The next morning found us once again in the command tent, all except for Tia. This time sans a dead body and a crowd of guards trying to decide who was in charge and what to do next. Unfortunately, Lady Clarice was still there, probably having slept within. The tent was the only structure of any type that had been erected the previous day, and she seemed the type of person who enjoyed whatever comforts that could be found.

I had expected nothing less of her after yesterday’s meeting. She reacted to my entrance by playing those stupid social games that most Seelie seemed to enjoy. She made her disdain for me apparent, and for the rest of the camp that would have been an effective stratagem. For me?

I ignored her completely.

I had gotten some sleep, but my dreams had been strange. Memories of my past life. A life that had been forgotten, placed behind a veil of temperance and power. Memories softened and lost to me as a reward or punishment from System.

My past life had come flooding back like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. A kaleidoscope of frenzied sound and color that flickered in an unwavering progression of a life lived. Of people remembered. Of pain endured. And of lessons learned.

With the restoration of those memories had come the knowledge I had gained of Earth, of the history of that planet, and the actions of man. I wasn’t sure if the memories were restored to me because System was less here, or because System thought I might need them to contend with what I might find.

I still hadn’t reconciled my feelings about my memories being tampered with, but to rant and rail against what I might perceive as an injustice was a waste of time. System acted. I could only endure.

I claimed a seat at the table that had served as a pyre for Lord Thomas, turning my back to Lady Clarice as I did. She didn’t like that, but had enough sense to keep her thoughts to herself. Although she refused to respond to what she thought was a provocation, but was, in fact, a dismissal, she still reacted. I could feel the fury emanating from her as she began staring daggers into the back of my head, glares that I ignored as easily as I ignored her.

“Why are the Fomorians attacking? And how have they made it this far into Sidhe territory?” I asked Rhea, deciding to get right into the crux of the matter.

“Politics and war are the simple answer,” Rhea said. “A war between factions of Man.”

“The Franks, lead by King Charlemagne and the Romans lead by Augustus Caesar, have been embroiled in war since King Charlemagne took the throne, each seeking to expand or maintain their empires.

“King Charlemagne assumed his throne by revolt and treachery. His House had been banished, his bloodline removed from the line of succession, by a venal branch of his family that practiced regicide to claim the throne.

“Charlemagne attacked the previous King stripping him of power and imprisoning him. His refusal to engage in Regicide was lauded, but he attacked when a delegation of Romans was in attendance.

“A distant nephew of Caesar was a nominal aide-de-camp and was grievously wounded during the insurrection. He died before a healer could be found, and Caesar used that nephew’s death as the impetus to declare war.

“Their war has expanded, flaring out of control, and spreading across the entire continent. It has had a significant impact on those species that are closely aligned with magic, as the war became an excuse to act on long-held prejudices and resentments.

“Sidhe, Fomorians, Nymphs, Dryads, Vampires, Beastkin, Gorgons, Shifters. It doesn’t matter what magical species a race is aligned with, both kingdoms of Man have become determined to claim more and more territory.

“For the Sidhe, long isolated on these Isles, we thought ourselves protected. The ocean and weather creating a natural barrier to stem the tide of their aggression. The Fomorians didn’t have those same protections and have been forced out of their home as a result.

“The Fomorians and Sidhe have always been enemies, but with Charlemagne laying claim to their native land and homes, conquering, and renaming that land as the Isle of Man, the Fomorians have had to retreat.

“With nowhere left open, they gained a beachhead on our shores. Their presence was ignored by the Sidhe, too focused on glamour and illusion to worry about reality. They have invaded the Isle of Wraith, vastly diminished, their numbers decimated by Charlemagne’s armies, but that has only made them desperate and dangerous.

“Desperate enough that when Caesar offered an alliance they accepted. That alliance further strengthened when Ragnar Lodbrok, the Viking King also joined Caesar’s banner to attack and harass Charlemagne. Ragnar Lodbrok and the Fomorians were offered the lands Charlemagne's control as a reward for joining Caesar’s cause.”

“Why are the magic races being forced to retreat? Especially the Sidhe?” I asked. “We should be able to protect what is ours. The ambient magic is dense enough to hold the line. Why are we unable to mount a significant magical defense and attack? Why are our mages allowing our people to be pushed back and killed?”

“What mages? What Magic? The Sidhe lost all magics but illusion and glamour eons ago. We have found ourselves poisoned and weakened. Man has learned the weakness for each of the magic races. Iron, Silver, Wooden Stakes, each of the magical races have an inbred weakness that can be exploited.

“Additionally, Man breeds in such numbers that their armies are like locust stripping the land bare. They have learned to smelt metal to create a massive number of weapons, weapons that kill even the immortal Sidhe. Very few of the races that can claim immortality are willing to risk their lives when a retreat is an option,” she explained.

