Title: Find Your Way Back to Me
Author: brickroad16/inafadinglight
Rating: PG/K+
Characters/Pairings: Merlin/Morgana, OC
Summary: New Year's Eve proves to be a new beginning for old foes.
Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin, it would have been called Morgana. Obviously, it's not mine. Just playing in the sandbox.
A/N: Happy belated New Year! I'm wishing all of you a fantastic year full of exciting developments and experiences . This will be our first year without Merlin, but the show gave us five seasons of amazing acting and great fun, and I'm sure we'll keep the spirit alive through the fandom.

Feedback is love and much appreciated. If you favorite this, there must be something you like about it! So please leave a review if you can. :)

You're in exile from yourself.
Been kept away from yourself.
Lost in the mist from when we last kissed,
I need you to find yourself.
- "Exile," Myst III

He happens to her all over again.

After a lifetime of convincing herself that she's forgotten him, that his betrayal meant nothing, he waltzes into her New Year's Eve party and locks eyes with her as if it's his first evening in Camelot all over again, nothing to separate them but the little bother of social status.

The art gallery is popular enough for her to live well, but it's also small and out of the way enough for her to live anonymously. How he made it here is beyond her, though she hopes beyond hope that his appearance is unplanned.

Only it really can't be, because only a moment after she turns away, her assistant, Arya, finds her and announces, "There's a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says he knows you."

She sighs and fights back a biting retort. She'd hired the poor girl as an intern based solely on her similar upbringing, but she's proven to be capable, loyal, and exceedingly intelligent. With everything on her plate, she doesn't need to be treated poorly simply for doing her job.

After a deep breath that doesn't calm her racing heart at all, she asks, "Who is it?"

Arya hesitates. Morgana raises an eyebrow at her, because she's as outspoken as she had been as a teenager both times around and silence isn't her usual way of handling things. After a moment, she says, "He's the man in your drawing, the one in your office."

She points across the room, and, the second her eyes land on him again, Morgana feels as if her heart stops. Only for a moment, but it takes her right back to those days, and nights, she'd much rather cast off.

"Shall I tell him to come over?" she prompts gently.

They're still feeling one another out, she and Arya, but they're similar enough that they know when to push and when to persuade. Morgana's gaze swivels from Merlin, his back turned as he studies the art, to Arya, eyes curious as she tries to figure out exactly what he means to her.

A frown tightens her lips. It would be so easy, so satisfying, to turn her back on him just as he did on her all those years ago, but there's no denying the way she aches to be near him again, if only to breathe in his heady scent of hay and boot polish once more. She sets her jaw. "Tell him to come say what he has to say but be quick about it. I have guests to attend to."

She nods, and Arya disappears into the crowd.

She turns, slips through the mass of black ties and dresses, and makes her way up the glass staircase to the second floor. It's just as crowded as the first, but she ignores the guests and heads straight for the balcony. It's an indulgence, she knows, and one that's not extremely useful in the winter, but it's her favorite place in the gallery, a place she can go to think, to breathe, to be, even more private than her office.

The night air is cold, calming, and when she closes the French doors, she shuts out the din and her mind clears. With the city lights all around, she can't see the stars, but on nights like this, it's enough to simply know that they're there. She likes to think that Arthur's watching her, too, watching as she tries to make amends, but that's a fancy born of stargazing. He's still asleep, as silent as her heart has been.

The music and the laughter and the conversation flare up for a moment and then muffle again, and her shoulders stiffen, because she knows he's behind her. He's there, all pleading blue eyes and apologetic smile, and she's not quite prepared to give up the pain she's kept lodged in her chest all this time.

Steeling her heart, she turns to face him. The sight of him, of his lean frame, his dark mop of hair, his piercing gaze, nearly steals the breath from her lungs once more, but she fights it, fights the influence he always had over her.

"Morgana," he murmurs, his breath fogging the air, his smile crinkling his eyes. Her name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a promise, and she has to wonder if that's what he's come for, if he's here to make everything right just as she's been trying to do for the last 29 years.

