Death was what the bird encompassed. It was the symbol, the representation and to die would mean that it would have failed in its duties. It had, in a sense, by losing its person but there was more to it than the now deceased phantom. It could help this pair and still be useful toward completing its original task. It was so confused.
And felt so alive. So very alive. The wounds in its breast felt warm, and it could feel the torn muscles knitting back together, the skin shaping over the slice, the tissues reforming. Even the black feathers bloomed from the diminishing slit.
Eric didn't move. Even as he felt he bird becoming more, much like he suspected Bran had when he changed, he said nothing. The only motion was the small gesture of bringing his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his face in his knees. He felt like disappearing, and destroying....and so many more things. He couldn't describe one exact feeling or emotion. All of them were a tangle. And the tears just wouldn't stop flowing.