Author's note: Yes, it's a love story. No, there's no sex. No, there's no action. Don't expect any X-men fighting excitement in this one. Sorry! Yes, there's an original character but I promise you'll like her. Or at least I hope you will. If I'm inaccurate in my info, or in where he is now and what he's doing, then I claim the usual: it's an alternate universe. So blah! ;-)
The information I have in here is taken from what I know of the comics (not much) a bit from the movie, and a great deal from Origins: The True Story of Wolverine, which is a great collection, you should read it. It's all about his childhood, the story that Marvel hesitated to tell. They said that the essence of Wolverine is the search for his past, and by revealing it they would ruin the character. But they finally realized (and I agree after reading it) that the essence is his search, not ours. It ends up being dramatic irony: we know something he doesn't know. His search continues, with us cheerleading him on.
Anyway, I wrote this story in response to that, and because I love Wolverine and figured a vicarious love story would be nice to write. And it was. I love it, I hope you will too. Read and review, please!
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Muninn
By Mordred LeFay
When it came to painting, Raven's photographic memory worked to her advantage. She only had to look at something and it was imprinted on her brain, fused in her memory. She summoned up the image of the bird she had seen that morning, away from the clusters of questing pigeons, pecking with interest at a flattened squirrel it had dragged from the road and onto the sidewalk. A sweep of her brush left a trail of shiny black oil paint, textured like feathers or like her own hair, which she had bound into a loose ponytail at her neck.
She did not need a picture for the other subject in the painting, needed no photograph to use as a guide or to remember by. His image was imprinted in her mind, in her every waking thought, as though he were there, carried inside of her. The raven was perched on his shoulder, but he didn't look at it. His gaze was to the side, fixed in the distance, as though remembering something. He stood, casually, leaning against a tree, a slight frown on his face.
She remembered the last time she saw him, from her bedroom window back at the academy, watching as he sped off into the dim Westchester twilight on his motorcycle, off again on his quest for his past. If he knew what she knew he wouldn't have bothered leaving, would have simply knocked on her door. He had searched far and wide to find answers that, had he but known, he could have found right under his nose.
He had been her mentor at the academy. He knew the nature of her powers but not completely; he thought too literally, thought that "tasting," as she called it, was the only way she could glean a memory. Raven knew the memory was in the blood, no matter how she took it in. But he didn't know, and she felt it was better that way. He was like a man who hid a terrible thing in a box, locked up tight, buried deep, then forgot what he buried and where he buried it. Now he searches for what he hid from himself, with no recollection of how terrible it would be for him if he found it.
After all, the knowledge tortured her enough, and the memories weren't even hers. There was a reason these things were buried, she knew, and she wasn't sure that uncovering them would do him any good.
Raven gave no indication that she knew he was there, but she did. She had heard his footsteps up the rickety wooden stairs, up the stairwell of this decrepit almost-condemned building that served as one of the many studios the school rented at cheap rates to students. She let him wait, wondering if he was going to say something, or if he was just going to watch her paint. Her cheeks felt hot; she hated being watched as she created, especially considering that the subject of her painting stood behind her in the doorway, but she drew a breath and pretended she heard nothing. The smell of leather and cigarettes mingled with the acrid solvents, paints, various sealants and varnishes, and musty layers of old dust.
She swirled her brush into the paint, daubed some more. "Logan," she spoke casually, as though the silence had merely been a break in their conversation, "you can't smoke in here." She glanced, equally casually, over her shoulder. He leaned against the doorway, cigarette dangling from his lip like some scruffy James Dean, watching her. His face was neutral and unreadable.
"Oh?" he replied.
"Mm. This place is a tinderbox, what with all the flammables we have laying around. So put it out," she admonished. He complied, stubbing it out against the doorframe. She continued dabbing at her painting, tsking at a smudge. She was new to oils, and they were never as forgiving as acrylics, but she liked the way they held texture. Logan came to stand at her side, eyeing the work.
