At All Costs
The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara: 1810
Keiss, Scotland
Ellen Sinclair was a woman of indomitable resolve, her unyielding nature a testament to her strength. Yet her youngest daughter, only six years old, seemed determined to match and surpass her tenacity. Triona’s boundless energy and relentless stubbornness tested Ellen’s patience like nothing else.
Her voice rang out, sharp with exasperation, from the doorway of her daughter’s chamber. “Caitríona Sinclair, it’s high time the stars bore witness to yer slumber!” Exhaustion weighed heavily on Ellen, her efforts to coax Triona to bed feeling as futile as waiting for the grass to grow.
The use of her full name, a tried-and-true tactic, finally did the trick. Triona froze mid-stride, her wide eyes snapping to her mother’s piercing gaze. She stood motionless in the centre of the room; the whirlwind of her energy suddenly stilled by Ellen’s commanding tone.
With a cautious gait, she approached the bed and carefully climbed on top. “Am I in trouble, Ma?” The crafty sparkle in her gaze was unmistakable; the art of persuasion was second nature to her, with her radiant green eyes and dainty nose. Hell come to any man that might consider giving his heart to her one day. She will surely have him bending to her every will.
Ellen, try as she might, bore no grudge against such gambits. She knew well the subtle power of a fluttered lash, of a gaze held just a moment too long—the silent wiles she had once wielded with effortless grace. In her tempestuous youth, those very charms had brought the mighty James Sinclair to his knees. He had fallen hard, utterly captivated from the moment their eyes first met, as if fate itself had conspired in her favour.
The mere thought of how deeply and completely he loved her, of the unwavering devotion woven into his every word and action, sent warmth rushing to her cheeks. He had made her feel like a queen then, cherished and adored beyond measure. Somehow, even after all these years, he still did.
Ellen lingered almost a moment too long, watching with a particular maternal fondness at the playful defiance Triona displayed.
Moments like these reminded her of how fleeting time was. Even at six, Triona’s fierce spirit and vivid imagination left Ellen marvelling at her potential.
A tempest brewed beneath Triona’s fiery spirit, one destined to shake the foundations of the world. Ellen had seen it in the way Triona fearlessly challenged her brothers, her sharp tongue unyielding even when outmatched. She had a gift for rallying those around her. This raw, untamed force could one day command the reverence due to a queen.
Ellen’s demeanour lightened, and she playfully sighed as she walked up to the edge of her daughter’s bed. “My little butterfly”, Ellen spoke with playful exaggeration as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “Ye’re not in trouble, but it is time for the house to settle, lest we wake yer brothers. Those trows would groan for hours should their rest be disturbed.” Ellen smiled at her youngest, as a giggle escaped between Triona’s lips.
She sat next to Triona to wrap her in a hug. Her little head smelled like her favourite flower: Scottish Primrose. “Ah, someone found their way into my scents again.” A muffled laugh would be the only answer she would receive. Ellen did not mind. The scent brought nothing but fond memories, and a sense of calm filled the room.
As Ellen began to rise, a small hand tugged at her dress. “Ma, tell me that story. The one about goddesses.” Triona said, her toothless lisp adding an endearing charm to her words. Her shimmering green doe eyes could sway even the most stoic of hearts. Mixed with her blossoming smile, Ellen’s resolve melted in an instant.
“Aye, Ma,” a mockingly high-pitched voice came from the doorway, “give my bonnie lass a goodnight tale.”
Ellen turned her head to look at the tall man leaning against the doorframe. James Sinclair was indeed a welcome sight. After over ten years of marriage, he could still kindle an ember within her.
Ellen rolled her eyes playfully as she spoke. “Oh? If ye’re that eager to please, why no’ try yer hand at storytellin’, mo chridhe?”
Laughing, he said, “Only ye tell the story with such justice. My poor grammar isnae match for such a fabulist like ye, dear.”
Ellen threw her hands up. “What am I to do with ye?” The statement had his lip curling up into an all-familiar smile.
She appeared amused at first, but James noticed the faint shadow behind her smile—a sadness she tried to mask from the world, though never from him. The memories tied to the tale lingered, heavy and unspoken, brushing against her resolve.
Noticing the faint yet subtle change, James gave Ellen a nod of encouragement. Only he understood how difficult it was for Ellen to feel as if she were losing time with Triona, and the reminder sat laced within the lines of the story. Sharing brought Triona joy, and that was ultimately what mattered most to Ellen, so she was determined to push through, her feelings be damned.
“Ye spoil her, James,” she said in jest as she forced every fatalistic thought away.
His gaze became wolfish, and she could not resist beaming a smile his way. He had a way of smiling that was equal parts loving and playful. His smile was one that would make others join in gleefully.
