Dreams like that usually have a strange quality to them; one finds themselves suddenly in the middle of a scene but it's something surreal, and the events that ensue are like a feverish word play. Ophelia had opened up her eyes to a fairly plebeian scene of a starry night sky framed by trees that swayed softly in the breeze. As if to contrast her previous whereabouts even harder, a perfectly circular ring of bell-shaped blue flowers surrounded her prone body, which had somehow appeared in the middle of a clearing.
London had its fair share of wonders, but a rich sky full of stars and warm, pleasant dry weather were not in the list. Defying all logic, it seemed like that staircase had landed her somewhere far away from the city, perhaps even outside of her native England.
She stood up, looking for the light and the phone she'd had in her hand what seemed moments ago. A merciful full moon on the sky allowed her to comb through the clearing with her eyes, but she was out of luck: no phone, no light anywhere. She patted herself and realized that save for a packet of chewing gum and her keys, nothing else had gone down the staircase with her. The small bag she had been carrying was also nowhere to be found.
A heavy sigh escaped from her lips: the Universe had decided to make its final move on her, and had dropped her somewhere off so the wilderness could take care of her. However, one last time, she had no choice but to stubbornly reject its designs, and try to find a place to exist. A decision was reached to set off to find civilization and a single step was taken in some direction (she picked one at random) when, deep within the trees, she heard the hurried gallop of horses.
Although Ophelia wouldn't say that she possessed the instincts of someone used to dealing with such situations, she stepped back, bracing herself against the nearest tree. She dropped to the floor just in time to see seven horses jump out of the shadows, one after the other. Both animals and their riders were a blackened blur, crossing the clearing like they were running away from something. The blue flowers that had embraced her in her unconsciousness were trampled, petals rising up into the air in protest.
It all happened very quickly. Something flashed in the air in front of her and a man screamed. One of the horses cried loudly, kicking and jolting around in rebellious pain. His rider fell to the ground with a wet sound, promptly forgotten by his beast. The body was trampled on, bones crunching, muscles ripping and blood staining the ground Ophelia had woken up on. For a split second it seemed like nature would have its way with the dead, before the man's companions appeared again on their steeds. One of them unsheathed a long sword, which he wielded effortlessly with one hand, and in one swift movement cut through the horse's neck to end its suffering.
That wasn't the end of it: another one shouted something in a strange language, and wielding a long spear, threw it in the direction the arrows had come from. Ophelia would admit she had nothing to go on except the pop culture knowledge she'd gained from movies, but she was pretty sure that the speed at which the weapon flew was not normal. Its intended victim seemed to have fallen prey to bad timing, as a mounted man came from the clearing just in time to take the spear in the chest.
As the body fell, Ophelia took note of the bayonet that the man had been carrying; it seemed like the pursued had avenged their fallen comrade. The attacker's death marked a turn of the tide, as the pursued became the pursuers, running back to meet with the men who were now coming into the clearing. Hooves trampled on flowers and dead bodies as the six remaining men broke through spears with their axes and swords, masterfully riding in complex loops to keep their foes away. They were outnumbered, but it was clear that their pursuers were not as skilled as them, and in the close embrace of the clearing, this was enough to give them the upper hand.
The shouting reached its peak when, barely two feet from her, one of the men sliced its last foe's head clean off his neck. The warriors cheered at the gory spectacle, dirty swords and axes pointing towards the night sky. The head rolled on the ground and stopped right in front of Ophelia almost ominously, fixing its dead eyes on her.
Her body reacted before her mind did and she retched. She purged her stomach as she trembled, more out of shock than anything else. It had been all too fast for her to feel disgust or horror. If anything, her mind seemed to be taking in the scene before her to confirm that she definitely wasn't in England anymore and that the dream had finally turned surreal.
The warrior seemed to finally take notice of her as he dismounted. He picked up the head by its hair and threw it back to his comrades, who had quieted down to observe what would happen next. He said something to her in that language that sounded unlike anything she knew. He sounded inquisitive, almost cold; when she looked up to his face she couldn't detect any signs of hostility, and that was enough to at least make her stop trembling.
