Chapter One
To Borrow
They had found a Swan, she had been dead since dawn, riddled with frost. Even in the stillness of death, with her body twisted where it fell, Marlen the Jackdaw still saw her beauty as he came upon her. He had been waking up earlier than usual as of late, too full of anxious thoughts to sleep. The hulking towers of Aerion Crag were still quiet and dark, their nests clinging to the red cliffside like sleeping shadows. Below, the murky river moved slowly, the tall reeds surrounding it made it impossible to see, and the perfect place to hunt. Marlen had flown down to the lowest perch, searching for something worth eating, to keep his mind at ease. As he was soaring above the river, a white shape at the water’s edge caught his eye.
White. Not the usual colour of the barbaric river Herons and not the mottled brown of the old Gulls blown inland. White and broad winged. The Swan lay in an elegant arc, wings half-unfurled as if mid-dance, grace and nobility lingering even in death. A Swan, Marlen’s heart thumped in his tight chest as he dived into the reeds and folded his black wings close. He looked up at Aerion Crag, the red cliffside looming over him, to see if anyone had woken; if anyone was watching him but there was no caw. The dawn belonged to him, for now. Her throat was bent in a grotesque manner. Her noble bearing made the wound at her throat all the more jarring, as though beauty itself had been defied by violence. Her feathering was still pristine, perfect. Her crest was soft and seamless, like woven silk untouched by time. Marlen’s gaze shifted to his own plumage, dull and ragged things and he felt his claws tighten into his palm.
He had never felt such royal feathers before, he ran one of her feathers between his trembling talons. His own plumage was Jackdaw black, plain and without shine. Some birds were born cloaked in glory, Peacocks with their jewelled trains, Lanners with ruddy hoods, the high Eagles with bronze and gold. He was born grey-eyed and soot-winged, fit for gutters always scavenging for the leavings of greater beaks. Now, by God’s grace, he had been blessed; here was a Swan. Marlen’s mind was sharp and anxious. Swans were prized by the court their feathers had been used by ambassadors to trim their mantles and had lined the cradles of Princes. Swan feathers were proof of high birth. If he was found with one as a jackdaw, he would be accused of theft. Unless no one knew…
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he said frantically as he plucked carefully. The apologies went unanswered. Her cold glassy eyes looked up at Marlen.
He slid the feathers beneath his cloak of woven reeds. Each one represented a secret thought of his, of greed and of hope. When he had taken all he dared to he fled back to the Crag. Leaving the Swan by the river. The Swans body looked small without her glory. Pale skin showed through in patches, like snow that was trampled by too many feet. The cold wind moved over her bare frame and the river shined as if to hide her shame. This was his first theft and the first lie he ever told himself. I only borrow beauty he thought to himself.
Marlen had always noticed beauty more keenly than was good for him. While others squabbled over rank and prey, he watched the way light caught on a peacock’s train or how a falcon’s hood gleamed with russet polish. He could tell which heron lords paid their tail-feathers too much oil and which peacocks mistook excess for elegance. To him, every plume was a kind of language, some spoke of grace, others of vanity. And in the silence of his hollow, he hated himself for caring so much.
Marlen did not stop; it became an obsession. When a Jay was slayed by a Hawk and crashed against the soil, Marlen was there. He stripped the Jay of his blue streaked plumage. After a storm, a young Falcon washed up on the same riverbank of the Swan, its neck broken from the wind. Marlen’s claws shook as he carefully took feathers from the Falcons’ back. He even went as far as to pluck feathers from a sleeping Heron on the market porch. The city of birds did not notice his crimes. Jackdaws lived in the background. Belonging in trash heaps scavenging for food and remaining as shadows in the corners. Once, he’d kept to the shadows, feathers tucked tight, voice low. Now he walked through the open field without pause, every step a quiet rebellion against the eyes that no longer watched. He worked in the Roost Hollow, he had nimble claws and the patience of the afraid. He stitched each feather to a leathered under mantle, layering white over black, blue over white and speckle over sheen. He cut and sewed and pierced until what lay over his lap was not the garments of a Jackdaw, but a patchwork of the sky’s white lake-winter, azure glade, storm-grey flank, bronze tip and river-reed green. A cloak of all birds. Alone in the Hollow, he donned the cloak for the first time, power stirred through him, straightening his spine and setting his shadow a little longer upon the ground. He turned, the feathers hissing with every movement. The light from the slit window caught an arc of blue like a summer day. He lifted his arms and saw not a thief but possibility.
