Goblin Town -- Logs

It was smart to be careful what you bought at the goblin market -- as it was still called, despite there having been very few actual goblins there in decades. It was smarter still to be careful who you bought it from. Sweet plum preserves from the wizened old woman with barely a tooth in her head whose wares were jumbled higgledy-piggledy on web-strewn shelves might be perfectly fine and even exquisite, while the ones bought from the apple-cheeked, laughing girl with the entrancing eyes and the brightly-painted stall might taste wonderful and cause you to come to all manner of bad ends.

The folk that came to the market all the time had a good idea who to trust and who to avoid. The folk that were new weren't always well-versed in what to look for, what to smell for, what to listen for, or how much to trust the prickling at the back of their neck. Sometimes those people never actually made it out of the market. Sometimes they weren't even ever found on the street again. Caveat emptor was the law of the land in this little microcosm of commerce. If someone in authority could be found to bring a complaint to, the answer might well be, "They should have known better." There were, of course, special circumstances under which something would actually be done about it. What those circumstances were was a somewhat amorphous concept, and given to change at the merest whim -- as was so much else in the market itself.

The vendors in their stalls and vardos and carts weren't the only ones selling things in the market. Services -- martial, intimate, and administrative -- could be bought. Information could be traded. The shop doors that could sometimes be seen between the street vendors were permanent shops. There was an apothecary in the western tradition. There was an herbal shop that sold eastern healing. Another was the storefront, home, and temple of a voudou mambo.

Even with all of that, the trickiest part of the market was just finding the place. The street was actually marked on one city map; a map that had been created in the early days of the 19th century and of which very few copies were still extant. If you asked the curator of the collection that had the best copy, they would tell you it was a trap street -- something added by cartographers to protect their work from being stolen, which didn't actually exist... and truly, if you were walking down the street that connected to Coblyn, it was hard to see. If you used a GPS or modern map it wouldn't show; you'd look right past it. If you had the right map, though, or someone else who'd used the right map... only then could you find it -- and you'd only have to be shown once, the first time, to be able to get there again.

After all, no one wanted most of the city's denizens wandering in, willy-nilly. Too much chance for outside trouble and outside interference if that happened. The people that frequented this market had been very, very careful to keep their places hidden since long before there were European settlers on this continent.

The best fight is the one you can avoid.

Good way to think of things. Not always the way it's possible to think of things. Or even actually the best way to think of things. There were some fights, Jonas figured, that had to happen. That was part of why his sensei despaired of making a pacifist of him.

Jonas had been taking martial arts since before puberty. He'd been a skinny kid and had gotten picked on and bullied relentlessly. Skinny he might have been, but he wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. 'Brave' might be the word some people would use. 'Rash' and (sometimes) 'foolhardy' were the ones his mother used when he would come home bruised and battered because he refused to run or to give in. So at age twelve he'd been enrolled in taekwondo. At fourteen he'd added aikido. They were two quite different disciplines, but his first year of study in taekwondo made him realize that concentrating on one art over the others was an excellent way to not have enough flexibility in your knowledge. And that's why sixteen had him adding boxing. Not precisely a martial art in the way most people thought of one, maybe, but it taught him a few things the other two didn't.

It was his aikido sensei that didn't seem to understand why Jonas sometimes felt like defusing the situation wasn't always the thing to do. "Because," Jonas had tried to explain, "sometimes people won't be defused. Sometimes all the redirects and talking don't work. Sometimes there are people that need to be taught not to start sh... something because there will be consequences." He had shrugged and smiled crookedly, "Bullies are looking for any reason to be offended. Sometimes no matter what it is you say, they're going to twist it into an insult so they can hurt you. Sometimes they just want to hurt your heart and your head. But some of them are looking for a reason to hurt your body. And after you've redirected, and you've tried to talk them out of it, and it hasn't worked... that's when you have to speak their language. It would be wonderful if that weren't the way of it."

Besides, he didn't go looking for fights. He just defended himself and other people that needed defending. Eventually he realized that he was more willing to get physical in defense of other people -- the ones that couldn't really defend themselves because they couldn't talk fast enough or run fast enough or anything else that made bullies see them as easy prey. For those situations, sometimes it was necessary to stop an altercation with something hard, fast, and unpleasant.

Being as good as he was at two Asian martial arts and the sweet science never seemed odd to him. People have their things. He figured his was just this.

After his growth spurt he was no longer a skinny kid. Instead his shoulders broadened, his hips stayed lean, and his legs strengthened considerably. The proud brow and strong jaw line he saw in the mirror was something he'd never seen on any of his relatives, but his mom insisted that he had begun looking just like his father. This seemed to please her, even if some of her family scowled when she said it. Jonas had never met his father. The man had gone before Jonas was born, though his mother had never been upset about it. She had seemed content, in fact, even though the man was possibly still alive somewhere.

"It was something he had to do. It had nothing to do with loving me or loving you," she'd explained when Jonas had first asked. That had been after a couple of bullies had used the term 'bastard' to describe him, and 'slut' to describe his mother. That fight had cost him two black eyes and a chipped tooth. His mother had given him ice for the black eyes and gotten the tooth fixed. That was a week or two before she first took him to the dojo. It never occurred to him that waiting until twelve to actually ask about his father was odd. His mother would occasionally speak of the man, always in good terms, and so Jonas had just assumed that his father would come back some day. Sometimes someone in his mother's family would scowl when she said something about Jonas's father, but she always shut them down before they could say anything much. He'd never felt unloved or abandoned.

The hair and eyes he always knew had to be from his father's family. Everyone on his mom's side was blonde and most of them had at least a little wave to their hair. Jonas had hair that was blue-black and smooth almost to the point of satiny. People liked to touch it, which was also okay with him. He'd always liked physical affection and had never been shy about hugs and affectionate touches with his friends. He only began watching himself in that respect when someone pointed out that it seemed much like flirting. He didn't want to hurt anyone by unintentionally leading them on. The eyes, likewise, were an amberish brown, unlike the blues and grays of his mother's family. The skin, though -- that was all his matriline... or so he assumed. He was pale, though not in a fishbelly way. He spent time outside and even if he didn't tan, it kept his skin healthy-looking.

By the end of high school he'd taken to wearing his hair long and back in a ponytail. The clothes he wore were always comfortable, but never slovenly. All his martial arts taught him the importance of being able to move well. They also taught him that too much cloth is an impediment. So if he wore jeans, they were snug at the hips to keep them from sliding down, but not so tight as to cost him the use of those hips. Shirts, likewise, always fitted close enough that quite a few people noticed his shoulders, but there was always enough give for his arms to move any way they needed to.

Bullies had stopped coming after him after about his 14th birthday, but they didn't stop coming after other people. Jonas did as much to stop that as he could -- not because he actually liked fighting, but because there was something in him that couldn't stand seeing people hurt. In fact, it never occurred to him to not help -- to him, it was simply what he had to do; something he couldn't envision not doing. His reputation was that he never went looking for a fight, and would do what he could to stop one happening -- but also that he was not shy about stepping between a bully and their victim. If he could defuse the situation, he would. If it came to physicality, he would go for aikido first and do as little harm as possible. If the aikido didn't work, he would resort to other means.

