Chapter Text
Lucifer and Chloe kiss and it's so ridiculously cheesy that if angels could have diabetes he probably would. He doesn't even know how the human can still move while the rest of the precinct is still frozen.
Michael snorts as he looks away. Damn Dad couldn't be more cliché. And his twin stupider. He glances at God who has finally decided to join them to stop their fight.
"I hate it when you fight."
What a fucking joke. Michael barely holds back the laughter that rises in his throat. He can feel Lucifer looking at him though, his gaze a mix of confusion, hatred and fear. Probably for the woman in his arms.
Jealousy consumes him a little more. Dad couldn't be more cliché, right? And Lucifer blinder.
So stupid and self-righteous that he doesn't even realize he's become everything he didn't want to be. Idiot. The angel of fear thinks about how much he wants to confront him about it for a moment. To tell him to his face the inconsistencies in his father's statements and watch his eyes widen with the slow realization that he's right. To revel in his fear and pain once the truth hits him in the face.
At least it would give him a good memory to replay before dad pulverizes him or locks him in his room forever.
The demon blade feels heavy in his hand. And by the spasms of pain in his shoulder its most intense. The fight had been invigorating and the slight ache of exertion in his muscles pleasant compared to the pain in his shoulder that is a constant companion.
He vaguely hears Lucifer complaining, Chloe arguing with him and God wondering what's going on and of course Amenadiel taking all the blame. Mazikeen wasn't in sight. Damn, he knew she was the smartest one here.
Lucifer continues to complain. In the background but he can only focus on the weight of the blade he absently hides in his sleeve.
-"He cheated on my girlfriend!"
Michael rolls his eyes. His shoulders are hunched and he looks much more tired than he did a few minutes ago. The weight of fate weighs on him and he wonders why he's really doing all this.
He really feels like his sanity is hanging by a thread that this demon blade can easily cut.
-"Oh please I'm just playing my foolish role!" He answers without really thinking.
-"Michael!" His father's voice rises.
Lucifer laughs angrily at him while Chloe just frowns. Not as blind as Lucifer then.
-"Come on kids, we're family."
Michael feels his father's heavy gaze weighing on his mind. His shoulders sag a little more and he tries to straighten up. The blade in his sleeve is almost as heavy as the gaze.
He wonders if his father sees it under his sleeve.
-"Of course Father." The dark angel answers as he walks forward with a reassuring smile towards Amenadiel to take him in his arms.
-"Hell no!" Lucifer yells indignantly when his turn comes for the hug.
Michael ignores him and hugs him while Chloe walks away clearly embarrassed by the situation.
It was weird to be this close to Lucifer. He doesn't remember the last time it happened. He's still as stiff as usual. Not the most comforting thing to have before the end.
For a few milliseconds he allows himself peace. Then remembers the reason why he is in this situation.
-"I wanted to leave you a memory, Samael..."
Michael's voice is a deep whisper. As if pronouncing these words required an incredible effort. The blade burrows into the expensive fabric and flesh of Samael's shoulder in a very easy way.
Michael!
Lucifer!
Dad!
Screams rise from different voices.
Michael's mind heats up and his sensations. His world is reduced to the hot blood of Lucifer as he moves away from him and the buzzing of his mind as his insides are torn apart.
It only lasts a few seconds, he has time to see the shocked and increasingly horrified look of his twin, then everything goes out.
…
A cold breeze tickles his feet as he wakes up. He opens his eyes to see a dark oak ceiling.
Startled, he sits up quickly and is immediately hit by a wave of dizziness.
The angel finally gets up from the bed. He was dressed in… fur and leather, was he dead? Arms, legs, wings, shoulders twisted. Everything is still in place. Oddly enough the pain in his shoulder is more distant.
The room is simple, not much except the bed and a coffee table. There is a snowy landscape through the only window. A landscape of dense forest and sharp mountains in the background.
He is not in heaven, that is for sure. And an attempt to open the door makes him very nervous. The door does not open despite all the force he puts into it.
He tries to stifle his panic. Where had dad sent him?
He paces the room for what seems like hours, thinking about the possibilities of his situation.
Why did he do that? Because he was tired of everything? Did he want to see Lucifer suffer at the cost of his own life? Did he just want to give God the finger?
All of these questions are cut short as a sound rises. It is a horn with a deep sound that almost shakes the room.
Then a click and the door opens. And Michael doesn't think any more before rushing outside.
Michael notices it too late, as the sound of the horn fades and the screams rise. Far less harmonious than the horn.
He screams in pain before he realizes what is happening, as a blade pierces his back and exits through his stomach.
For the second time the world is reduced to the pain of the wound and the heartbeat that drains him of blood before the lights go out.
…
Michael opens his eyes. As unlikely as it seems to him. The oak ceiling is there again.
This time, he doesn't straighten up straight away. Had he dreamed it? No. But father had probably cursed him or something.
The horn sounds again and this time he is more careful. More alert. And despite his shoulder he certainly wasn't going to let it happen.
As the screams, which are more like war cries now that he thinks about it, begin. He rushes at full speed down the hallway. The first blow that a random figure sends him is aimed at his head. He avoids it by ducking.
He turns around to throw a punch at it. The long-haired figure receives it full force and falls to the ground surprised.
Michael has time to see that behind her long dark hair is a feminine face, a very angry face.
As he was about to ask for an explanation, an arrow cut him off by piercing his throat.
…
This goes on for a good ten times. Each time he is more angry and aggressive. And each time he manages to advance a little further into the stone corridor.
He has been pierced by spears, died twice by an axe in the head, deaths by dagger blows seem to be a classic in the area and he has even been poisoned once…
Michael had opened his eyes at the sight of the same ceiling each time. And now that death or bloody wounds were no longer a reason to fear, because he was inconsequential, he had started to rage.
Besides the confirmation that his father cursed him, he noticed two things: firstly, these people with human appearance were as strong as him and secondly, they all looked shocked and confused when they saw his wings. He hadn't hesitated to use that to confuse his enemies.
It was the ninth time he opened his eyes in this room. The room was slightly more filled with the weapons he had stolen the previous days. The angel had managed to steal a shield from the woman who had killed him the first time.
He smirks at the memory. He didn't take that shield out of this room, just to prevent the woman from getting it back.
He still wonders how long he'll stay there. Waiting to be killed again and again...he could get used to it.
The door knocks. And Michael turns around surprised. It was the first time that this has happened and that an elf came through the door.
The elf is a stunted and grayish creature. In his hands an object wrapped in red wrapping paper, contrasting sharply with the rest of the environment he had seen so far. Far more modern than the supplies, the antique weapons and the walls of stone and wood.
- “Please prepare yourself, you are invited to the dagverðr today. Please have your weapon before you present yourself.” the creature says in a rattling voice.
Then the door closes as Michael is too surprised by this break in its bloody monotony.
He hears various voices outside speaking far too quietly as if they hadn’t killed each other the day before. It wasn’t English.
Michael stands up and slowly approaches the Christmas gift package with a slow sense of realization settling in him. He tears the package and the tinsel apart easily.
Revealing the clear, smooth metal of his first real weapon here. The angel traces the engravings into the axe. The runes are quite delicate and Michael almost feels unworthy of carrying this just to be slaughtered and stolen.
Runes…so the main one is shaped like a lightning bolt…the constant fighting, the snow that seemed to fall forever, the weapons and armor of the other people here…
Oh fuck.