SciFi and Fantasy Stories: The Willow 01

Legaraus

Legaraus looked through the bars on her window and sighed, the moon was beautiful, a bright disk, showing its face in the gaps between the dark clouds. She stretched out a hand through the bars, and touched the wet grass with her russet red furred hand, the closest she could get to being outside; she normally wouldn’t have even have come to the window. Pressing her face to the bars, she could almost smell the rain, the water logged earth and the life of everything that was forbidden to her. Her nose twitched as she did so, the long whiskers becoming alert. She took another long breath and then turned away from the window, her father would be angry if he caught her at the window.

Her room, in the basement of the manor, was small and bare: a pallet in one corner with several blankets, nothing more; the door was bolted from the outside, locked with six padlocks; and the pale grey walls were covered in the claw marks Legaraus had made in her rages, when she needed to run and keep running, she could never remember these times, but her father had described them so vividly that she feared them with a passion. She shivered at the thought of her father, the man who kept her locked up in the basement because she was not like others.

She looked down at the paw like hands she had and the heavy red fur that kept them warm in winter in distaste. She had never met anyone apart from her father, she didn’t know what others were like; but if her father was anything to go by, they did not have paw-like hands, red fur covering all of their body, whiskers, or a bushy tail. She was rather fond of her tail, but her father had told her that humans did not have tails, and until she got rid of it she would not be allowed out of the basement room; paw-like hands could be hidden and fur cut off, but tails were difficult to hide. Yet Legaraus loved her tail dearly, and nothing could make her part with it, not even the lure of freedom.

Grooming herself, she curled up on her pallet and began her daily cleaning of her fur, it was necessity that her father found disgusting, but he gave her no water to bathe in and she was forced to wash this way. She closed her dark brown eyes as she washed, it was a calming activity and Legaraus could never keep her eyes open whilst she did it; just like a true fox instead of the hybrid-fox she was.

The door to her room opened in the middle of her washing, but Legaraus had plenty enough time to smooth out her wet fur before the door actually swung open, there were six padlocks to get through first. She waited patiently for the door to open, there was nowhere for her to hide even if she had wanted to, and there was no point getting excited about the door opening and her father visiting.

Someone cursed on the other side in a voice that was most definitely not her father’s, followed by a lot of rustling. She sat up, alert, whiskers twitching again; no one but her father ever came into her room. Standing, she stretched out her long legs and stepped up to the door, placing her eyes to the little hole, but there was nothing but darkness in the corridor outside, like there always was.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly and the rustling outside the door stopped, a pair eyes coming up to look through the hole, Legaraus jerked back, shocked, she had never seen that colour of eyes before, a bright, bright green.

“I’m here to help.” Came a voice, it was soft and gentle like wind in the trees on a calm day. Legaraus closed her eyes, she liked this voice, it was not harsh like her fathers or angry; yet it still breathed male strength with every manipulation of the sounds.

“The last padlock,” it began, “what does it open with?”

Open? She thought and her heart beat quicker, freedom, a chance to run, to be free, without her father. “A key, it answers with a key.”

“What type of key?” she shrunk back from the door now, the voice was angry, annoyed with her, but the lure of freedom was too strong for her to ignore. She crept back to the door,

“Five points, fairly long, equally spaced.” She had studied the keys that hung from her father’s belt for years, longing to steal them and make someone unlock the door for her. The door swung open and Legaraus jerked back, afraid. She looked at the owner of the green eyes.

It was a man, but he was just like her, his face chiselled to vaguely resemble a thin muzzle, ears pointed and on top of his head, and dark fur covering his body, a white mark on his right cheek. A tail peeked out from behind his legs, well kept but with a few mud splashes; he had been outside. She stared, her first glimpse of anyone other than her father, and they were just like her.

He held out a hand to her, claws neatly curled in, “Come on, we have to go.”

