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Chapter Text

~~~~ Elysia The Morrigan ~~~~

I

~~~~ Elysia The Morrigan ~~~~

Elysia rested her forearms on the narrow ledge at the top of the Gateway Arch, admiring the view. The setting sun painted the horizon in hues of gold and peach, while the Mississippi River glimmered below, reflecting the skyscrapers and the shifting sky. She allowed herself to get lost in the subtle hum of life moving on beneath her—cars inching along highways, the occasional call of a seagull, the murmur of tourists enjoying their last moments before closing time.

It had become something of a ritual for her: pausing to absorb the moment fully, capturing a photograph to send back home. “Home” was a complicated notion these days—Britain and its lingering ghosts weighed heavily on her, but so did the ties that kept her anchored. She thought of Andromeda’s kind but not cloying concern, Tonks’ playful encouragement, Luna’s whimsical commentary that always seemed to hit some deeper truth. Elysia’s lips curved into a small, private smile. She adjusted the camera strap around her neck and brought it up to snap a shot.

It was then that her magic stirred, a subtle vibration beneath her breastbone. Like a spider’s web catching the barest hint of movement, her senses alerted her to something unusual. She scanned the observation deck, frowning slightly. A trio of kids—twelve, maybe thirteen—caught her attention. One was a tall, lanky boy with curly hair who seemed skittish, the other a self-assured girl with stormy grey eyes and blond hair pulled back, currently rattling off facts about the Arch’s height and construction. But it was the boy next to her that made Elysia’s magic react with a force that nearly stole her breath: black hair grazing his shoulders, sea-green eyes that carried an intensity she recognised instantly, even from across the platform.

It struck her with the familiarity of a lightning bolt. She recalled the times her magic had twanged like this in the past—an eerie recognition, as though meeting a distant cousin of power. She’d felt it faintly around the Veela at Fleur’s childhood home, stronger around certain gifted wizards who straddled old magics. But this was stronger. More primal. It made her skin prickle, reminding her of the sensation just before she cast a spell of old, forbidden magic during the war. This boy—who was he?

She didn’t have time to dwell. The park ranger’s voice rang out, announcing that they were closing for the day. She watched the trio’s little cluster break apart: the grey-eyed girl and curly-haired boy hurrying to catch the first lift down, leaving the black-haired boy to wait for the next. Elysia didn’t move yet. Instead, she leaned a fraction further over the railing, taking in the kid’s posture, the way he paced a bit, looking around with a quiet nervousness that felt achingly familiar.

So few people remained now. A family, shuffling their children towards the lifts with tired smiles; the ranger, already looking at his watch; an oversized woman wrapped in a loud floral blouse and her Chihuahua, perched at the edge of the deck. Something about that woman was off, though Elysia’s eyes tried to slide past her as if compelled to ignore her presence.

Elysia narrowed her eyes. No. She knew what that felt like: a subtle compulsion. Glamour or Confundus, maybe something else. She breathed deeply, pushing her magic into her eyes. She had learned to do this long ago—to see through illusions, to shrug off enchantments. It was a draining skill, but it had saved her life too many times to count.

As her vision cleared, the world seemed sharper around the edges. She saw the woman flex her arms, rolling up her sleeves with a deliberate slowness. The skin beneath was not human; it shimmered with greenish scales that caught the last rays of the sun. At her feet, the tiny dog shuddered and began to stretch, its frame warping unnaturally. Teeth elongated, eyes glowed.

The family screamed, the ranger stumbled back, fumbling for his radio. The boy with the sea-green eyes jolted into a fighting stance that spoke of experience, and maybe fear. Then she saw his hand move to his pocket, as if to draw something. A weapon?

Elysia sighed softly. Her black hair, streaked with white, swayed as she brought her hand up, fingers wrapping around her wand. The polished aspen wood thrummed beneath her grip, connected so intimately to her very magic since she had united the Hallows. She had hoped for a peaceful sunset and a photograph to share with Luna, Tonks, or Fleur. Instead, fate had other plans. Potter luck, as always.

“Why can I never just have a relaxing visit?” she muttered under her breath, voice dripping with a resigned sort of exasperation.

No, fate would never let her rest. But if there was one thing she knew how to do—better than anyone by now—it was to fight monsters and protect the innocent. The war had taught her that, painfully and thoroughly.

Letting her lips curl into a dangerous little smile, Elysia stepped forward, wand raised, and prepared to face whatever lay beneath the monstrous glamours.

The steel-and-glass confines of the Gateway Arch’s observation deck felt even smaller as the creature swelled in size, warping and stretching until its hodgepodge of monstrous features pressed against the curved ceiling. Where there had been a petite Chihuahua now loomed a thing out of nightmares: the head of a lion roaring with bone-rattling ferocity, the body and cloven hooves of a massive goat pawing at steel flooring that groaned beneath its weight, and a thick, scaly serpent tail lashing behind it. The serpent’s hiss sounded like steam escaping from a cracked pipe, the language too foul and ancient to be worth translating.

Elysia hissed a curse under her breath—this was a Chimaera, but one she never expected to face in the heart of Muggle America, atop a tourist hotspot. Without a moment’s hesitation, she raised her aspen wand and began firing spells. Crimson and gold bolts sparked off the Chimaera’s flanks, each impact rattling the beast’s hide. But here, in this narrow space crowded with terrified bystanders and reinforced steel, she was restricted. She could not unleash her full arsenal without risking everyone, not to mention the structural integrity of the monument. Her spells acted more like stinging barbs, irritating the creature rather than delivering a decisive blow.

She tried a new angle, throwing herself forward into a roll beneath the serpent’s twisting tail. The metal floor bit into her shoulder, but she emerged on the other side, closer to the kid—no, the boy—who now stood protectively in front of the rattled park ranger and a horrified family. In his hand, a bronze sword gleamed faintly in the half-light, its blade oddly at home in the presence of this ancient horror.

