23. Something to Fight For

The whirl of sand became hushed as their band stepped through the rubble, blocked out by the surrounding barricade. The ground beneath their feet was cracked, full of scattered potholes, and littered with hundreds of shipping containers stacked high enough to scale the wall. As the last of their allies set foot on the wrecked lot, the air shrieked.

The sound that had immobilized them on the roof rang out, screeching through the space. Their shields were holding, keeping the devices from affecting them, but they wouldn’t last for long. Cracks like glass began to form, creeping along their defensive magic, the sound getting louder and more shrill with every inch.

“Shane! Can you see the devices?” Morgan called over his shoulder.

A gunshot sounded in reply. “One down! They’re up on the wall!”

Morgan whirled around, scanning the perimeter. He spotted one of the devices in a high corner. He swiped his hand outward, across his body, sending a blade of violet light at the machine, slicing it in half with a hail of sparks. Another gunshot rang out. The shrieking continued but faded with every attack. Another shot, and another. He caught sight of Agatha in his periphery, holding a sage green barrier over Denise Cranely and two younger witches. Denise mimicked Morgan’s spell, a faint, white cut flew through the air, and the space went silent.

Morgan led them on, closely followed by his coven and Theresa, scanning the area for any signs of movement or traps as they ducked around the metal containers for cover. One of the young witches from House Balen was walking ahead of Agatha when Morgan noticed a slight discoloration in the path ahead of them only seconds before their foot touched the ground.

“Stop!” he yelled, reaching out with his magic to whisk the young witch backward, causing them to fall on their rear. He moved swiftly to their side, and with a flick of his wrist he scattered the sand that hid a dark panel. As the others drew cautiously behind him, he examined the square of metal, his hand probing ahead of him with a hint of violet. Pain flared up his arm as runes of shifting red hues burned to life on the panel. Morgan recoiled with a hiss, withdrawing his magic.

“Force, flood, charge...” he whispered, scanning the runes as he shook out his hand, “...infinite.”

“What is it?” the Balen witch asked quietly, staring at him from the ground.

“This...” He took a deep breath, bile rising in the back of his throat. “Is a shredder.” Morgan didn’t think it was possible, but his hatred for Abernathy burned stronger as he glared at the menacing runes. He ripped the panel away from the ground with an upward thrust, clenching his fist and crumpling the metal into a twisted heap before letting it fall to the ground with a crash.

The young witch swallowed a gulp as Morgan helped him to stand. “Thank- thank you, Mister Fell... I mean, Mister le Fay... I guess. You saved my life.”

“You came to my aid, and now you have mine.” Morgan shot him a gentle smile. “What’s your name?”

“L-Lucas,” he sputtered, shaking auburn hair out of his face.

“Call me Morgan, Lucas.” He nodded, gripping the witch’s shoulder. “Keep your eyes peeled, alright?” He turned back to those behind them. “Eyes peeled! One foot on those panels and you’re dead! If you’re not confident in dispatching them quickly, let someone else handle them! The second they taste magic, they’ll latch onto you. Destroy them as fast as you can!”

As the witches cast wary glances at one another, some forming plans in hushed tones with their covens, some with faces flitting in panic, distant movement caught Morgan’s ear. “Daph, you’re on shields. I need a vantage point.”

She nodded, hands at the ready and eyes glowing gold.

In one bound, Morgan pushed off the ground with a rush of magic, leaping onto a nearby stack of shipping containers stacked three high. He crouched, padding soundlessly to the edge to peer out across the lot. Straight ahead, three massive, roll-up doors lined the front of the main building beyond the cement expanse, and between them and their target, came a wave of slow, stalking figures.

Morgan snapped twice to get the attention of his troops below. He sent down a whisper only they could hear, “They’re coming. At least a hundred of them. Steel yourselves.”

The swish of blades, the click of hammers, and the hum of magic came from below. Several of the more advanced witches summoned spectral weapons; conjured, glowing arms made of light. Shane bounced on his heels, shaking out his arms as the compartments in his wrists opened to release a set of blades. Frey twirled a pair of shears in each hand, shooting Morgan a wink as he eyed them. Gwen drew a great bow she had chosen from the armory, her quiver filled with spelled arrows of Morgan’s own design. Those were going to wreak some havoc, and he was suddenly very glad he’d had the good sense to color-code them. Daphne pushed her hands forward with a steady breath, spreading them outward to call forth a radiant guisarme of golden light.

