Epilogue

One year later…

Percival stood in the door-less closet they called the laundry room, folding the last of the washed-and-dried linens on the ledge formed by cabinets that sat on the wood-plank floor. He wiped a trickle of sweat on the shoulder of his sleeveless tunic; the building's fireplace was just on the other side of the wall, and kept burning most of the day for hot water.

Matching corners and allowing his mind to wander, he remembered the times when water could be conjured already hot, and dismissed to leave linens instantly dry, as well. Much had changed in a year – but on the whole, he was more than happy to do the clinic's laundry as a freedman. The first of the laws to change was the conditional prohibition of emancipation – and Merlin's signature on their papers was dry not an hour later.

"And if you walked outside, you'd be shivering," Gwaine remarked without sympathy, lounging into the doorway behind him.

Percival fitted the last sheet into its section of the set of cupboards lining the wall. "If you haven't got anything better to do than stand there and watch –"

"I'm supervising," Gwaine claimed with a grin.

"You might consider lending a hand." He unabashedly reminded his friend, "It's my day off tomorrow."

And where Gwaine might once have protested, in that case Percival needed to do his own work today, he understood the impatience to finish and be gone. Because Percival had someplace to go, on his day off. Not quite home, as all three of them called the quarters behind the clinic – but a close second.

"Yeah," Gwaine said, "about that. I'm to do the infirmary rounds this evening, and Merlin has a last-minute patient he needs your help with. Because he can't be late for dinner."

"No, I suppose not." Percival gave the room a glance – sheets, towels, washing-cloths, bandages, rags all stored in plentiful supply – then headed for the front of the building, the smaller private room where Merlin performed initial examinations.

"Say hello for me tonight, yeah?" Gwaine called after him, heading the opposite direction toward the kitchen in the rear. Percival waved a hand without slowing, to show he'd heard and agreed.

Past the room where the vessels were kept and washed, everything from chamber-pots to tiny dose-cups. Past the room where Merlin stored and mixed his medicinal supplies. Past the door to the infirmary – he glanced in at the rows of cots and curtains, stools and small tables stacked neatly at the far end in readiness for need. Only two patients in residence, both recovering from sweating sickness but still quarantined for their families' safety.

Coming up to the examination room, he could hear Merlin speaking.

"No, I don't think it's sweating sickness. Maybe a touch of pneumonia – nothing serious but it's made worse by… um. Lack of proper nutrition and. Shelter."

An amused huff from the patient, followed by a bout of coughing. Percival arrived in the doorway to see a raggedly-clothed older man hunched on the table; he was tall, by the way his legs dangled, big-boned but – as Merlin had awkwardly mentioned – undernourished. He was turned away from the doorway, watching Merlin at the far end of the table, mixing some draught or healing concoction. His jaw was square and unshaven, graying whiskers nearly as long as the bristle covering his scalp and retreating from his forehead.

"You've surely heard the rumors," the man said, his voice holding the hoarse sound of a sore throat. "Another change to the laws. Slaves to be freed when they've worked off the price paid for them."

"That about sums it up," Merlin murmured, swirling the liquid in a little dose cup and holding it up to the light. Percival thought, it was probably far more complicated than that, but Merlin would know, as a frequent visitor to the palace.

"Additionally, slaves are to be manumitted with some recompense for the years served beyond that price-met," the man continued, sounding like he was repeating something that had been told to him. "So my mistress decided to get ahead of that bit of legislation. Turn me loose early and with nothing, and not have to pay a physician to get me over this cough, neither. Not when I'm old and useless."

The voice sounded familiar to Percival, even without the rasp of illness, but he couldn't quite grasp the memory.

"Old does not mean useless," Merlin disagreed, adding a few drops to his mixture from another bottle.

"Be as it may," the stranger said, and coughed again. "I was told your clinic sometimes cares for the likes of me without asking pay…"

"You heard right." Merlin's grin was wide, even in profile – and brilliant as he turned to hand the man the cup. "Now, I apologize, but I simply can't stay."

He glanced up to note Percival waiting, as the man tipped his chin to down the medicine, and Percival nodded. Merlin was meant to dine at the palace tonight, with Queen Guinevere and Lord Arthur her betrothed – and that was a city-wide scandal only just settling down. The occasion was to celebrate Arthur's new citizenship – earned as most of the seventeen-year-olds this year, not in the arena, but through a series of written tests, interviews and testimonies, hours of various forms of service without pay. It was something he'd thought about doing himself, someday, but… someday.

