Summary
Alator the Catha holds a special meeting with Master Iseldir and other sorcerers concerning Camelot's new law lifting the ban on magic and the effect it has had on the kingdom as a whole.
Chapter 40 Alator and the Sorcerers' Council
Master Alator's gaze swept over the gathering of sorcerers assembling in the sacred grove in Nemeton, not far from the Great Stones. Hovering blue orbs cast an ethereal glow along the outer edges while torches and candles lit the inner circle around representatives seated at the ancient stone table with him, respected leaders in their sects. Some he knew personally, others only by reputation, but all carried the hopes and fears of their people. Yet ancient rivalries and mistrust still kept these factions divided, an invisible barrier that even the enchanting atmosphere could not dispel.
A trio of sorcerers stepped out from a shimmering portal, their flowing robes rustling softly as they made their way to join their brethren. To his left, a druid materialized from a whirl of leaves and vines, the earthy scent of forest magic lingering in his wake. As more figures emerged from the shadows, Alator noted with unease how they navigated to their own kind – sorcerers huddling with sorcerers, druids seeking out fellow nature-dwellers, witches whispering with witches. The eerie amalgam of torchlight and orb glow cast strange, ethereal shadows upon their faces, some illuminated with cautious optimism, others obscured by deep-rooted suspicion, the interplay of the light and dark emotions stirring within the grove.
Out of necessity, Master Iseldir, the druid chieftain of the peaceful Taeron tribe, had appealed to him to call this council – these were transformative times for all in Camelot and emotions ran hot in the wake of its lifted ban. As Alator surveyed the gathering, he couldn't help but recall the tales of Helva's own turbulent history, the stronghold's struggle to become a sanctuary for magic wielders not unlike Camelot's current plight.
Alator's gaze drifted to those chosen elders who had not spoken in earnest to each other in countless years – at least three advisors flanking each of them, pressed in by new arrivals filling the grove. His eyes settled on Iseldir, his old friend and ally, seated beside him with an air of serenity. Iseldir's pale blue robes, so light they almost appeared grey in the flickering torchlight, seemed to shimmer with an ethereal quality.
Memories of their first meeting flashed through Alator's mind, a chance encounter during one of his sojourns many seasons past. They had both been young then, seeking knowledge and purpose in a world that feared their kind – even before the purge had begun. In the intervening years, their paths had diverged, yet their bond had endured. His old friend had risen through the ranks of the druids to become a respected leader and elder, while Alator himself had ascended to the role of high priest and head of his own order.
Iseldir, with a head thick of greying hair and clear blue eyes, had retained the same well-featured appearance that Alator remembered from their youth. Time had been kind to the druid, leaving only the graceful traces of age upon his visage. In contrast, Alator's fingers grazed the side of his bald head, a rueful smile playing across his lips as he reflected on the outward changes he had undergone. The years had stripped away his lustrous golden locks, leaving behind a gleaming scalp that served as a reminder of the wisdom and experience he had gained.
To Alator's right was Master Ngakaukawa, a Nigerian high priest whose power commanded respect even from the most formidable among them. The priest's eyes, black as onyx, held a depth of wisdom that spoke of ancient knowledge and untold secrets. Alator had always found him to be a stimulating conversationalist, their discourses often delving into the esoteric realms of the arcane.
Across from them, Mistress Zenobia, the witch, regarded the others with cool detachment. Friend to no one, even those within her own coven, she exuded an aura of icy power, her raven hair stark against her pale complexion. Decades of living through the purge, fighting or fleeing for her life, had forged her words into weapons, sharp and unforgiving. The darkness that had consumed her heart seeped into her very essence, tainting her outward beauty.
Beside her, Lord Kebes, a cunning sorcerer of many talents, absentmindedly traced arcane symbols on the table's surface, his fingertips glowing faintly. Older than he looked, Kebes' youthful appearance belied the decades of knowledge learned and experience gained. His eyes, a striking amber that seemed to shimmer in the torchlight, darted between the gathered elders, observing each subtle gesture and whispered word with a keen intelligence.
