It was snowing. The sun did not show himself for long, something made worse by the looming clouds above blocking his rays. The trees were without leaves, a fact that made life difficult at times from slippery ground. But now the ground was frozen instead of wet, the light particles of snow falling from above assuring us of that remaining as a fact. Perhaps only in the pig stys was the mud still malleable, although I doubt that. Thick woolen cloaks could be seen walking by the dirt pathways, some running as kids played their games. I myself could be counted among them, technically, but I had already more or less assumed the role of an adult at the age of thirteen winters. Despite not having a house I had been expected to give my part to the chief. As I was not a farmer but a herbalist's apprentice I could not pay in crops, but instead flea repelling charms enough for him and his family to last the coming spring and then some. Not a difficult task for the Herbalist or Brenna, but I didn't have the same skill at spellcrafting as either of them. The charms would work but for how long I didn't know, something that would upset both me and the chief in time.

It was winter, and with winter came tool maintenance and repairing, house maintenance and structural maintenance. New handles would be made, and rocks grounded down in preparation for the creation of new adzes. Trees would be cut in preparation for new farmland, and animals would be hunted by the hunters both small and large. The chief himself would soon hunt an auroch in order to proudly display his skull and remind us that despite our small village and subsequent small wealth, he was still the chief. He would do anything to maintain his status. Several of our men would go on the trip but among that number I wasn't included. But with winter came free time. There might be a lot of work to do, sure, and it was a lot of work. But time spent idling would seep in for everyone. The women would still weave, of course, that work is near unending but even it can't prevail against the call of rest towards some other task. My mother, for example, would use any excuse to coddle or tend to me and my siblings.

Standing under the sky, the snow falling on my body, my breathes slow and steady with fingers clasped around the wood of my club. I was in a light training session with my dad. My hands were numb, one firmly grasping my stick and the other waiting in preparation for anything. My breath was visible, each exhale letting out a small cloud and each inhale cooling down my body. My father was directly opposite to me. His brown hair sprinkled with white of snow, not from age but there very literally being snow on his head, and his hazel-yellow eyes calmly watching my movements. He was no trained fighter, like everyone else had experience in brawls and wrestling but he was not trained in the way of actual fighting. And he had no real experience in battles, he might've taken part in the skirmish a couple of years back but that wasn't enough to make him a veteran, and was certainly not uncommon for our people. Battles against tribes and villages for resources and honor was a common thing and all men who wanted to prove themselves would take part in one or two battles. But he still had some experience, and some knowledge to pass on to me, and he was certainly capable of beating me in a match.

I brought in my club above my head and with a slight sucking in of air and controlled force I brought it down towards his head, stepping into his range and allowing me a possible hit. But he made a step in of his own and with the bottom of his stick deflected mine away and exposed my back. A light strike against the back of my knee, and a demonstrative tap against the back of my head. Biting pain was my reward.

"Too much," he said as he retreated back to his original starting position. The pain wasn't enough to restrict my movement, but it was enough to most likely leave me sore by tomorrow morning. Not the first one and certainly not the last one. He had hit me across my body, much more than I would like across my hand, and I had barely gotten any in against him. He was much better than me at this. I moved back towards my own original position and brought up my stick again, outside his range by a step. I stepped inside and gave a light blow to his left and met his stick, being deflected I turned my wrist and gave an upward strike, which he similarly blocked. I retreated, he followed and began to strike at my head. I moved the stick in preparation for a block, and got whacked in the fingers. I let go of the stick and clutched my hand, unable to vocalize my discomfort.

"Strike at the hands as well, boy. The body isn't the only target, do I need to break your fingers in order for you to learn that?" I shook my head at that. That one hurt but all the strikes to my fingers hurt much more than any body strike would. After sufficiently rubbing the pains from my fingers away I picked up my club and returned to my fighting stance.

"How long are you planning to beat my son for, Neill?" a voice sounded out behind me. A womanly voice belonging to my mother, I turned around and nodded at her arrival. A small creature followed closely behind, wearing old and patchworked clothing stood my little brother, Kevin. Twice has that clothing been passed down, it's original blue color having faded and mixed with patches of different and varying shades of at times the same color, but mostly different ones. This would be his third winter this year. My dad sniffed back and let go of his stance and into a neutral standing position.