Merlin had said, he and Gwaine might have been invited, but for the fact that Commander Ygraine and her husband were to be there. And that was a revelation not-so-shocking, upon second thought, Arthur's mother had married his sire, and in secret – apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it. Percival didn't suppose he envied Merlin the meeting of Arthur's father, formidable by reputation; the treat of a royally-prepared feast was probably offset by the awkwardness of the finery and required manners. If either Tristan or Leon - Arthur's replacement as the steward of Dubois garrison - could have made the trip, Percival might have regretted missing it, but as it was, he could congratulate Arthur the next time they met for a sparring session on the royal grounds; he and Gwaine had a standing invitation to participate, courtesy of Her Majesty.

"My assistant Gwaine should have something decent prepared for the dinner of those in our infirmary, you're welcome to join them," Merlin added. "Percival can show you…"

The man's head snapped up to stare at Merlin – then followed his gaze, turning for the first time toward the doorway. And froze so thoroughly Merlin could not pry the dose-cup from his thin, dirty fingers.

Percival was sympathetic to the reaction, standing very still in a shock of his own. "Scandyr. Isn't it."

"I thought you might be here." The older man pushed himself gingerly from the table, straightened slowly and maybe with a bit of pain, but his hands landed on Percival's shoulders almost as heavily as they used to, and his gray eyes were clear. "I hoped you would be."

He turned slightly without releasing Percival – who somehow couldn't lift his arms for any reciprocal embrace – to see Merlin staring in surprise.

"I heard it first last year. Boy made citizen out of the arena, and two opponents from the military spared for slavery. The names - Percival, being one of them. Then of course that business between the young queen and her old mother – again hearing that name Percival." He gave Percival a shake – not near as strong as he remembered, but it unbalanced him enough that he could move again, and reached to grip the older man's upper arms.

"I went back," he said, his voice feeling thick in his throat. "Soon after. I went back to the neighborhood, found my mother, my sisters… but not you."

"No," Scandyr agreed, and snuffled a pair of jewel-hard tears away from his eyes. "That mistress, sent me to the auction block not yet a year after you were marked for the military." He lifted one wrinkled, trembling hand to turn Percival's head enough to see it, and the long-healed brand that once had marked him Merlin's for life – meaningless, now, and yet not. "How are they, then, your mother and sisters?"

"Cwyla has been a teacher a few years now, and Gaelle passed the queen's test for citizenship three months ago," Percival said, and went on without a breath. "I'm to have dinner with them tonight, I'm just now leaving, why don't you come with me?"

Scandyr's lips twisted, rearranging both wrinkles and scars, on his face. "And what makes you think that I'd be welcome at your mother's table?"

And what made Percival think it wasn't his mother's table, that Scandyr was thinking of, in terms of past welcome? He said, in a low voice though Merlin knew this and understood, "She never told me who my –" deliberately he used the word – "father, was."

The older man's gray gaze held his. "She never told me, either."

"Come anyway," Percival said. Things were changing. "Maybe she will."

"And maybe she won't," Scandyr countered. Then ducked his head and shuffled his feet. "But… I'll come with you, boy. This once, anyway."

Glancing past the old soldier, Percival caught the gleam of Merlin's grin – likely at hearing someone call him boy. But as Scandyr made his slow way – with a slight limp – towards Percival in the door, Merlin followed, and Percival's perception of his boy-master's grin changed. It was pure delight, that Percival had found someone he'd been close to. His father, for all intents and purposes, responsible for the training that had placed Percival in the military, if not his sire.

Percival gently clapped Scandyr's shoulder, and encouraged him to the door.

"If nothing else, we can find work for him here," Merlin said, shifting close to Percival's ear so the old man wouldn't hear. "You look like him, you know."

Percival's heart squeezed, and something like joy burst out into his chest. "Thanks, Merlin."

"Have fun at dinner."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You, too."

Then Merlin's smile dropped, and he groaned in realization, "Oh, lords, what will General Uther think of me – I'm going to be late!"

Two years later…

"Merlin has really horrible timing," Gwen confided to her newest and youngest secretary.

The girl, petite and pretty with dark soulful eyes and brown hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, was a new citizen, this past month. She'd passed the series of tests Gwen had formulated with her council – to replace the carnage of the arena, and to place young boys and girls on a more even footing – with the sort of results that drew attention. In the best of ways, but Gwen had found her personally shy and uncertain, though a little encouragement and experience should diminish that.

Freya glanced up at the sky, stepping out from the edge of shade where Gwen relaxed in a chair placed for her by a guard, at the bottom of the wall separating arena-sand from the nearly-empty seating. Nearly empty, because Gwen had allowed the rumors, so that the citizens of Camelot – still mostly female, but now including the young men from the last two years, as well as a handful of older ones, also – would not be terrified by the unexpected arrival of their guests.

"I don't see anything, yet," Freya told her. "Merlin's not so late…"

"I wasn't speaking of his timing for the meeting," Gwen said. "I mean, in about seven months' time, I'm going to wish that Merlin was here, not–"

"I am here!" a familiar voice called down the corridor behind them.

