All over Brittany, Breton children are offered books that will teach them how to speak Breton...mostly by people old enough to be their grandparents. Naturally, more than half of these children deviously set these books aside, in favor of books already written in French that'll entertain them, rather than teach them.

It's only expected. Most of the world, after all, thinks that French is a cooler language than one that's becoming less and less heard-of, as the decades pass.

Meet Mateo Robert. Unlike most males his age, he hasn't given up on Breton. He's plenty obsessed with the clever words of his primitive as they must've been. Even so, he's always believed that there's just as much guidance in the present as there is in the past, and that no one's going to show it to him if he doesn't ask.

Once, his nation was great. They were the Gauls.

With hammers and anvils, they forged great swords, spears, and shields of iron, and other more minor metals. For many centuries, they protected their homeland from Romans, Scythians, Phoenicians, Spartans, and other unsavory races...

They wore furs in the winter. They brewed whiskey and stout by the oaken cask. They painted their faces blue and some cases. They slaughtered boars, bears, stags, and wolves, and roasted them on bonfires that could've been seen by Saturn, god of time.

The Roman legions would come...clad in armor so broad, no stick or stone could undo it. Roman officials would pay very handsomely, to ensure their armor's formidability.

Like first generation armies, the Roman and Gaul armies would line up, on either side of "no man's land." Thankfully, this was the generation of warfare that preceded gunpowder and cannons.

Alas, the Romans soon prove that they don't need cannons to make things hard for the Gauls. They've brought trebuchets. With them, they launch huge boulders into the masses of Gaul warriors. A few die; but then, that's what war's about, isn't it?

The Gaul's lose control, draw their swords, shout, and charge. As they approach, the Romans retaliate by sending their pole-wielding warriors to the front line. They line up in front, pointing their blade-tipped poles at the impending Gaul army.

Shield out, the first Gaul approaches one of the poles. He is so close to his demise, and getting closer...

Mateo's exciting vision is cut a pair of feminine hands, that slither in from behind him, and cover his eyes. He knows who she is. She's hit on him before. As much as he loves it...he's not sure how secure he feels with it.

He stands, and faces her. She's an Algerian Muslim nun...a bit younger than him, but not by much. Her name is Dalia. She's one of the most gorgeous things Mateo's ever seen...and her alleged Muslim faith makes her that much desirable.

Not wanting to cause a scene, he takes her by the waist, and leads her to a more intimate hallway. Here, the halls are horseshoe-arched. Some of the few windows are horseshoe-arched, too. And from them, it's a long fall to the ground.

Dalia helps him out of his shirt, and speaks to Arabic. He doesn't understand Arabic. He's tried to tell her that. So, once again, he tries.

"I can't really do this," he tells her, in his own words. "I don't get you. I mean, I can tell what you're trying to do to me and all, but... You really need a man who can understand you."

She unbuckles his belt for him, and unbuttons and unzips his pants.

"Also, you're betrothed to a Muslim man. I don't think your future in-laws would be too thrilled, if they ever found out that a dowry that's been promised to them is being squandered on a..."

She shuts him kissing him. And she stays on his mouth for a very long time. He loves it. He can't have it. He wishes he could tell her. Alas, true love knows no bounds...and only one of them seems to know that.