Disclaimer: I own nothing of this series.

Summary: An additional snippet, in the same world.

:: :: ::

That winter's end is marked by the moment she can no longer perch on a tree stump.

Standing on her back legs, she can nip at 'Garah's shoulder. Her wings can shade an entire tree while she flew. In the wildness of her infancy, she flew from shore to shore, the ice-covered north to the southern sea over which came strange people from a distant land. She watched humans from the sky, but never approached. 'Garah said it was too dangerous—there was no guarantee they would be as welcoming as their Lord's humans.

He is an inconstant visitor, her Lord. His King and the King's people have a greater need for him. She is old enough to understand, but young enough to grow lonesome when curled in the back of her cave.

Her growth will be a surprise to him: her head had been level with his waist the last time he came into the forest with his humans, Camelot's knights. She greeted them all and happily allowed feeding and their gentle hands to stroke down her scales. She was not as easily able to groom them, but they didn't seem to mind and had grown better at caring for themselves.

Time spent with them also teaches her human words. In this, her learning comes slowly. But she is fond of them and less jealous now of her Lord's attention to their needs. She will have many more centuries with him than they will, after all.

However, as she shakes the lingering glaze of snow's chill from her scales, she feels still a foreign yearning.

Over the seasons she learned that sometimes, the feeling is not her own—transmitted through their bond, often without her Lord's knowledge, comes a loneliness deep in his soul. This is one of those times.

Mild throughout the worst of the cold, darkened days, the sensation grows in intensity as the days warm towards spring. She enjoys her hibernation, but the warmth is a joy to those frail humans who struggle through the hardest season. Her wings had shaken with his longing.

Sometimes, he will be on his way to meet her by the time it grows this strong. Other times, if she waits, he will be there within a few days. Two suns have come and gone since she started sensing him this time, and he has yet to feel any closer.

Her Lord is unable to leave Camelot.

She pokes her head out of her cave, eyeing the faint glow that comes before dawn. This is new: he has never taken so long to come to her. She fell asleep the previous night despite anxiety, and awoke to find that her own state remained unchanged.

The castle of Camelot is not too far from her territory. Surely, her Lord will not be angry if she merely checks on him. He does not want her to be seen by too many humans, too often, but his King and the King's knights know about him. Her Lord even said that the King had sent a decree out about dragons, whatever that meant. Aithusa is not entirely clear on the purpose of one, but knows her Lord things it was important and wonderful.

She knows about, but has never been to, her Lord's Camelot. She knows he fears for her, with so few dragons alive. But this is his King and the King's people. Her Lord would not care for them if they are not also good. And she will be careful.

:: :: ::

The walls of what they call their "citadel" glow in the early morning sunlight. A beacon for her eyes as she soars above the clouds, the entirely unnatural construction captivating her as she nears. This is the place her Lord calls home. This is the place to which he returned when he leaves her and 'Garah to their respectable caves. This place of strangely lined, angular stones.

She can sense him better, and descends to the trees for better coverage. Dancing among the topmost branches in intricate aerial loops, she slows when the sounds of clanging metal strike her ears.

Her Camelot knights had showed her their swords at her Lord's request. He wanted her to know, and never let it touch her. The order was not in her tongue's Command, but she could not imagine disobeying her Lord.

A sword is dangerous.

They had struck two of the swords together. Her Lord told her that was the sound of a fight. She confirmed that she had witnessed humans at battle before, and he praised her for not interfering. For leaving. She had left because that noise struck something in her that she could not name, a fear that had no word, and that was why she believed so easily that a sword was a danger to her kind as well as to humans.

That sound is what she hears now, as she approaches this "citadel".

For a moment, she lingers in the trees. Her Lord had all but Commanded that she never approach a human with a sword. But this is not just a village, this is his Camelot, this is her Lord's home.

And those sounds…a fight…is this connected to why her Lord had not come to her?

The thought tugs her into rash movement. She flings her wings wide and soars up again. Her claws skim the top of the trees and she arches her head high, eyes looking towards the origin of the sound.

Two humans in knight's armor, swords sliding against each other, braced against the impact—one with golden hair.

Her Lord's King.

