Morgana
by: Maggie Finson

 

Chapter 4
Changling

I sat back in my chair for a few moments of disbelieving silence that stretched into minutes before I could find voice to question, "You actually expect me to believe that you were Michael Morgan?"

"Why would I lie to you, Curtis?" Wearing a bleak, sad smile she simply sat there and looked at me for a few long moments with those tilted, almond shaped eyes. "What would I possibly gain by doing that?"

"An ally in the enemy camp," I responded shortly. "For one."

"I would hardly class you as a member in good standing of the enemy camp," a brief chuckle escaped her lips as she watched me with wry humor glinting in her eyes. "Curtis. We are both prisoners of your New Terran Federation and without illusions, each of us is being taken to our deaths."

I had to agree with those last points, though not aloud. Not to this strangely familiar alien who claimed to be a long lost -- human and male -- friend of mine. It was too absurd to accept, yet also way too far fetched to be a lie. Morgana could have come up with a very convincing lie, I was sure. Her reputation as a tactician and strategist, not to mention diplomat, assured me of that.

"All right," I responded with a halfway wry grin of my own. "I’ll concede those points to you. But this could be some kind of test of my loyalties. I. G. is notorious for pulling that kind of stunt on prisoners."

"Why would I deign to help them?" the last word was spat out as if unclean, and her expression clouded. "Surely not for special considerations once we reach C. C. I can expect nothing but painful interrogations and eventual death at the hands of our mutual keepers, old friend. Would you believe, much less accept, such an offer from those who hold the keys to our very lives in their blood stained hands?"

"No," sighing, I gave in, a little. "I wouldn’t. But I’m still not convinced you were who you say. That is difficult to believe."

"Why?" she questioned with genuine curiosity. "When the technology is available and in use in your own Federation to fully alter the sex, race, even apparent age of a person in mere weeks? Can you not credit my people with equal prowess in genetic matters? We are, after all, older than Humanity by many thousands of generations."

"So I’ve heard," pulling up an abstract fractal on my own comp screen, I watched the patterns unfold for a moment while gathering my thoughts. "Which still doesn’t convince me of what you say. I’m afraid the burden of proof rests with you, Lady Morgana. In short, prove it beyond doubt."

"I can do that," came the soft response. "Do you recall that high tech bordello just outside of town at the Academy? The one that advertised they could give you the experience of the other sex when coupling?"

"Uh, I’d rather not," that one still embarrassed me. "But yes. go on."

"You took them up on their offer and nearly ended up as one of the girls for the rest of your life. That whore shorted out the sensory transfer helmets and just about walked out of the place in your body. I noticed something wrong with ‘you’ and held your body until the proprietors could check on the girl you had been with. Who was deeply drugged and safely stashed in an out of the way closet."

"I wasn’t unconscious. I knew what had happened and was having the longest orgasm of my life in that body," my voice trailed off. "We were heroes and in trouble all at once over that escapade. And I never told a soul about it other than the examining committee. I wouldn’t even talk about it with you -- Mike."

"True," laughing lightly, she waved a delicate hand in the air. "Or how about the time we were on leave in London on Old Earth and you found me all trussed up in that dominatrix’s basement?"

The image of Mike Morgan spread on a stainless steel X frame, shaven, made up and dressed like a female whore on military payday just off base brought a guffaw from me before I could stop it. "We never did tell anyone about that one, Mike even promised to stop teasing me about Madame Ilvana’s if I would keep mum."

"And bribed you with a case of single malt scotch to make sure," she added with the wide, distant smile of someone recalling good times. "You got so blitzed over the next few days, you couldn’t remember your own name, let alone something that had happened earlier."

"True," I nodded, "That drunk got me in trouble again, but I just couldn’t tell them why I’d gotten so out of it. Not even when I went up for review with the commandant."

"Fortunately for me," she chuckled again. "Or I’d have had half the guys in the Academy hustling me while the other half tried beating the hell out of me."

Morgan had been so doped up and programmed to fit the part he was dressed for that he had nearly raped me during that rescue. And god help me, I’d been so drunk and doped up at the time, that I almost took him up on it.

"Or what about the time we followed that bunch of Marine recruits on their first liberty into Fat Lollie’s and......."

"All right, all right," holding up one hand in surrender I shook my head. "I believe you.

Mike?" I tentatively questioned, while staring at my companion. "Is it really you? Delancy’s captain refused to send more shuttles down after we madie it back to her out there. We hightailed it out of the system to get away from a big Cheryii Cruiser that he’d been playing hide and seek with just to stay in system long enough to pick up the last few shuttles."

"In a way," she answered slowly. "I was Mike Morgan, but not any longer. Now I am Morgana-Iey-Sylvanus-A’’chddra’im of the Warrior Clan Yllar’ium, of the Cheryii."

"Sworn enemy to Humanity," I finished a little wearily.

"Not necessarily," Morgana replied a little sadly. "I did begin my life as a Human, and even the most rabid enemy of the NTF among us realizes the potential for greatness Humanity possesses. I am the sworn enemy of your New Terran Federation and its tyranny over three quarters of a spiral arm and will stand against it for however long it takes to bring that abomination of a government down."

