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Merovech, Mérovée, Meroveus

No one speaks of him

without speaking of the sea.

His mother bathed in it— waves parting

with something like reverence, or accident.

Some say she met a beast there.

Some say divinity brushed her thigh like foam.

So began the lineage— with ambiguity.

Merovech—yes, Mérovée—was born

before the Franks became anything more

than restless tribes with long knives and short tempers.

No sword of empire forged him,

but he watched as Clovis,

his grandson, took the Roman road

westward and made it Frankish.

Through that bloodline,

the long-haired kings rose—

not with crowns but with hair

as law, unshorn authority.

They did not build from stone,

but from pact and presence:

from the oath, the altar,

the slow graft of wooden hall and iron will.

Under them, Gaul became France in all but name.

A shifting territory, yes— but with shape.

With faith. With memory.

And when the crown grew too heavy for Merovingian heads—

when mayors of the palace whispered power into their own hands—

still the people remembered that it had begun here.

With Merovech, Mérovée, Meroveus—

whose history is shallow and whose myth is deep.

And from that myth: a nation.