The man repeated his words once more, and then some more. Ophelia took a moment to realize he was switching languages, trying to find the one she understood.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're saying," she murmured, which made him frown. His eyes roamed her figure, and hers returned the favour: it was obvious how strange she must look to him. He was dressed in an archaic fashion; like a Roman toga, Ophelia recognised, richly adorned with printed patterns on silk. The rest of his companions, although similarly dressed, wore noticeably more modest garments.
She would've been tempted to try some of the few words in Italian she knew, by virtue of its closeness with Latin, but she was sure that none of the languages that the warrior had spoken were any of the classical tongues she knew about. He said something else, as if to confirm her suspicion, and offered a hand to her.
Ophelia had, all things considered, very little to lose. She took his hand tentatively and followed him as he led her to his horse. The warrior exchanged some words with the rest of the troupe, his tone serious and demanding; it was clear at that point that he wasn't just a man between mates, but their leader. She thought she could hear objections raised and shot down; whatever was discussed it was quickly agreed on, and they marched on into the trees.
The pace after the carnage was decidedly more relaxed. Covered in blood, they seemed invigorated, and despite their comrade's death the men shared smiles and laughs, loudly boasting something she could not understand. The only exception to the rule was their leader. She didn't know if it was because of her presence or if it was simply his nature, but he rode mostly in silence, eyes never straying from the horizon.
Soon the treeline thinned and the land expanded into a picturesque view of golden fields and sleepy cottages, criss-crossed by hedges made of stone and bush alike. Perhaps, with just a bit more rain, she could easily fool herself into thinking she was somewhere in Somerset. It didn't matter in the end, did it? After all, there was little reason to find comfort in what she thought was familiar. It was a funny reflex of the human mind that one starts to find rest only when recognition is possible, as if familiarity was enough of a promise that it'll be good. Even if she were to fall for that trick, there was nothing good about the world she was used to. Not for her.
Perhaps she could revel a bit in the uncertainty of her fate and the strange land she had arrived to. In the dead of the night, frozen in moonlight, she thought it was beautiful enough to calm her heart just a little bit.
Hours stretched on, and at some point the leader called for a stop. They dismounted near a crossroads, stretching their legs and giving their horses some time to catch their breath. Ophelia, not quite knowing what to do with herself, stood awkwardly to one side as the conversation livened around her. She absent-mindedly rubbed her ears, wishing she could join in.
"… pace should be enough; we'll make it to the port before sunrise."
She almost jumped out of her skin when the words hit her and made sense. It wasn't English they were speaking, no; but somehow the sounds entangled themselves in a way that felt almost like it, like she had been born speaking it.
"Do you think they had more men following us?"
"I doubt it," the leader spoke, and now that she could understand him she thought there was more sadness than strictness in his voice. "At this point it's easier to meet us at the port; let's prepare for an ambush outside the gates."
"What about her?" one of the men pointed at her, drawing eyes her way.
"We can leave her outside of the gates to finish the route by foot."
"Why…," she stopped when she heard herself, surprised by the strange sound that was coming out so naturally from her mouth. "Why were you attacked?"
Again, she felt the violent onslaught of stares. The leader stood up abruptly.
"So you do speak Phrygian… why did you not answer before? Were you surprised?"
"I can't say I see heads being cut off every day…"
Someone snorted. "What backwater village is so lucky not to see bloodshed nowadays?"
The leader paid no mind to the warrior. "Where are you from?"
Ophelia grimaced. "Do you know of a place called London?"
An echo of surprised voices revealed that the city was perhaps not as unknown as she would have thought. One of the warriors closest to her looked her up and down, "so that's what they wear in Hibernia, huh!"
The leader, on the other hand, was more pensive.
"London… Londinium, you say? But that is past the Hyperborean Sea, a long way from here. How did you end up here?"
"I-I don't know… I know this sounds strange but I just woke up here. Well, there, in the clearing you found me in".
Suspicion started to kick in. A tall and muscular warrior regarded her with dark eyes,
"But if you're from Londinium, how come you speak Phrygian like you had been born there?"
The man who had been ogling her clothes took a hold of her open jacket, showing it in the direction of the other man. "Look at this metal plates in her clothing, the purple in her stola… strange as it may be, I doubt the paupers in Hibernia can dress this fancy. She's obviously a princess, of course she'd speak multiple languages!"
