♤ 
✨ The Morrígan, the Phantom Queen ✨
She is the Celtic goddess of fate, war, sovereignty, and death. The Morrígan isn’t just one goddess but often three - Badb, Macha, and Nemain, or sometimes other faces. She stalks battlefields as a raven, decides who lives and who dies, and toys with kings like they’re pawns on a chessboard.☕️ Alice’s Mad Tea Party Presents:
The Morrígan and the Hound of Ulster
Pour the tea strong, my darlings, because tonight’s story is not about knights in shining armor or happily-ever-afters. Oh no. It’s about the Morrígan, the Phantom Queen, whose laughter sounds like a murder of crows and whose smile could topple empires. And it’s about her most infamous entanglement - with none other than Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster.
The Morrígan was not a goddess to be trifled with. She was the whisper in the raven’s wing, the scream of battle, the sovereignty of the very land itself. She could appear as a maiden, radiant and tempting; a hag, withered and dreadful; or a raven, black as midnight, circling above the clash of swords. She didn’t just watch war. - she was war.
Cú Chulainn, Ireland’s golden hero, caught her attention. Young, wild-eyed, burning with the kind of brilliance that always ends in tragedy. She approached him once, shimmering in her maiden form, offering her love and protection. But oh, foolish boy - he spurned her. He turned her down, saying he had no need of her help. (Pause here to sip tea dramatically. Oh, the audacity.)
Did the Morrígan take rejection lightly? Absolutely not. She swore she would hinder him in battle. And hinder him she did.
The next time he fought, she came against him - not as herself, but shape-shifted. First as an eel, coiling around his legs. He struck and wounded her. Then as a wolf, snapping at his cattle. He struck again. Then as a red heifer, charging against him. And again, he wounded her. Each time, she fled, battered but not beaten.
Later, when the hero rested, an old hag appeared by the river, milking a cow, bruised and broken. She offered him drink. Not recognizing her as the goddess he had just rejected, he blessed her. And in that blessing, he healed the wounds he had given her. Oh, the irony - heroes rarely see what’s right before their eyes.
Their dance continued through the years: she warning him of his doom, he denying her aid, each meeting thick with fate’s tangled threads. And when at last Cú Chulainn met his end, bound to a pillar so he might die standing, who circled above in raven’s form? The Morrígan. Watching. Waiting. Claiming. For no hero escapes her, no kingdom resists her, no mortal denies her in the end.
The Morrígan’s tale is not sweet, nor comforting - it is sharp, like black tea brewed too long. But it reminds us of truth: that fate cannot be avoided, that sovereignty belongs not to men but to the land and its gods, and that power often wears many faces. Maiden, mother, crone. Beauty, terror, death. The Morrígan is all of it, and she is never far.
So if you see a raven perched on a lonely stone wall, my loves, perhaps nod politely and offer her a sip of your tea. Just in case.
Alice, Queen of Ink & Lore
Weaver of Truth, Lies, and Stories