Not even asking for a name or where they were going, she took his hand and ran with him, staring in wonder at the maze of corridors she had never seen. A door hung open at the top of the stairs, Legaraus could see light there, only her father had light; she shrunk back. The man ahead of her tugged her hand, “You’ll be fine, I promise. By the way, the name is Marty.”

She let go of his hand and ran, darting into the room she barely had time to register her father standing in one corner, turning in surprise as the two hybrids burst in to his sitting room, before she was dragged to the front door. Her rescuer shoved her out into the rain before turning to Legaraus’s father,

“She belongs with us,” Marty snarled, “you stole her mother from us, and now we take her daughter back.” Slamming the door shut, he grabbed Legaraus by the hand as her father grabbed his shot gun from the stairs.

The rain wet her fur as they ran, soaking her to the skin; she wanted just to stand there and let her memory capture her first real taste of freedom, but she was dragged on ahead, the pace relentless. Behind her father shouted something inaudible above the incessant patter of the rain; and then a shot was fired.

She stumbled; fell as men came out of their cottages, armed with their own guns. Marty turned as he felt her paw slip from his. Now was the moment when both sides of his heritage wrestled with each other; his human said take her, help her, but the wolf said run, save yourself.

Fighting the animal instinct, he grabbed her under the arms and slung her round so he carried her in front, cradled against his chest. More shots were fired, but his instinct told him that they were nowhere near; if he kept running he’d get clear.

#

He lay her down in his den the other side of the river from the village and looked her over, the bullet had got lucky, striking her in the leg fairly badly; it might take a while, but she would die. Stroking the beautiful red fur he mulled over his options. He could stay here with her, try the best he could to heal her, but ultimately have to watch her die, he also ran the risk of being discovered by the villagers who didn’t look to happy at having two-hybrids in their midst. Or, he could leave her here, and try to get to The Lady’s court and back again before the fox-hybrid drew her last breath.

Looking away out of the den he sighed, and then bent his head over the hybrid, opening an eye. “Can you hear me?”

She nodded and pushed herself up from the floor, relishing the feel of soft earth under her claws. “What happened?”

“You’ve been shot. We can stay here, but I can’t help you; or I can try to get to The Lady’s court and get help from there, but I can’t carry you there.”

Legaraus’s eyes lit up, The Lady’s court, she had heard of that, even within the confines of her cell. I t was in the Faery Realm and could only be reached in certain places; it was a place where those like her lived freely, and other creatures like elves, pixies, dryads, nymphs and others of legends lived also.

“That’s alright, I can walk.”

Marty put a paw on her shoulder, “No you can’t, the shot’s just a little too bad for that. I can go and fetch help, but I’ll be gone for a few days, and I can’t promise to return.”

She looked away from him silently, it seemed as though her freedom would be short lived. She lay back down, suddenly feeling the pain seep through her muscles. “Stay here tonight and then go; tell me everything about hybrids, I know nothing of them.”

“But if I go now, it will be really unlikely that I can get back in time. If I wait till morning…”

“Stay.”

Marty looked at her strong face and smiled; she was truly a hybrid, even only seeing humans had not worn away the strong spirit that all hybrids possessed. Lying down beside her he began to talk, telling himself he would leave when she fell asleep.

Willow Thomas

Stiff and aching, Willow Thomas pushed herself up and looked around, she was back in her room at the Lady’s court, inside the Great oak. She smiled slightly, reassured by the living tree around her, the chairs, tables, sink, shelves, even her pallet that were all made from the beautiful wood, still connected; yet despite it’s comfort, she wanted to be away again, back in the wilder lands where the only thing guaranteed was danger and death.

She dangled her feet over the edge of the pallet and stretched out her long, pale arm, noticing with annoyance that she still had her multiple bands of willow lengths around her wrists. Sighing, she brushed them off, they had lost their power now but she’d still give them back to the willow tree, and took up her soft green cloak from the floor. She shook her head, making a mental note to remind herself to tell the Master Magician that: is he was going to put her clothes away then to put them on the hooks the oak had so kindly provided.

