High above the clouds Kilgharrah was having quite the conversation. Not with Merlin, no, the passenger on his back was left entirely out of the loop, much to the young warlock's dismay. He could sense the telepathy running through the dragons mind. He could hear the voices answering his questions and posing their own, though he couldn't distinguish anything about them other than the simple fact that they were there.

Not a single word was audible, and each time he demanded to know what was going on, he was bucked a few feet into the air by a jerky wave of the dragon's scaly back. Merlin even tried forcing a response by dominating his mind, but to no avail. Seemingly impenetrable, the dragons mind would remain closed.

A low chuckle gurgled in the back of Kilgharrah's throat.

"What do you find amusing, Ancient one?" asked the high infantile voice of the dragon who had yet to be hatched. Its voice was unfavorably curious. This was to be expected. After all it's mind had only awoken days ago, and had found itself alone and forgotten beneath of mile of forgotten masonry, kept isolated and protected by the lingering wards left by the Dragonlords. Had Kilgharrah not hijacked the natural telepathic link that bound fledgling dragons to their mother's, the unborn would have gone mad with loneliness and never seen the light of day.

"Nothing young one, nothing."

"Are you coming to find me?" the little dragon almost pleaded.

"I cannot young one. The moment I am seen in the sky those who seek your blood will surely smash your shell to pieces and snuff out your life before it has even begun." The little dragon whimpered. "No matter," Kilgharrah continued. "Someone else is coming in my stead. He is a knight of utmost courage and skill. It is he who shall protect you until your birth, after which you shall receive your name, and come under my tutelage, and learn the ways of our kind. Sleep now." Beneath their crusted lids a pair of amber eye's burned gold, sending a calming aura over the fledgling, wafting it to dreamless sleep.

"It's doubtful your plan will unfold so simply, old friend," said a new voice. "Surely you know that the hatchling is also under my protection."

"Of course, old friend, now my plan will become so unbearably complicated that I'll have no hope of completing it." This seemed to amuse the source of the new voice very much.

"Come now, Kilgharrah, my involvement alone is not what complicates things. Rather, it is the fates, playing an elaborate divine prank on us. Is the boy with you? Have you told him anything?"

"Yes I have him. It quite the narrows rescue, from the clutches of Uther himself. And no, I've told him nothing. As we speak he's trying to break into this link. It's quite a feat you've accomplished, undermining a Dragonlords dominance over my kind, allowing us to speak freely. Shall I send the boy to you?"

"Heaven's no," replied the voice. "I've got far too much on my hands at the moment. Send him North. He will need the allegiance of the Druid, some of them at least. Other's would be far less useful, being swayed by their nihilistic view of the world and their own roles in it."

"Are you still bitter over Mordred? His fate has always led to the darkness. Destiny cannot be altered; you of all people should know that."

"Oh I know it. However that does that mean that I must like it. For a thousand years I've wandered this world, flickering back and forth between the veil that divides the physical and astral planes. Wherever I go destiny always follows. I have seen the face of God, seen and been part of his plans, and still had to stand aside and let history takes it's course, watch Chosen One after Chosen one fulfill his destiny just the way I know he will.. Yes, the fates always spin their threads towards good, but why is that the most innocent, those with the most potential for good who must always be seduced by greed and hate and vengeance? Mordred is such a soul. Not a day goes by that I do not regret failing to save him…" The man trailed off for a moment. Soon he regained his composure, and his voice took on it's earlier cheery and optimistic tone. "Send him North, he will find what he needs there. Good luck, Kilgharrah, old friend."

"Good luck to you as well, Pilgrim. Are you quite sure that is what you wish to call yourself? It seems rather….comical, like something thrown together at the last moment before starting out on a quest worthy of the tales of old."

"Well of course it's thrown together at the last moment. Have I ever done things any differently?"

Pilgrim's voice trailed away and the mental connection broke completely.

"What the bloody hell was that about?" Merlin asked angrily over the wind that pelted him in the face. "Do you want me to help you save your dragon egg or not? I can't do a thing about it if you don't tell me anything!"