"Until he can stand a chance against an opponent like me," he sniffed and turned to face his wife. "What is it, my love?"

"The porridge is done and I would prefer to eat it with you two while it's still hot. Do you really have to hit Attie so hard? The last one looked like his fingers were gonna break." She walks up to me and extends her hand outward, fully expecting me to show it to her. I of course did, moving my club towards my left instead of right and she continued, "I would've believed it did if it weren't for the fact that Attie is still willing to pick up his stick." She inspects my hand, turns it over and touches a sore spot. I winced at that, "and look at his face, you've hit him on the cheek. What if you poked his eye out?"

"Then he'd be missing an eye, better than losing his life one day." He begins to walk towards the roundhouse, of which we were directly behind. Fighting directly infront of the entryway would only cause my mother grief, so instead we've been fighting in the back since both he and I were adamant in continuing. "I'll go lighter on him but I'm gonna teach him how to fight back with a stick, hopefully he learns despite not receiving the consequences of stupidity. Never know when knowing how to beat someone with a stick'll be useful, dear."

I eye my mother as she watched dad make his way back into the house. It was hard to describe her expression, I'm sure she wanted to be mad but she understood the value of this kind of training. She looked at me with her brown eyes and smiled, ruffling my hair and saying, "let's go inside." I nodded and we made our way into our home. There was a field directly infront of our house, one that I had previously worked on before I had the privilege of becoming an herbalist's apprentice. Now it's barren, a light coating of snow over the land making it look near indistinguishable from simple cleared forest. That wasn't a bother of course, since it wouldn't become of use until the coming spring. Walking through the entrance way and into the house I spotted my dad sitting next to the fire spreading butter across pieces of bread. Everything had to be rationed out throughout the winter and he particularly liked spreading butter across bread, so he was designated as the butter-spreader of the family. A bit odd, but no one cares.

My sister, a young girl named Ita experiencing her seventh winter, was sitting next to him chewing on a spoonful of pottage. She glanced at me, noticing the the slight purple bruising on my cheek and swallowed.

"Daddy hit you hard, huh?" I scrunched up my face and made a slight nod at that, Ita turns to face dad and asks, "what'd he do?"

"Lose, sweetie," he responded with a frown, "and he would've lost an eye if it weren't for my skill."

"Really?" Ita quickly looks my way with an expression of worry.

"He wouldn't have gotten a bruise in the first place if it weren't for daddy hitting him, Ita." Mom, who had been behind me waiting for an opportunity to jump in the short exchange, flatly states. Ita at first takes the information dumbly with a nod, but suddenly turns shocked, quickly breaking into anger as she stared into dad's face. In the meanwhile I was washing my hands and cleaning any dirt off roughly.

"You tricked me," her voice a bit chilly in tone. Dad only smiles toothily in return, taking a bite out of his own portion of buttered bread and ignoring his daughter's outrage.

"And what did I tell you about eating before everyone has their share?" Interjecting herself into the conversation again, mom sits down next to Ita and scoops up a portion out of the clay pot and into a bowl. Placing a wooden spoon side the bowl she hands it to me and I graciously accept.

"But daddy is eating as well," Ita grumbles, still keeping her eyes on her father.

"Everyone's here though," dad simply said with another bite of his slice of bread.

"He's an ill-mannered pig, Ita. If you want to grow up into a proper adult you'd best not make an idol of your dad," mom said. She takes another bowl and pours another serving of stew, sitting down and beckoning Kevin over to her side, which he obliged. She took a spoonful of her pottage, making sure to get a couple of bits of meat, and fed him a mouthful of the stuff. The porridge itself was made up of carrots, onion, bits of pork and of course grain, I could tell salt was added but not much. She did not serve dad, forcing him to make the effort of serving himself. Which he did with no complaint. Repositioning himself back we ate in silence for a bit, Ita looking for any more bruises or injuries over me at a distance and mom switching between feeding herself and feeding Kevin and his small asks for more. Kevin of course could feed himself, but he was a bit sloppy. Better on her part to feed him and let him eat by himself some other time. I was idly eating, and dad decided to bring up a new conversation.

"The chief is looking to hunt an auroch soon, he's taking ten of the men and some of the boys on the hunt. Ever thought of joining, Attie?" Before I could nod my head yes my mom decided to give her opinion on the matter.