"That came to a halt when you got captured," I pointed out, rather needlessly, but I was still a bit shaken with the realization that somewhere within that delicate appearing, lovely, and very dangerous being was what remained of an old and very good friend.

"There are ways other than shedding more blood than the opposition to end a war," she responded with a slow, mysterious smile. "while ensuring that neither side really loses more than is absolutely a minimum of people and resources in such a conflict."

"What does that mean?"

"Not now, my friend," smiling, she settled back with evident enjoyment at my being so puzzled. "In a short time, I will tell you. But for now, shall I continue my tale?"

"Go ahead," waving a vague affirmative, I leaned back in my own seat to await whatever she had to say. With more than a little curiosity regarding both her change of form and the meaning of what she had said a moment earlier.

"Fine, Mike Morgan seems like a different person to me, though a fine and brave one, and I could not bring myself to relate the last events of his life in the first person. The rest, though it did happen to me, will remain in the third person narrative to maintain a distance that will help prevent my own later insights from influencing the tale more than they absolutely mu.

* * * * * *

The forgetful darkness Morgan had almost hoped for, even started to welcome, did not come. Instead his descent into nothingness reversed, his spirit responding to faint, compelling echoes from a source he could not quite determine.

The echoes combined into one firm, beautiful, masculine voice while the words began making sense. At first he was too busy watching the pictures formed out of the glittering dust passing his viewpoint, scenes of activities that were both familiar and very alien at the same time. Morgans’ Human self submerged itself into another that wasn’t human, or even male without more than a token struggle.

The struggle for acceptance would come later, once his ravaged body had reformed and been completely healed. Until then, his mind would be given those pretty images, interesting scenes, and that haunting, beautiful song to occupy it. Fighting them would be foolish, he was certain, and futile; with only one result -- personality death for his old self and a blank slate in the new one.

He wanted to remember. To live, in whatever guise he was given. Whether that was weakness, or strength was something his mind shied away from during that time, not wishing to examine the comparison too closely. Instead, he focused on the song permeating his whole being and the jeweled mist he was moving through.

A song singing to him in gentle strength of honor, duty, love, and above all, purpose. What those would be he hadn’t the slightest idea of then, and the person he became is just beginning to understand all of it now. But the almost liquid notes lulled his mind, comforted, and urged him to rest. To heal.

Healing. To heal not only himself, but others. Even if that healing began with pain, death, and bloodshed. Not all healing is gentle, or appears kind when it is being done. To understand Morgana, the person Mike Morgan eventually became, or your friend’s new people at all, you must understand that concept.

While drifting so pleasantly in that warm, regenerating fog he was shown in many ways, but failed to understand, too. At first. Only with loss and grief would he come to learn the truths in the idea known to his new people as Yeesh’aan -- a term which has no real translation into Human languages.

Yeesh’aan is more a way of life for all Cheryii, but used most by the proud Warrior Clans. Its teachings include honor, duty, leadership, and the ways of war. But also encompass healing, love, and nurturing, among other things. Complex as the people to whom it is close to a religion - the only religion they acknowledge - yet simple as a one celled organism in its ruthless urge to absorb all around it.

But Yeesh’aan is, above all, patient. As are the Cheryii. Both are willing to wait for their plans to reach fruition, to observe without interference as events unfold that will affect those plans, and be willing to intervene only if that is needed to prevent absolute disaster. As it had been with Mike Morgan.

Through all that odd teaching he was vaguely aware of both healing and changing. He lost bulk, height, weight, and the outward shell of Humanity. New limbs were smooth and rounded, though nearly as strong as when he had been a human male. His center of gravity altered to accommodate wider hips, narrower shoulders, slimmer waist and longer legs in proportion to the body than had been the case before. Face, ears, and voice changed, as did the place between his legs where sex resided. Breasts, not large, not small, but definitely female grew on a smaller, narrower chest as his hair thickened, softened, and grew much longer.

It seemed a long time before he was brought out of the dreaming state, but he was aware that he had become female and Cheryii long before that stage. Turmoil clouded his thoughts, simple as those were by then, and his old self complained that it didn’t wish to be female while the omnipresent song continued to soothe and encourage acceptance.

* * * *

He awakened in bed. Slowly, with more than a trace of reluctance from fear of what would be waiting when consciousness fully returned. Mind still shied from what his soul already knew, and to open himself to the new existence awaiting whoever he had become would be opening up to things his old persona was not at all comfortable with. Consciousness would not be denied, returning whether Morgan wanted it or not. Awareness started slowly, taking in only the surface he rested on, the bed.

A large, soft bed with elaborately embroidered quilt work depicting a vine of blood red roses entwined with pale yellow flowers he had no name for and both wrapping a sword of brilliant silvery metal thread. Staring in fascination at the repeated motif for several breaths he nearly ignored a by now familiar voice gently intruding upon still foggy thoughts.

"Our family crest, Daughter," Sylvanus-A’’chddra’im of the Warrior Clan Yllar’ium, the commander of those troops Morgan’s ill fated companions and he had held off while the rest escaped to safety, informed him with quiet pride in his voice. "The sword is for our strength as warriors. The rose for our love of life and all living things. The sweet smelling Freyaddha a symbol of the healing that all warriors must know and give once the fighting is over."