"My apologies, Merlin" said the dragon. "I simply had a few things to attend to." He flexed his wings and they dipped down below the clouds. Gliding through the wispy pockets of cloud that hung low in the sky the pair came to rest in a meadow on the low foothills near the northern border of Camelot. Merlin slid off the dragons back into the knee length grass. Kilgharrah let out a long breath, steam pluming from his nostrils like grayish serpents. He folded his wings up tightly and curled his body comfortable in the flowerbeds. Patiently Merlin waited, surprising even himself. Usually patience wasn't one of his greatest virtues.

Mind blowing mysteries constantly came in and out of his life, and it was always easiest to deal with them when he knew as much as he could. However his informants were sometimes quite unhelpful, speaking only in vague riddles and longwinded stories that didn't seem to go anywhere useful.

"Alright," said the dragon. "Explanations. As I've already told you, Morgause has located the last dragon egg, which had been hidden from mortal eyes for the last thirty years. With it she hopes to perform a ritual that will summon an army of being beyond this world, demons, from the depths of the abyss." Merlin stared. Demons? Mystical creatures he could accept, magic and immortality, but demons? Had theology suddenly become bound up with magic, something it usually scorned as blasphemous?

"Demons?" he asked. The dragon nodded solemnly.

"Indeed."

"Why are you trying to stop it though?" Merlin asked. "You want to see Uther dead just as much as Morgause, more so perhaps. I would have thought you'd be off helping her."

"Under normal circumstances I would," the dragon agreed. "However the ritual she seeks to invoke is magic of the darkest sort and it requires a sacrifice of blood, dragons blood. The sorcerers under her command are far too cowardly to seek my blood, which they would never be able to obtain, so instead they opted to seek out the egg." His face darkened and grew more serious than Merlin had ever seen it. \

"I will not let any harm come to that egg, Merlin. My last breath would be given willingly if I could see it hatched. This is why I need you. The egg itself is safe for the time being, someone trustworthy is on his way to discovering it, and an old friend of mine will provide him with what he needs to guard it for the time being. You however, must take a much different path. Morgause's call is being heard by all the magical peoples of Albion. Persuade them otherwise, persuade them to follow you. A new chapter of your story is beginning Merlin, your skills must be honed, and allegiances must be made. It is only when her forces have been substantially weakened that I will be able to get to the egg myself, without my very presence provoking her men to smash it on the spot."

"Get them to follow me?" Merlin asked incredulously. It seemed ridiculous. Why would anyone swear an oath of allegiance to him? "I'm no leader."

"The druids will bend to the will of the once called Emyrs," said the dragon. "To them you are the one who will lead them to prosperity. Learn from them Merlin, fulfill your destiny. Do not fret over your strained relationship with Arthur. In time he will come to understand fully, and will come to meet you on the battlefield. Good luck, Merlin"

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Lancelot crawled on his belly through the tunnel. In his hand he held a flickering torch; in the other he held his newly enchanted sword. The weapon made it difficult to crawl without the steel blade getting hung up on low hanging stalactites. It was slow work. Huffing and groaning, gritting his teeth together, the warrior lowered his head and upped his speed.

Cool drops of water trickled from the ceiling, wetting his already sweaty forehead. His armor scraped harshly against the ground, creating noise that tore at his eardrums like razors. This didn't bother him too much though. After receiving his payment, not only would he be able to afford repairing his chainmail, but a shiny new suit as well. Once the elevation fell a few feet his head smacked directly into the trapdoor.

Dull pain permeated through his skull. Shaking away the dizziness, Lancelot looked up and took the opportunity to examine the door himself. Around the circumference were inscribed ancient and arcane symbols that no doubt derived from languages long since forgotten. Green light permeated from the characters, the same light that glowed from his sword. Lancelot placed the tip of his sword against the wood and pushed. For a moment the glowing intensified. Then the trapdoor deteriorated into a pile of sawdust. Rust covered the once flawless blade, before it too faded into nothingness, leaving behind a perfectly round porthole.

"Magic is odd," he muttered aloud. "Do magicians come up with this all themselves, or does magic do it for them?" On the other side he found himself in a crudely carved chamber. None of the walls were straight. In fact very little work seemed to have been done there at all.

