#kin gods: [sinister laughter]

[thewanderingbleu]

New Memory Drop! its a bit rough and kinda long

cw : bullying, emotional manipulation kinda, physical fights

A couple weeks after Neteyam was returned to Eywa, there was a feast to celebrate our family officially becoming part of the Metkayina peoples; and specifically those in Awa'atlu.

The celebration was amazing, and I had a wonderful time. There was this huge bonfire, we'd gotten an amazing hunt that same morning, and there was food everywhere. I remember hanging out with Roxto and Tsireya, dancing around the fire, and happily eating the food. I also spent a fair amount of time with Ao'nung, but he didn't dance- he mainly stayed near the food with friends, and watched.

Now, there's this group of boys that would always harass me. Told me I belonged in the trees and would drown one day since I wasn't made for the water. Ao'nung would do his best to get them to leave me alone since they listened to him- if only slightly. But his influence only lasted while he was around. I don't want to call them horrible people, because they were still relatively young and might've gotten better with age, but they were just all-around shitty. But, that night, they approached me kindly. They smiled with me, laughed with me, and showed me food combos I'd never considered before. I thought, maybe, now that I was officially part of the Metkayina, they were going to be nice to me. Tolerant, at least.

So when they told me to follow them, that they had something special to show me... I did.

Oh how wrong I was.... they took me away from the celebration, where everyone in the village was gathered. Lead me until the music was faded and beat me up. I could barely tell what was happening to me, but it hurt. It hurt so much. My face was bruised and bleeding and my body ached and screamed. They taunted me, hissed at me, called me horrible things. Told me how dare I consider myself Metkayina, how dare I smile at them as if I was equal to them.

And then they threw me into the water and walked away.

I don't remember going unconscious. I don't even remember waking up. But I remember walking through some forestry nearby. Why, I can't exactly say. I didn't know what I was doing, my body was moving on its own. Maybe I wanted to hide, to find comfort and shelter. But somehow Ao'nung found me. I've never seen him so angry before.

[mysticrosed]

Rook pulls Puck into a tight embrace, a gleeful glint in his eye that barely conceals the darker thoughts swirling just beneath the surface. Oh, how easy it would be to end him now—to feel Puck's blood splattering across his skin, staining him in the same crimson warmth that would drip from the dagger as it pierced Puck’s back, over and over again. The thought almost consumes him, its allure too sweet, too tempting.

But no, Rook has grander plans. Bigger than mere fratricide. Puck was destined for more than just a knife in the dark. ' He’s a tool, after all. My instrument to godhood. '

"Oh, it's so good to have you, brother!" Rook exclaims, his voice laced with false warmth as he finally releases Puck from the unnecessary embrace. "We'll be better in no time, and our father can fuck himself," he chuckles, the vulgarity coating his words like poison wrapped in honey.

For now, he would play the doting sibling. The protector. He would be the kin Puck needed, the one he could trust. Because trust—trust is a weapon, sharper than any blade, and once Puck is loyal to him, truly loyal , he'd do anything Rook asked.

Rook tilts his head, watching Puck carefully. "We’re all just pawns to the immortal gods, aren’t we?" he muses, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. There’s an eerie glint in his eyes as he continues, "But wouldn’t it be better... to be one?"

His smile widens, twisting into something far more sinister as he watches Puck. Could he make him see? Could he make him understand? “Imagine it, brother—us, sitting above it all. Not just flesh our father plucked from his own body. Not just Bhaalspawn. But more. Greater. Better ! ”

Rook steps back, pacing slowly, his mind racing with possibilities. His smile is unnervingly pleasant as he considers Puck’s role in all this. Why settle for being a hero in some bard’s song when he could be worshipped? And Puck, dear, sweet Puck, could be the key. A palace of corpses, an empire built on blood—Rook would rise, and Puck would be the faithful servant by his side.

"Don't you think so, brother?" His voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, like a knife waiting to sink into soft flesh. Why aim low when he could aim for the heavens. He pauses, gauging Puck’s reaction, hoping to spark something in him. Maybe that familiar hunger. That potential for darkness.

"Why not?" Rook adds with a sly grin, turning the drider’s corpse over in his mind. "He'd be still as hot... though, maybe a bit colder." His laughter is light, but the joke is dark, laced with cruelty as his gaze flickers toward the dead drider.

The plan is forming, crystal clear now. A hero? A god? The lines between them blur. All he needs is for Puck to trust him—like a loyal pet. And when the time is right, Rook will ascend, leaving nothing but the corpses of those who thought they could hold him down.

puck does not seem to notice the internal struggle rook faces against his urges, distracted by his own, nor does he seem to detect rook's true intentions with him. he always tries his best to see the good in others, perhaps a bit too eager to trust at times. 

❝ of course i have your back, ❞ he says immediately, not waiting for rook to question such a thing. rook’s reassurance & the physical contact, the arm around him, soothes him just enough to knock down any walls he’s left standing. ( not that there were many left at that point . . . ) puck’s grip on the bell tightens before he slips it into his pocket. for now, the urge within slumbers relatively peacefully, his faith in himself reinvigorated once more. 

he can do this. he can handle this. rook will stop him if he starts to slip, and then he’ll come back to himself. no harm done. no more harm done ever again. he almost smiles at the thought, but then he nearly trips when rook speaks again. 

PROBABLY WOULD HAVE . . .  ？puck’s brain works overtime to process the sudden shift in conversation. rook has such a way of catching him off guard. and such a way with his words, too. 

well, it’s not like puck has much room to talk, considering the unprompted comments he tends to make. still, that wasn’t quite what he expected to come out of rook’s mouth. ( this must be what it’s like to interact with himself on a regular basis. )

❝ i ⸻ ❞ probably would have done the same. 

puck’s eyebrows furrow. he shakes his head. ignoring the rest of rook’s statement, he nods. ❝ yes, it’s all very sad how easily manipulated we mortals can be.  ❞ he speaks earnestly, staring down at the drider's corpse with pity. oh, if only he understood the irony behind his words.  

❝ i don’t think bringing him back is wise. why would you want to do that ？still planning on fucking him ？❞

[dsoe-masteroftheheavenlyyard]

Chapter 2–Hunt for the Deadly Sins; Scene 5

master of the heavenly yard pages 38-47

After they got out of the forest, the two of them started to talk about what they had just witnessed.

“—That was disturbing.”

