father would say the opposite must happen; that in the hardest moments, one had to stand firm in the belief in goodness and mercy, that hatred could not triumph. But how could that be true if it already has in him and Morgana?.

The white falcon entered the descending stream of air and rushed down towards the ground. The next moment a tall young man stood up from the grass instead of the bird. He moved his shoulders, waved his arms back and forth as if he was trying to get used to the human body and the sensation of the clothes on.
The body worked perfectly, though it felt heavy and clumsy compared to the light form of a bird.

Merlin turned round and a picture from the Taliesin Chronicles appeared before him. The very same one. A forest, a glade of trilliums, seven mossy boulders in a circle, tall trees, a cliff the Crystal Cave was hidden in.
Only now it was no longer there. Instead of a cave, he was met with the shapeless debris of grey rocks and black greasy masses of soil lifted from the depths. The trees around the Cave had been snapped in half by the blast. Blackened, ugly, deformed. The forest was quiet and still, Taliesin's harp no longer singing. Merlin never got the chance to hear it.

Merlin groaned quietly, longing for the place. "God... This is terrible."

The sound of his voice awakened something in the sunny shadows and dancing dust, and a female figure in a white gown flashed among the trees, as light and delicate as the wing of a white dove, as a trillium petal.

"Emrys..." she called.

"Lady Elaine? Is that you?" Merlin ran after her, but the girl was ahead of him the whole time.
When he reached the former entrance to the Crystal Cave, she glanced back at him fleetingly and slipped somewhere between the stones.

Merlin approached the spot. He found a gaping chasm leading downwards between the chunks of rock turned inside out. A deep black hole, just big enough to keep anyone even slightly bigger than Merlin from getting through.

"Elaine?" Merlin called out to her. "That way? You want me to get in there?"

There was no echo.

Excellent. A fabulously beautiful maiden from the dream calls him to jump in a pit deep underground.

Merlin snorted, shrugged, and did it.

He was falling, squeezing through the narrow tunnel like through a rabbit burrow. Rocks and tree roots were bruising him and tearing his jacket and trousers. It was a painful experience; but at last, his feet found a void, and Merlin, like a huge dusty, bruised heap, collapsed on something hard and cold,.

All around him was darkness and a pale silvery glow. The tonnes of the broken stones pressed the air above.

He found himself beneath the Crystal Cave, beneath what was left of it, in its deepest root. The cave beneath the Cave was hidden in the layers of rocks like a pocket is hidden in a garment. It was a black pit of stone, a stuffy, utterly blind place that had never seen sunlight. The surface of the stone walls was rough and still heated from the fire that had destroyed the sanctuary above it.

The glow was coming from the huge thick white and blue crystal druses sticking out here and there. These were the roots. They grew upwards through the layers of dirt and rock like the trees of a stone forest. The transparent crystals of foretelling that Morgana and Mordred had once seen on the next floor were only the tops, the druses' thin crowns. Alas, their magical forest had been cut and burned, and the broken roots were shining into the void.

Merlin stood up, shook off the dirt and took a cautious step forward. This place must have never known a living being within itself, but strangely, he didn't feel alien or trapped here. Something about the peace and magic of the Earth's magic felt like home...felt familiar.
He walked over to the silvery root of a crystal. Its top was slightly charred, but the faceted surface of the base remained pristinely smooth. As Merlin's reflection fell upon the murky misty wall it glowed stronger, and a second later, a man appeared within the crystal. An old man looking at Merlin.

He had long grey hair and beard, his red and blue mantle was embroidered with golden stars and crescents, and in his hand he held an oak staff covered in ivy. His blue eyes were wise and infinitely wistful.

"What—" Merlin enhaled. He thought the old man was captive in the gemstone, moved towards him to free him, but then the old man made the same movement. Merlin flinched, and the old man flinched too. Merlin raised his hand. The old man raised his hand. He was repeating everything after Merlin, even the startled expression on his face.

It couldn't be anything other than his own reflection. No, not his...but his at the same time. Merlin didn't know how long he stood staring at the old man like that, and the old man stared back. They were one.

"Emrys..." whispered someone above his head.

"Elaine?" Merlin looked round fearfully. "What is it?" his trembling voice echoed strangely loudly off the crystals and black rocks. "Are you here? Please don't be silent. You've asked me to come."

"The Crystal Cave shows everyone their true selves, for the Cave was there when everything had been predestined." Elaine's disembodied voice came from behind. She was near, but she was not here. "Look, Emrys. This is your true self."

"I'm old?" Merlin and his crystal reflection looked at each other sceptically again.

"You are very old, Emrys, and still very young. You always will be, just as I always will be."

Elaine stood behind him, Merlin sensed her, but couldn't see her reflection in the crystal.
"Who are you, why have you summoned me? Where is Taliesin?"

"Taliesin is free. He is with his beloved Princess Eleanor now. He must be."

Elaine waved her hand slightly, and the other druses' roots lit up with a magical light. This light was similar to the pale rays of the summer morning's late moon. Coloured pictures were dancing in the crystal facets and fractures, like the reflections of the sun and trees dance on the water.

Merlin gasped silently and walked down the underground, gazing mesmerised at the reflections.
He saw Morgana and Mordred dressed in black, standing in the windy pre-dawn darkness on a high mountain slope. They were holding each other's hands and were seeing what he could not see. He saw Arthur in the golden daylight, and Gwen in the platinum morning one, and Lancelot as a shadow behind her shoulder. He saw Kilgharrah, his great strong wings, flying towards the red fiery sun. Merlin saw him too, Sir Galahad. He was wandering in the mist, he was like a cold stone graveyard angel, tears were rolling from beneath his long frost lashes.

"What is it...?" Merlin exhaled in awe.

"Look and see, Emrys."

Merlin walked on, looking at more and more reflections. Perhaps the true selves of all the people of Albion were hidden here, and if one looked deeper, into the furthest reaches of the crystals, of the people of the entire world.
He walked and watched, and Elaine was telling him stories, following him silently. The long train of her pure white dress was dragging on the stones behind her, the trilliums in her crown fragrant with bitter incense.

"I was once a druidess and a loving daughter, a simple girl. All I knew was love and care. But one day evil has come into my home thinking it was good. Such evil is the worst, because it doesn't see that it has long gone off the right path and is heading for the abyss. I loved them, I loved them all very much, and I lost them all. And for the sake of love, I took on this burden and became a Keeper. As priestesses have the power of the heavens in their hands, so the knowledge of the heavens has come upon my head. And the knowledge of you, Emrys. I know you. I was burying my dead when the evil came to me again, here in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. But I knew that as long as there was you, there was magic, power and knowledge. Those three are everything. And the one thing, true love, is made up of those three."

Merlin turned round cautiously and finally saw her.

Elaine stood seven paces away from him and smiled melancholically. The pearlescent reflections of the crystals shimmered on her face and her floral crown, the darkness of the Cave crept up the hem of her ethereal skirts, skimming her contours.

"What should I do?"

"Three things. First, accept your true self. Then, realise that evil never truly wins, neither in the soul of man nor on the battlefield, there always remains the root of good which nothing can ever eradicate. And third, find where it all began, for that is where it will end."

Elaine held out her hands to him, just like in the dream, and Merlin suddenly wanted to touch her slender black fingers, took them in his hands. He opened his arms, stepped towards her, the floor beneath his worn boots cracked, for a second he was balancing in the void, gaping, and then fell into the depths.

