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The frigid air of the lands just before the Grim Basin never get warmer. As months with a certain captain and girl in blue have flown by, that’s something Sandalphon’s come to accept. Despite the cold, something continues to drag him back to the same location--a single rock about waist high, emerging from the snow-covered surface of the island. Every month or so, give or take a few days, Sandalphon insists that they return to this spot, even if just for an hour or two. It may be something childish, but here is one of the few places where he can still feel Lucifer’s presence. Reality and practicality urge him to let go, remind him that it really isn’t healthy to be clinging onto someone long lost, but letting go is, quite frankly, terrifying.
He’d never admit it aloud, of course, but Sandalphon is grateful for the crew for that reason. Maybe, just maybe, there is some good to be seen in him, after all? Not once has he been urged to forget Lucifer, to ‘give up and move on’. And so, Sandalphon folds his legs up to his chest atop the little rock, ignoring the way the cold permeates his skin in mere seconds. In this place, if he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift away, Lucifer is here. There’s no more of this longing bullshit, the knowledge that so many things have gone unsaid, the irrational guilt for somehow feeling responsible for Lucifer’s death in the first place.
And so, he does what Lucifer would probably want him to do: he talks.
During their short visits in that idyllic garden, an infinitesimal moment in comparison to an infinity without Lucifer, they had always done just that. Maybe Lucifer was just too soft, too fond of his own, but he always listened to Sandalphon ramble on about the smallest of issues, whatever worked away at his mind while trapped in that paradise of a prison. Just one of those memories is enough to make the Supreme Primarch draw a deep breath, curling his legs up even further in a futile attempt to hide the way his voice breaks. He could try all he wanted to talk about this issue, but one ever listened to him, besides Lucifer. No one else would understand, right?
“Hello, Lucifer,” he begins calmly, the same greeting as always, like he were having a face-to-face conversation with the deceased. “Are you well?” he continues, like he doesn’t know all too well to condition of the former primarch (dead and lost to the universe’s whims, he painfully reminds himself). “The captain and their crew is still very invested in coffee, almost as much as you w--are.” Sandalphon’s eyes close tighter against the reality stretching out around him, trying to find the humored smile he knows Lucifer would wear upon hearing that. The false reality he’s created almost slipped for a moment, the half-spoken ‘were’ burning against Sandalphon’s lips, but he focuses on the wavering image of Lucifer’s smile that remains.
But just like always, the miasma of frigid air doesn’t speak back. No matter how hard he prays and hopes and wishes, the cold breeze can’t bring Lucifer back. Nothing can bring Lucifer back, he’s as dead as can be, and it’s only the places other primarchs frequent where Sandalphon can grasp at the faint traces left behind. It feels like hanging off a cliff, dangling in midair and clinging to a crumbling rock face that really can’t hold up much longer. Such is his own facade, worm in front of the crew and in public, like his heart isn’t about to shatter in the moments of silence that fill long nights aboard the Grandcypher.
(I miss you, Sandalphon’s mind screams, but he can’t allow himself to verbalize such a weak feeling, can he?)
“It would be wonderful to see you again,” Sandalphon says instead, accompanied by a choked little laugh that quickly is buried in his knees. His hands have started to go numb, the sharp air wearing at his skin like the daily routine of existing wears on his facade of normalcy. It couldn’t even be called living anymore, could it? Drifting through the universe with infinite power, and being unable to have the one thing he needs the most—its a cruel twist of fate, all things considered. Sandalphon braces frozen fingers against his shins, listening as the joints of his knuckles pop before daring to speak another word.
“Your world—our world? My world? I..I don’t know how to address it, but it’s doing wonderfully. I know it won’t last, but...I’m starting to see why you were so fascinated by the lives of all the common people.” Another pause. God, he’s not even talking to anyone face to face, why are the words so hard to find? Without permission, Sandalphon’s mind drifts, if for a quick moment, to the bright smile of Lyria, the warm hospitality of the captain. Without permission, any other thoughts catch in his throat, and just like every other time he tries to address Lucifer, tears bloom hot under his eyes, locked away by tightly shut eyelids and a sheer determination not to cry, not to be weak.
