Chapter Text
The fire inside Sister Iris burns fierce and holy.
She has followed the Wolf-Blood Witch from the stolen city to the false-king’s camp, leaving a path strewn with corpses behind her. Her hands are red with Fey blood and the scent of it floods her nostrils as she breathes deep and calls to God for strength in her mission. She is ready to feel His smile upon her for purging these evil creatures from His good earth.
But He does not answer . . . for the witch still lives.
Iris chases after them—the witch and her devilish companions, the profane wizard and a monster wrapped in the skin of a girl—as they flee from cleansing wrath of the Paladins. They run through the woods and into the mountains, slow and weak where Iris is strong. They are cursed, but she is driven by divine justice. They cannot escape her.
Where the Brothers have failed, she will prevail. And the Church will recognize their mistake and see the holy warrior they had shunned from their ranks.
“I will do it, Lord,” she promises, bow gripped tight in her hand. “I will not fail you this time, I swear.”
She reaches them as they start to cross a narrow bridge set high in the mountains. She sets an arrow to the string, but the arrow rattles loud against the grip and alerts them of her presence.
“Iris?” the witch says, peering at her through the darkness as Iris draws the bowstring.
“Nimue, watch out!” the girl-shaped monster screams too-late as the arrow flies true.
The witch raises her heathen sword as she stumbles back under the impact as the arrow plants deep in her shoulder.
“Iris, what are you doing?” she asks, clearly blind to the knowledge that this is an avenging angel of the Lord that stands against her. “Why . . . ?”
Iris does not listen to her. She does not waver nor worry, even as the witch approaches her. She stands firm and reaches for another arrow that brings the witch to her knees.
“Burn in hell, demon ,” Iris hisses.
The witch does not reply. Her sword falls with a clatter as she plucks at the fletched shaft protruding from her sternum . . . and then looks at Iris. But there is no hatred or fear in her gaze; there is only confusion and pity—
—and Iris smiles as the witch falls into the churning darkness below.
“I did it,” she tells God. She howls her triumph at the remaining demons before her, “ I did it! ”
Foul chants rise against her ears as the wizard retrieves the fallen sword. Unnatural storm clouds gather to darken the skies with Fey wrath and lightning slices down to strike the Paladins that swarm after the now-slain witch.
Sister Iris charges across the bridge, bloodied dagger in her fist to strike true and holy. But she is flung back by a bolt of searing white pain. Fire licks up her face and rages through her body and she screams .
➼ ➼ ➼
Morgana watches as magic is rekindled in Merlin.
A tempest of wind and Druid spells whips through the night where the magician stands tall, wielding the Sword like a staff. Lightning arcs from his fingertips, fueled by loss as he slays Paladins faster than she can count. But she feels their deaths when the red-robed men fall like raindrops, screams trailing after them as they follow Nimue’s descent into the water far below.
“Come!” Merlin calls, reaching out to her through the maelstrom he’s created.
She goes to him instinctually, black skirts lifted from her boots. The ancient wraps an arm around her waist, whirls the Sword around them, chanting furiously . . .
And then they are gone.
➼ ➼ ➼
Nimue falls weightless through the cold.
She aches from far away, eyes open onto nothing. She reaches for her Sword, but it is gone.
And she keeps falling.
➼ ➼ ➼
His camp is in ruins .
Paladins run about in those flapping red robes, bent on destruction. Fire licks up into the night from collapsed tents. The stench of blood and shit and bile wafts through the smoky air, causing Uther to press a swift hand against his nostrils as he peers around the shoulders of one of his personal guards.
“Holy men, our royal ass,” he coughs. “More like blood-crazed barbarians.”
“Take care, Majesty,” the guard grunts.
“No!” Uther stiffens upright. “We will not hide in fear! We will march out there and stop these . . . these savages from further destruction of our kingdom.”
And with that pronouncement, Uther pushes past his guards and strides into the open. He straightens his crown, lifts his chin, and shouts, “Cease this atta—”
He gets no further since, with a shouted warning from his guards, a Paladin rides at him with a mace.