“I wonder,” he mused, his eyes locked on hers, “where I might have first learned to be so dotin’, not to mince yer words.”
He was right, of course. Finding such an attentive man was rare. James had always been ever present in his ladies’ lives, his playful involvement at bedtime a prime example. There was not a single thing he would not do for Ellen or Triona, equating them to a mighty queen and princess.
Triona gently tugged on Ellen’s dress again, drawing her attention away from James. Looking down with a laugh, Ellen said, “Aye, keep yer heid, little butterfly.”
She scooped Triona into her arms, the girl’s laughter bubbling up as she squirmed playfully. Crossing the room, Ellen settled gracefully by the window, holding Triona close.
As she gazed out into the dark night, with Triona comfortably snuggled in her arms, Ellen felt the warmth of James’ presence behind her. The gentle weight of his hand upon her shoulder urged her gaze toward him; his hazel eyes, reflecting starlight, conveyed silent promises as he softly said, “Ye are truly a wonder, Lady Sinclair.” His words warmed her skin, but his gaze left her breathless, her mind yearning to move story time along—to feel his hands tracing her, igniting every inch of her.
In a whisper of a moment, James’ lips brushed against hers, igniting a silent cascade of understanding. He whispered into her ear, “at all costs.” That tender, unspoken phrase had evolved into an oath more poignant than a thousand declarations of love. Together, they had an unwavering bond of devotion, steadfast in their resolve to protect their families, prepared to make even the most profound sacrifices should the occasion arise. They had built a beautiful life together, and they would valiantly defend the bonds of this family to their last breath.
In the hush of twilight, Ellen began.
“Long ago, before the rise of great kings and queens, when Ireland’s emerald hills were young and unspoiled, beings of unmatched power roamed the land. The Tuatha Dé Danann, ‘People of the Goddess Danu,’ were a spiritual tribe of gods and goddesses cloaked in mystery.
Among them, Ériu and her kin held dominion over the realm. Born of the land itself, Ériu’s essence was tied to the rivers and hills, representing unity and strength. Their presence wove magic into the land itself, breathing vitality into barren soil, calming stormy seas, and moving in rhythm with the tides of the moon and sun. Beneath their watchful gaze, mythical creatures pledged their loyalty, and nature itself obeyed their will. They stood as towering guardians of existence, timeless and revered.
Yet, shadows whispered of a destiny even they could not foresee—a truth that would shape the fate of the world.
Triona leaned in closer and whispered urgently, “Tell us about their powers already, Mam! Did they shoot fire from their hands? Turn people into goats? Did they have swords that talked?”
Ellen gave her a sharp look. “If ye want me to continue, ye’ll keep yer heid. Ye’re rushin’ me like a bard who’s had too much mead an’ forgotten his own tale!”
Triona huffed, crossing her arms. “But tell the good bits! The fightin’! The magic! The explodin’ stuff!”
James, who had been lounging nearby, smirked. “Aye, Ellen, spare us the poetry. Were they hurlin’ lightning bolts, shapeshiftin’ into fearsome beasts, or at least turnin’ some poor bastard into a toad? Because if there’s no dramatic smitin’ involved, I’ll be terribly disappointed.”
Ellen sighed dramatically, giving James an exasperated look before turning to Triona. “Ye ken, lass, ye’re far too much like yer father. Impatient, an’ full o’ mischief. If the pair of ye dinnae let me finish, I’ll start bletherin’ on about the grand politics of auld Ireland instead.”
James raised his hands in surrender. “All right, nae need for such cruelty. Continue, wise storyteller.”
Ellen smirked before pressing on.
“Sacred within the beliefs of the Tuatha Dé Danann was the divine feminine—the conviction that goddesses alone would weave the threads of existence. These deities lent their essence to the very fabric of the land, blessing all forms of life with vigour.
Amongst them rose a triad: the Goddesses of Sovereignty, and foremost was Ériu—her might unrivalled, her power immeasurable. Such was her force she did not deign to grace the battlefield with her presence.
It wasn’t just power she wielded. Ériu could change form and command the loyalty of any woodland creature, but above all, she chose the raven—a creature as enigmatic as the shifting tides of fate itself. Her raven was no ordinary creature. Black as the deepest night under the moon’s watch, yet when the sun reigned, its feathers shimmered with an eerie violet sheen—an omen, a harbinger of fate, and a whisper of the unseen world.
Even the bravest warriors faltered at the sight. A bridge between the living and the dead, Ériu’s raven carried the weight of fate itself. To see it was to know that destiny had begun to unravel—and none could escape its shadow. Warriors on the battlefield would freeze in terror at its cry, for they knew its presence heralded judgment.
Combined with the strength of her other parts, she wove destruction upon those who dared invade their sacred realm, ensuring that the spirit of the land remained unbroken.”