"Good likeness," he commented. Raven smiled.
"It's all up here," she replied, poking her temple with a finger. "You know that." She dipped her brush in solvent and wiped it with a rag, then hopped off of her stool and turned to face him. "I haven't seen you in months," she breathed. They both seemed to be hovering on the edge of an action, old friends who didn't know whether to embrace or shake hands. They decided on the latter. Raven squeezed his hand lingeringly, then released it, brushing his knuckles with her thumb, remembering the deadly weapons that hid between them.
"What brings you here?" she asked.
"The professor asked me to come and see how you're doing. You know, check up."
"No he didn't," she replied,. "Why would he need to send you to check on me? He checks up on me all the time. He is psychic, after all." She gathered up her things. "He communicated with me just last night, in fact." She smirked. "You know you don't need to make excuses to see me, Logan."
"I ain't makin' excuses," he protested, but she waved his explanations away. Putting her supplies away, she grabbed her coat and slung it on. It was long and black, and it settled around her shoulders and fluttered around her legs like wings. She buttoned it up, cinched the belt tight. "Come on," she beckoned, letting her hair down, grabbing her purse and heading for the door, "let's grab a cup of coffee."
Raven trotted down the stairs and into the breathtaking cold of the winter wind. It swept down the street and tugged at their clothing. Raven shivered and walked on, hurling herself against it. "I know you'd probably prefer some smelly bar," she called back to him, raising her voice to be heard above the howling gusts, "but they're not open yet and I'm not quite 21 yet anyway."
Logan followed behind her, watching her huddle into herself against the wind, her long, black hair whipping around wildly. He wondered when the last time she flew was. Certainly it wasn't around here, but it looked like if she spread her coat open she could take off. Down the block and around the corner they went, to a little café called Java Buzz, the sign of which featured an extremely hyper looking bee with a coffee mug. "Cute," he muttered, following her in.
There were only a few people there, huddled at tables looking cold, too engrossed in their reading or conversation to even glance up at the two newcomers. The barista glanced up and quickly away, lazily wiping the counter as she smacked her gum. Raven led them to an out-of-the-way table in a dim corner. "I like this place," she whispered to him as she slid into the booth. "It's not like those other ones where it's all open and bright, with people jumping up spouting poetry at you." She eyed the waitress as she made her way over. "And they'll leave us alone, so we can talk." She folded her hands and rested them on the table, gave the girl a broad grin.
"Hey Raven," the waitress greeted her, holding pen and pad at ready in that practiced way. "How's the painting coming?"
"Not bad, Betty. I'm having a little trouble with the oils but you know that drill."
"Boy do I!" she rolled her eyes, then glanced at Logan. "Who's this, Ray, your dad?"
Logan looked at Raven, raised an eyebrow slightly.
"No, an old friend from the academy. My parents are dead, Betty. You know that," Raven chided lightheartedly, too lightheartedly for the grim reminder. "I'll have the usual."
"One mocha-latte coming up. And you, sir?" she asked, turning to Logan.
"Regular, black," he replied flatly. Raven could tell he was uncomfortable, exposed. It was how she felt when she first came to the city, before she realized how hidden you could be in a crowd, how people's eyes slide right past and through you, not even registering that you're another human being, much less that you're a mutant.
"All right," Betty nodded. "I'll be back in a flash." She sauntered back behind the counter, looking up to chat animatedly with a young man who had just walked in.
"Sorry about that," Raven apologized, fiddling with a sugar packet. "I tell everyone my parents are dead. I'm sure that's what they tell people about me. Funny that," she sighed, bitterness creeping into her voice. "When they found out what I am, they totally disavowed me. The people who had condemned the cruelty of parents abandoning their gay children, telling me that from now on I was dead to them. Well likewise, I say."
