A/N: Thanks everyone for your continued support. I've done my best not to bombard you with too lengthy a chapter- that said feedback is welcome. I'm trying to keep details on level with action. By all means, if you feel I should be more descriptive in some areas, let me know. As always, Follow/Favourite/Review if you feel called to do so! Mostly importantly, enjoy! Cheers. Xx

(If you would like pronunciations of names, I will continue to add them.)

*I'm so sorry some of you read this the first time I posted it. I accidently uploaded the first unedited draft. My dyslexia is foul. I've fixed it.*

Chapter Two

"Bronwen!" Her father's shouts fell on deaf ears as his daughter marched out the door, white knuckled from the grip her fingers held, tightly laced around her brother's scalp at her side. The weight of his severed head became the heaviest burden Bronwen had ever bore out of her father's home.

Stepping into the sunlight, she was greeted with the screams of the onlookers. They gasped in horror at the sight before them, some emptying the contents of their stomachs onto the ground. Mothers' shielded their children's eyes in stark mortification, fixating their own watchful gazes on Bronwen's every move. In the minds of the villagers, it was their Chieftain's daughter and her barbarity and pagan way of life that had brought this unfortunate circumstance down on them. Some were calling out for blood, while others simply bit their tongue when it came to cruel words, opting instead to pray fervently before the church. Again, whatever pleas or insults were spat at her or directed to their new God, they fell short of Bronwen's ears. She simply could not hear them over the beating of her broken heart. Part of her was gone. A deep emptiness consumed her, forcing its way to the surface in a rush of hot, angry tears.

Weakened knees buckled then bent, refusing to let Bronwen fall to the ground and weep. There would be time enough for that in the end, when she had rightly avenged Fallon… Poor, sweet Fallon…

The two of them had been far more than siblings, but flames of the same seed, grown together in the womb of their mother. Losing him… Oh, losing him had washed away the last bit of hope Bronwen had been clinging to. He had been the light in her world, when all other lights had been snuffed out. Her brother had been the promise of returning to the old ways, as her father's heir. There was hardly a reason to remain optimistic now. Now, there was only darkness. Now, there was only the wound of losing the last glimmer of possibility. All seemed lost.

Each step forward felt as though she were drunk–her mind reeling with stumbling footfalls through the streets. Voices of the villagers grew louder, reverberating in her ears, rattling Bronwen's skull. Were they mocking her? She was sure of it. Spotting the horse, its owner lurched herself forward. Fumbling with a free hand, Bronwen grasped the reins sharply. Whinnies came from the beast, calmed only by its master's hand gently yet desperately patting its neck. She leant into the steed's side, shaking her head.

Bronwen whispered thoughtfully, "Blood will be spilt. The Gods will have a great sacrifice when I am finished with these Northmen…And you, brother," Carefully lifting what was left of Fallon, Bronwen kissed his brow. "You cannot leave me until this is done. Once more, you will ride with me into battle–for the last time."

Hopping up into the saddle, thoughts drifted to Wynn back on the farm. Bronwen silently prayed to the Goddess Brighid to keep him safe from the bloodshed that was to follow. She might have even pleaded that he remained unmolested by his grandfather's poisonous indoctrination and ambitions; it had not escaped her even in all the pain of losing Fallon, that Wynn was now his grandfather's heir. What a looming and foreboding darkness was cast over his mother's heart, ever there in shadow–taunting her. When all of this was over and if by some unforeseen chance the Clachan survived the onslaught, great change was upon them. Wynn would be taken from her to be groomed for the eventual replacement of Tiarnán. Bronwen's stomach churned with restiveness, imagining her son on his knees before the chaplain, eating and drinking the body of the false God...

A throaty and hoarse croak circled overhead, giving way to the sight of pitch coloured wings, swooping low. The raven perched itself upon the stables, its wise eyes searching the woman. A great and powerful Kraa-Kraa! Sprang from the bird, offering guidance and council in a desperate hour of need. Bronwen steadied herself in the saddle, breathing in the cool coastal breeze.

