1. Cry of the Celts

The wind cut through the thick furs and sent a chill through the tall, dark haired man. It was always harsh in the highlands during winter, even if these were the last few weeks of the daft season. His horse pawed the Earth and his grey eyes shifted over the fields. Something was coming. He wasn't sure what, but the rumors were spreading at a fast rate that men from the East were flooding to the shores in the South and West, even East. He didn't like it. The rumor also carried the promise of a resilient young warrior who seemed indestructible to all who tried to cut him down, failed.

"Celt, we need ta be moving," he heard a gruff voice say from behind him. He turned and saw a man with flaming red hair, and a beard. His tiny eyes were like daggers.

"Of course Hamish," he turned his mount and trotted down the hill to meet him.

"What is it?" The man nodded over the bluff where the other had been standing.

"Somethin' is coming, and I dun't like it," his own eyes narrowing.

"The rumors are comin' at a faster n' faster rate. Seems ta me that young devil who is leadin' the army, is gainin' ground ta here. What would our Lord have us do?"

"We'll fight them, and we'll defeat them. I won't stop until I have their leader's head on a platter to send it back across the seas. Do not be afraid, Hamish, we're built of stronger stuff."

The men headed their horses back to the village, Celt, rode across a large moat and into the castle which he called home. He was their leader. He was the Celtic Nation. He slid of the stallions' back and handed him to a stable boy.

Celt had a dark history and one that wasn't glamorous in any affect. He was rumored to have been raised by wild wolves after the Nordic tribe he had called family abandoned him upon finding his true identity. War had become his employment and his sword his greatest ally. The claymore that hung from his side was forged by a great, ancient hand that he had crossed in the southern part of his domain. The man was tall, with fair blonde hair and sharp, blue eyes. His bone structure was sharp as the blade itself and he towered over Celt, who was just a young nation. Germania. He had studied the boy, and spent time talking with him, only to leave as quickly as he had come, but had left him with the sword.

Men and women inside his castle greeted him warmly as he walked to his quarters. Once inside the privacy of his own room, he unwrapped himself from the furs and straightened his kilt from the ride, throwing the rest of the material over his shoulder. He was tall, broad, and muscular. Women fawned over the man who appeared youthful, yet was well into the five-hundreds. There was never a shortage of pleasures, or war, or drink. Life could be hard in their region, but for the most part, the Celtics lived simplistic lives. They were pagan, and nature was important to them.

That was about to change. As he walked to the door to meet his men for supper, a feeling of nausea swept over him. He clutched the door and a servant girl walking by ran up to him.

"My Lord, are you alright?" She rushed to his aid.

"Get my men…round them together," he could see and feel a village burning in the low-lands. "They've come…"

The girl did as she was told and Celt took a knee. He prayed to the Gods to keep his people safe and that's when he saw those eyes – a deep sea green. The leader of the invaders, perched on a white stallion, he had never seen before on the island.

"I see you…and I shall kill you," he growled. The soldier ordered his men to attack and Celt screamed no as he ran to the front of the castle and a new horse was presented to him.

"WE RIDE!" he howled and the group of warriors he called his own took off across the snow dusted terrain and towards the lowland villages which were being attacked. He felt the fire, it flicked his skin and caused wounds, but he forced it away. His people needed him.

They came upon smoke in the distance, and the echoes of screams.

"My the Gods have mercy, Celt, do we war?" Hamish and another young man, Stuart rode close to his flanks.

Celt's eyes narrowed in pure anger and rage, "We WAR!" The barbaric nature of the Celts took over and they charged. The innocent villagers ran towards them for sanctuary. That's when Celt saw them – he had also heard stories of these men – they were conquerors – they were Roman. The sleek craftsmanship of their armor, their weapons, even their horses screamed it too him. And his attention came to the white stallion, with the slender man atop. Their eyes met. Celts anger shuttered through him and he heeled his steed forward. The other man did not hesitate – but also rushed the stallion for him. Celt heard a horn from the west and the east – the neighboring tribes – they were coming.

Their blade clashed. Slightly surprised by the force behind the others' hand he shouldered the man roughly. His horse side-stepped away and reared, the confidence sure as the sword in the Roman's hand. Celt knew he had to bide time for the other tribes to get to them. He growled as the metal and steel clashed around him, yet he and this soldier seemed to be the only two on the Earth.

"Get off yer horse and fight like a man!" Celt swung his horse from side to side, trying to get a clean swipe.

"After you!" the soldier replied, unknowing of the impending tribes that outnumbered the small Roman army.

Celt obliged the man, surprised at his ability to speak in his tongue. Even more surprised as to the man, sounded no older than a boy.

"Now, we fight!" The Roman began the battle. Celt fought back with iron and force, while the boy seemed intent on his quick, lithe footwork and freakish ability to handle the blade.

"Are you new to battle!?" the question angered Celt. Did this child not know who he was dealing with?

"No," Celt heard the screaming of the other tribes closing in and a smile crossed his bloodstained face, "An' neither are they."

Those sea-green eyes widened as his own soldiers began to panic and run away.

