Morgana fantasizes about Uther Pendragon's demise every single night since her return to Camelot. They are not prophesies but she wishes with all her heart they will happen someday. It's a welcome replacement to the nightmares she used to suffer; quite inexplicably, she has never slept better. She drifts into unconsciousness, lulled by the soothing images of her guardian's suffering. It's never the same scenario, but she can imagine many different unsavory fates for a man responsible for countless acts of evil.
She imagines him swimming in the tears of mothers whose children had been slain and wives whose husbands had been sacrificed in the name of Camelot. She sees him dressed in armor and mail, drowning in a deluge of misery caused by his own hand. She sees his silver- and red-clad form flailing helplessly, finally knowing the horror he'd subjected hundreds of innocents to. He never surrenders to the water, because he will never admit that he was wrong. He fights for breath beneath the deluge until his own machinations strip him of it. It's a late triumph for his young victims, one devoid of joy.
She wonders how he would suffer through a burning. It was always what she feared the most, to be tied to a stake and see all those accusing eyes on her as if she'd done something wrong by being born the way she was. Her mounting fear as the torch approached the pyre is now Uther's fear. She can see the flames reflected in his eyes and she smiles in her dream, maybe in her sleep, as the fire is lowered to the kindling. The blaze is spectacular but it's the smoke that extinguishes his life. She sees him sputter and choke and gasp, as she's seen hundreds of others do the same. Fire purifies all types of evil from Camelot.
Her favored scenario is a beheading. A flash of silver and his head just falls away. It's not the smell of blood dripping down the block or the sound of flesh hitting wood that has her transfixed, but the sight of his crown finally free from his head. That beautiful, coveted ornament belongs to her now. She reclaims what Uther was too cowardly to admit. She stands before a shocked crowd and no longer fears anything. Everything is hers now. She's no longer a ward, Uther's charity case, but Camelot's queen. She is not helpless like Uther, whose lifeless eyes stare up at her several feet from his body.
Morgana does not regret that she has changed. She brushes aside years of companionship because there is very little someone as ordinary as Gwen can do for her now. Arthur is a good man but no amount of kindness can spare him from his inevitable fate as her competition. And Merlin, the one person who seemed on the cusp of understanding her plight, abandoned her entirely and sacrificed her for a city that hated her for what she was. He told her magic wasn't evil and made her almost believe it. He took her very last shred of hope because while she always knew that Uther was cruel and heartless against magic, she never thought Merlin could be cruel and heartless against her.
Morgana sits regally by Uther's side, favoring him with a smile that pains her. It is forced and utterly false and the act of giving Uther even the smallest amount of pleasure causes rage to swell inside her. Ignorance and naïveté left her vulnerable before, but she has no such weaknesses now, only purpose. She will pretend to be his faithful ward because she has been pretending ever since she arrived in Camelot as an eight year old orphan.
Uther looks eagerly at her and she realizes she's supposed to laugh at a joke he just told. She does, awkwardly, but it seems to be what he expects. Satisfied, he turns away and she does the same, unable to hide her disdain. She reminds herself that very soon her smiles and laughter will be real. When Uther is dead, she can dream of Merlin's demise. The night cannot come fast enough.