"It worked," Merlin said, and he sounded incredulous, staring down at his hands.

"You're…" Human, Arthur wanted to say, but it wasn't true, and so he settled for "…shorter than me."

"We're the same height and you know it." He grinned and the fangs were there, flashing playfully in the dark.

The warlock's face was partially illuminated by the candescence of his own eyes, more angular than Arthur remembered.

Dragon's eyes.

Merlin was shirtless; in fact, his clothes had probably been torn to shreds when he shifted, and had been replaced by a spray of scales which started a little below his navel. As they traveled downwards they became more concentrated, like ebony plates, resembling black pants—almost normal, aside from the fact that his legs morphed into oversized feet shaped like the back paws of a cat (or a dragon). There were swirls of scales glimmering on his right shoulder, above his heart, on his forearms, and all these details were lost on Arthur as he noticed something else.

A pair of horns protruded from the tousled crown of hair, curving downwards almost a foot.

"What is it?" Merlin had finally noticed the stunned looks on the knights' faces.

"You look a little different, my boy," Gaius said finally. He made a vague gesture above his own head and Merlin mimicked it, his hand freezing as he touched one of the horns.

"I can't go back to Camelot looking like this."

"Agreed. You look worse than you normally do." Arthur offered a small smile but nobody laughed. Merlin was holding his hands out in front his face again, his expression one of intense concentration.

"You can wear my cloak," Leon began, but it was proven unnecessary as the horns seemed to evaporate from the air above Merlin's head. The scales on his arms and chest shimmered and dissolved, and the glow dissipated from his eyes. Arthur knew it was probably the result of a spell, but all the same he felt a thrill of pleasure when his friend looked up with irises that were a very familiar shade of blue.

"Oh, gods, it's awful." He acted aghast, and Merlin scowled.

"At least I don't look like a prat."

Leon strode forwards, handing the sorcerer his cloak, which the latter gratefully wrapped over his shoulders.

She should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

Morgana had heard him scream and it had pierced through the empty cavity of her chest and she remembered feeling like she had caught fire.

How funny, I know exactly what that feels like now.

The blaze consumed her, fueled by rage and grief, and she pried the sword from Mordred's grave and held it aloft.

"Ætíe mé þá þé ic séce," she shouted, and images began to flash across the surface of the blade.

Merlin and Arthur sitting in front of a campfire, talking. The sorcerer looked ill.

Arthur dragging the servant into the waters of a lake. Sobbing. For a brief moment Morgana thought Merlin had died but she felt only a hollow pleasure in the thought, and then to her relief the picture changed and the boy sat bolt upright, his eyes glowing. She saw him walking back towards Camelot, haggard. She was him lying on the ground, screaming, screaming, and she had heard no greater sound in her life.

"Emrys," Morgana cast the name out, knowing that Merlin would hear her wherever he was. A trail of gold wound through the forest ahead.

She walked for most of the day, tireless. The trail was blazing brighter now. He couldn't be far off. "Oh, Emrys?"

Has there not been enough bloodshed already?

His voice in her head was weak. Ghostly.

"Oh, no. No, no, Emrys," she crooned, as if speaking to a child. "It has only just begun."

She sensed him moving. His fear was ripe in the air and it intoxicated her. Morgana was gliding across the forest floor like a spirit, and the trees of the forest were invisible to her. There was only the line of gold. It was blinding.

"You cannot run from me," she spat. "You have taken everything from me!" The words were unbidden, quivering with rage, and she composed herself and dropped her voice to a playful murmur. "Tell me, Merlin. Where is your precious Arthur?"

Safe.

"A pity. I wanted you to watch him die." She did not cast these words into the sorcerer's mind but instead spoke them aloud. The trail had stopped. Merlin was lying on the forest floor in front of her, his face scared as he tried to drag himself across the clearing with a stick. It was pitiful.

"Oh, Morgana. What happened to you?" The same pity she felt for Merlin was reflected in his voice and she straightened, her eyes widening in hatred and disgust.

"You have stolen…everything…that was ever mine." Her vision blurred as tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes. "I have no home, no family. My throne… Camelot was mine. My men have all deserted me, and Mordred…"

"Morgana—"

"You don't get to speak!" The sound of his voice had conjured a flood of images Morgana didn't want to see. Morgause. Mordred. And perhaps worst of all, the servant's sweet, innocuous little smile as he handed her a poisoned canteen. The images hurt and they were all Merlin's fault and she didn't even realize she was choking him until she heard the strangled cry.

"I don't want…to fight you," he said.

"It's too late for that!" Morgana drew her fingers together. "I told you. You took everything from me… and I have nothing left. I have nothing to lose!" She laughed and even to her own ears it sounded manic. Hysterical. And why shouldn't it? "My heart cannot be broken, for it has already been burnt out of my chest. My soul cannot be sold, because it's as black as yours. I have no love to lose, no hell to fear. I will not stop until Camelot is mine, and until the last of the Pendragons is nothing but ash. And Emrys… If only I could save you for last."

How she wanted to hear him scream. See him writhe in the dirt and the leaves. She could see her hands shaking in her peripheral. It was because she hated him, because-

Because I loved him once.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

There was light, and a gust of air, and it burned. Oh, gods, it burned. At first she couldn't fathom that it was fire because the pain was so great and so sudden, like a bath of ice, but there was a strange, sickly sweet odor in her nose and she realized she it was the scent of her skin burning off of her flesh. She could see nothing. There were popping noises, flat under the roar of the flames, and another sound, too; she thought at first that it was Merlin screaming, but the pitch was too high. Smoke and fire alike roiled down her throat, and the only reason she knew she wasn't dead was because she could still hear her own cries. They had a hoarse quality and they tapered into keening whines and she wished they would stop, but her voice was no longer her own.

Kill me, she wanted to say, but the dragon-forged sword had melded onto her thigh.

The fire had stopped but Morgana was oblivious. The pain had long since faded into numbness, but she was aware of her entire body throbbing, pulsing, and only one cogent thought passed through her mind even though her tongue was too cracked and blackened to utter a word.

Aithusa, help me.

Her eyelids felt like they'd gotten stuck in something sticky but she forced them open anyways. There was no flash of light, no view of sky or flames, and she wondered if her eyes hadn't melted away. There was no sound. Just the smell.

Aithusa, please, help me..

Surprisingly, it wasn't the flesh that had been exposed to the air that hurt the most; it was the surviving skin around it, bubbling and cracked, and she could feel the nerves coming angrily to life. She wanted to shy away from the pain, writhe in agony, but the best she could manage was a sickly twitch.

Aithusa.

She felt the dragon's presence even as it lifted her from the clearing, and finally a painless blackness enveloped her.