“Why did you have to die, you—you asshole.” The words are equally cathartic and painful. Insulting Lucifer won’t change the past, and it certainly won’t change his fate, but it releases a bit of the pent up….something...stuck in Sandalphon’s mind. “I’m nowhere near the person, primarch, whatever, that you were. I can’t do this. I’m not you, Lucifer, I’m just not you. I don’t compare.” It’s a good thing Lyria isn’t here right now, to slap some sense into the supreme primarch with her gentle ways and contagious positivity. She always knows what to say, somehow, but that gentle being would only exacerbate Sandalphon’s mess of emotions right now.
“Is this karma? Retribution? I almost destroyed your world, so now I have to watch over it for eternity...is that your will, Lucifer?” Why is it easier stay to angry with Lucifer than it is to accept fate? In the back of his mind, Sandalphon is all too aware of this hypocritical predicament, but he’ll be damned if he admits it. Spewing mindless anger is easier, truthfully, than trying to sort out the mess he’s had thrown upon him.
“Is that really how you feel, Sandalphon?”
He’s lost it. He’s officially lost it, hasn’t he? Because talking to the wind, curled up on a little rock in the middle of some frozen hell wasn't enough, now he’s hearing voices! And Lucifer’s voice, of all things, gets to resonate in his ears, like some unwanted demon inhabiting his mind. The reaction of covering his ears with his hands is purely instinct, although it won’t block out the things in his head, only outside. ‘Go away,’ he wants to demand, wants to banish the traces of Lucifer that have suddenly turned into a haunting memoir as opposed to an ounce of comfort in a lone world.
But when a hand wraps around Sandalphon’s right wrist, easing it away from his face, something has to be wrong. No one follows him out here, after all. The location is too far removed, too dangerous—who in their right mind sits on a cliff side rock, in freezing weather, during a snowstorm? Is there an attacker? An intruder? In a quick moment, Sandalphon has thrown himself from the rock, finding the chill of the snow much preferable to death, moving so quickly to draw his sword and get away that he damn near takes the unsuspecting onlooker’s arm with him. “Who are you?” He starts to say, but one glance at the person who’s grabbed him makes the primarch’s heart stop in his chest.
Lucifer? No, that’s impossible. Lucifer is dead. Forever. He’s not coming back, no matter how much Sandalphon begs and prays the fates to bring him back. Before this other person can even speak, Sandalphon has regained his composure from a brief moment of disbelieving shock.
“You’re an imposter, aren’t you?!” The blade in Sandalphon’s hand raises, aimed at the chest of the stranger while anger, adrenaline and energy battle for dominance in his veins. “Don’t you dare imitate Lucifer, you filth. You’re not worthy of bearing his name, let alone his face.” The supreme primarch’s power makes its presence known, pulsing under Sandalphon’s skin so strong that it burns. Yet, the imposter? Lucifer? He doesn’t back away. If anything, he seems to be moving closer. He glides across the snow with a familiar ease, a refined elegance that looks so natural to his character that Sandalphon doesn’t think to do anything but drop his weapon in shock. The desperate belief that this is Lucifer collides with the harsh truth of reality in comparison to how his sword hits the snow with a soft sound, to be picked up later, as the supposed Lucifer reaches for Sandalphon, arms around him and hands clasped on his lower back.
He allows it for just a moment, reeling from the sheer confusion of the situation, but Sandalphon doesn’t think when he draws his hand back and strikes the other person across the cheek, shoving them away. Paranoia and desperation and a strange sense of relief fight under his fingertips, curling into his palm, breaths labored as he realizes this person looks truly, genuinely surprised, one hand coming to cover the bright red mark against his pale skin. A soft smile breaks onto his lips suddenly, and Sandalphon’s second slap is only stopped by. melodic laugh, one that’s all too familiar.
“I suppose I deserved that, didn’t I?”