He knew that beneath the sorcerer's casual demeanor lay a mind as sharp as a blade. It was said that Kebes could weave spells so intricate and convincing that even the most discerning of their kind could fall prey to his machinations. The sorcerer's wealth and resources were the stuff of legend, with whispers of vast estates, rare magical artifacts, and a network of loyal allies that stretched across the realms.
Alator inhaled a quiet, satisfied breath. Small and other highly-regarded leaders filled the remaining few seats, their hushed conversations weaving a tapestry of wariness in the night air. He raised his hand, and with a whispered incantation, a pulse of energy radiated from his palm. The orbs flared brighter, rising above their heads and casting a brilliant glow across the grove. The sudden surge of ethereal light and power drew the attention of every sorcerer, druid, and magic-user present, their voices falling silent as all eyes turned to him.
In the flickering illumination, Alator could feel his features sharpening, a familiar sensation that accompanied this particular incantation. It was a subtle change, but one he knew would enhance his presence and command their attention.
"Our kingdom stands on a precipice," he began, his highland brogue thick, but words clear. "At the behest of Master Iseldir, my order has called this council to discuss the recent lifting of the ban on magic in Camelot. The young King Arthur has extended a momentous act of peace and reconciliation, a chance for our kind to emerge from the shadows and take our rightful place in the kingdom – to bridge the chasm that still divides us from the ordinary. It is an opportunity that my order urges you seize, to forge a new future where our magic continues to flourish openly, without fear – to work and live in peace and cooperation."
"It is a ruse," Zenobia warned, her dark eyes smoldering with distrust. The firelight danced in her obsidian irises, like embers waiting to ignite.
"Patience, Mistress," came Iseldir's steady tones, his assuasive words a shield against the witch's simmering suspicion. "Prudence must guide our steps."
"Prudence?" Zenobia's lip curled, a sneer marring her otherwise striking features. Alator could practically feel the bitterness radiating off her in waves, pulsing in time with the flickering torches. "While Pendragon plots in shadows to placate us before rounding us up?" The witch's words were caustic, corroding the fragile hope in near every expression in the assembly.
"Fear speaks for you, Mistress Zenobia," came Master Ngakaukawa's thick accent. The man's rich, deep voice resonated through the grove as he spoke, his words measured and thoughtful. "I believe that is not the king's intent."
Eurysthenes, a highly-regarded Sidhe leader known for his mastery over the elements, sat at the ancient stone table. His ethereal beauty was striking, with delicate, angular features, and ears with tips that reminded Alator of glistening dew drops. Delicate, translucent wings were tucked behind his iridescent robe, their gossamer edges catching the light as he shifted in his seat. The robe itself seemed to change colors with each movement, a mesmerizing display of the Sidhe's innate connection to the natural world.
He leaned forward, his musical voice carrying a note of caution as he spoke, his wings fluttering slightly as if to emphasize his words. "The ban could return if we are defiant and prideful. We must tread carefully in this new era, lest we risk undoing the progress made."
"This is a chance to build trust indeed." Iseldir replied in agreement.
Zenobia's fist slammed down on the stone table, the sudden impact causing those nearest to her to flinch. "Or expose our throats for slaughter!" she shouted, the witch's words a sibilant hiss, each syllable a serpent's strike aimed at the heart of their fragile unity.
As angry voices pervaded the nocturnal sounds in the grove, Alator's gaze darted around the stone table, opinions rising and falling like the tide. Brother argued with brother, kin shouted at kin, their words clashing like swords in the night.
"The king has made a gesture of good will that benefits us all," Lord Kebes reminded in a loud voice. Despite his formidable abilities and influence, Kebes usually maintained an air of mystery and aloofness, rarely taking sides in the political machinations. His enigmatic nature only added to his allure, with many seeking his favor or fearing his displeasure. Yet, when he did choose to intervene, his words carried a considerable weight.
"He's a Pendragon," Zenobia bitterly countered.
"My friends, we must be in accord amongst ourselves," Iseldir implored, his hands outstretched in a plea for unity.
