The Last Priestess of the Iceni (Preview)

Sometimes we must change to survive. We must pretend to be who we were never meant to be. Sometimes, we must resist within our hearts, even as we outwardly become the enemy; we hold onto the whispers, the memories, and the chance to right the wrongs done to us.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

The dawn was shrouded in mist; the Averni Mountains stood like giants, guarding the land of Belenus, their sacred god of sun, healing, and life, and the reason for Beltane celebrations. The sacred oak at the village center watched over the people of Belenodunum that day, as it had for many generations. Its rivers and streams, winding through black volcanic rock, brought the gift of life to all who needed it. The sacred springs were said to carry the warmth of the gods themselves. The forest was alive with wild boar, the song of birds in the oak branches, and the laughter of children running through fields of poppies.

This day seemed no different from any other. Catumarus woke with the sun to start his chores, excited for the evening when the village would gather to celebrate his mother’s twentieth Beltane as the village’s druidess, along with the Beltane festivities. There would be feasting, singing, dancing, great bonfires, and he looked forward to asking Maeve’s father for a chance to court her. He had fallen for her during last summer’s Beltane.

“Catumarus,” his mother, Modron, called. “Tend to your sister before you begin your day’s work. I must go to the Druid’s grove to prepare for the celebration tonight.” His mother smiled at her children, her eyes radiating the same warmth as they always had.

“Aye, mother,” he said, bending to pick up his baby sister. “Elowen, you will be my companion today while I work. How about it then?” The little girl squealed with excitement as he hoisted her up onto his shoulders and headed out to let the sheep out to graze.

As he made his way towards the stables, the mist still clinging to the earth, an unease began to build within him. Something seemed off. He stood just outside the stone hut he shared with his parents and baby sister, listening.

Was that the sound of hooves? Metal clanging against metal? Who was screaming? Why is the smell of rancid smoke in the air?

Without warning, he was knocked to the ground, and little Elowen, thrown from his shoulders, hit the earth and cried out in pain and fear. Catumarus’s head was spinning as he sat up, disoriented. A horse with no rider sped past, frantic to escape the chaos and destruction.

What was happening?

He stumbled to his feet and ran to his sister, picking her up and cradling her against his chest. Her small hands clung to his clothes. Her face was bloodied from the impact of being thrown to the ground.

“Hush now,” he said, his voice steady despite his trembling chest.

The air was full of mist mixed with the acrid smoke of unchecked fires. There was chaos – the sounds of screaming women, crying children, men fighting, and buildings crashing down around them, flames devouring anything they touched.

“You must run,” a man cried out as he ran past Catumarus, only to be brought down by an arrow to the back. Catumarus stared, in a state of shock, at the man fallen to the ground. His eyes were empty of the life they had carried merely moments before.

Catumarus went to the man, shielding his sister’s eyes, and he inspected the arrow, and he knew.

Rome had come.

First fear then rage – his village, his family – being massacred. His face was smudged with dirt, ash, and blood, his eyes burning from sweat. His dark hair was matted to his brow, and his sister still clung to his side, her face buried in his shoulder. Her fear was palpable. He picked up a sword from a fallen villager, blood soaking the ground, his leather boots caked in blood-soaked ash.

Breathing became painful as he coughed violently, smoke filling his lungs; the cries of pain and death pounded in his ears. He called out for his mother and father, searching among the dead, praying he would not find them.

He saw her. Her face was pale, her eyes gazing outward but not seeing. He hurried to her side. “Maeve,” he sobbed, brushing her hay-colored hair from her face. Her lips parted as her last breath escaped, blood seeping from a head wound. Nearby lay her father. He had died trying to protect his daughter, blood soaking his tunic from a Roman blade’s thrust.

He heard the heavy footsteps of armor-clad boots behind him. He didn’t turn to look before swinging the blade. He felt the blade hit armor, then flesh, and the crunch of bone. He heard the gasp as the Roman soldier’s dying breath left his body.

Catumarus stood, pulling the blade out of its target. Anger and rage consumed him. However, he knew his top priority was getting his sister to safety. He could seek retribution later. Carrying the child, sword at his side, he navigated through the destruction of what was once his home.

