*
He clutched the bark beneath his talons. He squeezed it until he felt his claws pop through the surface. He was so angry. He was so sad. What had he done to that poor animal? The elf owl watched the strange beings from his place in the highest branch of a nearby tree, his vision not at all hindered by the dark.
The violent memories were beginning to fade. They always did so rather quickly. The owl was never able to remember all the lives he’d taken as his other self. The memories would fade, but the memories of the memories never did. He couldn’t remember the killing, but he knew what he’d done. He knew he’d extinguished life--not for nourishment, but for pleasure. His other self relished the kill. The evil inside of him fed on ruthless destruction. It thirsted . . . he thirsted. In that form, no greater pleasure could there be found than to rip the heads from other souls and watch their blood pour out. Sometimes he bathed in it. It was delicious.
On returning to his smaller self, he was forced to live with the guilt of what he’d done.
The elf owl watched the strange animals as they gathered their belongings and packed them atop larger, four-legged animals. He’d never encountered anything like them. They were strange and beautiful. And when they communicated, the sounds they made were infinitely more complex than those of any animal he’d met previously. They spoke with gestures, facial expressions, and the audible sounds generated through their mouths. Indeed, they were complex beings.
There’d been a short time during which the elf owl had attempted to live with others of his kind. He’d found a female once and she’d expressed such fear of him that it took a long time to get close. When he was finally able to approach her, he’d discovered her inability to connect with him in any meaningful way.
For a long time, the bird observed other animals, but they were unable or unwilling to interact with him. They ate and mated. They reproduced and raised families. Some killed for food. Others ate grass or leaves. The creatures he’d met undoubtedly formed some rudimentary kind of affection for one another, but the elf owl could never ease his feelings of isolation. No matter how he tried to fit in, he was too unlike the others to do so successfully. This tiny world that appeased the creatures of the woods left him feeling completely and utterly alone.
The owl flittered from tree-top to tree-top, following the animals he’d attacked earlier. After how close he’d come to killing them, he knew that he didn’t deserve their company, but his curiosity got the better of him. Too long he’d endured without stimulation and refused to allow this opportunity to slip from his grasp. An embarrassed part of him danced for joy at the prospect of companionship. Perhaps these animals would be able to communicate with him. Perhaps they would share their ways with him. Perhaps they wouldn’t. But just maybe . . . maybe they’d let him be their friend. He so wanted a friend.
The Inner Circle: The Knowing Page 8