For many years I did not know who I was and where I had come from. It seems as if I have spent my whole childhood in a fortified castle near the borders of our enemy land, Sharlilai. My master has always told me that I was different from everybody else in the castle. But I am more than just different, I am an outcast. I have always been and I will always be; even after the dragonhead has sunk together with me to the bottom of the sea, people will always call me Heraldin’s bast-ard. Back in the days when I was a young man, other pages called me like that and told me that I should be grateful for what my king had done for me. Unfortunately, I realize now, they were right. The greatest thing King Naghren has done for me, is letting me live with my master. If he had wanted, he could have sentenced me to death the minute I entered his castle. But he did not, instead he gave Heraldin the permission to adopt and train me. 
Now, I would like to tell you the whole story of my arrival but I recall only vague memories, and I am not sure if what I remember is the truth. After so many winters, I fear that my mind is full of visions that have little to do with what happened that day. But, there is one thing that I am sure of: that night, I died as an anonymous boy and was reborn again as the only page of a mighty warlock named Heraldin. For I did not recall any details of my previous existence, my master gave me a new name, an elfin name, Deäron. Soon I realized that my name was something peculiar as nobody wanted to call me like that, apart from Heraldin. Thus I was called Elf by most people. Not that I was one, but the king told me once that my appearance reminded him of an old elfin friend; a man he had not seen in a long time and he did not know if he was still alive. But, this acquaintance of his has nothing to do with the story I am about to recount. 

On my sixteenth birthday, Heraldin gave me a golden medallion as a gift for becoming a man . It did not look unusual nor did it contain any secret. But as I sat on my bed later that night, staring at the runic figures on the medallion, I started rethinking what I had accomplished in my short, yet somehow turbulent life. I felt the need to know more about myself, about my upbringing before my master had found me, more dead than alive. I had a few theories about my early childhood, but none of them made any sense. Sometimes I considered being a fallen angel, doomed to spend my days on earth. While on other occasions, I imagined that my family had left me behind because I was rather a burden to them than a gift. Either story brought discomfort and dismay, saddening my mind so badly that my master did not know what to do with me. Do not get me wrong, my master was probably the wisest wizard of his time, but he did not understand human emotions at all. He belonged to the race of the Solkarians, a high regarded tribe of warlocks whose powers came from the ancient Gods themselves. It is said that in exchange for power, they lost their emotions. Nobody knows if this is the truth, but it would be a logical explanation for none of the warlocks can experience any kind of emotion. Unfortunately internal struggle has caused them to be nearly extinct and if the tide does not turn rapidly, there will be none left, which is a shame as a great amount of ancient knowledge will vanish with them. No man has actually ever understood how a nation of cold-hearted but very wise wizards could slaughter their own kinsmen, but it has happened before and will probably occur again.
Nevertheless, that night I decided to no longer dwell in misery, but to undertake some serious action. I had no plan yet, but I knew that I wanted to find the place where my roots were hidden. 

Since I was too eager to fall asleep, I went to the courtyard, where soldiers were listening to the tales of Yiar, the minstrel, while drinking golden mead. I had just come in time to hear the last lines of his tale: 

“Thus spoke the men of the North, mourning for their master. 
For the hero’s passing’s left a hole, in their hearts forever. 
The king’s kin in misery; the kindest and keenest he was. 
In the wind his name resounds, in the rain his words live on.”

I had heard this story many times before and even today I am still able to recite entire passages. Yiar had many stories but this one was my absolute favourite, for it told the tale of a Report me I am Spamming who became a king. Even though I have never had the ambition to become a king, it was somehow comforting to know that people like me are able to achieve something in their life and that they are not doomed to stay in the shade forever. 
My appearance had not been noticed by many, in fact only Yiar had noticed me leaning against the trunk of the hallowed oak tree while staring at the flickering light of the campfire. After he had accepted a few coins given by the soldiers, he came my way with a cup of mead. 
“Elf, my good friend, it is good to see you again after a long winter. What are you up to these days?” he asked whilst handing me the cup. 
“I am mastering the ancient spells of Ruin and Despair.” I answered without any grimace on my face.
“That is some serious spell work for a boy your age. Are you sure Heraldin is not trying to turn you into a heartless creature?” he grinned.
I chuckled softly and took a sip of my drink. The mead was cinnamon-flavoured, and you could taste that it had aged in pine-wooden barrels for many months. I licked my lips and jokily answered my friend’s question: “I am pretty sure that is his main goal, but unlike him, I am human and we will always have emotions.”
“Don’t lose that human touch, Elf. It is the key to success.” Yiar said with a serious tone in his voice.
I shrugged: “I am not sure Heraldin would agree with you on that.” 
“Which makes me the minstrel and him the wizard.” He laughed quietly while playing a few notes on his harp: “Shall I tell you the tale of the seven brothers, Elf”
My eyes sparkled with joy: “Yes, I would love to.” 

