Page 75 of We Live Here Now

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Bright Wing is gone.

She’s flown back to the roosts where the others gather, nevermore to return. He barely remembers that she was here, as if she too was part of the strange dream of his life these past few seasons.

Broken Wing is back!

Her chest is plump, feathers glossy, and her black eyes shine with the fierce bravery and intelligence and humor that made him want to nest with her so long ago. Before the white came into her feathers and brought with it the mean streak that had hidden inside her.

The white patches are still there amid the damage, but the mean streak has gone, and she flies as well as she ever did. They soar together above the frozen moors, cawing to each other, dancing together. And while he knows that this is not right , this is not the way of beasts and birds and man, and dead is dead, whichever you are, he finds he does not care. His mate is not dead. That is all he knows.

His mate is not dead and she no longer pecks at him.

They turn their backs on the strange house on the moor and fly away toward the warm roofs and nests of the villages and towns. They fly away from farmers’ guns and strange houses that sit and wait to lure them in. They fly away from other birds. They don’t need them. His head bends in toward hers, warm and inviting.

They have each other again.

Forevermore.

They fly away and they don’t look back.