Gaul, sometime between 100BC and 200AD...
"It's quite easy to remember how I began my path of druidism. However that history is not important. The end to that path is unforgettable, yet it is not easy to remember. However, that history is important, and so it shall be shared with you.
The Romans had laid siege to Alesia. What was once a grand city was now reduced to a pit of sickness. It was after we had eaten all of our food, our horses, even our dogs, that there was some release. That release came when we were wading down the streets, ankle deep in human waste, and the siege finally broke.
I didn't die in battle. I was sent to Alesia to help heal the sick and injured prior to the siege. I was from the land of the Carnutes, I was trapped within the walls by bad luck; No, the Great Power had lain me there for some reason, even if I did not understand it. Sent for my druidic skill of herbalism, I was not expected to fight. I did not live by that expectation. Small and thin as I was, my body was fit and strong. The swords of the warriors being a slight bit heavy for my hand to wield, I fought with my stave, a twisted limb of oak, and screamed the battle cries alongside my brother Celts. However I was not trained in the military arts, and the Romans were relentless and mechanical. They were, in as much as we could know, undefeatable. When we declared surrender, I was taken as a slave, caged like an animal, back to Rome to be sold as to the highest bidder.
A man was walking past the auction block. He was very near, and I recognized him. Not the man, but his position. He was a soldier. Carrying goods from the market, his sword at his side. That man was my one shot at freedom. My people were a free people.
Despite being bound, I managed to rush towards the soldier. The slaveholder cursed me, but I would not listen.
The soldier had listened. He dropped his wares, readied his sword, and in a flurry of a moment that could not ever be controlled, he released me from my bindings.
I fell to my knees and looked upwards to the face of the man who had freed me. He was young. Very young. Younger than myself. Younger than I had been when I first entered upon my path of Druidism. He had a tear in his eye.
My breath was leaving me when the young soldier looked at my blood staining his hands. He looked down at me, mouth moving as if to say words, but no sound emerged. My voice was like a whisper on the wind when my lips rattled with my own death, the words, 'Thank You'.
As I collapsed on the ground at the soldiers feet, a tear fell from that soldier's eye. I will forever have gratitude for that soldier, yet rage towards his society. I am not alone in my binding. That young soldier; he will have my blood on his hands, and sympathy in his eye for all of eternity..."
More of my tale...