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Chapter Text

Black is the colour of my true love's hair
His face is like some wondrous fair
With the prettiest face and the neatest hands
I love the ground whereon he stands

Irish Folk Song

The heavenly fire dissolved into the air, taking the High Priestess Nimueh's life. Only a puff of smoke remained of her lovely form. No one, not even Emrys, saw how, a few moments before her death, the glamour she wore like a cloak came off and her true face of a druidess and hag who had known the years and the death of so many of her friends, was revealed. But it was too late for the truth.

Merlin and his old friend left the Island of the Blessed in haste, and the silent place was once again left with the rain and memories of the mysteries of the Goddess's women. The Old Ways were lost.
Lady Nimueh lived here alone; alone amid the ruins; in a dwell she once shared with a fair girl with brave eyes. She was gone too. Nimueh tried to keep the memory alive, at least something, but the past was flowing away like water.

Times have changed. Nimueh was gone.

It rained for three days. Dancing raindrops were glistening on the black blooming, still-blooming, branches of the cherry trees in the abandoned gardens of the Disciples. Even Uther the Purifier's fire could not destroy the living seeds of the gardens; they sprouted through the ashes. Rain made the young green of the grass in the gaps between the scratched stones brighter; it overflowed a chalice of gold. It was standing on the white marble altar in the centre of the Island. The healing water was gushing over the altar, pouring down onto the grass, and where its drops fell, snow trilliums bloomed and the earth came to life.

On the misty afternoon of the fourth day, a golden seven-ray flash illuminated the sacred altar. Two graceful female hands from the water, a bubbling stream enclosed in the transparent but strong blue form of a human hand, took the chalice and carried it into the sky, beyond the dome of thunderclouds, where the sun always shines.

A druid in a cloak of coarse green-blue cloth strolled along the seashore. Yes, the storm was getting worse by the minute, the evening air was heavy with ozone, but he didn't want to leave, not yet. Iseldir loved the way the elements of water and air collided in a foaming frantic potion; it energised him, always revived his spirit. He thought about the fates of his clan and Albion. He was not yet old, but the grey, evidence of the sorrows and worries he had endured, have already silvered his hair. Long ago, when he was young, but already a clan leader, he had to leave his family's ancestral lands by the distant waters of Avalon.

Lord Ector's domain and his household were growing, King Uther's war — the Purge, as he called it — was drawing ever closer, and they had no choice. The Avalon Clan came here, to a place called Meredor, to the black rocky shores and damp caverns of the western sea.

For the past three days, Iseldir felt something was wrong; a slight ripple passed through the fabric of the world. He was neither a seer nor a senser but a ritualist, and people with his gift could catch the slightest vibration of energy around them.

The sea hissed and roared, coming quite close to the druid's bare tanned feet. He decided it was time to return to the clan, his family must have already lit fires in the storm's darkness. He looked back one last time to say goodbye to the sea until tomorrow, and then he saw IT.

Water hands slowly landed a gleaming golden chalice on a black stone. The grey gusty waves foamed high around it, but the cup stood firm, meeting Iseldir's gaze.

The druid's soul was filled with a thrill of exultation and prayerful awe.

For the Graal, a cup blessed by many centuries of powerful sorcery, a cup that contains the very secret of life itself, stood before him. The Legends say that in the beginning of time, when the Triple Goddess created the world by fire in the very place that is now known as the Crystal Cave, she touched the ground, and those places became the Sources of Magic; and then she wept, for she already knew the fate of the world destined to end in the same fire. She foresaw all the suffering of her children.

Her tear fell on a simple grey cobblestone, and from the pure power of that holy water, the stone turned into a cup of the most precious gold. The Graal travelled through centuries and times, has been in the hands of many wizards and sorceresses, in many cities and countries, appearing when it was needed, giving water, blood and wine; and its power has surpassed all imagination. For the last hundred years it has been kept by the High Priestesses of the Island of the Blessed, having arrived to Albion from the East, from the warm shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

And then Iseldir realised what was wrong these days. Lady Nimueh must have died, and the Graal has chosen a new refuge. With the druids, his clan. The Graal has chosen them. He almost cried. It was an honour and a blessing. Smiling through his tears, Iseldir bowed, then walked into the sea. His cloak was heavy with salt and wind, it was pulling him to the bottom, but he could only stand and stare at the chalice. He wanted to reach out and close his reverent fingers around it, but then he suddenly stopped and lowered his hand. He remembered that he had no right to touch the chalice, not yet. The Graal was to be brought to a new age each time by a young innocent maiden.

And Iseldir knew one; he loved her. Loved her as a wise oak loves the young bindweed wrapped around its trunk, their inseparability. He left the waves, knowing the Graal would be waiting for his chosen ones, and returned to the caves. He saw her at the campfire, and quietly, so that others would not hear — they will initiate them later — he called out to her.

"Sefa. Come with me, please."
She smiled sweetly and her eyes lit up with joy at the good news.

They walked down to the shore together. Iseldir stayed waiting, and his beloved, her plain dark blue dress was the colour of these waters, went waist-deep into the sea, and under the inky clouds took the Graal in her hands, and at that moment a mighty purple lightning cut through the sky. The sky yawned, and the silver rain crushed down on the black stones of Meredor. The Maiden turned to Iseldir and solemnly held out the Cup of Life to him. Their fingers made contact on its gold.

Together they placed the cup in one of the caves, where its dark stone dome was split in two, where a ray of sunlight would fall directly into the golden depths of the cup adorned with the engraving of the sacred pentagram; and this place became a new temple, the joy and honour of their clan.

The new Graal quest has begun.

Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon smiles at her and takes a cup of fragrant, fresh herbal tea she'd brewed for him. Lilac petals are floating in the golden liquid, smelling tart and rich. They have a tea party on the Camelot Castle's balcony; the last of the summer wind is fluttering the red tablecloth.

"Thank you, dear sister."

"You are welcome, brother dear."

They are polite and friendly, they like each other.

As soon as Arthur brings the cup to his lips, it explodes. Shards of the fine white porcelain fly apart, clanking against the grey stone floor. Morgana cries out. But Arthur is not angry at all, he smiles again, with his bloody, empty toothless mouth.

Morgana sat up, breathing heavily. The nightmare left a strange tugging sensation of fear and disgust on her soul. She rubbed her chest, fumbled for her triskelion pendant and squeezed it tight. It wasn't like a prophetic dream, because it wasn't predicting anything, she reassured herself.

Mordred was sleeping beside her, frowning slightly, his long lashes casting a shadow over his sickly pale face. It was stained with the smudged blue paint. The battle runes she made.

She smiled fondly at her beloved.

They were still on the spring shores of Avalon. Purple twilight was descending on the magical waters, frogs were croaking in the reeds, and emerald dragonflies were flitting about. Their wings looked like pixie wings. Morgana stood up and walked to the shore. The distant island of the Sidhe, that strange tower, all dissolved in the fading sunlight; the grey boat was still bobbing gently on the waves. Morgana bent down, dipped up some water, and washed her face with its blue coolness, washing away the strange unhappiness of the dream. Then she put back on her knitted stockings and boots that have travelled so many roads since she left Camelot. She was ready to set out again. Where to? She was not sure. She needed a guide, someone to show her again what was good and what was evil.

Morgana returned to the campfire, sat down and hugged Mordred, rubbing her cheek against the black dusty fabric of his cloak. It was smelling of bitter and smoke. Her soul soared up. It's only been a few hours since they had won on Camlann; the White Knight was gone, and Magic returned. Only Avalon and the unknown of the New Age remained with them.

He was awakened by her touch. "Morgana? Something happened?"

"No, nothing."

She let go, and he sat up, drank some water from the wooden flask, reached for his sword of fire, but found the belt light and empty, and then he remembered he had given it to Arthur, where it was meant to be. Arthur took everything, the sword and both coins, died and came back to life, and with him, a new world was born.

"Our clan is avenged, the righteous judgement has been served." Morgana mused, looking out over the shining milky lake waters.

"We have stained our hands with blood, Morgana." Mordred spoke up with a mask of anguish and regret on his still face. She was surprised. "I can feel it on me. The deadening energy. We avenged, we killed, we hated. We have violated everything Aglain taught us!"

"What? But that is what you wanted, Mordred. What's wrong with you?" Morgana didn't like the direction he was going. She hated the doubt.

"Haven't you ever done anything in moments when rage burned you and then regretted it...?" His conscience bothered him.

Morgana reached out to Mordred. "This rage is right. It's natural."

"I want nothing more to do with war!"

"But you are a Knight of the Round Table, you have willingly accepted the initiation." Morgana became nervous; she couldn't see Mordred like this. His uncertainty was undermining the faith of them both.

"But I am also a druid." he objected stubbornly.

"It was for good and by the Goddess' will! We brought back the Old Ways!" she parried again. "You agreed!"

"True. But that doesn't change anything."

Morgana fell silent and looked at her hands resting on the tattered fabric of her green dress. The hands of a healer who had brought death to many, who had failed to save those she loved. "You blame me, Mordred? I, too, swore to Aglain to follow the teachings of the Druids."

He shook his head sharply, "That was my choice too. I would repeat it. But every coin has two sides. Every thing can be both bad and good."

Morgana and Mordred stayed on the side of judgement, and Emrys and Arthur took the side of reward. Morgana and he are the chastising hand of heaven that gets written off, while Emrys and Arthur are ennobled with promises. "You are an oathbreaker, Morgana. You swore to wipe the Pendragon kind from the face of the earth and then you sided with him. Destiny does not forgive things like this."

"Then what do you want?" She did not understand his strange sternness. Once he would have given a lot for her smile, but now he was looking at her so unkindly. "Mordred, wherever you go, I am with you." She had once sworn to be loyal to the Druids, and Mordred was the last of them.

The fervour in Morgana's voice warmed him a little. Mordred reached for Morgana and took her hands in his, squeezing them lightly, "Like you, I want to try to save what is still possible. The Brocéliande clan isn't all dead when there's at least one of us. Let's go back to the Crystal Cave. Elaine is still there. She must be so lonely and sad, waiting all alone. She doesn't know anything about what happened. And then we'll live in the forest together. Just like we used to."

A clan of three? Morgana didn't really believe it, but she loved Elaine; she wouldn't leave her. This autumn, the druidess had welcomed her into the camp as a sister she never had.

"I agree," Morgana smiled at Mordred, and he cheered up a little. "I can't wait to see her again. By the way, if magic is back..." Morgana let go of his hands and with a graceful motion conjured a lilac flower with wavy petals out of thin air. It gently floated to the ground between them. "So the Crystal Cave is saved? How do you think it happened?"

"Emrys." Mordred replied with conviction. He saw Emrys on Camlann, in all his splendour, riding triumphantly on the great dragon who was burning King Arthur's enemies like a wildfire burns underbrush. "It was meant to be. Remember what I told you we would see the Golden Age in our lifetime? I was right." A light smirk dispelled the sadness, if only briefly.

"I remember everything you said." Morgana closed her eyes, brought her face close to his, and pressed her open lips to his, waiting for his caress in return.

But Mordred did not close his eyes and barely responded to the kiss.

Morgana sighed and pulled away in embarrassment. Her own inappropriateness scratched her. "Alright. We'll get Elaine back, we're family, after all. We'll just return to Camlann first, if we may. There's something left for me there."

So Mordred and Morgana missed Merlin.

They travelled back the road they had taken the dead Arthur in the cart, back through the forest where they had said goodbye to the Saxons, and up into the mountains.

The healing tents, red and yellow, stood out brightly against the sullen grey-brown stones of the Camlann Valley. Morgana carefully pulled back the flap and stepped inside. Gaius and Gwen had lit the oil lamps, it was getting dark. The wounded of both armies lay on camp beds. Some were moaning quietly, some were in oblivion, balancing at the edge of the worlds. But those who were conscious also knew nothing yet, did not know what had happened to the King whose troops would soon return in triumph to the capital, and so they too were frozen at the misty edge between the Old and the New Age.

Like a silent shadow, Mordred followed Morgana, shuddering at the pain and hope that hovered over the sick here. With the return of magic, his senses sharpened. In a corner of the tent, Sir Lancelot and a lovely woman in a mourning dress were talking quietly, standing very close to each other. Mordred already knew that she was Guinevere Smith, King Arthur's bride; but when he saw her standing here with Lancelot, their hands almost touching, bodies drawn towards each other, Mordred understood. Her soul was split in two, and that was usually a sign of trouble.

"We have won," Morgana announced. Gaius, who had fallen asleep sitting on an uncomfortable stool, flinched; and Gwen and Lancelot ran up to her.

"How is Arthur?" Lancelot and Gwen exclaimed at the same time.

"Healed. I did it." Morgana smiled slightly, proud of her accomplishment. "Everyone has gathered at Lord Ector's manor and is waiting for you."

"But why didn't he send for us?"

"He probably just forgot." Morgana smirked and rolled her eyes.

Gwen smiled awkwardly and then reached up and threw her arms around Morgana, hoping that this time she would respond and melt. Morgana did.

Lancelot and Mordred stepped aside so as not to interfere with the women reconciling and healing their wounds.

"There you go, Lancelot, a happy ending." Mordred gave him a friendly smile, but it quickly became a shadow, "All the bad is over."

"What will you do next, Friend?"

Lancelot guessed Mordred would not stay at court. His nature was alien to it, though Lancelot would gladly have shared Camelot's finest places with him or crossed swords on the training ground.

"Can you help us find some horses and some gear? Morgana, Elaine and I want to live as druids again. We're going back to the Valley of the Fallen Kings."

"You can count on me, Mordred. By the way, I want you to know the Knights of Amatha have been punished."

"The Triple Goddess shall reward you for that." Mordred threw a glance at Gwen and Morgana. Both ladies were dressed in black, both beautiful, long lush curls and bright eyes, and both were so unlike each other. Like an autumn storm and a summer evening. Together, they leaned over a wounded knight's bed. "What about you?"

Lancelot lowered his head, gripping the hilt of his sword. "I shall serve."

"Who? The Lady or the Lord...?" Mordred desired to ask but the words died before they were born. It was not his secret.

"Please convey my most heartfelt greetings and condolences to Lady Elaine."

"I'll do." Though Mordred hoped she has forgotten him. It was for the best.

"Gwen, please show me all the mortally wounded warriors of Camelot." Morgana asked when they finally broke their embrace.

Gwen led her over to the bedside of one of the knights. The man's face was unhealthily heated, he was shaking severely. "What do you want to do?"

"To heal him, of course." Morgana placed her hands on the knight's torn bloody shirt and closed her eyes.

Gwen and Gaius loomed behind, eyes widened in amazement when they saw the healing power of Morgana's golden magic bring the poor knight back to life. He took a deep relieved breath without opening his eyes and fell into a deep restful sleep; he even seemed to look younger now.

"Why are you doing this, Morgana?" Gwen was amazed. Some part of her always wanted to believe that not all magic was evil. Such a good force didn't deserve to be punished.

"I have some sin to atone for, Gwen. An oathbreaking, if you're interested." She winked at Gaius who was a little shocked by this confession. So Morgana was going from bed to bed, healing the men with the energy of fire and water, each time shaking the grey and black shadows of their pain from her heavy hands.

"Whose is this one?" she looked back at Gwen. The knight wore no identifying insignia or crest.

"It's the Barons knight." Gwen stepped closer, looking sympathetically at the young tall brown-haired man. "Sir Allan, if I'm not mistaken."

"Wounded to the spleen ," Gaius added.

Morgana stared at the bloodless face of the knight, her hands raised above him. For a moment she considered touching him as well. But then memories of the Clan, of the mountain of ash and bones grey-black like his suffering returned. The memories outbalanced the left side of the scale. She sighed and moved on to the next bed, taking care of the last knight in a red cloak with the golden dragon on his shoulder.

"You won't help him, Morgana?" Gwen muttered quietly, "Yes, I know he's Sir Galahad's, but...He's just a sick one."

Morgana clenched her jaw. "Forgiving enemies is a virtue befitting a queen, indeed. I am no more." She shook off her hands, straightened, and turned to Gwen. "Or a knight's wife. You practice it, Gwen."

Gwen swallowed her weak arguments under Morgana's keen gaze.

"By the way, have you chosen your side?"

The crystals showed Morgana a vision of Gwen wearing the Pendragon crown, but as she had already learnt, a seer's visions sometimes could not be interpreted correctly by the seer himself.

"I sincerely advise you, don't throw yourself headlong into the lake. Think about it. I may be biased, he's my friend, but a man like Sir Lancelot is worth more than any crown."

"What made you think I am interested in the crown, Morgana?" Gwen was offended. "I love Arthur, and there is no turning back." she showed her the promise ring, Queen Ygraine's ring. "You're against us?" her lower lip trembled.

Morgana scolded her negativism. "I'm sorry, Gwen, of course I'm not. You're probably the best thing that happened to my nightmare brother. But why didn't you tell me you love him? I thought your heart belongs to Lancelot."

Gwen sighed, and smiled sweetly, "Already forgiven. When Sir Lancelot was exiled, I was so sad and lonely...And soon you left for Brocéliande as well. Arthur and I...grew closer in your absence."

Brocéliande is where one goes to seek salvation or ruin, it's is the place that changes destinies. Morgana recalled the centuries-old vaults of oaks, the grey monoliths of the Stone Circle, the snowy waters of the Ivy River, the hymns of the Druids, the green magic of the spirits... Like Lancelot, she had gone there for asylum and answers. She wished there was still such a place for her to go and find home and loving faces.

"Will you and Sir Mordred come with us to Lord Ector's?" But it was clear from Morgana's look to Gwen that she did not wish to show herself, not now. Gwen realised that Morgana, too, was hiding grief in her own way. "Will I ever see your again, Morgana?"

This time Morgana put her arm around Gwen first, resting her head on her shoulder and breathing in the good old lavender scent of her maid's hair and shirt. "Of course. I'll be back someday."

Sir Lancelot gave them Camelot horses, robust and trained, camping bags and mats, a supply of dried fruit and bread. It is amazing how much it takes for a human being to live and move about this land like other animals and birds. Unlike men, creatures of the Earth take only what they came and what they will leave with: their soul and body, and it is enough for them.

"Goodbye, Lancelot." Mordred shook hands with the knight that redefined knighthood for him. If ever he could be a Knight of the Round Table for real, he wanted to be like Sir Lancelot.

They stood on the dark, blue, windy mountainside, the first crystalline stars shined in the sky, the horses neighed quietly, smelling the scent of new wanderings.

"I believe we shall see each other again. Glad to be of service to you, friends, yesterday, today and tomorrow." Lancelot radiated nobility and loyalty with all his appearance. "But next time I expect to meet you at a friendly feast, not on my knees." He smirked and winked at them. "It can't happen more than twice, can it?"

"Sorry." Morgana blushed slightly and giggled.

Morgana and Mordred got on their horses and left Camlann for good this time, heading towards Avalon once more.

Lady Lisanor was rather surprised when her father asked her to share a dress with that Camelot maid, Gwen. Why would a maid dress up and attend a victory feast with knights and kings? She guessed Arthur might have an affair with her, it happened sometimes: a young son of a noble house takes a fancy to a pretty face and meekness of a serving girl he cannot find in a lady, but to hold her in such high esteem? Her father insisted, however, and Lisanor realised this Gwen was indeed special.

For the feast, she herself chose a royal blue velvet embroidered with gold stars; and her golden plaits, which reached to her knees, she twined round with silver ribbons. Looking over Gwen's black apron and her plain grey shirt, she pressed her lips together arrogantly.

"Well, well. That's a tough case. Something like this...not easy to fix." Gwen's face flamed with shame, and Lisanor hummed satisfiedly. "I'll find you something out of unwanted junk."

"Don't bother too much, Milady." Gwen muttered as Lisanor swung open the door of her white wood wardrobe and dived in. "You can faint."

"I'm only doing this for Papa, I'll do anything for him!" Lisanor pulled out a pale pink taffeta dress from the depths of her vast collection. She hasn't even worn it because she found the shade unflattering to the tone of her skin. And Gwen had almost the same one, dark gold, she giggled to herself. This meant the dress wouldn't fit her either.

Gwen was standing frowning and looking out the window, her hands in the pockets, when Lisanor threw a shiny cloud of the dress and a silk chemise matching an outfit of such wealth more than maid's plain linen in her face. "I'll also do you a favour and comb your hair!" Doing hair was something Lisanor really enjoyed to do, it no longer mattered whether her model was an annoying parvenu or not.

When Gwen stepped out from behind the screen, Lisanor bit her lip. No denying the truth, the maid looked...well, tolerable in her dress. Better than she expected. Better than Lisanor herself.

Trying not to let it spoil her mood, Lisanor sat Gwen down on the dressing table like a doll and began brushing her hair enthusiastically. She poured some roseoil lotion on her hair and combed it with her ivory and silver brush.
"Now I smell like Morgana," Gwen thought. "Like a lady." She always treated her mistress' locks with an expensive rosewater and roseoil.
Taking a thick strand from the left side, Lisanor braided it and then placed it around Gwen's head like a crown. After thinking for a moment, she forcefully opened a couple of rosebuds from the rose bouquet nearby, and added it to the hairdo.

"Your Grace, thank you!" Gwen even smiled, but quickly humbled herself under the once again arrogant and displeased look of His Lordship's daughter.

"It's nothing. By the way, do not return the dress. I am not going to wear it after you." Lisanor waved away, and Gwen hurried out of her chambers. She hoped the Lady won't move to Camelot with her father and brother.

Arthur moved his shoulders a little and pulled the narrow sleeves of his jacket higher. Sir Kay was thinner than he was, so his festive clothes of grey and red velvet were a little too small for him. But there was no choice; the victorious king must attend the victory feast at the house of his Lord Protector in all his splendour. Mourning for Uther was to be left in the past. For good now.

Queen Annis would be there, and King Rodor and Princess Mithian, all the triumphant knights and barons. Afterwards, they will all gather, decorate their horses and shields with flowers, and the old stone road will lead them to the capital where Sir Kay will meet them. The coronation, the ratification of the Decree (the one he had finally written and signed was now lying on the bedside table), and the next feast will be even bigger and more lavish, with the townspeople throwing flowers at their feet and crowning their King with a wreath of white roses. Gwen talked him into throwing a celebration not only for the nobles in the castle, she suggested to put out food and entertainment for the commoners in the squares too. It probably wouldn't have occurred to him without her.

Arthur walked to the large window and thought he saw her shadow flicker among the blossoming rose bushes. The flaming sword, silver on black, was lying on the dark windowsill. Tanllyd. The sword he had defeated Sir Galahad with, a gracious and powerful weapon. To wield a magical sword proved splendid and honourable. Magic is, and shall be a force for good when in good hands. Arthur drew it from its sheath, admiring the reflection of the evening peach clouds in its bright steel. Then he turned to the fireplace and pointed the blade towards it so that it could catch the flame.

But...nothing happened. Arthur tried again, then at a different angle, moved closer to the fireplace and almost shoved the blade into the fire, but in vain. The magic of the flaming blade was no longer working. What happened....?

The door swung open without a knock, hit the wall, and a confused Arthur barely had time to hide a useless Tanllyd behind his back.

"Merlin, bloody hell! Who let you barge in without knocking!" He barked.

"No one. I always do this, don't I?" Merlin smiled and spun around cheerfully. A large brown leather travelling bag dangled from his elbow.

"Fine, I forbid you to do that from now on." Arthur discreetly placed the sword on a chair and pretended nothing was bothering him.

Merlin snorted derisively. "Sure. By the way, have you forgotten? You're no longer my lord."

"What do you mean?" Arthur raised his eyebrows.

"You sacked me, and I'm leaving!" he shook the bag in front of Arthur's eyes. There were gifts for Morgana and Mordred he never got round to give them, but Arthur didn't need to know that.

Arthur became alarmed. "Merlin, don't be daft... I didn't mean that—"

"Ha! A word once given can't be taken back so easily!" Merlin smiled merrily, "It's over between us! You will now have a new wizard to serve you, and the poor applicant is waiting outside the door. I already feel sorry for him. Goodbye, King Arthur, it's been a torment working for you!"

Before a stunned and hurt Arthur could blink, Merlin slammed the door again. Arthur didn't know what to think. No matter what he kept saying in jest or when he was angry, he couldn't live without Merlin.

"Well, well, well." a cooing voice came from the corridor, and Sir Kay's bedroom was entered again, this time by an old man with long grey hair. He was robed in an embroidered red and blue mantle with a wide hood. "I hear there are vacancies here?"

Arthur gawked shamelessly at him. This was the same old wizard who flew over Camlann on a dragon and slew his enemies with fire! The one without whom the victory might not have happened! Arthur opened his mouth, searching for words.

"Staring is impolite, boy. Go on, call the King, I'm getting tired of waiting. The more years the less patience I have, and I'm already a thousand years old!"

"Erm..." Arthur felt like a complete fool, "Actually, I am the King. King Arthur."

The old man gave him a disapproving look and snorted indignantly. "Really? You are the glorious king with the flaming sword? I thought you are a charman. A stable boy, at best. How the Pendragons have degenerated, O Goddess! If your great-great-grandfather Vortigern saw you today what would he think of you? Boudicca would have thrown you into the kitchen to peel turnips!" He walked around Arthur, grumbling something unpleasant.

"All right, look, that's enough—"

"No, you listen! Don't interrupt your elders!" The old man put his index finger up to Arthur's nose and shook it reproachfully. "I hear you're hiring a new court sorcerer."

"Actually—"

"Here I am, Emrys the Great! I need no recommendation, my name speaks for itself!"

"This is the first I've heard of you."

"Don't you know about the prophecy, you silly boy? Listen: On the darkest night, on the night of Alban Arthan when the Once and Future King is born, the sky will light up with the starry golden dragon. The newborn Bear Prince, with the help of the Faithful Falcon shall usher in a New Age of Albion where magic and the spirit of adventure will reign, and their glory will live long in the hearts of men."

"And this "Falcon" is you, I guess?"

"It's obvious! Be it known to you, I was there and saw that vision with my own eyes!" The old man chuckled.

"Oh, seriously, you've been there?"

Emrys plumped himself down on Kay's comfortable bed with its velvet canopy and thick cushions. "Your previous servant – oh poor boy! — described you, Your Obnoxious Majesty, as a terrible boss prone to late wages. That won't do with Emrys, you should know that! However, for the sake of my old friend Vortigern's memory, I'll help you set up the New Age, so be it. You were born on Alban Arthan, weren't you?"

Arthur snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, "Merlin said that? And what are your demands, O Great Emrys?"

"Just a few! All I need is for you to carry me on your back when I'm tired, your knights to be my footstool when I decide to take a ride, also I need the finest wines and viands, my own laboratory and library, and a hundred gold coins a month!"

Arthur threw his head back and gave a laugh. "That's all? I think Your Magical Majesty deserves more than that!"

Emrys considered the opportunity. "Maybe you'll right. I add then: you'll never make a single decision without consulting me!"

Arthur snorted sarcastically once more, gave in and walked over to the old man, placing his hands on his shoulders, "It was a good joke, Merlin, but enough. Stop being daft."

"What are you talking about? I am Emrys the Great! Don't be rude!"

"I know you're Emrys; you're also Merlin, my friend." Arthur smiled softly.

"Step aside!" Merlin made a rune sign and a small white falcon landed on the bed in front of Arthur, but before he could be frightened, the falcon turned back into the familiar young clumsy Merlin.

Arthur playfully punched him in the shoulder. "Cool magic! I must admit, I'm impressed."

"How did you know it was me?" Merlin asked in his normal voice, smiling uncertainly and rubbing his shoulder.

"Thanks to this thing." Arthur poked him in the forehead with his finger. "This and your feisty manners."

"What thing?"

"That thing on your forehead? Some sort of sorcery, I guess? I noticed it back at the lake." Arthur said nonchalantly. He sat down next to Merlin on the bed and yawned loudly. "I want to sleep, but we must feast."

"Wait... Do you...see the triquetra, Arthur?" Merlin rubbed the sign with his palm in utter bewilderment. It was strange, but it was good.

"Oh, that's its name? I recognised you straight away, you didn't need a disguise, Merlin. Look, about everything you said..." Arthur's voice grew quieter, "You'll have it all. Money, a library, a seat at the Round Table. You already have it. I don't know how to thank you, Merlin. I couldn't have done it all without you."

Merlin melted and smiled modestly, "Well, I wasn't the only one who helped.... Morgana healed you."

"Yeah, my sister, too."

"By the way, I exaggerated about the thousand years, of course, but what I said about the prophecy is true. The whole magical world knows about you, Arthur. They are waiting for your coming. You're a great king of kings. And I know that I belong with you."

"Really?" Could it be that these prophecies are true and he will become a glorious king, one adored by thousands? The Once and Future King. Sounds good. Sounds fitting. "You know, Merlin, the longer I live and see...things, the more I think everything happens for a reason. And magic, it's everywhere. In you and in me."

Merlin stared at him admiringly. He has always believed in him.

Arthur wiped his hands on his trousers and stood up. "Now, let's go downstairs and meet the first feast of — what did you call it? — of the New Age! I promise there will be many more!"

They walked out together.

In the Manor's garden, roses were waking from the sleep of winter. The wounds of the Plagues: wind, rain, earthquake and fire had left their mark on the beautiful rosarium, but there was nothing that could not be healed by a caring gardener's love and admiration of nature lovers.

"There is nothing that cannot be healed, that cannot be brought back..." Sir Lancelot murmured quietly, caressing a tiny rosebud in a crown of green leaves.

"Lance?"

Lancelot turned round and his breath left him.

Gwen stood before him, dressed in a pink dress with a pattern of golden roses scattered on the tight sleeves and wide skirt, her soft curls were adorned with youthful buds.

"My Lady..." Lancelot fell to one knee and kissed the rose-coloured hem of her dress.

She blushed deeply. Lady Lisanor's dress was indeed beautiful, and she liked wearing it. Lancelot's admiration brightened the uncomfortable feeling left by Her Grace. Gwen has patiently endured her arrogance, but only recovered when she saw Lancelot's bright smile. Today will be the first time she will be sitting on Arthur's left hand and Merlin on his right at a feast, and those like Lady Lisanor would have to come to terms and accept the new realities. In the Arthur's world there was room for everyone, highborn and commoner alike; only the wicked and arrogant had no place there.

"Come on, Lance. "Lady"!. We both know who we are." She sat down on a stone bench. It was a secluded green corner at the end of the garden path, and the rose bushes snugly sheltered them on three sides. Waterfalls of lilac aconites peeped from the grass here and there.

"Yes, I know. And that's why I treat you as you deserve, Guinevere."

"Gwen." only Arthur and Lord Ector called her by her full name.

Lancelot sat down beside her, their thighs touching. "Ever since we returned from Camlann you've stopped talking to me..." he's been so sad, depraved of her presence.

"I've just been busy with Gaius and Her Grace." She twirled Ygraine's ring on her finger and fixed her gaze at it. The ring was a little small for her, and sometimes felt uncomfortable. "Look, Lance, I wanted to talk about this. Back there on Camlann, you were so supportive of me... With you beside me, I wasn't afraid."

When Morgana, Merlin and the knights left with the dead Arthur for Avalon, they stayed alone in the tent, and Lancelot wiped away her tears with his gentle fingers and then smothered her cheeks with kisses, too close to her lips and so painfully far from them. "But now...what was in the past must stay in the past."

She looked up. Lancelot's dark eyes were full of tears. Gwen didn't understand why suddenly her own were moistened as well. After all, she has made up her mind, she has prepared this speech. She has come here with a firm intention to break up.

"I understand." he dared to touch her hand. "I will not bother you again, My Lady."

Gwen paused, and then intertwined her fingers with his. It was so trilling, so comfortable. "If you hadn't left then everything could have been different...Tell me, please, why did you leave?"

"If only you knew how sorry I am." he lowered his eyes to their interlocked hands and the golden ring of another man's promise. He has always wanted only the best for her. And he wasn't the best. Gwen deserved better than him.

"Already forgiven." she sighed and stood up, preparing to break their bond forever.

But Lancelot still held her hand. "One last time. Please." He pulled her towards him and Gwen weakened and fell to her knees on the sandy path in front of Lancelot. He opened his embrace and she wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted her face and kissed him. He was so gentle and devoted, a man to her liking; and with him, it wasn't like with Arthur...Better, so much better.

But as soon as that traitorous thought struck her, Gwen jumped up, pushed Lancelot away and ran out of the rosarium, wiping her lips, pink from the kiss, with her sleeve, promising herself that this would truly be the last time.

Camelot's Throne Hall was filled with golden sunlight.

Long narrow beams crossed the hall, sliding across the expensive dark wood of the floor and sparkling on the huge canopy of the golden dragon on the wall.

Fancy-dressed people, a multitude of people, all joyful and inspired, stood around the dais. The merchants of the first guild and the headmen of the yomen, the mayor of the town hall with his family, the victorious barons with their knights and squires. The Knights of Camelot, Arthur's royal allies, and delegates from other kingdoms, all full of pride and triumph, stood before the reason of the celebration.

King Arthur and Merlin.

Closest to the throne stood Lord Protector Ector, Sir Kay, Lady Lisanor, Gwen and Merlin. The latter was dressed a red hooded robe gird with a wide leather belt. He held the flaming sword, since Arthur was required to remove it for the ceremony. Geoffrey of Monmouth, dressed up in furs despite the spring warmth, stood on the first step, holding a huge scroll with red and gold seals — the Royal Decree of Peace and Pardon.

Arthur, with a heavy ermine cloak on his shoulders, knelt before the priest of Camelot Cathedral and faced the guests. The man in white and gold anointed his head with myrrh as God's chosen one to serve the people and the land, and then raised the Pendragon crown above Arthur's head.

"ALL HAIL TO THE KING!"

Merlin was glowing with joy and pride at the sight of this picture, of his dream coming true. But for a brief moment before the heavy golden circle touched Arthur's fair hair, he caught a strangely sorrowful and depressed expression on his face. Merlin blinked perplexedly, and Arthur was once again looking at his people cheerfully and proudly.

Merlin turned his head towards Lord Ector and Gwen. They haven't noticed anything, and clapped loudly when Arthur rose to his feet and waved to the bright crowd. Arthur must have just remembered Uther, Merlin reflected. His father's shadow was still not fully exorcised. He promised himself he would do his best to heal Arthur of the wounds of the past. Or perhaps the young King felt sorry for Sir Galahad, fallen by his hand?

Merlin knew that Arthur got easily attached to people and trusted them with all his heart. The betrayal of his Cousin hurt him.

He stepped up onto the dais, holding out Tanllyd to Arthur, then stood at his right hand. "We did it." His heart soared falcon-like towards the sun at the sight of this all. His destiny, the fulfilment of the prophecies, the way things were meant be. A happy ending.

Arthur smiled. "You know, Merlin, this new life is very much like the old. Guinevere is still as beautiful, Lancelot is still as noble, Morgana is gone and you are still my servant." He cast a glance to the back, to the large doors, perhaps hoping to see Morgana and Mordred, his mysterious thirteenth knight, there. They didn't come. Only Merlin represented the magical communities' side here.

"Hey, I'm actually a court sorcerer, a member of the Order of the Round Table and your advisor!" Merlin smirked.

"And that's all a kind of servant too." Arthur stubbornly continued to banter with Merlin, keeping a decent expression on his face for the audience.

"To serve you! What a destiny!" Merlin exclaimed pathetically, not really wanting anything else, not really imagining himself anywhere else but here in Camelot, next to the Once and Future King, on the threshold of great deeds.

"I fired you as my manservant but accepted you back as my madservant."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Madservant? Seriously, Arthur? You're five years old?"

"I'm twenty-three. And yes, that's you, Merlin. Madservant. Cause you're crazy for staying with me anyway."

They exchanged understanding smiles and stepped off the dais, greeted by the cheering crowd of guests and hugged by Gwen and Lancelot.

Then Arthur took Gwen and Sir Kay's arms and the whole procession moved to the banqueting hall where an extravagance of bards and jugglers and a feast of the best dishes of the Seven Kingdoms would be presented for all to enjoy.

Merlin lagged a little behind, admiring the people, his people happy and peaceful, with a wide smile. With suspiciously moistened eyes — he loved this all so much — he clapped his hands, and the throne hall got filled with a cloud of glittering blue butterflies. A sparkling blue stardust was falling from their wings as they merrily fluttered around in the setting sun. Everyone looked up. The butterflies flitted over the delighted and smiling guests, landing on the ladies' locks and adorning them with the magic.

No, Merlin decided, this is not the end, this is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

When the happy ending comes, heroes just keep moving on. There is no end, just another circle of a spiral. Sometimes heroes return to the places where their adventures took place, and the first thing they find when they step into familiar places is that they themselves have changed, not the locations. Sometimes the more the people changed, the more the places stay the same. And maybe it wasn't the home itself that mattered, but coming home, Mordred pondered.

They travelled back to Brocéliande. Again the two of them travelled together, always searching, always going.

"Let's go the other way, further south." he asked.

They were carefully avoiding the old secret druid paths, which no longer needed to be kept secret. They avoided memories. They galloped across the heather marshes, Swamp Eyes only blinking at two black riders gliding through the mist. And then they were back in the Dochraid's grove. But no smoke was coming from the chimney, and the oak house stood empty.

"It's bad. I was hoping I'd be able to talk to her and thank her for her help." Morgana hurried over and peered through the cleanly washed window. No fire was burning, the round room was tidy grey and empty. "Dochraid asked me to remember her." Asked to avenge her. Morgana did it.

"I can sense peace here. The Witch of the earth is healed." Mordred closed his eyes, placed his palm on the warmed old rough bark of the Hollow Oak. "Look, Morgana." He opened his eyes and pointed to the crown of the giant tree.

Morgana glared up and saw the old twisted branches covered with the young blooming growth, with the lightest and the most tender green; the dry leaves were gone. Abandoned nests were repopulated by brisk thrushes and starlings. One male has just brought breakfast for his wife sitting on her eggs. Morgana smiled uncertainly. The tree was awakened like everything else.

"Magic has returned and the earth is filling with power again" Mordred confirmed her thoughts.

"That's the way it should be. Magic is a force for good." Morgana was a healer and wanted to heal all the wounds of the world; she was proud her contribution was there too. "Let's leave Dochraid a letter in case she comes back?"

Mordred nodded briefly, plucked a twig of a young rowan, sat on the ground and began weaving a druidic circle. Morgana looked at him, at the way forest shadows cast their blue lace on his forehead, at the way his fingers did the work automatically, and his eyes, unfocused, stared into the forest, seeing nothing. That look made her uneasy.

"Could you weave me another dreamcatcher later, please? I don't want to start having nightmares again." Morgana sat down on the grass in front of him and smiled hopefully.

"Sure." He replied dryly, bending the twig into a spiral, tying it with a piece of twine.

"Mordred. What's wrong?" Morgana put one hand on his fingers, stopping the work, and cupped his cheek with the other. "I feel something is wrong."

"Feeling is my gift," one corner of his lips curved in a grin. "It's just... I don't know, Morgana. I've stopped feeling time, I don't feel like eating. Nothing makes me happy anymore. I used to love weaving and crafting so much. Now I don't want to do anything at all." Even the woods ceased to seem beautiful to him; he could no longer pray. He thought he did everything Goddess wanted him to do, but never had he felt so alienated from Heaven as he did now.

Her chest clenched in pity. "I understand. You loved them so much."

She did understand, but she hardly felt the same way. It saddened her to think of Aglain and the others, massacred cruelly, but when she had seen Sir Galahad dead, the Camlann Valley covered in the corpses of his men, she exhaled with relief. The blood had atoned for the pain and guilt, and her soul had calmed down. All this was for a reason, that's what she thought.

"Yeah. Perhaps. I'm just thinking, what's it all for? Yes, the Ban is lifted, but for whom when they're dead and everything they were is gone to the spiritworld..." Mordred put aside the spiral and reached for Morgana, and they embraced, just like back then in the camp when they found death and nought to save themselves and their loved ones.

Morgana placed her palm on the back of his head and tried to summon the power to heal him, but the golden fire dissolved into a weightless dust, for not all wounds in the world are curable. Some wounds go too deep; one could only hope love and compassion could heal them. Morgana could give everything she had to Mordred. "At least we still have Elaine. We are the best friends, and always will be."

Mordred sighed, and let their foreheads touch. At least he was glad they were back on the bright side, back in the woods; although nature did not bring him the same joy anymore. Morgana was delighted by his touch. He could sense it. Mordred took a deep breath, inhaling the rosy scent of her raven hair, and something in his soul moved towards her, like in the early days of their love.

The touch of their lips was very light, chaste even, athough they had made love before.

Morgana smiled softly at her heartbeat, pulled a piece of papyrus from their new bag, and wrote a single word in fire, "Thanks."

The spiral with the letter inside was left hanging on the old door. Mordred and Morgana rode on, crossed the meadow, waded across the spring tinkling river, passed the Crossroads of the three roads where they had once met Sir Gwaine.

Trilliums were blooming at the foot of the Fallen Kings. White as their petals, bones of the dead Saxons were lost in, scattered and gnawed by wild animals. The statues' heads rose to the treetops and their stone swords were as thick as young trees' trunks. Morgana and Mordred could not take their eyes off them. But as they passed this ancient testament of the Ancient Folk's art, this memory of the endless battle between good and evil, they both sensed that something was wrong in the Valley. And it wasn't bandits or monsters.

"Mordred, do you hear anything?" Morgana frowned and held up her horse. "Where is Taliesin's harp?" Bewildered, she turned to Mordred. He stopped beside her.

"I can't hear anything either... But fear not, I remember the way in my heart." Mordred sensed something new. Change was in the air, and he didn't like it.

They left the horses at the spot where Morgana had once found the sword of ealdormen, and climbed the wooded slope. The Valley was quiet and empty. More and more anxiously they moved forward through the thicket. Mordred remembered well the Crystal Cave should be here, he believed Emrys has revived it.

It wasn't. Elaine wasn't there either.

The trees were the same, the ground was the same, the grass, the trilliums, but the Valley was devoid of the heart, of the most important, the centre of all magic, the Source of Sources. "Elaine!" Morgana shouted and ran forward, calling for her friend, the last of the Brocéliande Clan. "Elaine, it's us!"

No one answered.

"Mordred, look! This is the same place, I'm sure! Here's the hill we came down, and here are the seven stones..." at a loss, Morgana turned to him, tears trembling in her eyes.

Yes, it was the same place. The seven mossy boulders stood in a circle in the clearing, the same stony slope, the same big oaks — one of them must have once hidden Taliesin's Harp — but the Crystal Cave was gone. It had become an ordinary hill, with no entrance or exit. Just a mute mass of stone, earth, grass.

"Elaine!" Morgana shouted again, looking around the clearing in despair. "Come back! It's us, Morgana and Mordred! Where are you?! She couldn't have gone off on her own, could she?"

"I can't sense magic, Morgana." How that was possible, Mordred did not understand. After all, Emrys have saved the Cave since they had their magical gifts back! How could they have forgotten to ask him about Elaine!. It was only his fault.

They went around the hill. Dead end. "It's no use, Mordred." Morgana walked back, sat upon a stone and rubbed her face with her hands. "Elaine is dead! She couldn't have gone anywhere without us...She would never."

Mordred sat down upon a nearby boulder and stared thoughtfully at the blank stone wall where the entrance to the Crystal Cave had once been. "Lancelot had seen her alive. So he was the last. But what if she returned to the camp and is waiting for us there?.."
Elaine was like a sister to him. He couldn't lose her too, his last hope to have a clan. He imagined her sitting in the Stone Circle, all alone, but when she'll notice Morgana and him, she'll run to greet them and they all will embrace.

Immersed in daydreaming, he absent-mindedly picked at the moss on the boulder, and his finger found a dent, then another. He peeled away the green and brown mossy carpet, and saw that the boulder was carved with cryptic oghamic marks like those on the runemark. "Ancient Folk..."

"What?" Morgana raised her head and sharply wiped her tears away with her black sleeve, "Mordred, we must avenge Elaine's death! She must have fallen victim to the bandits. We'll hunt them down and kill them." she clenched her jaw to keep from crying again.

Mordred had no time to reply. His body stiffened and his head turned sharply to the right as though he saw something.

"What is it?" Morgana looked around in fear. "Bandits?"

"No..." He shook his head slowly, staring into space with a strangely focused gaze, "I can sense...Elaine. Yes! She's here. Elaine, that's you, isn't it?"

"Where?" Morgana stood up and looked around.

The Keeper of the Crystal Cave was standing right here, but they were unable to see her glowing form. The maiden in white kindly stroked Mordred's shoulder, kissed Morgana's cheek weightlessly, and sat down on the boulder in front of them, looking sadly at them looking through her. Even Mordred, though a senser, couldn't see her. He could only feel the emotions she was sending him.

"What's going on?!"

"Wait...She's alive, but something...Elaine why don't you show yourself?" His blue irises slid over Elaine, not focusing for a second on his mate sitting in front of him. "What's wrong?"

Elaine answered as best she could.

"She says that..." Mordred closed his eyes to sense better. "After the wounds inflicted by the White Knight, the Source of All Magic has hidden itself from people forever... And she...Elaine, no..."

She stood up and weightlessly placed her hand circled in the ancient silver bracelet on Mordred's forehead, transferring the energy to him. "She has become a Keeper of the Crystal Cave in place of Taliesin...And now she will remain here forever and ever..."

"What? Why?! Elaine, show yourself!"

"She can't." Mordred muttered, frowning, his eyes still closed, he tried to catch every wordless word from the former Druid princess. "She and the Crystal Cave are one. As it is hidden, so she is hidden."

Morgana unclenched her fists she was unconsciously clenching all this time, "Elaine, dear... But why did you do it? What happened here?" Morgana looked directly at her friend, but was able to see only trilliums and trees. "Why did you come this far...?"

"She says she did it for love. She says she saved Sir Lancelot and found peace and her destiny." Mordred opened his eyes, and Elaine stepped back to the dark entrance of the Cave, which remained open only to her and Emrys. "This is the last time. Elaine said this is the last time."

"Last time for what?" Morgana grew sad. Elaine was alive but in fact dead to the world, alone in the forest, like a specter.

"I don't know..."

Morgana sat down upon the stone again and slumped her shoulders. "Elaine, if you can hear me now... You should know we love you. You made your choice, but we're sorry you can't be with us again. "

"And... Sir Lancelot asked me to give you his regards." Distressed, Mordred added, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Elaine curved her lips in a sad little smile. Her mates shouldn't have been worried about her. She will be in the safety and peace of the crystal shadows, in a cocoon of magic, but more trials and terrible choices await them. Unlike them, she'll never find anything, but she'll never lose either.

Morgana and Mordred fetched the horses to the clearing and camped before the hill that had once been the Crystal Cave. They silently decided to go further down the road of the unknown tomorrow. Morgana gently brushed the horses and braided their manes. Mordred determined the direction of the wind, it blowed to the west, and stretched an awning on the stakes, protecting them from the wind.

Elaine was wandering like a ghostly shadow among the trees nearby, silently, no longer contacting Mordred.

Morgana dinned with the soaked in heated water rusks — Mordred refused to eat — and then lay down at the campfire. Mordred followed her, staring at the flame. She rested her head on his chest, remembering the pale crystals and what she had seen in their white, pink and blue haze.

Everything she'd been given has come true, and she used the knowledge for good, just as Taliesin had asked. Even when she thought only the darkness left, she never stopped believing she was doing the right thing. She saved her brother, won the war, helped bring magic back, became a strong sorceress. So strong that maybe the Druidic ways were getting to small for her.

"What next, Mordred?" It was clear Elaine would never leave the Crystal Cave, and his dream of a family can't be. "No matter where you go, I'm with you. We should be together forever." She placed her palm over his heart, trying to hear the dear beating.

"Morgana..." He never thought anyone could love him so devotedly. "Imagine...We could go to the White Mountains. We could find and restore an abandoned druid house.  Living off the land, just you, me, and our horses and birds..."

Elaine, rustling her white dress, stepped inside the Crystal Cave, watching her friends from its shadows. She knew this wasn't going to happen. She knew there was only darkness ahead.

"If you want to." Morgana considered this option. A white cottage in the lost lands, an apothecary garden and apple orchard, people who would fear her but would still come for a witchcraft help. Morgana, witch of the woods. A peasant life has never crossed her mind before. It sounded very lonely, druids without a clan, but if Mordred was going to be there, if he needed this to return his soul, then she needed it too.

"But the future won't open until we shed the weight of the past. I want us to find love and peace again. "We need to clean off the curse on our souls." When the soul is pure, the true path reveals itself.

Morgana was sure that if they loved each other, then they already had enough love to keep the light in them; but some part of her soul responded to those words, the part where the seeds of Druidic teaching had been sown. Though they had no reached the full bloom, the tender sprouts plucked out by the cruel hand of the enemy.

