"That's the last of it." Mordred corks the bottle of sorcerer's fire and carefully moves it to set on the floor with the rest. With Iseldir and the other sorcerers all working with him to make it, they've accumulated quite the impressive supply. They'll be able to set half the city of Camelot aflame. "Are they still arguing?" he asks as he makes a half-hearted attempt to wipe his hands clean; his fingers are stained a strange purplish black hue, almost as though he's been frostbitten. It doesn't hurt, but it's certainly odd to look upon.

Merlin makes a wry face and nods, turning to look down the corridor where the siblings had left to shout at one another in a measure of privacy. It has been suspiciously quiet for some minutes. "I'll be back. Make certain they've not come to blows," he says, rising to his feet.

Mordred chuckles, no doubt thinking it a jest; he's never seen Arthur and Morgana truly fight before.

He walks through the lesser hall past the rest of their ragged little battalion and down the other corridor, following the trail of footsteps in the grime. It leads him to a set of large, heavy double doors, one of which is slightly open, and he can hear their voices beyond, surprisingly soft. Merlin stops and leans his shoulder against the doorframe, listening.

"…to be left behind like some—"

"A princess of the blood and my heir," Arthur cuts her off, his voice gentle. "As long as you and I are alive, Camelot is ours by rights. If this doesn't work…if we fail…then it falls to you." A faint jingle of mail as he moves, rustling cloth. When he speaks next, there's a note of dry humour threading his words. "I know your predilection for personal revenge. There's no one else I'd trust to avenge me."

Morgana gives a soft laugh, then sighs deeply. "Just…do try to keep all your pieces attached, brother. I have no doubt I would look far lovelier in the crown than you, but I would hate having to manage the headache all the time," she murmurs.

A low chuckle. "I will do my best."

Merlin gently pushes on the door, opening it further.

Arthur stands with Morgana, embracing her, her head bowed against his armoured shoulder, and he has his cheek resting on her hair, honey gold and raven black bowed together. When Arthur catches sight of the sorcerer over his sister's shoulder, he gives a faint half-smile. "What is it, Merlin?"

"I was coming to ensure you two hadn't drawn steel against one another," he replies with a small smile of his own. "I've seen you argue before."

Morgana chuckles as she lowers her arms, stepping back from him. "I imagine you'll soon be facing more than enough steel," she remarks, though there's the faintest tremor beneath her forced levity. One hand is curled into a fist against her side; Merlin imagines that she holds Arthur's signet ring, the Pendragon seal.

Arthur nods, then glances at something over his shoulder. "Merlin, bring the others to me. Not everyone, just our party," he instructs, and Merlin nods, retreating from the doorway and going to find the others, all making their own final preparations before they depart for Camelot.

When he leads them back into the greater hall, Arthur and Morgana are both seated at a table he hadn't noticed before—a great round table carved of stone, with nine heavy chairs carved of the same. Arthur sits in one, Morgana in the chair directly to his left. He gestures to the other seats as they file in; when Merlin catches the king's gaze, Arthur tilts his head subtly, indicating the seat to his right. Stepping around the table, he takes the seat, placing his hands on the tabletop in front of him, tracing his fingertips over the ancient words etched deep into the stone. The granite feels familiar to him, solid and pure—like unto the standing stones, taken from one of the sacred places of the earth.

Once they've all taken seats at the table, Arthur leans back in his chair, resting his hands over the arms and gazing around at them. "This table belonged to the ancient kings of Camelot," he says in a low voice, reaching forward to tap fingertips against the tabletop. "A round table afforded no one man more importance than any other. They believed in equality in all things. Commoner, noble, those with magic and those without, it made no difference. It seems fitting we revive this tradition now, as without each of you, we would not be here. Camelot has been overcome by an evil that goes against the very nature of the world. Tomorrow, I make my bid to free my home and my people from it." He gets to his feet. His voice is quiet and solemn but his words still carry with their strength, fierce passion and conviction laying over him in a bright mantle, every inch a king. "Are there any around this table who would join me?"

Leon's gaze moves from Arthur to Merlin and back again, a faint smile touching his expression. "I've fought at your side more times than I can count. You're my brother, and there's no one I would sooner die with."