“Stay back, kid,” Elysia snapped, flicking her wand at the creature’s flank, sending a bludgeoning hex into its snarling lion mouth. “Even if you know how to use that, you’ll have to get too close.” Her voice was low and urgent, no time to explain. She saw the boy’s wide, sea-green eyes flick to her, shock and confusion written openly on his face. He seemed torn: who was this strange, dark-haired witch hurling odd spells? But the moment passed, and he nodded once, tightening his grip on the sword’s hilt.

Another roar, and the Chimaera lurched sideways. Elysia darted backward, forcing it to turn, trying to keep the beast’s focus on her and away from the huddled civilians behind the boy. She was good at this dance—she had spent too many years in war, learned how to draw the enemy’s attention, how to survive impossible odds. But this creature was fast, more cunning than its bulk suggested. It pivoted with shocking agility, its lion head snapping toward her. Elysia dove low, just as a torrent of flames blasted forth. Heat seared the air above her, singeing stray strands of her black-and-white-streaked hair. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Where there had been polished steel, now there was a molten hole, gaping open to the world outside. So much for structural integrity.

The Chimaera did not press the attack on her. Instead, it whirled to face the boy. Elysia felt a pang of alarm, heart clenching in her chest. He dashed forward, sword raised, and she wanted to warn him again, to tell him that magical monsters and strange magics were not to be engaged lightly. But it was too late. The boy struck for the neck. Sparks flew as his blade met a thick collar that Elysia hadn’t noticed before—some sort of enchanted restraint or armor. He staggered at the recoil, off-balance, and in that terrible beat of time, the serpent tail lashed around with lethal precision.

“No!” Elysia shouted, voice cracking as the tail’s fangs sank deep into the boy’s calf. She tried to hurl a protective spell, but the Chimaera’s bulk blocked her line of fire. All she could do was watch, helpless, as the boy’s sword slipped from his grip and tumbled out of the new opening in the Arch’s wall, a glint of bronze vanishing into the distant shimmer of the Mississippi River.

Elysia’s mind raced, cataloging spells that could help. Most of her offensive repertoire was too devastating to use in such close quarters. She could try a cutting curse, a severing hex, but one wrong angle and she might bring the entire Arch down—or hit the terrified family behind the boy. As the wounded child backed toward the hole, they reached a standoff.

“They don’t make heroes like they used to, eh, son?” The woman’s taunt came from somewhere behind the Chimaera, her mocking laughter scraping Elysia’s nerves. Elysia’s eyes narrowed. That woman—clearly no witch, or at least not any human witch.

Elysia caught the boy’s gaze flickering anxiously back to the family behind him. She recognised the look, the same one she had worn countless times in battle: the weighing of risk, the calculation of sacrifice. The Arch’s opening yawned behind him, the wind shrieking through twisted metal.

“If you are the son of Poseidon, you would not fear water,” the creature’s mistress hissed, words slithering through the air. “Jump, Percy Jackson. Show me that water will not harm you. Jump and retrieve your sword. Prove your bloodline.”

Son of Poseidon? Elysia’s heart hammered. Poseidon. She wasn’t dealing with rogue Death Eaters or lingering Voldemort worshippers. This was something else—Greek myth made flesh and blood. Gods and monsters of old. Her suspicions hardened into certainty. She had encountered strange things in her travels, signs of older powers than those of wizards.

“You have no faith,” the woman sneered at Percy. “You do not trust the gods. I cannot blame you, little coward. Better you die now. The poison is in your heart.”

The boy’s face tightened. Elysia could sense his magic—or whatever power he possessed—flickering like a candle guttered by wind. He was weakening, poison spreading through his veins. She knew that feeling too well: the desperate fight against time, against venom or curse, the body warring with itself. But there was nothing she could do if he stayed cornered.

The Chimaera inhaled, flame simmering in its throat. Elysia’s grip tightened on her wand, ready to conjure another shield. The monster released a great column of fire just as Percy leapt backwards out of the Arch’s wound, disappearing into thin air.

Elysia reacted instantly, conjuring a shimmering barrier of magic before the family, absorbing the scorching flames. The heat pressed against her shield with malicious force, but she held firm. The flames died away, and she saw her chance. Without looking back, she snarled a spell over her shoulder—Bombarda!—sending a concussive blast toward the monstrous pair. The deck shuddered as part of the railing crumpled. She hoped it would at least distract them.

In the sudden confusion, Elysia sprinted forward and dove through the gap Percy had created. Outside, the wind whipped at her clothes and hair, and the river gleamed darkly below. She felt the gut-wrenching drop as gravity claimed her, but Elysia had other options. In midair, she twisted her wand, and her form shrank and shifted, feathers sprouting from her arms, her vision sharpening. A raven now, she spread her wings wide, the sudden lift pulling her into a steady, controlled glide. She circled the area where Percy had vanished, scanning frantically for any sign of life.

A sudden surge of water drew her gaze. Far below, the river churned unnaturally, a pillar of foaming, frothing current rising to meet the falling boy. In a rush of magic and nature entwined, the water caught him as gently as a mother’s arms. She watched, marvelling, as he vanished beneath the surface, yet she could sense it: he was alive, and as he stayed submerged, the poison’s grip eased from him. His essence grew steadier, stronger—recovering in a way no ordinary human could.

Elysia exhaled a breath of relief she didn’t know she’d been holding. The woman’s words had not been mere ravings; there was truth mixed in that madness. The son of Poseidon had returned to his element, and that might be his salvation.

