The Chosen One
“I shall carry out the magister militum’s orders at once. We’ll load up twenty ships with whatever’s needed and send them off. The coastal watchtowers must be kept in perfect working order... There’s much to inspect, it seems. Domina Anna? Then I shall see you at Domina Guinevere’s banquet this evening.”
“Thank you, Prefectus Merlinus.”
“No need for thanks. If you require anything, summon a servant at once. They’ll be waiting by the door.”
“...”
Galbaginus watched his mother’s radiant smile with deeply sunken eyes, not turning away even as Merlinus departed. Showing such a face to the ruler of Londinium might be deemed rude, but Merlinus paid it no mind as he exited to his office. He had known Galbaginus since boyhood, after all, and there were the networks among the few remaining old Romano-Briton noble houses on this land. Above all, the young man was the son of that noble lady from Eboracum.
“...Shall I guess why you’ve come here, Mother?”
“Galbaginus, you really haven’t changed. I carried you in my womb for nine months, but shouldn’t a proper greeting come first when seeing your parents after so long—something like ‘How have you been?’”
“...You’ve been well, haven’t you?”
“Hah.”
‘And yet I’m that Galbaginus, tribune under Magister Militum Artorius himself!’
His brash spirit evaporated in a single word, leaving only a young man barely rolling his eyes under his mother’s stern gaze.
“Your quarrel with your father, running off on your own—it’s all ancient history now. Besides, aren’t you a tribune under the magister militum? Like it or not, your bloodline stems from your father and ancestors. As long as Eboracum’s rivers don’t dry up like a mere poem’s fancy, the magister militum will make great use of you one day.”
“Ah, Mother—not again—”
That bloodline nonsense—starting up again? He’d lived like a wastrel and even run away precisely because he despised all that noble tradition drivel. Galbaginus’s head throbbed at his mother’s nagging, but alas, there was no escaping it now.
“Do you think I don’t know the free spirit you were born with? But Galbaginus, one can’t live entirely as they please. Especially not someone like you—you must realize that by now.”
“...Fate and destiny again, is it?”
Domina Anna. The lady of Eboracum. Back when his father was in his prime, crossing Hadrian’s Wall with the Roman legions still holding the north, clashing with barbarians. By all accounts, his mother had been the renowned beauty of the region, known to one and all. Naturally, his ambitious young soldier of a father took interest in the rumors, and the two wed without much ado.
At first glance, it seemed a typical Romano-Briton noble match. But there was one peculiarity: though she dressed like a devotee of the Church, his mother was in truth the only child of an ancient druid line.
The old faith was hushed up but lingered among the people, and her lineage—self-proclaimed bearers of a mysterious bloodline stretching millennia—had hailed the union as an auspicious omen. From a more Roman noble perspective, it was the desperate last gasp of a dying priestly house marrying off their sole heiress, puffing up their status to avoid obscurity. That was Galbaginus’s assessment.
Begrudging as he was to admit it, his mother did have uncanny gifts. One was the oracle—or fate?—she had pronounced gazing upon him at birth.
On the day the sun rises highest, the hawk of May shall never know defeat.
Gwalhme. That other name for Galbaginus meant the hawk of May.
From a Roman noble’s view, Eboracum had been in turmoil back then, the legions withdrawn from the Wall sparking power struggles. His father had clearly won, and the “prophecy” was proclaimed far and wide. Whether to bolster his own legitimacy or for his eldest son and heir, Galbaginus wasn’t sure.
In hindsight, it had been suffocating for a free spirit like him. Everywhere in Eboracum: “There! Galbaginus himself—the fiercest hawk of May!” “The bird that soars highest!” “The name unbeatable beneath the sun!” Childish accolades dogged him, elevating him to hero status without a single deed to his name.
Born with a sturdy frame, he won every bout and returned from hunts laden with game. But the people’s expectations, amid the crumbling Romano-Briton world—especially near the Wall—grew stifling, burdensome for young Galbaginus. His parents heaped on more as he excelled.
Eventually, he wanted to hurl it all away. He played the wastrel second son, then chased bizarre southern rumors like a man possessed and fled.
Those rumors outshone every fate and praise he’d heard in Eboracum combined—tales of a great hero.
“Mother’s prophecy was wrong from the start. I lost when the sun was at its peak—smack in the middle of May, no less.”
He remembered it vividly. Galbaginus, who’d never looked up at anyone, craning his neck to meet the giant’s aura, that amused glint in his eye. The longsword drawn next—no flaws, not a one. A body that massive, yet no openings?
Instinctively shuffling steps, feinting wrist flicks and twists—nothing worked. In desperation, he gambled on a fleeting gap, only for a thunderbolt club to smash down.
[This guy’s hilarious. Fight like that, and you’ll die someday? Better relearn.]
[H-haha... Ahahaha!]
