THEN . . .

Lúcán O’Moore was born in the year 1532. He was the son of their local sept’s chief (think governor, while clan chief was like a king), and fiercely loyal to the O’Moore Clan. Much of his youth was spent nomadic and in conflict––it was a mere four years after his birth that Henry VIII broke off from the Catholic church, establishing the Church of England. The O’Moore’s, like many of the Irish clans at the time, were proud Catholics and refused Protestantism fiercely. With each change of the crown in England––first Henry, then Edward, followed by Mary, and finally Elizabeth––the rules seemed to change. 

For years, Lúcán fought for what was rightfully his land as the Crown continued to send colonists, continued to try and crush Catholicism. His people had contended and held their own against the Vikings of the north, they would certainly not fall to Protestantism. And then . . . there was the feast. Late in the year 1577, the O’Moore’s, as well as every other prominent noble family, were invited by Clan Dempsy and FitzGerald––the latter of the two Lúcán had fought alongside during the Desmond Rebellion, only a mere five years prior––to a feast. Lúcán was forty-five and had established himself high in the clan’s ranks. They were invited under the pretense of alliance. The clans that had invited them were well-known to be fiercely Catholic. 

All but one man invited were massacred that night. It’s the most vivid memory Lúcán has of his mortal life, watching those he considered brothers spill the blood of his family. Betrayed, Lúcán remembers lying there, nearly dead. The army left their bodies to rot in the great hall while they gleefully took those still living to be burned at the stake, when a stranger came across his body. Maybe the creature was attracted by the smell of death, or perhaps it was the blood pooling, seeping into the stone floors. The creature, with seemingly no purpose or motive to his choice, picked his body amongst the others to take in the night. This was certainly no angel, and in his feverish and confused state, Lúcán weakly dubbed his savior “Sídhe,” a word both associated with burial mounds and the fae, before losing all consciousness. 

All Lúcán can remember from when he first came to was a fierce, burning thirst. Then, warm flesh against his lips and a flooding of ambrosia down his throat. When the burning subsided enough for him to form coherent thoughts, he realized the ambrosia that had quenched him was blood. His savior––his maker––stared down at him from above; he was apparently Lúcán’s blood supplier as well. The strange man laughed and insisted he only be called Síd, as “Luke” had referred to him previously. 

Síd stuck around long enough for Luke (the nickname stuck better than Lúcán liked) to learn how to behave properly, a few decades or so, before letting Luke free to do whatever he liked. 

The conflicts in Ireland only grew worse and Luke had been sworn to secrecy about his true nature by Síd. The old warrior, finding it too painful to watch his people crumble under the weight of the English Crown, left Ireland for the New World. It was there, after establishing several successful ventures, that Luke met the queens. When asked, he eagerly agreed to the contract. Lúcán needed family, a clan to be loyal to. Estelle and Cressida offered it to him. 

NOW . . .