Season of the Goddess

.xOoOx.

Author's Notes: This chapter was broken into two parts because it was too long. Chapter four will be when our lovies meet. Hang in there! ;) This chapter is unbeta-ed.

WARNINGS: Mentions of child marriage

*Dialogue in italics - characters are understood to speak in Old (Ancient?) Welsh.

.xOoOx.

Three

A Hidden World

Part 1

.xOoOx.

Elaindale, September 1965

"Eirianwen! Wait for me!"

"Come on, Nona! They're starting! Hurry!" Hermione only spared her nurse a quick glance over her shoulder, her wild brown curls flying as she ran up to the hill's crest. She could already hear the faint sounds of festive music and the din of laughter and merrymaking in the wind, wafting through the air in a joyous dance that only urged her forward.

Hermione sped up, and as she drew closer, she could make out each cheerful beat of the bodhrán, the convivial pluck of the lute's strings and every jovial cadence of the whistles. Clearing the sloping incline that led her to the top, her gaze immediately fell on the enormous bonfire, yet unlit until the last rays of the sun faded into the night, stationed at the exact centre of the hilltop, its size dwarfing the people scattered around it. To one side of the assembly, the bards made magic with their music, bringing life to the festivities. Around them were the druids of Elaindale, Arthenvale and Aderynnyth, some already having their fill of cider, mead and wine, others laughing and chatting endlessly as they prepared the fare for the evening. All of them wore colourful clothing, in as much for the occasion as for the people's preference for lively colours.

Hermione grinned, elated at the festive sight.

Mea'n Fo'mhair, the second great harvest of the year, was about to begin.

Then Nona crested the hill, heaving and panting like all the air from her lungs had fled from her entirely. "Eirianwen, you..." she wheezed, a hand against her midriff as she tried to catch her breath, wisps of long salt and pepper hair escaping their plait. "You little rascal!"

"Sorry, Nona." Hermione smothered a giggle at the sorry sight her nurse made and tried to look contrite. No one but Nona had ever called Hermione a rascal, not even in her previous life, but she supposed it was only because Nona had an overprotective and overbearing streak that rivalled that of Molly Weasley's, and even then, Molly always had at least three of her children around to focus it all on. Nona only had Hermione to fuss over for the time being, her own sons already grown druid men and out of the nest.

"Now," the stout matron finally said with a hearty heave. "Come along, Eirianwen. We mustn't keep the Great Goddess waiting."

Nona took Hermione by the hand, an action that had always made the girl feel more than a little awkward, and led her through the throng of people milling about. As they made their way through the assembly of excited druids to find a good spot for the autumn equinox ritual, those they passed took notice and bowed respectfully, words of friendly greetings and salutations flying from every which way. Hermione smiled in response to the calls, nodding in acknowledgement like she had been taught to do, albeit a little more awkwardly than Mother would have liked, still unused to the attention the druids showered her even after all this time. To them, she was not just a little druid girl — no, she was Eirianwen, a name bestowed to her by Druatia, a name to be uttered in respect.

It wasn't a title per se, though it was understood as such, for she was a sapling of the Great Mother. That made her just a little bit more of a deity, though not quite yet. Perhaps a demi-goddess would be the closest thing to describe her. At least until it was her turn to ascend into the cycle.

Hermione grimaced at the thought. Though it had been over a year since her consciousness surfaced, it was still a difficult concept to fathom. In fact, much of how the druids lived and practised were difficult to fathom, so different were their ways from muggles and even from wizards that she often felt like she was living in a different world entirely.

Finally, Hermione and Nona found a spot to one side of the bonfire where an outcrop of large boulders sat clustered together, close enough to the ritual circle around the bonfire, yet far enough as to not interfere with those involved in the ritual. A pair of familiar blond heads were already seated there awaiting the night's proceedings. Hermione smiled, pleased to see familiar faces, before she let her eyes wander over the gathering around her — from the unlit fire pit to the musicians and the cornucopia of food laid out in three long tables and the copious amounts of spirits stocked off in barrels. Her gaze swept over the people in colourful tunics, dresses and robes, towards the vast woodlands below to the horizon, where the setting sun made its final descent of the day.

In a way, she thought, perhaps she was in a different world. The druids belonged to a world all their own, after all, disconnected from the rest of humanity, magical or otherwise, almost entirely forgotten.

