A/N: I do not own this.
If dates mattered to the Caledonii, they would've known it was the year 446 a.d. The Romans had been, for the most part, absent from the island for two generations and in the power vacuum that followed their departure the whole of Britain was plunged into the twin depths of destruction and war. Various native tribes warred amongst themselves, while invaders from the south, east and west, Angles, Saxons, Celts, and Cruithne, besieged the island intent on plunder, rapine and slaughter. Among these native tribes was a unique group. Born, bred and battle tested in the harsh north-winter were the Caledonii, and they were fierce. Their differences were apparent to any who looked at them, having red hair, green eyes, sharp features and longer, leaner forms than those of their neighbors. Differences ran deeper than appearance, though, because these people were truly native. Whereas most of the British Isles was populated with a variety of relatively recent immigrants, the Caledonii had been a fixture on the land for thousands of years, the smaller breeding pool responsible for their handsome, albeit strange physical attributes. Their lives were lived in transhumance, moving kith and kin with the seasons in order to survive the harsh and bleak winter months in the far north. The Romans had held them in contempt for this, but those boy-lovers had been purged from the land, while the Caledonii had not. Very few contemplated these things, though, as their existence was dominated by war, and the procurement of food. Livestock numbers were dwindling with the dual hardship of frequent battles and slight drought. But, then again, the Caledonii numbers were dwindling, too. Attrition was taking its toll on all living things that called this rugged isle their home.
Aedwaerth was their leader, a warrior-king renowned in battle for his ferocity and uncanny speed, revered in all things for his wisdom and sound judgement, despite his youth. Kingship was passed down through paternal bloodlines among the Caledonii, and Aedwaerth became an orphan at the age of seventeen when his father, the king and only surviving member of his family, was slain in battle. The rites of kingship required no fewer than two weeks of unaided wilderness survival. He underwent the trails with verve, relishing the experience of being turned out to fend for himself. Typically, the men vying for leadership within the Caledonii came back in worse state that they were sent: alive, but hungry, tired, and ornery. But Aedwaerth was resourceful, and physically gifted. His speed, endurance and peerless obstinance were invaluable tools in the king's trails. Three weeks passed and though the tribal elders feared him dead, he returned fully clothed in deerskin, toting the skins of bear and bobcat on the end of two phalanx-length spears, seemingly well-fed, and with a grin that nearly split his face. Fully venerated and avowed, he began his kingship.
What followed was six years of agonizing repetition: fight, regroup, recover. During that time he watched the gradual decay of his people's life in northern Scotland. These years were vital to the development of his psyche. He saw himself as the weak link in the chain of kings, the fraud among them; he was principally a warrior, yet unable to stem the tide of destruction to his people. He won battles that made no difference to the vitality of the Caledonii, and the idea of extenuating circumstances was, at the time, uninvented. Despite reservations about his suitability for kingship, he warred and battled for his people relentlessly.
On one such campaign, in the brutal weather of 446 near to the winter solstice, he is huddled by a flickering fire deriving what warmth he can. The men under his command, nearly 400 steely eyed warriors, are doing much of the same: attempting vainly to stay warm under the oppressive, stark and frightening cold. He was feeling every one of his twenty-three years at that moment, the day's battle playing out behind tired lids...
Aedwaerth stood on a knoll, brown and bleak with the season. The sun's unusual tepidity lent credence to his uneasiness. He did not doubt the loyalty or courage of the men behind him, nor his unparalleled prowess, or cunning. But his mind had been laying a subtle plot, a subterfuge of sorts. His consciousness was ambiguous, had developed this duplicity over time. In truth, the man's circumstances to this point had allowed a suppression of a basic instinct: born of battle, swaddled in war, raised on death. But his age and responsibilities belied his abilities and training. As a fell wind swept up the hill, an urge to sheath his sword and dagger and run shocked him. Instead, his battle hardened body bent to the dusty ground and laid his tools there. On a knee, he wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his arms and hands off onto his worn leather clothes. As gentle as a lover he reached down, ran his fingers over the ground and gathered the decaying grass and dirt in two small handfuls. He slowly ground the earth between his hands, thereby expunging the insidious desire to flee.
