A prophecy.

A prophecy, about Jathen? What else did he have to do; what else must he endure? What exactly was a prophecy, anyway? Of course he knew what it was, but, in the hope of discovering some minor technicality that would allow him to ignore it, he looked it up in Elisabeth’s dictionary.

Prophecy, the dictionary said in bold black letters, the foretelling or prediction of what is to come.

What is to come, he wondered?

It began to occupy his thoughts. Did he truly have to return to Faery; or more to the point, was it the Unseelie Court he had to return to, or simply Faery in general? Could he leave, travel far, far away in the mortal world, and reenter the fey realm in some distant place where the courts knew nothing of his identity and past? And to that effect could he leave Elisabeth – or no, could he take her with him, find some way to preserve her forever like the young changelings in the Seelie Court?

The questions whirled around him. The days began to drag even more than previously; it was unbearable while Elisabeth was away, especially since he now had Johnny to avoid. Johnny’s disapproval of him was obvious and palpable. Jathen was still unsure of how it had come about, but he had no stomach for further confrontation.

Despite his questions, and the dragging time, and the house’s uncomfortable atmosphere, Jathen took no action. He wasn’t sure why; he knew only that he had had enough of foolery. The nagging suspicion that his lack of motivation was foolery itself was no deterrent to this course.

And then, one day, he returned from a walk to find Elisabeth gone.

Johnny McNeil was in a panic when Jathen opened the door.

“My sister’s gone,” he said.

“What?”

“Elisabeth is gone. She’s missing.”

And Jathen knew. He knew and hate welled up inside of him as his stomach dropped and his heart skipped several beats in a row. He knew, as he ran down the hallway with Johnny following close behind, that Elisabeth was vanished like the children on the Garden Park playground. Under the hill, to be sure. The faery hill.

He ripped open Elisabeth’s door. Her bed was empty, and lying on her pillow was a slim iron thorn.

Elisabeth was blind.

That fact was unnerving her severely. It terrified her. She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face, nor the wall that she could feel inches in front of her. She could not see. She couldn’t see anything but blackness, and she was still more terrified that she would touch a faerie in the dark, one of the awful screaming monsters that had plucked her from her bed and carried her here, deep underground.

Everything around her smelled of earth. It filled her nose and somehow, inconceivably, her ears – a thick, soundless silence descending around her, pressing her eardrums, the black darkness pressing her eyelids, or her eyes, as she could not tell if they were open or closed and oh! She wouldn’t scream. She wouldn’t.

The silence broke. A door opened and shut; she heard the sound of scurrying, coming close to her. She felt something tug her hair.

“Make a delightful tapestry, this would,” a voice said out of the dark.There was an answering cackle. Elisabeth whimpered.

“Silly creature,” the voice said. “Doesn’t it know we shan’t harm it?”

There was another giggle as a mirth-choked voice spiraled through the dark. “Yet!” it crowed. Elisabeth heard the sounds of a scuffle. She wouldn’t scream.

And then she did.

Hours passed. Elisabeth fell into a terrified sleep, or thought she did; her dreams were so filled with the dense black silence that she couldn’t tell whether she was awake or in slumber. Her mind buzzed with the silence. In a moment of clarity, she wondered where Johnny was; she wondered where Jathen was; she wished that Tillywings was with her, if only for her phosphorescent light. She could imagine the tiny faerie, looping through the air, leaving a trail of brightness to pierce the dark; and then, as if in a mirage, she saw a crack of light: it grew larger and larger into a solid rectangle, and she realized that a door had opened, only feet from where she lay. The light was painful.

She wasn’t blind. The relief overwhelmed her.

Elisabeth sat up; she could see her knees, covered in dirt-smeared denim, and her hands, pale and wraith-like shapes in the dim illumination. The light from the door hurt her eyes; they watered and she raised a trembling arm to cover them. “Look at it now!” said a whisper like dead leaves and dry wood. “Look at it, like a little mouse coming from its hole!”

Laughter screeched, and then there were things pulling at her hands, her legs, her hair; they were strong and they pulled her up, dragging her stumbling out into the light. An earthen hallway flashed by as they ran with her; they twisted and turned through tunnels and ducked through low archways where the dirt that brushed the crown of her head crumbled into her hair. She fell once, scraping the palms of her hands on the rough ground, but they pulled her up, these sharp-clawed, mirthful little things, and she was dragged on.

“Stop it,” she gasped. Her lungs were burning. “Stop.” They ignored her.

Oh, she wanted to be in her own bed again; she wanted her mother, her brother. She wanted Jathen. She looked down at the creatures pulling at her.

They were knee-high and horrible; tails and teeth and long, sharp claws, slanted eyes, grinning faces crusted with dried gore and filth. Their nails were hooked in her clothes, yanking at her fingers, her feet; those bloody claws pulling at her, evil eyes looking at her! She fell again, and again was dragged to her feet. They threw her forward, through the largest archway yet, and she landed in a hall whose ceiling soared far above her head and whose noise battered at her ears.

Her heart pounded.

“On your feet, little mouse,” a thing whispered. Its breath was hot and foul in her ear.

She stood. The thing pushed her forward. She didn’t look at it, but she felt its claws dig into her clothes, her skin. She shuddered. Everything was a blur of color; voices lashed her ears in a throng. One voice lifted and carried over the crowd.

“Elisabeth McNeil,” it said.

Elisabeth looked up. She was standing before a dais. Two throned figures sat upon it, gazing down at her. The voice came again. “Come here, sweet.”