Morgan’s hex bullets would be of no use against the dregs. He was saving those for Abernathy. He stood, imagining a sword, a weapon he hadn’t used in ages, but had once mastered. The way the grip felt beneath his fingers filled his thoughts. The song the blade sang as it cleaved the air caressed his ears, and as his magic met the palms of his hands, he pushed.

In reply to his summons, a strange sensation rippled down his right arm. Something crawled from the base of his neck, sliding across his skin like oil. He pulled his shirt collar aside. His tattoo, the mark he had woken with, was swirling, churning, and dancing across his flesh. It moved away, cascading out of sight and down his arm.

Morgan sensed power. A glint of black metal and the shine of bright purple gems flashed in his mind. He inhaled sharply, remembering a name he had long forgotten.

“Tyrillacht.”

Violet light burst forth as the name left his lips. His outstretched hand that had awaited a spectral weapon now gripped darkened leather. More pieces of his memory shifted into place as he recalled the sketches from his grimoire. His sword—his kingmaker, gifted to him from Arthur, and forged to stand beside Caliburn in battle—shined brightly before him.

It had changed since he’d seen it last. The blade that had once curved elegantly on either side was now straight; consisting of two separate blades that were joined at the center, and the elegant floral etchings that once decorated the fuller now perfectly reflected the swirling patterns it had hidden itself away as on his skin.

“So that’s where you went, you needy thing.” He beamed at his old friend. “Had a bit of a glow-up, have we?”

As if in response, the amethyst set in the winged guard glistened.

“Guess we know why it was in your book now, huh?” Shane grinned up at him, Daphne at his side, smiling brightly. Gwen’s face lit up from behind them, recognizing the blade despite its altered appearance.

“The enemy approaches!” Morgan shouted, “Witches of Etna...” He turned his gaze outward across the battered field, sword held aloft. His eyes blazed, brimming with power as his brows descended in a look of furious bloodlust. “Charge!”

The roar of battle filled the air. Morgan leapt to the next stack, landing with all the grace of a feline predator as his companions clashed with the dregs below. Bursts of magic and clangs of metal rang out from the ground, guttural cries leaving their undead enemies with every assault.

He jumped again, spinning through the air as he spotted a horde of dregs below. He pressed magic into his blade, swinging it downward to release an amplified cleave. Violet light raced outward from Tyrillacht, striking the ground in a shockwave, turning the creatures to dust. Morgan descended, nimbly landing amongst the drifting remains of his foes.

An arrow whizzed past his head, and he turned just in time to see it pierce a large dreg between the eyes. It exploded on impact in a ball of flame, reducing its target and two others to ash. “Nice one, Gwen!” he shouted, rushing around a corner toward distressed cries.

The Jenkins boys were surrounded where they stood, back-to-back-to-back, brandishing axes that had been assembled from random machine parts. Morgan shot a blast at two of the dregs, taking their focus off House Jenkins, and they lunged. He dodged a cross-blow from one, dancing his way behind to swipe clean through its neck. The other hurtled at him, and Morgan swung his blade upward with a pulse that sent it soaring backward, disintegrating into the air before it could fall.

He turned to help with the remaining enemies, but House Jenkins had it handled, axes flailing in every direction as they sent the dregs crashing to the ground. “Thanks for the save, man! We got these fuckers!” one of them roared, and Morgan darted deeper into the chaos.

His small army was easily decimating the dregs as they came, but it wasn’t enough. Destroying these things wasn’t their true goal, and they had barely made a dent in the wave of creatures that surrounded them. Whatever Abernathy had planned for Aaron, Morgan knew that their presence would force his hand to work faster. He had to press through this onslaught. He had to reach those doors.

Frey danced across the battle ahead, surrounded by glittering pink flecks of light. As Morgan drew closer, he witnessed the lights lunge forward at the fairy’s command, sewing needles pelting their next target to get its attention. When the dreg turned on them, they leapt forward, one pair of shears open as if the corpse were but a stray thread that Frey held a blistering grudge toward.

“Snip! Snip! Snip!” they sang. Bright, rose-colored magic elongated the blades, and the shears snapped shut, severing the thing’s head with a squelch.

Morgan made a mental note not to get on Frey’s bad side while they were tailoring in the future, and he ran further into the battle as a flurry of gold caught his eye.

Daphne was an absolute goddess on the battlefield. She weaved and spun through their foes as if it were an elegant dance. Her guisarme stretched outward as she swung it wide, decapitating four dregs in one cleave. Morgan met her at her back, swinging his own blade with another jolt of magic and turning five of the creatures to dust.

“Everything is a competition with you, isn’t it?” she growled.

