Two women and a man stood at a round table, gazing into a large, cloudy white crystal, before they sat back with a gasp.
“And so the Old Religion will retain balance.” The dark haired woman said grimly, after a moment. “Will Uther’s curse ever stop plaguing us?”
“Peace, sister. We don’t know if this is a true vision. It is one of many paths to take.” The blonde replied tiredly, though her flat brown eyes were pensive.
“Morgause, don’t be daft!” Her sister snapped furiously. “Time means nothing to the Old Magicks. Uther and Nimue meddled around with forces they should not have in forcing Arthur’s creation and birth. Igraine already paid part of that price with her life. But Uther took it way too far, in his grief and guilt. The Great Purge massacred anyone with a hint of magical talent to near extinction! This vision – this Tom Riddle – is magic’s answer to that grievous insult! He hates non-magicals as much as Uther ever hated us! Do not tell me that you cannot See the parallels!”
“Enough, Morgana! I do not deny the truth of this self styled Lord Voldemort’s hatred, or the terrible familiarity of it.” Morgause snapped.
“Nor do I,” the man added, interrupting before the blonde could start on an angry tirade. “But Morgana, would you really see more innocent lives cut short in the name of eons ago revenge? Magic is still alive and well in the world, even if it is not everywhere. Our descendants have even built a school purely for magical children, along with a way to identify those born to non-magical parents. So you see, no one else will live in fear of their powers, as you did.
“Morgana. You know as well as I do that magic, the Old Religion, requires balance. Uther’s hatred, and the Great Purge took the lives of too many. Their destinies were cut short. Too many innocent lives lost. Now we have come full circle, in a way. The non-magical world doing penance in Uther’s stead.” Merlin Emrys watched his companion pace, fury in every line of her body.
“This can’t be an echo of the Purge!” Morgana snapped. “There have been countless wars since then, massacres, deaths. Why wold the fates choose now to call in the blood debt?”
“Because the signs are there.” Merlin answered steadily. A divide growing between magical and non-magical worlds. A mistrust. A madman, who believes that because there are some who don’t have active magic in their veins, that they are somehow less, and would dominate and kill them for it, though by his own standards he should be the first to go. A boy, chosen by fate to confront the madman in a final battle. ‘Neither can live while the other survives.'”
Morgana sucked in a sharp breath.
“Uther was the catalyst, Nimueh and Igraine the flint and spark. Arthur reaped the sins of his father. As did you, and I, Mordred, and Morgause. Besides, the school was a fitting tribute to the legacy of Camelot and Albion. Wouldn’t it be nice to go home?”
The witch sighed. “Fine. But you get to wake Arthur up, and explain this whole mess to him…”
“Arthur. Arthur! Arthur…Hey clotpole! Wake up!”
King Arthur Pendragon jolted awake at the familiar voice, sitting straight up and looking around wildly. The owner of the voice peeked his head around the door jam, sapphire blue eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Morning, sire.” He said blandly.
“Merlin!” Arthur growled, instinctively grabbing for his goblet or something to throw at his miscreant servant. “What the devil are you doing?”
“Waking you up, you lay about.” Merlin replied cheerfully. “For real this time, not just a dream you. Granted, you’ve been asleep for eons since that last time; it’s more than time to re emerge into the world. I need your help.”
Arthur frowned. “Dream me…Wait a minute! I was dead! And you – you have magic!”
“Both true facts, even if you’re about 500 years late to the party.” The warlock replied, still not stepping into the room. “Seriously though, I need your help, so get dressed, sire. I will explain the rest when the others get here.”
“Gwen…and Morgana.” Merlin yelped as Arthur balled up a discarded sock and threw it at him, though the article didn’t have nearly the velocity behind it that a metal goblet would’ve. “She’s better now! No more grudges or residual crazy from magic suppression. Plus, she woke up on her own much sooner than you did – Vivianne -her mother, who is also the Lady of the Lake – said something about her not being able to repent if you’re sleeping – so she’s had plenty of time to adjust. And I need all three of you. This is big, Arthur.” The serious tone from his usually annoyingly cheery friend focused the King’s attention like nothing else could, even now.
“Very well.” Arthur replied quietly. “I will meet you in the council room in ten minutes.”
“Morgana. Salazar is *your* great grandchild. Where in the name of Avalon did he get the idea to raise a basilisk in a Chamber under under a school full of children?” Merlin demanded.
Morgana huffed. “Oh no you don’t! He may be related to me, but he had the talent of Parseltongue, which is an offshoot of Dragonspeak, oh *last Dragonlord*!”
“Which means,” Arthur drawled sardonically. “That he is somehow related to *both* of you, and close enough to have inherited traits directly from you.” He eyed the witch and warlock. “What exactly did you two get up to while I was asleep, and is there something you want to tell me?”