“Yeah. And there were so many things I didn’t get…For now let’s first talk about that man named Gammon. He said that he was given the ‘Blackbox’ from ‘god’…”

“Here in Evillious there are four people—or rather, ‘divine beings’, who are the subject of religious belief as ‘gods’. The sun god Sickle, the land god Held, and the twin gods Levia and Behemo. Maybe the ‘god’ that Gammon spoke of is one of them…Though we can rule out it being Levia at least.”

“I believe you. There are a lot of things about the other three that are inscrutable to me, but…I’d say the odds of it being them are slim.” As Allen spoke, he was struck by the fact that he was acquainted with all four of the gods.

When he really thought about it, that was pretty bizarre.

--That aside, in that case who gifted Gammon that ‘Blackbox’ and gave him the order to erase Riliane and the others?

There was a chance that Gammon was lying. Essentially that the ‘god’ he spoke of did not exist, and that all of it was entirely his own idea—

In that case, what could have been Gammon’s motive for taking such action?

“Was Gammon that kind of person when he was alive?” Allen asked Nemesis.

“He was, sort of…But there’s something off about him, too. My honest impression from that display we just witnessed was—‘Who’s he to talk, someone who ran away from his position as party head?’.”

“But the soldiers seemed to respect him.”

“I’ll admit that he has charisma. The Tasan Party was able to secure hegemony in Elphegort because of his merits, for sure. There’s no party member who isn’t aware of that. …Only, he hadn’t been that devout a person as far as I knew.”

“And the figures that Gammon pointed out as targets…Except for you, all of them are people who lived a very long time ago, that he’s never met before. Though, well, Duke Venomania is Gammon’s ancestor, and Kayo and Banica have a distant relation to him as well, so it’s not like there’s no connection whatsoever—”

“…He would have had some familiarity with Riliane too, wouldn’t he? If Gammon was in the theater up until his death, then Postman—a reincarnated Riliane—was also there.”

“Yeah, that’s right. That is true.”

The two of them hadn’t said it out loud, but there was another big commonality in the five targets.

--All of them were people who had contracted with a “Demon of Deadly Sin”.

But in the course of this thousand-year history, it wasn’t just those five who had contracted with demons. …So then why had he selected them as targets?

“Rather than just rambling on pondering it here, it might be faster if we ask Gammon—or rather, assuming his ‘god’ actually exists, them—directly,” Nemesis said, though Allen didn’t seem to be in agreement.

“That would be dangerous. You’re being targeted by him too.”

“…Let me confirm something here quick. I am alive, and everyone else—including Gammon and the soldiers and you…have all died and become souls, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So in other words, they have no physical body…Are they even still able to interact with me, given that I’m alive?”

“Do you remember the action you took before we left from where Gammon and others were?”

“Huh? Did I do something weird?”

“You tapped my shoulder. Even though I am a spirit with no physical body.”

“Ah…now that you mention it.”

Nemesis had done it without realizing, but now that she was thinking on it again, that had been strange.

“It’s the same as the trees in the forest. Even though your body is alive, you’re able to interact with souls, and vice versa.”

Nemesis lifted her head and glared at the moon above her.

Living people can touch “spirit data”? I wasn’t aware of such a system. …It seems that “Sickle” has been tinkering with the Third Period’s rules far more than expected.

Despite her bitterness, Nemesis strove to keep it from showing on her expression and turned back to Allen. “One more thing. All the targets aside from me are, of course, souls. How do they plan to kill people who are already dead?”

“—Gammon didn’t use the word ‘kill’, he said ‘erase’.”

“…So he must have some method for doing so.”

“Perhaps that ‘Blackbox’ itself is that. If what Gammon said was true, I think you might know more about that box than I do. …Does the ‘Blackbox’ have such an function?”

Nemesis thought for a moment after she was asked that question.

Assuming that it was the “Type S” that Seth made, then that feature would be—

--Shifting to a parallel world.

The Type S was originally created to prove a theory of Seth’s, him having been a physicist.

Only a limited number of people could use it. I was one of them. And I…became a subject of the Type S and was transferred to another time and space.

The parallel world that her soul—her spirit data had reached at the end was a place that greatly resembled the world that she lived in.

And there, I—met “another me”.

…Now wasn’t the time to be going over old memories.

Nemesis shook her head and settled her thoughts.

Then she said to Allen, “—Gammon’s ‘Blackbox’ may be able to transport a soul to an alternate dimension. So if he were to pull the trick of making it so that a transported soul was unable to come back…that could be said to have ‘erased’ them from this world.”

“Hmm…I wonder who made that box. I can’t imagine it was Gammon—”

“…It was probably Seth.”

“--!? Then is Seth the ‘god’ that Gammon spoke of--?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagine he’s pulling any sinister plots this late in the game. And Gumillia’s been keeping an eye on him. Maybe Gammon found something Seth made long ago and abandoned. …I think it would be fastest to ask Seth himself about it.”

“Would have been nice if he’d come with us instead of going off doing something else.”

“—When you arrived at where I was, you had Gumillia, Seth, and Michaela with you. Where did you meet with all of them?”

“I met Michaela in the forest. That was the first place I was when I landed down on the ground world. I asked that she come with me. She readily agreed when I told her that it was to help you.”

“And Gumillia and Seth?”

“With them…The ‘Master of the Hellish Yard’ just suddenly appeared from deep in the earth. Apparently they were chasing sinners who escaped from hell. I think maybe they’ve returned to doing that job right now.”

“In that case…I’ve got no idea where they might be.”

And there Allen seemed to think of something. “Ah, wait just a second. The sinners that Gumillia and Seth are looking for…are people who have contracted with a ‘Demon of Deadly Sin’.”

“--! Then if we go to the ‘Deadly Sin contractors’ that Gammon and the rest are searching for, there’s a chance we’ll reunite with Gumillia and Seth.”

“Right. Only, not all of Gammon’s targets are people that Gumillia is going after. Among those five, the only one who’s really fallen to hell…is Duke Venomania.”

“Huh?”

“You—Nemesis—are still alive, of course…And Banica Conchita didn’t actually die, strictly speaking. She assimilated the ‘Demon of Gluttony’ and became a new demon.”

“Ah, now that you mention it…”

Nemesis remembered that she had met Banica once in the parallel space that had been called the “court”.

Irina had called her the “Demon of Gluttony”…No, it wasn’t just then.

Nemesis had met Banica at a different place, too.

Back when she’d first headed to the theater, looking for Gammon…That woman in the red dress who had blocked her way in that forest graveyard—

Allen continued talking.

“So Banica has always been inside the wineglass. And Riliane…After she died, her spirit didn’t go to heaven or hell—it just continued to be reincarnated.”

“Reincarnation…Leaving aside the gods and their kin, that’s a very particular ability granted only to the ‘Twins of God’—I’m quite certain you and Riliane are different beings from them. Though you look similar.”

