He is a windblown shadow of darkness, skittering on the edge of moonlight. The unseen hand that reaches from the dark, scraping long nails against the back of your arm. The dead of night that hides in the back of the cave. A branch, that trembles, where there is no wind. Making his way from where he is, to where you are. A towering beast comprised of flesh, blood, and rage. And incalculable genius. His rage, born of abandonment, has shaped his entire being. His fury, honed by the injustice that is his entire existence. Consigned to anonymity from birth, to death. Resentment and anger at the one who would constrain him to this role. Thin acceptance of his own existence, so long as he can have his one place of solitude. His one place of peace, unsullied by that which he despises the most. Accepting, begrudgingly, that he must never cross that line from myth, to monster. Until that day when it is all taken from him. Finding focus for his wrath on the child of the one who destroyed all that he held most precious. Plotting his revenge. Clenching his fists in rage as he watches her every movement. Straining at the mental chains holding him in check. Wishing, no begging, for a reason to step out of concealment. Feeling those links beginning to stretch and surging toward that moment when they will snap, and fall away. To step finally from the shadows, and to take her breath away. Forever.