From the WIP:
There was a time where I could change back and forth to a fish as easily as passing wind, but the years had left me rusty. And I was afraid. Still afraid, after so many years, that I would lose control. And it wasn’t just fear, really, it was temptation. That’s the problem more than anything—it wasn’t that I hated being uncontrollable. There was a dark, welcome power there that would lurk with me always, part of my true self, my ancient self, that craved blood and destruction and death.
Knowing that my friend was in danger threw me into action. But I kept turning into a fish. Not a bird. But finally, after two straight hours of moving my body and slipping back and forth between forms, I managed to find myself in a shape that allowed me to breathe without challenge and had, thankfully, feathers and wings. Years later I’d learn to change to water, to use the rivers as pathways quicker than flight, but it was the best option I had.
I saw my strange reflection in the moonlight.
An albatross. I should have guessed.