Freya turned, and Gwen twisted in her seat to squint past the two guards posted, into the hallway, dim after the open-air sunshine. The footfalls of his boots echoed at a quick pace as he came into view, jogging to join them. He gave Freya a quick glance, then made his bow to Gwen.

"Your Majesty. I'm sorry I'm late, again?" It wasn't an uncommon thing, but no one minded – Merlin's clinic sometimes took precedence over leisure hours spent with friends. "The boys wanted to come with me." He twisted to look up into the stands.

Gwen followed his gaze to see three men standing a quarter of the way up. Gwaine up on one of the bench-seats, shading his eyes to scan the sky, while the other two faced each other for closer conversation. She smiled; Percival really did look like Scandyr. Gwaine gave a shrill whistle that echoed against the stone, and waved, and she turned to see her husband in the middle of the arena return the salute – but continue his own skyward vigil.

"No, you're not late," she told Merlin, stretching out a hand for him to kiss with his habitually endearing boyish twinkle. He straightened to look out over arena and sky, and she added, "We were speaking of another matter."

"Oh?" His attention was mostly on Arthur, heedless of the sun Gwen and Freya avoided, in awaiting their guests.

"Have you met Freya?" Gwen added, trying to remember the occasion of Merlin's last visit, and who had been in attendance. "My newest secretary."

Merlin turned to the girl in that way he had of paying a person complete and almost intimate attention, that Gwen adored and sometimes envied. "No, I don't think I have. Lovely to meet you – a new citizen?"

"This year," she admitted shyly, turning pink. Gwen rolled her eyes, but smiled – Freya had a lot of growing up to do.

"Congratulations, then." Merlin swayed toward her and opened his mouth to say more, but Arthur's shout from the center of the sand interrupted and distracted.

"Guinevere!"

She stood from her seat to Merlin's other side, all three of them following Arthur's full-arm point to the sky. A black dot suspended there, growing in size by the faintest and slowest degrees – like a sparrow – an eagle –

"Gwen," Merlin said, without taking his eyes from the approaching figure, and sounding a bit tense. "It's… just… he's…"

She squeezed his upper arm through the blue sleeve of his shirt, and leaned closer to whisper, "It's okay. He can't be worse than Arthur's father."

It was a measure of Merlin's nerves, that he didn't so much as chuckle at her joke. He gave her a quick glance and a wry smile, then strode out to join Arthur. Gwen delayed, and Freya stepped closer as their guests took clearer shape, and dropped slowly toward the best landing-field Gwen could think of, when the meeting had been affirmed by return courier.

"My lady," the young secretary said faintly. "Are you quite sure it's… safe?"

Gwen snorted, even as she felt a similar twinge of uncertainty over the upcoming visit – though no one had written or come to her personally with hysterical warnings of riots provoked by this overture.

"I'm quite sure neither of them are safe," she said. The shape of those wings were almost bat-like, but enormous – and the claws that extended for landing seemed almost ready to snatch Arthur and Merlin – moving back to give the creature space. The man on the back of the dragon's neck seemed almost tiny in comparison. Cries echoed thinly from the stands; she hoped they were in amazement, rather than genuine fear, but sometimes fear had to be faced, to be discounted. "But Merlin assures us that the desire for alliance is genuine, and he's thoroughly trustworthy, of course. Arthur didn't think there were going to be any real problems."

And Arthur was surprisingly intuitive about potential conflict, how to handle it strategically, and rarely with head-on brute force. She was so fortunate to have him.

Thousands of tiny grains leaped into the air when the dragon touched down; Freya might've squeaked - might've grabbed Gwen's arm if she'd been anyone else. It seemed to Gwen that the creature took his time settling, folding his wings – preening, maybe, or laughing at the trepidation of his audience.

That wouldn't do.

Gwen squared her shoulders, setting off across the sand to meet their guests, aware of Freya just beyond her right elbow, and the two armed guards taking up escort positions behind them both.

The figure of a man, dark-haired and dark-clothed, dropped as the dragon bowed his head briefly. Merlin stepped forward, leading with his hand – the man took it, but pulled Merlin into an embrace that looked genuinely heartfelt.

"Oh, good," Gwen said aloud, involuntarily.

Because of course heritage could not be denied, nor the responsibilities it brought, but she had worried a private bit for the young man who planned to spend so long with his father's people, and away from his friends. Seeing the greeting of Balinor the Dragonlord for his son, Gwen was comforted that heritage and responsibilities would be softened by family and love.

"Oh, my," Freya murmured.

