The Death of Aífe's Only Son

Among the most sorrowful tales in all the chronicles of Ireland is the story of Connla, son of Aífe, and how he met his death at the hands of his own father. It is a tale that shows how even the greatest heroes can be brought low by fate, and how the bonds of sacred obligation can lead to the most terrible of tragedies.

The Warrior Woman of Alba

During his training with Scáthach on the Isle of Skye, young Cú Chulainn had encountered Aífe, the warrior woman of Alba. She was Scáthach’s sister and rival, nearly equal to her in skill and surpassing her in fierce pride. Their rivalry was ancient and bitter, fought out through generations of students and champions.

When Cú Chulainn first arrived at Scáthach’s fortress, the two sisters were locked in one of their periodic conflicts. Aífe had challenged Scáthach to single combat, and by the ancient laws of their people, the challenge could not be refused.

“Let me fight for you,” Cú Chulainn offered his teacher. “I came here to learn the arts of war—let this be my first great test.”

Scáthach studied her young student with concern. “Aífe is no ordinary opponent,” she warned. “She is cunning as well as strong, and her pride makes her dangerous. What she loves most in the world are her two horses, her chariot, and her charioteer.”

Armed with this knowledge, Cú Chulainn met Aífe in single combat on the bridge between their two fortresses. The battle was fierce and long, with neither warrior able to gain a clear advantage. But at the crucial moment, Cú Chulainn employed the wisdom Scáthach had given him.

“Look!” he cried out suddenly, pointing past Aífe’s shoulder. “Your horses and chariot have fallen into the sea! Your charioteer is drowning!”

For just an instant, Aífe’s attention wavered as she glanced back toward what she most treasured. In that moment, Cú Chulainn struck, disarming her and holding his sword to her throat.

“Yield,” he commanded, “and let there be peace between the sisters.”

Aífe, recognizing his superior strategy if not his strength, yielded with as much grace as her pride allowed. But in her eyes, Cú Chulainn saw not defeat but a different kind of fire—the flame of sudden, passionate attraction.

The Son’s Birth

That night, Aífe came to Cú Chulainn’s chamber, no longer as an enemy but as a woman drawn to a worthy mate. Their union was brief but intense, lasting only the few remaining days of Cú Chulainn’s stay on the island.

When it came time for the young hero to return to Ireland, Aífe made a surprising announcement. “I carry your child,” she told him, her hand resting on her still-flat belly. “It will be a son, and he will be a great warrior.”

Cú Chulainn was moved by this news, but he was already promised to Emer and duty called him home to Ulster. Still, he could not abandon his responsibility to this child he would never know.

From his finger, he drew a golden ring set with a precious stone. “When the boy is old enough to wear this ring,” he said, “send him to me in Ireland. I will acknowledge him as my son and train him in the ways of a warrior.”

But then, moved by an impulse he would later bitterly regret, Cú Chulainn laid three geas upon his unborn son—sacred obligations that could not be broken without dire consequence.

“The child must never refuse a challenge to single combat,” he declared. “He must never reveal his name to any man until he has been defeated in battle. And he must never turn back from any path he has chosen to walk.”

Aífe accepted these conditions, though her heart was heavy with foreboding. “I will raise him to be worthy of his father,” she promised. “But I fear these geas you have laid upon him will bring sorrow to us all.”

The Boy Warrior

Connla grew up in Alba to be everything his father had been at that age, and more. By the time he was seven years old, he could outfight any grown man in his mother’s household. His skill with weapons was supernatural, his courage absolute, and his beauty so great that men and women alike stopped to stare when he passed.

When the boy reached his fourteenth year, the golden ring finally fit his finger. Aífe knew the time had come to fulfill her promise.

“My son,” she said, calling Connla to her private chamber, “the time has come for you to seek your father in Ireland. He is Cú Chulainn, the greatest warrior in Ulster, and you must prove yourself worthy of his name.”

She gave him arms befitting a hero’s son: a sword forged from star-metal, a spear that never missed its mark, and a shield that could turn aside any blow. But more precious than any weapon was the ring his father had left, gleaming on his finger like a badge of noble birth.

“Remember the geas your father laid upon you,” Aífe warned as she blessed him for the journey. “Never refuse a challenge, never give your name unless defeated, and never turn back from your chosen path. These obligations will guide your steps and guard your honor.”

Connla embraced his mother tenderly. “I will make you proud,” he promised. “And I will prove myself worthy of the great Cú Chulainn’s acknowledgment.”

