(from the private writings of Morgan le Fay)
They once called me healer, sister of the moon, the one who mended what others broke. That was before they learned to fear what they could not understand.
I remember the boy—bright, stubborn, certain that the world could be kind if only he loved it enough. Arthur. Even now the name feels like touching a scar that still burns. He looked at the stars as if they were promises waiting to be kept, and I—fool that I was—believed he might be the one to keep them.
The sword, the crown, the dream of Camelot—all of it was born from the quiet prayers I buried in the soil. He thought destiny chose him. He never saw that destiny was only the shape of my hands, guiding him toward what had to be.
When he slipped the ring onto his finger, the air itself went still. No thunder. No cry. Only that sharp silence that comes when love realizes it cannot save what it adores. The thread between us broke. He smiled, and I saw the man he would become—the king who would forgive too easily, trust too deeply, and bleed for everyone but himself.
He will never know that I stayed long after the crown grew heavy, long after his mercy began to tear the world apart. He will never know that I turned away not from hatred, but from grief—the kind that sits in the chest like a stone.
The bards will keep his light. That is as it should be. But light needs its shadows, and I have always been the one to bear them. So let them curse my name. Let them sing of his golden reign and forget the woman who made it possible. I will wait by the river where the stars fall into the water and remember what we were before the thread snapped.