“Honestly, I don’t know the reason why Riliane reincarnated either.”

“Sickle didn’t tell you?”

“Yeah. But Sickle did call me ‘Irregular’. If that word applies to Riliane as well, then maybe there’s some relation there.”

“Or…maybe it’s connected to the circumstances of your birth.”

“…?”

“Well, let’s just leave it there. Now…What about Kayo Sudou?”

The moment that she voiced that name, Nemesis’ heart sank a little.

For she had the same full name as the woman that she had once called “mother”.

“Kayo-san…Well, how shall I put this…She has Gumillia’s favor.”

“Wha?”

“I guess because her appearance is the same as that of her old mentor. Gumillia apparently decided not to drop Kayo-san into hell, and instead keeps her around to make her clothes.”

“…Pfff. Ha ha ha…” Nemesis suddenly burst into laughter. “That’s so Gumillia. Come to think of it, she was wearing a pretty stylish outfit.”

“Yeah. Kayo-san made it for her.”

“Haha…That aside, looks like the place we should go next is where Duke Venomania is. You know where he’s been staying?”

“I do. He’s probably in Asmodean. But—” The next thing Allen uttered was a bit unexpected for Nemesis. “—Let’s still head to Lucifenia like we originally planned.”

Nemesis started to ask him why, but before she could she realized what he was feeling by looking at his expression.

…He’s worried about his sister.

Allen had come to take a much more mature attitude compared to how he’d been in life. That was only natural, considering close to five hundred years had passed since then.

What’s more, thanks to the “Blackbox” on the moon he had gained an ordinarily impossible amount of knowledge.

And yet, the fact remained that he was still a human being. Even if they became a spirit, no matter how much time passed, a concern for those closest to them was constant, and at times it could even drive a person mad.

--Just as it had with Nemesis herself.

“…Let me justify myself for a moment,” Allen cut in somewhat awkwardly, appearing to have guessed what Nemesis was thinking. “I’m not just saying that out of my own personal feelings. I said so earlier, but Riliane has been in the theater as Postman—Lilith. She may know something about Gammon and this ‘Blackbox’.”

“But in that case couldn’t we also go to Banica?”

Allen shook his head at her somewhat unkind question.

“Our original reasoning was that we had to go meet with Gumillia—or, more accurately, Seth that she’s wearing as a mask. The odds are slim that Gumillia is pursuing Riliane. …But if we go to Lucifenia, there may be other ‘Deadly Sin contractors’ there.”

“You mean—”

“People you know quite well yourself. Apparently Riliane is currently throwing a banquet in Lucifenia for all of the souls she used to know. A great deal of figures from other countries are going to the illusory palace.”

“—I get it. You mean Kyle Marlon.”

“Right. And Keel Freezis’ wife, Lady Mikina.”

The face of another ‘Deadly Sin contractor’ came to Nemesis’ mind.

Prim…But of course, she wouldn’t be going to a party hosted by Riliane.

The Lucifenian Revolution—there were many who had contracted with “Demons of Deadly Sin” before and after that chaos.

And there were figures among them that Gumillia would know, as well.

“That sounds like a pretty good start.”

“Yeah, and even you too—”

“—Right. It’s not like I don’t have anyone I’ve been wanting to see again. …Alright. Let’s go to Lucifenia. I imagine it’s closer than Asmodean.”

If they headed further south from here, Lucifenia would be right there.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[fellthegods]

@moonbless​:  “  i  know  i’m  not  the  only  one  .  ”   / lost prompt.

 madness  had  twisted  his  mind  in  ways  unimaginable  —  he’d  been  left  to  stew  in  two  thousands  of  years  rage  and  hurt.    betrayed  by  god  and  kin  alike  —  once  blessed  now  the  accursed,  hatred  ran  rampant  through  his  veins.  as  he  pulled  a  sinister  smile  he  couldn’t  help  the  laughter  the  slipped  through  his  mouth.  what  a  pitiful  sight  —  was  this  what  became  of  him  all  those  many  years  ago?  used  by  the  gods,  their  tool  to  to  see  to  it  that  their  will  fulfilled  by  any  and  all  means.  this  is  why  his  brother  then  laughed  at  the  pitiable  image  of  a  man,  feeble  minded  and  plagued  with  the  scourge.  ❛  pray,  what  is  it  that  you  wish  to  achieve  —  does  the  godblessed  oracle  wish  to  defy  those  selfsame  gods  who  bestowed  upon  you  the  power  you  have,  would  you  truly  defy  fate  and  work  with  the  accursed,  hm?  ❜    

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

[Untitled] [Solas & Lavellan]

For @buttsonthebeach and @dadrunkwriting

Tags/Tw: blood, injury, graphic injury, major character death, harm to Solas, post-Trespasser

Words: 2.6k

Rating: Mature

===

“Hahren.”

Elara’s voice is clear, if tired–and far too close. Solas turns and slips, falls to his knees in the mingled mud and gore of the battlefield. Fire ratchets up his wounded leg, a bespelled arrowhead still embedded deep into his thigh from an earlier injury. It festers without his permission and pays his objection–and spells–no mind.

“Solas, it’s time for this all to stop.”

“Is it, Inquisitor?”

He bows with exhaustion over his knees, hand straying to the wound. A myriad of others pepper his skin–a crossbow bolt that grazed his shoulder and tore off the pauldron on its way, a bloody gash across his cheek where a lucky knife had struck. Solas can count four broken ribs on one side alone and knows the ligaments in his left knee have been torn beyond repair. His vision swims without focus in a way that only heralds head injury. 

He takes an aching breath in and breathes out a healing spell whose cool mana plays over his skin to little effect. The only thing he can do now is to ignore the injuries, to focus on anything else.

She comes, sword in hand. Her vallaslin glows an unearthly green-gold from her face, the light straying down her throat. Elara bears the evidence of heavy battle; her flesh arm runs red from the elbow, blood seeping through the seams of her vambrace and gauntlet to drip down her fingers. Her chest-plate is covered in dents and abrasions beneath the mud and viscera that clings to the metal. Elara tears off her helmet and tosses it between them. Her hair, matted with blood, sticks sickly down her brow and cheek. Solas can smell death on her, following her footsteps.

Elara stops before him, a scant thirty feet separating them.

“Hahren,” Elara says again, and only this time does he hear her desperation.

Ichor drips from her sword’s fine edge. Falon’din’s grace wreathes through her aura; the geas has seeped into her skin like a puppet’s strings pulled by an invisible hand. Solas has no doubt that it is Falon’din’s compulsion that propels her forward with jerky, halting steps.

