I felt terrible putting little England through this...! But bare with it, it has a happy ending! There's some translation notes and the meanings of everyone's names at the end, for anyone who's interested. Just wrote this to get back into the habit of writing again, but I think my other works are better... Also, feedback would be great guys, please! Even if its just to mention things you didn't like!

The boy runs. If he doesn't, the boar will surely catch him and it's a beast of a swine.

It's raining again. It's always raining in this land, or it feels like it, atleast. Though the boy has no idea where this land is, nor who he is, or even what he is. And yet the rain continues to fall on the lush grass; it's that awful type of rain, the one that seems light enough to go out in and ends up soaking you to your skin – drizzle. The boy has no clothes to keep the rain at bay…and the boar's still after him.

He can't outrun it, he's certain of that much, but what choice does he have? He'll just have to trust his tiny, spindly legs to hold out long enough for the boar to tire or lose interest. If the boar catches him, he'll…! He has no idea. He doesn't know what it means for him, should the boar catch up to him, but every nerve in his body is firing, his head screaming "run, run, RUN!". There's nowhere to run to. No one to help him. The boar is gaining on him, tusks sharp and deadly.

He trips on a moss-covered stone, nearly losing his balance, but he keeps his footing and hurries on. If he can just make it to the forest, the thick foliage could slow the boar down and it's just a short distance away…! But his legs are aching, his lungs burning. He won't make it – the gods of this land are bastards like that. Whatever gods are. He risks a look over his shoulder at the charging boar. True to form, the gods do not smile upon him this day; the boar is an arm's length away from him and as his left leg gives way beneath him, throwing all his weight onto the right, the boar's hoof catches a stone and it stumbles, its' tusk gouges the side of the young boys' leg, the impact forcing him to the ground. The boar fails to keep its own footing and instinct once again takes control of the boy; adrenalin forces him to his feet - he doesn't register the pain in his leg – and he bolts for the edge of the forest.

The forest calls to him and he hits its' rim at full speed, but he keeps going. Too close to the edge is just as dangerous as being too deep in the woods. Once his flight mode wears off though, he can't remain upright and he catches his foot on something. Again. He's so clumsy and there's never anyone there to pick him up – they just throw rocks at him, the occasional spear even. He crashes to the ground, rolling for a bit, getting tangled up in something. Something green, something sharp and it digs into his skin; wild rose briars.

Panting, the boy sits up, shaking hands muss up his own blond hair, caked in dirt. The pain hits him then, searing, blinding, all-consuming. The wound is deep and something red pours from it, running down his leg in serpent-like streams. He has no idea what it is, but it panics him and when he touches it, it's wet but warm. So very warm.

The boy screams and there's no-one to hear him. He's only four summers old…

Tis an unusually wet summer, even for this place, the woman thinks to herself as she tends to the small fire inside their home. This is her home and her land; Albion.

Then the shout comes; "Moir! Alasdair's injured again!"

The fair-haired woman sighs, standing to her feet as she shakes her head. Her lips curve at the ends, but she quickly hides it as she strides out into the drizzle, a frown on her brow and her hands on her hips, head tilted to the side.

"Kerron!" A red-haired boy snaps at a black-haired boy, punching him roughly in the arm. "Must you be such a taddle-tale!?"

Albion watches two of her sons approach, one looking smug, the other one (the injured one) looks to be livid while her remaining three sons are chuckling behind their hands, laughing at their eldest brother but trying to be sly about it.

"Alasdair Kirkland…" Albion gives her eldest son a stern stare. "You have been clashing with that whelp of Gaul's again, have you not?"

Alasdair ruffles his red hair, turning sheepish under his mother's gaze. "He…! He hit me first, mathair! He was on our land without having sought permission!"

"We have trade with Gaul, my love." Albion explained. "Traders from Gaul are no surprise. Even so, you were right to defend our land, for I gave no leave for her son to step onto our shores."