"Daughter..." Morgan spoke the word, the description, more as an experiment than question. He already knew that he had become female, but decided to put off worrying over that for the moment in light of more important issues and worries. In truth, he simply did not wish to examine that particular change in physical being just then, and ruthlessly pushed the rising panic back down into the darker recesses of his mind to be dealt with later. When he could confront it in private.

"Yes. Daughter," Sylvanus carefully reached out to take one of his small, delicately shaped hands in his own larger ones. "I initiated you into our race, brought you through the healing and physical alterations that were necessary, gave a part of myself to the transformation, and as such, am responsible for your well being until you are able to function as an independent individual in our society.

You now carry my own genetic heritage, Morgana, and truly are my daughter just as if my life companion, your foster mother had truly carried and given birth to you," he finished with a light squeeze to her hand.

"But why as a female?" the question held no anguish or anger, only curiosity. The anguish, and possibly the anger would come later, when he was physically better able to deal with it all. How he knew this, wasn’t all that clear, but he knew without the least trace of doubt. Knew and at least partially accepted the truth of things as they were upon awakening into an alien life.

"For balance," Sylvanus answered with a small quirk of a smile. "You have proven your ability and honor as a warrior, Morgana, and a warrior you will be again. But before that happens you must learn the nurturing and healing that is the other side of each Warrior Clan’s being. We are the outward face of our race, daughter, and employ whatever is needed to preserve ourselves and those we encounter. Whether it is making war, or forging peace, healing or killing, it is our task to see that it is done. You were not brought up in that system of beliefs, so it is necessary to your learning the precepts of our most basic concepts of existence that you enter your new life as a female."

"So I must become a healer," he mused out loud, purposely avoiding the issue of sex and gender.

"And a nurturer," Sylvanus added wryly. "A function you will discover on your own through the permutations of time."

That was something he truly preferred not examining too closely at the moment. Mike Morgan had always planned on having children someday, in a vague way, but as the father. Morgana wasn’t all that sure being a mother, as his -- her -- newly proclaimed father hinted would happen, was something he/she really wished to contemplate at all.

"I will leave you to get acquainted with your new self," Sylvanus arose with an encouraging pat to Morgan’s hand. "When you are ready, get dressed and come downstairs. Your family is anxious to meet you."

Family. His family. Something he hadn’t known for many years, not since his parents had been killed in a small rebellion at the outpost world they had been sent to as Federation representatives when he was six years old. Since then, it had been care from the impersonal Federation youth hospices until he had reached an age that would allow him to join the military.

Which had only been a change of watchdogs, in all honesty. The new watchdogs turned out to be much more demanding, and critical, than the Hospices had ever been. Driven by I.G., with that personal arm of the President’s constant digging for disloyalty, the new watchdogs and keepers he had found in the military were often hateful things.

A family. Something else to think of. Would the people, beings, claiming relationship to this new person actually be supportive, genuinely wishing to help acclimate the newest addition, the changeling, to her new life? Or was it all a ploy to lull the female he had become into accepting whatever they wished to push off on him/her as an existence? Was his new self meant to be a baby factory for the race? A soft, pliable female who would slavishly and happily give them anything they asked for, including critical information about his former companions and the military they had all been part of?

Or had Sylvanus told him/her the unvarnished, raw truth. That the choices would be his/hers, but he/she had much to learn before becoming a warrior again. Which brought something else to trouble his already spinning mind. Would he/she, could he/she, even contemplate fighting against his/her old people and government? Did the NTF deserve his/her continued loyalty?

That idea alone, questioning whether the NTF was deserving of any further allegiance from him/her was a soul shaking concept. The New Terran Federation had nurtured him, in it’s own impersonal way, educated him, and given him a career. Though with sober thought, he/she understood that the upbringing had never been free of charge, or given from the goodness he had been constantly told was inherent in the NTF.

In point of fact, his parents had been quite wealthy at the time of their deaths, and the NTF had appropriated all that wealth, both credits and property -- to pay for his upbringing and care, he had been told after reaching an age where he even dared question his caretakers about the inheritance he should have received.

Further, he knew with the clarity hindsight often brings, that all his upbringing, education, and life in the Hospices had been meant to aim him into the military from the start. Dreams, expectations, even a youth’s simplistic desires for fame and adventure had been not so subtly molded by the teachers and caretakers he had known throughout a lonely, unhappy childhood and teenaged years.

So, a youth had learned to sublimate the hatreds and fears he hadn’t even consciously understood were legitimate, if useless, things into a drive to become the best of the options that had been left to him.

Morgana could make use of that experience, he/she decided right away, refusing to grieve over the near tragedy of his former life and upbringing. His/her new self would hold old lessons closely, and never submit to any forcibly applied pressure to become something he/she actually didn’t wish to be. In his/her deepest self, anyway.

Outwardly would be a different matter, he/she knew. Which brought uncomfortable issues to mind. Like the body he/she now wore. Morgana, oh, how the similarities of name lulled him/her into accepting the new one without rancor or argument, drew on the steel within and forced him/herself to begin a slow self examination.