Gwen had to agree with her, there. The man turning from a more reserved greeting of Arthur, looked wilder than any she'd ever seen, tougher than a soldier or a criminal. His clothing was leather, and tight-fitting – for flying, she presumed – his height equal to Merlin's, but his shoulders and chest filled out with more muscle than his young son. Long hair and a full beard, shot with silver, only slightly offset by the hint of an amiable twinkle in dark eyes.

But Merlin, keeping pace with him, half-turned as if he couldn't quite tear his eyes away from his parent, was absolutely lit from inside with excitement. "Gwen – this is my father, Balinor. Father, this is Queen Guinevere of Camelot."

"I'm so glad you agreed to come, you are very welcome," she said, bravely giving her hand to him. As untamed as his dragon, she thought. But though his hand was rough and scarred, his touch was gentle as Merlin's. Briefly she wished she could have shown a moment like this, to her mother, years ago – not by force, but by friendship.

"You honor us with your invitation," Balinor said. "King Arthur has already met him, but I'm proud to present more formally to both Your Majesties - Kilgarrah, eldest of the dragons of Albion."

Oh, lords, she had not anticipated this introduction – Gwen supposed it would be rude at least, to expect any sort of obeisance from such a creature, and chose the regal nod that was appropriate from one monarch to another. Arthur's salute was slightly deeper, head and shoulders, both.

The dragon settled down over his forelegs – so like a cat it was startling.

But Merlin whipped around to stare at the creature disapprovingly. "None of that, now," he warned, sounding abruptly more mature than she usually saw him.

The dragon huffed smoke from his nostrils, and Balinor frowned from his son to his dragon, and back. "What?"

"Oh, he… claims credit in the ascension of both their Majesties," Merlin said, glancing embarrassed at Gwen and Arthur both.

She looked toward her husband, remembering that day, herself. Not as soon as she would have liked, there had been prejudices to overcome and reassurances to be made, among the most influential women of her kingdom.

Arthur met her eyes with a gleam in his own – a bold look he usually reserved for private – a look that reminded her of the moment of coronation. It was confidence – in the love they shared, in mutual respect, in her security of identity and understanding of him - but also a playful tease to threaten queenly solemnity.

To share the moment and the memory – but also to rebuke him slightly – she raised her chin, in a challenge that nearly set him off laughing. And it was due to his respect for her, that he didn't.

"Just because you can see the future," Balinor stated – addressing them, but with his eyes on Kilgarrah. "Does not mean that you are responsible for bringing it to pass, by what you say or do – or don't."

The dragon turned his head, affecting disinterest. Gwen almost chuckled.

"This is my aide, Freya," she said, looking around belatedly to see that the girl hadn't succumbed to fright, and slipped off. Freya clutched her schedule-book tightly to her chest, eyes wide and maybe a bit pale – but stepped forward at the introduction.

"My lady," Balinor said gravely, extending an invitation for her hand that she met involuntarily.

"Oh, I'm not…" Freya stammered, as the bearded dragonlord lifted her slim hand for a light kiss, as he'd done to greet Gwen herself. "Not even nobility," she murmured, glancing around as her cheeks pinked, but no one else was disconcerted as she was, and Gwen smiled to encourage her. If they were to begin to treat with foreign royalty, they would need to anticipate foreign customs or oddities. And men.

"We have accommodations for you arranged in the palace, for the duration of your stay," Gwen said to Balinor.

She took Arthur's elbow as he offered it, and angled her body as an request for the older man to walk abreast of them, toward the open door that led eventually to the palace. Merlin seemed perfectly happy to fall in behind them with Freya, and the guards, who'd kept respectful distance during the greetings, brought up the rear of the procession.

"Unless you'd prefer to be closer to Kilgarrah?" she added. There were plenty of chambers within the arena complex, that could be fitted for a guest's comfort.

"Great scaly beast is on his own," Balinor said cheerfully. Behind them, Kilgarrah adjusted his wings with a snap, and turned his back. "As long as your people keep their distance, he's prepared to tolerate gawking."

Gwen glanced up and around, at the several people who had come to the arena to see the rumored dragon for themselves. Gwaine, Percival, and Scandyr were still present, though their attention seemed to remain on Kilgarrah, and they were headed away from the trio.

"I don't believe anyone will bother him," Arthur said dryly.

Balinor shot them a bearded version of Merlin's humor-filled smile, and paused at the open doorway, as the corridor was narrow for three people to walk together comfortably, bowing his head and gesturing his willingness to wait. "I made him promise not to hurt anyone while we were here," he confided. "And no mortal weapon can hurt him, in any case."

As she lingered, Gwen's reaction was relief – but beside her, Arthur's hand moved to grip the hilt of Excalibur, and she remembered. The dragonlords had been informed of the culmination of the quest when she and Merlin had sent their first missive to establish communication; Merlin had said, Kilgarrah probably already knows.

