A Feather, a Bone, and Some Tears: A Tale of Sacrifice and Love

In the valley where the green grass never withers, beneath mountains painted in hues of purple, a healer lived by the blue lake, her hands as deft as her remedies were miraculous. But her fame paled in comparison to the beauty of her daughter, a girl with hair like spun gold and a voice that rivaled the song of birds.

Suitors came from distant lands, their hearts ablaze with longing, but their hopes were dashed. The healer refused to part with her daughter. “Her golden hair is worth more than all the riches of the earth,” she would say. “Her laughter is my greatest treasure.”

Yet, while the healer kept her daughter close, a winged being visited her nightly. With feathers of silver and a presence as soft as clouds, he would linger by her window, gazing at her as she slept. The girl felt his presence, and though she never woke to see him, her heart grew inexplicably fond.

One day, her father prepared for a journey to collect herbs and asked his daughter what gift she desired. Without hesitation, she replied, “Bring me a feather of the altair.” The altair’s feather was said to grant one’s deepest desire.

The father’s search for the feather led him to a black marble sanctuary atop a jagged hill. There, a hermit told him, “To catch the feather, you must weave a net from your daughter’s golden hair.”

When her father returned and relayed the message, the daughter did not flinch. With a calm resolve, she cut her golden locks, even as her mother wept bitterly. The net was woven, and the feather was caught.

That night, the girl waved the feather thrice to the right. The winged one appeared before her, his silver wings shimmering in the moonlight. He had watched over her for so long, and his heart was already hers. Together, they shared the night in joy and wonder, their love growing with each whispered word.

But their secret could not last.

The next time her father prepared for a journey, she asked him to bring her a bone of the altair. This bone, it was said, would allow its owner to understand the language of all creatures. The father returned to the hermit, who demanded an unimaginable price: the girl’s tongue.

“Without hesitation,” the girl said, and with a knife, she severed her tongue. Her mother’s screams of anguish filled the house, but the girl remained resolute. When the bone was brought to her, she placed it in her mouth and could finally understand her lover’s celestial words.

But her mother, consumed by suspicion and grief, grew watchful.

For the third journey, the girl asked her father for the tears of the altair, said to grant the power to go wherever one wished. This time, the hermit demanded a thousand drops of her blood for each tear. The girl bled herself pale, her golden glow fading as she drained her life to pay the price.

Her mother, now certain her daughter planned to leave, filled the girl’s window with knives and needles. That night, when the girl waved the feather for her lover, he was pierced by the hidden blades. His cry of pain shattered the silence.

In horror, the girl called upon the powers of the bone to curse her mother, who fell lifeless to the floor. The girl used one of the precious tears to transport herself and her lover to the hermit’s sanctuary.

The hermit welcomed her, offering warmth and rest. But when she awoke, her lover was gone. On the hermit’s cold marble floor, she scrawled her plea: Where is he?

The hermit led her outside, pointing to the night sky where a silver moon shone brighter than ever before. “He is there,” the hermit said. “Alive, but no longer of this world.”

The girl wept, asking how she could join him.

“You must die three times, as he did,” the hermit said, closing his door behind her.

The girl returned home for her mother’s funeral. Consumed by sorrow, she laughed and danced wildly, prompting the villagers to call her mad. Cast out from the valley, she wandered until she found a bed of red poppies, their scent lulling her into a deep sleep.

The hermit, finding her lifeless, brought her back to his sanctuary. On a bed of black marble, her beauty was preserved as he whispered a final spell. When night fell, the silver moon descended as a ladder of light. Her winged lover returned, his gentle touch restoring her golden hair, her tongue, and her voice. Together, they ascended the silver ladder into the sky.

At dawn, the hermit looked to the heavens and smiled. Beside the moon shone a new white star, a testament to their eternal love. He shed his mortal shell and left the black marble sanctuary behind, walking toward the purple mountains and the green valley, where his story, too, would one day end.