Chapter Text
Feathers. A foreign concept to most. Strange little ovals of something not quite fur and not quite silk, attached to one’s soul to help them fly.
Or something like that. Prince Corion didn’t know; any animal with feathers was long since extinct by now, and while pictures in books did exist, they were only the things of legend. Sometimes his father was depicted with wings, in the occasional statue carved out by a Swallow. Corion had even seen Goldwing statues with wings, the oldest ones, hidden behind doors he wasn’t allowed to know about.
Prince Corion of the Eagle clan had never really thought about feathers that much. They seemed an inconvenience — unless they were very strong. But something as light as a feather? It was crazy to think that something like that could lift anything off of the ground.
Feathered wings. Corion couldn’t imagine it.
And so, he didn’t. No one in all of the Clandoms would toss and turn and have dreams about feathers. No one particularly cared.
Instead, Corion tried to dream of something peaceful, as most people do. This particular night, he dreamed of seeing the world. It was something Corion had always wanted. He travelled when necessary, of course, but there was never quite any time.
For anything. Ever.
And so Corion dreamed of seeing the outskirts of the Clandoms. Farms, forests, taverns. He dreamed of going down to the Southern Jungles. He dreamed of travelling in every direction possible. Every direction except for up.
Because after all, what was the point in imagining that?
And as Corion was sleeping, and dreaming dreams that did not involve feathers, as he slept and dreamed and all in all had a rather peaceful night, something woke him up.
A loud crash. Not thunder, no, this crash was much closer.
Corion snapped out of his dream in an instant, heart suddenly too loud in his ears. Eyelids heavy, he looked around his dark room. He blinked quickly to adjust to the light.
It, whatever it was, was in his room. His eyes caught the moonlight filtering in from the window — much more moonlight than normal.
The window was broken. The bars bent and bruised and broken and gone.
And something — someone — was on the floor of his room.
Corion was on his feet in an instant. The someone … he blinked, adjusting his eyes, as they stood and dusted themselves off.
A girl.
Corion rubbed his eyes to make sure the light wasn’t playing tricks on him. Because the girl … she had wings.
Wings made of stone. She was made of stone. She looked at him with blue eyes. Sky blue.
Gargol.
But it wasn’t. She wasn’t. Her wings were unlike any gargol’s.
“Feathers,” Corion breathed. Yes, that was the word.
The girl narrowed her eyes. He noticed, then, that she was holding something in her hands. A weapon, no doubt.
Corion took a step back. He opened his mouth to call for help, but she quickly covered it with her hand.
“Shhh!” she hissed. “Do you want everyone to find us?”
She took her hand off of his mouth then, and began to poke his cheek. Then she looked behind him for something.
“What are you?” Corion whispered.
“Icara,” she said simply. “And you are wingless.”
“Wingless,” he repeated. He looked at her wings again — although truthfully he’d never stopped staring at them. They were magnificent things, much more majestic than a gargol’s. Much more majestic than any Swallow clanner could carve.
Icara began looking around, on alert. When she didn’t seem to find what she’d been dreading, she looked at him again. “You really are all wingless.”
“What’s in your hand?”
At that, Icara seemed to get over her shock at his lack of feathers. She opened her palm for him to see.
It was an amber stone.
“You need to keep this,” she said. “I assume you’re some kind of royalty?”
Strange, talking to someone who didn’t know. Perhaps not as strange as talking to a winged person, though.
“Yes,” he confirmed. Hesitantly, he reached out to take the stone, and she quickly pressed it into his palm.
“Good,” she replied. “You’ll know what to do with this, then. Don’t let it break.”
Corion stared at the thing, baffled. It was warm, almost glowing, and shades of earth were swirling around inside of it. He was quite sure this wasn’t a dream, but only because the only dreams he’d ever had were of travelling the world.
And, of course, the fact that no one in the Clandoms cares about feathers.
“Wha—?” he sputtered. “What even is this? And you! Where did you come from? What am I supposed to do — what —”
“Will you stop talking so loudly?” she snapped. “I can’t answer any of those questions. All I need you to do is keep this stone with you at all times, and make sure no one else sees it. This is strictly between you and me. Understand?”
She spoke as though talking to a child, and Corion was not used to such a thing. He was, after all, an Eagle prince.
“Yes,” he said slowly, watching her with a sceptical eye. “I understand.”
He didn’t, not really. He had no idea what he was meant to do with the thing, and Icara didn’t seem like she knew, either.
“Good,” she said. She began to climb out of the window. As she spread her wings, Corion took a step forward.
“Wait—!”
“What is it?” She didn’t turn to him.
Corion opened his mouth, a thousand questions on his mind, then stopped. Shook his head. Looked away.
“Nothing,” he said. “Um, have a nice flight.”
Icara leaped out of the window, effortlessly flying off with her stone wings. Corion watched her.
“Watch the skies,” he whispered.
It was a strange thing, to suddenly start caring about feathers.
“Corion.”
His father. Corion whirled around, schooled his expression, hid the stone behind his back.
“Father,” he muttered.
“Who were you talking to?” King Garion took a step inside the room. He looked tired, Corion noted. Tired and exasperated.
“No one, Father.”
“And how did the window break?” He was not surprised or startled or mad. Again, he was tired. Tired and exasperated.
“I don’t know.” Corion cast his gaze downwards.
“And what’s that, in your hand?”
“Nothing.”
Garion, clearly much too tired and exasperated to go any further with the interrogations, stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut. Corion was left alone, to think about feathers.
He looked down at the stone in his hands. It was nothing ordinary, he knew. Neither was that girl. He wondered about her. Where had she gone? Where had she come from?
She had given him some kind of responsibility, by trusting him with the stone. He had many responsibilities as a prince, but none seemed as important as this.
The room was cold. Apparently breaking in through the window had made the room colder. Who would have guessed? Icara probably didn’t care — could she even feel it? She was made of stone.
Maybe that was how it was, Corion thought. Maybe to have wings, you had to give up on life. Maybe only stone could fly. Maybe only stone was destined to have feathers.
The stone was warm in his hands, but the room was still cold. Corion turned back to the window, examining the stone in the dim moonlight.
Then, it glowed. Brighter than before. And before the prince knew what had happened, the very open and very exposed window was completely covered by a wall of solid rock.
Marble. Like Icara.
And vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, Corion knew that this thing — this magical thing that he held in his hands — was a weapon. He just knew it.
And Corion went back to sleep that night and dreamed of stones and feathers.