Prologue

I have heard the stories of Camelot and seen how Merlin is painted in them, as having taught Arthur how to be a good and wise king. I have even heard one that says that Merlin had been doing so since Arthur was a boy. Such ridiculous tales people tell. But in all of them, they seem to get the same things wrong, as if the very spirit of that cursed Merlin were guiding them. Of all those in the story, I see few who are portrayed rightly, Merlin least of all. I tell you that Arthur was a great king more in spite of Merlin than because of him. All the stories that you have heard about Camelot are true, but not the way that you heard them. The people in them are both more and less real than they are painted. It pains me to see them fade from the legends that they made more acutely than their deaths have. I am the last of them left in England, and I alone carry the story with me now.

Perhaps it would be better if I kept the story in my heart and let it die there, unspoken. But I can not bear to watch the five of us die again, far more completely this time. If this story exists after I die, even if it is never again read, at least I will know that our spirits will have somewhere in truth to dwell. Read if you care, visitor to Avalon's shores, the memories of Nimue.

The Gift Bearer

She found Arthur where she knew that he would be: just inside the forest, leaning up against the withered old tree he loved for some reason. His hands he hung in his lap, facing upward as if accepting his fate from above. She walked slowly toward him, her small, slight frame had always made her look uncharacteristically fragile. Now she almost looked like a wood nymph, her light brown hair blending against the bark of the trees and her crystal blue eyes with the crisp autumn sky. But her eyes, unlike the sky, pierced and knew. She knew him. She walked slowly toward him, then abruptly dropped her sprite-like grace and flopped down next to him: the girl-next-door, like always. "Go away, Nimue," he muttered, looking back down at his hands.

Nimue nodded but did not move. Her voice was as soft and gentle as a whispering wind, "None of us blame you, you know," she said after a moment. " 'Cept per'aps Kay, but since when does that matter?" Her tone turned slightly more serious, "It really doesn't matter a wit what Kay says, you know that. Not to anyone."

"Better not let Sir Kay hear you address him so informally," Arthur said stiffly.

"Oh cut out the pity party, Arthur," Nimue said. "All Kay has is his precious father with his precious rank. You're ten times the man he'll ever be. You know Lance for one knows you could beat him in a fair fight." That may not have been the best way to comfort him, Nimue realized a second too late. Lancelot was an import from France officially to squire for Kay and unofficially to tutor him in place of the previous instructor who had long since gone to seed. Nimue sighed. Yes, she had come up with quite a comfort for him: you are the better man, not that it will ever matter. Now that was sure to perk him right up.

"Yes, and that's something that I can't sneer at because that's something that I'll never have," Arthur said, descending even further into his melancholy.

"A noble title? Come now, Arthur, you're better than that!"

"No, Nimue," he said sharply. "A father."

There was silence for a long moment. "Neither will I, you know," Nimue replied softly.

"At least you have a mother," Arthur replied coldly.

"Bite your tongue!" Nimue exclaimed. "She's as good as your mother too! What is blood? She raised you." Arthur did not respond immediately. "And that's precisely the thing: What is blood? It's the same color no matter what 'blood line' you come from. Certainly not a thing to make a fuss about."

"Everyone sure does for all that," Arthur responded clincally, not sounding as if the topic truly interested him.

"Well I was hoping you and I would be different in that respect," Nimue prodded. "Aren't you always saying not to repeat a mistake just because everyone else does?" Here she nudged him playfully, hoping to stir him out of whatever dark reverie he was currently in. "Speaking of blood, you've got to come up and see the way Kay's nursing that bloody nose you gave him. He's a real piece of work, that one, but even Sir Ector doesn't blame you for it. Kay shouldn't have called you that."

"Called me what?" Arthur sharply, surprising Nimue. "A bastard?" She blinked. "Well that's what I am. But I don't even really know that!" he exploded.

"And again I say that you have family - what does your bloodline matter?" Nimue shouted back. "You have Mother and Lance and Elaine and me! People who love you. That's family Arthur, even if it's not a particularly noble one."

"You're wrong, Nimue," Arthur said. Nimue suppressed a sigh. "It's more noble than any other, than the royal one. Were I king I could not hope for more wonderful people to love me." Nimue exhaled in relief: finally he was beginning to sound like the Arthur she knew. "And that's what's so wrong with the system," he continued, musing. "There's something just so wrong with the way things are. How is it the people who see that are never the ones with the power to change it?"