Arrival in Ulster

Young Connla’s journey across the sea was swift and sure. He landed his small boat on the shores of Ulster near the fortress of Emain Macha, on the same beach where the warriors of the Red Branch often practiced their skills.

It happened that several champions were at their exercises when the strange youth appeared. They watched in amazement as he beached his boat with supernatural strength and strode up the shore, his bearing proud and fearless.

“Who is this boy who dares land uninvited on our shores?” wondered Conall Cernach, who was among the watchers.

“He carries himself like a king’s son,” observed Lóegaire the Triumphant. “But no boy should approach Emain Macha without announcing his name and purpose.”

The eldest among them, Conn of the Hundred Battles, stepped forward to challenge the youth. “Hold, young stranger,” he called out. “What is your name, and what brings you to Ulster?”

Connla looked at the assembled warriors with calm confidence. “I am bound by sacred geas not to reveal my name unless defeated in combat,” he replied courteously but firmly. “As for my purpose, I seek the greatest warrior in Ulster, that I might test my skills against his.”

The warriors exchanged glances of surprise and growing concern. Such confidence in one so young suggested either divine madness or supernatural ability.

“Then you must fight me first,” declared Conall Cernach, stepping forward with his sword drawn. “I am Conall of the Victories, and I have never known defeat.”

The battle that followed was brief but decisive. Despite his experience and renowned skill, Conall found himself completely outmatched by the mysterious youth. Within moments, he was disarmed and lying flat on his back in the sand, staring up at his conqueror in amazement.

“I yield,” he gasped. “Never have I faced such skill in one so young.”

One by one, the other champions challenged Connla, and one by one, they fell before his supernatural prowess. It was clear that no ordinary warrior could defeat this remarkable boy.

The King’s Command

Word quickly reached King Conchobar at Emain Macha that a strange youth had defeated all his champions and was demanding to face the greatest warrior in Ulster. The king summoned his counselors and war-leaders to discuss this unprecedented challenge.

“This boy must be dealt with,” the king declared. “If he can defeat our champions so easily, he poses a threat to our entire kingdom. We cannot allow such a challenge to go unanswered.”

“Send for Cú Chulainn,” advised Cathbad the druid, though his face was troubled. “Only the Hound of Ulster has the skill to match this mysterious champion.”

But when messengers were sent to Cú Chulainn’s dún, they found the hero reluctant to answer the summons. He was enjoying a rare time of peace with his beloved wife Emer, and he had no desire to fight what seemed to be a mere boy, however skilled.

“Let the young warrior come to Emain Macha and give his name like any civilized person,” Cú Chulainn replied. “I have no quarrel with anonymous children.”

When this message was brought back to Connla, the youth’s eyes flashed with anger and disappointment. “If the great Cú Chulainn will not come to me, then I must go to him,” he declared. “I am bound by geas to complete the path I have chosen.”

The Tragic Meeting

The next morning, Connla set out for Cú Chulainn’s fortress, his weapons gleaming in the sunlight and his young face set with determination. He had come so far, endured so much, all for this moment when he would finally meet his father.

Meanwhile, King Conchobar had sent urgent word to Cú Chulainn that the strange warrior was approaching his home. “You must stop him,” the message read. “He has defeated every champion in Ulster and now threatens your own household. Your honor demands that you defend your territory.”

When Cú Chulainn saw the lone figure approaching across the plain, he was struck by something familiar in the youth’s bearing. There was something about the way he moved, the proud set of his shoulders, that stirred memories of distant Alba and a warrior woman’s fierce beauty.

But duty called louder than memory. Cú Chulainn armed himself with his legendary weapons and went forth to meet the challenger.

“Hold, young warrior,” he called out when they stood within speaking distance. “I am Cú Chulainn of Ulster. Give me your name, and tell me why you disturb the peace of my land.”

Connla’s heart soared to hear his father’s voice at last, but his geas bound him as surely as iron chains. “I cannot give my name unless defeated in battle,” he replied, though every word cost him pain. “And I have come seeking the greatest warrior in Ireland, that I might prove myself against him.”

The Father’s Doubt

Something in the boy’s voice, some subtle inflection, sent a chill of recognition through Cú Chulainn’s heart. The youth’s age was right, his coloring similar to his own, and there was something achingly familiar about his features.

“Tell me,” Cú Chulainn said suddenly, “do you come from Alba? Do you know the warrior woman Aífe?”

