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Chapter Text

c.471AD – 740AD

Arthan wasn’t quite sure how long he spent in the tree. When the screaming behind his eyes finally ceased and he could begin to string together words again, he decided he’d the leave the tree whenever the smoke disappeared from the sky. But the night soon descended and then the sun rose, passing without much thought to the little boy in the tree, and the night came once again, filled with restless dreams and the images of bloodied water. When he woke in the morning, the sky was still stained with black. In the end it was the scorching of his throat that made him clamber back to the forest floor.

He’d gotten a little lost in his panicked thrashing through the woods, but the village’s haunting destruction guided him, the smoke acting as his compass in the sky.

He wondered how long it would take the men to find his home, or if they ever would. It was an hour’s trek back to the village after all, but Arthan knew that even a toddler would spot the obvious path he and Civilis’ family had carved through the ground.

He looked to his cabin. Its aged wood, the green man guarding from above the door, the small plot he’d dug out the year before to try his hand at farming. The rickety dock Civilis had built over the water, where they’d spent countless mornings and evenings fishing in silence. The chairs where he’d taught himself wood carving, where he taught Solinus how to scale fish, where he’d taught his son how to count – where Civilis’ wife had shown him how to thread a needle and fix his own clothes. She’d only just started teaching him embroidery when she’d died.

Arthan looked down into the water, at the point where its edges lapped against the shore, rubbing and working the silty dirt, browning its colour. He stared down into his reflection, at the same face he’d been seeing for the past four hundred years. At the bushy brows and wild blond hair. At the deep green eyes that had seen so much but also so little.

At least she’d died long before the village was attacked. At least she hadn’t been there to watch her family – the children and grandchildren she’d spent so many years keeping alive – brutalised. Before she had to work her old and frail legs and felt the wind slapping against her face as she herself tried to escape.

He looked back to the cabin. He knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself if the invaders made it so deep in the forest, whether he had an expert aim or not. The tree he’d practiced on had been cut down years and years prior, thinned to the point of collapsing after surviving repeated barraging from the tips of his arrows. But his sword hand was still no better than when he’d first arrived in the clearing, and when he looked at his reflection, the same nine-year-old face stared back at him.

It didn’t feel good to be small and weak. Worse when you couldn’t defend yourself.

But this was his home. Built from years of hard work and dedication and he was sick of running. He couldn’t be strong when he constantly fled. A powerful nation stood his ground and protected his home.

He followed the path to the village, as close as he felt safe, scraping at the ground and littering it with leaves and fallen logs to mask the path to the cabin. It was still autumn, and with enough stocked food and a bundle of furs, he holed up in the cabin for a few days. He didn’t light any fires, only kept an eye on the sky for the brushes of smoke and the edges of the clearing for any movement.

It was a cold and difficult few days. The isolation of his cabin had once felt so comforting. But then, its empty silence began to press in on him, oppressive and damning. He was familiar with that black hole in his chest. The hollow emptiness that stuck around after loss and more loss, that he knew he would have to grow accustomed to.

‘You call her mama, you all have names that are not your names, and you surround yourselves with the lower class. Why do you humanise yourselves?’

He turned Rome’s words over and over in his head. Thinking, wondering, deliberating.

Rome never took a human name. Arthan had never seen him engage in a deeply personal relationship. He’d never seen him cry over the passing of a friend – even his beloved consuls and generals and senators – he would speak of them with pride and reminiscence but never with love and pain.

The passing of humans was inevitable. The nations less so. Were nations just that – not human, not quite people, but just an entity? A separate existence purely for political purposes? Were people meant to be left alone – served but never befriended? Were they meant to work together but never to share a table? Had Rome accepted that fact and distanced himself for a reason?

But even nations were not a guarantee. Mama had passed hundreds of years before and still, Arthan stumbled on.

It seemed to him the only constant was the deep heavy darkness in his chest.

It took days, maybe even weeks, for the smoke from the village to disappear from the sky. On a cold foggy morning, still dark, hours before dawn and with the nippy chill thick in the air, Arthan left his cabin. Armed with his bow, now carved with detailed patterns, he made out for the village. He had to see what became of it. He had to see that the invaders had razed it to the ground and left with all they could carry. And most of all, he hoped to bury the dead. To put them to rest.

The wood tittered with odd noises. A couple decades or so earlier Arthan might have been spooked by the eery sounds, but he’d grown used to it again. Whatever magic had entrenched his Mama’s country before Rome, that magic that had to retreat to Alistair’s territory – it had finally bled back into his home. He wasn’t cursed or insane, it was the natural hum of his home.

So, he wasn’t scared when the small balls of light appeared before him, illuminating the path ahead with a soft blue glow, bobbing gently a few inches from the ground. He followed after them, stepping easily over exposed roots with experienced feet till he reached the break in the wood.

He stood atop the hill overlooking the village. It was a clear night, and the moon shone bright light down over the settlement, showing the burnt ashes of the once lively village.

It was all gone. Burnt to nothing, collapsed into the swamp below, some remnants rising ominously from the dark water.

The lights, the balls of blue fire, wisps, began dancing down the path, curving round the edge of the village and drawing Arthan’s eyes to the crowd of tents set up by the river. The flame of a fire burned above them, flickering in the blue night, reflecting oranges and reds against the tarps and hardy skin of horses tacked besides.

He paused, almost not believing. The village had been miniscule. He hadn’t even considered that when the invaders had attacked they’d done so to stay.

He could see, even there in the distance, a couple by the fire. A man and a woman, a bundle of fabric in her lap, most likely an infant. A vicious flash of hatred washed over him. A sharp anger at the thought that they’d come to settle – they’d murdered men, women, children, only to replace them with their own. If they’d just asked, the community would have taken them in without question.

A nations duty was to protect their people. And if he couldn’t protect them, he would at least avenge them.

He crept down the hill, silently waded through the knee-high grass to follow the wisps’ path. They blew out on his approach, moving to reappear further down the bend to take him to the furthest part of their camp. There, cloaked by the dark of night, Arthan crouched down and lit a fire, using the grass of the field to let the heat cloak the base of the tent.

He stepped back, watching it quickly light up, hissing and crackling and rapidly chewing up the fabric of the tarp before he made for the opposite side of their camp, dodging the sight of the couple in the centre. He lit more on the way, quickly igniting the grass and dumping it atop their tents. He’d only just encouraged the last fire when the screams began. The arson had been discovered but far too late – the flames had already swallowed the tent entirely, trapping the sleeping occupants inside.

He sprinted for the hill, the wisps gone, a small dapple of clouds masking the moon to let him flee into the shadows. He reached the treeline out of breath, panting more from adrenaline than anything else. He leant against a tree, feeling its sharp bark under his skin before he turned to see the camp. One side had been entirely overcome by fire; the rivers westerly wind had easily carried its reach. Some men battled with its rage, hopelessly fighting to put it out, unknowing of the flames growing from behind them, silently advancing to trap them within.

Arthan let himself slide to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the dirt, eyes wide to watch as the flames claimed clothes, racing for skin and hair, uncaring of the guttural screams it brought. He watched as they burned, the moonlight returning for his show.

In the carnage, one that Arthan felt incredibly distant from, its light illuminated much of the hill and field he couldn’t see before. There were wagons, lined one after another, stocked with food and building supplies, but worst of all – a pile, blackened and still slightly smoking. He’d wondered what that odd smell had been. What business a village above the water had burning weeks after the attack.

They’d burnt the bodies.

Charred and eaten by heat, reduced to dust. There was nothing left to bury. The wind had already blown their ashes far away, cruelly taking their spirits with it, doomed to wander the empty earth for eternity.

Arthan didn’t want to watch his fire anymore. He didn’t want to taste the revenge for his people. He wanted to return to his cabin, roll into his bed and close his eyes, to just let the years roll by. Let this be a distant memory – one he can’t even picture from its distance.

He picked himself up from the floor and started the trek back to his cabin.

He felt strange. Where was the anger? The devastation, the panic? Why was that dark hollowness back in his chest, and why did it swallow everything in him? Where were his thoughts and his feelings? Where were the tears for Civilis and his family? The regret for the unfairness of their deaths?

He couldn’t sleep when he got back. He could only light a fire, look out of his window and watch the cheeky light of the fae dancing in his garden.

φ

He meandered through life without Civilis, not quite absent but not quite present either. Every day he would wake to tend his garden, fish in the pond, set his snares and forage for food. He would carve wood and practice his aim and try to teach himself embroidery. He never heard anymore from the village, but he had never ventured for it again after that night.

He’d feel the crushing emptiness at dinner, when he had to cook for himself and have to eat it alone. But even then, he’d started to prefer that to the dull numbness he’d gotten used to.

But that was life in the end. Maybe he would’ve gone out in search for another village to familiarise himself with, but the world suddenly felt very empty. The news of invaders had been so distant for so long that to see it firsthand, it felt as if there was nothing else but. It was much easier to accept his life as a recluse.

He’d never been so affected by human death before. The loss of his Mama and his family and Rome had already been enough – he didn’t need the promised inevitability of human loss too. Rome had grasped that fact. There was no point damaging yourself with every passing. Nations had greater responsibilities.

And he was so tired of loss.

Winter had fallen in full and he spent most of his time outside in the wet snow, so it didn’t surprise him when he started to get the sniffles and a little cough. Even as a nation he got a cold every winter, so when even the fever and vomiting came, he still wasn’t concerned. He’d become an expert on stocking for the winter. Plenty of food and firewood to last the entire season, so he just bundled up in bed, not intending to rise again for a few days.

But the concern came when suddenly he couldn’t keep any food down at all. Anything that went in would come back up and the fever that at first burned his cheeks began to boil his body. He’d lay tossing and turning, drenched in sweat but frozen to the bone, his mind plagued by frightening and confusing dreams whenever he managed to lose consciousness.