Hands, a safe, non-sexual place to begin. Or so he/she had thought. Morgana’s hands were small, pale, and delicate in appearance. An almost perfectly oval palm, long, slender fingers and thumb tipped with well cared for nails and the size he/she recalled as small when held in Sylvanus’ obviously male one. His/her hands were obviously feminine, and beautiful to look at. Flexing fingers made those alien members move with an agility he/she vaguely recalled from childhood, and they proved to be far stronger than outward appearance hinted at when distraught, he/she began to pull at one of the quilts only to have it shred under the nervous fingers trying only to pull it straight.

Hair came next. There was none that he/she could see on the exposed parts of his/her body. Nerve to pull down the sheets and comforter to see more wasn’t there yet, so a small hand reached upward to gently lift a thick strand of soft hair from his/her narrow shoulder. A shimmering gold, pale enough to almost be white and pleasantly scented, the thick mass tumbled across his/her shoulders to spill over the pillows his/her head rested on. He/she knew it would be very long when he/she stood.

Shaking hands ventured under the covers, purposely avoiding the soft masses on his/her chest to feel a slender waist leading to the sudden outward swerve of hip. They shied away from between the velvety thighs for a moment, then perversely kept returning to that same place no matter where he/she sent them.

Morgan catalogued the differences he/she had found so far, sensitive, heavy weights resting on her chest, a bottom that pressed more deeply into the mattress than he/she had ever felt before, smooth, hairless skin, the thick, soft mass of hair spilling across the pillows around his/her head. Steeling him/herself for what he/she knew would be there but didn’t really wish to acknowledge, he/she finally allowed those hands with minds of their own move to the center of his/her new physical self.

To discover what he/she had feared while knowing it was true. He had become a she. A slight mound met exploring fingers where a penis had once been, covered in a light, silky thatch of hair. There were lips down there, lips that opened to reveal another, smaller set and a nub of sensitive tissue that could only be a clitoris.

She quickly pulled questing fingers away from that little nub of flesh when electric tingles began spreading concentrically from it to the rest of her body, especially to the equally sensitive circular tips of what she knew were breasts. Nipples and middle tingling, her fingers explored farther to find a warm, moist passage awaiting within her crotch. Dampness, slight, but noticeable, was spreading over inner thighs when she pulled her hands away with a cry of mixed despair and wonder.

There was no more denying the truth. Morgan was female. The delicately pointed ears under the mass of hair on his head emphasized that this female wasn’t human either. Sitting upright in the bed and allowing the covers to fall away from her upper body to reveal full, rounded breasts tipped with rosy nipples and aureoles enticingly covered by falls of pale gold hair, Morgan wept and gave way to Morgana. At least in name and gender terminology.

Tears streamed down her cheeks for minutes. Tears of loss, for humanity and a maleness that would never be experienced again save in memory. For friends who would be forever out of reach in the new life awaiting. Tears of fear for what the future held for such a delicately made creature in a universe that was notoriously cruel and uncaring for even the strong.

A brief surge of anger overwhelmed the fear and loss, rage at what had been taken from Morgan to create Morgana. Rage at finding herself female when Sylvanus could as easily made her male, and at the fates conspiring to put her in such a position.

‘But I’m alive. And whole.’ a small voice intruded into the towering rage masking insufferable grief. ‘With another chance at life altogether. So what if it will be as an alien female among the race who were my enemies not so long ago?’

Rage and grief faded into embers sullenly glowing in the deepest recesses of her being as Morgana contemplated all that. She would not readily accept a role that wasn’t in her nature, but the problem now was learning the nature of this new being she had become. The prospect of being female still sent shudders of near revulsion and denial through her body, but there was no doubt that Morgana was a her. Physical examination had shown that to be true, though mentally and emotionally, gender was still in flux and probably would be for some time.

"Morgana," the newly awakened female rolled the halfway familiar name over her tongue and listened to the liquid sounding syllables flow from her own mouth in a slightly throaty, hoarse voice that was nevertheless sweetly feminine in sound. "Daughter of Sylvanus-A’’chddra’im of the Warrior Clan Yllar’ium and of that clan herself. That is who I am, now. The question remains as to what I am, and I will have a say in that no matter what my erstwhile father and family decide it is to be."

Physical sensations intruded. Almost timidly at first, but insistently. The slight chill in the room now that she was no longer covered heightened blood flow and helped clear a still sleep fogged mind even more. The soft mane of hair, warm as a blanket across her slim back and breasts began ticking at her backside whenever she moved. Smooth flesh sent tingles of pleasure from the softness of silk-like sheets as they rubbed against it. Vision widened out from the narrow tunnel focused on self to take in surroundings that had been only vague shapes and colors, while hearing picked up the faint sounds of conversation and laughter from somewhere below.

Scents assaulted her nose, most of them pleasantly spicy or floral but the pungent musk from her own inadvertently excited sex floated through all the others. Another delicate sniff told her that a bath was in order as well. Some of that pungency was from dried perspiration and lack of a real bath in some time.

Cleanliness was something that had been ingrained in Morgan from childhood. Body odors on shipboard hung about forever, and in the Hospice creches, crowded with children, staying clean was more of a necessity than a luxury. Morgana, it seemed, held the same attitude regarding unpleasant body odors. So some things had carried over, she hoped.

As physical sensations became more prevalent and insistent, she became aware of a pressure in her middle that had nothing to do with sex. Even with different plumbing down there, Morgana knew that she had a very full bladder and badly needed to empty it. Soon.