"What is it, old friend? What do your wise eyes wish me to see?"

With vigilance, she continued to survey the creature as it hopped across the railings of the stables before flying within and landing atop an old chariot. Puzzlement swelled in her chest, trying to decipher what the bird was trying to convey. With a small nudge of her heels, the horse stepped forward. Bronwen ducked her head under the doorway, inching closer to the raven, who refused to move. Its eyes, ever watchful.

"The chariots?" Green orbs scrutinized the corvid, her brows pulling together in confusion. "They have not been used in years. Why show this to me?"

Kraa-Kraa!

"Sister…"

Within her mind's eye, memories of learning to use the chariots with Fallon played over and over. Countless hours had been spent on the coastal slopes, racing to and fro until they could turn themselves at the flip of a coin. An operated war machine, possibly pulled by a single able bodied horse, made two fighters four. The Northmen wouldn't stand a chance if the warriors could choose the battlefield. Rocky terrain. Home terrain.

Kraa-Kraa!

Within the bird's call, realization washed over Bronwen, who's eyes grew wide. "Aye, Fitheach… That may just be our only way to victory."

"What you're suggesting is–" Tiarnán was cut off by his daughter slamming a mug against the tabletop.

"What I'm suggesting, father, is the village's only chance of survival. Use the chariots!" Bronwen pleaded with the Chieftain. "If you sit huddled in your homes and church, the Northmen will come, and they will slaughter all of you." A scoff of utter disbelief left the young woman's mouth. Tiarnán's indifference to her suggestion was appalling. She turned to the senior members of her father's council; men who once were renowned for their skills with horse and spear. "And all of you? Will you sit by and do nothing? Your families, your lands, and your very lives are at stake. How dare you call yourself Celts."

The silence that followed her vain attempts caused Bronwen to collapse back into her chair at the table, head in her hand.

Hushed whispers circled the war room and had Bronwen raising her tired gaze towards the old men. She gripped the arms of her chair in anticipation, biting the inside of her bottom lip hard until the metallic taste of blood tantalized her tongue. Her breath caught short as everyone in the room witnessed her uncle, Drust, stand to command the attention of the audience.

When he spoke, the air became thick and heavy. "A wise man listens to counsel–of which nowadays seems perverted with self preservation. Brother, I know you wish to attempt peace with these strangers from the North… but my heart tells me Bronwen is right. They would not have killed your son, my nephew, if peace lived anywhere within their black hearts."

At the mention of her brother, Bronwen clasped a fist against her mouth, biting hard on her fingers. She noted her father's eyes filling with a deep sadness–known only to those who have lost a child. There was a profound fear their Chieftain would not change his mind.

"Father…"

Tiarnán raised his grief stricken eyes towards his daughter's. Fear lingered in his old gray stare, seemingly attempting to cling to any branch of hope that remained. So much damage, persecution, threats, and change had the old warrior endured through the years. Bronwen almost understood in their shared glances why Tiarnán had guided his people away from their old ways. Perhaps he saw it as the only way the Tribe could survive… But at what cost? If they didn't bring the fight to the Northmen, all of his life's work would have been for nothing.

"Please, father. Now is not the time to huddle away in fear. Years of following the Christian God has made your heart soft. Allow me command over the men, or at least those who are trained in the use of the chariots we have left. Let us protect our people–let me put my brother's spirit to rest."

Mumbling ensued around her; whispers of heresy, witchcraft, and barbaric paganism circled 'round. It was a great risk she was taking, speaking so brazenly against the church and the Almighty. It wouldn't have been the first time threats had been made against her. Bronwen was no newcomer to the wrath of the Christians, and with Fallon now gone there was little to protect her from the stake if she weren't careful with her actions and words.

