Although the prologue not strictly necessary to the enjoyment of the story, it is helpful and will give you some information that will be sought after by our heroes further on in the story. I promise, it will be worth the effort.

*Just a reminder: I do not own DC or its characters. I am not receiving any financial gain for this story, just entertaining myself and you.

Warning: Language, Some Violence . . .

58 BCE -

"Is it over?" Nola asked, pulling her brown cloak around her more closely. It stank of Sulphur and smoke but, she didn't care. She felt lucky to be alive; they all did. There weren't many of them left . . . Priests and priestesses, druids all. "Please, say it is over."

"It will be. There is but one task that still remains," the voice of Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of death, warfare, and rebirth, rumbled and echoed around the valley still, despite her weakened state.

Of the eight Celtic and local gods who had united their powers in battle on behalf of the earth, only Morrigan endured. It was to their shock and horror that the druid priests discovered that their gods were not immortal after all, that they were just as capable of dying as their feeble human worshippers.

And if their world had been saved, their religion had not. Oh, they would soldier on, but how effective would it be when Seven of their gods and goddesses were dead, and what other gods there were had fled this land for another realm altogether. Druidism would soon be as dead as Cernunnos, Lugh, and Mandred, as dead as Airmid, Belatucadros, Anu, and Cerridwen were now. Morrigan, the last of their pantheon, planned to desert her followers soon for another place in which she could lick her wounds and contemplate her newfound mortality.

Loegaire buckled another leather strap over the lid of the iron box and tugged it tight.

"What you do is a waste, Irishman," Myrdden, one of their Welsh kind, told him from where he lounged against one of the many broken stones. It had once been part of a ring of standing stones that marked a sacred place of worship. "If that lock fails, there is nothing a few leather straps can do to hold her there."

The Scots priestess, Fiona, shivered from where she huddled against the only tree within a mile at his words. The wind blew her blonde hair across her face. Too exhausted to gather it, she left it to tangle in the breeze. It was the Summer Solstice and yet it was as cold as the grave. Phelan, another of Irish blood, thrust his filthy sword into the earth and pulled his own green robe on. Whether it be from the cold he hid or to cover his torn clothes and battered body, no one knew but then, neither did they care. All were beaten today for all that they were the victors. Such a victory as this surely felt hollow to those left standing.

"It is not to hold her, Myrdden," Phelan said. "It is a warning to any who foolishly think to release her."

Cailean laughed. It sounded harsh, as if the Scot had been strangled recently. It was entirely possible that he had been, such was the war that had been waged over many long weeks. "You would think that the lock itself would be deterrent enough," he said gruffly.

"Who could open a lock without the key?" the lovely Maeve asked. Her hands shook slightly as she nervously braided her long, mahogany hair. The skirt of her fine purple gown had been shredded and long bloody scratches could be seen marking the pale skin of her legs.

"Twasn't meant to have a key," Cynwrig reminded them. He and Belenos were Celtic druids who claimed no land as their own but traveled throughout the Isle and even to the continent beyond the Channel.

Kimball, another of the four Angles present, looked to the other priest. "Why bother with a lock at all?" he asked. "It will never be opened."

Dark of hair and eye, Rhiannon was the youngest of the survivors, sharing the title of Angle druid priestess with Nola. They, along with Kimball and Sloane, were all that remained of the thousand English druid warriors that had come to join the battle. She twisted at the bit of parchment in her hands. Those hands that had once been soft and white were now filthy with ragged nails. One nail was missing altogether, she noted absently, and wondered briefly where it might have been lost.

"We will tell the story and spread the legend far and wide so that all will fear this cursed place for the rest of time immemorial," the young priestess vowed.

"No," Morrigan commanded. Many of the leaves on the nearby Rowan tree withered at the sound of her voice. "No one must hear of this. No legend must exist that might lure the curious. There will be those who will covet the power, believing they might find a way to control it, control her. As you who survive know all too well, they will never be able to do so," the goddess warned. "Instead, you will go far and wide to those who remain, warning them to forget everything that has happened here," Morrigan decreed.

Belenos scoffed, forgetting himself. "And who would be able to forget this?" He threw up his arms to encompass the carnage around them.

The land was riddled with thousands of charred and bleeding bodies of their fellow druids. They lay amongst those soldiers of that creature, an undead army, that had returned to a state of just plain dead upon her defeat. The blood of those once living mixed with the dirt, making a mud that stained boots and tunics alike a deep reddish color. Indeed, the destruction ran many miles in every direction, but it was nothing compared to the great chasm that had ripped through their lands. Whole villages washed away in the mighty flood that followed. The landscape was no longer recognizable with little still living inside the dead zone. Naught but a lone rowan tree, one goddess, and sixteen of druid warrior priests. . .

