None could truthfully say that they knew from where the bird had come. It had not been seen gliding in on tired wings, nor had any heard the peep of young hatchling from roosted nest. A malicious, fearful rumor ran that the crow was born of the darking shadows of the Prince himself. Some believed it, while others scoffed. Even so, the bird was watched with no small fascination and admiration, while the Prince was hated outright. For the bird was the first one in years to fly with a free heart through the tear-soaked sky, and he brought thoughts of goodness and warmth to the souls of the people, never mind the blackness of his form. The emptiness that the crow filled was caused by the oppressive reign of the Black Prince.
The Prince had not always been so terrible, though. No, once upon a time, in the winter of the world, he was simply a young Prince who had lost his heart in a drift of snow. Many a time he had gone out of door to gaze up into the heavens, looking for the yellow face, that thing which turns all in its sight to gold. The boy Prince loved it dearly, adored the spectrum of golden hues, and the warmth of its gaze, and so he was always going outdoors into its light. Each time he went, his queenly mother stopped and warned him to be careful of the biting, venomous cold with its sharp, nipping teeth. All the while she wound him into furs and woolen blankets.
“Yes, mother,” he would reply and leave her once again for the tender warmth of sunlight.
His mother, lost behind, would watch his small form trundle into the blinding white, the furs of the coats near jet surrounded by the seeming innocence of cold, shining crystals. It was in sadness that she watched him shrink to a particle of dust, and then disappear. So alone he seemed, and so she worried.
One day as he walked, glorying in the yellow face, an old crow came winging beside him, landing in his path, eyes directed upwards to the young boy. This irked the Prince to no end. His mother had not been the only one to see how isolated he was. He too noted how quiet the world seemed – only himself, the sunlight, and his father’s castle shared the snowed waste. This pleased him. None other should lay claim to this beauty. He was Prince and it belonged to him. The boy glared imperiously down.
“What right have you, bird, to cast your shadow on the snow of my land?” he demanded.
Cocking its head, the crow regarded him a moment with a mirrored eye. “Need I any, Lord Prince? I am a bird, as any other. I fly through all lands and you have no power over me.”
“Haven’t I?” cried the boy, lunging forward, swiping a child’s paw through the air. No authority had he in truth but the force of his own small strength. His fingers found no resistance though – the bird had gone. He cast about himself for its shape, but it had disappeared completely. When he leaned in to look, the boy found that no print had been left in the snow by the crow’s small weight.
A swirl of wind by his ear murmured, “It would do you good to treat nicely the small folk of the world, young Prince. Perhaps tomorrow will find you lighter.”
Bewildered and not a little frightened by the mysterious stranger, the Prince stumbled through catching layers of snow all the way home to his mother whose arms still held more comfort than the cold and the sun.
His fear though was nothing that could not be remedied by warmth and the clouded thought of dreams. The next morning, his mother again found herself watching him wade back through the desert of white.
For much of the day, the Prince wandered under the sun, unchallenged by man or beast. Unconsciously wary, he found himself glancing more than once at each secret, dusky shape. This caution was baseless though; when the dark wanted him, it would call to him and in the meantime he needn’t seek for it in dreams. At last his doubts left him, and the Prince applied himself to creating shadows in ice and snow that he could laugh at his lesser self’s distress. When he turned though, the laughter died on his lips like a flower, wilted by the true shadow of blackest night that lay in his path. For there waited the crow, as it had waited for minutes, perhaps, hours. Watching, it had seen.
“What do you think of me today?” it asked. “Have you learned to be kinder to old birds?”
The Prince had not, though, for again he tossed himself forward in anger. And again, the bird had gone. Born from the dwindling goodness in the child’s heart, it was as insubstantial as smoke. Perhaps it sank back into him when his body came sprawling into the snow, or maybe it flew to a place on the eaves to observe what passed. For as the Prince flew forward on wings of hatred, the furs, bunched so carefully into themselves by a loving mother, came undone. He met the snow with a thin linen shirt, closed save for one button, opening a thin sliver of skin to winter. Small it was, but more than enough for the cold to consume.
Even as he fell, it sank hungering teeth into his sweet, milky flesh, biting down into his soul, striking a sliver of ice through his heart. From the stem of the wound ran a black streaming pool of his kindness, formless until a crow passed overhead, inspiring it again with shape. So it was, that as the boy straightened from beneath the pain and looked out at the world with newfound hatred, the crow drew its first true breath as a being separate from the prince, and hopped into the air to glide on currents of sunlight.
A Black Prince was born, and the little boy that he had been lost his heart to the skies.
