Fionn and Aillen the Burner of Tara

At the hill of Tara, the sacred seat of the High Kings of Ireland, the great festival of Samhain was approaching. For centuries, the kings and nobles of Ireland had gathered at this most holy time to make laws, settle disputes, and celebrate the turning of the year. But for twenty-three years running, the festival had been marred by terror and destruction.

Every Samhain night, as the veil between worlds grew thin and supernatural powers roamed freely, a fearsome creature called Aillen of the Sidhe would emerge from the otherworld to lay waste to the royal halls. Aillen was no ordinary being - he was one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the ancient gods of Ireland, but he had turned to evil and delighted in destruction.

The creature’s method was always the same. As the assembled nobles feasted and made merry, Aillen would appear playing sweet, enchanted music on his timpán, a magical harp. The music was so beautiful and so filled with supernatural power that all who heard it would fall into an unbreakable sleep. Once everyone was helpless, Aillen would breathe forth terrible flames from his mouth and nostrils, reducing the great hall of Tara to ashes and cinders.

Every morning after Samhain, the survivors would awaken to find their royal seat destroyed, their treasures burned, and their dead lying charred among the ruins. Year after year, they would rebuild, hoping that somehow they might find a way to defeat the monster. But year after year, Aillen would return to wreak his havoc anew.

Cormac mac Airt, the High King of Ireland, had tried everything he could think of. He had offered great rewards to any warrior who could defeat Aillen. He had consulted druids and wise women. He had even tried abandoning Tara during Samhain, but that only meant the destruction was postponed, never prevented.

Many great warriors had attempted to face Aillen over the years. They would stand guard with weapons ready, determined to stay awake and fight the creature. But the supernatural music always overcame them, and they would wake to find themselves failures, surrounded by ash and ruin.

It was into this atmosphere of despair and dread that a young man came walking up the hill to Tara on the eve of Samhain. His hair was white as fresh snow despite his youth, and he carried himself with the bearing of nobility, though his clothes were simple and he traveled alone.

At the gates of Tara, the guards challenged him. “Who are you, stranger, and what brings you to the High King’s court on this night of nights?”

“I am Fionn mac Cumhaill,” the young man replied, “and I seek audience with King Cormac.”

The guards exchanged glances. They had heard rumors of this young man - stories of his remarkable skills and the claim that he was the son of the great Cumhal who had once led the Fianna. But he looked so young, barely old enough to be called a man.

“The King has more pressing concerns tonight than meeting with unknown wanderers,” one guard said. “Come back after Samhain, if Tara still stands.”

“It is precisely because of the threat to Tara that I must see the King,” Fionn insisted. “I believe I can help.”

Something in his manner convinced the guards to let him pass. They led him through the corridors of the great hall, where nobles from across Ireland were gathered for what might be their last feast in these sacred halls.

King Cormac sat upon his throne, a crown of gold upon his head but worry lines etched deep in his face. When Fionn was brought before him, the King looked up with weary eyes.

“Another young hero come to try his luck against Aillen?” Cormac asked with bitter sadness. “I have seen many such, and all have failed. What makes you think you can succeed where so many others have not?”

Fionn bowed respectfully. “My lord King, I am Fionn, son of Cumhal who once led your Fianna. I come not seeking glory or gold, but to restore the honor of my father’s name and to protect the sacred seat of Ireland.”

A murmur ran through the hall at these words. Cumhal had indeed been a great leader, beloved by many, though he had died under controversial circumstances years before.

“Cumhal’s son?” Cormac leaned forward with interest. “If you are truly his son, then you have noble blood indeed. But blood alone will not protect you from Aillen’s magic. Many brave men have tried and failed.”

“I ask only for the chance to try,” Fionn said. “And if I succeed, I ask that you restore to me my father’s position as leader of the Fianna.”

The King considered this request carefully. The Fianna had been without a proper leader since Cumhal’s death, divided and weakened by internal strife. Perhaps this young man, if he truly was Cumhal’s son and if he could defeat Aillen, might be the one to unite them again.

“Very well,” Cormac declared. “I will make you the same offer I have made to others. If you can defeat Aillen and save Tara from destruction this night, I will not only restore you to your father’s position but grant you any other reasonable request you might make. But know this - if you fail, you will likely die, and I will have lost another brave soul to this curse.”

As the evening progressed and midnight approached, Fionn made his preparations. Unlike the warriors who had gone before him, he did not rely solely on weapons and armor. Instead, he sought out Fiacha, an old warrior who had served under his father and who possessed certain knowledge that might prove useful.

“The music is the key,” Fiacha explained in hushed tones. “Aillen’s power lies in his ability to put all listeners to sleep with his otherworldly melodies. If you can find a way to resist the music, you might have a chance to face him while others sleep.”

From his battle-worn satchel, Fiacha produced a strange spear with a broad, gleaming point. “This is the Gae Bolga, a weapon made in the otherworld itself. It has special properties that may help you. When you feel the music beginning to work its spell upon you, place the point of this spear against your forehead. The pain will keep you awake, and the magic in the spear will help you resist Aillen’s enchantment.”

Fionn accepted the weapon gratefully and made his way to the walls of Tara as the night deepened. The feast continued below, but he could sense the tension in the air, the fear that gripped everyone as they waited for their inevitable doom.

Just as the night reached its darkest hour, a strange light began to glow in the distance. It grew brighter and brighter, and with it came the sound of the most beautiful music anyone had ever heard. The melody was sweet beyond description, filled with all the magic and mystery of the otherworld.

In the great hall below, one by one, the feasters began to succumb to the spell. Their eyes grew heavy, their heads nodded, and soon the entire assembly was fast asleep, from the High King upon his throne to the humblest servant in the corners of the hall.