"Accord?" a scarred witch behind Zenobia scoffed, her eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "When some of us still bear the scars of Uther's purge?"
"That is not why we are here," Alator rebuked, his brogue accent cutting through the din like a blade through silk.
"Are you so sure?" Zenobia contested. Alator's eyes drifted to her loathsome expression. He could feel the antipathy radiating from the sorceress, a deeper venom yet in her spite. Her words, charged with a lifetime of anger and resentment, held the power to stir dissension among the gathered, especially those scarred by the decades-long conflict – be that physical or psychological.
Alator nodded soberly. "Word of the recent slaying of one of our own has reached me, a viscount who had lived in secrecy and a family who did not understand him. Consider the circumstances of this case, that his death was born of the same fear that still grips the hearts of Camelot's ordinary peoples. It has cast a pall over our ability to find that common ground of acceptance."
If Zenobia were to lash out, to rally others to fight back against the rising rhetoric and retribution from those who still dreaded and despised magic, it could jeopardize any chance of cooperation with King Arthur. The witch's influence, fueled by her unyielding determination to survive at all costs, could easily sway those who wavered in their commitment to peace.
That, they could ill afford.
"Safety for our kind remains precarious as it stands," Alator continued, "treading a delicate line between hope and trepidation. You must see that these challenges we face are manifold, extending far beyond the mere acceptance of magic within the kingdom." He shook his head solemnly. "Much depends on magic being wielded with wisdom and restraint, a show of our good faith to the Once and Future King and his vision of a united kingdom."
"Yes," echoed Iseldir. "Novice sorcerers newly revealed or coming into their gifts must be mentored."
"Aye," replied Alator, "trained, and protected to prevent harm, damage, or catastrophe."
"A daunting task, one that required a delicate balance of nurturing the young and tempering the impulsive." Iseldir's calming gaze floated around the table, meeting the eyes of the other elders. "This responsibility falls upon us, my friends, and the other chosen leaders here, to organize ourselves and guide our people, ensuring that the power they possessed is used for the greater good, not selfishly."
Alator could see the weight of this burden reflected in their expressions and stiffening postures. The scars of the past ran deep, etched into the very fabric of their beings. For some, the temptation to continue striking back, to meet violence with violence, simmered just beneath the surface, a seductive whisper that promised retribution and a twisted sense of justice.
Yet, he knew that succumbing to such base instincts would only breed more hatred and mistrust. The path to lasting peace had always proved arduous, demanding sacrifice and compromise from all sides. It required these differing factions to rise above their pain, to forge a new identity that embraced both the ordinary and the magical cultures, to create a world where their children could grow and thrive without fear of persecution from either side.
"We must look to the future, and not dwell in the past," Ngakaukawa agreed solemnly, eying Zenobia and her coven sister with subtle warning, his dark skin seeming to absorb the flickering torchlight, giving him an otherworldly aura that never failed to mesmerize Alator.
"Without trust, we can build nothing with King Arthur," Iseldir restated, his gaze sweeping across the table, meeting the eyes of each elder in turn. "We must work together towards a mutual goal, acknowledge our different perspectives, and strive to find common ground. King Arthur would expect no less from us, and we must rise to the challenge if we hope to forge a lasting peace."
The druid chieftain's words carried a hope, a call to unity amidst the swirling currents of suspicion and doubt. Alator watched as the gathered leaders exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement, others still furrowing their brows in contemplation or utter contempt.
Suddenly, from the shadows beyond the flickering torchlight, a brazen voice rang out, interrupting the moment with its sharp, mocking tone. "And I suppose you will prostrate yourself before the king, Iseldir, and plead on our behalf?"
Alator turned to face the speaker of the curt remark, his eyes narrowing as he sought to identify the source of the disruption. Ruadan Firestone stepped forward, nearby sorcerers parting before him like water before a stone. Several wide belts held tight long, dark robes and an equally long broadsword. Bejeweled rings glistened on several fingers, and an amulet of wisdom – values that bestowed understanding and careful consideration upon the wearer – was draped about his neck. As piercing blue eyes above graying facial hair keenly fixed upon Iseldir, Alator could see the druid clan boldly inked upon his neck – Maeldur.
