He was not to blame for his predicament. How could someone so noble, so strikingly beautiful, bear any fault? He was the golden boy, the cherished one of his mother’s kin. How had everything spiraled into chaos? How had his radiant ambitions dulled?
Raised on tales filled with pride recited by his mother, he learned of his extraordinary birth. “When you came into being,” she proclaimed, “your father predicted your unrivaled beauty. Every splendid thing in all of Ireland—every structure, brew, light, man, woman, and steed—would be compared to you, so that people will recognize, that is a Bres!”
Special was his destiny, and he presumed his father must have been some notable king, though his mother ceased to reveal more about him in time. Bres felt himself destined for royalty.
The prophecy unfolded as anticipated; the unknown expectations of his father materialized. Núada, the chief, had been injured in the significant confrontation against the Fir Bolg, leaving him unfit to lead, for no imperfection could assume command. Dían Cécht, the renowned healer of the Dé Danann, had managed to restore Núada with a splendid silver hand, but even that bore the mark of imperfection.
In stark contrast, Bres had no such flaw. He stood as the epitome of beauty and grace. Inheritances befitting a king filled his life, and he was embraced by his mother’s clan as their sovereign. His mother granted him territory, and the Dagda himself constructed a magnificent stronghold, worthy of a leader.
No, he could not accept any blame. As Eochu Bres, he amassed horses and livestock, yet this golden bounty slipped away from him, offered as tribute to the Fomoire, foes of his mother’s people.
Beauty was meant to envelop the land under his rule, but reality insisted otherwise. In times of scarcity, everyone had to contribute, even the warriors. Why, for instance, should Ogma—the simpleton who was humorously dubbed “Sunnyface”—be tasked with collecting wood when he was hardly more glamorous than Bres? And what of the Dagda? If he was such a master builder, why shouldn’t he dig trenches?
They labeled him stingy—him, Bres the Beautiful! The whispers grew louder that under his governance, the knives were ungreased, and their breaths reeked of no ale. They had deceived him into making erroneous decisions.
It felt so unjust!
Ultimately, they engaged the poet Coirpre against him, a bard who artfully crafted a poignant satire aimed squarely at him:
“With no meal served up on a dish,
]Locked without the nurturing milk of a calf,
”Shelter forsaken after nightfall,
In a realm where the poets and storytellers remain unpaid,
Bres’ once abundant wealth has vanished.”
Now Bres stood blemished in reputation, akin to Núada—though not in body, the distinction felt trivial. In despair, he turned to his mother, complaining about the unfairness of it all. She eventually gifted him his father’s ring, a familial token that fit him just right.
Pleased to know more kin, Bres discovered he belonged to the Fomoire, enemies of the Dé Danann. Surely, his father would rally for him? But Elatha, his father, shook his head, sorrow etched across his features. “Injustices cannot be undone with further injustices,” he remarked.
Turning his back, Elatha’s people would not heed Bres’s call to arms. While they were bound to engage in battle with the Dé Danann soon, their motives would not be tied to Bres. He could fight for them, but they would never muster support in return.
Forever would he remain tainted.
Resolute, they summoned the treachery of the brooding giant Balor, with his malevolent eye, to lead their charge. Now the Fomoire advance loomed ominously over Ireland, and no more terrifying force would descend upon the land. Bres found himself amongst them, fury coursing through him, fueled by the injustices and wrecked hopes.
He would follow Balor, hoping to witness the downfall of this new golden figure from his mother’s clan, Lug, who occupied the place that once belonged to him. Whispers claimed Lug shared a Fomorian ancestry as well, but that mattered little to Bres now. He’d be there to observe Lug’s struggles, vowing to endure and witness it all unscathed.
