“Father, what does exile mean?” Julius asked, peering up with wide, uncertain eyes.
Before Drax could answer, Marcus spoke first, his tone full of the confidence only youth could forge. “It means Father can kill Uncle Taranis. It means Uncle has no home, and should be on his island. Right, Father?”
The fire crackled. For a long moment, Drax said nothing. The weight of the question pressed heavier than the armour across his shoulders.
“No, Marcus,” he said at last, voice low. “Exile does not always mean an enemy. Sometimes it means Rome has no place for a man who refuses to kneel.”
The boys exchanged a glance, uncertain. Julius frowned. “But you serve Rome. Uncle does not.”
Drax looked out toward the dark treeline where his brother had vanished. The smoke twisting like ghostly fingers into the grey sky. “I serve peace,” he said. “Rome just calls it something else.”
“Will you fight him, Father?”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “If I must. But I hope the gods grant me a choice before that day.”
Marcus turned back to the fire, his expression thoughtful. “Uncle said the storm’s already here.”
“Aye,” Drax murmured, his gaze distant. “And sometimes the storm wears a familiar face.”
Thunder grumbled again, rolling through the valleys. Drax drew his cloak closer. Feeling the weight of legacy settle across him the burden of blood and oath, of brotherhood turned to legend.
Somewhere beyond the hills, Taranis walked free.
Drax, bound by Rome and duty, wondered who among them was truly exiled.
“Taranis is our baby brother, no matter what some think,” Drax growled, his voice low and edged with iron. His gaze locked on Rain across the firelight, sharp enough to cut stone. “You betrayed him when he was a child and you betray him now.”
Rain’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. The silence stretched between them, thick with memory and regret.
The old priest, Maeron, lifted his hand gently. “He forgives you, Rain,” he said, his tone weary yet steady. “He wanted Drax, Draven, and Lore to know he will endure what they give him. So that you three will survive. He says to make choices that will keep you all safe and your people.”
Drax’s expression did not soften, though his eyes flickered with something that have been pain. “He forgives far too easily.”
Maeron inclined his head. “Forgiveness is not weakness, my lord. It is the weapon of those who can’t be broken. The Romans won’t rule forever. Prepare for what comes next.”
At the edge of the fire, Caelum shifted uneasily, his young face caught between fear and pride. “But what about my uncle’s meals?” he asked suddenly. “Uncle was exiled from the Circle years before they caught him. I was a baby then. Now I’m fourteen he shouldn’t be forgotten again.”
The words silenced the hall. Even Rain, for all his bitterness, not meet the boy’s gaze.
Drax rose slowly, the firelight glinting off his scars. “He will not be forgotten,” he said at last. “Not while the storm still bears our name.”
“But won’t they strip him of his name?” Caelum pressed, voice trembling now. “If Rome erases it, how will anyone know he lived?”
Drax looked down at his son the fire’s glow. Reflected in the boy’s wide eyes and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Names can be taken,” he said quietly. “But legacies can’t. The Romans think power is carved in stone. Ours is carved in memory.”
He turned back to Maeron. “Tell him that. Tell him Emberhelm remembers.”
The priest nodded, rising to leave. But before he turned, his gaze swept the circle of men gathered in the hall. “When the storm returns,” he said softly, “I hope you are ready to stand beneath it.”
When Maeron’s footsteps faded into the night, the hall remained silent. The storm outside broke, rain hammering against the shutters like the echo of distant drums.
Drax stood by the window long after the others had gone. He could not see the fort from here, but he could feel it the iron cage that held his brother. The empire pressing closer each season. Yet as lightning flashed over the valley, he smiled grimly.
Because storms, no matter how long they’re caged, always find their way home.
The road to Viroconium was slick with rain. Drax rode beneath a low sky, his cloak heavy with water, the wind biting at his face. Beside him, Maeron’s hood was drawn deep, the priest’s silence carrying the weight of things better left unspoken.
When they reached the outskirts of the Roman fort, the air stank of smoke and iron. The rhythmic clash of hammers and the cries of soldiers echoed through the mist. But above it all, there was another sound low, strained, human.
Drax reined his horse sharply, his eyes narrowing.
At the edge of the square, raised above the mud and the murmuring crowd. Hung a man bound to a crude wooden cross. Blood streaked his arms, his body marked by lashes and bruises. His hair clung to his face in the rain. But the set of his jaw the defiant lift of his head was unmistakable.
Taranis.
Drax’s heart clenched as the legionnaire stepped forward, spear in hand. “He struck a guard and tried to run,” the man said stiffly. “By Roman law, the punishment is public display.”
“Law,” Drax echoed, his voice quiet, almost a whisper but Maeron flinched at the tone. “You call this law?”