Lifetimes. It has been lifetimes since they've seen one another, spoken to one another. She doesn't understand until this moment how much she's yearned for his voice, for the sight of his grin. Everything had spiraled so quickly back then, though, before anyone had known how to counteract it. She thinks of Arya, thinks of how angry she herself used to be, thinks of the way rage can so easily overtake a soul. In an instant, she knows she doesn't want that anymore, doesn't want to go back to the way things were. She wants another chance, another chance with him.

He gazes at her silently for a long while. His eyes hold a sadness that she thinks may be a silent apology for all the things they've gone through. After all these years, she knows that, with just one word from him, she'll forgive him.

He swallows nervously, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "It's cold out here," he remarks quietly, indicating her sleeveless gown.

She bites her lip. There had been a time when she hadn't been able to feel the bitter winter at all, within or without. "Have you forgotten?" she asks just as quietly. "My heart is ice. I can't feel the cold."

"I – I believed that once, but I know now that I was mistaken."

It's all she needs, really, to see into his heart, to see the sorrow and the regret that he still nurtures. She lets a smile light her lips, and apparently, that is all he needs.

He steps closer to her and breathes, "It's good to see you."

When it comes from him, it's no mere pleasantry. There's so much hanging in the simple sentence, so much held in his eyes, that she wants to close the small distance still separating them, fold herself into his arms, and soak up his presence again.

But they stay as they've always been: on opposite sides, facing each other, instead of turning to look in the same direction. As she stares at him, absorbs his long lashes and gaunt cheekbones, she wonders if the Cailleach had gotten it wrong all those centuries ago. Or not wrong, perhaps, but backwards. Not destiny and doom, but doom in that lifetime and destiny in this.

Her lips part, but she struggles for the right words. What comes out is, "You look the same, exactly the same." Except for the wardrobe, obviously. He's wearing a gray jacket with black jeans, a black sweater, and a plaid shirt. His hair is messy in an attractive way, and the barest hint of stubble somehow makes him look rugged rather than untidy.

But it's the same smile, the same penetrating sky-blue eyes. It's definitely the same boy she once saw through a castle window down in the courtyard, the same boy she once shared secrets with, the same boy who would bring her flowers just for the chance of putting smile back on her face.

"You've changed," he replies. "Not much, but a bit." He reaches up uncertainly to run a finger over a loose curly lock of hers. "Your hair, your clothes, but not you." Smiling, he looks up into her eyes. "You're everything I remember you to be."

"And what is that?"

"Dynamic, magnetic, successful." He pauses. "Compassionate."

She ignores the way her heartbeat speeds up at the memory of his compassion, the way he'd be the first to offer help to anyone, friend or stranger. "I seem to remember," she says, "a boy with a heart as large as his ears."

That wins a chuckle from him. "And he remembers a young, headstrong, beautiful woman who would defy her guardian, the court, and anyone else in order to do the right thing." When she doesn't reply right away, he adds, "In fact, she seems to have a lot in common with your assistant, from what I can tell."

"Indeed," she confirms. "Arya is . . . a handful, but she needs a little guidance. That's all." Guidance that was denied to her the first time around.

"I think that's good," he says with a thoughtful nod. "You seem . . . to be happy. This gallery is gorgeous. It really is. The artwork is incredible. Congratulations."

"Thank you."

He clears his throat. "Why did you stay?"

She tilts her head to properly look at him once more. "What do you mean?"

"You must have known, must have guessed at least, my fate. You could have left England. You could have gotten as far away from me as possible."

A smile curls her lips. "You always were self-centered. Not everything is about you. I stayed because this happens to be my home now, or as close to one as I'll find. Besides, I like it here."

"Right," he says, blushing. "Of course."

They fall silent, listening to the noise of traffic mingled with the muffled party din. The chilly air nips at her exposed skin, but she doesn't feel it, not with him so close. Leaning against the bannister with his shoulder toward her, his profile is framed in moonlight. She can see the kindness that he exudes, can see the way he wants so desperately to reach out to her without spooking her and scaring her away this time.

The night hums with expectation. They both want to forgive, want to move on, but neither wants, or maybe knows how, to take the first step. He was the one to find her, though, so perhaps it's her turn to try.

