Chapter Twenty-Six.
The light on the transmitter turned from orange to green, and the Doctor let out a small celebratory noise because of it. All the devices were in place, ready for Clara to activate them, but the comms were still down. There was only one way to communicate with Clara now.
The Doctor looked over his shoulder at the smoke rising in the distance above the buildings. They were tinted red as the rising sun peaked out from the horizon.
"Come on, Merlin," the Doctor breathed. "Where are you?"
"You should be more worried about him," Morgana said. "You know that history has a way of repeating itself, Emrys."
Merlin bit at the inside of his mouth in thought, and he did his best to keep the worry he truly did feel for Arthur off his face.
"You still won't call by my name," he observed, doing all he could to steer the conversation away from Arthur. "Not the one you knew by, anyway. Why is that, Morgana? Is it out of hate?"
Perhaps the name Emrys was different than Merlin. Emrys was a declaration that he was her great enemy. But then what connotation did Merlin hold?
He narrowed his eyes at her sizingly.
"Or are you trying to disconnect yourself from your history?"
"I haven't forgotten where I've come from," she assured him, eyeing him pointedly. "Just like I remember all those who betrayed me along the way. You should talk about distancing yourself from your past. You've been doing it long enough. After all, you're the one who left my body to rot."
"Rot?" Merlin repeated incredulously. "After Arthur died, I went back for you. Morgana, I buried you."
Morgana's mouth fell agape as the realization of this pressed down on her.
"I marked your grave."
Her eyes darted back and forth wildly, not able to meet his gaze as she appeared to think this through. However, her face turned hard once more.
"You wouldn't have needed to if you didn't kill me in the first place," she said hatefully through her teeth.
"You gave me no choice," he defended.
"And now you don't have that option," she sneered. "But I do. I have Mordred's blade. All those years you kept it, your only way out of this pitiful life. I wonder why you never took it. Were you afraid you'd join me in Hell?" Her red lips curled. "It wouldn't be right killing you with that sword. But never mind. Soon, I'll have Arthur—the one you created."
And Merlin wasn't sure if she was speaking of the sword or of Arthur.
"Once his body is paraded through the city and all your toy soldiers lose their hope of winning, I'll kill you with his sword myself."
Neither Arthur nor Mordred had the advantage.
It was true that Arthur was able to anticipate all of Mordred's advanced. The simple fact remained that Arthur had trained him. But that also meant that Mordred knew Arthur's fighting style. The clashing of swords became somewhat of a verse in a dance to them, no matter how hard either of them tried to break free from the pattern.
It soon became a battle of endurance. Mordred knew it, too.
Arthur uncrossed their swords and kicked backwards to put some space between himself and Mordred. Once Mordred had collected himself, he leveled his blade, pointing it at Arthur, and Arthur mirrored the stance. Arthur took a step to his right, and Mordred to the left; and they continued to circle each other, waiting for the other to make the next move.
Arthur tried to steady his breathing, but it was coming out broken and his chest was heaving with exhaustion. Mordred did not seem so effected.
"Now's your chance to surrender, my lord," Mordred hissed. "Tired, are you? Weak? You're still just a man, Arthur."
"And what are you?" Arthur asked. "Are you all smoke and wickedness now? I won't accept that. Somewhere inside of you, there is still a Knight of Camelot."
Mordred laughed. "There is no Camelot anymore! Did you not see? That city is a barren wasteland now, full of disease and death."
"It can rebuild."
"But Camelot never can," Mordred countered. "It's forgotten, and you belong with it."
He rushed forward, bringing his sword down, but Arthur blocked it and pushed away. He stumbled a few feet backwards, and Mordred advanced again. He backed Arthur up the carpeted steps of the dais, until Arthur's knees hit the seat of the throne.
Mordred jabbed again, and Arthur avoided it by falling into the throne. Their blades crossed once more, and Mordred pressed down upon him. Arthur fought with all his strength to push back, but his elbows locked and began trembling under the pressure and beads of sweat trickled down his temples. He grunted and grinded his teeth as though his willfulness could increase his might. The swords inched closer to his face every second, and he pressed his back further against the chair.
Mordred's face twisted as he commanded the rest of his strength into bringing his sword down. Then, quickly, he drew back and unbalanced Arthur. Arthur had no time to do anything but instinctually brace himself for the inevitable.
