The Giants Of Irish Folklore The Fomorians

There are stories whispered on the wind across Ireland, carried on the salt spray of the Atlantic. These are old stories, older than the stones of Newgrange, older than the memory of kings. They speak of beings who were there before the first people set foot on the Greenland. They were called the Formorians. They were not gods, not exactly. They were something else, something primal.

These were the powers of the deep dark water and the untamed wild. They represented chaos, the raw, churning energy of nature before it was given name or shape. Their origins are murky, lost in the mists of time, a place where the myth and history blur into one. The Fomorians were said to come from under the sea, or from misty, unknown islands in the western ocean.

They were Ireland's first masters, in a way, not because they built cities or sang songs, but because they simply were. They existed as a fundamental force, a brutal reality that any newcomer to the island had to face. Imagine a world still being formed where the land itself was a battleground. The Fomorians were the embodiment of that struggle. They were blight and storm and the unforgiving sea. They held sway over a land that was not yet gentle, not yet tamed by the plough or the poet's verse.

They were the darkness that preceded the dawn. Their name itself is a mystery, a puzzle for scholars to ponder. Some say it means under the sea, which fits their narrative as beings who emerged from the cold, dark depths. Others suggest it means under demons or lesser demons, painting them immediately as forces of opposition, as the shadows against which heroes must be defined. They were often described with monstrous features, a grim collection of beings who defied symmetry and natural order.

One eye, one arm, one leg, a grotesque mockery of the human form. They were the nightmare versions of life, the things you glimpsed from the corner of your eye in the deep woods or the churning surf. These were not creatures you could reason with, you could not offer them a sacrifice and expect a bountiful harvest. They were capricious and cruel, demanding tribute from those who dared to settle in their domain.

The early settlers of Ireland, like the people of Nemed, found this out the hard way. They were forced to give up their children, their corn and their milk to these monstrous overlords. The Fomorians were attacks on life itself, a constant, oppressive weight that crushed the spirit and stole the future. They were the first tyrants, the original antagonists in Ireland's long, bloody and magical story.

The Fomorians did not always look the same in the stories. Myths, you see, are like rivers. They change course over time. They pick up silt and stones, and their waters become deeper or cloudier. In the earliest tales, the Fomorians were more like spirits of the natural world. They were supernatural forces, less defined by physical bodies and more by their elemental power. Think of them as the embodiment of a plague on crops or a sudden violent squall that sinks a fishing boat. They were the raw, untamed chaos of the world.

a force that could not be easily fought with a sword or a spear because it was everywhere and nowhere at once. As the centuries passed and new storytellers took up the old tales, the Fomorians began to change. They started to take on more solid forms, their shapes hardening from misty dread into something more tangible. This is when they became giants. Their bodies grew immense, their features more monstrous and defined.

Perhaps it was easier to tell a story about a hero fighting a giant with a club than it was to describe a battle against a creeping fog or a mysterious sickness. They became the titans of Irish myth, colossal figures who could stride across valleys and whose voices sounded like thunder rolling in from the sea.

This transformation is fascinating because it reflects how people's fears evolve. An abstract terror is frightening, but a giant you can see, a monster you can name, is a different kind of horror. It becomes a physical enemy, an obstacle to be overcome through strength and cunning. The Fomorians became the perfect villains for a heroic age. Figures like Baelor of the Evil Eye emerged, a Fomorian king whose gaze could kill an entire army.

He was a specific terrifying threat, a focal point for all the dread the Fomorians represented. He had a weakness, a story, a history which made him a much more compelling foe.

It is also possible that the Fomorians absorbed the characteristics of other forgotten gods or spirits. Old beliefs get folded into new ones. The gods of a conquered people often become the demons of their conquerors. So, as different waves of settlers arrived in Ireland, each bringing their own pantheon, the old primal powers of the land may have been twisted and reshaped in the telling.

The Fomorians became a convenient category for all the monstrous, hostile, and other forces that existed in the Irish imagination, a dark reflection of the shining heroic gods who would eventually come to challenge them.