Despite his aggressive presence, Ruadan was known to have a good-natured temperament, a rare and balanced quality among most of the druids' battle-hardened warriors. And yet, when provoked or called to arms, his demeanor could shift like quicksilver, transforming him into a formidable adversary, the very fire of his namesake blazing within him.
To his credit, the chieftain remained unmoved by Ruadan's antagonism. The druid elder's voice was steady when he replied, his words cool and carefully chosen. "If that is what I must do to ensure peace amongst both peoples, then I shall humble myself before the king. And you, Master Ruadan, are you not now employed by the king as a healer, thereby entering into an understanding of cooperation yourself?"
Alator found himself suppressing a grin, appreciating Iseldir's clever way of highlighting that even Ruadan had the potential to negotiate with a once-adversary, inferring that both of them had to make concessions to reach an amenable agreement. Ruadan, on the other hand, appeared caught off guard by Iseldir's astute observation, surprise and indignation warring on his hardened expression.
A hint of a rebuttal danced on warrior's lips, but before he could voice his thoughts, a powerful gust suddenly swept through the grove, tossing torch and candle flames into a frenzied dance. Robes fluttered madly in a wild wind as a collective uproar erupted through the assembly of sorcerers, their voices rising in confusion and alarm at the sudden intrusion. A blinding flash of white light then silenced them, hands instinctively shielding eyes squeezed tight against the overwhelming brightness.
When the air finally settled and the light receded, Alator's vision refocused against the returning darkness and glow of torchlight and ghostly blue. A lone figure now stood in their midst, power crackling the air around an aged, white-haired man donning dull, crimson robes, unimpressive and just as worn, and slightly hunched against an ornate staff – of Sidhe design, Alator believed.
An uneasy silence spread through the grove while Eurysthenes' angular eyes narrowed to slits, his ethereal features sharpening with recognition as he beheld the pulsating blue staff in the intruder's bony grasp.
Alator saw a flicker of longing crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of a desire to claim the artifact that rightfully belonged to his people. Yet, as quickly as the impulse seemed to arise, it faded, replaced by a resigned acceptance in the Sidhe leader's disappointed visage, perhaps recalling the history behind the exchange of ownership that Alator was not privy to.
But Iseldir had frozen as he too seemed to recognize the newest arrival, the other druids gasping with astonishment as well. As all the druids knelt immediately, exalting the stranger with palms raised high and heads low, Alator's lips parted, his brow creasing in curiosity. Ruadan, ever the proud warrior, stood firm amidst their display of obeisance. He tilted his head, a grudging acknowledgment of the aged figure's significance, yet refusing to fully yield.
Alator studied the mysterious figure, taking in every detail. The visitor's eyes, not as old as his outward appearance, seemed to pierce through each of them, as if laying bare their very souls. Many diverted their gazes in fear, awe, or curious amazement, unable to withstand the intensity of the man's scrutiny. When the sorcerer spoke, his ancient voice resonated through Alator's being, sending an invigorating vibe that left him inexplicably empowered.
"Rise, my friends," the visitor tenderly bade Iseldir and the other druids, his tone timeworn, yet filled with a gentle warmth. As they stood and either seated themselves or returned to their positions, the aged sorcerer maneuvered among them at a slow, steady pace, his lean frame heavily dependent upon his staff, but his gaze alert and purposefully searching out each of them.
"We all seek the same ending," he said, "though uncertainty grips reason right now…. I know the struggles of our kin, for I too have felt the sting of oppression and faced the whip of persecution."
His piercing gaze finally landed on Alator. In that moment, he realized that neither the man's frailty nor his young eyes could belie the power emanating from him, something almost as old as time and finely restrained – a force that could likely bring them all to their knees with a mere thought.
"We distrust those unlike us, though we have had sound motive to, my friends," the intriguing sorcerer continued, circling the stone table in careful steps. "Many of us have suffered. Our families, our sisters and brothers – all victims of injustices unforgivable."