Ellen cleared her throat and began singing a simple melody.
‘In her stead, she sent a raven, cloaked in violet’s hue.
Then came the banshees, bold and fierce, vengeance swift, and justice true.
The villains’ steeds on windswept heath would buck and bolt, unbound, untethered,
their masters left to face their fate, their cries soon lost to winds that weathered.
With victory near, the triad stood, beneath the sky so vast and wide,
Their blades like fire, their hearts burned bright, no foe could break their fearless stride.
Through shattered night and echoing wail, the foes did fall, their strength undone,
And so the dawn in golden light arose to hail what they had won.’
With an abruptness only a child could muster, Triona blurted out, “What does that mean?”
Ellen blinked. “What does what mean, mo chridhe?”
Bundled in a shawl far too big for her, Triona wriggled around on her lap. “The raven. The banshees. The horses runnin’ off.”
Ellen nodded, settling deeper into her chair. “Well, they called Ériu the Raven Queen because, before battle, she would send her raven as a warning—a sign to put fear in the hearts of men. And once that fear took hold, she used it. While they fled for the safety of the woods, she lured them toward their victims—the very people they had wronged.”
“Banshees?” Triona asked, eyes wide.
Ellen’s lips curled in a knowing smile. “Aye.”
James muttered under his breath, “Serves ‘em right for layin’ hands on a woman.”
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 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’
In the breath that followed, none dared stir, and silence seemed to blanket them. Ériu laid herself in eternal slumber atop the high ground of Uisneach. She became one with the land, ensuring her essence would endure as a protector of Ireland for all time. The hill became a place of reverence, where violets bloomed year-round as a reminder of her sacrifice and enduring protection.
Amergin sat upon that hill in silence. Alone. The weight of Ériu’s departure settled heavily in his chest. With Éber Donn out of the way, he was named Chief Ollam of Ériu.
He split the land in two, granting his brothers rule over their halves, while dedicating himself to documenting Ireland’s wonders so that Ériu’s legacy would endure for all time. But Amergin knew that words alone were not enough. In his heart, he understood that the land would not always be left in peace, and so he made another vow—one spoken only to the winds and hills that had once carried Ériu’s voice.
Should Ériu’s lands ever need defending, his bloodline would rise—bound by honour, waiting for the call.
Ériu’s solemn rest could be felt across the land, sending silent warnings that the Age of the Gods was over. The hour to seek refuge had dawned on them.
As the world above changed, the Tuatha Dé Danann did not vanish, nor did they fade from existence. Instead, they dwell in the radiance of their undying essence—
In the Otherworld.
Triona’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are there still bad folk? Where is her magic?”
James placed a steadying hand on Ellen’s shoulder, ready to take the lead. Crouching down to meet Triona’s gaze, he said, “Ériu’s magic still lingers, but it cannae always shield against human choice. It’s woven into the land and lives in the hearts o’ good folk, but even the strongest magic can fade if mankind allows hatred to take root.”
Triona’s posture shifted, almost in defeat. James took her small hand in his. “But there are far more good folk than bad, and as long as they’re here, evil won’t prevail. It’s hope that fuels them, keeps ‘em fightin’—for themselves and for those they’d sacrifice everything for. Hope gives ‘em the strength to believe that a lass as fierce as mine might save ‘em all. Ériu’s magic still breathes in them, waitin’ to prove themselves worthy of her return.”
“How? You said she died.” Triona questioned, her eyes wide with innocence.
“Not died—” James considered his words carefully, “just slumberin’, in a sense.” Despite Triona’s puzzled expression, James pressed on.
“Do ye wanna ken what Ériu means now?” She nodded enthusiastically.
“It means Éireann.” James paused for a moment to give Triona a moment to ponder the importance of what he was saying. Though her middle name was not a typical one, Ellen and James loved it.
He continued. “Ériu’s spirit still lingers, not just in the land, but in those who refuse to let darkness take hold. Folk like ye, my fierce one, is why the world hasnae fallen to ruin. Ye’re filled with the love of others, ye’re bountiful, and life ye is abundant and everlastin’.”
She smiled at him. “Casey said it was a daft name.” He chortles and looks up at Ellen.
“Remind me to have words with that boy come mornin’.”
Beneath the warm glow of the flickering fire, the room brimmed with a tenderness that wrapped around them like a soft, encompassing embrace. Ellen, her heart brimming with love, brushed a tender hand over Triona’s cheek and spoke softly.
“It isnae a silly name, my bonnie lass. Yer cheeky brother’s just fond o’ teasin’. The name ye bear is a promise of grand adventures yet to come—jus like the one ye got it from.”
