A bolt of lightning, half-misted over.

That is all he has.

That is what he has—

As he targets the enemy, stars spinning at his hands—they fly, him and the silver, flip and twirl until there is nothing—nothing but them, them, them. A cry of glass breaking, it tears from his throat and rips the air to bits, the shards green and clear, and lovely; they land, he strikes.

The air about him shivers as he leaps, and he runs; he chases so that, for a moment, fast as thunder—and thunder only—he is human again—then he flies, and soars like a firework, aerial pinwheels spearing the foe.

He strikes, he holds, he breaks the tableau and makes the stars dance, sprinkling sparks.

This is art.

Art, as he lifts, art as he lifts off—

He stands, then, a spectacle of awe, a god, a man.

The cross is pulled upon his back, which he bears humbly, fiercely, proudly.

He bows, casting the mist to his feet.

He is not a god—just a man.