Out in town with Nimue (Patreon)

You’d sent a letter up to the Royal Sorcerer Tower, asking Nimue if she’d welcome your company. It’s been years since you were little kids, collecting seashells on the beaches of Avalon, and you’d like to reconnect as friends now that you’re in Camelot to stay. You received no note in response. Instead, you were greeted the next day by Nimue herself.

She flagged you down as you were returning from training with the other knights – standing up the hill, hands patiently folded against her bodice, watching you with a lop-sided smile. Your breath, already short from exertion, caught in your throat as you wondered how long she’d been observing you with that keen, green gaze of hers; your mind ran wildly through all your strikes and parries and guards in search of any moment that may have embarrassed you.

She was not there to critique your performance, though. She wasn’t there to say much at all besides informing you that she had errands to run in town the next day, and that you were welcome to join her by the castle gates at nine sharp.

And so, at a quarter to nine the next morning you’re poised by the gates.

Nimue greets you with a languid smile, its tilt almost mocking. “I see you are very eager to join me.”

There seems to you there’s an unspoken implication in her tone, in the curl of her lips. You merely smile and say: “I wouldn’t have sent the note in the first place if I wasn’t.”

She slips her empty, wicker basket in the crook of her elbow and thrusts her chin forward. “Let’s go then.”

You set out down towards the town on foot.  The air is laden with the heady, heavy, and sweet fragrance of the linden trees, made all the more cloying by the suffocating heat. Despite the relentless sun and air devoid of any breeze that may give respite, Nimue looks unfazed and ready to take on the day. Granted, the morning still affords more gentleness than noon would, but the streets of the town, buzzing and overflowing with humans and dragons alike, don’t help with the heat and stuffiness.

“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Nimue remarks without a trace of irony.

“It is – but the heat is kind of overwhelming.”

“I like it,” she says. “I prefer it to the cold and snow of winter. Besides, it’s the perfect time of the year to go for a swim to cool off.”

That you can’t argue with. Perhaps you should suggest you do just that the next time you hang out; it’s only been a few minutes out in the sun, and you already want to peel off your clothes and jump in the lake.

“What errands are we running, anyway?”

She shrugs. “Just picking up some potion ingredients, ink, paper, other sundry stuff. Nothing particularly exciting. But I also want to visit the market. Not because there’s anything I need to buy. Just for us to…” a smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as she taps her index against her chin in mock contemplation, “reconnect as friends. As you said.”

You stop by a couple stores, the first situated on a main street, with a proud display of its magical and mundane merchandise, and the second stowed away on an alley barely wide enough for the two of you to walk side by side. Your arms brush more than once, your shoulders bump just as much, and Nimue has to carry her basket before her. You can’t say you mind the proximity, even if it sends waves upon waves of warmth creeping up your neck, as if the heat permeating the air wasn’t enough.

Once done, you slowly wind your way through the bustling streets towards the even more bustling market. It sprawls over a great square, rows upon rows of stalls centered around a stately fountain. The merchants arrive early in the morning, when the light is dimmer and gentler, and close up their stops under the bleeding, fading sky. At this time, the market’s in full swing.

As Nimue said when you set out, she’s already bought all she needed from the two shops you’ve previously visited, so now you’re free to roam about aimlessly and take your time admiring everything the market has to offer.

Nimue stops you at a garment shop. She grazes her fingers over the shawls hanged up on a rack; the fabric rustles with a soft susurrus like rushing water. Then her hand closes around a corner, and she pulls to unravel a shawl of midnight black, embroidered with twisting vines of deep green. She drapes it around her shoulders and inspects herself in the mirror propped against the stall's wall.

"Does it go well with my stays?" Nimue asks, palm settling briefly against the fern-colored bodice.

"It’s pretty,” you say, considering the garment in earnest. “It goes well with your eyes."

Said eyes dart to you, catching your gaze in the mirror. You shift from one foot to the other and dip your gaze to escape her scrutiny. You can't quite read the expression on her face, whether you've given your infatuation away. Sometimes it feels as if her eyes bore straight into you, peering into all the crevices of your being, reading you like an open book. Other times, it’s almost like she’s teasing you. Leaving you to wonder if she can tell by your gaze, or words, or just the galloping of your heart, beating as if to burst out of your chest, like you wish you could summon the courage to pour out your feelings.

Nimue turns around and lets the scarf hang off her shoulders. She opens her mouth to say something, then halts completely as her eyes alight upon something behind you.

She steps around you and before you can even make sense of what she’s found, stuffs something big and heavy atop your head.

