'There never was much hope. Just a fool's hope.' –Gandalf

Chapter One

‘When does one first begin to remember? When do the waving lights and shadows of dawning consciousness cast their print upon the mind of a child?’ --Winston Churchill

When setting down an account of one’s own life, there are always difficulties. Obviously, the first one is where to start.

Before the war started, there were many times that are very good to remember. I mind them now, looking back over the years and savouring them, like the sweet taste of wild honey on my tongue. Helping to care for the sheep that roam on the high, misty hills of Aval-lón; the island of apples and the place that I still call home. Learning to ride my first pony, a dumpy but steady little grey creature with a habit of holding her breath whenever I tried to tighten her girth. Trying to master the language of the humans who lived across the sea, and whose knowledge of our Elftongue was rudimentary, to say the least. Standing with my father in the library and looking up at the swords hung on the wall there. ‘These are the weapons of our ancestors, the previous rulers of Aval-lón,’ my father tells me. ‘One day, my sword will be up there, and you will be the king.’ I look at him, then back at the swords, wide eyed with wonder and excitement.

So many memories of so many things learnt, and yet in spite of all of them, I could still be as ignorant and foolish as a newly whelped hound pup.

A happy memory surfaces. It is summer and the day is as warm as Aval-lón ever gets. Not for nothing does the island of the elves have a reputation for bad weather. But in this memory, the sun is shining, and there are only a few faint wisps of cloud drifting aimlessly across the sky, like tufts of sheep’s wool in the breeze. I am sitting on a rock by the side of the river that runs near Carraig Éanä, the rock of birds that stands next to the hamlet where the king of the elves and his family always lives. The sun is warm on the back of my neck as I bend to pull off my boots; it makes the river water gleam and the edges of the tiny waves breaking the surface sparkle like the silver scales of a fish. I can hear plovers calling in the long yellow-brown grass, and the wild scream of a hawk soaring over the distant hills, softly purple with heather under the sky.

‘I think Lórlan’s coming.’ The voice is Dai’s, who is getting his fingers caught in the buttons of his shirt.

‘Oh, bother,’ I say impatiently. ‘Why’s she here? Why isn’t she playing skip rope or something?’ I am young enough not to want a girl’s company, and old enough to feel self conscious by it, and this makes me cross, in spite of the bright day. ‘Hurry up, Dai, and we can get in before she comes.’ So speaking, I pull my shirt off, nearly ripping it in the process, drop it onto the grassy bank with my trousers, and leap into the river, naked save for my loin cloth.

Dai jumps after me and the water springs up into the air in a glittering arch of shattered silver. The river is so cold that immediately my arms roughen with gooseflesh, and I bounce around on one toe, my teeth beginning to chatter. Dai slaps the water and grins. ‘Come on, Fal! We'll freeze if we don't move about!’

‘I'm moving!’ I dive to the pebbly river bottom and grab Dai’s legs. He turns and pulls me up, only to splash water in my eyes. Yelling and kicking the water into white foam, we dive and dunk each other, twisting and turning like two seals, until, in a pause for breath between war whoops, I hear a small voice from the bank.

‘Your clothes are wet now.’

I push Dai’s head underwater and see Lórlan standing on the bank. There are spots of wet on her tunic and she looks gravely down at the wet pile of our clothes on the ground. Try as I might, I could never understand how Dai had managed to have such a boring sister. They were alike enough, I supposed, and they both had the same quiet black eyes and smooth, fine black hair, but Dai was much more fun. Even though he was respectful, he didn’t let the fact that I was a prince and next ruler of Aval-lón stop him from giving me a ducking whenever he could manage it.

Lórlan’s grave manner annoys me, and I say, ‘Why didn’t you move them then, if you saw they were getting wet?’

‘Then I’d have got wet too.’

‘You already have got wet on your front.’

Lórlan’s hand brushes automatically over her clothes, and she sighs. Dai surfaces, spitting water through his teeth with a skill born of long practice. ‘Come on Fal’ he says to me. ‘Go ’long, ber-ber, go play somewhere else.’

She does not move, so I turn my back and make a wave on the surface of the water with my arm. The current tugs at my legs and the sun warms my cold back and shoulders.

‘Swimming is gey fun,’ Dai says, putting my feelings into words.

‘And so’s dunking!’ I say and try to push him down. He resists, grabs my arm, and another watery romp ensues. I don’t even notice when Lórlan leaves us.

*** *** ***

And in a way, that memory brings me to another one. This second one is just as important as the first. Maybe more so.

