FEATHER AND THE KNIFE

I’ll tell ye a tale of old times, before the Drift and the Lennel men. Before the War even, when the world was ruled by petty lords, and every man owed his own due.

There was once a young princess who was uncommonly gentle. All who met her loved her, for she would do no harm to anyone, man nor beast. People called her Feather, for it was said that her voice was as soft and light as eiderdown.

Her father was lord over the land. He was as cruel as she was gentle. People called him the Knife, for he was not shy to use one in pursuit of power. Because of this, he had many enemies.

So it came to pass that, one by one, the neighbouring lords took up arms and attacked, until the land was overrun and furious swords hedged the castle on all sides.

That day, there came into the besieged court a darkling creature, with shadowed hood and shadowed hand. He brought with him a book which he called, the Book of Truth.

He pressed in close to the princess, murmuring and hissing as darklings do. “Take this,” he said. “It will listen only to you. Whatever you write in it, you will become.”

The princess was unwilling, for she knew her histories, and she knew the darkling folk bore no love for the people of the daylight realm

But her father pressured her. “Take the book,” he said, “for all is lost otherwise, and weak as you are, perhaps you will still do us some good.” So she took it and that evening it lay on a table close to her bed.

After nightfall, she watched from the window. Seeing the fires of her father’s enemies surrounding the castle walls, she took her quill and wrote the word “Warrior” on the first page. The ink sank deep into the paper, becoming one with the fabric of it, like flesh forming on bones.

The next morning, she woke early, full of fire and passion. She called for the gate to be opened and she and went out alone amongst the enemy host. The armed men fell back before her, for they had no wish to fight a frail young girl and none would strike her.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

With the rising of the sun, the word she had written rose up in her heart. Armour of burnished light flushed into being around her. She wielded a sword of fire, and men withered before her like insects before a flame.

As she fought, words formed in the book that lay on her pillow. Words that told of her deeds. The writing continued all day until fully a quarter of the pages were filled, such was her fury and the strength of her arm that day.

All the while, her father, the Knife watched from the castle walls.

When she was done and all the fire was burned out of her, she became her true self again and fell, exhausted onto her bed, dreaming of heat and the smell of burned flesh.

The second night, seeing that the siege could not hold, her father's enemies attacked by sea. She took up her quill and wrote the word “Dragon”, and she became a sea dragon. That day, the words that formed in the book showed her rising from the depths, crushing ships in the harbour. A thousand men died between her jaws, and a thousand more drowned trying to escape. The sea was stained red, and blood and brine ran mingled from her mouth.

At the end of the second day, fully half of the book was full. She sank into her bed and dreamed of a drowning man's eyes, staring wildly into the depths, bubbles escaping from his mouth.

The third night, her father’s enemies came up over the mountain. She wrote the word “Giant”, and so she became. She was beautiful and terrible with limbs of silver-green and a helm like a white crown. She wielded boulders as clubs and a pine tree as a broom. She swept the invading armies into a chasm, and they were nevermore seen.

And she wept as they fell, for they were as fair as her father was foul. But she consoled herself, for she knew that after all the killing was done, she would have one page left on which to write a happy ending.

But that night, when she lay down in bed, the gentle princess found that the last page of the book had been torn out. Recognizing is power, her father had taken it, hoping to keep it for later. She hunted high and low for the paper, but could not find it anywhere, and when sleep finally claimed her, the page, which was locked in her father's cabinet, remained blank.

And so she became.

As she slept, everything she was or wished to be was silently washed away. Blank she was, without love or hope of laughter, and as the castle celebrated its deliverance, she drifted un-noticed through the gates, and up over the mountain.

Some say she wanders to this day, wherever there is pen and ink to be found, hunting for the final page of the book so that she might write the word “Death” and so end her torment. Some say the blood of the slain still drips from the corner of her mouth.