The Pilgrim clucked his tongue and pulled the end of a hand carved pipe from his teeth. A fine misty smoke seethed from his mouth and poured from his nostrils. For a moment it hung around his face, before dissipating into nothingness. A cloudy gray void surrounded him. The ground on which he sat was actually not ground at all, but rather a smooth texture less plane on which to be.

Patches of fog drifted aimlessly, carrying with them the echoing voices of souls long passed. Off I the distance to one direction was a mass of faint golden light tinged with oranges and reds. Warm ribbons of every imaginable color streamed endlessly from, twisting and turning in all directions. The sight of it alone was enough to fill the Pilgrim's heart with joy. Goodness and love and life incarnate.

In the opposite direction was a hole. A jagged black tear in the face of existence. The fringed edges of ribbons stained black flailed silently from it, as if trying to claw their way back from realms that could never be escaped from once entered. Sadly the Pilgrim looked away. Souls were souls, and no matter how wicked they were it pained him to see them suffer. Setting aside his pipe he pulled back the oversized cuffs of his sleeves. Closing his eyes he held out both his hands, palms facing upward.

Two gleaming ribbons unfurled themselves from the golden contingent and wove themselves tightly around his fingers. The ends were folded neatly upon themselves, unbroken. Like countless others before them they had left behind their earthly anchors and rejoined the source of all.

"Why do you call back the dead, Pilgrim?" asked a kind heavenly voice. He looked up. Beside him had materialized the semisolid form of a woman clothed in reeds and the remnants of a torn maroon dress. Her eyes were serene and concerned.

"Because, Milady," he replied, turning back to the ribbons in his hands. "Arthur and Guinevere require council that I cannot give. Their deceased parents can."

"It that truly wise, to bring forth memories of pain, images of what could have been?"

"You tell me, Lady of the lake," the Pilgrim said slyly, "is it?"

"It is you, not I, who has lived for over sixteen hundred years. You tell me," the lady responded, folding her translucent arms beneath her breasts.

"I believe it is. Perhaps they can touch the emotions within them I cannot. Really, you should be resting milady. You will need all the strength you can muster for what is to come." Begrudgingly, the lady nodded. She turned away and crystalline tears began to leak down her face.

"Be steady Pilgrim. The power of Excalibur can only take the boy so far. He will need the will to use it first." And with that she faded away, becoming enfolded into the fog.

The Pilgrim took the ribbons in his hands and focused his magic on them. For a split second they grew warm in his hands, and left them. Before him now stood two ghostly figures. One a man, the other a woman. The man was tall, with olive colored skin and a kind face. His head was nearly devoid of hair, and his chestnut colored eyes twinkled. The woman however was nearly his stark opposite. Her skin was a pale creamy white, her eyes a lovely cyan blue, and her clothes indicated she was of royal stature.

"Welcome," The Pilgrim told them with a smile, rising to his feet. "Tom, Yrgraine, we have much to discuss."

LINEBREAK

"Lancelot?" Merlin repeated. Having fallen from the sky, Lancelot staggered around the clearing in delirium, straining his neck around to look at who he'd fallen upon.

"Merlin?" he said before loosing his balance and tumbling backward into a batch of soft overgrown grass, clutching the bundle he carried protectively to his chest. At once Merlin was kneeling as his side.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Quickly he looked his friend over for injuries. Only minor scratches marred his skin, and luckily no bones had been broken. Apart from being a bit shaken, the young warrior was in excellent health.

"'M fine," Lancelot said in a daze, pressing his free hand to his forehead. For several whole minutes he remained still, allowing the dizziness to fade. Merlin waited anxiously. He ignored the dull aches he still felt from absorbing Lancelot's impact and helped him to his feet. Dusting himself of the fallen leaves and tufts of grass that clung to his tunic and breeches, he looked up at the patch of sky that could be seen through the trees.

Wisps of clouds formed elegant white ribbons across the midday blue of the sky.

"Damn horse," he muttered. "Nearly killed me…" he turned back to Merlin. "Well, I suppose old man was telling the truth, here you are."

"Horse? Old Man?" Merlin repeated blankly. Lancelot nodded.