“Perhaps it was worth it,” Marlen said, though the words tasted bitter. He suddenly remembered the Swans glazed eyes.
Marlen was never great at stilling his thoughts. They came in flurries of comparisons and worries. His mind liked to remind him of every insult he had ever faced when he lay awake at night, the Eagles’ lazy scorn, the Peacocks’ mocking smiles, the guards who looked right through him as if he were invisible. Beneath his worries were rumours of the Eagle King, Jupiter Aerion. The King would soon name a new “Prince of Feathers”, as according to the court’s murmurs, he had become weak. Jupiter was old. His pinions had dulled from bronze to ochre. Jupiter Aerion had forged his kingdom in conquest, not counsel. He crushed rival kings beneath his talons, taking their lands, their titles, and the very pride that once kept them aloft. He did not often speak, but when he did, the sky seemed to answer.
Who else could name an heir but the one who had unmade kings? The notion took root in Marlen’s thoughts. He believed he did not have a chance as every bird in Aerion Crag dreamed of being chosen. The prideful Soars of Eagles, the strongest contenders for the title of Prince. The envious cast of Falcons following close behind. The Peacocks had a chance as they had alliances with the noble Heron houses. Even the Crows murmured that perhaps a clever black wing might rise, for had not the old tales said the sky was once ruled by ravens? No one ever spoke of the Jackdaws.
Chapter 2
To Own
Marlen wore his cloak in secret until it felt like a second skin, he walked his nest with a new-found confidence, a second stride. He practiced speeches, rulings and mercies in his cracked mirror, playing with the fantasy that an ugly Jackdaw could become the Prince of Feathers. His words sounded hollow, at the end of it all he was still Marlen the scavenger. Soon after the heralds arrived, blasting music throughout the nest. It was on a day of dim cold sunlight, when the river-scum shone like gold beaten thin.
“By word of Jupiter Aerion, King of Talon and Flight, let all who deem themselves fit to wear the Crown of Plumes come forth to be seen!” The trumpeter-cranes stood on the high platforms and cried.
The Crag erupted. Wingbeats thundered in the air. Every house sent delegates, scions, champions. Colours flashed in the sky like spilled paint. Marlen watched from his window, with the cloak clutched against his thin chest. He could feel his heart pound and pound as if it was trying to escape. You cannot, said the part of him that knew hunger and cold, that remembered his mother plucking lice from his neck in a broken gutter nest. You will be laughed at. You will be stripped. You will be reminded of what you are. And yet, what if they truly saw him not as a Jackdaw, but as the sum of every feather he had gathered? The court prized lineage, but it also prized rarity, tales, omens. A patchwork prince could be read as destiny, could he not? A sign that all wings might be gathered beneath one.
Marlen’s claws trembled like leaves in hard wind. He paced back and forth. He turned the cloak over and over in his claws. His mind raced through possibilities; they might mock him, yes, but perhaps Jupiter, old and half in winter, would be amused. Perhaps amusement would be mercy. Perhaps mercy would be elevation. All the other birds had the drive and hunger of a king, Marlen wondered if that was the emptiness inside him, but loneliness, after all, feeds on the same hollow space as hunger. To be unseen was to starve he thought. He smoothed each plume, set his shoulders, combed his grey eyes with his claws the way nobles did. He stepped from his hollow and out into the brightening day. No one recognised him at first, why would they? They did not expect a Jackdaw to stride the main ramp, to fall in among the proud delegations. He walked with Peacocks whose tails trailed like waterfalls. He walked with Hawks in bronze scaled jerkins. He walked with a young Vulture-lord from the south whose bare head was ringed in gold. They all looked at him, inquisitively, then more curious, then affronted.
“You there,” said a Kite with rush-yellow eyes
“whose crest do you wear?”
“My own.” Marlen announced giving him a level look
The crowd began to murmur. This was unprecedented, every prince had to have a sponsor from one of the seven noble houses, yet a lowly Jackdaw decided he was exempt from the rules.
“Your own? That cloak...”
“Is a record of the Skies,” Marlen said, adopting the deep, easy cadence of a bird used to speaking in halls.
“Is that not why we gather? To see who best bears the breadth of us?”
He surprised himself. Words, once they started, came. He had listened long to courtiers. Mimicry was no small talent of his kind.
“B-but you are just a-”
“Contender,” Marlen cut in.
His anxiety was still there, a cold pit in his crop, but over it a skin of bravado had formed. He could not let them peck through. He raised his chin, Jay feather trembling at his throat.
