An excerpt from my WIP, Earthborn
Four days later, by accident, Mirna saw the feather.
She had entered Lily's room and found her asleep; a serene smile softened her face. The feather, too large and pearlescent to belong to a bird, trembled lightly as the night breeze passed over the soft down.
She said nothing to Lily, but her throat tightened. She knew what it was. A gift. And a trap.
âHe gave her a feather, Jereh! A feather! And she sleeps with it.â Mirna hissed, tracing a three-point warding sign over her throat. In this palace, even the stone had ears.
Jereh filled the doorway and didnât move. He had carried Lily through rain, taught her to swim. But it was Eirranâs feather that she now hid like a treasure.
âYou know what this means,â Mirna whispered from the hall.
âIt means sheâs happy,â Jereh said, and the words scraped.
âItâs dangerous. The world punishes attachments like this - and he knows it.â
âShould we take it from her? Forbid it?â
Silence. The hem sheâd mended last night pressed hard beneath her fist. Then Jereh shook his head.
âMirna⌠you know it as well as I do. There are things our love canât give her. That feather isnât about him - itâs her learning to love that part of herself.â
Mirna swallowed, frown carving deep lines above the bridge of her nose. âIâll leave it, then. But I wonât stand by when it hurts her.â She straightened her spine. "And I will go talk to him. Open his eyes about the damage he's doing."
Jereh gave a soft half-shrug, half- chuckle that meant good luck even if his lips remained sealed.
Later that day, Mirna sat rigid in Eirran's study, walled by maps and parchments piled on the great mahogany table. A draft from the high window lifted a corner of parchment as Eirran entered quietly.
Surprisingly, the look on his face told her he was expecting her to come.
âWe must speak of Lily,â she said.
Her knuckles whitened against her skirt. âSheâs growing attached to you - not as a prince but as a father. And youâŚâ her fists tightened ââŚyou encourage it.â
He flinched, barely. He did not deny it. His wing brushed a coastline on the nearest chart and stilled.
âHave you considered,â she pressed, softer now, âwhat it means for her to know she will never belong to your world? That she will always be lesser? Every beat of your wings reminds her that she doesn't belong. What happens when she realizes all her love canât bring you down to her?â She paused. âThereâs a reason children of both worlds are raised among humans, a reason beyond faith, beyond politics. Theyâre born of earth. You, Ilari, are born of sky. You speak different languages.â She grasped at the fabric of her dress. âThis bond youâre creating - if it shatters, the wound will scar.â
âWhat do you suggest?â he asked, the tones of his voice rasping against each other.
âI have no solution. Only a warning: every piece of your world you give her reminds her she can never have it whole.â
âAnd what if I want her to be my daughter?â he whispered.
âThen live with this: she will love you more than you can ever return,â she said. It was not a reproach, only the truth.
When she left, the air in the study stilled.
Eirran walked over to the tall window overlooking the courtyard with the fountain where Lily liked to spend her afternoons, but now it was empty, bland, devoid of her warmth. In his mind's eye he saw her sitting by that fountain, trying to scrub the Ilari shine from her skin. He pictured her on the rooftop garden then, her frame hunched, eyes solemn. What if he had brought her here only to suffer?
He had no answer - only a hollow ache.
He saw his fatherâs mouth shape the word: Stillborn.
Perhaps heâd forged his own lie.
He remembered Lilyâs smile on the terrace - her courage, her wonder, that never gave room to envy.
Perhaps the answer lay not in grand gestures but in small ones.
If he couldn't give her the sky, he would give her a window.
For now, it would have to be enough. Until he found some way to give her more.
He understood then that every gift he gave her was paid for with debt.
That night, he eased her door open. Moonlight spilled across the floor. He unlatched the high window to let the room breathe, and a gentle draft stirred the downy edge of the feather laying in her hand. In sleep, Lilyâs fingers twitched - a small, unconscious clutch. He left, leaving the feather carry what words could not.