The kingdoms referred to as Gwynedd's brothers in this fic are either Welsh kingdoms or the kingdoms of Yr Hen Ogledd (The Old North). Yr Hen Ogledd were areas of central Britain controlled by Brythonic-speaking peoples (Celtic Britons) following the Roman withdrawal from Britain in the early 5th century.
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Kingdoms mentioned/featured in this fic are:
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Kingdoms of Yr Hen Ogledd:
Alt Clut: A kingdom covering parts of what is now southern Scotland and northern England.
Elmet: A kingdom covering a broad area of what later became the West Riding of Yorkshire.
Gododdin: A kingdom which included what are now the Lothian and Borders regions of eastern Scotland.
Rheged: A kingdom which is believed to have comprised what is now Cumbria in North West England and possibly extended into Lancashire and Scotland.
The Peak: A kingdom in the Pennines, occupying what is now the Peak District.
Dunoting: A kingdom in the Peninnes, to the north of The Peak.
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Welsh Kingdoms:
Gwynedd: A kingdom in the north of what would later become Wales.
Powys: A kingdom in the east of what would later become Wales
Dyfed: A kingdom in the south of what would later become Wales
Gwent: A kingdom in the south of what would later become Wales
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Scottish Kingdoms:
Pictland: Land of the Picts, who lived in what would later become Scotland to the north of the rivers Forth and Clyde
Dal Riata: A Gaelic kingdom on the western coast of Scotland and part of Ulster, established in the sixth century.
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English Kingdoms:
Northumbria: An kingdom formed by the unification of the two Anglo-Saxon kingdoms Bernicia and Deira at the beginning of the 7th century, which, at its height, extended from the river Humber in northern England to the river Forth in south-eastern Scotland. Many of the kingdoms of the Old North were ultimately conquered by, and subsequently formed part of, Northumbria.
Wessex: An Anglo-Saxon kingdom in the south of what would later become England.
Mercia: An Anglo-Saxon kingdom in the Midlands of what would later become England.
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I originally started this fic intending it to be a stand alone story about post-Roman/early middle ages British kingdoms and my headcanon regarding how those kingdoms might have changed/grown/melded to eventually become England, Scotland and Wales.
However, I began to consider it the backstory for the FtF bros more and more, and as I've subsequently referenced certain aspects of it in later FtF fic, I decided to both complete it and consider it part of the FtF series.
It contains (mostly) unrequited Pictland/Gwynedd. The two come from different families and are not related.
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596, Kingdom of Gwynedd
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For a moment, after he answers the rap at his chamber door, Gwynedd fears he must have unbolted it for a spirit rather than one of his own, living kin.
Gododdin – if it is indeed he and not his fetch – seems much diminished, his posture that of an old crone rather than the youth fast approaching full manhood he had been when Gwynedd last saw him; back hunched and head bowed down low as though it's too heavy a burden for his body to bear.
The hand he clasps around Gwynedd's wrist in greeting is solid enough, but it's been worn down to little more than bones, sinew, and skin so translucently pale that Gwynedd can see the veins running beneath, and how they curl tight around each swollen knuckle. His touch is far colder than the fine spring day outside would normally allow.
"Gwynedd," he says. His voice sounds arid and dusty, like the air escaping from a recently-opened barrow and his breath smells just as foul. "It's good to see you."
Gwynedd rather thinks Gododdin is simply being kind, because surely it can be nothing but a slap in the face to see that Gwynedd himself is just as stout as he has always been; his cheeks just as full and pinked with good health.
To question his brother's honesty would be nothing but cruel, however, so Gwynedd says, "It's good to see you, too." He steps back a little way, gently twisting his arm out of Gododdin's grip as he does so. It falls away far too easily. "Please, come in."
The smile Gododdin gives him in answer is like a skull's: rictus-stiff and over-wide. The front tooth that he had lost three years ago has yet to grow back, and the gum above where it had once been is still as raw and swollen as it was the day he took the blow to the face which loosed it.
That sight more than any other makes Gwynedd shiver, but he masks his discomfort with a weak quip about the heat from his room taking its chance to rush out when he welcomed Gododdin in.
"Then we should sit by the hearth as we talk," Gododdin says, and though it sounds very much like a suggestion, he waits for neither Gwynedd's agreement nor his invitation before hobbling over to the fire and sinking down onto one of the two chairs set in front of it.
Gwynedd makes no mention of his brother's bad manners before he takes the other seat, not even in jest. It seems far too petty to mention now, and he very much doubts it would make Gododdin laugh as it usually would.
"You need my aid?" he asks then, and the words sound stark and unpleasant somehow, freed from the small evasions, oblique references and pretty language he would normally drape around that question in order to soften its blow.
He thinks Gododdin has no need of such pretences, however, as his pride is likely almost in ruins already. It must be, for him to make this visit in his current condition, with his weakness writ plain in his trembling limbs and the deep-scored lines around his mouth. Kindness is clearly not what he needs the most; swift action is.
Still, Gododdin merely stares up at him in silence for a moment as though he is struggling to comprehend what Gwynedd has asked of him. His eyes have always been pale, but now they are almost colourless; a single splash of green dye dropped into a cup of cloudy water.
Eventually, he laughs, but it's a brittle, broken sound, like bones rattling together. Or perhaps Ogham sticks being shaken in a fortune teller's palm. Gwynedd chills again at that association, because it has the stink of ill-omen about it; a destiny held within the hands of another, its outcome uncertain.
He hopes he is wrong; that the hollowness in his belly and heaviness in his heart are just the after-effects of his shock upon seeing Gododdin so changed.
"The wolves are baying for my blood again, Gwyn," Gododdin says, turning his head away from Gwynedd and towards the fire. His hair could once have rivalled the flames in its vibrancy, but it too has faded in hue; it puts Gwynedd more in mind of autumnal leaves now, and he thinks if he were to touch it, it would feel just as dry and lifeless. "Fucking Angles have set their sights on my land."
Gwynedd fears Gododdin is not alone in that. The invaders have been baring their teeth at both Elmet and Rheged, too of late; jaws slathering with their greed. The last thing keeping them from Alt Clut's door would be Gododdin himself, and if he fell…
Gwynedd hates that true terror comes only with that thought, because he likes to believe himself impartial; that each of his brothers is equally as dear to him.
The resulting guilt makes him rash, and he gives his promise without once considering the consequences of making it.
"Even if my King cannot spare you any men," he says, "I will stand by you."
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596; Kingdom of Gododdin
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Gwynedd's King can not only spare a detachment of foot soldiers for Gododdin's aid, but ten of his best warriors too, along with horses for both them and Gwynedd himself.
