Patrick Fanning stumbled through the forest weeping. His clothes were torn, his legs ached from the constant chase and he was close to giving in totally to despair. The raiding party of English Knights, sitting arrogantly on heir warhorses had destroyed his home, killed his wife before his eyes and driven into the wild away from Limerick. Their was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could have done. He cursed the English swine for the 100th time, cursing the fact that Ireland and the Irish were forever doomed to be trod under their heel.
He looked around nervously, his eyes adjusting to the encroaching darkness. Irish woods as a rule, are not a very safe place to be. Everyone knew about the evil spirits that dwelt in the depths of the forests. No elves or dwarves were they; dark, foul creatures unknown to scholars or the light of the church, nursed their malice underneath these dark trees.
Fanning collapsed, too exhausted to go on against a large oak tree. Demons be damned, but he could go no further. His will had left him. Let the bastards take him now, he no longer cared.
Then something happened that would change Patrick’s life, and Irelands future.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a twinkle of bright light coming from the depths of the forest. He starred at it, unable to make it out. A torch? A home? Some trickery of the English or worse. He couldn’t take his eyes of it.
He sat there, immobile for what seemed like an eternity before he was startled by the sound of whispers in his ears. A women’s voice, soft and seductive.
“Patrick…”
Without a thought, he got to his feet and walked towards the light, with it becoming brighter and more beautiful with every step.
He stepped out of the forest and into a circular clearing. The bright light shone directly in front of him, a shapeless form of white. Tears fell from his eyes and he knew not why.
“Who…what are you?”
“I go by many names but that is not important. I see the fear and the despair in your heart, Patrick Fanning. I see it everyday in the hearts of my people.”
“Your…people?”
“For too long now, the sons of a foreign race have trespassed on my shores, bringing death, rape and darkness to my sons and daughters. BUT NO MORE!”
The light blazed a fire red, and Patrick was struck dumb by the vision of a warrior queen, resplendent in golden armour, armed with sword, spear and shield. Her long red haired flowed down her shoulder, partly covering her stunning visage. Patrick fell to his knees.
“The time has come for my race to step forth and threw of the shackles of bondage, to take their place amongst the great powers of the world. Dark days are ahead and Ireland must be strong.”
Her piercing eyes looked deep into Patrick.
“And you will be my instrument. But neither noble title, nor the armies of Kings will win the coming fight, Patrick.”
“But what will? How can we hope to stand against the English?”
The Goddess in front of him smiled, reaching out her hand, pulling up Patrick’s chin.
“Listen to everything I say. Do as I instruct. And you will become the most revered man in this island."
And Patrick did as Eriu instructed. Travelling around Munster, he spoke of his dream: An Ireland free of Saxon oppression.
But he did not speak to the nobles, the dues or the earls. He spoke to the people. In the city squares, in the churches, in the town halls and village fields he addressed groups. Starting small, the legend of his voice and his rhetoric travelled faster then he did, inspiring visions of glory and freedom. They began to become known as Monster meetings for the sheer number that would attend.
Fanning spoke clearly and proudly of Irelands destiny: the fierceness of its fighting spirit, the virtue of its daughters, its right to be free. His voice was like that of the Gods themselves; when he spoke, people listened and obeyed, utterly enraptured.
The English, secure in their forts and behind the pale walls, took little notice, dismissing the man as an upstart, a flavour of the month that would soon lose its sheen.
Fanning paid them no heed, yet. He was focused only on delivering the word of the Goddess, who desired no tribute, now worship, only that the people listen. He took the message to Limerick, Cork, the mountains, the lakes, the common people and the fairy folk. A message of freedom, not just from the English, nut from serfdom. A society without nobles, without birthright, where every man had the right to attain happiness, to be judged on who he was and not who his father had been.
And the people listened. And the people became angry. Eyes turned to glare at English soldiers, dark looks thrown at the walls of the Pale. Were the English not outnumbered? Could it not be done?
Weapons began to be stockpiled. Meetings began to be held. Fanning selected competent men, to teach others the basics of warfare, of manoeuvre of tactics, of the possibility of victory.
Fanning waited. And listened to the words of Eriu, still whispering in his ear.
News came from abroad. A holy man nailed writings to a wall, sparking a reformation. The savages of the East arrived at the gates of Vienna. A horror story, not yet even a legend arose again in the darkness of Transylvania. And Patrick Fanning perceived.
The time had come.
With the light of Eriu, emblazoned in his mind, he gathered his men, marshalled his forces and struck his blow. It began at Limerick. An Garda na Poblachta would not fail Ireland.
—-
Historical Note: Patrick Fanning isn't just a name I pulled out of my ass, he was the Mayor of Limerick in 1529. However Im not married to that name and suggestions for something more appropriate would be great.
So Fanning is the conduit of Eriu and her voice on earth. He fully the belives in her cause and is willing to sacrifice anything to attain it. Even with Eriu whispering advice in his ears he's a capable military commander in his own right as he proves in the stroming of Limerick and King John's Castle.
Fanning's going to be the figurehead and leader of Eriu's forces so I suppose he's the dashing hero type.
Party of Five, a brilliant show, and often made me cry uncontrollably, suffered ultimately from a lack of rocket launchers.
- Joss Whedon
Never take life seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway.