A/N:

First of all, I want to apologise to everyone about the contents of the previous chapter. I knew it was dark, but had no idea how upsetting it would be to some of you. It was never my intention to scare any of you away, and I had thought that the warning I put in at the beginning of chapter one would suffice. I have now upped the rating of this fic, and added a warning in the summary, so it should give no more sleepless nights to anyone.

Secondly, I want to say a huge thank you for those of you who have stuck with my fic, despite its disturbing imagery, and showered me in your kind words of praise and encouragement (including those of you who were signed in as a guest, and therefore to whom I could not thank or apologise personally, as I would wish). It is thanks to you that this fic has a new chapter and has not been binned as a bad idea :O)

Disclaimer:

I do not own Merlin (and that's probably not a bad thing, as I would very likely make it so dark they would only be able to broadcast it at 2am, when all sensible people are in bed).


Chapter 9

Kilgharrah watched as the little white dragon stalked her prey. Whether the Rock Ptarmigan was already aware of the large reptile's not-very-sneaky approach (and was simply taunting her by waiting until the last second to take flight), or whether the bird really was that stupid, he couldn't be sure. But he couldn't help releasing the low, guttural laugh from deep within his throat when - after a small wiggle of the hatchling's rear, a lashing of the tail, and a distinctly undignified squeal - she leapt forwards, and the fat, speckled bird took to the wing. The erstwhile plaything only flew 20 yards away, before it fluttered back down to the grassy escarpment, as if it and the young dragon were performing an elaborate dance, and the bird was awaiting the next stage of the recital. Aithusa let out a growling huff; a fine trickle of smoke trailing out of each nostril, to drift on the brisk mountain breeze, as it momentarily flattened the clumps of grass and heather, and ruffled the feathers of the staring bird. Hearing her guardian's chortle, the young dragon angled her long, graceful neck around to fire a glare at him, before turning back around to begin her next shuffling approach to the feather-bound victim.

Being a foster parent to the only other dragon in all of Albion, and the first hatchling he had encountered for at least a hundred and fifty years, was no easy task for the Great Dragon, and he didn't exactly have much in the way of help with the role. The raising of a newly hatched dragon would normally be the combined effort of the mother dragon and her mate as well as no small contribution from both dragons' dragonlords. But with all adult dragons, besides himself, long dead, and only one dragonlord surviving - he barely more than a hatchling himself - the availability of mentors and chaperons was fairly limited.

As had more frequently been the case recently, Kilgharrah's thoughts turned to Balinor's son. In the weeks immediately following the warlock's summons of the white dragon from her shell, Merlin had visited the new dragon and her mentor, as often as his duties, and ability to sneak out of Camelot undetected, would allow. The young warlock had seemed to enjoy the company of the newest addition to the dragon race, and her juvenile antics, almost as much as she did those of the gangly human. Indeed, more often than not, the oldest member of the trio would have to remind his young lord of the approaching end of night and their regretful need to depart. Merlin would do so with a cheerful wave and a promise to see his kin again soon.

But gradually, the gap between their meetings had grown larger and larger, until the last few weeks, when there had been no summons to 'their' clearing at all. Kilgharrah's initial anger at the dragonlord's apparent abandonment of his duties, so early on, had soon given way to concern at the young man's continued absence. On the one hand, he was anxious for his young ward's development. Whilst the hatchling had the inborn ability to sense a wielder of magic when she was near one, without periodic contact with a dragonlord, in those important early years, she would not be able to acquire the ability to discern this race of men from other people with magic. Without Merlin's influence, she would not learn to take heed of those born to be her masters and her kin. In short, she could become untameable; wild. And that was a disastrous state for one of the last two dragons to be in, particularly when she was so small and vulnerable to the hate of ignorant men.

Then on the other hand, the Great Dragon was also troubled by the condition of his lord. Being kin, he had an unbreakable connection to the young warlock, and even when they were parted - as they were now - by a great distance, he could still sense - in some vague, almost subconscious way - when something was not right with Merlin. And something was definitely now right with him. Something had been 'not right', and become increasingly 'not right', for some time now. It was not often that Kilgharrah fretted over something. He had a thousand years of life experiences and even older prophecies to lend strength to his conviction that what was, was what must be (and therefore, there was no use in trying to rewrite what could not be unwritten). Now, however, Kilgharrah was very disturbed by the feelings his empathic link with the warlock had revealed to him.

