By the stream, under the soft autumn sun, the hen and her fluffy chicks were lounging about, enjoying a fine sunbath.

  Now and then came a chirp or a cluck—likely about seeds and crumbs, though I can't say I’m fluent in poultry.

  The chicks, like their plump mama, were preening between their feathers.

  And if a flea or a mite showed up—well, lucky them. Free buffet.

  No rooster in sight—thankfully. He was a misplaced rooster if there ever was one.

  Then something shifted—the hen, all of a sudden, felt a shiver of dread.

  She let out a string of clucks—loud and panicked—as if calling for help.

  Was there a hero nearby? A brave soul who would come to her rescue?

  Danger crept in, quiet and sly. The branches whispered secrets, the leaves cracked beneath soft paws.

  The hen did all she could: she gathered her chicks beneath her wings. That was her everything.

  The fox drew closer.

  He was a devil—but such a pretty one.

  Orange as fire, with soft grey eyes. His fur was silky, his tail absurdly elegant.

  But to the hen and her chicks, he was the vilest thing to walk the woods.

  The hen’s sorrowful clucks turned sharp and fierce.

  The fox glanced at his trembling prey—then lunged, hungry for hen and chick alike, with no difference between them.

  He leapt at the hen—and midair, he flailed like a fool.

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  He tried to stop himself, but it was too late.

  He had made a terrible mistake. A very, very bad one.

  For there he was: the ugly duckling—now a full-grown, still-ugly duck—charging in like a hero.

  Not quite a lion. Not quite an eagle.

  But definitely a duck. A proud, flappy-footed duck, kicking up a storm of leaves with his wings.

  The fox, lovely and sleek, now found himself flailing under a fury of flaps and slaps.

  But then, the fox landed a few solid hits.

  The duck quacked—once, twice, loud and offended.

  That was enough. He rallied, flapped harder, and chased the fox off with a final storm of fury.

  The fight was over.

  He turned and walked past the hen and her chicks.

  He wasn’t ugly anymore.

  Blood streaked his white feathers, turning him into something like a flower—strange, red, and proud.

  He flapped his wings and, with his wide, water-born feet, ran toward the stream.

  This time, the leaves did not rise.

  They clung to the earth, hoping to be stepped on by the duck—

  to soak up a drop of his clear, noble blood,

  and be reborn—not as dead, fallen leaves,

  but as red petals.

  The silly ugly duck reached the stream—and slid into it.

  The clear water embraced its own.

  Sunlight sifted through the trees, searching for him.

  The stream, the water, the duck—they shimmered.

  They had become something else. Something enchanted.

  The duck was no longer of the land.

  He had no worldly manners.

  He was not bound.

  He was unbound.

  He didn’t become a swan.

  He didn’t need to.

  Sometimes, being unpretty is the only way to be unbound

  https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/113447/the-unbounded