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Walking along the river became one of his favourite activities in the foreign land. He touched the flowers with his fingertips, letting the pollen adhere to it. It was late, almost every sunbeam disappeared in the dark blue cloak, covered with countless bright points twinkling. Britannia Superior passed his fingers across his bruised cheek after another match among the provinces of Rome. His technique needed more effort if he wanted to win the next time. Rome told him that, with a blank stare and a disapproval shook of his head. Then he dared him, stood up, boy, you're embarrassing your dead mother. Britannia Superior felt his guts clenching, his knuckles white for the strong, impotent grip in his sword. Britannia Inferior doesn't even react, he didn't have time to properly meet her, the poor thing. He was just a baby when Rome's tropes arrived and conquered.
Britannia clenched at his tunic, an old, brownish garment with old and new spots of blood. He left the palace without his shoes, with his legs bare and exposed, as the Roman likes to dress. Britannia leaned into a tree, feeling the soft bark on his open palm, as he breathed deeply, filling his lungs, and coughing due to the effort. His stabbed side was healing, slower than before, but healing anyway. He reached a stream, being just a thread of water, so differently to the rivers in the other direction from the palace. Or the rivers of his lands, full of tortuous paths and mountains and forests so big that hide the secrets of the word on its leaves. Britannia sighed and put a foot on cold water. A shiver creeped on his skin and put the other foot. It was so small that it was easy to cross it.
He passed a hand on his bare neck, his torc missing for a long, long time. Rome took it, a delicate bronze piece done especially for him by his fellow tribesmen. He felt unrecognizable right now, defeated and beaten and running away —again— from the ruthless hands of the emperor. You, barbarian, obey me and I let you live, he said once, with his higher pose of crossed arms. He held him by the neck, pushing him into cold walls. And then, atypically, he caressed his cheek with his thumb. Celt must have looked like you, he said, but you're nothing like him.
Britannia followed the stream path to a nearby lake, not so shallow, nor so profound. The low light in the forest made it difficult to not slip on the mossy stone, but he found quite comforting the cold on his feet, so he stayed walking in the water, already at his calve’s level.
Little Albion was another one of his concerns. Sometimes, he wished he didn't have to see him every day, to send him away. He's doing much better than him, a feral and brute little thing that uses his gladius as if his life depends on it. Many times he died: stabbed, drowned, choked. He's bolder and defiant, and Rome found his little brother more interesting than him. Two barbarians waiting to be civilized, he muttered to himself, licking his lips to taste the wine and the blood on it. Rome's eyes on that moment made him shiver. Gaul stayed close to the emperor, as a dog, as he once had the audacity to yell at him, full of panic, full of pain, and Gaul just smirked, his blue eyes empty as he raised his gladius again.
He slipped again and fell on his knees. He hissed as he touched the cut on his knee and decided to return to the stream edge, as the water was reaching his tights. His clothes got wet, and he huffed in frustration. He felt the impulse to kick a small flower, a dandelion, but stopped his actions midway and shook his head. The druids didn't teach him that.
It was a sting on his heart talking about the druids. He was first with the Ordovices tribe, fighting as much as he could. Then he ran with the Silures as the former got defeated. The invaders gain more and more territory, bringing hordes of armed warriors. He went to Ynys Môn, where his mother, Britannia, was waiting for him. The druids headed the rebellion on the shores, between canticles and hands elevated towards the sky, women with dishevelled hair screamed and armoured warriors prepared for the fight. He gripped his sword as well, his eyes fixed in the incoming Romans on boats, approaching. And then, the bloodbath. The sacred place was stained in crimson, and his mother's red locks swayed in the air as she used her sword. Rome came face to face with her. And then, he muttered something that made her lose her composure. She fell hard in the sand, and her eyes, angered, terrified, urged him to run. The slaughter went on, and he ran until his legs couldn't continue anymore. Tears blurred his vision, and he fell, holding his voice to avoid screaming.
They wanted to exterminate the druids due to the human sacrifices’ stories —often exaggerated—, but they didn't bat an eye while slaughtering them all night. Such an odd thing to do. Rome finally found him, several days after the battle, with his clothes muddy and his eyes red for all the crying. Rome dragged him to his boat and made him walk like a prisoner all the way to the main navy. There, he saw Albion, playing with a gladius and hiding like a rabbit the moment he noted their presence. He barely spoke their language, as far as he can remember, and he stood hidden, staring at them with huge, curious green eyes.
Once in the palace, as a wicked final touch, Rome decided to call him the same as his mother. You, nameless thing, will be Britannia from now. He tried to refuse, to use the name that his tribesmen gave him, anything but stealing the identity, the memory of his mother, but Rome punched him in the abdomen, and he fell to the ground. “Who said you have an opinion here?” Rome's tone came out full of mockery and left him alone in the cold tiles of his palace. He didn't oppose almost any of Rome's petitions after that, even if that makes him felt sick.
