To subvert your will to vengeance requires you to throw yourself to something with no understanding of mercy. So it will use you, take from you your very being, in the pursuit of its end. And if victory is achieved, then vengeance will toss you aside, unneeded and forgotten.

After there is something to be something avenged. Then there needs to be someone who seeks it and someone to be the tool of that vengeance

wri wandered far from Mullinglas, needing time on his own to think. To decide amongst his many choices what profession he would follow. Maybe the path of the warrior, taught by Sloan and Tanguy, who had escaped the massacre of Begagha. Or he could follow Con the druid or Einon the smith or Leigh the healer or Edna the potter or...

He had shown skill at many things, but none felt right. Often he wished to learn about everything, even if it meant becoming master of nothing.

Yet no matter how far he walked, the decision grew no closer. Nor did he find a faerie to provide an answer. Thus, as nightfall approached, Gwri turned for home, still undecided.

Nearing Mullinglas, Gwri spotted a figure on the road ahead, whose harp case identified her as his Grandmother Keelin. Of all his teachers, she never pressured Gwri to follow her trade and become a minstrel. Instead, she expected Gwri to kill the reaver Brarn.

The need for his death consumed her. When she had searched, Keelin found the tracks of whoever destroyed Begagha came from nowhere and disappeared to the same place. This convinced here that the reavers came from Tá­r na ná“g. Always there after, as she traveled the roads as a minstrel, she sought information that could help bring about her vengeance.

Her vengeance, but not Gwri’s. He did not feel the need to avenge his family, since to him, his family were Nareene, Con, the brothers, and Keelin. Nor did he think the idea of revenge, against some faerie lord, realistic.

So he avoided her. Cutting through the woods, heading for Con's hut.

Greeting him, Con said, "Your grandmother’s returned. There will be a gathering for her to tell all the news of land."

"Aye, I saw her approach."

"And did not greet her? Don't look so innocent. I know your feelings about what she wants from you. Can't say I blame you."

"I would be the grandson she wished. But what she wants from me..."

"...is as silly as many of the songs she sings. Still, you will be at the fire. Let’s hope the audience will bring about her best behavior."

Though Gwri shared that wish, too often had his grandmother embarrassed him to expect it to be true. So, even while Keelin spoke of deaths and births, marriages and conflicts, he worried. She even made it through the news, without delving into her favourite topic, then she sang some popular songs and told some requested stories.

When she paused, looking from face to face, seeking yet not receiving another request, Gwri knew what she would next sing. He recognized the chords she played. A song of her own making, which brought no smile to any face.

Yet all stayed to listen as she sang the Raid of Begagha, which she had meshed together with the story of Brarn the Half-blood. They waited to hear if new verses had been added, signifying additional information Keelin had learned about her enemy, during her wanderings. But the minstrel sang a song unchanged, but she continued to slowly strum at her harp, her gaze upon her grandson. Once, then twice, then again, it appeared as if she would speak. Yet each time she reconsidered, until finally, almost against her will, she put down the harp.

This signaled the end. People stood and stretched, offered their good eves and went their separate ways. Gwri wished to join them, but manners kept him while his grandmother stowed her harp in its case, to walk her home. Though with her frequent absences, he felt the house belonged to him and Nareene, with Keelin being their guest.

But Keelin did not hurry to leave the fire. Seeing his questioning look, Keelin said, "I know many think I am mad. Sometimes I think so myself. For what else but madness would drive someone to ignore all else in her pursuit for revenge against some imaginary foe?"

Even though he agreed, Gwri said, "No, Grandmother, everybody understands why the quest is so important to you."

"But not to you?"

"No. It isn't." He said, voicing an admission always hidden from her.

"Do you not care about your parents?"

"I don't know them as my parents. Their only role in my life are as names in your songs, no different than Lug or CẠChulainn. Maybe if their lives were as important as their deaths, they would matter more. Instead, it seems their fate was to die, not to be my parents."

Keelin thought to argue, but the truth of Gwri's words struck her silent. Then wide-eyed in dismay, she quietly asked, "Have I truly diminished their memories in such a way?"

"Grandmother..."

"Did I never tell you of your father's boisterous cheer nor your mother's joy, despite her pain, when she first saw you whole?"

"No."

"No? Divine Cairbre, was I truly such a greedy old woman? Miserly hording happiness, while sharing only grief? I have. Oh, Gwri, I am so very sorry. I would tell you all about your mother, my beautiful Berta, and of your father, her ferocious Kentigem."

