Two armies faced each other at the bottom of a wide, flat valley, surrounded by rolling hills covered with thick, green sod. Ranks of archers were at the ready in front of massed groups of foot soldiers. Off to the sides stood mounted cavalry, their horses vibrating with anticipation, their armor gleaming in the sun.

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 horses. Weapons, ranging from long swords, to maces and morning stars, were at the ready, well-oiled and rust-free. 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, 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—that of a man in the prime of his life, dressed in all black armor and sitting atop an impressively huge black 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 man in the golden armor sighed heavily, as if all the cares of the entire world sat firmly on his shoulders. "Viviane will be here at the appropriate time?" he asked, the faintest hint of worry in his voice. "She will complete her task?"

The 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 before taking up his reins again. "She will be here, Gwydion. She would not fail her nephew. Not now; not 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'?" he asked, incredulity stamped on his handsome features. "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," 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." He shrugged, as if unmoved by the tragedy of son pitting himself against father and king at the urging of a bitter, jealous woman. "The prophecy will come true. I have seen it. Vivaine has seen it. She will do her part. The cup will be safe. We will find it again. 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."