The Rise
'You've only been back a few hours,' Morgana pouted, clinging onto his arm.
'I know,' Harry said apologetically, 'and he wouldn't have sent for me if it wasn't important. He knows how much I needed to be here. I will make it up to you.'
Morgana hummed as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
'You'd better, Harry, and you'd better warn Owain Peverell not to intrude on my time with you again. He would not like me when I am pissed off.'
'I will tell him,' Harry chuckled amusedly. 'I'll be back as soon as I can. Maybe we should have a real wedding ceremony.'
'Is that what you want?'
Harry shrugged.
'It makes no difference to me, but isn't that every little girl's dream?'
'Am I like every other little girl?'
'No,' Harry snorted, 'but I think a part of you would like it to be official. We can even get Salazar to do the ceremony.'
Morgana quirked an eyebrow at him.
'What if I don't want to marry you?'
'Don't you?'
Morgana narrowed her eyes at him.
'Don't ask stupid questions,' she grumbled. 'Go on, before I change my mind about letting you go.'
'Letting me go? I didn't realise I was your prisoner.'
'Oh, Harry, you will always be my prisoner,' Morgana said sweetly.
'Such a terrible punishment,' Harry sighed, placing a kiss on her lips. 'I'll be back.'
'Good.'
He offered her a final smile before transforming and flying clear of the grounds, apparating when he was far enough outside of the school's protections.
Arriving n the Welsh village only a moment later, the smell of charred wood filled his nose, and Harry quickly spotted Ignotus and Owain a short distance from what little remained of what had been a church.
'Magical fire,' he murmured as he joined them.
'Indeed,' Ignotus replied, 'and then there is this.'
Harry frowned as he looked upon the corpse of the old man.
He had not died well, but his last act had been to scratch a word into the trunk of the tree.
Evidently, he'd used his nails.
All but two were on the ground from where they'd been ripped out from his efforts, and the legible single word he'd written was smeared in blood.
'Pelleas?'
Owain grunted unhappily.
'There are rumours about him and a large following he has gathered. He did this, Harry.'
"Then he will pay for it.'
It had been a little more than a week since they'd discovered the village, and thus far, there had been no sign of Pelleas or any large group of men in this part of the country.
On horseback, Harry, Owain, and what remained of the men who'd fought off the Irish had been hunting the infamous man, but not even a whisper was spoken of him.
"He's still here somewhere," Owain growled.
He'd been repeating that very mantra since they'd set off, and instead of his anger simmering, it had only become more palpable. What Pelleas had done to the men, women, and children of the village was unthinkable, and Harry too was eager to catch up with him.
"Halt!" Owain commanded as they reached a wide crossroads towards the north of Wales.
They had already been here days prior, and Owain's nostrils flared.
"What if he is in there?" one of the men asked. "Shouldn't we…"
"No," Owain huffed irritably. "Those lands have surrendered themselves to Arthur. We will find only enemies beyond."
"So, we let him get away with it?"
"Never," Owain muttered, "but I think we are approaching this wrong. He need to only stay ahead of us to avoid us. We are doing nothing but following in his footsteps in an endless pursuit."
"So, what do we do?" the man asked.
"We split up," Harry broke in. "We split into two groups. One of us will trace our steps from the way we came, and the others will circle the other way. We can meet somewhere in the middle in the south."
"Isn't that risky?"
"It is," Owain agreed, "but it may just be our only chance of catching him. What do you think, Harry?"
"I think the urge to shove my sword up his arse is too hard to ignore."
Owain and the others laughed, and he nodded his agreement.
"You will take half of the men," Owain decided. "Are you happy to circle back the way we came?"
Harry nodded, and Owain offered him a grateful smile.
"Good, and if you come across him, send for me. I will be with you immediately."
"I will, and you do the same. We will need both of us if his group is as big as we think."
Owain nodded.
"Then let us hope we see each other before our groups meet in the south," he said with a grin. "You lot," he added, pointing to half of the men to his left. "You're with me. Be safe, Harry."
"And you."
He waited until Owain and his group were out of sight before instructing his own to move out.