"Yes, that would probably do it," Balinor said, but his smile remained in place, unworried. "May I see it? It is one thing to be taught that your life's purpose is guarding a legendary weapon – quite another to look upon it with your own eyes."

Arthur drew the blade with a ring of metal, and offered it horizontally on his palms. Balinor stepped right up to him to study Excalibur, passing his hand over it without touching – as Ygraine once had, Gwen remembered, in the Watch gatehouse.

"The drawing of it…" The older man met Arthur's eyes without raising his head. "It wasn't easy, was it."

"Well, actually…" Merlin murmured.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said. "You missed most of it, anyway. No, it wasn't… easy."

"But impressive, nevertheless." Balinor dropped his hand, and Arthur – who'd probably have been perfectly fine with the older man taking the weapon for a more thorough handling or testing – re-sheathed it. "I can hear Kilgarrah –" the dragonlord tapped his temple – "over quite a distance, so I'm sure we'll be fine. After the rough living our community is used to, I confess I'm quite looking forward to enjoying the accommodations of a palace."

"If there's anything you or Kilgarrah need, please don't hesitate to ask," Gwen said.

"Thank you, my lady, but I honestly don't anticipate a lengthy stay."

"Why not?" she said curiously. "Surely you know you're welcome to stay as long as you like."

"I hear you're both clever and reasonable," Balinor said, his glance including both of them. "And our conditions are few, and simple. It won't take us long to come to terms."

"That may be so," Arthur said, as Gwen was inwardly reassured to hear Balinor's confidence as representative of his people. "But still –"

"Honestly, Majesties… My brethren are eager to receive and instruct Merlin as my son – and heir of our gift, one day when I'm gone." Balinor smiled, slinging an arm around his son's shoulders; Merlin looked happily surprised to hear it. "I had to promise them not to get too comfortable here, and bring him back as soon as possible."

Arthur signaled gently, and Gwen agreed, stepping into the shade of the corridor beside him, as father and son followed them closely. "How long are you going to take him off our hands for?" he said carelessly.

"Hey," Merlin gave a token protest.

Gwen jabbed her knuckles into Arthur's ribs, though his tunic rather cushioned the effect, even as she turned to see Merlin's grin. Behind father and son, Freya was watching them both with a sort of disbelieving amusement.

"It will depend on him," Balinor said, more seriously. He'd dropped his arm, but he was speaking as much to Merlin as to Arthur's question. "To my knowledge, we've never had a fledgling lord raised outside the community, nor one with such strong independent magic."

Nor one that didn't want to stay? Gwen wondered. It would be a loss for Camelot if he left for good – maybe something to keep in mind when she and Arthur spoke officially with the dragonlord in council – but a personal loss as well. She thought she could safely say the young man was her husband's best friend. They were going to miss him terribly.

"Months, years, decades?" Arthur said lightly, but she heard the echo of his concern, in his voice.

"Years, at least," Balinor said.

Well, there went her hope that Merlin could attend her as physician in seven months or so – she pressed her free hand to her belly, and still felt nothing.

Three steps they took, in awkward silence. Then Merlin said teasingly, "Years, Arthur. What will you do without me?"

Arthur said sarcastically, "I plan to cry a lot."

Merlin scoffed, Balinor snorted a chuckle, and Freya giggled like a clear brook in sunshine, gathering her one of Merlin's smiles, over his shoulder.

Gwen couldn't help smiling, too. "If you're not too tired from your trip, my lord, I've planned to give you a tour of our palace – and perhaps the city tomorrow?"

"You have to see the clinic," Merlin interjected eagerly.

"Just Balinor, please, Majesty," the dragonlord said, the addressed his son again, also. "And yes, definitely. Though I am certain, this will not be my only visit…"

Five years later…

Sunset from the air was something Merlin decided, he was never going to get used to.

The thrill of being among the majestic colors shifting, changing, fading – the thrill of flight. The air currents tugging at his tight-fitting riding leathers, the swoop of rise and fall his internal equilibrium claimed, though visual cues for confirmation were lacking. Never a disappointment – though tonight he'd rather hoped they would reach Camelot in time to see the city and palace, not just its lights.

He shifted his seat, and resettled his pack; Kilgarrah sensed something of his mood, as he always did.

What is on your mind, youngling?

I wish I didn't feel so… divided. This, too, was a skill he'd acquired, among the many, a form of conversation that didn't require words. Camelot is my home and family – but so are you all. And one day…

He could hardly bear to think. But much of his training with the dragonlords' community had forced him to contemplate his father's mortality. Would he really leave Camelot for good? There was so much he had missed, his years of living in the mountains with his father's people.

