I stood still, staring down at the raven before me, a small, fragile creature that seemed so insignificant in comparison to the primal power coursing through me. My body—untamed, raw, and ancient—felt both foreign and intimately familiar. The feeling of liberation, of not being shackled by the frailty of flesh, was intoxicating.
I exhaled deeply, stretching out my limbs in a fluid motion, the muscles and sinew beneath my blotched skin humming with a renewed sense of vitality. It was strange—strange and yet overwhelmingly satisfying—not to feel pain, not to be bound by mortal limitations. I could imagine the earth beneath me, but I was no longer part of it. I was something greater, something far beyond the confines of the world I had known.
I looked down at the raven beneath me.
With a deep breath, I braced myself. My spirit coiled tight, ready to leap. With a surge of will, I entered the raven's mind.
The transition was instantaneous, a sudden and disorienting shift. At first, I revelled in the freedom, the thrill of flight. The raven's wings beat powerfully against the sky, and the wind rushed beneath them, a torrent of pure, unadulterated exhilaration. I was airborne, suspended in a sea of endless sky.
As I soared, the land below unfolded like an intricate tapestry—vast plains stretching into the horizon, rivers winding through the earth like veins of liquid silver. Far-off mountains rose like ancient sentinels, their towering peaks shrouded in mist, casting their long shadows over the land. The world felt vast, limitless, and alive.
I glided effortlessly, weightless in the air, the rhythmic beat of my wings in perfect harmony with the wind. The feeling was unlike anything I had ever known. It was not just freedom—it was transcendence. I was not just a part of the world; I was the world itself, the wind in the trees, the sun on the horizon, the pulse of the earth beneath my wings. I was everything and nothing all at once.
But then—something shifted. A subtle undercurrent of unease stirred deep within me, a darkness that began to grow, feeding on the freedom I had once embraced. A new sensation rose in my chest, an instinctual awareness that I had never experienced before.
That's when I saw it.
In the raven's memories, I witnessed a hunt—violent, brutal, and primal. A lion, gaunt and desperate, pursued a gazelle across the vast, golden savannah. The chase was relentless, the predator closing in with every beat of its powerful paws. The gazelle was fast, nimble, but the lion's hunger drove it forward, a singular focus that seemed to transcend all else.
For what felt like an eternity, the chase unfolded before me. The gazelle leapt and darted, twisting and turning in the air, narrowly evading the jaws of death. For a fleeting moment, I almost believed the gazelle might escape.
But the lion would not be denied.
It was gaunt—its ribs painfully visible through the thin skin, its fur matted and ragged. Foam flecked at the corners of its mouth as it pushed itself forward, driven not by hunger but by something more ancient, more primal. The gazelle stumbled, exhausted, its body betraying it, and the lion pounced.
The killing blow was swift.
I, the raven, watched from above, its beady black eyes taking in every brutal detail, its wings folding as it circled the kill. I could almost taste the lion's desperation, feel its hunger reverberating through the very air. And yet, I didn't feel pity. Not for the gazelle, nor for the lion. No, I felt... something else.
I watched as the lion tore into the carcass, ripping flesh and sinew with its powerful jaws. The sound of tearing meat filled the air. My beak itched with the desire to join in, to feast upon the remnants of life.
I joined in with others of my kind, swooping down to scavenge the remains of the gazelle. The scent of death clung to the air, rich and metallic, and with it came a rush—a rush of need, of hunger, of instinct. I felt it deep in my bones. The raven's hunger was not just for food. No, it was for the act of consuming, of taking, of being part of the cycle of life and death.
I let myself fall into that hunger, letting it overtake me. The ravens around me tore into the body with brutal efficiency, their beaks ripping through the delicate flesh. I felt no remorse as I joined them, sinking my beak into the soft tissue, savouring the rich, warm taste of death. The rush was intoxicating.
Days blurred into weeks as I followed the scent of death—more carcasses, more remains. I became addicted to it, like a moth drawn to the flame. There was something beautiful about it, something necessary. Death was not an end but a part of the eternal cycle, a balance that must be maintained.
But then, something else reached my senses—something different, more pungent. It was the scent of death, but not like anything I had encountered before. It was darker, sharper, more violent. The smell of decay mingled with the acrid stench of gunpowder, of blood spilled not in the wilds, but in the chaos of human conflict.
