"Pour everything out for the blood you have shed, you're wasting your time in appeasing the dead."
- Aeschylus
Hate begets hate, violence begets violence; it's as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Uther Pendragon sowed the...
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The stench of dead earth choked Nimueh, acrid and biting; her eyes watered from the assault on her senses.
A sightless gaze stalked her like prey, black lips curling at the sight of Nimueh Rhyl pushing her way into the dank cave. It was easy to identify her visitor, the scent of hatred and guilt rolled off her in tidal waves, and she could taste the sweetness of magic on her dead tongue.
Many had come before Nimueh, and many more would come after, but still, the diminutive woman managed to leave her mark on the ancient being. Nimueh did not cower or flinch in the presence of the woods witch, even as tears sprung up in her eyes from the smoke and the smell. Instead, her back stayed straight, tall like the highest reaching oaks, and unmoving as a mountain.
Rhyls did not bow.
Not to kings or queens, not to gods or goddesses, and Nimueh would not be the one to break the chain.
And she certainly wouldn't bow to the woman, the creature, before her.
Though she had heard many tales of the mysterious hermit in her youth, never before had Nimueh laid eyes on her. Perhaps it was childish folly or some mislaid sense of romanticism, but Nimueh did not expect what she found.
The stories had always painted her as a mythical creature, a woman of great power, her origin and age unknown to even the eldest in their village. But her powers were renowned, and none questioned that.
Nimueh had expected her appearance to align with the tall tales told, that before her would be an ethereal figure painted in shades of starry blue and sun-kissed white, not this.
She reminded Nimueh of the statues in Beladur, figures long since lost to the clinging hands of nature and time. Since the sacking, they had lost their stone purity, and in its place, Mother Nature took her leave. Glossy green vines enclosed the marble figures while browning moss ate away at their carved features. What was once shimmering and clean was replaced by a sight that belonged in a lost time, not her home. It was as if they had died and returned to the Earth like every other living thing.
Awash in firelight, surrounded by the mist of evening and smoke of burned herbs, Nimueh wasn't sure what to call her, for she didn't look entirely human.
Through the fire, Nimueh could just make out the color of her eyes, the color of curdled milk, a horrid white that seemed stained with yellow. Her mouth was like a gaping pit, all shadows and darkness, stained by something poisonous and ancient. Even her clothes seemed out of place, sagging brown fabrics that gave no hint as to what lay beneath. Atop the ancient material were long, knotted locks and raven black hair braided with twigs and clumps of moss.
But it was not her earthen appearance that left Nimueh shaking; it was the smile.
A horrid, haunting thing that sent shivers down her spine and urged every nerve in her body to turn heel and run. Smile was too kind a word for the sharp edge of her smirk, like a dagger sent in Nimueh's direction; its only purpose to draw blood first.