"Sir Galahad! You have returned at last!" Sir Allan exclaimed when Galahad burst into their white tent.

Lord Leodegrand was the first to spot him in the rebel barons' camp. He saw Galahad galloping between the tents on his white horse, the servants barely keeping up with him. He saw Galahad deftly jumping off his horse and entering the tent. The Baron spread the news further and soon the whole camp knew that their leader, their fair knight, has returned.

"Any news? Any skirmishes with Arthur?" Galahad took off his grey gloves and threw them on the bed. He was radiating with enthusiasm, there was no friendlier and lighter smile than his. "Perhaps he has come to his senses? Tell me, Sir Allan, that all has ended happily!"

"I'm afraid it's not yet, Sir. One of Arthur's scouts has been snooping round our side of the mountains. We captured him." the former Knight of Camelot reported, unfolding maps and documents.

Abbot Ambrosius gave no sign that he noticed Galahad's arrival. He was standing by his camp bed, clutching the book of hours in his hand, his lips moving as he recited the evening prayers.

"I hope you have not harmed him?"

"Of course not, Sir. Just tied him up."

"Good. What else?"

"Your father Lord Agravaine's men are already here. Also, King Sarrum of Amatha has expressed his desire to fight at our side, Sir. We expect his reinforcements soon enough. We dare not begin the battle without your orders."

"Right." Galahad nodded approvingly to his aide. "Now that I am free I can give myself to the fight for Camelot. I'm free!" he repeated and grinned from ear to ear, what was unusual for him.

"Aye, Sir." Allan remarked shyly, not knowing what else to add to this strange emotion of Galahad's.

"Surely you would like to know what happened and whether I succeeded in my quest, Sir Allan?" Galahad clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing around the tent, three steps forward, three steps back. Satisfied excitement swept over him.

"If you please, Sir," Allan's grey eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"Look here!" Galahad turned round, raised his hands and made a sharp pass towards Allan, muttering something in the Old Tongue.

The knight cowered in fright, expecting a blow or a curse.
But nothing happened. No molten gold in the White Knight's eyes, no airwave or burning fire. Nothing, a void.
Allan relaxed, blinked, and stared at Galahad in surprise.

He laughed softly. "See? Nothing can hurt us anymore! The magic is gone! Albion's last source of magic is destroyed, and we are free!" Galahad showed his empty hands to a confused Allan.
Galahad was so glad he was finally cleansed. Finally no more dark weakness lingering in his wake, no more disgrace to his family. No more fear. And that made him believing in the future victory. Shouldn't God reward His servant and gave him it?

"I've done the right thing, and now I'm sure I'll succeed! Come on, Sir Allan, show me the current dispositions." Galahad vigorously arranged the chess pieces on the map: the Black King, the White Knight, and several different coloured pawns and rooks.

Abbot Ambrosius closed the hour book with a thud and stood up.
"Not all who do the right thing succeed, my son. Our Lord Jesus Christ is an example. Sometimes the suffering is the reward." he admonished Galahad's euphoria quietly. "Sometimes the most righteous suffer the most and lose to this corrupt world, winning the Future World. But the true victory is not with fanfare and earthly triumphs, but in knowing that everything you did was of the right."

"Thank you, Abbot." Galahad lowered his head respectfully, slightly ashamed that he showed his feelings so vividly.

"You are welcome, my son. You know, I was afraid that having fulfilled your quest you would leave and never return." The monk looked at the young knight carefully. He would not have condemned him for such a choice, but without Sir Galahad the battle would be lost before it even began.

Galahad shook his head. "I'm tired of running away."

When Merlin fell down, the temple of his head hit the rocks and he lost consciousness. He didn't wake up until hours later. Perhaps, hours. Or it was days? He wasn't sure if time existed anymore... He was lying still, but his head was swimming. And it was aching terribly. His temples felt like they were being squeezed by an angry giant, and his eyeballs felt uncomfortable in his skull. His mouth was full of blood. He spat it out and moaned lowly.

It was dark all around, even darker than upstairs, if it was even possible. How big or deep this space was, Merlin had no idea. It could be the size of a cathedral or a narrow coffin. The pitch darkness around him felt like a lake of viscous black ink, and there was nothing alive but him. Merlin looked up. How deep he had fallen was quite impossible to determine.

Merlin raised his hands, palpating the air. They didn't jab at any obstacle. There was only airy emptiness above. To the left and right, too. He sat down carefully, slowly, curled up on the stone floor, hugged his knees and leaned his head down. The darkness had weight and gravity, it pressed not only on his body but on his soul. There was no way out. He was a prisoner in the Crystal Cave.

He found himself crying. Just a few bitter tears of frustration and fear ran down his cheeks, but they burned with utter pain. Arthur was fighting alone on Camlann, alone without his help. Maybe his mate and king was already dead. Maybe he spent an age at this place. He couldn't protect his best friend and bring magic back to life — what good was all the effort and persuasion and planning if there was nothing left to save, nothing to fight for? Morgana and Mordred have turned evil, and he couldn't prevent it. He was the biggest mistake, born in vain.

"I failed. I'm sorry." Merlin said to the darkness and covered his face with his hands to sense his own flesh in the unsettling sensation of disembodiment he felt there.

As the last echo of his penitential words, the pleas of his remorse dissolved into silence, something changed, shifted. For only repentance can change destiny.

A faint glow illuminated the dark hall.

But it came not from the sky or the earth, but from an enormous, three Merlin's height and width shapeless block of crystal growing into the ceiling. Turned out it was only a few feet away from him. The druse shimmered with a blue iridescent light, and was streaked with the thick golden veins. Power had once been flowing through them like blood.
Merlin's heart raised, and filled with a comforting warmth. He quickly wiped away the tears with his sleeve and stepped closer to the Root of the roots, the foundation of All Crystals.

There was a gash, a pothole, a rounded hollow in the core of the druse. As Merlin focused his gaze on it, wondering who might have travelled here, perhaps miles inside the Earth, who might have taken some of the most treasured of all crystals with him, the pendant Mordred had given him warmed and pulsed like a second living heart.

Well, of course. Merlin tore the Crystal of Primordial Fire from the cord. Elaine said that it ends where it all began. This place was the centre and the foundation of the Crystal Cave, the point magic came into the world from, born in fire and from fire.
Merlin carefully placed the warm and vibrant Crystal into the gash. It fit perfectly. It contained a part of that very fire, now lost. It alone kept the magic intact. The Crystal of Fire and himself, Merlin, they were the only magical stores left in the whole world.

The warlock wept again, but now the tears were more from resignation than grief. This was the destiny and he was born for this, this very thing. Not to feast with his friends and be joyful together, not to protect them from harm, but for this, as it has been foretold. He was meant to redeem the guilt that men bear before Nature and Magic. That is how Emrys will create a kingdom for King Arthur.

Arthur will go on alone. He has the road map, he is on the right path, the Golden Age is on the horizon. And his, Merlin's, roots lay here. Camelot is nothing without Arthur, but it will live without Merlin. This is where it begins. This is where it ends.

Merlin took the Crystal of Primordial Fire back and clutched it in his hand again. He needs to release the magic contained within it and bring it back into the world. And no one else in the world can do this but him, for no one else can cast spells anymore. No one would survive this.

Merlin closed his eyes and prepared to die.

"BOD YN RHYDD!" he shouted, and shattered the crystal.