Alasdair grins at that, puffing his chest out with pride. He's twelve summers old – one more and he'll be classed as a man; able to take a wife, to go on raids and to fight in wars. He's Albion's oldest son, the personification of Alba. He will always be her baby boy. They all will.

"Moir!" Kerron presses, determined to get his older brother into trouble. "You decreed no more fighting this moon cycle!"

Alasdair roars at his younger brother for that, throwing himself at Kerron, starting a brawl in the damp grass. Albion grabs them both by the scruff of their tunics and pulls them apart.

"Enough!" She demands, voice leaving no room for arguments. "I have told you thrice this week – no turning on our kin! For any reason!"

Kerron and Alasdair shuffle their feet, looking apologetic and embarrassed, backs of their necks burning in embarrassment.

Albion has five sons. She'd had a vision when she was still a young maid (no older than Alasdair was now) that she would have many sons – six of them. But she had yet to find that sixth one. From the land of Ierne hailed her only set of twins; Hibernia and Eire, though she called them Finbar and Fintan. The twins both had chestnut brown hair, left unbound and wavy, their skin covered in freckles, though Fintan – who was the smaller of the two – had far fewer than Finbar. They were ten summers of age. Kerron came from the isle between the larger lands; Ellan Vannin (Isle of Man). He was nine summers old and like Alasdair and Finbar, he was well built for his young age. Dylan was her most recently found son, with strawberry blond hair and only seven summers old. Albion adored them. They were her treasures.

"Kerron is in the right, Alasdair. I warned you against any more brawling."

"But mathair…!" Alasdair pleaded.

His mother looked thoughtful for a moment. "Was the outcome in your favour, my son?"

The grin on his face said everything.

Chuckling, Albion smiled. "Well, that is the important part – you saw off foreign invaders."

Alasdair still got a smack on his backside for disobeying his mother's wishes. Then she took her sons inside and treated Alasdair's wounds – a split cheek from a well thrown punch. Albion made a point to remember its location – she'd pay Gaul back twofold when the two women next met. Once the wound was treated, she kissed her eldest son's cheek, praising his victory and encouraged him to tell the tale around their fire that night.

Alasdair had a mother to treat his wounds and keep him safe…

Night was always the worst time for the boy, for it was then that the forest would truly come alive. Owls and bats flew overhead with all seeing eyes, wolves prowled on the hunt for deer, Lynx stalked the whole forest…to say nothing of bears. Every snap of a twig or sudden silence in the forest had the boy holding his breath. He dared not sleep once the sun had set. And there was the fae to consider…

It had been two days since the incident with the boar but the ground within the core of the rose briars had become a reluctant home to the boy. Far from comfortable, the thorns caught his hair and his skin whenever he moved, his body covered in scratches. But it was shelter and that's what mattered, especially with his leg in such a state. It was an ugly wound, and it festered like mad. He didn't have the will to try and move it in earnest.

Something sounded from the world outside his briar safe-haven; a twig snapping. The small child covered his mouth with his hands, to silence any noises that might have otherwise slipped out. A slender gap in the tangled weave of briars showed a paw on the ground, too close for comfort. Not attached to giant claws, so it wasn't a bear. The paw was not especially large, so it wasn't a lynx. A wolf then…

The ground was cold and soggy from the continued rain that hadn't let up. It smelt earthy, tangy, heady in its own way. The tiny blond remained still and tried to ignore the cold bite of night air, the dampness on his skin and the ache in his limbs…

The fire was wondrously warm and it kept away any predators seeking an easy meal – failing that, the six dogs outside kept them safe, as did the line of salt placed at the threshold of their home and a scrap of iron hanging above the door frame. Albion was far from concerned about her own safety, but her sons were with her and she would not put them at risk. Dogs to keep the large predators away, iron to fend off the fae and fire to keep anything else at bay.

She smiled fondly at her children, watching them try to fight their need for sleep. They hated to sleep, it made them feel like they were missing out on something. Dylan was already tucked up beneath the pile of furs that were their beds – still too young to stay up late into the night. Kerron slept soundly beside him, black hair splayed in all directions.

