Boons and Curses

The tale of Arin, who learned that blessings and burdens are two sides of the same coin.

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Long ago, in a quiet village nestled between green hills and a forest that seemed to whisper secrets, there lived a boy named Arin. Unlike the other children, he was not known for his strength, speed, or cleverness with tools. His gift was stranger, subtler, and far heavier than any child could understand.

Arin was born with eyes that saw what others could not.

When he looked at people, he saw threads of light trailing behind them like ribbons—shimmering with kindness, laughter, and love. Yet he also saw shadows, clinging shapes made of regrets, secrets, and grief.

At first, this felt like a boon.

When a neighbor lost her ring, Arin guided her to the very stone it had rolled beneath. When a farmer was about to place his ladder wrong, Arin shouted just in time to save him from a broken leg. People marveled, whispering, “The gods have blessed this boy.”

The villagers came to trust him, even admire him. But as Arin grew older, he began to realize that no gift arrives without weight.

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The First Shadow

One summer evening, his closest friend Mira came skipping to him with a flower crown. Her laughter was like a bell, her joy endless. Yet when Arin looked into her, he froze.

Inside her chest slithered a dark shadow—a sickness hidden deep within. He knew it would take her long before her time.

He wanted to scream, to grab her hands and say, “Fight it!” But what good would that do? No herb, no prayer, no healer could stop it. He could not change what was written in her shadow.

That night, Arin cried alone, realizing the truth: his gift was also a curse. To see sorrow before it came, but to be powerless to stop it.

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Between Boon and Curse

As years passed, Arin learned to walk a narrow path. Sometimes he revealed what he saw—warning people gently so they could prepare. Other times, he held his tongue, carrying the burden of knowledge alone.

The villagers, however, began to rely too much on him. They asked before planting crops, before marriages, before journeys.

“Arin, is this the right day to wed?”

“Arin, will this business bring me joy or ruin?”

“Arin, should I take this road or the other?”

He was no longer just Arin. He had become their oracle, their compass.

His heart grew heavy. What had once been a gift to guide people was now chaining him.

Finally, desperate, he went to the village elder—an old woman with hair like silver threads and eyes still sharp as flint. She had once been a healer, wise in ways that had nothing to do with magic.

“Why did the gods give me this?” Arin asked, voice breaking. “I bring peace, but also fear. I help, but I also harm. Am I blessed, or am I cursed?”

The elder studied him for a long moment, then said softly:

“Child, a boon is never pure, and a curse is never complete. They are two rivers flowing from the same spring. What matters is not the water you are given, but how you drink it.”

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The Test of the Storm

Not long after, a terrible storm struck the land. Rain fell for days without end, drowning fields. Houses collapsed, sickness spread, and hunger followed.

The people crowded around Arin, desperate.

“Tell us what the gods want! Save us, Arin!”

But when he looked, his vision betrayed him. The world itself was smothered in shadow and light, tangled so tightly that even his strange eyes could not see the path ahead. For the first time, he was blind to fate.

Panic seized him. Without his sight, who was he? What good was he to his people?

Then he remembered the elder’s words. Perhaps his gift was never meant to deliver certainty. Perhaps it was meant to remind others of their own strength.

So he stood before the crowd and spoke:

“I cannot see the future. Not this time. But I see you. I see your courage, your kindness, your strength. The gods did not give me answers—they gave me the sight to remind you of who you already are.”

His words struck like a spark in the storm. The villagers, realizing they could not rely on him, turned to each other. They shared food, rebuilt houses together, and nursed the sick with love instead of fear. Slowly, painfully, the storm’s scars healed.

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The Final Lesson

Years later, when Arin’s hair had turned white and his strange sight had dimmed, children would gather at his hearth to listen to his stories.

“Grandfather,” they would ask, “was your sight a blessing or a curse?”

Arin would smile, lines deepening around his eyes.

“Both,” he would say. “The gods gave me light, but also shadow. The trick was never to escape one or the other. The trick was to live with both.”

He would pause, letting the fire crackle before adding:

“Remember this: every gift carries a burden, and every burden hides a gift. To see only one is to be blind. To embrace both is to truly see.”

And when Arin finally passed, the people did not remember him as a prophet of doom or a miracle worker. They remembered him as a man who carried both blessing and curse with grace—and taught them that life itself is both boon and curse.

It is in our hands to decide which we carry more.

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