Holy crap! I wrote something! This is how I've chosen to spend my last day of vacation: in front of a laptop, typing. Enjoy!

Kingdom Come

There is a certain dignity, Morgana lies to herself, in daring to venture out in public with zero makeup and the baggiest sweatpants a thrift store could offer. A quiet dignity, but dignity nonetheless.

She reasons that at least there isn't the remotest possibility of seeing somebody she knows. With that in mind, she congratulates herself on finding the only benefit to one's first day in a country: anonymity.

It's pouring out, which the Internet has kindly informed her is going to be a regular occurrence now that she lives in Merry Old England. Why so many Americans find this wretched country so fascinating, she will never understand. Actually, she thinks she does understand; none of them have to move here.

"Excuse me," she says politely to a middle-aged woman with frown lines etched violently into her face. She's standing under the miniature awning of a local muffin shop, which is closed but offers shelter from rain all the same. Morgana's clothes are beyond needing shelter at this point. "Do you know where I could buy an umbrella?"

The woman levels on her a look so disdainful that a lesser human being would have quailed. Morgana Pendragon, however, does not back down under any circumstances. She forces herself to be patient.

"Try anywhere," the woman snaps, retreating further under the awning's protection. Morgana breathes in and out slowly, a technique learned from the anger management specialist Uther had insisted she go see when she bit Sophia Timor in fourth grade. To be fair, Sophia was a brat, and Uther had thrown a fit years later when he caught her and Arthur exchanging saliva in the back of Uther's brand new Lexus.

Morgana had enjoyed that day.

Tracking down an umbrella is not quite so easy as the rude lady suggested, but Morgana manages it and proceeds to put it to use sheltering the groceries she buys with the only English money she has. Then again, she thinks gloomily as she balances seventy-six pounds' worth of basic food necessities in her arms while simultaneously trying to unfurl the umbrella, it's not like she has much American money, either.

Then she's sloshing down the streets with her arms full, her clothes and skin and hair soaked straight through, and her teeth chattering, and the traffic doesn't give a damn about any of it, or else they wouldn't continue to speed through puddles and make her impossibly wetter. No one offers to help.

It's not like she would've expected more in her hometown, but all Morgana can think right now is how much she hates England.

When she gets to her flat, she presses all the grocery bags into the side of the building with her weight so she can free a hand to fumble for the key. It slips from her fingers, and she has to slide carefully to the ground, still pressing against the groceries, to reach it. Then she has to inch her way back up.

The relief she feels when the key is in the lock and turns is tangible. She and her sopping wet clothes, and the paper bags that despite her best efforts have gotten a bit soggy, collapse against the island for support. Thank God she lives in a one-story building. With her luck, a multi-story building would have landed her a third floor flat and she would have had to do all sorts of contortions to get through multiple door systems of various complexity. Not to mention the stairs. If there was one perk to poverty, it was limited housing options.

She hasn't bought anything that requires real cooking. She's used to having the maid cook everything, but Gwen's back in America along with everything else good in the world. Morgana's seventy-six quid of grocery supplies include canned tuna, canned soup, canned vegetables, and seven different kinds of frozen pizza. She didn't eat this pathetically in college. There was that one month where she went on a total Ramen diet, but she's sworn never to touch that stuff again.

She heats up a can of corn for supper (only just remembering not to microwave it in the actual can) and collapses in front of the TV. She's currently trapped in a sea of local channels, which means nothing but crappy British television to keep her going.

Okay, she admits begrudgingly, that's going a bit far. In America she watched more British shows than American. However, the only thing on other than the news right now is something that looks both cheesy and incredibly slutty. It's like Desperate Housewives, which along with soap operas is one type of show she would rather die than watch.

Frustrated, she hits the power button and sinks into her scratchy couch, praying that when she gets to that stupid job Uther set up for her tomorrow, it's worth the whirlwind of hell that is downtown London.

Within about two hours of working in the office, that dream goes straight down the drain. Not just a drain, Morgana thinks, but one of those that'll shred your hand to pieces if you're not careful.

"You're... you're firing me?" she echoes dazedly while her stern-looking employer, though a good three inches shorter than her, manages to stare down his nose at her condescendingly.

"I'm sorry, Miss Pendragon," Mr. Aredian says without sounding sorry at all. "That was our best client you lost us. Might I suggest you look for work in an environment that does not require your interaction with people?"