She remembered that night, when she finally told them, when she transformed. Whether it was more of a shock that their daughter was a shapeshifter or had pseudo vampiric powers, it was hard to tell. But shocked they were. Raven could still feel the slap of her coat against her face after her mother threw it at her, catching her purse as it followed. Her mother was in a rage, her father paralyzed, gaping at her with fear, revulsion. Hot tears slid down her cheeks as she tried to protest, to explain, to defend herself. She never wanted this! She was born this way; it wasn't something she had chosen!
It didn't matter. She was dead to them, they said, told her to go away, they didn't care where. Her mother flung wads of cash at her. Raven scrambled to snatch them up, despite her confusion and despair. She had fifteen minutes to pack all she could, they said, and after that she'd better be gone, or they'd call the police and turn her in. She'd heard enough stories of what they did to mutants, that to register was suicide. She shoved clothes and necessities into her duffel bag and ran towards town, to the bus station, away.
She would find out later, through secretive meetings with trusted old friends, that her parents had told everyone that she had run away, that she was a junkie and that they didn't care where she went. Two more years and she'd be an adult anyway, they figured. They were sick of her shit, sick of trying to deal with her. People who knew her knew better than that, but didn't say a word. With parents like that, she was better off on her own anyway.
She wanted to fly, but she wouldn't be able to carry her things if she did, so she settled on a course of action. One word stood out in her mind, whispered about amongst the very few mutants she knew: Westchester. Professor Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters (she always though "youth" would sound less silly), a cover for a school for mutants. She would be safe there, she could find help there, she knew it. As she went, she counted the money her mother had given her. Fifty dollars: it should get her there. If not, then she could hitchhike. As a last resort, she could stow her luggage somewhere, fly there, and try to get someone to take her back to get it. She knew she had to get there somehow. It was her only hope.
Raven pulled herself from the wash of memory, a flutter of her eyelids the only indication of the transition. She exhaled loudly, continued without missing a beat, "But enough about that. How are things at the academy?"
"Much the same," he shrugged. "I only returned recently."
"Did you turn up anything?" she asked softly. He shook his head. "Have you heard anything about Rogue and Remy?"
"Those two're layin' low for a while. Gambit's tryin' to figure out how to get his powers back. As for Rogue—"
"I bet she's ecstatic," Raven whispered with a wry smile. "I know I would be, if I were in her shoes. For the first time since her powers manifested, she can experience human contact. Touch." She stopped tracing invisible patterns on the table, looked up. "Do you know that babies who are denied touch have significantly more problems than babies who have regular human contact? It's not healthy for human beings to be isolated like that." She gazed off into the distance, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular. "I hope she never gets her powers back," Raven declared, "for her sake. She's had it so hard. She was my closest friend at the academy, even though she's older than me. We had similar issues, she and I." Raven chuckled mirthlessly. "Only hers were much worse."
Betty made a sudden appearance with their coffees. "Thanks, Bette," Raven thanked her, clutching the cup in her chilled hands and inhaling the steam.
"Let me know if you need anything else," she reminded them, then left.
"Her torture is twofold," Raven continued, sipping from her mug. "She couldn't touch or be touched; she always had to be so careful. Even the slightest bump with unprotected skin could inflict serious harm. And she has the burden of thought." She set the mug down, staring at the table. "All those people, everyone she's absorbed... it would drive me mad. At least I only get echoes of memory... mostly." She looked up, looked into Logan's eyes. He really doesn't have any idea, does he? she marveled.
"Anyway, she must be really happy. Finally they can be together. It must be so difficult to love someone and know that if you touch him, if you indulge in the most instinctual of actions, you could kill him."
Logan was silent, drinking his coffee. Ah, the strong silent type, Raven mused. I'd be annoyed with it if I didn't know him so well.
"Why did you leave?" he demanded suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.
Raven was taken a bit aback. "You say that as if I snuck out secretly in the night," she replied coolly.
"Didn't ya?"
