He had never flown so far before, or so fast, but it wasn't enough. Every beat of his wings was agony; there were a dozen gashes, some desperately deep, but they were less painful than the images seared into his mind. Death. Blood. He was a murderer, and he could not outfly his own head. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to die- to simply stop existing, before the weight of his own guilt could crush him into nothingness. Kilgarrah was gone. He could never see Arthur again, not after what he had done; Arthur would never forgive him the death of his people anyways.
How did he lose himself so desperately?
He wasn't old enough for the age he felt now. He wasn't even 25 and yet he felt he had lived for a hundred years and he was tired. He remembered coming to Camelot and how shiny everything had seemed. How light. There were troubles, sure; magical misadventures and quests and things, and they had seemed so important at the time, but now.. how trivial, how sweet. He would give everything he had to go back to those days, when he was 17 and full of energy and ignorant still of the terrible loneliness his magic would bring him.
He was imploding, shooting down the countryside and still picking up speed even as the tears in his wings widened. Always a little faster, just a little more, and maybe he could shake the dark from deep in his head, but it was there to stay, and suddenly a simple and terrible thought arose like a sprout from a seed buried underground.
He could not bear the burden of what he had done. It would kill him, one way or another. But Emrys did not know. He did not understand. He simply was- a creature of instinct and magic. Free. Always, when he was in his draconic form, he was fighting to remember himself; now, he made the decision to forget.
His last thoughts were of Arthur, the golden light in the dark. And then there was nothing.
Aithusa, like Merlin, left Camelot with no heading. She knew only that she had to leave that field of death and so she flew blindly, mourning for her mistress and for herself. Morgana was her home. There was nowhere to go now, nobody to go to, and for the first time she understood that she was the last of the dragons, and what loneliness truly meant. She would live for hundreds of years and then she would die, forgotten. And so when she saw the black dragon flying ahead of her, she hesitated.
He had killed her mistress, and the surge of hate she felt at the thought sped her into an attack- a strike without form, without tactic, with only rage fueling her claws. He ought to have beaten her easily, or at least fought her off, but he simply gave under her talons. Something was amiss but Aithusa latched on anyways, smoke billowing from her jaws in her fury. They crash-landed in a clearing, the other dragon taking the brunt of both of their weight as they slammed into the ground, and he withstood it silently. Even when she snapped her teeth an inch from his neck, he did not move. She stopped.
He was terribly injured from their fight earlier, that much was obvious. It was a miracle he had even been flying at all. But it didn't seem to Aithusa that that was why he did not fight her. She stared at him, her head still lowered as though prepared for another charge, but as the moments passed she relaxed. The dragon was swaying on his feet as he faced her, and with a sigh, he simply laid down. It was then that Aithusa realized the dragon was not Merlin.
I do not know you, she said as the dragon's head drooped to rest on his paws.
I believe... we've met. You were controlled by someone else.
As were you.
I was... someone different, but I'm... new. I do not... understand...
Who are you?
I am Emrys.
The dragon was watching her, blinking sleepily, and Aithusa did not know his eyes. They were unfamiliar, but there was a quality to them that made her feel she had seen them before, long ago, long before Merlin or Morgana or any man that had ever walked the earth.
I am Aithusa, she told him as his strange eyes slid shut. And I think.. I've been waiting for you.