Aneirin the Carvetii
Aneirin's breathing is labored, but he refuses to show any sign of weakness. He uses his speed to dodge and weave, landing precise strikes that are calculated to wear down his opponent.
Euenios, on the other hand, is all brute strength. Each punch thrown feels like it could knock a tree down, but Aneirin's agility allows him to avoid the full impact.
Suddenly, Aneirin feels a sharp pain in his left leg. Euenios has managed to catch him with a glancing blow, and he stumbles slightly. Euenios takes the opportunity and swings his sword in a wide arc aimed at Aneirin's neck.
Aneirin's right leg, his strongest, steps back and propels him into a backflip, narrowly avoiding the deadly strike. The muscles in his legs ripple with power as he lands gracefully on the balls of his feet, his eyes never leaving his opponent's.
Those legs, so often admired for their beauty, are now a blur of motion as he sprints towards Euenios. Each stride is a testament to the countless hours of training and the relentless pursuit of perfection that have honed them into weapons.
Their muscles flex and tighten, a sight that would be mesmerizing if it weren't for the battle around them. The sun reflects off the sweat that coats them, adding an almost ethereal quality to their already awe-inspiring presence.
While they're fighting, there are men fighting around them, and both of them have to constantly change their location in order not to be accidentally cleaved off or shot. Having to constantly look at your surroundings while focusing on one opponent isn't something Euenios is particularly prepared for.
Euenios' arms are like tree trunks, the veins popping out. The muscles in his chest ripple with every heavy breath he takes, each one a reminder of the raw power that lies beneath his skin.
Each swing of those arms is a declaration of war, the gauntlet cutting through the air with a sound that could make lesser men tremble. Yet Aneirin remains unfazed.
Euenios blocks another kick with his arm, and with two consecutive punches he reaches forward and grabs Aneirin's leg, but his other leg kicks Euenios away.
For a minute, the fighters disengage, gasping for air. A quiet understanding is shared between them in the instant when their eyes meet. This is now a chess match of tactical accuracy and traditional warrior instincts rather than a confrontation of physical power.
Aneirin's gaze sharpens as he notices the subtle shift in Euenios' stance. The Briton knows what's coming, and his hold on his sword gets tighter. Avoiding the inevitable charge, he uses the momentum to spin around and kick Euenios in the side.
The impact sends the larger man reeling, and Aneirin swings his sword in a vicious arc. The blade slices through the air, but Euenios is ready. He blocks it with a swift movement of his gauntleted forearm, the steel biting into the leather but not penetrating.
Stuck with this stalemate, and seeing his men slowly retreating due to the number of Macedonians, Aneirin the Carvetii retreats. As Aneirin and his men retreat, the battlefield is a flurry of dust and ringing steel.
Their withdrawal is a calculated move to regroup and recover, not a sign of defeat. As they retreat, their eyes never leaving their pursuers, the war cries of the strong and proud Britons reverberate through the air.
Euenios stops his men from rushing over to fight the retreating Britons. Knowing that if they are lured into the forest that would be the end of his expedition. He watches the Macedonian warriors, their swords and shields smeared with blood, their armor scarred and cracked.
The battlefield's once pristine sand has turned into a scarlet and earthen backdrop. Despite their heroic efforts, the fatigue is visible on their faces like the ridges in their shields.
After the end of the day, nearly 500 men lay dead on the field. The once clean sands of the battleground were now a bloody mess, turned into mud by the chaos of fighting. The bodies of the fallen lay scattered everywhere, their armor broken and weapons left behind.
Some were face down, their final moments frozen in expressions of pain and fear. Others lay on their backs, eyes empty and unseeing, as if silently asking why fate had brought them to such a cruel end.
The cries of the wounded filled the air, a harsh reminder of the battle's cost. The smell of blood and metal was strong, mixing with the sharp odor of sweat and fear. Crows, always looking for an opportunity, had started to gather, their dark shapes standing out against the bloody scene below.
The Macedonian soldiers worked with cold determination, their tired faces showing the strain as they collected the bodies of both friends and foes. Each body was handled with respect, honoring those who had endured the same brutal day.
The once shiny armor of the dead was now battered and scratched, silently telling the story of the fierce battle. Some bodies were so badly damaged that it was hard to tell who was on which side.
Arms and legs lay scattered, a horrifying result of the battle. In the medical tent, healers rushed around trying to save the wounded, their faces calm and focused despite the chaos and screams of pain.
The snapping of bones being set and the rustling of bandages being wrapped created a steady rhythm as the day came to an end. In his tent, Euenios lies resting, his armor off, leaving his battered and bruised body uncovered to the cool night air.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths—each breath in a quiet moment of relief, each breath out a sign of weariness. The candlelight dances on the tent walls, casting strange shadows over his face as he gazes at the map spread out in front of him.
