The lianhan sidhe

Back on Old Acanthus (as it shall now be called) I used to have readers in Ireland. Also, France, but the Ireland mention is actually relevant. The France one is just a vague level of SEO. Why is Ireland relevant? Well, I absolutely love Irish mythology. I love other mythologies too, like Egyptian, Norse, Greek, etc., but everyone likes those. Irish is a bit less well known, and as a result I occasionally get asked for recommendations on Irish mythology books. Which is something of a problem because I got into Irish mythology by starting with basic children’s books, and moving up in age. So by the time I got to proper books of Irish mythology, I had the context to actually understand and enjoy them fully. But I’ve never really wanted to recommend ‘The Little Person’s Picture Book of Irish Fairy Tales’ as reading material. Not to mention the fact that most of them tend to be pretty inaccurate. For some reason instances of attempted genocide tend to be left out of children’s books. So I generally recommend WB Yeates. Which might also seem like an odd choice, since I have a lot of works of Irish mythology I much prefer. Yeates is a lot more modern, more Christianised, and more Folktale than Myth. Nothing wrong with that, of course, it’s just not what I prefer. But it’s a good introduction to the world of Irish mythology, and it makes other works more comprehensible, so you get more out of them.  
Why do I say all this? Because there’s one thing Yeates did that annoys me. It’s not that he was wrong – even if he might have been, there’s no way in hell I’m pitting my knowledge of anything against WB Yeates without some pretty convincing evidence. It’s similar to the problem Tolkein had with Shakespeare’s elves – that Yeates created something so much less interesting than it should have been. What am I complaining about? Yeates’ portrayal of the Lianhan Sidhe*. My version is no more valid than his, but I find it more interesting** So I wrote a story. Don’t worry, its different from the last one.

*Incidentally, as they're all female***, you might ask about the whole 'sexism' question. As far as I can tell, there isn't really any particular sexism in this mythology - Eodain was a leanan sidhe, and she was better at ruling the country than the king. You might find some, but the Irish certainly come out better than the greeks.
**There's a third version as well, which is sorta between the two, but that's just going to get confusing.
***Or 'she is female' - the leanan sidhe is sometimes refered to as a single entity rather than a group. I think the latter is more commonm but I have no idea how to verify which one is 'right'.

J.O. Oisin is often considered to have been the greatest Irish author of the 21^st century. His writings inspired what is often known as ‘Oisin’s Uprising’, despite there being no proof of his direct involvement. The Uprising was the most significant in Irish history since the defeat of the IRB in the summer of 1920. However, the eventual utter defeat of the rebels is believed to have led to his suicide. The following text was found by his body, and although it is unknown whether it was a product of his madness, or a fragment of what was to have been his next work, critics agree that it shows little or nothing of the brilliance that inspired so many to lay down their lives.

She was so beautiful. So incredibly beautiful – indescribably beautiful, even. Indescribable. I’ve never liked that word. It tells the reader so little. It’s simply the author giving up. She was the most beautiful summer day – not even the best day you’ve ever experienced. The day you never experience, but only imagine. The day that has never been, which lingers in your memory all the same. She was a diamond in the shape of a single perfect rose.

Ha. You think I’m a pathetic fool, babbling nonsense. How wrong you are. A pathetic fool I am – that, at least, is undeniable. But you think I praise far more than I should, think that my mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun. But she is so much more than I can say. To try to describe her is to try to say things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. But that is only how she looks. I speak of it, yes, for not to do so would be unforgivable – to withhold deserved praise lest it should make its subject conceited is as dishonest as to withhold payment of a just debt lest your creditor should spend the money badly. But that is the least of her – for I loved her, oh I loved her so. Love. Another word I've always hated. What is love? Love is cold. Love is blind. Love is just a waste of time, when you’re young and in your prime. But love her I did, far more than words can say.

Now she is gone from me. I am banished from her presence. Ha, banishment! Be merciful, say ‘death’, for exile  hath more terror in his look, much more than death. There is no world without her, but purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish’d from the world, and world’s excile is death. Then ‘banishment’ is death misterm’d. Yet I love her still. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it has not, for my heart could grow no fonder. Yet I love her still. Perdition catch my soul but I do love her! And when I love her not chaos is come again. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, and oh how I love her. If you love something let it go, for each man kills the thing he loves, by each less this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word, the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, and some when they are old; some strangle with the hands of Lust, some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because the dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, and I could never love too little, so I must guard against loving too long. Some do the deed with many tears and some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die. I will not kill the thing I love, and therefore I must die. I must die a death of shame on a day of dark disgrace. They call her a killer, the folklorists. They say she sucks the lifeforce from her thralls, or that she carries her victims off to other worlds. I would not begrudge her if she did. She gave me so much that could I revive within me her symphony and song, to such a deep delight ‘twould win me, that with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, that sunny dome! Those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, and all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy dread, for he on honey-dew has fed, and drunk the milk of paradise. But they belie her, her who has harmed none, and seeks only love. They call her succubus, yet that is a lie. We say lie on her when they belie her. She has woven for me a crown of tendrils, leaves and rough nuts brown (men sell not such in any town). Yet she will not like a common goblin cry ‘come buy my orchard fruits, come buy, come buy’. She will not sell herself to me, but that she loves will not her unhoused free condition put into circumscription and confine for the sea’s worth. Who I am I to tell her stay when passion has died, when the winds of change are telling her to go somewhere beyond where I have been? She has harmed me nothing, and given me everything, until I weep that you may not see the majesty that is visible to my sight. So who am I to repay trap her, to repay her passion so? It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yet without her I cannot live – they say that such is the fate of those who eat of faerie fruits, that they fall sick and die in their gay prime, in earliest winter time, and though I may be what I eat, gross and mortal as I am, she is so much more. It begrudge her nothing, but she does comes not, that fair Ophelia, and so better not to be. And so I must go somewhere beyond the end. In that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil? I know not, but maybe we two shall meet there – she is a creature of dream, after all. Shall I at least set my lands in order? No. But these fragments I have shored against my ruins.

Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

Apo thanein thelo.