"Come quickly! In the storm, a young one was caught out in the field-"

A woman gasps in horror, and starts to run after her kinswoman, abandoning her pot by the fire. "Is he injured?"

"I don't know! Come, faster!"

Out in the fields, just beyond their tiny encampment, the men left to guard the camp are clustered around a burnt patch of land. Heeding the cries of other women, the mothers of the camp are rushing in from every direction. The newcomers push their way in to the huddled crowd for a closer view. In the middle of a scorched patch of grass lies a little boy, his eyes closed as if sleeping, blonde hair splayed around his face, and hands folded neatly on his chest. He is completely naked, with no signs of burns or any other injuries.

"Has anyone touched him?" a woman demands.

"No," one of them men answers. "We thought he might be..."

The woman kneels, and presses her fingers below the boy's jaw. "His heart beats!"

Astonished murmurs break out in the crowd. The woman places a large, calloused hand on the boy's chest, and presses. It rises in response, and the boy begins to breathe.

"Whose is he?" one of the crowd asks. "I've never seen him before."

"Not mine!"

"Nor mine!"

"Hush!" The woman gingerly lifts the boy onto her lap and holds him upright to ease his breathing. "Can't someone get anything for the poor boy to wear?" A small green cloak is passed forward, and the woman wraps it around him. The rough cloth against his skin makes him flinch.

"He's waking up!" The boy shifts, then stops, as if surprised by the movement. Slowly, he opens two brilliant green eyes, and looks around him in wonder. He stretches his hands out in front of him, opening one and closing the other. The movement delights him and he laughs, then starts when he hears his voice.

"Child," the woman says gently, "are you injured?"

His head snaps up in a jerky motion, and he stares at the woman. "No."

Nervous faces relax into smiles. "Thank the gods." The boy studies the people around him intently. He takes in their rough, travel-worn clothing and dirty skin, the matted hair and tired eyes, and wonders at how familiar they are to him, even as he feels so new.

"What is your name, child?"

The boy frowns. "I don't know. Who am I?" A moment of panic flits across his features-all these people have names and histories and stories, and he is as blank as the hard, burnt ground beneath his feet. He knows the faces before him better than his own, and more-there are men hunting in a forest nearby, children playing around the great campfire, and elders sleeping in the makeshift tents. These are his people, and in these first moments of his existence, they are all he knows. Clueless faces meet his question in silence.

"We don't know either, child."

He tries again. "Where am I?"

"You are with the people of Angeln. We are travelers here."

He wriggles in the woman's lap, and she sets him down on the ground. He scrambles to his feet and trembles, feeling the cool after-storm breezes whip around his legs and hearing the the last of the dark clouds' thunder rolling overhead. The barren expanse of land they stand on, stark and unforgiving, sprawls endlessly before him. He reaches inside himself and tries to feel the same connection to the land as he did to his people, but he is met only with a sense of overwhelming, cold rejection. Suddenly lonesome and a bit frightened, the boy retreats back into the woman's arms.

"Child?"

"I'm all right, Alodia," he says, gripping fistfuls of her cloak, trying to shake the sudden desolation that had risen up inside him.

She stares at him in shock. "How did you know my name?"

"I don't know."

Alodia brings the boy home with her, and announces to the camp that he will be staying with them, at least for the time being. With no memory of parents or people, land or home, only the insistence that he belongs with them, there is nothing else she can do. The rumors around the camp—that he was delivered in the bolt of lightning that struck the field, that he is invulnerable to the burns that should have fried his small body, that he is a faerie child—make the people wary of accepting him as one of their own, but with a stern look, she silences anxious looks. No one questions the cheif's wife.

In the days that follow, she tries various names for the boy—Beorn for warrior, Firman for traveler, Gareth for strong spear. Each he appreciates and rejects. He wants a name that belongs to him—him, and him only. He should recognize and belong to his name, just as he recognizes and belongs to the Angles, and they to him. So he has no name, just travels onward, feeling the footsteps of his people pounding in his head and the weariness in his legs as they walk due west for miles every day. As he walks, he learns more about himself and the world around him. He is not loud and rambunctious like the other children. He sits quietly, speaks thoughtfully, and carries himself with the dignity of a man. He quickly learns that people are not the only creatures, and has long conversations with field mice and rabbits. They tell him stories of ancient days, when the world was first beginning, and he thanks them for their knowledge. Once he tries to speak with a fox, but when it comes out of the forest to greet him, Alodia sees it and screams, snatching him up and running back to the camp.

"Don't get near the wild animals," she scolds.

"I wanted to ask him a question," the boy replies seriously.

She stares at him for a moment, thrown by how patient he looks, as if she was being unreasonable. "You have a wonderful imagination, don't you..." she says finally, and turns away. After that, the boy is more careful about speaking to his friends.