Lancelot rises to his feet. "You taught me the values of being a knight, the code by which a man should live his life. To fight with honour for justice, freedom, and all that is good. I believe in this world you will build."

"Even though I was a commoner, a nobody, you were willing to risk the safety of your kingdom." Elyan pushes back from the table to stand. "Now it's time for me to return that favour."

"I think we have no chance…but I wouldn't miss this for the world," Gwaine says, flashing white teeth in a daring grin.

Percival rises to his feet, and for a moment, it seems as though the big man is going to remain silent as is his norm, but then he looks across at Arthur. "I've lost one home. I don't intend to lose another."

"You're my family. By stone and sea and sky. Whatever I can do," Mordred says.

There's a heartbeat of silence, and then Arthur turns his gaze down to Merlin, the only one of them still seated, eyebrows raised. "Merlin?"

He tilts his head back to look up at his king, affecting a thoughtful expression. "Hm? Mm, no, I'm afraid it doesn't suit. Perhaps another time."

"Merlin…."

"Oh, very well, if you insist." He takes to his feet, casting a smile at Arthur, who returns the expression and reaches over to brush his knuckles against the back of Merlin's hand.

Casting another look around the table, the familiar faces gazing back at him, ready and willing, Arthur moves his hand to the hilt of his sword. The thought that'd been lurking about the corners of his mind for days now springs to the forefront, bright and eager. He backs away from the table and takes a few steps away, moving to stand in the open space of the hall. "Gwaine, Elyan, Percival, Lancelot, Mordred," he says, implicitly summoning, and with a few confused glances, they all step away from the table to stand in a row before him. A vagrant noble, a blacksmith, a woodcutter, a goatherd, and a Druid. "Kneel," he declares and draws his sword.

For a moment, they all stare at him, none of them quite comprehending or perhaps just not quite believing. Merlin grins.

"Kneel," he repeats, pointing the tip of the blade towards the ground for emphasis; this time they obey.

One by one, he goes to each man and recites the vows of a knight, an oath he's been able to say forwards and backwards since he was eight winters. One by one, he names each man a Knight of Camelot.

"I saw you knighted as a Marbrand," he remarks when he comes to stand before Lancelot, a grin playing at his lips. "I would knight you now for yourself. Have you a family name?"

The kneeling man begins to shake his head, then pauses. "I…it wasn't truly ours, but…we were called du Lac, for the lake we lived on," he replies at last.

"Lancelot du Lac," Arthur repeats, rolling the name over. "It suits. Rise, Sir Lancelot du Lac, knight of Camelot."

When he moves next to Mordred, the lad is staring down at the floor as though it holds all the secrets of life, and though he holds himself fast, Arthur can hear his breath trembling. "No," he murmurs softly; Mordred's head jerks up so fast it's a miracle he doesn't injure his neck, lips parted in silent dismay. Arthur half-turns to look at Merlin, staring at him in similar shock, and shifts his grip on the sword, holding the blade flat on his palms and proffering the hilt.

Comprehension dawns. Officially named or not, he is Prince Consort of Camelot now; it is in his power, and it is his right. Merlin steps forward and takes the hilt of the sword, the blade he had forged in his own blood. A faint noise, almost a sob, rises from Mordred as Arthur moves aside, letting Merlin come forward.

Turning the vows over his mind, Merlin finds they do not quite fit, not for a Druid, not for Emrys, oaths of laws and honour and duty. The choice between duty and doing what's right. No choice at all. Firming his grip on the sword hilt, he raises the blade and lays it flat against Mordred's left shoulder. "In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect the innocent. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to be strong. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to be wise. Rise, Sir Mordred mab Brangaine, knight of Camelot."

Mordred stands, lashes damp, but smiling all the same. Merlin turns and hands the sword back to Arthur, holding the other man's gaze, a thousand emotions beyond words crossing between them in that moment.

Arthur nods once, understanding, and he turns to face the others. "Our kingdom awaits us. Let it wait no longer."

"So that is the city of white walls, hm?"

