Chapter Text
For taking the side of Demons, your punishment will be to join them.
Hypocrites, is Lucifer's final thought as an angel. A vicious snarl marks his beautiful face as his radiance is stripped from him, and he is unceremoniously thrown down from Heaven.
His title as light bearer is not forfeit as he plummets from grace, simply replaced by fire as the friction from his fall sets him ablaze.
What little parts of Lucifer's consciousness remain unconsumed by the fire turn to his siblings. Surely, they will not be punished for his own sins? It's an unrealistic hope apparent even to his pain addled mind, but it is all that he has. He must have something to hold on to as he loses everything else, if not for the sake of his sanity, than for the sake of his personal pride.
It is nothing but foolishness to hope for clemency from the people who cast him out for dissension. But having lost his home, his status, his power, his very inner light, foolishness seems all that is left to him.
The fact that it is so pathetic rankles his pride. The fact that he has been brought so low so quickly stings that in some ways is more painful than the conflagration of his body.
Him . Lucifer .
Lucifer, the morning star. Now Lucifer the falling star. Fallen star, fallen angel, burning up in the atmosphere until he is charred through and crumbling into nothing.
Time becomes something of a mystery to him as he descends. In the scraps of moments of his lucidity that are not reserved for his siblings ( Mammon is kind but easily mislead how will he fare--without my guidance they will tear him apart. Who will socialize with Levi if I am not there to encourage it? Satan is so young, and Lilith is hardly much older, who will care for them? Asmo hasn't the fortitude to protect them in my absence. Beel and Belphie might be responsible but they too are still so terribly young and shouldn't have to bear such burdens…) are spent in an idle wonder at the nature of time, at the movement of objects through space.
Lucifer had never before considered how vast the distance between the realms was, when he flew. In his current situation he has no choice to do anything but. Falling is only similar to flight in the fact that you are hurtling through space at great speed--but one requires agency, and the other robs you of it.
Of course having the clarity to think outside of the exquisite pain of his own personal inferno is more difficult than one might think. It is a surprisingly occupying thing, burning alive.
He had only wanted the council of Arch Angels to reconsider their campaign against the devildom. Perhaps it was a vanity to think he knew--to think he knows-- better than their wisdom, than (supposedly, Lucifer as of late could not be convinced of their Fathers continued presence) His own Wisdom , but is it not a greater sin to wage an unnecessary war?
How could the council advocate for the excellency of humanity's free will, only to turn around and call for war against the devildom, who only go so far as to tempt stupid, weak humans into exorcising that right in ways that Heaven mislikes?
Hypocrites, all of them.
A fury rises within Lucifer, the likes of which he hasn't seen since his attempt at purifying himself of his unseemly rage that resulted in his own-- his… youngest brother.
The anger overcomes him as he passes between the material, mortal world of humans (the unsightly lot of them, sniveling and groveling for heaven to save them from the devils that only plague them so much as humanity allows them to. The weaklings, the cowards, they are the ones to truly blame for Lucifer's fall, for if they were only a fraction as strong as they ought to be then he would have never had to--) and into the Devildom proper.
He becomes his only source of light once he passes through the barrier proper, a lone star hurtling towards the dry, packed earth below.
Lucifer, until this moment, had not considered if angels could die. He supposes it is still somewhat irrelevant, as there is not an exact word for whatever it is he is now.
(Although the words Abomination or Aberration certainly do come to mind.)
He supposes that's just as well. He will be little more than a burnt up husk by the time he makes impact with the devildom. If the landing does not finish him, his injuries surely will--his self regenerative abilities are quickly running out of divine power to sustain themselves. Sooner rather than later he will succumb to the fire.
The ground is coming rapidly, alarmingly into focus.
Lucifer briefly considers closing his eyes and affording himself a moment of peace in what he can only hope is a swift and painless end--but the thought is quickly, vehemently discarded. He will face his death with eyes open and defiant. He is Lucifer, Morning Star, The First Born of his brothers, and he will not be brought low and cowering even in his death.
He wonders if Azrael will come for his soul, or if he even has a soul to begin with. Wouldn’t that be something funny, for him to dissipate into nothing once his physical form is damaged beyond repair? Wouldn’t that be fitting, to become nothing but dust and ashes.
