Part 7

Events moved swiftly after the League’s return to Camelot. It was mere weeks later that Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere’s adulterous activities were at last revealed to the world. They had been caught in bed together by Sir Mordred while the king was away hunting. Arthur’s bastard son was eager to reveal the dark underbelly of his father’s kingdom and use it as ammunition to destroy him.

It was rumored that the king had known about the affair for some time but had feigned ignorance, content that Guinevere had found happiness. Yet now, Arthur had no choice but to condemn his wife. Lancelot, meanwhile, had escaped and was said to be planning a daring rescue of the queen.

Small and unnoticed amid the drama, the League watched these events with growing dread. Nimue was right. The Day of Destiny was nearly upon them. Lancelot and the queen’s affair was at the heart of it, and already Arthur’s utopia was beginning to unravel.

It was the morning of Guinevere’s planned execution. A jury had found her guilty and sentenced her to be burned at the stake for high treason. The League stood upon a windowsill of the castle, looking down in sadness as wood and oil were piled about the feet of their former mistress.

“Arthur should have banished Lance from the court long ago,” Thumbling muttered. “He was too forgiving. Gods, the queen got on my nerves at times but…I never wished this on her!”

“We should have done more,” Hop said, doffing his hat and throwing it on the floor. “We knew of ze prophecy. Could we not have prevented zis?”

“We warned Sir Lancelot to desist,” said Issun-boshi. “Many times. He would not listen. Alas that the queen must suffer the consequences.”

“Those bloody fools,” cried Thumbling. “Why wouldn’t they stop?”

Tom and Thumbelina exchanged nervous glances. “The heart sometimes betrays us, ‘Ling,” Tom said quietly. “Or those we love.”

“Oh, God, they’re about to light the fires. I can’t watch this,” ‘Lina said, burying her face in Tom’s shoulder.

A grim executioner approached the pyre, torch in hand. His face was disguised by a black, velvet mask. “Guinevere of Cameliard, High Queen of Britain, you are hereby sentenced to the flame for your crimes,” he announced, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. “Have you any final words?”

The queen held her head as high and proudly as she could and choked back her tears. “Arthur,” she called. “I’m so sorry. I do not ask you to forgive me. But please…forgive yourself.”

Watching from a window high above, the king looked away, shielding his eyes in despair. To pardon his wife now would show weakness and reveal his rule of law and justice as nothing but a sham. Yet he knew that when she died, his heart would die with her.

Just then, as dawn was breaking on the horizon, there was a great clamor in the distance. An army of horsemen came charging down the hill and into the castle courtyard before the startled guards could raise the drawbridge or sound the alarm. At the troop’s head was Lancelot, spear held high and armor shining in the newborn light.

“I’m coming, Gwen!” he called to the queen. “I’m here!”

The battle was swift and brutal. Knight turned against knight as the warriors chose sides between their weak and disgraced king and their adulterous former captain. Some remained loyal to Arthur, while others betrayed their vows, refusing to let their beloved queen be slain. Long simmering resentments bubbled to the surface as the Round Table seemed to collapse in on itself.

This was what the Grail quest had been intended to prevent. Yet even the achievement of that holy vessel did not heal the wounds at the heart of Camelot. After years of peace and prosperity, the restless knights were eager for war. And here it was, on their very doorstep. As they fought amongst themselves, the thought that this battle would destroy all they had created did not enter their minds. They wanted blood and vengeance and the old-fashioned violence of their glory days. They wanted to fight.

“Gods above, this is it!” Thumbling shrieked. “The Day of Destiny, it’s here at last!”

The League could do nothing but stare in horror at the carnage. This was no place for little creatures such as them. They’d be trampled into the dirt amid the clash of such giants. When it was over at last, many good knights lay dead or wounded. A bloodied Sir Gawain stood in the yard, swearing revenge for his fallen brothers, Gareth and Gaheris. And the queen and Lancelot had vanished.

“No, Thumbling, I fear this isn’t it,” Tom said. “This has only just begun.”

* * * *

As Tom had suspected, the situation only became graver. While Lancelot retreated to his fortress of Joyous Gard and Arthur rallied the knights still loyal to him, a third player entered the game. Mordred had been missing since the battle in the courtyard but he returned days later with an army of his own. His allies were the Pictish tribes that lived beyond Hadrian’s Wall, the old Roman ruin that separated civilized Britain from the wild, untamed wilderness of the north. The Picts had never accepted Arthur as their lord and were only too eager to strike at his moment of greatest weakness. It was rumored that, in the east, the Saxons were mobilizing as well, preparing for the downfall of their old enemy the Pendragon.