Morrigan's eyes flashed. "If they cannot forget, then vow them to silence. Cut out their tongues if need be but, for the sake of your world, this battle must never be spoken of again."

With what little power she had left, the goddess lifted the enormous stone altar, cracked and bloodied, that lay in the center of the sacred circle, setting it aside. Dermot, Gaenor, Iagan, and Uthyr taking up tools, began digging. Those who lacked a digging tool, used their swords or daggers or the edge of their broken shields.

Belenos, Cynwrig, Kimball, and Loegaire rolled rocks out of the way, lining them up outside the perimeter of the circle as yet another warning to the curious and the greedy. Myrdden, Phelan, Cailean, and Sloane would replace the weary as the four priestesses chanted, weaving powerful wards over the circle itself. Blood was drawn from the women's palms with enchanted blades and dribbled in streams of red around the sacred ground.

The sun was dipping low in the sky when Morrigan commanded them to cease. The pit was deeper than one would dig to bury a man. The iron prison was then lowered into the depths of the earth in hope that the land would forget what dangers it harbored within its soil.

Holding out her hand, Morrigan took the parchment. "This will be all the deterrent the unwise will receive. If any should forego its warning, your world and the heavens themselves will be laid waste as did those worlds who fell to her wrath before us."

Uthyr glanced to the north, toward the place where she had split the sky. "And what of the portal, my lady? What if another should find its way through?"

Morrigan turned away as if his words were nothing. "None will follow," she said dismissively. "None were left to follow."

"Is that what Mab told to you?" Gaenor asked, speaking of the Fae queen who had abandoned the earth at the first hint of her coming.

"It is truth," Morrigan said as she held the parchment in the direction of the rising moon. "She is The End of All . . . The Raven Empress. She brings death wherever she goes."

"Is that why you alone were able to survive?" Nola asked. "Because you also are a goddess of death and war?"

"And rebirth," Sloane added.

Rhiannon gazed upon the dead surrounding them for miles in all directions. "We could use a little rebirth right about now," she murmured to no one in particular.

Dermot shook his head. "We are victorious and yet you would leave us," he accused the goddess.

She did not know why she alone still stood. Morrigan looked over the sixteen, warriors all. "You will not be alone for long," she promised. "One greater will come to replace what you have lost in time."

"One capable of defeating her?" Iagan asked, indicating the altar, now back in its place.

"If you could so convince Him," Morrigan muttered cryptically, "perhaps . . . but that is only if she escapes her prison. I fear for this world then for her mercy is not known."

With a wave of her hand, the Rowen tree bloomed anew. As they had said, she was the goddess of rebirth as well as of war and death. Seedlings sprouted around the outside of the sacred circle: Rowen trees, to guard this place. The sixteen warrior-priests gathered around her, beaten and bloodied, wearied to their very bones, but not broken. As Dermot had said, they had won against impossible odds . . .

This is good, she thought, for there was much work still left for them to do, burying the dead and spreading forgetfulness to any witnesses to the carnage . . .

While the lot of them, once their mission here is complete, would be allowed to sink into forgetfulness, one of them would be condemned to reman and remember, to guard against the day when The End of All would break free of her prison. On that cursed day, the one would be tasked with gathering the warriors of this world together once more, taking up the fight for their very existence.

It was not for Morrigan to grant immortality, not when her own was in jeopardy. She would, instead, open the gate to the Tuatha De' Denann, for time worked differently there. There, the guardian would remain, waiting, forever vigilant, only returning to defend the prison or raise an army should the Raven Witch escaped the box – until the end of time.

3 Days Ago -

Melanie Williams was excited. The legend was unheard of and, although she was tempted to write it off as a joke on the part of a locals as a way to entertain the archaeology students interviewing them, this one had a bit of truth to it. She had gone to where the drunk had indicated, and it was there, just as he said. The ring of ancient, sprawling Rowen trees guarding a broken circle, the inside of which was barren of all living things, at its center a damaged druid altar that she suspected had been stained dark from ancient sacrifices . . .