The king’s people knew nothing of this transformation though and it was no small shock to their unknowing minds when the pacific boy that they thought the Prince to be expressed an earnest interest in hunting and death. In all his boyhood, he never quite grew to match his tastes – the love of hunt and chase expected of a bloodthirsty adolescent was found in him from the first. By the time he aged to adolescence, he had acquired both the skill and brutality of a seasoned general. When at last the kingdom was his, laughter became a rarity – the entertainment that he chose, often in the form of public execution, failed to please his terrorized people. The game of war was a great favorite of his too, but when that was not to be had, a headhunt was fair game.
The Prince also found within himself a fondness for fair women. Pale, he liked them, skin as clear as a clouded day, with hair that was like sunlight running down a length of dried grass. They loved him dearly for reasons unknown, each and every one, but he tired of them soon enough, sometimes within days of first laying hand on them. To some private place aside he would take them, and give them a red-ribboned necklace, a token of his esteem, yet a farewell gift nonetheless. They wept and begged, fighting their dismissal, even as they faded away. None were ever seen again, and it was presumed that, being a Prince, he did good by them and sent them to some distant land to be married as well as any Prince’s mistress could be.
They meant nothing to him, of course. Such things rarely do in a world that belongs to men. None of it was truly significant any longer, none save one. Despite it all, his many savage delights, a small place had been left within the Prince for one kindness, pushed deeper into his soul by the point of the icy nail that stole from him all else. As in his childhood, the Prince loved the sun and all that needed it with equal desperation. Even while he begged to slaughter animals for the evening meal, he harbored a small space in his heart for the peace of the garden, a plot of earth that thrived with eating, breathing creatures just as devoted to the yellow face as he. Flowers especially were his passion, so like the sun themselves, a burning center with glowing bursts of color on all sides. Asters, poppies, lavender, and marigolds all, they were his. And because he loved them, so too did his winged shadow.
It so happened, that there bloomed in the Prince’s garden a daffodil so lovely that it would brighten even the darkest day. So wonderful it was, that from halfway across the palace it drew the crow from where he sheltered under the eaves. The crow came to the garden and looked over the sea of roses and chrysanthemums, to the plain, unpretentious flower, just as lonely and lost as he. He flew to it. “Are you my heart?”
“Yes,” it replied to the silent part of him that wondered. “Need you ask?” They were both content
So happy an end was not for them, the crow and his daffodil. Just as he set to building a nest by the beloved flower, the gardener’s daughter came in, as she often did in the mornings, to care for the blossoms. At the sight of the bird perched so perilously close to the perfect bloom, the girl let out a cry and ran forward with waving hands. Crow hopped into flight and flapped achingly to the high wall of the garden. Often away from the palace and town, running wild in the wastes, she knew nothing of the fondness that the people harbored for the black, old thing. To her, there seemed nothing exceptional about the crow, save the threat that he posed to her fragile wards. She set a vigilant eye on him as she bent down to work, clucking him away whenever he chanced a flight to the daffodil below. Defeated, he watched her busy doings from the stone wall, snapping his tongue quietly to himself in vexation and gloom. Noting the daffodil as the quiet recipient of the crow’s affections, and herself feeling the inspiring affects of its appearance, the gardener’s child was careful to cut it off at the stem when her work was finished. A proper gift to the Prince it would make, and she would be the one to bring it. As the knife flashed out, the crow croaked out a soft scream, and the girl’s stroke did not stay true. She fed the earth a few drops of blood, but cut again. Hastily cleaning the insignificant wound, she wrapped the base of the flower, and went in search of the Prince.
Unbeknownst to the girl, the most silent of shadows followed her into the house of stone, two unhappy eyes shining from the midst of dark. Unwittingly, she led him on into the palace into the very heart of his foe. The gardener’s daughter found the Prince where he often hid from the world, in his hall of fire and glinting, winking iron. Even as she came forward into the chamber, leaving her shadow in the crook of the archway, the heat and dark receded ever so slightly, as touch shying from cold or evil from good. Such was the power of the flower, the crow, and even a little of the girl who held it, not unremarkable in her own right. The ice of the Prince’s heart thawed a little at the sight of them, and it was noted through the rest of the day what a swimmingly good mood he was in.
The Crow held a faint gurgle of pain within as the girl gave the flower to the darking Prince. It was a short while in the receiving, as he did not reach for the proffered gift immediately, stunned as he was by the girl’s audacity. So long it had been since a body had come without a shiver of dread into his hall. He reached for the blossom, only to pull back the same hand. Stiffening slightly, he questioned, in an unnecessarily stern voice, “Who are you and what is this that you bring me, maid?”