They reach Din Eidyn just before the year's longest day, lathered in sweat and covered in dust from the road. The heat of the day and length of their journey has sapped the strength of man and beast both, but Gododdin's promise of food and mead when he greets them outside Mynyddog Mwynfawr's hall goes a long way to restoring their good cheer.
The men's joy is reflected on Gododdin's face, and although it cannot restore any of the lost flesh to his sunken cheeks, it at least returns some of the old brightness to his smile.
He embraces Gwynedd exuberantly after Gwynedd has given his horse's reins to a passing servant, holding him tight against his narrow chest as his hands clutch up loose fistfuls of cloth at the back of Gwynedd's léine.
Gwynedd tries not to dwell upon how sharp the points of Gododdin's collarbone feel as they bump against his own far more amply covered ones, or how his ribs seem like knife's edges, each one – separate and distinct – pressed hard and biting against the underside of his arm.
"It's good to see you," Gododdin breathes out raggedly, the words so quiet that they must be meant for Gwynedd's ears alone. "All of our brothers are already here. Along with other allies…" He steps back then, shaking his head. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you. You must come and see for yourself."
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As is expected, there is a separate room set aside for the kingdoms' feasting to take place in, far away from their men; from their noise and human concerns.
Gwynedd does not much care for the custom normally – he considers his people's concerns as much his as they are their own, and enjoys their company besides – but for once he cherishes the opportunity to spend time with his brothers alone, their conversation unbound from the schemes of their Kings for a while.
Elmet meets his arrival with all of his usual laconism, merely giving a curt wave of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his mead, as economical with his words as his is with all else. Like Gododdin, he too seems to have lost weight; the arms revealed by the drape of his brat when he raises his flagon to his lips are scrawny and deep corded with stringy muscle. Reassuringly, though, his complexion is ruddy, and his grey-green eyes penetrate with their typical intensity.
Rheged gives Gwynedd more of his attention, but, as has been his own custom in more recent years, he does not appear to like what he sees. The sneering twist of his lips makes Gwynedd's name sound like a curse word when he spits it out of his mouth like a bitter taste.
He has yet to forgive Gwynedd's failure to keep them all safe from the reach of Rome's sword arm, and Gwynedd's starting to believe he never will.
Still, he looks hale enough, and Gwynedd finds comfort in that equal to, it seems, the disappointment his brother feels at the evidence of his own continued good health.
He always sees Alt Clut through love's eyes, which are often deceiving, smoothing away all blemishes and imperfections, and so, whatever the reality may be, to him, his favourite brother seems unchanged. His face, his hair, his broad, happy grin are just as vivid and clear as they have ever been, and his step is just as vital when he launches himself up from his own seat and then sprints the length of the long banqueting table to fling his arms around Gwynedd's shoulders.
"It's been too long, Gwyn," he says, his laughter spilling out against Gwynedd's damp skin in hot, tickling gusts.
"Only the turn of a season, by my count," Gwynedd protests.
"As I said, far too long." Alt Clut draws back a little way in order to press their foreheads together. Close to, his eyes do seem as though they might have darkened a touch, but Gwynedd tells himself that it is simply a trick of the light; a shadow cast between the two of them by the close angle of their bodies. "I shall have to endeavour to put Gododdin's life in danger more often, if that's what it takes to get you to visit us."
"I thought you came here because you cared about my well-being," Gododdin butts in, sounding a little put out but mostly just amused. "And all along it was just an excuse to pass time with Gwynedd. You wound me, Alt Clut."
Alt Clut breaks away from Gwynedd, laughing again. "I'd rather you didn't die, too, brawd. Honestly."
Gododdin shakes his head in a mockery of despair. "What fine allies I've gathered around myself." His last word cuts off abruptly, and his gaze flicks up to meet Gwynedd's. "One of whom is notable by his absence. I hope he's in his chambers and not out on one of his expeditions, otherwise we'll not see him for a sennight, at least. You came earlier than we ever expected, Gwyn, so I never thought to ask him not to stray too far from the hall today.
"You stay here and fill your belly," Gododdin says, patting Gwynedd's shoulder. "I'll go and see if I can find him."
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Alt Clut talks of much whilst they wait for Gododdin's return – the hunts he has been on since winter's end, the spells he has cast and the people he has met – but he refuses to be drawn on the identity of Gododdin's mysterious ally.
"Gododdin would never forgive me if I ruin his surprise," he says through a mouthful of bread.
"Just fucking tell him, will you, Alt Clut," Rheged says, eyeing them both with disgust from the other side of the table. "I'm sick of hearing him bleat on and on about it like one of his damn sheep."
Alt Clut and Gwynedd ignore him; they've become very good at it of late.
"Is it Dál Riata?" Gwynedd suggests, because he can't think of an ally much more surprising than that.
"Is it fuck." Alt Clut snorts, shaking his head. "Can't imagine that bastard ever coming down here to help us."
Gwynedd is hesitant to name Dál Riata a bastard – he hasn't had enough dealings with him to form an opinion of his character, for good or for ill – but he certainly does seem thoroughly disinterested in Gwynedd's brothers' affairs unless they threaten to encroach on his own lands.
"Is it –"
Gwynedd's next guess is interrupted by the booming crash of a door being flung open with some force behind him, followed by the only slightly softer thuds of slow, leaden footsteps crossing the room's threshold.
Alt Clut's grin returns. "Surely you recognise that tread, Gwyn?"
Gwynedd does, but he can scarce believe his own ears, because he hasn't heard it for a century or more, and even then, it had never been sounded against the close-packed earth of a hall's floor, but against soil, and bracken, and the thick blankets of heather beyond the remnants of Rome's old wall, whilst he and Alt Clut huddled behind it, daring each other to be the first to greet their Northern neighbour.
But they never did dare; they just crouched there, growing giddy with anticipation, until their fear-born giggling grew so loud that they gave their position away, and Pictland reached over the wall and hauled them up by the scruffs of their necks. He never said a word, then; simply cuffed them both on the backs of their heads and sent them on their way again.
He doesn't say a word now, either, as he walks towards the table with his heavy feet and his heavy magic gathering thick in the air around him, oppressive as an oncoming storm.
His voice, when he does finally unleash it, sounds like the thunder that his approach promised, low and rumbling. "Gwynedd," he says, and nothing more.
Even though he chides himself for his cowardice all the while, it still takes a moment for Gwynedd to summon the nerve to turn towards him.
