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It is raining when he returns.
The one who weeps stands at the edge of her lake, searching the stippled waters for a swirl of dark hair, a flash of pale skin, the unsettling weight of a bright blue gaze—anything to show that he has not come here in vain.
The skies crack open wider with a thunderclap that rattles the bones of the earth, shivering into his muddy boots to tremble up his spine. He is soaked to the skin from the deluge, his robes heavy on his shoulders. But still he waits, his legendary patience keeping him planted to the bank of her lake.
This is a test, he realizes. Yet another trial to see if he has truly left the sins of his past behind; sins against the lands he’s ravaged and the people she rules. Sins against his own kind.
He would have to do penance for more than a thousand generations to pay for what he’s done in merely one.
† † †
Brother Marco blames evil as he stumbles through tangled trees, sodden robes dragging at his feet and catching on twigs and briars. He blames witches for the taste of mud in his mouth and the stench of green rot in his nostrils. He blames Feycraft for turning him lost and making him wander in endless, unbreakable circles.
He is a freshly-minted Paladin, his pate still tender from the burn of the cross. He had gone to the edge of the woods to rest his aching head in a few moments of slumber . . . and woken up surrounded by trees and lashing rain.
“May all Fey rot in the deepest pit of hell,” he growls as he leans against a rain-slick tree, glaring up at the dark skies and the torture they cast upon him.
When he lowers his gaze, he sees that the woods come to an end ahead, yawning open onto a dark, stretching lake.
† † †
She watches the once-monk look for her on the shores of her realm.
His cowled head is bent against the storm, lightning flashes revealing his silhouette hour upon hour. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but waits .
The anger Nimue once felt fierce and hot towards this gray robed figure has crumbled into smoldering ashes. Instead, a different fire has sparked to life. A more dangerous kind of burn kindled from midnight whispers across her still waters, from stories about a broken boy forged into a weeping warrior, from promises kept towards her and her people that she did not expect from such lips as his . . .
Suddenly, as if stricken by the newest burst of thunder, the figure falls to his knees.
† † †
There is a figure on the shores of the lake that Brother Marcus knows well. But what is the Gray Traitor doing so far into the woods, standing tall as if the world is not breaking under this storm?
Thunder crashes, the brother sees the once-famous Weeping Monk collapse to his knees—
—and the slain Fey Queen witch appears.
† † †
He crashes to his knees, fingertips reaching to skim the lapping edges of her lake.
“Nimue,” he murmurs to the water, to her .
She bursts from the surface a moment after he utters her name, eyes fierce like the storm as she approaches the bank.
He wonders what task she has next, what mission he can lose himself in useless efforts to erase the past. Or if this is the day she chooses to strike him down as is fitting for a creature like him.
“Lancelot,” she says, her quiet voice reaching his ears even during the tumult of the rain and thunder and wind.
It is still strange for others to use his true name, but it sounds good on her tongue, the syllables falling soft instead of sharp.
“My Lady,” he replies, lowering his gaze and keeping it on the ground.
He cannot focus if he allowed himself to look at her where she stands garbed in water and wet silk. And if she looked back into his weeping eyes, it would unlock secrets he does not want even God to find.
† † †
Brother Marcus should look away. No!—He should run forward and slay this beautiful, terrible creature where she stands in naked defiance of all that is holy and pure.
The witch they were told was slain by the righteous hand of Sister Iris must be the reason his once-brother turned against God and began killing in the name of witchcraft. She must have swayed him with her devil’s body and unbound breasts.
"May God's justice fall swiftly," Brother Marcus murmurs.
But he cannot tear his eyes from the witch as she steps from the lake. She is clad in a thin, wet material that shows the white of her skin, the roundness of her breasts . . . and the bewitching darkness between her legs.
He jumps as a thunderclap shakes him from sinful thoughts and squeezes his eyes shut, but the image of the Fey Queen’s body is seared into his mind.
† † †
Nimue does not like it when Lancelot hides from her.
She raises a hand to lift the gray cowl from his head, baring his features to her searching gaze. Water droplets run down his cheeks in a parody of the marks that flow from his dark-circled eyes.
"Take rest," she murmurs, wiping the marks away.
They will return, forever marking him as Ash Born. But for a moment, this moment, he looks up at her with a clean face.