“I am the first and only daughter of your castle’s gardener. This flower belongs to your own gardens. I thought to bring it to you this morning first I saw it.” She thought to mention the bird, but reconsidered, remembering the fear that shook her father’s voice at the mention of the Prince.
He pulled the flower from her hands and turned it in his a few moments, the daffodil undergoing a thorough scrutiny. “It is perfect. I thank you.” Then he smiled. A small flash of resentment came from the Crow at his words though; it seemed to him that they were shockingly inadequate.
The maiden curtsied, then turned to leave, sending the Crow hopping deeper into the shadows. She was stopped, however, by the Prince’s voice.
“Have – Would you — please — sit down to a meal with me?” he asked, extending an ungentle hand.
As she turned, eyes sprung open wide, startled at the unexpectedness of it, the Crow silently urged her to decline, hoped for them both to walk away from the flower and the hall. No such thing would happen though. The girl was, to be sure, a little afraid of the offer, for her father had told many a story of the Prince and his ways. She was bold too, and did not shy from a puzzle, such as she thought the Prince to be. In any case, none gave anything but acceptance to such a man, even when the heart urged otherwise. “Yes, Lord Prince. If you wish it,” she replied, at last.
“I do.” She took his hand in spite of her trepidation, and they sat down to a dinner together, the daffodil in its red vase between them. Miserably, a single shadow detached itself from the others and limped down the corridor to the sunlight.
Returned to the gardens, the crow hatched a plot to retrieve the flower from its evil bearer. No good would come of interfering in the ways of women and men, but he would win her back. So the crow went again into the castle, watching attentively as the day passed and the Prince wearied. When at last, the Prince retired to sleep, carrying the daffodil to rest by the bedside, the crow was ready. He leapt into the air and softly, ever so softly, swam to the stand and the red vase. He alighted on the wooden surface with only the slightest trickle of feet, almost like the patter of raindrops on a sill. It was enough though, and the Prince started awake – he had imagined in his dream that he heard the trickle of blood onto chilled stone and had woken in excitement. Seeing the foe so alert, the crow quickly, sweetly clutched at the daffodil, grasping it in his knobby beak, taking to wing but a moment later. Behind him he could hear the rustle of blankets thrown aside and he flew all the harder, speeding ahead.
Yet, he was pursued. Through many stone doors and arches, out windows, and over walls the crow went, but somehow, the enemy was always behind, watching with eyes that did not wink and could always see his hurried path. He was soon out of the palace, fleeing now with all his strength. Still, he was ever mindful of the flower that he clutched which might easily wither in the chill. The stars and moon watched, silent, as he fearfully heard the clumsy approach of horsemen and felt the first arrows begin to touch the sky at his wingtips. Terror began to slither and slide through him, though he valiantly resisted its seductive voice, as one climbing a sheer-faced mass of ice. It was only when he flew over a lake that a stirring plan was inspired in his sable eyes. In the midst of the frozen water he alighted and waited for the hoof-beats, so like the hammering of his small heart, to meet with him in the white, dawning, winter.
When they did come, they were not alone, many others accompanying with fire and iron. The man had passed through the town in his hunt, and had mustered his folk who came at the eager urging of their sovereign. As the lake came into sight, the Prince held up a hand that kept the hounds and arrows at bay. Despite his treachery, the sight of the daffodil reminded him of judiciousness and benevolence. He had no intention of giving up his prize, but still he was kept from disposing of the small, frightened opponent so soon.
He stepped onto the ice cautiously, but some glint or another in his enemy’s eyes fired him with anger and a need to hurt. A glimmer of his former self remembered this crow and blamed it for all the shortcomings of the Black Prince. One last time, the Prince swung forward, a fist rising above his head in preparation to strike a blow. He lunged firmly out on to his front leg only to come crashing down, through layers of snow and ice, down into the deep well that was the frozen lake. The cold tried to consume its black prize again while, to the side, the crow gazed on confusedly. There was a small sense of triumph in his small heart, for he was again with his flower, which he loved dearly, never to be threatened again. Yet he grieved that his happiness should come at the sacrifice of another. Disquieted, he watched.
The people though, could do no such thing. As much as they hated and feared the man, there was no imaginable existence without a Lord to be ruled by, and this one that had fallen to darkness was the last of his line. So out onto the treacherous ice they went, and fished the Prince from the shadowed places of the deep.
