Disclaimer: the Bible certainly does not belong to me. Paradise
Lost, which heavily influenced this, belongs to John Milton.
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"To bow and sue
for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power
Who from the terror of this arm so late
Doubted his empire, that were low indeed,
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall...."
-- Paradise Lost, Book 1 ll. 111-16
A final crash of thunder, one last sword swing, and it was finished. The rebel angels were cast down, their numbers too few to defeat the power of the Almighty.
Lucifer's eyes, glittering with pride, anger, and no small measure of fear, burned into His own for only a moment before the seraphim teetered, lost his balance, and plunged from the precipice of Heaven.
Beaten, banished, all trace of his presence flung away; save the battle-scarred plains of Heaven, the injured but rejoicing angels, and the tiny cut upon His arm, the faint droplets of blood staining the gleaming purity of His robe.
Exiled.
Fallen.
Lost.
His favorite.
The most beautiful, most powerful, most loved seraphim--angel--of all He had created.
And in return for His love? Disobedience. Insubordination. Pride and anger and ambition wrapped in a beautiful, strong package.
Lucifer had been His equal, but denied the rivalry of such equality, due to the subservient position he was anchored to. Equal, but below Him. Always a step below and behind He, the one fortunate to be the Almighty.
And Lucifer could at last bide it no longer. The injustice of the situation inflamed him, and so he gathered his army and challenged.
And failed. Not a failure of ability, a failure of force.
It would have been better the other way, for then Lucifer might have conceded; might have knelt and begged forgiveness for his rashness, and been welcomed back to his position at His side.
But now Lucifer knew that it was only through a higher number of angels that He held His throne. There was no talent he possessed beyond the reach of the other angel, no greater strength of will, only sheer force of numbers.
Lucifer would never submit while that knowledge lay between them.
The rebel angels were defeated, and now His army stood upon the precipice, watching them fall.
He knew already where they would land. He had found that place, that hell, the first moment He had gazed upon this fabric of possibility, and He had created Heaven as far from it as He could go.
And that was how far Lucifer and his army would remain from Him. The pain of being separated from His most beloved one already existed, creeping in from the inch-long scar upon His wrist, curling and winding beneath His skin, until He could only stare blindly at the dancing angels, His face hard and His heart raw.
And perhaps it was partly His fault. He had created the angels to serve Him; and yet He had given Lucifer too many gifts, too caught in the majesty of His first creation to realize the destruction that would face them for it.
And yet...He saw how it would go. The plans spread out in His mind, eons stretching out in a pause of a breath. It would all go as it was meant to.
"My Lord," a voice intruded on His thoughts. He glanced down to see kneeling to His right.
"Yes?"
At the acknowledgement of his presence, the archangel looked up. So different from Lucifer, no pride there, only a calmness and a steady demeanor which made him seem older than his years.
It was also Michael who had cast down Beelzebub, Lucifer's second in command, his sword flaming with righteous anger.
"They wish to know his new name."
Of course. Lucifer was no longer a being of the light, though he remained the same, as strength and beauty would serve him little now; and thus could not be named for that which he had been cast from. So what...?
"Satan." He tried the name, and it tasted bitter, ashy on His tongue. "He will now be only Satan."
"Yes, my Lord," Michael replied, casting his eyes down once more before standing and flying to the other angels.
Satan.
'Mine enemy.'