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Lucifer had six splendid wings which caught the sun and refracted light like a thousand crystal shards.
Lucifer has four charred wings, singed black with the smell of burnt flesh. The only thing that hurts more is his dying sister.
And still he grits his teeth and does what he’s never done before and begs.
— And in such he signs away his pride and freedom.
It is not unbearable, being in Diavolo’s employ. He asks for nothing unreasonable, and makes for decent company.
Though their conversations are strained at times, and though Lucifer does not trust ( cannot trust ) , it is the most he can make of the situation.
On the eve of an upcoming celebration Diavolo gives him that smile that Lucifer has yet to work out its truths.
“I would like you to arrive with your other form, as is customary for these parties.”
It is another reasonable request, one that heaven mirrors in their own celebrations in fact. Lucifer has denied him nothing since swearing servitude, but to this he snarls instantaneously before he can even care to think of an excuse, no.
“Why?” that smile cracks as Diavolo asks, it is not anger on his face, but concern.
“You know why," Lucifer accuses.
There are two stubs where mighty wings once were, decayed as he was striked from heaven. Though his other wings had healed and retained their functionality, they were no longer pure white. Rather they had become encumbered with darkness, a hideous reminder and proof of his failures.
Lucifer no longer appeared in that form, with the exception of when the hour became midnight within the seclusion of his own abode.
Disgusting. Imperfect. Flawed.
“ — but I don’t,”
“You saw the state I was in, do not pretend.”
At last understanding flits across Diavolo’s face, “Are you still injured? I could call healers from any part of hell. We could fix — “
It’s a bad idea, to have such rage at his benefactor, but he cannot he fixed, cannot he healed. For all of eternity he will carry this mark, and the thought forces all at once black wings to appear. “Is this want you wanted to see?” he goads, fury incarnate, “The morning star scorched?”
He is Lucifer, and Lucifer is always in control.
He is Lucifer, and he barely has had time to process the death of his sister, much less his own descent, and the taste of defeat.
He is Lucifer and he is cracking at the seams, wound tight by replacement stitches hastily put together.
He is Lucifer and he is tired, and he hurts.
Diavolo stares in awe as if Lucifer has not fallen from glory, had not begged like a mangy mutt for scraps, had not been weak and ruined.
“You are still Lucifer, and though circumstances have changed, you remain the most beautiful creation in existence.”
For once there are no words to speak, no scathing remarks or clever phrases. Even in his anger he can tell Diavolo has not told a single lie. Beautiful. It is not word he thought would ever be used to describe him again. His shoulders slump, wings visibly deflating.
( but the pride in him hums with delight. )
“Did you think you were only beautiful for your wings Lucifer? Splendid as they were,” and Diavolo moves tactically closer, slowly, “there has always been so much more to admire.”
Ever so gently Diavolo lays his hand on his shoulder.
“Does it still hurt?”
— And to that Lucifer becomes defensive, pulling away “I can handle pain.”
He does not think of the nights spent awake when the throbbing pain was too much, the sensation of fire on wings that no longer were even there. The gnarled flesh on his once pristine skin.
He is ashamed, and he coverts that foreign feeling into anger despite that fact that he knows he needs help — but he will not beg again.
“Of course,” diavolo concedes, “but you don’t have to.”
“Allow me to help,” he says as if it’s the greatest honor. Lucifer does not have to beg for what Diavolo would gladly give freely.
Diavolo is quite aware of the privilege he’s been granted as he applies a medicinal salve to Lucifer’s back.
To the common viewer it might be a ghastly sight, mournful even to see the scarring left behind by the loss of two wings.
To Diavolo, it only becomes another thing distinctly Lucifer, and so he accepts it without question.
“You can say it,” Lucifer mutters, muffled by his pillow, “a gruesome visage isn’t it?”
Diavolo appraises it, “unfortunate perhaps, but gruesome? Never.” He gently runs his fingers, tracing the path of scars. “This is testimony of your story.”
“A story of failure.”
“A story of family. A story of survival. Your story. After all, who else in all the realms’ histories challenged heaven and lived? You are magnificent.”
Lucifer lets out a hah — what a confusing demon Diavolo is. Only he could make his failure sound like an accomplishment. Here was a master tending to his servant, heaping compliments in every sentence. What is most surprising of all however, is that he can tell Diavolo is genuine . Ever so slightly he allows himself to relax. Truly, all the praises of the past were hollow. Where were all his admirers when he needed help? Their admiration was cheap, but Diavolo’s words weighed heavily in his heart. A different kind of splendor than being the shining star of heaven. A splendor, far preferred. “It’s strange,” he says, eyelids heavy as Diavolo continues to massage the soothing balm into his back, “Somehow you make me believe your words.”
“Oh?” Lucifer can hear the smile in his voice. “Then I will be sure to continue in the future, so that you too may know how enrapturing you are.”
“That sounds rather excessive...” ,but before he can reprimand Diavolo, unconsciousness overcomes him.
For the first time since his fall, he sleeps peacefully.