And then Mordred let out a howl of pain. His entire body tensed and his sword clanged to the floor.
Behind him, Arthur saw Sam standing just a few feet away was the dais. He had thrown his dagger into Mordred's back, hitting him right between the shoulder blades.
Not allowing for any more reaction time, Arthur tightened his grip around his sword and thrust it into Mordred's gut, eliciting another wail. Arthur twisted his blade until Mordred's skin lit up like fire and the eyes went blank. His body buckled to the carpet, one arm limply dangling off the first step of the steps.
Arthur took in a deep breath and slumped into the cushioned throne, attempting to regulate his heartbeat, while Sam ran the rest of the way towards him.
"Hey, hey, you alright?" Sam worried, placing one hand on Arthur's shoulder and the other on his chest.
Arthur squared his jaw, still panting through his nose as he nodded sternly.
Sam released him and got his dagger out of Mordred's back.
"Come on, man," he said to Arthur, taking his arm and jerking him to his legs. "Sun's coming up. We're gonna miss the show."
"Give up, Emrys," Morgana spat. "You've got toy soldiers while I have a real army. Your and Arthur—his so-called Disciples of the Light—you don't stand a chance, and you know it. You've failed once, and you'll fail again."
Merlin shook his head. "Not this time, Morgana," he said. "Because I've got something you haven't."
Morgana let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, come now, Emrys. Don't tell me you have friends."
"No," he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out Clara's mobile, a message on the screen ready to be sent to the Tardis. His thumb hovered over the send key as he grinned.
"I've got text messaging." His thumb slammed down on send. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."
Clara had been rushing around the console, pushing as many random buttons as she could to get the comms back online, but it was no use. The Tardis was too complex even for her.
Suddenly, on the other side of the console, the Tardis monitor beeped, and Clara's hair twirled out around her as she quickly turned her head towards it. She rushed for the screen to find a one-word message. It had been sent from her mobile.
Now!
Her heart skipped a beat in urgency, but she quickly drew her gaze back to the controls and slammed her palm down on the correct big red button.
The Doctor could never resist one of those.
Beams of red light shot out from the transmitters. They concentrated into thin lines as they pointed down the streets to connect with the next. Merlin watched the lights join together on every side of the building he was standing atop, and he saw more of the red shimmering in the distance, covering the whole of Central London and beyond.
He imagined what the aerial view must have looked like: a giant pentagram.
A moment later, the transmitters kicked into life again, and Dean's prerecorded voice blared at full volume across the town: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."
Halfway through the incantation, the demons began dropping to their knees and clutching at their throats, choking up the black clouds that were now being forced from their vessels and upwards into the air.
Arthur and Sam were watching from a balcony of Buckingham, their eyes wide as the columns of smoke rose up to the sky and blended together into a mass that blocked out the sunrays. The Doctor witnessed the same sight from over the tops of the skyscrapers. Near London Bridge, John and Castiel, who were helping Sherlock get up to street level, froze at what they were seeing. In Piccadilly, Yasmin was standing right beneath the cloud and looking up towards it, and her fellow druids had already dropped their weapons and begun to rejoice. Inside Parliament, Dean was shielding himself with his arms over his head as the smoke flew above him towards the windows or the air vents. Clara was jumping for joy and clapping as she watched the footage on the monitor.
As soon as all the black souls collected above the city, the wind picked up and they rained back down. They fell hard around Merlin, and he could hardly see his own hand in the black when he held it out in front of him. But soon it was over, and the smoke disappeared into the concrete below, back into Hell.
He brought his gaze to the front again, where Morgana was staring down manically at the street below where her army had disappeared. Her lips were parted and trembling in what Merlin guessed was rage—but maybe it was fear. The same fear that was in her eyes when they swept up to him.
Instantly, she threw her head back, willing her blackened spirit to leave her body. It tore from her lips, but Merlin was beside her in an instant, his eyes glowing gold as he curled his fingers into a fist and forced the smoke back down Morgana's throat. When it was over, she took in heaving gasps of air. He kept his fist balled up, paralyzing her.
"You can't kill me, Emrys," she panted, sounding broken. "If you're going to send me back to Hell, just do it!"
He knelt down beside her, catching her panicked eyes with a blank expression.
"I'm not going to send you back to Hell, Morgana," he told her through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to make it that easy for you."