She stretched again and picked up the bracelets, but dropped them, hissing in pain. Frowning, she looked at her right hand, blisters were red raw and weeping. She closed her eyes and groaned; she didn’t remember how she’d got them.

A knock at the door to her room startled her and she whipped round, cloak billowing out slightly. Her head span as she did so and she found herself tipping forwards, hands desperately searching for anything to grip onto. Her right hand found the table, but her arms buckled and she landed with a thud on the hard wood floor.

“Master Thomas?” came a voice from the other side of the heavy oak door that somehow still managed to move whilst being connected to the tree. Willow sighed a little and struggled to her feet; a messenger of the Lady’s court. They always called her ‘Master Thomas’, for a female sorcerer (sorceress) was not allowed in The Lady’s court; but Willow was a great magician and The Lady chose to simply ignore the fact that Willow was most evidently not a male.

Opening the door with shaking hands, she encountered Thomas the Rhymer, smiling gently. He gave a low bow to her, despite calling her ‘Master Thomas’ he treated her as a lady from his own world of which she had heard much. Willow smiled, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, and opened the door a little wider, permitting Tom, as she and others called him, entry. He smiled warmly and handed her the stocking that was hanging over the chair as he sat down. She took the seat opposite and rested her head in her hands.

Willow was the only one Tom ever seemed to speak to, and even when he was with Willow he preferred to not talk at all; for his alternative name was True Thomas, and it was said that the Faery Queen, or Dark Queen as she was known in some parts, had cursed him with always speaking the truth. He was a human, and so could pass through barrier back to the world where he was born, but there his true speaking made him a hunted man and he had sought shelter in the realm of The Lady. The Lady had taken a liking to the young Tom and had let him stay in the Higher Realm. Of late, he had grown older, even with the prolonging effects of the Faery realm, and The Lady had taken less interest in him. Willow had needed a friend and Tom was happy to fill the position.

“What was it like out there?” he asked quietly, “I haven’t been out the Higher Realm for several years; I hear it is fairly rough.”

Willow looked away from his bright, piercing eyes, troubled. “I can’t remember, it’s all a haze.”

Tom grunted, “Anyone in the Higher Realm can tell you what happened, the Master Magician has been to The Lady’s court already. I couldn’t stand being there so I left. I hate that man, he’s so arrogant, and…”

“Tom! Don’t say that! He’s my father!”

Tom was about to answer back, but saw the warning look in her eyes. He let it pass. Looking around he noticed the tail hair bracelet hanging on the wall, a traditional present of a wolf-hybrid. He smiled to himself.

“What?” Willow asked. Sometimes she didn’t understand Tom; he was human, and she, however much she looked it, was not.

“Marty was looking for you at The Lady’s court.”

“I don’t want to see him.” Her answer was a flat refusal, her eyes turning hard and angry. Tom sighed.

“It’s not about that. He seemed anxious, he said it couldn’t wait. Will you meet him?”

Willow stood up and looked out of the window towards the Willow Gardens. Sighing slightly she nodded, “I’ll meet him: Dusk, the Willow Gardens.”

“You’ll need to be more specific than that, Willow. The Gardens are huge, it’ll take him all night to find you.”

“He knows where.”

Tom’s face twisted slightly but he stood up. Taking her hand in his he kissed it lightly and bowed low. “Your servant as ever my lady.” And then he left.

Willow watched him go sadly; he was really the only friend she had left in the Higher Realm. Yet she couldn’t trust him, she had lost all faith in trust after last summer, and trust would take a long time to come back.

She looked again at her hand, the blisters were larger, covering most of her palms; she would have to clean them out with willow juice and bind them before she went out. A thought snuck into her mind suddenly, frightening her: What if the blisters never stopped pealing backwards? What if all of her skin flaked away and she was left with raw, exposed flesh? She shook the notion from her head, she shouldn’t think like that, it wasn’t good for her.

Outside, Tom spotted a familiar figure at the edge of the grove. He strode over, only barely controlling his anger,

“She doesn’t remember a thing!” he hissed angrily, “And she’s already got blisters forming!”

