“Do you remember Ithlinne’s prophecy, Isengrim Faoiltiarna?” Ida Emean asked the elven warrior as she approached the heart of Shaerrawedd’s ruins. The destroyed city sat deep in the forests of Kaedwen and the two were at its heart, in the middle of a once grand marble palace.

  Isengrim ignored her, carefully placing a white rose at the feet of a large block of marble with a relief of a beautiful elvish woman carved upon its side, her sad face gazing at the viewer. The relief was overgrown by a bush of white lilies. Though not completely accurate to life, the statue was close enough to the true likeness of Aelirenn.

  Once he was done, he sat at the edge of a dry fountain, Ida joining him soon after.

  The red-haired sorceress’s eyes took on a faraway look as she recited, “And the king of the South shall rise up against the kings of the North and overrun their lands like a flood, they will be crushed, their nations destroyed... And so shall begin the extinction of the world. Who is far shall die at once, who is near shall fall from the sword, who hides shall die of hunger, who survives shall perish from the frost... For Tedd Deireádh, the Time of the End, the Time of the Sword and the Axe, the Time of Disdain, the Time of the White Frost and the Wolven Blizzard shall come…”

  She paused, looking into Isengrim’s eyes, ignoring the disfiguring scar that marred his face, “Only those who follow Zireael, the Swallow, will survive.”

  “Very good, I do so enjoy hearing about our doom every now and then, Aen Saevherne,” the grizzled elf responded, “But do get to the point.”

  “The blood of elves has not stopped flowing since Aelirenn’s folly, though the dh'oine hate us now more than ever,” Ida continued, ignoring Isengrim’s sarcasm.

  “Careful now,” the elven warrior spoke, voice hard as his hand settled on the pommel of his sword.

  “I said it then, and I will say it now,” Ida Emean turned her amber eyes on the warrior.

  The two stared at each other for a few moments, before Isengrim looked away.

  “Fool or not,” Isengrim spat out, “She was right.”

  Ida nodded slightly, “She mistook the stars reflected in a pond for the night sky.”

  Isengrim frowned but stayed silent.

  “A quote one of Enid’s acquaintances is fond of, fitting for the White Rose of Shaerrawedd, no?” Ida continued.

  The warrior hung his head, “I cannot deny that there is wisdom in your words, but you are mistaken about one thing, Aen Saevherne.”

  “Oh?” The red-haired sorceress asked.

  “Aelirenn was not stupid. We all knew that the chances of victory were slim, O knowing one,” his hard eyes found hers, “No matter the outcome, it was a preferable fate to rotting, starving and hiding in the mountains while the dh’oine continued dancing on the remains of our people. At least for us,” he finished, the emphasis put on the word making it obvious that it did not encompass Ida herself.

  Not an unfair assessment, considering.

  “Why are you here, Ida Emean aep Sivney, and not hiding in your mountains? Have you finally grown tired of inaction?” Isengrim finished.

  “Inaction is a paradox,” Ida replied calmly, “To stand by and do nothing is a choice just like any other. Do you wish to know why I lent my voice to that of Simlas back then? Why I advocated for peace? Why I helped kill your Rose, if only through inaction?”

  Isengrim’s face grew colder, “The matter has crossed my mind once or twice.”

  Ida sighed, “Youth.”

  Ignoring the funny facial expression that appeared on Isengrim’s face, she continued.

  “Aelirenn died because she fought for a cause lost centuries before,” the sorceress explained.

  “Centuries?” he said, the barest hint of inquiry lurking in his tone.

  Ida nodded, “We had lost this world to humankind a long time ago, yet the White Rose sought to drive humanity off when the only war that remained was one of our very survival, Isengrim. A war Aelirenn nearly lost us in her rashness. A war we are still fighting.”

  Isengrim fell silent. A minute or so later, he spoke, “When? When do you think we lost, then?”

  The sorceress tilted her head, “Somewhere around the middle of the ninth century, in my reckoning.”

  Upon seeing Isengrim’s disbelief, Ida decided to expand a little, “Less than two centuries after they came, yes. There was no grand event that signalled our loss, if that is what you are wondering. Just… numbers.”

  Ida’s eyes took on a far-off look. There was something comforting in the brutal clarity of arithmetic. That kind of... reorientation in one's perspective was not easily found amidst the centuries of tears and blood that wove the tale of their civiliation. She’d have to thank that girl properly once they met again, for shining a light on these harsh truths.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  “Did you know then? I do not remember the fall of Loc Muinne, but I do know you were one of the Aen Saevherne who helped teach the human Sources.”

  Ida’s eyes took on a faraway look, “Then? No. I was not interested in humans then, or politics. Loc Muinne was over a century later. I suspected by then, yes. After Aelirenn’s war started, many blamed us Aen Saevherne for teaching the dh’oine, until it became obvious that human mages of any real power had not participated. Yet still we lost, utterly.”

  She sighed, “Of those children, only Gerhart of Aelle remains. If Enid is to be believed, he still supports our cause. Does that allay your concerns?”

  “I believe you acted in the best interests of our kind. In your mind, at least. However, you have still not answered my question. Why are you here? Why did you search me out, Emean?” Isengrim responded.

