On Her Hands
She had found him after an unexpected attack from Odin's soldiers. They were far too close to the border for their safety, and Odin had never gave up his ideas of vengeance on Arthur and his kingdom – much like her. At first, she was going to left him to die, but then, something inside her made her bring him with her.
One day, a lifetime away, she would have cringed at the idea of washing someone else. Although much of what she had learned with Morgause had been ways of a dark past, where many High Priestesses were bound to the Left Hand Path, the healing arts had always been one of their basic studies. Much could be learned about an enemy even while healing them, and so, Morgana took his clothes off and sunk him into a bathtub.
Soon there was blood in the water, darkening everything. She didn't waste any time to feel his body with her hands, looking for the wound that kept bleeding. It took her a long while, as she searched in the most obvious parts, but finally she found the cut, near his left groin. A simple spell couldn't heal it – she had to try a few times before the vessels, muscles and skin finally came back to their original places.
It had been a weird thing – man's instinct never changed, and even as he laid there, unconscious and each second closer to death, his body had reacted to her touch as if it were completely healthy. On another day, on another man, this would have made her scorn him with laughs as soon as he was up, but somehow, Sir Gwaine was different.
She would be lying if she said she hadn't lusted after him on their last encounter – the kind of pleasure she felt when she saw him half-naked fighting for his food was nothing like the high she would sometimes get from her magic, or from having the power over other people. It was as if the need she had silenced for so long in order to be the one in charge suddenly burst into her, making her wish to be commanded rather than commanding.
Morgana took her time cleaning every inch of his injured body, washing his hair, tracing the line of his jaw, his chest, his waist, his thighs. She swallowed her sighs, and enjoyed every single reaction he'd give from the forgotten place he was.
She even thought of ways that she could have more than that, but what would be the point, if she would still be controlling it after all? It wasn't what she wanted – what she needed – at all. Besides, she was sure that if she only tried, she could have it, but she'd never let him know it, he couldn't even imagine it, that he was part of her weakness or he'd use it against her, in Arthur's favor, and she couldn't stand it.
When he woke up, every last bit of the woman that wanted him had gone replaced by The Fearsome Witch.
He could never know.
(Gwaine would dream of her as well, but he'd never confess it, for it could never be).