The sun was slowly dipping below the Outer Wall, plunging the city into twilight. The path was black, but Nimuë had no trouble seeing. Standing there, in a plain white cloak, with her silver hair flowing like water around her shoulders, she looked pure, the cliché of a white sorceress, her unlined face giving no secrets of age, her silver eyes, betraying her, showing their wisdom.

She stood there for what seemed like minutes, but the sun told another story: the hours that passed did not seem to matter to the witch, standing there, barely moving, gathering energy from her surroundings for the impending battle. Finally, when Nimuë began to show signs of weariness, another cliché arrived, in a way most people cannot imagine, being lifted by the Four Winds, and carried upon there backs, controlling them in her foul language. She wore a black cloak with raven hair: Morgana le Faye. Both of the sorceresses, fated to be enemies, seemed almost relieved to see each other.

Morgana began to walk forward, carrying a bundle in her arms, grey cloth, pressed against her breast, and although she seemed completely comfortable with the bundle, it looked too ragged to be held so close by one so glorious. As she walked forward, she began to lower the bundle of rags she held so close, for the first and last time.

Looking into the bundle, Morgana kissed the babe inside, whispered some words, and cast a mark upon the child’s brow. As she rose with the grace of a jaguar, she looked Nimuë, who had not moved since Morgana had arrived. With a stare full of hatred, jealousy and even fear, Morgana said in a voice unlike any had ever heard, she said ‘keep him safe’. Although close to tears, Morgana rose to her full height and closed her eyes…she held this pose for 11 beats of her heart, then opened her eyes, no longer black, but glowing ice white, then muttered in her language of demons four strange words.

Suddenly, a wind swept the alley, and Morgana le Faye was gone. Losing all composure, Nimuë ran toward the babe and scooped him up. Looking just below the baby’s messy black mop of hair, Nimuë gasped. There, upon his brow, was a rune that shone with the glow of burning gold: The rune Algiz, for protection…

Nimuë quickly muttered in another strange language, but this one sounded pure, like water trickling over a brook, and an ethereal light filled the alley, shining from the sorceress herself. Nimuë and the babe no longer became corporeal beings, but beings of light and ether, then disappeared, only to reappear inside a grand room, decked with furs lining the floor, cast iron candelabras, burning with 10 candles to every one, and a merry fire burning in the hearth.

Nimuë removed her cloak and placed it on one of the chairs near the fire, making the cloak shine. She was dressed in a plain white dress, the bodice made of fine silk, with lace running up the back the colour of blood. She placed the babe in a crib, already prepared in the hours before the handover, anticipating the outcome. With the babe in the crib, she walked toward the kitchens, all of her maids and servants already asleep: it would be sunrise in a few hours, and she wanted to make the most of her privacy.

Entering the kitchen, she gathered some herbs, hanging above the window. Most people would assume the herbs were used for cooking and flavoring, but Nimuë used them for a more delicate process. She took a small mortar and pestle from a shelf, and began to grind her ingredients relentlessly. She added to the herbs salt and some liquid from a small vial, the colour of amber. When she finished mixing them, she poured the concoction into a glass bottle, which she corked then sealed with wax.

She held the vial up to the new stream of sunlight coming through the window. Without saying anything, she let go of the vial in midair, but instead of falling, it remained there, motionless, as if being held by an invisible string.

It remained there, held in front of the suns first rays, with nothing happening for a few seconds, with the exception that Nimuë stopped breathing. Then, the potion began to change colour: instead of looking like molten amber with bits of herb floating in it, it began to blend together, the herbs dissolving into the mixture, with the mixture taking on the colour and texture of blood.

Nimuë let out a loud and audible sigh of relief. She took the potion, still hovering in midair, and put it in the pocket of her dress. She began to walk toward the door back to the babe, when she passed a servant who was with child, heavily pregnant, probably in her final trimester. The girl was young, probably around 15, but she already knew the hardships of life.

Nimuë turned back, to see the girl looking at her, but when the sorceress met her gaze, the girl shied. ‘Tell me, servant, what is your name?’ asked Nimuë in a soft but clear voice.

‘Maen, my lady, Maen Rianoe’ said the girl, in a soft voice in the direction of her shoes.

‘Why are you still working when you are so far gone with child?’ asked the witch, not unkindly

The girl looked unnerved to be asked such questions. ‘My father is passed and my mother cannot work, for I have a younger brother who is very ill, so she must stay with him…’ the girl looked on the verge of tears to be talking of such things

Nimuë reached into her pocket and took out a small bag of coins. She untied the sting and removed a handful of round pieces of gold, enough to feed a family of three for a season. She dropped them in the girl’s outstretched arms. ‘Go home, I have no need for a servant about to give birth’ and she turned and walked away.

She went and stood next to the crib: the babe was still asleep, every now and then, making a small movement or murmur. It had occurred to her about how to feed him, as she did not want to hire a wet nurse, as she wanted few people to know about this baby. She had decided to warm milk over a fire, to remove all impurities then feed him with that.

She began to walk toward the stairs to finally get some sleep, when she turned back toward the babe: he was too young to be left alone. Closing her eyes her face became a mask, and when she opened them she focused on the crib. It began to levitate, floating up about a hands width, then stopped. She turned and faced the stairs, and strode toward them, the crib floating along in her wake…