He had a name, a sword, and Islimach, the strength of his arm, and frayed hand-me-down finery he'd had to repair himself, and nothing else. It was enough. Or, in a just world, it would earn him the war leaders' respect, and that would be enough. He would hold his head up, and endure no insults or sidelong glances or mutterings about some fanciful black beast – it was enough. It was enough. He was a proud warrior and a prince, and as long as Islimach understood him, what need had Ellidyr for other people?
But the pig boy – he had no name, and an insolent attitude, and a thin yet apparently permanent covering of grime. And a steed of no little quality, and the indulgence of Gwydion and Dallben, and his whole irritating little passel of companions, swelling this miserable traveling party with their insipid friendliness.
And he spoke to Islimach as if he knew her, and he touched Ellidyr's elbow and asked about his wounds.
You're less than me, Ellidyr wanted to scream. If I'm not enough, what business do you have being happy? You condescend to pity me?
He slapped Taran's hand away and stalked into the trees.