  “There are only two questions about Aen Ithlinnespeath that matter, Isengrim. The Kingdom and the Swallow,” Ida began.

  “An astute deduction worthy of your title, O knowing one,” Isengrim mocked.

  Ida continued, uncaring of his words, “Through Ithlinne’s location, we can deduce that the King of the South will rise south of the Pontar River, possibly even south of the Yaruga. Yet no kingdom can boast supremacy there in either case, which leaves us only with the Swallow, for now.”

  “Some called Aelirenn the Swallow, Aen Saevherne. There is a new one every decade,” Isengrim spoke, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  “I care not for the opinions of fools, Isengrim,” Ida retorted, some annoyance finally creeping into her voice, “The Swallow, the symbol of spring, is the saviour, the one who will open the Forbidden Door, show the way to salvation. And make possible the world’s rebirth. The Swallow, the Child of Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood,” she quoted.

  “A seed that will not sprout but burst into flames,“ Isengrim added, “Yes, I too have heard of the prophecy, Ida Emean. You have disturbed me for long enough. Get to the point.”

  Ida shrugged, “I doubt you have heard it in its entirety, but very well. While any speculations regarding the Southern King are worthless, though a candidate will likely appear soon, the carriers of the Elder Blood are few. Auberon passed the blood to Lara Dorren and she, to humankind. I won’t bore you with the details, but there is only a single child of the Elder Blood that we are certain of. Unfortunately, that does not preclude the existence of others.”

  “Ah. You’ve lost track.” Isengrim deduced.

  Ida nodded, “Lara Dorren made a mess of things when she married Cregennan. Bastards, affairs, coups and many other dh’oine customs make it very likely that other holders of the Blood roam the world. There is only a single child I can be certain of possessing the blood.”

  “And you think you’ve found another one,” Isengrim sneered, “I’ve heard that before.”

  “An unfortunate consequence of a long lifespan,” Ida concurred, “Nevertheless. I cannot be certain, but it is possible that this is the real Swallow. Too likely to leave alone, certainly.”

  “I still do not see what you want from me. Can you not chase your delusions on your own?” The warrior retorted, though his voice was without heat.

  “Did you know that Ithlinne uttered her prophecy in the Laith aen Undod, the One Speech, Isengrim? The oldest known language in the world, almost lost to memory. Indeed, I am one of the very few who can still speak it.” She paused, “The Wolven Blizzard can also be translated as the Age of the Wolf, Isengrim Faoiltiarna. Not the Age of the Sage, or the Sorceress, but a Wolf.”

  The elven warrior snorted, “That’s it? You followed me here just because they call me the Iron Wolf? There are a hundred other possible interpretations, even I can see that Aen Saevherne.”

  Ida Emean aep Sivney smiled, “There is also the matter of your fame, Iron Wolf, but otherwise you are right. Yet, it is not impossible to force fate to bend to our wills, Isengrim. Destiny is not carved in stone,” she finished, turning her gaze upon Aelirenn's carved face.

  Silence reigned for over a minute, “I do not understand,” Isengrim gritted out.

  Ida turned back to the warrior, “I am, as the humans put it, hedging my bets. If that girl really is the Zireael, then destiny itself will help you, Isengrim. I believe you will find much in common with the girl in any case.”

  “Destiny will help me,” the warrior repeated sarcastically, “It is a nice story, but one I do not like, O knowing one. I refuse.”

  “Even if the child could gift our people a home?”

  Isengrim froze.

  “You are not referring to the prophecy,” he half asked.

  “Not the Aen Ithlinnespeath, no,” Ida spoke, voice measured, “This child… She does not care one whit about race and whether through skill or fate, she is destined for greatness. Prophecy or not, there is an opportunity for our kind there, Isengrim. One I want you to take.”

  Isengrim stayed silent for longer, this time.

  “What made you think this girl could possess the Elder Blood?” He eventually asked.

  It was the Sorceress’ time to turn pensive, “In her memory, I had seen a different world, a different time. I do not believe she did so consciously, but I do not think anyone but the Zireael could have crossed worlds without even realizing their action.”

  The girl had been rather adept at shielding her mind, at least for her age, which prevented Ida from rummaging through her memories as she pleased, but she had seen enough.

  Isengrim’s eyes widened at that.

  The two sat together under the stone eyes of Aelirenn, both deep in thought for a while.

  The elven warrior spoke eventually, “If she really is the Zireael, would it not be wiser to wait for the Southern King?”

  Ida inclined her head, “That will be Enid an Gleanna’s role.”

  “Ah, so I am the fallback. I understand better now, Aen Saevherne.”

  The sorceress shrugged, “Not a wrong assessment. Though the influence over our kind for the both of you stems from your roles in Aelirenn's,” Ida paused, “rebellion, she is the daughter of Simlas Finn aep Dabairr and a sorceress besides, while you are merely a talented warrior.”

  “Unfortunately, Isengrim, the war we are fighting is one of survival. I will do anything for victory.”

  She looked at him with eyes so cold they made even the veteran warrior shudder, “And I know you will as well.”