The hills, the rain, and the great Máthair mountain that towered over the world. Within my village of over three hundred people, in the village I had spent the entirety of my life in, within the land of the chief whom I called my father, I was immensely bored. Days of sparring, of waking up to eat, drink, fight, train and then go back to bed to await the next day of the same cycle, no pause and rest between days. Only the constant training for a battle that might soon come, if I were to listen to the words my father.

I hope that day would come. I did not know how to farm, and neither did I know much of any crafts. Art wasn't my strength, to those things my father would give to my siblings. In me he wanted a fighter, a warrior, a man who will lead others in battle, to protect the village if need be. But more importantly, as a champion for the people of his village. A son that was excellent in the ways of fighting would bring him honor, as it did bring me honor. For that purpose, I would wake up and train for an eventual battle. One day, one year. For sixteen years I've been raised for this purpose.

Of course, I had been taught other things as well. Numbers, suited for the nobility, some amount of scripts, although those are rarely used. Why write things down when memorizing them was easier? But the writing, at least, was only for show. Anyone could count, but actual maths were most useful for those who made their livings off of trade and leadership. I was only vaguely one of those, and only to men who wanted to fight and die for glory.

Wearing my dirty clothes, a tunic from which deep red could be seen if you looked close enough between the gaps of dirt and grass stains, and my much less colorful trousers. Today it wasn't raining, meaning my daily jogging wouldn't be all that difficult. Today I had been training in the art of wrestling, the men of the village would put themselves against me, seeing how far they can last, or how quickly then can beat me for the more veteran of men.

Right now I wasn't facing such a man. Instead a soon to be fully grown boy of roughly fourteen, trying his best to catch me off guard and throw me down. No gouging of the eyes, or punches were allowed, as both of those would be too bloody and too crippling for long training to be done. We would wrestle until one of us gave up, a tapping on the ground signifying that forfeit, or if one of our backs touched the ground. This particular boy has never beaten me, and I've never been one to relish in the agony of others. I'll make this quick.

Standing parallel to each other, I grabbed his right wrist with my own right hand, and he grabbed my left. We tugged at each other for a bit, waiting for a sign of weakness. He was much smaller than me, he was still a boy growing and I had already surpassed the height of most of the men of the village. If I wanted to I could throw him off balance just through strength alone. But relying on strength so often isn't something I enjoy, either.

I let go of his right hand, and let it wander around freely, for a better place to grab. He saw me letting go as a sign of weakness and tried to trip me, getting close to me, pulling me roughly with his hands and trying to get his feet behind my legs. None of this, of course, worked, as my own foot work would be enough to guard against these attempts. I placed my hand behind his neck and pulled down, something he had ample experience against. He didn't fall onto his knees, as he wasn't too invested in his movements, but instead pulled back and prepared to place energy into walking backward. I took the opportunity, the rise of his neck and of his body, to get down and take his legs from beneath him, throwing him on his back and me on top.

If this was a fist fight I would would pummel him until he submitted, or if I had a dagger I would stab at his throat and move on, but this was wrestling. This match was over, and I got up and waited for the next challenger. I would always have at least one person to spar against, my father had made sure anyone who volunteered would be compensated for the time spent wrestling against me. Many men would come, sometimes boys like this one who wanted a break from the daily suffering of farm work. Women I had wrestled against occasionally, but they've stopped coming once my body and strength grew larger than their own, much to their displeasure.

I would probably spend most of the day wrestling. Practice with spear and shield would sometimes happen, but those were group activities rather than ones fit for champions. Much more often I would train with my sword and shield against others, the compensation being the same as the time spent wrestling against me. There were some warriors, who spent a large majority of their time training for fights. But these numbered no more than five, six if I was included. These men served the role of guards rather than as soldiers.

But six men who know how to fight would do well against the other tribes. We can field twenty men in battles, as all of the people within our village were freemen who both had land and weapons. Within other villages the men who could be called to fight were substantially fewer, and they were forced to form coalitions in order to field enough men to fight against us. We weren't always so prosperous, as my dad would say, it wasn't until we acquired within our people a herbalist. A man, experienced and wise, who had reduced the amount of deaths by unnatural causes by half of what it use to be.

Before, our people knew very little magic. I myself had the gift of vision but I had no training in it, so it was mostly useless to me. I could form rudimentary spells, but the herbalist would scoff at them and say they're nothing compared to the art he's capable of wielding. Neither would he train me, and neither did my father allow me training in magic. It was too dangerous, he thought. That wasn't completely unfounded, the tales of wicked druids who'd cast terrible spells on those who've insulted or blighted them, killing them at best instantly, at worse through agonizing years where men lost everything. Sometimes entire villages would be destroyed due to upsetting a single man. All this told me was that father didn't trust me.

But that didn't matter to me much. I had my arms, my might, the strength I had spent years of my life cultivating to as close as perfection as I could reach. Older men, often times stronger men, could beat me still, but that was in contests of strength. In skill, I was on par with the best. Nothing less should be expected.