The only constructs that were man made were a stone staircase on the far side of the chamber and a single torch bracket crudely attached to one of the uneven walls. Lancelot got to his feet, dusted himself off and placed his torch on the wall. The instant he did the entire room was filled with bright light, magnified by some unseen magical force.

Easily he traversed the steps, three at a time. At first glance the staircase seemed to only lead down to a lower level some ten feet beneath the earth. On second glance however, it became clear that it lead much deeper. For quarter of an hour he descended, before leveling out onto a smooth even ground. Now he stood in a smaller chamber, similar to the first. But differently than the first, it held a gargantuan nest built out of mounds and mounds of fine timber. Rotted straw was strewn about the limbs, and in the center of it all laid a huge stone. At least it appeared to be a stone. Obsidian black and ovular shaped, it appeared to be made entirely of marble.

Heat emanated from it, and on occasion it twitched slightly.

"An egg?" Lancelot thought aloud. Was this what he was meant to find? He approached the nest and pulled himself into it. Stretching out his arms his fingers came into contact with the egg. A voice sounded inside his head.

"Are you the one who's going to protect me?" it asked.

Fingers molded to the jet black stone as if they were glued there by a powerful adhesive, Lancelot stared blankly. On his skin the stone felt smooth and scaly. A faint light seemed to burn within it, spreading calming warmth into his hand, through his veins and into his heart.

"Are you the one who's to protect me?" the voice chimed through his thoughts. It sounded sleepy, as if it had only just woken from a deep serene sleep. "The ancient one said you would come." Lancelot continued to stare. His heart began to pump faster; his body began to shake, stirring the gathered bramble of the nest on which he was sprawled.

What in the world was this? Of course it had to be the object his employers were after, but what use would sorcerers have for a talking stone, even one that spoke directly into your mind? During his youth he'd heard countless tales from the bards and minstrels that wandered past his village; tales of fair maidens, shining knights and epic quests, but none of talking rocks.

"I'm not a rock," the voice giggled. "I'm a dragon; at least I will be once I hatch." Hatch? Lancelot thought. So this was a dragon egg. But that was impossible; it was common knowledge that dragons had been driven to extinction twenty years ago.

"We're not gone, I'm right here," said the dragon. "The Great one and I are all that's left."

"A-are you reading my mind?" Lancelot asked nervously.

"Well of course. How else would I speak to you, I haven't even been born yet!" Another giggle. "I may as well get to know you; the Great one says we'll be spending a lot of time together when you're protecting me from the sorcerers above." Protect? Lancelot thought. Why would he have to protect it? What would mages do to harm a dragon egg? He assumed that magic folks would want to help magical creatures like dragons, seeing as they too had nearly been eradicated in the great purge. And who was 'The Great one'?

"Why would I need to protect you?" he asked, though it was probable the egg had already read his thoughts.

"Because the sorcerers want me for…something, I do not know what. The Great one did not tell me."

"Who is 'The Great one'?"

"The Great Dragon, the oldest and most powerful of our race, he's lived for thousands of years, and knows many things. He told me you were coming. You see, with my mother dead, he spoke through the parental bond that links all us newborns to our parents. He wanted to keep me company, to let me know I wasn't alone….do you feel that?"

Lancelot did feel it, a strange sensation that began in his stomach and made its way tingling through the rest of his body, like tiny flames heating a copper pot above a campfire. However before he could reply a beam of light formed between him and the egg.

Tendrils of blue snaked their way around his body. They spun around the egg, ensnaring it like a spider would its prey. Together they were lifted from the nest. They hovered in mid air, the light continuing to coil around them like a mystical serpent, and then they were softly lowered down.

"W-we'd better go," said the unborn dragon in a haunted, trembling voice that matched the way Lancelot felt, shaken to the core. "We have a long way to travel."

"What just happened?" Lancelot nearly shrieked through his quivering lips.

