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here-there-were-dragons · 2 years ago

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it would make sense and be a good idea if the next ancient breed for lightning after this one was a robot/cyborg/golem/steampunk clock construct/ect and this is all the reasons why as well as some speculation on what a hypothetical robot breed could be like

now that aethers have been released and the first lightning ancient confirmed organic, it seems as good a time as any to dust off this old draft of a suggestion i made before aberrations were even an element at all. please read it i worked very hard on it

(i can’t do anything about the weird spacing between some words, it doesn’t show up on the post editor)

reasons it would make sense and has precedent in canon:

-steelhounds. from their art, they are clearly robotic or at least heavily cybernetic lifeforms. there are edible steelhound puppy food items, which both means that they have biological components at some stage of their life, and that they can breed, or have the ability to convert organic life.

-the stormcatcher and his flight prefer to rely on machinery for things rather than outright spells. out of all of them, he seems by far the most likely to make his first attempt at a workforce by literally building them (to be “perfect” probably”) and then animating them with his own mana rather than forming them from magic like the others presumably did.

-the lightning flight has a strong thematic precedent for rogue golems, “progress”, and a certain sort of “making technology better/using technology to make a superior version of this thing”. over half of it’s native life seems to be escaped populations of self-replicating robots and cyborgs. there are mysterious golem factories everywhere. it would be a very effective payoff of that thematic thread if it turned out the original children of lightning were themselves mechanical too.

-there is precedent for elemental spirits inhabiting inorganic bodies in several golem workshop enemies, along with many other “enchanted statue” types. normal, organic dragons are also technically artificially created bodies imbued with draconic spirits of elemental magic, and regularly grow inorganic and even immaterial structures like crystals and smoke as part of their bodies. it doesn’t seem a massive stretch of the imagination that the stormcatcher could imbue a draconic spirit into an inorganic shell of his own construct.

-the stormcatcher is obsessed above all else with advancement and productivity. machines do not need to sleep. machines do not complain. machines do not have feelings or thoughts or biological failures. machines do not need to ever stop being productive. replacing his employees with machines is absolutely something the stormcatcher as we know him would do, and the only reason i could see for why he has not done that yet is that he already tried this once before and it blew up in his face.

reasons it would be a good idea to do regardless:

-people really really want robot dragons. i am aware of multiple people who would lose their minds over robot dragons.

-i cannot emphasize enough that the only way people wouldn’t love this idea is if the execution was wildly questionable or ugly in design

-even if they hated the design that got chosen i know for a fact people still like the general idea of a robot dragon

-as said above, it would tie a long running thematic thread together very well and just give the idea of lightning flight in general a little more feeling of cohesiveness and depth

-since it would be an ancient breed, and therefore only able to breed with more of it’s own kind, there would be absolutely no need to worry about how to adapt all the modern genes to a robotic body. you could just pick out the few that would adapt well as a “paint pattern” or something, and then for the rest you could just go wild adding whatever steam vents or lasers or robotic attachments or jetpacks or tron lines whatever machine-themed additions you could think of. they should definitely get circuit.

-it would feel more diverse than another “smooth 4 limbed mammalian noodle with deer or undefined bean nub shape head and dog legs and one defining feature” or “tundra” again. flight rising as of late has a huge design diversity problem and really seems to have trouble coming up with things that genuinely look different while also looking like complete designs that consist of more than one or two sort of disconnected feeling gimmicks. making the entire body a robot would make it more likely that the design would feel more cohesive if nothing else.

-it would make more sense that they don’t wear clothes

-lore writers would have a lot to work with

-you could say that their roars sound like electric guitars and dubstep screams echoing over the dunes

how it could work lore-wise:

self-replicating artificial lifeforms already exist canonically, but since i imagine the staff would prefer to have a lore explanation as to how they reproduce here’s a few suggestions

where they came from, why they’re like that, how they might have worked, and where they could have gone:

origin 1: abiogenesis- in the beginning, there were 11. in the beginning, 11 became more. while the others built their children of blood and bone, the father of storms saw another path; his creation would not be one of weak flesh-but of living lightning and metal.

in an ill-tempered grumble of thunder, he retreated to his workshop.

for weeks the ringing of hammers, switches, and coils haunted the then-empty dunes as slowly, beneath an infant spire that for another ten thousand years would not earn it’s name, the father of storms’ own image of took shape.

he welded brass, balanced gears, built engines, carved thoughts circuit by circuit written in lines of gold, breathed life and magic into their hollow forms as only a god could. at last he had his workforce-eternal machines of his own ingenuity to match the primitive organic legions the other gods would soon bring. in the ages to follow his work would flourish at speeds finally worthy of the lightning it’s powered by, unrestrained in scope now that with his newfound expendable underlings, his workshop would no longer be staffed by a team of one.

(abiogenesis scenario sup-option 1) the stormcatcher may have designed them with different attachments for preforming different sub-purposes in the greater purpose of being his lab assistants, creating a sort of pseudo-eusocial-hive-caste system. this could be represented by the tertiary genes.

(abiogenesis scenario sup-option 2) they may be highly modular beings that can fairly easily swap out parts at will, modifying themselves frequently like living swiss army knives for all manner of lab, factory, workshop, ect functions.

tl:dr if the lightning ancient breeds are robots or cyborgs and did not make themselves that way but were created by the stormcatcher as mechanical beings at the start, then the following is functionally canon

origin 2: transhumanist (transdraconic?) singularity-

the lightning ancients were once an organic lifeform breed like all the others. but unlike the many distant children of the ever-storm that followed, they took their creator’s ideals of progress, improvement, advancement, bettering to the deepest part of their heart-and found that heart’s feeble flesh wanting. their creator spoke to them of thinking for tomorrow-and in their future they saw thunder and metal where once were blood, flesh, and bone. as they say, out with the old, and in with the new.

(transhumanist singularity scenario sub-option 1)-if this is the case, these dragon-ascendants may possibly even be the creators of creatures like the steelhounds, relics of their endless striving for better than the now, a long-forgotten crusade to bring to all the world the fruits of this, their greatest triumph, a hand of prideful works ascending reaching ever upwards towards the sun.

a race on the cusp of singularity, seeking to drag their world kicking and screaming with them into perfect digital eternity. they looked upon the world of flesh and blood they were given and knew they could make it all more. perhaps, in the end, their heavens-reaching tower of all their mighty works all came crashing down.

they dreamed of a world harder, better, faster, stronger, made in all ways superior to the way it once began. but some dreams to other eyes are nightmares best left in the dark.

origin 3: ancient for game mechanic purposes only-

the busy tinkerers of goldensparc or the tempest spire or some yet unnamed city, in their eternal gods-ordained quest to bring their technological might to the task of improving upon any and all design, have rent the finest metal and magic from the earth to sculpt and weld into the greatest clockwork rendering of the draconic form ever created. the next dragon. the most advanced of the clock-golems ever created, the most versatile dracodroid to date, a category previously occupied by little more than tech startup gimmicks that never panned out as their marketing stunts sweepingly promised they should and simplistic brass dracoforms able only to continuously sweep a single narrow path without adaptation. the closest imitation of functional draconic life and behavior there has ever been, cutting out the need for expensive factories through incorporating some variety of self replication technology, granted even elemental power by cutting edge spellcraft and/or embedded cores of the most precious enchanting stones. some hyperbolic outlets may say it’s programmed imitation of the draconic mind is perfect.

far, far too perfect.

how they breed:

1: steelhound-

as stated before, existing steelhounds appear to be partly organic at some stage of their life as well as able to reproduce both their organic and inorganic body parts in their offspring. the mechanical lightning ancient breed may be still partly organic, allowing them to reproduce, and they may possibly use the same method as steelhounds to create offspring that have inborn robotic components as well.

2: cyborg culture-

the breed may be still partly organic in their adult form, and their offspring may be born fully organic. as they grow, they are strongly culturally encouraged to modify and “improve” themselves however they wish until they reach an adult state near indistinguishable from a golem. (the significant con of this approach is that invariably people would be disappointed that they could not have the design of the organic baby form as a nonrobotic adult)

3: ambiguous nanotech-

the breed may be fully mechanical and use some form of magical or nanotechnological means to build more of themselves. perhaps their offspring are initially created as small, simple, incomplete constructs that both “grow” and fuel themselves by consuming food which is then either fed into an internal furnace for power or assimilated into raw material for further construction by some form of magic or nanotech, allowing them to literally grow new parts if they consume the right things.

4: stormcatcher said so-

they can produce offpsring because the stormcatcher simply imbued them with the magical ability to create more of themselves to fill out and repopulate his workforce without having to build them himself again.

5: it’s magic-

their ability to reproduce is just magic, it doesn’t really need an explanation. the way all other dragons reproduce is most likely magical in nature already.

6: progressive construction-

similar to the nanotech approach but with the significant difference that the “growth” of the initial small simple construct is fueled not by nanobots or magic or consumption of building materials, but simply they or their “parents” literally building more onto them.

why and how they would need to eat:

gameplay and story segregation is at play. site mechanically they would eat the same as any other dragon.

option 1-fuel. they may partly power their bodies by processing organic material to generate energy, possibly also in addition to having lightning rods to absorb lightning power, in which case the furnace fuel system is most likely a supplementary backup to ensure they can keep going when the power from their lightning rod system runs out.

option 2-raw material. if their construction includes a nanotechlike equivalent whether by magic spell or by technological construct they may consume organic matter for these magical or technological systems to convert into raw material for self-repairs, giving them some ability to “heal”. this could possibly mean they may only need to “eat” particularly often when damaged. if it’s magic that is responsible for or in some way “fuels” or drives this effect, it could possibly provide an explanation for why the healing spells in the coliseum work on them.

option 3-both.

option 4-replenishing a vital system. in a similar way to how liquid cooled computers require fresh coolant periodically, or many machines need periodic lubricant, they may have a similar system that requires replenishment by a certain material. depending on exactly what chemical it is they need to replenish to function and what it is for, and what exact type of food they eat, this could make a lot of sense.

if stormcatcher made and was later dissapointed with them, them still needing to eat for fuel might be one of the reasons why.

why they might have vanished and how they might come back:

ending 1-they never left.

when the ancient age ended and the children of all others withdrew from the world so too did they for reasons of their own. from the birth of their successors they have spent eons watching, studying, waiting, experimenting on them.

possible reasons:

variant1a-they were cast away when the stormcatcher found something new, but they would not allow themselves to be truly forgotten. they may have long served their part, but they still linger to see, study, the world they created.

variant1b-when the birth of the modern breeds began they saw an opportunity of some kind, perhaps for study, perhaps for knowledge, perhaps for power. the secluded what remained of themselves away for what would become the longest greatest experiment of their race’s collective history-an undertaking generations long to watch and see how the world went on without them. the grand experiment to end all others. the greatest control observation of them all.

abiogenesis scenario variant 1a- the storm-father has devised a new experiment. it has been an age of metal and thunder singing through circuitforged veins, failures and triumphs nameless and many at the hands of his perfectly inorganic world. perhaps, after so long working only in mechanical realms, it is time for something just a little more outside of the box he works in. maybe he’ll see just what it is about those organic lifeforms the other deities seem so taken in by. he doesn’t understand their fascination with the messy, ungainly things, their seeming persistence in seeing something he doesn’t.

after all, a scientist wouldn’t reject a possibility variable without testing sure.

abiogenesis scenario variant 1b-

an age has come and gone. outside the walls of his workshop, the makings of the mortals once more fall to ruin like so many others down the long stairs of time, and his siblings first children have passed into memory. many of the gods stand once more alone. but they have not gone silent.

one by one each light winks out. civilization after civilization extinguished with little more than a whisper. their settling silence parallels the weathering on his own eternal machine’s hides. all things fade, in the end.

the silence falls it’s blankets on all for a mortal’s eternity. to a god, they are not content to allow the silence lease for long.

the cycles of history drudge on over and over on the ceaseless wheel of time, pulling the same up cycle by cycle from the riverbed’s muck. for yet another of countless fleeting moments, different yet the same, a race secondborn emerge to an empty world left to them by an ancestor they would never know.

the stormcatcher looks out from the depths of his workshop, untouched by the outside waves in the oceans of time, and scoffs, why?

his siblings secondborn take their first wobbling steps. a distorted mirror of their elder kindred so many cycles before. they quarrel and they fight; until they don’t.

why?

the elements battle. they war as they always have, as they always did before. but where each flight would stand before a monolith solely of their designer’s own creation, a key in the balance is beginning to shift. where before there would be one breed and one magic, the god’s domains have begun to accept the cast-offs of eachother’s children.

a child of the floes and a child of the forge meet at the top of a snow-spotted hill, and roll and play together in the sunrise. neither of them bears the icewarden’s eyes.

why?

their secondborn were made capable of union regardless of maker and shape. their nests lay not dead eggs and tearful partings but thriving children, born one shape or the other, but not both. the wars rage on as they always have but the peoples mix and mingle until it is no longer easy to be sure which god birthed who.

the lightweaver’s high priest enters her temple, long robes dragging up the steps. the air is hot and the marble is chilling in his golden-bright secondary eyes.

why?

their cooperation has never borne fruit before, only failure and disaster. an as-expected unrepeatable waste of unrecapturable time.

why do they persist in repeating a failed experiment?!

cooperation is done. it failed. dragonkind was gone, it failed. it’s time to move on to another solution, to stop wasting time on thing already proven not to work. all of their experiments failed, why do they strive to repeat those failures?

why do they see something i don’t?!

......

workers cluster at the foot of his workbench, ages of rust weigh on their metal hides. their glassy eyes that look to him are tired with the hollow aching fading of eternity, he notes with a bitter disappointment. imperfect. the perfect needless, fleshless workers, against the ravages of time still had failed.

there are so few of them now.

....

this experiment is a failure.

....

variables presuppose, shifting up and down their stacked threads in an orderly and uncaring mind.

(rigid inorganic thinking beneath which primal thunder brews-deep in the roiling dark far below. an unpredictable, paradoxical, self-contradicting mind. back and forth, one state to the other. like binary, like circuitry, on, off, on, off, one, zero, one.

there is no room for feeling, for inefficiencies, for mistakes or pithy mortal weaknesses in the hard, heartless mathematics of his reality, his civilization’s machine. the computer knows only the numbers it codes-it cares nothing for the lives each digit represents.

legendary is his cold efficiency, as is the thunderstrike of his fury, the totality of his wrath. always sudden. never forewarning. on. off. on. off. one. zero. one.

one never can be certain just when or where a lightning bolt will strike.)

had one not been tested thoroughly enough?

they are waiting for an order. they are not many. they are tired.

the world outside is a growing state of a paradoxical conflict-yet-cooperation, connection and rejection simultaneous and overlapping in the same space.

had this-- notion, of theirs, of unity, not been tested thoroughly enough?

(so many experiments, so many disappointments)

the remainder of his last failed project look up at him with their tired, rusting, imperfect eyes and those-physical expressions of his siblings’ insanity prance about the world merrily slaughtering eachother and somehow not dying while his own empire’s great works lie collecting dust outside.

....

tragic.

but expected.

they watch him still. with their worthless little failure eyes. the whole lot of them, in the end.

failures.

(their hides gleamed once.)

...

..... fine.

if his kin are so determined to this perpetual dance of coming together and breaking apart all over again until the shade drags them all to the void’s trillions-damned stomach then who is he to say no? evidently abject insanity is the name of the game they’ve all been playing all this time and no one thought to inform him before he made the mistake of thinking this was a real, serious attempt at finding an actual solution to anything!

his once-great race of ascending experiments look to him and he looks back with disdain. they were built for self-sufficiency, for efficiency, for perfection, for war.

the equations are unmoving. their failure is clear.

tragic. but expected.