I spent the rest of the evening listening to a marvellous story of seven orphaned brothers who did unbelievable things in order to stay alive. It was only years later that I fathomed that it was probably his own story Yiar told me that day. After a few more cups of mead, I decided to hit the sack for I knew that the next day would be just another day full of training. Secretly I wished my master had already gone to bed, which was a foolish idea since I was well aware that he needs very little sleep. Even though he did not sleep that much and that often, the man was almost obsessed with the concept of sleeping. Now that I think back of it, I remember that Heraldin liked to observe me when I was fast asleep. He told me once that he was fascinated by the way the human mind and body works when we are in ‘a state of unconsciousness’ as he liked to call it. 
“You couldn’t sleep.” was the first thing he said when I entered the main chamber.
“Why should a man bother lying down when all he does is ponder.” I said, trying to sound as wise as possible, as he did not approve of any other kind of answer. 
“Fair enough,” he responded without looking up from the map he was drawing: “But why should a man who does not have the will to sleep listen to irrational tales instead of studying the old laws of our kingdom.
For Heraldin, true knowledge could only be obtained from books, written by men who mastered their subject. Yiar’s stories however, were invented and could not have any value for a man like me, the human to whom he had given the opportunity to rise from the ashes so that he could become the apprentice of one of the greatest men alive.
“But, I like his stories. They are like an escape from reality for me, so that I do not have to think about all the aspect of life that bother me and…”
He interrupted me: “Why would anyone want to escape reality. Is the world we know not interesting enough for you, Deäron? Or has this to do with your emotions? You know I cannot ask you to block them from your mind, but you have to understand that you must learn to control them. And you cannot possibly learn that when all you do at night is listening to foolish tales of a foolish man. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes master, I will try to do better next time.” I answered, and went to bed.
The mead had made me a little bit drowsy, which made it easier to fall asleep. In no time, my mind was wandering in an dark void, causing a dreamless but very relaxing sleep. In the early morning, a bunch of black birds cried me awake with their deafening shrieks. (Sometimes I still want to curse them whenever they bother me in my sleep, but luckily enough for them, I don’t have the heart to hurt animals of any kind.) After a refreshing splash of water on my face, I started to get dressed. It was only then that I noticed that my master was not there anymore. It didn’t bother me at all, as Heraldin often went out around sunrise or sometimes he took off for a few days or weeks without telling anybody of his whereabouts. Living together with an emotionless man could be quite surprising at times, for he never took into account what humans think of his behaviour. He came and went as he pleased, but for some reason he always knew when he was very needed.

After breakfast, I went to the stables to take care of my horse. Normally I would have groomed Heraldin’s horse as well, but as I had assumed, his horse wasn’t there. Ilta was a black Arabian stallion, whose mother had been captured by nobody less than King Naghren himself on a journey to the Middle East. The king had given me Ilta because the horse was too stubborn to serve anybody else but me, the one who had nourished and looked after him when his mother had died in labour. Ilta was happy to see me that day, and in his eyes I could read how he longed for a ride. But I had to disappoint my dear friend, no trips were planned for today. He sighed and turned his back to me, focussing on a half-chewed carrot rather than me. “Tomorrow is another day.” I whispered, and closed the gate of his stable. A few more minutes I stared at my big black friend, but he continued to ignore me.

The rest of the day passed slowly as I studied ancient manuscripts of the Sharlilains, trying to find ways to get round their excuses to reject king Naghren as their rightful king. But who was I kidding, many way wiser humans, wizards and other inhabitants of our land had studied these texts, and found nothing. Why would a 16 year old apprentice find anything new? What was Heralidin thinking when he gave me that task, “to do whenever I am not here to teach you.” After three hours, my back started hurting from sitting on an old stool that looked as if it would collapse any time. I was about the give up when I saw something scribbled under the last line of the first chapter. The writing was messy and unclear but I could recognize the word ‘black’. I flipped to the next pages, and soon noticed that after every chapter a word was written in the same handwriting. After forty-six chapters, the words formed a poem:

“Black ravens sang above the wilderness 
where young blood melted frost off the ground 
And then heaven glowed behind the dark stream
where heroes were rewarded for their deeds
When these lines are sung by an elf-like boy
brothers are called from behind the dark stream”

I reread every word thrice, trying to figure out the meaning of the poem and wondering if I were the first one to discover it. Clearly there had been a battle in which young men had died. They had gone to heaven and an elf-like boy could resurrect them by singing this song. So many questions popped into my head, and the more I thought about, the more I wanted to talk to Heraldin. Every couple of minutes I looked out of the window, waiting restlessly for my master to return.

