Search the Community

Hello everyone! This story will take a different twist after part 1. Oliver is 18 years old. Marcus is 39. The Captain is 20. This story takes place in an old time when pirates were still a thing. Hope you all like it! Feel free to leave suggestions and comments! ------------------ Part 1 The sky was clear, the tides appeared to be calm and the temperature was… well, bearable. Oliver thought that luck was finally on their side. He had boarded this ship weeks ago, and since then only disaster had followed him and the crew. Terrible storms, huge waves, assaulting rival pirates, killing mermaids and even a giant kraken. It had been days of tiring work and lots of dead, but it looked like he could finally have a break from disaster and relax. The boy pulled out a small mirror from his bag and tried to fix his hair. He had messy blonde hair, freckles and a small nose. His green eyes glanced over his face, satisfied with being somewhat adorable looking. He then looked down through the reflection and sighed. Regardless of his attractive facade, Oliver was very disappointed with his body. He was slightly athletic thanks to his sailing job, yet he still felt very skinny. If he wasn’t wearing any clothes, he could’ve seen his thin arms, his flat chest, and his rib bones showing a little. At least he had some decent abs… “What ya doin’, pretty eyes?” Oliver blinked and lost the attention on his mirror. His pal Marcus had showed up out of nowhere, putting an arm around his shoulders. The man was middle aged, ugly as they come. He was missing several teeth, had a dirty beard, and a belly so inflated that Oliver thought it would pop like a bubble at any moment. But despite his disgusting looks, the blonde boy and the hideous pirate had become friends even before boarding the ship. Marcus was fun to be around, and he had a gentle heart, always willing to help his smaller companion. “Looks like our problems are finally over, eh?” Marcus said, extending his arm towards the vast ocean. Oliver chuckled “We shouldn’t let our hopes get too high. I bet another disaster is about to hit us. This is just the sea making fun of us before it does”. “Eerr… aren’t ya a positive one” Marcus went serious all the sudden, observing the horizon “The tide Gods haven’t been generous with us this trip. But I assure you, we will reach the new lands in no time now. The Captain is making sure of it”. The blonde boy frowned “The Captain…”. Oliver had mixed feelings about the Captain. The guy was only a few years older than him, and both of them were younger than everybody in the ship. Still, Oliver was treated like a subordinate, while everyone respected the Captain in an almost religious manner. The blonde boy could see why though… The Captain’s only presence imposed respect and fear. The young man was two heads taller than Oliver, and his body was built with gigantic muscle able to crush anybody that opposed him. The Captain’s frame was lean, yet large enough to stretch out his clothes. He had long dark hair, and piercing blue eyes that sent shivers down your spine whenever you looked at them directly. One large scar went across his nose, while a smaller one decorated his chin. He was a gorgeous, yet terrifying person. Oliver had admired the Captain at first. However, as time passed in the sea, the blonde boy began to envy him. Whenever they were in trouble, the muscular man would save everyone with his powerful body. The Captain was the one that defeated all of their invading enemy pirates with merely his fists. He was the one that wrestled the kraken down. And the one that made the mermaids forget about eating them by making them fall in love with him. Meanwhile, Oliver was sent to clean and cook, unable to defend himself from all the threats, or to help his dying crew friends. “He is a brave man, that one..” said Marcus all the sudden, burping before continuing talking “I have to admit, when I met him I doubted someone so young would be able to navigate the seas. I didn’t even think he could control a whole crew!” “Well, he hasn’t gotten us to the new lands yet…” said Oliver in a low tone, but Marcus didn’t listen to him. “But I am telling ya! After seeing how heroic and strong the Captain is, I have no more doubts about him! I would follow him to the end of the world, ya know! We could all learn more from him…” Marcus seemed to be daydreaming about the young man, and that made Oliver uncomfortable. “Are you in love with him or something?” the blonde guy said, teasing his friend. Instead of being offended, Marcus bursted out laughing “HAH! Aren’t we all on this ship!? Some are saying he is even a demigod, I’m telling ya!” Oliver didn’t expect that answer. He rolled his eyes and walked away. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you later, I am not done mopping the main deck” More weeks passed without anything eventful happening. Oliver cleaned, mopped, and cooked as always. He felt relieved that there were no more life threatening things going on, but a new problem was starting to arise. The crew was feeling uneasy; they should've been approaching the new lands by now. However, the ship was still sailing across the vast open ocean, with no shore to be seen anytime soon. Oliver’s friends began to fear that they were going in the wrong direction, but everybody respected (or feared) the Captain too much to demand answers. Besides, the Captain was not seen around the ship much anymore, as he stayed in his cabin most of the time, unless he came out to give orders. Oliver mostly felt unbothered by the situation. Or that was until one night the crew organized a meeting to see who would go ask the Captain about the trajectory of the ship. The filthy pirates started to discuss what to do calmly at first, yet the conversation quickly turned into a heated discussion. “I am not going over there! Have you seen the arm of that man!? It’s bigger than my leg!” someone said. “You are a coward! He is our Captain, he wouldn’t hurt us for a simple question” someone else argued. “Then why don’t you go ask him!?” a third one demanded. “Anyone know if we have more whisky?” added Marcus, clearly drunk. “He deserves respect, he is a demigod! Didn’t you see how he beated up that kraken!?” another one yelled. People kept screaming and pointing fingers. Oliver was just sitting in the corner, cleaning his tiny mirror with some cloth. He listened for a while and tried to ignore the noise. The accusations and demands kept getting louder, and Oliver was feeling more frustrated by the second. The boy clenched his teeth. “Be quiet!” he said, but he was so small that nobody noticed him. He grunted in rage and stood up. “SHUT UP!” he yelled “You are all pathetic! I’ll go talk to him!!!”