"Aye!" many voices rang out, their cries echoing through the grove in a chorus of righteous anger.
"We owe them nothing!" another voice bellowed, the words searing the air like a curse, igniting the resentment that smoldered within the group. A resounding ripple of "Ayes" surged from the crowd, their collective rage palpable in the charged air.
"With magic unleashed, they'll pay for their crimes!" The declaration was met with a roar of approval, some of the faces contorted with a thirst for vengeance.
"No!" The aged sorcerer's voice boomed, the sheer force of his word – that ancient power within him – surged outward in a burst of unseen, unrestrained energy, tendrils of raw magic spiraling through the grove and cutting through the clamor like a blade. His crimson robe darkened to majestic black, the sleeves and collar in thick white trim with glowing druidic symbols writhing upon them.
The assembly was jolted backwards, their bodies pushed against the sudden force as the earth trembled beneath their feet, a startled gasp escaping Alator himself. The display of might silenced all in its wake, the tangible manifestation of immense power leaving only the crackling of the flames and the whisper of the wind. Alator stared in awe as the aged sorcerer's eyes blazed with a fiery gold, the intensity of his gaze once again searing into the very souls of those who dared to meet it.
"Violence only breeds violence," he warned impassionedly, his wardrobe returning to mundane crimson. "Have you learned nothing, my friends?! Is it not the time for healing and unity?"
The ancient man's thunderous refusal and rebuttal against extremism inspired Alator, a clarion call for reason and restraint in the face of overwhelming emotion. As he listened to the sorcerer continue his ardent plea for unity, a flicker of recognition began to stir within him, a half-remembered legend from ages past. Was this powerful man, sometimes withered and so in need of his staff, the very figure Alator's order had long awaited? The one foretold to guide them through a tumultuous time? Could this be the legendary... Emrys?
He glanced at Iseldir, the chieftain's face alight with reverence. Given the druids' deep connection to the lore and their reaction to this man now, it must be so. The thought sent a shiver down Alator's spine, sheer admiration and threads of trepidation contending profoundly within him. If the prophecies were true, then the fate of not only Camelot's magical community but all of Albion hung in the balance, dependent upon the looming decisions ahead for all concerned and the wisdom and power of the man who now stood before them.
Alator had not expected such an honor in his lifetime, but he stood and approached Emrys hesitantly, his steps measured and cautious as the aged sorcerer turned, discerning eyes raking him from head to toe. This distinguished man was a force to be reckoned with, and it had been many years since another sorcerer had stirred such a deep sense of veneration within him, a feeling that left him humbled and shaken to his core.
As he drew near, Alator sank to one knee, bowing his head before the legendary figure, murmurs of astonishment coursing through the crowd. "Great Emrys," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "you honor us with your presence."
"Stand, Master Alator," Emrys said gently. "We are brothers and sisters. We serve one another – lift me no higher than yourselves."
Alator obeyed, rising to his feet. As he met Emrys' gaze, he saw a warm smile gracing the aged sorcerer's features. A deep admiration welled up within him for the humility displayed by so great a man.
"From which house do you hail, Lord Emrys?" Ngakaukawa asked thickly, his deep voice crashing through Alator's connection with Emrys like a wave against a rocky shore, leaving him adrift in the sudden shift of focus.
Iseldir spoke up, his tone lilting, filled with adoration. "It is said Emrys was sired from magic itself, preceding all magical houses and orders. He is magic incarnate, the first and most powerful of all warlocks across time and space."
"Foretold to bring balance during a time of great upheaval," Alator added, recalling the legends preserved in his order's annals. "After the time of the—" he searched his memories for the final piece, "—the purging of the innocent."
Whispers of amazement and wonder rolled through the gathered sorcerers, growing in strength like distant thunder heralding an approaching storm. The power of prophecies was well-known among their kind, and the knowledge that Emrys stood before them, a living legend made flesh, sent a collective shiver of awe through the assembly.
