The night was late as Sif trekked through the filth and grime of the swamplands. Countless stars dotted the sky. Glowing white twinkles easily seen through the leafless branches of withering white trees. She kept her cloak pulled tightly about her, to ward off the bone chilling cold that howled through the decaying land in which she travelled.

For many days and nights, she had not seen as much of a glimpse of life. No birds sung in the morning, no beasts scurried about the land, none but herself travelled here. Ill fortune upon the hooded wanderer who had told her of a shortcut through the swamps! She was certain she would die in this wretched place.

Wait! What was that?

At first she had thought it nothing more than a trick of the mind. Her desperations made manifest in her sight. She blinked. She rubbed her eyes. No. It was real, wasn’t it? There was a fire burning in the distance. She moved closer. Not an untamed wildfire, born of nature’s wrath. No, it was a well-controlled campfire. There were people there. Lithe of frame and short of stature, but people.

Yes, she could make them out quite easily now that she was closer. The men wore loose tunics, the women wore flowing gowns, all the same shade of crimson. She could make out the scent of fine perfumes wafted on the air around them, something else as well, she couldn’t quite place it. Their perfume was too strong.

 They sat on stumps and fallen logs. Some ate bread, others drank wine from slender bottles. They whispered softly among each other and one man played the harp, though it’s tune was melancholic and weary. The others whispered faintly among themselves, words only at the edge of hearing, even as she came quite close to them. The harpist was the first to spot her. He spoke drearily.

“We have a guest.”

The others looked up, a woman was the next to speak.

“Why did you come here?”

A man, who had been whispering to the woman, gulped down some wine, then added.

“This is not a place most would wish to find themselves in. Are you mad? Or simply a fool?”

“No sir,” Sif spoke “I am a simple traveler. I was told that passage through this swamp would be a simple matter.”

“A fool then.” The harpist laughed softly “If you followed such advice.”

All those around the fire laughed now. They seemed quite amused at Sif’s folly, though undeniably irritated at her presence in the swamp.

“You are being very rude.” Sif scolded “This is hardly a way to treat a stranger, hoping to share your fire.”

“True enough, I suppose.” The woman sighed “We ought to show you hospitality, least you leave this place thinking we are a wicked folk.”

Those gathered began striking the camp. The harpist tucked his instrument under his arm, and the man extinguished the fire. The others began putting away their wine and food.  Sif gawked at them.

“This is a strange way to show hospitality! You are an odd folk, I should say!”

“Do you expect us to entertain you in the wilderness, stranger? Is that the custom among your people?” The man chortled “It’s the palace for you, stranger. You’ll have room and board there, for the night, and all the favors and fancies our people can provide.”

These queer remarks deeply confused Sif. What palace? She knew of no kingdoms in this land. It was, after all, little more than a swamp. How could such a building even stay up in a place like this? Perhaps they meant to take her far across the country, to a more habitable land where they made their home.

“Is the palace very far?” Sif asked to confirm her suspicions.

“Not far at all, if you walk along the right paths.” The woman said firmly, taking Sif’s hand in her own “Stay close. This would be a dreadful time to get lost.”

With a firm tug, the woman began leading her through the swamp. The harpist, the man, and the others, moved along beside or behind them. They moved quickly and gracefully through the muck and dying trees all about them, though Sif knew not how. Their swift feet barely sank into the mud before they were moving on to the next step. It was all Sif could do to keep up with the woman pulling her along without tripping.

Soon they stood before a ruin, though that was perhaps a generous word for the crumbling husk. Sif had mistaken it for a hill or perhaps a burial mound. It was an ugly, squat building of muddy bricks. The woman led Sif to a cavernous opening set in the face of the structure. The others slithered inside and off down the corridors.

“They go to inform the King of your coming.” The woman explained “It would be improper to bring you to the great hall without properly announcing your presence, particularly on a feast day.”

The woman stood for a moment, looking about the swamp, then led Sif inside.

The interior was just as dreary as the exterior. Muddy grey and brown stone walls, lacking any tapestries or decorations beyond the occasional torch or lantern. Then they came upon a set of oaken doors, studded with black iron. It was cast open, and a warm glow emitted from the chamber on the other side. The heat from large fires and the sound of soft music and singing. Sad and melancholic, like the harpists song, but quite beautiful. 

She passed through the opening and found herself in a vast chamber full of long tables and benches. At the tables sat people much like those Sif had met in the woods. Dressed in crimson, reeking of perfumes. Though with so many gathered in one place, she could make out a hint of the other smell. Decay. All those gathered wore crimson outfits, and many played instruments. Harps and flutes, for the most part, though other strange twisting devices which produced low, whimpering sounds were also present.

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The tables were set with silver. Each reveler had a goblet of wine, and many had plates of bread and meat. At the center of the chamber a party sat at a circular table. Among them was a man who must have been the king of this place. His slender figure was covered with a fine brocade tunic and a cloak embroidered with flowers. On his delicate brown, he wore a thin circlet of silver, set with white stones. His pale blue eyes quickly spotted Sif. He smiled and waved, ushering her towards him. When she was closer, he lazily gestured to the chair beside his own.

  “You are the human who walks among my people?” His gaze never turned away from Sif.

“Human? Of course. What else should be?” She asked, taking a sip of wine from the goblet before her.

The drink was sweeter than anything she ever tasted, having the aroma and flavor of countless fruits, some known to her, others entirely unfamiliar. How could people living in such an awful place have such fine drink? She promptly took a bite of bread. It was soft and white, and the buttery she spread across it was perfectly scrumptious, tasting slightly of honey.

“Why, a fairy, of course.” The king laughed “What did you imagine my people were?”

Those gathered at the round table laughed along with their king. Drunk on the sweet wine they were drinking, those gathered about the king seemed more cheerful than their kinsmen. Indeed, the more wine Sif drank, the warmer the dull old hall seemed to her.

