The Wild Swan

I was born a prince. While I may not look impressive now, it doesn’t matter, as I was the 12th child of His Royal Majesty and too distant from the throne to ever aspire to the crown. I found joy in playing by the pond in the castle garden and listening to the stories told by the Jesters during the breaks between banquets. Being the youngest, my presence often went unnoticed. Although not necessarily shy, I felt more at ease with my thoughts than with the empty flattery of banquet conversations. My own thoughts were my preferred companions, and the forest behind the castle gate became my sanctuary. If I was king of a realm, I was content to have the squirrels and sparrows as my loyal subjects.

It is said that my mother died during my birth, and I will always mourn this loss. It’s not just the absence of a mother I never knew but also the guilt that I, in my eagerness to enter the world, caused her death. It’s claimed that my father’s name was the last thing she said, which is why I once had his name. The midwife interpreted her final words as a name for me. Although my nanny was loving, I longed to remember at least the sound of my mother’s voice or the sparkle of sunlight in her hair. But they say if wishes were fish, we would all feast.

When my father remarried, it brought joy to the kingdom. The beautiful maiden arrived on a white horse, symbolizing her purity, and my father beamed with infatuation, which made sense given the occasion. Only we children saw her true nature, as she was, in fact, a wicked being whose enchantment over my father did not affect us. We alone noticed the malice in her eyes and smelled sulfur whenever she spoke. We were the only ones who caught the contempt in her voice and saw her disdain whenever we passed. It wasn’t long before she transformed us into swans, for she was indeed a dark sorceress. All eleven of us princes woke up to find wings where arms had been and could only honk in place of speaking. I suspect she did this because she realized that if she bore a son, he would inherit the throne upon my father's death, ensuring her wealth and security. I have always wondered why she didn’t simply kill us outright; she seemed more ruthless towards my sister.

My sister, fair in appearance, was cast out into the village wearing a tattered dress with a scratched face. Little did my stepmother know that Maeve, the queen of the fairies, witnessed the entire event. Maeve rescued my sister and took her to the underworld, where she gave her a task: if my sister could gather the stinging nettles growing in the cemetery behind the old cathedral, spin them into yarn, and weave shirts for us, the spell would be broken. I admire how she immediately vowed to do whatever was necessary to save us from the malevolent curse. However, by this point, I had grown tired of human existence and found happiness soaring above the clouds, floating on the lake, and huddling together for warmth against the night chill. Those who envy royalty or aspire to be kings or queens overlook the burdens such responsibility entails—always glancing back to see if a trusted friend harbors ill intent or carefully sipping a rich broth that could be poisoned by someone seeking power from your demise. No, those aren’t positions I would wish upon anyone.

Imagine my dismay upon learning that part of the remedy from the Fairy Queen was that my sister must remain silent, as speaking would lead to our demise. (I still don’t understand why magic comes at a cost; it seems that nothing, not even the gifts of the Fairies, is given freely.) The queen instructed her on what to do, and off she went, leaving my poor sister to fulfill the grim task. I doubt Maeve remembers from one day to the next the mortal lives she toys with. Compared to the immortality of Fairies, we are as insignificant as insects.

One day, my sister was arrested and tried for witchcraft. She spun yarn day and night in the cemetery, and those who saw her tattered clothing, especially when she refused to answer their questions, grew increasingly suspicious of her; if she wasn’t a witch, she must be insane. Not a single word did my sister utter to save herself. They took her to the pyre, still knitting the final garment.

Then we swooped down to save her, each landing perfectly in the garments she held up, which were on the cart bound for the flames and were indeed products of magic. As my brothers transformed back into men, the crowd gasped in awe and cheered, until it was my turn. I looked at those who only moments before were prepared to execute my sister, who had sacrificed so much for us. I glanced back at the castle, where my stepmother would undoubtedly plot against us again. I looked within myself, feeling lighter as a swan than I had ever felt as a human. I leaped into the open sky, and the breeze on my wings beckoned me. With a glance of regret, I said goodbye to my former life and followed the wind to a new one. It was at that moment I realized that, yes, sometimes magic comes at a steep price, for I had just exchanged all that I had known for all that I would become.

They say I am free now. The daylight and night breezes are mine, and I am no longer tethered to the sorrows of the earth. The things I miss, like hunting with my falcon and feasting in the hall, grow increasingly faint as the years roll by. Now I land in the castle garden, listen to the tales of the jesters, and sometimes feel guilty that in the end, I alone was saved.