look at her with her eyes like a flame.

What if the storm ends? At least that's nothing
Except the memory, a distant echo I won't pin down
I've walked unsettled rattle cage after cage
Until my blood boils

Somewhere along the lines it stops being about revenge.

Somewhere along the lines she realizes that she was the one who played puppet, that Morgause tugged at her strings perfectly; with silent promises of comfort, of kinship, of love, of power, of what was hers, of what wasn't. She realizes that she had been a fool to destroyed all she held dear, that those bridges have been burnt and in a moment of weakness, she mourns them, when everything she has spent so long ignoring (shielding, locking away in the depths of her soul. It was the only way she could do what she did) comes rushing back like a tidal wave, suffocating her mercilessly.

And somewhere alone the lines, as she watches men die and cursing her name for the destruction she brings, the death and heartache the follows, she realizes that it is too late for her, that the path she walks cannot be stopped, that she must continue, she must remain Arthur's enemy and Merlin's opposite in every way. Because this is how it must be, because these are the days that will shape Arthur into the king all of Albion deserves, and if she stops now that future will be ruined. She hates herself when she realizes this, she hates herself because she knows somewhere in her heart she has not let go, that she still yearns for the comfort of friends, of family, of those who do not fear her.

She hates herself because she knows that now all of this is for him, to shape him, to help him and he will hate her forever more for it.