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Posted on May 27, 2010 at 01:40:16 AM by Nimueh & Avalon
N I M U E H & A V A L O N I saw a fox by the rabbit hole; you saw a prince form a fairy tale. Bare feet brushed against the cold surface of the triangular steps of the stone staircase which wound its way up towards the top of the ramparts. A woman moved through the shadow of the evenings, her pale skin complimented by the balmy moonlight which drifted in through the small archer’s windows. She wore a dress of midnight blue, worked and detailed with silver thread so that it seemed to glimmer like the stars, which had finally managed to push their way through the imposing darkness of the clouds which floated above the castle like ghostly sentinels. The night was cold, but the weather had, for so long now, been icy and baron that it was no longer felt quite as severely as it might otherwise have been. Nevertheless, over her dress Nimueh wore the hooded cloak her son had give her, lined with white fur and secured around her slender shoulders by a silver broach. Her usual tresses of wavy black were mostly concealed by the garment, save around her face where stray strands tumbled free, framing her expression. The winder was harsher at the top of the tower, and Nimueh placed the blanket she had been carrying down on the floor by her feet, nestling her toes in amongst the folds of the warm fabric, whilst her long-boned hands rested on one of the walls. Green eyes peered down at the scene below, the series of fires which took away the bodies of the dead, so many of them unknown, unmissed, their names lost forever, known only by the sea whom had claimed them. Nimueh had grown up by the sea, she knew how dangerous it could be, but also how kindly, old and wise, if only you knew how to listen to it. She remembered the terror of the nights where storms would grip the coast when her father and brothers were out at sea, remembered praying to the Gods and Goddesses with her mother in the shrine, and she remembered the joy when her family came home again, and her father took her in his strong arms and made her feel safe. It was long now since Nimmy had felt that way. Her voice is sweet when she begins to sing, soft and slightly eyrie, the words spoken in a tongue which she is sure, few in Shaman know, the tongue of her homeland. Most of the volume is stolen from her by the wild winds, and the woman watches as the fires seem to dance to her song in the courtyard below. It is not long before she sees something move in the shadows, and as the moon’s face lights up the place for an instant, she see’s him, his heavy brow set in a characteristic scowl. Crouching down, Nimueh collects the blanket from its place on the floor, and holding her long skirts in her free hands makes her way back down the staircase, and into the foyer below. She is not in time to hear him speak, but she recognises the haunted look which so often plagues him, ”Joel,” Nimueh says, voice soft and kindly as ever. Walking forwards, she releases the folds of material of her dress and rests a hand on the flesh of his arm, finding it icy to the touch. ”You’re freezing!” the girl comments, standing on tip-toe in order to drape the blanket she carried about his shoulders, and for a moment allows a silence to descend between them. She was never one to pry. “You should take a break, get some sleep, I don’t think I’ve seen you rest properly in weeks, it’ll be the death of you.” Her tone is peaceful, soothing, another of her characteristics which manages to generate the field of enchanting mystery which so defines the ancient culture of her homelands.  |
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