. This time the crew heard him, and they went silent. All eyes were on Oliver, and he immediately felt embarrassed. Then everyone started laughing. “You!? The Captain will crush you with his finger alone” one person said. “Hah! The Captain is three times your size!” another mentioned. “Seriously guys, where is the whisky?” Marcus commented, scratching his head. “Go back to the kitchen, boy!” someone yelled. Oliver’s face turned red and he clenched his fists in rage. He gave the crew a defiant expression, and stormed out. The crew just kept laughing behind him, thinking that the blonde boy had gone to cry in his room. But Oliver felt a bright flame inside him, and he headed to the Captain’s cabin. “Stupid pirates, you’ll see” Oliver stood in front of the cabin’s door for a moment. He raised his fist with hesitation, doubting if he should do this after all. Then he remembered the crew laughing at him, and he knocked the door with rage. No answer. He knocked again, and again. Only the sound of the waves against the ship could be heard. Oliver was about to knock a fourth time when the door opened. The blond boy almost fell down on his butt as the huge frame appeared in front of him. “C-captain. A-ahoy!” Oliver managed to stutter. The Captain was so tall that his wide chest was facing Oliver’s face. The young man was wearing elegant sailor clothes, but he had ripped his shirt’s sleeves off to reveal his enormous arms. He looked down at the blonde boy, and Oliver felt some kind of hatred and admiration towards him. The Captain had a youthful face, almost the same as Oliver, but that was the only similar aspect between the two. The large pirate had a prominent beard that was trimmed short with a knife. His hair was bushy and heroic looking. He was bigger, stronger, and more attractive than anyone on the ship. Oliver frowned, frustrated with the idea that this guy was almost his same age, yet more of a man he would ever be. The Captain tilted his head without saying anything, awaiting for Oliver to speak. His chest was raising up and down, his breath clearly displaying the power his body possessed. Oliver swallowed, and then stood firmly “T-t-the- c-c-rew...” He shut his mouth, enraged that he was too nervous to talk. The Captain simply chuckled and turned his back to him. “Come in” Oliver looked at the back of the Captain, twice his own torso. He walked inside and observed the cabin. The place was filled with mirrors, way too many for a normal room. The desk was full of maps and other sailing objects. From the window, the moonlight sprayed it’s brightness over the frame of the large Captain. The man was looking at one of the many reflective glasses, his blue eyes locked on his own body. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said the Captain. Oliver raised an eyebrow, unsure of what he was talking about. “What is?” The Captain raised his arm and flexed. His biceps rose up like a mountain, muscle stretching his skin thin. The blonde boy couldn’t stop staring, amazed by how hard and strong the muscle looked. “My body, of course…” commented the Captain. Oliver narrowed his eyes, confused. He looked away and pretended that he was not drooling over the sculpted body of the Captain. “S-sure…” Oliver answered “Um… s-sir. The crew has b-been wondering…” Suddenly Oliver felt a stream of courage running through his being “The crew… The crew has been wondering if we are going in the right direction! We should be arriving in the new land by now, but there is nothing out there except for the ocean! We are starting to question if you are actually capable of navigating this ship. After all, you are just a boy like me” Oliver spoke so quickly he felt almost out of breath when he finished. He looked at the Captain with an exhilarating smile, and instantly felt regret as the man turned to face him. “We are not going to the new land” said the Captain blandly. “W-what?” Oliver felt even smaller while the muscular man approached him. The Captain snatched him by the neck and lifted up his body. He wasn’t choking him, but he was still grabbing him firmly like a puppet. “Was I not clear? We are not going to the new land” the Captain smiled. His smirk would’ve looked terrifying, if his face wasn’t so perfectly handsome... “I have other goals in mind... I might be stronger than anyone in this pathetic ship, but I still can’t navigate a ship on my own. You silly pirates were a great help to get me across the sea though. Thank you” The man flexed the arm he was holding Oliver with, muscle bulging out everywhere. He grinned more “I suppose there is no need to pretend I care about you all anymore, as we are approaching our destination” Oliver started shaking, trying to set himself free “W-what are you doing!? The crew respects you, why are you betraying them like that!? Where are we even going!” The blonde boy grabbed the Captain’s arm, trying to push away. It was like holding a pillar of rock, and Oliver wasn’t sure if he was aroused or scared. He was envious, for sure. He also felt so helpless. The Captain chuckled. He moved Oliver, pulling him towards him. He was now carrying him in his arms. The blonde boy could feel all the hard muscle around him, while the Captain hugged him with his mighty arms like a baby. “Don’t worry, I do not intend to hurt any of you” he locked his blue eyes with Oliver’s “Aren’t you pretty? I might keep you around... I bet you’d like it” Then he walked to one large mirror and smashed Oliver against it. The Captain pushed his frame against his, and started thrusting with his whole figure. Oliver felt like a beast was smashing him, muscle pressing against his own body, pure raw strength overpowering him. The Captain was simply looking at himself flexing, almost making out with his reflection, while Oliver was getting squished. “I am such perfection. Look at my muscles, so strong, so powerful. You are feeling the full power of a perfect being!” Oliver tried to push him away or escape, but it was useless. The Captain’s body was too large and muscular for him to do anything. Nevertheless, the blonde boy soon was now longer scared; he was moaning, his hand grabbing and touching every part of the muscular man. Oliver felt so much admiration, and so much rage and envy… “That 's right. You know your place now” said the Captain, still observing himself instead of the blonde boy “I’ve been watching you, you know? You are the only pretty thing in this hideous ship. Except for me, obviously. You’ll be a great pet” The Captain started thrusting harder, his huge bulge rubbing against Oliver, evidently hard. The mirror started to crack, unable to contain the muscle strength “We are going to a place where I will obtain all the power I deserve. A forgotten place by many, but not me. I will take what’s mine” “I-I… I will not let you get away with his” Oliver managed to yell “I’ll tell the crew. They won’t accept this” The Captain laughed out loud. He then began kissing his reflection, flexing his muscles all over Oliver, pushing him harder and harder against the surface. The mirror finally gave in and broke in pieces. The blonde boy let out a scream of pain, arousal and surprise. The Captain stepped back with a proud grin, breathing intensely, and with his sweaty muscle shining under the moonlight. Oliver just dropped to his knees, and noticed that his crotch was wet. He looked up to the captain, feeling pathetic and defeated. The Captain was still full of energy, and he continued flexing his big muscles while watching them bulge up and harden. Without even bothering to look at Oliver, he said “What is the crew going to do about it? They think I am a demigod! And to be honest, they might be right…” The muscle man grabbed the blonde boy by the shirt and lifted him up. Without warning, he kissed him softly “You and everyone in this ship will keep doing what I say. And you are staying here, with me. There’s nothing you can do about it, my pet” Oliver wanted to run away, to punch him, to scream for help. But he felt so tired, so weak. His vision got blurry, and before he could say anything, he passed out.

