Well, hell week just ended, so my musical is finally over. Now I actually have time to write. Yes, this shoulder have been longer, that's the entire reason why I condensed a bunch of chapters, but I think this ones length will do for now. See ya later, happy reading.

Flint sharp eyes fixed on the floor, Uther Pendragon paced circles around his private study, arms folded tightly behind his back. The room was spacious and warm, lit well by a half dozen candles that stood in golden stands draped with scarlet coverings. Cool summer air poured in through the large open window, filling the study with the sweet smells of blooming flowers and fresh honeysuckle. The sky outside was a canvas of blackened blue, sprinkled with stars that shone like a million salty diamonds. Sturdily shaped shelves of beech wood lined the walls filled to bursting with heavy books that were hardly ever touched.

Having been trained since birth to be a fighting man, Uther had never seen the need to study the written word. Myths and legends of course had their place in the running of a kingdom, but that place was not at the forefront of a king's mind. That was what scholars and scribes were for, to contextualize the knowledge of the past so that the ruler could it use it at a moment's notice.

Gaius sat at the gilded desk set against the room's far wall. He was the scholar in this case. Around him was piled nearly his entire library of all things magical and mythical. Stacks of books surrounded him like a fortress of dusty papyrus and dried ink. The elderly physician adjusted his spectacles on his sweat coated nose. It was he whom was the scholar in this situation. Very rarely was anyone, especially a non-royal, ever called to the king's chambers, even a servant who was a long-time friend. But what Uther required was knowledge none of the castle librarians possessed, concerning a topic that he would only ever openly discuss with a very select few.

Magic.

Looking up his research Gaius watched his friend's movements. His limbs were tense and taut. The edges of his mouth quivered as he walked. Uncertainty showed in his eyes. He was worried about something. This could be seen as rather bothersome. Only in the direst of situations did Camelot's king fear anything. But indeed, the king was afraid. All of the search parties had reported back having found nothing. Except for one, Arthur's. Apprehension prickled at the back of Uther's neck.

Yet it was not for the safety of Arthur and Morgana, of his children that tore at him now. Arthur was the finest warrior Camelot had seen in many years, and at least six knights, including Sir Leon, were with him. Together they would surely be able to cleave their way through any advesaries who opposed them on their return journey to Camelot.

It had not surprised him to learn that Morgana and her maid had followed Arthur on his expedition. It was just like her to go off in search of adventure to help a friend even when the friend was a wanted fugitive and she had been explicitly told not to go. A small smile played at the kings lips. She had inherited her stubborness from him.

Emrys.

The name had echoed through his thoughts since the day of the siege. Merlin, the servant boy had claimed that name. And that name alone had struck fear into Morgause's heart, sending her fleeing for the hills. Who was this 'Emrys' that prophecy supposedly told of, and why did a sorceress powerful as Morgause fear him? A sorcerer so powerful could be a threat unlike any Camelot had ever seen before. None of the castle libraries vast archives mentioned anything of such a man. So, in his desperate need to know his enemy, the king had turned to his physician for help. Perhaps books concerning magic would have something valuable hidden between their bindings.

Peering back down at the desk Gaius turned a brittle page with the utmost care. The tome was very old; its pages were pale brown, flaking at the edges. Black ink, barely readable due to the inevitable decay of time, read in the old tongue.

"Tenebras lumen suum Emrys Myrridn odium amor Fay amor irridun alis sunedik," Gaius muttered these words aloud in fascination. Over the years he had learned much of Albion's archaic language, though he was far from being a fluent speaker as Nimueh had been. Uther spun round on his heel to face him.

"What does that mean, Gaius? Is it anything of importance?"

"Perhaps, sire. It is written in the Old tongue but I believe I can translate. It means 'The darkness to Emrys' light, the hatred to his love. The black dragoness will be his doom, and Emrys shall be hers, for they are bound together in an endless dance of fate. Sword for sword, kin for kin, soul for soul.'" A pause.

"…Where did you find this, Gaius?"

"A book of magical history, sire. It goes back nearly a hundred years, to the time of your grandfather, King Vortigern." Pondering, Uther scratched his chin in thought, before sinking into the straight backed chair by the desolate fireplace. On the small table at his right hand sat jeweled goblet and a jug of mulled wine. He filled the goblet, drinking deeply.

