'Ex' Games

“You can open your eyes now, children.” Morganna’s voice rang with laughter.

It had only been two seconds ago that Fiona had told them that they might want to close their eyes to make this easier. Had something gone wrong?

Jon opened his eyes only to see Richie stumble, even as he wobbled on his own feet. Suddenly, it was as if the air around him rose up to steady him. With a glance and a raised eyebrow in Richie’s direction, a nod from his friend confirmed he had felt the same thing. Jon realized then that Fiona’s hands were raised in their direction. He was sure she had done that. But how?

The scenery was beautiful, almost an unbelievably bright shade of green. Lush trees surrounded them and a sparkling lake lay to their right.

“Where are we?” Richie asked the question that had been in Jon’s head.

When they’d closed their eyes they had been standing inside the ring of flowers in his backyard. “Obviously, we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Jon’s dry tone made Richie chuckle.

“Toto?” Morganna asked.

Fiona shook her head at the men. “Never mind, Sister. I’ll have to explain it later.”

Morganna was getting quite accustomed to all the ‘explain it later’s and shrugged at this latest one as well.

It was Fiona that answered them as she started walking toward the water on their right. “We’re at The Lake. Nimue will already know we’re here.”

Morganna followed her sister leaving the men to follow, knowing they would, even if only out of simple curiosity.

As the men followed in the wake of the fairies, Richie whispered softly to Jon. “Nimue? The Lake?”

Jon merely shrugged. “Don’t know. Nothing else’s gonna surprise me anymore. But, I can tell you this, if Anna calls us children one more time I may just refuse to do another damned thing.”

Richie laughed loudly, causing both Anna and Fiona to look back at them. “Why am I not surprised?” It had bothered Richie as well, but he’d never admit it now. It would be much more fun to tease Jon over the annoyance.

When they reached the edge of The Lake, a large circle in the center began to roil and bubble as if the water were boiling. The circle began to move toward them on the shore, slowly coming closer.

“What the fuck?” Jon and Richie asked in unison.

“Nimue,” Fiona answered, disgust in her voice, “She just loves to make a dramatic entrance.”

Richie smacked his forehead. “Of course!” Jon looking at him with raised eyebrows had him continuing. “The Lake? C’mon Jonny, even you aren’t that dense.”

“Fuck off, Rich,” Jon growled, then his eyes widened as a beautiful woman began to rise from the water.

With long flowing blond tresses that fell to her waist and the most beautiful blue eyes, Nimue rose from the water completely dry. “Why have you come here?” Her voice rang with a slight echo. She had the imperious nature of a queen.

Fiona took a step forward. “Cut the crap, Nim. Why else would we have come here, but for Excalibur?”

“You won’t be able to take it, not on your own.” The blonde’s eyes came to rest on Richie and Jon. “Who are they?”

“They are the chosen ones. The ‘brothers’,” Fiona answered quickly. “One of them should be able to wield the sword.”

“They’ll have to be able to pull it from the stone first,” Nimue told them.

Morganna had been silent as long as she could. “The stone? You put it in a stone?”

“It worked with Clarent, why not Excalibur?” Nimue was indignant. No one ever questioned her.

“But, to be able to pull Clarent from the stone was a test for Arthur, to prove he was the chosen King. Why would you put Excalibur in a stone?” Fiona demanded.

Nimue put her hands on her hips and glared at the sisters. “Only a chosen one will be able to pull it from the stone. No one would be able to wield it with a boulder on the end of it. It was to keep the sword safe.”

“Is the sword not at your castle?” Morganna asked softly.

“Yes, of course it is, in the main hall.”

“How would anyone have gotten to it then?” Fiona was getting frustrated, soon her Irish would be showing. “Besides, Excalibur would reject anyone but a chosen one.”

“No, Sister,” Morganna softly corrected, “first the sword would corrupt, then reject and destroy.”

“Yes,” Nimue agreed, “so much power would overtake anyone but the one chosen to wield the weapon. No other being must even touch it.”

Jon was getting angry. Thrusting his fingers through his hair, he stepped forward. “Can we get this damn show on the road, please? I’ve got a business to get back to, and a life to lead. I’d like this shit over with as soon as possible.”

Nimue leveled a gaze on him that should have frozen him in place, then looked back at the sisters. “There’s no way HE is the chosen one, not with that attitude.” Then her gaze went to Richie. “Unless you are the one filled with light.”

Richie laughed with derision. “No, I’m the one filled with darkness. Haunted by personal demons and all that.” He motioned at Jon. “He’s definitely the ‘one filled with light’.”

Lady Nimue groaned and rolled her eyes. “We’re all done for.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Nim, you are being melodramatic. He is a perfectly suitable chosen one.”

Jon bristled at being spoken about like he wasn’t there. “’Perfectly suitable’? Doesn’t look like you have a whole lot of choices there, fairy.”

Fiona continued speaking as if Jon’s outburst hadn’t happened. “How will we know if he is the true wielder of the sword?”

