We were meant for war, we were meant for love
Arthur's upper lip was bleeding. She had used her magic against him, but that was not the reason.
Morgana had a small cut on her breast. He had used his sword against her, but that was not the reason.
They had circled each other like animals; they had fought each other. Facing and feeding each other with hate and regret and something shapeless they had no need to give a name to.
They had used swords, and when Arthur disarmed her she used magic to do the same to him. But that was all she could do because she was channelling her magic to shelter the woods from the rest of the world, so they could fight alone. And his strength was fading from days of wondering alone, depriving himself of rest and barely eating.
He tightened his grip around her gracious neck and she dug her pearly nails into his handsome face. But she couldn't breathe and he couldn't stand and together they fell to the ground.
He crushed her with his weight and she squeezed him with her thighs. And when Arthur entered her sweet, soft flesh it was not with his sword. And when Morgana tightened her hold on his hair, it was to bring his mouth to her breast, not to have at his scalp.
When Arthur reached again for the curve of her neck, it was to kiss it, not break it.
When Morgana moaned beneath him it was from pleasure, not pain.
There they were, the only two people left in their world, lying on the brown grass, moving together, breathing hard, as the leaves fell and covered them. And they both won (eternity) and both lost (their sanity).
Just as it was always meant to be.