Wheeling lazily, Elysia hovered as a raven, ready to chase after the boy if needed. Above her, the Arch bore fresh scars—molten steel, a gaping wound, the cries of frightened tourists drifting down. She knew she couldn’t tarry long. Sooner or later, the authorities would come, and she needed to ensure those people were safe. But for now, she took in this strange turn of fate: a monstrous ambush, a demigod’s leap of faith, and her own place caught in the crossfire.

Elysia circled high above the milling crowd, her raven’s eyes sharper than a human’s could ever be. From this vantage, the bustling throng looked almost serene, as if only minutes ago something monstrous hadn’t torn through steel and air. But her heart still hammered from the fight in the Arch, and her magic still buzzed, tugging her along after the boy—Percy Jackson—whose presence hummed at her senses like a struck tuning fork.

After about a minute of silent vigil, she spotted him. Percy broke the river’s surface near the shore, no trace of dampness on him, as if the water had parted just for him. He slipped into the crowd, weaving past stunned onlookers and the few reporters who had already arrived, microphones raised like drawn wands. Police cruisers with flashing lights were starting to line the streets, and uniformed officers peppered the area. Elysia followed him from pole to pole, hopping with careful stealth, maintaining her avian guise. She kept to vantage points too high or too dark for casual onlookers to notice, ignoring the camera flashes from down below.

From her vantage point, Elysia saw Percy’s two companions push their way through the surge of onlookers. The moment they spotted Percy, the curly-haired boy launched forward, tackling him in a relieved hug. The girl, standing a bit behind, tried to look stern, folding her arms over her chest, but the tension in her stance and the slight quiver of her lower lip betrayed her relief.

It didn’t take long for the two other kids to reappear. She spotted them first—Annabeth and Grover—huddled near a corner, eyes anxiously scanning the crowds. When they caught sight of Percy, Grover gave a cry that might have passed as a goat’s bleat if he weren’t doing his best to look human. He launched himself at Percy, arms flung wide, tackling him in a hug that made a few bystanders glance over curiously. Annabeth lingered behind, half-hidden by the shadow of a street lamp, her face a careful mask trying to disguise raw relief.

“We thought you’d gone to Hades the hard way!” Grover exclaimed, voice cracking with emotion. He clung to Percy for a second longer before letting go, his eyes glassy but grateful.

Annabeth folded her arms, her storm-grey eyes narrowed. “We can’t leave you alone for five minutes! What happened?” she demanded, voice stern, though the corners of her mouth were trying to lift with relief. She looked like she wanted to shake him and hug him at the same time.

Percy shrugged, offering a sheepish half-smile that did little to hide the confusion and pain he must have felt moments ago. “I sort of fell,” he said, as if describing a mild stumble on uneven pavement rather than a hundred-foot plummet and a near-death encounter with a legendary monster.

“Percy! Two hundred metres!” Annabeth hissed, still keeping her voice low. Yet she moved closer, unable to maintain any real anger now that he was safe. Percy let out a nervous chuckle and beckoned them deeper into the crowd, away from the police and reporters, who were starting to cordon off the Arch.

As they slipped into the press of bodies, Percy began recounting what happened above: the beast that attacked, the fiery column, and the strange magic-wielding woman who fought by his side. Elysia, still in raven form and hopping from lamppost to lamppost, listened intently.

“They might have been a child of Hecate,” the girl said, “It was clearly magic of some kind.” Her tone held a scholar’s curiosity. Elysia felt the girl’s eyes roaming the crowd, and so she fluttered to another pole, staying in sight but not too close. She noticed how Annabeth—if she recalled the name Percy said correctly—peered up at the raven with suspicion; she hurried the boys along. They had other problems to worry about. 

Elysia could hear them discussing her, and her resolve hardened. These children—demigods, if she understood correctly—were wrestling with impossible burdens, being hunted by gods and monsters she had only ever read about in dusty old tomes or heard whispered about in certain European enclaves. Her magic stirred again, that deep thrumming insistence telling her she could not simply leave them. Too many times in her past she had stood alone, facing horrors with no adult, no mentor to lean on. She could not stand by and watch these kids stumble into danger without at least offering a measure of protection. Especially not after that vicious confrontation at the Arch.

It was the same instinct that had guided her throughout the war: the need to ensure the innocent—or at least the well-meaning—got a fair chance. The wizarding world was quiet now; she was free to walk away. But Elysia Potter never turned her back on danger that threatened children, not after all she’d seen and done.

Spotting a quieter spot near the Amtrak station, Elysia glided ahead, careful not to draw too much attention. She waited until the three children drew near a less crowded area, then cast a subtle notice-me-not charm around a small patch of sidewalk. Anyone passing by would simply not register them. Elysia circled down to land behind a cluster of tall bushes. With a shimmer of her magic, she lengthened, bones and feathers shifting until she stood once more as a witch, wand in hand, her black hair—shot through with winter-white streaks—falling around her shoulders.

She stepped out in front of them. Immediately, Annabeth’s hand was swift, producing a bronze knife that gleamed under the streetlights. Percy’s eyes widened, and he grabbed her wrist, trying to lower the weapon. Grover—Elysia recalled his name now—looked ready to bolt, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Easy,” Elysia said, keeping her voice calm and even, hands open at her sides. “I don’t mean you any harm. We can walk and talk, as you seem to be in a hurry.” With a tilt of her head, she gestured toward the train station’s entrance, the warm glow of the interior lights spilling onto the pavement. Without waiting for an answer, she started forward. The trio hovered uncertainly before Percy ushered them along, his posture wary but willing to trust—for now.

“I’m Percy,” he said, catching up to her. “This is Annabeth and Grover.”

Elysia glanced over her shoulder, acknowledging them with a nod. “Elysia,” she offered simply. The name sounded so normal compared to what she had experienced. Mistress of Death, Morrigan—those titles didn’t belong here. She felt only herself, a traveller who knew too much of war and pain, now thrust into a new battlefield.