“Elara.” Her name falls from his lips on a sigh. “We’re too late, I’m afraid.” Solas sweeps his gaze toward the heavens; the scars of the Veil are hardly visible here, on this no-name plain in some human empire, but they’re there. Solas can feel them in the way his heart beats erratically in his chest, in the way his shoulders are the lightest they’ve been in thousands of years. 

The Veil has fallen. The freed Fade permeates every rock and tree and creature of this world anew, casting the old world aside.  

Solas coughs, covering his mouth with belated politeness, and is unsurprised when his palm comes back stained an angry, wrathful red.

“You can stop this.” 

She always believed in him, despite the coolness that grew between them, verging on distrust. Elara had trusted him, once, tentative and wary. Solas barks out a wheezing flash of laughter. What good had it done either of them?

“I don’t think I can,” he murmurs. “Though I will admit to wishing for just that.”

She’s closer now, an arm’s length, maybe two, away. Elara’s hand is clutched tight around the hilt of her ironbark sword. Her arms shake–all of her shakes. Solas can briefly see the child panicking beneath her stoic, blank-faced mask.

Something in him folds like leaves in a storm and Solas buckles, an intangible gale battering against him to rend him immobile.

“Calm, now, Fen’Harel,” Elara says, but it is not her voice, they are not her words. “The time for reaping is at hand.”

His eyes shut for but a moment. “Lethanivir.” Solas huffs, and everything in him aches. He would not be surprised if he were actively consumed by an invisible fire; every inch of him burns from the inside out. “It’s been some time. Tell me, how is life in the Blackened City?”

Falon’din’s smile curves across Elara’s face, sinister despite her own warmth. It’s gentler here, on mortal lips. “She trusted you, you know,” Falon’din says casually, “in the beginning. But you never warmed to her, not as you did to the others, even as you stuck by her side.” 

He closes the distance and crouches at Solas’ flank, the creak of Elara’s armor barely heard above the din of the fighting around them. He drops her sword to the ground without a care. The way he tilts their head is so quintessentially him, but the motion is foreign, alien on Elara’s frame. It’s jarring in the worst ways.

“That’s simply the way of it, isn’t it?” Falon’din sighs, brows pinched with feigned concern. “Who could trust the Dread Wolf? You never were a good friend, Pride. Not before, and not now.”

“If being such meant allowing the continued subjugation of our people, then no,” Solas wheezes. “I am glad to have never been a good friend.”

Falon’din only regards him, Elara’s dark eyes glowing with the same green-gold of Falon’din’s magic. Their mouth twists. “We could have had it all,” Falon’din says lowly. His gaze softens. He brushes their fingers errantly over the torn edges of what remains of Solas’ blood-streaked fur mantle. “We were meant to rule. We still can, the two of us,” he says, like a secret, like an oath.

In his peripheral vision, Solas sees the ocean-blue glow of power at his fingertips. “That we did was an accident of fate, nothing more,” he grits out. His voice booms through the plain. “No one desiring power deserves it–us least of all.”

“The great and powerful Fen’Harel, so self-loathing.” Falon’din’s lip curls with disgust and he pulls away. “You were created to rule. You are a God, called to this world to lead. Come, Pride, rise from the muck. We will take our rightful places, you and I. Think of what we could do together.”

Solas shakes his head. “You know I cannot.” He looks up to Elara’s face, the mortal mask of his immortal kin. “Is she still there?” he asks. “The Inquisitor?”

They smirk, sick and thin. “She is,” Falon’din says with a gleeful nod. He flexes their fingers and studies their hand with exaggerated fascination. “This one is mine, completely.”

“She didn’t know what it meant when she chose your sigil, Reaper–you could have been any of us. Your being here is an accident, not an act of fate.”

“And the results would have been the same, would they not? You still would have cast down your precious Veil, and we still would strike the moment you sundered the chains you had wrought. No matter whose symbol this one wears, she will always be your doom.” Falon’din pauses. “You always did have a soft spot for the broken ones, but you rarely broke your own toys.” He flicks the fingers of their prosthetic hand idly.

Solas snorts, and Falon’din’s smile slips. “You know what happens next,” Solas says. His blood pulses with magic and the immortal poison that corrupts it as he struggles to his knees. “I killed your last avatar. I will destroy this one, as well.”

“You always did like wrecking my things.” Falon’din sighs, heavy and put-upon. He shrugs their shoulders. “But I think, dear Wolf, that this time will be different. Even now, even with the Mother’s grace, you wane–and when you finally fall, I shall be the one to take you.”

Falon’din’s magic flutters erratically around Elara’s frame, just out of mortal sight, and Solas sharpens his gaze on her face, past the veneer of the god that wears her visage. “Elara,” he says, quickly. “You are Elara Virenehn, of clan Lavellan. You are Lavellan’s knight. You are–you are the pride of your people. You must remember.”

Their aura lights in bursts of magic. “What–what are you doing?”

Solas leans forward, reaching for her, hands scrabbling at Elara’s vambrace and the enchanted prosthetic that rebuilt her left arm–the hand he had to take, the hand he had unwittingly poisoned with his plans, her hand the symbol of his continued failure. 

He can’t give her much, but he must try. 

“Remember your clan. The lessons of your Keeper. You can fight him, Elara. You must.”

Their hands spasm. Their flesh arm twitches, clenches, as if pulling against an unseen force. Sweat begins to bead along their shared brow. 

“Good,” Solas whispers. “You’re strong. Remember that, Elara–you are strong, stronger than most. You must close your mind to him. He is but a spirit, twisted by his delusions of godhood.”

Falon’din screeches. Their sword-hand opens, agonizing in the slow-motion movement, and he stretches to reach Elara’s discarded sword. “She is mine, Pride! You will not take her!” 

Solas grits his teeth, hands sinking into the edges of Elara’s vambrace to hold her back, but Falon’din shoves him back with a backlash of magic, strong enough to bring Solas to his knees in the muck.

With a pained, drawn-out groan, Falon’din drives their hand to the earth and finds purchase around the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. He rises to their knees clumsily, as if fighting for every inch. The oppressive compulsion for stillness temporarily lifted, Solas comes to his feet with a clatter of his own armor.

“My friend,” Solas whispers. Falon’din fights for control beneath his gaze, rising to their feet, hand gripped so tight around the handle of Elara’s sword that it bleeds. Solas trails his fingers over Elara’s temples, fingers glowing with the weight of the spell that would break her bindings.