"Maybe they do see it and they don't care, because 'the way things are' put them in power. Or maybe we all have the power to change it and everyone thinks that they don't because it's easier," Nimue said, pleased that the discussion had turned philosophical, proving that Arthur was out of his stupor.

"Hard to imagine this being easier than anything," Arthur murmured. "You say Kay's acting weak about that left jab?" he said jovially, sitting up straighter, the sparkle back in his grass green eyes. Nimue smiled craftily, her feminine but only vaguelly pretty features lighting up suggestively. Arthur leapt to his feet, his tall, strong frame was sturdy without appearing overlarge. No one admitted it, for it would never do for a good word to be said about Arthur, but he was handsome and his face had a regal quality that Kay's never managed. "Milady," he said playfully gallant, extending his hand to help her up.

They were halfway up to the castle when Arthur remarked, "I wonder why we talk of such large things so often, Nimue," he mused aloud. "Afterall, we'll lead a simple life, but a happy one. And that should be enough for anyone."

"You were never meant to be a farmer, Arthur," Nimue sighed, looking up at the great man beside her whom the world would let amount to very little.

"I'm not, I'm a squire. A simple squire. It's not a tale you tell by the fireside, but those stories always end up told wrong anyway, lose their truth after only a few retellings. Even the legends fade from memory in the end."

* * *

Nimue always felt like a queen when she entered the dining hall on Arthur's arm, even if they made their way to a low table among the other servants rather than to the High Table. Elaine, the daughter of the house, winked at them, darting her eyes back and forth between Arthur and Kay with great amusement shining in her chocolate brown eyes. Nimue smiled back more calmly. Elaine's cheeks were flushed and her golden curls were pulled back elegantly, overall she looked typically lovely. What Nimue liked best about her appearance, however, was that she never turned her nose up at any of them.

Nimue and Arthur made their way over and took seats near Lancelot, Arthur beside and Nimue across from the two on the women's side of the table. "You'll be pleased to know that you have officially been dubbed 'Wart' in honor of the red badge of cowardice you gave our illustrious Sir Kay up there," Lancelot said by way of greeting the moment they were both seated. Nimue eyed Arthur, hoping he would not sink back into his foul mood at this reminder. Lancelot seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he said quickly, "Anyone heard the story on the dark dame up at the Head?"

Nimue turned in her seat to look. Sure enough, a young woman she had never seen before was seated near the end of the High Table. She was speaking to no one, her raven hair hanging freely down, partially hiding her face. She seemed to sense Nimue's eye on her and looked in her direction. Their eyes locked and Nimue could not look away from the cold gray eyes until the woman released her. Almost purposefully, the woman blinked and Nimue looked quickly away as the woman turned to whisper something to her neighbor for the first time that evening. Nimue turned back to Arthur and Lancelot. "No idea, where'd she come from?"

"Ireland, supposedly. Don't know how she ended up here if it's true," Lancelot replied. "Or even if it isn't for that matter. There's something odd about this place, draws the most unlikely people from all over," he mused, not pausing in tearing into his food. Nimue remembered how he had taken everything by half-spoonfuls and never spoken with his mouth full when he first arrived, but after a few years he had apparently grown comfortable enough to relax his impeccable table manners. "I'll never understand how I ended up here, and I lived it."

"I'm from Ireland too, but that's only from what my mother tells me. This is a strange place for a refugee with a baby to end up, now I think about it. And she never would tell me just what she was fleeing from," Nimue added thoughtfully, deftly spearing herself some dinner on the swifly moving platters of food. Arthur too, Nimue mused but did not say aloud, it's anyone's guess how he ended up here. What was it about the place?

Arthur gave her a piercing look as if he could hear her thoughts, a fear that Nimue did not consider improbable as she and Arthur were closer than most "real" brothers and sisters. "Any speculations to what makes this estate so special, Wart?" she said jovially, using the new nickname Lancelot had mentioned earlier.

Arthur shrugged one shoulder and stared back down at his plate. Nimue did not press him and returned to her own meal. Lancelot too seemed to take the hint.

They remained silent until the end of the meal. Sir Ector stood to retire and the High Table quickly emptied. Nimue did not even look up from her food for this sight. Not until she felt the hand on her shoulder. She turned her head and received a shock as acute as pain. She was looking into the same cold gray eyes that had held her hypnotized before. She broke the gaze herself this time after only a few seconds. She stood, "Milady," she murmured, curtsying as much as the limited space between the bench and the edge of the table as well as her pride would allow.

