Dreams like that usually have a strange quality to them; one finds themselves suddenly in the middle of a scene but it’s something surreal, and the events that ensue are like a feverish word play. Ophelia had opened up her eyes to a fairly plebeian scene of a starry night sky framed by trees that swayed softly in the breeze. As if to contrast her previous whereabouts even harder, a perfectly circular ring of bell-shaped blue flowers surrounded her prone body, which had somehow appeared in the middle of a clearing.

London had its fair share of wonders, but a rich sky full of stars and warm, pleasant dry weather were not in the list. Defying all logic, it seemed like that staircase had landed her somewhere far away from the city, perhaps even outside of her native England.

She stood up, looking for the light and the phone she’d had in her hand what seemed moments ago. A merciful full moon on the sky allowed her to comb through the clearing with her eyes, but she was out of luck: no phone, no light anywhere. She patted herself and realized that save for a packet of chewing gum and her keys, nothing else had gone down the staircase with her. The small bag she had been carrying was also nowhere to be found.

A heavy sigh escaped from her lips: the Universe had decided to make its final move on her, and had dropped her somewhere off so the wilderness could take care of her. However, one last time, she had no choice but to stubbornly reject its designs, and try to find a place to exist. A decision was reached to set off to find civilization and a single step was taken in some direction (she picked one at random) when, deep within the trees, she heard the hurried gallop of horses.

Although Ophelia wouldn’t say that she possessed the instincts of someone used to dealing with such situations, she stepped back, bracing herself against the nearest tree. She dropped to the floor just in time to see seven horses jump out of the shadows, one after the other. Both animals and their riders were a blackened blur, crossing the clearing like they were running away from something. The blue flowers that had embraced her in her unconsciousness were trampled, petals rising up into the air in protest.

It all happened very quickly. Something flashed in the air in front of her and a man screamed. One of the horses cried loudly, kicking and jolting around in rebellious pain. His rider fell to the ground with a wet sound, promptly forgotten by his beast. The body was trampled on, bones crunching, muscles ripping and blood staining the ground Ophelia had woken up on. For a split second it seemed like nature would have its way with the dead, before the man’s companions appeared again on their steeds. One of them unsheathed a long sword, which he wielded effortlessly with one hand, and in one swift movement cut through the horse’s neck to end its suffering.

That wasn’t the end of it: another one shouted something in a strange language, and wielding a long spear, threw it in the direction the arrows had come from. Ophelia would admit she had nothing to go on except the pop culture knowledge she’d gained from movies, but she was pretty sure that the speed at which the weapon flew was not normal. Its intended victim seemed to have fallen prey to bad timing, as a mounted man came from the clearing just in time to take the spear in the chest.

As the body fell, Ophelia took note of the bayonet that the man had been carrying; it seemed like the pursued had avenged their fallen comrade. The attacker’s death marked a turn of the tide, as the pursued became the pursuers, running back to meet with the men who were now coming into the clearing. Hooves trampled on flowers and dead bodies as the six remaining men broke through spears with their axes and swords, masterfully riding in complex loops to keep their foes away. They were outnumbered, but it was clear that their pursuers were not as skilled as them, and in the close embrace of the clearing, this was enough to give them the upper hand.

The shouting reached its peak when, barely two feet from her, one of the men sliced its last foe’s head clean off his neck. The warriors cheered at the gory spectacle, dirty swords and axes pointing towards the night sky. The head rolled on the ground and stopped right in front of Ophelia almost ominously, fixing its dead eyes on her.

Her body reacted before her mind did and she retched. She purged her stomach as she trembled, more out of shock than anything else. It had been all too fast for her to feel disgust or horror. If anything, her mind seemed to be taking in the scene before her to confirm that she definitely wasn’t in England anymore and that the dream had finally turned surreal.

The warrior seemed to finally take notice of her as he dismounted. He picked up the head by its hair and threw it back to his comrades, who had quieted down to observe what would happen next. He said something to her in that language that sounded unlike anything she knew. He sounded inquisitive, almost cold; when she looked up to his face she couldn’t detect any signs of hostility, and that was enough to at least make her stop trembling.

The man repeated his words once more, and then some more. Ophelia took a moment to realize he was switching languages, trying to find the one she understood.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying,” she murmured, which made him frown. His eyes roamed her figure, and hers returned the favour: it was obvious how strange she must look to him. He was dressed in an archaic fashion; like a Roman toga, Ophelia recognised, richly adorned with printed patterns on silk. The rest of his companions, although similarly dressed, wore noticeably more modest garments.

She would’ve been tempted to try some of the few words in Italian she knew, by virtue of its closeness with Latin, but she was sure that none of the languages that the warrior had spoken were any of the classical tongues she knew about. He said something else, as if to confirm her suspicion, and offered a hand to her.

Ophelia had, all things considered, very little to lose. She took his hand tentatively and followed him as he led her to his horse. The warrior exchanged some words with the rest of the troupe, his tone serious and demanding; it was clear at that point that he wasn’t just a man between mates, but their leader. She thought she could hear objections raised and shot down; whatever was discussed it was quickly agreed on, and they marched on into the trees.

The pace after the carnage was decidedly more relaxed. Covered in blood, they seemed invigorated, and despite their comrade’s death the men shared smiles and laughs, loudly boasting something she could not understand. The only exception to the rule was their leader. She didn’t know if it was because of her presence or if it was simply his nature, but he rode mostly in silence, eyes never straying from the horizon.