The League had accompanied Arthur’s forces to the field of Camlann where a final stand against their many enemies was planned. The homunculi had never felt so small and helpless. There was no longer any way for them to help. Events had spiraled beyond anyone’s control and five tiny mouse-sized creatures were quite forgotten amid the chaos.

“Surely there is something we can do!” Hop argued as they stood huddled in one of the many camp tents. “We could fall back on our training and seek ze location of ze enemy camps!”

“Yes!” Thumbling agreed excitedly. “We could be the king’s eyes and ears one last time! Whaddya say, fellas?”

“Don’t you get it?!” Tom bellowed suddenly, whirling around to face them. “It doesn’t matter who wins this battle. The dream is dead. The Round Table is finished and the knights have turned against each other. Arthur is marching to war against his best friend and his own son. Even if he survives, everything he’s tried to build will be in ruins! It’s over! It’s all over!”

Tom covered his face in anguish. Out of all of them, he had been at Camelot the longest and believed most fervently in Arthur’s dream of peace and chivalry. Now, despite the efforts of the knights and the League combined, it was all crashing down around them.

“I had hoped that finding the Grail was a sign,” Tom muttered, almost inaudibly. “Divine providence smiling down on us with approval. I thought the prophecies could be averted. Damn it, Merlin, where are you when we need you most?”

The others tried to comfort him but Tom was inconsolable. “Leave me be!” he shouted.

“You may have given up, mon capitan,” Hop said, “but ze League of Homunculi has never said die. I am going to scout out ze enemy camps. Who is with me?”

“I am with you, Hop,” Issun declared. “There is no honor in giving up without trying.”

“Count me in too, fellas,” said Thumbling.

With a sad backwards glance at Tom, the three of them ducked under the tent flap and were gone. ‘Lina was about to follow them when Tom called out to her.

“’Lina, wait! I would speak with you. We never really talked about…what happened on Avalon.”

“Hellfire and hippogriffs, Tom!” she exclaimed. “You want to talk about that NOW?!”

Tom hung his head in shame. “I know. It’s selfish of me. But who knows if any of us will survive this day? I had hoped that when this is all over…you and I, we could…”

Thumbelina shut her eyes and tried to blink back tears. “There is no you and me, Tom. There can’t be. Not anymore. After we laid together that night, I went to one of Avalon’s seers. I thought I was just conflicted, that I needed someone to talk to. But I had to know the truth.”

Tom was puzzled. “What truth?”

“About Cornu,” she said. “The seer looked into her scrying pool, Tom, and into my husband’s heart. He’s been loyal to me all these years. He still loves me. And I…I betrayed him!”

“But ‘Lina—” Tom stammered.

“Lancelot and Guinevere’s infidelity has brought down a kingdom,” said ‘Lina. She was unable to face him. “I can’t do that to Cornu. I won’t!”

“’Lina, we were meant to be!” Tom protested. “Weren’t we?”

“Maybe in another life,” Thumbelina told him. “I’m sorry, Tom.”

She turned and hurried from the tent, flying off to join the others. Tom sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

* * * *

Sometime later, Tom stood on a hillside watching the battle below. Things went ill for Arthur’s forces. His knights had been pared down in number from the battle of the courtyard and the subsequent split of loyalties. Morale was down after the men had been forced to fight their friends and kin. And the Picts’ numbers were simply too great. The tribesmen were deadly efficient and swept over the battlefield with destructive force, a haze of red hair and blue war paint. It was only a matter of time before Camelot’s army was completely overwhelmed.

Just as he had days before, Lancelot came charging from Joyous Gard with an army at his heels. But rather than strike at the king’s men, the two companies of knights combined their efforts. This new, larger force soon began to rout the Picts, driving them across the nearby river. Elated, Tom cried out and danced across the hilltop.

He would later learn that, faced with the threat of a common enemy, Arthur and Lancelot had met in secret the night before and set aside their differences. The two friends did not wish to war on each other but were swept up, helpless, in the tide of events. Though tempers still burned on each side and many of the knights cried out for each other’s blood, they would not allow Britain to fall to its enemies.

