Nimulot Encounters: Fire and Water
CH2: Scent of Magic
The fire in his eyes, his breath mingling with hers, the stream rising around them, dew on their skin... the temptation was already there... When Nimue heard the laughter of children in the tunnel, instinct told her to protect her enemy. The hand on her throat had loosened; the Monk had turned toward the sound. Taking his strong jaw in her hand she pulled him back to her, pressing her lips to his while her other hand pulled down his hood. The Weeping Monk responded immediately, dropping his sword in the water and pulling her closer. One of his hands went to rip the tie out of his hair while his other arm wrapped around her waist. He backed up, pulling Nimue with him until his back hit the opposite wall, hiding his clothing from view entirely. Nimue threw her arms around his shoulders, casually combing his hair with her fingers, making sure the cross on his head was covered. The Monk made it clear he appreciated her attention to detail, capturing her full lower lip between his wide, lightly chapped lips. The soft moan that might have escaped Nimue was drowned out by shrieks of the children spotting them. Their surprise quickly turned to mirth and they were giggling again, the sound amplified, echoing through the tunnels as they ran back the way they came. Listening carefully for anyone else approaching, Nimue kept her arms around the Monk, moving her lips gently over his. His lips returned her soft caress, his callused fingertips returning to her exposed shoulder, tracing her scars. Slowly, they stilled. Slowly, they parted. No one else was coming. The tension was thick and the silence was loud. They stared at each other.
"So..." Nimue finally found her voice. "Shall we call this one a draw? You go on your way, I go on mine?" The Weeping Monk said nothing for a moment. His eyes flickered back down to her lips, then he met her gaze again. Intensely blue. Questioning. Searching.
"Draw," he said softly, the subtle rasp positively arresting. Drawing a breath, he dropped underwater, fetching his discarded weapons. When he resurfaced, Nimue was right where he left her. She hadn't moved an inch, but she averted her eyes to keep herself from staring. Why had she done that? Why had she kissed him? She heard the Monk lifting himself out of the water, but the next thing he said to her fell on deaf ears. She blinked, realizing after a moment that he was still trying to get her attention. "Nimue?" He was calling her name.
"Sorry, what?" Nimue muttered, turning to see the Weeping Monk's extended hand. What was happening? Even as Nimue's mind reeled, she took her enemy's hand, accepting his help. He pulled her out of the water and steadied her as she found her feet. "Thank you," she murmured. Thank you for the hand up? Thank you for not killing me? Nimue was at a loss.
"Thank you," the Monk said softly, his expression ambivalent. Another pregnant pause, then he said, "I'm certain we'll meet again. Until then, Nimue." The Monk turned to leave, walking uphill toward the trees.
"What's your name?" Nimue called out to him before she could stop herself. The Monk stared at her. "If I promise I won't tell anyone?" She pressed. The Monk considered her offer. He started to leave. He started to walk away without answering her, but he stopped only three steps further from the fey witch. "If you promise," he conceded.
"I promise," Nimue gasped. She'd been holding her breath. The moment felt so surreal, so fragile...
"Lancelot," the Monk said softly. "A long time ago, my name was Lancelot... but that time is long past and that boy long dead."
"I won't tell," Nimue promised again. The Weeping Monk nodded and took off at a run, certain he'd fallen under some spell.
An hour later, a Snake Clan couple found Nimue drying off in the sun. She confessed she had no idea how to make her way back through the tunnels. They knew the little girl Nimue had saved at the Red Lake, so they gladly escorted her back, showering her with praise. She was their hero. Their hero... Nimue's stomach twisted, guilt making her ill. If they knew she'd kissed the Weeping Monk...
Morgana found her just before nightfall.
"Yeva sends word: Merlin replied to your letter. Apparently, it arrived just in time to stop his public execution. His relationship with Uther Pendragon is obviously strained, so you can use that to your advantage. When you speak with him tomorrow, you have to hold your ground. You really do hold all the cards now. I think Yeva may actually enjoy helping you, knowing how strongly she feels about Merlin."
"Good," Nimue said, genuinely relieved. "She certainly wasn't happy to see me the first time. She insisted I didn't smell like Sky Folk, and she said my father was right to fear my blood, whatever that means." Though Nimue was wary of facing the old Moon Wing again, her thoughts were elsewhere... with Lancelot.
"Are you alright?" Morgana asked her, noticing her preoccupation.
"Fine," Nimue said brightly.
"No changes I should know about?" Morgana pressed. "No new powers or anything?" Nimue flushed, not in embarrassment, but in anger.
"I knew he would run and tell everyone."
"Now hold on," Morgana said, "he didn't tell everyone, he just told me. He said he really mucked things up with you and he wasn't sure you'd speak to him again without my help. You know how I feel about my brother. I know he's a flirtatious, covetous idiot with a flair for the dramatic, and that's an awful combination. It gets him into a lot of trouble. Nothing you say will surprise me, so just tell me what he's done this time. He only told me he pissed you off enough to make you conjure up a wall of water, or something like that."
"You basically said it," Nimue sighed. "Flirtatious and covetous. I may have flirted a bit when he and I first met, but Pym was with me and the three of us were just having a bit of fun. Even after sharing a flask of bad wine, I stopped him when he tried to kiss me... I headbutted him, actually." Morgana laughed. "I was hesitant to even get in the water with him. I suppose I could have kept my clothes on, but I thought he understood I only wanted to be friends. He didn't do anything, really. He asked for a kiss, and he was so close... I was caught off guard and I panicked. I had no idea I could wield water, but when I asked the Hidden for a wall to cover me while I dressed, the water formed a wall." Morgana smiled understandingly and shook her head.