Nim smiled. “It will be obvious if he is not the chosen one.” She looked at Jon. “Come,” she said. “You may bring your acolyte if you wish,” she motioned at Richie then turned her back, “but the fey must remain behind.”

As they approached the water’s edge, Richie spoke up. “Uh, how are we supposed to – ” Nimue waved her arm, and the men found themselves in a large stone room. “Never mind,” he said, reeling a little from the transportation.

“How are we supposed to get back?” Richie asked Jon under his breath.

“If he is the chosen one,” Nimue countered, “the answer will present itself. Please, accompany me.” She turned and led them down a long hallway. The walls were draped in tapestries woven in intricate designs.

Richie stopped Jon with a hand to his chest. “Look at that,” he said, pointing at one of the wall-hangings. On it was depicted a great battle. In the forefront, two shapes, one tall and dark, one slightly shorter and light stood side-by-side, swords drawn. All around them, broken and battered bodies were strewn. A large red figure loomed, waiting to attack. Off to one side, two tiny specks of light hovered.

“Eerie, isn’t it?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, man, it sure is.” Jon leaned in closer, but the threads didn’t form the figure’s face.

“Please, do not linger,” Nimue chastised, coming back up the hall. “Ah, I see you have found the Fates’ weaving of Excalibur.”

“The Fates?” Jon was almost afraid to ask.

“Yes,” Nimue answered. “The Fates. They have Always Been. In ancient times, it was thought that The Fates were three sisters born to shape the lives of mankind. In truth, no being, mortal or no, has been able to identify exactly when they Came To Be.” She shrugged one elegant, slender shoulder. “They have had different names throughout Time; you probably know them as Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos.”

Jon frowned. “The spinner, the weaver, and the cutter, right?”

Nimue nodded. “Very good, mortal. Yes. Lachesis sang the song of the things that were, Clotho of those that are, and Atropos of the things that are to be. This,” she indicated the weaving, “was presented to me when I took possession of Excalibur. The Fates believed I should have the entire saga before tying my future to this bit of steel.”

“But isn’t that all just a myth?” Richie asked.

“Child,” Nimue answered softly. “Given all that you have seen, all you have come to know, do you not yet know that all myth, human myth is based on truth?”

Richie opened his mouth to say something more, but closed it when he saw the bottom left-hand corner of the tapestry. After scrutinizing the picture, he turned to Nimue. “Bullshit,” he said. Nimue just raised an eyebrow. “This is bullshit,” he said, motioning to the weaving.

Jon looked at what Richie was pointing out. There were the same dark and light figures, but they were struck down. The red figure was proportionally larger than in the other scene, and held a sword in each hand. The two specs of light were now dark marks next to the fallen forms.

“No,” Jon said, shaking his head. “Rich, man, this is just a decoration.” He looked at Nimue. “There is no way this is our future.”

“All the good and evil that befalls you is woven into your destiny and cannot be altered,” Nimue said, unmoved by the men’s reactions. “The Fates foresaw Zeus’ falling out with Thetis, and Apollo’s eventual birth. They wove the story of the hero Meleager’s demise.”

“I control my own fate,” Jon insisted. “I am in charge of my own destiny. I will not let some rug dictate the outcome of my life.”

She shook her head. “All the good and evil that befalls you is woven into your destiny and cannot be altered,” she said again.

“Bullshit,” Richie repeated.

Nimue laughed a high, tittering sound. “You are both very amusing, but time does not stand still, even for great philosophical debates such as this. Come,” she said. “Follow me.” Her tone said she would stand for no refusal.

Jon and Richie gaped at the hall they were led to. “Damn,” Richie said. “And I thought your place was over-ostentatious.”

Jon chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t wanna hear you make fun of my place anymore.”

The hall had soaring ceilings, at least a hundred feet high. Gigantic steel candelabra were suspended by thick chains, their ends disappearing into the wall to some hidden chamber behind. The walls were lined with torches set into iron holders, aligned perfectly a foot above head-height, and spaced precisely three paces apart. The walls on either side of the entry were adorned with paintings, hung exactly between pairs of torches. There had to be more than fifty paintings on each side of the room.

Richie was enthralled by a row of suits of armor standing at proud attention under the paintings along one wall. He was running a gentle hand along the steel. “Look at this, man,” he said to Jon. “You can hardly feel the seams. This is amazing.” He lifted the face shield on the nearest helmet, and it slid soundlessly up and down. “Amazing,” he said again.

The third suit of armor he came to had an ornate ‘A’ embossed on the breastplate. When Richie touched it, he was surprised to find it warm. As he traced the lines and whirls of the letter, his mind’s eye showed him snatches of knights in the heat of battle, and he could almost hear the swords clanging. Shaking off the vision, he turned to find Nimue watching him.

“That armor once belonged to one of Arthur’s knights,” she said.