( You burn too brightly, Morning Star, Uriel had said to him, once. Their eyes had been distant, their tone firm, their hand on his right shoulder. At the time, Lucifer had put it down to some kind of odd jealousy on their part. In retrospect, perhaps he should have heeded their warning, unique as it was. See to it that you are not consumed. )
As he nears his end, he cannot help but think Uriel’s words were a bit prophetic. Consumed indeed.
The ragged, rugged hellscape of the devildom unfolds before Lucifer’s eyes in all of it’s black-and-red-and-gray glory. Everything about the landscape is jagged, curled up toward the sky as if grasping, as if hungry and demanding of the bleak emptiness that lies above it.
Skeletal trees reach up with gnarled fingers. Great cracked boulders lie open in wait. The ground, now that he can clearly see it, is sparsely carpeted with yellowing, perpetually dead and dying grass. He can only imagine that it too would--or, rather, will--rejoice in being able to meet with his body.
Nothing but Lucifer is moving in this dead space. Not a breath of wind unsettles the foliage.
That is, until, something does move.
With great speed something--some one , the figure is… person-shaped--moves out from the treeline and more or less beneath Lucifer, adjusting itself back and forth as if trying to correct for Lucifer’s course. Which is absurd, and so must be incorrect. There is no way that any being would be able to catch him at this point and not kill them both, it’s simply impossible. The combination of brute strength and magical ability (necessary to keep the laws of gravity from simply snapping Lucifer’s neck) required are beyond even Lucifer’s immense capability.
He goes to open his mouth to call out--he may no longer be an angel, and this place may only be the devildom, but he is not yet a monster and sees no reason for a life to be extinguished because of him --and realizes it is already open, and has been open. That pitched and painful sound that he had assumed was wind rushing by his ears has been himself this entire time, screaming.
Ah.
It takes a few tries to get the simple word out of his destroyed throat, every second bringing the figure--and the ground, the patient-as-death-itself ground--into stark detail. The figure awaiting his descent is a demon, nearly naked apart from his loincloth, his bare arms opened upwards to meet him.
“MOVE!” Lucifer howls, or roars, or weeps.
The demon below him lifts his face in surprise, revealing luminescent golden eyes set into his warm brown face, a sharp contrast to his unnaturally red hair. To Lucifer’s confusion and horror both, the demon smiles--his teeth white and sharp and absurdly perfect.
It is at least a beautiful last thing to see.
Lucifer’s first thought upon waking is: Why am I alive, followed immediately by the realization that with how much everything hurts, he really wishes he wasn’t.
It occurs to him that he is lying prostrate on a bed, and while his pain is immense, it is the deep ache of slow self regeneration and not the violent fire of fourth degree burns. This is both relieving and worrying at once. This is of course a relief for the obvious reason that he’s managed to survive the first stage of his punishment--which, if he’s honest with himself, and by now he has no reason not to be, fills him with a vindictive glee like no other he’s felt before--, but it is still worrisome mostly for the fact that his last conscious memories involve a demon.
Lucifer takes stock of himself quickly--he cannot feel his upper pair of wings, so they must be gone, but the lower two pairs are painfully present. He can feel the rest of his limbs, but cannot move without excruciating pain. When he reaches for his well of divine power, he cannot feel a single drop of it remaining. And to top it all off, he has a headache.
The groan that passes his lips is entirely involuntary. He immediately regrets it--not only as a show of weakness which he dearly resents, but because the sound of chair legs scraping against a stone floor quickly follow.
“So you’re awake, then.” The voice is warm and carries the impression that the speaker is smiling. Without being able to see him--Lucifer could, theoretically, open his eyes, but he does not particularly want to--it is hard to tell what kind of smile it is exactly.
It would be foolish to hope it is a kind smile. It is more realistic to assume it is a hungry one, or, perhaps, a cruel one.
“You took quite the tumble, angel.” A hand that radiates nearly painful warmth smooths back the undoubtedly choppy locks of Lucifer’s hair--unfortunately, an angel’s healing factor can only go so far, even if the angel.. Or, rather, ex-angel, is him--with surprising gentleness. “Even though I cushioned you, you still took quite a bit of damage. I was not sure you would ever reawaken.”
Lucifer huffs out an indignant breath. His throat is still somewhat too mangled for proper speech, but that does not mean he must be silent about his dissent. Of course he would come back--who does this demon think he is?
The demon has the audacity to laugh.