As they drew closer to their destination, one of the boulders' occupants noticed their approach and a happy smile lit up her youthful, elfin features. Hermione gave her a wave, one that Lucine returned eagerly before she turned to the woman beside her, tugging at the thick woollen sleeve of her midnight blue robes, no doubt letting her know of their arrival.

Lucine's mother turned towards them at her daughter's news with friendly pale-grey eyes, gleaming even in the fading sunlight, with an all-knowing look that always made Hermione feel like she could look right into her very soul. And since Essylt Smethwyck was an actual druid seer, with the natural gift of retrocognition, Hermione had supposed that she very well could.

For all of her scorn towards the art of Divination, she had been quick to learn that while the class Trelawny had taught were completely useless to students who didn't possess the gift of Sight, Divination, when practised by actual seers, was a study that could actually hold its own against all the other fields of academia. With her Sight, Essylt had been quick to see that Hermione, since that fateful day, had not been the same Eirianwen she had raised her daughter with.

The burden of a life past, she had told Hermione upon seeing her, was both a blessing and a curse.

"Ah, Metron* Nona," Essylt greeted with a serene tilt of her lips as she stood from where she was perched, the young girl beside her following suit. She turned to smile at Hermione and bowed in the way of the druids, with her head dipped low, one foot placed behind the other, her right hand resting open over her heart. "Eirianwen. A good twilight to you both."

"A good twilight, Doeth* Essylt," Hermione greeted, giving the willowy blonde woman and her friend, who had also dipped into a respectful bow like her mother, an amiable and courteous smile of her own. "Hullo, Lucine. A bountiful Mea'n Fo'mhair to you both."

Beside her, Nona nodded approvingly before giving her own greetings to their friends. "And it is, indeed, another bountiful Mea'n Fo'mhair. Today's harvest was yet another great success, praise the goddess."

"Aye, by the grace of the Earth Mother, Elaindale and its neighbours have continued to prosper," Essylt agreed with a graceful nod of her head, her long golden blonde hair a cascading gold down her back, and despite the slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, she looked every bit as fae-like as her daughter. She glanced at the horizon, her all-knowing eyes taking in the final rays of the sun. "Come sit with us; the ritual will begin soon."

Hermione shared an excited giggle with Lucine and sat beside each other on the smaller rocks, but before anything else could be said between them, the world around them was faded into darkness, the last rays of the sun finally gone. The music stopped, falling into silence, echoes of the last notes of every instrument and song ringing in the sudden stillness. The chatter and laughter died away to nothingness. No one moved, nothing stirred, not even the wind. The world around them, for but a moment or two, was in absolute silence, as the world had been before life had been born.

Hermione held her breath, afraid to disturb the hush of reverence that enveloped them.

Then the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, and there, bathed in its silver beams at the very centre of the gathered assembly, stood Druantia, tall, ethereal and luminescent in her moss green dress, golden girdle and pearl-coloured robes. On her head, a crown of crisp brown, gold and orange leaves and acorns sat, the fallen symbols of autumn surrounding a head of dark sable tresses. She took the time to gaze into each and every druid's eyes, each one holding their breath in anticipation and in honour — of the mother, of the earth, of magic — before she brought her palms together and produced a burning orb of fire, bright and warm, its glow chasing away the shadows around her.

When she spoke, her words were musical in the Celtic ancient tongue. It was a chant, a song, an extrapolation that never failed to call on to the raw magic of nature.

*"Equal hours of light and darkness

we celebrate the balance of Mabon."

As the goddess's words rushed over them, the ground beneath their feet seemed to move, undulate. She spoke in the wind, acknowledged its breath of life, and electricity crackled in the air, dancing over their skin and sparking at the ends of their hair.

"For all that is bad, there is good.

For that which is despair, there is hope.

For the moments of pain, there are moments of love.

For all that falls, there is the chance to rise again."

Everyone watched with bated breath as the flame in her hands grew and spun in on itself, crackling with condensed magic. It morphed as it twirled faster and faster, rising above the crowd until it lit up the entire night sky, three spirals flaring out in a never-ending blaze.

The Triskelion*. The triple spiral, the symbol of motion, cycles and progress, a homage to Mea'n Fo'mhair, when nature moved onto its next phase and prepared for its death.

The symbol burned bright, as blinding as the sun as the last words of the prayer were uttered by the rest of the enclave, Celtic words tumbling from devoted lips as the magic around them thickened.

"May we find balance in our lives

as we find it in our hearts."

This, Hermione thought as she felt the magic build in the air, the breeze blowing a rising crescendo as the ritual rumbled to its climax, the triskele imploding as it shot down and straight into the bonfire, golden flames hungrily licking at the wood. A gigantic fire roared to life and the dense concentration of magic around them expanded, reaching into the very depths of their soul, filling each one to the brim.

This was what made wizards and druids ultimately different.

Perception. Their perception of magic was highly different. Wizards and witches have grown so used to their magic that they saw uses of it in their everyday lives. They immersed themselves in it and lived with a natural acceptance of magic. They saw its beauty and they used it as they saw fit, with respect or utility, for love or for hate.

The druids, on the other hand, lived with magic, coexisted with it as one would with a sentient, benevolent being. They lived their lives around its gifts and its cyclical nature, moulded their own magic to fit its flow. There was a reverence, a devotion in the way that they used magic, a harmony that was distinctly different from those that lived in the wizarding world.

Before anyone could move, a crystal goblet encrusted with druid stones and etched with runes appeared in front of the Earth Mother, filled with purified water and wine. A silver athame, its sharp edges glinting in the orange glow of the flames, appeared in her hand.

"To the earth, I offer my life's blood,

To magic, I offer my soul."

Druantia brought the sacred knife to her palm, cutting into her flesh, before pouring thick rivulets of blood into the floating goblet. Then she turned and plunged the athame's blade into the flames to purify its edges once again, just as Elgar Pearce, Elaindale's chieftain, stepped forward, falling onto one knee in front of the goddess. With a regal tilt of her head, she presented the athame to the tribe leader, who accepted gratefully, and cut into his own palm without hesitation and allowed his life's blood to drip into the crystal chalice, the same prayer uttered from his lips.

"To the earth, I offer my life's blood,

To magic, I offer my soul."

And soon, one by one, every druid of age, including Nona and Essylt, had stepped forward and offered their blood. With each and every offering, the magic in the air thickened, wrapping them like a thick blanket. An invisible pressure in the air built until all they could breathe was magic.

When the offering was finished, the Mother Goddess took hold of the crystal goblet, whispered an incantation of acceptance that made the gems and runes in the cup glow brightly, before she poured the libation into the earth in a wide arc before her. The magic that had coalesced around them shattered, exploding into a thousand bursts of magic that danced with their own. It was a breathtaking moment, nearly euphoric to those who participated in the offering, to be one with the earth and with the ambient magic around them.

Then there was a deafening cheer, and the music started up again. Men clapped each other on the back, women hugged, and kisses among loved ones were exchanged. Goblets of ale and mead were passed among the revellers, the food was also served to anyone who came near the table that was full to bursting. The Harvest's flame would last for four days, each day a reminder to the people that they can rest easy for winter, for the harvest had been bountiful.

People bowed to the goddess as they passed her, presenting gifts and serving her drinks. She smiled and laughed with them benevolently. Then, as if sensing her stare, she looked up and caught Hermione's eye with a molten gaze and winked, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

The little girl smiled back. She wouldn't be seeing Mother tonight; she would need to travel her druid guards to other enclaves soon, presiding over their own harvest feasts in the coming days. She wasn't old enough yet to join her just yet, but that was all right. Though Mea'n Fo'mhair wasn't as big a feast as Beltane or Lughnasadh, it was still her favourite festival of the year.

.xOoOx.

Elaindale, February 1966

As it turned out, embroidering was nothing like knitting socks and scarves for house elves and Hermione absolutely loathed it. She glared daggers at her ruined wool fabric and was of half a mind to set it on fire. She could understand why Nona insisted she learn how to weave and embroider. It was, after all, one of Elaindale's most treasured arts, and future-goddess she maybe, she was still expected to grow up as any druid child of Elaindale would, and that involved learning needlework, particularly of runes and knots.

When she was older, Nona had promised, she would use thread from spun from the fleece of magical winged rams, with their shimmering golden fleece, whose magical properties could amplify and hold together all spells the fabric was intended for, including shielding, invisibility and protection. Hermione suspected that Harry's Invisibility Cloak had been made by the druids, albeit of a different thread and quality, and not often made for trade with the other enclaves. Still though, Hermione often preferred her lessons with old Master Berwyn who loved to dote on her because she was adept with numbers and gave her tomes and tomes of ancient history, alchemy and world magic to read. For all that the druids liked to live with nature — quite literally living inside and around the trees — and refused to live in large modern buildings like their wizarding cousins, the druids had kept a lot of lost knowledge with them. In fact, Hermione would gladly spend much of her now considerably longer life ensconced within the Coeden Wybodaeth, where the druid scholars put all their scrolls and books, just getting lost in words and ancient knowledge.