"We've been bonded," the dragon said tiredly. "Go now; I have to….to sleep…The Pilgrim will show you the way." The voice trailed off and was soon replaced by the sound of soft snoring. Lancelot blinked. The egg shook in his hands. It had fallen asleep. How? Had the energy that 'bonded' them drain its energy in some way? Unsure of what had happened or what to do, he tucked the egg under his arm, stepped down from the nest, and tore from the chamber.

He scurried up the tunnel like a rat being pursued by a particularly vicious cat. Nothing made sense at all. What did it all mean? Talking eggs flashes of light, references to being of great wisdom and power that he'd never heard of. Was this the will of some higher magical being, the will of God? It had to be, or else Lancelot was trapped in some hysterical dream.

When he emerged from the tunnel the midday sun nearly blinded him. The smoke of the distant campfire could be seen spiraling upward through the trees. Returning there was unwise. If there was any truth to what the pre-hatchling had told him, all that awaited him at camp was an ambush. Turning on his heel, he dashed in the opposite direction. On that side of the ruins the forest was much denser, and every other step he was forced to leap over gnarled, hook-like roots. Mighty oak trees marked his path. At a steady pace, reaching the edge of the forest would take only a few hours on foot.

From there he would disappear. Surely he would find answers to his questions somewhere in Albion. And if not, perhaps he would sail south and make his way across the European mainland. Italy was known for its Grand universities and deep studies on mythical creatures. There all could be revealed, but for now escape was all he could accomplish. One brief moment he stopped and tore a patch of cloth from his breeches to form a makeshift carrying sling for his unborn passenger. Stumbling out onto the dirt path, Lancelot broke out into a full sprint.

Long hours of training had tempered endurance finer than any blade. Hours of running would only drain the smallest fraction of his energy reserves. Suddenly the sound of approaching hooves filled his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he quickened his paced. Behind him cantered a snow white mare, ridden by one of the cloaked mages, his former employer.

"Ho there lad, where are you going?" the mage called. Lancelot did not answer. He simply sped up, only to run headlong into the horses flank. The mage had galloped ahead of him and dismounted his mount. Wildly Lancelot lunged forward with a punch. The mage caught his fist in a wrinkled hand. "I mean you no harm, lad," the mage said with a chuckle. He released the fist, lowered his hood, and cast off his cloak.

He was quite possibly the oldest man he'd ever seen. Wrinkled covered every piece of visible skin, and his beard fell to his knees, white as his horse.

"Who are you?" Lancelot demanded, taking a cautionary step back.

"Call me Pilgrim," the old man said. He turned to his horse and unfastened the heavy saddlebags, laying them across his own decrepit shoulders. "I assume the youngling told you I mean to help you," he pointed to the egg in the sling. "Climb aboard, she's all yours," he patted the worn leather saddle. Hesitantly, Lancelot mounted the horse with the intent to speed off and away. However when he clicked the reigns the animal moved not an inch.

"No need to run lad," said the Pilgrim. "I'm not like the others. I know the difference between right and wrong, and that it's not right to slaughter an innocent creature for the sake of blood rituals. Youi need a place to go, find Merlin, the Prince's servant boy, I believe you've met. Together you'll work to set things right in time. Off with you then, we've both got places to be. Quite the adventure, you're about to have, and I know you'll be telling it at the round table for years to come."

The Pilgrim slapped the horses rear. Any attempt on Lancelot's part to speak was washed away as the horse took off at incomprehensible speed.

His eyes rammed shut, but opened when a new sensation filled his belly. His jaw dropped. The horse had sprouted wings, and was steadily making its way up into the sky. Laughing, the Pilgrim turned down the path, reached into the saddlebag on his shoulder and pulled from it a tall pointed hat. No one has any fashion sense these days, he thought.

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Frantically Morgana dashed into her chambers, lifting her skirt as not to trip on it. She would have plenty of time before anyone wondered about her. Uther was far too busy raging around the war room. And Arthur was more than certainly arranging search parties at his father's behest, going off to search for the escaped sorcerer. Merlin. Just thinking the name made her seethe with anger, hate and malice. How he had managed to summon a dragon she did not know. But no matter, he may have escaped, but fleeing would get him nowhere.