The most famous adversaries of the Fomorians were a group of beings who were everything the Fomorians were not. They were called the Tuatha de Danann, the people of the goddess Danu. They arrived in Ireland from the sky, shrouded in magical mists, bringing with them skill, knowledge and light.

They were gods of craftsmanship, poetry, healing and warfare. They represented order, society and the taming of the wild. Where the Fomorians were chaos and darkness, the Tuatha Dé Danann were structure and brilliance. Their arrival set the stage for a conflict that was inevitable, a clash between two opposing forces for the soul of the land.

But the relationship between these two groups was never simple. It was not just a story of good versus evil, of light against dark. The lines were blurred, tangled like the roots of an ancient oak. The gods and the monsters intermarried. This is a common thread in old myths. It speaks to a deeper truth that opposing forces are often bound together, two sides of the same coin. Bres, who would become a king of the Tuatha de Danann, was the son of a Fomorian prince and a Danann goddess.

This union was meant to bring peace, to weave the two peoples together. It was a foolish hope. The reign of Bress was a disaster. His Fomorian heritage showed in his nature. He was a terrible king, greedy and oppressive. He taxed the Tuatha Dé Danann mercilessly, demanding the best of their craft and their food while giving nothing in return. He lacked the generosity and honour expected of a true king. The poets were not respected, the warriors were not honoured, and the people starved.

Braise turned the Tuatha de Danann into slaves in their own land, forcing them to serve his Fomorian relatives. This oppression sparked the fires of rebellion, proving that blood and marriage could not bridge the fundamental gap between their two natures. This complex relationship, this mix of kinship and enmity, makes the story far more compelling.

The war that was coming was not just against a foreign enemy. It was a civil war, a family feud on a cosmic scale. The hero who would eventually lead the Tuatha de Danann, Lug of the Long Arm, was himself of mixed blood. His father was a Danann, but his grandfather was the Fomorian tyrant, Baelor of the Evil Eye. This meant the final battle would be fought between a grandfather and his grandson. It was a story woven with threads of prophecy, betrayal, and a fate that could not be avoided.

The simmering conflict finally erupted into open war. The place of the final epic confrontation was called Mag Tuiread, the Plain of Towers. This was not just a battle, it was the battle, the one that would decide the fate of Ireland forever. On one side stood the Fomorians, a monstrous host led by the deadly Baelor. On the other stood the Tuatha de Danann.

led by their new champion, the brilliant young Lu. It was a clash that mirrored the creation of the world itself. The forces of chaos and brute strength against the forces of order, skill and intellect, the very land held its breath. This mythological war is fascinating because it wasn't won by strength alone. The Tuatha Dé Danann won because they were masters of their crafts. Every member had a role. The smiths repaired weapons magically fast. The healers brought the wounded back from the brink of death.

and the sorcerers cast spells to confuse and demoralise the enemy. It was a victory of collaboration and skill over the sheer destructive power of the Fomorians. This story is a celebration of culture and society, suggesting that civilisation's greatest strengths are knowledge, art and working together. It is a powerful message embedded within an ancient bloody tale.

The climax of the battle is a moment of pure mythic power. Bela of the evil eye finally opened his deadly lid, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield to annihilate the army of the Tuatha Dé Danann. But Lug, his own grandson, was ready. Using a slingshot, he cast a stone with perfect aim. The stone struck Bela's eye, driving it back through his head. The eye's destructive power was turned upon the Fomorian army behind him, decimating their ranks and shattering their morale.

With the death of their champion, the Fomorian host was broken, and the battle was won. It was a victory of cleverness and destiny over brute force, this kind of story. A war between two groups of divine or semi-divine beings is found in many cultures. In Norse mythology, you have the war between the Æsir and the Vanir.

two tribes of gods who fought and eventually reconciled, merging their pantheons. In Greek mythology, there was the Titanomachy, the great war where the Olympian gods, led by Zeus, overthrew their predecessors, the Titans. These tales all serve a similar purpose. They explain the current world order. They tell the story of how the ruling gods came to power, establishing their dominion over older, more chaotic forces and shaping the world for the humans who would come after.