The illness wouldn’t budge. No manner of concoction helped to ease him, and with every rise of the sun it only seemed to worsen. Eventually, he noticed the weight loss over his stomach. He was already skinny and scrawny – he couldn’t really afford to lose any weight, but it still fell off of him all the same. Hips started to jut out, ribs began to protrude, wrists became more skeletal.

Something was wrong. It wasn’t just a normal illness, there was something going wrong with his country, his people. It was the invaders. It had to be. They were flocking further inland. They were ravaging villages and towns and cities. His people must have been dying, struggling, fighting against this violence.

And there was nothing he could do. Trapped in his cabin, bed-bound to his furs. Not that being bed-bound would have made any difference anyway. As if he could have acted if he wished to.

Time seemed to drag into one. He would open his eyes to the same time of day, the sun either never setting or never rising. He couldn’t tell if weeks were passing or mere minutes. All he could be aware of was the obvious pain through all of his body. Sore muscles that morphed into organs and bones, feeling as if they were cracking underneath his skin to fuse back together and break once again the next morning. Red welts started to split open across his body, forming first as lumps before the skin finally parted in a bloody wound.

His dreams would pull together images of his Mama. At first in all her glory: fighting off wolves and commanding lords, her hair pulled into elaborate dos and her body graced with expensive clothes and gaudy jewellery. But the memories would turn grim, and he would fall into that tent all those years ago, when he’d last seen her. Her limp hair and pale skin, the hollowness of her cheeks. The way she had dragged herself around the table played on a repeat, but her eyes were angry and her mouth savage. Did her bones feel like they were breaking too? Was she covered in red welts under her clothes? Did she fight through an overwhelming fever just to stand there? What ounces of effort did it take to break into his tent that night?

When he’d wake from his dreams his face would be wet, but he could never tell if it were tears or sweat.

But he was sure she was still there. If not, the spirits of the land – the fae and the wisps and the boggarts – all of them. He would wake and there would always be a glass of cold water, a plate of preserved food. It took every ounce within him just to lift his head and reach for it, but he would do it anyway. His body needed the food. It needed anything.

But it hurt so much. How could his muscles hurt so when he seemed nothing but bones? He’d look down and see skeletal waves, bones wrapped tightly in white skin, a broken, damaged, tiny child body, rotting away alone in the empty woods. His vision dotted and glittered, the light from the window waving, showing him blurry figures stood over his bed or by the door. Sometimes they would sit, sometimes they would stand, but they’d always be talking, unintelligible and confusing. He couldn’t tell what was or wasn’t a hallucination anymore. Nor did he really care. It hurt too much to be conscious.

When he passed out again, and the sweet caresses of darkness familiarised itself with his body, he knew what was happening. And he didn’t fight against it.

Everyone was gone. Civilis and his family. Rome and his promised provinces. Mama and Alistair, Ciarán and Dylan. He’d wanted to be powerful and strong, but maybe that just wasn’t destined to be. A minuscule province, who was nothing and would never be anything. So be it. He just wanted the pain to end. He would happily walk face first into nothingness, or the embrace of Pluto, perhaps even into Christ’s heaven or hell.

φ

But he wouldn’t be gifted such release.

The next his eyes peeled open, the first thing he noticed was the hot sunlight cascading through the small windows. The second, the sound of pleasant birdsong. He blinked, a weak hand coming to rub at the great crust lodged around his eyes. He pushed his body to sit up, his legs tangled in furs, the muscles in his arms sore and groaning in objection. His fever was gone. He was lightheaded, weak and hungry, but his body felt comfortably warm and his sight sane. He trailed a hand down his chest and stomach, glancing to see bumpy scarred flesh in the place of the welts.

He looked to his night table. A fresh cup of water and salted meat. An apple cut in half. He didn’t question its appearance.

He stared at the floorboards whilst he ate. He’d died. He knew that for certain. But there was no panic. He didn’t worry, he wasn’t scared. He’d accepted and welcomed his death – he was more surprised he’d survived.

Did that mean his people were surviving too? Had they thwarted the invaders? Was the world as empty as it had felt before?

There was no more Civilis to answer these questions anymore. If he wanted to know, he had to venture out and find out for himself. Discover the state of his country and his people. His survival wasn’t enough evidence.

But he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. When he stood the world grew a lot brighter as he struggled to not faint. He looked at his hands and saw the thinness of his wrists, felt the uncomfortable starvation of his body. He doubted he could even pluck a vegetable from the ground in his condition.

He knew that some time must have passed whilst he was deceased. The first time it had been a couple days, closer to a week – but when he managed to stumble outside, hand grasping the doorway to keep himself upright, he froze.

The snow was gone. Long gone. The crops he’d planted had died, plucked apart by birds and animals. The sun shone bright and warm, and the leaves on the trees had started to yellow and brown, some littering the ground already.

How long had he lay tossing and turning, fighting a fever for? When did his sickness finally kill him? How long did he stay dead for? Had it lasted all through the winter until autumn?

He fought down the panic in his throat. He simply didn’t have the energy for it. But so much could have happened in all those months. How did he know it hadn’t been just one year? How did he know decades hadn’t slipped past him, unnoticed?

A cracking pain exploded in his right temple, and he fell to the ground. He sat on his stairs, tightly gripping his head, groaning with clenched and bared teeth as he forced himself to not pass out.

Something was breaking and shifting behind his eyes, something was being forced to budge for something new, and it poured a taste of metal into his mouth. He panted, cradling his head till most of the pain passed. He could remember that pain – what he’d felt on the day he was born, but nowhere near as violent. Or maybe it had been. He didn’t really remember.

But when he looked back up to the pond, at its friendly calming sway, he felt surprised to find its new word fighting through the fog to come to the forefront of his mind. A word he hadn’t known before. As his eyes danced across the clearing, vaguely settling on things once so familiar, their new words appeared in his head, his temples throbbing as he did.

He worried then, a disturbed nausea swelling his tongue. He worried for his people. The last he’d learned a new language he was taught it. The last he’d just known, he was remembering what his people already knew.

What had happened? What had his people gone through whilst he lay dead?

He palmed at his face when another wave of agony throbbed behind his eyes, a concept forcing its way into his brain.

Earls, Thanes, Kings.

Words that must have been titles but no explanation with them.

He’d had enough. He clambered up from his spot on the stairs, clawing at the doorway to drag his body weight. He stumbled back into the cabin, tripping into the bed. Again, he was afraid. Again, he didn’t want to know what was going on to his home, his country, his people. He just wanted to be in his bed, in his cabin, in his isolated clearing. Never let these words or these people mean anything to him. Keep them outside and far away.

φ

It took Arthan a couple months to moderately recover. The cough never left him and neither did the weakness. He didn’t manage to put on all the weight again. His country must have still been in turmoil, and the ignorance was almost harder to deal with.

He didn’t want to leave his clearing. Not when it was safe and comfortable. But the comfort meant nothing when he felt so terrible, still. He had to find out what was making him so ill. The need to know was growing stronger by the day. He would have to venture out, to find what was happening in his absence.

He didn’t have to linger. He didn’t have to get to know anyone. All he needed to know was the context to the new thoughts that had broken into his brain. That was it. So he packed a bag, moderate enough for a few days trip, donned his warmest clothes for the snowy weather, and went in hunt for the main highway – if it still existed.

Trudging through the snow, Arthan sighed and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was odd, going from winter into autumn. With the snow dusting his hair and shoulders, it was almost as if he’d never gotten sick. He could believe that if he still had any strength in his arms. But he worried over just how much time had passed. When Rome had left, no one seemed concerned with tracking the days, never mind the years. Decades caught up with Civilis certainly meant he wasn’t keeping track. He only worried over the change of seasons. Would he ever find out how long he’d lay dead for?

He'd set out early morning, as soon as the sun rose, but the flaming star started to fall towards the horizon and he still hadn’t crossed paths with another person. That anxious thought, that feeling of the world being empty, reared its head. He was alive, so there had to be someone – he was on a main highway, relatively close to Londinium, even if the road had once been in better condition. So where were the people?

As he were about to give up and settle down for the night, he spotted the tell-tale tendrils of smoke in the sky, just past the bend in the road. It wasn’t late but the sun was quickly setting, and Arthan didn’t like dealing with the unknown in the dark. He sped up.

It was a small camp. Horses and tents, a singular carriage. Men and women, but no children. He didn’t like that. People were always much kinder when there were children around.

But he steeled himself and puffed his chest out. He had his bow, and he was damn well good at using it. He approached them as bold as he could through the snow, ignoring the clear disdain on their faces when they noticed him coming.

‘Good evening.’ He said, his feet hesitating just out of reach of the firelight. They were dressed oddly, their hair cut and braided in patterns he didn’t recognise. Their faces fell in further, angry and disgusted. His heart jumped painfully in his chest as he realised these were not his people.

One of the women closest to him sneered, her square jaw jutting out in an ugly manner, her dirty hands reaching to the ground to rifle through the snow and pick up a rock. Arthan was watching her already, sceptical and ready to bolt at the first sign of a threat, his body angling to move away, but he still hadn’t expected the hard stone to fly from her hand and strike him hard in the chest.

He sputtered in shock, his hand clutching where it hit, and his feet stumbled backwards, tripping on the snow and sending him sprawling to the ground. His hands sank straight through the snow, sinking to his elbows and drenching the back of his clothes in icy coldness. Her words were dull when she said something, something angry and hateful in another language that he didn’t know.

There was a pause. Where this group watched him, growing more agitated when he didn’t wander off, but his head was starting to hurt again. A pulse of pain in his temple where her words bloomed and turned into sense.

‘We don’t help dirty beggars.’ She’d said. ‘Fuck off.’

He pushed himself back to his feet, his head swimming in confusion. Confused and hurt but they were watching him and waiting for a response, so he didn’t have time to think before words he didn’t even fully understand left his mouth.

‘I’m not a beggar.’ Childish and petulant but they surprised him. How did he know what he was saying?

They shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting one another and back to him. Arthan rubbed at his chest but stood taller, defiant, his left hand twitching for his bow.

One of the men muttered under his breath and tossed something to him, but this time he caught it. A small loaf of bread.

