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Nobody ever respected the wishes of Morga’s child, only those of Morga herself. As clan leader, Morga felt it was her duty to prepare her child for the responsibilities of leading the clan, as one day she would pass the mantle on. Morga chose everything for her child, and when the child rebelled, she relented only slightly.
“A son, then. It’s good you’ve finally found your spine about something. You will be Montag Morgasson from now on.”
“But Mother, I wanted—”
“You wanted me to acknowledge you as my son and I have. What more do you want?”
The child called Montag frowned. “I already chose a name, Mother.”
Morga barked out a laugh. “Child, nobody gets to choose a name. Your name is given, even when you make something of yourself, and you certainly haven’t done that yet.” Her voice softened slightly. “Go tell your father I’ve named you so he doesn’t argue.”
Her son stomped off in the snow, leaving deep, messy footprints and grumbling. Morga didn’t understand what her child—her son— meant to do. All she knew was that Montag had a difficult path to walk, and this was not one she could help him tread. If she had to save him from wild beasts, she could only imagine how he could manage this. This flew in the face of tradition, and while she would be the first to discard a tradition of no practical use, she knew others would be more resistant to the idea. Others like her husband, who would be Montag’s first true test of mettle— and here he returned, stomping through the snow exactly as when he left her. She quirked a brow, hoping she wouldn’t need to rescue him from this as well.
“There, I told him. You’ve both told me you won’t call me what I want to be called. Are you happy now?”
Morga steeled her face into a mask. “Did you tell him I named you?”
The child called Montag crossed his arms, pursing his lips. “He said he’d use that one. I should have just told him you named me Lucio like I wanted.”
Morga scoffed and shook her head. “Lying to him would be unwise, Montag. You know that. I hope you don’t think I would save you from his ire if you had lied about what I said.”
“Aren’t you in charge here?” he snapped.
“That’s why I can save you, child. What I’m telling you is that I won’t.” Morga sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Go help your father prepare dinner before you give me a headache.”
As it turned out, Morga was worried about entirely the wrong challenges for her son. Over the years, he became as adept at burning bridges as he was running from a fight, and his father, ever a proving ground, was no match for his will (and in her eyes, his stupidity). She, on the other hand, was more than a match for the underhanded plots he lobbed at his father, and when he tried to undo her as well, she flung him bodily to the ground, as bruised as his ego, and held her spear point steadily at his throat.
“If you want to lead, Monty, you will do it somewhere other than this clan. I will spare you this once, but if I ever see you again, you will rue the day I birthed you.”
Her son laughed, a desperate sound halfway between a scoff and a show of bravado. “You say that like I don’t already. Maybe taking my mercs on the road will make a proper name for me.” He kicked the spear aside and sat up, and she swung it back to his face in an instant. “Maybe it’ll be somewhere I can actually be myself.” He sheathed his sword angrily and she let the spear point fall.
The last thing he said to her as he limped away, flanked his men, was,
“My name is Lucio.”