Haay guys. I rewrote this chapter because it's been two years and my writing had improved. Only this one still but I'm planning on the others too. So enjoy! It is a little different, so please even if you already read it in your past life, I insist you read it again in this one.

The Horn Of Cathbhadh

Arthur's pov

The King tried to hold on to the little hope there was left with all his might. Though when he saw that a white, scaled flamethrower was on the enemy's side, he knew that the battle would be lost before it had even begun. And for the first time since he had entered Camlann, he was frozen by fear, not daring to attack - and thereby lead his men to their certain deaths. The final borrowed moments were restively creeping closer, getting a hold on his throat as he fought for the air he'd be needing to commence the bloodshed. In either despair or hope, he lifted his gaze to the skies, praying to any god that would listen. Almost directly though,- in response perhaps?- a cloaked man appeared on the ledge of the cliff, holding a magical scepter. His hood pulled a dark shadow over his face, allowing only his smirking lips to be seen. His dark blue cloak was made of a lustrous fabric and had golden edges that almost seemed to shine. It was blown in all directions by the strong wind and it made him look utterly powerful

"Obviously a sorcerer"

Just what he needed, an allpowerful wizzard who looked like he could kill him with a flick of his wrist. Yet Arthur grabbed the fragment of hope that ignighted and held it in a deathgrip. Because maybe, just maybe, it was Camelot's salvation beneath that cloak.
The sorcerer looked up, surprised to see the white dragon flying in his direction. Arthur's eyes widened. The fire-spitting demon opened its mouth and readied itself to burn the man. However, it actually stopped when the man's hand was lifted, and when the sorcerer began to speak- or rather emroar/em, it turned on its heels and flew away with pittyfull cries.

The King lifted his head once more to the skies, and he slowly mouthed "Thank you". For some reason, god knows why, magic was on his side, and nothing could tip the gratitude he felt at that moment. The sorcerer had given him the courage to look at the enemy army before him. He closed his eyes and fought for a deep breath. Drawing Excalibur and pointing the immortal blade towards the magical army, his voice resounded loud down in the gap.

For the love of Camelot!" he had shouted as loud as he could. His loyal soldiers, all of them equally prepared to die for their Kingdom, echoed his words and mirrored his movement. Hundreds of swords were drawn; The sound of war

Arthur's heart pounded into his throat whilst time seemed to slow down and the sounds died away. This was the moment he had to run down, and fight for dear life. He was unsure if he had made the right choices, if he somehow could have prevented this murderous war, and found that his eyes were drawn towards the cloaked sorcerer. The figure gave him an encouraging nod, and in contrast to everything around him, the movement was in normal speed.

As his eyes focused once more upon his sister's approaching army, time went back to normal, and he saw the soldiers begin to run faster and faster, their war cries coming back to the world of the living.

He ran with all his might down the hill, his army hot on his heels. The first soldier, a big bearded man dressed in black and armor, raised his sword. Quickly Arthur dodged the man and stabbed him through his chest. He clenched his teeth and faced his following No time for mercy.
Soon the King discovered he was outnumbered and with each red cloaked body that fell he felt more defeated. He was fighting off two men at once, when suddenly a bolt of lightning hit one of them. Arthur flinched and found himself staring at nothing more than a smoking pile of dust. Stunned, he looked up towards the cliff to see that the scepter was shining a bright blue. Magic had saved him once again. He felt his heart swell with newfound confidence. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this ally, but he would figure it out when or if he would come out of this battle For now, concentrate! he told himself. Every second counts.

Many long minutes had crept by painfully slow, in which more and more men had fallen. Both of the armies were rapidly thinning out, the battle colouring the field with red, black and silver.

The sharp scream of a woman pierced through the fog in his mind caused by adrenaline and exhaustion. It tore him out of his concentration and urged him to look up. After quickly finishing the man he was facing, he ran towards the side of the valley, out of immediate danger. This gave him the chance to lift his gaze.

The sorcerer was frozen in place, his scepter still pointing in the direction of the rock upon which was standing a statue of his sister.

She stood there, turned into stone in her last movement. Her arms defensively in front of her, eyes squeezed shut and her jaws clenched, preparing herself for the spell she had yet to cast..

He couldn't help but stare at it. Roughly, he blinked a few times to push her to the back of his mind, quickly wiping the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. Only to find he had just smeared a thick red liquid on his face. He struggled to maintain out of shock and took a few deep breaths to lighten the sudden waves of nausea. Looking around, a small smile finally caught his lips.

Having no longer a leader, the part that had survived up until now started to flee one by one. It seemed Camelot had won. Though the smile faded when he realized how much it had cost.