Long into the night Keelin shared cherished memories with her grandson. And for the first time, his parents came alive in his mind. For his grandmother spoke about their lives and he learned they were worth missing. When Keelin grew quiet, they sat together in silence beneath the moon and the stars.

After a time, Gwri said, "Thank you."

"I apologize for not sharing this with you sooner. And for the mistake I almost made earlier tonight."

"Grandmother?"

"I had planned to chastise you, before all, for not seeking vengeance upon your parent's slayers. I hoped to embarrass you, to lessen you in the eyes of your friends, to pressure you into joining my quest."

"It would not have worked." Gwri said, a hint of anger underlying his calm response to the unfulfilled betrayal.

"Aye, when I looked at you, comfortably seated amongst the others, I knew that everyone now saw me as the outsider. They would have sided with you."

"Maybe."

"No, I am sure and it would have driven a wedge between me and the village. I could not chance that. You, everybody in Mullinglas, are my escape from my madness. On the road, my desire for revenge upon Brarn burns so fiercely that I fear it will boil over. But here, though it simmers, I can let my mind wander."

"Then why did you even consider it?"

"Because I have finally learned how to extract my vengeance. And I need your help."

t took five days before Gwri could leave Mullinglas along with Con, Sloan, and Tanguy, riding four of the brothers' horses. Amongst those who watched the foursome leave was Keelin, whose emotions warred between satisfaction and frustration. Satisfaction that her grandson finally took interest in her revenge, but frustration that his friends separated her from him when it finally happened.

Yet she could not ask for more. Gwri had taken her statement, about knowing how to get revenge, with less grace than he had her admitted plan to shame him. All that had been mended between them had instantly been rent anew. He refused to talk anymore that night, nor during the next day. Instead she had found herself approached by Con, who Gwri trusted above all others, asking her what she had learned. Keelin told him of a tinker, who spoke of a smith named Fintan Mac Gabhann, who sought help to kill Brarn the Reaver.

Con had listened to Keelin's tale and left, giving no impression if he believed or not. It had led to a restless evening, as she wondered what her grandson thought, for she did not doubt that the druid had gone directly from her to Gwri. Fortunately, Gwri had not forced her to endure a second sleepless night, approaching her to say that he, along with his friends, would go alone to speak to this Mac Gabhann. To judge the truth without her hopes clouding what he said.

So the four rode far to North, to Slieve Gullion, seeking Poolrua, the home of Mac Gabhann. They easily found the mountain, but it took three more days before they found a narrow path, leading towards where they had learned their quarry could be found.

On the trail they spotted a man, grey-haired yet walking robustly towards them and who, when close enough to be heard without shouting, said, "Well met strangers. What brings you to this dreary place?"

The three younger men of Mullinglas looked towards Con to answer. He said, "We seek the smith, Fintan Mac Gabhann."

"You do? And why would you seek such a reprobate?"

"We heard that he holds grievance with Brarn the Reaver, as do we."

"Do you indeed? I will take you to him."

Following, each on foot and leading his horse, they soon arrived upon a plateau with a hut and stable nestled against the side of the mountain. Stripping gear from their horses, they made the beasts comfortable and entered the hut, into which the man had already passed.

Unsurprisingly, they found him alone. Taking offered seats around the table, Con once more spoke for all. "I take it that you are Fintan Mac Gabhann?"

"Aye, though call me Fin, less of a mouthful. And who would the four of you be?"

Introducing himself and his companions, Con found himself telling Fin what had brought them North. He spoke of Begagha and their dead. He explained Keelin’s quest. And he described their decision to find him. Not until he finished speaking did Con realize how strange it seemed for him to be so open with a stranger. Trying to regain initiative, Con asked, "Keelin heard that you could help us?"

"Personally, I have had no dealings with this Brarn. Instead my knowledge comes from my, I guess you could call him my patron, who had a run in with the reaver and knows how to end Brarn's terror."

"Who is your patron?"

"The Goban Saor."

Seeing the disbelief on their faces, Fin only smiled, and said, "You find that hard to believe, do you? Would you believe that all you need to kill Brarn, Morrigu's son, is a comb, a stone, a piece of linen, a belt, two tears, and some eggs."

Snorting, Gwri said, "Doubtless, much like those items Lug demanded as eiric for his father, these are more than they first appear."

