Part I, Samhain at Rathcroghan

On the night of Samhain, when the year turns on its hinge and the worlds breathe close together, the fires were lit at Rathcroghan, the ancient heart of Connacht. It was a night for watchfulness, not for ease, for what walks abroad at Samhain does not always wish to be seen.

King Ailill and Queen Medb held court, their hall bright with flame and boasting. Warriors drank deeply, laughter rose, and contests of courage were called for, as was the custom when the dark half of the year took hold.

Medb, sharp-eyed as ever, looked over the gathered men.

“Which of you," she asked, “would dare go out into the night and bind a withe upon the ankle of a hanged man?"

The hall fell quiet.

Outside the fort stood the gallows, a place already heavy with omen, more so on a night when the dead might stir. To touch the body was one thing. To bind it was another entirely.

At last, Nera, a warrior of quiet bearing and steady nerve, stepped forward.

“I will go," he said.

No boast.
No flourish.
Only resolve.

Medb smiled, not kindly, not cruelly , but with the interest of someone who enjoys seeing fate lean toward action.

“Then go," she said, “and return before the fire burns low."

The Road to the Gallows

Nera took a torch and stepped beyond the ringfort. The air was sharp, the ground damp beneath his feet. All sound seemed muffled, as though the night itself listened.

When he reached the gallows, the body swayed faintly, stirred by a breeze that felt colder than the rest. Nera climbed the post and set about his task.

As he worked, the corpse spoke.

“Water,� it said.

Nera froze.

The voice was neither loud nor threatening �” merely dry, like breath dragged across old bone.

“Water,� the dead man repeated.

Against his better judgement, Nera loosened the body and lifted it onto his back. If the dead asked for water on Samhain, refusing was unwise.

They passed three houses before finding one that would open its door. In the first, blood filled the vessel. In the second, the water burst into flame. Only the third house offered clear water, and there the corpse drank deeply.

When it had finished, the body spoke again:

“Now I may tell you what you have not yet seen.�

It pointed back toward Rathcroghan.

The Burning of the Fort

Nera turned — and his breath caught.

Rathcroghan burned.

Flames licked the walls. Roofs collapsed inward. The sounds of battle and ruin rolled across the plain. It was not the future he had left moments before — it was something else entirely.

The corpse slipped from his back and vanished into the dark.

Nera stood alone, the torch guttering in his hand, staring at a vision that felt too real to deny and too wrong to accept.

And in that moment, he understood what Samhain truly offered:

Not tricks.
Not horrors.
But knowledge — whether one wished to carry it or not.

where Nera crosses fully into the sídhe realm and learns that time, loyalty, and sovereignty do not obey mortal rules.

Part II — The Otherworld Host

Nera did not flee the burning vision of Rathcroghan. A warrior of Connacht knew the difference between fear and summons, and this was the latter. The night around him thickened, the torchlight thinning until the flame guttered out entirely — yet he could still see.

Before him, the ground opened into a shallow hollow, and within it stood a host unlike any he had known.

They were not ghostly, nor pale, nor twisted. They were whole, bright-eyed, richly clothed, their weapons clean and unworn. Horses stamped softly, tack gleaming as though newly wrought. The air around them hummed with a steadiness that felt older than any king’s reign.

These were the people of the sídhe.

One among them stepped forward — a woman of quiet authority, her gaze level, her bearing neither welcoming nor hostile.

“You have seen what is not yet,” she said.
“And you did not turn away.”

Nera inclined his head. “I saw Rathcroghan burning. I do not know whether it was truth or warning.”

The woman regarded him carefully.

“In our world,” she said, “truth and warning are the same thing.”

The Invitation

She gestured toward the host.

“You may return now,� she said, “and forget what you have seen.
Or you may come with us and learn why the vision was shown.�

Nera hesitated �” not from fear, but from understanding. To follow was to risk never returning as he had been. Yet to refuse knowledge freely offered on Samhain was folly of another kind.

“I will come,� he said.

At once, the world shifted.

The dark hollow opened outward into a broad plain lit by a pale, unfading glow �” neither day nor night. Time loosened its grip. Distance became suggestion rather than measure.

Nera walked among the Otherworld host as one accepted, not captive. They spoke little, but when they did, their words carried weight.

If Leinster's tales ask how a king should rule, Connacht's ask by whose permission.

Looking at the oldies old'es b

will go," he said.

No boast.
No flourish.
Only resolve.

Medb smiled, not kindly, not cruelly , but with the interest of someone who enjoys seeing fate lean toward action.

“Then go," she said, “and return before the fire burns low."

Rathcroghan is located near Tulsk in County Roscommon, Ireland. It is a complex of archaeological sites and is identified as the site of Cruachan, the traditional capital of the Connachta, the prehistoric rulers of the western territory. This area is known for its rich history and is considered the largest unexcavated Royal Site in Europe.