"And what does that mean? What does this Emrys have to do with my grandfather?" His tone was steely, skeptical. Gaius answered unperturbed.

"Admittedly sire, I know rather little about that particular time period. But I believe that the name Emrys was mentioned in several Druid prophecies dating back to around that may simply be an excerpt." Uther nodded. Yes, that fit. The Merlin boy himself had mentioned that it was the Druids who called him by another name. It only made further sense for them to have some absurd poem foretelling his coming.

"What do you know of this prophecy?" Gaius turned away from the king. Idly he fiddled with his quill, drumming his fingers on the desk.

"Very little. Only that Emrys is said to be the most powerful sorcerer who ever was, or will ever be. Some of the druids believe him to be their messiah, one who will deliver from the darkest of times. A prophet." Uther's gray eyes narrowed dangerously. His mouth tightened.

"And you, Gaius, what do you believe? Do you believe your former ward to be this 'Emrys'?" Anger was clear in the question. Gaius groaned mentally.

Since the day of Merlin's escape, the relationship between the king and the physician had been icy at best. Of course it had been assumed that Gaius had known all about his young charge's hidden talents, and yet he had not turned him in.

'Forgive me, sire. But if placed in my shoes, how willing would be to hand over your own son to the executioner? Sorcerer or no, Merlin is the closest thing to a son I will ever have, and had the need arisen, I would have defied the Gods themselves to save him,' he had said with venom starkly contrasted to his usually mild temperament.

"What I believe hardly matters, sire. Whether or not Merlin is who the Druids believe him to be is beyond my knowing."

"I see…Then what can you make of this prophetic line you found? Can you interpret it?"

"Perhaps. In the old tongue Emrys literally means 'child of the light'. So, perhaps the 'black dragoness' is his opposite. The one who the Druids foretell to be the one to take his life, and he hers in the process."

"Who is this 'dragoness'? All but a single dragon have been eradicated from Albion, and he is hardly female. Nimueh, perhaps? She was once a member of the court. The title could refer to her previous status." Gaius arched a silver eyebrow.

"Pardon my asking sire, but even if Nimueh is who the prophecy refers to, why do you concern yourself with such things?"

"Because my friend," Uther said firmly. "Though I see magic for the evil that it is I am wise enough to seek out not only my enemies weaknesses, but their strengths as well. Magical preminition is dangerous. Foreknowledge of the future has been the downfall of many great men. Usually I would never even read such a prophecy, now however the stakes are high. If this dragoness woman, assuming she is a woman, can defeat Emrys, then I may alighn myself with her, if only for a short time. Most likesly she is just another sorceress, and therefore must eventually be destroyed as well."

Gaius stared. Was he serious?

"Sire are you saying that you intend to find this woman and use her, before killing her? Surely, you must be joking."

"I am not. Magic must be stopped at all costs, Gaius. If Emrys truly is as powerful a warlock as the Druids believe him to be, as well as a Dragonlord, then he could reduce Camelot to a glorified pile of debris. He will kill us all with his sick and twisted plot for power." The physician leapt to his feat. He turned to face Uther eye to eye, anger boiling his blood.

"Merlin would never do such a thing! In all his time here he has only ever used his powers for good! And had he not stepped in to fight Morgause you and both your children would be dead, while the kingdom would be enslaved!"

Reeling from the sudden outburst, Gaius took a moment to recompose himself. He straightened the front of his wrinkled clothing, cheeks stained with remants of the red that his anger had brought, tinged with embaressed pink blush.

"My apologies." Uther waved him off.

"Your anger is understandable. No matter the circumstances it is never easy to lose a child, whether he be of blood relation or not. Know this however, old friend. Whatever good the boy may have done was all for naught. Magic corrupts all it touches. Merlin may have goodness still in his heart for now, but soon it will be purged away by black, poisonous maliciousness. I am thankful you saw the light before your magical practices consumed you. If only the boy had made the same choice to stop. Then perhaps he could have been saved." This he'd spoken with calm neutrality. As if explaining the simplest of concepts to a child who hadn't listened to his tutors.

Annoyance pulsed in Gaius' temples. Soon though it ebbed away, replaced by a despairing sadness that seeped, trickled into his heart. Eyes falling to the ground, he muttered, barely audible.