"Only other druids can perform the cleansing ritual." Mordred continued.

"But... how? There is no one left." A tear glistened in her eyes, too fragile to shed.

"Iseldir's clan by the Great Seas of Meredor." reminded Mordred, "The last of Camelot's druids. Shall we go to them? Perhaps we will feel at home again among our people?" he shared his hope with Morgana.

Morgana looked to the west, to where the caves and shores of this sea clan were hidden. Why not? Two roads lay before her: Camelot or Druids, and the choice was obvious. "I agree. I hope they accept us."

"We are of one kind." His smile flashed like a sunbeam. Mordred was pleased Morgana has agreed to try to find a new home.

So, they are going to the Great Seas of Meredor, Morgana reflected. If Mordred believed in the ritual, so would she. So be it, she decided, and let herself fall asleep.

"Good night." Mordred whispered to her and Elaine.
Morgana breathed evenly, and he whispered to Elaine, his forever lost friend, their entire journey. The tears, the war, the sword, the boat and the lake.

A boat sails down a purple-red river, quietly, watched by a starless night sky. A girl in a white dress sits inside the boat. She wishes to save those she loves, but she has come too late. The river brings her boat to a black castle. She climbs the drawbridge and sees a feast thrown in the castle courtyard. The king and knights in blackened armour sit, their heads down, at the table full of rotting, stinking viands. The sick king raises a goblet and drinks blood in her honour. They're all drunk on blood. The girl faints. The boat swims back against the current and in it she lies dead, the hem of her dress flowers red.

Morgana woke at dawn, red as the night of the dream, and rubbed her eyes. The taste in her mouth was like caked blood. She hastily fumbled for the water flask on Mordred's belt and snapped it off. She devoured the water, cold liquid ran down her chin, cleansing her of that strange nightmare's remnants.

"I thought you liked to stay up late." Mordred complained, but then noticed she was startled, and sat up as well. "Morgana, something's wrong?"

"I need a dreamcatcher, Mordred."

"What did you see? A new prophecy?"

"No, some kind of nonsense. Real prophecies show scenes from the future. I wasn't even there in that dream."

"I will weave you a catcher, I promise." Mordred stood up and began packing up the camp. "Let's go? Elaine, can you hear me? We're leaving."

"So sorry you can't come with us." So sorry their dream crumbled down. "We will always love you." Morgana added.

The answer was only a gust of flowery wind that stroked Mordred's heart with her sadness.

Soon they left the Valley of the Fallen Kings for good, sending their last glances to the silent hill and the seven boulders. Elaine looked melancholically after them; she was just a lone white figure on the bright green. The Crystal Cave would sleep in the seclusion of mysteries, the road here would be forgotten again, and the bandits prowling the neighbourhood would serve as another unwilling guardians of this holy place.

Chapter Text

Elaine lost track of days. Time does not exist in the Crystal Cave; moment to moment, eternity unfolds. She didn't need to eat, she didn't need to sleep, she didn't need to feel. Sometimes she scooped dark, cold water from the spring in the circular chamber into her palm and drank it, refreshing her soul. She found a dent left by the fiery sword at its bottom; so centuries of its sleep had left a mark in the very body of the Crystal Cave. Elaine knew, knew everything now, who had done it, who had left the magic sword here and chipped away the crystal of Primordial Fire, and why that thin golden line of fate had led to King Arthur through Mordred and Morgana; she knew where that line would end. It was bad, what Mordred had done, but it was destined to happen.

Elaine did not need sleep; however, she played in a sleeping game. She lay down on the stone floor, on the soft fluorescent blue and teal moss, her hands tucked under her head. Iridescent shadows of crystal visions played across her heart face. The metal of the bracelets, symbols of her captivity – no, Service — felt pleasantly cooling and heavy on her wrists. Pacifying. She closed her eyes and sank into oblivion, into the depths of her magic, a magic so deep she could not imagine before; she had only been a Druid girl who liked to knit and cook. But it was not the magic she was born with, it was the Crystal Cave and the Primordial Fire that has recreated it, and Elaine drew knowledge from their Source.

She didn't lie to her former friends, she would never; perhaps she couldn't. She did feel peace and mindfulness. Watching the crystals, weaving the ghostly threads of their visions, counting and analysing them was like her once favourite knitting.

She had never thought that of them all, she was the one destined for eternity.

They needed someone to remember and see, to guide the weft through the divine framework of destiny woven from Above, and she needed Them.

Most often Elaine summoned visions of Sir Lancelot, her first and only love, the one she had sacrificed herself to save. She studied his childhood, the cruel death of his parents that split his heart in two — just like her dear friends Morgana and Mordred's. She studied his dreams, his loyalty to his parents' vows, and the silver-gold oriflamme of nobility he carried on his spear. And she fell in love with him even more, for she has seen Lancelot's true self. There, long ago in Brocéliande, she could only feel, guess, but now she knew.

Water was splashing in Lancelot's future, blue, silvery, the heavy cold silk shroud of water, and Elaine preferred to step away from the crystal's mirror of the unbidden truth, with a wave of her hand extinguishing it like a candle. It was frightening.

Elaine cognized Lancelot's present too, it was something she especially loved. It was a little sad, not that Lancelot would never see her as she saw him, he always looked through her when she was free back home, when they were together in their Enchanted Forest; it was sad to watch where the Knight of her heart's true self inevitably led him. She could do nothing to stop him. Sometimes it seemed to her that by watching his destiny she was fleshing it real. Maybe she was.

Elaine always skipped the visions with her. One blink and she was gone. The Keeper watched Sir Lancelot training with other knights, sitting at a feast, looking out a broken window at the moon when he was alone on a quest in some dark chapel; she watched him fighting Camelot's enemies, carving the Albion of his dreams with every swing of his brave sword. She could see him kissing the ground she was walking on; for him, the barren earth bloomed with purple flowers beneath her black flats. She could not help but see it, for it happened too often. But at a moment like this, Elaine was simply pleased to see the love and longing on Lancelot's beautiful face, and it didn't matter it wasn't meant to her.

But one day, Elaine happened to see Camelot's Throne Hall, a place full of light and wealth. She had never seen anything like this, she spent her whole life in the wilderness. She knew simple tents, coarse wool, damp wood, rust iron, horses and boats. King Arthur's Hall could only compare in beauty and splendour to the Crystal Cave. Strangely, the Cave and the Castle were like two sides of the same coin. Sigils of power, majesty, and destiny.

She was there, but Elaine didn't look away this time. And she saw how much she was missing from Lancelot's life when she removed her, how much she really meant to him, how far things have come. Their hands touched each other fleetingly as she strode past, and the sunlight stole the secret smiles. She, in the aconite purple dress, ascended the pedestal and sat on a small throne next to the larger one; though a queen, but always smaller and second; but not to Sir Lancelot.

Beside her was Emrys, the saviour of the Golden Age, robed in red and blue; and King Arthur Pendragon, the man who occupied the large throne. Elaine got a chance to see his face for the first time. Before that, she had only heard of him in Morgana's stories.

A strained gasp of surprise escaped her lips, her hands flew to her heart in a sensitive gesture. She hastily turned the other crystal so that their glow formed a prism and Arthur's image was magnified.

Seeing his true self, Elaine realised why Queen Guinevere fell out of love with him.

She got nervous, tried to think of something, to tell them the truth, but she was forbidden to go beyond the circle of seven boulders until someone called for her, and Emrys, the only one who could, had long forgotten about her.

So Elaine was sitting and watching, half sick of shadows, a tragedy unfolding before her misty eyes, a tragedy stretching back to the distant past, to the days of Albion's youth.

Chapter Text

Morgana awoke to the loud voices of birds. Her head was empty without dreams. The spring wind gently ruffled the dreamcatcher's threads and feathers knotted in a sparkling web. Mordred's gift.

The birds were quite near. She rolled over on her side, and through her half-opened lazy eyes she saw a family of blackbirds. They were chirping in the grass right next to her. There was something disturbing, almost hysterical in their fuss. Morgana raised herself up on an elbow, her black cloak serving as a blanket slipped down. She took a closer look at what was happening in the tall grasses a step away from her. The two dainty black birds were hopping around, flapping their wings and screeching loudly, their yellow beaks opening and closing, squeezing out alarming sounds.

Morgana craned her neck for a better look, and her movement caused the birds to flutter, frightened, and hide in the dense foliage and pink flowers of a nearby rhododendron bush.

A helpless featherless fledgling with a large ugly head and squeezed eyes lay on its back in the thick grass. Its tiny pale belly was rising and falling rapidly. The poor thing seemed to have been thrown out of the nest by an impostor cuckoo, which was now squeaking angrily, demanding more and more portions of food from the poor parents who were forced to feed a changeling.

"Mordred, look at this ugly chick!" Morgana smiled fondly at the place where Mordred should have been lying on the bedding close to her, but he was not there. She stared at the empty bedding for a moment, then turned back to the fledgling. Its parents had managed to get close to it again, but even one turn of Morgana's head sent them back to the bush shelter again. They were afraid of her.

Morgana gathered a tiny ball of healing magic on her forefinger and blew it onto the fainting fledgling. It clumsily rolled over onto its belly and wiggled its now healthy wing. "Well, where's your nest, you foolish?" Morgana finally spotted the grey and green clod of grass and straw in the knotty branches of the oak tree above them, and magically sent the bird straight there, into a cosy bed to the false sibling. The adult black birds immediately flew up to them, rewarding Morgana this time with a beautiful song.

She wiped her hands on her skirt out of habit. The fledgling's pain was so small, almost imperceptible to humans but enormous to the creature itself.

The springtime Brocéliande was glowing with the pure gold of sunlight and the young green of grasses and leaves. Sunlight was breaking through the oak crowns, casting a lively lace of shadows on the ground. Last night Mordred and she camped here in a secluded clearing. The place was protected from sides by dense thickets of rhododendron, and an old oak tree covered them from above. Mordred had said in the old days any druid would be glad to pitch a tent here and spend the spring in this shelter, doing nothing but worshipping trees and cooking meals, and in the times of the summer heat it would be nice to find a new place in the coolness of a water source.

It sounded very beautiful and desired, and Morgana rejoiced at this sign of Mordred's soul awakening from the mists of grief. At night she snuggled against his back, put her arms around him, and ran her hand over his chest, but he did not respond. Soon they both fell asleep. It troubled Morgana that he refused her caresses. She missed his love, the openness they shared. The strange tension between them had no outlet.

The clearing was empty now, and their horses were sniffing the flowers and twirling their tails carelessly.
Morgana sighed heavily, stood up, walked to the opening, and pulled the tangled bushes apart. Two crystal blue eyes stared back at her.

"Mordred! Please, stop going off all the time when I'm sleeping!" she snorted, and squared herself, hands on hips.

"Are you so afraid of being left, Morgana?" he asked calmly. Mordred was shirtless, water dripping from his wet curls onto his face, the black triskelion standing out sharply against his white chest. He held something in his hands, hidden from her view.

"So? No one wants to be left alone!"

"Look." He opened his palms. In them, like in a nest, lay four small eggs: two blue, a yellow and a spotted grey. "A special breakfast especially for princesses."

"Princesses don't eat wild eggs in the middle of nowhere," Morgana smirked defiantly to someone who wasn't here, "But I do."

"I'm glad, princess."

"I hope there's no one inside," she remembered the fledgling.

"These are early ones." Mordred arched an eybrow, walked past her, gracefully and easily rekindled yesterday's campfire with magic, set their cauldron of water on the coals, and dipped the eggs in. "You want to, don't you?" he cast an uncertain look at her.

"Hmm." she felt her lips curve into a smile.

"By the way, I was right about the water source yesterday. There's a waterfall to the left of the trail."

The waterfall was quite small, but its streams were running pretty fast, overflowed after the days of the Water Plague. It was carved in the cliff hidden among the trees. Morgana looked around cautiously. Sure enough, there was no one here. She quickly undressed and still hid her clothes under the ferns — she had heard of stories of ladies whose clothes were stolen while they were bathing. After that, they'd been blackmailed into various offending deals. Unbraiding her plait, she stepped into the stream. It was glacially cold. This secret green glen still hadn't warmed in the sun. Morgana's teeth chattered from the cold and she hurriedly used magic to heat the water around her.

"That's fine ...," she muttered silently, putting her face under the softening jets of the waterfall. They pressed pleasantly against her shoulders, flowing around her, washing away a shell of darkness. These months had been full of fire and fear, but the water was bringing peace and oblivion. Morgana was ready to forget everything bad and try it all over again. The struggle was over and she had won. She could be herself, be magical, and be free to choose her place in the world.

The only thing that worried her now was Mordred; his unhappiness, but she promised herself she would save him. Morgana was sitting on a mossy rock by the shore for another several minutes, waiting to dry off, no longer afraid that anyone might be watching her, enjoying the sense of being one with water, with the whole Nature. Dressing in the same dusty clothes, she pulled a tiny vial of scented tick oil from he pockets, and dabbed some on her neck and arms. This would protect her from mites. The forest smell was overwhelming.

When Morgana returned to the camp, Mordred was sitting on the grass in front of the campfire, peeling eggs from their colourful shells. He had already put on his shirt and cloak. Armour was hidden in the travelling bag. Hot water with yellow heads of coltsfoot floating in it was waiting for her in an iron ladle, and two rusks were lying on a big oak leaf.

Morgana smiled contentedly at him and sat down beside, took a sip of the tea from the ladle, then held it out to Mordred.

"You have nothing to fear, Morgana. I will never leave you." he said suddenly before bringing the drink to his lips, "Even if I am not around, I will still be with you."

"I believe you." with all sincerity of her love, she replied. "So do I."

They ate the humble meal and sipped the flowery water, passing the ladle to each other, admiring the Brocéliande forest, trying to match its present peacefulness, that would no longer be threatened by anything, Arthur had promised, with its emptiness. At any moment they could send a thread of a seeking spell to the Stone Circle or any other old camp of their clan, and realise once more that it was too late. Those who wanted it most did not happen to see the Golden Age. Their deaths have strangely laid at its foundation.

"Seems I never asked you, Morgana."

"About what?" she took the ladle from him again, warming her hands.

"Why did you find yourself so drawn to the religion of the Triple Goddess? I thought you were brought up in the New Religion like everyone else in the Castle."

She hesitated, unfocusing her gaze on the forest. "I was. I was taught by a nun, she was a kind woman. In my father Gorlois's house, all teachings of goodness and justice were respected. But in Camelot...Uther...He pretended to be a follower of Christ, but he was not! He broke all the commandments and forgot the essentials of kindness and forgiveness. He was a hypocrite, and worshipped only himself."

"So you changed your faith just because Uther was bad?"

Morgana remembered the moment of Uther's death, how it pierced her heart through, and how all the good moments, however few, they shared had flashed before her eyes. Good memories stung the soul the more, the less there were of them. "Arthur always asked why I cared so much about the executed sorcerers. I replied that it only took a heart to see injustice and cruelty. But when magic awakened in me, I realised it was a side for me and my destiny to belong to. I was enlightened."

What Abbot Ambrosius could have called heresy, Morgana entered seamlessly, the cross transformed back into the triskelion. The Triple Goddess called to her louder than the Triple God and she couldn't refuse. At the masses at Camelot Cathedral, she used to love the scriptures about the judgement of the wicked, about the last becoming first, about prophets defying kings, and about Rachel, who had been unjustly robbed of what was rightfully hers, but the Voice of God spoke to her. In the Old Religion Morgana found what she had only heard or read about before. The divine mystery was close at hand, in her and in everything around her.

"The path to the brightest light lies through the valleys of darkness. You are amazing, you and your brother, not like the others. You protected us when you didn't know you were one of us. Pendragon fought on Camlann for the lifting of the Ban. I like that." Mordred lay back on the grass and put his hands behind his head, relaxing his muscles and smiling dreamily. "You both have a heart and soul in you." It was hard to believe such children were born to Uther the Purifier. The goodness must have been passed down from their mothers, Mordred reflexed. Maybe that's why he was so drawn to them, to the Pendragons.

"Never praise Arthur, you'll spoil him even more," Morgana hummed, "Thank you...But what do you think, Mordred?" she set the empty ladle on the moss. "I mean, about religions?"

"Ah. I was born a druid and will die a druid. Magic is in the forest, I follow it. There is no enmity between me and the true followers of the New Religion. Our paths lie under the same Heaven. But many only hide behind the name of their God for the sake of power. On the other hand, there are evil among our kind too. Dark sorcerers."

"Which branch does the dark magic belong to?" wondered Morgana, leaned back comfortably. She loved Mordred's stories about druid lore.

"None. Each of the three branches, High, Wild, or Old magic, has a dark side. Evil is but a shadow of light. Any evil was once good, any good can become evil. But light is brightest in the shadows, the darkness is the pithiest in the light. They need each other. That's what our people teach."

"So it's all about intention...? Can one use dark magic for good deeds?"

"If I understand anything, human nature is weak, and people can truly believe what they say but then do otherwise."

Morgana intertwined her fingers together, looking at their pallor against the green coarse wool of her skirt. 

"The answer is love. It can bring us back from the dead and change our destiny. If you do something out of love, much is forgiven."

"You said it yourself." Morgana lay beside him and tried to smile reassuringly. "We did what we did out of love, so you're not unclean."

"I said forgiven, not forgotten," he parried quietly.

"I'm confused. Sometimes I don't understand you, Mordred."

"Sometimes, neither do I." He reached up and gathered the long tresses of her damp hair away from her face. "I love it when your hair is like that."

"Like what?" Morgana curled the corner of her lips upward. She savoured the attention of her beloved knight. When he was thinking of her, he didn't think of death.

"Like free."

Morgana decided she would never braid it now. She would let the warm wind tangle in the black curls. "You know, the Christians are waiting for their Golden Age in many centuries, maybe thousands of years. Ours has already come."

"It has..." Mordred peered thoughtfully into the green hazy distance.

Forest is a temple. Trees are columns, crowns are ceiling, mosses are carpets, flowers are stained glass, rocks are statues. And it was full of sacred icons, signs left by Goddess in nature: the spiral in the young sprout of a fern, the triquetra in the white head of a trillium, the way a new green grows through the dead leaves of past autumns, the old and the new always together.

"How do you even know where to go?" Morgana asked as the sun was already beginning to fall behind the horizon, making the gold of Brocéliande redder, deepening the cold lakes of blue shadows. "Have you ever been to Meredor?"

"Too late for you to ask, Morgana. What if I want to take you into the thicket and leave you there?" Mordred replied very seriously.

"I'd find you with a seeking spell, and then I'd take terrible revenge." she replied in his tone, the corners of her lips quivering as she held back a giggle.

"On me? And what would you do to me, Lady Morgana?"

"You had better not provoke me to show you, Sir Mordred." Morgana said sarcastically. "But seriously, have you been there?"

"A long time ago, when my father's clan was alive." A clan of seekers of the Crystal Cave, found and lost forever. "But it's not hard – you just have to follow the sun to the west. Wherever you go, there will be the sea at the end of the path." Mordred turned his horse towards the sunset.

Morgana looked to the west. The dark silhouettes of tall ancient trees glowed, the wind was rippling their airy leaves softly, "Let's race, Mordred? I've missed racing so much, we have Camelot horses! Who will be the first to race to that oak tree over there?" The competitive spirit took hold of her, and she looked back at Mordred with a defiant smile.

Mordred gripped the reins tighter. His face expressed no enthusiasm. "I'd rather pass, Morgana."

"What, are you afraid I'll beat you?" she snorted, clutching the horse's flanks with her heels, the animal galloped excitedly beneath her, trying to determine whether her mistress would let her gallop from her right or left foot.

"I've never admitted it...But I'm afraid of fast riding. We druids aren't very good riders."

"Oh, come on, it's easy!" Morgana couldn't stand it any longer, squeezed the horse's flanks with her thighs, clucked her tongue, and the trained horse roared forward in a steady fast canter.

Mordred clucked his tongue and then repeated what Morgana did. And he immediately regretted it. This horse was too fast.

Morgana sped forward, skimming the trees and jumping over puddles left by the days of rainfall, the wind in her ears drowned out all sounds. She turned back and saw a paled Mordred galloping behind her, clutching the reins tensely. Despite his apparent awkwardness, he wasn't riding too badly. Morgana smiled encouragingly. She will make a skilful rider out of him.

And because she was looking at Mordred, Morgana didn't see the obstacle ahead and nearly crashed into IT.

Her horse reared up, nearly throwing her off, and gave a loud, startled neigh.

"Whoa!" Morgana screamed, clutching at the mare's neck in fear.

A giant green boot towered in the middle of the forest.

A real boot, with a heel, a wide cuff, a sole, all green. It was just standing in the woods, just a boot as tall as a tree.

"Goddess, what is it?!" Mordred sprang to Morgana and the boot. His horse refused to calm down, and he pulled on the reins with force, turning its muzzle away from the bizarre sight.

"A boot?!" Morgana's eyes widened, she looked round and gave a nervous laugh. The boot occupied the whole road. Its pair could be seen further beyond the trees, as if its giant master stood, legs spread, surveying the forest far above the treetops.

And then, at the sound of her voice, the boot shrank rapidly in size, decreasing instantly with a whistling noise. A moment later the owner of the boot stood erect before Morgana and Mordred. It was a man three heads taller than them, a knight. He was armoured in a green polished cuirass, a long green tunic with a rowan tree on his chest, and in those very same green boots. His face was concealed by a green helmet with a plume of oak leaves; the long sword on his hip was wooden.

Mordred's hand, out of habit, reached for his own sword, but of course found the belt empty. He had to hastily snatch up his father's amber dagger instead, which looked like a harmless needle compared to the mighty figure of the forest knight.

"Hail again, hail, Lady Morgana Le Fay!." uttered the Green Knight. He removed his helmet. Beneath it was the large head of a middle-aged man. His dark face was covered with a green curly beard almost to his eyes. And his eyes...Morgana was startled to notice that his green irises were actually spinning spirals on a bright white background.

"I..." She swallowed nervously, and turned back to Mordred. He was staring dazedly at the green knight, head cocked back and mouth ajar. "I am honoured to meet you Sir Knight." she replied as politely as possible and bowed her head courteously.

The knight stood on the road in front of them calmly, unmoving, his face impassive, but his spiralling eyes were spinning frantically. "Have you forgotten? You created us. You looked us in the eyes and we were formed."

Mordred gasped. Morgana, it's the green spirits! his panicked voice rang in her head. He hurriedly jumped off his horse and bowed to the Knight.

And then Morgana remembered. The glade that had been and was no longer a druidic camp, the green lights that had taken the dead druids, the mouthless round faces with spiral eyes in the streams of green glow...She remembered how Mordred had squeezed her hands painfully, scolding her for looking the green spirits in the eyes. "Who are you?"

"I am Brocéliande, I am old and young, I am eternal and will die in three days." the Green Knight echoed evenly in a vibrating but impassive thick voice. "I was created by you but not for you, but for one special knight and we have yet to find each other."

"Well, Sir, it was good to meet you. I think we'll be off." Morgana tensely showed Mordred with her eyes to mount his horse again.

But as soon as she made the slightest movement to get around the Green Knight, he swiftly moved, no, rather flowed that way and blocked her path again. "No, Milady, you will go no further until you answer the riddle of the forest."

"What?" Mordred tried to walk around him, but was immediately stopped by the spirit knight, who swelled in size to block all the way for both of them.

Morgana dashed into the bushes on the side of the road, but the Green Knight's giant palm, perfectly smooth and without a lifeline, rose up in front of her horse's muzzle. "A riddle of the forest." he muttered in a low voice. "Solve it, and you are free."

Morgana rode back onto the road and dismounted beside a confused Mordred. "And what happens if I refuse to solve the riddle, O Sir Green Knight?" she asked with a kind of challenge.

"Then we will have to test Sir Mordred on the five chivalric qualities: Piety, Generosity, Courtesy, Chastity and Loyalty."

"Why him and not me?"

"You...know my name?" there was so much reverent excitement in Mordred's voice.

"Have you forgotten us? We knew you as a child and we will always know you."

Mordred recalled that when he first came with Aglain to Brocéliande he had refused to talk with anyone. He shared his heart only with the green lights at night. He was sitting in the forest, his eyes tightly shut, for he remembered the good Aglain's command — "never look the green spirits in the eyes" — and was talking to the green spirits mentally. They stopped coming a year later, when Mordred had first said "thank you" aloud to Aglain and Elaine.

Morgana assessed the situation, mindlessly fidgeting with her horse's black and gold harness. Five chivalric qualities?

Piety: Mordred was devoted to the Triple Goddess. Check.
Generosity: all druids are generous? Except when she first arrived in Brocéliande, Mordred caustically told her she had to work for shelter, and later he reminded Sir Lancelot of the gift of peace the Druids had given him by hosting a Camelot knight. Perhaps a truly generous person never reminds you of gratitude?
Courtesy: well, not always either, though Morgana would never call Mordred rude.
Chastity: they have laid out of wedlock, but they were first and, if Goddess is willing, last for each other, and loved truly. Morgana wasn't sure what was more important to the Green Knight.
Loyalty: well, it was her fault too, for they had thrown Sir Lancelot into prison and thought ill of Merlin.

"Give us your riddle, Sir Green Knight," she said at last.

Mordred turned to her and crossed his arms over his chest. Morgana, do you think so badly of me? You think I won't pass the knight's test?

Each trial can take you months or even years! You'll need to, for example, find a beggar and fully provide for him, and to do so you'll need to earn wealth by working with your hands, that sort of thing. Some knights haven't appeared at Uther's court for seven years because they're stuck on quests! And what am I going to do in the meantime, may I ask?

Hmm, I have to agree. Mordred lowered his arms and sighed.

"We see that you are ready." The Green Knight interrupted them and put his helmet back on, but did not lower the visor. Perhaps he has heard their conversation. "Now, listen up."

Morgana and Mordred straightened up and prepared themselves.

"I'M THE BEGINNING OF THE END, AND THE END OF BEFORE. WHO AM I?"

Morgana and Mordred exchanged confused glances. What could it be? They turned away from the Green Knight, who stood calmly on the road with his hand resting on the wooden sword's hilt. Admitting that nothing came to mind, they tethered the horses to prevent them they running away in fear of the Spirit Knight. Then they resigned themselves to the fact that the riddle would take time, and sat down by the roadside.

"That's something philosophical..." Mordred mumbled quietly. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared tensely at the tree on the other side of the road. Morgana could almost feel his brain moving, searching for the answer.

"Of the two of us, you're the one who loves philosophy, Mordred." Morgana nervously rubbed the black shabby wool of her cloak. "Sir Green Knight, how much time do we have to give you the answer?"

"All eternity."

"Great." she rolled her eyes. Look, what if we try to evanesce? What if it works?

Mordred shook his head faintly. Even if it works, he will reappear again. The spirit of the forest, Morgana.

That's ridiculous.

You summoned him. I warned you.

You should have spoken up sooner!

Mordred only glared at her silently.

So they were sitting by the roadside, the Green Knight was standing solemnly, the horses were chewing grass. Time was slipping towards night. Dozens of versions swirled in the air, and not one seemed true enough.

"I don't want to spend the night here. We need to think of something." Morgana was exhausted.

"I get it!" Mordred straightened up and looked triumphantly at Morgana, "This is death. The beginning of the end."

"Is that your final answer?" the Green Knight nonchalantly broke his mystical silence.

"No, wait, please!" Morgana hastened to object, "The beginning of the end, alright, but what about the end of before? What is that?"

Mordred's spirits drooped. "Well, maybe it's old age then? Aging is a process signifying the beginning of the end and the end before death."

"Is that your final answer?"

"Sir, we'll let you know when we're ready." Morgana cut him off impatiently. By the way, he didn't say what happens if we give the wrong answer...

I'm not sure I want to know. Mordred grimaced again, hugging his knees.

"Then I shall behead Sir Mordred." Surely the magical Green Knight could hear their mental talking.

Mordred turned visibly pale, his Adam apple twitched nervously. Despite the shadows of grief clouding his soul, he still wanted to live. For Morgana's sake, so he wouldn't leave her alone.

"Why, may I ask?" she exclaimed indignantly, jumping to her feet. "It's only a silly riddle!"

"For everything. But we will not hurt you, Milady, for you have looked upon us and sent us on our way in search of our beloved knight. The one who can pass all five trials and answer whether Camelot is worthy to receive the Cup of Water."

"What?"

"Is that your final answer?"

"No!" Morgana angrily turned away from him.

"I am the beginning of the end, and the end before..." Mordred muttered and closed his eyes. The answer was close at hand, but he couldn't grasp its nimble tail.

Morgana listened as he whispered softly, repeating the riddle over and over. And it occurred to her, it was a very strange thought, that the answer was them. Mordred and she. He was the beginning of the end, for he wanted to kill Arthur, and, in so doing, would end the New Age; and she was the end of before, for with her escape to Brocéliande their journey to Camlann, which ended the Old Age, had begun. She bit her lower lip, thinking hard. But how to frame it more clearly and not to give Mordred under the Green Knight's sword...? She put her hand on his shoulder weighted by the cool silver of the chainmail.

"I feel dumb, Morgana." he admitted, and the corners of his lips lifted weakly. "Surely it must be very easy. We just cannot see it." He picked up an oak twig from the ground and wrote the words of the riddle in the road sand. "I am the beginning of the end and the end before." Then he underlined the phrase to the word 'end' and his hand stopped. "Morgana..."

A hunch suddenly struck her as well. She snatched the twig out of his hand and underlined the first letter of the word 'end' and the last letter of 'before'. "That's the letter E!" Morgana exclaimed, facing the Green Knight.

"Is that your final answer?" He shifted from foot to foot, his green shiny armour clanked melodiously.

Mordred stood up, his breathing quickening. Morgana squeezed his hand tightly, preparing to evanesce him to the ends of the earth and never set foot in the woods again in her life if anything went wrong. "It is. It ends where it all began."

The Green Knight was silent for a long and agonising three seconds, and then he bowed to them, lowered his visor and stepped aside out of the way. His spiral eyes in the slits of his helmet flashed poisonous green. "You have solved the riddle of the forest. Farewell, Milady, farewell Milord. We shall never meet again."

He clattered his wooden sword down to the ground, the next instant their legs went out from under them, and Morgana and Mordred were swept away by the wind.

A moment later they found themselves still there in Brocéliande, but standing on an unknown wide country road surrounded by two rows of tall beeches on the left and right. A carriage passed by them, a peasant woman walked by, her children jumped into a puddle and stained their mother's skirts with mud, a woodcutter carried a huge trimmed oak tree in his cart. No one seemed to even notice that Morgana and Mordred had been evanesced here. Morgana was surprised to find that she was holding the reins of her horse, which was perfectly calm about the shifting, and reached for the nearest bush to chew on leaves.

"We're on the Big Road. The westernmost end of Brocéliande." Mordred muttered, he looked as confused as Morgana. Evanescing was never a pleasant experience, especially when it was being done against your will. "We druids usually tried to avoid it because it's too crowded..."

"Hey you, eejits, get out of the road!" some townsman on a mule shouted rudely, but upon rounding them and seeing Mordred he hastened to correct himself and bow his head. "Forgive me magnanimously, Sir Knight. I did not notice who you were."

Mordred gave him an annoyed glance and hurriedly stepped back to the edge of the road. "I have no knightly sword. Sir Gwaine said that—"

"You are a knight, Mordred, that shines through. But what is more important now, where are we? Why did the Green Knight send us here?"

"I don't know how he found out, but this is exactly the right place for us. This road leads to the Great Seas."

Morgana gazed out into the blue-green forested distance, as though she could already see the glitter of the grand waters there, but all she saw was the red streak of the setting sun. "Well, I guess that must be the prize for solving his silly riddle. The letter E!" She sniffed. "Shall we go then?"

They walked slowly, giving the horses a break from their saddlers.

Mordred unbuttoned the collar of his gambeson and stared at the dark yellow sand polished under the feet of dozens of travelers. "I feel...uncomfortable here," he confessed. Every now and then, people with lit lanterns on sticks walked past them, loud riders passed by. "This part of Brocéliande is different..." It was inhabited. It was less a forest, and more a village. Something in between, something on the border of clear and understandable.

"You have exactly the same right to be here as the rest of them." Morgana stated, "Golden Age, remember? They all just have no idea who we are. Where's everyone going, by the way?"

"There's a town beyond the forest if you turn left, Meredor. There's probably going to be a town festival or fair? But we have to go right, to the wild shores."

Morgana pondered the reason for the holiday. Beltane was still weeks away. "Shall we sleep here or walk all night?"

"You might get robbed at night. Aglain always warned about the Big Road."

"They should just try..." Morgana gave a small wicked smirk, furtively glancing left and right at the carefree passers-by. They were the ordinary peasants with travelling staffs in their hands, or poor townsfolk in dark hooded cloaks or soft round hats. "They will be surprised."

Mordred looked at her obliquely and hummed. "Don't look for trouble, it will find you on its own."

"Look!" Morgana stopped again in the middle of the road, much to the displeasure of the lady rider behind her, but Morgana didn't deign her. She stared at a wooden signpost, etched by countless rains and winds, hammered into the ground beside the road. It was made in the shape of a large hand with a grotesquely extended crooked forefinger pointing forward. Its long fingernail was painted green. "The Green Tent: tavern, inn, and stables. You won't pass by even if you want to," read the rounded inscription on the sign.

Morgana and Mordred exchanged glances. It looked promising.

Chapter Text

"The Green Tent: tavern, inn, and stables. You won't pass by even if you want to"

"Sounds a bit threatening." Mordred muttered. He took her hand.

"Come on," Morgana hummed, "This is just what we need, to spend the night in comfort," She walked forward. "We can afford it. I didn't rob the treasury of the Ealdorman for nothing." The heaviness in the pocket of her cloak was a pleasant testament. A leather pouch full of copper, silver, and even a couple of gold pieces. "We can buy anything we want! What would you like, Mordred?"

"Nothing. I have everything." he replied simply.

"I do not think you're telling the truth. Come on, think of something."

But her smile quickly faded when it became clear from his hardened expression that he was ready to fall into one of his long silences again, and so Morgana decided not to continue.

"The Green Tent" turned out to be a tall, grotesque wooden tower with an unknown number of floors. It stood on the very edge of Brocéliande, at the last oak tree, where the big road split in two like a fork. The tower was painted in green; little turrets, balconies, outbuildings and ladders clung to the its sides like polypores to a tree. The smoke from its many chimneys melted high in the sky under the first stars.

The path to the inm was well trampled, the courtyard surrounded by a neat wooden fence — also green — was full of carts and horses, people of all classes gathered inside to spend the night here, protected from the evil shadows of the woods.

If every tavern, inn and pub of Albion was a harbour of human companionship and warmth amongst the wilds — the kingdom of not people, but beasts mythical and ordinary, spirits and creatures; then the Green Tent was a beacon, a guardian of Brocéliande's gates.

Morgana and Mordred entered the low gate, and two stable boys equipped with lanterns ran up to them and offered their help. "What a service." Morgana curled the corners of her lips upwards and gave the children each a penny.

"Thank you, My Lady. Welcome to the Green Tent, the shelter of Emrys the Great." The boys bowed, and ran off to the stables with Mordred and Morgana's horses.

"Excuse me?" Mordred's eyes grew round. "Morgana, did you hear what I heard? Emrys?" he looked around as if Merlin might have approached unnoticed by them. Hearing his true druid name out of some stable boy's mouth was very odd. Mordred was used to Emrys being the druidic faith. How much did the others know about him?..

"Merlin is here? 'Emrys the Great's shelter'?" Morgana muffled laughter, then frowned sceptically as she looked up at the brightly lit windows of the marvellous and weird tower overhanging them. "You know, Mordred, it looks like we've just discovered Merlin's secret life. Arthur kept complaining Merlin was disappearing to some 'tavern', but this...Surpasses all imagination. I think my brother will be interested to see another of Merlin's secrets."

She grinned mischievously, anticipating the prank. She could write a letter to Arthur with a nonchalant invitation to visit the place incognito; and how shocked he would be! "Emrys the Great, Goddess!"

"But how does he manage to be both Pendragon's servant and run the inn? Emrys indeed moves in mysterious ways."

"It's simple, Mordred, one cannot be a servant of two masters, so it's likely Merlin is fatally neglecting Camelot for the sake of this place." She giggled again, it was hilarious, but Merlin has always been eccentric. "Now I can see why Arthur was always complaining about him!"

"I hope Emrys will be happy to see us again?" Mordred fretted.

"Of course, we're friends. But for now, put your hood on so he doesn't recognise us. Let's look around inside first and then scare him. It'll be fun." Morgana pulled the hood over his curls herself, and slyly smirked seeing Mordred's shyness at the thought of meeting his precious Emrys again.

Then they pushed open the high narrow green door and stepped inside, into the noise and music.

The large circular hall, aka the dining hall, aka everything else, was full of people. Tiers and carved staircases girded the walls of the tower, and there, too, people were sitting at tables, looking down. The vaulted ceiling was painted with stars and grinning crescents. Downstairs, a dozen small tables and three large ones were taken to the last seat. At the counter on the opposite side, people with mugs of ale and mead were enjoying themselves. A flutist, fiddler and piper played some merry tune on the small balcony under the ceiling. Green lanterns on chains were shading everything in deep forest green. Spangles, gossamer cloth and coloured glass were everywhere.

"Impressive." Morgana drawled, looking around. Everything here was bright and eccentric and magical, just like Merlin himself.

Mordred forgot his dislike of this part of Brocéliande, and looked around, enchanted. "Yes, it's in the Emrys spirit."

"Mordred, you saw him, like, twice in your life?"

"Sometimes one look is enough to know the spirit of a man."

Morgana sniffed, and they walked towards the counter where she intended to book them a room and order dinner. On the way, their attention was caught by a huge triptych notice board framed by a garland of green ribbons and withered oak leaves. Its wooden surface was completely invisible under the layers of papyrus pinned to it. Announcements of buying and selling, finding and losing, requests, even public declarations of love. But in the centre, outshining the others, hung a large sheet of expensive fine parchment with a golden dragon at the top and the red inscription "House of Pendragon" at the bottom.

It was a copy of a document officially ending the Purge and liberating the followers of the Old Religion, with King Arthur and the Royal Council's personal seals. There were a few more sheets of paper, announcing a few more new Arthur's laws: no more burning at the stake, and from now on anyone suspected of dark magic would have to be taken to Camelot and tried there, not left to the mercy of a village or lord.

"I didn't dream that I'd ever get to see such a thing." Morgana murmured quietly as she read the parchments. She was proud of Arthur, proud that he was her brother. It was only a pity it hadn't happened sooner, a pity their father had been blind and would never have understood their decisions, would never have seen the good in the kingdom his children dreamed of building. "He's managed to do so much..." She pulled out a triskelion pendant from under her dress. Was this really the time when she could wear it without fear? Could just be herself? She was going to test this.

"I'm sure it's Emrys' work." Mordred whispered admiringly. "It was foretold."

"You're right, lad." Some old man in dark velvet remarked approvingly, he stood up beside them to study the adverts too. "Emrys the Great has told us how he persuaded King Arthur to sign all this and give us amnesty. And the decrees, of course, were written by Emrys. The young King listens to his every word. You could say that it is Emrys who actually rules Camelot, not Uther's younger son."

Morgana glanced sidelong at Mordred, barely containing her laughter. Merlin was bragging so openly to his guests about his friendship with Arthur? "Oh, I'm sure he does." She remarked sarcastically to the old man.

"You, children, are also going to Meredor for the feast? There will be a royal herald to once again announce the new laws for those who cannot read, and then there will be a handout of bread and honey for the poor suffered from the earthquake and rain!" The old man was clearly ecstatic. "Although Emrys has already healed our land, the sprouts in my vegetable garden hit by the rain have come back to life!"

Mordred smiled proudly. He was about to tell the old man that he knew Emrys personally, but Morgana tugged at his sleeve.

"Yes, we're coming to Meredor, thank you." she informed the old man. She decided she has heard enough praise for the "Emrys the Great".
Merlin seemed to have deep complexes he treated by the praise of these strangers in this place so far from home. She found it pathetic. She took Mordred's arm and they ordered two plates of vegetable chowder, and two mugs of hot cider with honey and elderberries from the serving girl.

"I don't understand when Merlin managed to become so popular?" with plate in her hand, Morgana looked round the crowded hall, trying to find an empty seat. Climbing to the upper floors with a plate of hot liquid was not something she was excited to do. "It's only been three weeks!"

"Emrys is our saviour. No wonder people love him. Knowledge of him has spread beyond our circle, it had to happen." Mordred said with awe in his voice.

But Morgana knew without whom the Old Ways would never really return. Without both of them. They started it all. "Sometimes you talk about him in such a way…Don't exaggerate the whole Merlin thing."
She finally spotted a suitable table against the far wall and went there, carefully manoeuvring among the other tables and guests.

"What are you jealous of, Morgana? This is different kinds of love. I'm here with you, not with him." he caught up with her, carefully holding his plate and mug to his chest.

Morgana hummed something like "of course I'm not."

"I hope it's free here." She stated, not questioned, and placed her dishes on the table. A young man with serious face and small grey eyes, dressed in simple but very neat clothes stared them down.

"It is." He replied dryly.

Morgana and Mordred sat down opposite him and began to eat. The young man studied them with a strangely arrogant gaze. He was warming his hands over a mug of cider; a large stuffed hiking rucksack stood on the floor beside him. "Let me introduce myself. George."

"Morgana."

Mordred muttered something, not taking his eyes off his dish.

George was silent for a moment, watching them, but then apparently he couldn't stand it any longer. Leaning forward, he gave Morgana and Mordred an excited look. "There's no way you would guess, friends, why I'm here."

"Sure, we don't." Mordred mumbled disinterestedly, glancing at him from under his black hood.

"I'm here not for Emrys' show like everyone else. In fact, I'm here to take the place of the King's manservant."

"What do you mean? George?" Mordred raised his head sharply and burned him with an icy stare. To take Merlin's place?!

"I heard the role is vacant, I can only assume the King is going to hire someone...more qualified. And I'm here. I know I shall be King Arthur's next personal manservant!" George was puffed up with pride. Apparently he had no friends to share the hope with, and Morgana and Mordred had proved to be a convenient target.

"Why would Merlin leave Arthur now?" asked Morgana, arching an eyebrow. Merlin was loyal, and he loved Arthur. Camelot was his true home.

"Maybe he thinks he has accomplished his duty and his mission in Camelot is over?" Mordred set aside his spoon and shrugged. He, too, clearly doubted George's words.

"I have letters of introduction from the Castle's head stableman and cook. They are from my village, and I am here to secure a paper from Emrys himself. Don't think I attend such events of my own free will." George lifted his chin.

"We don't think of you at all." Mordred informed him, taking a sip of cider.

"You make a mistake. Soon I will rise above many here."

Morgana snorted. "If you knew, George, what it's like to work for Arthur, you wouldn't be so excited. The average servant doesn't stay with Arthur for more than a month. He is a horrible master."

"I beg your pardon, but how would you know?" George squinted his eyes in suspicion. "And don't you think, Miss Morgana, that you are maligning the King?"

"I am his sister. And Mordred is a Knight of the Round Table."

At these words, Mordred visibly tensed.

George slid a glance at Morgana's triskelion pendant and then at Mordred's sullen look. Then he covered his mouth with his hand and laughed softly. "It's pretty funny. But I do not think Ladies and Knights look like that..." He made an indefinite gesture with his hand, "You should improve your disguise. Sorry." He leaned back in his painted chair. "You want to know what a real noble looks like? There, look."

They obeyed George. A knight, a pleasant-looking man in his thirties was standing at the counter. He had shoulder-length flaxen hair, a lush beard, and was robed in a shiny new armour and a wide cloak of pure yellow.

"This is Sir Bors. We met on the way here and walked together." George announced, proud to be acquainted with a knight.

As if sensing three pairs of eyes staring at him, Sir Bors quickly finished the beverage in his goblet and made his way between the tables to them. "My Lady. Sir." he bowed his head to Morgana, and then sharply pushed George off his chair and sat down himself instead. Poor George was forced to sit on his rucksack, so only his neck and head peered comically from behind the table.

"I'm fed up with you, George. Piss off." Sir Bors grumbled, "You can walk behind me, but don't pester me with your talking."

Morgana and Mordred exchanged confused glances.

"I don't know what that braggart has managed to tell you already, my friends, but my name is Sir Bors from York, son of Sir Ryan and Lady Grizella."

Morgana hesitated, trying to make up their past, but Mordred beat her to it. "Morgana and Mordred from Cornwallis. We're physicians on our way to the celebration in Meredor."

Bors glanced down, as if casually, at her fingers where the ring should have been, and Morgana instinctively tucked them under her wide green sleeves.

"I cannot advise you to rot in Meredor. You should go to Camelot like me and mate George, right, George?" Bors hummed at the head of the wannabe royal servant, and placed his elbows on the table. "The future of our lands and people is now being forged in King Arthur's court. He is purging the court of traitors and men of the old regime and recruiting new people with open and loyal hearts. My aunt lives there and writes me about everything. If you're really physicians, there's a place for you. They say His Majesty fired the late King's old physician and you can try your luck and become court physicians!" Bors smiled trustingly at them.

"Arthur had sacked Gaius? What is going on in Camelot?" the thought flashed through Morgana's and Mordred's minds at the same time. Had the old healer fallen ill after Camlann and retired?

"And that's why we're here, isn't it, George?" George nodded vigorously. "I'm going to try out for the knightly levy and become first a Knight of Camelot and in the future be initiated into the Order of the Round Table. And George, well, is going to polish the King's boots."

"That's actually an important and responsible job!" George declared high-mindedly, offended by the disdain in Sir Bors' tone. "If no trifles distract Majesty and he exists smoothly in his body, then his mind is free to dedicate itself wholly to the Kingdom! A good servant should not be underestimated!"

"Sure. Imagine how wonderful it would be if all four of us made our way to Camelot?"

Morgana made an indefinite affirmative sound, Mordred didn't bother himself.

"I hope you are not going to bed yet and wait for Emrys to arrive, friends. He has promised to be in the Green Tent tonight and I have travelled through Brocéliande on purpose to secure his blessing on the path of chivalry."

"Of course we will stay, won't we, Morgana?" Mordred looked at her hopefully.

"We will." Morgana's lips stretched into a smile on their own; she imagined all the exquisite ways to embarrass Merlin about his double life. Maybe she could even blackmail him in exchange for, let's say, Gaius's magical library since he didn't need it anymore.

They chatted with Sir Bors and George for another half hour. People kept arriving and arriving to see the Emrys' Show legally, finally under the protection of the new Law. When it became a fortune for Emrys' fans and admirers to just stand on the doorstep, Morgana, Mordred, Bors and George realised George was actually lucky enough to be able to sit at all, albeit on his rucksack. Finally, the tower attendants came out into the centre of the circular hall. The bustle and noise signalled Emrys's soon arrival.

"Hear ye all! Followers of our Incomparable, Brilliant, Cleverest, His Magical Majesty Emrys the Great!..." all three or four tiers of the tower's main hall erupted in applause. "Tonight you will have the honour of seeing Emrys himself! He will bless us with his presence for the night!..."

A chuckle grew in Morgana's chest. Not a hope that she would give Merlin peace about this ever. His Magical Majesty. What he had set up here was ridiculous. How long has he been doing this show about himself? Judging by his circle of admirers and servants, oh Goddess, servants of the servant, quite a long time; and yet no one gave him up when Uther was still alive. Looks like he's really managed to win the love and loyalty of all these people. How does he do it?..

"Those of you he chooses will receive charms or blessings!" the servants added, and dispersed to keep order in the hall.

"Let the magic begin!" a loud voice boomed from the ceiling.

Puffs of green smoke billowed from the lanterns, shrouding the whole inn in a magical mist. The piper blew out a loud strained, trembling note, and someone banged on the table like a drum, greeting Emrys. Morgana, Mordred, and Sir Bors craned their necks to see better, the excitement of Merlin's appearance transfered to them as well.

George, almost unable to see anything from the floor, moved Mordred over and sat down in the chair beside him. Mordred shoved him in the side, George shoved him back, stubbornly taking his rightful place.

The green mist cleared and everyone saw the dark figure of a tall, thin man hovering in the air. Then he gently floated to the floor in the centre of the tavern. The wide sleeves and hem of his robe fluttered gently in the invisible breeze. Landing gracefully with a slight thud, he clapped his hands and the smoke vanished. "Emrys the Great!" The servants shouted on all sides of the tower, and the musicians above gave a joyous, loud trill.

In a circle of green light stood a man in a blue robe embroidered with silver stars. He spread his arms as if to embrace his guests. They responded with cheers and joyful greetings.

"Dear friends, this is our first meeting since I won the Battle of Camlann, and I confess I have missed you!" He made an indefinite gesture with his hands and suddenly a cloud of pink butterflies soared above the heads of the people. A sigh of amazement and admiration rang throughout the crowd. The butterflies fluttered around them, a brilliant pink sparkle of magic.

