Book II – Chapter 18: The Hammer of Waters
The Choice
"They're all going to die," Bran whispered, bones like lead as he followed his eldest brother towards the edge of the Wildling encampment. Robb was still with the Wildling skinchanger Bran had sent to save him from the Others. Val. In fact, she'd yet to let him out of her sight. Her eagle, Aquilla, continued to ride on Grey Wind's back, and if that wasn't a sign, Bran didn't know what was.
To Bran's eyes, following Robb, Val and Dacey Mormont through the veil of the dream world, a faint line of red energy flowed from Robb's chest to Grey Wind, and between Val and Aquilla. A magical binding holding souls together. Robb and Val were both skinchangers, but neither were particularly strong with the talent, as Arya was.
All around him, the camp bristled with life and purpose. Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall, had announced his deal with House Stark; the Free Folk were marching south to safety and would not be forced to kneel. The fervour and excitement were contagious, families hurrying to pack their things and prepare for the final march. It would take them about two days to walk from here to the gates. Then, they would finally be protected from the Others that swarmed beyond the edges of the camp in the nighttime hours.
None of them would make it there. For Bran knew something the Wildlings and Robb did not. The Others had no intention of letting their prey escape so easily. They'd sought to eliminate Robb before he could reach the encampment. Thanks to Bran, they'd failed. They had no intention of making the same mistake again.
The sky grew darker by the moment, thick flakes of snow beginning to patter down from above. Robb, Val and Dacey reached the western edge of the camp, where Tormund, the Greatjon, Varamyr Sixskins – a skinchanger nearly as strong as Arya – and two giants were waiting for them.
"What is it?" Robb asked as he reached the group, glancing at the giants in a mixture of awe and uncertainty before shaking it off and staring out towards the distant tree line.
"Scout just ran in. Spotted wights in the woods. They're waiting for us."
"Fuck," Robb whispered.
"Oh, it's a lot worse than that," Varamyr said, running a hand through the fur of his shadowcat companion. Val looked to Aquilla, and the thin thread of energy connecting the two flared to Bran's eyes. The eagle soared up into the air, gliding towards the forest edge.
"How can it be worse?" Dacey asked, gripping her mace, teeth beginning to chatter.
"It is trap," the giant called Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg declared. He spoke in the Old Tongue, but here in the dream, Bran could understand him regardless. "We are meat."
"It's an ambush," Val translated. "The moment we try to head south, they'll rip us to shreds and raise us back up."
She was half-right. The Others had been hoping the Night's Watch would do most of the work for them, massacring the Wildling forces at the foot of the Wall. They'd been shepherding the Free Folk south for that exact purpose. Robb had ruined their plan.
The Others hadn't counted on him being a good man.
Bran looked to his left. Within the dream, the Raven stood beside him, dressed in robes of pure black, eyes heavy with bags.
"There has to be something we can do!" Bran exclaimed.
"You are not ready, Brandon Stark. If you dared to lift the Hammer now, you would most surely die in the attempt. The damage you unleash could be catastrophic."
"Any ideas?" Robb asked, turning towards the Greatjon and Tormund Thunderfist.
"None that don't involve getting turned into one of those things," Tormund muttered.
"We can't stay here, we can't go back, and we can't go forward. There's only one choice left," the Greatjon said. Someone had bandaged his side, which didn't look to be paining him as much as it had before.
"What?" Robb asked.
"Spring trap," Mag said, and for all that the giant was alien to the men and women beneath him, the look of defeat and resignation on his face was clear as crystal.
"We split the host," The Greatjon declared, "It's the only way. You and Mance lead the bulk south as fast as possible… the rest of us put up a fight for the legends."
Robb swung towards the Greatjon in alarm.
"No way! That's suicide!"
"Worse."
"I can't just let them all die!" Bran yelled at the Raven. "You're supposed to have all this power. DO something with it!"
The Raven didn't answer him. Simply stared down as though Bran were a misbehaving child.
Bran looked into his brother's face. The courage, the determination, the will to do what was right.
Robb and all the Free Folk would perish if Bran did nothing, adding twenty-thousand soldiers to the Great Other's army.
Bran looked to the sky, grey clouds closing in.
Ysilla… I'm so sorry.
He wouldn't sit and watch. He could help his brother and destroy the Others in one shot. If it cost Bran's life… so be it.
