Nimulot Encounters: Fire and Water
CH3: Flint to the Fire
A/N: The Cailleach and the Widow will not be part of this story. No spider-swallowing Morgana, no Widow telling Merlin Nimue's name was given (she helped Merlin steal the fey fire, that's it).
"You killed innocents! You're steeped in blood!"
"How many lives have you taken since you picked up that sword?"
"They were murderers. They slaughtered men, women, and children! They burned our villages!"
"You see? You believe your cause is just. I too believed my cause was just. Your thirst for justice, for revenge, you will go the same way I did—that sword will drive you to act on your darkest impulses, and you will become what I became, because you're my kin!"
"I wish to the Gods I was not!"
"But you are!"
Nimue's face-to-face meeting with Merlin was nothing short of traumatic. Seeing what he'd seen, what he'd become... Merlin wanted to destroy the sword, and she was tempted... the way the sword whispered to her... She thought of Lancelot, not the Weeping Monk, but Lancelot. When she remembered their kiss, when she lied to her friends about meeting him, she told herself he was once an innocent fey boy named Lancelot. She had no idea how Lancelot became the Weeping Monk, but she had to believe what was done could be undone. Given this new information, she wondered if she had it all wrong. Were they so compatible because she was turning into a merciless killer too?
"Do you want to talk about it?" Merlin offered. "The trace? That's where your mind has gone."
"No, I'd rather not. Had I known..." Nimue shook her head.
"Ah, I see," Merlin said, laughing softly. It was a cold, mocking laugh. Nimue looked up at him, bemused. "You were caught up in the moment, but you aren't cut out for romance. It's nothing to be ashamed of; I told Lenore I could not be tied down, trace or no trace. She could have become a Shadow Lord. Had she been more ambitious—"
"Enough! Speak ill of my mother again and you will see what the paladins fear, old man."
Vines erupted from the ground and Merlin smiled. Seeing his expression, Nimue immediately calmed and the vines stilled.
"Anger is your flint to the fire, but there are safer ways to draw it out."
"Fear draws it out too, and not just vines and roots. The day before I contacted you, I wielded water for the first time. Strangely, the water was easier to control, and it wasn't aggressive—it was purely defensive magic."
"Fear precedes anger. When given a moment to process fear without pressure, you can shut it down and regain control. Like any cornered animal, your fear will turn to rage if there is no other way out. To master your power, you must learn to draw on it when you are not in immediate danger. When you trust your own abilities, you will not be so easily frightened, so you will not be so easily angered. Come, let me show you." Merlin led Nimue through the ruins to a brittle, dead apple tree.
"See if you can revive this apple tree," Merlin instructed. "Calm yourself, ground yourself, and surrender your intention to the Hidden."
"I can't control it—"
"Try. Call to the Hidden, surrender your intention, and search for a source of power within. It might be a word, a scent, a memory. You'll know it when you feel it. Try."
Nimue did as she was instructed. She imagined roots linking her feet to the earth, energy surging upward through her and then circling back down in a constant flow of give and take. She heard the whispers of the Hidden and she pictured a healthy, fully-matured apple tree. 'Help me create this. I will this to be.' She felt her magic stirring, but it wasn't quite enough. The Hidden made their own request; they agreed to let her manipulate the world around her, but she had to provide the appropriate energy. 'Not anger,' She told herself. 'Not fear...' Nimue let her mind wander and she thought of her lethal mate. 'No, not lethal. Not sharpened and hardened by hateful paladins. The boy he was.' Nimue knew little of the Ash Folk, but she pictured a boy like Squirrel, dark tear-like markings under his eyes, maybe even a weapon in his hand, but a playful twinkle in his eyes. 'The fire in the blue...' She could almost hear him talking, laughing... She heard rustling and snapping and she knew she'd found the right energy source. She could feel her magic connecting to the Hidden, to the earth, and growing outward. Little Lancelot's laughter did not call forth quick and violent magic; like a branch of the apple tree, her magic stretched and unfurled, offering sustenance, offering life... Nimue opened her eyes and marveled at the apple tree before her, branches strong and heavy with fruit.
"I thought of him," Nimue admitted, noting her father's soft smile. Merlin's eyes met hers, brows lifting inquiringly. Nimue hesitated, but there was a residual buoyancy in her, a feeling of levity that made her feel safe. "The—"
"Nimue!"
Nimue and Merlin turned to see Morgana behind them.
"Pendragon soldiers," She warned Nimue. "They've come for you." Nimue rounded on Merlin, all traces of levity gone.
"You betrayed me," she accused. Looking at Merlin, she bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She was genuinely hurt. She'd only just met him, her birth father, but something about what she'd just done with the apple tree—that gentle magic had lowered her defenses. She knew better. Witch. Demon. Marked by Dark gods. Her magic was violent because her tormenters were violent. Though the sword was in its sheath on her back, she could almost feel the ornate pommel in her hand... steel had fallen into her hands for a reason.
"No. I had no idea I was followed—"
"What was it my mother said to you? Let this be the last time I see your face."
Nimue, Morgana, and Kaze rode as swiftly as their horses would carry them. Most of the Pendragon soldiers they'd seen stayed behind with Merlin, few giving chase. Nimue had to wonder if she really had been their target. She wondered if she had been too harsh, but she dismissed the thought when she remembered those soldiers feared Merlin's power. Only she knew his secret: Merlin has lost his magic when her mother took the sword. Slowing, but continuing their journey back toward Numos, they passed through a field flanked by towering cliffs; the horses paused, wary of the passage, but their riders urged them on.