Four doorways were set in the light cream colored walls of her room, and she immediately eliminated the one Sylvanus had used to leave her alone. Another, actually a set of double doors led to what appeared to be a balcony open to the air, so that was out, too. The third opened to reveal an assortment of silky gowns and other feminine apparel.

"Later," she grumbled in her greatly altered, musical voice, closing that door and urgently moving towards the last one. Much to her relief, that one opened onto a mostly familiar looking bathroom. At least she spotted the badly needed fixture she had been searching for and instinctively reached for a penis to relieve the building pressure on her bladder.

"Oh, damn!" lifting the sleep gown around her waist and discovering, thankfully, that she was not wearing underwear, Morgana turned and seated herself on the mundane looking toilet. Immediately, a stream of undirected urine began shooting out to splash into the fluid of the toilet tank. The relief was almost orgasmic as the stream continued long enough to tell her that the contents of her bladder had been building up for quite some time.

Once finished, and before she could even begin to stand up, something gently washed her bottom and crotch with a warm, sweet smelling spray that nearly had her leaping off the toilet in shock.

"Great, a toilet with a built in bidet," she half giggled while looking around for something to wipe off with. Only to discover that wasn’t needed. she was perfectly dry, too. "I could get used to this."

A tentative sniff caused her to wrinkle her small, aquiline nose in near disgust. "Lord, is that me I smell? No wonder the rest of my ‘family’ is waiting downstairs. I’m almost toxic right now."

A large cabinet in the corner drew her attention while she was trying to work out the mechanism of the sunken tub that was obviously meant for bathing. Unable to find any sort of controls for the tub, the newly wakened and formed female walked towards the cabinet, seeing her full reflection for the first time in the mirrored surface of its door.

Let’s just say that even disheveled and obviously badly in need of a cleaning, her appearance was just as arresting then as it is now. She spent more than a few minutes examining her new self from the thick - and tangled - mane of pale, gold/blonde hair down to slender ankles and delicate feet, with numerous stops on the way down.

Until the door swung open on its own and a rich, motherly feminine voice interrupted her critical self examination with something like amusement. "Are you finished yet, young mistress?"

"What?" a rapid turn showed no one else in the room, so she returned her attention to the now open cabinet. "Were you talking to me? And if so, who are you?"

"Well, I don’t see anyone else in the room, mistress Morgana," the voice snorted in clearly amused disdain at the question. "As for who I am, what would be a more appropriate question. I am your personal AI, also your nanny and teacher for the time being. You can call me Celeste."

"Personal AI?" Morgana’s dumbfounded amazement was almost comical, even to herself. "Back home, only the very rich and privileged have those."

"First off, mistress," the machine voice replied gently, "This is home now. Second, the Chddra’im family line has been one of the foremost on Sylvanus for more generations than most people care to count, and have lineage connecting them, you, to the royal houses of more than one dynasty who have ruled the Cheryii with intelligence and honor.

Yours is a proud name with much history behind it, mistress Morgana, and you are part of a wealthy and privileged family.

"But don’t get full of self importance, girl," Celeste chided as she involuntarily grinned at the information "Responsibility comes with that prestige, the rest is earned by individual merit, not an accident of birth."

"I seem to have a lot to live up to then," she responded, still mostly in a state of shock over who and what she had become.

"You do, mistress," Celeste responded crisply. "Your father, Sylvanus, did your human self an immense honor by taking you into his own line. He rarely is wrong about people, so I am certain that you will not shame the family name or him.

"Well," sniffing again, Morgana wrinkled her much more sensitive nose in disgust. "I suppose that would start with getting myself cleaned up and presentable, wouldn’t it? Providing I can get the tub filled, that is."

"It is ready whenever you are, mistress," Celeste chuckled. "All you needed to do was ask, sweetling."

She turned to see steaming, wonderfully fragrant water filling the tub, and shrugged out of the diaphanous gown While settling into the first bath she had taken in years with a sigh of relief and contentment.

Following what seemed to be hours of being washed and tended to by soft, invisible hands, she finally forced herself out of the tub redolent of sweet smelling oils and an underlying musk that she knew was her own natural scent. Getting dry was no problem either, she simply stepped into the open cabinet and let warm streams of air get rid of the excess moisture beaded on smooth flesh and dripping from the waist length mane of hair that - with instruction, much grumbling, and in several tries - had been braided into a thick gleaming rope that thumped against her slim back in its waterlogged state.

Those invisible hands, force fields deftly manipulated by Celeste, returned to powder and touch light dabs of perfume to strategic spots on her nude body. "Now mistress, it is time to get you properly dressed."

"Whatever," she sighed, still too content with the wonderful feelings the bath and the attendant ministrations had brought to pay full attention to much else. "just get me dressed so I won’t embarrass myself in front of my new family."

Leave it to me, Sweetling," answered Celeste.

It might have been wise to check on the options available. What Morgana ended up wearing was a floor length emerald green gown of some incredibly soft and iridescent material that hugged her figure so snugly at bodice and waist that she really wondered how the AI had managed to get it on her. Sleeveless, revealing slender arms, delicate shoulders, along with a very generous amount of cleavage, and with full, flowing skirts that billowed around her long smooth legs as she moved, the gown was simple and lovely. Too lovely, in Morgana’s shocked and outraged opinion.