His mouth has barely shaped the first syllable of the blessing when the sword drags through his armor to pierce him. It digs into his ribcage as it passes.

“Pride,” Falon’din pants. Sweat drips freely down their face, clinging to Elara’s dark lashes, drawing clear tracks in the dirt that mars their cheeks. “You always thought–ngk–that you had the upper–upper hand.”

Solas’ hands flutter. He reaches deep within himself as blood wells in his mouth. Mythal’s grace lay dormant in his chest; she was the better healer of the two of them, and her storm-tossed ocean of power is as calm as a dead sea where it beat in time with his own heart just a moment before.

But, as loathe as he is to claim it, Fen’Harel is his own god.

His dwindled power courses through him, a wellspring quickly running dry as it races to pour out from his fingers. The world falls away and still, with trembling lips, he shapes the spell. Solas brushes the holy fire over Elara’s face, tracing the brand that tethers her to the fallen Evanuris, and watches as the thick, black lines of her vallaslin begin to evaporate into smoke. The scream that tears from her throat is a deafening, multilayered chorus.

Her poisoned blade rips through Solas’ gut as Falon’din flails in his attempts to escape.

Solas fights to keep his hands on her, scrabbles for every point of contact. It’s not complete, not yet. If any mark of her brand remains she could stay tied to the god for as long as he wishes, unable to counter his commands. Solas repeats the blessing and wrings more of himself out with the spell even as his blood falls freely to color the earth beneath them.

Falon’din’s shrieks echo over the land and buffet against Solas and his magic like a great storm. He kicks and punches and slaps at whatever he can reach with Elara’s hands, leaving her blood upon the dirty, worn metal of Solas’ armor.

Solas dips his hands along the column of her throat, the little of it that lay exposed by her armor. He’s close, he knows; Elara’s vallaslin drips from her brow to her collarbones, and it’s almost burnt from her face. Solas grunts when Falon’din pulls the sword out only to slice into him again, and again, the enchanted ironbark bolstered further by Falon’din’s magic.

Solas falters. Falon’din’s compulsion sweeps over him once more, demanding his submission. It floods his mind and bears down enough to break his concentration, and in his fumbling, Falon’din stabs him once more.

“If you will not yield, Pride,” Falon’din pants, “I will tear out your heart and scatter your form to the winds. I will rend your power from your bones!”

“No–nnnng–need.” Solas grips Elara’s shoulders and pulls himself up the blade of her sword. There’s not much left–he must be quick, he must–he must—

Solas curls himself into her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace and lets the spell burn through him. Holy fire courses through every cell of his being; it scalds like the lava fires of the Deep Roads, bursting from his chest. Falon’din screams in his ear.

The world whites out, and Falon’din’s voice fades.

=

“Solas. Hahren, Solas, please. Wake up, please wake up.”

He wavers in and out. The Fade colors the edges of his vision when he blinks his eyes open. Elara hovers over him, her face blotting out the sky.

Elara is free of the vallaslin. She is bloody and torn, but she is free.

“Inquis—” A wracking cough interrupts him; his hand comes back covered with blood and spittle.

She shifts where she kneels beside him. “Don’t talk. By the— Don’t talk.”

“There is… so much… to say.”

“No,” Elara says. Panic rises in her voice. “Stay, please. You’re a god, one of the Creators.” She traces her fingertips over the mangled wolf’s head on his chestplate; he watches her expression morph to dismayed grief when they are stained red with his blood. “You–you can heal yourself.”

“Too powerful, Lethanivir… But not for you.” Solas chuckles weakly. “Surprised me again.”

Elara keens and bends forward, covering him with a curtain of dark curls. “I have to save you. I have to. If I cannot fulfill my duty to my people, then what good am I?”

“That path… leads to destruction. I… should know.” He coughs and something in him snaps. Solas sags, boneless, into the biting edges of his mangled armor. It will be soon, he knows. Will the Fade recognize him in his true form? Will he be remembered?

“What happens now?” Her voice lies muffled against his armor. “If the gods aren’t truly gods, then where do we go? What happens when we die?”

“I am not sure,” Solas admits, “but… I go knowing you are here… and that is enough.”

“Solas—”

“Pride of the Elvhenan. Elara of the Dalish.” His laugh is barely a stuttered breath. “I had broken our people… and you brought them together… once more… to fight me.”

“To save the world,” she says fiercely. Elara mutters under her breath, a prayer or curse or both, her voice shaking. “Solas… He called you Pride…”

“Yes.”

“Does… Does that mean you were a spirit of wisdom once, or of pride? In the days of Arlathan?”

“The distinction… is not so simple,” he grits out. “Pride and wisdom… friend and enemy… many are both and–and neither.” His vision swims, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. “Before, when the Song… was everywhere… the Mother called me. She gave me gifts… asked for my counsel.” Blood foams at the corner of his mouth and drips down his chin.  

Elara’s hand is blazing hot against the cold of his cheeks. “I forbid it, Solas,” she says, the long-dormant authority strong as silverite in her words. Her tone offers no argument but her own. “You must stay. I order you to stay, Creator or not. You bound yourself to my Inquisition.”

And see where it got us, he thinks, chuckling inwardly. “Don’t cry, lethallin,” he says, though he’s not sure it comes out as such. “Spirits are… never truly gone.”

The green of the Fade spins merrily in his mind’s eye, and he can feel the Song flooding over his skin, sinking into his bones with a soothing familiarity.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” Elara whispers. “Be free, Solas.”

Ma serannas, Elara, Pride of the People. Solas sighs and lets the Song lull him to sleep.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Fate of the Damned

Out of breath, out of strength, and out of courage, Caius Archarius fled down the road. His layers of armor weighed him down, causing his boots to sink into the mud with each step and squelch with grotesque sounds. Not quite as grotesque as the sounds of the enemy feasting on his fallen friends, the gnashing of teeth on human flesh, the gnawing on bones that snapped, and the screams of agony that echoed in his tormented mind.

A rain of blood had soaked the grounds and turned the dirt of the path into a muddy morass. It slowed Caius down, wearying him more with each step as he ran, then jogged, then stumbled forth.

The dark magic of the sorcerers had brought the end times upon this land.

More screams pierced the sky, reaching Caius the second he paused to catch his breath. This time, they were not in his head, reminding him of his failure and cowardice. The beast-men had kept someone alive, perhaps as provisions on their march to overrun the land. Or perhaps just to demoralize any human in earshot.

It finally dawned on Caius that he had dropped and lost his spiked mace on the battlefield he fled from. He drew his dirk, a short sword no longer than his forearm, and stared at its tarnished blade. It quaked in his trembling hand, so shaken was he. So useless he felt. His heart raced with such intensity that his own labored breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears eclipsed every subtle sound in his environment.

