Within the stench of the sewer and his own musk there is a different sort of scent. It's faint, barely traceable, but his nose is so much better now – it's her, he knows it. Incense and dust and old books and just a touch of fear – it's Raven, of course it is.

She's so tiny. Didn't she used to be bigger than him? Now, as he clumsily cradles her in his huge awkward hands – careful, careful, his claws have grown too – she's so small.

Even with all the care in the world, as he lays her down on the grimy sewer cement she still hits the ground with a thunk and a whimper.

It's that sound – barely more than a passing of air from her pale lips – that makes him pause.

Maybe it's the feel of her soft cheeks against the pads of his hands, or the steady rise and fall of her thin chest, but seeing her like that, just lying there – shorter, smaller than him, now –reminds him there are primal emotions other than fury. Something about her feeds this warmth in his chest, this need for her to always be there, and this fear that if he doesn't hold her close right now she'll be gone forever.

She's so breakable, so vulnerable, and perhaps that is what makes him want to keep her safe.