The old, with their many winters of wisdom, they speak of a progression in all things.  Of fear with its fevered grip upon mind and bowel; madness in all her fractured extremes; of belief, rising from out of the trough between despair and hope with fragile certainty.  But what do they know of such as confronts us now?  Nothing, I say.  We are all but blind innocents before such mystery.  This is no progression, no ascent or descent into . . . something!  This is immediate, terrifying, pure madness.  It shrouds my heart in shadow and dread.  Calls to me with an intimacy only the soul should hear, a song dark with my blackest fears, bright with my dearest dreams; a symphony of all things and nothing, of sweeping epiphanies and blinding ignorance.  It is a vision for mortal humanity that has no right to exist.  And it offers the first, sweet breath of hope since ever-so-long.  Since this nightmare first wore flesh.

–  Passage through Time
by Caireen

Between the chill breath of twilight and morning’s frozen dawn, night lies brittle beneath winter’s pale grip.  Stars, like jewels upon the deep, slip across the sky while the acrid bite of wood smoke speaks of countless fires warring against a bitter season.

As winters go, this winter of 462 anno Domini is as harsh a one as any can remember.  So much so that the war itself has ground to a halt, the great killing scythes frozen in place, waiting for spring’s thaw to unleash the armies upon each other in one last cataclysm of blood and death.  That the Krîll tide will then finally drown the last enclave of mankind no one, Krîll or human, doubts. No one, that is, except for the four who now sit huddled around a glowing circle of embers, warm within the thick stone walls and thatched roof of a small shepherd’s hut.

Arawn is speaking.  “All the kingdoms, to include the Irish of Dyfed and the Uí Néill under Conall mac Níall are committed.  Nine in total, all with Celtic blood flowing through their veins.  Though I’ve got to tell you, when the Roman cohorts heard of what you were crafting, whole centuries offered to join.”

Dael nods while he stirs the fire with a broken spear’s shank.  “And all understand they must assemble on Ynys Môn no later than a fortnight past Imbolc?  They’re absolutely clear on this?”

“As clear as life and death.  They all know to be late is to be left behind.”  Arawn shrugs.  “I don’t think any of them has a truly clear understanding of what, exactly, it is that you intend to do, or more to the point, where it is you will take them.  Still, they’ve witnessed enough measure of this sorcery you wield to realize it’s all pretty much beyond their experience and understanding.  Be there or we all die.  That they understand.”

“That’ll be enough then,” says Dael.

Turning to Myrddin, he asks, “When you spoke with Ambrosius and Aetius, did they understa –  ”

The hut’s door bursts open in a gust of chill air and snow.  Two fur and wool muffled figures slip in before the door’s planks are hastily hauled shut once again.  The smaller of the two turns to face the room’s occupants, pulling a thick scarf from across her face.  “Sorry.  The wind’s started to blow again.”

Two bright green eyes settle on the lone woman of the group for a moment before finding Dael as he twists around to meet their gaze.  “Dael, Nest sent us.  All’s well and you have a daughter.  A healthy daughter.  Morrigan named her Fia.  Said that was your wish also.”

As Dael turns back around, his face split by a wide smile, Caireen returns her gaze to Dael’s sister, Fia.  “Hello, Mother.”