The woman, girl, she was not really so much older than Nimue, just regarded her. "Where is your mother?" she said after a moment. Nimue did not answer for a moment, blown away by the strangeness of the question. "Or rather who is your mother? Not that I suspect she's told you the truth."

Nimue lost her voice completely in undefinable anger. When she found it, she lost the knowledge that this girl was almost certainly a noblewoman. "Don't you ever say anything like that about my mother again," she said, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Or I will not be responsible for what I do to you." Her body had tensed in readiness. Arthur had appeared at her side, his hand on her shoulder calmingly. "Don't try to deal with me Arthur, she will not insult my mother like that and have me remain silent."

The girl merely looked amused. "Ah, such loyalty. You are much like I imagined you," the girl said mysteriously. All three of them stared at her. "I am Morgan," she said, extending her hand. Nimue covered it with hers very briefly, looking her in the eye menacingly. "Pending confirmation from your mother, I am your sister."

* * *

From that moment on, Nimue's world would not settle for a moment. In view of her new status as the (illegitamate) daughter of the Duke of Cornwall and Tintagel, Sir Ector tried to insist on giving her (not her mother) new quarters. Nimue refused. Morgan stood by all the while watching as if she found this extremely funny. Nimue could not blame her, if it were happening to anyone else she would have thought so too. It took her hours of insisting on remaining in her own room for them to give up and what seemed like a millenium to get them to let her actually retire to it for the night.

But she had her own agenda for the eveninng.

"How are you, really?" Nimue said, materializing in the doorframe to Arthur's room. Arthur was lying on top of his bed still fully dressed, staring into space. A small candle was lit, perched on top of a small stool and casting a flickering light about the small room. There was no window, it was deep in the heart of the building.

"I don't know why you ask, Nimue, you always know," Arthur said dully, swinging his legs over the side of the small cot so that she could sit down next to him. His voice was resigned.

"You must admit it's funny how differently Sir Ector is treating me. Next thing you know he'll be lining me up for a marriage with Kay," Nimue chuckled, sitting down next to him, amusement dancing in her eyes briefly.

Arthur, however, looked alarmed. "That you must never do, Nimue," he siad seriously, desperately. "Don't ever, not with someone like Kay. Don't ever let him turn you into one of his hunting trophies. You deserve better than someone who will treat you like some gawdy trinket. You're so much more than that, don't ever sell short," his green eyes were boring into hers fervently.

"Easy, Arthur, I have no intention," Nimue smiled, making her voice intentionally light although Arthur was being very serious. "And this conversation is about you."

"Haven't we exhausted that subject? You're the one with a new half-sister and a whole noble family off in Ireland," Arthur said, leaning back until his head hit the blanket. He felt Nimue drop down next to him. "What do you make of it?"

"Nothing yet," Nimue murmured. "I've got one more conversation to have tonight before I can even begin to process all of this." There was a long moment full of comfortable silence. "I don't feel any different," she said quietly as if answering a silent question. "It's not like they really know me, the blue half of my blood. They're not really my family."

Despite the nuetrality of her tone, Arthur guessed her final comment's intention. "Why do I get the idea that that last comment was directed at me?"

"A more personal version of our topic from the woods now that I have another perspective to add to it. We've come full circle," Nimue said again lightly, turning her head slightly to regard his profile for a moment. She turned back to stare at the stone ceiling and her voice grew serious again, "So I repeat, how are you, really?"

Arthur did not answer for a moment. "I know that you're right, Nimue, about my family here, but I still wish that I knew where I come from. I know where I am and that it's where I'll invariably be for the rest of my days, I'd just like to know how I got here sometimes." Nimue leaned her head against his in comfort.

"Be careful what you wish for," she intoned. "I used to wish that too."

"Even with that warning in mind, will you give me an idea, Nimue?"

Nimue smiled, but Arthur could not see it. "I think you've become far too dependent on my stories, Arthur," she said evasively.

"How do you figure that?" Arthur almost laughed.

"I'm running out."

Arthur grunted in disbelief. "That's all right, I want some truth in this one."