The fear is a ridiculous one, because Pictland has never done aught to harm him, save for the odd smack and thrown rock whenever he caught Gwynedd and Alt Clut lingering too close to his land, but it is ancient and abiding, nevertheless. Not even Mama had known who Pictland really was, where he came from or who might have borne him, which had made Gwynedd disposed to consider him a strange and unworldly figure from the start; his very existence unnerving.
And looking, when he does finally brave it, only serves to increase Gwynedd's anxiety.
Although Pictland is not much taller, the years have broadened his frame considerably; his shoulders easily a sword's length in width – if not more – and his neck as thick as a bull's. His eyes and hair are still dark, but not as dark as his expression, which pulls his thick eyebrows into bristling knots and his otherwise generous mouth into a tight, unyielding line.
The air seems to freeze in Gwynedd's chest under the coldness of his regard, and he can barely find enough breath to wheeze out an answering, "Pictland."
Pictland nods once and then wheels away from Gwynedd, pivoting swiftly on his heel.
"There, I've greeted Gwynedd for you," he says to Gododdin. "Is there anything else you need me to do?"
Gododdin pauses in the act of pulling a chair towards the table – presumably intended for Pictland's use – and gapes at him in silence for a moment, clearly caught off guard. "No," he says eventually, "but –"
Pictland has stomped out of the room before the second word has even finished leaving Gododdin's mouth. The silence he leaves behind is almost as weighty as his presence had been, and it takes good, long while for it to lift sufficiently that Gwynedd and his brothers feel free enough to start talking amongst themselves once more.
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The days have grown shorter, but definitely no cooler.
Even this far north, of late every overcast morning has given way to brilliant, cloudless skies come noon, when the sun is at its highest. It beats down remorselessly, scorching the air until it feels thin and parched, and none more so than that trapped inside the thick walls of Goddodin's King's hall.
So Gwynedd and his brothers have taken to spending their afternoons outside, stretched out beneath the shade of one of the few scraggy trees that somehow manages to cling onto the steep, rocky hillside beyond the hall, made so dull and lethargic by the heat that they lack the energy to do much of anything other than chatter idly amongst themselves.
"No matter what your King has promised our men, Gododdin, I don't think I can take a whole year of feasting," Alt Clut groans, one such lazy afternoon, shocking Gwynedd out of the doze he had started to slip into after their previous conversation lulled.
"No doubt you would be complaining about his lack of hospitality if you weren't being fed as well as you are, Alt," Goddodin says without even bothering to open his eyes.
He is sitting leant back against the tree's gnarled trunk, but Gwynedd thinks it is simply for his own comfort, not because he is in need of the support it gives. In the month since Gwynedd's arrival, some of his colour has returned, and along with it, a measure of his old strength. Whether it's the company or the hope it has brought which has invigorated him, Gwynedd cannot say, but he is glad to see the improvement all the same.
"I just don't think there is room in my belly for much more. Look, I'll show you." It's been so long since Alt Clut last moved that Gwynedd suspects his arms and legs may have fallen asleep even if the rest of him has not, and indeed he flounders like a fresh-caught fish for a while as he tries to roll himself onto his back. When he finally manages to do so, he grins at them all in triumph before hitching his thin léine up to his chest and pointing at his stomach. "See?"
Alt Clut's belly is as white as lamb's wool and cupped like a shallow bowl, deeply shadowed by the jutting promontory of his ribcage. There is, perhaps, a tiny pooch of skin below his navel, but it looks as though it could just as likely have been born by the twist of his body than any excess flesh beneath it.
Gododdin glances towards it and then snorts dismissively. "There's nothing there, brawd. If I were you, I wouldn't worry about it until you start spilling over the top of your truis like Gwynedd does."
Gwynedd joins in with his brothers' laughter because he knows neither it nor Gododdin's comment were intended to bring him any pain, no more than their shared jests about Elmet's crooked nose or Rheged's knobbly knees ever are. Mama always said it was a show of love, in its way, this sort of teasing, and they all suffer these small slights from each other from time to time, and return them in their due.
Still, Gwynedd finds himself folding an arm around his own stomach, shielding it from view even as it shakes along to the tempo of his waning giggles. No matter how far he runs, how high he climbs, how diligently he practices with his bow, he cannot seem to rid himself of the corpulence he had hitherto always associated only with sloth. It is, it seems, simply his body's natural shape, but although he often manages to persuade himself he is at peace with that fact, he still can't help but dream that someday he might find himself slim and sleek like Alt Clut is, built for dexterity and fast-flowing steps, or else strong and thickly-muscled like…
Well, like Pictland is, who looks as though he could lift Gwynedd himself with but one well-thewed arm, and never give any mind that he weighs far more than he ought.
"Perhaps you could just stop eating quite so much, Alt," Elmet says, when they finally quiet enough for him to be heard, his whittling knife never stopping moving over the wood in his hand. Gwynedd has not yet dared to ask him what it is that he's been carving so diligently for the past few days; it appears to have fangs and fearsome horns enough that he believes he's probably happier not knowing. "That might set your mind at ease."
"Don't be daft," Alt Clut says, shaking his head. "I never even see this much food back home, it would be a waste not to gorge myself at Gododdin's expense whilst I can."
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All of his brothers have fallen into slumber around him, but Gwynedd finds himself strangely wakeful even when the shadows falling across them lengthen as night begins to fall.
He's too captivated by the sounds of the dying day for sleep: the high-pitched chirrup which betrays the existence of grasshoppers hidden in the gorse bush behind him, the gentle rustle of leaves from above, and the odd mournful call of an owl which has started its hunting early. They combine together into something like a song, but one he doesn't quite know the tune for yet.
He hums along with it anyway, trying to gather together the disorderly notes into a pattern that seems more like his understanding of music. Once he has captured it, he knows the words which go with it will surely follow, flowing through his mind as easily as water in comparison.
Or at least they would, were not his concentration broken by a discordant beat; one so loud that he soon loses hold of the thin thread of melody he had been weaving.
An even more familiar beat now, are Pictland's footsteps, given how often Gwynedd has heard them echoing through the hall when everyone else is abed, morning and night. He has come to wonder if the amount of noise Pictland makes is deliberate – perhaps with the intent to irritate in mind; Gwynedd has certainly cursed his name once or twice when he's found himself roused from sleep before dawn – because not even his great heft seems to come close to explaining it otherwise.
The footsteps do not falter or even slow as they pass by Gwynedd and his brothers, likely because Pictland's eyes are fixed so firmly forward, his gaze never deviating, that he never even notices that they are there.
