the beast and dragon, adored (part2)
title: the beast and dragon, adored
chars: Nimueh, Morgause (background Nimueh/Ygraine)
genre: gen
summary: The misadventures of sorceresses-in-training
PART ONE
PART TWO
Nimueh never quite appreciated how special the Isle of the Blessed was. She understands that now, because it's empty. She used to take it for granted; treat it as an anchor, flitting back and forth between the shores, dabbling with the outside world before returning to her home and the permanence of the magic. When the ordinary humans became too mundane, she could find comfort in the ongoing lives of the priestesses, and challenge herself with the arts.
Now that she has to stay here, hidden, it feels like a cemetery. The magic is still in the air but it's muted, as if it can sense the hostility towards it. The castle is empty, and the old stones seem to creak beneath her feet. She finds herself wandering from one room to another, and every now and then she finds unclosed books or upturned chairs or old clothes, just as they were left in the panic that must have befallen the sisters. Sometimes, as she's sifting through the chambers and straightening furniture, she thinks she hears voices - the sound of movement and women in the hallway - but when she skids the spot, heart thumping, she finds only small animals, or the murmur of old magic in the breeze.
And one time, it's Morgause, clattering about in the dining room with a sword.
Nimueh comes to realise, quite quickly, that's Morgause's penchant for swordplay is serious. What she had once dismissed as a childish fondness for faffing around hitting people with a stick seems to have become a point of obssession in her absence: Morgause spends a few hours everyday practising moves. Nimueh watches her from the window, and sees Gorlois' grace in the way she handles the sword, an ease and confidence that could only come from a warrior's lineage.
It's one of many things Nimueh feels ill-equipped to deal with. She's seen battles and watched the finest in the kingdom win wars with their weapons and armies, but she has never been able to wield one. She helped Uther with the fire of her magic, but she's never been a soldier. She's not even convinced, given Uther's instant war-like stance on magic, that fighting is particularly condusive to personality. She watches Morgause slice her blade through the air then trip over her shield, and doesn't know how to help her. She doesn't know if she wants to.
She retreats to the old medicinal tower, and starts sorting out the potions, green bottles from blue, poisons from antidotes. Later, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, Morgause joins her.
"What you doing?" she asks, sitting atop a table and swinging her legs.
"Nothing much," replies Nimueh. "Bit of tidying. How was your practise?"
"I can't get my feint right," admits Morgause, picking at her lower lip. "It's well annoying. I'll never be able to defeat anyone."
"That's why you should never rely on swords," says Nimueh, shrugging.
"Is that why you hung around with my dad and Uther?" Morgause's tone is dry, but the words catch Nimueh off-guard and she drops the bottle she's holding. The potion sizzles into the old wood, and Nimueh hisses out a curse.
"Sorry," says Morgause quickly. "I didn't mean -- sorry."
Nimueh remembers that Morgause is only still a kid with package-sarcasm, and forces herself to take a slow breath. "It's fine," she says, and makes an effort to smile. "Don't worry." She starts mopping up the spillage, and looks up to see Morgause watching her with a furrowed brow. "Honestly."
"Well then," says Morgause, and jumps abruptly off the table, "you going to tell me what these potions are?"
+
She's not depressed. And having Morgause around definitely makes things better; she can't imagine the thought of being stuck on this island on her own. They're cobbling their life back together; she's even started regrowing Helen's old herb patch.
But a month ago, she was a respected member of one of the most powerful courts in the country.
Now she has to worry about organising meals three times a day.
And she found Elevera's ugly robes the other day, and wound up getting stupidly emotional until Morgause came clattering in asking about goblin encampments.
+
Morgause comes to Nimueh's tower one morning with a stubborn expression. Nimueh sighs, and puts down her bubble of magic.
"What is it?" she asks, wary.
"In Cornwall," begins Morgause, which isn't promising, "I remember we had pets."
Nimueh stares at her blankly. "Pets."
"You know. Animals. Domesticated ones. To keep and feed and talk to."
Nimueh presses her hands to her temples. "You want one of these things."
Morgause gives her widest and most disarming smile.
"No," decides Nimueh. "You're getting spoilt; I give you everything you want these days. Besides, you won't look after it, and I'm not having a rabbit or something die on me. No, no pets."
"You have that weird afanc thing!"
"That's not a pet, that's a friend."
"Well, exactly!"
Morgause stamps out, and Nimueh pretends she doesn't hear liferuiner as the door slams. Her bubble pops, and Nimueh sighs. There's little more she wants to do any more, and she spends the rest of the morning brooding over Camelot. The brooding would be all right if it involved expressing her negative feelings in some creative manner, but it mostly just means she stares at her scrying bowl and watches Gaius and Uther sit together in the council rooms, while Ygraine's son crawls around backwards and beats people up with wooden sticks. The similarity between him and his half-sister is uncanny. As it is, she suddenly realises it's long past midday, and unless Morgause has figured out to cook a basic meal, the girl is probably sulking hungrily in some remote corner of the island. Nimueh winces, then shakes herself. There was a time she was definitely more productive than she currently is. This inaction - she stares ruefully at the watery image of the Uther's knights training - will be her undoing.
She rattles up some manner of lunch and seeks Morgause, who's sitting on a rock that overlooks the water, arms wrapped around her skinny knees. She doesn't acknowledge Nimueh, and pouts out at the churning waves.
"I haven't left this island since I came to it," is all she says.
Nimueh considers this, then settles down by the girl. "How do you feel," she says, "about getting that pet? I've got one in mind."
*
"Let me get this straight," says Morgause, who's having difficulty dealing with the idea they've embarked on as well as the fact she's on mainland for the first time in six years. She's darting looks all around the forest, and everytime she puts a foot on the muddy ground she acquires an expression of undue rapture. "We're releasing --" She gasps, as they clamber over a grassy hillock - "we're releasing a dragon."
"Yup," says Nimueh gleefully. "Do keep up."
"I was thinking - I don't know - a dog or cat or horse or something. Not some -- "
"This isn't some old dragon. His name is Kilgarrah,and he's a great dragon."
"Oh, okay. A great dragon. And it's just... behind bars somewhere?"
"Figuratively. Wherein the bars are an underground cavern, and the lock and key is the evil tyrant in the castle."
"You mean Uther Pendragon."
"And his cowardly dirtbag of an accomplice."
"Yes, and Gaius. Look, before we get too distracted - how are we smuggling a dragon out of a castle?" Morgause's careful words are entirely belied by her expression: she's grinning like an idiot and her sooty eyes are sparkling. She's pulled her hair into a tight plait for the journey, and it warms Nimueh's heart to see her so excited. It occurs to her that the girl's never quite got her fair share of adventures. With renewed determination, Nimueh resolves to fix this over the upcoming months.
*
She knows that Camelot's defences against magic will be strong at the moment, so her plan involves enchanting the castle, scorchign the gueards, and releasing the fire on Kilgarrah's chains.
It sort of goes like that, only the knights see her coming, recognise her, and outnumber her with swords. It's to Morgause's credit that she ducks into the shadows and manages to thunk the one running off to raise the alarm on the head. Then it becomes a case of Nimueh releasing an instant darkness that blinds their attackers. She sees a wisp of Morgause's hair in the black, and chivvies her towards the stairs, leaving the knights stumbling about.
Then, with a single word, she crashes the ceiling down and creates a rocky wall between them and the underground cavern.
"Nice," says Morgause fervently.
"Oh," says Nimueh, trying to be causual. "Just a bit of silliness. Come on, and watch your head."
*
Kilgarrah is waiting for them, vast and imperious. He stands upon a raised rock in the glittering cavern, and watches them come forward with golden eyes. Nimueh, who has seen all manner of things in her life and considers herself good at being unruffled, is taken aback by how beautiful he is; beside her, she can feel Morgause trembling in the face of his power.
"And are you Uther's soldiers, come to gawp?" asks the dragon haughtily, his voice filling the prison and resonating so loudly Nimueh feels it shake her blood.
"I have no alliance with this kingdom," she replies, willing her voice to stay firm. "But we would help you."
The dragon chuckles then, a soft patronising sound. "I do not look for aid in two feeble children who wonder in by mistake."