"Were you kidnapped?" the smallest of the warriors asked.
"Maybe…" Ophelia decided to humour them, thinking that it was better to choose their explanation than trying to make up her own. "I was visiting a place that had been abandoned for some time, when the next thing I knew I was in that forest, laying on my back."
The suspicious warrior narrowed his eyes, and asked "what is your name, princess?"
"Ophelia."
"Ophelia, of which tribe?"
A memory hit her, out of nowhere, of her dad and her holding hands on their way to the bakery when she was seven. As they had turned the corner past Iceni lane, her dad had told her about Boudicca, the Celtic queen that had attacked Londinium to fight back against the Romans. The name of her tribe was… "Iceni. I'm Ophelia of the Iceni."
It seemed that for most of the warriors she could've named her favourite comic character's last name, and it would've had the same result. The man next to her, however, and the leader seemed to open their eyes wide in surprise. "I pity the fool that dared to lay their hands on you, princess," the former said. "Yet throne wars are dime a dozen in this part of the world; one might think they might have taken you just to stay fashionable."
Ophelia thought it was the right time to flip the conversation in their way. "Who are you then? Why did those men attack you?"
"We're also in a skirmish of our own," the man said, which earned him some disapproving stares. "Hush! We don't know who she is!" someone shouted.
"It takes one look at us to see who we are, and only half a pinch of hashish to work out what we're doing," the eldest of the group said, a man in his forties. "We are a group of Phrygian rebels, my lady, and those men you saw us slaughter were assassins sent by Phrygian nobles to kill us."
Ophelia looked bewildered. The man thankfully mistook her ignorance for confusion. "The treaty that was signed between our kingdom and the Elysian empire was only a farce to prevent an all-out invasion. I don't know if you have heard that our crown prince went into exile after the second prince, lord Deimos, colluded with the Elysians to turn the kingdom effectively into another one of their vassal states. There are many who oppose this, and want to depose lord Deimos to return the kingdom to its legitimate ruler."
"It sounds like you are all very busy," Ophelia commented half as a joke, but it landed well with the men, who laughed heartily at her quip.
"It's one way of putting it," even the stern leader had cracked a smile. "We're all very busy. And we're heading to Caudiceum. In other circumstances, to honour my oath as a warrior I would have gladly accompanied you until you crossed the threshold of your mother's home, but with things as they are, I can only entrust you to one of our contacts in the port, so they can arrange to send you back."
Ophelia smiled hesitantly, not sure if there was anywhere they could actually send her back to. "I'd appreciate that," she said, regardless. The leader nodded, and motioned for his men to stand up.
"We have rested enough; let us continue our journey."
It wasn't long before the sun began to rise. As they rode, the warriors would sometimes bring their horses closer to make small talk with her. Despite their initial reluctance and their obvious distrust, she was mysterious enough to provide some entertainment for the journey.
"You must have been taught by a Phrygian scholar," commented the leader at some point, his deep voice startling her. She was sitting in front of him, close enough that she could feel her back hitting against his chest every now and then. "Every now and then your expressions are very old-fashioned, but your accent is perfect."
"Thank you," Ophelia said awkwardly, feeling strange about receiving praise for something she didn't really earn. As such is the case with dreams, it would be a waste of time to try and find fault in the finer details. She was happy enough that she could talk to them and did not care to find out the reason for her sudden polyglottism.
"Aristides is also a renowned scholar back in Phrygia," her benefactor pointed to one of the men who rode on his right; the oldest of the bunch. "He has taught me the art of war, philosophy, and the common languages."
Ophelia lazily looked over, eyes fixating on the tattoo on Aristides' forearm. All of them fashioned different artwork on their bodies. Some had marks in their necks, others in their hands, or in their shoulders, even their faces; all, however, shared the same trait of having their right arm tattooed in a specific motif. She could see that in some cases a common motif was shared – some sort of animal, or perhaps a mythical creature, wrangled and transformed by the elaborate knot work of the Phrygian line art. Aristides' was clearly a bird flying downwards, into his fingers.