No one else had been willing to give credence to his claims. They said his family had been crazy forever, claiming they had knowledge of a secret war that fought over two millennia ago. At any other time, Melanie might not have bothered with the old fairy tale but for two things: she had seen the circle for herself, going out yesterday, searching for this place despite warnings that this area had been cursed for ages, and the mass grave recently discovered at a dig a handful of miles from here that seemed to corroborate his wild allegations.

No one else believed him. No one else had bothered to check his story but, Melanie had and now she did.

She was there in this obscure part of Wales with a number of other students from Gotham University that were picked to accompany their professor on an archaeological dig nearby on Roman ruins found in the area eight months ago. They had only arrived six weeks ago to assist with the project. As exciting as that was, if this story had even a shred of evidence to back it, it could be bigger than all the Roman digs combined. After all, that the Romans had been to the British Isles was a well-known fact. This dig was just one piece of many that merely substantiated what everyone already knew. But an unknown war that happened long before the Romans were ever a presence here . . .

Would Professor Whitmore listen to her, though? She couldn't go to him without proof. Melanie was the youngest on the trip, only a second-year student. The only reason she was given permission to come along was because a third-year student had gotten caught cheating on an exam and been expelled. Everyone else was her senior by at least two years or more.

It might as well be twenty years, she grumbled silently to herself.

She couldn't do this by herself, however. That was why she searched out graduate student, Gary Middleton, to help her. He had been disinterested when she had first come to him with this wild story. Now that she found the location, however, she had no trouble talking him into accompanying her to the spot that afternoon.

Melanie brightened when she saw Gary standing at the Rowen trees. He had a shovel with him. Her eyes widened as she realized that he was going one better.

"Gary," she called as she hurried over. "You found the place okay?" Despite being here the day prior, Melanie had nearly missed it on her return.

"It was a little rough-going there for a while. Got lost for a bit but . . . Man, this is fantastic, Melanie," Gary grinned at her. "It's just like you described."

"What's with the shovel," she asked. "If this is to be a legitimate dig, we have to report it. There will be paperwork, licenses, and permissions to go through first."

"Do you really think there will be something here," he teased her gently. "An iron box that holds a mysterious token of good luck that's supposed to be older than the Roman settlement on the other side of the village?"

Melanie frowned. "He didn't really say it was good luck exactly . . ."

Gary laughed. "Melanie, come on. The guy's a drunk. He and his family have been telling this story for years. Not even the local vicar believes him."

"Really? Then, why did you come?" she asked, glancing at the shovel pointedly. "Why did you bring a shovel with you if you didn't believe it?"

Gary squinted over the scene in front of them. The barren circle of broken stones looked like no human had ever touched it in centuries, the ancient Rowens were obviously planted to hide this place from curious eyes. Even with GPS coordinates from Melanie to guide him, he had trouble finding it. It was like you weren't supposed to notice it. Despite what he told Melanie, he felt sure that there was something of value in this place. Whether it was some rumored magical token that promised power or riches or success, or just some kind of ancient relic, it was worth something to somebody, somewhere.

Middleton had debts. He had loans. He would be graduating in the spring and there wasn't exactly a waiting list of jobs for newborn archaeologists. But he knew a guy . . . Gary had met him four years when he had been chosen to attend a dig in Egypt during summer, a guy who knew how to find things and better yet, knew how to sell them.

He picked up his shovel and walked into the ring, a chill washing over him. Gary decided that it was adrenaline, excitement over the find they were going to make. Melanie followed him out slowly, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. Cold or nervous, he figured. He turned around upon reaching the altar. There was evidence that hinted that the druids made human sacrifices here under the full moon. He didn't know for certain if that were true, the ancient people didn't leave a written record, but there were numerous written accounts by others that they did.

Of course, Gary's expertise was Egyptian artifacts and the civilizations of the Middle East, not druids and ancient Celtic lore or even Roman settlements. He was only here because it would look good on his resume.

"Where did he say it was buried?" Gary asked.

"U-Under the alter," Melanie said quietly. "Gary, this is wrong."

"It's only wrong if we find something," he assured her. "We're not going to find anything."

"Then why . . .?"

"I'm doing you a favor," he said. "If you were to go back and tell Whitmore about this place, he's not going to believe you and you're going to look ridiculous."

Melanie's eyes widened, worried.

"But what would be worse, would be if Whitmore did believe you and started the paperwork to get permission authorizing a dig here and then, after a couple of years and thousands of dollars later, they find nothing . . ." Gary seemed to slump. "You don't want that mark on your record. Trust me, Melanie, that would be the end for you, even before you truly began."

There was movement through the trees as someone hallooed.

