Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;

Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O Thou who changest not, abide with me

- Abide With Me, Henry Francis Lyte

Gwen first felt the pains in the morning; she had awoken to a dull ache in her lower back and tightening in her belly, but they were not dissimilar from what she'd felt before that the midwife had assured her were normal, and so she paid them little mind. She rang for Constance to help her dress in a simple chemise and loose gown, as her more formal attire no longer fit over the girth of her midsection.

"Has there been word from Merlin?" she asked, and her maid shook her head sadly as she pinned Gwen's hair up in a simple style.

"I'm sorry my lady." Constance moved to make the bed. "How are you feeling today?"

With a heavy sigh, Gwen looked at herself in the glass. Her face had grown full and she could see the luminosity that others had remarked upon - Hunith had described it as a mother's glow, one's happiness seeping through from the inside. And yet the sadness she continued to bear clung to her around the edges - the dark circles under her eyes as her sleep continued to be troubled, the cracking in her lips from biting down on them in worry.

Constance appeared in the glass by her shoulder. "Shall I bring your breakfast?"

She was far from hungry but under strict orders from the midwife, and Constance was diligent in their implementation meaning it was far easier to acquiesce. Still, Gwen didn't feel like being alone.

"Is Elena up?" she asked.

"I believe she and Lady Nella are on a ride - I mean, Lady Pendragon," Constance corrected herself. "I do not know when they will return."

Gwen rubbed her belly - of all the things that pregnancy prevented her from enjoying, riding her horse through the woods surrounding Camelot was what she missed most. She and Arthur had traversed the kingdom on horseback early in their marriage, visiting farms and townships, meeting the people over whom they would reign, spending their nights in small inns or the homes of gentry. They had been some of the happiest times of her life, and a practice she hoped to return to as soon as circumstances allowed.

But for now she was all but trapped in the castle. It was strange, on the one hand Gwen desired the birth of her child more than anything, to finally hold him in her arms, and yet there was a part of her that believed it would not happen until Merlin had returned, and could not feel safe without him by her side.

"I think I'll visit Gaius," she declared, for there was never doubt that he would be in his rooms. "You can send my breakfast there," she added wryly, patting Constance lightly on the arm as the girl gave a pleased smile.

However when Gwen made her way down to Gaius' chamber she did not find him alone. He was seated at the long table in the centre of the room, grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle; Hunith sat across from him with two open books before her, writing notes on a sheet of parchment, and Valeda was at the head of the table, examining a collection of charms with a round of glass.

Gaius and Hunith rose as she entered, and she waved them to be seated again. "I do not wish to disturb your work."

"Not at all, my lady." Gaius assured her. "You are always welcome."

Constance entered the room behind her, carrying a plate of food and a woolen shawl slung over one arm. She placed the dish at the unoccupied end of the table and handed the shawl to Gwen.

"It can get drafty down here, my lady," she said by way of explanation, and Gwen took the shawl without complaint, wrapping it around her shoulders before taking a seat.

"Gaius and I were discussing the old days," Valeda told her, "before magic was outlawed."

"Oh," Gwen had never made the connection before. "Did you know each other?"

"Only in passing," Valeda confirmed. "I occasionally had need to travel to Camelot, back when the druids were considered honoured friends."

"It must have been so strange," Gwen mused, "for Uther's views to change so completely."

"It wasn't the about-face you may believe," Valeda said with a grimace. "At least not in public. First came rumours of dark magic being practiced, sorcerers brought to trial. Then came the denunciations, the witch hunters, the mass executions."

Gaius stopped his grinding and Hunith put down her pencil - they both looked grieved, as they no doubt remembered those days well, how they'd given sorcerer's shelter and smuggled them out, fearing discovery at every turn.

"Many of us fled Camelot," Valeda gave a sigh. "But there were those who stayed, who believed Uther to be the greatest friend the druids had known and his kingdom a haven where elsewhere they were met with suspicion and fear, that he was rooting out the practitioners of dark arts only and would never turn his sword against them, his loyal and grateful subjects."

A shiver went down Gwen's spine, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It was no wonder the druids were reluctant to return to Camelot at her invitation; they had seen an outstretched hand turn to a fist before, and could not be so sure her current felicity would not some day take a dangerous turn, or that her son's Pendragon blood would not win out.

She felt another tensing in her abdomen, and bit down on her lower lip. It was not so very painful, but evidently her face had betrayed her, as she looked up to see Valeda eyeing her thoughtfully.

