She was so beautiful that no one could gaze at her. All those who served did so with eyes downcast or wearing a hood. They knew that beauty was the last thing you saw before your eyes went dark.
Maybe it was a spell. It was said that her great great grandmother was born of a demon after all. Powerful magic ran in their family, and so it seemed that powerful beauty did too.
The courtiers were used to it.
The servants got used to it.
The portrait painters? They worked with mirrors around corners, and fast glances with eyes almost closed.
Her family never went near her. Not after they realised. Her father never spoke her name now. To have such a beautiful daughter and not be able to marry her as a prize was an insult from the gods he could not stand to think about.
Messages sent, small notes, little gifts, love poured from their palace to hers, but not people. They kept their lives separate, and kept their sight.
And the young men who sought her hand, well they had so many things to learn.
But no one could tell the birds, the small sparrows, the tiny finches and wrens that flew around her garden unawares. Everyday she walked in that garden. Everyday her servant walked behind to collect the stunned and blinded little birds.
It made her sad. Not much did.
So she had a room made for them, high in her tower, the walls padded with soft exquisite silks, the floor filled with rare flowering plants - ah the suitors and their wondrous gifts.
Every day the fallen - sparrows, finches, and wrens - were placed in this room.
She never went there. It would be too sad.
It didn’t matter, none of them lived longer than a day or two.
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