‘There is a settlement some miles down the road. We can’t help you any further. They will.’

Arthan stared at him, turning the bread over in his hands. He wasn’t a beggar. This wasn’t the help he needed. But they weren’t friendly, and his mind was reeling from this unusual interaction and the pain in his temple was starting to move into his eyes.

‘Right. Thank you.’ He turned to walk away.

‘Christ be with you.’ The man called out. He paused, eyeing them all from the corner of his eye.

Christians.

‘And you.’ He guessed, and wandered into the darkness, the sun having settled past the horizon, the moon beginning to appear on the opposite.

He had to settle for the night, but he wanted to be as far away from them as possible. Christian invaders, at home in his country. A deep feeling of unease climbed up his back, tickling at his neck – how did he understand them? How could he talk to them?

The pain in his head, the act of remembrance –

He knew why. He knew how. But it panicked him to think of – so he didn’t. He just walked under the moonlight, slowly eating the loaf of bread, till he found a suitable campsite.

φ

The settlement was much bigger than he’d expected. The road followed a decline, curving round the river, the village nestled in the bend. Arthan could see the entire town from his vantage point. The tall wooden fence, the mud huts with triangular straw roofs that almost touched the floor. The small boats beached on the shore. The surrounding fields on either side of the river were dominated by upturned soil; the settlers were establishing farms in the arable land.

It was midday. He could see the settlers working, bustling to and from like ants in the grass. Arthan took a deep breath. He didn’t want to approach any of them. Certainly not after the night before. But it only had to be quick – in and out.

He lifted his chin, trying his best to feign confidence as he passed the wooden fence. The snow by the gate had melted into a grey, slippery sludge. It reflected the genuine misery of the settlement well. Grey and cold and a heavy sense of sadness. The people walking past seemed to agree, their faces pulled down in displeasure.

He paused, standing awkwardly. He didn’t know where to start. He’d already been anxious but the camp from last night had disturbed him further, and no matter where he rested his eyes, each person seemed as hostile as the next.

He found himself drawn to the centre of the small village, to a young man working firewood, fighting hard with a rusted axe. His clothes hung loosely off of his thin frame. His face and hands sat flushed a bright red, clearly cold in the winter weather. He seemed the least of a threat.

Arthan’s brain scrambled on his approach, this new foreign language jumping to the forefront when he said, ‘Hello. How are you?’

The man twitched oddly and he faltered in his swing. The axe fell down on an angle, splitting the wood into a thin, useless strip, the heavier side falling to the ground with a wet thump. Arthan cringed and stepped backwards, an apology already on his lips – but he was surprised – the man flinched and dropped the axe to hang by his side, folding in on himself.

‘Sorry.’ He stuttered, and even Arthan could hear his heavy accent. ‘I didn’t see you, sir. It will be finished. Very soon. I’m sorry.’

Arthan frowned. He looked down at the man’s clothing. Muddy, old and too large – but Roman. He switched, easier than he ought to, to a more familiar language.

‘You’re a Briton?’ He asked.

His eyes widened, the lines around them deepening. Arthan was sure the skin there wasn’t meant to be blue. His gaze flickered uncomfortably, his voice dropping to a low, defeated whisper. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. So am I.’ Arthan followed his eyes, to the village and its occupants. They all meandered by, too busy dragging animals and tools through the snow to pay any attention to them. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘We’re not supposed to speak like that. They don’t like it when we mutter amongst ourselves.’

‘Who is “they”?’

He scoffed at him, quickly turning his bony back to continue cutting the wood. ‘Go away child. You’re going to get me in trouble.’

Arthan rounded the block, frustrated at these riddled answers. He wouldn’t let him go so easily. ‘I don’t understand, get in trouble for what?’

The man swung down hard, ripping through a log with an angry sigh. ‘Who even are you? I’ve never seen you around here before.’

‘I’m not from here. Who are these people? Why are you so afraid?’

His lip curled. ‘I’m not afraid.’

Arthan paused. He could stand and argue with this stranger, or he could get an answer and go home. He tried again. ‘Who are these people?’

He bent down to pick up another log, lining it on the stump. ‘The Saxons control this land now.’

‘The invaders?’

He made a face. ‘How do you not know this?’

Arthan thought quickly on his feet. ‘I live out in the woods with my pa.’

Another swing of the axe, another dull wet thud as the slices fell to the ground. He spoke low.  ‘The Angles are to the north, the Jutes to the east. The Saxons are here.’

Arthan licked his lips, thinking. ‘So, they’re all over?’

‘Pretty much.’

Silence. He looked out to the village, to the homes, the people, the animals. His home had been overrun, and he hadn’t known at all.

‘They’re Christians?’ He asked.

The man shrugged. ‘Some, not all.’

He looked at his face, properly. At his pale, blotchy and sickly skin. The skinny frame. He looked underfed, ill. His hands ran over his tunic to feel his own ribcage. So, this was why. If the rest of his people looked like this man, it was no surprise he’d been so sick.

‘Do you think they’ll ever leave?’ He whispered.

The man’s face fell impossibly further in, his expression twisting painfully. ‘Go back to the woods, child. This isn’t Briton anymore.’

Another log, another strike. Arthan didn’t know how he had any strength to do it.

‘Please go.’ He whispered. ‘The thane wants to be earl. He likes to make a show out of us when we break the rules.’

He hesitated in leaving. But the man’s pathetic form and his growing trembling made him turn his feet and head for the exit.

This was why he’d been sick. If all his people looked so ill and thin, if they were all scared to speak their own language to one another – if they had been forced into servitude. It was assimilate or die. At least Rome had had some respect. He just wanted their taxes. He let them keep their kingdoms as long as they followed Roman laws.

Maybe he was taking the cowardly choice – but he didn’t know what else to do. What could he have done for his people? What possible choice could he have made to save them all?

φ

In the end, Arthan spent many years – decades upon decades – isolated out in the woods. He had no need for outside human interaction. His miniature farm was successful and he was entirely self-sufficient. He had the fae and the spirits of the woods for company, and it was them that took care of him when he got sick.

He frequently got ill. Fevers and nausea and weight loss that would stay for too long before it disappeared again. He would be of good health long enough to trick him into thinking it was over with before it would wash over and disappoint him again, leaving him incapacitated in his bed for weeks and months at a time.

On a cold summer morning, when the trees were in full bloom and the woods were teeming with new life, he tended to his plot of land, checking the integrity of his crops. He hummed away to himself, used to filling the silence with his own voice. He could hear a shuffling in the bushes, but he didn’t look up. The woods always had life bustling nearby, a familiar and warming constant, and he wasn’t hunting.

But he hadn’t expected the clearing of a throat.

He startled, dropping his trowel with a heavy thud on the ground. A horse pushed through the bushes, loud and stained puffs forcing their way out of its nose, a golden girdle and brow mount glittering in the sun. Atop it sat a man, a thick, heavy red cloak draped over his shoulders, golden embroidery climbing and swirling round its edges, its body draping and coating over the horse’s rear. It clipped to the centre of his chest with a golden brooch, the garnets size clear even from where Arthan was standing. The man’s head and face crowded with curly red hair, his neck and fingers adorned with chunky gold jewellery, an even gaudier crown nestled in the ringlets of his hair.

He didn’t need to open his mouth for Arthan’s instincts to scream king.

His feet darted backwards, the threat of this man exploding as he and his horse came closer. His bow was inside, propped up besides the doorway, where he always left it. Predators had learned to steer clear of his clearing, he never had any need for it if he wasn’t hunting – what a mistake he’d made.

His brain began to swim: what need would a king have for him now? Were his people nearly gone? Did the king want to flush the rest of them out by killing their nation? Had they been forced into slavery, and he needed to show the forced subjugation of their nation to finally crush their spirit?

He checked the king for weapons, a sword dangling from his side, maybe a dagger hidden beneath his cloak – no bow. If he bolted and loaded his bow faster than the horse could gallop, he could dispose of the king –

The king stopped, pulling tightly on the reins of his horse before he leaned casually over the saddle.

‘Lovely summer’s day we’re having, no?’ He mused, an easy smile on his mouth.

Arthan paused, feeling an annoyed flush filling him. Such an easy attitude in a man was a threat. He could almost smell Rome’s oils. He didn’t say anything, only stared, his eyes piercing and scrutinising. The king couldn’t see the twitching of his hands behind his back.

The king watched him, tapping his hands on his saddle. His eyes moved to the clearing, to the cabin and its farm and its decking.

‘Fabulous place you have here. I see you have chairs.’ He motioned to the chairs Civilis had built him, aged and inching threateningly towards repair. ‘I’ve been travelling an awfully long time to find you, would you mind if we sat?’

Arthan frowned. He did mind. No-one else had sat in those chairs other than him since Civilis had died. But he didn’t move nor object when the king dismounted and slid his slight frame into one of the chairs.

He didn’t look like a king. Powerful men of the past had always been huge, but he was average. Unassuming. Weak.

He leant forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘You are our nation, correct?’

Arthan sneered. ‘Not your nation, no.’

The king chuckled. ‘Alright. The nation of the land of which we have settled.’

‘Occupied.’

He squinted his eyes, licked his lips. ‘No other nation has been born, child. So, I believe you are our nation. Your people are ours now, after all.’

Arthan crossed his arms tightly over his chest. He spread his legs, standing wide, raising his chin. Trying his best to emulate confidence.

‘You have a new name, now.’ The king said. ‘Do you know it?’

He huffed, looking away. The king didn’t need to say it. He could have denied it. He could have fought to remain Briton for the next thousand years, but it had come to him far too many times – when he’d slept, when he’d fished, carved – pulsing at his eyes. ‘Englaland.’

The king smiled. ‘Yes. The land of the Angles.’ He held his arms out. ‘And here I am.’

‘And who are you?’

‘King Æthelfrith of Bernicia.’ He stood and held his hand out for Arthan to shake. There was an awkward pause before he took it, the sneer purposeful on his lips. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, finally. Your existence is only spoken of in rumoured whispers.’