"Are you well, Gwen?" she asked softly.

"It is nothing," Gwen assured her, plucking a slice of cheese off her plate and biting off a piece. She was still not hungry, but diligently made her way through the plate of food for a distraction as much as anything.

She felt lonely, sitting at the table as the conversation turned back to happier times when each of them had been in the blush of youth, and Camelot a grand new city to explore. Gwen loved each of them, but they were not her peers - she feared that even if Elena or Leon was in the room she would still feel that now familiar ache in her heart.

Today of all days, she felt the absence of her husband.

But it was not just longing that gripped her, but fear. Childbirth was a dangerous business, as Gwen was well aware - the conceiving of a child, or rather the inability to carry a child to term, had been one of the few dark clouds in her marriage. She had miscarried twice to no ill effect, other than great sorrow to herself and Arthur, but the third time had been different.

It had been Beltane, and they'd been hosting festivities for the nobility and visiting merchants from Hispania keen to reestablish trade routes that had fallen idle under Uther. Gwen had felt unwell for several days but knew how important it was to give a good impression, and so had forced herself to carry on. At the feast however, she could no longer ignore the pain ripping through her lower abdomen and excused herself.

She'd made it halfway up the stairs before she could take it no longer, collapsing on the stone as she felt blood seep through her gown. She'd cried out but was not heard over the revelry in the hall, a deep fear ripping through her along with the pain, because this felt different from the times before, and the only thought she could form before she passed out was that something was dreadfully wrong.

She awoke in her own bed, still groggy and with a dull ache in her womb that gave her no doubt as to the outcome. Arthur was standing by the window, worrying the knuckle of his forefinger between his teeth and staring through the casement. Gwen called his name weakly, and when he turned she saw he looked haggard; his complexion sallow and dark circles under his eyes.

He rushed to her bedside, taking her hand in one of his and squeezing lightly, the other reaching forward to brush against her temple.

"Guinevere," he breathed. "Thank goodness."

Her tongue felt thick inside her mouth and her jaw ached, as if she'd been clenching her teeth. But she didn't know what to say, and could only squeeze Arthur's hand in return.

"You've been unconscious for quite a while," Arthur's voice was rough. "I was so worried."

Gwen had a vague awareness of fever dreams, but could not recall them and that was likely for the best. Her pain had dulled and perhaps she was even still bleeding a little - so unlike the other two times she had miscarried. Then there had been cramping and blood, but the emotional toil had far outlasted the physical. Her hand strayed to rest on the bedclothes over her belly, and Arthur's composure slipped, eyes darting to her belly and then back to her face as he swallowed heavily.

"Gaius said it was an infection," he told her, voice breaking. "He can treat it, and you'll have to rest for a while. But…"

"I know." Gwen didn't want him to have to say it, to confirm the terrible news when she felt it so keenly. She wanted to cry but the tears did not come; she felt wrung out, numb.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He stroked her hair, and Gwen leaned into his touch.

"I wanted to be sure first," she said, as a tear finally gathered in the corner of one eye. "Each time I make it a little further, but still…" she let out a tiny sob. "I'm sorry."

"No, no." He brought her hand clasped in his to his mouth, pressing a firm kiss to her fingers. "It's not your fault, my love."

He had been attentive in the following weeks of her convalescence - sending away the maid and even Merlin so he could wait on her himself. But once Gwen had recovered a distance seemed to form between them; he would spend his days with Merlin and the knights in training or roaming the kingdom, often not even joining her for dinner. At night he would apologise, full of explanations that it had been a bad harvest and it was his duty as king to ensure his people prospered. Then he would kiss her forehead but never instigate anything further, and if Gwen tried to he would plead exhaustion. He never reached out for her in the night, and was gone again when she awoke in the morning.

She was not the only one to notice; one day she was visiting her horse in the stables when she heard voices from outside in the courtyard, two noble ladies gossiping as they walked by.

"What was the point of him choosing from peasant stock if she cannot even breed?" one sneered, and Gwen's heart leaped up into her throat.

"He can barely stand to look at her now," the other said with glee. "How long before he sets her aside?"

"Can he do that?" The first was incredulous.

"He's the king, isn't he?" The second tittered. "He raised a servant to be a queen, he can cast her back down again."

