#I think the people on the beach are Merlin and Nimue but could be entirely wrong

[taliesin-the-bored]

Challenge: Find the Holy Grail

The Death of King Arthur by James Archer

[the-weeping-monk]

visions are seldom all they seem (but i know you)

Chapter 5

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“There isn’t much time.”

Nimue’s mouth went dry. “I don’t understand, what’s happening?”

“It’s Cumber. He’s sending an army to wipe the Fey out.” Morgana paused, then amended, “Well, another army.”

“‘Another army’? They didn’t leave on the ships?” Nimue wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed, but she was definitely guilty. Had they stayed for her? She had told Arthur to leave, to not look back. She had made her choice for the good of her people—why couldn’t he have just let her go?

But the tiny voice in the back of her mind whispered to her that the Fey had stayed for her. Because they believed in her.

“No,” Morgana said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know it, either, but apparently Cumber sent soldiers to make certain the Fey never left the beach.”

Her stomach dropped. How many casualties? she wanted to ask. How many did we lose?  

But Nimue remained silent. She could not ask now or else she might break, and that was not an option. She had to be strong—if not for herself, then for the Fey. Taking a deep breath, she asked instead, “What do we do?”

“I made sure that Arthur led the Fey to safety. By the time Cumber’s soldiers arrive at the beach, they should be long gone.”

“You saw Arthur?” Nimue’s heart stuttered. “How is he? Is he alright?”

Morgana gave a rueful smile and glanced away. “He’s fine, Nimue.”

Nimue couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. Arthur was alive, alive, alive. She would get to see him and this time, they would never have to be parted again.

“In the meantime, we need to slow Cumber’s army down. If you and Merlin work together—wait.” Morgana paused and looked around the clearing, her gaze briefly stumbling on the Monk. “Where’s Merlin? And what is he doing here?” she demanded, jerking her head toward the ex-Paladin.

Ignoring Morgana’s last question, Nimue asked, “Is Merlin supposed to be here?” She found that she didn’t possess enough energy to pretend to defend the Monk’s reasons for tagging along. She still hadn’t made up her mind about him yet, still hadn’t decided if she could move past what he had done to her people.

To their people, she reminded herself. Because he had not just harmed a race he didn’t understand out of fear or ignorance, no—the Monk had been a part of mass genocide against his own kind.

It made her sick, it made her angry. She didn’t want to feel anything other than hatred toward him, but the previous night had complicated things. His confession had twisted her assumption of him and made Nimue question everything she knew. The Monk was single-handedly blurring her well-constructed lines between good and evil, and she didn’t know what to do.

She never should have let the Monk travel with them. He and Squirrel were already closer than she could have imagined, given the circumstances; the boy had even let him call him by his given name. Squirrel was young, impressionable. What would happen if he and the Monk grew closer if the boy began to look up to the allegedly reformed murderer?

Clenching her teeth, Nimue silently resolved to make sure that never happened, whatever it took.

“Merlin told me that he was going to meet you,” Morgana said, bringing Nimue back to the present.

“Well, obviously something got in his way.” Nimue paused, thinking, and then, “Where did you two go after I . . .” she trailed off, unable to form the words. Her fall was still fresh in her mind, the feeling of Death’s talons gripping her lungs still paralyzing.

Morgana pursed her lips. “We went back to his old tower in Uther’s palace. We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Do you think Uther found him?” Nimue didn’t want to believe it, but it was entirely possible. Even if Merlin had his magic back, he couldn’t defend himself or outright murder the king without risk of being hunted down for generations to come.

“I don’t know what to think anymore, but there isn’t enough time to debate. We have to get to the Fey before Cumber’s army does.”

“What makes you think that we can do anything against an entire army?” Nimue asked, doubtful.

Morgana gave her a flat look. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Nimue’s brow furrowed. “I’m serious, Morgana. Getting rid of those soldiers in the forest was one thing—fighting off an entire army is another.”