Fionn felt the music working on him too, filling his mind with drowsiness and peace. But as his eyelids began to grow heavy, he pressed the point of the Gae Bolga against his forehead. The sharp pain drove away the enchantment, and the magic in the spear helped him remain alert and aware.

Through the supernatural music, he could now hear another sound - the beating of great wings. Aillen was approaching, flying through the night sky in his true form, no longer disguised as a mere harper but revealed as the monstrous creature he truly was.

Aillen was terrible to behold. His body was like that of a giant man, but his skin glowed with internal fire, and flames danced around his head like a crown. His eyes burned like coals, and when he opened his mouth to breathe, jets of supernatural fire poured forth, hot enough to melt stone and bright enough to turn night into day.

The creature landed on the walls of Tara with a sound like thunder, his timpán still singing its deadly song. He looked down at the sleeping fortress with satisfaction, preparing to unleash his fiery breath and reduce the ancient seat of kings to ash and ruin.

But as Aillen drew in his breath to exhale destruction, a young voice rang out through the night:

“Hold, Aillen of the Sidhe! Your reign of terror ends this night!”

The fire-demon turned in surprise to see Fionn standing atop the wall, the Gae Bolga gleaming in his hands. Aillen had grown so accustomed to his victims falling asleep that he had never expected to face a wakeful opponent.

“Who dares to challenge me?” Aillen roared, his voice like the crackling of a great fire. “Do you not know that I am one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a god among mortals? Your little spear cannot harm me!”

“I am Fionn mac Cumhaill,” the young warrior replied, “and while you may be a god, you are a god who has chosen evil over good, destruction over creation. That choice has made you vulnerable to defeat.”

Aillen laughed, a sound like burning timber. “Brave words from a mortal whelp! Let us see how brave you remain when you face my fire!”

The demon opened his mouth and breathed forth a stream of supernatural flame, heat so intense it could have melted iron. But Fionn was ready for this attack. He had come prepared not just with the Gae Bolga, but with his father’s cloak, a garment woven with protective enchantments by the druids of the Fianna.

Wrapping the cloak around himself, Fionn felt its ancient magic deflect the worst of Aillen’s fire. The flames parted around him like water around a stone, and though the heat was terrible, he remained unharmed.

While Aillen was still breathing fire, Fionn launched himself forward with all the speed and skill his foster mothers had taught him. The Gae Bolga sang through the air, its otherworldly metal gleaming with power, and struck Aillen directly in the heart.

The effect was immediate and devastating. Aillen’s supernatural fire flickered and died as the enchanted spear pierced his divine flesh. The creature let out a shriek of pain and rage that echoed across the hills of Ireland, then began to fade and shimmer like a mirage.

“This cannot be!” Aillen gasped as his form became translucent. “I am immortal! I am eternal!”

“You are eternal,” Fionn agreed grimly, “but you are not invulnerable. Your pride blinded you to the possibility of defeat, and that blindness has been your downfall.”

With a final cry of fury and disbelief, Aillen dissolved into mist and shadow, banished back to the otherworld from whence he came. The Gae Bolga clattered to the stones of Tara’s wall, its work complete.

As the supernatural influence faded from the air, the sleeping inhabitants of Tara began to stir and wake. King Cormac was among the first to regain consciousness, and when he saw Fionn standing victorious on the wall with no sign of fire or destruction anywhere, he could scarcely believe what had happened.

“Is it possible?” the King whispered. “Has the curse truly been broken?”

“Aillen will trouble Tara no more, my lord,” Fionn replied. “He has been banished back to the otherworld, and the terms of that banishment prevent him from returning to work his evil here.”

Word of the victory spread quickly throughout the assembled nobles. Men and women who had lived in terror for twenty-three years could hardly comprehend that their nightmare was finally over. Some wept with relief, others laughed with joy, and all marveled at the young warrior who had succeeded where so many others had failed.

True to his word, King Cormac fulfilled his promise to Fionn. In a great ceremony the next day, he formally appointed Fionn as the new leader of the Fianna, restoring to him his father’s position and authority.

“You have proven yourself worthy of your noble heritage,” Cormac declared before all the assembled nobles of Ireland. “May you lead the Fianna with the same honor and courage you showed in defending Tara.”

But Fionn’s first act as leader was characteristic of the wisdom and justice he would show throughout his career. Rather than seeking revenge against those who had killed his father, he offered peace and reconciliation to all who would accept it.

“The past is the past,” he announced. “I am more interested in the future of Ireland than in old grievances. Any warrior who wishes to join the Fianna will be judged not by his previous loyalties, but by his courage, his honor, and his dedication to protecting the innocent.”

Even Goll mac Morna, who had been Cumhal’s greatest enemy and had struck the killing blow in their final battle, was offered a place in the new Fianna. After much consideration, Goll accepted, and he became one of Fionn’s most trusted lieutenants, proving that honor and courage can bridge even the deepest divides.

Under Fionn’s leadership, the Fianna grew stronger and more united than they had ever been. They became not just warriors, but protectors of justice, defenders of the weak, and guardians of the ancient laws and customs of Ireland.

The defeat of Aillen was only the beginning of Fionn’s many adventures and heroic deeds. But it was perhaps the most important, for it established him as a leader and proved that even the most ancient and powerful evils could be overcome by courage, wisdom, and determination.

The festival of Samhain at Tara was never again marred by supernatural terror. The great hall stood proud and unburned, a symbol of the triumph of good over evil, and a testament to the power of a single brave soul to change the course of history.

And in the years that followed, when bards sang of Fionn’s many victories, they would always begin with the tale of the young hero who stood alone against the fire-demon and saved the sacred seat of Ireland through his courage and his cunning.