In his head, he could remember only the darkness. It was a screaming dark, not the darkness of death or of night, but the darkness of terror, of terrible dreams that rip your soul. For he had slept, and with sleep surely dreams must come.

Then suddenly there had been a light in the darkness, a painful light at first, one that summoned him, dragging at his mind like a hook in a fish's mouth. He'd obeyed, angrily at first, then willingly, allowing the light to pull him forward, take him away from the darkness, from the nothing towards… something.

Each moment of time screamed as he went, the pain filling his entire being, tormenting him, laughing at him. It was almost beyond endurance, drove him mad with the desire only to escape, to be free of it. It almost made him long for the darkness again. Almost.

But closer and closer to freedom he came, climbing higher and higher, every ounce of his being willing it. This day was his, and none would stop him. Those who had imprisoned him would be punished, and he would never return to the darkness again.

There was light ahead, true light, light that he had not seen in a thousand years or more. He strove towards it, reached for it, desired it, then burst from the darkness like a storm of fire.

He roared, hearing his voice swell as his fingers clawed at the air in a spasm of joy so potent it was painful. He was alive; he was free. And he was hungry.

Willing his eyes to adjust after centuries of inky black, he moved his pitiless gaze slowly around him. All was smoking and dust. He could hear screaming, and smiled at the memory of it, felt waves of anguish and fear rolling towards him on the air. He breathed it in, sucking up the sweetness and letting it fill him. It was nourishment after so long alone with the dark. Wherever he was, there were creatures of life near him, beings that would suffer for what had been done to him. Suffer because he willed it. Suffer because he needed it.

He turned. There were men before him. He remembered men. Tiny creatures with tiny hearts and tiny souls, with an arrogance he admired, and bites like insects. He laughed. They had tiny weapons and were pointing them at him in what he presumed was an aggressive manner. Not that he felt threatened. But these men were not afraid, did not have enough fear for him. He needed more. He needed terror.

Sniffing the air, he sensed more men nearby, and took three long steps towards a wall with windows, raising his fist and then bringing it down with shattering strength upon the stones. They cracked, and dust rose, stifling in the hot air. He swung his fist again, hearing screams now, excited by them. His second blow brought more cracks, his third struck a hole, the stones falling away to the ground far below and smashing around his feet.

There were the fearful. He could see them in the gloom, terrified faces staring back at him, running away from him. He wanted them: their innocence, their panic. Wanted to consume them.

Deliberately, he reached up a massive hand and pulled away more of the wall, howling in joy at the destruction. There was food here a-plenty, and a land waiting to be devoured beyond that. Whatever had brought him here, it knew just how to please him.

He reached inside, clawed fingers grasping for his first victim, hungry now, and slathering, the horror in their faces stirring up his appetite.

Then his cries of joy turned suddenly to shrieks of pain as he felt something strike him in the back, something that burned and hurt him. How could it be that these insects were able to inflict such pain upon him!

He put his hand around to his back, pulling away from the wall with another howl, and feeling for what had stung him. He staggered among the fallen stones, stepping away to the clearer ground, as his fingers closed around a small object burnt into his skin. Shrieking, he ripped it out, holding the thing and bringing it up to his eyes to examine it. The thing reeked of dragon, and he growled at the memory of his old foe. But this was not a dragon, nor even a part of a dragon. It was a stone, a black pebble that burned him to touch, and he cast it on the ground with a cry.

Then he heard a voice.

"Hey, crater boy!"

Angry, he looked about him. There standing alone was another man. He wore armour and a sword, and he had no fear.

"You want someone to fight?"

He howled.

"Come on then!"

Then the man turned and ran. On instinct, he followed, raging that these creatures had injured him, that they had the audacity to provoke him. He took long, pounding steps, ignoring all others in his path following this one man who had challenged him. He would finish this insignificant brat off first, then return for the others. It made no difference to him what order they died.

He broke through an archway, sending stones scattering all around, then saw the man scuttling away between houses of thatch and wood.

He followed, furious, growing closer to his prey with every step. Another gateway loomed, he broke through that as well, throwing stones in the air like dust with the force of his passage.

Then he stopped. And sniffed.

Before him was a green field, and woods beyond. The man who had challenged him had vanished, but in his place stood another man. This man was different from the others. He smelt different. He was standing on his own, nothing but a staff in his hand. No weapons, no armour.