"It's no worse than any of your sudden disappearances," she retorted, refusing to look at him. She felt anger begin to rise. "I would have said goodbye, but you had left. It's not my fault. Or did you expect me to wait months until you returned?"
"Bloodraven—"
"Don't call me that here!" she hissed under her breath. "I left that behind me. No one knows what I really am." She calmed a bit. "I'm lucky; I have an X-factor that's easy to hide. Ever since my training at the academy, I don't spontaneously shift into a raven anymore."
"What d'ya tell people, huh?" he challenged.
"That my parents are dead, that I was a ward of the state and I went to an academy for gifted kids, a boarding school. How do you think I got the full scholarship? I got the orphans' discount."
Logan's face was stone. "That still doesn't tell me why you left."
Raven sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I couldn't stand the academy anymore," she admitted. "Not that it's a bad place. I was happy there, but I was lonely. Rogue's gone, you're always gone. And I'm sick of my powers. I'm redundant. I'm not useful. Jean or Professor X can do anything I can with less trouble."
"They can't read the minds of the dead."
"Memories, Logan. The memories of the dead. And do you think I enjoyed that?" she questioned. "Do you think I feel good about myself, being a carrion bird, tasting the blood of the dead, receiving their memories and all the little details of their lives? Oh sure, it fades, especially just the small tastes, but it still makes me feel dirty." She folded her arms, tucked into herself. "How much do you know about Norse mythology?" she asked.
"A little."
"The god Odin has two ravens, Huginn and Muninn. Thought and Memory. They are his tools, extensions of his senses. That's all I really am. I'm no use otherwise."
"You can fight. I taught ya that myself. One of my best students."
"Yeah, but when you've got people who can do flashy stuff like lightning and telekinesis... well I don't know. I'm sorry I sound whiney." Raven pouted, sliding a finger absently along the rim of her cup. "I wanted to feel normal for a while. It's tough though, hiding who I am. I get the feeling that I don't have any real friends, not the kind you can tell all your secrets. Even if they could keep it secret, it's hard for non-mutants to understand.
"Mostly, I left because I was lonely and bored. Like I said, Rogue is happy and off with Gambit. And you're never there. I enjoy being with you," she admitted. "You know that. But you're always there for a couple of days and then off again for God knows how long. I needed something to occupy my time, and I've always liked art, so I convinced the Professor that it would be good for me. He was hesitant at first, but he agreed. And so I figured I'd try it out for a while. If I didn't like it, I could come back." She smiled. "It's good to know that I have a place to go back to, if I need."
"So," Logan said, "it wasn't because of... anything I said?"
She sighed, tilted her head, and raised an eyebrow. "Logan, I'm not a silly little girl. I hardly expected some fairytale ending where I admit my feelings and you confess yours, and we ride off into the sunset together. I was fully prepared for rejection."
"It wasn't rejection. Not really," he whispered, under his breath. "It wouldn't work—"
"Sorry?"
"Nothin'." He shook his head, drained his cup. Betty chose that moment to slide the check onto the table. Raven made a grab for it, but it disappeared beneath Logan's hand. Giving her a reproachful look, he eyed the figures, reached into his wallet, and slapped some bills onto the table.
"Still old fashioned, eh?" she teased. He didn't answer, but slid out of the booth and stood up. Raven did likewise, noticing for the millionth time that he really wasn't much taller than her. It was his bearing that gave the illusion of height. He exuded power and quiet confidence.
"Where to now, then?" he asked.
"My dorm isn't too far from here," she replied, slipping out the door. He looked alarmed at the statement. "Relax, Logan!" she giggled, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. He gave a start, but didn't let go. It was growing dark now, and faint specks of snow flurries danced in the streetlights. "I just want to talk to you. I'm not going to jump you or anything." She chuckled at the notion that she'd be able to overpower him.
"Um, are ya sure your roommate won't mind the intrusion?" he asked nervously. "Maybe I oughtta go."