As she watches, the other human swings his sword—at the King's head.

The world dulls to sharp shadows and dim light. She feels her lips curling back over sharp fangs, and pumps her wings hard as though the air is not already lifting her up. The red flame in her chest, ever ignited, grows to a piercing, blue heat.

How dare this human attack her King!

Perhaps there are other humans trying to help. Perhaps this is not the only battle taking place inside of this strange human place. These facts do not matter when the world has grayed into a sight which strikes her deep to her inner flame.

Attacking her King, her Lord's humans!

Her wings carry her over the wall and human sounds erupt below as her shadow darts across the ground.

She lands in the sudden distance between her King and this enemy, smells the fear in their scents as her back claws dug into the ground and her wings flare wide. She stands on her back legs, body shielding her King entirely from this enemy's sight. Her front claws are ready for the dangerous glittering blade pointing at her stomach, and so is her fire ready to lash out at her next inhalation. Smoke curls between her teeth—

"Aithusa! No!"

—and the enemy raises his weapon and she has not fought one before, does not know how best to keep her scales unbroken, but she will never move from protecting her King and so draws her flame up her throat to—

"Aithusa! Stop!"

Dragon-tongue screamed aloud, she cannot ignore.

In the darkness of shadow and brightness of light, human tongue washed past her still-learning ears, but the voice of her Lord stills her entirely for an instant. Long enough for the enemy to start backing away, and though she wants to fight the command, her nature will not allow her to move for the human.

She roars at him, roars at her Lord, their bond carrying thoughts she cannot put to words, the necessity of quick action, the necessity of her heart's flame.

He shouts her name in human-voice again, approaching like a loping wolf.

In the wake of her rage, she snaps her teeth at him, warning him away from the traitorous human enemy.

Illogically, he tells her, "Do not hurt him! You do not need to defend the King." He tells her such a wild tale in dragon-tongue, though not Command.

She steps back, using her tail to nudge the King back in safety, keeping one eye on the human enemy and the other on her Lord. She does not understand what he means; the King was in danger! He gestures for her to lower her head.

She snorts smoke about his face, a clear threat to anyone else, a signal of her annoyance and confusion to her Lord.

"I will Command if I must; do not force me. Release the King."

She relents two steps further, allowing the King to stand apart instead of winding her tail to keep him close. Her Lord's fear is seeping through their bond and, abruptly, it snaps her rage into submission. Fear from her Lord, but certainty that the King is safe, means that she has missed something. After all, her Lord cares for the King like no other and would never allow him to come to harm. If he says that he does not need her defending him, then he speaks honestly.

Her vision regains color as her front paws lower to the ground. Her Lord steps close enough to grasp her by the jaw with one hand, his voice soothing, with only a tremor of fear for her remaining laced through the words. "They were not trying to harm each other."

Finally, she finds her voice and stops sending images and emotions like an infant. She instead says aloud, "I thought our King was in danger."

"I am proud of your bravery. But you are not yet skilled in combat with humans. Please, do not do that again."

"I will not. But what were they doing?"

At this, her Lord speaks in human tongue. "The King was not in danger. He and Sir Galahad are training."

She follows his gaze to their King, whose grip on his sword has not loosened since her landing. His golden head-fur—hair, she recalls the word with pride—has dampened from exertion, and tension lines his face. But his eyes soften when they meet, and he says, "My knights are no threat to me. We practice fighting, with no intent to injure or kill."

She has to sniff towards the knight before she feels fully settled. The poor human seems to rattle inside his armor and she bows her head in apology. Her legs curl up under her as she tries not to let her embarrassment show.

Her Lord is not fooled. He presses his forehead to hers and grins; their bond flares with amusement, and drains of lingering fear. Around them, in vibrant color, other knights appear from the sidelines where she had not registered their presence—including her Lord's favorites, those knights she had met and groomed upon their first meeting. And beyond them are other humans, like those from villages she has flown above.

A lingering fear twists in the air, like her action has not been forgotten or forgiven quite yet. But she has her pride and will only apologize by not repeating the mistake. Besides, she is not yet skilled enough with human-tongue sounds to make one. Instead, she decides they need to see a non-threat. Her display was strong enough to scare a hatchling; humans are more skittish and need a comparable image.