They slipped onto a nearly empty train heading out of the city. Around a small table, they settled, the children fidgeting: Grover gnawed on a tin can (Elysia filed that away with mild surprise), Annabeth kept her knife close, Percy scanned for threats as if expecting more monsters to burst from the seat cushions. Elysia relaxed slightly into her seat, though her eyes stayed sharp.

“So, what brings you to fight a Chimaera atop the Arch?” she asked finally, breaking the silence. “For once, I feel my own luck wasn’t responsible for that particular piece of madness.”

Percy sighed, shoulders slumping. “Apparently, she was sent by Zeus because he thinks I stole his lightning bolt,” he said with a grimace, “even though I’m on a quest to retrieve it.”

Elysia blinked slowly, processing that. The words rolled around in her mind like marbles, each more fantastical than the last. “He thinks you stole it, yet sent you to get it back... and the gods are real?” Her voice was a careful monotone, as if speaking too loudly might break some fragile new truth.

“Yeah,” said Percy, looking a bit baffled by her confusion. “It’s complicated. The idea was that if I find it and bring it back, maybe Zeus will believe it wasn’t me—or Poseidon—who took it. I guess it’s supposed to be a peace offering. And, uh, yes, the gods are very much real. Olympians, monsters, all of it.” He spread his hands helplessly.

Annabeth cleared her throat, curiosity gleaming in her grey eyes. “You’re not a demigod, are you?”

She let out a weary sigh and then let her forehead thump softly against the table. “So this is what it feels like to get your world turned upside down again,” she murmured, half to herself. “Hogwarts, Horcruxes, Hallows… now this.” She turned her face slightly and regarded the three of them: “All right, I won’t even question it at this point. I’m just a witch…well, maybe not just . Where are you three headed? I’m not leaving you alone with gods and monsters hunting you. I had enough trouble without adults around when I was your age.”

“A witch,” Percy repeated under his breath, awestruck. Grover just kept munching, apparently more fascinated by his tin can than by Elysia’s existence. Annabeth’s eyes, however, were keen and bright, studying Elysia as though she were an intricate puzzle.

“I thought you might have been a child of Hecate,” Annabeth ventured, “But their magic usually feels different. Less… structured than what Percy described. And as far as I know, demigods of Hecate can’t just turn into ravens.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but curiosity crackled in every syllable.

Elysia gave a small snort. “We Wixen—Witches and Wizards—we have our own ways. We pay homage to Lady Magic, though it’s more tradition now than worship. I suppose that puts me somewhat in Hecate’s realm.” She paused, considering them. They were so young, and yet clearly had shouldered burdens that would break ordinary children. Memories of her own youth during the war flickered at the edges of her mind.

Annabeth tried to regain control of the conversation, “We appreciate the help, but we’ll be fine. We’ve made it this far on our quest.”

Elysia’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I know what it’s like to face impossible odds as a child, without proper adult support. I’m not leaving you three on your own.” Her voice took on a quiet firmness. “If someone stops us and sees three kids wandering around unsupervised, it will cause problems, right? Better to have an adult around who knows how to handle awkward questions—and monstrous ambushes.”

Annabeth opened her mouth—perhaps to protest—but something in Elysia’s stance, the quiet authority in her voice, made the girl hesitate. Grover’s eyes darted between them, uncertain. Percy, however, seemed relieved, though he tried to hide it behind a small shrug.

“Having an adult who can throw spells like that might come in handy,” he admitted, rubbing at his sore calf. The poison had faded, Elysia could sense that, but the memory of it lingered.

“Well, then,” Elysia said, leaning back. Her wand was tucked discreetly beneath her jacket sleeve, ready if danger struck again. “Let’s figure out your route. Gods, monsters, lightning bolts—sounds like we have an adventure ahead of us. And you’ll have a witch watching your backs.”

The train rattled forward, leaving behind the Arch, the monsters, and the desperate scramble of the evening news crews. 

The rocking motion of the train began to lull the adrenaline from their veins as afternoon gave way to a dusky sky. The Amtrak car was warm and softly lit, its rhythmic clack-clack-clack over the rails a distant whisper of comfort. Beyond the window, broad plains stretched into the distance, telephone poles and sparse clusters of lights drifting by. They had left the chaos of the Arch behind—police sirens, shattered steel, and strange monsters now nothing but an unsettling memory.

Elysia sat next to the window with Percy across from her. Annabeth and Grover had taken the other side of the table, which was still slightly sticky from spilled soda left by previous passengers. The train wasn’t busy at this hour: a few scattered travelers dozed in their seats, a couple of college students whispered and shared headphones up ahead, and a lone conductor passed through occasionally, punching tickets with the resigned efficiency of a man who’d seen it all.

Elysia caught herself studying the three demigods. Not children, really—warriors in miniature, each carrying burdens that no twelve-year-old should. She recognized the look in their eyes: the bone-deep fatigue mixed with defiant resolve. She wondered if her own green eyes had once looked like that at Hogwarts, during those last desperate months of the war.

“So,” she said softly, voice almost lost beneath the hum of the train’s wheels, “I know we’ve established that the Greek gods are real, Zeus is angry, and somehow you three are smack in the middle of it. But what exactly is your plan from here?”

Percy exchanged a glance with Annabeth. He leaned forward, his fingers tapping the table. “We have to reach the Underworld,” he said quietly, as if confessing a secret. “We think the bolt might be in the realm of Hades, in Los Angeles. It’s—well—it’s complicated, but we have until the summer solstice. Otherwise, war breaks out among the gods.”

