Abaddon, for instance, looked like a fucking pirate that hadn't bothered to bathe in weeks.
Luce lingered outside the bar for a moment, absorbing the unsavory sensations, before strolling inside. His gaze was immediately drawn to Abaddon, sitting casually on top of the very end of the bar and leaning back against the wall, his wings fully emerged.
Flashy son of a bitch.
Nobody saw him.
Nobody knew he was there.
He looked up as Luce approached, a sly smile twisting his lips. "Well, well, well... if it isn't the Prince of Darkness."
Luce slid onto the stool right in front of him, refusing to respond to the title. It was almost as bad as Satan. "Don."
"What brings you by?"
Truth be told, Luce didn't know. He was just tired of wandering all alone. "Was just in the neighborhood."
Abaddon laughed. "Can't say an Archangel has ever dropped by these parts before."
"Yeah, well, I don't know that I count," Luce said. "I'm more of a hybrid these days."
Curiosity twinkled in Abaddon's eyes. "You still got your wings, right?"
"Yes."
"Then you count."
Luce didn't agree, but he didn't argue. Archangels were holy, and Luce had drifted about as far from that as possible. He fit in more here with these ingrates than he did with the divine winged type.
A woman strolled by them, slipping onto the stool right beside Luce, absently waving for the bartender. She ordered shots of Tequila for her and her friends, and sat there, drumming her long pink fingernails on the bar as she waited. Her platinum blonde hair was teased, her black dress tight and short, low cut on her chest.
Lust coated her like a perfume.
Abaddon remained in his spot on the bar, his gaze fixed right on the woman's breasts as they bounced and jiggled whenever she moved. Luce shook his head at the angel's obvious ogling, and didn't need to tap into his thoughts to know what his old friend was thinking.
"So how do you do it?" Luce asked, raising an eyebrow in question.
"Do what?" Abaddon asked without even looking at him.
"Keep your Grace," Luce said. "Your mind is as corrupted as everyone else in this room."
"Ah, I think it, but I don't act on it," Abaddon said, turning to him when the woman got up and sauntered off with her alcohol. "My thoughts may be impure, but I own it, and resist temptation, so He forgives my wicked ways."
"That's not how it works."
"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness," Abaddon said, his voice monotone as he quoted scripture. "Maybe you need to brush up on your Bible, pal."
An inkling of anger tickled Luce's spine. "I don't need to read it. I lived it. Forgiveness is for them, not us."
"You're wrong," Abaddon said. "It's a different world now than when you were sent downstairs. Things change."
"Why?" The question left Luce's lips as a growl. "Why is it different now?"
"Because of you," Abaddon said. "Losing someone special in your life has a way of changing you. If God's favorite son could fall so far, so hard, then no one was immune. I guess He realized we weren't as infallible as He made us out to be, and if He didn't extend the same courtesy, the same forgiveness, to us, He would lose a lot more than He could bear."
The explanation did nothing to soothe Luce's aggression. It was what he had fought for, what he had lost his Grace over, and he had spent thousands of years trapped in Hell for it, punished for daring to question their Father, and as soon as he was gone, everyone else was given exactly what he wanted. How is that fair?
"It's not fair," Abaddon agreed, tapping into Luce's thoughts when his guard dropped, his anger opening his mind. "And it's still not enough, frankly. Yeah, we're free to think as we want, but we're still shackled when it comes to what we do. If I slipped and acted on my impulses, Michael would show up here and annihilate me. How many brothers and sisters have we lost because they fell victim to temptation? Azreal, Dinah, Benjamin, Luna, Maylin, Samuel…"
Luce cut in. "Samuel chose to fall."
"Even worse." Abaddon scoffed. "Look at what happened to his sister."
Luce tensed at the mention of Serah, the bitter sting running deep.
"Sex is forgivable… expected… between those that are in love, committed to each other, but what happens when the one you love can't love you back?" Abaddon asked. "How is it fair that she lost her Grace for loving someone incapable of love?"
