It wasn’t his mistake. How could anyone so noble and exquisite be deemed at fault? He was the radiant youth, the cherished one selected by his mother’s kin.
How could everything have unraveled so dramatically? How did his once-bright aspirations become tainted?
Having grown up with his mother’s luminous tales, he learned, “When you were conceived,” she recounted with pride, “your father foresaw your beauty. Every beautiful thing in Ireland—be it a simple object or a grand fortress, the ale, the candlelight, and every person and horse—would be compared to you, so that people would declare: ‘That is a Bres!’”
Thus, he was unique, and his father must have been a king… but which king? His mother would say no more as he matured. Bres felt destined to ascend to kingship himself.
And it came to pass, just as foreseen by both him and his mysterious father. When Núada was injured in the epic battle against the Fir Bolg, he could no longer act as chief. It was well known that a blemished man could not lead.
Certainly, the great healer Dían Cécht had given Núada a magnificent silver hand, yet that remained a flaw. Bres, on the other hand, bore no blemish. He embodied sheer perfection.
His qualifications for kingship were abundant. He was entitled to reign, and at last, his mother’s people honored him with the title of king.
With land granted by his mother and a grand fort built by the mighty Dagda, he was celebrated as a leader.
No, he bore no responsibility for the troubles. He was Eochu Bres, boasting a plethora of horses and an abundance of cattle. Yet, the wealth seemed to slip through his fingers, offered as tribute to the foes of his people, the Fomoire.
Bres, the beautiful, should have seen the land flourish, but it did not.
In an age of scarcity, everyone had to pitch in, even the warriors. Why shouldn’t the hulking Ogma gather firewood? Labeled “Sunnyface,” Ogma did not possess Bres’s appeal. And the Dagda? If he was so gifted, why could he not dig ditches?
Accusations of stinginess fell upon him. Him! Bres, the stunning!
They criticized him, alleging that under his reign, there was no grease for knives and they lacked ale’s warmth. Misguided, they induced him into making poor decisions.
Wasn’t this unjust?
Eventually, they unleashed the poet Coirpre against him, who then delivered a piercing satire against the youthful king:
“Lacking food on a plate,” he voiced,
“Deprived of milk for the calf,
Without shelter after twilight,
In a land where the poets and storytellers go unpaid,
Bres’ wealth has vanished.”
Now, Bres bore the same blemish Núada had endured; perhaps not physically, but in reputation, which held equal weight.
So, he sought out his mother to lament. It wasn’t fair, and finally, she gifted him the ring that belonged to his father, Elatha, which fit him perfectly.
That moment led him to discover his father’s lineage, filling him with joy at the realization he was a Fomorian, adversary of the Dé Danann. Surely, his father would rally to his side?
Yet, Elatha somberly shook his head. “If you lose your reign by means of injustice,” he cautioned, “you cannot reclaim it through further wrongdoing.”
And with that, he departed. His father’s kin refused to follow. They might soon engage in combat with the Dé Danann, certainly; but it would not be in support of Bres. He could fight for them, yet they would stand by him.
He was marred for eternity.
They turned back to their schemes and called forth the cruel, ill-tempered giant Balor, with his cursed eye, as their champion.
Now, the Fomoire host arrived in Ireland, a more terrible force could not be imagined, and Bres was among them, seething with rage over the injustices of his dashed hopes.
He would position himself alongside Balor, eagerly anticipating the downfall of this new hero from his mother’s lineage, this Lug, who had taken his rightful place. There was a legend claiming that Lug himself bore Fomorian blood. Yet, Bres didn’t care.
He resolved to witness Lug’s suffering and vowed to endure to see it.