"But of course. Do you wish to hear more?"

"I don't." Tanguy said.

"Me neither." Sloan agreed. "I don't believe in this Brarn of Keelin's, now I'm to believe the Gabon Saor is involved?"

But Con, who sensed something in the smith, said, “I would hear.”

Looking mainly at Gwri, Fin recited.

Finished, he said, “As a poet, my patron makes a better brewer.”

Then Fin stood, moved to the back wall to sweep aside a hanging blanket and show an opening. Beckoning them to follow, he ducked inside. The companions found a tunnel bored into the side of the mountain, a red glow lighting the way deeper. Looking at the others in curiosity, they joined their host as he walked down the tunnel, feeling heat waft up to greet them. Then they entered a large cavern where Fin stopped near a massive anvil, which sat beside a pool of bubbling red fire. Yet the eyes of the visitors were drawn to the magnificent trees, amongst which birds fluttered, around the cavern’s perimeter.

Not recognizing their type, Con, who knew all trees in the land, moved to the nearest and touched it, jerking his hand back to say, "It's metal."

"Aye, as are the birds."

Wide eyed, Con looked closer at what he had assumed to be a wren, perched in the tree. Reaching forth a finger he felt not the soft plumage he expected, instead the metal edge of a feather scratched at his finger as the bird startled into flight.

"How?"

"My patron has taught me many wonderful things. And some not so wondrous."

Sloan first to slap at his neck, as if stung by an flea, then Con and Tanguy mimicked him. Too late, for each slid to the floor as if dead. Leaning over Tanguy, who fell nearest to him, Gwri found the warrior breathed, but seemed in the deepest of sleep. Shooting an angry glance at the smith, he asked, "What have you done?"

"Your friends sleep the long sleep of the fae now, Gwri."

"Wake them."

"Why then would you help the Goban Saor?”

Gwri did not answer. Seeing his friends drop, followed by this pronouncement, had caused him to turn and run back the way in which they had come. Grabbing his pack from the table, he had rushed outside into the dark and saddled his tired mount, before leading it to the path upon which they had arrived. He had only one goal, to seek help for his friends, but after a time he thought the trail longer than remembered. Not believing his own perception, Gwri continued onward. Even when that perception turned into undeniable reality, he kept walking. Only when his horse resisted going forward did he stop.

Frustrated he turned to look back, only to see a single light that he came from the still visible hut. Tempting his horse to follow him once more, Gwri returned towards the plateau. Having stabled the horse, Gwri entered the hut and found the smith asleep. Spotting his chance, the young man pulled out his knife. Slowly, quietly, he crept across the floor, planning to take the man by surprise and force him to waken his friends.

And though no creaks sounded from the floorboards, he still heard Fin speak. “It won’t work, Gwri. Sleep now, in the morning you will be better able to consider your options.”

Fin proved right, Gwri found sleep welcome and woke refreshed. Breaking his fast from his captor’s shelves, he looked outside for the man. Not seeing him, Gwri guessed him at his forge. With opportunity to escape, he took it, ignoring the horses. Long did he walk that day, but he never reached the end of the trail. Again he returned to the hut and slept.

Each of the next nine days Gwri attempted escape. He tried with each of the horses, then all of them. He tried to ride and he tried to climb the rocks, ignoring the trail. But each night found him upon the same mat.

On the tenth morning he began once more, then stopped. Bowing his head in defeat, he returned inside and found the smith sitting at the table. Gwri asked, “Why me? Con is wiser and either of the brothers are better suited to survive an adventure.”

“The tasks require a younger man.”

“Or one who more readily bides to your wishes?”

“That doesn’t hurt.”

“Are you the Goban Saor?”

“How could you mistake a humble smith for such as he?”

In accepting the non-answer, Gwri accepted all. “Very well, what do you need of me?”

“The answer to that is simple. As told in the poem, you need to bring me a golden comb, a fallen stone, a linen gift, a woven belt, two dragon tears, and a phoenix’s eggs.”

“And how am I to acquire these items?”

“Now that is much less simple.”

Poetry is hard, I really am not that good at it. Nor did it help that I chose to write it in a Celtic style, I found at the following site http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic1.html called Rannaicheacht Ghairid (ron-a'yach cha'r-rid):

A quatrain stanza with uneven lines. The first line has three syllables, the other three have seven. The stanza rhymes a a b a, with a cross-rhyme between three and four.