Author's note:

Hi everyone. It's been a very long time, hope you're all well.

As the plot started to come together, I felt that these very few last scenes were needed to flow into the opening of Part 2, which I'll begin posting in a few weeks. Promise.

Killian & Mordred

The Demons Smiled Together

4 Days Ago

They walked more than four kilometers without stopping after fleeing the chaos in Camelot, dodging trees and brush on rough and rocky terrain, not too far from the beaten path, but long past the tent city erected outside the capitol. Killian was sure Dodd would not have endured the distance, the pompous arse. The shapeshifter's alter ego had some redeeming qualities, but physical or laborious work was not one of them. Over his rapid breathing and self-belittling thoughts, Killian heard a familiar sound closing in from behind.

"Horses fast approaching," he warned Mordred in a hushed shout. "Take cover!" The warrior gaged the closest elm wide enough to conceal his girth and ducked behind it, out of sight of the approaching riders. He glanced around for Mordred, sweat dripping into his eyes, and found the boy also pressed firm behind a tree that just barely obscured him a few meters away.

"Camelot knights!" said Mordred, his crystal-blue eyes wide and glazed. "They'll hang us if we're caught!"

"Stay calm," growled Killian, wiping his brow with a sleeve. Camelot soldiers were infamous for slaughtering sorcerers, so when he and Mordred put their powers on full display in their failed attempt to rescue Lady Morgana from execution, they surely had become notoriously wanted men. "Just wait."

Killian closed his eyes, exhaled, and then listened. Birdsong. The whisper of trees. The rhythm of his breath and the faint thunder of approaching horses. The riders were close, but there weren't very many of them. He guessed three, maybe four. Still, enough to outnumber them. It was expected that Pendragon would give chase, and it was a miracle that the soldiers' slow response had given the two of them time to escape as far as they had.

He looked at Mordred, the boy ready to flee like a frightened young buck. Killian gestured with an open palm to remain still. Four horses sped past them heading north toward the king's road, one in a red cape billowing in the wind. Killian hugged the tree, moving around it until he was on the opposite side and he could watch them grow distant.

He exhaled and smiled with satisfaction at the accuracy of his count, then looked at Mordred again just in time to see the boy's face scrunch into a scowl. He, too, recognized the riders as their three main targets: the king, his servant lover Guinevere, and the traitor Merlin. The fourth, he did not know, only that he was possibly a soldier or guardsman and still a potential threat to them.

"We should strike now," Mordred urged, peering out from the other side of the tree.

"No," Killian said, waiting for the distance to grow between them and their future prey. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mordred move with caution closer to himself.

"They have no protection except Merlin and he can't match our combined magic. I can cast a spell that would dismount the four of them at once, catching them off guard and giving us the advantage. It's easy and effective, one of the first I learned." Mordred's face took that familiar expression of pure concentration when about to cast an enchantment. Magic was likely already bubbling in his veins, the liquid gold swirls coalescing in his hooded eyes.

Killian rushed him suddenly and whacked the back of Mordred's head, causing the boy to cease calling the spell.

"Wha—?" Mordred cast Killian an exasperated look as he massaged his scalp.

"Don't be foolish," he said, ignoring the shock in the boy's eyes.

"I could have handled Merlin," the young sorcerer snapped back, his disdain fading as he rubbed his head. "You could have taken care of the king and … Gwen."

Killian noticed Mordred's hesitation at the saying of her name, saw the lump bob in his throat and he didn't like it. If it was hard for him to say her name now, how much harder would it be for the boy when the time came to kill her?

"And the fourth man, what do you know of him? He could be another sorcerer for all we know. I admire your courage and determination, Mordred," the warrior-sorcerer replied, removing the water skin strapped across his shoulders and then taking a quick swallow. He offered it to Mordred, who drank heartily as Killian continued. "But we need more than magic on our side. We need a strategy. There is time and we'll use it to our advantage. Now, come. We have a few leagues to go."

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe." That probably did not instill any trust, but Mordred was a lonely child, perhaps eager for companionship and guidance. That would be Dodd's job to nurture a friendship of trust. His is to keep him safe.

Killian resumed the trek through the brush, now turning east and leaving Mordred behind to shake off his apprehension. He glanced over his shoulder without breaking stride. The boy sealed the water skin and pulled the strap over his shoulder before following.

"Well, how far is it?" the boy shouted behind him. Killian ignored the question. They still had a few more hours' walk and he didn't want to hear any grousing along the way.

Noon passed overhead and their pace slowed even further. In a denser part of the forest with trees as old as time, they cautiously traversed gnarled roots protruding from the ground while bony tree limbs reached out as if to grab them. Killian finally stopped in front of an earthen hovel dug into the side of a small hill. The roots of the ancient oak above it hugged the entrance, ready to swallow anyone who dared entered. He glanced at his companion standing trance-like a few paces from him. He knew Mordred was tired and hungry, and now he was obviously a little afraid.

Killian's lips thinned, disappointed with Mordred's timidity, then closed his eyes, his thick brows creasing his forehead. Muttering a few ancient words, he shed his brutish disguise, and suddenly a nobleman with silver flowing hair, bright gray eyes, and a long colorful robe stood in his place.

Badly startled by the nobleman's sudden, near-instant transformation, Mordred stumbled backward over a wood stack, hitting the ground hard. "Ow," the sorcerer said, wide eyes pinned on the man.