"He doesn't have to go, Neill. He's not a hunter and can't communicate effectively to begin with, he could get hurt," I could tell they've had this conversation before by the exasperated tone of my mom's voice.

"It'll be his choice, Rowena. He's going to become an adult soon and it'd be a damn shame if he hasn't gone on a single hunt or fight himself by then," replies dad, taking another mouthful of the porridge. Ita makes herself smaller, probably unconsciously. I tap my spoon again the bowl in order to remind both of them that I'm here. My dad looks at me and continues. "I could put a word to the chief that you'll be willing to join. You're a herbalist, although Dorcha," the herbalist, a nickname given to her since we can't pronounce her name well enough to her liking, "would be counted among the men, having you brought along would be no trouble."

"Neill," mom says again both a plea and a threat.

"Can the man not think for himself?" Placing the bowl down on his lap, both mom and dad stare at me waiting for my reply. I wanted to join to begin with, so I nodded in affirmation to my wanting to join. Dad nods, and mom looks at me with shock.

"Attie!" moms stops feeding either herself or Kevin now, looking almost betrayed. It pangs my heart to see her look at me with such an expression, but I truly did want to go. All I've done throughout my youth was either farm or collect herbs, meditate and be forced taught a near encyclopedia worth of information on how to deal with minor aches and back pain. I might've not been able to do much in the hunt granted my lack of skill in anything but the club, which even with the club wasn't great, but the chance of experiencing anything of such thrill as hunting an auroch I wouldn't pass. Even if mom were to cry I would still go. Of course, I could not express any of this, I could only look at mom in the eyes and not turn my gaze. Sensing my resolution she hardens her face and goes back to her cycle of feeding. Her movements a bit more harsh than they were before. "Fine," she finally says, resolution in her voice. Dad would most likely have to deal with the backlash later.

"There you go, Rowen," dad says with some delicacy, making sure not to let any sound of triumph leave his mouth, he looks at me and tells me of what I should prepare for the hunt. No weapon is better than the one you're most familiar with, but depending on the chief's approval I should pick something up like a spear. My dad did own a spear, a copper tipped one tanged at the end. It was made for him and his height, which although was average would still be unwieldy for my size. But perhaps more length against an auroch would be better, more distance for me as long as the shaft would hold up to its might. I had everything I needed already, the herbs, the cloak, the clothes and shoes, and of course my club. The herbs especially, I had both useful charms and premade salves in case of everyday injuries or requests. I would at the worse have to use more than was normal, but that didn't matter to me. I wanted to join and I wanted to be useful. The price I had to pay for that is comparatively inconsequential.

"We'll speak with Ronan later today." Dad continued, "the hunt will most likely last two days, at most three. Maybe less depending on whether you can find a bull fast enough. We'll prepare for you food supplies, don't worry about that. After we're done eating go make yourself look presentable, tidy your hair and try to wipe off any dirt on your clothes."

We ate in silence after that, me a bit faster than normal so that I may leave early. Kevin looking nearly oblivious to the happenings that surrounding him, and Ita looking mildly uncomfortable throughout the entire exchange. Mom didn't look at her husband but spared some glances at me, always an angry glare more than a look of worry. Regardless we ate our food, Kevin becoming full and rejecting any more spoonfuls of porridge and instead choosing to eat his share of bread while playing with a small badly carved wooden human figure.

Having finished eating I placed my bowl next to me, along with my spoon, grabbed my club and headed outside. I headed back towards the backyard of our house, a fenced area next to several other roundhouses similarly fenced and shaped. I took off my cloak and beat it with my club just to try to get any extremely obvious dirt on it off. I inspected my tunic, and my trousers, and was satisfied as I could be with how clean everything was. Putting my cloak back on and tying it back in place, as I only had a lace rather than a brooch, I practiced swinging my club.