Morgana draws herself up and glowers. "I am perfectly capable of interacting with people!" she says haughtily. "It's when people are complete, rude bastards over the phone that I have a problem. I won't put up with people like Mr. Alined, never mind how rich he is. And you, Aredian, you're hardly any better, are you!"

Five minutes later, she's clutching her briefcase and the rain is pouring again, go figure. She's shaking with anger and maybe a little bit with chill. It's a wonder people in London don't all die of pneumonia, she thinks. Her umbrella's at the flat; she'd been hoping to make it to the end of the day, after all, and then it wouldn't have been so hard to find a bloody cab.

Bloody, she thinks with disgust. Good God, I'm catching it.

She isn't one hundred percent positive how to get back to her flat, and it took half an hour to get to the law firm by bus, but she starts walking anyway, because she's unemployed and has nothing better in her life to do. With no money in her pocket and no prospects of getting any, she can't even go shopping.

I'm calling Uther when I get home, she vows, and he's going to put me on the first plane back to New York whether he likes it or not. He wouldn't like at all, she knows. She would call him right now, except company policy requires employees to leave their phones at home. Apparently, it also requires them to be nice to people who don't deserve it.

When she gets sick of lugging the suitcase around, she abandons it on a corner and kicks it over as she walks away. It's not like she needs it anymore. She didn't even last long enough to put anything in it. Maybe someone will happen upon it and be inspired to go to college and become a lawyer, or at least a secretary like she'd been for two hours.

"Um, miss?" someone says politely. Morgana jumps and realizes she's been standing in the same spot for a long time, and that spot happens to be directly in the way of a coffee shop door. Coffee, she thinks longingly, but of course she hasn't a penny to her name.

The boy who more than likely wants into the coffee shop is tall, thin, and smart enough to have an umbrella, though his black hair looks like it's been damp recently. He's eyes widen when they face each other, and Morgana thinks she sees something connect in them. They're very blue, she notices. Blue and bright.

"Morgana?" he breathes, or at least that's what Morgana hears, but she's sure that's not actually what he said, because she's certainly never seen this boy before in her life. He's English, and the only people in England she's ever spoken to are old and rich and mean.

"What did you say?" she asks for clarification. If he does know her name, then she's found herself a stalker. Sadly, that would be the greatest accomplishment she's achieved thus far on this continent.

He shakes his head as thought to clear it. "N-nothing," he says. He's a very bad liar. "Er, I was... do you want to get a coffee with me? I'll buy you one."

The thing is, she would die to get a coffee, but she's not going to let on to this stranger how desperate she is right now. "Aren't you British people supposed to drink tea?" she demands, not snidely but not without a little sarcasm.

"I'm only half British," he says, "so I think I'm excused. Come on, you'll soak to the skin at this rate. At least come in and get dry."

Morgana notes with mild surprise that is indeed still raining, and she is indeed getting wetter by the nanosecond. "All right," she agrees. "I'm Morgana, by the way. Morgana Pendragon." After all, there's no guarantee he knows that already, even though she has a strong feeling that he does.

"I'm Merlin," he says, pulling the door open now that she's out of the way and holding it for her. "Ladies first." There's nothing ironic about his words, but he makes it sound like there is. It doesn't escape her that he hasn't given his last name.

The girl behind the counter beams at Merlin when she sees him, and Morgana waits while she gushes about seeing someone famous that Morgana's never heard of. Merlin looks at the girl - Freya, according to her name tag - in a way that makes Morgana feel strangely possessive, and she'd tell him to get a move on with their order if she hadn't just been fired for bitchiness.

Finally Merlin gets her the mocha she wants, which turns out to be pretty awful in comparison to what Morgana usually drinks, but she sips at it anyway. Merlin leads her straight to a booth, which thankfully means they're not by Freya. Morgana reminds herself firmly that she doesn't even know this boy, and it's none of her business if he and Freya are a thing.

"So," he says when they're alone and drinking their beverages that are regrettably void of alcohol. Merlin's coffee is black; Morgana admires the simplicity but questions whether he has functional taste buds.

He doesn't expand on the "so." Morgana, known for having a good initiative, asks, "What do you do for work?" and then flinches, because now he's going to tell her and ask her the same thing and she'll have to admit that she doesn't as of half an hour ago.

"I don't, actually," he says, sounding slightly embarrassed, but Morgana's mood lifts instantly. "I kind of... well, I used to have my own magic act back in Ireland, but it never really took off. EBay's my only income right now." He smiles bashfully. "What about you?"