"I don't think you realise," says Nimueh, stung, and stands tall, and flares her torch so the light reaches every corner of the cavern. "I am the High Priestess of the Old Religion. And I am here to liberate you."
She gets such a kick out of doing that.
The dragon regards her long, then finally inclines his great head. "Well met, Priestess," he says. "And I thank you. But it is not my destiny to be freed at your hand."
"You prehistoric idiot," says Nimueh, dropping the status. "You'll never get an opportunity like this again. Come on with us and forget about destiny. It won't serve you well."
"Maybe not, Priestess," says the dragon, with what looks worryingly like a patient smile. Flipping hell, she's talking to a reptilian Helen. "It may be years till I taste the open skies. But I must forge the paths of the world first, and shape the Camelot that will be."
"He talks a lot of rubbish, doesn't he," murmurs Morgause.
Nimueh takes a second to deceipher it all. "If you're going to start nattering to the young Pendragon, I wouldn't bother," she tells him. "I'm going to kill him the moment he's old enough to win his first tournament. Then I'll finish Camelot."
"You must not do that," commands the dragon. Nimueh feels a stab of irritation; she really thought the orders in hierarchy would cease when Uther had killed everyone she knew on both sides of the ladder. "Arthur Pendragon's fate does not lie in your hands. Swear to me you will not bring about his end."
"Are you going soft, Kilgarrah?" Nimeuh inquires acidly. "I'll finish who I want, just as Uther Pendragon did."
"Swear it!" The dragon starts to roar then, really ear-shatteringly brain-frazzlingingly loudly, and Morgause squeezes her eyes shut and looks like she's about to combust in pain so Nimueh yells out,
"Fine, fine, I'll do it. Just shut up. I promise I won't kill Arthur Pendragon."
The dragon settles down, docile one again.
"It is appreciated," he tells them sweetly.
"Oh, just fucking fuck off, you scaly bastard," says Nimueh, and grabs Morgause by the hand and leaves the cavern.
*
"Are you usually better at adventures?" inquires Morgause, as they sit atop a hillside and share some bread.
"Much," Nimueh assures her.
"Still," says Morgause, looking cheerful. "We could have rescued it. That's something, eh?"
"Yeah," says Nimueh, and starts to grin. "It's actually a pretty awesome something."
*
And after that, they never stay on the island that long.
*
"Go on," urges Nimueh. "That knight there. Get him."
"I can't," whispers Morgause, her eyes fixed on the prancing fellow and his prancing horse.
"It's easy, just -- " Nimueh whispers the words into Morgause's ear again. She shudders.
"It's killing," she whispers, agonised.
"It's one Camelot knight, don't be such a wuss."
Morgause glares at Nimueh, then jumps up from behind the bush and shrieks out the words at the startled knight.
Horse and knight falls like a brick, and Nimueh cheers and joins Morgause.
"You did it!" she celebrates, and swings her into a great hug. "You utter star!"
Morgause looks a little stunned. "I guess I did," she says.
Nimueh's about to suggest a celebratory drink when there's a sound from behind them. They both turn, nonplussed. The knight is lying, perfectly still, but then Nimueh stoops to examine him.
"What is it?" asks Morgause nervously, standing on one foot then another. "Did I do it wrong? Is he in pain?"
"He's asleep," says Nimueh, pained. "You've put him and his horse to sleep."
"Oh," says Morgause, and looks flummoxed. "How did that happen?"
"No idea. Just... undo it."
"I can't."
Nimueh stares at her, exasperated. "What do you mean, you can't?
"Well, I don't know what I did. So I can't take it back."
Nimueh looks back at the knight. "We can't leave him here."
"Why not?"
"He's sleeping. What kind of powerful sorceress leaves someone asleep? Morgause, you're going to single-handedly bring down the reputation of the Old Religion!"
"I didn't mean to." Morgause look a little mutinous. "I didn't even want to kill him, you're the one who gets all spell-happy every time you see someone wearing a red cloak."
"Don't blame your magical ineptitude on my deep-seated problems!"
+
Then there's the time they go bathing in that big old lake and Nimueh provokes Morgause into a riotous magical duel. Sparks fly all over the place, water plants explode, fish grow wings, lapping waters are encouraged into rocking waves, and an enjoyable time is had by all till they declare their inevitable truce.
And when they leave the lake, if it looks a bit more twinkly and magical than when they first entered, they assume it's just a bit of natural cause and effect.
+
Morgause also develops a peculiarly human habit of challenging people who offend her. Nimueh doesn't quite know what to do about it, especially because Morgause is an awkward fifteen year old taking on hulking bearded men and gets beaten an awful lot. Still, she thinks critically, watching Morgause swing up from the ground and twist her sword round to slice the back of her opponent's leg, at least there's some improvement.
And by the time Morgause is older, with all limbs getting to the right size and a fierce precision in the way she wields her sword and takes her steps, she wins almost every challenge she takes on. Then there's the undeniable time that some nimrod of a passing bandit managed to knock Nimueh on the head and truss her up, and it was only Morgause charging in with her sword and clinking mail that allowed for Nimueh's freedom, rather than inevitable use as barter with bounty hunters.
It's taken many years, but Nimueh finally decides it's a good trick to have in your arsenal. So sometimes she pays people to insult Morgause. Just to keep her in practise.
+
It's not say that they don't spend any time on the Isle. In the winter months, when disagreeable things like wind and hail and snow happen, it makes much more sense to stay in their castle. Nimueh always feels a bit blue around winter anyway -- it reminds her of the final few months in Camelot leading up up to the Purge -- and she prefers to curl up the fire and make up spells, and revel in the illegality of her existence. Morgause is a touch more disciplined, and keeps up her rigorous training; in her spare hours she reads the collection of books in the Great Library that Nimueh has always rather ignored.
She does explode part of the castle one year. But that's by accident (apparently those two spell components don't go together), and when Morgause emerges from the rubble, dishevelled and bemused, and says, "Need a hand fixing it?", Nimueh looks about her and replies,
"Let's leave it, actually. Looks atmospheric."
Morgause rolls her eyes.
"You are sheer style," she says. Nimueh smiles, and pulls her skirt out from beneath a crumbling tower.
+
The druid camps; they cause a bit of bother. Well, in that they pass one in the forest one damp spring evening, and stop over for a meal, and Nimueh almost gets seduced by soup and terms like peace and coexistence. And Morgause actually gets seduced.
"It's been a long journey, hasn't it," says the druid leader as Nimueh tears into her bread. "How long have you been wondering, hunted and alone?"
"S'not that bad," replies Nimueh, and eyes him. Druids usually look the same to her, sweet temper and pastel-shades, but this one - Faran, he calls himself - is strangely compelling. His eyes are keen and there's a hint of both wisdom and survival about him. He smiles at her and says, "You've been brave, Priestess. Braver than I since we went into hiding."
Nimueh looks about. "Where's Morgause?"
"I saw her with my son, Aglain. I'm sure they're fine."
"Fair enough." Nimueh turns back to Faran. "You were shamelessly flattering me, don't let me stop you."
Faran says, "You could stay with us. Your magic is powerful, and amongst us you wouldn't need to hide. We don't fight Uther, and live in peace in these forests. A strange harmony has been achieved, as long as don't breach one another's borders. Amongst us, you would have many friends."
"You do make good soup," says Nimueh. "I've never been able to get the consistency right."
"We have all had to learn things since the Purge," agrees Faran solemnly, and Nimueh has to fight not to grin. Maybe it's because she's had a very tiring day, or because for once Morgause isn't with her, or perhaps it's just long due, but she finds herself relaxing in his company. She thinks, she could trust him. And it would be nice to be able to sleep without having to put up complicated protection spells.
"I do miss having friends, sometimes," she admits, finally, and Faran reaches out to pat her shoulder.
Fortunately, morning happens. Nimueh awakes by the fireside feeling vaguely guilty, and Morgause emerges from a tent with unkempt hair and a slightly sheepish expression, followed by a boy quite identical to his father.
"Druids," says Nimueh, startled. "Bloody hell."