Then the clouds rumbled with distant thunder. He turned his attention to the heavens. Countless fires on the horizon paired with dark red clouds to paint a crimson sky. One drop hit his forehead, warm and sticky. Then more followed when blood began to fall from the clouds once more, turning into a torrent of unhallowed rain.

He knew that the trebuchets would soon be launching more fiery boulders to raze the countryside and festering corpses to spread terror and disease. The monsters blew their horns, heralding their next advance.

Caius reversed the dirk in his hand so the blade rested against his forearm—lest he trip and fall upon his own blade—though for a moment, he considered ending his own life then and there. Instead, he continued stumbling forward again, breaking out into a jog, and running for the final stretch. The blood rain stopped.

Finally, he too ceased his running and slowed till coming to a complete halt. Hunched over with heaving shoulders and breast, he surveyed his chosen destination. A desolate place where only the most dastardly wandered, a place permeated with despair and saturated with an air of ancient evil.

He had arrived before the Hanged Man’s Rest. The large tree’s gnarled roots stuck out of the ground and its mighty leafless branches reached in all directions. Rusted iron cages containing rotten bodies and hanged people, both human and beast-man, dangled from those branches, swaying in the wind. The chains that carried the cages emitted soft screeches when they shifted and legions of flies buzzed in the air.

A flock of crows sat upon the tree. Caius saw his own miserable reflection in their pitch-black eyes as they stared at him in eerie unison. As if all animals now conspired against mankind, in alliance with the hoofed and fanged beast-men that ravaged his homeland.

Whether imagined or not, Caius believed to hear the hoofed trampling of the beast army march behind him. The sounding of their horns called out, making sure there was no mistake about their advance. They would arrive here sooner than later.

He knew what he had to do.

Ignoring the crows as their eyes followed his every move, he approached a slab of stones shaped into an altar before the haunted tree. Upon that altar lied a skull, polished and bleached and engraved with cursed runes. Whatever blood had rained from the skies due to the magic worked by the beast-men’s sorcerers, there was none upon the skull. As if it was not of this world and never affected by anything in it.

One touch, one word, one wish, and Caius would use the skull. One simple deed that the holy men had forbidden his kin from doing. A secret once locked away in ancient grimoires, a blasphemy created by the necromancers of the lost world—a weapon of ultimate power. Many superstitions and legends revolved around this unholy relic.

All of them spelled out one thing clearly: conjure the cacodaemons with the unholy skull and make a wish. It shall come true.

And those who make the wish have thirteen days left to live.

Something he would have never considered before these darkest of days, something so heretical that his faith and conviction would never have allowed before. But watching his brothers-in-arms walk into battle like cattle to the slaughter had changed everything. He feared this skull-shaped relic of a forgotten age, but he dreaded the thought of what would happen if the beast-men reached the holy see.

Caius reached out and clamped his large meaty hand around the skull’s brow.

“Basgithlin,” he breathed out. His mentor, a master inquisitor, had taught him the magic word well and instructed him to slay anybody who uttered it in presence of this artifact. With this, he broke every vow he had ever made to the church.

A cold gust of wind swept over the clearing. A shiver ran down Caius’ spine. The cages and the hanged bodies stopped swaying. The world froze, as if that one act had paralyzed creation itself with his sheer audacity.

Despite being still short of breath, Caius held it in, he dared not make a sound. His own heartbeat pounded in his ears like drums, but a deathly silence engulfed him. Eyes wide with fear, he looked around, expecting to see something, anything at all. The clouds had frozen in the sky as well, the crows sat motionless on the tree of Hanged Man’s Rest. Nothing moved except for the broken warrior of god.

“You called, and I answer,” a soft voice whispered. It whispered, but the words carried the volume of tremendous power. “What is your wish?”

Caius located the whisper’s origins. One of the hanged men, unlike the others, now swayed in non-existent winds. In the hollow sockets from which the crows had plucked out eyeballs many moons past, two ghostly blue lights glimmered. The unhinged jaw with missing teeth moved as it whispered again.

“Speak your wish, mortal, but know the price. In thirteen days, your life I will come to reap. Have your heart’s desire, but your soul is mine to keep.”

Caius’ shook, his teeth clattered. He released his grip over the accursed skull relic and took a few cautious steps backwards. The glowing lights in the skull of the hanged man patiently followed his every movement. Caius set his jaw and mustered whatever shreds of courage he had left over in his chest.

“I want you to help me stop the beast-man army. I want us drown them in their own blood. I want us to show them the apocalypse. I wish for this to be their end-times!”

Deep, baritone laughter erupted behind Caius and he swiveled, only to find no source. Higher-pitched cackling came from the tree, and more bellowing hailed from elsewhere until the man was surrounded by a chorus of a dozen sources of demonic laughter. Then it all abruptly ended.

The marching of the beast-man army neared.

“A reckless wish, worded carelessly. So you shall have your wish, and I shall sate my appetite,” the hanging corpse whispered. Caius turned around to observe it once more. Its skeletal features led Caius to believe it gave him a sinister grin. The glimmer in its eyes vanished.

Then he spotted a dark figure, cloaked and hooded, and holding a halberd in one hand. Shadows veiled this stranger’s face. Caius’ head tilted as he stared upon the apparition in disbelief, for the figure stood upside-down, as if glued to another branch of the tree and defying the very laws of nature. When Caius blinked, the figure stood upright on the ground, just within an arm’s length before him. The man gasped and reared back another step.

Caius’ hand gripped his dirk tighter, fearful of the ominous figure.

“Let us go forth, and greet your foes,” whispered the figure, its hissing and malevolent voice mirroring that of the speaking corpse.

Caius’ heart dropped from his chest into his feet, the blood drained from his face.

He asked in a tone that turned desperate and pleading, “But what if I fall in battle?”

The stranger brushed past him and another gust of chilling wind swept over the Hanged Man’s Rest. The clouds roiled on the horizon and the corpses swayed upon the tree once more, motion returned to the world around them. The cloak of the stranger dragged along behind him on the muddy ground, concealing whether or not the evil presence even walked with legs upon the ground. And the stranger moved with a grace unnatural to this world, making nary a sound.

The army marched on, nearing evermore. The fires burned brighter on the horizon. The apocalyptic atmosphere intensified. The horde would be upon Caius and the stranger within the ringing of a clock tower’s bell.