“Our strongest people have hidden. Few of our strongest warriors remain.

“To make matters worse, Man has struck bargains with their Gods. Battles that seem won become disorder and chaos as armies are routed. Asgard and Olympus gifting artifacts and divine providence to their Heroes have empowered their armies with holy spells and powerful healing.

“The dwarves and elves are the only magical races spared Man’s pogrom. But that exemption has not come without cost. They have been relegated to internment camps, made to serve as slaves in exchange for their lives. Lives that have been spared because they offer iron weapons and magic enchantments as appeasement.”

“And our rulers? How are they responding?” I demanded.

“Most have retreated Underhill. Those that remain have tried to parley, to negotiate a peace, but the race of Man delights in subterfuge and lie. The agreements are barely finalized before they break their word. Queen Morgan has refused to even entertain the people that approach anymore, no matter how many white flags of truce they brandish.

“Even those people that have been defeated, captured, and offered their parole have been so duplicitous as to surrender only to kill the Sidhe foolish enough to trust they would honor that parole. Their word is worthless.”

“Why have the Sidhe not summoned the Wild Hunt then?” I asked in disbelief.

“The Wild Hunt? What is that?” Rhea replied in confusion.

Her question explained so much. I had already noticed that the ambient magic available in this world had no connection to Fairy. Her question highlighted an even larger problem, one I should have realized when Tia reported that Cait Sith had not existed until she entered the dimension, and she was made Queen of Cats.

There was no Fairy here. No Cait Sith. No Wild Hunt. No Tuatha de Danaan. The Sidhe had none of the tools or protections that they should have had, and without those tools, they had no way to punish Oathbreakers.

Maybe that was how Odin and Zeus managed to steal and corrupt the tapestry of Fate. Without the power of [Justice] to stay their hand, they had become emboldened. Their hubris was barely contained on Talahm with [Justice] in play, where the Hunt could dispense retribution and vengeance. Here? Without those limits?

“Why retreat to the Isle of Wraith instead of the Summerlands?” I asked, glossing over her question.

“Because it doesn’t exist,” Lady Clarice snorted behind me, finally unable to hold her tongue.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

“You appear Sidhe, but you have none of the knowledge that even the lowest among us have labored under for the past century.

“Thomas’s men swear that you almost single-handled destroyed a brigade of Fomorian, but could not explain how you managed that feat. You speak of Sidhe mages and Sidhe magic, knowing that the power to cast spells has been lost to our people for a thousand years.

“You speak of fables and fairy tales. The Summerlands?” She scoffed. “The Summerlands is a tale that we tell our children. A place of perpetual peace where the dead can heal. Where we can meet those, we loved, after we have passed on. A place where those that have faded can heal.

“The Wild Hunt? Words meant to occlude the truth that you are a Shape-shifter. A child of Loki, most likely. You would have to be an Asgard or Olympian to use the magic that you demonstrated so carelessly yesterday, because only those Heroes gifted by Odin or Zeus have access to such magic.”

“The Sidhe have lost their connection to all their magic?” I asked in disbelief.

“Not completely,” Rhea answered. “But the advent of iron has weakened our connection and muted our ability. The very air seems to be saturated with iron filings that have poisoned the land, the water, and our people.”

“There is no one that can build the formations to filter out those poisons?” I asked. “No one that can create a magical system that cleans and purifies the air, land, and water?”

“There may have been at one time, there may still be some capable, but the really powerful Sidhe have turned inward. They have taken their courts and their people and escaped Underhill. They have turned their back on the Sidhe and left those of us without access or connections to those places long hidden to flounder and die.

“Without their help and training, we have become a diminished people. Even our Queen, Morgan le Fey, has found her powers stunted, her glamour waning, her illusions a pale imitation of what they once were.”

“What of Nimue and Merlin?” I wondered, guessing that if Morgan le Fey existed so would Merlin and Nimue. The names had triggered memories, tales of Camelot long forgotten and made a part of my dreams. Dreams I hadn’t thought of in a long time. A dream of another life and memories now restored, a place where magic only existed in the imagination of dreamers. One where the Sidhe were only myth and legend.

Morgan le Fey had lived in the myths and stories of those people. And if those dreams were based on the magic of Summerland’s dream, then if there was a Morgan le Fey, there had to be a Merlin and a Nimue. Arthur and Camelot may yet to be realized, but Merlin and Nimue were Sidhe. They must exist.

“The Lady of the Lake was one of the first to retreat to Underhill. No one is certain if Merlin is with her, but their love has been the stuff of legend, their devotion to each other pure. Our bards speak of that love even now.

“Most believe they remain together, refusing to leave each other’s side even as the world of Sidhe burns and our people are destroyed.”