The Second Battle, Prologue
Uscias watched as Semias tossed another log on the fire. A shower of sparks sprayed across the velvet black of the sky. The smoke curled up and wound its way towards the heavens. Esras, who had been out of the fire’s range watching the northern shoreline, rubbed his frozen hands together as he strode towards them. The fourth companion, who had been silent with his own thoughts, spoke.
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“They will go to war again,” Mor-fesae said. “I’ve seen it.”
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Uscias nodded. “Aye, I’ve seen it, too.” The four Old Ones fell silent for a long time.
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At last, Esras spoke, “Will the mists rise again?”
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Mor-fesae shook his head. “They do not yet know there will be another war. They plan for peace.”
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Semias grunted. “Elatha is a good man, but he should have left the girl alone, I’m thinking.”
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Esras shrugged that off as yesterday’s news. His eyebrow rose in query. “So it’s decided, then? They’ll give the kingship to Bres?” Semias nodded.
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Uscias spat into the fire and sent smoke into the air with a sizzle. The Old Ones had cautioned against such strict qualifications for kingship. They had told them over and over that soundness of mind was to be preferred over that of body, but the Tuatha Dé Danann would have it all—perfection in all things. And now it was going to cost them their hard-won peace.
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They stared into the fire as it leapt and danced. As they remembered the first war, shapes from the past rose and fell in the flames.
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The Tuatha Dé came to the shores of Ireland and burned their boats so there could be no retreat. They fought the Fir Bolg for this sacred land and won a hard-fought battle. Was it really the smoke from their boats that aided them, or had the very spirits of land, sea, and sky risen up in their defense? Who could say? What they could say, though, was that Nuada was no longer fit to be king. He'd lost an arm in the battle, and even the silver one fashioned by the leech didn't change the law. They had to choose a new king.
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The four Old Ones fell silent with their memories. They watched as the logs crashed in on themselves and nearly smothered their fire. It now smoldered, hot, but with little light.
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From the distance, they heard a cry, and as one they turned to the shore. They watched as the familiar figure of Manannán mac Lir lifted a small boy out of the water. They watched as he pounded the boy on the back as he struggled to breathe. They watched as he carried the boy towards their fire.
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Manannán nodded a curt greeting and set the boy down to get warm. They didn’t speak, and the boy fell asleep, exhausted.
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Semias grunted. “He’s Cían’s get.” Manannán nodded. None of the Old Ones spoke.
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“You’re thinking I should have let him drown, then?” he asked. Semias shrugged.
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Manannán looked at the faces around the fire, grim and dour. He sighed. “Well, I didn’t, and that’s that. Damn the prophecy.” The Old Ones didn’t respond. Manannán stood, lifting the sleeping boy in his arms. As he walked away from the campfire, he called back to them, “He’ll be the best of us all, though, mark my words.”
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