Genre - Historisch+Flirten
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120_minutenTeam: Mond
Challenge: Genre: Historisch + Flirten (fürs Team)
Fandom: Original
Charaktere: Cynwrig, Marcus (von hier)
Wörter: ~ 1500
Warnung: Anachronismen und historische Falschdarstellungen galore.
A/N: Oh ich habe viel, viel zu viel Spaß an den beiden entwickelt. Und es haben nur Bruchteile des Hintergrunds es hierhin geschafft und ich habe gnadenlos Rechercheteile schlechten Witzen und einem „Schaltjahre ohne Konsequenzen“-Ding geopfert, aber, oh, ich hatte Spaß. ;)
44 AD
„Witch.“ Cynwrig‘s hand fell to his dagger before the black smoke had properly materialised. Marcus would have said something but his own hand rested firmly on the lead inlayed hilt of his gladius.
He nodded in greeting. “It’s magos, druid.”
“Oh, I call them as I see them.”
With a small smile and a shrug, the Roman conceded the point. In the greater scheme of things, he didn’t particularly care. “I’d say it’s good to see you, druid, only, I think we’re past that point.”
“Past pleasant lies?”
“I don’t know about good old Britannia, but in Rome, we stop those after marriage.” The druid flinched at the new Roman name of the swampy green pastures of his homeland and Marcus didn’t even bother to hide his satisfied smirk at that. Pettiness flourished in marriages, after all.
“I wondered when you would notice.” Cynwrig seemed to share that sentiment at least. “If it helps, it is a rather neat way to bind people.”
“Well, marrying the locals is becoming more accepted in the legion, guess I'm just a little old-fashioned. At least you’re pretty. - Shall we, wife of mine?” In the past years, the annual ritual to renew their truce, or marriage as it were, had become comfortingly mundane.
The druid shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. Marcus appreciated that. According to his count, after years of fighting the Shadow, the druid had saved his life more often than he’d attempted to take it and that was just unacceptable on so many levels...
“I can’t wait to divorce you, witch.”
808 AD
„Witch.“
„I‘ve been informed you Britons have a shiny new word for the likes of me. Warlock, if I‘m not mistaken.“ Marcus hadn’t changed much in the last two hundred years. His complexion had gotten a bit darker, maybe, and there was some grey in his jet black hair that Cynwrig didn’t remember, but otherwise, Rome really seemed to be eternal, even if Marcus had been living in Constantinopole for decades now.
„Oathbreaker. How fitting.“
„I didn‘t break any oath, Cynwrig.“ The Roman sounded vaguely amused. “We’ve been over this how many times in the last centuries?”
“You sacrificed me.”
“And thus defeated the Shadow.”
“You left me for dead.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“No thanks to you.”
Marcus sighed. “And I never promised you anything else.”
Which, technically, was true. The only thing that had surprised Cynwrig at the time had been how long it had taken. Still, it did not exactly enamour him to the idea of dealing with Marcus Valerius and his leaden platelets and fire magic. “What do you want, warlock?”
“Maybe I want to dwell in memories of the golden days of our youth.”
“Oh, the good old times when we still tried to kill each other?”
Marcus shrugged. “That was futile then, it’s futile now.”
“I enjoyed that century that you spent as an ash tree…” Cynwrig smiled wistfully. It had been a mind numbingly boring century but he had enjoyed the triumph, however short-lived it had been.
Marcus shuddered at the memory. “Squirrels. Anyway. Let’s not dwell on that or what followed… I need your help.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“You need the help of a little old barbarian from the isles?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “I need the help of trees and plants and dirt. You’re just the only one I know who still talks to them.”
“Oh, is there things that you can’t built and inscribe and over-engineer?” Cynwrig might have been enjoying this a little too much.
“Ever dealt with a golem, druid? I can handle the inscriptions… You talk to the dirt.”
Cynwrig was intrigued, despite himself. “In the end, you’re going to betray me again, aren't you?”
“Probably.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, witch.”
1284 AD
“Witch!”
The crow sitting on the tent pole managed to look smug at Marcus’ startled yelp.
“Warlock, Cynwrig. Warlock.”, he admonished gently while the crow transformed into a smiling young man. He was blond now and quite a bit taller, but at least he’d kept the freckles. “What are you doing here, druid? You’re a long way from home.”