When the sun falls, the Angles rest, propping up tents made of furs and crudely-spun cloth. The women prepare meat and herbs from the land around them, and he is fed generously. Alodia insists that he sleep in her tent, but when she and the chief have fallen asleep, he sneaks outside to stare up at the stars and marvel at the world around him. Sometimes, he thinks he can see small flashes of light from the corners of his eyes—bigger than fireflies, and closer than shooting stars—but when he turns, they always disappear.

"Those?" a badger says one night, "Those are the fairies. You mean you can't see them?"

"No," the boy replies miserably. "I wish I could."

"To see fairies, one has to be magical," the badger states firmly. "Like me."

The boy leans forward intently. "How can I become magical and see the fairies?"

The badger snorts. "That secret is so old even I don't know it. You'll have to find out for yourself."

Around the campfire the next night, the normally silent boy asks a question.

"Where are we going?" The why was obvious: the Angles did not belong here. They were strangers on this land. Many times the boy had tried—had sought—a connection, a sense of belonging to the land they traveled on, only to feel the same cold, impersonal rejection he had felt on the day of his birth. Each time, a deep longing rose within him to find a place that would accept him as its own and erase the desolation that bubbled up inside him. Everyone looks at him in surprise, but the chief answers calmly.

"We go to the land of Albion, to join the rest of our tribe."

Albion. The boy whispers it to himself, and is delighted by how gracefully the name falls from his lips. "What is in Albion for the Angles? Why did we leave Angeln?"

"Years ago, many warriors came to us, calling themselves Britons, from the isle of Brittanica, which in our legend is called Albion. They had been sent by a great King in that land by the name of Vortigern to ask for our help in defending his kingdom from their enemies, the Picts. In return, Vortigern promised us that the Angles would have new land, enough for the whole tribe to thrive. I agreed, for you see, boy, once a people stay too long on one land, the soil is used up, and the forests yield no more sustenance. I could see that Anglyn was becoming tired, and it would soon be time for our people to find a new home. I sent my brother, Horsa, ahead with half of the warrior of Anglyn to help him, with the promise that the rest would follow as soon as we were able. I have confidence in Horsa's abilities: the Picts will be vanquished by the time we reach Albion's shores. We will arrive in peace, Albion will be our home, and there will be land to last us forever."

Home. The boy nods fervently, smiling to himself. Later that night, after the Angles have gone to bed, he stays awake, staring up at the stars and whispering the name of his future home again and again. Albion. Albion. Albion. His eyes cloud as his heart overflows in wonder, and he cries in happiness. I will find my land. I'm going home.

A/N: I have tried my best to make this historically accurate, but for those who were confused, here is a little background.

In the time of the Roman Empire, the Romans conquered the southern half of the island of what we today call "Great Britain." The native people who lived there were a Celtic people called the Britons, and the Romans named their land Brittannia. The Romans occupied Brittania, often with the help of Germanic mercenaries, until the fall of the Roman Empire. After that, Brittannia was invaded over a few hundred years period by Germanic tribes, and the Britons were slowly either assimilated into the invaders' tribes or kicked out of Brittannia. One of the more prominent tribes was the "Anglo-Saxons," made up of two tribes-the Angles and the Saxons. The Angles came from an area called Angeln, which is now modern-day northern Germany, and could have gone as far up as Denmark. The Saxons came from Saxony, which is in northwestern Germany. Once these two tribes came together, they created the people we now think of as traditionally British, and were the people that were conquered by William the Conqueror (a man from a region of France called Normandy) in 1066. Once the Normans brought by the conquest started to mix with the Anglo-Saxons, the English language moved from "Old English" (basically a dialect of old German) into Middle English, which is closer to modern English.

So basically...the "British" people...didn't start on the island of Great Britain at all. They camethere. This thought blew my mind, and thus this fic was born.

A note about Albion: In the history above, I referred to the island of Great Britain as Brittannia because that's what the Romans called it. Another name for the island was Albion, which is also the oldest known name of the island. It could have come from "alb" meaning whitebecause of the white Cliffs of Dover that are visible across the channel on mainland Europe.

Also, all names used are real Anglo-Saxon names.

Sources: A lot of Wikipedia, history class, and my father's extensive history knowledge. Please let me know if I got anything wrong, and R&R!

Later Note: I have updated this chapter since it was first published due to historical inaccuracies. I'm sorry for any confusion this has caused.

Vortigern is a mysterious historical character, thought to be an early king of the Britons (native Celtic inhabitants of the island of Great Britain). The following story, his interaction with Hengest (the chief) and his brother Horsa, are described in early Anglo-Saxon historical texts, though I do put the disclaimer out there that I did not follow every detail to the letter. If you want the full, real story, I encourage you to read up about post-Roman Europe! It's fun, I promise!