"He's nice," says Morgause stubbornly. "Can he come with us?"
"You could stay here," says the boy. "A life of peace."
"He keeps saying things like that," says Morgause, and takes his hand. "I like it."
Nimueh thinks for a few seconds. "Do you really, though?" she asks. "I mean, it sounds good when he and his dad say it on an off-day, but think about it. Stuck in this forest? No dodgy magic or mythical beasts or trouble? Lots of love and herbs?"
"We have really big scorpions," points out the boy, inconsequentially.
"And sometimes we disagree," says Faran, popping up from his own tent and yawning. "It's always exciting when that happens. Stay, Nimueh. Please."
Nimueh flickers a look at him, and can’t help the surge of affection for the sleepy smile he offers. But she turns from them both and raises her eyebrows at Morgause, who bites her lip and stares at the smoking fire.
"I suppose," she says eventually, "I'd rather be on the move. Sorry," she adds, and squeezes the boy's hand. "I don't think I'd be any good at not getting into trouble."
Nimueh gets her cloak.
+
"It's just as well," says Nimueh, as they head to the local tavern, both slightly quiet for reasons they can’t explain. "We'd have never got on with their no bothering Uther policies. Besides, we're like lone wolves... stalking the land of Camelot till magic is returned. Um, to our pack."
"He was pretty," mourns Morgause, and everything she says for the next fortnight is of a similar depth.
+
And then there are the times they cause revolutions, or put a lot of effort into trying. It usually happens when they find a group of magic hermits sitting round a fire and bitching about Uther.
"I used to be just like you," Nimueh declares, studiously avoiding Morgause's eyes. "But you should realise that this will accomplish nothing. Join us, and together we can change the rule of Camelot."
(Although after a while, they realise they have a bigger problem on their hands --
"Did you have to be so sociable?" gasps Morgause, as they flee from yet another encampent that recognises Nimueh and her part in the Purge --
so they spend the following week figuring out how to disguise Nimueh's appearance.)
From all accounts and purposes, the revolutions aren't exactly rocking Uther's dictatorship, but they do provide a constant source of irritation. It's almost the same thing.
+
They don't get an awful lot done, but it's fun trying.
And if they find weird creatures, they almost always put them on the path to Camelot.
+
"Hey, kid." Nimueh shouts out as she clambers up a foresty hill, and Morgause stands up and waves from where she's been stirring a pot by their tents. The twilight is fast descending upon them. "Got you something from the market."
"What's this?" asks Morgause rushing forward and taking the proffered packaged item.
"Just... something you desperately need." Nimueh eyes the dyed woollen smock Morgause is tramping around in, thigh-high and deeply impractical for the turning autumn.
Morgause unfolds the linen dress.
"It's red," she points out, smiling.
"Yeah, well, only colour they had. I'm not saying you're ready yet -- and it's not exactly silk or brocade -- or anything, really."
"All in good time." Morgause dashes into the tent to pull it on and when she emerges, swinging out with her long hair loose around her shoulders, Nimueh suddenly realises that the girl has grown up, limbs finally all in proportion and quite like her mother's. Something pulls at her stomach, her muscles wind in and it takes all her will not to reach out and hold her, and try to find what she lost, so long ago. She wonders if maybe this is what it is to get older.
That evening, they sit by the fire and share the pot of of stew, and talk.
"You were born on the island, weren't you?" asks Morgause, apropos of nothing and following a fiery discussion on which house will win Etheldred's annual tournament.
Nimueh blinks. "Yeah," she says cautiously.
"Did you ever know your mother or father?"
Nimueh eyes Morgause. "My mother died in childbirth," she says, feeling as disconnected as she ever does about the subject. "My dad was apparently some warlock, but he left for Ireland long before I was even born. So, not really, no. Not that I ever missed them -- I've always found family's what you make it."
Morgause is pushing the bread round her plate. "I remember my mother well," she says, not looking up. "My father, though, his face is indistinct. I can't recollect his touch.
Nimueh's heart sinks as she gets a glimmer of understanding what this is about. It was inevitable, this moment, and she realises only now how little she has prepared for it.
"Your dad," she says unwillingly, motioning some distance north between the trees, "lives down there. And your sister."
"I know."
"A day's ride."
"Yeah."
And Nimueh knows, really knows she should offer to take Morgause down. They deserve a family reunion, and Morgause is big enough now to be able to handle it. But she hasn't seen Gorlois - actually seen, crystals don't count - since the days of the Purge, and she still can't quash the bitterness at how easily he retreated back to his home, how fast he ducked out of this fight -- indeed every fight that wasn't on the field: his first wife, his first daughter, his friends. And she's thinks of Morgause's sister: tries to reckon how old she is. Not quite a decade, probably, still in need of care and a sister's touch.
She looks at Morgause, and thinks, she doesn't want to lose her yet.
"I was wondering --" begins Morgause, awkwardly, just as Nimueh says,
"There's one thing that's always struck me --"
They both halt, and Morgause gestures. "Go on."
Nimueh takes a deep breath. "I just just going to say: I was struck by the fact my father never came to visit me, even if it was a distance. And then I thought, he must have his own family. He must have created his own life of power and magic, and maybe found someone he wanted to stay with, and got children he'd raised their whole lives. I figured, he must be happy. I always thought, I wouldn't want to ruin that."
Morgause stares at Nimueh for a long few moments, and it doesn't matter how well formed she is and the colour of her dress, for all her eighteen years she's still so young. The firelight curls across her face and her brows are uncertain.
"What were you going to say?" asks Nimueh, hating herself.
There's a moment of indecision across her features, then she straightens up, and her jaw takes on a determined set. "Nothing," she says. "But when I'm older, one day, and Morgana's old enough, I'll go to them. I'll show them my prowess with a sword, and if my father is receptive to magic, I'll reveal my powers. Then we will all know each other again, and who knows -- we might even form a crucial ally against Uther's forces."
A terrible feeling of relief washes over Nimueh. "That sounds like a good plan," is all she says, quashing her guilt. "Later, some day."
They fall asleep to the stars, but not before Morgause asks, quietly, "You and my mum..."
Nimueh turns the other way. "Night, Morgause," she says.
+
And then, that next winter when Morgause is older, and Nimueh is old, Gorlois dies.
+
In her bowl, Nimueh watches Camelot hold a mourning for Gorlois. Uther's face is sombre, and she studies the lines in his face: he has aged much in the passing years, and he is not the king she once knew. She stares at his bleak colours, the banner of the House of Gorlois which has been hung in the council chamber, and feels a dark wrench. She remembers Gorlois, his dark hair and easy friendship and warm smile, warm despite all that befell him. She thinks of Gorlois, and realises only now: he was never to blame for his friends' failings.
Morgause spins into the room, startling her. "I've done it," she says triumphantly, her hair whirling about her and the skirts of her ridiculous dress sweeping round. "I've got the -- "
She stops short, and regards Nimueh. "What?" she says. "What's happened? You look grey as a cat."
Nimueh stares up Morgause, and tries to think of the right words. It always happens like this: she has to break the news, and it's taken her all these years to realise she will never be good at it.
Morgause's eyes fall to the bowl. "Are you watching Camelot again? Nimueh, we've talked about this." She kneels easily and peers in, her hair falling about her face.
"Someone's died," she says, voice light. "Who? I don't recognise --"
"It's your father," says Nimueh bluntly. "Gorlois has fallen. Camelot has been at war, and it has not gone well. "
There's a long silence. Morgause stays crouched by the bowl, unmoving, a few moments.
"Morgause."
Nimueh reaches out, tries to touch Morgause. The shoulder blade is sharp beneath Nimueh's hand, and Morgause flinches at the touch and sits up. Her face is carefully void of all emotion.
"I'm --" she begins, then stops. "I'm going to my room."
"No," says Nimueh, feeling useless. "Wait. Let's talk --"
And then Morgause stands, and her dark eyes are flashing. "Talk. All you ever do. Murderer."
She takes a deep breath, and leaves the room.
Nimueh thinks for a few seconds, then crashes the wretched bowl aside rises to follow her.
Morgause is striding down the corridors, and Nimueh shouts, "Wait. Morgause, wait."