The man he confronted smiled confidently, “And why should she remember?” His voice was silky smooth, Tom could hear the layers of magic lacing through it and instantly hated the man with more venom than ever.

“She had a right to remember what happened out there. It’s not fair that she’ll hear it from the gossip of the Higher Realm.”

“She’ll remember when she needs to, and no one will dare to tell her, you know that.”

Tom narrowed his eyes at the Master Magician and ran a hand through his thick brown hair, finding it hard to repel the Master Magician’s magic; he knew the hair was turning grey at the edges, but for three-hundred he didn’t look to bad, not in his opinion anyway. “What about Marty? What if he tells her?”

“She won’t see Marty.” He was so confident of the fact that Tom felt like hitting him squarely in the face: Why should this man be allowed to run Willow’s life for her? It was his fault that the events of last summer had occurred and for that Tom would never forgive him; even if Willow would never accept that it had been her so called father. The Master Magician smiled broadly, the scarred lips stretching over the pure white teeth in a grotesque manner,

“You really hate me, Tom. Why is that?”

Tom felt the old surge of magic run through his veins. He fought against it, he wouldn’t tell true, not now, he didn’t have to, he didn’t have to answer. The Master Magician ignored his silence,

“Why bring up Marty?”

Tom bit his tongue and turned away, meaning to walk away without a word. A strong hand came down on his shoulder and turned him back. The silver blue eyes leant close to him, looking deep into his yellow green, forcing his curse to take control of his mouth.

Tom lashed out, his fist striking the magician at the base of the jaw, dislocating it. The Master Magician staggered back and then calmly fitted his jaw back in place as he stood up. He smiled,

“So Thomas the Rhymer,” his words were slightly slurred, but he didn’t even seem to notice the pain that should have been lacing through his whole head; it was unnatural. “True Thomas, the very essence of peace, has learnt to fight back, and not just against those who question him. Why don’t you hurry along now? Willow is my son, and I will deal with her as I see fit. Do you understand?”

“Don’t hurt one hair on her head!”

The Master Magician smiled again, “Don’t worry, I won’t harm her. The damage is already done; I don’t need to do anything.”

Tom clamped his jaw shut and turned away. He’d have to warn Marty that she may not be able to make the appointment that had been set; The Master Magician had a way of changing events very quickly.

#

Clawed, furred feet merged into pale skin legs that were quickly covered over by black trousers. A tunic of the same colour hung loosely over the torso, a wide strap running diagonally from hip to shoulder held an assortment of weapons, all with red handles. A hand lay on the straight knife near the heart, the fingers becoming claws at the ends, the back of them covered with smooth, soft dark brown fur.

Her gaze travelled further up and she found herself sighing. A strong, thick neck held a chiselled, masculine face. It was the face she sighed at. She remembered that face. How could she not? Those bright yellow eyes, the wolfish touch to the features and the slight muzzle shaping; there were wolf-ears hidden under the thick brown hair and long whiskers that twitched as he breathed; and of course, on the right side of his face, was the white fur birth mark, shaped like a ‘y’ turned 90^o to the right.

“Hello Willow.”

Her breath caught in her throat. How clearly she remembered that voice. Even without emotion it still possessed rich, deep tones that no fae or human could ever hope to have.

“Marty.”

This was Marty Wolven, a wolf-hybrid and first-class assassin. Unlike most hybrid males he did not let the animal side of him rule. He had ambition and a quick mind that he put to good use; yet the instincts of a wolf were laced into that ambition and intelligence. Willow couldn’t bring herself tot rust him.

“Tom said you were looking for me.”

His yellow eyes softened suddenly and he moved towards her, kneeling in the grass beside her and taking her hands in his.

“You have to help Willow, it’s a fox-hybrid, her father shot her and I can’t heal her. I need you to.”

She stared at him, she remembered this posture, but the pleading, whining tone, in her opinion it did not belong to Marty Wolven. She took her hands away from his and sighed. She couldn’t hate him.

