A/N: I'm not even sure if people read Vikings fanfiction anymore but I had this little idea pop into my noggin' so I decided to write just a little excerpt to test the waters so to speak. If you'd like to read more, let me know by hitting that Follow/Favourite button and leaving me a review! Thanks everyone for the follows and the lovely review.

A note on historical accuracy: I'll do my best to remain true to the Celtic Pagans and their ways of life. The other aspects coming into play, I've researched to the best of my ability. Seeing as the Celts sprawled out all over the place, I'm trying to focus more on the Gaelic tribes. Please allow for creative leniency. After all, Vikings itself is a period drama and I've never heard anyone say its was 100% on the historical mark.

That being said, I promise the next chapter will contain canon characters. I simply wanted to explore Bronwen and Wynn a bit before plunging into the depths. Hopefully it will please some of you to know that Floki does play a major role in this fanfiction and I guarantee he will be making an appearance next chapter. I've also decided this will be part One in a series of stories but for now, I'm happy to be bringing Bronwen's and Wynn's tale to all of you. Its quite the journey.

For those that read my Stranger Things Fanfictions, I promise to update those soon. It just seems my muse has shifted from there to here, so please bear with me.

As always, if you find it agreeable, Follow/Favourite/Review! (Reviews are my favourite, regardless of how lengthy. In-put and thoughts are always welcomed here.) Those are always so lovely to see. Most importantly, enjoy! Cheers Xx

Aodh is pronounced 'AY'

Chapter One

Bronwen clawed her way from the clutches of her nightmares, willing her body to break the surface of the terror-filled seas in her tortured mind. Amidst the blows of the tidal currents, the call of ravens beckoned her home, crashing against the waves of despair and ruin. Try as she might to free herself, she continued to be plunged deeper into the dark recesses of the unknown waters. Like a stone the ocean beats against, little by little Bronwen was being washed away. Her limbs burned with icy fire, engulfing her deprived lungs with a scorching heat, begging her to fight her way to the surface. Battling death, she swam upward grasping at the frigid liquid as though she might find a hand to hold onto; a way to breach. It was no use. She was dying… she was drowning… The light of Bronwen's eyes fading to darkness…

The screams of his mother jolted him awake. Wynn rushed to his mother's side, violently shaking her until she awoke–drenched in a fine sheen of sweat. He did not find the look upon her brow to be comforting; she was afraid. Never in all his life, albeit short, had he seen his mother in fear of anything nor anyone, be them men or Gods. Reaching beside the sleeping pelt in the darkness, Wynn found the pitcher of ale and raised it to Bronwen's lips.

"Drink," He coaxed her, lifting her head from the pillow. "Drink and feel better."

His mother did as her son asked, greedily. Gulping ravenously at the liquid, thankful for its coolness which coated a sore throat. Gasps of air filled her pained lungs, eager to ease the aching from the lack thereof. Her eyes darted anxiously about the roundhouse, as if a creature lingered in the darkness waiting for its chance to strike.

"Bronwen, what is it? What did you see?" Wynn touched his mother's hand with tenderness.

Green eyes met blue, dancing in the void surrounding them. When she didn't speak, her son felt the presence of something greater, looming large beyond their home.

Bronwen hissed, drawing her hand from her son's. "Go back to sleep, boy."

Wynn, although unsatisfied with his mother's response, obeyed her and returned to his own pad, hardly able to return to his slumber. Something was wrong–he could feel it in his gut.

A fortnight had passed and Bronwen's nightmare only grew stronger–clearer. The unknown dread of the darkened seas produced visions of the whispers of ships, sailed by Northmen. Their presence meant only one thing, and the raven's calls rang death for the Clachan. It was only a matter of time before their axes and shields bled her homeland for all its riches and precious resources. And where would that leave them all? She for one would not fall on her knees begging for these strangers' mercy. Could the warriors of the Tribe fight the invaders off? Defend themselves and their lands, homes, and children?

These were the thoughts she had been weighing in her mind as she mulled over the cooking fire in the center of her home, stoking its embers. As she stared into the flames for answers, a stately raven perched itself atop a spear, driven deep into the earth by the doorway of her home. Its cawing drew her attention to it, her green eyes scrutinizing the creature. Stepping out her front door, she grimaced.

