Chapter Two

It seemed, on that first night, that it was different.

As Merlin walked aimlessly through the trees, the usual rustlings and calls of small animals could not be heard. Earlier winds had died down, and the leaves stood still, bathed in the moonlight of a starless sky. A still, unearthly cold had settled in the air. Besides the sound of his own dull footsteps on the frozen earth, there was silence. It was as if nature itself had fled the forest.

But Merlin hardly noticed. His own thoughts seemed to have slowed to a stop. There was no sense, not in anything. No point. He didn't even know where he was going. Perhaps he'd just keep walking until he dropped, no longer able to carry on. All he knew is that he didn't want to stop, and didn't want to be found.

Yet, there was this feeling, that didn't seem to belong to him-his own emotions had muddled together and congealed, to sit deep inside him like a lump of heavy lead, foreign and sickening. But there was something else. A prickling in his blood, and something akin to adrenaline-but where adrenaline was a burst of icy cold, this was a steadily mounting, fiery urgency quite at odds with his general apathy.

As hours passed, it became impossible to ignore. The prickle evolved into a soreness, all over, as if he had torn every muscle in his body, and despite the definite chill an uncomfortable, feverish heat crawled under his skin.

Exhausted and aching, Merlin stopped to sit for a moment on a mouldering log. And it could only be a moment, he told himself. For some reason it felt important to him to keep moving. For a few minutes he allowed himself to stay there, palms pressing into his eyes as if he could push away the throbbing headache that had accumulated behind them.

Maybe I'm ill, he thought wryly, Arthur's dead and I've caught a cold.

A twisted, bitter laugh tore through the silence. He couldn't stop it. It was just so funny. Another thing, on top of everything, as if could be worse.

The crazed laughter started to shake, and was threatening to shatter into sobs, when Merlin realised it was no longer the only sound to be heard. From somewhere deeper in the trees, a high pitched, animalistic wail had answered him.

Stifling himself, he listened. For a moment, he heard nothing, and wondered if he had imagined it in delirium. But then it rang out again, the most excruciated sound, the crying like that of an animal caught in a trap.

Feeling a flicker of compassion and kinship, Merlin stood wearily. Whatever it was sounded badly injured. He would have to try to heal it or, if necessary, put it out of its misery.

Following the keening noise, he stumbled in the general direction of the source. As he had feared, his rest had cost him dearly; exhaustion had settled into total fatigue, every limb now burdened with weakness and a struggle to move. But he was determined to keep going, and to find the animal. Perhaps he could save it.

The cries got louder-he was close. Whatever it was wouldn't be difficult to spot, he thought, under this moonlight. It was a strange cry, but pain often distorted normal animal calls. It could always be magical, which would make any attempt at helping harder, but it was unlikely. It was probably a deer. Although, getting nearer, it was loud. Maybe something bigger, then. No, definitely bigger than a deer. It must be right in front of him now. And it sounded…odd, not like any normal prey for a hunter-

Pushing aside a branch, Merlin stopped. Rooted in place, he stared at the scene before him. It wasn't a deer.

It was Aithusa.

And, beneath his racked, curled form, was Morgana.

The young dragon, it became apparent, wasn't injured or trapped. He was crying.

For a long while, Merlin simply watched Aithusa as he lay over the witch's body, occasionally nudging it hopefully only to let out another wail upon receiving no response. Mourning unmistakable, for the only companion the creature had ever truly known. Had cared for, or felt care from. And Merlin, who in his neglection had showed him so little, had killed her.

He had failed them both. Sacrificed them, as he had so much, for Albion. For the dead king. For nothing.

"Aithusa."

He couldn't leave them here, of that he knew. He commanded the dragon to move away, trying to make his tone soft, but only managing a dull monotone. Aithusa only glanced up, and then resumed his sorrowful vigil. Firmer, Merlin tried again, but the cries only increased in grief with reproachful defiance.

He took a step towards the pair, only to halt when a snarl ripped out of the dragon's throat. After a pause, he tried again, this time receiving only a choked, pitiful whimpering in response. When he was close enough, he knelt beside them.

"Aithusa", he said again, his own voice cracking. "I'm sorry."

The dragon looked into his face, then cautiously shifted forwards. At first Merlin thought he was going to bite him, but instead felt Aithusa's head pressing gently into his shoulder. A show of comfort, and of the need to be comforted. Forgiveness.

It was how it should have been, Merlin knew. The last Dragonlord, and the dragon he called into the world, together. Morgana, too-scared and alone with her power. He wondered if she was scared of herself even at the end, deep down, in her darkest thoughts and dreams. If she ever realised, for however a fleeting moment, what she had truly become. He could have helped her.

It was unbearable. The shame of Aithusa's forgiveness, and the sharing of their grief.

When he next asked Aithusa to move aside, he did so without protest, assuming the position of cowering beside Merlin. With one hand resting on Aithusa, Merlin placed the other onto ground before them. Despite the exhaustion still hanging over him, and the ever increasing sensation of feverishness, his magic came to him easily, rushing out of him before the will had even fully crossed his mind and tearing through the earth.

Leaping to his feet, Merlin frantically backed away, pushing the panicked dragon behind him. The ground surrounding Morgana began to cave in on itself, creating a widening chasm in the forest floor that swallowed the body of the former Lady whole.

They watched as the dirt collapsed back into the grave, then sealed over without a hint of the area being touched. Nobody, aside from the two who had witnessed her burial, would ever find Morgana Pendragon's resting place.

Aithusa left Merlin's side to return to her, no longer crying, but curling up resolutely on the spot above where he knew her body lay. For a while, Merlin watched, determined to stand by the dragon despite the screaming presence of the spot Arthur had sat mere hours ago, and his knowledge of his proximity to the clearing in which he died. Although, he'd made no conscious effort to avoid wandering back into the spot. Perhaps, on some level, he'd known he was coming back here all along.

When he could bear it no longer, he left to return to his purposeless journey. Aithusa, he knew, was not ready to come with him. If ever it came to it, he was certain he knew the place where he would be sure to find the dragon again.