It was time for Bran to finally fly.
The Moment
Arya paced around the four statues in the heart of the God's Eye, scowling at each chiselled face in turn. They were humans, that much was obvious, but Arya had learned little else about them since they'd arrived several days ago. The 'Children' wouldn't speak to her, only to Bran, and it was annoying the crap out of her. They just kept looking at her strangely, as if supremely uncomfortable at her mere existence. At least Nymeria and Summer sensed her unease, even if she could not sense theirs whilst inside the ring of trees. This place… it was just horribly uncomfortable. Too still. As if some piece of the universe was missing in its entirety. The detachment from the direwolves gnawed at her, and no matter how she'd tried, she could not regain control of Shimmermist, the gyrfalcon she'd brought with her into the Eye. She had hidden in one of the upper branches of the enormous Weirwoods, and Arya had not seen her since. Though, that might just have been because Arya spent as little time inside the Eye as possible. At least outside, she could feel the wolves again.
"Stupid statues, stupid island, stupid hammer," she muttered, kicking one of the stone slabs, then instantly regretting it.
This one was a man, with a long beard and a top knot Arya thought looked ridiculous. It wasn't a very good carving, in her opinion. His face was too flat, the eyes smaller than any person Arya had ever seen before, and he had this weird moustache. And he wore robes. Who did he think he was? A wizard? Bah. At least the other male statue looked somewhat normal. A buff man with shoulder-length hair and a long face, two stone direwolves standing at his sides. The women… well, Arya didn't really know what to think about them. One had hair cut short at her shoulders – which wasn't sooo bad, she supposed – but she'd been carved wearing flappy pants that looked completely stupid. Oh, and she wasn't wearing ashirt. Stone tits just hanging about. At least the fourth and final statue was wearing clothes, a wrap of some kind that covered most of her body, including her head. This woman was the only one who carried a weapon of any kind. A long staff, carved with swirling lines that might have been meant to represent water?
Who were these people? Why build statues for them? What was so important about them?
Arya glanced back to Bran, who was sitting on the far side of the clearing, back against one of the Weirwoods, eyes tight shut. Ysilla and the Child of the Forest, who called herself Willow, were sitting on either side of him. He'd been doing that for two days now.
"Urgh! Why won't somebody tell me what's going on!?" Arya screamed, stamping her foot on the grass, though the lack of an accompanying sound was supremely annoying.
"What do you wish to know?"
"Eeep!" Arya jumped, hands falling to her Needles, but it was only one of the Children. A female with nut-brown skin and a mane of red hair.
"You're talking to me?"
The Child nodded.
"The others are scared of you, as they should be."
"Scared of me? Why?" Arya asked, trying to calm herself. This place… it was just so unnatural it was scrambling her senses. She hadn't even noticed the Child approaching, and the wolves hadn't cared either.
The Child looked towards the ground.
"Many thousands of years ago, the Children and the Giants lived across the lands of Westeros. Many times, others attempted to invade, but we repelled them all with the power of sight and skinchanging. Our gifts from the Gods. Until the First-Men came."
Arya frowned. "Why didn't you just defeat the First-Men then?"
"Because the First-Men, or, at least, some of them, were like us. They had a magic of their own; skinchanging, green seeing, light weaving. They could even glimpse into the realm of dreams, a place we'd believed naively to belong only to us, for the Giants could not touch it. And some of them could perform feats of raw magic that our most skilled and wise could not match. We believed we could live in harmony, and we did for a time. The First-Men took to our gods, worshipping them as we do. Then, mankind learned that we had been watching them through the trees, and they hated us for it. They used the power against us. Cutting down our trees, scorching the forests, killing anyone with the Sight they could find. Until a truce was finally reached, here in this sacred place, the one place we know where magic has no hold. My brothers and sisters fear you because they see in you the power we have lost."
Arya gaped, hands going slack.
"You mean you can't slip skins anymore? You can't see through others eyes? You can't dream?"
The Child shook her head.
"The cost of living in seclusion and hiding in this place. We lost our power. Now, the few of us left cannot speak to our other kin north of the Wall. We are waiting to die, Arya Stark. You are everything we no longer have."
Arya swallowed and looked away, suddenly feeling incredibly selfish and guilty. No wonder none of the Children had wanted to speak to her. Not really knowing what to say to that, she returned her gaze to the statues.
