Progeny
By A. Sam Lavanaway III
(Shakes8897@aol.com)

Disclaimer: Marvel owns the character in this story.

Blurb: A strange young woman makes a life-changing decision 
in another world…


The fourteen-year-old girl struggling through snowdrifts waist- 
deep.  The drifts towered over her head as she wound her way 
between them, slowing working her way uphill, to shelter.  The 
freshly-driven snow blinded her to her destination, leaving it a 
blur of gray against the white of the mountainous landscape.  
She no longer shivered; she had no energy left for it.  She 
barely had energy to breathe, and did so only because it 
allowed her to keep going.

She couldn't feel her feet as they ground against fallen twigs 
and sharp rocks.  She couldn't feel them cracking open around 
her toenails and coloring the snow.  They were entirely 
frostbitten.  She could not feel the air and snowflakes whipping 
across her ears.  She had no feeling in her arms or fingers.  She 
expended no energy to keep them warm.  Her only concern the 
bundle in her arms.  Her sin.

No human being should have been able to survive in that 
weather.  But of course no human being or animal even would 
be out in it.  The woman-child wasn't human, in the precise 
definition of the word.  And that much was obvious.  Her body 
flowed and shifted, developing layers of protective clothing.  
Thermal jackets, woolen underwear, mittens and earmuffs...all 
of them having less effect than the thin garment that was frozen 
to her skin.  The garments that her body created were just as 
susceptible to the cold as her own skin.  They _were_ her own 
skin, but she could no more have prevented them from forming 
in some desperate survival instinct than she could have 
prevented bearing the child that she carried.

Her tracks were indistinguishable in the deep snow.  A small 
furrow against the backdrop leading more than a mile behind 
her until it disappeared into the driving blizzard.

She would not believe in the pain.  She had triumphed over it 
entirely.  Despite the distance she had come, she had not fallen 
once, nor had her steps slowed.  Her intensity drove her 
towards shelter with such single-minded focus that the warmth 
she shared with her bundle was the only warmth she had.  
Hypothermia had long since set in, and patches of her skin 
were brittle like ice.  Even so, she kept going.  There was no 
question that she would reach the monastery.  It had been fact 
in her mind since she began her travels.

She stumbled finally when her toe stubbed against the cold 
stone.  A few steps later she found herself sheltered from the 
wind.  With one trembling hand she peeled the thin wrapper 
she wore away from her face.  It was stiff, brittle with ice and 
the fumes from her breath.

Underneath the cloth her face was raw and chapped by the 
wind and ice.  Her lips opened and closed as a fish's might, 
unable to articulate, not trying to.  Simply encouraging the 
circulation of her sluggish blood through lips that were frozen 
as ice.  Here out of the wind, the temperature was still below 
freezing.  Not far enough below for the hardy young woman to 
survive, however.

The door to the monastery was simple and humble.  A wooden 
door slightly over five feet high, with a bronze ring that 
doubled as a knocker and handle.

Shifting her bundle, she reached out with her right hand, 
rubbing her bare fingers together to generate warmth.  She 
concentrated intently as she did so.

A man, brown robes, short to conserve mass, stooped, with a 
tonsure and a dingy fur cloak.

When her hand grasped the brass ring, it was no longer the ice 
cold pale slender fingers of a teen-age girl, but instead a man's 
hands, coarse, and covered with hair.  She lifted it twice, 
slamming it down on the brass stud beneath with as much 
force as possible.  It echoed hollowly within the sanctuary.

The wind was back.  Blowing 'round the corner, not at full 
force, but suddenly the pain was there stronger than before.  
The change had of course affected more than her hand.  It had 
brought warmth to the rest of her body as well, as well as a 
completely new facade.  Her body ceased its frenzied changing 
and settled on the form she wished: that of an older monk, one 
dressed for traveling in blizzard weather.  It also restored the 
nerves of her body to new, bringing back the biting cold.