Pelleas had proven that he was able to avoid being tracked by a single large group, but now, Harry would see how good the man really was when he was being hunted by two, both headed by a wizard with quite the bone to pick with him.
(Break)
"Do you have any idea of the position you are putting me in, Tristan?" Arthur huffed as he paced back and forth in front of his throne.
"Yes, I do," Tristan replied sadly. "I'm sorry, Arthur, but I can't help who I have fallen in love with. How many people spoke out against you marrying Guinevere? Please, I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't truly love her."
Arthur released a deep breath as he looked towards the others.
"I say you let him stick her and get it over with," Bors said with a shrug. "Maybe he just needs to empty himself to clear his head."
Gawain slapped him across the back of the head.
"He isn't you," he grumbled, "but it's a problem. She's promised to your father. You will make an enemy of him and Iseult's family if you allow this."
Arthur nodded his understanding.
"I know," he replied unhappily. "Tristan…"
"Don't bother," Tristan interrupted. "I only asked permission out of respect, but my mind was already made up before I did. I will be marrying her, even if we have to go elsewhere for that to happen."
He stormed out of the room and Arthur once more looked towards his knights for support.
"He's going to do it," Lancelot sighed. "He's in love with her, and there is nothing anyone can say that will stop them."
"Speaking from experience, Lancelot?" Gaheris asked.
The man snorted derisively.
"Do not be so foolish," he said dismissively. "I am not our lovesick king."
The others laughed and Arthur quirked an eyebrow at Lancelot, who held up his hands.
"Not all of us can spend our lives defiling stable girls. Maybe you should find yourself a wife from good stock."
Lancelot shook his head.
"I saved that for you, my king," he returned, clapping Arthur on the shoulder before taking his leave from the room.
"Something up his arse?" Bors asked.
Arthur shrugged.
Lancelot had been becoming distant for some time now.
The two of them didn't spend as much time together as they once had, but Arthur still considered them to be the very best of friends.
With all of his focus having been on running the kingdom and his wife, he'd had little time for the man who'd helped him so much.
That would need to change.
Arthur knew he needed to make more time for those who had been with him from the very beginning, and he suddenly felt guilty that he'd not been as good a friend to Lancelot more recently.
"I'll speak with him later. Any word from Myrddin?"
His most trusted advisor had left Camelot several days prior, once more to attend to a matter with some urgency.
As ever, Myrddin had given little away, but he'd assured Arthur his task was of the utmost importance, but also that he wouldn't be so far away.
Arthur considered if there might just be an impending threat against the keep, but that was not something Myrddin would keep from him.
Nonetheless, with Tristan having announced that he would be marrying his father's intended, there would be enough upheaval in his lands to come.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Arthur shook his head.
He understood better than any what it was like to fall so deeply in love with another that little else seemed to matter, but Tristan's choice would inevitably result in conflict, perhaps between the young man and his father, his father and the Irish, or Tristan and the Irish.
At worst, Mark could even ally himself with the Irish against Tristan, which meant that they would choose to be against Camelot.
Regardless of whom would be at odds with whom, it would end in bloodshed; something Arthur could do without whilst he was preparing his own campaign.
"Nothing yet," Gawain answered. "Myrddin does as he pleases. We all know that."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully.
So much had happened in such a short space of time that he'd lost track of much of it.
For a king, that simply wasn't good enough.
Here he was chastising Tristan for his intentions, when Arthur had done much the same and had somewhat abandoned his kingdom in the process.
He loved his wife dearly, and there was little more he looked forward to each day than returning to his chambers in the evening to find her waiting for him, but the distraction of his happy marriage seemed to come at quite the cost to his friends, his kingdom, and even himself.
"Are we bloody training today or not?" Bors demanded to know, his booming voice cutting through length and breadth of the great hall.
"We are," Arthur confirmed, feeling the need unburden himself of the stress he carried.
Training would help clear his mind, but when it was done, he knew he had much work to do.
He would take a walk around the keep, speak with those who looked to him to rule over them, and perhaps he would even be able to speak with Tristan, if the man had calmed from their earlier conversation.