For whatever reason, that does it. That casual tone, the gently laugh, the way this person’s...Lucifer’s...eyes seem to glimmer despite the reddening handprint on his face—this has to be him. It makes no sense, but fate has never been a logical being, right? The world spins in a flurry of thoughts that mirror the eternal snowstorm on the Silverwind Stretch, and Sandalphon finds his legs suddenly too weak, slipping forward and falling into the person in front of him.
“How?” Is all he can manage, frozen limbs slowly being thawed by that ethereal warmth that Lucifer radiates, has always radiated. It feels like a dream, as if Sandalphon could wake up in a cold sweat at any moment now. But the pinch of the cold on his skin and the gentle carding of long fingers through his hair are definitely too real to be a thing from a dream. “You were dead, jerk. You left me alone.” The accusatory tones in Sandalphon’s voice can’t be missed. He hears a gentle sigh above him, as if Lucifer was prepared to answer to a frustrated and wound-up Sandalphon. Quite a reasonable, deduction, really.
“I..I don’t know. I’m only a human now, Sandalphon. It was probably just a trick of fate.” There’s a bit of a pause, then—“Did you find my coffee plant?”
“Don’t dodge the question,” Sandalphon whines, wholly unsatisfied with Lucifer’s answer. It’s hard to stay frustrated, though, when Lucifer’s fingers run through his hair again and again, Sandalphon still leaning against the former primarch despite his legs having regained their strength some time ago. He turns his head, letting his cheek press against Lucifer, and his eyes flutter closed. If he were a cat, he’d surely be purring, butting his hand up into Lucifer’s gentle touch, the thing he’d missed so much for so long. “I deserve an answer, don’t I?”
“The supreme primarch’s will is an amazing thing, isn’t it?” Lucifer days after a long pause, so softly that Sandalphon almost doesn’t hear it over the howling of the wind. “You wanted me back, Sandalphon. And thus, I am here.” Just that simple statement drives the last of coming sense from Sandalphon’s mind, and in another moment his arms are so tight around Lucifer that his shoulders threaten to give, a strangled sob escaping him instinctively. Lucifer’s seen him cry before, and god is he an ugly crier, but there’s a strange sense of shame that comes with the relief of being honest for a moment. He should be powerful—he’s no longer the helpless decoy who cried in Lucifer’s arms when he realized he had no purpose.
“You are alive for the same reason, might I add.” Lucifer speaks so casually, as if he doesn’t understand the magnitude of the situation—he probably doesn’t. “I simply couldn’t allow my creators to kill you. You, Sandalphon, are you listening? You were too precious to be stomped out so cruelly. Look at you now, you’re everything I ever was and more.”
Sandalphon’s heart nearly stops.
How fitting, that this is how he dies. It’s not a blade between the ribs, or having his wings stripped fork his back—it’s the warm tones of Lucifer’s praise, the sunny feeling of warm fingers on his hip, in his hair, warm breaths against his cold forehead. He coughs in response, signaling that he at least heard Lucifer’s words, even if they seem mere flattery.
“All I ever wanted to do was matter to you,” Sandalphon says when he can speak again, forehead still braced against Lucifer and his voice choked up with that ugly-tight feeling that comes after crying. He can tell his nose is red, his eyes are still watering, and his hands shift a little against Lucifer’s back, fingers wiggling to try to regain some feeling stolen by the chilled air.
“I know,” Lucifer says, and for a moment that surge of anger is back, the will to slap Lucifer and scream at him and put him through hell after all those years spent chasing after him, idolizing him. But Lucifer must be able to sense that, as he calming aura around him increased tenfold, and Sandalphon reminds himself just who he’s dealing with. This isn’t someone he can upset, or lose again. “Stop trying so hard,” Lucifer adds then, and Sandalphon look up at him in utter confusion. ‘What else am I supposed to do?’ he wants to ask, but those words short-circuit into sparks snowflakes when Lucifer kisses his forehead, unexpected and soft and everything he’s ever embarrassingly dreamed of.
“You’re perfect the way you are.”