"Who are they?" She asked without thinking, instantly regretting the words.
"Heroes of the Long Night. Brandon the Builder, the greatest Skinchanger ever to walk the world. The Last Prince of the Golden Empire of the East, whom the First Men called the Last Hero, but we knew as Dragon, reborn yet again. Katara the Weaver, who shattered Essos and carved the Summer Sea from molten rock. And the Lady Alina, High-Summoner of the Sun, the first Windfinder to bend the seasons to her will."
Wow… Yeah, she only knew one of those people. But they all sounded very impressive.
"They placed the Hammer here for safekeeping, and we built these statues, so they might watch over it until the time came."
Finally, Arya looked to the dead tree-stump stuck in the dirt between the two statues. It was very unimpressive. It looked just like any other dead tree, except this one just had a fragment of glass protruding from the wood. It didn't even glow. Not very hammery. Or magical, either. But then again, what did Arya know about magic? She could just control animals with her fucking mind.
Jon was going to be sooooo jealous when she finally caught up with him.
Gods, but she hoped he was safe.
"ARYA!"
Arya jerked around in a flash, hands dropping to her knives. Bran had launched to his feet, eyes wide with panic and utter terror.
"What is it?! Are you okay?!" Arya exclaimed, rushing across the grass to her brother's side. Ysilla was holding him upright, but Willow had fallen on the ground, shivering uncontrollably. More Children poured forth from between the trees, and Summer bolted to Bran's side.
"It's Robb!" Bran said, breathing in ragged gasps, and a deep cold welled up in Arya's body. "He… he went North of the Wall. He knows about the Others, Benjen told him. He wants to bring the Wildlings south… but the Others, they attacked. I… I warned a Skinchanger in the Wildling camp… a girl called Val… but it wasn't enough. The Others are going to slaughter the entire Wildling camp to stop Robb from helping them escape!"
Oh, fucking fuck fuck fuck….
Robb… Grey Wind, please, please protect him from those… those things. Uncle Benjen still had the Valyrian Steel sword, didn't he? Oh, gods, she hoped so.
"How do we help him?" Arya begged, grabbing Bran's shoulders. "There has to be something we can do!"
Bran glanced over her shoulder, towards the statues.
"There is."
The Raven flew into view, landing on a low hanging branch.
'NO! You are not ready! You are not strong enough to hold the power yet. You can barely control your dreams!'
Bran ignored the bird, turning instead to Ysilla. Only a few moons younger than Arya herself, the cinnamon haired daughter of House Royce looked utterly terrified. Hair a mess, face gaunt white and streaked with tears, thin as a rake. Despite all of that, Ysilla did something that would forever earn her Arya's respect. She let go.
Ysilla released Bran, entire body trembling, and nodded her head once to him. Bran opened his mouth to say something, then winced, stumbling backwards. Arya caught him, and he locked eyes with her for the smallest of moments.
There was something she was missing. Something Bran knew but hadn't told her. A truth he had realised yet refused to share.
However, Arya prided herself on her quick wit. It wasn't hard to piece together. Bran had made a choice, and if that was his wish, Arya would not take it away from him. She would have done the same thing.
So, she pulled her brother into a hug, as tight as humanly possible, savouring the warmth of family. A silent promise passed between them, then Bran pulled away, eyes fixed on the stump, and the shard of glass impaled within.
'Listen to me, Brandon! I did not bring you here just so you could ruin all my plans. The Others cannot bring down the Wall on their own. It will keep them trapped for now. We have time to prepare,' the Raven tried. Yet neither the creature nor the old man behind it moved to stop Arya's brother as he began to climb the hill.
Of course.
It couldn't.
Just as Arya was powerless to slip her skin within the Eye, as the Children had lost their Sight from remaining too long, so too was the Raven unable to summon Bran or the others into a vision against their will.
"Time for me to fly, Raven. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
With each step Bran took towards the Hammer, the ground began to tremble, a strange rumbling sensation thrumming through the earth itself. The second his foot touched the dirt surrounding the stump. The sky overhead plunged into deepest shadow, storm clouds growing from nothing to blot out the sun.
Thu thud. Thu thud. Thu thud.
