Nimulot Encounters: Fire and Water
CH6: Ash and Sky
"It's not as bad as it looks," Lancelot groaned, raising his head to meet Nimue's eyes with his own. His hood had fallen away, and though Merlin's rain had stopped as abruptly as it had begun, his hair was soaked and water dripped down his face, washing away streaks of blood not his own. "And don't blame the boy. I paid a small price for a secret we kept too long. Salt has done far worse, many times over the years." Lancelot flinched as he rose to his full height, but he stripped his arms from the shoulders of Gawain and Kaze. Wary of the angry eyes watching them, Nimue took one of his hands and pulled him forward. Gawain shut the gate while Kaze positioned herself between Lancelot and the angry fey warriors. Nimue noticed they were all wounded, but all visible cuts were shallow and in odd places. Lancelot's wounds were deeper, the worst of them on his chest and shoulders.
"There were a couple paladins out there," Squirrel said. "Scouts or something. They saw me and tried to grab me. He attacked them. He was helping me, but everyone heard the fight and came running, and they attacked him."
"We didn't know you were mated," a tusk warrior grumbled. There were gasps all around.
"Yes, we're mated," Nimue announced, carefully wrapping an arm around Lancelot, standing tall beside him, "and we had good reason to keep our relationship hidden. Believe it or not, we all owe him our lives. He warned me when the Red Paladins were preparing to attack Numos. It's thanks to him we made it here, and that is all you need know right now. Gawain, Kaze, please see our wounded warriors to the infirmary. I will tend to my mate personally. We will reconvene tomorrow morning, at which time I will address our people formally regarding this matter. I do apologize to everyone who came to harm tonight because of our secret. For now, I bid you all good night, may the Hidden speed your healing."
"Fey Queen indeed," Lancelot whispered as Nimue guided him to the small bedroom she'd selected for herself near the throne room. "I admit I doubted their devotion to you when they were not ready to defend you at the gate, but it speaks volumes that they follow your command without pause when angered." Lancelot's breathing was labored, his voice pained as he spoke, but he was making a valiant effort to ease the guilt he saw in Nimue's eyes. "This wasn't your fault," he finally spoke plainly.
"But it is," Nimue said as she removed his cloak and helped him into a chair by the small washroom. He unhooked his belt and set his weapons on the ground beside him. "Tell me why I didn't feel this through the bond. You felt it each time the sword drained me. I could even feel you trying to look when I tried to heal someone after I regained consciousness. At about the same time this attack must have happened, I was trying to heal my father, straining myself again when all he had to do was draw the sword himself; his magic was restored and he healed himself. Had I not worn myself so thin, I probably would have seen through your eyes. I could have prevented this."
"How so?" Lancelot asked, allowing her to peel off his bloody tunic, though he tried to keep his back in shadow. "The whole mess was over and done with in less time than it would have taken you to reach me on foot. Roots and vines? Walls of water? As you said, you have not yet recovered enough for that, though I did notice you did some redecorating in the square." Nimue blinked, surprised by his sudden change of tone, by the light in his eyes.
"Oh, that," she laughed after a moment. "Growing food—growing edible and medicinal plants, I should say—that type of magic doesn't drain me. Now that I think about it, I'm surprised that magic didn't connect us somehow. After all, I have to think of you to do it." Nimue hid her nerves well, blotting at Lancelot's wounds with a clean, wet cloth, but he caught her hand following that admission, stilling her movements until she met his eyes again.
"That type of magic is nothing short of miraculous, and you think of me when you use it?" He sounded both incredulous and shyly flirtatious. Nimue broke away from him to rinse the cloth. Her hands trembled slightly when she moved to clean the fresh wounds on his back. He tensed, but he allowed it. Nimue said nothing about the old scars from his lashings, but a chill ran up Lancelot's spine when her fingers tentatively traced some of the curved, layered markings.
"The first time was right after we met. I knew your real name, and I used that. I imagined what you might've been like as a boy, back before... all of this..." Nimue's breath caught and Lancelot could smell her tears. He caught her hand again and pulled her around so she stood facing him again. Reaching up slowly, he wiped away the two tears that had fallen to her jawline, one of his thumbs barely grazing one corner of her lips. "In Numos, I... I tried to use other memories. I was afraid to let myself feel too much for you, but when I looked at Squirrel, Percival, the boy you saved tonight, I imagined him with your eyes and your markings and everything grew. Here, today... Father told me he spoke to you, that you were coming, and... well, you saw it. I redecorated the square, as you said."
