Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters belong to BBC/Shine.

A/N: Just a quick drabbly thing, because this fandom needs more Merlin/Morgana, and because Season 3 is almost here! :)

It's amazing how quickly he forgets.

He spends centuries awaiting Arthur's return, awaiting the chosen moment when he will wake to free the land and the Golden Age will rise again. He is optimistic at first, and then the years bend into decades, the decades into centuries, until he has lived for over a millennium. A thousand years have a way of changing a warlock's worldview, and he begins to see just how long eternity could mean.

Instead of settling down to wait around for something that may not come for another million lifetimes, he leaves Albion - Britain now - in search of something to give him purpose again.

They meet in a flower market in Rome.

Her face, so familiar after all these years, is buried in a cluster of gardenias. When he sees her from across the square, a flood of memory rushes over him, so strong that it threatens to knock him right off his feet. It's bitter and sweet, and there's so much he's ashamed of, but then she lifts her head and he sees that amazing smile and, without thinking, he's already heading toward her.

All this time he's been waiting for Arthur, focused on the return of the king, and here he'd forgotten that he left his heart in her care.

She's everything he remembers - all wavy black tresses and translucent skin and fiery tongue - and yet it all seems so new. He stares at her for hours upon hours, to make certain she hasn't changed, to make certain she isn't just a cruel fabrication born of frustration and idleness. He buries himself in her, trying to memorize her laugh, her scent, the way she twists her lips when she's thinking deeply.

When he sits at her kitchen table, watching her make a mess out of something that was supposed to be dinner, he remembers the way she used to saunter through the castle corridors in that green dress. She didn't quite belong in that time, not with a mind like hers. But she fits in this century, he decides, with her hemp armbands and flowing skirts, with her carefree attitude and the empathetic way she has of making people feel important, with her causes and projects. She is of this age and transcends it like he never could.

He's never really felt like he belonged, in this era or in any since his own, but she inspires a complacent feeling in his heart. She takes him shopping, buys him striped polos and vintage tees, jeans that fit, proper glasses. They learn to cook together, and he starts eating actual meals instead of food from cans. They find a villa in the countryside, furnish it with quirky pictures and treasures she's gathered on her journeys, and he no longer spends his nights alone.

And they take care of each other, something he could never quite do for her.

Their friends tease them, call them the perfect couple. He smiles but doesn't mention that he's had a thousand years to practice, doesn't mention that he's gotten it so very wrong before. Once the company leaves, she pours more wine and, slipping a forefinger through his belt loop, pulls him over to the sofa.

She laughs, and asks what their friends would think if they knew he killed her.

It's so far in the past that she can laugh about it, but when the words spill from her lips, it's as if a chasm opens up inside his chest, the memory a fresh, pulsing wound. He tamps down the pain and pulls her closer, dipping his head toward her neck, one hand tangling in her hair, the strands silky against his fingers.

She asks if he's tired, and her whisper teases at the dredges of his mind. He's drowning in guilt, wants to throw himself at her feet, but she's never been one for forgiveness. Then again, she's here, which makes him think that maybe he's the one who needs to forgive.

Nodding, he murmurs an affirmative, and he can feel the curve of her lips as she smiles against his temple. His heart lightens as she pulls him up and drags him with a laugh toward the bedroom.

She crawls onto his lap, takes his face between her palms, and brushes tender kisses over his lips.

And it's amazing how quickly he forgets.