When he'd explained to his mother why he'd sprained someone's wrist, he'd been abashed to admit that he'd used something from taekwondo rather than aikido because it was the fourth or fifth time he'd stepped between this girl and her bully. "It wasn't fair and he wasn't going to leave her alone. He's been harassing her since sixth grade. It had to stop because I was afraid it would go somewhere really ugly," Jonas had explained, flushed with chagrin at not being able to stop it any other way.

"You have a warrior spirit, m'love," his mother had explained, smiling gently at him. "It's good you try for peace first."

He graduated at age 17 -- he'd skipped a grade in elementary school, so he was ahead of his age-mates. That might also have been part of why he got picked on; smart and skinny were often a recipe for that. His mother gave him several choices about what to do after graduation: trade school, college, work, travel for a year?

It had been a little surprising to him that she'd nudged him toward the traveling option. Most parents seemed to want their children to either be in school or working and being a "productive member of society." Jonas's mother had put more importance on happiness and usefulness than the societal norm of "productivity." Productive was about trying to keep up with people and putting money first. Useful was about finding what you did better than anyone else and doing that. It was why she was a nurse, she said. She was good at helping people feel safe and helping them get well. So it's what she did. "Baby, I just want you to have time to find out what it really is that you do better than anyone else," she'd explained when he'd asked about the traveling, "and this isn't a big town. You need to get out and experience a lot more before you've really found your niche." She'd been happy when he'd chosen travel. She'd suggested Europe, specifically the British Isles: "I think you'll feel at home there."

So, the British Isles it was.

Jonas didn't pack much for his trip, figuring that if he was going to be traveling, he'd want to travel light. His mother gave him some money, but he also found a few resources on how to get a little money whilst traveling. If he was going to be there for a year, he wanted to find out what life was like. He didn't intend to just be a tourist. So he and his mother found a way for him to have a work permit.

By month two, Jonas knew his mother was right. The place felt very right to him. It wasn't home and he was sure he would go home at the end of the year, but he felt he had found something he didn't realize he'd been missing. He'd spent the first three weeks in northern England, but then something pulled him west. Jonas had planned on breaking the trip up into two or three month increments and working his way around the UK, Ireland, and Scotland... but around twenty-two days in, he got an urge he absolutely could not ignore and headed for Ireland. Fortunately it was easy to travel around the British Isles: public transit on trains and busses was extensive. He took the train to Liverpool and a plane from there to Dublin.

The moment his feet hit the ground in Ireland, he felt slightly dizzy due to a moment of doubled vision. For a second or two he was seeing both an airport and an old fashioned seaport. One of the men, that had flown on the same small plane with him, caught his elbow and asked him in a broad Irish brogue if he was going to be OK. Jonas had shaken his head like he was a dog just out of the water and said he'd be fine. By then the illusion had passed off.

He'd called his mom when he'd landed and let her know he might be incommunicado for a few days while he did some rambling around the west coast of the country. All she'd said to him was to take care of himself and, oddly, to be very careful of the kindness of strangers there. That comment had struck him, because she'd always encouraged him to be generous and to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Two days later Jonas found himself rambling the countryside around Galway with a rucksack holding his few possessions and some food. He had his phone, but there was little to no reception. Occasionally he would see other ramblers and exchange greetings. They were friendly enough, but a few of them looked at him a little askance and didn't seem to want to step within arm's reach of him. He'd just taken it as reasonable caution the first time or two... but then he realized how often it happened -- usually when he took his sunglasses off and people got a look at his eyes.

One morning he came out of a copse of trees to see what looked like a mound in the middle of a clearing -- and then there was another moment of double vision. He saw the mound there just as it was -- he thought -- and he also saw a door in the side of it. No -- not a door; an archway. But this time the blinking didn't make the archway go away... instead, it made the image of 'just a mound' go away! All he could do for long moments was stare. He'd read some fantasy; he'd read and listened to fairytales as a child. His mother had been especially fond of Tam Lin. But he'd always just figured they were just that: tales.

As he stood staring, he heard a voice just behind his right shoulder -- a man's voice, warm and deep and amused, "The mounds are fascinatin', aye?" It made Jonas jump and turn around quickly, instinctively moving into position to throw or redirect if need be. However, the person standing there made no hostile move. For the first flash of a moment the stranger was grinning mischievously... and then he saw Jonas' face -- and breathed out something in a rolling tongue, eyes widening.

Amber eyes -- the same color as Jonas's own. Not only the same color but the same shape! Jonas knew some of the features because he'd been seeing them in the mirror the last few years. For what felt like endless heartbeats the two men stood staring at one another... before the elder spoke. His voice had the gentle lilt of an Irish brogue and he was a little hesitant before he asked, "What's your name, lad? Who's your mother?"

It seemed to Jonas like a strange thing to ask and the confusion showed on his face for a moment, but he never let his careful stance waver, "I'm called Jonas. My mother's name was Janet."

"Janet... and would her surname be Daugherty? And would she ha' a little mole jes' there?" the older man asked, touching high on his cheekbone and just beneath the right eye.

That finally shocked Jonas into dropping out of his stance and simply backing the hell up several feet, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Me? Ah, well, I go by the name Quinn when I'm out and about, y'ken? And you, lad, might want to look t' tellin' strangers yer actual name." The man was making no move toward Jonas, but that didn't stop Jonas himself from watching the stranger with shocked wariness.

"You're... how do..." Jonas, normally fairly swift of mind, was finding himself stumbling over his words.

"How do I know yer mam?" Quinn looked down at himself and then looked at Jonas and grinned, "I'd never hae thought a son of mine would be quite so slow!"

"Hey!" Jonas started to look a little offended at being called slow -- but then the rest of that sentence sank in, "Wait... your what?"

"Son. Heir. Fruit of me loins." Quinn seemed both amused and a little quizzical now, "And how, lad, did ye find yer way here? I never told Janet where I came from or where I was going back to other than 'Ireland.'" Now that Jonas was no longer quite so shocked, he was able to take in the way Quinn -- his father?! -- was dressed. He didn't look much like a rambler -- though Jonas had a vague idea that the man had when Jonas first looked at him. No, he looked like nothing so much as a... well, a warrior. He wasn't wearing modern body armor; instead, Quinn wore a short kilt over sturdy leather boots. On his upper body seemed to be a linen shirt of some sort, overlaid with a leather jerkin with interlocking diamonds of some dull brown metal. At his hip hung a sheath -- an honest-to-god scabbard! -- with the hilt and handle of a sword protruding from it. Across his chest was a strap that, when Jonas looked closely, seemed to hold a quiver of arrows and a bow.

