All around him, men were dying. The air was clogged with blood and dust. The last tunnel's collapse reverberated through the city like a dragon's roar. And yet, the horizon of his thoughts remained unbroken. A great, hollow numbness was spreading outward from the memory of what had happened. Camelot was falling down around his ears, but all Merlin could see was the look on Arthur's face, as though the moment would go on forever.

He'd thought about it before, of course. He'd imagined telling Arthur a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. His dreams were full of daring hope. His nightmares always ended on an executioner's pyre. Over the years, he had constructed a multitude of arguments to explain himself, in the hopes that his king's wrath might be turned aside with words. None of those things occurred to him now. If Arthur had been in front of him, he wouldn't have been able to speak. All he could think of was the sound of booted feet on cobblestones, and the devastation unfolding as he turned.

He hadn't held out much hope of secrecy before, but now any pretense was gone. He stalked the streets of the city, using magic more liberally than he had in his entire life. Men died by the score, struck down in blasts of wind and tumbling stone. The first time he'd killed with magic, he'd thrown up afterward. Now he felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

With the tunnels collapsed, he turned his attention to the outside walls, where a great army was massed. Not enough for a siege, perhaps, but a significant force nonetheless. With most of the outer guard dead or surrounded, there was not much hope for a conventional defense of the outer walls. As he ascended the steps, he did not encounter a single soldier or knight. Only their mangled bodies and fallen weapons. Morgana's thugs had done their grisly work with precision and efficiency, leaving no one to raise the alarm.

Blood was pooling at the top of the stairs. He stepped clear of it and searched the walkways that ran from tower to tower. He found only death. And on the plains below, he could see torchlight glittering as the main force reacted to the collapse of the tunnels. They looked like they were rallying for an assault on the city.

Merlin thought of the townsfolk still trapped in their homes, laying low until the battle passed them by. It was impossible to tell how many had been able to flee to the citadel, but their number could not have been great. With the gates now undefended, the invaders would not need the use of the siege tunnels, and Camelot's defenders would be sorely pressed to win back the city. He conjured light and examined the crenelations for the marks he'd put there weeks ago.

It was funny, really, the way he had laid down spell after painstaking spell, knowing in his heart that he would be exposing himself, yet maintaining a sad little hope that his identity could remain unknown. As he glanced from the distant lights of the citadel to the approaching torchlight, he laughed. His voice sounded like broken glass, and then the rush of magic filled it. He had spent weeks laying dweomers all over the city. Now he spoke the words that would bring the enchanted stones to life.

It was an immense working. He did not realize how immense until he started pouring himself into it. He couldn't remember the last time a spell had taken so much so fast, like a dam bursting inside of him, power flooding out into the city. Tearing a building down didn't take nearly as much energy as bringing one to life. It felt as though a piece of him went with his magic, and he could sense the enchantment stirring all along the walls. It shivered to life, breathing with his breath, beating with his heart.

As Merlin sank to his knees, the stones of Camelot rose, flowing into the sinuous shapes of dragons: the crest of the royal house given lithic vitality. They erupted from the battlements, six great figures of stone that moved like living things. Stone wings arched over them because Merlin could not imagine a dragon without wings, but they were made of earth and bound to it, climbing down the ramparts and crawling toward the invading forces. The ground trembled under their stone claws, and the blue fire in their bellies illuminated them from within. They blazed across the darkened field, eclipsing the sea of torches borne by Morgana's soldiers. He prayed that her men would simply lose their heart for the fight.

Something spurred the invaders on. Perhaps they were enthralled, or commanded by captains as relentless as any Pendragon. Whatever the reason, they advanced, torches held high and battle lust thickening their screams. Merlin closed his eyes, but he could still the feel the tiny flickering souls that made up cohort after cohort. He could sense the life in them, misguided though they were. He knelt before the sheer drop of the parapet and shook.

The dragons paused in their advance, extending their stone wings and howling out their power in simultaneous mournful cries. "Just go," Merlin whispered futilely. "Just walk away."

The screaming lines of infantry continued to advance, closing in on Camelot's walls like the tide, as though they expected to simply bowl the dragons over with the sheer weight of their numbers. The fire lighting the creatures' scales intensified, turning a brilliant white-hot sapphire. Fanged maws opened on the approaching troops.

Merlin choked back a sob and released the flames.

The fire that roiled inside the stone dragons came rushing out in a devastating wave more ruinous than Kilgarrah's breath. It was instantaneous and devastating. The vanguard simply vanished, leaving only scorched earth to mark their passing. Further back, the fire reduced entire files to masses of charred bones. As the bodies piled up, the ranks finally broke, sending men fleeing in all directions. Most died before they could run very far, mangled legs bringing them to flailing halts. And when they fell, the superheated earth stilled their cries almost instantly.

The field was empty in a matter of minutes.

With a weary stagger, Merlin climbed to his feet, fingers scraping against stone. The wind that normally beat ceaselessly against the battlements was still. Banners hung limply from their posts. Nothing moved in that great, yawning emptiness. Nothing remained but ash and dust. He stared at it for a long moment, terrified by his own indifference. Where there should have been remorse, there was nothing but the cinders of his power, ready to be lit again in fury.

Slowly, the sounds of battle reached his ears. There were rivers of steel in the streets, pouring toward the castle. Rivers that he could stem without lifting a finger. The notion brought Arthur immediately to mind, covered in battlefield grime, betrayal pouring from him like blood. Less than a third of Morgana's army had made it through the tunnels before he'd collapsed them. Surely the castle barracks held enough knights to defend the citadel against such a force. With the invaders in disarray and separated from their fellows, the knights would likely be able to push them back and reclaim the lower town.

Unless, of course, Morgana had made it through.

Step by exhausted step, Merlin began making his way back through the hazy streets. He followed the clash of swords and the shouts of knights, winding between deserted buildings and lifeless bodies. He stopped every so often to close his eyes and listen for the whisper of magic, though in Morgana's case it was more likely to be a scream. But all he could feel was fire and ash and death and emptiness. And when he slipped under the shadow of the citadel, the dragons of Camelot thundered in his wake.

A/N: Usually don't do these, but just wanted to say thanks for the helpful comments on previous chapters.