After securing Arthur some new clothes that suited the current era, Merlin and Arthur embarked on their long-awaited journey to the mysterious land of Kamora. With a map in his hand and a bag slung over his shoulder, Merlin led the way, while Arthur followed closely behind, his slight limp a reminder of his recent resurrection.
“How long do you think it will take us to get there?” Arthur asked, trying to distract himself from the discomfort.
Merlin glanced back, his brow furrowed. “I don't know… I’ve kept this forest alive to prevent the locals from wondering about me. I have no idea where it leads, but this map…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on the parchment. “It shouldn’t have been on here. This forest shouldn’t exist… I think a seer may have glimpsed the future and drawn this map.”
Arthur nodded thoughtfully, choosing not to push the subject further. Instead, he asked, “Why do you look so old, Merlin? The last time I saw you, you were barely twenty. Now, you look about seventy-one on a good day.”
Merlin continued his steady pace through the underbrush, his voice a soft murmur. “This… this isn’t me, Arthur. It’s just another version of me. It’s an aging spell I've used over the years. It helps keep people less… less fearful. If I keep aging, no one would suspect a thing.”
Curiosity flickered in Arthur’s eyes. “I understand that, Merlin. But with Morgana back… If she’s alive, she knows you’re alive. She won’t be looking for your old self; she’ll be searching for you. Maybe you should… should change back to the Merlin I know.”
Merlin halted, and Arthur followed suit. The air was thick with tension as Merlin turned his head slightly. “Maybe… maybe you’re right,” he admitted, uncertainty weaving through his words. “But it’s been so long… I’ve forgotten what I looked like.”
“Try,” Arthur urged, determination evident in his voice.
Merlin set his bag down with a weary sigh, cracking his old, wrinkled bones. “Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum.” He chanted softly, but nothing happened.
Frustration flickered in his chest. “Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum!” he called out, his voice stronger this time, imbued with power.
A glow enveloped him, and his eyes shifted to a vibrant yellow. The transformation began; his skin smoothed, his cheekbones became defined, his long white hair shrank to a short, rich brown. His fading eyes transformed into a deep, brilliant blue, and his pallid skin glowed with a warm, golden tan.
As the magic settled, Arthur could hardly recognize the man before him. The young, vibrant Merlin returned, fierce and full of life. A grin spread across Arthur's face, relief washing over him. “Welcome back, old friend.”
As Merlin gazed down at his smooth, unwrinkled hands, a wave of renewed vitality washed over him. The burdens of age seemed to lift, his limbs feeling lighter, his back no longer weighed down by the passage of time. He ran his tongue over his gleaming white teeth, marveling at how they had once overlapped due to the years he had lived. Energy surged within him, a feeling so potent it was as if he had been reborn. A soft, emotional sigh escaped his lips, a mixture of nostalgia and delight.
“I’ve forgotten what this feels like,” Merlin confessed, a hint of wonder lacing his words.
Arthur, standing nearby, met his gaze with a playful smirk. “You look better now, less old,” he remarked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “People would have thought you were my grandfather… if they had seen us, which they won’t.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow, allowing a chuckle to escape him, tinged with an undercurrent of warmth. “Arthur, are you making a joke right now?” he asked, touching his face, reveling in the absence of wrinkles, the softness of his skin a testament to this unexpected transformation.
In that moment, surrounded by the magic of their world, both wizard and king shared a fleeting bond, one that danced between past burdens and the promise of newfound beginnings.
Four days passed in a flash, a blur of activity and newfound vitality. Merlin, now reborn in a form that suited his true essence, delighted in the ease with which he could navigate the world around him. The burdens of his old self had been shed; he walked with a newfound grace, each movement fluid, the wind no longer a foe that left him breathless. He could climb and, if he dared, perhaps even run, each footfall resonating with a sense of freedom he had longed for.
Arthur, too, had transformed. Gone was the limping figure of the past, replaced by a man who bore the hallmarks of health. No longer pale or cold to the touch, he appeared as he once had—strong, vibrant, and unmistakably Arthur. Yet, despite their rejuvenation, both companions had yet to master the art of patience. And for Arthur, this was essential. He needed to learn how to manage it, to embrace the waiting that accompanied destiny.
Merlin, after all, had spent over a millennium awaiting Arthur's return. A thousand years of solitude and hope, not to mention the centuries devoted to honing his craft and transcending his destiny as a great warlock. Despite this long vigil, the concept of waiting had never sat comfortably with him.
“How much farther is it, Merlin?” Arthur’s voice broke the stillness that enveloped them as they continued their journey through the dense forest. Merlin glanced up from the map, a smile breaking across his face, a sight that was becoming all too rare.
