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METAMORPHOSIS

SHREEVER RESTED . THERE was no more striving, no more struggling.

Even her pain had dulled to a nagging pulse.

She hovered between, in the darkness that was neither serpent nor dragon.

There was peace to this inevitability. When summer came, Tintaglia would scratch away the thick layer of leaves that sheltered them.

When the hot light of summer touched her case, she would emerge as a dragon.

The tortuous journey was finally over. When Paragon and She Who Remembers had brought them to the mouth of the river, the serpents had been incredulous.

Not one of them recognized this wild and milky flow as the ancient Serpent River.

They had followed them with deep misgivings.

Many had died. Only Tintaglia’s frantic urging had given Shreever the heart to continue.

When they had reached the awkward log construction the humans had flung up to aid them, she had despaired.

The water was too shallow, the turns too tight to negotiate comfortably.

The humans obviously knew nothing of serpents, and she could not trust them.

Just when she had given up, a young Elderling had appeared.

Heedless of the dangers of the rushing water and the toxic skin of the struggling serpents, he had walked out onto the structures and urged her to continue.

In words sweet as the rush of wind over wings, he reminded them of all that awaited them when they emerged from their cocoons.

He had focused her thoughts on the future.

She had seen the others take heart as well, ignoring pain to struggle on through the maze.

Wallowing out on the bank had been torment.

This was supposed to have been done in mild weather, not in the harsh chill of winter.

Her skin began to dry too swiftly. She could not trust the humans who hastened towards her, and they obviously feared her mane.

They dumped loads of silver-streaked mud near her.

She wallowed in it, trying to coat herself.

All around her, others did the same. Tintaglia walked amongst them, exhorting them.

Some lacked the strength to devour the mud and regurgitate it mixed with the secretions that changed it into long strands.

Shreever felt her own back would break as she strove to lift her head high enough to weave a complete cocoon around herself.

She had seen both Sessurea and Maulkin cocooned before she had managed to finish her own case.

As they grew still and their cases dried to a dull grey, she felt both abandoned and grateful.

She was glad to see them safe. Those two, at least, had a chance of emerging beside her.

Slender Tellur the minstrel had died at the ship battle.

Chalcedeans had slain scarlet Sylic, but immense Kelaro was encased not far from her.

She would not dwell on those who had perished, she told herself, but would await the sun and the emergence of her friends who had survived.

She let her weary mind drift into dreams of high summer. In her dreams, the skies were filled with dragons. The Lords of the Three Realms had returned.