"Enough!" Drust shouted over the grumbling of the other men. "Brother if you will not act, I shall. Pagan or Christian, my niece speaks only the truth. What other option is there but to ride out to them, before they make their way to our women and children?" He nodded curtly at Bronwen, lifting a strong hand out and clasping a fist against his broad chest. "My sons will ride with you, as well as their sons. Any other men I might spare–who willingly wish to follow you–I will not hinder. Ride with purpose, Bronwen Daughter of Sadb. Show these outsiders the might of our people. Send them to the Otherworld. And may The Morrigan protect you all."

She nodded respectfully. "Thank you, uncle."

Before the sun crept into the sky, Bronwen was awake in the stables, making preparations. Sleep had not come easy for quite some time now. So in the wee hours of the early mornings, she had given her mind, ears, and spirit to the Gods in hopes of finding a few moments of peace in their wisdom. Often she would sit outside her home and hum ancient tunes, offering burnt sacrifices for visions of the future. Today however, no amount of charred gifts was going to amount to much. It seemed as though the world had grown too quiet with the passing of the night. The calm before the storm… A storm Bronwen had dreamt of not so very long ago. She felt as she had the night Wynn had woken her, as if all the power within herself was drained. No will was left within to claw her way to the surface of the waves.

She sighed deeply, sinking to the straw floor, cradling Fallon in her arms wrapped with his plaid cloak. How badly she wished for the right words to cascade from her lips, desperate to tell her brother all the things that had been left unsaid for all their years apart. Yet nothing sprang forth. There were only the noises of the horses and the soft calling of the sparrows in the rafters as they woke from their dreams. Everything surrounding her seemed like a fantasy. Absolutely no indication war and ruin at their doorstep could be found. Children were still asleep, warm within their homes–safe… Gods how she pleaded for her own child to remain untouched… Lugh, she needed to calm herself.

Focusing on breathing, Bronwen listened carefully to her heartbeat. With each exhalation she calmed her nerves until every lub-dub in her chest slowed completely. She was Bronwen, Daughter of Sadb. Her father was Tiarnán, descendant of Cormag the Bold. Fear had no place to call home within her. Slowly reciting these affirmations, trepidation was replaced with acceptance, acceptance overturned by courage, and courage devoured with the fire of a warrior's spirit.

The sound of Drust's sons' footsteps yanked Bronwen from her reflections. Unable to contain herself, the corners of her mouth pulled into a slight smile at the sight of her cousins. Broad shoulders portrayed tall men painted in Woad, bare chested. The long hair of her younger cousins had been dipped in the blood of a sacrificial animal, whilst their elder brothers had chosen to spike their already lightened hair with lime water; a ceremonial style only worn by those warriors who had killed an enemy. Pride swelled inside of her.

"Make haste, little cousin." Fáelán, Drust's eldest son, held out his hand helping Bronwen to her feet. "The hour of battle approaches ever closer."

By cockcrow their small band had reached the encampment of the intruders. From a hedge line, the Celts' view of their enemy was clear–though they themselves remained hidden by the brush, out of sight. The Northmen had tents pitched near the cliff face, offering one side protection from would be attacks. It seemed they weren't too concerned with the natives of the land they sought to plunder; that would be their mistake.

"They are all sleeping like babes." Bronwen could spot only a woman tending to a fire outside one of the makeshift shelters. "Not a care in the world."

Fáelán and one of his brother's chuckled from their places atop the chariot they rode. "Which gives us the advantage. They won't ever see us coming."

Bronwen attempted to view their situation from her cousin's point of view, but glancing behind at their own numbers did little to ease her heart. They may have had five chariots, each occupied by two of Durst's sons and most trusted men, but too few came to aid them. The only saving grace were his grandsons, who bolstered the warriors on foot with words of encouragement.

"If you doubt us Bronwen, you doubt the Gods."

A sharp turn of her head caused Fáelán to chuckle.

"I do not doubt the Gods." She spat in her saddle, spear in one hand, whilst the other brushed the hair of her brother. His head strapped to her side. "I will send these intruders to their graves."

A bowstring pulled tight, an arrow focused on the woman tending the fire. "Well then," The elder cousin grinned devilishly at his target. "Let it begin." The arrow released, finding its target's eye socket.