A soldier rounded a corner, and they stood face to face, boy against soldier.

“You!” Catumarus growled, his anger bubbling up, threatening to take over his mind.

The Roman soldier stepped closer, blade pressed to Catumarus’s chest. “Lovely little girl you have there,” the soldier said, his voice filled with a vile craving, an arrogant smile spreading across his face. “Careful of your next move, boy.” The soldier spoke Catumarus’s language—broken and vile on his tongue.

Before Catumarus could respond with either a physical or verbal threat, he was blinded by sharp, white pain, causing his vision to fade. He fell to his knees, and despite using all his strength, his baby sister was ripped from his arms. Her cries echoed in his mind.

“Peasant filth,” the Roman soldier spat, letting the child fall to the ground.

Catumarus’s voice came out as a strangled roar, thick with pain and anger, and he lunged at the soldier, only to be knocked to his hands and knees by another.

“Bring the survivors,” the Roman said. “Line them up. We will see what this boy thinks of things then.”

Few others remained, mostly women hugging themselves and crying out for their dead children and husbands. Some children, like Elowen, were still there. Catumarus watched as those he had spent his whole life with—those he loved and cherished—were lined up, hands bound, forced to kneel.

Then he saw them – his mother and father, both badly beaten. His father likely would perish from his wounds. His mother’s face was battered, her eyes bloodshot from her cries, her lips crusted with dirt and blood. Her druidess gown was soiled and ripped.

“No!” Catumarus’s voice was hoarse, barely audible. He tried to reach them, but a soldier kicked him back down.

“Sit and you might live,” the soldier said, his voice cold with threat.

“Catumarus,” his mother’s voice was soft, steady, and unafraid. “Listen to my voice, son. Hear my words.”

He looked at her through blurred vision, wanting to protect all that he loved, but unable to. Tears ran down his face.

The fires burned around them. The sounds of death and destruction faded to only the mournful sound of the wind blowing through smoke and ash.

“You are made of the land and the wind, Catumarus – not even Rome can grind that to ash.”

He stared at her, seeing only the love a mother knows. His mind saw his father’s bloodied and broken body, failing, his heart aching to protect his children. The cries of his baby sister had faded, her body still as Morwyneth* claimed what was hers. He felt the goddess surrounding him. She had come to take her children home. Morwyneth’s voice on the wind, whispering to those who fear to follow her into the liminal spaces beyond mortal senses, where they would rest, their pain would be no more, and they would find peace.

It was all over. He stared as the Romans cut them down, one by one. They left their bodies to be consumed by animals. Only a few strong young men and several young women were left. They were shackled and bound and loaded like cattle into a cart.

“They will be auctioned and sold to Roman homes, or they will be used to train my soldiers,” a man’s voice was heard before he was seen.

“I am Marcus Aelius Varro, Legion General,” he said in Gaulish as he walked to face Catumarus. He was tall, foreboding, and his voice was calm and even; he commanded obedience or dealt death to those who rebelled.

“Your family is dead. Your village and its people now belong to Rome. What Rome does not civilize, it crushes. And you, boy, have a choice. Come to Rome, not as a prisoner or slave, but as a soldier in training. Or face death. Choose wisely.”

“Why?” Catumarus said, his voice was thick with rage, his teeth bared in defiance.

“I see potential in you. You killed a Roman soldier; your family paid with their lives. Justice was served. Yet, you still stand.”

“Justice?” Catumarus cried as he stood, his legs unsteady, his balance off. “This is not justice!”

“Aye, but it is, boy,” Varro said, his voice flat, without emotion. “Such is the way of war,” Marcus Aelius Varro said, turning his back. “Burn the village, leave the bodies. We head out by dawn.”

“And the boy?” another soldier asked.

“Bind his hands. He will come with me.”

The Roman General gave Catumarus a sidelong look. “You are not Gaul. Not anymore. You are mine now – and through me, Rome’s.”

Catumarus said nothing. He watched the fire crackle in his mother’s hair.