Arthur glances towards the owner of the voice, a stocky man with shoulders like a bull, iron-grey hair cropped short—Edern. He's to be the one to lead the rest of the magic-users into the city to set the sorcerer's fire. "Have you never seen it before?" he asks in a murmur, shifting his weight to keep his legs from cramping, crouched in the undergrowth at the treeline.

"Not with mine own eyes, no." The man shifts his weight as well, picking up a twig and peeling the bark off it. "Had a brother who died here."

"I'm sorry."

Edern grunts, peeling away another strip of bark. "I warned the fool boy not to go. So, is this where we'll be getting through those walls?" he asks.

"It is." Arthur points to the deep ravine that winds right up to the city; it leads directly into the siege tunnels as well, but that isn't where Edern's party needs to be. "Once you get up to the city, you'll climb out and make directly along the wall towards the east gate. Halfway there, you'll find the drains, and once you get through the grate, you'll be in the lower town, at the street of silk. Clothiers, weavers, and the like. I imagine sorcerer's fire needs no kindling, but it'll go up like a tinderbox." He'd chosen the street of silk to begin setting their fires because he knows that there will be few people there at this time of night, stalls and shops left empty. Burning part of his own city is one thing, but he'll avoid harming his own people wherever he can. He glances back at the other man, adding in a pointed tone, "After the belltower."

Edern nods gravely. "Emrys told me. We surround the whole tower with flame, ensure no one can ring the bells," he recites obediently, then cocks his head to the side in order to squint at Arthur with his right eye; the left is more blind than anything. "Won't we be seen by watchers on the ramparts?"

"Not if you stay flush with the wall. They won't be able to see you unless they intend to tip themselves over the battlements."

"Mm. What's there a drain doing in the middle of a dry wall, anyway?"

Amused, Arthur gestures towards the ravine once more. "That was a river once upon a time, when Camelot was first constructed. If the river overflowed its banks, the drains allowed some of the water into the lower town so it wouldn't flood the east gate, and in the rainy season, it lets the water run out. Not many people even remember it's there anymore, and like as not, the grate will have rusted away. If not, it won't be hard to remove." Settling back on his heels, he turns his head towards the big man, looking him over. "Thank you."

Edern blinks, surprise crossing his face, but then he quickly rights his expression back to gruff detachment, giving another low grunt. He starts on another twig, digging at the bark with his fingernails.

"Is it because Merlin asked you to stay?" Arthur coaxes. This likely isn't the best time to have such a conversation, but until they see the patrol, their signal to move in, there's little else to do but stand and wait, and curiosity's been nipping his heels. Merlin hadn't forced any of them to stay. He'd made the offer, just as Arthur had to his own men, and of the eight-and-ten who had followed him from Essetir, two-and-ten had accepted. The other six have stayed behind with Morgana, Iseldir, Hunith, Bellegere, and Ione in the castle ruins. Should their gambit fail, then Camelot's rule will fall to his sister.

Edern is quiet for a time, so long that Arthur's half-certain he shan't answer at all. Finally, he replies, "My mother was a Druid. We were raised on the prophecy that told of the coming of Emrys and the Once and Future King, the rise of the Old Religion, the new dawn of magic. When the Great Purge came…I thought the Old Ones had forsaken us, plied us with false hopes. But I have heard Emrys speak with the voice of the Triple Goddess Herself. I saw him free us from cold iron as no other could. And now…" He chuckles, a deep rumble from the depths of his chest, and he turns his head to squint at Arthur once more, amusement etched in the lines of his face. "I've seen the son of the Bloody Tyrant declare the greatest of our kind his consort. I've seen a Druid named a knight of Camelot. And now I'm seeing a Pendragon fight beside sorcerers rather than against them. So, no, your majesty. If Emrys spoke, I would obey, but I stay now because for the first time in twenty years, I remember what it is to feel hope. And…" He moves his gaze back towards the city, a sharp edge coming to his grin. "It will be bring me a great deal of enjoyment to let them know what it is to be burned alive for once."