He eventually comes to a halt when the land ahead of him takes pause in its steep descent, forming a small plateau barely ten ells wide. Gwynedd cannot read his exact expression when he draws his sword, as his face has been rendered indistinct by the distance between them, but he guesses by the rising swell of his shoulders and straightening of his back that it might well be a determined one.
Or even proud. Gwynedd has never seen Pictland fight before, but Alt Clut has, and he'd seemed almost awed by the experience.
"He fights like some sort of animal," he had told Gwynedd in hushed, reverential tones. "It looks his sword's just another part of his body; a huge claw or the like. And he never seems to tire. Even Rome was afraid of him."
But now, Pictland swings his sword leisurely, almost desultorily, his paces slow and feet dragging as they always do when he slams down the grand cacophony of his tread.
Gwynedd cannot help but feel a little disappointed, even though he has long suspected that Alt Clut was simply exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as is often his wont. Gwynedd knows little about swordplay – he strives to improve almost daily, but his progress has ever been slow – but even to his ill-trained eye, he thinks even the greenest of his own King's warriors would not find himself troubled in a contest of skills with Pictland.
Then, suddenly and without warning, something shifts. Pictland's sword cuts through the air faster and his strides become longer and more fluid until it seems as though he's simply gliding across the narrow arena he has found for himself, barely even touching the ground. Gone is the lumbering awkwardness of his gait and the stiff movements of his thick body, replaced by a languid grace and ease as he weaves around and parries the attacks of countless invisible opponents.
Gwynedd doesn't think he looks like an animal at all. He looks as though he is dancing; each elegant movement matching some silent martial rhythm only he can hear.
It's beautiful to watch.
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Autumn is creeping across Gododdin's land like a thief, stealing the leaves from the trees and the light from the sky.
Gwynedd has become weary of feasting now himself, and, he is ashamed to admit, is starting to tire of his brothers' company, too.
None of them are used to passing so much time with one another, or being so long without solitude, which is so easy to find in their own homes that they quickly grow to despise it. Gwynedd had never realised how much he had come to need those quiet moments alone with his own thoughts until he was forced to share a bedchamber with Rheged and Elmet every night, and share all else with them never more than a few ells away all day.
Even Alt Clut has begun to wear on his nerves a little, something he would doubtless feel guilty about were it not so clear that he was annoying Alt Clut too in his turn. They exchange harsh words every now and again lately, when they never have before; picking at each other over the most innocuous of bad habits and slips of the tongue, which they would always have let pass without comment in the past.
They all seem to be but one word from being at one another's throats at all times, and it's tiring, as are the quarrels, scuffles, and ratting swords which keep breaking out over every minor disagreement or forgotten politeness.
It has grown worse along with the weather, which has kept them confined indoors more often than not lately. Only Pictland seems immune, but then he has the good sense to spend most of his time outdoors, no matter how shrilly the wind is howling or how much rain lashes down upon his head.
Gwynedd started following his example a fortnight back, and although he confines himself to a brisk circuit of the hill's perimeter rather than any day-long excursions, he finds it calms him all the same. His brothers certainly seem a lot less irksome on his return, and even the incessant pointless arguments they insist on trying to start with him are much easier to ignore.
Today, the air is so painfully cold that even the thick wool of Gwynedd's brat does little to mitigate its sting, but it is at least dry. After the torrential downpour that had accompanied his walks for the past few days, it seems like a blessing.
What does not, though, is the figure he sees not even half a league whence he set out, crouched beside the side of the faint path Gywnedd has worn for himself through the damp grass and soil beneath over the past two weeks.
Gwynedd would usually hail any fellow traveller met on the road – even a poor excuse for one such as this – but he finds himself reluctant to. It seems to defeat the point of his journey, after all, to risk falling into conversation by doing so, and he's unwilling to subject some unfortunate stranger to the slow-fading remnants of his anger besides.
He resolves to turn back, to go another way, but too slowly it seems, as he must have inadvertently given some hint of his presence.
The figure raises its head, and then nods it once in greeting. Gwynedd is relieved to see it is Pictland, as he seems perfectly content that the only words they ever exchange with one another are their names.
He offers Gwynedd's now, in that thunder-rough voice of his, and Gwynedd gives him his own back in return.
But then Pictland breaks all the rules that Gwynedd had been given to understand – through experience if naught else – he'd constructed to govern all their interactions, and walks towards him. He seems cautious about doing so, eyes downcast and step hesitant, but he approaches all the same.
When he comes within arm's reach, he says, "I caught a rabbit in one of my traps."
"Oh," says Gwynedd, wondering why this, out of everything else Pictland might have had cause to say to him but never did, has made him to break his silence. He has, Gwynedd presumes, caught many rabbits in many traps over the months they have spent together in Gododdin's land, and he's never seen fit to announce his successes before. "Good for you."
"Not so good for the rabbit," Pictland says, which Gwynedd thinks is also something so self-evident that it doesn't need to be stated, but his true meaning becomes clearer when Pictland inclines his head downward and Gwynedd notices he has one hand cupped close against his chest. "This one's too wee for eating, but it's broken its leg anyway."
He shifts his hold slightly, and Gwynedd can see one wide, black eye peering out between Pictland's broad fingers.
"It's probably kinder to break its neck in any case," Gwynedd says, although he's sure that Pictland would have considered that already, even though the way he's cradling it to his breast suggests otherwise. "It won't survive for long in that state. A hawk will soon carry it off, or a fox."
"I know," Pictland says, rubbing his thumb along the length of one of the rabbit's ears when it curls up above the edge of his palm. His touch must be gentler than the massive spread of his hand suggests, as the little creature does not startle at it. "I just thought…"
He pauses, lower lip caught between his teeth, and his brow creases with what Gwynedd thinks might be unease. "I met your mam a few times when I was a wean," he says eventually.
Gwynedd isn't sure whether the statement discombobulates him more because it's a revelation to him or a complete non sequitur. Either way, he can't think of anything to say in the wake of it other than, "You did?"
"Aye, you too, though you hadn't even learnt to walk back then so you probably don't remember it." Pictland's eyes grow distant, and something that looks almost like the beginning of a smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. Gwynedd cannot be sure of that, though, as he's never seen the like before. "She always gave me something to eat or sup, and invited me to sit by her fire. She even tried to untangle my hair once with this pretty white comb she had, but she soon gave up on that. She did mend my brat, though; I'd caught it on a patch of brambles and ripped it near straight across when I pulled it free. I didn't know how to do it before, you ken, because no-one had ever taught me how, but she made sure I watched her work so I could do it myself if it ever happened again."