---

Ronan was the chief of our village. A muscular man standing nearly a head taller than the average, he was an imposing figure for most. Perhaps only his wives saw him in a different light, but most wouldn't want to seriously go against him as he was both a learned and experienced man. A Druid in his own right, he knew maths and acted both with a warrior's vigor and a wiseman's experience, experience which he had plenty of. Breaking through his fortieth winter his hair and beard was speckled white in areas, a stark contrast to its original dark brown richness. But his musculature had not lessened. He had earned his worth in battle and was the owner of many treasures, one of which was a copper sword that he would never leave his home without. He had founded this village twenty years back through the might of his arms, although still modest in size, no man would intentionally go out of his was to disrespect him. But he did not rule as a tyrant. He had a learned grace to him, his judgements were just and rarely rash. He knew when to add passion to his voice, when not to, when to soothe and when to rebuke. If he didn't he wouldn't have been able to be the chief of our village, let alone a leader of warriors.

And here we stood, father and I, in front of him. Asking for my permission to join the hunt. Father anxious and ready to provide arguments of my benefit and me doing my best to look confident.

"Sure, he can come."

With that Ronan went back to stretching his bow, taking aim at a tree some twenty yards away and letting loose his arrow. A thunk resounded back to us, and his son offered his complaints.

"But he's dumb, father. He can't speak or respond to orders, he'll only be a burden to us," Phelan replied. A young boy of eleven, he was the second oldest son of Ronan and small time bully of children. Not being of incredible strength himself he would rely on the arms of his companion, Éamonn. It wasn't that Phelan was small or weak for his age, the opposite could more easily be said, but he was still a boy of only eleven. No amount of skill in wrestling or brawling could make up for the fact that visually he was not an imposing sight. But Éamonn was different. A boy three years Phelan's elder and a single year my own elder, he made up for what Phelan lacked with his own size. It wasn't just that he was older. Éamonn was wider than even some full grown men and had the muscles to fill it, his was a primeval display of power that couldn't be trained but only wished for. But more important than his size, and even more important than his strength, was his stupidity and obedience. Proud and arrogant and knowing of the gift of strength he had, Éamonn would still listen to the orders of Phelan. Through what methods had Phelan earned this obedience I didn't know, but Éamonn was a tool that he wasn't afraid of using. Even now Éamonn nodded at Phelan's words. If one was around, the other would be close.

"Don't need to talk to carry herbs or meat. Worst he could do would be to steal my kill, very unlikely in itself." He knocked another arrow on his string and continued, "much more likely would be him showing himself braver than you, Phelan," pulling at the string of his bow, which was nearly his own height, he let loose another arrow, giving back a similar thunk as his shot before. I suppose he would've had to be a good shot as well.

"What if he spots a bear or wolves but is unable to tell us?" Phelan said, grasping at an argument he knew he didn't have. "What if he takes out his resentment on us, this might be a ploy to enact revenge on a deed no villager is guilty of."

"Best keep your own eyes out on that, then. He will come, now shut up before I beat some manners into you, boy," again with another display of his imposing musculature Ronan lets loose another arrow. Not even granting a glance of the effectiveness of his threat, Phelan closed his mouth and said no more. I could swear his freckled face made an even greater contrast against his skin now, paling at the thought of disobeying a direct order from his father.

My own dad took notice of the end of the little back and forth and decied now was the best time to express his gratitude, "Thank you, Chief Ronan. My son won't be burden on you I promise, it can't hurt to have another herbalist with you. Plus he's a-"

"Enough, I know his worth and skills." Having run out of arrows and patience Ronan stops my dad's speaking and turns to me. I stand up a little straighter, a task probably impossible, and listened. "Attie, wasn't it?" I nod, "you've got the sight, haven't you? Would you be able to do what Dorcha or her daughter failed to do and be able to and cure my son of his stupidity?" I looked over at Phelan at that, his face a growl, and turned back to Ronan with no answer. "Too hopeful on my part. Was trading your voice for the sight worth it, lad? I've never been gifted with it, unfortunately." I furrowed my brows at that, an action Ronan payed no attention to. "You may go now, go and prepare Attie food provisions and nothing else, not even soap. I do not want him joining in directly on the hunt but more hands to carry meat with and more healing from a herbalist is welcome. Wake up before lightbreak tomorrow and meet us infront of my home. Bring with you a spear or any other weapon or tool you want."

"Of course, thank you Chief Ronan. We'll take our leave now," with a bright smile from dad we both made our leave. I didn't know entirely what the chief meant by his comment, but I wouldn't really say 'trading my voice for the sight' was worth it. Both Brenna and the Herbalist can see despite having a voice. Was he referring to some druidic custom? I don't know, but I had no way of asking.

