Meadow

Perhaps he accepted that their search would serve him as a worthy distraction. With most of the souls here being embittered by some terrible childhood, or whatever dark and stormy events had laid their curse upon the isles, he was happy for the polite company of the girl. She had yet to scold him or berate him for his poorly decisions, and thus he was more than happy to help her.

Together they walk slowly, and he can see the way she tenses as they move, struggling to contain her desperate energy and trying hard not to search high and low all throughout the land in search of her mother. She almost reminded Vercingetorix of his daughter, who always had a penchant for finding him whenever she needed him, though they had become separated by oceans and distance, he knew that Sighurd would be able to find him whenever she so pleased.

His heart when out to the chestnut mare, imagining that her mother must have been aching to see her.

Though he pities that she has never known the name of her mother, often an honour passed down from parent to child, he cannot fault strangers and their mysterious wars. Perhaps she had been raised to practice different traditions from he and his family, perhaps there was a sort of anonymity that came with the blessing of motherhood amongst her people. Just as they have their different rites and traditions, his name sounds foreign and clunky in her mouth, like she was speaking a new language that she had never encountered before.

The dun chuckles softly as she tries it out, thoughtfully pulling up the memory of her name. “It suits you.” His name had been like a title, thrown unceremoniously down upon him by his father- a man that had murderously seized his title. “My father gave it to me, though I suspect my mother would have chosen differently. Unfortunately she did not survive my birth.” His mother is little more than a dark shadow, a story that had been given to him by his nurse maid and rarely mentioned by his father. “In my father’s tongue it is a title given to a man- a king over warriors.”

He suspected Ambiorix would have turned over in his grave to know that his son did not live up to his lofty name.

“I did not deliver well on my father’s wishes.” Thankfully, the word is silently tacked on to the end of his words. Thankfully, he was not a murderer and a charlatan. Thankfully, he had thrown himself from the cliffs of his kin, and he had started anew. Thankfully, he had lived during an era of peace and prosperity.