“There,” she says, angling you towards the mirror.

You stare at the abomination of a hat: large-brimmed to a ridiculous extent, so that it may shield from the sun not just your person, but your companion too. It’s dyed the ugliest of browns – drab and dark and putting you in mind of something very unpleasant – and adorned with threadbare jaundice yellow flowers and feathers plucked out of ten different birds.

"I look stupid," you say, holding up the brim of the hat to look at yourself. It's so ridiculously overwrought with ornaments that it's sagging over your eyes.

"What do you mean?" Nimue asks, biting back a smile. She flicks the peacock feather, watching it flutter with gleaming eyes. "You look grand. You know what would complete the look?"

"A jester's outfit?"

"Those boots over there," she points at a bright red pair, forsaken in a corner of the stall as if someone had dumped them in a rush and never looked back. "Those that are so long and pointy enough to be considered swords with soles."

"Why have a blade when you can stab people with your shoes, right?"

Nimue wears a perfectly serious expression as she says: "It's what I always tell the knights."

That's what finally cracks you up.

You discard the hat and leave, but not before Nimue buys the shawl she’s tried. You wander about more, stopping at a perfume stall to smell all the different fragrances till you’re seized by a fit of sneezes. You search through crates of books, both old and new, talking about the ones you’ve read, and the ones she knows from Gawain’s enthusiastic recounts.

As the morning stretches into noon, you make your way towards the fountain at the center of the market, enticed by its gushing water. You’re lucky to find an unclaimed spot on the edge of the marble basin.

Nimue wastes no time hitching her skirts up to her thighs and kicking off her slippers to dip her feet in the pool. She cups her hands out to catch the cascading water, then sluices it over her face. It beads her lashes and slicks down her throat, soaking into the neckline of her short-sleeved chemise.

She blinks furiously, face scrunched up, until her vision clears. You can't help but snort.

Nimue shoots you a look. "At least I'm cooling off."

"I thought you liked the heat," you say.

She shrugs one shoulder, rinsing her forearms. "And getting to splash about water is the best thing about the heat." She glances at you. "Won't you dip your feet too?"

You eye the water longingly. Unlike her, you are in the unfortunate position of wearing boots that reach halfway up your calf. Undoing the lacing alone will leave you in a pool of water. A part of you wishes you'd just step in, shoes on.

Mind set, you pull up a leg and starts unlacing.

Nimue closes her eyes and tips her head back, relishing the ricocheting droplets coming off the fountain. With one hand raised, she lazily beckons a fine mist of water to wash over her face and shoulders. Your fingers, busy with teasing loose the laces of your boots, slow down and still completely as your gaze lingers on her. Your eyes follow the cascading sheet of dark brown hair that reaches halfway down her back – you wonder if it feels as smooth as it looks. It's kept out of her face by a green scarf knotted at the nape of her neck, serving as sun protection. You scour her profile - damp and glistening a cool bronze - from the curved slope of her nose and the sharp lines of her jaw to the small, serene smile on her lips.

“No soaking your feet then?”

Nimue rolls her head to the side to face you. You rip your gaze away to your fumbling fingers, tightening instead of loosening the boot’s laces in your efforts to look busy.

“Hey.” She plants a palm between you and leans in. Pulled as if by a string, you raise your face to meet her eye.

There it is, that gaze again. Keen and piercing and curious, as if she wished to throw into relief every nook and cranny of your being, to leave you bare and vulnerable, while betraying little of her in return.

She’s so close. Every breath fills your lungs with a faint scent of jasmine that reminds you of warm, briny nights in Avalon, sitting on a bench in the garden, watching moths fly by, drawn to the alluring, gilded shine of the lamps. Circling around the fire, mesmerized, the way you feel pulled to Nimue. You want nothing more than to give in to that flame and let her consume you. Your skin already burns at the proximity, feverish and tingling.

A splash of cool water is quick to subdue the heat. As you jump back and splutter, Nimue chuckles.

“You looked like you needed to cool down,” she says.

Face buried in your hands, you mumble a dazed, “Thanks.” It comes out as more of a question. The water does feel refreshing against your cheeks, at least.

There’s rustling of skirts and shuffling of shoes. “Come on.”

You peek between your fingers to find Nimue’s proffered hand. For once, her smile looks softer. Tender.

“Let’s go back to the Castle before we melt.”

You take her hand and get up. For a few moments, your fingers linger clasped – time slows down, and your vision narrows to encompass only her emerald green eyes. Then she lets go and turns around, setting off into the crowd.

You have no choice but to follow.