Uther yelps in a most undignified manner as he scurries back. The heel of his boot catches on the ground, sending him flailing back hard onto his rear but saving him as the spiked mace whistles through air where his head had been.
His guards rush from the tent—one lifting him back to his feet and the others pulling the Paladin from his steed.
“Give us this,” Uther snaps, reaching for the sword on the guard’s belt.
The guard hesitates, so Uther leans in and yanks the weapon free. He strides over to where the Paladin has been forced to his knees between the guards, blade pointed at his sooty features.
“You tried to kill us. Why?”
“You have taken the side of the Fey,” the Paladin hisses, spitting at Uther’s feet. “The Church therefore holds no loyalty to such a king.”
Uther sniffs. Looks around around at the destruction and chaos—
—and stabs his borrowed blade through the Paladin's neck.
As the man falls with a gurgle, Uther lets the sword go with him. He wipes his hands against the sides of his trousers, glaring at the expressionless faces of his guards.
"Well, don't just stand there!" he snaps at them. "Go and sweep these pests from our sight!"
"Father Carden is dead!" a shout rises from the edges of the camp a few minutes later as his men push the Paladins back.
"Shame," Uther mutters. "He was a thorn in our ass."
Suddenly, the skies turn angry above them. Lighting flashes and thunder smashes through the air. Wind howls through the camp, tossing the fleeing Paladins even quicker on their way.
And then the sky stretches down in a whirling tempest and out of it strides Merlin. Electricity sparks white in the wizard's eyes . . . and he carries the Sword.
Uther tries to rally himself as Merlin approaches, but still he trembles like a frightened child instead of a king.
"Hello, Uther," Merlin thunders, his once-drunken smile now sharp and dangerous.
"I-I see you found—"
"My magic?" Merlin interjects, his smile widening into a teeth-bared grin. "Yes."
"Well . . . good."
Uther stands awkwardly, aware of his army slinking away from him, too cowardly to face the infamous Merlin. He doesn't blame them—no. He loathes their betrayal.
"Here." Merlin extends the Sword hilt-first to him. "As promised: the Sword of the First Kings."
Uther’s eyebrows raise as he gestures in disbelief. “You will give it . . . to us ?”
“Yes, yes.” Merlin’s voice slips from ancient power into the drawling tone that is more recognizable. “Are you going to take it or not, your Majesty?”
“We will take it,” Uther says, but he hesitates to reach out.
Merlin sighs, steps forward, and shoves the hilt into his palm. “There. It’s yours.”
Uther scrambles to keep the blade upright under the sudden transferral. He brings both hands to the hilt, staring at the etched carvings along the blade that almost seems to sing to him.
“Marvelous,” he whispers.
“Merlin, what have you done?” a female voice shrieks. Uther looks up to see a young woman cloaked in swirling black rush towards them, anger blazing from her towards the wizard. “Why did you give it to him ?”
“Take care how you speak to us, girl!” Uther snaps habitually.
“I don’t care,” she responds.
While he is choking on her unexpected impudence, she whirls on Merlin. “That is the sword of our people, not his! What has he done for the Fey? Why have you done this ?”
On the last words, the girl’s voice slips deeper. Her eyes darken and the bones of her face become obscenely pronounced, as if her skin is nothing but paper waiting to be torn away from the skull beneath.
“Because you still have much to learn about how the fates of the world work,” Merlin tells her, speaking calmly as if she had not just turned demonkind before him. “He is not the Church.”
“No, we are not,” Uther manages.
But he feels . . . small. The Sword is finally in his hands, but he does not sense the power it has been said to bestow upon whomever wields it. He feels nothing but confusion and the vague urge to cast these two away to carry on their magical spat elsewhere.
“He let the Church slaughter and burn,” she snarls, this time fixing her angry gaze upon Uther. “He does not deserve the Sword.”
“Beg pardon, but who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Morgana.” Her voice is quiet but she speaks the name powerfully, as if it’s supposed to mean something.
It doesn’t. Uther has absolutely no clue who she is or what role she plays in this entire mess.
