So I discovered that drunk fanfic writing is a fantastic way of killing time during quarantine. Hopefully my drunk ramblings are entertaining to you (I've tried to clean up the grammar and spelling as much as poss and added in some extra explanations in some places too).

Also I can't be the only one who thinks the Volturi are the best characters in the whole series?!

I do not own in any way the Twilight universe or characters, just my OCs and drunk ideas.

There are a few non-con/violent/general adult themes in this fic so if that's not your thing then please don't force yourself to read. Please don't repost my work and please drink responsibly!

My family raised me in a small forest village in the Welsh countryside, nestled in the cradle of the valleys. They named me Luíseach (pron. Lee-sha-h, the h is like the 'ch' in loch) in honour of the Celtic god Lugh. However, being Celtic and living in Roman Britain brought its fair share of troubles, as much as we managed to get by.

We faced frequent raids by them, demanding a share of our food. The deities blessed our clan's village with fruitful harvests ever since our last king sacrificed himself for us, but this brought us in turn a lot of unwanted attention from the Romans.

Because my father was a Druid, he taught me the knowledge gained by our forefathers, wanting me to become a Banduri (female Druid). Within our society, women had a plethora of opportunities. The Romans wished to change that. Quite frequently the invaders kidnapped a young woman whom they took a fancy to. That's why my mother encouraged me to disguise myself as an elder whenever a threat was imminent.

I'd been lucky to inherit my father's long black silky hair which my mother loved to plait (braid) in a crown around my head and she often decorated her masterpiece with seasonal flowers. Snowdrops in winter, lilacs in spring, cornflower in summer and blue chrysanthemums in autumn. Her eye for colours helped enhance my blue irises; the feature I prized the most. For the beauty held in one's eyes could fade not even with age.

I was initiated as a Banduri when I turned fifteen and began my new life as a wise woman, studying the land and the sky, and healing those who were in need.

Three years passed and our small clan remained as strong as we could. The Romans still occasionally invaded, bringing with them propaganda against us. They were teaching their children that we were evil magicians who would go into murderous killing sprees when threatened with an enemy.

In reality, whilst we dabbled in the occasional sorcery, we never used it for unnecessary violence. Only when we needed it. For example, my colleagues often said that I had the gift of disguise because no one had seen through my theatrics as of yet. I was thankful for my ability to hide myself in plain sight when the Romans came, but wished I could prevent us from needing to do so in the first place.

In my free time, I enjoyed meandering through the forest alone, studying the wildlife. I'd become quite adept at tree climbing so I had taken to spying on birds' nests and trying to learn their songs. Fascinating how animals of a completely different mould were so similar to humans. They had their own languages, their own gestures, their own customs.

I was so interested in seeing if I could learn their words. Their beautiful whistles and songs sounded far more appealing than the harsh timbres of latin. Having picked up a lot of latin from the accounts of our ancestors as well as from the few interactions I'd had with invading parties, I'd gained a fair level of understanding of the language, no matter how spiteful of it I was.

The day was no different than any other. The midday sun filtered through the trees, flooding the forest with a pure green light which protected us against the crisp winter air as my mother and I traversed the woods on the search for herbs. Sounds of animals scurrying over leaves and birds rustling trees with their feathers composed the soundtrack of our expedition.

It was not long however, until the forest's equilibrium was torn down. The pandemonium of hooves upon the forest floor alerted us to the approaching army. We both looked at each other with concern, our seer had not predicted another invasion for months.

Rushing back home, we didn't manage to outrun the troupe. We arrived at a scene of panic. This was not a normal raid. The invaders were forcing the wooden doors off their hinges and dragging the house's inhabitants into the chaos or just murdering them on the spot.

There was no time for disguises now, we could not outrun their horses and we had very few weapons with which to retaliate, we could only try and kill enough of them to force them into a retreat. I pulled out the blade I had not so long ago been using to cut away the interfering vines of ivy and ran towards the scuffle.

The dusty street was already sodden with scarlet. Hoping it was the blood of my foes, I began to hopelessly stab and pray that I could pierce the joints of their armour. No matter how many times I felt the blade sink into roman flesh, I became aware of the stifling of the villagers' screams.

My blade snapped upon contact with the metal of a soldier's arm plate and I felt an unfamiliar hand yank me by the hair and throw me to the ground. Fuelled by adrenaline, I tried to stand again, but a kick to my ribs kept me on the floor.

Completely helpless now, winded by my injury, I watched in horror through desperate eyes as one soldier - the commander by the looks of his slightly more covering armour - plunged his sword relentlessly through the heart of my father.

My scream of anguish ripped through my throat. I watched through tears as my mother ran towards the man.

"QUAE EST MATER MEA! QUAE EST MATER MEA!" I yelled with what was left of my voice, the latin that I needed flying to the forefront of my mind.

"Oh, this little harlot can speak our language," one sneered. The commander looked at me curiously and ran through my mother with his sword, still looking directly at me. The hatred I felt in that moment was enough for me to ignore the pain of what must have been a broken rib. I lunged forwards at the man, teeth bared and death in my eyes, aiming for his sword, but I was held back by his underlings.

I must have looked exactly like the image of a Druid that the Romans warned their children about at this moment. The commander spat in my eye, temporarily blinding me.

"Witch," he hissed at me, disgusted. "We will take you with us to our town, if you are well behaved then we will let you live as a slave. If not, then I will kill you right here and now. You shall serve as an example of what happens to those who choose the savage way of life."

Ironic how they thought us the barbarians, yet we had never moved against their town. But they had just killed everyone from my village.

I complied, my will to live crushed, but my hunger for revenge kept me from moving against them. If I could only survive enough to kill them all, then I would be free.

Part of me knew that freedom would never be an option. Even if I was successful in enacting my revenge, I would never make it out of the town alive. I would never be able to live as free as my feathery friends. But death in the face of avenging the ones you love is better than death for the sake of death.

The journey to their settlement was not long. They lived a couple of hours ride from my former home. I spent my time studying their voices and what I could see of their faces. Especially that of the commander. None of them looked in any way guilty of what they had done.

My revenge was justified.