Once upon a time…
…there was a powerful knight errant named Sir Eørn. He was skilled in using the sword, lance, and shield. His armor was a gleaming white, and despite the many battles he had been in, his armor was unmarred, as pristine as the day it was forged. On his shield was emblazoned a bear that looked both fierce and noble. A blue flag was tied to the tip of his lance, swaying in the breeze whenever he walked. The tip of his sword was stained dark with the black blood of monsters and demons he had slain. He was spoken highly of throughout the land, and those who had personally seen his kind gaze swore his eyes were golden in color. Yet not one of them had ever heard him speak.
In the cities and towns, whenever he took his rest, he would often sit and listen to people singing, smiling to himself all the while. Whenever those he served insisted on paying him, he would accept with a smile, only to give it to minstrels at the next town.
One day, as Eørn walked through the woods, his meditations were interrupted by a scream and a screech. Leaping into action, he lowered his lance and charged towards the sound. The knight burst through the foliage and saw a woman, shielding her eyes, being attacked by a cockatrice. Without hesitating, Eørn hurled his lance, striking the cockatrice’s claw and pinning it to the tree. The beast screeched and clucked in rage, turning its killing gaze on the knight. Eørn pulled down the visor on his helm and drew his sword, rushing in. The monster’s tail lashed out and the knight dodged. The cockatrice’s leg shot out, hitting the knight in his stomach. Eørn fell to his knees, protecting himself with his shield as the cockatrice kicked out again. The knight blocked the kick and rolled with the hit, coming up and slicing the creature’s neck. The cockatrice’s head fell to the ground, spraying ooze from the neck. The black blood rolled off Eørn’s white armor without leaving a mark. The knight landed, sword at the ready, catching his breath. Satisfied that the monster would not rise again, he sheathed his sword and retrieved his lance, freeing the woman that had been attacked.
Though black blood was splashed all over the tree, the woman’s countenance and dress were unsoiled. Eørn bowed, removing his helm. She offered her hand, and he kissed it. She received his kiss with a smirk. “What is your name?” she asked.
As always, the knight said nothing.
She blinked. “I asked you a question, knight. I would know the name of my savior.” Seeing that he still did not reply, she frowned. “Or would you have me think you rude?”
He bowed again. When she said nothing further, he suspected that she had left in anger. Rising, he saw her in front of him still. But she had been transfigured. A fey woman stood in her place, with leaves crawling up her body to nest in her hair. An odd expression was on her face, as though she were not sure what to think. “You have saved my life,” the faery said, “and you were wise enough not to trust me with your true name. Therefore, I have little choice but to give you a boon, lest I be considered rude in my place. What do you wish, knight? A kingdom of your own? Riches? The love of some lady?” She was about to add, “To become the most powerful of knights,” but did not, because she half-expected he already was, whether he knew it or not.
For a long moment, the knight said nothing, until even the faery began to grow impatient. At last, he spoke, and when he did, it was with a harsh rasp. “I wish for nothing,” he croaked, removing his armor, revealing a horrific scar on his neck. “Except for a voice. I wish to be able to sing.”
The fey blinked in surprise at this wish, for she had never heard anything like it from a knight. “For real?” she blurted out. “I mean, indeed? I confess I did not expect such a request. Are you sure this is your wish?”
“It is a desire I did not dare to admit, even to myself,” he rasped.
Sensing his honesty, the faery sighed. “I might restore your wound,” she said, “but it is beyond fey magic to create that for which you have wished.” This was not strictly true; there have been tales in which mortals were blessed with faerie-art. But that power was stolen from the Folk, and was stolen back just as easily. No fey can tell an untruth, but the faery knew that the knight would never accept stolen art, and so she had spoken truthfully.
“There is,” she said, “another way.” The knight looked at her expectantly. “This art cannot be created, that is, made from nothing. However, I can draw it out from another source within you.”
“Such as?”
“If you truly wish to sing,” the faery continued, “and sing well, I must convert the art from your other talents. By granting you this gift, you will lose all strength and skill in combat you have now. You will not even be able to hold a sword correctly. Your life as a knight will end.”
“If that is the price, it is already paid,” he rasped. “Without question,” he said again, interrupting her as she began to ask once more.
There was no ceremony, no ritual. If anything, the faery seemed eager to be out of the knight’s presence. With the softest of after-glows, she disappeared.
Eørn coughed. He coughed again as his throat burned. He dropped his sword and shield, and they clattered to the ground as his hands flew to his neck. The heat faded.
For a long moment, Eørn knelt unmoving, face toward heaven. He breathed in, slowly. Then, a tear tracing his face, he bowed his head and sang for the first time in his life. As his voice rose, the forest was filled with the sound.
He was singing a hymn.
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