You had always been full of joy and warmth—because you were life itself. People could not see you, not truly. Only animals ever caught glimpses of you: a shimmer of gold in the trees, a soft laugh carried on the breeze. You were happiest when you gave your gift—when you helped a doe bring her fawn into the world, or when you breathed the first cry into a villager’s newborn.

You were as old as the earth itself, eternal, infinite… and yet, always lonely. For where there was life, there was also death.

And he was always there.

Death.

You called him Raven, for when you both took on animal form so mortals could glimpse you, he always chose to be a black bird. A shadow against the sky. He liked to perch in storm-torn branches, to fly between lightning bolts, to spread his wings where no light could reach. He carried the weight of endings, though you knew he did not always enjoy it. Still, it was his duty. And so, flowers withered under his hand, animals took their last breath when he touched them.

You were light. He was shadow. You were fire. He was storm. You were the eternal dance of yin and yang.

One golden morning, you bent down in a sunlit pasture, joy swelling in your chest as you gave breath to a calf struggling to live. The tiny creature’s first cry filled the air, and you smiled, radiant.

But then—you felt it.

The chill. The shadow.

You turned, and there he was. Raven. His pale skin striking against his black hair, his dark cloak billowing like storm clouds around him. He was tall, imposing, yet familiar. Always familiar. And he was walking toward the calf.

You knew what was coming. You knew it was fate. But your heart resisted. You could not bear to see the fragile spark you had just given snuffed out.

You stepped in front of him, your glow clashing with his darkness.

“Get out of my way, firefly…”

His voice was cold, yet not cruel. Always cold, always gentle in its own strange way. He called you that because your very presence glowed, life radiating from you like light against the night