Just a spark.

Summary: The dragon gives the ultimate sacrifice, but sacrifices are never easy and as the end draws near, Kilgharrah finds himself unsure whether it is even worth it.

An AU but it could potentially still fit the canon timeline... sort of, no real purpose to it, just dabbling with the dragons character. Enjoy. :)

~O~

Sometime's he wondered, why him? Why was he the only one to survive the downfall of his race? There were no others. Balance and fate, hand in hand, had seen to that. Yet why did he need to live on? Why did Uther not have his head displayed proudly in the throne room for all to see; and fear.

The boy. It was always the boy.

Merlin was dying. Kilgharrah knew this. He had felt it in his bones. And suddenly he had known. For how else do you save a dying fire?

You provide a spark.

And what spark could possibly reignite the flame that had already consumed the lives of an entire race of dragons… Kilgharrah had no need of prophecies or dreams, he knew what to do. He knew what he had to do.

It wasn't fair. Even as it crossed his mind, the childishness of the statement was not lost on him. That the boy, with such a bright shining destiny should require so much sacrifice. But then… when was fate ever fair?

With a roar Kilgharrah crashed through Camelot's defences. Knocking aside all who stood between him and the tiny, oh so tiny, figure sprawled -lifeless- in the courtyard. He wasted no time; for he had none to waste. Everything he was came down to this moment. This one moment in which he made his legacy.

…But was he truly making one, or simply passing it on. The thoughts, ridiculous and unimportant, swirled around his head. Why should they be held at bay, these thoughts of sadness and weakness, and lost and despair, and wishes for more days and nights. Even if he spent them alone. For while he occasionally longed for release, such sweet release, to fall into the embrace of death, with his kin and the voices of the earth, now as the moment arose it seemed too soon.

There was still so much he wanted to do. Free at last from his empty, stone prison, he could sleep beneath the starts, musing as he dozed, on his lessons as a hatchling. On some nights he would pair the dragons of his past with their respective star, as their celestial flames burned strong and bright far above the reach of his wings. And he missed them, oh how he missed them. His mother, magnificent and ferocious, the shadows of the forest awakened the longing for her polished jade scales. He longed for his brothers and sisters, with their flames that chased his tail, and singed the floor at his feet.

On a particularly miserable night, he'd dream of the father he had never known. He would picture scales, blood red and glistening, such a richer shade than his own. He'd dream of the heat of his flames, the warmth he'd radiate as he imparted his knowledge. For hours he'd imagine what he could have learnt. As his lineage taught him how to hunt, how to catch the wind just right so he'd drop out of the sky; unexpected and deadly, without so much as a flap to give himself away.

He longed for his race. For a chance to impart his own knowledge. To mate; to raise a clutch of his own. Oh what he could teach them…. What he could have taught them. But it was impossible. He was the last.

Last. Such an ugly word. Such an old word. Such a sad word. A word that would become woven into the life of the currently lifeless warlock. For Kilgharrah would save the boy, fate demanded it, but he would not pass unremembered. He would weave his unfulfilled future into Merlin's. Live the boy may, but he would be subject to the voice of Kilgharrah, of the dragons; of a dead species. The boy could not be allowed to forget the cost of his life. Wherever he stepped the boy would be apart from those beside him, his flame so much brighter than those he loved. He would stand apart, or he would consume them. Merlin was doomed to outshine any he met.

-And while Dragons were a vain race, there are none vainer than humans. So Merlin would be forced to remain in the shadows, lest he bring the jealousy of his kind upon him. It didn't matter that there was once a time the dragon considered Merlin kin, for as majestic and wise his kind were, they were also spiteful. And none could escape their vengeance.

So while Kilgharrah was powerless against the might of destiny and fate, he could still quench his feelings of unfairness on the boy.

Merlin, the boy with a bright shiny destiny, would suffer the fire breather's wrath. As he lived the life torn from them; all of them, he would also carry their curse. He would be, forever, alone.

Kilgharrah drew in a breath, a breath so deep he was forced to rear, exposing his chest to the swords and spears of Camelot's finest… and then before he could change his mind he exhaled, scorching the ground with his flames; fire dripping from his fangs.

The earth hissed and sizzled, seeming to draw away from the insufferable heat. Yet, the body, the one lone body, cold and unmoving, drew in the flames like a life line. Twisting and tugging as one would a blanket in the middle of winter. The flames, such a wonderful array of colours, reds and oranges, blues and white woven and knitted together, were unravelled. The white flames went first, the hottest and the brightest, tugged from his heart as if they were nothing but a piece of frayed string on a shirt.

The lifeless body, so empty, so void of all that was Merlin gave no thought to what it was taking, no thought to the being it was picking apart. It merely took what was needed and it needed power.

The next were the blues, and god, did Kilgharrah ache as they were ripped from him. As they danced, free of his control, a measly shadow of what they should be, of what he made them. They were the blues of his home, of the sea where he had been raised. The blue, bold and fearless, spoke of the countless battles, with dragons and men alike, that occurred in defence of his home. Of sisters and brothers he once protected.

With a roar he lunged for them, screaming for them to return. For the boy to give them back. He was giving his life; wasn't that enough, let him keep his dignity, let him keep his flames. Let him die as Kilgharrah, flames and spirit intact. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

But he couldn't move. He was pinned, like a fly in web of magic too powerful to escape. He'd made a choice, no matter how forced the choice had been. He had let loose the first torrent of flames, had re-sparked the lifeless boy, and all that entailed. Nothing could free him now.