Elysia took a quiet breath, letting the magnitude of this settle. She’d fought a dark wizard and won a war, had stood between mortals and monsters, even held the Hallows themselves and become Mistress of Death. But walking into the Underworld… that was another kind of madness. “This is all a bit beyond the scope of normal wizarding life,” she said finally, managing a wry smile. “I’ve dealt with deadly curses, sure, but a trip to the land of the dead for a stolen lightning bolt… that’s new.”

Grover bleated softly, adjusting his cap. “You—uh—mentioned you were a witch, right? What’s that like? I mean, obviously you can do magic, but you’re not a demigod. So, do you, like, go to a special school?”

Elysia felt a pang of nostalgia at the question. “I did. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in Scotland. It’s an old castle, filled with secret passages, enchanted staircases, and the best sort of mischief. I learned charms, transfiguration, potions, defense against the dark arts… everything a witch might need.” She paused, studying their faces. Annabeth looked fascinated—no surprise there. Percy seemed curious but also distracted by the farmland rolling by. Grover still had that half-nervous, half-intrigued look on his face.

“Wait,” Annabeth said, “so you were trained? Like we train at camp?”

Elysia nodded. “We have a formal education. But we’re… hidden. The magical world runs parallel to the non-magical one, what you might call the mortal world. We have our own government, shops, schools, traditions. Most regular humans don’t know we exist.”

Percy snorted softly. “Sounds familiar.” He exchanged a knowing glance with Annabeth and Grover. “Demigods live kind of on the edges too. Most mortals don’t see what we see—monsters use something called the Mist to hide, sort of like illusions. I’m guessing your magic works similarly.”

Elysia tilted her head, interest sparking. “The Mist. We have something like that—charms that keep non-magical people from noticing. It seems we’re not so different.”

Annabeth leaned forward, her stormy eyes intense. “You mentioned something about a war. If this is too personal, you don’t have to tell us, but…” She hesitated, then added softly, “You don’t strike me as someone who’s had an easy life.”

Elysia’s fingers tightened around the paper cup. She weighed her words. They didn’t need the full story—not yet. But perhaps a piece of it would help them understand who she was and they deserved something. “I fought in a war not long ago,” she began quietly. “A very evil and cruel wizard tried to dominate both the magical and non-magical worlds. We lost so many—friends, family, mentors. During it… people started calling me ‘The Morrigan.’”

At the name, Annabeth’s eyes widened in recognition. She sucked in a breath, and Elysia watched realisation dawn in her gaze. “The Morrigan,” Annabeth echoed, her voice hushed and reverent, as if tasting the weight of it. “That’s a name from Celtic myth—she’s a war goddess, associated with death and battle.” The girl’s grey eyes flitted over Elysia’s face, taking in her tired posture, the faint lines of grief and determination etched at the corners of her eyes. “For mortals to give you a name like that… it’s not just a nickname, is it? They were naming you after a goddess.”

Percy and Grover exchanged glances, not fully grasping the gravity, but Annabeth did. She understood gods and their domains, how names carried power. Calling a mortal ‘The Morrigan’ meant they saw in Elysia something akin to the divine—terrible, formidable, a symbol of war’s cruel outcome.

Elysia nodded, her jaw tightening. “I never asked for it. It’s a burden, not an honor. I think people needed a figurehead, someone to blame or thank for how it all ended. I just happened to survive.”

A respectful silence fell. Annabeth looked down at her folded hands, then back up at Elysia with something like understanding. Percy stopped tapping, and Grover’s chewing slowed. Even if they couldn’t fully comprehend her past, they felt the weight of it.

After a moment, Percy asked, “Got any tips on surviving impossible quests? We’re kind of in over our heads here.”

Elysia gave a small, rueful smile. “Trust each other,” she said. “Watch each other’s backs and don’t be ashamed to retreat if you must. There’s no use in a hero who dies before completing their task. Knowledge is crucial—learn about your enemies, about yourselves. Don’t underestimate cleverness,” she added, catching Annabeth’s eye, “The strongest foe can be undone by strategy.”

Annabeth’s posture straightened slightly, as if heartened by the recognition of her strengths. Grover nodded along, and Percy’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, as if relieved to have guidance from someone who understood what it was to face overwhelming odds.

Through the window, golden light stretched over fields and rolling hills. The quiet rattling of the train and low murmur of distant conversations set a calm backdrop to their heavy conversation. Here they were—three demigods and a witch—drawn together by fate and threats beyond mortal understanding. Elysia sipped her cold tea, hardly noticing its temperature. She had found a strange camaraderie in these travellers. If fate had placed her here, she would see it through.

They were heading toward the setting sun, toward L.A. and whatever waited beneath it. A goddess’s name pressed upon Elysia’s past, and the current trials of the young demigods pressed upon their future. But at least for now, they had each other and the hope that together, they might navigate the darkness to come.

Elysia sat quietly in her seat as the train sped through the heart of the continent, farmland and forest blurring into painted streaks beyond the window. Late in the evening now, the light had deepened to a burnished gold, and the overhead lamps hummed softly, their glow reflecting on the glass. Across from her, Percy and Grover dozed lightly, lulled by the steady clack of the tracks, while Annabeth pored over a paperback atlas, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Elysia let her gaze drift, not really focusing on the passing scenery. Instead, her thoughts turned inward. The Morrigan. They had named her that once, whispering in the aftermath of battle, when wizards and witches had stood amid charred ruins and fallen allies. At the time, she’d shrugged it off as yet another title she neither wanted nor needed—one more burden laid upon her shoulders by a world desperate for symbols. People had wanted something larger-than-life to explain how a young witch had carried so many impossible burdens to victory.

But now, everything felt different. She was no longer in Britain, no longer sheltered by her half-understood beliefs of what was true and what was legend. Percy’s world, the world of Greek gods and monsters, was as real as the wand in her hand. Gods—true, active gods—existed, wielding power and influence. If that was true, what else might be lurking behind the veils of myth?

