A/N: This is something I just typed up while watching the show. Its short and it isn't the most spectacular thing I've ever written, but this show deserves more fanfic-mostly because Eva Green is amazing in it, like she is in everything-so I figured I'd post it.
Disclaimer: I don't own it folks.
She wonders how long it has been. How long has it been since she felt his hand-calloused from years of work yet, somehow, still smooth from many more years of duty-trail tenderly through her long hair? How long has it been since she's seen his eyes, both stern and kind, directed towards her, filled with pride in her, in something-anything-she had done? How long, she wonders further, has it been since he held her in his sturdy arms, arms that would protect her from all that wish to harm her, all that pine for her innocence and would be fain to rip it away for their own selfish desires. How long has it been since she heard his bellowing voice, deep in timber and thickly accented, speak her name as if it were a psalm, a word to be held sacred by all who encountered it?
She knows it has not been long at all-since she last saw him, that is. She can still feel his hand, calloused yet smooth, pressed fleetingly against her pale cheek, leaving behind a painful sting and marring her skin with a vicious mark of red, black and blue. She can still see his eyes, which then held no kindness, directed towards her, filled with a bitter hatred of her, of her mere existence and of the memories she invoked within him. She can still recall strong, steely arms that did not belong to him as they pulled her from where he'd left her on the ground, dragging her away from her home, from where he'd sheltered her, out into a foreign world where people would steal her innocence and use her to fulfill their selfish desires. And she can still hear his voice as if it were a knell-so cruel, so clear-banishing her from the only life she had ever known, branding her a burden and a nuisance, admonishing her for having entered his life.
Yes, Morgan remembers her father well. She remembers him not for what he had been, but for what he had become-for what she made him. The whore who stood idly by when he cast her aside, who watched from behind him as he struck her down and who remained silent as she was dragged away for the nunnery, offering only eyes clouded with pity in response to her desperate cries. Igraine, the woman she would come to despise, the woman who would give her father something that he had pined for ever since the birth of his first child: a son. A charming, charismatic blonde boy who would grow into an honorable young man, one fit to be ruler of Briton, one who would be given everything she had ever desired on a silver platter.
She takes great delight in the knowledge that Arthur had been torn from his mother's arms after his birth, that Uther and Igraine had been deprived of raising their only child as their own and that he called another man and woman his mother and father instead of them. But that knowledge does not satiate her need for revenge on the both of them; their pain, no matter how potent, cannot even begin to fill the everlasting void that the murder of her mother and being abandoned by her father has left within her blackened heart. Only their deaths, the whole lot of them, will bring her peace. Only when they are gone and she can claim her birthright will she stop fighting.
Morgan Pendragon does not, and never will wonder if she is the rightful heir to the throne of Briton. She knows she is.
