In the quiet, early dawn of 1169, Scáthach stood at the edge of the dense forest, her hand resting gently on the hilt of her sword. Her fiery red hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the muted greens and browns of her attire. She took a deep breath, savoring the scent of dew-kissed leaves and the faint hint of approaching conflict. The world was waking up to another day of the Anglo-Norman invasion, but she was ready for whatever it had in store.
Medb, her equally legendary wife, sat cross-legged beside her, eyes gleaming with excitement. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of the chaos they were about to unleash. Her own sword lay across her lap, its silver gleam a silent promise of mischief.
"Scáthach," she whispered, "are you ready for the dance?"
Scáthach turned to her with a smirk. "Always."
The two immortal warriors had been through countless battles, their legendary status long forgotten by the mortals who now trembled under the weight of history. They lived as shadows, their true identities veiled by the passage of time. But today, they were going to make sure their presence was felt.
As the first light of day began to spill through the trees, the sound of clanking armor grew louder. The British soldiers marched closer, oblivious to the ancient forces hiding in the shadows. Scáthach's hand tightened around her sword, her eyes narrowing as she sized them up. These men were no match for her, not with the power of the ancients flowing through her veins.
Medb's laughter grew louder, echoing through the forest. "Let's give them a show they'll never forget," she said, her voice a mix of amusement and anticipation.
The soldiers stopped in their tracks, their expressions a blend of confusion and fear. They had heard the legends of the fierce women who fought alongside the Irish, but they had never seen them in the flesh. Or so they thought.
With a swift motion, Scáthach unsheathed her sword and stepped out of the trees. The sight of her was enough to make the bravest of men falter. But she had something else in mind, something far more entertaining than a straightforward battle.
The first soldier to approach her took a swing, but she merely raised her hand and slapped him. The man shot up into the air like he had been struck by a giant's hand, his armor clanging as he soared through the sky. The others watched in disbelief as their comrade plummeted back down, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Medb couldn't hold back her laughter any longer. It rolled out of her in great peals, filling the forest with the sound of mirth. The sight of a mighty warrior being taken down by a simple slap was too much for her to bear.
And so, the battle began. But it wasn't the battle the soldiers had been expecting. It was a performance, a spectacle, with Scáthach at the center, slapping her enemies away like pesky flies. Each slap sent a soldier flying, and each time, Medb's laughter grew louder.
The forest floor grew littered with unconscious men in a display that was both comical and terrifying. The remaining soldiers looked at each other, questioning their sanity. They had never encountered anything like this before.
But Scáthach and Medb? They were just getting started.
With a flick of her wrist, Scáthach sent another soldier soaring, his sword flying from his grip. He looked like a ragdoll in the air, his limbs flailing wildly. Medb clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling with delight. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on them; two immortal queens, once feared and revered, now fighting like jesters in the middle of a serious historical event.
The commanding officer, a burly man with a thick mustache, took a cautious step forward. "Who are you?" he bellowed, his voice thick with a British accent.
"Just a couple of locals," Medb called back, her Irish lilt dancing through the air. "Here to show you the proper way to respect our lands."
The commander narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "You think you can defeat us with your... slaps?"
Scáthach sauntered closer, her hand still poised to strike. "I can, and I will," she said with confidence. "But I'm feeling generous today. Maybe you'd like to join the fun?"
The man scoffed, raising his sword. But before he could even blink, she had slapped him so hard his mustache parted ways with his face. He shot up like a rocket, leaving his men gaping as he disappeared into the canopy.
The remaining soldiers began to retreat, their bravado replaced with the cold realization that they were outmatched. But Scáthach had no intention of letting them go so easily. With a mischievous glint in her eye, she raised her hand, ready to send the rest of the invaders skyward.
The sound of slaps filled the forest, punctuated by the laughter of the two queens. Each impact echoed through the trees, sending birds flying and leaves rustling. The soldiers stumbled back, desperately trying to maintain their footing as they were met with an onslaught of slapstick warfare.
As the last of the invaders lay sprawled on the ground, Scáthach and Medb shared a look of satisfaction. They had once again protected their homeland, albeit in an unconventional way. But as they watched the survivors flee, they knew that their work was far from over. The Anglo-Norman invasion was a hydra with many heads, and they had only cut off one.
They sheathed their swords and leaned against a tree, panting slightly from the exertion. "Well," said Medb, wiping a tear from her eye, "that was fun."
Scáthach nodded, her own smile wide. "Too much fun. But we can't let them get too comfortable."
With that, they disappeared into the forest, leaving their handiwork behind. The invaders would spread tales of the fierce women who fought with slaps rather than swords, and perhaps, just perhaps, it would make them think twice before crossing into Irish lands again.
But the story of Scáthach and Medb's whimsical battle would live on, a secret whisper among the trees, a reminder that not all heroes were as they seemed, and that sometimes, a bit of laughter could be the most powerful weapon of all.