AN: Hello! Long time no post I know so I deserve a slap on the wrist! In my defense, I have just sat my AS levels which went SPECTACULARLY badly in every shape and form. Hooray for resists I say. Hope all you who have had exams have done better than me!

Anywayyyy, I'm not quite sure where this came from and I've rambled a fair bit so you'll have to forgive me if it's a wee bit garbled! Is that even a word? Ah, I swear exams are the weapons of people trying to fry your brains. Anyway, if it is a load of rubbish, please don't hesitate to tell me! I've been to lazy to check it so it's also only a first draft :L Naughty I know, but I wanted to post something before I was ninety! :L

Also, it's pretty short because I always find greed - and gluttony actually - the hardest to write. I was thinking of making Gluttony into a humourous fic but then I'm not sure if it would fit in well with the rest. I'm not a very good fluff writer anyway, but any thoughts on the matter are mucho appreciated!

Hopefully Merlin will be coming back soon - it better be anyway because Doctor Who's ending next week (no more Matt Smith *sniff* :'[) and I'm going to have withdrawl symptons! That, and I really miss the beauty of Colin and Bradley on my TV!

Right, I'll shut up now! Happy reading :) Reviews as ever are beautiful!

The Lady Morgana is not who she was.

Gone is the noble, spirited gentlewoman of the past replaced by a heartless statue with limbs of living marble. Those eyes, once so alive with fire and passion, are empty; expressionless like the portraits that hung in Uther's gallery when she was a child. Just as they are a shadow of their subjects, she is a shadow of herself. A spectre where the ghosts should have long since been laid to rest.

That is why she brings herself to these places, why she subjects herself to the torture, the ultimate disappoint that she will always feel. That crippling sense of loss when day turns to dusk and she is still just a lonely phantom haunting the graveyards of those she once loved.

She is too dead to live, too living to die.

A sudden cry jolts her back to the present and away from the ruins of Camelot. Looking down at the beggars beseeching her for mercy, she feels only disgust. How pitiful they are, how grubby and unkempt their clothes are as bony hands stretch towards her. She's surrounded by a scrum of human filth, a noble island under siege and in her mind she pictures their graves.

"Food, miss, give us food," they cry, and though she could grant it in an instant, she shakes her head. Why should she help them after all? They will not aid her even if they were capable of it. Man's spirit is selfish. Many winters have taught her that.

And why should she share her magic with them? Her magic, the thing that both curses and sustains her! Without it, she is just like them – lost and tired and drowning in the misery of poverty. Material wealth had long ago been stripped from her. Everything down to the clothes on her back taken.

So now she hordes what she has, and steals what she doesn't.

"Please!" A lone voice cuts through the mob, soft and unlike the others. For a brief second, the stone inside her ribcage pulses. He looks like him, she realises, or perhaps he does because she wants him too. She's good at that, inflicting her own perceptions on people, bending them to the images in her mind. Normally, she avoids his image at all cost, but she's been alone for too long. He's been playing too much on her mind as of late and she's becoming weak. Frail.

Little girl lost, and she's tired of waiting to be found.

Another look confirms her suspicions. This man is not him. What a fool she's been for thinking he could be? Disappointment stirs within her stomach. How cruel of him to trick her like that, to make her belief that there is hope where no hope now remains? He is lost – lost to her simply because he does not want to be found.

He does not want her.

Determination rises; she will escape him once and for all.

To start, she will kill them.

A spell, and someone cracks, their head lolling back, eyes wide open in disbelief. Morgana does not wait to watch as the first victim falls to the ground. Lies still. She is already killing her tenth.

"A loathsome witch!" the one who looked like him shouts and she takes pleasure in seeing the way his body snaps like the dolls she used to play with before Camelot and Uther and Guinevere ever came about. Before he haunted her every step.

With every scream, she feels something stir within her. Not happiness – never happiness – but not despair either. It is only when a hundred bodies lie at her feet that she realises it is greed. She relishes the control she has over life and death; desires it; needs it even! It is that feeling of life and humanity she has been craving all these years.

Humanity.

The word makes her want to spit. There is nothing humane about the race of men. Every victim is a perpetrator, a liar, a heathen that goes against every principle they preach. Every man, woman and child is like her. Bad like her.

This new Morgana represents the very worst of humanity: selfish and stubborn, cruel and maleficent.

And greedy.

Oh so greedy for the slightest affection that comes her way. She forces it with spells and enchantments, but it is never the same. The soft caress of her cheek drives a stake through her heart, the weight of a hand on her hip crushing. Where the touch once gave her pleasure it now brings pain, but she will keep trying anyway, keep searching to recapture what is lost behind Camelot's walls.

One day, she hopes to find it.