Avery sat on a stump and stared into his lap, unheeding of the noisy camp around him. The whickering of restless horses, the clanking of armor and weapons, and the voices of the men fell on deaf ears. He had completed his squire's duties more than an hour ago, so now all he had to do was wait. Wait and wonder and worry about the battle coming on the morrow.

Being a squire had seemed such an adventurous thing at the start. It was the first step toward knighthood, and what boy in the Five Kingdoms didn't dream of that? However, the fantasies of valor and glory were lessened significantly now that the prospect of real bloodshed was looming on the horizon.

Avery looked up from his faintly trembling hands and out across the land spread below them. The valley of Arderydd lay below them, a great swathe of green land dotted with farmsteads and copses of dark trees. A river like a great silver ribbon snaked a meandering path through the center. He had ridden through the valley a few times with his master on patrols, and it was normally a beautiful place. Whenever they would stop for breaks, he would lounge on the long grass, or scavenge for blackberries under the sun-shaded trees. All of that peaceful beauty was gone. The twilight was shaded with swollen clouds, and a cold wind was whistling through the evacuated valley and along its wooded slopes where the armies of Rheged lay in wait. And tomorrow Arderydd would be flooded with an invading force of Saxons, a force that they were meant to ambush and defeat.

The squire shivered underneath his cloak. It wasn't much protection. He longed for a fire, but they had been commanded to light none. With the Saxons within a day's march of them they could not hazard giving away their positions. It would be a cold night, and probably a sleepless one too if his fears did not leave him be. What miserable prospects, Avery shivered. What I wouldn't give to be back home in my father's estate, eating hot stew and not waiting on bloodthirsty foreigners to hack my head off.

"Avery!" he heard a voice calling. It was Joseph, another squire that served under Sir Richard. "If you want sup, you'd better hurry, before Reynold gets it all."

Supper probably meant a meager bit of bread and some dried meat, but better to go to bed miserable and full than miserable and hungry. Avery heaved himself off his stump and followed his fellow squire.

There was a gathering of most of his peers near the edge of the camp in a grove of tall juniper trees, the lot of them gnawing on hunks of bread and chattering. Most seemed downright excited, itching in their boots to wet their swords with enemy blood for the first time. A few others, like Avery himself, were quiet, and there was a matching gleam of fear in their eyes.

Reynold, as usual, was boasting about how many Saxon heads he was like to take on the morrow. "They won't know what to do with themselves when they see me coming. My father had me a new sword made and everything. I bet you a silver piece I kill the most out of any of you."

"Yeah, and then King Urien will knight you personally and betroth you to his daughter," Joseph sneered. "I'd bet a gold piece you wet yourself at the first sign of a Saxon."

Before Reynold could retort, or more likely take a swing at Joseph, one of the older squires cut him off. "You should be less worried about whose heads you'll be taking and more about keeping your own on your fool neck. This isn't play fighting in the yard with wooden swords anymore. Leave the glory to the experienced men and focus on staying alive."

Avery shivered at the dire warning, but Joseph perked up. "Yeah, we don't need Reynold to send those savages running. We've got plenty of fighters that'll have them shaking in their boots. My master Sir Richard for one, and don't forget Prince Garridan."

"Yeah, and the Mad Sorcerer," one voice piped up.

Avery turned his head in that direction, nervousness and curiosity both piqued. "We have a sorcerer?" he asked. "A mad one?"

"Oh yeah!" Joseph cried. "You're at Dunworth, so you've never seen him. Myrddin they call him. Myrddin the Wild. He's been in Prince Garridan's company for a few months now, and I don't think the prince ever wants to let him go. From what I hear he's a monster on the battlefield."

"I hear he rides into battle with a flaming sword and flaming eyes, and the enemies are so scared they drop dead at the sight," called out one boy.

"That's nonsense," grunted the older squire, but Avery was rather intrigued. He'd never seen a sorcerer before. He had always rather hoped he would, but it seemed magic users were a dying breed in Albion. "Is he really mad?" he asked.

