A/N: This is my first fanfic ever! :O

I'm not entirely sure where I want to go with this story, but I have an idea and I am determined to finish it. Set after The Wicked Day but before Aithusa. Rated T because I'm not quite sure what all's going to be in it, but so far it's definitely still K. Reviews would definitely be wonderful as this is my first story! :D

It was a calm, quiet night in Camelot. A chilly breeze swept through the town, tickling the horses in their stables, teasing leaves and grass and clothes hung out to dry, and the winter moon bathed the sleeping kingdom in brilliance.

Merlin.

Merlin shifted, and tugged the bed sheets up around his chin.

Merlin.

Merlin rolled over, wondering if it was any good to pretend to be sleeping.

Merlin!

Apparently not.

Merlin sat up in defeat, and rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window, taking in the moon and stars and dark. He wondered if Kilgharrah enjoyed waking him at odd hours; wondered if he had treated his father similarly. The thought brought a bittersweet smile to his face.

I have a favor to ask of you, young warlock, said the dragon, and for a moment Merlin saw fire and ash and smelled smoke and watched children screaming and knights dying, and thought that if his assistance resulted in anything similar to what it had in the past, then the answer was 'no.'

A dry chuckle tickled his mind, and as if reading his thoughts, (and perhaps he was) the dragon said, You are well aware that I can never harm Camelot again. This matter is of a different nature entirely. It will become apparent what I would require of you when we meet.

There was a pause, as if he was gathering his thoughts, and that in itself was so very unlike the dragon that Merlin found himself pulling on his boots and coat in spite of himself. Kilgharrah resumed.

I will be in the glade within the hour. It would be in your best interests as well as mine if you were there also.

Merlin was good at what he did. After many midnight meetings and daring escapades, and much smuggling of sorcerers in and out, his experience in the field of sneaking around was second to none. He knew every secret passage in the castle and every little alley in the town, and which houses offered the best shadow and which barrels were easiest to tip from afar. Meeting the dragon was often the highlight of his day; there were very few things more amusing than finding new ways to distract Camelot's guards.

Merlin arrived before the dragon did, as usual, and stood nervously in the grass, watching his breath rise in front of him. It was several minutes before he heard the familiar sound of leathery wings beating the air, and a moment later, Kilgharrah appeared, huge and ominous in the moonlight, his eyes visibly glinting even in the distance. The grass trembled beneath him as he alighted.

"Ah, Merlin," he said, peering down at him as if Merlin was so small in comparison to himself that he was difficult to see.

"I am sorry to say that I am the bearer of grave news, though I am glad that you have come to hear it. However, there is a small matter that I fear must be taken care of first."

While he spoke, Merlin had become aware of a subtle difference in the dragon's movements; he did not rustle his wings or twitch his tail, or even bob his head in that calculating way that Merlin had grown accustomed to. In fact, he hardly moved at all; the blinking of his great amber eyes and his jaw, moved as it was by his speech, were the only indications he gave of being alive.

It was then that Merlin noticed a flash of something out of place; a strange disturbance of the smooth flow of scales that plated the dragon's chest. There was something odd there that gleamed in the moonlight; something that he had never expected to see. It was a hilt of a sword.

It was on the right.

"What happened?" breathed Merlin, meeting the dragon's eyes, afraid. "How could anyone… I thought…"

Kilgharrah, at last, moved. He lowered his heavy, scaly head until it was level with Merlin's and said,

"Now is not the time for questions, young warlock. If you wish me to live, you will act quickly."

Merlin nodded.

"The sword has been enchanted, and by a very powerful sorcerer. You, Merlin, must remove it; I cannot do so myself. It has been constructed to resist any magic of my own."

Merlin nodded again, his throat tight.

"Then what?" he asked, because he knew that nothing was ever so simple.

"Do you remember the spell I gave you to heal the witch?" asked the dragon, and even now his eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back into a reptilian frown at the memory of the Lady Morgana and Merlin's abuse of his powers.

"Yes," said Merlin, "But, I can't do it again—not with my own magic; you only gave me—"

"Merlin," said Kilgharrah, and the warlock stilled.

"Do you remember the spell?"

An uneasy silence.

"Yes," said Merlin.

"Then you must use it. I cannot lend you my power; the magic must be your own. But you are strong, young warlock; stronger than you know. You have the ability, even if you do not have the will."

The dragon blinked wisely, raising his great head to study Merlin from above, and Merlin fidgeted under his gaze. There was a strained silence between them. Then the dragon, almost quiet, almost gentle, yet still too much a dragon to be either of these things, said solemnly:

"Will you do it?"

Merlin collected himself.

