The walls of Camelot had come into view and as he broke through the trees Arthur suddenly realized that Merlin wasn't next to him. He turned to find his friend standing at the edge of the forest, an odd look on his face.

"Well, come on, Merlin," he frowned. "We haven't got all day."

"I think it might be better if I…" He was looking away, and Arthur moved towards him.

"Merlin, nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed." He smiled wryly at his king. "I have magic."

"You've always had—"

"I have magic, and now you know about it. Tell me, Arthur, how are you going to prosecute a Druid when your manservant himself is a sorcerer?"

The king was silent for a moment. "I can change the laws."

"Can you?" Merlin stepped towards him. "Could you really change the laws you grew up on?"

"I'm the king of Camelot, Merlin, I can do whatever I—"

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you're ready for this. That your kingdom is ready for this. Magic has been outlawed for a long time, Arthur."

"I'm ready," the king said.

"I never thought I'd hear those words," Merlin said slowly. "I spent so long dreaming about them. I spent so long dreaming about the day I wouldn't have to hide who I was, and now… Now it's still the same. Everything's changed, and nothing has." For a moment he let the concealment spell slip and his eyes flashed gold. Twin shadows arched behind his back, the ghosts of wings, and then he seemed to collect himself and returned to normal.

"So why hide?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I can't very well—"

"My cabinet could use a magical advisor. Court Sorcerer. Hell, Royal Dragon, if it comes to that."

"Our crest is a dragon," Leon offered sagely, and Merlin stepped out of the shadows.

"You're not serious."

"I hope you don't think this means you're relieved from your duties as my manservant." Arthur warned as Merlin finally stepped out from the treeline.

"Do you expect me to save Camelot while still picking up your laundry?" The sorcerer grinned impishly, and then paused in mock thought. "Oh, wait. I've been doing that for years."

Aithusa flew as fast as she could, her wings strained from the effort of carrying a burden almost her own size. The quiet moaning had stopped some time during the night and she watched the ground carefully, desperate for some sort of shelter.

She found it just after cresting the peaks of the White Mountain. Far below lay the Valley of the Fallen Kings and she made for it, crooning softly in an attempt to reassure her wounded mistress.

Being too large to fit into Morgana's hut, Aithusa made to touch down in the clearing in front of it. She soon realized, however, that it would be difficult to land without further injuring her charge, and scouted the area for a relatively kind patch of earth. The dragon found it in a patch of downed leaves and flew directly over it, dropping Morgana about a foot above the bank. It had been the gentlest she could manage and yet as she landed few yards away she heard the sorceress screaming.

She had healed Morgana before, on the night they'd met in the Darkling Woods and several times since, but she had never attempted to heal someone as badly wounded as this. The only reason Morgana was still alive was because she was a High Priestess, and even so it was likely the sorceress would die in a matter of hours if Aithusa did nothing. She closed her eyes, dug her feet into the earth, and exhaled.

Fire.

She was adrift in fire. Every inch of her skin burned and throbbed. There was nothing but pain and she begged the Triple Goddess to let her die, begged Merlin or Aithusa or Arthur to kill her and yet she lived. And in the midst of all her pain, she saw.

A white dragon. It had to be Aithusa, but this dragon was enormous. Strong. It was sleek and it glittered above a battlefield hewn with fire and blood and corpses, and it seemed to be dancing through the air with its own shadow- a black dragon. It was smaller, battered, its scales almost maroon in the setting sun, and as Morgana watched, Aithusa seemed to strike a winning blow. The black dragon fell to the earth. Somewhere, she heard Arthur screaming, and his grief seemed to wash over the battleground.

The images faded into nothing as a breeze, cold as winter, blew over her mutilated skin. The fire abated.