Nimue sighed and thought for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had changed subtely, as it always did when she told a story. It was deeper and richer but without sounding foreign. I sounded rather like this was the voice that she heard in her own head when thoughts came to her. "There once was a lady with your grass green eyes who loved a man with your imposing figure - "

"Imposing!" Arthur protested loudly.

"Not while I'm telling a story!" Nimue shot back in her own voice before returning to her tale which Arthur could tell she was already enjoying immensely. "She was a milkmaid who worked long and hard, but always with a warm smile on her face, particularly for the village butcher whom she loved. Everyday she would stop along her route for a few moments to talk with the butcher as she made her deliveries. The butcher didn't realize it, but he came to rely on and even look forward to those few moments of simple, pleasant conversation that had at first annoyed him by their interruption - "

"My mother was not annoying!" Arthur cried out in mock-indignation.

"Do you want to hear this or not?" Nimue demanded, sitting up enough to glare at him where he could see it properly. She laid back down, "Then one day the milkmaid did not come. The butcher could not figure out what was wrong that day, but he felt that something was not right. Finally, he remembered the milkmaid. He asked around to those in town if she had been on her regular stops and learned that no one had seen her that day. He became very worried and went to her house. He found her sick in bed and his heart was pierced to see her so helpless. He abandoned his butcher shop for the following week to nurse her back to health. When she was strong again, they married. A year later, they had you."

"So what happened to them? Why aren't I with them now?"

"You always make me tell the sad parts," Nimue sighed. "When you were one year old she sickened again, this time far worse. Even with her loving husband hovering at her bedside, she did not recover. She died after two weeks. Less than a week later, your father died of a broken heart."

A gloomy silence descended on them for a short moment. "I always love your stories," Arthur smiled sadly, but Nimue did not see. "But a milkmaid and a butcher?" he teased suddenly, putting on his best impersonation of Kay.

Nimue sat up and looked down on him with amusement. "Well, who would you have them be - the bloody king and queen of England?" she laughed, springing to her feet. "Oh yes!" she teased, "you're the long lost son of Uther Pendragon and Igraine!" Arthur made an annoyed grab at her but she sprung nimbly out of his reach. "And you will prove it by pulling the sword from the stone to reclaim your birthright! As the missing Pendragon!" she crowed, luckily managing to keep on the other side of the cot than Arthur so that he had difficulty lunging at her. "You are Morgan's long-lost brother! We truly are brother and sister!" Nimue stopped at that. "Well, a sister in common anyways, but it's better than we ever thought," she shrugged, an amused twinkle in her eye. "You will claim the throne of England at the tournament in London!" Nimue resumed with a flourish. "And leave Sir Ector and the Forest Sauvage in your dust!"

Arthur finally stopped trying to catch her in favor of doubling up with laughter, long and loud. Nimue chuckled too. "Good night, King Wart. Sleep well," she winked at him as she flitted out the door, judging that it was safe to leave him with himself for the rest of the night. Arthur fell back on his bed, sleep coming at last.

* * *

Nimue appeared in the doorframe of another bedroom that night. The occupant was just as still yet just as restless. Here the candles were extinguished, but Nimue could feel that her mother was awake. "Mother," she called quietly, her voice echoing in the room.

Her voice spoke from the shadows, "So it is unveiled at last." Her voice was full of sadness and remorse. As Nimue's eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she saw that her mother had pushed a small stool up against the wall so that she could lean back against it as she sat. "I didn't want you to ever know."

"Why?" Nimue asked, sitting down on the edge of her mother's bed, facing her. In her voice there was not hint of accusation or even question, it was an invitation to unburden herself. Her father had once spoken to her mother in just such a way once: kindly however unpolished the kindness appeared. He had not always spoken so to her.

Anetta McBraith looked her daughter in the eyes and tried to hold her there within her gaze. "I never lied to you, either. I don't know what you suspected, I didn't ask, but I hoped that you with your gift for tale weaving would craft, in your heart, an image of your father as a man who was kind and loving and noble. Not a married man who seduced his wife's chambermaid. They call him a nobleman, but I knew that you, who see people so clearly with your penetrating eyes, would see him for what he was. I didn't want you to have the chance to see you father." There was a pause. "I thought his family would be ashamed that you existed, truth be told. I never thought they would seek you out like Lady Morgan has. I never thought to have to face them again. And yes, they were what I was running from, the Lady Igraine anyway. She is a strong woman, Queen Igraine; she would have to be to marry within a week of her husband's death. She didn't find out until you were born. I don't know how long she suspected, but no one could deny that you had your father's eyes. I appealed to him for protection, and he might have granted it if you were male, or perhaps he would only have been more threatened. He never harmed either of us, he didn't have to. He left us for Igraine. Even if he had promised help, he died soon after I left. As soon as I was strong enough, I fled with you. I didn't stop until I reached England. Somehow I found my way to the Forest Sauvage about the time that Sir Ector needed a nurse for Kay. He took me in and later I took Arthur in at his request. Then I watched as you took him in as well, completing our little family. You were worth everything m'dear, but I never wanted you to wonder. . ."

