The World Before the Garden Queen

Hansall dreamed that someone had forgotten his name.

Not Whitegrove.

That name had not existed when he was young.

Not High King.

Kings had not existed either.

Not Firstborn. Not Protector. Not the old titles diplomats stacked before his name whenever they

wanted something from him.

Hansall.

Someone had forgotten Hansall.

And for reasons he could not explain, that frightened him more than death ever had.

He stood barefoot beneath trees.

That was the first thing he noticed.

The second was that the trees were impossible.

Hansall knew forests.

He knew how roots changed beneath different soils. He knew the smell of silverpine before rain.

He could tell from the angle of a broken branch whether a stag, a soldier or something

considerably less pleasant had passed beneath it.

He remembered forests before roads had divided them.

Before borders.

Before kingdoms.

Before Elves had become sufficiently numerous to argue over who owned which tree.

But he did not know these.

One trunk rose beside him wider than the palace he had fallen asleep inside. Its bark was white

and faintly translucent, and beneath it flowed something resembling starlight.

Another tree bore tiny suns.

Not glowing fruit.

Suns.

Hansall stared at one.

Fire curled across its surface. Something dark passed before it, impossibly distant despite the

fruit hanging only several arm lengths above him.

Hansall looked away.

"Subtle."

Something laughed.

He froze.

His hand went instinctively toward his hip.

Nothing.

No sword.

Hansall looked down properly for the first time.

No armour.

No boots.

No royal mantle.

He wore a plain white tunic.

And his hands...

Hansall slowly raised them.

Young.

His breath caught.

He turned one over.

Smooth palm.

No scar where the Serpent of Harrowfen had bitten through his gauntlet.

He checked the other.

Nothing.

He touched his wrist.

The pale burn from the Gods-Blood spear was gone.

Hansall ran his fingers across his ribs.

No raised scar.

His shoulder.

Nothing.

His face.

Smooth.

He stood very still.

Then laughed once beneath his breath.

"Now I know this isn't real."

The forest laughed again.

Hansall's amusement disappeared.

There had been no voice.

No creature.

The leaves themselves had moved.

Not from wind.

There was no wind.

"Wonderful."

He turned.

"An intelligent forest."

Something moved behind a tree.

Hansall caught only the edge of antlers.

"Come out."

Silence.

"I am considerably less patient than I appear."

A woman stepped from behind the trunk.

At least Hansall thought she was a woman.

Pale skin.

Black eyes.

Branches growing from her hair like antlers.

She watched him.

Hansall watched her.

"Did you bring me here?"

She tilted her head.

Then became a fox.

Hansall stared.

The white fox trotted away.

"...apparently not."

He looked around.

That was when he noticed the path.

It had not been there before.

Pale stones wound between the impossible roots.

Hansall remained where he was.

He had survived several thousand years largely because he possessed a healthy suspicion of

conveniently appearing roads.

Then he heard the singing.

Every muscle in his body relaxed before his mind understood why.

Hansall knew Fae music.

He knew the song mothers sang when infants were presented beneath their first moon.

He knew the mourning hymn of the northern Houses.

He knew the obscene marching song Hansenel had once taught an entire military camp and

subsequently denied writing.

He knew the Moon Elves' midnight prayers.

The Passing Song of the Elu-Hsal.

Selanal's Green Wardens used whistles based upon melodies older than their order.

Hansall knew thousands.

This was none of them.

And somehow...

it was all of them.

Hansall closed his eyes.

His throat tightened.

Every Fae melody he had ever heard suddenly seemed incomplete.

Fragments.

Variations.

Echoes of something so ancient that the mortal world had remembered only pieces.

Hansall opened his eyes.

"Where are you taking me?"

The path waited.

He followed.

Creatures watched him from between the trees.

Some Hansall recognised.

Others made him uncomfortable precisely because he did not.

A stag stood upon a ridge with transparent skin and constellations moving inside its body.

Tiny winged creatures flew overhead carrying lanterns.

Hansall looked into one as it passed.

He saw a woman laughing.

Not a picture.

A memory.

She turned toward someone beyond the lantern's edge.

Hansall heard her say a name he did not know.

Then the creature disappeared among the branches.

Hansall stopped.

"Those are memories."

No answer.

He continued.

The forest grew brighter.

Not because morning approached.

Hansall wasn't certain morning existed here.

Roots crossed the path, each larger than city walls.

He walked beneath one.

And heard laughter.

A man's laughter.

Hansall stopped so violently his bare foot scraped against stone.

He knew that laugh.

"Hansenel?"

Silence.

Hansall turned.

Nothing.

Then another voice.

There are thousands.

Hansall's chest tightened.

His own voice answered from somewhere that wasn't there.

Then try not to miss.

Hansall closed his eyes.

Snow.

For an instant he smelled it.

Blood.

Venom.

Cold.

He saw a young Elf running downhill with a sword in his hand toward an army that should have

killed him.

Then it vanished.

Hansall stood beneath the enormous root again.

"Hansenel."

The forest whispered something through its leaves.

Not words.

Memory.

Hansall continued more slowly.

He heard a child next.

Teach me knife.

Hansall stopped.

No.

A warm voice answered.

That is not what I said.

Abel laughed.

Hansall's stomach clenched.

"Stop."

The forest did not.

He heard Glorfarsall screaming.

I can heal him.

Golden light.

Blood beneath flowers.

Come on.

"Stop."

Another memory.

A dead Fae girl.

