Notes: Set pre-series for the most part, Nimueh/Uther, others implied, spoilers up to "Excalibur".
Disclaimer: I don't own bbc's Merlin, I just write this for fun and make absolutely no profit with it.
Curse of Gifts
The wind rustles through the leaves above and whispers: the king is coming. The water in the small rivulets rushes past under their feet and murmurs: the king is coming. The rain patters loudly on the smooth surface of the holy stone and sings: the king is coming. The holy fires crackle on in their haven, safe from the weather, and paint shadow forms on the walls that prophesy what wind and running water and rain have already told them: the king is coming. Tomorrow, the king is coming.
And in the morning, when the air is fresh with recent rain, it's in the birds' songs, the deer's footprints in the earth, the ephemeral signs on the still water, and before long, it is in the earth's rumble as the sound of horse-hooves approaches.
It has been a long time since there has last been a king in Albion that the land would announce.
Nimueh rises earlier than all others in the morning; she walks to the nearby lake, naked in the morning chill, and immerses herself in the water; she dons her simple, long priestess robes, and brushes her long hair, and paints her lips very red, very red, and walks down the path to wait.
If she was expecting him to emerge from the mist clad like a resurrected king of old, or like the conquerors from beyond the sea he is said the be one of, she is disappointed. There is nothing remarkable about the small party that rides towards her through the trees shortly after she arrives, except maybe that they all have good horses: they could be members of any of the small kingdoms or tribes. There is nothing remarkable about him, at first glance, either; nothing that draws the gaze to one of the faces rather than the others; it is only when he reigns in his horse in front of her, leaving his companions a few steps behind, that she realises which one must be the king: he is wearing a simple iron crown without any ornament, but he holds his head high with apparent ease, though it must be heavy.
She smiles at him then, and walks forward, approaching him from the left so the horse's head isn't between them, and hold up her hands palms up.
"Welcome, Uther Pendragon," she says, inclining her head slightly.
He hides his surprise well: if she hadn't been looking for it, if she hadn't learnt to see tells, she would not have noticed it at all. His men – no more than eight – are not so discrete: there is a murmur from their side, which dies down instantly when Uther raises a hand. He ushers his horse another step forward (out of earshot, she thinks, with a secret, pleased smile), and looks at her curiously.
"I have been told," he says, "that this is where I will find the priests and priestesses of the old religion."
She smiles again, at the stubborn pride in his voice – he must be unsatisfied with her greeting – even as he studies her and the surroundings with badly concealed fascination; but her especially, she notes, pleased.
"Some of us, you will indeed find here."
"I have been told also," he continues, in a graver voice, "that they will not bow to a king, but that if the land recognises him, they will serve him nonetheless."
She can tell he is trying the sound severe – certainly, he doesn't like this claim to independence – and the look he gives her is certainly sharp, but the fascination still pierces through, the wonderment of a man who, after having conquered a thing wants it to yield all its secrets to him, even if it means seducing it as well.
"Then you have been well informed indeed, Uther Pendragon." He frowns, then glances up, as more of theirs come towards them, walking down the path without hurry. "But you need not fear: the land has announced the arrival of a king for today."
He's still frowning, and she's sure that he's tempted to tell her how he is not afraid at all, but he swallows down whatever it is he meant to say, and it's too late anyway, as a small crowd begins to gather behind her. She lowers her head slightly, and looks at him through her eyelashes, without any coyness, and steps back respectfully as the highest ranking and oldest of their priestesses, her mentor, comes forward to greet him. His eyes follow her for a while.
She doesn't have an occasion to speak to him alone for the rest of the day, as he converses with the older priests and priestesses, and the druids that are present, but she watches and listen the whole time (and sometimes, he turns, as if he can feel her presence, and his gaze meets hers, and there is something ablaze within her then). She is not surprised that the land has recognised this king, who is wise already, and just, and strong, and merciful, and means to serve the land and its people, as a king should, and not to own and exploit it.
It is much later, when the silhouettes by the fire they have gathered around become sparse, that she approaches him again.
"Uther Pendragon." She scatters down next to him; he glances at her, annoyed by the mocking tone, but says nothing. "Are you satisfied with what you learned?"
He studies her face in the firelight, just like she studies his, and doesn't answer.
"You haven't told me your name," he finally says.
She smiles.
"It's Nimueh."
