The caw of a solitary crow did little to carry over the sounds of the thriving, bustling little town.  It looked down, scanning its eyes over the many bustling humans worming their way below, searching for any scrap that could fill its hungry belly.  Sadly, it couldn’t see enough of the ground between all the legs and feet, and let out a dissatisfied little churr before flying away in search of better prospects.  

It was very likely no one below had noticed the crow at all.  It was well into the heat of the day, and the center of their town was filled to the brim with shops selling wares, musicians belting out song, and every man, woman, and child dancing about in a great cacophony of buying, selling, eating, drinking, dancing, laughing, and everything else they knew they should do.  Nestled as it was at the far end of their little valley, it was as if the very earth arcing up all around insulated their speech and focused it back toward them all. As such, what would otherwise have been an idyllic little diversion from nature cobbled from brick, mortar, and pine was instead little quieter than the great cities of glass and steel many hundreds of miles away.  No individual could have their moment, no one experience unshared, for each sound melted into each other and blended like watercolors, painting a single, vivid portrait of life.  

Every spark of life was a single stroke upon the canvas, save one.

Possibly the only quiet inhabitant of the town, a stranger, cowered in the shelter of a blessedly empty alley, huddled behind a protective mound of trash.  In the midday light, the figure was barely visible among the shadows. Small, fairly slight, wrapped in a thick sweater and pants, bare feet and hands pawing at the ground.  A slight lull in the roar, and the figure raised its head. Dull grey eyes, heavy-lidded and so weary of the world that they appeared to be better suited upon sculpted marble, peered out through locks of a mess of hair a brown so dusty that it threatened to disappear into the very stone.  They shook their head, revealing a smooth, tired face that invited no questions and gave few answers, before sitting back against the cool stone with a heavy sigh. They’d chosen poorly, they should not have taken this path through the valley. They should have accepted the invitation from the shepherd and his flock, and traveled up and over the mountain instead.  Then they could have played with the sheep, seen such beautiful sights…but no. By the time the poor soul had realized their mistake, that the little town was far from gentle, the bustle of the day had begun, and pure fight or flight had gripped them. Even now, every glance to the street outside filled them with such dread that it threatened to make them ill.

A slight fluttering sound caught their attention, and the traveler turned to their left, away from the bustle, to see a crow hopping around not far away, picking morosely at any bared crack it could find.  The dark, beady eyes met theirs. A moment was shared, mutual curiosity, no assumption or conclusion. Just curiosity. A slight chuckle from the traveler, and lips curled slightly into a gentle smile, and creased just enough to let out a noise.  Not a word, or at least none that any human ear could discern. But a single trilling note, light and clear.

Birdsong.

The sound carried on the wind trailing between the buildings, blown out into the square, where many turned their heads immediately to the sky in search of its source.  It certainly sounded like no bird they had ever heard, but it sounded real. So real, in fact, that even the crow seemed startled, but it happily hopped closer nonetheless.  Reaching into a heavy pocket, they chuckled softly once more, pulling forth a tiny loaf of bread. They’d been saving it, a gift from many lands back, from the mountains. A farmer’s wife had sent it on their way, and the grateful traveler had nibbled at it with the anxiety of a miser for many a night since.  But now, her gift was barely the size of a sweet roll. Nevertheless, they broke off a sizable chunk of the little treat and offered it to the bird, which churred happily and hopped on their wrist to peck and nibble hungrily.

“See, Jagal?”

Even the gentle, familiar voice made the weary traveler jump and nearly send their feathered little guest tumbling, and those tired eyes looked upward to meet that familiar little smile.  Standing above them, another human…mostly. The twinkling eyes, even more lined and tired than their friend’s, shone out from their face under a mess of short, dark hair. Beyond this, little could be divined of the curious figure, with a body so wrapped in thick robes becoming a monk of old that anything below the throat was a mystery.  But it was there that reality ended, and the magical began, for this being did not stand before the two. They flew. From their back, two large wings extended, fluttering and flapping lazily, keeping them hanging a few feet above the dining pair. Their feathers, long and broad, resembled that of the crow below, and the little bird even paused from his meal to greet the interloper with a loud caw.  Any others would have turned and ran, but not the traveler.  

Not Jagal.  No, this was no demon, no apparition that called their name, but a friend.  It was an angel of sorts, bearing a history that spanned many lifetimes and a simple, unassuming name.  

Hredan.

“Don’t you see?  Even in the loudest storm, one can still find an eye.  Even a friend.”

Jagal glanced down at the crow, still munching happily, and then gave their friend a look and motioned toward their dark feathers.  Hredan understood immediately and flashed them a look of their own. “No, I’m not just preferential. You both ducked for cover, and together you found your rest.  But I think you have matters to attend to that no mere snack of bread will solve.”  