"I... was a secretary," Morgana says carefully. "At Albion Law Office. I sort of got fired this morning. Any chance you know a trick to magic me back my job?"

Merlin laughs. It's rich and wonderful and Morgana forgets for a moment that she's supposed to be miserable. "I used to be the secretary's assistant there," he explains. "For about... forty minutes. I spilled coffee on my boss, and she fired me. I think Mr. Aredian's the only one who's ever lasted for more than five years there, and that's because he's the head of the company."

"And I thought my father was bad. My dad owns Camelot Law; it's a branch of Albion Law. He wants my brother and me to work our way into the other branches and rise to the top so Albion can be a family company." She rolls her eyes. "So much for that. I've already been fired and Arthur's only ever wanted to work at Camelot."

Merlin goes still suddenly at something she's said. She frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I... nothing," he says breathlessly. "I just... it's been so long since... of course, now I know for sure, the prat'll probably get hit by a car tomorrow... you know what? Never mind."

It's the strangest bit of incoherent rambling Morgana's ever heard, and she has half a mind to make him explain himself, but she doesn't know where to start and therefore doesn't start at all. They brush past it with talk about their family - Morgana eventually notices that every time he twitches or clenches tighter to his coffee cup, it's when she's talking about Arthur. It's a funny coincidence, after all, that Merlin's name and Arthur's name belong to the same legend. She's seen The Sword and the Stone, so basically all she knows about that legend is that Arthur's a king and Merlin's an old wizard, but she knows there's some grand story behind all of it that Gwen used to read books about in her spare time.

When it nears lunchtime and Morgana refuses to take charity for a meal as well as her drink, they part smiling and laughing and caffeinated. There's a cab in sight this time. Morgana flags it down and swears to the driver that she'll pay him when they get to her place. He gives her a disapproving look and proceeds to drive in a way that could easily kill them both - was that what he was going for? - but doesn't. Morgana hurries into her flat and manages to find enough money to satisfy the annoyed man.

Morgana pulls out the newspaper to hunt through job ads, and it's only when she sees a theater listing for the new Harry Potter movie that she realizes she never gave Merlin her phone number.

It's the middle of the night. This, coupled with the fact that she's awake to observe it, makes for a dazed and confused environment. She's also vaguely, supernaturally aware that there's someone much too close to her. She blinks to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Hang on, there shouldn't have been anyone here, should there have?

"Get away!" she shrieks, scrambling into a sitting position and bunching the covers up around her. She's all too aware of how revealing her silk pajamas are. She hadn't put them on thinking someone was going to sneak into her room in the middle of the night. How the hell did he get in? Were the locks there for nothing? She grabs for the book on her nightstand and holds it out like a weapon. "What are you doing here? Get out!" She yells loud enough to wake the dead, but apparently not her neighbors. She resorts to whacking at the shadowy shape with the book's hardcover spine.

"Ouch!" says a familiar voice. "Morgana, it's me! Merlin!"

Morgana drops the book on the bed next to her and crawls closer to her assault victim. Sure enough, if she squints, she can make out a couple of features - too-big ears and model cheekbones. "Oh. Sorry," she says, then thinks better of it. "Wait; what are you doing in my apartment? Flat, thing."

"Why do you sleep in a black hole?" Merlin counters. "It's darker than a dragon cave in here!"

"I like it dark," Morgana says defensively. "How did you get in here?"

"Through the door."

"It's locked."

"It was, until I unlocked it."

Morgana reaches for her touch lamp so he can see her glare. "I should have known you were too good to be true," she says sourly. "I thought you might be the first decent thing England has to offer, but instead you're just a creepy stalker who charms innocent women and then sneaks into their rooms at night. You know what? I've had it with England. These four days have been the worst of my life, and if my father thinks leaving me stranded here with no money will be good for me, then he can go- oh, for God's sake, what are you so happy about?"

Merlin's grinning. "You think I'm too good to be true?"

"Seriously? That's what you got out of that?"

Merlin's face transforms into something more somber. "I'm not a stalker, Morgana, I swear. You want to know how I got in? Magic. You want to know why I'm here? Because I have two plane tickets to JFK Airport, and we have to be there in an hour."

Morgana's mouth falls open, but she doesn't use it. She can't. What do you say to someone who counters a series of accusations and insults by offering you a ride out of hell? She's pretty sure "You don't even have a job!" isn't the right thing, but it's what comes out anyway. "How can you afford two plane tickets for a girl you barely even know?"

