Prophecy's Ruin

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I very occasionally wonder what direction my life’s path would have taken had my birth not been foretold a hundred years before I actually emerged from my dead mother’s womb. If the prophets had not given all the necessary directions as to how I could be recognised, and what I would be, I fancy I would not have the same view now as I do from my windows. If, if, if …if there was any point dwelling on things unchangeable.

Instead, a century ago, on a certain day at a certain time, every single prophet in the world stopped what they were doing and saw my future. Forks were dropped clattering to plates, conversations halted mid-sentence, the dreams of the sleeping were pushed aside and the same vision clouded every set of eyes. What they saw: a man with blue hair who possessed the power to end the war. For which side? Unclear. How? They couldn’t say. The only other thing they knew (the way we just know things in dreams sometimes) was that I would be born within the next hundred years.

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