Page 3 of The Violet Raven

Ellen spoke, her voice low and steady. “Then, whatever men remained were left abandoned, because Ériu would call their horses away, leavin’ them stranded… easy prey for her warriors.”

Triona let out a long breath, her eyes shining. “So they were already afraid before the fight even started?”

Ellen smiled, smoothing back a stray curl. “Aye, mo chridhe. For the strongest warrior is no’ always the one who wields the sharpest blade—but the one who makes their enemies drop theirs first.”

Triona’s brows furrowed. “And why did she not come herself?”

Her mother chuckled softly. “Because Ériu was so powerful, she didnae need to stand on the battlefield herself. She could bend the world to her will from afar, shaping fate with but a whisper in the wind. She was mighty, aye, and could hold her own—but she kenned there was more power in fear.”

Triona’s mouth fell open in awe. Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted, “That’s hellish grand!”

“Triona!” Ellen spoke in a chiding tone.

The wee girl clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

James, who had been quietly listening mostly, let out a bark of laughter. “Well, she’s no’ wrong, Ellen. And she even used it correctly.”

Ellen shot him a glare. “Dinnae encourage her, James.”

Still chuckling, James ruffled Triona’s hair. “Jus mind yer tongue next time, lass. But aye—it is hellish grand.”

Ellen sighed, shaking her head before a reluctant chuckle slipped out. She glanced at James with a mixture of exasperation and fondness, and then muttered, “Ye’re impossible.”

James smirked. “Aye, so I’ve been told.”

Ellen continued.

"Those words spread across the land to Hispania, where a race of men called the Milesians resided. They sought to challenge the pantheon of gods and claim the land they believed was owed to humankind.

Prophecy of their arrival came to Ériu in sleep. She saw visions of the Milesians descending upon Ireland; the gods fading from mortal memory. Torn between her duty to protect her people and the inevitability of fate, she foresaw a great challenge ahead. The Tuatha Dé Danann would be tested, and their era upon the Earth would wane. And she knew they were not beyond the reach of destiny.

When the Milesians arrived, they stormed the Sidhe with swift and relentless force, overwhelming the Tuatha Dé Danann at once. Despite their strength and wisdom, the gods found themselves divided. Lugh of the Long Arm urged a last stand, while the Dagda counselled retreat, fearing that fighting would bring ruin to the land they loved.

Caught between their pleas, Ériu knew she must act to preserve the spirit of Ireland. Though powerful, their divine sovereignty waned under the sheer determination and numbers of the mortal invaders. The Tuatha, who had once stood as unyielding guardians, now found themselves at the mercy of fate.

Mind made up, Ériu resolved to meet the Milesians upon the Hill of Uisneach, the sacred heart of Ireland. This ancient hill, known as the navel of the land, was the meeting point of the heavens, the earth, and the Otherworld—a place where all things converged.

The first to approach Ériu atop Uisneach was a handsome man named Amergin, a bard and judge respected among his people. She recognised the spark of potential within him. Her decision was set, and when she spoke, she said,

‘Warriors, welcome to you. Your coming was prophesied. Yours will be the island forever. There is no better island in the world. No race will be more perfect than your race. The Tuatha Dé Danann will take the land below, and you shall have the one above. You shall seek assembly with the Three Kings to test the value and ability to sustain life within the bounds of this land.’

As she spoke, her voice was light and melodic, captivating Amergin. Yet her enchantment was soon shattered by a man named Éber Donn, whose heart was filled with disdain for the gods.

‘We owe her no gratitude; our tribute is to the gods alone, to the might of our own hands and hearts.’

If provoked in such a manner, a dark power would rise from within Ériu. Such a direct affront would not go unanswered. With wrath surging through her veins, she invoked a fierce curse upon him, her ire uncontained and swift. Forcing the Milesians to kneel before her, she spoke.

‘Naught to thee, thou shalt have gain of this island, nor will thy children. This wretched man shall drown in the deepest depths of the ocean. A resting place fit for a monster. A gift granted to me as retribution for his insolence, from the children of the Milesians, is that my name may be upon this island forevermore, as a reminder that I will always be here. Shall we fall, my people will find a haven in an eternal dominion, one of my creation, and I shall give myself over to the land. Mankind that dare to gain ungranted entry shall face consequences of my making. It shall be swift, harsh, and unforgiving.’

With a wave of her hand, Ériu released them, her knowing smile lingering as Éber Donn departed, his pride stung. Paying heed to the gravity of the moment, Amergin agreed to both conditions on behalf of the Milesians. He expressed great regret for Éber Donn’s slight.

Undeterred by Ériu’s warning, Éber Donn advanced to challenge the three kings ahead of him—Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht, and Mac Greine. Sensing a similarity that matched Ériu’s, they set terms. The Milesians were to endure nine days out at sea on two separate vessels, pitted against the ferocity of surging waves and sorcerous wings conjured by the druids. By virtue of pure heart, Amergin was granted the power to soothe the thrashing seas and make safe passage to shore. Éber Donn, by fault of his own, succumbed to the fate Ériu had spoken upon him and was swallowed by the ruthless waters.

Accepting fate’s hand, Ériu prepared to make the greatest sacrifice of all. Many of her people wanted to continue fighting, but she had seen that outcome, and she would not let it fall upon them. With Ériu’s arcane influence, the Tuatha Dé Danann withdrew into the Otherworld. This ethereal dominion shimmered with light and magic, where rivers of silver wound through forests alive with ancient songs. Ériu shaped it to mirror the beauty of Ireland, ensuring her people would forever remember the land they had left behind.

Her parting words hung heavily in the air, an ominous omen cloaked in mystery.

‘Mankind shall do many great things, but should an era arrive for my resurgence, I will heed the summons. Through hubris or folly, mankind may summon its own undoing. Should that time come, when the balance is broken and the echoes of their own deeds summon forces long at rest, I shall rise once more’