When Arthur was sure that the enemy was nowhere to be seen anymore, he returned to the Camp. Though halfway there he felt that the shots of adrenaline were beginning to ebb away, making sure he would feel the small cuts and bruises he had received in combat. He had to sit down for a moment, knowing otherwise he would lose consciousness right away.

The king tried to make his pose as comfortable as possible, not easy when your seat is consisting of sand and a big rock, but not hard either when nagging pain and exhaustion are the dominant feelings. Minutes passed slowly as he tried to get his strength back. His throat was sore of the short breaths he took so he tried to soften the pain by swallowing. However, all his attempts were futile as his mouth was bone-dry, and every gasp made him flinch. He leaned his head backwards and forced himself to inhale through his nose. When something up at the cliff moved, he looked up to see the sorcerer was sitting on the ledge of it, one arm supporting his chin, the other rested lazily on his knee. It seemed he was watching over him, and somehow it felt natural, save.

Who are you.

Merlin's pov

He had heard the words loud and clear, and it was hard for Merlin not to respond. It had happened before, though. He was only able to hear the unspoken words that were directly meant for him. He had put it down to their either destiny or his overpowered magical abilities.

He stared from under his hood at the King, who had in the meantime closed his eyes. He had followed him the whole way, just to make sure he wouldn't be killed this close from the finish line. Everything seemed to be peaceful now, and he, just as exhausted from the battle as Arthur, had sat down with him.

His gnawing conscience was bothering him, telling him he had been too weak to kill her, whilst killing hundreds of others had been no problem. He wanted it to stop, for he knew already that that would have been a better solution for everyone. But when the right time had been there, he had found himself unable to do it. His magic had reacted instinctively when sensing his frustration. And that was why the picture of Morgana's petrified form couldn't leave his thoughts.

A sudden noise broke the silence and his eyes shot open immediately. He didn't remember ever closing them, but clearly enough time had passed for a young revenge-seeking former druid boy to sneak up on a certain slumbering King. Risen sword, dark hair, murder in his eyes: prepare for the worst. Mordred.

In reality he was one moment away from failure, but all he could focus on was the deadly steel in the fists of that treacherous rat. He should thread his heart on a spit. Anything would do.

But he was frozen.

His magic stirred. A little warmth in the pits of despair that was continuing to sink. His golden eyes made the shadows from his hood disappear. But one shouldn't think them to be even a single shade less dark.

The blade, being unnaturally sharp, pierced his chest. The irony was there, yes. But that didn't mean it should be acknowledged in the slightest. Immediately his magic numbed the stinging pain, so that he was now looking at it in wonder. Only the hilt was showing. A hand was clutching it still. When his glowing eyes met Mordred's, the boy leaped back like the sword was made of lightning. Morderd's face was an ashen mess. His entire being was distorted as he took another step back. Merlin felt his magic grow weaker with every heartbeat.

At last one emotion stuck. Mordred cried out in rage. It echoed, and reechoed through the valley.

"You fool!" he spat "He's got to die!"

Then he took a deep breath and smirked. He stepped forwards slowly, daringly. From the corner of his eye, Merlin saw that Arthur had gotten up was unsheathing his sword soundlessly. Merlin straightened himself. "I wanted to threaten to kill you, but it seems you did a wonderful job at that yourself" All of a sudden, the sword that had kept him from bleeding out was yanked from the wound forcefully. The harsh and empty sound of metal hitting stone rang through the battlefield. Merlin's eyes shot towards the blade that was covered in his own blood. The sight made it sickeningly real. His powers weakened and the golden light in his eyes faded, making place for the darkness once more. Slowly, yet certainly, Merlin lifted his head and stared once more into Mordred's haunted eyes. Merlin cramped his left hand to the wound in a vague attempt to lessen the bleeding. Crimson covered his trembling hands, his cloak covered the evidence.

He watched how Mordred's body fell to the ground, glassy eyes staring into nothingness. Excalibur, forged in the Great Dragon's breath, had touched the lad's heart. Immediate death. Lucky bastard. He was startled by the tip of Excalibur suddenly being less an inch away from his face. He looked up at the King, who had just saved his life. Allright, irony might be considered. Arthur's head slowly cocked to the side and his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Merlin?" he asked while lifting one of his eyebrows. Gently he moved Excalibur up to the edge of the Warlock's hood, and let the fabric fall onto Merlin's shoulders. The young man saw how a knowing smile appeared on the King's face, even though his eyes were still clearly uncomprehending. Arthur lowered Excalibur and put the sword back in its sheath. Merlin managed to smile back, before blood loss claimed his last powers and caused him to go limp at once.