It is not true to say that he does not remember her. He does. Always, always within his mind do the images of his Mother linger, having long ago connected this word with the white female whose images flickers and flashes within his mind at the sound of her call. His head does not lift from his meal, dead emerald eyes do not shift, nor do his ears move in response. Yet those blackend tendrils of his mind shift and curl and part to release fragments- moments looked within himself that allow the creature to identify others, though even then, there are few that he recalls with the ability to add name- for name means nothing. He does not understand it, perceives only that it is the done thing, mimicked and learned from others in much that same way he has learned to pretend to be alive, to be anything other then the scrape of dead flesh he is. Lost and consumed in a world of infinite hunger and need. Feed and breed. This is all he understands now, his mind unable to perceive time, thus unable to understand nor grasp the change in season and within his mate- who no loner welcomes his advances so readily as she had when the earth had been as cold as the smoke that rose from his breath in the dark night. Thus he has learned that he must not come to Aaliyah again and again, seeking this same desire. Cold and breed. This is what he has learned and nothing more. He does not know of his children, the sons that rest within Diveen, he cannot comprehend what she has told him, feels only his possessive nature arc and bristle to find the scents of others upon her fur, saliva pooling in his jaws at the scent of milk- his mind combing this with tender meat. He does not understand- he cannot, he never will. He will tear apart his own children if given the chance and he will not blink. They are meaningless- but Jaidah is not.

Her cry is connected with her image, her image connected with fractured memories of sleeping against her, of being shaken so violently and deprived of his toys, he remembers mauling the one with dirty white paws, he remembers Demitri driving her back and he remembers eating beside her, remembers her coming in the dark to him. He cannot be summoned, he cannot be called or controlled. He is beyond anything that rests within Iromar, the true Demon King though never will he hold such a title, for it is meaningless, invisible and without concept in his ability to distinguish. Rank means nothing. Pack means nothing. He has no need of them- he will not obey and he cannot be made to. He comes because he desires it and nothing more, he turns upon blackened wings to embrace the shadows of obsidian that for years so many he has allowed to caress his equally dark form, smothering him within their ebony folds to melt within the night. Perhaps those with Iromar call themselves demons- yet they do not know, they play at violence, they play at evil as Heyel plays at Kingship. There is only one within this land that all flee before and all bow down too- and their reward is to life another night longer as he passes like the true Angel of Death, so exquisite is he to look upon, before descending the ridge of paws so silent and smooth that the earth barely sighs nor shudders at his approach, emerald eyes piercing the moonless night as trees and shadows part to release shaded fingers from him, the darkness simmering back to allow the Black Prince to emerge within the clearing behind the one who glows with unholy white light- the one to whom he holds so much likeness within the touches of divinity in his features.

He pauses as a growl rolls and coils within his chest, rumbling into the air like a demonic chorus. Yet it holds no aggression, it is merely an announcement of a kind, alerting her, though surely already she knew as he did- always, when she lingered near though he knows it not, understands it not. The bond of Mother and son was never truly broken for time and time again the Black Prince had returned to the White Queen. She is as he. Like him. Not for eating. Head and tail raise high, dominance, always, as his heckles lift and white fangs slice at the darkness almost in challenge to the aged white wolfess and yet- he repeats this gesture each time, the action as likely to be a challenge as it is a simple repeat- meaning utterly nothing as emerald eyes rest upon the creature whom had breathed her life and blood into the nightmare that stood within his prime behind her, pelt aglow and muscle rippling- perfection- born from her. Another growl rushes between his teeth as he glides forward, heckles and tail lowering, neutral, blank, devoid as his features as he comes against her, just for a moment, like dark feathers tracing her side before he comes to stand before her, offering the barest touch and nothing more, symbol perhaps of some understanding, twisted and fractured as it is within the creature.

“Mother.”

And he grins, broken and twisted and wrong- just as he is- and just for her. Perhaps she is not long for this earth, but within he, her creation- she will live on.