That was quite enough. Gwen squared her shoulders and emerged from the stables with a face of stone, looking at the two women directly in the eye, one then the other. They gasped and immediately sank into deep curtseys, full of excuses and apologies Gwen did not deign to acknowledge. She swept away across the courtyard, not intending to take the matter but ready to let them linger in the uncertainty that she would.

Gwen felt secure in Arthur's love and gave no credit to their cruel words, but it ate away at her in the days that followed. She could not deny he was avoiding being alone with her, that something had shifted between them and she found herself adrift in uncertainty and doubts, unable to share them with anyone, not even Merlin, since the subject was too intimate to speak of. It was not care for her health - the midwife had assured her that it was safe to resume marital relations, and Gwen's mind raced with dark possibilities - had her collapse at the banquet offended their guests? He had not said so, but of course he would not, and they had been gone by the time Gwen had been well again. She tried to engage him in conversation, but rarely saw him and even when she did his gaze shifted away, and he lay beside her in bed at night without even taking her in his arms to hold her, as he had done when she was convalescing.

It soon came to a head - she was being measured for a new gown but had felt so listless she had sent the seamstress away and not bothered to redress out of her chemise and stays. Arthur had entered quite unexpectedly, and for a moment Gwen felt a swell of hope, for the way he looked at her left no doubt that whatever else, he still desired her.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing his gaze back up to her face. "I don't want to disturb you, Guinevere."

"Don't be sorry." Gwen seized on the opportunity, moving towards him. "And don't go, please."

"I, uh…said I'd oversee Leon training the new recruits." Arthur swallowed heavily as she drew close, clearly unable to tear his eyes away from her.

Gwen pressed her advantage, giving him a sultry smile and running her hand down his arm. "Don't I present a more enticing prospect?"

"Yes," he murmured, eyes darting down to her mouth as he drew closer. "Yes you do."

She breached the distance, rising up to her tiptoes and pressing her lips to his. There was no more resistance, in fact he kissed her back with such fervour it quashed her lingering doubts. Arthur's hands pressed hard against her back as his mouth devoured hers, sending fire down Gwen's spine to pool in her belly, sheer joy filling every pore.

She found his belt and unbuckled it, letting it fall to the floor, then let her hands slip under his shirt to caress the skin of his torso, the hard muscles tensing under her touch and a groan escaping his lips. But when she started to unlace his trousers it turned into a cry of protest, and he tore his lips away from hers, staggering back and breathing heavily as he ran a hand over his eyes.

"Arthur," she reached out for him but he flinched away and her heart broke. "Please…"

"I'm sorry," he said, avoiding her eyes and turning away. Gwen watched his back as he made for the door, her sorrow turning steel.

"If you leave now, don't come back," she said, and he halted. Gwen hated to give an ultimatum but she was tired of dancing around the issue, of being ignored and avoided.

"I can't live like this, Arthur," she admitted with distress. "I don't know what's wrong, but if you can't share it with me, how can I call myself your wife?"

"Nothing is wrong," he said shortly, and his shoulders stiffened. "I have other duties, Madam, than sharing your bed."

She knew his coldness was a front, but his words stung and flared her anger nonetheless.

"Share my bed?" she gave an incredulous laugh. "How could I expect that, when you cannot even bear to look at me?"

Arthur did not answer, and it seemed did not dare turn around either. For a moment fear gripped her heart - she had proved he still had passion for her, but had his affection cooled instead? What else could make him treat her with such bare courtesy, as if the only thing that bound him to her was duty, and he was desperately seeking an escape?

"Do you know what people are saying?" Gwen pressed. "That you have grown tired of me. That you will throw me over for a more suitable bride - one that can give you an heir."

"Who is saying such things?" Arthur whipped around, taut with fury. "I will have them put in the stocks!"

"Can you blame them?" Gwen challenged, "their words are guided by your conduct."

Arthur's jaw clenched, his defences were still up. "And do you believe that of me?"

She stared back at him, but her anger cooled as she saw past his stony facade to how hurt he was by the accusation. They had been through far too much together for Gwen to doubt that his heart remained true to her.

"No," she admitted, her voice trembling. "But I have felt so...alone these past weeks, Arthur. I wanted - needed - to share my grief, but you've turned away from me and I don't know why." She started to cry, unable to stop herself. "I miss you so much."

Her sorrow finally broke him, his stony expression melting into concern and in moments he had crossed the room and swept her into his embrace, gently cradling her head and kissing her temple.

"I'm so sorry, Guinevere," he said as she sobbed into his chest. "I've been trying to keep you safe, and all I've done is hurt you." He pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. "You're right, I've been keeping you at arms length, but not for the reason you think."