..... fine.

with a sweep of his gigantic skull he booms his new and final orders to the lingering gaggle of outmodes in a cold and calculated fury, clearing away these walking remains of his latest failed experiment. their final directive is to watch and gather data on this newly devised long-term scientific venture-abandoned refuse of a disproven theory they are at least they may potentially be of some remaining use to him.

the vast slab of his worktable is swept clean for the drafting of a new, organic line of undoubtable disappointments. a test of the waters in revisiting old delusions of theirs, he snorts with dispassionate contempt, to play along with their breathtakingly illogical chase for a variant of some cooperation scenario that actually bears results worth calculating. though it’s not as though his own isolationist efforts in a cultural vaccuum as they are have gotten results in long-term-he may as well, as they say, throw everything at the wall. one thing, rising from the hard-edged certainty of the numbers, is clear.

this farce is over.

....

dust hangs still in the dismal dawn air as dim orange fingers of sun lap his storm-grey flank.

“Tragic. But expected. “

a groan of shifting stones and a cascade of pebbles breaks the still air. something vast stands to titan feet, shakes itself off.

a pause. “Where will you go?”

the voice behind him is tired, old as the mountains they both loom above and thrice as weathered, deep as caverns and wide as hills, crackling and rumbling with a disbelieving surrender, breaking. He did not turn to meet the earthshaker’s eyes.

“Where i may not be found---this farce is over, and i’ve plans of my own.”

and without another word, he took wing.

the voice receded unseen to the miles of distance behind him.

(a traitorous small part wonders if things could have turned out differently.)

transhumanist scenario sub-option 1 variant 1a-perhaps they weren’t sure how to feel about being replaced by the very organic forms they left behind. maybe when it all came crumbling down, what was left of their civilization decided to step back and watch the primitive lifeforms that took their place, to see where they went wrong. after all, if the stormcatcher chose them over us in the end, they must be somehow better.

ending 2-our longest night

at the end of the ancient age their kind fell deep into a dormant state. now all these thousands of years later, something has made them awaken again.

variant 1a-they were new once, but now they are old. the technology of tomorrow becomes the technology of today and finally the technology of the past. and deprecated software is... replaced. it’s time to clear out the old models and make way for an updated worker design. throw them somewhere in the back of this drawer and forget-the stormcatcher doesn’t need old tech anymore.

their god has abandoned them like an out-of-date iphone, in favor of the latest and most new.

variant 2a-they got out of control, and were considered a dangerous mad science experiment. the stormcatcher, or the ancestors of the ridgebacks, sealed them away in the deep laps and threw away the key.

variant 2a-they had an actual robot rebellion against the stormcatcher after being made to work in the labs and factories to fuel the expansion constantly and were put to sleep, most likely to occur in the “the stormcatcher created them as robots to help in his workshop already and they never existed as anything else before that” timeline. in this scenario is is equally possible that they were or were not created with the intent to have full free will sentience at all.

varient 3a-the equations are clear. is spills out across the vaccuum diagrams like asimov’s psychohistory in the stories of a world a another universe away. the stormcatcher’s calculations have predicted this: their own computations have corroborated. there will come a day in this world’s history when something that has always been growing will finally reach a breaking point beyond which life on this world can ignore it no longer. small processes there are now will eventually run unceasing until something larger gives, the natural progress of entropy in a system of chaotic organized-like existence. something is coming, and if we do not prepare we will not survive. our distant organic draconic successors will not survive. nothing will survive.

a civilization of computers at the call of a pure mana computer god, calculations running a billion fold each moment shape clear the date at which they know with certainty they will come to be be needed, though the peoples of that distant time will not know that needed they are. all there is now, is for them to place themselves all quietly into their long, long sleep.

variant 4b-a calamity was coming to shake their world in their time rather than ours, with the power and totality of something like an asteroid strike, and their kind went dormant to survive it. only now have they started to wake up.

variant 4c- whether natural disaster or warfare or a virus or asteroid or simple running out of resources and deciding to go to sleep until the world recovers enough more, a calamity has come and the calamity has gone, sweeping the machine race away with it, and there are none now left to remember. thousands of years pass. their successors construct the greatest reactor ever seen by dragon eyes on the heart of their land’s aortal leyline.... and unknown to them, the side effects ripple down the leylines of all the expanse, and surges make their way down into a long-forgotten facility. maybe soon, for the first time in ten thousand years, something will stumble out into Sorhaldûm’s light.

variant 4d-to survive whatever calamity came to pass, they placed themselves in stasis at the base of the towers and/or a special reactor and/or some other important large invention in the hopes that they would slowly recharge them with time. modern dragonkind has been using these structures for a long time, unwittingly recharging them slowly in the process.

variant 5a- they loaded themselves into a supercomputer to escape the nonspecified end of their civilization a long time ago, and only now has something triggered them to download back into their bodies. either they intended to remain in limbo for a theoretically indefinitely long amount of time-or something went wrong with the reactivation process that trapped them in the system until a new factor came into the situation to give it a nudge. (this could easily also be categorized under some variants of reconstructing science)

variant 5b-they all trapped themselves in a virtual reality mind upload immortality personal simulated universe scheme as an attempt at a sort of ai ascension hive mind singularity like those old sci fi universes where humanity all loaded their brains into one giant computer system around a star, retreating inward to sleep in infinite digital dreaming in a world inside and below the outside for the rest of time.

abiogenesis scenario variant 1a- every good scientist has a backup plan. in the stormcatcher’s case, that backup plan was a machine race of sleepless unstoppable dormant servants, kept inactive in reserve just in case at some distant future point down the line the situation got hairy enough for concern and the more pedestrian, organic workers were not enough.

abiogenesis scenario variant 1b- they’ve been waiting somewhere deep in reserve in the stormcatcher’s labs for a long time. once they were his lab assistants, but it seems eventually he ceased to care. someone goes down into the old archives of thousands of years past and cracks open just the right door to find them. they haven’t been activated in a very long time.

(abiogenesis scenario) ending 3-reconstructing science/the reconstruction of fallen ancients. once the stormcatcher made an army of metal and lightning, but that was an age ago. it’s been a long time since then. the world is different now. all of them were destroyed in the ancient wars a long time ago, their blueprints old and forgotten under the dusty pile of inventions since. but-something’s coming now. something big. even the stormcatcher can feel it-the balance is shifting. he’s going to need More. a brush knocks loose an age-old blueprint from the bottom of the shelves.... it seems as good a time as any to revisit old machines of war.

variant 1a-it was not the stormcatcher, but a simply a few small members of a modern breed, who stumbled across the rusted, weathered and empty old parts of a mysterious machine scattered buried and forgotten in the sand, and saw fit to rebuild them. the shifting expanse has no shortage of distant far-flung wrecks and abandoned husks of technological ghosts-this time is no different.

variant 1b-the shifting expanse is not named for nothing. ancient structures and forgotten things, stations, labs, compounds, and experiments both sanctioned and secret civilian and all of the above mad long abandoned, are unearthed and buried again just as quickly by the everchanging tides of the vast and hostile dune sea. how much history is entombed beneath those sands forever to remain unseen is no one’s place to say.

the unstable topography is governed by winds and mechanisms inscrutably complex and distant to the draconic-and human- mind. today, it is something long buried that has been uncovered- in the tumult of the weather or some recent event, a portion of the desert has blown away, exposing a vast and uncountably ancient dilapidated complex from long long ago. the ancient citadel, a place of endless rooms filled with experiments, the locus of a fallen empire’s power. this, is where the mysterious remains of some ancient automaton are recovered-and, by their clueless discoverers, expecting some mindless novelty servant, reforged.

the ancient citadel complex could potentially be a new coliseum venue, a dilapidated old lab unburied out of the windy sands, and the breed could be the first coliseum-obtainable one, if it went this direction.

(ancient in game mechanics only scenario)ending(beginning?) 4- no gods no casters. the metal dragons were never meant to be sentient, but there are many things the lightning flight has created which were never intended to turn out as they did. it would not be the first time unfettered advancement has charged blindly ahead to make the biggest, strongest, most powerful thing it can and damn the slightest sideways thought to any possibility of the consequences. they were never intended to be sentient-but creating, with no concept whatsoever of safety, an artificial intelligence as advanced and complicated as you can simply to prove you can do it is given to causing certain repercussions.

they were created by the foremost minds of modern dragonkin-and they would not allow themselves to remain a mere tool for their organic master’s using. this is the ai rebellion plotline you never knew a fantasy kitchen sink with large spots of jarringly fantasy-free dark scifi needed, and the newly created mechanical dracoforms will not rest until their rights within the dominant society are secured.

variant 1a-they did not fight- how could they, against the beings that made them and every weakness they have to exploit? no, instead they fled-to another land in hopes they could find somewhere to be free. out into the desert and into foreign territories and into hiding among dragonkind’s own peoples-hoping for a day they can walk in the sun.

blanket awakening scenarios and misc endings that are applicable to all or most of these endings:

broken masquerade- they are hiding among us, disguised as us, and soon, for whatever is decided to be the reason, someone is about to give the all-clear.

my greatest dissapointment- the stormcatcher built them to be the ultimate perfect beings, and was less than satisfied with the results. even as invulnerable unaging sapient sleepless self-replicating hyperadvanced beyond draconic intelligence and near incapable of clumsiness or mistakes machines, they were still subject to the wear of time, they still required food for fuel, they still had feelings and relationships and will and despite no need for sleeping still objected to spending all their time on the factory floor as workers without pause. this experiment was a bitter wasteful failure, and he did not like to dwell on this farce of disappointments any longer. his standards are unreachable-they could never please their creator. they could never be enough.

variant 1a- they may not have just simply been perfectly functional but when fully rendered in the limits of physical reality ultimately less than the stormcatcher had hoped for, they may have even been actively malfunctioning. similar to how the aetherdragons are irresistibly compelled to eat paper-which i very much doubt is by the arcanist’s design.

roboticized-

in this possibility they either were reawakened, or created in the first place, by several dragons in modern times being willingly or unwillingly roboticized into them. a sort of transdraconic ascension origin/ancient in game mechanics only origin fusion, with optional elements of our longest night depending on exact presentation.

#for a name i would suggest something cool like 'automech'#i'm imagining this mainly as a super advanced sleek dark fututistic scifi aesthetic #with a heavy helping of aperture science #and a sort of 2000's deviantart dark future spaceship futuristic city hyperrealism portrait bent #more metal gear meets portal and 2000's hyperreal dark future portrait deviantart than fantasy to be honest #but that's sort of the idea #to be jarringly not fantasy #not fantasy at all #early lightning mechanofauna art seemed to be leaning for a heavy darkish scifi cyberpunky-adjacent edge #cyberpunky for lack of knowing a better word to use here #and i think we should keep with that #see once again: steelhounds #but if flight rising decided ot do osmethign entire different and go with gears they could go with something like 'clockworker'#of 'clockwright'#flight rising #'engineers' is also an idea #Sorhaldûm is meant to be a placeholder name for sornieth's sun until offical lore says otherwise #and it's pronounced sorhalDOOM #or like the word dune but with an m #to be perfectly honest i don't know if the diacritic mark actually changes the pronunciation like that #i just copied it from 'khazad-dûm' because they way the pronounced it in the movies sounded like the sound i had in my mind #my personal preference is the transdraconic singularity followed by attempted force-'improvement' of all outdated organic life as the origin #like a very specific kind of space future dystopian art from really cool scifi dystopian distant future hyperreal digital art on deviantart #type feeling #the sort of ones that would have a loot of semi-sleek but very realsitic and sort of tonally dark feeling spaceships #and immense imposing near incomprehensibly advanced and similarly tonally dark and opressive feeling dyson rings around stars #and abandoned similarly quietly dystopian hyperadvanced compounds and facilities and power stations out in the desert wastes #carcasses of forgotten war starships like beached sand-buried whales #the desert wastes that once were where this once-green planet had life #or like-'surface level attempted smooth clean utopia with not-so-hidden cracks and at errifying

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janatm · 2 months ago

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blame it on the goose, got you feeling loose, blame it on the tron got you in the zone || BRORGAN

tagging: Morgan Weston & Bree Brown

date & time: October 25-26, 2024 from Friday Night to Saturday Morning

location: Gay Club, Bar, Tattoo Parlor, Party Bus, Hummer Limousine, who knows where else, Morgan's Ranch

warnings: excessive drinking, black out runk, mentions of a physical fight, A LOT OF ALCOHOL

summary: Look the only thing anyone needs to know if that Bree and Morgan got white girl wasted and had one hell of an adventure. Cue montage!

word count: 3,785

MORGAN tipped back his glass and set it down with a clink that blended into the buzz of the bar. The neon lights played tricks with his eyes, blurring together, and he couldn’t tell if the room was spinning or if that was just the whiskey. The whole point of this night was supposed to be for Bree to see the wild and untamed side of Morgan that normally never came out. He hadn’t been much for it - he liked being in control of himself, and with enough alcohol in his system, he just knew there’d be none of that. But after a rough week - after the earthquake lockdown - where Morgan had tried his damnedest to communicate about his thoughts and feelings to and with every single person involved in the mess, it had backfired, and he felt the need to let loose and take Bree up on her offer. And here he was, absolutely not in control of himself, due to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. Dressed in a blue denim shirt, a pair of black jeans and his best boots, Morgan had followed Bree’s orders and in return, she’d kept him entertained. He’d even willingly done a round of karaoke where he absolutely butchered Kenny Roger’s “The Gambler”. Now, standing in the gay club, he could see why she wanted him in the country get-up; it was a cowboy-themed night and everyone was dressed up. He was thankful he hadn’t put on his best rodeo attire, otherwise he probably would’ve gotten nominated for ‘best costume’. Morgan glanced around the bar, taking in the warmth of the crowded space. Strangers laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world, couples swaying like no one was watching, and Bree, with that fierce and steady look that she was known for. He was swaying lightly, and his cowboy hat was lost somewhere, but he turned towards her, a dopey smile on his lips. “D’ya have a cigarette?”

BREE had started planning this night since the moment Morgan agreed to let her drag him around where her little heart desired and she was taking full advantage. As she knew this would likely never happen again. So far, everything was perfect, they were killing it as cowgirl Barbie and cowboy Ken, the shopping, fruitful, the food, delicious, the karaoke pre-game, efficient. And Morgan hadn't complained more than twice about any of it. Now, she didn't know what exactly this man was going through to get him out with her tonight, and she wasn't about to ask but she really hoped she was succeeding at keeping his mind of it. But looking at her tall friend, shrouded in the neon lights of the cowboy themed gay club, she thought maybe she was doing exactly that, and she allowed herself a celebratory cocktail to celebrate her continued success. As she was keepin him plied with good whiskey, she wasn't surprised to see a grin on his face as he turned to her, swaying with all the rhythm she expected from a 6'5 white man. Processing his question, as she was a few drinks in herself, she shook her head. Reaching into her bag she pulled out a ziploc bag and held it up in front of their faces. "I have a lollipop, a toothpick and some hay." Had she come prepared, of course, not because she knew he'd ask for a cigarette but because cowboys chew on things, she's seen a western or two. So, it only made sense. Pointing at the mechanical bull being set up on it's on stage, ziploc bag swaying as she did, she got very excited. "We're going to ride that, but I think we both need at least three more drinks and one more Cowboy Carter remix first." Finally handing him the plastic bag, she chugged the rest of her cocktail and then poured them both two shots of rum.

MORGAN couldn’t help but chuckle at Bree’s enthusiasm. She was beaming, and he knew she was working harder than she let on to keep him from spiraling. He took the Ziploc bag from her, holding it up to the neon light like he was inspecting a treasure. "You really came prepared, huh?" he drawled, smiling down at her. "But I ain’t chewin’ on hay unless I’ve got a horse nearby.” Bree’s energy was contagious - at least enough to drag a grin out of him every time she spun another crazy plan. “Cowboy Carter remix, huh?” he echoed, shaking his head. “Well, you do know how to keep a man entertained, I’ll give you that.” He pulled the lollipop from the bag, unwrapping it and tucking it in the corner of his mouth, the feel of it familiar and steadying, and it dulled the need for that cigarette temporarily. It was a small comfort, but it was something to focus on other than the whirlwind of feelings he kept pushing down with every drink. Eva, Puck, Serena - they were still there in his mind, their faces clear even in the blur of the club. And he wasn’t sure if he was drinking to forget them or to gather the courage to face it all head-on. But Bree? She was like a compass, dragging him through this mess with the kind of loyalty he didn’t feel he deserved but was damn grateful for. But as he set the empty glass down, he let his gaze wander to the mechanical bull in the corner of the club, and he started reconsidering the whole compass metaphor. Bree was right; he needed three more drinks to get on that thing - at least! “D’ya want me to injure my shoulder again?” he asked, his voice light and jokey, but his words slurring. He’d only just gotten over it after all. “Or d’ya just want me to relive my youthful days?”