Out onto the snow they threw him, where he lay peacefully, as if just fallen asleep. Within him beat a steady pulse. Hopped onto his foot, there perched the crow, head cocked in question. “What must I do?” They were both as still as dead for some moments in the midst of the shifting murmuring crowd. At last, as silence began to settle upon their hearts like a cold hand, the bird opened his mouth to let out a frightful screech, a scream of horror. He knew then what would follow.
The bird set to pecking. Peck, peck. The eyes were gone leaving black holes to stare at the sky. The bird blinked quickly thrice, as if mightily surprised – the world had changed form, and colors splashed through his drab vision. Around him, he could see the people stir, some gasp or cry out, leap forward. He set again to work. The lips left next, down the dainty throat, the tongue soon after, and the bird first opened mouth in speech. It came as nonsense to his captive audience until he cracked open the skull and scooped up the brains with a shovel-like beak. To the listening people, it became suddenly comprehensible.
“Forgive me for this, friends,” he said. “Four and twenty pies he would make, the bones for crust and the meat within, but I think we all rather that it goes like this. I shall finish him soon, bone and all. All save the heart. So, worry not.”
The crow, in a terrific burst of strength, leapt astride the chest and, grasping each half firmly with a claw, cracked it open in a shower of red pearls. Each organ he savored carefully, rolling the taste about his mouth as if in search of some half-forgotten savor. Now, when ribs and other bones obstructed his path, he crunched through these too, sometimes swallowing them whole if they were small enough.
As his meal disappeared, the town folk saw changes manifest themselves. His thin bony legs stretched and grew thicker, rounder as if the meat of the Prince’s thighs flew down to the crow’s own. His arms though seemed to shrink, rolling around from his back to be set more firmly on either shoulder. Three clawed toes turned to five. Extended feathers changed to rounded digits. Still, there was more, the bird feasting on, all the while changing from his flighty self. The crow, it seemed, was transforming to a man. Soon, only a shell was left, bloody fragments staining the snow, small crumbs left after the meal. Still, the black heart beat on in the remnants of the rib cage. Bloated, the crow pecked at these unhurriedly, slowing from his furious pace. He crouched now in the white crystals, the figure of man covered in pitch black, as one by one the remaining pieces of the Prince disappeared into his darkness. There were ten left, then four, then one. The last crushed fragment disappeared, and the heart lay alone in the snow, the only thing remaining of the Prince that had been.
Ta-thump. Ta-thump. Ta-thump. A few beats more and it was still. The Prince was gone at last. As the final flow of blood gushed from the pumping grisliness of muscle, fat, and meat, the crow doubled over, as if in pain. His own heart was shooting with agony – life was breathed into it at last, and it was just learning its movement and shape. About his chest it marched, but soon wound back through the endless maze, to its proper seat in the cage. So too had the shock of memory come over him. Thoughts again filled his mind like a burbling, echoing stream, never silent, and never ending. He knew now who he was.
The crow straightened and feathers fell from him as dust or sand might, in a cascade of rippling movement. Beneath all the black ruff was a face familiar to those who watched, a face that they had ever known, feared, and grudgingly bowed low to. For beneath it all, the Crow was the young boy-Prince in disguise. In horror, hatred, and fascination, the crowd murmured and slipped back. Behind hands passed vast, frantic conversations. Darting eyes flitted from one edge of the circle to the other, but no voice was yet found amongst them. The daughter of the gardener came forth, pushing her way through, threatening with blade and fist when stopped, until she stood face to face with Crow.
“Oh, Prince?” she asked, “Can it be you? Your form is so familiar, but you are much changed. Will not you offer us some knowledge to gladden our hearts and easy our minds?” There was love and fear in her as she asked. In the Crow she looked for that terrible man who had been kind to her that same day.
Yet she was not mollified. “Girl, I know you not,” he declared. Looking around, “All but the oldest of you are unfamiliar to my eyes, except in passing sight. I do not remember your names or places, but I promise you that once, many years ago now, you bowed to me as Prince. I was lost a snowy day, but I am myself again. I have come back.”
Even as he finished, the girl began to tremble and quake. With lips that did not stay still for her words, she whispered into the silence that now reigned, “Then whoever you may be, good stranger, you are not ours and we will not accept you as such. Leave us.”
The Crow gazed on her a moment, eyes lost and bewildered. He looked so like a young boy, in love with the sun, that the gardener’s daughter almost regretted her hasty words. It was done though, and could not be taken back. He smiled sadly, reaching into the snow where he had laid his flower. And the people watched as the Crow who was also Prince took to wing with his daffodil in hand. Neither was ever seen again in the cold, unfeeling land of winter.
The End
