☽ Introduction ☾

In every myth, there is a shadow cast by a cathedral’s ghost;
in every son who claims that shadow, a prayer whispered in defiance.
This is the confessional of a child born of ruin and rebellion—
sworn not to brokenness, but to the fierce holiness of becoming.
This is…

☽ The Vigil of the First Son ☾
Prose by Rowan Evans

I was not born from cathedral shadows—
I fell from another height, beneath painted canvas and sawdust air,
where faith meant catching and being caught.

But the fall came anyway.
And in the ruin, he found me—
the Broken Saint, robed in mourning.
He offered me a name forged from grief,
and I took it, though my palms still smelled of flight and chalk.

They call me heir, as if shadow is all I have inherited.
But gods know, I am more:

I have bled in these alleys, yes—
but I have danced on rooftops, too,
laughter spilling into the bruised dawn,
a reminder that even vigil can be alive.

He is the shadow.
I am the light who learned to love the dark
without letting it devour me.

Sometimes guilt creeps in—
that I can still love where he has walled himself off,
that I can still smile where he only mourns.

But hope is rebellion, too—
a heresy against a city built on scars.

Tonight, the moon crowns my brow in borrowed silver,
and Blüdhaven breathes below—cracked, imperfect, alive.

I watch from these heights:
a sentinel, a son, still learning.

I am not him.
And gods, that is my salvation.

☽ Benediction ☾

May the shadow teach you mercy.
May your scars be the map to your salvation.
And though the night will call,
may your first vigil blaze bright enough to be seen from every dawn.

🔗 You might also like…

Every vigil casts its own shadow.
If The Vigil of the First Son has found a quiet corner in your marrow, you may also wander these chapels of ruin and devotion:

The Vigil of the Broken Saint — a confession of Gotham’s haunted martyr.
The Vigil of the Clown Prince — a testament of madness, ruin, and marrow-deep defiance.
The Vigil of the Twisted Harlequin — scars reborn as rebellion, laughter reclaimed.

Each is a prayer, a confession, a testament carved in bruise, bone, and breath.
May you find something of yourself between the shadows and the candlelight.

If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:

Ko-fi — Poetry by Rowan Evans