change, a lighting of the weather before a powerful stroke of his wings drove them through the top of the cloud into the moonlit night. Here, far above the height that a swan could fly, where the air was thin and heard to breath, the world was at peace. The stars winked at her with merry eyes, while the moon seemed to draw nearer and nearer. Below them was a frothing sea of clouds, yet here there was peace and stillness, beauty of the clear night. The moon illuminated the Flugel’s face, no longer snarling, she thought he was quite handsome in a stern, sad way. His body was that of a well muscled man’s except for the wide, black wings, each longer than a two horse cart. For a moment she forgot her fear as the night took on a dreamlike aspect, unreal in its beauty or her surroundings. The day finally caught up with her and she lost consciousness as they flew through the night towards the dark mountain the Flugel called home.
She awoke in a large, fur covered bed in the middle of a large stone room. A cheerful fire crackled in a fire place, providing dim illumination to her surroundings. It was a rough room, with no trappings or furnishings, only the essentials of life. The table was carved from a single tree and had not been varnished or finished. Neither were the shelves that held blocky cooking utensils, or a few leather bound books. There was a single chair by the table, which drew her attention, for lying across it was her swan feather cloak. Pulling herself from the mound of fur which made up the bedcovers, she tip toed across the room and picked it up.
But the cloak was ruined beyond repair. Torn nearly in two, with several other large tears in it, all it's magic had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a damp tattered rag. Even the snow white feathers had lost their gleam, drooping rather sadly in the flickering light. She hugged the cloak to her face as she wept softly into it, leaning on the table for support as the last identifier of her life slipped away.
A soft noise on the other side of the table finally drew her attention. There, curled on the hard stone floor in front of the fire was the Flugel. He stirred softly in his sleep, muttering in a language she didn’t recognize. She started to draw back in fear, but something stirred within her, and instead she returned to the bed. Wrestling a large bear skin off the bed that must have weighed as much as she did, she struggled to cover the sleeping man without wakening him, the effort exhausting her again, so that by the time she was done she crept back into bed and slept again.
The next few weeks were extremely trying for her. The loss of her wings ached like an open wound, and she spent a great deal of time moping about the Flugel’s eyrie. For she did spend some time exploring whenever she could muster the interest, but all exits led to steep cliffs with no way down. The Flugel’s eyrie was extensive, easily the size of a castle built into the tall mountain he called home. Most of the rooms were unoccupied and filled with dust. The only ones which seemed maintained were the bed room, the work room filled with magical equipment and the library. She continued to sleep in the bed, the Flugel sleeping in front of the fire.
The Flugel himself was extremely accommodating, with one exception. He wouldn’t take her home, and she did not pressure him, still being more than partially frightened of him. He rarely spoke, spending most of his days inside the library or magical workshop. Every so often he would leave the eyrie, not returning until night fall or later. Occasionally he brought provisions, which out of boredom she would cook into their meals. She spent a great deal of time in the massive library, until one day the Flugel took her with him on one of his excursions. They spent the afternoon in the deep forest, collecting a mushroom that he showed her. After that she would accompany him on his excursions, waiting while he captured the deer which provided them with meat, helping him collect the fruit for their meals or the strange, random objects he would disappear into the workroom with for hours at a time.
It was nearly two months after her arrival, and while not happy with her life, certainly much more settled, when another storm approached the mountain. The evening air was filled with the scent of rain and magic, when the Flugel lifted his head and sniffed, tasting a quality of the air that she couldn’t sense. Leaving the library where they had both been seated reading; he stalked towards the nearest exit, every line of his body screaming predator. She caught up with him barely before the exit, the storm outside boiling in fury against the mountain, and begged him not to go. Turning to face her he smiled, revealing bright white teeth and two very prominent canines, he spread his black wings and with a snap drove himself backwards into the night. She listened to the storm in worry that night, unsure what would happen to her if he never returned, worried strangely about the man himself, listening to the booming of the thunder and the roaring of a beast who’s home she shared, struggling against a force even gods could not command.
He returned a few hours before dawn stalking down the passage which the bedroom opened on to, something sparking and shining in his hand, his wings dripping on the stone floor. He shut the door to the work room, secluding himself inside. She was able to finally able to fall asleep now that he returned, sleeping late into the afternoon. The work room door was still shut when she awoke, and when she touched the handle intending to check on him, a snarl ripped through the hallway, shaking the rocks themselves, halting her entry more effectively than a lock. She fled back to the bed room and hid beneath a pile of furs, weeping softly. The Flugel had never snarled at her after the once in the storm, and had almost seemed gentle at times in caring for the wounds she received that night. She had no idea what she had done to upset him, and his rejection stung. Finally she fell asleep, her head pillowed on her arm.
The bed creaking under sudden weight woke her with a start just before a hand shook her shoulder. She sat up slowly, wondering what he wanted. He stared at her for a moment, his face expressionless, before handing her a bundle wrapped in spider silk. Wondering, she slowly unwrapped the package, and her swan cloak fell out. She lifted it softly, not daring to believe, to reveal a restored cloak. Running her fingers over it in disbelief, she stared at the Flugel, who pulled her in for quick hug before stalking away. The last time she saw him was crouching on a ridge high above the eyrie like some gargoyle from a nightmare as she flew away.
The rest of the flock greeted her with tears and rejoicing, and it seemed as if she never left. Yet there were subtle differences, differences that nagged at her. The flocks voices, which had always sounded like a gaggle of geese, now sounded a great deal more like the nagging of hens. The air was thicker, and she missed the glorious views she had seem from the eyrie. Even flying didn’t seem to bring back the happiness she used to have known. Her parents were overjoyed to have her back as well, but there seemed to be a wall between them that had not been there before.
It wasn’t long before the unhappiness she felt at her return engulfed her, and the ones around her noticed the change as she slowly drooped. Finally one evening, as she sat on a rock and watched the moon rise, her mother approached her holding her swan cloak. Holding it out her mother spoke: “It’s okay to return to him you know, if that is where your heart is.” She stared at her mother in shock before bursting into tears and throwing herself in her mother’s arms. “How did you know?” She asked her mother, who in response held out the cloak. Puzzled, she examined the swan feathers.
There, barely visible around the edge of each feather was a hint of black that hadn’t been there before. “Follow your heart,” her mother said, tears running down her face, “and your father and I will always love you.” She wished them goodbye the next morning, before throwing the cloak around herself and taking off for the lake. As she flew over the shadowed forest surrounding the Flugel’s mountain, a familiar shape winged its way out of the trees, flying to greet her as they danced upon the wind together.
Brave souls who dared to enter the forest and managed to return safely, told stories when they got back, of two large shapes in the sky, a man with black wings flying next to an enormous, beautiful black swan.
The End.
The Flugel Page 2