I spent the day wrestling, sometimes losing due to careless mistakes or rash stupidity, but more often winning. Three men cycled against me, and I would scarcely a break. Building endurance was pivotal for showing complete domination over enemies, in battle I would not be given much rest. Perhaps only in the gaps between strikes would I find it. But my day was over, and my daily jogging around the perimeter of the village was also over. I would wash myself and go to the small roundhouse my father had gifted me and called my own.

I had no wife, either. Not because no women wanted me, or that I didn't want any either. But because my father wouldn't accept a marriage until I participated within my first battle. He wouldn't want me wasting the chastity of one of a woman just to have me die within my first fight. I didn't mind this fact much, either. I've learned how to control most of my sexual urges, or redirect pent up frustration in fighting. Some virtue can be found in restraint.

But, this also meant I had no one to take care of my home. I would be given clothes and food, and be expected to cook for myself. I've gotten used to this, the company of men had never interested me much. And my family, my father's roundhouse and my brothers and sisters who've already started their own families, weren't all that far. If I wanted company I could spend time with them, or with the men who had grown fond of my presence and my fighting spirit.

But this has become tiring. In truth I've never been all that interested in fighting. I can appreciate it, I can appreciate the amount of dedication needed to perfect yourself within the art, but there's also very little real merit in simply being good at beating people. I've never killed anyone. That fact alone proved that I was more of a decoration than a real man. I would maintain my weapons, my collection of spears, my sword which had been gifted to me on my fifteenth birthday. My shield, oval and wooden with a central grip, everything here is standard for freemen to have.

But each one was more or less empty accessories to a play warrior. No blood was on my sword, and neither was there blood on my spears. I knew some amount of archery, enough to have gotten a trophy kill on a buck. And aurochs, there comes a point when killing them becomes less of a thrill and more of a mockery of how little strength meant against numbers. Boars, those do exist. I had fought against one with a spear as well, he had broken it and I had resolved not to play with the rage of such animals. I wasn't injured, but the shaft had to be replaced.

I'll speak to my father in the morning about this growing apathy. Perhaps he'd have something for me to do. Perhaps we'll organize a raid against another village, finally. It's been six years since the last time he organized a raiding party, normally it wouldn't be uncommon to lead one every two or three years. My father would never tell me why, just to be patient and wait for the eventual day, when the gods themselves will tell him is the right time to start again.

For now, I'll sleep. Alone. The guards of our tribe will be on lookout, and all the men were expected to sleep near to their weapons. If a raid would come to us, which hadn't happened in six years, we would know.

---

Morning came. The light of the sun shining upon our hills, and upon the west side of the mountain. It wasn't raining today, either. That was a good sign.

Heading towards my father's home, I greeted back the occasional greeting from tribesmen I passed by. No children would greet me, however, probably out of fear rather than disrespect. That's fine as well.

My father's roundhouse, as a man of great wealth his own house reflected that. Several buildings could be seen attached to a central one, and even then there would be houses for his pigs. Land for his cows, as well, surrounded him. We've been in these lands for several generations, and the forest that use to cover this land had been pushed back into farther reaches. Plenty of grazing lands could be found, good for raising cattle. Even the cattle had their own houses in which they could sleep in.

I spotted my sister walking out of the pig's sty, or rather the pig's roundhouse, carrying a bucket that looked to be empty.

"Damhnait, good to see you working so early today. Are you bringing the pigs water?" I asked, slightly raising my voice and waving my hand in greeting. Damhnait was roughly twelve years old, from what I can remember, one of seven of my siblings. She had the same fiery red hair as I did, and the same grey eyes. We were born from the same mother, sharing so much similarity was to be expected.

She turned her head to me and gave a light, tired smile. "Good morning, Elgin. Good to see you coming first thing in the morning to your family rather than out fighting. And yes, I am."

Perhaps the smile wasn't tired, but sarcastic. I've not the best at reading faces. "Whatever, candle-top. Need help with carrying the water?"

"We've both got the same hair color, you know." Turning away from me, Damhnait walked towards the river to gather more fresh water for the pigs. Had they drunk a lot?

"Is that a no?"

"It's a yes, pick up a bucket and help." Jogging over to where an extra bucket had been lying around, I made my way next to my sister and walked in silence for a bit. When she was younger, Damhnait use to enjoy spending time watching the boys wrestle, or occasionally fist fight, and when things got wild enough use to occasionally join in on the competitions herself. But, after getting a few more scars than a girl really ought to on her face our mother had forbidden me from allowing her to participate, or even watch, the fights. As the primary wife of dad, she had enough power in her words to force me and my sister to obey. Or my dad would suffer the consequences, and then we would as well.

A dainty girl with more skill than she had muscle, she would win fights through ferocity and technique rather than strength. Something that worked for her well, for a while.

But that time had passed. Now, she's convinced our mom to tend to the farm animals rather than spend her life weaving and attending to looms and spindles. Perhaps dad had decided I was to be the knight of the family, and no one else, just from the athletic qualities of our mother's blood, and perhaps Damhnait had gotten more of it than I had. She certainly liked fighting more than I did, at least. I don't know if she does it anymore, most likely not.

She caught my staring and looked at me from the corner of her eyes, "is there something on my face? My hair? Hardly believe how much of a beauty I've grown to be since the last time you saw me?"