"I can’t go down dressed like this!" she argued while staring in reluctantly admiring fascination at herself in an ornate full length mirror that had almost magically appeared in one corner of the bedroom. "I look like an open invitation to... you know..."

"Every male who sets eyes on you?" Celeste’s amusement was becoming a bit irritating at that stage.

"Yes."

"Like it or not, mistress," Celeste replied in serious tones. "You are very beautiful, even by the standards of Cheryii beauty, and very desirable because of your family and the connections a union with you would bring to the lucky fellow who wins your affection."

"Let’s discuss something else, could we?" Morgana questioned a bit nervously. "Getting a Cheryii male interested enough in me for their version of marriage is not exactly the foremost thing on my mind just now. Quite the opposite, really."

"As you wish, mistress," Celeste replied sweetly. "Perhaps you should go downstairs now?"

To meet the family. A family she had never seen, not even possessed until very recently, and that she knew practically nothing about. "All right. May as well get that over with, anyway."

With no small sense of trepidation, the newly formed member of Sylvanus’ family slowly approached the doorway leading to what essentially would be her life for a long time to come.

 

 

Chapter 5
Responsibilities of Rank

The house, what she could see of it from the vantage at the top of the gently curving staircase, was both elegant and simple in its beauty. Hardwood floors polished to an almost mirror brightness by years of use and care spread out below with intricately woven carpets interspaced throughout.

A small gathering was congregated near the foot of the stairs, either standing easily, or seated in well used, but lovingly cared for chairs and couches. Not one of them looked upwards to see her, even though Morgana knew they were fully aware of her presence, and scrutiny. Instead, they continued the bantering conversations and laughter that she had heard from the bedroom, more like apartment, that was now hers.

Sylvanus stood with his arm around a lovely lady who appeared not much older than Morgana, though the new addition to the family was certain that the woman, or whatever females were called by her new race, was the life companion and foster mother that her ’Father’ had spoken of earlier. The lady carried herself with the grace and assurance of someone with years of experience behind her, and returned the embrace with an easy familiarity that told volumes without more than a glance.

Two others were male. Young judging by their demeanor and conversation that centered around young, and eligible females they both knew and lusted after. The parents politely ignored most of that, only frowning slightly when one or the other youth ventured beyond the range of what must have been considered propriety. Noting the frowns without appearing to do so, both youths quickly toned down the conversation’s topic and began teasing the other member of the group.

Who was a female as breathtakingly lovely as her mother, and -- Morgana noted a bit sourly -- as the soul shaking image she had seen in the mirror. That one grinned and returned the sallies of her brothers, if that is what they were, with a verve equal to the youths’.

"Well," she murmured to herself, "No sense putting this off any longer. If I go hide in my rooms, they’ll probably just come and get me after a week or so."

Grinning to herself at the idea that she still had a sense of humor, Morgana drew in a breath, gathered the folds of her skirts to keep them from tangling her feet on the way down, and began a slow, cautious descent to the room, and people waiting below.

People who seemed eerily familiar, as if she had known them all, or most of her life, though Morgana knew full well that couldn’t possibly be true. Yet she could place names and personality traits with the faces she saw below.

Ivaine, companion -- wife -- of Sylvanus, and mother to the siblings gathered with her and their father. A Lady of great standing in the hierarchy of Sylvan, even before her union with the family’s patriarch. Intelligent, quick of wit, and firmly in control of her household with the generosity and firmness required of a patrician lady in her culture. Not that she was an overly formal, or stuffy person, quite the contrary, Morgana knew without understanding the how of it. Ivaine was mischievous, loving, and hell on wheels when someone she was responsible for needed either discipline or protecting.

That one glanced up to see Morgana halted in confusion midway between the upper landing and the main floor, smiled and gestured for her newest daughter to finish her descent. At the look of confusion on the younger one’s face, she laughed in tones that washed the spirit of whoever heard it in soothing warmth. "It was the song, dear one."

"Song?" Morgana questioned, feeling like ten kinds of fool, but not understanding in spite of that.

"Your making song," Ivaine continued gently, while disengaging from her husband to join the bewildered young lady on the stairs. "The one you heard while you healed and reformed."

"Making Song?" Morgana allowed herself to be taken by the hand and slowly led to the floor below.

"Yes, dear," the elder lady nodded, then gestured at a beautifully woven tapestry hanging on the wall. "Like that tapestry, you were woven into our lives and we were woven into yours through your Making Song. It is as if you have always been with us, and we have always been with you."

"Oh, that explains how I know who all of you are, then." Morgana nodded in her turn. "Convenient."

"Yes it is," her newfound escort agreed, then laughed again, "Though you don’t understand it yet, don’t worry. That will come in in its own time."

"I hope so," lifting her free hand to touch the tapestry in mixed awe and wonder, the new member of the family admired a thing she had only seen in museums or on vid. "Because I don’t understand a thing about what’s happened so far."

"You will," was the nearly cryptic reply she got. "Now, come greet your brothers and sister."

"All right...." a pause, an indrawn breath, and the word came without conscious thought or effort, "...Mother."

