The Ravenia sisters were not the typical village maidens. Their father, Ravernon, in fact was a great sage and wizard. Each was considered as beautiful as the other, with jet black hair and movements that were so graceful that they seemed to glide, almost fly across the floor. There was one odd thing about the sisters, however, they were never observed together. One might see Hetia or perhaps Metia, but never at the same time.
This did not seem to trouble the many suitors after their affections, however. Knights, mages, and nobles from throughout the three kingdoms would come to pay court to them. Some might be disappointed to find one sister, when their desire was for the other, but most remained undaunted as their beauty was almost mythical.
Little did anyone know, that the raven-haired beauties were not what they seemed. The great Ravernon was widowed before his wife could bear him a child. In is grief and loneliness he conjured his ‘children’ by converting hatchlings he spied on the battlements below his tall tower.
He was pleased with his efforts, but though his powers were great, he was not strong enough to maintain the two together in human form more than a few hours. As they grew it became more and more difficult to even achieve this. On the girls’ seventeenth birthday he made his decision. Each of his daughters would take her human form for only one day, then her sister would have her turn.
Oh, there were squabbles as to the fairness of the arrangement, especially if a favoured suitor called, but it had its benefits as well. Often the girls in their winged form would perch on a roof top or overhanging bough and spy on their suitors. The secrets gathered always gave them the upper hand in their relationships, and more than once avoided potential heart-break as they observed the men’s unfaithfulness before they had become too invested in a suitor.
There was even the day when Sir Tristan was flirting with a buxom wench near the village well, only for the blonde to suddenly take flight after she was showered with foul raven’s droppings as she coyly smiled and twisted her locks to draw the young knight’s interest.
Beware the dark magic of dark beauty, it may well prove fowl.
Sunday Photo Fiction – Aug 18 2019: Top Picture
Christine’s Daily Writing Prompt: The Beauty Myth
Inspiration Call: Flash Fiction Friday: Bottom Picture