Part one may be found HERE Once and future Part two Mr. Blackadda knocked on the door of the cottage. He was accompanied by his manservant Baldrick, by Padarn and and by Padarn's childhood friend Ruadhán, who had fled with his mother to Anglesey from Ireland when he was a baby nineteen years ago. Someone opened the door of the cottage. It was an elderly man with a long white beard, wearing a sky-blue gown and a peculiar and odd-looking sky-blue head-covering. From his belt hang a gilded scythe. "Sorry. I don't want to buy any dish brushes today. Good bye." The old man tried to close the door, but Mr. Blackadda put his foot inside the doorframe. "We are not selling dish brushes, Sir, we are here on behalf of the King." A nervous glint came and went in the old man's gaze. "And how may I help you? I've payed my taxes." "It's not about taxes, Sir. I gather, that you are a bard. Is that correct?" "Oh, that's a different matter, then. Yes, I'm a bard. Do you want to inspect my harp?" "Among other things. May we enter?" "Yes, yes of course. Come on in. And with whom do I have the pleasure to speak?" "I'm Mr. Blackadda. This is my manservant Baldrick. I assume, that you know young Padarn and Ruadhán from the village?" "Ah. Yes. Yes, of course. You grow up so quick. I am known under many names – "Keeper of hidden lore", "The Silver-tongue of Glamorgan" and "The Mauve Oracular Salmon", but you may call me ... Tim!" "I see, Sir. And what do you occupy yourself with?" "I remember past events and genealogies. I am a legal expert. I know the paths of the planets and the stars. I gather herbs and animal parts for medical use. I am an expert in poetry." "Like a druid, then?" "No, of course not. Nothing of the sort. Look: I own a harp, and I'm ready to use it!" "Do you have a license for that harp, Sir?" "Yes, it is hanging there on the wall, surrounded by my diplomas from The Taliesin Institute for Higher Bardology, The Glastonbury Foundation for Alternative Medicine and The Gordon Ramsay Award for Most Foul-tasting Potion in Britain. I'm also a member of the Gorsedd." "I see. It's this one, right under the membership card of Welsh Association for Male Choirs?" "Yes, that's the one. But you haven't explained why you are here." "His Majesty is worried over the S.E.I." "The S.E.I.?" "Yes, the Supernatural Events Index. According to fresh statistics, the occurrence of supernatural events has continuously decreased by 89% over the last twenty years. His Majesty's council is well aware of, that we have to expect a certain cyclicity of boom and bust, but we are now running at an unprecedented low, which is a pity, considering how well supernatural events served the Latinate and Cymrophone establishment in the relatively recent past: Swords emerging in stones, swords emerging from lakes, amphibious abilities, miraculously good eyesight, walking trees, visions of Holy Grails, levitating furniture, age-delaying islands, powerful swans with the ability to pull small ships, invisible castles – et cetera, et cetera." "But why are you asking me about these things?" "I have an official report here, and I would appreciate a second opinion. An Oxford scholar was asked to write an official report, and he says (and I quote): 'The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost; for none now live who remember it.' (end of quote)." Tim fell silent for a while, glanced at a big old book laying on a table, and then spoke reluctantly: "Some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands. Don't tell anyone, but I guard the knowledge about the supernatural islands located in the Atlantic Ocean – one of them rotating around its axle and entirely made of glass. I guard the knowledge about the Earth circulating around the Sun. I guard the knowledge about the dragons asleep under Snowdon and Oxford." "But that's ridiculous! Everyone knows, that the Sun circulate around the Earth!" "Some would say, that some knowledge guard itself. May I ask, what King Maelgwn would do, if he had access to some supernatural item or ability?" "He would use it as a secret weapon, in order to scare any potential attacks off." The facial expressions of at least four persons present changed. Padarn was the first to speak: "Wouldn't he use it, to defend Londinium from the Essex Army?" "What do you say? Is Londinium under attack?", Tim exclaimed. "Don't change the subject. Of course he wouldn't use it. If everybody knew the exact nature of the secret weapon, everyone would like to have one.", Blackadda answered. "But, Sir ...", Baldrick interrupted, "Would the secret weapon have any use as a deterrent, if the Saxons weren't allowed to know that it existed and how dangerous it was?" "Don't interrupt me Baldrick. The son of a Bishop's retinue and a garden gnome wouldn't understand complicated things like politics." "Is any of the kingdoms going to assist Londinium in its time of need?" "I'm not able to speak for any other kingdom than Gwynedd, Tim, but, at the present, His Majesty's council is of the opinion, that it's too early to form any opinion about the Essex-Londinium situation: It might be a false alarm. It might blow over. Essex may leave the area. Alarmism doesn't serve the common good, and to be honest: What good has Londinium ever done for us?" "But if it isn't a false alarm, and what if Londinium is in real danger?" "The options available for His Majesty's council are very limited. There is nothing we can do." "But if Londinium fell, and were annexed to Essex in perpetuity? What would you say to defend your inaction?" "We would say, that it then would be too late to change the state of affairs. Now, do you know any supernatural means, that could serve as a secret weapon?" "Of course not. I'm a bard. Why would I know such things?" Blackadda rose, approached the table, and opened the big old book. He glanced at the pages, and with a disappointed expression he closed the book again. "That's The Book of Getafix, an ancient tome of dru- ... of bardic lore, written in an archaic dialect of Breton. Most of it consist of astrological ephemeridae. It would probably not interest you much." "Let us return to the official report about the S.E.I." "You asked for a second opinion, Mr. Blackadda. In my capacity as a bard, I would say, that supernatural events follow the astrological cycles of the planets and the stars. Some aspects between the two slower planets occur only rarely and many centuries apart. I would agree with the Oxford scholar, that the world is changed, but neither do I believe, that the change is permanent, nor that things are lost forever. It could, however, be centuries until the stars are right again." With a disappointed expression, Blackadda left Tim's cottage, but before the group left the place, Tim whispered in the ear of Padarn: "Gather all young men of the village and come here tonight, but