The primal power burst free from the gem's flesh and exploded in the greatest storm of heat, fire and light, crushing Merlin's body like a dry autumn leaf.

Chapter Text

Beyond the deceptive swamps, in the grove, in the heart of a huge hollow oak, a dark entity moved and separated itself from the ground it almost merged with. Only an inch to go and it would crumble to dust.

When it pulled itself off the floor and stood up, the shadows saw that it was a beautiful mature woman with skin as white as the cream of Boann's cows and locks as red as fire. She stretched, smiled cheerfully and hugged herself, enjoying being alive again, enjoyed being back to her true self, full of life again. She was so grateful that this terrible nightmare was finally over and there would be no going back.
Dochraid the Witch of the earth stepped out of her oak tree into nature. The oak leaves reached out to her in delight and dressed her lovely naked body in a magical green dress.

She listened to the world to see what stage it was at now.

"Morgana...Girl, I told you you'd bring the Old Ways back." Dochraid said thoughtfully. Morgana thought that meant the times before the Purge but she, oh, she remembered something even older. Dochraid squatted gracefully, touched the ground with the palm of her hand and sent Morgana a help. The ground shuddered faintly, and the tremor ran on like fire runs along the lit fuse of one of Galahad's bomb.

Then Dochraid returned home, satisfied, knowing her earth magic was omnipresent and autonomous. She began tiding and cleaning up the Oak to bring it to a state close to herself, new as spring. She armed herself with a broom and a damp rag and swept out all the rubbish, washed the windows and dishes. Finished, she closed the door and set off, making her way to check the other Sources of magic.

She found the Sources reborn, back to their pristine green beauty. That beauty was too pure, too wild like in the time of her birth. They have been changed.
Rejoicing, Dochraid still knew that one day the hour would come and the commoners would turn away from what would seem to them a mere insignificant tree, a rock, a spring, and so the magical children would cease to appear in the world. Maybe this generation will even be the last. In some ways this future was paradoxically similar to the oldest ways when people, then so simple and naïve, had not yet found the Sources of magic and drank from the well of power again, remembering the juicy tart taste of the forbidden fruit.
Dochraid remembered this well, for thousands of years ago she was the very first babe baptised in a magic spring.

But even when they can no longer see, people will continue to feel. They will be drawn to build cathedrals, even whole cities, in the former places of power and only she, Dochraid, and the last of the Druids, the guardians of the nature knowledge, will know why they choose these places.

Then she went to heal the fields, freeing the lands from King Uther's captivity and healing the wounds left by the Plagues.

"Arthur!"

Arthur shuddered violently and woke up.

He was lying on the bench in his tent with his hand over his eyes. He didn't realise he'd fallen asleep. Gwen had come to see him this evening when Gaius was distracted. She gave him the best kiss of his life, and the best comfort, her words of faith. And maybe it would be the last time if he died tomorrow, but Arthur was happy. Then she slipped back into the healing tents.

Now he woke up suddenly as sharply as if he was slapped in the face. He thought someone was calling him. Arthur.

"Merlin?" he didn't know what made him think of Merlin right now. But he missed him, and his heart was out of place. Something wasn't right about his absence. Merlin should have been by his side right now. He listened to himself trying to hear the disturbing call again, Arthur!, but there was silence.

Someone pulled back the flap at the tent's entrance and Arthur stood up, waiting for Merlin to finally return from wherever he has been.

But it was Sir Leon. "It's me, Arthur. Bad news. Your Sister's Saxons are approaching us."

Arthur pressed his lips together. "I'm not afraid. We will meet them and fight back any evil that threatens Camelot."

Morgana, Mordred, Sir Lancelot and the Saxons reached the southern edge of the Camlann Valley as darkness fell. In order to climb the slopes they had to leave the horses below with the intendant. The Saxons lit torches and carried them in their hands, lighting their way.

Morgana stopped and looked down. The valley of Camlann was like a black chalice of mist and distress. The white cones of the rebel barons' tents could be seen on the opposite side. Somewhere the White Knight was lurking, the culprit of all misfortune, somewhere he was storing up his power.

Arthur's camp was not far away. Even in the darkness Morgana could see the red and gold of Camelot's royal standard, the white and green of Nemeth and the yellow and silver of Caerleon fluttering in the wind. That cool and disturbing wind blowed through her hair, lifted her cloak and cooled her anger. If she could, she would have set all Camlann on fire, but she was deprived of her precious gift, of magic, and only the cold retributive steel of the Saxon sword was her tool of vengeance.

Mordred came closer and stood beside her. She felt his hand find hers. She squeezed it tightly in return. Passionate gratitude and love filled her heart. Destiny pushed them together, from the very first glance, from the first moment they met. For Mordred's sake, she would risk the fates of thousands and do anything to keep the magic that was binding them together even now, when there was no any other magic left in the world. Everyone lost it, but they still had.

She turned her head towards him to find the answer to whether he felt the same way on his face. Mordred looked at her, and his eyes shone with the light of sad, cold stars. A sweet thrill descended upon her when he closed his eyes, leaned in and brought his face close to hers for a kiss. Morgana left her eyes open to see him always.

But then Sir Lancelot climbed the slope behind them, tripped over a rock, and the moment was ruined, the touch never happened.
"Friends, I think I should ride ahead of you, otherwise Arthur might think you are...actually attacking him. When they see me, they'll realise you've come in peace."

"You are right, Lancelot." Mordred drawled and slowly pulled away from Morgana, lingering in the longing.

"Probably you should. My little brother has never been known for his gumption. He may be frightened." Morgana twitched her shoulder unhappily, "If we wanted to attack him, would we expose ourselves like that in front of all of Camlann?"

Lancelot nodded.

"Sir Lancelot is with them!" Sir Gwaine exclaimed, recognising him even in the darkness.

The Knights of Camelot stood shoulder to shoulder with Arthur.  Lady Morgana was approaching them across the dark Valley. Sir Lancelot, some dark knight, and three dozen Saxon barbarians with torches in their hands followed her. A menacing picture of their robes' black and gold of the flames. Were they trying to acquire a threatening appearance with these torches, or were they simply lighting their way among the stone passages?

"No harm comes to the Lady Morgana!" Arthur firmly announced to his men, not taking his eyes off the dark fierce figure of her.

"Sire, but what if—"

"I said my sister is not getting hurt!" Arthur retorted rigidly. "Kill everyone but do not touch her."

He intently watched as they came closer. The sinister ouroboros serpent on their black flags wriggled in the wind as if it was alive. But they did not attack. Were they afraid? Impossible. What game was Morgana playing? Was Lancelot captured?

When a dozen paces remained between them, Arthur quietly gasped.
None other than Mordred, Morgana's companion from Brocéliande and seemingly her lover, walked at Morgana's right hand. Someone he once believed to be her kidnapper. Arthur himself had seen Galahad plunge a dagger into Mordred's chest. He had seen him falling dead. No man has ever survived such a blow. Could it be that Morgana's magic was strong enough to raise the dead? A shiver of horror ran down the King's backbone.

Morgana signalled to the Saxons to wait in the distance and the last steps she and her two knights took alone.

Arthur stepped forward and spread his arms out to show that he was not going to attack first. Looking at her tensely, he noted a large, old sword Morgana wore on her shoulder baldric. It was something unusual for her, another thing he didn't know about her. Morgana was good with a sword, of course she was, since he trained her, but usually her favourites were dainty, sharp daggers that could be easily hid in the colourful silks of her skirts.