"I'm done waiting," snaps Morgause, over her shoulder, and hurtles down some stairs. Nimueh swears, and races after her.
"Look, I know you're upset," she says loudly, following Morgause's path, "but so am I. I knew him - I lived by him once, remember? We did so much together."
"Oh, shut up."
They've reached the courtyard, and Morgause finally stops and turns. Her features are twisted, and furious, and Nimueh falters in the face of her anger.
"You've done this," says Morgause, her voice uneven. "You never let me see him, you've let him die."
"I -- I didn't," protests Nimueh. "Whatever I've done was for your own good, to protect you."
"What have you ever done for my family?" shouts Morgause. "What happened at the Camelot courts was your fault. You knew what Uther was like, because he'd got rid of me, and you still helped him with Arthur. It's true - you murdered my mother - you and Uther together."
"What happened all those years ago is completely unfair!" Nimueh is horrified to find her throat growing tight, but the memory of Ygraine's slender arms in hers; the squalling child; the sheer hatred with which Uther had looked at her in the court - all these assault her, and she draws a furious breath, forcing herself to keep the tears at bay. "It should not have happened. Uther will pay."
"You've had ten years to exact a revenge!" The spots of pink are rising higher on Morgause's cheeks, and she stands bright and straight as a pine. "What have you done about it? Nothing - sent your creatures to Camelot to incite problems and been no more than a troublesome thorn in Uther's side! And you the High Priestess, the last caretaker of the Old Religion." The scorn is dripping from Morgause's voice; each word a slap.
"These things take time," answers Nimueh, but the words are weak and she can feel it. Morgause shakes her head.
"You're like a child," she says coldly, "stuck in your fortress, playing with your toys and talking about something bigger than you'll ever manage. I'm going to do it - I'm going to avenge my parents, and rescue my sister and bring magic back to this land - and the whole time, you'll be sitting here, aging and forgotten, remembering the people you loved and failed."
It's instinctive - before Nimueh can control it, the anger flares hot and fast within her and the magic shoots from her palms - a ball of fire which Nimueh wants, against all reason, to hurt Morgause. But Morgause deflects it with an uneven force so it catches only the side of her face - and paying no heed to the singing, throws back a curse of her own, immature, but filled with intent. Nimueh snaps it aside, but the fierceness of the blow catches her off guard, and when the second comes swinging her way, it throws her off her feet and lands her on the ground, where her head knocks a stone column. Seething, head throbbing, she draws in a string of dark enchantments ready to fling back - the power builds in her - storm and hurt and darkness and blood; then she sees Morgause. The girl is standing, steady and fierce, an actuality of every dream Nimueh's ever allowed herself for Morgause. In a movement so inbuilt it takes her by surprise, Nimueh releases her breath and feels the magic leave her body in a flood. The grass catches fire, and burns.
"Fight back," snaps Morgause, frustration seeping from her every pore.
"I'm not striking you," grits Nimueh, and rises, tall and straight. They stare at each other across the square, the last of the priestesses locked in a static battle.
"Coward; you're no better than the people you deplore in Camelot," says Morgause, breathing heavily. And then she leaves, so that when Nimueh goes to the docks later, she finds the boat gone; all that remains is a slender rope, dangling from the post.
*
The journey is long and involves many secret roads and turns, but the weather is fine. The spring has settled well; there sun falls warm on Nimueh's back, and the forest smell fresh, clean. It has been a long winter, and emerging now, Nimueh is almost surprised to find that across the country, life is the same. After all, it's changed for her, very much.
Morgause's powers are not so refined yet that she hasn't left a trail of magic wide as a path; Nimueh picks up the traces easily, feels her touch in the immaturely hewn roads and camping spots. She tracks; it's a treasure hunt that woud have entertained her, once, and rides for many days, till she finds a lake that has Morgause's powers and lacklustre rickety spells all but buzzing in the water. Nimueh smiles, and urges her horse through.
The castle is small, and made of cool grey rocks and simply laid out. Morgause always did have an eye for design, but it still surprises Nimueh how well Morgause has done for herself. She wonders through the courtyard, casually disabling a guarding system of falling rocks that rain down on her and enters the hallways. The walls are unadorned, though collections of books lie in wobbly piles of various corners, and the open windows allow for ivy and creeper to grow through; it gives the impression the castle is organic, breathing in its surroundings, and been around for much than a few months. Nimueh wonders through the castle rooms and corridors - finding the traces of lunch in the dining hall, a weapons room, a cupboard with nothing but bookmarked chronicles on Camelot's history -- sifting through someone's else's life, until she sees an curtain fluttering from an open window in a tower and remembers why she's here.
She ascends the stairs silently, and stops at the doorway for a moment, watching. Morgause is bent over something, completely absorbed in her task, wearing a dress of white silk and simple, long trains and wispy sleeves.
"Nice place," says Nimueh, and Morgause whips around, her hands raised and face blanched with shock. When she sees Nimueh, she relaxes.
"Nimueh," she says.
There is a curious collection of pale rocks on the table, which are currently bearing the flickering images of a little girl with black hair and a sullen face, striding about a vast chamber.
"Scrying crystals," observes Nimueh, coming forward into the tower room.
"Yeah." Morgause laughs, looking a little embarrassed. "Looks like I got some bad habits off someone."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
Nimueh indicates beyond the window. "And you found a lake."
"Made it, actually." Morgause shrugs. "Got used to the sound of water. You got past it, though."
"Well, yeah." Nimueh chuckles. "You know nothing will actually best me."
"Sure that horse could carry you and your ego?"
An odd silence falls between them. Morgause doesn't actually appear unhappy to see Nimueh again, and she's playing along, but there's also a slight tension in the way she stands, and she seems almost nervous. But Nimueh hasn't come for anything; nothing but a desire to check she's okay, still standing and well.
"You've been all right?" asks Morgause.
"Fine. Been working on the stuff Helen always wanted to me learn before the Purge. Had a bit of bother with the afanc, but you know, I've decided afancs are more trouble than they're worth. I'm going to get a griffin next time."
Morgause smiles.
"You --" Nimueh casts a curious eye about. "You haven't got a pet?"
"No." Morgause looks apologetic. "I've sort of grown out of that."
"Golly, what do you want to do that for?"
Morgause fiddles with her sleeve, pushes it up her arm self-consciously and tucks away the wisps, says nothing. Nimueh thinks how bizarre a situation this is; once she would have teased her about the dress, knocked her on the arm, demanded one or the other found something to drink. But she realises that somewhere along these months of absence, they've changed. The time for that is long past.
"Well," says Nimueh, finally, "I was just passing by and thought I sensed you. But you haven't poisoned yourself with your own cooking, so. I should probably head."
"Oh. You don't want to stay--"
"Best not."
"Right."
She turns to go, but then Morgause darts forward and catches her.
"Look, Nimueh," she says in a rush, her hand firm about Nimueh's arm."What I said -- that day I left --"
Nimueh shakes her head. "Don't worry about it."
"But you should know," insists Morgause. "I was angry; saying anything that came into my head. I didn't mean any of it."
Nimueh shrugs. "Doesn't make it any less true," she says. "I've been responsible for many things in my life, and I haven't done enough to make amends. You were right, and I'm only sorry I made you say it."
Morgause looks at her. "I'm glad I was left with you," she says, with quiet honesty. "I would not have had any other."
Suddenly, Nimueh can't think what to say and her throat's tightening; she pulls Morgause into a hug.
"Look after yourself," she says awkwardly.
"You too," says Morgause, her voice coming thick. "Don't let Uther catch you. Please."
"I won't if you won't."
They part and stare at each other for a few moments, then Morgause laughs. "This is ridiculous. I'll see you in the crystals anyway. And we can communicate as well. It's not like the end or anything."
Nimueh has to smile. "No. No, of course not." She takes Morgause's hand and puts it to her lips. "Keep well, my dear. I've never been gladder to know somone, or prouder."