don't tell Blackadda." * * * It was night. Blackadda and Baldrick had left for another village, and Padarn had left his Grandpa sitting before the open fire, enjoying a few glasses of metheglyn after dinner. Padarn had brought Ruadhán and the other young men from the village to Tim's cottage. A bonfire burned in Tim's garden, and the light of the bright full moon fell over the farmstead. Tim's door opened. The bard looked worried: "If anyone is a coward – leave now. If anyone isn't willing to assist anyone under threat of war – leave now. If anyone fear the supernatural – leave now. The others may stay." No one left. "If you are willing to defend the innocent in the hour of their need, you are worthy of the ancient elixir of Getafix. If you are ready, step forward." Padarn's friend wasn't known for his reluctance. Ruadhán brashly stepped forward, the light of the bonfire illuminating his freckled cheeks, his emerald eyes, his honest facial expression and his fox-coloured hair. A very big cauldron bubbled over the bonfire, and unfamiliar aromatic scents filled the nocturnal air. Tim held a ladle in his hand. Then Ruadhán swallowed the fresh and still hot elixir. How long time that lapsed could be anyone's guess, but it wasn't much, until Ruadhán clasped his belly and emitted a brief shout of pain. The group of lads took a few steps backward, and exchanged a few glances of concern. A few moments passed, and then a broad grin spread over Ruadhán's flame-lit face. He began to moan – not in the bad sense of the word – and it seemed like the elixir had a pleasant, perhaps even arousing effect on him, as he arched back, tensed his arm-muscles before himself and exclaimed: "Did I tell you the story of Cúchullain and his warp-spasm? Now I understand how he must have felt. It feels ... Uh! ..." In the flickering yellow-red light of the bonfire and the silvery light of the full moon, the other lads could see how Ruadhán grew taller and wider. Youthful muscles built by toiling at the acre, carrying wood and taking part in the village's armed self-defence practice now grew considerably bigger, and the rosy suntan caused by hard labour at harvest-time soon became more obvious, when Ruadháns widening and hardening back muscles forced themselves out of his linen shirt, together with his impossibly huge shoulders forming a powerful Y-shape none of the lads had ever seen before. "So good! So strong! ... So hard ... Look at me lads! I'm ... Uh! ... I'M INVINCIBLE!" Tim didn't have any difficulties finding suitable candidates for the elixir now: The young men flocked around the cauldron, and it came close to a fisticuff before the serene authority of the bard restored some order and let everyone taste the content of the cauldron in an orderly fashion. Some of the young men, Padarn and Ruadhán included, drank from the ladle twice. Padarn felt how the warmth of the elixir spread in his body, and a brief pain swiftly gave way for an exquisite feeling spreading through his veins, circulating in his veins, trickling like treacle with thunderbolts through his veins and spreading a sense of strength and power. The hair on the back of his head bristled, so did the fine hairs of his forearms. His growing forearms. Hig muscular forearms. Flickering bonfire. Silvery moon. Tight shirt. Painfully tight shirt. Ripping sound. Bursting out. His bulging brawn bursting out of his linen shirt and his woolen plaid trousers. The cool air of the late summer night touching his naked flesh. Surrounded by other young men. Surrounded by youthful bronzed or rosy flesh that became huge and hard and powerful ... Their cobblestone bellies ... The mounds of beef, that were their chests ... The strength ... He couldn't comprehend ... His strength ... His power ... THEIR strength and power ... He and the others ... Together ... Mates ... Becoming warriors from old tales and sagas ... "Look at you mate! Padarn Gadarn!" Padarn Gadarn! Padarn the Great! Yeah! Uh! Padarn the Big! Padarn the Huge! All of them together. Legs of granite-hard beef that pushed each other apart, causing him to waddle ... His back like Ruadhán's back now ... All of them ... Wide ... The scent of dozens of young men's sweat ... Huge together ... Warriors together ... Defend ... The bonfire light and the moonshine on their elated wide-eyed confident faces ... UH! Ruadhán and some of the others roaring ... YEAH! Roaring, like the war-cry of many ancestors ... He had to join them and howl, too ... Beyond seven feet ... Couldn't believe ... Giants ... All of them giants ... Ruadhán was right: INVINCIBLE! INVINCIBLE! ... INV ... Uh! * * * "Say farewell to me, Grandpa, and wish us good luck." It was two days later. Padarn and his fellows towered over the rest of the villagers, only wearing plaid kilts, sturdy leather-boots, belts and leather-wristbands. Some of them had decorative gilded torcs around their powerful bullnecks. Some of the young women watched them shyly at a distance. Some of the middle-aged women stared unashamedly. Grandpa removed some tears from the corner of his eye: "I'm so proud of you, Padarn. I've never seen anything as impressive as you and your friends, not even on the glorious day in my youth, when I watched some of King Arthur's knights ride off to punish Sir Bruce Sans Pitié and his villainous bunch of rogue cataphractarii. They had to kill Sir Tarquin the Dark Knight twice, or so they say. Yet, since Mr. Blackadda told me about the grave danger for Londinium, I worry for the future of Britain." "A few days ago, I was the worried one, and you tried to dismiss my worries. Now you are the worried one. Don't be. Don't spend any thought on the abandonment of Calleva Atrebatum, and King Caradoc's marriage to an Anglo-Saxon princess. Dumnonia is unthreatened! Gododdin stands! Eboracum stands, inside its ancient Roman walls, whatever the Deirian Angles nearby attempt! Elmet stands! Viroconium and Pengwern stands! Caer Gloui stands, and don't blame the descendants of House Vitalianus for what King Vortigern did one hundred years ago. Caer Ceri, Cotswolds and Chilterns stands! Most of the Icknield Way is still in our hands. Essex may believe that Londinium will be theirs, but they haven't seen our might, yet. Don't worry Grandpa. You are Cunedda of Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch! Never forget that. Don't let us lose any time, by too long farewells. I don't say goodbye. I say: Till we meet again!" They were too heavy to ride horses now, so they had had to dismiss the Roman cavalry tactics, which had been applied so successful a few generations ago, at Mons Badonicus in particular. The village blacksmith had told them yesterday, that he didn't have enough metal to make any lorica segmentata their size, so they had to fight unprotected. But why would they wear protection? Their ancestors in the past had