"Nimueh," he repeats.
She smiles again, and takes his hand and kisses it.
"Come," she whispers, intimately. "I want to show you something."
He retires his hand from hers, and looks over at the fire hesitantly.
"Your men can do without you for a little while, can't they?" she asks, a little mocking, and when he turns back to her, she's careful to look him square in the eyes, making sure he knows this is a challenge.
He frowns but stands up, and lets her guide him away; she takes his hand as soon as they are out of the fire's light, and smiles. The air is heavy with rain and smells sweetly of lilies, and he interlaces his fingers with hers and follows closely behind her. She takes him to the lake: moonlight shimmers beautifully on its surface, like liquid silver, but it is her he looks at, so she takes his head between her hands and kisses him.
It's very fast then: they don't lie down, the grass is wet and cold, and he pushes her against a tree instead, with a strange, endearing mixture of impatience and care. He is content, for a while, to just kiss her lips, again and again, caress her breasts and her hips through the fabric of her dress, but she's growing impatient, pushes one of his hands down between her legs. But she's half-way through undoing his breaches, clumsy in the darkness, when he suddenly draws away.
"I'm married," he says, breathlessly.
She can't help but laugh at the declaration and the pitiful tone full of regret and shame.
"I'm not," she answers easily, tries to pull him back, uncomfortable in the sudden cold. "And I will never be. Nor am I a virgin you would be despoiling."
"That's not..." He says, but she can feel his face heat up under her hand, he's blushing in the darkness. "I love my wife."
His tone is serious and stern this time; she sighs, lets her hands sink, cutting off all contact between them; she doesn't want him to be able to say, after, that she confused his senses, didn't leave him time to think.
"As you should," she says, and doesn't quite manage to keep the mockery out of her voice. "Queen Igraine," she adds, remembering the name she's heard. "But you love the land as well, and I am one of its priestesses. Surely, you can be unfaithful once for that?"
"That's not... what this is," he says, unsurely; she wonders if he's not used to indulging himself like this, or if the symbolism is simply too foreign to him; but she's pleased that he wants her, not any priestess of the land that acknowledged him king.
"Well," she says, almost certain it's lost now. "Decide, then. But my back is wet and cold and sore, and it would be most unkind to leave me like this now."
He glares, she's sure of it though she can't see it, and she's also sure it's the mocking tone that decides him to move his body flush against hers again; and this time he doesn't stop. She moans when he enters her, and murmurs "Uther, Uther, Uther," quietly against his mouth; he replies "Nimueh," only once, in wonder, the word foreign to his lips; but it's "Igraine" that he whispers, very quietly, in the end.
She tells herself that it doesn't matter: she's wanted a king, not a lover.
It's only later, when he's taken her to the hut they've given him – to prove to himself and to her that he's not ashamed of her, she thinks – that he asks her: "Come with me. Not for this," he adds, when she raises her eyebrows, and this time she can see his blush; it makes him look much younger. She laughs at him, but without any cruelty. "I want someone from here to follow me to Camelot. I will ask someone else, but only if you refuse. They have spoken highly of you and your skills."
She lowers her eyes as he looks at her, for the first time.
"I would be most honoured," she says after a moment. "But remember: I will be your guest, not your servant."
He nods, unperturbed, and kisses her fingers gently.
Her mentor is not pleased when Nimueh tells her of her decision to leave for Camelot with Uther.
"You are destined to hold the power of life and death, Nimueh. You cannot go into the world."
"He asked me," she answers, and bites her lips when she realises she's sounding like a petulant child. "And haven't you heard him? And what we know of him? He's different from the other ones who called themselves kings. Maybe he is the one who will unite Albion. And one of us as to be there, to help him and guide him and keep him tied to the land."
"The land has already recognised him king. And there are warlocks at the court already, to help him if he needs it."
"It's not enough." She glares. "Are you forbidding me to go?"
"No," the older woman says coldly. "I only want you to be sure these are your real reason, and that you aren't going because you are besotted."
(Did she know, then? Nimueh wondered much later. Did she know, were there visions, and if so, why didn't she tell me? Nothing could be worse than this, and if I had known...
And now she would forever hold this image of her in her memory, as she stood tied in the centre of a square in Camelot, stripped of all her quiet, simple dignity, howling to the sky as the flames licked higher and higher and consumed her.)