“We’re nearly there,” he replied, his voice laced with excitement. Arthur returned his smile, appreciating the warmth that radiated from Merlin, a beacon of light that pierced through the shadows of their shared history. In earlier days, when Merlin had served him, his laughter was a constant melody; even amid despair and danger, Merlin had managed to wear a smile, undeterred by loss or hardship.
As the hours slipped by, the forest gave way to an astonishing vista. They emerged into a sprawling field, golden waves of wheat swaying gently beneath a radiant sun. It felt as if they had stepped into a painting—one that had eluded Merlin for far too long. He gazed down at the map once more, then up to Arthur, a sense of triumph blooming within him.
“I think we’re here,” he declared, his voice filled with conviction. The adventure that awaited them was just beginning, and for the first time in ages, the horizon seemed brimming with possibilities.
Arthur and Merlin walked on, their backs turned to the towering trees of the forest they had just left behind. The sun shone brightly overhead, casting a warm glow across the vast fields stretching before them. Merlin inhaled deeply, allowing the crisp, fresh air to fill his lungs—a refreshing contrast to the dense, musty atmosphere of the woods.
For the first time in what felt like ages, the magical energy that always simmered just beneath the surface of his being began to settle. The familiar hum of power that had kept him on edge for so long now transformed into a soothing presence, washing over him like a gentle wave. He glanced at Arthur, whose face was lit with a mix of exhilaration and understanding. In that moment, it was as if they shared an unspoken bond, each aware of the other's thoughts and feelings.
As if compelled by an instinctive urge, they both took off running through the vibrant green expanse, their laughter ringing out in joyous abandon. "Whowho!!" Arthur called out, his voice echoing with excitement, as he felt the calmness emanating from Merlin resonate within him. The wild rush of freedom unfurled around them, and with each stride, they left behind the shadows of uncertainty, embracing the light of new beginnings that awaited them.
Months had passed since Arthur and Merlin had found refuge in the quaint cottage nestled amidst the vast field, where yellow wheat danced with the gentle breeze. The air was fragrant with the scent of earth and grass, and though time moved steadily onward, the feeling of freedom they had discovered here remained palpable. Each dawn heralded new opportunities, and the bright expanse of the field became their sanctuary.
They had immersed themselves in the rhythms of this new life, tending to crops that promised sustenance and engaging in rigorous training. Arthur, eager to grasp every skill, wielded the weapons that Merlin had conjured from thin air. Each clang of metal against metal echoed their determination, infusing the cottage with an energy that felt both exhilarating and daunting.
Merlin, in his youthful form, embraced this role as teacher. He introduced Arthur to the wonders of the modern world, showing him the marvels of guns, cars, and the feeble flicker of electricity—a far cry from the magic of their own time. As they dissected the complexities of new weapons and strategized against the whims of fate, the shadows of their past loomed large.
Conversations often drifted toward Morgana, the ever-looming specter of threat. Arthur clung to the hope that their fears were unfounded, that perhaps the danger had dissipated like the morning mist. Yet Merlin, with the weight of instinct pressing heavily upon him, struggled to maintain an air of optimism. Despite the sense of freedom enveloping them, a persistent twinge of dread gnawed at his insides. Deep within, his magic was in turmoil, thrumming with a restless urgency that left him on edge.
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the field, Arthur trained with a new set of weapons. Each pull of the trigger and swing of the blade felt empowering. But just as he felt the thrill of the moment surge within him, Merlin stepped into the clearing, a worry etched deep into the lines of his youthful face.
“Arthur,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “she’s coming...”
The air thickened with tension as Arthur turned to meet his friend's gaze, and in that instant, the weight of their reality settled heavily between them. The freedom they had fought so hard to reclaim felt suddenly fragile, and the looming specter of Morgana darkened their world anew.
“Merlin... Are you sure?” Arthur asked, his brow furrowing in concern. The uncertainty in his voice belied the strength he tried to project.
“I feel it... in my bones. My magic is screaming at me,” Merlin replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of fear and strain. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he continued, “She’s so close it… it hurts. I’ve never felt anything this strong in my entire life. She knows where we are. She’s coming, Arthur. She’s coming.”
Arthur's deep concern transformed into understanding as he watched Merlin struggle with the weight of his revelation. “How long? Do you know how long?” he pressed, urgency creeping into his tone.
Merlin nodded slowly, the gravity of the situation settling over him like a heavy cloak. “Nearly a day's walk. I… I should have felt it sooner. She must have cast some spell to hide her presence, but I can’t...” His voice faltered, the enormity of her power increasingly evident. “She’s strong, Arthur. She’s—”
Arthur interrupted, a fierce resolve igniting within him. “Merlin, Gaius once told me that you are the most powerful sorcerer who has ever lived. She may be strong, but you’re stronger.”