Morgan cackled, severing another head with a wide swipe. “Can’t have my apprentice showing me up now, can I?”

She laughed wickedly as she spun on the spot, whirling her weapon in a circle of death to send three more dregs to the ground. “Better keep up then, old m-”

A blood-curdling scream split the air. Morgan turned, and his face contorted in horror as one of their own cried out. Their body arched backward. Their limbs clenched in agony as their skin cracked apart in glittering crevasses—one of the dark panels, red runes ablaze at their feet.

“NO!” Morgan raced toward the witch.

Daphne bolted along at his side, thrusting her weapon ahead to clear a path through the dregs. In one quick motion, Morgan reached out, grasping the shredder and tearing it apart with a screech before it could react. The runes died out, and he ran forward to catch the crumbling witch in his arms.

Their short, strawberry-blond hair was singed. Their lips were dry and split in several places. Lines of broken flesh, charred by the output of magic the device had caused, flaked away into the air. The light in their eyes dimmed as Morgan held them close. He was too late. The amount of magic they had been forced to expel had been too much.

“Hey,” he whispered, offering comfort even as his heart broke, “What’s your name, soldier?”

“G-Garrett,” he choked, “Morgan?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Garrett. I’ve got you.”

“Th-Thank you for telling us… your st-story.” Garrett’s eyes struggled to focus on him. “I nev-never once doubted… who I was, but… I think I needed to hear… that our stories are older than his-history says.”

Morgan nodded. “As old as time itself.”

“And thank- thank you… for saying hi to me at th-the ball.” Garrett’s body sagged, his breaths fading. “Save him.”

Tears threatened Morgan’s eyes as he recalled that moment on the edge of the dancefloor, shaking hands with a rosy-cheeked, young witch wearing a bright smile. He had spoken to Garrett only hours ago. Morgan had stood hand-in-hand with Aaron as he and his friends fawned over them.

“I’ll save him, Garrett,” he choked, “Thank you.”

Garrett released a struggling breath, and he stilled. The cracks in his flesh spread, crawling up his neck and onto his cheeks, and the young witch turned to glittering dust in Morgan’s arms.

Morgan spun on the spot, roaring into the night. He flailed his blade in a violet torrent, running headlong into the mass of walking dead, leaving a storm of dust in his wake.

It wasn’t the first time a fellow soldier had fallen in battle. It wasn’t the first time he’d comforted someone as they lay dying. Garrett’s death was on Abernathy, but it weighed heavily on Morgan’s conscience. He had led these people into battle. He had given them a reason to fight. Swinging harder and more fiercely, he carved this battalion of the undead into ash, but it did nothing to quell the rage in his heart. These people had been violated, stripped of their wills and used as fuel by a mad man. They were victims, the same as Garrett.

Daphne danced at his side once again as they cut their way toward the doors, swing after swing, thrust after thrust. He stood at his apprentice’s back, the dregs that remained outside of their reach for the moment.

“What coven was he with?” Morgan asked, glancing over his shoulder at Daphne.

She turned with a sigh. “House Gray. I don’t think he had any family among them, though. Joined straight from- Morgan! Behind you!”

A massive dreg that may have been one of Etna’s underground brawling combatants leapt into the air with raised fist, ready to reduce Morgan to a pulp as he turned. His eyes flared, trying to summon a shield, but the hulking mass of decaying flesh was closing in fast.

As he braced for the hit, an animalistic roar tore across the lot. A great, black shadow charged from his side, colliding with the hulking dreg at its throat and tackling it to the ground. The tearing of flesh reached Morgan’s ears. The dreg’s head rolled away, and the shadow turned.

A beast black as night, slimmer and more elegant in figure than a lion, took dignified strides toward him. It bowed its head, purring wildly. Morgan reached out his hand, placing it atop the great cat’s head, and it pressed into his touch.

“Holy shit!” Shane called from behind them as Theresa, along with several other witches, rounded a series of tightly stacked containers. Their jaws dropped one by one.

“Is that-” Daphne stammered at his side, “Glimmer?”

Morgan scratched under her neck, causing the cat’s eyes to close with joy. Glimmer moved forward with a deep whimper, nudging him in his chest.

“She’s a cat-sìth,” Theresa whispered, a glowing, red whip hanging at her side, “Never in all my years...”

“A catchy?” Shane shot them a puzzled look.

“Kaht shee,” Morgan corrected him, eyes filled with wonder as he stroked Glimmer’s head, “She’s a fae creature.”

“Morgan...”

