Rise of Wales

It was in the afternoon, and Kjartan had sent Finnr and Jorund to scout the area since morning. As they moved through the dense forest, Jorund cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over. "That priest was lying. When I get back, I'll cut off his tongue myself."

Finnr suddenly raised a hand, signaling for silence. His sharp eyes scanned the forest as he whispered, "Do you hear that?"

Before Jorund could respond, three figures appeared on the trail ahead—a woman and two young men. The men carried bows and a few rabbits, laughing and chatting freely as they gestured to each other. The woman walked beside them, her presence drawing Jorund's attention immediately.

He licked his lips, a malicious grin spreading across his face. "Let's kill them and plow her," he whispered, unsheathing his axe.

But Finnr grabbed his arm and hissed, "No. Let's follow them instead."

Jorund shot him a furious glare but reluctantly lowered his weapon. Silently, the two men trailed the trio through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth and scattered leaves.

Eventually, the three figures arrived at a barn surrounded by a cluster of small shelters, sheep and a handful of children played outside under the watchful eye of an elderly man.

Jorund smirked, his eyes scanning the settlement. "Look, not more than twenty people here. A few men that might fight, but the rest—women and children."

Finnr nodded. "Let's head back and tell Kjartan."

They slipped back into the shadows of the forest and made their way to the ship.

The ship was a cauldron of unrest. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting blood-red streaks across the river, and the crew's murmurs grew louder. The warriors, restless and brimming with doubt, paced or sharpened their weapons in agitation.

Halvadan slammed his fist against a wooden beam, his voice booming across the deck. "This is a trap! Your druid's lies will doom us all, Kjartan! Our men have been gone too long."

Freydis, seated on a crate near the stern, nodded grimly. "Halvadan's right. This sorcerer is wasting our time. Let us see his head parted from his neck."

The druid shifted where he sat, his robes rustling as his unease deepened. He could feel their eyes on him—hungry, suspicious, feral. "Damned savages," he thought, his heartbeat quickening. "They'll kill me if I don't speak soon." He straightened his back, but his voice wavered as he spoke.

"Patience," the druid hissed, his tone trying for authority but failing. "The gods reward those who trust in their messengers."

Halvadan turned slowly, his gaze sharp and predatory. "The gods??" he sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "Tell me which gods do you speak for druid?

"Enough!" Kjartan barked, his voice cutting through the tension. "We wait. A little longer."

Halvadan whirled on him, his face dark with fury. "The longer we wait, the more time they have to prepare!"

The druid, sensing his moment slipping, lashed out. His voice was venomous, shaking but sharp as a blade. "In our lands challenging your leader openly? That is treason!"

The crew stilled at the accusation, but only for a moment before laughter broke the tension. Halvadan's booming laugh rang out first, followed by others, their mirth laced with mockery.

"Treason?" Halvadan spat, his grin turning savage. "You're no better than a rat in the shadows, sorcerer. You think words will save you?" He stepped toward the druid, his massive frame casting a shadow over the smaller man.

The druid, cornered, felt desperation boil over into hysteria. His lips twisted into a crooked smile, his voice rising with deranged fervor. "I saw it!" he shrieked. "I saw your deaths! All of you, slaughtered like animals! I curse you all—you won't reach Valhalla! Hahaha the gods will spit on your souls and cast you into Hel's abyss!"

The crew shifted uneasily, their fear of the druid's curse palpable.

Halvadan's face darkened, the mirth draining from his eyes. Without a word, he reached for his axe.

"Halvadan!" Kjartan shouted, stepping forward to intervene, but Freydis grabbed his arm.

"Let him do it," she whispered. "The druid's already marked himself."

Halvadan approached the druid, his boots thudding against the wooden planks. The druid straightened his back, his crooked smile still plastered on his face. "Do it," he whispered, his voice trembling but defiant.

Halvadan didn't hesitate. The axe swung in a brutal arc, splitting the druid's skull with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed across the deck, painting Halvadan's face and chest. The druid crumpled to the ground, his dead eyes still fixed in an unsettling grin.

For a moment, silence reigned. The crew stood frozen, their eyes fixed on Halvadan as he crouched over the body. His fingers dipped into the pooling blood, and with slow, deliberate movements, he smeared it across his face.

He began to chant in a low, guttural voice, the words harsh and alien.

As the chant grew louder, Halvadan rose to his feet, his face painted with the druid's blood. His eyes were wild, gleaming with something unholy.

"The gods have taken their offering," he growled, his voice reverberating with a primal energy. "Now they march with us. Tonight, we fight not as men—but as wolves! slaughtering the sheep."

The crew let out a collective roar, their earlier doubts swallowed by bloodlust and fear. Kjartan stared at the scene, his jaw clenched.

