She was an unlucky woman.
That knowledge had always been cast around somewhere in the back of her mind. In the past, on days where she felt truly, truly alone, that thought would resurface and burn at the forefront of her thoughts. Constantly needling her. Mocking, even. Morgana, you orphan. Morgana, what strange dreams you have. Morgana, what would Uther do if he knew of your little secret?
Granted, now that she knew and embraced herself as the final High Priestess, that thought was not very hard to bear. These days they barely bothered her. Morgana would scoff at it, and she would have cursed it into oblivion if she could. You see, she did not care anymore. She only cared about two things: Morgause and Arthur Pendragon. The former was gone, lost, never attainable again unless in death. Arthur Pendragon was the only thing keeping the fire in herself alive.
That fire smoldered, burned, maddened her. She wanted him dead. As he should be. Arthur Pendragon was arrogant, a fool, an utterly despicable person. She barely tolerated him during her years back in Camelot - her desire to watch him die was almost a welcome relief. Once upon a time she thought she cared about him, loved him even, as a brother - now no more.
She had magic - she was magic. She was the final High Priestess, and she embodied magic unlike anyone had ever done so. She, Morgana, concocted plans that nearly brought down Camelot. She brought about the pain, suffering and death of Uther. She took the lives of Camelot's finest knights - she could laugh at that, too. And it is her that will bring about Arthur's slow, torturous death.
The years of being underestimated as the noble lady of the court in Camelot were forgotten. Where she used to draw admiring gazes from knights abound, or shy smiles from the servants in the halls, Morgana drew fear and obedience from the people around her now. It was heady, intoxicating. Killing was no longer blasphemy - she relished in the power that it brought her. Morgana reveled in the fear that surrounded her, because she knew, she knew - nothing could touch her.
She was power embodied.
And once Arthur Pendragon was dead, she would take her rightful place in the throne of Camelot. She would be the greatest that ever was. Morgana, High Priestess and Queen of Camelot. They would write history books about her, her magic and her greatness. She would have her revenge.
She could almost feel the sense of power in her blood. She was so close.
And yet, Morgana mused, as she gazed at the raven-haired man kneeling in front of her, she still was an unlucky woman.
Arthur Pendragon possessed two things that the High Priestess coveted: the throne to Camelot, and ... Merlin.
Merlin, whom when she met him, was still an awkward, fumbling boy who blushed whenever she smiled and brought her flowers. Merlin, whom had comforted her during her brief fear of magic. Merlin, who was funny, clumsy, and the only person who would stand up to Arthur's arrogance - Merlin, with whom she had fallen in love with right before he brought about the death of Morgause.
"Tell me again," her voice was a silky hiss that had an immediate effect on the man in front of her - she saw his back shiver. "Stand up, my brother, and tell me once again that treasure of your discovery."
Mordred slowly rose, his chainmail rustling, and faced her. "Emrys," he said, his tone completely blank and emotionless, "is none other than Merlin."
Author's Note: It's really choppy, isn't it? Man. I tried and tried but I can't edit it, make it better. Oh well. Drop me your thoughts, you guys.