(c) Nin Harris 2009
The gradon was not sure what it had been once, it knew it had scings and wales. It knew there were stories or histories or whatever there was before language raveled and spooled and spun around her. Disappearing into the darkness that was green, disappearing into twig and fig and leaf and wince. In every wince she was the forest, in every forest there was the wince of a conscious soul that had eked itself in but could not eke itself out and so language disappeared except. Except for this tiny fragment.
I am rena. A gradon. And I have a small one. A son? A son?
The gradon fades, as consciousness must. Fade. The gradon dreams, and dreams until a shout unfurls it. And the word. Dra-GON. Gone. GONE. Hits her, before she fades again, once more, into the unconscious.
Nemorosum Somnium has her within its maw. It will not let go.