"Time you were asleep my sons." Albion smiled.

"Not…not tired yet…" Alasdair rubbed his eyes.

"Just a sort while more..." Finbar pressed, as Fintan's head slumped onto his shoulder, having lost his battle with sleep.

"Young warriors need their rest, lest their blade be heavy in their hand and their minds dulled." Albion was always amused by her children's stubbornness, but she was the ultimate authority, her word absolute.

Finbar and Alasdair reluctantly prepared themselves for bed, stripping down and clambering under the furs, letting their long hair down and wriggling until they got comfy. Then they watched their mother carefully ready Finbar for bed, placing him beneath the furs beside his twin. The furs provided some warmth, but shared body heat provided more comfort during the summer months and ensured survival during the darker ones. Albion then slid herself under the furs, laying on her back and chuckling when Alasdair rested his head on her collar while Dylan tucked himself against her other side, seeking her warmth. She hummed a tune so old it no longer had words, softly and sweetly, lulling her older children to sleep and giving them over, temporarily, to Caer Ibormeith and her welcoming arms – Albion hoped the Goddess of dreams was feeling kind this evening and would provide her children with pleasant dreams. Only when she was sure her children slept soundly and was content with their level of safety, did she allow herself to slip into the arms of the Goddess…

A full five days later the rain showed no sign of stopping and it troubled Albion. So much rain…the crops will surely spoil. Best to gather what provisions we can and prepare for hard times, the woman warrior mused to herself, stirring a pot of porridge made from oats and table ale – milk never lasted for long, especially with five growing boys to feed. But where is that sixth son of mine…? She did not voice it, but she was deeply concerned.

"Hear me, my children, "Albion began, "this forenoon I shall go hunting. Alasdair, your brothers shall be your charge. Keep them safe and keep the fire burning. I'll leave our guarding hounds with you to assist you. And mind, no more quarrelling amongst yourselves. If you have spirit enough to argue, put it to better use by practicing your archery."

Alasdair didn't mind being left in charge, he'd puff his chest up and throw his shoulders back, trying to make himself look bigger, his ego heightened by the responsibility. He helped his mother with their first meal of the day, scolded his younger brothers for their laziness, then headed off to a nearby stream to wash up. When he'd returned, his mother had hitched her horses to her war chariot and grabbed her long bow – their hunting dogs already eager to be off. She took several javelins and her trustworthy spear, just in case. The five boys watched their mother step into her chariot and they bid her farewell and happy hunting, waving all the while…

The rain and cold had done its' job. It had drained the boys' strength and left him hollow inside. He had not eaten in days, unable to move after becoming too entangled in the briars to free himself. The rain provided him with some water, but it failed to quench his growing thirst. His leg was worse; it smelt terrible, the skin around the wound had gone an awful colour and the pain had spread further, seeping into his joint.

Yesterday, the pain had been so intense it mattered not if he moved his leg or kept it still. It didn't hurt today. Yesterday, his body had trembled, shivering in a desperate, futile attempt to keep warm, frozen to his very soul, hands and feet turning purple. Today, he did not feel the cold. Yesterday, his stomach had been in agony, craving something, anything to fill it, even just a little bit. Today, he hardly noticed it.

Today, he was numb and it was a welcome respite from the pain, from the hunger, from the chill. He wanted so badly to sleep, to just close his eyes. A tiny part of him held him back, warned him against it, urged him to move, to seek shelter someplace else, anywhere else! But the boy had come to love these briars that kept the world away from him, come to adore the scent of wild roses. It was such a pretty flower and the briar patch so dense that no one would find him here. If he slept, no one would scold him for it, no one would mind. If he slept forever, no one would ever know…

Albion draws up on her reigns, bringing her chariot to a halt. Descending, she sets the horses loose, knowing they won't go far, before she grabs her javelins and places them in their holster. The rain continues to fall, but the sun was starting to peek out from behind the clouds – Albion marvelled at the bow shaped object in the sky, crafted from seven colours. She did not know what it was, but she'd seen it often enough in her lifetime. She chalked it up to be the work of the fae.

