Finvarra, King of the Connacht Fairies

The road up Knockma is longer when your heart is racing. Tomás climbed it with a ribbon in his pocket and a vow on his tongue: to bargain for the return of his bride, who had been taken—not cruelly, people said, just mistakenly, which is worse for anger and better for outcomes.

At the hilltop a door opened as if the wind had learned carpentry. Tomás stepped into a hall lit like honey. There sat Finvarra, whose eyes were the colour of distances. His court was not a riot of mischief but a tidy congregation of grace.

“You’ve come to ask,” said Finvarra, as if asking were a respectable trade.

“I’ve come to bargain,” said Tomás. He held out the ribbon, which had bound the bride’s hair on their wedding morning.

Finvarra considered it as a carpenter considers a fine grain. “You may have her back,” he said, “if you remember every year to leave a ribbon at the hawthorn and to mend a fence that is not your own. Our world and yours meet at small courtesies.”

Tomás bowed, and the hill bowed back. He walked home with his wife beside him, both of them lighter for knowing that promises can be small and still hold.

If you go to Knockma looking for a king, bring a ribbon and an honest chore to do. Finvarra will not take much from you—only the part of your pride that thinks hills belong to feet.