She called him War-bird, it was a conceit he was happy to allow.
The nature of the treaties between her people and his, brokered by the powers they called gods sealed with blood, were taught to him in the nest, each clause, word of power and the histories that went with them repeated a hundred times before his fledging, as he had to his young.
He never thought he would hear those words, their species had grown apart, the featherless seemingly losing the knowledge, and then she had come, hair red as lightning fire, her soul too, bright and pure and he had known joy again.
The Raven perched on the bell tower, he had watched the machine fly in that had delivered those he was to watch, the big one with two whirling wind makers on its top, what these beings could do when they cooperated, shame for them they always fell to war.
It was prophesied that the time of Ravens would come when mankind finally killed itself, and only the wind would remember why.
All but one were here now, met by the burning girl, there was a malign presence amongst them, concealed, but there.
When the wind maker left and as they came down the hill he dropped and swooped low over them, voicing a warning.
Her soft voice filled his head like fresh blood
“I feel it too War-bird, I will be careful, thank you.”