Arthan was both insulted and relieved.

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Englaland.’

Æthelfrith laughed. ‘A normal one? Like other nations do?’

‘Not for you.’

The smile twitched on his face, but he shrugged. ‘Okay.’ He sat back down.

Another pause in the air, a deer and her fawn burst from the distant side of the pond before they vanished again. The sound of bubbling grew from inside the cabin, and Arthan turned to attend it, throwing a glance over his shoulder before he went back inside. He didn’t enjoy the smile on his face. He’d set on some mint leaves for a lunch break before this king had turned up. There was more than enough for two, but the agitation in his chest refused the idea.

But Rome’s voice hung in his ears – even the greatest enemy has a right to hospitality. Caesar had offered it to Pompey. So, he would offer it to this ‘king’.

But he still looped his bow and arrows around his back on the way out. Just in case.

This didn’t go unnoticed. He raised his brows but accepted the cup of mint tea when Arthan offered it to him.

‘Perhaps you could sit? I was hoping this would be a more casual meeting.’

‘Tell me what it is you want, first.’

An exasperated look passed over Æthelfrith’s face. ‘Your help.’

Arthan’s heart pattered fast in his chest, an excitement flying down to his fingertips. His help? He sat down, ignoring the satisfied smile on the king’s face.

‘Do you know much of what is happening in your land?’

Arthan sipped his tea. ‘No. And I prefer it that way.’

Æthelfrith raised his eyebrows. ‘Odd. That is most unusual for your ilk.’

He bit his tongue. This stranger didn’t need to know what daydreams and fantasies haunted his waking and sleeping hours. Dreams of power, authority, wealth and skill and vast lands and luxury. Of course, he wanted to know what was happening in his lands – only it was hard when you were unable to act on any of it. ‘Well, do tell.’

Æthelfrith hummed. ‘The Welsh are not very happy with our expansion in this land.’

He resisted the urge to scoff.

‘And I am aware of both their preparations for war, as well as your affiliation with this Rome fellow.’

‘So?’

‘I imagine your knowledge, what you have learned from this empire, would be detrimental to our success.’

Arthan chewed his lips, scanning this king’s face, searching in between the lines. But he found nothing. ‘Why would I help you?’

He shrugged, taking a sip of his tea, eyeing Arthan over the edge. ‘The result of you not, would be Welsh, Pict and Irish expansion in your land.’

He smiled. ‘Perhaps they wish to rid me of Angle, Saxon and Jute oppression.’

Æthelfrith barked out a laugh, slapping the arms of his chair. His tea swayed dangerously, a few drops landing on the rich fabric of his cloak. ‘You think they would free you of oppression? You think they wouldn’t replace one pair of shackles for another?’

‘They were my brothers, once.’

The king went quiet. He leaned back in the chair, rolling his lips as he looked in the distance. He took a sip. ‘I don’t believe they think of you as such, anymore.’

More silence. Arthan followed his eyes out to the pond. It was mid-summer. The fish were at their prime population, clearly active in the water even from their distance. Bugs and insects buzzed just above it, darting to the water plants at its edge, searching for food.

Arthan hadn’t thought of them as his brothers in a long time either.

‘You are not a Briton to them anymore.’ The king continued. ‘They are the Britons, and you and your people are English. Aliens in their land. And if you are not English, you are even worse – Roman. For you were Romans when we found you, no?’

Arthan didn’t respond.

‘I don’t think there will be any room for you if we were to disappear. I know the nature of you nations – don’t you strive to be bigger? Can’t you imagine what could be if those lands were ours?’

Silence.

‘Don’t you think it’s time you have a say in your future?’

Arthan was the last born, but the one to be chosen by Rome. Because he had greatness within. Because his dreams didn’t remain on their island, but over the seas – to the distant reach of Persia and the desert sands of Libya. Even with their wealth and their armies, his brothers couldn’t expand, they couldn’t fend off and defeat any invaders. Because that glory was for him. It was him that would become great and powerful – and it all started with putting them in their places.

‘How long has it been since you were brothers?’

Arthan looked at him. ‘What year is it?’

Æthelfrith laughed before he saw the stoniness of his face. ‘Ah. I thought you were joking – you don’t know-? It’s five hundred and ninety-nine years after the birth of Christ.’

Æthelfrith’s answer gave him no greater clarity. Romans didn’t track their years like that. He didn’t know when Christ had been born whilst he’d lived with Rome. His existence of time was still one big confusing anomaly.

He shook his head, guessing. ‘Hundreds of years.’

‘That seems like a split even time hasn’t been able to repair.’

A pause. Arthan asked, ‘You’re a Christian?’

‘No, but many of my men are. As I imagine you will be too, eventually.’

‘May I think on this?’

Æthelfrith finished his tea, swigging the remnants and removing the mint leaf from his mouth. ‘I cannot leave here without you besides me.’

They fell back into silence. Arthan looked down at his cup, still nearly full, cold to the touch now, its leaves floating aimlessly on its surface. Moving in circles, repeatedly, never ending, with no direction. Much like him. He looked back out to the clearing – to the beauty of his home.

‘When will I be back?’ He asked.

Æthelfrith shrugged. ‘Within the year?’

Arthan didn’t believe that. He could feel it, that when he stepped out of the woods, it would be a long time before he would step back into them. But still, he opened his mouth, and said, ‘Alright. I’ll come with you.’

φ

It was clear when they left the woods that Arthan hadn’t had a real choice to join Æthelfrith. A sea of tents and soldiers awaited them on the other side. Arthan wondered if the king would have stormed in and forcefully taken him if he’d sent him away.

His men looked at him sceptically. Pausing mid-conversation just to sit and stare at him as he walked past besides their king. Untrusting, suspicious, almost angry and annoyed. A blurred image, of Roman men staring down a smaller child. But they had been invaders of his land. Just as these Angles were. It was him that was supposed to be suspicious. It was him that was supposed to glare and sneer – this was his home.

So, he did. The only Angle he spoke to was the king, and even then, it was short and to the point. The other soldiers received only blank stares or upturned lips. Sometimes, his dinner would be brought to him by shaking hands and ogling eyes, and when he would look up he could feel the synapses fire in his brain – his people. He’d speak quickly and quietly, in his own language, and they’d always become flustered and their shaking would worsen. And every time he would glance over, Æthelfrith was already watching, a disapproving look on his face.

‘You’re not a Briton anymore. You’re English.’ He’d say.

But if that was so true, why did his blood lift, why did it pump faster? Why did it call out when his people flittered around him?

But most of all, what excited him above all else – was that recognition in their eyes. That disbelieving, stunned gaze. The quick second glance over their shoulders as they walked away – as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. That knowledge that their nation sat before them, eating and drinking, conversing and living – despite the world’s best efforts.

It made him feel important. It made him feel like a legend, a myth – like one of his spirits of the woods – always spoken of and noticed but almost never seen.

His presence was not powerful enough yet. It would shock and surprise but not revere. And that made him hungry. With his help, the Angles would win the war, and he would be firmly planted on the map once again.

War was closer than he’d thought. What Æthelfrith had called preparation was in reality an attack on standby, supplied not with only the Welsh but the Picts and the Irish. The battle was imminent and Æthelfrith had taken an incredible risk by travelling as far south as he had just to find Arthan.

‘A people are much stronger with their nation by their side.’ He proudly said. But Arthan was no fool. Their presence in this land was solidified by their affiliation with their nation’s personification. A province was much more secure when they were wrapped in chains, as Rome had taught him. If they defeated his brothers in battle and Arthan was there with them, it was his victory fought by a foreign people – making them his.

He considered for a short time purposefully trying to throw the battle. To let the invaders lose and let his land and his people be free of them, but late at night, when he stared up at the dark canopy of his tent, the hunger for greatness turned into starvation. It twisted at his stomach and forced bile into his throat, and he knew his best chance was with these Angles, Jutes and Saxons. He was still alive, was he not? No other nation had been born, had they? This king had travelled three hundred miles whilst on the brink of battle just to seek his help.

He would shrug off these chains. He would twist and morph them into a throne. These invaders would become his people, and with their help, he would conquer the entirety of his island – he would step up into Mama’s place, and he would never lose to another foreign force again. He would be great or he would die trying.

So he poured over plans with Æthelfrith. In the morning the army would pack up camp and they would march north, Arthan riding beside the king, firing off ideas and strategies and examples of Roman, Greek, Macedonian battles won before. They would make camp at night and stay up late past midnight, drawing up formations and plotting potential battle sites, using their geography and manpower to their advantage. Arthan tried to tell him all he knew, all he could remember, re-living hard memories of hours spent behind a scroll and quill, hands struck by rods from angry tutors upset when he failed to perform perfectly.

But Arthan was off-put by what little Æthelfrith knew of his enemy. The most he’d had was three hundred cavalry. So, what about infantry? A foreign, Latin word for an uneducated king.

But Arthan put his faith in him. He pushed past his growing fever, his sudden lack of appetite, and forced the king to learn – for suddenly everything leant on this victory. Suddenly Arthan’s entire self-belief relied on him defeating his brothers in battle and looping their territories around the belt of his arrows. Even when he could see another bout of sickness closely approaching on the horizon, he pushed on, no matter how many odd looks the king gave him.

When they arrived in Bernicia, they only had a few days before the scout arrived in court, news of the Briton’s movements on excited lips. The army were already alert, easy to put into movement, and the king and Arthan were quickly able to devise where they would intercept and what formation was most advantageous for the site.

But it all came crashing down when Arthan stepped back into the longhouse, his bow prepped and travel sack packed, and Æthelfrith gave him an uncomfortable look. A large hand on his shoulder where it didn’t belong, and he knelt to Arthan’s height.

‘You won’t be joining me, I’m afraid.’ He murmured, the dim light and his stupid bushy beard blocking out his facial expression.

‘What?’

He stood back up, his men jostling behind him, one of them kneeling to offer a sword in two upturned palms. He bowed his head, taking it and sliding it easily into his scabbard, its embossed leather glossy in the firelight.

