It was a moment that would be described in a thousand different ways, over tankards of ale and cups of wine, in journals and histories, atop pedestals and stages at festivals, in whispers at bedtime: the day Camelot's secret magician drove away the would-be witch-queen's darkness.
It was moving toward the citadel: hideous, unstoppable. Ruin. Arthur was considering a dozen defenses, trying to decide which would be the least useless, even as he realized it wouldn't matter what he did. He opened his mouth to begin giving the orders anyway, but then the world went away. Everything dissolved in an ocean of light so searing it was like a physical thing, filling the air and weighting it. It cast no shadow because it was everywhere and everything, seeming to last forever and no time at all.
The world returned in a rush, the darkness unmade. Archers skidded forward, their bows snatched from their hands. Knights stumbled as their cloaks were whipped forward as though by a strong wind. But there was no wind. Just the pull of nothing where something had been. Arthur himself slammed with vertiginous force against the crenelations, as though the edge of the eastern wall were suddenly down.
The earth rumbled, shaking the citadel, and causing hundreds of people to cry out in fear. There were records of such tremors, but Arthur had never heard of one happening in recent memory. It would have been disconcerting even if they hadn't just witnessed such impossibility. Soldiers, servants and nobility alike stumbled as the earth moved beneath their feet. Struggling to remain upright, Arthur could see that the creature was entirely gone, along with a sizable chunk of the eastern wall. The stone that had been left behind was perfectly flat, cut cleaner than a mason's chisel. He couldn't see the river below, but he felt certain that the missing stone would not be found in the water or on the banks. It was utterly obliterated.
The earth finally quieted, followed by a silence deeper than Arthur had ever known. More than the ground had shifted. Everything was new. And none of it made sense. There was a quivering sense of anticipation in the air, as though the people expected the monstrous horror to return. They stood among the rubble of their homes and the bodies of their kin, desolate and uncomprehending.
And of course, there was the undeniable fact that magic had saved them: a force of darkness and fear, turned to Camelot's defense. No one was looking at Arthur yet, but in that silence he thought he could feel the wave gathering, ready to crash onto his head if he made the wrong decision, ready to tear the kingdom apart if he hesitated.
He hated this part. As horrible as it was wading into the blood and mud of the battlefield, he felt at home there. He knew his place, knew what to do. But speeches and diplomacy...he'd never had the stomach for it. He tried to bring his father's strength to bear on matters of state, but it just wasn't in him. He would never be the man that Uther was.
For a moment, he considered making some sort of speech, but as he opened his mouth, he realized he had no idea what to say. The world was full of sharp, jagged edges and gaping holes that talking could not fill. When he finally spoke, the still air shattered as surely as the stone below. They were no grand words, but they got the world moving again. Camelot had survived, and there was work to do.
"Archers, return! First and third cohorts to the eastern wall. Find Richard Mason and his apprentice – the area must be blocked off immediately. I need a report from the court physician..."
Arthur quickly lost himself in the countless concerns of a war-torn city. There were wounded to care for, refugees to house and laws to enforce. Yet even as he pushed his kingdom back into its normal rhythms, he was aware of Gwaine: an island of stillness in the swiftly moving crowd. Arthur moved to intercept the knight when he finally began his mad dash for the winding stairs. He grabbed Gwaine's sword arm as he swept past and nearly flinched at the rage he saw in the other man's eyes.
"I won't stop you," Arthur insisted quickly, removing his hand. "Find him. Or..."
He couldn't bring himself to finish, but they both knew that no one could have survived that – not even a sorcerer-manservant with the devil's own luck. Gwaine nodded brusquely and turned away to sprint down to the courtyard. A few moments later, the crowds in the courtyard were parting as Gwaine's stallion stampeded across the flagstones, its shoes throwing up dim sparks. Arthur closed his eyes, but each hoofbeat still pounded against his resolve.
Then the head mason arrived and Arthur began a hurried conversation with the stocky, full-bearded man. The eastern wall would need to be repaired, of course, but in the meantime they would need to erect some sort of barrier. The other parts of the city would have to be cleared of rubble as soon as possible. However, the outer walls were the priority: nothing could be rebuilt until the integrity of Camelot's first defenses was established.
They rode to the gates of the city. Arthur wanted to see for himself how bad the damage was and hear the mason's report in person. They walked the walls, the king listening intently to the grizzled stoneworker's evaluation. The defenses were largely intact, since Morgana's forces had entered through the now-collapsed siege tunnels. The dark magic that had blanketed the city appeared not to have weakened the battlements, and Mason had nothing but cautiously worded praise for the job Merlin had done collapsing the tunnels. There was some work that would need to be done on the south gate, but otherwise everything seemed in order.
"What of those, sire?" the mason asked, nodding toward one of the lifelike dragon statues that had channeled Merlin's magic. They seemed spent now: still and dark and dead. "Mighten they come to life again? Should we break 'em to pieces?"
Arthur looked up at the intricate detail of the scaled neck, the gracefully arching wings. Though the magic had gone out of it, the eyes still seemed watchful, gazing out at the city beyond, while the powerful legs lay close against the crenelations, as though ready to pounce on any threat. Their claws melded seamlessly into the stone, making it seem as though they were simply well-crafted statues and not magical guardians at all. He wondered if they would ever walk again, or if they would remain a memorial of Camelot's battle with the darkness, and the tenacious resistance of one serving boy turned sorcerer.
"No," Arthur said quietly. "Leave them."