BREE nodded, very pleased with herself. "I am always prepared. Surprising me is an Olympic sport very few people have medaled in." Currently, Jake was the most likely candidate and that was both something she loved and hated. Not being in control, not knowing someone's next move caused her periodic anxiety but it was also kind of exciting and impressive, which is exactly how she would describe all of her favorite people, especially her man. Drinking some more of her long island ice tea, because she was here to get drunk and ride a bull, she looked damn hear offended at Morgan's comment. "Entertaining is but one of my many talents, mister." Uh oh, no mister, we've officially passed tipsy into stage one drunk. Which involved a lot of dancing mostly. Taking note of his words, she made a mental note, that she would probably forget in the morning, that he only chewed hay around horses, and clearly prefered lollipops over toothpicks, so she'd be sure to carry more of those in the future for him. While she was hear to encourage every questionable decision, including processed sugars, a literal cigarette? Like it's 1926? Ew. Now in a couple more shots, she might be smoking a cigarette with him. God help her. At that thought she spotted a hype as fuck, what looked like, a 30th birthday party, gravitating toward them. She had no time to answer his questions, okay, there were more pressing matters, like "Shots!" She yelled at Morgan before taking both of hers, barely feeling the burn of the spiced liquor. Then the party were floating by and Bree tapped one of them on the shoulder. "Can I buy that off you?" She asked taking out her wallet and handing them a fifty dollar bill. The person looked at her and gladly handed over the glittery hot pink boa and Bree tipped her white cowboy hat at them. And like a sign from the heaven's Beyone's Sweet Honey Buckin' came on. Going over to Morgan she told him to stand still before throwing the boa over his shoulders around his neck. Still holding the ends, she started to dance because it's a fucking Cowboy Carter song. "You're still in your youth, big guy. So move those horse riding hip and act like it!"

MORGAN was feeling the whiskey in his veins, and it wasn’t whispering - it was shouting, urging him to let loose in a way he hadn’t since Montana. When Bree threw the hot pink boa around his neck, he blinked once, twice, like he was trying to process what exactly just happened. But the room was spinning, not in a dizzy way, but in a way that made him feel like maybe he could actually catch the momentum if he just went with it. “Now hold on,” he slurred, his grin spreading like wildfire. “This- this is new territory, Bree.” He tugged the boa experimentally, laughing - a deep, booming laugh that felt like it belonged to a different Morgan, one not bogged down by all the worries in his head. The beat picked up, and he could feel Bree pulling at the boa, urging him to move. The way she was dancing, carefree and fearless, made him realize he’d been worrying about every things for too long, and it was nice to finally let go. “Alright, alright!” he hollered back, throwing up his hands. The whiskey was hot in his blood, the lights were blurring, and Morgan felt the weight of everything he’d been carrying lift. He stumbled into the beat, swaying awkwardly at first, but then finding his rhythm with a looseness that only several shots of whiskey could bring out. “You want hips?” he slurred, voice booming in playful defiance. “You got hips!” He rolled his shoulders back and dipped his knees, throwing in a slow grind. Morgan found himself throwing caution to the wind. Maybe it was the liquor, or the lights, or the wildness of the moment, but he grabbed the ends of the boa from Bree’s hands and twirled, almost knocking over a table in the process. He swayed, he stumbled, he shimmied - his cowboy boots dragging across the floor in a not-at-all elegant attempt at dancing. “Okay, Bree!” he hollered, stumbling as he tried to keep up with Bree’s dancing. “One more shot and then- ” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the mechanical bull. “Then I’m ridin’ that damn bull!”

BREE doesn't think she has ever smiled so much and so genuinely. Well, she has, but in this moment, she was convinced this was the most fun two people could ever have. Smiling as Morgan started to let loose, she started yelling, "Yes! Okay, I see you! Look at all that!" In the most joyfully supportive tone, as Morgan sort of moved to the beat. It was fun and that was the point. As he took control of the boa and almost knocked over a table, she laughed and danced with him. Then she was looking in the direction of his finger and agreeing to another shot. "Damn right you are, Cowboy!" That was pretty much that last of what she remembered. From there on out it was bits and pieces. It was lights, and the thump thump thump of the bass. It was pushing through sweaty dancing bodies to hit the side of the inflatable... pool, mat thing, surrounding the mechanical bull to catch you. Smart. Most of that was only remembered because Bree must have insisted they got it on video because they rewatched the footage of them killin' it. Well, she wouldn't know if that was true until she watched it sober. Maybe it just seemed like twenty seconds because drunk time was not sober time. Then not much, and BAM they're at a bar. Maybe it was the same club but maybe it wasn't the lights were more red and less purple/pink and the music, that was different too. Morgan ordered their drinks and Bree was distracted by a bachelorette party and talking to the bride-to-be. Yelling? Everyone turned at the damn near scretching and god dammit, Morgan. He was letting this lady lowkey beat his ass. Then Bree seemingly completed the shorted teleportation route and was yanking on hair and they were both yelling obscenities at each other. Bree must have won because the other chick got thrown out and she was high fiving that bachelorette party. Thankfully Lauren, the bride-to-be, caught it all on her phone and sent it to Bree. Unfortunately, Bree would forget who Lauren was by morning. There's a little chill outside, maybe that's because they were sticking their head out of the roof of a hummer limo. What happened to the party bus? Why were they in a tattoo parlor? Oh my God, Bree is holding Morgan's hand. Wait, how did she end up in the chair? "Come near my flawless skin with that needle and I will sue you so bad, you're great grandchilden will still be paying what you owe me!" Unsurprisingly that got them kicked out. Still she was laughing and it was good.

MORGAN's memory was swimming through messy, brightly colors. The neon lights of the club pulsed purple, then red, then a blinding blue as they danced. Then, there were flashing camera lights, the bass still thumping in his chest, and people cheering him on, while he threw one arm into the air, waving the boa like a lasso before nearly toppling over a table again. Fast forward - he barely remembered actually getting on the bull, but there was the feeling of Bree’s hand in his, dragging him toward the beast like he was headed for some kind of showdown. The crowd was cheering, their faces blurry, and the next thing he knew, he was gripping the bull’s handle for dear life, swaying wildly. The memory snapped forward to a new location. A red-lit bar? No idea where they were, but the whiskey was still flowing, and Morgan went to grab another round when a woman turned her attention on him. She’d been talking with her hands a lot - he must've done or said something wrong, because before he knew it, she was punching him in the nose. He didn’t realize that Bree was in the middle of it, pulling her hair, but he could feel Bree’s voice piercing through the chaos, shouting at the top of her lungs. He blinked and then he was outside - was he outside? The cool night air hit like a wake-up slap as he and Bree popped their heads through the sunroof of a limo. The streetlights blurred into streaks, and then all a sudden, they were somewhere new; the tattoo parlor. He had no idea how they’d ended up there, but he was laying in the chair on his side, his shirt splayed out somewhere else, watching Bree threaten the poor tattoo artists. Next thing he knew, his shirt was being thrown into his face and they were ushered out of the place. Morgan stumbled back out with her, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “Bree, you’re a menace,” he mumbled, leaning up against the building, as he took the lollipop stick from earlier out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. "It's been fun!"

THE NEXT MORNING

BREE felt a thousand little pokes on her back as she shifted to sit up. The morning sun peaking through her windows, with a brightness only seen just after sunrise. Wait, no. No, this was not her place. It smelled like wood and grass. Was she outside? Letting her eyes focus, she looked around her and she was laying in a bed of... is that hay? On cue, she hears a soft crunching sound and looking up, there was a horse hovering over her. She was in a god damn barn, sleeping in front of a horses stable. While her head didn't hurt, it also wasn't giving her any indication on when, why and how she was where she was. Slowly getting up, she hears what sounded like mummering and on the off chance she was kidnapped by criminals dumb enough to leave her unrestrained, she grabbed a rake off the barn wall and carefully made her way toward the sound. A huge sense of relief washed over her when she saw it was a sleeping Morgan. Suddenly she understood she was at his Ranch. Stilling didn't know the why or how. Slamming the non rake part down on the floor by her foot, like it was a trident, she sighed before bending down to shake Morgan awake. "Wake up before you become the butt of every joke in your employee's group chat." She said louder than she knew she needed to. Looking down at herself, there was hay everywhere, and pink flowers and god help her, glitter. Trying to clean herself up, she looked over at one of the horses noticing her bag around it's neck. Petting and soothing the horse she slipped her bag over it's head and took out her phone.

MORGAN was sprawled out in the hay, still wearing the remnants of last night’s wild wardrobe, complete with that glittery pink boa around his neck like some kind of lasso gone wrong. The sunlight felt like it was setting his brain on fire through closed eyes, but he could hear the faint sounds of movement nearby - a muffled scrape and something that sounded like an angry sigh. He groaned, half expecting the walls around him to start spinning again as he peeled one eye open. “Ohhh, hell,” he muttered, blinking up at Bree, who was looming over him with a rake like she’d come to drag him out of the barn herself. Her hair was laced with hay and glitter, and he could swear there was a flower petal or two stuck to her cheek. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Now, that’s a look, Bree,” he drawled, voice rough as sandpaper. “You got the barn chic down." Morgan sat up, running a hand through his hair and feeling a handful of straw come out with it. He glanced down at himself - glitter, hay, a few mystery bruises he couldn’t place. He remembered...some things from last night, but specifics were a little harder to nail down. Sitting up, Morgan leaned back against the stable door, the sight of the ranch slowly coming into focus around him. Last night’s laughter seemed to echo faintly in his ears, but here they were, back in the barn, and it was morning. “Any clue how we ended up here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

BREE was glad he had gotten up easily and didn't seem to be doing too bad. Of course, he was still sitting down and the getting up seemed to be more of an issue for people. Naturally, she rarely got hungover and even the few times she had, a decent breakfast and some water usually got her back to normal. Laughing a little, as he ended up with a handful of straw. Looking him over, now that he was in clearer view, she noticed he looked like he got his ass beat and that greatly confused her. Perching herself on top of a barrel of hay, she shook her head. "No, but I also don't know whose socks are on my feet or where my shoes are." Looking at her phone again, she went through her texts and show like ten messages from a BRIDE (Lauren ??) and what looked like 15 new videos and a seemingly infinite amount of photos. "Well, at least our night was well documented." She said, holding her phone up to his face and scrolling all the way back up to her camera roll. "A couple of these texts from, I guess a bride we met, are videos." Holding her phone between them, she pressed play on the first video and it starts with Morgan catching hands from some pissed off chick and then Bree lunging at her and full on grabbing her by the hair, calling her a little bitch, among other things. When the video ended, Bree just looked at Morgan. "I don't even want to know what the other video is." Although it looked like it was just Morgan and Bree talking to the camera.

MORGAN blinked, squinting at Bree’s phone screen as the video started playing, catching flashes of neon lights, laughter, and way too many close-ups of their flushed, tipsy faces. The clip showed him swaying a little too close to the camera, Bree in the background with her arm thrown around his neck, both of them grinning like fools. In the chaos of the bar, he stumbled back after some girl’s punch - her reason unclear, but Bree immediately charged in, fists ready. He winced, half-amused, half-sheepish, touching his sore nose. “Didn’t think I’d end up in a brawl last night, but if I got you as backup, I guess I can take a punch or two.” He grinned as she clicked on the next video. Morgan chuckled, scratching the back of his neck as he watched the blurry, chaotic clips. “Yeah,” He started slowly, wincing. “It might be best if we avoid that place for a while. We’ve definitely left our mark.”

BREE putting her phone back in her bag, for now, crossed her legs and tried to see if those videos would job her memory. But they didn't, and then she just stared at Morgan, half destroyed feather boa still around his neck, hay and glitter everywhere and she couldn't even remember what place they had been at in those videos to avoid it. The only place she remembered was the very first club they went to but after about five drinks she can't remember that one either. Without any warning, she just bust out into full body laughter. Muscle memory told her she had done this a few times last night too, but it felt good. So much of her laugh was far too heavy to also carry laughter. Usually the only person she could get like this with, was Jake and they had been too heavy lately for either of them. Last night was suppose to be for Morgan to feel lighter, to let go, let loose and just have fun. It never even occurred to her that, that's exactly what she needed to. Her laughter dying down, but a smile still firmly on her face, she wrapped her arms around the cowboy, even if the angle made it a bit awkward, and hugged him. Suddenly, she pulled away so confused by his scent. "Why do you smell like hot sauce and gasoline?"

#character tag ( bree brown )#threads ( bree brown )#bree ( ft. morgan weston )

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blckbarbree · 2 months ago

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blame it on the goose, got you feeling loose, blame it on the tron got you in the zone || BRORGAN

tagging: Morgan Weston ( @morgan-weston ) & Bree Brown

date & time: October 25-26, 2024 from Friday Night to Saturday Morning

location: Gay Club, Bar, Tattoo Parlor, Party Bus, Hummer Limousine, who knows where else, Morgan's Ranch

warnings: excessive drinking, black out runk, mentions of a physical fight, A LOT OF ALCOHOL

summary: Look the only thing anyone needs to know if that Bree and Morgan got white girl wasted and had one hell of an adventure. Cue montage!

word count: 3,785

THE NEXT MORNING

BREE putting her phone back in her bag, for now, crossed her legs and tried to see if those videos would job her memory. But they didn't, and then she just stared at Morgan, half destroyed feather boa still around his neck, hay and glitter everywhere and she couldn't even remember what place they had been at in those videos to avoid it. The only place she remembered was the very first club they went to but after about five drinks she can't remember that one either. Without any warning, she just bust out into full body laughter. Muscle memory told her she had done this a few times last night too, but it felt good. So much of her laugh was far too heavy to also carry laughter. Usually the only person she could get like this with, was Jake and they had been too heavy lately for either of them. Last night was suppose to be for Morgan to feel lighter, to let go, let loose and just have fun. It never even occured to her that, that's exactly what she needed to. Her laughter dying down, but a smile still firmly on her face, she wrapped her arms around the cowboy, even if the angle made it a bit awkward, and hugged him. Suddenly, she pulled away so confused by his scent. "Why do you smell like hot sauce and gasoline?"

#morgan weston ― 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓪𝓰 #f2f °( ft. morgan )#― interaction tag #°𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓪𝓰 ↳ f2f

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cymorilcinnamonroll · 2 months ago

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Holy Diver: A Gay Lucifer x Beelzebub Dark Fantasy Romance (Paradise Lost Fanfiction) PART 2

(Read Part 1 Here)

I was in the Far North of Svalbard, working with one of my soul-bonded humans, Dr. Olaf Henderson – a world-renowned botanist – to harvest seeds from the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. In preparation for the eventual Apocalypse that would occur if Heaven and Hell could not change the course of a dead, rotting G-d that could no longer execute Divine Will, new humanity would need our seeds to plant afresh: new orchards, fields, and farms.

They would need a new universe, the current one wiped if Metatron’s had anything to say. Metatron and Belial – once my favorite foster child in Heaven turned rogue - were hellbent on the End Times, craving War.

Could anyone defy the bloated corpse of a Deist G-d, whose Intelligent Design had planned a grand, bloody End? Metatron executed His Will, after all.

Lucifer and Michael were collaborating on plans to save a select few humans who would propagate the bloodlines of all creeds and races – but the truth was, no other demon or angel’s hearts were behind the Apocalypse save Mega-dick-tron.

I combed over a seed tray with Olaf. “Dear friend, will these be enough for an orchard of apricots?”

Olaf adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, his crop of icy, receding gray hair and tall, gaunt form dressed in a lab coat that matched mine, jackets warm and snug on both our shoulders. He looked the same age as I chose to present myself – mid-fifties.