"Then why?"

Arthur sighed, turning away and running one hand through his hair. "Because every time I look at you, I see you in the grip of pain and fever, bleeding as if the very life would drain out of you." He glanced towards the bed before turning back to her with a pained expression.

"I thought you were going to die - as my mother died."

Gwen felt for him - it must have been harrowing not knowing what was wrong or whether she would survive it. But it made even less sense to her that such feelings would make him pull away when she was well again, instead of holding her close.

"I just kept thinking about what you said." He sighed heavily, looking down and taking her hands, thumbs caressing her knuckles. "That each time you made it a little further along - but then the loss seemed to get worse each time too, and I was certain that if it happened again…you may not survive it."

"Arthur…" her heart all but broke at the agony on his face. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because I'm a fool." Arthur exhaled harshly, and backed away again. "I knew you'd apply logic and sense, as you always do, and I wasn't ready to hear it."

As long as she lived, Gwen didn't feel she would ever truly understand men. "So you avoided me instead?"

"I thought…" he looked down, arms folding over his chest. "I thought that if there was no chance of you becoming pregnant…there would be no danger from it. You would be safe"

Gwen blinked at him, incredulous. "Surely you did not think this was a…sustainable solution?"

"To keep you safe, Guinevere, I could do anything." Arthur said, and then grimaced. "Or…not do anything, as the case may be."

A sudden laugh escaped her lips - disbelief, absurdity and relief all rolled into one. Gwen pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head at him, her riddle of a husband to whom she felt no anger, only a kind of sadness that he had been brought up to suppress every strong feeling, to never let on how he was hurting, and so it spilled out in unhelpful ways.

"I know it's ridiculous," Arthur conceded with visible relief that she was not angry, and perhaps a little bit of shame. "I was not…thinking clearly. I feared history repeating itself - my father pushed for an heir until it cost my mother's life, and I swore I would never make that same mistake."

"Arthur…" Her levity vanished, realising his misplaced reaction came from a very complicated place. He had understood Uther's faults, and in trying not to emulate them had overcompensated.

He came close to her again, cupping her face in one hand. "And I didn't see how much it was hurting you," he said, thumb stroking her cheek, "because I was determined to look away. I'm sorry."

"Arthur," she said again, and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. "We have been through something….terrible." She still could not bring herself to say the words aloud. "There's no right way to react."

"You are too good to me, Guinevere," he sighed, folding her into his embrace. "I should have been here for you."

She held onto him tightly. "Let us be here for each other from now on."

Gwen found herself wiping tears from her eyes as she was brought out of the memory by another cramp. Recalling Arthur's fears brought her own the the surface - of the price Ygraine had paid in her childbed, and the curse Nimue had placed on Uther's bloodline. With the birth of her own child imminent, Gwen couldn't shake the deep-seated fear that it may cost her own life to bring another Pendragon into the world.

"Gwen?" Valeda touched her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Gwen tried for a reassuring smile but it came out as a grimace.

"But your pains have started, haven't they?" Hunith said, leaning forward with a concerned look.

"They could be false," Gwen pressed a hand to her belly. "Like they were before."

"I don't think so," Valeda said with authority. "We should call for the midwife."

"No, it can't be." Gwen grasped Valeda's arm. "Merlin hadn't come back yet."

Valeda gave a kind smile and cupped Gwen's cheek. "If your child is ready to be born, there is nothing in this world or any other that can stop him."

Merlin examined the bottom of one boot, and in particular, the rather troublesome hole that had formed in the sole.

"No wonder my sock keeps getting wet," he murmured, but seeing little alternative, pulled the boot on and tied the laces. Then he extinguished the fire, packing away the cooking implements he'd used to make breakfast. His hand brushed against something cold in his pack and Merlin pulled it out, examining it with a sigh.

It was the amber dragonstone, and Merlin traced the deep crack that ran through the middle where one of Lot's men had cleaved an axe through it. He'd thought he could still make it work, enough to communicate with Gwen back in Camelot and let her know how his journey was going, but no matter what he'd done he couldn't get the connection to form.

It worried him, being so far away. What if she needed him? What if there was another plot against her life, another betrayal, another invasion? What if she'd had her child and he'd missed it - what if something had gone wrong?

