The Weaver of Mist

Shadows of the Wall

The rain tasted of iron and woodsmoke. Rhiannon wiped a smear of mud from her cheek, the grit scratching against her skin. She knelt beside the makeshift lean-to, the damp wool of her Roman-style tunic clinging uncomfortably. Inside, Old Man Eamon lay still, his breathing shallow and ragged. A Roman patrol had found him gathering firewood near the wall, a clear violation of the new regulations. They hadn’t killed him, not outright. Just…persuaded him to learn his lesson.

Rhiannon pressed two fingers to Eamon's wrist, her own pulse a frantic drum against the chill. The faint thrum she sought was there, thankfully, though weak. She’d seen worse. Much worse, tending to the wounded after skirmishes along the wall. But those were Roman soldiers. Eamon was…different. He was of the Brythonic people, the ones the Romans called Britons, though they called themselves something older, something lost in the mist. And Eamon, she knew, carried within him a lineage that whispered of something even older than that.

Her mother, Aurelia, had been a Roman administrator’s daughter, sent north with her father to “civilize” the province. Her father, however, had been different. He'd learned the local ways, married a woman of the Brythonic people, a woman whispered to be a ban-drui, a woman of power. Rhiannon was the result: a child caught between two worlds, belonging fully to neither.

She smoothed a poultice of crushed herbs and willow bark onto Eamon’s bruised ribs. The scent, earthy and bitter, mingled with the rain-soaked smell of the forest. Her fingers, guided by instinct and the teachings of her mother, moved with a practiced grace. It wasn’t simply knowledge of herbs, though she had that too, gleaned from the Roman army’s medicus and the old woman’s whispered lore. It was…something else. A warmth that flowed from her hands, a tingling energy that seemed to accelerate the healing process.

She hadn’t spoken of it to anyone. Not even Aurelia, before she’d passed. It was a secret, a dangerous one. The Romans prized practicality, order. They tolerated healers, but they wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t allow, something that felt so…unnatural. And the Brythonic people, while they might accept it, might also fear it. They held onto their old beliefs fiercely, and a power that blurred the lines between worlds might be seen as a threat.

A twig snapped nearby. Rhiannon’s head shot up, her hand instinctively reaching for the small knife hidden beneath her tunic. Lucius Valerius, a centurion with the Second Augusta Legion, emerged from the trees, his armor gleaming even in the grey light. He was a man of imposing stature, with a stern face and eyes that missed little.

“What are you doing here, Rhiannon?” His voice was clipped, demanding.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Visiting a sick man, Centurion.”

“A sick man who happens to be a Briton found trespassing on Roman land?” He gestured with his chin towards the lean-to. “You have a habit of associating with those who defy the law.”

Rhiannon bristled. “I am a healer. It is my duty to ease suffering, regardless of who the patient is.” She kept her voice carefully neutral, masking the turmoil within. She’d worked alongside Lucius for months now, assisting the legion’s medicus. He was a fair man, for a Roman. He followed the rules, but he wasn’t cruel. Still, she couldn't reveal the extent of her abilities, not to him.

“Duty, you say?” Lucius’s lips thinned. “Your duty is to the Empire, to uphold Roman law. Not to coddle lawbreakers.” He paused, his eyes scanning the area. “You were warned about aiding those who harbor resentment towards Rome.”

“He was injured, Centurion. He needed help.”

“He needed to learn a lesson.”

Rhiannon bit back a sharp retort. Arguing with Lucius was pointless. He was a soldier, trained to see the world in black and white. She lowered her gaze, focusing ...