Disclaimer; IDOM

Firstly, hey guy's! Secondly, so alright, I have literally been typing this for three days straight because I was so inspired by 'The Kindness of Strangers.' (5x10) I saw it Saturday, got the idea to write this while I was ranting about what I want to season finale to be like with a friend on fanfiction (special thanks to CaptainOzone for pre-reading/beta-ing this firstly, and then another thanks for putting up with me and all the wonderful encouragement given!) on Saturday night and it was all I could think of as I fell asleep, so then, Sunday morning I started writing and finally finished last night. I waited so that I could take a step back from it and read it over again before posting it. And I honestly hope you're hard pressed to find errors because Oz and I went through this with a fine-took comb, but even so, I apologise in advance if you should find any. :D

Anyway, after boring you with that, this was supposed to be a one-shot and ended up being thirty-five pages long so I've split it into three parts! I hope you like Part 1! :)

"Let loose the hounds of war, let the dread fire of the last Priestess reign down from angry skies. For brother will slaughter brother, for friend will murder friend as the great horn sounds a cold dawn at Camlann. The prophets do not lie, for there; Arthur will meet his end, upon that mighty plain."

The destruction and carnage wrought by that fateful day was unfathomable; bodies littered the blood-strewn ground as far as you could see on the plains of Camlann like water droplets in a vast ocean. The armored and bloodied bodies of soldiers and the red-caped Knights of Camelot were almost inseparable from the countless number of leather-armoured and pelt-caped Saxons, both armies' swords and arrows and bolts as countless as the men's motionless forms.

The moaning and screams of the dying men could be heard, some would say later, from as far as a mile away. Ravens as black as a moonless night picked at the bodies of other men long dead and watched others, waiting for them to meet their assured end. The smells of the already decaying bodies were mixed with the metallic tang of blood and burnt flesh in the stale air.

Flags hung limp on their poles, wavering and snapping now and then when a small trickle of a breeze unsuccessfully tried to stir and clear the heavy air. Camelot's red-encrusted golden dragons were unsegregated from the Saxon's flags of crimson, twisting snakes that writhed upon a black backdrop.

The tall yellow grass that had previously occupied the plains of Camlann was crushed beneath the deadweight of men. Other patches were burnt by the formerly wild and raging fires of both Kilgharrah's and Aithusa's making. The flames had died now, but they'd completed their task of burning the now deep blood-red skies, only the linings of the clouds lit a light pink by the setting sun's dying rays.

Merlin walked carefully through the maze of men, the red robe of his disguise soaking up loose pools of blood at the seams and dragging grass as it brushed the ground. A tear rolled out of his perplexingly deep blue eye and was drunk by his long, grit-filled white beard after it fell from his still-high cheekbone.

A dreading pit lie in his stomach and his heart had risen into his throat to create and emotion-filled lump. More tears slowly rolled down his cheeks as his eyes wandered the carnage for his friends. Thank God he hadn't seen them yet, but was he just fighting the inevitable by holding out hope?

His smooth white staff clinked as it collided with a scattered stone and the man's old limbs ached with the waiting anticipation as living-nightmares ran through his head. His twisted ankle shot a pang of pain up his leg with every step and his weary hand tightened around his step as he navigated around a larger rock that was scattered with dead grass and scratch marks. But…

There.

Bile rode in his throat and a dagger of fear stabbed his heart as he saw Arthur's Excalibur. The sword that was only meant for his Once and Future King just lying derelict in the unidentifiable man's chest; the sword that was meant for so much more; that had helped them so many times even without Arthur's knowing; the sword that was made of man and magic, begotten in a dragon's breath. The sword that was meant to protect it's Once and Future King.

And if Arthur had lost his sword…

The warlock choked back a sob and tightened his grip on his staff as he walked on in search of his friends and his missing King. Merlin could see Kilgharrah lying motionless in the distance, looking for the entire world like a giant gold and crimson splattered boulder; except that his wings splayed out at odd angles and his mighty head lay stretched from his great body, turned to the side with his formerly burning gold eyes – the very color of magic – closed. Merlin couldn't even seewhere Aithusa had crashed through the carnage and his blurred eyes.