He took a step forward, knowing a challenge when he saw one, smiling, welcoming it. If these creatures wished to put up a fight, then so much the better. Victory on the back of a defeat was always so much sweeter.

He took another step forward, and cautiously sniffed again, sensing danger suddenly. This man smelt wrong. He smelt as the stone had done. He smelt of dragon.

"I am Merlin," the man said.

He put his head to one side. Curious.

"I am Emrys," the man went on, voice shaking slightly with ill-disguised terror. "You are come to Camelot to destroy and to kill. I am here to stop you."

He threw back his head and laughed, deep and long. He loved arrogance. He loved desperation.

But then suddenly he faltered, staggering backwards as a bright light hit him hard in the chest. The light came from the man, emanating from his body like a sun. It hurt. It burnt. And it shouldn't hurt. This man could not hurt him. No man could.

He howled, trying to take a step forwards, but the light was strong, it blinded him, and he put up a hand to shield his eyes. He felt himself forced backwards, stumbling, turning slightly from the light. This was power. The man had old magic, too old for his years.

He was pushed physically away, catching his foot on the stones from the destroyed archway and falling, crashing into the structure with a noise like a mountain coming down, rubble tumbling around him, dust rising into the air. Still the light didn't stop. He felt it eating into his soul, wounding him, taking him towards death.

He screamed.

But when the dragons had defeated the demons long before, they'd had one advantage that had brought about their victory. Dragons do not feel fear.

This was his only remaining weapon, his only chance of survival. And though it hurt him, he pulled on all his remaining strength and reached out. He sought the man's mind, ploughing into it, invading it, hunting out pain and darkness. If this man had suffered, if he had known sorrow and grieved for another, if he'd had reason to doubt himself or felt himself hated, or unloved, then all that could be turned against him and used to bring about his downfall.

The demon smiled.

Then he pulled.

The man cried out, and the light faltered.

He pulled again, ripping the images and the memories from his mind and filling his consciousness with them, pain after pain, death after death.

The man screamed now, the light dimming to almost nothing, and satisfied, he levered himself up from amongst the stones and took a step forward, looking down at his victim, who was still attempting to fight back. But any light was weak now, its power wavering.

"You are no match for me," he said. "Your kind will die, and you with them. Darkness shall cover all, and your light will be extinguished forever."

He tugged again, searching deeper, finding an endless stream of pain to garner and use, turning the mind of the man against him, and having no need to do anything other than watch. The man fell to the ground then, hands clutched to his head, all light extinguished, all power receding, weak now and struggling, mortal, screaming against the darkness. Mere moments of this and most men were dead, defeated by their own fears.

Then he in turn stumbled and faltered, a stinging pain screeching at him suddenly from what would have been, had he been any creature of the earth, his right calf muscle. He turned, distracted, stumbling backwards again, and reaching down. His fingers traced a foreign object in his leg, but he struggled to reach it, eventually pulling it out with anger, recognising a human weapon. He curled his fingers and crushed the item to dust with ease, lip curling in disgust. Then he turned back to finish his victim.

But the man was gone.

Arthur deposited Merlin quickly on the ground behind the corner of the battlements, taking a quick look back into the open, and feeling his stomach lurch at the sight of the demon crushing his finest sword as though it were made of paper. Then he turned back to his friend. Merlin still hadn't come to himself. He was shaking and gasping. There was blood on his mouth.

Feeling helpless, Arthur took his face in both hands. "Merlin!" he shouted as loudly as he dared. The instant his hands touched his skin, he felt a wave of terror and darkness overwhelm him. It was like drowning in images, and he saw with shattering clarity, battlefields with blood and gore, the faces of those he knew twisted in anger or sorrow, faces he half recognised dead before him, his sister gasping, her hands clutching at her throat…

"Arthur!"

He felt a blow and opened his eyes with a gasp. Merlin had slapped him, not very accurately, but with enough force to snap him out of whatever nightmare he'd just slipped into.

"What…" Arthur gasped, his eyes wide. "The hell was that?"

"Pain and darkness," Merlin said. "My pain and darkness to be exact." He was taking deep breaths. "You took half of it when you touched me. Must have been enough to overcome it."