Walking back through the dirty snow covered path down the slight hill from which the chief's own home was built on in silence, we walked through the now darkening day and past the various homes of villagers to our house. Our own home was nearly on the outskirts, if such a thing could e said to exist in a place this size, of the village. We owned no pigs and subsequently no wool production of our own, no cows although no one else owned any cows either. Our village would trade wool in exchange for dairy from the herders who typically stayed less than a day's travel. The chief owned most of the woolly pigs and most of the villagers, while do owning pigs of their own, would trade with him for dairy goods and items. There is even some talk of the chief making trades with the forest guardians, small wooden trinkets like chaplets made of solid oak of various designs, of both quality and intricacy no villager has seen on anything but the druids within the larger villages and towns. All we had were our fields and trees from which my dad would spend most of his time cutting down with the help of others, both for firewood and to clear up more land.

Making it back to our house, small compared to the chief's roundhouse but of adequate size, dad prepared to meet mom and I prepared my various herbs and charms. Checking and rechecking the spells, an arduous task for someone like me, I bid my time until the day would end. Going out back and practicing the swings of my clubs, horizontal swings mostly relying heavily on the wrists. Small thrusts, back handed swings, switching the stick from my right hand to my left in order in order to swing twice in quick succession. Lightly sweating from exertion despite the cold, I practiced the club despite no realistically using it in the hunt. It was at about this point, when the day was nearly over, that my dad came out with his spear solemn in face.

"Attie, you've not been trained in the use of the spear." Dad started with that and I nodded in confirmation, "I would've brought it to you faster but I wanted to refasten the spear point with new leather straps. Drop your club, watch my form. It's a simple weapon to hold and wield, although it was made for me to fight against others it would do you well against the bull."

Dad grasps the spear towards the end of it, not directly at the end but leaving an inch or two of material. Both ends of the spear were tapering, one having the actual copper blade strapped and presumably tanged in place and the back tapered for a purpose I couldn't ask. He dropped his knees and left his hands roughly a shoulder width apart, then thrusts. A simple one moving directly forward, he repeats.

"That is the simplest movement you can do with a spear. I would not suggest using an overhand position unless you want to throw it like a javelin, which you very well might. But we won't practice that. I don't want my spear getting split in half by accident," dad warns, "the next is the sliding thrust. What you want is to slide the pole through your left and using the right hand as the driver, extending both the range and the speed of the thrust."

In demonstration dad slides the pole between his hands, and then thrusts with it. The speed is faster, how much more effective this thrust is in comparison I can't tell. "Can't use it with shields, though," dad said.

"Finally if the need ever comes for it, the butt of the spear can be planted into the ground and directed towards the charging bull. You are not stronger than a bull, neither is Chief Ronan and all the men alive save for perhaps the Tuath Dé, and you should not stand at the mercy of his charge. Use his own strength against him, plant the spear into the ground and let him impale himself upon the stick," showcasing the point of the tapered end dad stabs the spear into the ground and leans it forward. "Ideally you would not need to do this, but if push comes to shove this would be useful. Stand behind a tree if it truly gets bad. Alright?" I nod at that, both to his asking of understanding and to the advice. He hands me the spear and I practice the movements.

Dropping down into the proper stance, left hand with the palm facing away and right with the palm facing inward I thrust the spear out. No sliding of the pole against hands, a simple thrust, slightly bending my left knee in order to get some more range.

"Good, do that twenty more times," dad tells me, and I did as he told. Twenty times of the same simple movement, dad counting each thrust with a finger, minor corrections of my form being made. My stance not being low enough being the one most commonly said, second to leaning forward too much. After confirming I had indeed complete twenty thrusts, two times ten fingers, he made me move on to the sliding thrust. Twenty of the same, is the spear really all the complicated?

"All you need to know are these three things, the simple thrust, the sliding thrust, and the plant. You are not fighting a man. You are fighting a bull. Do those movements until you feel familiar enough with them, and head inside. You might stink of sweat a bit but that's not new, you'll need to sleep early today for tomorrow," he made way back inside after that. I stayed out for a bit longer, practicing the movements. Trying to keep my stance low and steady. It's really starting to burn though.