"Morgana." he sent her name to the wind as they drew closer.

"Dear brother. We have met again, and where!" she sarcastically pointed all around the nighty and fiery view of Camlann.

"Have you come in peace, sister?" Arthur shifted his gaze to Sir Lancelot, trying to read the answer on his face. His knight looked rather calm for a tense moment like this.

"No, Arthur." Morgana's face was hard and dark, "I have come for revenge."

Arthur's heart dropped. "I'm sorry to hear that. We're brother and sister..."

She stepped quite close to him. Arthur's knights tensed, not knowing whether to obey the King's strict order or protect him at all costs. Even at the cost of his sorceress sister's life.

"You should feel sorry," her voice was menacingly quiet, "Only if you have guilt on you, brother."

She stepped back to Mordred, and took his hand. "Do you recognise Mordred, Arthur? Your Galahad couldn't kill him."

"He is not mine, Morgana." Arthur retorted irritably. "Galahad is the reason I am here and not at home."

"Likewise." said Mordred.

Arthur heard Mordred's voice for the first time. He looked at him closely. Despite his grim, unfriendly appearance, there was something about the druid-knight's look that made Arthur unconsciously like him. He seemed to be a man without deceit. Arthur felt ashamed that he thought Mordred was Morgana's kidnapper, and that this indirectly contributed to the tragedy of his clan. Within himself, he found a tugging and unsettling desire to atone for his guilt to the young man.

"Sire." Lancelot bowed quickly, "Lady Morgana has been notified by me of Sir Galahad and the Barons' treachery. Please, consider my quest fulfilled."

"It is. And that is why we are here, Arthur. We will take revenge on them." Morgana stated.

"We will fight at your side, Pendragon." Mordred added.

"So the Holy War against me is cancelled, then?"

"For now, yes." Morgana tilted her head to the side, studying him. "But make one wrong move..."

Inwardly, Arthur rejoiced. Morgana isn't going against him, she's on his side, and she even came with the reinforcements to his aid! Who would have thought that his big sister would be capable of such. Outwardly, however, he offered her his hand politely. "Please, let us speak in my tent."

"Do we have time to talk?.." Morgana did not take his hand, but still followed him into the royal tent.

Lancelot left Mordred and the royal siblings together, checked on the Saxons, telling them to wait for the Queen's command – they camped away from Arthur's troops — and then went to find the healing tents. He knew where Gwen was supposed to be.

Old Gaius did not wake up when Lancelot quietly crept into their tent. Gwen was sleeping on a bench with her hands under her cheek. Lancelot smiled, filled with warmth from her kind appearance. He stepped closer, daring to raise his hand and gently touch her cinnamon curl. And even that seemed to him an undeservedly huge prize.

Gwen's sleep, tired and anxious for the upcoming battle was too light. "Arthur?" she smiled slightly, her lashes fluttering.

Lancelot pulled away immediately, his hand burning.

Gwen sat up, rubbed her eyes, and gasped. "Lancelot?!" in a burst of surprise and joy she threw herself on his neck. "You're back so soon!"

Lancelot went numb at her embrace. He was only able to speak when Gwen, embarrassed with herself, let go of him. "Yes, Gwen. I have returned with Lady Morgana, she will fight at our side."

"Really?" Gwen was greatly surprised, and stood up.  "I'm going to go find her!"

But Lancelot stopped her. "Wait a little. She's with His Majesty now, they're having a serious conversation."

"Yes, they must be. You're right." Gwen sat down again.

"What is it, Gwen?" Gaius called out from his bench and sat down, "Has it started?"

"Not yet, Gaius." Gwen reassured him, "It's just Sir Lancelot returning," she patted the bench beside her, "Sit down please, and tell us everything."

Lancelot smiled politely at a sleepy and disgruntled Gaius and obeyed his Lady's orders.

A figure lying flat in the grass moved. Then it did it again; and again. It was definitely alive. Against all odds, it was alive.

The old man caught his breath and sat up sharply, as though a bucket of ice water has poured on him from a height.

It was dark here too, just as it was in the underground beneath the Crystal Cave, but this darkness was alive with sounds, the singing of birds, the rustling of foxes, and gentle touches inaudible to the normal ear. The fall of an owl's feather on the grass, a dewdrop sliding down a blade of grass, the way a petal touched a petal as it grew, reaching for the sun even when it wasn't there, for flowers loved the sun.

Merlin filled his lungs with the fragrant air, and let the reality settle on him.

He was alive, moving, breathing, thinking. He had survived the blast of the primordial fire and was carried to the surface by the explosion wave. But he became an old man. The very one whose reflection he wanted to rescue from the crystal. Confused, Merlin examined himself. Long grey hair instead of his short black, a rich red and blue embroidered mantle instead of his simple servant's clothes. His hands were wrinkled and no longer had the youthful masculine vigour.

The Crystal Cave had shown him that this, this appearance was his true self.

The Crystal Cave!

Merlin jumped to his feet and looked round.

The forest came back to life. The broken trees were healed and once again proudly connected heaven and earth. The uprooted soils and stones were back in place and flattened, and the rocks... The rocks formed a cliff again, and a passage into it.

The Crystal Cave was restored. And so did the rest of the magic. The power contained in the Crystal of Primordial Fire, the power that had once created them, the most powerful force in the world, brought the dead back to life.

"Yes!.." Merlin even jumped in joy, then gasped when the old man's back and joints ached in response to the youthful gesture. "Oh, shit!..."

However, he was glad, unspeakably glad. He did not fail. And that meant that soon he would go to Arthur and all would be well. Merlin walked to the entrance of the Cave and looked inside. It was dark in there, but that darkness was not frightening. It was like a peaceful starry dream.

"Lady Elaine?" he called out to the Keeper just in case. He wasn't sure how he should feel about her. Was the fact that he had fallen into the pit an accident? Was it important, because it had turned out to be a good thing in the end?

Merlin decided to lit a fire so he could see better. He put his hand out in front of him, whispered an incantation, and suddenly jerked in fright when he saw himself. In response to the Old Tongue's words, the skin of his hand erupted in the fiery oghamic sigils. Startled, Merlin threw back the wide sleeves of his mantle and looked down at his trembling arms. They were spotted with scars his golden magic was shining through. And not just his hands, as he made sure of by looking behind the collar at his chest. His entire body and face were covered with burns that were hidden in his normal state but were revealed when he tried to do magic.

Such was the price of surviving the terrible conflagration of the primordial fire.

"Emrys."

Merlin turned around sharply. The signs faded and his skin returned to normal.

Elaine was sitting on a boulder, her bare feet on the grass. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. "It's good to see you in your true form," but there was no joy in her angelic voice, she sounded like she was far, far away from here.

"Don't tell me I'll be an old man forever. Please." Merlin pleaded in desperation.

"No, but since now you can only return to your old image through an intermediate form. For a man who has cognized himself and his destiny cannot stay the same, no matter how much he wishes it."

Merlin didn't quite know whether that was an affirmative or a negative answer. He paused and sat down on the ground in front of her, hesitant to move closer to the Keeper.

"What now?" that question had everything in it.

"Now, thank you. The Crystal Cave knew three eras. At first it was free and anyone could find it. But then greed and power won out, people only took but did not give, and the Cave half-hid itself, giving itself only to the purehearted. That's how the Keepers came to be. It was the second era. It ends today, thanks to you, Emrys. The third era is coming. The Source of all Magic as well as the Sources of Wild Magic have been resurrected, but there will be no going back."

