There is a place even more secret than the Center of All Things, which is... to secrets... a Grand Central Station. There is a Some Thing in the No Thing much more veiled - so veiled even angels and demons have yet to discover it. It consists of an inky black sea of unformed matter and a single structure: a large rock. Is it a dream of Asgard? Is it the nightmare of some small child fearing abandonment? Here, it is neither dream nor nightmare. It barely IS at all...
     Two shadows light on the rock, which is at the moment trying to decide whether it wishes to be rough and pocky like pumice or smooth like obsidian. One pair of talons skid on the surface of volcanic glass until they can take hold of the intermittent crags as the other lands without issue on the crown of this Rock of Nothing. On the very pinnacle of the rock, squat and staring into Oblivion, is a grand rook, mature and lordly, and scaling the side of the rock with a jester's playfulness, is another of equal size and stature.
     The raven at the crown of the rock peers down at its partner, its beak opening to silence - a warning? - as the other corvin finds its footing up above. What are you doing here...
     What are YOU doing here...
     Nature hates an echo, Bran...
     I thought it was a vacuum...
     I don't do chores...
     No, Nature abhors a vacuum...
     Then why is it you aren't obliterated every time you stop to think?
     Cheeky! You're in a lovely mood...
     I would like some peace and quiet...
     The rook cocks his head to his Other and clicks in mocking laugher. O brother can you spare a dime. Since when?
     Since EVER. Why are you here?
     Where you ARE, I AM.
     That's comforting...
     It should be. So...
     So...?
     Are you going to tell me what's eating at you or shall I stick my beak down your gullet and take a look for myself? You're even more dour than usual. Things not going well in royal chambers, are they?
     The squat raven peers at its companion and tucks its beak into its wing, smoothing over feathers. He grooms nonchalantly. My name is sung in the chambers of the king with great pleasure...
     Bah! Too much information. Besides, you're lying...
     Oh really? How can you tell, brother mine?
     Your mouth is open. Riot! For a moment - who knows how long a Moment is in a place that has no Time? - there is blessed silence. There is no wind. No Thing but the rock and the birds and the inky and indecisive dark matter below. You are upset, brother. You do not have to say so. I know how you hate being wrong.
     You know me SO well...
     The Other raven puffs himself out to match his twin. For they are twins. Yes, I do. You don't have to say it if you don't want to. But it's okay if you're afraid. I'm afraid every day. Well, not about irrelevance. I'm smashing, I have to say. But we all have our little worries. You're not immune.
     I am not irrelevant.
     No, you are not. But you fear you won't be needed anymore. He has a new plaything, bright and shiny. You were shiny once, too. You are like this rock. You and Loki.
     That makes me pumice. How flattering...
     It does, in fact. But have you stopped to think that the obsidian could not be shiny were it not for the pumice scratching at the surface of it until it sparkled? Brother-King will always need you, even if only to smooth with your coarseness his other gems into jewels.
     I do not wish to be the tool by which others are revealed to him. I don't want to be the pumice...
     Don't want to be the pumice. That's ridiculous! Who wouldn't want to be the pumice? You know, you work on feet as well as rock. Pumice is rather amazing. It's nature's brillo pad...
     Bran, you are not helping...
     You are not listening, Aeron. Do ...
          ...You...
               ....want...
                    ....me...
                              ....to talk...
     ...slower so...
          ...you can...
               ...get it...
                    ...you ass?
     The squat raven glares ahead in the unmoved space, his mood as dark as Dark Matter itself. But the brother rook beside him, equally grand, only sidles up to him as if to brace against a coming storm. If you are to train him to take your place, then train him well, brother. Train him and move onto the next roost of Fate. You cannot stop it. You can only master it...
     You are spending too much time in Oxford.
     Did you like that bit? Master it That could be in a movie, you know. Luke, I am your father. You cannot stop Fate; you can only master it. I should trademark that and put it on tee-shirts...
     The perturbed rook grips the pumice in his claws and crushes it to powdered ash as he launches skyward. Is it skyward when there is no sky? And the ash becomes the first wisp of a spiral galaxy. You are wrong, brother mine. I am neither jealous nor can we master fate. We are on the wind of it as much as anyone.
     The raven that is Bran bounds up after his twin. I am better at picking locks than you. You can't hide it from me for long...
     Two corbies fly in a pitch black sky, cawing:
     Brother, Brother...