When he came to, he was holding a feather. He was holding. With a hand! He let go and touched his face. No beak, but a nose and a mouth. Smooth skin, not soft feathers. His face grew wet in the bright sunlight, something he hadn’t been able to do for years. He lifted the rough sleeve of the shift to his face to wipe the tears away, just noticing the feathers poking out from the other unfinished sleeve.
“I’m so sorry, brother.” Aoife's voice carried over the crowd. “There wasn’t time!”
“What for?” He replied, laughing. “I’m whole again!”
This short story is a part of the illustrious Flash Fiction Friday. Read the other lovely stories, spun off the prompt: When he came to, he was holding a feather. from The Sarcastic Muse at the links below!
I love this fairytale! Great scene. Really brought me into the moment and made me joyful at his joy.
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