I should be updating my other stories, but when I saw the Morgana/Arthur confrontation, I couldn't resist writing a quick fanfic because I'm a huge Armor fan. This is my first attempt at second person as well as a Merlin fanfic. I don't really like second person, but I always see people complaining that they don't understand why Morgana changed, so I wanted to try to make them see from her perspective. This is a one shot, but I might change it around a bit because I wrote it pretty quickly.

WARNING- I know some of the ages are off, but I wanted a year for each event. They should be in order of the time they occurred, but I know some of the things happened in the same year. Also, the tree scene was inspired by another fanfic that I read a while ago.

You're seven years old when you first lay eyes on him.

He looks just like the princes in the stories that you've heard, only a good deal shorter. In the sun, his hair gleams an undeniable gold. He can't be much older than you, but from the way Arthur Pendragon holds his chin up, it's as if he has already been crowned King of Camelot. It's only when Uther looks at him that his chin drops a notch.

"This is the Lady Morgana. She will be staying with us from now on."

He scowls at you, and much to his surprise, you scowl right back. You don't know it yet, but it's only the beginning.

You're eight years old when he first sees you cry.

You've cried every night since you first arrived to Camelot, but only when you're alone in the safety of your bedchamber. It's better to cry at night than to sleep, because the second darkness greets you, you see their faces, only to lose them all over again. You're too lost in your own misery to hear the creak of the door.

But when you hear your name called by the one you despise most, almost instantly, you freeze. You wipe away your tears fiercely and tell him to go away, but as your voice cracks, he takes a step closer. The silver liquid of the moonlight streaming from the window illuminates his face so that you can see him clearly. For the first time, Arthur is not the proud little prince you've seen strutting around the castle. He looks almost human.

"I'm sorry about your parents," he says after a while.

In the pale light, his blue eyes are wide and genuine, as if he's truly sincere. But you don't say anything at all, not with that lump lodged in your throat. "I don't have a mother either," he tries again after a moment of silence, looking down. "But you'll like it here. I do."

You want to laugh at his awkwardness, but you can't laugh. You haven't laughed, not really, for over a year. Instead, you look at him with open suspicion, and somehow, you manage to speak. "You have to like it. You're the prince."

Arthur looks at you, frowning slightly. You're more than a little bewildered because he is the same boy who put frogs in your bed, after all, but from the way his voice softened when he told you about his mother, you begin to think that maybe he does understand. Maybe he could be a friend. "When I become king, you could be my queen. Then you'll have to like it."

You want to laugh again, but when he gives you a hopeful smile, it suddenly doesn't seem so funny anymore. You want to like it here. You want to be happy here. "Promise?" you ask in a small voice.

"Promise," he assures you with the certainty of a prince.

Instead of leaving just as everyone else seems to do, he slips into bed beside you. He falls asleep before you do, but as you hear his quiet snores, you smile to yourself, a real smile, and for the first time, you feel safe.

You're nine years old when you climb your first tree.

It's his fault, really. If Arthur hadn't said that girls couldn't climb trees, you wouldn't have had to prove it to him.

"Morgana! You're not allowed-" his voice trails off. He knows better than to continue. You hear the crack of branches below and realize that he's coming after you. You shake your head and continue, determined to reach the top first because you know that you'll never hear the end of it if you fail.

Once or twice, you almost slip, but you catch yourself just in time, your will to win stronger than anything else. You reach the top first, just barely. He insists that he did, but he's just being Arthur. You're about to retort again, but as a gust of wind whips through the shuddering branches, the words die on your lips. Both of you fall uncharacteristically silent as it suddenly becomes obvious how far away the ground really is.

You're sure that you heard him gulp, but that may have been you.

"I'm not scared," you say defiantly when his eyes meet yours, as if challenging him to disagree.

"I'm not either," he answers much too quickly, matching your defiance.

You know that he's lying, just as he knows you are.

You're ten years old when you pick up a sword for the first time.

