A/N: Probably AU-ish. I just couldn't get it out of my head, so here.


She wonders, if they'd grown up "Arthur and Morgana, brother and sister" instead of "Arthur and Morgana, king's son and king's ward," if she'd have felt differently.

Probably.

Arthur is pigheaded and proud and a prat. She can't remember for the life of her when he ever became attractive—although maybe it was during one of those balls from so long ago. Even then, that doesn't count, because she was probably slightly intoxicated from the wine and the only reason she even looked at Arthur was because he swooped in offering his arm gallantly, looking regal and princely (for once) in his cloak. Or maybe it was when he helped her bring the Druid child, Mordred, to safety, disregarding his father's orders.

It doesn't matter now.

"You're my sister," Arthur says, dread clawing its way out of his throat. Morgana recognizes the look in his eyes. She can see him delving through his memories, blotting out all the ones that are now taboo, forbidden—their stolen looks, coy glances, flirtatious remarks, a kiss here or there. Morgana knows what he's doing because she tried to do the same.

She watches as a veil drops over his eyes—eyes that will never look at her the same way again. How easily memories and perceptions of people are twisted, she thinks bitterly. Morgana stands and stares as Arthur undergoes an internal battle, struggling to substitute Morgana, his sister in place of Morgana, his sometimes-lover, sometimes-foe, the ever-present thorn in his side.

"I'm your sister," Morgana confirms, not a crack in her voice, even though her life is splintering in two. What a shame, to look back on your life and realize it was all a sham, some pretty, glittering dream. She swallows past the bile in her throat and meets Arthur's gaze, her eyes glittering with a challenge (not tears—never tears).

Arthur's blue eyes are still filled with disbelief, and Morgana wants nothing more than to close her eyes and disappear. She should have burned up a long time ago in the smoldering heat of his stares, and then maybe this wouldn't hurt so much.

She wonders, if they'd grown up "Arthur and Morgana, brother and sister" instead of "Arthur and Morgana, king's son and king's ward," if she'd have felt differently.

(She remembers his lips on hers, his infuriating smirk, his brilliant blue eyes, his white knight complex, his skin golden in the sunlight: the sun to her moon, the gold to her silver, the summer to her winter, the king to her could-have-been-queen.)

Probably not.