I woke up the next morning from the familiar shrieking sounds of the black birds. My whole body felt stiff and I had a terrible headache, which was no wonder as I had fallen asleep at my desk trying to find more clues in the manuscripts. I looked up and turned around, hoping that Heraldin had returned from his trip, but was disappointed.

The rest of the day I spent with the squires; not only because I needed the exercise and but also because it would take my mind off the poem. Most of the squires were humans, an exception was half-breed human, and were trained to become knights in service of our king. All of them were brought to the castle around the age of seven by their father, a rich landlord, merchant or statesman. I knew these boys quite well as Heraldin had always insisted on me having some training together with these young warriors. Not only because sword fighting is an essential skill, but also because it was a perfect way to train some of the tricks he had taught me, like the sword bending trick. It is an easy way to defeat somebody in battle as you bend his sword in a way that it becomes unusable. That day however I did not perform any tricks at all; the squires and I did some normal sword fighting and horseback riding. Ilta loved being out of his muggy dusty stable for a change, and his good mood helped to calm me down. The squires were their usual selves; ignoring me in their typical friendly way. I did not care much about it, after all it was how they were taught to deal with my kind, with bast-ards.

After a well-deserved shower and meal, I returned to the tower. And guess who was there, waiting for me in his ugly-brown rocking chair? Yes, I could have hugged the man, so glad was I to see his face.
“I see you have done what I has asked you to do.” He said as monotonously as always.
“Yes, sir, I have so many questions.” I said with more agitation than intended and before Heraldin could stop me, a massive load of questions were fired at him.
“Däeron, stop this madness!” he yelled at me, the echo of voice filling the whole room. I was silent for a few seconds, then cautiously continued the conversation “I apologize for my despicable behaviour, but especially you, the one who gave me this task, ought to be wise enough to know that I’m eager to know the answer.
Heraldin frowned: “The answer to what?”
“The poem, is it” – I gulped- “about me?”
“That honey drink the bard gave you melted your brain, human, of course it is not about you. It’s part of a myth, written several hundreds of years ago by Sharlilai skalds.”
‘So I wasn’t the first one to discover the poem in the manuscript’, I thought, while Heraldin continued his rant on dead drunk bars whose tales did not only poisoned their own mind but also that of his apprentice.
“I am not insane!” I snapped: “What makes you think it is fiction? Can it not be ancient knowledge of some kind?”
“It is fiction because it is simply impossible to return once one is beyond this journey,” my master said: “ For centuries the wizard council have believed that there is nothing after life but big black hole. All these myths are created to deceive people of lesser knowledge to keep them safe and happy. Death is a frightening path for many people, Deäron. When they can believe there is something worth living for, their miserable existence becomes easier to bear.
“So there is nothing to live for?” I asked, slightly taken aback by Heraldin’s little speech.
He nodded: “Is that a problem?”
“Of course it is! If there’s nothing to live for, then why are we even here?
“My boy, that is a question even the wisest of all wizards cannot answer. Some say we are a scientific accident, others belief in a godlike creature who…”
I interrupted Heraldin: “So there is a God of some kind? But if there’s a God, there has to be an afterlife…”
“Some wizards think there is a God, but who says he grants us an afterlife? When a sword breaks in battle, its owner throws it away as it has become a useless object. The sword rusts and rots away until nothing of it is left. When we die, our bodies become useless and rot away just like that broken sword. ”Heraldin continued.
“It still does not prove there is nothing beyond this life.” I said stubbornly.
“Deäron, if there were such thing as an afterlife, a Solkarian wizard would have shown up as a spirit to tell us about it.” He said as if it were the most obvious answer of all. I hated to admit it, but Heraldin could have been right about this. But I wasn’t going to give up: “Sir, let us consider for one moment that there is such thing as an afterlife. Why can’t I be the boy of the poem?”
“Because you are not the first tall, pale-faced boy with pointy ears and cyan eyes in the history of our world, and certainly not the last. Besides, I only let you keep the long hair, because it makes you look wiser than the foolish apprentice you are.”