A heartbeat. She could hear it. An actual living heartbeat beating in the air, in the ground, in the trees, in her own head. Thumping louder and louder and louder and louder until it threatened to drown out her thoughts entirely. The crystal shard began to glow, a thick fog of white and gold energy rising up from the stump, licking Bran's right hand as he reached out towards it. Spindly cracks split the statues as the dirt beneath the stump began to churn like butter, and a weight pressed down from above as if the very world itself had just drawn in a ragged breath. Arya fell to her knees, grabbing Nymeria's fur. Ysilla did the same, taking hold of Summer's coat, both wolves staring straight at Bran without making a sound.
Bran grabbed hold of the glass.
A crack of horrible thunder split the sky, and a dozen rays of light leapt forth from the crystal, bathing the glade in every shade of the rainbow. The light washed over Arya as she looked on in wonder…
And the world vanished. Bled to white. Silence falling over Arya's mind like a blanket
All that power and fury? The trembling of the earth and the churning clouds?
Gone.
Arya stood in a field of white snow. No wind, no rain, no sky. Just an endless field.
A burst of heat flooded through her veins, a euphoric warmth she couldn't describe. The sun began to rise, but in the north instead of the east, and the orb of fire was not where the heat sizzling beneath her skin came from. The light was there, yet Arya could feel no radiance emitting from it at all. The warmth she felt came from somewhere else.
"Arya?"
Jon.
Arya spun around and came face to face with her favourite brother. His hair was shorter, his face harder, but his eyes were the same, and so was his smile.
"Jon!" Arya threw herself into Jon's arms, burying her face into his chest and grinning like a fool.
"I… I don't understand. What's happening? Are we dreaming?"
"Jon? Arya!"
Robb was there, pulling himself out of the snow, blinking in confusion, smile widening in… in hope. Then he was running to them, throwing himself at the pair, and they toppled into white powder, laughing.
"What… where am I?" The three siblings froze, then glanced up to see Sansa, looking around in a panic. "We… we were, riding and…."
Sansa saw them, and her face lit up in utter delight.
"You're alive!"
And Sansa did the most un-Sansa-like thing Arya had ever seen. She jumped atop the pile of Stark children and screamed in glee.
"Alright, alright, get off me!" Jon yelled, trying to crawl away, desperate for breath at the bottom of the pile. Robb kicked Arya in the face by accident, and she fell flat on her ass, cackles turning to coughs. But she didn't care in the slightest.
"Rhae?"
Arya sat up, still hacking away as Robb and Sansa pulled each other upright. Two more people were lying flat in the snow, slowly raising themselves up. Arya recognised Rhaenys, but the second she did not. A woman about Jon and Robb's age, with long silver hair, violet eyes, and a crown of flickering flames dancing above her head. Both she and Rhaenys wore silk gowns, and both looked utterly stunned.
"Jae!" Rhaenys exclaimed, throwing herself into Jon's arms as Arya had moments before. Unable to help herself, Arya looked around for some sign of Obella. She wasn't here.
Where was Bran? What had happened? Was this the dream world?
"Nephew?" the silver-haired woman whispered as Jon and Rhaenys parted, and Jon locked eyes with her. Then he beamed. Showing off that deep and secret smile he only showed those he desperately cared for. Like Arya, and Margaery. Who was this girl?
Where was Margaery? Why wasn't she here?
"Daenerys?" Jon muttered, and Rhaenys nodded.
Then the two were embracing, and… and crying. Aunt. The Dragon Queen. From the East. The one Arya had heard whispers about. Jon's cousin. The one with three real-life dragons.
"What's happening? Where are we?"
"It's the world of dreams," a new voice said, and Arya spun around to find herself looking at a gorgeous woman with waist-length honey gold hair dressed all in white, a bearskin cloak slung across her shoulders. "I've been here before. Just… never awake."
"Val?" Robb whispered, scanning the field of snow in confusion. The Others. He'd been attacked. Bran! Where are you, you bloody buggering idiot!
"Robb, are you alright?" Arya asked, hurrying towards. "The Others. Bran said they're coming for you!
"Yeah, I…" he faltered, glancing to Val, who was pale as a sheet. "I think we're about to die."
"About to die? What do you mean? What's going on?" Jon demanded, parting from his cousin and rushing to Robb's side.
Robb shivered. That deep bone-chilling ache that gnawed at you when they drew near. Arya had felt it before. In the Raven's dream. And it had haunted every nightmare since.