"A bird for the scholars," the man himself said when he noticed her staring. "Although we all choose our own. Mine is an ibis, for wisdom in contemplation."
"And the others?"
"Dog," said the smallest warrior, "for loyalty. The only warrior who has something slightly different is Ajax."
One of the men to the left bared his arm to show some sort of canine Ophelia wasn't imaginative enough to recognise. It was the same one who had recognised the Iceni name, and who had defended her fashion choices. "A jackal," Ajax smiled, "For cunning."
"The fancy one -outside of Lord Phobos' of course- is Remulus," Ophelia looked around, and judging by the man's reaction, Remulus was the tall warrior who seemed to be overly cautious about her. He glowered at Ajax, clearly not appreciating being the topic of conversation. "He's got the winged horse."
"What's that for?"
"Government officials. The fancy men with the wax tablets, running around writing down numbers."
Ophelia looked to the arm on her right, almost automatically. "It's a phoenix," her benefactor answered the silent question.
"Seems fancy."
"It's the royal mark," Aristides explained. "Only the direct descendants of the king are allowed to wear it."
Ophelia connected the dots. "You're the exiled prince!"
"That I am," she couldn't really see his expression, but if she had she would've felt pity at the bitter smile that arose in his face. "Prince Phobos of Phrygia at your service, princess."
"I have an idea!" shouted Ajax, "Perhaps the princess could bring some of those famous Iceni warriors with her! I bet that would be a laugh, all of them covered in blue, no armour whatsoever! Lord Deimos would not last long."
"He wouldn't, and neither would we, as the Elysians need only send half of the Knights of the Black Sun to get rid of us all," Aristides replied calmly. Remulus, in the back, snorted derisively to Ajax's suggestion.
"This is a war best fought with politics, not swords."
"Spoken like a true scholar," one of the unnamed warriors quipped. "I have yet to see a pen that will parry a sword."
Ophelia turned to look at the man. His hair and complexion was lighter than the rest. He noticed her staring, and said, "Ilmarinen at your service, princess. What do you think?"
She didn't know how political she was allowed to get in a dream; it wasn't that she had a very elaborate opinion on the matter, but having grown up in the times she had, she certainly couldn't help but draw certain obvious conclusions. "I think it's funny how war seems to always benefit a select few, and that they're always the same ones."
Aristides laughed. "I would be delighted to meet your teacher, princess. What an interesting thing to say."
Remulus didn't find her statement amusing.
"We are fighting for a just cause, princess. This is about our country, our way of life, our freedom. It concerns everyone, from the pauper to the prince."
"Of course," Ophelia conceded. "The problem is that not all the people moving the pieces in the board agree with you."
It seemed like the conversation would continue for a while, but Phobos interrupted them. "We're getting close. Ilmarinen, go forward and scout the entrance for any signs of an ambush."
The reminder of the threat that hung over their heads silenced the party as the designated scout broke into a sprint, quickly overtaking them. The gates of Caudiceum arose from the horizon as the sun began its ascent into the sky. There was something momentous about the fiery sky, in that strange new land with those strange, archaic men. For a moment, Ophelia wondered if she hadn't got it all wrong, and that her life had been a fever dream of the distant future. It all seemed so real. The present embraced her with a firmness she hadn't felt in a long time; as it was when her father had been alive she was there in the moment, not feeling like she'd rather be elsewhere.
Strange thing to think while possibly riding into an ambush, that perhaps she felt comfortable in that picture.
They saw Ilmarinen riding back; he made a gesture at them that prompted a few sighs. The fact that no one raised a hand to their weapons she took as a positive sign.
"The coast is clear," he said when the group met. "They've already opened the gates; whatever they have in store for us will probably be waiting after we're inside."
Phobos made a sign, and they all continued onwards. "We'll dismount before reaching the gate," he explained for her benefit. "We all ought to change; we will attract too much attention otherwise."
Ophelia looked at her pants and her jacket, not ready to part with them. Once they stopped, the men all divested themselves of their togas, and put on kaftans with wide sleeves over their under tunics, effectively hiding most of the tattoos that covered their bodies. She too was given a kaftan, and as she took it she realized, by counting at the garments they'd taken out of the bags, that it had originally been intended for the man who had been shot down during their flight. Nothing was said, and she didn't bring it up; she wasn't quite sure she would be able to deal with the conversation. It was evident that her modern sensibilities and her experience of death were altogether different from theirs; she wouldn't dare make assumptions so early in their acquaintance.
