As predicted, Narrator had not been his last feasting of the dead. Instead, it stirred a new hunger in Raven's guts. This drove him to take flight and seek the dying. He could smell it, almost taste it as it settled over a perishing mortal. Many deaths came in the wake of Narrator's passing. The creatures were lost without her. Many gave up completely and died from thirst or starvation as they forgot what living required. These were the worst for him. They offered little as a meal and they disgusted him because they had been so incomplete as to need another to continue to exist. Pitiful or not, he was compelled to consume them.

But there were those of the Nameless Ones that struggled to find their own way into being. As their twisted bodies struggled to take shape, many found themselves in unsustainable forms. Their deaths went unnoticed except by the black wings that settled over them and devoured what they had left behind. As he consumed them, he hoped that the essence of their being had found a better place.

There had to be somewhere better than Erebos for them to be. He hoped that there was another way out other than the Narrator because that door was forever closed. A part of him despaired that they would be locked there forever, but another part refused to believe this was possible. But he had not been able to break those bonds without her. He was no better. It was these ones that he mourned as he feasted.

Landing, he smelled the air. Death was ripe here, but he could not find the corpse. Rooting in the dirt and pawing through the brush, there was nothing here. Hopping back and forth, he worked at this puzzle. Passing by the living, he continued to seek. But then he scented it on them. Bringing his nose against their flesh he drank in the aroma. But they were not the dying. He examined them, but they wore no blood. They huddled around a small fire frozen in place. They were unimportant, only that smell mattered. If he knew who they were, perhaps he could figure out where the food was...

"Who, who are you?" he asked.

At first, none answered him. Fear painted their faces as they stepped back. Raven knew they should be afraid. He frightened himself at times. Creatures had long ago come to know that he was death's messenger. But a small one had not shrunk from him. Instead, she stepped from the back of the group, moving around the larger ones so that she was standing directly in front of Raven. Her eyes were fierce and challenged him. Offering no answer, he came closer to her so that there were only a few inches between their noses and confirmed that death had scented her. She was a strange creature. He hopped about her, taking her in at every angle.

Cocking his head, he regarded her with curiosity. Did he smell the same? A part of him knew that licking his feathers clean had never rid him of the death he'd bathed in. Parting his lips, he hissed at her. She was not moved. The others fled from him, terror gripping them and compelling them to separate themselves from this terrible creature. He felt no animosity towards them. No delusions of what he was held a place in his mind or heart. Was she something like him that death clung to her this way? Perhaps that was why she didn't fear him. Or maybe she was just stupid.

"I'm Enaid," she said, pointing to the center of her chest.

That pointing finger annoyed him and he bristled out the feathers that framed his face. Did she think that he couldn't understand her words? How dumb to assume that someone couldn't understand you. He huddled down and tipped his head to the other side. Large brown eyes with darkness at their center stared at him just as closely. Pallor clung to her flesh as if she was a sickly thing, but he could smell her vigor. Tousled brown hair sat as an untidy cap.

So familiar that it hurt deep to his bones. How long? Time had lost all meaning. Sliding away into oblivion its counting was meaningless. But here there was a mirror of the Narrator. It made his heart thud in his chest and he struggled to bring air into his lungs.

Feeling the Narrator dying in his arms again and tasting her flesh, he closed his eyes. It was a sin he preferred not to remember, but forgetting that meant forgetting her. He refused to lose her a second time. So he forced himself to look back and be careful in his comparison between this girl and the Narrator.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Ra-raven," he crowed.

"Raven?"

Flicking his head in a short nod, he wondered why she had repeated it back. He was beginning to believe she really was dumb. This saddened him. It meant that she was unlikely to know where the food was. And it also meant that she was not like the Narrator after all. Not in the ways that mattered.

She reached up and gently stroked the length of his nose. Falling onto his hands and knees, he brought his eyes level with hers. Stuffing his face into her hair, he breathed deeply. She drew away from him a little, but otherwise gave no protest. Everything had a scent. Hers was buried beneath the death, but it was there.

Licking her, he considered the matter further. However, this was not as well received as the smelling had been. Giving a squawk, she swatted at him, bringing the flat of her palm across the side of his face. But it was not a meaningful strike; more a statement of displeasure than anything else. He ignored it. There were more important things to attend to.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked.

He offered no reply. Licking his lips and swirling her taste in his mouth, he worked hard to get a sense of her. The memory of Narrator was still crisp in his mind and it was easy for him to compare the two flavors.

“Are you ignoring me now?” she asked.

She slapped him a second time; this one with more force. But it elicited no more reaction then the first. He was fully aware of her distress and knew that it was caused by the strange manner that he was regarding her. In a way he was ignoring her, but in another he was giving her all his attention. But he needed a moment to think. Some things required careful consideration.

“Hello?”

She waved a hand in front of his face.