"Anyone here? Hello?"

"Over here," Gary called out.

As another man entered the circle, Gary smiled. "Glad you could make it? Have any trouble?"

This was the fellow he had met in Egypt four years ago. They had been working together on projects ever since, even if Skip himself wasn't approved, Gary would always work with him on the side. Another year of this, and Gary would not only be able to pay off his debts but would have a little nest egg to tide him over in hard times. In fact, if there were any truth at all to Melanie's claim, he could be set for life.

"Locating it? A bit or I'd have been here sooner," the other man answered in the accent of a local. He was tall and broad through the shoulders and had tanned skin that stopped at his elbows, indicating he worked outside a lot. "So, this is the place. Huh? I've lived in the next county all my life and never had a clue this place existed. Who's the girl? Is she the one you told me about?"

Melanie stepped backward as the stranger's hard gaze swiveled towards her. "Who is that? Gary, you weren't supposed to tell anyone!"

The man took his floppy hat off and ran a hand through his dishwater blond hair. "Well, now, I'm not just anyone," he grinned. "My name's Skip. I've worked on sites like this most of me life."

"Are you an archaeologist?" Melanie asked skeptically.

"You could say that," Skip answered her cheerfully. "I am more of a procurer of a sort. I have clients that have interests in items of profound historical significance."

Melanie frowned. "You mean like museums."

"Museums, collectors, amateur historians, purveyors of antiquities." Skip picked up a bag of tools and ambled over to them. He swung the bag onto the altar, the other two wincing at the clatter.

"Take it easy, Skip," Gary warned. "This place didn't survive centuries only to have you destroy it in five minutes."

The man laughed. "This bugger is solid marble, chum. I doubt there's much I could do to hurt it." He turned in a circle, whistling. "Even if I did, who'd notice? This place has already been demolished." He pointed out the large crack in the center of the alter

"Grab a shovel and help. We have to be back at the Roman dig in the morning," Gary told him.

"You sure there is something here worth all this effort?" Skip asked, eyeing the ring critically.

"According to Melanie, there is," Gary told him as he picked up the shovel. "But we won't know for sure until we dig." He looked up at her. "Did he say if it was actually under the altar or next to it?"

Melanie blinked. "Um, he said under the altar, 'down further than one would normally dig to bury a man'." That last bit had been a quote. She looked at the slab of solid stone doubtfully. "We'd need a crane to move that thing. It has to weigh a couple of tons, at least."

Skip tilted his head as he considered it. After a moment, he nodded. "Right. Not going to be a problem."

"How do you figure that?" Melanie asked, uncertainly. She didn't know this other guy from Adam.

"The altar is what . . . Seven and a half, eight feet in length?" Gary smiled. "Whatever is under it would likely be in the center, so we'll just dig a hole next to it and when we get to the proper depth, we'll dig inward, under the slab."

"What if the sides collapse under the weight," Melanie argued.

"We'll prop it if we have to," Gary said. "It will hold, trust me."

"I did trust you," Melanie snapped, staring at the two men. "Now, I'm not so sure."

"Seems strange that I've traveled the world in search of treasure and here I am, digging for it in me own back yard." Skip shook his head as he sank his shovel into the ground. "So, what's the word, mate? What are we after?"

"A token of some sort," Gary said as he joined in with purpose. They were on a time crunch as it was. "Supposed to bring power and success to the one who wields it."

Melanie stepped back to avoid being hit by dirt. "That's not what he said," she corrected.

"Close enough," Gary shrugged. "Why else would there be a war waged for it? Why else would it be buried in an iron box?"

Skip's eyebrows rose even as he tossed another spade full of dirt to the side. "War? What war? I've lived here all my life and never heard tell of a war in these parts. Southeast of here, yeah, and up north, sure, but not 'round here. This here is just a bit of nothing. Anything and everything of import happened at least a hundred kilometers away."

"There is that Roman settlement we're here to excavate," Melanie reminded them.

Skip scoffed. "Roman settlements are a dime a dozen in the British Isles. My uncle up north tripped over one just last week."

Melanie had moved around the altar, leaning against it as she watched the two men dig. It wasn't long before they were chest deep. "This war was supposed to have happened a couple of thousand years ago, or something like that, before the Romans came to Briton," she told the new guy.

"Wait! Have you been talking to Cadwallader?" Skip stopped digging and glared at Gary. "I thought you said there'd be something of value here. Cadwallader is naught but some crazy drunk. He, his father, and grandfather have all been talking about this secret history that literally no one else bloody knows about. Families that have lived here for as long as people inhabited the Isle, and no one remembers any of this except for their family."