Yet what of the king’s words? Were these people the fairies of legend? They were nothing like the verdant beings born of childhood stories. They were so morose, and what of that all-encompassing reek they all carried? No matter. In the old stories, Fairies had a tendency towards trickery, if not cruelty. She ought to be moving on. She focused on buttering some bread, acting as if she had not heard the remark. Sif took a bite and spoke once more.

 “Well well, I’ve enjoyed your hospitality, my lord. But I should be off to bed, I’ll want to set out early in the morning.”

The king’s face twitched slightly. The shadow of disappointment flashed across his face. Then he took a sip of his wine, and smiled brightly at her.

“Yes, of course, my dear woman. I’ve had my servants prepare quarters for you.”

With a clap of the king’s hands, young fairies appeared. Youths clad in similar crimson to the rest of their people. Promptly they were upon her, whisking away her plate and goblet, and ushering her off down the hallway. They led her through more of those melancholic hallways to a large bedroom. Like the rest of this place, there was a certain sad rot to the whole room. Still, the bed was comfortable enough, and it had a large window through which she could see the silver light of the moon.

Soon. Soon she would leave this place. Surely the king would tell her how to escape the swamp, his people seemed more than capable of travelling through it, they must know how to get out. With such thoughts she did all she could to sleep. Alas, it seemed escaping this strange place was not to be so simple a matter, for late at night an intruder passed through her door. The king himself. He smiled at her and spoke.

“My lady, I wished to speak to you in private.”

Sif sat up, her fingers coiling around the dagger hanging on her belt, a short distance from her bed.

“What could you possibly wish to speak of at such an hour?”

He laughed as he approached her.

“The hour matters little. It’s simply not a matter I like to discuss in the company of my people. It upsets them terribly.”

He paused, for a moment, scratching his chin and standing in the moonlight flooding in through her window.

“Surely you have noticed what an awful place we live in. Surely you do not imagine our lands have always been so?”

She frowned. Was he a mad man? Why could he not discuss such things at a more appropriate time?

“I should think not, your grace.” She mumbled “This land is dead. Why have you not relocated?”

He frowned.

“We cannot. We are trapped here.”

“Trapped? What keeps you from leaving? You seem to be the only ones who dwell in this place, and I saw no leviathans or other such monsters in the swamp.”

“No. No physical beasts keep up here, but rather a metaphysical curse.”

“Your grace?”

He folded his hands into his cloak, speaking softly.

“A long, long time ago, this land was lush and beautiful. We produced great arts of silver and precious metals.”

Her eyes turned to the circlet on his brow.

“Our wealth drew jealousy. Countless eons before your people came to this land, we were attacked by grenlen.”

Sif arched an eyebrow.

“Grenlen?”

The king frowned.

“Has so much time passed? Are our ancient foes truly forgotten?”

“I have never heard of them.”

“No matter. They were a monstrous people, cunning and deadly. We were no match for them. Seeking to avert our doom, I endeavored to set the invaders adrift in time.”

“And?”

“I failed. They had magicks of their own. The curse rebounded upon us. It changed my people, and our land. Everything was frozen. My people still bear ancient wounds. Fresh to this day. We rot. We decay. We do not die. With this power, we bested our enemies, but at a terrible cost.”

“Majesty, forgive me, but I think you mad.”

He rolled up his sleeve. The source of the lingering reeks his people bore was made clear. Running across his arm was a deep gash, stitched together, blood and pus oozing from it.

“The red garments gracefully hide the blood stains. We do what we can about the smell.”

Sif’s eyes went wide, she grasped the knife tightly.

“Why did your people bring me here? What do you want from me?”

He pulled a silver knife from his robe and advanced on her once more.

“Mortality has a great power to it. To remain within the cycle of life and death. I need your flesh and blood to restore life to my land, for a time. I apologize. This will only take a mome-“

She needed to hear no more. She swept her arm forward, slashing at him with her dagger. He lunged himself, his knife jabbing.

She made a deep cut across his face. He gashed her arm. For a moment, mortal and immortal blood mixed in the air. Then there was a flash of light.

The room was not grey, but pale brown. The window was full of colorful glass. The king was young. Strong. Handsome. He wore a robe of many colors. He looked at her, blinking for a moment. He looked confused. Uncertain. As though he had never seen one such as her before. He reached out to touch her.

Then the world was grey again. He clutched his bleeding face.

“You bitch! What have you done?!”

She pushed him aside. He was so frail; it was not a difficult task. He howled in pain as he fell to the floor. Holding her dagger close, she bolted through the hallways. Grey and bare. Then brown and covered in fine tapestries. Fairies poked their heads out doors. Miserable and pale. Sun kissed and bright. Always surprised She came to the entrance. Good. The gateway was still an opening in the wall.  No! It was a great rosewood gate, and a fairy stood there in armor woven of silver scales. He held a spear in his hand. He moved towards her.

No. She was alone. She burst outside into the swamp. Or was it a forest? Yes. An autumn forest. The smell of cakes and wine and all good things in the world filled the air. No! The decay! It was close now! She ran. Down a road. Though the muck. The sound of hoofs beat behind her. So close now. Feet trudging quickly through the thick mud. She turned on the road, the forest was thick around her now, though she could see a spot where it thinned and opened up into a vast meadow. With all her strength, she pushed through the trees and collapsed into the grass.

She was free. She was in the empty tundra once more. The swamp lay behind her. In the distance, she thought she could see the shadow of that hilly ruin. She turned. Far off in the distance lay Eirsmet. She started walking forward, never turning back to look upon the swamp.

When her business in the north was done and she moved south once more, she kept to the long road, and forbid any in her party from setting foot in that desolate wasteland.