"Hello, old friend." There was a deep knowing in her voice, carried on the wind by ancient ways of hidden truths. "You present yourself to me as an omen, cruel and cold…This much I see." Bronwen sighed, tossing the fire poker aside, watching as the bird cocked its head as if to mock her.

"Will you not lend me your eyes, wise one, to show me my fate and the fate of my son?"

The raven cawed, swooping down over her head and up onto the roof of the hut, spreading his wings wide in warning. Bronwen followed its gaze towards the horizon. Squinting her eyes, they eventually came to land upon a rider bound for her abode, the horse's pace rampant as if it were being cashed down by some hellish thing.

She stood then, shouting for Wynn who appeared from beyond the hill, running as fast as his legs might carry him to his mother's side. They waited in apprehensive anticipation as the rider grew closer. It was a man from the Clachan, and their hearts trepidation eased. As he approached them, Bronwen steadied her son's frame; teaching him never to falter in the face of anyone, be they friend or foe.

"What news is it?" She called out to the man who pulled the reins, slowing and eventually bringing the steed to a halt. For all appearances, he was sorely out of breath.

"Chieftain Tiarnán calls for aid," He was swallowing hard. "Words and whispers from Briton bring bad tidings–Northmen are raiding along the coast. They will be here within the week."

An eye twitched. Bronwen clasped her son's shoulder. A deep inhalation filled her chest before it was released with acceptance. "Tiarnán has chosen to fight then, yes?"

The man nodded. "Aye."

Mother looked to son, seeing the fear swell within his blue eyes. Stories of the Northmen and their capabilities were well known to them both. Tales of savagery, plunder, and merciless slayings had circled those parts since Bronwen was a child; though these men from the North had yet to reach their lands. It seemed however, all of that was about to change.

"Do not be afraid, Wynn." She whispered into his ear, her gaze drifting up at the man in front of them.

From high atop the horse, the man gave the young boy some comfort. "Our Tribe has produced many great warriors, boy. Your father was and mother is among the greatest of them."

Wynn looked to his feet before straightening his shoulders, standing tall. The words offered to him filled him with courage. His mother imparted Wynn a proud smile before addressing the rider.

"Tell the Chieftain he has my sword–"

"Mine as well!"

Both adults chuckled at the young boy, his mother the one to reply to his newly found bravery. "You cannot offer what you do not own. In good time, my son, you will learn to fight. Now is not that time."

The stamping of the horse's hooves brought attention back to the pressing matter at hand. Bronwen stepped forward to steady the great beast, pulling a plaid cloth from her bosom and pressing it into the palm of the steed's master. "My pledge to my Chieftain. I will offer my aid against these Northmen, and will gladly die for my people."

Nodding his head, the man spun around and charged off into the dipping horizon before disappearing completely from sight; A stately raven following close behind.

Bronwen turned toward her son, sighing deeply. Her hand rested against his cheek. "Come boy. You will help me pack. Then we will make a sacrifice to The Morrigan."

Evening fell upon the land, leaving the earth at the horizon drenched in the colors of the crimson sun, painted brightly against an indigo sky. Silver stars glittered as though they were precious jewels strung across the neck of the Goddess Rhiannon, her gift of darkness displaying ethereal, breathtaking beauty. The quiet rush of summer wind whipped through the barley fields, singing the earth to sleep with the lullaby of the ancients. Within the home, Bronwen and Wynn sat cross legged down near the fire for their last meal of the day.

From inside a clay pot, the smell of a pottage wafted into Wynn's nostrils, causing his stomach to growl voraciously. He could already taste the parsley mingled with the sharpness of scallions, while the mushrooms would offer a tantalizing, mouth watering essence of earth. How delicious it would be. By far, his favorite part was tearing away at the day's bread, letting the dry bits of loaf soak up the delectable dish, before scraping the bottom of the vessel with what was left of the crust.

"Hand me your bowl," His mother chuckled. "Before you swallow your own tongue in hunger."