When the dust had settled, the Picts were in retreat but the knights had taken heavy casualties. The field of Camlann was strewn with the bodies of the slain and the ravens were already feasting. The river ran red with blood and glittered with the swords and armor of fallen soldiers.

Far in the distance, Tom saw two figures still striving against each other. They seemed to be the only remaining combatants. All other survivors had fallen back to their camps to tend to the wounded or were driving the Picts back towards the north. With shock, Tom realized that the two battling foemen were Arthur and Mordred. And the battle was not favoring the aged king.

“If I have truly lost everything,” Tom said, “let me at least go out as a warrior!”

The little man ran at all speed down the hill towards the distant fighters. As he crossed Camlann, he tried to steel himself against the horror of the fallen knights. These were men he had known for many years, friends and allies and comrades in arms. They lay all around him, their mountainous corpses blocking his path like grim mountains in a valley of death. It was like the terrible vision he had seen in the Wasteland. There lay Gawain, beaten and bloody, reunited with his brothers in death. There was loyal Kay, the king’s brother and seneschal, with a Pictish blade thrust through his chest. There was Sagramore, who would ride at tournament no more. Noble Uwain, Morgan’s son, was beside him, his skull cleft in two.

With a prayer for his friends, Tom quickened his pace, lest the dead men rise to pursue him as in his nightmares.

“Farewell, good knights,” he whispered. “Go now to your well-deserved rest. I pray your deaths will not be in vain.”

He finally arrived and stared up at the battling forms of Arthur and his son. Tom took cover behind a rock, waiting for the right moment to strike. He hoped he would not simply be stepped on, his valiant efforts unnoticed.

“Give it up, old man! You will not survive this day!” Mordred screamed, slashing at Arthur with his sword. He bore Clarent, the re-forged Sword in the Stone. In Mordred’s hands, this symbol of Arthur’s peaceful regime had been turned into a deadly weapon. The blade was stained with the blood of many knights, his cousin Uwain among them.

“Your army is defeated, Mordred,” the king said, wearily dodging each sword-thrust. “Lay down your arms. You are my son. I do not wish to slay you!”

“It’s that or die, Arthur!” announced the younger man. A wild gleam was in his eye. “I was born for this! Mother Morgause and Aunt Morgan prepared me for this moment since I was a babe! I was born to destroy you!” He hoisted his weapon once more and lunged at Arthur.

“No!” Tom bellowed. “You will not touch him!” The homunculus flung himself at Mordred’s boot, scrambling up the outside and stabbing his needle-sword into the man’s leg.

Mordred gave a sudden cry of surprise. The wound had not harmed him—it was merely a pin-prick—but he was startled enough that his thrust missed its target. Seizing the moment, Arthur returned with a counterattack. Excalibur flared in the morning sun and was buried deep in Mordred’s chest. The lad gave a shuddering gasp.

“I am sorry I failed you, Mordred,” Arthur said.

Mordred stared into the saddened eyes of his father. For a moment, they simply met each other’s gaze. Then, with his last ounce of strength, the younger man stabbed Clarent through Arthur’s side until it burst out of his back. As both combatants slumped to the ground, Tom was thrown off Mordred’s leg and into the dirt.

Recovering his wits, Tom looked at the two fallen forms. Mordred was dead and Arthur’s wounds were bleeding profusely. The little man ran up beside his face. “My king!”

“Tom?” Arthur could barely speak and his eyes were only half open. “What are you…doing here?”

Just then, another man ran to them in a state of panic. It was Sir Bedivere, one of the last surviving knights. Tom had to scramble for cover as Bedivere dropped to his knees at the king’s side. In the confusion, the small homunculus was quite forgotten. He watched from the shadows as the king commanded Bedivere to take Excalibur.

“Arthur, no!” Bedivere cried. “You will need it! You still have many good fighting years ahead of you!”

“I am finished, Bedivere,” the monarch said. His face showed every one of his many years and troubles. “Take the sword and fling it into the nearest lake.”

“Throw it away? Arthur, what are you saying?! Your sword—!”

“It was never mine,” Arthur said. “The Lady of the Lake but lent to me for a while. Go to a lake and speak the words I taught you. Excalibur must be returned to her.”

“The Lady, yes!” Tom thought to himself. “Nimue was preparing for this day! She must have some spell that can save Arthur!”

“I—it will be done, my lord,” Bedivere said. “And I will come back with help!” He ran off across the field, Excalibur in hand.

