Alfred didn't understand why he was the villain in this story; he was supposed to be the hero. Alfred didn't understand why he was the one with torn wings and a fractured soul. And most of all, Alfred didn't understand why his only love was a crow.
Lovino was a result of finding a critically injured bluebird about to be slaughtered by wolves. Lovino was twisted by Alfred's dark,cold heart, and turned from a shining bluebird with a sweet song to a sick, dark creature with the mindset to tear flesh clear off of bone.
"Alfred."
It was quiet, but still there, the voice of the bluebird; the bluebird that Alfred so selfishly turned evil for his own lonesome needs.
Occasionally, when the ever-maddening voice that begged to be heard had pushed it's limits, Lovino would change, just temporarily, into the short-tempered boy that made Alfred's heart ache.
"You're a bastard, you know that?"
"I do, Lovino."
But Alfred deserved the aching that came with loving such a twisted young, thing that he had created.
"I really do care, Lovino."
"You've got quite the way of showing it."
Blue would lock with honey, melting together at just the right degree, and then Lovino would be a cloud of dark feathers again as he perched on a nearby branch or settled himself in Alfred's halo of honey-wheat hair, cawing almost mockingly at him.
But one day, Alfred was full of it. Full of the hunters shooting at him with arrows decorated with darkened feathers, sick and tired of empty threats and a constant game of cat-and-mouse with his older brother, the hero of the story.
"Alfred," It was pleading, but he knew it was too late. Alfred had sipped through his fingers like sand.
"I'm sorry."
"No,No Bastard, you're fine, just breathe. It'll stop bleeding soon enough-don't sleep, dammit! Don't sleep!"
"Sorry I couldn't be your hero."
But that was it, a shuddering breath and a lazy smile.
"Oh you stupid bastard. You were so much more than that."