With a final look at Morgause, long barley hair and soft dress, the dark eyes still glimmering through the soot, Nimueh takes her leave. The castle seems vast and crooked in the shadows behind her; Nimueh draws up her hood and makes the long journey back, to her home beyond the waters.
chars: Nimueh, Morgause (background Nimueh/Ygraine)
genre: gen
summary: The misadventures of sorceresses-in-training
PART ONE
PART TWO
Nimueh never quite appreciated how special the Isle of the Blessed was. She understands that now, because it's empty. She used to take it for granted; treat it as an anchor, flitting back and forth between the shores, dabbling with the outside world before returning to her home and the permanence of the magic. When the ordinary humans became too mundane, she could find comfort in the ongoing lives of the priestesses, and challenge herself with the arts.
Now that she has to stay here, hidden, it feels like a cemetery. The magic is still in the air but it's muted, as if it can sense the hostility towards it. The castle is empty, and the old stones seem to creak beneath her feet. She finds herself wandering from one room to another, and every now and then she finds unclosed books or upturned chairs or old clothes, just as they were left in the panic that must have befallen the sisters. Sometimes, as she's sifting through the chambers and straightening furniture, she thinks she hears voices - the sound of movement and women in the hallway - but when she skids the spot, heart thumping, she finds only small animals, or the murmur of old magic in the breeze.
And one time, it's Morgause, clattering about in the dining room with a sword.
Nimueh comes to realise, quite quickly, that's Morgause's penchant for swordplay is serious. What she had once dismissed as a childish fondness for faffing around hitting people with a stick seems to have become a point of obssession in her absence: Morgause spends a few hours everyday practising moves. Nimueh watches her from the window, and sees Gorlois' grace in the way she handles the sword, an ease and confidence that could only come from a warrior's lineage.
It's one of many things Nimueh feels ill-equipped to deal with. She's seen battles and watched the finest in the kingdom win wars with their weapons and armies, but she has never been able to wield one. She helped Uther with the fire of her magic, but she's never been a soldier. She's not even convinced, given Uther's instant war-like stance on magic, that fighting is particularly condusive to personality. She watches Morgause slice her blade through the air then trip over her shield, and doesn't know how to help her. She doesn't know if she wants to.
She retreats to the old medicinal tower, and starts sorting out the potions, green bottles from blue, poisons from antidotes. Later, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, Morgause joins her.
"What you doing?" she asks, sitting atop a table and swinging her legs.
"Nothing much," replies Nimueh. "Bit of tidying. How was your practise?"
"I can't get my feint right," admits Morgause, picking at her lower lip. "It's well annoying. I'll never be able to defeat anyone."
"That's why you should never rely on swords," says Nimueh, shrugging.
"Is that why you hung around with my dad and Uther?" Morgause's tone is dry, but the words catch Nimueh off-guard and she drops the bottle she's holding. The potion sizzles into the old wood, and Nimueh hisses out a curse.
"Sorry," says Morgause quickly. "I didn't mean -- sorry."
Nimueh remembers that Morgause is only still a kid with package-sarcasm, and forces herself to take a slow breath. "It's fine," she says, and makes an effort to smile. "Don't worry." She starts mopping up the spillage, and looks up to see Morgause watching her with a furrowed brow. "Honestly."
"Well then," says Morgause, and jumps abruptly off the table, "you going to tell me what these potions are?"
+
She's not depressed. And having Morgause around definitely makes things better; she can't imagine the thought of being stuck on this island on her own. They're cobbling their life back together; she's even started regrowing Helen's old herb patch.
But a month ago, she was a respected member of one of the most powerful courts in the country.
Now she has to worry about organising meals three times a day.
And she found Elevera's ugly robes the other day, and wound up getting stupidly emotional until Morgause came clattering in asking about goblin encampments.
+
Morgause comes to Nimueh's tower one morning with a stubborn expression. Nimueh sighs, and puts down her bubble of magic.
"What is it?" she asks, wary.
"In Cornwall," begins Morgause, which isn't promising, "I remember we had pets."
Nimueh stares at her blankly. "Pets."
"You know. Animals. Domesticated ones. To keep and feed and talk to."
Nimueh presses her hands to her temples. "You want one of these things."
Morgause gives her widest and most disarming smile.
"No," decides Nimueh. "You're getting spoilt; I give you everything you want these days. Besides, you won't look after it, and I'm not having a rabbit or something die on me. No, no pets."
"You have that weird afanc thing!"
"That's not a pet, that's a friend."
"Well, exactly!"
Morgause stamps out, and Nimueh pretends she doesn't hear liferuiner as the door slams. Her bubble pops, and Nimueh sighs. There's little more she wants to do any more, and she spends the rest of the morning brooding over Camelot. The brooding would be all right if it involved expressing her negative feelings in some creative manner, but it mostly just means she stares at her scrying bowl and watches Gaius and Uther sit together in the council rooms, while Ygraine's son crawls around backwards and beats people up with wooden sticks. The similarity between him and his half-sister is uncanny. As it is, she suddenly realises it's long past midday, and unless Morgause has figured out to cook a basic meal, the girl is probably sulking hungrily in some remote corner of the island. Nimueh winces, then shakes herself. There was a time she was definitely more productive than she currently is. This inaction - she stares ruefully at the watery image of the Uther's knights training - will be her undoing.
She rattles up some manner of lunch and seeks Morgause, who's sitting on a rock that overlooks the water, arms wrapped around her skinny knees. She doesn't acknowledge Nimueh, and pouts out at the churning waves.
"I haven't left this island since I came to it," is all she says.
Nimueh considers this, then settles down by the girl. "How do you feel," she says, "about getting that pet? I've got one in mind."
*
"Let me get this straight," says Morgause, who's having difficulty dealing with the idea they've embarked on as well as the fact she's on mainland for the first time in six years. She's darting looks all around the forest, and everytime she puts a foot on the muddy ground she acquires an expression of undue rapture. "We're releasing --" She gasps, as they clamber over a grassy hillock - "we're releasing a dragon."
"Yup," says Nimueh gleefully. "Do keep up."
"I was thinking - I don't know - a dog or cat or horse or something. Not some -- "
"This isn't some old dragon. His name is Kilgarrah,and he's a great dragon."
"Oh, okay. A great dragon. And it's just... behind bars somewhere?"
"Figuratively. Wherein the bars are an underground cavern, and the lock and key is the evil tyrant in the castle."
"You mean Uther Pendragon."
"And his cowardly dirtbag of an accomplice."
"Yes, and Gaius. Look, before we get too distracted - how are we smuggling a dragon out of a castle?" Morgause's careful words are entirely belied by her expression: she's grinning like an idiot and her sooty eyes are sparkling. She's pulled her hair into a tight plait for the journey, and it warms Nimueh's heart to see her so excited. It occurs to her that the girl's never quite got her fair share of adventures. With renewed determination, Nimueh resolves to fix this over the upcoming months.
*
She knows that Camelot's defences against magic will be strong at the moment, so her plan involves enchanting the castle, scorchign the gueards, and releasing the fire on Kilgarrah's chains.
It sort of goes like that, only the knights see her coming, recognise her, and outnumber her with swords. It's to Morgause's credit that she ducks into the shadows and manages to thunk the one running off to raise the alarm on the head. Then it becomes a case of Nimueh releasing an instant darkness that blinds their attackers. She sees a wisp of Morgause's hair in the black, and chivvies her towards the stairs, leaving the knights stumbling about.
Then, with a single word, she crashes the ceiling down and creates a rocky wall between them and the underground cavern.
"Nice," says Morgause fervently.
"Oh," says Nimueh, trying to be causual. "Just a bit of silliness. Come on, and watch your head."
*
Kilgarrah is waiting for them, vast and imperious. He stands upon a raised rock in the glittering cavern, and watches them come forward with golden eyes. Nimueh, who has seen all manner of things in her life and considers herself good at being unruffled, is taken aback by how beautiful he is; beside her, she can feel Morgause trembling in the face of his power.
"And are you Uther's soldiers, come to gawp?" asks the dragon haughtily, his voice filling the prison and resonating so loudly Nimueh feels it shake her blood.
"I have no alliance with this kingdom," she replies, willing her voice to stay firm. "But we would help you."
The dragon chuckles then, a soft patronising sound. "I do not look for aid in two feeble children who wonder in by mistake."
