One day, a desert lark had found its way into the courtyard of a rajah's manor. Elusive and nomadic as larks are, they are also resourceful, and follow food where it sprouts. Proudly, the bird made its nest and sang of its new home, and this delighted the family and servants alike -- a lark's song is good fortune, as it is only heard when the bird gifts it to the world.

Most charmed of all by this sound was the princeling, a bright and curious boy whose parents never denied a request. (Truthfully, this is a folly found in all parents. But what good parent wishes misery upon their children?) When he learned it was a lark, he at once sought to capture it within a cage, so that he might always hear its song. However, his grandmother warned him against this, as to pursue a lark is to chase out its blessing. "They never sing when they're captive," she assured the boy, fondly ruffling his hair. "Let the bird do as it pleases, and we will never want for music."

This advice was heeded for a time, and when the lark sang, the world seemed brighter. Food tasted better, smells more rich and inviting, and even the dullest sand shone like jewels when it sang. The princeling dearly wished to see the bird he loved so deeply, and spent many hours sitting outside, leaving around crumbs in hope of luring it out, imagining a magnificent and elegant creature with red and gold feathers as beautiful as its music.

In time, a small brown bird with a thick beak emerged from the shrubs, and began pecking at the seeds scattered through the courtyard. A plain thing, this bird was, its feathers speckled like salt and pepper over a beige brown stone.

"Oh! You, go away!" shouted the boy. "That is for the lark, not a boring bird like you!"

The bird peered at the princeling, tilting its head, and took another uncaring peck. "Then this belongs to me, little human."

"You're the lark?" he frowned, disappointed. This ordinary bird, and it made such sweet music? "Then sing for me, lark, and prove it."

"I sing for the winds." said the lark. "For my home and for my love, not for you or any human."

Anger flared in the boy's chest at the rebuke, and he leapt on the bird in his rage. "If you are the lark who blesses us, then give me your song!" he snarled, tearing at the lark's feathers to find where it might be hidden.

As the boy's nails tore into the bird's body, no matter how the lark fought, it could not survive such an onslaught. As its head went limp, the last notes of its song left the lark's beak in its final breath.

Certain that he'd discovered the song that the bird had kept from him, the boy tore the bird's head off and its frail body open, searching for the rest of the tune to match the notes that had just leaked out.

It was only in the silence after, his hands stained with blood, that he began to weep.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 17th of Dharos, in the year 22 AC.