[Fanfic] Vincere
Title: Vincere
Characters: British Isles Sibs, Rome.
Rating: 12
Warnings: Scotland's potty mouth.
Summary: In a dark forest in the south of the British Isles, four children try to escape inevitability.
Movements in the trees.
Shouts from behind.
Twig snap.
Breathe in-out-in-out.
Can’t get the air in to keep the legs moving.
Trees fly past and close enough to scrape skin off exposed limbs, There’s no rhythm, just pounding and pattering of children’s feet, because they were only children, only children running through the woods from something much bigger and much scarier than anything they had to fight against it with.
Run.
Run.
Run!
“Faster!”
“He’s only small!”
“Drag him!”
“Shh! They’ll find us!”
Can’t breathe, not enough air coming in and he needs to stop because his legs are burning and everyone is faster than him even if his hand is held and he’s dragged along like this--
There’s no ground under him, and he falls, face hitting the dirt. He bites down on his lip to stop himself from crying, and tastes blood.
“Cymru, hurry!”
“Pick him up and let’s go!”
He whimpers as hands scoop him up. His ankle twinges with pain and his lip is swelling and the two flashes of red hair are pulling further away because Cymru is carrying him and it makes him slow.
“Eire, Alba, wait!”
“Hurry and catch up!” yells the boy, keeping pace with his sister, which means sprinting for his life.
“The mountains! They won’t catch us there!” Eire is spritely on her feet, barely skimming the ground before taking off again. Fae flit in and out of shadows, screaming at danger and pursuers that can’t see them. They’d always thought that everyone could see them.
Mother could see them.
Mother is dead.
They run in the pitch-dark shadows and the silvery light of the waning moon. Feet torn and bleeding from hidden thorns and thistles, colours drained from the world save for the fire-glow they have left behind.
“Ah!” Cymru gasps, and then the both of them are on the ground, rolling to a stop at the base of an old oak. Their brother and sister skid to a halt, eyes darting up and widening. “Albion!”
“Get up! Get up!” Eire is frantic, running over and pulling Cymru to his feet. She has to jump back to avoid an arrow that embeds itself in the tree.
“Your people make fine bows…” The voice is deep and the words are accented, unrefined and broken in his tongue. “I will have to adapt them.”
Eire hisses in time with the angered Fae, who avoid this man, this new Nation, as though he was made of iron. Alba bares his teeth and growls, feral, where as Cymru places himself between the invader and the smallest of the siblings. The elder just laughs, a deep, booming sound that echoes off the trees and makes the sprites and pixies spit in rage and indignance. He steps forward and the children tense.
Summoning all he has learned, Cymru breathes fire and magic at the Empire.
“Woah!” He steps back again, but still gets his cape singed. His eyebrows raise and they are entirely too small to look right. “That was impressive! You should teach me how to do that.” The grin would have been friendly, had any of the children been inclined to think so. “And I shall teach you manners in return.”
His only answer is more flames from the little dragon boy’s mouth. Unfortunately for Cymru, the Empire learns quickly, side stepping the fiery burst and kicking the boy in the side of the head hard enough to send him flying into his two siblings. “Definitely manners first.” He laughs. Albion whimpers, then cringes back as it catches the strange man’s attention. “You look like a quiet one.” Huge hands reach for him, picking him up even though he struggles weakly, spent from running and the pain in his foot.
“Albi-!” Alba yells, before his mouth is covered by Eire’s hand. She shoots him a look. No true names, not in front of him.
“Let him go!” Cymru says groggily, half-unconscious from the earlier blow.
The Empire looks thoughtful. “Isn’t it in the rules that a defeated Nation does as the victor says?”
“Ye can take yer rules and stick ‘em up yer arse!” Alba snarls, throwing a stone at the larger man, who just dodges. “Ye only beat our ma, ye’ve still gotta try us! An’ ye won’t win either!”