"She didn't tell me. She just said she thought I should take a trip over here. The British Isles, she said," Jonas shook his head. Why was he telling Quinn all this? Hadn't his mother warned him about strangers once he got here?

Quinn's brows went up and he said, "I see. And you just happened to stumble across not just a trod -- but my trod? Just rambling about?" The modern brogue was melting a little. There was still a lilt there, but he wasn't playing the impish Irishman now.

Jonas blinked and said, "I was in Manchester and I just... felt like I needed to be over here. A tug..."

Quinn nodded slowly and then asked, "Janet -- your mother -- told you to come over here? But nothing more than that?"

"Nothing more than that. The rest was... just me," Jonas shrugged and then frowned at himself a little, "Wait... just... why am I even telling you this?"

The older man's lips quirked, "I've got that kind of face. People want to tell me things."

From behind Jonas -- again! -- but this time from the direction of the mound, came another voice... this one clearly female and with a gently chiding tone, "Quinn! Stop yer teasing of the boy! And stop doing that to yer own son!"

Jonas began trying to figure out which way to turn to keep them both in sight. When he'd gotten himself perpendicular to the two voices he saw a woman wearing a simple dress and with the same satin-dark hair and amber eyes. Jonas scowled, "What the hell is going on here?"

The woman chuckled, "What Quinn said is partially right: people want to tell him things. But it's not because he looks particularly trustworthy. It's a gift of his." She looked at Quinn and added sternly, "That he shouldn't be using right now!"

Quinn grinned broadly, "Ah, but Aisling, I had to be sure he was who he claimed!"

Aisling clucked her tongue, "As if you couldn't tell that by looking at him!" Jonas finally, finally felt like he could hold his tongue and just listen to the two people. Despite the similarities in coloring, the woman didn't look much like Quinn and himself as she added, "I am curious how he found us, but I think we need to let him tell us that when he's ready." She sounded fondly exasperated as she turned back to Jonas, "Your father is a bit of a rogue... but he's loyal and steadfast and protective of us. I'm called Aisling." She offered her hand, which Jonas refused to take.

That made both of the newcomers smile broadly, and Quinn said with clear pleasure and pride, "Good lad!"

"Of course he's a good lad! And smart when he's not being nudged to talk too much!" Aisling chuckled and shook her head. She didn't look older than Quinn, but she had the air of someone dealing with a much-loved but impish child when speaking to him.

Jonas continued to keep his lip zipped; his mind raced. Quinn claimed to be his father and Aisling seemed to be backing him up. Of course, Jonas himself was still processing the fact that he looked just like Quinn -- and he didn't know either of these people from Adam! Aisling and Quinn were looking at him as he continued to sort through possibilities in his mind. He could run... except that Quinn was carrying a bow and a sword and Jonas could tell that Quinn held himself with grace and assurance. He could tell them he was leaving and just walk away. But he had this feeling that Quinn would simply follow him.

Aisling -- after some several minutes of watching Jonas go over options in his head -- shook her own head and chuckled, "Definitely a smart boy. Trying to remember your fairytales yet? Is it sidhe you shouldn't take food from? Or was that Greeks bearing gifts and pomegranates? Rip Van Winkle and his forty-year nap? Going under the hills to ne'er be seen again?" She nodded and smiled broadly, "Very smart boy!"

Quinn shook his own head with a laugh, "There you go, giving away our tricks." Then he turned to Jonas and said, "Do this for me, lad. Listen closely -- very closely -- to what I say." He nodded once to the younger man, then intoned, "I swear on the stars and the stones, on my heart and my soul, on the very earth upon which we walk, that I will do no harm to you or yours. I will return you here to this very place and I will do that before the week is out. You will not come out to find all your loved ones long buried. You will not disappear never to be seen again. You will be perfectly safe." Quinn's amber eyes almost seemed to bore into Jonas', as he spoke.

Jonas listened. He didn't simply listen, either; he paid attention... and he noticed something odd. Quinn's voice had a tone -- almost an echo -- behind it. Most of the echoes were quite harmonious and seemed right somehow. Only on a couple of words did they sound discordant. The word 'soul' seemed off, as did the last statement. Slowly Jonas said, "No. I won't be perfectly safe. And... why... your soul?" He didn't know quite how to phrase it.

Quinn's grin broadened again, "Yes! Very good, lad! No, you won't be perfectly safe. Because no one is ever perfectly safe. As for my soul..." He shrugged, still smiling, "It's said we have none, so an oath on it would be an empty one. So I shall say to you, I swear all these things on the stones and the stars. On my heart and my mind. On the very earth. How does that sound?"

Jonas nodded slowly, "I believe you." He turned to Aisling, "Now you tell me what your intentions are."

Aisling laughed and said, "My intentions, child, are to offer you hospitality. To us that means as long as you do us no harm, we shall do none to you." The 'us' seemed to be Aisling and Quinn, since she motioned between herself and him.

Jonas nodded slowly again, "But I shouldn't trust anyone else I meet during that time."

Quinn nodded, "Yes. You're learning." He motioned toward the mound and the archway in it, "Please. Come. We'll feed you and I'll ask you questions and you'll ask me questions and..." he took a deep breath, "you'll tell me of my Janet." There was naked longing in his voice as he said it.

"I'll come with you. The rest we'll negotiate as we go along," Jonas countered. Quinn and Aisling both agreed to that and they led him toward the archway.

As they walked Quinn said, "And if I may be so bold, lad. I would use another name whilst in the trod. Say... Shane or Sean." Aisling nodded in approval at the suggestion and at the names as Quinn continued, "And be careful to say you can be called by that name. You felt the untruth, or heard it... a few of us can do that. Tell no outright lie."

Aisling added, "And be careful of telling all the truth. Be careful of telling people where you're from or where you're going. And don't accept any bargains without listening very carefully to them."

Jonas frowned at Aisling, "That's a lot to remember..."

Aisling smiled, "It is, isn't it?"

Now it was Quinn's turn to admonish, "Aisling! We've tested him enough. If we keep pushing, he'll just leave!" He turned to Jonas, "It's really one rule: be careful who you trust. You know how to test that now."

Jonas nodded, "I can hear it now, yes. I'll be careful. I swear on...." He thought for a long moment. He'd never had to give an oath like this. When he spoke, it was slow, "On my honor. On my heart. On the love I hold for my mother."

"Good. Good lad." Quinn nodded his approval, adding, "Now. Let's get you fed up."

When they reached the archway that led into the mound, Jonas felt as if his hackles were trying to rise; he took a step back, frowning. Both Quinn and Aisling looked at him for a moment before Aisling's eyes lit up with understanding, "It's supposed to feel like that -- keeps people from stumbling in. It's the source of all those creepy-feeling legends people tell about the trods. Most humans aren't even able to get past it. I wonder if you can or if we'll have to take it down..."

Jonas took a deep breath and stepped beneath the archway. The moment he was on the other side he felt himself relax; his sigh of relief was audible. Quinn stepped through next and patted Jonas on the shoulder, "Come along, lad."