"I don't think you realise," says Nimueh, stung, and stands tall, and flares her torch so the light reaches every corner of the cavern. "I am the High Priestess of the Old Religion. And I am here to liberate you."
She gets such a kick out of doing that.
The dragon regards her long, then finally inclines his great head. "Well met, Priestess," he says. "And I thank you. But it is not my destiny to be freed at your hand."
"You prehistoric idiot," says Nimueh, dropping the status. "You'll never get an opportunity like this again. Come on with us and forget about destiny. It won't serve you well."
"Maybe not, Priestess," says the dragon, with what looks worryingly like a patient smile. Flipping hell, she's talking to a reptilian Helen. "It may be years till I taste the open skies. But I must forge the paths of the world first, and shape the Camelot that will be."
"He talks a lot of rubbish, doesn't he," murmurs Morgause.
Nimueh takes a second to deceipher it all. "If you're going to start nattering to the young Pendragon, I wouldn't bother," she tells him. "I'm going to kill him the moment he's old enough to win his first tournament. Then I'll finish Camelot."
"You must not do that," commands the dragon. Nimueh feels a stab of irritation; she really thought the orders in hierarchy would cease when Uther had killed everyone she knew on both sides of the ladder. "Arthur Pendragon's fate does not lie in your hands. Swear to me you will not bring about his end."
"Are you going soft, Kilgarrah?" Nimeuh inquires acidly. "I'll finish who I want, just as Uther Pendragon did."
"Swear it!" The dragon starts to roar then, really ear-shatteringly brain-frazzlingingly loudly, and Morgause squeezes her eyes shut and looks like she's about to combust in pain so Nimueh yells out,
"Fine, fine, I'll do it. Just shut up. I promise I won't kill Arthur Pendragon."
The dragon settles down, docile one again.
"It is appreciated," he tells them sweetly.
"Oh, just fucking fuck off, you scaly bastard," says Nimueh, and grabs Morgause by the hand and leaves the cavern.
*
"Are you usually better at adventures?" inquires Morgause, as they sit atop a hillside and share some bread.
"Much," Nimueh assures her.
"Still," says Morgause, looking cheerful. "We could have rescued it. That's something, eh?"
"Yeah," says Nimueh, and starts to grin. "It's actually a pretty awesome something."
*
And after that, they never stay on the island that long.
*
"Go on," urges Nimueh. "That knight there. Get him."
"I can't," whispers Morgause, her eyes fixed on the prancing fellow and his prancing horse.
"It's easy, just -- " Nimueh whispers the words into Morgause's ear again. She shudders.
"It's killing," she whispers, agonised.
"It's one Camelot knight, don't be such a wuss."
Morgause glares at Nimueh, then jumps up from behind the bush and shrieks out the words at the startled knight.
Horse and knight falls like a brick, and Nimueh cheers and joins Morgause.
"You did it!" she celebrates, and swings her into a great hug. "You utter star!"
Morgause looks a little stunned. "I guess I did," she says.
Nimueh's about to suggest a celebratory drink when there's a sound from behind them. They both turn, nonplussed. The knight is lying, perfectly still, but then Nimueh stoops to examine him.
"What is it?" asks Morgause nervously, standing on one foot then another. "Did I do it wrong? Is he in pain?"
"He's asleep," says Nimueh, pained. "You've put him and his horse to sleep."
"Oh," says Morgause, and looks flummoxed. "How did that happen?"
"No idea. Just... undo it."
"I can't."
Nimueh stares at her, exasperated. "What do you mean, you can't?
"Well, I don't know what I did. So I can't take it back."
Nimueh looks back at the knight. "We can't leave him here."
"Why not?"
"He's sleeping. What kind of powerful sorceress leaves someone asleep? Morgause, you're going to single-handedly bring down the reputation of the Old Religion!"
"I didn't mean to." Morgause look a little mutinous. "I didn't even want to kill him, you're the one who gets all spell-happy every time you see someone wearing a red cloak."
"Don't blame your magical ineptitude on my deep-seated problems!"
+
Then there's the time they go bathing in that big old lake and Nimueh provokes Morgause into a riotous magical duel. Sparks fly all over the place, water plants explode, fish grow wings, lapping waters are encouraged into rocking waves, and an enjoyable time is had by all till they declare their inevitable truce.
And when they leave the lake, if it looks a bit more twinkly and magical than when they first entered, they assume it's just a bit of natural cause and effect.
+
Morgause also develops a peculiarly human habit of challenging people who offend her. Nimueh doesn't quite know what to do about it, especially because Morgause is an awkward fifteen year old taking on hulking bearded men and gets beaten an awful lot. Still, she thinks critically, watching Morgause swing up from the ground and twist her sword round to slice the back of her opponent's leg, at least there's some improvement.
And by the time Morgause is older, with all limbs getting to the right size and a fierce precision in the way she wields her sword and takes her steps, she wins almost every challenge she takes on. Then there's the undeniable time that some nimrod of a passing bandit managed to knock Nimueh on the head and truss her up, and it was only Morgause charging in with her sword and clinking mail that allowed for Nimueh's freedom, rather than inevitable use as barter with bounty hunters.
It's taken many years, but Nimueh finally decides it's a good trick to have in your arsenal. So sometimes she pays people to insult Morgause. Just to keep her in practise.
+
It's not say that they don't spend any time on the Isle. In the winter months, when disagreeable things like wind and hail and snow happen, it makes much more sense to stay in their castle. Nimueh always feels a bit blue around winter anyway -- it reminds her of the final few months in Camelot leading up up to the Purge -- and she prefers to curl up the fire and make up spells, and revel in the illegality of her existence. Morgause is a touch more disciplined, and keeps up her rigorous training; in her spare hours she reads the collection of books in the Great Library that Nimueh has always rather ignored.
She does explode part of the castle one year. But that's by accident (apparently those two spell components don't go together), and when Morgause emerges from the rubble, dishevelled and bemused, and says, "Need a hand fixing it?", Nimueh looks about her and replies,
"Let's leave it, actually. Looks atmospheric."
Morgause rolls her eyes.
"You are sheer style," she says. Nimueh smiles, and pulls her skirt out from beneath a crumbling tower.
+
The druid camps; they cause a bit of bother. Well, in that they pass one in the forest one damp spring evening, and stop over for a meal, and Nimueh almost gets seduced by soup and terms like peace and coexistence. And Morgause actually gets seduced.
"It's been a long journey, hasn't it," says the druid leader as Nimueh tears into her bread. "How long have you been wondering, hunted and alone?"
"S'not that bad," replies Nimueh, and eyes him. Druids usually look the same to her, sweet temper and pastel-shades, but this one - Faran, he calls himself - is strangely compelling. His eyes are keen and there's a hint of both wisdom and survival about him. He smiles at her and says, "You've been brave, Priestess. Braver than I since we went into hiding."
Nimueh looks about. "Where's Morgause?"
"I saw her with my son, Aglain. I'm sure they're fine."
"Fair enough." Nimueh turns back to Faran. "You were shamelessly flattering me, don't let me stop you."
Faran says, "You could stay with us. Your magic is powerful, and amongst us you wouldn't need to hide. We don't fight Uther, and live in peace in these forests. A strange harmony has been achieved, as long as don't breach one another's borders. Amongst us, you would have many friends."
"You do make good soup," says Nimueh. "I've never been able to get the consistency right."
"We have all had to learn things since the Purge," agrees Faran solemnly, and Nimueh has to fight not to grin. Maybe it's because she's had a very tiring day, or because for once Morgause isn't with her, or perhaps it's just long due, but she finds herself relaxing in his company. She thinks, she could trust him. And it would be nice to be able to sleep without having to put up complicated protection spells.
"I do miss having friends, sometimes," she admits, finally, and Faran reaches out to pat her shoulder.
Fortunately, morning happens. Nimueh awakes by the fireside feeling vaguely guilty, and Morgause emerges from a tent with unkempt hair and a slightly sheepish expression, followed by a boy quite identical to his father.
"Druids," says Nimueh, startled. "Bloody hell."
"He's nice," says Morgause stubbornly. "Can he come with us?"