"Hey, no—you're too big! I can't carry you, you—ah!"

So she knocks her Lord over onto his back and curls her head on his chest, like she used to when she was small enough to fit into his arms.

The behavior of a hatchling transcends any language.

She is gratified when their King throws his head back and laughs.

:: :: ::

Her Lord lets her sit beside him on the edge of the training field. The knights she has met before all come to greet her. Those she has not met are much warier. Camelot's people also do not approach her. Some call out to her Lord in greeting, and he makes a point to rest on hand on her wing or shoulder.

She wishes that her first impression hadn't been a mistaken defense of a teaching King. On the field, he clearly leads the knights, corrects them, and encourages them—not someone who needs her assistance in a fight.

After a time, she realizes that a human in very different clothing has come to the field. The fabric of the skirt is smoother, shines in the light, and glows in rich color. Her Lord had explained why humans covered themselves and how, and she sends a questioning thought to him. This human, whose steps are surely and slowly coming toward them, is different.

He laughs when he spots her. "Do you remember asking me about 'other she', not-so-little one?"

A 'she'! She lifts her head from her front claws and watches eagerly. The human meets her eyes, only a faint thread of uncertainty evident in her expression. Her Lord stands and bows. "Queen Guinevere, what brings you out today?"

This is the Queen! Her Lord told her the King had a Queen who shared rule of Camelot.

"A queen may occasionally see to the knight's training herself, if she wishes," comes the answer, but the Queen looks only at her. "And I see we have another visitor today, Court Sorcerer."

"I hate that title," her Lord says. He rubs her shoulder scales. "Aithusa, this is Queen Guinevere. Gwen, Aithusa."

To her surprise, the Queen kneels down in front of her. Their faces parallel, their eyes connected, she feels a sudden exhilaration. Only wonder shows on this human female's face. Like the knights she introduced herself to by way of a dropped rabbit in a campsite. Like the King, once he stopped being angry at her Lord.

This human is special to her Lord. She can feel it in their bond.

Well, there is only one way to show familial connection. But this will be a delicate operation—she is much larger than she had been the first time she met humans properly. Stretching her neck, she nudges at the Queen's hair with her snout, scooting slowly forward. The human does not move, gasping only a short sound much like what she has identified as 'laughter'. Encouraged by the reception, she gently nudges away the irritating hoop of metal placed around the Queen's head and uses one claw to start stroking through the compressed hair. It is twisted around itself and she frees it easily, releasing a loose cloud of long, tight curls.

These humans. They need to be taught so carefully how to care for themselves.

"Merlin. Is she—"

"Grooming means she considers you family. I apologize, she sees personal space differently."

"I had noticed. Arthur will have a fit if he saw the crown fall, though."

"We can pretend I was holding it. I doubt he saw."

Through one eye, she watches as the King crosses his arms and watches her. His lips are pressed too tightly together. She thinks he is attempting to prevent a smile, which she understands indicates human happiness. Though why baring one's teeth is a sign of pleasure, she will never really understand.

Around him, she notices that the other knights are slowing in their movements. The decrease in clanking reaches the ears of the Queen, as well. She fidgets and says, "They are all staring."

"Nope." Her Lord twirls the metal circle around in his hands. "Absolutely not."

The King has decided to approach, waving one hand to release his knights from their 'training'. They are slow to move, eyes curious and amused, but it seems that this strange time of waving dangerous objects at one another has come to an end.

"Merlin—"

"Mer-lin."

She finishes her grooming and contents herself with resting her head in the Queen's lap. Delicate human hands pat her head-scales and she closes her eyes, content.

"Sire."

"Can you teach your charge that it's not polite to knock crowns off the heads of queens?"

"Afraid I can't get that message across, sire. She's a bit stubborn about the grooming. Takes after her King."

Aithusa lets her eyelids close. Soaking in the sunlight is good for her heart-flame, and so is her human-tongue learning. She's paying attention closely when her Lord's King insults him, and her own lips curl in a human-style smile when they start bickering the way they often do.

The Queen's delicate fingers brush across her scales soothingly and she basks in the feeling. This must be what a home feels like.