Destiny spins strange webs in the shadow of time. Sam Nariman, the paramount paladin of Iran, possessed within his inner chambers a moon-faced consort of surpassing grace. When her child was brought forth into the world, the babe possessed a radiant countenance and a silver body, yet his hair from head to crown shone as pure white as driven snow. For seven full days, none among the women dared reveal this marvel to the fierce realm-defender, fearing his wrath. At last, a brave nurse step forward like a lioness, pronouncing blessings upon the hero and declaring that a flawless son had been born to his line, save for the snow-white hair decreed by Fate.
When Sam looked upon the babe's shining silver locks, anguish and acute shame seized his soul. Raising his voice to the heavens, he wept before the Almighty, agonizing over what ancient sin had brought such disgrace upon his house, dreading that men would deem the child a demon's spawn. Driven by pride and fear of public shame, Sam commanded his men to bear the innocent infant far away and abandon him upon the desolate crags of Mount Alborz, beneath the towering nest of the mythical Simorgh. Left upon the bare granite, with only the dark earth for a cradle and the burning sun for a mother, the child wailed in hunger.
When the Simorgh soared into the upper skies to hunt for her brood, the lamentations of the infant echoed through the abysses. Divine mercy touched the great heart of the mythical bird. Swooping down, she gently grasped the child in her talons and carried him to her celestial nest on the high peak. There, her fledglings marvelled at his radiant beauty and embraced him as a brother. Fed upon the tenderest choice of prey, the child grew through long years into a noble youth—broad-chested as a lion, tall as a cypress, and bearing the majestic demeanor of kings.
As rumor of this miraculous youth raised by the bird of god spread across the earth, Sam was haunted in his sleep by a vision of an Indian rider bringing tidings of his living child. His wise astrologers and mobads scolded him bitterly for discarding his own blood. In a second terrifying dream, a celestial herald reproached Sam for his arrogance and hard-heartedness, reminding him that the Creator had nurtured the child whom he had cast away. Overcome with deep remorse, Sam led his champions to the foot of Alborz, only to find the Simorgh's nest built atop impossible, sheer cliffs that touched the stars. Falling upon his face, Sam wept and begged God for forgiveness and aid.
The wise Simorgh saw the sorrowful champion below and told Zal that the time had come to claim his rightful royal inheritance. Though Zal wept to leave the cozy sanctuary of the crags, the Simorgh bestowed upon him a glowing plume, instructing him to burn it whenever hardship or peril assailed him, promising to swoop down like a storm cloud to his side. The bird lifted Zal upon her back and descended smoothly to the plain. Seeing his magnificently built son—with the chest of a lion and eyes like dark onyx—Sam bowed before the Simorgh in gratitude, asked his son for forgiveness, and clad him in royal silks. To the thunderous sound of war horns, drums, and golden bells, the army marched back, celebrating the return of the glorious white-haired prince.