The Empire smiles, showing teeth. “How about this; I give you three-” he gestures at the other children. “-a ten day head start, and only take this one here-” gesturing at Albion, whom he has balanced on one arm and is looking terrified for himself and his siblings. “-and you can see if you’re able to take him back.”
The three look at each other. Albion’s breath freezes in his throat. Green eyes, all the same as his own, stare at him, and then the forest, and then at him again.
Eire starts to run.
“We’ll be back for you, we promise!” she calls over her shoulder, bright hair disappearing into the forest. Alba next, much more hesitantly, and grabbing the concussed Cymru to take with him.
“Don’t die before we get back!” he says firmly, even as Cymru mumbled protests with his eyes half-closed. Albion wants to yell, wants to scream that this isn't fair, he wouldn't run off and leave them behind, please don't do this, don't leave me all alone with this man who killed our mother-
And then the forest was empty, save for the two of them.
Albion starts to cry.
“Shh now, it’s alright.” The Empire soothes, rocking the little Nation gently and turning to walk back to the fires of his men and the burning village of the Celts. “That was cruel of them, wasn’t it? I didn’t think they actually would go.” The little blonde snuffles into Rome’s shoulder, exhaustion from the running and the fear and the emotions catching up to him. “But that’s fine. I’ll look after you now. You’re mine to take care of.”
The quiet sobs peter off and eventually stop, replaced by hitching, quiet breathing. Rome smiles.
“Veni, vidi, vici. “
Note:
- Wales breathes fire because I say so. Also, dragons, duh.
- "Veni, Vidi, Vici" - Latin for the famous line "I came, I saw, I conquered." Unless you're utterly uncultured and for some reason have not seen Ghostbusters, you've heard of it at least. Probably one of the most badass messages ever sent back to the Emperor when asked how the conquest went. The title "Vinicere" is the perfect tense of the Latin verb "to conquer". /creative
- May or may not have a sequel. Or something. Idk, I love writing bbBrits and Rome.
- This fic occurs just after the defeat of Bodicia, in 61AD.
Chapter II
Characters: British Isles Sibs, Rome.
Rating: 12
Warnings: Scotland's potty mouth.
Summary: In a dark forest in the south of the British Isles, four children try to escape inevitability.
Movements in the trees.
Shouts from behind.
Twig snap.
Breathe in-out-in-out.
Can’t get the air in to keep the legs moving.
Trees fly past and close enough to scrape skin off exposed limbs, There’s no rhythm, just pounding and pattering of children’s feet, because they were only children, only children running through the woods from something much bigger and much scarier than anything they had to fight against it with.
Run.
Run.
Run!
“Faster!”
“He’s only small!”
“Drag him!”
“Shh! They’ll find us!”
Can’t breathe, not enough air coming in and he needs to stop because his legs are burning and everyone is faster than him even if his hand is held and he’s dragged along like this--
There’s no ground under him, and he falls, face hitting the dirt. He bites down on his lip to stop himself from crying, and tastes blood.
“Cymru, hurry!”
“Pick him up and let’s go!”
He whimpers as hands scoop him up. His ankle twinges with pain and his lip is swelling and the two flashes of red hair are pulling further away because Cymru is carrying him and it makes him slow.
“Eire, Alba, wait!”
“Hurry and catch up!” yells the boy, keeping pace with his sister, which means sprinting for his life.
“The mountains! They won’t catch us there!” Eire is spritely on her feet, barely skimming the ground before taking off again. Fae flit in and out of shadows, screaming at danger and pursuers that can’t see them. They’d always thought that everyone could see them.
Mother could see them.
Mother is dead.
They run in the pitch-dark shadows and the silvery light of the waning moon. Feet torn and bleeding from hidden thorns and thistles, colours drained from the world save for the fire-glow they have left behind.
“Ah!” Cymru gasps, and then the both of them are on the ground, rolling to a stop at the base of an old oak. Their brother and sister skid to a halt, eyes darting up and widening. “Albion!”
