Atop the floating platform Albion's armies gathered together into a single oversized fighting force. The armored ranks circled their way around the base of Badon Hill, the Pendragon banner flapping valiantly above them.
Demons swarmed the crater marking the platforms point of origins, dancing around the edges like a tribe of barbarians. Blood dribbled steadily from mouths that had once belonged to mortal men. Thunder clapped above, shaking the shadowy serpentine clouds splashed across the canvass of the sky. The winds swirled violently across the plains, a magically induced tempest that hindered the enemies' movements. Rain would follow soon enough. Hopefully it would wash the battlefield of blood, wiping it clean for the next conflict.
Men gripped their weapons uneasily, their fighting spirits lifted only by the presence of the King and his prophet who sat atop brilliant white stallions at the hills summit, flanked on either side by a group of strong shouldered knights. In their eyes the young Pendragon was a king who would surely find his place in legend just as the prophet had said. He held in his hand a holy weapon forged of Dragon's fire and a servants loyalty. He stood ready to charge at deaths doorstep, to put his own life on the line so that Albion's people would live free of tyranny. Who among men was more worthy to lead them against the forces of Hell? No one.
The Prophet however, was seen as something far different. Like the king he shone like a beacon atop the hill. But his words and actions were not that of a leader, but those of something more than night. He spoke the word of the Gods themselves. Truth. Divine law, divine proclamation flowed through his veins as blood. While the king would guide their swords, the Prophet would guide the king.
Twas he who summoned the storm against the blight, he who lifted Badon above the earth. The Prophet wielded power beyond all imagining, and in his wake the road to a golden age a peace would be paved.
Merlin glanced down at the bodies of Uther and the Pilgrim. Two men whose lives were claimed by Morgana's madness.
He was the Pilgrim. Or at least, he one day would be. When he thought about it now, it made so much sense. How had he not seen it?
The Pilgrim had known this day was coming; he must have, for millennia. Once before he had experienced this day's events, not as a wise old warlock, but as a big eared young man to whom the future was an endless mystery woven into the fabric of life.
"I'm sorry about your father, Arthur…"
"So am I," Arthur whispered back. He fingered his mounts reins absently, refusing to look at the corpses. "He did the right thing in the end, I suppose. It hardly matters…one act of righteousness cannot absolve him of all he's done." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.
"No," Merlin agreed. "But he wasn't all bad. Part of him was always good, even before the end."
"And what part was that?" Arthur snapped quietly, shifting in the saddle to face look him in the eye.
"The part of him that loved you and Morgana. He loved you Arthur, more than anything in the world. That's why he ended his own life, because he couldn't bear to live thinking you hated him."
"He deserves all the hatred in the world…yet somehow I still love him, much as I don't want to." Merlin gripped his shoulder, giving a light squeeze.
"He was your father. You can't help but love him. Despite what he did, maybe…maybe one day you can learn to forgive him."
In all honesty Arthur couldn't see that day coming anytime soon. A lie, a minor social transgression, those were easy to forgive. Unchecked genocide however was not.
"Perhaps one day," the high King conceded. The two fell silent, turning to gaze at the field of battle far below them.
Among the hordes the Agmar demon was clearly visible. Nearly twelve feet tall with horns the length of spears, claws like blades and scales like mail, it was a truly horrific sight to behold. It's eyes burned ruby red, the intent to destroy evident in their depths. The Weaver would give her lie to defeat it. That the Pilgrim had told him. The tiny Druid leader had yet to approach either Artorius or Emrys. Perhaps she believed they would try to stop her sacrifice, which they surely would. So she stayed away, walking amongst her people, preparing to fight.
"This is it isn't it?" Arthur asked quietly. "The battle this has all been leading to."
"Yes," said Merlin. "You'll have to lead the charge. You, Lancelot, Leon, Godric, Verown, you and your knights have to cleave your way through them. Open a path for the other men to take. Leave the big fellow to the Weaver. She's powerful enough to handle herself."
"Aren't you coming with me?"
The question came out higher pitched than he'd intended. Worry crawled its way into the baby blue orbs. Though hesitant to admit it aloud, Arthur did not want face the battle without Merlin by his side.
"Of course I am," Merlin replied. "At first at least. I have to deal with Morgana though… Our fight may take up a lot of space, and I don't want anyone to get hurt in the crossfire. So I'm thinking of taking the fight somewhere out of the way. Do you think you can handle Morgause? You won't be alone of course. Verown can help with his magic, and Lancelot and his dragon can help as well. But you've got the best chance against her with Excalibur." Arthur nodded.
"We'll handle her. Do what you have to against Morgana, Merlin. She won't show you mercy. Is she worthy of being shown mercy?"
Merlin sighed. Honestly, he wasn't sure who deserved mercy or not. He was a prophet, not a god. Could he rightfully judge another person based on their actions? Could offers of forgiveness avert fate? More than anything he wished to spare her life. She was his friend, he loved her in more than one way, both in friendship and unexplored infatuation. But he knew for a fact, courtesy of the crystal caves strange sense of partial omniscience, that Morgana would not live to see another day. He would do battle with her, and he would have to kill her as she had killed the Pilgrim. They were to be each other's doom.
"Whether she's worthy or not, I cannot say Arthur. But I have to offer it. Otherwise I'm no better than her. You have to give your enemies a chance to see what's right, or you're the same as them."
King Arthur smiled weakly.
"Already spouting words of wisdom I see. You really are the Pilgrim, though you don't look that old. Speaking of which, you don't age very well Merlin. To put it bluntly, you like a reanimated corpse that likes to play the lyre wearing the most unnerving smile I've ever seen. Can I suggest herbal skin therapy? Surely Gaius must know of something that can help."