"I was running from sorcerers, who wanted this," he lifted the egg for Merlin to see in its pouch. "One of them followed me on a horse, gave me the horse, told me to find you, and then the horse sprouted wings and carried me off!" Merlin's brows shot up his forehead skeptically. "Don't look at me like that! You're a sorcerer yourself!" Merlin shrugged. It was true, and a winged horse wasn't exactly odd compared to what he'd already seen, winged panthers who were actually cursed druid girls, stone knights brought to life, a chalice that could restore a life at the cost of another, the list went on and on.

"Why did he tell you to find me? How does he know me?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lancelot told him. "But it has something to do with this." He lifted the egg once more, and a small childlike voice chimed in both their minds.

"Hello Emyrs, milord," Merlin stared, realization washing over him. Only one kind of creature would refer to him like that, even if the only one he'd ever met before would prefer to die than to address him as nobility.

"That's a dragon egg, isn't it?" Lancelot nodded.

"The Pilgrim, that's what the old man called himself, told me you were to help me with it."

"So you're who Kilgharrah was talking about. He mentioned he'd arranged for someone to go find it," said Merlin. His eyes widened and a grin tugged at his lips.

"I'm not an it, thank you very much," the egg thought dryly. "I'm a her. I may not be born yet, but I'd still like at least some dignity." Both young men shifted awkwardly on their feet. Merlin's grin disappeared. Strangely enough neither of them had been told off by an egg before.

"Why are you so far from Camelot?" Lancelot asked, changing the subject. Eye's cast to the floor, Merlin recounted Morgause's siege and his near execution. Memories of that dreadful night still plagued him. Listening intently to his friends story, Lancelot felt his stomach tighten and his nerves tense. So the crown prince now knew of his manservant's secret, and the king's war against magic and its practitioners was as brutal and as unethical as ever. Part of him wondered if Uther still discriminated against those below his social class, though he immediately dismissed it. Of course he did.

"How did Arthur react?" He opted not to call the prince by his title. They were miles away from civilization, there was no point in showing more respect than he actually possessed for Camelot's heir. Guinevere may be his, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"He was angry at first, of course. But after a bit of explaining he calmed down a bit. Hell, he even offered to try and help me escape."

"How did you escape?" Lancelot asked curiously. "You didn't mention that. Did you outrun the guards, disintegrate the walls with magic?"

"The Great One freed him," the she-egg answered for her carrier. "He is the last of the Dragonlords, and the Great One had no choice but to answer his call."

"A 'Dragon Lord'?" Lancelot questioned.

"Yes," said a new voice. "A Dragon Lord." In that moment many thing happened at once. A silver tipped arrow flew downward from high in the trees. It missed Merlin's neck by inches, instead pinning him to the ground by the collar of his shirt. A wolf the size of a small cart horse leapt from nowhere and slammed Lancelot down beside his friend. Snarling the animal glared bloodily down at it's prey, daring it to provoke a killing blow. No less than a dozen figures crept from amongst the trees. All were garbed in a mixture of leather and fur armors, covered by green cloaks embroidered with the triple leaved symbol of the druids.

"Hello Emyrs. Are you who you're foretold to be? Or are you simply a false prophet?"

LINEBREAK

Arthur and his knights rode as a strong column. The bars of their helmets shielded their faces from the opposing breeze and the dulling light of the setting sun, their scarlet capes flapped behind them like banners in the wind. Morgana and Gwen galloped at the back, their mounts easily keeping the pace.

Mixed responses from the knights had resulted from the girl's presence. Some didn't seem to mind, while others were clearly bothered by the idea of a female going on a man's mission. But Morgana had simply smiled and repeated herself. "We're coming with you and that's final." No more was said of the matter. Knights had bravery, though not nearly enough to face the fiery wrath of the king's ward.

Arthur grunted, tugging on the reins sharply. The packed dirt road had begun to thin several miles back, and now it had disappeared into a crop of muddy grass at the forests edge. His gaze turned to forest. Ealdor did not connect to any of the major mapped roads. In order to reach the village they would have to make their own path through the wild.

