Donal was already approaching as Lars began gathering up his shovel. Lars smiled outwardly; in his mind, however, he grimaced. “Lars!” Donal called. “Lars! I have been thinking!”
“Have you,” Lars mused with suspicion. “What, exactly, have you been thinking?”
Donal approached the stone barrier that kept certain people out. Certain. People. The kind of certain people who could unsettle your own sense of self by making the most ridiculous of inquiries, such as, “If horses were to wear britches, would they fit over all four legs, or merely the hindquarters?” or “Where does a thought go when it is forgotten?” or, Lars’ least favorite of recent memory, “Why are they called buildings if they are already built?” If Donal were a simpleton, Lars would have been able to understand and even tolerate him. But Donal was the magistrate. “I have been thinking—what if we did not change the name of our town?”
Lars paused, blinked, then turned to look at Donal. The Day the Stars Fell had changed everything about the world as they knew it—the landscape, the people, the wildlife, everything. During the rebuilding, discussions began about the new name of Ithrynvael. With all the changes in the world, it simply seemed natural to change the name of the city, as well. Other discussions regarding Ithrynvael included moving it to a less-wounded location in Druth Cael, and others suggested raising the city completely, allowing the Fíochmhuime to replant it, and returning in future years to try to reclaim and rebuild what once was there.
The question of not changing the name of Ithrynvael was one he had not considered. Did they have to change the name to something else? No one had actually said they needed to. It had not been recorded in Rowan’s histories that town names shifted. Perhaps Ithrynvael was, indeed, meant to survive. “Go on,” Lars stated.