It hurts like a slap every time he hears Earth. It catches something hot and ugly in his throat, a flare of giddy incredulity among something vast and remote. It is a word not spoken in ten thousand years, a planet long dead, the name of the ashes from which a phoenix rose.

He's not used to it.

On his face, though, this probably looks like a distant incredulity to be handed bread.

"Thank you," he says, gravely, as though this is a vastly important gift. The Necrolord Prime is now standing around holding a piece of bread, still faintly aware of the spot on his forehead where the raven had tapped him, and it is a really uniquely surreal experience. He tries to at least appreciate the novelty. "When poetry fails to hold the attention, turn to snacks; I should have thought of that. The same approach does occasionally work on teenagers."