Thankfully, her attempts at a not-so-accidental pyromancy via a burning look of distaste was interrupted by a low whisper, loud enough that only she could hear.

"Psst, Eirianwen. Over here!"

Hermione turned towards the voice, familiar and distinct in its childish cadence, and she smiled bemusedly at the sight of Taran hiding behind the brush that sat at the edge of the clearing, unruly copper lock sticking out every which way. He waved a beckoning hand at her, the other one placed over his lips in the universal sign for silence.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at her needlework mentor, Metron Callwen, who also happened to be Taran's mother and the best weaver in the village, only to find the woman preoccupied with the other kids, fussing over their splotchy (though she admitted hers were no better) work. Deciding that she was curious enough to risk a displeased reprimand from the soft-spoken woman, Hermione stood and tiptoed her way into the shadows of the woods.

Taran grinned at her approach and eagerly made way for her as she crawled into the brush after her friend. Just like Lucine, Taran was one of her constant companions at Elaindale, largely because of the fact that the three of them were the closest in age. He was a cheerful boy, mischievous and bright — qualities that made him the village favourite.

"Hullo, Taran," she said as she crawled back up to her feet, patting at her now stained wool frock. She looked up at the boy with undisguised curiosity. Taran was supposed to be at the fields around this time, helping the others plough the grain, though she didn't put it past the boy to skive off once in a while. "What is it? What's going on?"

Instead of roping her with whatever crazy mischief he had cooked up, like sneaking out a few pastries from the baker's hut, he looked down, as if suddenly overcome by a bashfulness that Hermione had never once seen in him. She tilted her head to the side, bemused now more than ever.

"Is everything okay?"

The boy lightly kicked at the dirt before him, sapphire eyes still downcast. "I'm turning seven in three days," he started, his voice almost shy. "So my Da is going to send me away soon."

Hermione knew this, of course, which was why he should be helping out in the fields in preparation for his birthday. She was also aware of the druid fostering system when children at the age of seven would begin to train with masters of various fields and arts. Taran, like his father before him, would probably foster at Arthenvale, where the best of the druid warriors were often fostered. She, herself, would begin her formal training with Druantia soon when she turned seven in September. But Hermione had refrained from saying all this and instead continued to gaze at the boy curiously, sensing his need to have his piece said.

"Master Gruffydd is going to start fostering me at Arthenvale in spring." Then he looked up at her and met her questioning look with a glint of steel in his eyes that was so out of place in a child his age. "I know I can't officially swear my fealty to you until I'm of age but—" The boy abruptly placed his right fist over his heart with a loud thump and knelt down on his right knee in front of her, head bowed. "I swear upon my magic and upon my soul that I will serve as your shield and sword, Hermione Granger, Daughter of Magic, Child of the Wisps, Eirianwen of Elaindale. By my oath, I will protect you with my life."

Hermione was so surprised, her mouth left agape by his declaration, that she hadn't even noticed the magic that had converged in the air around them until the familiar burst of magic popped and slid over their skin and hair.

The oath was made and magic was their witness.

.xOoOx.

Coetir, April 1969

While she had been at Hogwarts, Hermione never had a particular interest in the Care of Magical Creatures. She would admit, with no small hint of embarrassment, that she had only taken the elective because she was a proud little swot with something to prove, and less about her actually wanting to be around them. What had really stoked her passion to fight for magical creatures hadn't been for its care, not in the way Hagrid or Charlie cared for them, anyway. What had really ignited her flames for activism was the injustice and unfair treatment that many sentient beings like Dobby and Remus had suffered.

And though she doubted she had changed over much since she was thirteen, swot and all, Hermione was wiser now. More so now in her second life — or at least that's what she'd liked to believe. But ever since she'd begun living with the druids… Hermione had been quick to learn that there was more to just fighting for their rights in a society that was being stubbornly prejudiced against them, more to just giving them temporary sanctuaries, though they were certainly noble deeds worth fighting for. The druids believed that for every creature, plant or tree, there was a place in the circle of life and magic. They all served a purpose and it was their duty to ensure that everyone found their place. And now, here, sitting on the grass and stroking a comforting hand over the distressed and heavily pregnant unicorn beside her, she finally understood with startling clarity what that really meant.

