It was times like this, Arthur mused, that it really would be useful to have a manservant handy. As the enemy sorcerer stood over him, emerald flames cupped in the palm of one hand, the calmness he felt surprised him, suppressed as it was by rapidly growing irritation.

Where the hell was he?

Battle continued to rage, with no foot soldier having the time to notice that their king was threatened, and Arthur, Once and Future King of Albion faced his end, wishing his recently appointed and soon-to-be-demoted-if-he-got-out-of-this Court Sorcerer would get a bloody move on.

The hand came down, the green light casting unholy shadows on the face of his killer, and he waited... for a blow that never came.

Merlin, hand raised.

No, he realised, not Merlin.

He watched the face of his one -time manservant as the sorcerer flew backwards, watched the golden fires blossom and consume the blue till his friend was lit from within. Not Merlin, not quite. Emrys. Emrys had come out to play, and King Arthur laughed, pain and blood and bent armour forgotten as the light spread up his body, healing as it went.

Wary as wolves, the Sorcerer and the Warlock began to circle each other, one blazing like a new sun, the other wreathed in shadows.

Arthur had felt power before. The shrill screech of steel-on-rock as he withdrew the Sword from the Stone. The cheers of Camelot as the golden circlet came to rest on his head. The softness in Gwen's gaze, when she would raise her eyes to his and smile so gently.

But none had felt like this. None of that hurt to see, to feel, to know that someone you thought you knew better than anyone could consume you without thinking.

Fire. Ice. Shadow and sunlight, consuming and quenching in an endless dance. Around him the sounds of battle began to cease, as soldiers of both sides turned to watch in awe as the Sorcerer and the Warlock met in battle for the first and last time.

A snake sprang from a sword only to be consumed by a wolf that swirled like fog. Above the clouds began to broil and froth, darkening with clouds that came from nowhere to build an inferno as the magicians, black and white, duelled on the hilltop.

It occurred to Arthur now that Emrys was not speaking. The Sorcerer was chanting in increasing desperation as everything he had was absorbed or deflected without apparent effort. But even as he brushed aside a swarm of fiery insects with a wave of his hand, the Warlock made no sound.

How had he kept this hidden, Arthur marvelled, hidden away all those years behind the bumbling fool. How had he stared into the face of the King, knowing one slip-up, one mistake, would be his last. And how had he not broken that day in the throne room, as he convinced Arthur of a lie that must have killed him?

Sorcery is evil, you know that!

How had he never noticed how strong his friend was?

The fight was nearing its end as Emrys raised a pale hand towards the tempest. At his unspoken command, a fork of lightning exploded from the heart of the storm, and like a tame bird returns to the hand that feeds it, settled gently in his palm. He held it in front of his face as the Sorcerer began to chant a spell of escape, but found himself bound by chains of fire.

It was over quickly. The lightning flew in a deadly arc, hitting the Sorcerer square in the chest. There was no blood or bone or body, nothing but ash that drifted as the wind carried it away.

Arthur did not move as Emrys strode towards him, burning black trails in the grass. At his waist, Excalibur hummed, sensing its other master.

"Shall I send them home?" Asked Emrys, his voice echoing with a thousand others.

"If you would be so kind." Arthur grinned, eyes dancing. "Are you sure you don't need my help for this part?"

It was impossible to tell with those eyes without pupils, but Arthur could have sworn they were being rolled. And if he hadn't known better, he would be convinced that voice, which rang with cries of countless generations, mumbled "Prat" as Emrys walked away.