Gwynedd has never heard Pictland say so much at once before, not to anyone, and he finds himself transfixed by the words, barely remembering to blink or even breathe. Pictland's voice grows ever smoother the longer he speaks, and it makes Gwynedd question whether the growl he usually hears in it is simply due to disuse and not Pictland's natural tone.
"Anyway," Pictand says more firmly, seemingly coming back from memory's road and joining Gwynedd in the present again, judging by the way his gaze sharpens, "I never had much of that, but you did, so you're probably better at taking care of things than I ever could be."
Gwynedd's never heard that hopeful note in Pictland's voice, either, and he finds himself flustered enough by it that he accepts the rabbit without question when Pictland holds it out for him to take.
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By the time the moon has waxed and then waned again, the rabbit's leg has healed and its body has almost doubled in size.
"Big enough to eat now, I reckon," Alt Clut observes on more than one occasion whilst he watches it hop across Gwynedd's bedchamber.
But Gwynedd does not wish to, even though the rabbit drops its pellets all over his bedclothes and nibbles on Elmet's spare truis. Nor can he countenance setting it free once more, even though Rheged begs him to, in order to save it from the pot.
He is unsure why.
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Gwynedd whiles away most of the long, dark hours of winter in sleep, huddled against Alt Clut with Rheged curled around his back.
The approach of spring is not as welcome as it might usually be, however, as it is heralded by a message from the Angles, written in violence across Gododdin's face.
"Your meeting with Bernicia didn't go well, then," Elmet observes when he returns to them with a split lip and both eyes blackened.
"It did not, brawd," Gododdin says, spitting a gob of blood to the floor, along with another of his teeth. "He intends to advance before the season turns again, I think, and here we all are, sitting idle and growing fat with it. We need to start preparing for battle in earnest."
So the next day finds Gwynedd bound inside leather armour, a wooden shield on his arm and a blunted practice sword on the ground more often than it is ever in his hand.
He launches himself after it as it skitters away from him for the third time that morning, but his fingers barely brush the pommel before Gododdin brings the blade of his own sword to bear against Gwynedd's bared neck.
"You're dead. Again," Gododdin says, resting one foot against the small of Gwynedd's back. "I don't think you're even trying now, Gwyn."
And because Gwynedd IS still trying, he finds himself too ashamed to answer, and simply bucks and twists his body until Gododdin is forced to back away far enough that Gwynedd can haul himself up into a sitting position.
His knees, shoulders, and thighs all ache; even his belly, where he's sure there are dark bruises blooming in the shape of Gododdin's fists. The palms of his hands are smarting, chafed raw by the unwrapped hilt of the sword, but he still lifts them to rub at his neck, trying to chase away the fresh hurt which has settled there.
"He's much more skilled with the bow," he hears Alt Clut say, if only very faintly over the sound of bells pealing in his ears.
"I should hope so," Pictland's voice rumbles in reply.
A ripple of laughter follows his comment, birthing a sudden desire within Gwynedd to crumble into dust and then blow away on the breeze.
His obstinate body fails to comply, however, and eventually he has to raise his bowed head and struggle to his feet, if only because he thinks he will look like a petulant child sulking over his defeat if he does not.
He sees that quite a sizeable crowd had gathered unnoticed whilst he sparred with Gododdin, one comprised mainly of his brothers' warriors, but there are also a few of his own dotted amongst them, looking deeply embarrassed to a man. Whether for themselves or their Kingdom, Gwynedd could not say, but he knows the deep flush of Alt Clut's face is more likely caused by his anger over the scorn aimed towards Gwynedd rather than any shame concerning their shared blood.
"He can shoot out a crow's eye from over a league away, whether it is roosting or in flight," Alt Clut insists to Pictland, and although Gwynedd appreciates the enthusiasm of his brother's defence, the overestimation of his abilities makes him cringe a little, especially once Pictland raises an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.
"I'm not quite that good," Gwynedd says, but his objection only serves to make Pictland look even more sceptical.
"If you're even half that good I'd like to see it," he says, unhooking his bow from his shoulder and holding it out to Gwynedd. "Show me."
-
-
"Perhaps I should not have pressed to make it into a contest," Pictland grumbles as he picks his spent arrows up from where they lay scattered across the rough ground. The fifth he retrieves is grey-fletched, one of Gwynedd's own, and this he holds aloft with a look of satisfaction. "Though your win was not clean; you did miss your target once."
A crow had swooped down low in front of Gwynedd as he prepared to loose that last shot, and he'd only just managed to keep from hitting it, the jerk of his hand sending the arrow arcing wide.
"Despite what my brother told you, I'm not in the habit of shooting crows," he says. "I do not think it wise to displease them, especially not now."
That it was there at all seems foreboding enough. Crows never carry good luck with them, only the bad, and he has to wonder if its flight was meant to curse him or give him warning.
In any case, he resolves to treat with the fae come nightfall, and beg their help in strengthening the few protective spells he knows.
Pictland nods his agreement, though his eyes never once lift from his contemplation of the head of Gwynedd's arrow, slow-spinning as he twirls its shaft between his thumb and forefinger. Eventually, he adds, "My aim is better with a sling."
"So is mine," Gwynedd says without thinking. "I've been using one for far longer than the bow."
It's only after he's said the words that Gwynedd realises how boastful they must sound, when it is too late to take them back. Though he wishes he could, as he imagines they must be fit for naught but to bring shame to Pictland, given how thoroughly he'd just been routed.
If Pictland is shamed at all, however, he must take great care for it not to be made plain his expression, as the only change in his countenance is a slight kink at one corner of his mouth; the one Gwynedd had seen but once before and thought might be the beginnings of a smile.
"Then perhaps we should have our rematch with swords in hand," he suggests.
Gwynedd had thought the pitting of their archery skills merely a friendly competition, and so it had appeared, but it seems that Pictland may see his defeat as a blow that has knocked some balance he perceived between them askew; one that he clearly wishes to redress and quickly.
Nevertheless, Gwynedd cannot imagine that Pictland's concern would be assuaged by beating him at swordplay. "You saw me fighting Gododdin," he says, shaking his head. "I might as well concede to you before we even begin."
It would be a hollow victory, at best.
"True enough." The rough wheeze of breath that escapes Pictland's lips sounds something like laughter. His brows draw down low for a time, obviously giving the matter some thought, and then finally he asks, "How good are you at knucklebones?"
-
-
Gododdin has taken to drinking more heavily of an evening now, and when he is deep in his cups, his bravado grows.