Joseph shrugged. "Can't say for sure. I've never talked to him, and only seen him from a distance."

"Well, where'd he come from?"

"Don't know that either, though there are all kinds of stories. Some people think King Urien hired him to protect his son. Others say he served another king, but when that king was killed in battle he went on the warpath. And still others," he said, dropping to a dramatic whisper, because Joseph was prone to theatrics, "say he's a vengeful spirit that was burned alive by Saxons, and now he hunts them down for the rest of eternity."

"Oh come off it," Avery retorted, but he couldn't help feeling a little unease. After all, this was sorcery they were talking about. Who knew what it was capable of.

"What a load of horse shite," Reynold said loudly and crudely. "Probably just a petty little magician."

"Well, petty or not, we might see him tomorrow on the field. I'll be keeping an eye out," said Joseph.

The older squire seemed to have had enough of the fireside tales, though they lacked a fire. "What you'll be keeping an eye out for are Saxons and their blades, not a ruddy wizard. If any of you make it out of this alive, I'll be shocked. I'm going to bed, and I'd suggest you all do the same. Though it's not like anyone listens to me around here anyway," he grumbled, stomping off toward the tents.

For all his cynicism, most of the squires did end up following his lead. Avery's stomach did loops and twirls all the way back to his meager little tent. Talk of war heroes and sorcerers was a good distraction as long as it was going, but once the boy was nestled into his bedroll and listening to the sounds of the army bedding down, his fear came flooding back. His last thought before his eyes slipped shut was how he wished for a little bit of magic for his own. It might help him survive the battle.

It hardly felt like a few seconds had passed before he was being shaken awake. "Whaa—" he slurred, blinking stupidly. The face of his master Sir Eldon swam into focus.

"Get up, Avery. We are to march soon."

Avery's heart jumped into his throat. Eldon must have seen the fear on his face, for he gave the boy a firm pat on the shoulder. "I doubt you have anything to worry about. You and the other new squires will be on the flank, making sure none of them escape, and we certainly don't intend to let any of them get free from our net." The knight gave a confident grin. "Come now, we must make ready."

His master's confidence was a great help, but Avery's fingers still trembled as he helped Sir Eldon into his armor and prepared the horses. The Saxons were due to arrive at the designated spot at the height of morning, but their own armies were meant to be in position long before then. The sun wasn't even up yet, and the fading night was rife with mist and frigid cold. The trampled grass and the soldier pines looming around their camp were stiff with hoarfrost.

Avery didn't hear the call to march go out, but when the knights began to mount up and the foot soldiers hefted up their spears he knew it was time. Panting out great clouds of cloudy breath, Avery swung himself up onto the back of his brown palfrey, glad for the creature's steadiness. If it had been a skittish beast, Avery's own fear would have made things that much more difficult.

"Are you ready?" Sir Eldon asked as he rode up on his powerful dark destrier.

"Y-Yes, sir." He felt anything but ready, but he would go. He would not return to his father's house and say he had been a coward.

"Good." With a kick, Sir Eldon spurred his beast forward, Avery hurrying along at his tail. Together they melded into the greater host as they moved out. Their destination was not far. There was a place where the valley narrowed significantly while the river widened. At that point the trees grew down close to the river bank. It would be slim ground, and an easy thing to take the Saxon host by surprise from the front and back. They were in position for the rear attack by the time the first milky, obscured rays of the sun broke the cloudy horizon. With it came the first sight of the Saxon host. Avery might have turned tail and fled right then if he hadn't been surrounded by his fellow squires, although he might not have been alone if he did. Even Reynold looked pale when they took in the sheer numbers of the enemy host entering the valley below them. Avery tried very hard to remember what Eldon had told him, that tactics and position could win over numbers nine times out of ten. He could only hope this would be one of those nine times and not the one. Most of their host had split off to lead the ambush. Those left behind on the forested slopes could only wait in dreading anticipation, watching through the trees as the enemy host crept past.

When the first cries and clashing sounds of battle came ringing up through the trees, Avery clutched his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles went white. Only guarding the flank, only guarding the flank, he told himself over and over again. He just hoped Sir Eldon would be safe.