From there, he would seek out Lancelot, in the hope of rekindling what felt to be their fading friendship.
It all sounded so simple as he pondered it, but Arthur knew he would fall at one of the hurdles, and he expected that he would fail to sway Tristan from his chosen path.
Matters of the heart often blinded men, and not even Arthur had been able to escape the haze as his own had been captured.
(Break)
He spat a piece of the grisle into the fire he was warming his feet on and wiped the fat from the pork he was eating from his lips.
Usually, Phillip would not indulge in such poor mannerisms when it came to eating, but he had fallen into adopting some of the habits of the men he found himself travelling the country with.
Of course, it was rather uncouth and unbecoming of a man who'd been raised in reasonable wealth, but he'd never seen any of it.
His parents had squandered the family fortune, and all he had was a name that had once been held in high esteem.
Had a name.
Myrddin had taken his from him and forced him into taking on another; one that was quickly becoming as infamous as his own from birth had been.
Despite the circumstances that found him here and not basking in the warmer climes found on the continent, Phillip could not deny that he was finding some enjoyment in life.
"Are they still looking for us?" he asked amusedly as one of the men he'd sent to scout the large party roaming the Welsh countryside returned atop his horse.
"They are, but they have decided to split up. The one with the crow blade has taken half of the group, and Peverell the other."
"Is that so?" Phillip chuckled as he stood. "Well, then let us cull their numbers."
"Which group do we attack?"
Phillip hummed thoughtfully.
"The crow," he answered. "Peverell can wait for now. Saddle up. We leave soon."
The men that had chosen to join him on his expeditions up and down the country began making their preparations, and Phillip stretched as he released a long, drawn-out groan.
The pig they'd stolen from a nearby farm had been an exceptional meal, and there would inevitably be more to come, once they'd managed to rid themselves of the men hunting them.
It was a foolish thing to do.
Myrddin was only getting away with what he'd done because Phillip had found himself in a desperate situation, but Peverell and his little crow assistant would not be granted such a lengthy reprieve.
Myrddin would of course receive his own comeuppance in due course, but the crow would be first, and then Peverell, and any other who dared intervene in his plans.
The very thought of ramming his blade through Myrddin's heart brought a smile to Phillip's lips, and he relived that fantasy more times than he could count as he prepared his own horse to become the hunter instead of the hunted.
(Break)
He remembered a time before the village had even been given a name.
Myrddin would not deny the impact Godric had on the wizarding world, or even the man's many achievements, but having a village named after him would only inflate Founder's already inflated ego.
Still, at least the locals had not resorted to building a statue of him here.
Not yet.
Nonetheless, there was a certain charm about the place.
It was one of the very few dwellings that mostly consisted of magical families living harmoniously with muggles, even if the latter was woefully ignorant of just who or what their neighbours were.
Much of the land here was farmable, the water was fresh, and the people lived well enough, but there was an undeniable shadow that hung over this place, a magic that Myrddin could sense that simply did not belong.
"Death," he murmured as he passed the tavern on the main street of the village.
The rumours he'd heard were quite fantastical, unbelievable to most, and yet, despite his own misgivings, Myrddin could not ignore them.
The Peverells had done something to invite Death to this place, and it lingered here, breathing down the necks of all.
"You're not from around here, are you?" a man asked, leaning on garden wall as a rake cleared the laves from his lawn.
"No, I am not," Myrddin answered. "Tell me, do you know where I can find Ignotus Peverell?"
The man snorted and shook his head before walking away, not even deigning Myrddin with an answer.
He frowned as he continued on his way, pondering the rather disrespectful response he'd received, though it was short-lived as he came upon a young woman sweeping the path outside her home.
"Did you say Peverell?" she asked curiously.
"I did."
She too laughed, but she didn't walk away as the man had.
"Why is that funny?" Myrddin asked.
The woman eyed him for a moment.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"I am not."
The woman hummed thoughtfully.
"Of course, you're not," she sighed. "The locals know that you do not seek out the Peverells. They will find you."
Myrddin frowned.