For just a moment, Connla’s composure wavered. “I… I may not speak of such things,” he said, though his eyes revealed the truth his words could not.

Cú Chulainn felt the terrible weight of growing certainty settle upon his shoulders. This could be his son—the child Aífe had promised to send when he came of age. But the geas prevented confirmation, and duty demanded he defend Ulster against all threats.

“If you will not give your name or state your business clearly,” Cú Chulainn said heavily, “then we must settle this matter with weapons.”

“So be it,” Connla replied, though tears shimmered in his eyes. “I have waited long for this moment.”

The Fatal Combat

The battle between father and son was the most terrible and beautiful ever witnessed on Irish soil. Both warriors fought with supernatural skill, their weapons singing through the air in deadly harmony. They were so perfectly matched that for hours neither could gain advantage over the other.

Connla fought with all the skill his mother had taught him, combined with techniques that seemed to echo his father’s own style. Cú Chulainn found himself facing an opponent who anticipated his every move, who fought with a familiarity that went beyond mere training.

As the sun reached its zenith, both warriors were exhausted but neither would yield. It was then that Cú Chulainn, driven by desperation and duty, made the choice that would haunt him forever.

He reached for the Gáe Bolga, his terrible spear that never missed its mark and whose wounds could never heal. It was a weapon he had sworn never to use except in the most dire circumstances, against the most dangerous enemies.

“Do not make me use this,” he called out to his opponent, one last chance for mercy. “Yield now, give me your name, and we can end this with honor on both sides.”

But Connla, bound by his geas as surely as his father was bound by duty, could only shake his head. “I cannot,” he whispered, though his heart was breaking.

The Mortal Wound

With a cry of anguish that echoed across the battlefield, Cú Chulainn cast the Gáe Bolga. The terrible spear flew true to its mark, piercing Connla’s side and unleashing its thirty barbs within his body.

As the youth fell to the ground, mortally wounded, he managed to slip the golden ring from his finger and hold it out to his father. “Now… now I may speak,” he gasped. “I am Connla, son of Aífe, son of Cú Chulainn. I came… to meet my father… and learn from him.”

The ring fell from nerveless fingers as Cú Chulainn dropped to his knees beside the dying boy. He recognized it instantly—the very ring he had given to Aífe fourteen years before.

“My son,” he whispered, gathering the youth in his arms. “My beloved son. What have I done?”

Connla smiled despite his pain, happy at last to hear his father speak his name. “Do not… grieve,” he said with failing breath. “I die… with honor… at the hand of… the greatest warrior… in Ireland. Tell my mother… I was worthy… of both my parents.”

The Hero’s Grief

When Connla breathed his last, Cú Chulainn’s grief was so great that it shook the very foundations of the earth. His battle-cry of anguish could be heard from one end of Ulster to the other, and strong men wept to hear it.

For three days and nights, the great hero held his son’s body, refusing all comfort, denying all attempts to move him. When King Conchobar and the other champions finally approached, they found Cú Chulainn aged beyond his years, his hair turned white with sorrow.

“The geas,” he said, his voice hollow with grief. “The cursed geas I laid upon my own son doomed him to this fate. I bound him with obligations that made this tragedy inevitable.”

Cathbad the druid, wise in the ways of fate and prophecy, placed a gentle hand on the hero’s shoulder. “This sorrow was written in the stars long before you laid any geas upon the boy,” he said softly. “Some tragedies cannot be avoided, only endured with whatever grace we can muster.”

The Lasting Sorrow

Connla was buried with all the honors due a prince and hero, though his life had been brief beyond measure. Cú Chulainn himself laid the weapons his son had carried in the grave, along with treasures fit for a king’s son.

But the hero never truly recovered from his grief. Though he would go on to perform many more great deeds, those who knew him well marked how the light in his eyes was dimmed, how joy came harder to him than before.

The tale of Connla’s death became a warning told throughout Ireland about the danger of laying geas upon children, and the tragic consequences that could flow from the best intentions. It reminded all who heard it that even heroes are not immune to the cruelest twists of fate.

And in the otherworld, where the spirits of heroes feast eternal, father and son were finally reunited, their tragic meeting on earth transformed into everlasting joy beyond the boundaries of mortal sorrow. There, freed from the bonds of geas and duty, they could at last know each other as they were meant to be—not as enemy warriors, but as the loving father and son they had always been in their hearts.