He loves Igraine, of course he does, and with all his heart. Married her despite his knights' grumblings, the daughter of a simple clan's chief. And never regretted it, even after year after year followed, and she gave him no heir.
But – he loves Nimueh as well, a little; not like Igraine, who is his life, his soul. But he loves her mocking, challenging smile and her concentration when she uses her powers, and her body, and the difference of it; he hadn't touched another woman ever since he married Igraine.
He feels guilty; he wonders if Igraine can tell, he's never kept secrets from her before; but if she knows, she doesn't let on. She gets along with Nimueh well enough, who is, in turn, much more respectful with her than with him, and seems sincerely affectionate (but then, it is easy to love Igraine). And the queen is as curious as he is to learn about these parts of what is their land, watches with wonder when Nimueh does magic before her. Sometimes he sees the way they look at each other, and he wonders if they could... but then he pushes the thought away.
Still, it is a while before he ever brings up the curse of their childlessness before her, there's a certain sense of propriety that holds him back from sharing this with a lover, who, he knows, does whatever she can with natural remedies and her art to avoid becoming pregnant from him. She even says, once, laughingly – she knows, of course, everyone does – that maybe she could bear him a child instead, and flinches back like she's been bitten when he snaps he doesn't need a bastard.
He doesn't bring it up, he doesn't ask her, and neither does Igraine, but she's close to him, a friend, an advisor, and it isn't long before she is simply present during one of their talks with Gaius; Gaius, who reports what he has tried and what he hasn't tried, in a wary voice. Uther knows, from the looks the physician throws at him, what he doesn't say since he's forbidden it, but is thinking: it won't help, there is no remedy.
It is late in the evening. They're sitting there, all four of them, by a small table in his own rooms, the distinction of rank barely noticeable; Igraine tired and sad, he angry and almost resigned, Nimueh intent and curious, until finally Gaius finishes, and she speaks up.
"But there is one way that can't fail."
They all turn to her in surprise, Gaius, who doesn't like her much, Uther doesn't know why, with suspicion.
"What do you mean?" Uther asks, eagerly. "There is a remedy?" He leans forward. "Why didn't you say so?"
Nimueh looks affronted by this.
"I never knew you were so out of options; it is not a method that should be used lightly; but if Gaius says there is no cure..."
"I did not say that," Gaius said tightly.
"You did to me," Uther points out; "I know you are only humouring us now..."
"What is it?" Igraine asks softly, smiling at Nimueh.
"There is a way," Nimueh says, and she looks eager now, "with which you can create a life where there was never supposed to be one. A son for a woman who was fated to be barren."
She blinks up at them all.
"So you can do this?" Uther asks.
"Yes. With the power of life and death that I possess, I can, my lord."
"No," Gaius snaps, before either he or Igraine can say anything to this. "You cannot use this."
She scolds her face into blankness. Uther doesn't pay her any mind; he can't believe the implication of what Gaius just said.
"You mean you knew about this?" Gaius stares up. "You knew there was a method, an infallible one, and yet, even after you'd given up hope on all other remedies, you didn't tell me?"
"My lord," Gaius said very seriously. "The power of life and death is dangerous to –"
He stands.
"How dare you," he snarls at Gaius. "It was for you to tell us and for us to decide!"
"My lord –"
Igraine lays a hand on his arm; it is not enough to sooth him, but it is in a calmer voice that he orders:
"Get out." Gaius is about to protest, so he adds: "I won't need your services as a physician anymore."
Gaius freezes, then stands slowly and bows very deeply.
"As you wish, my lord. But I beseech you not to –"
"Leave!" he snarls; Gaius bows once more before he obeys.
The room is eerily quiet for a moment; Nimueh's soft, sweet voice cuts oddly into the silence:
"Gaius tells the truth," she says, as soon as he's sat down again. "There will be a high price to pay."
He and Igraine look at each other briefly; he squeezes her hand.
"Everything we have built is likely to crumble again, if I have no heir. I will pay the price. If you can do this, then please help me."
Nimueh smiles her strange smile and bows her head.
She doesn't hate Igraine, not at all. She doesn't want the queen dead, not – not really.
But still, she thinks of all she could have had if it wasn't for her, that place at Uther's side that will never be hers... She will never marry but this would be different, if he were the one who will unite Albion – and he would be, with her at his side – a second marriage to the land, and Igraine is what stands between her and this dream...