Tom paced back and forth. The king’s life seemed to be ebbing away with each passing moment. Where was Nimue? If she had foreseen all this, why had she not come?

At last, he saw the figure of a woman approaching. Tom’s heart leaped with joy until the lady came closer. It was not the High Priestess of Avalon who had arrived but rather Morgan le Fay. She strode forward confidently and Tom was forced to leap from the path of her footfalls. He knew he was Arthur’s last defense. Yet, with no potions or magic at his disposal, how could he hope to stop this towering, hundred-foot sorceress? Tom dropped down into the tall grass in terror and despair.

There was but one chance. He thought back to what Issun had told him of his challenge in the Wasteland. If Tom could somehow ascend Morgan’s body and reach a vital artery, perhaps he could save the king. He would need to be quick. The little man crept up beside one of Morgan’s enormous feet and took hold of the hem of her gown. As he began his climb, he was thankful that the witch-queen had always been a talkative sort.

“Do you see, Pendragon?” Morgan declared as she gloated triumphantly over her brother. “Your dream is no more, your Table is cracked, and your knights lie dead or dying. Do you know whose hand guided this fate?”

“Morgan?” the wounded warrior muttered, somewhat delirious. “Ah, my sister. If I must die, at least I can see your sweet face one more time.”

“Damn it, Arthur! Don’t you understand?” she cried, stomping her foot. Tom, now level with her thigh, held on to her leg for dear life. He stared ruefully at the perilous distance to the ground.

“Mordred was my puppet!” Morgan continued. “This was my doing! I have destroyed you and all that you hold dear!”

“Yes, I suppose you have,” Arthur admitted. “Alas that others had to suffer for my folly. So many brave knights lost. Morgan…Uwain was one of them.”

The sorceress paused at this. For a moment, a shadow of grief fell upon her face and a tear began to form in the corner of her eye. But only for a moment.

“That is…unfortunate,” she said as her customary scowl returned. “But my son chose his path long ago. He knew the consequences of siding with my enemies.”

While she was distracted by her loss, Tom continued his journey. He crested her curving hip and inched his way around her waist to the back of the dress where he would be less noticeable. Tom began to climb up her back, using long strands of raven hair like rope. The winds of Camlann were strong, however, and Morgan’s hair danced in the breeze. Tom held on tight as he was whipped this way and that.

“We have both lost much today,” said Arthur. “At least now, our war is over. If ever I wronged you, sister, know that I am sorry in my heart. I…fear I must be going soon. Whatever passed between us, know that I love you, Morgan. How I wish we could have been friends.”

Morgan stared at the dying king. All their lives, she had given him nothing but scorn, resentment, and misery. Yet, here at the end, he didn’t even have the decency to hate her! She wanted him to curse her name, to rage impotently as his life’s blood drained away. She wanted the satisfaction of destroying an enemy once and for all.

But as she saw the calm acceptance on his face, her long-sought victory suddenly felt empty and meaningless. The madness of revenge had lifted and she was seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. The end result of her schemes was the loss of all who had once cared for her.

Uwain was dead. Reconciliation with her son was now impossible. Her daughter Morvydd and her sister Elaine hated and would have nothing to do with her. Morgause, her elder sister, had died years ago. With her went the last of Morgan’s true friends. And now, her brother too was fading. Morgan had murdered him and come to gloat and twist the knife. Yet still he loved her.

As she watched the light fading from the king’s eyes, she no longer saw the hated Pendragon, heir of a murderer and champion of a spiteful god. She saw her baby brother and he was in pain.

“Great Mother,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

Morgan le Fay stood before the broken body of her mortal foe…and knelt to dress his wounds. Tom had just reached her shoulder when the woman dropped to her knees, nearly throwing him to his death as she suddenly descended. The little man stumbled forward and plummeted off the front of the shoulder. He grabbed hold of a loose strand of hair in desperation and dangled precariously before her, bobbing slightly against her chest.

“Even this you take from me,” she hissed at the king, weeping softly as she tried to stop the bleeding. Tom’s predicament went unnoticed for the moment. “I hate you,” Morgan declared.

“I know,” replied Arthur.

As Tom dangled, he watched in amazement as the change came over Morgan. Below him, he saw the woman’s delicate hands treating Arthur’s injures. High above, tears filled her emerald eyes. Uncertainly, Tom climbed hand over hand up the strand of hair and back onto her shoulder once more. He drew his sword and held it against the thick, trunk-like throat of the giant sorceress.