"I love you, Mom," Nimue whispered, extending her hand. Her mother covered it with her own, both of them tan and weathered although one plainly younger.

"I love you too, my baby."

* * *

"All right, I have to ask," Nimue said by way of greeting, walking into Morgan's room in the morning. "What are you doing here?"

Morgan, although the hour was early, was sitting in the only uncushioned stool which she had pulled near the window. She wore the same simple but finely made dress that she had worn the day before. She did not answer or turn immediately, but Nimue too could wait.

"Surely you know that everyone from the easily distracted knights to the scouts who would not know a willow tree from sycamore have been scouring the country for Uther's long lost heir ever since he sickened? He's dead now and the search is still fruitless," Morgan said, staring out the window. "Well, Queen Igraine, having sense, agreed to send me as I will not be distracted and would know my kin anywhere." Nimue noted that Morgan referred to her mother by her title, but said it warmly as if she did feel some affection for the woman. "I'm looking for my brother, but I knew that I had a sister, so I looked for you too and I found you here." For some reason, she chuckled here. "Does that answer your question?" she, finally, turned to look at Nimue.

"Yes," Nimue said slowly, carefully.

"Tell me, do they really let you get away with that here?" Morgan asked.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Nimue replied in the same nuetral tone.

"That amateur level of hiding your feelings," Morgan replied. "I admit you're the best I've seen in a long time, not a flinch or twitch passes your face or even a brief glow in your eyes. You don't even tense up when threatened if you don't want to give it away. But there are other ways to tell. Your hands aren't balled into fists, but your nails are pressed inward, digging into your palms. And you haven't bothered to brush the hairs out of your face. Your feet are planted as if you were undergoing a physical assault." As Morgan rattled all this off, Nimue knew that her hands were curling even tighter and any hairs in her face were completely overlooked. Only Arthur could read her so well. Who was this Morgan that she could do so without the years of practice that he had? Without the bond closer than that of a blood brother?

"It seems that you see past many mysteries," Nimue replied obtusely.

Morgan gave her a small smile. "I think that you and I will get along, sister."

* * *

And, strangely enough, we did. Morgan completed what I would come to refer to in later years as the five points of Camelot's star, but that's getting ahead of the story. Morgan was a strange one, reclusive and mysterious much more so than the four that I had grown up alongside, but I thought that I knew her. She never had her "better half" among us. Arthur and I, in a strictly non-romantic way, completed eachother, depended on eachother, knew eachother the way we knew that no one else ever could. Lancelot and Elaine were the same way, to the same extent I cannot say, but they were surely the best fit for eachother that I would ever see.

I never wondered then, as I do now, why Morgan stayed in the Forest Sauvage so long even if it was only three months. I wonder how long she would have stayed beyond the Tournament. It was never necessary to specify which, everyone knew what you meant by the Tournament. And by some miracle, we were all going to London for it. I sometimes wish that we had stayed safely at home. I wish more often that we had taken another path through the forest, then again, that's assuming what transpired there was indeed an accident.

* * *

After an hour of enduring Kay's ceaseless excited prattle about the Tournament they were traveling to London for, the five were willing to try any means to take the long way through the forest if it meant avoiding any more of Kay. Taking a deep breath as if preparing to go into battle, Nimue urged her horse forward to speak to Sir Ector. She had a great deal of influence on him these days as he seemed to think that she would denounce him for his less than glamorous treatment of her in the past. Apparently it did not register that: she could not reasonably blame him considering he could not possibly have known, and she did not want any more luxury than he had given her before. However, at the moment she was prepared to use that.

Rolling her eyes and grinning, Nimue turned back a moment later. "Let's go before he starts his 'king of the world' bit up again," she said, directing her horse toward the small path off to the side.

