Elven World – Prologue – The Warriors of Right and The Sisters of Illusion

Message from the Author

There are universes beyond this dimension.

It is not possible to express in the third dimension where we are, the actuality of the fourth, fifth or any dimension beyond.
In other words, in this moment from where you stand, there are sounds you are not hearing; there are lights you are not seeing. There is music played, dances danced and ideas espoused that are beyond the human ability to see, hear taste or touch.

This is where the Elven World exists – in dimensions beyond and in the same moment as now.

Remember: In our third dimension, time is only forward and backward: future or past. “Now” in the third dimension is like 0. It is a concept that is devoid of time/space, location or definition since it always. When it is not – it is either past or future.
Every thought ever thought, every potential existence not manifested here on this Earth, does exist and can be perceived in a multi dimensional universe. What we have called imagination or dreams may be a portal to multidimensional worlds.

To all those who have been rejected for glimpsing this Other World; the Fae Elven all Other Kin and their many songs, I hope you can understand that people are often afraid of what they can’t see. Many are aware and feel vibrations and telepathic messages, while others perceive in sight or still others have no awareness of the wonderful beings right before our eyes who are our family, our ancestors, and all life that is not visible to the human eye. We are better able to understand ourselves when we accept this broader view of our whole, multi-dimensional self.

Together the visible and invisible, we are being asked to act in earnest support of Gaia, the Earth and more importantly to simply be ourselves as a manifestation of Gaia, because this is our true nature. Earth is a living, conscious entity as are all animals and plant life, and as are we. Regardless of words or lack of them, vibrations and other methods are used to communicate in the web of life.

It is my hope that this story can bring you to the feeling of this world, and from this stepping off place your own adventure will continue or begin. It is the legend of our people at the same time you are the legend, too.

For those of you who are interested in your Celtic heritage, and particularly the Celtic pantheon, this story is a wonderful place to begin, because the mythology (including gods, goddesses and otherworldly beings) will entrance you and teach some of the ways of what has been called magic in the human world, but is a way of life for those of us who see beyond.

All Elven World Characters are Tuatha dé Danann Gods and Goddesses. Please hover over each name to learn more.

Chapter 1: The Warriors of Right and Sisters of Illusion

BéChuillexxxxxxx stared at the ceiling and let out a frustrated sigh. All eyes around the table looked up, curious to see if her annoyance would grow hotter. She glared at LughLugh, the Shining One: (pronounced Lu) Prince of the Tuatha dé Dannan, leader of the Warriors of Right, master of magic and all the arts. He is an accomplished carpenter, smith, warrior, harpist and poet. Lugh is the son of Tuatha king and Fomorian giantess. with eyebrows raised. “Let me get this straight. We’re going to free the under world continent, Tír na nÓgTír na nÓg: (pronounced Teer na Nok) Underground land of the magical people. The Land of Youth., from its enchantment by battling the Fomorian.Fomorian: Pirate giants with supernatural powers. They have red skin and breathe fire.

BéChuille (artist and title unknown)

Lugh winced as if he were eating a sour lemon. He was a Tuatha dé Dannan prince, an accomplished carpenter, magic-maker and swordsman with countless battles to his credit. BéChuille’s short temper normally wouldn’t matter to him. Now, it did. “I know it sounds crazy, but it will work.”
BéChuille’s flaming red hair matched her disposition. Tiny gasps from around the table accompanied her movement.

She leaned back on two legs of her chair and looked down her nose at Lugh.
“You actually plan to do this in the Upper World, on Tara Hill, completely against Council orders?”

“Right, but…”

Angus interrupted. “Better we woo the Council of Elders to believe our side of the story.” He balanced his lyre on his knee, strummed a tune and smiled mischievously. “We’ll tell them the red-faced Fomorian are the cause for Tír na nÓg’s loss of magic power.” Honey-mouthed Angus’ songs were so charming listeners could be lost in a dream just listening to his voice. “I can convince them to allow us go to the Upper World of Earth for a single day…”

From across the table, Scota cut him off briskly. “Oh Angus, it’s not that easy. You know as well as I do that the Elders aren’t women easily wooed.” Her colorful earrings danced among tresses of her hair. With her mastery of illusion, Scota could penetrate the negative aspects of any situation and turn them to the positive. “There is something so powerful that even I have been unable to penetrate it. If I could, I would have undone the curse on Tír na nÓg long ago. If the Council’s minds could have been convinced to let us fly freely in the Upper World, I would have done it by now. There is something more to this. We need to find out…”

BéChuille’s chair fell to the earth with a crash as she snapped at Scota. “Rarrahh! I can’t believe you’re taking him seriously!” She turned to Lugh. “Look. The best I can do is to consider this whole meeting an error in judgment. Yours.” She smiled insincerely, nodded at the others around the large table, and fastened her cloak brooch, preparing to leave.

Mider stood, intent upon getting them all to side with logic and reason, completely oblivious that his orange hair and freckles made him look goofy. He lifted his forefinger in an attempt to explain everything (something that they all knew could take an entire day.) “We don’t know the cause of the loss of power from Tír na nÓg …”

“Really,” BéChuille’s voice stung. “We have been searching for the ‘cause’ for more than five hundred years! What makes you suddenly think…”

“…the Fomorian are not the cause?” It was Ogme’s deep, resonant voice that filled the room this time. Ogme was known for averting danger and resolving countless situations with his gift for putting into words what others were thinking. “The Fomorian’s flaming tongues have burnt everything we hold dear in Tír na nÓg. No sooner do we create the gardens and the palaces than the Fomorian leave them in smoke and ashes.” His long yellow hair and green eyes caught the firelight and his tall, graceful physique quieted them all. “The Fomorian are far from blameless.”