"They will find me?"
The woman smiled as she nodded.
"Perhaps saying a prayer might help," she suggested, nodding towards the church a short distance away. "Sometimes, god will have the answers you seek."
Myrddin would usually be dismissive of such nonsense, but the way the woman said it almost compelled him to follow the advice.
"I might just do that. Thank you," he offered before turning towards the church and cautiously making his way towards it.
There was something deeply unsettling about the building, something ominous, and almost threatening, but Myrddin had not come all this way to fail.
He'd heard the stories of the Peverells, and even what little he could glean from the locals.
What he hoped to get from going to the church, he didn't know, but it was as alluring as it was damning.
Death.
This was where he could feel it most, and it had little to do with the dozens upon dozens of bodies buried here. It was the very magic of the place that had no place here that made it so unnerving.
As with any other church he had visited, the inside was adorned with effigies of Christ, along with crosses, uncomfortable pews, and a font of water blessed by a priest.
On the surface, there was nothing truly unique about the place, save for that undeniable presence of Death.
"It is rather unwise to seek out a stranger."
Myrddin turned sharply to where he'd heard the voice but saw nothing.
"Especially a stranger that you do not consider a friend or ally. You would see me dead, Myrddin Emrys."
"Who's there?" Myrddin asked, his grip tightening around his wand.
"You came looking for me, no?"
"Ignotus Peverell."
"With you in spirit."
Myrddin frowned as he continued to peer into every corner of the room.
"You will not find me," Ignotus chuckled. "If Death himself cannot find me, what chance do you have?"
"So, you choose to hide?"
Ignotus chuckled.
"I am no warrior. That would be my son, Owain, but I expect you will meet him soon enough. No, I can sense your intent, Myrddin, but I also feel your fear."
"I fear nothing."
"And a convincing liar," Ignotus murmured. "All men fear something, Myrddin Emrys, even one such as yourself. There is no shame in fear, but there is shame in denial of it. It is the mark of a coward. If I were to ask a righteous man what he feared, he would not show the same fear as you. You are not a righteous man. You hide your true intent beneath a veil of benevolence. You are as wily as the fox, as cunning as the serpent, and as poisonous as the deadly nightshade."
Myrddin snapped his attention to another corner of the room as the voice shifted once more.
"And you seem to fear me."
Ignotus chuckled amusedly.
"I fear no man, Myrddin Emrys, nor do I fear Death. His cold hand forever hovers above my shoulder, poised to take me to what awaits me, and I humbly wait for the day his cold grasp closes. No, I fear neither man nor Death."
"Then what is it you fear?"
"Nothing so trivial. I fear for the world my son and his children will grow in. I fear that the coming war will be the end of mine, but I am not so fearful of that any longer. I have seen victory in the form of a man, a man who will end you and your foolish endeavour. A great storm lies on the horizon, Myrddin, and I fear you shall not see the skies clear nor the freshness in the air that comes once it has passed."
Myrddin swallowed deeply.
"A great storm?"
"Brought upon us by a man you seek but will wish you had not," Ignotus said amusedly. "You seek your solace and guidance from the stars, and I seek mine from something greater. You will fail, Myrddin, you will fall, and you will see all that you build crumble to dust once the storm passes over."
"False words," Myrddin said dismissively. "My legacy will live on for a thousand years."
Ignotus hummed thoughtfully.
"Then all that is left is to see if there is truth to your words or if mine are the ones to come to fruition. Goodbye, Myrddin Emrys. Come Death, come."
The chill that swept through the room was unlike anything else Myrddin had ever experienced, somehow worse than the worst of winters, and somehow even more so than the wraiths he'd encountered on a few occasions.
This cold seemed to reach his very soul, and almost dislodge it with but a touch.
Doing his utmost to remain calm, Myrddin took his leave of the church, revelling in the warmth of the world outside, and vowing not to return, unless necessary.
Godric's Hollow was a cursed land cursed by all he could not see, but something he could undoubtedly feel seeping into every fibre of his being.
