It was born in a storm that dyed the sky coal. Lightning, wiry spasms of an offended god, lashed against the coming darkness.
He knew it would be born and where and why and how.
To save the baby from having to suffer all those physical examinations with crude probes, thermometers and no dignity, he performed the ancient rites, called down the incantations he had long ago memorized, exhausted the will etched onto the pages in blood and then, spirit spent, extolled those lesser deities which many overlook, cloaking his words in fire they loved, drawing invisible xenoglyphs in sulfur-twinged air, having requested doctors to seek the baby in the natal ward, where by his efforts they would find nothing but an empty crib.
And deep below, with bottle to lips, feeding on the ambrosia already fermented and fortified, the tiny thing suckled. The liquid, thick and cloudy, it drank like a greedy piglet, splurging and slurping unconcerned by sharp obsidian comprising and surrounding its bed.
Emptying one bottle, it cried for another, juvenile tail whipping like honed razors. On its head two points broke skin, red anger, heralds of destiny, the future of this child which had already been written and rewritten in a cycle often beaten but never broken.
It would play its part, this crimson milk. It would nourish and fuel, passing will and malice from father to son.