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I was seven the year the revolts started. Seven the year I watched my mother die by my father's hands. Seven the year I met him. Some say I changed that year, I don't think they ever knew me before then. Nothing changed. The life I had lived up until then was a lie, the public belief a mockery of the miserable existence I had locked away from the world. Maybe I went a little crazy. Maybe the world ended and I didn't realize it, waking up just in time to watch it be reborn into flames and hatred, my own awoken in my heart like a black poison that ate away at me like so much acid.

He let me off my leash, starved for affection and all but intolerant of it. I hated what I craved, but wanted what I hated. Love was conditional. It was painful. The cost to high for my naivety to pay without losing a portion of what made me human. I only had to remember I wasn't human and the price seemed like nothing...but I wanted to be a part of their chaotic existence. I could have watched them for hours with their notions of life and silly, petty problems but to them…that was the world I was scoffing at.

The world, particularly the world as I knew it, was a place of hidden deceit and betrayal. The idea of this world, now there was an idea that was hard to conceptualize as a whole. What encompassed such a notion? Was it the stereotypical, egocentric blasphemy that I'd been forced fed since before I knew the truth behind the lies? Perhaps. At first anyways. Yet, as a child grows, as I grew, my mind expanded beyond what I was told to reach into the darkly lit corners and rummage through the shadows for the ray of light that would illuminate my own darkness.

Speaking of the world, as it were, I've always been amused when mortals would contemplate a world not their own with awed curiosity. They reminded me of children with their tales whispered by light of day, eyes darting nervously around so as not to call out the dark beings they so brazen discussed, and dismissed. Maybe flocked sheep, in their small bundles, bleating out overused and over hyped misconceptions. A cold day in Hell indeed. Would they find that colloquial saying so abstract an idea if they had been there that day? The day Hell truly froze over? I think not. Such an idea, incredulous as it is, would be beyond the measured capability of their knowledge and thinking.

Theoretically, it sounded like it would be a riot with its improbable nature. Those of us who lived through it know better now. The human condition can only take so much abuse before it will break, the humanity stripped from the being leaving only an empty shell in the place of shimmering vitality. It fell like snow, the stark whiteness of his tears as they slide past his frozen lashes, thickly crusted with glittering diamonds. I watched as he was broken, silent screams a testament to his pain until his very soul shattered like a frost covered mirror. Remnants of it rained down like jagged snowflakes upon the hardened earth. I think that was the day I fell in love, gazing at the wetness that clung to my skin in patches of obscure whiteness. He was all that was different and unique in my world, a beautiful rebel with the power to bring my limited existence to a crashing, burning Armageddon.

His name was Deacon. Deacon Frost. It was an oddly appropriate name for the cold beauty who chilled my skin and stole my breath with his frigid and unapproachable nature. He was my antithesis, my opposition…everything I’d been warned against but he was more then that. He was a brutal awakening to the lies I’d been told, an unstoppable force that cracked open my narrow view and forced my eyes open to the truth I’d been denied for so long. I both hated, and loved, him. Detested and loathed my desire and yet crawled on my knees like a dog for it.