Jonas -- no, he had to start thinking of himself as Shane -- Shane was surprised it wasn't dark through the archway. The lights were, unsurprisingly, candles in little alcoves along the wall. When Quinn caught Shane looking, the older man said, "It's not like we can run electrics out here. Things are a little old-fashioned." He grinned, teeth flashing very white in the low light. The three of them trooped down a shallow passage without doors for long enough that Jonas wondered just how deep and how far they'd gone... before the hallway doubled back and continued a little deeper. There were doors off this hallway on one side, and more of the candles. Shane had expected it to be hard to see, but his eyes seemed to be adjusting unusually well.

Eventually the tunnel debouched into something like a... actually, Shane wasn't sure what it was like. The room was large and had a fireplace -- [How on earth do they not smother?] -- along with the candles. There were tables and chairs, along with divans and other sorts of lounging furniture... and there were at least a score of people. They were almost all uniformly tall, pale, and with black hair. The colors of their eyes were a little more varied, but none of them were blue. They ranged from an amber brown even lighter than Shane's and Quinn's, to a brown so dark that they looked eerily pupilless. The clothing was also varied. Shane was a little bewildered to see some of the people wearing what looked like jeans and t-shirts -- one of them was even wearing jogging pants! Several others were dressed more like Quinn and Aisling. [Well, at least I don't stand out completely like a sore thumb...] Shane thought.

The entrance of the threesome gathered some looks... and some of those looks were quite curious as they took in the unknown person with Aisling and Quinn. Shane noted the way a couple sets of eyes moved between his face and Quinn's, and was unsurprised that people noted the similarities. Aisling smiled, talking with Shane, "There are some sleeping quarters. You can bunk with me if you want." Somehow, it sounded like a perfectly normal -- even desirable -- thing... to share a room with this woman he'd just met.

Quinn snorted at that and said, "Or with me. There's plenty of room... and far less chance of being seduced."

Aisling looked shocked -- it was a very good shocked face, and would have been perfect if she hadn't laughed immediately after, "You make me sound like a completely wanton woman!" Shane, listening closely to the playful banter, blinked as he realized Aisling very carefully didn't deny any intentions of seducing him. He realized he was starting to understand the way people talked down here, too. He wondered, though: was Aisling giving him a subtle lesson... or was she flirting?

Quinn led them over to a woman sitting in a chair near the fireplace. She had a blanket over her lap and was reading by the firelight. It was another of those odd little details Shane was noticing, that the book was by Neil Gaiman. She was also the first person he'd seen since stumbling upon the trod that looked anywhere older than a human's late twenties. Indeed, she had crows feet at the corners of her eyes, and the kind of lines around her lips that spoke of a lifetime spent smiling. Her eyes were beyond amber and straight into the yellow you might see on a big cat, and she seemed pleased to see Quinn.

"Saoirse," Quinn said quietly, "I want you to meet someone." He put a hand on Shane's shoulder and guided him forward, "This lad is called Shane. Shane, this is Saoirse. She's the elder of the trod and your many-times great grandmother." Quinn sounded eager to be giving the older woman the news and Shane found himself meeting her smile with one of his own.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, uhm..." Shane wasn't sure if he should call the woman 'grandmother' or by her name.

Saoirse, seeing her descendent's hesitation, chuckled, "Just Saoirse, child." She looked him over carefully, then smiled at Quinn, "He's the spit of you at that age." Then she looked consideringly back at Shane, "I'd never know ye weren't full beansidhe if I didn't know the only child Quinn has is with a human woman." She wasn't keeping her voice down particularly, but people seemed to pay no attention whatsoever to what she said. She motioned toward the hearth, "Have a seat, child. Mind the fire," then put her book down and looked him over, "I could swear Quinn hasn't been gone for more than a day in the last eighteen years or more... so how did you find us?"

Shane looked at Quinn, who looked back impassively. Perhaps this was another test? The younger man [Sidhe? Elf? Fairy? Holy fuck...] took a deep breath, "I was rambling along and found it. I was only told I'd like to visit the British Isles... after that, I just went whichever way my face was pointing." That got him a smile and a very slight nod from Quinn, and Shane added wryly, "I was a bit afraid Quinn was going to run me through, at first."

Quinn nodded, voice solemn, "Thought he was an interloper at first, possibly from them as we don't talk about -- but then he looked at me... was like seeing me own face."

Aisling had settled on the arm of Saoirse's chair; she nodded, "I could see it myself. He doesn't look like he's half-human."

Saoirse nodded thoughtfully, "That does raise some questions. I suppose, Shane, that you've handled iron and steel in your life?" She watched his face closely.

Shane blinked because the question seemed so unusual and out of left field, but then nodded, "I have. I have a couple of knives with me. For hunting and fishing, like."

He reached for his backpack -- only to have Quinn grab his wrist. Shaking his head, the older man said in a low voice, "Not here, lad. It'd be breaking hospitality."

It took a moment for it to filter through, and then Shane said, "The legends about iron are true?"

"Oh, aye, amongst others," Saoirse nodded and looked thoughtful again. "So, iron doesn't bother you. Do you have a knack of any sort?"

When Shane looked confused again, Quinn stepped in, "He's got some true-hearing abilities, but I don't think he knew it before I asked him to try it."

Shane nodded in agreement, "Never knew about it before. I had to really concentrate, though. I'm not hearing the echoes right now..."

"Mmm. Something like hybrid vigor, then -- ye have some of the abilities of your da', and some of the abilities of a human." Saoirse looked thoughtful at that, "We'll have to see what else is unique about you..."

Shane finally asked -- after realizing they were still being apparently ignored, "I... expected people to be more nosy...?"

Saoirse grinned and Shane could see how she could have been full of mischief in her youth, "They would be... if they noticed us at all. That, lad, is what I'm best at. If I don't want to be noticed, your eyes will slide right off me. Did you see me when you came in the room?"

After a moment's thought Shane shook his head, "No, I didn't... and I definitely paid attention to the fireplace. I wondered how you don't all smother..." He looked up at Quinn, "How did you know she was here?"

"She always wants me to know where she is in a room in case I have anything to report," Quinn smiled, adding, "so I saw her."

Aisling also smiled, "He's very good at not giving away her location, too. But our Quinn is very good at a lot of things. It's how he got to be who he is."

Shane blinked, then said slowly, "And who are you?" He looked at Quinn carefully, checking to see if he'd missed some physical marker.

"Besides your da'?" Quinn asked, amber eyes twinkling. He didn't add anything else.

Shane was already beginning to see why the fae were seen as capricious, but he could also see how his mother would have loved the mischief and laughter in Quinn, "Yes. Besides me da'." He didn't even realize he'd used the colloquialism.

Quinn chuckled and sighed, "My actual title is Chieftain of the Trod of the Rowan. It's not anything so grand as a king. The job is more along the lines of making sure people are safe and secure, rather than ruling. Servant rather than master, y'ken?" Shane blinked slowly as Quinn essentially put into words what Shane himself wanted to be: a protector.

