A/N ~ Ok, you poor, poor people deserve an explanation! I am so sorry! Literally, it's just, well, this whole fic kind of failed on a whole, and I reread it about a month ago and thought, 'damn, this is crap, whose actually reading this?' and the whole thing where I went to Bali and didn't update for, what, a centaury? And for anybody who did actually like it, well, I didn't. And I think that the most important thing when you're writing something is that you in yourself like it and feel comfortable with it.

Therefore... This entire FIC HAS BEEN REWRITTEN.

We now meet Morgana when she is younger, having just arrived in Camelot, dealing with the death of the man she loved as a father, and ten years old. Oh, and it is no longer first person. It's better. Hopefully.

R&R, but pleeeeaaase don't be pissed because I changed it.

- YeahYeah

How To Turn A Red Rose Black

Chapter One:

Morgana was sick. Very sick.

Well, that's what she had Gaius inform the others.

He wasn't fooled. She wasn't stupid; he was an adept healer whose talents were famed even at home. Not, she corrected herself, 'famed' so much as her father just talking about his skills 'back in the day'. And her father was always right. Always.

Except now everything was different. Everything had gone away.

She burrowed down further under the heavy blankets, trying to block out the searching fingers of sunrays. Gaius had insisted on opening the windows to circulate 'fresh air'. Just like leaving a cloth doused in icy water at her bedside, and some hot broth. He knew she wasn't sick. A tiny, subconscious part of her inwardly thanked him for stitching the minute details into the fabric of deception that made it all the more believable.

Had her mother lived, she'd have known, and scolded her daughter for being so rude. She wasn't being rude. She was being sad. And her father always told her sadness was a type of sickness. Had he lived, he'd have laughed at her, mussed her hair and told everyone not to disturb her for risk of infection. But neither of the two pillars that held up any child's life still stood. So she just lay deep under the covers, listening to her own breathing. Alone. She was always alone now.

The heavy furs crushed Gaius's 'fresh air' away, trapping her in a bubble of heat. Uncomfortable. She didn't care. They were soft against her skin, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend her parents had lain them over her. And she could just throw them back and they'd be there, both of them, and she could just get out of bed and they'd be smiling, waiting, and they'd just enfold her in a tight embrace. Her father would tie back his long brown hair and pick her up and her mother would smile at her with ocean-coloured eyes and they'd tell her how much they loved her, and they would never have to ever let go.

She felt the tears searing on her cheeks before she knew she was crying.

And, before she could do anything, they cascaded free, the torrent a force of its own. Under the covers, her hair stuck to her wet face and furs, and she just stayed in her own little world of warmth and darkness and tears. She cried silently. She didn't want anybody hearing and thinking she was stupid.

"Morgana?" A timid voice called. Her heart stopped momentarily in alarm. Then, panicking a little, she violently attempted to stop the flow of tears and swallow the lump in her throat before anyone could see. She just froze under the thick blankets.

"Go away." She said from under the covers, fruitlessly wiping at her eyes and sniffling.

"Are you alright? Father said you were sick. Gaius said you probably picked something up on the way here, and I just wanted to make sure you were –"

"I don't care what they said." She said into her bed covers.

She felt a weight on the end of the impressively-massive bed and squirmed further under the the covers, out of sight, furiously rubbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

"Morgana?" Arthur tried again. "Are you sure you're ok?"

Ok? Am I okay? I've not even begun to move on from the mother whose memory is fading, and my father is now taken from me. I'm alone, I'm homeless, I'm friendless, so answer me you stupid little prince boy, am I ok?

Though all of that stayed firmly in her mind, for when she opened her mouth nothing came out but a choked-back sob. He cannot be this stupid, she told herself, desperately trying to think of anything other than the parents she would never see again, ever, ever and – No. She stopped herself. Uther must have set Arthur up to this. Trying to encourage them to 'be friends'. Well she didn't have any friends anymore, and the little prince seemed very far away from ever getting close. She didn't have anyone anymore. She wiped furiously at her face, to no avail. The salty flow had already spilled free.

"Just go away." She sobbed quietly, turning her back and burrowing deep down under her pillows, to forget the world.