---

At the shore, Kjartan and the rest of the crew were preparing their weapons when the scouts arrived. Finnr stepped forward. "Kjartan! We found a barn."

The men aboard the ship paused, their faces lighting up with anticipation. Kjartan grinned and gestured for silence. "Quickly, tell me their numbers."

Jorund stepped forward, eager to report. "Not more than twenty, and the ones who can fight are fewer than ten. Mostly women and children."

A low murmur of excitement rippled through the crew. They began sharpening their blades, inspecting their shields, and readying their axes. The metallic sound of weapons being prepared filled the air.

Kjartan raised his voice. "Good. This will be easy pickings. Remember, take what you can carry."

The men roared their approval, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

Kjartan nodded. "Tonight, we feast like kings."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the Vikings launched their longboat from the shore, silently gliding through the water. The promise of blood and plunder filled the air, and their hearts burned with the thrill of the coming raid.

--

The barn was dim, filled with the earthy smell of hay and the soft rustle of animals shifting in the straw. A flickering torch cast shadows on the wooden walls as Dafydd, his wife, and their son huddled near the crackling fire. The wind howled outside, rattling the barn's frame, but inside, there was warmth in their closeness.

Dafydd leaned back against a bale of hay, a grin tugging at his lips. "Alright, lad," he began, his voice steady and rich. "Tonight, I'll tell you the tale of Llew Llaw Gyffes—a tale of gods, of battle, and of skill like no other."

The boy, wide-eyed, leaned forward eagerly. "Is he as strong as the warriors you tell me about, Father?"

His wife, seated nearby with a mug of warm ale, chuckled. "Strong? Far more than that." She ruffled her son's hair, her smile warm and teasing. "Your father wouldn't be fit to hold his shield."

Dafydd shot her an exaggerated look of mock offense. "Now hold on, woman! I've been known to wield a sword or two in my day."

"Aye," she teased, "but I wouldn't bet on you against the gods, love."

The boy giggled as Dafydd sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "No respect, lad. No respect at all." Then, with a playful wink, he leaned closer. "But you see, Llew wasn't just a warrior. He was a god of light and skill, wise as he was strong."

"Wise?" the boy asked, tilting his head. "Is that why you always say I need to listen to you?"

His wife raised an eyebrow, her voice playful. "You should listen to your father more, though. He's been trying to teach you how to work the plow for weeks."

The boy pouted, clearly embarrassed. "I'm trying, but the plow's heavier than I thought!"

Dafydd laughed, his voice deep and reassuring. "Don't worry, lad. It's not about strength alone—it's about learning the right way. That's the wisdom of the gods."

His son leaned in closer, his admiration clear. "What happened in the battle? Did Llew win?"

Dafydd's grin deepened. "Aye, he did. Llew led his people against the Fomorians, monstrous creatures who sought to take the land. It was a hard fight, but Llew shone like the sun itself—bright, fierce, and impossible to defeat."

His wife raised her mug in mock salute. "Sounds like something your father would've done if he were a god."

Dafydd laughed, light and teasing. "If I were a god, I'd be the god of—"

"Talking," she interrupted with a smirk. "You talk more than a bard with a mug of ale."

Dafydd's tone grew serious but kind. "Llew wasn't just about fighting, son. He could craft weapons, sing songs, heal wounds, and build wonders. He taught that true strength comes from skill, wisdom, and heart."

The boy's gaze was intense. "I want to be like him, Father. Strong, wise, and skilled."

Dafydd smiled, ruffling his son's hair. "You can be like him, lad. But remember, being wise is also knowing when to listen, especially to your mother."

She raised her mug, grinning. "Now that's the best advice your father's given all evening."

Their laughter echoed through the barn, the warmth of their bond defying the bitter wind outside. The boy, full of wonder, leaned back against the hay, his father's words lingering.

"One day, I'll be a god too," he murmured, half-dreaming.

Dafydd leaned over, his voice soft and reassuring. "You already have the heart of one, lad. Just remember, it's not about being a god... it's about being the best you can be, just like Llew."

---

On a deck, the druid's body slumped against the wooden planks, unmoving. Blood had pooled beneath his head, a black smear against the damp wood where his skull had split from a Viking's brutal blow. His robes, once pale and marked with symbols, now hung torn and stained with mud. His beard—tangled and woven with tiny bones—seemed to mock him, a symbol of his life's rituals now wasted.

Above the lifeless figure, something stirred.

A faint black shape hovered, a shimmer in the grey air—almost invisible, but pulsing faintly with energy. The a machine flickered like a failing spark, a dying echo of advanced technology out of place in this brutal, ancient world.

"Fuck…" Ethan's fractured voice crackled glitching in the void of his weakened consciousness. His thoughts splintered like static across broken circuits. "What is this place?"