"Brother's Blood," Kaze called it, and she told Nimue and Morgana of the army slaughtered by truly terrifying magic. Nimue felt an odd chill as she considered the maddening fog, her own magic stirring at the thought. She imagined turning the Red Paladins on each other. She could almost see them cutting each other down. She could see their red robes so clearly... too clearly... Nimue gasped.
"Stop," she told her companions. "I can't..." What was happening? Her visions and dreams were normally so arresting, but she wasn't shaking, she wasn't fainting... only her sight had been stolen. "Vision," she whispered when she heard Morgana and Kaze moving closer. "Not a normal vision... I'm... My eyes are elsewhere. Wait..." One of the women laid a bracing hand on her arm.
"What can you see?" Kaze prompted.
"Red Paladins. Armed, but waiting... they're hidden behind trees, watching..." Nimue tried to look around, but when she tried to look to the right, her gaze snapped to something on her left. A child? Nimue's stomach lurched. "Feykind. They're watching a faun child and her family."
"When? Where?" Morgana spoke urgently.
"Now, I think," Nimue answered. "It feels like it's happening now. I... This has never happened before, but I think I'm seeing through someone else's eyes. I can only see what they—the mill!" Nimue exclaimed as her eyes fell on the distinctive structure in the field of grain. "A dozen or so fey, faun and tusk, adults and children—they haven't noticed the paladins, and they're outnumbered!"
"Arthur meant to go guard the mill with the Green Knight," Morgana interjected. "It's got to be an ambush!"
"Nimue, you have to reclaim your sight," Kaze said with calm authority. Releasing Nimue's arm, she grabbed the Sky girl's reins, guiding her horse forward. Nimue still couldn't see, but she balanced herself in the saddle and kicked, urging her horse into a trot.
'Thank you. Enough.' Nimue thanked the Hidden for the warning and tried to break free, but nothing changed. Visions from the Hidden took possession of her entire being; this was something else entirely. The sword on her back was silent and cold. 'Where is this coming from?!' Something in her peripheral vision caught her attention and Nimue stiffened, nearly sliding out of her saddle before frantically righting herself. A grey hood. She could see the hem of a grey hood. The moment she made the connection, her own sight was restored. "I'm back," she told Morgana and Kaze, reclaiming her reins from the latter. "The Weeping Monk is there."
The Weeping Monk scanned the woods, his hand on his blade. Had he heard her voice? No. No, he hadn't, but he could sense her as clearly as if she stood before him. The Monk tried to dismiss his feelings. He told himself her lingering scent was to blame. From the moment her lips touched his, he'd been bewitched. No. No, it was the moment he touched her scars... "Embers," he whispered before he could stop himself. Glancing at his red brothers, he breathed a sigh of relief, as none stood close enough to hear his murmuring. He would not linger over what was not to be.
Hearing approaching horses, the Monk signaled his brothers and walked into the wood. This was not the witch, but the knight approaching, and with him... Arthur. The Weeping Monk let the Green Knight pass him by; the fey warrior was walking right into a trap. The Monk raised his bow and took aim at Arthur. The thief. The incorrigible suitor. He let the arrow fly.
Nimue saw the smoke before she saw the mill. Since she regained her vision, she, Morgana, and Kaze had raced across fields and plains, and finally they weaved through the woods. Dismounting before their movement could be heard, they crept closer to the mill. The Monk and the paladins surrounded the mill, swords drawn. They were waiting for their prey to flee the burning structure. Kaze saw movement first and waved Nimue over, pointing at the doors to the storeroom beneath the ground. Arthur and Gawain stepped out first, but Nimue could see Squirrel right behind them, looking for an opening. "Morgana, Squirrel is going to make a break for it with the survivors. Intercept and take them to the horses." Morgana nodded and slipped away. Nimue drew the sword and called to the Hidden. "I think I can do it," she told Kaze. "Brother's Blood. As soon as you can, get Gawain and Arthur out of there. Avoid the Weeping Monk. Do not engage him." Kaze nodded solemnly and inched forward, ready to run.
'He's Ash Folk,' Nimue thought to herself as she knelt with the sword held before her. She knew little of his kind, but she remembered one thing: Ash Folk were immune to fire and smoke. She refused to acknowledge the sense of relief she felt, knowing her magic would not harm him. He was still her enemy, or so she told herself, even as she felt some small part of her reaching out to him. She watched as he ran toward Arthur and Gawain and she closed her eyes. He meant to harm her friends. He was her enemy, but as her magic seized the smoke and flame before her, that small part of her mind touched his and it whispered, 'I'm sorry, Lancelot.'
Time seemed to stop for a moment. The Monk, over two dozen Red Paladins, Arthur, Gawain—they all stopped to stare as the fire roared, as the smoke undulated and descended like some unearthly snake. Squirrel and the other trapped fey had already sprinted to safety. As the wicked whip of smoke struck the ground, Kaze dashed in and grabbed Arthur and Gawain. As they turned and ran for the cover of the wood, the smoke flooded outward and a paladin screamed, "It's the witch! She's come for us!" Witch. Demon. Marked by Dark Gods. She and her mate were monsters. The clash of metal and the screams of the paladins cutting each other down told her so.