She had precious few seconds left with her child.  She 
unwrapped the bundle that she had clutched, revealing the face 
of her child.  Conceived outside of wedlock, it was a bastard, 
and the evidence of her sin was apparent in its appearance.  
Blue skin.  Yellow eyes.

Mia Dios!  It even had a tail?!  How could God reveal truth to 
her through this sin?  How could he be so cruel?

She was only fourteen.  She had known she would have to 
commit a sin.  She had wanted to, for her country, for the war.  
She had performed her assignment perfectly, but in the end it 
had still gone bad.  She had gotten with child.  A child which 
prevented her from using her abilities to change form.  Forcing 
her to go to ground until the baby had come to term.  She had 
stayed with a blind woman, and made lace with her.  Lace was 
highly prized in this time of war.  Even when danger threatened, 
the rich must think themselves above the lacemakers.  Now 
she was free.  Free to return to her country.  She could never 
raise the baby by herself -- she was not yet fifteen!

So she brought it here.  To a monastery far from civilization.  
Where he could be raised by outsiders.  Find his place among 
them.  To grow with God, and gain happiness that will ever 
elude her.

This is his naming gift.  This is the only gift I have worthy of 
my child.  My child without doubt.

The door opened, interrupting her train of thought.

The door, opened less than an inch, allowed her to see a 
bearded monk.  He was rotund and dressed in brown robes 
similar to her own, sackcloth most likely.  A very pious man he 
must be.  He scowled fiercely unhappy at having to brave the 
freezing cold.  When his gaze alighted on what he easily 
believed to be a fellow brother of the cloth, he quickly opened 
the door and ushered him in.

The false brother obeyed immediately, and upon entering 
gained even firmer control on his shape.  He held the bundle 
tightly, and smiled chapped lips at the doorkeeper.

"Brother, why art thou abroad in such weather?  Tis not a night 
for traveling."

"A gift--"  She paused, adjusting her voice subtly.  "A gift I 
bring you, brother, a foundling from the village."  Her voice 
was deep and genuine.  A bass that could never have been 
issued from the young girl that she had been outside.

"The village is twenty-five miles as the raven flies.  On the 
foothills of the Karuschans.  Surely you didn't..."

"I did."  Her bass voice rolled over his, a demanding voice that 
immediately stopped the older man's babbling..  "And I must 
continue on.  That same village is my shire, and it needs me this 
night.  Take the child.  It is not possible for to raise him in the 
village.  He is Kurt Wagner, for the Saint.  Bring him to the Faith."

She turned to leave quickly.  Dragging the solid wooden door 
open, she stepped quickly into the cold again.  She stepped into 
the deep snow, dragging a slightly large trough through it, 
back the way she came.  Tears poured down her face, and she 
stoically refused to heed the cries of the monk behind her.

She heard the door scrape against the stone floor as the 
monk retreated into the warmth of the stone building.

The snow heeded her wider form less well, but her trail, 
already filling with soft snow, was easy travelling for the first 
mile.  And downhill as well.  She trudged on steadily.  And as 
she walked she changed form yet again, not to the young girl 
who climbed the hill, but to her natural form, the one she took 
while sleeping.  A form she cursed now for revealing the truth 
to her.

As tears ran from her yellow eyes and froze to her blue skin, 
Raven cursed her conception.  For she too bore the marks of 
her bastard son...


****Epilogue****

Friar Thomas carried the bundle into the main hall, he 
marvelled at the faith and dedication his brother had to 
bring him fifty miles through a blizzard for the sake of one 
soul.  His heart was elated with the love of God for his 
fellow man.  He felt the hand of Faith touch him as it had 
surely touched the traveler.

Then he looked at the newborn babe which he carefully cradled.

"Mien Gott!  Ein Deamone!"

A plaintive wail rose from the bundle, left atop a table in the 
room as the cowardly friar ran to fetch his brethren.


To be continued…?


~~~~~~~~~~~~
END OF STORY