it was convenient. Unlike the Morrigan, I couldn’t speak like a human while in bird form.
›So what’s the emergency?‹ I asked her. We were flying toward Canyon de Chelly, where we could find a tree bound to Tír na nÓg and shift out of the state.
You need to repair your tattoo , the Morrigan replied.
›You mean the back of my hand? That’s been messed up for six years.‹ Ever since I’d been chewed on by a giant locust—courtesy of Coyote’s attempt to save the world—my ability to heal myself had been damaged. Colorado (the elemental, not the state) had taken care of what few needs I’d had since then, because I’d known all along that at some point the Morrigan would have to be the one who doctored my tats. The problem with that was that, unlike most doctors, the Morrigan didn’t agree with the credo of »First, do no harm.« The rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann thought I was dead—at least, I hoped they did—so I was stuck with the Morrigan as my ink slinger.
You have procrastinated long enough .
I stopped flapping my wings out of shock and dropped like a stone for a second before I recovered. The Morrigan was not a type A personality who worried about procrastination—hers or anyone else’s.
›What’s really going on? Have you seen something coming? Some reason I’ll need to heal?‹
One thing at a time, Siodhachan .
›Fine. What’s really going on? You’re not worried about procrastination.‹
She didn’t answer. She kept flying as if I hadn’t said anything and allowed me time to realize that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions, whether I asked them one at a time or not. This was highly unusual behavior for the Morrigan. Usually she couldn’t wait to tell me about all the dire shit that was about to befall me. Pronouncing my imminent doom held a certain relish for her. I couldn’t understand why she was being so closemouthed now, but my curiosity was piqued.
We shifted from Canyon de Chelly to a deserted patch of Tír na nÓg, where no Fae would see us, and then from there to a damp gray fen in Ireland, surrounded by yew trees, that the Morrigan called her own. She led me to a barrow that I suppose I should call her home or estate or perhaps a simple dwelling , but those words don’t really fit the feel of the place so much as the word lair . The Morrigan was a bit too savage to live in a home ; she could rock a lair like nobody else, though. Bones, I noticed, were a strong decorative motif. Skulls too. Perhaps that subconsciously tilted me toward the word lair instead of home ; few homes are so abundantly adorned with bones—especially ones that the owner has quite probably gnawed on.
We flew straight through an open portal into a longish tunnel lit by torches, until we emerged in a large chamber with a table and a single chair. It had a pitcher resting on it and a lone goblet made of carved and polished wood. Clearly the Morrigan was unaccustomed to entertaining visitors.
The Morrigan shifted in midair so that her feet touched down lightly and gracefully next to the table. I tried to do the same thing and discovered that the graceful bit was something that one achieves only after much practice. My momentum was far greater than I had judged it to be, and I stumbled toward the table. I panicked as I realized that some very vulnerable body parts were about to be squashed into the edge of the table, so I twisted as best as I could and instead smashed my hip against it. Did I mention the table was stone? My entire leg went numb and I crumpled to the ground at the Morrigan’s feet with a pained groan.
The Morrigan laughed hysterically. I’d heard her laugh before, but it had always been evil-genius laughter, not genuine mirth.
It really was ground that we lay on, and not tile or marble or anything else. There was nothing to prevent us from contacting the earth here. And nothing to prevent me from blushing, because the Morrigan was laughing so hard that she couldn’t
›So what’s the emergency?‹ I asked her. We were flying toward Canyon de Chelly, where we could find a tree bound to Tír na nÓg and shift out of the state.
You need to repair your tattoo , the Morrigan replied.
›You mean the back of my hand? That’s been messed up for six years.‹ Ever since I’d been chewed on by a giant locust—courtesy of Coyote’s attempt to save the world—my ability to heal myself had been damaged. Colorado (the elemental, not the state) had taken care of what few needs I’d had since then, because I’d known all along that at some point the Morrigan would have to be the one who doctored my tats. The problem with that was that, unlike most doctors, the Morrigan didn’t agree with the credo of »First, do no harm.« The rest of the Tuatha Dé Danann thought I was dead—at least, I hoped they did—so I was stuck with the Morrigan as my ink slinger.
You have procrastinated long enough .
I stopped flapping my wings out of shock and dropped like a stone for a second before I recovered. The Morrigan was not a type A personality who worried about procrastination—hers or anyone else’s.
›What’s really going on? Have you seen something coming? Some reason I’ll need to heal?‹
One thing at a time, Siodhachan .
›Fine. What’s really going on? You’re not worried about procrastination.‹
She didn’t answer. She kept flying as if I hadn’t said anything and allowed me time to realize that she wasn’t going to answer any more questions, whether I asked them one at a time or not. This was highly unusual behavior for the Morrigan. Usually she couldn’t wait to tell me about all the dire shit that was about to befall me. Pronouncing my imminent doom held a certain relish for her. I couldn’t understand why she was being so closemouthed now, but my curiosity was piqued.
We shifted from Canyon de Chelly to a deserted patch of Tír na nÓg, where no Fae would see us, and then from there to a damp gray fen in Ireland, surrounded by yew trees, that the Morrigan called her own. She led me to a barrow that I suppose I should call her home or estate or perhaps a simple dwelling , but those words don’t really fit the feel of the place so much as the word lair . The Morrigan was a bit too savage to live in a home ; she could rock a lair like nobody else, though. Bones, I noticed, were a strong decorative motif. Skulls too. Perhaps that subconsciously tilted me toward the word lair instead of home ; few homes are so abundantly adorned with bones—especially ones that the owner has quite probably gnawed on.
We flew straight through an open portal into a longish tunnel lit by torches, until we emerged in a large chamber with a table and a single chair. It had a pitcher resting on it and a lone goblet made of carved and polished wood. Clearly the Morrigan was unaccustomed to entertaining visitors.
The Morrigan shifted in midair so that her feet touched down lightly and gracefully next to the table. I tried to do the same thing and discovered that the graceful bit was something that one achieves only after much practice. My momentum was far greater than I had judged it to be, and I stumbled toward the table. I panicked as I realized that some very vulnerable body parts were about to be squashed into the edge of the table, so I twisted as best as I could and instead smashed my hip against it. Did I mention the table was stone? My entire leg went numb and I crumpled to the ground at the Morrigan’s feet with a pained groan.
The Morrigan laughed hysterically. I’d heard her laugh before, but it had always been evil-genius laughter, not genuine mirth.
It really was ground that we lay on, and not tile or marble or anything else. There was nothing to prevent us from contacting the earth here. And nothing to prevent me from blushing, because the Morrigan was laughing so hard that she couldn’t
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