It was unsettling, and even long after he'd apparated away, the touch of coldness remained with him, almost pulling at his very soul as he tried to rid himself of it.
"Come Death, come?" he murmured.
The words were ominous, almost an invitation, and yet, a warning at the very same time.
Myrddin would pay them no mind.
Death was not something in his near future, and though he would one day pass on, it would not be until he'd achieved all he'd set out to do.
Not because of an eerie phrase spoken by a man too cowardly to face him.
(Break)
'Kill him!'
'Avada Kedavra!'
He winced as the green glow of the spell filled his vision, and Harry strained his ears to hear the muffled, broken voices speaking.
Before he could, however, he suddenly felt as though his entire body was on fire, and that he was being pulled in all directions.
Harry couldn't breathe, and he fought desperately against what gripped him, certain that he would be screaming if the fluid he found himself hadn't already filled his lungs.
'Harry!'
He paused at the sound of the voice, but the torture he was enduring continued, pulling him back into the moment.
Harry knew that voice, but with his skin and mind aflame, he couldn't place it.
'Harry!'
He felt his lungs continue to burn, and his limbs lengthened agonisingly.
For how long he was submerged, Harry didn't know, but after some time, he could hear once again, and he was standing.
'Robes, Wormtail.'
He felt them being draped over his shoulders, and his mind felt foggy, as though there was something in it that just didn't belong.
'Harry!'
It was Morgana's voice he could hear, and before he could comprehend what was happening, he felt a violent reaction which forced him away, and the agony he'd felt vanished, but it was replaced with a sudden, unyielding fatigue.
(Break)
She barely paid attention to the fairies fluttering around her anymore.
Morgana had grown so used to their presence, and the feeling of their magic mingling with her own, that she scarcely noticed them now whilst she split her time between working and worrying about Harry.
He'd been gone again for some time, and she'd not heard anything from him.
Still, she found herself by the lake more than she cared to admit, and longing for his touch when she finally gave up hope that he would return to her each passing night.
He would come back.
Morgana did not doubt that, but not knowing when was a double-edged sword.
She had that slither of hope to cling to that he would be coming every morning she woke, but there was a lack of reassurance with not knowing.
Morgana released a deep sigh as she turned back towards trees, only to pause as she suddenly felt herself filled with a deep concern.
It had come on so suddenly and strongly that it was impossible to ignore, and as she adjusted to the unfamiliar feeling, she swallowed deeply.
Harry.
He was in trouble and needed her.
"Shit," she cursed, hurriedly readying herself to depart.
Morgana summoned all she might need from her home, and frantically searched within herself for anything that would help her find him.
Britain was not the biggest country, but he could be anywhere on the isle.
"Help me!" she commanded the fairies still fluttering around her head.
They seemed to not have heard her, and frantically, Morgana closed her eyes to follow the faint trail of discomfort leading away from her. Being within the boundaries of the castle did not help.
Realising this, she shifted her form and began bounding across the length of the grounds, before she reached the gates, however, she shifted once more and took to the air before vanishing with a gentle pop.
A moment later, she found herself within a thick woodland, surrounded by trees, but the sounds coming from around her were not natural.
Steel clashed, men screamed in a mixture of fury and agony, and spellfire flashed brightly in all directions, illuminating the trees.
Whatever was happening here was not good, but worse than the erupting violence was the thought that Harry was nearby, seemingly in danger, and yet, he seemed to be ignorant of it.
Drawing her wand, Morgana carefully began to navigate her way through the woodland, something she had become particularly adept at over the years and continued to follow that unnerving feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach.
He was close, and the uneasiness only grew the closer she got to him.
The fighting, however, was also getting closer, and Morgana began to fear that Harry was amongst it, wounded and desperate.
She shook her head of such thoughts as she pressed on and came upon a small campsite that was mostly on fire. Squinting into the darkness, she choked at the sight of a pale figure lying in the remains of a smouldering tent.
Although he'd not been burned, something was deeply wrong with Harry.
He was sweating profusely, and as she reached him, Morgana realised that he was in the throes of what seemed to be a terrible nightmare.