"This will have to do," murmured Phobos, his gaze not quite the seal of approval she'd hoped. "A woman dressed as a man hopefully will not raise many eyebrows in a port."
Ophelia stood behind as Aristides and Phobos dealt with the men at the gates. Her curiosity was picked as she observed papers changing hands along small linen bags that clearly contained some coins.
"Is it a toll or a bribe?" she asked the nearest warrior, who turned out to be Remulus.
"A toll," he replied. "Caudiceum is not that kind of place."
Ophelia let her eye wander around the impressive fortifications, peeking at the views of the sea beyond the gate. She noticed that Aristides was waving his hand at her, and figured he was asking her to come over.
"Here, officer," the wise man of the merry band of warriors said as soon as she was within earshot. "She's the bride to be."
The scholar crossed gazes with her: in that split second a whole conversation happened. Ophelia knew, the moment she turned towards the officer, that she had a role to play.
"That's me," she smiled awkwardly.
The two watchmen were smiling amusedly, sneaking glances between her and Phobos. "What a pair; I can see why you had to elope, merchant. A Phrygian like yourself and a Hibernian runaway?"
"Love knows no boundaries," Phobos replied, his speech somehow heavily accented. Such a passionate statement in his stoic, serious face was a funny thing thing to see. Ophelia snickered in spite of herself, and so did the watchmen.
"Even your bride doesn't believe that," one of them said. Both Phobos and Aristides turned to look at her with some surprise.
"I'm just happy I ignored what my mother said about Phrygian men; they're certainly a fascinating bunch at night," Ophelia just ran with the character, not really knowing what she was saying. Regardless of culture or whether it was in the real or dream world, the language of naughtiness was universal, and both watchmen broke out in laughter.
"Very well, very well, let's stop teasing these love birds," they conceded. "Off you go, Phrygian. Hopefully we won't have to deal with a bunch of angry Hibernians tomorrow."
Papers were returned and the three of them rejoined their retinue in entering the city. Phobos walked closer to her, and Ophelia wondered if they were still supposed to play the part of the lovers.
"Apologies about that. They were a bit suspicious about a strange-looking woman, so we told them that we had eloped."
"I just hope I did well," Ophelia shrugged it off.
"You did," he turned to look at her; there was speculation in his gaze. "You also speak an incredibly fluent Iberian."
Ophelia regarded him with a confused look. "Excuse me?"
"Ah, we didn't think you spoke Iberian, we just wanted to show that you weren't being kidnapped. It turns out you could speak clearer than the guards!"
The woman filed that information for later, deciding to nod silently and hope that he'd drop the subject. It seemed like some of that dream movie magic was afoot, and she had somehow gained the ability to speak multiple languages… without being aware of it.
"Where are we going now?"
"To visit an old friend," Aristides replied. "We are on our way to Arqa, which is the closest of all the allied city-states. We're hoping to get them to give us a ship."
"What's in Arqa?"
"Possibly, friends of ours. Given it's entirely neutral it's a good place to meet all sorts of folks who are… not friends of the Elysian empire."
"Let's see how long that neutrality lasts," Ajax, who was only a step behind them, scoffed. "They're having their Council meeting soon, and word on the street is that the Elysians are going to pull some tricks to get their way and break the neutrality."
"They will have to do worse than bringing a bunch of bureaucrats to the council," commented Remulus.
"Oh no, they're bringing the head of the Knights of the Black Sun himself, my friend."
"Who are they?" Ophelia asked.
"They're the elite force of the Elysian army," Ilmarinen replied. "All nobles."
The warriors looked decidedly dour at the mere mention of the knights. "Are they really bad or something?"
That earned her a few bewildered looks. "Bad?" exclaimed the small warrior whose name she hadn't learnt yet. "I suppose; they're just inhuman. Have you never heard of them?"
Ophelia shook her head.
"But you do know about the Elysian nobles, right?" Another shake of her head.