“I don’t know what your game is this time, witch,” the little man called out with as much bravery as he could muster. “But harm him and you will answer to me!”

Morgan wiped the tears from her eyes and turned to face the tiny figure holding a sewing needle to her neck. Despite her stew of mixed emotions, she could not help but laugh.

“Well, well. It seems you still have one warrior defending you, Arthur,” she said, reaching up swiftly and plucking Tom into the air. The little man kicked and squirmed furiously but he was powerless against her. She closed her fist about him, gently but firmly, and pulled the tiny sword from his hand.

“At ease, Sir Tom,” she told him. “No more tricks, I promise. I find I have lost the taste for them. The war is over and though it may seem a hollow gesture after everything I’ve done, I…I swear I will do what I can to make amends.”

“Yes. You will,” said a voice behind them. Morgan and Tom turned to see Nimue standing over them. Two other women were gathered at her side.

“This is what Merlin foresaw,” Nimue explained. “What I saw in my visions but could not make sense of until the Grail healed me. My role was never to stop this Day of Destiny from happening. I could not, even with all my power. But together, Morgan…we will save him.”

Nimue and the others gathered around the fallen king and set to work with healing salves, potions, and words of power. One of the priestess’ companions, an older woman with silver hair and a flowing grey gown, extended a hand to Morgan palm upward. She indicated the little homunculus in her grasp. With a nod, Morgan dropped Tom into the other woman’s hand and joined the healers in their work.

The silver-haired lady looked down at the tiny man. “You are the one they call Tom Thumb?”

“Aye,” answered Tom, watching her suspiciously.

“I am Lady Pelles, Queen of the Wasteland,” the woman said. “Your pardon—the former Wasteland. My husband says we owe you a debt of gratitude for aiding our grandson, Galahad. You have my thanks.”

“I was told I might meet you, my lady,” said Tom. “I only wish the circumstances were different.” He tried to blink back the tears forming in his eyes.

“Do not weep, little one,” the lady told him. “All has happened as it was fated to. You should be proud of the part you played in these events. For one so small, you have done extraordinary things and served your king well. You are a true knight, Sir Thomas Thumb.”

Gently, the lady kissed the top of Tom’s head and placed him back on the ground.

* * * *

Tom stood on the shore of Camlann’s lake, watching the Barge of Avalon sail into the mists. The sleeping form of Arthur lay at its center. Surrounding the king were four women, queens and healers all—Nimue ferch Dyonas, Lady of the Lake; The Queen of the renewed Wasteland, King Pelles’ wife; The Queen of Northgalis, a mighty sorceress; and Morgan, Queen of Gorre, once called Morgan le Fay. Together, their healing arts had forestalled Arthur’s death. He had grievous wounds and would need time to recover. But beyond this, Nimue knew with Merlin’s wisdom that another fate had been decreed for Arthur.

“On Avalon, he will sleep,” Nimue called to the homunculus, “until the hour of Britain’s greatest need. Morgan and I shall see to that. Arthur Pendragon, King Once and King That Shall Be, will return.”

“We will be waiting,” Tom whispered.

* * * *

Hours later, the Barge was long gone but Tom still sat upon a stone by the lake, gazing at the horizon. He heard a small rustling sound in the bushes behind him and turned to see his fellow homunculi emerge from the underbrush.

“Tom!” cried ‘Lina, running to him. “Thank God you’re alive! When we couldn’t find you back at camp, we feared the worst!”

“I’m glad you have all survived as well,” Tom told them, greeting each of his friends in turn.

“We located ze Pictish camps but by then ze battle had already begun,” Hop told him. “We had no choice but to take cover until it was all over.”

“What happened, pal?” Thumbling asked. “Where’s the king?”

“The king is gone,” Tom said.

“Aw, Tom, I’m so sorry,” said Thumbling with a look of pity. “Damn shame, he was a good man. Best I’ve ever known. Who killed him? Was it Mordred? Please tell me we got the bastard!”

“No one killed him,” Tom informed them. “He is but sleeping. And one day, he will come again.”

Thumbling gave Tom a dubious glance. He looked at the others and pointed to their leader, spinning a finger beside his head in a crazy-person pantomime.