"I don't have a roommate," Raven explained. "One of the benefits of having friends in high places is that you get a few perks. The professor figured I'd miss detection easier if I didn't live with anyone." She pulled him through a crosswalk. "Unless," she teased, "you'd like to sit out here and freeze to death talking, I'd suggest we go somewhere warm."
Sighing, Logan followed, marveling at how she could go from serious to lighthearted in the blink of an eye. She seemed more comfortable in her skin, much more so than in the early days. He remembered the night he found her, laying in the scarlet snow like a delicate, crumpled bird, slowly freezing and bleeding to death.
The professor gently removed his hands from the girl's bruised face. "Her name is Raven," he explained as Dr. Jean Grey scrambled in the background, hooking up machines, readying instruments. The girl was turning a pale gray on the table, her lips bloodless, her livid bruises like violent brushstrokes. "She was on her way here, but her bus left without her when she was in the restroom at a station. She was walking and got picked up by a man in a white van. He tried to rob her; when he found out she didn't have any money, he beat her and left her on the side of the road."
"Where I found her," Logan confirmed.
"Hypothermia, blood loss, internal and external wounds. She doesn't have much time," Jean said grimly, "or hope. Even if we get blood in her, I don't know how well she'll hold up. Logan—" she urged, "her blood type matches yours, and there's a chance that your healing factor will help her, at least to the point where I can do some good myself."
He didn't have to be asked twice; he was already rolling up his sleeve. "Hang on, kid," he whispered fiercely.
After a tense few minutes, Raven began to improve. Her wounds didn't heal like his always did, but Jean was able to stabilize her. "She's going to be fine," Jean sighed in relief, smiling. "But she needs rest. I'll administer a sedative."
"Good job, Jean," Professor Xavier praised her. "Keep me posted on her progress. I want to talk to her when she's recovered." Nodding farewell, he wheeled his chair around and left the room.
"It's a good thing you found her when you did, Logan," Jean said, her back turned, fiddling with a vial and syringe. "If I could somehow replicate that healing factor of yours, my job would be a lot easier."
Logan watched the color return to Raven's cheeks. Her eyes suddenly snapped open, startling him. They fixed on him, those honey-brown eyes like the eyes of a raven or a crow, looking through him and into him. "James!" she croaked. A shiver ran down his spine. Jean whirled around, syringe in hand.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"I-I don't know. She just woke up and looked at me—"
Jean glanced in alarm at the monitors. "It looks like a panic attack. I don't know why..." She readied the syringe. "I'd better sedate her, or she'll go into shock." The needle slid in, plunger pushed, and Raven's eyelids slipped slowly down, her body relaxed.
"She'll be fine, Logan. She needs some rest, and it looks like you could use some too," Jean suggested, giving him a gentle push toward the door. He left, shaking his head and wondering.
"We're here," Raven declared, pulling open a heavy door and slipping inside the building. Logan followed her through a dusty lobby full of darkly finished wood and old-fashioned moldings, and into a rickety elevator. "It's a good school, but it needs some renovations," she explained. "I like it though; the buildings have that old, haunted feeling like old churches. So much history and so many memories." The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, and they got off. Down the hall they went, to room 613. Raven slid a hand into her purse and withdrew a key, which she slipped into the lock and turned. The lock gave with a click, and she opened the door.
Logan surveyed the décor. The walls were virtually wallpapered with sketches, in pencil and charcoal, of various things: birds, landscapes, still-lifes, and himself. Many scenes, many poses, but several featured him with a raven on his shoulder. In one unsettling sketch, the raven appeared to be reaching deep into his ear with its beak. In its claws were indistinct whisps with lightly sketched scenes.
"That one was for my surrealism class," Raven explained, a bit uncomfortable herself. He noticed that other objects filled the room as well; bits of metal, shards of glazed pottery, smooth stones, various odds and ends. He remembered something he had heard of ravens, how they line their nests with shiny objects and interesting things they find. Raven was perched on her bed, sitting in that way that seems uncomfortable when one looks at it, but seems entirely comfortable to her. It reminded him of a bird, the way they perch, ready to fly away at the first sign of danger. But ravens are famously unflappable.