"Just how did you convince Daddy?" Elaine replied sounding impressed as she fell in behind her. Nimue grinned mysteriously. Elaine laughed.

"Nimue, a moment," Morgan whispered, leaning just enough to make sure she was not overheard. Nimue could not be sure whether or not it was a question.

But she immediately swung down off the side of her horse. "Now we're out of sight of the world's foremost living experts on "what's proper," why don't we give our dear devoted squires a chance to ride?"

"Oh bless you, Nimue!" Lancelot said, hurrying forward. Apparently he had learned not to bother arguing with Nimue for the sake of chivalry. Either that or his heavy load convinced him to swing up onto the horse eagerly. Morgan dismounted and Arthur thanked her before easing himself, slightly nervously, onto the horse.

The two sisters let the three others ride a bit ahead before speaking. Both stared ahead or to the side; they were both too good at hiding their emotions, particularly curiousity and impatience, so they would gain little insight by looking at eachother anyway. "With the death of my father and the marriage of my mother, I am the mistress of Tintagel and Cornwall," Morgan said by way of opening. She paused, waiting perhaps for some reply from Nimue, but she offered none. "And you know, I really don't have much use for either." Nimue was struck dumb by this addition. "Tintagel is my mother's contribution to their marriage, but Cornwall. . . That's my paternal inheritance. And, well, you're next in line best I figure." Nimue's blank expression faultered, she turned to stare at her in disbelief. "Well, what do you say, being Duchess of Cornwall sound appealing to you?"

Nimue looked at her for a moment. "No," she replied simply.

"Well, I didn't think so," Morgan replied, laughing slightly. "But it would have been a load off my mind."

Nimue smiled slightly, "We should catch up to the others." Morgan responded by increasing her pace. The two women smiled at eachother comfortably. They locked eyes briefly, cold steel meeting soft sky, but both found only friendship there. They were laughing when they caught up to the trio on horses.

"So," Elaine said cheerily, "back from your mysterious interlude?" Leave it to Elaine to say something like that. For a noblewoman who should know better, Elaine tended to be brunt and even ridiculous at times. Niether of the others commented when the two sisters did not answer.

Thus the silence that descended was not entirely comfortable and therefore complete. It continued for almost a mile before they heard it. A soft moan. "What - what was that?" Elaine's voice trembled slightly, no doubt thinking of all the wild beasts in the woods. Another groan, decidedly human sounding this time.

"Do you think that someone could be hurt?" Arthur asked immediately. He was already turning Nimue's mare in the direction of the cry.

`"Do - do we have to go see, Arthur?" Elaine asked, her mind no doubt jumping to the ghost stories she had grown up hearing and, unlike most, truly believing. It would have looked slightly odd to an outsider, a noblewoman all but begging her brother's squire not to make her trudge through the woods after a mysterious cry. Then again, an outsider would have trouble understanding their friendship at all.

"I do at least, Lady Elaine," Arthur said gently, climbing (gratefully) down from the horse.

"Arthur, wait!" Morgan cried suddenly. Everyone turned to stare at her, there was real fear in her voice. "I have heard tales of this forest. Those who leave this path seldom find it again." Unlike Elaine, Morgan was not superstitious, she never said a careless word, and her face was betraying an uncharacteristically strong amount of emotion.

"Someone may be hurt, Morgan," Arthur said gently, handling his reins to Nimue and striding quickly into the woods which swallowed him within a few seconds, hiding him from view.

"Sometimes I fear that that man is a fool," Morgan mumbled, staring at the last spot he was visible.

"And you're right," Nimue replied, shifting her gaze from the same spot to look at Morgan. "It is a very foolish thing to be as good a man as he is." Without another word, she led the mare into the woods after Arthur.

"Well, I'm not about to let those two have all the adventure!" Lancelot cried jovially. Then he turned to Elaine kindly, "but we may need someone to yell at us from the path later, Lady Elaine."

"Don't you dare leave me here!" Elaine cried, swinging down off her horse immediately. A few seconds later, all three had vanished into the woods.

Morgan stood on the path, holding both reins, her feet planted. "And I'm the biggest fool of all," she told the wind, "for I know what the woods contain." She turned and walked resolutely after them, seeming to disappear even more quickly than the others.