There was a rush of something in his body – tingling in his fingers that washed over his chest and burned his ears – embarrassment?

‘You will wait for word of our success.’

But the embarrassment was quickly eaten up by anger. Biting and hot and filling his eyes with warm tears.

‘So you drag me all the way up here, suck me of all information just to isolate me from the glory of battle?’ He snarled, his brows furrowing into a vicious scowl, his hands clenching hard at the wood of his bow.

‘It’s not like that.’

Arthan scoffed.

‘Englaland.’ The firmness of his voice made him pause. ‘You are my nation, of course I want you besides me in battle. But – look at yourself. You’re very sick.’

The anger bubbled. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘You’re very thin. You’re pale, you’re coughing,’ he forced his palm onto Arthan’s forehead, pushing his head back before Arthan shoved his arm away, ‘and you have a fever.’

He started to walk away, his men racing ahead and holding open the door. Arthan chased after him, feeling deeply humiliated but angry enough to fight against it.

‘So?’ He demanded.

Æthelfrith whirled around, patience worn thin, his face dark and stormy. ‘You may wield a bow, but what will you do when the battle rushes to your feet? What will you do when a grown warrior swings his sword or chooses to pull you away, knowing you are our nation? What will we do if you are captured?’

He opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but –

‘You will be nothing but dead weight.’ He ground out. ‘I am your king and you will not argue with me, but do as you are commanded.’

And with that, he stormed from the room, his ridiculous red cloak flapping behind him, leaving Arthan alone and reeling.

‘Let you have the outcome you deserve!’ He shouted after him, his yell echoing in the empty long hall, calling out to no one but himself. There was no response.

φ

Arthan didn’t leave the longhouse for the next two days. Simmering in his own rage, he stared into the fire’s oranges and yellows for hours on end. He rejected the food brought to him, feeling his lack of appetite turn into a nausea. He grew hot and then cold. He began to sweat before shivering. He coughed till his lungs spat up blood. He knew why.

He was already sick. The king shaming him for his illness when who’s fault was it? Who was to blame for his decade of illness? Him. Him and his damned people from the mainland.

And then active war, a flesh and blood battle on an already fragile nation? It was just a small bit of territory in comparison to the rest of his land, but the anxiety broiled within, and he soon became convinced this single defeat might result in his death altogether.

He was sure he was beginning to hallucinate. Behind his eyes, distant images of shining, blood-spattered armour, booted feet sinking knee-deep in wet and suffocating mud. Screams of pain and excitement, sharp and explosive clashes of weaponry, the familiar twang of a bow loosing an arrow.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, his hand coming back dripping. He wiped it on his clothes and stared back into the flames.

The door to the longhouse opened and closed, letting in a frigid gust of wind. He didn’t look up. Women had been passing in and out constantly.

‘Sire.’ A man bloodied and wet with sweat, his black hair greased and sticking to his forehead. A dark and grim look on his face. Arthan shot to his feet. ‘I bring news of the battle.’

He was still alive, that was surely a good sign. ‘Well?’

He took a deep breath, readjusting the sword on his hip, closing his eyes as he began reiterating the script he’d clearly written in his head on his journey back. ‘Our forces intercepted the enemy in the early morning of the 15^th of Aug-’

‘Cut to the point!’ He demanded, breathless and feeling as if he might faint.

A small smile inched its way onto the man’s face. ‘A landslide victory, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear, sire.’

There was a moment of silence as the news dawned on him. His mouth slowly stretched into a smile, the breath returning to his lungs.

‘Of course.’ He mused. ‘What of Æthelfrith?’

‘He remains with the men. He asks you to be prepared for travel just before dawn tomorrow morning, for the discussions of peace.’

φ

Sleeping was difficult that night. Arthan wasn’t even sure if he’d slept at all. He hadn’t stopped to consider potentially seeing his brothers again. His desire for victory had been so consuming he didn’t imagine staring into their eyes for the first time in – what? Six hundred years?

The reality wasn’t lost on him. The last he’d seen them, at another peace talk – his Mama had been there. They’d all stood on opposite sides of the table, a rift larger than the ocean between them.

Only now there was no Mama.

Nearly four hundred years and that ache in his chest hurt no less.

Before dawn he woke and washed himself in the river, dressing himself in his nicest clothes. Ones embroidered with the first pattern Civlis’ wife had taught him.

The soldier from the day before met him at the longhouse and escorted him on horseback to Æthelfrith’s camp. The summer sun was climbing over the horizon, its golden tendrils crawling over the ground and eating the shadows in its wake. The camp was already alive, soldiers, some limping, most not, actively dismantling the tents. In the distance he could see men less fortunate, wrapped in bloodied and rancid cloth, being loaded into wagons. The wagons loading the dead were pointedly ignored.

Æthelfrith was happy, almost contagiously so. Arthan let him hug him, at least.

‘I’d like to give you something.’ He’d said.

Arthan raised his brows. There was nothing he could give to repair the snatching of glory from him.

But he surprised him. He knelt to the ground, one plush dressed knee dropping into the wet mud, his hand unsheathing his sword and presenting it to him with two open palms. Much like his men did for their king.

Arthan took it. Perhaps the king expected him to clap in glee and jump around like a child, but he wouldn’t give him such satisfaction. He strapped the scabbard around his waist and let it hang by his hip, ignoring how it nearly grazed the ground from his short height.

Æthelfrith smiled and stood, nodding with his head towards their horses, already tacked and prepared for the ride. It was time for peace.

But riding towards the agreed meeting point felt like eons. He was nervous, though he wasn’t sure why.

What had become of his brothers? How old had they grown, what had they seen, were they all alive?

Did he care?

He thought back to Mama, to Rome, to the decades and centuries of loneliness and isolation. He thought of their failure in saving Mama, he thought of their fight against Rome – he thought of how they hadn’t even looked for him when Rome left. He thought of greatness and hunger and sacrifice, and he suddenly didn’t feel nervous anymore.

He ignored the small part of him that thought of fishing trips and late-night dinners without Mama.

The site was already prepared for their arrival. Whoever was there was already inside. They dismounted and Æthelfrith smiled at him confidently.

‘Ready?’ He asked.

‘Of course.’

The dull murmurs quickly died when they entered the tent. In the dim light, with Æthelfrith’s red cloak leading the way, Arthan could almost imagine it was four hundred years earlier and Rome was still there with him. He didn’t see his brothers when he adjusted to the lighting change. The men across the table stood with their backs turned, conversing quietly over something private, leaving he and his king time to situate themselves properly for the meeting.

Arthan scanned the room, but there was no sight of them.

Æthelfrith cleared his throat, and finally the men turned, hands behind their backs, faces stern.

There was a shocked pause.

Arthan hadn’t spotted them as he hadn’t expected them to be men. Alistair, his tendrils of facial hair, had exploded into a full face, swamping his jaw and mouth, his head sitting atop a muscular neck and broad and powerful shoulders. He was a young man now. Strong and steady.

Ciarán and Dylan, children last he saw them, now teenagers. Dylan’s cheeks lay scattered with spots, Ciarán, his own attempts at a beard littering his upper lip and chin. Gone were the roundness of their jaws, the flushed cheeks of childhood.

The three of them froze, eyes sinking down to Arthan’s stature, short and stunted and still so fucking small –

The king spoke, but no one reacted, his voice a distant annoying buzz. The four only stared at one another.

Dylan was trying to say something, but he could only form choked noises, his head swinging between he and his brothers. Ciarán grabbed his arm, a steadying force. They kept looking to Alistair – it was clear that still, after all these years, Alistair was still the leader. He was still the logical, brave one.

But he had nothing. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak, he didn’t blink. He stared down into Arthan’s eyes, his face paling, as if he’d seen a ghost.

But Arthan didn’t see their stares for what they were. Because all he could see, was their tall heights, the healthy flush on their cheeks, their well-fed bodies, the glittering of expensive jewels on their skin, even though they had lost and Arthan had won and still he had nothing –

He saw three brothers bonded in unity, prospering and opulent whilst he had wasted away south of their border. He saw success where he had failure and he hated it.

He could feel his face twisting into something ugly. He could feel the anger and hatred steaming from his pores, the breath coming fast from flared nostrils.

Finally, Dylan managed, ‘Arthan.’

Something came alight in his chest, and he only just managed to hear Alistair’s quiet whisper.

‘You’re alive?’

He could barely understand him. Their language had developed in his absence too, and his brain stuttered in making it out.

‘My name is Englaland.’ He sneered. In Æthelfrith’s language, even if he hated him – because he was right. He was not a Briton anymore. He was not the same as his brothers – he was English, and he was a winner.

A man spoke at the end of the table, a translator, and the boys looked to each other, confused, speaking rapidly in their language that the man didn’t bother to translate.

Ciarán inched forward slightly, blocked by the table, and said clunkily in Arthan’s language, ‘We thought -’ an anguished pause, ‘we thought you were gone.’

Like they did much to find out. ‘Guess not.’

‘But, we-’

‘It is typically tradition for the winners to do the talking, no?’ Æthelfrith interjected, a smug smile on his face that Arthan wanted to cut off.

They looked offended, angry and ready to argue. A vein began to bulge in Alistair’s temple as a sneer found its way to his mouth, but their king – whatever his name was, Arthan didn’t even know – cut in, halting them and forcing them to quiet.

Much like their last peace treaty, Arthan’s presence threw them off entirely. They didn’t seem to be able to pay attention, and Arthan firmly believed that perhaps Æthelfrith wouldn’t have gotten as many concessions he did if he hadn’t been there. This ‘Old North’ army had faced an excessive amount of casualties, so Æthelfrith could demand an entire territory, Gododdin – the last of Dylan’s up north, effectively splitting him from Alistair for good.

But they didn’t even seem to be considering it. Their kings did all of the talking whilst the three of them just stared. But he was angry. If they wanted to stare, he could stare back.