Wynn practically thrust the vessel at Bronwen, eagerly eyeing her movements. Hands were outstretched to take his supper with impatience as she filled the bowl, a frown washing over his face when his mother clung tightly to it. Wynn attempted to take the contents back. Her features were stone-like at first, then slowly turned into a playful smirk. Bronwen winked at the boy, giving him an extra ladleful before relinquishing the hearty helping into Wynn's ravenous hands. Tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf, she softly laughed watching him scoff down his food.

"Slow down! You act as though you've never eaten before." Bronwen scolded him. "Your guts will thank you for listening to your mother's advice."

She noted how much he looked like his father.

Wynn's words were garbled as he attempted to speak with a mouth full of delicious food. "I can hardly help myself! It is my favorite after all."

"I know, that is why I made it…" Bronwen's attention drifted away in the moments that followed, focusing on the very real possibility it may be the last night she cooked for him. A sigh escaped her lips, her hands gripping a log which she gently threw onto the fire. Picking her gaze up from the flames, Bronwen frowned when she noticed Wynn had stopped eating, his young eyes studying his mother's.

"Will you," His voice cracked. "Die?"

Bronwen weighed his question with care, before replying with even greater caution. "We all must die, Wynn."

She hooked a finger under his bowl, pushing it towards his mouth in the hopes he'd continue to eat. When he did not, Bronwen hung her head.

Wynn swallowed hard, placing his dinner at his feet. He reached out for his mother's hands. "What will happen to me, if you fall in battle?"

Now that was something that needed no speculation; Bronwen knew exactly what would ensue should she die in the coming days. Nodding her head to herself, accepting the voice of reason in her mind, Bronwen knew she had to prepare him if the worst should come to pass. Shadows danced wickedly across their faces in the growing darkness. This wasn't how she pictured their last night together, but the mother knew all too well one rarely received their desires in life.

Picking at the bread, she popped a morsel into her mouth, chewing slowly. Gold and silver bangles that adorned her wrist jingled as she cast her hand onto her lap, rubbing her lips together before finding the will to speak. "You will inherit the land and all the wealth of both your father and myself–as is your birthright. After that, you will pledge yourself to the Chieftain, the same as your father had and his father before him…" Bronwen's voice trailed off once more, though this time in anguish.

Understanding his mother's pain, Wynn went out on a limb having only a minute understanding of the hypothetical situation. "He will make me renounce the Old Gods, won't he?"

For a moment, the young boy figured his mother would not respond to his query. So he sat in anxious silence, following her lead to stare into the flames as they licked higher, Bronwen having stoked the kindling. She had taught him years ago that the sacred fires held many secrets–though there were few left now who knew the ancient way of reading them. His mother was very wise, he often thought. Very wise and very brave for refusing to extinguish her ancient roots–despite the fervor for conversion to the new faith. It was one of the many traits Wynn admired in Bronwen. He could never say that he wasn't proud to be her son.

"Your grandfather is a fool, boy." Wynn jumped at the sudden sound of his mother's voice. Anger crept on her pursed lips, coated in a hiss laced with hatred. "His weakness in accepting the Christian God is why the Northmen are at our door."

"I don't understand…"

A huff freely left Bronwen's lungs. "It's punishment for turning their backs on the Gods," She explained. "And the Northmen will burn their church to the ground and rape the land claimed by their clergy."

Wynn's brow furrowed, his head tilting to one side. Confusion held his voice under its heel. "If you hate Tiarnán so much and his Christian God, why did you agree to aid him? Why help any of them?"

"Because I made an oath before the God Lugh, and The Dagda to fight for your grandfather… And for the love I bore your father…" Bronwen's voice calmed then, remembering her sweet Aodh. A sad smile graced her lips before it turned downward into a frown. Sorrowful eyes peered over at her son. "Enough talk about all of that. Besides, I know none of it shall come to pass and you will never have to renounce the Old Ones."

Wynn gradually picked up his dinner and took another bite, knowing he needn't ask how she knew these things. He was well aware his mother would continue without prompting.

Bronwen, on the other hand, was determined to leave the conversation on a good note. There was no shame in instilling hope in her son's heart. "Long before you were born, when our people still listened to the wise Druids, a prophecy was told to both Aodh and I. You see, a sacrifice was made when we were handfasted. The Druids gathered in the glen of Oaks and plunged a ceremonial dagger into the body of a slave girl, right here." Bronwen pointed at Wynn's diaphragm. "And as she died, her twitching and convulsing limbs foretold the birth of a fair haired son, the image of his father."

