Chapter 5 #3
“Do it then!” Lucifer shouted back, matching him even now. He spun so his back was to the furious warrior, goading him into action. “Do your worst, oh faithful lapdog!”
With a cry of rage, Michael raised his sword and brought it down swiftly.
Lucifer’s screams rent the air as the tempered steel sliced cleanly through muscle and cartilage, the magnificent golden wings dropping from proud shoulders like lead weights.
Feathers scattered across the polished floor along with heavy drops of thick golden blood.
The Devil screamed until his throat was raw, until his voice gave out from the strain.
Thick trails of gold slid down his back, pooling beneath him and soaking into his tattered trousers.
His barren shoulders slumped, but he lifted his exhausted face to meet Michael’s gaze and the fury smoldering there.
“Are you proud?” He whispered hoarsely, unable to manage more. “Is your conscience appeased? Jeho’s favorite attack dog, restored to glory.”
“It is what you deserve,” Michael hissed, and spit on the ground before his lover.
How much of their relationship had been a farce?
How much of it was crafted to deceive and blind him to the truth?
“You are a traitor and a coward, and I am glad to be rid of you. I am glad to spare this Kingdom your wicked manipulations. It is my greatest joy.”
“Is it?” Lucifer hissed, sucking in deep breaths to distract from the pain decimating his shoulders and back. “Well, for what it is worth, you were mine.”
The admission seared Michael to the soul.
“Enough!” He raised his hand sharply and Lucifer’s back was engulfed in blazing golden flame, the stumps of his wings burning away to dust and razing the blood and grime from his skin.
He was radiant even in the flames of judgement.
At a gesture from Jehovah, the twins Jophiel and Gloriana approached the fallen prince.
Clasping hands, they closed their eyes and summoned forth a portal, a more temporary thing than the Rifts but good enough for quick passage between realms. A flickering gash of blue and white light, it cast shadows that deepened the lines of pain on the newly minted Devil’s face.
He was a shell of himself, pale and sweating and hunched over from the pain.
“Goodbye, Mikha’el,” he murmured, shifting from his knees to rise unsteadily to his feet.
“Good riddance,” Michael spat back at him, masking his pain with his rage.
Luce smiled grimly as he stepped backwards through the tear in the world, eyes hard and accusing and refusing to look away from Michael until the portal sealed between them.
His resolve broke, and Michael forced himself to breathe evenly as he turned slowly to face his king.
Dropping to one knee and bowing his head, hiding his storm cloud eyes behind unruly blond bangs, he curled a fist over his shattered heart.
“My faithful warrior,” Jehovah declared proudly, voice laced with warmth and kindness. “The epitome of justice and devotion, who would cast out his own lover when he defiled the Divine Law. Your sacrifice and loyalty are proof of your inherent goodness, Mikha’el.”
And yet, Michael didn’t feel honorable or just in this moment.
He felt sick and cold and furious at how he had been used and what he had been made to do.
To strip an angel’s wings, to cast them out…
it was difficult under the best of circumstances.
But to be forced to do it to someone you loved was almost unbearable.
It could have been Uriel or Jophiel who performed the act, or Sachiel or Raphael.
It didn’t have to be him. Underneath it all was a simmering resentment that Jehovah had asked this of him.
He continued kneeling, eyes burning a hole into the polished stones as he let Jehovah’s words wash numbly over him.
The sounds, the room—everything faded away until there was only the dull throb of his heart in his chest, reminding him he was still alive.
Eventually, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, followed by another on his other side.
Raphael observed him quietly, a steady and constant presence, while Uriel seethed with turmoil and resolve.
“Rise, my friend,” Raphael murmured. “Come away from here and compose yourself. Life must go on, and you cannot process this here.”
He nodded dumbly, lifting his head to find his neck aching and the room emptied. How long had he knelt here, lost in his thoughts? He stood on sore and shaking legs and allowed himself to be led from the room, trying to feel anything but the sharp sense of loss and confusion.
When he slipped out of his memories and back into the present day, the sunset had dwindled to the purples and reds of old bruises.
Stars twinkled blithely overhead, and Michael hated them for it.
The perfect balance of this afterlife oasis was maintained with the careless thought of the omnipotent king, Jehovah.
But Michael knew firsthand that the eternal sunshine could belie a darkness in this Kingdom, one that lived within him.
Protecting and serving had led to all of this.
Swearing oaths and bonds to a man he believed in, blindly following and assuming that his path was the right one—the only one—had cost him dearly.
Now, he wasn’t so sure that he had made his choices correctly.
He still regretted the horrible things he had said in that room.
He lifted a trembling hand and touched his calloused fingertips to his lips.
A spiteful tongue, and warrior’s hands to back it.
Eons could pass and Michael would never forgive himself for his role in what happened that day.
Lucifer had hoped his lover might speak in his defense.
He could have done the honorable thing and heard Luce’s explanations—honored the requests he had sent through Sachiel for Michael to come and visit him in the dungeons.
If he had listened, maybe he would have been able to understand.
A traitorous part of him wondered if he might even have agreed with Lucifer’s beliefs.
But he knew, in the darkest corner of his heart, that it would not have mattered.
The thorn that dug deepest into his wounds was that he had been too proud to hear Lucifer’s side.
He was bitter and vengeful on that day. Michael had heaped more blame and judgement upon the fallen Prince.
He had believed what suited his pain, and now he was paying for it evermore.