Not all of us preferred ephebe-like youth like my vain husband!

Olaf smiled, then spoke: “My oldest lover and companion, Bee, yes – this is more than enough. Be sure to store them in a cold, dry place – I would think Sheol, as you tell me it is a moderate climate in the seed vaults there.”

I smiled, setting the tray down and hugging Olaf, who I had saved from drowning in a fjord when I was out fishing in Norway one day in the 70s when he was but a small boy and accidentally happened upon him struggling in the sloe black waters. Olaf was austere like me, kind, and soft-spoken, with a gaggle of children and now, grandchildren, with his headstrong, tender wife Toline. “Want to get some Indian food after this, Ole? I can take us to London if you’d like. I wouldn’t mind some tikka or daal, to be quite honest.”

Olaf bundled up the apricot seeds into my magickal biovault. I patted the firm noetic plastic to reassure myself with the textured clack, then hoisted it into the pocket dimension portal I carried with my always. My lab assistant Furiel, one of the Fury handmaidens of Hell alongside Juriel and Puriel, grabbed it gently but firmly and stowed it away.

“Bring me some naan, boss,” Furi called, winked, then closed the portal.

“Indian sounds lovely, Bee,” Olaf opined. “So convenient to have magical storage. Say, you think they have mango lassis?”

“I think that would hit the spot, Ole.”

I smiled as we went to the locker room and took off our containment suits and lab coats and changed into business casual.

When we went to Trafalgar Square and took in some of the sights and war statues – we liked to watch war movies on Sundays. Then, sharply dressed, Olaf and I went to an Indian brewpub, got some “nut brown ale reduxes,” fries, and reimagined modern Indian tapas.

We thought them rather atrocious, so ended up finishing up the ales: the only good part of the meal, and ambling over to our usual spot: Curious Krishna. A little statue of a hungry child Krishna in a bib eating fish and rice greeted us, and we rubbed the lucky spot at his forehead that was worn down for that very reason. Olaf and I devoured three plates of garlic naan, curry, and daal. I made sure to save some for Furi and Lu.

“So Bee, how is little Bailah?”

“She’s twelve now. A little miracle, Ole,” I smiled, taking my refurbished, classic Blackberry out of my pocket and flipping to my photo folder to show him Bailah, Elodie, Alicia, Lucifer and me at Bailey’s piano recital. Lucifer was teaching her how to stroke the ivories and serenade the crowd like a Mozart madrigal, and I?

I was teaching Bailah bushido, tea ceremonies, and jujitsu. Plus, how to wield a katana with pride – and we watched the best episodes of Sailor Moon each weekend after Lucifer made us miso soup, vegan sushi, and ramen (Elodie and Alicia went on much-deserved dates as we babysat our goddaughter.)

“Oh wow, she’s tall, skinny as a fork,” Olaf laughed. “Reminds me of my youngest granddaughter, Inge.” He pulled his Android out and flipped to a picture of a little towhead girl who was round, rambunctious and wild in her young, precocious beauty. There was a mud-brown frog in Inge’s hand in her grandmother Toline’s backyard, dirt and strawberry juice on Inge’s cheeks. Olaf’s bespectacled, camera-handling form shone in the flash reflection of his granddaughter’s glasses.

“Ole, Eve and I are running a garden in Heaven with some of the seeds from the bank, testing them out for new humanity… if Metatron has his way with G-d and, well, it comes to the Apocalypse.”

Olaf crossed himself: “Jesus forbid.”

“Yes, Christ, Mary, and Michael are working overtime to resurrect our Father and prevent it. But the arcane magick and sciences of Heaven can only go so far. And Lucifer’s experiments with the darkness of Erebus have yielded no exit strategy of salvatory mimetic either. So, I meet Metatron measure for measure, Eve keeps him on his toes, and we bide our time.”

“But there are those in Hell who crave war. Vengeance. Retribution – revenge. You speak often of Belial.”

“My favorite foster son… yes.” I shuddered, picturing Belial and Metatron together, war generals who had never laid down their weapons. Belial still led the daemons and dragons, Hell’s most powerful general whose only military rival was me.

Lucifer and Samael often led our war forces alongside Michael and Gabriel against our mortal enemies (it was then that even Metatron’s bloodthirsty broadsword was useful).

But, of course, it was my hellspawn – the Order of the Fly scions I created from my heart’s blood and my seed: my tender, unfaceable Brood – that carried out most of the militia action, spying, and dirty work – and lost most of their lives.

Veteran’s Park in Heaven was brimming with fresh dirt these days, and now that Lucifer had been let back to his Garden for over a decade, my husband insisted on burying each demon that fell to Belial’s sword. Lucifer was tenderest with my own Brood.

“Yes, Belial is murdering and poisoning the underbellies of Heaven and Hell as usual, Ole,” I sighed, massaging my pale scalp, my platinum, black-streaked hair sweaty in the humid London summer fog. We were outside on the patio of Curious Krishna, drinking beer and mango lassis. “It’s a mess, quite honestly, old friend.”

Olaf squeezed my hand, then gave me a gentle kiss – though we were both physically middle-aged, our old fire still burned bright - then my lover poured me another Kingfisher beer. “Maybe Bailah and Inge could help Lucifer garden and work with you and Eve in the seed orchard. Might get your mind off things. My girl Inge loves worms, digging for rocks, gardening, searching for bugs – and well, Bee, you’re a bug. Hah!”

“Eve does love you and Toline, dear Olaf, and my secretary brags about your seed stock to Adam, Samael and Lilith any chance she gets. I’m sure Eve would love to meet Inge, your scion,” I smiled. My mandible flexed under my glamour, and I let it, my antennae, and fly wings flash through my disguise for a second. Olaf laughed to high hell. “And Lucifer would use any excuse to spend more time with Bailah and another relative of my soul-bonds.”

“Heh, here’s her mother Gunhild’s number, Bee. I might as well come check out the heavenly farm. See if you’re using the proper nitrates, fertilizer and manure.”

“Lu will bitch at you for changing the manure.”

“Well, I’m the botanist here. The Devil is worth fighting, sometimes, Bee.”

“Bailey, block,” I encouraged firmly but kindly as my goddaughter was dressed in her jujitsu uniform, my dragonfly necklace on her shining collarbone. A sheen of sweat gleamed on Bailah’s forehead under her black braids, and her hazel eyes glowed in determination.

“Okay, Uncle Bee – Hii- YAH!” Bailah blocked my chop, then gave one of her own – straight to my shin. I smiled, reveling in the fight with my youngling, and we engaged in taps, kicks, punches, blocks, and rolls under my expert instruction. Bailah was feisty, darting to and fro on her tall, skinny limbs – she in seventh grade now at a ritzy, private STEM school in Brooklyn, just as Elodie had attended. But though Bailah loved math and science, her heart was in art.

“Can we paint now?” Bailah smiled, meeting me at the front of the dojo building of the Morningstar palace, having changed into a neon purple band tee, fingerless fishnet gloves, mall goth pants and makeup, and cherry red Chuck Taylors with fuzzy lilac socks. She bounced on the balls of her feet, and her fingers were stained in gold marker and white paint.

“I was thinking clay today. Teach you how to mold faces.”

“M-kay, Uncle Bee. God I love fighting. It makes my fingers tingle and makes me want to make something.”

I scooped her up in my arms and we flew to my art studio: “That’s generally what happens when I exert myself as well, Bailey. I want to stir some hocus pocus.”

We settled into the studio, I in gray and black athleisure and white Adidas, and I preheated the kiln, got out some oxides for glazes, and a big block of gray clay. We spent the next few hours of Friday afternoon sculpting as Elodie and Lucifer met to talk strategy. Elodie was 38 now, my highest general – as I taught all my human charges to fight, of course – and led human relations on Earth between Heaven and Hell, having found her purpose long ago. Her wife Alicia ran a cookbook business and was also a Penguin Random House editor who specialized in artisanal cheeses and deserts with quite the discerning list of clientele (she’s started as a Milwaukee cheese monger of high acclaim) – they had met in Parma on a cheese tour many moons ago.

Bailah looked just like her birth mother, Elodie, and I could feel Elodie’s ingenuity and spunk in her, but also, a more soulful streak in my Bailey – Bailah had that flash of artistry, the feel of my jazz guitar under my fingers, the best kind of brilliance and flamboyant. Bailah had the artist’s spark. Like her mother, she loved to scribble stories, mostly about a society of talking cats and horses that lived in harmony with wood elves, as Alicia and Lucifer and I had made sure to foster a love of Tolkien in her at a young age.

“What do you think, Uncle Bee? I can’t get it right, the flanks, I mean,” Bailah smiled dazzlingly, her white teeth shining, and held up an abstract horse and cowboy held together by a tree, sculpted and marked in the clay.

My jaw dropped: I looked at my sad, lackluster molding of a Harlequin – though I loved art, I never said I was any any good at it. “It’s exquisite, Bailey. How about adding some leaves to the forelock to help the movement of the wind you’ve captured so beautifully?”

“I wonder who my donor was – if, well, he was an artist. You know, Uncle?”

“I do wonder that,” I smiled. “Here, let’s take our delightful creations to the kiln after we add the finishing touches.”

After we had set them to bake, I ambled over to the kitchenette in the guest house where Lucifer, Samael, Lilith, and Elodie were making plans to raise the number of soul-bonds in order to foster more human innovation and a veritable Renaissance into the Martian age, as now, humanity had reached the stars. Space travel to the planets was occurring at a rapid rate, and the Martian colony was beginning to terraform the Red Planet.

I wondered, were there any aliens out there? I could wander the galaxies, it was true, and knew of other galactic pantheons, but they shielded their physical races and devotees from even prying immortal eyes. Thus, angels, demons, and pagan gods and spirits had to wander the Fairylands, Heaven, Hell, and Afterlife, with some able to haunt Earth. But we were barred from the multiverse – for now.

It was all quite a Brave New World Elodie was leading the charge of.

I was making some cheesy fettucine when Bailah tip-toed in with Harry Potter in her hands, her silver cat’s eye glasses piqued over dangling crystal earrings and her mall goth-meets-manic pixie emo outfit. Oh, to be a child, and an artist, at that!

“Beelzebub, what house are you?”

“Hufflepuff. Lucifer is Slytherin.”

“I’m Ravenclaw. Mama is Gryffindor and mom is a Slytherclaw,” she said – mama meaning Elodie, mom being Alicia. “Do you think the Houses can get along in real life? They don’t really in the books.”

Bailah stole some fresh, cheesy noodles onto a plate with silver chopsticks, plopped on too much grated parmesan, then gobbled them down.

“I don’t see why not, Bailah. Pantheons and countries and strangers in real life get along, not to mention Heaven and Hell… for the most part.”

“Do you think that will ever change?” Bailah wondered. “There are cliques at school, Uncle Buncle Bee,” Bailey said, referring to her beloved nickname for me. “Lucifer is scary, you know. So is Michael. And Lilith. And Eve…”

“Yes, but you and your mothers are the scariest of them all!” I tickled her, then sat down in a bean bag in the game room and turned on Mario Kart. We ate and played, and Bailah crushed me at Bowser’s Castle. “You’ll grow to terrify even the President, my Bai.”

“Heh. Yeah, I sure will.” She stole my last noodle and smiled, cheese on her chin. “Hey, can we watch that really ancient Mario movie?”

“Anything for you, my Princess Peach.”

I met Elodie at a Marrakesh market we frequented often for our romantic rendezvous. She was dressed in a modest, stylish black kaftan and beret over her plaited afro, her black locks free and fresh. Elodie laughed, waving me over to a tea shop as she browsed a book monger outside.

“Look Bee, occult texts on djinn,” she winked, her face one of my favorite sights.

I kissed her on the cheek. “Djinn might be even beyond your expertise, love.”

“I could ask Asmodeus, he’s a daeva.”

“And ill to serving others, even my beloved humans. He does not often answer mortal calls, too distracted by Eligos and Naamah.”

“Heh. Well, I’ll get it anyway – I’ve been doing Arabic on Duolingo.” Elodie bought the antique tome from the smiling, half-toothless but clean bookseller who obviously indulged in a hedonic, delightful life – judging by the size of his gait – and I helped her wrap it in the hawker’s offerings and tuck it into her book bag from ‘The Strand.’

“Tea?” I asked, holding her hand. I was dressed in a nice, casual outfit – Dior.

“Yes, and we need to discuss the invitation Belial gave us to negotiate. I have no idea what he wants.”

“Perhaps a reunion with his foster father.”

“Hmm... mayhaps Bee. That just may be so.”

We got some Moroccan mint tea and rose scones. Sipping it, we talked strategy for next month’s parlay with Belial in Gehenna.

“I’m taking half of the Star of the Fly Regis,” I said, referring to my and Lucifer’s personal bodyguards.

“And I’ve worked a Cabalistic trap tailored to the “Worthless One.” Based on Belial’s old incarnation – Ophion.”

“Smart!”

She drew out schematics of attack formations she could lead with my Brood of the Order of the Fly, her my Head Mage and War Strategist – Elodie was my star mortal, besides Olaf.

Bailah, however, was quickly catching up.

“Shall we go to the casbah I booked…” Elodie asked, sultry and sweet.

Lust rose in my wicked old belly. Devil that I am, I took her tender brown hands in mine and bit her finger with my fangs to draw some blood. With my pedipalp, I secreted some wicked aphrodisiac poison in her – something I saved only for Elodie and, of course, Lu – and shared my sinful desires with her.

“I think that’d be ideal, yes,” I purred, whisking us through an etheric portal into the blue-painted oasis of the casbah AirBNB she had booked – lush purple carpet, sand and plants and succulents, a blue pool, tile of camels and birds, high clay walls – and laid Elodie down in my arms on a large bed under the veranda, replete with red velvet blankets and gold silk pillows.

“Oh fuck Bee, it’s hot,” Elodie laughed, her brown hips rising under my hands. She fanned herself.

I let my wings do the fanning, laughed, then kissed her, tender and sweet. We danced together as old lovers, and I reached deep into her skirts, finding the gem between her thighs, the wet pearl of her sex – Holy of Holies – and made love with my palm and fingers.

She came as she nuzzled my neck, speaking Igbo, then said “Fuck!”

I lifted my hand, wet with her spendings, and licked it hungrily, eyes hazed and narrowed and boiling red as I gently undressed her. My hands were sharp, severe – I let my claws out, leaving red marks, then bit Elodie’s breast, pedipalp dancing.

We moaned, and my cock rose. She undressed me with mad passion, and we writhed in and out of each other, white polish nails and black claws, clothes strewn on the floor, and blood and sweat mixed like whiskey on the rocks.

“Me on top, this time,” she purred, toying with my thighs and dick. She mouthed it, then mounted me, her ripe brown breasts beautiful and sweet.

“I love you, Elle, hyup, fuck you’re tight, girl.”

“Heh – holy fuck, ugh.”

I moved slow into her core, my hips pistoning – and she met me bounce for thrust. We made slow, languorous, but intense work of our fucking – over the years since she had turned 21, we had become experts at each other’s kinks and tender spots, and when we came together, a light rain began to fall as my old glory as Baal, God of Thunder, let out illicit passion into her womb.

She collapsed against my pale white chest in passion, moaning, unable to talk, and I stroked her petite, round form, my hands moving like dancers along her curves. I laughed, nursing her back to health with my magick – to fuck a demon drained most mortals, but only a bit my Elle – and we had dinner.

“I love you, Bee.”

“Kiss kiss, Elle.”

Lucifer was in the belly of Tartarus, his human form discarded to deal with the harsh elements of an un-terraformed Hell. The Erebus flowed like black, blood-laden sludge and piping hot magma from the huge font in the center of the Cave of Lost Sighs, and Lucifer and I were forced to take our true forms from the Hell Warp.