"The Others, Jon. They're real, and they're marching south to kill us all. I tried to help… but I think I've just made things worse."
More figures were rising up from the snow all around them, none she recognised. Some were easier to see, others more faded. Wildlings dressed in animal furs, smallfolk in ordinary dress, a collection of people wearing robes styled in white and black, shawls draped over their shoulders. Arya even spotted a crannog-woman with frizzy brown hair standing a short distance away. All of them looked just as stunned and confused as the Starks were.
"Guys…"
Jon pointed towards the sun, and the structure now silhouetted beneath it. Winterfell, growing out of the snow, a perfect replica of their home.
"I don't understand… what is this?" Daenerys whispered, holding Jon's shoulder with one hand, Rhaenys' with the other.
Arya swallowed.
"Bran's a greenseer. He can sort of see the future or something… This guy, the Three-Eyed-Raven, he brought us to the God's Eye. There's a weapon, the Hammer of Waters, that can kill the Others. Bran's been training to pick it up… but he… he saw a vision. The Others are marching south, fast. They're coming to… to kill all the Wildlings and Robb… He wouldn't let it happen… he picked up the Hammer…."
Val's jaw dropped open.
"The Hammer of Waters?!"
"He's going to kill us all, the bloody fool!"
The Raven himself manifested before them, stepping into the dream world as if condensing from the air itself. His enormous beard dragged along the ground, black clothes a sharp contrast against the snow-covered ground. His gaze, harsh and piercing, was fixed on Arya.
"You MUST stop him right now, girl, or we are all doomed!"
"At least he's doing something! Unlike you, sitting on your stupid bird ass!" Arya snapped back. Rage burned in the Raven's eyes, and he stormed towards Arya, raising a hand to strike her. Then Jon was there, striding into the space between them, a crown of shimmering gold light forming above his head, as if made from the very same power as the sun itself.
"Stand down, man! Come to your senses!"
The Raven froze, eyes locked on the crown. Just enough time for the ground to start rumbling once more. Enormous rents in the earth fractured apart, and Sansa grabbed Arya by the arm, pulling her across a crack as it tore open in an attempt to swallow her. The sisters shared a look and a smile, then Robb was pulling them back, Val behind him. The sun flared in a great flash of light, then shifted into the shape of an enormous man standing above Winterfell, a great hammer of gold held over his head.
Bran.
"NO, BRANDON! It's a trap!" The Raven howled.
Bran brought the Hammer swinging down towards the earth in the far north, the rumbling grew louder…
…something stabbed Arya in the neck…
…talons digging deep into her skin…
…and Arya was wrenched back into the real world as Nymeria clamped her teeth around Shimmermist's claws.
The bird shrieked, pulling away from Arya as she collapsed, throat burning in agony, deep bleeding gashes gouged into her neck. She screamed in agony, head slamming into the ground, then she was rolling, grass and dirt sticking to the blood, shooting sparks and daggers directly into her brain. Ysilla was crying out, charging towards Bran, Summer at her side. The direwolf launched himself in the air as Shimmermist descended – vivid blue eyes flaring with unnatural fervour – and hurtled straight at Arya's brother, still holding the crystal…. The bird was missing a leg, but its beak was ready to deal death. Summer bit the gyrfalcon's head clean off, falling to the grass and spitting the thing out, his mouth gushing red, but from wolf or bird blood, Arya couldn't tell.
Shimmermist's headless and legless body kept diving. It slammed into Bran's side, digging its remaining talon deep into his chest, and a full-throated cry ripped from his throat. He contorted, falling… Arya tried to stand, to reach her knives, to connect to Nymeria, but the ground was undulating beneath her, needles and stings of agony threw her off balance, clouding her thoughts, and she still couldn't connect. She was still inside the Eye.
Ysilla threw herself at the bird's body, ripping it away from Bran. One of the Children, the Elder, grabbed Bran from behind, trying to steady him as a panicked Willow ducked from behind a statue and started whispering words of healing. The bird's severed head started screeching, and Ysilla howled. The broken creature's body escaping her grasp. Arya's finally drew her Needle and hurled it through the air. Her eyes were glassy, head-spinning, the ground rumbling and crashing beneath her feet, but the dagger speared through the bird's body, knocking it off course.