"You must be taking the piss," Ajax said. "Even in the backwaters of Hibernia they should know."
Ophelia's brow furrowed. "Are you going to tell me or are you going to keep skirting around it?"
"Ow, there's the princess! My bad, my bad," Ajax shrunk back into himself, almost comically. "The Elysian nobles are all different, your highness. They're all born with some special abilities the rest of us mere mortals could not even dream of having."
"They're physically weaker," Phobos commented, "they can't wield a longsword in one hand, and only the burly ones can throw spears like we do. They can't run for as long as we do, or as fast, but it doesn't matter. They can do strange things."
"Manipulate the elements, or wield invisible forces that can make a man float up into the air or be crushed into a pulp," Aristides explained. "It only takes a handful of them to deal with three hundred men."
She could not control her expression; her eyebrow went up before she could stop it. "Sure," she said, trying not to bring her modern scepticism into a dream argument. Rather than spark any further debate, it just confused the men even more.
The city had been entirely built into slopes; the city gates were surprisingly enough the highest points in the entire perimeter, and were more of a mark of prestige than anything else. It had long been part of the Iberian kingdom, and was less than a half a day's travel from several fortresses owned by the most powerful earls in the region: this meant that if anything, its biggest threat would always come from the sea. Impressive fjords reached out into the sea, which provided some level of protection; the rest came from an equally awe-inspiring navy, which was so large it had to be constantly rotated in and out of the port to make space for commercial ships.
The houses in the city were square, simple, yet made of brick and plastered over in white. The most daring architects had decorated the top of the structures with painted geometrical friezes: blue and ochre were the most popular colours, but every now and then one could catch sight of some red and green as well. Little gargoyles made of sandstone watched over the spirits of the sea; they were comical, like a child's depiction of what a mythical being would look like. Although the layout of the streets was dense and sometimes houses had been built on top of other houses, casting shadows onto their neighbour's backyard, there was plenty of space for trees. They gave a much-needed respite to the harsh sun; the salty air of the sea did not mix well with the heat.
It was busy and provincial at the same time, almost resembling the famous Santorini postcards Ophelia had seen time and time again. If one were inclined to propose to the Santorini authorities to add more rotten fish smell in the air, more pigs running amok between the houses, or naked children chasing their friends, then perhaps it'd come close.
Ophelia fully concentrated on watching her step. She was used to London, of having to dash around Oxford street at two pm on a Saturday to get some cheap hoodie out of Primark, but this was that, and some more. Women would come out unannounced from their houses carrying bucketfuls of dirty, soapy water, and with no warning just unload it onto the street. Those who had no backyards had to carry buckets full of human waste into the nearest cesspit – mostly abandoned lots in between rows of slums. The march of their horses wasn't of any help – and only contributed to the problem, as the animals would tread on their fresh dung, and the dung of the horses who came before them.
There were sellers as well – and beggars. Again, a Londoner is no stranger to either, but a mouth devoid of any teeth was certainly a rarer sight. If the initial impression of her dream was that of a fantasy past, this initial city break seemed to removed the fantasy out of it.
In the midst of what she assumed were the slums they arrived to what was clearly one of the commercial streets. Cobblers, hat and fabric sellers, blacksmith, grocers, fishmongers, butchers, bakers and taverns all colluded together to create one big open-air shopping mall.
"The weapon dealers are on the other side," Ajax commented, following her eyes. "The furthest away they can be from the taverns."
Women and men, old and young walked around either selling or buying. Big wicker baskets and linen bags that hung from shoulders were emptied and filled with produce and goods. The stench turned into fragrance as they passed the bakeries, and the smell of bread invaded the air.
"Here," Phobos indicated, gesturing towards one of the taverns. The sign hanging outside of the door had a picture of a mermaid, and the name was in a script she didn't recognise.
Inside it was quiet, with only a handful of people drinking merrily at the tables. Behind the bar there was a woman and a teenage boy; both seemed equally busy cleaning and counting glasses. It was a simple place, with stone walls and exposed wooden beams, and a few tattered tapestries hanging near the fireplace.
Phobos went up to the bar; everyone else chose a table and sat on it. Ophelia followed the latter, wondering about the cost of a pint in a dream.
