AN: So, while this isn't a prompt listed in the 200 Prompt FF Challenge, this is something I thought of when I was flying home from spring break. :D

"Morgana! Morgana! Bloody hell, where are you child?" the strict, shrill voice reached her ears before she had a chance to duck into cover and she cringed as she practically felt the earth shake as the woman ran to claim her. A strong, large, greasy hand grasped her wrist and she yelped against her better judgment when she was practically pulled off her feet and lifted into the air. "Where have you been?! You're dress is ruined! And you're hair looks atrocious. You are the King's ward-"

"Not a wild child," she finished, rolling her eyes and pulling her wrist away. "Who cares what I look like? I can sneak into the city without anyone seeing me and I'm not trying to impress anyone!"

"Would your father approve of your current...state?"

She always used that tactic against her and despite her pale skin flushed in the glow of early adolescence it still managed to feel like a knife digging deep into her chest. She cursed her, albeit silently, and looked away in hopes the rich spring air would dry the tears that threatened to fall. She had lived in Camelot for almost ten years now, since she was a young girl of seven years that had never felt pain beyond her hair being pulled and a scrape on her knee, but the death of her father was too real. Too real, too fast. The mere mention of his name stole the air from her lungs and made her feel crippled, worthless. She despised those that used him against her, because despite what she looked like and what she did, her father loved her unconditionally.

But her caretaker Hilda didn't know her father, and surprisingly, after ten years, she didn't know her either. Morgana could never answer her insulting questions properly because she wouldn't understand. All Hilda would do was throw her to Uther who would look down on her with eyes that were hard in disapproval. "No," she lied, rubbing her wrist gently and noticing that her pale skin was inflamed red. "No, he would not."

"And I'm sure your mother wouldn't either," Hilda hissed, turning on the heel of her worn slippers and dusting off her apron as if Morgana was covered head to toe in filth. "And I can be well certain that your King would disapprove of his ward traipsing around the lower town looking like a heathen. If you wish to ever see the light of the sun before it sets for the cold of winter I suggest you return to your chamber and stay there until you are ready to act like a lady."

Morgana huffed and walked away, damning etiquette and any respect she had for the pompous woman who simply slunk around the castle to make her life a living hell and sneak food from the kitchens when the cooks weren't looking. Despite her attempts, tears ran down her cheeks and fell into the dusty roads beneath her feet ; leaving a trail of deepening hatred in her wake. Her bruised wrists furiously wiped away her tears, and she pushed past the guards guarding the grand door that led into the castle's extensive foyer. Servants and guards alike bowed their heads in recognition to her presence and muttered her name on baited breaths. She ignored them all and dodged out of their sight, practically running for her chambers located on the castle's eastern wing.

When she reached the stair case leading to the floor she was condemned to, she didn't realize she had been holding her breath for fear of making the sobs building within her chest audible. She grasped the marble hand rail and fell against it, her legs burning and her lungs seizing as she tried to fight the hiccupping cries that were leaving her throat. She settled herself on the bottom stair and curled her legs under her chin, covering her mouth with her hand and squeezing her eyes tight shut. She hated that such a petty woman had this power over her and she hated how weak she was to the reality of her situation. She was an orphan. Lost, like all the children wandering around the lower city, without parents to soothe their aches and guide them towards strength. A sense of strength was all she ever wanted, but everywhere she turned the people who were supposed to be caring for her were belittling her and assuring her that she was right. She's worthless.

"Morgana? Are you okay?" the footsteps were soft, the voice cautious. Her heart lurched uncomfortably and she instantly wanted to run and hide from his prying, oh-so-blue eyes.

"Go away, Arthur," she pleaded. "I don't want to talk to anyone."

He didn't listen, he never listened and that was one of the many things that drove her crazy about the Prince. He settled down beside her and rested his elbows on his knees, looking every part the man he would become despite the fact that he was almost two years younger than her. He reached over and pulled a leaf free that was woven in her hair with a soft laugh on his lips. Initially she thought he was laughing at her, but he soothed any retort she may have had when he tenderly brushed her unruly hair behind her ear. "She found you, didn't she?"

Morgana nodded, nothing more than a short shake of her head so he couldn't see how swollen her glassy green eyes had become. He frowned, but of course she didn't see, and he scooted closer beside her until they were hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. "Hey," he coaxed, nudging her gently. "She's an old, loveless hag. You shouldn't take anything she says seriously."

"Loveless is right," she snapped, fury in her tear-worn gaze. "I hope she burns for how many times she has used my father's name as a tool."

"She doesn't know your father. She doesn't know that he would have opened his arms to you, mud, dust and all, when you came running from the woods. She doesn't care that she speaks with ignorance, and she doesn't care that she is hurting you..."