“Right,” he continues, lowering the sword and removing one hand from the hilt to rest on his hip. “See, we’ve got the Sword now and we intend to keep it. Cumber and his Ice berserkers cannot lay claim to the throne without the sword, and while they did not make a promise against harming the Fey . . . we did.”
“And you’ll keep that promise?” she scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then we will stay and make sure he does,” Merlin speaks up, beaming in an unsettling manner towards Uther. “Won’t we?”
He wants to forbid them from dogging after his heels like caretakers. But Uther knows there is no stopping Merlin, not when he was a drunken flop and certainly not now that he has magic once more. So he nods in what he hopes is a regal enough manner and grins tightly at them.
“Of course,” he manages. “We would be delighted.”
➼ ➼ ➼
They ride into the burning night, smoke choking his senses. Pain weighs on his body and flashes sharp through his broken ribs, but he’ll survive.
The boy talks endlessly, his words giving him something to focus on, to stay in the now instead of falling into the oblivion that snaps at his heels. Even if half the things the boy talks about is how terrible Lancelot’s existence has been for the lives of the Fey.
“Are you all right?” the boy asks, twisting around to look at him.
Lancelot hisses as agony flares at the movement. “No.”
“You need a healer,” Percival states wisely. “There’s a lot of good healers with the Fey.”
“No,” he repeats. “No healers. Now be quiet.”
“I was just trying to help,” the boy mutters, facing forward. They plod on atop Goliath’s back for several moments of silence before the boy pipes up again. “If you don’t need a healer, then where are we going?”
“Far away. Now, be quiet .”
And, blessedly, Percival does settle as the day drags on. He even leans back once or twice to catch a few moments of sleep, although he wonders how the boy can sleep so peacefully when he snores like a troll.
They reach dense woods in the twilight, Goliath winding wearily through the mossy trunks without Lancelot’s guidance. The boy is awake but still silent, looking around at the forest with the eyes of one accustomed to such surroundings.
“Do you know where we are?” Lancelot asks him.
“No, do you?”
He grimaces. “No.”
A few minutes later, they reach a shallow, winding stream that smells of the cold from its mountain origin.
“Good horse,” Lancelot murmurs to his steed, fingertips stroking his neck where the reins lie.
Goliath whickers in response and Percival scrambles down with a hurried explanation of, “I gotta drain.”
As the boy scurries into the woods behind them, Lancelot dismounts with a grunt. He removes the bit from Goliath’s mouth so the animal can drink freely, and then crouches down next to it.
He pushes his hood back and splashes icy water across his face, scrubbing soot and dried blood from his features. He moves slow because of his ribs, bursts of white-hot pain leaping across his torso with every small movement. But the cold of the stream sharpens his senses.
Leaning back on his heels, he closes his eyes and wraps the scents of the night around him.
It hurts when he breathes in deep, but he needs this. He needs the scents of the forest and wind and scurrying things in his nostrils to remind himself that they are safe . . . for the time. There is no hint of Fey or human besides the leafy, lingering tang of the boy.
He takes another breath, lips parted to taste the breeze—
—and catches her scent.
The one dipped in wolf-blood and incense from the monastery. The girl who smelled like the forest in human form and the bitter iron of old magic.
Lancelot rises to his feet, peering into the darkness. Her scent is close but faint; whispering tendrils floating brokenly through the air. He closes his eyes again and breathes , ignoring the pain.
There—the scent weaves down and to the left, past a bend in the stream.
The boy slips back at that moment, his scent tangling with hers. He looks up at Lancelot with a frown, catching his focus.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers.
“Your queen is here,” he replies, stepping past him.
“Nimue?” Percival shakes his head. “No, she’s in Gramaire.”
“Gramaire was abandoned by the Fey,” Lancelot corrects him. He presses a hand against his ribs, hissing quietly as the bones shift under his palm. “Your queen surrendered herself to Uther Pendragon as the price for their safety.”
“So, why is she here . . .”
They’ve reached the bend in the stream now, the boy’s voice trailing off as he sees the arrow-pierce body lying crooked on the opposite bank.