Looking across the red-stained battlefield, he saw his knights—his friends—fighting all around them. Warrior after warrior weaved in and out of his line of sight, plunging into and out of the thick of men and bodies as fast as he could identify them. Aaron, Johnathon, Percival—not his Percival—but one of his men all the same.

They were falling, but their enemies fell with them.

Refocusing on his task, he wrenched a sword out of one man only to be confronted with three more. He was tiring, but Camelot was on the line and would not—could not—fail. He had long since lost sight of Merlin, and of his closest knights, but now was not the time to be worrying. He wanted nothing more than to call out their names, but doing so would only distract them, and in turn, signal their painful death.

He continued fighting. But he knew that the battle was slowly turning away from their favor. One by one his knights were dying around him, slowly, but surely. He felt the weight of defeat descending on Camelot as their final assault against Morgana waned.

The light of the crescent moon was shining above him, and the red glow of fire around him illuminated the faced of both friend and foe. He saw a knight crumble to his left with finality, and the blood-soaked earth seemed to swell up to meet him. The man who killed him gave a triumphant yell as he raised his sword into the air.

With anger fueled strength, he advanced towards the man. A single swing saw the elation leave the man's eyes, but his assailant felt nothing as fear and then nothingness filled them. The light in them died, never to see again.

He turned and was met with another enemy, surely coming to avenge his friend's death. He had been doing the same throughout the battle. Therefore, this attack was not at all unexpected.

And yet, he wasn't ready.

His mind struggled to comprehend the man running towards him, and it struggled to generate a reaction—it was seconds slow.

But the man never made it near him. Just as his assailant raised his mace to strike the undefended king, he crumpled to the ground. His head clutched in his hands, tears leaked from his closed eyes before falling deathly still.

In something close to terror he turned to face his savior—a magic user without a doubt. Instead of seeing a person, his gaze was met with a distorted image. The previously hectic, yet clear battlefield was obscured in fog. None of the knights that surrounded him earlier remained. And his vision could distinguish only forms a few feet in front of him.

He suddenly became astutely aware that all sounds from the ensuing battle had died out, leaving only hushed whispers and far-away-screams. A voice cut through the haze.

It was the voice he'd heard in his dreams, the voice that had never failed to sound out wherever he found trouble. It was deep and powerful, laced with wisdom.

"I am Emrys," the voice said.

The voice was familiar, but warped. His mind spun as it tried to place a name to the face. It didn't matter though truly, his mind then argued. Magic had only even harmed him and those he loved. It didn't matter who wielded it.

"But we both know that's not how you feel. The voice spoke again, reading his mind. "You are curious, Arthur. And you are waiting for a reason to change things."

The King's eyes widened as he came to stand, unnerved by the unknown man's knowledge.

"I am not evil. But what you face now, is," the voice continued, "If it were not for me you would have died many times before today."

He decided not to grace the man with questions, verbal or otherwise, seeing as lack of spoken word didn't matter to the man. One thing did slip out.

"I've spent my life fighting against magic and so did my father."

The response was immediate, and it caused a chill to run down the king's spine.

"Your life has been surrounded by magic, Arthur, you just haven't seen it. See what I see, Arthur Pendragon; see what I see all around me."

And he did. He saw. The fog around him lifted and he saw the field, golden curls of magic whisked out from the very earth itself. Even the wind was visible, twisting with the golden color.

He watched as sorcerers pulled the magic from the ground. But there was one figure, completely bathed in the golden light. The magic around him was so thick it was like liquid—melted gold, his mind supplied. The golden substance moved and shifted with the figure's movement.

He squinted his eyes as he continued to stare, open-mouthed.

"This is how I see the world, Arthur. Every moment of every day." The figure spoke with amiability-as if speaking to an old friend. "Magic is woven into the earth, even the air you breathe is mixed with magic. And it is good, and right. Without magic, the earth would not exist."

Suddenly, it was gone. The beautiful golden light and the comforting weight it brought with it was ripped away, leaving him feeling empty—cold.

"Magic is a weapon, Arthur, just like any other. With no one to wield it, it's only a source of fortification. But when a man takes it and uses it, it becomes volatile. It can be used for both good and evil, to murder or to save. Just like a sword, it can bring and death, or it can preserve all that is dear."

Arthur could only stand there, frozen, battle all but forgotten, and think. What the man said was true, he realized with a feeling of elation. Just like a sword or the plants Gaius worked with, magic couldn't be inherently bad.

The simplicity of the comparison that led to this realization would have given Merlin endless amusement. His thoughts were interrupted by the voice.

"It's time for this battle to be over; I am tired of waiting and hiding. Camelot will enter a new era, one of peace between magic users and not," the voice said faintly. "You are the Once and Future King, destined to bring peace…and I am your ever-loyal protector."

It was in that moment that he heard past the power of the voice, it held pain and an overwhelming sense of bone-deep weariness. The fatigue was so apparent it left Arthur dizzy just at the thought. Yet, it held hope too, hope for something better.

In his head, he heard the man sigh before the noise of the battle slammed into his eardrums. He was sent reeling, holding his head in his hands as the screams reached him once more. He yearned for the peacefulness of the silence that the man named Emrys brought with him.