"It does hold its perks, however," Aisling added, grinning. "That's why he has plenty of room in his quarters. It's basically the royal suite."

"It's more like a master bedroom than a royal suite," Quinn riposted. "I've not even an en suite loo!"

"None of us have that, Quinn." Saoirse chuckled, "We're underground far from anything like indoor plumbing. But what you have is far more space than anyone else in the trod, and a great deal more privacy than most -- and you work hard to earn it."

Quinn waved it off, "It's what I was raised to do. If da' hadn't... if he were still alive, I'd likely still be in the US." He looked at Shane, "Janet is a jewel among women. When I told her I had to come home because there was something I had to take care of, and that it wouldn't be safe for her, she helped me pack me things and told me to be safe. She didn't tell me she was pregnant." He paused, "I'm sorry I wasn't there, lad."

Shane nodded slowly, "She never seemed to mourn you... just told me that it had nothing to do with you loving her or you loving me, and it wasn't my fault or hers that you weren't there. Some of the family tried to talk you down to me, but she never let them." He smiled a little lopsidedly, "Somehow she managed it so that I wasn't curious enough to ask about where you were until I was twelve years old and got my ass kicked by a couple of bullies who called me a bastard, and her a slut."

"But ye're not a bastard," Quinn said, one brow going up. "Janet and I are handfasted."

"That's nothing to do with the American laws, Quinn, and you know it," Aisling said gently. "To them, he is a bastard."

Shane was too busy blinking at Quinn's comment about being handfasted to speak at first -- but then he said, "Wait... that means... you're married? In a way?"

"Not 'in a way,' lad. Yer mam and me are handfasted," Quinn explained. "To us here, that's about as married as it's possible to get. It's two people bound together by a pledge and by blood -- a promise freely given and freely accepted. We're obviously not Christian here, and Janet has always believed more in people being good because..."

"Because it's the right thing to do rather than because you think you'll burn in Hell if you don't," Shane finished for Quinn. It was a sentiment his mother had expressed many times during his life. Things were starting to click together: his mother had never dated -- never even shown interest in another man... and depending on her vow to Quinn... "What exactly was the promise, Quinn?"

"The promise? That's just for us to know. A pledge like that..." Quinn smiled quietly, adding, "But she's the only woman I've ever loved. There was no bullshite about cleaving only unto one another. It just worked out that we never had eyes for anyone else. When I left she told me that if I wanted to take other lovers, I could. I've had bed partners over the years, but I've never had another lover." He spoke very matter-of-factly, then added, "Did she... do ye have a stepfather, lad?"

Shane shook his head, "No. And if she had... bed partners... I never knew about them. I asked her about marrying once, and she said I had one father and I only needed one father."

Quinn's expression at that was both happy and pained, "I had vows here, lad; I'd never..."

Saoirse shushed him gently, "Quinn, you came back because of a vow. And if you'd been able to -- if it had been safe for her -- I know you'd have brought her with ye. From what you've told me, she always knew there were things she couldn't know." Quinn nodded to that, but he looked sad for a moment... and then Shane watched his father pull on a face that wouldn't make people curious. It was an interesting trick.

After that, Saoirse declared it time for her to have a rest. Quinn took Shane to drop off his things in Quinn's quarters, then gently grilled him about Janet -- and it became crystal clear just how hungry the man was for news of his handfasted wife. After over an hour, though, he hesitated, "Lad, if... when you go back, will you take a message from me? I'll have to have your vow that you won't tell her exactly where I am. But I want her to know..."

"You want her to know that you love her just as much as she loves you." Shane seemed to know precisely what Quinn was thinking there. It didn't surprise him to realize he could sympathize with his father.

"Aye. That... and a bit more." Quinn rubbed his face with both hands, "Damn politics and treaties. I can't leave the trod's territory. I'll explain soon, I promise. But I can't yet -- it's too soon... and too long a damn story." He shook off the doleful expression again. Watching his ability to move from expression to expression so easily was fascinating. "When do y' have to be back, son?"

Shane considered, "Mom paid for me to come out here and to have a little extra money. I got a work card and I've been doing odd jobs here and there. My visa expires in a year, so I guess a year unless I apply for citizenship..."

Quinn chuckled, "Oh, lad, if it's just paperwork keeping you from staying, we can fix that. Those of us that deal outside the trod must have papers, after all. Did Janet ask you to come back at any particular time?"

That's when it struck Shane: his mother hadn't actually said anything about him coming back once he'd chosen a year of travel. She'd only said that maybe he'd know what he wanted to do with his life when it was done. "No... she didn't. Just to keep in touch. I've been emailing with her and calling every week or so. She's never asked me when I'll be coming back. She's never asked me to come back..."

"Ah, so me bonny lass has sent our son to seek his fortune," Quinn chuckled, "That does sound like her. It's part of what drew us together. She is a woman that manages to be romantic and pragmatic at the same time. She wants the world to be beautiful, but she understands what hard work it is to make it that way."

"And you, da... Quinn?" Shane asked.

Quinn smiled, "You can call me 'da' if you want, son... at least amongst us two and amongst friends like Aisling and Saoirse. We should keep it quiet for at least a bit, though. Ye're not quite a prince, but your relationship to me? Could make you a target to some people." Quinn went on to explain the complex political machinations of Killian (the Chieftain of a nearby trod) and the ancient laws and treaties that kept the peace between trods in effect. The gist was that Branigan's death (Quinn's father) was meant to leave the trod in limbo, passing control to Killian's trod.

Shane listened to this and his brows furrowed, "How did it not lapse while you were getting back over here from the US?"

Quinn sighed, "A little trickery and a little bit of citing tradition. There's a wake of three days and three nights for our dead. There's those who say we don't have a soul, but we do have a spirit of some sort. It hangs about the body for that time. It feels magically, and to pacts and bindings, that the person is still alive until the end of that period." Quinn shook his head with another sigh, "We're not terribly fertile... which makes sense. Children are meant to perpetuate a species. We live for so long that if we had children every twenty years or so like full humans... our lands wouldn't be able to support us. We'd be a plague." He snorted, "Rather like humans are getting to be. Anyway, I'm me parents' only child. Me da' could hold the office because he was me mam's spouse, but the actual line of descent is through me matriline. Aisling is a cousin on me da's side. And now you an' I are the only ones left of that branch."

Shane nodded slowly and then asked, "But you said you're very long-lived...?"

"Aye, long-lived but not immortal. We can die of old age or injury -- or be murdered." Quinn's eyes flattened a bit, "Me mam's line and their families were powerful unlucky."

"Then what was the trickery...?" Shane asked.

"He was hurt somewhere out on the edges of the trod. Somehow a beansidhe who has walked this land for hundreds of years fell down this nasty little gully and bashed his head on a rock." Quinn smirked, "Luckily Aisling's brother was out that way hunting as well. When he found me da', Branigan was still breathing. He brought me da' back, and Saoirse and Aisling sat the death watch... and they sat it for long enough to send a message to me before the official beginning of the wake."