Merlin listened to her as if spellbound. "What do I do next?"

"I don't know. I don't write in the Book of Destiny. You don't want to be a Keeper instead of me, do you, Emrys?"

"Er, no, I'm sorry, Elaine. I have to go back and rescue Arthur."

"Well, there's your answer." a calm and sad smile made Elaine's face livelier. "You already know what to do."

So they sat for a while together in this secret forest, the old man and the maiden in white. And then Merlin drew a golden rune in the air and a white falcon soared into the dark sky.

And Elaine, a maid more beautiful than ever lilies, walked weightlessly back to the Crystal Cave.

"Don't tell him about the Cave." Morgana managed to whisper to Mordred before they entered Arthur's red tent.

Arthur needs not know that some of what he was fighting for has become irrelevant, for Morgana had concerns that he might change his mind or become less willing to sacrifice if he knew that magic was gone. But she was concerned for the non-magical followers of the Old Ways too.

Arthur motioned for them to sit down on the carpeted bench. Mordred obeyed, sat down, and placed his sword on his lap; but Arthur and Morgana themselves remained standing opposite each other. Mordred looked at Arthur carefully, trying to see how his idea of him compared with the real man. How he missed his senser abilities right now! He could have understand Arthur's soul and read his emotions, see the truth and lies in his eyes.

"So it's true?" Morgana looked at Arthur intensely.

"What exactly?"

"Everything. That you were not responsible for the deaths of the Druids. That Mordred was not killed on your orders. That you want to free magic."

"Three times yes. It was Galahad, I condemned him for it. I didn't want you dead, Mordred, it was Galahad again," Arthur gave a quick nod to Mordred, "And yes. The amnesty decree is almost written..."

"Amnesty? But we have done nothing wrong. What are you forgiving us for, may I ask?"

"I know, Morgana. It's just a title. In the decree, I have provided for permitted and forbidden practices, some points of the future law—"

"Who are you to decide what we can and cannot practice, Arthur Pendragon?"

"Erm...Morgana. I meant that magic should work for the good of the realm—"

"Magic is not something that should work for what you and the other kings see fit, it is not your servant. What can you understand about that? You have no right to limit us."

"I have the right to protect my people from dark practitioners who may wish to abuse their power!" Arthur folded his arms across his chest in a protective gesture.

"You still think magic is corrupting after all, Arthur. How can you be so hypocritical...?" Morgana folded her arms identically.

They were so alike after all, Mordred noted with a slight smile. Stubborn, strong, caring.

"In case you haven't noticed, Morgana, I'm at war for magic with the half of my kingdom right now." Arthur objected resentfully, "Would I be doing this if I thought your ways were inherently evil? Besides, Merlin helped me write it. You know who he is, don't you?"

"Of course." Morgana softened a little, exhaled and dropped her hands. "Where is he, by the way?"

"Got sick." Arthur grimaced and turned back to the table. He picked up the chess piece of the black queen and the black knight and moved them to the pieces that marked the Pendragon disposition.

Morgana and Mordred exchanged suspicious glances. It was strange of Merlin to abandon Arthur on such a day, on such a night. Had he ever been ill at all?

Morgana took a cautious step towards Arthur, wanting to stroke his shoulder, but then lowered her hand before he noticed. "Arthur...I—thank you. You turned out to be...I didn't think you—" she suddenly stammered. Had she really wanted to hurt her own brother? He's a good man.

"You meant to say I turned out to be less of a monster than you thought, didn't you, sister?" Arthur grinned crookedly.

Morgana suppressed a quick smile. "Something along those lines. Perhaps."

"I'm happy we're fighting on the same side. Seriously, Morgana. Just like the good old days." When they teamed up against Uther to do a good deed together. "You and I, we value the same thing, don't we?" The news of her enmity had broken his heart, and now it was glued back together with the signs of her forgiveness. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

"Arthur, Sire." Mordred's voice came from behind before the emotion would come over Morgana.

Morgana and Arthur turned to him in sync. He stood, holding the fiery sword in his outstretched hands.

"By your decision to fight for us and your humble acceptance of the will of the Triple Goddess, you have proven yourself a worthy man and king. Please accept this magical sword named Tanllyd as a sign of the future," Mordred has finally given the sword a name in the Old Tongue, for Arthur. "Men will see you fighting with and for magic and the fame of it will spread throughout all Albion. Sire."

Morgana bit her lower lip in strange alarm. In her dreams she had seen Mordred fighting with that sword. Now he was giving it to Arthur, and that changed things. If not the destiny. A magical artifact like this carried the weight of prophecy, and as a seer she knew subconsciously that trying to change what one saw could inadvertently change what one did not want to change.

Arthur was surprised at the offer. He had already refused one sword, the lake sword, and now destiny was giving him another. With a reserved smile, he took the gift and marvelled at its perfect beauty. Nielloed silver on black, patterns of knots and dragon heads, the most skilful work he has ever seen. "And what is its magic?"

Mordred smiled sweetly, "Point it at the flame of the torch."

Arthur did so and awe-struck when a non-scalding red fire ignited the cold blade. "And how do you extinguish it?"

"During the day catch the sunlight, and simply put it into the scabbard in times of moonlight."

Arthur sheathed Tanllyd and handed it back to Mordred. "Thank you, Mordred, but take it back. I have my old sword, it has lived through many adventures with me. Your sword is beautiful, but I wish it would protect you and Morgana. The battle will be brutal." Arthur smiled demurely, but Mordred's face, a second ago lively, turned sad and resentful. He sharply snatched the fiery sword from Arthur's hands and lowered his gaze to the ground, not looking at either Arthur or Morgana.

The sudden idea sparked Arthur's enthusiasm; he didn't want to offend Morgana's friend after all he'd been through, having been nearly killed twice at the hands of Camelot; in Dorset and Brocéliande. Nerving Morgana wasn't a good idea either. It was a miracle that they considered to change their hearts about him. "I have something on my mind, Mordred, a sign even better than a sword."

"What, Your Majesty?" Mordred muttered angrily, eyes on the ground.

"You have all the qualities of a true knight, Mordred. For your loyalty and protection of the Princess you deserve to be knighted as a knight of Camelot. Do you wish me to grant you a knighthood?"

Arthur realised that Galahad had been right at the Council Meeting, though he meant something else. He could not become a righteous king and build the New Age by looking backwards and act as Father used to do.
So let Mordred be his first step into the future.

Mordred stiffened at first, then melted and reddened. The change was striking, from resentment to love. It was flattering, and unexpected, and exciting, and healed the scratch of Arthur's rejection at once. He didn't expect the idea to captivate him so quickly, for he was used to being afraid of knights. But everything was new and different now. His initiation by King Arthur would be a kind of sign of the New Age and peace between two enemy sides. He would become the first sorcerer-knight, the first knight raised from the outcasts. The title would also make him an equal to Morgana...

"It is an honour, Your Majesty." Mordred bowed his head politely.

Then he glanced furtively at Morgana. She nodded proudly at him with a small, satisfied smile on her lips.

"Well done, Mordred!" Arthur clapped his hands, "Then you will be knighted into the Order of the Round Table right now, but for this—"

"What? When did you have time to start a new order, Arthur?" Morgana arched an eyebrow.