It's heavier than you expected, but that doesn't make the gleam of silver any less mesmerizing. Your fingertips brush against the cool blade, and already, you're imagining the victories that lie ahead.

"Girls can't have swords," Arthur tells you with a touch of usual smugness.

Your eyes flash and his superior expression falters. You know that he's remembering the tree incident, just as you are.

"Fine. But don't tell Father."

You roll your eyes, knowing that only he would be stupid enough to tell Uther. Even so, you can't keep the wide smile off your face. Even when Arthur throws a stick at you and insists that you practice with that first, you're still grinning. He goes on with the first lesson, and with a determined little frown, you try to copy his movements, easily throwing back insults when he hurls them at you. Swordplay even with sticks is much more difficult than you anticipated, not that you'll ever admit it to him.

One year from today, you beat him in a sword fight for the first time. He'll deny it until the very end, but you aren't the least bit surprised.

You're eleven years old when you have your first nightmare.

You see blood and fire. You taste the smoke on your tongue. And the screams...it's as if you'll never stop hearing them. When you sit up in bed, the smoke is gone, but the screaming is still there.

"It's all right," someone whispers urgently, "You're safe, Morgana."

You realize that it's only you that is screaming and that Arthur is next to you. Just as he was the first time he saw you cry.

"It was so real," you manage to say. You realize that you're still shaking and you clutch your arms, willing them to stop. There are tears streaming down your cheeks and you turn away to dry them. You know that Arthur sees, but you're grateful that, for once, he pretends not to.

He tells you that it was just a dream. You know that he's right, but you can't help but feel that it was something more. You've had bad dreams before, but it was nothing like you the sight you just witnessed. It was almost as if it was real. You've never seen death before, and the images are still frozen in your mind, images that a child should never see. When you shut your eyes, you see the tormented faces again, the lifeless eyes, and you want nothing more for it to stop.

To your surprise, Arthur doesn't leave. He stays with you until you feel safe again.

You're twelve years old when you see your first execution.

You know that magic is against the law, but as you watch the elderly woman step onto the wooden platform, you feel nothing but pity. You suddenly wonder what could be so wrong, so terrible, about magic to deserve death.

"I wish she didn't have to die," you say, looking from the window to your side, where Arthur is standing. "She doesn't look like she could hurt anyone."

"She has magic," Arthur tells you even though his voice lacks conviction. "Father has to do it."

You wonder if he truly believes it, or if he's only saying it because he wants to. For as long as you've known him, Arthur has been longing for his father's approval, not that he will ever admit it. The thought makes you feel indignant, and you resent Uther for making Arthur feel that way, even more than you resent him for sending that poor woman to her death. But the fiery shouts of the crowd, even audible through the glass, bring you back to reality.

As you hear the fatal clang, your eyes shut, and you automatically clutch Arthur's hand. He complains that you broke the skin with your fingernails, but when you look at him again, you see that his face is ashen.

You would hate to have magic.

You're thirteen years old when you're sure that you are in love for the first time.

It's a knight, one of the younger ones, that can't be more than seventeen or so. You watch his sword slice magnificently into the air and you can't keep from smiling. He looks like a hero, the sort of hero that inspires songs and stories that will be told for centuries to come. As his head turns your way, you draw in a breath. It's as if he's looking directly at you.

"What are you looking at?" Arthur demands from behind you.

You say nothing; annoyed that he has ruined the moment that you're sure is the beginning of a great romance. He peers into the window, jostling you aside, and scowls at the knight who is plain in view.

"His footwork is sloppy," Arthur informs you.

You ignore him. Arthur continues pointing out everything that is wrong with the knight, but you scarcely hear him. For once, you don't have the urge to banter back. You're sure that this is love.

Little do you know, that in a week, you'll forget about the knight completely.

You're fourteen years old when you are first jealous.

