Swansong

He dipped his wing in the Painted Sands and drew it across his brow, staining the white feathers with color. Upon his breast he wrote the symbol of the Fallen Feather.

“Please, father, do not do this thing.” Nia was still young, not yet mated. She would grow to understand in time.

“I have no choice, gosling. Nest is sacred. Mates are sacred. He has violated them both.”

“And what will you do when you reach the mountain? What can one cob do against the gods themselves?”

He anointed his feet with the Crimson Spot. “I will sing,” he said.