"Well, have a seat," she offered, patting the place beside her. He pulled out her desk chair and sat there instead, arms folded.
"Suit yourself," she shrugged, finger-combing the tangles from her blue-black hair. The wind had made it even more feather-like, stung her pale cheeks to a delicate pink. She was beautiful; he couldn't deny it. He resisted the urge to reach over and stroke her hair. She's just a girl, he told himself, 20 years old or not. He had taught her to be a warrior, this girl-child. "If you save someone's life, you're responsible for them." He couldn't remember where he had heard that, but it was what compelled him to care for Raven, and Rogue before her.
Rogue was different; her affection for him was the usual damsel's gratitude to her savior kind, a schoolgirl crush, and it resolved itself in time. But this was different somehow, and he didn't know why. Raven was right; she wasn't a silly little girl, and she didn't act in that silly schoolgirl way, with starry-eyed, moonstruck gazes and following him around trying to catch his attention. When she looked into his eyes, it was the same way she first did, when she laid there injured on the table in Jean's infirmary; it was a piercing gaze, a knowing one, like she was stripping away and recording layers of his soul. Her presence was reassuring, at times disconcerting, but never annoying. She watched him leave without complaint, never whined or begged for him to stay. Maybe that's what kept drawing him back to her.
"So, why are you here?" Raven asked.
"Didn't ya just say back there that I didn't need any excuses?" he reminded her.
"Mm. I just wondered if maybe... if maybe you'd changed your mind. About us." Raven squirmed a little, seemed uncomfortable.
Logan sighed, looked away. "It'd never work between us."
"How do you know that?" she blurted out, defensive, then composed herself. "Is there anyone else?"
"No."
"You can tell me, Logan. I can understand if there's someone else. I'll leave you alone. If you don't love me, I won't push you. But if you do, and you're holding back, I think I have a right to know why," she declared, voice trembling. Huddled, knees to her chest, she stared at him. He closed his eyes.
"I was your mentor. It wouldn't be right," he asserted.
"What the hell difference does that make?" she demanded. "Social rules? Society hates us, Logan. We break their rules simply by existing. What, are you afraid my parents will disapprove of you?" Raven gave a harsh laugh. "They don't even approve of me. Sorry, but you'll have to come up with something better than that."
"Bloodraven," he protested. He felt it was safe to say her mutant name here. "It ain't gonna work. I'm destined to be alone, to wander—"
Raven dismissed this with a violent shake of her head. "No! Don't you pull that samurai shit on me, Logan! People aren't meant to be alone. Even us." Her expression softened. "Why are you fighting it? Why shouldn't we take our comfort where we can? No one understands us but each other in this fucked-up world." Her eyes were pleading, they reached out to him.
Logan shook his head; he wouldn't be dissuaded. "What about the age difference? Yer friend Betty said it: I'm old enough to be your father."
"Grandfather," she corrected absently. "Great-grandfather, actually, probably even great-great."
"What?" he breathed, stunned. "How do you know? What do you know?"
"I know everything about you, James."
"What did you call me?"
Raven continued, her golden-brown eyes boring holes into him, her face taut and grim. "I know you better than you know yourself. The memories you've sealed away are still there. The memory is in the blood," she spoke distantly, as though reciting lines from a poem.
Realization hit him then. "The transfusion! But I thought—"
"It's more than tasting, Logan," Raven explained. "It doesn't matter how I get the blood. I found out about my powers when I was twelve. I had a friend back then, her name was Mary-Anne. We were best friends. You know that blood-brothers thing kids used to do before people found out about AIDS and stuff? They prick their fingers and press the wounds together? We did that, and all of a sudden I knew things about her that she never told me. It faded over time, but once I heard about mutants and started shifting into a raven, I figured it was part of my powers."