considered chainmail and loricas to be the signs of cowardice, and they had entered battle naked or semi-nude. The fearsome war-spirit of a hundred generations of ancient Celts howled in his blood, and he was willing to meet the Saxons alone and single-handed, if needed. It wasn't for the sake of perfidious Albion he was willing to fight: Not for the Kings in their regal halls, not for their ever-talking and scheming councillors in fine livery, not for chauvinism or self-service, but for the farmer women and children fleeing westwards from burning villages in the east, for peaceful craftsmen, who had lost their tools of trade in the tumult of wartime and become eyewitnesses to the human sacrifices the Saxons performed, for monks and nuns praying for peace and treating the ill and wounded in monastic hospitals. In a better future, decades or centuries from now, Welsh and Saxons would possibly be able to trade peacefully with each other, share knowledge of craftsmanship, reach out their hands to each other in friendship, and live together in the common pursuit of happiness, but this was not that time: He had to defend Britain from England. It was for Logres he fought, for the ideals held high back in the age of Arthur, the once and future King: For peace and happiness, for bravery, duty and self-sacrifice, for the protection provided by Law, for the heritage inherited from Druids and Romans, for Saint David and for the Holy Grail! * * * They had walked for many days. None had dared to threaten them, when they crossed the borders of several kingdoms. The last few days, they had followed the Thames valley. They could see Londinium now: The city-walls still intact. They could also see the army camps from Essex surrounding the old Roman city. All of the members of his brawny war band were painting their faces and chests with woad. Scent of woad and freshly woven wool and freshly tanned leather. Padarn had finished his war-paint – now with blue stripes over his massive chest and manly face – rose, and began to talk. The brave and youthful faces of his friends watched him: "Brothers! Comrades in arms! Logres' finest! Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous British lands have fallen or may fall into the grip of Woden-priests and all the odious apparatus of Saxon rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in Brittany, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and strength, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the harbours, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then Anglesey, Isle of Man, the Hebrides and the Isles of Scilly, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the Emerald Island, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of Logres." And then they entered the battle. POSTSCRIPT The above is a fantasy-story, part comedy, part tragedy, not a historical short story, of course, and there are a lot of anachronisms for the sake of laughs, but, despite generously seasoning the story with elements borrowed from such high mediaeval chivalric fiction, which projected back fantastic and supernatural things on the time period 410-600 CE, I have not taken any liberties with the Anglo-Saxon expansion and the Romano-British kingdoms as such: For linguistic reasons, Cerdic "of Wessex" most probably wasn't a Saxon, but a Romano-British petty king who allied himself with the Saxons, and it is highly unlikely, that the word "Wessex" was in use as early as the 6th century The exact circumstances and date of Essex' Anschluss of London are not known from historical sources, but there is no attestation of London being under Essex rule until the early 7th century, and there might have been several failed attempts in the 6th century (although the latter is just conjecture). The frequency of Saxon artifacts inside Londinium's walls grow gradually in excavated layers from the 6th century, but there is no way to say with certainty if this is a sign of conquest or trade. That gives me enough leeway to tell something fictional about an undefined date sometime in the 530s or 540s. The Kingdom of Mercia isn't attested until the 570s CE Pengwern didn't lose a certain amount of independence from Mercia until the reign of Offa (757-796 CE), when any remaining political ties with Powys were cut

PREFACE Any actual growth will take place in the next chapter. The once and future Part one "It was much better in the days of King Arthur.", Cunedda said. "You say that a lot, grandfather.", Padarn answered. "In those days it was easy to get some proper British food, like garum, Cilician and Cypriot wine, olives, kippers and lemons, not these horrendous newfangled European bangers the Anglo-Saxons try to introduce. I haven't eaten proper British olives in years!" "I think bangers are delicious, if you fry them together with kippers and some black pudding for breakfast. They would probably be even better with some fried vegetables, but I don't think turnips make the cut." "I wouldn't even touch bangers with a spear. Without knowing it, next time we would be sitting there celebrating a Saxon October-fest." "I think October-fest sounds nice, grandfather. It's not food I'm worried about." "Which reminds me of the growing problem of binge-drinking youth. We never had any binge-drinking youth when I was young, as far as I can remember. If we enforce some stern legislation against anti-social behaviour in all kingdoms of Britain, binge-drinking will probably have turned extinct by 550 AD. It's only a fad." "Now when I think of it, I haven't seen many kippers in the last few years." They fell silent and gazed into the open fire. The Chieftain had lost his sons at the battle of Camlann, but his grandson Padarn was expected to succeed him. They were sitting inside their Romano-British villa, an old mosaic decorating the floor. The flickering light from the open fire caused the birds depicted in the mosaic to seemingly fly. "There's something wrong with the plumbing again, Grandpa. We have to use the outhouse. Do you really think it was a good idea to let the plumbers from Tuscany leave? The aqueducts are not working properly anymore, and something has happened to the leadpipes." "We had to leave the Roman Empire, trail our own path in the world, and take back control of our borders. Do you question the wise decisions of King Maelgwn of Gwynedd?" "Well, he didn't manage the plague particularly well, did he? We might see a second wave, soon. And speaking of borders, do you call it controlling our borders to sell Cantiacum to the Jutes, Essex to the East-Saxons and Sussex to the South-Saxons? King Caradoc invited Jutes to Isle of Wight! If it continues like this, we will soon see the Kingdoms of Nossex, Middlesex, and Nessex as well. Under Bozza, King of the Jutes, Cantiacum has been turned into a parking-lot for horse-carriages. That's