When the meeting convened and the kings shared a tense handshake, Arthan immediately turned to storm from the tent. He could hear Dylan calling his name, over and over, even though he’d told hm his name was Englaland, begging him to wait – but there was an audible scuffling and he stopped yelling.

By the time he and Æthelfrith had gotten back to camp, it had been entirely dismantled. They could return to Bernicia and begin making arrangements for expanding into the Gododdin kingdom.

φ

Arthan stayed with Æthelfrith in Bernicia for at least the next decade. Though he never grew to like him, he was the first human to give Arthan the respect due to a nation. He sat in on meetings, gave opinions and advice – even though he had no true authority, it was the closest he had ever gotten. Though his brothers didn’t act again during this time, they were still enough of a concerning threat that his presence was comforting – and there was a lot of planning needed for Æthelfrith’s expansion. So, he stayed.

He missed his cabin and his clearing. He worried over its wellbeing, but most of all he worried over his own isolation. He was angry with his brothers, bordering hate, but he didn’t want to face his feelings when he was left entirely alone. The clearing had a habit of making him go around in circles.

Æthelfrith established a new kingdom in the end. Once he’d gained Gododdin territory and won a successful war against the neighbouring kingdom Deira, he was able to form Bernicia into Northumbria. The kingdom was vast and incredibly powerful and Arthan thought that things were finally looking up – but, as humans always made sure of, another war had to take place.

Æthelfrith died in battle, and Edwin, the heir of Deira that he had exiled, returned to Northumbria and placed himself on the throne. Once again Arthan grew accustomed to being brushed aside. The respect a nation was due no longer existed to Edwin, who was quick to discard of all policies of Æthelfrith’s.

When the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms began to war in earnest, Arthan’s bouts of sickness returned. He was a weak nation anyway. Those Angles, Jutes and Saxons hailed from the same region, but as humans always did, they wanted more.

And when he lay in his bed, the straw having long rotted from the sweat pouring from his body, and the servants and slaves passed him by without a care, Arthan longed for his cabin. He longed for its privacy, and even if it was isolating, he would rather that than being ignored.

So he waited for a break in his fever to pack his things and return south. He stole a horse from the stables, tightly strapping Æthelfrith’s sword to its saddle, and he left in the middle of the night. He didn’t worry. They were more likely to miss the horse than him.

It was an incredibly long ride, made longer by his ailing health and the fever dreams that plagued him even when he was awake. He had spent so long being ill he didn’t really understand how he wasn’t just used to it. Did he even remember what it was like to be healthy?

He tried his best not to live in his head. He tried his best to not let the thoughts of worthlessness and unimportance swim around his brain, but when his body already felt awful it was hard for his mind not to follow. Would he ever be respected? Would he ever hold the same authority as Rome or his Mama? Even his brothers seemed respected and they’d lost. But he’d spent over ten years trying, and he was tired. He could try again later.

The clearing had clearly missed him – he was lucky in finding it again at all. The woods had grown a valiant effort in reclaiming the cabin and its innards and the plot of farm had become host to a thick bundle of ivy and shrubbery – but it didn’t matter. It was home, and Arthan was grateful to see it.

He only wondered how long it would be before he would see another person.

φ

He swung his arm down hard, an exerted breath leaving his mouth as the heavy clang of metal twanged through the clearing. His makeshift dummy wobbled timidly, a burst of leaves pouring from the cut he’d just inflicted. He wiped sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, licking after to taste the salt of his workout.

The sun peeked through the thinning foliage, warming his back and lighting the oranges and reds of the autumn afternoon.

He put the sword down, letting it tumble into the leaves with a loud clang, and reached the fence of his farm where his drink lay. It was a hot day for that time of year, the wind from the river hadn’t chilled into ice just yet, and he was going to enjoy it whilst it lasted.

He looked at his hands, at the callouses on his palms and fingers. What had taken decades to grow just to rip open and reform when he started to practice his swordsmanship.

It had been a long time since he’d left Northumbria. Long enough that he felt somewhat comfortable with his abilities – or as much as he could when the target wasn’t moving.

It had also been a couple years since the last time he’d gotten sick. His history had taught him not to trust his health, but he’d never gone so long feeling good since it started. He hoped that maybe the Anglo-Saxons had stopped warring with one another. Or maybe he’d just gotten used to it. He didn’t mind which one.

The mare he’d stolen from Edwin had died long ago also. He never named her. When he arrived home, he took off her saddle and expected her to wander off back to civilisation, but in the end, she stuck around, living her life as a free roamer grazing off of the plants in the clearing. Arthan never had much need to ride her. She was buried behind the cabin, a good and comfortable distance from the fae ring. She’d given him good company.

He travelled out of the clearing to the nearest town at least once a year. Doing this he was able to stock up on needed supplies and tools, but most importantly, on whispers and knowledge of what was going on in his country. He’d found his home toed on an awkward border between Mercia and Cantwara, split by the river leading towards Londinium. He didn’t know the kings’ names of these kingdoms, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was knowing where he lived and that the river was important enough for trade that both kingdoms wanted control of it. He was sure it wouldn’t be long before war touched his small claim on the countryside.

As dusk approached and Arthan sat outside whilst he waited for his dinner to cook, he listened to the busy sounds of his woods. He knew it all like the back of his hand. He knew the sound of the squirrels in the trees, of the birds picking at his crops, of foxes drinking from the pond, of predators skirting the perimeter and staying hidden in the trees. And he knew the approaching noise then wasn’t that of a wild animal but a purposeful and deliberate incoming of a human stranger.

He looked to the approach, calmly watching as a male rider passed through the bushes and into sight. He sighed. He had a good stew bubbling on the fire inside. The last thing he wanted was an intruder on his privacy.

‘Can I help you?’ He called out, not moving from his spot in his chair. The rider pulled on his reins, angling to the side and allowing Arthan full view of his fancy clothes. Fancy enough to be noble but not a king. He fought another sigh.

‘Are you our nation, Englaland?’ He asked.

‘That depends on who requests such information.’

The rider dismounted with a huff, pulling down his riding tunic and readjusting the sword strapped to his side. He looked flustered. Anxious, like this was the first he’d had to do something like this.

If this rider already knew of his existence as a nation, it wouldn’t be hard to tell it was him. How common was it to encounter a ten-year-old living by himself in the middle of the woods?

He hesitated with where to put his hands, at first on his hips before he second-guessed and placed them behind his back. Arthan smiled. ‘The good king of Mercia, sire.’

Arthan leant his elbow on the arm of his chair, resting his chin on his hand. ‘And what does this king want?’

‘He requests your presence in Lundewic.’

‘Lundewic?’

‘Yes, just up the river.’

Arthan sat up in his chair. ‘You mean Londinium?’

‘No.’ He looked a little uncomfortable, unsure. ‘I don’t know of such a place. I mean Lundewic. You’re…not familiar?’

He sat back in his chair. This ‘Lond’ and ‘Lund’, just up the river –

‘Had it not been abandoned?’ He queried.

‘There is an abandoned city there, but the settlement is only forty years.’

‘Right.’

Arthan looked away, back out to the pond. He could smell his stew from where he sat, hear its bubbling on the fire. Another calling, for another king that wouldn’t matter in twenty years’ time. A calling to a city unable to live up to its predecessor. For what reason would he want to go? He had peace here.

The rider’s eyes flickered side to side, wooden and still uncomfortable. He fiddled with a strap on his saddle awkwardly. ‘So, you’ll be coming then?’

‘Well, what does he want?’

‘A nation wishes to see you, sire.’

His stomach dropped. He leant forward in his seat again. Who? Had one of his brothers travelled all the way down? Weren’t they busy enough holding the English back? Didn’t they know he didn’t want to see them?

‘Who?’

‘From across the sea. Francia.’

His stomach jumped from his feet to his heart. He shot up from his seat, unable to hold down the explosion of excitement.

‘Really?’

The rider started to smile. ‘Yes.’

Another nation? From across the sea? Had asked to meet him? The bashful grin grew quick and wide on his face. His heart sped in his chest, spreading a warm glow through his limbs, making his body feel loose but poised all the same. It was one thing for a king to ask for you, but for another nation? And one from across the sea? The recognition, the act of someone wanting to meet him – his heart hammered in his chest, forcing a healthy glow to his cheeks.

The rider pointed to his horse. ‘Shall we go?’

Arthan flattened his tunic and looked back to his cabin. ‘Would you care for a bowl of stew first?’

φ

The Angles had settled this Lundewic outside of the walls of Londinium further down the river. Huts of straw claimed the riverside, boats shored deep in the sand by the lapping tide of the river. The crumbling Roman walls loomed ominously in the distance, and though the Angles didn’t seem to mind, the lingering ghosts of Rome made Arthan uneasy and left a painful nausea in his gut.

He asked the rider why they hadn’t settled in the city, but he just mumbled something about ‘being built by giants’ and left it at that. He would have felt better if they’d reclaimed the city and brought it back to life. There would have been comfort in seeing the streets bustling with people and animals again, but instead the grim reminder of a better, happier, richer and more comfortable past life towered over his back. A part of him wanted to venture in and see the remnants of what he once called home, but he thought better of it. He was in Lundewic to look towards the future, not the past. He didn’t think his heart could take seeing what once was.

He’d hoped he would meet this ‘Francia’ as soon as he reached Lundewic’s long hall, but the king wished to meet him first and his meeting with the nation was pushed back to lunch the next day. It was quite late to eat, but the fire raged in the centre of the hall, its smoke cooking meat and soaring to the great empty space of the tall ceiling. Candles lit the benches, even though they sat empty, all par the centre spot of the main table, where the Mercian king, Offa, sat.

It wasn’t until much, much later that Arthan realised just how powerful this king was. The most powerful king of the most powerful kingdom in his land for many centuries. He should have paid more attention during dinner, whilst he yapped about the palace he’d built in Tamworth, or the battles he’d won the year before, or the territories he’d just expanded in – but his mind was elsewhere. To this curious nation across the sea.