Dodd laughed with mirth, flinging long strands of silver hair from his face with one hand as he extended the other to pull Mordred to his feet. "Careful there, boy. There's work to be done and I need you whole." They were both covered in sweat and dust, and Dodd's robe had ripped in several places. Magic could mend his clothes, but only a bath could remedy the grunge and stench that Killian had left him with. "I'm Dodd."

"You're a-a shapeshifter," Mordred gasped, gawking at him, rubbing his rump. Dodd was used to this kind of attention when he undid the enchantment around someone watching, and as rare as that was, it always delighted him to witness their startled reaction. "How do you do it?"

"Magic is nothing but illusion. I can distort perceptions and become anyone I need, hold it as long as I desire. New illusions require the use of my hands to channel the spell until I master them—like this." Dodd spoke the spell again, a slight difference in inflection than when he'd changed from Killian, this time clearly speaking the name "Arthur Pendragon" while his hands glided on pockets of air in elegant, strange gestures. Within seconds, the king in glistening chain mail and a glorious red cape stood where Dodd had been.

"How about a king?" Arthur flashed a charming smile as Mordred's jaw dropped, the boy's eyes as round as a full moon.

"You even sound like him, s-some. But I think his eyes are—bluer." Mordred blushed when Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I was able to get really close to him a few times."

Arthur shrugged with a chuckle. "Well, I didn't get that close to him, but we heard his voice plenty in the courtyard today during the executions. Not much time to practice being that we were fleeing his city to save our skins. But this one—" More words and slight hand movements and then a young man with shoulder-length curly hair and dark brown eyes, wearing Southron hard-leather armor, replaced the embodiment of Arthur. The cool demeanor of nobility and charisma was gone, replaced by rage and resentment still fresh from Dodd-Killian's battle with the Camelot infiltrator just four days past. The man's lips curled into a sneer, something Killian often did. "—Killian's going to gouge out his eyes before he cuts his throat."

Mordred squirmed, clearly unnerved by Dodd's visceral promise of violence. "Who is he?"

"My special target, Sir Maxwell, a practiced sorcerer and skilled warrior. We battled in the crypts before Arthur and his men took back the castle. Remember this face. He may appear unassuming, but he'll be difficult to overcome if our paths cross and we're not prepared to confront him yet. I have reason to believe he can recognize me no matter who I become."

"A disadvantage for us."

"Indeed." Dodd became himself again, shedding the anger and shrugging as he straightened his robe. He plucked at the rip at the shoulder and then frowned at the one at his elbow. Killian must have caught a branch or three during his flight, the unsophisticated brute. "Convincingly becoming anyone of great import takes observation and practice: voice, mannerisms, even body odor can be mastered with a spell."

He stood there, amused at himself for a quick moment before he exhaled and took in his bearings. He looked at the wood pile now scattered around Mordred's feet. "Fetch a few of those, will you? We'll need them inside."

"We can't go in there. Someone lives here."

"I know this place well," Dodd said. "And trust me, no one's home."

Mordred extricated his feet from the wood pile with a scoff and tucked two logs under his arm before following the man into the earthen hovel. The boy coughed from the stench, covering his nose and mouth with his free arm. Dodd, unaffected by the pungent air or the foul odor of decay, continued to speak in the darkness.

"It's Killian I rely on the most, though he has an impulsive tendency to alienate people—he should never have mind-pushed you. Still, he's the strongest and has served me best out of all of my illusions. Forbearnan." Three candles at various positions burst into flame, illuminating Dodd as he spread his arms about the dilapidated one-room dwelling, as if proud of the filthy and wretched place. "Here we are. Home, for a time."

There was no hearth to build a fire, only a small pit surrounded with stones. A spit erected above it leaned against one wall. A wood stump for sitting had been positioned within arm's reach of the spit, and tucked against the back earthen wall was a cot with a dingy blanket and dirty pillow, no privacy curtain in sight. A freestanding cupboard filled with jars and pots partitioned the room. The other wall lined with shelving was stuffed with books and more jars. Several cauldrons were stacked near it. Mordred pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he took one step back. Dodd saw anxiety in his eyes.

"A witch lives here," the boy said, alarm in his voice.

"A witch lived here," Dodd corrected with a weak smile.

"We should leave."

"It was our lady Morgana's," he said with a touch of bittersweet fondness, glancing around the room, the mirth seeping out of him. "And I don't think she's coming back."

"Morgana's? She—she lived here?" Mordred's trepidation changed into curiosity as he slowly wandered about, awestruck as if the hovel had suddenly transformed into a palace.

"We rallied here—the other sorcerers and I—before we joined Helios' army."

"Where are the rest of them? The other sorcerers?"

"Brigitta was slaughtered with the Rear Guard encampment. I don't know what happened to Sagar and Cretch. They must have perished in the battle to hold Camelot." They were good, special, handpicked by Morgana because of their abilities. All of them, apparently, had lost their lives for Morgana's cause. "Such a waste of talent."

"I'm sorry about your friends, Killian."

Dodd looked at him with stern grey eyes, his mouth curled. "My name is Dodd. Don't ever forget that I am not he, and he is not me."

Mordred's lips stiffened as his brow creased. Dodd disregarded his pout, but felt guilty, nonetheless. It was an honest mistake that many had made in the past. And he had changed into four different people within the last five minutes. No wonder the child was confused. Dodd sighed. "Go set a fire, Mordred. We have work to do."