One of them flew up to Mordred, and he put up a finger for it to sit, and smiled modestly, admiring the sparkling pink pollen on its big graceful wings. His black cloak, sad blue eyes, the batterfly's enchanting pink. Morgana's heart grew warm at his pleasant appearance. Oh, she loved him so much. She wanted to stole this moment, tear it from life itself, and keep it forever. The butterfly soon fluttered upwards and perched on the green lantern above their table.

"But I said to King Arthur: Your Majesty, you can probably survive without me for one twenty-four hours! Hardly, but you can!" the hall laughed. "I hope in the morning I find that muddler alive! But tonight I choose to be with my beloved friends in the Green Tent!" Merlin looked up, enjoying the cheers of appreciation and love from his admirers. "Of course, I've left His Majesty a whole set of new laws I've written for him to sign, so he'll have something to occupy himself with while we're here making magic!..."

Merlin suddenly launched golden dragon wings from his spine, and lifted himself off the floor, much to the delight of those sitting on the upper tiers. "If you knew how hard it is to rule a kingdom standing behind the throne! But it was worth it, wasn't it?" Merlin's pointed boots landed on the floor again. "After all, thanks to me Camelot defeated the evil Barons and kicked out the Witch Morgana and her Saxons! I have freed magic to give you love, friends!" Merlin sent air kisses to the hall, basking in their approval and attention.

"I beg your pardon?!" Morgana exclaimed indignantly, but her voice was drowned out by the amplified sounds of the bagpipes upstairs. Why the hell was Merlin embarrassing her name in front of so many people? It wasn't funny anymore. This is what she gets after she fought on Camlann on their side and saved Arthur?

Sir Bors and George clapped their hands for Merlin too, not really paying attention to Morgana. They were looking forward to the moment when the show would move to part two and they could catch a chance to get close to Emrys and enlist his blessings.

"He didn't mean it!" Mordred shouted in her ear; the music became unbearably loud and hysterical. Merlin jumped up, deftly threw a somersault or two, and then regaled his fans with some more acrobatics, magic tricks, and apples juggling. He proved to be incredibly flexible and skilful.

"Show us your face!" a couple standing as close to Merlin as they could shouted. "We want to see you, Emrys! Please!"

Merlin laughed embarrassedly, made a graceful flick of his wrist and a bouquet of bluebells appeared in his hands. He tossed it to the woman, she squeaked with delight and pressed the flowers to her heart. "Ah, darlings, I am but a humble King's servant after all!"

"No, you are Emrys the Great! You created New Camelot! You won at Camlann! You are the greatest wizard in Albion!" the servants began to chant, and the guests picked up their mood. Music and the loud stomping of feet on the floor and hands on the tables were beating rhythmically "E-mrys, E-mrys!, E-mrys!!"

Morgana turned her head to Mordred. He was watching the show with a frown on his lips. He was clearly trying to digest his view of Emrys with this hidden side of him. Explaining a loved one's wrongs was always a difficult and painful task. For Morgana, on the other hand, it was clear. Merlin was a braggart and bad friend.

At that moment he threw back the wide hood of his robe and looked around the cheering hall, turning away from Morgana and Mordred, but they managed to catch his grinning face in the light of the green lanterns.

"Morgana! Mordred squeezed her wrist, staring at Merlin's back in shock.

"Was it just me, or...?" Morgana felt her eyes widen and her chest tighten.

"It's not him!" Mordred exclaimed, his eyes fixed on the wizard's forehead. "It's not Emrys...!"

Indeed, the man now showering his admirers with silvery dust and sparkling jokes was not at all the awkward black-haired young man of their age they knew. He was a grown man in his forties, bald, with large green, not blue eyes. His skull was tattooed with toothy dragons and knots. This was definitely not Merlin. And yet, he introduced himself as Emrys, no less.

"It's not Emrys!"  Mordred stood up, but he was held back by Sir Bors. "Hey, boy, what are you talking about?" he forced Mordred to sit up, but he tore out of the knight's grip. "He's not real! It's not Emrys!" Mordred gasped.

"How can you know?" George helped Bors hold a worried Mordred back in his chair.

"I am a druid, we are taught to believe in Emrys from childhood! He has no triquetra! He's an impostor!"

"Has not what?"

The noise began to attract attention, some people looked back at them warily.

"If you don't want a mob of his followers to tear you apart, druid, keep calm and tell us everything." Bors grumbled, pressing Mordred's shoulders down. The knight found Mordred's words hard to believe, but on the other hand, Bors decided, he would only act so strange in two cases: if he was crazy or if he was telling the truth.

Morgana placed her palm on his, and Mordred took three deep breaths in and out, but his eyes kept throwing lightning bolts at 'Emrys' who entertained the guests, prophesying for them. His predictions included only happy endings: marriage, wealth, success and blessing.

"Not only is this trickster not Emrys, he's not even a wizard," Mordred groaned quietly. "Now I understand. I don't sense an ounce of magic here."

"It can't be!" George muttered, but the glance he cast at the Great Emrys was alarmed. "Look what miracles he's doing!"

"It must be false tricks." He briefly told them about the mark of the Chosen One and his own abilities.

"Obviously someone is impersonating Emrys to gain money and fame." Morgana summarised quietly.

Sir Bors whistled. "If that's true, it's the biggest hoax I've ever seen."

"How many have you seen?" George raised his eyebrows.

"Only this one." Bors shrugged, "What are we going to do? But consider that I still don't fully believe you, Mordred. Emrys the Great is not great? Sounds wrong."

"The real Emrys is great."

"God in Heaven, how many Emryses are here?.."

"We must expose him." Morgana suggested, "I have an idea..."

"You will leave immediately." Two burly Green Tent's attendants stood at their backs. Their heavy stares did not bode too well for the friends. "Those who insult Emrys the Great have no place here or in Albion."

"This is not Emrys." Mordred blurted out.

"Shut your insulting mouth. Isn't it clear that Emrys uses glamour to keep himself safe from enemies? The likes of you? How else would he have kept the Green Tent when the late King Uther was alive? Get out of here now before he takes you upon himself. Then there will be no mercy."

"But we paid for the room!" Morgana was exasperated.

The servant threw a new thin coin with jagged edges on the table; Arthur's youthful profile on one side and a dragon on the other. "You may take it back."

Morgana and Mordred traded glances before standing up. They left them no choice. "Sir Bors, George, are you with us?"

George squeezed his hands in a lock. "Er...I still need a recommendation."

"Your problems, mates." Sir Bors shook his head indifferently.

"Got you." Mordred grabbed the coin, and he and Morgana left the tower. Servants accompanied them all the way to the stables.

It was now completely dark outside, but the courtyard of the inn was brightly lit with torches. A stable boy led their horses back. "You are the first to leave our inn during the show! Did something bad happen?" the boy asked innocently.

Mordred leaned towards him. "It's all a hoax, little friend. You'd better get out of here and find some other job."

The boy blinked his eyes wide.

Morgana walked to the gate and stared at the road. A dark hole of forest on the right, a crossroads on the left. "Excellent night. So delightful. What do we do now?"

"We could sneak into the barn and spend the night there, then find this impostor in the morning and challenge him to a fight."

"You think his servants won't notice us? We'd better get out of here."

"Morgana, you said yourself you had an idea how to expose him."

"I said that before I got acquainted with his servants." Morgana bit her lip anxiously. "Mordred, are you sure it is really not Merlin? Remember that time when you didn't recognise him as an old man?"

"I felt the magic anyway." Mordred objected stubbornly.

"Alright. Let's wait till the night is over. In the morning we can try to find out what's going on here. Maybe this is some Merlin's plan?" Of course, that sounded even stranger than what they had witnessed in the Green Tent. Seeing that Mordred was undecided, Morgana took his hand and pulled him towards the gate. "Do you see another way? His servants are alert now, and we don't stand a chance. Do you suggest us to destroy the entire tower?"

Mordred only sighed.

They decided to stop in the woods nearby, so that the Green Tent would remain within sight. The night Brocéliande was still dangerous, but at least no magical monsters would come close to human habitation and fire.

Morgana built a small campfire, sat down and leaned her back against an oak tree, routinely settling in a cocoon of her heavy dress, cloak and blankets.

The night birds were whistling their mysterious songs, the fire crackling quietly, sending sparks into the dark sky. Mordred fiddled with his blanket, then left for a while, came back and repacked their things. Morgana was waiting for him. The tightness in her chest only left when Mordred finally sat down beside her. She intertwined her fingers with his and pressed his hand tighter against herself.

In the moments when her soul might have flown away to the misty land of silver stars, magic and prophecies, it was nice to have something to cling to on this side, someone that could rescue her from the endless fall in the cosmic abyss. She was not alone anymore.

"How could we have thought it was Emrys?" Mordred muttered quietly, yawning. "Of course he wouldn't have acted like a jester in front of everyone. We let ourselves be fooled."

"I still think it might be Merlin in the glamour." Morgana hummed.

"Emrys is modest and thinks only of the good of others."

"Yeah, but I always thought he'd eventually get tired of living like this."

"If helping King Arthur is his true nature, then he will never."

"A sorcerer of his power, and a mere servant.."

"He must be here with us, with the Druids and the Triple Goddess."

"But he has chosen Camelot."

"Perhaps, that is the destiny... Morgana. I wanted to warn you." Mordred hesitated a little. "You should not to tell strangers who you are so easily. If they hear you're a princess, you could be kidnapped. Also, do not reveal that you are a healer. You could be enslaved and your gift exploited for some lord."

Morgana sighed at those words. The new ruthless, demanding side that had opened up in her after the druid massacre sometimes made her forget about caution. Golden Age or not, there would always be trouble. "I get it."

She felt Mordred's breathing become calmer, and she closed her eyes too, letting herself fall asleep, becoming one with the forest shadows.

She was pulled from the blissful oblivion by someone's rough hands. They yanked her up and forced her to her feet, then twisted her elbows back painfully.

"No!" Morgana screamed, fighting back with abandonment, but the man holding her was too strong.

Mordred was just as forcibly awakened and captured. It was the same servants from the Green Tent who had thrown them out.

"What, wench, did you think you could get away after what you've done?" growled one of the men in Morgana's ear, then sensually sniffed her neck and collarbone.

"Don't touch her!" Mordred weakened in the servant's grip, he began to gasp in panic.

Calm down! Morgana shouted mentally. Not his murderous wave of force again. We'll make it through this! She kicked the servant in the ankle, but he only reacted with a foul curse.

The false Merlin stepped into the circle of light from the shadows. He was no longer smiling charmingly as he had in the inn. No, his green eyes flashed angrily from beneath the blue hood of his robe. He kept his hands in his pockets and shifted from toes to heels impatiently.

"Well, well, and who's so clever?" he drawled, exaggerated. "Who guessed everything? But get to the point. How did you recognise me? Do you realise you almost ruined everything? It's a good thing hardly anyone heard you. They've already been taken care of."

"You are not marked!" Mordred angrily spat out. Strangely, the impudent appearance of the impostor gave him back his composure and will to fight. "You're a liar!"

The impostor tilted his head to the side, then touched his tattooed forehead. "So you can see it, boy...?"

"There's nothing there, you liar! Who are you and why are you doing this?" Mordred's amber blade magically flew out of its dark brown sheath and floated towards the impostor, threatening to pierce his throat through.

The false Merlin glared at the blade, but didn't even move. "Are you hurting one of your own? I'm a druid like you too, after all." He pulled off his hood and showed them the triskelion tattooed on his temple.

Mordred clenched his teeth, the hovering dagger twitched and then fell to the ground at the impostor's feet. He kicked it aside, and grinned. "That's right. Children of the Triple Goddess do not harm their brothers and sisters." He stepped closer to them, glanced at Morgana, then focused on Mordred.

"My name is Duran, I am of a clan long gone. That mythical Emrys did not save me or my family, and I have decided to take matters into my own hands. You insult me, boy, but all I did was give the people what they were waiting for. They wanted a saviour. I've taught them to love magic even though I'm not gifted with the force myself. Is that not a good thing in trying times like these? You call me a liar, but what if the spiritual Emrys is in all of us and we just need to unlock it?" Duran smiled slyly, showing his teeth. "What if he really lives in me?"

Morgana snorted and tried to kick the servant again. It was pretty difficult for her to concentrate her energy without her hands free. If only to set them all on fire... "What a nonsense! Emrys is real! He's our friend."

"Do you know that the real Emrys has already been born, don't you?" Mordred's eyes expressed total incomprehension. Why would one of them, those who had been taught to believe in Emrys, do such a dastardly deed?

"Heard of, of course. His revealing only helped me." Duran grumbled. "I have my own kingdom here. It's small, but it is mine. And I am its king...No one knows that Emrys is Merlin in this part of Brocéliande. Yet."

"Soon or late, you will be exposed by someone from Camelot! You cannot live a lie too long!"

"I prefer to live in the moment." 

"Let us go!" Morgana demanded, glaring angrily at the druid.

"So you can go and tell, what was his name, everything? Or worse, so you can tell everyone here and destroy what I've spent so long building? Not a hope, girl." Duran smiled menacingly at her.

"We promise won't tell anyone, really!"

Duran shook his head mockingly. "And why don't I believe you? You have the face of a liar, girl. Are you a witch?"

"You can't kill us, we're druids too!" Duran's servant twisted Mordred's elbows up even more painfully. "Not after I spared you!"

Duran snorted at the word 'spared'. "I can't, but they can." He nodded, signalling his servants to deal with the captives.

But then the bushes rustled behind him, and none other than George stepped into the clearing, a grey hood on his head, the leather rucksack in his hands. "Oh Emrys, the most respected Sir, might I remind Your Magical Majesty that you have promised to sign my letter of introduction?" he drawled in an annoyingly polite tone. "Why did you leave so quickly?"

"What?!" Duran spat out, turning round, "Get out of here, you fool!"

"Get the hell out yourself." A firm male voice came from behind.

Morgana and Mordred suddenly felt the vicious grip on their bodies loosen. They broke free, and the imposter's servants, stabbed in the back, fell to the ground lifeless.

"You promised me something too, Emrys. Your death." It was Sir Bors, sword drawn. He saved them.

Duran cried out and lost his confident pose. He rushed to run pushing George aside, but was stopped and toppled to the ground by Morgana's paralysing spell. It was nice to be able to defend themselves again.
Sir Bors ran up to Duran. He was lying on his back, restrained by magic. His eyes were spinning frantically with stark terror.
Bors raised his sword over his stomach, and the impostor squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. A hot tear slipped from under his eyelids.

"Don't, Sir Bors!" Mordred cried, running up to the knight and gripping his forearm. "Have mercy on him! Remember mercy!"

"What! If we had not come he would have killed you and your lady!" Bors raged, and wrenched his arm from Mordred's grasp.

"Give him a second chance!" Mordred squeezed the knight's arm again, a pleading look on his face.

Bors groaned and lowered his sword. "Why are you doing this, Mordred?"

"He's a druid from a lost clan, like me. When people get lost, sometimes they...go to the wrong place."

Morgana and George walked over to them and looked down at the paralysed false Merlin. Duran was crying silently with his eyes open. "The spell fade after a few hours." Morgana remarked.

Mordred gave her a small grateful smile. "We'll be just in time to get far away from here."

Bors swore, and stomped on their campfire with anger. However, he put his sword away in its scabbard and no longer looked at Duran. George shook his head and hugged his rucksack tighter. "We let you leave so we could stay in the Green Tent and watch them. After you two got kicked out, we noticed that the attendants whispered something to Emrys, and he finished the show early, and—"

"And I suggested we follow them. And we overheard that you were right, it's a hoax. That scoundrel is a cheat. Behold!" he turned to the fear-shaking Duran. "You are alive only by the grace of your brother Druid. If you do not repent, I swear to God I will find you and finish the job. Don't blow your chance, fool!"

"I advise you to listen to Sir Knight before it's too late," admonished George.

The impostor sniffed wetly and closed his eyes, unable even to turn his neck to look away.

"So, friends, shall we leave Emrys the Great here with his silent buddies and travel to Camelot together?" Bors squared his shoulders and smiled kindly at them, "I left my horse nearby."

Morgana and Mordred looked over at each other. "Alas, we cannot. We need to find our friends in Meredor."

"Thank you for saving us, Sir Bors." Mordred added.

Bors shrugged, then threw his head back and laughed. "Am I really going to have to all the way through Brocéliande alone with that awful bore? Is that how you thank me for my help and trust?"

"Appreciating order and rules is not boring," parried George. He looked at Morgana and Mordred carefully as he bid farewell. "If you really are who you say you are, we'll meet again."

"Good luck with Arthur." Morgana gave him a slight smirk.

Sir Bors mounted his horse, George walked beside him. At the crossroads the knight and the aspiring servant walked into the woods, Bors's yellow cloak glowing in the darkness, George's gait sturdy. Morgana and Mordred turned onwards to the sea.

"Farewell, my lady, farewell, druid! I shall think of the lesson you have taught me tonight!" Sir Bors waved them off and the pre-dawn Brocéliande engulfed him and his companion.

"When you come to Camelot, tell the King Sir Mordred vouches for you!.."

Morgana and Mordred turned away from the road leading to the Meredor city and were lost in the grassy wasteland.

Ahead, beyond the horizon of spring meadows, a pink river of dawn stretched clean. The thud of unhurried hoofs was inaudible in the soft, tall wet grass. "So, what is the lesson, Mordred?" Morgana murmured thoughtfully. She was both delighted by Mordred's kindness and confused.

He gripped the reins in his fists a little tighter. "Duran is one of our kind. Even if he's bad, someone has to be good."

Mordred sensed the sea before he saw it.

Chapter Text

"Some learned men of antiquity asked, what is magic? A law established in nature by the Creator, like the law that pulls a ripe apple to the ground, a wave to the moon, one loving heart to another; or it is a gift possessed by only a few, a gift that can surpass the laws of nature and pervert it? My answer is none of these, and both. Magic is a disease, as I explained to my dear Brother tonight.

And what is disease? A disturbance. What is healing? Recovery.

We cannot deny that this golden power poured out in nature exists — how can I? — and if it exists, then it was created by God in Heaven.

Not all magic is from the Serpent, I'm not claiming that. Something of it, I am forced to use that word for the paucity of human vocabulary, is neutral in itself. Some may say this power can be used for good, that even a man who believes in the Lord can be a mage and help people, but I deny this infidelity. We, men are not neutral. A servant cannot serve two masters, and a man infected with magic will eventually become a master to himself. A master that enslaves himself to his own passions, fears and desires, seduces himself in his wish to resemble God and rule the fate of mortals whom he considers inferior to himself. That is what a mage is.

So how can this problem be resolved? Kabbalists of Babylon claim that the Forbidden Fruit contained seven seeds of evil that fell to the ground when our Forefathers tasted it. While the Fruit was on the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, each of the seeds represented something good or reasonable about noesis; but falling to the ground by the evil will of Adam and Eve and deception of the Serpent, they were poisoned. The seeds were: carnal love that turned into violation, memory that began to torment people with the mistakes of the past, foresight that turned into self-assurance; and much more. One of the cursed seeds was magic or Force. And that's why God said, "Thou shalt not allow a sorceress to live." Magic poisons us, fallen ones.

That energy which men sinfully call magic should have flowed in the currents of Ether as God put it under the seven domes of heaven and the nine storeys of earth. We sinful men may not touch it, may we be healed forever and ever. Amen.

It has already been noted by holy fathers that since the Lord has come to the earth magical forces in the world began to decrease. In ancient times, the priests of the Serpent built huge pyramids in an instant, and their staffs turned into monstrous dragons. What is magic now? Digging in the mud, bones, blood, primitive elements. If God willing, in the future men will be immune to the disease completely. This is the cross of my life, and I humbly hope my noble Cousin will offer a shoulder to share its burden with me."

Merlin closed Sir Galahad's diary, sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. Every time he read his notes, it left a heavy, bitter feeling in his chest. But he kept coming back to it again and again. This way a bitter, heady drink burns the throat at first, but draws one in for the next sip.

Merlin was lying in bed with this shabby notebook in his hands, even though the sun had long since risen.

Galahad was wrong, wrong in the most fundamental way. Magic was a force of nature, a divine energy animating the world. Merlin felt it with all his heart, heart that was magic. For nature was not merely a soulless thing for man to claim. Just as there is white and black in the nature of things, so is in the force; but evil never truly prevails. The spiral is constantly spinning, but the lighter side reigns supreme again and again.

Galahad betrayed Arthur, was irretrievably dead, the De Bois fell in disgrace, but for some reason Merlin wanted to prove Galahad wrong, to prove with his very life he was doing good, serving good. Acting according to the will of God, if that's what Galahad would want to hear. 

But as much irritating and depressing Galahad's writings were, as Merlin found them curious. Through them, he could learn many secrets of the New Religion he had never dreamed of learning in his simple small community back in Ealdor. Babylonian Kabbalah, for example. Their spells were prayers to the Tetragrammaton and the angels with sophisticated names, their charms were carved in fancy seals. He'd even managed to get one on the black market for his growing collection of books and artifacts. Being a Court Sorcerer opened many doors.

Merlin, Druids' Emrys, King Arthur's Court Sorcerer. It felt magical, and still so unfamiliar. A lot had changed in Camelot in those few weeks. Sometimes the winds of change felt like a real storm.

Firstly, he no longer lived in the Gaius' quarters. He occupied Sir Galahad's chambers and laboratory. Merlin had brought a large bookcase, added soft brocade cushions to the bed and stools, more candlesticks, but by and large, the rooms remained simple, and he was satisfied with that. In the first days after Camlann, most of the White Knight's belongings had been burnt, but Merlin had insisted that the alchemical devices and powders be saved. He should learn at least the basics of alchemy. After all, what if one day Arthur embezzled the treasury and they needed somewhere to get gold without going into debt to the merchant guilds? He also secretly kept the diary from the pyre, that testament of Sir Galahad's falling from grace.

Arthur was delicate enough to offer Merlin to announce the dismissal to Gaius, but adamant enough to reject Merlin's objections at once. The old Court Physician was too loyal to King Uther, had been involved in the Purge, and perhaps too old to properly fulfil his duties, Arthur explained his decision. And Gaius was not the only one sent away from the Castle.

Contrary to Merlin's fears, his Mentor took the dismissal calmly even though he knew Arthur since birth. "Then it is time for me to wither, and for you to bloom, my boy. You're no longer an apprentice. You've become a master." He said, packing his things. Merlin tried to urge him to stay in Camelot, to rent a house in the Higher Town, but Gaius said he wanted to return to his home kingdom, to Essetyr, and live out his final years in the tranquillity of nature with his dearest cousin Hunith. Merlin, however, insisted he take a purse of money. One hundred gold coins, his first wages.

Sometimes he felt lonely without Gaius, without their dinners together, without his cautious wisdom and careful advise. Merlin could not yet bring himself to find a new court physician, performing the duties himself. It was much easier to do so now that he was allowed to use magical potions openly.

Secondly, Arthur now had a new manservant. The great and terrible George. For the first few days, Merlin didn't know what to do with himself in the mornings. No fussing, no bickering with Arthur, no promises of new dangerous and exciting adventures every day. What do court sorcerers do in the morning? They laze in bed and read diaries of obsessed knights, it seems.

At first, Merlin kept going to Arthur's chambers every morning to inspect George's work. But really, he had nothing to pick on. George was perfect. Perhaps too perfect. Work melted in his hands, he knew the service well, and he often took the pleasure of criticising Merlin's old rules, wrapping his reproves in a polished politeness. Then Merlin realised Arthur was in good hands, and began to visit him in the mornings just occasionally to chat about the news.

Actually, with his new job of a sorcerer and advisor, Merlin began to spend less time with Arthur than he expected. It was logical, nonetheless. Merlin had risen in stature, had become one of the important persons of the state. There was no longer a reason to spend all day together. Merlin didn't miss the dirt, the fatigue, or Arthur's periods of bad temper, he didn't. Perhaps he missed the feeling of being a close mate, a friendly shoulder to lean on. Arthur grew quite close to Sir Kay, though. Lord Ector guided the young king through any trouble with the renewed Royal Council and the Barons. The path they all took led into the light, Merlin believed it. No, all was well.

More often now, Arthur and Merlin met not even in the Council Hall, but in the streets of Camelot. Together they led the rebuilding of the city and the surrounding villages. There was much charity, sorting things out for others, attempts to alleviate human suffering, to heal the wounds left by the Plagues, especially by the Kilgharrah's Fire.

The land had been miraculously restored soon after their return from Avalon, and a good portion of the future harvest was reported to have been saved after all. Camelot would not starve this winter.

Merlin did not know he had the Witch of the earth, the mysterious Dochraid, to thank for this. The peasants said Spring herself, the redhead maiden in green, had walked through their fields and gardens, and flowers were blooming under the touch of her bare feet. The soil dried and filled with her power; charred tree trunks recovered, silver springs cleared of mud.

It was not so easy with the works of men.

Entire villages near Camelot were burned down, and the capital itself, especially the Higher Town, was left with many buildings ruined by the Plague of Earth. The White Castle itself was split in half by the earthquake. Merlin assisted in the rebuilding with magic as best he could, earning the favour of the people for Arthur; Arthur himself sometimes even took the trouble to throw off his cloak, roll up his shirt sleeves and help the poor. People's wholehearted 'All hail to the King' followed him wherever he went.

Arthur accepted magic into his life with surprising ease. Merlin was relieved, though with a dose of frustration at the time wasted, to realise he shouldn't have been so afraid all along. Arthur is friend, always has been. "I trust magic because I trust you." He said. He came to believe in prophecies and signs. Though it's a cruel lesson, death opens one's eyes to the truth as life cannot.

Merlin finally closed the diary, shoved it under his pillow, and with a careless magical pass attracted his clothes from the wardrobe and let the magic dress him: the dark purple shirt and trousers, topped with a loose hooded red robe and a wide belt. This new confident feeling of comfort and security of being himself, of breathing freely lay down on Merlin like a heavy chain mail. Then he headed to the kitchen. Court sorcerer or not, he wasn't going to give up the habit of enjoying his breakfasts in the kitchen.

Merlin sat down on the railing of the spiral staircase and deftly rolled down. Dizzy, he burst into the kitchen, startling the staff. The castle kitchen was full of heat, of the sweet aromas of baked goods and spicy chicken broth; slants of light cut through it from the small leaded transom window to the large old wood doors.

"Has His Majesty had breakfast yet?"

"Quite some time ago," grumbled the mean cook, Merlin's archenemy, and set a tray of warm breads on the table; they were round and golden like little suns. "Majesty's on the training field now. And don't touch the bread, Merlin! It's too hot and bad for the stomach!"

When she looked away, Merlin broke off a piece of bread and buttered it. Thinking about Arthur, he chuckled. Surely, where else would he be? Some things never change.
Given the amount of paperwork he has dumped on him, that left Arthur plenty of time to relax in the fresh air.

The training field greeted Merlin with bright sunlight, the smell of grass, laughter and shouts of excitement. Knights and their squires were sword jousting, lifting heavy weights, throwing daggers at targets. They could do this all day, perhaps. Merlin spotted Arthur, and walked up to him.

"Good morning, My Liege."

Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes. "Merlin, can we stop with the etiquette and protocol? I had enough of George for that." He glanced around and lowered his voice. "I think I'm afraid of him. Please, save me!"

Merlin only giggled.

Arthur was standing by a crate of training weapons. Bows, slingshots, battle axes, various swords and daggers, a pleasing abundance for a warrior, though all these things were simple and rather shabby. Coils were frayed, the blades worn. Arthur bent to puck up a sword to teach the knights the technique of his favourite move, the Pendragon Swing. His long, handsome fingers closed on the hilt, but immediately, he released it. The sword struck the rest with a cold, quiet clang. Instead, Arthur took a heavy wooden sword meant for beginners, and raised it in front of himself with a satisfied look. Its wood was darkened and scratched with the years. "That's better..." he muttered quietly.

Merlin smirked. "Regressing, Milord? Why are you taking a kid sword all of a sudden? Where did you forget your mighty flaming sword?"

"I just want this, Merlin. It feels…better."

Merlin arched an eyebrow sceptically. "Er, that's a pretty weak excuse for your absent-mindedness, Arthur."

Blue as the midday summer sky, Arthur's eyes suddenly flashed angrily. "I wasn't going to explain anything for you of all people, Merlin. I'm perfectly capable of wielding any weapon, believe me. Those who didn't believe me ended badly. Very badly." He picked up the metal sword again and pointed it threateningly at Merlin's chest. "What have you forgotten in the field? Shouldn't you, I don't know, go down to the Lower Tower and make your magic useful?"

Merlin squinted his eyes at the silver tip of the sword resting against his purple shirt. "Whoa-whoa. Bad mood again? Why are you so jumpy this morning? It was a joke. You know, just a joke!"

But Arthur wasn't joking. Frowning, he stared grimly at Merlin's forehead, where the mark of the Chosen One had been inscribed by the hand of Providence, his hand with the sword trembling tensely.

"Lower the sword, Arthur. Forgot I am no longer your servant?" Merlin said quietly. Arthur didn't listen.
A blink, and the sword turned into a thorny red rose. "Alright then. I'll go until you're normal." Merlin took a step back, swallowed a bitter lump of resentment, spun on his heels and left the training field.

He heard Arthur angrily tossing the rose on the ground, and calling Sir Kay for a duel.

Merlin did not go to the Lower Town, however. Instead, he went to wander around the courtyard and gardens in a somewhat depressed mood. What more did he have to do to earn Arthur's respect, which he generously shared with knights and nobles? What else he had to do? Dealing with Arthur was becoming lately like dealing with an unsteady, fickle spring weather. He could be sunny and kind, and the next moment cold and insulting.

The path led Merlin to the west wing, now set with scaffolding. The workers have gone to lunch and the courtyard was empty. Camelot Castle had sustained the most damage in this particular part, where the dragon cave and Lady Morgana's chambers once were. The earthquake and fire rage split the ground in half, the tower tilted, the outer wall collapsed in ruins.
Below, among the piles of white dusty rubble, a deep and wide black rift gaped.

The work has been progressing. A couple more months, a pinch of magical help (a pity even Merlin wasn't powerful enough to build the whole house) and the castle would shine again in all its glory and splendour.

Merlin was about to go back to his — Galahad's — rooms and engage his mind with paperwork when suddenly he heard something strange: a noise rising up from the rift. A strange, disturbing noise, an echo of evil voices.

Merlin went cold. He looked round; there was no one living soul near. He crept closer through the rubble and peered down.

The crack opened into cold caverns deep underground where Kilgharrah had once been imprisoned. Strangely, there were battered crooked steps carved into the ground, they led downwards. The voices grew louder, some ominous shadows moved in the darkness. At least they belonged to human beings, Merlin thought. Well, perhaps they did. He should have called Arthur and the knights, of course, but the bitter feeling was still rankling in his chest. So Merlin decided to go down into the dungeons and find out what was going on there by himself. He, after all, had his powers to protect him, they didn't.

He walked down the steps, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the caves. The stone walls were cold to the touch, water was dripping somewhere distant, something was smelling of rot. The voices grew louder. Merlin took a deep breath, and fearlessly stepped forwards.

Chapter Text

Merlin crept up silently to the the voices' source, then hid behind a huge stalagmite and peered into the dark cavern.

Two middle-aged men. One was very tall, with a black beard and long dark greying hair; he was dressed in a long black leather coat. The other man had a short haircut, keen grey eyes; he wore a wide, thick robe of sandy linen. They were arguing furiously, and fighting, to Merlin's amazement, with magic.

"Over my dead body you will touch it!" shouted the bearded man angrily, and hurled a fire spell at his opponent, but that dodged it deftly, and laughed.

"You said it! Like I'm going to listen to you. I have got all the parts of the Triskelion, it means I'm worthy of getting the egg!"

"You're a liar and thief! You only want to subjugate him!"

"And who did you subjugate the Great Dragon for? For the Purifier? And after that you think you're better than me?!" snorted the other, and attacked his opponent with a dagger.

He managed to dodge, but squeezed his forearm tight, wounded. "I trusted you, Borden, but you have not an ounce of honour in you!"

"Trust will be your undoing, Balinor! And cowardice. You could have done so much, and what did you choose? But I fear it is too late for regrets!" Borden grinned, thrust his hand out, and began reciting a deadly spell.

But before the last word of the Old Tongue could fall from his grinning lips, he was thrown into the air, swirled, broken and slammed against the wall. The impact caused the weak rock to vibrate, then collapse, and the lifeless wizard's body got buried beneath a crushing waterfall of rubble.

He who was called Balinor looked round in a daze.

Merlin, panting for breath, stepped forwards from a black cloud of dust, and coughed. "I'm sorry...It just happened."

"What have you done, boy..." He exhaled and stared at the place where the one called Borden lay as though with pity.

"I've actually saved you, Milord." Merlin stated cautiously. He stepped closer and gazed into Balinor's face. He had kind deep dark blue eyes. The man instantly inspired Merlin's trust, aroused some inexplicable liking in his heart. "That bloke, he was about to kill you!"

"You may have saved me, but you ruined something more important than me or anyone! The key!" Balinor reprimanded quietly but harshly. "Oh, what have you done..."

"What key?" Merlin crossed his arms over his chest. "And what about a "thank you for saving my life"?"

"Who are you anyway, boy? What are you doing here in the caves?" Balinor crossed his arms in an identical gesture.

"I think I should put that question on you, Sir, and your mate out there. Who are you two and what were you doing in the royal palace? Technically, the dungeons are still a palace, you know."

Balinor sighed heavily, and lowered his arms. "Tell me, Julius wasn't lying? Uther is really dead and his good son Arthur now reigns Camelot?"

"Have you spent the last year in a cave? All Albion knows of King Arthur."

"What about like twenty years?" Balinor moved to leave the caves, but Merlin blocked his path. "Who do you think you are, boy? Let me go!" He tried to push Merlin away, but Merlin stood stubbornly.

"Oh, I'm just Merlin, King Arthur's Court Sorcerer and Advisor. And I don't think you're going anywhere for now."

Balinor looked at Merlin in surprise and took a step back, hiding his hands into his coat's pockets. "Are you not too young to be a court sorcerer, Sir Merlin?"

"Age is not important. So who are you, Milord? Explain what you're doing in His Majesty's domain. Do not make me regret saving you."

"Like to play Goddess, yeah?" Balinor and Merlin stared into each other's eyes for a few moments. Something invisible was pulling them to each other, calling them to trust each other. Finally Balinor sighed, and sat down on the nearest rock. Merlin lit magical floating lights, and joined him. The light cast deep shadows on Balinor's tired aged face. He pulled a silver flask decorated with sophisticated dragon carvings from his pocket and took a sip.

"Well, Merlin, I suppose as an official of the Kingdom you have the right to not only question me, but to detain me. I'm not sure if the new King has officially dropped the charges against me...A Pendragon always remains a Pendragon..."

"Charges?"

"It's a long story..."

"I'm in no hurry to go anywhere, Milord Balinor." Merlin smirked. "What was all that about? Tell me the truth."

"Well, listen. It started with considering Julius a friend...No, it all rather started with that boy, Arthur..." Balinor grumbled. "You're talking with the state's enemy number two. The first one was the Lady Nimueh..."

About every three months, I make my way out to the village to buy supplies and then retreat back to my secret cave. Twenty years have passed, but I wasn't sure Uther left me alone. Uther knows no rest, Camelot knows no forgiveness. That day I bought what I needed, and happened to bump into an old mate of mine, Julius Borden, on the streets. He was Gaius's apprentice in the old days, and we—"

"You know Gaius?!"

Do I know Gaius? Ha! Long ago, in better days, we were the best friends. The three of us: Me, the Dragonlord of Camelot, Gaius the Physician, and the Court Sorceress Nimueh. Uther's court was a pleasant and promising place, full of power and honour. We were always victorious and believed in what Uther wanted to build. He elevated chivalry, improved laws, patronised art and science, fought gangs and dark sorcerers. I always felt welcomed and respected there when came back after my wanderings with dragons. That was until our kind Queen died and Uther went mad with love and guilt. That was until Uther demanded a male heir...I remember I tried to talk Nimueh out of this, but she just muttered something about prophecies. Priestesses, they're always like that...But I digress.

He was out of his mind. I never knew he could change so much. The Purge had begun. Gaius, alas, sided with Uther. Uther tricked me into capturing the Great Dragon here underground. Nimueh left with that girl, her little pupil, and I fled away from Camelot, to Essetyr. I thought my life was over...Uther and Gaius betrayed me, used me, and then chased me like a prey.

But there, in Ealdor, a small, quiet village on the kingdoms' border, I found love and family...There was a woman...So many years have passed, but I still remember everything about her. Her name was Hunith. But Uther and his witchfinders found me there too. I feared to put Hunith and Ealdor in danger more than anything. And I fled into the woods, found a secret place, and have been hiding there ever since, all alone....

So, where was I?

"Julius Borden." Merlin whispered, pale and out of words, with tears welled in his eyes.

So, we met, and I was glad to see a familiar face again. Borden had once been apprenticed to Gaius, and even then was very interested in dragons. He always said he dreamed of being a Dragonlord like me. I confess I let my guard down. He invited me to his cabin in the woods, shared his food and wine with me. We talked about what we'd been doing all these years. About our old friends anbd the Purge... I learnt that Nimueh and Uther were both dead. I'm ashamed, but I realised Julius' true intentions when it was too late. He's no friend. All these years, he's been searching for pieces of the key.

He extracted all the information from me, then stunned and robbed me, because I had one of the missing pieces of the Key — the Triskelion. When I woke up in the forest, I decided to abandon my own fate and follow Borden to Camelot. I risked the knights killing me, but I couldn't let him open the Door. But it doesn't matter anymore. It will never be opened, for the key is no more, just like Julius....So, that's it, Sir Merlin. My story.

Balinor glanced down at the rubble pile, sighed heavily at the thought of the shattered key, and then sipped again from his flask. "Oh, and thank you for saving my life."

Merlin wanted desperately to ask Balinor about the Key and the Door and what the dungeons of Camelot had to do with them, but other words poured from the depths of his heart. "I am from Ealdor, Balinor. I...know Hunith." A spasm squeezed his throat.

"How is she doing? She must have a large merry family?" Balinor smiled sadly. "She's always dreamed of it."

"No." Merlin shook his head fervently. "She was never married."

"She should have. I wanted her to be happy, even when it's not with me."

"She's not alone. She has a son. She never told anyone his father's name, not even him."

"What?…" Balinor raised his head sharply, and met Merlin's eyes. Deep blue, just like his own. His expression darkened, and he averted his eyes, unable to bear his son's young eager and hopeful gaze anymore. "I never knew what it was to have a son."

"I never knew what it was to have a father either."

An unbearable ringing silence, and Merlin was the first to rush to Balinor's side.

The ancient cave was dark and quiet, the magical lights soared up when the lost father and the found son embraced each other.

"Father." Merlin's voice cracked.

"Merlin. Like a falcon. My son." Balinor let go of him and smiled so gently. "Are you really King Arthur's court sorcerer? You were born with magic just like me, weren't you?"

"Yes! Arthur and his sister Princess Morgana are my friends! I'm also a member of the Order of the Round Table!"

"Really? I'm so proud of you, Son. I've never dreamed you could be so good, so... That's because of Hunith. I see her in you. I miss her so much...The Ban is really lifted?"

"It is!" Merlin smiled widely. "You're free! Now, please tell me all about the Key and the Door. What that traitor wanted? How can I help you?"

Balinor stood up from the rock and dusted off his black coat. "Come here, Merlin."  He led his son to the far wall of the cave. It seemed no different from the other similarly dark plain walls of black stone. "What do you see?"

"Um, nothing?" Merlin gestured to call his spheres of light closer. The wall was smooth and flat.

"Look with your third eye."

"What?"

"With your magic." Balinor chuckled, and put his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin funny widened and tensed his eyes, but it wasn't really necessary. Somehow, when he really focused on the stone wall, the dewdrops on it, the cracks and cold harsh structure of the rock, he suddenly saw. A beautiful round triskelion carved into the centre of the wall emerged before him. It was about three palms wide and high. The lines dug deep into the rock.

"This door leads to a secret chamber laid in the foundations of the Camelot Castle at its beginning. The prophecies of dragonlords speak of a mysterious egg of a mighty dragon hidden here. It was our duty to guard this place and protect the parts of the Triskelion Key until the time came."

"Let me guess. And no one knew when that hour was actually coming or what exactly you were supposed to do?"

"Hmm. I see you're familiar with all that destiny stuff, aren't you, Merlin? That's the way it was. The egg buried here is dangerous, though not evil. Dragons are strong and wise, they are the oldest creatures of the Old Religion alive, immortal before anything by High Magic; but even an ordinary wizard who happens to gain their trust can be seduced by their might. Not to mention the power we Dragonlords have over them..."

"I once knew a dragon who was captured in this dungeon. So you did it?" Merlin looked at his father carefully.

"You knew Kilgharrah? Uther promised me and him a treaty, but in the end his spouse Grogonne was killed by the Knights of Camelot..."

"How? You said they are immortal before anything but High Magic?"

"One of the knights had a spear with a star tip..."

"I'm sorry, what?" Merlin took his eyes away from the triskelion which the longer he looked at it the brighter it became.

"I believe, in the language of the New Religion it is called a meteorite. It came from the heavens, and is therefore an artifact of the highest order. After that fight, Kilgharrah was put captive in the dungeons of Camelot. I regret this. The bonds of our magic are such that the dragon obeys every word of a Dragonlord."

"And now what can we do?"

"Nothing." Balinor shrugged, disappointed. "The key is destroyed, and we'll never know what's in there. This dragon is not destined to see the light of day."

"I'm sorry. I had no idea…" Merlin reached out and ran his finger along the rough lines of the triskelion. He was truly saddened.

A nasty loud cracking sound made Balinor and Merlin shiver painfully as though from the sound of metal on glass. The triskelion glowed bright gold, and then split in two, and the wall slowly parted, opening a passage into darkness. Out of fright, Merlin even accidentally extinguished the lights, and they were left in pitch dark.

"How is this possible?" Balinor was shocked. "The door can't open without the key!"

"I don't know...Just a coincidence."

"That's impossible. It needs the key. What did you do, Merlin?! What magic did you use?"

"Absolutely nothing, I tell the truth! I just touched the carving." Merlin took a deep breath. "Are we…you know, just going to stand here like this? Should we, like, go in?"

Merlin lit the spheres again, and Balinor saw how his son's face light up with curiosity and anticipation. Magic was already calling to him.

"Well, alright..." Balinor still couldn't believe what just happened. "We should, I guess."

The dragonlord and wizard stepped into the secret chamber. It was dark and empty. The silence was decrepit and dry like an old parchment; the darkness heavy, inhospitable to the intruders and their fire, their noise. The walls were a rough grey stone, untouched by man; but the floor was smooth and polished. In the centre, a silver marble pulpit stood erect on a mosaic of a huge black and white triskelion. A large silvery-blue egg rested on the pulpit's top. The lights reflected and played on its perfect smooth oval shape.

Merlin and Balinor exchanged reverent glances and approached the pulpit. "What are we going to do, Father?"

Balinor reflected deeply about something. The decision did not come easily to him, but once he made it, he was going to stand firm. "The hour the ages have wished for has come, Son. We must take the egg under our protection. Take it!"

"Why me?" Merlin stammered.

"The door opened to you without the key. I feel the egg should be given to you as well."

"I cannot! I'm afraid..."

"Fear not, Merlin. Dragons don't bite. When in the shell." Balinor smirked crookedly, and nodded approvingly.

Merlin smiled nervously, took a step, and reverently closed his hands around the egg. It was surprisingly warm, and so smooth and nice. It's shell glimmered like nacre; deep silver, blue, white. He lifted it off the pulpit, and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for either another horrible noise to pierce his soul or probably for a lightning strike to hit his desecrating hands. But nothing happened. The chamber remained silent, except for his and Balinor's quickened breathing.

"Let's go, Son."

Merlin gently wrapped the egg in his robe's hem and followed his father out of the cave chamber.

"It's good I still remember Camelot pretty well..." Balinor muttered, leading him through a secret tunnel to the outside. The same tunnel under the hill that Sir Lancelot had advised Morgana and Mordred to use to get into the castle, the one where they had accidentally bumped into Kilgharrah.

Balinor and Merlin sat down in a secluded wooded corner under the whispering tress and blooming pink rhododendrons. Merlin laid the egg on the grass, gazing at it with awe. "How long has it been lying there in the dungeon, what do you think, Father?" This magical dragon egg had lain in the heart of Camelot all this time. And it was beating in anticipation of the new life, Merlin sensed it.

"For many centuries. Maybe even for a millennium?." Balinor knit his brow and grimaced, and Merlin noticed that the wound from Borden's dagger on Balinor's forearm was deeper than he thought.

"You're hurt, Father? I wish I had my medicine here..."

"It's nothing." Balinor pressed his fingers to his forearm, closed his eyes, and mumbled something quietly. "Pain can be endured with faith."

Merlin recognised the melodious sounds of the Old Tongue. But it didn't look like an ordinary spell, an order to the world to reweave its fabric under the sorcerer's will. "An ancient prayer?"

"The Old Religion can reveal much to us." Balinor smiled enigmatically. "The old legacy of the dragonlords can teach you how to forget about burns or read a dragon's mind. All you need is to believe."

"So you were taught?"

"The Old Religion is not something you can just learn or read. It's either in you or it's not. It is in you, Merlin, because you are my son. When I die, you'll be the next dragonlord."

"You will not die."

"I was on the verge of death many times. All I want now is peace." Balinor stood up straight, and looked up at the blue tranquil sky. "Merlin, you speak the language of the Ancient Folk, don't you?"

"The Old Tongue? More or less. Why?"

"It is the language dragons speak among themselves, and it is also the language they obey when a dragonlord commands them." Balinor spread his arms wide and sang the invocation loudly. His voice was deep and beautiful, and the calling carried echoes of the ancient bond between Man and Beast in it.

The cold wind picked up, tilting the grass and flapping Balinor's coat violently.

Merlin got slightly startled, and clutched the precious egg to his chest when a gigantic black shadow closed the sky above. It was coming down towards them.

"Hello, old friend," Balinor greeted discreetly.

"One doesn't need enemies when he has friends like you, Balinor." Kilgharrah grumbled, sit down and folded his majestic black wings. But from the nonchalant looks of him he wasn't going to sizzle them on the spot. At least, for now.

"Believe me, I have paid in full for my sins. The price is twenty years of exile and fear."

"In my time, betrayal was paid only in blood. But let's assume I agree. Why did you summon me?"

"Please, we need help. Merlin, show it to us, please."

"Oh! Greetings, young warlock. I knew we would meet again." The Great Dragon pretended he just noticed that Merlin was here too. He squinted, looking at the egg. "When did you have time to assemble the Key? As far as I remember, it had been broken into seven pieces scattered across the seven corners of Albion."

"I didn't assemble it. I just touched—"

"Ah, as I expected. Taking the easy ways, as always, young warlock?" Laughter rumbled in the dragon's chest. "Perhaps if I were you, I'd do the same. But luckily, I'm me."

"Why did the dungeon door open at the touch of Merlin's hand, Kilgharrah?" Balinor frowned.

"I see that in your years of exile you have forgotten the lion's share of even the little you knew, Balinor." Kilgharrah remarked sarcastically. "It is simple.. Because this boy is Emrys, any door of magic will open to him. He is the Key of Keys."

"I am what?"

"He's who?"

The reactions of father and son were so similar that Kilgharrah chuckled.

"Wait, you said Emrys?" Balinor continued, "Some druid prophet? But how, we have no druidic blood in our lineage..."

"Never mind." Merlin hastened to switch gears. His father, having spent two decades into exile probably had no chance to learn all that Emrys meant, and Merlin was glad about the fact. Just like he was glad Balinor didn't find out who contributed to the death of his old friend Nimueh. All this was too complicated. "So what is this egg? Who is destined to be born from it?"

"O men! Your memory is even more short than your life. In the days when the Old Religion reigned supreme, when Camelot Castle was built, the egg of the White Dragon was hidden in the base as a sacrifice in promise of the future. For from the beginning, the fate, struggle and peace of the Pendragons has been bonded to the two dragons, the Black and the White. Uther and Aurelys, the elder brother Uther defeated and ascended to the throne, Arthur and Lady Morgana..."

"The Black Dragon is you?" Merlin stroked the egg. It felt like it was getting warmer.

"You are very quick on the uptake, young warlock. I am free, and the hour has come. The White Dragon that you released today is a very special dragon. The Light of the Sun, The Good Omen for you and Arthur, the Rise of the New Era. Her birth marks the coming of the Golden Age."

"Her? So, it's a female?" asked Balinor.