Slowly, the soldiers on foot were sent into the camp.

It hadn't taken long for the Northmen to wake themselves with frenzied panic. Howls and shrieks echoed through the morning mist, carrying death on the wind. The sounds of clashing metal and war cries resounded against the beating of Bronwen's heart, soon matched by the thumping of hooves and the turning of chariot wheels. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, pumping bloodthirst into her limbs as her spear ached to be quenched with the blood of the Northmen. Sending a plea to the Gods and summoning the spirit of her fallen brother, Bronwen charged her horse forth into battle, piercing the chest of the first Heathen she came close to. The body of the shieldmaiden fell to the front of Bronwen's steed, quickly she sent her enemy into Valhalla with a crushed skull..

Pushing forward she cornered a group of Vikings, pressing them ever closer to the circling chariots which darted in and out of their shield wall formations with ease. As they fought to regain composure, Celtic warriors on foot took the advantage to attack. Unfortunately, many of them were young and inexperienced. Most fell to the grand size and expertise of the north invaders. Bronwen could hear the shouts of Fáelán, as he witnessed his son fall under the edge of an axe. Her cousin had replaced his bow with a spear, handing the reins to his riding companion and lined up to strike down the man who had killed his son. Missing, they continued to charge forward, running three more of their enemies off the cliff's edge, plummeting to their deaths.

Bronwen reared her horse, knocking another warrior to the ground before moving towards Fáelán's fallen spear and swooping low to grasp it. Just as she fixated herself back into her saddle, the thrust of a shield to her side knocked her from the horse's back. She hit the ground in a hard thud, the wind knocked out of her. Gasping for air, she desperately felt the earth beside her for a weapon, knowing whoever threw her from the horse would be closing in to finish her. With barely seconds to spare, her hand gripped a Viking shield which she brought over her body in protection. An axe came down hard upon it in that instant with such force it splintered the barrier, sending slivers of wood into her palms. Screaming in anger, Bronwen pushed against her attacker, kicking up at their groin, buying her enough time to pull herself to her feet. The shield, now useless, was tossed aside. No time was afforded to weigh the options in front of her, so Bronwen ducked another attempted blow and lunged for a hatchet, well aware how useless it was against a foe the likes of the one she faced.

She screamed at the man, standing tall. He wore no armor and carried no shield. Bloodlust lay comfortably in his green eyes, as he shouted back at her. His long dark hair was drenched in the blood of her kin. Kneeling down carefully, watching his movements, Bronwen grasped at a short sword, now able to dual wield with the ability to defend herself and take offensive measures. Standing back up, nearly matching him inch for inch in height, Bronwen tore at the front of her shirt to expose bare breasts. She was not afraid of him and she damn well wanted him to know it.

"Bring your head to my blade!" She hissed, throwing herself into the dance of battle once more.

It became clear after only a few attempts at evading this man's attacks that Bronwen had picked the wrong fight. She may have been quicker, even lighter on her feet, but this warrior's blows were far too strong for her to fend off with only the weapons she had in her hands. Bronwen was growing tired of repeatedly blocking the same onslaughts and her opponent knew this. As she doubled over to try and catch a breath, she nearly suffered an axe between her eyes. Falling to the ground, the world around Bronwen began to turn black. Only when her adversary placed his boot to her throat did she come back to the light. Choking, she tried to kick her feet and pry his foot from her neck. It was no use.

His laughter made her seethe, mocking her in his language. "Fight all you wish, woman. Today I will send you to whichever God you desire."

Bronwen stared at him squarely. Green eyes clashed for the briefest of moments as she truly believed this was where she was meant to die. Yet as fate would have it, Bronwen was given an opportunity when she least expected it.

As the Viking raised his axe once more to dispatch her, his attention had been stolen away by the voices coming from his fellow Northmen. Cries from beyond the music of battle called out, "Rollo!"