"There are so many," Joseph said faintly. He was perched on a rock, peering through a gap in the trees.

"Spot any sorcerers?" Reynold groused, wrapped firmly in his cloak. The cloud cover was breaking a bit, letting a few foggy shafts of sunlight pour down, but the cold was refusing to retreat.

"Couldn't spot much of anything in that chaos."

They continued to wait for what felt like hours and hours. The initial battle cries began to morph into pained yells and the shrieks of injured horses. Just guarding the flank. Just guarding the flank.

It must have been past noon by the time the sounds began to grow fainter. Avery's heart lifted, but one of the remaining knights made sure he didn't get his hopes up too far. "They're routed. Now's when we most need to be wary. There will undoubtedly be deserters."

Avery peered down the shaded slope. He clutched his sword tighter.

It wasn't long before the knight's prediction came true. The thunder of footsteps rolled toward them, and running silhouettes started appearing out of the mists.

"ATTACK!"

Doing his best to swallow his rabbiting heart back into its proper place, Avery sprang up. One of the fleeing Saxons was coming right at him.

Avery's first kill was an easy one. The man was injured in the head, seemed hardly coherent. However, the body barely had time to slide off the sickened boy's blade before another of the invaders was barreling down on him.

Their swords met three times, three hard clashes that set the squire's bones rattling. The Saxon was much bigger than he was, and on the fourth strike Avery's guard was broken. The squire ducked a wild swing, letting out a panicked yell.

"Avery!" a voice cried out. Then the big Saxon was dropping to the ground, Joseph's sword buried in his back.

"Thanks," Avery panted.

They didn't have time to settle. A hoarse cry went up from their commanding officer. "There's more of them coming! Too many! Fall back!"

Avery and Joseph scrambled forward, the steep hill and damp mulch sliding beneath their feet hindering their progress. They could hear them coming, all howling and pounding feet.

Then Joseph's foot caught on a root. Avery whirled back around, grabbing for his friend. "Come on!" he screamed, but when he looked up a massive warrior was already bearing down on them. His huge battle-ax was raised to split them in half like melons. It's over, Avery thought.

It would have been for the both of them, if a horse had not exploded from the trees at that moment. The rider on its back was clothed all in dark colors, and in his hand he held a flaming arc in the shape of a sword. With a single slash of the blazing weapon, the Saxon fell to the ground dead.

Avery and Joseph gaped up at their rescuer. "It's him," Joseph whispered. "The sorcerer."

Said sorcerer turned to look at them in that moment. A dark beard covered his gaunt cheeks and equally black curling hair draped down over his forehead, but even then Avery could see the golden glow of his eyes. "Get out of here!" he ordered, wheeling his horse around.

Eager to obey, Avery hauled Joseph to his feet and pushed them into a sprint away from the shifting battlefield. As they ran, though, Avery spared one glance back over his shoulder. The sorcerer Myrddin was charging down the advancing line of Saxons who, at the sight of the mounted man wielding a hellish blade, switched from advancing to retreating as quickly as they could.

"If we survive this," gasped Joseph as they fled, "I bet we'll have the best story out of all the squires."

"I'll take that bet."

"So you're telling me," one of the squires said incredulously, "that you two were saved by Myrddin the Wild himself?"

"We were," Joseph declared, raising his voice to be heard over the celebratory clangor of the camp. He took a casual swig from a mug of mead before deigning to give his audience further detail. "We would have been Saxon food if not for him. Just came barreling out of the mist like a charging bull, and with one strike, wham! Off goes the big brute's head!"

Avery shook his head, but didn't say anything. Let Joseph have his moment of slightly exaggerated glory.

"Then he turns to us, and I can see why they call him wild, with that hair and beard. Tells us to go, and we're smart, so we went. But we saw him run down those Saxons like a sheepdog in a flock. You should have seen them scarper," he hooted. "And all those stories about a flaming sword and eyes are true, too. Ask Avery, he saw it just as plain as I did."

