On my bed of snow, the winter air filling my lungs, the cold masks my pain. I do not suffer. I could slumber here, as I fade to eternal stillness, and not experience any agony of death. It is tempting to do so. To allow myself to be drawn to that place where I may at last take my ease, no longer troubled by the woes of the world, the quarrels of men, the ravages of age, the ache of my own foolish heart. Yes, it is tempting. But what of my prince, then? If he is truly in danger, and now I must believe him to be, who else but I can warn him of the treachery that will see him dead? I must tell him of my vision. I must show him what happens to those who point the finger of suspicion at his nonblood kin. I must speak to him. I must go to him.

But my senses are numbed, my limbs doubled in weight, my will draining away with my blood into the snow. Such a cumbersome thing, the body of a human. Too much reliance lies in the head. Too much. We have let our frames become frailer down generations, in favor of our seething minds and greedy hearts. Instinct has been dulled by thought. I cannot get to my feet, let alone drag myself back to the crannog. As I am, I am finished. My only hope, then, is to become other than I am.

I have none of my shaman’s tools to aid me. I am away from my potions and infusions. I do not have the luxury of time to conjure or spellcast. I must act quickly, before the cold that holds me so softly hastens me to my end. I must make that leap, as I have done so many times before, but this time I make it unaided. And I must do so not in a vision, not leaving my womanly body to sit by the fire while my spirit travels where it will. Not this time. This time, my transformation must be complete. I must take my damaged body with me. I must shapeshift to my other self, my stronger, lighter, fleeter self, which will be able to withstand the wound, to carry me on lithe limbs, quickly and silently across the snow to the crannog. To my prince.