The tall vegetation of the lake's edge was rubbing on his legs and arms, a tickle feeling expanding all over his body. Fireflies started coming out, illuminating his path as they got scared by his steps among the grass. A soft giggled escaped from his lips. He looked around once he reached the open area, the water surface reflecting the last sunbeam and allowing the nocturnal cloak to govern for a few hours.
Then, his eyes fixed on a person seated on the grass. Long brown hair covered almost all his back, and his crossed arms hugged his legs. He stopped his track, debating if to approach him or to turn and leave. He decided for the former, and with quiet steps, he walked towards Lusitania, who was lost into thought, looking at the water.
Just from some steps apart, Lusitania turned to look at him, with his blue-green eyes that resembled the ocean. Lusitania, the indomitable, was one of the Hispanian provinces, and Rome's headache. They weren't close —well, he wasn't close with any of the other provinces, to be fair—, but Britannia respected him as he wasn't under Rome's influence like Gaul or Tarraconensis. He even had the audacity to stab Rome once and try many others. He could say he kind of likes him.
Lusitania smiled in a way that didn't feel genuine. “Escaping again?” He asked, the many scars and fresh wounds displayed in his skin.
“I'm not escaping. You know Rome would kill me if I try…again.”
Britannia put both hands on his hips and puffed his cheeks, yet, he instantly regretted it when the wound on his stung. Lusitania shook his head and patted the place next to him. Britannia sat there, imitating his pose, hugging his own legs.
“Then why are you here?”
“It doesn't matter.” Britannia rested his head on his knees, without taking apart his gaze from Lusitania's face. “What are you doing here?”
“I like the water,” Lusitania said with simplicity, releasing his legs to touch the lake with his feet.
Britannia hummed and continued looking at him. At his sad eyes, at the beauty mark under his right eye, his long hair despite Rome's best attempts to cut it, as well as he did with his own. He passed a hand through his ashy blonde mess, now at shoulder-length. Surely, Rome will cut it off as soon as he returns, as a punishment for leaving the arena early.
“You weren't at the matches today.”
“No.”
“Why? Don't you fear Rome?”
Lusitania let escape a dry laugh. “No. He doesn't care about me, so why would I?” He stood up and entered the lake, squatting, looking at something. He introduced his hand on the water, and quickly retreated it, a toad firmly gripped on his hand.
“You say that, but he seems to like you. The same as Tarraconensis.”
The mere mention of his “brother” provoked a nose-wrinkle on Lusitania.
“We're not the same,” he muttered under his breath. “Take care of this for me.” He threw the toad to Britannia, who barely caught it with a disgusted face.
“For what? Are you planning to eat it?!” Britannia freaked out, but held the toad firmly as Lusitania went further and further into the water.
Lusitania laughed, his hair falling in front of his face as he touched the water. Then, he let himself fall and sink in the lake. Britannia shook his head. He put the toad on his lap, the cold, slippery skin of the animal contrasting with his warm legs. He passed his fingers on the grass behind him. He felt dandelions and caressed its thin petals and elusive seeds.
Crickets were singing so close to him that it was difficult to hear anything else. Lusitania disappeared under the water surface, and the darkness of the night made it impossible to distinguish the waves formed by his body. The water was so calm, and the crickets so loud. It was late. Maybe dinner will be served soon. They must be there by then.
He kept his eyes fixed on the water, waiting for Lusitania, the toad firmly held on his lap. The cold breeze made him shiver, as the wet, thin fabric of his tunic provided nearly no cover. He was taking so much time. Not a single raised head from the water to take air, not a hand asking for help, nor the sound of moving water as someone was swimming there. Worry installed on his chest. He stood up to look better at the lake.
“Lusitania? Are you alright?” He asked as loudly as he could. Nothing. He felt the panic growing.
He walked further into the water. The sand was slippery and moved so easily under his feet. Why is he holding the toad in the first place? As many of the things he learned to do in the palace, he accomplished with petitions almost as an impulse, no thought behind, just action. The place was too dark to see anything, with no moon and stars so far away that didn't show the path to him. Then, he remembered something. The meaning of the water. The meaning of belonging and coming back to the beginning. To the world. To the blood.
“What are you trying to do?” His voice left him in a tremor, the water reached his knees, and he forced his eyes to distinguish something in the mass of shadows in the edge of the lake.
What if he already left the lake? What if he was left behind like a fool?
Or...