“Where?”

“In the leg. She’s at my den. She’s going to die.”

“How long have you been here?” Willow knew that occasionally he could loose all sense when instinct and emotion took over, and she was worried. He might think that this fox-hybrid was going to die, but it may be that either she wasn’t that badly hurt, or he was so desperate he had waited to long for her. Marty looked away, embarrassed,

“Two days,” he mumbled sullenly like a child. He looked up again, “You have to help, Willow. You’re the only one who can.”

“I know.” She whispered, and hated it.

“Please.”

Willow stood and went to the trunk of the willow tree, running her hands over the rough bark. She nodded,

“A piece of your fur is all I need, Marty, no impossible ingredients this time.”

His face twisted slightly but it soon passed. Taking the thin dagger from its loop he cut a lock from his head, twisted it round his finger into a loop and held it out to her.

“What will you give me for her?” he asked. Willow smiled weakly, why did everything he say stir up old memories.

“A potion, a clear liquid, to wash her wound and heal it. Meet me here at sunrise and it will be ready.”

Taking the lock of hair from him she disappeared through the trailing leaves of the willow, they closed behind her as a curtain. Marty hurried after her, at loathe to be alone in the Willow Gardens at night. She was no where to be seen, but there was no where for her to go either. Ignoring this and putting it down to her abilities as a sorcerer, he hurried away back to his quarters, he would need his energy and strength for the journey back to his den in the outer province of Chinu.

#

It was past the hour of nine and Willow still hadn’t left the Great Oak. Fabian Thomas, also known as the Master Magician, was worried. She was meant to report to The Lady at half past the hour of ten, he had told her so himself the previous afternoon. What could be keeping her?

Wrapping the black cloak around himself he decided to check on her, if nothing was wrong he would say it was simply for a fatherly good luck. The sun was bright overhead and Fabian found himself pulling the hood up as he crossed the open space. When he had been younger he had always wanted to be in the sunlight, wearing shorts and no shirt under the tunic, just to relish the feel of the warming light on his flesh; but now he seemed to shy away, hide in the shadows and walk abroad freely only at night. Somehow his own behaviour disturbed him.

Under the thick shade of the Oak he felt more at ease and he rapped confidently at the door. Inside it remained silent. He frowned, she had always answered before, why should she choose not to now? He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. The Great Oak himself was asleep and he could find no help in asking the Oak.

Summoning his magic he opened the door, feeling as if he were betraying her confidence. It was dark inside, the curtains drawn. Dust hung in the air, thick and cloying. He moistened his lips nervously and stepped in, letting his eyes adjust in the gloom; he hadn’t realised quite how bright it was outside.

He found her easily, she was sprawled in her bed, the covers creased and spread messily over her, as if she’d fought with them. There was something different about her, something that he couldn’t quite identify in the semi-darkness.

He looked to the table. Bottles, pestle and mortars, jars, pots of herbs, bowls of vibrant liquids, dried leaves and vials of blood littered the surface. A stone ring had been set up in the centre, the perfectly symmetrical marks drawn in white chalk drew the eye in the very centre where a blue pottery dish lay. Hair was spread upon the dish, making out a rune: Healing.

Fabian sighed, she had been casting spells. She should have known better than to cast spells the night before her audience The Lady. It took vast amounts of energy for complicated magic such as healing. What could have driven her to be so stupid?

He looked again at the hair and dared to remove a piece. He sniffed it experimentally and wrinkled his nose: Wolf. Peering at it closely he found the soft brown colouring unmistakeable.

His hands closed into fists, and, taking the rest of the hair, swept from the Great Oak, his anger smouldering. He would make an excuse for Willow, right now he had other matters to attend to.

#

Legaraus awoke from her troubled slumber. The air had changed, there was a sharp metallic scent of the freshness of the damp earth. This new smell was acrid and harsh like a stone wall. It turned her heart to lead.