“Apologies, angel. I won’t underestimate you again.”
Lucifer wishes that his entire body didn’t feel as if he’s been broiled within an inch of his life. If he were in any less pain, he would knock that amused tone right out of the offending demon’s voice. As it stands… Lucifer settles for cracking his eyes open and glaring to the best of his ability.
The demon is as strikingly handsome as he recalls, unfortunately.
He sits in a chair not two feet from Lucifer’s bedside, leaned forward with hands on his knees head tilted just so in interest, his smile is near beatific, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a boyish, charming sort of way. He looks kind and curious, although he could simply just be amused. Lucifer does not know this devil well enough to read his moods through his expressions.
He does not know this demon at all, really. Not even his name. In this regard they are equals, neither having more information than the other.
Of course in every other conceivable way, the demon is the superior of the two.
This is for many obvious reasons deeply unsettling. Rarely has Lucifer ever experienced anything close to powerlessness before, let alone the state of abject helplessness he finds himself in now. He longs to demand the demon tell him his intentions and simply have things over with.
Lucifer’s impatience and discomfort must show on his face, because the demon chuckles and leans back and away from him, expression crossing over into something more thoughtful.
“I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, yes? You strike me as someone as intelligent as they are beautiful.” He flashes Lucifer another quick smile, not seeming to notice the indignant heat that rises to the once-angel’s face at the casual compliments. Lucifer can’t move his head comfortably enough to nod, but he manages to twitch an eyebrow enough for the demon to take it as a means to continue.
“My name is Paymon, one of the sons of the current King Diavolo.” Paymon places one hand on his chest and gestures briefly with the other, an abbreviated bow. “I saw your descent from my window, here, and thought to myself: what a strange thing, a falling star in the devildom, and so I went to investigate,” He tilts his head meaningfully forward, eyebrows raised and smile intact.
“So imagine my surprise when I saw that it was an angel, and not a star at all. I caught you because it would be a terrible waste of something so beautiful to meet an end like that.”
The easy nonchalance of his reasoning leaves Lucifer reeling. What kind of monstrous power does this Not-Even-Crown-Prince of the devildom have if he could display such feats of strength on so careless a whim?
It makes Lucifer feel sick with swiftly hidden unease. Incidentally, it also makes him curious in a way he wishes he were not.
“Which brings us both here. You’ve been asleep for several days now--which is why I was surprised, earlier.” Paymon raises his hands in an attempt to placate him. Lucifer, because he literally has no other choice, allows it with a small roll of his eyes.
“That being said, your condition is not exactly…” He trails off, his eyes wandering from Lucifer to some point over his head--to the aforementioned window, he can only assume. “...Stable. With the injuries you sustained and, if I’m frank, angel, the fact that you don’t seem to have the power to heal yourself further... It doesn’t exactly look very good for you.”
He shifts his attention back to Lucifer and brings his hands together to steeple his fingers, angling them in Lucifer’s direction. Paymon’s expression intensifies, seemingly shedding his earlier veneer of amiable levity in exchange for something more serious. It’s… certainly a look. A good one. In the dumb animal part of Lucifer’s brain (which he would deny exists under pain of death) he figures that it doesn’t seem possible for Paymon to look anything but handsome.
“At the rate things are going, angel, I don’t think you’ll make it.”
Lucifer pulls a sharp breath in through his nose. He had thought as much when he’d felt how depleted his normally overflowing reserves of power were. How ironic for him to survive the fall, only to die of injury later? He could nearly laugh.
“But,” Paymon leans in further, his luminous golden eyes wide and earnest. “It doesn’t have to end that way. If you accept my offer, I could save you.”
And there it is. The catch that Lucifer was waiting for, the predator hiding behind the facade of a genial mien. It’s enough to curve a sardonic little line onto Lucifer’s lips and for him to express exactly what he thinks of that with a short huff. Paymon’s expression wavers slightly, eyebrows furrowing somewhat.
“Now don’t go and discard my offer out of hand, angel. I meant what I said earlier--it would be a terrible waste for someone as beautiful as you to simply die like that. And, I’ll admit, I’m curious as to what could cause an angel like yourself to fall all the way here…” Paymon scratches his cheek with a dark clawed finger tip, somehow more embarrassed by the admission of curiosity than the flagrant flirting.
