Morgana drains out a bucket mid-morning, crouching by the river's edge outside of her hovel.
She raises her eyes to discover the queen lying face-down in the waters. Gwen's hair is loosened, tangled and plastered with muddy leaves. She's unresponsive to Morgana calling out to her, slowly and softly, tenderly — despite their past, grievous history.
A festering, blackish purple wound reveals itself as Morgana disrobes the other woman carefully, watching Gwen's shallow breathing as it leaves her. Yarrow will stop the blood-flow. Elderberry and willow to prevent any further infection and lessen it. On the cot, Gwen stirs, calling out for help! help me, please! in a delirious, weakened voice and thrashing.
With a shushing, hot kiss to Gwen's forehead, Morgana eases her to rest. Had bandits attacked her?
Morgana's heart clenches.
Gwen was never meant to beg — except to her, upon Morgana's quilts and finery, all of Gwen's slender, brown curves exposed to the moonlight. Oh, how she adored Gwen whimpering and aching for her please, oh, my lady! while Morgana's tongue lapped over her entrance, prodding and dragging over Gwen's warm, hairy folds.
She wanted nothing more than to bestow Gwen with devotion. With the love Arthur never could give.
Her brother has truly taken everything from her.
It's a simple tracking spell, but Morgana locates the bandits sitting right where the kingdoms of Camelot and Dyred meet, ripping out their hearts, one-by-one. The last of the men, cowering and weeping under her tall, darkly hooded form, presents out his dagger stained with Gwen's blood as if pleading for a quick end. A foolish gesture.
Unlike the others, a silent Morgana leaves him to die in his own time - high above in a tree, dangling, gagging loudly from his own pinkened, fluid-gleaming intestines wrapped around his repulsive neck.