He remembered.

The fog began to slowly lift as he walked through it in the back of his mind and he remembered the beginning.

Gaul

Whatever god responsible for controlling the autumn sun did not seem to be putting forth that much effort today. Wan light leached in speckles of arbitrary brightness through the thick oak canopy as he moved through the trees, half watching for enemies but half lost in his own thoughts of the past months. Dermot Mac Dubhradh had nothing against forests. They were not the simple plains of home but he had spent time as a youth in the forests of his fosterage, enough to feel comfortable in the stillness and the size of them. He just did not like this sloppy work of moving back and forth like crazy blind men looking for people to slaughter as though they were so many diseased cattle. There was no honour in this, no bravery, not even a display of skill at arms. Only Caesar’s coin and a growing bad taste in his mouth.

He shook himself out of his thoughts for a moment as he noticed an increase in the spackled shafts of light up ahead. There might be a settlement or at least a hovel of some sort. Perhaps even a warrior to test himself against. It was not that Dermot enjoyed killing. He just enjoyed the feel of being tested. It was a shame that all these duels must be fought to the death. The warriors of these clans fought well when they could be found. The more so when they had discovered that their families had been put to sword or torch. Or worse, although Dermot refused to indulge himself in forcing what should be a free gift. He was here for one purpose and one purpose only; to amass gold to take home with him.

As he moved further into the oddly still forest Dermot began to move slower. Caution was not a lack of bravery, it was simple common sense. And his sense told him that there was something here that could prove his dangerous. Attempting to put his contemplations aside for a moment, he pulled his long, thick hair aside and forward before reaching behind his shoulder to pull the awkward but efficient Roman short sword. With hard-earned practice he held it down and to one side so as not to expose his position to any unseen lance or arrow.

Even though the trained senses of a warrior counseled him to compose himself in full awareness, for some reason he found he could not keep the thoughts away today. Dermot did not like this coward’s way of fighting. If nothing else it kept him away from his natural rhythm and thus became even more dangerous in its way. But on the other hand, as he picked his way through the mosaic lighting of the forest, he was not overly fond of the soul-numbing way in which the Roman’s often fought when away from the forest. The chanted orders and automatic movements that did not allow a man to be his own man, the dull gleam of weapons of the phalanx that approached battle as though they were farmers intent on winnowing grain rather than warriors intent on dispatching the enemy.

Face it Dermot, he thought wryly to himself as he avoided tripping over a branch at the last moment, you are just not going to be happy until the curragh is pulled on the shore and you can breath the air of home again. And while he held little in his heart for the tactics of Roman conquest that no god would accept as tribute, they did win. And a Victorious army is an army that pays, and pays well. Still, perhaps soon he should be giving thought to the journey back to home and to being himself.

He moved with caution into the edge of the clearing. An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. . To the side and back a little was an open fire pit. Although the fire was out, Dermot could tell that it had been used recently, since the last daybreak as a matter of fact. He pulled his knife out and held it loosely in his throwing hand while moving slowly.

There was a rustling in the tree next to him that he felt rather than heard or saw. With a smooth move he threw the knife like a hawk, followed by a thrust of the sword into the crimson foliage. There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target. He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.

On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. Dermot’s knife was lodged in her slim throat while her blood-died shift was torn from hip to chest where his sword had penetrated. Dermot started, the venison he had eaten to break his fast rising in his gorge. This aimless killing of infants was something that he would never get used to. The child lay there at his feet. It did not even look like she had time to be startled before her breath was taken from her.

Dermot sighed and looked at the jumbled body of the girl as though waiting for her to rise and chastise him for his actions in the still space that surrounded them. Turning around at last he found himself face to face with an old woman. He felt a moment burst of self anger. Regardless of what was going on, nobody should have been able to get so close to him without his knowing it.

He looked closely at the leathered crone who stood before him, silent but staring. He felt he should make an effort to say something to her, if nothing else than to break her silence. But what would he say? That he was sorry? That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them? Or perhaps, as he tried to regain his inner balance, to just warn her to move? She might be old but these people, like his own, had created over the years more than their share of female warriors.

Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak. But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out. It was as though his very breath had been placed in a faraway deep lake where words would be brought at the peril of death. He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm. Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.

It seemed as though an eternity was passing to Dermot. The old woman stood, seeming to be wrapped in shadow and saying nothing. She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child. He found himself wishing the girl would say something. Or at the very least move out of the shadow and raise her head so that he could see her eyes. He had learned long ago that much could be told about an opponent, even a foreigner, by looking into their eyes. Each emotion they told could bring a different strategy. Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter. It was not bravado on his part or of a misplaced ego. Dermot simply refused to believe that he could be anything less than victorious. He had learned early on from watching others that allowing even the possibility of defeat was the first step on the road to being defeated.

