The Flute of Ilyria

It was after a night of dreams and honeyed wine that Dathyn swore that he would have for his wife Ilyria, the Faerie Queen. After all, he mused, there is none brighter, none more beautiful than Ilyria. If he could but capture her, she would grant him a wish, such was the price for elvish freedom; then he could wish for her everlasting love. Then he could sit besides her in Aesfhard, the kingdom, of the elves. Immortal, he could rule the Fair with her, and every night could be a night of dreams and honeyed wine. To most, capturing the Faerie Queen would be near impossible, but Dathyn knew that her greatest love was for music and with this Dathyn planned to lure Ilyria to him. As only the sweetest tones and purest melodies could attract the Fair, and only the best of those could summon their Queen, Dathyn knew no ordinary instrument could fulfill his needs. Now Dathyn was a silversmith, a craftsman of unsurpassed ability, and after three days of silent deliberation, he decided that he would create a flute of the finest silver. No mundane pipe woule this be, for to it he would bind the essence of the three purest musicians: the voice of the birds that sing gaily in spring; the whistle of the wind that blows across all the lands; and the chirp of the crickets and their nightly orchestra. Early the next day, Dathyn set out on his quest. He left the city and wandered across the countryside until he found a small bird tangled in some discarded netting. "Help me," it twittered in that lilting voice common to songbirds of uncommon beauty. "Freedom has its price," replied Dathyn. "I am but a lark, I have nothing to give," it pleaded. "Oh, but you do. And I have decided that the price of your release is your voice," at which the lark became understandably agitated, for a bird without its voice is as a jeweì without its sparkle, or a flower with no scent. But it was apparent that the lark could not escape without assistance, and a dead lark has no voice either, so the small bird relinquished its treasure for a gift of equal value, freedom. With this priceless booty, Dathyn returned to the city. At once he confronted the wind that gusted through the streets. Now getting the wind's attention was no easy task, for it is not wont to notice small creatures in its hurry; but eventually Dathyn's persistance won over. "Who are you who addresses me so," breathed the wind. "I am Dathyn the silversmith. I come to trade." "Trade what for what?" whispered the breeze. "I want your whistle, your song," stated Dathyn, "In return for which I will give you anything you want." Now the wind was not accustomed to bargaining with humans, but "anything" can be a tempting offer. Had the wind had time to think, it would have asked for something different, but as haste is the way of the wind, it asked for what some might think of as a mere trifle. "There is a tall building at the end of the avenue. Open all of its windows and doors that I may explore it, and you shall have what you want." Without hesitation, Dathyn ran to the end of the avenue to the tall building and, starting from the first floor, began to open every window and portal that there was. As each was opened, the wind blew in happily, free to frolic in this once impenetrable fortress. As the last shutters were opened, the breeze, now a gale in its joy, rushed in, nearly blowing Dathyn over, leaving him clutching the whistle of the wind. Dathyn returned home and tried to rest. But his excitement was too great, for his search was almost completed. That evening Dathyn left his home and roamed the streets until finally he came upon a small cricket, huddled in the corner where a building met the ground. "Why do you quiver so?" asked Dathyn of the cricket. "I am lost in the city," it replied. "I am afraid to move for fear of being trampled." Then Dathyn  proposed that in return for the chirp of its wings, he would take the cricket to the safety of the wilderness. "Or, I  could crush you now." In its terror, the  insect immediately agreed and soon Dathyn had the third component of his quest. The rest of the night was spent with dreams and honeyed wine, and Dathyn slept well and long into the next day. Upon awaking, Dathyn quickly went to work, picking from his stock the finest silver. There in his forge, he melted the metal and as the last of the impurities were burned away, he added the essence of nature's three finest musicians. When at last all were thoroughly mixed, he set the mold and for three days he crafted the flute that would win the heart of Ilyria. Tempered in moonlight as much as the sun's luminence, the magnificent instrument was completed at dusk of the third day. With his lure polished as bright as a moonbeam, Dathyn again returned to the wilderness where at once he began to play. All the ears of Men have never heard such glorious music. The melodies were carried by the breeze, absorbed into the ground, and into the very souls of every creature who could hear it. The elements trembled and the wilderness fell to silence as if any other sound was blasphemous. Soon there came a glow, pale and bright and beautiful -- a perfect match to the music which Dathyn made. And in that glow was Ilyria, the Faerie Queen. She danced around Dathyn  thrice before he suddenly stopped playing and reached out and grabbed Ilyria. She was caught. Although she struggled, his grip held firm, for Dathyn was not a weak man. And as he expected, the Faerie Queen offered him a wish in return for her release. And Dathyn thought about it, for a wish is no treasure to be squandered. He could have infinite wealth, immortality, magicaì powers, all that a man could desire. But no, he thought; all he wanted was the Faerie Queen's love; and if Ilyria loved him more than anything else, she would grant him these other things anyways. So, as was his plan from the start, Dathyn wished to be Ilyria's greatest love, and it was so. Then Dathyn vanished because Ilyria's greatest love was for music, and so became Dathyn -- the songs produced from that flute made of finest silver and the voice of the birds that sing gaily in spring and the whistle of the winds that blow across all the land and the chirp of the crickets and their nightly orchestra, which the Faerie Queen treasures to this very day.

This was an attempt at some kind of fablish tale, I guess. Something reminiscent of Lord Dunsany's stories. I like some of the ideas in this one, but the execution is still pretty strained or contrived.