V. The Tale of an Ugly "Duckling"

Before the tales, before the songs,

there was a nameless lake.

Small. Silent.

But leaves did not float upon it.

They sank.

The fish born in its waters had too many mouths —

mouths that whispered dark ideas.

The frogs didn’t croak.

They screamed.

They say it was a god that fell there.

A broken god, cosmic and cursed,

cast out from the sky,

tearing through the clouds like a black tear

and sinking to the bottom,

leaving a wound that never healed.

Since then, the lake no longer reflected faces,

but desires.

And the desires were never kind.

No one swam there.

No one fished.

Mothers pulled their children away from its shores.

Dogs never barked nearby.

Birds never flew above it.

But the water remained.

Waiting.

A wounded, disoriented duck, with no better place to lay her clutch,

was forced to nest upon the cursed shore.

All her eggs failed to hatch —

except one.

One that pulsed with wet, living flesh.

One already radiating the lake’s cosmic curse.

The egg did not crack like the others.

It did not tremble.

It did not shake.

It simply opened,

with a soft, wet sound,

as if the shell had melted from the inside out.

The other eggs never hatched.

They withered.

Their warmth, their life, their energy...

were consumed.

As if the hatchling had been born from them,

not with them.

The mother duck watched in silence.

Her feathers fell away.

Her eyes grew dim.

And by the time the thing emerged,

she was no longer alive.

She didn’t die of fear.

She died… hollow.

What crawled from the shell was no duck.

It was something slick and black-feathered,

with translucent skin

and eyes that never blinked—

because they weren’t eyes.

It didn’t cry.

It didn’t shiver.

It only breathed.

And with each breath,

the air grew heavier.

The nearby water began to bubble.

Insects dropped from the sky.

The lake did not reject it.

It recognized it.

As its child.

The creature swam in circles beneath the surface.

Animals avoided it.

Even the shadows pulled away.

It made no sound,

but the ripples it left on the water

caused the stones at the bottom to tremble.

The lake began to change upon contact with it.

The algae turned black.

The frogs grew teeth.

The fish grew legs.

It grew quickly.

But not like a bird.

Nor like any creature of the forest.

It grew as if it were remembering its original shape.

As if it were being rebuilt from within,

guided by something that was not itself.

In the village, children began to have nightmares.

They dreamed of dark entities

and whispers rising from the lake’s depths.

Once, a shepherd came near the water.

His dog never returned.

Only a warm, viscous puddle remained…

and spiral-shaped footprints.

The creature no longer had a mother.

But it was not alone.

The lake was speaking to it.

And it had begun to understand.

The water no longer held it.

It followed.

Each time the creature emerged at the shore,

it left behind a trail of dampness…

that never dried.

The nearby shrubs began to mutate.

Their roots curled around one another,

forming blind eyes.

The birds that drank from the lake

began laying eggs with impossible shapes.

One of them exploded mid-flight.

It did not fall.

It vanished.

The creature wandered farther.

Not out of hunger.

Not out of curiosity.

But because something was driving it.

A nameless urgency.

An old woman from the village—

one who still remembered the ancient myths—

threw salt into the water.

It hissed…

and the salt floated.

It never sank.

The lake was no longer a body of water.

It was a breach.

And the creature…

a walking fracture.

The tale of the ugly duckling had not yet been told.

But the first whispers had begun to spread through the forest.

About a bird with no mother.

And a lake that had begun…

to watch.

It did not walk.

It slid.

Through reeds.

Through roots.

At times, it rose on two long, broken legs,

as if remembering it had once been a bird.

It had wings.

But they were useless.

Hanging membranes that trembled without wind.

And its neck...

stretched further than it should.

Sometimes, too far.

The children who wandered near the lake

began to see it in their dreams.

And those who saw it most...

forgot how to speak.

In the village, no one spoke its name.

Because it had none.

Because it was not meant to have one.

A blind woman called it “duckling.”

And then she laughed—

until she swallowed her tongue.

The creature watched her from the shore.

Its eyes did not shine.

They did not look.

But they absorbed.

And with each passing night,

its body gained more...

coherence.

As if it were preparing

to enter the world—

and never leave again.

The children didn’t remember having nightmares.

But they didn’t sleep.