"How did they not know? I mean, if it's some sort of magical thing..." Shane felt confused... or maybe worried.

"Twas a gamble. I arrived on the third day of the actual wake. We observed it for three days after the announcement of his death, which was about a day and a half after his actual death. It meant that the other side of the treaty didn't start this way until after the official announcement of his death. If I'd not made it by that fourth day, they'd have known and the treaty would have lapsed." Quinn smiled tiredly, "I was fair sick by the time I arrived -- took a plane. Luckily, most of the iron in them is covered. Uncomfortable as shite, but not deadly."

"So..." Shane nodded, thinking, "you made it in the actual time. Barely. And now you have to stay here unless you have a kid that stays..." His eyes started to widen and that made Quinn chuckle.

"I made a promise, lad," Quinn assured him. "You heard it. You heard the truth of it. I'll only ask you to stay here if I have business I absolutely must attend to outside the trod... but the truth is that I have very little business outside the trod. Normally it's Aisling that is our go-between."

"Are you going to try for more kids?" Shane asked, wondering what it would be like to have siblings.

"Nay, lad. I've no desire to take a bed partner for long enough to make sure we have another child." Quinn chuckled, "It'll be up to you to perpetuate the line unless there's some way of renegotiating or getting the treaty annulled on the other end."

The thought of all that landing on him intimidated Shane a little, but rather than back down, he found himself resolving to train himself to be what the trod would need if Quinn had an unfortunate accident of his own. He didn't realize how tired he looked, though, until Quinn said, "Let's get some food in ye, and then we'll get you to bed. It's been a long day."

They didn't return to the large room where most of the trod seemed to have been hanging out. Instead, they went straight to the kitchen, where Quinn was greeted and fussed over by the first beansidhe Shane had seen that wasn't lean. The fellow was a little round of cheek and had a slight belly and a smiling face. The saying 'never trust a skinny cook' came to Shane's mind, making him smile.

"Shane, this is Eirich. He keeps us fed. Eirich, this is Shane. He's biding with us for a bit." Quinn smiled.

Eirich beamed, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Shane!" Then he turned his gaze on Quinn, "You've forgotten to eat again, haven't you?" There was some tutting and gentle scolding that Quinn took with a smile. At the end of it, father and son were both handed wooden trenchers loaded with some sort of thick stew and slabs of freshly baked bread. Shane thought for a moment about the stories about not eating faerie food... but then he remembered Quinn had promised to bring him back safely -- so he dug into the food with gusto. It wasn't fancy, but it was savory and filling and had that quality that only comes from having someone that loves cooking prepare the meal. Both men were also given mugs of some sort of rich red wine to drink with it.

During the entire meal Eirich kept moving happily around the kitchen... and Shane eventually realized none of the cookware, utensils, or other fittings were made of iron. There was a lot of wood, copper, and pewter -- the last of which Shane prayed wasn't the kind made with lead. There were bone and antler utensils and the things that gleamed silver actually were silver, Shane was fairly sure. With Eirich so close, Quinn kept the conversation centered on food and other things that seemed to make the cook happy. Shane suspected that was partially to not hint to Eirich just exactly who Shane was.

Once the last of the gravy was sopped up, both men were given a couple of shortbread biscuits and sent on their way. On the way down the hall, Shane yawned widely and Quinn smiled, "Long day. Let's us have a rest, lad. You'll be fairly safe in my room." He then paused and said, "Or you could share with Aisling. She's a cousin, but she's not a close cousin." There was none of the awkwardness in him saying that, like the sort that might have been between a human father and son. He said it simply as if sharing a bed -- and likely more, given the earlier banter -- would be a normal thing a young man might like to do. Shane, however, felt himself flushing as he assured Quinn that he would rather share Quinn's quarters, and the truckle bed Quinn had pointed out earlier for Shane to use.

Over the next couple of weeks Shane was introduced to other members of the trod by Aisling and Quinn. Saoirse too spent time talking to him, giving him advice on how to deal with other beansidhe. He walked the land with Quinn, learning to bow hunt in the process, and got to hear the stories and history of the trod and of the fey in general.

For the man to have actually stumbled into the trod was almost unheard of. Usually the humans that got in were brought in. Or lured in. Either way, one that just found his way in on his own? Rare enough to get a lot of attention.

The precautions set up still made him somewhat befuddled and he was looking around with that worried, squinting expression that meant his brain wasn't processing correctly. As far as Athala could tell, however, he seemed unharmed. The grin that graced her lips as she looked him over was a little mischievous and a lot wicked.

She stepped close to him and used one pale finger to tip the man's head upward into a ray of light so she could examine him more closely. "Mmm. Und was haben wir hier?" The voice was pleasant. At least the man heard it as pleasant. That was one of Athala's gifts. As was picking up what the man wanted to see. "You seem lost, my dear."

The switch to English showed as a source of relief by the man's shoulders and expression both relaxing. After a couple of blinks of his eyes, the things that seemed like a confusing, iridescent blur began to resolve themselves into recognizable shapes. The first thing to resolve was Athala herself. Tall for a human woman, she stood at around 5' 10" in her bare feet. Pale skin. Drowning blue eyes. Golden-red hair that trailed down her back to her knees. Features that were far too fine and lovely to seem human. A smile that looked like sin itself personified.

She was dressed simply in a long dress in a colour the man couldn't quite get to settle in his head. One moment he was certain it was seafoam. The next it was lilac. Then a gentle rosy pink. But that didn't seem to matter. Her face stayed the same and gave him something to concentrate on.

"It's OK. You can speak. I won't bite." The grin and the twinkle in her eyes quite nicely filled in the 'yet' at the end of that last sentence. "What is your name, child?" The touch of her finger turned into a combing of her fingers through his hair. "You are rather confused, I suspect." Even in English, Athala's voice had a sensual Teutonic edge to it.

Around the pair of them, their surroundings were beginning to clarify. That they were in the forest was to be expected. He'd been in the forest when he'd taken a small detour off the path to get around a deadfall. What was a bit amazing was that this forest looked to be older than the part he just stepped out of. It wasn't just old growth. There were elms. And chestnuts! The chestnut blight happened well over two centuries ago!

The awe on his face as he looked around was clear and it made Athala smile. "It's lovely here, yes? We've been quite proud of keeping out any nasty invaders." She reached one pale and lovely hand out and caressed a chestnut tree. "But you must be a little confused. Let's go find somewhere to sit, get you some water, and talk, ja?" She took the man's hand and led him through the trees in a meandering path that would be hard to trace back even without the magicks protecting the trod. Eventually they came upon a quiet grove with a stream and some seats around. Overhead branches had been delicately woven into a canopy.