“...What I want to offer you is a second chance. Life as a devil isn’t terrible, you know. Definitely better than senseless death at any rate. And it’s not as if I would just cast you out--you’re more than welcome to stay here, my palace can certainly accommodate you, angel, so pl--”
“ Do not, ” Lucifer rasps, only just barely, a battered, pitiable excuse for a whisper. It’s barely a spectre for the stern tone he had meant to employ. “ Beg me. ” Even if he had no lost love for demons in the past, Paymon is a prince, and certainly it’s beneath him to beg a nothing not-angel to consider anything .
He ought to demand . Command . Decree . Lucifer can see it in him, the potential for it, the power lurking just below the surface. Paymon’s near pleading is almost more unbearable for Lucifer than the soul deep ache in his prone body.
Lucifer’s interjection alone appears to have been enough to stun Paymon silent, his full, soft looking mouth parted in a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise. He takes a beat or two to recover, slowly blinking it off before breaking into another breathtaking smile.
“Then, I suppose I won’t. All I ask is that you consider it before it becomes too late.” He offers one last smile before rising from his chair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some matters to attend to-- I will have a servant come by later to see to your needs.” With a final, polite nod, Paymon turns and exits the room.
Without Paymon’s presence as a regrettably pleasant distraction, several truths hit him all at once.
First, he does not have to die. He has been offered a get-out-of-death-free card with basically no strings attached.
Second, even if his existence becomes an abomination, he might be able to see his siblings again.
Third, he is most likely going to accept Paymon’s offer despite the internal warning sirens blaring in the back of his mind. He could cultivate a perfectly good place for himself, here. He could even possibly help Paymon ascend to Crown Prince Diavolo--to King Diavolo--and cement his place as a crucial role in his rule. Baring of course the Devildom’s possible eradication via the imminent Holy War on the horizon.
Fourth, he is not as upset about this turn of events as he thought he would be. Perhaps that speaks to the depths he’s fallen, or perhaps it’s simply the fact that he’s pain addled. Who can say?
Fifth, upon closer inspection, he is in a bedroom. Not just any bedroom-- Paymon’s bedroom. In his bed.
Lucifer has never been in anyone’s bed beside his own. This should not be the most concerning part of this situation, and yet the mortification threatens to eat him alive. He wishes he could move properly enough to cover his face to hide his shame--being honest, he wishes a great many things--but at least he’s alone with it.
No sooner does he think this than a knock resounds against the door and another devil enters, this one shorter and more slight of stature than Paymon and dressed formally as a servant. He bows, a picture of perfect poise.
Lucifer does an impressive job of smothering every single last feeling of his until they sputter out and die, if he says so himself.
“Begging your pardon, but upon request of his royal highness I am to attend to your needs. I am Barbatos, his royal highness’ personal aide.” Barbatos straightens neatly from his bow, countenance both blank and at attention. Lucifer can’t help but approve him immediately--it is hard to find someone with such perfect propriety, even in Heaven. (Perhaps, he muses, particularly so there.)
Lucifer swallows thickly, and before he can even think to ask, Barbatos is at his side and pouring him a much needed glass of water. It’s brought to his lips, and Lucifer does his utmost not to guzzle it down the way his dehydrated body begs him to. When he finishes he clears his throat despite the pain.
He catches Barbatos’ mild, olive green gaze and holds it. “Tell your master,” Lucifer takes a short breath in, cementing his resolve. “That I accept his offer.”
All said and told, the process of becoming a devil is so far relatively painless.
Paymon had been nigh overjoyed at Lucifer’s acceptance, declaring that as soon as he settled some matters he had been putting off--unintentionally alerting Lucifer to the fact that Paymon had spent the entire time he had been unconscious ignoring his duties in favor of watching over him--they could begin that very night.
If you had asked Lucifer before his disagreement with the council of Archangels and subsequent imprisonment and charade of a trial if he ever thought about becoming a devil, he would have laughed you right out of the celestial realm and then ended you then and there for your heresy, for the absolute blasphemy of the thought.
Now he lies prone on the bed of one of the demon King’s many sons, propped up and carefully arranged on a myriad of pillows by said son’s personal aide, waiting to become the opposite of everything he was made to be.
Or perhaps he was designed to fail. The uneasy thought that he had been deliberately made imperfect by their Father has been once that’s gnawed at the corners of his mind and ate at his heart ever since he discovered that there was something within him that could be purged. Perhaps it was his faithlessness that in the end sowed the seeds for his downfall.