"Merlin." It's the first time she's said his name in this life. It feels familiar on her tongue, tastes like it belongs. Her voice is quiet when she asks, "Did you ever think of me?"

He looks up sharply, his eyes full of disbelief. But then his expression softens, and he steps closer and says, "Every minute. Every second." He frowns as he fumbles for words. "I can't say I regret my intentions, but I do understand now how badly I let you down. We can fight for forgiveness from each other for ages, but what I've really come for is a chance to start over." He takes her hand in his, and she feels the warmth radiating from him, the way it spreads through her veins. "Let's start again, without ambition, without prophecies, without divided kingdoms clouding our eyes."

She takes a deep breath. She had expected that he'd come to apologize but never would have imagined that he would want to stay with her, want to try again. She had thought their paths would cross briefly and part again, not converge and run together.

Sensing her apprehension, he gives her hand a squeeze. He inclines his head and, his breath tickling her cheek, whispers, "Morgana, I have spent lifetimes searching for you."

He doesn't try to wrap his arms around her, but he leans forward, and she can read his intention in his eyes. In the space of a night, he's gone from being a million heartbeats away to being right in front of her, and maybe that's what terrifies her.

Maybe that's what causes her to turn her head away and say, "I – I'm sorry." She slides her hand out of his. "I have guests to attend to."

And she's gone before he can pull her back with just a word.

She finds him on the balcony, arms on the bannister, shoulders slumped. He's the drawing in Morgana's office come to life, a flesh-and-blood version of that black-and-white figure. It's unsettling, given the subject matter, but at least she's finally beginning to piece together an answer to one mystery she's been pondering for months.

He doesn't turn as she opens the door, which is unsurprising after the way the boss was stalking through the gallery like a woman on a mission, or one running from a past. There's something between these two that she desperately wants to know about, but it also seems so intense and tragic and warped that if it were about her, she wouldn't want anyone prying into it. Still, she knows her boss. She's someone who could use some help in the personal-relationship department, maybe just a bit of a nudge.

She clears her throat, and the man turns around. He's handsome, tall, with dark hair, but it's his eyes that grab her. They're sad, kind. They remind her of her boss's.

"Hi," she says.

He stands up straight and replies, "Hi." He shakes his head, seeming to remember his manners, sticks his hand out, and says, "My name is Merlin."

She steps forward to take the handshake. "Arya. Pleasure."

"Likewise. You're Morgana's assistant, right?"

She nods. "And you're her . . . ?"

He chuckles. "I'd tell you if I knew."

"Maybe I can help with that."

When he narrows his eyes at her, she beckons him to follow her. She only has to wait a moment before he appears inside, closing the French doors behind him. He gives her a nod, somehow communicating that he's trusting her and that she can trust him in return.

"So, what's your story?" he asks as she leads him through the crowd toward the back of the room.

"In a nutshell?"

"Sure," he chuckles. "For tonight. Hopefully, I'll be allowed to stick around long enough to get the extended version."

She shrugs. "I'm a spoiled rich kid who loves the arts, but my parents don't seem to understand. My dad wants me to take over the family business, and my mom thinks I should marry well enough to not have to work. So, typical story, yeah?"

He laughs softly. "I suppose that's one way to put it." They turn a corner into the back hallway, and he asks, "Where are you taking me?"

"The boss's office." A few more steps, and they're there. She unlocks the door, opens it, and waves him inside. "There's something I think you should see."

With a deep breath, he steps inside the sparse office. Arya's always wondered why the boss hasn't decorated it more, but she supposes she's not exactly a person who needs ostentatious surroundings. She follows him into the room and points to a framed pen drawing on the wall opposite the mahogany desk.

"There," she says.

His mouth hangs open slightly as his gaze roams over the drawing. He is silent for a long time. She leans back to rest against the desk and crosses her arms. It's always baffled her, this piece. The boss is a fan of Renaissance art, chiaroscuro, classical subjects, realism. From the beginning, this had seemed out of place, which, she thought, had to mean it was personal. But how could a pen drawing of a medieval peasant holding a bloodied sword be personal?

Finally, her curiosity getting the better of her, she asks, "It's you, isn't it?"