She doesn't will it, no. But there is a reason why the ones who hold the power of life and death are asked not to live outside in the world: for when the magic uses her for its vessel, rushes through her and she calls forth the rain of life, it soaks up her hidden desires and wishes, and makes the choice for her – through her.
After hours without sleep, and seen from the semi-darkness of the back of the room, the two angry silhouettes in the circle of light by the bed look like strangely drawn puppets in a play by a hysteric puppeteer, shimmering with blinding light and unreal. He wishes he could cling to that notion.
"Uther – My lord – I said – I warned you that there would be a heavy price!"
"No – not this – I would never have – I said I would pay it!"
Gaius waits quietly in a corner of the room as they argue, Nimueh and the king, next to Igraine's very corpse, in rising, furious, shrill voices; no-one has thought of taking care of the young prince in the turmoil the mother's death and Nimueh's revelation of the cause have created, so Gaius did; this is Igraine, is the queen, but death at childbirth is, alas, common, and in a sense routine; he has taken the boy to a nurse after the midwife has fled before the combined terror of Uther's and Nimueh's ire.
Dutifully, he has returned once he's made sure the prince will be seen to; there is nothing he can do for Igraine, but he is responsible for the king's health as well – Uther never made his sudden dismissal real –, and he is the one he fears for now.
"I'm sorry," Nimueh is now saying, intently, trying to reach Uther; she doesn't look it, Gaius thinks, not at all; instead she looks elated by her power, this must have been the first time she has ever used it, and there is a smile under her carefully trembling lips (and why else has she told him, why could she not let him believe in a natural death, if not out of pride?). "I am sorry, but it is not my fault."
"Don't you dare," the king shouts back, "imply that it is mine! You tricked me! I would never have agreed to this, never!..."
The look on his face is terrible, haunted, and Gaius can tell, from his place in the shadows, that it is guilt twisting his face like that. He's seeing himself as a man who has conspired with his lover to kill his wife – his beloved, loyal wife, who bore him a son and died for it – and cannot bear the thought.
"That is not – no-one can be held responsible, it is how the magic works." Nimueh tries to put her hands on his, soothingly, and she looks as fresh and as beautiful as ever, striking next to Igraine's pale, broken body, and Uther draws back like he's been burnt.
"Gaius," he calls, his voice cold.
He steps forward.
"My lord."
"Call the guards. Have her arrested."
Gaius bows and leaves and sends them in; from the corridor, he can still hear Nimueh shouting: "How dare you! After all I have done for you!", and then Uther's voice, loud and angry, but too far away for him to distinguish the words.
He doesn't return that day. It is only after Nimueh has been banished and brought out of Camelot that Uther thinks to ask after his son.
Gaius moves quietly, discreetly; he wishes Gorlois were here, he is the only one who might be successful in reasoning with the king, his friend, but he is back in Tintagel and will be late if he comes. In his isolation, in his chambers which he refuses to leave, Uther, in his biting guilt, dreams of Igraine, speaks of her when Gaius, the only person who's given entrance, passes to check on him: already he forgets all her small faults, remembers her flawless, an angel, a saint, and traitorously murdered.
He will have justice; and he would do justice on himself, as well, for the part he has played in her death by trusting this traitorous witch, he tells Gaius darkly, if it wasn't for her son she has left him, and whom he will raise, and for the land he must serve. Gaius is surprised: he wasn't sure the king remembered either. But on the same evening, after three days of isolation, Uther reappears, dons his crown and returns to his throne, the lines of his face harder; some can see at first glance that mercy has left the kingdom with the queen.
Nimueh is no longer in reach (and could he attack her, in his complicity?), and magic is what Uther turns his rage to, magic, which made this possible, which will threaten his kingdom for as long as it is allowed to exist.
And Gaius leaves quietly, and prepares his escape.
He can only take with him what he can carry, so he has to pick and choose from all the treasures he's been granted; and he hesitates, consciously, before every coloured bottle, wondering if it is one he has acquired the right to take. He will leave no magic, if he can avoid it: stealing medicine would be criminal, but saving ingredients that would end up destroyed otherwise...
Gaius starts at the knock at his door, moves cautiously to open it while praying the king has not yet noticed his short absence, that this is not...