It was true; Nimue had been able to fend off a handful of soldiers, but she knew she was not yet ready to take on an entire army, at least not alone. Maybe if Merlin were there it would be different, but he was nowhere to be found.

“You will have me.”

Nimue startled. It was the first time the Monk had spoken since Morgana had arrived. Nimue almost wished she could say she had forgotten he was there, but it wouldn’t have been true—she felt his presence in the back of her mind, a steady heat burning in her subconscious. Ever since she had had that vision of him in the caverns, something had changed.

No, changed wasn’t the right word, she decided. Something had been discovered, something that had always been there, buried in the shadows of her mind. Fate had led them there, and fate guided them now.

It was only then that she realized what—or, more accurately, who—she was connected with, and she stifled a wave of revulsion.

There must have been some sort of fluke; maybe the presence in the back of her mind was her mother, guiding her to the right decision. After all, it felt good and kind and familiar, and the Monk was none of those things.

It couldn't be the Monk. Fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

Morgana scoffed. “I still don’t understand what he is doing here.” The question was directed at Nimue but her eyes were on the Monk. “Didn’t he hunt you all down, hell-bent on murdering the Fey?”

The Monk looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Yes,” he breathed, “I did.”

“And you’re fine with that, Nimue? Welcoming him into your good graces after all that he has done?” Morgana shook her head before Nimue had the chance to respond. “Did the water of the lake damage your brain, is that what this is?”

“Morgana,” Nimue said her name like an order. The young Daughter stopped her tangent and gazed at Nimue expectantly. “I am not saying that I’m alright with the . . . situation,” she glanced sidelong at the Monk, whose gaze was resolutely turned away, “but I am asking you to focus on what’s more important at the moment—the Fey.” Nimue closed her eyes in anticipation of what she was about to say. “And if Lancelot is offering his help, then I won’t turn him away.”

For a moment, Nimue was sure Morgana wouldn’t respond, and then—

“He’s Lancelot now?” She guffawed. “I didn’t realize we were humanizing murderers.”

Nimue tried to be patient, she really did, but it wasn’t in her power. She was disgusted with the Monk and frustrated that Morgana was questioning Nimue’s decision to allow him to stay with them. Why couldn’t anything be easy for once?

“I’m not asking you to understand, Morgana,” Nimue said, patience running thin, “so let’s focus and discuss what’s more important right now.”

Morgana bit the inside of her cheek. She was silent for a few agonizing moments before she spoke.

“They Fey could have left tracks—they were in a hurry.”

Nimue let out a small sigh of relief at Morgana’s compliance. “If Cumber’s army is already on its way, then we have to move fast to intercept them. They’ll likely have sent scouts ahead, and I can’t let them get back to the soldiers with wind of where the Fey went.”

“I agree. Head there now—I’ll go find Merlin and have him come to you so he can transport the lot of you to the beach,” Morgana asserted. “Once you get there, make sure to cover any tracks the Fey could have left.”

Nimue nodded. The decision had been made. “Born in the dawn.”

Morgana’s answering smile was grim. Idly, Nimue found she had trouble remembering the last time she had seen her friend smile. “To pass in the twilight.”

The Fey expression was easier than saying goodbye. It meant that there was still a chance of life beyond death, that if something ever happened, Nimue and Morgana would one day reunite.

Nimue blinked and Morgana was gone.

There were a few moments of palpable silence before Nimue turned back to Squirrel and the Monk, determination hardening her gaze. “We have to leave, immediately.”

No objections were made—both Squirrel and the Monk seemed to understand the weight of the situation.

The Monk didn’t spare her a glance as he lifted Squirrel onto the horse and started forward on foot. His limp was more prominent than it had been, though his face was emotionless, dead eyes staring straight ahead. He must have reinjured himself during the fight.

She made herself look away. One minute she hated him, and the next she was sympathizing with him?

But she couldn’t just let him hurt himself further. Whether she liked it or not, their paths were intertwined. As his queen, she had a duty to help him—she owed it to him to give him this. He had saved her and Squirrel, and that counted for something.  

Nimue sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this.