How did it come to this?

Then Merlin felt a presence; the presence of magic. And then he had the answer to his question.

Morgana.

She had done this; she'd created this disaster from her jealousy and her lust for power and her hatred. This was her fault.

Slowly, and just as her jade eyes opened to meet his own, he turned. The wind pulled at his long white hair and the setting sun was at his back.

The Lady Morgana wore her usual garb; a deeply black dress as dark as the raven's she used as her messengers. Her hair was a tangled and dirtied mess beneath her, and her forehead had a smear of blood that had originated from somewhere above her hairline. Her coal-colored cloak was twisted beneath her, and the out-of-place gauntlets at her wrists were dull and scratched. Her emerald eyes were filled with hopelessness, defeat and pain.

"Help me Emrys," she begged in a strained voice as she reached out her frail, pale hand, "please."

Seeing her now, lying there helpless and covered in mud and blood, her own and that of her foes, Merlin felt a prick of pity in his heart. She used to be so great. The Lady Morgana, fearless defender of all things good and true; the only person who wasn't afraid of Uther Pendragon's wrath and who wasn't afraid of disobeying him to do what was right. She used to be so beautiful and respected and loved by everyone.

Not anymore, and certainly not in Merlin's eyes.

She was no longer the Lady Morgana of Camelot, daughter of Gorlois and Uther Pendragon's beloved ward. She was no longer the graceful lady whose sweet laughter would bring a smile to Uther's face, and she was certainly no longer the lady he cared for and would be happy to call a friend.

No. Never again.

Now, she was Morgana Pendragon, daughter of Uther Pendragon, and a vengeful High Priestess of the Old Religion. Her presence marked the downfall of Camelot, and her pleased smile brought only death, despair, and destruction.

When had her sweet innocence disappeared? When had she matured into a malevolent witch? When had she changed?

When did any of them change?

She was no friend of Camelot and certainly no friend of Merlin's, or of Arthur's, or of the woman whose mind she had twisted with her dark magic. Once upon a time she wouldn't have had the cruelness in her heart to twist their feelings as she did now; she wouldn't even have it in her mind to kill…

…but she'd had too much of her father in her. The hatred, the rage, the madness - all marks of her twisted bloodline and Merlin could only thank God that Arthur had taken after his mother and that he, Guinevere, Gaius, and the Knights had helped him change into the great king he was now.

But if he was dead, what would that matter?

At the thought of his best friend -his brother- dead, the reminder of what she'd caused rocked Merlin to the core and righteous anger fought for dominance against his raging despair. His body trembled and his aged voice shook as he answered her.

"Is this really what you wanted Morgana?"

She audibly choked on the liquid in her throat and her hand slowly fell back at her side. "Please, Merlin..."

Merlin himself choked on the cloud of emotions that blocked his throat and unconsciously lifted his chin. He still couldn't grasp that she knew the truth. After all this time of hiding his true identity from her, she finally knew…

"…show me your true form."

He almost scrunched his eyebrows in confusion but then remembered that he was still using the aging spell; he still looked like an eighty-year old man. And he felt like one too.

But why would she want him to change?

It clicked in his mind like a piece of a puzzle; because Emrys was to be her doom. She's seen him before, this elderly man in Gaius' red robe, as he'd struggled against her every move, made sure all of her plans went awry. She was afraid of this old sorcerer.

Feeling another prick of benevolence in his heart, his eyes blue eyes softened, and he whispered the spell that would change him into the young man he truly was. Slowly he changed: long peppered hair shortened into close-cropped ebony black hair; pale, wrinkled skin tightened and color filled his face; his nose shrunk and his thin lips became fuller and pinker. The only thing that didn't change was his eyes, and the tear tracks made by his tears. They stayed the same; deep blue, full of unspoken wisdom and pained sadness.