"Why stop at defending ourselves?" he is apt to ask of them, fist slamming down hard on the banqueting table, making their trenchers jump and shudder afore them. "We could retake Ebrauc from the bastards, and from there, The Peak and Dunoting. We could send them running with their tails between their legs like the dogs they are and reunite the North once more!"
More often than not, Rheged and Elmet would eventually join their voices to his, seemingly swept along by his fervour and buoyed by his belief.
But Gwynedd has heard the owls calling nightly near the hall, seen a white hare running often on the hillside beyond, and the gaps in Gododdin's smile still have yet to fill.
His brothers' shouts sound more like the defiance of men who know that they might soon die, railing against their fate to the end.
-
-
One night, not long from midsummer, Rheged wakes from sleep with a scream.
He sits up in his bedclothes, one hand splayed across his chest whilst the other claws blindly at the air as though clutching for something unseen. Even in the faint moonlight and with sleep-dimmed eyes, Gwynedd can see that the blood has drained from his brother's face, leaving it wraith-pale.
"It wasn't Gododdin they were after," he says into the dark, voice hitching brokenly as he pants as though trying to catch his breath. "It was me. They've taken Catreath."
-
-
597; Kingdom of Gododdin
-
The next morning, they muster their forces ready to march on Catreath.
Gwynedd's horse is restive, stamping its hooves and tossing its head so violently that it almost rips the reins from his hands more than once, but Gwynedd finds he can do little to calm it. The soft words he tries to offer break in his mouth, falling jagged and harsh from his lips, and the comforting hand he lays on its neck shakes so powerfully that he cannot hold it still.
He knows his own nervousness is merely a dull mirror of his men's own fear of the battle ahead, for his own lands are secure, his own health unthreatened.
Rheged, however, must actually be in fear for his own life, and yet he sits straight and proud atop his own horse; the only outward sign of his disquiet the blood smeared across his bottom lip where he has worried it with his teeth.
"They will write songs about today." Alt Clut's words tear unexpectedly through the silence that had fallen across them all like a pall. "How courageously we faced what we know is to come."
Gwynedd looks askance at his brother, because such a pronouncement seems unwise to voice in front of Rheged; almost callous. They are but few in number, and the Angles' gains in recent years have encircled his northern brothers, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the Cymry to the west. They cannot rely on any of their other brothers or sisters riding to their aid now, and it seems callous of Alt Clut to risk raising Rheged's hope that their odds are better than they are.
Still, Gwynedd knows his brother's heart well, and has never seen any cruelty in it. Gwynedd trusts him enough that he holds his own tongue, believing he must have some other reason to say what he did.
"I can almost hear them now: 'Brave Alt Clut rode with them,'" Alt Clut continues, his voice becoming lilting like a bard's, "bear-stout and fair of face –"
"Stout?" Gododdin breaks in, his top lip curling derisively. "Only when you're in a dream's clutches, Alt. 'Brave Alt Clut, as thin as a sapling's branch and as easy to break in twain,' would be more fitting, I think."
Alt Clut grins at the insult, and quickly returns: "Intrepid Gododdin, his sword arm may be strong, but his head is full of wool."
He is trying to raise their spirits, it appears, by engaging them in one of their oldest sports. It's doubtless well-meant, but bound to be fruitless, Gwynedd suspects, as neither Elmet nor especially Rheged look to be in the mood to take any comfort from such friendly taunting as they usually would.
"Daring Rheged," Elmet says, however, quickly proving Gwynedd wrong, "needs no weapon other than his voice to fell his enemies, for he bores them all to sleep."
Rheged's voice is little more than a faint whisper, cracking like caught kindling in his throat, but after frowning at Elmet, he still manages to add, "Elmet, resolute because he does not have the wits to know when he is beaten." His unfocused gaze swings towards Gwynedd. "And heroic Gwynedd may even fell a man or two if he can keep a hold upon his sword."
Caught up with the cadence of their back and forth, Gwynedd turns to Pictland, and begins, "And Pictland…"
Pictland's dark eyes are flat and hard, his expression even harder, and the words Gwynedd was about to speak wither on his tongue half-formed. Pictland has never shown any inclination to join in with any of their jokes, and would no doubt consider ill-timed any attempt to include him now.
Gwynedd shifts his attention to Alt Clut instead, thinking to bring their game full circle, but before he can even think of a new rhyme, Pictland says, "And Pictland is the bravest of them all, for he always gives his enemies the advantage, of hearing his feet wherever they fall."
It's so close to the quip that Gwynedd was about to make himself that it shocks laughter out of him, too abrupt for him to subdue entirely no matter how swift the palm he raises to his mouth in order to smother it.
Pictland watches his struggles to regain his composure with obvious bemusement. "I'm a big bastard and I'll never have a dancer's grace, I'm not surprised that you've noticed," he says, shrugging. "Nor that you want to laugh about it. I don't mind."
Even with permission, Gwynedd cannot bring himself to drop his hand. Pictland has never struck him as the kind of person who takes kindly to having fun poked at him before, and Gwynedd can't help but think that he might simply be allowing it for Rheged's benefit now. The fact that his lips have not curved into even one of his strange half-smiles only seems to confirm that he does not take the same pleasure from holding himself up to ridicule that the rest of them do.
Alt Clut, however, appears to have no such misgivings. He chuckles heartily, and even reaching out as if he might pat Pictland companionably on his back when their horses edge closer, though his courage seems to leave him at the last on that score, and his arm quickly falls back down to his side.
His smile remains undimmed, however, and he cheerfully announces, "Now I think we should weave tales of the victories we are sure to find on the battlefield."
-
-
The first gasp of air Gwynedd takes when he returns to wakefulness stinks of copper and shit.
He can taste his own sweat and metal on the second, and the rotten egg putrescence of old magic with the third.
Awareness of his own body comes more slowly, the sharp pain in his side masking the smaller twinges of pulled muscles and sore joints, which he can only resolve as distinct from one another after a moment's quiet concentration.
He wriggles his fingers and then his toes, and when he's reassured that all of his limbs are intact, he tries opening his eyes.
And sees nothing but blackness.
"I'm blind," he says. Gwent had been blinded in battle once, and taken but a month to recover her sight, and so the admittance does not concern him as deeply as the sound of his own voice. It's raw and hoarse, as though he might have been screaming for longer than his throat could bear.
Gwynedd cannot remember doing so; cannot remember anything beyond the first time his sword crossed that of an Angle. The absence is troubling.
"You're not blind," someone says. It sounds like Pictland, though that seems at odds with the lightness of the hand which is briefly placed on his brow. "You just have blood in your eyes."
