The Morrigan wants her life back. Says she’s sick of all this flying. Says it’s harder than it looks. Says it’s not her fault she was born with hair like venom and mountain dew eyes, not her fault she was hung on every teen’s bedroom wall ever, not her fault that some nights the plasticky sheen of her thighs and soft hands in moonlight would cause them a heat they hadn’t yet known before. Says she didn’t mean to assert providence. Says she never really knew. Says fate clung to her back like a tired child and wouldn’t let go and guess who’s the tired one now? Says she misses playing Mario Kart with her brothers. Says death is overrated. Says war is too. Says men could do better at conflict resolution and maybe they could also try being more chill. Says it would make her job a LOT easier. Says she is large. Says she contains multitudes. Says three isn’t enough – it’s much more than that. Says there was a time when she’d walk the hills and wouldn’t once think about what was beneath them, or whether there was a beneath at all, and if there was a beneath then how far down did it go and then what was beneath that? and so on and so forth. Says age is just a number. Says (controversial opinion) she’d rather her human form over crow. The Morrigan wants her life back. Says she’s sick of all this dying. Says from now on if you want her you can find her in a cottage by the woods making fires and tending the garden and maybe one day she’ll become so irrelevant a soldier will fall on a field and not a single person will look to the sky and wonder if that’s her shadow passing overhead.