The clash of steel echoed across the battlefield, drowning in the cacophony of war cries and dying screams. Morrigan was fast—unnaturally fast. Each strike of her curved blade was like a whispering shadow, an omen of death itself. But I was no stranger to death. I was its King.
I met her strikes with Caliburn, the black blade slicing through the air like a falling star. Sparks flew as our swords clashed, and for the first time in this war, I felt something stir within me—exhilaration. She wasn't just powerful; she was skilled, her movements precise, guided by centuries of battle-hardened experience.
"You fight well, Morrigan," I admitted, parrying a downward slash before twisting to deliver a counterstrike. "For a goddess of death, you certainly have a lot of life in you."
Morrigan smirked, black lips curling as she twirled away, her dark armor glinting beneath the storm-ridden sky. "I take that as a compliment, Hades. But you should know—" She lunged, the edge of her blade aimed for my throat. "—Death is never still!"
I ducked, shadows bursting from my form as I vanished, reappearing behind her with Caliburn raised. She spun just in time, catching my strike, our blades locking together in a shower of divine energy. Her violet eyes burned with a fierce light as a wicked grin split her face.
"I was hoping you'd be more than just a king sitting on his throne."
"And I was hoping you'd be more than a pawn," I shot back, forcing her back with a surge of strength.
She chuckled darkly before she suddenly dropped her sword. Confusion flickered through me for a brief moment—until I saw her outstretched hand.
Morrigan exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession as she glared at me. Sweat and blood matted her raven-black hair, and yet, she still stood with the poise of a queen of war. Her curved sword lay at her feet, broken at the hilt, its blade shattered across the battlefield. But despite that loss, a smirk curled at her lips.
She raised her hand, fingers curling as a pulse of ancient magic surged around her. The air grew heavy. The very ground trembled. Shadows twisted around her form, and from their depths, she pulled forth a new weapon—one that exuded an aura unlike any I had ever felt. The very sight of it made my golden eye burn.
The blade gleamed, silver and radiant, yet dark mist coiled around its edge, as if the sword itself stood between the worlds of life and death. Runes of an ancient tongue pulsed along its length, and the very energy that crackled off of it felt... divine.
"This," Morrigan declared, gripping the hilt tightly, "is Caladfwlch, the blade of destiny."
The name sent a jolt through me. Recognition struck like a bolt of lightning, my mind racing as the puzzle pieces fell into place. Caladfwlch—the legendary sword of the famous King Arthur, the fabled weapon that would one day be known by another name.
Excalibur.
Fate had a wicked sense of humor. I, wielder of Caliburn, now stood face to face with the very weapon that would one day be its rival. A laugh nearly escaped me, but I swallowed it down.
Instead, I lifted my own blade, feeling the weight of destiny settle upon my shoulders.
"Interesting," I murmured, tightening my grip on Caliburn.
Morrigan's smirk widened. "Come, King of the Dead," she taunted, lowering herself into a stance.
A storm of black feathers exploded around her as she raised the sword, the battlefield itself recoiling from the sheer force of her power. A wave of darkness bled from her form, curling like talons through the air, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the world itself held its breath. The chorus of war faded into the distance. The screams of dying men, the roars of clashing gods, the thunder of battle—all dulled beneath the weight of what stood before me.
I lifted Caliburn in response, the divine steel thrumming in my grip. It knew, just as I did, that this was no ordinary foe. This was not just a clash of warriors—it was a collision of fates, a battle woven into the very threads of history itself.
Lightning cracked overhead, streaking the heavens with fire as we lunged at each other once more. Our blades met in a flash of divine energy, sending ripples of raw force coursing through the battlefield. The earth beneath us fractured, great chasms splitting open as the power of our strikes reshaped the land itself.
She moved with inhuman speed, twisting into a low arc before slicing upward, her blade glowing with eerie runes. I barely managed to pivot, twisting away from the attack as the tip of her weapon carved through the space I had occupied a mere heartbeat before. But she was already moving, capitalizing on my evasion—her free hand shot forward, fingers curling in a gesture of power.
A pulse of necrotic energy erupted from her palm, seething green and black like the essence of death itself. It hurtled toward me, shrieking as it tore through the air.
I answered with fire.
My primordial flames surged outward, a torrent of blue and violet light crashing against her spell. The energies collided, writhing and twisting as they fought for dominance. For a moment, neither gave way—until my fire surged forward, devouring her magic and roaring toward her with violent hunger.
She vanished in a swirl of crows.
Dark shapes exploded around me, their wings beating like war drums, and before I could react, she reappeared at my back, her blade arcing toward my spine.
No you don't.
My golden eye burned, and the world around me slowed. Every feather, every ember, every grain of shattered earth became crystal clear.
I turned in an instant, Caliburn meeting her strike with a crash that split the air. Sparks showered around us, our blades locked in a contest of strength.
