It was happening again. Araban had said if he couldn't learn to prevent it he'd never produce the fine blades he was destined to, but something in the old weaponsmith's eyes had told him that it wasn't true. He revered and respected Araban's skill with the metal, he always seem to have the answer, but when his master had first seen him "drifting off" while working with the metal he seemed unsure and just a little scared.

"Focus now", Cullen told himself, but it was no good. As the his arms settled into the rythmic hammering of the long sword his was forging his mind began to take over and he drifted inside himself.

He was back in Mackinton, the village of his birth. Why was it always this memory that came to him. He was running down the to the cliffs, his father's hammering fadeing away as the smithy was left behind. Then he was there, looking out across the sea. Was what his mother said about the lands across the sea true? Did the other world really exist? Most of the other adults dismissed what she said as heresey or suspitious nonsense, but Cullen believed her, he could feel what she said was true. As he stared out across the water as he so often did, he could almost here the land calling. That wasn't to be, he thought, his father had said he would be a weaponsmith and his father was not one to be crossed.

It was then the first stone hit the ground near him. Suddenly he could see the whole scene, as though an observer on his own history. The boys of the village had come down from the village led by Gunthar Trott. Gunthar was the son of the richest man in the village and had a way of getting what he wanted. He'd never really liked Cullen, especially now that Maria had been spending more time with him. The boys yelled and jeering at him, throwing more and more rocks in his direction. "Where are your faries now Cullen?", "Why arn't spirits saving you now?". Cullen saw his own face redden and could remember anger building inside him. Then the words of his father came to him, "the fastest way to lose your honour, my boy, is to lose control". Pressing the anger down inside, the boy turned to face the sea, and there it was, Gunther pulled a small sharp rock from his pocket and hurled at Cullen.

Cullen's mind reeled as his watched the rock connect with young self's head. He tried to pull away as he watched himself as a boy topple over the cliff, down to the waters below. Then Maradon was there, pushing past the boys and diving off the brink, following his own unconcious form.

His mind's eye blured and reformed on the beach below. Maradon was heaving him out of the water, both of them soaked through. He remember the feeling of the cold water, the unsteady feeling in his head and looking up at his saviour. Maradon dragged him up, "I believe we have a score to settle with a certain little rich boy." he joked, "Why don't you just accept that they're not real Cullen?" he said more softly, "It'd be easier for the both of us you know". Too tired to speak, barely able to walk, Cullen didn't answer, he just began to hobble back up to the smithy, back home.

He could hear the smith's hammer pounding away, more and more clearly. Cullen's mind came back from its journey and back to the armoury. He could still feal the anger and pain, why couldn't he just accept they didn't exist? It was simple, it wasn't right. Dismissing the other world would be dismissing his mother and he loved her too dearly to do that. Looking down at his work he saw the blade that he had shaped. Araban approached, "Not so bad lad, not so bad." he said inspecting Cullen's work, "Of course it may look fine but you'll need to wield it to be sure".

Cullen took the blade to the yard, check it over and began the practice that hadd be ground into him by the weapon's master over the past 5 years. The blade felt strange, light to hold but with a great deal of weight in commited blows. The blade was almost leading him through the moves, as though it yearned for combat.. "Just my imagination" he told himself, "now focus!".