He is a thing of shadows.
Born of a mother sprung from darkness, shadows he could press his mouth against, he has always been his most comfortable where the light cannot reach him.
And yet, sometimes he wanders.
Because he has found himself to be a social thing. After spending the first three years of his life in self-exile, first with his mother in the darkness and then on his own, he has spent the last year expanding his horizons. And how brilliant they are, his horizons. Because he is a beautiful thing, gold to his mother’s darkness. Cast in a saintly glow by the halo settled low over his brow.
What an angel he is, Messiah.
What a dark and disgraced thing he is.
He wanders now, not in search of anything, but spurred into action by a boredom he cannot shake. He wanders now because the world around him is dying and the world is awash with color so vibrant that not even he – he who craves the darkness, who feels at home there – can deny the beauty of it. He is not one for breathless wonder, though, so he acknowledges it with a cool passivity.
He is there by the river, absorbing the last bit of warmth that has leeched into this new season, and the sun casts long shadows. The wings are folded neatly, loosely, the head tilted as he studies the ripples that disturb his reflection. He is relaxed. Or, at least, as relaxed as he knows how to be.
He looks up when he is joined by a stranger, a pink thing several feet away. “Beautiful day,” he calls out with a viper’s grin.