Confused, Jagal opened their mouth to question, but the sound came instead from their stomach, growling almost violently, and the sheepish traveler rose to their feet, leaving the crow to finish its meal.  “Come along,” the angel whispered, and Jagal started nervously shuffling their way out of the alley, eying the strangers around them timidly.

A tentative step forward, and Jagal felt something cool under their feet.  Investigating, they picked up a few coins that must’ve fallen from a purse or pocket.  Nothing too extravagant, but still Jagal looked around for someone looking. None in sight.  

“This is a good day,” Hredan commented softly, laying a hand upon Jagal’s shoulder and giving it a pat.  “I think it is time to celebrate.”

Jagal could not see it, but Hredan’s words seemed to appeal to their legs, and they suddenly strode forward into the fray, the sound of their friend’s wings above gifting a welcome anchor in the sea of people.  There was no shock, no ceremony, for none could see Jagal’s angel. A guardian such as they had lived above many lost souls like Jagal, travelled the earth many times over at their charges’ sides. And every time Hredan saw a flash of panic in the face of their friend below, they beat their great wings a little harder drowning it out in the timid traveler’s ears.  Hredan was tied to Jagal, to the hip, and would make sure nothing befell them. So often, too often, had Hredan been forced to watch as the ones they cared for and cared about were led to ruin or ran to it themselves. Each new friend they made, the promise was a little harder to make, and mattered even more.

Thankfully, Hredan’s prediction seemed to be coming true, for in the distance, something caught Jagal’s eye, the traveler making a beeline for a particular stand and its great, steaming pot.  The clinking of those serendipitous coins later, and Jagal’s eyes gleamed as they gazed into their bowl of rich, maroon Borscht. Hredan laughed approvingly as Jagal hurriedly found an empty corner and sat down, cradling the treat.  A moment of hesitation, before Jagal dunked the rest of their bread into the bowl, soaking up the sour, delicious broth. What a feast! They dined almost sloppily, snapping up the bread and gulping down the liquid like one possessed.  This was a good day.

- - -

Unhappily soon, the bowl was empty, but Jagal still sighed hedonistically.  The stresses of before had passed, and they were prepared to be lost in the moment, were it not for a sound of frustration, very soft, that caught their ear.  Jagal’s eyes tried to follow the sound, Hredan’s following suit from their perch above, both eventually finding and focusing upon the source.    

A child stood in the distance, tucked away into an alley on the other side of the square not much differently from how Jagal had been some time before, facing the wall and seemingly hard at work.  Intrigued, Jagal rose and stiffly wound through the crowd with an arm held around their soup protectively, Hredan hanging above and watching curiously. The closer they moved, the more they could see the child’s face come into focus.  A boy, face screwed up with concentration and with consternation, seemingly nearly at a breaking point. Finally, Jagal stood a few yards away, watching the poor lad descend into a tantrum, facing the wall with defeat and clutching what the pair now saw to be a piece of chalk.  Sure enough, the wall was adorned with dozens of drawings, each scribbled over with increasing ferocity. There were trees, flowers, and animals of every land, each with strange, twisted limbs, bulging heads, and vacant stares. He appeared to be on his last limb, trying to finish his magnum opus, a large drawing of a bird.  Jagal was fairly impressed, the child had indeed improved, but it seemed that he couldn’t figure out how to do the feathers right, and he was minutes away from dashing his chalk to bits against the ground.

“I watched someone like him once.”  Hredan broke the silence first as they watched the artist’s impending blue period, Jagal listening quietly.  “A girl. Italian, and with such lovely amber curls. She wasn’t too much older than this one when she told me, told everyone, that she would be a poet.  She had some lovely little ditties to her name, I think I even remember a line or two!”  

A moment of contemplation.  “In summer hot or winter cold, I’ll find my shelter on Fisherman’s Road.  In the pauper’s house so big and old, with roses white that I have sowed. ”  

A smile creased Jagal’s face slightly, and Hredan continued.  “Such a sweet girl, but she never could get anyone else to listen.  Never could get the books she’d need to get better, tell more stories and better lyrics.  Her family turned a blind eye to this little phase of hers. And so, she convinced herself it just wasn’t for her.  That if she was truly good, the whole world would have to look at her.  In her mind, she was just not enough.” A sigh. “That inadequacy followed her for the rest of her life.  It tinged into her marriage, her motherhood, all these things carried with them the faint voice telling her ‘you failed’.  It didn’t matter what I did, what I tried to tell her, and by the time she withered away she thought the world wouldn’t miss her.”  Hredan shook their head, eyes following the haphazard lines scrawled across the wall, drawn with love. “I don’t know whether she would have made it, really.  As a poet, I don’t know if her voice had the strength. But she never had that chance. Never had someone give her the time of day.” A long silence, and Hredan’s voice lifted one last time, barely above a whisper.  “What I would not have given for her to listen to me, for her to know how good her little songs were. That she had the right to write.”