Merlin's eyes widened at Arthur's words. He looked down, pondering the weight of responsibility. In that moment, thoughts raced through his mind, and with a deep breath, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they glowed a brilliant yellow, a manifestation of his inner power.
“Ah, Dragorn! Non didilkai. Kar imiss, epsipass. Imalla krat. Katostar abore! Eeriss. Katiscur. Me ta sentende divoless. Kar... Krisass!” he intoned, the ancient magic flowing through him like a raging river, ready to unleash whatever was necessary to face the approaching darkness.
As the words echoed through the still air, the tension around them shifted, and the fate of their world teetered on the brink.
Arthur's eyes widened in disbelief as he stood rooted to the spot. Minutes ticked by in a tense silence, and just as the weight of anxiety threatened to overwhelm him, a powerful thud resonated through the air. Kilgharrah, the great dragon, descended gracefully from the sky, his massive wings folding behind him like a cloak of shadows.
With a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth, Kilgharrah spoke, his voice a deep rumble that echoed across the clearing. “I've been waiting for your call, Merlin.”
Merlin took a step forward, urgency lacing his every word. “Morgana is coming... I can feel her.”
To Merlin's surprise, Kilgharrah continued to smile, a stark contrast to the terror etched across Arthur's face. The young prince's heart raced at the implications of their predicament. “Why are you smiling? This is awful news,” Merlin exclaimed, his frustration bubbling.
Kilgharrah shook his head slowly, his golden eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. “Think, young warlock… The answer is in that mind of yours. Why would Morgana's arrival be a good thing?”
Realization dawned on Merlin, his eyes widening as the pieces clicked into place. “She doesn't know we know she's coming. We could trick her,” he breathed, a glimmer of hope igniting.
Arthur met Merlin's gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. “Merlin… you're talking to a dragon…”
“Oh, sorry, Arthur. This is Kilgharrah,” Merlin replied, gesturing toward the dragon with a newfound confidence. “He's a friend… He won't hurt you. I promise.”
As Arthur processed the gravity of their situation, the air crackled with the potential of their plan. With the dragon by their side, the two unlikely allies began to weave a strategy that could turn the tide against Morgana’s dark ambitions.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged landscape, Merlin, Arthur, and Kilgharrah gathered to finalize their plan before Morgana’s inevitable arrival. The air crackled with tension, a palpable reminder of the impending battle.
Kilgharrah, his mighty form obscured against the backdrop of the sky, would take to the air, a vigilant sentinel watching for the signal. His keen eyes scanned the horizon, ready to spring into action with the first hint of danger. Arthur stood in the clearing, resolute and determined. He had forged his weapons anew, his trusted sword gleaming under the fading light—an extension of his will, sharp and prepared for combat.
With a practiced hand, Arthur sharpened the blade, the sound echoing through the stillness. Beside him, he rehearsed his gun practice, struggling still with the unfamiliar weight of the pistol in his hand. Each shot brought him closer to mastering its recoil, but the leap from sword to gun was a daunting transition.
Meanwhile, Merlin immersed himself in ancient tomes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He pored over spells of disguises and security, searching for one that Morgana might recognize, hoping to turn her own knowledge against her. He had to be ready; they all did. The stakes were too high to leave anything to chance.
As Kilgharrah prepared to take flight, he remained vigilant, his wings whispering secrets as they brushed against the clouds. He knew that Morgana was cunning, and the possibility of her attempting a surprise attack loomed large in his mind.
"Remember," Arthur said, breaking the heavy silence. "We strike hard and fast, and Merlin, you'll join me when the moment is right. Only when Morgana appears vulnerable will Kilgharrah reveal himself. Our strength lies in our unity."
The three of them stood together, each ready to play their part in the unfolding drama, united against the darkness that threatened their world. In that moment, they were not just a warrior, a sorcerer, and a dragon; they were a team bound by loyalty and the hope of triumph. The time for battle was approaching, and they would face it head-on.
The time had finally come. A tempest swirled around them, the air thick and heavy, charged with an electric tension that promised chaos. For Merlin, the shift was palpable—more intense than he had ever experienced. He felt every gust of wind as it whipped around him, wrapping him in a shroud of dark energy. Tensing his muscles, he closed his eyes, focused inward, and began to search the currents that danced before him.
Kilghara acknowledged the gravity of the moment. He, too, understood that Merlin was tapping into a power far greater than their comprehension. When Merlin opened his eyes, they glowed an otherworldly yellow, illuminating the dim around them. Arthur, standing resolutely by his side, exchanged a knowing glance with him; they were shifting to plan B.
