This is what happens when you go on vacation without your computer. Plot just popped into my head somewhere on a bus, and developed into…this. I don't even know if this counts as fanfiction anymore. But it was begging to be written, so here you go. Okay, basic disclaimer: Percy Jackson is not mine. Rick Riordan owns it.
And if you haven't figured it out already, this is AU, and has almost no mention of original Percy Jackson plot. This is loosely based on Celtic mythology, but at the end of it, said mythology is going to be so mangled you won't even recognize it anymore. So please don't chew me out for that. Thanks for reading! Happy New Year, everyone!
Her castle stood at the border between the unseen and the seen, acting as a bridge and an in-between of reality and something else, something not quite there. The creatures of the unseen would perceive it as a towering pitch black structure, all cut-glass edges and jutting spikes, an imposing building at once awe-inspiring and terrifying. Its legend only grew more with the mystery it was shrouded in. Few were allowed beyond the walls of cold iron and polished obsidian. Even fewer trespassed the front gates to step into garish candlelight and bloody paintings, twining snakes of shadow and shimmering midnight tiles. Morrigan's Fortress, they whispered, voices hushed, as if the name carried something heavy that would crush them if they spoke of it too irreverently.
So when she felt the doors crack open and the breeze waft in, she knew exactly what was happening and more importantly, who was happening. There were very few people capable of contacting her, after all. Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she clenched her fingers around the armrest of her throne, momentarily forgetting what exactly the throne was made of, and sure enough, grimaced as shards of bloody armor drew her own blood. The furniture that came with her admittedly well respected position was ridiculous. Tense seconds pass before her guess is unfortunately proven correct, her sharp eyes catching sight of a spot of green, startling juxtaposed against the obsidian doorway. It looked starkly out of place among the frescoes of war, carried in by the languid autumn breeze.
"Oh gods, they're at this again, aren't they?" she muttered to herself, as the leaf fluttered into her lap, mockingly innocent and fragile. A hiss escaped her lips as she skimmed through the missive, scratched into the leaf in elegant script. Biting back a snarl, she settled for crumpling the leaf up and watching it disintegrate into ashes that blew away in the wind. "If someone doesn't assassinate those old farts, I'll kill them myself."
She wished she could wrap her hands around the throats of the Council. Especially the Head Counciler. He was a self consumed, egotistical jerk of a faerie, and she frankly hoped she could dump him into the next cow pasture along with Her Bovine Majesty, his preening, smirking wife. She sighed, resigning herself to her fate of keeping three old coots from murdering each other. Good riddance. She stood up with a long suffering huff. The Council was not refused, and if she was to answer the summons, it was better sooner than later, so she had some time to defang them, creating less risk for haphazard explosions.
Smoothing down her cloak, she picked up her staff from its pedestal, running her fingers over its uneven surface before wrapping them around the cut ruby imbedded in the wood. She went through her mental checklist- doing this improperly had unpleasant results- and spread her arms, cloak billowing behind her, drawing the shadows into the already midnight fabric. Tingles shot up and down her body, and she felt a dull ache in her forehead as feathers began to crown her scalp. Focusing her attention, she a gritty feeling overtake her skull as the meticulous transformation of hair into individual feathers began, but she never got there.
"Going somewhere?" She started, the voice cutting through her concentration like a knife through butter. She dropped her gaze to the staff that she held in her left hand, and slowly unwrapped her fingers. Where there was once only blood red crystal, a figure had appeared, suspended inside the ruby with taut chains on all four limbs. She raised the staff –elder, she remembered, fed with her own blood- so that she was eye level with the ruby. The figure was a boy, his head held high, eyes closed, and when he tilted his head in her direction, she could see one arched eyebrow rise. His physical appearance pointed to seventeen, but she knew better. He was stunning, as all Fae were. The surface of the ruby rippled into waves as smooth as honey as he leaned forward, pulling on his chains even more. She could see the cold metal digging into papery skin.
Oh, he was an ethereal creature, indeed. Aquiline, noble features, a shock of night black hair, long, thin eyelashes, and sharply elegant lines. High cheekbones and grace of a panther, to add to that. Once, his eyes were the green blue depths of the sea, shining with life, brighter than any star in the darkness. Now it was the beauty of an iridescent butterfly pinned to the wall, unable to fly again. She could see people falling for him, without truly understanding him. She herself had.
"The Council wishes to see me again," she says, by way of answer, hating how she can't quite paint over the emotion in her voice. Fifty years, and he still made her heart shiver, although she couldn't tell if it was with bitterness, contempt, fear, or the remnants of love. He tilted his head, looking, staring into her, eyes still closed. A smile quivered on his lips, fleeting as a snowflake.
"What is it now, Annabeth?"
Mercury grey eyes hardened, like steel, or maybe armor. "Do not call me that under any circumstances, faerie. I am Morrigan, Queen of Phantoms, Warlord of Shadows, Goddess of Warriors, Crow of Death. That name," the word spat like a curse, "was from a foolish game and a gross waste of my time, and my stance remains the same. Your stubbornness is caving into stupidity, Perseus." He did not deign to reply, and merely hung there, unbowed, a secret between his eyelids and memories between his hands. She took a deep breath, inhaling the stagnant tension in the air, and transformed. White-gold hair streaked into black and parted into individual feathers, aristocratic nose elongated into glossy beak, and cape fell around her body to encase it.
She ruffled her wings, trotting over to where her staff lay fallen and yanked the ruby out of the wood with her beak. Great black wings swept in powerful strokes, and Morrigan flew out of the throne room, between the columns carved with scenes from the bloodiest conflicts in history, into the cool air that tickled underneath her feathers. The ruby rested on her tongue, unyielding and unbreakable, though she knew that she could crack the crystal with one snap of her beak. She could not, however. Soaring into the updraft, Morrigan cursed herself yet again for being a maudlin fool.