The Vision
The Morrigan sat upon her throne, hosted above the rest of the common floor. The throne was carved of onyx, her body conforming to it perfectly. Wings were etched into the back, framing her shoulders and arms, and a thin strip of silken cloth rested there, protecting her back from the chafe of the stone. There were smaller stones tucked into grooves and ridges along the arms and sides of the throne, framing her in beauty. The throne was meant for her, created by the gods when Morrigan was crowned a goddess of Death and given this slice of human territory to govern and protect.
She was dressed in a simple black gown, a deep vee cresting between her breasts and slits on both sides exposing her legs. The black cloth was tucked between her legs, draping casually over her bare feet as she rested. Her hair, a fall of bloodred curls, splayed across her shoulders and chest, highlighting the pointed, angular planes of her face. Her cheeks were like blades, cutting under her tilted eyes, her lips softening her face and her thick brows pointed downwards in a pensive expression. Across her lap laid a book that looked ancient, the pages yellowed and curling, the binding black leather frayed at the seams and edges. One hand rested on the open book, fingers tracing over the etchings there, the other hand clutching a scythe that curved above her head, resting in a nook of the throne cupping her body.
Morrigan nibbled on a pale pink lip, her golden skin flushed at her cheeks and chest, as if she’d been exercising, her body trembling gently. She stood in a sudden sweep of motion, bypassing the table sat beside her throne, and strode down the dais steps, her bare feet making little sound.
She hesitated before leaving the room, turning her head and staring at the table with a slanted gaze, her lip once again drawn between her teeth. She turned fully, strode back to the table, brushed her fingers across the small bones. They, too, were aged, brown and cracked in places, but they were the bones she’d been taught to scry with. She passed her hand across once, twice, the air in the throne room around her shivering, tensing, releasing as she exhaled, and the bones settled on the table again.
She could see it clearly, the vision opening in her mind’s eye.
These men- who were they to her? She saw one face, two, counting seven in all, flashing in front of her, all different facial structures, all different expressions.
The eighth and final face pulled at the very core of Morrigan’s soul, and she let out a gasp as one hand slammed into the table, the other gripping the scythe so hard that it threatened to snap in her grip. She bowed her head, hair sweeping around her shoulders to frame her face, and exhaled shakily.
She would die, then. But first, she must find them- her pair-bonds. There was no other way to ensure her legacy was passed down.
The crescent moon, curved like the blade of her scythe, behind her left earlobe burned and she raised her hand, clasping it over the dark purple mark. She had been created to bear that mark and pass it to those she deemed worthy. Thus far, it was her coven that she found and marked. The witches were powerful, forming a tribunal meant to govern and teach, and she was honored to be their High Priestess.
Above all, Morrigan was a witch. It was there, in the bones, that she saw that indeed, it would be what saved her line and ensured she would not die a true death, but instead simply cease to exist.
A riddle, and surely one the Crone had blessed her with as Samhain approached.
Morrigan straightened her back, took a deep, cleansing breath, and whispered her thanks to the bones as she swept them into a small satin bag and tied the ends. She set them aside, walking away with a purpose.
Well, Morrigan thought, her head swimming with the images of her death, her pair-bonds, it is time, then?
Aye, came the voice that accompanied her always, the voice of the Crone, it is time, child. Form your court. Look for those who bear your mark.
The same question, and always with the same answer. Does my death beckon me?
Aye, child. It approaches.
“Samhain is a day of decision,” Morrigan’s voice echoed in the chambers above her throne room, “It is a time to determine your intentions, to let go of the past, and to move forward with hands clean of the stains you’ve left behind. You all bear my mark, for you are of me, just as surely as I am of you. Let us cleanse, banish, and consecrate our holy grounds, and move into the new year with a purpose.”
Eleven other witches, the most powerful and most affluent in the human realms, sat in chairs like Morrigan’s own. She had many thrones to sit upon, but this was her favorite. She did not clutch her scythe, but her book rested in her lap, open to another page. The velvet of her throne was soft against her skin, the fabric matching the red of her hair. The others had similar chairs, all a different color, matching the affinity of each witch.
Morrigan sat at the head of the table, and stood with a straight back, her lips curving into a wicked grin. Her eyes, the endless blue of the night sky, flicked from woman to woman, and each greeted her with a smile in turn. Candles placed in front of each woman lit without an open flame to coax them, and Morrigan’s smile widened.
She placed her hands over her book of shadows, the pages crinkling softly, and spoke again, “Let us cast the circle.”
Each of the witches opened their own books. There were a few men, though witches generally were female, and were led by both a High Priestess and a High Priest. Morrigan had not yet found her Priest and wasn’t sure she would before her demise.
She bowed her head, took a breath, let it out slow, “Air, element of the north, join us this Samhain night. Cleanse us of our dark thoughts; bring to us the crisp, strong scent of winter. Bring to us good conversation, bring to us clear minds. Blessed be.”
Echoes of her words whispered in the chambers. Air swept through the room, tickling and teasing at hair, brushing along bared skin, kissing Morrigan with the promise of snow and darkness.
“Earth, element of the east, join us this Samhain night. Ground us in your strength. Bring to us fruitful harvests, strong children, and happy wives and husbands. Bring to us hearth and home, so that we might serve and tend you faithfully. Blessed be.”
The very stones of her castle shook, and Morrigan’s hands lifted off the book of shadows, pressing into the carved wood of the table, her nails biting crescent moons into the surface. Her laugh was electric, the flames on the candles spiking with power.
“Fire, element of the south, join us this Samhain night. Bring with you your passion and your strength. Bring with you the mating frenzy, so that our nights may be filled with joy. Bring with you the fires that shall warm us on these coming, cold nights, so that we might rise and greet the sun with peace in our hearts. Blessed be.”
The candles were pouring wax as their flames flickered hotter and hotter, tossing shadows along the walls. The other witches tossed their heads back; Morrigan’s gaze was glassy with power and joy, her body warmed with the elements she invoked.
“Water, element of the west, join us this Samhain night. Bring with you the cool touch of snow. Bring to this table the clarity of vision and perception, so that we might see what we need to do to govern and protect these humans we cherish. Bring with you love, and familiarity, and sweep your oceans across the shore as we cleanse the world of its hatred and fear. Blessed be.”
Her skin dewed, sweat pouring down her spine, but she did not care. Morrigan merely whooped, the sound raw, unabashed.
“Spirit, element of the self, join us this Samhain night. Link us, as you have always linked us. Help us bring to ourselves what we know is true. Blessed be.”
Her soul sang, sweeping up, up into the heavens, overlooking her territory. The ocean at the cliffs beside her castle swung and hit the cliffs, stones breaking off, the castle shaking with her power as Morrigan greeted this new rush. A silver line encircled the witches, and Morrigan gave another of her feral laughs.
“Mother, she who protects and loves all, join your daughters and sons this night. Bless us with your courage, with your ferocity, and allow us to walk in your path with dignity and strength. Blessed be.”
The Crone was pleased. That soothed Morrigan.
“Father, he who cherishes and adores all, join your daughters and sons this night. Bless us with your passion, with your joy, and allow us to walk in your path with laughter and fun. Blessed be.”
Morrigan sat in her chair once again, her mind a tossing, raging sea of power. The other witches had lights under their skin, glowing with the force of the power they all shared, and grins were seen across the table, hands clasped and eyes bright, “Move forward this Samhain night, protected and cherished by all,” Morrigan intoned, “And let us remind the world whom, exactly, they deal with.”