With a mother’s grace, Ellen cradled Triona’s cheek lightly, as if to leave a whisper of her affection. Ellen’s eyes were deep pools of emotion, and danced with the light of a thousand memories, glistening with the sheen of tears unshed.
“Yer father speaks true. Ye carry more than jus a name, my love. Ye carry a spark of something greater—something the world cannae afford to lose. The fire in yer heart’s set to turn the world on its heid. The name ye bear is the breath of Ireland herself. It’s a strong name, like the emerald lands of old.” Triona stared into Ellen’s eyes, and frowned, noticing the silver glisten there.
“Mama, why’re cryin’?” Ellen let out the faintest chuckle, and blinked forcibly, containing what was sure to be an onslaught of tears.
“Oh, I am jus so proud to be yer mother. Da and I-” Ellen paused, unsure how to even explain such emotions to a child. She continued, “We’re so grateful the heavens saw fit to give us an angel on earth.”
That single statement was as close to the truth as Ellen would ever willingly get.
With eyes wide and full of youthful curiosity, seeming to mull over some statement Ellen had made, Triona turned to James.
“Will I be stronger than ye, Da?” James let out a full belly laugh.
“Oh, my sweet girl, ye’re gonna be strong enough to defeat many a foe. The strength ye wield will rival the legends! Grown men, in their pride and glory, will quiver at the mere mention of yer name!” James spoke with melodramatic flourish, making hand gestures as if he were a stage actor. The sight of it had Triona and Ellen rolling with laughter.
“I have no powers, I’m just a wee lass!”
James impulsively reached out and teasingly pinched the tip of Triona’s nose. Like that of a little lion cub, she burst from Ellen’s lap to unleash her playful wrath, pinning James beneath her. The surprise of the attack knocked the wind out of him, causing Ellen and Triona to laugh harder at his expense.
“Seems ye’re already well equipped with that strength.” With a resonant laughter that echoed through the hearth-warmed room, James stood, pulling her close as he twirled her in his arms. Holding her tight, he pressed a kiss to her temple, a seal of eternal fatherly love.
“In due time,” he whispered with an air of mystery, as though speaking of an old secret, “all will be revealed. But until then, it’s my solemn duty—nae, my sacred promise—to keep ye locked away from all the terrible groonies that lurk beneath veiled shadows.”
James sat, Triona safely cradled in the crook of his arm, wriggling delightfully with every peal of laughter. He stroked Triona’s head as she settled down, energy slowly starting to wane. He sat there with her for a long while, just relishing in the rarest of moments. Ellen hummed the sweetest of lullabies, and together they watched as Triona’s eyelids began to sag.
When her lashes fluttered close for the final time, James gently stood, and walked to lay the cherished bundle down on her bed, Ellen at his heels.
Turning, they exchanged a look brimming with silent understanding—an unspoken pact to nurture and protect the wonder that was their Triona. In James’s mind, the image of her smile mingled with fears of what lay ahead, a flicker of resolve hardening in his chest. Ellen’s gaze, shimmering with unshed tears, spoke of her own quiet promise: no matter the cost, they would stand united against whatever challenges might threaten their daughter’s light. This extraordinary girl they had been blessed with.
Gone was the playful smile that had just been plastered across his face, and an all too familiar gleam returned to Ellen’s eyes. James grabbed Ellen’s hand and pulled her in tight for an embrace, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence, though a chill ran through him. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, the simple gesture unravelling her last fragile restraint as silent tears slipped free.
When he spoke, his tone had an unsettlingly eerie chill to it. Much unlike the typical light-hearted tone familiar to their household.
“Called by powers, true and bold, she journeys forth to claim her hold. Upon the sacred ground, she’ll stand, with fate’s dark price in trembling hand.”
James’s voice lingered on the last word, his gaze fixed on the firelight as though seeking answers in its flicker. The prophecy was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, yet speaking it aloud made the weight of its truth settle heavily in the room. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts a tempest of pride and foreboding. “Ellen,” he murmured, “this lass of ours… she’s got a destiny grander than we’ll ever ken. We savour every moment, every blessed second.”
Ellen nodded solemnly, her tears falling in silence. She brushed a tender hand over Triona’s brow, her voice hushed, almost reverent. “Each moment she’s safe is a gift borrowed—one I’d trade anythin’ to keep.”
They stood there for a long while, watching over their daughter as she slept peacefully, her small form a flicker of light in a world so vast and shadowed by unseen dangers.
Though any road set before them remained uncertain, fraught with peril, they stood ready—knowing that even against the mightiest of foes, the love they bore for their daughter was a strength beyond reckoning. They knew that love alone could not shield her from the storms to come, but they would give everything, even the very marrow of their bones, to stand between her and the gathering darkness. Whatever the cost, their love would burn as a beacon, defying the shadows threatening to consume her light.
At All Costs.
