Autumn drowns Morgana’s forest in Camelot’s colors, a stifling fire-brightness she once loved but that now only speaks of pain. She doesn’t miss Merlin; she will not miss Arthur.
She wakes up cold and alone in the middle of the lengthening nights.
She misses Gwen.
Sometimes she thinks of stealing Gwen away, tearing the crown Arthur put on Gwen’s head off and melting it down, keeping Gwen—Gwen who was always the sweetest part of her days even when her days were filled with fear and lies and fury—forever to herself.
(In springtime the ground is carpeted with violets, and the brooks melt and chortle, and Morgana knows the places where the does go to fawn. Gwen would like that, Gwen would smile at the huge-eyed fawns and laugh at their knobbly awkward legs, and Morgana misses her laughter like she misses running water at midwinter. Morgana would weave crowns of violets like she did when they were younger and nothing hurt, and Gwen would accept them from her: Gwen would still need nothing more than what Morgana can give her, and Morgana would still be able to give her only gentleness.)
But Gwen is in Camelot, and Camelot is walled and guarded, and Gwen chose Arthur, Gwen chose Gaius and Merlin, Gwen will never understand that she betrayed Morgana first.
Morgana will never tell her.