I followed it. Through ravines, past lakes, over jagged peaks. The scent beckoned me, a siren's call. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow that burned my eyes, but I did not stop. I could not stop.
Then, I saw it.
Before me lay a battlefield, a vast barren landscape. The roar of gunfire filled the air, the rapid crack-crack-crack of bullets cutting through the sky like thunder. The ground beneath me trembled with the weight of war, as soldiers moved with a frenzied, unstoppable rhythm.
The scene was chaos—bodies littered the ground, some sprawled in the dirt, others twisting in agony, their final screams swallowed by the cacophony of war. Blood stained the earth, pooling into dark rivers, the thick, metallic scent of it mixing with the acrid smoke that billowed from exploded vehicles. The air was thick with dust, turning the world into a haze of grey and brown, as though life itself was being smothered under the weight of the conflict.
The crack of bullets was followed by the thunderous roar of explosions, each blast sending shockwaves that rippled through the air, rattling my feathers, threatening to throw me off course. The stench of burnt flesh, of gunpowder and fire, clung to everything, suffocating the air with its oppressive weight. The sound of shouts—pain, rage, fear—melded with the rhythm of the battle, creating a terrible symphony of destruction.
I dove, driven by an instinct I didn't understand, my wings cutting through the smoke and ash, but in an instant, a bullet whizzed past me, so close I could feel the rush of air as it missed. I swerved to avoid it, my feathers rippling in the wind, but I wasn't fast enough.
A violent explosion erupted nearby, a blinding flash of light and a blast of heat that threw me into the air like a leaf caught in a storm. I was tumbling, spinning out of control, the force of the blast rending through my senses. My wings were thrown open, struggling to regain control, but the world around me was a blur of smoke and fire.
I slammed into the ground with a jarring force, the wet, cold mud clinging to me like a suffocating blanket. My wings, heavy and weighed down by the muck, struggled to move. The earth beneath me seemed alive with the tremors of war, the vibrations of battle shaking my very bones.
Above me, soldiers moved like shadows, their faces streaked with grime and sweat. Some wore the twisted masks of fear, their eyes wide, their movements frantic. Others were filled with something darker—rage, or perhaps something worse. Their faces were impassive, their eyes cold as they continued their relentless march, their boots crushing everything beneath them—man, earth, and life alike.
I tried to flap my wings, to break free of the mud, but it held me fast. The cold, sticky earth seemed to swallow me whole, and for a moment, I thought I would never rise again. I struggled, desperate to free myself, the effort consuming every ounce of my strength.
Finally, with a final surge of effort, I broke free. My wings tore through the air as I took flight again, but the sky above me no longer felt like a refuge. It felt suffocating. The freedom I had once relished now seemed like a curse.
I returned to the blue abyss, my body trembling, my mind a haze of disjointed thoughts and memories. My feathers, once smooth and sleek, were ruffled and matted with mud, my wings heavy, my eyes clouded with the weight of the horror I had witnessed.
I hovered in the farmer's house, the stillness of the scene before me almost unbearable. The male farmer's body lay on the floor, crimson staining the earth beneath him. His face was frozen in an expression of surprise, as if death had come to him without warning. His body, a mess of blood and ruin, was sprawled next to the couch.
The female farmer, near the kitchen, was a contrast. Her body lay in a pool of blood, the shotgun clutched in her hand, the grip slick with her own blood. But her death had been slower, more agonizing. Her wounds were shallow, but enough to bleed out. Her fingers were clenched tight around the weapon, as if she had fought back until her last breath.
The murder scene was carefully staged—an attempted robbery gone wrong. A story designed to erase the truth. The man named Harry had come to rob them, had been killed by the female farmer's shotgun, and the rest was a matter of erasing the pieces. No witnesses, no one left to care.
And yet, the bullets scattered on the floor, glinting in the faint light, spoke of a different story—a story of struggle, of resistance. A truth that would never be told.
And as I hovered there, I realized—there was nothing left of the creature I had once been. No trace of the cat I had been before. Only the void, the emptiness of a life erased, as if I had never existed in the first place.