"He did not choose magic. Magic chose him. There are those who are not taught, but are born with magic in their blood. Nimueh was such a case. As is Merlin."

"Then they were both born tainted. Please, let's not have this argument now, Gaius. It never goes anywhere, and both of us know for a fact that I am right. Magic has proven it's treachery time and time again. On how many occasions have sorcerers made an attempt on my own or my son's lives?"

Gaius sank back into his seat. He peered back down at the book covered desk, flipping a few pages absently.

"A sword has only the intentions of it's wielder. The blade draws blood, but it is the swordsman who deals the blow. Magic is the same in many ways. Only if the sorcerer wills it does it wreak pestilence and death. I hope one day you'll listen to me sire. One day soon."

With a final swig Uther finished his wine. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Perhaps one day we'll grow tired of this argument."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Gaius conceeded.

Just then the sound of footfalls sounded outside in the corridor. A light hand rapped at the door.

"Enter," Uther called, setting down his goblet.

The door swung open to reveal a young page dressed in a leather practice jerkin. This was Percival Gryfindor, younger brother of Sir Godric, and second child of the noble Gryfindor family. His mane of dark red hair was swept back over his shoulders. Sweat soaked his face, breath coming in ragged gulps.

"My lord-" he gasped, leaning forward with hands on knees trying to catch his breathe.

"Spit it out boy," Uther barked impatiently.

"It's- It's the Lady Morgana, my lord. She's returned. The guards on patrol just outside the wall found her. Her clothes are all torn and bloody. We don't know what happened." He looked to Gaius. "She's been moved to your chambers, Gaius. Lost consciousness almost immediately."

Without preamble Uther darted from the room, knocking Percival aside as he did so. The king thundered down the halls. Unclipping the fastenings at his neck he let the cape that draped him fall behind him like a fallen banner. Servants scrambled out of the way, dropping their fresh armloads of laundry.

Morgana was hurt. That was all Uther could think. Blood rang in his ears. His heart pounded like a hammer on steel. How was it that she'd returned alone, without Arthur. Only an army could defeat the prince and his entourage. Could Arthur be-

"No!" he croaked aloud. That could never happen. He could not let himself think such things. Arthur was safe. Arthur was fine.

The flimsly door to the physicians workshop was ripped from it's hinges as Uther slammed his way through.

Freshly lit torches spluttered on the walls, casting dancing shadows over the collection of glass vials and beakers that cluttered the workbench and a dozen shelves on the walls. On the table lay unfurled scrolls containing messages from various medical patients. Instruments used to brew various poltuices and potions, mortars, pestles, a beaker used for measuring liquids were neatly squared away in the back of the room where they would be readyn for use on short notice. A clay bowl of half eaten supper was placed before one of the rooms two stools.

And there on the rooms only cot, was Morgana. Uther felt his breathe catch. His strong hands began to tremble violently.

Once a robins egg blue, her beautiful dress had been torn to ribbons that cascaded around her limp form, stained red beyond washing. Bloodied gashes were slash down her arms. A gurgled line of blood trickled from her hair hair, falling onto the tinted lids of her eyes. Morgana appeared as a fallen angel, cast from the heavens to bleed her last on the earths cruel surface.

"My god," Uther choked. He swept to her bedside, falling to his knees in agony. Carefully, as not to disturb her possibly eternal sleep, he cupped his daughters cheek. The pale skin was cold, burning only with the tiniest signs of life.

"My god, no. Please...no..." Tears well in the sunken sockets. A sob escaped. "Please, please no." Leaning forward, Uther nuzzled her usually flawless curtain of jet black hair. His hair had once been the same color.

A small movement seized his attention. Morgana's petite right hand, covered in his scars, twitched.

"My...my lord...Uther, Uncle...?" came the whisper. Uncle. She hadn;t called him that in over a decade. Since before the death of Gorlois. Tumultuous waves of relief washed over him. Sobbing he pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

Unnoticed by either of the royals, Gaius slipped into the room. Silently he went to preparing a treatment. Salves to ease the wounds. Bandages to cover them. A sleeping draft to ease the pain.

"Thank God my dear. I thought...I thought I'd lost you." Morgana smiled painfully up at her guardian, head cradled in his lap. The smile faded, soon replaced by an expression of the utmost grief and terror. Words came slowly, forcefully.