“Get up! Get up!” Eire is frantic, running over and pulling Cymru to his feet. She has to jump back to avoid an arrow that embeds itself in the tree.
“Your people make fine bows…” The voice is deep and the words are accented, unrefined and broken in his tongue. “I will have to adapt them.”
Eire hisses in time with the angered Fae, who avoid this man, this new Nation, as though he was made of iron. Alba bares his teeth and growls, feral, where as Cymru places himself between the invader and the smallest of the siblings. The elder just laughs, a deep, booming sound that echoes off the trees and makes the sprites and pixies spit in rage and indignance. He steps forward and the children tense.
Summoning all he has learned, Cymru breathes fire and magic at the Empire.
“Woah!” He steps back again, but still gets his cape singed. His eyebrows raise and they are entirely too small to look right. “That was impressive! You should teach me how to do that.” The grin would have been friendly, had any of the children been inclined to think so. “And I shall teach you manners in return.”
His only answer is more flames from the little dragon boy’s mouth. Unfortunately for Cymru, the Empire learns quickly, side stepping the fiery burst and kicking the boy in the side of the head hard enough to send him flying into his two siblings. “Definitely manners first.” He laughs. Albion whimpers, then cringes back as it catches the strange man’s attention. “You look like a quiet one.” Huge hands reach for him, picking him up even though he struggles weakly, spent from running and the pain in his foot.
“Albi-!” Alba yells, before his mouth is covered by Eire’s hand. She shoots him a look. No true names, not in front of him.
“Let him go!” Cymru says groggily, half-unconscious from the earlier blow.
The Empire looks thoughtful. “Isn’t it in the rules that a defeated Nation does as the victor says?”
“Ye can take yer rules and stick ‘em up yer arse!” Alba snarls, throwing a stone at the larger man, who just dodges. “Ye only beat our ma, ye’ve still gotta try us! An’ ye won’t win either!”
The Empire smiles, showing teeth. “How about this; I give you three-” he gestures at the other children. “-a ten day head start, and only take this one here-” gesturing at Albion, whom he has balanced on one arm and is looking terrified for himself and his siblings. “-and you can see if you’re able to take him back.”
The three look at each other. Albion’s breath freezes in his throat. Green eyes, all the same as his own, stare at him, and then the forest, and then at him again.
Eire starts to run.
“We’ll be back for you, we promise!” she calls over her shoulder, bright hair disappearing into the forest. Alba next, much more hesitantly, and grabbing the concussed Cymru to take with him.
“Don’t die before we get back!” he says firmly, even as Cymru mumbled protests with his eyes half-closed. Albion wants to yell, wants to scream that this isn't fair, he wouldn't run off and leave them behind, please don't do this, don't leave me all alone with this man who killed our mother-
And then the forest was empty, save for the two of them.
Albion starts to cry.
“Shh now, it’s alright.” The Empire soothes, rocking the little Nation gently and turning to walk back to the fires of his men and the burning village of the Celts. “That was cruel of them, wasn’t it? I didn’t think they actually would go.” The little blonde snuffles into Rome’s shoulder, exhaustion from the running and the fear and the emotions catching up to him. “But that’s fine. I’ll look after you now. You’re mine to take care of.”
The quiet sobs peter off and eventually stop, replaced by hitching, quiet breathing. Rome smiles.
“Veni, vidi, vici. “
Note:
- Wales breathes fire because I say so. Also, dragons, duh.
- "Veni, Vidi, Vici" - Latin for the famous line "I came, I saw, I conquered." Unless you're utterly uncultured and for some reason have not seen Ghostbusters, you've heard of it at least. Probably one of the most badass messages ever sent back to the Emperor when asked how the conquest went. The title "Vinicere" is the perfect tense of the Latin verb "to conquer". /creative
- May or may not have a sequel. Or something. Idk, I love writing bbBrits and Rome.
- This fic occurs just after the defeat of Bodicia, in 61AD.
Chapter II