Have you ever been haunted by an image left untreated in a tale? The one you know is lurking on the blank page after?
I think of those brothers—by day swans, by night, men. And their sister, driven to save them.
The stinging nettle thrives in a dark and treacherous realm. It can cure if crushed, barefooted, if the blistering yarn is woven with tender hands…silently, silently.
I imagine her fashioning those garments, stoically, unable to cry out, to her peril.
She is rescued in the end, fated for a royal marriage; but her work is left unfinished.
A necessity? Yes. The tale demands it.
But can she be happy?
To have sacrificed, suffered, been silent, faced death, yet know one wing remains at his side.
It’s left unsaid, of course; we’re meant to rejoice.
Yet I can see that remnant of his feathered self assert its power, thirst for…
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