Melanie scowled, coming to her subject's defense. "He said that they were all told to forget about it. That the priests were all telling them to never talk about it or spread the story to their children or children's children. He says his ancestor chose to rebel against the priests' authority. A great war occurred here, and they were determined to pass the story down to the eldest living child in order to continue the memory."

"After two bloody thousand years? How much of what was passed down had been altered? The story he tells, if there were even a shred of truth behind it, couldn't possibly be accurate after so long of time being passed down by word of mouth alone. They didn't keep written records back then, you know."

"Well, he was right about this place. No one else seemed to know about it, no one else could ever find it, and yet here we are," Melanie argued. "So, that much appears to be accurate."

"He could have stumbled onto it at any point and made up his story," Gary stopped digging now.

Melanie rolled her eyes. "This place has been here for centuries, quite possibly for the two thousand years he claims, and yet no one else has ever just stumbled upon it before. How likely is that?"

Skip paused as he thought about that. "It was hard to locate. I think I walked around here for more than an hour before I heard your voices." He looked around at the enclosed area suspiciously.

Melanie shrugged. "I only found it again because I have been here before but, even then, I passed by the spot at least three times."

Gary laughed. "What? You two talk as if you think it's been enchanted. Are you saying this place has a spell on it to confound any who would try to find it?"

Skip looked a little nervous, a total reversal of his previous temperament. "You haven't been in this business as long as I have without running into a few unexplainable things."

Gary shook his head. "You know, I was thinking that mass grave they located between here and the ruins could have come from this war that drunk guy was talking about rather than plague victims like they initially thought."

"Do they still think that?" Melanie became thoughtful. "Russ said that they found some old weaponry this morning that looks to predate the Roman settlement. Did they get the results to the carbon dating back yet?"

"I don't know. Maybe by now they did," Gary said, putting his shovel back into the dirt. "Anyway, I thought that the weapons and a large mass of dead bodies coupled with the rumors of an ancient war was reason enough to check this place out."

Silence reigned for a while, the only sounds were that of the wind and that of digging. Melanie went to get some water from the car and got lost again on her way back. The idea that there was a spell over the land to prevent trespassers flitted through her mind again. She wasn't superstitious but she agreed there was a strange atmosphere surrounding the circle.

Making it through the Rowan trees, Melanie entered the circle and found the guys had dug down nearly twelve feet. She tossed them each some water.

"You were gone a long time," Gary commented.

"I got lost," she muttered, "again."

Skip glanced pointedly at Gary at this announcement, but the younger man waved the look away.

"How are you going to get out of there," she asked curiously.

"We dug out handholds. Hey, you said it was buried deeper than one would normally go, right?" Gary asked. "What do you think? Should we go deeper or is this good enough?"

"Hell, no," Skip groused. "This is good enough," he said, wiping his brow with his dirty arm. He left a streak of mud across his forehead. He jammed his spade into the soil between his feet and drank his water in one, long draw. "A man wouldn't bother digging down past six feet, the depth of a common grave, lest he was mining for ore."

"So, then we start tunneling under the alter here," Gary tossed his empty bottle to Melanie, then used his spade to mark the wall of soil at nine feet.

"Be careful," Melanie warned. "That altar could still fall on you."

"We'll keep it small to start with," Gary told them as he began digging again, this time tunneling beneath the altar itself. "We can always enlarge it should we need to."

Skip tossed the dirt Gary pulled free out of the hole and soon they fell into a rhythm. It wasn't long before the spade hit something hard. Gary stabbed the earth again as a muffled clang rang out. Shared a grin, the two men began tearing the soil away from around the obvious metal object, hooting with triumph.

Melanie peered into the hole. "Careful that you don't damage it."

"I'll be damned! It looks like that crazy drunk was right," Gary crowed. "It's definitely some kind of metal box."

It was heavy and solid, taking the strength of both men to drag it from its resting place. Was it as old as they'd been told? Who knew? Who cared? Gary and Skip tied a rope around it, then Skip climbed out of the hole. Grabbing the rope with Melanie, they pulled as Gary pushed and, eventually, managed to wrestle the box out of the hole.

Scrambling out, Gary's weariness was forgotten in the excitement of the find. "Are we going to open it? Let's see what's inside."

