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A series of scenes flickers through your mind:
A blonde man in a long, light-colored coat, standing on the pavement. You know him; you're fond of him.
The same man, his arms suddenly flung back as he lunges forward, eyes gone glowing blue-white, flickers of the same crackle over his body.
You stand before the glowing figure. He is stern and has a strength to him the man did not; you're afraid. This face should be beloved but masks a restrained and terrifying power; he is so impersonal. He tips your chin up with one finger and regards you dispassionately; you feel (fear) you are being judged.
The visions end. You see a dark huddled lump on the pavement, some paces away. Dead bird, that's your first thought. You were always sad to find their still little bodies. You lower your arm in a series of jerky movements, like your body doesn't know how to do that any more, and your fingers follow suit, letting something go. A few jagged steps forward, crouch down, turn and lift the figure by the shoulders; it's the man from before. You've seen enough death to know what you see here and you're very sad, in some distant, dreamlike way.
He killed so many people, says a voice from too close, like it's inside your own head. Is this not justice?
"No, he was a good man. He saved so many others. Before. And with these actions. This is - this is not just."
You're remembering more things now, a lot of things, everything; when the cold voice questions you again - what about, and what about, and what about - you unload it all. All the terrible years, centuries, deaths and abuses and lives ruined, still being ruined. But a few less now, thanks to what the man in the black feathers did.
The voice queries you again, about this man, what he's done, but you're sick of it. Sick of the specifics. "Most people don't know what the fuck they're talking about when they invoke justice, talk about what vengeance is. What he did, that was an attempt to make things more fair, to bring some balance back. That's justice, redressing the balance. But killing him? That was only ever vengeance."
You haven't let go. Somewhere you find your final argument and know its truth.
"His scales were balanced," you whisper.
Everything becomes obscured by a white haze, and a wave of brighter light pulses down your arms.
Then it's gone; the world looks normal again. The man you're holding onto takes a breath and stirs like someone waking. He blinks, sees you, frowns in confusion, still coming to. "Love?" His eyes unfocus for a moment like he's searching inward, and then he's alarmed. "Justice?"
It crosses your mind that you might be a spirit healer now, and what the fuck else does that imply, as you gather him into your arms and stride away from this place. You don't feel quite yourself, but more, like you're two people in one body. Perhaps that's why it's so easy to carry him.
Light as a feather.