"DO NOT RUN! YOU FIGHT!" He cried out. He continued to fight, even attacking Celt's men around him. Blood covered the shining armor as he walked towards Celt. Hamish stalked around the man and stabbed him in the side. The boy cried out and knelt to the ground. Celt watched, a smile flickering across his lips, then they twisted in horror as the boy withdrew the dagger that had slid through the chainmail and stabbed his friend in the chest.

"HAMISH!" Celt rushed the boy and shoved him off shaking his fallen friend. It was too late. He turned back to the boy still on his knees, the blood trickling from his side. A maniacal laugh flooding from the helmet.

"YOU are WEAK, Highlander," he sneered as the laughter continued. Celt kicked the boy in the chest, knocking him back, hearing him gasp for air.

"And you are a dead man," Celt lifted the blunt end of his sword and knocked the boy upside the head. There was nothing more said from the body. Celt looked around him, many of his own flesh and blood, dead. The Roman's were either dead or had retreated. The village could not be saved.

"Come, we bury our dead, and we shall honor them, we will rebuilt in the morning," he closed Hamish's eyes with a shaking hand. Turning back to the boy, for the first time, Celt realized how small he was. He was tall, but thin, light. He grabbed him and flung him over his horse.

"We'll get their plans from him, and then he shall die, by my sword." Celt declared as he swung up on his mount again. His men cheered and began aiding those who needed help back to the castle. It was a tiring journey, luckily, the boy didn't wake. Celt looked down once or twice, seeing pale skin where sea-green eyes had been. The gates swung open for him and he handed the soldier to two guards.

"Chain him, let him keep his armor on, so that he may die a soldiers' death, and I shall send him ta his God, dun't give him food nor drink, an' bring him ta me when I say," Celt went to his room and slammed the door. The echo of the wood slamming shook the castle. He ran a hand though brown hair, his fingers tightening in it. He had lost a friend, a good friend, an ally. That boy – that soldier – would pay with his life.

The men gathered in the great hall, Celt sitting on the stone throne and he raised his hand. The men who were shouting and drinking again, as if war were so normal for them, it affected them naught, silenced.

"Bring the soldier to me," Celt's voice boomed. The great hall doors swung open and the soldier was dragged in. He was awake, as he was struggling against the two guards who had him. He was thrown in front of Celt's feet and the man leaned down.

"Welcome ta the Highlands, Roman," Celt hissed.

"I am no Roman, you worthless peasant," the voice was sharper than before, those sea-green eyes alive and violent.

"Not a Roman…well, what are ya then," Celt grabbed the helmet and brought their faces together.

"Your worst nightmare," he retorted.

"I am sure, guards! Remove the bastards helmet…I want ta see his face, before he dies," Celt stood and drew his sword. He looked forward to slicing the boys head off.

The guards came forth and one held the soldier still, while the other ripped the helmet off. A hush fell over the crowd as long, honey-blonde hair fell in waves over the youths shoulders. Celt used the tip of his sword and raised the face of the soldier slowly.

"He's not a lad, but a lass!" One of the guards shouted in shock.

"Yer a lass?" Celt raised an eyebrow, not quite sure how to handle this. Killing a woman, now that was against his own morals, but she had ventured into the land of men by riding as a soldier and killing his friend.

"Not just any lass," she stood, defiant, and squared off against him, "I am a Britton."

"A Britton," the men in the hall began whispering amongst themselves. Celt raised a hand to silence them.

"A Britton you say," he grabbed the woman's chin roughly and raised her face to see clearer. Her power radiated around her and his own forest green eyes widened, "Yer, like me?" He had only met the one man, Germania, who had been like him. He had no knowledge that there could be, a woman, to meet his match.

"I am nothing like you," she snapped and slapped him across the face, "I am greater! Better! I shall rule this entire island, I shall have my empire!" she boasted.

"Woman," Celt growled and yanked her by her hair, he was enticed by her spunk, amused, but slapping him in front of his men, was uncalled for. Once again the world faded away, their faces inches apart, and he found himself being drawn into her eyes, into her resistance.

"What is your name?" he asked loosening slightly on her hair.

"Britannia," she sneered through her teeth. She had high cheek bones, a strong jawline, large, well set eyes, a straight nose, and a thick brow. Celt was stunned. What was a beauty of a Nation doing in the battlefields for Romans?

"Aye, Britannia," his thick accent caressed her name, "My name is Celt, and you have just found yerself, a captive. Chain her, she'll be strong, and whatever ya do, do not let her tempt you with her body," he swallowed hard as she pushed her away and back into the guards. "Do not let her touch a weapon and do not speak ta her, she's a crafty one," he looked back at her smug-smirk filled face, her eyes snapping with amusement.

"Are you afraid of a woman, Celt?" her voice was venom.

"I'm afraid of all women, cunning little shits," was his retort and her mouth fell open at his arrogance. She was dragged away by the soldiers, screaming and fighting the entire way. Celt heard her voice.

"You cannot treat me like this! I am Britannia! I will rule you all!"

It haunted him.