appeasement policy. Soon we will all speak English." "Rubbish. Everyone speak Welsh and Latin in Britain, and nothing will ever change that simple and obvious fact. And my boy, don't ever use the word 'appeasement' when the King's advisors are around. They are terribly sensitive to that particular choice of word, for a lot of reasons." "I just think, that we would have been better equipped to withstand any English attempts to inroads into Britain, if the Roman legions had remained." "Nonsense, boy. Project Fear! Nothing to worry about! Everything will be fine." "Grandpa! The English have conquered the lands of the Iceni. What would Boudicca have done, if she'd been alive?" "Well, ehrrr, now when you put it that way, young lad, it's actually a very good argument. Turning the Icenian parts of Britain into that fake East Anglia nonsense is indeed an infelicitous development. Not proper at all, I say. A breach of nice old traditions, I say. I will mention the subject matter to the King next time I meet him, and advice him to discuss the matter when all British Kings meet in council, that is, if Vortiporius and Aurelius Conan turn up. I've heard, that Irish pirates have raided St. David's again." "What if the British kingdoms united with the Irish in order to turn the English tide?" "Nonsense. The Irish are our hereditary foe. Did Bendigeidfran then steal the magic cauldron from the Irish for nothing? We have nothing in common." "We both speak Celtic languages?" "Well, uhm." "We both have a cattle-based economy?" "Uh, well, but ..." "Since the last few generations the Irish are Christians, and so are we, while the English sacrifice to Woden and Thunor ..." "Well, yes, but ..." "Traditional poetry is held in esteem both among Welsh-speakers and the Irish ..." "But you can't ..." "The only difference I am able to recollect, is the fact, that we were integrated into the Empire for quite a while, and the Irish were not." "There you see. As I said: We have nothing in common." A servant entered the room. "There is a messenger to see you, Mylord." "A messenger?" "A messenger from King Maelgwn." "Oh goodness gracious. Tell him, that I'll see him soon in the atrium. Quick, Padarn, help me to my quarters. I have to put my toga on." * * * Since it was after sunset, the atrium laid in darkness, with the exception of the flames of a few wax-candles. Padarn hoped, that the messenger wouldn't notice Grandpa's plaid trousers under the toga. The messenger was a pale, dark-haired man, wearing a foot-length robe in a fashionable Byzantine cut, but it was entirely black, which was unusual. Byzantine robes were usually quite colourful in several senses of the word. "Ave, messenger, I am Cunedda, Chieftain of this village." "Ave, Mylord, I am Blackadda, adviser of Maelgwn, king of Gwynedd." "And how may I be of assistance?" "To be blunt, I've been sent to ask certain questions, on behalf of the King." "Please, go on." "Have there been any observations recently of subaquatic supernatural female arms-dealers in these local whereabouts?" "There haven't." "What a disappointment. That was on the top of my little list, but we have to go for the other alternatives, then." "Alternatives?" "Yes, King Maelgwn and his colleagues are considering any tactical advantage they might have, if the British-English tensions escalate further. Did you hear, that Londinium is under siege from the Essex army?" "Good heavens! There must be something we can do?" "Well, the next question on my little list, Mylord, is, if there have been any observations of part-time working minor goddesses of fate sitting under trees by cross-roads accosting knights?" "No, sorry." "Thirdly, have any Questing Beasts been observed in the area recently?" "I'm sorry to disappoint you. The last one was captured by a Saracen knight briefly before the disappearance of King Arthur into Avalon, and it died in the private zoo of a wealthy Sarmatian merchant two years later." "Well, I see, and fourthly, I wonder if there are any druids left in the region of Anglesey?" "How dare you! There haven't been any druids in Ynys Môn since Gaius Suetonius Paulinus killed them off, and as long as I am Chieftain of Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch, there will be no druids here either." "How disappointing. I wonder then, if there are any bards in this region?" "Bards, yes of course. Why?" "Very well. If somebody could introduce me to the bards tomorrow, I will interview them. It's late." * * * Since I now have learned how to edit, I'm able to tell you, that the second part of this story is found: HERE.

This is not the final version. I will probably edit and lengthen it several times during the twelve days of Christmas. I dedicate it to all of you who like sword-and-sorcery. Champions of Lernath Gronn, princeling of the Sky tribe of Lernath, was reclining in his bed. It was the darkest time of the year, and the powers of Chaos had been growing for months. He had awoke because of a bad dream, and he couldn't return to sleep. It was the memories haunting him. Without doubt, belonging to one of the noble houses of Lernath had its benefits: An unlimited supply of food, drink and firewood, but the ways of the noble houses also had its drawbacks: The strict codes of behaviour, the contempt for emotional display (except for courtly love) and the neglect of the Heir's younger siblings. Gronn grew up in the shadow of his eldest brother, Prince Melor. While Melor embodied what the House of Sky was supposed to be – martial prowess, brilliant talent for military tactics and playful display of courtly love – Gronn had spent most of his youth in the ancestral library or on pilgrimage to the half-forgotten and neglected holy sites of The Ancients. At the time of their grandfather's death, the Axe of Tarnandt had been passed from their father, King Mundor, to the new Heir, Prince Melor, and Melor had become the new Thunder-Champion of the Sky tribe. King Mundor had been scornfully clear about how useless Gronn would be in the war against Chaos, and he had been wedded to Princess Delaria of Pnossos in an arranged marriage at the age of 16. The darkest night. The face of Delaria haunting his memory: How they shyly had got to know each other, and found that they were friends rather than spouses. The face of Selamon, priest-wizard of Pnossos, who secretly bestowed the Spear of Shamshiel to Gronn, transforming him into Solarius, Sun-Champion of the Sky Tribe, under the vow, that Gronn would remain celibate his entire life. The devastating memory of Selamon's death at the hands of The Lord's of Chaos. The excruciating memory of Delaria's supernatural death, because Gronn – in his assumed form of Solarius – broke his vow of celibacy. The long years of repentance, protecting the countryside from monsters and the spawns of Chaos. His life knew duty. Duty and