A glint caught his eye – the pendant.

He stopped before his fallen mother. Her face was peaceful. Her beauty still apparent. Around her neck, she wore a Taranis wheel pendant, given to her as a gift from his father. Its edges glinted against the firelight. He knelt beside her still body, unbound for a moment, and pulled the wheel from her neck.

Pressing it into his hand, he closed his eyes.

He never saw Belenodunum again.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

The journey to Rome would be exhausting and harsh. The cart jolted continuously over rough roads, offering little relief. Sleep was rare, and when it came, it pulled Catumarus into a storm of visions—anguish crashing like waves against his mind. Grief clung to him like seawater, saturating his bones and crushing his spirit with its iron grip.

Some of the other captives became ill along the way. Two druids from a neighboring village, too badly wounded to walk, were discarded by the Romans—left to die in the dust, as if they were nothing.

Catumarus withdrew into himself. His heart, once full of reverence, now cursed the gods for abandoning his people. He refused to speak, refused to cry. When his eyes closed, he saw his baby sister slipping into a black void, her small hands reaching for him—and his arms frozen, too far, too slow. He would wake gasping, fists clenched, blood pounding in his ears.

Only his mother’s whispered proverb offered him any comfort. "The storm breaks the weak tree. But the roots? The roots endure." He clung to her voice like a lifeline.

Eventually, they reached a major port. He heard the Romans call it Massalia. The name made his stomach knot. Although young, Catumarus had learned Latin from the village elders. He could understand most of what was said—and he despised every Roman word that reached his ears.

He sat hunched in the cart, elbows on knees, head buried beneath a storm of thoughts, when a sharp voice split the din of the port.

“Wake up, boy!”

A soldier approached, barking the words like a curse.

“The general demands your presence.”

Catumarus spat in the soldier’s direction and didn’t move.

The Roman struck him with the hilt of his sword. Pain burst through Catumarus’s cheek. Blood filled his mouth.

The soldier opened the cart, face tense with barely contained anger—but he did not strike again. That surprised Catumarus. These men—monsters, though they were—were not reckless. They were disciplined. Every action, even cruelty, had a purpose.

The soldier yanked him out of the cart and gestured with his hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Walk.”

They led him to a tent separate from the camp's chaos. It was luxurious—adorned with rich Persian tapestries and filled with foreign incense that masked the stench of sweat and conquest. Everything inside reeked of stolen beauty, the spoils of war. Nothing in this place was natural. It was opulence built on bones.

He had imagined this meeting a hundred ways. In some, he lunged with a blade and ended the man’s life. In others, he spat in his face and dared him to kill him. But now that they stood in the same space, the only thing Catumarus felt was a quiet, burning silence that settled into his bones.

“Leave me,” Marcus Aelius Varro commanded, and without objection, everyone departed save for Catumarus and a man he longed to kill.

For a while, the general said nothing as he studied the map in front of him. Catumarus’s anger burned throughout his entire being, but he remained silent.

“We will board a ship at dawn tomorrow. We will sail to Rome. When we arrive, you will have a choice to make,” he said, looking at Catumarus.

Catumarus remained silent; however, his silence was deafening – a rebellion against this man who had taken everything from him. Although it did not anger the general, it instead intrigued the Roman.

“A man of few words,” Varro huffed, amused. “It matters not. You can fight in the slave pens,” Varro continued, “and die for the crowd’s pleasure, like an animal. Or you can train under my command, learn Roman discipline. You may even come to understand our way of life.”

“Rome has nothing I would ever desire,” Catumarus said, using Latin.

“It is never easy to impress me, boy, but you have managed to impress me more than once,” Varro said with a laugh. “You speak well for a boy from the backwoods.”

“Your Gaulish is terrible, and it is poisoned upon your lips,” Catumarus said, his rage bubbling inside him like a volcano ready to erupt.

“I will expect your decision once we arrive in Rome. Until then, you will be treated like every other slave. Leave me,” Varro said, waving his hand as another soldier came to escort Catumarus back to the slave cart.

As they walked, Catumarus kept his head high. Blood still lingered in his mouth, the ache in his cheek growing deeper.