Nimue had initiated their first kiss. Lancelot had seized the chance to kiss her a second time. Their third kiss just happened. As naturally and involuntarily as they looked through each others eyes, they came together. Nimue bent down at first, carefully avoiding Lancelot's wounds, but he was too accustomed to ignoring physical pain to hold himself back for long. No longer worried about being caught together, they could fully appreciate the way their lips moved together. Lancelot finally allowed himself to appreciate the complexity of his mate's scent, no longer hunting her, no longer leading paladins away from her—the loamy scent of Sky Folk, petrichor, the subtle sweetness of wildflowers, the hint of resin from her father, and a kiss of his own scent—he dipped lower, gently kissing her neck again as he inhaled the scent of his long lost home. Nimue gasped as she had before, reflexively clutching his bare shoulders only to recoil when her fingertips came back wet with blood.
"Wait," she whispered, even as she moved to kiss his lips once more. She made herself step back and she was momentarily lost in his eyes, blue as her own, enhanced by his contrasting markings. As he stood before her again, she stood on her toes to kiss the markings on his cheeks. "I don't want to worry about hurting you." Lancelot sighed and sank back down into the chair behind him.
"No matter how careful I am, I'll hurt you, won't I?" Nimue blushed, but she didn't look away. She stepped closer, between his legs, and after a brief pause his hands found her hips, holding her in place.
"I'm told that passes quickly," She said softly, reassuringly. "And it's just once, then it's done. Look at you. Every move we make would hurt you." As passion dimmed, concern flared to life once more, and Nimue's magic reached out to heal her mate before she made a conscious choice to call to the Hidden.
"No, you need rest," Lancelot objected when he saw the delicate green vines taking up residence on her face and neck.
"I'm not doing it deliberately," Nimue responded quietly, thoughtfully, taking note of how her magic felt flowing through her body. "I'm alright... It's not draining me. I don't feel dizzy or faint. It feels like..." It was flowing upward through her, as if coming from invisible roots. Nimue laughed. "Of course it's safe. I'm thinking of you." Lancelot smiled up at her, his curious fingers moving up to feel the green markings on her face. "You're the exception. You're my stable flint to the fire." Nimue giggled. She truly giggled like a giddy girl. "Of course you are. My Ash mate."
Lancelot tensed for the briefest moment as her magic connected. He nearly laughed with her. She had become his obsession so easily. From the moment he saw the wolves outside Dewdenn, he'd been fascinated. Seeing what her power had done to Odo, the challenge she presented had excited him. He could finally admit to himself that her scent had bewitched him from the start. Since that day, he had been consumed by thoughts of the Wolf-Blood Witch. She'd evaded him, frustrated him, she'd taunted and distracted him. He'd wondered when his turn would come, when he'd feel the touch of her magic. He was sure the vines that reached for him the day they met would have felt nothing like this. It felt like he was being bathed in flame, in the most pleasant and comforting way. Waves of warmth danced over his skin, lapping at his open wounds until they were expertly, effortlessly tempered and welded shut. A moan of pleasure escaped him before he could contain it. He tensed again as he heard Father Carden in his head—demon, sinner, abomination, impure. Sensing where her mate's mind had gone, Nimue inched closer, her outer thighs brushing against his inner thighs. His hands flew to her hips again and his eyes pierced hers.
Lancelot was completely healed. Scars from his old wounds remained, but as Nimue had confessed to Arthur while her mate listened out of sight, she rather fancied men with scars. She didn't want to think about the cruel whippings he'd endured, but there was no denying the shirtless man before her was a warrior. His scars, the defined muscles in his arms, his chest, and on downward... Nimue stepped back as a foreign heat filled her being. Lancelot automatically stood and moved with her. Like her, he was entering new territory, but this dance had become second nature—cat and mouse, hunter and prey—she moved and he followed. Acting on instinct, Nimue took his hand and pulled him closer, only to spin to the side and evade him. Still acting on impulse, she sat in the chair he'd vacated, a playful glint in her eyes. This too had become part of their dance. When he thought he had her, she did something unexpected, distracting and challenging him, curiosity consistently overpowering fear. He was no longer her enemy, but still such a mystery. How would he respond? What would he do? He stared at her for a moment, then his eyes flickered down to the weapons he'd set aside. Nimue dove for the belt while he lunged, stepping on the leather and dragging it away from her. She still managed to pull his dagger from its sheath. A familiar dance indeed, they both smiled at the shared memory even as he knelt down to draw his sword. Facing no real threat, he drew the blade slowly, noting the new scent renting the air—his mate was a rare, courageous creature, the prospect of a play-fight making her so desirous.
"Do you think you can reach me?" He challenged softly, confidently, knowing exactly what the sound of his voice did to her; she shivered agreeably, just as she had before.
"You have the longer blade." He was unprepared for the seductive purr she unleashed on him. She'd employed flirtation in her attempts to distract him, but never with such commitment. She lunged and his parry was almost too slow. The minx knew she'd shocked him. Two could play at that game. Not once before had he moved to strike first, not against her, so he did. Quickly stepping to her left side and bringing his sword up in a sweeping arc, he startled her so she stumbled backward, giving him just enough room to complete the arc, bringing his blade down on her right side. Nimue brought the dagger in her right hand up quickly, but she'd lost all leverage. Blocking his strike, she was forced backward again. When his sword caught her crossbar, she should have dropped the dagger, but she surprised him again, dropping down to one knee and turning so she could free the dagger and swing it toward his legs. Though the space barely allowed for it, he flipped to dodge her sweeping arm, lightly tapping her right shoulder with the flat of his blade as he landed on his feet.
