ORIGIN

The owl let out a soft cry now and again, pain wracking his body. It wasn't a sob, precisely--perhaps owls could not sob--but it was a horrid cry nonetheless, a shriek that spoke of pain and nothing more.

This pain gripped him: the agony of the body, wracked by spasms, the heat of Kerberos's spell searing his flesh even now. It seemed numb, tingling, yet how could something numb hurt so badly? He was hot, and yet cold; he'd thought that the ice of the tunnel would provide some relief, yet it did not. He was both burning hot, and freezing, with fits of violent shivering frequently overtaking the constant faint trembling.

And this did not even compare to the pain in his mind. His soul was torn. Bevy--his mother. His mother bird. The blast had caught her too, and despite his attempts to contact her mind-to-mind, he could not find her. Her breathing was gone. She was gone. He felt empty, agonized, his soul already tearing into pieces. She had been his guide, his protector, his world. Without her, he was--lost.

Just lost.

No being could take this much pain, not forever. The owl fluttered along the ice, spasming, wings flapping futilely in an attempt to take flight, yet he could not. Talons scrabbled for purchase, but down he fell, again and again, his tiny heart racing in his chest. And his mind--it was fragmenting. The pain--the mental pain, the emotional pain--he could not think straight. He couldn't consider anything that had happened; his mind shied away, the pain in his body overshadowing it so powerfully.

After a time he fell still, lying panting on the ice. The worst of the pain was fading, now; he managed to at least pull himself up into a huddling fluff of dark feathers, a fluff that gave off the rancid stench of seared flesh. Blind gem eyes slipped closed, and his mind went empty.

Bevy was gone.

But--where did she go?

Sitting still and silent in the dark corner, trembling in the cold, the owl cast his mind into this question entirely. He slipped away from the pain, merely asking himself this, over and over:

Where is Bevy?

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Dark sat silent, a fluffed dark shape, eyes still closed.

The pain still wracked him.

Bevy's voice still sang in his head, now and again: soft, gentle. Mocking. But--was it only in his mind? There she was--even the delicate flutter of feather-on-feather. But she had always told him never to touch her. Had she come to take him away, then? To go wherever she had gone?

To die?

The owl let out a soft croak, and then went silent again, merely a dark shape sitting there, Bevy's wing gently draped across his chest. Was she real? ...Did it matter? Was he going to die? Did that matter, either?

The pain tore through his body and mind. Kerberos's magic, still searing at his flesh, warping him. The pulsar had irradiated him.

He sat quiet, and reached out with his mind, gently, seeking Bevy yet again. He hadn't been able to find her, before--perhaps it had been the magic? Maybe she really was okay?

Dark reached out gently, his mind to hers--but what he found was not Bevy. Perhaps she had died, and was now something else. Perhaps she had left him. LEFT HIM. Perhaps this was an imposter. Perhaps he was mad.

He drew together all the pain he had felt, all the agony of the last few hours. All the horror, and physical wretchedness, and he blamed her, he threw it at her, he screamed it into her mind in a howl of black hatred and terror, hurling it to break her.

SHE HAD LEFT HIM.

He hurled the agony of burning flesh and trembling body, and the pain of death and loss and the love for his mother and the hatred of her betrayal, of her madness, the loneliness and sorrow of this empty world, and the gibbering screaming deafening shadows of his nightmares. He shoved it all at the mind before him.

SHE HAD LEFT HIM!

Outwardly, he was silent.

The only sign that he was even awake was the gentle slipping open of blind green gem eyes... Gem eyes that glowed emerald in the deep shadows above the ice.

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Dark listened to Bevy as she crooned at him. Coaxed him. He should have helped. Why didn't he help her...?

He'd tried... He'd tried! The owl closed his eyes, going wholly still, his thoughts racing as he trembled with fever and cold. He had tried. He didn't know what had happened. Or how to help. How could he help, how could he see, if he were blind...?

Bevy--... BevyBevy--Bevy--Mother--Bevy... he cried.

He reached out for her, but she was already touching him, poison feathers toxin on his forehead. It was almost... comforting, but for her words. His magic flooded forth, his being, his soul... He gave himself to her utterly. And from her, a gift: he saw a dark horse in the distance, its eyes glowing green. Before it sat a small, white bird, smaller than he, but not tiny like Bevy. Its chest was stained with blood.

It was dying, he decided.

His eyes opened once more.

Was that the answer, then...? Was that where you went, when they died? He gazed unseeing at the Bevy before him--she was Bevy, all birds were Bevy--all things were Bevy. There were two Bevys--but then, there had always been many Bevys, even in the same Bevy.

His thoughts whirled, but still he saw the strange white bird, the black horse standing staring at it. There was a strange melancholy to the scene, and through it, in his mind, he saw Bevy soar to and fro. And still her voice crooned sickly-sweet to him.

She was showing him what had happened. Or this was a stranger. Or everyone was dead. Or hell had come for him. Or he was dead. All of them were dead. All the Bevys. He had to tell her that he had seen. That he understood. And he did. But he didn't.

"When you died," Dark whispered, hooked black beak reaching up for Bevy's bird-ear, "When you died, the white bird bled red and the black horse came to take you away. I saw them. I see them. They are ugly. You are beautiful. Where did you go? Where did you go? Where didyoudidyoudidyougo?" Seemlessly he broke from the barest whispering breath into an ear-shattering scream, the loudest, most pained cry he could emit, shuddering with pain.

"WHERE DID YOU GOOOOO?" the owl wailed.

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The owl wasn't aware of anything going on around him, really. Bevy was everywhere, his body already wracked with agony from Kerberos's radiation. The additional infiltration of the plague would have no effects, at first, so he wasn't even aware of anything bar the cold curl of shadows twining over him. And even that, he could not distinguish from the fever chills.

He had no idea the white raven had likely just brought to him his death.

But he knew that Bevy had touched him, and was whispering in his ear, and offering to bring him to wherever they were going. If she had touched him, he was already poisoned. He was already dying.

"Yes," he agreed softly. He'd never wanted to be here. His life ran through his mind; so short, so bright, despite the darkness he had spent it in. He had a vague memory of hatching, of the world being a fascinating and wonderful place. Of Louie nearby, trying to sicken and kill him, though he hadn't realized that until much later. Of-...

Louie.

Was this even Bevy...? In a moment of clarity he registered the sound of retching from another source. What was happening? But an instant later he had pushed it away, madness claiming him wholly. It was Bevy, or it was not. It didn't matter. They were all going to the darkness--the true darkness--one way or the other.

"Together," he croaked--and leaned back, both taloned legs shooting out for Diánysma's chest, to snag in deep with inch-long talons, to crush and grip and drag her close.

We will go together.

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