Morgana struggled to breathe and slowly, Merlin slipped off the worn red robe, revealing his usual clothing; brown trousers, beryl blue tunic, ash grey neckerchief, and worn leather jacket. He carefully stepped closer and kneeled beside her broken form, laying his white staff beside him on the ground. At once, he could feel the sticky blood and soppy mud soak into his trousers and wet his knees and saw as his movements speckled the staff with scarlet and umber. He felt Morgana's hollow eyes on him even though neither said anything.

Suddenly, and as if struggling with a thought, Morgana's eyes turned to look at the blood-drenched sky and her hand slid across the bleeding hole in her side. The hole that Merlin had made when he'd fought that epic battle with her hours earlier. But it confused Merlin as to why she hadn't used magic to regenerate herself.

The question must have shown in his blue eyes, for she said, "I'm too weak… to heal myself…"

Merlin balled his hands into fists on his thighs and he bowed his head. "Morgana –"

"No," she said with a tired voice, "I won't ask you to heal me, not again, but please Merlin… grant me one last favor."

The warlock closed his eyes and breathed a sigh before opening them again and lifting his heavy to look at her. "What is it?"

And then she closed her own eyes for a moment and breathed a steadying breath. When she opened her eyes again, Merlin could see them brimmed with tears and she was shaking ever-so-slightly. "…Make it quick."

The world stilled and Merlin took a deep breath through his nose and lifted his chin skyward to stop his tears from spilling down his flushed and yet, pale as ever, porcelain cheeks. It didn't work and the tears only spilled out the sides of his eyes to run across his throbbing temples, temporarily alleviating the heat the seemed to radiate.

She wanted him to kill her. He was to be her destiny; her doom, regardless of what form he was in. But Merlin thought the thing that made one more tear flow smoothly down his cheekbone when he looked at her once more, was that she wasn't fighting it anymore. This once proud woman had accepted her fate.

Merlin nodded, stood, and ran a hand through his greasy black hair and across his eyes. He walked away, using his staff as a walking stick to relieve some of the pressure on his ankle, and retrieved Excalibur from another man's still chest. It came out with a squelch and a zing as it touched the man's armor, but the man didn't move; there was no question he'd been dead for a while. Then he walked back towards Morgana, this time on her other side; the side her heart was on.

In one swift and fluid movement, he brought the sword down and pierced her unarmoured heart. Blood immediately started seeping out as she gasped in pain but let out a breath of acceptance as she blinked as Merlin pulled it out before throwing it to the ground and kneeling, practically collapsing, beside her once more.

"I'm sorry, Morgana," he choked out.

She turned to him with something like a true smile on her face; a smile of the old Morgana. "No, don't be. This is how… it was meant to be."

Merlin pursed his lips and another tear rolled down his cheek. "I –"

"Emrys," she said, stopping him, "I'm sorry."

Merlin choked and opened his mouth to say something, but found no words and just bowed his head and tried not to break down completely. After everything he'd gone through today, after all the pain he'd already faced head on, and after all the pain he'd bottled up inside him throughout his whole life, he was certainly ready to and, in his own opinion, had every right to.

And maybe he'd been wrong; maybe there was still a reachable part of the old Morgana that hadn't been completely killed off. But why did it take her acceptance of death for her to seek redemption?

"Merlin Emrys…"

Merlin raised his head and his bloodshot tanzanite colored eyes met her calm malachite ones. He sniffed and ran his sleeve across his nose and swiped at his eyes. She looked at him with almost a glint of fondness in her eyes, like how a big sister would regard her little brother as she lightly scolded him.

She exhaled, "…thank you."

Then, Merlin saw her body take in one more breath with difficulty and exhale it before her bleeding body stilled. The warlock knew without a doubt that finally, after so many years, Morgana Pendragon, daughter of Uther Pendragon, High Priestess of the Old Religion, was dead. And whatever there was of plain old Morgana, Uther's easy-going, fearless, loving ward had died with her.