What had started out as minor sensations of ineptitude and dispiritedness had changed - over a relatively short period time, from a dragon's perspective - through anxiety and moroseness, into what could only be described as despair. The 'presence' that was Merlin, at the back of the dragon's mind, now sat in a cloud of complete and utter hopelessness - so much so that it weighed heavily in Kilgharrah's heart, like a large lump of granite. A cloud that could not be dispersed by even the most comical of diversions his white charge provided.

With a loud and deep grunt, that sounded like the rumble of an encroaching thunderstorm, the golden dragon came to a decision. As deeply as it burned against the bonds of his dragonlord's command, he wanted - no needed - to go to Camelot. Only then would he be close enough to 'speak' with his lord, and gain some insight as to why the young man was no longer the buoyant, sanguine person he had always been.

Kilgharrah looked over at his young charge, who had now taken to chasing the small bird in the air, instead of on the ground, with no greater success in catching it (having a lot less experience and agility in flight). Drawing in a great lungful of air, the great dragon expelled it in a single, brief puff, and the Ptarmigan, caught in the powerful gust, was bowled over and over, its wings flapping frantically, until it was able to regain control of its path. With a very agitated twittering, it flew as far and fast away as it could from the two suddenly-not-so-benign creatures it had shared airspace with.

Uttering an angry trill at the early termination of her game, Aithusa landed - a little clumsily, to her mentor's exasperation - in front of the golden dragon. She flapped her wings once or twice to communicate her annoyance, before folding them neatly along her back and looking up at him, her head cocked to one side.

"I was playing with that!" the white dragon said huffily, in the great dragon's mind.

"Hmm," Kilgharrah grumbled back. "Birds are not for playing with; they are for eating insects or being eaten. And you were supposed to be practicing the spell I taught you, not playing, young one," he admonished.

Aithusa hung her head despondently. "Sorry, Gharrah," she muttered, eyes staring at the heath, that had been flattened by her curtailed game, at her feet. "I was bored!"

"Kilgharrah," he reminded her, as he had done so many times, since that first time she had squeaked his name in his head. "And you must learn to focus, young one, on the task at hand. A dragon without control of his magic is like-"

"The Once and Future King without Emrys. Yes, I know!"Aithusa chimed in a blasé tone.

"Then you must practice, as all beings of magic must."

"Yeees, Gharrah," the white dragon's tone was bordering on insolence, to which the great dragon gave a gruff harrumph.

"Good, then remember that, for the next couple of days while I'm away; I will expect to see much improvement when I return."

At this, the white dragon looked into his molten eyes, her interest piqued. "Where are you going?"

Kilgharrah, not wishing to involve the dragon in his concerns for the warlock, or place her in danger by taking her too close to the world of men (she was still so unwise in the ways of magic-haters), only said, "I need to speak with someone."

"Is it Merlin?" she perked up further with enthusiasm.

"No," he lied, though sorry to have to do so, in the face of her desire to see the warlock again after so long. However, he steeled himself against her all too apparent display of disappointment, and said sternly, "I will escort you back to our cave, and you will stay there until I return." When the hatchling was about to moan a protest, he cut her off with a deep rumble in his throat, that drew smoke from the corners of his pursed mouth, and the young dragon's gaze fell south again, her wings drooping in capitulation.

The great dragon gave one final, satisfied grunt and then said simply, "Come," before launching himself in the cooling afternoon air, with a great thrust from the bunched muscles of his hind quarters.

The Rock Ptarmigan peeked above the shelter of the pink-flowered heather it had been cowering under, in time to see two large silhouettes shrinking in the sky above it, heading south. Relieved that the immediate danger had passed, the speckled bird flew out from the low shrub and began pecking at the scrubby ground again; feasting on the insects that were drawn by the diminishing heat of the fading day.


Darkness.

All around him.

Not the comforting, peaceful, restful kind, that you would get from a deep, satisfying sleep. No, this was heavy, suffocating, cloying. Weighing him down like a mountain of blankets left out in winter rain.

He wanted to escape, but no matter how hard he tried, the unrelenting darkness would not let him. In a near state of panic, he attempted to reach out to something or someone for help, to drag him out of the mire he was caught in, but he wasn't even sure if he could feel his limbs anymore, never mind see anything that would aid his escape.