Marcus enjoyed making fun of Cynwrig’s attachment to a country that had long since surpassed its prime. But such was the nature of a druid’s power, he was bound to Britannia’s soil and forests.
“I’d say the same thing to you but I don’t think you remember what the word means. You’ve gone back to your life as a soldier and joined the hordes? Really?”
“I’ve watched the caliphate fall, that’s enough misplaced loyalty for one century.” And such was the nature of his own power. It was a question of pragmatism, really. “Also, haven't you always told me to spend more time outside of cities?“
Cynwrig shrugged. “Wasn’t referring to sieges but I guess these are dire times for all of us.” There was something in his voice that Marcus’ couldn't quite place, even after all these centuries. If he hadn't known better, he’d thought it was worry.
“So… You've just come here to gloat?”
The druid smirked. “Naturally, witch.”
1644 AD
“Witch! Burn the witch!”
While Cynwrig was being tied to the wooden pole atop the stake, the good people of Lower Piddleham chanted themselves into a frenzy.
“I thought for sure that it was warlock these days…”, a pleasant, slightly accented voice said right next to his ear and Cynwrig rolled his eyes. The accent was oriental, Chinese most likely, but some things just didn't change. Not the hooked nose, not the condescending smirk and certainly not the tendency to appear at inopportune moments to gloat.
“Bugger off, Marcus.”
“Come on, you've got to appreciate the irony.” In a weird way, Cynwrig did. At some point during the last millennium, he'd turned crazy, probably.
“I’ve got everything under control.”
“Sure you do. But fire and red-hot pokers are still my domain. Also, I owe you. I think.” It was not like Marcus Valerius, or whatever he called himself nowadays that he meddled in Chinese power struggles, to lose count, but the past millennium apparently hadn't left his sanity unaffected either.
“In that case, go ahead and save my life, oh knight in shining armour.”
“My pleasure, witch.”
1896 AD
“Witch.”
“I’m tempted to think it’s a pet name by now…” Marcus straightened his necktie and tried not to smirk too widely.
Cynwrig, on the other hand, just rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” The druid was pale and skinny and Marcus would have never admitted it, but he was worried. He’d grown fond of the man over the centuries, or so he told himself.
“Enjoying London?”
Cynwrig’s still freckled face contorted almost comically. “Everything is smoke and metal and dead.”
Marcus crossed his legs. “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? Tea?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured the other man a cup which earned him another eye roll and a small smile.
“You are enjoying London, aren’t you?”
“As you said, everything is smoke and metal and dead. Also, it’s the center of an empire…” He hadn’t had that much power at his command since the fall of Rome. It just wasn’t as much fun anymore… He was getting old.
Cynwrig sipped his tea. “It’s awful. But in a weird way, all that raw power is seeping back into the soil… Not sure I like it.”
Maybe they hadn't only grown fond of each other, maybe they'd even grown close. What a weird thought.
“Seems like we’re stuck with each other for a while longer.”
“Pass me the sugar, witch.”
2016 AD
“Witch.”
“Druid.”
“A crow?”
Marcus didn’t smirk, because crows don’t smirk. “When in Rome…”
Cynwrig’s cough sounded almost like a croak. Or the other way round. He was loath to admit it but he appreciated Marcus’ foray into avian disguises. And the fact that he was here to begin with.
“It’s been almost two thousand years now…”
“Yeah, you’re getting old.”
“Marcus…”
“This is the place, isn’t it? The one were we…” The crow looked down onto the busy motorway beneath them and tilted its head. “Even I can sense the… loss.”
Cynwrig shrugged. “It used to be a holy place. The trees here were ancient and the earth was soaked with magic...” Almost two thousand years ago he’d tried to kill the Roman, now he was the only one who could possibly understand… The only one. Life was strange like that. “I’m still bound to this place.”
“You know, according to Roman law, we never actually got divorced…”
“What?”
“We’re still married as far as ancient Rome is concerned. ”
Cynwrig threw a sidelong glance at the jet black crow on his left. “You’re the only ancient Roman here.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
He would have laughed. Only… “Well, as far as the ancient Celts are concerned, we’re properly separated.”
“Think there’s enough magic left in this place to rectify that?”
“How very presumptuous of you…”
“Is that a yes, druid?”