"You have good instincts," he praised. "Few would avoid disarmament in that position. Your weakness lies in your footwork."
"You'll have to train me," Nimue replied, rising slowly, Lancelot's sword still resting on her shoulder. He knew she wasn't giving in so easily. "Whatever happens with the Sword of Power, the Red Paladins will still come for me. I have no intention of standing idle while my people defend me."
"Strike with magic whenever you're able. I've seen through your eyes how you move in a real fight. You have potential, but proper training will take time."
"We have time," Nimue said, smiling. "We'll waste no more time hiding." As she had the day they met, Nimue grabbed Lancelot's arm and forced it upward. Armed with his dagger this time, she swung it downward to prevent his sweeping kick as she stepped around him. She still failed to throw him off balance, and he whirled as soon as the dagger passed him, freeing his sword arm and pushing her toward the nearest wall with his free hand. Again, her footwork failed her; her momentum already carrying her toward the wall, his light push sent her flying in that direction. Lancelot leapt forward and caught her around the shoulders, protecting her from some of the impact while also moving close enough to pin her against the wall with his body.
"Rule number one," he breathed in her ear, "never drop your weapon. Well done, but I've won." Nimue's clothing had shifted just enough to reveal the tip of one of her demon scars. Lancelot dipped his head down so his lips grazed the mark as he spoke. "Will you show me the embers in your skin?" He surprised himself with his own forwardness, but their casual sparring put him at ease, and he'd been fascinated by her scars since he'd first glimpsed them. For once, Nimue was eager to show them off in their entirety. Surrendering Lancelot's dagger back to him, she loosened the ties of her tunic, pushing it off her shoulders so it fell around her feet. Drawing the shirt beneath it over her head, she held the thin garment against the front of her body while her mate got his first unobstructed view of her bare back.
Lancelot was silent for a long moment, gently lifting her walnut hair out of the way, draping it over her right shoulder. The scars were longer and broader than he'd imagined, extending downward from her left shoulder, curving slightly toward her right hip. "Five?" He murmured.
"Five," Nimue confirmed.
Such a small child attacked by a creature with claws so large... the demon could have stepped on her and crushed her. Lancelot fought back a rush of shame; Father Carden had poisoned his mind against the fey, even referring to him, Lancelot, as demon-born, while Nimue was forced to fight and kill a demon the likes of which no Red Paladin had ever seen. Pushing those dark and morbid thoughts from his mind, noticing Nimue was shifting uncomfortably, he reached out to trace her scars with his fingertips as she had traced his. The faint red shimmer wasn't as clear indoors as it was in sunlight, but urging Nimue to step back from the wall, he guided her into the brightest firelight and his breath caught. The almost black color of the scars sharply contrasted her fair skin, and the ember-like glow caused by thin, shining streaks of dark red... "Beautiful," He whispered. "The thought of you in such pain cuts me to my core, but your battle wounds are beautiful." He let his fingers wander, following the curve of the scars down to her hip before he brought them back up her side, moving forward at the waist until the shirt she held to her chest brushed the back of his hand. "You are so beautiful, Fey Queen."
"Don't use that title now," Nimue said somewhat shakily, turning to face her mate, stepping out of the tunic pooled around her feet. "I've waited too long to call you Lancelot, and since you first spoke my given name, I've dreamt of little else."
"Nimue," Lancelot spoke softly, reverently, his gravely voice her undoing as his lips found hers again. She dropped the shirt she held, and his hand on her waist pulled her body against his, her bare breasts crushed against his bare chest while they each reached around to trace each other's scars. Without making a conscious choice to do so, they stripped themselves of their remaining clothing and fell onto the bed, Nimue on top of Lancelot. Their joining was the embodiment of a bountiful harvest taking root in winter-hardened earth. He was her steady source of nourishment, and she was all that grew soft, plump, and beautiful. Nimue was the tempting apple, and that exquisite epiphany made Lancelot cast all his old beliefs aside. If this was damnation, he'd walk through Hell unharmed by the flame, and he would guard her for eternity. "I will call you whatever you wish," he said as their dance came to completion, their faces turned upward as if to worship the sun, "so long as I can call you mine."
"Lancelot," Nimue whispered breathlessly. "My Lancelot," she whispered again, kissing the markings on his cheeks. "Whatever the dawn brings, no matter what happens next..." Nimue pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. "I'm yours."
End
A/N: That's it for this one, a little mate-trope fic about the ignition and culmination of a Nimulot romance. NE: Bait will follow the season 1 canon more closely, incorporating more realistic scenes for a slow burn. Thanks for reading!