It was smaller than they had expected, heavy but not unmanageable. One man could handle it if he had to. They noticed the three leather straps that around the iron box. For two thousand years in age, it was inconceivable for them to be in such good shape.

Melanie frowned. "This leather should have rotted away long ago. I doubt it could be more than fifty years old judging from the looks of it."

Gary shook his head. "Whatever. The box is obviously older than that. You can tell by the primitive construction."

"Old but it's sturdy and what's more," Skip added, "it's locked up tight." He looked at the girl. "I don't suppose Cadwallader said anything about a key?"

She shook her head. "Did you find anything else with it? Maybe the key is there."

Skip snorted, cleaning his hands on his filthy pants. "Why bother to lock the box if you're just going to bury the key with it?"

Hopping back down into the hole, Gary pulled away more dirt, feeling around for a key but finding something else. "Someone left something else here alright. Maybe it will contain a clue to the key's location."

Climbing out, he held a filthy parchment scroll in his hand, the rotted remains from a cloth it had been wrapped in fell away.

"No key but it might tell us where it is or what the box holds," he panted.

"That scroll is parchment, isn't it?" Melanie asked, disappointed. "It hardly looks more than a few decades itself."

"Yeah, unfortunately, way too good of shape to be the age the drunk was claiming," Gary agreed before laughing, "Unless you think this might be enchanted as well?"

"Open it up," Skip ordered, ignoring the snide remark.

They were interrupted by the call of a bird. Not just any bird, it startled them with its size. It perched in the branches of a Rowan tree, turning its head to look at them first out of one eye, then out of the other.

"Whoa! Look at the size of that thing," Gary gulped. "Is that a raven? Seems to big to be a raven."

"Is it dangerous?" Melanie asked, grabbing Gary's arm.

Skip scoffed. "Nah, the thing's a scavenger. It isn't interested in the living," he smirked at her. "It's only interested in the dead."

"It's creepy," Melanie complained.

"Oh aye, it is that," Skip agreed. "All the more reason to get this box somewhere where we can pry it open. I know a guy in the next town over. Close to the airport."

The men picked up the box between them, preparing to carry it to the car. Although one could have managed, they were tired. Working together was make it quicker. Before they could make it out of the circle, a voice sounded out behind them.

"Ei roi yn ôl ac yn ôl i ffwrdd." ["Put it back and back away."]

Melanie looked and blinked . . . then blinked again.

The woman stood about five foot eight with a slender build but in no way seemed frail. She wore a filthy brown cloak. Although the hood was up, her face could easily be seen. She was lovely with long, dark hair and eyes to match. She pushed back the folds of her cloak revealing silver chainmail over a green gown made from a coarse material but, most importantly, exposing a sword - a very authentic-looking sword.

Pwy ydych chi?" Skip asked. "Mae eich acen rhyfedd. O ba le yr ydych yn cenllysg?" ["Who are you? Your accent is strange. From whence do you hail?"]

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Rydych yn deall fi, onid ydych?" she asked as her left hand clutched an amulet that she wore. Her right hand continued to hover noticeably above the hilt of her sword. ["You understand me, do you not?]

"Aye"

"Yna fy acen yw o unrhyw bwys. Byddwch yn gwneud fel eich wahoddasid," she snapped at him. ["Then my accent is of no importance. You will do as you are bidden."]

"What's she saying?" Melanie asked. "Who is she?"

"She's telling us to return the box and leave," Skip translated. "She didn't give a name."

Melanie licked her suddenly dry lips. "Maybe we should do as she says. How do we know she doesn't own this land? That box could be hers."

The woman frowned as the two conversed. Her grip on her amulet tightened. "You will return the box to its place and leave. Do not return."

Gary's eyebrows shot up. "You speak English?"

"I speak whatever is your language. Your speech is not unlike the Anglish."

Skip snorted. "That's because it is English, sweetheart."

Her scowl grew fierce. "Much time must have passed since last I drawn here, but it makes no difference when the message remains the same," she waved the discussion away. "Return the box to its place and go."

"Or what?" Skip challenged.

In a blink of an eye, the woman's sword was pointing it their direction. "Or else . . ." she left the warning hanging.

The trio eyed it warily. It certainly looked like the real thing. The light glinted off the edge, showing it had been well-cared for.

Melanie took a step back. "I think maybe we should do as she asks."

"Bloody hell," Skip cursed. "I didn't spend hours digging this up just to put it back because some trollop from a Renaissance festival starts waving her sword about. I've got a sword of me own, don't ye know?"

Gary shook his head. "I asked around. The national park service owns this piece of land."