"I told you. EBay." Merlin pulls out two ticket-sized pieces of paper and hands her one. Her eyes can barely focus on the print, but she knows basically what it says: flight number, destination, departure time, seat number, the usual. "And trust me, I know you a lot better than you think."

"How does that not make you a stalker?" Morgana demands, but she's so giddy that her statement's effect is lost in the hug she instigates, flinging her arms around Merlin's neck for a brief moment. Or two.

There are so many things she should be questioning, and so many things she is definitely going to ask later, but the thought that she could be about to get in a cab that'll dump her with Merlin in a dark alley doesn't even occur to her. Uther would be furious.

Two hours later they're in the air, and the dreamlike aura of the rescue is fuelled by how bloody tired Morgana is. She stays awake, reflecting on all that's happened the last four days, but mostly the last few hours of it.

"You must not have given up your magic tricks completely," she says sleepily. Merlin turns his head to look at her. Their carry-on items were pillows, but he's hugging his to himself instead of using it under his head like a normal person. "Unless by 'magic,' you meant lock-picking."

"About getting into your apartment, you mean? Nah. I meant magic. You know." He wiggles his fingers, which should look ridiculous and does a little, but not completely.

Morgana snorts anyway. "Magic doesn't exist. Sorry to burst your bubble, but it's all just tricks. You know, like you did in Ireland." She doesn't mention that, the night before Uther told her she was going to England, her dreams were filled with glimpses of the Heathrow Airport sign, an unfamiliar bedroom, and the Albion Law firm.

"I did do tricks in Ireland," Merlin agrees. "But the whole reason I got into magic tricks was because I couldn't show anyone real magic. That's not to say I didn't slip some of it into my act. I did all the things people expected to see, except that I get to leave knowing I did something no one else can." He smiles wanly. "A bit like the old days."

It's around three o'clock in the morning and she's been up since six, so Morgana almost accepts what he says as the truth. Either way, she doesn't have the energy to argue about it. "Whatever," she says doubtfully. "I'm going to sleep."

"Wait. Do you have someone who can pick us up when we get there?"

She hasn't considered that. She wishes she had before they left, because she can't use her phone right now; by the time they land, it'll be after ten in England and right around five in the morning where they're going. "I can call Arthur when we land. He sleeps like a rock, but his ringtone for me is Taylor Swift, and he hates Taylor Swift."

"Then why is it his ringtone for you?"

"Because that's what I set it to."

Merlin laughs softly. When that fades, he gets this faraway look in his eyes that Morgana wants to know about. She doesn't stay awake long enough to ask, though. The plane seat isn't exactly comfortable, but a strange man magicked his way into her bedroom at one o'clock in the morning to whisk her away. When that happens to a girl, she tends to get sleepy enough to drift off anywhere.

It's not raining in New York City. That's the first thing Morgana notices. In retrospect, she realizes the weather can be just as irritating here as it is in London, but it feels less aggravating for it being home. She and Merlin tour the airport shops while they wait for an undoubtedly cranky Arthur Pendragon to pick them up. Morgana never actually mentioned that she wasn't alone, but she hopes she has to time to explain before her brother murders the boy in the name of his twisted sense of chivalry.

"You don't seem very excited for someone who's never been to America," Morgana remarks, wide awake after her nap.

Merlin rotates a rack of NYC key chains, playing with one that has fireworks behind the letters I HEART NYC. "Oh, I've been to America before," he says absently. "I actually lived in New York once. Not for very long, mind; it's too crowded. Too... modern."

"Crowded and modern? You live in London. And according to your practically blank passport, you haven't been to America."

"I didn't say it was recent. In fact, you could say it was lifetimes ago."

Morgana opens her mouth, but an annoyed yell cuts her off. "I'm here, if you're not too busy flirting with strangers to care!"

"Oh, shut up!" she hollers back, knowing he'll come to them. She's not sure if Merlin intends to hang around to buy that key chain or not. She starts to ask him, but he's gone completely still and a little pale. He's breathing fast, she notices. Has he gotten ill all of a sudden? She hopes not, because it's going to be hard enough convincing Arthur to let a stranger into his car, let a lone a sick one.

Sure enough, when she turns to look for him, Arthur reaches them with his arms crossed. Merlin remains stock-still, facing away from them. "I wondered how you got money for a ticket home," Arthur says dryly. "Who's this, then? Honestly, Morgana, you've been gone for four days and you've already found yourself a boyfriend? What did you bribe him with?"