"You could stay here," says the boy. "A life of peace."
"He keeps saying things like that," says Morgause, and takes his hand. "I like it."
Nimueh thinks for a few seconds. "Do you really, though?" she asks. "I mean, it sounds good when he and his dad say it on an off-day, but think about it. Stuck in this forest? No dodgy magic or mythical beasts or trouble? Lots of love and herbs?"
"We have really big scorpions," points out the boy, inconsequentially.
"And sometimes we disagree," says Faran, popping up from his own tent and yawning. "It's always exciting when that happens. Stay, Nimueh. Please."
Nimueh flickers a look at him, and can’t help the surge of affection for the sleepy smile he offers. But she turns from them both and raises her eyebrows at Morgause, who bites her lip and stares at the smoking fire.
"I suppose," she says eventually, "I'd rather be on the move. Sorry," she adds, and squeezes the boy's hand. "I don't think I'd be any good at not getting into trouble."
Nimueh gets her cloak.
+
"It's just as well," says Nimueh, as they head to the local tavern, both slightly quiet for reasons they can’t explain. "We'd have never got on with their no bothering Uther policies. Besides, we're like lone wolves... stalking the land of Camelot till magic is returned. Um, to our pack."
"He was pretty," mourns Morgause, and everything she says for the next fortnight is of a similar depth.
+
And then there are the times they cause revolutions, or put a lot of effort into trying. It usually happens when they find a group of magic hermits sitting round a fire and bitching about Uther.
"I used to be just like you," Nimueh declares, studiously avoiding Morgause's eyes. "But you should realise that this will accomplish nothing. Join us, and together we can change the rule of Camelot."
(Although after a while, they realise they have a bigger problem on their hands --
"Did you have to be so sociable?" gasps Morgause, as they flee from yet another encampent that recognises Nimueh and her part in the Purge --
so they spend the following week figuring out how to disguise Nimueh's appearance.)
From all accounts and purposes, the revolutions aren't exactly rocking Uther's dictatorship, but they do provide a constant source of irritation. It's almost the same thing.
+
They don't get an awful lot done, but it's fun trying.
And if they find weird creatures, they almost always put them on the path to Camelot.
+
"Hey, kid." Nimueh shouts out as she clambers up a foresty hill, and Morgause stands up and waves from where she's been stirring a pot by their tents. The twilight is fast descending upon them. "Got you something from the market."
"What's this?" asks Morgause rushing forward and taking the proffered packaged item.
"Just... something you desperately need." Nimueh eyes the dyed woollen smock Morgause is tramping around in, thigh-high and deeply impractical for the turning autumn.
Morgause unfolds the linen dress.
"It's red," she points out, smiling.
"Yeah, well, only colour they had. I'm not saying you're ready yet -- and it's not exactly silk or brocade -- or anything, really."
"All in good time." Morgause dashes into the tent to pull it on and when she emerges, swinging out with her long hair loose around her shoulders, Nimueh suddenly realises that the girl has grown up, limbs finally all in proportion and quite like her mother's. Something pulls at her stomach, her muscles wind in and it takes all her will not to reach out and hold her, and try to find what she lost, so long ago. She wonders if maybe this is what it is to get older.
That evening, they sit by the fire and share the pot of of stew, and talk.
"You were born on the island, weren't you?" asks Morgause, apropos of nothing and following a fiery discussion on which house will win Etheldred's annual tournament.
Nimueh blinks. "Yeah," she says cautiously.
"Did you ever know your mother or father?"
Nimueh eyes Morgause. "My mother died in childbirth," she says, feeling as disconnected as she ever does about the subject. "My dad was apparently some warlock, but he left for Ireland long before I was even born. So, not really, no. Not that I ever missed them -- I've always found family's what you make it."
Morgause is pushing the bread round her plate. "I remember my mother well," she says, not looking up. "My father, though, his face is indistinct. I can't recollect his touch.
Nimueh's heart sinks as she gets a glimmer of understanding what this is about. It was inevitable, this moment, and she realises only now how little she has prepared for it.
"Your dad," she says unwillingly, motioning some distance north between the trees, "lives down there. And your sister."
"I know."
"A day's ride."
"Yeah."
And Nimueh knows, really knows she should offer to take Morgause down. They deserve a family reunion, and Morgause is big enough now to be able to handle it. But she hasn't seen Gorlois - actually seen, crystals don't count - since the days of the Purge, and she still can't quash the bitterness at how easily he retreated back to his home, how fast he ducked out of this fight -- indeed every fight that wasn't on the field: his first wife, his first daughter, his friends. And she's thinks of Morgause's sister: tries to reckon how old she is. Not quite a decade, probably, still in need of care and a sister's touch.
She looks at Morgause, and thinks, she doesn't want to lose her yet.
"I was wondering --" begins Morgause, awkwardly, just as Nimueh says,
"There's one thing that's always struck me --"
They both halt, and Morgause gestures. "Go on."
Nimueh takes a deep breath. "I just just going to say: I was struck by the fact my father never came to visit me, even if it was a distance. And then I thought, he must have his own family. He must have created his own life of power and magic, and maybe found someone he wanted to stay with, and got children he'd raised their whole lives. I figured, he must be happy. I always thought, I wouldn't want to ruin that."
Morgause stares at Nimueh for a long few moments, and it doesn't matter how well formed she is and the colour of her dress, for all her eighteen years she's still so young. The firelight curls across her face and her brows are uncertain.
"What were you going to say?" asks Nimueh, hating herself.
There's a moment of indecision across her features, then she straightens up, and her jaw takes on a determined set. "Nothing," she says. "But when I'm older, one day, and Morgana's old enough, I'll go to them. I'll show them my prowess with a sword, and if my father is receptive to magic, I'll reveal my powers. Then we will all know each other again, and who knows -- we might even form a crucial ally against Uther's forces."
A terrible feeling of relief washes over Nimueh. "That sounds like a good plan," is all she says, quashing her guilt. "Later, some day."
They fall asleep to the stars, but not before Morgause asks, quietly, "You and my mum..."
Nimueh turns the other way. "Night, Morgause," she says.
+
And then, that next winter when Morgause is older, and Nimueh is old, Gorlois dies.
+
In her bowl, Nimueh watches Camelot hold a mourning for Gorlois. Uther's face is sombre, and she studies the lines in his face: he has aged much in the passing years, and he is not the king she once knew. She stares at his bleak colours, the banner of the House of Gorlois which has been hung in the council chamber, and feels a dark wrench. She remembers Gorlois, his dark hair and easy friendship and warm smile, warm despite all that befell him. She thinks of Gorlois, and realises only now: he was never to blame for his friends' failings.
Morgause spins into the room, startling her. "I've done it," she says triumphantly, her hair whirling about her and the skirts of her ridiculous dress sweeping round. "I've got the -- "
She stops short, and regards Nimueh. "What?" she says. "What's happened? You look grey as a cat."
Nimueh stares up Morgause, and tries to think of the right words. It always happens like this: she has to break the news, and it's taken her all these years to realise she will never be good at it.
Morgause's eyes fall to the bowl. "Are you watching Camelot again? Nimueh, we've talked about this." She kneels easily and peers in, her hair falling about her face.
"Someone's died," she says, voice light. "Who? I don't recognise --"
"It's your father," says Nimueh bluntly. "Gorlois has fallen. Camelot has been at war, and it has not gone well. "
There's a long silence. Morgause stays crouched by the bowl, unmoving, a few moments.
"Morgause."
Nimueh reaches out, tries to touch Morgause. The shoulder blade is sharp beneath Nimueh's hand, and Morgause flinches at the touch and sits up. Her face is carefully void of all emotion.
"I'm --" she begins, then stops. "I'm going to my room."
"No," says Nimueh, feeling useless. "Wait. Let's talk --"
And then Morgause stands, and her dark eyes are flashing. "Talk. All you ever do. Murderer."
She takes a deep breath, and leaves the room.
Nimueh thinks for a few seconds, then crashes the wretched bowl aside rises to follow her.
Morgause is striding down the corridors, and Nimueh shouts, "Wait. Morgause, wait."