"Wait, if this Dragon's birth marks the Golden Age, why are you only telling me this now? It's been waiting here all this time! If I'd opened it on my first day in Camelot, would my destiny have come true sooner?" And if the White Dragon is a good omen, what omen was Kilgharrah himself then, Merlin was about to ask, but then changed his mind.

"Perhaps, my young friend." Kilgharrah purred to Merlin. "But no men can know his destiny."

"Come on, Kilgharrah, you always talk about destiny when you're hiding something." Balinor grinned.

"Ah, I know. You wanted me to free you first." Merlin realised. "So what do we do now?"

"A dragonlord must summon the dragon and name her." Kilgharrah turned his huge head to Balinor, and looked at him long and intently, as though saying something mentally to him. Balinor nodded slowly and squared his shoulders. "And now, farewell!" 

"Wait, where are you going?" Merlin craned his head to the sky, looking up at the Kilgharrah taking off.

"I left my treasures unguarded! Now it's up to you to sort your destiny out, Emrys. I don't want some lazy knight or cheeky damsel robbing me!" And the Great Dragon disappeared into the sunny clouds, hurrying back to his cherished cave and the growing pile of gold and jewels he has been tirelessly hording all this time.

Balinor turned to Merlin. "Did Kilgharrah speak the truth? Are you gifted with druidic powers?"

Blush crept onto Merlin's ears. "Well, they said something like that. But it's not what everyone thinks—"

Balinor's warm hand rested on his shoulder. "Son. Please, tell me. I want to know everything about you."

"And I about you."

They made a small camp here under the trees and sat down by the fire. Merlin laid the egg snugly in his lap and told his father everything, from his childhood in Ealdor to his captivity in the Crystal Cave, from his first meeting with Prince Arthur to Avalon.

"I am even prouder of you now. Only a few manage to find their destiny in their lifetime, Merlin. Many just go with the flow. That's not a bad thing, but there are some people who are more lucky. You have been found worthy."

"I never desired power. It came on its own. I always thought I was a monster. A wrong one. Bad."

"No, Son. You are magic. Innocent, wild magic that is in the wind, in the water, in the trees. In you."

"Father, please, don't exaggerate. Did Kilgharrah tell you all that?" Merlin laughed. "Let's open the egg! What did he say? Do you need to call her out?"

Balinor reached down and discreetly pulled a dagger from his black boot, and then smiled mysteriously. "Give me your hand, son."

"Why?" Merlin innocently held out his palm. Suddenly, he cried out in pain. Quick as lightning, the Dragonlord's dagger has slashed across his palm, and at the same instant Balinor pressed his own hand on Merlin's. His was bleeding, too. Three times Balinor shook their hands before letting go.

"Ouch! What was that?!" Merlin wiped the blood on the grass. The scratch, though thin and barely visible, stung and burned him. He could even see the flow of gold inside his own flesh.

"You are now initiated, Son. From grandfather to father, from father to son, since the days of the First Battle in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, the gift of power over dragons has been passed down in our line of warriors and caretakers."

"What?!" Merlin leapt to his feet, holding the egg to him like a shield.

"You are Merlin Emrys the Dragonlord now. I have just transferred my power and honour to you. I thought of this back when I saw the bond appear between you and the White Dragon's egg, and my thoughts have been confirmed by Kilgharrah. You will take my place, Son. It is necessary for you and your King and all the things you have to do. So says the Great Dragon."

Merlin looked confused. He sat down in front of the campfire again. "Why didn't you warn me, father? What am I supposed to do about it now?"

"Forgive me. But..." Balinor pulled a ragged scroll wrapped in red leather cord from his inner pocket. "I said you cannot just read the Old Religion, but some things you definitely can. Please, take this. I've always carried this scribe with me. Now it's your turn. Here you will find everything you need to know about dragons. The most interesting and difficult part is at the end, as always: how to become a dragon rider."

"I already rode Kilgharrah once." Merlin looked discontented, but still took and stuffed the scroll into his pocket. He wasn't prepared for what has just happened, for the new burden on his shoulders.

Balinor's eyebrows crept upward in a look of genuine surprise. "Seems that the old geezer loves you more than anyone, Merlin. For a dragon like him to let a non-dragonlord, a novice, saddle himself...? Unbelievable."

"I doubt he does. And what I have to do with the egg?"

"Open it when you're ready. When you think you or Albion needs it. Just speak to it in the Old Tongue. Or use the instructions from the Book of Dragons." Balinor stood up, dusted off his coat, and began to pack. "Don't return for your things, we should not delay anymore, Merlin."

"Where are you going?" Merlin fretted.

"Home. To Hunith. To Ealdor. You're with me, right?"

Merlin's face fell. "I'm sorry, Father, but I cannot. Not now. King Arthur, he needs me."

Balinor guessed Merlin would refuse to leave Camelot, but he wanted to try. He reflected on the depth of friendship and duty between his son and the King, and remembered his youth. He hoped his son would be more lucky with the royals. "I got you. Then I'll go alone."

"But I just found you, Father!"

"And you will never lose me again. But I'm so tired, Merlin. I want to feel alive again. For twenty years the burden of my fate has pressed down on me. I want to breathe free again, to be as far away from the Pendragons and Camelot as I can be. I'm sorry, but someday you will understand me."

A small tear rolled down Merlin's cheek. "I'll ask Arthur for a weekend off and come to visit you! Oh, and I almost forgot, Gaius is living in our house now!"

Balinor smiled crookedly and threw his shabby brown traveling bag over his shoulder. "Oh, really? Well, I have a lot to talk to old Gaius about. See you later, son. My Dragonlord."
Balinor patted him on the shoulder and hugged him briefly, careful not to hurt the egg Merlin still held tightly in his arms.

Then he turned and followed the road north into the woods, but after a moment, glanced back. "Oh, by the way. Dragon's heart is on the right side." Balinor smiled widely, and suddenly seemed twenty years younger.

Merlin stood with the silver dragon egg in his arms, and watched his father's figure get lost in the golden haze of the sun. "We'll meet again", he promised himself.

Then he hid the egg under his robe, and crept back into the castle.

In the evening at supper he took his customary place at the table, to the left of Arthur. Lord Ector and Sir Kay sat to the right. Dozens of candles lit up the cosy red and gold chamber, and pleasant flute music drowned the noble father and son's talk.

"You're still in the sulks, Merlin?" Arthur smirked. "Oh come on, don't be a girl. We're friends, after all."

Merlin sighed, and softened. A forgiving smile crept to his lips against his will. Finding his father and the white dragon had banished any shadow from his heart. "Your Royal Pratness, stop using girls like an insult."

"That's better." Arthur took a large piece of bread, plopped a handful of ragout on it, just with his hands, and began devouring the meat without knife or fork.

"How can one take offence at someone like this?" Merlin wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. "And which one of us grew up in the countryside?"

"What? I didn't hear you?"

After the meal, Merlin went up to his room and retrieved the precious dragon egg from under his bed. He blew off the dust and stroked it again; then moved a stool closer to the bed, put a soft round cushion on it and placed his treasure on the top. Then Merlin sealed the door with a careless magic pass, lay back in bed, and pulled Galahad's diary out from under the pillow to read another page or two before sleep. It was a great day.

He dreamed of a big white dragon with silver wings soaring up from the lake waves, gliding through the mist, calling him by his true name. "Emrys! The hour is coming!"

Chapter Text

"Who's there?" Gaius grumped, but did not take his eyes off the big, carefully stitched codex with yellowed pages.

His quill was sliding tirelessly over the parchment; bundles of herbs and rows of jars were piled before him on the table. The old physician had transformed Hunith's cosy kitchen into the likeness of his quarters in the castle: a staffy room full of herbs, papers and strange potions. He felt good; he no longer owed anything anyone, and Hunith was a good friend to spend quiet days with.

The kettle on the hearth has long boiled and gurgled, the lid bounced, but Gaius felt lazy to get up and put out the fire.

"Deign at least a glance at me, Gaius." Balinor stopped in the doorframe, grinned crookedly, and threw his travelling bag on the floor. "You look old."

"Who are you?" Gaius glanced at him irritably from under his glasses, and focused again on the list of the local forest's herbs he was working on.

Balinor laughed mirthlessly, and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Out of sight out of mind, eh, Gaius? I haven't forgotten you. But, you've probably had more interesting things to do than reminisce about old friends. Have you? All that service to Uther..."

Gaius turned pale, but did not turn his head to the unwanted guest from the past. He carefully placed his quill on the oak leaf, closed the inkwell lid, then took a deep breath, removed his glasses, and closed his eyes. "You died." His voice was dry and quiet. He finally recognised him.

"Your Master worked on it so hard, but alas, somewhere in between, died himself." Balinor sat down on the edge of the desk, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ironic, isn't it?"

Gaius finally looked up at Balinor, there was guilt in the old man's eyes, and relief. But "what are you doing here?" was the only thing he could squeeze out of himself. Not "I'm sorry," not "I missed you," not "Try to understand why I was doing what I was doing."

"I'm back and I want to see my son's mother. Where is Hunith?"

"Wait, how did you know that Merlin—"

"The truth will always find a way. Look, Gaius, let's make things clear: I am not going to hide that I'm still bitter about the side you chose in this story, but I'm grateful to you for taking care of my son."

"He is a good boy." The expression on Gaius' face softened, becoming sentimental at the memory of Merlin.

"He is a man, a fine and talented young man." Balinor seemed to find pleasure in contradicting Gaius. "So where is Hunith?"

"She's in the garden..."

And at that moment, Hunith entered the kitchen's back door. In her hands was a basket of brown eggs. Unlike her uncle, she immediately recognised Balinor, her first and only love. He stood up and stared at her, and to him, she seemed more beautiful than ever before.

"Hello. It's me."

Hunith didn't drop the basket, and the eggs didn't roll across the floor. No, she just mouthed "oh", turned round, pressed the basket to herself, and ran out of the cottage. She ran through the garden and disappeared into the fields behind the village.

Balinor immediately ran out after her.

"Where are you both going?" Gaius mumbled weakly, and hurried to calm the furious kettle. After a thought, he put some mint and camomile in three clay mugs and brewed them some tea, and waited for "the truth to find its way" as his former friend's ghost said a moment ago.

Balinor caught up with Hunith at the edge of the forest, the same forest in which they had met one dark and stormy May night. She was so distraught, wet traces of tears on her cheeks, hair out of her blue head scarf. "Hunith, darling, it's me." Balinor gently held her arms.

"I know." she sobbed quietly, finally calming down.

"Please, put the damn basket away and let me kiss you." he took it from her hands, set it on the ground, and finally took her in his arms, and kissed her.

Hunith melted at his touch. "But you died..." she whispered into his ear and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Our son has already had a chance to save my life. He's just like you, love."

"No, he's just like you." Hunith laid her cheek on her Dragonlord's chest, tears welling up in her soft eyes eyes again.

Things were finally starting to feel right.

Then Balinor took the basket in one hand, hugged Hunith tightly with the other, and they went back to the cottage where Gaius was waiting for them with the tea, and all three talked all night.

Merlin entered the council hall humming merrily:

Knights of the round table, let's see if the wine is good!
On my tombstone I want it to say
Here lies the king of tipplers
Here lies the king!

He held the papers and scrolls he prepared for Arthur under his armpit. The said King was already here. He was sitting with his feet on the table, but when he saw Merlin he put them away and sat up properly. "I heard you just said you want to be a king, Merlin?" His face looked bored.

"Do you think a crown would suit me more than you? I probably do. Your head is too big." Merlin grinned.

The members of the Royal Council slowly gathered in the hall, talking and taking their seats. While Arthur and the barons discussed the fair distribution of the defeated barons's lands, and money, always money, Merlin decided to read the latest letters that had arrived in the royal post.

They were mostly household papers, and requests from nobles for patronage and a place at the Camelot palace. Among the fine parchment and colourful wax seals, he didn't find even a small note from Morgana and Mordred. Where are they now... Merlin opened the last letter with a small amethyst dagger, and read something strange.

"Go to Brocéliande, set course towards the setting sun, and by the last oak tree you will find a green tent. It is yours, Merlin Emrys."  

The message was unsigned. Merlin shrugged. This was either some kind of joke or a trap. He set the paper aside so he could use it to stoke the fireplace later.

Meanwhile, the Council has set its second part: audiences. An elderly grey-haired man in a dark fur-trimmed robe entered the hall, bowing. He looked vaguely familiar to Merlin. The old man was accompanied by a pair of other weary-looking townsmen.

"What can the King do for you, O citizen of Camelot?" Arthur drawled tiredly. Merlin observed he might have showed more care.

The petitioner bowed once more. "My name is Kilgore, Your Majesty. For many years I have owned the "Scrolls and Codices" bookstore in the Lower Town. No one had any complaints about me, not even your late Father, King Uther. But this spring, the infamous Sir Galahad De Bois ordered the Knights of Camelot to smash my shop. Valuable volumes, papyruses, and wax tablets were irretrievably lost, all destroyed, Your Majesty!" Tears welled in the old man's eyes.

And Merlin finally remembered the bookshop's master, remembered how Galahad and he visited the Lower City to look for information on Taliesin and the Crystal Cave.

"Was there an indictment?" Arthur leaned against the back of a chair padded with red velvet. "A trial?"

"Nothing official, Sire."

"So why did Galahad get so worked up about you, Kilgore? Did you, two boring bibliophiles, argue about some philosophical theory?" Arthur chuckled with a grimace.

"Because of magic, Your Majesty." Kilgore remained serious. "He sought magical help from me, then used my own willingness to help to condemn me. All this time I have been in the dungeon, and I fear that my scribe Daegal was executed by Sir De Bois. The boy was like a son to me."

Merlin turned his full attention to Kilgore. Magical affairs, that was his responsibility as a court sorcerer.

"Merlin, had we executed some Daegal?" Arthur asked.

"We hadn't, Milord." I wouldn't let this happen, Merlin mentally added.

"Let me speak a word, Your Majesty and the Honourable Council." one of the guards at the door intervened. "I remember that name. On your orders, Majesty, I had took that banished girl away from Camelot. A boy had climbed into our cart. His name was Doegal, I heard the outlaw call his name."

"And then what?" enquired Merlin.

"And then, My Lord Wizard, I had threw these two criminals off at the border of our glorious Camelot and godforsaken Essetyr, and returned to my duties."

"Careful with your words, warrior." Arthur reproached. "What if King Cenred's spies are here? He might take offence at us for such impoliteness." It was clear from his sneering expression, however, that he agreed with the guard's opinion on the kingdoms.

Master Kilgore grew sad. It was good Daegal was alive. Bad that he never sees the lost in nowhere boy again.

"Well, all right. So what do you want, Kilgore?" Arthur took his chin in his hand.

"Reparation and justice, Sire. The new laws show that I did not deserve the calamities I suffered at Sir De Bois' hands. I did nothing wrong." Kilgore bowed, then stared at Arthur expectantly.

"We join Kilgore, Sire," his companions bowed. "We too have suffered because of the Ban. We hope for your mercy, Your Majesty."

Arthur looked at Merlin. Merlin nodded, but Arthur shook his head thoughtfully. He squared his shoulders, and turned to Kilgore. "Alas, Master Kilgore, the laws of Camelot are not retroactive. What happened in the Purge, stayed in the Purge. It is time for us to leave the past behind us and move on."

Kilgore stared at Arthur somewhat at loss of words. This was not what he expected from someone who had been known for his grace and honourable treatment of citizens even when he was still a prince.

"But Sire..."

"Technically, the Ban was still working then, so Sir Galahad, despite his subsequent betrayal, was acting within the limits of the Law. But as a sign of goodwill, Master Kilgore, I'm giving you an unlimited access to the Library of Camelot for life. Our Librarian will provide you any books. And now, you are free to go." Kilgore and his companions did not move, confused. "You are free to go." Arthur signalled to the guards, and they gently but insistently led the silent petitioners out of the hall.  "Well, I suppose the Council is over."

The fuss happened again, only now the barons and secretaries started gathering their things and leaving the hall.

When they were almost alone, Merlin turned to Arthur. "Arthur, I don't think you were right. By making amends to these people you would show you are ready to heal the wounds of the past and reconcile with the magical communities of Camelot..."

"Have I not shown that enough, Merlin? What else does your kind want? I came out against everything my Father thought was right for the sake of magic and peace in Camelot. And in case you haven't heard, the treasury isn't at its best to pay anyone who claims they've suffered damage. The ban has been in place for twenty-three years, Merlin, imagine where we'd be if everyone came to Camelot and demanded money? I've done all I could for them."

Merlin bit his cheek. There was rightness in Arthur's words, but his heart felt uneasy. "There is something else, the other issue of this matter..."

"Like what?" Arthur collected his papers and into a sloppy pile.

"The trial of the knights that participated in the druid massacre."

Arthur quickly looked round the emptied hall, and lowered his voice. "Absolutely not, Merlin. Not when they fought at my side on Camlann. I cannot betray my men and accuse them of what was technically legal and done with my permission. I cannot afford another rift in Camelot. Not now when I have something big in store and will need all the help and loyalty of my warriors..."

"Something big?" Merlin frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's a surprise for everyone." Arthur smiled slyly. "Tonight at first starrise, come to the Round Table." He stood up and patted Merlin on the shoulder. "No objections, right?"

"Morgana wouldn't have liked that. I'm sure she'd expect justice for the Clan of Brocéliande..."

"Morgana is not here, but my people are."

"But, Arthur..."

"I've known her longer than you have, Merlin. She doesn't care." Arthur withdrew in flashes of red silk and gold.

A mist was rising from the sea. Everything around was blue and wet. Seagulls screeched above, white foam hissed on the golden sand. Water below, water above. Mysterious and so innocent, bunches of lilac flowers made their way to the overcast sky through the black rocks.  Mordred's horse pulled his muzzle towards them, wanting to taste the delicate, juicy blossoms, but Mordred yanked the reins sharply to the side, preventing him from touching them.

"Poisonous flowers, we call them wolfsbane. We need to keep the horses safe."

Morgana breathed in the heavy, salty odour. They have finally reached the shores of the Great Seas of Meredor.

The landscape was deserted and quiet. Everything around was wild and seemed uninhabited. Nothing grew here but aconites. Not a single fishing boat rocked on the waves. How could an entire clan have survived here for twenty years?

"And...where is everyone, Mordred?" somewhat confused, she gazed out into the mist.

"I sense an echo of such strange magic here, Morgana..." he leaped off his horse.

"Like what?"

"It's something special. Strong, bright...And unreachable."

"Is this the Clan of Meredor? How do we find them?" Morgana dismounted as well, and tied her horse to a sharp rock. Are they hiding underground, she thought. There was simply no other option.

"I'm not sure this is human magic.… But let's go, Morgana. The only way we can find them is to call out." Mordred turned to her, a strange thought in his eyes, hair mussy from the wind, and held out a hand to help her climb up.

They climbed the cliff. They surveyed the leaden silk smoothness of sea water, and the tiny grey dot of the town of Meredor to the west of them. No tree, no shelter for miles around.

It reminded Morgana of home, real home and the father of her heart. The Tintagel Castle in Cornwallis, home of the crowned raven. Green meadows and steep white shores like the walls of magical drowned castles; the place where she had become who she was, the place she could never return to.

Mordred looked at Morgana, and and it seemed to him that her beloved eyes were not really green like the forest, but green like the sea. Their deep magic beckoned to him, ached. He loved her so much his heart seemed weightless, like air, like magic. Though people and places always rejected Morgana, he wouldn't. He would always welcome her into his arms and keep her image in deepest corners of his soul.

"What are you smiling at, Mordred?" she tucked a strand of hair freed by the capricious hand of the wind, and smiled too. "What?"

"Give me your hand. And let's call them."  They held hands, and their mental calling heard only by the magickfolk, travelled over the rocks and the sea, up into the sky and down into the earth.

Brothers and sisters, Druids of Meredor. We have come in peace. Show yourself!

The Knights of the Round Table gathered in the Great Hall as the first star rose in the purple smoky sky. The table's silver stone disk in the centre was like the moon. One by one, twelve knights clad in red cloaks took their seats. Only one chair remained unoccupied, that of the thirteenth knight.

King Arthur approached the table with a firm, confident stride. Merlin, in his red embroidered robe and hood on, followed close behind. Arthur looked enthusiastic. His shining gaze lingered only for a moment on the empty chair where Mordred should have sat, then returned to the noble faces of his knights. Arthur valued their judgement and loyalty far more than the Baron's Council, now more than ever. The Knights of the Round Table were not just his men, his personal army, they were his brothers. And so he decided to announce the greatest daring of his heart to them first.

As Merlin sat down next to Sir Kay, Arthur cleared his throat, and sat down as well. A sunny smile lit up his face.

"I greet you, honourable knights of the Round Table! This is our Order's first assembly in Camelot and I am pleased to see you all here. I realise too little time has passed since our great victory at Camlann, and you, friends, have not had the opportunity to perform a feat to present it to your brothers..."

"Your Majesty," Sir Gwaine spoke up. "Though I cannot regale you with my own feat, I heard Sir Lancelot guarded a group of refugees back to their village, and protected them from marauders who were plundering the villages deserted during the Water Plague." He winked at Lancelot.

The latter smiled modestly. "You are being discreet, Sir Gwaine. I'm sure the court has already heard of your victory in a joust with Sir Marhaus on the first afternoon of our return from Avalon, the victory that you performed in honour of Lady Ragnelle."

"I hope my lady has heard as much about it as you have, Sir Lancelot. For I intend to bestow her a necklace of victories over Albion's strongest knights."

"You will have that opportunity very soon, Sir Gwaine..." Arthur smiled enigmatically, with a mischief in his eyes.
Then he signalled for the knights to continue. "I am pleased to hear that. Tell your brothers more of your exploits, Sirs."

When Lancelot and Gwaine finished their stories, Arthur stood up, surprising everyone. They could see he suppressed an urge to walk round the hall, gesturing in a excited manner, but restrained himself to stay at the Table.

The bright beam of a distant star reflected on his crown as he turned his head to Merlin.

"Our victory at Camlann was a glorious battle. I am grateful to you all for remaining loyal to me and House Pendragon in this confrontation. Your help has been priceless." Merlin realised this last gratitude was addressed to him personally. "But this is only the beginning of our glorious deeds, is it not, Sirs?" Arthur proudly raised his head. "The unity we have learnt in the valley of Camlann calls us to greater things. The peace we have established in Camelot can be everlasting. The power we have forged can bring the greatest good to all of Albion..."

Merlin still didn't really understand what Arthur was getting at, but his heart was racing in anticipation. This dream-inspired young king was a different man from the brattish prince he was used to. Yes, indeed, a star had been born and he, Merlin, had helped it to shine.

Arthur continued. "This is what I've been thinking about since I was returned from Avalon. As Our Lord said, if a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. We saw this most recently for ourselves when the Barons and my own Cousin rose up against me threatening the very existence of the kingdom. We see the same across the lands of Albion. Division, war, dissent, suffering of the common people. Fratricidal skirmishes between nobilities where the best of the best perish.
It will lead to the destruction of our lands by the hands of barbarians if the sin of division is not put an end to. And we will put an end to it, Order." Arthur's voice rose. "We will unite Albion under the red and gold banner!..All in one!"

The knights gasped. Arthur has just announced his claim to the title of High King of Albion. One ruler, one dynasty, one kingdom. Merlin's eyes widened, the pounding of his heart was turning into a deafening noise in his ears.

It was the longest speech he'd ever heard from Arthur, and the greatest he'd ever heard at all. This was it. Destiny has blown in the door with a spring wind.
In that moment Merlin did not think about how it was possible, or what would happen next. Only this golden moment in the golden hour of his and Arthur's life was important.

And then it happened.

The star beam lengthened and spilled a silver waterfall through the huge hall windows. The water gathered itself into the shape of a hand. It floated over the heads of the frightened knights, and with its slender forefinger, inscribed fiery writings on the wall.

The noise in Merlin's ears became unbearable, blood leaked from them, and he fell on his knees, covering his ears with his palms in a fruitless attempt to feel no more. A violent spasm shook his body.

King Arthur and the Knights froze, in fear and awe. The flames were trembling within the strange and graceful letters of an unknown language. Then the hand of water gently split into two, and a dazzling golden light flooded the hall.

As it faded, the knights were able to see each other's faces again. A shining golden chalice of austere and pure beauty appeared above the Round Table. It was descending, held by the two hands made of water. Seven rays of light emanated from the chalice.

Arthur backed away from the table, agape. The other knights jumped up from their seats, staring at the chalice in awe. They didn't even notice that their names appeared on the back of each chair, embedded in gold, save the thirteenth chair.

"What is it?" Arthur whispered loudly. He was trembling and sweating, the crown suddenly pressed against his forehead with a red-hot iron like that which branded criminals and slaves.

Sir Gwaine dared to step forward, and hold out his hand for the chalice. But his fingers closed in the empty air. The cup was just before them, all could see its lustre and glory, but none could touch and take it. Like water, it flowed through their fingers.

"What is happening?" exclaimed Lancelot. The chalice's unattainable beauty filled his soul with a strange but so familiar yearning.

"It is the Holy Graal!" Sir Percival, tall and strong, piously stood on one knee before the heavenly image, bowed his honest face, and made the sign of the cross.

And, being answered, the chalice rose to the ceiling and dissolved in the rain odour.
Silence reigned in the Great Hall. The encounter with the sacred left the souls of the knights in fear and trembling.

"What's with Merlin?" Gwaine's anxious voice finally shattered this fragile crystal of silence.

Arthur and Lancelot bent over the young wizard. He lay on his side, knees pressed to his stomach, a thin trickle of blood dripping from his ear and nose. "He is unconscious?" Arthur wanted to shake him by the shoulder, but Merlin opened his deep frightened blue eyes.

"Is it over?" He sat up and wiped the blood away with a handkerchief. His cold hands were shaking.

"What happened to you?"

"I don't know..." Merlin took a deep breath, stood up, and stared at the writing still glowing on the wall.

"Do you know what it says, Merlin? It's something magical, isn't it?" asked Arthur.

"I do...It's the Old Tongue. I think it reads, "Seek me and you shall find the world. Seek the world and you shall lose me."

"Does anyone understand anything?" Sir Gwaine gave a whistle. "Because I do not, Sirs."

"It seems we stand on the threshold of the greatest quest known to knighthood..." Sir Kay was excitedly fiddling with his pendant in the shape of two interlocked dragons, a symbol of his ancient family's connection to the Pendragons. "It wants us to find it!"

The others responded to this statement with enthusiasm. The greatest quest! The divine omens! The glory!

"Sirs, may ask you to calm down." Arthur requested loudly, and the knights fell silent. He sat down at the Round Table again and focused his gaze on the spot where the magical chalice had floated. "Merlin, you're the court sorcerer, you explain what this was all about!"

Merlin faltered. "Well, I'm, em...not sure..." How to tell them about the circumstances under which he had last encountered the Cup of Life – as the late High Priestess Nimueh had called it?

"Let me, Sire." Percival raised his hand. "Once in my wanderings — before I met Sir Lancelot and became a knight — I stayed overnight at a holy hermit's hut. He lived in the woods all alone, spending his days in prayings and nights in visions. He told me tales of the Holy Graal. He said that Our Lord was drinking from this Cup at the Last Supper, and that later, Sir Joseph of Arimathea, Our Lord's good knight, filled that cup with the blood from Our Lord's wounds when He was tormented on the Cross. The Graal is said to have mighty grace, innumerable blessings, and can fulfil wishes."

Arthur's eyes widened, he looked as if he had just found all the answers. "It is a sign, sirs! It is a sign from above that my endeavour is good. Albion will be united! You and I will find the Graal and it will lead us to victory!"

The knights surrounded their king, and clapped. Merlin joined them. But still, he was confused. This phenomenon was absolutely extradionary. How could it be? The cup belonged to the priestesses of the Old Religion. But he probably might have guessed that an artifact of such power couldn't just stay on the Isle of the Blessed and allow itself to be perished when Sir Galahad was destroying the Sources of Magic.

"Merlin? Do you have something to add?" Arthur noticed his pensive mood.

"I have not a word of objection to anything Sir Percival had said. The Old Religion also speaks of the Cup of Life that is able to resurrect the dead and raise the living. It carries great power of life in itself. I believe it can be the same Cup."

"Well, that's even better."

Merlin quietly left the cheerful and enthusiastic knights and Arthur, and went to his room. Some thought kept him from resting on just that. Where could he have read about the Graal or the Cup of Life? In Gaius's secret magical books? No. Kilgharrah? He sat on the bed, and turned to Sir Galahad's diary.

He flipped through the pages quickly, nearly tearing them in the process until he found the right place.

....I woke up to singing, not the light even. The music was angelically beautiful. A procession of holy maidens dressed in white was walking slowly through the forest on the other side of the road. My foolish squire didn't wake up even when I nudged him. Perhaps his sleep was unnatural, or perhaps his soul was too rude to see this display of holiness. The maidens slowly carried a cup of pure gold in their hands. Sure enough, as soon as my fear let go of me, I realised this was the legendary Graal also known as the Cup of Supper, the Cup of the Blood of Christ, the Blessing of Pentecost. Ah, if only I could take it! The power contained within it could do unseen things. It could cleanse me from the curse of magic, it could feed all the hungry and bring happiness to all.

Ah! The sadness of what happened afterwards made my admiration for this beautiful scene fade with the years.

I rushed towards the maidens, reciting a prayer, hoping that they would stop, that this was my chance to get the Graal, but alas! The last maiden in the procession looked at me, oh, her eyes were terrible molten fire!, and they vanished. That was just the spirit of the Cup, not its body. The forest darkened and so did my heart. To this day, sometimes in the hour of a sleepless night I think about what I did wrong, what I didn't say, how I could have deserved to be blessed. But the Graal disappeared again...Only God knows where.....

Merlin continued to leaf through the diary. So, a magical cup appearing and disappearing in different places and times under the most bizarre circumstances.

Arthur was born thanks to the Cup of Life and Nimueh. The entry in Galahad's diary was undated, but he guessed Galahad had seen the Cup of Life when Nimueh was still alive and in possession of the Cup. How could it be at her Island and at the same time somewhere in the obscure forests? One thing was clear, the Graal has been in Arthur's destiny since the beginning, and perhaps it was no surprise that it appeared to him again. He was born thanks to it, he was healed from the bitter sting of the Questing Beast by it, and now, he will ascend to the High Kingship with the help of it.

But how to find the Cup? It seemed impossible to apply a simple seeking spell to an artifact of such high magic. But perhaps the Cup itself wanted to be found, and the knights should just set out on their journey and then receive a sign?

Someone knocked at the door. Merlin's magic opened it, and George came in with a tray of food, followed by Arthur.

"His Majesty has expressed a wish to dine with you." George moved magical books off the table with a prim look, and placed a tray of wine, slices of cheese, apples, and spicy meat on the table.

Arthur sat down opposite Merlin. The candles Merlin lit each night, his crystals, cushions and books, all had turned Galahad's humble cell into a magical cavern. "I think I like what you've done with the place. Well...what do you think, Merlin?"

"About what?"

"Oh, just some cup of divine power, you know."

"Ah, that...I think we're in for a great adventure." Merlin finally broke into a smile. "By the way, if it wasn't for the Graal, how did you intend to do this...the united Albion and stuff? You said the treasury isn't at its best, remember?"

After all, Albion consisted of an alliance of seven kingdoms and five splinter kingdoms, plus there were wild tribes far away in the mountains to the east...Could the house of the dragon rule them all?

"The united Albion and stuff. Oh, Merlin. It's just as I had won at Camlann. I would promise the army the riches of the twelve kingdoms. You know the rule of three days, don't you? I must confess, the Graal came just in time. Now I don't have to involve anyone outside the Order or be beholden to anyone else." Corners of his lips curved upwards into a small crooked smile.
"With the power of this cup I can take all the lands of Albion and create a united state of Britons. Those who refuse to submit...I don't think there will be any." He saluted Merlin with his goblet of wine. "Merlin, with your magic and the Graal, we can make the mountains move and the rivers flow backwards."

Merlin grinned. "Won't this yoke be too heavy for you Arthur? Have you ever worn anything heavier than an armour?"

Arthur let the teasing pass his ears. He was very focused, "By the way, I need your magical help, Merlin. Can you, I don't know...Cast a wraith, erase a memory, something, so that information about our plans to unite the kingdoms into one doesn't reach the wrong ears? Let everyone think we set off for a pious quest for no particular purpose, alright? Can you do that?"

Merlin drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Perhaps."

"Good. I know I can always count on you. George?"

"I didn't hear anything, Sire."

"Excellent."

When Arthur and George were gone, Merlin undressed and went to bed, but did not read Galahad's diary as he usually did. He pondered on how to weave a spell that would block the ears and eyes of those who should not know of Arthur's plans to unite the kingdoms.
"Eyes do not see, ears do not hear, thoughts do not comprehend Arthur Pendragon's deeds," something like that, but in the Old Tongue. And maybe besmoke the Great Hall with a deadly nightshade as well? With these thoughts, exhausted by the events of the day, Merlin closed his heavy, irritated eyelids and fell into a long-awaited sleep that would hollow out his tired mind.

Please, come!.. Morgana and Mordred cut their calling. For a few moments there was nothing but the roughness of the sea, and the smooth whisper of the mist in their windswept cloaks' folds. But soon, the first stranger showed himself. One by one, the druids of Meredor rose from their underground caverns. They stood in a circle around Morgana and Mordred. They watched, but were silent until their leader stepped into the light.

His silver eyes met theirs thoughtfully and wisely. "Who are you, friends or foes?"

"We have come in peace." Mordred repeated. "We are druids of the Brocéliande Clan."

"Please, we ask for shelter." Morgana added, admiring the druids' shabby cloaks the colours of the sea and the stones around them: grey, teal, black, blue, milky. They wore sea-glass necklaces and white albatross feathers woven into their hair. The leader held a staff of driftwood whitened by myriad waves. Morgana recalled his name was Iseldir, and he was known among the druids of Camelot for his wisdom.

At the word 'Brocéliande' the girl beside Iseldir flinched slightly, and her bright eyes lit up with joy. "Iseldir, it's Aglain's people! They may have come with a message!"

"Blessed be and welcome at the Great Seas of Meredor. Follow me, friends." The leader smiled calmly, and then turned to a secret passage leading underground.

Morgana and Mordred traded awkward glances. For all their longing to find these druids and, if accepted, to become part of the clan, they have not thought about the way to inform Iseldir and the others of the massacre that had doomed Brocéliande forest.

Chapter Text

Gwen walked over to the round mirror. She held a wooden bowl in her hands; a colourful, fluffy pile of tiny flowers from the Camelot Gardens was inside. She was wetting their thin stems with water and putting them in her hair. She wanted to look beautiful for Arthur. In the weeks since Camlann, she had been thinking a lot. About herself, about Arthur and Lancelot. She had made up her mind: there was no turning back. She vowed to belong to Arthur. He would never, never leave her, and with him she was sure of the future.

Gwen was no longer a maid, she became head of the servants when Merlin was uplifted to a court sorcerer, and that left her with more free time. And she was spending it on her daring secret: her wedding dress. White silk, part of her late mother's dowry, she embroidered it with white threads. White flowers on white field, dreamy like her love for the prince of Camelot.

But time passed, and Arthur was still silent about their formal engagement, despite his Mother's ring on her finger, despite what had happened at Lord Ector's Manor: she had sat at the feast table with them as their equal. Gwen decided Arthur was just shy. Despite all his bravado, he was very insecure about  evrything that touched his feelings. That meant she had to help him. Gwen knew that a good wife, even if she had no official say in her husband's affairs, with just a soft word spoken at the right time could change the situation so that her husband would think he made up his mind by himself. A good wife could change her husband for the better by her mere presence in his life. And Gwen wanted to be that kind of wife.

So she made her hair, adjusted the narrow sleeves of her dusty blue dress, and headed for Arthur's chambers, praying that awful George was somewhere else. Technically, she was his superior, but he was putting himself up as though he were the king himself.

She thought she saw Lancelot and Gwaine round the corner and hurried away, her heart pounding faster, certainly from the fast walking and nothing else. As she approached the door of the King's chambers, she listened. It was quiet, which meant George was absent. Perfect.

Gwen knocked, and entered with a smile. "Arthur? Have a minute? I didn't mean to disturb you, I'm sorry..."

Arthur sat silently at a table littered with scraps: apple gnaws, fish bones, nutshells, and the like. Gwen wrinkled her nose. "I was just wondering if you have any complaints about George? Maybe I should talk to him? Sure, you're capable of doing it yourself, but— Arthur?"

He was staring before him with an absent look, as though not noticing her. His unbuttoned white shirt hung open, a thin golden chain rested on his bare chest. "Arthur, are you here?" Gwen giggled, walked over to him, and touched his shoulder. That's when he seemed to wake up.

"What? Ah, it's you, Gwen. No, it's all right, I just sent George away. I wanted a quiet meal without him lecturing me." He smiled at her and pulled her by the elbow, forcing her to sit on his lap.

"And without plates?" Gwen giggled.

"Never mind. Why are you visiting me?" His thumbs drew circles on her waist.

"Why?! Arthur, why don't you ever tell me anything? You've been so quiet lately. Why do I hear about you going on a quest for the Holy Graal from Merlin and not from my fiancé?" There it is. That's the word.

And Arthur understood that. When he wanted to, he could be heedful. A frown darkened his face. "Look, Gwen. I know what you mean. But it's not time yet. There's something I haven't told you yet. A big secret. I want to become High King and create a kingdom the likes of which history has never known, that's why I'm going after the Graal. When I return victorious, then I will lay all of Albion at your feet and marry you. But not yet." He put his hand on her cheek and stroked her skin.

"But I don't want Albion," Gwen retorted with sadness in her voice, "I want you."

"I want you too. Very much." Arthur's voice changed, it became quieter, passion flashed in his eyes. Gwen didn't even realise as he lifted her up, set her on the table, stood between her legs, and messed her skirts up. His hands gripped her thighs, his mouth was almost biting her neck and breasts.

"Arthur..." Gwen pushed lightly at his chest, then harder when he didn't react. He wasn't serious about taking her on a dirty table in broad daylight, was he? But even if it happened at night in his bed of satin sheets, Gwen would say no. She wasn't going to give herself to him before the wedding. Some thin voice in the back of her mind, a voice somehow strangely similar to Lady Lisanor's feisty voice, always snorted, "How vulgar! How trivial! The master sleeps with his foolish naïve maid!"

"Arthur!"

He finally stopped, a dark storm of desire in his blue eyes, his breathing heavy, his hands near an inch from tearing her floral corsage apart. "What on earth?!"

"Nothing!" Gwen jumped off the table, fixed her dress and took a deep breath. "Good luck on your quest. I'll keep your promise in my heart." She turned on her heels and left the royal chambers, feeling somehow lost. What did she do wrong to cause this...?

On her way to her room, Lancelot and Gwaine almost ran into her. They stopped their conversation, and Lancelot, as always at the sight of her, lit up and bowed gallantly, kissing her hand. "My Lady Gwen, how do you do?"

A smile, a gesture of knightly gallantry, a fleeing glance was all Lancelot allowed himself since their return from Avalon. He kept his promise, their kiss at the Lord Ector's rosarium had been the last.

Gwen hummed weakly, and nervously fixed back the strands that had messed out of her braid. The flowers had all fallen out while Arthur was trying to ravish her. "I'm doing pretty fine, thank you."

"Gwen, you were looking for us to give us your tokens on the way, weren't you?" Gwaine grinned, taking off his black gloves. "Ribbons, flowers, maybe even a sleeve of your dress? We beg on your knees!"

"Actually, I was going my way, it was you who nearly crashed into me." Gwen smirked, her heart lifted at the jolly Sir Gwaine's jokes.

"Will you at least wave your handkerchief after us as we set off on our journey for the Holy Graal? And then the said handkerchief will be blown away by the wind and all the knights will rush to catch it and keep it for the rest of their days! There will even be duels for the possession of your handkerchief! It will be passed from father to son!"

Gwen sniffed and giggled. "What a nonsense, Sir Gwaine! No one would do such a thing for me."

"Surprisingly enough, I think Gwaine is rather right this time." Lancelot gave her a soft smile. His jokes became so rare of late.

"And you, Lance!"

"Name me all the times I've been wrong, Lancelot!" Gwaine demanded.

"Sirs, all I wish is that you come back safe and sound." For a brief moment she placed her palm on Lancelot's chest, his armour plate pleasantly cooling. "Take care of our King, protect him at all costs. And may God bless you."

She spoke of Arthur, but looked at Lancelot, and mentally prayed, "Please, come back. Please, be careful. I believe you are worthy to find the Graal."

A look of pain flashed in his soft brown eyes; she couldn't tell he understood the hidden message.

"We vow." Gwaine answered for them both.

Gwen retired to her room and opened the needlework basket, but didn't get the wedding dress out. She wasn't in the mood for work for some reason.

Iseldir led them down a rough staircase carved into the rock. The druids of Meredor's underground sanctuary was a tangled web of dark, secret caves and grottoes.

"Some even go under the sea floor, but we do not go there, for in times of high tide they can be flooded." The Leader noted.

He invited them into a large cave, called the main cave. The floor was sandy, a campfire burned in the pit, people sat and lay on thick mats woven from ribbons and scraps of cloth, the walls were hung with fishing nets. The Druids greeted their new brother and sister with smiles and blessings. Mordred felt a soothing warmth in his heart, and a burning in his eyes from their peaceful love.

Morgana sat on the rug, a giant blue triskelion was painted on the wall behind her. Mordred, Iseldir, and the girl called Sefa sat down beside her.

"Blessed be. What are your names, friends? You know mine, I believe."

"Mordred, son of Cerdan and Aglain of Brocéliande. You might remember me? We once visited the Seas with my father's clan..."

"It's been years, but I haven't forgotten your face, brother. Welcome back." Iseldir held out his hands to him and they shook them. "And you, sister? I do not remember you." He reached out for her too.

"Morgana, daughter of Gorlois of Cornwallis. I was not born a druidess. Leader Aglain initiated me."

Mordred noticed she chose not to call herself a Pendragon. But whether she wanted to or not, though he understood her wish, the truth would have to be revealed if they were to explain why they were here and what had happened in Brocéliande.

"How is Aglain and everyone? Please tell me my father has received my message!" Sefa smiled in anticipation. Morgana thought she was so sweet, with her neat updo and blue dress embroidered with pearly fish scales. She would be sorry to break her heart.

"Who is your father?" asked Mordred.

"His name is Ruadan, you must know him. It's been so long since we've seen each other! I live here with my mother, but I always miss my father so much."

"Oh. I remember he spoke of his daughter...So, it's you?" Mordred threw a despairing look at Morgana.

"You...haven't heard anything about what's happened in the last few months?" she asked, hands nervously fiddling with the dusty ragged fabric of her black cloak.

"It is very quiet here at the Great Seas," Iseldir explained calmly. "Sometimes we are completely cut off from the rest of the world. But the stars had told me that out there beyond the Forest the winds of destiny blew hard. I had seen Sadwrn and Mawrth meet in a celestial duel, and I knew that something was coming, powerful and terrible."

"We are free. King Arthur has taken the Ban."

A joyous and surprised whisper travelled through the caves. "Then why had I read the signs of ending and trouble?" Iseldir leaned forwards, looking closely at Morgana and Mordred.

And they told him and Sefa everything. They told about Uther's death at the hand of Odin, about Sir Galahad and the Sources of Magic, about how they found Emrys; they told that King Arthur is Morgana's brother, that he lifted the Ban but the entire Brocéliande Clan perished, and that they avenged their deaths and escorted Arthur to Avalon and back.

"So... Father is dead?" Sefa, paled, was visibly shaking.

"No one survived." Mordred sealed grimly. "We are the last of Brocéliande."

Sefa pressed her palm to her mouth, and fled out of the cave somewhere in the mist.

Iseldir moved after her, he wanted to follow, but then changed his mind. "She needs to be alone..." A deep sadness turned his stern noble face into a frozen mask.

"I'm so sorry, Iseldir. I'm sorry we had to bring all this to you." Guilt pressed Morgana's shoulders down.

"You were carrying the burden in your souls, we only listened. It's not your fault."

"Iseldir, we have nowhere else to go. I feel it on me, every day. Their deaths, war, darkness. I feel guilty before Aglain for breaking his teachings..."
Mordred looked at him with helpless pleading in his eyes.

"You did what you thought was right."

"Yes, but...I don't know."

"Even Goddess is no stranger to anger, how can a mortal heart expect to never know it?" Iseldir consoled, though he himself seemed just the sort of man who never gets angry and always lives in love and peace. "I know what you mean, brother. I'll make it all right. You are home now. Fear nothing, and give your heart peace."

After a quarter of an hour, Iseldir left them, and the caves. Morgana guessed he went to find Sefa. She felt a special bond between the Leader and the young druidess.

Merlin was polishing a crystal of rare green quartz when Arthur entered the room without knocking. In his hands he held the black and silver scabbard of Tanllyd, the sword from the Crystal Cave.

"Traveling mood?" Merlin muttered absentmindedly, studying the facets of the crystal which he believed could store the wearer's magical power and radiate it outwards. "I haven't started packing yet, sorry..."

"Why would you need to pack, Merlin? It's not like you're going on the quest." Matter-of-factly, Arthur remarked.

Merlin set a tool aside and stared at him. "What? I'm not letting you go alone! We always go together, Arthur!" How could Arthur suggest to cut him out like that?

"That's the problem, Merlin. I can't go on a knightly quest with a wizard up my sleeve who will win instead of me with magic tricks. People will say I acted dishonestly, that I'm not worthy to possess the Graal. People of your, er, background may not understand that, but we care about what people say about us. Rumours and slander against the King could lead to another conspiracy. Which brings us back to the beginning, Merlin. I need you here in Camelot while I and my strongest men chase the Cup.
You will guard the kingdom and frighten any villains who choose to take advantage of our absence. I trust you Camelot."

Disarmed, Merlin mumbled: "Thank you, of course, but...There is Lord Ector here..."

"I didn't realise old Lord Ector has powerful magic."

"But you can get in danger!"

"I don't really expect you to understand, but danger is a man's test to pass." It was clear from Arthur's irritated tone he wasn't going to accept any objections. "Speaking of magic, Merlin. I need your help again." He placed Tanlydd on the table. "But keep it a secret, alright? The problem is that after I came back, this sword... It stopped working, the flame is gone. Mordred said to point the blade at the fire, but I can't get it to work no matter how hard I try. I need the sword to inspire my men. Can you do something?"
Arthur sat down on Merlin's bed.

Merlin picked up the sword. Sometimes spells had an expiry date, potions had a way of wearing off and crystals broke, but that was not the case with artefacts as ancient as this sword. He gazed into the silver patterns on the blackness of the sheath. Spirals, knots, and dragon heads were tangled into a dizzying web of striking beauty. He unsheathed the sword, and nearly dropped it when it caught fire, catching the reflection of the fireplace.  "Ouch!"

"How come you can do it and I can't! I don't understand a thing." Arthur sounded frustrated.

"Because I'm cool and you're not." Merlin chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll think of something."

Merlin decided that Arthur had overused Tanllyd on Camlann, and maybe the sword's aura had absorbed too much of the unclean energy of death and blood. As a tool of warfare it was still flawless, and if Arthur needed a magic sign to impress people, well, he'd get it. "I'll be casting my magic now, Arthur. You may come out if you're afraid."

"You think I am a coward?"

"I think you're a novice." Merlin stood up, lit a long black candle, and covered the sword with a cloth with a gold pentagram embroidered on it.

Arthur, looking at Merlin's mysterious manipulations, and his suddenly yellow eyes, couldn't help but feel just a little bit disturbed. To distract himself, he looked at the book spines in the bookcase — they were on magic too. And then his hand found something solid under the pillow. He pulled out a brown shabby notebook. A diary. Arthur's lips spread into a sly grin. He opened it to a random page, and his eyes widened in surprise.

Merlin removed the cloth, took his athame, heated the blade in the candle flame and carved the word "fire" in the Old Tongue into the hilt. It was a bit sacrilegious to do this to the sword, but he could think of no other option. Now when Arthur discreetly presses his thumb on the rune, the sword will light up as before.

He was snapped out of his magical concentration by Arthur's mocking voice:

"Oh, if someone told me a woman could occupy all my thoughts so much, I would have laughed in his face. But how cruel destiny is! She loves to bring us down on our knees and mock the defiance of her wretched victim's faith! Oh, love is what can bring a man down most of all. Morgause, I know no peace. Where she is now or what happened with her? A witch, a sinful heathen, destiny wears her face...Morgause!"

When he finished reading, Arthur laughed out loud. "You and Lady Morgause? The last thing I expected, how could you?! Falling in love with Camelot's enemy! Isn't it a treason?"