“Thirteen days,” hissed the unholy being without turning around, continuing in its trackless stride, yet its voice never traveling farther away, as it filled Caius’ mind. “Whether you live or die. But you spoke of ‘us’ drowning them in their own blood. And so, we shall.”

A nervous—no, insane—laughter escaped Caius’ own chapped lips. A demented smile crept across his face and he asked, “But how will I fight if my body is bloodied and broken? What if the almighty collects my soul before you do?”

The cloaked figure moved on farther before answering.

“The almighty shall find nothing left over to claim, for this oath you cannot break.”

Caius followed. In the battles to come, his body would not yield to harm nor would he kneel to injury. By his side, this abomination would cleave through the foes, and they would kill warrior and sorcerer alike. And in thirteen days, he would die in horrible pain when claws from the underworld reached up to wrench his very spirit from his earthly vessel—and the agony of the hundred deaths he avoided by the daemon’s might caught up to him all at once.

Worse, he would see the beast-man hordes defeated, but only after they had overrun the holy see and destroyed the homeland he had sworn to protect.

Such is the nature of carelessly worded wishes.

Such is the fate of the damned.

—Submitted by Wratts

[sosthemortalcoil]

Lucifer Extra (Sort of intended for Halloween)

While you all await the next update, here’s a little extra to hold you over. It features Lucifer and Daniel’s mother.

The words rushed from her lips in a frantic litany, the rosary beads clinking together as her hands shook. She was on her knees in front of the church, before the water-worn crucifixion hanging above the cracked altar. Sanctuary. Broken and forgotten as this one may be, she had to hope that it still meant something to her pursuer, that she could still take refuge here.

The clouds parted, and a bright beam of moonlight illuminated her pale form, her eyes widening and the words catching in her throat as she stilled. The clouds returned, and the light all but departed, the only remnant of it appearing in the red shadows cast by the remnants of stained glass in the shattered windows. 

Her numb lips mouthed the words as she was caught between fear of being irreverent and fear of being heard.

“No prayer can save you.” Tears escaped her and she closed her eyes as they rolled down her cheeks, her whole body trembling now. The Latin continued to flow, cracking and broken, but steady. “No matter how… old-school… you try to be, it is of no consequence to me.” He was amused, taking delight in her plight. Gritting her teeth, she slowly shuffled around so she could face the intruder. A faint glow from what she guessed was a cigar illuminated dark, unnatural eyes that gazed at her. Black and soulless, they bore into her.

“No! No, this is sacred ground, you cannot—” she clutched her rosary tighter in her hands, her knuckles whitening as she thrust the symbol of her faith towards the creature that sat, complacent, in its human form on a pew in nave.

A soft, rolling baritone chuckle emanated from the figure, and he leaned forward, uncrossing his long legs as he did so. “God won’t protect you, child.” The glow of his cigar cast sinister shadows on features that might otherwise be considered handsome. His son certainly had been.

She coughed as the acrid smoke hit her, her nose wrinkling at the combination of the cigar smoke, mildew, and blood from her scraped and scratched legs.

For all the fear she had of this creature, his words were gentle and soothing. While it was nigh impossible to determine where his gaze was with his pure black eyes, she felt him eyeing her round stomach. Instinctively she shrunk back onto her heels, hands still holding tight to the heirloom rosary moving to cradle her unborn child.

“But you have nothing to fear from me,” the figure continued, standing up. Logically, she knew he was only tall for a mortal, but to her fear-addled mind, he loomed over her like a skyscraper, and she could swear the shadows gathered around him like a pair of dark wings, cutting through the red painted on the floor by the errant moonlight.

“Diablo,” she spat, and he laughed again, the dim light at the end of his cigar blooming bright for a second.

“Please, I prefer Lucifer. Satan, if you must, but the other names are just so… generic.” He offered a hand to her, and she flung curses at him as if it would repel him. Praying hadn’t kept him out, and this was a holy place. Perhaps pure spite would drive him away.

Utterly unperturbed by her words, he dropped his hand. “Holy places can be desecrated,” he said conversationally, sweeping one arm around the rotting space. His cufflinks caught some of the stray beams of light coming in from the roof, the moonbeams painting him with an almost angelic touch. “Humans do that well enough on their own.” His eyes lingered behind her, on the broken altar and the crucified figure that hung in the dank space.

“This is a house of God!” she screeched at him, trying to find her righteous indignation at his trespass, trying to find anything to fuel her anger less her fear consume her.

“Was, my dear.” There was melancholy in those words, but she didn’t believe it for a moment. He was smooth and svelte, a monster hiding behind a pretty mask. “Once, perhaps, you would have found safety here.” He frowned, brow furrowing. “Why would you come here of all places? I can still smell the stench of death. Murder is a desecration, and no one purified this place after it occurred.”

The woman ignored his attempts at idle conversation, instead rallying what stray strands of courage she still had for one last retort. “If you are here to kill me, be done with it. I have had enough of you and your kin!” she shouted, her throat constricting as she held back more tears.

Lucifer had turned to survey the extent of the damage, but he still eyed her out of the corner of one eye. Her hair was a mess, waves and curls tossed about, mirroring the storm of her emotions. Her arms still cradled the swell where her unborn child rested, as if she could do ought to protect the small babe from him.

“I do not harm innocents,” he said airily, knowing that she would dismiss anything that sounded sincere from him. A devout woman faced with the quintessential boogeyman of her faith? He was lucky she had no idea how to channel any of the power running through her veins. He toed at the collapsed pew that leaned like a drunk on the floor across the aisle from where he had been sitting, lip curled in disdain.

“You are the Devil,” she said, voice ragged, exhaustion dripping off her words.

“That is one of the names I am sometimes called, yes,” he said, head tilting to one side as he turned back to examine the small and defiant woman. Among all this destruction she shone, even in her rags, skin dirtied by the mud and debris of the forest. 

“Why take refuge here?” he asked again, curiosity lacing his question. It made no sense to him. She had gotten away from the clutches of one of his particularly nasty offspring only to flee to what could have very well been a dead-end for her if anyone else had tracked her here.

The woman thought of spitting at his feet, and then reconsidered. “I used to come here with mis padres when I was young,” she finally acquiesced, one hand unconsciously rubbing her belly. “I thought… I forgot what he had done.”

Lucifer felt one corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile, but managed to stop himself from smiling fully. The clever girl had figured out what the police never had. “He did have a strange predilection for trying to live up to what he believed a satanspawn to be.” He paused, expression turning solemn as he regarded her small figure. “Didn’t want to barge into a proper sanctuary carrying a satanspawn, either,” Lucifer commented. The baleful glare he received from under her dark locks confirmed his theory.