Kilgarrah didn't respond, simply banked slightly toward the south. Merlin leaned with him, gazing downward toward an earth that seemed to have nothing to do with either of them. He breathed, filling his lungs, enjoying the sting of the wind on ears and nose and eyes. And noticed something, that reminded him of his first ride across Camelot.

The lights that were twinkling now in the falling dusk – not yet extinguished for the night – were very definitely clustered. And all that dark, fallow land in-between…

Kilgarrah… if the dragons and Camelot have come to an understanding and agreement… Several letters written back and forth over the years only strengthened that first document signed by his father, and Gwen and Arthur. Why not move our community to this land? We no longer need the mountains to protect us from Nimueh, we no longer guard the sword – maybe Camelot could find benefit in our presence, and we would have plenty of fertile and level land to work?

The dragon hummed, his entire body vibrating beneath Merlin's. Would the females consider their eggs safe in Camelot?

Merlin refrained from scoffing, though he was well aware of how tough those eggs were – indestructible, and able to wait unhatched for centuries. He had never been a parent before, but he could imagine the feeling of protectiveness might not coincide exactly with reality as others saw it. He settled for, Are you kidding me? Camelot is all about females.

That's changing… But you have a point worth making to the king and queen.

As they began to descend, neither said anything further. Merlin watched fascinated as the scatter of streetlights and home-lights gathered into a nearly-recognizable order in the darkness below. He searched – thought he found – doubted –

Is that it? He pointed – though rather stupidly, Kilgarrah wouldn't so much see his gesture, as caught his meaning from his mind. That's it, isn't it.

Kilgarrah was already heading for the arena Merlin had spotted, a small circle of darkness outlined by light. Torches, he guessed, placed around the arena, and cringed, realizing that would have been done for him, since they were late. My mother said I was born late, he'd told his father as an excuse, his first day of training.

It had worked, too. His first day. Merlin soon learned, Balinor was as eager for stories of his mother and childhood, as he was for tales of his father's life and family. But storytelling was not allowed to delay or interrupt his instruction. And Merlin missed both.

As Kilgarrah's wings strained up and back to drop through the air at a controlled pace, Merlin missed the camaraderie of the dragonlord community, the sense of belonging. His father's strong arms and rough beard and voice in his ears, Take care, boy. We'll see you again. Merlin swiped at his eyes with the rough hide of his sleeve – smearing rather than soaking moisture he told himself was due to the wind – and nearly lost his balance as Kilgarrah touched down.

Gripping his pack, he swung his leg over and slid down the dragon's scaly shoulder. Kilgarrah shifted as he moved around to stand facing the oldest creature alive.

"Thank you, old friend," he said aloud, and leaned against the snout Kilgarrah positioned very near him, for the purpose. "I will miss you, too." It was true. Kilgarrah had been hatched, he learned, by one of his own ancestors – a special bond was between them even now, and a greater partnership if Balinor passed before Kilgarrah had lived his last years.

"You honor us all, lordling," Kilgarrah said, sand scattering beneath his breath. "Us all. Call and I will hear, if you have need of us."

"I will," Merlin promised.

He had to swallow twice, hard, as he stepped back, and raised his forearm to protect his face from the updraft, as Kilgarrah leaped aloft and beat his wings to begin his journey home again. So much shorter by air, than it was by land. Briefly Merlin wondered, now that his training was complete, perhaps he could move more freely and more often, between the two places that claimed his loyalty. But… the dragons weren't horses, after all. No, better to visit seldom, and hope that some form of his idea of moving the community within Camelot's borders could come to pass.

As the great dragon disappeared again into the darkness, Merlin shouldered his pack and glanced around the arena – deserted but for the flickering shadows thrown by torchlight – trying to determine how hard it would be to convert the unused space into accommodations that would please the dragons. Not hard at all, if it was a construction they preferred to perform for themselves.

Noticing that the door of the passageway that led toward the palace was the only one open to the arena, he began to walk toward it – stiffly, periodically shaking out one or the other of his legs – and used his magic to extinguish the periphery torches, one by one.

The last was just next to the open doorway – and there was someone there.

A girl, a young lady, wearing a black skirt with a white shirt belted over it. Dark curls gathered in a ribbon, but spilling over one shoulder. And clearly, waiting for him. His steps stuttered; had she seen that magic? Would it bother her? He was back in Camelot, now…

"Welcome home," she said, dark eyes dipping shyly toward his boots, before rising to meet his eyes again determinedly – with an effect of lashes that caused a confusing flutter of warmth in the region of his chest. Well, that answered that question. "Their Majesties expected you earlier…"

"I know, I'm sorry," he interrupted – and kept walking, as she indicated he should, keeping pace at his side. "There was a storm in the mountains, it delayed our departure."

"No one was hurt?" she asked. He shook his head, smiling in appreciation at her concern. "In any case, I said I'd wait for you here – they wanted to see you no matter what hour your arrived, and if it was late, to take a guest chamber rather than continuing into the city."

