The other fics in the Feel the Fear series are linked (in chronological order) on my profile page.
This fic was written in celebration of having posted 1 million words to my AO3 account!
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Circa 300 CE, Provincia Britannia
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The skin on the back of Gallia's neck is heated, the short hairs at his nape prickling as they stand on end, and his shoulders feel heavy, as though something of great weight is resting there, unseen.
He knows the sensation well, and he knows what it means. He is being watched.
When he tells Britannia as much, Britannia doesn't blanch, or tense, or reach for the gladius sheathed at his belt. He only rolls his eyes at Gallia, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer.
"Have you only just noticed?" he asks, after a brief, incredulous silence. "He's been watching us for hours now. Just as he did yesterday. And the day before that."
"Who?" Gallia asks. He glances around himself warily, but, beyond Rome's wall, he can see nothing but grass and gorse stretching out unbroken from horizon to horizon. The air is still, and the sky is empty of both clouds and birds. Above and below, not a single living thing is stirring.
"My brother," Britannia says. "Caledonia."
Which might explain why Britannia has persisted in dragging Gallia to this barren spot time and again, despite there being nothing to do or see beside admiring the height, length, and ingenuity of Rome's wall, which Gallia had personally tired of two days ago.
"You want to meet with him?" he surmises.
Britannia snorts humourlessly, shaking his head. "No."
"He wants to meet with you, then?"
"He might," Britannia says. "But he won't. He daren't climb over onto this side of the wall. Because he's a coward."
This last is said with spiteful relish, and he aims an equally spiteful glare at the apex of Rome's wall, where, Gallia presumes, Caledonia is crouched, hidden behind the battlements.
"I can't believe that," Gallia says. "Rome has told me that he fights like a beast possessed. That they had to build this wall just to keep him contained."
"Maybe that's true when he's cornered like a beast, but otherwise…?" Britannia shrugs his bony shoulders. "When Rome first invaded, he ran away with his tail tucked between his legs like a frightened dog, and now he's caged like one, too. Isn't that right, Caledonia?"
Britannia's raised voice peals out harshly, and in the ringing silence that follows, Gallia hears a small, soft whisper of noise – perhaps the rustling of a cloak or the shuffle of a leather sandal brushing against stone – and catches sight of a dark flicker of movement amongst the wall's crenellations.
"Salve, Caledonia! Would you care to join us?" he shouts, ignoring Britannia's hissed demand that he 'shut the fuck up'.
Gallia holds his breath then, ears straining for the vaguest hint of a noise that might serve as a reply, but there's nothing. He might as well have voiced his question to the wind.
Britannia releases his own heavy sigh in tandem with Gallia's. Despite his derision, and his insistence that he has no wish to see his brother, it seems he might also have been hoping for an answer.
His, "I told you so," is nothing but jeering, however; not a speck of disappointment evident in either his tone or his expression. "Come on, we shouldn't linger, or he'll start chucking rocks at us. He usually does, when I get too close to his wall."
"He hasn't done so before," Gallia says. "And we've been up here every day this week so far."
"Yes, well…" Britannia's face flushes red in what could be either anger or embarrassment. Gallia doesn't yet know him well enough to tell. "That was probably just good luck on our part, and there's no telling how long that will hold." He makes a grab for Gallia's arm. "Come on."
Britannia is more than a head shorter than Gallia, and as skinny and ungainly as a newly-born foal, but he is determined. When he tugs imperiously on Gallia's sleeve, Gallia has no choice but to follow to save himself from the indignity of a torn tunic or being yanked off his feet.
As soon as he can be sure his footing is solid, Gallia wrenches himself free of Britannia's white-knuckled grip, and smooths out the poor, abused fabric of his tunic, which is crumpled like a rag. "Why the haste?" he asks. "Are you scared of your brother like Rome is?"
"Of course not," Britannia scoffs, though his hurried steps don't slow even a fraction. "He's just… He's nothing but an annoyance. I'd be happy enough to never have to see him again. I've no idea why you'd want to speak to him."
"Why wouldn't I want to meet the man who's kept Rome at bay all these years?" Gallia asks.
"He isn't a man," Britannia says dismissively. "He's just a boy, probably no older than you."
"He is?" Gallia says, delighted. "That makes his feats even more impressive! He must be just as skilled a fighter as the stories say."
And Gallia had hung on every word, rapt, and revelling in the lurid details of the tales Rome's soldiers had told about the barbarian who lived north of the wall. About how he was fierce, untameable, a force of nature. Gallia had wished to see him since the moment he heard the very first of them.
"I suppose he is quite handy with a sword," Britannia concedes. "But he's as likely to shoot himself in the foot as anything else when he tries to use a bow. He's just big, and tall, and can hit really hard. He's nothing special."
"And is he handsome?" Gallia had always imagined him to be so, in a wild, rugged sort of way.
Britannia's face screws up in disgust. "Hardly. He's always scowling, and his eyebrows take up about half of his face. He looks like an angry bear."
Gallia can't help but laugh. "Ah, the family resemblance must be uncanny."
Britannia splutters in indignation, and then storms off ahead of Gallia, not deigning to say another word to him until they fetch up at the small roundhouse they've been staying in since they travelled north, and even then, he only barks the order that Gallia should start packing his things together.
Gallia complies – though only because Rome is expecting them in Londinium at the end of the month and they really should have set off yesterday, if not before – and holds his tongue until they've started out down the nearest road, headed south once more.
"The next time you come up here, could you ask Caledonia if I could visit him?" he asks.
"No," Britannia says, sharply and immediately. "Like I told you, I don't want to speak to him. He never says anything worth listening to, anyway. All he ever talks about are swords, and… and rocks. He's dull, Gallia. Dull and bad-tempered and violent. You'd be best off avoiding him, too, believe me."
"Nevertheless, I'd still like to meet him." Gallia is beginning to suspect that Britannia is far from an unbiased judge of his brother's character. "Perhaps I could write him a letter, asking for an audience. If I did, would you leave it on the wall for me; somewhere he might find it?"
"He'd probably just use it to wipe his arse." Britannia sniffs haughtily. "I doubt he would know what else to do with a piece of papyrus. I can't imagine he's bothered to learn how to read. But if you insist, I'll do it. As long as you promise you won't say another word about my fucking brother for the rest of our journey."
"I promise," Gallia says, his stomach already churning with nervous anticipation. He usually dreads his visits to this dour, dank little island, but he hopes now that he will take a great deal of pleasure in his next. "Thank you, Britannia."
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Notes: And then Britannia fails to deliver that letter (out of spite, most likely) and Gallia doesn't get to meet Caledonia/Alba for a few hundred more years. And then he's bitterly disappointed when he finally does...