“Will you challenge Jupiter’s word and bar me from his sight?”
The Kite was silenced, his words stuck in his elongated throat. The Peacocks and Falcons laughed, their voices sharp as beaks, circling Marlen like the Vultures of the east. The Eagles remained silent, too proud to notice him, while the Crows only watched with small, knowing smiles. Yet, none dared lay a claw on him for the heralds had called for all, and all meant all.
Marlen and the other candidates were escorted by the herald to high court. The great platform jutted from the cliff-face like the outstretched wing of a stone god. The place itself was immense, towers stretching far up into the heavens and he could not see the end of its width. Below the great platform there was a canopy. Marlen observed the other candidates looking down upon something and he followed suit to try fit in. There sat Jupiter, among woven reeds dyed colours of conquered airs. Age had carved a stoop into his large frame, but he was still immense, a golden eagle thick in chest and talon, eyes pale as winter sun. Jupiter Aerion’s cloak sang in the sunlight, a chorus of victories, Falcon grey, Osprey black, Swan white, Peacock blue, Albatross silver. Each plume was a story of conquest, of blood spilled and honour claimed. Marlen’s cloak was the echo of that song, stitched from silence and stolen moments. The King’s glory had been taken through battle; Marlen’s through longing. One killed for beauty, the other begged it from the dead. He was surrounded by counsellors, who were of course all noble in birth. Marlen, however was not swayed the council of old Goshawks, grey Eagles, a Peacock chancellor whose tail was fanned upon a low table.
The King rose from the roundtable, and the air itself seemed to bow beneath his weight. Marlen felt his legs tremble, the breath caught in his chest. Then the King spoke, his voice rolling through the canopy like distant thunder.
“Come down here and let us begin.”
Chapter 3
To Lose
Jupiter did not say a word as the candidates descended upon the canopy, he simply just watched. One by one, the hopefuls came forth and displayed themselves in hopes of showcasing the qualities of a king. A Peregrine knight stooped from a dizzying height to take a fish from the river and lay it at Jupiter’s feet, displaying his precision and strength. The prideful Peacock displayed his beauty, with a dance, seemingly to appeal to the Peacock councilman. The Crow that stood next to Marlen, seemingly unbothered by their difference in status, stepped forward and did not put on a show. He spoke plainly to the king about the laws and culture of the birds, calling for change. This speech was the only one that drew a reaction from the councilmen so far, they scoffed; as if what the crow spoke of was something only an idiot came up with. Jupiter’s pale eyes blinked, giving no reaction.
“Marlen!” called one of the Eagles.
It startled him to hear his own small name on the wind. It startled the court more.
“You are a-a Jackdaw?” The Eagle asked with a stern expression.
Marlen began walking towards the council, stepping over the small river that surrounded the garden. The river wind caught his cloak and sent it billowing wide, a burst of colour against the grey sky. Blues of Jay and Kingfisher flashed beside the snowy white of Swan, the green shimmer of Heron reeds, the bronze glint of Hawk and the deep, oil-black of Crow. For a heartbeat, it seemed the whole sky had taken shape upon his back. Gasps and mocking laughter filled the canopy. Even Jupiter shifted, eyes narrowing.
Marlon bowed clasping his hands.
“Your grace”
“And what are you meant to be?” Jupiter’s voice was hoarse with age, but it carried over the platform.
Laughter filled the canopy, bar the Crow, the two other candidates mocked him. The councilmen let out a faint laugh. Heat rushed to Marlen’s face, and yet he kept the composure of a Falcon. The laughter continued but when the birds seen the Eagle King’s straight face they promptly stopped.
“I am what your reign has made of us,” he continued.
“I am the gathers and vassals, the tributary flocks, the small wings you have bound to this Crag. I am river and marsh, field and stone. I am all feathers.”
“Which are you boy, bold or mad?” said the larger Goshawk.
Before Marlen could even think of an answer, the question was answered for him by the other goshawk
“Both, look at how he shakes. He is terrified.”
He was, Marlen felt as if he could collapse at any moment. His throat was dry as a bone, he did not answer the question because any answer he gave would be picked apart. Their eyes looked at him like daggers. In the depths of Marlen’s mind a cold, furious spark that had grown in long years of invisibility began to speak.
“See me. If I am to be torn, let it be for something.”
“You wear Swan. And Jay. And Hawk. And Peacock. Tell me, Jackdaw, where got you so diverse a plumage?” Said Jupiter.