“No one’s seen Lancelot or the queen since the battle,” ‘Lina said. “The rumor is that Guinevere’s entered a nunnery, seeking to repent for her sins. The soldiers of Joyous Gard say Lancelot will follow suit and become a monk.”

“Oui,” added Hop. “And Arthur’s cousin Constantine is to be crowned king. Zere is no talk of a new Round Table.”

“It’s all over, alas,” Issun-boshi said. “The Table is finished and with it, the League of Homunculi.”

“Aye, that it is,” said Tom. “But I see more clearly than before. We have played an important part in all this. Was it not the League that rescued Lancelot from Morgan’s dungeon all those years ago? Who unmasked the false queen and uncovered the schemes of the Sisterhood? Who faced the Wasteland’s terrors and healed Nimue with the Grail’s waters?”

“Guess we did all right for a bunch of little guys,” Thumbling remarked.

“Tom,” ‘Lina began, “about what I said…before the battle…”

Tom looked at her and smiled, sadly but resolved. “You should return to your husband, ‘Lina. He will need you.”

“Tom?” she said, gazing at him searchingly. The little knight leaned close to whisper to her.

“I would not see a disaster such as this visited upon the Flower-Folk,” he told her, “nor further heartbreak brought to good people. Go to Cornu. I know you still love him and he loves you. In another life, perhaps we would have met sooner, Thumbelina. But it was not to be in this one. I know that now.”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Lina felt her eyes misting as she thought of all that Tom was sacrificing for her. But then she thought of her beloved prince, waiting patiently in a land far across the sea. She did love him, despite her confusion. “Can one love two men?” she thought to herself. “Or is it doomed to tragedy, as it was for Guinevere?”

Tom turned to face the others. “Our task is done. You are all free to return to your homelands if you so choose. The League of Homunculi has fulfilled its purpose.”

“Years from now, when they tell the tale of Camelot, I don’t know if we will be remembered,” Tom continued. “Perhaps only as humorous oddities or children’s stories. But we were a part of this, vital links in a chain. And even the smallest links must be strong.”

* * * *

Thus the shining age of Camelot came to an end and the Round Table was forever broken. The surviving knights were scattered, most hanging up their swords and retiring to civilian life. After the apparent death of their lord, the League of Homunculi too went their separate ways.

Princess Maia Thumbelina returned to the kingdom of the Flower-Folk and resumed her duties there. She was crowned queen and ruled beside her husband, King Cornu. Nine months after a fateful night on Avalon, Thumbelina gave birth to a son. If Cornu suspected the child’s origins, he said nothing, grateful to see his wife happy and their dreams fulfilled. They named the boy Prince Thomas.

Issun-boshi and Princess Haru traveled for a time, seeking a cure for Issun’s condition. Their journeys brought them once more to the isle of Avalon. There the Ladies Nimue and Morgan, along with their new apprentice Morvydd, pooled their mystical resources. They were at last able to reverse the oni’s curse. The noble samurai lived out the rest of his days as a full-sized man.

Hop o’ My Thumb returned to his homeland of Gaul and once again pursued his roguish, womanizing ways. Years later, he met his end betwixt the thighs of a buxom wench less than half his age. He died with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. The fate of the seven-league boots remains unknown. Like so much else, they have passed into legend.

Thumbling followed in his father’s footsteps as a tailor, opening a small shop on the Saxon Shore of Britain. His store became quite popular due to its odd, miniature proprietor. He finally settled down with a fair-haired Saxon girl. Together they created the most wondrous garments in all the isles.

As for Tom Thumb, he wandered for a time, eventually finding his way back to the Realm of Faerie. Of his actions there, no stories tell, though rumors claimed he lived among the sprites and had dalliances with beautiful ladies of miniature size. None quite compared however to a certain redhead he had fought beside long ago. When at last he returned to the mortal realm, Tom found that many years had passed. He offered his services to the new king and served with distinction as a knight of the realm. In his fading years, he finally perished in battle with a venomous spider.

Sir Thomas Thumb was laid to rest beneath a rosebush, by a small marble monument which read:

Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur’s knight,
Who died by a spider’s cruel bite.
Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head,
And cry, ‘Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.’

Yet, some claim that a corner of the headstone broke loose and was lost to the storybooks of later ages. Its final lines were said to be:

On bended knee with tearful sigh,
We honor his Homunculi.
Though smaller than a fair maid’s curl,
Their hearts were bigger than the world.


The End