Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye.

Her eyes, once calm, curdle into a wild look.

Four-and-twenty blackbirds–

No not twenty-four. Only one.

Only her.

–baked in a pie.

The tune echoes, eerie, ominous clanging bells in her mind, twisted by a few minor notes.

Her throat feels tight. What… what is this?

She senses something – someone – materialize behind her with a silent whoosh. Swift. Soundless. Smirking. She doesn’t know how she knows, she just does. She’s lived long enough to know her instincts are something worth trusting.

Her jugular feels the dull sting of metallic cold. She is aware, without glancing down, that whoever’s behind her has pressed a dagger beneath her chin.

The melody stops, halting in midair, but she knows it just isn’t done yet.

The person sings softly behind her. Apathetic, low. “‘When the pie was open, the birds began to sing…’”

A little more pressure to the dagger – and it is dragged lightly across her neck. Her lips betray her and releases a small ‘argh’ of pain. Blood, much more of it than she has ever wished to see on one being, spurts out in a regular rhythm to her heartbeat.

She is released, but her knees have gone weak and they buckle. She gasps for air but her lungs refuse to comply. She clutches at her neck, wrapping it so tightly with her hands she could strangle herself, but the blood is warm and sticky and constant and fluidly vermillion, and it escapes through her fingers.

She is choking, and looks up to see who has tortured her so, but dark spots are slowly overtaking her vision.

The person sings. Gently. Nonchalantly.

“‘Wasn’t it a dainty dish to set before the king?’”

The king leans to strike her down.

* * *

She wakes up, panting, hands clinging desperately to her own neck.

“Raven?”

She looks to her right. She meets his eyes. The worried, storming blue soothes her.

“Raven…” She distantly feels another’s hands – his – carefully and gently pry her own from her neck. “You’ll strangle yourself.”

She breaks. She wildly searches for the familiar red she knows had been dripping from her hand, and feels dirty.

It is not there.

“Raven.” This time her name was not the caress of a lover, nor the reasoning of a leader, nor the playful banter of a friend. His eyes radiate understanding.

Understanding.

The call of a kindred spirit.

Her hands are held tight by his. “You’re safe with me.”

All she can do is lean into his shoulder, her internal sobs invisibly wracking her body. Thinking of how her last thought had been one of him before she’d woken up. Echoing a name forever etched into her very soul.

Robin.