Willow's hands burned a bright and angry red, and she was blasted backwards, flipping several times in the air before she slammed into one of the Weirwood trees forming the barrier to outside. The elder holding Bran upright was blasted away as well, rolling down the hill. A fork of lightning arced from the sky, colliding with the crystal, the stump and Bran, and an enormous shockwave threw everyone and everything backwards.
Arya was hurtling through the air, unsure of anything but the pain in her neck and head and the ear-shattering CRACK that tore through the God's Eye. She hit one of the Weirwoods, head smacking into the bark, then fell.
And kept falling.
And falling.
Until she hit water. A sudden wall and slap of cool, crisp, churning liquid, and then she was beneath the surface, desperately thrashing about for air.
Her head broke the surface, and Arya whipped her head around, trying to figure out just what was happening. Grass and dirt and earth and trees were convulsing in all directions, water exploding in torrents of foam, Arya's ear's ringing from the constant crashing and surging. She clung desperately to the trunk of an overturned Weirwood and screamed.
"BRAN! YSILLA! NYMERIA!"
Blackness creeping at the edges of her vision, entire body bitter cold (when had it started raining? It was definitely raining), Arya gripped the Weirwood trunk like a lifeline as the current swept her away. Lightning continued arching down at them, but Arya could find no sign of Bran or any of the Children.
Then, in a sudden rush as if snuffed like a candle, the emptiness of the God's Eye vanished, and Arya could feel her strength again. She grasped for it in desperation, letting magic and awareness flood back into her body and mind. She could sense Nymeria howling as she paddled through the current a short distance away… Ysilla's clothes wedged in her mouth, pulling the girl along. The pack was racing along the riverbank, desperately trying to avoid the floodwaters and protect the newborn pups a short distance away. But there was no feeling of Summer.
He was gone.
Gripping as tightly to the Weirwood as she could, Arya tugged at her connection to Nymeria, and looked out through eyes that were not her own. Nymeria was desperate and harrowed. Survival. Only survival. Save the human, find the pack, protect her mistress. Away with the wet. She needed dirt. Nymeria started paddling towards the shore as the water dragged her body downstream, and the weight of the human girl was hard to move, but she could not let go, could not… the mistress was in trouble… Arya was in trouble…
Arya snapped back, screaming as she lost her grip both on the connection and the Weirwood trunk. Her head submerged, but the strength within her, despite the banging in her head and the agony of her neck, was enough to get her to surface once more. Lightning splintered a tree to Arya's right, the flash blinding her and leaving spots on her vision.
A root. Arya grabbed it with everything she had, snagging the flailing tree root and using it to pull herself up and out of the water, entire body shaking and trembling. Ghost bolted out of the darkness, grabbing Arya's sleeve and using it to drag her onto the bank. Her feet left the water, her head hit wet grass, rain pouring down all around her.
And Arya finally let herself pass out.
The Cost
When Bran came back to himself at last, he knew his time was up. His body was broken, everything a mix and whirl and blur of pain. But he'd done it. That power… he'd seen everything. Understood everything. The complexity of the universe and the magic that sustained it. For just a moment, he'd understood what it was like to be a god. And he'd taken his strike.
His aim was off. Something had gotten in the way… the Great Other had managed to get a servant into the God's Eye. Impossible. Clever.
Now, the island was gone, and the Hammer sank down through the waters, waiting to come to rest in the dirt below. The murk and debris and mire would bury it until the next changing of the world now. The only access point to that unmatched weapon of magic and godlike power.
Well, not the only access point. There was one other way. Direct contact with the Hammer itself. The crystal Bran had touched was just an access key, a conduit for the power. The actual weapon itself was hidden away where no one could ever find it.
No one except It, he supposed. For the Great Other was a god, and surely It knew everything as Bran had done for a few brief moments. But Bran had destroyed Its army of dead things and undone the Others magic at the source.
Hadn't he?
Bran felt his body catch in an eddy, then brush against a sandy bank. But he was no longer breathing, and everything was just a little too far away.
I… I'm sorry, Ysilla. I should have… should have… I…
So, Brandon of the House Stark passed from this life and this world, as his ancestor had before him. His broken body washed up on the shore of the Blackwater Rush, but his spirit soared free as the Raven promised, flying on to whatever came next.