But he would not bow.

Not to Rome.

Not to him.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

The ship set sail on a cloudless day, the sun, usually held in sacred reverence, felt like a flame to his soul, burning what was once a sign of joy and life, now felt like ash and smoke. The wind was strong that day, and they set off with great speed. The Romans aboard sat in great anticipation for the return home to their families, friends, lovers…

Catumarus was kept among the other slaves whose fates were likely dim and full of strife. His thoughts turned in his mind, he felt torn between accepting death in the gladiator's ring or accept the general’s offer and train as a Roman soldier. This choice left him with guilt and anger, but he also saw it as a chance to seek his revenge and take the life of the man who destroyed his entire world.

He knew his choice to become a soldier of Rome was his only option. His desire to kill Varro, even if it meant his death, too, was greater than his desire to lie down and die.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

The day they arrived in Rome was dark. The sky hung low and swollen, thunder rolling like distant drums of war. Catumarus could smell the rain carried on the wind — sharp, metallic, like blood on stone.

The surviving captives were herded from the ship like cattle. Some would be sold to the highest bidder, while others would be thrown into the fighting pits, where Roman crowds reveled in blood and spectacle. They called themselves a civilized people, yet they cheered louder for carnage than for peace.

Catumarus moved like a ghost among the living, his body barely more than a husk. Exhaustion clung to him like mud. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts drifting and fragmented. He’d spent the last part of the journey wavering between hollow silence and smoldering rage. Now, as he prepared to disembark with the others, a soldier grabbed his arm and held him back without a word.

The rest of the captives were driven forward. But Catumarus was led down a separate path.

He said nothing as they walked, though every step made his teeth grind tighter. Rome loomed around him — a monstrous mix of stone and splendor. Pillars stood like the trunks of dead trees; each carved with the triumphs of men who had never experienced loss. Statues of foreign gods and emperors looked down from their marble heights, indifferent to the suffering beneath them.

His jaw tensed. His nails dug into his palms. This would be Gaul soon, he thought, bile rising in his throat. And after Gaul, more. Rome spreads like a sickness.

They passed through a small market. Vendors shouted in languages Catumarus didn’t know, hawking silks from the East, spices from Arabia, animals with eyes too large and skins too bright to belong to any forest he'd known. The stench of sweat and incense stung his nose.

And he hated that he was in awe.

They reached a grand building with iron gates and polished walls. Soldiers flanked the entrance like statues. One gave a subtle nod, and they passed through without a word.

“The general commands your presence,” said the soldier. His voice was flat, unreadable.

Inside, the walls were lined with foreign tapestries and towering paintings of gods Catumarus could not name. Intricate rugs softened each footstep. It was a far cry from the sacred simplicity of his homeland.

The general sat at a long table littered with scrolls, maps, and feather pens dipped in ink. He did not look up.

“What is your answer, boy?” Varro said in Latin, his tone was as casual as asking for bread.

Catumarus hesitated. The words clung to the back of his throat like ash.

“I will train to be a soldier,” he muttered. Each word was a knife in his mouth.

Varro set the scroll aside and looked up at last.

“Very good,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Catumarus.”

The general gave the name a slight nod, as if filing it away to be discarded.

“When your training is complete, you will be Roman. You will be given a Roman name.”

“I will never wear your name,” Catumarus said, his voice low, venomous.

“You will be housed in the barracks. You will wear Roman armor. Your hair will be shorn. You will speak Latin. You will forget Gaul,” Varro replied, standing now, eyes like forged steel. “You will wake when I say. Eat when I say. Fight when I say. Obey me, and you will be rewarded.”

He did not mention what disobedience would cost.

Catumarus didn’t need the threat spoken aloud. He saw it in the man’s eyes — cold and certain as winter. The general had broken men stronger than him.

And still, he stood tall.

He would wear their armor. Learn their words. March in their ranks.

He would obey.

He would have to become Rome to fight Rome.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

Becoming Rome

He was taken to the barracks where he would share space with four dozen other men. Some were slaves brought from conquered lands, but most were young Romans eager for battle glory. It sickened Catumarus.