“Mo—Lancelot,” she called, tripping over his name. He turned back to her, hand snapping to one of his swords, ready to fight at a moment’s notice despite being heavily injured. “Use the horse. I need a good walk.”

His expression hardened, most likely thinking that she was pitying him. His voice was rough when he muttered out an “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re clearly not.” Nimue walked forward, catching up to him easily and stopping in front of him. “Get on the horse. That’s an order from your queen.” When he didn’t move right away, she tried again. “I thought you said you were loyal to me?”

This seemed to get his attention. “Yes, my lady.”

Nimue blinked. “I’m not your lady.”

The Monk gave her a quizzical look before his mask fell back into place once more. “What should I call you then?”

Nimue hesitated. “Not ‘my lady’.”

Maybe it was the light or the adrenaline from earlier warping her perception of reality, but Nimue could have sworn the Monk’s lips had quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.

The Monk did as he was commanded and climbed atop his horse behind Squirrel, who had been noticeably silent throughout the entire exchange. When the boy caught her staring, he merely raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Nimue didn’t know what that was meant to convey, and she didn’t ask, and instead started forward along the path once more. They could have stayed in their little camp until Merlin found them, but Nimue knew she wouldn’t have been able to sit still, not with Fey lives on the line. She had to move, had to do something.

But even as they walked, the silence of the woods was too all-consuming and she was bombarded by intruding thoughts.

What if Cumber’s army discovered the Fey? Would Arthur be alright, was he struggling to lead the Fey? What about Pym and Kaze? Nimue hadn’t even thought to ask Morgana about them.

She had to distract herself.

“So,” she found herself saying, “how do you think you did it?”

The Monk knew what she was referring to and didn’t ask for clarification. “I’m not sure.”

Nimue frowned, though he couldn’t see it; she was still staring resolutely ahead. “You cloaked all of us with your magic; that must have taken a lot of concentration. Are you sure that you weren’t thinking of anything specific?”

She looked over her shoulder in time to catch the shake of his head. His eyes were on the horizon, but when he felt her staring at him, he met her gaze. Nimue whipped her head back to face the front as if she had been burned.

After the awkwardness had passed, she began again. “When I was first learning how to wield my magic, it responded to my emotions. Was it like that for you, do you think?”

The Monk was silent for a moment before he spoke, deliberating. “All I knew was that I had to protect Percival. And you,” he said.

“And you said that you’ve never done this before? Not once, not even on accident?”

The Monk shook his head once. “I never had a reason to protect anyone before,” he said simply.

When she had asked him the first time, the Monk’s brows had pinched together in confusion. But this has never happened before.

Have you ever needed to use it? she had asked, though she felt she already knew the answer.

The Monk had stayed silent, proving her suspicions correct.

Now that she had a verbal admission, it wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was odd to hear all the same. Nimue hadn’t found herself wondering what the Monk’s life had been like with the Paladins—considering he was a Fey hiding in plain sight—but now she began to imagine. And she hated what her mind came up with, hated the sympathy rising within her. Hated that she could quite possibly relate to his situation more than anyone else could.

Nimue still remembered what it felt like to be hated for what she could do.

No! Stop, please! Fear had crept up her throat. Please stop! No, stop!

Peri had not listened to her pleas. That’s the mark of the dark gods. Then, Is that what you did, demon? Used your magic to make Wallo look at you? She sounded incredulous. Do you think he’d ever be with you?  

Leave me alone! Nimue had cried, the fear within her spiraling out of control. Would they kill her, would they cut her open and leave her to rot? Would her mother ever find her body?

She had been panting, her heart had raced out of control.

The next thing she heard had been Peri’s screams.

Let go of her, Nimue! Wallo had demanded, frightened eyes beseeching. Nimue!

It had not taken long before Wallo and his friend had cut Peri loose, but once they did, they had scampered away into the forest, fleeing for their lives. Nimue had instilled that fear in them.

But instead of saying any of this, instead of telling him that she understood, all she could breathe out was a soft “oh.”

