Post by Deleted on Oct 14, 2016 11:00:53 GMT -5
Merthen arrived back in his ancestral lands early on the morning of Samhain Eve in a land scarred by war. As he rode across the empty landscape, usually so full of life, seeing the traces of armies everywhere, the High Laird reflected that tonight, there would be a lot of dead to remember on Samhain's Eve. As he drew closer to his ancestral seat, Laird Cadag's voice rang out through the glen in a sorrowful tune of loss.
There would be no pipes to welcome him home from the ramparts of Llwyn Newyth. Odds were he would not even be admitted to his home. As Caerllwyn came into view in the distance, tears sprung to Merthen's eyes. The sight of the Cruach banner flying over his ramparts distressed him so. He saw the Grove in the distance, lit by the fires of torches in the early morning dark. Its leaves were browning, and for some reason it provoked in the High Laird a melancholy spirit. Maker witness my tears and have mercy on me, he prayed silently, his eyes towards the sacred Grove. See how my heart weeps for my home and grant justice to me, your poor servant!
As he approached the walls of Llwyn Newyth, Merthen could make out the contours of the siege camp which Aemrys, Eirian and Ruadhan had set up. Merthen's resolve rallied. Maker willing, he would at least remember his dead ancestors with his family and friends. Stopping his horse for a moment, the High Laird asked his servants for his coronet. If he had to return to his home like this, he would at least do it honouring all the traditions.
And so it was that, in this early morning before Samhain Eve, the High Laird Merthen Cadag returned at last to his ancestral homeland, accompanied by his personal guard. He was wearing the traditional battle dress of a Laird of the Clans, the Cadag kilt with a tartan sash over a suit of armour, but the coronet blazing on his head as the sun touched over the far-off mountains marked him out from afar to be the Laird of these lands and it gave him strength. The wind rushing through his hair, he spurred his horse towards the camp.
When he was within distance, he turned to the piper who had been playing marches for his retinue. "The High Laird has returned," he told him. "The traditions must be obeyed." The man, getting his pipes from the baggage train, went off at once, and the column halted once more, awaiting the tune announcing the return of the High Laird, and Merthen paused to address them.
"Men of Cadag!" he addressed them. "As you see, another banner flies over the lands of our ancestors, treacherously and cowardly taken. By my words, Vortigern has forfeited any chance of a peaceful resolution and it is now our duty, as of any Clansman, to visit justice upon it. The sight of what has been done to our home is enough to bring tears to our eyes. But remember this and take heart from it as I did: the Golden Dragon is a sign of hope, and it flies to light the greatest darkness. By our strength and with the Maker’s help, the Golden Dragon will once more fly over the lands of our ancestors. And as the pipes announce my arrival here, as the traditions demand, let them strike fear into the heart of Vortigern mac Arturo and his treacherous mob, for it is not the Sons of Cadag who have broken our traditions, and I will not start today. So forward men, rejoin our brethren in arms, and prepare for battle.” He raised his sword up high above his head and its blade shimmered in the light of the morning sun as he concluded with the Cadag battlecry: “Hed draig an’obaith! (the Dragon of Hope flies!)”
The men answered, as with one voice, clanging their swords and shields together, with the traditional answer: ”Cadag y draig!” Merthen joined his voice in the shouts of “Cadag the Dragon!” and as the shouts died down, out rang the ancient tune of the lone piper, announcing the High Laird’s return in its high-pitched, clear voice that echoed through the glen. When it had finished, Merthen spurred his horse towards the camp.
He accosted a guard. “Go tell Laird Connell and my sister that I have returned,” he ordered.
Eirian Connell Ruadhan Connell
There would be no pipes to welcome him home from the ramparts of Llwyn Newyth. Odds were he would not even be admitted to his home. As Caerllwyn came into view in the distance, tears sprung to Merthen's eyes. The sight of the Cruach banner flying over his ramparts distressed him so. He saw the Grove in the distance, lit by the fires of torches in the early morning dark. Its leaves were browning, and for some reason it provoked in the High Laird a melancholy spirit. Maker witness my tears and have mercy on me, he prayed silently, his eyes towards the sacred Grove. See how my heart weeps for my home and grant justice to me, your poor servant!
As he approached the walls of Llwyn Newyth, Merthen could make out the contours of the siege camp which Aemrys, Eirian and Ruadhan had set up. Merthen's resolve rallied. Maker willing, he would at least remember his dead ancestors with his family and friends. Stopping his horse for a moment, the High Laird asked his servants for his coronet. If he had to return to his home like this, he would at least do it honouring all the traditions.
And so it was that, in this early morning before Samhain Eve, the High Laird Merthen Cadag returned at last to his ancestral homeland, accompanied by his personal guard. He was wearing the traditional battle dress of a Laird of the Clans, the Cadag kilt with a tartan sash over a suit of armour, but the coronet blazing on his head as the sun touched over the far-off mountains marked him out from afar to be the Laird of these lands and it gave him strength. The wind rushing through his hair, he spurred his horse towards the camp.
When he was within distance, he turned to the piper who had been playing marches for his retinue. "The High Laird has returned," he told him. "The traditions must be obeyed." The man, getting his pipes from the baggage train, went off at once, and the column halted once more, awaiting the tune announcing the return of the High Laird, and Merthen paused to address them.
"Men of Cadag!" he addressed them. "As you see, another banner flies over the lands of our ancestors, treacherously and cowardly taken. By my words, Vortigern has forfeited any chance of a peaceful resolution and it is now our duty, as of any Clansman, to visit justice upon it. The sight of what has been done to our home is enough to bring tears to our eyes. But remember this and take heart from it as I did: the Golden Dragon is a sign of hope, and it flies to light the greatest darkness. By our strength and with the Maker’s help, the Golden Dragon will once more fly over the lands of our ancestors. And as the pipes announce my arrival here, as the traditions demand, let them strike fear into the heart of Vortigern mac Arturo and his treacherous mob, for it is not the Sons of Cadag who have broken our traditions, and I will not start today. So forward men, rejoin our brethren in arms, and prepare for battle.” He raised his sword up high above his head and its blade shimmered in the light of the morning sun as he concluded with the Cadag battlecry: “Hed draig an’obaith! (the Dragon of Hope flies!)”
The men answered, as with one voice, clanging their swords and shields together, with the traditional answer: ”Cadag y draig!” Merthen joined his voice in the shouts of “Cadag the Dragon!” and as the shouts died down, out rang the ancient tune of the lone piper, announcing the High Laird’s return in its high-pitched, clear voice that echoed through the glen. When it had finished, Merthen spurred his horse towards the camp.
He accosted a guard. “Go tell Laird Connell and my sister that I have returned,” he ordered.
Eirian Connell Ruadhan Connell
