After Lucifer the days are empty and the nights merciless. He has the angel - no, the Devil, although Lucifer always thought of himself as angel-kind - to thank for saving his life. The gallons of demon blood made Nick retch and convulse, but they kept him alive.
And now? What is this waiting for nothing, if not death? The man his friends and neighbours formerly knew as Nick is missing, reported dead. He saw his own funeral, with no body to bury - because Lucifer was possessing it, of course, and laughing fit to burst at Nick’s despair. Lucifer promised redemption and revenge, his vision of Eden filling Nick’s soul with… not hope, exactly, but purpose. I will annihilate the demons and the humans. I will create a utopia, crowed Lucifer, and to curb Nick’s protests he would speak softly of gardens brocaded with roses, fountains sparkling silver in the moonlight, lakes clear as ice. Who needs them, the vile pustules? We will make ourselves a heaven right on this beautiful plane, won’t we, my disciple? Together we will touch hearts. No we won’t, you murderer! cried Nick, but without much fervour. For it was impossible to help that hard light bleeding into his mind: Lucifer was leaching him of mortality and replacing it with divine conviction. You are a sword, he said, pointed towards a single purpose.
And now he is bereft of even that, although it makes him sick to think that he would’ve annihilated two races. Of course he doesn’t miss Lucifer’s mocking laughter, or the nightmares of hell, or the hallucinations. But he misses the voice in all its variations: petulant, indignant, malicious and plaintive. Is that wrong? Of course, for it’s a sin to to touch and feel the Devil, and accept his temptations, and sell him your soul.
Some days he’s tempted to visit the church down the street, but what do you say? Father, I was possessed by the Devil and now I miss him, God help me. I can’t live without him. That wouldn’t go down too well. They’d lock him up. So he keeps his secret inside his head, not even writing it down.
Fill.
And now? What is this waiting for nothing, if not death? The man his friends and neighbours formerly knew as Nick is missing, reported dead. He saw his own funeral, with no body to bury - because Lucifer was possessing it, of course, and laughing fit to burst at Nick’s despair. Lucifer promised redemption and revenge, his vision of Eden filling Nick’s soul with… not hope, exactly, but purpose. I will annihilate the demons and the humans. I will create a utopia, crowed Lucifer, and to curb Nick’s protests he would speak softly of gardens brocaded with roses, fountains sparkling silver in the moonlight, lakes clear as ice.
Who needs them, the vile pustules? We will make ourselves a heaven right on this beautiful plane, won’t we, my disciple? Together we will touch hearts.
No we won’t, you murderer! cried Nick, but without much fervour. For it was impossible to help that hard light bleeding into his mind: Lucifer was leaching him of mortality and replacing it with divine conviction. You are a sword, he said, pointed towards a single purpose.
And now he is bereft of even that, although it makes him sick to think that he would’ve annihilated two races. Of course he doesn’t miss Lucifer’s mocking laughter, or the nightmares of hell, or the hallucinations. But he misses the voice in all its variations: petulant, indignant, malicious and plaintive. Is that wrong? Of course, for it’s a sin to to touch and feel the Devil, and accept his temptations, and sell him your soul.
Some days he’s tempted to visit the church down the street, but what do you say? Father, I was possessed by the Devil and now I miss him, God help me. I can’t live without him. That wouldn’t go down too well. They’d lock him up. So he keeps his secret inside his head, not even writing it down.