Silence rippled throughout the kingdom. Tension filled the air, Marlen felt his chest tighten as his mind began to race. He could lie, say he had traded in the markets, say he had travelled to seven lakes, to the cold fjords, to the southern deltas. But many here knew trades, knew ships. One question too far and the lie would tangle. He might grovel, beg forgiveness, claim ignorant admiration.
It was humiliating either way. Was it fate for Jackdaws to always be trampled upon, to stay as scavengers? He chose a third path, because if Jackdaws are known for anything, its perseverance.
“I took them,” Marlen said, voice no longer shaking.
“I saw beauty, and I took it. I saw greatness, and I wished it on me. I saw how high you sat, and how low we went unseen, and I thought, why should only Eagles wear the sky? Why should colour be caged in bloodlines? I was born black, Your Grace. I did not choose it. But I chose this.”
Jupiter’s eyes narrowed, his expression still emotionless. The way he looked at Marlen was as if he was judging every movement and answer with unwavering eyes. Marlen though this was some sort of eternal punishment for his sins. Just then Jupiter spoke.
“So, you would be all birds.”
“Yes,” Marlen said.
A low sound rumbled from the King’s throat. Marlen flinched, certain it was laughter at his expense. His feathers prickled, shame already burning in his chest. But when Jupiter finally spoke, there was no cruelty in his eyes.
“Honest words, rare to find within this court” the King said with a smile.
“He is a thief!” The Peacock shouted.
“This is mockery. A Jackdaw cannot claim Swan. It shames the orders of our court. We cannot have gutterbirds dressed in lake-regal or desert-noble. Everything the King fought for will be destroyed!”
“Will it?” Jupiter murmured.
The court became silent. Jupiter studied Marlen the way a Falcon studies a hare, curious if there is meat under paint.
“Come closer, Jackdaw.”
Marlen took a step forward, and the another, and another and with each step a new scenario would appear in his head. The first step reminded him of the fact he was a Jackdaw, he will be ousted from this contest and will be thrown back into his life of mediocrity. The second step made him fall even deeper into doubt, what if they take this as a grave crime and cut off his claw, or even worse, kill him. The third step reminded him of the journey thus far, a Jackdaw making it this far is unprecedented, if this is possible then its also possible he can be granted the title the Prince of Feathers.
Up close, Jupiter smelled of oiled feathers, river-fish and old blood. His mantle was flawless, each plume true-won in battle or given in tribute. Age had not softened his talons. They scraped the stone as he rose.
“Your words have flown far for such a small wing,” the King announced.
But words are air. Feathers are truth. Court, shall we see what truth lies beneath?”
Marlen’s breath hitched.
Marlen knew then what fate the king had decided for him. He had seen it done to traitors, to braggarts, to envoys who lied about their lineage. Stripping was humiliation made flesh. To be bare before the court was to have one’s name pecked thin forever. His anxiety screamed, flee, he thought of throwing himself from the platform. Better the river than this. But another voice spoke, tired and raw.
“You came to be seen. Let them see.”
Marlen stood very still. Jupiter did not call for his guards, he rose himself, slow and deliberate, the weight of years in every motion. The old King stepped close, talons glinting in the sun. When they clamped around Marlen’s shoulders, the pressure was unyielding, the strength of a life spent ruling through force. When the first feather tore free, a sharp cry rose in his throat. Pain flared, hot and sudden and in that flash, he understood. This was how it had felt for them. The Swan, the Falcon, the Jay. Each pluck a theft of pride, each quill a small death. He had taken beauty as if it were nothing, never thinking that beauty had nerves, had blood. Jupiter grabbed and pulled, the cloak tore and Marlen stood, putting on a mask of stoicism. Another feather was ripped out and the pain festered. The Jay was now gone. The court murmured amongst each other, some were angry but some seemed amused.
The Peacock, Peregrine and Heron, all his feathers were now gone. Each tore a little skin, for he had bound them well. Blood welled, thick and dark, coming from his shoulder. Marlen clenched his beak and dared not to make a sound. He would not caw, he refused to give them that satisfaction. As the feathers dropped, he saw their eyes change. First there was scorn, then satisfaction and then something else. The other candidates watched with hungry fascination as if they were learning how easy it is to unravel one’s image. The old birds looked away, perhaps they had borrowed plumes in their day. Jupiter, by contrast, looked upset, he took no joy in this act.