But there was no point dwelling on it - all Merlin could do was carry on, and try to make it back as soon as possible. He returned the dragonstone, pulled on the leather gloves Gwen had gifted him before he'd left, slung the pack over his shoulders and pressed on.

The journey had been hard - as he travelled north it grew colder and the terrain more difficult to traverse. He'd been welcomed around druid fires along the way but had not come across a clan for days, and did not feel sure of his welcome along the Picts who might naturally be wary of strangers. Merlin didn't know exactly where Kilgarrah was, and could only trust the instinct of the Dragonlord leading him on, much as it had done the first time they had met beneath the bowels of Camelot.

Fresh snows had fallen overnight, Merlin's boots sinking into it with every step. But he pressed on through a dense thicket of woodland, the trees tall and high like giants around him. Eventually the ground began to slope downward, the woods thinning until the great valley was revealed below him.

It was beautiful; the sky above for once free of cloud in a great blue expanse, the softly undulating ground blanketed in white snow surrounding a frozen lake, and a large peak looming in the distance. Merlin realised he'd seen this place before - when Kilgharrah had called to him using the dragonstone.

He hurried down the hill into the glen, not caring for the icy dampness in his boots as he made for the rocky outcrop that had been a waterfall the last time he'd been there, but had now slowed to a mere trickle, unable to disturb the ice shelf below.

Kilgarrah was waiting for him by the lake, lying down with his head resting on his foreclaws and wings tucked back against his flank. His eyes were closed, and for a moment Merlin worried that he was too late.

"Kilgharrah?" he called as he came to a halt before the great dragon. But then he heard the creature draw in breath, saw the slow rise and fall of his chest. But it was some moments more before he opened his eyes and seemed to perceive Merlin standing before him.

"Hello Emrys." Kilgarrah's amber gaze drifted over him. "You look dreadful."

Merlin gave a humourless laugh. "Nice to see you too."

"Drink from the lake," the dragon urged him. "It will revive you."

Merlin approached the bank but it was clearer than ever that the lake was frozen solid. He looked pointedly up at Kilgharrah again, pressing one boot against the ice's surface.

"Ah, well." Kilgharrah lifted his head up towards the sky and let out a dragon call, feeble though it was in comparison to the strength and force Merlin had known him to possess. But it appeared he had been heard, as within a few moments a shadow appeared against the sky with an impressive wingspan, and as the creature drew closer Merlin recognised the pure white form of Aithusa.

She landed next to Kilgharrah and immediately Merlin noticed she had almost doubled in size since he had last seen her, when he had driven her away from the battle at Camlann. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, wondering if the dragon who had aligned herself with Morgana held a grudge, and grew nervous when she seemed preparing to breathe a stream of fire.

He opened his mouth to issue a command so not to be torched but Aithusa turned her head, directing her fire into the lake, the ice melting quickly at it's edge.

"She has drunk from the faerie pools," Kilgarrah explained, "and the healing waters have given her strength."

"And you?"

"I am beyond that now."

Merlin knelt on the bank, scooping water into his mouth with a cupped hand. It was cold, but he immediately felt it's magic weave through his veins, restoring him better than any sleep ever had.

He glanced up into the blue eyes of Aithusa, watching him warily. Her legs were no longer deformed, and white scales had grown over her flank to cover the once anemic, sallow skin. Yet her spirit had not been healed, as he could sense her distress, her anger, her fear. Of him, Merlin realised, and it broke his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said, still on his knees. "I brought you into this world but I did not protect you, and so you looked for love elsewhere."

Aithusa only stared back at him, sitting on her hindquarters with wings tucked tight against her flank. Merlin turned to Kilgharrah.

"Can she still not speak?"

"She can," the dragon told him. "If she wants to."

Merlin nodded, rising to his feet - it would take more than words for her to trust him.

"You once said a white dragon was a good omen for Camelot."

"And so it may yet be," Kilgarrah said, "but an omen is not a prophecy. Or are you still angry at me for that as well?"

Merlin bit his lip - what good would arguing do, when the dragon was on his deathbed? He had never been quite sure if Kilgharrah was truly his friend, or whether his advice had always been in Merlin's best interest, but he could not deny that he had helped him many times over in saving Arthur's life, even if the golden age he'd prophesied had not come to pass.

"Speak, boy," Kilgarrah's tail flicked in agitation. "Let us clear the air before I depart this world."

"I am not angry," Merlin said truthfully. "But I need to know - when you saw the future, was it always this? Was my fate to get everything I fought for - magic to be restored to Camelot, Guinevere as queen, to truly be known and respected for who I am - but without Arthur here to share this new world with us?