Her ‘brothers’ Rys and Niall, were polite, and slightly distant in the way younger brothers tended to be with an older sister they weren’t all that sure of in the reactions to their quietly boisterous joking.

Maeve, her ‘sister’, was cool, but made an effort to smile in welcome and mask the hostility she truly harbored. Morgana knew very well how Maeve felt about having a changeling in her family, and in direct competition it seemed, for the affections of her parents and brothers. There was an uncomfortable silence between them for a few breaths as an intangible rapport built in strength, then both shrugged and bowed to the inevitability of their positions. The pair wordlessly agreed to set aside doubts and misgivings for the sake of their -- in Morgana’s case -- new family’s welfare.

At least while they were in public, or with a gathering of family. When in private, with just the two of them, both knew the situation would differ a great deal from the public show they had somehow silently agreed upon.

Ivaine and Sylvanus had observed that silent exchange with great interest, but neither made the slightest move to interfere. They simply traded glances that agreed to allow the ‘girls’ to work things out for themselves.

"Well, Morgana," Sylvanus boomed out in his best battlefield voice, "We give you welcome and wishes for a long, productive, and happy life."

The others echoed that sentiment, as the patriarch circled his newest daughter’s slender waist with his free arm and began guiding her into another part of the house. "You have many things to see, and learn, but for now, I think something to eat is in order, don’t you?"

* * * *

The following days blended seamlessly into weeks, then months, as Morgana learned what her new status was to be; and began coming to terms with her new self and family.

Not that any of it came easily, especially during the formal, and informal introductions to local Sylvan Society she endured as part of her acclimatization. Meeting other Families, and more branches of her new one, was one thing, but the line of potential suitors she had to deal with while wearing a smile when she really wished to run screaming from them was nearly more than the one-time human could handle. As it was, with wholly female hormones at war with old perceptions and sensibilities, she was almost reduced to a quivering wreck on an all too regular basis.

Suspicions of being manipulated into accepting her new status as a female,and a very desireable one, were eased somewhat by other activities. Lessons in healing, the basic tenents of her new culture, and how to manage her new self in that culture took up enough time that she had very little time to worry about what she had once been.

Although that was allowed as well. Through the simple expedient of giving her access to intercepted broadcasts from the New Terran Federation, and the opportunity to mix with the few human prisoners that were held on Sylvanus. To her consternation, both the broadcasts and the humans had become something almost as alien to her as they were to her new people.

The social outings, hosted gatherings, and rare quiet trips continued, as Morgana continued with studies that seemed far beyond her nascent abilities to grasp at all.

The concept of Yeesh’aan slowly began to work its way into her mind, but the former human had difficulty encompassing the whole of the concept. So many parts of it seemed contradictory, that she spent much of her learning time puzzling out how all of it fit together into the seemingly seamless whole that ruled all Cheryii behavior and defined their culture.

One warm spring day, Maeve had taken her to a secluded lakeshore for some relaxation andteaching. The pair had eventually reached an agreement to not hate each other, or to rip the other to figurative shreds when alone, and had even started a tentative, sisterly relationship. One that often got strained to its still tenuous limits with the frequent teaching sessions.

"Healing is not always a gentle or easy thing," Maeve repeated for the third time that session, and sighed in near frustration at her student’s, and sister’s incomprehension of so basic a concept. "Sometimes, in order to heal something, you must nearly destroy it. Weakening of that resolve to heal because of apparent suffering in your patient will further damage the thing you are attempting to heal, no matter how you might pity it for the pain it goes through in the process."

Morgana, once a human male called Morgan, grasped at the concept, but felt it slide away from a mind still in the throes of its own ‘healing’ process. She could easily understand the pain of it, since she was in an agony of conflict over what she had become. The eventual benefit she would receive was problematic at the time. She doubted that she would ever fully accept being either Cheryii or female, and saw no way that such a ‘healing’ could be at all beneficial.

Maeve seemed to take pleasure from her changeling sister’s quandry, and took pains to bring it up whenever the two were alone with each other. Especially when teaching her the finer points of being a female Cheryii. "Can you at least grasp that part of the overall concept?"

"How can I?" Morgana protested with a pained expression on her lovely face. "When all I feel is out of place, out of synch, and running short on desire to continue a life I didn’t choose."

"You chose it," her sister/teacher retorted. "Else, you would not be here testing my tolerance to its limits, changeling."

"I had no wish for things to turn out as they have," the still half-human minded Cheryii moaned. "I was male, and quite happy with that circumstance. Being female is not something I am prepared to handle."

"You’d better," Maeve gave her ‘sister’ an implacable, gimlet stare. "As you have no other choice open to you, Morgana of the Chddra’im. There is no going back for you, not to being one of the few admirable specimens of pathetic Humanity that you were, or a posturing, barbaric male.

No going back for you, ever." she finished in a strained whisper. "Get used to it and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have been given a gift that nearly any other would have prayed for. A second chance at life, if in another guise, and the opportunity to actually do something worthwhile with your pitiful life."

"And what would that be?" the response was both bitter and halfway pleading. "Settling down with some good looking male and having a houseful of babies?! Is that what I’ve been changed into, a damned breeder?"