† † †
He knows she does not mean to tempt him. But he is helpless when faced with her body standing so close, wrapped in nothing but wet, clinging silk.
"There is no rest for the wicked,” he rasps.
"But you are not wicked," she reminds him.
He laughs bitterly. "You of all people know that to be a lie."
"Then I too am wicked." She holds a hand out, waiting for him to grasp it. "Come."
Lightning flashes when he takes her hand. Water rises over his boots as she steps back, leading him into the lake.
He does not hesitate to follow her.
† † †
She'd seen his scars once—jagged histories of torture disguised as loving discipline.
Mere months after she’d drowned in transformation, he'd stumbled down to the shores of her lake and called her name. She had risen from the chilled depths with anger still fierce in her heart.
He was here with a message, he'd said; a message from Squirrel. Go to our Queen, he was told. Go and let her decide if you should stay with the kin you betrayed.
So here he was.
"Monster," she had snarled at him.
"Yes," he had replied. “Of the worst kind.”
He then had undone his robes and let them fall on the rocky shores of her lake and bowed his head, waiting for her wrath to fall. She had risen and taken the lake with her, ready to strike. She saw the marks of war and Paladins—
—and of abuse. Of survival. Pain.
No person took wounds like that willingly.
"I thought myself loved by God," the weeping one had murmured. "And that I could only receive that love by forming myself into a tool for His justice. "
"I do not want stories of sadness from the one who has slaughtered so many of my people," she had hissed.
"And I do not want to live like this anymore," he had replied, only then lifting those weeping eyes to hers, the gray of them dark with despair. "Kill me or use me, Lady, for otherwise I am useless.”
† † †
"Be a tool," she had ordered him. "End the Church who you listened to for so long."
And so he did.
He struck in the night, swift and silent. He became the darkness that the Church had feared as much as it had hated. He used the skills they'd beaten into him to make their blood fill the streets.
And he haunted the lake.
As often as he reported his actions, so too did he linger. Brief words turned to whispered midnight confessions. Guilt lessened . . .
And something else grew in its place.
† † †
She can feel the storm ebbing as he follows her into the water.
Rain still falls, but it is lighter. Thunder still sounds, but the roars are softening. And as dawn approaches in the distance, the night begins clear into soft gray.
She stops when the water reaches their shoulders. His cloak floats behind him, a gray mass which she detaches and lets drift down to the lake floor. His hair is lank against his face where strands have slipped free from the knot which she lifts loose.
"Are you going to drown me?" he asks in that quiet rasp that shivers over her skin.
She smiles mysteriously. "Shall I?"
"It is for my Lady to choose."
"And what would you have me do?"
His eyes dip down to her mouth . . . and lower.
"It is," he repeats, "for my Lady to choose."
She drifts closer then, enough to feel his breath gust warm against her skin. Close enough to hear his heart catch and stutter.
"Do you fear me?" she asks.
"Not as much as your enemies," he says with that sly hint of humor she has noticed him use.
"So then"—she drags her hands slow through the water and up his arms—"are you my enemy?"
"I am yours to command," he murmurs, something slipping into his gaze that he does not hide this time.
"Do you," she whispers, running wet fingers along the edge of his jaw, "want me?"
† † †
Oh, yes—he wants .
† † †
He watches as the Fey witch and the Gray Traitor look at each other with unholy desires. He is aroused and miserable and lost, and he cannot look away.
† † †
"Tell me," Nimue murmurs almost against his lips, "why you do not look at me. Is it fear or desire?"
“Both,” he confesses.
She smiles, palms on either side of his face, tipping it down to hers.
"Do not fear desire, Lancelot," she tells him. "And do not fear me."
He bends to her with a broken sound, and she surges against him as their mouths collide.
† † †
He kisses clumsily and tastes like rainwater. But he holds her desperately, hands spread wide underwater against her back, pressing her to him.
They stumble and splash towards the bank, falling in the shallows. He holds her head out of the water as his kisses grow bolder, flashes of tongue coming to taste her lips.
She pulls at his clothes, hungry fingers seeking warm skin and rippling muscles. Her search leads her to the flat of his stomach under the edge of his soaked jerkin, and he moans her name into her mouth when her fingertips graze his skin.
† † †
She is soft beneath him with devilish hands that set his blood running hot and heavy into his cock. He presses down and she rolls her hips against him with a whimper. He closes his eyes and suckles at her neck while rutting against her in a haze of pleasure, hands tangled in the flimsy material of her dress.