pain. But not much of comfort. Unless his form as Solarius was a comfort. He was never expected to transform into Solarius, unless it served the common good, but every time he transformed he would feel a rush of strength, power and pleasure. Masculine power. Virile pleasure. His everyday concerns would fade, and he would have access to the wisdom of every former holder of the Spear of Shamshiel, and the strength of the Sun would flow in his veins. One of the cosmic powers, the Sun-power, would transform him, meld him and imbue him. The thought of the Sun-power made him aroused, but the memory of what his lust had brought upon Delaria caused a new wave of despair to flow through his soul. Then he heard a noise. A muffled noice of movement. Someone was climbing the wall to his window. His instincts awoke, and his suspicions: An assassin sent by the powers of Chaos? Swiftly and silently, he grabbed a dagger and hid behind a tapestry, espying a silhouette heaving itself over the windowsill: The silhouette of a powerfully built man – impossibly powerfully built and muscular. For a few seconds, Gronn remained silent and unmoving and watched. When the clouds unfolded, and moonlight erupted into the bedchamber, the identity of the intruder was revealed. "Him? No it can't be!" * * * It had been four, nay five, years since he fought the champion of the Earth tribe by the southern ford of River Lenn, and it happened three years after Delarias' death. As Solarius, he had got rid of the monsters, which had terrified the farmers in the southern principalities, and the rumour about Solarius had began to spread outside the Sky tribe. The Earth tribe was strange: The Sky tribe could never, ever, trust them, and most of the Council Elders held the view, that the Earth tribe served the Lords of Chaos, just as the Sea tribe did. There were rumours about human sacrifices to the Earth Mother, and the ways of the Thunder-warrior had never informed society among the Earth tribe, if the ways of the Earth tribe deserved the name 'society'. The champion of the Earth tribe! Gronn had never seen a man like him. Not even Melor, when he hurled the Axe of Tarnandt, was able to grow into a shape equalling the intimidating and monumental mountain of indomitable muscular brawn that was Brenn-Dar – Earth-champion of the Earth tribe. But how could Brenn-Dar be here? And why? * * * In the moonlight, Gronn could see Brenn-Dar come closer to the empty bed, and see how he halted, when he found the bed empty. Gronn could see the naked muscles of the Earth-champion ripple as he kneeled at Gronn's bed, fumbling behind it, as he sought for something. Gronn was acutely aware of what was hidden behind his bed: The secret he had hidden from his parents, brother and enemies – the Spear of Shamshiel, which would reveal the secret identity of Solarius. Although Gronn suspected, that some of the Council Elders would be able to observe the coincidental presence of Solarius at the same locations that Prince Gronn happened to visit by the same time, Gronn's brother had never suspected anything. Gronn had to act fast, if he wanted to prevent Brenn-Dar from stealing the Spear of Shamshiel, and he had to do it in the shape of Gronn, not in the shape of Solarius. He couldn't stop himself from emitting a muffled yelp, as he throw himself over the incomparably bigger man. His left hand grabbed Brenn-Dar's chin, and the dagger in his right hand threatened the throat of Brenn-Dar. His naked chest and waist rested against the Earth-champion's hard, wide and powerful back, and only a linen loincloth separated his manhood from the muscular lumbar of Brenn-Dar. "Not the least move, Earth-champion! How dare you trespass? What are you doing here?" To Gronn's surprise, Brenn-Dar began to laugh, and not the insane cackling laugh so widespread amongst the Lord's of Chaos, but a rich, deep, low, confident and benign laugh, that ill suited the situation. Gronn didn't know, what happened to him the next few seconds. He could sense himself falling off and tumbling around, a firm grip around his wrist, and the sound of his dagger falling to the tiled floor. Gronn found himself with his back against the floor, and with Brenn-Dar sitting on Gronn's knees and his enormous hands holding Gronn's arms grounded to the floor. Gronn could feel the scent of sweat – the sweat of a man who had performed an honest day's work – and he could feel the scent of Brenn-Dar's boots and leather trousers. "I am going to alarm the guards. There is nothing you could do." "Before you shout, princeling, let me ask: Are you willing to reveal your secret to your family, your tribe and to your enemies?" "Which secret?" "Don't play innocent! Prince Gronn never met me before, but you recognised me, since Solarius met me years ago, and, though your bedroom is dark, I could recognise the Spear of Shamshiel behind your bed. Moonlight is enough for me: The Earth tribe's got sharp eyes, untainted by the oil-lanterns and gas-lights of you spoiled Sky-tribesmen." Gronn sighed. "If you know my secret, all my enemies must know it. Are you trying to deliver me to the other Lord's of Chaos? And why aren't you dead? I left you maimed by the ford of River Lenn!" "I am not your enemy, Prince Gronn, and I am not a Lord of Chaos. Nor was I your enemy by the ford: It was you who attacked me under wrong assumptions. Don't shout, and I will keep your secret and tell you why I'm here." Gronn watched the Earth-champion looming over him with suspicion, but was also surprised, that he was still alive, and puzzled by how the Earth-champion's behaviour differed from the other Chaos Lords he had encountered and defeated in the past. He tried to recollect the circumstances of their previous fight. In his Solarius-form, Gronn had hunted down The Wyvern of Krann, and was still exhausted by the struggle with the wyvern, when he tried to cross the river. Brenn-Dar had been sitting in a punt on the river, and taunted him for his victory. They had both fallen into the water, and must have wrestled for half an hour, until Solarius had been able to throw his opponent away a distance suitable to push the spear through him. Gronn – that is, Solarius – wasn't accustomed to men who matched his strength: The Chaos Lords were usually emaciated and disfigured beings shaped in twisted forms similar to the creatures that served as their minions. The Earth-champion was different in that regard, and he had emitted an overwhelming presence of health, vigour and life-affirming – almost jubilant – masculine strength, then as he did now. Something stirred in his guts and in his mind. Stirred, and spread to his loins. An equal. An equal to Solarius. The surprisingly lengthy wrestle then. The firm big hands tying him down now, without harming him in any real sense. His facial expression must have confirmed to Brenn-Dar, that he was willing to listen, because the Earth-champion continued to speak: "I wish to assist you in your war against Chaos, but part of my assistance is knowledge, and I don't expect you to believe what I say. The Lords of Chaos threaten the Earth tribe, just as they threaten the Sky tribe, but your tribe has seldom been willing to listen to what we say." Brenn-Dar paused briefly, and watched a furrow form between Prince Gronn's blond eyebrows. "How many times have you heard your kinfolk repeat the proverb of the Thunder-warrior: 'If you are not with me, you are against me.'