Slowly, he lifted his head and pulled his hands away from his ears. The figure was still there, but once again covered in the fog. He could barely make out the man lifting his hand, and he saw time slow. The men around him slowed their movements; the swings of their sword reduced in speed so that not even their image was blurred in their arch.

The man stepped through the fog, while to either side of him the enemies attacked. Most fell before they even got near him. Each soldier crumbled to the ground, clutching their heads as magic unseen stole their life away from them.

He saw a soldier sneak up from behind the man and raise his ax to strike. Arthur moved forward as if to help but even he was slowed down by the man's power.

He opened his mouth to yell out a warning, but it wasn't needed.

The sorcerer turned quickly and ducked below the blow; his hand shot up and grabbed the man's arm. He wrenched it back and forced the man to his knees. With two fingers, he touched the man's forehead. His eyes flashed brightly for just a moment and the man was gone.

Camelot's soldiers were left unharmed but frozen mostly in place; their eyes slowly followed the man who was single-handedly turning the battle.

In his wake, followed the wyverns, their terrifying heads bowed low as they followed Camelot's savior.

The man spoke to them; his voice shook the earth as he spoke words of something he had never encountered before, something different than the Old Religion. At the man's voice, the wyverns lifted their horned heads and held them proud, like his own knights walked beside him.

They inspected each fallen man, assuring they held no threat to the leader and friend. They growled at even Camelot's soldiers when they got too close.

Through the fog, the man's eyes began showing a steady molten gold. With an unspoken spell the clouds above them moved in and grew, they covered the moon so that as the darkness closed in, it was as if ink was being poured over every man's vision.

With a whisper that carried over the entire area, the fires were snuffed out simultaneously, though the smell of smoke did not spread.

Then the man disappeared.

The golden color of his eyes flashed from one location to another, never staying in one place for more than the second, not even with time slowed. He heard screams of terror all around him and muffled thumps and clangs filled the air. Right then, a black mass of swirling, shimmering dust appeared where the man once stood. A horrific, banshee-like shriek filled the air, making everyone cringe as it grated on their ears.

Trees shook and dust was picked up as Morgana shot bright green blasts of energy at the threat. The man did not move, merely allowed his own magic to absorb the blasts.

All eyes moved towards the two foes, knowing the true final battle had just begun.

The wyverns sprinted from their master's side, fanning out to surround the once loved and respected Princess of Camelot. An emaciated dragon with sallow white skin cowered by her side. But at another word from the man, the wyverns turned their attention away from her and the dragon began bounding towards the man. The young dragon moved as if she couldn't possibly get away from the enchantress fast enough.

Morgana screamed as if in agony at the betrayal and turned her blasts towards the sad, retreating creature.

Only then did the man move. He appeared in the line of fire reached down to place a hand on the dragon's head. The green energy flying towards him fizzled before being completely engulfed by fire. Grass burned with just its proximity to the blistering heat of the flame, though the man seemed to have eyes only for the sick creature by his side. Morgana's eyes widened as she rolled to avoid being incinerated.

The white dragon let out a whine before nuzzling the man's hand and turning to run again, her weakened and small wings unable to support flight.

The man turned his attention back to the sorceress with a snarl on his lips; he raised his hand before quickly moving it down as if he was slamming a table. Morgana yelled out as she was forcefully pressed flat on her stomach into the mud below her.

The man appeared by her side, and with a string of spoken words, Morgana began screaming once more. She writhed and shrieked with what the man was doing, and even to the unassisted eye the flecks of darkened gold leaving her body were visible.

All at once, her movement stopped, and the clouds rolled back, letting the moonlight illuminate the scene once more.

In the next moment, the fires relighted, sending their warm glow over the now enemy barren landscape. Arthur felt a pressure lift from his soldiers at the sight.

The moon was now full. And the stars reappeared

The men the figure spared fled the scene as time regained its speed, their fleeing feet moving faster with each step, leading them away from their lost battle, comrades, and defeated leaders.

He looked towards the men to see weary, but triumphant smiles on their faces. Turning back towards the lone figure, standing amid piles of fallen men. He stared as golden eyes turned back to deepest blue. The wyverns moved back with tentative steps, forming a loose half-circle behind him. Their rescuer-his rescuer—was not meeting his eyes, but rather staring at the ground. His raven hair moved slightly in the wind.

And he knew that his time had come. Destiny whispered this to him with each step towards the man. He would meet his humble savior, finally, face to face, now that all was done.

He took slow steps towards the man he knew, paying no attention to the hundreds of eyes on them both.

The eyes of every being on the battlefield followed his moves, and every magical being in the world stopped and looked in his direction. He took his last few steps before he stopped, leaving him standing in front of the lone figure.

Nature itself seemed to stop and hold its breath; the breeze seemed to die down, but still the moon illuminated the clearing and the two figures standing in it.

And then the king fell to one knee, and, moments later, his army and knights followed. Every head bowed to their redeemer, their eyes downcast in respect and gratitude. Those feelings overshadowed the small amount of petrifying fear each person felt.

Arthur held his own head low before he slowly brought his gaze up.

And the sky blue eyes of King Arthur met the deep blue eyes of Merlin.

Silently, the fate of Albion was sealed. The dragons sang their song of victory, and all over the world, the magical beings joined them in song. The Once and Future King was finally united with his protector, Emrys, the most powerful magical being to ever live.

Together, they would bring the land to peace, and to a time of magic.