You know, now every angel will experience a taste of what Lucifer felt. How it is to fall and have your home, all that you’ve known and loved, ripped away from you with no way of getting back.
Can I just
For aegidoll who requested Hammer of the Gods
You chose me. You love me. This is real.
No silly seven seeds sealed the deal.
sometimes the inside of my ribcage aches because death described lucifer as a child having a tantrum and i realise that even though mentally angels have millennia of experience with battles and watching emotionally they’re basically children scrambling for how to react
“I was a son. A brother, like you, a younger brother, and I had an older brother who I loved. Idolized, in fact. And one day I went to him, and I begged him to stand with me. And Michael… Michael turned on me. Called me a freak, a monster. And then he beat me down, all because I was different. Because I had a mind of my own.”
One of the worst things about the cage, past the warping torturing and the endless solitary confinement, is the silence. Lucifer can scream if he wants, but it never fills the space. It doesn’t even give him an echo for company - any sound vanishes into the distance, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
When you have a mind like a supernova, this is not a desirable thing.
On his bad days, he wonders if anyone ever actually loved him at all.
The thought first comes to him after what feels like a hundred years (a drop in the ocean in the overall scheme of things). Did anyone ever care at all?
It sits and festers, feeding on good memories in the eddies of his congealing grace. His Father had to have designed him with flaws in mind, known what would happen, and he’d still let him grow attached to the world. Still let him find out things he could miss, now he’s trapped in his own prison.
And the tumorous thought begins to swell, clinging to him like a parasite. And as the thought swells, it leeches the heat from his core. His wings crack in the cold, though he doesn’t have it in him to be vain about it. Let him look like a monster, he thinks, they’ve always seen him as one.
The ever expanding black tar of his original thought tints all of his memories with a grey light. Michael only wanted to be near him to watch him. The others used to stare because they were waiting for his light to go out, not because they were awed. He’d spent so much love on them that they were never going to give back.
Whether any of it is true, though it’s unlikely, is irrelevant. The pustule of loathing says it is, so to Lucifer, it is.
It’s the only way he can make sense of it. How they could have said to have loved him so much and then turned like he was rabid when he spoke out of the harmony. The veins of his anger are clear across his skin, because it is easier to mar that than break himself trying to understand.
Even the love the demons he’d made had lavished on him feels like a lie, a layer of grease on him, because it was fear more than anything else.
The tumour grows with each repetition, on the outside, cracking his skin to make room. Every ‘how dare he make me like this’, every ‘how dare i not be loved’ forces it to grow.
When Lucifer finally escapes the cage, it has consumed him.