Returning to Roots

A Plan

  That next winter, Braonan was sixteen and assigned to the same unit as Andreas. They stayed close to the camp most of the time and he visited Corraihin often. Two winters later, Corraihin joined the cavalry in their unit. And not a moment too soon, rumor was that they were moving out soon. Braonan was relieved to have his best friend and his bràthair in his unit. He wasn't sure what he'd do if ever lost either of them. They were all he had.

Shortly after reaping some fresh members from the training camp, they were officially informed that they would be moving out, to the isles of the Galli.

Braonan choked on his water and nearly fell over and out of his chair. He started pounding on his chest trying to get the water out so he could breathe again.

"Is there a problem with that?", their centurion asked them, sending a pointed look towards Braonan. "No sir," they chorused. Braonan sounded more like "No *cough* sir *cough*".

Corraidhin looked at him in excitement. "We'll see real action!", he commented. "Corraidhin, you do know that we're Galli, right?", Braonan pointed out, using the Roman term for his people meaning 'barbarians'. It was how he reminded himself of why he hated Romans, but apparently it didn't work as well on his bràthair.

Corraidhin's face lit up as he asked, "Do you think we'll be able to visit màthair while we're there?". Braonan loved his bràthair, but right now, he seemed to be acting es stalltion asino. How had he not put together that their own home was under attack, by them.

Andreas gave him a look of sympathy. "We're probably going to help push the border further up, if your town is already part of the empire, we'll probably only see it in passing. Braonan was grateful for what Andreas was trying to say, but it was offset by the centurion's next announcement.

"Some Galli near the coast are trying to overthrow Roman control. Our soldiers are being attacked on both fronts. Our job is to take care of the coast so they can keep pushing North without having to look over their shoulders. Understood?" It wasn't really a question. If they didn't understand, they'd figure it out on the march.

All Braonan said was, "We're going to have to take a boat, aren't we.". Corraidhin laughed, remembering how much Braonan hated coming by boat four winters ago.

Internally though, the boats were far from the forefront of his mind. That space was preoccupied with worries of much larger things than sea sickness, like, oh, I don't know, the possibility of going to war with his own people!

His gut felt like a spear was jutting through it. It was like he was being torn apart from the inside. He couldn't risk his bràthair's life by going rogue, but what if he found himself face to face with his màthair? Or an aintín? What would he do if he faced his clan, his family, on the battlefield?

His teeth and gut clenched at the image of his kinswomen's corpses strewn around the battlefield. He'd been in battle before, he knew what it would look like.

You were surrounded on every side, hardly able to tell friend from foe. Blood and dirt was everywhere. The only thing that existed was your weapon, your enemy's, and the man next to you, as you tried to keep each other alive. That, and the faces. They would flash by you for the barest moment, and be burned into your memory forever.

Familiar faces of lost comrades. New faces of your own kills. Not a single one ever left you. How could he live with seeing his màthair's face among them? How could he live without seeing his bràthair's face?

As he tried to disappear into sleep that night, it decided to play a game of hide and seek, and he was getting his air a chùlaibh handed to him. He finally gave up and headed to the pine grove. Normally, the familiar trees would calm him, but tonight they seemed cruelly ironic, just as the scent of oak had by those boats.