"Dark and Light Magic" - Arthurian Legend fan fiction
Title: Dark and Light Magic
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Character/Pairing: Morgan le Fay, Nimue, Morgan/Nimue
Summary: Morgan invites Nimue to dinner.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Umm, it's Morgan/Nimue. What do you expect?
A/N: For mhari because we discussed this over IM.
Nimue was not entirely certain how it had happened. Morgan had invited her to dinner; her husband was away, she said, and she wanted a woman’s company. The two of them had long been enemies, and Nimue did not trust in Morgan’s good intentions, so she brought with her a dagger and several charms that could have gotten her out of there if need be. Though she did not believe that Morgan’s intentions were entirely friendly, she thought that if Morgan wanted to kill her, she would have done it already. More likely it was some sort of business, perhaps relating to Arthur or Merlin.
The table was only set for two people when Nimue arrived, which made her feel more uneasy. If Morgan was having a dinner party…well, then she might still be suspicious, but less so. But Morgan was polite enough, and so Nimue was as well, remembering proper table manners as she sat down to eat, things long forgotten because they are no use when one eats alone. Morgan’s every gesture was elegant, even the littlest things, like the way she lifted her goblet to her lips. It was as though she was born to such things, though in her mind Nimue saw the frightened, angry girl of Merlin’s memories, and the wild, feral young woman who had begged him for knowledge. There was little of that left in the elegant sorceress clad in black and purple (the color emperors wore, just a touch of blasphemy from Morgan who carried herself already like a Queen) velvet. But Nimue thought she could see it in Morgan’s eyes, just a hint, at the edge of her vision and then gone. Just like the magic.
The wine was good. Nimue drank perhaps too much of it, though maybe it was to see Morgan lift the pitcher and refill Nimue’s goblet with one swift, graceful gesture, her long sleeves somehow managing not to get into anything (Nimue was used to doing that, but could never accomplish it quite so beautifully as Morgan). In the flickering candlelight, and with the wine beginning to go to her head, Morgan looked far more beautiful than Nimue had remembered, her straight black hair looking almost like water as it flowed, loose, over her shoulders. And Nimue, Lady of the Lake, could appreciate water.
As Nimue watched Morgan looking at her almost idly, she thought that perhaps they were not so different after all. Perhaps one of them wore black and purple and red and the other wore white and blue and green, perhaps one of them supported Arthur and the other hated him more than almost anything in the world, but both were Merlin’s students at one point, both had felt the thrill of magic running through their veins, and Nimue was sure that at some point Morgan must have raised her arms to the sky and laughed with the joy of the pure power she had. Morgan had abandoned Merlin and Nimue had done the complete opposite (whatever anyone else said) but how could they not both understand the other’s reasons for doing so?
They spoke little but watched each other often, each trying to understand what the other might be thinking. Finally they had both finished eating, and Morgan, without a word of explanation, stood up and walked to where Nimue sat. Nimue stood up immediately, though under the influence of the wine she had just drunk she was not quite inclined to assume that Morgan was there to make some sort of attack on her. So when Morgan leaned in to kiss her, Nimue kissed her back.
It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, and the sensation of it combined with the feeling of Morgan’s hand unlacing her dress slowly, until the white fabric pooled at her feet, made Nimue weak in the knees. And so she didn’t even notice when Morgan took the dagger Nimue had brought to defend herself. She was caught off guard when it was pressed against her neck, cutting her slightly. “I hate you.” Morgan whispered, her voice as gentle as if she had said the complete opposite statement. “Now, I need information.” She said, her voice calm. “Tell me where you’ve hidden Merlin and stop interfering in my plans with my dear brother, and I’ll let you live a little longer.” She laughed, her red lips parting to show white, even teeth. “Of course, that’s not a guarantee that I won’t keep you here for some time before letting you go. After all, you are beautiful, despite how utterly aggravating you are, and I, of all people, am not one to let opportunities escape me. I didn’t with Lancelot, and I shall not with you.”
Nimue was standing nearly naked, her mind addled with liquor, but yet she managed to gather her wits together and take advantage of a brief second when Morgan’s hold on the knife and her caution wavered to grab Morgan’s wrist and twist it so that the knife fell from her hand before grabbing her other wrist and pulling them both above her head with one hand before muttering a few words under her breath to conjure rope and tying Morgan’s hands together with it. When she finally met the other woman’s eyes, she saw anger, and a grudging respect. “Will you kill me now?” Nimue was glad that there was no fear in Morgan’s voice. She would not have expected that.
Nimue smiled, pushing her pale hair out of her eyes. “No. That’s more what you would do, Morgan. I’m not one to stoop to killing. That’s a thing for evil sorceresses, not the Lady of the Lake.”
And as Nimue began to rid Morgan of her clothing (which was indeed well made and slid over the other woman’s body as though it was water), Morgan laughed with what might have been delight and easily broke the rope around her wrists before grabbing Nimue’s shoulders and pulling her close, their hair touching, white-gold against black.