The rain began to fall lightly. Marty Wolven paused to shake his fur out and check that the glass phial was still safe in his pocket. Reassured by the feel of the bottle, he went back down onto all fours and began running again.

The hair burned quickly, the smell it gave off almost unbearable.

Heavy boots thudded against the sodden earth and shod hooves rang out as they struck stone. Water cascaded as a fountain around horses and humans as they plunged into the river, the horses quickly submerging until only their heads surfaced as they struggled to swim the swift river. The guns were carried high overhead, the gunpowder kept safe.

The rain was harder now, soaking through his fur and making him shiver. He came to a halt and shook himself. Why hadn’t he taken the cloak? He sneezed slightly from the cold and checked once more for the vial.

Legaraus struggled to keep her eyes open. The scent was so strong now. She wanted to run and her muscles yearned to do so; yet she was frozen. The poison of the lead bullet had worked its way through her veins until it was all she could do to keep breathing. She heard the ground crunch and squelch under the boot of a human outside the den but couldn’t turn to see it.

The barrel of the gun snapped shut.

The gunpowder ignited.

A horse screamed.

Marty staggered, clutching at his head.

The barrel clicked shut again.

Wolven crawled onwards. Almost home! Almost home!

It began to rain outside of the den.

Marty Wolven crawled inside hurriedly, scrambling for the switch to activate the portal to the human world. The world flickered momentarily and then exploded into life again.

Legaraus’s body jerked at the impact of the second bullet, a third and fourth from other guns followed soon after. Marty turned in disbelief towards the entrance. His eyes met that of Legaraus’s father as the gun was raised, the barrel pointing directly at him.

He flicked the switch again, but too late. The gun cracked and the bullet hit him in the shoulder. He fell backwards, tumbling deeper into his den. He could smell the blood, taste the bitter earth, hear his heart thudding, and see his life collapse inwards.

“Marty…” He heard his name being called, but it was so far away he couldn’t reach it or distinguish it, “Marty… Help me!”

The glass phial cracked underneath him, spilling its contents into the soft earth. A shard stabbed into his side and his eyes opened in pain, unseeing. A face appeared before him, but it was gone too soon for him to recognise.

There was that voice again.

“Marty!” It was sobbing, crying so hard it was difficult to understand, “Marty!”

The voice changed, becoming more masculine, threatening. “You leave my daughter alone! I’m warning you! Get out, now! Before I hunt you like the dog you are!”

Mary Wolven whined and closed his eyes, his body shifting away from pain. “No,” he mumbled, barely coherent as memories flicked through his mind, “leave her… I can’t… won’t… you… she loves…”

Something wet was placed on his forehead and a reassuring voice spoke to him from close by somewhere.

“Hey… Shh… Settle down now.”

Marty opened his eyes, blinking in surprise, “Tom? But… How?”

True Thomas smiled and stopped mopping Marty’s brow, pausing momentarily to stop himself from blurting everything out. “Don’t you worry about that now,” he said eventually, “you need to regain your strength. You had a nasty shot wound and that glass was pretty deep.”

Marty groaned and closed his eyes, he remembered.

“I couldn’t save her, Tom,” he told the man, as he began to feel the aches and pains that were all over his body. His tail felt uncomftable under him, a hard lump that felt as if it was going to bruise. He hoped it wouldn’t, he liked his tail. Why did people always assume that he’d be comftable on his back? “I tried so hard but I  was too late. If it hadn’t rained… if I’d left her this side… Oh, Tom, what am I going to do? What am going to tell The Lady?”

Tom patted the hybrid on his good shoulder and then stood up, “You won’t be telling The Lady anything, she already knows about you and Legaraus. She’s not angry, in fact, she impressed with your perseverance to rescue one of her rightful subjects.”

Marty narrowed his eyes, “You know that I’m the only hybrid in The Lady’s service.”

Tom left the comment unanswered, he knew it well enough, but future truth was something that was debateable, he could say what he liked as long as it may be possible. He looked out of the window and sighed,

“You’ve been nominated for the position of assassin, the current is retiring.”

