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Crows had been regarded as an omen of death for many a century, a reputation Zephyrus was only partly at fault for. People had simply always been superstitious, were always seeing meaning in the mundane. Not that they were wrong, per se. They had every reason to fear the angel and his heralds, their arrival only ever preceding that of Darkness in all her beauty.
B ut who could blame Phil for falling in love with the fragility of life and the delicate balance of death? Who could blame him for falling in love with a woman disguised as a raven, disguised as a goddess yet somehow the most human of them all?
It was an oh so delicate dance the two of them shared, endlessly intertwined in the torturous embrace that was the fate of the world. The indistinguishability between freedom and death.
There was something terrifying about how interchangeable their names had become. Stories told of the god of death and his wife, lady death and her angel, her harbinger. They much preferred the latter.
It was a quiet tragedy, the way humans barely seemed to recognize what it meant to be free anymore. And there was a slow, hidden, simmering resentment rising in the distrusting glances, disgusted looks and reactions of outright fear his crows garnered from humans, save for the stray innocent child not yet old enough to understand their meaning.
Only when they started waging a war against the crows had it been enough to truly tip the scales of anger and compassion. The birds had been hunted, slaughtered only for being free. For being his. That was what turned the once benevolent Zephyrus into a true rival to Lady Death, hours spent begging his wife to please, grant his flock immortality, only for her to shake her head in sorrow.
They weren’t meant for eternal life. Freedom had never been boundless, if aeons of godhood had taught him anything it was this, how human always aimed to squash it, assuring their one true blessing to be a rarity.
But when someone felt the pain of loss every minute of every day, agonizing about another one of his flock dead, wounded, captured, suffering, no one could expect the god to remain kind.
The crows learned to flee to graveyards or churches, gathering in swarms in the only places to grand him refuge, seeking safety from the gods. The murders hovering over sacred monuments for the dead did nothing to aid their reputation.
No one had expected the god of freedom to get angry. It served humanity right. When their safe walls fell, when travel became dangerous and dictators came to rule, they did not know which god to pray to. They did not know there was no one listening.
Phil had already given up on the crow that had ended up on the outskirts of an inconsequential kingdom. It had an injured wing, no chance for finding a place of safety. And for some irrational reason, it decided to seek help from a mortal. It was still a kid after all. It hadn’t experienced cruelty.
He watched, in mourning, the loss of what was still nearly a chick. As he saw the farmer emerge from his house he said his goodbyes, carefully calming down the baby bird as much as he could.
The man looked strong, muscular arms presumably from fieldwork and handling animals all day showed clearly under his shirt. Pink hair was tied back in a ponytail and his expression was stoic, eyes burning. He seemed to be the kind of person that always looked angry, and probably always was. Humans had been bitter since Zephyrus had turned on them.
When the man noticed the wounded crow, Philza looked away. He didn’t want to witness another death, there had been far too many already in recent years.
Nothing happened.
He waited in silence, dreading the now familiar pain brought on by the loss.
It never came.
When he finally got himself to look, he found his crow, still very much alive and safe, cradled delicately in the farmer’s big hands. He was carrying it into the house, seemingly careful to not rustle any of the feather, much less hurt it.
Instead the farmer placed it down on a green and pink patchwork blanket, forming something that nearly looked like a nest.
The crow chirped. Safe.
Zephyrus shook his head.
The man was mortal. Human. It was comfortably cool in the house, the nest looked welcoming, and he was currently in the kitchen, preparing little bowls of water and seeds.
Human. Danger.
Safe.
Freedom hoped.