Oisín Rode Away with Niamh, Thinking He Found Paradise

From the Quill of the Mad Tea Mistress

Oisín, son of Fionn, hero of the Fianna, poet with a sword arm and a sentimental streak a mile wide, rode away with Niamh of the Golden Hair thinking he had won.

That is always how it starts, darling. Victory mistaken for destiny.

She came for him in the old way - not with thunder or terror, but beauty sharpened into inevitability. White horse skimming the sea. Golden hair catching the light like a promise carefully worded to avoid the truth. She spoke of Tír na nÓg, where youth never curdled into age and sorrow never learned your name.

Oisín listened. Mortals always do.

He left Ireland behind with the confidence of a man who believes the world will wait for him. The Fianna faded into mist. The songs of his people became echoes. And ahead of him stretched paradise - green fields, endless feasts, laughter without consequence.

And for a time, oh, it was perfect.

Oisín did not age. His hands did not shake. His voice stayed strong. Love did not come with loss. Days did not drag toward endings. Time did not march - it lounged, lazy and indulgent.

But here is the part no one likes to linger on.

Paradise does not erase memory.

Oisín remembered the weight of Ireland’s soil. The sound of men who had bled beside him. The way glory once demanded something in return. Immortality dulled nothing - it sharpened longing.

Niamh saw it coming. She warned him. Softly at first. Then desperately. Because the fair folk know this truth better than anyone - you can step outside time, but time never forgets you.

Still, she let him go. Love will do that. She gave him the horse and one rule only - do not touch the ground.

Oisín promised. Mortals always do.

Ireland greeted him as a stranger. The Fianna were legends. Their halls were ruins. Their names were stories told wrong by people too young to know better. Three hundred years had passed like a single careless breath.

And then came the stone.

A simple thing. Men struggling. A hero’s instinct. He leaned. The strap snapped. His foot brushed the earth.

Time reclaimed him.

Youth fled. Strength collapsed. Centuries carved their claim into bone and breath. Oisín fell, old and broken, calling for a world that no longer lived where he left it.

The horse vanished. Tír na nÓg closed like a dream at waking. Niamh was gone.

So listen carefully, my lovely mortals.

Oisín did find paradise. He just did not understand the cost. Eternal youth is not mercy. It is delay. And love that asks you to abandon your world will always collect its debt in the end.

Paradise is never free.
And time? Time always gets its due.

Signed in sorrow and salt air,
Alice, Queen of Ink & Lore
Weaver of Truth, Lies, and Stories