Arthur raises his brows, staring at Edern, but to his surprise, amusement kindles in his chest, a grin finding his face. "That's fair," he relents. Movement catches his gaze, and the levity evaporates. He taps Edern's arm and nods forward as a mounted patrol rides past, near enough to the treeline that he could've thrown a stone and struck them. Southrons, all of them, not a single of Cenred's men. A division in the ranks, perhaps. It takes every inch of his self-control to hold fast and remain still; Merlin had warned him that the notice-me-not charm would only hold so long as they remained still beneath it. His heart quickens its pace with every approaching hoofbeat, rising in his throat as they ride closer, closer…and keep riding, moving directly past them. Arthur exhales a slow breath once they've passed entirely, clenching his fists against his legs. "That's some kind of charm," he whispers, watching the backs of the patrol retreat.

"The old tricks are old because they work," Edern replies just as quietly, though there's a tremor of nerves in his voice.

"It's time. Come on." Arthur straightens up, careful not to make too much noise and draw the patrol's attention, and they quickly return to the rest of their allies, waiting tensely eager in a small clearing, aware of all eyes on him. "The patrol's just gone by."

Moving with grim efficiency, they gather up their supplies—containers full of sorcerer's fire, bottles and jars and repurposed waterskins, as much as they could feasibly carry, not to mention bundled rags soaked in the stuff—and make their way out of the woods towards the dry riverbed, sliding down the sandy wash into the bottom of the ravine. As much sorcerer's fire as they carry with them, none of them dare to so much as think of lighting a torch, so Merlin and Mordred head the party with lightstones, extinguishing their glow when they approach the city walls.

"Here will do," Arthur murmurs. He has to tilt his head almost all the way back to see the ramparts, standing just at the mouth of the tunnel. Any closer, they'll be underground. "Mordred."

The young man goes to the side of the ravine, studying the water-carved rock with a practiced climbers' eye. "Here," he murmurs, and with two neat motions, he's climbed up, kneeling at the lip of the ravine. "Just grab and pull."

Arthur keeps his gaze on the ramparts looming above them as Edern and his party climb up out of the ravine, mindful of their burdens. The ravine is wide, with no cover to be found, with nothing but open field on all sides. If even one of them is seen, if a volley is sent down, there'll be no place to hide.

Finally, the last of the sorcerers are out of the ravine, and Mordred springs back down to rejoin the knights. Edern pauses, gazing down at Arthur. "May the Maiden have mercy on you, Pendragon."

"And you as well. Try not to burn down all of my city, would you?" Arthur replies.

A savage grin, a baring of teeth in the darkness. "I make no promises." With that, he's gone.

He waits a span of heartbeats, straining his ears. When he hears no cry of alarm from the ramparts, no hissing descent of arrows, he turns back to the others and nods, leading them into the dark tunnel. They have no torches still, but he doesn't want to try lighting one now, not knowing if there's a guard set at the far end. Remembering the blindfold game he had played in Silverpine, he sets aside thoughts of darkness, going instead by his other senses. The tunnel is narrow; keeping both hands out at his sides, he can touch the walls, using them to guide himself forward around the turns and curves.

The rough natural stone smooths out into manmade walls, and he opens his eyes. They've come to the end of the tunnel, just a few paces before the iron gate that closes it off. "Merlin," he whispers, pressing back against the wall to give the sorcerer room.

Sidling past the others, Merlin carefully eases his arm through the bars to touch the lock. "Aliese," he whispers; metal clicks. Withdrawing his arm, he eases the gate open, mindful of the rusted hinges, and steps forward, carefully moving into the corridor and peering 'round the corner. He waves them forward.

"How will we know if they succeed with the sorcerer's fire?" Leon asks in a breath of a whisper.

It's a fair question, one he honestly hadn't thought of. If they hear the warning bells, it will mean Edern and the other sorcerers have failed, but without the bells…. "Listen for screaming," Arthur replies at last, leading them up the stairs and further into the castle. There's a tense, sombre stillness to the air. Not a single servant can be seen roaming the halls, nor any of the courtiers and nobles that have residence in Camelot. He's reminded of a forest holding its breath when there are predators on the hunt, everything staying still and silent in hopes that they will be passed over.