Arthur was the first to emerge in to the clearing just a few yards from the path, so he was the first to see that a large dead tree trunk had keeled over cutting a harsh line across the middle of the clearing. As Nimue and her horse clunked up behind him, he began to comb the grasses with his eyes for the source of the cry. "Oh!" it came again, this time definitely a cry of pain.

"Sir? Sir, where are you? Are you all right?" Arthur called loudly, looking about for an answer.

"Arthur, look!" Elaine said, pointing, "the tree!" At that, they all whipped around to stare at the fallen tree. Sure enough, a man was pinned under it. Arthur and Lancelot sprang into action after only a moment's start of surprise. Each hurriedly shouted promises of assistance as they sprinted towards him. The three women hurried after them, reaching the tree just as Arthur and Lancelot were trying to organize how to best lift the log off of him. Nimue wordlessly worked her fingers under the trunk and waited for the word to lift.

"Nimue, Lance and I can - " Arthur began cautiously.

"Oh hush, Arthur, or have you forgotten how we've all grown up? We're not damsels in distress, you know," Nimue replied.

Arthur looked for a moment as if he were about to argue, but apparently thought better of it. He let Morgan and Elaine get in position to life the tree without comment. "Ready? Three, two, one. . ." With a collective groan of effort, the five heaved the large tree up a little over a foot and the man quickly scrambled out from underneath it.

They all let it drop immediately, staggering a bit as they backed up from it. For a split second, he did not appear and they thought they might have dropped it on top of him again, but the next minute he was rising to his feet, brushing a few tigs out of his hair as if he were perfectly all right and nothing even mildly remarkable had occured. "Why thank you, good sirs and gentle ladies," his eyes twinkled at describing his rescuers, even if they were women, as "gentle." "You have done me a great service."

"We are glad to be of service. I hope you are all right, sir?"

"Oh yes, yes quite Sir Arthur, just a semi-unfortunate accident," the strange man replied. He was tall, dark, and handsome if he were not so strange. His eyes were as black as coals, as black as moonless nights, and captivating. They did not pierce like Nimue's, but they also knew you, saw inside you with in a glance just as Nimue's blue ones did. His eyes were older than the grayest beard in England, than it's oldest legned, yet newer than a babe's. He had the air of one who remembered when the blarney stone was a mountain and would be around until it was a mere pebble. Yet his body was young and strong though held in check by a serenity he wore like a cloak around him.

"I - how did you know my name?" Arthur asked, staring at him.

The man looked at him for a moment, then held out his hand to the side and said, "Come here child." Elaine jumped and stared at him. She froze in the position she had been in a moment before: cradling her hands that the rough bark had sliced through. Callouses had protected Nimue's hands and gloves Morgan's, but Elaine's palms had been torn viciously. She walked slowly forward, looking like she was doing so against her better judgement, her hands still extended because she was too surprised to lower them. Merlin took her by the wrists and began running his thumb lightly along her palm, barely touching her skin so that it tingled slightly. None of them could take their eyes off of him. "These hands were not meant to be so delicate. There is strength in them, hidden very deep, despite how dainty they may appear. They will be strong someday, as will you."

He released her hands and, even as they struggled to process this, Elaine let out a cry of surprise, "It's - it's gone! My hands are healed!" A ripple ran through the group, a spine tingling feeling passing quickly from one to the other.

"I am Merlin," the man said simply. This meant something only to Morgan who, almost imperceptibly, started and began to regard him more intensely. "And I am in your debt. For your kindness, I will grant each of you one gift, anything that you choose. Believe me, it is in my power to grant."

Arthur was the first to recover use of his voice. "That is unnecessary. We are happy to assist you, Sir."

"Arthur you don't refuse a wizard!" Morgan cried, turning her eyes from Merlin for the first time since he took Elaine's hands.

"Morgan, what are you on about?" Lancelot said, pivoting his head to regard his raven-haired friend. Everyone else did as well. Morgan glanced back to where Merlin had stood a moment before and saw nothing but air. The rest glanced about the clearing apprehensively. "Where'd he go?" Lancelot called confusedly. Everyone's thoughts echoed his. After a very long moment of silence, "Should - should we get back to the path now?" He was suddenly quite willing to believe in Morgan's superstition. He got no argument.

* * *

Nimue stared up at Arthur; her mind, for the first time in her life, was completely and utterly blank. It did not help that Arthur looked as if his was as well. He was looking at the gleaming sword in his hands as if not convinced in the least that it was really there. His eyes eventually slid from it and locked onto Nimue's seeking. . .confirmation? Approval? Congratulations? Sympathy? Centuries past them by in that moment, the few seconds that it took the great crowd to catch its collective breath. Then something nearby exploded.