"And what of you?" Morgana asked, running her fingers through her hair and pressing her hand into her forehead. "Why should I listen to you? You too speak with ignorance."

"True, but you know I'm right," Arthur argued, nudging her with his shoulder again. "I didn't know you're father, but he was a valiant man who served by my father's side with bravery. He was a king of his own, and besides...you had to get your free spirit from someone. I'm sure he wasn't surprised when you turned on him with a stick and demanded he fight you, and I would bet just about anything that he was happy you were never some prissy maiden who preferred to brush her hair instead of race horses through the dense woodlands of Cornwall."

She laughed and instantly tried to hide how easily he made her smile. Her eyes met his and she sighed, content to feel the heat that emanated from deep within him. Here he was, ever conquering Prince Arthur Pendragon - destined King of Camelot and Champion of the realm. When his name passed lips, the speakers only seemed to concentrate on his innate ability to rule the battlefield like a lion. They marveled his speed, they worshiped his strength, but above all else they looked over the one thing that made Arthur himself; his compassion. No one would ever expect Arthur to knock his opponent down, and then lay down his arm to help the knight to his feet, but she knew he would. She knew him, and deep down she wondered if she was the only one he frequently showed this side of himself to. The thought made her...happy, but false happiness was dangerous and she preferred to dwell on it as little as possible.

But regardless here he sat, her king, her lionheart, staring at her with a gentle smirk on his lips that she couldn't seem to stop staring at. "Thank you, Arthur," she whispered, unable to speak further for fear of vocalizing the array of thoughts racing through her mind like hounds. Absently, she leaned into him and smiled even brighter when his arm wrapped around her shoulder and he squeezed her against his side.

"Hey," he muttered, his voice drastically lower and his fingers running through the waterfall of silken raven hair that fell down her back. "I'll walk with you to your room, you can get cleaned up and once you're done, I'll come back and we can find something to do."

"We're going to have to dodge Hilda," Morgana explained. "I'm supposed to be in solitary confinement."

He let out a loud laugh at the challenge and threw a small twig he had found in her hair at their feet. "You think Hilda is any match for us? She could barely keep chase to the lower town, let alone all the way to the lake."

"So we're going to the lake?"

"Mmm maybe," he teased, leaning over and pressing his lips against her temple. "It's a surprise."

Fire spread throughout her cheeks, and she coughed lightly to suppress the pressure that seemed to instantly clog her throat. He rose from her side and she instantly shivered at the loss of contact despite the warmth that rolled through the castle like the fabled Arabian dancers she had read about in her studies. He reached his hand out and without hesitation she complied, allowing him to pull her to her feet before he valiantly offered her his arm.

"My lady," he cooed with a slight bow of his head.

She curtsied low and rested her hand on his arm with a playful smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "My champion," she answered, before they moved to take the first step towards the floor hanging above their heads.

"Arthur! What are you doing here, son? Is something troubling you?"

"Deeply, father," Arthur answered, bowing his head as he approached his father's throne. "It's about Morgana-"

"Is she hurt?" Uther's back straightened instantly and his eyes widened as his hands clenched the edges of his throne. "Hilda informed me of her escapade through the woods..."

"She is well, father. Physically, at least," the Prince soothed. "It's come to my attention that Morgana has been acting...odd lately. She has been travelling to the woods frequently, has she not?"

"She has."

"I am led to believe that that is where she seeks comfort from the stresses of the castle. Since I am training frequently and fiercely throughout the day, I am not there to entertain or comfort her. All she does every day is read and listen to her lady in waiting berate her for one thing or the other. The poor girl is lonely, and I doubt having a woman well into her age tending to her is the best way to address that," Arthur explained, rocking on his heels as the words flowed from his mouth with little prior thought.

His father looked intrigued, which was all he needed for confirmation. "Go on."

"Wouldn't it be more sensible for a young lady to be tended by a young lady? If not for privacy's sake but for that weird bond all women tend to have?" Arthur suggested with an almost indifferent shrug of his shoulder. "I'm sure there is someone around here who can rightly tend to Morgana's needs."

Uther considered the proposal and thoughtfully scratched at his chin. "Has Morgana expressed distaste for her maid?"

Arthur nodded. "Time and time again."

"Then I will consider your proposal," the King stated. "I suppose it is time Hilda retire from her position as Morgana is no longer a child. I'll scour through the servants. I believe there is a young girl close to Morgana's age that assists with the laundering that can aid her."

"Thank you, father," the Prince smiled, bowing before he started to retreat for the door. With his hand on the aged mahogany, he turned and addressed his father once again. "Oh, and if you would be so kind...don't tell Morgana about any of this."