He was led into a Roman bathhouse. His bloodstained, dirty clothes were torn off and thrown into a fire. Roman tunics were tossed to him. His hair was shaved short in the standard Roman style—another small death.

He said nothing. He was as silent as stone. His hatred burned cold beneath the surface, held firm by the steel of his will. He had not come here to die. He had come to endure. To bide his time.

The first week was quiet. Uneventful. Then the brutality began.

Catumarus had never trained for war. He’d trained to protect, to defend his kin—not to conquer. But this training was war for its own sake. Glory, ambition, blood. Here, even training was a battle. Men maimed one another just to be noticed.

That morning, he was given a wooden sword and a shield. Across from him stood Lucius—a young Roman with too much pride and a sneer that said everything.

“Why you were brought here and not sold or put in the pits, I’ll never understand,” Lucius spat. “You’re nothing but a dirty peasant. You probably can’t even understand me.”

Laughter from the others. Catumarus didn’t move.

“Then get on with it,” he said, in perfect Latin. He braced his feet, raised his shield. “You’re no different from any other Roman. I’m sure you bleed like any other man.”

Lucius lunged with a snarl, swinging wide. Catumarus held his ground. Blow after blow struck his shield, pushing him back, each impact from the wooden sword sending pain through Catumarus’s arm, but he did not flinch. They locked eyes, face to face. Lucius trembled with rage.

“I’ll end you,” he whispered, spittle flecking Catumarus’s cheek.

Catumarus didn’t flinch. His silence was an insult.

Lucius lunged again—too fast, too reckless—and fell forward into the dirt.

“Blind rage makes you weak,” came a voice like thunder.

Silence.

General Varro stepped into view.

The air changed. No one moved. Lucius stayed down, too slow now to recover dignity.

“Do you have a problem with this soldier?” Varro’s voice was cold, razor-edged.

Lucius rose. Rigid. “He’s not Roman.”

Without warning, Varro gripped his throat and hauled him off the ground. Lucius’s face turned red, then purple. But he did not struggle.

“Who are you to decide who is Roman?” Varro growled. “You, the son of a traitor. Your mother—known to every drunk in the lower quarter. Shall we judge your Roman worth by that?”

He flung Lucius to the ground. The boy gasped for breath.

Varro turned, his presence suffocating, the air silent, as if he demanded respect from even nature.

“You will either leave this place dead, disgraced, or Roman. Those are your choices. Remember them well.”

He walked past the line of soldiers, then stopped before Catumarus. They locked eyes. Neither spoke.

“Carry on,” the general said.

And just like that, the air returned—but no one breathed too loudly.

Catumarus watched the General leave, confused by his emotions – was it fear or respect?

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

Weeks had gone by. Catumarus rapidly improved his sword-fighting abilities, his skill with the javelin, and his proficiency with the bow and arrow—proving he was a soldier with many talents. He had become a formidable opponent, often besting anyone he sparred against. But he could not grasp the arrogance he saw in so many Roman soldiers.

Varro had given him a personal tutor who instructed him not only in military tactics but also in Latin and Roman politics. As the weeks turned into months, Catumarus was allowed more freedom during downtime—he could now leave the barracks, though he never ventured far. He remained distant but had no further issues with Lucius or the others. Many came to respect him. He even gained praise from other commanding officers.

General Varro, however, had kept his distance—watching more than speaking. He knew Catumarus wanted to kill him. And it would not have come as a surprise if the young man tried.

“The General has requested your presence,” a young servant said one evening, finding Catumarus seated alone before a hearth.

Catumarus looked up, letting the Tanaris pendant fall beneath his tunic. “Requests… or commands?”

“Take it however you like,” the servant replied, a slight tremble in his voice.

Catumarus rose silently and followed him.

But instead of being led to the war table as usual, he was taken through the city by covered carriage to a grand estate—far from the barracks, and far grander than anything he’d seen.

It stood like a giant in marble skin. Stone pillars rose like arms, lifting a tiled roof in their palms. They passed through an iron gate flanked by armed guards. The stairs that led to the vast doors, likely made from the sacred wood of a felled ancient tree, were smooth, white marble.

