Astro_Nomical07
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Summary
The worst part about molting was the itching. It was terrible while his wings were out, but when they were tucked away the itching spread to his skin, like the molt needed to manifest itself physically in one way or another. Lucifer often left his molt until he couldn’t bear it anymore, too overwhelmed by the task to force himself to face it until the alternative was worse.
The truth was he hated looking at his wings. They were a constant reminder of heaven, of his fall; once pure white, they were now stained with the blood of the first sinner. He still remembered that day clearly, when some of his elder siblings had come to fetch him and Lucifer thought he’d been forgiven, that he could come home - but instead they pinned him to the ground and soaked him in Abel’s blood and the stains had never truly come out. That first molt he thought he would finally be rid of it but he was wrong - some of his white plumage returned, but only along the lesser coverts, and the tenth primaries. The rest of his feathers grew in that brilliant, terrible red, as vivid as the day he’d seen it spilled upon the ground.