Once upon a time, so long ago, that only memories and letters of that time remain, the world was filled with wonders. Pigs flew, biting grass just started blooming, and swans sang. Or rather, one specific swan sang. Of that star is our tale.

Talented he was like no other, entertaining everyone with songs and dance, and tales of great deeds of millennia past, shining at every feast! And his star shone so brightly, that it’s light was noticed even in the world beneath the darkness. And they gave this light a name – Cygnus.

Beautiful were his dances, like a willow in the wind. And sweet were his songs, like rivers of honey, flowing resonantly across the lands.

But he himself was not as sweet as his songs. He was as cold as the most distant moon, proud and dignified. His honeyed words held a bite of bitterness. Only those who were useful to him were worth his gaze. And in the whole world he loved only himself, his talents, and the fame they brought him.

More than once, when praised, Cygnus only nodded proudly in response: 

"There is no voice in this world that can compare to mine."

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It happened one summer day, when Cygnus was walking past a lake. And in that lake were nereids - river mermaids — splashing merrily, gathering for their sabbath. And in their splashing, a song emerged — one, two, three — the nereids began to hum and harmonize, laughing, praising each other for their beautiful melodies, saying there were none better in the world.

Huffed Cygnus then, and fluttered his wings indignantly! "Who would call that singing?" And began to lecture them, laying out every mistake and note. And before leaving, he finished with a rude remark - "You, my dears, are far from my level!"

Oh how angry grew the nereids, how upset. To the sabbath they got late, told their friends what had happened to them. And hearing that, the other nereids were enraged, too. One, two, three — they went at Cygnus, all finding something to reproach him for.

And in collective anger, decided they that a lesson should be taught. With all their forces gathered, all the magic they possessed combined and turned into a curse they cast on him — so that every note would stick in his throat, so that every melody would crumble to dust, and every sweet sound would torment ears of those who heard.

And so it came to pass. No matter how hard Cygnus tried to sing, it tore at his throat, burning from within. His sweet voice, even in words, became razor-sharp. He thrashed about, searching for potions or charms, but all in vain.

He rushed to his descendants, created from his dust — they give him a note, but the note is shattered. He rushed then to those he had created earlier, when he could still sing himself – they hum for him, but the tune is choking them.

Distraught he became, saddened like no other. Without songs the dance isn’t flowing. Not long did he last without his beloved work, withered like a flower in the winter cold.

The story ends, but not all is told.

At deathbed, a desire has overcome him to try again, there's nothing to lose after all. A faint wheeze – from it a thin ringing. A trill behind the ringing – from it a melody. Neither joy nor sorrow, he showed nothing. He only sang and sang, as long as he could and until his soul burned it’s last. All who were there, all who saw, all betrayed one thing only – there had never been such a song in the world, he had poured his whole soul into it.

Finished singing and fell dead.

Since then, all his descendants — the Cygni — from young to old, all cursed with the same affliction that steals their voice. And like him, only once in their life can they sing, pouring their entire soul into this one, incomparable, swan song.

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