"Harry! You need to wake up!" she pleaded, shaking him gently by the shoulders, wincing as a nearby tree burst into flames.
He didn't respond.
His eyes were rolled into the back of his head as he whimpered and muttered incoherently.
"Come on, Harry, please!" Morgana whispered, shaking him more violently, to no avail.
It was an explosion that came next, showering them both in dirt and other debris whilst another scream sounded, this one much closer than the others.
In a rush of footsteps, Morgana flung herself over Harry to shield him from being trampled by the horses, and fortunately, the passed by without either of them being hurt.
Still, Harry remained trapped in whatever nightmare he was experiencing, and Morgana knew that she could not hope to wake him.
With the situation becoming more dangerous, and the fighting getting closer, she needed to be proactive.
"Well, what do we have here?" an amused voice asked.
Morgana looked up to see a group of four men enter the campsite, each of them covered in blood, and their drawn swords dripping with it.
She quickly deduced that all four were wizards but seemed to have a preference to hacking through their enemies in a much more rudimentary way.
"Don't fight back, girl," one of them warned. "It would be a shame to cut that pretty little neck of yours."
Morgana swallowed deeply as she stood.
"It would," she agreed, "but you're going to have to do it anyway if you want to get near him."
In the brief second that the men were taken aback, she struck, her wand a blur as she unleashed a barrage of curses upon to give herself a little more time.
Three of the men managed to shield the attack, but one collapsed to the ground screaming as he tore at his own eyes.
It was all Morgana needed to prepare for her next offering, and she winced as she cut a little deeply into her own hand.
With a flick of her wand, the blood she'd spilled was sent towards the men at a blistering speed, and before it even reached them, Morgana transformed into a large wolf, sinking her teeth into the throat of one of the men as the screams of the others filled the air.
They, like the man who'd been cursed already, would not be granted a quick death, but the one whose head had been torn from his neck had been given a merciful end.
Still, the fighting around her continued, and Morgana snarled as she caught the scent of more men drawing closer, and as she transformed back, she found herself surrounded once more, though this time by more than a dozen of them.
"Not bad," one of the men complimented, chuckling as he surveyed the four she'd first encountered. "Not bad at all. Now, stand aside and let me have the crow."
Morgana's nostrils flared in anger at the threat, and she eyed the sword the man carried.
"You're Strenger!"
She recognised him by the description, and the familiar feeling of the magic she'd sensed the night Rowena's daughter had been murdered.
The man laughed once more as he nodded.
"Strenger, Pelleas, it makes little difference what I am called. We are one and the same, and you are in my way, girl. Stand aside! I will not tell you again!"
Morgana would not move.
She would sooner die than let these men get to Harry, and yet, as she readied herself to fight for her life, everything became eerily silent and a sudden coldness washed over the woods.
Swallowing deeply, she turned to see that Harry was no longer lying down, that he was standing, and his eyes ablaze in a cold fury that was most unsettling.
He was still pale, but alert, and as he brought his wand and sword to bear, Morgana saw a side to him that she never had before.
Her Harry was kind, mischievous, and bad terrible jokes at the worst of times, but the man standing before her now was like another entirely.
In many ways, he reminded her of Godric, of how assuredly the man carried himself, and yet, he was poised like a serpent, ready to strike, as Salazar would be if he was in Harry's position now.
"Kill them both!"
As Strenger spoke, Harry sprang into action, firing off a patronus of all things, and Morgana mounted her attack, her wand a blur as she unleashed every unpleasant curse that came to mind.
Harry was quickly doing much the same, though as he fired his spells, he used his sword to fend off the attackers.
Once more, the woodland was full of the scream of dying men, and Morgana merely struck out at everything that moved around her.
Still, she and Harry were alone, and although they were fighting with everything they had, he was not at his best. Even now, he was pale, and it wouldn't be long before the exhaustion set in.
(Break)
"He can't hide forever."
"No, he cannot," Owain murmured in response, "but I do not think he intends to."
"You don't?"
Owain shook his head.
"He will take the opportunity to attack now that we have split up. It's only a matter of time."
