It was a few days after their return to Camelot that Merlin finally attended to Excalibur. He had delayed polishing Arthur's armor until the last moment as usual. The armory had been re-organized before the tourney, and now Merlin was finishing up his duties. Although it was late, he had come to finish polishing and readying Arthur's gear for tomorrows action.

Merlin had been easily distracted since their return. Recounting the terrible story of the fog to Gaius, and then explaining more details, once the old physician had heard Arthur's version of the tale, had been exhausting enough. He had been poked and prodded and found to be in perfect health. While he felt strong and well in his body, the Druid medicine could not deal with the turning point that seemed to be upon his own heart.

The fog and the secrets it had brought to the fore, were more easily handled by throwing himself into more tedious work, while his mind worried at the complex dance of revelation and power that had allowed Arthur to look at the Druids in a different way. The terrible visions he had endured during his poisoning had risen to haunt his dreams more than once. Arthur's thank you echoed in the abyss. He tried to tell himself it was a product of his poisoning; he remembered well the torrent of guilt that had gripped his delirium. It was best to put those thoughts aside. It wouldn't do to let his attention wander when he was cleaning and polishing Excalibur. At least that's what he told himself.

He pulled the sword from the scabbard and took it carefully into his grip, the familiar magic of the sword melding with his own strength. He marveled at the feeling. No other weapon felt this way. Alive with magic, just as he was. It belonged to him, as much as it belonged to Arthur. It was he who had held Excalibur as Kilgarrah had burnished it in his magical fire. It was he who had hidden it in the still mystical waters of Avalon until the day he recalled it for Arthur and Camelot's salvation. It was he, Merlin, who had enchanted the sword into the stone, until that golden morning of Arthur's deepest need. Despite the blood it had spilled and the curses it had broken, the sword never failed to delight him. It was a part of his own magic, twined forever with his own dragonlord heritage and the magic that sustained every fiber of his being. Excalibur was his, and there was part of his magic that worked it's way through it's every movement. He greeted the weapon with a surge of heartfelt recognition.

He took the oilstone out, readying himself to clean the blade before he worked on the edge. Both of his hands rested on the blade for a moment.

He felt a flare of heat and a sudden strangeness. His head reeled. Beyond the singing familiarity of it's magic, Excalibur burned. It had changed. It had changed in the most elemental of ways.

Merlin staggered and fell to his knees, hardly daring to believe what he perceived. He feared his heart would tear open and his lifeblood pump into the groaning earth, if what he thought he had glimpsed, proved to be untrue. Hardly daring to hope, the warlock brought his hands back to the sword, his heart thundering in his chest. Images sang to him.

He saw Tom, Guinevere's father, his serious face lit by the forge. With each blow driven by his powerful shoulders, he worked the metal into a weapon of deadly finesse. The pride in his craftsmanship shone in his face as he inspected the blade. He saw Kilgarrah. The shining power of his eyes pierced him in the darkness as his mouth opened and the arcane fire enveloped him. It blazed around him,magical and immortal, and the dragonfire burnished the mortal into something more. Only Merlin could understand the holy terror of that moment. He felt again the pounding of his heart as Arthur drew the sword from the stone. He remembered how the light of the forest had blazed with magic, how it had flooded the glen and touched all the people, knights and peasants alike, who had gathered, hope against hope, to witness a miracle. Arthur sat in the darkness of the forest, moonlight flooding around him, Excalibur in his hand. Merlin felt his own heart was tear and bleed as the truth burned in Arthur's awareness.

Excalibur blazed beneath his hand, shining with a new promise. It reverberated with the echo of a vow that had sundered Arthur's heart, until the imprint of his will and his promise were written on the shimmering surface of the blade. The blade was changed forever. The change was written into the folding and refolding of the metal, as if it had been that way since the day it was forged. The change was woven into each cycle of heating and shaping and tempering of the blade until it was knit through with this new promise.

There was a place for magic in Camelot.

There was a place for magic in Camelot and like Excalibur itself, it might even be by Arthur's side. Despite the hope that filled his heart; despite the wonderful promise that might bring dreams into reality, Merlin was haunted by the terrible secrets that this new promise would extract. His eyes filled with tears of comprehension and his heart warred with fear and joy. Excalibur was the brutal truth that lay beneath his hands. The day of revelation was nigh. It was a day he dreaded.

Thank you dear readers for continuing to read this story! I hope you enjoyed it. This story was instrumental in helping me write again, and I hope that you will forgive any repetitive aspects of it's nature. Thank you again. I hope to have another story up soon!