"This is the only place you can get a decent fish pie at," said Aristides, who had sat on her right. "Caudicean cuisine is not terribly exciting."
"Is there a menu?"
"What's that?" asked Ajax.
"Uh, a list of the things they offer for food."
"What for? You can just talk to the lady."
And Phobos had done just that. The lady, the teenage boy and him appeared at the table carrying bowls of potage. "I'll go get the bread," said the young man after passing the food to Remulus and Ilmarinen. Ophelia looked down to her bowl and found a mixture of leeks, herbs, cabbages and what seemed to be oats mixed in some sort of soup. It certainly wasn't the most exciting food she'd eaten, but she was hungry enough that anything that passed through her lips would be like the sweetest nectar.
"No fish pie, Felicia?" complained Aristides.
"You'll have to wait until dinner, old boy," replied the tavern woman. "Are you all staying here?"
"We are," confirmed Phobos. "Ilmarinen, for how long?"
"Perhaps a week, although I'll know more tomorrow evening."
"Very well, I think we can fit youse nicely in two rooms…" Felicia's eyes landed on Ophelia, narrowing ever-so-slightly in the manner of someone who had come across an interesting puzzle to solve. "Or three? Is the lady cargo or someone's booty?"
"Neither," Phobos said quickly, his cheeks slightly pink. Perhaps he was reminded of the earlier farce, Ophelia figured. "We found her on our way. She was kidnapped away from her homeland and seemed lost, so we thought we might bring her somewhere where she could stand a chance of making her way back."
"Ah, a stolen bride?" the woman examined her, eyes intensely studying her features in a way that made Ophelia incredibly uncomfortable. "How strange, you look fresh enough for me to say you've never had children of your own, but you're clearly well past the age of marriage… at least that kind of marriage."
"I don't think that's why I got kidnapped, if I got kidnapped," Ophelia answered.
"Oh?"
"Uh, it's a strange tale. I simply woke up somewhere in the forest. Apparently far away from London – that's Londinium, I guess."
Felicia exchanged confused glances with Phobos. "A Hibernian? But her Iberian is so clean!"
A few shrugs let the tavern owner know that they were just as bewildered as she was about their little stowaway. "Never mind, so you're trying to make your way back?"
Ophelia looked down into her bowl. "I'm not in any hurry, if I have to be honest. But I don't know anyone here; I don't have any money either."
Felicia hummed. "Well, you're in the right place at the right time then! I'm in need of an extra pair of hands. I can't pay you much, but you'll have room and food at least!"
Ophelia looked around the place, a small smile suddenly sneaking into her face. Perhaps she could mention that her previous work experience had been entirely in the service industry, although she didn't think she'd be making macciatos and lates any time soon.
"I'd love that, thank you."
After their breakfast and beer Felicia led the warriors to their rooms, all of which were in the second floor. Ophelia waited downstairs, helping the teenage boy, whose name she learnt right then and there was Lucio, to clean up the table they'd occupied.
"You should also rest," her new boss said once she was done settling in the men. "I'll wake you up in the afternoon so you can help me with the food before supper time."
She was led to the kitchen, and then onto a small hallway. "Lucio and I sleep here," Felicia said, opening one of the doors to reveal a room big enough to house two small beds and a wooden chest. "You can take this one," she said, and opened the next one. It was nothing more than a glorified cupboard, but Ophelia would take it gratefully. "Make yourself at home, I'll bring you a basin in a bit."
Bathrooms, Ophelia had learnt about ten minutes before, were a luxury she could say goodbye to. An outhouse and some buckets were the only places for her to relieve herself; she'd do well to keep a basin with water nearby to wash her hands at all times. She didn't wait for her new boss to come back, she simply threw herself in bed, hugging the caftan close to her body. It was a harder mattress than she was used to; lumpy, filled with straw. It smelt a bit like soot and dirt, showing clearly it hadn't been cared for in a while. It didn't matter; she just wanted to close her eyes.
In her tired, almost delirious mind a thought emerged: was it possible to fall asleep in a dream? And if so, could you dream within a dream? Either way, she hoped she would wake up in the dusty bed in the tavern rather than her own home.