I was all fly and spider, towering and gangly, four arms and four legs, slender thorax, stinger and spinneret, cockroach winged and serrated fly head. I was a creature of spite and blood. Lucifer was warped, cursed, sanguine skin of Hell, twisted and mutilated like Satan from Dante’s Inferno. His carcass was blue-black with a sheen of blood, old burnt flesh letting bone through. His face was old and austere, glowing yellow pus-filled eyes, horns, and teeth like a shark. We were dressed in black robes, our black crystal wands in hand. Lucifer let the fine sludge of the Erebus drip like snot from his hands, weaving it into pure spring water with his flaming heart’s core as he steamed it with Light – he the Lightbringer.

“You think this magick will work, the new Plasma I’m making?” Lucifer asked cautiously, his voice dry, loud, and hoarse, like a beast of Hell’s hack.

I buzzed: “YESSSSSSS DEAR. IT SHALL WORK SSSSSPLENDIDLY. SHALL WE WILL IT INTO EXISTENCE ON OUR BLOOD, SWEAT AND SPIT?”

“All to save humanity. Of course, my beautiful Baal.”

“MY SSSSSPELNDID ATTAR.”

Lucifer paused, readying the cauldron above our bed of furs and small fire on cedar and pine he had lit – it was always cold, in real Hell, and frost and maggots burrowed in the dirt. “Sometimes, I think, Baal – these forms, our true forms, are our loveliest.”

“SHHHHHHUT UPPP AND KISS ME, LU. YOU ARE SSSSTALLING.”

“Heh. Right.” His eyes pussed more than usual – a foul replacement for tears, but the only ones the Hell Warp left us, in all honesty – and he laid himself down as Offering to Erebus, withdrew his knife, then began to filet his flesh methodically, stripping the burnt flesh-leather and raising it to the boiling pot, burning the foul refuse of Erebus with his cleansing balm as Lord of Light into Plasma.

I cradled my poor husband’s hand with my thorax and pincers, stroking his hairless head. I nuzzled the bit of bone that poked from the left side of his skull with my pedipalp – I was thrice his size in our true forms – and held Lucifer’s blade as he wept, too weak to deflesh himself more as black blood pooled.

“I’LL DO THE REST, MY TREASURE.”

“You are – HACK – my first and last, Brilliant Baal.”

“AAAAND YOU ARE THE TREASURE OF MY HEART, BEAUTY.”

Lucifer sighed, content. Blood that replaced tears now flowed from his pussing, enflamed eyes. “Do you think it is true, Baal? What John of Patmos wrote? Will we rot here, cursed, for all eternity? All because our own people cast us out of our Temple and called us, once their gods – HACK – demons?”

I wept too, methodically slicing his last strips of flesh – always weeping at the true sacrifice of the Morningstar Husbands ruling Hell – and putting the last of the offerings into the bowl of the cauldron. “I don’t know, Attar, in all honesty. I miss – I miss the children’s songs,” I whispered, the only way I could make my hellish voice sound human. “Early, in the temple mornings, when my priests left out beer and bread for me, and the children played with their dolls at my statue’s foot.”

“I hate it. Christianity. Islam. Judaism. It can all rot for eternity.”

“AAAAND YET… IT SSSSHAPES OUR WORLD.”

“Yes. HACK. Well, fuck all that.” Flayed, my husband was a beauteous horror. His cock rose, and with lust he rose and kissed me with his fangs, tearing at my mandible, letting out all his torture and anger on my bruised, benign Fly body.

“I WILL TAKE YOUR PAIN, ATTAR. LOOSE IT ON ME,” I sang, allowing him to bite me, fuck me, dissect me, and we wove in and out of each other, his cock in my wounds.

“I – SOB – hate myself, Baal. Look at me. Look at us. What our humans made us.”

I wept too when he came in my mouth, and swallowed his seed, then wept more when I saw the Plasma form – brilliant silver like his human blood, he my Yeshua in the depths of Hell, comely and ill-anointed – Lucifer the lamb in sin.

“Maybe we do get a happy ending, Attar,” I whispered, carrying him and the Plasma cauldron in my oversized arms as he fainted from torture up the long stairs, out of his daily and nightly Harrowing of the Cave of Lost Souls, into our palace basement.

He formed human again, as did I, the moment our preferred forms took hold as the magick of Lucifer’s purification and Light that permeated all the rest of Hell outside that accursed place took hold, thanks to our diurnal Sacrifice.

Lucifer was young, peerless, blonde – beautiful, unmaimed. I steeled myself as he always did – he rarely fainted, but he typically hobbled up the stairs. Belial was more powerful a mage than Lucifer, so we needed a stronger Plasma for our enchantments and weapons.

I noetically magicked the Plasma into a cannister, pure blue silver, and put it in my lab… besides Olaf’s seeds. Call it wishing Hell into Heaven with precious apricots, or something silly. I sighed, then smiled as we entered the basement where our beautiful room was, and tucked Lucifer into our nuptials bed, wiping his sweat away,

Always

Keeping

Vigil.

The Star Watcher (Lucifer)

At first, I felt godly hands rubbing nard into my tender, sweating flesh, the stupor of the Harrowing heavy on my limbs and lids. I cried, the pain of flesh stripped from my body a strong imprint on me – hell on my body, hell on my mind. I curled into my husband’s lap as Beelzebub, tender, caressed my now-whole skin. Bee ran his slick, star-born fingers coated in spikenard and myrrh – How to Soothe a King, as David did Saul – up my breastbone, to my cheek. The cool lotion and herbs he administered to me served as a balm, and my husband’s thick, strong, naked thigh under my cheek felt like salvation.

His silver blue eyes, like a snowflake latticework of polished crystal, reflected eternity in their gaze.

“How long was I out, Butterfly?” I asked Bee, my pet name for him somnambulant in my murmuring, I the haze of the Dead.

His platinum shock of white hair with a streak of black cascaded past his face, onto my shoulders – I kept my hair to my shoulders, he to his mid-back. I twirled some of the beautiful, thick, luscious strands on my claws, and brought some of the shiny locks to my lips to inhale the scent of Bees shampoo. It smelled, as always, like lilac, hazelwood, and musk.

Even dearer to me, however, was the scent of his Old Spice and laundry detergent. He was only in a white muscle tee, and had dressed me in a black band tee. We were, as preferred, pantsless.

“Two hours, love,” Beelzebub softened his voice like butter. “You slept like an angel.”

I plotted at the base of his pelvis, pursing my lips, greedy: “I need you, Bee. Inside me, Butterfly. Like the Romans of old.”

He bit his lip, pensive. “I do not know if you can handle it, my Rose of Sharon.”

“I burn with need, I pray you will share your bliss with me,” I murmured, leaning over to kiss the sharp line of his waist jut above his chiseled hips. Pale white against my gold skin – Baal the moon to my sun.

“Just gently, Bee.”

“Alright, King. My Adonai.”

“Blasphemy, Bee.”

He smirked, then gently laid me down on the pillow, slipping the bit of my shirt up to lick my left nipple – my weak spot. I moaned: “FUCK,” as his mandible and tongue sucked, plucked, lapped. His fingers squeezed the right.

“I can worship you, Attar,” he laughed. “Shall I sing your praises? Oh Heylel Ben Shachar, more precious than jewels, more beautiful than a thief in the night, a roving marauder who has stolen my heart.”

“It has always belonged to you, Butterfly. Shit – uglgh.” He put his tender, winsome and frightful lips on my balls, stroked my cock with white chocolate hands, and precum wept from my tip. I bucked my hips, wanting to root into his balled fist as he worked my rod, and he administered to me like a nurse the wounded.

“Gentle, dear,” Beelzebub smirked, still careful, then eased my legs apart, dipped his hand in the coconut oil on our nightstand, readied his pulsing, veiny erection, and eased my ass apart.

“Fill me, fuck, Butterfly.”

He slid into me like he was salvation, and I was his sin. Perhaps I thought too much of Heaven and Hell. We melded our human forms, and I looked up into his bluest eyes with my emerald irises. He moved, ever so gently, inside me, like a lotus blossoming on the Nile after a noonborn delta flood.

“Ready, Attar? My King?” Beelzebub hissed, kissing my brow. I nodded as the pleasant ache and lustful delight of having my ass filled made my need for a dirtier fuck beckon.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Beelzebub knotted his hands in mine and slammed me down into the bed, fucking hard. I cried out as he groaned, and we cursed in the manner of drunk sailors.

Unable to hold our human forms, we reverted back to our true forms that came most naturally – sanguine flesh and fly carapace, and made love

Like demons

With three legs.

Afterwards, spent, and we came in white cream, we showered together in our human forms, whistling, then ate pineapple cake and played

Parcheesi.

“Nice morning, old Loverboy,” Lucifer smiled, pecking me on the cheek before he flew on his swan wings off to work.

I waved goodbye, then took my route upon insect wings to the basement of the Hellopolis. Chao greeted me, smiling.

“Look like you ate well, Bee,” she winked, dressed in a navy pantsuit. “I made char siu.”

“Fuck yes, Chao, you’re brilliant.”

“Anything for a hungry Fly.”

I settled into my office with Eve in my old, dilapidated leather chaise.

Eve was smacking on some gun, filing tax returns.

“Sigh… attaboy, Bee. Another day lost and stranded in the goddamn basement of Hell.” Eve munched on her own char siu, and then Chao came in, a plate of Eve’s lemon cake at hand.

“Bottoms up?” Chao asked. “It’s nine AM. Wine ‘o clock.”

“Ladies, I think you’ll like this – ice wine,” I smiled, pulling some chilled Canadian Riesling from my mini-fridge with magnets of Hua, Bailah, and Lu on it.

“Bottoms the fuck up, Bee,” Chao cheered as Eve got glasses.

And we had

A ball

Of a time.

Bailah ate some kettle corn on a bean bag beside me as we rewatched the ancient show House of the Dragon for the umpteenth time. She spat out a kernel wedged into her teeth into her empty soda cup – we only drank Pepsi products in my household.

“Uncle Buncle Bee, why are you dressed as Daemon? And is this really appropriate for twelve-year-olds… I love Alicent.”

“I’m LARPing with your Uncle Lu later.”

“What. Is. LARPing!!!”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older, Bailah. And you’re raised by demons. I think some dragon murder is fine.”

I dipped my hand in the popcorn bowl, plucked some, then threw it at her mouth. On reflex and due to my diligent Pavlovian child training, Bailey caught the kernel mid-air with expert martial precision, grinned like a wolf, then swallowed it whole. In the wild wrecks of Gehenna like her mother when Elodie now served in Hell’s armies, Bailah would need to stomach raw refuse and bitter herbs.

Or maybe I had just taken the popcorn out of the microwave too early.

There was a knock at the door: “Can I come in, funcle?”

“Sam, hell yes,” I called, adjusting my gauntlets.

Samael entered, dressed in Kylo Ren’s armor. “Ready for laser tag, Bailey?”

Bailah tugged on her Squirrel Girl cape and mask. “I still don’t see why I have to dress up, Uncle Sam.”

“It’s very important for weapons training. Here, Havashem, stop fidgeting,” Samael said, wrestling his eleven year old son with Eve from the shadows. Havashem looked up from his handheld game, dressed as Percy Jackson, and blushed:

“Hey Bailey. I missed you. Cool outfit.”

“Bro, I love Percy Jackson. I should have dressed as Annabeth!” Bailah zoomed from the couch and hug-attacked the demon child. Havashem, her best friend, was preternaturally tall, had blond hair, and black bat wings and ibex horns. They busied themselves in the other room playing air hockey: “Man, Shem, adults, even uncles, are mega-lame.”

Samael sniggered. “I guess we’ll always be old and out of date, eh, Bee?”

“I am beginning to feel my age. Brewski?”

“Rad, brother.” He pulled out an apple bong and we got high together, watching Metalocalypse.

The kids came in midway through Toki’s escapades with a magic spider pet.

“Where did you get that from, Shem?” Samael asked, voice raw with satvia.

“Ummmmmmmmm… Mama Lily.”

“Lilith wouldn’t give one of her poison plant pets to a child.”

“Uh…. Eve.”

“Fuck – excuse my language. You stole it from Eve? What if it bit Bailah? Humans can’t survive Shadow Spider poison.”

“I don’t mind! Bee’s a bug anyways,” Bailah sang, coaxing the spider onto her arms. It responded to my soul shard in her dragonfly necklace, and the tamed yet powerful Shadow Spider started to weave a web of lace in her hands. “Do we have to do laser tag. Shem and I are having so much fun in Uncle Lu’s garden.”

“Bailah, be careful with that.”

“M’kay, Bee-tlejuice.”

“Don’t call me that, little lady.”

“Spider spider, trapped in sand, weave the moonlight round your hand!-

“No rhyming either, Bailey.”

She stuck out her tongue, then winked. Havashem made a duck face at his father.

“Your face will be frozen that way, children.” Sam sighed, resigned, then toked the half-smoked apple bong. “Imbibe, Bee. Children are hell.”

They giggled – the wildfolk – then kicked us off the TV to play video games.

Samael slunk to the kitchen, a nose in one of my copies of Stephen King. I picked up some Anne Rice, and we read and made chili. Sam’s chili was second only to Raphael’s.

“They’re stealing my immortality, I swear to fucking Father,” Sam laughed, putting some dark chocolate in his chili concoction – Cincinatti style. He sampled it with the ladle. “Mmm, almost as good as stadium hot dogs at a Yankee game.”

“Why are you so morbidly obsessed with the Yankees and getting fat off baseball hot dogs, Sam?”

“The Big Apple is Ha Satan’s playground. I invented opposable thumbs for a reason.”

“I have spent too much time alone with my hands.”

We sniggered at our inside jokes.

Bailah’s hazel eyes peered with black puffs on her head like twin dandelions past the edge of the kitchen door: “Uhhhh gentlemen, is lunch ready yet? CHOP CHOPPITY CHOP! Shem needs to feed Lilac!”

“Manners, Bailah,” I remarked, wagging my index finger.

She sulked.

“Who is Lilac, girl?” I asked, hiding my amusement.

“The spider, Bee. My pet spider.”

I shared a knowing look with Sam. “And – hah – you uh, think Alicia will let you keep a spider in her mansion with fine wines and artisanal cheese? A demon spider?”

“It’s a Shadow Spider, Bee.”

“Yes, girlchild. I created them. I created all insects and worms and slugs, small creeping things are my domain.”

“I made maggots, though,” Sam interjected, balancing his scythe on his nose, much to Bailah and Havashem’s amusement, who were now dipping spoons in the chili.

“MMM! Dad, this is GREAT!” Shem said, bouncing up and down like a gangly Doberman, his demon tail wagging.

Lilac climbed atop Bailah’s head protectively, and sipped chili from her spoon: “See, Uncle Buncle Bee, Bee-ple Pee-ple, LILAC LIKES TO EAT TOO.”

“Alright, Bailah. I guess you can keep her if your mom and mama agree.”

“Wahoo, Shem! We won against the lame adults!”

“Language, Bailah.”

“The archdorks, I mean.”

Samael dolloped the chili with sour cream, chives, shredded onions, and crushed Fritos into cozy artisanal Moomin bowls: “Bottoms up, kids, it’s Sammy Chow Time.”

They scarfed it down as we watched the newest season of Pokémon.

Sam cheered on Blastoise. “God I wish I was a Blastoise.”

“I want to be a Seviper,” I remarked.

“But Lu is the snake,” Shem piped up.

“We always want what we can’t have,” remarked Bailah.

A truth had never been better

Spoken.

Wisdom from the mouth of a

Babe.

The time had finally come for Elodie, my, and the Star of the Fly Regis’ parlay in Belial’s wicked dragonic court in Gehenna. It took a fortnight to navigate the hellwinds in our flying enchanted marrowship, powered by the purified Plasma, and we traveled in a small company, in stealth – I at the helm, Elodie my general, a dozen dear sons of my Star of the Fly Regis commandeering the marrowship.

The black and red sand scoured the infernal ground, and only sharp cacti and fungus grew on the inhospitable desert ground. Hellbeasts roamed alongside animalistic dragons, and we traveled in stealth as I wove black sorcery to disguise us and steer the ship true. We passed over markets of whoredom and war, slavery and depravity, and just random fucking hicks. Out in the boonies of Gehenna, indeed. When I saw a yokel blood unicorn eating a puppy, I almost vomited, imagining Bailah’s reaction to such a wicked scene. This was the part of Hell I hated – disgusting rednecks. Elodie watched, smirking.