"We camp here for the night!" he called over his shoulder. "I will not have us in the forest after nightfall. We begin again at dawn." At once his companions all dismounted and set about preparing for the evening. Sir's Gawain and Godric, the newest initiates, led the horses to a nearby pine and secured the leads to low hanging branches. Another pair of knights unfolded the light woolen bedrolls and another set about gathering firewood with a hatchet from the saddlebags.

"Sir Leon, you'll hunt with me," said Arthur as he removed his helmet and began to strip off his mail.

"Yes, Sire," Leon replied, removing his own helmet. The two of them pulled aside the largest of the groups saddlebags and withdrew from it a pair of stout short-bows and sheathed hunting knives. As they worked a thought that had spent the entirety of the afternoon gnawing at the back of his skull resurfaced among his conscious the prince's conscious thoughts.

Balinor had been Merlin's father. Merlin was not only a sorcerer, but a Dragonlord. In hindsight it made perfect sense. Why else would Merlin have been so upset at Balinor's demise? He had been forced to watch his long lost father die less than a day after meeting him. A mixture of guilt, and sadness tugged at Arthur's stomach.

Lurching forward into his work he strenuously pushed the thought away. Why was it that all thoughts of Merlin brought him nothing but despair, confusion and hopelessness as of late?

"Come, Gwen," said Morgana softly, dropping her own bag from her well dressed shoulders. "Let's prepare the tent, shall we?"

"Tent?" asked Arthur, puzzled. He looked up from checking the fletching on his arrows. "Why've you brought a tent? It's summer!"

"Ladies do need their privacy, Arthur," Morgana smiled coyly. Gwen gave her lover a playful smile. Women were something that would never be fully understandable to the male species, Arthur decided. Within several minutes the pair had erected a plain but sturdy cloth tent. There was no danger of rain that evening, so the leather tarp would be unnecessary. Gwen gathered their belonging and crawled through the small opening with her mistress close behind. The maid arranged the bedrolls neatly and placed the bags against the far end out of the way.

"Gwen?" said Morgana.

"Yes?" she turned to face her. Morgana raised her palm to the other girls face, smirking.

"Sleep." Lightning flashed across Guinevere's eyes, and she collapsed awkwardly across the bedrolls. Plucking a single hair from her servants head, Morgana pulled from the folds of her cloak a glass vial of disgustingly pale liquid.

"Be prepared, sister," Morgause reminded her telepathically. "The prophecy has spoken. Be prepared to do what must be done."

LINEBREAK

"Will you not speak Emyrs?" the unseen voice asked impatiently. "Does divine wisdom not flow through your mind and into your mouth; are you not the one whom prophecy foretold? Speak boy, or neither you nor your friend shall see the light of another day."

Fingers snapped, the Druid bowmen amongst the trees drew back their arrows. The light humming of tensing bowstrings rang in Merlin's ears. The gargantuan wolf who still pinned Lancelot to the ground let out a low snarl, its huge yellow eyes narrowed dangerously, hackles springing upward. Merlin tried to move, and the arrow that pinned him to a tree by the collar dug sharply into the flesh of his shoulder. A shrill scream escaped his mouth involuntarily. Blood trickled from the newly formed wound, staining the cloth of his tunic a deep maroon.

"Are you alright?" Lancelot called from the ground. This seemed to upset the wolf, which snapped its massive jaws closed inches from the young warrior's cheek, silencing him at once. Barely audible murmurs passed through the archer's ranks, and several of them parted to either side. From the shelter of the trees stepped a tall raven haired druid. He appeared to be in his middle years, perhaps the King's age, and the short tufted beard that shot out of from his chin was speckled with bits of iron gray. Like his subordinates he wore a cloak bearing the three leafed seal, worn with age and torn from battles long past.

A claymore hung loosely by a leather cord on his back, and his eyes matched those of the wolf's, yellow and large as saucers. Even with his pain Merlin couldn't help but stare. Never before had he seen such eyes, at least not on a man. For a moment the man stared at the scene before him, pensively, before opening his palm and twiddling his fingers in the air. His irises flashed gold. Once again the rough steel of the arrow dug into Merlin's skin, then wrenched itself free and twirled through the air to the man's waiting grasp. He snapped the straightened wood neatly in half. Merlin slumped against the tree, his hands flying at once to nurse his shoulder.

"Who are you?" he choked between the spasms of pain that chilled him to his marrow. The man's forehead creased.

