A/N I thank each and every one of you for reading my story and I am most thankful for the kind comments in my reviews. I had not hoped for such a wonderful response!

Wind

No one can see the wind. It moves invisible over the earth, and only the movement of all that bows to it's will reveals its prescence. The leaves sing with the silent voice of the air' the water dances to it's unheard melody. No one can deny it's power, neither the stones of the eternal land, nor the birds who sing it's praises at dawn.

Creature of the air, Kilgarrah had surged high with a rush, lifting the rider from his back with the power of wings as he rode the wind. With fear in his throat,and exhilaration in his heart, Merlin had soared, whooping with amazement, drunk with the heady thrill of youth, his heart beating as one with his companion. But the dragon was gone. His kind existed only in books and stories for children; the mighty rush of his passing invisible as memory, as empty as a promise, like the wind.

Merlin could not forget. The warlock, who in his youth could not navigate the world of magic without the advice of his cryptic kin, could no longer find forgiveness in his heart. Lost in the aftermath of Camlann, desolate in his sorrow, alone in the darkness, the meaning of Kilgarrah's words came clear and Merlin's anger grew. He had the time to review and think of all the things that had passed between the ancient creature of magic and himself. He puzzled over the dragon's words, searching his heart for the truth and only in hindsight could he begin to grasp what the beast had really been saying. He began to see that Kilgarrah had herded him towards an unimaginable end, towards Arthur's death, all the while insisting that his role was to protect the prince, who had become his life. He began to resent the warnings given in words so vague, that he could not have begun to understand the real meaning of the words. He realized that Kilgarrah had always known the terrible price Merlin would pay for the future, for it had been the root of the unspoken secret in his eyes. And while he professed to care for the young warlock,his every move had moved Merlin into this bleak hell. He saw that the dragon had betrayed the naive and gallant boy that he had been.

Deep in his scarred soul, he burned when he remembered the words of destiny. The Once and Fuure King and the time of Albion. At so many points, he could have walked away or he could have followed the promptings of his heart. A thousand, thousand times he had despaired over his decision to take the middle road between his own heart and the dragon's terrible pragmatism. In retrospect he agonized over the times, he had rejected the dragon's admonition to kill Morgana, and to end the life of Mordred. He imagined their blood, taking the place of Arthur's and remorse ate at his soul. His rage at his indecision and hesitation would burn in one lightning strike after another on those dark and windy nights. But just as often, he regretted his decision to leave Morgana in the dark about their magic, to leave Mordred to the mercy of the world, when he had been no more than a lost child. And then, broken by his guilt, his heart would scream as it burned in the tornado of depression that blinded him to the world for months at a time.

Slow and terrible, his anger built over the years. As surely as anger had built in Kilgarrrah, confined and betrayed in the dark by Uther and his madness, Merlin's anger had grown. He realized that he had been manipulated into this terrible circle of fate by the dragon he had trusted. He tried to remember how anger had slowly twisted and ruined Morgana, crippling her until she knew nothing but vengeance. He reminded himself of how anger had broken Mordred in the instant of Kara's death, leaving only the reality of his sword. He turned from his anger again and again as the years passed. He tried to remember Arthur's voice insisting that he remain who he was. He fought long and relentlessly against the storm of his anger, but the injustice of Arthur's fate sang to him, as once the voice of the dragon had haunted his dreams. And in the end, he could no more resist it's power, than he could have refused Kilgarrah's first call.

Samhain found Merlin by the lake of Avalon. Even now, in the modern world , the subtle magic of the Sidhe made the lake seem less noticeable, above scrutiny of all the passersby, for it had always been there. Merlin himself had learned that trick long ago, when he had walked by the side of his king. He had formed a strange relationship with the pool of water set in a circle of grassy sedge. He both hated and loved it's tranquil presence, it's unchanging beauty. It was comfort, it was pain, it was memories. It was here that he had parted with those he had loved the most. Here they had passed from his sight in a flare of gold. Freya. Lancelot. Arthur. Here the veil was present always and the air itself surged through him as the moon rose, cold and white, over the rippling water. The island in the lake was obscured by the a roiling fog, but the warlock could feel it's prescence.

Carefully, Merlin raised his hands, palms outward, and he swept the layers of the veil aside, even as he felt the energy in them plummet. Only the merest division remained, a gossamer web of shimmering power, and within him, from the dark maelstrom of his lonliness and his anger, Merlin called. He called to the spirits he had loved at the begining of his journey. It no longer mattered who answered, for he knew he would treasure even the merest glimpse, the tiniest glint of recognition in a familiar face. Even Mordred. Even Morgana. He never hoped it could be Arthur. The warlock found his balancing point in the power that shimmered whitely now over the water. The wind filled him with the energy of the breathing earth. From the deepening curls of fog, emerged a face whiter than the moonlight.

Aithusa. Crippled almost beyond recognition, twisted and stunted, unable to utter a single word but to moan her pain, the ghost of the dragon he had called forth in joy, looked into his eyes once more. He felt again the depth of his failure as he gazed into the hollow abyss between them, for it echoed his failure to protect Arthur. All he had begun in hope had come to this.

He whispered the dragon's name on the wind that moved between them. The creature's eyes were blue still, burning with the azure heat at the heart of a flame. Facing the last of his kin, Merlin was beyond words, letting his anger and pain flood him in a torrent of silent power, and at the same instant, he felt the pain strike him, shocking as an arrow, as Aithusa opened her heart as well. Anger at the fate that had moved them to this point; anger for the hope that once had filled their hearts tortured them both with a desperate sense of injustice and despair. Anger at Kilgarrah, who had stood helpless at the hand of fate, and had issued only enough information to tempt them to their doom.

Love for Morgana who existed like a living image in the white dragon's heart overwhelmed Merlin, torturing him with the memory of his own silent love for her. She had been Aithusa's only comfort in the endless pain of the pit, her mistress who was both valiant and terrified, haunted by love and betrayal, beautiful as the edge of a knife. Morgana.

Arthur. Bold and arrogant, pure of heart as few could understand. His sword echoed through time, ringing with thunder, burning bright with the dragon's immortal burnishing, where it lay sunk in the dark waters of Avalon. The dream of a free world, where the magic of the Old Religion would be accepted echoed like a helpless scream. Love and tragedy drew their magic closer. Merlin and Aithusa joined their pain in the echoes of the wind, drawing from their soul a single note of awful and holy power.

Forgiveness.

Mercy.

So it is that grace is written forever in the winds of time. None can see the wind, but none can deny it's power.

It was enough.