From the sound, it was easy to believe that the entire cathedral had spontaneously combusted. It was far more believable to Arthur than that the sword was in his hands. The sword. Who would believe that he, he of all people, had just claimed the throne of England? Nimue certainly could not believe it. Arthur, her Arthur. Her little brother, the boy next door, the absolute best person that she knew for the sheer reason that his morals were so strong and simple. King. King Arthur. King Arthur of England. High King.

Nimue did not usually think in words. Her least vital thoughts came in pictures, anything important just came in a suddeb recognition, a knowledge that she could not define. But now, she could not comprehend the meaning of king, just the word. Any picture she had of kings was not Arthur. Not good, safe, dependable Arthur. Arthur looking so bewildered up there and. . .lonely. Already, no farther from us that the height of the monument, but already alone.

"Arthur," she cried out, in a very different voice than the rest of the crowd was using to chant the same name. She could not even hear her own voice, she did not hear the same surprised, anguished cry come from another throat near her. Somewhere in the semblance of thoughts that remained to run willy-nilly through her heads, she understood that Arthur would be a good and wise king, perhaps the best choice for the position.

But to have it be true. . . For Arthur to have been that long lost heir all along. . .

It made her feel deceived at the very least, by Arthur and the world. So much that suddenly made sense, but so much understanding that was fast slipping from her forever. Her view of the world and her place in it tilting off the table and crashing onto the floor like a shattered vase. Arthur king. King Arthur. That's what they were chanting. And Arthur, looking overwhelmed, turning his eyes on her beseechingly, saying, "Tell me it's not real. Tell me it's all a dream. Tell me it will all just go away. I'm not ready. I'm not the right one." But if Arthur was not, then no one was.

Arthur, looking so flustered as the people fell to their knees before him. Nimue, wanting to go to him yet feeling their separation as a tangible thing. Looking as if from a great distance at Arthur. Just Arthur. Even now he was receding from the eyes of the man holding the great sword in his hands. You could only glimpse him from afar. He would always guide the actions of this new man, but he was not so easy to see anymore, so easy to approach.

Just Arthur had become King Arthur of England, a man destined for great deeds and legends.

Then Nimue blinked, the first time since she had seen Arthur with the sword though many long minutes had gone by. And there he was, back as if from the dead. A nervous boy looking up and pleading with her to help him, to bear some of this new burden with him. That was, in a nutshell, why Arthur was the perfect choice for king. He knew, even in this first moment of triumph, that it was a burden. That he was a servant to his country. Nimue nodded. She would help him bear it, but she could not go to him. No, she would help him bear it from afar, but it must always be his to bear. He alone would stand on the monument, she would not go to share it with him.

That was the pain that stung her eyes until tears came to them. That was the dread that rooted her feet to the cobblestones. The sword in his hand, the crown she could already see on his head, it was a wedge forced between them. It separated them, them who were so close they knew eachother's thoughts. She could not guess them now. It was vanity for her to think that his mind was blank because hers was numb. A huge gulf stood between them. Not jealousy, not spite, but rather an acute sense of loss. Arthur was gone. He was mere memory now. And that was good for the country. They needed a king, not a boy. But Nimue wanted that boy back. He had always been a man to her, more man than any other, why did he have to grow up now? She wasn't ready to follow him there. She wasn't ready to change this drastically. She would try, but unlike Arthur she would fail. Only for Arthur would she bend that far; only for Arthur would she break for it.

They would both try to pretend that everything was the same between them even as they struggleed to change, but they would see the truth in eachother's eyes and know what was in eachother's thoughts. And for once they would ignore it. They would pretend not to see it because, for the first time in the their lives, they could not bear to face it. They would stare down invading armies, betrayors, spies, monsters all in their proper time without flinching, without hiding, in part because of what happened there, that day. They lost eachother to some small or large degree, they never could tell which. In the end it didn't matter. Losing eachother at all shattered the life they had planned out for themselves, shattered the assumptions they had always held about the world. If Arthur and Nimue could lose eachother, what could possibly be steady in this world?

Niether particularly wanted to face the question, so they would never know if there was an answer.

©KatyMulvaney10-8-2003