'And when did you have time to become the queen of the Saxons, Morgana?"

"It's a long story."

"Likewise. Anyway, we need a witness from the knights." Arthur walked to the exit, looked out and shouted, "Sir Gwaine!"

A moment later, Gwaine appeared inside. At the sight of Mordred he whistled and smiled radiantly, "Sir Hood himself! Why didn't you say me you was immortal?" Then his gaze shifted to Morgana, and he bowed to her with exaggerated gallantry. "My Fair Lady."

Morgana snorted quietly and smirked.

"Sir Gwaine, I am going to initiate this young man into the Knights of the Round Table. You said you know him. Can you vouch for him? Do you approve of my decision?"

"Of course, Sir Arthur. Mordred is a great guy!" Gwaine shook Mordred's hand vigorously.

"Fine." Arthur took his old sword, not from the magical lake and cave, but just from the Tom Smith's simple forge in the Higher Town. Any new sword had yet to earn the right to be a sword of initiation like this one. He coughed meaningfully, seeing that Mordred was still standing.

Mordred hastily dropped to one knee in front of Arthur and fixed a confused look into the floor. "My Lord."

Arthur touched his left shoulder with the tip of his sword. "Devotee, are you ready to dedicate yourself to the fight for good and justice?"

"I am," Mordred echoed, his heart thundering.

"Are you ready to defend the weak and follow the laws of honour?" Arthur touched his right shoulder.

"I am."

"Are you willing to come to the Round Table at least once a year to tell the Brethren of your good deeds and exploits?"

"I am."

"Arise, Sir Mordred, for I name you Knight of Camelot and Knight of the Round Table." Arthur smiled favourably at his new knight. "The Order's equipment will be issued to you by Sir Leon, later of course. Your current attire is... Um, whose colours do you wear?"

"Amatha's, Sir. But I am by no means a knight of this kingdom. It's just a coincidence..."

While Arthur pelted the confused and agitated Mordred with details, Sir Gwaine leaned over to Morgana, "This scene makes me think you two have made up."

"You are pretty observant, Sir Gwaine." Morgana smirked.

"I hope it's for a long time."

"So am I. By the way, it was you who made me Saxon queen, Sir Gwaine, and that's why I can help my brother's army tonight. He should reward you."

Gwaine gave an exaggeratedly sad sigh, "I wish I could remember this undoubtedly great event, but alas, Milady."

"The Saxons in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, remember?" Morgana quipped and walked over to Arthur and Mordred, leaving Gwaine sorting through his many adventures in his mind, "Now, men. Chivalry, swords and tables are certainly good things, but what about, you know...the battle?"

Arthur grew serious at the reminder. "I was thinking of striking first. Tomorrow at dawn—"

"Tomorrow?" Morgana interrupted him loudly, "We cannot wait until tomorrow, Arthur! Night is the best time, and we must get ahead of Galahad and the Barons! I'm sure they want to strike first too. Perhaps the swords are already drawn."

Arthur considered her words, and after a moment exhaled irritably, "You will be the end of me, Morgana, but perhaps you are right." he admitted.

"I'm always right." she smirked darkly.

Arthur rolled his eyes fleetingly and put the old sword away in its scabbard.

Mordred's fingers closed habitually on the fiery sword's hilt, but a new, wrong feeling came over him at the touch. As though by rejecting the sword in favour of Arthur he has broken the thread of some bond that existed between him and the sword magic, and now it was to belong to Arthur, not to him. As though he has appropriated Arthur's destiny. These strange musings were leading him nowhere, but he had to try.

"Arthur," he dared to call the King by name, "For the last time, I ask you to change your mind and accept Tanllyd. I sense like it belongs to you."

Arthur stopped, studying the sad and hopeful face of his new knight, the druid-knight. Why not trust magic and accept this luxurious gift, after all?

"All right, Mordred, we're changing." He gave him Tom's sword, took Tanllyd and fastened it on his baldric. It felt right. "Good. Come, Sirs and Fair Lady. For Camelot."

"For Brocéliande." Morgana added immediately.

Together, they walked out of the tent into the field.

Arthur went right to his men, while Morgana and Mordred took the Camelot horses for themselves and led the excited, eager to fight Saxons to the left.

"Try to stay close to me, Morgana."

"So do you."

"I'm serious. You don't have magic. If someone touches you..." he grimaced.

"I am capable to touch anyone, with or without magic."

The Saxons took up positions on the slopes. The troops were ready to make a dash to the other side of the round Camlann Valley, to envelop the enemy positions in pincers and simply grind them inside.

Mordred turned to Morgana and took her hands in his. All around them was the blue darkness and black wind. "Morgana, if I die this night..." What made him say that? Perhaps, a premonition that death would take many tonight with it, so how was he different from the others who were destined to pass away?..

"Don't be foolish. You're not going to die. I did not foresee such a thing." Morgana stated firmly. The wind rippled through her hair, threw it in her face, and she flung the dark tresses back irritably. "You won't get away from me that easily. I'll find you even on the other side."

"I always knew that, princess. A terrible fate of mine."

Morgana smiled. Her lips trembled, just because she was nervous, and the moisture in her eyes was brought by the wind, undoubtedly. "Are we doing this? If you ask, Mordred, we will go away."  She asked passionately; she didn't know why. There was no fear, there was...an opportunity to change destiny.

"No." He didn't ask her before, wouldn't ask her now. "We're ending a twenty years war."

His words rang true in her heart. Morgana has never known anyone more righteous than Mordred. "Let me..." she pulled a tiny wooden round box from her cloak pocket. The blue dye she had made in the Valley of No Return was inside. "You know, in Camelot, when a lady wishes her favourite knight good luck in a fighting, she gives him a token: a handkerchief, a ribbon, a scarf, a flower. And this is mine for you."

She dipped her index finger in the paint and drew a few runes on Mordred's forehead and cheeks, a few straight and slanted lines across his smooth skin. The blue paint made his eyes even more vivid. "This is what ancient warriors did in the old days, they marked themselves for battle and glory."

"Thank you." The rightness and inevitability of what was happening settled on his shoulders, straightened them proudly. He closed his eyes, trustingly surrendering to her touch; the touch that was marking him with the Old Ways' sigils of luck and blood.

Arthur raised the flaming sword against the dark inky sky. His horse neighed and stood on its hind hooves. At the sight of the magical weapon, his men shouted excitedly and cheered their blessed King on.

"Tonight we do battle!" Arthur shouted as loudly as he could.

"Hurrah for King Arthur!" Lord Ector shouted, raising his own sword to support Arthur. The warriors, encouraged by the sight of their king's courage, answered him with cheers and greeting of approval and excitement, shaking their swords in the air.

"Tonight we end this war, we end a war maybe as old as the land itself," Arthur spoke spiritedly, "It has lasted far more than twenty-three years. This war against bitterness, prejudice, division. Not all will greet the dawn, some will live, some will fall. But each and every one of you fights with honour, and with pride. For not only do we fight for our lives, we fight for a peaceful future. The future of Camelot. The future of Albion. The future of the united kingdoms."

Arthur looked round at his warriors and his royal allies. Here were Annis, Rodor, Mithian. Their faces, full of light and hope, made him believe in himself. This unity promised much. As they fought together now, so in the future they would unite into one.

"For the love of Camelot!" he shouted triumphantly, bathing in his own echo the mountains gave back.

The heralds raised their horns to their lips and trumpeted. The drums rumbled like May thunder.