That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen. For an instant Dermot almost thought perhaps they were both under the power of some unseen third party. But then at last there came a moment when the shadows seemed to disappear while she raised her head. For a moment her thick dark tresses obscured her face in the way that shadows had obscured her. But then they slid to either side of her deeply lined face and he found himself pulled as surely as season pulls season. He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced. They reached out and absorbed the very essence of his soul, turned it inside out and examined every flaw and virtue with a shredding intensity. But still she said nothing. Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful. At length there was a feel of being returned to himself. It was as though he was being released from some dark inquisition, if not from the spell that continued to leave him bound speech and sword.

The woman seemed to gather the strands of some ancient power to herself before she spoke. “I see you are not by your inner nature a truly cruel man. You are, however, a very, very foolish and quite ignorant one, which can be as dangerous to the innocent. You have brought death to this place for no reason but the idle dreams of some foreign tyrant who does not realize he himself is truly without power.” Dermot was surprised at her voice, which was soft and melodious. It was not what he would have expected from the ancient, withered crone in front of him. His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes. Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag. Instead it seemed she had about her a stern, ageless beauty that he would have ascribed to the warrior goddess Morrigan if he had ever been called upon to describe her.

“Do not get me wrong for a moment. This does not mean I do not think you deserve to die a most horrible death for what you have done” she continued. “If you were a human I can guarantee that you would be face to face with whatever gods you worship before three times three breaths had passed between us And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”

He felt himself reeling in confusion. Not Human? He knew himself as well as any man. He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers. He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man. So what did this strange, shape shifting woman mean? He began to fear that he was not only under the control of a woman who was possessed of magic powers but of an insane woman who was possessed of those powers.

She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind. Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment. “I know you have no idea what I am talking about.” She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it. But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “

“I free you, Dermot Mac Dubhradh, but do not think at all that I have decided to release you. I believe that for you to learn what it is like to be a victor you must first begin by spending some time as those you believe to be the defeated. After a few turns on that cycle perhaps we shall see what you have learned about the reality of victory and of true power. Now leave me to my grief from your actions this day.”

The woman raised her hands and brought the palms together. There was a flash of light brighter than moon or sun, a brightness which blinded Dermot with its intensity. When at last he had shaken himself loose of the star trails which obscured his vision and he could see again he stood alone in the clearing. Both the woman and the body of the small child had disappeared. He would have thought it all a dream if not for the tell-tail stains on his sword. Grabbing a handful of dirt and leaf, Dermot took extra care to clean of the short expanse of steel along the edge of his gladius until it gleamed once again before replacing it in his scabbard,

***********

He held out a hand and steadied himself against a tree as the after effects of the spell left him week kneed for a moment. He looked around the short expanse of the clearing, where only the fire pit remained. Dermot had been raised to believe that mystery was like an uncaught fish. It was only a mystery until you had reeled in the answer. He took a number of cleansing breaths while trying to come to some sort of understanding as to what had just happened, He tensed as he heard a noise somewhere behind him, as it continued his hand moved away from his sword and he began to relax a bit. None of the people here could be so clumsy. He walked over to the fire pit and kindled a new flame as he waited patiently. From his way pouch he drew out the last of the venison and laid it aside while sharpening a stick. The meat was sizzling with a satisfying aroma as the Romans burst into the clearing, attracted by the fire. A grizzled centurion elbowed his way through. “Here we are filling a land for Caesar and you are busy filling your stomach. A wise man, perhaps, eh barbarian?”

Dermot chuckled quietly as the short, swarthy Roman gabbled on. The truth, if anyone were to ask him, was that he was never quite sure what to make of Marcus. He could wield his short sword in battle like a scythe, killing the enemy as if he were a farmer or like a thing out of some myth, without feeling But he did so without any fear at all. And when the killing was over it was though he came back to the land of people and lived as well and fully as any of Dermot’s own clan. He chuckled and offered Marcus a piece of venison.

“No thank you Barbarian,” said Marcus reluctantly. “The sooner we get these hectares cleared the sooner we can go somewhere where real food is served by real women.” He slapped Dermot on the back as the taller man scrubbed out the fire and joined the centurion. They heard the rough noises of the rest of the soldiers as they stumbled their way through the woods and into the clearing. “Although why Rome would want this Gods forsaken wilderness is beyond my simple way of thinking.”

Dermot rose slowly and stretch while finishing putting out the sputtering fire. This was a long familiar discussion that made the world feel more normal after the events of the morning. . “You know very well that the answer to that one is easy.” said Dermot as he and Marcus joined the rest of the group, “Rome is Rome and will not be happy until Rome has everything. There is to have. Land, people, Gods. Pax Romana for everyone.”

Marcus chuckled but moved closer. “Careful lad,” he whispered as they grew closer to the group of soldiers leaning against their weapons. “You and I both know well that Imperial Rome has a great and greedy appetite, but never forget that Rome also has ears everywhere. Sometimes I think almost as many ears as they do people to wield piliums.” Dermot nodded as they moved out.

As the shadows of the coming night grew longer, Dermot began to become more uneasy again. The Centurion, who had been berating one of the new recruits for using his gladius for cutting into a tree and thus dulling the blade, moved over to him, “You are not your usual jovial self today. Something wrong?”