If the Olympians were real, what of the countless other pantheons she’d read about in passing or learned of during her travels? The Morrigan wasn’t Greek, she was Celtic—Irish—an ancient deity of battle and prophecy and fate. Was she real too? Did these gods co-exist, each lurking behind the curtain of mortal perception, tied to their own people, their own land, their own magic?

The thought sent a shiver through Elysia’s spine. She had grown up believing in a concealed world, yes, but one that was ultimately built on the foundations of magic and human will. Even the darkest magics or the oldest forest spirits were still touched by mortal spellcraft and mortal fear. But gods were something else—ancient and primordial, part of the very fabric of the world’s mythic history. If Zeus and Poseidon walked in secret, then who was to say the Morrigan herself did not watch from the mists of Britain, crow-eyed and clever, judging all who dared take up arms?

She recalled how people had started using the name “The Morrigan” for her, how uneasy it made her feel. She had feared it reduced her to a symbol: a goddess of war and death made flesh. An exaggeration, she’d thought. Hyperbole. But maybe the universe had a cruel sense of irony. Perhaps, by surviving the impossible, by facing horrors and bringing down the darkest wizard of her age, she had caught the notice of something older and more powerful than she could have imagined.

What if that name had weight beyond human whispers and fear? In the Celtic tales, the Morrigan chose heroes, guided or doomed them. She was not gentle, but she was significant, a force tied to destiny and mortality. If Elysia had been touched by anything that ancient, that primordial, what did it mean for her path now?

She drew in a slow breath and exhaled silently, careful not to disturb Annabeth’s reading or Percy’s and Grover’s rest. She considered her wand, resting loosely in her sleeve. She’d always thought her magic stemmed from her bloodline, her training, her bond with the Deathly Hallows now fused into her essence. But what if magic itself was connected to these pantheons, these gods and goddesses of old, each weaving a tapestry of power and fate? If Greek gods were real, then maybe the Celtic gods were too. Maybe, in some distant corner of existence, a trio of war-goddesses—the Morrigan—knew her name.

The idea unsettled her and yet filled her with a strange, cautious hope. She had fought a war in ignorance of these truths, relying only on her courage, her allies, her grit. If gods walked the earth, if they influenced mortal lives, then perhaps her struggles were not hers alone. Maybe she wasn’t just a freak circumstance, a chosen champion thrust into battle by chance. Maybe there was a pattern to it all, something that connected her with these demigods and their quest. Maybe fate, or the gods, had guided her right into their path for a reason.

She would not worship these beings—her heart still belonged to the memory of friends and family, to the world she fought to save, and to the quiet bond she had with magic itself—but she could acknowledge their existence. She could admit that the world was far wider and stranger than she’d dared believe. And if the Morrigan watched her from some ethereal plane, if that name had meant more than a hollow title, then Elysia would make sure she honoured it in her own way, by protecting those who could not protect themselves, by fighting bravely and wisely, and by ensuring these three children did not face impossible odds alone.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the subtle hum of her magic. She would walk this new path with open eyes. She was Elysia—a witch, a traveller, a survivor of war. The Morrigan’s namesake, or perhaps the Morrigan’s chosen, if destiny was playing games. Whoever she was, whatever the truth behind that name, she would face it head-on, as she had everything else.

