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Dio’s servants keep track of the years, but he has no need to. He does not remember when he was born, only that he came into this world knowing his power.
His first days were simply an opportunity to explore his strength. His upper body was akin to a human’s; well, humans were akin to him. But where their skin was soft and vulnerable, his was covered in scales of green alike emeralds, and striped on his belly with gold. He had claws to their weak nails, fangs to their dull teeth. He did not have clumsy legs, but a powerful, agile tail.
Soon, he discovered other powers, distinctions. A gaze that could turn any creature to stone, blood that could cure illness and extend life, a voice that could give him total control over an animal’s mind.
No creature could stand before him. Everything is prey. And in this world, his world, that made him king.
His home is a grand thing, befitting one of his glory. His servants built it over many years, what humans call a temple. A place to worship. Dio likes that, pleased they showed such initiative.
The structure needed to be sturdy, for he was powerful; wood would not be enough. It required stone, hewn from the Earth for the purpose. The humans brought him luxurious fabrics and woven textiles; he could appreciate their ability to create and adapt. To survive.
Many served him well.
The halls are dotted with the frozen forms of those that have displeased him. Those that did not show proper respect for one such as himself, those that bored him or insulted him. Cast forever into a prison of stone with a single flash of Dio’s gaze.
He knows there are many more in the towns and villages. Warnings to their inhabitants.
The lands to the horizon and beyond were his, where his faithful built their homes and served. Vast swaths of forests for him to roam and hunt. Humans from beyond the borders would make pilgrimage to his home, bringing all manner of gifts and sacrifices.
Dio prefers the precious gems and jewellery, the artefacts and transcribed knowledge. He partakes gleefully in the exotic meats, but it would not do for his hunting instincts to dull.
It was his pride, his strength; his ability to dominate any creature. It was a truth he knew the moment he came to be.
And here he was, the glorious and terrible Dio, patron god of the hunt, giver of life to worthy humans and a terror to his enemies: hunting mice in the dusk. Sweeping at the soil with swipes of his tail and calling the stupid little creatures to the surface of their burrows. His voice lulls them to stay still as he plucks them from the loam.
Humans had proven quite terrible at hunting the slippery little things. It was swifter to… gather them himself.
After finding enough of the silly little mice, Dio returns home, ignoring his supplicating servants to slither to his inner chambers. These contain his most precious treasures; the deepest the one he guards most jealously.
A fire burns silently in the centre of the room, fueled by nothing but air. It casts soft orange light against the cushions and exposed stone walls, inviting. Dio’s great body loops the small flame several times over, but the heat is intense enough that his coils are pleasantly warmed.
He, Dio, is rather annoyed that he spent some of his precious time on procuring such pathetic prey. There is temptation to leave his fire be for the evening, letting it warm him as he pleased.
But then there was a chance his flame would pout, and stubbornly remain small for days. Dio frowns.
The wood mice remain limp as he lifts them, tiny minds wiped clean and calm. He drops them into the fire, one-by-one, lips quirking as the flame eagerly swallows, leaping higher and higher. Bright yellow bathes his scales, lending a most tantalising gleam.
Dio shudders as the animals are consumed, bones and all, the tremendous heat spreading through his blood. The fire grows, tongues licking blue-white into the room. If one of Dio’s servants dared to enter, they would surely perish from the heat. If they are stupid enough to do so, he’ll be glad that they removed themselves from his service.
The fire roars to the ceiling, curling and twisting in the air. It forms a familiar shape, a five-pointed star, before the flames coalesce and calm.
At first glance, Dio almost mistook Jonathan for a human. He looks very much like one; same limbs, same apparent softness.
But then he felt the heat he carried. A flame given human form. Eyes that flashed from keen blue to lurid yellow, hands that could melt stone and skin that flickered and rippled. Dio felt, saw, and knew Jonathan was the first creature he’d encountered to be a threat.
A flash of Dio’s gaze had turned him to ash, scattered in the wind.
Yet, Jonathan had returned. No matter how many times Dio tried, he had returned. An undying flame.
And somewhere, through all those cycles of the seasons, the ‘years’, Dio had grown to appreciate it. This unique brand. JoJo’s undying warmth to his eternal cold.
‘I forgive you, Dio,’ Jonathan says, giving him a far too-satisfied grin as he audaciously settles in the coil of Dio’s beautiful scales. His skin glows, refreshed.
Dio flicks the tip of his tail at Jonathan’s shoulder.
‘Forgive me? I never asked for that, idiot JoJo.’
Jonathan laughs, heating his fingers as he slowly strokes along Dio’s tail. His muscles quiver and melt, relaxing into useless limp. He loves hates when JoJo does that. It makes his strength loosen. Renders him soft, like a sleeping rabbit.
‘I know you hate hunting wood mice,’ Jonathan says, tone disgustingly fond, cheeks dimpled.
‘Hunt?’ Dio scoffs, ‘does one hunt a stick? No, one finds a stick. I found those foolish little things. I, Dio, hunt superior prey.’
Jonathan laughs softly. Dio feels his tail coil tighter.
A beautifully warm cheek presses to his tail, Jonathan’s eyes settling on his preferred blue.
‘Thank you, Dio,’ he says, ‘I know it was an accident.’
Dio feels himself beginning to pout and jerks his chin up in offence.
‘I do not make such accidents,’ he says, flicking JoJo again, ‘perhaps I was tired of entertaining your foolish moralising.’
A hand touches his belly. Dio’s entire body ripples with delight. Before JoJo, not a single creature had touched his most vulnerable scales. It was anathema, to even consider it.
But JoJo… JoJo was the exception. He was always the exception, to every rule Dio believed to be clear-cut and absolute. Companionship. Vulnerability. Mercy. Affection. JoJo… his existence in Dio’s life invited it all in. And somehow, he welcomes it. Because it is JoJo.
Dio lets Jonathan curl closer, hands traveling up his chest, pleased when arms wrap around his shoulders. The warmth has no rival. Dio could bask in it for his eternal life. When JoJo turned to ash yet again, due to his anger…
The loss grew keener each time.
‘... I am glad you returned so quickly,’ he murmurs. Jonathan beams.
‘As am I.’
-
Months pass them by, and their Great God Dio does not emerge from the depths of his temple.
It is always so, when the Flame reignites, and entwines about Him anew.
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