Though he had grown used to the awe Roman architecture stirred, he still felt ill. This obsession with grandeur, with perfection—it was unnatural.

He was ushered inside. The estate’s entryway was cool and cavernous, its air thick with incense and power. He was led to a dining hall, where General Varro sat beside a woman, whom Catumarus assumed must be his wife.

“Come,” Varro said. His voice was casual, but it demanded obedience.

Catumarus hesitated, then obeyed.

The food smelled of foreign spices. The wine, rich and smooth, was unlike anything he had ever tasted. He hated that he enjoyed it. These were Roman things.

“This is my wife, Valeria.”

Catumarus gave a curt nod. He did not speak.

“Marcus has told me much about you,” she said, her voice warm. She was beautiful—hair like midsummer wheat, eyes as clear as spring water. Her gown was simple. A thin gold chain circled her waist. “You are, indeed, a man of few words.”

She smiled. Her kindness caught him off guard. Something in her presence soothed him.

And he hated himself for it.

“Your training is nearly finished,” General Varro said, sipping his wine. “You will graduate top of your unit. You have shown great skill, and you will be an asset to Rome’s military might.”

Catumarus said nothing. The word asset scraped against his thoughts. So did military might.

“You will be granted full Roman citizenship,” Varro continued. “In two weeks, you will carry a Roman name and henceforth be known only by that name.”

Catumarus felt the air shift. His throat tightened.

Valeria leaned forward, placing a small bundle of grapes on his dish. “Marcus asked me,” she said softly, “if I thought it right. He offered you the name of his family.”

She reached for his hand. Her touch was featherlight.

Catumarus did not look at her. He was afraid the fury in his eyes would betray him.

“You will be known as Titus Aelius Varro from this moment forward,” the general said, his voice resolute.

There was no room for protest. No illusion of choice.

But in the quiet of his mind, Catumarus made a vow.

They could call him what they liked. They could drape him in their armor, teach him their language, even strip the gods from his tongue—but he would never be Roman. He would never forget who he was or where he came from.

Dinner ended. Valeria rose, kissed her husband lightly, and—after pausing to place a soft kiss on Catumarus’s brow—returned to her tearoom.

He followed General Varro into a study where a hearth glowed low in the stone wall. Both men sat in silence, the fire snapping quietly.

Catumarus stared into the embers. He was no longer in Rome.

He was home again, a boy. His mother had just given birth to Elowen. He remembered how she laughed when he carried her on his shoulders, the squeals when he tickled her ribs. The way her eyes lit up when he gave her a polished river stone.

He ached.

But not just for the past—for the faces. So many of them were fading. Even in his dreams, their features were indistinct. Blurred silhouettes that slipped toward the Otherworld.

“You suffer needlessly,” Varro’s voice came softly, breaking the silence.

Catumarus did not answer.

“You see me, and you see Rome—as a monster to be slain,” Varro said. “And perhaps, for many, Rome is a monster. There are always monsters out there.”

His tone had changed—less sharp, more human.

Catumarus spoke without looking at him. “What do you know of monsters?”

Varro leaned back in his chair. The firelight flickered across his face.

“Enough,” he said. His voice was low. And though he said nothing more, Catumarus believed him.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜

Two weeks passed, and he was recognized along with the other recruits for their completion of military training and entering full military service. Catumarus would not hear the name given to him at birth for many more years. He held onto what he could, the fading memories, the Tanaris pendant, so that he would never forget where he came from and that he was a foreigner in a foreign land.

He had become the enemy, and despite himself, over the coming years, he embraced life again. He smiled again. He laughed again. He buried the rage, and over time, that, too, faded. It was always there; it had become little more than a whisper.

Sometimes whispers are all that’s needed.

᚛ᚈᚐ ᚉᚒᚔᚋᚆᚅᚔ ᚅᚔᚑᚄ ᚂᚐᚔᚇᚏᚓ ᚅᚐ ᚐᚅ ᚂᚐᚅᚅ᚜