They Called Me Raven

We’re going to meet in the city square, because that’s the best place for it: a crowd.

Lanterns are lit, and they spread an orange glow on the street vendors, replacing the light from the suns that are already hidden behind the surrounding clay buildings. The storefronts here are decorated too, lit and painted with lettering, enticing the evening crowds in for cards or dancing or, in a few cases, more elicit activities.

It’s certainly not a place that Lise would want me to be, or my parents. But it doesn’t matter now. I shake out my sleeves, lean into my heels as I walk, nod at the people here as I pass.

I’m still holding onto my alterations--the dark wings along my hairline and some edits to disguise my facial features, wishing I had physical accessories so I wouldn’t have to hold the alteration for so long. Had I planned this outing better, instead of just running out of the council house, I’d have had time to get my gear from my rooms. It’s fine, though, I have the energy to hold it. But I’m already feeling a familiar buzz just behind my forehead, which will only get stronger the longer I hold the alterations on my body.

I pass a black girl with hair down to her ankles, pink and braided, her fingertips matching pink feathers. She’s got a girl on her arm who’s whole forehead is scaly like a crocodile, and her lips are tainted blue. That’s what I like about City Central: there’s no good way to tell what’s an excellent alteration and what’s just a prop. Apart from time, of course, because all alterations fade when the night wears on long enough.

I prop myself up on the side of a building, tucked out of the way of the crowd, just watching. An old man with moths in his beard is dancing in circles around the well in the center of the square. A white boy with a faded vest and a pan flute is providing the music.

“Raven.” It’s a moniker I didn’t choose, but I can’t say I’m surprised, because my disguise always utilizes black feathers. His name is silly too: Lightfoot. But that’s what happens when you do something noteworthy one day and refuse to give a name--one gets assigned to you.

It was about two years ago now, and in this very same place, City Central. I’d been in the Altar, which is a dancing club I frequented ever since turning sixteen. Mother never liked it, which is why I opted for alterations and costume pieces to hide my identity. That night I happened to be wearing a black gown, hair extensions that reached my elbows, and a black feathery mask.

That night I’d just wanted to have a good time.

At first, it was all going according to plan. The Altar encourages masks, mayhem, and music, and, as one might tell from the name, alterations. Most people don’t have much of a use for their alterations; turning your skin wooly like a sheep or wrinkly like an elephant isn’t helpful for most people’s everyday life, not to mention generally considered unprofessional. But at the Altar, the more extravagant the better. They even have altering competitions based on speed, beauty, and magnificence.

I’d been feeling lonely that night--after one of my many fights with Lise--and had befriended some city girls. They’d instantly adopted me as one of them, never once considering that I could be a council member’s daughter. We’d drank together, danced with each other, smeared glitter across each other’s eyelids.

And suddenly the room had plunged into blinding darkness, people were panicking, someone shoved me roughly to the floor. The lights had come back on, and a tall man with thin hair and wide shoulders was holding one of the girls by the back of the neck. She’d been so afraid that her cheeks were altering: flicking back and forth between her pale skin and the spotted short fur of a deer.

I hadn’t thought, had had too much to drink if I’m honest, and had scrambled to my feet and extended my fingernails into eagle’s talons, latching them into his back. He’d screamed, and by that point everyone in the Altar was staring at us. The other girls were cowering, the one that he’d been holding was choking on tears, and that man… that man was angrier than I’d ever seen anyone.

He’d let go of the girl, luckily, but reared back and rammed me against a table. My talons were sunk so deep into his back that I hadn’t had time to pull them out, so anywhere he went I followed. The blood on his back was everywhere, down my arms, on the table, seemingly in my mouth, but really it was just that I’d bit my own tongue.

I pulled back, retrieving my hands, and scraped the talons against his arms this time as he lunged at me. He never altered at all but his eyes were irregularly red. I swear he would've crushed me if he'd had the chance. But this was when Lightfoot appeared, silently and suddenly. A stranger who’d altered his forearms into armadillo plates like armor, and he blocked the man's blows, even though he was smaller.

It was the first time I’d ever seen anyone use alterations to their advantage in such a precise and practiced manner. It was like this stranger knew every secret in the animal kingdom and when best to borrow each trick. I couldn’t see everything, at that point my head had been pounding, but he was able to get the man out of the building, using his alterations to help. He’d altered so fast and so confidently that I don’t think anyone in the Altar was doing anything but staring.

When it was over, days later, I’d heard the city gossip. Two strangers without signet rings identifying them. They called me Raven on account of my appearance; they called him Lightfoot on account of his silence and stealth. He hadn't said a word that entire time, and no one saw him on the way in or out of the Altar. Almost like he was never even there.

Some called us unlikely heroes, some mysterious vigilantes. In reality we were teenagers. Which for me meant it went straight to my head.

It’s all leveled out now, a little. We’re not famous, per se, but we’re known. I don’t like the word vigilante, but I do feel protective of the city. I hadn’t originally meant to become this kind of guardian, but I can't help myself when I hear about problems in the city that I know the council has no intentions of addressing.

I can only assume that Lightfoot feels the same way, though we've never actually worked together. We just end up in the same spot a lot. But not this time. This time I requested him to meet me here, on this day at this time. I'd set it up the last time I'd seen him.

I look over, shaking the memories out of my head. He’s wearing the same golden-colored eye mask as usual. The markings on it make him look a bit owlish, his eyes round and bright. He wears a simple long coat and clothes, nothing flashy, and his dark hair is tied into a bun at the back of his head, as always.

In this form, he looks very, very little like Mickaël. Our identities may be hidden, but his isn’t a secret to me. Or Lise, as I’ve talked it over with her and she agrees that Lightfoot must be Mickaël. They’re both good at climbing, altering, running, and knowing everything there is to know about animals and the stars. It just makes sense.

I’ve considered telling Mickaël, or Lightfoot, as they are one and the same, who I really am. But it feels like a betrayal of the fun to admit that I know, or to give up who I am.

“You’re not going to say anything at all?” Lightfoot asks, tipping his head to the side. It's funny he says that because as Lightfoot he rarely speaks, which is a stark contrast to his Mickaël self. I guess this meeting has him curious enough to ask questions.

I straighten my shoulders--something I’ve seen Lise do a million times, and it makes her look in charge--and tell him, “I’ve got something of a proposition.”

* *

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