Nightingale Blues

There he is, that traitorous master of mine, preening about like he owns the whole palace. Just because he’s the emperor doesn’t give him the right. I only see him when he comes into the menagerie now. He does it to taunt me.

I trill and whistle, singing to him such songs of love and lust that he used to once adore. But no longer. Perched upon his shoulder is my nemesis, oh most hated of mine. She preens herself, and croons directly into his ear. He smiles, and feeds her a snack. The snack that should be mine.

Her voice calls to mine when the sun sets, and I know both ardor and adoration that tortures me in this captivity bringing upon me only insanity. There is magic in her voice, a sweetness that there shouldn’t be, for it should be only my song he hears, not hers.

She glances over her wing, cocking her head. I know she’s smirking inside, and I hear a whistle the emperor cannot comprehend. The endless mockery. She’s his favorite now, and I am here forgotten. Trapped in a cage.

These bars shall not hold me forever, even as I grip them in my claws, imagining them to be my master’s clothes, soft to the touch and warm besides. I used to nestle there, but now this is all I know. Why does she deserve her freedom, while I languish here? What does she possess that I do not?

I ask merely a rhetorical question, because the madness she coaxes out of me that drives me to delirium is precisely what holds her to him. She calls, and I watch the emperor become startled, but I answer back most passionately, hoping against hope he’ll turn my way. He continues on, but I match her in duet, my call to hers, her call to mine.

Each bar that exists between us hinders me, and I flap about my cage, frustrated. He points at something, and she launches up, fluttering about him. The emperor laughs with the delight he once held for me. She swoops down at my cage, passing by with a light flutter before alighting upon his shoulder again.

Another treat for her, of course. I sing again, even more loudly, but they wander away. She glows for him, hopping off and flying away, and he chases her, calling her name. “Nightingale, o Nightingale!” he says, as if it hadn’t once been my own name.

He acts as a child here, alone in the menagerie, free from the worries of his land. Her song surrounds us and the other animals here. Some are in cages like me, while others roam as free as my rival, my love, my enemy. She is his constant companion, perfect in every way that I am not.

His witch created her, I know it. I was there when he asked her what she could do with her magic, if she could make a bird whose song would call down love from the heavens themselves. The witch laughed, but said she could. I trilled, and she plucked one of my feathers.

This cage has been my home ever since. I want to be free, to love the emperor’s nightingale. To kill her. To become her. She is my everything. They have passed out of sight, but I still remember her. The brown of her wing, the way she gracefully rushes past my cage every time.

Daily they come here, and so I plot my escape. I haven’t got any great plans. Mostly I want to break free when they feed me, but now instead of shoulder snacks they dump in dry, dusty seeds. Insulting, I say. An emperor’s nightingale is worth more than just seeds. My song was renowned far and wide, and often he called upon me to sing for his subjects. Now I sing for myself, and for the beauty on his shoulder that mocks me. If only she’d turn her head. If only she’d come closer than a wing’s whistle.

I sing to her again, more loudly, and she calls back, her song melting in my heart, an answer of gaiety and purity, uncaged and free. Her song is the clarion call of enchantment and life, while mine drones more into solemnity and solitude. I hate her.

She calls out one last time, echoing through the menagerie, and I know they have left for good. Keepers come through to dim the lights now that the emperor has come through, so that they may turn in for the night. I do not wish to stop, so I keep singing in the darkness, alone, and forgotten. Perhaps I will see them again tomorrow.

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Story Prompt: The nightingale is a story about an emperor who prefers his magical nightingale over the real one. Write from the perspective of the bird, who is immensely jealous.

From: 500 Fantasy Writing Prompts by Erica Blumenthal