"Blood?" Gwynedd echoes, confused. He had sensed no injury to his head when he had performed his mental inventory of his body earlier, and when he runs his hand over it to check, he cannot feel one, either.
"Not your own," Pictland tells him, pressing something cold and damp against Gwynedd's face. He scrubs briskly, paying no heed to Gwynedd's protests at his skin's resulting sting, nor his weak attempts to push him aside. "It took me the best part of the day to find you, because you were buried beneath a pile of limbs about ten deep."
Pictland's ministrations may not be gentle, but they are at least effective, and Gwynedd's vision soon returns, albeit substantially blurry around the edges. Pictland sits back on his haunches then and drops the cloth he had been using, leaving Gwynedd alone to the grim task of cleaning the gore that has clotted his eyelashes together.
"You fight like a man possessed," Pictland continues, his gruff voice holding a note of something that sounds a little like admiration. "Went after those bastards with nothing but your bare hands and teeth half the time."
There is skin and hair trapped under each one of his nails, Gwynedd notes when he glances down at them.
"I'm sometimes taken like that when I'm in battle."
Gwynedd's often wondered if some outside force does take him over whenever he's angry, frightened or desperate enough for true rage to descend. It happens only very rarely, but all who have seen him thus have said much the same as Pictland: that he does not seem like himself in those moments. Gwynedd could not say, because he's always left with the same blank spot in his memory afterwards as he has now.
"I like to think it makes up for my deficiencies with the sword," he quips weakly, which makes Pictland huff out a single, sharp breath of laughter.
"Aye, I think it might," he says, but any levity that might have momentarily softened his face is quick to fade. "Didn't do us much good, though."
"We lost?" Gwynedd sits and then looks around himself hurriedly, but there's naught to see. Wherever it is that Pictland has dragged him to is clearly far from the battlefield, and only the faint smell of death on the breeze and the calls of the ravens flocking thick in the air above a hill several leagues away give any hint of the slaughter which must have occurred somewhere nearby. "Is my brother…?"
Gwynedd can't bring himself to finish the question.
From his long pause, the way he drums his fingers anxiously against his broad thigh, it seems as though Pictland is just as reluctant to give him an answer.
After a long moment, though, he draws a deep breath, and says, "Gododdin's lost a few more teeth and one of his fingers, and they almost gutted Elmet, though he's up and complaining about the ruin of his best armour already. Rheged…" Pictland's next breath is even longer, and he sighs it out slowly, as though in a futile attempt to delay sharing the news he knows he must give. "Rheged sleeps so deeply that we fear he might never wake."
-
-
597; Kingdom of Gododdin
Gwynedd doesn't think to wonder why Pictland had not mentioned the state of Alt Clut's health until the very moment he first catches sight of his brother awaiting their arrival outside Gododdin's king's hall and he sees the ruin that has been made of his face.
Even then, he assumes that the omission had been designed to soothe rather than harm, because despite Pictland's habitual gruffness and grim countenance, he has never betrayed any real malice; his cruelty is all in his appearance, Gwynedd continues to hope, and not a revelation of his true character.
But no matter how kindly meant the attempt might have been, Gwynedd wishes Pictland had thought better of making it, because his surprise is consequently so great that it freezes both his tongue and his limbs, and he can only stare, silent and immobile, until Alt Clut limps forward and pulls him from his horse and into a tight, desperate embrace.
"We were beginning to think that you must have fallen like… Like Rheged did," he says, pressing his ragged cheek against the crook of Gwynedd's neck.
Gwynedd cups the back his brother's head in one hand and pulls him yet closer with the other, hoping to reassure him that he's both solid and unharmed. "I did fall, but Pictland tells me that the Angles were kind enough to scatter enough of their limbs below me to break it."
"How thoughtful; maybe we've misjudged them." Alt Clut's laughter is low and thin, little more than a wheeze of stirred air, and quick to fade into a sigh. He gently disentangles himself from Gwynedd's arms, stepping back as he says, "I should send word with one of my men to Gododdin and Elmet; let them know you've been found. They're out there still, digging through corpses in search of you."
"I'll go," Pictland says, and the sudden sound of his voice makes Gwynedd's heart leap jarringly in his chest. He'd almost forgotten the other kingdom was there. "Your men need their rest more than I do."
He doesn't wait for either an agreement or thanks before wheeling his horse around. Alt Clut watches him canter away in the direction of the distant battlefield with what looks to be bemusement.
"He hasn't stopped for a moment since the battle ended," he says, still frowning. "Rushing hither and thither, giving orders and tending wounds. He was the one that organised the search for you, too, you know, and he ended up dragging Gododdin and Elmet from their beds to help him because he couldn't seem to bear to wait for a moment longer, in the end. I would have come too, but a fucking Angle damn near castrated me and I think it'll be a good long while before I can sit astride a horse again."
That admission drives all thoughts of Pictland immediately from Gwynedd's mind and causes him to study his brother more closely. His attention had been so riveted by the wound that had almost cleaved Alt Clut's face in two that he had missed the telltale signs of even more heinous injuries that must lay hidden beneath his clothes: the unevenness of his posture, the laxness of the fingers on his left hand, and the extra bulk around his middle, suggesting bandages wound from nipple to groin.
"You need healing," he says, reaching out anxiously towards his brother.
Alt Clut shies away from him. "Save your magic for Rheged. He has more need of it than I do."
-
-
If Rheged were human, he would be thought too young to go into battle alongside warriors – they all would, perhaps – but still he has not looked so much like a child for many years. He looks impossibly small to Gwynedd, practically lost inside the nest of furs that is serving as his sick bed. Only his head is visible, sallow-skinned but unblemished save for a yellowing bruise at his temple.
His expression is peaceful, his breathing regular, and it would be easy enough to believe he was only sleeping except that he doesn't even stir when Gwynedd takes hold of his hand.
Rheged has always been a light sleeper before.
Alt Clut moves in closer, leaning his weight against Gwynedd's shoulder. "Do you think he might –" He clearly doesn't want to speak the next, horribly inevitable word, and swallows it down with such violent haste that it almost makes him retch.
Gwynedd doesn't want to hear it anyway. "I don't think so," he says, shaking his head.
Very few of their kind die quickly, especially of late. Even if their own kingdoms have been destroyed entirely, they linger on for a generation or two, fading along with the memories of the children or grandchildren of people who were once their own to eventually be born anew, if they're fortunate, as some small part of their replacement.