"Very impressive," sneered Reynold. "Got your scrawny arses saved by a freak. That's really something to sing about."

"You're just bitter because you didn't kill even one Saxon today," someone else jeered back. "I think you owe a few of us a silver piece." Laughter erupted and Reynold turned beet red.

Avery suddenly sat up straight, gaze locked beyond on the camp beyond their heads. "Look! It's him."

Every head, even Reynold's swiveled in that direction. Sure enough, a shaggy-headed man in dark clothes was picking his way through the camp. It seemed their little circle wasn't the only one that had gone quiet either. The general area around them seemed more hushed. Myrddin didn't seem to notice though. He collected some stew from one of the cook fires, and then retreated to a spot just barely within the firelight but beyond the borders of the tents. After a few moments, everything went back to normal.

"Someone should go talk to him," one of the squires piped up.

"Are you mad?" Avery asked. Similar things were said by multiple people, but a look that Avery did not like at all was creeping over most of the faces in the circle. He felt a bet coming up.

Sure enough, "I bet Handmaid Avery can't go talk to him without fainting." Reynold, of course. He seemed keen to spread a little of his humiliation around, lessen the load. Avery's fists clenched. Refusing a bet amongst this lot would saddle him with the label of coward faster than he could blink, and that meant hassling and pranks for weeks to come. Still, as grateful as he was to be sitting here alive, he really didn't want to go up to the sorcerer all by himself. On the battlefield was one thing, but how would that reputed "madness" display itself now?

"If you want someone to go, I'll do it," Joseph said.

"We all know you'd eat shite if it got you a few coins," Reynold dismissed. "Let Avery do it. After all, since he's a hardened Saxon killer now, this should be nothing."

He couldn't refuse. The last time he'd failed a bet, all of his shoes had gone missing. He'd had to finish two days of patrol barefoot. Avery bolted upright, fists locked at his sides. "Fine. I'll do it. Besides, it's only honorable that I thank him for saving our lives." Then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the camp border, trying to look confident and not like his stomach was tying itself into knots. He hoped the sorcerer wasn't short-tempered.

Avery endeavored to keep things short and simple. He would thank Myrddin for saving him and Joseph, maybe compliment him on his fighting, and then get out. Unfortunately, all plans flew out of his head when the sorcerer noticed his approach. By the time Avery reached him, it seemed he'd lost the concept of speech entirely.

The sorcerer's keen eyes—blue, he saw, no longer glowing gold—watched him curiously. The squire's jaws flapped uselessly. "I-I uh, I just, well…"

The blue eyes slid away from Avery and peered toward the camp. Then to the squire's surprise, Myrddin turned back to him with an amused smirk lighting his bearded face. "Let me guess," he said, silencing Avery's stutters, "You're here on a bet?"

Avery shook his head wildly. Would that be offensive, that he'd only come to talk because he had been dared to?

The smirk changed into a full smile, and suddenly the scruffy sorcerer didn't seem half so intimidating as he had moments before. His eyes crinkled at the corners. "It's perfectly all right. From what I've heard, more money changes hands between this group of squires than at a merchants' market. Besides, you look like you would rather be anywhere else right now." His tone became surprisingly sympathetic.

"S-Sorry," Avery muttered, though his heart rate was slowing down. That definitely could have been worse.

"No worries," Myrddin said. "All those rumors and stories give me a bit of a fierce reputation. Not a totally deserved one either. I swear, knights gossip more than fishwives."

Avery nodded, feeling a bit foolish and ashamed. "I guess I should go, then."

A twinkle entered the sorcerer's eye. "There's no need." When Avery looked up in confusion, Myrddin gave a slight nod toward the camp. "Your friends are watching. I imagine they'll be more impressed the longer you stay. Get them off your back for a while." The sorcerer patted the ground in a friendly manner. "Have a seat."

Caught between lingering embarrassment and the desire to show off his courage for his friends, Avery cautiously folded himself to the ground. Bouncing one knee and not quite meeting the sorcerer's eye, he said what he had meant to at the start. "Thank you. For saving my life. And Joseph's life too. He can be an idiot and a loudmouth sometimes, but he's my friend, so…thank you."

