Sublime

“Your future queen, Guinevere!” The crowd roared, shouting the name Guinevere. Over and over. If only it were actually her name.

“Only Guinevere? Nothing else? I know the power of names.” His words hit her with two meanings. Names that were titles gave power among men. True names gave power among the things that came before men. She focused on the torch to make her voice cheery, like it. “Guinevere, when spoken by you, has power enough.”

Guinevere was drawn to the sorrow in Arthur’s voice. She had been worried he would still be angry with her. But she saw how sad it made him to have to weigh the lives of those he loved against the burden of an entire kingdom. She had made it harder for him, forced him to protect her at the cost of Sir Tristan. How could he live with such decisions?

By the end of the day, Guinevere’s head ached as much as her feet did. Performing queenly duties was almost as exhausting as performing magic. Women truly were the stronger gender. All the subtle games they had to play, the ways they teased power from those around them! She had much to learn there.

Me, she thought. Guinevere. She imagined stepping into the name as she had stepped into the clothing. Putting it on sound by sound, piece by piece. Draping it over herself, and then cinching it up tight so it would not slip away. It was a complicated name. So many pieces. She would have to be very complicated to fit it.

The sword isn’t anywhere on her person, that he can see. But then this sickly form beside him is just one aspect of what Nimue actually is. She’s every river in the realm, every stream or limpid pool. The sword could be anywhere or everywhere. Hidden in an underwater cave. Spread finely in the morning mist. Raining down on the mountains in the old

Arthur was trying to carve a nation of ideals from the wild and hungry land, and the land was not giving up without a fight. Only someone who knew the subtle paths and seeping reach of magic could ever hope to protect him against it. She had seen his knights in the magical forest. Their terror gave her some hope. She was no Merlin and never would b

She closed her eyes. The heat of his cheek against hers, the slight roughness of his skin. It made her feel real. She had only just learned how to be Guinevere. She worried that alone in the forest, hunting, she would become something new. Darker. Maybe that was how Merlin could justify hurting others; when you lived your life apart, it was easy to