Fandom: Arthurian Legend
Character/Pairing: Morgan le Fay, Nimue, Morgan/Nimue
Summary: Morgan invites Nimue to dinner.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Umm, it's Morgan/Nimue. What do you expect?
A/N: For mhari because we discussed this over IM.
Nimue was not entirely certain how it had happened. Morgan had invited her to dinner; her husband was away, she said, and she wanted a woman’s company. The two of them had long been enemies, and Nimue did not trust in Morgan’s good intentions, so she brought with her a dagger and several charms that could have gotten her out of there if need be. Though she did not believe that Morgan’s intentions were entirely friendly, she thought that if Morgan wanted to kill her, she would have done it already. More likely it was some sort of business, perhaps relating to Arthur or Merlin.
The table was only set for two people when Nimue arrived, which made her feel more uneasy. If Morgan was having a dinner party…well, then she might still be suspicious, but less so. But Morgan was polite enough, and so Nimue was as well, remembering proper table manners as she sat down to eat, things long forgotten because they are no use when one eats alone. Morgan’s every gesture was elegant, even the littlest things, like the way she lifted her goblet to her lips. It was as though she was born to such things, though in her mind Nimue saw the frightened, angry girl of Merlin’s memories, and the wild, feral young woman who had begged him for knowledge. There was little of that left in the elegant sorceress clad in black and purple (the color emperors wore, just a touch of blasphemy from Morgan who carried herself already like a Queen) velvet. But Nimue thought she could see it in Morgan’s eyes, just a hint, at the edge of her vision and then gone. Just like the magic.
The wine was good. Nimue drank perhaps too much of it, though maybe it was to see Morgan lift the pitcher and refill Nimue’s goblet with one swift, graceful gesture, her long sleeves somehow managing not to get into anything (Nimue was used to doing that, but could never accomplish it quite so beautifully as Morgan). In the flickering candlelight, and with the wine beginning to go to her head, Morgan looked far more beautiful than Nimue had remembered, her straight black hair looking almost like water as it flowed, loose, over her shoulders. And Nimue, Lady of the Lake, could appreciate water.
As Nimue watched Morgan looking at her almost idly, she thought that perhaps they were not so different after all. Perhaps one of them wore black and purple and red and the other wore white and blue and green, perhaps one of them supported Arthur and the other hated him more than almost anything in the world, but both were Merlin’s students at one point, both had felt the thrill of magic running through their veins, and Nimue was sure that at some point Morgan must have raised her arms to the sky and laughed with the joy of the pure power she had. Morgan had abandoned Merlin and Nimue had done the complete opposite (whatever anyone else said) but how could they not both understand the other’s reasons for doing so?
They spoke little but watched each other often, each trying to understand what the other might be thinking. Finally they had both finished eating, and Morgan, without a word of explanation, stood up and walked to where Nimue sat. Nimue stood up immediately, though under the influence of the wine she had just drunk she was not quite inclined to assume that Morgan was there to make some sort of attack on her. So when Morgan leaned in to kiss her, Nimue kissed her back.
It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, and the sensation of it combined with the feeling of Morgan’s hand unlacing her dress slowly, until the white fabric pooled at her feet, made Nimue weak in the knees. And so she didn’t even notice when Morgan took the dagger Nimue had brought to defend herself. She was caught off guard when it was pressed against her neck, cutting her slightly. “I hate you.” Morgan whispered, her voice as gentle as if she had said the complete opposite statement. “Now, I need information.” She said, her voice calm. “Tell me where you’ve hidden Merlin and stop interfering in my plans with my dear brother, and I’ll let you live a little longer.” She laughed, her red lips parting to show white, even teeth. “Of course, that’s not a guarantee that I won’t keep you here for some time before letting you go. After all, you are beautiful, despite how utterly aggravating you are, and I, of all people, am not one to let opportunities escape me. I didn’t with Lancelot, and I shall not with you.”
Nimue was standing nearly naked, her mind addled with liquor, but yet she managed to gather her wits together and take advantage of a brief second when Morgan’s hold on the knife and her caution wavered to grab Morgan’s wrist and twist it so that the knife fell from her hand before grabbing her other wrist and pulling them both above her head with one hand before muttering a few words under her breath to conjure rope and tying Morgan’s hands together with it. When she finally met the other woman’s eyes, she saw anger, and a grudging respect. “Will you kill me now?” Nimue was glad that there was no fear in Morgan’s voice. She would not have expected that.
Nimue smiled, pushing her pale hair out of her eyes. “No. That’s more what you would do, Morgan. I’m not one to stoop to killing. That’s a thing for evil sorceresses, not the Lady of the Lake.”
And as Nimue began to rid Morgan of her clothing (which was indeed well made and slid over the other woman’s body as though it was water), Morgan laughed with what might have been delight and easily broke the rope around her wrists before grabbing Nimue’s shoulders and pulling her close, their hair touching, white-gold against black.