Page 92

“Caught between their pleas, Ériu knew she must act to preserve the spirit of Ireland. Mind made up, she resolved to meet the Milesians ahead of the rest upon the Hill of Uisneach, the sacred heart of Ireland. This ancient hill 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 young man named Amergin—bard, judge, and the sort of leader who could turn a crowd with nothing but his voice. He wasn’t forged for battle the way other men were. He fought with his tongue, with law and verse and the strange, dangerous power of being believed. He came to plead the Milesians’ case, but he didn’t get the chance.”

“Ériu had watched him climb, watched the way he held himself—not hungry, not jeering, not reaching for what wasn’t his—and something in her went still. A knowing. She saw the spark of potential in him. Not conquest. Not pride. True stewardship. And in that moment, before a single argument left his mouth, she made her choice.”

“She could have easily destroyed their armies, but innocents would die if that were to happen. So instead, she did something far more risky. She gave them the land, and declared that Ireland would bear her name forevermore, as she planned to make a great sacrifice to ensure her people would remain tucked in their ethereal dominion, and mortal life would be preserved.”

“When she finally spoke, she told him she had prophesied their coming. That Ireland would now be passed to them, and the Tuatha Dé Danann would willingly take the land below in the Otherworld.”

The fire in the hearth snaps softly.

“She made a vow. Her parting words hung heavily in the air, an ominous omen cloaked in mystery.”

Maeve’s eyes lift, steady.

“She said that mankind would do many great things, but swore that if ever the land was poisoned by greed… if ever those who claimed stewardship forgot reverence… if ever the balance tipped too far toward hunger and ruin… if mankind ever heralded its own undoing, that she would not remain silent beneath the hill. She would heed the land’s summons, and would rise once more.”

“And Amergin bound himself to that moment, enthralled by all that she was. He vowed that his descendants would remember what others would forget. That if the land ever called for her return, that his bloodline would rise—bound by honour, waiting for the call.”

The breakfast room feels smaller somehow.

Maeve’s gaze shifts to Mannie then.

“That is where the story most people know ends.”

Mannie lets the silence stretch as his eyes drift across the table, resting nowhere and everywhere at once.

“There are three pieces of information missing from the version most mortals passed on. Things only the Tuatha… and those of us granted the knowledge carry.”

“First, something I witnessed firsthand,” he says, and his voice lowers by a degree that makes the air feel thinner, “Lugh of the Long Arm was Ériu’s greatest love.”

“Alright,” Alex says slowly, squinting a little as though trying to orient himself. “Why’s that detail important?”

Mannie’s mouth tilts—not amused, but appreciative.

“God of the Sun. Of skill. Of warcraft. Of oaths. Light incarnate.”

He folds his hands loosely before him.

“He was not a great source of opposition, as the tale sometimes declares,” he adds, carefully. “Not in the way men misunderstand such things. I still cannot say why this part of the story was changed so much over time.”

A quiet breath leaves him, almost a huff.

“The monks that transcribed these stories centuries later dismissed the importance of their union. But in truth, after they joined for the first time, the creation of life on the island deepened. As if the land had finally been given what it needed to endure. That was her greatest gift… breathing life into the world.” He opens his mouth like there’s more, then stops, frustrated.

“Ériu was not darkness in the sense of rot or cruelty. She was all that you can find in deep places. Fertile soil beneath the surface. The unseen roots that hold the world upright. Her magic might not have always been bright, but it did much to keep equity behind the scenes.”

As he finishes, he lifts one hand. Smoke gathers there at his coaxing, curling into something shaped and held: shadow made tangible, thick enough to look almost solid.

His eyes flick out the window, toward the sun sitting high in the sky.

“Lugh was the brightest of flames. Clarity. Action. The visible force of change.”

He raises his other hand to mirror the first, palm up, and this time the smoke that pools above his skin brightens at the edges—leaner, restless, as if it’s trying to become flame.

“They did not cancel one another, but were rather at their strongest together. The land requires both sun and shadow to live.”

He holds both for a beat—one dark, one lit—then draws his hands together until the two smoky forms meet. They don’t smother each other. They thread, dovetail, fuse—shadow giving depth, light giving direction.