Despite the fact that Nimue was only assuming his experience had been as bad as hers, she couldn’t help her hatred for him ebbing away. She didn’t trust him—didn’t even like him—but it eased her conscience knowing that for all the pain he had caused the Fey, he suffered just as much hiding who he was from his supposed brothers.

“Uh, Nimue?” Squirrel asked, nervous.

Nimue glanced back at the boy. “Yes?”

Squirrel didn’t respond. He merely pointed up at the blue, midday sky.

Except the sky wasn’t blue. Instead, dark, ominous clouds began to gather overhead, blocking out their view of the sun.

Thunder rumbled.

Nimue’s stomach sank. This wasn’t good.

. . .

To say that Merlin was having a rough day would be a monumental understatement.

Just as he had been about to leave to find Nimue, royal guards led by Uther himself had crashed through Merlin’s door.

Merlin had started up out of his seat where he had been preparing a rucksack, eyebrows shooting up. He had distinctly remembered locking the door in the event his rooms were ever searched, though he hadn’t expected anyone to break down his door in order to get in—Uther knew he didn’t have anything important in his chambers besides empty wine bottles.

Two soldiers stumbled through the door, and three others followed behind. When they saw Merlin, they stopped dead in their tracks, eyes wide.

Merlin reached for the Sword of Power and stood to face the soldiers, who still hadn’t moved from where they were frozen in the middle of the room. Had he been given more time, he would have hidden the sword, but it was too late now—the soldiers had seen it, and if Merlin didn’t dispose of them, they would report their findings back to Uther. And under no circumstance could Merlin ever let the sword fall into the boy-king’s hands.

“Your majesty?” one of the soldiers asked, hand on his sword as if he were unsure whether to draw the blade or not.

Merlin’s brow creased as he looked beyond the soldiers and into the darkness of the stairwell. Footsteps scuffed against stone, followed by a crisp voice.

“What is it?” Uther snapped, coming into view before stopping abruptly, eyes disbelieving. He blinked, and then his face grew deathly pale. “Merlin?” his voice came out as a whisper.

Merlin should have been angry, should have been vengeful. Uther had had him killed, he had wanted him dead. But maybe Merlin should have been there for him more. Maybe he should’ve been more supportive of Uther’s ventures.

He should’ve done so many things differently.  

Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t help but feel responsible for Uther and who he had become. The magician had known the boy-king for his entire life, had watched as he grew up, had celebrated each of his accomplishments as if they were his own.

He hadn’t meant to get attached, but then again, Merlin had a habit of caring far too much.

“Did you expect I would be easy to kill?” Merlin asked, tone carefully reserved.

Uther flinched. Fear and a tinge of regret laced his tone as he demanded, “How?”

“How about you tell me why you tried to kill me?” Merlin’s voice was even and controlled.

The soldiers between them shifted uncomfortably, glancing between the two men. Their hands were on the hilts of their swords, poised to attack Merlin with one word from their king.

A broken sound came out of Uther’s throat, and after a few moments of concern, Merlin realized that it was supposed to be a laugh. His eyes were crazed and red and he looked like he hadn’t had a wink of sleep in days.

Merlin’s eyes softened imperceptibly. “Uther, I—”

“What is that?” Uther demanded, eyes focused on the Sword of Power clenched in Merlin’s hand. “Is that what We think it is?”

Merlin tried again. “Uther—"

But the boy-king wouldn’t let him finish. “I feel it calling to me.” His eyes darted up to meet Merlin’s own. “Give it to me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Uther’s eyes flashed. “Hand it over and be absolved of your crimes.”

Merlin would have chuckled had he not been overcome with regret. He didn’t want to be Uther’s enemy, but if it was between Nimue and Uther, Merlin would choose Nimue every time.

“I’m sorry, Uther.”

“You lie,” Uther spat the words like they were poison.

You are the king of lies.

He needed to get out of this situation, and fast. Thinking quickly, Merlin began to concentrate on willing a storm to gather overhead. If he could conjure lighting again, as he had on the stone bridge, it would give him a good enough distraction as he made his escape.