Their eyes stayed open through the night,

staring at the ceiling,

listening to drips no one else could hear.

The adults began to say it was all made up.

Just stories.

Nothing more.

Because no one wanted to look at the lake.

Or speak of the things that sometimes crawled out of it

and died before reaching the road.

That’s when the tale was born.

Someone — no one knows who —

spoke of an ugly duckling.

One that no one loved.

One that, in the end, became something beautiful.

And everyone, upon hearing it, breathed easier.

They preferred that version.

They needed it.

The creature heard the story from within the water.

And something inside it twisted.

Because it knew it wasn’t true.

It wasn’t a duckling.

And if it ever did transform…

it would never be a swan.

The lake trembled at night.

Not from the wind.

Not from the storm.

But from something moving beneath the surface,

like a heart too large for the water to contain.

The creature was no longer just flesh and feathers.

Cracks split open in its skin, and through them emerged a light…

but not a warm light.

A light from elsewhere.

From another plane.

And that light was hungry.

A fox drank from the lake.

It died and was absorbed.

A shepherd threw stones at the water.

But in truth, he was throwing them at himself.

The creature now wandered beyond the water.

It searched.

It didn’t know what for.

But it was hungry.

Its body changed each time it consumed a life.

As if it were adapting.

As if the real world were

too…

tight.

And the forest,

which once contained it,

began to rot.

The roots whispered its name.

A name that could not be spoken.

Only invoked…

Xhœ’l’thäûn.

Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäû

Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäûn.Xhœ’l’thäû

On a moonless night,

the lake split in silence.

Not with thunder.

Not with light.

But like a yawn from the world.

A crack exhaling something ancient,

heavy with mold and dead stars.

The creature emerged.

It no longer swam.

No longer crawled.

It floated.

Its form was not fixed.

But it held together,

like an idea that refuses to die.

The nearby trees bent.

Not in reverence.

But in weakness.

The villagers awoke with blood in their eyes

and strange whispers in their dreams.

One threw himself into the well.

Another carved symbols into his own skin.

The creature spoke.

Not with a voice.

With a language no human mind could comprehend.

And the forest answered.

It was not a duckling.

It was not a monster.

It was a fragment.

A splinter of the fallen god,

fed by time,

fed by flesh,

fed by fear.

It no longer wished to hide.

It wished… to be born.

The elders of the realm, faced with the threat,

opened the book no one dared to touch.

The one that smelled of damp leather and ash.

The one that bled when opened.

Only one page remained intact.

Only one seal.

Only one chance.

The creature no longer hid.

It rose above the lake.

Not with a body.

But with presence.

A shadow that did not cast darkness…

but reflection.

Each person saw something different.

Each one went mad.

The last ones marched to the lake.

Not with courage.

But with resignation.

They brought salt, ash, and fire.

They drew symbols.

They prayed to a god that no longer existed.

And many lost their minds in the process.

The creature did not resist.

It watched—waiting for madness to win.

And when the final syllable was spoken,

it let itself fall back into the water,

as if it were tired.

As if… it were waiting to return.

When the time is right.

The lake was sealed with stone.

The lake was sealed with sulfur.

The lake was sealed with runes.

The lake was sealed with tales.

But beneath the surface,

the reflection remained.

Dreaming.

Xhœ’l’thäûn.

Years passed.

The lake was erased from the maps.

The roads were rerouted.

And mothers stopped warning their children.

But the tale remained,

altered to hide the truth.

An ugly duckling.

Different.

Rejected.

Who, in the end,

becomes a pure white swan.

The children smiled.

The adults too.

Because that story didn’t hurt.

It didn’t speak of blood.

Or buried gods.

Or hollow bodies floating in black waters.

It only spoke of hope.

And hope sells.

But sometimes,

every now and then,

someone finds the lake.

Nameless.

Mapless.

And if they stay long enough,

they hear something.

A sweet song.

Sometimes sorrowful.

Sometimes cryptic.

And in the reflection,

they don’t see their face.

They see black feathers.

And a whisper inviting them to swim.

Because stories repeat.

And lies…

can’t hold back the water forever.

Moral of The Story.

"Some Ugly Ducklings don't become swans. They simply... remember what they are.

-The Lost Tales