"Leave him alone, Arthur," Morgana snaps. "He's not my boyfriend. He's just a boy a met at a coffee shop who happens to be the nicest person I've ever met. Certainly nicer than you."

Merlin turns around slowly. Morgana watches the annoyance slide off Arthur's face like the pie she'd thrown at it during his eighth birthday party. He appears stricken speechless, a feat Morgana has tried many a time in her life and has never succeeded. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

"Merlin?" he whispers. It's an honest question, and he sounds like he doesn't believe he's really asking it.

Merlin gives a little wave. "Hi," he says quietly.

And the strangest thing happens. Arthur Pendragon, holder of the record for Least Affectionate Human Being Ever, steps (stumbles?) forward at the same time Merlin does, and they embrace like long lost brothers. It's not brief like Morgana's hug with Merlin; this lasts, like they have to make sure they're really hugging the right person, and once they're sure they keep holding on so the other one doesn't disappear.

It's Merlin who pulls away first. To Morgana's shock, there are tears in his eyes. "Every time," he says shakily, "for the last fifteen hundred years, every time I've finally found you it's been too late. Do you know how many gravestones I've visited with your name on them? You're useless without me, aren't you?"

"It's been so long." Arthur's voice is still in a whisper. Morgana doesn't think she's ever heard him whisper. However, the shine in his eyes says his voice would break like Merlin's if he raised it at all. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of you since... since the first time. I don't even get a gravestone to look at, Merlin. I never even remember until I'm about to die."

"Not this time," says Merlin softly.

Morgana feels a stirring of something. A memory, maybe. It's the same sensation of having a word on the tip of your tongue, but this was a memory on the precipice of her mind. She has a definite feeling that something's locked away and if she can only access it, her life won't ever be the same. Maybe it already won't.

Merlin and Arthur look like they're going to fall apart, while all the same looking inexplicably like they've never been quite this whole. "Let's get going," she interjects, not that there's really a conversation to interrupt. Most of their communication seems to involve nothing but staring at each other, still within arm's reach. They both jump at her voice, like they've forgotten she's there. They probably have.

They pick up their suitcases and Arthur leads them to his red Mercedes. Without a word, she takes the keys from his hand and gets in the driver's seat. He doesn't even protest that he doesn't trust a girl with his precious car. He just climbs silently into the backseat with Merlin, and they're both completely quiet the whole way home.

Uther is waiting for them at the kitchen table. He doesn't comment when two people more than he was expecting enter through the door, nor does he respond to the fact that he's never seen one of them before. Although, Morgana wonders, is that even true?

"Father," Arthur begins. He clears his throat. "Dad. This is Merlin Emrys. He brought Morgana home."

Morgana shoots him a look. Where did the "Emrys" come from? "I see," Uther says, deadly calm. "We can talk about this later. Thank you for bringing my daughter home, Mr. Emrys. Morgana, Morgause is starting her maternity leave next week. She has also informed me that she is going to stay home to raise the child. That means there is a secretary position open for you at Camelot."

"Really?" She'd expected him to fight her more on this. She'd envisioned angry phone calls to Mr. Aredian, and at best a stern lecture on her behavior and at worst a successful attempt at getting her rehired. "I- thank you."

"Don't thank me. Promise me you'll control your temper on the job, and you will not argue with me in front of your coworkers. I'm sure you can make up for it at home." Merlin snorts, and everyone's eyes turn on him. He mumbles an apology. "Take your things up to your room. Arthur, show Mr. Emrys to one of the guest bedrooms."

"You can call me Merlin, sir," Merlin says. Uther does not respond, which really is better than the reactions most of Morgana's friends get when they try talking to her father. Morgana hauls her suitcase up the stairs; down the hall from her room, she hears Merlin say to Arthur, "Guest bedrooms? It's a bloody castle all over again."

It's somewhere around six o'clock. Morgana has nothing she has to be awake for, so once she unpacks the necessities, she crawls under her covers to sleep the rest of the morning away. Instead of sleep, she finds herself wondering what all this means, finding out that her brother is apparently a lot older than twenty-five. She remembers associating Merlin with the King Arthur story; is that what this is? Reincarnation?

She pulls out her phone and Googles "King Arthur." Wikipedia tells her all sorts of things she doesn't care about, along with a lot of names that she finds terribly familiar. There's Guinevere, for a start, as Arthur's wife; Gwen, short for Guinevere, has always had a bit of a crush on her brother. There's Lancelot - didn't Gwen have an ex named Lance? Morgause, Vivienne, Uther, Igraine, Nimueh - how did she never find it weird, how many people she knew with such unique names?