In this memory, I am older, about thirteen years. It is evening, and I am sitting on the floor by the fire in the Royal Dun, whittling a stick with my knife. The flickering firelight moves on the wall, distorting my shadow and making it very black against the grey stone. It leaves the corners of the room dark, and plays over the loom, the table, the bed skins and the weapons on the wall. The wind moans outside, and I can hear faint lashings of rain against the thatched roof. One of the dogs, sleeping near the door, sighs and scratches itself, then settles down again, squirming among its two brothers to get comfortable.

Mav is at the table, polishing a buckle on a harness, singing softly under her breath and Thas is sitting on a stool near me, reading a book on sheep cleansing. He looks up as my knife slips and splits the stick down the centre. ‘Patience,’ he says, as I throw the stick into the fire, frowning in annoyance. ‘You were cutting too deep.’

‘I always end up doing that!’ I rub the groove on the ball of my thumb where the knife has dug into my skin. ‘I’ll never get it right.’

‘Yes you will,’ Thas says, unperturbed. ‘It all comes with practise.’

I make a noise somewhere between a snort and a sniff, and glare at the fire. It leaps and burns, sparks snapping up the chimney. The logs are charred black, and one is burnt nearly all the way through. It falls down among the hearth stones with a crack that makes me jump. A headache begins somewhere behind my eyes, a painful nag deep inside my brain.

‘Mlanann it all,’ I mutter, digging the heel of my hand into my eyes. The pain only gets worse.

‘What’s the matter, Fal?’ Mav asks.

‘I’ve… got a headache.’ The words come with difficulty, forcing their way out between my clenched teeth. ‘It came on all of a sudden… ah, it hurts!’

‘Do you want to lie down? Come on, lie on your bed.’ When I do not answer her, Mav asks, ‘Fal?’ Her voice is sharp with sudden anxiety.

I scrunch my eyes tight shut. Almost without realizing it, I am rocking back and forth on my stool, and in the darkness of my closed eyelids, I see mad bursts of colours, like demented fireworks. Gold and white, blue and ruby. From far away, I hear Mav cry, ‘Fal, what is it? Talk to me! Athrachan, help him!’

Thas’s hand grips my shoulder tight. Too tight. ‘Fal…’

I shudder, and the pain seems to burst inside my head, and it is not like a firework anymore, but like an unfurling flower, each petal clear and perfect, traced with intricate and minute veins. My eyes are still closed, but I See.

I See an elf, standing on the sea shore. I do not know him, but he seems faintly familiar. He is still young, but his face is worn and lined, his black hair starting to silver at the sides. He stares out at the sea, the wind whipping his clothes and there is such a longing in his face, such a sad, aching loneliness, as though the ocean separates him from all that he knows and loves.

In a detached, unimportant way, I can hear my voice talking. It is saying strange things that I cannot understand, but I do not waste effort trying to fathom the meaning.

The gold and white, blue and ruby swirl across my sight and I See more.

I See another baby, held in a she-elf’s arms. She holds the baby close, and her golden hair falls across her face, creating a protective curtain over the child. Then she straightens, and I See tears on her cheeks, making silver trails on her tanned skin. She hands the baby to someone I cannot See, and then turns away, scrubbing at her face with her hands, weeping quietly.

The gold and white, the blue and ruby are blotted out by black shadows. All the scenes fade, and all that is left is darkness. Darkness that goes on for ever and ever. Darkness that never ends.

But the darkness did end, of course. The next morning I woke up feeling no different from normal, except for a slight reminder of last night’s headache. Mav and Thas had been more than a little worried when I collapsed and then started talking aloud of babies and precious secrets, so they had immediately called the healer. He had listened to what they had to say, shrugged and said, ‘I’m thinking here’s a case for the seers and not for me. The boy’s fine, and so is his mind. Just call me when he wakes up.’

So, when I did awake, I found I had an audience waiting to hear any tale I had to tell. The healer looked into my eyes and asked me how I fared. I replied that I felt all right, except that my eyes hurt and they were very bleary, so I couldn’t see very well. The seers nodded, and said that was natural after prophesying.

‘Prophesying?’ I exclaimed. ‘You mean I’m… a prophet?’

‘So it would seem,’ came the placid reply.

And so it was. With and time and teaching, I learned to recognize the signs before I went into the Seeing-Sark and this helped me avoid embarrassing scenes. It’s much more comfortable obliviously prophesying in private, rather than surrounded by gawking onlookers. Some people who are able to enter the Seeing Sark call it a curse. Not only is it uncomfortable, but it can be a terrible burden to bear, knowing the fate of others. I revelled in my ability, though, feeling that it marked me out, made me unique. I suppose it did, in a way, but as time went on, I began to realise that my pride was not the wisest thing to have. Seeing works both ways, as I found out to my cost.