Approaching the next corner, he presses himself flush to the wall, peering around, and withdraws just as quickly, gesturing for the others to halt. At the other end of the corridor, four guards are on duty. Arthur puts his head back against the wall, biting the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood to keep from swearing aloud. Glancing over at the others, he tries to think of some way to cause a distraction without revealing themselves, any kind of way to get around them, but the sound of rapid footfalls brings his thoughts to a sharp halt. Tilting his head, he strains his ears to listen, able to hear only snatches of the guards' words, the echo of the corridor playing strange tricks with their voices.

"…east gate…fire in the belltower…Pendragons…Priestess's orders…"

One man curses loud enough to be clearly heard all the way down the corridor, and then there's the sound of hastily retreating footsteps, armour and weaponry rattling. Arthur peers around again and grins—the guards are gone. "They've done it. Morgause believes we're staging an attack, she's sent her men to the east gate," he murmurs, turning back to the others. "This is our chance, let's not squander it."

They take off up the corridor, no longer creeping along. They haven't the time to be cautious now. Morgause will surely soon realise that he isn't truly attacking the east gate, and they have to reach the Cup before she has it surrounded by an entire unit of immortal soldiers. When they pass an outer corridor, he can see the blue glow of sorcerer's fire from the lower town; the entire belltower is consumed by it, a spire of sapphire flame that can probably be seen from the Darkling Wood. In the space of a heartbeat, he casts a prayer of thanks towards Edern and the sorcerers, wishing the Maiden's mercy on them all.

"Hold!"

Arthur skids to a halt, turning sharply on heel as his heart gives a terrible lurch in his chest. A dozen guards are coming towards them. He seizes his sword hilt, but before he can draw, Merlin grabs his arm, tugging sharply. "Arthur, we must get to the Cup," he insists.

"Merlin—"

"Get to the Cup, sire," Leon echoes, turning to face the guards with sword drawn. The others form up around him, fanning out to form a line across the corridor, barring the way. "Go, go! We'll hold here. Go!"

Loath he is to leave his men, Arthur knows if they don't spill the Cup of Life, then it'll be all for naught anyways. Clapping a hand to Leon's back, he turns and sprints up the corridor towards the throne room, Merlin keeping pace at his side. They hit the double doors together, shoving them open and running into the hall. At the far end of the throne room, on the dais where the thrones are usually placed, there is now only a single pedestal, chest-high, with a large goblet placed on it. Suddenly, the doors swing back towards them, and Arthur has to leap forward to avoid being either knocked over or crushed, the double doors slamming shut with a resounding crash, the crossbar snapping down into place.

"Pendragon," Morgause spits as she stalks forward in a crimson gown; Helios shadows her, armed and in the black armour of the Southrons. "You do not die easily, do you?"

"Not to High Priestesses, no." Arthur draws his sword, splitting his focus between priestess and warlord, and her eyes fix on the blade, jaw tightening. She knows what it can do, then.

She makes a subtle gesture with one hand, and Helios moves closer to stand square between Arthur and the Cup of Life, steel naked in hand. With one threat seemingly under control, her gaze turns to Merlin, a faint smile curving her lips. "Do you think to defeat me with a stick, serving boy?" Her hands comes up, red flames blooming in her palms, and with a sharp flick of her wrist, she hurls the fire at him.

Merlin turns his quarterstaff in hand so sharply it whistles, lingering streams of brightness trailing from the ends, the flames vanishing when they touch the steel, and Morgause hisses like a scalded cat. "You've been searching for me, High Priestess," he says, voice dark and intent.

There's a flicker of confusion, but then realisation settles over her face. "Emrys." Instantly, her eyes flare into gold, and all the fine hair on Arthur's arms and nape stand at attention at the prickling rise of magic in the air. Merlin shifts into a fighting stance. In an instant, they are at one another.

As warlock and priestess give each other no quarter, Arthur turns to fully face Helios, angling his blade out in front of him as he takes a few measured steps sideways, gaining space. He notices that the other man doesn't immediately launch into an attack, that he's watching Arthur just as closely, moving equal to him. They're not the actions of a man made immortal, and in that instant, he knows. Helios hasn't added his blood to the Cup, having chosen not to hang his own life on something so fallible. He's mortal.