"You got this?" Skip asked, letting go of the box.

"Yeah," he nodded, shifting to handle the heavy metal box on his own.

Melanie's eyes widened. "W-What are you doing? Just . . . put it back like she asked. Please?"

Skip turned toward the newcomer. "Lady, don't you know that you don't bring a knife to a gun fight?"

"G-Gun?" Melanie stammered. Who the hell had Gary gotten involved with? She slapped her hands over her ears and ran.

Skip pointed his piece at her. It should have been enough to scare her away, but she merely looked at him quizzically. Gary was already moving off with the box. If this chick was willing to do damage for it, it had to contain something of value.

"Take the box to the airport," Skip called over his shoulder, "and stash it with the shipment heading to Gotham. I've got contacts there who can move it for us."

The other man took off, huffing under the weight of the bulky treasure but when the woman moved to intercept him, Skip stepped into her way.

"Ah, ah, ah," he warned her, waving the gun in a manner sure to get her attention.

Unfortunately, it did exactly that. In a move too fast to follow, the woman flung a dagger that embedded itself in Skip's shoulder. The gun dropped from his nerveless hand as he screamed in pain. Pulling the dagger out with his left hand, Skip pointed it at the strange woman.

"I will kill you," he roared, flinging the knife at her.

The woman dodged it handily as she continued advancing. The sword whistled in the air as she spun it about her with startling ease and expertise. Skip's heart started pounding as he realized she was the real deal. She wasn't bluffing. The hard glint in her eyes told him she was more than willing to kill them to retrieve the iron box. Whatever compassion she might have had departed the moment they'd refused to give it up.

Legs suddenly weak, Skip fell to his knees. He reached blindly around his body for his weapon with his one good hand. Blood drenched his shirt front and dripped from his fingers, far more blood than there should be.

The dagger must have hit an artery, he thought numbly. He would be dead within minutes.

Black spots were winking in and out of his vision when the woman stopped in front of him.

"Who are you?" he asked, breathlessly. His vision was tunneling, and he swayed. "Who?"

She glared down at him. "I am the druid priestess, Rhiannon. You dared to disturb the box, risk all of humanity for your petty greed. Pray you that I am able to return her with her prison undamaged."

Skip blinked in confusion. "Prison? . . . W-What prison? Who is this . . . she you speak of?" he slurred. Why was it so hard to breathe?

Rhiannon snarled, raising her sword in preparation of the final blow. "She is the Raven Empress, goddess of death and destruction. She is, you fool," the priestess swung her sword in a powerful arc, "the End of Everything."

Yesterday –

Dr. Edgar Sheridan adjusted his glasses on his nose.

The day had been one disaster after another, but this one was the worst. The boxes from the Wales excavation site's second shipment had arrived an hour ago, but only now was he able to go through it properly. God forbid should anything have broken during transport . . .

Gotham State University had partnered with her sister school located in Great Britain for this project. It was quite a large excavation, so the agreement had been that half of the items uncovered would be kept in Britain while the other half would be shipped, catalogued, studied and displayed by the University of the findings to catalogue, study, and display for its part in the excavation.

He used a crowbar to pry up the heavy wooden lid and heave it aside. He yanked out some of the packing material and picked up his clipboard containing the shipping manifest. There were several vases and other pieces of pottery that were declared intact upon the sealing of the container. There were . . . He paused.

"Oh dear," Sheridan lamented, picking up a large pottery shard.

Their first casualty, he thought sadly. Who was the ham-handed worker who had bungled this shipment? How could this have happened?

As he dug further into the depth of the container, the older man's hands bumped into something hard and - cold? Metal? The packing material around it was totally inappropriate for securing something so heavy and unforgiving as whatever this was. No wonder the vase had been damaged. He hoped that no other pieces of pottery had suffered the same results of what amounted to gross negligence upon those responsible for packing the artifacts.

To prevent further damage from shifting, Sheridan laid down his manifest and reached in with both hands to pull out the odd box. His fingers wrapped around leather straps and used them for handles to haul the box out from its hiding place. It was, indeed, heavy and he couldn't help wondering how no one noticed the weight difference between what the manifest claimed and what was reality. He set the box down on the table gently, despite its heft and bulk. It didn't take an expert to realize the box was an artifact in and of itself.