Hermione murmured encouragingly at the mare, sending her impressions of reassurance and affection in the way that she'd learned to do in order to 'speak' with animals. She cast a worried glance back at the Earth Mother, who was elbow deep in think, silver blood as she tried to pull the unicorn foal out of the mare's womb, silently wishing there was more she could do and desperately trying not to panic, least that emotion bleed out to the birthing beast, causing more harm than good.

What had started out as a special day to witness a momentous occasion with Druantia — the foaling of a baby unicorn, which only occurred once every five hundred years or so — had quickly devolved into an emergency equine accouchement when they realised something wasn't right.

The foal is too big, Mother had stated grimly, before she started down the rocky path down the cliff they had been lounging on so they wouldn't disturb the unicorn during her time of labour and birthing. Hermione had been quick to follow, her mind racing through everything she had learned about unicorns or equestrians, but none of what she had learned about all the known magical creatures in the Wizarding World while working for the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures had ever prepared her for this!

Unicorns, Hermione knew, were considered sacred creatures by magicalfolk, more so because they were widely considered creatures of Light, innately good and pure. They possessed a kind magical purity in their souls that was rare in most creatures, and even less so in humans. This was why it was considered blasphemous to kill a unicorn, and beyond sacrilegious to even think about consuming any of its defiled remains. Magical ministries all over the world agreed that they were to be protected, both for its rarity and for its purity.

To the druids, however, though they also believed in the preservation of the unicorns with as much fervency as their wizarding counterparts, they served a higher purpose than being just beautiful beasts of Light magic. To them, according to Druantia, unicorns were the heralds of the enchanted woods, the reason why enchanted forests appear. Whichever land a young unicorn decided to call its home, it would, in no less than a century, surely begin to grow into an enchanted forest. Unicorns had the highest concentration of Light magic inside them, and where light went, darkness followed; and the age-old dance between two opposing natural forces of magic would begin.

Where magic thrived, life would follow.

And now that life and the potential it held was in danger.

"There, there, beauty, we've almost got her," Hermione heard Druantia murmur with a determined look in her molten eyes. She gave Hermione a nod, who took it as her cue to pour all the empathy and encouragement she could to the mare as she stroked its brow and mane, and with a great heave and a loud squelch, the foal was pulled free from its mother's womb.

Hermione let out a delighted laugh, the mare in her arms breathing heavily against her neck exhaustion before it nudged its snout gently against her caressing palm.

Thank you, she seemed to say.

Later, as they made their way through the enchanted woods of Coetir astride their perytons* in thoughtful silence, in no hurry to return to Elaindale where their guards were surely waiting for them in consternation, the Mother Goddess finally spoke in a voice that always reminded Hermione of moonbeams and still, calm waters. "Did you know, Eilonwy, that I met your mother?"

"My-my mother?" Hermione was so disarmed by the unexpected topic, she nearly fell off her peryton, who squawked at her indignantly, displeased by her careless riding. She patted a commiserating hand on its neck despite her distraction. "You mean—"

"Helen Granger, your birth mother, yes."

Hermione looked up uncertainly at the Mother Goddess with furrowed brows, taking in her regal bearing: her shoulders back, her posture ramrod straight, ever graceful even as she sat astride a trotting peryton, and her chin lifted high, despite the silver stains of blood that had stubbornly remained on her yellow dress and midnight cloak, no matter how hard they'd tried to vanish them. They rarely talked about Hermione's previous life, if ever, and Hermione had admittedly been steering clear of the topic. As far as she was concerned, she had learned all she needed that fateful day her memories returned. Any other curiosities had been pushed to the back of her mind, some memories proving to be more painful than others…

Like her parents.

"I…" she finally began, when she realised she'd been silent for longer than she'd intended. "Did you say you met my mum? But how? Why?"

"When I told you you had been born for magic, I had not been exaggerating or waxing poetics." The goddess gave her an amused sideways glance, molten eyes glinting, though there was a shadowed cast to them. "Helen Granger had great trouble conceiving. She was barren, you see, but she had been desperate for a babe of her own. In her desperation, she tried what muggle medicine had failed to offer, and turned to old magic instead."