Off to her side, her hunting dogs let loose a series of sort barks. They'd caught the scent of something and she had the finest hunting dogs of them all – from the land of the Hibernian's came her wolf hounds, tall, shaggy and swift as the hare, while from the land of the Britons came the Pugnaces Britanniae, a stocky, sturdy breed of dog, huge with fawn coloured fur and low hanging jowls that drooled everywhere – they were not bred for chasing down prey, they were bred to fight and to protect, they aided their masters specifically against bears and had power enough to break a bull's back. Albion had trained her hunting dogs well, to work together and to kill swiftly. All life was sacred to Celts, so Albion ensured her hunting was methodical and quick, putting her prey out of its' misery quickly. She said but one word and the hounds took off, darting into the woods and she ran, hot on their tails. She had sons to feed, no time to get sentimental, nor question her actions – better a deer or hare die from an arrow than a son of hers from starvation…

There was as strange, sniffing sort of sound and it roused the slowly dying blond from his staring into space. Once again, there was a paw just outside his kingdom of briars. A much bigger paw this time, with large claws. A bear. An inquisitive bear. The boy stared in horror as a large paw lifted from the ground then came crashing down on the edge of the briar patch; the claws snagged the green vines, thorns failing to deter the beast as the bear dragged his paw backwards. It knew something was in here and it had the strength to destroy the briars of the wild roses.

The boy panicked and tried to move, but the pain was suddenly back and he blacked out, leaving him at the mercy of the bear as it slowly broke away the child's safe place.

When the boy came around again, the bear's nose was within touching distance and the young blond could feel its' every exhale on his face. In desperation, he tried to get away, to crawl further into the depths of the briars, but he was too ensnared. The bear's claws caught a briar that was tangled around the boy and began to yank on it. The boy screwed his eyes shut and hoped whatever followed would be swift and painless.

What followed was the sound of barking, faint barking but not that of a wolf and it prompted the child to open his eyes. The bear had paused, caught off guard. The barks came again, closer now and a strange swooshing noise sounded, before a dull thud and then the bear let out a yelp and took off, leaving the child confused, for he knew of nothing that would actively pick a fight with a bear. More noses quickly appeared, sniffing eagerly and trying to dig their way in. Fear gripped the boy and he tried one last time to get away.

"Come away!" A voice commanded, strong and low, female.

The noses disappeared and the child stilled. Soft footfalls could be heard and then someone knelt, carefully brushing the thorn covered vines aside. Two arms reached inside the boy's hideaway and gently touched his body, causing the boy to squeak in alarm and try to get away. A face suddenly appeared, peering at him.

"My grief! Tis a wonder to me, that I should find a lad here of all places."

Her eyes were wide with surprise but they were green. Green, like his own eyes. For some reason that felt important and he stopped struggling, body going limp, but he made a last-ditch effort to move closer to her. No human had been kind to him before, if she rejected him too, he felt he'd never recover. The woman's eyes became soft and something wet fell on his cheek, rain he assumed, but then he realised it came from her eyes as she softly cried.

"To find you in a place such as this…! But better to find you in ill straights than not find you at all."

Suddenly there were hands holding him, lifting him, freeing him from the plants' ensnarement. Callused but gentle in their grip, her hands bore the child from within the briars and into the open air. He trembles, not from the cold, not from fear but from something he doesn't understand. It's too overwhelming and he cries.

Her reaction is immediate, pulling the child close to her, tugging her cloak around him as much as she can and her voice is soft and gentle and low and it's wondrous to the boy. Finally, someone notices him, someone is holding him, someone cares! She treats his leg and the boy watches; the pain is horrendous where her fingers touch the red skin near the wound and applies pressure, forcing some disgusting substance from the wound, seriously infected. She speaks to him as she works, encouraging him, soothing him, trying to settle him while he sobs in pain.