Will it hurt?

Renaris answered.

I don't know.

Another.

Tiamel as a child.

Tiny teeth closing uselessly around Hansall's finger.

His sister Galatrel laughing.

Another.

Sederous raising a cup beneath that ridiculous sign.

THE KING OF SCRAPS WELCOMES YOU.

Another.

Anthurian.

Goodbye, Uncle.

Hansall stopped walking.

"No."

The path continued ahead.

He did not.

"You don't get to use her."

For the first time, the forest became completely silent.

Hansall's young hands curled into fists.

"You brought me here. Fine."

His voice carried between trees.

"You show me dead friends. Fine."

Nothing answered.

"But you do not use my niece to manipulate me."

The silence remained.

Then...

far ahead...

light appeared.

Hansall stared.

Two white pillars rose between the trees.

Vines curled around them.

Flowers opened along those vines in colours his eyes could see but his mind could not name.

There was no wall.

No fortress.

No guards.

Only a Gate.

And beyond it...

Hansall forgot how to breathe.

He had never seen that place.

He knew it immediately.

Every drop of Fae blood inside him seemed to recognise something his conscious mind did not.

His knees weakened.

"No."

The singing grew louder.

Beyond the Gate stretched another forest.

Or perhaps the same forest finally revealed without whatever limitations mortality placed upon

perception.

Branches disappeared into different skies.

Rivers flowed upward.

Lights moved among distant trees that Hansall somehow understood were not lights at all, but

cities.

And somewhere beyond them were presences.

Ancient.

Patient.

Waiting.

Hansall had stood before Prime Gods.

He had watched Icetear emerge from a glacier.

He had spoken with beings whose bloodlines eventually became religions.

These were not Prime Gods.

The Prime Gods belonged to his world.

These beings did not.

They belonged wholly to that farther place.

To Fae existence beyond one world.

Beyond one universe.

And they knew him.

Hansall.

His name moved through the forest.

He took one involuntary step forward.

Hansall.

Another.

His eyes filled.

He didn't understand why.

Then the Gate showed him something.

Not a battlefield.

Not his crown.

Not the Sanctuary.

A young Elf.

Sitting beside another young Elf in the snow.

Both bleeding.

Both laughing because neither yet understood how remarkable it was that they were still alive.

Hansenel.

Hansall stared.

The vision changed.

Abel running after Glorfarsall.

Renaris holding the hand of a dead child.

Selanal kneeling in soil.

Tiamel removing the hood from a frightened Dragar girl.

Sederous drinking beneath his tavern sign.

Hannarial swinging a training sword.

Golian running from Antharaiel.

Solenyra almost smiling.

Santhur and Caeleira arguing.

Shaedra hiding behind a tree.

Anthurian walking away.

Antharaiel...

Hansall stepped closer.

Antharaiel stood alone.

A crown rested upon her head.

He could not see her face.

"Why?"

The ancient presences answered.

Not with speech.

With a title.

A concept entered Hansall's mind so completely that translating it into mortal language

diminished it.

But the nearest words were:

Fae Lord of Fables.

Hansall stared.

"No."

The forest waited.

"I am not dead."

No disagreement.

That frightened him.

Hansall looked beyond the Gate.

He could cross.

He knew that now.

Worse...

some part of him wanted to.

He could feel people there.

Not precisely the dead.

The Eternal Realm was more complicated than death.

But there were presences he had spent millennia missing.

His eyes burned.

He thought he heard Hansenel laughing somewhere beyond the trees.

Hansall took another step.

Then Antharaiel's image appeared again.

Behind her stood Hannarial.

Solenyra.

Golian.

Santhur.

Caeleira.

Anteira.

Shaedra.

Millions more.

The living.

Hansall stopped.

He understood.

Not yet.

The forest did not argue.

Hansall looked beyond the Gate one final time.

"Then why show me?"

The answer came softly.

Because eventually every witness becomes a story.

And someone must remember the people inside them.

Hansall woke crying.

For several moments, the First King of the Elves had absolutely no idea where he was.

His hand reached for a sword.

Found blankets.

Hansall sat upright.

Darkness.

His chamber.

Moonlight crossed the floor.

His breathing came too quickly.

He touched his face.

Wet.

Hansall stared at his fingers.

Then his hands.

Old.

Scarred.

He found the serpent bite.

The burn.

The damaged knuckle.

Hansall exhaled.

"Good."

He trusted these hands.

They had earned their ugliness.

He swung his legs from the bed and walked barefoot toward the window.

The Fae Garden Sanctuary slept below.

Silver leaves moved beneath moonlight.

Lanterns glowed along garden paths.

Somewhere a child was crying.

A tired parent murmured something.

The crying stopped.

Hansall smiled.

Millions lived beneath his protection.

Some knew him personally.

Most knew only the King.

Many children probably thought Hansall had always been old.

Some likely thought Whitegrove had always been his name.

Hansall placed one hand against the glass.

There had once been no Whitegrove.

No Icetear.

No Gravespine.

No Nyxthorn.

No Houses.

No kingdoms.

No Sanctuary.

There had once been...

just Hansall.

And Hansenel.

And several other frightened young Elves pretending not to be frightened because nobody had

yet taught them that courage didn't require the performance.

Hansall closed his eyes.

He could still hear the Eternal Forest.

And for the first time in longer than he cared to count...

Hansall wondered what would happen to his people when nobody remained who remembered

why their world had been built this way.