He shrieked as the orange was ripped from him; as the energy was sapped from his bones and even the orange that sprinkled his eyes ran free with his tears.

Kilgharrah lurched, as the twisting and tugging extended to his core. It was agony. He screamed. Primal and pained, it shook Camelot's very foundations. The cry, unlike any other, easy drowned out the shouts of the many knights attempting to brave the flames, of the mere peasants screaming as they ran, of the pathetic whimpers of the boys friends, and they watched in anguish as the boys body lit up like forest fire. Uncontrollable heat flooded the square.

And why should it be controlled, it was the fire of a dragon. Powerful and ancient, why shouldn't it burn Camelot to its knees, so everyone for miles around would know a dragons strength; a dragons power, a dragons legacy even as it died-

As it died… to ensure a mere boys life. A boy who's life could not be exchanged for another puny excuse of a human. No. Destiny, the tune to which everything's strings danced, would not accept so little. It had demanded a race of dragons for the boys birth. And now, in order to re-kindle Merlin's spark, it demanded a dragon. The last dragon. Kilgharrah.

In his torment he wished his flames would extend to the hardened stone around him, he wanted the boy to awake to find nothing but ruins, to feel every bit of agony that Kilgharrah now felt, as his life seeped away. He wanted Merlin to hurt, as he was hurting now. To wake to find nothing left, to feel as Kilgharrah felt right now, as his yellow flames, the yellow flames, the first flames of his life stole away from his heart. For Merlin to question, just for a moment, whether it was worth it… whether a destiny, no matter how glorious, could ever be worth… this.

The dragon was thrashing now, its muscles contorting; twisting as it the sought to alleviate the insatiable burning caused by the fire coursing through his veins. Even through the pain he thought this was ridiculous. Dragons didn't burn. But he did. He felt the red flames; the flames of life and love, of everything he'd ever been, everything he'd never been and above all, everything he'd dreamt of being, lick at his skin. He felt it sear his scales, charring them a dull lifeless black as the rich blood coloured flames were dragged from his control.

Never he thought, had there ever been a worse death for a dragon. Not even in the old stories, where dragons had their still beating hearts ripped from their chests and eaten before them as the light dimmed in their eyes. Where dragons were pinned like cattle, stripped of their pride and slaughtered like prey. No, not even those, the nightmares of his youth could compare to having your essence stripped from you. Without his flames, he was not a dragon. He would be nothing but a scaled bird, unable to fly.

There was no greater humiliation, no greater loss. And Kilgharrah hoped the world burned with the injustice of it all. Had he known this was how it would end, that his life would not be enough, that he would be reduced in his last moments to nothing more than a waif of what he was… he would not have saved the warlock. He would have torn open his chest and hurtled into the great schism himself rather than allow fate to drag him here. He would have drunk long and deep from the lakes of Ísig, far north at the very edges of the world and frozen his heart cold in his chest. Anything would have been better than this.

He watched, his eyes as white as snow; now that the oranges and yellows had bled from his skin, as the ruby red flames smouldered around the warlock. He watched as they caressed the boys hair, licking gently at his cheeks, and all the while the dragon wished for their warmth, their comfort one last time. But it wasn't to be, the flames of his life finished his job and finally breathed life into young Merlin's cheeks.

Kilgharrah's eyes slid shut as he mourned, for the last time, the fate of the dragons, the loss of his flames, and finally, he mourned for himself. For the emptiness that would soon engulf him, for he was not to join his forefathers in the sky that wings could not reach. His flames were gone, trapped within a mere slip of a boy. There would be nothing to light the darkness, nothing to burn the sky with his story.

For Kilgharrah, the dragon that lived the longest, that gave up the most: There would be no remembrance.

Then he heard the gasp. Amongst the yells and cries, the orders and screams, the gasp stood out. Soft, so, so soft. It was too quiet to mark the moment life returned to the young warlock. It was far too quiet a moment to mark the moment life fled the dragon. But it did. One small sigh; one subconscious exhale in the entire world, and it was over.

Thud.

The body came tumbling. Wings were crushed beneath charred scales and aged limbs, bent and awkward they lay pinned; as their owner had been moments before. The body, already stone cold and quickly stiffening, lay unmoving beside the boy; beside the fire. Beside it's destiny.

But what did it matter.

The dead have no need for destiny's nor the heat of the warlocks flames, burning intensely; brightly.

~O~

The prince gazed on in horror. His head echoing with words he shouldn't have understood.

Take care of him young prince, for no flame can burn forever, and the sparks to save it have all run out…

~O~

AN: Uh, crap. This wasn't supposed to happen, I was just musing on the whole "balance" thing the Merlin writers have going on… and this happened. Evidently I shouldn't think to often because characters in my favourite shows seem to suffer. Dang it.

Uh, basically, I think Kilgharrah's interesting, he'd like a good guy (mostly) but he's also not. (If that makes any sense.) He's got feelings, and emotions and he's not quite as pure as our beloved warlock is made out to be, and as such I can't see him giving his life up all 'noble' like unless he was forced. And even then, he's not going to just take it. So this is what I came up with. Sorry…