Sorry for the long time it's taken for me to upload the rest of this story! I actually had it finished, but was in the mood to write for other stories, so never got around to editing until now... Thank you for those who have followed it so far, and especially to those who take the time to comment :)

xx ~ PureLightHealer

~ continued ~

And with his dying breath, he decides that a noble death is not all it's cracked up to be.

A grim silence fills the room as one more life is extinguished between them. Morgana is unconcerned, testing the weight of the sword in her hands as she looks over at Arthur, whose shoulders are bowed as though this death is another of the many that will haunt him.

"This can't go on, Morgana. Give me back what is rightfully mine and I will show you mercy."

She laughs. The sound sends a chill down his spine, so out of place in this scene, in this room that's filled with the death of one too young. "I don't want your mercy, Pendragon, I want what is mine!"

"When did you become so cruel…."

"This is about your little knight, is it not? Don't worry," she drawls, "I'm sure there are plenty more where he came from…"

But he ignores her twisted humour. "Life is meaningless to you! Expendable!" He accuses, remembering why he's here, why they're both here. "He wasn't just a pawn in your chess game, Morgana."

"Our chess-game, Arthur" she corrects sternly.

Arthur shakes his head, staring down at the blood on his hands from the dead man's wound. He feels the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, as any leader feels when one under his command is lost. But not as any leader; because this is Arthur Pendragon, the King who would risk his life to protect even the lowliest of servants in his court.

"He was young, Morgana, just a boy…" he says, his voice filled with regret.

"So were we." She replies, her tone hard.

"You chose your path!" Arthur yells, wringing his hands, which are smeared with the solder's blood.

"Did I choose the nightmares that disquiet my sleep every night?" She demands, eyes narrowing as she closes in on him, sword pointed as though ready to pierce his chest. "Did I choose to have a tyrant king for a father, a liar! A despot who wouldn't so much as acknowledge his illegitimate daughter though I lived under his roof night and day for 15 years? Or is it perhaps the magic that seeps through my veins that you assume I chose?"

"Uther made mistakes, I don't deny it! But he cared for you as his own, Morgana!"

"As his own? I was his own! He cared only for himself! Had he known what I was, he would have had me executed in his hatred for magic."

Arthur bats her sword away with his, keeping the distance between them. "Kill before you are killed?"

"That is our way, Pendragon".

"NO! This is your way, Morgana! Destroy everything around you, hide behind the bodies of the men you've killed! Because you're afraid!"

She laughs, but it is forced. "You're a fool if you believe that, Arthur Pendragon! There is nothing that I fear." She declares, tossing her head back.

"So afraid of what you don't understand, so blinded by your bitterness… You're just like father." He growls, missing the way her eyes flare at those words, at the comparison she despises more than any insult. She lunges at him in a fit of rage and he lets out a battle cry and sidesteps her, furiously thrusting his sword in the space his body has just left and hers has just occupied. It's a classic soldier's move, only this isn't a soldier's game. A small gasp escapes her lips and he turns his head as he finds his footing and retracts his weapon – to find it firmly lodged in her abdomen. As his anger dissipates, his eyes widen for a second time that day, filled with a horror and denial unmatched by any he's ever felt before. It's her turn to slump against him now and he catches her with shaking hands, lowering her to the cold, hard ground that her blood has already begun to taint.

"So then, it comes to this, does it not, dear brother?" She says again, only this time her voice comes out in fits and starts, interrupted by the shallow breathing which accompanies death.

And victory has never tasted more bitter in his mouth, nor heavier in his arms.

- To be continued... -