With that, he firms up his grip and goes on the attack. Helios is skilled; how not? He wouldn't be commanding the Southrons if he could not acquit himself in a battle. Arthur gains no true ground, the warlord matching him step for step, metal hissing as their blades cross and parry in a deadly, whirling dance. He isn't forced to retreat, but he doesn't get any nearer to the Cup either. Anytime he moves to advance, Helios blocks his way, pressing hard enough to force Arthur to take a step back. Steel rings clear and pure beneath the sound of magic crackling and snapping in the air.

As they make another turn in their dance, magic lashes out towards him, a tongue of crackling white lighting snapping out like a whip. Arthur jerks away from it on reflex, able to smell the bright, crisp scent of it, and in that one heartbeat, Helios is inside his guard. His blade crashes down against Arthur's, driving it from his hands, and a swift kick to the leg brings Arthur down to his knees, blade rising to strike one final time.

Something hisses over his head, so close he can feel the breeze of its passing stir his hair.

Helios's eyes go wide, a wet gurgle escaping him as he staggers back a step, arms lowering. Blue-and-white fletching trembles beneath his chin, the arrow gone clean through his throat. Disbelieving, Arthur twists around and tilts his head back. To his shock and horror, Bellegere is crouched on the balcony above the throne room, already drawing again. Helios gives a choked grunt when the second arrow finds his chest, punched clean through his leathers into his heart. The third arrow takes him to the floor.

Shrieking in wordless fury, Morgause hurls fire towards the balcony, forcing Bellegere to retreat with a shrill cry; he prays she's not taken serious harm, but he cannot stop to look now. Arthur lunges to his feet and snatches up his sword, leaping over the Southron's body. Three strides, and he's on the dais. The Cup sits before him, full to the brim with wine-dark blood, and he can feel its power, seeping through his mail and clothes like melting snow, burrowing into his skin, stealing the warmth from him. Taking the sword hilt in both hands, he draws back and swings with everything he has in him.

When the edge of the blade strikes the Cup of Life, there's a terrible, reverberating impact upon the air, thunder without sound, as though all the world's been rung like a great bell. The force of it shudders painfully up both arms, numbing his hands and wrists and rattling his teeth in their sockets.

The Cup falls to the floor. Blood spills in a slick crimson wash.

"No!"

Every window in the hall explodes inwards at Morgause's scream, glass bursting over their heads in a sharp-edged hail, a thousand needle-sharp punctures at once. Arthur ducks his head into his arms, eyes closed tight.

"Oferswinge!" Morgause screams, and an unseen wall of power slams into him, flinging him clean off his feet.

Glass crunches when he lands in a heap, hot pain igniting all down his back and side, and for a moment, he cannot move, he cannot breathe, only try to keep himself conscious as his lungs struggle to work again. Through a sickly red haze, he sees the Priestess advancing on him, eyes blazing with gold and wild hatred. And behind her, Merlin. His sword is lying on the floor beside his legs—cast me away—and marshalling what's left of his strength, he kicks out as hard as he can. His boot heel meets the hilt, sending the blade skittering across the floor towards the other man.

"Beadoméce!" Merlin commands; the sword leaps up into his outstretched hand.

Morgause whirls to face him and goes still when the blade plunges into her chest, the steel sliding through flesh and bone, protruding from her back in a grotesque spire. Gold fades from her eyes, leaving them brown and mortal; her legs fold beneath her. Merlin withdraws the blade as she collapses, taking a half-step back from her. Morgause takes a final shuddering breath, lips parting soundlessly, then goes still.

Arthur gingerly levers himself upright, wincing as he feels glass bite into his flesh, the crunching sound of it beneath him almost deafeningly loud in the abrupt silence. His gaze moves from the fallen High Priestess up to the balcony—Bellegere is leaning over the scorched railing, soot-streaked and dazed, but alive—then wanders back down to his consort, standing over Morgause's body with the sword hanging at his side. As if sensing Arthur's eyes on him, Merlin turns and meets his eye, silent understanding passing between them. Outside the hall, there's an auspicious lack of battle-clamour, replaced by faint sounds of disbelieving laughter. Arthur closes his eyes with a deep sigh.

The immortal army is no more.

Camelot is theirs.