Tell my ancestors that I have not forgotten them, even though I sleep in a strange land now, and my bones may sleep in foreign soil;
Tell them I remember them very time I wake up screaming; every time this world threatened to overwhelm me. Tell them I remember that I am the daughter of the Celts, of Boadicea, and the Vikings; the daughter of the women who fought and bled and birthed the women who came before me; the daughter of the women of the last Ice Age in Cambria, the daughter of Freya and the Morgan. And that I still hear the sea of Rhyl in my dreams, and the men marching in the towering castles of Harlech.
Tell them I had many opportunities to call for surrender, and I did not. Tell them that I sing their songs of war, and speak to those I love in the old language. Tell them that their names live still in the part of my heart that my mortal memory does not recall, but that is touched by my pulse and my blood with every breath.
And tell them I look forward to seeing them in the great halls where the warriors of the past still dine and feast; tell them to keep a seat at the long tables open for me.