Two armies stood facing against each other at the bottom of a wide, flat valley, surrounded by rolling hills covered with thick, green sod. Ranks of archers stood at the ready in front of massed groups of foot soldiers. Off to the sides of each army, cavalry stood, their horses practically vibrating with anticipation.
Atop a hill behind the southern army, stood a small group of impeccably turned-out men. Their armor shone blindingly in the sun, as did their war horses. Weapons, ranging from long swords, to maces and morning stars, to quarterstaves, were at the ready, gleaming and well-cared for. There was a strange sense of calm laid like a thick fog over them, as if they were just going through the motions of battle, as if the outcome of the fight was already set in stone.
In the middle of this group were two gleaming dappled gray horses, larger and more muscular than the rest. An old man with a flowing white beard and a tall staff sat on one of the horses; at his side, another man, this one just slightly younger than the first, and dressed in golden armor with a bejeweled crown atop his proud brow. His eyes were squinted against the sun, searching the far hill for a specific figure.
"He's there," said the old man, pointing with his chin towards a tiny shape across the wide valley. The shape, obviously that of a man in the prime of his life, dressed in all black armor and sitting atop an impressively huge black war horse, was just barely visible through the massed ranks of men who populated the valley. "He would not miss this battle, old friend. Today, he fulfills his destiny."
The younger of the two men sighed heavily. "Viviane will be here at the appropriate time?" he asked, the faintest hint of worry in his voice. "She will complete her task?"
The old, bearded man reached across the small gulf that separated him from his oldest and truest friend and placed his gnarled, arthritic hand atop his friend's arm. He squeezed gently once more taking up his reins. "She will be here, Gwydion. She would not fail her nephew. Not now, at the time of his greatest need."
One corner of the younger man's mouth tucked up in a surprised half-smile as he turned and gave the other a frank look. "'Gwydion'? You have not called me by that name in more than thirty years." He fell silent then, returning his gaze once more to the black figure on the far hill. "This should not have come to war, Taliesin," he said sadly. "The boy should learn patience; I will not live forever. He would wear the crown once I am dead."
"He is poisoned against you by his mother. He will not listen to reason." Taliesin shrugged, as if unmoved by the tragedy of son pitting himself against his father and king at the urging of a bitter, jealous woman. "The prophecy will come true as I have seen it. The cup will be safe. We will find it again, Gwydion. Do not fear."
The younger man nodded and turned his attention to one of the other men on the hilltop. "Uwaine, signal the archers. Let us begin."
Atop a hill behind the southern army, stood a small group of impeccably turned-out men. Their armor shone blindingly in the sun, as did their war horses. Weapons, ranging from long swords, to maces and morning stars, to quarterstaves, were at the ready, gleaming and well-cared for. There was a strange sense of calm laid like a thick fog over them, as if they were just going through the motions of battle, as if the outcome of the fight was already set in stone.
In the middle of this group were two gleaming dappled gray horses, larger and more muscular than the rest. An old man with a flowing white beard and a tall staff sat on one of the horses; at his side, another man, this one just slightly younger than the first, and dressed in golden armor with a bejeweled crown atop his proud brow. His eyes were squinted against the sun, searching the far hill for a specific figure.
"He's there," said the old man, pointing with his chin towards a tiny shape across the wide valley. The shape, obviously that of a man in the prime of his life, dressed in all black armor and sitting atop an impressively huge black war horse, was just barely visible through the massed ranks of men who populated the valley. "He would not miss this battle, old friend. Today, he fulfills his destiny."
The younger of the two men sighed heavily. "Viviane will be here at the appropriate time?" he asked, the faintest hint of worry in his voice. "She will complete her task?"
The old, bearded man reached across the small gulf that separated him from his oldest and truest friend and placed his gnarled, arthritic hand atop his friend's arm. He squeezed gently once more taking up his reins. "She will be here, Gwydion. She would not fail her nephew. Not now, at the time of his greatest need."
One corner of the younger man's mouth tucked up in a surprised half-smile as he turned and gave the other a frank look. "'Gwydion'? You have not called me by that name in more than thirty years." He fell silent then, returning his gaze once more to the black figure on the far hill. "This should not have come to war, Taliesin," he said sadly. "The boy should learn patience; I will not live forever. He would wear the crown once I am dead."
"He is poisoned against you by his mother. He will not listen to reason." Taliesin shrugged, as if unmoved by the tragedy of son pitting himself against his father and king at the urging of a bitter, jealous woman. "The prophecy will come true as I have seen it. The cup will be safe. We will find it again, Gwydion. Do not fear."
The younger man nodded and turned his attention to one of the other men on the hilltop. "Uwaine, signal the archers. Let us begin."