His stomach curled in on itself as the fear in Aaron’s voice gripped his heart. He whipped his head toward the building. The doors stood fifteen meters away, with another wave of dregs barring the path.

“I’m coming, baby. I’m almost there.”

“Morgan... they’re here.”

Morgan’s overwhelming dread took a back seat, fury boiling in his blood as he stood, analyzing the way ahead.

“Morgan?” Daphne whispered, fear washing over her face at the look in his eyes.

“I’m so cold...”

“I have to go.” His eyes were locked ahead, his feet already carrying him away.

“Go!” Daphne roared as she and the others darted forward, “We can handle this!”

Morgan leapt high, landing on the large, metal crates. He dashed across to the end, clearing twenty feet in the air to land on the next stack.

His friends clashed with the bodies below in flashes of light and blood. Shane moved like death itself as he severed head after head from the dregs, cross cleaving his wrist blades at their throats and lunging to land atop his next kill. Theresa snapped her whip in a torrent of lashes, sundering everything in her path. Glimmer raged beside them, a dark storm of claws and fangs.

Morgan was flying, clearing jump after jump, sending blasts from his sword into the swarming mass below. He spotted Gwen, Frey and House Jenkins, fighting their way across the field to meet the rest of their group. He jumped again with a whirl, swinging Tyrillacht wide to release a blast that grew outward as it cleaved through the air. Some thirty or more dregs were vaporized in an instant, and his friends darted through the opening.

The doors were right in front of him, barred by at least another forty dregs. He dropped to the ground below when a sharp pain lanced his chest. He gasped, a hand clutched to his sternum as a piercing cold swept over him, but as he examined himself, all of his magic—every shred of his power brimmed to the surface.

He was fine. Completely undamaged.

“AARON!” he roared, a blinding wrath taking him whole. He thrust his blade ahead, imbuing it with his rage in a straight shot toward the doors. The dregs blocking his path vanished in his violet assault. He charged forward, crumpling the center-most entrance in a single motion with the squeal of twisting metal.

His link to Aaron pulled taught, like the strands of a rope being tested.

“Morgan... my dreams... I can remember…”

More dregs raced toward him. He needed to get to Aaron. Now.

“They were… of us…”

He soared into the air, pressing his being into his blade, thrusting it into the cement floor as he fell. A wave of magic swept the room, obliterating every enemy in the space.

“We were so happy… weren’t we?”

He charged through a set of doors, sending them flying from their hinges.

“I have to... have to say it...”

He raced up a set of stairs, cold sweat coating his skin, his heart shattering in his chest.

“Morgan le Fay...”

The floor threatened to slip away beneath his feet, sending him hurtling into the abyss as he ran, unable to feel his limbs. Unable to think. Unable to breathe.

“...I love you.”

His tether—his heart’s beating connection to the man that he loved—snapped.

The battle outside raged on. Daphne had managed to gather their forces into a single unit near the door that Morgan had destroyed, but the entrance was now flooded with dregs. She lashed out, striking them down one after the other as worry sat in her chest. The way she had heard Morgan scream out Aaron’s name wouldn’t leave her mind.

They felled foe after foe, but as she looked out across the battlefield it seemed the dregs had increased three times over. Several of them broke away, making a mad dash into the building. Daphne feared that Morgan wouldn’t be able to fight them off should Aaron be injured or unconscious.

“Glimmer!” she called to the massive cat as it tore another head free, “Get to Morgan! He could be in trouble!”

The black beast released a huff of air from its bloodied mouth, immediately diving behind a crate and vanishing. Daphne whirled her spear, dancing forward, attempting to clear a path to Morgan. The others pressed ahead with her, Shane and Frey at her sides, slashing and snipping at their prey.

Theresa, Gwen and House Jenkins held the line at their backs. Denise and Agatha kept shields in place from the center of the group, attempting to control how many dregs could reach them as the other witches cast, cutting away one after the other.

“No!” Frey screamed out, stumbling backward. Daphne leapt to defend them in a flash of gold as they fell to the ground, crawling away from the building. “No. No, no, no, no!”

“Frey! Are you okay?” Shane called. Daphne threw up a shining barrier, holding back the wave of undead as Shane knelt at Frey’s side.

“Noooooo!”Frey covered their head, thrashing and sobbing desperately. “Morgan!”

A tremor shook the earth beneath their feet. Daphne unleashed her magic in a crackle of golden light and her shield expanded outward, sending the surrounding dregs flying. “We have to get to Morgan!” she cried, “Please… please no.”

Shane lifted Frey and they ran, the fae wailing in his arms as they buried their face in his chest.