Merlin looked away. “I meant what I said, before,” he started. He could feel Uther’s eyes on him, on the sword in his hand. “I am proud of you, Uther.” He raised his eyes to the boy-king, only to find Uther shaking his head fiercely.

And then—

“I trusted you!” Uther shouted, hurt and rage pouring forth, the dam inside him splintering. “How could you do this to me?”

Merlin didn’t want to remind the already unstable king that he had been the one to try and murder Merlin and not the other way around, so he remained silent.

“Have you anything to say for yourself, old man?” Uther’s hands were clenched at his sides and his cheeks were red with bottled fury.

Merlin felt the crackle of energy at his fingertips, ready for use. As much as he wanted to mend things with Uther, he couldn’t waste any more time.

“All I have to say is goodbye,” Merlin said, willing his staff into his hand.

Uther’s eyes shot wide. “No—stop him!” he commanded his guards.

But they were too late; Merlin was already calling down a strike of lighting. By the time the soldiers reached him, Merlin was gone in a flash of blinding electricity, and the soldiers were left smoking in their armor.

. . .

Lancelot had met many powerful Fey, but none as powerful as the one who stood before him—or the one that had appeared in front of them by way of a lightning bolt.

Instinctually, Lancelot dismounted Goliath, gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones. Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and Lancelot knew better than to underestimate him, despite rumors—evidently false rumors—going around that he had lost his magic. Better to be on his toes if Merlin decided he didn’t favor Lancelot’s presence than stuck on the back of a horse.

Squirrel shot him a look of worry, but Lancelot just shook his head. He was fine—he had to be.

Nimue seemed to trust Merlin. That should have been all Lancelot needed to know, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t trust the sorcerer, didn’t trust how he and Nimue were so close despite numerous obstacles in the way of them ever meeting. Lancelot knew he was missing a vital piece of information, but he doubted he would get it from Nimue; he would have to figure it out on his own.

“Merlin,” Nimue breathed, rushing up to the sorcerer in question and throwing her arms around him.

As the skies cleared and returned to their normal color, Merlin wrapped the young queen in his arms and held her. The two sorcerers stood there, not speaking, simply holding the other as if their lives depended on it. Moments passed and Merlin finally pulled back just enough to inspect Nimue’s face, eyes darting between her own and assessing her for any damage.

The act brought a memory to the forefront of Lancelot's mind, one where his father had done the same thing to him as Merlin was doing with Nimue.

Lancelot had been just a boy when he had gone scouring the woods, desperate for the taste of adventure. But he had been young and foolish and had gotten lost. He had been forced to traverse the dangerous woods alone at night, but, after painstakingly retracing his steps, he had eventually found his way back home. His mother had cried and his father had taken his tiny face between his large hands and had inspected him for injury.

Those memories were usually buried deep in his subconscious, but Lancelot found that the more he let go of his life with the Paladins, the more connected he was with his past life—and his real family.

Nimue gripped Merlin’s hands with her own. “I’m sorry that I worried you, but I’m alright.” At his uncertain look, she added, “I promise.”

Merlin dropped his hands from her face and stepped back. “I swear to you I will get my revenge.”

“And I thank you for that, but right now, we have more important things to worry about.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed as Nimue explained their plight. When she was finished, he leaned on his staff for support, head bowed slightly.

“Morgana said that the Fey would be long gone, but I still think we should make sure they didn’t leave any tracks,” Nimue said.

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he attempted to smile. “A good plan.”

Nimue waited in silence as if expecting more of a reaction.

“It’s just . . . I’m so proud of you, Nimue,” Merlin spoke, voice shaky. There was pain in his eyes. “I need you to know that.”

Nimue’s answering smile was sheepish. “I couldn’t have done all of this without you.”

“Yes, you could have,” Merlin contradicted without hesitation, “and for the most part, you did. I just helped you open your mind to the Hidden.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

The corners of Merlin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “And you give me far too much.”