"He had it coming then. Let him fret about it for a day or two. Do you think you could wield water again?"
"That's why I stayed out there so long," Nimue lied. "Well, that and I had to wait for someone else to come through the caves, but that's why I came back with my clothes wet. I can't really control my magic, I told you as much—it's more like I'm supplying the energy things need to move about on their own. I did get one more wall of water up, but I had to get in the water to do it, and I slipped and cut myself on the rocks when the pools emptied." Nimue felt terrible lying to Morgana, but her human friend could be quite ruthless; telling Morgana about her encounter with the Weeping Monk was not an option.
There was a joining the next day. Nimue soaked in the joyous energy of the event. It was nice to forget about swords and paladins and bloodshed for a while... even if she couldn't forget the Weeping Monk. It was ridiculous, really. He was Father Carden's right hand, a fey-killer, her enemy. Seeng a familiar face lifted Nimue's spirits and shook her from her reverie.
"Squirrel!"
"Nimue!"
Nimue raced over to her little friend, nearly falling into him as she knelt down to his height, hugging him with all her strength. He was alive!
"The Green Knight saved me," Squirrel told her, and Nimue stood as the fey warrior in the entryway removed his ornate helm, setting it aside.
"Gawain?" The knight stared at her for a moment, recognition flashing in his eyes while his smile lit up his face.
"Nimue!" Nimue ran to her old friend and launched herself into his arms. She had no siblings, but she felt like she was welcoming both of her brothers home.
"Merlin?" Her older brother wasted no time, immediately stepping into the roll of her protector. "Nimue, this is the sword of our people. It is a heavy burden to bear, a burden I will take upon myself if you wish to be free of it, but we cannot give such a weapon away. You know I loved Lenore like my own mother, but why would she ask you to give it to Merlin?"
"I don't know, but it was her dying wish. She could have said anything, but this is what she asked of me..." Nimue's epiphany made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, as she felt rather witless. "She knew him. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner—it's the only answer that makes sense. She knew him, and she trusts him even now. That's all that makes sense. That's all I can believe."
"You don't smell like Sky Folk," Yeva greeted Nimue as she had when they first met, scowling at her and circling her once. "You smell of other clans." That was new.
"Numos is overcrowded with fey refugees from many clans," Nimue said politely. Yeva glared, but the old Moon Wing said nothing more on the subject. Dragging Nimue to the center of her nest-hut, she picked up a bowl full of salt, herbs, and small stones. Nimue sat down and Yeva circled her, chanting softly.
"Visions will come," she warned. "Let them come. They will ferry you to the space between."
Nimue's eyes fell closed. Voices whispered to her and visions swam before her.
"It's in your blood, child. Ask your mother the reason."
Of course... It was quite literally in her blood, wasn't it? No Sky Folk had ever wielded such power, and she knew her power was not limited to one element. Why did she have such power? How did her mother know Merlin? Nimue opened her eyes and there the truth stood before her. "You're my father."
The Wolf-Blood Witch was quite young, and quite beautiful. Merlin only had a moment to wonder how this fey girl got caught up in such a dangerous game. As soon as she opened her eyes, she claimed he was her father. Finally taking in the room, he felt a chill. Dewdenn. Lenore. If the girl's claim was true, she'd been conceived in this very room. "You're the daughter of Lenore?"
"Yes."
"She gave you the sword?"
"Yes. It was her dying wish that I bring the sword to you. I didn't understand... She never told me about you. The man I believed to be my father, he knew the truth. As my power grew, our family fell apart. He must have known all along that I wasn't his."
"Well, I'm widely regarded as a traitor to my kind, but I am fey," Merlin said simply. "My time with Lenore left a trace."
"A trace?" Nimue asked, confused.
"Yes, a trace—she left a trace on me, and it does go both ways." Nimue said nothing, her bewilderment quite plain. Merlin shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the various rings on his fingers. "Sky Folk," he grumbled at last. "Isolated, repressed, and judgmental. You must have been miserable. I am truly sorry... I'm sorry, dear, what name were you given?"
"Nimue."
"A beautiful name," Merlin said, smiling warmly. "Nimue, you were born into a clan with more human traditions than any other clan. Betrothals? Human tradition. Yes, it's a human tradition every fey clan has come to embrace, but the trace is nature's betrothal—a mating ritual of sorts. Mating is animal and mating is fey. Sky Folk are taught to resist their baser instincts, and in doing so they cut off one of their extra senses entirely. All fey are born with the ability to detect essential compatibility. One touch, and we can identify potential enemies, potential friends, and potential mates. When we touch a potential mate, our instincts scream at us to make more intimate contact. Why is 'true love's kiss' so often referenced in fairytales? Because of the trace. When two fey kiss, if their compatibility is strong, if 'happily ever after' is a possibility, their scents change. They each absorb the scent of their potential mate. It's very subtle. Only fey from certain clans can actually smell the difference, but many can sense the change." Merlin walked closer to Nimue, giving her a bracing look. "I know this is a lot to take in, but I can feel our connection fading, so... As your father, I must warn you there is a trace on you. I didn't know there were any Ash Folk left in these lands, but you found one of them, or perhaps I should say he found you; the senses of the Ash Folk are unparalleled. He was likely drawn to you from the moment he caught your scent."