"Of course," he said.

"I don't want you to die. You know that."

Kilgharrah dipped his head, and replied, "Very well."

How the castle remained soundly asleep that night was a mystery Merlin never solved.

As the hilt of the sword was stuck far too high in the dragon's chest for Merlin to reach without jumping, Kilgharrah was forced to lie down on his side in the grass. His huge left shoulder hit the earth first, then his hind-quarters, and each produced such a thud and a rumble through the ground that Merlin thought anyone within miles would suspect an earthquake. He lost his footing and fell clumsily against the dragon's enormous front paw, and the dragon let out a snort, then closed his eyes. It was obvious that he was in pain. And he was counting on Merlin to help him.

Merlin was frightened. What if his magic wasn't enough? What if he did something wrong? What if he killed the dragon instead of saving him, as he had Uther? Kilgharrah had saved his life many times, and though Merlin hesitated to call the pair of them "friends," they were more than that; they were kin. They were the last dragon and the last dragonlord, creatures of the Old Religion, united by the magic in their veins for the good of Camelot and Albion. If Kilgharrah were to die… It would be so much more than losing a friend.

Merlin.

Merlin looked up, and realized there were tears in his eyes. He stood very close to the dragon, now; nearly within arm's reach of the sword, though he did not remember his feet bringing him there. Kilgharrah had opened one gleaming eye, though it was duller now than it had ever been, as if the flame behind it was going out, and when he spoke his fearsome jaws did not move.

Do not look so terrified, Merlin. You are a great warlock. You are Emrys, of whom the Druids have spoken for thousands of years. You have more power than you yet realize, as I have told you time and time again.

The dulling eye closed. Dragon and dragonlord were still under the moon.

Use it.

Merlin took a deep breath, pulled his right hand into his sleeve and wiped at his eyes, and took a step forward. The hilt of the sword was a deep, smooth black, traced with gold in intricate patterns, and the warlock could feel its magic as he stretched his hand towards it. Merlin looked to the face of the dragon, half-hoping for some last words of wisdom, but none came. He breathed a shaky breath. Gripped the sword first in one hand, then in both, closed his eyes, opened them, and with a flash of gold, tugged.

Time seemed to slow, and the air was rent for one interminable moment with a sound that Merlin would never forget as long as he lived.

It was low, and rumbling, like thunder when it began, escalating into a roar, and seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It filled his head, filled the glade, seemed to fill the whole kingdom with its huge and unbearable agony, and it was loud. It was pain. The earth seemed to tremble and the sky to shake, and everything everywhere stopped. The wind held its breath, and the crickets their song, and the rabbits and pheasants rustling in the brush were suddenly still, and every leaf on every tree slowed, and froze.

Not a soul in Camelot stirred.

Merlin found himself on the ground when time began again, the sword fallen from his hand, and he looked instantly to Kilgharrah. The dragon had never opened his mouth; never so much as moved. But that horrible roar still rang in Merlin's ears.

A moment later and he was on his feet, knowing he had no time to lose. He stumbled to the dragon's chest, and spread his hands over the bloodied scales, breathing hard and closing his eyes, feeling the spell in his mind and his magic on the tip of his tongue. He braced himself, and spoke.

"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!"

The flash of gold in his eyes was as bright as the dragon's.

Merlin fell to his knees, gasping. He had never felt so much power before; even the first time he had performed the spell, the magic had been Kilgharrah's, and it did not flow through him and out of him and around him as his own did. He felt as if he had just channeled a bolt of lightning or a tidal wave, and it left him exhausted. The air still tingled with it.

Shakily, Merlin got to his feet, gripping Kilgharrah' neck for support, and made his way to the dragon's head, hoping for some immediate indication of success, a sign of life.

"Hello?"

Silence.

Merlin rapped his knuckles on the dragon's hard, scaly jaw.

"Kilgharrah. Did I do it? Did it work?"

Silence.

Panic creeping into his chest, Merlin scrambled clumsily down the length of the dragon's body until he stood before his great underbelly, waiting to see the huge torso rise and fall with the dragon's breath.

And he did.

Merlin smiled a huge smile, and let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and before he knew it he was laughing in relief, and whatever force had been holding him upright gradually let him go and he sank to the ground at the dragon's side. He knew he ought to go back to the castle; knew that he couldn't stay here in the glade with a dragon, but somehow these thoughts became inconsequential in the face of overwhelming relief and fatigue, and he found that he could not have moved another inch if he wanted to.

And so, with thoughts of magic and success and life, Merlin succumbed to sleep, in the grass beside Kilgharrah, and the last sound he heard was a familiar rustling above his head.