Wynn straightened his posture with pride. He was very much enthralled by this tale.

"Gasping breaths warned the untimely end of your father, and the encroaching settlement of the Christians onto our lands." Pain crawled back onto the features of the dark haired woman, yet she continued pressing on with the memory in hopes of reaching a silver lining. "Within the spattering of her blood from her body, my fate was read in secret to me…and I can tell you now boy… I will not fall in this battle. Far greater things await me."

Bronwen extended her hand to take Wynn's emptied bowl, placing it next to the rest of the dirty crockery. Her son belched loudly, before reaching for his sleeping pelt. Tired eyes strained to remain open.

"It is good to know I will not lose you, mother." An exhausted yawn expelled from his lungs.

She hushed him with melodic humming, tidying up the space before tossing two smaller logs onto their fire. "Sleep Wynn. Do not worry about such things tonight. Sleep, my son… Sleep and dream of the ones who came before you and all that will come after."

Bronwen herself did not rest that night.

Wynn woke to the view of his mother, painting her body with ritualistic Woad. Blue pigment stood in contrast to the paleness of her skin, dancing proudly against the black tattoos which adorned her figure. She was singing to herself, her long fingers steady as they glided over her flesh with ancient magics. The Gods were with her there, in her deep musings; Wynn could see them by Bronwen's side, holding her high. Somewhere in the morning sun's rays, he could have sworn his father had been there too. Ever quietly the young boy lay on his mat, observing her. He wanted to preserve her that way: beautiful and strong. For whatever might happen, Wynn never wanted to forget her.

A lump grew in his throat and his eyes burned with the threat of tears. "Please," he pleaded. "Mother, do not leave me."

Bronwen turned sharply, her brow pulled in concern for her only child. It pained her just as deeply, if not more so to be leaving him. After all, a mother's love knows no bounds.

"Come here, Wynn." Her voice was calm with understanding. Waiting patiently, the woman pulled her son close to her bosom when he was within reach. Kissing the top of his fair head, Bronwen sighed deeply. Words seemed to fall short in the light of their predicament, and so she simply rocked him as one would a babe. They stayed like this for a long while, clutching each other tightly. After a time, Bronwen took Wynn by the shoulders and studied her son's face.

Very carefully with delicate hands, Bronwen dipped her fingertips into the Woad before painting a Triskele on Wynn's forehead. Offering the boy a smile, his mother imparted softly spoken magic into him before steering her blue fingers to a small gilded box that sat with the rest of their riches.

"Bring that to me," It was just a whisper. "I want to show you something."

Waiting in patience, Bronwen looked on as Wynn collected the box in his arms, turning around and handing it gingerly to his mother. He sat back down, gazing upon the container with wonderment–fully aware of what was inside, though he'd never set eyes on it himself. The air around them seemed to thicken with the presence of the Old Ones as Wynn held his breath with anticipation. Bronwen lifted the lid and scooped up the priceless ornament. For inside the box sat a severed head, having been preserved in cedar oil.

Handing the head to Wynn she said, "Do you know who he was?"

The boy swallowed hard, shaking his head. Try as he might, no words formed on his lips.

"He was the Chieftain of a neighboring tribe. Years ago now, he had declared war against us–your father laid waste to him in battle." She paused, in thought. "Do you know why we keep their heads?"

It was, in truth, a fair question. The practice had for the most part died out. When the church came calling to convert the barbarians, they had taken much of her people's identity, including the tradition of headhunting your enemies, and the preservation of certain loved ones. Bronwen continued when Wynn indicated he hadn't a clue. "Our spirit is located in our heads. As long as the head survives, the spirit trapped within is bound. The strengths the person held in life emanate through the head.."

Wynn blinked hard, taking in the spiritual lesson. "That is why warriors carry heads on their horses and spears into battle, isn't it?"

The woman nodded. "I'm going to need you to keep this safe for me, while I'm away."