Alator looked at the timeless warlock, the urgency to cut to heart of their concerns pressing upon him like an insistent hand on his shoulder. "Great Emrys, the scars of the past run deep within our community. Many here have suffered at the hands of Uther Pendragon, and the fear of persecution still lingers in their hearts. While we are aware of Arthur's recent deeds as king, how can we be certain that his intentions are true? How can we trust that this is not a ploy to lure my kin into a false sense of security?"
Emrys turned his wizen gaze to Alator. "Arthur Pendragon is not Uther Pendragon," he replied, his voice carrying a quiet authority that seemed to resonate through the very earth beneath their feet. "Indeed the young king has shown a willingness to break from the cycles of the past and forge a new path forward. His actions in lifting the ban on magic demonstrate a desire for reconciliation – a first step. While the wounds of the past cannot be healed overnight, we must not let our fears blind us to the opportunities that he has presented to us."
Alator nodded solemnly, the sage response speaking volumes about the character of both kings. He had lived through the purge, tasted Uther's cruelty, constantly dodging his persecutors. The news of Arthur's tentative steps had sparked a glimmer of hope within him, a chance for a brighter future where magic could flourish openly here, as Emrys himself strived to do now.
Yet, not all in the grove were so easily convinced.
"He slaughtered us nonetheless upon the order of his father." Zenobia's voice shattered the silence like a stone through a stained-glass window. "His soul is just as black, yet he expects us to forget?!
Emrys met Zenobia's gaze unflinchingly, his expression a mask of calm understanding tinged with sorrow. "There were atrocities on both sides, Mistress – be not naïve nor slight this truth," he reminded, his words a gentle admonishment. "Even now, some of our kin wreck unchecked mayhem across the kingdom, jeopardizing the ordinary's fragile trust. And there are others – those hurt or harmed by sorcerers have scars so deep that their hatred of us is more of a threat to Camelot's unity than we are."
Alator watched as Emrys held Zenobia's defiant gaze, the ancient sorcerer's eyes seeming to lance through the layers of pain and anger that shrouded the witch's heart. "The Once and Future King risks all to break old cycles. Will you cling to past wounds while our children face new ones... or help to heal those in pain as Arthur is trying to do for you?"
A moment of silence descended upon the grove as Zenobia's gaze dropped, a bitter frown tugging at the corners of her lips, Emrys' words demanding introspection and contemplation.
"We all desire peace, Emrys," Iseldir said, his gaze drifting to Zenobia, rancor still etched upon her face, before coming to rest on Ruadan.
Alator followed Iseldir's line of sight, the druid warrior crossing to Emrys, his broad shoulders and towering frame dwarfing the frail looking wizard. Yet, despite Ruadan's imposing presence, the fire in his piercing blue eyes dimmed in the face of Emrys' ancient power.
"Change does not come easy for some," Ruadan said, his words a simple statement that echoed with the struggles of countless generations.
Emrys nodded, his gnarled fingers tightening around his staff as he met Ruadan's gaze. "Indeed, it does not," he agreed, his voice a whisper that seemed to carry across the grove. "And the path forward may yet hold more pain before peace takes root, Master Ruadan. Many of our own will need to be restrained, their magic controlled and marshaled, lest they jeopardize the trust we seek to build with the crown."
Ruadan's brow furrowed, a flicker of frustration passing over his features. "And what shall we do with our... rebellious then, Emrys? Leave them to the crown to have them executed?"
Alator's jaw cinched, the question clearly a challenge, a test of the ancient sorcerer's wisdom.
"I think it would be just for us to judge our own, do you not?" Emrys' response came swiftly, his words a sudden shift in the conversation that sent ripples of surprise through the gathered magic users. "Petition the king that this is our right."
Alator's eyebrows rose as shocked silence filled the grove, and a sudden realization dawning upon him. In one deft move, Emrys had turned the question back upon them, placing the responsibility of justice for their own people squarely upon their shoulders. It was a clever tactic, one that sought to empower the magical community while simultaneously fostering a sense of accountability and cooperation with the crown. He tried to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. Would the king agree to such a diametric shift of power? he pondered. Were they ready for such a monumental step?