The scene—the Viking ship, the primitive surroundings—stretched his understanding of reality to its limits. "Were those… Vikings? Actual Vikings?"

He tried to steady himself, but pain struck through the swarm like fire. Ethan's thoughts scrambled, unraveling as his nanobots struggled to maintain cohesion. He pulsed erratically in the air, the machine's edges fraying like smoke caught in a breeze.

"Ahhh i can't… think…" he muttered, his voice a weak hiss.

His focus turned downward to the body of the druid. The man's pale face was calm in death. Ethan hovered closer, observing him with desperation gnawing at the edges of his fading consciousness.

"At least they didn't cut off his head," Ethan murmured bitterly.

He scanned the body more carefully. The gash in the man's head was severe, but the rest of him remained intact. Ethan wavered, debating. "Should I follow them? The Vikings? Wait until they kill someone else? A better body with a better wound to heal."

The thought lingered, but another pulse of agony tore through the machine. Time was running out. Every passing second drained him further, his energy reserves dwindling to nothing.

"No," Ethan said finally, his resolve tightening. "I won't make it…"

He dove.

The nanobots surged downward, their form dissolving into tendrils of black mist that sank into the druid's broken skull. They threaded into the wound, merging with the man's tissues at a microscopic level. The nanobots worked with ruthless precision, knitting flesh and bone back together—sewing the torn skin shut as though stitched by invisible threads.

The transformation was seamless, unnatural. Within moments, the wound disappeared, the blood drying as if time itself had reversed. The man's chest, still moments before, now rose faintly with breath.

Ethan pushed deeper, trying to connect with the brain, to overwrite it—his only chance of survival. But something stopped him.

A sharp force pushed back, an unseen wall of resistance that burned like fire. Ethan reeled, his nanobots pulsing wildly as his consciousness buckled under the backlash.

"What the—?!"

The druid's mind was still alive. Weak, faint, but alive. A flicker of spirit clung stubbornly to the body like a flame refusing to die. Ethan cursed inwardly, his energy sputtering.

"No, no, no… this can't work. Why aren't you dead!?"

The nanobots flickered, their energy too far gone. Before he could retreat, the druid's mind flared.

Ethan's fragmented consciousness shuddered, his voice breaking apart. "I… can't…"

Darkness crashed over him, dragging him into an endless void.

The first thing Brynach felt was the cold. It wrapped around him like a shroud, heavy and biting, dragging him back from the void. His chest heaved with a deep breath, the air sharp in his lungs, and his heart hammered as though rising from the grave.

His eyes snapped open.

The misty sky above greeted him—grey and shapeless, light filtered faintly through the clouds. Brynach blinked, disoriented, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. The fog in his mind lingered, thick and unnatural, as if something foreign clawed at the edges of his thoughts.

He stirred, his hands pressing against the cold, wet planks of the ship's deck. Pain flared through his limbs, weak and trembling. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, gasping for breath.

His head. The blow. He remembered the Viking's mace, the flash of blinding pain, and then… nothing. Tentatively, his hand rose to his temple, his fingers brushing over smooth, unbroken skin. There was no wound.

"I'm… alive!?" Brynach whispered. His voice rasped through a dry throat, the words alien on his lips. His trembling hands explored his body, searching for injury. But there was nothing. No broken bones. No gaping wounds. Only the faint ache of exhaustion that weighed him down.

His gaze turned to the river's dark surface, its ripples stretching endlessly in both directions. The Vikings were gone.

Teeth gritted, Brynach whispered to himself. "Oh Arawn why have you brought back such a lowly subject like me...."

Arawn was the enigmatic ruler of Annwn, the Welsh Otherworld, is a god deeply tied to restoration and renewal. Known for his dominion over a realm of eternal abundance, healing, and rebirth, Arawn is said to have the power to mend what is broken and breathe life into what is lost. The druid beleived it was Arawn who restored the him, pulling him from the brink of death and weaving his shattered body back together with the essence of Annwn itself.

"If i live, I live for a reason..." he thought, his fingers trembling as he touched the once-fatal wound on his head. The gods had mended him, but they could not mend the guilt eating away at his soul. Those poor people... They have no idea what's coming. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Why did Arawn bring me back? The question clawed at him. He could feel the divine spark pulsing in his veins, he felt that his body was sturdier and his senses had become better. A part of him whispered that he could flee, leave the bloodshed behind and start anew, but the thought turned his stomach. No. If I run now, their deaths will be on my soul for eternity. He stood abruptly, his jaw tightening.

"I have the power of the gods now," he murmured to himself, his voice shaking but resolute. "What kind of man wastes a gift like this?" He stared at the faint light streaming through the cracks in the ship's hull, his heart pounding. "Arawn didn't save me for cowardice. If I was to lead them to slaughter, then I will lead them to salvation. I will not let their blood stain the earth without a fight."