"You're holding back," I taunted, pressing against her weapon. "Is that really the strength of the Celtic goddess of war?"
Morrigan's lips curled into a sneer. "And you think this is the power of the so-called King of the Underworld?"
She shoved against me and broke away, only to lunge again. This time, her speed was monstrous, her strikes were like a whirlwind of steel and shadow. She fought like a specter of war itself—relentless, unyielding, her blade dancing between realms of life and death.
I deflected blow after blow, my instincts screaming as I caught the subtle shifts in her movements. Every step, every angle, every feint—she was testing me, measuring my reactions, waiting for the precise moment to strike true.
She's good. Better than most gods I've fought.
But I was no stranger to battle. I had waged war against titans, against primordial horrors that lurked in the abyss before time itself had a name.
And I would not be undone now.
With a surge of strength, I pushed her back, channeling the abyss into my next strike. Shadows coiled around my blade, dark tendrils lashing outward in an attempt to ensnare her. She darted away, narrowly avoiding them—but that moment of retreat was all I needed.
I closed the gap in an instant.
A fist to the gut sent her flying.
She crashed into the earth, rolling before she caught herself on one knee. Her breath came in heavy gasps, her fingers digging into the shattered ground as she glared up at me.
A beat passed between us. Then she laughed—a sharp, dark chuckle that sent a chill through the air.
"You are strong," she admitted, rising to her feet. "But don't think for a second that this is over."
Morrigan smirked, lifting her blade toward me. "Come, King of the Dead," she challenged. "Let's see if your flames can consume fate itself."
I grinned.
And then, we clashed.
This time, it was different. Every strike carried the weight of prophecy, of ancient power woven into the fabric of existence itself. Her sword burned with a celestial radiance, a light that sought to purge and purify. My flames roared in defiance, blue and purple consuming all in their path.
Steel met steel in an orchestra of destruction.
The ground beneath us shattered, the battlefield tearing apart under the sheer force of our battle. We moved faster than mortal eyes could follow, our forms blurring between strikes as we exchanged blows with ruthless precision.
She sent a wave of spectral blades at me, ghostly apparitions screaming as they hurtled forward. I countered with a wall of fire, incinerating them before they could reach me.
She weaved through the smoke, her sword a streak of divine fury. I caught her strike, twisting as I locked her blade against mine. Shadows curled around her wrists, binding her in place for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to deliver a brutal kick to her ribs.
She snarled, breaking free, blood dripping from her lips. But she did not falter. If anything, she thrived in the chaos.
"You're enjoying this," I noted.
She wiped the blood from her mouth, smirking. "Wouldn't you be? A battle like this only happens once in an age."
I couldn't argue with that.
We rushed each other again, a final clash that sent tremors across the battlefield. And then—at last—I saw my opening.
She moved to strike, but she was a half-second too slow.
My blade met hers, and with a powerful twist, I wrenched it from her grip. Caladfwlch spun through the air, embedding itself in the dirt.
Morrigan froze. Her breath hitched as she stared at her lost weapon.
I stepped forward, my blade at her throat. "Yield."
She looked up at me, her dark eyes burning with defiance. For a moment, I thought she might keep fighting, that she might lunge at me with bare hands if she had to.
But then, she exhaled sharply, her shoulders sagging.
"…Do it," she said. "Kill me."
I held my blade steady. Then, slowly, I pulled it away.
"No," I said simply.
She blinked, her expression unreadable.
"You can make the right choice," I told her. "Join us. Stand against Odin."
Silence stretched between us.
Her fists clenched. Then, without a word, she vanished in a swirl of feathers and shadows.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
Then, gripping my sword, I turned back to the battlefield.
<------------------->
The battlefield stretched before me, a canvas of ruin painted in blood and fire. The scent of death clung to the air, thick as the mist that rolled in from the distant hills. I gripped my blade, its weight familiar yet heavier than before. The cries of the dying had become a constant, a grim symphony that underscored the brutal reality of this war.
We were losing.
The Nephilim, our supposed trump card, had been cut down one by one. Their bodies now littered the battlefield, their once-great strength failing under the sheer might of the Norse. Odin had seen through my strategy. He had realized that without the Nephilim, the gods would falter, and he was right.
Now, only seven of them remained, but even they had succumbed to exhaustion, their bodies comatose and forced back into the Underworld for rest. I had no choice but to send them away, and in doing so, I had lost my greatest weapon against the giants. I should have prepared them sooner and should have trained them before the war.
The Greeks were forced to retreat. Land that had once been ours was now painted in the banners of Asgard. Odin's forces were relentless, his warriors driven by an insatiable thirst for conquest. Poseidon and Triton had reported that our naval battles were at a standstill. We could not gain ground, nor could we afford to lose what little we had left.