Your lips twist when you catch Arthur staring at the visiting princess. In spite of yourself, you have to admit that she is lovely. Her face looks as if an artist simply chiseled away her imperfections. Not a strand is out of place in that glorious mane of gold silk. Even the way she raises her goblet is like watching poetry in motion.

For the rest of the feast, you continue to steal glimpses of them. You search the princess's face for any flaw and you are pleased to find that she is not as perfect as she originally appeared. Her eyes are too close together and her nose is far too pointy. Surely Arthur has noticed her nose. But then she laughs, a sweet musical sound, and you see him grin at her.

You sigh to yourself, knowing perfectly well that her eyes are fine and that her nose is nauseatingly perfect. She's golden and blue-eyed, just like him. They look beautiful together and you hate her because of it.

That's when you realize your own thoughts and you are utterly horrified.

Because hating her because of that just might mean that you feel something else entirely for him.

You're fifteen years old when you realize for the first time that he's jealous too.

He catches you watching that knight again.

"His footwork has not improved," Arthur tells you. "He's an idiot too. You can tell just from the way he holds his sword."

You look up for a moment to glare at him. "You mean just the way you do?"

Arthur stomps off and you remember how many faults that you found in that visiting princess from a year ago. Truthfully, you were only looking at the knight to wonder what on earth you could have ever seen in him, but Arthur doesn't need to know that. He doesn't need to know that you have a sudden urge to dance around the room in glee. You wonder how you could have possibly missed the way his blue eyes flashed before.

You know how he feels because you felt it before. You smile to yourself because you know that it's only a game and that you've just won the round.

You're sixteen years old when you first think that you might just love him.

You've never seen a broken Arthur before, and from the way his lips are pressed so tightly together, you're terrified that he's beginning to crack. You used to resent his conceit, but now, you miss it more than anything.

"I killed them, Morgana. Women and children… They're dead because of me. I told them not to-"

His voice trembles and for a terrifying second, you're afraid that he might cry. But he does not, because Uther would have deemed it a weakness and Pendragons were never weak. You hate Uther just then. If it hadn't been for Uther's constant disapproval, Arthur wouldn't have been so desperate for his recognition. He wouldn't have led his first raid on the Druids so thoughtlessly. He wouldn't be broken.

You move toward him and your arms automatically envelope each other in an embrace. The curve of your bodies fit perfectly together and you can't help but think that it's as if you were made for each other. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he buries his face in your hair. For a long time, neither of you let go.

You realize then that he's nothing like his father, that he'll be the greatest king Camelot ever had. You're sure of it.

You realize that you love him.

You're seventeen years old when you first think he might just love you back.

It's the moment you've been waiting for. Ever since you slipped on that red dress for the first time. Every eye is on you and you savor it, until you realize that the one pair of eyes that you wanted to look is not. Arthur is turned around, completely oblivious, as always.

You don't throw something at him, even though someone is holding a goblet temptingly near you. Instead, you continue on, the slightest of smiles on playing on your lips. From the corner of your eye, you see the knights greedily drinking you in, muttering quietly to each other. Finally, Arthur turns to see what the commotion is about.

His gaze falls on you and he gapes as if he's seeing you for the first time. He murmurs something that you can't hear, whether it's from the distance or the pounding of your heart, you can't say. You had expected, rather hoped for, a genuine compliment, but this is something more, something that you couldn't have predicted.

That's when you realize that it's not only a game, that it was never just a game. It's something more.

You're eighteen years old when you first realize that you are alone in the world.

You have magic. Part of you has known for a while, but that hasn't kept you from denying it. You have magic, and the most frightening part of all, you can't control it. It's unpredictable, burning inside you, unleashing itself on the world with shards of glass and bursting flames.

You can't tell anyone. Who could you tell? There's Arthur. You want nothing more than to tell him, but you can't. You saw the way he looked at you when he discovered that you were sneaking Mordred from the castle, his mouth agape with shock and hurt. In spite of his misgivings, he had helped you then. On some level, you know that he would help you again. But how could you ask him? Ever since he was a child, ever since you were children, Uther has taught you that those with magic are the enemy. They are monsters.