Marty sat bolt upright, covers falling off him; he didn’t seem to notice that he had been completely stripped, he only realised that his tail felt so much more comftable now.

“Assassin? I thought Jander was going to train Willow to take his place.”

Tom shrugged and filled the kettle, it seemed a good time for a pot of tea. “The Master Magician didn’t seem pleased with the choice of Master Thomas, he’s insisting on another candidate. Please dress yourself.”

Marty looked down and grabbed the covers back, quickly hurrying to dress himself, saying as he did so,

“But why me?” Marty was confused, but it soon dispersed as he suddenly realised that he wasn’t wearing anything. He hastened to dress and then joined Tom at the table. Taking the offered cup he repeated his question, adding, “The Master Magician hates me and loves Willow. Why would he take away her chance of becoming assassin to The Lady?”

Tom put down his cup and took a deep breath. “Fabian Thomas knows who the first mission is, the ever threatening leader of The People. Whoever tries to kill him fails and is either converted or killed. He wants to keep Willow safe and would love to see you dead. This way Willow will never see you again and he will be able to draw her away from civilisation.”

“As if she were ever in civilisation. She’s a prisoner, at least Legaraus didn’t know she was trapped.” The words were out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying and he regretted them instantly. They were bitter words, full of spite and hate, and he hated himself for saying them. Tom sighed, suddenly becoming angry.

“Are you not listening, Marty Wolven?  He is trying to get you killed! Killed! Where do you think that rain came from? It’s only your quick reactions that saved you from being killed then! Get it into your head! He will do all he can to be rid of you! And the more you hurt Willow the better in his view!

Marty stared at Thomas, he had never seen the man so worked up. Tom let out a breath and smoothed out his clothes, taking a delicate sip of tea,

“Now. You will thank Willow for her help and give her a gift, something special and meaningful.”

“But I’ve already given her the most meaningful thing I could give her, the charm of my tail hair, that hurt you know. What else can I give her?”

Tom smiled and held a silver band of metal out to him; Marty took it in his claws and turned it over carefully, yellow eyes studying it in minute detail. It was beautiful, shaped to like a chain of forget-me-nots, it was even set with sapphires for the petals. Inside was an inscription in flowing handwriting on the twisting stems: ‘Forget-me-not for I’ll not forget thee’.

“Where did you get this?”

The smile fell from Tom’s face and he took the ring back, staring at it. “It’s from the human world, my love gave it to me when I left for good. I would have stayed with her, but I couldn’t love with them and this curse. She’ll be dead by now, only her distant descendants left. I care for Willow, she’s very special; you of all people should know that. If I were younger I’d give it to her myself, but you and she… I do not know what it is… but it feels right for you to give her this.”

He turned away from Marty, looking out over the pastures where his horses grazed. He had collected them from the human world, the best specimens he could find and he loved more than anything else. Marty regretted asking the question, he knew how hard it was for Tom not to speak, and often he would end up telling everything.

“Tom?”

“Yes?” The man seemed distracted, his eyes looked as if they three-hundred years in the past.

“When are they choosing the next assassin?”

“This afternoon, the Royal Court. Why?”

“I want to be there. If I’m chosen I want to talk to Willow. Can I ask a favour, Tom?”

The human smiled, he liked questions like that, where he could make up his own mind, “Aye, you can. Ask away my friend.”

“I need you to sit next to Willow. If she tries to leave I want you to stop her. I have to talk to her.”

Tom smiled once more, “I know you do. Now let’s get you dressed; I’m afraid you’ll have to go bare-chested, I can’t wrap the wounds securely if you’re wearing a tunic and shirt over them.”

Marty stared at him, open-mouthed. “You can’t expect me to be at The Lady’s court without a shirt or tunic! You know I’m self-conscious! No-one’s seen me… except…”

“The flesh is still too delicate for you to be out and about without proper dressings.” Tom insisted, “Now take that tunic off this instant. You’ll want to be there early.”