After a long moment, Zenobia broke the silence. "You place our lives and much faith in this king's commitments," she said, her tone less severe than Alator had heard in a long time. Still, doubt flickered in the deeps of her eyes.
"You have mine as well, Mistress," Emrys said solemnly, unexpectedly, easing doubts perhaps. "I have Arthur's ear, and will counsel him on magical matters, great and small, with your help. He will consider your appeal earnestly. But be warned: he and the queen are under my protection now. Should any harm or enchantment befall them, the consequences would be dire, for the wrath of Emrys knows no bounds."
The ancient sorcerer's voice grew deep and menacing as the shadows seemed to lengthen and twist around him. Now standing to a full, impressive height, his clothing darkened once more to mysterious black trimmed in glowing white. A collective gasp ran through the gathering, the sorcerers exchanging fearful glances as a palpable chill settled over the grove.
Alator felt a shiver run down his spine too, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the power of Emrys and his words washed over him. He could sense the unease and trepidation that now gripped the assembled leaders, a grave reminder of the legendary sorcerer's immense power and the gravity of his commitment to Camelot's royal couple. But he had also made a pledge of equal measure to his people that could not be ignored.
"I shall speak to the king of what was said here," Emrys promised, his voice softening once more, though the air still tingled with residual energy and his robes retained its darker form. "Now. Talk amongst yourselves. Find other reasons to unite despite our pain and differences – we must, for the sake of us all. Master Isildur, Master Alator, you shall hear from me soon."
They both nodded, Alator swallowing thickly as Emrys' eyes swept around the assembly. "My friends, my people," he said with genuine regard. "I bid you all fair night." His voice resonated with a warmth that seemed to embrace each and every one of them. "Bedyrne ús, Ridge of Ascetir! Astýre ús þanonweard!"
As grand as his entrance, bathing them in wind and light, so was his exit. A swirling vortex of energy engulfed the ancient sorcerer, his form shimmering and fading as the magic transported him away.
In the aftermath of Emrys' departure, a profound silence fell upon the grove, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the flicker of the flames, the unsteady breaths of those around him. Glances passed between the druids and sorcerers, the witches and Sidhe, each grappling with the implications of the legendary figure's words and the path he had laid before them.
A small chuckle unexpectedly escaped Alator's lips as his racing heart began to subside, the thrill of Emrys' display still prickling his skin. He couldn't help but smile, marveling at the raw power and artistry of the ancient sorcerer's magic.
"Does he think we are fools?" Zenobia asked at last, her eyes glinting with a stubborn defiance, a clear indication that she was not as swayed by the great Emrys as they might have believed.
Alator fixed her with a stern gaze, his voice filled with conviction. "We would be fools if we do not follow him," he warned, his tone leaving no room for argument. "My order has long awaited the return of Emrys and the wonders he will bestow upon us. To disregard his counsel would be to court calamity and beckon ruin upon ourselves and future generations."
Iseldir nodded, his expression one of steadfast faith. "He has power and influence far beyond our abilities," the druid chieftain affirmed. "He's much wiser than when we first met. I do not doubt him." He turned his gaze to Ruadan, his eyes searching the warrior's face for any sign of hesitation. "Do you?"
Druid challenged druid once more, master tested warrior, and Alator's brows raised as they locked gazes, a silent battle of wills unfolding.
"Emrys' deeds are known among the druids – though some have not been so worthy," Ruadan replied, his words carrying a hint of skepticism. The warrior's eyes then flickered with a surety that did not reflect in many of those assembled. "But he is a legend. It remains to be seen what he can do now and what the future holds."
Zenobia's frustrated curse led the sudden outbursts erupting once more, the grove descending into a cacophony of arguing voices and clashing opinions. Amidst the chaos, Alator caught sight of Iseldir, a small smile playing on the chieftain's lips as he seemed to accept the caution displayed by Ruadan. It was a moment of understanding between the two druids, a recognition of the delicate balance they must strike in the days to come.