The lines and marks on the map reflect the ones carved into his skin by years of travel and hardship. Beside him sits his assistant, Lysandra. Her eyes move quickly between the map and the scrolls, her fingers gliding over the parchment as she works out the price of their hard-won victory.
Her sharp gaze and quick thinking reveal a mind focused on the strategies and challenges ahead. Though exhaustion is clear on her face, her determination shines just as strongly as her commander's.
Her bright blue eyes catch the light as she carefully plans the supplies and reinforcements needed for tomorrow's journey.
"We will not be chasing the Macedonians. We will enter the Iberian settlement mentioned by the mercenaries." Prince Euenios says, clutching his chest.
Lysandra stops what she's doing and looks at him. Though she's 26 this year, she's still as exuberant as ever, but now her face is as grim as his. She nods, and keeps the parchment in one area of the table, clearing it for a simple meal.
Euenios' hand shakes as he lifts a piece of bread to his mouth. The simple act of eating feels alien in the wake of battle, a stark contrast to the savagery that had ruled the day. The crunch is almost too loud in the quiet tent, the taste of the food too bland for a man who has feasted on adrenaline for hours.
His eyes never leave the map as he chews, his thoughts racing. Each bite is a deliberate act, a silent affirmation that he still has the strength to lead his men. The stew in the clay bowl beside him holds the meager promise of sustenance.
The aroma of the simmering meat and vegetables wafts through the air, but his stomach turns. He's not used to the rich flavors of victory, nor the bitter taste of lives lost. Yet, he knows he must eat, must regain his strength for the battles to come.
With a sigh, Euenios picks up the spoon and dips it into the thick broth. The liquid clings to the spoon, as if resisting the idea of eating after so much destruction. He takes a sip, the warmth spreading through his body, briefly easing the cold that has settled deep within him.
The candles flicker in the soft breeze, casting moving shadows on the tent walls. His eyes close, exhaustion dragging him into a restless sleep. Behind his eyelids, dreams of the battle replay, a chaotic echo of the day's events.
…
..
.
The next morning, Euenios wakes to the sound of birds chirping in the distance, a peaceful contrast to the chaos of the night before. The soft light of dawn fills the tent, casting long shadows from his piled armor and weapons, like echoes of the fallen.
His body is sore, each ache a reminder of the battle. But despite the pain, a pressing sense of urgency takes hold of him. He sits up with a groan, the tent fabric creaking as he moves.
Outside, the world is waking up, but inside, the air is heavy with the smell of sweat and blood. He rubs his face, feeling the rough stubble from a night without shaving. In the morning light, the lines on his map seem sharper, a clear reminder that the battle was real—and he'll have to face it again.
Lysandra enters the tent, carrying a steaming plate of breakfast. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread fills the space, mingling with the lingering odors of the battlefield. She sets it down on the makeshift table, her eyes filled with a mix of concern and respect for the man who has led them this far.
The doe-like admiration from the past is gone from Lysandra's face, replaced by a more mature face that stares back at Euenios. Euenios himself doesn't dislike this. Euenios pushes himself to his feet, his joints stiff and sore.
He nods at her, silently thanking her for the food. His hand trembles slightly as he grabs a piece of bread, a small reminder of the battle still lingering in him. He tears it in half, takes a bite, and finds comfort in its warmth and taste amidst the chaos.
Outside, the Macedonian camp is alive with activity. Soldiers, some still bandaged from the fight, are packing up, moving quickly and skillfully despite their exhaustion. Refugees, their eyes empty with grief, help out where they can, finding meaning in simple tasks.
The children are unusually quiet, playing games that copy the battles they've witnessed but don't fully grasp. Euenios steps out of his tent, the morning sun catching the dust on his armor. He stands tall, shoulders back, and surveys his men.
The air is tense with a mix of anticipation and fear as they wait for his command. He looks over them, noticing their wounds and exhaustion but also the determination still burning in their eyes.
Taking a deep breath, he raises his fist, and the camp grows quiet. "We march to the Iberian settlement!" His voice booms like thunder, silencing the murmurs and stirring hearts.
The soldiers and refugees turn to him, their faces showing both hope and unease. A simple statement usually proves to be better than a long winded speech. Only Alexander can do long winded speeches.
The journey is harsh, with the sun blazing down, turning the land into a haze of heat and dust. Still, the soldiers and refugees press on, driven by desperation and the hope of safety ahead. Euenios rides at the front, his eyes locked on the horizon. His black stallion, strong and restless, mirrors his rider's resolve.
In the distance, the Iberian settlement emerges like a mirage—a refuge of civilization in the midst of war. Its tall, sturdy walls showcase ancient skill, and the banners flying above signal a people prepared to defend their home.
The gates are open, but the tension is thick as the Macedonian forces approach. There is not much we wish for but for the survival of Macedonia. The settlement came closer, and the poor and weary people inside had no chance of resistance.