It was not the howling of wind, it was the heaves of men.
It was not the rumble of thunder, it was the roaring of warriors.
It was not the flash of lightning striking upon the steal clouds, but the glint of unsheathed swords clattering against each other.
It was not the stings of heavy raindrops and hailstones piercing the rough skins, it was the blades of spears and swords shattering the tinplate armors.
The place was not a meadow of roses, it was a plain watered by spurted blood, a theater presenting a play of death; it was a battlefield.
This scenery, repeated throughout history, was now taking place at the rise of the Roman Empire invading a little group of islands called Britain.
The usually fighting tribes unified themselves to face the current danger of the flashy banners and the red plumes presenting themselves as a potential invader. And opposite to the helmets and armors their enemies were clad in, the grouped tribes were plated with nothing but their simple clothes, some denuded, bare except from their blue dye of war and the coldness the impending storm was promising, for they believed in the power of sheer courage, honor and determination.
Fierce fighters with fit figures, sharp eyes and spiked hair, they were the Celt.
Both sides yelled charging at each other, their voices mixed together as their weapons collided like the merciless waves that brought the invaders, and their blood squirted running down the soil like a tide surpassing the shores of the sea into the vernal lands.
The Celtic tribes were large in number but barged forward like a blind plague, scattering everywhere and thus turning their number advantage into a weakness against the organized Roman battalions. And just when nature decided to join the dance of mortals, storming and rampaging through the power given to her by the gods, a roar equal to the squalls of the cosmos captured the hearts of the warriors, pouring hope into the tiring tribes while flooding their enemies with panic and fear. A chariot led by two agile brown horses dashed through the battlefield like a shimmer scarring the pagan - black sky, followed by a barrage of dazzling comets, the shouts and swords of the land inhabitants reinforcements.
The chariot leading the new forces plunged itself into the battle like a shooting star placed upon it the hopes and wishes of the bare warriors. That star emanated two tails, floating elegantly and valiantly; one borrowed from the veiled sun and a longer one forged by the crimson flowers of battles; the blood of brave warriors.
The golden and red spears wielded by gifted hands tore through the bodies of enemies the way the chariot tore through their battalions but the persistent downpour turned the solid ground slippery, and the horses legs soon sank in the muddy lakes formed by the heavy rain, causing the animals to jolt capsizing the chariot along the warrior riding it. Unafraid, the lancer quickly freed himself from the crushed carriage and jumped on his feet waving his two weapons, blazing eyes like the sun shining with all its final glory before setting to a darkness - overwhelmed sky, thus these eyes carried both luster and grieve.
The two shafts equal in brightness to these eyes, obviously brought confusion to the invading army as they slew more soldiers than any other blade waved on the field. One of them, a young roman soldier, probably on his first test of courage, found his chance when the chariot tumbled and rushed at the warrior, sword in hand, ready to deliver the blow that would please his commander. However, his dreams of reward and honorary medals, of acknowledgement and approval weren't fulfilled. Faced by the red tongue of a tamed dragon that appeared out of nowhere through the slough, these wished withered and died.
The young soldier was afraid, this was clear. His eyes pleaded for mercy; a bless never granted in the midst of a battlefield. The spear pierced cruelly, once again bathing in the hellish color as whetting the parts dulled by the repeated use.
Yet just shortly after, the same bloodied spear saved the life of a comrade, also a young blond lad experiencing his first fight, when elegantly, accompanied by its yellow twin, they rolled sending another two enemy soldiers to their demise. The inattentive boy, whose life had been luckily saved, looked at his savior with eyes filled with gratitude and childish admiration. Still unable to comprehend the danger of the situation, his eyes were taken by the glamour of his savior; the spear - wielder's body was covered with wounds and injuries, varying in their depth and seriousness though none presented a threat to that burning heart. Albeit, it definitely hurt to carry around fighting and swinging two weapons, the thought left the boy with a shudder and more admiration… he was so young, merely thirteen, and witnessing such a knight filled his mind with dreams. With the excitement of a child thrown in his favorite fairy tale of knights and dragons, he started to express his thanks and veneration.
"You have…"
But before he could utter a third word, he was interrupted hurriedly yet gently:
"Save it for later, and keep your mind focused… I won't be always there for you, Oscar!"
"Sure…!"
The lad guffawed in a failed attempt to hide his nervousness and fear, feelings the lancer easily spotted in the young boy's stance and trembling hold of his sword, and strangely he smiled warmly at this pure innocence still not tarnished by the horridness of battles and glory. Honestly, it suited the blond youth perfectly. However, in these current circumstances, this innocence was a vulnerability , a weakness and a death trap. Much to the lancer's dismay, he could not just remain petrified in his ground and protect his younger comrade; this was war; many things could be lost in the blink of an eye, and lives were easier to pick than flowers.
The battle dragged its breaths for hours, during which swords blunted, spears bent, shields broke, and armors smashed but hands did not fall tired. For the two fighting sides this was a new page added either to their honor or to their shame… options were few. There was an awaiting glory to be obtained or lost, lands to be defended or conquered, and families to be protected or enslaved.
However, sharp weapons and skills they indeed had, but it was no match against the helmets and shields of the crimson warriors packed together like the formidable shell of a tortoise. And on top of that, half the Celtic warriors fled when the storm peaked up frightened by the wrath of nature more than the assault of enemies. Abandoned, the few left warriors decided to fight till the bitter end, they agreed with mere stares to die bravely taking down as much enemy soldiers as they can but this honorable death was not meant to be realized as it turned into a slaughter.
Losing sight of the blond lad in the midst of the battle, the lancer who burst to the field proving to be a thorn in the red army's flank, found himself surrounded by the soldiers he had been humiliating, eager to get revenge for their dead comrades. The lancer wasn't planning on giving up yet, but his strength had been drained by the long fight, and as if torn the same way his heart was by the sight of his massacred fellows and the fleeing ones, his wounds ripped open gushing with the same red sea he had been spilling.
Piled corpses, torn limbs, broken weapons, pained cries struggling for attention then cruelly muffled by death, the lancer now laid in the middle of that chaos, the same scene that never changes whether you end victorious or vanquished.
The feeling of flowing water tickling his cheeks was the only thing that kept his senses slightly alert. He was anticipating the enraged blades to seek their revenge but instead, all what he heard were footsteps roaming around him, sounds that seemed like distant whispers spoken in Roman, then he was dragged through the muddy ground toward what seemed the largest tent in the enemy's camp where he was pulled from the hair to face the incensed eyes of the battalions leader, who stared at the prisoner like he was staring at some kind of exotic object that managed to catch his interest.
The blaze in the bronze eyes, shaded by haughty eyebrows, was slowly blown away by weariness and exhaustion. A mole, a mark of cursed beauty, lingered beneath the left eye like a forgotten teardrop, and the night - hooded black hair arranged in spikes, the Celtic warriors' style, bathed by the pouring rain slowly loosened into wavy locks coiling around the leader's fingers. Sharp beauty that couldn't be tarnished even by the dirt of earth or by the gruesome wounds it carried but the Roman general's eyes couldn't recognize the charm they had fallen upon, they could only see the face of a murderer who agonized these eyes with the scene of a son stabbed mercilessly to his death. Anger filling his heart, the victorious leader and distressed father, roughly knocked the radiant face back to the pond of mud where the warrior's body laid.
Finally succumbing to pain, the lancer couldn't realize what was happening around him anymore, as his consciousness faded away.