“Narrator,” he whispered.

Was it possible? Narrator could have been a mother. She had been old enough for that. The smell, taste and appearance of this girl were not identical, but it was close. He had eaten enough families to know that there was a similar dining experience with blood relatives. But was it true? The ache in his heart screamed that he wanted it to be. But desire did not bring things into being. That had been only for the Narrator.

"Wh-where do, do you come from?" Raven asked.

She shrugged as though it didn't matter. Having folded her arms over her chest and shifting her weight onto one leg, she looked as though she wanted nothing more to do with him. But she was still here. Not trying to leave was an indication that a part of her was still curious about him.

"Who is your, your mo-mo-mother?" he trilled the question.

It was such a hard word to speak. The idea of it grieved him more than her death. Had she been stolen from her child? Black tears spilled and stained his white skin. Imagining Narrator’s hands gripping his chest, he gasped for breath then quietly sobbed.

"I don't know. I never met her."

The little thing seemed to understand how important the question had been and she reached out her hands to comfort him. Stroking his cheeks she murmured a soft song. He'd heard it before. As the Narrator had walked the place of lights she had hummed that song absently. Truth struck him deeply. Both pain and joy unfolded themselves along with his wings.

Tipping his head to the sky he cawed. Thunder pealed through the wood. Rain cascaded from the sky. Relief came with this washing, but he continued to caw. She huddled up against him and he folded himself around her, creating shelter.

"Who n-named you?" he asked.

"Thomas. He said he found me wandering in the woods when I was little," she explained.

How terrible it was that this girl had never known her mother. Had Narrator ever held her child? Perhaps this family had been broken before her death. While this was a terrible possibility, it would ease his guilt. Having been the cause of her death was enough. Shattering a family would be an additional burden to bare and he was not sure that he could carry another.

"How, how old are you, you now?" he asked.

She was patient with his broken speech, waiting for him to complete his thoughts even though it was obvious that she understood half way through. Perhaps she wasn’t stupid after all. That was good, because he could already feel something forming in his mind.

"Twenty."

Not so young then. How old had the Narrator been? Realizing he didn't know, a new grief settled with in him. She had left him without giving him anything of herself. Having given the most important gift, she'd felt that no other had been needed. But he had wanted to know her. Beneath all her stories, she must have had her own. He wondered if she had forgotten it the way that she had once forgotten his. Or had she? Perhaps she had never known the stories until their owner had been named.

Now it seemed that the Narrator had unknowingly given him a different gift. It was a promise that stood in his loose embrace. Hoping that Enaid would stay with him forever, he quickly accepted that it was not his choice to make. Like death, he had no control. His only purpose in life seemed to be to observe and to clean up what was discarded.

Narrator's child was now an adult. But how many years since Narrator’s death? It frustrated him that he could not put all these pieces together. In the end, it didn't matter. She was gone and counting the years could not bring her back.

"Did you know my mother?" she asked.

"I, I, I think-" his words broke into a sob.

Softly she petted his feathers smooth where they had ruffled up around his face. Small hands with little fingers, worked the feathers back into their proper places. It soothed him. A comfort he had not known could exist. She was such a kind creature. Without even knowing him, she was willing to offer him this gift of tenderness.

"What was she like?"

What could he offer her? He knew so little. But he felt that her question was as important as knowing who she was had been to him. He had to give her something. They both needed that of him. If this would be the only time they ever talked, he had to be sure that he had offered at least a piece of who her mother had been. He would not live with himself if he didn’t try.

Memory was a tricky thing. The line between real and imagined seemed blurry. There was the face his memory gave him, but there was more there then the physical. Were those details things he had created and given to her? But there were her scent, taste and feel as well. He could smell the sage in her hair and the cinnamon on her hands. He could taste her from when their faces had been so close and she had drawn him a mouth. She had been so soft in his hands. A very fragile thing.

"Kind. Her death was the price she paid to save me."

This confession was the easiest thing he'd ever said. What he'd told her evoked no rage. This puzzled him. Why would telling her the secret of his sin be so easy? And why would she not hate him for it? Then he realized the truth. How could she be angry about the death of a woman she had never known? As little as he knew of Narrator, he knew her better than her own daughter.

"You must have been very important to her," she said.

This caused pain to rip through his flesh and down into his bones. But pleasure and pride burned from his heart. The dichotomy of it made breathing difficult. Sensing this, she again ran her hands over his feathers even though they were still smooth. It calmed him.

"En-enaid," he murmured. "Will, will you come, come with me?"

She hugged him tightly as she nodded. There had been no pause. This drew out a deep joy. Her climbing onto his back brought out memories of his wife. Once she had been the only one to rid him. Lifting into the air and letting the wind pick them up into the sky. Clutching at the feathers between his shoulders she laughed while she looked down at the receding earth. No destination had been in mind. It was a simple desire to be with her.