Inspired, Fionn blurted in like an afterthought, sounding as if he were leading an army. “We are the Warriors of Right! We can take them in battle!”

All eyes around the table just stared at him. They knew Fionn was a showman—a poet whose charisma afforded him an army of followers—not one of whom were present for this conversation. Fionn turned a slight shade of pink. Couldn’t they understand? Fair-haired Fionn followed his heart! But as soon as he’d spoken, he knew. His army wouldn’t go to battle on Tara Hill against the Council’s orders. So he tried to justify his outburst, words tumbling from his lips and falling over themselves. “They won’t go it alone! They have been too long coddled by the sweet airs of Tír na nÓg and the powers of magic it still holds.”

Several sets of eyes around the table looked down, avoiding Fionn’s gaze so he wouldn’t see them sparkle with laughter. BéChuille rolled her eyes up to the ceiling.

In the silence that followed, Dermot stirred. He’d been standing by the fireplace, with his elbow on the mantle. He pushed back a lock of his long, sleek, black hair behind his ear and turned smoothly, showing off the rose-shaped birthmark on his forehead. This fine mark was said to make women fall in love with him. “We have all known far greater hardship than a day on the battlefield with the Fomorian.” Besides being too lovely with dark eyelashes that caressed his blushing, fair cheeks, Dermot had one little problem. He would forget what he was doing every time he thought of the lovely fae. His eyes grew hazy and his elbow slipped. “As for women…uh…they are drawn …to a warrior…uh…uh…”

BéChuille stood, shook her head and pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, glaring at Lugh. “This is too much. The whole idea is ludicrous. I am definitely leaving!” She pushed passed the others and moved toward the door.

“Wait, BéChuille. Wait.” Lugh looked up at her, “Please, wait. None of this is at all what I meant.”

BéChuille stopped slowly and stood silently, her eyebrows raised, waiting for him to speak.
Lugh took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was about to find his words when Flidais blurt in, interrupting him before he’d even begun.

“We can fight. And win…” Flidais’ voice was soft and tender, a match for her delicate grace. She looked (as her name suggested) like a deer, with wide brown eyes and long, slender limbs. “We are all…” she eyed Dermot with a sidewise glance, “willing to risk our lives for the true cause of restoring the Tuatha dé Danann Kingdom.” Her tiny voice captivated everyone. “The matter at hand is whether we know that conquering the Fomorian will restore magical power to Tír na nÓg. That’s what we do not know for certain.”

Mider looked as if he would continue his speech; clearing his throat and puffing his chest full of air. “The question is, are they, in fact, the evil that subdues our power?”

All eyes looked to Lugh who sat in a posture so unlike him—head bowed and held in his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was to put off his friends by appearing uncertain. Yet doubts swelled through him. He had hoped they would make the decision on their own, rather than leaving it all up to him. No such luck. They stared at him, waiting for an answer.

He opened his mouth to speak, but this time, Segomo blurted in. “I, for one, don’t really care if the Fomorian are the problem or not,” the bold giant grumbled. Segomo was so big that he overflowed in the chair above, below and on either side. He scratched the ears of his dog, Bran, and then proceeded to speak matter-of-factly, putting the most obvious of facts before their eyes, (just like he usually did.) “The Fomorian are ugly and mean. They are a distraction. They ought to be done away with and let us get on with our lives.”

Bran barked in agreement.

Around the table, the others shrugged. It was true.

Lugh opened his mouth to explain, but then Eocho, who had been listening so quietly, interrupted by standing up to give his opinion.

Eocho had the kind of patience and sense of balance he learned from animals, having a highly developed skill to communicate with animals of every kind. “It is a matter of the strength and power of the Tuatha dé Danann kingdom,” he explained. We have no proof that the Fomorian are the cause of the continued darkness that besets Tír na nÓg. Yet they have caused us trouble. We cannot sit back and do nothing—to be complacent is not our nature.

“Do you wish to remain here forever, your powers dwindling as each moment passes? Have you not seen the great Manannan, God of the Sea? He is now half his previous size and growing smaller each year! You live every day in frustration, because you are unable to walk again upon the grasses of the Upper World or fly freely each evening by your own will. It’s been long enough—we must take action now!”

Heads around the table began to nod in acknowledgement.

Mider rubbed his eyes as if he were seeing for the first time. “The penalty for showing ourselves on Tara Hill for such a battle, is banishment—exile from Tír na nÓg…”

Ogme’s eyes were steadfast as he confronted each face in turn. “The penalty for failing to live is slow death.”

Lugh found his voice, at last. “The penalty for doing nothing is worse than banishment or death. We are here because we want to be free. We are here to solve the problem of restoring life to the Tuatha dé Danann Kingdom. There is no life in a world which is not free.”

Flidais spoke, “I would rather be free to fly for one night than live an eternity without the power that made me.”

“I agree,” said Scota. “I’ve a far better chance of making any headway out there, than here. I cannot exercise my powers against this—whatever it is—while we are trapped here in Tír na nÓg, unable to fly.”

BéChuille softened as she undid her brooch and cloak. “A cause and a reason for your madness, was all I needed.” She smiled.

“Let it be done!” Lugh’s eyes were bright. “We will fight above ground before dawn. The winner will enjoy the riches of Tír na nÓg and the loser be banished from this place forever. Once we have restored the power to Tír na nÓg, we will demand from the Council the right to fly freely once again and take our rightful place in the Upper World.”

They held up their glasses and cheered, singing to Angus’ melody: Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!

Free to live on Tara Hill
Free to fly, to be
Free for joy, for dance, for love,
That’s what we want to see
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!