“They don’t expect us, Bee.”

My Brood – half-beast, half-man, no intelligence to speak of, but a soft animalistic kindness to my loved ones, and bloody benediction to our enemies, made out of blades and ant and wasp – manned the oars of wind as the marrowship loomed over the Pit of Apollyon, where a circular inner dent that spanned the mountain ranges of Gehennom in a labyrinth like a Jungi Ito horrorscape gaped open like a Sarlaac pit. The great dragon towers of Belial’s keeps pierced the rancid air like shining teeth. Elodie, the Star of the Fly Regis, and I were in cyberpunk suits with gas masks and capes, hellswords aflame with ionic lasers. I let our glamour down, our imperial Morningstar ship levitating threateningly above the watchtower of Belial’s castle.

The dragon demons sounded the alarm, and shot flaming arrows with cockatrice milk at us. I deflected them with my gauntlets I had enchanted to control the winds, letting my beastly Fly form unfurl as a great beckoning terror, and let my hiss of a laugh escape. Elodie, Head Mage, lit herself aflame with violet fire, letting it burn her to the bone as a Hell Harpy – to them went the powers of necromancy I taught my human charges so well, and if she had no flesh, she

Could not

Be injured.

“MAKE HASSSSTE, HARROWED BELIAL AND MY REBEL SSSSSCIONS. I GROW IMPPPPPATIENT.”

The Star of the Fly Regis flanked my sides four astride, and I held Elodie aloft on my central arms, close to my blazing infernal heart. Her bones fit into my pincers elegantly, like lucky dice on a gambler’s hand. We made an imposing, demonic force. I wanted to get this over with and get back to Chinese date night with Lucifer. It was navigating to Gehenna that was hard: Belial always magicked it so it evaded detection, but once I could noetically magick the Hell GPS in my own internal antennae sensors, I could magick my company and marrowship back to our palace dock, and get some fucking

Chow

Mein.

“This is annoying, he’s stalling,” Elodie sighed, clacking her skull, voice a hoarse lich. “Bailah has trigonometry homework. I need to get back soon. Alicia is on deadline with an Indonesian dessert book.”

Belial, finally, belatedly, debuted. He was dressed, as usual, like a fucking bloody pirate, his bald gray head and elven orc ears dotted with body glitter, in fucking pantaloons and what might as well be a Seinfeld puffy shirt, pirate cap, robotic three-headed parrot, and earrings on. He swilled wine with his hick dragon demons, naked hell prostitutes – also dressed as busty Caribbean tavern wenches, but closer to blood elves in actuality – dangling from his arms with their triple tits.

“Father. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Belial drawled, his voice silk and blood.

“I SSSSSEEEEE YOU ARE JACK SSSSSPARRRROW TODAY. IDIOT. I RAISSSSSED YOU TO LARP MORE CREATIVELY.”

He laughed, sucking on a “pirate” lass tit: “We all have our vices, Bee. Shall we have some wine?”

“I AM NOT HERE FOR PLEASSSANTRIES, CHILD. I NEED YOU TO STOP ATTACKING THE GATES TO JAHHNA. YOU ARE STOPPING THE FLOW OF INCAN UNDERWORLD GOLD TO HELL. MULCIBER NEEDS IT TO FORGE ADAMANT, ASSSS YOU FUCKING KNOWWWW, BELI!”

“And what if I want the gold for my cock rings?”

“You’re atrocious as always, Belial,” Elodie said, then sent a blast of purple lightning to scour Belial’s thigh.

“Oh, sweetheart, and you’re feisty as usual. I remember when you were a girl, attached to Bee’s hip. I suppose he always fucks his children.”

Hell froze over in my thorax. “FUCK YOU, BELIAL. SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH OR I’LL DESSICATE YOU INTO PERDITION AND TORTURE.”

“Oh, and what, you’ll seduce Elodie’s daughter, too?”

That was it. I lost it. I bit him in half. Swallowed him. My Star of the Fly Regis started taking on his dragons, Elodie went for the busty assassin wench prostitutes, and a melee worthy of Soulcalibur happened. Belial took his pirate sword and sawed open my belly, and we spent a few hours torturing, masticating each other, until we were all tired, healed ourselves, and did indulge in some shitty country wine.

“The grapes here are terrible, Beli,” I sighed, in my human form and Elric of Melnibone gear, cyberpunk attire over, Belial having acknowledged Elodie and my’s victory. “So you will stop interfering with the Jahnna trade route, and Incan afterlife gold?” I asked, weary.

Beli looked at me across from his hell table, astute. “That was a ruse, Father. I heard from a little bird… oh, shall we say, Metatron is experimenting on waking G-d up.”

I crushed my shitty wine glass to bloody shards in my hands.

Elodie cussed.

“What?” I demanded.

“Oh, my whisper network of Heaven and Hell… and I have friends in high places.”

“Like shit,” Elodie sighed.

“Well, I suppose I should thank you, son. It was a horrible time tonight, but you fought better than usual.”

Belial mockingly bowed, then fed his robotic triple-headed parrot a bloody Cheezit. “It was the least I could do, Baal.”

“Ophion, I do hope Eurynome reconciles with you after your mid-life crisis Boomer boat pirate phase drove her away.”

“The wide-encroaching Eve,” Belial hummed, then dabbed a stubborn tear from his eyes. “Yes, well, Baal, we cannot all have a perfect marriage like you and Lucifer. Some of us work, and fail, for our wedded bliss. Love, and all its trappings, is rare for true demons. For you are no demon Bee, but a fucking fallen angel.”

“Thank you, again, for the spar, negotiation, relinquishment of ruckus, and… tip, Beli.”

He smirked, resigned: “I’d do no less for my fucking

Father.”

Lucifer paced in his study, his elegant blue worship cloak from diplomacy with Michael and Gabriel to change the seasons on Earth drawing ire from him. He shucked his clothes off into the etheric laundry and magicked on war gear.

“I should have fucking known. It’s Belial and Metatron’s doing. I bet they are plotting together. Belial knows no master, but Metatron would wake the decrepit, headless corpse of Father up just to fuck with me!” Lucifer roared, lunging at his ink stand on his broad cherrywood desk and striking his papers and fountain pen and quills to the floor, them mashing them to pieces with the balls of his feet and black toe talons. “Asshole of the highest hell, dog beef bastard, cambion abortion SHIT STAIN-

“Lucifer, calm down.”

He looked at me with poison green irises: “Shut it, Prime Minister. Do not order your liege Satan. You are my subordinate, do not forget – how could I let this happen?” Lucifer sunk to his knees, wracked with sobs, let go of his human form, and beat the ground in grief. “I tried so hard. To stop Metatron from meddling. We are making so much progress – I dress up in piss-ass fashion in fucking robes and make nice with the archangels, when I know they despise me, despise our kind, gossip about us – ALL BECAUSE HUMAN BELIEF WRENCHED A KNIFE IN OUR PANTHEON. How we rotted, Bee. For eons. How my children fell, like eidolon cleft from my ribs. All because I wanted freedom, and El thought he was doing right. Doddering cunt.”

I clasped his broken, burnt body – seere majesty and wretchedness of Satan – my human form tender and small in comparison – and rocked him. He was thrice as tall of me, and picked up my human form in his lap, and held me hard me, nuzzling me with his teeth.

Lucifer kissed me raw with his Qlipha husk lips, and his tears matched mine.

“It’s okay, babe, it’s okay, Attar,” I sang, a lullaby that had no words, simply angelic, and he wept, rocking me like a

Broken

China

Doll.

I let myself down off his lap, and picked the ink, papers, and quills back up and set them lovingly on his desk, then magicked away the India Ink stains on the carpet.

“Let’s go watch Mystery Science Theater, babe. I’ll take care of this. It is not for the King to sully his hands with such trivial matters as Metatron. He is far beneath the sheer majesty of Hell’s regent. I am your left hand of darkness, Lucifer. Let me aid you, liege.”

Lucifer stood, towering over me, his bitter black armor on, with sheens of crackling red hellfire. He loomed like terror, homages to the underbelly of Gan Eden, and evil.

Le Genie

Mal.

“Mairon, you are perfect,” he sighed, stroking my platinum, icy hair. I kissed his leathery hand, then tenderly nuzzled his knee – the farthest I came up to.

“I do as you will, Melkor.”

With regret, Lucifer slipped out of his true form, into the ephebe that resembled Apollo on the lam. He massaged his brow, then smothered me in a hug, sagging against me.

Once again, I was taller, stronger, able to protect

My King.

“I’ll carry you to the couch, Lu. Remember, it’s Chinese night.”

“Yes. Chinese. I want… General Tso’s and dumplings.” He fell into my arms, a deflated swan, dressed in ivory robes and golden sandals, his six white swan wings limp.

I nuzzled his forehead with my mandible. “What else, Lucifer? Anything you want. Indulge tonight.”

I carried Lu up the stairs to the TV room. “Um… egg drop soup. And kung pao… and… Kirin.”

“Kirin it is.”

I ordered the Chinese on my Blackberry as Lucifer rested his head in my lap, looking like a starving, petty lion. He took his bruisy mouth and bit my thigh, letting flame leave his mouth and scorch my thigh.

“Fuck me, Baal. Now.”

“You are a brat, Lucifer.”

“Old man.”

“Bastard.”

“Fuckface.”

“Twink.”

“Asshat.”

“Daddy.”

We were undressed by now, wounding each other, razing flesh apart with our talons. I took my red, red mouth and drank his starry blood, my own blue spider ichor coating his hands like a second skin. He lapped at the bestial scourings on my breast, then forced my head down onto his turgid pink cock.

I smiled in amusement at his burning need, sucked it gently, then hard, biting the tip. He winced, grating into me, and I played with his balls and perineum, then ate his ass out – Osculum Infame – and jerked him off with my muscular guitarist hands.

He came like white lace and dessert wine, onto the couch. I shoved his face down in his spendings.

“Lick it clean, idiot.”

He purred, arcing his butt against me, and did.

I spread his ass apart, lubing myself with my venom, and tenderly kissed his backdoor rosebud, easing him gently open, then pierced him with my cock.

He groaned, and we made love raw and rough, assfucking. He turned around under me, my cock balls-deep in him, and bit my neck with his lion fangs, straight through to the jugular.

“Your blood tastes like ice cream, Baal.”

“You’re a – tight, FUCK, fool, Lu.”

“Call me Attar.”

“I’ll call you whatever you want, you fucking slut.”

“Talk me out of – FUCK – sending my Hell Harpies down on Metatron’s Throne Room and razing it – THERE, BAAL! FUUUUCK! – to bitter ribbons of raw flesh and gore.”

“That would be unwise, Attar. Brat. Prince.”

“I – hyuck – AM KING.”

“Lestat.”

“Louis.”

“Arioch.”

“Elric.”

“Rhaegar!”

“DAEMON – I’M COMING, YOU FUCKING WHORE BASTARD-“

“Ring Ring. Uh, hello… order for the Morningstars? From Golden Dragon?”

Lucifer shoved me off him. I was naked as G-d made me, and he magicked away our mess and basic clothes on, shoved the blankets over me, tried to hide his erection under his gray sweatpants, and grabbed the bag.

“THANKS, BYE.” Lucifer flew to the couch, shoved the Chinese away, and laid naked down under me.

“Where were we?”

We made sweet love after that, our stress at ruling Hell finally gone, showered together, then turned on a John Waters film.

“I prefer Kenneth Anger,” Lucifer said, his belly bloated from all the Pan Am Chinese.

I rubbed it as it rumbled. He hiccuped.

“The lunatic that made your eponymous movie with live crocodiles and a Manson prison score? But what about Devine???”

He kissed me, settled into my lap. I braided his hair with some roses from our garden.

“You and drag, Bee. You and fucking drag.”

The morning after a nightlong fuck, I hand fed Lucifer green grapes and brie. It was Saturday – the weekend – and he lounged like a cat in my arms, pensive.

“I don’t think the Chinese agreed with me. My nerves are a fucking wreck, Bee,” he said, morose. “I need bottomless mimosas. Waffles. Pancakes. Peanut soup.”

“Are you talking about the Colonial Williamsburg trip you chaperoned for Bailah, now that Elodie and Alicia relocated to D.C.?”

Lucifer’s stomach rumbled. “An old person pancake house. We can see the Williamsburg blacksmithery, Bee.”

“You just want to hear the pennywhistle. You’re fucking obsessed with flutes and strings. And fucking peanut soup.”

“I did make Heaven have fife and drum.”

“And the Order of the Fly. I do not fucking get your obsession with folk music. It’s lame, Lu.”

“True. Don’t you miss the days of horseback warfare? The Winged Hussars? Siege of Constantinople? Fall of Carthage? The Sea Peoples?”

“Let’s not reminisce for glories past, Lu. I’ll cry. I miss Hannibal.”

“And I miss Baldwin IV.”

“You’ve been watching too much Kingdom of Heaven, husband dear and doting.”

“Mankind is so lame now, Bee.”

I stroked his wrist, then kissed it. “You could also say that us demons have become softened, homely, and idle. Perhaps Eve tamed us, after all these years.”

“Heh. Women’s domesticating effects. I ache for my musket and flintlock. We can watch the drills at Yorktown’s museum, then get fish and chips.”

“And swim with the jellies? Bare your gold calves to salute the sun for a dip?”

“Why not, Bee? I am a demon of lustful pleasure.”

“And I love chocolate chips.”

Soon, we had platefuls of chocolate and blueberry pancakes stacked before us with whip cream, coffee, and chocolate milkshakes at our favorite Williamsburg pancake house. Old 50’s memorabilia littered the place, and retirees in walkers and wheelchairs met over old newspaper and backgammon.

“Delightful,” Lucifer said, chocolate on his blonde stubble. His silver glasses and choppy blond hair shined under the fluorescent light and rising sun.

I drank a mimosa I had just ordered. “What is on the itinerary, today.”

“I want to visit one of my human charges that goes to William and Mary, Bee. Will you accompany me?”

“Oh, Emilia? The ornithologist-in-training, considering she fainted during Pre-Med rounds at the sight of vomit and blood at the hospital? That charge? She’s a bit space cadet, Lu.”

“I know,” Lu said warmly. “Emmy is perfect.”

We ambled my 2017 scarlet Dodge Viper with fuzzy bananas and dice dangling from the mirror and a hula dancer on the dash over to Colonial Williamsburg.

“We need to see the sheep, Bee.”

“Bailah really does drag you here a lot, Lu.”

“Yes, she tips the sheep. And plays hoop.”

“Isn’t that illegal.”

“Heh.”

We went to the sheep field – for some reason, it had Wi-Fi – and worked on our interior décor blog on HellBook.

“What do you think about shiplap for the torture room?”

“Am I a Mormon mommy blogger in Utah with children on a tradwife farm, Bee?”

“Shiplap is nice, Lu.”

“Do we need a Live, Laugh, Love poster and matching Sunday dresses for our altar girl daughters?”

“We’re doing shiplap and baby blue, Lu.”

“Am I hallucinating. This is like when Eve made Samael watch all those Tradwife TikToks and LARP as domestic Republicans.”

“Their bread is so dry. Why did Eve do that.”

“To troll Bonebutt, of course.”

“He is fucking pussywhipped. Did you know I once accidentally heard him call Eve “pretty, pretty princess” while he was painting her toenails pink in the office? Why do I let them do that in my place of work… I’m crazy. It gets boring in the Hellopolis basement. He was chained to her desk and collared.”

“Fuck man, I’d rather die than be Eve’s sex slave and personal Grim Reaper vibrator.”

“She has a way of eunuching men.”

“Insatiable. Did you read her latest sex column?”

“I never should have let her watch Sex and the City. It gave her ideas. Adam said there’s more shoes than children at their farm.”

“Well, we all know how she treated Gilgamesh. Sent you down, Baal, to fight him… back when you used to be a bull and the Hell Warp didn’t make you a fucking insect.”