And Elisabeth could do nothing but obey, because the being that lovely voice came from was so beautiful, so beguiling; oh, her hair like rays of sunlight turned to silk, blue eyes calm and kind – Elisabeth walked up the seven steps and fell to her knees. The lady reached out a graceful hand to stroke her hair, long fingers combing through the curls. “Do you know who I am, child?”

Elisabeth shook her head; she didn’t, but how she wanted to!

“I am Lorelia, Queen of the Unseelie Court,” the lady said.

She was Jathen’s mother. How could he have left her?

Lorelia smiled down at her, white teeth showing behind red lips. “I have wondered that myself, Elisabeth,” she said, and Elisabeth wasn’t at all surprised that the lady knew her thoughts, because she was so tangible and lovely that she had a right to know everything.

“Now, Elisabeth, do you know why you are here?” Lorelia said in her smiling voice. “Of course not. I long for a visit from my son, and you seem to be the only thing that draws him near.” Her eyes crinkled conspiratorially for a moment and then she stood, taking the arm of a brown-haired and green-eyed lady; Elisabeth was too enthralled by the queen to notice the venomous, emerald look that was thrown at her. “I shall leave you now, child,” the queen told her gently. “And never fear. You shall be…entertained.”

She left, sweeping away with a gust of perfume.

Elisabeth was happy for a moment more; and then, as the thrill of the queen began to fade, the fear returned. Her heart sped once more. Slowly, she turned to look at the second throned figure. Another lady, she thought desperately, let it be another lady…another…

It was not. King Tharn looked down upon her with a cruel, ironic smile on his lips.

She remembered Jathen’s description of him – pale, a man of ice. He seemed to her to be made not of ice, but of snow, his gaze making her vision swirl as though in a blizzard, his voice cutting into her like a cruel wind. “Well, now,” he said jovially. “I hear we have a mouse in our court! What shall we do with it, then?”

The courtiers around the dais hooted and jeered. “Cut its tail off!” one screamed. “Find a cat and let them play!” said another. They laughed. Elisabeth noticed dazedly that her hands and feet were very cold.

“Come here, little mouse,” Tharn said lazily. “Come, have a seat on my knee.”

She didn’t want to, but invisible strings jerked at her hands and feet, pulling her forward. She stumbled along the dais, her breath dry in her throat, and her body twisted around of its own accord and sat itself down on the king’s lap; he was hard and cool like marble. The faeries around them shrieked with mirth. “Ah,” Tharn said. His fingers dug into her upper arm and his other hand lifted away her hair from her neck, his breath cool on her skin. Gooseflesh broke out across her stomach. “Not such a mouse now, are we?” he whispered. She was nauseated.

And at that moment, and there onward, Elisabeth hated him.

She was still too frightened to move. Tharn gripped her hands and clapped them, bouncing her upon his knees, then pressed his arm across her midsection and bent her forward in a bow, maneuvering her body as though she were a puppet. He grinned cheerfully at his court; they howled, some crying with laughter, and one threw an apple upon the dais: it was now a stage. The fruit lay in the dirt, glistening wetly.

“Give us a song, little mouse!” the king cried. He pushed Elisabeth up by her elbows until she stood, swaying on her feet. Standing beside her, Tharn clasped her hand, pulling it to his heart.

“Serenade your king, darling,” he said, gazing at her wickedly. “I know there’s a song in this little heart of yours.”

Elisabeth swallowed; her heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst; she thought it would grow wings and fly up out of her chest, escaping from this awful hall. Tharn stared at her icily, his thin lips curved in a smile. The courtiers tittered and gawked.

The king’s grip tightened, threatening to crush her fingers. Her mouth was dry. “Mary had a little lamb,” she whispered. “Little lamb, little lamb…”

The hall exploded in laughter.

“Not a mouse, but a lamb!” Tharn shouted above the noise, looking at her with delight. He laughed gleefully and turned a wild pirouette; he then stopped to plant a chill kiss on her cheek, and she flinched. “And what do lambs do best?”

“Dance!” yelped a faerie with moss-green hair.

“Suck from their mother’s teats!” called another, tears of mirth streaming down its face.

“Be led to the slaughter!” said a third, with the loudest call yet. Its voice dripped like honey on a knife. Her heart stopped.

Hands reached up to grab her ankles, claws digging into the flesh of her calves; she was tripped and she fell down to the earthen floor. Nails snagged in her hair, tugging cruelly; long fingers curled around her wrists and pulled. Faces flashed by her eyes in rapid, horrible succession – black eyes, black hair, long fangs, green skin. She tried to get away, tried to crawl; she rolled over, and found Tharn looking down at her from his seat on his throne, laughing uproariously.

Abruptly, it was over.

“Enough,” Tharn said, and the hands withdrew as though Elisabeth had turned red hot. “Enough for now. Who will be the shepherd of our lamb?”

The hall was quiet. Small rustles and whispers came from the crowd. Elisabeth lay on the ground, her eyes closed, praying please…please… although she didn’t quite know what she was praying for. She hardly dared to breathe.

And then, she heard footfalls on the steps of the dais, strange footfalls, as though made by hooves. Clop, they went. Clop, clop. She didn’t dare open her eyes.

A hoarse, earthy voice spoke; it was low and soft, and Elisabeth listened intently, her cheek pressed to the dirt. “If it pleases your majesty, I would take the girl into my care,” it said. Oh, Elisabeth prayed again, please…

She heard Tharn hum to himself in thought. “Hm. A faun and a lamb. How appropriate.” Elisabeth opened her eyes and found that she was still facing Tharn, looking up at his face from an odd angle; he glanced down at her dispassionately. “Take her, then,” he said.

Elisabeth felt herself being lifted. She closed her eyes again.