?" Gronn opened his mouth to say something, but the foreigner continued: "Let me then quote a few proverbs of the Earth Mother: 'My enemy's enemy is my friend.' and 'There are always more than two sides to things.'" "It's not possible! There is law and order on one side, and there is chaos and death on the other. There is no place for bystanders. You have to choose side, otherwise you will allow Evil to win! You speak like a Chaos Lord!" "I doubt that. They are usually as rigid in their certitudes, as you are in yours." "Are you here to fill my ears with lies? I will not listen. Kill me now. I prefer to sacrifice my life for the sake of my tribe and the powers of Order, than to succumb to the defilement of Chaos." Brenn-Dar shook his head in silence. "Many embodiments of Solarius have sacrificed their lives in the past. Some out of stubbornness and folly, but many for the noblest causes and most honourable reasons. You so often do. Don't waste your life for nothing this time, and listen to what I have to say, laddie." Brenn-Dar fell silent again, and it looked like he was thinking. He was a man of action, and it looked like he was unfamiliar with prolonged times of decision-making. For some reason, Gronn found Brenn-Dar's facial expression slightly endearing, if that word was even possible to use about someone like the bull-like brute. Could a Chaos Lord be endearing? Seductive, yes – but endearing? Brenn-Dar glanced in the direction of the hidden spear. "I might be a fool, but I will prove my earnest will by allowing you to turn into your champion-form. Would a Chaos Lord do that, princeling?" Gronn watched in suspicion, as Brenn-Dar removed his hands from Gronn's wrists, and removed his knees from Gronn's legs. Gronn arose. Still glancing in disbelief, Gronn walked in the direction of the spear. "Is this some sort of cunning plan to corrupt me, though it sound like madness to give me the upper hand?" Brenn-Dar's face was indistinct in the moonlight, but Gronn could discern something similar to self-effacing humour, though probably more based on the voice than the expression: "If you look for cunning plans, I would expect that from the Champion of shepherds and craftsmen rather than from myself. Slyness is not what I am famous for, and I am aware of that. I prefer to say what I mean and mean what I say." That facial expression again. Endearing. Unexpected. Gronn grabbed the spear. A titillating feeling awoke in his guts. He knew what to expect, more or less, and he knew he liked it. He swallowed. For an instance, he adapted to the Earth-champion's manner, and asked: "You have given me a chance to turn into my champion-shape, which is unexpectedly chivalrous of you. May I return the favour, by asking if you really want to face the full power of Solarius?" "I wish you no harm, laddie. On the contrary. Go on with your business. I know that you like it. As a matter of fact, I can see that you like it." Brenn-Dar's smiled knowingly, and glanced at Prince Gronn's tenting loincloth. Gronn blushed. The next moment he murmured: "By the power of the Sun!" He usually did this in daytime, and he had never turned into Solarius in the longest night of the year. The transformation was mainly familiar, but it was tinged by something unusual, something unfamiliar... His unremarkable chest began to fill out, the arms of a scholar-prince turned into the hard and bulbous limbs of a fighter, and he could recognise a feeling he loved to experience every time he turned into Solarius: His thighs pressed each other sideways, grinding against each other, and forced him to change stance into a confident position with his legs wide apart, and he knew, that his gait would be more waddling when the transformation was complete. It wasn't complete. His spine was buzzing of power, and after a few initial moments of shivering, his back widened and became meatier – meatier, but highly defined as the mirror had revealed to him in the past. When his transformation now occurred in darkness and moonlight, he wasn't able to see what happened to him, but he could feel it: The familiar sensation of empowerment. Intense empowerment. Empowerment beyond comprehension. The imbuement of of the Solar power. His waist turned into an impenetrable fortification of granite-hard abs, his calves swelled into monstrosities, and his traps... Oh gods! His traps... He emitted a moan of pleasure, and he could hear Brenn-Dar laugh silently in his deep, rich voice. Gronn – no, Solarius – moaned again, as his traps continued to become engorged with cosmic-divine strength, and his shoulders grew into the size of balls children play with. The revealing clothes of Solarius materialised around him, defying danger in its scantiness of any protecting armour or chainmail. His boots surrounded his powerful feet and the lower parts of his calves. A codpiece of gilt leather covered his groin, and a belt of lion skin surrounded his highly defined waist, keeping a scabbard and a sheath in place. Golden gauntlets surrounded his wrists, and a bronze torque surrounded his, now immensely powerful, neck. The Sun! The Sun! The Power of the Sun! Even in the longest night... But now it reached him, not from above, not from the sky, but from the depths, through the earth under him, reaching upwards, streaming upwards through his bootclad feet and brutally engorged legs, upwards through his groin, guts, chest, traps, bullneck and brow. He tried not to roar, but he wasn't certain what noises he might have emitted, when otherworldly visions of solar prominences and unknown radiation supplanted every rational thought. The Sun Barque was his, as it now navigated the Underworld Sea. The solar disk burned in the centre of his heart, and its heartbeats were his heartbeats. His was the summer and all songs, the strength of the lions and the leopards. His was the all-fertilising prowess of light, despite his vow of celibacy. His was the force to subdue darkness, and when he regained awareness of his physical surroundings he was Solarius in all his might, standing in Prince Gronn's bedroom. Brenn-Dar laughed again, silently in a warm and friendly growl, cheering the presence of the Sun-hero: "Welcome, brother. You will soon see, that we are not as different, as you sometimes thought."