FLIGHT

by Kitty Fisher

It was a dream of feathers;

of light and air

and passion.

To go from desolation to such a dream in the space of a few heartbeats... Oh, fear had been there, certainly, but more than that, there was awe and fascination. Spared from death by dark eyes and a windspan of white, taken and touched, shown delight.

Delight in touch itself.

Comfort.

A kiss, like nothing else in this world.

The joy had been like being born, seeing for the first time, loving... being loved, for the first time. That there could be such happiness, was beyond strange. That with this creature, this man twisted into the body of a swan, this swan caged by a man's... there could be hope.

For them both.

For out of curiosity and need came something that might have been love. And the end was decided, even before anything had really begun.

Pain.

The world turned dark with blood...

But even then, at that single moment of beginning, had he known, he would still have run into those enfolding arms, into the spirit that lifted him high above the city, above the world, beyond loneliness.

To have found this, out of nowhere. It was enough.

For time had stood still. A touch. A sharing; limb warm against limb, heart beating strength against strength. Suddenly to be one with another, to know what it was to be whole. Made perfect at last. To be given the world and all its treasures in a soft sigh of need to need.

But the other was a prince, too. A king, maybe. Lord, certainly. Lord of his kind, and bound to them.

And duty was something he could understand, even as he loathed it.

A last embrace, a cloud of white, a beating of wings like a summer storm, and the other was gone.

And he, the one who was man, had gone back, to the palace, to the mother, and smiled. For he had a secret. The first in thirty–three years.

Except there was another: a dark stranger who took love and wanting and need and twisted them into a black obscenity.

Though his glance had been like fire, his touch was poison. Dancing in the shadows, body to body, spied on they could almost have been lovers. Though here all was so wrong, all darkness and anger, black leather and sweat when there should have been light and air and love.

But the need was uncannily the same.

Desire.

Lust.

Only love was missing, and perhaps he was mad already, there, dancing like one in flame, not to see. Not to know in his heart that this was all sham and counterfeit. For without love, there was only manipulation, and laughter burning in his ears and a betrayal that took the world and tore it into a thousand shreds before his eyes.

The prince knew afterwards. Understood when it was all too late... When he was already paying the penalty, and was thrown into a cage he would never escape.

He had only meant to kill himself. Really... And in a twisted way, he had not failed.

Bound and drugged, left as close to nothing as they dared, he had curled into his bed and waited.

To dream again.

Of feathers... All bright with blood, shining. And he had screamed and woken.

To find the swans had come for what was left of his life. To take the only thing he had, in payment for the theft of their lord. For nothing was the same, or would be ever again. For anyone...

But if he, the other, the white swan whose touch was fire and balm and ecstasy, still loved him — a gutter–prince, grounded, earth–bound. Perhaps that was comfort, warmth in knowing he was loved. Quite so much.

Knowing in truth that the dark one had been a lie.

And that he was loved.

Loved, still.

There was such pain there. Pain that was so close to joy that he was weeping. Enough that while they tore at him, and beat him and left him curled and dying, he was hoping beyond hope that somehow his swan was gone, flown, escaped this anger.

As darkness took him, he was silent. He had breath left only to pray.

Silence.

Peace.

Pain.

Remembrance...

He opened his eyes and there, keening as if for one dead, was his swan.

Heart breaking, he whispered a name. A hand was all he could reach out, but it was enough. He was lifted, held, and they were one. Just holding: the world held at bay by a circle of warmth.

And nothing mattered. The salt of his tears drying, he could hardly believe this truth. This flesh.

This touch.

He sighed into the embrace with every muscle, every yearning thought he had ever known. Sighed and wanted, and wished. And opened his eyes to see blood staining white skin. The blood that made his dream a truth; feathers, like scarlet down under his fingers.

On his feet, he stared into dark, pain filled eyes and shuddered, knowing. For each of them, there was no forgiveness.

Vicious, vindictive in their own betrayal, hating the human, loathing the one who had been their own, the flock came to end it all.

They fought together, trying for the freedom of night and air. But they were only two against so many, and he, the human prince was spent, the swan hardly better, though he battled with all his strength, beating the hatred away again and again, until finally he was truly spent, lost, left nothing at all, no pride, no comfort, not even the mercy of dying in the human's arms.

Broken, the prince cried out as flesh was ripped and torn. A last look, perhaps, then it was done. Finished.

And he was in silence again.

Alone. Crawling onto the vastness of his bed, wept dry of tears, lost.

But there had been passion. And a single, unearthly love. Which was enough.

Somehow.

His mother came to cradle his death. And maybe there was a spark of shame. Too little. Far too late... For all she held was cold flesh and bone, nothing that mattered at all. She wept, perhaps. And was blind.

For high above, though the leaded window, far out in the night sky, two swans could be seen in flight. Wings beating in perfect harmony.

Perfection.

At last...

END