"Ah, my head," groggy voice rasped from somewhere in a bed. A small movement ensued, and an arm shot out from under a duvet to silence the persistent alarm.
"Ah, bloody hell, my head..." Black hair slowly emerged from the heap of a duvet on the double sized bed, gingerly testing the safety of the outside world. Sunlight poured relentlessly through the windows, mocking Callan with its unforgiving brilliance. In that moment, he wished desperately for blackout curtains .
He was late. Late for school, for life and, most definitely, late to fulfil expectations of his father. He still was a sweet boy for his mother though but what good was it if they act as if they are only ones in the world when they are together?
Murmuring obscenities specifically reserved for situations like this, he gingerly raised from his bed and padded to the bathroom. Spending some time over there he emerged, his eyes still unfocused with exhaustion. He considered breakfast but hesitated, unsure if his stomach could handle it. In the end, he opted to wear clothes that had already seen their share of action and decided he might as well attempt to make it to school.
As he slipped into his attire, he wrestled with the question of whether it was worth it. A part of him yearned to crawl back into bed and drown in the blissful oblivion of sleep, but another part urged him to face his responsibilities, however daunting they may seem.
The house was quiet. Too quiet, but the young man didn't think much of it. His head throbbed with a bad hangover, a dull ache that drowned out all other sounds. The silence was a welcome reprieve.
After some shuffling back and forth around his bedroom Callan decided that enough is enough and he has to take some medicine to relief his pain. His stomach churned, a reminder of the questionable choices made in his drunken stupor. The growing nausea made him cautious of his surroundings. His limbs were heavy and barely cooperative.
'Boy, it was a good party. I don't remember a thing,' Callan mused to himself while with measured steps he went downstairs to the kitchen. 'I should find out what was that magic wine they had over there. Definitely not the regular stuff.'
Grabbing a sandwich prepared by his mom he flung his backpack on his shoulder and lazily walked out of the door. He was late anyway. He didn't have to impress anyone in the school. He wasn't the star athlete, the brightest student, or the most popular kid. Teachers and friends will be there anyway. No one cared, so why should he?
***
Meanwhile somewhere couple hundreds years ago.
"In this battle, the Campbells will defeat you," the druid priest raised his dark eyes from a crystal ball while woollen hood casted ominous shadow on his face. "You have no chance."
"My army is invincible," argued Sir Malcolm, his voice booming, a challenge to the grim prediction. "One man of mine is able to defeat six ordinary warriors, but there are only twice as many fighters in the Campbell's army as ours."
"The courage and strength of a good man is a speckle against the betrayal and viciousness of a traitorous man," the priest sighed. His words carried the wisdom of time. "In this battle, everything that was built and shaped by your ancestors and by us with such effort will be destroyed. The McLaughlin clan is about to perish, and we are facing endless wanderings and persecutions."
"Is there really nothing to save us, father?" Sir Malcolm grabbed the priest's lean hand. "I wouldn't spare anything, not even my life! My son is only seventeen, but he is already a great fighter and a born leader, during his reign the clan would achieve the pinnacles of fame and prosperity... I would gladly sacrifice myself to decide the outcome of the battle."
"It won't help," the priest remarked, his voice laced with sadness . "The truth is there is only one way you can use to do so as a last resort. It hasn't been used for hundreds of years, but once when we needed to escape the old world..."
"It is a state of emergency, father," Sir Malcolm interrupted, his impatience spilling out of him like a flooded river from its banks. "The clan is in danger, your teachings and practices are on the verge to be destroyed! Can there still be a more serious reason?"
The priest paused, his eyes meeting Sir Malcolm's, filled with a determination. "You might be right but you don't realize the danger we'll be in ," he began, his voice low and hushed. "There is one ancient ritual. A desperate act..." The priest trailed off but quickly returned to the conversation in the present.
"Only a person from the distant future, one whose energy field corresponds to one of us, can help. Arriving here, he will acquire unusual abilities and, very likely, will be able to save the Danvegen Castle and the McLaughlin clan."
"What are we waiting for?!" Sir Malcolm erupted, his voice echoing in the chamber. "I am ready to ready to go there right now!"
"Don't rush," the priest muffled Sir Malcolm's eagerness. "It is the truth, someone must go to the future and make room for our saviour, but I never said that it would be you."
"Any of my men..." Sir Malcolm began his argument only to be interrupted.
"To find out, I need to look into the future again," the druid leaned over the crystal ball, "but be prepared for surprises..."