“Nimue,” Squirrel piped up, “we should go. The Fey could be in danger.”

Merlin blinked, gaze going to Squirrel and Lancelot as if he had just noticed they were there. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in confusion at the sight of the former Monk but he didn’t comment, which Lancelot took as a good sign. He wouldn’t be murdered today—at least not by Merlin.

Nimue took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right—we have to move. Merlin, do you think you can transport all of us to the beach?”

“It would be an honor.” The sorcerer moved to stand in the middle of their small group. He eyed the Monk warily before he said, “You all need to have physical contact with me in order for this to work.”

“Will you be able to transport Goliath, too?” Squirrel asked.

Merlin’s brow creased. “Who?”

“Lancelot’s horse,” the boy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Lancelot shot Squirrel a grateful look, and Squirrel smiled in return.

A frown pulled at Merlin’s lips. “I can try, though it’s been . . . a while since I’ve done this.”

Satisfied, Squirrel reached down from his position atop Goliath and put his hand on Merlin’s forearm. Nimue was next, resting her hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and Lancelot followed her lead, burying his fear of losing his limb.

“Ready?” Merlin asked, looking to Nimue for confirmation.

Nimue glanced at Squirrel before meeting Lancelot’s eyes. The ex-Paladin gave her a subtle nod, to which she said, “Alright. We’re ready.”

Clouds gathered overhead and thunder rumbled, preceding a clap of thunder so electrifying it shook the ground beneath them. Fire shot straight through Lancelot’s veins, so much so that he thought he might burn up. He shut his eyes against the blinding light and opened them to find himself on a deserted beach.

The light died down; only sparks remained, zapping between the Fey as they separated.

“Is everyone alright?” Merlin asked, glancing around at the small group.

Squirrel’s eyes were wide and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, but a brilliant smile was stretched across his face. “That was insane!”

His lips quirked upward of their own accord as he helped the boy off of the horse. Squirrel had seen a lot for someone his age, but he still found ways to appreciate the little joys in life.

Lancelot was not a good person, but he wanted to be. If not for himself, then for Squirrel. He wanted to be someone the boy could look up to—someone like the Green Knight. He wanted to teach him how to properly hold a sword and how to appreciate the beauty around him.

Lancelot found his gaze straying to Nimue. She was discussing plans animatedly with Merlin, but Lancelot didn’t hear a word she said. He just . . . watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her nose scrunched up as she thought hard about something.

Yes, Lancelot wanted to teach Squirrel about the beautiful things in life, too.

“Nimue?” a voice called behind them.

Lancelot whipped around, swords already out of their sheaths as he positioned himself in front of Squirrel.

But instead of one of Cumber’s soldiers, a man with dark skin and wide eyes faced them, sword in hand. A sword that was quickly abandoned to the sand as he ran straight toward Nimue.

The Fey Queen met him halfway, a smile lighting up her face. Something inside Lancelot felt funny at the sight, but he couldn’t place what.

“Arthur,” Nimue murmured against the man as they hugged each other close. “I wasn’t sure when I would see you again.”

The man—Arthur—pressed Nimue impossibly closer. Lancelot felt like he was looking into a private moment, one not meant for his eyes. He resisted the urge to turn away.

“I thought I had lost you,” Arthur said. He stepped back from the embrace and looked Nimue over. His eyes narrowed in concern. “What happened? Your dress . . . it’s all torn.”

Nimue pressed a hand to her chest, to her side. Lancelot hadn’t paid much mind to the cuts in her dress, but now that Arthur had pointed them out, he stilled. Those weren’t just tears in the seams, as he had previously thought. No, those cuts were from arrows.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Nimue said. “I promise.”

Arthur nodded. He looked behind Nimue to Merlin, who he gave a terse nod to, and then to Squirrel, where a small smile touched his mouth. And then his gaze met Lancelot’s own, and the former Monk knew everything was about to go very, very wrong.

Arthur’s bright eyes and happy persona darkened immediately. His voice was low, dangerous as he spat, “What is he doing here?”