For three years, it is as if he has not existed at all.
And now, now it is as if he springs from the shadows fully formed.
And perhaps he had. The mother was made of shadows, after all. Darkness he could press his mouth against. Stark black except for the eyes. And he, the opposite. Doused in white and gold, a halo settled high on his brow, casting him in an ethereal glow.
And yet. And yet, the boy is no angel. With wings made of leather and smoke that curls sweetly from his flared nostrils. With a mind that can both destroy on a molecular level and breathe life back into the dying earth. No, an angel he is not. What the boy – and he is still a boy, certainly, even at three years old – does not understand is that Lucifer was also an angel.
Here in the dead of winter, he finally emerges.
He sucks in a sharp breath, unperturbed by the way the cold seems to wrap a fist around his lungs. Because he can breathe fire. Because he is impervious to the frigid temperatures; he is above them. His heartbeat is a flame, spurring heat through the fine network of his veins. So, there he stands and heat rolls off him in waves. And he grins, because what a thrill it is simply to be alive. But there is a darkness in those vibrant, golden eyes. A yawning emptiness.
He moves slow now, the hard-falling snow collecting in the tangles of his mane and down the length of his rocky spine. He finds an alone thing in some desolate corner and he tilts his fine head and says, “what are you doing out here all by yourself?” And these are his first words.
