Heaven and Hell

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A boy sat on a sleek black throne, embedded and carved with faces of agony, of souls of the wretched dead.

A boy stares around the big, dark hollow hall of the Palace, cold and uninviting, frighting shadows cast across the black marble floors.

A boy in elegant black, with two horns of the ram - the sign of the Royal family of hell, sleek dark and frightening things -protruding   from the top of his head, his gaze cool and empty and blank, stares at the enormous door at the end of the hall, closed as tightly as it had been, the end of his world.

A boy with dark hair and deep dark eyes is alone in the throne room of hell, nothing but the echoing screams of the dead keep him company.

And the boy thinks to himself, it's cold.

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Nico Di Angelo is a boy.

A mere child of 18 years, sat on the throne of hell, legs and arms crossed gracefully and chin tilted up, draped in cloth of black and red. Poised, quiet, calm, confident.

Cold.

It's ironic to say the boy felt cold, with all the  hell fire burning around him, when he himself sat on the throne of the burning dead.

But his lips where pale, nearly blue, fingers stiff, legs and feet revealed from his robes with the rosiness of a child at the joints.

It's cold here for a singular throne of hell,  for a young boy.

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