Logan nodded. "I remember when I brought you in, after Jean fixed you up. You looked at me, you said—"
"James," she finished. "It's your real name, from a long time ago. The 1800s to be exact."
He lowered his head into his hands, overwhelmed. Raven continued, "I blacked out after that guy beat me up. When I came to, I saw you, and all of a sudden I was just overpowered by memories. Everything that happened in your life up to the time when I received your blood... and you've had a long life, with a lot of pain." She closed her eyes, winced in memory of it. "Don't you see, Logan? It haunts me too. It's different with tastings; then it's only a tiny bit of blood. But how much did I get from you? One pint? Two? And that was unfiltered, directly into my bloodstream. The memories were overpowering, and they didn't fade. They never have. I know you so completely.
"You're always in my mind, like a part of me that isn't me. Such intimate knowledge... how can I possibly have any emotional intimacy with anyone else?" She got off the bed, ventured to caress his hair.
"All this time," he murmured, "all this time and you never told me. I've been running up and down all over the world looking for answers—" he looked up. "Why?"
"Think of it like this," she ventured. "A man has amnesia. You could tell him all about his life, show him pictures of his family, have him read his autobiography, for chrissakes, his own words, and he'd look at everything as though it were another man's life." She sighed, rubbed the bridge of her nose as though in pain. "It wouldn't have done any good. You would have had to find it for yourself, discovered things with your own eyes. You see, the past you've been looking for, you suppressed it yourself."
"How?"
"Your X-factor, your healing. Whenever something traumatic happens to you, and believe me, there's plenty, you do what most people do: you seal it away. But the way you do it is different than usual; you use your power to sorta 'heal' it away. I don't know exactly how it works. I only know as much as I do because the Professor told me what he knows," Raven explained. "I wanted to tell you, but I knew that first of all, it wouldn't do any good, and secondly, it may do harm." She fixed her gaze on him again. "You hid those memories for a reason, Logan. You have to dig them up yourself. Having me thrust them at you won't help you."
Logan sighed. "I've been all over the world looking for answers, and I've found nothing complete. At least you know where to look."
"Then why don't I go with you?" she offered earnestly. "I'm serious. I know the details, places, people, dates. I'll be your guide. Plus, then you won't have to be alone." Her hand brushed his cheek; his eyes locked with hers. "We can help each other. There are some things about your past that you shouldn't have to face alone. Besides, it's always nice to have a traveling companion." She gave a throaty laugh. "I promise not to get in the way."
"Raven," he breathed, reaching out to draw her to him. She lay her head on his shoulder, against his neck. He held her tightly, eyes closed. Her hair was so soft, like down or silk. Her scent filled his nostrils, a strange mixture of aromas: patchouli and spice, autumn leaves, oil paints. "Are ya sure about this, darlin'?"
She was barely listening, lost in the deliciousness of the embrace. "I can take a semester off, a year off. It doesn't really matter. I can come back years from now and pick up where I left off, or not at all." She lifted her head. "I'd like to finish up the semester though. It'll be over in a few weeks, for holiday break. Can you wait for me until then?"
"Of course," he replied, his lips brushing hers, their eyes locked. Ecstatic, she kissed him, her soft lips pressing against his. All of his prior arguments were brushed aside; there was no denying that he loved her.
"I know you're hesitant," she whispered after they parted, her breath against his ear. "You don't fall in love easily. You don't let yourself, not after—well you'll find out about that in due time." Raven wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his and staring deeply into his eyes. "I'll help you find what you're looking for. As for everything else, don't worry. Stop thinking about it and just feel."
They sat together, silent, holding each other. Somewhere far from the city a wolf howled at the moon, a raven called in response. Moonlight filtered through the dust on the dingy windows of a dilapidated art studio and illuminated a painting of a man with a dark-feathered bird on his shoulder. Strangely, he seemed to be smiling.