"Who am I?" he repeated, confirming he was the source of the once unseen voice. "Who are you, Emyrs? Is that truly your name? We were told we were to find the one of prophecy along this trail, but instead we find nothing more than a couple of boys, one of whom carries an egg of a race thought all but extinguished. How peculiar…"

The wolf nudged the dragon egg in Lancelot's sling with its snout, nostrils twitching eagerly. "Magic burns brightly within you, I can sense it. But are you Emyrs, or merely another in a long line of false prophets?" What happened next happened so fast that Merlin had only a fraction of a second to react. The man leapt forward, his knees rising up to his chest. His feet slammed back to the ground, and his fists flew outward. "Agnis Marunil!"

Merlin dove to the side as columns of swirling flames erupted from the mans hands. The trees behind him ignited like parchment, serpentine coils of fire began to twist their way up the thick bark covered trunk. Sweltering heat now filled the clearing as well as red-orange aura that cast flickering shadows between the trees. Beads of sweat pooled on Merlin's chest and brow, leaking down his sleeves and into his still open wound. He winced in pain, stifling another agonized moan. The columns of flame suddenly withdrew into the mans hands and condensed themselves into fist sized spheres, which levitated above each of his upward facing palms. Crackling noises popped and sizzled from above.

Both he and Merlin glanced up to see the fire dance its way up tree limbs and engulf the once healthy leaves in a hot embrace. Below the archers did not seem perturbed by the notion of falling branches and their bows were still fixed on the young sorcerer.

"Fight back!" the man demanded, anger flaring across his stony face. "Prove to me who you are or die!" Again the man shoved his hands forward. This time Merlin was ready. He raised the hand not glued to his shoulder and bellowed in desperation.

"Glathin!" From his fingertips expanded a glassy dome of light that encased his entire body. On impact the fire columns split and broke away harmlessly to either side. Growling the druid man twisted his fingers, and the columns began to spin around Merlin's magical shield. From within the glassy dome Merlin grunted as the temperature of the air around him began to rise to unbearable levels. A scarlet glow seared across the dome's inner surface. It illuminated its occupants skin, making the web of blood filled veins in his skin clearly visible.

"Merlin!" Lancelot called. Vainly he attempted to brush aside the wolf with one arm while clinging to the egg with his other. Inside his mind the unborn dragoness babbled nonsensical panic.

"Fight back!" the man demanded once more. He took a step forward and the swirling flames intensified, turning from orange red to a bluish white. Merlin's thoughts melded together as the heat grew. His mind grew fuzzy and his vision slowly began to fade. No! he shouted in his mind. He could not allow himself to be killed this way, not with so many increasingly dark disasters looming on the horizon. Mustering all the strength his sagging muscles could bear, he straightened his posture. Eyes snapping open, both of his hands flew against the weakening shield. Thoughts clear, golden light flooded his eyes, and the shield shattered into thousands of glittering pieces.

As Merlin strode forward, twirling his arms, biting back pain, the flames cooled to their usual red colorings and shot straight up in thin rope like streams. They formed an orb like a miniature sun, spinning powerfully on it's axis. With a cutting motion of Merlin's hands it cracked down the center and collapsed in on itself, burning out of existence within seconds. A tiny small tugged at the druid man's lips. It didn't stay there long. Drawing his claymore he moved beside the still sprawled Lancelot. He clicked his tongue. Taking the warriors scruff in his many teethed jaws the beast dragged him aside into the trees among the bowman.

"I am called Verown. Perhaps you truly are Emyrs, but simply breaking my attack is not proof enough." Elegantly Verown flourished his oversized blade and took an offensive stance. Albeit hesitantly, Merlin shrugged into a similar stance. Having spent more than two years watching Arthur train, he'd picked up a few things about basic hand to hand combat. Very basic. Of course he had no real need to physically fight, but the stance served just as well for magical based combat.

"Why does it matter if I'm Emyrs, what do you want of me?"

"I want you to be Emyrs' Verown replied simply. "For all my life I have awaited your coming. Do not disappoint me." Claymore raised high above his head, he charged. Instinctively Merlin stepped forth to intercept the blown with a quick yet weak shield formed in the palm of his hand, a small buckler sized disc. Quickly Verown stepped forward, lashing at him with a flurry of upward slashes. Each Merlin hit aside with his buckler of light, step-hopping backward as he parried the blows.

