The First and Last Patriots

 

Eleanor Shaw stepped off the coach at Amesbury just after six o’clock. The sky was a flat, colourless sheet, the kind of backdrop that made everything look like a faded photograph. A police drone hovered above the visitor centre, its single red light blinking like a tired eye.

She walked toward the rope line, with her notebook tucked under one arm. A handful of early arrivals stood scattered across the grass: a man in a cloak, two women with boar banners and a group in branded outdoor wear. They weren’t interacting. They were hunkered down and waiting, each convinced they were the first to arrive.

Eleanor switched her phone to selfie mode and started recording.

“Britain is arguing about ancestry,” she said quietly. “Not the usual kind. Not immigration, not borders. Deep ancestry. Who belonged here first.”

She watched a man in a regimental tie adjust a poppy badge on his lapel. He looked around with the stiff posture of someone expecting applause.

“The leaked DNA report has fractured the country,” she continued. “Six factions. Six chronologies. Six versions of Britain.”

Her intention was simple: to meet each leader, record their views and try to understand how a dry scientific report had turned into a cultural fault line.

She took a breath. “Let’s begin.”

Rowan Cates (Stonehenge Purity Front)

Rowan Cates insisted on meeting at dusk. He said the stones “spoke more clearly” then.

Eleanor found him standing before the ancient monument, with his arms folded and posture immaculate. His followers stood behind him in a neat semicircle, all wearing identical black jackets with a stylised trilithon logo stitched on their breast pockets.

Rowan smiled as she approached. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We’re rehearsing the solstice procession.”

He gestured and the group began walking in slow, deliberate steps, chanting something that sounded like a corporate mission statement.

Eleanor waited patiently until they finished.

Rowan handed her a laminated card. “My DNA results,” he said. “Fourteen percent Iberian. Proof of Neolithic lineage.”

Eleanor scanned the card. “Your highest percentage is actually...”

Rowan cut her off with a raised hand. “The stones recognise us,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

A supporter stepped forward: a young man with a shaved head and a clenched jaw. “We’re the originals,” he said. “Not like the traitors who came later.”

Eleanor asked, “Which traitors?”

“All of them,” he said. “Anyone who doesn’t honour the stones.”

Rowan nodded approvingly.

Eleanor said, “But the bluestones came from Wales.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “The Welsh were proto-English,” he said sharply. “It’s all part of the same ancestral continuum.”

The young man added, “Wales is ours anyway.”

Rowan didn’t correct him.

Eleanor wrote in her notebook: They misunderstand their own ideology and weaponise it.

Rowan pressed his palm flat against the stone, with his eyes closed and lips moving silently. His followers watched with reverence, as if expecting his prayers to be answered

Isla Muir (Doggerland Revivalists)

The North Sea was restless and slate-coloured, its spume cold enough to sting her exposed skin. Isla Muir stood barefoot at the waterline, the loose strands of her dark hair blown horizontal by the wind.

“This is where it began,” she said. “The drowned plain. The first islanders.”

Her followers sat behind her in blankets, arranged in a loose semicircle. They stared at the horizon with the solemnity of people waiting for a revelation.

Eleanor approached carefully. “You’re a marine biologist,” she said. “Doesn’t your training conflict with...?”

“Science is a method,” Isla said. “Ancestry is truth.”

One of her supporters, a wiry man with a tattoo of a wave across his neck, stepped forward. “We’re the pure ones,” he said. “Not like the farmers. They ruined everything.”

Eleanor asked, “How do you know that?”

He pointed at the sea. “It tells us.”

Isla nodded, approving. “We reject Neolithic contamination,” she said. “Farming, electricity, processed food. All of it.”

Eleanor glanced at the group. One woman was drinking a canned energy drink, trying to hide it in her sleeve.

Isla pointed at the sea. “Our ancestors walked across this,” she said. “Dark-skinned, blue-eyed, hunter-gatherers. Pure and uncompromised.”

The wind rose. Her followers began retreating up the beach, shivering.

Isla stayed where she was, trembling with cold but refusing to move. “The sea remembers us,” she whispered.

A supporter shouted, “We’ll take back the island!”

Eleanor wrote: They romanticise a vanished world they cannot survive in.

Behind them, a police officer watched from a patrol car, with its engine running and heater on. The Revivalists glared at him as if he were an invader.

Gareth Ap Rhys (Brittanii Restoration League)

The community hall smelled of dust, old varnish and the faint sweetness of spilled orange squash. Gareth ap Rhys stood on a makeshift stage wearing a woollen cloak and a boar-head pendant.

“We were kings once,” he declared. “The Brittanii. The rightful heirs of this island.”

His followers clapped politely, the sound thin and apologetic.

He then launched into a lurid re-enactment of a battle that never happened, narrating in pseudo-Gaelic phrases Eleanor recognised from tourist tea towels.