What if he was under the water without the possibility of going out? Maybe trapped by a root. Or maybe eaten alive by a cannibalistic horse. The Ceffyl Dŵr caught Lusitania and ate him, with no body part left behind —except his liver— for him to explain to Rome what happened to Lusitania. His stomach clenched, and he couldn't feel the bottom anymore. He was floating in the darkness, holding a toad. Or maybe, the toad was the one holding him all this time. He put the animal on his chest, on the left, over his heart. It was pounding. He heard it loud and clear. His heart will escape, and he will be left with a hole in his chest. As the disappointment Rome claimed he was.
“Lusitania, please, it's not funny. Where are you?” He asked again, not surprised by the frightened voice he produced.
He'll be haunted for eternity if he just happened to witness the limits of their immortal, cursed lives. Not human, not Gods, just creatures living for the sake of their people and putting up with the pain and despair of never ending conflict. He wondered if Rome, as superstitious as he can be, would think he offered one of his “children” to the waters, and he will never come back. He would call him a barbarian and would punish him for that. Rome would throw him into a cell and let him rot in there. Or perhaps, he would make him fight in the coliseum until he dies eventually. Britannia Superior felt a knot forming on his throat, and tried to breathe, to stay to float. But before he could do any of that, a hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled him down.
Water filled his lungs. The toad floated and escaped between aquatic vegetation. The lake was deeper than he initially expected, and even if he opened his eyes, it was too dark to see anything. Just pure black surrounded him. But warm hands hold him into place before releasing his leg. He fought to take out his head to the surface, and the gentle hands helped him, holding him by the waist. He coughed, took some air in a shaky breath, and coughed even more. Lusitania’s airy laugh made him open his eyes and glare at him. He must look ridiculous, with his face flushed, and his hair lamped on his face, because Lusitania laughed louder.
“You are pretty obedient, aren't you?” Lusitania asked without a single trace of tiredness in his voice.
“Why is that?” Britannia said, holding on Lusitania's shoulders as they were still in the middle of the lake. Maybe it was not an issue to Lusitania, he was taller than him, and perhaps he could reach the bottom easier than him.
“You didn't let go of the toad,” he said with a grin plastered on his face. “I wanted to know how much it will take you to give up.”
Annoyed green locked with ocean eyes.
“That's why it took you so much to go out to the water? I thought you drowned.” Britannia panted and pulled one lock of Lusitania's hair.
Lusitania put a pained wince. “I am a good swimmer,” he said with simplicity.
“Then, trapped by a water monster, or something. It took you so long.”
A shiver creeped on Britannia's spine, and he came closer to Lusitania, searching for some warmth.
“So, you thought the evil lake monster was eating me?” Lusitania's tone was full of mockery. “She only eats badly behaved children.”
Britannia pushed him slightly, but didn't pull apart his hands from Lusitania's shoulders.
“I won't worry about you, ever again.”
Britannia started swimming towards the lake's edge, squinting his eyes in an attempt to see what's in front of him. He held Lusitania's hand all the time. Once they reached the soft sand, they loosened their grip and without any word, they took off their tunic. It was damped, as well as their hair. Britannia was shivering slightly due to the cold breeze.
“I think we should come back, dinner must be served now,” he muttered, wringing out his tunic to remove excess water.
Lusitania did the same to his own tunic and hair. “Yes, we should. Rome must be putting on the happy big family act for his children.”
Britannia couldn't help but laugh. “He'll be angry if we don't show soon.”
They dressed again, with less damped clothes, but that stuck to their skin in an irritating way. They must change once they arrive at the palace.
“Pray for him to be in a good mood. You lost today's matches, right?” Lusitania smirk was annoying, but for some reason, Britannia found himself fighting a chuckle.
“Don't remind me about that,” he said, passing a hand through his hair to avoid it getting tangled. “I would like to be in my lands instead,” he kept silent for a moment, and turned towards Lusitania, “do you think we'll be free soon?”
Lusitania's eyes went wide for a brief moment and took Britannia's hand to start walking.
“For that to happen, Rome has to fall.”
“I know. I just… I want that to happen soon. I miss my people. Don't you miss them too?”
Lusitania squeezed his hand. His body tensed and he gulped. A world without Rome, Britannia guessed, was his thoughts. His nonchalant facade fell for less than a second. He cares about him. Britannia doesn't know if as the father figure they all lacked, or as the mentor Gaul and Tarraconensis claimed he is.
“I miss them,” Lusitania finally said, “the people mother took care of… I miss them.”
Britannia squeezed his hand in response, caressing it with his thumb. Lusitania was already there when he arrived, many, many years ago. They look at each other in the darkness, walking along the river, with the weak moonlight and fireflies guiding them. The palace was a hostile place most of the time, but maybe, there's people that can make it a little better.