The sorcerer let out a slight laugh that trailed off until only a faint smile remained. "I know the feeling," he said softly. When they locked gazes again, Avery thought he saw sadness in those pale blue eyes. "You're very welcome." The sorcerer held out a hand. "I'm sure my name's been spread all around the camp, but I suppose it's best to be official. I'm Myrddin."

The squire took the hand and shook it. "Avery."

"Well met, Avery." Myrddin smiled again.

A brief silence fell between them, but determined not to let things become awkward, Avery blurted out, "You looked fierce to me."

"What?"

Blushing a bit, Avery explained. "You said you hadn't earned a fierce reputation. You looked fierce to me, when you ran down the Saxons."

The sorcerer let out an amused chuckle. "Well, most people would with a flaming sword and dark clothes, but that's all it is, really. If you're willing to keep it a secret, the theatrics and magic show are all I have going for me. I'm absolute rubbish with a sword."

Avery couldn't help but let out a snicker of his own this time. Myrddin really wasn't so bad. He snuck a peek over his shoulder. All of the squires were staring wide-eyed at him. Giddy triumph fluttered in his stomach.

"So what house do you belong to, Avery?" Myrddin asked, pulling his attention back.

"House Calmette at Dunworth," he replied. "My father's the steward to the lord there."

"You're a ways from home then. How has squiring treated you?"

Before Avery was truly aware, he and the sorcerer were deep in conversation, about Avery's home, his squiring duties, his friends, and his hopes for knighthood. Myrddin was an attentive listener, and a kindly one. Somehow it reminded Avery of talking to his grandfather, though the sorcerer couldn't have been much older than thirty. It was just so easy to lose himself in stories about eventful patrols and that one time he got thrown off his horse into a prickle bush with Myrddin nodding along, asking questions, and laughing in all the right spots. It wasn't until Myrddin had a long stretch that Avery noticed how low the fires had burned and how much quieter the night had become.

"It's late," Myrddin said. "You should probably get back to your friends, or your master."

Avery felt a twinge of disappointment, but he didn't want to impose. He stood stiffly. "All right. Um, well…thank you again, Sir Myrddin. For the rescue and the talk and all."

"Just Myrddin's all right. I'm not a knight and doubtfully ever will be. But you're very welcome, for the rescue and the talk." The sorcerer stood, his long frame towering over Avery. "Rest well, and don't forget to collect those winnings," he added with a wink. Then Myrddin strode off, disappearing amongst the crowd of tents.

When Avery got back to the spot where all the squires had set up, Joseph nearly bowled him over in excitement. "Look at this!" he cried, shoving a soup bowl into Avery's face.

It was almost full to the brim with silver coins, winking brightly in the fading firelight.

Merlin lay on his back, facing up to the the low canvas ceiling of his tent. The snores, grunts, and shuffling of horses outside told him that most of the camp was sleeping, but he was having trouble joining them.

His muscles ached deeply, but that wasn't the cause of his lack of sleep. He was growing used to that soreness, strange as it was. He had never imagined he would become accustomed to the sword and its physical tolls, yet here he was fighting in an army. A foreign army in a foreign land, serving a king not his own.

Merlin shut his eyes tightly. Don't think about that. He rolled over and nestled in, trying to banish all thoughts of the past. Nothing lies behind you, so don't look back. He kept repeating the mantra, chasing out the cobwebs of his old life with the trappings of his new false one. Myrddin Wyllt, sorcerer mercenary, in service to King Urien of Rheged. By doing this, he could shield himself at least for a short time, enough to run into the shelter of sleep. He got close.

Merlin…

Merlin twitched, shifting in his bedroll. He tried even harder to drift off.

Merlin…

His eyes flicked opened.

Merlin…

The warlock sat up. An intense worry sprang up in his gut, driving away the vestiges of sleep. This could not be ignored. Kilgharrah? he called out mentally. What's wrong?