Albion knows the boys' pain must be great, but she must treat the wound, lest the boy die. She's impressed he's lasted this long. His cries break her heart and every instinct in her body tells her to end this, but she must do this, she must be cruel this one time to be kind. Once she's satisfied, she tears a strip of cloth from her tartan dress and wraps the wound, but before she does, she brings one of her dogs close to the boy and has it lick the wound several times – it will clean the open wound well enough until she returns to her other sons and her supplies, where she can treat it properly. Albion shifts and the boy suddenly cries anew, more frantic and panicked than before.

She's leaving, is all the boy can think. She's leaving him here, alone, cold, hungry…! He can't bare it! Suddenly there's a word on his tongue, a special word, an important word! He doesn't know what it means but he knows it's vital to his survival, it is everything! He finds his voice and shrieks the word, again and again. Just one word;

"Mamm!"

He raises his arms, hands clenching into fists then relaxing over and over, reaching up to her.

"Mamm! Mamm, mamm, MAMM!"

He's in her arms before he can process it and his head buries into the place where her neck meets her shoulder. She holds him tightly, securely, mindful of his leg and she's speaking to him and he doesn't understand but he repeats that one word he knows.

"And so I am, child." Albion speaks. "I am your mamm, your mother. I am the body of this land, Albion. But that matters not right now. Let us leave this place and return to your brothers. Oh, how we've searched for you, love!"

Everything is too much for the boy and he shuts down, not understanding the things she says, but she's warm, so very warm…

"I am known as Andraste Kirkland. Your brothers are Alasdair, Finbar, Fintan, Kerron and Dylan. And you…you my child, so small and sweet as a leveret…you must have your own name. A name for people to praise, for bards to sing of, for women to swoon at the mere mention of…Yes, I know the very name." Albion smiles at the boy in her arms and tugs her woollen cloak around his trembling form, before stroking the back of his head to reassure him. "From this day until the end of your days, you shall be known as Arthur and your name shall thunder the land to raise great armies and will surely echo throughout all the kingdoms beneath this vast sky. This I know."

That said, she set off, calling her dogs to her side as she carried her youngest – and finally found – son in her arms. Once she reached it and found her horses, she climbed into her chariot with great care, unconcerned with managing the reigns – she was used to gripping a javelin whilst riding, so one handed was hardly a problem. As the chariot pulled away, she began to sing a soothing song, a bright smile on her face and joy in her heart. Her children were everything to her, always would be.

The boy now had a name and with it came understanding; what he was, where he was, who this woman was.

"Let us go home, Arthur."

His voice was raspy, not used to speaking yet and his throat raw from his intense crying and screaming earlier, but he spoke; "Yes, mamm."

Arthur Kirkland buried his face in the crook of his mother's neck and smiled. She smelt of salt laden air carried from the sea, of damp forests and tangy bonfires and every kind of wild flower. She was kind and warm. She was his mother.

Arthur was safe and warm, in arms that cared for him and were as mighty as a mountain. Soon he'd be fed and clothed and in a place where he belonged. Three precious words; mother, family, home. Arthur was going home.

His mother's singing lulled him to peaceful slumber and so deep was his joy and inner peace, that he failed to notice the bird soaring overhead, singing sweetly as the warmth of the sun beat down on its wings.

The rain had finally stopped.

Translation notes;

Moir - Manx for mother.

Mamm - Cornish for mother.

Andraste - Brythonic, meaning "victory" (Britannia).

Alasdair - meaning "defender of man" (Scotland).

Finbar - meaning "Wave crest" (Republic of Ireland).

Fintan - meaning "little, fair one" (Northern Ireland).

Kerron - meaning "grey/dark" (Isle of Man).

Dylan - meaning "son of the wave/born near the sea" (Wales).

Arthur - from the Celtic elements "bear and man" or "bear and king". Also thought to be from the Roman family name Artorius, meaning "Noble and courageous".