"We...we were attacked outside of Ealdor-Cenred's men were waiting for us. They-they had sorcerers with them. Morgause... Gwen... I barely escaped," she burst into tears. Still shrieking, she continued. "Gwen and Arthur are dead!" Her head buried itself in her fathers chest, pouring away the misery.

For Uther the whole world had ended. Sound and sight came as blurs to his senses. The bottom had dropped out of his stomache. Arthur...dead. Judgment clouded beyond repair, his consciousness turned to the oldest of vices. Vengance.

Hours later, after Morgana had fallen into a fitful sleep, Uther summoned his generals and donned the armor of the king, readying himself for battle. Nothing Gaius or anyone else said could change mind. Cenred would be brought to justice in a storm of blood and steel. The thing Camelot's king valued above all else was gone. There was nothing more to be lost.

Laying in bed, Morgana grinned into her wool coverlet.

All that remained of the Pendragon line was her. Morgana was now the heir to the throne.

When sleep found her, visions did as well for the first time in many months. Images. Gwen digging behind her home beneath the stars. Cenred and Alvarr before king Olaf. Merlin and Arthur galloping over the hills with two other men, the wind at their backs. The Pilgrim slumbering peacefully on a Dragons back.

LINEBREAK

Shoulder to shoulder Cenred and Alvarr allowed themselves to be led across a courtyard of snow white marble. From the marble tiles sprouted a miniature forest of similarly colored collumns, which supported an open roof that covered the courtyard. Lush flower beds formed a square border round the entire yard, broken only by several archways leading to other parts of the royal pavillion.

Stablehands led their horses away to be fed, watered, and sheltered for the night. A courier had been sent ahead to fetch the king. It was probably best that they be recieved outside the castle. Rumor had it that the kings daughter had been slipped a love potion containing one of Prince Arthur's hairs. Alvarr knew she was something to avoid. Love potions had the nastly habbit of driving all those affected by them to the brink of insanity.

Alvarr lit a torch with a whispered 'Agnis'. Waiting a moment for the convoy of his servant, as well as Olaf's welcomign party to disperse, Cenred turned to his companion, scratching at his shoulder which burned with irritation.

"Where did the boy get off to? Surely he wishes to see his aunts message delivered."

"Mordred has positioned himself where he needs to be," Alvarr replied quietly. Cautiously he looked around, checking each entrance into the courtyard.

"Positioned himself? What tell me, is he doing exactly?"

"The enchantment is not entirely complete. Morgause set the task of finishing it to him. He wanted to be closer, but I insisted that he perform the spell from a safe distance."

"Safe distance?" Cenred asked, again scratching it his shoulder. Before Alvarr could provide an answer, Olaf himself, flanked by more than thirty of his men at arms, marched heavily out of one of the stone arches.

Dressed in his finest fur bed gown, clearly he not been expecting company at this time of night.

"Cenred," he snarled. "What brings you here now of all times?" The soldiers that surrounded him parted, forming two strong rows around the three men. Cenred chuckled.

These two of Albion's five kings had never gotten on well. Their treaties had always contradicted each other's, and all they truly shared in common was their mutual loathing of Uther Pendragon.

"I come bearing a message of the utmost urgency Olaf, my friend." His tone was incredibly believable, etched with just the right of fear and dark uncertainty. The dark haired king was known for being a more than exceptional actor when he needed to be. "My lands lay in ruins, torn to pieces by a beast beyond imagining. You of course know of our friend Uther's squabbles with Albion's sorcerers. It seems he has taken his conquest a step too far. Morgause, a dark witch, has declared that none shall be spared from the demons wrath, so long as Camelot still stands. I come to you in desperation, Olaf. Your armies must be ready to march at once, or we shall all face our end very soon."

"Do it now Mordred," Alvarr commanded telepathically. Half a mile away, nestled safetly among barrels of mead, Mordred heard him.

"Draconis Arunim" he said allowed. The black festering wound on Cenred's shoulder burst, and the Agmar demon took over.

Horns like a bulls erupted from Cenred's forehead. Eyes glowing red, he stumbled forward madly. Black licked its way across his skin from the wound, encasing him in abysmal nothingness. Cenred was dead within moments. The demon took his place.

Turning on his heel, Alvarr ran as Olaf's men bellowed in horror as they were ripped apart.d