"You said you'd wait?" he repeated curiously.

The clear light skin of her cheeks darkened with an intriguing blush, that she tried to cover with a shrug. "Someone was going to have to."

"But it didn't have to be you," he guessed. "Freya – thank you."

She stopped so suddenly he almost tripped over his feet trying to do the same, and looked at him with something like astonishment. "You…"

"What?"

"Nothing." She twitched like she meant to keep walking, and changed her mind. "I guess I just… didn't expect you to remember my name."

"Oh." He stood still, wanting to do something or say something charming, to make her smile, but he didn't know what. He settled for an awkward but honest, "Well, I did. Remember you, that is. How has it been, being Gwen's secretary?"

"Perfectly marvelous." And she had dimples when she smiled so widely – he couldn't help smiling back. "Oh – she's waiting!" Freya took his elbow to urge him along, and he was sorry when she released him, to the point of contemplating another delay, so she would touch him again. "How has it been, being…" She glanced at him sideways with her lips quirked, then gestured to the unusual clothing worn by the riders of the dragons. "You?"

"Perfectly marvelous." He couldn't hold back a grin – and saw that she knew he wasn't mocking her. "There's absolutely nothing like it. I'll take you flying someday, you'll see what I mean."

Her dark eyes widened and her mouth dropped slightly open, as she studied his face – then her expression firmed, and she nodded. "All right. Someday. If you remember…"

More teasing, and it filled him with a subtle warm confidence. He liked when the people he liked, liked him too. He liked it when people could be friends in spite of gender considerations, and hoped this was becoming more usual, throughout Camelot, to the point where people wouldn't even think about it, anymore.

"I'll remember," he promised – and by her smile, knew she recalled that he'd remembered her name.

They reached the palace complex, and there were more people about, servants fulfilling duties they hadn't – or couldn't – in daytime hours, a few guards as they climbed to the royal quarters. He didn't actually need her to guide him; he'd been a regular visitor before he'd left for the mountains. But he didn't protest; he quite liked her company, and she seemed comfortable with him. He appreciated that all the more, knowing it would not be true for just anyone.

"Just a moment, let me see if they're awake," Freya said to him, leaving him in the corridor as she slipped into the set of chambers his two friends had shared since their wedding. He remembered that he meant to ask Gwen, if the number of marriages had increased over the past few years, and waited.

A guard stood at the end of the hall – but more attendant than protection. Guttering torchlight, tranquil shadow… He breathed as deeply as he had on Kilgarrah's back, and smiled.

Moments passed, and Freya leaned out the door again. "King Arthur is next door – Her Majesty said you could go on in, and she'd join you in a moment."

Next door? puzzled him, why weren't they sharing? But he remembered to say, "Thank you – and for staying to wait, I appreciate that."

"You're very welcome," she said. "I suppose I'll – we'll – be seeing more of you, now you're back?"

He grinned. "Definitely."

Her dimples showed again, and she ducked back into the receiving chamber of the royal quarters. Merlin went to the next door down, seeing a light flickering underneath it. Slipping his pack off his shoulder, he lifted the latch and entered slowly, quietly, carefully, setting the pack down before looking around.

It was a smaller room, furnished as a sleeping chamber, though the bed in the alcove was small. Arthur sat at the foot of it with his back to the door dressed in trousers and shirt only, one leg bent in relaxation on the mattress, one bare foot dropped to the rug on the floor beside the bed. The corner of an open book was visible in his hand – and he was reading aloud.

"…And the brave young lord laid hold of the hilt of the sword bound in stone, that had been presented him by the lady in the lake, and with a single exertion of great strength –"

Merlin nearly snickered aloud. Arrogant? Not Arthur!

He could see most of the drawing on the page – completely inaccurate, if the story was what he assumed it to be – and acted without thinking, calling upon the magic he felt in his soul, nearly as long as he'd known that tale.

The hand-sized image of a warrior clad in red tunic and silver armor drifted up from the page to shimmer in midair, arms-length from Arthur's face. He stiffened, and Merlin caused the image – both hands wrapped around the hilt of Excalibur, still buried in an ugly chunk of boulder – to flail wildly and ineffectually, stone stuck to sword in great revolutions around its head.

A childish laugh. "Daddy, magic!"

As Arthur turned, Merlin could see the bed better – a tiny person, tight dark curls and shining blue eyes, eager chubby hand reaching for the illusion.

Merlin thought his expression of shock might mirror Arthur's – and the image burst, appearing back on the page of the book Arthur set down. Rising, the king crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Merlin's shoulders before wrapping his arms explosively around him.

"You're back!" Arthur said, tempering delighted enthusiasm sarcastically. "You're late."