Dermot thought about telling Marcus about the earlier incident in the clearing and then thought better of it. Marcus believed in all gods and no gods and mostly what he could eat, stab or bed. And he was still unclear himself if it had been reality or a dream from an unknown nap. Instead he turned to the centurion and decided to voice what his current concerns were. “It is the forest,” he said while rechecking his scabbard.

“The forest is always a pain,” said Marcus,”Walking through something this dense and dark is worse than having the runs in battle.”

Dermot continued trying to penetrate the cover of the trees. “It is not that this time. Everything is just too quiet. No birds, no animals. It is as if everything had been taken out of the forest for now I’m telling you Marcus, I just do not like it.”

Marcus chuckled, although he too checked his scabbard, making sure the gladius would slide smoothly out if it were needed. “Well if there is nothing here than we shall simply proclaim another in a long string of victories for the Imperial Forced of Rome.”

Suddenly there was a soft sibilant sound behind them that caused them both to turn. Both seasoned veterans, they knew the quiet sound of a death moan. Lying on the ground, blood a small deadly stream flowing from him, was the young recruit that Marcus had been berating. Marcus spared one look at the lad and then, realizing he had already been accepted by whatever god he believed in, lost no more time. He called the combined Contubernium that were the basis of his command into formation.

The soldiers, the vast majority of them new to the land, each other and to military action, responded with more fear than speed. They stumbled next to each other for protection, metal thwacking against metal as they tried to group themselves into something that would defend them. There was another soft moan and a Greek who had been too close to the trees slowly slid down, an arrow forming a new limb that reached through what had been a beating heart.

Marcus began yelling at them. : get your bloody damn selves into a proper defense position or I swear by Mithras you will wish that they had spilled what little guts you have before I had a chance to get to you.” There was something comforting to them about Marcus yelling at them as though it was a drill and they began to move with some semblance of professional soldiers. Some had removed their cassis and they quickly put them back on. Those with piliums looked for an enemy to impale on them. Scutums were formed into a wall, the shields overlapping each other as well as they could. They settled in to wait for something to happen, smoothing the panels of armour down as if it could calm their beating hearts. Marcus drew Dermot aside. while still holding his shield between himself and the direction that the attacks had come from. Or at least where they were believed to have come from.

Dermot was about to ask him what he wanted when there was a strange sound that he did not identify at once. Looking up he realized it was the sound of vines moving through the trees, Dozens of them, until the group looked like they were in the middle of a curtain in the forest. Down each began sliding a native soldier, each holding a roughly made pilium. Dermot went to shout a warning but before he could get the words out over half the soldiers had been dispatched by the thrown shafts. Marcus, realizing what was going on, went running into the carnage. Idly Dermot thought his roaring was that of a mother lion. His blade moved like lightning but he was outnumbered. Dermot tried to join him but he was hard pressed to keep his own defense as he saw Marcus fall at last. He yelled and reached but suddenly his world was a deep darkness that centered on the sword that penetrated through his body. Until he slowly faded to the ground and out of life.

She smoothed the water as the image of the falling warrior began to fade. “So it begins,” she whispered gently to the short figure next to him.

“Are you sure you want this to happen?” asked the man who had watched with her. He was frowning, but it was a face that did not seem to be used to frowning at all.

She turned in the twilight that was their constant world and faced him. “The witch did have a mourner’s right. Plus I fear she was right, for which I must shoulder the blame. I allowed him to drift within his foster world for far too long.” The sound of her sigh was like a breeze through autumn trees. “But such a harsh way to learn.”

They walked away from the pool, she deep in thought, he deep in worry for the pain his lady was feeling at the moment. Pain was something he had been aware of as a concept but had never known on a personal level until now. She looked up as a bird flew over to her and sang softly as though trying to raise her spirits. There was a look of revealing on her face as she turned. “Of course we could make sure it never becomes too unbearable.”

He looked up at her. “How can we do that?” He asked her, while not entirely sure that he wanted to hear the answer. In the times to come after he could never quite decide if this had been a blessing or if he himself had also been cursed.

“I want you to follow him through his lives.” She said. “If something happens that threatens to destroy his spirit then we will act. Apart from that let this tragedy take its course. We can only hope it works to become a blessing for himself and for us.

He sighed deeply. He knew deep in his heart that the lady was most likely correct. And regardless of the lad’s time on earth, he was still a child as far as the Clan was concerned. And the Clan had a deep abiding desire for their children to have the best.

He spent that day enjoying the softness of their world. At length he could put it off no longer. As he prepared to enter the pool and follow she joined him. She laid one perfect hand on his arm for a moment to stop him. “Remember to let Us know how he is doing along his progress. And while you cannot help him come to his awareness, perhaps you can at least stop any forces that would try to restrain him from it. I cannot tell but I think perhaps there have been some strings placed on this curse that we are not aware of yet.

She let him go. But there was one more instant before he left where she gazed in his eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him gently on the forehead as he faded through the pool. And with that she sealed his fate not with magic but with adoration. Never would he refuse to go anywhere or do anything after that.