When he stood back up, iron sword and dagger in hands, his countenance was grim. The warriors behind him took solace in his expression. Knowing him as they did, it was a comfort to them. They knew his clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, furrowed brow and flared nostrils were as good as a death sentence: for their opponents. Even bearing witness to his righteous fury firsthand many times, they were still awed by the power of it and none had ever withstood him. He put all things out of his mind, like the traitor-thought a moment before, and stripped his overactive thoughts away, one-by-one, until only the warrior-king remained. He felt only the thrice-forged blades in his hands, the wind in his hair and clothes, the tense flex of muscle, and the rustling of his men behind him.
There was no call to battle, no war-cry, or senseless noise from his men. The threat to their homes and families supplied them all the rage and motivation necessary for a rout. Soundlessly sprinting down the hill toward their foe, the Warrior was of singular mind. No silly sentiments squelching his need to slake his blood-lust. Confidence thrummed off him like a siren song to his men, who took up the deadly charge a few steps behind. It was no coincidence that they had the high ground of the knoll, and were about to plow destruction into the ground and bodies below them. Beside being ruthless warriors, this was their home, and they knew the land well. The Warrior had hunted these lands since his ninth year and had learned the deer-paths as boy. They had soundlessly gained ground on the invaders due to superior knowledge and deadly ability. Unbeknownst to Aedwearth, he had become a master tactician, utilizing his intelligence and skills to procure an advantage. On this day their enemy was dead before the battle began.
The Caledonii reached the invaders front line quickly, and in a moment of intuition, the he noticed a weakness, an open spot in their second level of defense. Using the high ground to propel him, the Warrior leapt through the air. The Celt in front of him, expecting neither the change in trajectory or his violent velocity, reacted too slow. Twisting in the air, the warrior-king, with the Celt suddenly beneath him, lashed out with his sword, splitting the man in half from the crown of his head to the base of his neck. Before the first man's body hit the ground, the second row of invaders was in turmoil, attempting to react to the momentum, speed and ferocity of the Warrior in their midst. It was futile. By the time the third Celt was forever silenced, the rest of the Caledonii had engaged. Immediately making inroads to the heart of the invader host, they left rivers of blood and carnage in their wake. The Celtic invaders were routed in a matter of minutes. Only when the Warrior hoisted the ruined head of the Celt's leader, and pried the golden torc from his savaged neck, did the Caledonii erupt in cries of victory with the dead and the dying at their feet.
But even during victory Aedwaerth could not entirely banish the sense of unease that was growing within him. Even with the blood of his enemies staining his clothes and hair, he could not escape the awareness of doom that had settled upon him and he knew when something needed consideration. A fault-line had formed in his mind and he knew the end was near. Maybe it would not happen for many years, but it would come. He told himself that this was simply a process all men went through, whereupon the brashness and arrogance of youth is weeded out and replaced with the cool assurance of experience and the knowledge that eventually all men die. Girded with this bleak realization he released his grip on the dead Celt's thick hair. After hearing a soft thud, he turned to his brothers-in-arms and said, "Let's go home."
They haven't made it home yet. Their tactical advantage in battle was gained at the expense of moving farther afield than strictly necessary. One night away from the hearth-fires may seem innocuous, but Aedwearth knows survival is a thin line for the wounded.
It is pitch black night outside the perimeter of light the fires provide, the delineation like a rippling, roughly circular beast wanting to encroach, intimidate, devour. And there is a malignancy on the edges of his mind; a dark, alien force that is truly beyond his comprehension, yet inspiring a gut-wrenching dread. It occurs to him, that after more than two decades of life, he might be afraid of the dark. Talented minds are often prone to fanciful imaginings, but this is not something he can withstand. Noting that he needs to void anyway, and thus rationalizing leaving the warmth and safety of the fire and friends, he unfolds his tall form from the fetal position underneath his bearskin blanket and disappears into the dark curtain.
A/N: I suppose I'd like to be told whether or not to continue this story. It's time consuming, and if it's tedious and generally fail, please let me know.