You must come, Merlin…My time…is almost over.

Worry morphed into panic, and then that shattered into grief, lodging like shards of ice in his heart and lungs. Kilgharrah, I…you can't…

Please, Merlin. You must come. I would have words with you, before I go.

Mindlessly, Merlin shoved his feet into his boots, threw his cloak over his shoulders and pushed out of the tent. The camp was asleep, aside from the perimeter guards, but those were easy enough to get past. He picked his way through the tents as quietly as he could, only knocking into one stray cooking pot, and then there was just forest beyond. Following their connection, Merlin hurried through the dark forest, feet rusting on the pine needles.

It took him maybe half an hour to reach a sloped clearing up the hills from the campsite. It was overgrown and littered with fallen, skeletal tree trunks. Amongst them lay the Great Dragon. Merlin's breath was robbed at the sight. Kilgharrah's once golden and umber scales had faded to gray, and seemed to be flaking off. His wings lay askew and bent awkwardly. His long neck and head were draped over one of the tree trunks, facing toward Merlin. The dragon's golden eyes, once sharp and discerning, had grown dull. The light in them was almost gone.

Merlin approached, in horror and in respect. The dragon's eyes shifted to him.

"Y-Young…warlock." His voice rasped from his throat like the last note of a dying organ. "I fear…this is the end."

"You should have saved your strength," Merlin growled, stepping up beside Kilgharrah's head. "Why did you come here?"

"My time was almost up…regardless of what I did. I've known it was coming for… some time now. I would rather…die beside my dragonlord…than alone."

Merlin swallowed harshly, but he couldn't stop the first tears from trickling down his face. "Kilgharrah, you can't go. Please don't. You're the only one left." He placed his hand beneath the dragon's eye, staring pleadingly into its dull, golden depths. "You're the last dragon. Aithusa…" He had to stop for a moment. More tears fell, and faster. "I failed Aithusa. I failed everyone. You're the only one left. Arthur and Gwen, my mother, Gaius, the knights… they're all gone. You can't leave me alone." Was it so selfish to ask this? That at least they could go on being alone together?

"I am…sorry, young warlock." A horrific choking noise rumbled in the dragon's chest, but he managed to strangle it down. "But I am old. Even my life must come to an end, and it seems…the dragons must come to an end as well," he wheezed.

"But what am I supposed to do?" Merlin asked despairingly. Even now he could feel Kilgharrah's life leaving him. "There is nothing for me in Camelot any longer, and without the dragons either, what is my purpose? Why am I like…this?" he spat out. One hand unconsciously went to his chest. He had been struck a mortal blow there not too long ago, and yet here he still stood.

Kilgharrah's dull eye fixed on him. "I cannot tell you for sure…but there are yet tasks that await you in this world. Until they are complete, you will… remain."

Merlin's head bowed. He felt as if the weight of the world was falling on his shoulders. "I don't want to be alone, Kilgharrah. What am I to do?"

"Endure." The dragon choked again, and his great body spasmed. "You must…endure."

"Kilgharrah?!"

The beast growled before collapsing into heaving pants. "I don't have much longer. Merlin…I have one final request."

"…Anything."

"Step back."

Merlin retreated, his shoulders shaking. The dragon struggled half-upright, both forepaws planted on the ground. Then, with all the strength he seemed to have left, Kilgharrah let out a great exhale, breath shimmering like heat above flame. Merlin let the warmth wash over him, but his eyes widened when he saw the white tongues of dragon fire beginning to dance in the stream of draconic magic. He didn't move, though. Then, with a last great blast that dragged a roar from Kilgharrah's throat, Merlin was consumed in a column of snow-pale flames. It was unbearably hot, he could feel it, but he felt no compulsion to escape it. The pain it brought was somehow right, and when the fire sputtered out and died, Merlin was unburnt.

Kilgharrah collapsed. The last of the light was gone from his eyes.

Merlin stumbled forward. "Kilgharrah?" he whispered. Numbness crept like poison into his limbs.

