Present:

Thomas loosened the knife in his boot and checked the blade of his penknife. He wished for a sword, but as a squire he had no other weapons, so the knife would have to do.

It felt horribly inadequate.

He lifted one foot from the sticky mess of blood and began the walk toward the castle. To his surprise, his feet encountered not blood, but soft dry grass, deep and springy, firm earth beneath. No blood, no bones.

He looked down.

Is this a trick? My eyes see blood! But my feet feel pure land.

He heard Estienne’s light tones in his head. Thomas, don't lose your head. It's illusion! Only illusion. And by it you must know where I am.

Breathe. It’s only illusion.

Thomas shaded his eyes and scanned the horizon. He had no doubt that he’d been lured here, tricked into this land, and not on his own errand: something had happened to that nuisance herald and it was up to him to sort it out. He sucked in an exasperated breath and puffed it out again with inflated cheeks. He ought to be fighting for his own birthright! Not traipsing through this malady of a country after some flippant young lecher who only wanted to pound him face-down into his own bedding.

He lifted his chin. If service under Sir Josce’s scabbed knuckles had taught him anything, it was to tuck his pride out of the way and get the fuck on with it.

It wasn’t as if he had any choice. He couldn’t snap his fingers and go back, a day ago, smouldering under an unjust yoke, his only business that of his lord’s. Even if he wanted to. Anything was better than that. Even this. He just needed to know what to do next.

The sun began the long descent to the sea, creeping fingers of deep gold over the land and throwing the castle into dark silhouette. The sea snarled and bit at the shore. Salt stung the silver wind bending the grasses flat against his boots.

The only thing to do next was walk.

So Thomas walked, never allowing his eyes to drop from his goal, never allowing them to light on the ground where he trod.

When he came to the end of the land, Thomas took off his boots and hesitated, unsure of the white froth sidling up the shore to lick his toes. It looked innocent enough, but so had the ground, at first. He half expected to see the water turn red, or the bleached bones of an army drowned beneath the waves, instead of pebbles. What he wanted was to feel cool water on his weary and blistered toes; the walk had been longer than it had looked.

He turned as footsteps sounded behind him, a slight crunching noise of soft boots in...

…sand. Thomas froze. 

I stand on sand! Not bones.

Yet I hear the crunch of bones.

"Good day,' he said, inclining his head to the stranger. He swallowed hard. She was beautiful. He had never imagined such beauty, immersed as he was in the daily life of a military garrison, with its dirt and dust and jaded whores old before their time. Even Estienne's sulky good looks would be eclipsed by the woman who stood before him with her boots of butter-coloured leather planted wide in the sand, her cloak of white silk billowing behind her.

'And good day to you,' she returned in a voice like silver bells. She wore a short kirtle of grass-green velvet, unadorned save for a belt of thin silver leather criss-crossed about her slender waist, separating her breasts and thrusting them aggressively forward. 'Do you know who I am?'

I can guess.

'No,' he said.

She laughed, green eyes sparkling with merriment at his expense. 'I'm the Queen of Elfland, and I know you, Thomas of Albion. Henwyn has sent you, has he not?’

‘I don’t know what Henwyn has done, nor why,’ he replied, truthfully. ‘Our meeting was too brief to glean such information from him. I suspect that what you say is true; however, I am at a loss as to why I am here.’

‘He has set you against me to rescue my daughter.’ She looked him over with keen interest. ‘But mind my words: the Princess Alena Caladwen is betrothed to another; my son. She is not for you, fair Thomas.'

Her son, and her daughter, to marry? That seemed a little beyond the pale even for the fey, who weren’t known for conventional relationships nor lineages. There was a chance that prince and princess were not actually related by blood. He tried to fix his mind on that.

‘I am…is that why I have come?’ He rubbed his forehead, suddenly weary. ‘He said there was a thicket of thorns. We saw no thorns, but then, they are not in Albion, are they?’

‘They aren’t. Nor are they here. I have set the thorns. You won’t see Albion again, fair Thomas, if you slash one branch of my spiky fence. Return home, and I’ll forget your face. Persist in your mission, and I’ll kill your heart’s desire.’

Thomas shoved his hands in his belt. Now he understood that the thumping of his heart was nothing to do with her beauty, for it wasn't lust he felt after all, but fear. He wished he hadn't had to come alone.

The Queen narrowed her eyes. 'Did you leave your manners behind you, Thomas? Or your wits? I know why you're here, and I say, you shall fail!'

Thomas flung up his hand as she put hers out, one finger extended, to touch his forehead. 'If you know why I am here then I need say nothing to you!' he croaked. 'Do not...oh!'

The Queen looked down and picked up the small green frog from where a young man had stood, only seconds before.

She held him up to her face and smiled.

'A new servant,' she chuckled. 'Seven years, fair Thomas; you will be mine for seven years. After that...well we'll see if you get rescued. Seriously, I doubt it. I don’t think he loves you that much. He only wants the secrets you carry.’

And he found himself tipped unceremoniously into her pouch, to rattle about among gold coins and the tears of men turned to diamond drops.