From: bshsiung@quip.eecs.umich.edu (Bernard Hsiung)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: [MG] Metamorphosis:  Turning Despair to the Light
Date: 4 May 93 22:53:22 GMT


     "No!  Don't go!  Wait!"  But she bolted and fled down the streets of
Generica as if all the demons of Hell were after her.  It hurt -- it hurt
so much -- to run, the pain in her side forcing a gasp with every step,
but surely it would be better than the fate he planned for her.  The
crowds dispersed before her like startled pigeons, then closed behind her
just as quickly.  She took a mother's cry for her starving child, a man's
loss of his wife in the storm barely past, a coin from her first offering,
and shaped them into a handful of tiny poisoned needles that she clutched
to herself as a last desperate measure.

     The white-robed man saw that she was halfway down the street already,
about to turn a corner, so he took a step --

     -- and she ran right into him.  She bounced, panicked, recovered
instantly, moving to one side and driving a needle deep into his right arm
as he reached for her.  He cried out, stumbling, and she turned to run
again.  But his left hand shot out like a striking snake, caught her by
the shoulder and spun her about, as his foot swept her legs.  She fell.

     She tried to roll away, but his knee was in her stomach and his hand
was firmly holding her hand which held the rest of the needles.  Her
thoughts were spinning, scattered like leaves in a whirlwind, and she was
sure that she was going to die.

     When she did not, she opened her eyes, taking her first sure look at
him.  He seemed young and healthy next to her frost-white skin.  His brown
hair was untidy, not quite falling into his eyes.  And his eyes -- they
were blue, clear blue, so very alive, and in a sudden wistful pang, she
realized that they were exactly what her eyes were not and could never be.

     The crowds ignored the two of them, flowing around them, never even
noticing.  His eyes moved up then down, looking her over.  Then he spoke.
"If I let you up, will you promise not to run away?"

     His voice was softly caring.  She never thought that he would address
her in such a way.  "You -- you're not going to, to destroy me?"

     He shook his head.  "Not unless you wish it.  Would you like to lie
there all day, or would you prefer to stand?"

     "I promise."  There was nothing else to do; he had caught her,
defeated her.

     "Good."  He stood, helped her to her feet.  Even with his assistance,
she got up slowly and carefully because of the never-healing bruises and
aches that stabbed at her whenever she moved.

     "Please put those away," he said, indicating the needles she still
held.  "I hope you won't be needing them anymore."

     She tucked them into her pockets distractedly.  What did he mean by
that?  He smiled, then, and she looked away, afraid even to breathe.  He
gently turned her to face him again.  "Time for introductions.  I know who
you are, little Despair, but you probably do not know me.  I am Dariel."

     "You unmade my brothers.  Why haven't you unmade me?" she asked,
feeling a strange mixture of curiosity and dread.

     "You are lovely, you know," Dariel said solemnly, tilting her head
up to look at him directly.  It was true.  She was bedraggled, downtrodden,
but, even so, she had a beauty barely half obscured by the broken form, the
bruises, and the blood.  It was the kind that caught at the throat:  it was
so unfair that she should be so fair, and suffering.

     "Again, I am amazed at what the Reaver has wrought."  He traced a
finger along the line of her face and she trembled.  "Don't be afraid," he
said.  He took her in his arms, oh so carefully, and held her.  For once,
just once, in her existence, the gnawing emptiness that she knew inside
fled far away and was replaced by a feeling of peace and contentment,
quickly followed by a sense of wonder and a tiny hint of joy.

     "I can't -- I don't deserve this.  Are you going to let me go?"

     "Shhh... don't cry.  Better than that.  Would you like to be able
to feel this way?"

     "You can do that?"

     "Yes.  I can.  It is fortunate that you manifested this way, so
closely to another.  You will keep your memories, though; they will
strengthen you against turning back."

     "I..."  She couldn't stop crying.  The loneliness, the futility,
the hiding, all swept away...  "I accept."

     "Hold to me."

     She put her arms around him, and he disentangled her hair matted with
blood, the bump on her head disappearing as he touched it.  Her dilated
pupil slowly shrunk to a normal size.  The color crept back into her face
as he brushed his fingers along the bruises and gashes there, and she
almost laughed at the ticklish sensation as he massaged the tender spot in
her side.  He ran his hand over her injured hand and healed the rest of
the aches and pains.  There were so many, almost too many to count, but he
found them all.  She felt whole again, and clean.

     Then he turned his wrist over, a golden ichor beginning to glisten in
the cut that opened there.  He offered it to her, saying "Drink.  It will
work the changes within to match those without.  And know that once you have
taken of me willingly, you are tied to me and not to the one who made you."

     She nodded and drank deeply.  The liquid burned as it went down like
hot cider on a chilly winter's night, and as she swallowed, she felt the
warmth spreading through her body.  She found herself giggling
uncontrollably.

     He gave her three mouthfuls, hugged her very tight, and stepped back.

     She looked at the world with new eyes, brightly shining eyes of grey,
soft like silk.  She did a pirouette, just because she felt like it and
just because she could, and burst out laughing.  Dariel laughed too, and
said "Look in your pockets."  She did and found that the venomed needles
had become licorice sticks and candy canes, colored crayons and colored
paper, and a yoyo.

     "Thank you!  Thank you so much!" she exclaimed.  She stepped closer,
threw her arms around him, and kissed him, then turned to leave.

     "One last thing."  She stopped, and looked at him quizzically.

     She watched quietly as he drew the remaining needle from his arm with
a wince and handed it to her.  She held her hand out hesitantly, but as
she was about to touch it, it turned into a red and silver pinwheel.  She
swung it through the air with a grin, then went skipping down the street,
holding it before her, laughing as the crowds parted for her.

     Dariel watched until she was nearly at the end of the street.  She
turned, smiling.  He waved at her.  She waved back enthusiastically before
ducking around the corner, out of sight.

     He sighed happily, then headed back to the Mage's Guild.
----
ADMIN:  Thanks to Li (li@inigo.data-io.com) for the idea of a goddess of
despair...  And apologies for the pun; I just couldn't resist.  *smile*

Comments, compliments, and complaints can be conveyed to:
Bernie Hsiung (bshsiung@eecs.umich.edu)