I have recently being reading Welsh and Irish Medieval texts I am a huge fan (Táin, Mabinogion, Second Battle of Mag Turied, amongst others), so I wrote a short little scene based on some of our ideas about what Celtic culture may have been like in ancient times, this is short sweet, and by no means one hundred percent accurate, just uses some of the tropes and ideas we know in what I hope is a fun way. I was speciffically inspired by CuChulainn and laments. This was a warrior culture so Warning: there is violence!
Have a lovely day!
His blade flashed through the fading light, neatly severing Math’s head, the spray of blood warm against his face. Math’s body collapsed to the ground, twitching out its last moments of life. Diarmiad stared at the fallen warrior with a detached sense of loss. He panted heavily, blood leaking from numerous wounds as he cleaned his sword with the edge of his shirt, wiping with slow methodical movements.
Math’s death was a loss, the man had been a brilliant warrior, a talented strategist and generous host, now he would belong to nothing more then the ground and the words of the bards. He had had no family, his closes kin a cousin of some distance, but he had been a beloved member of the tribe. Diarmiad felt pride for his victory, Math had been a worthy opponent. As the strongest member of his tribe there was little Diarmiad’s stories did not boost he had accomplished, but Math, Math had been an all together different challenge. Not even the great deeds of Dairmiad were supossed to compete with Math’s.
The warriors head stared up at him from the ground, the eyes bulging, the teeth clenched, it was a magnificent trophy. A part of him wished it wasn’t his to take, wished he and Math could have spent endless days sparring in the future, testing each others meddle but he understood why Math he refused anything but decisive victory. Death in honorable battle was always preferable to the lessening of such a great reputation. Though Dairmaid didn’t doubt the warrior would have reapaired any rents to his reputation in no time, but he woudl not have dishonoured that warrior by macking that decision for him, Diarmiad may have wield the sword but the question of life or death had been left to Math.
He tangled his fingers in the long golden locks of the warrior, letting out a shrill whistle. Alroy lifted his head from where he had been grazing at the edge of the field and broken into a strong canter towards Diarmaid. Alroy’s coat was a multi shaded grey that fadded to a dark black at his feet and face, and his midnight mane streamed behind him. He came to a restless stop before Diarmaid, snorting and huffing. With a fond tap to Alroy’s chin, Diarmiad swung up onto Alroy’s broad back with ease, tangling Math’s locks into the loop of his belt, he turned Alroy back towards home.
The sun had reached it’s final descent when the lamenting started, a fierce wail pierced the air, and was picked up and joined, filling the darkening sky with their anguish. Soon he heard the broken strains of a lament caressing the air, the heartbreaking voices rasing in honor of the fallen hero.
Joined at the Authorship 