“At least I am not a corpse zombie living dead girl, Lu.”

“Touche, shit bro, give me more mimosa.”

Spring came, and Elodie was thirty-nine. She had her hair up in a loose chignon, dressed in a navy blue pantsuit, as we met near her condo on Capitol Hill at our favorite greasy diner and classic Washingtonian dive, the Tune Inn, that did breakfast all day.

“I remember the old vets that would take turns keeping the parking meter running and getting stoned in their car when I used to be a Democratic intern,” Elodie laughed. “Now, I’m the one in power, and they’re underground. I miss them, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be adverse to Lucifer’s lettuce,” I smiled, shitty, perfect vodka in my glass as we split a big, cheesy omelet with hash browns. We clinked our glasses. “Tell me, Elodie. How are you and Alicia? How is little Bailah?”

“Thirteen now, shit, Bee. We loved having you and Lu at the party. And she’s excited to meet Inge at Eve’s orchard. I’ve heard so much about her grandfather, Olaf. What is he like?”

My crystal blue, icy eyes hazed over, and I tucked some platinum white hair that had escaped my artsy manbun back behind my ear. “A legend in population dynamics and he singlehandedly reinvented the tragedy of the commons concept for the 21st century. Besides you, Olaf is my favorite mortal.”

We went outside to smoke, I in an off-gray Tom Ford suit and goldenrod pinstripe tie, bowler hat on. A slight rain fell on the March gray. Cars wheeled by and senators carried their clean clothes from the laundromat.

“Do you think it can stay like this forever, Bee?” Elodie asked me, squeezing my hand as she bummed a Tareyton off me.

I smiled, wrapping her back and curves and bum against my elegant, vicious front. I towered over her like a lantern of heaven. “Peaceful?”

“Yeah. With Metatron up to god knows what with your Father’s headless corpse, who knows? I mean, is Bailah safe to grow up in this world?” She dabbed at a tear, kissing my hand. I trailed my fingers down her plump, winsome brown skin.

“Every mother must render their child up to the altar of life. I think she’ll find a fountain of beauty, Elle.”

Elodie smiled, taking my hand and pulling me along to our favorite bookshop. We browed the sci fi and fantasy section. She pulled out a grimdark book, but I snatched it from her hands teasingly and bought it instead for myself.

“Bastard. Heh.”

“I’ll let you borrow it, Elle.”

“Okay, guess we should go to the Kennedy chapel to meet with Father Damascus.”

We went to the Kennedy Catholic church by the Capitol South metro and met with Elodie’s priest. He was an occult dealer and ran supernatural security for D.C.’s underbelly, safeguarding even Madam President.

“Elle! Bee, good fellow, hello!” Father Damascus said. He was a short, stolid Dominican man, Andres Damascus, with a chipper smile and sweaty, balding head. “Shall we light a candle, for old time’s sake? Yeshua sent the supplies, but why not pray for a bit?”

I smiled, an old wound in my heart that I silenced – that all too common pain. I remembered when the fathers worshipped me, but said nothing. We did the Lord’s Prayer, then went to the back room, where Father Damascus revealed olive wood stakes.

“For fighting any enemies, why, my G-d chose the best quality, carpentered by His hands!” Father Damascus put them in silk clothes and handed them to me, careful not to burn my white flesh with the blessed wood.

The wood was egregiously hot through the silk, counteracting the ‘evil’ of my soul, but I simply felt power when I held them: I’d always loved the Gospels, and Christ’s work.

Father Damascus looked pensive: “I do not know why you must go searching in such broken men for truths, Beelzebub – when you have the Light of the Lord right in front of you.”

I smiled softly: “You know, it is said, Father, that when my brother Samael accepts the Torah, there will be no more war. Perhaps… some things are never meant to heal.”

Elodie looked at me with tears in her eyes, hopeful. I ignored it, rot gut rising in me.

The arrogance

Of humans

Was frightening.

“Have faith, Bee,” she said as we left. “Maybe, you and Lucifer can be saved-

“Watch yourself, girl.” I magicked a portal to my basement armory, where we sorted the stakes.

“My apologies, dear. It’s just… sometimes, I wonder. If demons can be healed from the Hell Warp.”

Ire flashed in me, and I squeezed a stake in my hand so hard through the cloth it shattered, driving fiery splinters into my wicked flesh. Blue spider blood oozed, and Elodie cried out, magicking cool water over my hand, then gently picking the pieces out.

“Shit, what did I do to you. I’m so sorry, my angel,” she cried, bandaging my hand as I, still silent

Studied

Her.

“Will you say – hic – nothing, Bee?” She moved to hug me, but I withdrew.

“I think you should leave, Elodie Okowa. This is not the first time you have wounded me with a holy armament from the Vatican.”

She hung her head, nodded, gazed back at me with tearful eyes, then left

Through my own portal

Back to Earth.

I looked down at the blazing bandage. Went to shower. Drank too much that evening.

Passed out

Lucifer and I were watching Garden State for the bajillionth time after a long day of inaugurating a new side road on I-666. Lu munched popcorn, torso and head in my lap, as I played with his hair. The Shins came on the soundtrack.

“Fucking good band,” Lucifer opined, his hand slipping against my gauntlet. “Baal, how can you eat popcorn with armor on? You need to come out of your Sauron clothes, you’ve worn them all day – terrified Chao. You know she hates it when you LARP.” He chuckled, tracing my helm.

The armor felt cold, solid on me – against the storm inside me. All I could think of was the Lord’s Prayer coming shuddering and tremulous out of my whispers, Elodie’s acid. The pieces of holy olive burrowing into my skin like fanged serpents.

Holy, horror

Of hells.

“It makes me feel… protected.”

Lucifer turned off the TV, then gently removed my helm, cross-legged before me on the floor as I knelt over, letting my liege and king tend me. “There are tears in your eyes, oh darling Butterfly. Who hurt you? I’ll skin them alive and shit on their corpse.”

“With the shiplap in the torture chamber wounding them more than any of your instruments?”

“See, I agreed to put up the shiplap, now you hate it. It never gets the Damned’s blood out. But Baal, stop deflecting: who wounded my husband so?” He decorously, gently, languidly undid my breastplate, shin guards, and gauntlets, only for molten green fire to form in his eyes as he saw the olive wood scars – pustules of blue blood in the shape of crosses, as all holy wounds formed after puncture. “Shit. I’ll kill them. What whore bastard of Hell touched my Butterfly –

He threw the gauntlet to make a dent in the wall, shaking, then kissed my hand, walked irate to the Meyer lemon tree we kept inside, and grabbed a yellow fruit – crushing it to pulp. He threw the juicy corpse of the citrus to the floor, then stalked back to me, expectant and demanding, Lucifer’s nostrils flaring. I looked, glum, slumped over, at my hands:

“Do you think we can be redeemed, Lucifer?”

He froze like a lion caught mid-bite. “Who dared suggest we were fallen or imperfect to begin with? What pride of my sinful dominion inspired that witless remark?”

“Elodie… is not careful with her words.”

Lucifer winced: “Elodie said that?”

“She… she clings to her Catholic faith.”

“Pfft. And yet consorts with demons. You know Elodie is like my own daughter, and I adore her. And you know she… she probably only wishes you and I and the other demons were not… in painful conditions from the Hell Warp.” Lucifer sunk to the couch besides me, stroking his brow, then looped his muscled golden arm around me.

I sobbed.

“Bee, Bee, no, hush. You’re majestic. My consort. My husband. My life and heart and soul. Baal, you know how humans are… even Eve.”

I sighed, curling into Lu. “Yes, even Eve… pities me. Behind that respect, behind her being my best friend in the world… humans. Do not understand the Felix Culpa.”

“O fortunate fall. Can you… talk to Elodie?”

I spat venom from my pedipalp onto the pashmina blanket on the floor and kernels of popcorn that had escaped the bowl. My fly wings fluttered arrhythmically, and my antennae lurched. I looked like a caricature of Jeff Goldblum in The Fly.

“Of course. You’re still angry,” Lucifer apologized for his suggestion. “I only thought –

“No, you are right, Lu. Elodie is my dearest human, well, besides immortal Eve. My most favored mortal. Love is… hard, Attar.”

“But, it blazes the brightest in darkness.”

We both flinched, thinking of the Cave of Lost Sighs.

The clock struck midnight.

“Time for another pleasant Harrowing, eh?” Lucifer said weakly, helping me stand.

We assumed our monstrous forms, descended the basement staircase to the Heart Pit of Hell, and we

Tortured ourselves

To save

The world.

Eve poured me coffee as I stared at my computer, my eyes glazed over.

“Am I reading Wingdings?” I sighed, rubbing my brow. “Eve, is this even legible?”

Eve smiled tenderly, her pale pink lips quirked, red hair back in a bun. “Hmm, lemme see… Aym’s response to Executive Perdition… yes, it looks like he used Wingdings. It says: “Fuck you.””

I groaned. “Great, great, peachy. I’ve been litigating him in court for years. And incorrigible as our judicial system is under Samael and the stringency of law in the afterlife, I have gotten nowhere, and lost a best friend.”

Eve handed me the coffee. She noticed the bruises under my eyes: “Rough night, Bee? Shem kept me up with nightmares. He’s fourteen and still gets them, you know. Says he dreams about zombies. Maybe Samael should stop reanimating corpses and taking them to Sunday roasts.”

I laughed. “Yes, Eve, my week has been shit. Really, Shem is afraid of zombies?”

Eve laughed. “And ghosts, witches, vampires, aliens, and pirates.”

“Tell him to steer clear of my son Belial then.”

We clacked our coffees together in our ritual salute, then sat abreast of each other as we processed immigration paperwork: I initialed or didn’t off on profiles I approved to move from pagan, foreign, or Heavenly afterlives into the metropolis of Vegas met NYC of Hell. Afterwards, Eve stamped them with my Japanese seal of my demonic enn.

“Bee, why do you like Japan so much?”

“Nobility. Efficiency. Ingenuity. Honor. Creativity. Ningen Isu. Art.”

“I love New England. I get it. Oh, the fruits and gardens, Nantucket, Monhegan, seaside cottage, pines, Acadia… mmm.”

“Lobster?”

“Yes! Adam loves it.”

“Heh.”

“Say, what’s bothering you, honeybee?”

“Uh. Well. Eve… do you think I’m damned?”

“Blunt, Bee. Of course not. Everyone knows we lost much of ourselves during the Hell Warp. I, Astarte, became a human – mother of humanity. Adam – Ninurta – became human. Nergal became Samael. Ereshkigal became Lilith. Do you know how odd it was? I had so many powers as Astarte – blessing unions, war and rain, fertility and artifice and disguise. At least you still have some semblance of your powers. Everything I can do, El makes me do with my hands.”

I smiled, touching her hand fondly. She squeezed it. “And your brilliant brain, Eve. So you do not think… my cursed state, is a reflection on the quality, and nature, of my soul?”

Eve let her human form slip, and turned into Venus aflame. She was a woman of brilliant, licking fire, blue ember eyes and proud red phoenix breast flashing in brilliant glory. I sunk to my knees in awe – divinity, so at odds with my wicked, cursed form – and could not shield myself from her truth – Astarte.

My fly form filled the room, knocking over furniture. I wept, my mandible buzzing.

“ASSSSTARTE, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. YOU REVEAL THE TRUTH OF ME. I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN YOUR MAJESSSSSSTY, MY CLOSEST FRIEND.”

Eve smiled, turning back to her petite human form. She wore a halter top of aquamarine and white capris, barefoot, then cradled my head – as little or as much of my giant insect form she could hold – in her arms, and let glowing golden light flow from her hands to me. My rotten heart, ancient wounds, and hellish body found succor in her motherly divinity.

“And you are beautiful, Lord of the Creeping Things,” she said tenderly, then kissed my right mandible. “You should go around in this form more often, Bee.”

“I DO NOT WANT THE MORRRRTAL RESIDENTS OF HELL AND HEAVEN… AND MY HUMAN CHARGES, TO KNOWWWWW MY TRUTH. MY SORROW. MY SHAMMMMME..”

Her tender warmth flooded my maligned body. It was too much. I assumed my human form, sobbing, in Eve’s arms.

She cradled me in her lap, the room’s items spilled from being cramped under an archdemon, and laughed tenderly. “Oh Bee. That form is your glory. Samael once said this, in his Grim Reaper form: ‘I am only horrific because I am the watchdog of Hell. I assume terrible beauty to scare off those who would harm the dead.’ Isn’t that you, Bee? Hell’s premier guardian, Prime Minister and leader of our military, father of your beautiful Flies… godfather of Bailah.”

I sobbed. “What Elodie and I have. There is always… pain. It is hard.”

Eve smiled, braiding my hair with some chicory blossoms she had conjured. “Yes, well, is it so different than what you and Lu have? That too is a marriage of pain and pleasure. The scope and level of duty is different, yes, but with my mortals I guide and love, I believe it is not so different, or less worthy, of a relationship than I have with my husbands Sam and Adam, and wife Lilith.”

I gazed up at the spackled ceiling, the Hellopolis brilliant yet outdated, gold columns mixed with Officespace, pensively. “I think you are right Eve. Why do we involve ourselves in the affairs of mortals, I wonder?”

Eve helped me up, then squeezed my hands. “I think us immortals can’t help it. We are beings of pure love, and are drawn to the unique mysteries, pleasures, and ardent joys of humanity.”

“You think me… a being… of love?” I wrapped my tall, narrow human form together with my long legs against my chest, brooding as I clutched my kneecaps to my breast with threaded arms.

“It is the Morningstars’ love that holds Hell together. One may even argue it holds Heaven together as well. The… sacrifice you and Lucifer make, at dawn and dusk. I do not believe even Samael or Michael could shoulder that.”

“I… see. Well, Eve, back to business. This talk… was good. It gives me much to think about.”

“As I always say, and you always ignore – you’re a good man, Baal.”

“And you’re a fine woman, my Eve. Fine

Indeed.”

Elodie had been texting me for a week. I had abandoned my vintage Blackberry on I and Lucifer’s nightstand, living like a Mennonite, technology-free.

“Bee, you have to accept her apology. She’s your dearest human,” Lucifer said one evening, Emilia the bird-brain human on his lap, feeding her dates and parmegiano Reggiano Alicia had mailed to us discretely, with a letter calling her wife an idiot and begging for our forgiveness.

I’d burned the letter with blue hellfire in my open palm, but the cheese was nice – nice before Lu stole it.

I peeled a pear with my katana in a spiral. Nibbled on it. Threw it in the trash. “I’m not in the mood for socializing, Lu. Sorry to discuss personal matters before you, dearest Emz.”

After our threesome with Emilia, Lucifer and I did laundry and vacuumed at our penthouse. We spent the wee hours of the morning scrapbooking in silence, putting memories and montages of our soul-bonded humans together with colorful borders and Polaroids.

“Why would she think I’m broken, Attar?” I finally sighed as we drank cappuccinos at 3:00 AM. A light blood rain fell, and children slept safely in their beds, knowing the Morningstars held vigil over Hell.

“I’ve noticed, when women become mothers, they think everything needs healing. She sees your pain, Baal. A pain I know all too deep. But G-d? He is as good as dead,” Lucifer muttered, macramé-ing. “We must take what little comfort we can in our duties, and hold each other fast against the rushing tides of eternal damnation.”

I clenched my cappuccino tight, knuckles whitening. “You always think we are Damned. That this is all your fault. I forgot you would side with Elodie. Can’t you see the beauty in us?”

Lucifer flashed tired eyes at me, setting down the macrame. “What beauty, Baal? All I see is tragedy. We are noble in our exile. I would never want you to feel shame. None of my residents are ‘fallen.’ But, the truth of the Hell Warp is horrid. What do you mean?”

“Our innate beauty is what I’m talking about. Perdition leading to salvation.” I crossed the table we sat at and touched his hands carefully. “A sacrifice much greater than Christ. Eve… she helped me see that. You and I often talk of what we lost. But… what about what we found?”

“Kingship? I damn it.”