The dragon didn't move. There was no breath. Merlin could feel his knees giving out when a voice spoke in his mind. It was faint and fading, but there. He listened raptly as the dragon whispered his final words.

I have given you my flame, Merlin, the last of all dragon fire in this world…With it, I beg of you, burn away my body as my brethren would have done for me…And once I am gone, keep the memory of dragons alive with you. Hold our flame in your heart…and we…will never…truly…die.

Then he was gone.

Merlin sank to his knees. He was alone now, well and truly alone. All his family and friends, his dragon kin, even his enemies had all departed. And he remained.

A twig snapped behind him. Too spent and heart-weary to be muster a greater reaction, Merlin turned his head. A boy had entered the clearing, sandy-haired and wide-eyed with shock.

"Avery," he murmured. Should he be angry or worried that the boy had followed him? That he might have heard what was said? Maybe. He felt too numb to care.

The squire inched forward, awe and confusion and fear written all over his face. "M-Myrddin? Sir? That's a…that's a dragon! Or it was…"

"Yes," Merlin said dully, heaving himself to his feet. "He was the last dragon." The world was adrift around him, and he couldn't respond to anything. What now? What could he possibly do now? "What are you doing here?"

The boy gulped, ducking his head. "I'm sorry! I-I just heard you leaving camp — you tripped on a pot — and I was just…curious I guess. I'll leave."

"No," Merlin said. "There's no need. I'm not angry. In fact," he paused, thinking for a moment. Yes, this at least felt right. "There should be at least one other person here. Another witness to remember the dragons."

"Sir? I mean, Myrddin?"

Merlin didn't reply. Instead he turned to the great body. Such a withered thing it looked now, like a skin shed from a snake. A shameful thing for such a powerful creature of magic to leave behind. His hand rose, palm out flat, and his eyes closed. He felt the dragon fire within him, a living thing, like a pulse of lightning racing through his veins with every heartbeat. The words came to him as if he'd been born to speak them.

"Fotiá drákous."

It was like he had summoned the sun. A flash of brilliant light consumed the clearing, and a wave of heat spread outward. He heard Avery cry out in fear behind him, but Merlin paid it no heed. This fire was under his control, and could harm neither of them. He opened his eyes. The dragon's corpse made the largest pyre he had ever seen, but it was a comforting sight. Fire belonged to dragons, and they belonged to fire. And now, so did he.

He stood and watched as it burned away the remains, first scales and skin, and then the flesh and bone beneath. The fire only died out when all that was left were ashes.

Merlin was mildly surprised to find that Avery was still there. His eyes were still wide, but there was something reverential in them that seemed to recognize that he'd been witness to a momentous thing, the passing of the last dragon.

A chill wind blew across the hill, rattling the dry stalks of grass. "You should go back to camp," Merlin said quietly.

Avery snapped out of his stupor. "Are you not coming back too?" he asked, puzzled.

Merlin frowned. He realized that he really didn't have any intention to return to Rheged's camps. Not at all. It was not much of a shock. He had never intended to make a home here. Camelot lay behind him, and now he was clinging to whatever scraps of his old loyalties he could find, slaying Saxons and serving kings. It seemed that too was coming to an end.

"No."

"Do you…need to bury the ashes or something?"

"No. I'm not going back. Ever."

Avery started, looking dismayed. "Why not?"

Merlin looked behind him at the charred patch of ground. "The last dragon is dead. Things have changed. I just have to go."

Avery opened his mouth to protest it, stopped himself, and then closed it again, nodding sadly. Merlin wondered if he had felt the shifting of the world as well. "Where will you go?" he asked timidly.

Merlin looked into the sky. Strangely, the glinting stars did not seem so far away anymore.

"Who knows?"

A/N: Hello all! I have returned. Well, kind of. Forgive the absence; in June I was wrapping up my finals and then I was studying abroad in July, so not a whole lot of time for writing. As it stands, this is more like a preview for now to ensure you that I haven't fallen off the planet. I will begin posting properly when I have most of the fic done and revised, which will hopefully be soon. Until then, enjoy the prologue :)