Those words were like a knife in the chest, severing something inside of Luce. He was up off the stool, grabbing the collar of Abaddon's shirt, and yanking him off the bar in the blink of an eye. Abaddon hit the floor hard, the rush of energy from the impact knocking over the stool, the eyes of people in the bar turning to it, startled. They didn't see the guardian pinned to the floor, didn't see the fallen angel on top of him, pressing the blade of the golden Heavenly knife to his old friend's throat.
Abaddon laid still, eyes wide with surprise. Luce's stark black wings had sprouted from his back, casting the bar in shadows, as if the lights had dimmed. The electricity flickered and lightening flashed outside, thunder clapping in the distance, as Luce let go of his rage, unleashing the negative energy that had again started building in him.
He usually purged it in the pit, day after day, torturing the inhabitants of Hell. Up here, it had nowhere to go, simmering inside of him, creeping beneath his skin. His nostrils flared, eyes black as the pit, flickering red as he glared at Abaddon, the blade close to slicing the skin.
He could do it. He could plunge the knife in and yank it back out without so much as a morsel of heartache, putting the Guardian out of his misery. His Grace would explode from him, and Luce could feel the tingle on his skin from anticipation. Some of it would seep into his system as he breathed it in, absorbing it, and he craved it, like an addict needing a hit.
Yes, he could do it.
Maybe he would.
Slowly, a smile curved Abaddon's lips as he relaxed back against the floor. "There's the Lucifer I remember… all the passion, none of the pretense."
Luce stared at him for a moment before pulling the knife away from his neck and returning it to safekeeping. He stood up, his wings disappearing, as Abaddon zapped to his feet. The angel smoothed his clothes as he shook his head, leaping right back up on the bar and stretching out.
"You may not admit it out loud, but I can see it in your eyes," Abaddon said. "The idea of having the world for yourself still intrigues you. You want it… want what you were robbed of."
The woman from earlier came over, picking up the knocked-over stool and sitting down on it, not noticing as she brushed up against Luce. She ordered more shots, Abaddon's attention drifting right back to her, his eyes scanning her body like he were studying a work of art.
"And all I'm saying," Abaddon said, "is that as good as looking can be, someday I'd like to have the chance to touch."
"What does that have to do with me?"
Abaddon waited until the woman walked away again to look at Luce. "Everything."
Six months is the blink of an eye when you're eternal.
Hours turned to days turned to weeks turned to months. Luce barely registered the change in time. Winter became Spring, which somehow bloomed Summer. The white coldness that had taken Serah from him was now long gone as everything again turned lively and green.
Luce wandered, and wallowed, occasionally visiting Abaddon out of sheer curiosity of what plan the Guardian was hatching, but he mostly kept to himself.
Still, nobody bothered him.
He found himself continually being drawn to Chorizon, drawn to the woman who didn't even remember he existed. He spent countless hours, days, weeks, watching Serah as she adjusted to life as a mortal. She was his very own living indication that the world continued on. She was alive, breathing, and thinking, visible to everyone, her heart steadily beating.
Once a second.
S
ixty beats a minute.
3,600 times an hour.
Over and over, day after day. In the past six months, her heart had beat over sixteen million times. Luce counted sometimes, listening to it even when he couldn't see her, her pulse a constant reminder that she was real.
That it all had been real.
He became attuned to the rhythm, like it was a secret melody produced just for him. He could tell when she was happy, or sad, could tell when she grew excited, or agitated, all from the sound her heart made.
It had become an obsession, a necessity, like her heart beating was the only thing keeping him from disappearing.
Maybe it was pathetic.
Maybe he was pathetic.
But Lucifer didn't give a shit how it looked. He couldn't have Serah, but he could hold onto this part of her, and nobody was going to take that away.
Not now, anyway.
Not as long as he could help it.