"I'm done waiting," snaps Morgause, over her shoulder, and hurtles down some stairs. Nimueh swears, and races after her.
"Look, I know you're upset," she says loudly, following Morgause's path, "but so am I. I knew him - I lived by him once, remember? We did so much together."
"Oh, shut up."
They've reached the courtyard, and Morgause finally stops and turns. Her features are twisted, and furious, and Nimueh falters in the face of her anger.
"You've done this," says Morgause, her voice uneven. "You never let me see him, you've let him die."
"I -- I didn't," protests Nimueh. "Whatever I've done was for your own good, to protect you."
"What have you ever done for my family?" shouts Morgause. "What happened at the Camelot courts was your fault. You knew what Uther was like, because he'd got rid of me, and you still helped him with Arthur. It's true - you murdered my mother - you and Uther together."
"What happened all those years ago is completely unfair!" Nimueh is horrified to find her throat growing tight, but the memory of Ygraine's slender arms in hers; the squalling child; the sheer hatred with which Uther had looked at her in the court - all these assault her, and she draws a furious breath, forcing herself to keep the tears at bay. "It should not have happened. Uther will pay."
"You've had ten years to exact a revenge!" The spots of pink are rising higher on Morgause's cheeks, and she stands bright and straight as a pine. "What have you done about it? Nothing - sent your creatures to Camelot to incite problems and been no more than a troublesome thorn in Uther's side! And you the High Priestess, the last caretaker of the Old Religion." The scorn is dripping from Morgause's voice; each word a slap.
"These things take time," answers Nimueh, but the words are weak and she can feel it. Morgause shakes her head.
"You're like a child," she says coldly, "stuck in your fortress, playing with your toys and talking about something bigger than you'll ever manage. I'm going to do it - I'm going to avenge my parents, and rescue my sister and bring magic back to this land - and the whole time, you'll be sitting here, aging and forgotten, remembering the people you loved and failed."
It's instinctive - before Nimueh can control it, the anger flares hot and fast within her and the magic shoots from her palms - a ball of fire which Nimueh wants, against all reason, to hurt Morgause. But Morgause deflects it with an uneven force so it catches only the side of her face - and paying no heed to the singing, throws back a curse of her own, immature, but filled with intent. Nimueh snaps it aside, but the fierceness of the blow catches her off guard, and when the second comes swinging her way, it throws her off her feet and lands her on the ground, where her head knocks a stone column. Seething, head throbbing, she draws in a string of dark enchantments ready to fling back - the power builds in her - storm and hurt and darkness and blood; then she sees Morgause. The girl is standing, steady and fierce, an actuality of every dream Nimueh's ever allowed herself for Morgause. In a movement so inbuilt it takes her by surprise, Nimueh releases her breath and feels the magic leave her body in a flood. The grass catches fire, and burns.
"Fight back," snaps Morgause, frustration seeping from her every pore.
"I'm not striking you," grits Nimueh, and rises, tall and straight. They stare at each other across the square, the last of the priestesses locked in a static battle.
"Coward; you're no better than the people you deplore in Camelot," says Morgause, breathing heavily. And then she leaves, so that when Nimueh goes to the docks later, she finds the boat gone; all that remains is a slender rope, dangling from the post.
*
The journey is long and involves many secret roads and turns, but the weather is fine. The spring has settled well; there sun falls warm on Nimueh's back, and the forest smell fresh, clean. It has been a long winter, and emerging now, Nimueh is almost surprised to find that across the country, life is the same. After all, it's changed for her, very much.
Morgause's powers are not so refined yet that she hasn't left a trail of magic wide as a path; Nimueh picks up the traces easily, feels her touch in the immaturely hewn roads and camping spots. She tracks; it's a treasure hunt that woud have entertained her, once, and rides for many days, till she finds a lake that has Morgause's powers and lacklustre rickety spells all but buzzing in the water. Nimueh smiles, and urges her horse through.
The castle is small, and made of cool grey rocks and simply laid out. Morgause always did have an eye for design, but it still surprises Nimueh how well Morgause has done for herself. She wonders through the courtyard, casually disabling a guarding system of falling rocks that rain down on her and enters the hallways. The walls are unadorned, though collections of books lie in wobbly piles of various corners, and the open windows allow for ivy and creeper to grow through; it gives the impression the castle is organic, breathing in its surroundings, and been around for much than a few months. Nimueh wonders through the castle rooms and corridors - finding the traces of lunch in the dining hall, a weapons room, a cupboard with nothing but bookmarked chronicles on Camelot's history -- sifting through someone's else's life, until she sees an curtain fluttering from an open window in a tower and remembers why she's here.
She ascends the stairs silently, and stops at the doorway for a moment, watching. Morgause is bent over something, completely absorbed in her task, wearing a dress of white silk and simple, long trains and wispy sleeves.
"Nice place," says Nimueh, and Morgause whips around, her hands raised and face blanched with shock. When she sees Nimueh, she relaxes.
"Nimueh," she says.
There is a curious collection of pale rocks on the table, which are currently bearing the flickering images of a little girl with black hair and a sullen face, striding about a vast chamber.
"Scrying crystals," observes Nimueh, coming forward into the tower room.
"Yeah." Morgause laughs, looking a little embarrassed. "Looks like I got some bad habits off someone."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
Nimueh indicates beyond the window. "And you found a lake."
"Made it, actually." Morgause shrugs. "Got used to the sound of water. You got past it, though."
"Well, yeah." Nimueh chuckles. "You know nothing will actually best me."
"Sure that horse could carry you and your ego?"
An odd silence falls between them. Morgause doesn't actually appear unhappy to see Nimueh again, and she's playing along, but there's also a slight tension in the way she stands, and she seems almost nervous. But Nimueh hasn't come for anything; nothing but a desire to check she's okay, still standing and well.
"You've been all right?" asks Morgause.
"Fine. Been working on the stuff Helen always wanted to me learn before the Purge. Had a bit of bother with the afanc, but you know, I've decided afancs are more trouble than they're worth. I'm going to get a griffin next time."
Morgause smiles.
"You --" Nimueh casts a curious eye about. "You haven't got a pet?"
"No." Morgause looks apologetic. "I've sort of grown out of that."
"Golly, what do you want to do that for?"
Morgause fiddles with her sleeve, pushes it up her arm self-consciously and tucks away the wisps, says nothing. Nimueh thinks how bizarre a situation this is; once she would have teased her about the dress, knocked her on the arm, demanded one or the other found something to drink. But she realises that somewhere along these months of absence, they've changed. The time for that is long past.
"Well," says Nimueh, finally, "I was just passing by and thought I sensed you. But you haven't poisoned yourself with your own cooking, so. I should probably head."
"Oh. You don't want to stay--"
"Best not."
"Right."
She turns to go, but then Morgause darts forward and catches her.
"Look, Nimueh," she says in a rush, her hand firm about Nimueh's arm."What I said -- that day I left --"
Nimueh shakes her head. "Don't worry about it."
"But you should know," insists Morgause. "I was angry; saying anything that came into my head. I didn't mean any of it."
Nimueh shrugs. "Doesn't make it any less true," she says. "I've been responsible for many things in my life, and I haven't done enough to make amends. You were right, and I'm only sorry I made you say it."
Morgause looks at her. "I'm glad I was left with you," she says, with quiet honesty. "I would not have had any other."
Suddenly, Nimueh can't think what to say and her throat's tightening; she pulls Morgause into a hug.
"Look after yourself," she says awkwardly.
"You too," says Morgause, her voice coming thick. "Don't let Uther catch you. Please."
"I won't if you won't."
They part and stare at each other for a few moments, then Morgause laughs. "This is ridiculous. I'll see you in the crystals anyway. And we can communicate as well. It's not like the end or anything."
Nimueh has to smile. "No. No, of course not." She takes Morgause's hand and puts it to her lips. "Keep well, my dear. I've never been gladder to know somone, or prouder."
With a final look at Morgause, long barley hair and soft dress, the dark eyes still glimmering through the soot, Nimueh takes her leave. The castle seems vast and crooked in the shadows behind her; Nimueh draws up her hood and makes the long journey back, to her home beyond the waters.