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked, feeling far from alright himself after what he'd just seen, but in no way ready to admit it.

"Bit my tongue," Merlin said, by way of answer. Then he looked in Arthur's general direction. "How are we doing?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not particularly great."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you're lying in a heap, I've lost my sword, and that thing," he glanced round the corner to check on the demon, which was now howling and coming in their general direction. "Looks really pissed off." He looked back round. "Next time," he said. "That you decide to make me a magic sword, can I just suggest that you don't leave it lying around in giant rocks where it isn't going to be any use to man nor beast!"

"Right Arthur. Next time I make you a magic sword, I'll try to remember that."

"Any amazing ideas?" Arthur wondered, and they both flinched as stone shattered above their heads, tiny sharp pieces dancing off around them. Clearly the demon had thrown something in their direction. It knew where they were.

"Not really," Merlin said. "That was just about all the power I had."

"It felt it," Arthur reassured him. "It was definitely looking uncomfortable for a bit there. Y'know, before you started screaming."

"Very girly I'm sure," Merlin said.

"It was quite girly," Arthur agreed. "Okay, so we're going to die then."

Merlin shut his eyes, willing this not to be happening. It wasn't fair. They'd tried so hard. But how could they defeat something that fed on fear? The dragon had warned him, but he'd ignored it. Now, his very memories, the battles that he'd fought, his own guilt would be his downfall.

"Still," Arthur was prattling on beside him. "Where there's life there's hope."

Merlin stilled, and they both flinched again, as more rock went flying off from above their heads. "What did you say?"

Arthur glanced at him. "Where there's life there's hope," he said again. "One of the ladies in court who helped to bring me up used to say that. She was full of useless phrases, but she was quite a jolly person really. Maybe those useless phrases help you to be jolly."

"Hope," Merlin muttered. Remembering the dragon's words. "Hope and dreams are to them a very poison."

"What was that?"

"Hope Arthur. It's hope that will save us!"

The demon roared, it was close, almost upon them.

"I'm as hopeful as the next man Merlin, but even I know when I've been beaten. At least if I had a sword…"

"No," Merlin said to him, turning. "No Arthur, you don't."

And with that, he placed his hands around Arthur's face, his thumbs resting lightly on his eyelids. Once again, Arthur felt himself awash with images, and he struggled briefly, before recognising the sensation as different from before. He realised in a flash that he was seeing the future. He saw the citadel rebuilt, his people happy. He saw others flocking to his banner, a realm of peace and justice and prosperity. Hope swelled within him. He wanted this, wanted it so badly. Then Guinevere was in front of him, smiling, happy, his wife, his everything. He almost wept for joy, unaware of the demon appearing beside them like a hot wind from hell.

But a new light was there to face it, coming from both of them this time.

And the demon stopped.

"Not enough," Merlin said to himself, ignoring it, concentrating. "Not enough."

And suddenly the light spread. One by one as it reached out, every man, woman and child in Camelot felt their heads filled with images, their minds at peace at the sight of their happy futures, a world they could only have dreamed of amid their present terror. It soothed them, and succoured them, and calm swelled.

The demon screamed in anger, as the light started to pour into him, light from all around, from everywhere. It was overwhelming him, burning him, worse than before, and he reached down a clawed hand to rid himself of these two insects once and for all.

"Now!"

The hollered word came from above him, and before he knew it, a hundred arrows were flying in his direction. He screamed in pain as they hit his body, weakened by the light, by the hope he could sense within it. Then more arrows came, the knights of Camelot firing round after round with bows and crossbows. Stones were hurled, and spears.

The demon fell back, screaming again as he felt his power leave him, his strength ebbing. It could not be! These men could not destroy him!

"Not without hope," a quiet voice spoke in his mind. "Without hope and dreams, man is nothing. But with them he becomes a god."

"No!" he screamed, as the pain within him grew and grew. "No!"

The light intensified, it was all around him, squeezing him, destroying him, devouring his darkness.

"No!"

With one last cry, the demon exploded, energy shooting out in all directions.

It hit the two boys and knocked them flat. With a gasp, Merlin let go of Arthur as he heard the wall crack above them. He threw out a spell to shield them, but too little too late, and he felt something collide heavily with his shoulder, before he hit the ground and knew no more.

TBC