“Which one?” Richie asked, turning back to it, not even finding her statement incredulous. Of course it belonged to Arthur’s Knight. “Who’s name started with ‘A’? I don’t remember a knight with that initial.”

Nimue smiled. “History often only speaks of Lancelot and Galahad,” she said. “But another man, Accolon, had nearly as much to do with the fall of Camelot as anyone. Yet his name is not mentioned in any of the tomes.” She nodded to the painting that hung over the armor. “There he is,” she said, passing a hand close to the armor. It glowed softly for a moment, illuminating the portrait before fading again to gray.

“Accolon,” Richie said, gazing at the portrait and trying the name on his tongue. After a few moments, he turned and saw Jon standing in the center of the room, staring at what could only be described as an altar.

Along the far wall of the chamber, raised on a dais, was a stone table. The top was a solid twelve-inch slab of smoothest marble. It sat atop giant boulders, and directly overhead, a wide stained-glass window allowed colored, dappled light to play over it. Exactly in the center of the table was a sword hilt.

“Holy shit,” Richie said, coming to stand beside Jon.

“Yeah, you can say that again,” Jon said, unable to tear his eyes away from the sword. Its handle was two feet high and at least three inches around, and made of solid silver. It had intricate carving along the hilt, which extended eighteen inches on either side of the handle. With the light hitting it, the sword seemed to glow from within, and in that moment, Jon believed every single thing Fiona and Morganna had told him. All shreds of doubt were wiped from his mind.

“Do you know the great responsibility you will bear once you extract the sword?” Nimue asked softly, floating up behind the men. “This sword has the power to rule kingdoms or destroy them. It can save you or kill you. When it bonds to you, if you are indeed the chosen one, you will be powerful, but not indestructible. That kind of power, that feeling of invincibility, is nearly as perilous as the war in which you are about to engage.”

She touched Jon’s sleeve and he turned to look at the beautiful nymph. “You must be sure you are willing to take on the responsibility of the sword,” she said. “Once you have claimed it, once it has claimed you, there is no turning back.”

“There was no turning back the minute Fiona blinked into my life,” Jon said. “There was no turning back the minute that those two fairies…”

“Fey,” Richie interrupted.

“Fey,” Jon admitted, “told us about what they called our destiny.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I’m completely ready for it, but I can honestly say I don’t have any choice. I’m pretty fond of my life and the people in it – I will do whatever it takes to protect that.”

Nimue considered Jon for long minutes, weighing his words. “I believe you mean what you say,” she said. “Come then. Come and draw the sword from the stone. Come and begin on the path to your destiny.”

Jon looked at Nimue, then at Richie, then took a step toward the altar.


Meanwhile, on shore, Fiona and Morganna were pacing back and forth. “In the name of all that is holy what is TAKING them so long?” Morganna stopped every few paces to gaze out over the lake.

“I’m sure Nimue will take care of them,” Fiona said, trying to convince herself as much as her sister. “But by the Maker’s toes, I wish they would hurry UP.”


Jon approached the altar, eyes squinted against the colored light. He stepped onto the dais and circled the heavy table. He stretched his arm as far as it would go, but it would not reach to the center. He looked at Nimue who had an amused expression on her face, but said nothing. Jon circled the table then squatted down to look at the underside. He ducked under to put his hand on the nearly 30 inches of edged steel that stuck out from the table, and tried to move it. The bolt of pain that shot up his hand made him yelp and jump back.

“Damn!” he cursed, shaking his hand. “The sword just shocked me!” He looked at Nimue again, who gave only an elegant shrug by way of answer.

Jon continued circling the table, not finding any angle from which he could reach the sword. Sighing, he placed his hands on the table top, which was about waist-high, and hoisted himself up in one fluid motion. He stood and took the three steps that brought him to the center of the table. He squatted to put his hands on the handle, positioning them as he would on a baseball bat.

The surge of power that leapt from the sword to Jon’s hands and up his body threatened to topple him from the table. He gritted his teeth and tightened his muscles, and held on. He could feel fingers of power probing his heart, his mind, and his soul. Apparently satisfied, the surge feeling subsided replaced by a gentle humming.

“You alright, bro?” Richie asked. He had climbed up onto the table, and was peering into his friend’s face. His hand was raised, ready to push Jon away from the sword if necessary.

“Yeah, man,” Jon answered softly. “It’s just, it’s weird. It feels like the sword is connected to an outlet and I’m getting a low, steady stream of electricity through me. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels strange as shit.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m going to try to pull it out,” Jon said. He braced himself and pulled, testing the stone’s hold on the steel. It didn’t budge. Instead, it sent a zing of fire up Jon’s arms to his shoulders. He didn’t relent. “Oh no you don’t,” he muttered under his breath. “I will have you. I believe that it is my duty and my destiny.” He shifted his grip on the sword’s handle until he was gripping it like a butter churn. He got in close to the sword, and used the strength in his legs to start to lever the sword upwards.