"I saw you yesterday, quit acting like we don't meet each other everyday. I was just wondering where my brave little sister went, and how low she's fallen to be the mere servant to pigs and cows."

"Seeing each other isn't the same as meeting, it's been weeks since we've last talked to each other for more than a few sentences. I think this is the most you've talked to me in weeks, too. And I like the animals, I don't care if you think it's lowly."

She's starting to give me pangs of conscience. We walked silently for a while, my sister seemingly unfazed and looking directly ahead, and me thinking of something to respond, to continue the conversation with. Family had sort of left my mind for a while, I'll admit to that.

"Anything new happen with the animals, then? All of them are okay?" If she liked animals so much then she should like talking about them, right?

"Nessa had given birth to a litter of seven last week. She's recovered fine from the ordeal and all the piglets are healthy. The wool had already been shaved from under her belly so they're nursing fine." Damhnait said, not looking over to me as she talked. Is she angry? The aura around her was more calm than angry, but there was always a light yellow to her aura. She probably wasn't angry.

"Who's Nessa?"

Damhnait looked over at me this time. We had reached the river at this point, and both of use were letting water into the buckets. This time I could see a shift in her aura, a light red flowing from her hands. That means she's planning violence. Only for a split second did it last, until she calmed down and the light blue returned.

"The matriarch of the pigs. I've already told you all the names of the pigs, you've even met them all while I did so." She looked angry as she talked, but I could tell the anger was more of a false front, a slight change in the tone of blue started to develop around her, the sign of sadness and introspection. Thank the divine for giving me this sight, I wouldn't be able to deal with this girl otherwise.

"They're pigs, why should I have to memorize them all myself? You know I'm bad with names." In my defense I tried to make my tone gentle, but that wasn't cutting it. Another burst of red came from her hands, and another quick containment of her anger. My sister didn't look at me this time, and didn't answer until we were halfway back to the house. I'm starting to get the feeling that I had messed up.

"I went out of my way to name each of the pigs for you when you asked for their names, this was a month ago. I don't care if you think they're just pigs, don't ask me for their names of you aren't going to put in the effort to memorize them. And don't ask me about the animals if you don't actually care."

"I'm sorry, Dam. I didn't mean to upset you," I relented and apologized. Damhnait didn't say anything, even after we dumped the water within our baskets into the water trough. "Where's dad?"

"Probably out in the farm pretending to work." A curt response, and probably an accurate one. I gave my thanks and headed over to the family farm, almost directly next to our roundhouse, positioned on top of a hill. Well, most houses were. We'd had to terrace the land a bit at times in order to get good farmlands going, but we were able to farm very well considering the size of our village.

Father was in fact out near the fields, sharpening his copper sickle as other men cut at the wheat for him. I know he worked, but he would take more time resting than he really should. I hailed him from the distance to grab his attention.

"Elgin! I don't feed you to be out here in the fields, what business do you have being out here?" He said, I'm sure half joking considering the smile he had on his face. His aura was lightish blue, sort of dark but it's always been dark, for as long as I could remember.

"I have something I want to speak to you about, father." I didn't say what, not until I was closer. I wasn't trying to attack his authority by mentioning the lack of raids.

"And you can't wait until tonight to speak of it? I've got work to do, Elgin."

Ah, he's right. But I've made my way all the way over here already. "I couldn't get it off of my mind," finally reaching close enough to him to whisper silently. "I'll get to the point, since I don't want to waste your time. It's about the raids. Why haven't we gone on one? I've old enough to go into battle now, dad. Everyday I wonder just how much longer do I have to play these games of pretend with the village men, the dread of uncertainty has made itself home in my breast."

The smile was wiped off the face of dad. Instead, a serious look took its place, his eyes looking into mine carefully. He finally sighed, perhaps figuring something out from my face.

"Elgin, I know you're longing for a fight, but trust me. We'll go on a raid soon, just keep training. I've got work to do now, we'll speak about this later." He turned away and started to head towards the field, but I grabbed his shoulder, not letting him.

"How soon is soon? What day? What month? How long do you want me to wait for?" Perhaps my voice was too loud, or my actions too brash, but dad placed grabbed my own finger and twisted it painfully, not injuring me, probably, and made me let go. His eyes scowling, he looked around for anyone who was watching this interaction go by. No one was, perhaps out of fear.

"I feed you, I gave you a house, I assure you honor and glory. Do not doubt my words, son."

Holding my finger close to my chest, I nodded. The finger wasn't broken, but he put more strength into that than probably necessary.

Heading back to my house, I needed to gather water and eat before I train. The day, as I had thought, would be another boring one. Perhaps I should spend some time thinking up ways to make up my insincerity to Damhnait. Either way, it was another day of training, and then finally another night to sleep alone. I didn't go to meet father, I didn't think he wanted my presence.

Preparing myself to bed, I went to sleep that night wondering what sort of challenges I might face in the morning. No thoughts of how to make up for my words to my sister came to me.

Perhaps fortunately, that night I heard the sounds of screaming, and the yelling of men to grab weapons.