Afterwards, he sat with her at a folding table. His cloak pooled around him like a discarded costume. “The Romans falsified everything,” he said. “They feared us.”

A supporter leaned in: a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head. “We’ll drive out the pretenders,” he said. “Just like the old kings.”

Eleanor asked, “Which pretenders?”

“All of them,” he said. “Anyone who isn’t Brittanii.”

Gareth nodded, pleased.

Eleanor pointed to a crude map Gareth had drawn in what looked like crayon. “The Celts migrated from the continent,” she said. “They weren’t...”

Gareth’s face tightened. “They came here because they belonged here,” he said. “They felt the call of the land.”

The supporter added, “And we’ll finish what they started.”

Outside, two teenagers walked past the hall, laughing. One shouted, “Nice cosplay, mate!”

Gareth flinched. The supporter stood up with his fists clenched, ready to go outside and educate the local youth.

Gareth stopped him with a hand on the arm. “We don’t fight children,” he said quietly.

Eleanor wrote: Their myth collapses the moment reality intrudes.

Edwin Thorne (Anglo‑Saxon Sovereignty Movement)

Edwin Thorne’s study was lined with genealogical charts, all stopping abruptly at 1066. He poured Eleanor tea without asking if she wanted any.

“The English were forged in the crucible of the early medieval age,” he said. “Discipline. Order. Identity.” He lifted a replica shield from the wall. “This is who we are.”

A supporter, a young man with a beard and an ugly tattoo of what was probably supposed to be a raven on his forearm, stepped up beside him. “We’re the real English,” he said. “Not like the traitors who want to erase our heritage.”

Eleanor asked, “Who are the traitors?”

“Anyone who doesn’t honour the old ways.”

Edwin nodded approvingly.

Eleanor asked, “Your DNA test...?”

Edwin stiffened. “I don’t discuss that.”

His wife, who happened to be passing the doorway, said gently, “You’re forty percent Danish, dear.”

Edwin’s face collapsed, then hardened. “The Danes were elite warriors,” he said. “It’s entirely consistent with my lineage.”

The supporter added, “Danish blood is English blood.”

Edwin nodded, relieved.

Eleanor wrote: He rewrites his ancestry in real time to preserve the myth.

Sir Alistair Penhaligon (Albion Rite)

Glastonbury Tor was shrouded in mist. Sir Alistair Penhaligon stood at the summit wearing a white cloak and replica sword strapped at his hip. “Albion,” he declared, gesturing to the landscape. “The once and future nation.”

His followers stood in a loose circle, uneasy.

“I am the Custodian of the Line,” he said. “Direct descendant of Arthur.”

One of his supporters, a woman garlanded with a silver circlet, flounced forward. “We follow the true king,” she said. “Not the traitors who betrayed Albion.”

Eleanor asked, “Who betrayed Albion?”

“All of them,” she said. “Every group that forgot the old ways.”

Alistair handed Eleanor a parchment. It had obviously been printed using a gothic font. The ink was still fresh.

She said, “This is modern.”

Alistair smiled sadly. “Truth is larger than evidence.” He tapped the ground three times with the sword. “The island knows who I am.”

The supporter whispered, “We’ll restore the kingdom.”

Eleanor wrote: He believes myth is more real than history.

Colonel James Harborough (Heritage Defence League)

The veterans’ club was filled with wartime memorabilia: ration books, enamel signs and framed photos of men in uniform. Colonel Harborough stood beneath a portrait of Churchill, emulating his rigid posture.

“We must return to the values of 1940,” he said. “Backbone. Duty. Resolve.”

A supporter, a man in a leather bomber jacket, stepped forward smartly and all but saluted. “We’ll defend the country,” he said. “From traitors.”

Eleanor asked, “Who are the traitors?”

“Anyone who doesn’t respect the flag.”

Harborough nodded approvingly. He showed Eleanor a scrapbook of Blitz clippings. “Empire was a moral project,” he said. “We brought order to the world.”

Eleanor ignored the fact he wasn’t born until 1954 and asked, “What does patriotism mean to you?”

Harborough’s eyes hardened. “Sacrifice,” he said. “And knowing who the traitors are.”

Outside, a group of teenagers swaggered past the club, shouting rap lyrics in a faux patois. Harborough flinched, then straightened.

The supporter muttered, “Kids today don’t know they’re born.”

Eleanor wrote: Their patriotism is inherited myth, not lived experience.

The Clash At Stonehenge

The factions gathered at dawn, each convinced they were the rightful heirs of the land.

Rowan’s Stonehenge Purity Front marched in first, wearing their branded black jackets with a stylised trilithon logo. They carried laminated placards declaring themselves THE FIRST PATRIOTS.

Isla’s Doggerland Revivalists came barefoot, wrapped in blankets, faces wind-burned and fervent, chanting THE SEA REMEMBERS.

Gareth’s Brittanii Restoration League arrived holding aloft hand-painted boar banners, shouting KINGS OF THE ISLAND.