The cloak was no longer cloak, but a ragged leather under-mantle, slick with his blood. His own feathers laid bare, simple, black, plain. Marlen stood small again, like he always had.
“Here is your truth” cried the Peacock
“A Jackdaw in his Jackdaw’s hide.”
Laughter rolled, relieved, vicious. Yes, thought Marlen dimly through pain and shame. There you are. There you always wanted me. However, Jupiter did not laugh. He stood and came close to Marlen. He dwarfed the small Jackdaw. The King lifted Marlen’s chin with a talon. Marlen met Jupiter’s pale eyes and saw not pity, but deep thought.
“You spoke of being all birds,” the king said softly, for Marlen’s ears alone.
“I was,” Marlen exclaimed
“Maybe you were only early.”
He suddenly turned towards his council, his voice loud, for all to hear.
“Let it be known! This Jackdaw, Marlen, stole plumes not his own and clothed himself in false lordship. For that he is stripped. Yet he came when called. He dared the court’s eye. Few of you risked such scorn. Mark that.”
The court shifted like a restless flock. No longer proud, no longer still. Eyes darted between the King and the Jackdaw, as if fearing to be seen by either. The Peacock suddenly stepped forward, tail trembling.
“Your grace we cannot allow-”
“We will allow what I say we allow.” Jupiter snapped.
“He will not be maimed, nor cast from the Crag. He is to walk it, in his own black, and let all remember what it is to yearn past your feather.”
“Mercy?” the Crow candidate whispered.
“No, example.” Jupiter snapped
They released Marlen, he staggered and fell to his knees. The blood on his shoulders stained his black feathers. The cloak of all feathers lay scattered, a ruined ring around him. Colours now were dulled by blood. Courtier stepped back, lest they touch him. He looked down at his dream made rags, this is the moment, his anxious mind keenly noted, that I am meant to break. To flee, to caw, to weep, to beg. He did none, he bowed shallow but steady.
“As you will your grace.”
Then he turned and walked, not quickly, not cringing, but with a small bird’s dignity, across the platform and down, through a lane of eyes and whispers. He heard their whispers.
“Jackdaw.”
“Thief.”
“Fool.”
He also heard one thing in the crowd that made it worth it; he was being seen, even if it was by only one bird.
“Brave.”
He smiled.
In the far back of the crowd he spotted the other Crow candidate, who gave him a humble nod. He left the scattered feathers where they lay as he walked back the hollow, bare, alone and happy.
Chapter 4
To Accept
Back in his hollow, he washed his wounds, each torn quilt would grow again. Feathers did and that was the nature of birds. The pain cleared his vision, but beneath the shame, oh, there was shame, hot and sour, there was a weird calm. He had finally been seen, not loved, not robed and not crowned, but seen.
Outside, birds would tell the story of the Jackdaw in their own way. Some would say that a Jackdaw tried to be King and was stripped as was right. They would laugh and their laughter would keep the old hierarchies warm. Others though might remember the moment before the stripping when he stood before the winter sun in many colours and asked why not me?
Years later when a young Eagle or Peacock take the title of king, some clever young Raven or resilient Jackdaw might recall Marlen through tales and stories and think, that if he can stand there bleeding and not flee, so can I. Perhaps they would accept themselves more truly than Marlon did. Perhaps they could marry into colour. Perhaps they would push the lines of blood and privilege an inch at a time. Perhaps, on some day yet unhatched, the court would look out over Aerion Crag and see not only Eagles on the high perches, but all manner of wings, not patched, not stolen, but recognized.
That day, if it hatched, someone might speak Marlen’s name, and not as a jest. Marlon lay on his bed, his shoulder still sore, playing with the last feather he had left. It was his own. It had fallen off with the Swans and he had picked it up out of instinct.
“You can stay.” he said.
“We’re both out of place”.
Down below, the court of birds chattered, argued, pecked over what it had seen. Up above, on the high platform, Jupiter Aerion sat very still, eyes on the river, perhaps thinking of youth, of stolen plumes or of old battles. He had called Marlen “early.” Early for what, no one could yet say. That was the trouble with feathers, they grew back.
Later that same month, Marlen woke up early to catch breakfast, he dived down to the lowest perch and observed the river. There was something laying by the bank, he dove into the reeds and pulled his black wings close to his chest. He saw that it was a Swan, just like the one he had saw almost a month ago, neck bent at a disgusting angle. He rose from the reeds and approached the corpse. Her feathers were muddy and wet from laying in the dirt. Marlen began digging a hole, he had buried her.