She swept over to her armoire and sat on the three legged stool. Raising her gaze she looked into the pristine crystal mirror. For a moment she saw only her hard expression. Her eyes flashed gold and she muttered a quick incantation. The glass rippled like water, and melted away.

Morgause smiled back at her through her own mirror that stood in the center of a spacious stone chamber. Vials of brightly colored potions stood on a table, and shelves packed to bursting with thick books lined the walls.

"Wonderful to see you sis-"

"He escaped the execution," Morgana cut her off. Morgause's face darkened, her nostrils flared.

"How?" she demanded. Morgana recalled that mornings events, how he called down a beast that had supposedly been slain a year ago, and waited patiently for her sisters response. Turning in her seat Morgause called to her hand a particularly heavy book nearly twice the size of her own head.

"How exactly did he summon it?" she asked thumbing through the yellowed pages. "Did he use any particular spell?"

"No. All he did was roar and the dragon came. He seemed to be controlling it somehow; it looked as if it wanted to devour Uther alive, but was prevented."

"Ah," Morgause murmured snapping the book shut and sending it back to its place on the shelf. "Merlin is a Dragonlord. Uther wasn't able to wipe them all out then. Pity, we could have used someone with those particular talents."

"'Dragonlord?" Morgana inquired. It was a term she'd never heard before.

"A Dragonlord is a man gifted with the ability to control Dragons," she explained. "Their powers are passed from father to son at the time of the father's death, and in many ways are akin to those of sorcerers. According to ancient texts the souls of Dragons and Dragonlords are interwoven, brothers. During the great purge Uther tried to have them all killed because he thought their abilities to be far too similar to our own, apparently he failed. Do you have any idea where the dragon may have taken him?"

"He won't have gone home. That's the first place Uther will have searched." Morgana rubbed her chin thoughtfully. It was possible he'd taken refuge among the Druids. By nature the Druid people were accepting of all those who possessed magic. This was unlikely though. Mordred, who shared her loathing of the ex-manservant, would have contacted her the moment he arrived at the camp. Her only option was to flush him out into the open.

"Send a battalion or two to Ealdor, a small village at the edge of Cenred's kingdom. Burn it to the ground, kill everyone. That should have Merlin running to us in no time at all. Even one such as he could not deny the need to avenge the destruction of his home."

"It shall be done," said Morgause. She got to her feet, a poisonous smirk etched across her face, pleased by her sibling's new found vindictiveness. "I've taught you well little sister. Victory is to be attained at any at all costs." With a quick farewell, the two witches closed the connection between their mirrors. A knock sounded at her door.

"Enter." A scout of Cenred entered the room. He fell to one knee and lowered his gaze.

"The scroll you requested has been found, Milady," he said diplomatically, pulling from his belt a dusty papyrus scroll. Glee filled Morgause's eyes has she snatched it up telekinetically, calling it to her palm.

"Leave me," she dismissed the scout. At once he backed out of the room, fearful of the misfortunes that would plague him if he disobeyed. Lowering herself back into her seat, Morgause ran her nails across the aged paper. The scrolls was sealed with the emblem of three crossed leaves, one faded blue, one dark burgundy, one light evergreen, the symbol of the ancient Druids, the trinity of power, wisdom, and strength. Over the years the paper's coloring had turned from white, to yellow, and now to a ragged looking brown. She prodded the emblem with her middle finger.

"Claudo." The emblem kindled and burned away, allowing the sorceress to carefully unroll the papyrus. Barely legible on its surface were inscribed tightly looped words. They were written in Greek, but Nimueh had taught her ward many languages over the years, so she understood it perfectly.

From Pendragon witch and Pendragon Heir, the darkest of powers shall flare

From Witch's womb and Heir's seed, the Heir's demise will come indeed

"The prophecy has spoken," she whispered, tenting her fingers. Arthur Pendragon would sire a child, and that child would one day be his murderer.

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Okay, I wanted to put something about Merlin himself in this chapter, but this was the first subplot I needed to really get going. Next chapter will be Merlin centric, with a bit of Arthur thrown in as well. Any more guesses as to the identity of Pilgrim? A reviewer suggested he was Time Lord in origin, an interesting theory. Keep reading to find out.