He barely slept from anticipation, and in the morning the local nobility’s servants woke him and bathed him, giving him a thick and soft green tunic bordered with golden patterns. They gave him fresh leather shoes that tied round and up his leggings and clipped a deeper green cloak over his shoulders, holding it with a golden brooch in the twisted shape of a stag. Lastly, a necklace, leather chain and golden pendant inlaid with red rubies, went over his head and delicately placed on his chest.

‘You’re not to keep them.’ The servant said.

‘Then why give it to me at all?’

She smiled knowingly. Like a smile you would give a child that had said something silly. Arthan frowned.

‘Appearances say more than words ever could.’

They left him to take himself to breakfast. He left the chilly guest room of the long hall, grateful to feel the immediate heat from the fire – Lundewic’s placement right on the river had not spared them from the sea’s winds.

He paused.

The long table had one too many people seated. The king, crown atop a head that was empty the night before, his wife seated beside him, her long, dark hair complimenting the dark red of her dress and the blue beads stretching across her shoulders. Two men, armed with scroll and quill, quietly wrote next to one another. Across from the king and queen – another man, also wearing a crown over his long, brown hair, but most important of all – a child. A young boy, a little older than him, with golden delicate curls that grazed the top of his shoulders. His blue tunic and white cloak accentuated the tanned skin of his hands and face.

In that moment he understood how Rome had known he was a nation. Something yelled, no, screamed at him of this boy’s true nature. Like a golden aura that haunted his silhouette. He could feel this pull. Something pushing his body towards the boy across the room.

He must have felt it too, as the boy turned to look at him, his hair falling lightly over his cheekbone. His lips moved inaudibly and Offa, his king, stood suddenly.

‘Englaland!’ He called. ‘Come, come!’

He waved for him and his feet began to move without command, heading to the side of the table his king stood. He fumbled at his hair, desperately trying to flatten its wildness, suddenly self-conscious. He wished he’d at least glanced at his reflection, just to catch a glimpse of how he looked, but he hadn’t because he wasn’t supposed to be presentable because he wasn’t supposed to join them till lunch –

‘Good morning. My name’s Englaland.’ He blurted. To himself, to his king, to this nation – he didn’t know. He stared at the table. A flush formed at his collar, fighting to invade his face.

The boy laughed into his hand, making the man besides him elbow him hard. Offa put gentle hands on his shoulder, a strained grin pulling at his face.

‘Good morning to you too.’ He pulled him closer, motioning to their guests. ‘I shall take the pleasure in introducing you to our wonderful neighbours across the sea.’

The boy stood gracefully from his seat, moving slow and purposefully – almost feminine. He smiled confidently as he bent into a shallow bow before holding his hand out. ‘Francia. Nice to meet you.’

His accent was odd, clenched and sing-songy. Arthan took his hand in a firm shake. His hands were soft. Arthan knew his hands certainly were not.

‘A pleasure.’ A pause. ‘What language do you speak?’

Francia opened his mouth to speak but his king – Pepin, as Offa had told him the night before – interjected. ‘We speak Frank, but your language is not too dissimilar, and Francia is a fast learner.’

Francia looked away, to the open window, tucking his hair behind his ears. The edge of his lip inched up ever-so-slightly. Annoyed. The misty morning light danced in his eyes – the blue colour of his tunic matched his eyes perfectly.

A nudge at his arm and Offa was looking at him expectantly.

‘Oh, sorry? I wasn’t listening.’ He stammered. Francia turned and met his eyes, an amused smile on his mouth.

Offa chuckled, a strained noise. ‘I said, shall we eat? We have much to talk about.’

They took their seats. Francia sat directly across from him – but he felt he couldn’t meet his eyes. His face was burning; the boy’s gaze was piercing straight through him.

He turned his attention to the servants, watching them as they swept through the room carrying a dozen plates between them to place on the table and serve for breakfast. Roasted birds and cutlets of meat, fruit and vegetables honeyed, steamed, roasted. Milk and ale and wine. Numerous different types of bread, seeded, flat, round. Eggs, oats and grains, cheeses, all freshly prepared.

Arthan looked to Offa, to his pleased smile. Appearances. Even this was a little excessive for a king, but he shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t very often at all he got to eat like this. Sometimes he missed the Roman diet, the diverse range of items he got to eat on the regular – that he took for granted. He would never do so again. He tucked into his breakfast, piling his plate high.

He ate till he felt he would burst, forcing down burps as he went. Francia seemed to have gorged himself as well, kicking his feet up on the bench besides him – far more comfortable in Offa’s longhouse than even Arthan felt.

But the eating didn’t take away from the boredom. As the minutes stretched into an hour, irritability began to climb at his back. He had so many questions burning on his tongue. So much he wanted to ask this older nation – but the kings had not taken even a moment to just shut up and let them talk to one another. It was quite clear this meeting had been for their benefit, and not he and Francia’s.

He shovelled a piece of soup-soaked bread into his mouth. It was bordering the point of painful, but the food was there and that was much more fun than listening to Offa discuss architects. Even his wife seemed to be in other places.

A sharp pain exploded in his shin as something hard struck him underneath the table. He grabbed his leg, stifling a yelp even though it brought tears to his eyes. He looked to Francia, to his chin resting on his hand and the playful smile he shot from across the table. He pointedly looked at the kings before rolling his eyes.

What did-?

Arthan rubbed his leg before slowly lowering it back to the floor, nervously glancing between he and them. He jumped his brows, smiling.

‘My lord,’ Francia’s voice made him jump again. ‘I think Englaland would like to show me his city, don’t you?’

The silence that followed felt suffocating as Pepin and Offa looked at each other, paused mid-eating. Arthan began to squirm in his seat, feeling as if Francia had said something wrong, but he continued to smile, confident and carefree.

‘We have much more to discuss.’ Pepin dismissed.

‘You have that more than covered, my lord. I trust in your judgement wholeheartedly. I’m sure Englaland does, too.’ Francia was already swinging his legs over the bench, his bright eyes watching Arthan expectedly. He wouldn’t have moved if Offa hadn’t laughed.

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ He nudged Arthan. ‘Go on then, boy. Show him the wonders of our home.’

He hesitated in getting up, but Francia was already prancing towards the exit, so he had no choice but to bumble out of his seat, nearly tripping when his foot got caught on the bench, and run to catch up with him.

The cold hit him as soon as he stepped outside, forcing him to tighten his cloak around his arms. He ducked his chin and mouth beneath its fabric, eyeing Francia nervously. The boy smiled as he took in their surroundings, the central square alive with the lows of sheep and shouts of traders.

‘So, what is fun to do around here?’ He asked, the lilt of his voice once again spiking Arthan’s curiosity.

He looked around. The stalls were already in action, customers already haggling, the stock already swapping hands. Some men were seated nearby, crowding a table where they gambled and drank already, despite the early morning hour.

‘Um,’ he mumbled, the sweat of embarrassment climbing his back, ‘I don’t know.’

‘What?’ Francia laughed. ‘This is your city, isn’t it?’

Arthan crossed his arms over his chest, pouting his lips. ‘My first time here was yesterday.’

Francia’s face screwed up in confusion. A curled lock of hair fell over his eyes and he tucked it behind his ear, pulling his cloak closer around his body. ‘Is this not your main trading point?’

As he had learned yesterday, yes, it was. But Francia didn’t need to know that. ‘I have seven kingdoms to see to. I can’t be everywhere at once.’

Francia humphed, raising his brows in mock surprise. ‘Interesting. From what your king said, I thought you were a hermit.’

‘Shut up!’ Arthan thumped his arm with a closed fist. ‘I am not!’

He laughed, clutching his arm and dodging out of his way. ‘If you say so.’

‘Yeah, well, you look like a girl.’

Francia flipped his hair, closing his eyes as he did. ‘This is all the rage across the sea – not that you would know.’

Arthan glowered at him and he darted out of the way before he could hit him again.

‘I’m joking, I’m joking!’ Francia chuckled to himself, rubbing the sore spot as he took his place besides Arthan again. He sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll just wander then?’

The stalls had much to offer, though neither of them had any money to spend. Stacks of fruits and vegetables, preserved goods, meats, kitchenware and clothes. A blacksmith with raw and prepared hides, which Arthan pointedly ignored. He strayed far whilst Francia perused his goods.

He lingered at the fruit stall, sizing up the apples they had stacked in a pyramid. Red, fresh and glossy – harvest season had just ended – these would be the last of the year.

‘They look delicious.’ Francia had sidled close besides him, leaning over his shoulder slightly. He shrugged. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’

Arthan watched as he deftly picked one up, cupping it tightly in his palm as he spun behind a woman paying for her goods, dodging out of the trader’s sight before he could notice his theft. He walked away quickly and Arthan sped to keep up.

‘Hey!’ He shouted, grabbing his arm and pulling him hard. ‘That’s my economy you’re stealing from!’

He laughed, smugly taking a bite from its surface. ‘Oh, so you’re a stuck-up too?’

Arthan couldn’t believe this guy’s audacity. What sort of guest steals from their host? ‘Am not!’

He held out the apple, showing his clean bite, the edges lined with his wet spit. ‘Take a bite, then.’

Arthan grumbled unhappily, snatching it from his hand and ignoring the spit as he took a mouthful. Crisp, cold and juicy. The proud production of his home. He opened his mouth to say so when Francia pointed into the distance.

‘What is that?’

He followed his finger, above and past the sea of reed roofs, over the separating stream and to the crumbling walls of Londinium, seagulls and crows soaring overhead in a foreboding manner. He pretended to not know where he was pointing.

‘What?’ He asked, looking anywhere but there. Francia grabbed the back of his cloak and dragged him closer.

‘That. Those walls.’

Arthan sighed. In a low voice he said, ‘Londinium.’

‘Londinium?’

He nodded. ‘Roman.’

Francia hummed in excitement. ‘A Roman settlement? Why are we here and not in there?’

‘It’s abandoned.’

‘Let’s go and explore it then!’