Nodding at the small concession, Alator called for order, a whispered enchantment that flared the orbs'unearthly light to silence the din. "Let us adjourn tonight and ponder what was heard here," he advised, his tone firm and authoritative. "Perhaps cooler heads will prevail on the morrow. We meet in the third hour."
His words had the desired effect, the arguing subsiding as the druids, witches and sorcerers began to disperse, each lost in their own thoughts and contemplations. He exchanged a farewell nod with Iseldir before watching them drift away, some in small groups, others alone, their faces a mix of hope, fear, and determination.
As the last of them departed, Alator turned his gaze to the stars above, their celestial dance unchanged by the momentous events of the night. A great responsibility had been unexpectedly thrust upon him. He had not sought to play such a crucial role in shaping the future of his kin, but there it was, entrusted to him by the eminent Emrys himself.
Alator drew in a deep breath. The path ahead was unclear, fraught with challenges. He knew that the decisions made in the coming days would echo through the ages, and in this sacred grove tonight, he vowed to do everything in his power to help guide Camelot's diverse communities toward a harmonious unification, where all could prosper side by side.
Merlin trembled uncontrollably as he transformed back into his younger self, the transportation spell landing him precisely at the ridge's snowy mountain peak. Cold bit without mercy into him, yet exhilaration coursed through his veins, magic tingling and exciting his nerves – he yearned to share this incredible experience with Arthur and Galahad.
Puffs of breath escaped his lips, dissipating in the frigid air as he surveyed the pristine, perpetual winter landscape. Snow drifts concealed the isolation of his surroundings, but Merlin felt confident that no one had attempted to follow him. He had chosen to teleport to this general location instead of directly to the mill house, fearful that some might seek out his sanctuary closer to home.
With the whispered incantation, Merlin whisked himself safely back to his private training grounds. Despite his smooth landing, wobbly knees caused him to stumble, his body still adjusting to the surge of power that had coursed through him. His breath came in shuddering gasps as the emotions gripping him slowly began to dissipate and warmth creeped back into his bones.
After a moment in the quiet, calming solitude, his gaze drifted to Chestnut, the loyal mare grazing contentedly nearby. With a soft whistle, he called her to him, his fingers gently caressing her velvety nose as she nuzzled his palm. Mounting the horse with practiced ease, he set off towards Camelot, his mind still whirling with the events of the night.
As the familiar landscape blurred past him, Merlin reflected on the uncertainty he had felt when he first transported into the midst of the elder's gathering, unsure of what to expect or what words he would find to address them. Only a few hours before it began, Isildur's urgent missive concerning the fledgling council – of and how Alator the Catha was to mediate – had initially filled him with surprise and delight, but as the weight of the druid leader's request settled upon him, a sense of trepidation had taken hold. The realization that discord fractured their leadership had not come as a shock, but the idea that Emrys could mend so great a rift had seemed an almost insurmountable challenge. To stand in the presence of those mighty sorcerers and many more was a humbling thought.
Yet, somehow, he had risen to the occasion, summoning the essence of the ancients to command the attention of the array of sorcerers present and lend weight to his words. Embracing the persona of Emrys had come more naturally than he had anticipated, the wisdom and power of his legendary self flowing through him like a conduit, altering his very appearance with a thought. It was as Galahad had told him – the spirit of Emrys had always resided within him, waiting for the right moments to emerge.
The night air cooled his skin, whipped at his tunic and through his hair as Chestnut carried him ever closer to the citadel, and Merlin found himself pondering the reactions of the magical leaders to his proposals. Would they truly unite behind the vision of a Camelot where magic and mundane could coexist in harmony? Or would the decades of mistrust and persecution prove too difficult to overcome?
These questions swirled in his mind, intertwining with the anxiety of how Arthur would receive the news of the petition on his kin's behalf. Arthur had already taken bold steps in lifting the ban on magic and acknowledging those suffering by it, but the appeal for the magical community to govern their own was a significant departure from tradition. Even so, for this crucial step in forging a lasting peace between the two worlds to take hold, Merlin knew that convincing Arthur of its necessity would require all of his wit and wisdom.