by Rex Jameson
***
Lucifer woke and there was no pain this time, only the flutter of wings on his cheek as he reclined in the chair. A chaos butterfly had found its way through the dungeons and into his cell. Its head pivoted as it gave him light kisses on his nose, and he giggled but tried not to disturb it.
He memorized every line and contour and marveled at the pattern sequence its wings made when they rotated around and underneath the body. He wanted to make one.
“Ah, you’re up,” Garion said from behind the door.
The chaos butterfly flew away and flitted through the bars of the doorway. Garion swatted at the insect as he entered the cell and closed the door. Lucifer quickly tucked his hands under the table and realized that he was able to see the outlines now without feeling pain first. The vision seemed permanent.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Lucifer said.
“Oh, are you?”
Lucifer nodded. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Look, just plop one of your feet on the table and let me do my job.”
“I’m trying to save your life. Leave this cell now and take those guards outside with you, and I’ll let you live.”
Garion chuckled slightly, and Lucifer watched the outline of the grin grow wider. Within seconds, Garion was in deep laughter. He took another step toward Lucifer.
“Have it your way.”
Lucifer watched Garion clumsily pull out a zinanbar knife and reach for the table. As Garion tried to flip the table, Lucifer grabbed the knife and plunged it into his neck. He grabbed the other blade from the executioner’s side and severed his windpipe.
“Everything OK in there, Garion?” one of the guards asked.
Lucifer pressed his back against the wall beside the door.
“Actually, I think he’s dead.”
Lucifer could hear the key clanking against the lock as the guard frantically tried to open the door. Then he heard two soft thuds against the stone floor in the hallway. He peered through the walls and saw two forms hovering over the felled guards.
“Lucifer?” Sariel asked. “Are you OK?”
“What are you two doing here?” Lucifer asked.
“The pattern called for us,” Batarel said. “So, we apparated in.”
“The pattern talked to you?”
“Well,” Batarel said. “No, it talked to Sariel, and Sariel summoned me.”
Batarel turned the key in the lock, and Lucifer burst through the door.
“Quick,” Lucifer said. “Put their armor on, and help me change into the executioner’s garb.”
“Lucifer,” Sariel said. “You … you … have arms!”
“I was born with arms.”
“Yes, but I saw those same arms being tossed into an angry mob over the past two days.”
“Won’t be my arms or legs today.”
“How did you do this?” Batarel asked.
“Magic.”
Sariel chortled.
“Are you telling me the pattern showed you how to regrow limbs?” Batarel asked. “Where the hell was the pattern when half my body was burned away?”
Sariel laughed again.
Lucifer and Batarel both looked at him.
“Um …” Sariel said. “Well, the pattern mentioned that it’s not his fault that some stupid wizards put a cork in him for millions of years.”
Lucifer didn’t think Batarel could have gotten any redder, but remarkably, he turned a deeper shade of scarlet.
“Put the armor on,” Lucifer said. “And hand me a decent-sized blade from one of those dead guys. I’ve got a plan.”
Sariel grabbed a sword from one of the dead guards and passed it to Lucifer, who went back into the cell and hacked away at his torturer.
“I know the pattern has converted you into a believer in symbolisms,” Sariel said, “but I think you are taking this too far.”
“Get your armor on and hold these for a minute. I need to stop by the armory before I put this executioner’s robe on.”
“Why?”
“The people need a legend.”