Turning on a magnifying, lighted mirror, Sheridan pulled it close. From what he could tell at first glance, the box was made of iron, although the leather was obviously a recent addition. It had icons and symbols etched into its sides . . . He turned it around. All sides, he corrected. The entire box was covered in, what was for him, was innumerable, unknown hieroglyphics. Sheridan was familiar with Egyptian picture writings but this . . . this was something different than anything he had encountered throughout his career.

No, wait!

Squinting, Sheridan peered closer. This image of a bird looked familiar. Not Egyptian, obviously, but he had seen this before somewhere.

Frowning, Sheridan turned back to the container. Surely, they sent some kind of explanation for this relic. It was quite ancient. He roughly placed it in the Iron Age. So unusual, its uniqueness made it quite a valuable find. He wondered if it came from the Roman dig but couldn't imagine how it must have gotten there. The site, itself, had been dated to around 245 CE but the iron box's construction, while quite advance for all intents and purposes, appeared to be from some other period.

His hand brushed a piece of cloth. Something was wrapped up in a rag of some sort. He tugged out the parchment next with something akin to disgust. It hadn't been prepared for travel at all, he noted, determined to find the culprits and make certain they lost their jobs for their mishandling of cultural treasures of intrinsic historical value. Tugging on a pair of gloves, Sheridan laid the parchment onto the table and spread it out.

More of the strange hieroglyphics. It matched those on the box exactly, appearing to be created from the same time period but it seemed impossible. The parchment was in excellent shape for being something so old. It had to be written at a later time.

Uh oh, part of it had been damaged . . . intentionally so, Sheridan thought angrily.

"Who would treat you this way?" he complained to the items.

An hour later, Sheridan thought he had a clue to the box and the parchment's origins. The symbol he had recognized had been a druid sign of the raven. It meant death. Druids were renown for never leaving behind a written account but for all of that, there had been enough pictures carved into some of the famous stones of various standing stone circles to recognize the shape and determine that the box and the scroll had once belonged to a group of druids . . . a high probability lying with the priest class.

"Well, as fascinating as you have been," Sheridan spoke softly, "you would be much happier, I think, in Bludhaven. I know of an excellent professor of linguistics who has more than a passing interest in Celtic lore and druidism."

Sheridan pulled out a smaller box and began preparing it for transport. With care, he settled the box and parchment into its new container.

"Dr. Christian Everhardt," Sheridan whispered as he filled out the shipping label. "Professor of Linguistics and Ancient Studies at the Bludhaven Museum of Natural History."

3 hours Ago –

"Where is it?" Gary demanded, as he pressed the knife into the skin of the professor's throat. A single drop of blood slithered down the blade's cold surface. "I've been through too much and traveled too far to fail now."

Glasses askew, Sheridan's blood ran down from a cut on his forehead. "I-I s-sent it to Bludhaven . . . to Dr. E-Everhardt there," he stammered, his voice quavering. "Christian Everhardt."

May his friend forgive him for this one day . . .

Sheridan recognized the graduate student but chose to keep the knowledge to himself. The younger man had obviously seen better days if his ragged appearance was anything to go by. Bruises and a fresh scar ran across Gary's face from the corner of his left eye to his chin.

If the man were so far gone as to deal in stolen antiquities, what would stop him from pressing that knife until he'd slit the old man's throat? He might still kill him if only to protect his identity from the authorities. Any hope to live through this depended on Sheridan's ability to play stupid.

He wondered whether Whitmore knew he had a viper in his midst. Well, he would soon enough, Sheridan thought, if I somehow survive this night.

Sheathing his weapon, Gary Middleton struck the professor across the temple. Sheridan knew before he hit the floor that he would live another day . . . But would Everhardt? He slipped beneath the darkness unable to answer the question.

REACTIONS?

I realize that there was a whole lot of OCs going on. Although this story will have more than the average amount of OCs, they are, with the exception of a couple, fleeting but necessary. I promise to make every one of them interesting during their brief stints.

All the gods and goddess mentioned in this chapter are taken from Celtic mythology with the exception of "The End of Everything", who is my own construct. She was created because I couldn't find a god that suited my purposes (and trust me, I looked). Morrigan was the closest but even she wouldn't do for what I wanted.

Also, just to clarify: the Celtic symbol of death is NOT a raven but, for this story I needed for it to be so, in this AU it does. (In the real world, the image for death is three connecting swirls which, despite its simplicity, doesn't lend itself well to the written word.

In recent years, the terms BC and AD has been replaced with the terms CE (Common Era) and BCE (Before the Common Era). BCE can be referred to "before the time of Christ" up until the beginning of the 1st century.