He bit back a sob as he felt the weight of the stone in his gut evermore and stood again, plucking Excalibur and his staff off the ground even as a too-clear tear fell towards the scarlet splattered ground, helping clear the grime off his pale face.

So much death.

Morgana had thanked him for killing her; for showing her mercy. He didn't regret such kindness. It was what made him different from her; he always would, but she wouldn't.

He gripped Excalibur's pummel as if to gather strength and felt the magic surging through it and it momentarily rejuvenated him; his own magic as well as Kilgharrah's. He felt the magic from the Lake of Avalon; Freya's magic.

And then a sudden thought speared through his mind and he lifted the crimson splattered Excalibur higher until it pointed to the horizon. It reflected the sun's sparse red light and made the runes on the sleek sword glow golden while the blade itself burned silver.

"Ábeþecian úre ágend," Merlin said clearly. His eyes blazed the color of honey-gold in response to his spell and suddenly, a light, sparkling as if flecks of gold were caught in a flowing stream, shot out of Excalibur's tip. It zigzagged across the field before stopped just above a fallen warrior's body.

Arthur…

Morgana forgotten, Merlin slid Excalibur into the belt at his waist and ran parallel to the thin stream of sparkling magic so out of place on the crimson soaked battlefield. He heard the crunching of dead grass beneath his feet and pain laced his leg from his right ankle. He tried to lean more to his left side and on his staff, but it only made his running clumsy and awkward.

It seemed like forever before the golden trail ended, but in reality it had only been a few dozen feet. Gasping with pain, Merlin fell to his knees beside his fallen King and eyed his body with a physician's eye. His face was mainly clear of injuries, mostly just covered in grime and dirt except for a patch of broken skin on his cheekbone from a punch. Scarlet blanketed his chainmail, blood seeping out of a wound in the middle of his torso.

He already knew who'd given it to him; Mordred. It was the vision he'd seen; the vision he couldn't prevent no matter how hard he'd tried. He wasn't fast enough. He cursed the treacherous druid boy under his breath and bit back a sob of grief. If only Mordred hadn't fallen in love with that girl…

…but Merlin knew what that felt like too; having the one you love killed. But he hadn't gone and betrayed those who'd given him a home despite his druid heritage. Arthur had known full well that he was a druid and yet took him in and trained him as a knight. It had been his undoing.

Finna's clear words ran through his head, much like they had been these past few weeks, "Do not make the same mistake as Arthur; do not trust the druid boy."

He hadn't and still this had happened.

He tentatively fingered the wound, knowing that he wouldn't be able to heal it, even with his magic. It was too deep…

It was destiny.

A wail of grief escaped from his very soul and he grasped Arthur's shoulder tightly within his shaking hand and shook it. "Arthur!"

His body shook but he didn't stir.

He got up close to his brothers face and screamed, "Arthur!"

And then as if a godsend, the young kings ocean-blue eyes slowly opened, weakened with exhaustion. "Merlin?"

Merlin eyes visibly blossomed with relief. "Arthur!"

Arthur smiled as if not aware of where they were, but full in the knowledge –and in the knowledge of his wound. "Merlin! I thought... I thought we'd… had left you at camp."

"You did, you great clotpole. Ya' know, knocking a man out to keep him from coming is very counterproductive."

Merlin's stomach clenched as a memory hit him once more.

"If Mordred isn't Arthur's bane… what is?"

It was when they'd gone to Ismere and after they'd rescued the knights. The Diamar had answered his question…

"…Himself."

By knocking Merlin out to keep him from the death of battle, Arthur had unknowingly been his own destruction; because Merlin hadn't been there to protect him when Mordred had pierced his torso.

Arthur let out a shaky breath of laughter. "It would… appear so."