"I cannot answer that," Kilgarrah looked at him kindly. "But a wise man would understand that his fate is dependent on the choices that he makes, not the other way around."

"And what of the fate of Camelot?" Merlin couldn't help but ask. "The fate of Gwen and Arthur's child?"

Kilgharrah raised his head to look up at the sky. "The Pendragon line was bought with blood, even before it was cursed by the witch Nimue. Yet somehow it persists."

"Are you disappointed?" Merlin accused him.

"My race was destroyed by the Pendragons, Emrys." Kilgarrah reminded him, his amber eyes seeming to glow. "Camelot's standard bore our image, and yet was stained with our blood as we were hunted down."

"By Uther ," Merlin reminded him. "Not by Arthur, and not by the child Gwen carries."

Kilgharrah stared at him for a long moment. "I know this child," he said, his voice soft. "I have seen what he can become, and I will tell you, Emrys, if you ask it of me."

Merlin considered it – he was desperate to know of course, given that the future was so uncertain. He had even contemplated returning to the Crystal Cave and seeking answers there. But he felt as if nothing good had ever come of knowing the future – it only made him second guess every decision and try and outwit what he had seen, his intervention only ensuring events had come to pass.

"No," Merlin shook his head. "Do not tell me. I am going to make my own choices from now on."

Kilgharrah seemed to smile. "Then it seems I have nothing left to teach you," he said, laying his head down on his foreclaws again. "Perhaps you are a wise man after all."

Aithusa seemed to whimper, moving close to lay by Kilgarrah's side, and seemingly with great effort, he covered her with his large wing.

"I am sorry, little one," he said to her in the dragon tongue. "That I did not have more time to teach you. But you will grow strong now, I am sure of it, and you will never be alone. You will have Emrys."

Aithusa gave a squark of protest, keening into Kilgarrah's flank and casting a fearful look in Merlin's direction. How could he blame her? Morgana had endured years in a pit for love of the dragon and earned her loyalty; Merlin had only driven her away in the dragon tongue, ordering her to flee the battlefield and not return.

"Aithusa," he said softly, holding up his hands as he approached to show he was not a threat. "I will not hurt you. I spoke harsh words at Camlann only to protect those I loved."

The dragon stared at him with her large blue eyes that were impossible to decipher.

"I know you were doing the same," he added, "but both those whom we loved are gone now despite our best efforts. Can we not start again, and be friends?"

He wondered if Aithusa knew that Morgana had died at his hand, that even from beyond the grave she would still find a way to torment and turn his own people against him.

"You must trust him, little one," Kigharrah urged her. "He is the last dragonlord, and you the last dragon. You will need each other."

Aithusa looked up at Kilgharrah, and then back at Merlin, and it seemed that her expression softened slightly. He reached out his hand slowly, and when she did not recoil he gently touched her snout.

"I don't know if you remember," Merlin said to her. "But I was the one who hatched you. I gave you the name Aithusa - the light of the sun." He lightly stroked her neck. "I believe that together we can be the heralds of a new age."

Aithusa looked at him with her large blue eyes like deep pools, and although she did not speak, he felt her tentative acceptance.

"Then it is time." Kilgarrah gave a heavy sigh. "The child is near too."

"The child?" Merlin questioned, rising to his feet. "Gwen's child? How do you know?"

"One life fades," Kilgarrah sighed and closed his eyes, "and another comes to the fore. It is the way of things."

Merlin felt a wave of panic - how could he possibly make it back to Camelot in time? But he pushed those feelings aside, what good would worry do now, when this was the very reason he'd come? He did not know what a dragon lord was supposed to do to ease a passing, but perhaps his presence was enough.

Kilgarrah's breathing slowed, and Merlin stroked the scales of his neck. He could feel the dragons pulse under his palm, growing weaker until there was barely even a thump at all. He reached out with his magic, hoping to ease any pain the dragon might be feeling in these last moments. It seemed to have an effect - Kilgharrah gave a sigh of relief.

"Goodbye, my friend," he said with great effort. "Young warlock no more - you are a great wizard now. Emrys."

Then the Great Dragon drew his last breath, his heart ceased to beat, and Merlin rested his head against the beast's neck as hot tears fell upon his cheeks.

"Goodbye Kilgharrah," he whispered, as Aithusa lifted her head and let out a long, keening cry.