FIC: Submission
Title: Submission
Author: yelloerainboe
Prompt image no.: 60
Rating: PG
Length: 583 words
Summary: She stills Morgana's hand as she reaches for her glass, forcing her to look at her face, green eyes meeting blue, and smiles.
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Series One and minor references to a death that occured within that series.
Story/Author's notes: This? Well, this fic has had me tearing my hair out for about a month now. It started off with an entirely different plot to this one, and then decided, three days before the submission deadline, that it didn't want to be written like that, and demanded I write something else. So, scraps of lines over the past few days and four solid hours last night spent deleting and rewriting half of it = this short fic, hope you enjoy. It's unbeta'd -- due to the time issue but I may get someone to look over it later on, and can I say thanks to the mods for putting up with my shoddy time keeping due to ridiculous amounts of work and crappy internet connections :)
Disclaimer: Merlin is the property of BBC Wales and Shine. I claim no ownership over the show and am making no profit from this work.
There's a story -- a legend told only by those brave enough -- of a woman who never ages, never dies and never sleeps.
Just walks.
:::::
It's the fifth place Nimueh's been to, when she finally finds it. Before she even opens the door she knows she's in the right place. The place just radiates power; bleeding out of the brickwork and spilling through the windows -- leaving mosaics of magic scattered along the pavement; a warning for those who are gifted enough to perceive them.
As she pushes open the door, Nimueh knows she looks out of place as she enters the small pub. The place is dappled with old men drinking older scotch and she can feel the glances they send her way. Back in Camelot; before Uther, Merlin and her premature death; she would have minded the judgement they seem to be casting on her.
But this isn't Camelot ; and Merlin isn't here yet, which means Nimueh has enough time to prepare. She won't ever submit to his power again.
Not this time.
:::::
She'd knelt to him that day, not that he realised. She'd knelt down in front of him to pick up a bundle that she'd deliberately dropped. All to catch his attention. So naive in his arrogance that he never noticed the servant girl eyeing him until she crashed (literally) into his life. Even then, she'd had to flirt. Her, priestess of the old religion; and she'd had to flutter her eyelashes and pout her lips to even get him to notice her. It hadn't even been worth it in the end. She'd knelt in front of that boy and in the end, the gods allowed a Pendragon to interfere, just like twenty years ago, just like always.
She'd escaped from that encounter mostly unscathed; pride wounded but still intact,and she'd left fear in the heart of all who knew. A warning, that she was back and that she wasn't giving up so easily this time. That this time there would be no running, and she would be the one exacting her revenge.
She'd tried again, months later, on the Isle of the Blessed, when she'd been so sure that he'd give in. The boy had seen what Pendragons were capable of, he'd seen his maid friend crushed by grief at the death of her father, and another sent mad by the death of hers.
She'd been so sure.
She'd expected him to come back, hardly thought that he'd sit and allow his mother to die. He'd be forced to face her again, and now he'd seen what her power could do she'd thought she would stand more of a chance.
She was wrong. It'd all gone so badly.
Nimueh had underestimated him, and it had cost her her life.
:::::
Glancing round, she quickly finds the person she was looking for, sitting at the bar. Nimueh could recognise that face from a mile away.
“Morgana”, she settles at the bar; a glass of red wine she hasn't even ordered yet somehow finding it's way in front of her.
“Nimueh”, comes the curt reply, eyes her own white wine in front of her, pale fingers with red nails brushing imaginary lint from black skinny jeans.
She stills Morgana's hand as she reaches for her glass, forcing her to look at her face, green eyes meeting blue, and smiles.
She sees Morgana's lips curl and it's a weight off her shoulders. This time, she isn't alone.
Author: yelloerainboe
Prompt image no.: 60
Rating: PG
Length: 583 words
Summary: She stills Morgana's hand as she reaches for her glass, forcing her to look at her face, green eyes meeting blue, and smiles.
Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Series One and minor references to a death that occured within that series.
Story/Author's notes: This? Well, this fic has had me tearing my hair out for about a month now. It started off with an entirely different plot to this one, and then decided, three days before the submission deadline, that it didn't want to be written like that, and demanded I write something else. So, scraps of lines over the past few days and four solid hours last night spent deleting and rewriting half of it = this short fic, hope you enjoy. It's unbeta'd -- due to the time issue but I may get someone to look over it later on, and can I say thanks to the mods for putting up with my shoddy time keeping due to ridiculous amounts of work and crappy internet connections :)
Disclaimer: Merlin is the property of BBC Wales and Shine. I claim no ownership over the show and am making no profit from this work.
There's a story -- a legend told only by those brave enough -- of a woman who never ages, never dies and never sleeps.
Just walks.
:::::
It's the fifth place Nimueh's been to, when she finally finds it. Before she even opens the door she knows she's in the right place. The place just radiates power; bleeding out of the brickwork and spilling through the windows -- leaving mosaics of magic scattered along the pavement; a warning for those who are gifted enough to perceive them.
As she pushes open the door, Nimueh knows she looks out of place as she enters the small pub. The place is dappled with old men drinking older scotch and she can feel the glances they send her way. Back in Camelot; before Uther, Merlin and her premature death; she would have minded the judgement they seem to be casting on her.
But this isn't Camelot ; and Merlin isn't here yet, which means Nimueh has enough time to prepare. She won't ever submit to his power again.
Not this time.
:::::
She'd knelt to him that day, not that he realised. She'd knelt down in front of him to pick up a bundle that she'd deliberately dropped. All to catch his attention. So naive in his arrogance that he never noticed the servant girl eyeing him until she crashed (literally) into his life. Even then, she'd had to flirt. Her, priestess of the old religion; and she'd had to flutter her eyelashes and pout her lips to even get him to notice her. It hadn't even been worth it in the end. She'd knelt in front of that boy and in the end, the gods allowed a Pendragon to interfere, just like twenty years ago, just like always.
She'd escaped from that encounter mostly unscathed; pride wounded but still intact,and she'd left fear in the heart of all who knew. A warning, that she was back and that she wasn't giving up so easily this time. That this time there would be no running, and she would be the one exacting her revenge.
She'd tried again, months later, on the Isle of the Blessed, when she'd been so sure that he'd give in. The boy had seen what Pendragons were capable of, he'd seen his maid friend crushed by grief at the death of her father, and another sent mad by the death of hers.
She'd been so sure.
She'd expected him to come back, hardly thought that he'd sit and allow his mother to die. He'd be forced to face her again, and now he'd seen what her power could do she'd thought she would stand more of a chance.
She was wrong. It'd all gone so badly.
Nimueh had underestimated him, and it had cost her her life.
:::::
Glancing round, she quickly finds the person she was looking for, sitting at the bar. Nimueh could recognise that face from a mile away.
“Morgana”, she settles at the bar; a glass of red wine she hasn't even ordered yet somehow finding it's way in front of her.
“Nimueh”, comes the curt reply, eyes her own white wine in front of her, pale fingers with red nails brushing imaginary lint from black skinny jeans.
She stills Morgana's hand as she reaches for her glass, forcing her to look at her face, green eyes meeting blue, and smiles.
She sees Morgana's lips curl and it's a weight off her shoulders. This time, she isn't alone.