[...A madman, huh.]
What hawk of May, what sun’s true son? Invincible at noon, they said—shattered in one move.
That day, Galbaginus pledged loyalty to the prophecy-breaker. Years passed.
“...I burdened you too soon, with far too much. I’ve no words but sorry, Galbaginus.”
Her pitying gaze weighed heavier. For now, with a thicker head on his shoulders, Galbaginus understood better.
The crumbling Romano-Briton world. Eboracum years ago, in crisis vaster than most realized. His parents had done anything—everything—to mend, hold, prepare against threats crashing in unbidden.
If Galbaginus were in his father’s shoes, and his own son showed talent... he’d have done the same. Especially in a place like Eboracum, steeped in old warrior ways—a fine heir was legitimacy incarnate.
So his tantrum now was mere petulance. Five, six years since fleeing, and they still stood there. Gwalhme!
“...Don’t do to my brother what you did to me. Anyway, why are you here? If it’s to drag me back, no dice. I’ve said it plenty: give the heirship to him. I like it here.”
Her gaze softly caressed his evasive face. No matter the years or his looks, a mother’s heart endures.
“If I can’t sway the will even your father couldn’t break, how could I? Do as you wish. Nay—you must stay closer to the magister militum than ever.”
“...”
Behind her sage voice, he sensed his father’s influence. Perhaps the first time in years. The man who’d always hinted at return had finally relented his iron will.
“Father said that?”
Comes Lot. Simply put, the Uterius of Romano-Briton’s northeast. His name evoked the god of light, the greatest beacon guiding Eboracum from dark ages. With Comes Eturnus of the northwest, he stood as one of the north’s two loftiest figures—Galbaginus’s father.
“Yes, your father’s will.”
“It’s fully decided, then? Eboracum joins under the magister militum, Artorius?”
A monumental choice. If Romano-Briton was Britain’s remote north in the Empire, Eboracum and Deva Victrix were its northern outposts. With legions gone from the Wall, they held unprecedented independence.
Deva Victrix, now Botadii haunt, had sent heir Cunedagius swiftly pledging fealty. Now Eboracum sought the same under Artorius. Suddenly, her visit to Londinium made sense.
“...Father’s made a hard call.”
“Your father’s will—and Eboracum’s.”
“That dire already?”
She smiled at his worried eyes.
“Has the Wall’s border ever been safe? Your father isn’t one to crumble easily. Don’t fret so.”
“True enough.”
Recalling his father’s iron arm—beyond hale, vigorous—Galbaginus nodded. In this chaos, the weak couldn’t be comes, especially north of Londinium.
“Eboracum folk are strong, aye. But they yearn for the Empire’s stout bulwark more than any. Believe it: of millennia here, the Romans’ Wall brought three centuries of deepest peace. They miss it most.”
“You think Magister Militum Artorius can restore the Wall?”
“Yes. A faith even your father couldn’t claim.”
“...”
He acted the hater, but Galbaginus revered his father above all—yet rebellion flickered briefly in his eyes, then vanished. Artorius’s name weighed too heavy for boyish faith to counter.
“...Then Eboracum’s wise citizens and Father may rejoice, Mother. If anyone can lead this forsaken land back to glory, it’s Dominus Artorius alone.”
A son so devoted—mystical sight. Born sun’s heir, proud as his skill, yet even that pride bowed before Artorius.
“Yes. Quite right.”
“...I’ve duties, so I’ll take my leave. Domina Guinevere’s banquet tonight? See you then, Mother.”
Her ready agreement felt strange, embarrassing. As he hurried off, she recalled the babe clutching her finger fiercely.
“Yes, until then.”
Molgawse smiled at her son’s retreating back, seeing the mischievous boy bounding away. And his radiant future, clear as ever.
On the day the sun rises highest, the hawk of May shall never know defeat.
She had spoken those words. Too hasty. Too crude.
“...”
Hand on the seat he’d left, chasing lingering warmth. Even closed eyes felt the sun-hot blaze.
The prophecy erred not. Her prodigy, finest in druid millennia—Molgawse hadn’t misseen. Rushed then, she’d overlooked the light beyond her son.
“Artorius is this world’s greatest mystery, unseen before. My son, Galbaginus—beneath that light, you shall never fall.”
Not even sun’s heir bests the sun. Peering past his fate, Molgawse sensed an immensity beyond words.
Amid fate’s tangled threads draping the world, one mystery stood alone, mocking as it strolled. She glimpsed but its faint shadow.
From prophets’ abyss, even the greatest couldn’t pierce beyond. Deeper than night sky, fearfuller than midnight sea—she had seen those eyes.
“Have mercy on my son, on this land’s people, Lady of the Lake...”
Feeling an intensity none sense in life, Molgawse closed her eyes and bowed. As if appraising, an eastern breeze swirled and faded.