arthurâs heart jumped into his throat and he had to fight the urge to rush over and embrace his sister, wrapping her in his arms and keeping her safe from the world. but he had realized long ago that it was far too late for that â he had failed her. he had let the corruption of magic take hold of her, twisting her kind heart into something far less kind.
        how foolish was he to go through with this? he was talking to morgana. an enemy of his people. someone who wanted to watch camelot burn. someone who wanted to kill him and his father. he wasnât going to overlook that as easily as she would think.
        as his father acted in a blind rage against arthurâs half sister, arthur had plenty of time to think to himself about the situation â about magic, and about camelot and magic. he often thought back to when morgana was still around, the nights that they would play hide and seek in the castle, trying not to get caught by the guards. thereâs no way that magic can destroy that part of her, is there? there must still be some morgana left over that he knows and loves.
        through all of his thinking, he had come to the conclusion that he is not his father, he is far more just, and compassionate. after all, he was here, was he not? he had enough courage not to stand up against morgana, but to hear her out, and attempt to perhaps stand with her. for the first time in his life, he was questioning something his father said â and that was terrifying for him.
         ââââ of course heâs heartbroken,â he replied solemnly, âas am i.â he had to think of something to say, anything that could possibly explain what he wanted to accomplish here.
                 âiâm⊠iâm sorry for what my father has done.â
    She wondered what was going through his mind as he stood there, face to face with her for the first time since the extent of her deception had been revealed to Camelotâs court. She wondered how betrayed he felt at discovering that she had been plotting to overthrow the kingdom all this time, how hurt he felt, how angry at the fact that Uther had kept the circumstances of her birth as much a secret from him as he had from her.Â
   Yet as much as she willed herself to feel pleasure at the thought of causing him so much pain, Morgana found that it rang hollow. Every time, she was reminded of how they had played as children, how they had trained together and been as close as two siblings ought to be. There had been a day, not long ago, where she would have gladly fought to the death to protect him and, despite all that had happened, that part of her remained, buried underneath months of pain and fear and anguish.
   â Sorry enough to continue persecuting my kind in his name. â She started forward, seized by sudden rage -- but stopped herself as she reached him. It wasnât an entirely fair statement; sorcerers had not been executed so ruthlessly as they had been when Uther had ruled as king. While still only the regent prince, Arthur was already proving himself to be more just than his father had ever been. But it was easier for Morgana to justify her feelings if she could blame them both, and spew her venom appropriately.Â
    â All those years you rounded up those who practiced magic and let Uther execute them. Their blood is on your hands as well as his, Arthur. â