Athala lowered herself onto a bench and patted the stone next to herself, "Sit, sit. Relax. Take a moment to catch your breath." Her soft voice was beguiling. "Tell me your name." He gave it without thinking and then blinked at himself. "Martin. That is a wonderful name. A strong name. Mine is Athala," She smiled again, "Welcome to the Trod of the Elm."

As Athala spoke, people began to appear in the little grove around them. Most of them looked much like Athala in build and loveliness. Some looked shorter and more gnarled. A few were difficult to tell from the surrounding trees. None of them looked quite human. Humanoid, yes, but even the tall and lovely ones like Athala were just a little too perfect, their proportions just slightly different than your average human. The word 'idealized' might not have occurred to him, but that was what they seemed.

What the whole conversation was, the man could never quite remember afterward. Athala and a slightly taller male with silver-blonde hair took him through the trod to see what there was to see. Buildings that almost disappeared into the surroundings. Beautiful artworks of all sorts. And the magick! There was magick!

To Athala and Odalric, they weren't much more than parlor tricks, but they were beguiling parlor tricks to someone that two hours ago had no idea that such beings or such places existed. To the two elves, this was great fun and could end one of three ways. The first was harmless -- fogging the man's mind and putting him back on his trail a mile or two from where he started. The second was quite harmful -- death. But they didn't like to resort to that one. It was usually only used in cases where the human's mind shook off any befuddlement. The third would be fun and very useful -- binding him and granting him a few little powers and letting him go back into the world to be their agent. After all, it was much easier for humans to move around in the human world. And besides, sometimes the antics of the humans were quite amusing. Ridiculous, even.

It didn't take much to talk the human into being their agent. Well, Athala's agent, really -- but she and Odalric had done almost everything together for long beyond the memory of almost anyone. Granting him some little piece of their magical ability was little enough sacrifice and gave them a definite advantage.

After all, it wasn't just humans outside the trod. There were other beings there as well, and some of those were decidedly hostile toward their kind. They were -- relatively -- safe where they were, but it never hurt to have an ear to the ground for when some of the Eastern Europeans began beating the war drums. Or when the Seelie and Unseelie decided to have one of their tedious but dangerous power plays. Or, goddess forfend, some of the Norse! The dokkalfar could be dangerous. But -- to be fair -- so could the ljosaelfar. For that matter, those living in the trod could be treacherous themselves. But their new dogsbody didn't need to know that. Yet.

As a way to communicate -- because Athala could not easily leave the trod and deal with the modern world, and Martin couldn't be expected to come back to the trod every few days -- he was given what Athala explained was a familiar. The bird's head, back, and tail were black while its breast and the shoulder joints and the ends of its wing feathers were white. Between shoulder and tips, the wings were a color that seemed to move between green, deep blue, and black depending upon the light.

"Her name is Erin. She is a magpie," Athala had explained with a smile. "They are very intelligent birds." She had stroked the creature's head. The bird's full name was Erinnerung -- German for memory -- but she saw no reason to give that information to Martin just yet. Nor than Erinnerung had a twin named Nachdenken -- which was German for thought. She had no idea if Martin knew enough mythology to know about another pair of corvids with similar names, but it would be foolish to risk it yet. "She will carry messages between us. Since she is not a normal bird, it will be faster than having to fly back and forth between us." Again, no reason to explain that Erin would send the thoughts to Nach and Nach would pass them on to Athala. A little mystery was good when one was an elf dealing with humans.

One day, perhaps three years into his service to her, Athala sent a message via Erin to come see her at the trod. Having the magpie around had gotten almost normal, even if people thought it was a little odd at times. The familiar would sometimes disappear for days at a time, but she always returned to Martin and usually spent some time preening his hair as if he had gotten disheveled in her absence. This time, she'd been gone for three days and came back a little more excited than normal.

Martin woke up to Erin preening him rather agitatedly. "What's wrong, pretty girl?" he asked, sitting up groggily and blinking the sleep from his eyes. He looked around as Erin conveyed the queen's message to him. He frowned, looking to the magpie worriedly, and nodded without hesitation, feeling a rush of eagerness and also fear. He had recurring dreams of the trod, and the sights and sounds and smells and... and all the sensations he'd had there. He washed, shaved, cleaned himself up -- one does not go unto royalty being a slob.

The apartment he lived in was sparse, sparser than most. If anything, the handful of friends who had seen it said it was bland and colorless. Martin had tried to spruce it up, to put some color in there, but that had been worse -- eye-searing orange and yellows, depthless lurid purples, angry fierce reds. He hadn't even noticed the intensity of the colors. Eventually he settled for much more subtle colors, with a little help from his friends. He had realized that he was effectively color-blind after the riot of sensations in the trod. Nothing, no colors, seemed to approach what he had seen.

He accepted it. After all, every so often, he might see the trod again... and Her.

He was close enough to the trod that he could take an electric bike and get there faster than he would by a car, and he could go deeper into the forest. It was maddening how slow it was, compared to how fast he wanted to go to get there. But he was coming as fast as he could, and part of that meant not being noticed by anyone else.

He had enough wherewithal to lock up the bike before setting off into the darker, less visited parts of the forest, making his way unerringly to the trod. Erin, who had perched inside his jacket with her head poked out while he was riding (the magpie enjoyed the wind, but did not enjoy trying to keep up with him, hence her ersatz travel cocoon) squirmed out and flapped ahead, cackling him urgently onward.

Since this was her home, Erin had no trouble finding the entrance to the trod. However, even having been there before, it was hard for Martin to remember exactly where the entrance was until Erin seemed to simply disappear between two trees that were an unusual distance apart for such an old forest. The shadows helped with obscuring it, of course. Once he stepped through the entrance, however, it was like stepping into a completely different world -- even though Athala and Odalric had both assured him that he was still solidly on earth.

It was neither the queen nor her companion that met him at the entrance, however. Instead, it was one of the creatures that looked as if it were made out of twigs and branches. Martin had never heard any of that sort actually speaking, but they had no problems communicating 'follow me.' Around them the light seemed more golden, the trees greener, the scents of the forest richer. The humus on the ground felt soft and springy under the soles of Martin's shoes. This, he was sure, would be a place one could easily go barefoot and barely clothed and still feel comfortable. The path they took was circuitous and Martin suspected they'd passed some of the same places a couple of times... just as the first time he'd stumbled in here and Athala had taken him to the spring.

This time it wasn't the spring, but a bower. The trees there formed a somewhat ragged semicircle and there were carefully crafted seats made of polished wood beneath the sheltering boughs. Sitting on one of them was Athala, stroking Erin's poll and cooing to her. Odalric was there as well, lazily playing with a wooden puzzle of some sort. Both elves looked up and smiled when there was a -- quite likely purposeful -- rustle that sounded like dry leaves. The queen stood and opened her arms, "Martin! You are here more quickly than I expected."

The human came in, a little surprised to be in a bower, but also simply glad to be able to grasp the colors, the sights, of the trod... and, of course, to see Her. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head to her and taking a deep, calming breath. He felt calmly elated, and as he breathed out he greeted her with, "My Lady."