“My child has done no wrong,” she snarled. Her head tilted as she replayed his words, frowning. “Did?” she queried, a faint note of hope in the question.

Sighing, Lucifer crouched down and produced a watch. The face was cracked, and dark streaks covered it, but as the woman flinched away, he knew she recognized it.

“Here.” He tossed it at her knees, covered by a tattered skirt. “He won’t be bothering you anymore.”

She stared at the watch, which was resting in a small puddle of light. Hesitantly she reached out and picked it up, glancing from it to him, suspicion filling her features. “Why?”

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Lucifer as he rocked back onto his heels. “He was a monster, and yet you judge me for destroying him? Oh, you humans are rich,” he said, but there was no humor in his tone.

“He was your son!” she cried, clenching at her stomach. Despite all that she knew the father of her child had done, the murder of the priest hardly even news worthy in comparison, it still galled her to think of any parent killing their child, and with so little compunction. 

“He was no true child of mine,” Lucifer hissed, and for a moment the woman was sure she would die. This was the first time any of her words had seemed to pierce his unflappable arrogance. The air grew dense, crushing her beneath it. The shadows lengthened, eating away at the light, and she could feel the cold rage pouring off of the figure standing in front of her.

After a beat the air settled, and she drew a shaky breath, sweaty hands reflexively moving down the beads of the rosary. “He was an idle experiment at best, and when he became too reckless and stupid with his cruelties, I dealt with him. I assure, his torment is only just beginning,” Lucifer continued neutrally, the shadows coming back to heel at his feet.

“Assessino.”

Lucifer shrugged in the face of her accusation. “Hardly the first human I’ve killed, my dear. And before you get too hypocritical, I’ll remind you that your god that you revere so much hardly has clean hands either.”

“Humans do not—“

“Angels do take God’s orders, and I know they have killed humans for God. So think again.” Lucifer’s tone was calm, but the steel underlying them was sharpened, waiting for her to stumble across his words and be cut down by them.

Silence fell, relative to their location. The distant highway sounds formed part of the ambient backdrop along with the counterpoint of the water dripping from the rotting rafters and the soft creaking that she had always associated with the age of this place, even when she had been little more than a child.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, even as one hand slowly reached out to pick up the broken watch, thumbing over the cracked surface, feeling a shard of crystal slice into the pad of her thumb.

“I don’t condone the killing of children, especially mere babes,” Lucifer said coldly, rising to his feet. This time she was certain he had wings, pitch black things that were folded up behind his shoulders. Not even the shadows could be that black.

“You protected your grandson.” There was a note of wonder and surprise in her words, and Lucifer scoffed. He might be the devil, but she was starting to remember that he had once been an angel too.

“I protected order. Your child’s father was becoming too noticeable, so I dealt with him. I did not do it for you, and do not ever presume to think that I care for you or the creature you are carrying.” Fire flared around the end of the cigar, an ember dropping to the ruined carpet. Where it hit, lines of angry red radiated out, running over the floors, the walls, and even the ceilings. Heat started to suffuse the place, the smell of sulfur nearly making her gag.

“Like you said, I’m the devil.” She might have been mistaken, but she could swear she saw sorrow on his handsome features for a moment before it was replaced by a sneer that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight up. “So run girl. Run and live your pathetic mortal life, and hope that all your faith is enough to send you to Heaven, or you will not enjoy our next meeting.”

She scrambled to her feet, hesitating as he stood in the aisle. Her instincts were screaming for her to flee, that there was no chance if she tried to fight this creature. Lucifer grinned, teeth flashing bright as the roof creaked ominously, smoke starting to issue from the angry spiderwebs that lit the place with a malevolent light.

She ran, her bare and bloodied feet stinging as she shoved past the broken pews, trying to get as far away from him as possible. Behind her she heard hollow laughter as the heat grew more intense, like the fire was licking at her heels. She didn’t stop or look over her shoulders as she pelted down the deserted streets, past storefronts with metal grilles and barred windows. She didn’t stop until someone was shaking her, a flashlight being shone in her eyes.

“Miss, miss, are you alright?”

It took her a moment to get her mind to focus on the words, and she blinked. “No, no,” she moaned, collapsing against the arms that held her.

“Dispatch, we’ve got—“ the words faded as her frantic heartbeat drowned them out. She could see the puddle she was standing in between the officer’s arms. In the murky reflection, the sky was orange with the signs of fire.

Lucifer stood in the midst of the fire, musing quietly as he let his cigar drop, crushing it absentmindedly under one dress shoe. The flames knew better than to even singe him as he stood in the midst of the destruction, staring off into nothing. She had added insult to injury, giving him that look, like he might just be redeemable. But that would undermine his story, his purpose for existing. Better she fear him.

He rolled around her words in his mind, irritated by her last ones. His grandson. Hardly. That creature was not his, not truly. Perhaps it came into existence because of him, but it was not his child.

No, he had only one of those, and he had lost them. “Poor imitations…” he said aloud, before turning and striding down the aisle as the roof caved in behind him. He had lingered longer than he had thought, as there were already firefighters and other first responders outside. One yelled and pointed at him as he emerged from the inferno. Another started towards him, but stopped, face turning ashen.

He had no soot on him, and he walked straight-backed, no signs of smoke inhalation or any other injuries. And he had just walked out of a blazing building. The medic recovered, starting towards him again. “Sir, we need you to—“

He silenced them with a wave, not in the mood for more human driveling. He strode through the chaos with a dark calm that made everyone else edge away, a few who had their hands free signing a cross as he passed, the aura of evil that clung to him making them shudder.

Lucifer still had things to do before this night was truly through, he thought, hovering at the edge of the flashing emergency lights. Starting with those who had tried to groom the most recent of his deceased spawn as a potential contender. He rolled his neck from one side to the other, a predatory smile crossing his features. He intended to deliver their punishments personally.

[fakesurprise]

They said you were a monster because you never smiled As if the world was made of laughter and not a destination Darkened and sinister. They said you were a monster since Your eyes almost beguiled and they said you were a monster And that I should not trust. They said you were kin to demons Whose wings are like angel’s dresses and that you spoke truth Knowing it hurt more than lies. They said you were too good At faking being decent: I listened - Oh, I did but not as I should Because I trusted you against them, thought they spoke only lies That no one could be what they said you were and I and I and I Learned too late there were no words and you were worse  by far I hope the devil names a day in hell in your honour when you die And that my body found in the bay causes mobs to grab pitchforks And I hope to not a god (for there is nothing holy in you) but still I wish no one falls for your lies, won’t believe a word you say And when you burn and how you die I hope my face you see