King Arthur was coming.

Before she drew the last vertical ritual line over Mordred's lips, Morgana lifted herself on tiptoe and placed a firm kiss on them.

"O Goddess. I fight for your cause. In return, please let this not be the last battle for us," she prayed and drew the line, from top to bottom.

The dark, tense silence of Camlann was suddenly broken by the rumble of a dozen battle horns. They rose over the mountains, followed by a storm of drums.

Arthur Pendragon's army was marching to the great battle, the first battle.

"It is time." Mordred mounted his horse and clutched the simple but excellent sword Arthur gave him in one hand and his father's amber blade in the other.

Morgana saddled her own, yanked the reins sharply to the side and rode up to the first row of Saxons. With a quick strong movement she pulled the ealdormen sword, her sword, from over her shoulder and showed it to them, "Fall in, forward march!" she shouted, not recognising her own voice.

They answered her with a war cry in their own language, and, shaking their axes and swords, rolled down and forward, towards the conquer.

The falcon was flying on the wings of the night wind, a fiery chaos stretched beneath him. Roads of fire streaked the darkness below, leading where he was flying. To the west. The falcon rose higher so that the smoke of smouldering fires and burned forests would not reach him. He was flying towards Camlann.

A huge dark winged shadow soared in the clouds below him, hiding the ground form view. But it was not a bird, just as the falcon itself was not a bird. It was a dragon, a great black dragon. He flew, reveling in freedom, sending jets of flame down upon the tortured land of Camelot.

The falcon became angry and swooped downwards, swiftly flashing straight before the dragon's golden eyes.

"Emrys!" the dragon exclaimed irritably.

How did you recognise me? Merlin once again hovered like a pesky wasp in front of Kilgharrah's face, preventing him from releasing a new fire blast.

"I would have recognised you in any guise. However, I must admit this one is not as weak as your usual one." Kilgharrah laughed murmurously. "It suits you to be a bird, Emrys."

His nonchalance made Merlin even angrier. What are you doing?! How did you get free? Stop this immediately!

"To stop it? Why should I? The earth itself had set me free!"

Merlin set up his flight alongside the dragon. He won't let go of him that easily. You harm the innocent! Please stop this, Kilgharrah!

You are not a Dragonlord to order me around, Emrys. Kilgharrah wanted to turn the other way, but the tiny, stubborn falcon stopped him again.

I am not. But I am your friend. And I'm asking you as a friend, please! It's not their fault!

Kilgharrah no longer tried to dodge from the falcon, he let the small white bird fly at his side. "What are you even doing here?" he muttered.

If Merlin could smile, he would have smiled broadly in relief, but as a falcon he could only flap his wings louder. I'm flying to Camlann! Arthur's there now, fighting for Albion! he shouted mentally, bathing in the rising air currents.

"You have found your destiny after all..." the Great Dragon roared. "I had almost given up believing in you. Good. You may sit down."

Merlin could barely believe his ears. He landed on the dragon's neck and turned back to human. The wind whistled in his ears, and he felt dizzy from the soaring heights they were flying at.

The daffodil spring moon seemed to be so close. Merlin reached out to it as if he could take the yellow sphere in the palm of his hand, and laughed. In that moment he believed in the good. He bent down and magically freed the Dragon's leg from the torn remnant of the chain and the piece of stone dangling from it. It fell down.

Kilgharrah turned his head slightly towards him. "Thank you. You surprised me again, young warlock. But why do you look like this? I thought I wouldn't see you like this for decades."

The old man shrugged. "Blame the Crystal Cave. I was told this was my true self."

The dragon hummed something unrecognisable, and began descending as the Camlann Mountains appeared below. He descended in circles over the battlefield. The stone cup of blood and darkness below was swarmed with dark human figures. Only as Merlin and Kilgharrah approached them, they could see that their chaotic flickering was a slaughter of their own kind. It was not immediately apparent that the dark deformed stains on the rocks were lifeless human bodies.

"Kilgharrah! Over there!" Merlin hung off his neck to get a better view of the battle, the brutal wind whipping against his old face.
Kilgharrah roared something in the Old Tongue and sent a blast of fire where Merlin saw the rebel Barons and Sir Galahad in shining armour and white cloak.

All of Camlann blazed up with fire and screams of terror as the fighting men spotted the omnious dragon and his rider. Smoke and cinders filled the Valley. But Merlin, even through the fire, discerned what he feared the most.
Morgana and Mordred. Armed, they moved furiously among the rocks and smoke. Mordred was lunging ahead of her, killing people furiously.

He was going to stop them.

Morgana stopped, jumped off her wounded horse, and looked up. A huge dragon was flying over the Valley of Camlann, sending fire at Galahad's men. Its rider jumped onto a towering rock and surveyed the battlefield. He was lonely and strange against the crimson and purple predawn sky. His long white hair fluttered in the wind, and he looked unkind and wary. From above, he looked down straight at her.

Her breath stuck in Morgana's chest, and she lowered her bloody, heated sword. She had seen this once before! She had seen this face in the crystal visions! Who was this old man who had followed her from the Crystal Cave here to Camlann? He was like a shadow walking in her shadow, and his look and doomful image inspired in her an irrational terror such as she had never experienced before. The first prediction came true.

He noticed her. Morgana backed away. To get away, to hide from him...

The old man raised his hand threateningly, his skin lit up with the golden oghamic runes. He sent a blast of power in her direction, a killing blow.

"No!!..." Morgana covered her face with her hands, and instinctively, her magic protected its mistress.

The blow didn't reach her. Morgana opened one frightened eye. A green glowing magical dome has shielded her from the golden power of the intimidating wizard. His murderous power was beating against her shield like the furious sea against the shore.

Magic! This revelation shook her entire being. Her power was back! Her gift was with her again!
Morgana laughed joyfully, clutched the Saxon sword tighter, tears of happiness welled in her eyes. She was free. Any fear burned away without a trace.
She raised her left hand, clenched into a fist, and struck back through the green shield, sending her magic straight at the old man's solar plexus.
The wizard was tossed up, tumbled through the air, and thrown behind the rock.

"I don't fear you. Whoever you are." Morgana stated contentedly, her soul soaring in triumph. That's right. When that ugly old man decided to harm her, he probably didn't realise how strong she was. She would deal with this new mysterious enemy later. Right now she had to find Mordred who has gone ahead without her, to find Galahad and help Arthur.

She ran on, jumping over dead bodies, climbing up and down rocky ledges.

And she found him, her Black Knight with a flaming sword amid the smoke and fire in a circle of rocks. Mordred raised the sword again and again, and the dragonfire reflected off the silver blade, coloring it red. He was surrounded by a dozen rebel troops; they killed his horse, but Mordred managed to pull his legs out of the stirrups and jump to the ground unharmed before the animal's heavy body would tumble on him. He alone was fending off the attack of several knights, wounding and slashing them with the desperation of a doomed man.

She had seen this before. The hot wind blew her sweaty hair back from her forehead, whipped her skirts, smoke seared her lungs. Morgana threw her head back and laughed. This all happened before, she has seen it in a dream, every detail, everything.
The second prediction came true.
She didn't even say anything. A flow of her energy, surprisingly strong after the return, a surely deadly flow, burst forth and scattered her beloved's enemies apart like the weightless autumn leaves.