“Shut up, witch.”
Challenge: Genre: Historisch + Flirten (fürs Team)
Fandom: Original
Charaktere: Cynwrig, Marcus (von hier)
Wörter: ~ 1500
Warnung: Anachronismen und historische Falschdarstellungen galore.
A/N: Oh ich habe viel, viel zu viel Spaß an den beiden entwickelt. Und es haben nur Bruchteile des Hintergrunds es hierhin geschafft und ich habe gnadenlos Rechercheteile schlechten Witzen und einem „Schaltjahre ohne Konsequenzen“-Ding geopfert, aber, oh, ich hatte Spaß. ;)
44 AD
„Witch.“ Cynwrig‘s hand fell to his dagger before the black smoke had properly materialised. Marcus would have said something but his own hand rested firmly on the lead inlayed hilt of his gladius.
He nodded in greeting. “It’s magos, druid.”
“Oh, I call them as I see them.”
With a small smile and a shrug, the Roman conceded the point. In the greater scheme of things, he didn’t particularly care. “I’d say it’s good to see you, druid, only, I think we’re past that point.”
“Past pleasant lies?”
“I don’t know about good old Britannia, but in Rome, we stop those after marriage.” The druid flinched at the new Roman name of the swampy green pastures of his homeland and Marcus didn’t even bother to hide his satisfied smirk at that. Pettiness flourished in marriages, after all.
“I wondered when you would notice.” Cynwrig seemed to share that sentiment at least. “If it helps, it is a rather neat way to bind people.”
“Well, marrying the locals is becoming more accepted in the legion, guess I'm just a little old-fashioned. At least you’re pretty. - Shall we, wife of mine?” In the past years, the annual ritual to renew their truce, or marriage as it were, had become comfortingly mundane.
The druid shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. Marcus appreciated that. According to his count, after years of fighting the Shadow, the druid had saved his life more often than he’d attempted to take it and that was just unacceptable on so many levels...
“I can’t wait to divorce you, witch.”
808 AD
„Witch.“
„I‘ve been informed you Britons have a shiny new word for the likes of me. Warlock, if I‘m not mistaken.“ Marcus hadn’t changed much in the last two hundred years. His complexion had gotten a bit darker, maybe, and there was some grey in his jet black hair that Cynwrig didn’t remember, but otherwise, Rome really seemed to be eternal, even if Marcus had been living in Constantinopole for decades now.
„Oathbreaker. How fitting.“
„I didn‘t break any oath, Cynwrig.“ The Roman sounded vaguely amused. “We’ve been over this how many times in the last centuries?”
“You sacrificed me.”
“And thus defeated the Shadow.”
“You left me for dead.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“No thanks to you.”
Marcus sighed. “And I never promised you anything else.”
Which, technically, was true. The only thing that had surprised Cynwrig at the time had been how long it had taken. Still, it did not exactly enamour him to the idea of dealing with Marcus Valerius and his leaden platelets and fire magic. “What do you want, warlock?”
“Maybe I want to dwell in memories of the golden days of our youth.”
“Oh, the good old times when we still tried to kill each other?”
Marcus shrugged. “That was futile then, it’s futile now.”
“I enjoyed that century that you spent as an ash tree…” Cynwrig smiled wistfully. It had been a mind numbingly boring century but he had enjoyed the triumph, however short-lived it had been.
Marcus shuddered at the memory. “Squirrels. Anyway. Let’s not dwell on that or what followed… I need your help.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me.”
“You need the help of a little old barbarian from the isles?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “I need the help of trees and plants and dirt. You’re just the only one I know who still talks to them.”
“Oh, is there things that you can’t built and inscribe and over-engineer?” Cynwrig might have been enjoying this a little too much.
“Ever dealt with a golem, druid? I can handle the inscriptions… You talk to the dirt.”
Cynwrig was intrigued, despite himself. “In the end, you’re going to betray me again, aren't you?”
“Probably.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, witch.”
1284 AD
“Witch!”
The crow sitting on the tent pole managed to look smug at Marcus’ startled yelp.
“Warlock, Cynwrig. Warlock.”, he admonished gently while the crow transformed into a smiling young man. He was blond now and quite a bit taller, but at least he’d kept the freckles. “What are you doing here, druid? You’re a long way from home.”