The train continued west, carrying them toward gods and monsters, toward mysteries that needed solving. Elysia watched the fading light, her eyes distant, and wondered if somewhere, in worlds unseen, a dark-feathered goddess looked on and nodded in approval. And she can’t help but let her mind wander back to when they started to call her The Morrigan.

~~~~

The scent of ash and ozone clung to the night air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. Elysia stood amid the wreckage of what had once been a peaceful wizarding village. Broken timbers and shattered glass crunched beneath her boots as she took a shaky step forward, wand still clenched in her hand. Hours ago, these quaint lanes had echoed with children’s laughter and the soft hum of everyday magic. Now the only sounds were distant sobs, anguished murmurs, and the crackle of stubborn flames devouring the last of a half-collapsed roof.

She tried to slow her breathing, tried to calm the trembling in her wand arm. Her magical reserves felt thin, strained by the onslaught of curses she had cast and deflected. She’d conjured spectral ravens—dark illusions that darted between enemy ranks, sowing confusion. She’d hurled searing hexes hot as dragonfire, blasted apart conjured barricades, and raised shimmering shields that held back torrents of deadly green light. In the final moments, when the enemy had surged forward, bolstered by fearsome curses and monstrous conjurations, she had tapped into spells older and harsher than she ever dreamed she’d use.

She had done it because she couldn’t afford not to. They were outnumbered. The Death Eaters had chosen this small community for a reason—easy prey to prove their dominance, to send a message of terror. Elysia and a handful of Aurors and Order members had arrived just in time to prevent a massacre from becoming total annihilation. Yet, for all her efforts, too many innocents still lay motionless on the ground. She forced herself not to look too closely at the broken forms at her feet, fearful that it might break her flimsy hold on her emotions.

A sob drew her attention. Near a smoking doorframe, Andromeda Tonks knelt beside an injured man, wand tip glowing faintly as she murmured healing spells. Elysia caught Andromeda’s eye. There was a heaviness there—sadness, weariness, and quiet pride that Elysia had come through alive. Elysia wanted to go to her, to gather her surrogate mother figure into a hug and say something comforting, but she found she could not move. Her legs felt anchored to the ground by the gravity of what had just transpired.

Closer by, an Auror groaned as he tried to stand on a broken ankle, collapsing back to his knees in pain. Several other survivors were helping him, transfiguring wood scraps into makeshift splints. Someone else was conjuring blankets from frayed bits of cloth, trying to warm a shivering, bloodied young witch. The Muggle-repelling charms were holding strong—no non-magical eyes would witness this horror—but that only meant the wizarding community had to bear the burden alone.

“Did you see her?” a voice whispered behind her, rasping and choked. Elysia’s shoulders tensed, uncertain whether to turn around. “She fought them off, Merlin’s beard, she fought them all off…”

Another voice joined in. “I saw her levitating above the cobblestones—those illusions, those crows of darkness—Merlin help me, it was terrifying.”

Elysia closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn’t meant to terrify her own allies. She was just trying to save them, to end the battle before more lives were lost. She remembered the moment when, cornered by three Death Eaters chanting their curses in grim unison, she had raised her wand and cast a spell that caused black silhouettes of giant ravens to burst into being. They had screeched and dived, breaking the enemy’s concentration, and in the confusion, she had struck them down. It was brutal, it was desperate, but it had worked. Victory and survival outweighed guilt—at least that’s what she kept telling herself.

A young Auror, perhaps no older than Tonks had been during her training days, finally caught her eye. He was crouched over the body of a comrade, staring at Elysia as though she were made of glass and flame. The man’s face was streaked with tears and dust. “You stopped them,” he breathed, his voice cracking. “They were unstoppable, so many, so relentless—but you… you were like a spirit of war, something ancient and unforgiving.”

Elysia’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth to respond, to tell him that everyone here had been brave, that she was no legend—just a witch who refused to die that night. But before she could speak, an older wizard approached, leaning heavily on a snapped broom handle. His robes were charred, and one half of his face was smeared with soot and blood. Pain etched deep lines around his eyes, yet he spoke with a kind of hushed awe that made Elysia’s skin prickle.

“She’s like the Morrigan,” the man said, voice trembling. “A crow of battle, a harbinger of doom for the enemy, a protector of her folk.” He looked to the others, as if daring them to contradict him. “I saw her. I swear I saw dark wings spreading behind her back. The Morrigan. She has come to fight our war.”

The Morrigan. Elysia knew the name—a Celtic war goddess, a figure who decided the fates of warriors. She had read the myths in old, borrowed books during quiet evenings at Grimmauld Place. The Morrigan was said to hover over battlefields, taking the form of a crow, choosing who would live and who would die. It was not a name given lightly. That her allies—her own people—would look at her through the haze of their pain and ascribe that name to her made something inside Elysia go cold.

She wanted to shout, **No, I’m just Elysia!** But the words tangled in her throat. She wanted to say: **I’m only human. I’m scared, too.** She wanted to confess that without the fury and desperation that had gripped her soul—without the memory of Sirius’s death fueling her every hex—she might have failed. She wanted them to understand that being forced to use dark, bloodthirsty spells haunted her just as much as the corpses around them.

But words failed her. Around her, the survivors took up the whisper as if reciting a prayer against the darkness still lingering in the night. “The Morrigan,” they said, some with hope, some with fear, some with hollow reverence. They didn’t know what else to believe, how else to explain the raw, destructive power she had unleashed. They needed a myth made flesh to make sense of their salvation and their losses.

A sharp gust of wind swept through the ruined street, stirring ash and embers, making cloaks billow and sparks whirl like infernal fireflies. In that moment, Elysia looked up at the night sky, where no stars dared show themselves through the lingering smoke. She imagined a dark-winged shape silhouetted against the moon, watching, judging. The Morrigan was not known for comfort or mercy—just as Elysia had offered no mercy to those who threatened her people.

Taking a shaky breath, she turned away from the murmuring crowd. Behind her, someone began to sob quietly. Another tried to cast a repairing spell on a collapsed wall. A hush fell, pierced occasionally by the crackle of fires and the distant groans of the injured. Elysia stepped into the shadows, trying to shrug off the mantle they had placed on her shoulders. How could she be a goddess of war? She was only a witch who had fought too hard and bled too much, a young woman thrust into a role no one should have to bear.

Yet the name clung to her like smoke, drifting behind her footsteps, following her as she left that ruined street in search of survivors to help, wounds to mend, or at least a moment’s respite. She knew it would not be the last time she heard it whispered. The Morrigan, they had called her, and so the world began to bind her to that legend, whether she willed it or not.

~