Soon the treeline thinned and the land expanded into a picturesque view of golden fields and sleepy cottages, criss-crossed by hedges made of stone and bush alike. Perhaps, with just a bit more rain, she could easily fool herself into thinking she was somewhere in Somerset. It didn’t matter in the end, did it? After all, there was little reason to find comfort in what she thought was familiar. It was a funny reflex of the human mind that one starts to find rest only when recognition is possible, as if familiarity was enough of a promise that it’ll be good. Even if she were to fall for that trick, there was nothing good about the world she was used to. Not for her.

Perhaps she could revel a bit in the uncertainty of her fate and the strange land she had arrived to. In the dead of the night, frozen in moonlight, she thought it was beautiful enough to calm her heart just a little bit.

Hours stretched on, and at some point the leader called for a stop. They dismounted near a crossroads, stretching their legs and giving their horses some time to catch their breath. Ophelia, not quite knowing what to do with herself, stood awkwardly to one side as the conversation livened around her. She absent-mindedly rubbed her ears, wishing she could join in.

“… pace should be enough; we’ll make it to the port before sunrise.”

She almost jumped out of her skin when the words hit her and made sense. It wasn’t English they were speaking, no; but somehow the sounds entangled themselves in a way that felt almost like it, like she had been born speaking it.

“Do you think they had more men following us?”

“I doubt it,” the leader spoke, and now that she could understand him she thought there was more sadness than strictness in his voice. “At this point it’s easier to meet us at the port; let’s prepare for an ambush outside the gates.”

“What about her?” one of the men pointed at her, drawing eyes her way.

“We can leave her outside of the gates to finish the route by foot.”

“Why…,” she stopped when she heard herself, surprised by the strange sound that was coming out so naturally from her mouth. “Why were you attacked?”

Again, she felt the violent onslaught of stares. The leader stood up abruptly.

“So you do speak Phrygian… why did you not answer before? Were you surprised?”

“I can’t say I see heads being cut off every day…”

Someone snorted. “What backwater village is so lucky not to see bloodshed nowadays?”

The leader paid no mind to the warrior. “Where are you from?”

Ophelia grimaced. “Do you know of a place called London?”

An echo of surprised voices revealed that the city was perhaps not as unknown as she would have thought. One of the warriors closest to her looked her up and down, “so that’s what they wear in Hibernia, huh!”

The leader, on the other hand, was more pensive.

“London… Londinium, you say? But that is past the Hyperborean Sea, a long way from here. How did you end up here?”

“I-I don’t know… I know this sounds strange but I just woke up here. Well, there, in the clearing you found me in”.

Suspicion started to kick in. A tall and muscular warrior regarded her with dark eyes,

“But if you’re from Londinium, how come you speak Phrygian like you had been born there?”

The man who had been ogling her clothes took a hold of her open jacket, showing it in the direction of the other man. “Look at this metal plates in her clothing, the purple in her stola… strange as it may be, I doubt the paupers in Hibernia can dress this fancy. She’s obviously a princess, of course she’d speak multiple languages!”

“Were you kidnapped?” the smallest of the warriors asked.

“Maybe…” Ophelia decided to humour them, thinking that it was better to choose their explanation than trying to make up her own. “I was visiting a place that had been abandoned for some time, when the next thing I knew I was in that forest, laying on my back.”

The suspicious warrior narrowed his eyes, and asked “what is your name, princess?”

“Ophelia.”

“Ophelia, of which tribe?”

A memory hit her, out of nowhere, of her dad and her holding hands on their way to the bakery when she was seven. As they had turned the corner past Iceni lane, her dad had told her about Boudicca, the Celtic queen that had attacked Londinium to fight back against the Romans. The name of her tribe was… “Iceni. I’m Ophelia of the Iceni.”

It seemed that for most of the warriors she could’ve named her favourite comic character’s last name, and it would’ve had the same result. The man next to her, however, and the leader seemed to open their eyes wide in surprise. “I pity the fool that dared to lay their hands on you, princess,” the former said. “Yet throne wars are dime a dozen in this part of the world; one might think they might have taken you just to stay fashionable.”

Ophelia thought it was the right time to flip the conversation in their way. “Who are you then? Why did those men attack you?”

“We’re also in a skirmish of our own,” the man said, which earned him some disapproving stares. “Hush! We don’t know who she is!” someone shouted.

“It takes one look at us to see who we are, and only half a pinch of hashish to work out what we’re doing,” the eldest of the group said, a man in his forties. “We are a group of Phrygian rebels, my lady, and those men you saw us slaughter were assassins sent by Phrygian nobles to kill us.”

Ophelia looked bewildered. The man thankfully mistook her ignorance for confusion. “The treaty that was signed between our kingdom and the Elysian empire was only a farce to prevent an all-out invasion. I don’t know if you have heard that our crown prince went into exile after the second prince, lord Deimos, colluded with the Elysians to turn the kingdom effectively into another one of their vassal states. There are many who oppose this, and want to depose lord Deimos to return the kingdom to its legitimate ruler.”

“It sounds like you are all very busy,” Ophelia commented half as a joke, but it landed well with the men, who laughed heartily at her quip.

“It’s one way of putting it,” even the stern leader had cracked a smile. “We’re all very busy. And we’re heading to Caudiceum. In other circumstances, to honour my oath as a warrior I would have gladly accompanied you until you crossed the threshold of your mother’s home, but with things as they are, I can only entrust you to one of our contacts in the port, so they can arrange to send you back.”

Ophelia smiled hesitantly, not sure if there was anywhere they could actually send her back to. “I’d appreciate that,” she said, regardless. The leader nodded, and motioned for his men to stand up.

“We have rested enough; let us continue our journey.”