"No, Arthur, you are wrong, it's not me!" Merlin panicked, and tried to wrest the diary from the King's hands, but to no avail.

"You're a bad liar, Merlin! Here it is, your diary, where you write of your undying love for Morgause!" Arthur was shaking with laughter. "I never would have thought she is your type..."

"It's not my diary! It's Sir Galahad's!" Merlin got angry and made another attempt to wrest the ill-fated notebook from Arthur's clinging hands.

"Oh, and that's why YOU keep it under your pillow? Who do you want to fool? My crazy holier-than-thou cousin was incapable of love. Just admit you fell with the hot wicked lady-knight!"

His patience ran out. With ears red with shame, Merlin blinked, and Arthur's fingertips burned, not severely, but enough for him to drop the diary. Merlin immediately took possession of it and shoved it under the stack of books on the table. "Stop being a child, Arthur. Here, take the sword, it's ready."

Arthur stood up, still smirking. "I'm sorry, Merlin, but I'm afraid you and Morgause have no future. I've heard rumours she's the next Essetyr Queen. You don't stand a chance against the crown, alas."

"Shut up. I repeat, this is not mine! It's Galahad's!"

"Sure, sure." Arthur grinned.

Finna, a sweet older woman in a dark hooded dress greeted them afterwards. She provided them with mats and blankets, and some new clothes: a grey dress and brown cloak for Morgana, and a blue and grey set for Mordred. She showed them a curtained corner of the cave they could make their own, and introduced them to the others.

"And where do you pray and make offerings?" inquired Mordred.

"Nature is our temple." Finna smiled. "And the sky is our home from whence we came and to which we will return."

Mordred was at a loss for an answer. It was the same in Brocéliande, nature was everything to the druids, but his clan had a special dedicated clean place for rituals.

Morgana spotted one large cauldron, several smaller pots and pans against the far wall of the cave. They were scraped clean and looked unused. Morgana remembered that the outer walls of the cauldrons in Brocéliande were always covered in a layer of black, greasy soot from the fire. Lifting a cauldron or a frying pan always left their oily traces on her fingers. She looked around and noticed that none of the druids were cooking. Everyone was just talking to each other, reading or playing some game of coloured pebbles. Another difference from Brocéliande. There, something delicious from the bounty of the forest was always being cooked, and the smell of roasting chestnuts, mushrooms or game enveloped the forest camp in cosiness.

Morgana thought with sorry that Meredor's clan must be starving.

Finna, however, interpreted her look differently. "Worry not, Morgana. We have a source of clean water. The spring is in another cave."

"I'm sorry, but...We ran out of our supplies..." Mordred blushed slightly, hinting at the food.

"Ah, sure! Wait a little, children, I'll get you some food!"

Morgana spread mats and blankets in the corner, and Mordred began arranging their belongings around and in a small shelf carved into the stone. Dishes, waterskin, a flask, a stone and copper knifes, a bar of soap, ropes, a purse of Saxon money, a candle, a horse scraper, a horseshoe, two combs and two towels, Morgana's sewing kit, dried trilliums from the Valley of the Fallen Kings. He was so anxious to feel home soon. The known things could bring familiarity to an unknown place.

Finna returned and sat down on the rug beside them. With a motherly, kind smile, she handed them something wrapped in a white linen napkin and a wineskin. "Here. Take this."

Morgana unwrapped the napkin, and much to her surprise she found there a round loaf of white bread made of the purest flour. During her wanderings outside Camelot, she had grown accustomed to the coarse grey and black bread of commoners. This one, however, was like the bread they served in Camelot on its best days. Taking a sip of the wine from the wineskin, she had to admit the last time she had tasted something so fine and sweet was at the feast celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Great Dragon's capture.

"Finna, please tell me you're not giving us the last of your food." Morgana was about to give the bread back to Finna, but she only laughed softly. "I told you not to worry, girl. We have food, thanks Goddess. Share this bread and wine with us and give thanks to destiny."

Other druids joined them with their food, and their tight little circle celebrated the coming of the New Age in memory of the Brocéliande clan.

Mordred broke the bread with relish, he had never eaten such a delicacy before. Finna looked at him lollingly, folding her hands in her lap. "I heard your story. May their souls float away to the other side in peace, for there is no death, only the Way. And you will be well here. You know, I did not belong to this clan either. I came from the island of Katha..."

And she told them of her clan that thrived in knowledge of the spiritworld and preserved the druids' rites of passage. But then their roads diverged, and she setlled here in the western caverns of the Great Seas of Meredor.

"Now that we are free, you can return to Holy Lake," suggested Mordred.

But Finna shook her head thoughtfully. "I think some threads cannot be rewoven. But even if they can, I think we will not return to Avalon until destiny calls louder."

Morgana reflected on how a person could become attached to even a place as desolate as this. Empty black rocks, sand and salt water. Would she be able to find the same strength and humility as Finna? She wasn't sure.

"I have the healer gift. If you need anything, I am ready."

"Thank you, child, for wanting to share it with us. We're fine." Finna rejected her offer gently and mysteriously.

When the first stars lit in the sky and the sea rose to the moon's calling, they went to bed listening to its relentless noise.

Mordred lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling of the cave, Morgana on her side, her glance rested on his pale profile in the blue twilight.

I cannot sleep. The noise disturbs me.

When I was little, I lived in a castle on a cliff above the sea. I remember my Father saying the sea sings us a lullaby, you just have to listen.

Your home in Cornwallis? I never asked, but why didn't you go back there?

I can't and I don't want. When my father died, everything went to the men of his family. I only got the money, but it was under Uther's patronage and now, I think, under Arthur's.

Mordred remained silent, but Morgana knew he sympathised with her. It was dear to her heart.

I just remembered about the horses. I'm going to go check on them, alright?

She thought Mordred might be looking for an excuse to be alone. He would sit on the shore under the stars and the wind and scoop out the darkness from his soul cup by cup. She wished she could share the grief with him, but maybe Iseldir was right. Maybe some people needed to be alone sometimes. She wasn't like that. All she ever wanted, all that pushed her away from Camelot into the arms of the forest was no longer be alienated from the world, from love, from freedom; no longer stand alone against all.

As she sank into the pool of dreams, time ceased to exist. Morgana was a little girl in Tintagel, in a round room on a cliff. She was a secret sorceress in Camelot. She was in the forest by a druid campfire. She was many things, in many places, and the shadows of who she was yet to become and the places she was yet to come circled Morgana in a spiral of the future, wanting to get through, to be seen, and once seen, to be manifested.

But then, when the message came, Morgana was only the eyes that sighted, but never the hands that could act, never the mind to comprehend.

She saw a valley of deserted green hills under a colourless sky. And the trackhounds that rushed in pursuit of a prey. They were wiry and lean, white, fast, vicious. Their ears were red, sensitive. They could hear the wind in her hair if Morgana had flesh. Some shadow was running away from them, slipping between the heavy bodies of the hills. The hounds were getting closer and closer. When they finally caught up with their desperate victim, and clutched at his red cloak with a deadly grip, the man turned in horror, and Morgana recognised Arthur's fear-struck face.

Mordred almost got lost in the darkness of the caves. By touch, he managed to find the stairs to the outside. Once out, he paused, staring into the void of the sea, trying to hear the lullaby Morgana had spoken of, but to him the sea sang only of disquiet. It was like an obsessive thought that could not be shaken off in the midnight hours of insomnia. Mordred went down to the shore and found the rope lying on the sand. His horse was gone. He must have loosely tightened the knot. Morgana's horse muzzled helplessly in his palm. After a moment's thought, he untied her.

"Go, girl. You're free." The horse didn't move, and he had to slap her neck. With a pitiful, resentful neigh, she disappeared among the rocks.

An hour later, Mordred returned and lay down beside Morgana. The druids were asleep. In the morning he would explain to her there was no life for the horses on the rocks. Maybe they could find their way to the forest, to freedom.

Chapter Text

Some oak leaves fall to the earth coloured red, yellow, golden. Some are faded brown, as if all the life had been sucked out of them before the autumn wind plucked them from the mother branch. Morgana mused that it was like two kinds of death: bright and quite beautiful in youth, and hard and depressing when a man drags himself to the threshold of a hundred years and can't even lift a foot to cross it. Which is sadder?..

Strange that such thoughts visited her on this bright crispy autumn day. As the morning mists melted away, Aglain invited her to take a walk around Brocéliande. Morgana agreed, excited. Surely they would talk about magic. Maybe even practice it.

Now they were walking under the bright sky above and the yellowing ferns below, in the perfect middle of the world.

"You should know that you have a place here, Morgana." Aglain assured her with a little smile, "You have the right to this power and were gifted with it for a reason, as we all are. We can make the world a better place, in both little and great ways." His voice was deep and quiet, but she heard him perfectly. "Go forth, Morgana. Walk with Goddess, daughter, as she walks with us in wind, flower and ray."

She walked slowly forward, bathed in the cool air, while Aglain paced behind, not pointing out the path to herself she had to find on her own, but only gently guiding her along. He imparted her of the Three Faces of the Triple Goddess reflected in the seasons of nature. Autumn was the time of the Mother letting her grown children out of the nest. When winter comes, she dresses herself in a black cloak and attains supreme wisdom when her children die and she stays.  He told her about the Law of Three: Three in One and One in Three.

"What you give is what you live. What you receive is what you live. And what you see returns to you."

Aglain told Morgana that forest is a living and breathing being, cared by the green spirits governing the daily life of Nature. He told her about the cycles of the Year, of the Moon, the sea, human nature. Everything consisted of perfect circles, and at the same time went forward, from the past to the future. Like a spiral.

"The Druid world has a plenty of stories and faces. Memorize them, Morgana, and you will be richer in true riches."

Morgana smiled enthusiastically at the trees. She wanted to know it all. The world revealed itself so clear and comprehensible, like something she could touch, more than ever; but at the same time she found it more mysterious and profound than before.

"Thank you. I love it." she quickly looked back at the teacher. His red robe was blazing like a campfire against the dying forest.

"Perhaps there is someone here whose memory is working better than mine." Aglain smiled, glancing askew at the shadows between the trees.

Morgana stopped in front of a beautiful spreading oak. Its branches were twisted and crooked, and its trunk was vivid green overgrown with soft velvet moss. It was so thin and delicate, as if the tree was wrapped in the finest of the finest of fabrics. Morgana stepped closer and placed her palm on the cool bark. Then she noticed that just above her hand, a triskelion and the letter "M" were scratched into the green. And the moss has not yet covered this drawing of a human hand, so it was new. Someone had picked up a twig from the ground and in a moment of reverie had drawn this sacred sign of the Three.

"Love the trees, Morgana. They will always give shelter."

The teacher and pupil walked further along the deer trail, and Morgana felt the presence of someone else nearby, someone both new and familiar. But maybe it was just a play of shadows.

"How do we do magic?" So far, all she could do was make fire. It was good, but she wanted more.

Aglain hummed softly. "We, the receptive, influence and transform the world by channelling energy flows from the Sources. We do it using the words of the Old Tongue. It is the language spoken by our ancestors and the Ancient Folk in the First Days. It has special vibrations that resonate with the fabrics of destiny, so we still have not forgotten it. Some gifted mages can channel power without words, so deep is their connection to nature, but usually we need language to bow matter to our will. You'll learn all the words you need, Morgana, and maybe even invent new spells. In time. The important thing is to find the right tune."

"How do I find it?" Morgana looked around, almost catching a glimpse of the green shadow beside her.

"For now, you're so contained. To let the power flow loose you must open the door—"

"You think I can't see you?" Morgana stopped and placed her arms at her hips.

"You cannot." Mordred darted behind the oak tree, closed his eyes, and leaned his back against its wide, safe trunk. His heart beat so hard, and his lips stretched in a smile.

"Sure." Morgana smirked, shook her head, and walked on. If he wants to pretend he's not here, then she won't pay attention to him either. 'M' is for Mordred. Was he the one who wrote his name on the oak tree...?

"Open a door in your soul, in the thin world, children." Aglain smiled at Morgana and at Mordred hiding behind the tree. His children were the most beautiful and beloved in the world. All Aglain told Morgana, these basics of the law and craft had been known to Mordred since childhood, but apparently it pleased him to remember the roots.

Morgana turned her attention away from Mordred and back to Aglain, and to magic.

"How can I do it?"

"Just imagine opening the door, what's not clear?" Mordred's voice came from behind the tree.

"Mordred is right, Morgana." Aglain took her elbow gently. "Our imagination is not just a mind game. It is a connection to the thin world. There are three worlds: manifested, unmanifested, and the spiritworld. Come on, do it."

"Right now?" Morgana stammered. They were standing in a small clearing, beneath a group of three young oaks, a creek cluttered with fallen leaves was babbling merrily somewhere nearby.

"The Wheel goes on without expecting us. And you've already taken too long to find your way, that's because your powers had caused you suffering." Aglain lifted a hand and gently closed her eyes, the way one does with the dead. "Focus on your magic, daughter. It awaits you within, in the thin world."

Morgana took a deep breath and relaxed. The wind gently ruffled the folds of her green cloak, stroking her white face and black hair. Aglain nodded faintly to Mordred and the latter stepped out and approached Morgana silently.

When she closed her eyes, all she saw was molten red sunlight shining through her eyelids. She kept watching and the red lightened to gold, blissful gold on the black of her mind.

A white door appeared in the dark hill, her gaze made it swing open and inside was fire, water and the west wind.

Gasp escaped Morgana's lips, her eyelids shut tighter, and she toppled over onto her back.

Mordred caught her, and lay down on the ground gently.

Morgana awoke to find herself warm and comfortable. Perhaps too much so. Someone's warm breath was fanning her hair and his hands were holding her shoulders.

She sat up abruptly. Aglain was sitting on the grass opposite her, fiddling with a brown oak leaf in his hands, a wise smile in his dark eyes. And she seemed to have just lain unconscious in the arms of the Clan's guard himself.

"What happened?" she hastily moved away and sat down next to Aglain. Perhaps that was not the best decision, for now she could see Mordred's ironic and sad, strange face before her.

"Oh, you just opened a door out there in the thin world. Power came out. A lot of power. And then you fell so clumsily right on top of me. You're heavy."

"It's not easy to be graceful when one is unconscious, you know." Morgana blushed and nervously twisted the edge of her cloak between her fingers. "That's it? Just like that? So I'm a real sorceress now?"

Aglain shook his head kindly. "Yes and no, Morgana."

"You were born to be her," Mordred declared.

"It's right." Aglain confirmed. "And like a child, you are growing. You are still at the beginning of your journey. Tonight my daughter will take you to the Stone Circle for your initiation."

"What is it?"

"The first step out the door." Mordred mysteriously explained nothing and smiled from ear to ear.

Morgana could barely wait until evening. Gladly, at this time of autumn, the sun sets down earlier than usual. When the great bonfire was lit, Elaine slipped quietly into Morgana's red tent with a shift and comb in her hands.

"Must be hungry, eh?" she smiled sympathetically. Morgana had to keep the fast until sundown.

"Yes. Or not, I don't know. I'm worried." Agitatedly, Morgana explained.

"Don't worry, it'll be easy. Like going home, no big deal. And then we will have dinner, it is already waiting for us. Mordred and I have made you some goodies in honour of the night of your initiation into magic."

"Mordred, too?" Morgana cleared her throat.

"Well, yes. When he's off duty and not being lazy, he sometimes helps me cook." Elaine unfolded a long white sleeveless shirt of coarse linen in front of Morgana. "Please, change into this, Morgana. It will be cold, but bearable." She helped Morgana free herself from the heavy woollen garment and unbraided her plait. "Don't wear any belts. Nothing should restrict your freedom this night." Then Elaine brushed Morgana's hair with the new wooden comb. "That's it, you are ready."

Morgana took a deep breath, and bent to leave the tent.

"Wait, I'll get a cloak to wrap you up warm later," Elaine giggled.

Morgana left the camp and walked down a narrow path to the Stone Circle, a woodland temple under a starry sky. In the middle of it, a circle of druids gathered, led by Aglain; tambourines in their hands. The bonfire was burning in full force, a powerful splash of red and gold. Morgana quickly entered the circle and stood in the centre. Her heart was full of pleasant and fearful expectations.

Mordred's eyes widened and his chest grew tight and hot when he saw the Princess of Camelot in the simple white shift and with her hair loose, so dark against the thin white fabric; when he saw her wild and mysterious as if she had been born in this magical forest a daughter of his people. She stood in a circle with her arms calmly down along her body, right in front of him with her eyes trustingly closed, waiting for a miracle. He hit his tambourine first, setting the rhythm for the others, unable to take his eyes off Morgana.

Aglain recited, loudly but gently, following their savage, full of love, music. "The path. The song. Forever new. Like the dawn, goes on and on. Calling you, shows the way, to go."

Morgana listened to them; the power was so pure and simple. And the chant shaped her, made her, carried her deep within herself.

And it was just beginning: the fire, and the water, and the west wind of the salty sea.

Chapter Text

Gwaine reread the letter before folding and waxing it. He had tried to do his best handwriting, but he wasn't sure he succeeded.

"Ragnelle!
Soon you will know—though I wouldn't be surprised if you already know, you always know everything—that I will be following my King on a quest for the Holy Graal. Please, don't mock me. I leave the Heavens to Arthur and Percival, I set out on my journey with the hope of the only ultimate prize, your forgiveness. I promise you that every enemy will know they have been defeated in your name.
Your old friend Gwaine."

An uncharacteristic melancholic sigh burst from the cheerful knight's chest at the thought of the bride and childhood friend he had rejected. He sealed the letter with the green seal of his house.

Some people will never stop fighting for what they hold dear: love, revenge, power, honour or justice. To give in to them is like the death of their self, the last and only thing person truly has.

Whistling to ward off sadness, this uninvited guest, Gwaine also took the letter for his mother, and left the room. To his delight, he immediately met Merlin, who was absent-mindedly fiddling with some blue crystal.

"Merlin, my friend! Can I ask you a favour?"

"You may, but I don't have time for anything risky right now, Gwaine."

"This time, Merlin, it is a perfectly harmless, I would even say innocent, request. Please take these letters to the royal post."

"Oh, alright." Merlin put them into his robe pocket, "Should I send them to Caerleon, should I?" He couldn't help but smirk, knowing of Gwaine's stubborn flame for someone he had previously called nothing but a "toad" and "loathe one."

Gwaine whistled again, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"Are you nervous for the quest? You know, I'm even a little angry that Arthur forbade me to accompany you all." Merlin complained.

"Pfft, I'm not." Gwaine rolled his eyes, "Knightly code, knightly rules, knightly this and that... Arthur cares too much. On the other hand, I think the Graal has made too much fuss with these apparitions and disappearances. If it wants Arthur to have it, what's stopping it from just letting him grab and have it? Why does it have to be such a big deal, Merlin?"

Merlin chuckled. "You're right! But, you know, it's just the way magic works. It comes with a price." They stopped in front of the doors of the royal stables where stable boys were already preparing the horses for the long journey. "Will you keep an eye on him?"

Gwaine snorted. "Of course I will. You seem to worry more than any of us, Merlin. It'll be fine, relax."

"I hope so." Merlin held out his hand for him to shake.

Gwaine squeezed it tightly. "Don't hope, believe."

When Mordred awoke, he did not find Morgana beside him in bed. This was new to them: he usually woke before her. Reaching up, he fastened over her place the dreamcatcher. The enchantments of threads and feathers would capture as many dreams in their nets as they could. What will be will be, Morgana's peace of mind is more important than knowing the future. It will come whether they know it or not. The end was written in the Book of Destiny right after the first page.

He found Morgana at the far end of the cave. She was sitting close to Sefa. Sefa was hugging her knees to her chest, her head lowered mournfully. Morgana stroked her shoulder delicately, saying something softly. Mordred's heart clenched with love for her. Morgana was so full of compassion: she had lost her father, no matter it was Uther, lost the clan — the people who accepted her for who she was, almost lost her brother — and yet she never tired of comforting him and others. Perhaps he'd let his own grief consume him too much, and he'd forgotten Morgana needed love and understanding too.

He walked over and sat down beside them, crossing his legs. Sefa looked up at him, and then cried silently again.

"Your father died in blessing and honour. His name will not be forgotten, Sefa. Everyone in the clan respected Ruadan. He was one of the wisest. The enemies stained themselves with his blood, they condemned themselves to a torment that only the last fire would end. His life and death have been avenged. The murderer is no more." Morgana explained quietly, with deep conviction.

"But he is gone too." Mordred mildly objected, or rather pointed out. He was not at all sure that Morgana's flame could comfort a girl who seemed as gentle and delicate as Sefa.

To his surprise, Sefa squeezed Morgana's hand in gratitude. "It comforts me. May it be so. Thank you, Morgana. You are strong."

"You are, too. In fact, we all are. There's no one stronger than us. Where are the knights who brag about their foolish and brute jousts compared to those who survived the Purge?"

Sefa nodded. "I think...I need some air. Shall you come with me?"

Morgana glanced at Mordred for agreement.  "With pleasure."

"Then take knives and napkins."

"What for?"

"We'll get you food." Sefa stood up and shook off her bluish skirt. She was so pale and lost, but kept her back straight.

"And you?"

"I'm not hungry, to be honest."

Mordred was familiar with this. When grief eats away at the soul, the body follows and gives itself to the feast.

Knights, courtiers, the Council, Merlin and Gwen, all gathered in the castle courtyard, in front of the grand staircase to see off Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. All were uplift by the excited anticipation of something great and magical to come.

The morning sun glistened brightly on the rain-wet paving stones, flowers in the great stone vases, on the royal oriflammes' golden embroidery. Perhaps the Star also wished the heroes a happy journey.

Merlin irritably shoved George away, and checked Arthur's bags, supplies and harness straps himself.

"Merlin." Arthur drawled with a sneer. He was already sitting on his horse, and looking down at Merlin. "Old habit dies hard, eh?"

"Here, take this, Your Majesty." Merlin slipped something made of twigs, bones and dried berries, all wrapped in red thread, into his palm.

"What is this thing?" Arthur wrinkled his nose unhappily.

"A rowan amulet against evil forces."

"Rowan?" Arthur was confused, being unsure of what to make of this charm of village magic. "But I told you the struggle should be fair..."

"And this is quite fair. Come on, put it under your chainmail." Merlin waited for Arthur to obey. "That's better. And remember, be careful. Look around, don't accept suspicious gifts from strangers, don't eat alien berries, don't follow a damsel in distress thoughtlessly—"

"Merlin, I am a knight of the realm, have mercy." Arthur rolled his eyes.  "You had something else to do, remember? What you're here for?"

Merlin stepped back to the centre of the square, and motioned for the others to disperse. Closing his eyes for a moment, he focused his thoughts on the memory of the Cup of Life, that gold of rains and blood. He took a piece of white chalk out of his pocket and drew a circle around himself. Then he revealed a pendulum of watery aquamarine. Merlin stretched his hand out. The blue gem remained motionless at first, bur after a moment it twisted about its axis in a miraculous way, seeking. Merlin's hand remained firmly still.

Those who stood closer to him gasped.

The crystal pendulum, meanwhile, found the direction it was seeking. It pulled its chain to the left, stiffening almost horizontally above the ground. Merlin clutched the aquamarine in his fist, shattering the magic. "Your path, Sirs, lies to the west. Follow the sun and you will find what your heart seeks."

A rapturous and excited whisper swept over the crowd. Magic and signs, dreams and visions, it always both frightens and attracts people, and not even two decades of taboos can change it. Arthur nodded to Merlin, and then found Gwen's face among the people, and blew her a kiss. Gwen answered him with a discreet smile, and gave a tiny curtsy.

One by one, the knights left Camelot, and the wind of wandering pushed at their backs, as though telling them, "Go, brave in spirit and noble in heart, dare and ye shall find!"

Lancelot closed the procession. Before stepping outside the gates, he looked back one last time, only to find Guinevere's soft warm gaze upon himself. Her hands were clasped across her heart in a gesture of pleading and hope, spring violets woven into her hair. She could not follow them, but in spirit, she was there with them.

The hunt for the Holy Graal has begun.

The fog cleared and the Great Seas greeted the trio with the sun's bright gleam on the choppy waves, with the wet blackness of the rocks, with the pure cobalt of the sky, the brightness that only comes in spring.

They walked down to the sandy shore and Sefa showed them how to collect edible shells and mussels. They were looking for little ponds of dark silver water, at the bottom of which rested shells of green, black, and blue. Then they found some drift-wood to sacrifice to the magical fire. Sefa took a tiny bundle of precious salt out of her pocket and showed them how to bake the shells on the fire.

"Then open it with your knife, like this....And just swallow it." Sefa patiently explained to Morgana, she had never done such a thing. This type of poor men's food never made its way to Camelot's royal table.

"Ew." Morgana couldn't help but cringe when she glanced at what was inside the glossy shell.

"Don't look, do." Sefa chuckled.

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut, and tipped the shell into her mouth. After a moment, her face cleared. "Well. Well. Better than I thought."

Mordred was much more adept at cooking shells than Morgana. "I used to do it as a child," he explained to the girls. But when, following Morgana's lead, he swallowed it, he pursed his lips. "Ew. I remembered that stuff tasted better."

Morgana giggled. "You can make yourself a seaweed brew and leave the shells to me and Sefa. Right, Sefa?"

"You're sly, Morgana, but I can see through you," with the beginnings of a smile, he said.

"There were months when we ate nothing but shells, so get used to it, Mordred." Sefa remarked. "If you want to stay."

When their little feast was over, they remained resting on the sand. Sefa lay on her side, hugging her knees, and watched the relentless exertions of the waves.

"I liked Ruadan. I was a little afraid of him, but he was an elder after all." Mordred smiled sympathetically.

He and Morgana told Sefa how Ruadan helped them train Morgana's raven, Tristam, in commands and tricks, and with that made her smile.

"I wish I'd been around when my father died. But Finna says that in the spiritworld we'll meet again..."

"That's true. I was in the spiritworld, and my parents were there together." Mordred reassured her.

Sefa's grey eyes widened in disbelief. "You've been at the other side? How can it be? Even Finna has never been there, and Katha are well-taught in these things. Please tell me more!"

Mordred put his arm around Morgana's shoulders and relaxed. "Well, to me it lasted no more than a quarter of an hour. But Emrys said it was hours...It all started with the White Knight. Or rather, it all started with one pixie, and her seal..."

The castle yard emptied when King Arthur and the knights left. Merlin was about to leave too, but was stopped by Sir Ector.

"Wait, Merlin!" The older lord took Merlin under his arm with a friendly smile, and set the speed and rhythm of their steps as they leisurely made their way towards the castle. Today the Lord Protector was clad in a blue robe with a collar of squirrel fur.

"So, Merlin? How do you feel about this whole affair?"

"Well, I'm worried. But I believe in Arthur." Merlin looked a little shy.

"You already know the outcome of the case, don't you, Merlin?" Seeing that he didn't understand, Ector clarified, "You've seen the future, haven't you? Were you scrying, or something? Will Arthur get the Graal?"

"I am not a seer, Your Lordship."

"A shame. Knowing the future brings peace. I worry for Arthur as much as I do for my own son."

"I had, I mean, I have a seer friend, and I wouldn't say it brought her peace." Merlin objected.

Ector sighed disappointedly. "Well, let it be so. We have a heavy Council meeting tomorrow. A village in the north has sent a delegate. The Saxons sacked it on their way back from Camlann, and took the young men away as slaves. Their women... If His Majesty were here, I would even recommend a campaign against the Valley of No Return, we must destroy this nest of evil before it spreads its tentacles across Camelot... But since Arthur and our strongest warriors are not here, not even I have the authority to make such a decision."

Merlin lowered his voice. "When Arthur returns with the power of the Graal, he will deal with the Saxons. For now, our people will have to wait a little longer, but soon they will be rescued. Someday, and very soon, no one will suffer anymore." Ector was one of the few who knew of the true purpose of the Graal quest.

Merlin achieved an approving smirk from the Lord. "I like your spirit, Merlin. You are so young, but Arthur was right to appoint you as an advisor." Merlin was flattered. At first, he had been under no illusions, some of the members of even the renewed Royal Council had looked askance at him because of his ignoble origins, so Ector's favour had played even more of a role than Arthur's own choice.

"What do you think about moving people from the northern borders to the empty druid houses near the White Mountains until the Saxon issue is dealt with...?"

Sefa, Mordred and Morgana did not even notice Iseldir coming towards them from the sea. He stood leaning on his white staff and listened. "You have endured so much for people so young." he remarked quietly. "May I join you, friends?"

"Iseldir." Sefa's cheeks turned slightly pink, and she offered him to share their humble meal. Smiling, he took a shell and salt from her hands.

"It's a good moon tonight. A new moon for new us. She is dark, but this darkness is not evil. Though we may not see it, we know its former bright face is still out there somewhere. When the hour comes, the moon will shine again. Morgana, Mordred, I think I'm ready tonight. Come to the shore at sunset, and you will be cleansed and renewed of all that has weighed upon your souls and stained your hands these months."

"Thank you." Mordred replied gratefully. He looked at Iseldir with complete trust and admiration.

After his conversation with Ector, Merlin returned to his chambers in an agitated mood. He was taking books and putting them back again, the same was with his medicines and the quills that were long overdue for sharpening. He couldn't concentrate. All his thoughts were on Arthur and his friends and what lay ahead. Merlin began to seriously consider the possibility of accompanying them in disguise. Arthur had already seen the Dragoon, so he would have to think of something else....

But he kept telling everyone he believed in Arthur. And believing sometimes means letting go.

And then Merlin remembered something. A good omen for Arthur! When ought a new dragon be brought into the world but now? Exited, Merlin crawled under the bed where the precious egg had been resting on the soft pillow since. He pulled it out into the light and blew a thin layer of dust off its silvery shell. He stroked its surface, feeling the beating of the dragon's magical heart. The longer he kept his hand on the egg, the louder it beat, just like his own.

Merlin tried to remember what Kilgharrah and his father had said about dragon births. The Old Tongue, summoning? His thoughts were all jumbled up. Finally, with a magical pass, he sent all his mess to the cupboard, and solemnly placed the egg on the table. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. He thought of the egg that had spent centuries in the darkness of the caves beneath Camelot. He thought of Arthur, of what he meant to him, of his reign that signified the New Age. And the name came naturally.

"Aithusa. The Light of the Sun." The Old Tongue echoed softly from the walls of the warlock's room.

For a moment, nothing happened. Merlin stood with his eyes closed, waiting, and then there was a quiet cracking sound. Cracks crawled down the glossy surface of the egg. One, two, three, and then the egg opened in half, its shell bright blue inside, and a tiny white dragon spread its wings, and smiled at Merlin.

Merlin felt like he was about to cry. The sight of the newborn dragon, so bright, magical and innocent filled his soul with happiness. He cautiously approached the dragon and held out his hand to her. She tilted her head to the side and studied Merlin with interest.

"Do you understand me?" he asked.

Aithusa remained silent. Now she was looking around his den. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you understand me?" he asked in the Old Tongue this time.

Aithusa let out an affirmative squeak and flew into the air. She began making circles in the air, flying under the table, burrowing into his blankes. With a laugh, Merlin chased after her, ignoring the mess. Dragon or not, she was just a child.

Gwen heard a strange noise from Merlin's chambers. She knocked three times and entered.

"Merlin? Need any help?" Her eyes widened. The room was in complete chaos. Merlin turned round sharply, trying to hide something behind his back.
"Shall I get George?" she snickered. "I think you might need him!"

"What? No! Gwen, I'm not sure this is the right time...." he was all red and out of breath.

"What's up?" Gwen moved closer and then noticed a strange stirring under his desk. "What's that under there?"

Just then Aithusa peeked out from behind Merlin's legs and stared at Gwen. The dragonling opened her mouth and let out a few sparks that burned a small hole in the purple hem of Gwen's dress.

"Оh!..."

"Aithusa, no! Gwen, I'm sorry, that's just her way of expressing joy!" Merlin rushed to put out the smoke, but Gwen gestured him to stop.

"Merlin, calm down, please, it's all right! You'd better explain, who is that?!"

Aithusa cautiously stepped closer to Gwen.

"Oh, well it's...Nothing special. Just a dragon." Merlin shrugged and grinned.

Speechless, Gwen laughed nervously. "Just a dragon?! But how, Merlin?"

"Well, it was a gift from my father...Aithusa, no!" She flew up and sat on the shoulder of a slightly startled Gwen.

Merlin circled his hand around the dragon's tiny torso and took her off. "Don't be afraid, Gwen, she's kind, she just doesn't really understand this world yet..."

"Sorry, I think do not either. So, you have a dragon from a father you said you never knew. What's going on, I beg your pardon?"

"Sit down, please." Merlin placed Aithusa like a cat in his lap, but she was occasionally comically trying to break free and fly up. "Alright, I'll tell you everything, but I need your help, Gwen. Please!"

"Anything, but...."

"I thought the Book of Dragons would be enough, but I was wrong. I need counselling from my father, so can you please look after Aithusa while I'm away? Please Gwen, I won't be gone long! I'd take her with me, but her wings are still too weak for such a flight!"

Confused, Gwen nodded. "Well, alright, but I'm not sure-"

"Thank you!" Merlin brightened, "Now, look...."

As Merlin told her the story of the two dragons imprisoned underground of Camelot, taught her a couple of the Old Tongue words, and entrusted Aithusa to her, he shocked poor Gwen even more when he stood up, promised to return soon, and turned into a white falcon.

Merlin flew out the window and disappeared behind the forest. Gwen giggled nervously, and looked at the white dragon, who, apparently tired of playing, curled up on Merlin's pillow. "You're so cute." She smiled cautiously and then began to leisurely tidy up, hoping to surprise Merlin when he returns, all the while cooing quietly to Aithusa.

The dragon let out a spark that left a small black spot on the bedspread.

When Arthur drove out of the gate, he threw Merlin's amulet away in the bushes in disgust, then wiped his hand on his trousers as if he'd touched filth. His fingertips were burning.

Lancelot rode closer. "Arthur? Is everything all right?"

"Of course." Arthur smiled confidently.

Morgana and Mordred, dressed in white robes descended ashore. The evening was fresh and clear, the sea murmured softly in the dusk. Iseldir was already waiting for them for the ritual of purification and forgiveness.

"All ground is sacred ground, but we choose to delineate a circle to mark and protect...Within, you are in all worlds and all times at once, for time is a spiral..." Iseldir drew a circle in the sand around them, "Make your offerings."

He gave them a bronze athame, and Morgana and Mordred cut the skin of each other's palms, and the spirit of blood rose to the heavens. Then, after a soft gesture from Iseldir, they lay down on the sand. Their hands touched each other, the blue wind fiddled with their hair and robes. Iseldir walked round them, saying spiritual things and drawing mysterious signs in the sand with his white staff.

"First the sky, may it purify you," he placed a white quartz crystal in the north of the circle. "Then the earth, may it ground you." At their feet he laid a red jasper. "And the sea, may it lift you up." Aquamarine crystals were placed on the west and east sides. Morgana gazed up at the sky, feeling the hot tickle of magic in her fingertips. She turned her head slightly to the side; Mordred was in deep concentration, his lips moving silently.

Iseldir raised his staff to the sky and the distant Forest, and the circle glowed with green light and washed over them. Green spirits, spirits of nature, they have come to do magic. Mordred smiled slightly. Through miles of roads the forest came back to him.

Iseldir lowered his staff to the sand, sealing the ritual, and the green glow dissipated. "Be born again, brother and sister. With all your heart, let love in where there was darkness." He smiled calmly at them. With his staff he raked out the circle, opening the sacred space, and then wandered back towards the caves.

Morgana rolled on her side and looked at Mordred. "What do you feel?"

Mordred took a deep breath. "I feel better." He too rolled on his side, and now they lay face to face, very close to each other. Morgana placed her palm on his cheek.

Blush crept up his face as Mordred whispered, "Iseldir meant, well, that we should make love..." It was part of the magic, one of the strongest, for a love union always frees bursts of strong energy.

Morgana's heart leapt up, stomach flipped. She moved even closer, so her breasts were touching his chest. Finally, she could kiss Mordred and he wouldn't look away. Delighted, she slowly brushed her lips over his, lingered, and then deepened the kiss. Mordred smiled under her caress. He, too, felt a rush of bliss from their proximity. Healing was near all the time. He wrapped his arms around her.

"You can, well, sit on top of me." he purred into her neck, and slightly bit it. "I don't want the sand to hurt you." Her skin was so silky and soft as he rediscovered when his hand slipped under her shift and started a slow descent down her body.

Morgana's breath caught in her heated chest as she rolled over and ended up sitting on top of him. A gust of wet wind hit her face, and she hurried to settle in the warm arms of her lover.

Chapter Text

At night, Morgana and Mordred return to the cave, its walls painted with blue triskelions and runes, cover themselves with blankets, and fall asleep, dreamless.

During the day they adjust to their new life the way they would putting on new clothes. They are not quite comfortable, not yet familiar, but they have nothing else to shelter their fragile, trembling bodies with from harsh moods of the Mother: cold winds, downpours, sharp stones, mud and sting. Iseldir, Finna, Sefa, the others, are kind and wise, but the old family they shared with the Brocéliande Clan is gone, and cannot be. The druids of Meredor seem separated from them by a thin shimmering veil of mystery.

Iseldir and Finna still generously shared knowledge about sacred math, chants, classes of spirits and the thin world. Aglain always said, and Iseldir agreed, that druids should be well-taught, in case the past came back and they took their rightful place in Albion again, as sages, judges, teachers, and physicians in the name of the main rule of their Branch — if it hurts none, do what ye will.

But where once Morgana and Mordred would have sat with the others around the campfire, help with the chores or practice their religion together, now they were just the two of them in their corner, reading Druid treatises or wandering along the shore. Once in a while Sefa joined them. She was gentle and calm as the big sky over Meredor.

"I miss Elaine so much," Morgana confessed once.  "And Gwen." She had forsaken all the material goods of this world, she had only one treasure left — people, a treasure that exists only in sharing and caring.

"I wonder if Elaine can see us in the crystals?" Mordred looked back at the rocks around him, as if he could see or feel the providential gaze of fate upon himself.

"Why would she look at us? I mean, we're just chillin' and doin' nothing."

"Maybe she misses us too. I knew her half my life, and she liked you, Morgana."

"She's changed. She's not the Elaine we knew."

For magic changes people, because it is a revelation.

They walked along the shore and then went deeper into the uninhabited caves in constant search of shells. The sound of their footsteps scared away a flock of bats. With a squeak and chaotic rustle of their dark wings, they burst straight into the blue sky.

The black vaults, the white sand, the slanting rays of white sunlight, the way the purple aconites swayed in the wind, the greenish water pools, the wet coldness of shells he stuffed into his linen bag, it was making Mordred sleepy. He desired to curl up under the ceiling like that bat and sleep the day away, and the next, and the day after that. Night was more merciful. Night softened the soul, dosed the mind, and the grip of consciousness and memory, of the necessity to do something, to struggle for survival, this cold hand on his heart loosened, turning into the soothing stroking of peace. The night demanded nothing. She tolerated people as they were.

They say that day is merciful and kind and night is darkness, but for those of magickfolk, for those who had walked through the fire, it was the opposite. Night was a refuge, day was a battlefield.

Morgana squatted down, her new smoky brown cloak pooled on the ground. She was digging for something in the sand. "Mordred, look."

He moved closer, the shells rattled in his bag. "What's in there? Don't tell me you found a treasure chest. What if it's from a cursed ship?"

Morgana chuckled and stood up. "Look, it's beautiful." In her hands lay a large seashell, strikingly different from the ones they were forced to swallow day after day. Mordred had never seen such a thing before. This one was white and pink, delicate and glowing like an evening cloud streaked with sunset light. Its round form was twisted into a sacred Druidic spiral. Any slight movement made its glossy surface shimmer blue. And it was empty, left behind by its owner moons ago.

"Beautiful. Looks like pearls." Mordred looked up at Morgana, at the colours of withering she was now clad in, and thought of how he could clothe her in shimmering moon pearls, alone worthy of her beauty.

"There is a secret in every shell. Would you like to know it?" the corners of her lips lifted upwards.

"Spill it."

"The sea has recorded its song inside every shell. And it's different in each one. My father had a whole collection of such back in Tintagel. They had songs from all the seven seas of the North and South. Listen to this." Morgana put the shell to her ear, and closed her eyes. Her pale face took on a dreamy expression.

Mordred raised an eyebrow. "How can it be? Is this some kind of sea magic I don't know about?"

"Perhaps." Morgana moved closer to him, and put the shell to his ear. "Hold it."

And Mordred did hear a song. It was like an echo, like someone's sad sigh, or the way the autumn wind blows in the awning's flaps as night falls. "How is that possible?" he shook the shell in bewilderment, not knowing what else to expect from it.

Morgana chuckled. "This song lives as long as the seashell lives. With it it was born, with it it will go. Do you like it?"

"I do. It is beautiful." Mordred listened again to the strange sighs of the sea kept inside this hollow vessel; he was mesmerised by the strangeness of the song and the beauty of his beloved before him.

Morgana was now standing very close to him. Her palm rested on his hand that hold the shell, and she closed her eyes and leaned forward, waiting for him to kiss her. When the desired caress didn't come, she straightened up and opened her bright green eyes. "Is something wrong, Mordred? You don't love me anymore? Ah, let me guess. I'm not good enough for you, am I? Maybe you blame me? Maybe Sefa is better for you."

"Don't be like that, Morgana." Mordred tucked the pink shell into his bag. "You are more than anything I could ever dream of. Come here."

Smiling uncertainly, Morgana wrapped her arms around his neck. "You don't be like that."

Their breaths joined together in a kiss. Mordred hugged Morgana tightly and lifted her off the ground. A giggle escaped her chest, but then they both heard it.

Something strange behind them, coming from the depths of the cave. It was alive. A splash, a clatter, and an animal sound, similar to the neighing of a horse.

A white falcon flew over the night forest. Below in the clearing, some men were bustling about, trying to start a fire. They were dressed in red and silver. The falcon flew over them, gave a cheerful cry and soared up again.

"I've never heard of birds of prey being awake at this hour..." Sir Kay, the new First Knight of Camelot and Lord-Protector's son, muttered thoughtfully, staring up at the sky. The first stars were already rising, so blue and unreachable.

"I hope it's a bird and not someone else..." muttered Sir Percival, shivering in his sleeveless shirt.

"Like who?" Kay smiled sarcastically. "I recognise the cry of a falcon out of a thousand. We have several hunting couples of them at the Manor."

"You've never been a wandering knight, Kay, and it shows. We're in the Forest of Brocéliande. The things that happen here are beyond imagination."

Kay shrugged.

Percival provided him with a couple of illustrative examples from his past adventures to show that Brocéliande was no ordinary forest: ghost knights, sabre-toothed bears, bandits and evil dwarfs could jump in from behind every tree. Not to mention malicious old ogre crones and wild maidens who love to watch young noble men fall. Literally and figuratively.

Arthur sat on a log with Tanlydd on his lap. The magical firesword was perfect and needed no polishing or sharpening, so Arthur just absent-mindedly stroked its black scabbard as he watched the knights making their night stay. Lancelot and Gwaine came out from behind the trees with armfuls of firewood in their hands and began building a fire. It was not an easy work.

"Sirs, if there's a secret wizard among you, you'd better show yourself now.  A magical fire would be handy." Arthur joked.

The knights looked amongst themselves as if waiting for someone to come out, and Arthur chuckled, breaking the tension. "So, no one's going to help us set up camp with a just wave of the hand?"

"None can but Merlin." Gwaine stated, finally finishing with a flint. "And none can keep secrets like him. I would never have guessed that he..."

"I knew." said Arthur. Everyone stared at him. "Well, not that. But from the first time I met Merlin, I sensed something was wrong with him." he smirked. Turned out it was his magical power. On the other hand, who could blame him for his blindness? For looking at Merlin, anyone would think of anything but might and power, Arthur mused.

A supper of roast fowl and wild eggs was cooked and eaten with gusto. Then Gwaine shared with each of the knights and the King a wineskin with apple cider from his, as he called it, "collection".

"And yet, Sirs, don't you find it strange and amusing that we literally set out on a journey without knowing where nor knowing why? I mean, some cup with the unknown help of which Albion will be united..."

"That is the noblest of quests, Gwaine," Percival intervened with an excited expression on his usually serious expressionless face. "When you do not know, you see and act only by your faith. When the hour comes, we shall understand all."

Gwaine shrugged, in thought.

"The Graal will be ours, I feel it." Kay asserted firmly. "It will either appear as suddenly as it did the first time, or we'll get the clues we need to find it. Did none of you notice anything interesting? I thought that old oak tree looked like a hermit..."

"And I saw a cloud shaped like a dove..." Lancelot informed them.

The knights chatted, Arthur stretched out on his mat with his arms folded under his head. He imagined a dozen different ways the Graal could bring him victory and make him High King of Albion, fulfilling both the prophecies Merlin told him about and his own dream.

In time, everyone fell asleep. The fire drove away both beasts and small animals, the wood was crackling quietly, the moths danced, the foxes rustled outside the circle of light and warmth. At least, Gwaine hoped it was foxes, not something supernatural. He was the only one who couldn't find solace in a sleep.

Morgana and Mordred pulled away from each other and stared into the darkness. Mordred thought at first Morgana's horse had not gone back to the forest when he had driven it away, but had somehow ended up in the caves, when he realised that he was cruelly mistaken.

First a leg appeared out of the dark, damp depths. It was a graceful but strong greenish-blue limb, finished with a white hoof, sea water was gushing out from underneath it. The body followed. The pale horse, with a mane of dark wet seaweed and entangled water lilies, its eyes were glowing a poisonous green. Without opening its narrow, long mouth, it neighed again, and the clatter of other hooves rumbled somewhere far away.

The creature was not alone here. Soon its herd would join him.

"Morgana..." muttered Mordred in a surrendered voice. Panicking, he realised they had nothing to offer this spirit of water — the kelpie would not accept a shell, and it would drink every last drop of blood, leaving their faded bodies lying in the cave.

Morgana threw a blast of fire at the horse, then grabbed Mordred by the sleeve and they sped off into the depths of the caves. They ran on, the sea horses were galloping after them like fierce waves crash against the shore. Soon they will be caught up and trampled down mercilessly...but something changed.

The humans rushed past a mysterious sign roughly inscribed in white chalk on black stone, but the spirits noticed it, stopped, and one by one, turned back.

The kelpies returned to the shore and threw themselves into the iron waters, and blended with the tattered angry foam of the sea. And in the rising and falling waters the long-toothed mermaids swayed, rocked and laughed, and their voices were so like those of the pixies.

"Arise, Sir Gwaine from Caerleon, son of Sir Roderick and Lady Viola."

Gwaine got thunderstruck. He raised his head, his right hand reflexively gripped the chilled hilt of his sword.

The camp was sleeping peacefully in a protective circle of fire, the campfire was throwing sparks to the stars. But the voice, that ghostly, beckoning voice...It sounded quite near. Gwaine realised with a shiver of fear, the rare guest of him, that it was his late father's voice.

"Arise, Sir Gwaine of Caerleon..."

"What the hell..." Gwaine stood up. Other knights did not stir. "What are you?"

In the dark bushes, green lights, these strange shimmering fireflies, flashed up. They illuminated a secret druid path leading into the unknown.

"Looks tempting, doesn't it?" Gwaine joked grimly. "A dark path in a magical forest, what can possibly go wrong." But the voice continued to call, so Gwaine, with a derisive shake of his head, followed it into the night, sword raised in front of his chest.

The lights brought him to a round glade sheltered by a big oak. Many coloured ribbons hung from its branches and reached to the ground. Green, yellow, red, blue, they swayed in the night wind. A tall knight in green armour stood, towering, under the tree. The lights soared upwards and settled on the branches, bathing the mysterious knight and Gwaine in their magical green glow.

Gwaine shifted from foot to foot. "Father?" he asked, and immediately felt foolish.

The Green Knight stepped forward. A rowan tree was embroidered on his chest, and his sword was made of golden wood. However, that did not prevent this impressive-sized weapon from looking formidable. "Sir Gwaine from Camelot, our beloved knight..." his voice was still that of the late Sir Roderick, and Gwaine assumed the strange knight, who emanated almost visible vibes of magic even to his profane eyes, had stolen it somehow.

"I'm not sure you're my type, mate. What do you want? As a side note, I am a follower of the New Religion, and will not participate in any weird rituals, or any other heresy..." A smirk melted on Gwaine's lips as the knight ripped the metal glove from his hand and defiantly threw it at his feet. The green iron was smoking.

Gwaine first looked down, then eyed the knight from head to toe. "Alright, Sir Green Knight. Let's see who is who."

A flash of green-gold light flooded the glade, and they both vanished in it.