Merlin smirked hesitantly and, feeling a shot of sorrow as if he was shot with an arrow, grasped Arthur's right hand in his own, not caring at all about the blood spread from the once spotless leather of the warrior's glove. Arthur's other hand hovered warily above his still bleeding injury, glancing down at the wound.

Merlin saw this and immediately let out another low sob and sniffed, bowing his head as more tears caressed his nose before falling onto the hardened ground.

The king instantly forgot his wound and turned to his friend, aquamarine eyes caring and softer than his pillows back in Camelot. "Merlin, please..."

"I –," Merlin choked and feigned annoyance; the clear fondness in his voice was genuine though, "I'm not crying, you prat. Wasn't it you who told me that no man's worth my tears?"

Arthur's face became more serious and his eyes hardened slightly. "I was wrong you know; every life is worth crying over."

Merlin nodded jerkily and slowly, another droplet of water leaving his eye. "It's about time you admitted you're wrong."

The king smiled once more. "Idiot."

"Prat."

Arthur eyed his friend, his brother, with an affectionate eye. He knew what was coming; he'd known it the moment Mordred had stabbed him with that glint of rage in his eye. He was dying.

He drank in Merlin's features; the raven black hair, the full lips, the high cheekbones, pale face, and his eyes. His eyes that were the color of burning calcite and where once life was, implicit hope, explicit wisdom, and blithe, carefree love were orbs so full of agony and misery that Arthur wondered how those eyes could be Merlin's. He inhaled Merlin familiar scent, even with his weakened senses, and even through the smell of stale blood in the air, Arthur could smell the honeysuckle, roo, and mint leaves that so often occupied the Court Physician's chambers.

These things were known to him, these things anchored him, and these things brought him home… to a home he'd never again see.

He hoped the Knights were alright. He didn't know how Merlin would handle losing so many friends and though it was true that he'd seen plenty of death, Arthur didn't think he'd ever lost so many people at once.

At the very least Gwaine had to be alright. Arthur knew how close those two were and if there was anyone who'd help Merlin through any of this, it would be Gwaine, and Gaius, and…

"Gwen."

Merlin leaned closer. "What?"

Arthur's voice suddenly became more pleading. "Merlin, please… promise me you'll… you'll take care of Guinevere."

"Arthur –"

"And Gaius."

"Arthur –"

Arthur blinked and squeezed his friend's hand. "Please Merlin… just this. If our friendship… meant anything… promise me you'll take care of them."

Merlin gut felt like it was being stoned and his left hand became entangled with Arthur's blood mangled blonde hair as he squeezed Arthur's hand back with his right. "I promise Arthur; with my life I promise."

Arthur let out a breath of relief and smiled like he wasn't dying. "Thank you, old friend."

More tears trailed down Merlin's face as two strips became ever more prominent on his flushed face. He let out another low sob that seemed to emanate from his very soul and Arthur squeezed his friends hand as tight as his waning strength would allow.

A sudden though entered Arthur's mind. "Where's Morgana?"

"Dead," Merlin answered through a sniffle.

Arthur caught the meaning behind the swiftness of his answer and the way his voice hardened, and he let out a gasp that had nothing to do with the pain in his chest. Somehow, Merlin had been the one who killed Morgana.

"She was herself… at the end."

The king felt a small ache in his chest. Could it be true?

Then Merlin's deep voice sounded through the thick air once more. "…and Mordred?"

And somehow, Merlin knew that this was Mordred's fault.

"Dead… I'm assuming. G-Gwaine attacked him after…"

It didn't need to be said; the evidence was before him.

Arthur bit his lip and looked once more at his friend, emotional and physical pain in his eye. "Merlin, I know I'm d-"

"No," Merlin objected, his voice full of sudden passion as he squeezed Arthur's hair, "don't you dare, Arthur Pendragon. Don't you dare say it."

"Old friend…"

Merlin choked and his voice broke. "Please, Arthur…"

Merlin's mind scrambled for a solution, something, anything, and his mind only came with one thought.