Jagal still did not speak, drinking in the angels’ words as their friend was bogged down in memories, thinking of the many roads that extended from the crossroads they faced.  To turn away, let nature run its course? But with that little rhyme in their head, Jagal thought the idea inhuman. But what? How could-

A sound at their heel, and Jagal looked down to see a familiar, beaked face.  Their little crow friend, hopping around their bare feet and looking up with an almost playful curiosity.  That’s it, Jagal thought, and strode toward the boy with purpose.

At the sight of the ragged-looking stranger, the boy gasped and moved to run, but Jagal lifted a hand and bid the child stop, standing at his side.  Using their thick sleeve, Jagal rubbed away the wings that had so vexed the boy. Despite his earlier anger, the boy howled in protest as he watched his work be destroyed, though that spurt of parental love for the doodle vanished as Jagal bid him stop once more.  Turning around, the smiling traveler looked back to the little crow, letting out that same little trill of sound, a musical call that lifted the crow to the air and bid it land upon their outstretched hand. The boy watched in awe as Jagal brought the crow close between them, gingerly tapping it upon the shoulder.  The crow obliged, lifting and opening a wing, showing off the complicated pattern of feathers lining the limb. The boy looked confused, but the more they looked at the little bird, the subtle features of anatomy, the greater the illumination that shone behind his eyes. He saw what was missing, and the hand bearing chalk returned to the wall, filling in what Jagal had destroyed.  The boy’s eyes darted from his hand to the wings of his cawing little model, his previously shaky hands gaining a certain melody to their movement, and slowly the picture came into focus. Hredan watched from above the trio with pride, in the boy for seizing the day and in their friend for opening the door.  

In almost no time, the boy’s hand slowed, and his eyes stayed fixed upon the wall, filling in any final details that the crow had so politely provided.  Some final scrapes of chalk on stone, and the boy stopped, stepping back, admiring what had been made. It was not perfect, the legs were a bit too long and one wing appeared larger than the other, but by the joy in his eyes, Jagal and Hredan knew that the boy had walked a mile this day.  He’d remember this, this feeling of creation and joy, and this would not be the last time he’d put chalk to stone. Beaming, the child turned to Jagal and threw their arms around them, giving a big hug that almost bowled them both over. The crow squawked, but Jagal smiled awkwardly and gave the child a pat on the shoulder gingerly.  Pulling away after a few moments, the boy carefully took the crow off of Jagal’s hands and began stroking its feathers, which the crow seemed to deem as an appropriate apology. He then looked back at the wall, focusing on an empty spot not yet scribbled upon, and turned back to Jagal with a grin as he offered them the chalk.

Jagal wrinkled their nose, they did not actually care for drawing so much.  Sure, they had met and befriended every beast of the forest, and could see each one in their mind like not a day had passed, but they hesitated to accept the gift.  “Why not?” came the feathered voice of reason from above. Hredan had a point, and the child was insistent…

Why not, indeed?  Jagal accepted the little lump of white stone, still warm from constant use, and faced their canvas.  What to draw? Perhaps the drawing would lead the way? Taking a deep breath, they pressed the chalk to the wall’s surface.

A loud yell, and suddenly the chalk was violently smacked from Jagal’s hand, and the crow took off with a loud squawk.  Wheeling around, they faced a large, angry man wielding a broom and roaring at them, apparently the owner of the shop they were “defacing.”  The boy ran forward, ready to accept his punishment, but the man pushed the child aside, advancing upon the “real vandal” with gnashed teeth and spittle flying.  Jagal panicked, lips fumbling to form some manner of explanation, tell the man he had no idea they were doing anything wrong and apologize, but before anything could come forth, the man swiped at them again with the broom.  Even as it missed, Jagal twisted away and let out a scared yelp, rooted to the spot. Ignoring the objections of the boy, the shopkeeper tried to raise the broom over his head to strike Jagal properly, but Hredan intervened, a swipe of their unseen wing knocking the weapon from his hands.  As both the man and the child reeled in confusion, their eyes only seeing the broom take to the air and fly away, Jagal’s senses took control of their legs, and they charged past the two with a strangled cry.

