AN: Okay, I've been thinking about doing this for a while, and decided to take advantage of the fact that I've got a free tomorrow to do my mucho homework in (who knew bloody a-levels was going to be so much work :o). It's sort of a sequel to my 'The Seven Deadly Shortcomings of Arthur Pendragon' fic, only I doubt this one will be as long. Hopefully, it'll be as good though, but that'll remain to be seen ;).

Disclaimer: Oh, as much as I'd love Love LOVE to earn Merlin, I'm just not cool enough. Damn ;)

Chapter rated for sexual innuendo, though nothing too graphic :/

Review, pretty please? (:

Oh and by the way, this is pretty much a rewrite of the other chapter, only somehow, I managed to delete the first after copying and pasting the above bit across, which really is not really very clever at all :L

Morgana's not sure when love became a punishment. When stolen glances became the knives in her soul. When their eyes on her lips made her shudder, nauseated. When she finally realised she could use their own, petty wishes against them. When did lust become the greatest weapon her arsenal possessed? Greater than the hatred, greater even than the sorrow. Just lust, a lust for the flesh that couldn't be satiated by kisses.

That's why she's here now, waiting, waiting in the shadows with her face concealed. They don't need to see her to know who she is, to desire her. Her silhouette is enough to get them begging like dogs at her feet. They'll all get their time, of course, but tonight, it's his turn.

She spotted him as soon as she came in, a raucous figure too blond, too tanned, laughing overloud with the intention of attracting as much attention to himself as possible. She's seen him before in Camelot's Inns, listened to him long enough to know his one weakness is a pretty face and an eager body.

He is just what she has been looking for.

She waits till she's caught his eye before allowing the hood to slip back a little, the shoulder of her dress to slip beneath her cloak. He watches with avid attention, the ale in his hands momentarily forgotten at such a sensual distraction. Sharing winks with his friends, he rises grinning, before sauntering over with his hands in his pockets.

Morgana doesn't need to glance down to know that she has him in the honey trap now.

"What's a fine lady like you doing in a place like this?" he asks, and behind him, his friends roar. Drunk. Filthy. Like animals possessed. They stir the hatred within her to a new level, and she makes a mental note that they will be next.

Saying nothing, she rises from the old wooden chair and motions to the stairs that lead to her room. His eyes light up, widen, and then he turns back to his friends and winks. Morgana feels a thrill tingle up her spine, and it's got nothing to do with what she's about to do. The fact that she can trap him so easily, and without magic, reinforces what she has lately come to realise; she needs no one but herself.

Taking his hand, she leads him to her chamber feeling the beat of his pulse through her finger tips, listening to his drunken slurs as he tells her how beautiful she is. One word and she silences him, and within no time, she's lying on the bed with him on top of her. He's kissing her neck, but her eyes are closed shut so she doesn't have to see that unfamiliar face. If she does that for long enough, maybe she can fool herself into thinking it's him that's making love to her, that it's him moaning her name. Maybe she can conjure an image of him to mind when so much ofhas been forgotten. So much of him is lost.

It was never meant to be like this.

Not, she decides, that this is making love. Love is a lie; it should be sacred and passionate, and instead, it simply leads to pain and anguish. This is purely a business deal, pleasure for him and life for her. She needs him to feel wanted, and he wants her to feel needed. For her, the attraction is in the feeling of blood pumping in through her veins, the heart inside her swelling and convulsing with every breath, a reminder that it's still whole despite the fact it feels torn in two. He wants her because she's beautiful, but he doesn't realise her beauty masks an uglier side than he could possibly imagine.

Men are foolish like that.

The knight above her rolls off and lays beside her panting. He's got what he's wanted and now he's grinning, his grey eyes cold. He's so proud of himself, so chuffed. In his mind, he's listening to his peers congratulations because after all, he's taken her, the most unattainable woman in the court, for a ride. He doesn't realise that she is the one calling the shots tonight. She has control, and she is longing to exert it.

He leans over to kiss her neck and she lets him, allows him to fondle her as he fills her ear with heavy breathing. He climbs on top of her again, ready for another round and she takes a sharp intake of breath. She knows his type, this gallant gentleman who's too lazy to support his own weight. He's crushing her, forcing the breath out of her and she hates him for it.

It's just another reminder that no one is perfect.

As if to taunt her, an image of his face comes to mind and stays there in faultless clarity, his lips slightly parted, the eyes sparkling with merriment. She knows that perfection is merely an idea, but she can't imagine that the holiest of angels could be more beautiful than he did all those years ago. She longs to reach out and touch him, but reality is not yet so warped that she doesn't know he's just a figment of her imagination.

The knife beneath her, lovingly placed early, is pressing into her back, and she shifts her hands so that she can grip the long, ivory handle. She remembers the first time she used it, the first neck it touched; his, pale, damp with rain and sweat.

"You don't have to do this," he'd said, and she'd allowed himself to believe him. She'd allowed herself to believe in the alternative life he had offered, and then been crushed when it'd been withdrawn. For so long, she had cried and cursed until she was a phantom, pale and sorrowful, baying to the moon. And then, the truth had enveloped her, and she'd come out the other side seeing life for what it was.

There is no happily ever after.

She runs her fingers over the blade again. It feels cold to her touch, willing. It itches for her to use it, and she allows the impulse to guide her as long fingers close tightly about the hilt. With expert precision, the dagger is whipped out, raised, used.

He makes no noise. The shock takes care of that, and for once, Morgana is pleased. She prefers it when they die quietly, when they suffer slowly as she has suffered ever since. Too often does their pride evaporate to leave behind a crying, shrieking mess crying for their mothers, and with it, Morgana's self-respect.

Men like this one make her feel lordly.

As he meets her cold, calculated gaze, the almond eyes widen and the nostrils flare, the mouth opening then closing like that of a fish as he struggles to gasp out for breath. Blood flows from his mouth, staining the sheets, falling on her face as she pushes him off her. He flounders beside her trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood from his back as she watches. A laugh.

"Why?" he chokes out, as gracefully, she rises to her feet, her lithe, naked body glittering with crimson.

"Because he left me."

A glance and then she climbs into the waiting bath, feels the warm water inside the copper tub as it washes over her alabaster skin. He's still lying on the bed, still choking on his own life as she cleanses herself, rids any traces of him from her body. She watches without compassion as he takes his last breath, his lips turning blue with the effort. Just as she has been starved of love, he is starved of breath. Together, they are both starved of life.

She slips out of the bath, the water behind her a rich red. Steam still rises, though the vapour is tinged pink. She dries herself feeling nothing, before slipping on the blue silk of her gown and pulling a fur cape tight about her shoulder. Glancing in the mirror, she would never suspect that anything less than the usual had gone on. By the time his body is discovered, she will be long gone.

For that is her path. She keeps wandering aimlessly, across the land of Albion and then back again in the hope that someday, she might stumble across him. It's a naïve hope, and a childish one, but it's the one thing that keeps her going all the same. The thought she might once more see those eyes before she dies gives her the strength to keep going. Keep living. For him.

With his name on her lips, she leaves the room.