Arthan shrunk back, crossing his arms and shaking his head. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘Why?’ He laughed again, rolling his eyes. ‘Aer you scared?’

He clenched his teeth, his eyes tightening into a glare. ‘No. I’d just – ' he paused, ‘I’d prefer to keep it a memory. I don’t want to see what it looks like now.’

Francia stopped, frowning.

‘Now?’ He laughed incredulously, waving his hands. ‘Wait – you talk like you were there.’

He scoffed. ‘Obviously. I was a province.’

He stood there, dumfounded.

‘What?’ Arthan demanded.

‘Nothing, it’s just –’ He smiled awkwardly, taking another bite of the apple. ‘I didn’t think you were the same nation. You’re so...small.'

A simmering rage in his forehead.

‘No, I’m not!’ He hit him again, this time harder. ‘There’s been – I’ve had – ugh!’

He pulled back, frustrated and embarrassed. ‘I’ve had a lot of economic strife.’

‘Right.’

There was an awkward pause as Arthan stopped, looking away and off into the market. Francia filled his cheeks with air and slowly puffed out, swinging his arms. ‘So, you won’t take me into the city then?’

‘No!’

‘Oh, please?’ He cupped his hands together, the apple clutched between the tips of his fingers, his palms flat and touching – in prayer. Arthan had seen the Christians do that. ‘It’s something to do and I’d really love to see it. Please?’

Arthan sighed, dropping his arms. He looked into Francia’s eyes, their deep blue, pleading. Rome once again echoed in his ears: hospitality.

‘Alright. Fine.’

Francia hopped in excitement, clapping his hands in glee before he matched Arthan’s walking pace.

φ

They had to take the long way round to find the bridge crossing the stream. Arthan would normally just wade through one – it looked to be only knee-high – but it was late in the year so it would be cold. And they were both wearing fine clothes. Neither of them wished to soil them. Nor did they wish to listen to the gripes of their kings when they returned, filthy.

Francia was kind enough to share his apple, eating half of it before passing it to Arthan. Though he was still stuffed from breakfast, he was grateful for the distraction. The growing nausea in his stomach was kept firmly a bay when filling it.

He looked to Francia, to his height. He was only an inch or so taller than him, but his face was visibly older than ten years old. Maybe eleven or twelve. On the onset of puberty, at least.

‘So, you’re Gaul’s son, then?’ He asked, filling the empty space of their walking.

‘No?’

‘Oh.’ Arthan frowned. If he’s bigger than him, older than him, and from that region – wouldn’t he have to be related to Gaul? ‘Then, how – how old are you? How did you come about?’

‘When my first king, Clovis, conquered his territories from the Romans and the Visigoths.’

The who?

Arthan felt himself flush. He didn’t remember being taught of such a group.

‘When?’ He asked.

Francia shrugged, pursing his lips as he thought. ‘Just shy of…three hundred years ago?’

He froze in his tracks. Francia faltered, turning in confusion.

‘Three hundred? Three?’ He stuttered.

‘Yes?’

More heat flushing to his face, and embarrassingly, tears. He blinked rapidly, forcing them back down. ‘Then, how – why are you bigger than me?’

Francia started laughing. Genuine barks of laughter, clutching his stomach and covering his mouth. He retreated his steps, grabbing Arthan’s shoulder and swinging his arm over them. He dragged him to start walking again.

‘That is because, my little Englaland, I am stronger than you, and I have more territories than you do.’ He mused, jostling them side to side as they meandered down the road.

‘But how?’

‘The lord guides me.’

Arthan scoffed.

‘What?’ Francia let him go. ‘Are you not a Christian?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh, really?’ Back was his cheeky smile. ‘When were you baptised?’

‘Er.’

‘Hmm. I’m not quite familiar with this year, “er”.’ Arthan flushed, but he wasn’t looking. Francia opened his arms wide, raising his face to the sky. ‘Accept Christ into your heart and he will guide your hands.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes!’

He shook his head. They were getting closer to the walls. His eyes trailed the road, recognising the bend, heading over to the plot of farmland on their left. The house wasn’t there anymore, where he’d hidden away the night he escaped. A few stones in the shape of a square on the ground, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell it was once a farm unless you had spent a cold desperate night in its confines. The dark feeling in his stomach grew darker.

‘Rome wasn’t a Christian.’ He muttered.

Francia scoffed. ‘Yeah, and look what happened to him.’

Lead sank down his legs, pinning his feet to the floor.

‘What?’ His heart picked up its pace, speeding erratically in his chest, sending freezing cold blood down his arms. He couldn’t feel his fingers. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Francia groaned as they ground to a halt again. ‘What, you think he’s been sitting in luxury on his golden throne in Rome? He fled east just before I was born. No one’s heard of him in centuries. I’m sure he’s dead and gone.’

Arthan had forgotten how to breathe, he was sure of it. Why else was his chest frozen and empty, unable to move? And where was that pain coming from? Why was his entire body alight with fire?

‘Are you okay?’

He must have forgotten how to speak too.

Dead?

Gone?

Centuries of pain and loneliness welled up in him. Pain and loneliness caused by Rome. Surely, he should be glad. Surely, he should be pleased – Rome had abandoned him, and he outlasted him, in the end. But how could he be?

How could he gain pleasure from a loss so great? How could he hate a man that had shown and given him everything? How could he detest he who had breathed ambition into his bones? How could he feel anything but a great, agonising loss at his death?

How could such greatness ever end?

‘You’re crying.’ Francia said.

His legs began to work again, storming forward with an energy that felt entirely beyond him. Francia rushed to keep up.

‘You talk of him as if he was nothing.’ He ground out, wiping the tears from his cheeks angrily.

‘Well, in the end, he was –’

‘Shut up!’ He yelled. There was no playfulness in this one. He didn’t look to see Francia’s reaction. He ploughed ahead, barely noticing their passing through the gates. The gates where Roman soldiers used to stand on duty, gambling and drinking and laughing. ‘I’ll show you what he was.’

Passing through that ghost of a city felt infinitely worse than he thought it would have. Perhaps it would have been easier if he stayed ignorant – if he’d thought Rome was still out there, somewhere. That though this city was now a ghost, there were still cities in the world that still lived and breathed Rome and got the pleasure of his walking feet.

The soaring stone buildings, their walls painted vibrantly, the awe-inspiring reality – it was much darker seeing their slow disappearance. Mud filling the streets, the green wilderness sprouting between the cracks to grow into all-consuming nature, swallowing buildings whole. Some he remembered weren’t even there anymore, their material pilfered and put to use elsewhere. The marketplace, once thriving with annoying yells of drunkards and singing of buskers, brays of animals and town criers. Reduced to rubble, filled with nothing but wind and crows and trees and ivy.

Francia had been quiet, following Arthan mutely through the streets, till he saw the amphitheatre. Still, it stood tall. Soaring above them, arched bricks holding what Arthan knew to be thousands of seats, row after row of people, an ocean of heads all pointed to one stage.

‘Good God.’ Francia whispered.

‘I used to see plays here at least once a week.’ He said, craning his neck to see towards the top. Seagulls circled overhead, snapping with each other before landing briefly on the roof. There must have been a nest, a new home made amongst the dead one.

‘How on earth did they build this?’ Francia asked.

‘The rider who collected me said it was built by giants.’

‘A most fitting description.’

‘There’ll never be anything like it again.’

Francia was saying something in response, but Arthan wasn’t listening. His attention was pulled elsewhere, to something calling for him. Because, there, at the end of the road, overlooking the market.

His feet led him towards it. He could hear Francia noticing his absence and his rush to follow.

‘Don’t leave me here alone. It’s scary.’ He whined.

Arthan stopped. He stared up at the building, at its crumbling exterior and its hollow and empty windows. The stone above them were a deep black, as if the house had caught fire at some point. The shutters that used to live on the outside were gone. The paint that covered the door and its pillars had worn into a dull, pale pink. He was surprised there was anything at all. The stone mosaic of the floor was cracked, half of the stones missing. Stones where soldiers had walked. Where his tutors, his guards, where Rome himself had been. The front garden had grown its own ecosystem. The pretty fountain and statues of the gods had been swallowed by nature. When he looked at the top window, the one he used to stare out of to watch the daily life of the market, he could almost see his younger self looking back at him.

‘What’s this?’ Francia asked.

‘My home.’ He quickly corrected himself. ‘Rome and I’s.’

He felt Francia’s eyes dart between him and his domus.

‘Would you like to go inside?’

He crossed his arms, hugging himself tightly. The tears started and he didn’t bother to wipe them away or hide them. ‘No. No, I really don’t.’

The two stood in silence, looking up at the house far longer than what was comfortable. A droplet fell from the sky, landing wet and cold on Arthan’s nose. They looked up to the dark and foreboding grey cloud that crawled slowly over the sky.

‘We should head back.’ Francia said.

‘Yeah.’

Neither moved.

‘What’s your name?’ Francia asked.

Arthan looked at him, surprised. ‘My name?’

‘Yes. Your name.’ He stepped closer to him, till their shoulders were nearly touching. ‘We’re going to be friends, right? Mine’s Francis.’

Arthan laughed. ‘How imaginative.’

He shrugged, a warm smile.

‘My name’s Arthan.’

Francis awed in recognition. ‘Ah, like your famed king, Arthur?’

‘Arthur?’ Arthan knew nothing of this famous king.

‘You know, he who pulled Excalibur from the stone. Formed the knights of the round table. Fought the invaders and killed nine-hundred-and-sixty men, singlehandedly?’

‘Ah.’ He chuckled. He still had no clue what he was talking about. ‘Him.’

‘They say he entered an eternal slumber, only to wake when he must save his country.’ He leaned in, his hair falling into his blue eyes. Eyes that seemed to stare straight through him. ‘Is that you, Arthur? Are you the sleeping hero your country needs?’

Arthan smiled bashfully, his cheeks heating. He looked back at the house, at its crumbling, at its past.

Arthur.

Arthur.

Yes, he quite liked that name.