A frown furrows his brow. "In a way, yes." Coming out of his daze, he turns to her, a crooked smile on his face. "You're probably very confused."

"Yeah, just a bit."

"Why'd you show this to me?"

She shrugs. "The boss is . . . like a big sister to me. It's obvious you two have history, but sometimes, I think she needs a little help confronting that, is all."

He nods pensively. "Well, thank you. Can I – can I look at this a little longer?"

"Oh, of course." She places the key in his palm. "Just lock up when you're finished. And if anything goes missing, I'll know it was you."

"I promise nothing will," he laughs.

"Good. And I'll tell her . . . I'll tell her what she's always telling me."

"And what's that?"

"When you want something bad enough, you can't give up. You can't ever give up."

He's just as afraid as you are, Arya had told her, and, as Morgana stands in front of the closed doors leading to the balcony, watching him look out on the street below, she can see it. He had never been afraid of anything, it had always seemed to her, no matter how her brother would tease him. She saw the way he would charge into battle at his prince's side, no armor, no sword, nothing except brains and determination to protect him.

And she still remembers how she would come to him, scared to trembling by her visions. She sees now that he never offered her the truth that he could have, but he did offer comfort. He was never afraid, not like she had been.

So to see him now, as confused and lost as she had always felt back then, melts her heart. He's come here looking for forgiveness, for empathy. After all the time she's had to reflect, she thinks she can give him that now.

She inhales and exhales slowly, letting the breath cleanse her mind, and then opens the door and steps out. He turns around and sighs.

"How long have you been out here?" she asks, stepping up beside him and crossing her arms. "It's freezing, you know."

A small smile tugs at his lips. "Haven't you heard? I'm too cold-hearted to feel it."

She bumps him softly in the shoulder. Surely, they'll get over this guilt soon. Not over. Past. If they let it fester, it'll eat away at them, and they've paid their misery tithe, haven't they? They deserve a chance, at least, at happiness.

"Stop," she says quietly.

He clears his throat. "That drawing in your office . . . How many of your pieces are in the gallery?"

"None. Not now. In the past, yes, and I've certainly sold a fair number, but none of . . . such a personal nature."

He swallows thickly and lifts his eyes to hers. His voice is husky when he says, "That was the last thing you saw, wasn't it? Your last sight on this earth was of me, standing over you, with no sympathy."

Her sigh fogs the air. "And how many times did I do the same to you?"

"You never tried, though, not truly, to kill me."

"I thought you weren't a threat," she shrugs.

"I don't believe that, not really."

They hold each other's gazes for a long moment. She's sewn these memories into her skin, but he hasn't yet learned how to master them, how to make them part of his fabric.

She places a hand on his forearm. "What do you want, Merlin?"

"I want to forget the past."

He leans into her touch, and she welcomes him, sliding one hand to his chest and the other to his cheek. The closeness, denied to her for so long, lights a fire in her, as if her heart is reacting to his, reacting to the presence of its long-lost mate. She had thought the embers had burned out long ago.

"The bad memories," she tells him, "are how we learn to value our good decisions."

His arms slide lightly around her waist. "I want to make this – us – a good decision. It's just . . . I fear we've been living in the shadows for so long that we've forgotten what the sunlight feels like."

She rests her forehead against his. "Then step out into the light."

He pulls back to look at her, searching her gaze for truth. "Morgana . . ."

"Merlin," she breathes, tangling her fingers into his hair, "we can find the light together."

He doesn't tear his eyes away, but suddenly, as if deciding that he can trust what he sees, that all he's been searching for is in his arms, he breaks into a grin and lets out a soft laugh. Then he pulls her close to whisper, "We can save each other."

"I think we already have."

She doesn't pull away this time. His lips are soft against hers, searching as they rediscover the contours and the way they fit together. The champagne on his tongue makes her lightheaded, or maybe it's just the effect he has on her. She remembers him. She remembers this.

She's smiling as the kiss breaks, because this isn't something she has to deny herself any longer. They've found their way back to one another, their paths converging, and they have all their future before them, can live it as they choose, one day at a time. They're not starting over. They're moving forward.

A new beginning.