I once watched the behaviour of birds in an aviary.
A pure-white Dove had a crust of bread in its beak and was trying to eat it in peace, when three little birds came squabbling over its meal. A Raven, a Crow and a Magpie. Of the three, neither were willing to share the bread, nor were they willing to compromise.
The Crow attacked the Raven, almost seeming more intent on killing it than taking the bread for themselves.
The Raven chased the Magpie about, but always seemed just a step too far behind its foe. Whenever the Raven came close to claiming the bread for itself, the Magpie would fly away and re-appear somewhere else.
The Magpie wanted the bread, not for itself but to add to its collection of shiny trinkets and breadcrumbs.
As they squabbled and fought, the bread itself was soon forgotten in the fight. The Dove took its bread and flew away, leaving the battling birds to nothing but their own squabble.
Our aviary, the Slaughterhouse, is not unlike that of the birds. There’s much squawking, flapping of wings and ruffling of feathers within the squared circle of our cage. Every bird wants it’s bread, but try as they might, most birds in our birdhouse find themselves locked in an eternal squabble.
Simple fact is, not every bird gets the bread.
I find myself looking into the blinking eyes of three bird-brained individuals that want nothing more than to steal my bread.
Cussen, the Crow. The bird of Death that we once knew as Corvus. You’re not after the bread, are you? You have a goal to accomplish, and it ends with the name of Death’s own son within that notebook. You want to see Deathnote’s end, and at Red Snow, your plan comes to fruition.
But it will do so without bread in your belly.
Deathnote, the Raven. Loyally carrying out your father’s will. You chased Sigil from heaven to hell to try and get that crown back, and you failed. At every step, no matter how violent you attack him, Sigil’s plans have always seemed to come together.
Your chasing of the Magpie has taken you away from the bread you once sought.
And you, Sigil. The Magpie. The territorial bird of shiny trinkets and vile plans. It is you that stands in my path. You that seeks to destroy the one being that can restore my Lord.
My mission is clear. Revive Yahweh at all costs, and I will achieve my vision.
Death must not fall, so you must fail.
I am the Dove.
The bread is mine.
While you squabble and chase each other, my championship hangs around my waits. A constant reminder of the power of my Lord.
A power you will never understand, a power that guides my every breath.
In your squabbling and fussing, you have taken your eyes off the bread.
So the bread will remain in its rightful place inside the Dove’s mouth.
And you squabbling little birds will be left with nothing but my crumbs.