Mordred was left standing alone, the lifeless corpses lying at his feet. He jerked his head up and looked around, searching for the source of salvation.
Morgana! he shouted in her mind when he saw her. And only then he realised that he could make a mental connection again.

She smiled proudly and ran down the cliff towards him. Magic is back!

They rushed forward together, hand in hand, fighting with the doubled might of sword and magic. They were unstoppable.

And just then, a new attack came upon the wavered and bleeding troops of the rebel Barons. Essetir's unit hit them in the back and crushed the last remnants of their forces.

Morgana and Mordred were running, looking for Arthur or Galahad, friend or foe, and noticed Sirs Lancelot and Percival fighting shoulder to shoulder, back to back against the Knights of Amatha. These two must have had the greatest number of wounded and slain foes to their credit. A glorious and sorrowful fate.

Lady Ragnelle was standing on a boulder fighting off Baron Leodegrand when she saw a black-clad man and woman rushing across the battlefield, clearing their path with magic. For a moment she stared at them. "Wasn't that the illustrious sister of King Arthur, Duchess of Cornwallis and Queen of Saxons? That who was an enemy but became a friend?" She thought. The moment of surprise nearly cost her her life. Leodegrand's squire crept up behind her, intending to stab her in the side, when suddenly he cried out and fell to the ground.

"You're just like me, Ragnelle, always get distracted and then losing," Sir Gwaine said smugly and wiped his sword on the dead squire's velvet jacket.

"Gwaine!" Ragnelle exclaimed indignantly.

"She is mine, Baron." Gwaine declared to Leodegrand with a menacing look, "The Lady and I have old scores to settle."

Leodegrand weighed his options and retreated hurriedly.

"You humiliated me!" Ragnelle spat out, turning towards him.

"I just saved your life. By the way, I didn't know you were such a warrior, Ragnelle." Gwaine smirked and looked her over from head to toe, "Been training all year just to get back to me?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me. I'm a knight's daughter! Now, go away!" Ragnelle jumped off the boulder. "Go away!" As she passed Gwaine she shoved him with her shoulder and disappeared behind the rocks, running to where Morgana had fled.

Gwaine only hummed. A push was still a touch. Grasping his sword more comfortably, he rushed after her.

Merlin woke up with pain all over his body. Again. He was already tired of dying and coming back. But immediately thoughts of his own failures were replaced by fear for Arthur. Where is he? Did Morgana and Mordred get to him? Who is winning? Driven by fear, he jumped up and, despite the pain in his old bones, ran down the Valley in search of Arthur.

It was strangely quiet in this part of Camlann. A red-golden sun streak was dawning at the edge of the sky. Here and there, breathless bodies lay on the grey rocks in exhausted unnatural poses. Merlin didn't care whose they were. He was stepping over them and waddling onwards stubbornly. Arthur, he needed Arthur. After all, he has come here because of him, and then ended up so ingloriously because of Morgana's evil strike. Kilgharrah was right, she had become too strong after the Crystal Cave. "United in evil, Morgana and Mordred will bring the fall of Camelot", the prophecy rang in his mind.

A faint groan sounded off to the side and Merlin rushed there.

But it wasn't Arthur or Mordred. Some bleeding knight lay there, and Gwen, Gaius and an assistant of the healing tents were leaning over him. "Gaius, Gwen! Who won?" Merlin shouted hoarsely.

They stared at him, not realising who this old man was or how he knew their names.

"Erm, we don't know exactly..." Gwen muttered, taking a suspicious squint at Merlin, "But it doesn't seem to be Sir Galahad."

The uncertain answer only served to increase Merlin's anxiety. "Where is Arthur? Morgana?"

Gaius shook his head. "Not in our healing tents. We've just come to pick up the wounded. Who are you?"

Merlin ran off without wasting time for an answer. The assistant put the knight in the cart and drove him slowly to the tents while Gaius and Gwen followed close by.

Emrys. The dragon's voice echoed loudly in his mind. Merlin stopped abruptly, the stones crunching under his boots.

Kilgharrah! Where are you?

"I am here."

Merlin turned round and saw the Dragon. He sat on the edge of a high cliff, his wings calmly folded. He was surveying Camlann majestically.

"This was one of Albion's greatest battles, Emrys, but it is only the beginning of your journey, one you will walk on your own two feet. My mission is over."

Merlin shuddered at his strangely calm, accomplished tone. "I...I've failed?" He felt so pathetic and small before the face of the Great Dragon.

"No, young warlock. What you wanted to build has been built. The golden age has already come. Later you will realise that time is a river and 'age' is just a word from the New Tongue. Those minutes when you had Arthur at your side, all of them, were actually more than an age, they were an eternity. They were less than an instant a human eye blinks for. It is not for nothing that Arthur Pendragon is called the Once and Future King..."

Hot, angry tears trickled down Merlin's cheeks against his will. He quickly wiped them away. "I don't understand, damn it! Where is Arthur! Do you mean he's dead?"

"True love dies not. He's over there." Kilgharrah pointed with his tail to the right.

Merlin ran that way.

"Emrys."

"What now?!" Merlin shouted, turning on his heels and nearly falling over, staggering backwards.

"In all the fifteen hundreds years I've lived I've never been wrong. Except for once. Perhaps you were right about the Witch and the Druid. Maybe. Maybe not."

Kilgharrah spread his wings and took off, circling above Merlin. "Knowing you was a pleasure, young wizard. Goodbye forever. Maybe we'll see again."

Merlin cocked his head upwards, squinting against the rising sun. The great dragon flew higher and higher until he got lost in the red light.

When Merlin reached the southern edge of the Valley, the battlefield was dead except for only a few people. Merlin crouched behind a black rock trying to figure out what was going on.

Another old man, a real one, dressed in a plain long grey robe came from the opposite edge of the field and fell to his knees beside a knight clad in white. The knight lay motionless in the middle of the field under the great dawn.

"Sir Galahad!" Abbot Ambrosius exclaimed sadly over the body of his poor holy knight. Galahad's white garment was stained with blood, and red flooded the golden lily on his chest. "I am so sorry."

Galahad muttered something barely audible. The abbot pulled a small illuminated prayer book from his pocket and prepared to chanting a psalm as suddenly a foot in a metal boot roughly pushed him away from Galahad. The small book fell into the ash.

"Move away, geezer! Galahad is my trophy!"

Frightened, Ambrosius crawled away from the Lady Morgause and bended down by a boulder.

"Well, well, well..." She said slowly, placing her foot on Galahad's chest. "I have found you, White Knight. Who did this to you?"

Galahad opened his eyes and the last thing the power of his fading soul was capable of was admiration and love. Morgause was beautiful. She covered the sky above him, the rising sun turned her fair hair into a golden halo, her armour gleamed true silver, her formidable face was full of dignity and fortitude. She was a saint, a saint of a foreign god.

"You have come...Witch."

He wheezed when Morgause stepped harder on his chest. The scarlet stain on his chest and stomach grew larger. More fatal.

Morgause hummed, removed her boot, and dropped to one knee in front of him. She took him roughly by the chin and turned his fair face towards her. "Of course I have. Pray I don't turn your body into a toy and a slave when you die, Galahad."

But he was not afraid of necromancy. It was pointless to be afraid anymore. He  failed and was retreating into the darkness of lifeless pain. Galahad raised his weak hand and for the first and last time reverently touched a hand of the woman who was not his mother. His fingertips stroked her knuckles, lingered a moment longer, and then his hand fell to the ground like a lifeless stone.