Kilgharrah.

Maybe he'd know how to…

"Merlin…"

"No Arthur. I'll find a way, I always do," Merlin said, voice lit with small hope, "Now listen to me, I'll be right back, alright."

Arthur shifted with sudden worry and fear. "Merlin… what're you talking about? Please…" Don't leave me alone.

"Try and stay awake, alright? I'll just be a moment."

With that, Merlin squeezed his friend's hand once more before standing up and grabbing his staff to help him walk. He didn't even register Excalibur at his hip as he turned back towards Arthur.

"Right back, I promise."

Arthur smirked at him, fear and worry still churning in his belly, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stop the man, even though he wanted nothing more to. "Merlin... don't get lost."

Merlin smiled and nodded, feeling a small pang of remembrance before he blinked and then his face was hardened with such determination that Arthur felt a spark of hope ignite with himself.

Merlin nodded once more and watched as Arthur tilted his face towards him and nodded as much as he could. Then he turned and spotted Kilgharrah's prone body maybe fifty yards away. He favored his left leg - unbeknownst to him, Arthur didn't miss it - as he ran towards the dragon. And he glanced back at his king to see that he'd closed his eyes. Merlin prayed that he'd open them again and ran faster.

He could hear more men's groans of pain as he ran past them and he felt the physician's urge to go to them and to help them... But no, Arthur was his priority.

He finally arrived at the Great Dragon's head, panting and sweating from the exertion and exhaustion from the day. Kilgharrah's head stretched from his large, wing covered body and was turned away from him. Great gashes as wide as Merlin's hand littered his exposed throat, blood seeping lazily onto the already dark ground and pooling there. The stench of the mass amount of blood was prominent and if Merlin hadn't been so desperate, he might have gagged on the putrid stench of dragon's blood.

He jogged around Kilgharrah's mighty jaw until he faced the closed eyes of the Great Dragon. He placed a hand on Kilgharrah's snout to steady himself and found his vision dancing as dark spots ebbed against the sides of his vision.

"Kilgharrah!"

The dragon didn't stir, didn't so much as move his eyes beneath their mighty lids. He couldn't be...

Kilgharrah had warned him weeks before that his time was coming to an end after he'd saved him from not only an arrow Merlin had taken, but also from Morgana and her hoard of Saxons. Merlin had seen that Kilgharrah's wing was injured, and the dragon had told him that even with his time nearing, he'd fight for Merlin with all his strength.

He'd done just that and Merlin couldn't have asked for more.

Merlin closed his eyes and reached deep inside him for their connection; the connection gifted him by his father through death; his Dragonlord connection.

His heart soared when he felt the ever-present pulse Kilgharrah's magic left on his own and could feel the dragon's very alive presence. He closed his eyes and breathed a grateful sigh because if Kilgharrah wasn't able to help him find some way to heal Arthur, then there was no way...

With that thought alone making panic spread throughout his being, Merlin reached out to Kilgharrah with his mind. "Kilgharrah?"

It was only then that the Great Dragon's eyes stirred beneath their lids and suddenly, flashed open. Merlin gasped at the brilliantly golden orbs. He'd never been this close to them before, and he was utterly amazed at their deep beauty... but the pain he saw in them made him want to cry all over again.

The affection in Kilgharrah's voice echoed through the warlock's mind. "Merlin."

The dragon slowly inhaled through his nose and his breathing was clearly labored as he wheezed in the stale air. Merlin felt a pang of panic and placed his hands on Kilgharrah's deeply cold snout as if through that touch, Kilgharrah would breathe easier.

"Kilgharrah," Merlin said, his voice full of desperation and sadness and tears flowed down his face, "tell me what to do. Please. There has to be something..."

Kilgharrah blinked and his eyes softened and it was like a new chasm opening in an already vast cave. He stirred beneath Merlin's warm touch. "There is nothing you can do, young warlock. Even you are not powerful enough -"

"No, there has to be something -"

Kilgharrah's deep voice interrupted him. "What of the young Pendragon?"