Merlin cracked a grin. With a wave of his staff the waves of air supporting the platform slowly began to recede.
"Yes, well. I'm still the one with magical powers. Come on then. Let's finish this."
"Right," he looked to the knights beside them. "Are you lot ready?"
"Ready sire!" Leon and Godric cried in unison. Lancelot gave a simple yes, Verown a humble nod.
Arthur lifted Excalibur high above his head, and bellowed in a loud clear voice.
"To arms my brother, to arms! The time has come, to arms!"
The soldiers roared in response, brandishing their weapons in wild gestures above their heads. Merlin closed his eyes in deep concentration. With careful, precise movements, he moved his staff in a wide mechanical arch around his body. As it descended towards the ground the platform began to tip in one direction. It would become a ramp leading to the battlefield. Though they lacked any deep intelligence, the demons began to take notice of this. They scrambled away from the crater to avoid being crushed.
At the battlefields distant edge the witch sisters dusted off their skirts. They'd had a rather rough landing. Morgana's hair was matted with sweat and dirt, sticking damply to her ivory cheeks. Morgause examined Nimueh's staff for damage, finding to her satisfaction that it had only been nicked at the base. Her combat magic's would be entirely unaffected. The sisters exchanged a glance, before launching themselves forward into the demonic hordes. Threaded black malice trailed behind them, the links that bound their unholy army to the earth.
Then, Excalibur shining with a heavenly light, Arthur urged his mount forward, Merlin and the knights charging with him.
Once again Merlin found his perception of time slowed to a near standstill. The key points of the battle flashed in his vision. Despite the gargantuan mass of bodies both living and dead that cluttered the plain he could see Morgana and Morgause clearly, standing side by side, launching bolt after bolt of magical energy at the oncoming forces. They were the priority targets. When they fell, so would their armies. The Agmar demon reared viciously. It's talons glinted in the dusk.
"Farewell Emrys, my time has come." Merlin heard the Weaver whisper into his mind. Her childlike voice sounded so innocent from one that held so much power. So, now was when she would do battle with the hordes king. The Weaver was about to die. Had he not known for a fact that this was true he would have called out for her to stop. But there were other matters for him to deal with, and the Druid leader knew as well as he did, even without the powers of the prophet, that destiny could not be averted. No matter how direly they wished it could be.
Time returned to normal speed, and the Weaver moved forward towards her foe.
Merlin turned his head back to the battle. The stallion's lean muscled body rippled rhythmically beneath him. They would be upon the enemy in mere seconds, and Merlin realized that he would have to rid himself of his mount. Not that he had anything against horses, he loved them in fact, but he was not trained in any kind of mounted combat, whether it be with a sword or magic. Breathing heavily he twirled the staff once and brought it through the air in a great slashing motion.
Pure white light erupted from the wooden tip, cleaving through the demonic horde like a tempered blade through paper. Repeatedly he slashed the staff through the air, sending a barrage of white streaks into the enemy flanks.
Taking one last deep breath, he gathered his concentration. He'd yet to truly test the limits of his new powers. There was no better time to experiment than the present.
Slamming his hands downward, Merlin shot a burst of air beneath him, launching his form into the sky like a ragdoll. For a moment he flailed wildly in midair, desperately clawing at anything to stop the fall. But then he found his focus, and his power began to go to work. Tendrils of air suspended him in the sky above the battlefield. Each individual weave was a separate extension of his body, like a hundred windswept tentacles that held him their like a marionette on strings. His eyes narrowed on Morgana. His fight with her would have to take place elsewhere. Somewhere out of the way.
First however, he would help the people of Albion in their own battle. Until the witches fell, the demons would simply get up after being killed, they could not be truly slain. The soldiers had reached the enemy and hacked at the wall of red demon hide. Progress was slow, they would never defeat them on their own.
But Merlin could remedy that.
Staff raised high, the incantation boomed from his lips. Blue yes became gold.
"Agnis Malificarum!"
Clouds were shredded to feathery wisps as orbs of silver fire rained down from the heavens. The demons shrieked as holy flames engulfed their flesh. The human armies shifted, enclosing the enemy. Now he could strike against Morgana.
Throwing caution aside, Merlin shot himself over the plain, directly at Morgana.
His body hit hers in a flurry of limbs and robes. Securing his arms around her waist, he spun them around. And with a loud popping noise, they were gone.
Green energy crackled around the Weavers tiny frame. Vines crept from the earth and encased her legs. The forest was her element, and all plant life granted her some form of power. She had to get it right. Only if the demon struck her properly, and she it, would it truly be defeated. Her staff struck at the demons fore claws.
With a thud a talon slammed into her stomach. She smiled. Violet sparkles began to drape her arms, spreading across her skin to envelope the Agmar demon.
It screamed in pain, trying to pull away. But it's effort was in vain. A rift in time and space opened up. the abyss appeared briefly through a window in reality. And the pair was pulled into it, body and soul. The Weaver was dead. Her sacrifice would not be in vain. Artorious and Emrys would be sure of that.
I want to apologize for a couple of things. First and foremost the lateness of this chapter, and second of all for the weird updates yesterday. You see, I'm an idiot and when I was trying to clear out my document manager on this site, I was actually on the story page and deleted most of the story. I've managed to restore most of it, though I still have to fix some formatting. But I still cant find chapter 22 anyway, I'm stupid and didn't make a backup. So, if anyway somehow has a copy of the chapter with Aslan in it, please send it to me. Otherwise I'll be rewriting it so that my story won't have holes in in. I also have to fix some chapter names, but that can wait. Next chapter we get the fights between Morgana and Merlin, Arthur and Morgause. The fated duels. And just so were clear, Merlin just apparated away to have their fight elsewhere. Happy reading.