"But don't you nee–"

"No. This will protect you while I'm away. I'm entrusting you to keep it safe, yes?"

Wynn slowly nodded.

It had taken half a day's journey to reach the Clachan, its view in the near distance enveloping the woman in a pang of mixed emotion. That village had once been her home; a place where she had never once imagined she'd be largely unaccepted. And now? Now, Bronwen could see the steeple of a makeshift church poking out above the ringfort, taunting her like a demon. This wasn't home any longer but a mere shadow on her broken heart. If Aodh could have seen what had become of his people, he would have wept. So much had changed by the hand of the church… Bronwen began to wonder if Wynn was right–why was she fighting for them? These Christians. For that's all they were now. No longer were they friends, nor family.

Racing thoughts grew silent with the sight of more riders approaching the gate of the community. It was clear enough they had been scouts; sporadic in their racing, panicked even. What was most concerning to Bronwen was that she did not see her brother amongst them. Fallon always led the scouting parties. A growing trepidation slipped its way into Bronwen's gut, coiling and resting in the pit of her body like a cold, dead snake. The calls of ravens rang violently in her head.

Ushering her horse forward, she cautiously made her way past the gate towards the greatest home in the center of the village. Women, children, and those called to fight gathered outside its doorway, eyes and ears straining to catch a glimpse or hear a whisper of what news the scouts carried. Shooing children from in front of her path, Bronwen slid from her horse and pushed past the congregation of eavesdroppers. As they caught sight of the Woad painted warrior, many dispersed in horror. One man in particular called her a foul name, though Bronwen's response to it would have to wait. A woman's blood curdling screams echoed from inside the abode. Quickly, Bronwen pushed the few remaining people aside. Entering her father's home, her eyes settled on Fallon's wife, who had collapsed on the floor beside a table topped with a mound of plaid cloth; its colors were that of her tribe.

Stepping forward the woman met her father's gaze and what she found within his eyes was forewarning to her inner fears. She rushed forth towards the table, throwing the cloth aside to reveal what lay hidden within the folds. Bronwen's gut twisted with a pain she'd only felt once before. When Aodh's body had been laid before her, bloody and broken.

"Who did this?" Her brows pulled together in frustration; seething anger filling her chest to the point she wanted to scream. Reaching down into the cloth she lifted her brother's head, her lungs heaving. When there was no answer to her question, the dead man's sister finally released her suffering. Bronwen screamed until there was no air left in her body. She screamed until her vision went red; her fingers gripped the hair upon Fallon's head, crying. "I will ask one more time: Who did this?!"

Finally, a brave soul stepped forward frowning down at Fallon's widow before turning his attention to his sister. "The Northmen…"

The Chieftain spoke with a voice filled with much sorrow. "My only son left alive…now taken from me…I shall never forgive them. Never!"

Bronwen fumed, leering with contempt and disgust at her father. "This is your fault, you old dolt."

The room's atmosphere grew cold with uneasiness. It was testing deadly waters, speaking that way to a man of her father's rank. His daughter had little care for social politics at the moment, however. In her eyes, Tiarnán with this Christian nonsense was to blame for this. The Gods were punishing them all.

"This is your fault. You and your Christ…" She was still holding her brother's head when she peered down at his widow. Her face was beyond recognition as she sat there keening. Bronwen's heart went out to her, while it hardened towards her father. "This is the second time I've lost my loved ones to your new God, father. I will not lose another."

Those that surrounded the pair held their breath. How were they meant to fight off invaders when there was war right within their own community; father pitted against daughter?

Tiarnán stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Now is not the time for petty quarrels, Bronwen. We must move quickly and round our men for the battle to come. When all of this is behind us and the Northmen have retreated, we will give Fallon a proper burial."

Scoffing with vehemence, Tiarnán's daughter turned her back on him, carrying the head of his son with her. "Fallon and I shared the womb of our mother. We grew together, trained together, and refused your new world–together. I will not let you tarnish my brother's name or his spirit by burying him. He will ride with me and guide me. And when we find the one responsible for his falling, the vile creature will join him in death. That is what will be done. That is what has always been done.."

Bronwen paused for only a moment, looking down at his brother's widow once more. "I will avenge him Keena, I swear it."