The other witches mimicked Daphne, pushing their shields outward to create a moving wall. They raced inside, no thoughts spared for how they might escape the swarm of dregs behind. They followed the path of destruction that Morgan had left in his wake; doors blown from their hinges and piles of dust coating the floor.

Theresa took out two dregs with a snap of her whip before lifting a set of double doors that had been torn from their hinges, throwing them against the opening behind them. Her eyes flared red, and the metal sank deep into the concrete wall to form a barricade. Daphne dropped her shield, darting down a long hall toward another set of doors. The dead-end room beyond was silent as she entered, seemingly empty, before ragged breathing caught her ear from above.

Atop a raised scaffolding on the far side of the room, unmoving beyond the slow tremble of his breath, sat Morgan. He sloped forward on his knees, his sword and revolver cast aside. Glimmer sat at his side, head nestled against his shoulder. Shane set Frey down against the wall, joining Gwen as she followed Daphne up the stairs.

“Morgan?” Daphne called softly.

He didn’t move.

As the scene became clear, Daphne’s jaw trembled uncontrollably. Her eyes welled over. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart sat empty and pointless in her chest at the sight before them.

Resting against the wall, in front of Morgan’s limp form, lay Aaron. His jacket had been tossed away. Blood stained the chest of his undershirt. He was still, his eyes drifting, empty and lifeless.

Morgan’s eyes burned. His throat was dry and breathless. He didn’t hear his friends enter, nor the sound of their labored cries. He wasn’t aware that Daphne and Gwen knelt beside him, nor did he feel the consoling purr of his feline companion. Their sobs, their attempts at comfort were inaudible beneath the ringing in his ears.

His heart lay broken in front of him.

He dropped forward, resting his head against Aaron’s. Those once beautiful eyes were blank and listless. The light and the hope were gone. He traced a thumb across Aaron’s cheek, his heart begging to see that blinding smile again, begging to see those eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Come back...” Morgan barely managed through pained breaths, “Please come back. You promised. You said you weren’t going anywhere. You promised...”

He clutched at Aaron’s bloodstained shirt, pressing his head against his chest as he crumbled apart from the inside. Images flashed in his mind, trying to hold tight. Aaron’s baffled face when they collided. His flushed, gorgeous smile when he had asked him out. The courtyard garden, tucked safe against the beating of his heart. Taking his hand in the ballroom as they drifted off into a world all their own. The feel of their lips coming together to save him and bring him home.

Other moments joined those, the past and present harmonizing in his thoughts. A sunlit smile as Morgan opened his eyes from a white, feather bed. Fury in his prince’s eyes as he challenged Uther, wrenching a hot iron from the man’s grasp to spare him from further pain. A warm embrace, nestled beneath the stars in a wooded clearing as Arthur begged him not to leave.

It had been only hours since they had found one another. Hours since they danced. Hours since they kissed. Hours since everything he was and all that he is had come rushing back to him in Aaron’s arms.

“I just found you... Arthur...”

“How very tragic.” A mocking laugh echoed through the room.

The shards of his broken heart trembled, sharpening at the man’s voice into to daggers of glass.

“He called for you, you know,” Abernathy goaded from the loudspeaker, “Right until the end, ‘Morgan, please! I won’t leave you!’ Pathetic.”

Hellfire combusted in his chest, consuming him, demanding flesh and craving blood.

“Until I shoved my cleaver into his chest and ripped out everything that he is.” The man cackled.

His magic took him over. It sparked across his skin, flowing down the scaffolding and into the very earth, shaking the ground below.

“A fitting end for a king unworthy of his power, if I do say so, myself.”

The doors in Morgan’s mind flew from their hinges. Every shred of his ancient magic coursed through him. Every connection to the realm that fueled him, every single source of power within was set free.

“Morgan!” Daphne cried, stepping away in horror, “Morgan, you have to stop!”

His eyes became churning voids. Black energy crawled over his skin. Darkness flowed in his veins, racing from his eyes and down his neck, suffusing into his very being—heart, body and soul.

A loud crash came from the far end of the hall, followed by a stampede of footsteps. The dregs had broken through. The witches leapt to throw up their shields, holding them back, but they struggled desperately against the assault.

“Now, to wash away the filth!” Abernathy laughed madly.

“Morgan!”

The darkness took him. The space surrounding him swirled black. A pulse washed across the room, through the wastes and out into the world.

The earth trembled. Time stilled. A single thought remained in his mind.

Give... him... back.

Lost in the abyss, nothing but his wrath and misery remaining—Morgan screamed.