Catreath may have been taken, but the rest of Rheged's lands remain his own. It was a grievous blow, but not a deadly one, Gwynedd needs very much to believe, because there remains the chance that that which is not yet broken irrecoverably can be repaired.
He traces runes across the clammy skin of his brother's forehead, binding the spell with every name Rheged has borne since the first, and then channels so much magic through it that his palms begin to char and blister.
Healing spells need subtlety alongside power as the body is a stubborn thing, and cannot be forced to reshape itself, only persuaded. Gwynedd doesn't have nearly enough cunning to work them well.
Rheged sleeps on unperturbed by his efforts
"I can't do anything else," he has to admit finally, once the skin of his arms starts to split and his pain becomes sharp enough to rend through his concentration entirely. "I just don't have the skill for this. I'm sure Dyfed would be able to do more. Perhaps we could –"
"There's no point asking; Dyfed wouldn't come, would he?" Alt Clut says, though he sounds more resigned than angry. "The rest of the Cymry think we're as good as dead already. They've given up on us."
"I'm sure that's not true," Gwynedd says, but he's ruefully aware that his reassurance likely rings hollow. "They would be here if they could, Alt."
Their kind's hearts and minds might be free to love and hate where they wish, but their bodies belong to their people. Their brothers and sisters might well long to give aid to their Northern kin, but if their kings do not see the benefit in it, then Alt Clut is right, they will not come. No matter how often he tries to deceive himself otherwise, Gwynedd knows he is only able to remain here by the grace of his own king, and must perforce return home as soon as he is recalled.
He fears that will be sooner than he would like.
"Some of them, maybe," Alt Clut says, smirking slightly, "but I very much doubt Dyfed would be amongst their number, in any case."
-
-
Gwynedd could not say how long it takes for Elmet and Gododdin return because each moment he remains at Rheged's bedside is filled with exactly the same fear, rendering them indistinguishable from one another, and thus the days soon blend together, passing uncounted.
Their appearance is just as shocking and unexpected as their arrival had been, because their wounds, too, are far more serious than Pictland had lead him to believe.
Only Gododdin's fang teeth remain, above and below, and he has been left with but one thumb and two fingers between both his hands. Elmet's is forced to clasp Gwynedd's shoulder in greeting because he cannot speak one with his throat slashed from ear to ear.
"It's clear I can't trust anything Pictland tells me," Gwynedd grumbles. "I don't know what he was trying to achieve, but he did give me the impression that you'd all made it through relatively unscathed, at least in comparison to…" Words fail him, and for a while he can only wave his hand feebly towards his brothers in demonstration. "Well, to this."
"He thinks you're too soft for the truth," Alt Clut says, chuckling.
Despite everything, Gwynedd finds himself insulted by the insinuation. "I could maybe forgive him for that before, but he's seen me fight properly now, hasn't he? Surely he couldn't still think that after the battle."
Gododdin starts laughing, as well. "Not that sort of soft, Gwyn," he says, the words a little garbled and indistinct. "The sort that worries far too much over things he can't change."
Gwynedd cannot refute it, because that much is true. He is worried; worried for all of them.
-
-
Mere moments after Gwynedd manages to coax his brothers into finding fresh honey and bandages for their wounds, he hears the unmistakable clomp of Pictland's footsteps approaching Rheged's chamber.
Pride still stinging from Alt Clut's earlier revelation, Gwynedd would have gladly ignored him, but Pictland makes it impossible for him to pretend any unawareness by immediately announcing his presence.
"Has there been any change?" he asks from the doorway, obviously unsure of his welcome.
Gwynedd is glad of that. "None," he says sharply and with enough finality, he hopes, that it will be clear that he does not desire any further conversation.
Pictland, however, is either oblivious to the hint, or else determined enough to continue that he chooses to ignore it. "Are you –" He breaks off suddenly with a frustrated-sounding growl. "I'm sorry, for you and for him, but I have absolutely no fucking clue what else to say."
Gwynedd's irritation withers away; he simply doesn't have sufficient energy to sustain it, apparently, in the face of even the clumsiest of attempts at concern.
"It's all right," he says, exhaling the words on a sigh, "I have no idea what I want to hear, either."
Pictland looks relieved, and for an instant, Gwynedd thinks that will be an end to it; that Pictland's said his piece – meagre though it may be – assuaged whatever small anxiety had prompted this overture, and will thus leave again in short order.
But though he hesitates briefly, Pictland does eventually enter the chamber, and thereafter is quick to crouch down next to Gwynedd at Rheged's bedside.
"I just… I can't imagine what you all must be feeling," he says, voice hushed even though he must know that there's no chance of him waking Rheged. "My brother and I… Well, we're not exactly close, and I've never had any other family that I can remember."
"I didn't even know you had a brother," Gwynedd has to admit.
"I would be more surprised if you did." The corners of Pictland's mouth curl upwards slightly. "He's not really one for company."
Something the two of them have in common, Gwynedd supposes, from what little he does know of Pictland's habits.
And that knowledge spurs him to say, "Well, I am, and I'm glad of yours, but please don't feel as though you have to say anything. I'm quite happy to sit here in silence as long as you are."
The jittery, nervous movements of Pictland's fingers stop instantly, and Gwynedd can see relaxation sink through his body as though in a wave: from the grateful slump of his shoulders all the way down to the untensing of the long muscles in his thighs.
Soon, it's almost as though Gwynedd is alone again, the illusion shattered only by the faint warmth and light press of Pictland's arm against his own, brought together without design as they both lean in towards Rheged.
Gwynedd unexpectedly finds it very peaceful.
-
-
Notes:
- Rome's old wall' is the Antonine Wall, which represented the northernmost frontier barrier of the Roman Empire (and stood at the northern border of Alt Clut's lands). It took twelve years to build, and then was abandoned twenty years after that. It was briefly manned again in the 3rd century, but this new occupation ended after only a few years.
-
- In 597, The Battle of Catreath was fought by Gododdin and its allies, including men from the other kingdoms of Yr Hen Ogledd, Gwynedd and Pictland. The Britons were soundly defeated by the Angles of Bernicia, and all of the northern kingdoms were significantly weakened by the loss.
-
- According to Y Gododdin, a medieval Welsh poem commemorating the battle, the ruler of Gododdin invited the warriors to take part in a year's feasting at Din Eidyn (Edinburgh) before the campaign was begun.
-
- The reasons for the campaign are a little unclear, but it was believed that they might have been intending to win back Ebrauc (York; old capital of the Celtic north) from the Angles. The battle was, however, fought at Catreath (Catterick; North Yorkshire) which was lost after Rheged was attacked.