It was the middle of the afternoon one warm summer day. Lucifer was strolling down the sidewalk in Chorizon, hands in his pockets, enjoying the breeze that he'd oddly grown appreciative of being able to feel again. He could easily zap where he was going, but what was the point?
No sense rushing when there was nothing else to do.
He strolled past people jogging, kids playing, dogs walking... the animals were the only ones that ever reacted to him. The cats would hiss, and the dogs would bark, and whatever human happened to be nearby would tell them to shut the fuck up because there was nothing there, nobody around, oblivious to the fact that the one they considered the devil, the ultimate evil, was so close he could hear their words.
It amused Lucifer.
He wondered how long this would all last.
Six more months? Six years? Another six thousand? He couldn't fathom it. In even sixty years, the world around him would be vastly different, and the woman he watched would likely cease to exist. The blink of an eye to him; an entire lifetime to her.
He paused outside the community center, hearing her heartbeat across the street.
What would he have when he didn't have this?
This afternoon marked exactly six months… six months since Michael carved the dreaded symbol in Serah's chest in this spot, a damnation Lucifer negated by plunging his knife through it, taking her wings.
He'd been created for that reason—to maintain order, to lead his kind down a path of righteousness, but instead he'd been the one to lead them away. He urged them to follow him, to rebel, being the catalyst for the de-winging he'd been spared from at the end.
He lurked there, watching as Serah stood along the sidewalk, leaning back against the trunk of an old tree. The children at the school were letting out, but Serah scarcely seemed to notice, her attention fixed on the community center near Luce instead.
The pop of static behind Luce was loud. He didn't have to turn his head to know who it was. The strong stench, like stagnant water, hit him so hard he cringed. Disgusting. His insides coiled from the sudden tension, anger manifesting that hadn't existed just a moment ago.
Michael.
It took every ounce of strength within Luce to not react. He stared straight ahead, trying to focus on the sound of the heartbeat, as his hand slowly reached toward the golden knife he kept concealed.
"That's unnecessary." Michael's voice was as grating as rough sandpaper as Luce wrapped his hand around the weapon. "I haven't come here to fight."
"Then why have you come?"
"The same reason you're here, I suspect."
Michael stepped forward, pausing beside Luce, a mere foot separating the two. Luce's hand remained on the handle of his blade, prepared to defend himself, but deep down he knew it was unnecessary.
Michael, as misguided as Luce believed him to be, wasn't a liar. There wasn't a devious cell inside of him. If he said he hadn't come to fight, he meant it.
But Luce was still on edge by his presence.
"You shouldn't be here," Luce said, his voice laced with venom.
"Neither should you," Michael responded casually. "But that hasn't stopped you from visiting her every day."
Luce cut his eyes at him. "You've been keeping tabs on me."
"Of course," Michael said. "Do you expect any less?"
No, he didn't. "Business or personal?"
Michael turned to him, their eyes meeting. "Excuse me?"
"Were you ordered to keep tabs on me?" Luce asked. "Because babysitting was never part of an Archangel's job description."
Michael glared at him, the same anger Luce felt reflected in his brother's eyes. "I do it because I must."
Luce shook his head and turned away. That didn't answer his question, but getting any more information from his brother would require torture, and Luce wasn't in the mood for that today. "Well, I haven't convinced anyone to take a bite out of an apple lately, so I think we're all pretty safe for the time being."
"We won't be safe until you're back in the pit where you belong, miscreant."
Luce's lips twisted with amusement. "I've missed you too, brother."
From the corner of his eye, Luce saw Michael flinch at the word 'brother', but he didn't dispute the relationship this time. Michael glared at him for a moment longer before his gaze also shifted across the street.
They both watched in silence as a little girl stopped to speak to Serah, asking her questions about who she was and if she were lost.
"Have you shown yourself to her?" Michael asked after a moment, his voice a low growl.