Mordred put his palm on the cold, damp wall. They trudged along in the dark, and the stone was scratching his skin. Mordred had no idea how deep underground — or under the sea — they were, but a heavy odour of salt, fish and rotting seaweed hung in the air. Something squelched beneath his boots, and cool water sept quietly through the sole and the woollen sock.

"We won't get lost here, will we?" uncertainty slipped into Morgana's quiet voice. She lifted a sphere of pale fire to light their way.

"We only have a choice between a slow death and a quick death."

"Don't exaggerate." Morgana chuckled nervously. "The horses must be gone. I think water fears fire, so we might—"

The narrow stone corridor made a sharp turn, and Mordred put out Morgana's fire with a light pass.

"What are you doing?.." she hissed.

"Shh..." Mordred covered her mouth with the palm of his hand. I sense a strange energy here...Cannot explain it. And...do you hear it?

"What?" Irritated, Morgana removed his hand from her face, and stilled. She may not have sensed the vibrations like Mordred, but she could perfectly well hear distant singing, or rather an echo bouncing off the stone walls and reaching them. The sound is coming from somewhere over there. She nodded at the cavern ahead.

Let's go. But be quiet. We don't know who it is.

Or what it is.

They crept forward quietly, almost on tiptoe, and hid behind a huge stalagmite.

A large circular cave with a split dome opened up before them. Its dark walls, once caressed by the ancient sea, were covered with the chalk runes of the ancient ogham, this alphabet of the trees: dashes, dots, spirals, circles. Morgana managed to read the words "air, water, earth, fire." There was a huge cross painted on the floor in blue dye; looking closely, Morgana realised it was no ordinary cross — it was encircled, resembling the hilt of a sword placed on a chalice.

A boulder stood in the middle of the cave, and on it, glistening in the misty gloom, rested a goblet, majestic in its simplicity. Its base was wrapped in a wreath of aconites, like in a small magic circle. The druids of Meredor, Iseldir, Finna, Sefa, all stood in a circle around the goblet, and performed some sort of prayerful sacred act with it. They held hands and moved slowly around the goblet, singing in the Old Tongue. Currents of energy flowed above them and the heavy air was charged with magic. Mordred could see it: blue, weighted but airy like a stroke of lightning.

Sefa stepped forward, solemnly took the cup in her hands and raised it to the ceiling, as if seeking to fill it with the sun's gold, and suddenly froze. Her keen grey gaze fell directly upon them, upon Mordred and Morgana peeping from the shadows.

"Come into the light, friends." Iseldir's voice fell mystically upon them from behind. Morgana turned around sharply. The leader crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze reproachful. All the druids, as one, mysterious figures in grey and blue hoods, turned back and stared at them.

"Iseldir, I'm so sorry." Mordred sank his gaze to the stone floor. "We didn't mean to, it was accident."

"We were just fleeing from a sea spirit..." Morgana could hear how guilty her voice sounded, though what wrong had they done...?

"So it's the spirit made you spying on us? Nothing in the world is accidental." Iseldir shook his head. "I did not expect you to be ready to behold the Cup of Life and be initiated into its mysteries so soon. But what happened is happened."

"What?" Morgana blinked.

"Now that you've beheld, you won't forget it. Follow me." Iseldir's voice softened. He put a hand on Mordred's shoulder, and they entered the circle of light pouring from the gap above. Sefa clutched the goblet to her chest as if afraid it might be stolen. "These are friends, Sefa. Aren't they? They wouldn't want to steal the cup and abuse its power, would they?"

"No." said Mordred.

"We don't even know what it is..." mesmerised, Morgana admired the cup.

"The Cup of Life itself. Mordred, you must have heard of it from Aglain, perhaps?"

"I don't recall."

"Well, then it is time. In this vessel lies the secret of life and an abundance of benefits for our souls and bodies. Look. Sefa, please."

Sefa held out the Cup to Iseldir, the latter dipped his hand inside and miraculously pulled out a bright yellow orb from it, and held it out to Mordred. "The Cup of Life can feed all the hungry, heal all the sick, give life to naught. But no one knows its full capabilities, not even Emrys."

"What is it?" Mordred thought the peel of the strange ball touched like freshly made leather for handbags and purses, soft but supple, and it smelled...very nice and fresh. "Is that a fruit?"

"I know! It's called 'orange'. Uther gave one to Arthur and me once. Fruit of the South, very rare."

Mordred stroked that orange. Sefa, having calmed down, stepped back out into the cave's centre. The other druids settled around the boulder, and each received something desirable from the Cup: fine food, healing wine, flowers, crystals of the purest splendour. Now Morgana realised how their poor camp had come to have such white, fragrant bread, and why the Clan never cooked. For what, when they had the Cup of Life?

Mordred didn't expect Sefa to offer the Cup to them too, after their trespassing, but she did. "Respect the divine gift, Brother."

Mordred mentally wished for consolation and relief. The goblet filled with clear blue water. He carefully took a cool sip from the druidess' hands. As the holy water slid into his throat, a strange realisation came down on his mind: that he should not be sad anymore, that Aglain and the friends were better off in the spiritworld than they were up here. They were no longer afraid. Strangely, the Cup of Life taught him the humility of Death he always struggled to accept.

For Morgana, the Cup yielded an empty vial of transculent gold glass, exquisitely crafted. She clutched it in her hand.

"Why this?" wondered Mordred.

"I don't know. I just told the Cup to give me whatever it wanted..."

Sefa went further round the circle. Iseldir looked after her with adoration. "She never takes anything for herself, for such is the Service. But come, friends, you have seen enough for today." They obeyed. Iseldir softly but insistently led them out of the cave, leaving the druids to worship the Cup of Life without them.

Chapter Text

"Arthur!" Lancelot's anxious face loomed over his sleeping king, friend and rival in love.

"What?" Arthur barked, and rubbed his eyes, displeased.

Brocéliande was drowned in morning light. The knights gathered around him, their faces as anxious as Lancelot's. Arthur got up quickly. He slept in his chainmail, its rings dug into his back. Like any warrior, in an instant he could make his body read for an attack, and reassemble his mind into a fighting state, when thoughts are quick and focused, and his whole being is ready to defend itself or strike first. "Report."

"Gwaine is gone!"

"What?" Arthur's shoulders relaxed slightly. It's nothing dangerous, then.

"I woke up and wanted to wake him, and then I saw his bedding was empty. I called for him, I looked for him in the bushes and by the brook, he is gone!" Lancelot was truly saddened.

"I noticed a boot print, a branch was broken by the path nearby, but the trail is lost beyond that." Reported Sir Leon. "All of Sir Gwaine's belongings, except his sword, stayed in the camp."

"Shall we split up or go together?" Lancelot asked hopefully.

"Shall we what, Lance?" Arthur folded his arms across his chest.

"To look for Gwaine, of course."

"We won't, Lance. We can't leave the Graal. If we split up and go separate ways, the search will take forever and we will never return to Camelot. We must stick together." Gwaine was either drunk and wandered somewhere in the forest, or just left them. Maybe knighthood and the Order's duties turned out to be too heavy for his lightweight head.

"Gwaine is our strongest warrior. Arthur, please, you can't leave him just like that."

"We will not sacrifice all for one." Seeing that Lancelot was deeply disappointed and obviously unwilling to obey, Arthur made his voice harder and colder. "Your King's order, Sir Lancelot. The quest continues. If you or anyone else leaves us now, you may not come back. Never."

Something inside Lancelot's chest cracked, crumbled, but he bowed anyway. "Sire." When he straightened again, there was some new expression in his gaze, as if weighing Arthur on a scale.

"Order, did you understand?" Arthur demanded of the circle. "The mission continues. The Graal, it's all we think about. The Graal, it's all we care about. Albion, is all we hope for. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Their voices merged into one.

"So, a quick breakfast, wash up, and pack up. Sir Gwaine's belongings, pack and take them with us in case he returns." Arthur took the missing knight's forgotten dagger, scratched blade and green sheath, and stuck it in the ground in the middle of the clearing as a sign.

Then, Arthur squared his shoulders. Nothing and no one would stop them, would stop him.

Lancelot volunteered to gather some brushwood so he wouldn't have to look at Arthur, this new determined cold Arthur, and called out to Gwaine one last time.

No one answered.

Iseldir led Morgana and Mordred to the shore and offered to rest in the soothing shadow of the rocks. He leaned his beloved white staff against the rocks; the staff, a precious part of the woodland in this treeless place. On the rock behind him were carved cryptic, time-worn signs and drawings of uncanny women and animals tangled in wild spirals.

Mordred's gaze was immediately glued to their enigma. "Ancient Folk. They lived here too."

"They did." Iseldir folded his hands in his lap, his grey robe blending with the mist and the sea, his calm eyes seemed colourless. "They had gone into the hills, but the memory of them remains scattered through all Albion. They are gone, but magic still speaks their Tongue. We would be nothing without them."

Morgana and Mordred sat close together, Iseldir opposite them. He no longer chastised them for intruding on the mystery of the Cup, but resigned himself to the fact that what must happen, would happen. "Well, my young friends. You surely want to know what all this means."

"We meant no harm," Morgana stated.

Iseldir gave her an attentive, knowing look. "I know. Well, listen."

Hundreds of turns of the Circle ago, here on the Great Seas, where the city of Meredor now stands, then a wild thicket of pines and junipers, lived a community of wise women, scholars in healing and Nature energies. Common folk will later know them as the Witches of Meredor.

One day, a wanderer from faraway realms came into their village...The man was a stranger. His skin and hair were black, and his dirty, dusty clothes were sewn of the finest muslin and brocade. He spoke poorly any of the tongues of Albion. 

Those women tried to bolster his strength as best they could, but the threads measured out to him were running out. He gave his name, it rang like a hot wind of golden sands, Yosef it was; and as he was dying he told them he had been sent here on a quest. He had been sent a vision of Albion, that it was the place where he was to hide his greatest treasure from the Empire of the Beast. The gift of his Lord, he called it the Vessel of God. He was to find a mountain similar to the mountain of his City, and give the Treasure — you must have guessed by now that that Vessel is our Cup of Life — to the first person he would meet at its top.

Sir Yosef found a high hill, a castle being build, some say it was the ancient Camelot, some argue that it was the Mercia castle; and found a man, some king of the old legends, his name is unimportant. He took possession of the Cup, but then Yosef was horrified to learn the King did not use the power of the Cup for good. He filled it with the blood of his warriors, making them all-powerful, and lusted to torture his enemies just like the Beast Yosef was fleeting from. Yosef stole the Cup and ended up here in Meredor. Here his destiny ended, he had done all he could for the prophecy, but the Cup's destiny had just begun.

The Meredor women realised the gift and the danger they came across. They took the Cup, retreated into the woods and founded a new holy community — what we would later know as the Isle of the Blessed. The Evil King, however, tracked their trail, and once again took the Cup away. It did not remain in his hands for long, however, and he died ignominiously and his name was lost to the ages — the greatest punishment for a man of pride and vanity.

For ages, The Cup was either sleeping, or was lost in wilderness, or found by a hero or a simple man; it was coming and it was going. Many stories have been told about it. During the Purge, it was known to have been rescued by Lady Nimueh. After her death, it appeared to your humble servant.

Morgana and Mordred traded glances as Iseldir continued.

"But neither I nor my people hold fast to the Cup, for as it came so it will go. For when you, Morgana, sister of the King of Camelot, appeared, I knew it was time for the Cup of Life to go. This have been foreseen."

Morgana stared at him. Does it mean the Cup of Life is destined for her...? "May I ask, are you a seer, Iseldir?"

"I am a reader." He chuckled softly. "I had read in the sky about the Barons War, and that the Cup is meant to be with someone else...."

With me!. It can't be a coincidence, hope flashed in Morgana's agitated mind.

"The stars, friends, they are knots in the canvas of Life. Once many of our kind could read the stars. Stone Circles that now are mere temples were the nightly working place for the reader, his or her laboratory to decipher the signs and sigils of the night. Oh, how much of the hidden knowledge of Heaven and Earth has been and will be lost only to be rediscovered again centuries later, while the ancients knew everything before us!...All knowledge is hidden in the past and there's nothing truly new, everything repeats itself." Iseldir was deeply moved. He stood up and stepped closer. "The stars are always with us, even in the light of day like now. Tell me, friends, do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Sight." Iseldir pressed his cool fingertips to their eyelids, gently, weightlessly, and Morgana and Mordred were suddenly blinded, and their vision opened. They both gasped.

Suddenly they could see through the light, blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, above and beyond, into the magical blackness of Cosmos. There was the gold of the sun, the silver of the stars, the moon's pearl, and the glowing energies of the seven planets. Crimson, blue, pink, green, yellow, purple, silver. The heavenly bodies were spinning on a shining icy web of spheres, it's huge as the sky itself, and each of their encounters and intersections foretold the nature of men and the world.

Iseldir touched their eyes again, and they collapsed back into the ordinary day, the sea, the sand, the wind, the rock.

"Did you recognise Winddancer, The Crowned One, Sunset Swordsman, Lady of the Morning, the Hunter and the others? Soon they will join together in the greatest union of the centuries, and this power will overshadow all of this year and beyond. These planets foretell that soon the King of the Golden Age will rise, may he know no sorrow or thirst, may his deeds be glorified. Your brother, Morgana. He is destined to hold the Cup of Life."

"What? Arthur?" Somewhere down in a dark corner of her heart a small but sharp needle of envy pricked the softest nerve. Why was her obnoxious younger brother endowed with such honour and glory? Who then was she in comparison with him? Just a mystical shadow, a helper to come and then vanish in the mist?

"King Arthur and his Knights. They are coming."

"I thought druids don't like knights."

"Not when it's King Arthur's knights. We will let him take the Cup. In the meantime, if you wish, I will initiate you, and you, Mordred, into the mysteries of the Cup and teach you both everything I know about the movements of the planets and stars."

"Thank you." Morgana replied after a pause.

"Did the stars tell you why Arthur wants the Cup?" inquired Mordred. He was excited at the thought of meeting Arthur again. Wouldn't Arthur be angry that he hadn't visited yet any of the Order's assemblies?

"To fulfil the prophecies spoken of by generations of our kind, Mordred. The Cup is the key. Arthur and Emrys are the hand that will turn it..." Iseldir explained cryptically. "How it will be we'll see, but we do know when. Soon, very soon."

In the evening Mordred, this has become his new habit, went for a wander before going to bed. He went a little further from the seashore than usual, into the wet meadows.

The odour hit him first.

The sweet, noxious odour of decay, of purple, darkened flesh. He pressed his cloak's hem to his nose, and went over to look. Alas, it was his runaway horse. He thought it had got free, gone into the woods, but it lay dead in the sand and grass, in the crumpled aconites that were its doom. Having tasted the delicate purple flowers, the horse had poisoned itself.

His travelling gear and Arthur's sword, the sword he fought with on Camlann!. Mordred wanted to pull them from the saddle, bent down, but recoiled in irrational but deep horror when he saw a stirring in the horse's mouth and swollen, cracked up belly: hundreds of moths, wings like moon petals, swarmed over the horse's once strong white body. They dipped their tiny trunks and gorged on the dead poisoned blood.

Mordred watched them for some time, mesmerized, and then walked away, desiring to find and hug Morgana.

"West, Sirs. We're going West." Arthur ordered.

They rode on and on, picking their way through the forest, chasing the setting sun running away from them. Arthur and Kay rode ahead, scoping out the road and determining the way, Lancelot behind, covering the rear. He'd been silent since they'd left that fatal clearing with its strange oak of ribbons; since they'd left Gwaine.

The deeper into the woods, the more the mysterious charm of Brocéliande enveloped them all. In the woods were all the questions, and all the answers, finding the way and losing it for ever, mortal danger and the closest thing to eternal life man could ever experience.

As if in tune with their reveries, the captivating, starry music of the harp touched the knights' ears. Arthur yanked his horse's reins and rose in the stirrups, his bright eyes fixed on the road. The source of the sound hid just around the bend in the path, beyond the green mossy columns of beech trees.

"Silence." hissed Arthur, "Kay, look up." Archers of brigands or other enemies might be hiding in the trees.

Or it might be some sorcery. He yet again wished Merlin was here.

However, when the Knights of Camelot burst into the clearing, their swords bared, a peaceful sight was revealed to their eyes. By a merry creek stood a wooden travelling wagon painted with spirals and shamrocks. A small sooty cauldron was simmering on the coals. A grey horse was plucking young grass nearby. The owner of this all, a young red-haired man in wayfarer's robes, was dipping his bared feet into the cool stream. He played the white ash harp whose music had attracted Arthur and his friends.

At the appearance of the knights, their mighty horses and gold dragons standards, he was obviously frightened and stopped playing.

"Who are you?" demanded Sir Kay, towering over the poor musician in the majesty of his shining armour.

"And who are you? The Forest of Brocéliande is a free land." The musician got up and raised his head, and then every knight could see that strange face of his, the green eyes thickly circled with charcoal black, a tattoo disfiguring the musician's otherwise noble appearance.

"Not when you're facing the Knights of Camelot and the Round Table." Arthur, looking regal and proud, rode forward from behind his warriors and gave the musician a wary look. Then he signalled Sir Leon to search the wagon. He found nothing of interest there but the travelling musician's humble belongings.

"Name."

"Aodhan the Bard." When he looked into Arthur's face, he froze, his green eyes widened as if in horror, his mouth opening in a wordless "oh".

"I just..." He swallowed, his cackle twitching, "Play and sing for money, My Lord, I go from castle to castle, from tavern to tavern..." Throwing another odd glare at Arthur, Aodhan clutched his harp and backed towards the wagon, but was stopped by Kay's brisk movement. "Please Sir Knight, do not punish me, I have done nothing wrong..."

"Well, if you're an upright fellow, you have nothing to fear, Bard. I'm not going to harm you. Maybe you'll play for us?" Kay winked at Arthur. "His Majesty favoured your music."

"Majesty? You're...King Arthur...?" Aodhan looked like he was out of his mind, Arthur grinned to himself. Men of art and magic, he has long noticed they were a headcase in one way or another.

"I am. Play. I order you."

Aodhan obeyed, returned to his former seat, and sat down, staring at his harp. The knights dismounted, deciding to make a brief halt by this creek, to wash, drink, and snack on bread and cheese.

Before the bard's hand touched the strings, Lancelot managed to ask, "Sir Bard, did you happen to meet another knight here? He's a little shorter than me, green-hazel eyes, he's cheerful and brave...oh, and he has luxuriant brown hair."

"Strangely enough, my answer would be in the affirmative, Sir Knight. Three days ago I saw a knight in armour and regalia similar to yours. He was not alone. He was accompanied by a knight in green cuirass."

"Where was this?"

"Downstream. They didn't notice me, soon getting lost in the woods."

Arthur joined them, sat down on the grass beside Lancelot, and Aodhan's skilful fingers slipped from the strings, making a short, ugly ping.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "What will you gladden our hearts with, Bard?"

"A song that may reawaken your spirit, My Lord." Aodhan finally managed his nervousness, and this time boldly crossed his darker gaze with Arthur's brighter. He sang:

Come by the hills to the land where legend remains
Where stories of old stir the heart and may yet come again
Where the past has been lost and the future is still to be won
And cares of tomorrow must wait till this day is done…

At the first notes, the knights dropped what they were doing and moved closer to the bard, captivated by the magic of his music and voice, just as Morgana, Mordred, and the other visitors of the White Hare Tavern had once been. Kay smiled dreamily, Lancelot covered his eyes, trying not to cry, Leon swayed his foot to the melody.

And Arthur, for a moment his face was contorted with a longing pain and yearning, but immediately it became nonchalant again, hardened. "Well. That's pretty good, I almost felt something...Almost." He grinned, and rummaged in his pocket, searching for a coin. "Here you go, Aodhan the Bard."

Aodhan's hands did not move away from the harp to took the payment, and Arthur carelessly tossed the coin with his own image at the bard's feet. "The halt is over. Knights, let's go."

The knights were gone as quickly as they had appeared. Aodhan stood up, pushed the coin into the stream with the toe of his boot. Then he put out the fire, poured the fresh soup out, got into the wagon, and set off in the opposite direction, farther east.

Chapter Text

Morgana, Mordred, Iseldir, Sefa and Finna now were spending hours in the Graal cave, admiring it, studying the possibilities and blessings the sacred vessel offered.

Once, Morgana dared to ask for the key to all the knowledge to be revealed. Nothing new, it was an age-old thirst that is believed to be the beginning of the human race's downfall, and she was not immune to it either. Perhaps Morgana especially wasn't, for she has been drawn to magic by the thrilling power and might contained in the knowledge of the hidden forces and flows, the mysteries and secrets of the creation.

Receiving her request, spoken silently like a prayer, the Holy Cup glowed soft gold and passed her a tiny parchment scroll. With an excitedly beating heart, Morgana unfolded it…and scolded in disappointment. It was blank, had no a single word but a tiny pictograph of an eye in the middle.

In the evening, she mercilessly threw the piece of paper into the flames of the big campfire.

Iseldir's lips curved in a soft, wise smile. If Morgana and Mordred were looking at him at that moment, they might have guessed that even he, the wise leader of the coastal druids, was no stranger to such daring, and in the early days of the Cup's discovery had tested it and himself. He quickly learned, however, that human nature, even the nature of a magician, has limits set beyond which it is not allowed to pass, even with the aid of the strongest of artifacts.

Sefa filled the Cup with water, just the purest water, and titled it so Morgana could drink — Morgana wanted so badly to touch the Cup herself — and she saw her own reflection, for the first time in weeks, maybe months; for only round plates of forest ponds were druids' mirrors. Her skin became pale, greyish like melted snow, her curls were tighter, there was a witchy glimmer in her eyes that Morgana hadn't noticed before, but her red lips were smiling loveable.

Sefa then offered the Cup to Mordred and Iseldir; and Morgana, she let herself thinking, let some hidden, dark thoughts flying.

Why him and not her? Yes, Arthur was a descent, a good man even, better than many, but was he really worthy of taking the magic of the Cup, he who had not an ounce of magic and devotion? Morgana was thinking, and love in her was fighting with ambition. Could the prophecy have been wrong? She would accomplish so much if the Cup was meant for her, the other Pendragon.

Here it was, right there, shining gold and so real, just reach out and take the destiny.

Merlin was sitting at his desk, his room immersed in a pleasant candlelit twilight. Caskets of crystals and magical artifacts he was hawking at every opportunity glittered enchantingly in the golden glimmer of a multitude of coloured, twisted, cast in the shape of cones and apples candles. Aithusa was sleeping peacefully on his lap. The dragon child has caused him a lot of trouble these days. His father, oh, his father! said that while the little dragon was growing, her power, the High Magic's power was too great for her, and so the energy would occasionally burst from her body, and she might behave so unlikely the usual wisdom and stoicism of dragons. Balinor advised his son to be patient and be a good keeper for the magical creature.

"Someday, and sooner than you think, Son, you will seek her support and help. For now, enjoy the days when she relies on you so much. The age of dragon youth is short."

So far, Merlin has managed to keep Aithusa hidden from everyone but Gwen. Though isn't a court wizard entitled to keep just one dragon in his king's castle? Surely, he has the right! He just thought it was best for everyone, Aithusa in particular. He has to protect her while she's still so young and trusting.

A book on herbal smokings lay on the table in front of Merlin, but on top of it he opened that ill-fated diary of the ill-fated Sir Galahad.

Merlin was pondering upon the gruesome descriptions of the experiments Galahad had been performing on himself in an attempt to "cleanse" himself of magic. Goosebumps were running down the wizard's spine, and it was disgusting and yet strangely appealing. For example, there was a drawing and description of an abominable slug that Galahad called a "gean canach." He let it suckle on him like a leech, drawing out his powers, and for some time Galahad believed this was the solution! But three days later the worm died out, and Galahad's magic returned to him.

Merlin shuddered. For a moment, he even felt sorry for Galahad, even though he had turned against Arthur and almost killed him. The knight had undergone so much torment at such a young age, and had died without tasting any of happiness on this earth.

I must confess that sometimes I wonder why the Lord cannot heal me and cast out the unclean seed of evil from my body and soul. I have prayed for healing many times, but all in vain. Magic still lives in me. I wonder why this is so. After all, God healed dozens of sick people when he lived on earth, so why not me? Why not now? Why not? My faith is strong, nothing over the years has been able to shake the oath of loyalty I have sworn to the Lord.

The only answer my heart has found so far is not a relieving answer, but an encouraging one, that I must endure this suffering for the greater good. I dare to think that the Lord has chosen me to root out magic, to cut off both springs and branches, and therefore I myself must possess it, just as the Messiah himself had to become a man to recognise and atone for men's sin. Our illustrious dynasty has never had a mage on its side, they have always opposed the goodness and honour of the House Pendragon, so perhaps I am the one chosen to change all that...?

Merlin realised that Galahad had written these despairing words after a long illness following his attempts to alter humorals of his blood with some ghastly potions, the ugly fruits of magic and medicine science. He closed the leather-bound notebook, stroked Aithusa white head, and turned his eyes to the dark bound window, and his thoughts to Arthur. Always to Arthur. His friend and king, somewhere out there, without him, was moving closer and closer to his destiny, to the United Albion and the Golden Age in which magic, sword and plough would be united in one holy union.

As the reflections of the stars descended on the sea waves, Iseldir slipped quietly out of the cave and paused in the shadow of the rock, listening, trying to recognise her footsteps over the waters' breath. And Sefa has come, come to meet him, light and airy and pale, clad in a grey hooded cloak, with seagull feathers in her hair. She stopped in front of him, shyly raised her hand and caressed his cheek. Iseldir closed his eyes, placing his palm over hers. Their first real touch. The Leader spoke, always sharing his doubts and fears with Sefa alone.

"Are we doing the right thing opening the Cup of Life to Lady Morgana? Magic can be alluring, and some can lose themselves to it. I considered a spell of oblivion."

"Morgana is not like that."

"You know, Love, that every coin has two sides, just as every prophecy has fulfilment and unfulfilment, light and darkness. All druids know of Emrys, many of the King of the Golden Age, but few do of Arthur's Bane who is near and far, running away but seeking to find him. No one knows who it is, but the history of the Penned Dragons family tells us of the age-old enmity of brother turning against brother. Or sister against brother..."

Sefa shook her head gently. "Not only have we done the right thing, Soul, we will go further. I will make Morgana a Cup's Keeper like myself. Finna and me missed a Mother to the Circle."

Iseldir wondered. "Are her thoughts, her mind, her conscience pure? Is there no shadow following her?"

"If there is, we will cast it out. We will set her on the path ourselves. We will leave her no choice but the path of light."

Iseldir reflected, and agreed on the young druidess's soft, well-taught wisdom.

Morgana removed her leather braid girdle and even her favourite triskelion pendant, Mordred's first gift to her; she hasn't possessed any rings or bracelets for a long time. The first and simplest rule of any magical act is that once entering a circle, drawn or imagined, one must to remove any other circles of energy on his body.

She was standing again in the Cave. In a crack in the ceiling she could see a milky scattering of stars, the way that leads every living soul to its destined destinations. Silent hooded druids stood in the shadows of the stone walls, unseen and unheard, keeping vigil to the beats of the sea. White candles in their hands did little to disperse the blessed spring night. Around Morgana, shielded her inner, protective circle — Mordred, Iseldir and Finna, a Crone to the Cup of Life. Sefa, simply and elegantly as she did with everything, took the Vessel from her hands, raised it to the sky, and then held it out to Morgana. Her smile spoke of trust and confidence.

With Sefa and Finna's blessing, Morgana could now be one more person allowed to take the Cup. The Graal's Keeper. She didn't know what exactly earned her this honour, perhaps just her kinship with Arthur, whose mission the Meredor's Clan kept faith in?

Just that and nothing more.

Mordred sat on a boulder at the secret entrance to the underground caves. He was carving something, perhaps some words in the ogham on a piece of driftwood with his father's dagger. The dagger that killed Sir Galahad, the knight-saint. Morgana took a seat beside him, tucking her coarse brown skirts under her legs. They were silent for a while, and then the truth poured from the depths of Morgana's heart. She spoke of Arthur, of the Cup of Life, of how she doubted whether he was worthy to possess it, of how they, the folk of magic, could take it and leave and save Albion themselves, build it like they dreamed of; she spoke of the pull she felt for the magical goblet.

Mordred listened without looking at her, and when Morgana finished, put the dagger away in its scabbard, and threw the wooden piece from the cliff to swim to those who find or to sleep eternally at the sea bottom. "Morgana, you do not have to carry the full weight of the kingdom on your shoulders. Arthur is in the prophecies, not us, so let him follow his destined path."

"That's the point. He is in the prophecies."

Yes, Morgana envied her brother's promise of greatness. She believed herself and Mordred were worthy of the same, no less. She suddenly longed for a side to belong to and a side to oppose, these two sides of the same coin — something she had lost with the death of the Clan Brocéliande and the removal of the Ban. Meredor couldn't replace that, a credo to follow and a credo to oppose.

Morgana didn't know if Mordred understood her strange longing and confusion, but he turned to her, and said quietly, with conviction: "We have already done our best. We have been through so much. We have had our adventure. Now it's time for quiet and peace, time to relax, rest, and remember those who have passed before. And that's it. That's enough, right?."

"Be honest, my beloved, are you enjoying life here at the Great Seas?"

"I don't matter," he waved it away, "Morgana, I know you have always believed in Arthur. I know you love him, and we both believe in the good that he and Emrys bring. Remember when we almost did the wrong thing by not trusting them? The Cup is not our destiny. Not our burden."

Their path still lied in mist, but Mordred was sure it led away from the King, Emrys and the great goods and evils of the realm, the struggle of light and darkness alike. Mordred wanted it to lead to tranquility.

And if not the words alone, but the shaking of hands and the kiss Mordred gave her afterwards, convinced Morgana. Love and trust, she would stick to them.

And now her heart was being seduced one last time by the promise of power hidden inside the Cup. She, the new Keeper of the Graal, the one through whom Goddess spoke, the healer Le Fay, the heiress of the Pendragons could take the Cup, right now, in front of everyone, ask it to transport herself to Camelot, and raise herself to the heights of power. She could take her throne without even doing anything, the mere presence of the blessed vessel would be enough to make commoners and lords kneel before her. The mere presence of the blessed vessel would be enough to make the realm of Sidhe envious of Albion and its rightful Queen — so Morgana was dreaming, and her faltering heart was beating so heavily.

But then she looked at the modestly smiling Mordred beside her, and the wise Iseldir with his white ash staff, and the faithful Sefa and kind Finna, and the dreams of greatness fell down like petals on the ground. They trusted her, they were goodness and love and the way. How could she betray and disappoint them, break their trust? They would never have understood her, had she made that choice. And so Morgana took the cool goblet in her hands, raised it to the sky, and then went round the druid circle, quenching each soul's thirst with the golden honeyed wine.

She let it go.

They lay on the shore. The sand really warmed in the foggy spring sun, and so it was so pleasant to rest on it. Beside them lay a canvas bag with the treasures of the sea: pieces of smooth wood for bowls and lamps, marvellous pieces of glass shining like gems for druid beads, flat stones for scratching blessing ogham runes, witch stones with a hole in them for protection, small shells, scraps of rope, pieces of wax from shipwrecks and sprigs of coral from the dark, mysterious bottoms of the sea.

Morgana closed her eyes and the sunlight stroked her eyelids warmly. The sea breeze lifted and lowered the tips of her hair, climbed up the wide sleeves of her druid dress, caressing her arms. The sun-warmed triskelion rested on her collarbones. In that moment, albeit brief before the tolling footsteps of approaching destiny, she thought she found complete peace, without a shadow of the past or thirst of the future. She was simply Morgana, whose name means Sea Dweller, and she felt Goddess in the Nature around. She was with the love of her life by her side, and magic flowed through her veins freely and without fear.

She reached out, found Mordred's hand, and squeezed it.

A wave of warmth seized him, pulled him out of the quiet emptiness of his head; he was overwhelmed by the feelings she always evoked in him, by the love he felt in Morgana's heart. Sometimes it seemed to him he was too small for this love, that he was only her shadow.

"There's this secret game I used to play when I was a boy. My favourite." he said.

"Tell me."

"Did you know you can fall into the sky? When it's as beautiful and big as it is today?"

"I didn't." she felt mildly curious. "Is it magic?"

"The kind that's available to everyone, even to the unchosen. Open your eyes, and just look at the sky. Don't look away even if you suddenly feel you need to, even if it hurts. And then you'll feel that you're falling. That you're floating in the sky... Even though your body is on the ground. Let's play?"

Morgana obeyed. On the milky blue flat space above her, silvery tattered clouds were floating, white seagulls were flittibg about, and nothing interesting was happening. But she kept stubbornly staring; and Mordred was right: after a while, the sky downed to collapse onto her, and she into it, and it became even bigger than it was, and she even smaller. Goosebumps ran up her spine. She was suddenly afraid to lose...the sense of self, perhaps.

She turned away from the heaven, and propped herself up on her elbow, and looked at Mordred. His expression seemed even more detached than usual, and she realised that he, too, has found this strange feeling of falling.

"Brrr." Morgana smirked lightly. "Mordred, so you're telling me that instead of get dirty in stinking mud puddles or beating poor flowers with a stick or whatever hell boys of that age play, you were playing, um, the sky?"

Mordred chuckled. "Sort of – it taught me how to think. Sometimes I thought strange things. I think that's when I first dreamed of you, Morgana. So when I met you, I instantly felt..." He broke contact with the sky and connected with Morgana. Sweetness turned into desire, so living and vivid. He again could feel it, could want her.

She put her fingers on his soft cheek, and leaned over his lips.

"AHEM."

It was very loud and clearly disapproving.

Morgana and Mordred bounced off each other, and turned at the sound.

A tall armoured man stood on the rocks above them, his red cloak sailed in the strong wind, his ironed dusty boots crumpled aconites. "Morgana." Arthur Pendragon asked. "May I ask what you are doing here?"

Chapter Text

"Morgana, may I ask what you're doing here?"

When the initial shock of the sudden encounter with her royal brother wore off, Morgana answered in her usual manner in which she always spoke to Arthur: in banter.

"I could ask you the same thing, dear brother, what are you doing here? Don't make me think you're stalking me. Because if you are..." She sent a smirk to Mordred, but the latter was serious. The next moment he dropped to one knee, bowed his head, muttered "My Lord" and waited until Arthur gestured for him to stand up.

"It's just that you, sister, have a strange way of ending up right where I need to be."

Arthur looked her over from head to toe and frowned. Morgana's presence often boded trouble, and it was not so pleasant to find her, his royal sister, dressed like a beggar in some strange rags, and in an ambiguous situation with a man to whom she was not married. Luckily, his men had not time to notice them.

The Knights of Camelot have just climbed the stones, and stood in a semicircle around Arthur, a brilliant team of heroes and questers. Sir Gwaine was among them. He winked at Mordred; Lancelot smiled welcomingly. Sir Kay jumped down from the rock, and hurried to kiss Morgana's hand, grinning from ear to ear.

"Why does your face seem so familiar to me, Sir...?" she asked politely.

"I hope you have not forgotten me, Your Excellency. The name is Kay, son of Lord Ector of Avalon. As a child, I once visited the late King's court with my father and my sister Lisanor. That meeting was very dear to me. And it still is."

"Ah, yes." Morgana was slightly embarrassed by his demeanour, but of course no one but Mordred could read that. "How is your sister doing?"

"Fine, I believe, Milady. She is in the Manor now, but when our quest succeeds she will visit Camelot. I am sure she will be delighted to meet you again."

"Alas, I cannot promise I will be there...." Morgana focused on the word 'quest', and meanwhile Mordred and Kay exchanged a quick handshake.

"I am Sir Mordred of Brocéliande, Lady Morgana's Knight," he introduced himself calmly. The corners of Morgana's lips curved in a proud smile.

"Оh." Kay smiled nonchalantly. "We shall all await the tale of your good deed done for the glory of the Order, shall we not, Sire?"

"Of course. Don't forget that at least once a year you must attend an assembly, Mordred."
Mordred blushed shamefully, for he had yet to do any deed worthy of a Knight of the Round Table.

"I promise, My Lord."

"Well, enough of questioning Mordred. It's just en excuse for you to chat about your many exploits. What was it about some quest?" Morgana intervened, and Mordred got annoyed, Morgana shouldn't be trying to defend him to the knights, he should answer for himself.

Arthur raised an eybrown sceptically. "So, Morgana, Mordred...purely by chance, do you know if there are any druids living nearby...?"

Morgana and Mordred exchanged glances. This was it, here it has come. What Iseldir was talking about: the King and the Cup written in the stars.

"Purely by chance, perhaps they are. Why do you need them? Druids are a secretive kind and won't reveal themselves to anyone, will they, Mordred?" Morgana smirked slyly.

"I am here for a mission. I was told that what I need is in the Clan Meredor."

"And what is that? I do know how to find the Druids of Meredor, but I cannot reveal that secret until you tell me what brought you here, brother dear, then I will decide whether to show you the way."

"You will decide?

"Yes."

Arthur's mouth pressed into a straight stern line, he raised his head proudly. "I seek the Holy Graal also known as the Cup of Life."

A solemn and tough silence hung in the air at these groanbreaking words. King Arthur and his knights against Morgana and Mordred the sorcerers; the destiny of Albion now depended on their answer.

"You are lucky I am your sister, Arthur." Morgana, smiling so innocently, walked over to Arthur and adjusted his gold dragon fibula, shook an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder. "For it is I, as a Keeper of the Cup, can hand...or not hand it to you."

Gasp swept over the knights.

"You are who? God, Morgana, how do you manage to, well, do all this?" Arthur tensed, watching her every move. "How on heaven and earth could you be a Keeper?"

"Well, probably the same way you managed to become king being only the second son...Destiny, you know." her voice sounded like poison honey. Morgana caught the admired stare of this new knight, Sir Kay, and turned away.

"So...are you going to show me?" Arthur asked dryly, hiding the tremor in his voice. Would everything be derailed just because of Morgana's whim...?

Morgana, please. I beg you.

Mordred became worried that she would return to her first dark desire for the Cup, and so the prophecy of Albion would not come true.

Don't worry, I just want to torture him a little.

Then she said aloud: "I am, my bravest brother. But it comes with a condition. Before I lead you by a secret path to the druid dwelling, you must tell me the story of the Graal quest. Please, sit down and tell us all about it."

Arthur sniffed in displeasure, but still signalled to the knights to make themselves comfortable on the rocks and sand, and sat down on a boulder opposite his sister and the thirteenth knight. "Well, if that's the game I have to play, I'll take it. We've come too far to back down."

"You surely have. Tell me about this." Morgana's curiosity was really piqued.

Arthur wrapped himself in his cloak, gripped the hilt of his magic sword more comfortably, and began his tale of the quest for the Holy Graal.

"So, where to begin...I'll be brief. We gathered at the Round Table and a vision appeared before us. Hands made of water wrote on the wall, "Seek me and you will find peace. Find me and you will lose peace." Well, that's how Merlin translated the writing. Then the Cup appeared and hovered above the Table, but none of us could touch it. Then it disappeared. But I understood the omen perfectly well, and decided to go in search of it in the name of Albion. Preparations were made, and after a few days, Merlin found out we should head west.

Isn't it curious that though the sun rises in the east, all good things always end in the west? See even Camelot: the Higher Town with the best houses is in the west, while the poorer Lower Town is in the east. But I digress—"

"Where is Merlin?" Mordred intervened, only realising that the wizard was nowhere to be seen, nor had he emerged from behind the knights with a carefree smile, a huge travelling knapsack and a willingness to help any unfortunate creature on his way.

"Stayed to keep an eye on Camelot. The Graal is mine and mine alone; I have been anointed by the Lord, and I must get it myself."

Mordred sighed, and Arthur continued.

"After that we got lost in Brocéliande. All we knew was that we must follow the setting sun. Nothing much happened for a while, we didn't see the Cup, nothing but a couple of forest beasts that we easily defeated. We walked on and on. The strangeness began when one night Sir Gwaine disappeared. Gwaine, will you tell us about your marvellous adventures and how we found you again, or shall I do it?

"Go on, Sir Arthur, I'll share my part later." Gwaine smiled.

"The next morning we continued on our way. We met a strange travelling bard who said he had seen Gwaine walking along the stream flowing west. This lifted our spirits. The forest, however, seemed endless. We decided to stay overnight at the ruins of an abandoned chapel; I must admit it was my mistake. At first everything was quiet, we lit a fire, had our supper and went to sleep. But after midnight, at the witching hour, the raving started.

At first it was only quiet rustling, as if foxes or badgers had crept into the camp to steal our supplies. But soon we began to recognise a whisper in those sound. Oh, that whisper would have frightened the bravest knights! Otherworldly, soft and cold, it rustled like the wind in winter branches. They spoke in an unknown tongue, and every word made us desperate, while the horses, strangely enough, kept sleeping peacefully. I got extremely thirsty, rushed to my water flask, and found it dried up. The same happened to the others, we were all tormented by a terrible thirst. But the water was gone.

And then we saw them. The shadows of children sliding between the rubble, they came out to meet us. They were clad in white tattered rags, and from their dark eyes flowed endless streams of tears. They were the ones who whispered and drank our water. One adult man stood out. He was dressed as a commoner but wielded a sword of fine work. He came at us.

I immediately realised they were spectres and told my men to retreat out of the chapel. What could we do against this sinister magic? We threw down our things and horses and ran out into the night. It was only then that we discovered where we really were. The chapel was built on an old druid shrine. The trees were sprinkled with coloured ribbons, crow skulls hung here and there, and there was a well right in the middle of the yard.

I rushed to it, thirsty as if I had spent seven years in the desert, threw the bucket down, dreaming of water, and pulled it up with a great effort. It was strangely heavy. A spectre child sat inside. King Arthur, he whispered. The child reached for me with his pale and bonny hands, and then I understood everything. I dropped the bucket, and the boy fell back to the bottom of the well.

When I looked round, I found that we were surrounded by the children, and that man with a sword was coming towards us. To our horror, our weapons were useless against the whispering shadows, and their protector seemed supernaturally strong. Then I called out to them. I said I remembered them.

I must confess that in my father's days I raided against sorcerers and druids on his orders. But who here doesn't know that? Once we were tasked with raiding a druid graveyard, the druids had a gathering there. I was inexperienced at the time and things got out of hand....Everyone died. The children, too. We drove them into a lake.

I called out to that boy, but it was the man who answered in the boy's childish gentle voice. He stood with a sword at my heart, accusing me and my kingdom. He said only my death would atone for all the evil I had done. I asked for forgiveness, and told them of the New Age and that I had removed the Ban, and promised to treat druids with respect from now on. I keep my promise, one of their kind is my favourite knight."

Arthur paused for a moment and looked into Mordred's tearful eyes. He quickly wiped away a tear.

"And then, by the grace of God, a miracle happened. The man suddenly smiled, dropped his sword and fell to the ground unconscious. The children began to melt in the moonlight. They forgave us, I guess. The water filled the well again, and the first drops of life-giving rain fell from the sky. We were drinking the rain eagerly. Then a vision opened before us. The Graal rose above the ruins of the chapel like the moon, and inside it a silver fish was splashing.

The vision disappeared as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough for us, it was a sign that we were on the right path.
The man woke up, and....Elyan, maybe you can tell your part yourself?"

Arthur turned to a handsome black man sitting behind the others. The knight's cloak sat perfectly on his broad shoulders, but his strong callused hands were evidence of years of hard work.

Morgana screwed up her eyes, thinking back. "Wait...Elyan? Like Gwen's brother? I mean..."

"Yes, My Lady," Elyan winked at her and Arthur, "I am Guinevere's brother, Elyan Smith. I have been a travelling blacksmith and have not visited home for many years. But when I heard the news of what was happening in Camelot, well, the war and magic, I thought I'd had enough of leaving my sister alone. Turns out she's not alone..." He cast a curious and flattered glance at Arthur.

"Walking through Brocéliande, I came across that place. I disdained the fact that it was a druidic shrine, and that for us common folk, magic is not to be trifled with. I wanted to drink from that ghastly well and fill my empty waterskins. It was covered by a large round stone with that sign of the Old Religion...Triskele, I guess? I was foolish enough to push the stone away, and they jumped out at me...Those poor children.
I don't remember anything after that. I think I was asleep while it, I mean, he possessed me. I woke up when His Majesty helped me up and told me what I had done. Then His Majesty was kind and gracious enough to offer me the opportunity to join the team in their quest for the Graal. His Majesty understands that I did not act of my own free will."

"Gwen will be thrilled to see you again, Elyan. She has missed you."

"Great, now may I continue?" Arthur demanded.

"We left the well and the chapel with lighter hearts despite the supernatural horrors we had experienced there. We were led by the Holy Graal. I won't list all the monsters along the way — fighting beasts is a knight's routine. But just when we thought we were out of the thicket, a new challenge awaited us.

There was a small fern-grown waterfall, and a cave hidden in the green. As soon as my boot stepped into the glen, a beautiful damosel emerged from behind the water. She was dressed in a red cloak, white dress and golden girdle. I couldn't see her eyes under the cloak, but... Each of us felt something strange about her. As if one touch from her could melt our armour and turn our swords to dust. She smiled welcomingly and held out her hand to me, but didn't let me to kiss it.

"Glorious Knights of the Round Table," she knew all about us, "You are close to the beginning of the end. But you will go no further until you fulfil my challenge since you set foot in my domain."

"What about some road sign indicating this is someone else's domain? How could we have known?" our dear Elyan grumbled. You're not used to the rules of chivalry yet, are you? One of those rules is that every land can be marqued by any creature, natural or unnatural, who is free to make their own laws there, to receive or reject payment... Unless they blatantly violate the laws of the Crown. For example no one can kill an innocent or enslave a free one for trespassing for more than seven years, but it is a knight's duty to help a damosel in her need.

Then the lady said, "I won't ask anything difficult of you. Just show your bravery, loyalty, and strength. Each and every one of you. Whoever wins will get the most desirable thing." She smiled again and went into the cave and never showed her face again.

Then began the strangest experience of my life. A knight emerged from the cave, in full armour and with his face covered by a helmet. He wore no colours or insignia. His sword challenged me to a duel, I immediately used Tanlydd against him. Sounds simple? It wasn't. I fought, but the Knight never tired, never showed the slightest weakness, never stopped. He was more a machine than man. Soon I grew tired and had to step aside. Sir Kay volunteered to replace me, and manajed to stab him, but that was not the end of it. The faceless knight turned into a puff of black smoke, and the next one immediately emerged from the cave, with exactly the same countenance, demeanour and weapon.

Sorcery.

We were forced to fight in this exhausting line where no one could win. We wished for victory, for we thought it was to the victor the Graal would be given. But if one of us defeated the knight, a new one would come out of the cave and take his place. While we were fighting, Elyan surveyed the glen and found that he could not leave — every turn brought him back to the field of endless jousts.

I ordered a retreat, and we settled under a tree. We had never been so tired before. But you know what? Each duel, though fruitless for us, brought a sense of relief, we felt cleansed in our souls and bodies. The knight stood silently, waiting for us to surrender and fight him again. And we would, for the desire to fight was growing in our hands and hearts again.

"What can we do? There is no way out of here!" exclaimed Elyan.

"Do we think the Graal is really in the cave?" Sir Percival never loses sight of the goal.

"We must keep fighting." Sir Leon objected. "There is no trial without resolution."

"Maybe the resolution is our death. We will become skeletons here...And what if after we die she curses us and turns into these mad knights?" Sir Pellinor saddened, did you?.

I remained silent, agreeing with each of them, alas.
But then my faithful Sir Lancelot came to the rescue. What would I do without you, friend?
"Sirs, let me speak a word," said he. "Each of us fought to the point of exhaustion, but were unable to slay our opponent. But what if that is the answer? What if each one alone is not strong enough, but together we can defeat them utterly? We must join forces."

"But then who will get the Graal?" Sir Percival the impatient asked again.

"We all will" I said, illuminated. I felt that Lancelot's idea was the way we should go. Unity!. I ordered the knights to march in a circle, and against the strength of the twelve and Elyan, no one could stand.

The knight dissolved into smoke, but no new one appeared. The way into the cave was open. Percival was the first to rush in, I followed. Once we were inside, sweaty, dirty but satisfied, we heard the Damosel's voice but didn't see her. "King and Fair Knights, you were able to defeat me. For that I will give you a clue to the end of the beginning: follow the water, and look for the fish."

And we realised that the Damosel was the very knight of endless jousts. The cave turned out to be an ordinary cave, no Graal in it, not even a vision, just a spear sticking out of the middle. The lady then said, "Brave King, break the spear, and eat the leaves, and so nourish your strength for the onward Journey."