You don't want Arthur to look at you as if you were a monster.

He may be your best friend and perhaps something more, but he is Uther's son and the Prince of Camelot first. Maybe he would keep your secret. A tiny part of you is positive that he would. But you love him enough to know that you can't ask him to.

You don't want to die. You don't want to lose him.

You're terrified.

You're nineteen years old when you first realize that his heart no longer belongs to you.

It belongs to Gwen now. You know that you're partially to blame. You've been distancing yourself from him as the magic inside you grows, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. Maybe it was childish, but a part of you thought that Arthur would always love you, even from a distance.

You don't want to, but you hate her for taking what was yours. Whenever you see them together, you feel more alone than ever. Sometimes, the loneliness is so overwhelming that you almost talk to Arthur. One day, you approach him, and when you see that he appears the same as ever, you feel hope. Maybe nothing has changed.

But when he looks up, you notice how his eyes instinctively flicker towards Gwen. You're no longer first in his life. You remember when he found you in the forest after the bandits had captured you, and his first words had been, "Where's Guinevere?" That had stung then, but as you see his face soften as his gaze meets hers, the pain is almost blinding.

You don't know where you stand. Certainly not first. Second, third...maybe even in the thousands, somewhere behind everyone else in Camelot. If you weren't sure that you could trust him before, you know for certain that you can't trust him now. You are truly alone.

You're twenty years old when you first look into the face of betrayal.

For the first few seconds, you're oblivious. As your throat begins to close, you glance at the leather pouch of water, and then at Merlin's back, and you know. The horror and realization is sinking in, and you gasp out, whether it's for air or a plea that he'll deny it, you don't know.

Merlin turns around. His eyes lock with yours, and you know, that it was him. That he poisoned you. That you won't ever be Queen. That your destiny was to die and accomplish nothing. You don't see the tears glittering in his eyes as he kneels down; you only taste your pain. He tries to hold you, but you fight back. You fight against him, against death, against destiny.

He betrayed you. The one who almost seemed to understand, who almost seemed as if he wanted to help, is killing you.

Everything fades into black.

You're twenty-one years old when you first see him again.

Morgause was the one that was there for you when Arthur was not. She knows everything about you, and she loves you in spite of it. She loves you because of it. When everyone else let you down, she helped you stand back up. She was the one who saved you.

You hate Arthur, because he couldn't be there for you. That he chose Gwen over you. But when you see him in that forest for the first time in over a year, you forget that you hate him. You forget everything that has happened.

You only know that you've missed him.

But then you remember. Morgause is the one you're loyal to. Morgause, your sister, your family. You would never turn her back on her, as Arthur, Uther, Merlin, and Gwen turned their backs on you. You remember your pain.

You want revenge. Because remembering that pain, feeling that isolation, makes you want to crumble. It makes you weak. Vengeance makes you strong. It gives you something to fight for.

You're twenty-two years old when you first realize that everything has been a lie.

You still remember the words while the rage burns inside you.

"Morgana is my daughter."

Everything was a lie. Your entire life was a lie. You don't know whether to laugh or to cry. You've been afraid for so long. You shouldn't have had to be afraid. Camelot should be yours. But it's not and it won't ever be. Uther has rejected you, and instead, he chose Arthur.

You don't want to hate him. He is your father. You give him opportunities to explain. You even tell him that he's always been a father to you. Sometimes, he looks at you, and during those moments, you hold your breath, hoping against hope, in spite of yourself, that he will accept you as a daughter.

But he never does.

Disappointment transforms into hatred. The hatred consumes you. One day, you'll bring Uther down to his knees. One day, you'll be Queen of Camelot. Those with magic won't ever have to be afraid. You won't ever have to be afraid again.

You're twenty-three years old when you first see what you fear most.