The war tent was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows across the weary faces of my fellow Olympians. Rain battered the thick canvas overhead, a relentless drumming that echoed the unease sitting heavy in the room. The scent of damp earth and burning oil filled the space, mingling with the tension thick enough to choke on.
Poseidon arrived last, pushing back the tent flap and stepping inside, his long, sea-worn cloak dripping rainwater onto the floor. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his damp hair. "Apologies for my delay. Triton remained behind to command the forces of Atlantis. The seas are holding, but just barely."
I nodded, though my patience was already thin. "And what news do you bring? Anything useful? Or is it more of the same?" The frustration bled into my tone, but I didn't care. We had been at this for too long, fighting a war that was slipping from our grasp.
Poseidon scowled. "The Norse and their allies are relentless. We've held them at bay in the southern waters, but they are not retreating. They're waiting, reinforcing. If we make one misstep, we lose everything."
I clenched my jaw, staring down at the maps spread before us. Land we had once ruled was now marked with enemy banners. My plan had failed—our Nephilim warriors, our supposed trump card, had been whittled down to a mere seven, all of whom were comatose and sent back to the Underworld to recover. We had slain over a hundred giants, and yet we still hadn't made a dent where it truly mattered. The generals remained unchallenged, untouchable. Odin himself had yet to step onto the battlefield, and neither had Thor. That fact alone gnawed at me like a festering wound.
"We are running out of time," Poseidon muttered, shaking the water from his cloak. "Odin's forces are tightening the noose. If we do not find a way to break their momentum, we will be pushed back to the very heart of Olympus itself."
Ares snarled and slammed his fist against the war table. The maps and markers trembled from the impact. "Then we fight harder! If we must spill every drop of their blood to reclaim what is ours, then so be it!"
Abellona sighed, rubbing her temples. "Brute force is not the answer, Ares. You think we haven't already thrown everything we have at them? The Norse aren't mindless brutes; they know how to fight. Odin is calculated, and he's using every piece on the board perfectly. We need something more."
Hecate leaned forward, her violet eyes glimmering in the candlelight. "Magic alone cannot turn the tides of war, but there are ancient spells… forgotten pacts we may yet call upon. If we are to shift the balance, we must look beyond our conventional strengths."
Demeter shook her head. "And what of our people? We have already lost too many. The land suffers. The mortals suffer. How much more must we sacrifice before we accept that we cannot win this war through sheer might?"
I exhaled slowly, my fingers tracing the edge of Caliburn's hilt at my waist. A constant reminder of what was at stake.
Before I could speak, the entrance to the tent rustled open, and a familiar presence filled the air. Thanatos stepped inside, his dark robes soaked through from the rain. His expression was unreadable, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of the battlefield.
"Someone is here to speak with you," he announced.
I frowned. "Who?"
Thanatos hesitated for just a moment before answering. "Morrigan."
The name alone sent a ripple of tension through the tent. I caught Hera stiffening beside me, her lips pressing into a thin line. Artemis's hand instinctively went to her bow, though she did not draw it. Even Ares, ever eager for a fight, narrowed his eyes with wary curiosity.
I exchanged a glance with Poseidon before nodding. "Let her in."
Thanatos stepped aside, and the war goddess of the Celts entered.
Morrigan stood tall, as powerful and unwavering as she had been when we last crossed blades.
She inclined her head slightly. "Hades."
"Morrigan," I greeted, arms crossed. "I assume you didn't come here to give us a message from Odin."
She smirked. "No. I came here because the Dagda wishes to swap sides and hopes that you will accept the help of the Celtic Pantheon to defeat Odin and have our freedom back."
The room fell silent. Even the rain seemed to hush at her words. Ares stands and opens his mouth and yet I shush him.
I studied her carefully. "You mean to say the Celts are finally ready to break free from Odin's grasp?"
She nodded. "The Dagda has grown weary. Our people suffer. We have had enough of being Odin's pawns in this war. After observing the Olympians… how you lead, how you fight… we have decided that we would rather stand with you than continue being used as tools for a war we never wanted."
A slow, calculating smile crept across my lips. "A bold decision. One I would have welcomed much sooner."
"We did not have the luxury of choice before," Morrigan countered, her gaze unwavering. "But now, we do."
I considered her words carefully. "If I accept, I need to know the state of your forces. How many can fight? How many need healing?"
"We have several that need medical attention and others need to rest," she admitted. "but other than that the rest of us are still quite able to fight."
I turned to Abellona. "See to it that the wounded receive the healing they need. I want them back in fighting shape as soon as possible."
My daughter nodded, already making plans.
I turned back to Morrigan as I leaned toward her. "Very well. Please pass a message to Dagda-."
Morrigan met my gaze and nodded. "Understood."
I stepped closer to the table, my eyes shifting back to the war map before me. The tides had turned once before, and they would turn again. With the Celts now at our side, we had a new opportunity to strike back.