The soldier hesitated, but before he could respond, Maeron laid a hand on Drax’s arm. “Careful,” he murmured. “The walls have ears.”
Drax dismounted, boots sinking into the mud. He walked forward until he stood before the cross, rain washing the grime from his face. Taranis raised his head slowly, eyes bloodshot but burning with that same inner fire that no empire could snuff out.
“Brother,” Drax whispered.
Taranis gave a faint, broken smile. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“And leave you to the crows?” Drax’s voice cracked like thunder. “Never.”
Maeron stepped forward, murmuring Latin prayers under his breath for the watching soldiers. Though his words were laced with druidic meaning ancient phrases meant to shield, not to save. His fingers brushed the iron nails that bound Taranis’s wrists. “These are not deep,” he said quietly. “They did not mean to kill him. Only to shame.”
Taranis’s laugh was hoarse. “They can’t shame what they don’t understand.”
The centurion appeared, cloak heavy with rain. “This man belongs to Rome,” he declared. “You will step back, Lord of Emberhelm.”
Drax turned slowly, the weight of centuries in his gaze. “And yet Rome forgets whose land it stands upon.”
The centurion stiffened. “Do you threaten?”
“No.” Drax’s tone softened to a dangerous calm. “I remind.”
The priest raised his hands quickly. “My lord only seeks mercy,” Maeron said. “Let him pray with his brother before the gods.”
After a pause, the centurion gestured sharply. “You have one hour.”
When the soldiers withdrew to the gatehouse, Drax knelt beside the cross. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging against his skin. “Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you down when the watch changes.”
Taranis shook his head weakly. “No. Not yet. If you cut me down, they’ll know you came. They’ll burn Emberhelm.”
“Then let them come,” Drax growled.
But Taranis only smiled faintly. “Storms must wait for the right sky, brother.”
Maeron placed a hand on Drax’s shoulder. “He’s right. Endurance, not rage. That is his rebellion.”
Drax bowed his head, jaw clenched. He hated the wisdom in those words. He hated that Taranis could still smile through chains and nails.
As dusk fell, lightning cracked beyond the hills, white and wild. The storm gathered again over Viroconium.
And though Rome saw only a prisoner’s suffering. Those who remembered the old ways knew the truth: A storm had been crucified and still, it did not die.
Acrylic painting of a mother cradling her child under a moonlit sky, symbolizing love and connection.
Medium: Acrylic on paper
Size: A4
Description: A mother cradles her child beneath the glow of moon and stars, framed in swirling gold. This piece speaks of tenderness, resilience, and the eternal bond between generations.
Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.
“No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”
“Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”
I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”
I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.
“We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”
There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.
“Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.
“He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.
Many moons passed.
Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.
But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.
One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.
Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.
“L… Lore?” the baby said softly.
I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”
No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.
Our parents rushed in.
“Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”
Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.
“Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”
“Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.
“The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”
“Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”
“That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”
“Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.
“Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.
“Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”
I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”
“Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”
He paused, hiding his face bashfully.
“You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”
Time flew.
Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.
One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.
“What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.
“Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.
“He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”
Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.
Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.
“TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.
“I heal!” he giggled.
Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.
We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.
“I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”
An artistic representation of a mother holding her baby, symbolizing love and protection, echoing the themes of warmth and celebration in the naming ceremony of Taranis Stormborne.
The fire rose high, its heat warming us as we sang and danced around it. the Song of the Spirit carried on our voices.
But beneath the music, there was a chill in the air, something wrong. something dark, as though a shadow had seeped into the world unseen.
“My brother cried once, Father,” I said, pride swelling in my chest. “It was like he answered the thunder god himself. Even the wolves are silent. Even the dragon doesn’t strike.”
I ran my fingers gently over Stormborne’s face. my baby brother, wrapped in warmth, calm in a world that seemed to hold its breath.
Father War, chief of our people placed a strong hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve noticed the strangeness too, Lore,” he said quietly. “But tonight we don’t fear each other’s company we embrace it. Tonight, my son, we celebrate. Tomorrow… we stand guard.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied. “As you consider.”
I stepped back and watched, as he and Mother approached the fire. They stepped ahead proud carrying Taranis wrapped in the freshly cut fox hide. its red fur a symbol of cunning and strength.
War cleared his throat, lifted the baby high, and turned to face the tribe.
“I name him Stormborne,” he said, “for he was born from the storm the thirteenth son, under thunder and fire. He will be a mighty warrior.”
The people gathered close.
One by one, they reached into the sacred ash. They marked the child’s forehead and chest black smudges to bind him to the tribe,to earth, flame, sky, and spirit.
Food and drink flowed. Smoke curled into the sky. Even the animals gathered at the forest edge to witness the naming.
So was born Taranis Stormborne the thirteenth son, the thunder child, and the one the winds would never forget.
StormborneLore 