He stumbles back in shock when he sees who it is: the king has never before come to his home; once, he has been here, but only unconscious, when he was so dangerously wounded it would have been madness to waste time transporting him to the castle.
"My lord." He closes the door behind the king, leans against it for a moment, then pushes himself off it bravely. "What can I do for you?"
Uther gives the room a cursory glance.
"You were about to leave," he says; Gaius jumps; he was not expecting Uther, who has been self-absorbed for days now, to notice this fast.
"I have heard that my kind is no longer welcome in this kingdom, my lord," he says, sharper than intended.
Uther turns to him with a frown, but he contains his anger.
"Not you," he says, in a soft voice; Gaius automatically steps closer to hear him. "You tried to warn me. I should have..." He swallows. "I should have listened to you. You are a loyal friend." Uther looks at him intently now, and Gaius feels that something is expected of him, but has no idea what it could be. "I need you."
Gaius thinks he should say something, thank the king for such an acknowledgement, but he can only bow, startled.
"Does this mean," he asks, when Uther says nothing more, "that the laws on magic –"
"I will destroy it," Uther says coldly, then puts a hand on his shoulder and explains intently: "Do you understand, this is not only about Igraine; do you think she was the only one? It is my duty to protect my people from this."
"My lord," Gaius says kindly, "I have studied magic for a long time, and I know –"
"No. Ask anything else from me, but not this. And there is something else." He grabs Gaius' right arm. "I have banned all magic; I cannot make exceptions."
"My lord," Gaius says slowly, "I was about to leave..."
"Swear that you renounce to it," Uther demands, ignoring him. "Forever. Swear."
"Uther," Gaius says quietly.
The king's hand trembles on his arms.
"I cannot – you were the only one who tried to warn me – I need you. Damn you, Gaius," he snaps. "Don't make me beg."
And Gaius swears, out of pity and affection and fear, for there is madness in Uther's gaze. When Uther asks him to never reveal any of it to his son, it seems like a minor addition.
(If he had known then, of all the fires he would have to watch devour his friends without daring to lift a finger to help, he would have sworn still, he was never brave in the face of pain and death, and it would have been out of fear alone, and he might have felt tied by it less. Yet he had never wished for the gift of foresight; he doubted he would have been listened to any better for it.)
The air is cold and humid, and there are no smells of lilies here beneath the earth; someone else would have frozen here, but she doesn't feel the cold anymore than she feels the passing of time. She looks almost as young as she did twenty years ago. Such powers were not meant for her once, but there was no-one else later to receive them. She would give all this and more if it could bring back the ones she lost.
The water is calm and even in the pool before her, the images of the two men – boys still, in a sense – walking down a meadow towards a small river are very clear. The one in the front, well built and well dressed to show it off, walks in easy, relaxed steps, while the one behind, tall and thin and bony, stumbles after him, carrying several indistinct bags, and muttering something; then his left foot gets caught in a bit of a net that's been sliding out of one of the bags; he stumbles harder, jumps on one foot, manages to untangle the net and regain his balance, but drops one of the bags.
The one in the front, sun playing in his golden hair (like Igraine's, she thinks) stops and then turns round slowly; he's grinning, and then saying something which, by the looks of it, makes the other boy shout at him before he picks up the lost bag, and loses another one in the process. The first boy throws his head back and laughs, which prompts the one with the bags to wave his arms around angrily, without dropping anything this time; the first one crosses his arms and shakes his head and says something, before he walks up to the other, heaves up the dropped bag, and continues his way towards the water. The other one looks after him for a moment before following, a stupid, happy, and clearly affectionate smile on his lips.
Nimueh passes her fingers lightly over the water, creating small waves without making the image vanish.
"Merlin, Merlin you fool," she murmurs quietly, and smiles when the boy in question starts and looks around, then shakes his head and walks on. "It is not too late yet. You can still return to your true kin. These ones will only use you and cast you aside. You should pray that he will react with horror when he finds out what you are, and doesn't embrace your magic to blame the consequences of the successes you achieves on his demand on you. You had better pray..."
The two of them have reached the river; the blond one immediately throws himself down in the grass, makes a few wide gestures at his companion, and pretends to close his eyes; Merlin throws him a glare, before proceeding to unpack; as soon as he has his back turned, Arthur's eyes crack open, and the smile that appears on his face as he watches him is just as stupid, happy and loving as Merlin's was.
Fin