Athala smiled down at Martin, reaching for his hands to bring him to his feet. Once he stood she kissed his forehead. It was never easy to tell if the kiss was cool or warm, but it always left a pleasant tingle on his skin. She murmured, "My faithful Martin," then guided him to sit between her and Odalric on one of the carved and polished seats, "You did well to obey me so quickly and eagerly." Erin, who had been perching on a branch, came down and sat on Martin's shoulder again.

Odalric smiled at him as well. The smile was just as mischievous and just as warm, though perhaps not quite so beguiling to the human man, "She speaks true. Some might have taken days to be able to come to us here in the trod."

Martin didn't bother to try to hide his blush; her touch was electric. "Erin said it was important," he said modestly. "I couldn't leave it off for that long." He felt a thrill run through him as she took him and sat him beside her and Odalric. "My service is yours, my Lady."

Athala stroked Martin's hair, brushing along his forehead. She often stroked and touched his face when she was talking to him. Her eyes rarely left his own and her voice always had that affectionate and sometimes gently teasing tone, "I knew I chose correctly when I decided not to befuddle you and put you back on the trail." Today she wore a long-sleeved tunic with a round neck that sat just low enough to hint at breasts, and long, flowing pants. Her feet were, as they almost always were, bare. Odalric's grin to her behind Martin's back was full of laughter, but he didn't let the sound escape.

"We have something we need done, but we cannot leave the trod yet," Athala said, those gentle Teutonic cadences in her voice warming his chest. "It takes quite some arrangement for us to be able to leave safely, so I need you to go for me and gather information. Do you think you can do that?"

Martin nodded immediately -- even eagerly, "Of course, my Lady! I'll be glad to do so!" He tried to hide the shiver in his voice as she stroked his hair. When even seeing her was a deeply profound experience -- one that left his spirit aquiver -- to be touched by her was a sensation that would bring him to his knees if he weren't already seated.

Athala's hand rests on his cheek. She was good at keeping the mischief out of her voice and, as always, it sounded pleasant to him -- inviting. It always had, "It will mean some traveling. There has been an... incident... in the city that's now called Boston. You're familiar with it?" To the elves, all these places seemed new -- especially since their grasp of time was somewhat tenuous. Asking Martin if he knew one of the major cities of the US didn't seem odd to either her or Odalric.

Martin was somewhat aware the fey weren't exactly connected to the world -- at least in that way. That he's in a place where he can see colors and similarly rich sensations helps to underscore their detachment with the human parts of Earth. He nodded and said simply, "Yes, my Lady."

Athala's smile brightened like the sun coming out after a week of storms, "Good boy! The Unseelie have a seat there. It's not their true seat of power. That's across the ocean and far from here, but there is... it is not quite an ambassadorship. It is like a satellite court. One of the Unseelie king's nephews rules there. Well, he rules there in the dark half of the year. But there's a problem..."

Martin frowned slightly. The Unseelie? He'd heard about them, been told things about them that basically boiled down to 'Avoid them.' He swallowed, his adoration for the Queen easily winning out over his worry. "What problem, my Lady?" he asked, hoping that nothing in his voice betrayed his temporary concern.

"Well, it's not unusual for there to be some intrigue. All courts are like that," This time it was Odalric's voice. "The Unseelie are simply more inclined to it than others."

"More inclined and more deadly about it," Athala's voice held a note of wryness. She knew it was a good way to make Martin assume that she and her lover/partner-in-intrigue disapproved of such things. "The Celts always were warlike." [As if the folks of the Germanic countries or the Norse were gentle and benevolent...] "In any case. There's been a nasty bit of business. A death," Athala wrinkled her nose as if this were a truly uncivilized thing. "We have to make preparations to keep the trod safe and unworried before we leave, but we need some information and we would like you to be our envoy in this. Can you do that for me, sweet man?" The last words were almost a purr.

Martin wasn't one to take on airs or be inordinately proud of anything in particular, but being named the Lady's envoy made him sit up straight(er) in surprise. The purring cadence of her words didn't hurt either, "O-of course, my Lady! I would be honored!"

Athala smiled again, "I knew I could depend upon you. We will give you the information you need to find the Unseelie court in this city of Boston. They're as well-hidden, if not moreso, than our beloved trod. You will need a map or a guide. Unfortunately it will not be enough to have Erin show you; it is not her home and she hasn't been there before. So we shall send you to a dear friend that will take you where you need to be... and we will send letters naming you as our envoy and ambassador."

Odalric murmured, "If they'll still accept them. They really are a warlike people."

This sounded dangerous to Martin. But how could he give his allegiance and devotion to someone and not do something potentially dangerous for them? He had no thought that this would somehow make him more appealing in the eyes of the Queen -- rather, it was simply what he had to do for her. He nodded. "When would you like me to depart, my Lady?" he asked. He'd need to put in for some time off from the county paramedics, but that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Several of his co-workers had been griping about not getting any overtime. Maybe some regular time would tide them over?

"As soon as may be done," Athala says, "We didn't get the news until..." She looks over at Odalric, brow arched.

"Two days ago -- and it happened a day before that," the male elf had always had a better grasp of time than his female companion. "So the sooner the better. The court will still be in turmoil, of course. Assassinations do that."

"We will follow a few days after," Athala assured Martin, "You will not be on your own."

Martin nods, wincing slightly. Not merely a murder, but an assassination. He hopes he has the chops for this. He really, really doesn't want to disappoint Athala. "I'll get started almost as soon as I get home, then, my Lady." It's with a pang of regret that he says this; he realizes he'll have to go back out into the drab world, out of the trod and away from Athala. But there's no helping that.

"And when you get back, my loyal, brave Martin, you shall come stay with us for a few days," Athala smiled, "A reward for such service should be commensurate. I know you miss the trod almost as much as we do when we're gone. Do you find that a reasonable reward?"

Of all the things she could have said, that was what he least expected. This time he didn't hide the eagerness. "More than reasonable, my Lady!" he exclaimed, and went back down onto one knee before her, "Thank you -- thank you!"

Athala stroked the side of his face and smiled, "It is the least we can do for your loyalty to us."

As she drew him up to sit between herself and Odalric again -- close enough that both fey were touching their thighs to his -- Athala had food and drink brought for them and gave him the information he would need. Martin would go to a house in Boston and there would meet with an old acquaintance of hers. This acquaintance would be able to get him where he needed to go. "He's been there, after all. It's one of the few ways you can actually get where you need to go: a map, a guide, or you've been there yourself -- and the maps..." She shrugged and shook her head with a sigh, "We cannot get our hands on one easily. They are mostly very old and locked away."

Martin nodded soberly. The maps didn't sound like the kind you could just download from the Internet. It might be worth a check all the same, but a guide to this place sounded best. "Thank you, my Lady," he said. "I'll be certain to meet up with them!" The rest of the day was spent in languorous peace, in the scents and sounds and sights of the trod.

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