"Wait," she tells him, but he does not listen.
" Wait ," she says again, this time her voice yanking him back to control.
He opens his mouth for apologies, but she stops his words with a kiss.
"Let us find a drier spot," Nimue tells him, "so that I can enjoy you properly."
† † †
The Fey witch and the Gray Traitor grasp at each other like animals in the water while he continues to stare, a palm rubbing firm against the arousal pricking up from his robes. He’s breathing hard with guilt, lost in the pull of their debauchery.
But they soon go back into the lake, drawing out of sight to complete their wretched coupling . . .
And Brother Marcus spills himself into his robes.
"Forgive me," he begs in a trembling voice when he realizes what his traitorous body has done.
He needs to leave this cursed area and cleanse himself of the poison it has put in his mind. He knows the Abbot and His Holiness would praise him for word of what he's witnessed.
And to ready themselves with the knowledge that the Fey Queen still lived.
† † †
She takes him to an island across the lake.
When she steps out of the water ahead of him, he looks at her and sees the light he has been seeking all his life. He falls to his knees to her instead of the God he once believed only worthy of such submission.
But now he kneels before a woman. He presses his head against her stomach and kisses the skin he finds there, peeling the silk from her body until she is bare before him.
And he bows his head to worship at the temple between her legs.
Nimue gasps and buries her fingers in his hair as he laps at the slick sweetness of her. His tongue is unlearned but she weakens under it, legs trembling under his hands.
"Lancelot!" she cries, throwing his name to the sky.
He lifts his eyes up past her stomach and breasts to see the pleasure painted across her face as she rocks against his devoted mouth. She bites her lip against a shout moments later, hands braced against his shoulders as she presses hard against him.
† † †
She has never been touched like that before—not even in that one night so long ago.
Nimue is warm and tipsy from pleasure as she draws Lancelot to his feet to tug his wet robes from his body. They fall with sodden heaviness to the bank as she pulls him to her, skin to skin.
"I have never been in this way with anyone," he tells her quietly.
The tears of his folk start to fall again, but she wipes them away with the pads of her thumbs.
"Then let me drown you," she says with a teasing grin.
He laughs as he moves to kiss her, open and unfettered. The taste of her is thick on his lips and shining on his chin, but she licks it away while she guides him to a place of soft moss.
And tonight, in this almost-morning, she enthrones herself upon him.
† † †
He yearns to be buried in the sweet heat between her legs as she straddles him where he lies beneath her.
The ends of her damp hair brush cold against his skin as she kisses the trails his tears follow. He touches her curves, his palms rough against her smooth skin.
"Drown me," he begs her.
She reaches down between her thighs to touch his aching cock, fingers wrapping tight and stroking before she raises her hips to press the tip of him against slick heat.
"Nimue," he groans. He will not give in, but he cannot bear such torture for long. " Please ."
She lowers herself, giving him entry to the hot, slick grip of her most sacred place. Down, down, down she goes, burying him deep inside—
—and deeper, in and out as she rocks against him.
He grabs at her hips, pushing up into her on instinct. She feels so good, so warm around him, every movement sending ripples of pleasure to build low in his belly towards a familiar sensation he's known only a few times from his own hand.
Nimue bends down to kiss him as she quickens the pace, their breath coming in pants as they surge together, again and again.
He rises up to wrap himself around her, face buried in her breasts. But they don’t stifle his voice as he moans wantonly with every thrust. Everything narrows down to her body against and around him, her keening sighs against his neck and ears, and the rising pleasure she wrings from him.
† † †
He holds her tighter and tighter as their movements turn fast and unsteady.
Nimue is close when his fingers dig into her shoulders and his breath catches. A moment later, he falls apart and spills himself hot inside her.
She finds her own breaking point as he continues to gasp through his finish, grinding down hard onto his pulsing length. He groans as she squeezes around him, mouthing at her breasts.
"I am undone," he manages. "You have broken me."
"No," she says, lifting his head to kiss him as they remained joined together. "I have found you."
† † †
He doesn't leave for days as they learn each other inside and out. He revels in her body and she shows him what happiness feels like.
And when he leaves to face their enemies once more, it is with a lingering kiss and a promise to return soon.
"Come back well to me," she tells him. "My Fey knight."
And so he does.