Not without apprehension, but I ventured to break the spear. A green sprout burst forth from the break, and in a moment, a fine young oak sapling grew before us. "Who will try a leaf or two, sirs?" Percival plucked a leaf and put it into his mouth. We watched him chewing it grimly. Then he smiled. Indeed, the leaves were wonderfully sweet and delicate like honey, milk and almonds, they bolstered our stamina like nothing else.

Yes, there was no Graal in the cave, but there was a merry brook running along the floor. We walked along, and found a way out.

We were walking through the woods again, this time tenaciously following the bank of the brook. And you'll never guess what or rather who we found under a rowan tree? The fellow was sitting quietly by the campfire and fishing as if nothing had happened."

"Actually, I found you when you jumped out of the bushes like rabid bears and scared away all the fish."

"We were actually bloody glad to see you, Gwaine," grinned Arthur, "Some of us thought you were dead."

"That someone was you, Majesty?" Gwaine grinned back. "I knew it."

"You must tell of how you ended up by our brook with a fishing rod in your hand."

Gwaine leaned back, and put his hands behind his head. "I hope this story won't be as long as yours, Sir Arthur. Give me a minute to recall."

Chapter Text

"That magical night I awoke to the voice of my late father, Sir Roderick of Caerleon, the most loyal one but betrayed by his lord. Like anyone in my position, I thought it was a dream, but no. The disembodied voice was indeed a calling, but only I could hear it. Then these lights appeared... They showed me a path that led to a glen of a great oak tree—"

"Gwaine, did you ever think of, I don't know, waking us up?" interrupted Arthur.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, but my quest is my quest."

"No. We are in this together."

"Have to agree. So, the glen, that's where I met him, or rather them — that's what they preferred to call themselves. The Green Knight of the Rowan Tree. They threw down the gauntlet and of course I accepted the challenge. Next came the light, I was almost blinded, and woke up deep in the deepest of Brocéliande.

It was a strange place, large stones standing round, and unreadable signs on them. It felt like druids, if you know what I mean. The Knight called it the Green Chapel. They said I had to pass five trials and then the Cup of Water — that's how they called it — would pass to Camelot. Obviously, in the name of my honour and the success of our mission, I agreed. Although I don't think I could have refused even if I'd wanted to.

The first test was simple. The Green Knight suggested I become a sorcerer. They said that the power of nature, of all lands wild and unknown, was in their hands, and one blessing of theirs would make me stronger and greater than my fellow Merlin. You see? It was easy just like...going to a tavern and having a pint of beer with the said Merlin. I said I was already strong enough.

The Knight seemed to like my answer because their eyes lit up green — you already realised they were magical, right? — and said that I had passed two trials at once, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.

I was surprised and asked what they meant. The answer was Piety and Loyalty. After that, I swear, before I realised what happened, we were in a different place, walking by a small forest river. We walked side by side, and I asked where we were going. The Knight replied that we were going to their manor where their daughter was waiting for us. I was surprised they had an estate in the middle of the forest, and even more so they had a daughter, but I kept silent. I was waiting for the real tests to begin. You know, sword and spear duels or archery. I was even up for a fist fight.

And the fight was not long in coming. When we got to the manor — it was actually a house cut into a cave by a beautiful waterfall—"

"The cave by the waterfall? What if that's the same one where Arthur and the rest of the knights were tried?" Morgana exclaimed.

"Perhaps it is, Milady. Brocéliande is full of illusions and magical shadows.

So the Green Knight and I saw that their manor was besieged. Thirteen monstrous creatures were trying to break into the manor, make a dig or set it on fire. There was a badger in a bronze helmet, a bear with a sword in its armoured monstrous paw, a deer walking on two legs and trying to break down doors with its huge antlers, a wolf in chain mail and other creatures. Even hares with daggers were attacking the poor Green Knight's estate. There was more than something unnatural about all of them, it was frightening. I rejoiced at the possibility of a feat and turned to the Green Knight, but they weren't around. They have disappeared. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and throw myself at the enemies.

It was a good battle, I tell you, mates and Milady Morgana. The kind that changes, purifies a man. The strange beasts had the training of the best knights. But I forced them to retreat. While they accepted defeat honourably, they were not about to give up so easily. As they retreated, they summoned a huge green boar with red fangs from the forest. It snorted like a Fae queen's hell horse, and its golden eyes... It was best not to look into them.

I had a hard time with it, the boar almost pierced me once, but I didn't want to dangle on its fangs, so I dropped my sword, fell down, crawled under its huge green belly and pricked my dagger right into the angry boar's palate. Marvellous, but it didn't spill a waterfall of blood on me like I'd prepared to endure, the boar just poofed into a cloud of black smoke.

I jumped to my feet, more satisfied than I'd ever been, and then the Green Knight appeared beside me. They seemed pleased with me too, but I didn't fail to remind them of something important. "When are we going to fight one-on-one, Sir? You've thrown down the gauntlet."

"Soon." promised the Knight, "The test of Generosity has been passed. You have generously defeated your opponents, and have not spared your strength to protect my home and my daughter."

I was surprised, but I liked the way they thought. So I was invited to the manor. The Knight said their daughter was expecting us for supper and that I would be given the best welcome. And I was told the truth. The Knight's cavernous house was furnished in the best taste and fashion, but everything there was green. Chairs, rugs, candlesticks, everything.

But the lovely fair lady that came out of her chambers was clad in a white dress with a gold girdle. She introduced herself as Lady Blanchefleur and led us into the dining room. It's a pity I never tasted any of the splendid viands she offered me and her father....."

"Why not?" asked Morgana.

"I just remembered Merlin's admonition — when a knight happens to find himself dining in a magical realm or a magical creature treats him, he should never settle for food or he risks being forever bound to that place. As much as I had grown to like the Green Knight and the lovely Blanchefleur, I didn't want to be stuck with them while my friends had adventures! So I just drank some honey wine. After the supper, Blanchefleur took me to my bedroom where everything was green too.

I said a prayer for my valiant Knights of the Round Table, and went to bed, but at midnight there was a knock at the door. I snatched my dagger from under my pillow, but it was only Lady Blanchefleur. She was, well...Well. She approached me softly, and beneath her red cloak the lady wore only the birthday suit and the golden girdle.

"Sir Gwaine, have mercy on me! Just seeing you made me love you with all my heart! I will probably die if you don't hold me and give me your love!" with these words Blanchefleur embraced me and sat on my lap...

But I answered her, "Lady Blanchefleur, I have loved many women, and you are one of the most beautiful and gracious of them. But I am not free. What kind of a knight would I be if I betrayed my heart? There is no one in the world to me lovelier than Lady Ragnelle of Caerleon."

I said the truth. I had changed and learned with all clarity how wrong I had been before and what I had missed by coldly forsaking Ragnelle's gentle affections and choosing others over her. Now I knew that she had been a thousand times right in rejecting me in return.

Blanchefleur, despite her pleas, was not going to die of rejection. She released me, took off her belt with a smile and gave it to me. Before I could thank her for the token, her Father burst into the room, but not to behead me as I had feared. No, the Green Knight stomped their foot in a green boot and I was transported back to that stone circle, the Forest Chapel. I found myself dressed in my full equipment, including sword and dagger.

"Well, Sir Gwaine, do you know what trial you have just passed? Do you think you won, or did you lose?"

Ashamed, I remained silent. "Chastity." said the Knight, "Please accept gifts from me and Blanchefleur."

A spear appeared in their hands, which they stuck into the ground, and it turned into a young oak sapling, from which they tore off a long flexible twig, then took their daughter's girdle from me, tied it to the twig, and turned this into a fishing rod. Then they tore off another twig, twisted it into a spiral, and by some marvellous magic transformed it into a neat strong shield with a green pentagram painted on it.

"Take these, and bear them, Sir Gwaine of Camelot. It is time for the final test." Somewhat confused, I figured it was finally time for an honourable knight sword fight. But the Green Knight surprised me again. They knelt before me.

"Sir Gwaine, you have achieved your goal. Please do me the kind favour of beheading me."

Of all things, that was the last thing I expected to hear. "Stand up, draw your weapon, and fight like a man, Sir Green Knight! You cannot ask me to kill an unarmed man!"

"I am no man. So I am asking you." The Green Knight looked up at me, and in their glowing green strange eyes I saw the frantic twisting of spirals. "Free me. Lady Morgana created me, but there is no one to undo."

Gwaine looked at Morgana intently, smirking. "Finally, I have longed to ask this since I saw you here in the sea wilderness: Milady, what does this mean? Were you behind all this green insanity?"

Morgana let out a nervous laugh. "Yes and no, Sir Knight. Magic of Brocéliande and the forest spirits I happened to summon accidentally is not in my control. I had nothing to do with their quest. I knew they were looking for some beloved knight of theirs, but I had no idea it was you."

"Well, I believe you. The Knight kept asking me to behead them. They held out their own wooden sword to me. I honestly couldn't understand their sudden lust for suicide. I felt sorry for them. Finally I surrendered, took the sword, feeling like a fool, for wood cannot even wound, let alone take a head off its shoulders. But still, I hit.

Surprisingly, the wooden sword worked like the best of the Higher Town's steels. But the loss of their head didn't seem to bother the Green Knight so much. They stood up, picked it up off the grass, bowed to me, and thanked me kindly.

Then I realised it was a test of Courtesy — well, as these queer creatures of magic understand it. The head said to me, "Sir Gwaine, you are ready. You are clean. Take your fishing rod, go west and catch a fish. The salmon of knowledge knows all about the Middle world, he is called the Key to All Knowledge. He will tell you where to find the Water Cup."

And then the Green Knight's body disintegrated into hundreds of glowing green lights. Liberated, they swirled around me, cocooning me in strands of blinding light. I clutched the fishing rod tighter, protected my face with my new shield, and when I finally dared to look out from behind it, I found myself there, on the bank of the brook. What else could I do? I followed the Green Knight's instructions, and began fishing." Gwaine yawned, finishing the story.

"Splendid." Morgana praised. "And what happened next?"

"What do you think, Sister? Now that we're here? We caught this marvellous Salmon of Knowledge."

"Reunited with Sir Gwaine, we all made ourselves fishing rods out of rowan twigs and started fishing. It took over a day. We, knights of Camelot and the Round Table just sat on the bank and fished like some commoners. There were a couple of simple fish that went straight for our dinner. But who do you think finally caught the Great Salmon of Knowledge?

"I did." Gwaine proudly grinned.

"No, me." objected Percival. "Well, technically it was you who took the Salmon off the water, but you forgot to mention how he slipped out of your hands and almost jumped back into the brook. I caught him."

Arthur ended the argument quickly. "We all contributed. Each of us recognised the Salmon at once. He was no ordinary fish in any way. He was big, no smaller than a good pike, and his scales shimmered like expensive pearls. And his eyes were large and golden. Still, it was hard for me to imagine that any fish could know the answer to any question. Percival held it tightly, and I feeling like a fool, spoke to the animal. The Key to All Knowledge, can you imagine?

"O Great Salmon of Knowledge, allow me talk with thee!" I proclaimed and froze.

The Salmon's round glittering eyes turned to me. He didn't seem at all embarrassed by the fact that he was out of his native waters. Then again, it's a magical fish.

"Greetings, King-Fisher," said he, "We have finally met, the last of our kinds. Ask a question, but remember your heart already knows the answer." Salmon's voice was soft, otherworldly, neither male nor female, and his lips did not move when he spoke.

"Thou must answer me!" I tried to prevent the possible trickery of a magic deal. After all, the fish could say that a question asked does not imply an answer given or some other cunning nonsense the magickfolk is so fond of..."

Morgana coughed quietly but meaningfully.

"What, that's the way it is. Magic always has some sort of conditions and traps at every turn. Nothing is ever simple. Anyway, I asked the Salmon to answer any of my questions truthfully, promising to let him go into the brook afterwards. I asked simply, "Where is the Holy Graal known as the Cup of Life?"

I was surprised, but he gave me a straight answer that the Graal is kept by the Druids of the Great Seas of Meredor. And here we are."

"But we have had another strange adventure, have we not, Arthur?" reminded Lancelot.

"There was nothing great about that one, just a strange occurrence. After we got our final directions, we travelled along the waters and eventually came across a quaint wooden tower at the edge of the forest. It had a sign with the name, The Green Tent, but the place was completely uninhabited and apparently looted. We stopped there for the night."

Mordred asked, "Pardon, My Lord, but after the incident in the ruined chapel...?"

"Knights do not run from danger, Mordred, you should know this. But nothing terrible has happened. We settled down for the night in the round hall of what appears to have once been a tavern. Soon we fell asleep, but Kay — that was you, brother? - spotted him in the shadows..."

Sir Kay decided to speak up. He smiled pleasantly, and looked at Morgana, while the sea breeze rippled his long dark hair.

"Yes, it is true, My Lady. It was a strange-looking wanderer whose appearance evoked both pity and fear. He wasn't that old, but looked devastated and depressed. Not to mention the fact that he was dressed in dirty rags. His skull was streaked with bizarre tattoos, which I believe indicates that the poor man belonged to the followers of the Old Religion." At this Kay cast a quick glance at Mordred, as if he wished to find similar markings on his body.

"It was as if he sensed my gaze and stepped into the light. We drew our swords, but he showed no aggression.

"King," he said, "Where is Emrys? Tell Emrys I am waiting for him here." And then he crawled off into the darkness. None of us knew any Emrys or saw the poor fellow again. That's the story."

It's our old friend. The false Emrys. Mordred sent the mental message to Morgana, So he survived. I'm glad.

I'm glad you're glad. Morgana didn't care much for the trickster druid Duran they met on the road to Meredor.

"Yes, that's it," Arthur concluded firmly. "Is that enough for you, Morgana? Now will you take me to the Graal?"

She took a pause, then stood up and smoothed her windswept skirts the colour of dried grasses. "You have proven yourself faithful to the Cup of Life. It is close at hand. Follow me, Arthur Pendragon."

He obeyed, and Morgana led the King and the Knights along the shore, and down the secret passage to the caves of Meredor.

Chapter Text

They descended into the underground caverns' darkness. Morgana lit magical glowing fires to light their way. Arthur started, but still muttered a thank you.

"It's to scare away kelpies."

"Who?"

"Evil horses." Elyan whispered intently, his hands feeling the cold damp walls, his wary eyes trying to find the ceiling in the pitch blackness above.

"Nonsense, horses cannot be evil." Kay assured everyone with a nervous chuckle.

"They can. If they're spirits." Elyan swallowed the lump in his throat.

The strange procession of the sorceress and the Knights of the Round Table continued on their way, while above them the masses of the sea thundered, struggling to break through the thickness of the rocks and carry the tiny human dolls into its wuthering depths.

Surely some of the knights, especially the novices, must have questioned the King's decision to trust his magical sister and her knight so unconditionally. What if she wanted to lure them into a cold, dark cave with no way out and leave them there for eternal torment? Or turn them into stone? The wounds left by the Purge were still deep to trust magic so blindly, even seemingly good magic. But the shadow of the Graal that has brought them here, and the loyalty to the King who trusted Lady Morgana, would not allow them to disobey or show fear.

Finally the passage made a turn and the knights saw that the walls around them were painted with strange runes and sigils.

"Arthur, we're here." Morgana looked back and Arthur saw her cloaked silhouette carved sharply against the lighted passageway. "The Cup is here."

Like a golden waterfall, light was pouring into the wild cavern through a crack in the ceiling. Silent hooded druids stood round. Morgana and Mordred separated from the procession of knights and joined them.
They were silent, unmoving. Arthur frowned. Are they going to give him what he believed was rightfully his? Where is the Graal? What is going on? Morgana promised, didn't she? Her face seemed impenetrable. No, he's not leaving here without what he came for. He too has a telling argument against their cunning tricks.

Arthur rushed towards the group of druids and snatched a boy from his mother's arms. The dagger did not wound, but it burned the child's tiny throat with its dangerous coldness.
"The Cup. Where is it? Tell me."

Morgana's green eyes flashed with anger, Mordred muttered 'Pendragon', and made an uncertain movement towards the King, but then Iseldir stepped forward, calm of spirits as ever, regal, cloaked in his silver robes.
"There is no need for violence, Arthur Pendragon. Let the boy go, he has done you no harm."

Arthur's grip on the child's shoulder remained firm. "So, you know who I am. Then give me the Cup, and no one will be harmed."

"I do know for you have been destined to come here and find the Cup of Life. Be patient, King of Camelot, it is yours. Please let our little one go."
He signalled to the druids and they parted, opening quite a picture to the King and the Knights. On a boulder stood a graceful and majestic goblet, the same from the visions, but in flesh. Arthur froze, devouring the cup with his eyes. It was so simple, but even he could sense a special energy emanating from its dark smooth glistening insides. He heard Sir Percival drop to one knee behind him; even kneeling he was huge.

Arthur let the druid boy go and tucked the dagger behind his belt. The frightened child hid under his mother's wide cloak. "You magickfolk keep talking about destiny as if you know everything that will ever happen, but this doesn't explain how did you allow your kind to be hunted like animals for twenty years? Why know destiny and do nothing about it?"

"You mettle with powers you do not understand, Arthur Pendragon. The future of these lands depends on the Cup of Life."

"I know, thank you. It's appeared to me many times. So?"

Iseldir turned away from him and looked at Morgana. "It's the way it has to be. This is the way it is meant to be. Let a river flow." Morgana obeyed, and stood before the Cup. Sefa and Finna joined her in a magical circle of Maiden, Mother, and Crone. They raised their joined hands upward, and a column of light poured from the Cup.
The chalice soared above the boulder and froze, floating.

Morgana made a graceful magical pass, her wide sleeves swaying as if in the breeze, her hair rippling over her shoulders. The chalice floated closer to Arthur and the Knights.
"The Cup of Life. Take it, if you dare."

Gwaine leaned over Arthur's ear. "Arthur, what if there is some kind of trickery here?"

Lancelot added, "I don't think so, but what if the holiness of the Cup will incinerate anyone who touches it? Please, Friend, let us try it first. For Cemelot's sake."

Arthur nodded silently, and folded his arms across his chest, glints of golden light dancing on his pensive face. Gwaine bared his sword and took a step towards the Cup. Morgana and the Druids watched the knights in silence. Gwaine cleared his throat, shrugged, and hooked the Cup up with his sword. As soon as its tip dipped inside, the sword in Gwaine's hands flashed and turned into a pure white lily. In frustration, disarmed, he threw the flower to the stone floor and retreated.

Lancelot was the next to try. He reached out both hands to the sacred Cup, closed his fingers around it, everyone gasped, but a moment later the Cup melted between his fingers to reappear in the same place. Lancelot had to surrender.

Of course, it had to be King Arthur and no one else, not even the greatest of the knights. He stopped Leon and Kay, and took a decisive step forward, raising his hand. He looked at Morgana one last time. She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded. Her approval, that was what the King needed. Arthur took the Cup inside his palm, reverently but firmly, and the goblet fit inside perfectly. With a firm and confident movement, he took it from the light and drew it to his chest, and appropriated it, and made it his own.

The Holy Graal henceforth belonged to Camelot.

Morgana watched as her brother's familiar face became majestic and alien, lit with glory and bliss. The light flowing from the Cup faded softly, and after a moment Arthur slipped it to none other than Sir Percival. "You will keep this for me, will you, Percival?" The pious Knight, completely stunned, nodded, watching helplessly as Arthur cut off a piece of his cloak with a dagger and then wrapped the Graal in it, hiding the magic in a simple red cloth.

"At last!" exclaimed Iseldir, and all could see that he was peering up in the crack. The sky, which had been clear just before, was covered with monumental heavy clouds. They were running across the sky. A lone ray flashed in-between. But it was not the sun, but the dusty tail of a comet, the first in a hundred moons. Iseldir struck his ash staff on the stone floor in some strange triumph, and then, under the light of the heavenly bodies that have aligned in a perfect long-awaited harmony, bowed his head before the Once and Future King. "Please, Sire, share the feast with my people."

Arthur smiled triumphantly. "It's an honour, Druid."

In the grand cave, the druids lit a welcoming fire and offered the last of the Graal's viands, but they were not sorry to part with their treasure, for the spiritual truths of the prophecies were more important to them than earthly delights; they did not consider the Cup their own, they were only its keepers.

Arthur stopped, gaping at the huge blue triskelions and triquetra painted on the walls. Morgana and Mordred followed on his heels.

"My Lord." Mordred's face seemed cold; his eyes were throwing daggers at Arthur.

"What?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and moved away from him slightly.

"Indeed, Arthur, what. What was that? How dare you threaten one of those who welcomed you, threaten a child?"

Morgana swooped down on him like a furios eagle falling upon its prey. Many times Arthur had seen her like this with their late father, when Morgana would rain down her indignation and outrage at something done wrong on Uther. He himself had been on the receiving end of Morgana's sense of justice less often, and if possible he would try to avoid that unpleasant experience from now on. It was not nice to be rebuked for all the evils of the world.

"I surrendered to my fear. Sorry about that. The Graal quest has made me...nervous." Arthur lowered his gaze to the dark, rough stone floor. "And it's only the beginning."

"My Lord." Mordred nodded, he was clearly much relieved. He stepped back to the other knights, leaving Morgana with her brother.

"Promise me you'll never do that again!" demanded Morgana.

"Morgana, I didn't intend to hurt the child for real. I was pretending."

"I will not let play such games with me and my people." Morgana crossed her arms over her chest, and sighed. "You must understand, survival is the resistance of the Druids. A threat to one of our own is a threat to all."

"Got it, thank you." Arthur was happy to shift his gaze to a nice older woman in a dark blue cloak, quietly approaching them. She bowed briefly. "Ma'am?"

"King, may I ask why I do not see Emrys by your side? We have been looking forward to his arrival." Finna asked with rapturous devotion on her face.

"I could not trust Camelot to anyone but him, ma'am." Arthur smiled pleasantly and Finna went off to join the others. Knights and druids sat intermingled, sharing the meal of peace, the meal of the Graal. It was a magical sight, unseen in Uther's time, truly a New Age, the Arthur's age.

"I noticed the other knights still don't know who Emrys is." Morgana, finally forgiving her brother, invited him to sit down on a stone covered with a woven mat.

"It is not my secret. He'll tell them if he wants to." Arthur shrugged. Secrets were running in Merlin's blood. "How are you doing, Morgana?"

"Fine. Really. It's not like it was in the forest... but it's good here. We still mourn our dead, but all wounds heal as all rivers flow."

"You know you have a place where you are welcomed, Morgana. Where you have a family."

"I know. But I think I'm better off here, out in the open." Camelot still carried many heavy weight memories. She hadn't been her best self in Camelot. In Brocéliande, among the druids she has found not only love, magic, friendship and adventure, she has found herself. In Camelot, she was lonely and afraid, dancing on the edge of darkness. All the best and greatest things she had experienced had happened in the woods.

"Well, its up to you."

"By the way, did you condemn the knights who participated in the druid massacre?"

"Of course." Arthur lied, and then again someone else came to his rescue.

Sir Kay, without his cloak and wearing a druidic wreath of aconites over his long black hair, approached them. In addition to his usual confident and welcoming smile, he carried two bowls of food. "Sire, Lady Morgana, let me help you." He held out the bowl and spoon to her first. "The druid's dishes are surprisingly good. And actually, they turned out to be not as sinister as everyone used to think. They are nice guys." He left. Arthur gave his new best friend a look and took a sip of the delicious soup.

As Arthur took the bowl, Morgana finally noticed it: the horrible wounds on Arthur's palm, red-hot imprints, as though he had dipped his hand in crimson dye. "Arthur, what is this?!" she exclaimed, and touched his hand.

"Shhh!—" Arthur hissed in pain. He was sure he had managed to hide it from everyone. "Nothing."

"Nothing?! Don't be daft." Morgana guessed these burns had been left by the Cup. "Let me help you." She took his hands in hers in defiance of the pain and closed her eyes. Imagining the cold silver of water and the pure whiteness of air, she channelled her magical will to healing.

Arthur's eyes widened, his breath hitched when he saw their joined hands glowing magical gold, and felt the pain leaving him. "Astonishing...."

"Magic, my dear Brother." Morgana smiled contentedly. "Good magic."

"You must come with us, Sister. You will be a healer for my warriors. Mordred will get his chivalry skills up by learning from the others. I mean it. Join me, Morgana."

And Morgana imagined herself travelling with the army camp through forests and mountains, castles and fortresses, healing Arthur, making them invulnerable. Mordred by her side.
She found him among the others. He was sitting beside Gwaine and Lancelot, perhaps shy of the other knights he wasn't as close to.

"Mordred won't want this, and I don't want to be anywhere where he is not. He said he wants nothing to do with war anymore."

Arthur sniffed. "He'll have to. He's a knight."

"He is. But not now, not so soon. If you need me again, destiny will send me to your aid, Arthur."

Arthur hummed at Morgana's druid talking. They taught her well. "You are losing a lot of chances, Morgana. Do you know that Kay wanted to marry you? I reckon he's still not against the idea."

Morgana was surprised at first, then let out a chuckle. "We saw each other when we were about eleven years old?."

"So what? Maybe he's been loving you since. His father seriously asked for your hand. Marriage to a Lord of Avalon would be a fine match—"

Morgana interrupted him. "I think you know my answer, Arthur. It is not for you to decide! I'm not a thing to exchange between some men." She pursed her lips together.

"Calm down, eat a little, Morgana. I'm not forcing you as you can see. It's just that you're beautiful and lots of men want you. Noble men who can marry you."

"My beauty glorifies our Great Mother, it is mine, not a feast for men. And love can be true without marriage."

"Sure." Arthur took another sip, then smirked mirthlessly. "A decent home and family isn't for the likes of you, is it? You follow him everywhere, but he loves you only for embracing all his ways: his faith, his lifestyle, his clothes. But try to change, show your other side, and see if he'll still love you."

"You know nothing about me or Mordred."

"I know the way men are, Morgana."

"Mordred is not like the others. When did you become so cynical?" She turned away. She didn't feel like eating. She wanted to leave and join Mordred and their friends.

"No offence." Arthur muttered after a moment. "A king must be realistic."

"Better not make me angry." Morgana rolled her eyes. "Or I'll put a spell on you. I'm a witch, never forget that, my little brother." She stood up, turned sharply, shook her hair, and walked away, collecting admiring glances from the knights and a compliment from Sir Kay — perhaps Arthur was right — and kind greetings from the druids on the way.

Morgana sat down next to Mordred on the other side of the campfire, took his hand. Her arrival did not stop Gwaine from lamenting and bemoaning his poor sword transformed into a peaceful lily flower by the Graal's will. Lancelot was nodding and humming sympathetically, but a playful smirk danced on his lips.

"Ah, my good old sword! Alas! I've slain many scoundrels, and defeated many more noble knights with it! How will I survive swordless in this trying time? Sir Gwaine the Unarmed! May Ragnelle reject me a second time if she finds out."

Morgana mused over the easy way Gwaine was admitting he had been rejected by the lady of his heart. It could mean either a mad hope of reunion, or a new quirk of the suffering chivalric cult of La Belle Dame, or that the Graal Quest truly changes people, humbling the pride of some and inspiring the piety of others. Unlike Lancelot, whose rival was the King himself, and heart tragedy a secret known by the few, Gwaine could allow himself to pour his heart out to his friends.

"Wait a moment, Sir Gwaine." Mordred quickly headed for a nearby cave, then returned with a sword and a scabbard. "Please take this. Please accept this as a temporary companion. My Lord gave me this sword to fight on Camlann, remember?"

Gwaine whistled and smiled. "But what about you, Mordred?"

"I don't need it anymore." Mordred shrugged. But he was pleased he'd taken it off the skeleton of his dead horse after all. "My father's dagger is always with me." He patted the scabbard on his belt.

"Thank you, mate. But I still owe you."

Mordred smiled modestly. "Could you show me the shield of the Green Knight?"

"Of course!" Gwaine rejoiced. He lifted the wine goblet higher, "Let us drink to friends who will never leave us in trouble!" He winked at Morgana and finished the wine in a gulp. The friends followed him. "Hey, Percy, grab the Graal and toast with us!"

"It's not a thing to make jokes about, Gwaine." Sir Percival got defensive. "Have respect."

"Haha! Well, then the second goblet I rise to our belles dames sans merci!"

Lancelot raised his goblet, "I'm with you, Gwaine, a thousand toasts to those who torment us so mercilessly, and yet there is nothing sweeter than this pain!"

Morgana chuckled. Gwaine was the jolliest knight of them all. He set the emptied goblet on the stones, and lifted the shield off from his back. It was of fine workmanship, of golden and dark wood, very sturdy, with a masterful engraving of a pentagram in the centre. The same design was painted on the bottom of the Graal itself.
Mordred ran his fingers reverently along the lines of the star. "I sense a subtle magic here. This thing belongs to Brocéliande. It will keep you safe, Gwaine."

"Well, I guess some protection can't hurt."

The knights were chatting; Morgana stared at Arthur through the dancing waves of flame. He seemed so lonely without Merlin, with that glazed look in his eyes and that frozen, inanimate pose of his shoulders. He had just found the Graal; did he really miss Merlin so much, or maybe Gwen, and regretted not even considereing to take them on the quest too? Does that explain his sudden foul mood? Perhaps. She'd talk to him again tomorrow, if she got the chance.

Something was driving him onwards, beckoned to him; even reaching the Cup of Life did not mean the end. In fact, the journey never ends. At dawn, he was ready to go.
The Druid Leader, Sefa, Finna, Morgana and Mordred showed his men the way back out of the caves. He swore he would never tell anyone about their secret hideout. Walking down the rocks, Morgana asked, "What's next, Arthur?"

"Albion. I will bring to our lands an era of unity and glory the ages have not known yet. The Graal will be my guarantee." The wind ruffled his hair, he looked out to sea in the distance, to where the glowing comet tail hung in the sky. A sign of his dreams coming true. Albion is not just a kingdom to be, it's a refuge to put faith and soul into.

"But remember, magic must be a force for good." The memory of Aglain echoed with pain in Morgana's soul, but it was a pain that is full of light. She knew he would be pleased with who she was now and where she was.

"There is nothing else I would ever serve."

Iseldir stopped in front of Arthur as they descended to the sands and the knights left them alone, all but Sir Percival.
Iseldir straightened, leaning on his staff. "The future is not carved in stone, but some things are so grand they were inscribed in the heavens. Farewell, King Arthur. We will not meet again, but I want you to know that our faith in you and Emrys will follow you invisibly."

Arthur smirked. "Oh, again. With your knowledge of the fates, perhaps I should take you with me and make you my court soothsayer? Thank you for keeping the Cup for me." Percival towered behind Arthur, holding the red cocoon to his chest.

Iseldir tilted his head slightly to the side, studying Arthur. "Blessed be, King."

"Take care, Druid. Sister, Mordred, I am not saying farewell to you, I'll say that —"

"We shall meet again." Mordred finished with a soft smile.

Arthur and Percival walked away at a brisk, energetic pace. The druids stayed by the rocks, watching the King of Camelot and his Knights mounting their horses and disappearing into the soft haze of aconite meadow and white dunes.

"Brother and sisters, I think it's time to go home. We might sleep until low tide comes." Iseldir said quietly.

In the evening they were content with simple fish, blessing Goddess for ever having the chance to taste the Mystery.

Iseldir and Sefa were walking alone along the seashore. In the darkening sky, the comet was burning like a candle flame in its slow and inevitable falling. His hand found hers and squeezed it gently.

"You know, Sefa, I think you were right and I was wrong."

"Wrong about what exactly?" the druidess chuckled.

"Morgana is not Arthur's bane. If it exists, it's himself."

Chapter Text

Another man was awake the night Arthur took the Graal to Camelot. He wandered along the rocky shores of Meredor, feeling oddly uneasy at the sight of the comet hidden in the dark clouds.

Mordred stopped at the edge of a cliff, catching the wind in his long cloak's folds, and saw Iseldir and Sepha below on the sands. They were obviously in love, but have never wanted to know each other the way he wanted Kara and Morgana. Mordred knew that just as there were druids who were beyond the boundaries of male and female natures, so there were people who did not experience the attraction of bodies; yet, their souls remained bound together just as firmly.

He returned to the cave, hid behind the curtain and lay down beside Morgana, his Morgana. She was falling asleep, her breath so calm. The dreamcatcher's feathers and ropes were swirling above her head. He told her about Arthur.

"You should know Arthur better than I do, Morgana. I wonder why I sensed such hidden rage in him. So much anger he won't show to anyone. It wasn't there before."

Mordred often preferred to keep his senses closed so as not to be overwhelmed, but Arthur was important, interesting to him, almost as much as Emrys. In fact, Arthur and Emrys were one, just as he and Morgana were one — just two parts of the whole.

Morgana hummed. "I think he was afraid the Cup wouldn't be given to him. Men often hide fear behind anger."

So Arthur was gone, and the knights were gone, and the Graal was no more, only the sea stayed. And often, when the emptiness of what's next leaves a question, the answer comes.

One evening Mordred wandered along the shore, feeling like a lost dried plank tossed between monumental waves. The smoky moon shone in the sky, Beltaine was approaching, his first holiday without his old clan, the first milestone of his life empty of them.

And then, strolling between the rocks and sands, he heard it. A call, so real. Someone who wasn't here was calling his name.

Mordred, Mordred, Mordred

He froze, raising his hand in a gesture of defence and threat, magic pulsing at his fingertips, and looked around. The shore was deserted. Not a figure, not a shadow, not a beast or human being came out to face him. The voice, however, kept calling.

Mordred. Mordred

It was closer this time, so loud. Mordred turned sharply to his right, his gaze slid over the grey boulders cluttering the beach, and glued to a strange vision.

There stood a flat rock, with rainwater pooled in its hollow; and at first he thought it was the moon reflected in it.

Mordred!

No, it wasn't a vision, it was a beautiful fair-haired woman's face with eyes the colour of fiery amber.

"My Lady Morgause?" Shocked, Mordred knelt and bent over the rock and puddle mirror.

"Mordred, my druid friend." Morgause's reflection purred so realistically. "I've been looking for you for so long, but had no chance to catch you by the open water."

"What would you fancy, My Lady?" Mordred asked nervously. Obviously the High Priestess would not seek him out without reason. It had been so long since their first and only meeting in the Weeping Hovel. Then she had been sick and weak, now she had regained her spleandour fully. Then he had a home and a purpose, now only a path in the mist.

"Where are you? I believe I hear the sound of the sea?"

"The great Seas of Meredor, My Lady."

"At Iseldir's keep? Is Morgana with you? I wasn't able to see her in fire or water. Is she all right, tell me?"

"We are still together, My Lady." He admitted modestly. "She is fine."

Those words brought her visible relief. For a moment, Morgause was not a lady-knight and servant of Goddess on earth, but just a sister. "You remember our last conversation and your promise." She stated.

"You...asked me to return Morgana to you."

"I love it when my men don't forget. This is the time to fulfil your promise, Mordred. Bring my sister to me and I will reward you. I may even allow you to stay in my house if you prefer Morgana over your people." Morgause fell silent, studying his face, her reflection gleaming softly in the water. "Don't think you can ignore me. I will give you no rest if you keep me from reaching my sister. Fire, water, air, earth, all the elements are subject to me, and they will all torment you until you fulfil what you have promised."

"No need, My Lady. I know what is right and what is wrong. We will come. But how can we find you?"

Morgause smiled contentedly with the smile of a person whose orders are always obeyed. "Look into my eyes, Mordred."

Against his will, their gazes crossed, blue air and amber flame, and a vision was imprinted on Mordred's pupils: majestic mountains, the deafening ringing of falling water, a grassy island sheltered from the world, and a castle of golden sand crowning it.

"Now the way to Orkney is in you, Mordred. I will wait tirelessly. Come. Come."

And a ripple travelled across the water, and once again Mordred saw only his own haggard unshaved face. Morgause was gone, but her apparition remained imprinted in him. He turned away from the rock, straightened up, and looked at the secret caves of the Druids. Was he ready to give up on this illusion of home? Of course he was, which was why he gave the Lady his consent so easily, not her curses he feared, not her oaths he kept.

"Morgana, we need to talk."

The worst conversations begin with these innocent words. Her heart let out an anxious thump. What could have happened in this hour of falling asleep, the hour of fog and lonely sea? Mordred and his feelings were so dear to her. He led her out of the caverns and they sat on the stones by the Ancient Folk's enigmatic carvings.

"Mordred? What's up?"

"Did you keep your sister's letter?"

She was surprised at the question. "Yes." That crumpled letter folded in her sack, with a dry trillium inside. She hadn't thought of her in these crazy times, but she'd saved the letter through Camlann, the Valley of No Return, and Avalon. Sister. Morgause, High Priestess of the Goddess of Albion, the lost sister. Her mother — their mother had kept her a secret. No one in her life had ever spoken of her. Had they not met then in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, would they ever meet at all? But destiny couldn't let them to fall apart forever.

"Why do you ask?"

"Lady Morgause appeared to me in a vision."

"Why you?"

"Something kept her from contacting us before."

"And what did she say? Come on, Mordred, tell me everything!"

He told it briefly. "The Lady is calling you home."

"I'm not going anywhere without you!"

"But I want to go." he breathed. "Tell me the truth, do you want to know your sister?"

Morgana frowned, and took his hands in hers sympathetically. "But I thought we wanted to live as druids again, live among our people..."

"I wanted to. But I soon realised I could not... They are not my clan. I finally realised nothing would replace Aglain, Elaine and the others for me, no matter how hard I tried to play pretend. You know, I'm not even sure anyone in the clan really loved me besides Aglain and Elaine. When I was a boy, I knew there were looks and whispers. And yet, I protected them. I loved them. Nothing will ever be the same again, nothing will bring my life back to what it used to be."

Morgana squeezed his fingers.

Mordred looked away. "Sometimes I don't want healing, I don't want the pain to go away, because that would mean forgetting." He leaned forward and rested his head on her shoulder, and a tear slid down Morgana's cheek, and her soul recoiled in pain at the thought of death that would come for everyone.

"I'm so sorry. It was my fault, the knights were coming for me." She said.

"No. It's me. I attract death. I always have. What if something harms this clan too, what if something happens to you just because me and my sick fate are around?"

"I won't let anything hurt us again. Never again."

"Once set on the path of wanderings a man's heart will never rest again." Iseldir uttered, smiling softly at them. Mordred and Morgana had just asked for a blessing to leave the Great Seas.

They stood in the aconite meadow, and dusk fell upon them.

"Thank you, Iseldir, and pardon us for leaving you," asked Morgana.

"We druids are children of the forest. Forest gives, forest takes."

"Forest gives, forest takes." echoed Mordred.

"And if the forest calls you, how can we hold back free souls? I ask you to send my heartfelt greetings to our Lady."

"Iseldir, without you and your kindness we would be lost in the darkness." Mordred bowed to the Leader.

He was happy to do what he could for this poor boy. "Blessed be, Mordred. Blessed be, Morgana." He touched their shoulders with his magic staff like a king ordaining a warrior as a knight, and then he struck the ground, and a whirlwind carried Mordred and Morgana away, and their shadows were swallowed up by the sea.

They were gone.

Sefa stepped out from behind the dune, the wind blew the grey hood off her head. "I pray they keep to the path of light."

"The Cup of Life will show them the way. As will us, my love."

"What do you mean?"

"What if we've been given a hint to return to a long-lost home?"

"To Avalon." she finished, and smiled.

Chapter Text

A furious gust of wind dropped them on a hilltop far to the northeast, as far from the sea as could be.

Morgana freed herself from the mess of her cloak, Mordred's, travelling bags and dry leaves. She stood up and looked around.
Where they were now?
Heavy clouds smelling of warm rain nested on the mountains' peaks. Behind them the distant edge of Brocéliande, the centre of their world, was lost in an emerald haze; and below a small village hid among the dark fir trees.
Iseldir had indeed transfered them to Orkney.

"Mordred, do you have ideas how I can acquire a magical staff like Iseldir's? I must admit I rather enjoy travelling in the wind like that. My arse is dead after horseriding." She grinned, and her neck flared as Mordred's hand slid down her waist. Morgana had always thought she couldn't blush, and was the picture of cold indifference to the advances of numerous knights and nobles. But not in Mordred's case, not when his touch burned her skin blissfully.

"Druids grow trees for magical staffs over decades from a blessed seed. If you start now, you'll probably get a sprout in twenty-five years. If you're lucky."

She pouted. "I'm not that patient. So what now? Where do we go? Iseldir didn't know where my sister lived, did he?"

"He knew she must be in Orkney."

In a castle on the border of Essetyr and Camelot. But where is it?
Mordred moved closer to the edge of the cliff, gazing into the distance. "I can feel it. Right here." He put his palm over his heart. The golden thread in his chest tightened, and if Morgana had looked at his face, she would notice his eyes flash gold as he was seeing the path with the inner sight. The magical soul compass Morgause had given him knew the way to Castle Orkney even if Mordred himself didn't.

"It's that way." His hand in the ragged grey sleeve pointed east to a mountain valley. "The rain is coming."

"And that's why" Morgana started down the hill and took Mordred's arm, guiding him, "We'll stop at the village first."

As they made their way down the hill it really started to rain. The magical dome protected them just fine, but when they entered the village, Morgana and Mordred mutually agreed to remove the spell so as not to scare people. Or not to attract unnecessary attention from people whose attention was better left unattracted. Even despite their poor robes and hoods on, the peasants still stared at the strangers from their old cottages' windows.

"Where's a tavern? There must be a tavern." Soaked and miserable,  Mordred mumbled. "Let me talk to that kind lady in the window over there--"

"I'm not sure she'd appreciate you. Leave her to me."

"Do you think people don't like me?" Mordred blinked.

"It's just sometimes it's obvious you grew up in the woods." She didn't notice Mordred was hurt but this remark, but it's briefly gone. "But to hell with it. What is this but an inn?"

A welcoming yellow orb of the lantern glowed at the leaning door of a low, one-storey building. There was no chimney and the smoke was comings right from the window. The inscription on the sign was unreadable.
Morgana walked resolutely to the door and knocked. A toothless old woman in a blue bonnet opened the door and shrieked: "Who is here in the awful weather to visit our humble abode?"

Despite the fact that Morgana felt, and without doubts looked like a wet stray cat, she gracefully made a curtsy. "Please, goodwife, give us travellers shelter. We mean no harm and will bless your home and bread."

The old woman grumped something and let them inside, into the dark cavern of an inn smelling of smoke, beer and wet wool. They had only one long table, and Morgana and Mordred settled at the very end, away from the drunk hicks and suspicious individuals with no clear class and occupation, the permanent residents of every tavern and inn across all Albion.

A plumped, red-faced man landed bowls of unrecognisable brown mass of a thick brew in front of them and sullenly demanded a new coin with "the young king fellow" on it, clucking his tongue while Morgana awkwardly rummaged through her purse for an Arthur among the Uthers. Her soaked but warmed up by the inn's heat heavy cloak clung to her body, and every movement was irritating her.

When she finally handed him the coin, the innkeeper's gaze glued to her triskelion pendant. Morgana covered it with the palm of her hand in a familiar gesture.

"Fear not, wench. This is Orkney, not Camelot. Never really obeyed them no matter what their papers say. Your kind of the Old Religion is welcome here, under our Lady's shadow. You should rather be feared if you were hiding a cross there."

Judging by those words, the principality has secretly practised the Old Ways even in Uther's darkest times.

The inkeeper turned to leave, but Mordred stopped him. "We're actually looking for Lady Morgause' castle."

He stared at him, and the old woman behind the bar chuckled. "Lad. No one enters the Castle Beyond the Waterfall unless he's invited to a feast or an execution....Sometimes it's the same thing there. Where are you from? Don't you know that when Our Lady banished her cousins, she surrounded the old lord's castle with powerful sorcery. No one goes in, no one comes out. Forbidden, that's it."

We'll see, Mordred thought. Morgause was invisibly calling to him, and he knew they would get through any obstacle to find her.

Wet cloaks were hung by the hearth and travelling bags were hidden under the bed. The room upstairs reminded Morgana of Gwen's house — well, if Gwen wasn't riding up for weeks.

She lay down on the bed and pulled out Morgause's letter to reread. When she unfolded the crumpled papyrus, the dried trillium inside crumbled to ashes onto the woollen blanket. Morgause's confession scribbled in the letter warmed her heart. All this time she had missed her so much, not even knowing she had a sister. Yet another Uther's sin that stole happiness from her.

Morgause wrote that she thought Morgana was born for the priestesshood. It sent a trill into her heart. To discover in herself all three sides of Goddess, and gain their power: the independence and clarity of the Maiden, the might and love of the Mother, the wisdom and justice of the Crone.... It was an art and an initiation beyond the reach of even the Druids.

Mordred sat by the fireplace, rocking his chair. He seemed to gaze at the flame reflections in the steel of his blade as in a mirror.
"Sometimes I think." Mordred said, and remained silent until Morgana reacted. "Why you stay with me, Morgana. You must hate me. Hate me."

Morgana arched an eyebrow perplexedly, her whole look saying, "Pardon me?"

"I mean, when you think about it. I killed your father. That's why you ended up with Uther. Uther eventually got you here. How can you not hate me?"

Morgana sucked in air. "You were a child and you protected yourself. My father was carrying out a criminal order, and I so wish he refused. I don't want to believe he was willing to kill children. But their deaths are on Uther's black conscience. And I will never hate you, Mordred, no matter what you do. Kill me even, and I still won't."

Mordred raised his head, but looked out the window instead of at her, then stood up, threw off his shirt, and lay down beside Morgana. She tucked the letter under the pillow and put her arms round him.
I will be your river, the solid ground beneath your feet. I will always love you, she mentally wished. Such words were supposed to be spoken by a knight to his lady, by a man to a woman, but Morgana didn't care about rules. Never had. Because there were no rights, no wrongs, no rules for her anymore. Only their feelings were right and real in this strange age, strange place.

He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. "Even when I die I will not forget you, Morgana."

"You won't die, never, I won't let you."

Morgana stopped in front of the glistening wall of water falling calmly on the sharp rocks. This wide mountain valley breathed freedom; the evening stars shone so brightly on the sapphire sky, and she felt that yes, her sister must live in a place like this, wild and majestic, untamed, where everything was height and charged energy.

"I have seen this waterfall in visions." Mordred reported. "We're on track."

"The innkeeper said there must be a magical barrier..." Morgana gently touched the water. Nothing struck her back. A golden ripple shimmered across the cool surface.

"Someone has to do it."

"And it's going to be me—" Morgana was aboot to move....

But Mordred closed his eyes and made a firm step. Morgana gasped when the water parted and closed him in. All she could see was his blurred silhouette. Almost slipping on the wet stones, she jumped into the waterfall.

The passage opened seamlessly. They found themselves in a mossy, lily-grown grotto, and further out in the open they saw a vast grey lake spreading out, and a grassy island, and a tall golden castle in the sunset light. Morgause's place.

"There are no guards..." Morgana muttered walking up to the empty shore and brushing her wet curls off her face.  Would they ever stop getting all soaked?

"I don't think she needs them. Morgana, you can swim, can't you?" But as Mordred dipped the tip of his scratched boot into the water, the depths of the lake got cut and an old wooden boat popped up.

"Hmm, handy." He seemed to like Morgause's magic.

"I suppose it can float itself?" Excited as always about every appearance of magic and sorcery, Morgana settled herself inside, wrapping her cloak around herself.

"The oars tell otherwise." Mordred sat inside and made the first row, then another.
And something within him tugged, and broke; so Morgause's calling released him, for he has fulfilled his oath.

Sailing forward, they could now see Orkney quite close. A castle of golden stone with ivy-clad towers crowned the island. The castle was surrounded by wooden outbuildings and a large paddock where many horses were grazing. At the far end of the island they could see a small village with fishing boats at the quay. Their sails were now lowered.
The place seemed peaceful, and strangely deserted. No living soul around. Even usually troublesome seagulls were absent.

"This is strange. But I already feel like...I feel good. Like I'm back home." Mordred admired the horses running freely in the grass, their manes fluttering in the wind, the sun achingly slowly setting behind the mountains; all this soothed his heart, made his hands stronger.

Morgana hummed. "Must be part of my sister's charm."

They met the first human being when they stepped into the cosy cobbled courtyard. To the right was built a long shed where they could see the horses' watering trough and grooming equipment, an anvil and a barrel of water to cool the iron, and neat stacks of firewood.
Some young man in dark grey robes lay lazily on a sheaf of hay while his axe was magically chopping wood by itself. When he noticed Mordred and Morgana, he flinched painfully, fell from the sheaf on his feet, and sent the axe between them and himself.

"Who are you?! How did you manage to get through the Veil?" his voice broke with fear.

The sharp blade hovered in front of Morgana's face. She blinked, and effortlessly tossed the axe aside with just a glance. It buried deeply into a rafter. "Is this how Lady Orkney greets us?" She smirked calmly.

The young man stared at them with even more disbelief.

"Blessed be. We have come in peace. Lady Morgause must have been expecting us." Mordred greeted the woodsman, alarmed at his every movement.

