A: Tell your husband to stop. No more killing.

“Stop!” You can’t stop yourself from running forwards, feeling the wind and dust kicked up from your husband hitting your face. “Stop! It’s ok, he won’t hurt you now!”

It seems like your protests unseat your husband from his building ire and he staggers away from his prey. He hops a step or two past you, ruffled and shaking his head. You hear the mask tapping hollow on his fingertips as he makes sure it’s still secure on his face.

“He will follow us.” He protests, his voice sounding strange and frayed at the edges. “He will not stop unless I stop him.”

“You don’t know that. If we leave now while he’s on the ground he won’t know where to follow.”

For a moment you swear your husband looks sullen, even through the mask. He turns his head to stare at the wheezing hunter, clutching at his side. You can practically see another excuse to harm the hunter being brewed up behind the dark eyes visible through the mask.

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore people.” You add. You walk closer to your husband and touch at his hand to distract him. It seems to work and he shakes his head, his feathers rising and falling as he tries to dispel the anger in himself.

“It might not always be easy.” He mutters. It’s enough. For now.

You lead your husband out of the village, hurrying a little when a murmur of concerned voices turns into chorus of yelps and shouts behind you. It stings a little that your village is more concerned with a hunters safety than your own but you’ve decided to not linger on that feeling just now. It’s more important to be away from danger, from the people that put you in that danger.

Your husband’s gait is strange to watch. Sometimes he ambles quite elegantly, it puts you in mind of a heron or stork. Other times he hobbles as he leans forwards, ducking under branches or through brush. At one time he hopped over to you, tucked up small and neat to see what you had in your bag.

The forests outside your village are easy enough to pass through. Human hands and feet have made it passable and easy to tread through. The day winds on and you follow your husband’s directions until night comes and your feet throb from walking. You’ll be spending the night outdoors most likely.

You ask your husband how much longer it will take to get to his home. He tells you probably four or five days. By foot. You ask him if there is any other way to get there and he simply extends his wings. A daunting prospect.