"I am one of those ‘damned breeders’ you are ranting about, dear little sister, as is Ivaine, our mother. I have other horizons, as she does, as you could if only you would let go of this useless grieving for a way of life and a gender that did you no good whatsoever in a life that now seems as alien to you as it would to me. Don’t even try to deny that last, either, I have watched you observing the Human broadcasts we monitor, and the few prisoners we have here on Sylvanus. They both puzzle and repel you, just as they do me."

Morgana stopped in mid rant, surprised and fighting internal hurt at that observation. While frantically telling herself that it was a lie. But sure, deep within the spirit that had prompted her Foster Father to offer her the Song and elixir of Making, that she was lying to herself.

"So what else could I do?" she almost screamed in anguish. "I have none of the skills the rest of you do, none of the background to gain them, or the experience of being what I have become to be comfortable with acquiring them!"

"Then I suggest you get it, little sister," came the tight response as Maeve clenched her delicate hands into fists. "You were a WARRIOR, my poor lost sister, and a magnificent one, both valorous and compassionate. You still are that warrior, but all you do is fight yourself and those of us trying to help you!

Grow up, little sister," she grated out, "BE what you are meant to be, a hope for both our people and your former race. Someone who just might be able to help stop this senseless war between Humanity and Cheryii. Someone who holds the power to not only heal that gaping, bleeding sore, but replace it with something stronger, purer, and far better than either side has dreamed possible before now.

If only you accept what you are, and work to become the best of what that is, little sister," Maeve’s voice became gentle, almost sorrowful. "I beg of you, don’t waste that chance, don’t throw it away because you can’t stand the thought of being a mere female!"

"I..." Morgana faltered, close to tears and, as usual, fighting them down. "I haven’t ever said that."

"You haven’t needed to," Maeve shrugged. "Every move you make, every reaction to being treated as someone of worth in your new existence, every approach you snub from others, all of that very plainly tells anyone that you consider your present circumstances to be a demotion and one that you are unwilling to either accept or work within. Are women in your precious NTF treated so poorly that you can not even begin to think of yourself as female?

I assure you that you have most certainly not been demoted, little sister," Maeve, gestured to herself. "I am a respected, and sought after expert in my chosen field, and have my pick of male companions, or unions, should I find one that I feel is a good match. You have the potential for the very same things, if only you would get rid of that stiff necked, Terran,-- masculine -- pride that refuses to let you acknowledge something that everyone who encounters you can plainly see."

"And what would that be?

"A spirit large enough, and strong enough," Maeve finished tiredly, "To nurture, heal, and save one race set on self destruction and another set to prevent it even at the cost of their own. A spirit so filled with the true strength of Yeesh’aan that I find myself fighting jealousy and wanting to shake you until your teeth rattle to get the idea through that stubborn, stone-thick skull of yours."

"I don’t know how to accept this," a stunned, and shamed young Cheryii female stammered as acceptance began seeping inwards at long last. "I..."

"Think." Maeve reached forward and gently tapped the other’s forehead with an extended index finger. The finger then lowered to touch the well formed breast that rested over a rapidly beating heart. "Feel. But do both at the same time, that is what we females are good at, little sister, we can do both at the same time. Try it.

And don’t think I haven’t been aware of the pain you have been suffering," she continued. "The rapport we attained almost instantly was not a welcome thing for me, and is still far from comfortable. Reach a peace within yourself, little sister. If not for yourself, then for me. I beg of you."

At that point, Morgana, formerly Mike Morgan, stopped fighting, and won the battle. Tears flowed freely, and her sobs shook her slender frame. She wept for things lost, for things overlooked, but most of all, for a self that had denied the truths within for much longer than she had been Cheryii.

There was a warmth in Maeve’s tight embrace that she had never felt from that one before as the sobs came in great heaving gasps.

"You never allowed yourself to feel," came the sisterly, comforting, response to that. "It was there, waiting to be known, to give comfort, but until you were ready to take it, there was no hope of knowing it. Go ahead and cry, little sister. I’m proud of you, finally."

* * * *

"And so you were ‘healed’," I shifted in my seat and made the statement when it became clear that my lovely, but still unnerving companion was going to say no more for the moment.

"Not entirely, Shapiro" she replied with a sigh of released breath that had been held at the memories her telling had brought back. "Though it was a beginning."

"You were manipulated every step of the way," I grunted in near disgust while rising to get a drink from the bar that had been left stocked by our captors. "Not that I can blame you for giving into it, after all that happened. But your were manipulated. You can see that, can’t you?"

"Of course I was," the agreement came easily, almost with an amused mirth that seemed completely out of place in our present circumstances. "It was necessary in order for me to see what I had become, and what I had to potential of being."

"The nemesis of your former race," I heavily supplied while adding just another finger of malt scotch to the drink I had made myself, then picking up both glasses I had filled, offering her the one with the straight Glen Feddigh that she preferred, then returning to my seat. "And my eventual downfall."

"Among other things," she agreed with a grin filled with sadness and a nod of thanks for the drink. "Though neither of those distinctions were uppermost in my plans until they happened. It just seemed like the thing I was meant to do for the time, until my true purpose made itself clear."

"And what would that be?" I questioned half amiably after taking an appreciative sip of my own, hair raising drink.

"Putting a stop to this God Damned war," she finished with a finality that brooked no dispute.

 

 

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