A quick note before we begin - this is set in the same universe as my Forever Autumn stories, which are based on Gravity Falls. While reading Forever Autumn is not required to understand this story, it is recommended for the best reading experience.

Heh...reading experience...in my stories...that's funny.

Anyway, let's get going!

Prologue

Long, long ago, when the Earth was new, there lived six scribes.

These scribes lived in a kingdom deep in the desert, a kingdom that relied on a great river to bring life to their crops, to trade their goods and to provide a place to pray to their gods. As long as the river flowed, the kingdom flourished.

But many springs had passed without flood, and famine gripped the people. Peasants starved to death in the hot sun, and no food could be brought to them on the dry river. No offerings could be made to the heavens, and the people's spirituality suffered. If the floods did not return, the kingdom would die.

As a result, the King called for brave souls willing to make their way to the source of the river, and find a way to make it flow once more. Warriors and heroes ventured north – none returned, and the drought continued.

The six scribes had nothing that the soldier or the adventurer did not have in far greater quantities, but they had each other, and they had a grim determination. And as they ventured out of the kingdom and into the unknown, they made unto each other a solemn vow.

They would fight for their brothers. They would venture far and wide, into every danger and every obstacle, to see their families survive. And if it were necessary, they would happily die for those they loved...

- The Tale of the Six Scribes – R.E.R.E. archives, Hereford, Great Britain

Alton, northern England. 1745.

Caruthers Rochford stood in front of the altar, deep in the heart of Alton Cathedral, looking up at the gigantic stained glass image of the Virgin Mary. Outside, the thunderstorm rumbled eerily above, lighting dancing through the clouds and illuminating the glass with bolts of blue and white. The only light, aside from the storm, were the dim candles on the altar, washing Rochford in a warm orange light.

It was a strange kind of peace, standing here. You almost forgot there was a war on.

The dim sound of a series of pops flowed into Rochford's ears – the telltale sound of a musket volley. The regulars on the wall were clearly still holding out, although their time grew shorter with every second. Like the candles on the altar, they would eventually fade into the darkness – and then the Jacobites would march into Alton.

Rochford cared little for the politics of kings and thrones – as far as he was concerned, the Young Pretender and King George could fight it out for a thousand years. He was far more concerned with keeping his treasure out of their hands.

The great doors on the other side of the cathedral flew open. A slightly portly lieutenant, soaked from head to toe but still resplendent in the King's red uniform and powdered wig, marched up the aisle, a tall, brown-haired, slightly scruffy private following. Behind them, the door closed with a mighty bang.

"Mr Rochford, sir!" exclaimed the lieutenant, "They nearly have us surrounded, sir! We have a window of thirty minutes, sir, you must leave!"

Rochford shook his head, turning to face his companions. He adjusted his own wig and coat – might as well look nice for the Jacobites, he supposed.

"I cannot go with you, Lieutenant Woodham," he replied, "I shall be recognised, and that would only prevent your escape."

"Sir, my orders are..."

"Lieutenant Woodham," interrupted Rochford, "I appreciate your concern for my safety, but this is more important. I need you to escort something out of Acton."

"Sir?"

"Follow me," ordered Rochford, "Bring the private."

Rochford walked to the right, to a small wooden door with an iron lock. He heaved open the lock and opened it, walking into a stone, candlelit crypt with a large tomb inside. A bald and elderly priest stood next to hit, head bowed in prayer – a plainly dressed, somewhat mousey woman with shoulder-length black hair stood by him.

"Father Denton," said Rochford, "Ms. Cara – this is Lieutenant Woodham and..."

He trailed off.

"Well, tell him boy!" snapped Woodham, slightly testily.

"Private Marsh, sir," said Marsh.

"Yes, Marsh," nodded Rochford, "These men will be your entourage."

"What are we guarding, sir?" asked Woodham.

"Show him, father," replied Rochford.

"I'll need help," wheezed the old man.

"Marsh," barked Woodham.

Marsh walked over to the crypt, taking hold of one end of the stone lid. The old preacher took the other, with Rochford bringing up the middle. With a mighty heave, they pulled the lid away, revealing the contents of the coffin. Dust filled the air.

"My god," whispered Woodham, "It can't be..."

"It can be, sir," said Cara.

All eyes fell on the Roman imperial eagle that rested inside, surrounded by dust and cobwebs but looking as though it had been fashioned a day earlier. A Roman numeral was displayed under the eagle – IX.

"That is the Eagle of the Ninth Legion," nodded Cara.

"Can't be," scoffed Woodham, "The Ninth disappeared almost two thousand years ago. It's a replica, it has to be..."

"It is the real thing," assured Rochford, "My father found it on a visit to the Highlands back in 1702."

"It can do things, my son," added Denton, "Powerful things."

"Mr. Marsh," asked Rochford, "Demonstrate, if you will. Pick it up."

Marsh picked it out of the tomb. His eyes widened as the Eagle lit up, almost like a lamp – it felt warm in his hands. A strange sound, almost like a barely-audible choir, filled the room.

"Mother o' Mary," he whispered.

After a few seconds, the glowing subsided. The Eagle returned to normal, as if it had never changed at all.

"That Eagle is destined for somebody," said Rochford, "There is a name carved in the hilt. I need you to go into hiding and ensure that neither side of this idiotic war get their hands on it. Avoid London, avoid Edinburgh, find the most remote place you can and stay on guard. Father Denton and his daughter will aid you."

"Sir, you're asking me to desert my..."

"I shall inform the government that you died with honour, should the Jacobites feel the desire to spare me," replied Rochford.

"Sir..."

"As the Mayor, Lieutenant Woodham, I am ordering you to take this," snapped Rochford, "It is for the betterment of Great Britain and the world at large."

Woodham swallowed and nodded.

"Mr. Marsh," said Rochford, "You are not specifically required. If so desired, I can replace you with another man..."

"I'll go, sir," replied Marsh, "You can count on me."

Rochford nodded.

"Good man," he said, "You had best be going. It shan't be long before the Pretender's Army arrives."

"Good luck, Mr. Rochford," nodded Cara.

"The same unto you all," replied Rochford, "Off you go."

The three men and woman filed out, heading through the cathedral to the door. Rochford remained behind, heading back to his spot by the altar. He waited until the door had slammed shut once more before kneeling.

"I do not know who he is," he whispered, "Or what his destiny may be. But whatever he is, he will be taking up a great burden. It seems almost unfair to damn him to it."

He looked up at the stained glass.

"But when he comes, I ask only one thing of You," he continued, "Give him the strength to do what he must. Guide him through every trial, and keep watch over him."

He sighed.

"Bring him luck," he finished, "For this 'Wirt' shall need it."

AN: For the uninitiated in British history, this prologue is set during the Jacobite Rising, during which Charles Stuart (referred to here as the Young Pretender and better known as Bonnie Prince Charlie) tried to reclaim the British throne for his father, James. The conflict has since been romanticised to heck and back. Suffice to say, it was a dirty, nasty war which gave the world nothing but misery and God Save the Queen.

In any case, most of this story takes place in the present. I just thought you'd like some background.