Edwin’s Anglo-Saxon Sovereignty Movement marched in formation, beating their raised shields and chanting ENGLAND BEGINS WITH US.

Sir Alistair’s Albion Rite approached in white cloaks, replica swords swaying at their hips, dutifully murmuring ALBION ENDURES.

Colonel Harborough’s Heritage Defence League arrived last, in regimental ties and khaki dress jackets, carrying Union flags and asserting LOYALTY ABOVE ALL.

A heavy police presence deployed its ranks to form a perimeter. Drones hovered overhead, whining like trapped insects.

Eleanor stood back with her notebook open and kept the video recorder on her phone running. She watched the factions eye one another with the brittle hostility of rival football firms.

A senior police officer stepped forward, brandishing a megaphone. “Everyone stay behind the rope line,” he ordered. “This is a protected site.”

A man from the Heritage Defence League shouted, “Traitor!”

Another yelled, “You serve the wrong Britain!”

The officer stiffened.

Rowan raised his arms theatrically. “The stones belong to the First Patriots!”

Isla shouted back, “Farmer-cultists! You corrupted the land!”

Gareth yelled, “Post-Celtic impostors!”

Edwin barked, “Continental refugees!”

Alistair raised his sword. “Saxon invaders!”

Harborough shouted over all of them. “You’re all revisionists undermining the real Britain!”

The crowd surged. A Doggerland supporter shoved a Stonehenge Purity Front member. A Brittanii man swung his boar banner like a club. An Anglo-Saxon shield slammed into a Heritage Defence League supporter’s chest. An Albionite swung a replica sword. Though blunt, it was heavy enough to bruise.

The police started to move in. A drone dipped too low and was struck by a banner pole. It spiralled onto the grass.

A Stonehenge Purity Front supporter screamed, “They’re attacking us!” He raised his fists and charged at a police officer.

A Doggerland Revivalist swung a bagful of wet sand at a policewoman, shouting, “The sea rejects you!”

A Brittanii supporter tackled an Anglo-Saxon man, yelling, “You stole our island!”

An Albionite swung his sword at a police shield, shouting, “False stewards of a broken crown!”

Harborough’s men surged forward, shouting, “Defend the realm!” Then, seconds later, “The police are traitors!”

Eleanor watched as idealism collapsed into thuggery. Every faction had come to defend a myth. Every supporter had come to fight.

The police line broke. Officers retreated, shouting orders drowned out by chants, screams and the thud of fists on shields.

A Stonehenge supporter charged through the barrier and fell against a trilithon, clutching his head. Blood trickled down his temple.

A Doggerland woman screamed at the sky, “The plain is rising!”

A Brittanii man tore his cloak to bare his chest, shouting, “We were kings!”

An Anglo-Saxon supporter stomped on a fallen boar banner.

An Albionite knelt, sword raised, praying, “Albion, guide me.”

Harborough’s men formed a ragged line, shouting, “Hold! Hold!” Then broke and ran when back-up police vans approached.

Eleanor stood back, recording it all unsentimentally as the factions scattered like startled birds.

Aftermath

The grass was littered with debris: torn banners, dropped shields, a replica sword, a broken drone, a single discarded boot.

Police officers moved cautiously across the field, checking for injured people. Most factions had fled before arrests could be made.

Eleanor walked among the debris, speaking into the voice recorder on her phone. “They all believe they are patriots,” she said. “They all believe the others are traitors. They all believe history belongs to them.” She paused. “But Stonehenge has outlasted every tribe of people who claimed it. It will outlast these too.”

A police officer approached her. “You got all that?” he asked.

Eleanor nodded.

He shook his head. “They all think we’re the traitors,” he said. “Every last one of them.”

He walked away, while the trilithons stood silent and indifferent.

Eleanor’s Final Report

Eleanor filed her report at midnight.

By dawn, statements began to pour in from other factions. Minor groups she had not met. Obscure groups she had not even heard of.

The Norman Continuity Front declared: “The Stonehenge brawlers were Saxon throwbacks. True patriots must rally to the Norman standard and restore the rightful order of the realm.”

The Cromwellian Commonwealth Assembly announced: “The Stonehenge spectacle was pagan degeneracy. True patriots must reject false idols and restore the Commonwealth.”

The Tudor Sovereignty League proclaimed: “The Stonehenge rabble dishonoured the realm. True patriots must rally to the Tudor rose and restore sovereign unity.”

Each denounced the clash. Each declared themselves the only true patriots. Each called the others traitors.

Eleanor wrote: “Britain has not fractured into multiple nations. It has become a palimpsest. Each layer convinced it is the original. Each one convinced it is the rightful heir. Each one convinced the others are traitors. The danger lies not in revering the past, but in mistaking it for destiny.”

She closed her laptop. Outside, the sky over London was the colour of yesterday’s newspaper. The factions were already planning their next rallies.