The Feather, the Bone, and the Tears of Fate

The Healer’s Daughter and the Watchful One

In the mountains where the rocks shone purple, nestled in a green valley by a lake of mirrored skies, there lived a healer of great renown. Her hands could mend wounds and cure fevers, but it was not her potions that made her famous—it was her daughter, a girl with hair of spun gold and a voice soft as the wind in springtime.

Men from far and wide came to admire her beauty, hoping to win her heart. Yet, the healer would not part with her child for any riches or titles.

“Her golden hair is more precious to me than any gold in the world,” she would say. “Her voice delights me beyond compare.”

Little did the healer know that, each night, a winged one came to the girl’s window, watching over her in silence. Though the girl could not wake, she felt his presence in her heart. His silver wings shimmered, his skin as pale as the clouds.

And as time passed, she grew to love him, though she had never seen his face.

The First Gift: A Feather

One day, as her father prepared for a journey, he asked his daughter what gift she desired.

“Dear father, bring me a feather of the Altair,” she requested, for it was said that such a feather could grant one’s deepest wish.

The father searched for days until he found a hermit living in a house of black marble atop a rocky hill.

“The feather can be caught,” said the hermit, “but only with a net made of the girl’s golden hair.”

When the father returned with this news, the daughter did not hesitate. She took scissors and cut her golden locks, weaving them into a net.

Her mother wept bitterly, but the daughter felt no regret.

Soon after, her father returned, holding the feather. But he did not return the net—and what else the hermit had caught with it, neither father nor daughter spoke of.

That night, she waved the feather three times to the right.

The winged one appeared before her, no longer a silent guardian but a being of flesh and breath.

And because he had watched over her for so long, he had also come to love her deeply.

Together, they spent many nights in each other’s embrace, bound by a love that had long existed between wakefulness and dreams.

But their love was not hidden forever.

The Second Gift: A Bone

As her father prepared for another journey, he asked what she wished for this time.

“Dear father, bring me a bone of the Altair,” she wrote, for it was said that whoever possessed it could understand the language of all creatures.

When the father returned, his face was shadowed with sorrow.

“The hermit will give you the bone,” he said, “but in exchange, you must give him your tongue.”

Without hesitation, the daughter took a knife and cut out her own tongue, handing it to her father.

Her mother screamed in horror, cursing the gods, but the daughter smiled despite the blood upon her lips.

That night, she placed the bone in her mouth, and for the first time, she understood the whispers of her lover, the wind’s murmurs, and the secrets of the earth.

But her mother, watching her daughter’s silent joy, burned with rage.

The Third Gift: Tears

One final time, her father set out, asking his daughter what she wished for.

“Dear father, bring me the tears of the Altair,” she wrote, for with them, one could go anywhere, no matter how near or far.

When the father returned, he wept.

“The hermit will give you the tears,” he said, “but in exchange, you must give him your own blood—a thousand drops for each tear.”

Without a word, the daughter pierced her skin with a needle and let her lifeblood flow into a vial.

She grew pale as the moon but felt no fear, for she knew that soon, she would be with the one she loved forever.

That night, she prepared to leave.

But her mother, knowing her daughter’s intent, took her revenge.

She lined the girl’s window with knives and needles, so that if the winged one tried to reach her, he would be torn apart.

When the girl waved her feather, her lover came—only to be struck by the blades.

As his silver blood stained the floor, the girl saw what had happened and cursed her mother, calling upon the forces of justice.

The healer collapsed, struck down by her own treachery.

But it was too late—her lover lay dying.

Desperate, the girl used two of the three Altair tears—one for herself, one for him.

And in an instant, she was standing before the hermit’s black marble house.

She knocked on the door, and when the hermit opened it, she wrote her plea in the dirt:

“Please, save him.”

The hermit smiled and took them in.

But when the girl awoke, her lover was gone.

She found the hermit and, with trembling hands, wrote upon the ashes of his fireplace:

“Where is he?”

The hermit led her outside and pointed to the sky.

A new silver moon shone above them—one that had never been there before.

The girl knew, in that moment, that her lover had ascended to the heavens.

She wept and wept, and finally, she wrote:

“How may I join him?”

The hermit spoke only once:

“You must die three times, as he did.”

The Three Deaths and the Final Ascent

The first death: She laughed and danced at her mother’s funeral, so that the people called her mad and cast her from the village.

The second death: She lay in a bed of red poppies, inhaling their sweet poison, drifting into eternal slumber.

But the hermit found her and revived her, laying her on the black marble roof.

The third death: When the silver moon rose, the winged one descended upon a silver ladder.

He touched her, and her golden hair returned.

He kissed her, and her tongue was restored.

He breathed away the scent of poppies, and she awoke.

She took his hand and climbed the ladder to the heavens, rising with him into the night.

The next morning, when the hermit awoke, he looked to the sky.

Beside the silver moon shone a new white star.

And he smiled, for their story had been written among the stars.