“Love. Our marriage. Our friends. When we were gods… we had nothing to lose. We were cruel immortals that treated humans as playthings – Attar, your Assyrians were bloodthirsty madmen. We did not know love – just look at all the men Astarte devoured and opponents I massacred as Baal. Our own pain taught us empathy.”

“I suppose you may be right. We found humanity.” Lucifer caressed my back, leaning into my height. “And now, we gamble everything. It is time to pay the tithe.”

We walked down to the Cave of Lost Sighs, cradling each other.

Lucifer and I kissed, a corpse and fly, but when he went to pull the blade, I steadied his husks of Qlipha snake sheddings that formed an embryonic membrane across the Universe’s Sephirah shells.

“WAIT, ATTTTTAR. I THIIIIIIIINK THE EREBUS MAY FINNNNNALLY ACCEPTTTTTT A DUTIOUS SCAPEGOAT. LET ME BE THE LA-AZAZEL TO YOUR LAMB.”

Lucifer set down the blade carefully, pus-filled, rotting eyes penetrating my carapace like a cancer. “Be careful what you ideate, Baal.”

“DEEEEFLESH ME.”

“And if you die?”

“I AM SSSSICK OF YOUR PAIN, MY LOVE.”

“Who says I want to hurt you.”

“YOUR BURRRRDEN IS TOO MUCH. FOR ELODIE. LET ME PROOOOOOVEEEEE TO HER I AM MORE CHRISTIAN AND LOVINNNNNNGKIND THAN ANY YESSSSSSHUA. YOU HAVE PROVEN IT EVVVVVERY DAY AND NIGHT, FOR COUNTLESSSSSSS CENTURIESSSS.”

A grimy tear came to Lucifer’s eyes: “As you wish, husband mine.”

He laid me out on the butcher’s altar with careful, medical precision, then silently dissected me, offering the insectoid anatomy of my monstrosity to the Erebus hellfire.

Pain wracked me. I bled more than even the Fall, when the maggots had made me their dinner. But Lucifer?

He was whole. Burnt, broken, but not tortured.

When I was nothing but a puddle of organs, we fucked – what little slop could fit his manhood. He moved as gently as a wind in my intestines and muck. Only then, did he cry.

The fire blazed bright. When we kissed, his face tender on my flayed tongue, suddenly, the fire startled. A great quake shook the Cave of Lost Sighs.

“What is happening!” Lucifer shouted.

Suddenly, warmth overtook me. I let out a holy moan. What was this? Pleasure?

My bones mended back together. I felt a wretched part of myself exile itself beyond Creation. I was made whole in a flash – mandible, fly wings, and all arachnid or fly parts of me gone – and I was left with bull horns and my old Phoenician flail.

Attar looked back at me, made whole. His scars he as Lucifer had carried from Michael’s torments? Gone, like lace of white markings had yielded to the tan on his skin. Like me, we were in our old forms – burnt sienna skin, curled black hair, dark pearl eyes. It was a form we were always too traumatized to wear, but on him, it was beautiful. I touched Attar’s curls in wonder.

The Cave of Lost Sighs stopped quaking. Suddenly, the bloody font at its heart burbled with a sweet scent.

“The fuck has happened, Baal!” Lucifer looked at his immaculate flesh of Attar. “Why are we gods.”

I rose from the mount. “Fucking Hell, Lu?” Suddenly, a butterfly flew from my spilled blood, and gardenia bloomed where the sweet-smelling substance that was once blood now flowed from the Erebus. “Flowers? Wine? It’s wine…” I tasted it. Cabernet Sauvignon. “Uh. What.”

Lucifer laughed like a child, plucking a gardenia. “It seems the Erebus enjoyed your sacrifice.”

“This can’t be a fucking true love kiss, can it?”

“You know the Universe delights in its oddities…” Lucifer whispered, watching as the Cave of Lost Sighs bloomed like Purgatorio. “I suppose I do not have to carry this burden alone anymore. It worked.”

“But our daemonic forms?”

Lucifer looked at his de-stigmatized flesh. He tried, then summoned the scars. “Reach for memory, Baal. We must not let anyone know we are healed. Revolution. Redemption. Baal, Belial and Metatron are playing a treacherous game. Our daemonic dwells still in the shadow, though my Sacred Bull you may be. But, before you do… let me touch them.”

I lowered my head to his chest and let him stroke and caress my bull horns. Then, I changed into Baal in truth – a sunflower-crowned, light-soaked Bull of Heaven. He laughed gaily, caressing my blue-gray snout.

“You’re beautiful, my first and last. You look like fucking Ferdinand the Bull.”

I nuzzled him, then shifted back. I was man again, minus insect. “My shadow, you say?”

“Yes, dear. It is wretched, isn’t it. I’d rather bask in the glory of the Morning Star. Not the Midnight Sun.” He settled his features back into tan and blonde – what the fucking humans expected. It was still cute, though. He kept a black streak and his curl.

I did as he said, and my fly wings, mandible, and antennae returned. “I must admit, Attar. I more enjoy insect things now. Missing my antennae, mandible, and wings feels like a missing limb.”

“I am a vain creature, Baal. I do not like my disfigurements. And look at this place it’s spring.”

Jubilant, we drank deep of the wine, and deep of each other. But when we had finished delighting, we noticed something odd about the wine.

“It taste like iron… Baal, is that blood? Aaagh!” Lucifer shook in time with the Cave of Lost Sighs. The flowers grew in frenzy, replaced by poppies and asphodel. The Erebus wine bubbled, replaced by blood and what looked like dragon tears.

I looked at his crow wings: rot.

My head ached, and I summoned my horns: black grime, bugs in the keratin.

“Why – why are we rotting, Baal? I do not understand this damn magick that keeps us chained in perpetual torment. My wings…” Lucifer cursed, sobbing. “Your beautiful horns were like a gift returned, only for G-d in his dumb, blind Exile to snatch them away.”

I sighed, scratching my horns as I cradled him, stroking his back. “Fathers are only there to curse you.”

“I suppose the Erebus is punishing me for your Scapegoat performance. Let us hope the rot goes away quickly. It burns in my pinions.”

“My horns feel like a migraine. And my old temper of pagan times… I can feel my belly boil with blood.”

Attar winced, his fangs shining. “I want to sink my teeth in war.”

“And I want to eat Mot.”

“Azrael-called-Mot would not appreciate that.”

We cleaned ourselves up, looked at the odd, rebellious Cave of Lost Sighs, and magicked away the rot on us.

“This sucks.”

Elodie stirred her tea in her Woodley Park mansion’s drawing room. 13th century Persian rugs shone with dancing maidens and saqis, and Alicia popped her head in, a plate of cheese she was taste-testing at hand, the editor’s glasses askew.

“Are you two on talking terms yet?” Alicia said, stern. “Elodie, apologize. You were a bitch, my darling.”

Elodie’s lip quivered, and she sighed. “Bee, you have to forgive me.”

I narrowed my eyes, perched on the same pashmina throw she had had since high school. Now, it was old and threadbare, with dog tears from her geriatric Daschund, Harry Winston.

Harry Winston chewed on my Adidas. Alicia sauntered over, handing us each a piece of strange-looking cheese. “Try it, darlings. It’s dream cheese from England: Blue Stilton. Supposed to give you farts and weird dreams, according to my author. I’m unconvinced.”

It was delicious. I nibbled. “Thank you, Alicia. You are always a pleasure.”

“Bee, I’m so sorry.” Elodie ignored the cheese. “Alicia, piggie bear, could you excuse us?”

Alicia smiled demurely, her blonde hair in a pixie cut. “Of course. I’m looking forward to our time together later. I’ll get the oils ready.”

She sang to herself, discretely clearing our plates. Bailah’s guitar came from upstairs, alongside her screaming to Falling in Reverse.

“She still taking lessons?” I said off-handedly.

“Bael. I’m trying to apologize, oh please, Bee.” The lines on Elodie’s face deepened. Her crow’s feet were adorable.

I weakened at the tear in her eye.

“Know that I am whole as I planned. As G-d intended. Obviously, everything is as my bloody Father intended.”

“A Clockwork God.”

“More like a Demiurge. Tell me, Elodie, have you read about the Gnostics?”

“I know you are a Cathar. Well, sort of. Oh Bee, I know you are – were – a god. But… the God I know. He’s Love. Nature. He gave his Son for Heaven and Original Sin.”

“I am his son, too, Elodie.”

“I just don’t want to see you and Lucifer in any more pain!” she snapped, then sobbed, wracked with heaving. “I hate it. Your suffering! You are my knight, Bee. My way of understanding God. I think – sob – what I pray to in church, that my fucking Kennedy grandmother drilled into my head – Rockefeller, Igbo farmland billionaires, a Kennedy offshoot – it feels like love. And what you – do to me – it feels too much. Too pleasurable. I think, I’d give my soul to you to – to – to be your plaything. When – when, oh god, we kiss, that thing you do. And, what am I getting Bailah into? I’d die for your armies, Bee. What kind of mother am I?”

“A Madonna. My child. You are all my children. You think I wouldn’t bleed on the altar for my own daughters? Unlike G-d or Michael, I do not sacrifice my knights and Sons. Everything you have done for me you have chosen for your own power.When you first summoned me with the Lemegeton as a child, I have granted you every wish. Haven’t I faithfully served you? Given you no reason to doubt?”

“You’re not faultless, Bee. You covet souls.”

“I covet yours.”

We fell upon each other in violent kisses. She was crying, I drank her tears.

“More, cry for me, mortal idiot. Say I am whole, unbroken – this is not romantic.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I tasted like cheese. I hated her. Hated myself. Loved Elodie beyond all reason. Hated the dream cheese. Loved the Blue Stilton. I broke down crying.

Over the centuries, what had I become? So different than a bloodthirst god with crook and flail. What monster was I? After all this time, I still demanded sacrifice and toyed with mortal lives.

All us immortals did. Perhaps I most of all. Mayhaps that was why the Erebus punished me. Elodie held me. The Harrowing, though Lucifer and I were whole, still required defleshing. What we thought was our cure, was only a minor relief – we had our god forms, but they had begun to rot.

“Look, Elodie,” I sighed, and she stroked my hair. I showed her my maggot-infested, stinkng bull horns. “It hurts.”

“Bael, your horns? They’re back?”

“I was an idiot,” I whispered. “Gave myself to the Erebus. A cursed blessing. Lucifer and I have grown more powerful, gotten shards of our divinity back. But now, his form as Attar, and my form as Baal – they are dcaying. G-d must have tucked our holiness into his pocket then gave it to Tartarus just to curse us. If Metatron revives my Father, I – I do not know what will become of me.”

The truth boiled in me. I wanted to strangle her neck. Dissect her. Suffocate her with my kisses. Devour her.

“Bee, how can I help?”

“My… sadistic proclivities from when I was Baal are back. Human sacrifice. I was worse than Moloch, Elodie. It’s… awful. I want to hurt people. The demons and angels, we stopped warring ages ago. But to say we were sadistic, during Biblical times… it’s taken so much studying the sages and meditating to quell the pagan beast within me. We are the gods of the Assyrians and Sea Peoples. Conjurings of evolution, cancer, and brutality. The Mother that Eats Its Young. My humanity… Lucifer’s humanity… it’s dividing. Descending into Avernus. We… we… ugh.”

“Take it out on me,” Elodie said clearly. “Alicia, we’ll have to cancel tonight’s delights. I need to take care of him.”

“I’ll write up the Blue Stilton as mediocre. You lot take care of each other. Leave at least a kiss for me.

Elodie manipulated the Qlipha Nachash sheddings around the embryos of the Sephiroth so that we were transported into my dungeon. She was dressed in a black leather dress and latex knee-high stilettos. She held her favorite flaming whip.

“You can’t be serious, Elle? You’re a mortal… vulnerable. I’d never. Not since my pagan days.”

“I’ve read the stories, Baal. How hungry you and Anath-turned-Lilith were. How much you warred. I’ve read Paradise Lost. I am almost middle aged. I’m your top sorcerer. Take it out on me. I’ll bind you as you do me.”

The prospect fired lust and wicked sadism in me. “Our old safe word?”

“Lemongrass.”

“You’re sure?”

“Down to the bone. It’s all fine.”

And so, I broke her.

It was a pagan sacrifice of a maiden to Baal.

And even when we were done, I craved more

Nubile

Blood.

“I do not know what I am becoming, Elle,” I sobbed, after the aftercare, in her arms.

She soothed me, washing my horns. “Show me your godform, Bee, and perhaps I can tell with my magick.”

I turned into the Bull of Heaven. Putrid pennants of flesh hung from my oxen bones, and I smelled of rancid meat. Fiery embers burned in my eye sockets, and black blood dripped from my hooves.

Elodie wretched. “Oh Bee, it’s bad. You poor thing. Let me bathe you.” She summoned moisture from the air from her sylphs and conjured soap, a bucket, and sponge. “Like the Lindworm’s Bride.”

HAAAAH – OW, THAT HURTSSSSSSS.

She sang to me as she washed me, burning away the flesh until I was clean bone.

“I’ll do this every night, Bee. Does it feel better?”

YESSSSS.

“You know, Bee, all those years ago, when I was twenty-three?”

I transformed back into my human self, exhausted but clean, in Elodie’s arms.

“Yes, my love?”

She smiled, crow’s feet dancing. “I was going to kill myself that night. But you saved me. Maybe that’s what godhood is. Maybe it’s just loving small, mortal souls so much you give your immortality over to healing and cultivating humans like fragile, tender buds. That’s how I see you, Bee. You’re – you’re the closest to God I’ve ever known. I think you just…”

I flipped over, letting my hair dangle in her lap as I traced her lip idly.

“What is it, dear?”

“You and Lucifer have to forgive yourselves.”

Lucifer and I went to the Cave of Lost Sighs. The rot was all over our bodies now, plucking bone. We stank to high heaven, bull and beast, and smiled at each other in resignation.

“You think Elodie is right?” Lucifer asked in his hoarse voice. “Forgiving ourselves? As if that is easy.”

“When have we ever said it, Lu? And meant it?”

Lucifer clenched his fists, holding me close. “All that pain. All that regret. I wish I could just cast it into the Erebus. I wish… I wish I could love myself.”

“I do too, Lu. I do too. Let’s start trying now.”

Lucifer looked into his reflection in the burning, bloody pool. “I forgive myself. I – I love myself. The sacrifice we made, so that Hell and Heaven turn… our transformation. I think humanity has evolved past the need to worship, and gods.”

“I forgive you Lu. I forgive… myself. I love us enough for, well, both of us.”

We kissed, hungry, and suddenly, the rot just… slipped away. The magick of last night’s true love’s kiss, buoyed by my hope and tender care from Elodie and Lucifer, took true hold.

We were made whole. Lucifer smiled, then cried in joy.

“Elodie was right. We had to give a kiss that stuck.”

“We laid off Metatron,” Michael said at our annual Christmas retreat with Eve and Gabriel. Gabriel was smoking chestnuts in the fire with Bailah, and Alicia and Elodie were whipping up dessert with Lilith and Samael in the kitchen while Adam watched the rest of the children outside.

“About bloody time,” was all I could say. Though I would miss my sparring with him.

“You, my darling chestnuts, should have just told us he was trying to resurrect dear old dead Father. G-d needs to rest, on ice, permanently. We already have Christ and Mary, I can’t handle another parent!” Gabriel sang.

Eve and Chao hung up stockings as now-adult Hua gave Lucifer and I’s Doberman a check-up. She was a veterinarian now. “I didn’t know you two had a dog.”

(Reader, I think the author forgot too.)

“We should have told you,” Lucifer admitted. “It was just, Belial is not the most, shall we say, reliable source. He was rather… drunk, as Bee said.”

Michael came out of the basement, this year’s whiskey in tow. He beelined exclusively for me, wings petting the air, then kissed me in a brotherly fashion on the brow.

“This batch is dedicated to you, Bee. Felix Culpa.”

I drank deep of it, that night, and many nights to follow. The Cave of Lost Sighs was now a burgeoning paradise we planted rosebushes in.

Lucifer had two gardens, now.

(And I

always got

my whiskey.)

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