And most jarring of all: Morgan le Fay. Also known as Morgaine or Morgana. Half-sister to King Arthur. Sorceress.

Her phone falls from her hand and lands on the floor. She closes her eyes and pictures, just for a moment, a stone-walled bedroom with a four-poster bed, the candle flickering on her nightstand until it leaped suddenly, the curtains catching fire, the window shattering-

It's real. She knows without any evidence to prove it so. She's spent a lot of time in college talking about lawyers and evidence and proof, but since meeting Merlin she's needed none of that. Things are about to become very different very quickly, she knows. But maybe not new different. Not like buying a piece of furniture and rearranging a room so it'll fit. More like putting the furniture in the room back to the way it used to be a long time ago. It still takes adjustment, but eventually it feels right again.

Someone knocks on her door an hour later; she still hasn't fallen asleep. It's Merlin. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," he says, closing the door behind him. "You know, with... all this. Do you remember anything?"

Other than the bedroom and the fire? Not really. She can't picture all the things that she senses are still in there somewhere. She gets impressions of it, though: impressions of love, and protectiveness, and helplessness that bleeds into boiling anger and uncapped hatred. She looks at Merlin and for one instant feels the sting of betrayal. What could Merlin have ever done in any life to make her feel this way?

But there are good sensations, too, when he catches her eye and smiles reassuringly. Safety. Trust that contradicts the betrayal. There's anger and contempt, but there's also a little bit of the exact opposite.

"Not much," she says. "Just... feelings."

Merlin sits at the edge of her bed, gazing at her with an intensity that both scares and thrills her. "It's been so long since I've seen any of you," he breathes. "So many things have changed since then. Sometimes I have to get away, go somewhere where I can pretend that tellies and mobiles and things don't exist. Sometimes I wish they'd never been invented. Other times... I forget that it wasn't always like it is now."

"I'm sorry," Morgana says sincerely, "but I really can't say I feel the same."

He smiles. It's the saddest smile he's ever offered her. Ever? It's been less than a day. "You will," he says. "You will."

They sit in silence for a minute. "Why do we keep on living, then?" she asks softly. "Why do we keep coming back? I understand that Arthur was supposed to be the greatest king who ever lived, and you were the world's greatest sorcerer, but Camelot and magic are in the past. Why aren't we?"

"Because they weren't meant to stay in the past. And neither were we." Merlin reaches tentatively for her hand. Morgana lets him take it. "Camelot fell, Morgana. It died with Arthur, and so did the Golden Age of men. It was never meant to last, but it was never meant to be forgotten, either. It was supposed to be an example. It was supposed to make people want to be better. It's been too long, Morgana; we were always supposed to bring it back so the world could be better again."

"The world isn't supposed to be perfect," says Morgana stubbornly.

"No," Merlin agrees. "And it won't be. Trust me. It wasn't then, either, or we wouldn't have had to come back."

He leaves her to think about that. She isn't sure what Arthur the Lawyer, Morgana the Secretary, and Merlin the Magician are going to do to make the world better. It isn't as if Arthur is king and able to tell people what to do. It isn't as if they have an army to go out and conquer unruly kingdoms with.

However, she believes in what he said. She can feel it like a shift in the Earth's rotation: something is waiting for them. It can't be an accident that at long last, they've all found each other again. She hopes that in time, she'll remember everything about her other lives, or at least the one that counts. There was a lot of bad in it, she can tell, but she'll take that if it means she gets to have the good, too.

Maybe it's that thought that's going to make it right this time. Maybe it matters that she wants what Merlin proposes. The Golden Age is returning; she doesn't know her part in it, or how any of it's going to be remotely possible, but she's on the verge of bursting with the conviction when she finally falls asleep and dreams of castles and knights and magic.

I have never actually been to New York or England, nor have I ever been on a plane. Everything related to New York, England, and planes that I mentioned is therefore not necessarily correct. I Googled some things and took chances with the rest. Also, I suck at times and dates, so hopefully all the "it's blah blah blah o'clock now" stuff is accurate-ish. For anyone who might want to say Morgana's OOC: she's not Morgana born and raised in Camelot. She's Morgana born and raised in 21st-century America.

Please review! I shall love you if you do :) I'll probably love you anyway, though, if you got this far. I'm gonna shut up now, my wrist is cramping and I have school tomorrow.