"You tell me," Luce said. "You've been keeping tabs, remember?"
"You must've done it when I wasn't watching," Michael accused. "You showed yourself to her. You're trying to corrupt her!"
"I've done no such thing."
"Then why does she know your face?" Michael asked. "How does she recall your image?"
Luce tensed. "She doesn't."
Before Luce could react, Michael grabbed ahold of him, the sword of fire appearing out of thin air. He threw Luce to the ground, the tip of the sword pressing against his chest, right where his beating heart would be… if he had one of those. "She does! I just saw it!"
Luce didn't give those words any time to sink in as he reacted defensively. He threw Michael off of him, pulling his knife. He was quick, and nearly got him, nearly stabbed him, when a sudden warm glow surrounded Michael seconds before he vanished into thin air. A lingering tingle coated Luce's skin as he stood there, suddenly all alone. "Fuck."
Called away in the knick of time.
Lucky bastard.
Luce shoved the knife away, his wings retreating as he turned back to Serah just as the little girl walked away. Serah's attention once more drifted across the street, this time settling on the space he occupied. Confusion laced her soft features.
Luce was just as confused looking at her.
Could she remember him?
Was that even possible?
Michael stood in the throne room with his head down, his gaze on his bare feet. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling from agitation, not from a need of oxygen. Air was nothing to him. He wasn't human.
He never would be.
His dedication and loyalty to his Father was everlasting, but an unfamiliar sensation bubbled inside of him, strangling him, straining him. He was angry... so very angry.
"Wrath," a calm voice said.
Michael turned, eyes meeting his Father. He sat in His throne, casually watching Michael, a view of the street projected around them. The atmosphere was calm, as was Satan.
"Lucifer," his Father said. "You can call him by his name, son."
Michael stared at Him. He could still feel the anger vibrating through him. Wrath? Impossible. Michael wasn't a sinner, but wrath was a sin. How could he be afflicted with it?
"Your brother tends to have that effect on those around him," He said, waving to the seat beside His throne, wordlessly telling Michael to sit down.
For the first time in his existence, the Archangel did
n't obey right away. "What's happening to me?"
A soft, understanding smile greeted him. "Sit down, Michael."
Michael didn't hesitate this time, taking the seat. Silently, his attention drifted to the projecting image. Satan stared at Serah longingly, not showing himself, but Michael knew Serah felt the same pull. He'd seen it in her mind, the draw she felt toward the one in all black who consumed her thoughts and visited her dreams. She longed for him, desired him, although she didn't know why, the sort of craving Michael still felt when he looked into her eyes.
Another sensation twisted Michael, vaguely like the anger, but more focused. Concentrated.
"Envy. Dare I say with a dash of lust?"
Seven deadly sins, and his Father was sensing almost half of them emanating from him?
"More than half," He chimed in calmly, reading Michael's thoughts. "Gluttony, for you needlessly want to claim all of her for yourself, and greed, because you don't want to share... and let's not forget pride, because you believe you deserve her so much more than your brother does."
Michael hung his head in shame. Six out of seven? All that was left was sloth.
"Nobody can accuse you of being lazy, son." He reached over and laid a hand on Michael's shoulder, the simple touch sending a wave of calm through him. All at once Michael felt the resentment fade away, a sense of peace settling over him. "You've hardly taken a moment of rest in the past six months."
"How can I rest with him out there?"
"Is it him being out there that worries you? Or is it her?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean are you more afraid of your brother succeeding or of her failing?"
Michael considered that, his gaze fixed to the projecting image. Nothing seemed to matter more to Satan than listening to Serah's heartbeat. It had become an obsession to the fallen angel, something that terrified Michael.
He remembered the last time Satan became obsessed with a beating heart.
It had changed everything.
"I'm afraid those are the same thing, Father," Michael admitted. "I'm afraid he'll corrupt another innocent mortal, and I can't just stand around and do nothing this time."
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