Short, to the point, sad because I'm a masochist.
A few centuries, he muses. Not too long.
He could wait a bit more. He could—
A blonde-haired man smiled at him wryly, flipping his handgun.
His wait was over.
His joy when he saw Arthur clad in uniform and his trademark arrogant smirk was enough to lift him out of his perpetual misery for a few hours. They exchanged pleasantries, laughed, and joked around. Arthur cuffed him on the head a few times and they went to the bar to get drunk, reminiscing about old times in hushed tones.
It almost made him forget about the war that was raging at the moment.
Until the bombings arrived.
Hearing Arthur's screams tore at his heart and the pain scrabbled at fluttering fragments of his soul, trying to take hold, but he was numb. He watched the Once and Future King of Camelot yell at him, plead with him, and cry at him, begging him to do something to help his sister.
Arthur had all the memories of him, but none of Morgana.
He did not dwell on it, only casting Arthur into a deep, fitful sleep as he watched her take her last breath.
Funny. There was something almost poetic with how history repeats itself. Was she always destined to die in his arms?
Her hair fell from her tight, elegant bun and curled around her pale, beautiful face. And again, her eyes—emerald this time, were dull and lifeless, staring at something beyond him, past his knowledge. Blood trickled out of her lips, and she grew cold in his arms.
He wiped the blood from her and shut her eyes, murmuring a blessing in a broken voice.
He had waited for Arthur. He would wait for her, too.
He placed his hand on Arthur's forehead, and whispered a spell.
Arthur woke a few hours later amongst the debris, alone, and wept in anguish upon seeing Morgana lying there peacefully. Dust swirled in the twilight air, illuminated in the pale glow of the Sun's weary rays. The star must have seen it all, he thought bitterly. Seen the foolishness of humans, and how futile everything was.
He continued to weep until his tears ran dry and his throat cracked, for as he woke and looked upon his sister's face, memories of another life trickled back into his mind, and 'Morgana' slipped out of his parched lips into the void space around him.
He picked her up gently and started to carry her back to the camp so someone can help him give her a proper burial.
As he limped along the bloody dirt path, a mere black silhouette against the dying light, a merlin flew over them, squawking out a sorrowful call.
Somewhere secluded, safe, and silent, Emrys shared his grief with a white dragon.