"Blessed be thy feets that have brought thee in this ways...." he replied like a druid. "Wait, you are Lady Morgana? Of course, who else could you be! I'm a fool!"

"That's me." Morgana took off her hood and smiled trying to put him at ease.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, I've been warned. Please don't tell the Lady I didn't recognise you!"

"We definitely shouldn't tell her you threatened us with a cold weapon." Morgana chuckled.

"I just couldn't imagine anyone could walk through the veil on their own.... When I arrived here, the Lady herself opened the way. I had no idea... By the way, the name is Daegal, I serve the Lady. Allow me to escort you to the castle." Doegal bowed nervously.

"What clan are you from, Daegal?" Mordred got curious. "I am Mordred from Brocéliande."

"Oh, I'm not a druid, just have been well taught in your ways. Follow me, please."

Sharing each other's excitement, Morgana and Mordred followed him inside, behind the heavy wrought iron doors as the torches behind them flashed one by one, welcoming the new night.

Daegal led them into a large chamber on the ground floor. A red oriental rug lay on the floor, the sturdy furniture was carved from golden shiny wood. The fireplace, with an unusual coat of arms hunging over it — red rowan tree in a black field — was simply huge. Probably a whole ox could be roasted there. The windows were narrow, more like slits in the thick stone, but very high.
These walls breathed peace and strength.

"Please wait a moment." Daegal disappeared into the darkness. "I'll call the Lady."

Morgana felt her rather than saw or heard footsteps, those loud impatient footsteps on the stone floor. She turned round, breath frozen in her chest, and there stood Morgause, alone against the dark doorway. She was dressed like a man, in blue trousers, black boots and a white tunic, her pearl curls loosely scattered over her shoulders. In the dim glow they shone like a halo.

"Morgana. You came." Morgana never thought Morgause could sound so soft, look so vulnerable. A moment, and Morgause was right beside her, cupping her face with her graceful but strong hands. "You've been through a thousand dangers. Are you all right? Tell me the truth."

Morgana smiled, suddenly shy and weak. "Everything is fine. Iseldir the Druid helped us get here quickly and safely. Thank you, Morgause, I'm so glad you invited me."

Morgause clutched her hands in hers. "There hasn't been a day I haven't waited for you, my dearest sister."

Warmth spilled into Morgana's chest, it was like the fire of a beloved hearth after a walk in the rain. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, so much has happened. Arthur—"

"Tomorrow. I can see how tired you are. You need rest and sleep. I remember you had trouble sleeping. Not anymore." Morgause finally shifted her amber gaze to Mordred.

He bowed briefly. "My Lady."

"Mordred, thank you. I will not forget it." Whatever she had thought of him before, she clearly approved of him now. "Come, I will escort you to the best quarters myself."

"You want a room for two, don't you?" With a smirk, she whispered to Morgana. Holding hands, they climbed the spiral staircase to a high tower. The round room inside was drowned in gentle blue shadows. Morgause clapped her hands, and the candles ignited in obedience.

"These will be your chamber from now on, Morgana. And your companion's. I will send my maid to assist you in the morning, but for now, Sister, good night. I have to go." She smiled majestically and left the tower. Soon the sounds of her boots on the stone floor fell silent. Somewhere in the distance a door slammed, and then another.

"Lady Morgause... Your sister, she..." Mordred's voice trailed off.

"What?"

"Do you feel like you've known her all your life?"

"I do. We are sisters. Do you, too?"

"I don't know what it is..."

Morgana threw her cloak to the floor, and flopped down on the bed. Everything seemed so magical in the semi-darkness. The table and a tapestry on it. The black carved wardrobe. Chests and embroidered pillows on them. A bronze canopy with golden apples pattern. Her body was buried in the softest featherbed. "I haven't slept in a proper bed in ages. No less." She yawned.

Mordred sat down on the edge of the bed, first carefully folding his cloak and bag. Then ran his hand over the velvet bedspread. "And I've never tried anything like this."

Morgana giggled, sat up and hugged him from behind, wrapping her arms around his torso. "Fear not Mordred. It's very easy to be spoilt."

Morgause entered her chambers in the west wing of the castle, picked up a black silk shirt from the floor and threw it in Cenred's direction. It wasn't far, for the King of Essetyr himself lay buried in the sheets of her own bed.

"That's enough for today, Cenred."

He raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I love you begging, but I said you can't stay out here tonight."

"Why not?"

"Witch business." Morgause crossed her arms over her chest.

"Like what? All your kind's business is picking in graveyard mud." Cenred was very displeased.

If glances could pierce, Cenred's bare chest was already stabbed.

"But it's night already!"

"Not yet."

"I've come all this way just to be with you, Morgause, you can't send me back just like that."

"We're neighbours, Cenred."

Realising that Morgause was really serious about not wanting to see him tonight, Cenred clenched his jaws, hints of anger sparkled in his deep black eyes. He stood up, put on his shirt and leather trousers, then took his cloak and short sword. "One day you will pay for the way you treat men...actual kings."

Morgause grimly smirked. "Let them try to make me."

Frustrated, Cenred rushed past her and slammed the door. He knew the castle down pat so he found the way out easily. Morgause walked over to an elegant round table on which rested a pearly white crystal, and in its mysterious misty depths watched Cenred's way home.

Chapter Text

The boat, grey, battered by the countless winds and the merciless sun, was rocking beneath her. The black cloak brushed against her skin, the hood cast shadows on her worried face. They glided across the lake, slowly cutting through the waters. The mist-blinded sky shed its tears upon them. This was Avalon, the sacred lake of the past and the future. Beside her lay her brother, King Arthur of Camelot. Crownless, hollowed. His head rested in her lap, wind was fluttering his soft golden hair. Morgana sailed away, taking him somewhere, seeking outworldly help. She sailed, and the boat left bloody trail on the water.

Morgana sat up straight, then pressed her fingers to her temples where a strange pain nestled. Calm down, it's just a scene from the past, she told herself. Arthur is alive and well, his life is paid for, the Holy Graal is keeping him safe. The Stars themselves aligned to guide him.

And she is here, far far away, in her sister's castle. The day first.

Morgana relaxed, and with a sigh leaned back on the pillows, her body back in the warm nest of white fluff. In the gentle morning light, she could now see the chamber better. Dark brick walls with no decorations. In the middle stood a table covered with a brown tapestry falling to the floor. Plump velvet cushions on the stools. A huge black wardrobe towered against the opposite wall, and large chests with brass gargoyle decorations stood beside it.

The furnishings was so unlike the Camelot Castle. The royal citadel was full of air and light, all white and blue space like a clear sky. Here in Orkney everything was grounded, warm and dark, like an autumn evening.

Mordred, shirtless, stood at the narrow lancet window, the rays gliding over his pale skin, his sunken stomach, the bright black triskele tattoo. He had broken through the ivy that climbed up their tower, and was now pensively overlooking the island.

"There is a forest here. I am content. If there is a forest, a druid will be happy."

"How are you?" Morgana propped herself up on her elbow, her hair slid down her bare shoulders in a soft caress. They never said good morning to each other, preferring to carry on the conversation as if even the brief separation of sleep never happened.

"I don't know how to fill my days anymore, but it's good. When all is lost then all is found." He smiled weakly. "And you, Morgana?"

"Nothing will ever stand in my way, that's how I am." She stretched and put on a shift. It has been a long time since she felt such peace upon awakening as she did here in Morgause's keep. Not even the shadows of the past, the shadows of Avalon, could bring her soaring spirit down.

And then someone knocked at the door.

"Come in." Morgana turned to the door. It must be a maid Morgause promised her the last night.

"My lady, may I." The door ajar and the maid stepped inside. Her face was hidden behind a rickety pyramid of copper basin, towels, linens and a tray with a silver teapot and goblets. But her movements were swift and graceful, nothing dropped down or even tinkled. "Will you have tea or warmed wine?"

"Some tea, thank you. What's your name?" Morgana smiled welcomingly. "I'm Morgana. And this is Mordred."

The maid landed the dishes on the table with a distinct irritated clang, turned to her, and the smile was wiped from Morgana's face. Recognition slapped her with no mercy in its cold hand.

A huge grey owl glided down from a branch, hooting, calling to someone in the night, and Sir Percival shuddered, torn from his dreamless slumber.

Ever since they have returned to Brocéliande's mysterious canopy, he has not allowed himself to sleep, guarding the Graal in prayerful vigil. That he occasionally slipped into a trance with his eyes open, that he was unable to think of anything but the Graal, that even his strong body was slowly giving up, it was deemed by the pious knight as a trial of honour and duty.

He was sitting under a high tree, sword in his lap, the Cup on the ground in front of him, standing on a oak leaf carefully placed beneath.The knights, his friends, were sleeping by the nearly extinguished fire. All but one.

"WHO'S HERE!" Arthur popped up from behind the tree, sending a painful wave of cold shock down Percival's pained back.

"Blast, Sire! Never do this, I could've killed you!" Percival frowned. His deadly grip on his sword relaxed.

Arthur laughed, not caring that he might wake the others. He squatted down opposite Percival so that the Graal was between them. "You just try. Percy, you need sleep or you'll grow dull."

"I don't, Sire. I'm perfectly fine."

Arthur rolled his eyes, then focused on the Cup. Blue moonlight poured through the whispering foliage, and gathered at the bottom. It was like water, a healing elixir that could heal his soul. Arthur touched the silvery, thin rim of the Cup. It was empty.

"Sir Percival, would you confess to me as friend and king. Have the thought of taking possession of the Cup ever crossed your mind?"

Percival stared at him through a haze of fatigue, completely uncomprehending. "Sire...? I beg you..."

"Oh, dont mind me, I'm sorry. I know I can trust you as much as Merlin and Lance. Even more than them. They each have their own dreams, whereas you, Percival, are all about serving Camelot. You have no other life."

Percival shrugged, not knowing how to respond in this sort of a remark. The night shadows were doing strange things to Arthur's face, he looked changed, and Percival dared advise, "You need a rest yourself. So much has happened past months; the road is doing nothing good to any of us."

"If I could, I wouldn't  return to Camelot at all. I need to get this over with quickly. I know which kingdom we will use the Graal on first..."

Percival's eyebrows rose as high as they could, and then he chuckled. "Sir Arthur, we promised the people a huge feast on our return. All of Camelot is waiting for us, it is a great glory. They want to see the Graal too. Besides, your men are badly tired from such a long journey. Even with the Graal, you can't go there alone. We must be with you, Sir, we stay strong when we are together."

"Well, you're right. I don't know if you're always right, Percy, but this time you certainly are." Arthur brushed off his own words easily. He sat down on the ground, pulled his hood over his head, and soon fell asleep sitting. Eventually, Sir Percival succumbed into the sweet embrace of dreams as well. So King and Knight guarded the Cup of Life, while the night woods magic veiled them in mystery and promise.

The maid's bark brown curly hair, and metallic grey eyes, her face round but devoid of usual sweetness, Morgana immediately recognised her even though she barely knew her.

Her, the druidess who had intended to kill Arthur. And, as Elaine once told her, Mordred's past love. Kara of Brocéliande.

"You!" Morgana gasped.

At that sound, Mordred finally turned away from his forest, saw her; and he was transformed.

"Kara!" He ran up to her and grabbed her by the forearms, his eyes crazed, his breath caught in his chest. "Kara, how did you end up here? Do you already know what happened to Aglain and Elaine? And to the others? What are you doing here? You—"

"Mordred, let me go, you'll smash the basin. Get off." Kara rolled her eyes and adjusted the sleeves of her sandy dress crumpled by Mordred's excited grip.

He was absolutely captivated, and glad to see her. No doubt glad.

Morgana sat aside from them, watching. Jealousy twisted her guts into a tight knot. To see Mordred so excited was freightening. His joy and care, it used to belong only to her. 

"You wanted to kill my brother, King Arthur," she reminded about herself. Morgana couldn't help coldness seeping into her voice, and the tension reflected in her frigid shoulders and clenched jaw.

"Who hasn't?..But Emrys saved him, and I was banished from Camelot for the rest of my days, and ended up here in Orkney. As you can see."

Kara calmly looked Morgana over from head to toe; the first time they have come face to face. "I've changed my mind about the King, after all. You know, I'm not thrilled about serving you of all people, Morgana, but for the Lady's sake alone I'll ask if you need anything else? This all is just to break your fast, the Lady awaits you in the fireside hall for a proper meal."

Morgana rarely failed to find the words to reply, but this instance was one of them, and the most egregious. How dares she! 

Her stun didn't escape Kara's notice. "Very well. I'll go report to the Lady you're finally awake."

"Wait, Kara, stay...We need to talk—" Mordred tried to hold her back, but Kara slammed the door in his smiling face.

He remained standing there.

Morgana rose from the bed, walked slowly to the table, and took a sip of Kara's herbal tea. It tasted like poison. "Such a pleasing meeting. It looks like this morning is quite good for you, Mordred. Such an unexpected encounter, who would have imagined it." She strangled all her pathetic feelings lest he read her through. But perhaps he was not thinking of her at all, perhaps he got absorbed in himself and her, the another.

Mordred landed on the stool opposite her and ran his hands through his tangled curls. He looked confused.

"Morgana, how could I. When we lost Elaine to the Cave, I said I was the last of the Brocéliande clan. But how could I forget that I wasn't alone, that Kara was still alive. Of course, since you warned Arthur of the assassination attempt, you changed the future. Kara avoided both the massacre and Camlann. The only one who did."

Morgana hid her face behind her goblet. The worst part of her right now wished Kara didn't.

"Kara is all I have left." Mordred added in a deep voice. "I've known her since we were children."

"Sure, you have. That's very sweet." Morgana couldn't get more irritated. She was all he has left.

She landed the goblet on the table, stepped back and thew the wardrobe open. It turned out to be empty, so they had to go back to their old druid clothes. While they changed, both were silent. Mordred, apparently in the musings on the miraculous rescue of his marvellous Kara. Morgana mentally crushing everyone around her.

She has just been reunited with her sister, and the last thing in the world she wanted to think about was anything else. The last thing she wanted was to let some maid ruin her new life. By what evil caprice of fate has this Kara ended up here in Orkney of all places?

The last thing in the world Morgana wanted was to doubt Mordred. Not after all the signs of love and devotion they shared. Not after the water and fire they have been through together. Not after she let him to get her laid.

It was pathetic to feel that way.

And yet. 

This girl belonged to his world in a way Morgana never could. She was his first. Kara was no match for her in power or beauty, but a traitorous thought has already seeped like a snake into Morgana's heart: if Kara had stayed in the camp then instead of going off to a dark sect, would Mordred ever have chosen her, Morgana?..

Strange how wary, narrow-eyed she was now watching Mordred as he fastened his fibula, as he checked the blade on his belt, all familiar gestures of his. If he left her, she wouldn't know how to live with herself... No, it's better not to manifest this even in her thoughts. Who knows when destiny hears you. More than often, she closes her ears when one pleads, and listens to things of dread and malice.

But Morgause was waiting them and it was a thing to look forward to. They walked out the doors and started down the stairs, all the thirteen steps in the dark. Mordred offered her his arm, and Morgana took it and held it tightly to her side.

Chapter Text

So they entered the fireplace hall where they had been welcomed by Morgause last night.

The fire burned steady and calm, shading the ancient stones of Orkney in gold and scarlet.

Morgause sat at a beautifully set table and ate slices of meat from a blade. This morn she was dressed in a bright red dress with sleeves of metallic lace; all cold chainmail and tenderest silk. Ruby pins glittered in her pearly hair. Kara was also here, serving her lady wine. She never glanced up at Morgana or Mordred.

Morgause stood up and a warm smile lit up her regal face. "Morgana, my dear, you are awake. And Mordred. It is good to see you. It is so lonely in this castle sometimes, but now that I have you with me my days will feel better. Know that you are both Orkney now, hence my kin."

Morgause walked out to Morgana and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of something woodland and far away, like coloured powders and dried petals of strange flowers that overseas merchants sometimes brought to the royal family of Camelot's perusal.

They were seated at the table, and Kara set silver plates, goblets and linen napkins before them. Morgana acted as if the maid was a ghost, just a couple of hands serving her. Mordred tried to whisper something to her, but Kara turned away.

"You may go." Morgause finally dismissed Kara. Morgana relaxed her shoulders. She was finally free of that disturbance now. "Mordred, would you fancy..." she wanted to treat him with a plate of venison served with raisins, but Mordred refused the meat, picking some vegetables instead.

"Sister, tell me about the dreams that troubled you last night. How are you feeling?" Morgause seemed to interpret her crooked lips and pallor as malaise rather than disgust at that tramp maid.

Morgana sighed, and forced herself to focus only on Morgause. "Oh, I'm fine. This night I dreamed about a scene from the past, nothing special. Usually my dreams forebode a trouble to Arthur. Or just a trouble. It can be so exhausting, and I wish I could master my dreams. Aglain the druid promised to help me but...Tonight was really fine, don't worry, please..."

"My informants told me that Aglain and his clan were undone on Camelot's orders. Is this true?" Morgause clucked her tongue. Alas, it was only Aglain's own fault, she mused. No amount of fear will keep you safe; that's what she always used to say him on the rare occasions their paths crossed.

"It is, but not really." Mordred spoke up, "It's a complex story."

"So tell it to me. I long to know all about your journey." Morgause leaned back in her chair, twirling a half-empty goblet in her hands, the dark purple liquid inside glittered like a jewelled pomegranate.

"It was Sir Galahad..."

"Oh, an old friend of mine." Morgause grimly smirked. "What else has he managed to do?"

And they told her everything that had happened since they had parted from her at the Weeping Hovel — except that Morgana was King Uther's daughter. Morgana retold the most, Mordred only occasionally added to the srory, his gaze fixed on the black and red tree. Being reticent was usual for him, but now Morgana feared it was something else. Just his thoughts being far away from her and Morgause, with someone else.

"So that's all?" Morgause sniffed. "You just trusted that Arthur would be good and walked away, leaving Camelot to his whim? And even more, you gave him the Cup of Life?"

At last Morgause realised how to properly interpret the strange comet omen in the sky that's perplexed her before. Uther's boy had taken the Cup. Just as Nimueh had predicted, Arthur was walking helplessly in the footsteps of the prophecies.

"But he is good. He lifted the Law. He knighted me." explained Mordred.

"Arthur proved he was better than his father. Besides, I don't want to do with Camelot anymore, to be honest. Let him have it." Morgana hummed.

Morgause tilted her head. "Oh, so perhaps we should thank Uther's son for mercifully allowing us to be ourselves. For without his high permission we could not live our truth. Thank him so much for being so gracious. Are these the Old Ways?! In the old days, kings trembled before the priestesses of the Triple Goddess, and the word of the Druids weighed more than anything. Mordred, I see you're particularly interested in my coat of arms. Did you recognise it?"

"The Rowan Tree? Aglain told me a little about it. Unfortunately, I don't remember much..."

"Bad. If even the Druids start forgetting what the world once was, should have been, then we're completely lost. We are here to keep the memory on." Morgause stood up and walked over to the fireplace, the rich red of her dress matching perfectly with the crimson of the mysterious banner.

"The tiny sprout of the Rowan Tree was taken from the deepest of Brocéliande by your ancestors, Mordred, druids of ancient Craft, then handed down and planted in the Temple of the Blessed Isle by the first Sisters, the great Nine. It became our holy tree, its roots nourished by the magic of the Island for centuries. The Rowan Staff, a powerful attribute of our magic, was created from its branches. The Cup, the Staff, the Pentacle and the Sword, all of these belonged to the priestesses by right until they were lost to us because of the Kings of Camelot."

Morgause sauntered around the hall. "Does anyone else remember that the Tree was the arms of Camelot before the Pendragons imposed their golden dragon on everyone? Yes, you are looking now at the old banner of our kingdom. They have endeavoured to erase the women that once ruled Camelot and all of Albion from the memory but few of us keep the truth. And that is our mission and true power."

"All the darkness and wasteland is behind us, My Lady." Mordred said slowly, like Morgana, mesmerised by Morgause's tale. "Emrys is with the King as foretold."

"Emrys? The one who cursed me and killed Lady Nimueh? That Emrys?"

"The Emrys who returned magic to us. Sometimes people are forced to do things they don't want to do."

"Free people only do what they want, otherwise they are nothing by worthless slaves. And as for prophecies, Mordred," Morgause murmured thoughtfully, walking past him and sitting down again in her carved chair at the head of the table, hands rested quietly on the armrests. "We give them life when utter them. Words have great power but can we make our lives dependent on the word of one man?"

Morgana spoke up. "I understand, Morgause, but you just don't know Arthur. I grew up with him, sometimes he can be unbearable, but he has a good heart."

"So if I, High Priestess of the Great Mother, ask this heart of gold to return what is rightfully mine – the Cup of Life – he will return it to where it is meant to be?"

"Well, I suppose if I asked him..." Morgana muttered, moving the food around on her plate with her silver fork.

"The Cup is only given to whomever it wishes. According to the druid prophecies, King Arthur and Emrys will bring the New Age of Albion. His kingdom of grace and truth is coming. Has come." He quickly corrected himself. "This is what we all were fighting for."

He couldn't sense anything behind Morgause's amber gaze even if he wanted to, but the way she lifted her chin proudly spoke volumes. "Not all of us were fighting. Some chose to surrender or hide, doing nothing. Some even went over to the enemy's side and served him."

Mordred lowered his eyes and stared at his own reflection in the desk's polished wood. He didn't like what Morgause was implying. She didn't seem to forgive Aglain for refusing to fight on her side even in death.

"But don't worry, I'm not going to hunt Arthur down or take the Cup away by force...I mean, you know we're kind of allies now with Uther's little son, him and me." Morgause smirked. "I fought on Camlann for the House of Pendragon, it's hard to believe, isn't it?"

"How?" Morgana and Mordred asked in unison. "You were there, too?

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Sir Galahad has united us. Mayhaps I will give Arthur a chance to reveal his ways. Now..." She stood up again, "Sister, I would like some time alone with you."

Mordred got this velvet command. "My Lady, thank you for the meal. I shall go for a walk."

"I permit you to call me Morgause." She curved her lips in a soft smirk.

Mordred hunched his shoulders, and walked out, swathed in his dark druid cloak. Morgana glanced after him helplessly. This "walk" of his would surely mean he would be looking for Kara. While she and her sister were here, he could go to the kitchen, or the courtyard, or wherever – wherever she was. There was nothing Morgana could do against them.

Morgause walked over to her and took her hands in hers, distracting her from thoughts of her beloved. Morgause's dry, lean palms bore the marks of sword and pen. "I want to show you the castle and talk without the presence of strangers."

"Mordred and I have no secrets from each other. We're very close."

"Oh, really? Well, but me and him aren't. Yet. Let's go."

All the beautiful rooms merged into one in Morgana's worried mind. The lute room, the winter hall, the hunting hall, the library, it all seemed the same to her. They crossed long narrow passages and ivy-overgrown open galleries and stopped in a corridor decorated with shields, coats of arms, and knight's armour. A white unicorn on a blue field reigned over all the insignias here.

"An old Orkney coat of arms." Morgause clipped, and stopped in front of small triangular shield depicting a lake and a lone tower over it. "The family crest of our mother Lady Vivienne. She belonged to an old family..." A gentle nostalgia seeped into her voice.

Morgana sighed for the mother she barely remembered and peered out the narrow window. It overlooked the front yard. Blue shadows of leaves danced across the yellow paving stones, a blacksmith was bending a new horseshoe, red and blazing like a warrior's fury, some old handmaiden hurried inside with a bucket of fresh milk. And there they were, Daegal and Kara. He was carefully brushing a bay horse's mane, and she crept up behind him and kissed him on the cheek with an unexpectedly sweet little smirk on her face.

So that's it. These two, together. Morgana's lips stretched in a satisfied smile. That was better, much better.

"What's out there?" Morgause looked out the window as well, but found nothing worth noticing. Just servants.

"Your stableboy's name is Daegal, I believe? Last night he amazed us saying no-one was able to pass through the waterfall." Morgana tried to show nothing but nonchalance.

"Well, he's more like my assistant, not just a stableboy. He knows some magic. This couple came one night and begged me to shelter them in the name of the Old Religion. I had to keep them, they're loyal." Morgause shrugged. "Let's come to my chambers, I have something to show you. It is a beautiful gift for you, Morgana."

"I can never repay you, Morgause." Morgana laughed and followed her to a iron door to the west tower.

Morgause's chambers were not as luxurious as Morgana thought. The furnishings were even simpler than her and Mordred's tower with its rich velvet and tapestries. Morgause had a huge desk with stacks of books and scrolls on it, caskets and inkwells, but everything was kept in perfect order. The walls were hung with weapons – daggers, axes and battle-hardened swords. The only coat of arms present here was that of the Rowan Tree; Morgause was clearly deeply devoted to it, rejecting everything else.

"Who's that?" Morgana saw a portrait leaned against the wall, with a drawing turned back. She turned it to herself to get a better look. It depicted a fair-haired bearded man wearing a silver crown, his face stoic and gaze aloof and inward.

"My late father, Lord Orkney." Morgause shrugged. She sat at the table watching Morgana, fascinated, travelling through her tower.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I couldn't care less. I don't remember him. I think of Gorlois as my real father. I grew up with him before I was sent to the Island. I knew no other family. The old Orkney was useful though, for without him I wouldn't have all this."

Morgana's heart made a movement towards her sister, the truth about her true father forming on her tongue – but she swallowed its bitterness. She felt that Morgause would not have approved of her ceding the throne of Camelot to Arthur, having every right to claim it hers. Morgana wanted her brother and sister in peace. Besides, wouldn't Uther’s, the Evil King's blood stain her in her sister's eyes?.. So she let Morgause think the good-hearted Lord Gorlois they both loved so was their parent.

"What is it? So beautiful..." she changed the subject pointing to a large antique volume on the table.

It was bound in burgundy leather, with the eight phases of the moon delicately engraved in silver on the cover, the full moon in the centre a round moonstone gem. The yellow pages of old parchment swelled with pieces of papyrus, silk bookmarks, and even herbs inserted in-between.

Morgana wanted to open the volume and dive into it, but Morgause grabbed her wrist.

"Stop. This is forbidden. The book is enchanted for anyone who is not an initiated priestess. Touch it and you will be cursed grossly. Even you."

Morgana got visibly uncomfortable, and Morgause consoled her in her embarassment. "This is the Book of Shadows or Grimoire passed down from generation to generation between women of our initiation. Everything we know is in here. No offence, Sister. Someday you will be allowed to open this book and drink from it, but not now."

Morgana, ashamed, hurried to turn away from the forbidden tome.

By a lancet-window stood a small elegant mahogany table, and on it, bathed in a single ray of sunlight, was a white crystal put on a stand; and lay a silver hand mirror.

"Behold, this is for you, Morgana." Morgause led Morgana over to the table. "There is so much I want to teach you. I don't know what the Druids have taught you, but I can guess." She smirked slightly, "Something about the unity of all things and nature spirits? It's not that they're wrong. They are right. The truth is one. But our paths go further into the sacred darkness druids dare not even tread. Ours can do more than control the elements. We can force a man to follow our will or undo a spirit to harness its energy. With one knot tied and untied we can make events bow to our desire."

"But isn't that what they call black magic?"

"Division is for the weak and ignorant. Did not they tell you that Goddess, lamenting the sad fates of her children, descended underground, into the uttermost shadows and remembered that it was she, herself, who had created darkness and withering. But with no falling, rising again would not come. Morgana, didn't they teach you that you shall answer thrice for the evil done to you, but when someone loves you, you should love him three times more?"

"I don't know..."

"You are very powerful, Sister, but for now your power is as wild and naive as the forest your druids worshipped."

Morgana was confused, but Morgause's words echoed deep in her soul. "Aglain always said that the main rede is to do what you want but do no harm."

"And by his words he perished. I knew Aglain, Morgana. He was as weak as he was wise."

Morgana gazed into the milky mist of the crystal. It seemed so familiar.... Flashes of light swam before her eyes and distant voices buzzed in her ears. Suddenly swaying, she dug into the edge of the table until her nails ached.

"It is from the Crystal Cave?" Even though separated from the Source centuries away, invisible waves of energy, flashes of colour and light, were emanating from its hidden core.

Morgause hold her by the shoulders. "Yes. It's called the Crystal of Neahtid, one of the most powerful Crystal Cave's gifts to the world. Passed to me from Nimueh, and to her from Branwen. I can see the mere present; but you, Morgana, you are a seer. The crystal will teach you to see the future whenever you wish, and will heal your dreams. It is yours."

"I can't..." Morgana's cheeks flushed, but she could already feel the pull of the precious stone, wished to part its mists and disperse the shadows to see the light of the truth.

"You can. It will do you more good than me." Morgause smiled approvingly, then handed her the mirror. "Take a look at this. I'm curious what you'll see."

Morgana gripped the mirror in both hands. Its surface, cold and grey as the autumn sky, cleared, and she saw a majestic marble coffin, and in it a knight clad in pure white. He was slumbering, but there was no peace in his lovely cold face; his slender pale fingers convulsively clutched the hilt of his sword. The snowflakes, falling, did not melt in his long golden curls.

Shocked, Morgana looked up at Morgause. "Sir Galahad?! I don't understand."

Morgause took the mirror from her and looked into it, her eyes glazed. "This is the mirror of the dead, and this is what I've been seeing for months now. The White Knight, dead in this snowy crypt, he's haunting me..."

"Death has been my gift since I can remember. When I was a girl, I couldn't tell if things I was seeing were alive or long dead. I used to talk to shadows all the time, and people around me must have thought I was insane. Such a shame to my noble family before the King. They couldn't know what I knew, see what I saw.

One day I remember so vividly. It was in Camelot not long before I was banished from there. Our mother was sitting with the infant you on her lap in the gardens, I was playing nearby. You were a remarkably quiet child, seldomly cried, as if there was something that kept you away from usual childish whims, made you different. Maybe your visions manifested even then? I don't know.

I noticed cute blackbirds merrily nibbling on glossy blackberries. I ran up to them, and they weren't afraid of me. They sat on my arms and shoulders and looked at me. I went back to our mother, excited to introduce her to my new little friends, dreaming of a cute cage by my bed and bread crumbs. But Mother turned pale, pulled this very mirror out of her handbag and held the merciless reflection up to me. There were no birds, they were dead, and my hands empty.

I stopped seeing spirits when I took my first initiation from Nimueh. But my connection to the otherside has not diminished. Now I can summon a person to appear in a spirit body of light, I can command a corpse to stand up and serve me, I can see the fallen in mirrors..."

"Show me Uther!" Morgana bit her lower lip in fear and anticipation.

Morgause shook her head and put the mirror down. "What for? I don't want to think of him ever again. Let his flesh rot and spirit never know peace."

"How did we get through the waterfall veil?"

"The passage only opens to those I have waited for and thought of..." Morgause reached out and hugged Morgana with a deep soulful sigh. At last her sister was home, two parts of one whole united.

Morgana returned to the east tower and found Mordred standing at the table over a messy pile of books. She moved them aside and placed the crystal on the table. It answered her with a pale gleam.

Mordred gave a low whistle, "Is this what I think it is?"

"The crystal of Neahtid itself. Morgause said it would help me grow as a seer." She slowly walked over to him, and gazed intently into the enigmatic face her lover. "What are you reading?"

"Here, I brought this from the library..."Liber de sex rerum principiis." He read hoarsely.

"But it's a thing of the New Religion, must be Morgause's father's. You don't speak its language..." Morgana frowned.

"You think so?"

She looked through the pages full of celestial spheres, men in long robes and disfigured animals. The left pages were written in Roman, the right in Britton. "A total mess."

"Maybe mess is what I need. What I actually am."

Morgana put a mask of sweat sympathy on her face and stroked Mordred's back and shoulders, making him to close his eyes and sigh. "Oh, love. Did you manage to talk to that girl from the Clan?" She froze, waiting for an answer, her heart silently bleeding.

"No. She is avoiding me. Been sitting in the library instead."

"That's sad. Maybe she doesn't want to see you because she blames you for the death of the clan? You were the guardian, after all...I know it's unfair, but..." Morgana gently planted the seed of separation in the wounded soil.

Mordred's face darkened. "Like if I'd been there I wouldn't have slaughtered them all, all redes be damned!" He withdrew from her embrace, and collapsed on the bed with his new book.

"I understand. I understand you, Mordred." Morgana wasn't glad she hurt him, but rejoiced that she managed to finish off his joy of seeing this Kara. Maybe now he wouldn't search for her again. 

She sat down on the stool, pulled it close to the table, brushed her long loose curls behind her shoulders, put her palms on the table. Then stared at the swirl of smoke captive in the crystal, its mystery of the hidden, charged with visions and shadows...

She recalled Taliesin the Bard's mysterious admonition: the future is not set in stone, it is but a shadow in crystal.

Show me what I need to know.

That evening there was a knock at their tower's door, and Morgana hurried to open the door herself. To her utter relief, Kara deigned to leave a moment before. However, she has delivered a gift from Morgause, a large shapeless bundle wrapped in tapestry; and a small envelope with a note.

Morgana carried them inside and unwrapped.

"My dearest Morgana. I could no longer look at you in these rags. Please accept this gift. I expect the two of you for supper witih me."

Inside were two sets of fine aristocratic clothes: green and black dresses of airy silk, a set of men apparel for her, and a hooded cloak that took Morgana's breath away: purple, vivid like enchantment itself velvet adorned with silver embelishments. Mordred got black and red clothes and a dark cloak trimmed with wolf fur. It looked like Morgause would love to keep him in the Rowan Tree's colours; as if he was her knight, knight of the Old Religion.

Chapter Text

When evening painted the sky scarlet, Morgause opened the Book of Shadows – it gave herself easily to the Priestess' reverent touch – and leafed through to the prophecies of Arthur Pendragon. Only a couple or two of incoherent lines, but how much lies behind them! The reason Nimueh put off revenge again and again. Why it all began. Arthur's birth cursed this land, but it also promised salvation.

It seemed unjust that Goddess had chosen Uther's son to bring redemption, but on the other hand...Morgause mused, carefully holding the fragile scrap of papyrus in her hands, on the other hand there was some sort of punishment for Uther in this. His own son ushering his kingdom into the age of magic and greatness.... Wasn't it a revenge of sorts, was it?

But there's a shadow side to everything. The prophecy of Arthur's Boon spoke of his Bane. Mordred. It has preoccupied Morgause mind since she first met Morgana's sad lover. Morgana's dreams of Arthur's death, and her love for the one whom the prophecies called his bane...all three were inscrutably connected. Morgana, Mordred, Arthur. But now that the young king has welcomed magic into the realm, judgement has passed over, and so he managed to shrunk away from the shadow. The warning was no longer necessary. Morgause did not want to upset her sister with such knowledge. Soon she would be permitted to open the Book of Shadows, but only a few is able to face the future knowing the darkness that is to come.

And so Morgause took the verse of Arthur's Bane and threw it to the flame.

The Book was slammed shut, and she sat down at the small table by the window. Where the Crystal of Neahtid used to shine before a vase of gentle bluebells that Kara brought her every morning stood now. Morgause picked up the silver mirror and turned it towards herself. Snow was still falling slowly in Sir Galahad's desolated crypt. Morgause blew on the surface and the insides of the mirror clouded in mist.

Morgause waited patiently, for sorcery is discipline first and foremost, until at last a familiar and beloved face appeared to her. Bright lilac eyes, long dark tresses of hair, Nimueh's shade in the reflection was as beautiful and sinister as Morgause remembered her.

"My daughter." whispered the dead mirror in the empty chamber.

"My Lady." Morgause exhaled, squeezing the mirror tighter. "All goes as foretold. Uther has fallen. Arthur has risen. I will keep my eye on him."

"But..." Nimueh looked her clear in the eye.

"But you have not been avenged, Mother. Emrys roams free."

"We don't need him." The misty shadows around Nimueh thickened, blue lightnings pierced through them. "Our sister is and will be the greatest sorceress in Albion."

"Tell me what I need to know about him. Reveal Emrys' heart to me and I will find where to strike."

A shadow of familiar smirk touched Nimueh's crimson lips. "Shall you be my hands? Shall you be my eyes? Shall your feet walk places I cannot?"

"I'm yours." Morgause promised.

And Nimueh told her something. Emrys had a soft spot for outcasts, especially druids.

After finishing the session, Morgause changed into men clothes which were more suitable for horse riding. Revenge can wait, it's never too late, a year or a decade — tonight she decided to gave Essetyr a visit and make peace with Cenred. He still seemed to be sulking at her for the incident on her sister's first day. She didn't want to lose such an ally. And such a lover.

Clutching a whip in her hand, Morgause left her chambers and walked out into the evening corridors of the castle. They greeted her with wind's silent whispers. It seemed as though no one was here but her, and her family has not come and it was all but a beautiful dream, or one of her dead visions.

An old spiral staircase that led up to an orchard backyard showed up ahead. When Morgause didn't want to make a ceremony of her arrival or departure, she used this secluded passage. It was the regular way for Cenred to visit her. She jumped over a step, and spotted a dark silhouette ahead.

On the last step sat Mordred, dressed in her black shirt with the red tree on the chest. He was chopping a twig with his dagger, ignoring that the wood has already thinned dangerously. One move and the blade would slice through his finger. But he wasn't looking at his work, his gaze unfocused on the garden in the open door, on the square of light on the sandy tiles.

"Where is Morgana?" Morgause came down to him and stopped beside.

"Asleep. She's been looking into the crystal a lot. Hello, Morgause. I like your castle. It's peaceful."

Morgause looked down at him. Something about Mordred was awakening a warm condescending feeling in her, as though for a sick but beloved pet.

"Mordred, where is yours shard of the Crystal Cave? The one you helped to heal me with?" She scrutinized his collar area and found no twine around his neck.

"Oh, I gave it to Emrys."

"Is there at least something you haven't given him?.."

Confused by the sudden mention of the Crystal of Primordial Fire, Mordred stared at her, and Morgause smirked a little and ruffled his thick black curls as a mother might did son's. The words of that he would undo Arthur were merrily burning out in the fireplace.

"Where are you going? Night falls soon." He said.

"Worried about me? Don't be." Morgause took a black horse and disappeared through a small door in the thick castle wall.

Arthur did not send a messenger ahead to warn of their arrival. No-one prepared a grand entrance with flowers and drums. But a white falcon soaring in the sky above Camelot — has it been waiting for their arrival all along? — spotted the procession of knights, gave a joyous cry and fell to the ground. First he turned into an old man with skin painted with glowing golden runes, and then into a tall young man. Not wasting a moment, he rushed into the castle.

The king and his knights rode into the Lower Town. They looked far from splendour: dusty and haggard, they drove slowly up the grey narrow streets, people looked out of the windows and then went out into the street to get a closer look at the King and his Order. A crowd of faces followed them, whitened by the daylight. Arthur rode in front. Behind him rode Sir Percival, with the Cup veiled in his reverent hand, the others followed.

As they rode into the Higher Town, the rumour has already stroke throughout the streets: King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table have returned in victory; through all storm and sorcery, they have returned with the Holy Graal.

In the square, in front of the grand staircase, his most faithful entourage have gathered: Merlin, Lord Ector and his daughter, members of the Barons' Council, and Guinevere, not yet a lady but no longer a servant.

"Arthur, why didn't you warn us you're coming?" Smiling broadly, Lord Ector, clad in dark furs and velvet, stepped forward to greet him.

Arthur stopped Llamrai, petted his silvery neck, and dismounted. His tired gaze first rested on Merlin, he simply nodded. Merlin's face lit up with an excited smile and he rushed over to Arthur to give him a hand to shake, eyeing the mysterious veiled chalice over his shoulder.

"Greetings, friends. The quest for the Holy Grail is over." Arthur's voice was hoarse, full of deep resolution.

Ector shook his hand firmly and then greeted his son.

As Sir Kay hugged his father, excitedly chattering about all the dangers and miracles they had encountered, Arthur's attention fell on his daughter, Lady Lisanor standing proudly beside her brother. Pearls were woven into her golden braids; she curtsied gracefully, holding out a white lily to Arthur as a sign of blessing for their holy mission.

"Lady Lisanor. I am glad you have left the Manor to greet me and my men." Arthur smiled, feeling a strange heat in his cheeks, and uneasiness in his breath at the sight of the white dress exposing her bronze sloping shoulders, at the sight of tiny golden sequins fluttering on her long lashes.

She curtsied again. "Milord, I cannot thank my father enough for summoning me to Camelot and allowing me to see you and Our Lord's Cup."

Arthur smiled.

Lancelot, timidly, walked over to Gwen. She stood back and watched Arthur talking to Ector's family, hands on each other's shoulders, understanding smiles. Perhaps that was what Arthur had missed all these years — a friendly family of equals, she mused. Not a tyrant father, not a secret sorceress sister, not a fanatic cousin.

"It worked, Gwen. We did it." Lancelot wanted so badly to embrace her, but he dared not. He knew she didn't want to, and her wish was the law to the knight.

"I knew it would. With a knight like you, you had no chance but find the Graal. And anything else." Lancelot blushed and Gwen bit her lower lip, realising what she just blurted out so ardently.

"I saved this humble flower for you, Gwen. Not long ago it was growing in the misty druid meadows, but even then it was already dreaming of you." Lancelot handed her the carefully dried aconite, its purpleness barely faded. Gwen carefully placed it on her palm with a small smile.

But before either of the two could act on their burst of affection or shyness, Arthur walked over to them. Unaware of this chaste though forbidden bond, he leaned over and kissed Gwen on the corner of her lips. "You're at the head table tonight. Now, I'm bloody tired. Merlin, where are you...?"

Arthur left, Lancelot nodded sadly at her, and Gwen was left standing alone on the steps with the knights and courtiers, not a servant, but not yet a lady either, just a woman the King loved.

Arthur had ordered the Graal to be placed in the great hall, on the Round Table; knights three by three were to keep watch near the Holy Cup. In spite of Percival's fervent objections, he was almost forcibly sent to his bedchamber and locked there — all so that the dutiful knight could finally have a rest. Sirs Leon, Lancelot and Palomides remained by the Cup while the whole court feasted in the richly decorated refectory.

Arthur was cheerful, playful even this night. He surrounded himself with Lord Ector, Kay and Lisanor; Merlin, in a new robe embroidered with silver and gold stars, entertained the guests with juggling and fine magical paintings depicting the knights' pursuit of the Holy Graal. Gwen was sitting, albeit at the head table, but off to the side. She understood. She just have to wait. Arthur couldn't deal with her and the Graal at the same time. Catching glances from the courtiers — Gwen's never been never sure of what they really thought of a servant girl aspiring to be queen — she missed the times old, missed those who weren't here now. Lancelot, who sit very near but out of reach, rejected by her herself; and Morgana, who wandered somewhere chasing uneven lights of magic, left of her own free will. They both used to make her comfortable at court like no other.

"Merlin, friend, what have you been doing while I've been away? Bet you've been in bed all days reading?"

Arthur and Merlin, hugging each other by the shoulders piled into the king's chambers. Arthur landed on the bed and the never-sleeping, never-tiring George rushed to remove his boots, but was stopped by Merlin. "You are free tonight George, I will help His Majesty myself."

George ignored him, instead staring obligingly at Arthur. "Sire?"

"Yes, go on George, knock back a cup of wine or something... You've got such a stick up your arse. Or something even worse." Arthur mumbled gruffly as the door behind the offended servant slammed shut.

Meryn fell into the familiar routine of taking care of Arthur as though all this change hasn't even happened. It seemed more pleasant now that it wasn't a chore. Taking off his boots, undoing the straps on his golden dragon tunic, freeing Arthur from the heavy, cold chainmail and long cloak. "Lying in bed? What do you take me for? I've been working as I always have. At least someone has to do this amongst all these nobles."

Arthur chuckled and stretched. "Sorcery must be a very hard exhausting work, I guess. How is the rebuilding of the houses going?"

"Seriously, Lord Ector and I have done much. By Lughnasadh, the city will shine in its former glory."

Arthur contendedly slipped out of the gambeson, and Merlin gracefully sent it into a wardrobe. 

"Morgana and Mordred sent their regards to you, by the way."

"Oh. Where did you manage to meet them?" He hasn't heard from them since they parted ways on Avalon. Sometimes, when a gap happened to form in his busy thoughts he wondered where they might be, free and lost.

"They live among the druids of Meredor now. Somehow got involved with the Cup of Life, but it went off without a trouble despite Morgana being Morgana. By the way, you seem to be a big name among the druids. They're all waiting for your coming, Emrys. When did you manage to become a Druid hero? Perhaps I'd been giving you too much free time to wander around." Arthur smirked.

"Glory comes easily to those who were born to it." Merlin uttered pretentiously, and they both bursted with laughter.

Arthur reclined on the big soft pillows in his unbuttoned shirt, mesmerised by the gentle light of a dozen candles. The bell at Camelot Cathedral struck midnight. "I have missed home. But soon we'll be on the road again. No one has ever done what I will do, but I am ready to challenge the whole world."

"I believe in you, Arthur. You are prophesied to become the greatest king this land has known. There's nothing that you cannot accomplish."

"You think so? Wise." Arthur smirked, then sat upright again, a whole new expression on his face. "No, there is. I have one request of you, Merlin."

Merlin just hung Arthur's sword on the wall, admiring the silver patterns on the scabbard. "Anything. Within reason."

"A request as man to man."

Merlin raised an eyebrow and turned to face his King.

"And as my court sorcerer. I need a certain magic."

"I'm listening." Merlin, curios, clusped his hands behind himself.

"Lady Lisanor...do you like her?"

"She's beautiful, but she's not my type. And it's not about looks." Merlin replied vaguely, having heard from Gwen about the lady's bad temper.

"You understand nothing. She's gorgeous. I want her."

There was a tense pause. "Er, Arthur, you must be drunk."

"I'm no more drunk than you are. I realise soberly that I do want Lisanor."

"Mm?.." Merlin wrinkled his nose, and walked over to the dark window. "What's that got to do with me? Go to Ector and ask for her hand." A distinctive chill slipped into his voice.

Arthur chuckled mirthlessly. "Don't you get it? Are you that inexperienced in women? I don't want to marry Lisanor, I want her."

"What about Gwen? Arthur, what ever happened to you?"

"Gwen? I am going to marry her and that is more than enough. She is a servant, I am a king, and yet she denies me what I need..."

"Don't elaborate. I still don't see what all this has to do with me."

Arthur stood behind Merlin's back so he could see the reflection of his face in the black glass. "Lisanor will never agree to compromise her honour. She and her father will force me to marry her. I need something to make her open her legs for me..."

"You're crazy, Arthur. I don't recognise you." Merlin scowled, stepped away from Arthur and sat down at the table, folding his arms across his chest.

"Merlin, look. If I don't lay with Lisanor tonight, I'll probably die, the power of my passion's overwhelming me. No one will know. Gwen won't find out. Who's it going to hurt if I just have a night of lovemaking? I have just won over the Graal, damn it, am I not a hero deserving a reward?" Merlin continued to remain silent, Arthur insisted. "You are my court sorcerer and friend, you must help me with everything."

Merlin sighed and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "Alright, you sick creature. There are some enchantment called Gancanagh. It transforms your appearance into a lady's dream of the perfect man. To her eyes, you'll be the most beautiful man in the world...while on the outside you remain the ugly you are." 

Merlin wasn't happy with what was going on with Arthur, mostly because of Gwen, he cared for her like for a sister; but at the same time it was amusing to see Arthur so strangely obsessed. And there were few things in the world that Merlin could deny him.

"And she won't be able to refuse me?"

"No woman could."

A maid slipped out of the lady's chambers, and to her horror, her nose pressed against the chest of none other than King Arthur himself. She hated being so stunted.

"Oh, Your Majesty!" She squeaked pitifully, "Please, Lady Lisanor is going to bed!"

"Go away." Arthur took the little woman by the shoulders, and moved her away from the doors. "If you spill a word, I'll hang you..."

Shocked, the maid fled, huddling against the walls as if the stones of Camelot could give protection from their very owner.

Lady Lisanor oiled her long hair with an oriental treatment, and braided it. She was sitting by the vanity, a pink candle burning softly beside her; she hummed the tune the bard played at the feast tonight. The usual cosy routine of a lady.

The door creaked loudly, a gust of wind slammed the window sash against the frame with all its might, a bat's black wing rustled somewhere.

"What again?" Lady Lisanor threw the comb on the table, turned to reprimand the annoying maid, and froze in place. All thought left her, all fear, all reason.

Before her stood the most beautiful of men. His long silky brown hair flowed down his muscular bare chest, his face and torso were painted with blue marks like in the old days, the wild days of the Goddess. He was clad only in leather trousers, eager to make love; he smiled tantalisingly at her.

Lisanor only sighed dreamily as the mysterious stranger lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the bed.