Her mum? Magic? By this point, Hermione was too stumped to voice out any more questions and Druantia was more than happy to continue with her story, letting all the answers fall into place.

"She stumbled upon one of the rare muggles that still practised the Old Religion and she was given a ritual to perform under the full moon, on a clear, cloudless night." Druantia's eyes remained fixed forward, her voice still calm, but there was a rueful twist of her lips as she continued, the gentle breeze setting wisps of sable hair free from its ornate coiffure. "It was a rather extraordinary twist of fate that the ritual itself was genuine, as much of the texts about the old magic have been lost to the mundane world. It was a weak attempt, to be sure, but it was enough for me to hear her call."

"But how could my mother have done a ritual? She's a muggle!" Hermione couldn't help but blurt out, even though she knew the answer to her own question immediately, and the Mother knew it too from the look she sent her way, eyebrows rising and her lips pursing in knowing and expectant manner. The girl's cheeks burned with embarrassment, feeling contrite and a little chagrined that she was acting like...like Ron, of all people!

She had learned early on from Master Berwyn that though muggles couldn't wield magic the way the magicalfolk could, they were not without magic in their essence or their cores. They still possessed enough magic inside them that could manifest in a variety of ways, from the physical attributes, such as extraordinary strength and stamina, to latent talents such as singing and an aptitude for healing. So, given all this, of course, her mother would have enough magic in her to perform a ritual. Any muggle could, if they put all their souls, their cores, into it.

"I came to her then," the goddess continued, letting the faux pas slide, "disguised as a crone because I was curious." At this pronouncement, a mischievous glitter entered her eyes, and she gave Hermione an elvish grin that usually set Madoc, the captain of the Mother's guard, on edge. "I didn't have to, but the neopagans do have such an interesting belief about me as a triple being. You could say I was indulging two of my curiosities that night."

Hermione couldn't help but roll her eyes at this, though there was no real heat in her derision. Living over half a millennium must have exhausted everything entertaining to the goddess.

"But when my magic brushed her, into her soul, I knew that magic had found its next vessel." The Earth Mother merely gave her a haughty look at her reaction, but it was gone in a second, replaced by a fond, doting smile that she usually gave Hermione when she did something the pleased her. "You were conceived that winter night — or at least the egg that would allow for your conception was created. For all my magic, even I can't create a child without a man. She and your father—"

"STOP!" Hermione all but shrieked, hands flying to her ears, her eyes squeezed shut in horror. She did not want to talk about her parents having sex. Ever.

The tinkling laugh that escaped Druantia was a musical cascade of silver notes and birdsong, her head thrown back and the crinkle in her eyes were filled with mirth. She shook her head, the ornaments in her crown of May flowers and blooms, swaying with her movement. "Druid girl you now may be, little elain, but it seems you've still yet to shed your...conservative views."

Hermione's cheeks were burning, and the glare she said her Mother was more so. "I'm only nine!"

In this timeline, at least.

"I married my first husband when I was fourteen*," Druantia sniffed delicately, as if that proved her point.

It really didn't.

Hermione sighed, exasperated, unable to believe that the all-powerful being the druids worshipped lived to embarrass her. Mothers, they were all the same. She sobered at the thought. And then, she peeked at the smirking woman riding along beside her through her lashes, suddenly shy. "Thank you," she said.

When Druantia turned to her questioningly, she hastily added. "For telling me about my mother. My parents," she swallowed thickly, emotion swelling into her throat, "they never got their memories of me back, so I'm...I'm glad I have you, now."

The hand that cupped her face surprised Hermione, and her eyes flew up to the woman who had lifted her face up so she could look into her beautiful, ethereal face. "You will always have me, Hermione."

Hermione's eyes misted. "And you have me."

The smile that the Earth Mother gave her was as blinding as the sun.

.xOoOx.

According to Google:

* Metron - means matron in Welsh

* Doeth - means wise in Welsh

*Triskelion - a complex ancient Celtic symbol; also known as Triple Spiral

* perytons - a mythological hybrid animal with the physical features of a stag and a bird

* The prayer during Mea'n Fo'mhair was a result of a search through Google

* Druantia married at fourteen - Apparently, the Celts' age of consent for marriage was fourteen, and since the Mother Goddess is over five centuries old, she was a child bride. This will be the only time this will be mentioned, however, and no one under eighteen will be married in this story.