It doesn’t bear to think much on now, really, but there is little else for him to do as Paymon decides between several ceremonial, ornate daggers.
Lucifer hasn’t the faintest clue how this is all supposed to work, or how Paymon knows how to do such a thing in the first place. Realistically, this might not work out at all and Paymon could simply be planning to cut out Lucifer’s heart and eat it. This, much like the reason for Lucifer’s exile, does not bear thinking on. It’s not as if he has anything left to lose apart from his life.
Lucifer watches as Paymon mutters to himself, picking up a golden athame with a hilt inlaid with blood red rubies and garnets, turn it this way and that, then place it back on the burgundy velvet pillow that Barbatos holds out for him. He repeats this process with a moon bright kris with a handle made of bleached bone and a pommel made of iridescent opal, a hunting dagger with a black blade and a dark lacquered grip inset with spider thin webs of mother of pearl, and finally a triangular dagger made of some unknown metal that glows a deep, eerie red, the black symbols etched into it seeming to suck in all nearby light.
Eventually Paymon seems satisfied with the kris, and approaches Lucifer with it in hand. This should both alarm him more and less than it does.
In one simple, swift movement, Paymon draws the wickedly sharp curving edge of the blade across his left wrist and offers the bleeding wound to Lucifer, bringing it close to his mouth but not forcing it.
Paymon’s smile is excited but restrained, a strange light in his eyes. “This is your last chance to say no,” He says, his voice is light enough to suppose his breath has hitched. For what reason, Lucifer knows not. Paymon’s blood slides slow and dark down his wrist. “Drink if you want to live, Lucifer.”
Lucifer does not hesitate.
Paymon’s blood is hot and heavy in Lucifer’s mouth, heady and dark against his tongue. It should be vile, repugnant, disgusting. Lucifer should spit it out, should die as he was meant to, as God intended.
Lucifer drinks the blood down eagerly, forgetting himself for just this barest of moments, receiving communion from the man who is soon to be his prince. Distantly, Lucifer registers a warm hand cradling the base of his head, voices speaking lowly around him, crooning softly for him to continue, he’s doing so well, keep going Lucifer, Morning Star, Light Bearer….
The blood ignites a fire within him so intrinsically different from the one that brought him to this point that it’s nearly pleasure, overwhelming, all consuming. It draws out a part of him that Lucifer had not known he possessed, hungry and violent and selfish . He digs his teeth into Paymon’s wrist and sucks hard, greedily drinking down everything he’s been offered and more than--taking what he wants, having it, a hysterical little voice in the background of his mind cries out in rapture: finally, finally, Finally, FINALLY!
At some point, he starts to feel…
Different.
There is an energy that is not his buzzing in his veins, burning through him pleasantly. Lucifer hums, or moans, or keens, or something along those lines--when the source of his new life is eased out of his mouth, out from between his fangs.
Had he fangs Before? Lucifer cannot recall. He does not particularly care to, either. He feels…
Incredible.
There is pain still, but for the moment all the soul deep ache is eclipsed by euphoria. Lucifer can feel ripples of power wash over him from the blood’s point of contact, radiating out first from his mouth, to his throat, then out from his core. He knows he is changing, has changed, will change more as the moments pass, and can find nothing in himself but contentment at the fact of it.
(For example, his head feels heavier in an odd way. He wonders if those are his horns? He wonders how they are, if they’re intimidating like Paymon’s or delicate like Barbatos’. He supposes he will find out soon enough.)
Lucifer looks up at Paymon with blood around his mouth, strong enough now to just barely lift his head. He does not know this, but his eyes are as red as the lifeblood smeared down his chin. He licks his lips, minutely.
Paymon grins broadly--his teeth are so white and sharp and perfect, and Lucifer wonders if his look much the same, now.
“What do you think?” He asks, voice low and rough with some unknown intention. Lucifer assumes he will come to know it soon, intimately , he hopes.
He pauses, considers his benefactor’s question, runs his tongue over his new, bloodied teeth. He smiles, despite it all--actually, because of it all. His smile is dangerous and proud and defiant. He is arrogance incarnate, power thrumming through him and fueling an aching rage he had once attempted to part from.
Lucifer’s first thought as a devil is, I think that I am going to like this.