They called me Son of light because Lugh, the God of light and the sun was said to be my father. I knew it was an affectation of Conor Mac Nessa, because my father had been a bent-backed farmer and the only thing light about him had been his courage. Perhaps I should not talk of courage when you so-called warriors of Connacht sit there with your swords across your knees, afraid to approach a mortally wounded man who is tied to a rock. True, my reputation is fearsome, but now the night approaches and the ravens prepare for the feast, I cannot lift my shield arm, much less parry a lance thrust. Does that give you courage? No. Still you sit there and watch, waiting for my end.
The end is nigh for The Hound of Ulster. He will not go without first berating the warriors of Connacht with the tale of how he came to be tied to a rock and bleeding to death.
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