When Balor Came West: The Second Battle of Mag Tuired

From the edge of the west, Balor came,
fire in his gaze, shadows dragging behind him.
The land darkened.
People scattered north,
feet thundering the earth, hearts pounding harder.

Above them, on Aileach, stood three:
Lugh, Macha, Dagda.
Not kings. Not gods.
Guardians.
Bound by silence, not by weakness.
To act was exile.
To descend was to vanish.
But love cracks even sacred pacts.

They watched the people run
the ones they'd never touched,
but had grown to love in stillness.
So when Balor came too close,
they rose.

Macha broke first, shattered the sky, wings unfurled,
the scream before the strike.
Feathers spiralled. The omen flew.

Lugh descended not light, but thunder,
a blow from the bones of the ground itself.
The strike that cracks stone.

Dagda raised his club, not rage, but rhythm.
The field moved.
The veil shook.
One stroke was enough.

Balor fell his gaze undone, that merciless eye
finally shut.

Life gasped back into the air.
The people wept.
Still they lit fires in the rain.
But joy faded. They knew the cost.

Exile loomed.
The Marble Arch Caves opened.
The sky closed.
The ground stilled.
The field slept.

They left no temple.
Only rhythm.
Only the law:

If ever again the world cracks wide, call,
and we will rise.