Merlin swallowed thickly past a lump in his throat and slowly shook his head. "He's dying," Kilgharrah closed his eyes and Merlin felt the need to raise his voice as if the dragon had stopped listening, "and I need your help to -"

Kilgharrah's voice was louder than his own as he answered with sliver of anger. "Then all is lost!"

Merlin nearly fell to his knees as they trembled beneath him and he sobbed and tightened his grip on his staff. "No!" he yelled aloud. Then, in his head again, "No. Please, I can heal you, and you can help him."

"Merlin, there is nothing you can do to help me!"

Merlin's eyes, aged ten times their true youth, flashed with agony. "Then give me a spell, or something -"

"Emrys -"

"Something, please!" Merlin begged.

Kilgharrah's eyes flashed with anger. "There is nothing," he snarled.

Now Merlin really did fall to his knees and bowed his head as more blood soaked into his trousers. Tears came in earnest as he grasped his white staff with both hands. Despair and hopelessness fought for dominance within his aching heart, and he sobbed, not trying any longer to hold back his grief.

Arthur was going to die. Camelot was going to fall. Albion would never be built. Destiny had faltered.

For while she prophesied that the Once and Future King was to unite the lands of Albion with Emrys at his side, she also prophesied Arthur's fall upon the plains of Camlann.

Today.

Kilgharrah eyed the warlock with sad eyes, anger lost. "I am sorry, young warlock."

Merlin let out one more low wail before shakily getting to his feet once more and shaking his head. "No, there has to be something."

Kilgharrah sighed. "Merlin..."

The young man shook his head jerkily. Even now, when all hope was lost, Merlin was fighting Destiny. He took several steps back, still facing the ground as he continued to shake his head. He walked back around Kilgharrah's snout and looked out into the carnage that scattered the plains of Camlann. He knew where Arthur - his brother through bond - lay, even though he couldn't see him; he knew where Morgana - his enemy through opposing destinies - lay, even though he couldn't see her; he knew where Aithusa - the treacherous dragon who had fought with Morgana - lay, even though he couldn't see her; and he knew where Kilgharrah - his own ever-faithful dragon - lay.

He looked upon the rest of the destruction and let out another wail of sorrow. The world, it seemed, was stained scarlet. Red and fuchsia clashed in the sky; crimson and scarlet battled against each other for control of the ground; geranium backdropped Camelot's golden dragon as it landed; maroon snakes slithered and twisted against a coal colored scenery that marked the Saxon's flag.

Merlin's mind ran through a list of spells, any spells that might help him to do something...

...but there was nothing

And then, there was something...

Merlin closed his quickly hardening blue eyes, full of sudden defiant determination, and gathered his magic inside him. He pulled it from the farthest reaches of his being, much farther than he'd ever dared to go before. He pulled in magic from the ground itself, pulling it up through the blood-stained ground; he pulled it from the clareted sky; he pulled it from his Dragonlord powers, soaking it in until his very aura glowed gold and flecks of it sparkled in the air, so very out of place in the red world.

He pulled it in until it hurt, and he clenched his burning eyes together tightly and bared his teeth against a yell of pain and then, very suddenly...

...he let it out.

Golden rays brighter and yet duller than the sun shot out over the battlefield, shimmering as if glittering with drops of honey, identical to Merlin's glowing eyes as he thought one thought; one thought that he focused on; one thought that was fed by his desperation, his anguish, his heartache, and more importantly, his love.

Heal.

*covers face and feels stomach flutter* Alright, how'd you like it? I added the old Morgana bit on a whim because, I feel, that we might see a little of that because Katie said that her character has a 'surprising twist.' I tried to add as many descriptions as I could to make it seem more real and tried to make the bromance palpable (because I love it so much!) More will be 'revealed' in Part 2! ;)

Thanks for reading!