Marcus enjoyed making fun of Cynwrig’s attachment to a country that had long since surpassed its prime. But such was the nature of a druid’s power, he was bound to Britannia’s soil and forests.
“I’d say the same thing to you but I don’t think you remember what the word means. You’ve gone back to your life as a soldier and joined the hordes? Really?”
“I’ve watched the caliphate fall, that’s enough misplaced loyalty for one century.” And such was the nature of his own power. It was a question of pragmatism, really. “Also, haven't you always told me to spend more time outside of cities?“
Cynwrig shrugged. “Wasn’t referring to sieges but I guess these are dire times for all of us.” There was something in his voice that Marcus’ couldn't quite place, even after all these centuries. If he hadn't known better, he’d thought it was worry.
“So… You've just come here to gloat?”
The druid smirked. “Naturally, witch.”
1644 AD
“Witch! Burn the witch!”
While Cynwrig was being tied to the wooden pole atop the stake, the good people of Lower Piddleham chanted themselves into a frenzy.
“I thought for sure that it was warlock these days…”, a pleasant, slightly accented voice said right next to his ear and Cynwrig rolled his eyes. The accent was oriental, Chinese most likely, but some things just didn't change. Not the hooked nose, not the condescending smirk and certainly not the tendency to appear at inopportune moments to gloat.
“Bugger off, Marcus.”
“Come on, you've got to appreciate the irony.” In a weird way, Cynwrig did. At some point during the last millennium, he'd turned crazy, probably.
“I’ve got everything under control.”
“Sure you do. But fire and red-hot pokers are still my domain. Also, I owe you. I think.” It was not like Marcus Valerius, or whatever he called himself nowadays that he meddled in Chinese power struggles, to lose count, but the past millennium apparently hadn't left his sanity unaffected either.
“In that case, go ahead and save my life, oh knight in shining armour.”
“My pleasure, witch.”
1896 AD
“Witch.”
“I’m tempted to think it’s a pet name by now…” Marcus straightened his necktie and tried not to smirk too widely.
Cynwrig, on the other hand, just rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.” The druid was pale and skinny and Marcus would have never admitted it, but he was worried. He’d grown fond of the man over the centuries, or so he told himself.
“Enjoying London?”
Cynwrig’s still freckled face contorted almost comically. “Everything is smoke and metal and dead.”
Marcus crossed his legs. “I know. It’s great, isn’t it? Tea?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured the other man a cup which earned him another eye roll and a small smile.
“You are enjoying London, aren’t you?”
“As you said, everything is smoke and metal and dead. Also, it’s the center of an empire…” He hadn’t had that much power at his command since the fall of Rome. It just wasn’t as much fun anymore… He was getting old.
Cynwrig sipped his tea. “It’s awful. But in a weird way, all that raw power is seeping back into the soil… Not sure I like it.”
Maybe they hadn't only grown fond of each other, maybe they'd even grown close. What a weird thought.
“Seems like we’re stuck with each other for a while longer.”
“Pass me the sugar, witch.”
2016 AD
“Witch.”
“Druid.”
“A crow?”
Marcus didn’t smirk, because crows don’t smirk. “When in Rome…”
Cynwrig’s cough sounded almost like a croak. Or the other way round. He was loath to admit it but he appreciated Marcus’ foray into avian disguises. And the fact that he was here to begin with.
“It’s been almost two thousand years now…”
“Yeah, you’re getting old.”
“Marcus…”
“This is the place, isn’t it? The one were we…” The crow looked down onto the busy motorway beneath them and tilted its head. “Even I can sense the… loss.”
Cynwrig shrugged. “It used to be a holy place. The trees here were ancient and the earth was soaked with magic...” Almost two thousand years ago he’d tried to kill the Roman, now he was the only one who could possibly understand… The only one. Life was strange like that. “I’m still bound to this place.”
“You know, according to Roman law, we never actually got divorced…”
“What?”
“We’re still married as far as ancient Rome is concerned. ”
Cynwrig threw a sidelong glance at the jet black crow on his left. “You’re the only ancient Roman here.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
He would have laughed. Only… “Well, as far as the ancient Celts are concerned, we’re properly separated.”
“Think there’s enough magic left in this place to rectify that?”
“How very presumptuous of you…”
“Is that a yes, druid?”
“Shut up, witch.”
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