Jagal heard nothing.  Not the shouts of those they forced past, of the child, of Hredan.  They barely even saw where they were going, they just needed out. Buildings passed by, trees passed by, and soon even they fell away to the grasses of the plain where no soul would follow, but still Jagal ran.  The air whipped their face, and Jagal spread their arms and closed their eyes, the momentum alone guiding their path. They barely felt the ground underfoot, and if they went fast enough, even that would fade away.  They’d not have to ever come down, they’d never heed the call of gravity. They’d rise higher and higher and never stop for a town again, never face another angry man with a broom, never-

Suddenly, gravity called Jagal back very suddenly in the form of an irregularly-shaped rock perfectly designed for tripping, and they opened their eyes in time to crash into the ground.

Many still, pained minutes later, and Jagal heard a sigh from above them, before they were gingerly pulled into a sitting position.  They looked up, soaked eyes immediately meeting Hredan’s concerned face and arms throwing themselves around the angel. Seated together upon the dusty, dirty road with the little, too-loud town far behind, they sat there, the faint sounds of gasping and quiet tears trailing over the grasses.  As the cold crept into the air, Hredan unfurled their wings and cocooned them both in softness, blocking off the rest of the world.  

- - -

For what felt like hours, neither moved or spoke, merely sitting there as the sun began to creep down in the sky.  

Once again, it was Hredan who broke the silence.  “There was more I didn’t say about her,” they whispered, holding their friend a little tighter.  “My little poet. She was herself very quiet, very shy. Maybe that’s what kept her away, a fear of the spotlight.  And even with all the hardship she faced, all the chains she bound to herself to pull her into the depths…she never had to run.  Never had to hide from a conflict. She merely never stepped up, and life passed her by.” Hredan stroked Jagal’s cheek gently with a wingtip.  “But is that worth it? To deny oneself the world for the sake of a house? To live in such fear that you ensure your dreams stay in your mind? This hurts now, I know.  But what if you had let the moment slip by? What if- “

A familiar caw rang out, and Jagal turned back around to the path they had taken, looking through Hredan’s wings to try and see.  Sure enough, there it was, flapping and hopping around on the ground, their faithful avian companion. It chirped, and Jagal tilted their head and let out a curious noise of their own, still sniffing away hurt.  The bird turned around, looking back down the road, and it let out another loud caw, as if calling out for someone. And to Jagal’s intense surprise, they could see something coming down the road. They heard quick footsteps, and Jagal whined slightly, but the steps were light, eager.  After blinking a few times, the figure came into focus.  

It was him, the boy.  Running as fast as he could toward them.  When at last he arrived, Hredan stepped away, for invisible as they were, this was for Jagal.  Out of breath, the child reached into his pack and pulled out a package, wrapped in thin cloth, and placed it in Jagal’s lap.  Eyes darting to and from the child tentatively, they unwrapped the “gift”. A loaf of bread. Soft to the touch and still warm.  It smelled delicious.  And on top of it, a scrap of paper, possibly pilfered from a shopkeeper’s notebook…upon which a tiny bird was spreading its ink-drawn wings.  The artist’s first sketch, and another token of appreciation. With that, the boy shyly smiled, before waving goodbye and turning to tiredly walk home, his little bird friend lazily flying above, probably off to another session as the lad’s new house model.  With the sun continuing to set, it was not long before both of them faded away lost in the light still pouring out of the town.

“I bet he’s off to make something beautiful,” Hredan commented softly, and Jagal actually smiled again.  “Maybe he’ll grow up and become a great painter! Or who knows, maybe that will be the last thing he ever draws.  Maybe he’ll return to whatever life fate set out for him. But Jagal? He’ll go his whole life knowing that someone out there believes in him.”

In the far distance, the sun was nearing the mountain’s peak, and the lights began to flicker and dim in the town, the celebration finally drawing to a close.  The cheers and raised voices did not echo, and the crickets began to lead the dance. The valley was actually growing silent. Peaceful.

“And that, my friend, will set him free.”

The last light in the town flickered off.  Maybe it was their little artist, finally sent off to bed where he would dream of birds and trees and all the things he would learn to draw.  Now, far away, they were alone.

Jagal sat up, shifting out of their heavy clothes.  The trousers and shirt fell away into the dirt, revealing their dark thick fur.  Their ears raised and twitched in the breeze and they stretched out, letting the wind pass through their feathers.  They stretched their limbs, feeling strength return to their paws, and they shook the human out of their face, those same tired eyes now home upon their feathered and furred face.  Between the mammal and the avian. Jagal had walked with them all enough, it was time to come out. To be what was there, under the skin, under the human they thought they’d seen. The real Jagal now sat by the road, watching the black of night follow the sun home, the glow of the impending moon wrapping the Traveler and the Angel in a soft embrace.

Their beak parted, a single, soft word slipped out.

“Free... ”