Their makeshift base was a tired old cottage hidden beneath layers of protective enchantments. A row of overgrown hedges and a patch of wildflowers swayed in the moonlight just outside the windows. Inside, the place smelled faintly of medicinal herbs and conjured broth. Tension clung to every surface; here, hushed voices debated strategies, while the wounded breathed in ragged gasps behind closed doors. The survivors from the ravaged village had been brought in quietly, Apparating or passing through carefully-guarded Floo connections, scattered on conjured cots and patched sofas. Healers moved slowly between them, distributing pain potions and applying salves, whispering comfort where they could.

Elysia had slipped away as soon as the initial triage began. She’d rinsed the filth from her skin in a small, stone sink tucked behind the kitchen—a furtive attempt to wash away the blood that had dried under her fingernails and in the creases of her knuckles. She had scrubbed until her hands were raw, until the water swirling down the drain ran clear. She hadn’t bothered with her own injuries, not beyond tearing a strip of cloth from her ruined robes and tying it around a gash on her forearm. She did not want fuss or pity. She did not want anyone looking at her with that strange mix of fear and awe again. She wanted—needed—to be alone.

She slipped into the attic, a cramped space accessible by a creaky set of fold-down stairs. The walls were half-insulated and covered with old newspaper clippings and peeling wallpaper. Moonlight seeped through a tiny, dusty window, illuminating old trunks and heaps of linens. Elysia settled on an overturned crate, leaning back against a beam, her head throbbing and her body aching. Her wand rested loosely in her left hand, still warm, still humming faintly as though remembering the fury and desperate magic it had unleashed hours before.

Her eyes drifted shut. The Morrigan. They’d called her that as if it explained everything they’d witnessed. She wondered if the name had spread further by now, whispered through hallways, carried on hushed conversations in the rooms below. She tried to steady her breathing, to tell herself she didn’t care. But she couldn’t ignore the knot in her chest, the feeling that something irreplaceable had slipped away the moment they’d given her that name.

A soft rustle of cloth and the creak of the attic steps alerted her that she was no longer alone. Elysia stiffened, wand hand tensing, until she caught the scent of calming herbs and faint lavender perfume. Andromeda Tonks. Her presence was gentler, warmer, than almost anyone else’s these days. Still, Elysia kept her eyes closed, as if by doing so she could pretend to be invisible.

She heard Andromeda’s careful footfalls, the hush of her robes brushing old floorboards. Andromeda approached slowly, placing something down—likely bandages, a potion, and a tin of healing salve. The older witch said nothing at first, as if giving Elysia a chance to speak.

When Elysia opened her eyes, Andromeda stood a few paces away, a lantern in her hand turned low so as not to startle. Her dark eyes were full of understanding, and something like maternal sternness. She’d scrubbed the grime from her face since the battle, but the shadows under her eyes told of her exhaustion. They all wore the war’s truth on their faces, Elysia no exception.

“You’re hurt,” Andromeda said softly after a long moment. She didn’t phrase it as a question—she knew Elysia well enough by now. Her gaze flicked to the bloodstained cloth around Elysia’s forearm, the torn robes, the bruises darkening along her jaw and collarbone. “You should have come down to let us fix you up. We have enough Healers now; the wounded are being cared for.”

“I’m fine,” Elysia managed, though her voice was scratchy, and her head pounded behind her eyes. She cradled her wand and refused to meet Andromeda’s gaze, focusing instead on a spiderweb glistening in the corner. “Others need it more. I don’t want to cause more trouble.”

Andromeda knelt down, setting the lantern on the floor. The golden glow cast her face in gentle lines. “Elysia,” she said, voice warm but firm, “it’s not trouble to care for you. It never has been.” She reached out, took Elysia’s free hand, and gently turned it over. Elysia winced as the movement tugged at sore muscles. “What you did tonight saved lives, but you can’t carry this alone.”

Elysia’s throat tightened. She wanted to push Andromeda’s hand away, to vanish into the shadows where no one would see her pain or the weight of that dreadful name. Yet she didn’t move. She let Andromeda press a cool cloth against a cut on her cheek. She had spent so long being strong, being what others needed—The Morrigan now, apparently—she had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be tended to with quiet concern.

“They’re calling me The Morrigan,” Elysia whispered, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. “As if I’m some goddess of war, come to deliver judgment. I—I never wanted that.”

Andromeda paused, her hand hovering near Elysia’s forehead. “No one who loves you sees it that way,” she said gently. “They don’t know how else to explain what they witnessed. In the chaos, people look for symbols, for myths to make sense of the senseless.” She brushed a strand of Elysia’s hair back behind her ear. “But I know who you are. You’re Elysia. You’re the girl who became a warrior because she had to, not because she wanted to.”

Elysia swallowed hard. The kindness in Andromeda’s voice threatened to unravel the tight coil of emotion lodged in her chest. “I used spells tonight I never thought I’d use. I couldn’t hold back. And now they give me the name of a goddess known for choosing who lives and who dies.” Her voice hitched. “I’m afraid that if I keep doing this… I won’t know who I am anymore.”

Andromeda gently tugged on the makeshift bandage around Elysia’s arm, making a quiet, sympathetic sound at the angry wound beneath. She pulled out her wand and began a slow, careful healing charm, the magic a soft, steady hum. “You are who you choose to be, no matter what others call you,” she said. “Yes, you wield terrible power. Yes, you’ve done things to survive and protect others that break your heart. But I know you. You’re not cruel. You’re not a monster. You’re a good person caught in something far bigger than you.”

Elysia blinked as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She stared at the floorboards as Andromeda’s magic numbed the pain, knitted the torn flesh. The steady warmth of healing magic and the gentle presence of the older witch lulled some of the tension from her muscles. “I’m so tired,” Elysia admitted in a shaky whisper. “Of fighting, of killing, of carrying everyone’s hopes.”

Andromeda nodded, her own voice thick with empathy. “I know, my dear. We’re all tired. But we go on, not because we want to, but because we must. And while you might be called The Morrigan, remember that a name doesn’t define you. It might reflect how people see you in one terrible moment, but it can’t capture your soul.”

As Andromeda finished healing the wound, she began to quietly clean the grime from Elysia’s skin with a damp cloth, dabbing at dried blood on her neck and jaw. With each gentle stroke, some of the weight lifted from Elysia’s shoulders. In that silent attic space, where only moonlight and a distant owl’s hoot intruded, Elysia let herself accept the comfort offered to her. She let herself be human, hurt, and frightened, rather than the unstoppable force everyone imagined.

Andromeda looked up, meeting Elysia’s eyes. “We’ll get through this. You have me, Nymphadora, your friends who truly know you. And when this war is over, those who called you The Morrigan may come to see your kindness as well as your courage.”

Elysia managed a nod, her throat too tight for words. She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of vulnerability. If a single person could see past the monstrous myths and titles, if Andromeda could still see the frightened but determined witch beneath the soot and scars, then perhaps there was hope that she hadn’t lost herself after all.

She would endure. For those she’d saved, for those still relying on her, and for the parts of herself that she refused to surrender to the war’s fury. And as Andromeda’s quiet ministrations continued, Elysia finally let a tear slip free, grateful no one else was here to witness it, grateful that at least one person understood that The Morrigan was just a name—and Elysia was so much more than that.