The Saxon War began in the year Druid Fae began to intermingle with humans. The Fae were coming close to extinction, and had decided to save their race by passing their traits on through harmless human blood. Eventually, the magic would temporarily disappear, and then, when the time was right, it would explode to its full potential. By then, hopefully, the Witch Hunters would be long gone.
They hadn't counted on the war between King Arthur and the Saxons. Quickly, the Fae that survived were made to choose sides. Most shifters chose to go to the cruel and bloody Saxons. The faeries, diviners, and dragons chose to fight with Arthur. All that didn't decide were quickly hunted down.
All except one clan, more legend than fact, who rarely left their forest. Both Arthur and the Saxons decided not to harm them. They were two powerful. They were all shifters, but they were the guardians of a weapon unheard of by all of man and fae kind. They didn't know what it was, or what its full potential was, so they chose to leave it and its guardians undisturbed.
The weapon wasn't all myth. But it wasn't all truth, either. And, the clan didn't even have it yet. It was hiding, inside a being that could access its powers. On birth, the creature's mother would be killed by a lightning bolt, and its father would send it away to protect it from greed. And then he would be clubbed to death.
Skyelar was born in Wales, a year into the Saxon War. Her mother was a human healer called Anwen. Her father was a Druid Fae shifter called Christopher. She was born the very minute a lightning bolt came from the sky and fried their thatched hut roof. Electricity danced, and slightly zapped the newborn. It didn't hurt. The child still giggled.
However, her mother was hurt a lot worse. Her pulse was gone. During her labor, she had leaned against the wall. In the strike, the wall had channeled a slight flow of electricity, just enough to destroy her.
Christopher kissed Anwen's dead lips, and wrapped Skyelar in a knitted blanket made of Icelandic wool dyed with elderberries. He knew that his daughter wouldn't be safe in the rising war. Greed was sweeping into the hearts of most creatures. Magpie shifters were stealing. Wolves were snatching food. The balance was disturbed.
Christopher quickly shielded the fire from rain, and mixed a concoction of basil, bay leaves, rosemary, mint, and ginger into a pot of boiling water. When it was so thick that the mixture could be used as green paint, he murmured a spell and let it cool.
When the mixture was solid, he dipped his finger in the pot and painted a protective symbol on his newborn baby's forehead. Tears clouded his vision, and he lowered his head to press his lips against the mark, to seal it into her soul. Then, he rolled his child into the fire.
Instead of burning to death, however, the child disappeared. The flames turned green, and then died. And, Christopher welcomed the soldier clubs with open arms. Skyelar was safe.