In that time Bronwen freed a dagger from her side and plunged it into her opponent's calf. A howl of pain erupted from him, giving her just enough time to roll from under his frame and stumble to her feet. Quickly surveying her surroundings, Bronwen noticed Fáelán turning back, locking in on her and rushing to aid. She ran as fast as her feet might carry her, reaching out and grasping her cousin's forearm as he swooped in on the chariot. Jumping to the back of the racing wagon, she took the opportunity to catch her breath.

"We've done it, cousin!" Fáelán whooped and hollered with victorious vigor over the racing of the horses. "They are retreating! We have burnt their camp and slain many of their warriors! You clever woman, your plan worked! I could kiss you! Haha!"

Bronwen couldn't believe her ears. They had won? Pulling herself to her feet carefully, the sight before her confirmed Fáelán's words. About the open field lay the dead, as many of the Northmen retreated down the slopes towards the shore.

"We should finish them off," Bronwen picked up a spear at her feet and threw it at a retreating Viking, piercing his heart through the back. "Or at least ensure they have no wounded men to recover and nurse."

The chariot slowed its pace before reaching a halt, allowing Bronwen to jump to the ground, whistling out for her horse.

"We may have prevailed, but we do not have enough men to follow them to their ships. No doubt they have more raiders guarding their plunder. We have our own wounded and dead to tend to…" Fáelán's voice trailed off, remembering he had his son that needed recovering from the open field. "Stay and kill the wounded if it suits you, but I must see to my son and the others. Keep vigilant Bronwen–perhaps you might yet find the bastard who murdered Fallon."

Groans of the dying fell upon her ears. "Aye…perhaps."

With a heavy heart Bronwen set herself to the task of putting the dying to rest. A spear in one hand and the reins of her horse in the other, the burden was carried out solemnly. Every so often she would glance over at her brother's head, pleading with his spirit to guide her spear to the body of his killer.

Time seemed to drag on for what felt like an eternity. Carrion birds began to circle the fields, calling out with joy to be presented with such a glorious feast. Bronwen watched on as the raven soared high above her before plummeting low then high again, circling over a small mound of bodies.

"Bronwen…Sister…"

She furrowed her brows, ushering her horse forwards towards the raven. "Fallon?"

Upon reaching the corpses, Bronwen sighed with hopelessness. She was sure there had been a reason she was led to that place. Just as she went to turn back to her duty, muffled grumbling drew her attention back towards the mound. Ever cautiously Bronwen poked the heap of flesh with the tip of her spear and jumped out of her skin when a hand lurched out from the dead, grasping the wooden pole tightly. Pulling roughly on her weapon, it seemed as though a game of tug of war was being played. Eventually a spindly man was birthed out of the dead, flipping violently onto his back, giggling like a lunatic. Blood was seeping from his side, his eyes cast upward towards the circling of corvids.

Bronwen sighed, discontented. Stepping forward she raised the polearm to plunge it deep into the Northmen's chest.

"Sister, stop!" The voice of her brother echoed in her heart. She paused, peering over at Fallon's head. Shaking her own, Bronwen chalked up the phantom words to her grief and raised the spear higher, ready to strike. Just as she brought her weapon down, a raven landed on the chest of the wounded man.

Sighing, Bronwen held her hand. "Surely you do not wish me to spare him?"

Kraa! Kraa!

Celt gazed down at Viking, studying her enemy's face. Charcoal coated his eyes, which were fluttering in and out of reality and consciousness. His chest was heaving as he struggled to breathe. Bronwen could not shake the feeling he wasn't meant to die there–despite her desire to end him.

Cursing herself for her weakness, she called over her horse and one more time looked at Fallon. She could feel her brother there with her, confirming Bronwen's convictions to save the Northman.

"I swear to the Gods, Fallon… There had better be a purpose behind your wishes… Or you may very well be the death of me." Clicking her tongue, she tossed the spear to the ground and dropped to her haunches, head peering over the Northman's frame.

She was addressing him now, aware he had no idea what she was saying. "If you try anything, I will kill you–kill you. Understand?"

The man opened one eye, giggling before wincing in pain. Sucking in a haggard breath, one word escaped his lips. "Jötunn."