It's a pretty picture that floats in your mind, one that would take anyone's breath away. There are people all around, all dressed in their finest, all silent with awe. You don't give them a second glance. Your eyes are on the two thrones ahead. Arthur stands in front of one, a golden crown resting upon his head. You almost smile in your sleep when you see him, but you can't. Dread is stopping you.

A woman glides through. For a moment, you see only a head of dark curls, and you almost think it's you. At least you want to, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you're screaming as if the castle suddenly alight in flames. As the woman kneels before Arthur, you catch a glimpse of her face for the first time.

It's Gwen.

"I pronounce you, Guinevere, Queen of Camelot."

It's the very words that were promised to you so long ago. The words that should have been yours, even without him. You suddenly wake up and bolt upright, your breaths heavy, shoulders shuddering with the knowledge of what is to come. For a split second, you wonder if you've been screaming this entire time. You're almost sure that Arthur will come running in as he used to.

But he does not. You're alone with your worst fears confirmed, painted out in front of you, in a ghastly mess of gold crowns and purple gowns. You hate your visions just then; you hate them more than you've ever hated Uther. Because your visions show you what is to come, whether you want it to or not. It's as if magic is whispering to you, showing you a path and refusing to let you carve out another.

But you will carve out another. You'll keep fighting destiny. Because to everyone else, it's just a pretty picture. But to you, it's your worst nightmare.

You're twenty-four years old when you're crowned Queen of Camelot for the first time.

"I am your daughter after all."

It's the same words that you've been longing to say for so long. You see the pain written all over Uther's face, and you relish it, because it's the very pain that you've felt for what resembles eternity. He's on his knees in front of you, his head bare. His eyes are wide, as if he can't believe his very eyes. But why should he? He denied you for so long. The thought angers you.

"Don't look so surprised," you say, unable to keep the contempt from seeping into your voice. "I've known for quite some time."

He bows his head down as if he can't bear to look at you a second longer. That is when you know that you've truly won. You sit down in the throne, your throne, your eyes never leaving the fallen king. Your fingers curl into the arms of silver, caressing the intricate carvings, savoring this very moment.

The moment that should have always been yours.

"By the power vested in me, I crown thee, Morgana Pendragon, Queen of Camelot."

It's not until you feel the weight of power on your head that you smile, but just barely.

You're twenty-five years old when you see first him, after everything.

When the doors fly open, you're wearing the mask that you've so carefully crafted, the same mask that you suspect is becoming a part of you. There had been a time when you had only wanted a kingdom where magic could be free, where you would be nothing like Uther, but somewhere along the way, that you has fallen. Those ideals have been forgotten, lost in the smoldering hatred that has swallowed up everything that you once valued. Was it when you lost Camelot all over again? Was it when you had to sacrifice Morgause for your ambition? Was it when you learned of Uther's death? You don't even know anymore.

But when Arthur sets aside his sword, the mask slips and you're struck by the realization that it was not permanent after all. It feels strange being without it, and for a moment, you feel like the vulnerable seven-year-old that you once were, when you lost everything that you once knew.

"What happened to you, Morgana?" he asks, his voice barely above a murmur. "I thought we were friends."

His eyes are glistening. You swallow the lump in your throat, taken back by the sudden flood of emotions that are swarming inside you. You had thought that they were dead, but there they are, surging inside you, more alive than ever as they slice open old wounds. The pain is fresh again. You remember those eyes when you first saw them, narrowed in unveiled dislike. You remember those eyes when they saw you in that red dress. That was when you were sure that he was yours.

But he is not yours. Not anymore.

"As did I," you say, your own eyes sparkling with the threat of tears, from what he's done to you, from what you've done to him, and from what you've done to yourself. Horrified by your weakness, you catch yourself, the mask sliding back into place once more. You can't turn back now. Your voice hardens. "But alas, we were both wrong."

You don't know it yet, but it's still just the beginning.