"Does Harry know this?"
Owain nodded.
"He's not stupid. He'll expect it as much as I am."
Hook, another man of Godric's Hollow and a neighbour Owain had grown with snorted humourlessly.
"He's not," he agreed. "He's like you in many ways."
Before Owain could respond, his horse reared backwards in surprise as an ethereal crow appeared in front of him.
'Three leagues west of Caer Aricon.'
Owain cursed under his breath.
It was too far for them to reach with their full force. Most were muggles or squibs, and only eight of them were magical.
Nonetheless, they could well be the difference in a fight, and he whistled loudly to garner the attention of his men.
"Three leagues west of Caer Aricon," he instructed. "All those with a wand will go ahead with me. The rest can catch up. If you need to halt, I will get a message to you. Move, now!"
(Break)
Once more, the dream he'd had was so vivid, as though it was truly happening. Harry's body ached from being plunged into whatever boiling concoction had been used, and though he could hear so little of what was happening, he'd felt his body change, his limbs growing along with the magic at play.
Somewhere, somehow, Voldemort was back.
Not that he could focus on that whilst he was fighting against such odds, and that Morgana was with him too.
She must have sensed his turmoil and come, but now, it may have been only to her detriment.
No.
Harry would allow nothing to happen to here at the hands of these men, so, he fought on, his blade singing as he swung it with all his might, and his wand spewing spell after spell.
He felt he blade collide with something, and he silenced the scream that followed from his victim with a severing curse.
He could not be certain how many men he'd killed, but more and more seemed to be arriving.
Hopefully, Owain would do so too.
Harry usually thrived in these situations, but he'd already been fatigued before throwing himself into the heat of battle, so much so that he almost found himself on the receiving end of a vicious, orange spell sent towards him.
Were it not for Morgana pulling him clear of its path, he would have.
Harry offered her a tired nod, noting that she was covered in blood just as much as he was, but she fought on, felling another two men before tumbling them both to the ground as an icy, white fire blasted through the trees, eliciting more screams and filling the air with the smell of burnt flesh.
"DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"
Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sound of Owain's voice, and he took a moment to catch his breath.
He was still trembling from what he'd endured in his sleep, and the nausea that came as the adrenaline ebbed away did him no favours.
"You'll be okay, Harry," Morgana said reassuringly as she leaned over him worriedly. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't know."
She carefully checked, her hand roaming about his neck, chest, and legs to be certain.
"Nothing major," she murmured. "What happened?"
"Later," he answered as he heard footsteps approaching.
"You're not dead, are you, Harry?" Owain asked.
"You're not that lucky," Harry sighed.
Owain chuckled humourlessly as he helped him to his feet.
"And who is this young lady?" he asked. "I do not think your own will be happy if she heard of this."
"I am his," Morgana returned. "I am Harry's wife."
"Bloody hell," Owain cursed amusedly. "I should've known. Only Harry would be mad enough to marry someone who can fight like you. Not bad, lass."
"What happened to them?" Harry asked.
"They ran," Owain muttered irritably.
"It was Strenger!" Morgana revealed. "Strenger is Pelleas."
"Are you sure?" Harry asked.
Morgana nodded.
"I recognised him, and he admitted it."
"Well, shit," Harry grumbled.
"The same Strenger wanted for killing Helena Ravenclaw?" Owain asked,
"The same," Harry confirmed.
Owain hummed unhappily.
"Well, then our hunt will continue," he announced. "We will find the bastard and I will take his head."
"He won't stick around," Hook broke in. "He'll leave the area. Tonight was too close for him."
Owain nodded.
"Any survivors?"
"None so far," Hook answered. "The way you came in here, I don't think we will find any."
"Well, look," Owain instructed, "and make sure our own wounded are taken care of. "Are you hurt, Harry?"
"Nothing I can't handle," Harry answered.
"Good," Owain replied before setting to work helping the wounded.
Morgana immediately took Harry's hand.
"What happened?" she asked worriedly.
"Nothing good," Harry said gravely, pondering what it meant now that Voldemort was once again, even if such a thing seemed impossible.