Breath becoming ragged, he decided to turn the tables, go on the offensive. He dug his feet firmly into the ground and prepared himself as his foe lunged at him with a ferocious overhead pummel. It was likely that if it hit, his skull would shatter.

"Aerin!" Merlin swished his wrists and a melon sized glob of energy burst forth from his fingers. Verown groaned audibly as it crashed against his robed chest. He staggered backward, tightening his grip on the claymore's hilt. Regaining his footing, he rushed to resume the battle. Adrenaline coursing through his veins Merlin felt the tell tale power high that came with channeling large amount of magic. Basic energy attacks wouldn't be enough. What he needed was a big finish, something that would incapacitate the Druid without killing him. Either that, or something spectacular enough to make him back off. A spectacle was what Verown wanted, and he would get one.

Electricity ran rampant across his nerves and power filled him. Eyes lighting up, he let loose a tumultuous flow. Years later, Merlin would still be unsure what exactly it was he'd done. An orb large enough to fill the grand hall of Camelot frenzied around the clearing. It gave off a mad hissing as it spun, giving off showers of silvery sparks. Breaking rank the Druid archers ran in terror. Verown sprinted to a stand of thick trunked oaks. Trembling, Merlin watched as the orb began setting the unburned foliage alight, consuming all in its path.

"Stop it!" Verown roared. Fear flickered across his features and disappeared near instantly. "Control yourself boy!" Still shaking Merlin raised his hands. New sensations crawled their way across his skin as he took the orb in his telekinetic grip. Legs buckling beneath him, he crumpled to his knees.

"Down…down!" he muttered harshly to himself. Never before had he unleashed so much at once, nor had he ever tried to control something so vast. Trees began to collapse by the dozen as their supports were ripped from under them. The feeling of icy cold and boiling hot rushed as one into Merlin's heart. His hands withdrew to his chest, and as his eyes burned gold the orb disappeared, it's energy dissipating in silvery gray cloud. All strength left his body, and he collapsed face forward into the soft, slightly charred bed of leaves. An iron grip took hold of his neck. Verown lifted him up, beaming triumphantly. He gave a whistle, and the wolf left Lancelot and trotted to the mans side.

"Oh yes, the Weaver will want to see you, Emyrs. Perhaps she can teach you the control you require."

LINEBREAK

Arthur yawned tiredly as he lay against his saddlebag. The setting sun had given way to calming twilight. A crescent moon sat low in the star speckled sky, and rings of pinkish orange marked the ending of the suns descent into the horizon. Invisible threads of tension were woven around his psyche, pulled taught and ready to snap. Around him his knights slept slumped in heaps beside their belongings. The horses, still tied off lolled in place while sleeping, the few still awake nipping absently at tufts of grass.

"Some ale would be lovely about now," he murmured rubbing his temples. He'd foolishly volunteered for the first watch of the night. And so he was trapped with his vicious thought cycle, dozens of questions and about three answers, none of which made sense, Merlin was a sorcerer, Merlin was a Dragonlord, Merlin….well most of them concerned Merlin. He wondered whether other princes had to deal with such troubles because of their servants. Improbable, but perhaps other servants were secretly...gnomes, or something like that.

"Arthur?"

Twisting to look over his shoulder, Arthur saw Gwen emerge from the tent and his eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. From behind her came Morgana's low rhythmic snoring, which she swore she didn't do, though actually did quite consistently, nearly every night. Guinevere had changed since making camp. No longer was she dressed in a simple servant's dress with divided skirts for riding. She wore only an elegant silken nightgown, cut so that the majority of her olive colored skin showed. Arthur's heart grew heavy in his chest and it's beats increased ten fold. Before he could speak she was on top of him and her velvety lips pressed to his.

Conscious thought drifted away from his mind. His eyes closed and the entirety of his body gave in to passion. Guinevere's eyes burned gold and she smirked against his mouth. Hours from now the prince would believe this experience to be a fleeting dream consisting of fragmented images.

"The deed will soon be done, sister."