"You're a father?" Merlin said incredulously, but it had to be so. The room was fit for a royal child – and Arthur clearly reading a bedtime story.

"This is our son, Elyan," Arthur said – his eyes sparkling and his half-smile ineffectively suppressed. He stepped back to the bed as the little boy snatched up the ragged-edged parchment tied with twine, and stood on the mattress. Arthur picked up his son and settling him against his chest in the crook of one arm in a practiced motion, as if he were accustomed to performing it every day.

Merlin's heart gave a happy-painful throb in his chest – Arthur is going to be the best father in the history of Camelot – and his throat was too tight to speak as he joined them.

"Elyan, this is daddy's friend Merlin," Arthur said to the child. "We've told you of him, remember?"

Merlin smiled, and found his voice. "It is my privilege to meet you, your highness." Giving a slight bow, and offering his hand.

Elyan ducked his head shyly under his father's chin, but kept his eyes on Merlin. And extended his collection of pages – Merlin wasn't sure whether it was a keep-away gesture, or an offering of friendship.

He said to the boy, "What's this?"

No answer, but the quirk of his father's smile showed on the little face, and the small slender book remained extended. Merlin took it and flipped a few pages to see that it was a retelling of their own quest, five years ago.

"It's his favorite," Arthur said, sounding proud and wry at once. "I blame Gwaine for that, though of course he denies making any profit from the publication."

"Of course he does." If Merlin didn't stop grinning, his eyes were going to spill tears right down his face.

"He's mad at you, by the way," Arthur continued casually – as if Merlin had never been gone, and something tense eased, in the vicinity of his heart. "He waited in the arena all afternoon. Wanted to show you his citizenship papers – oh, but don't tell him I said that," he drawled, "it was supposed to be a surprise." Elyan leaned forward to peer inquisitively at his father's face, at the tone.

"I'll do my best to act shocked," Merlin promised. "What about Percival – I would have expected him to earn citizenship before Gwaine."

"He did." Arthur tipped his head in a way that Merlin had missed. "But I don't think he came, or Scandyr. Percival doesn't care for the idea of dragons, much. Probably that first impression."

"Mm. Well, I have plenty of stories that can change his mind. Hopefully."

"Dwagons?" Elyan said, blue eyes wide with excitement.

"Dragons," Merlin grinned back.

"Hence the get-up, I assume?" Arthur said, waving a free hand to indicate his attire. "Rather more difficult than learning to ride a horse?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, remembering those several days also. "Yes. And yes, they all laughed at me as well."

Arthur tossed his head back to let out a single peal of laughter. There was a rustle at the door, and Merlin was still turning when he was enveloped in a silken, perfumed hug.

"Oh, Merlin!" Gwen said, softly joyous.

He hugged her briefly, distracted by the bulge of her body that came between them. "Gwen! Another one!"

"Yes!" she laughed, whisking tears from cheeks bunched with her smile, then glanced down at herself, resting a hand fondly on her belly. "Hoping for a girl this time…" Merlin couldn't help his reaction, and she probably couldn't help herself understanding it. "No, it's not like that. Elyan is our heir – we only hope for a balanced family, you see."

He leaned forward for another hug. "You look great – it's so wonderful to see you, to be back."

As he released her, Elyan evidently decided it was his turn, and tried to lunge out of his father's arms. Arthur kept and balanced the lower half, as Gwen caught the embrace, but pressed her son gently back; Merlin could see that it would be impossible for her to hold her older child on top of her unborn one.

"Oh, sweetie, Mama can't hold you right now." Glancing at Arthur as her little son kept one arm curled around her neck to play with her long, loose black curls, she said to Merlin, "I told myself I was going to wait to ask you this, but… Are you back for a visit, or–"

"No, for good," he said.

The plan of bringing the dragons and their community into Camelot remained in the back of his mind, but the weariness of his flight finally seemed to be catching up with him as he relaxed into the comfortable and familiar. And tomorrow it would be back to the clinic that Gwaine and Percival had managed in his absence. For now, he couldn't be happier than standing here with Arthur and Gwen and the little prince.

"I'm home."

A/N: I'm sorry this is also a bit late (though it's extra-long, so there you are). My cousin passed away unexpectedly last weekend, so I haven't been in the mood to create happy endings, much… Although, all the best endings aren't really endings, and I do believe his spirit is still alive, and I will see him again someday…

Just to let you know, because I'm going to be working with my agent, and because my regular job starts up again in a few weeks, I may not be able to keep to a chapter a week. But the next story I'll be posting (when/if), is a sequel to Refined by Fire. So far untitled, but it'll deal with the "Aithusa" episode material, as well as some Tennyson-based "Lady of Shalott" inspired stuff. So if you have a good idea for a title, send it my way?...