Morgana was nearby, lurking in the shadows, deliberately keeping herself hidden. But Merlin was determined—he would find her. He shut his eyes once more, grounding himself as he whispered the ancient incantation. “Bedyrne ús. Astýre ús þanonweard!” The wind seemed to recoil, skirting around him almost as if it feared his command. He felt the essence of the spell take root, and he repeated it, his voice rising confidently in the growing storm.
“Bedyrne ús. Astýre ús þanonweard!”
A shriek echoed in response, the wind answering him with a howl that chilled the air. Arthur's heart raced; he could sense that Merlin was perceiving something hidden from their sight. The clouds overhead darkened ominously, swirling like a vortex of impending doom, but Merlin remained unwavering. His resolve solidified with every ounce of magic coursing through him.
“Bedyrne ús. Astýre ús þanonweard!!”
Power surged through Merlin, a potent mix of determination and fury. Arthur and Kilghara watched him, a blend of fear and admiration etched on their faces. Kilghara understood the magnitude of Merlin's abilities; this was but the beginning of a storm that would unleash his true potential.
“SHOW YOURSELF, MORGANA!” Merlin roared, his voice booming against the turbulent winds. He could visualize her presence as if it were painted in the air before him.
“Astýre ús þanonweard!!” Merlin screamed again, the command ringing like a bell in the chaos.
With his heart pounding and every fiber of his being alight with magic, Merlin stood firm, ready to confront the shadow that had tormented them for so long. The time for hiding was over—this was their moment, and he would not back down. Arthur had never seen Merlin act like this before. Before their very eyes, a shoulder twisted grotesquely in the air, disfiguring and merging, until, piece by piece, it transformed into a woman. Clad in a flowing black dress, her long dark hair framed a face of haunting beauty, where skin glimmered and eyes glowed gray and foreboding, marked by an unnerving smile.
“Morgana,” Arthur gasped, his heart racing as he locked eyes with his sister. Her gaze shifted from Merlin to him, and he felt the weight of her surprise twisted with fury. Her expression softened momentarily, but the shadow of fear lingered. “Arthur?... No, this is... What... How are you alive?” she demanded, her tone a blend of disbelief and hatred.
“It doesn't matter how he is alive..." Kilgarha interjected, his voice steady and commanding.
Morgana’s eyes darkened at the sound of his name. “You’re right… It doesn’t… I'll just have to deal with you later, then.”
Stepping forward protectively, Merlin positioned himself between Arthur and his sister. “You won't touch a hair on his head, Morgana...” he declared, his voice firm.
Morgana's lips curled into a dark smile, her intentions clear. “Emrys... Just the person I wanted to see. Ever since you condemned my sister to her demise, I've waited for this moment... You are the one I want. You are King Merlin... I want your throne...” A flicker of yellow ignited within her eyes.
Merlin's heart raced, confusion flooding through him. She noticed his bewilderment and savored it. “You didn't know,” she taunted.
Silently, he took a step forward, determination eclipsing his doubt. But Arthur, feeling the tremors of impending danger, reached out to stop him. Yet Kilgarha's claw gently restrained him. “He needs to do this... He needs to win the battle... He's accepted the duel.”
“He's going to get himself hurt,” Arthur argued, a sense of dread creeping in.
Kilgarha merely smiled. “You have little faith in him.”
With a nod between them, Merlin and Morgana prepared for combat. In a synchronized movement, they lunged at each other, unleashing a torrent of magic—bolt after bolt of pure energy. Morgana’s magic shimmered green and fierce; Merlin's crackled with a vibrant yellow.
With practiced precision, he blocked her onslaught while returning fire, ducking and weaving with a mastery Morgana could not yet foresee. She remained relentless, her attacks coming faster as she struggled to keep pace. But with every spell she cast, she grew weaker—a fact Merlin was keenly aware of, even if Morgana was not.
The skies darkened, swirling with ominous clouds, thunder rumbling as the wind whipped around them. Arthur watched, gripped by fear, while Kilgarha observed in awe as Merlin fought back valiantly, unleashing spell after spell with unmatched ferocity.
Then, in an explosive surge of power, Merlin dealt Morgana a devastating blow aimed at her head. As her form crumpled to the ground, Merlin’s own strength waned. He felt the energy draining from his body, fatigue like a lead weight.
Morgana fell unconscious before she could touch the earth. Yet, something nagged at the edges of Merlin’s mind. It had all felt too easy.
With a final effort, he swayed on his feet, his vision blurring. The last thing he registered before succumbing to the darkness was Arthur and Kilgarha rushing toward him, their faces a blend of concern and haste, before he sank into unconsciousness.