Chapter Text
The sun painted the forest a yellow hue as Maurelle stepped out of the shadow of the trees and up to yet another Welsh hill. She had spent nearly a year and a half scouring this country for the great Morgan le Fay’s death site, but still no luck. She could try her hand at locating the grave by necromancy, tracing the shadowy stench of death through the grounds, but she wanted to save her powers for when she eventually finds the site and summon the powerful witch rumored to be her ancestor.
The wind whipped her once raven-black hair across her face, as she scoffed at the contrast of Wales’ weather today and the darkness of her mission. She looked around, settling down on a rock she deemed comfortable as she rested, taking in the view of England from the hill — nestled between Cardiff and Bristol. This would be the last spot in Wales she would visit, before fully crossing out the country off her list of where Morgana’s possible grave may be. Maurelle thought her difficulty to locate the site is due to Merlin (rumored) warding the Lake of Avalon to ensure King Arthur’s safety in his return; if only she knew the exact location of the lake, she could have narrowed down her scouting to only the lands surrounding the lake.
Maurelle pulled the Nomen Mortis out of her sack — a grimoire of necromantic runes she had stolen from the Department of Mysteries, on the night her parents fought against Harry Potter and his school friends for the Dark Lord’s prophecy. Her parents were blissfully unaware of the tracking rune she’d hidden in their cloaks, and were completely ignorant to her smiling face when they got home after that mission, not sensing the heavy burden of the ancient text lying in the upstairs bedroom of their home. Maurelle had not known of her parents' fate in the Battle of Hogwarts—if she had, she would have stolen a book on prophecies and time, instead of indulging her curiosities and thirst for knowledge of ancient runes, specifically those of life and death.
Yes, she had thought of summoning her parents from the dead. But really, where would the fun be in that? She didn’t want to feel content just having her parents back, no. She wanted retribution. She wanted to see Hogwarts in ruins, just as the Aurors had left her family home. She wanted to let Harry Potter and his entourage feel the helpless need for vengeance and grief she had felt as she stood at the doorway of what was left of her home.
Finding the page of the grimoire she’d been looking for, Maurelle dug out her compass — the Whisperdial , she called it, for it traces the faint echoes of death — from her rucksack. She wrote Kadr using her wand — a jagged spiral, sensing where death had bled into the land. Then, following the remaining cardinal points, she inscribed Skarneth , Drelva, and Mortenhall. Each rune traced trauma, unrest, and souls that were bound to a location, respectively. Four runes, for each of the four cardinal directions.
Looking up from her work, she turned the compass around a few times and wrote one final rune in the middle of it. Thalas, a crescent drawn horizontally, struck through by a downward arrow.
Maurelle brought the compass up to her lips and whispered, “ Thalas invocatum. Ostende locum mortis…. Morgana Pendragon.” The runes on the compass began to glow one by one, from true north to sunward south. A line of vibrant purple connected the four runes as she whispered her final incantation, “ Thalas, fi yw dy lygad, ac rwyt ti fy nhraed.” She’d no longer need to glance at her grimoire to recite the words, due to the amount of times she has used these spells these past few months. Her past attempts had led her to this specific hill, and she genuinely hoped she didn’t have to camp here tonight and start on yet another journey to wherever her compass will lead her today.
The downwards arrow — now connected to the compass’ arrow through the spell — had begun to spin around uncontrollably before settling in a new position, with the Thalas rune dimming into a soft blink. Northwest it is. As she packed her grimoire back into her sack, she whispered one final plea to the central rune for certainty, “ Lle syrthiodd y gwaed, mi af fi. ” And thus began her journey.
__________________________________
Thousands of miles from that Welsh hill, where a storm was brewing, in the office of a wise centaur, a goddess brewed tea. She was tired—tired of hearing complaints about her children from the head of the camp they stayed in.
“-turned Will into a strawberry, Hecate.” Chiron was saying, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.
“Well, now he and his boyfriend have both experienced being turned into plants! If anything, my son gave them something else to bond over,” Hecate said, trying to placate the worn-out centaur.
Gods bless his soul, really.
From the glare she received, she put down the teacups on the desk and sat down in front of Chiron. “I really am sorry, Chiron. But you know how Zeus is stingy about me sending my very Greek children to the very American and British wizarding schools of both America and England,” Hecate says exasperatedly, sipping her tea.
“Yes, but you could always at least tutor them? Has that ever crossed your mind, oh great Hecate?”
“I have yes, and that is why I’ve left books about magic and how to use them in our very Greek world behind in their cabin. Honestly, Chiron. You should put more trust in me.”
“Trust? In you? After Percy’s recent quest?” Chiron asked incredulously.
“Well, bygones are bygones and all that.” Hecate flipped her hand dismissively. “And besides, you’re aware of how Zeus can be sensitive to us gods personally talking to our children. Though, I believe that unspoken rule doesn’t really touch the other big three siblings. Look at Hades, giving that brooding kid a chauffeur. A chauffeur!”
“Have you at least put a book on transfiguration in their cabin?” Chiron sighed.
“Yes, dear old centaur, yes.” (Not really, she will now though.)
“Well good. Something age appropriate as well-”
The door to Chiron’s office burst open. Nico di Angelo stood panting, clutching the handle as he tried to catch his breath.“Prophecy. For Hecate. Rachel.” And in came Will Solace, supporting a pale-faced Rachel Dare at his side.
“Oh dear.” Hecate’s face screwed up with contempt.
“Come, sit down child.” Chiron rose and gave space for Rachel. “Tell me the prophecy.”
Drinking water their resident Healer had just given her, “Nico got a skeleton in my cave to write down any prophecies I’d foresee.”
Chiron and Hecate turned to Nico, and Nico turned to the ground. “Rob,” he called out, “Come up.”
And from the carpeted floor of Chiron’s office, a jittery skeleton rose up holding in its shaking arms a parchment. Nico took the parchment from the “Poor guy,” as Hecate calls him, and recites the prophecy.
“When distant lands have whispered secrets old,
And stars align as autumn’s night grows cold,
Two immortals shall cross the ancient sea,
To mend the wounds that time forgot to free.
At Samhain’s veil, ‘twixt life and death grown thin,
The boundless lake shall breathe its champions in,
Knights fallen long, a queen with heart renewed,
Rise by the Lady’s grace, their vows reviewed.
Yet shadow stirs, a darkened sister’s hand,
Unleashing legions cursed upon the land,
Only fire born from dragon’s breath and flame
Shall quell the dead and end the endless blame.
Swords reforged, the old alliance sworn anew,
A choice to break the cycle, false or true,
When kin and foe in twilight’s dance unite,
The fate of magic’s world hangs in the night.”
A silence ensued, broken by Hecate, “And you think this prophecy is for me because?”
And at once, all four said, “Magic!” One in an exasperated, worn out tone. Another in a very duh, obviously tone, and the other two a very deadpan I’m tired of you, please go out. Respectfully tone.
“Ah.” Hecate looked away, and for once, seemed to be in deep thought.
“I’ll warn my champion right away. Thank you, Oracle. Thank you, Chiron, for the tea. And thank you, corn plant and strawberry.” Hecate says loudly as she transfigures her tea cup into a piece of parchment. Chiron leads the demigods and Oracle outside, to give the goddess her privacy.
Hecate attached the parchment from the skeleton to her own. She transfigured a pen grabbed from Chiron’s desk—he wouldn’t notice, surely—into a torch wax seal. Outside, Chiron’s tail twitched.
She summoned her hounds and ordered them, “To our very own incarnate, darlings. Deliver this message to Merlin.”