He called out, and only then realised he had no voice. Or perhaps he did, but could not hear it; the darkness smothering every sense, every connection to the world around him. All he was, was a collection of emotions, feelings, and all that they felt was wrongness. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Avalon was supposed to feel calm; a haven of unearthly beauty where those who had passed on were reunited with the ones they had loved and lost.

Not this...this loneliness and nothingness. This was no better than the world he had left behind. At least there he could feel and see and hear and he was not physically alone. Even though he had felt isolated and outcast - a monster, for his sinful gift...his curse - he had had company, and air to breathe, and wind, and rain on his face. There were people who cared for him - or at least, pretended to - even if he had lost the desire to care about himself for some time now.

How could the philosophers have got it so wrong? This was not how the afterlife should be. If he had known, maybe he wouldn't have... But how could he have known? Death was the ultimate question. The only way to answer it was to experience it, and then there was no going back to the state of not knowing.

Ignorance is bliss!

Time passed. But with no method for measuring it, he had no way of knowing if it was minutes or hours or days. Only that it was too long. He couldn't stay here forever, could he? Because he was still aware, damn it! He could still think, still knew of his existence. And though he probably deserved this new state of being, it was somehow also unfair. He had just wanted to be free. Free from the pain in his body and his mind. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so. Because now that he thought about it, he was hurting. He was sore, in more places than one.

Eh? When did that happen? He tried to isolate where the pain was coming from, but it was too muddled and mixed in with the noise and the heat.

There was noise...no, noises. They gurgled and bubbled in his ears, making as little sense as if he had his head underwater. Was he drowning? He didn't feel wet. Or did he? Nothing made any sense anymore, so could he trust his senses? After a moment or two of thinking about it, he realised that he was actually hot...very hot in fact. It was like the times when he was forced to dress from head to foot in armour and spend the day in the sweltering heat of the mid-summer sun, while Arthur refined his skills in beating a half-cooked prey senseless with a mace, or sword, or axe - whatever took his royal fancy.

He could not feel the surface beneath him or his clothes around him, but he could feel the heat leave him in waves, bar a cooler patch on his forehead...or at least where he believed his forehead to be.

He tried to focus on the sounds...voices, he instinctively knew...but they would not be separated into comprehensible words, so he left them to swirl in his consciousness and out his ears, until they were ready to make more sense...damn them! Whatever they were and whoever was saying them, they did not sound happy. Maybe angry, or sad, or pleading, he really couldn't tell, so thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. He was probably better off not knowing anyway. For a fleeting moment, he thought that he might have said as much in answer to the voices, but if he did, he either couldn't hear his own words or didn't know what they meant, so it was pointless listening out for a response from whomever had been - and, for all he knew, could still be - talking to him...or about him...or even just near him. He knew better by now than to believe that he had the right to be the centre of anyone's attention. For that, you had to matter.

For now, the world was a confusing, hot, noisy place, and he was better off out of it.

He drifted, and he was glad to escape the bewildering sounds and heat and horrible feeling of suffocation that the darkness evoked...

Some time later, he could have sworn he had opened his eyes - did he still have eyes? - and a blur materialised from the gloom. The blur grew in size, like it was coming closer, perhaps? He was pretty certain it was not him that had moved, so whatever - or whoever - it was must have moved towards him. The details of the blur only sharpened marginally - not enough to tell who it was, but enough to let him know that it was a person, or at least a face (but you couldn't get a face without a body behind it, he mused detachedly). The slightly less undefined blob definitely had hair - though he could not tell what colour - and could have been wearing something red, but then again, it could have been an angry swarm of bees, judging by the sound that seemed to be emanating from the blob. It was angry, demanding; a buzzing in his ears that he did not like, though he couldn't quite hear the words, if there were any that is. The sound rose and sank in pitch, like a crazy tune, played by a novice musician. And was that his name, in amongst the raggedy hubbub?

He blinked once, twice; each time the blob dissipated a little more, and the noise grew less distinct. The third blink didn't happen, or if it did, it was infinitesimally slow, because the darkness once again engulfed him.

The next time he opened his eyes, he could see a great deal more clearly, and what he saw made his heart sink to the pit of his stomach.

"Welcome back."