Things had changed since she found her way to Camelot again, and she herself had changed. Well, according to Arthur and Uther she was still the same Morgana, but no she was something else. Bitterness riddled through her veins, and her heart didn’t pump with love and kindness like it used to, instead it was full of Anger and Hatred.
Merlin had betrayed her. She trusted him more than anyone in Camelot, even shared her secret with him, and then he almost kills her, All for what? All because of Camelot. If he had found another way… like he perhaps would have if it came to Arthur — but no. She would never, ever forgive him for what she did, and one day she would make him suffer for what he did to her. For a long time her sister had to put up with her grieving, because that friendship that she cherished was dead – no more, and from that moment on she knew that she could only ever trust Morgause.
Her beautiful silk dress that was the colour of sapphire blue hugged her figure beautifully, whilst her long raven curls bounced on her shoulders as she walked. Crimson lips pierced together into a frown as she heard footsteps behind her.
Instinct was to stop sharply, and quickly turned on her heels to see that it was none other than Merlin himself. Her whole being tensed, and she had to stop herself from doing something she would regret publicly.
“What. Do. You. Want.” Her voice was a quiet hiss, voice dripping with venom as she locked eyes with him.
He stalled, hurt. If only Morgana had known the love he truly had for her, how much he had treasured their friendship, their camaraderie. If only she knew how Merlin held her failing body close to him, sobbing his own tears of regret, and had wished for nothing more than another answer. Too late now.
He was far too late for that.
His expression changed, taking over the oof-of-a-manservant grimace was a haunted look he wore so often in private. The visage of a man who had seen too much, done too much, required too much.
“Morgana,” He started, then deflated.
Merlin often acted on instinct, and frankly didn’t have the inclination or time to think things through. Such was the case for parading behind a venomous she-devil vendetta fueled witch. In retrospect, he could have attempted to maybe, I don’t know, tip-toe or something, but instead let his clumsy feet stomp behind her.
He had so much he wanted to say. Standing in front of her now, though, his throat was tightening like he had poisoned himself.
No. He was Emrys. He was not to blame, he did what he needed to. He wasn’t allowed to regret. She wanted Arthur dead. That made her his enemy. Toughen up, warlock, the world you long for means sacrifice and --- he swallowed the growing lump in his throat.
“Dark, damp, backend hallway of the citadel. Seems quite _unusual _a place for the King’s ward to take a stroll.”
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