Title: Towards the Shores of Loss
Pairing: Lucifer/Jeshua
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3315
Author's Notes: Did you ever ask yourself what *really* happened during those forty days in the desert? Nota bene: I intend not to hurt or offend; this is merely a meditation upon temptation. [Contains three tiny nods to incredible writers; can you spot them?]
Warnings: None, really - unless your religious sensibilities rail against the premises of this story. Then I'd ask you to save us the grief and refrain.
Summary: And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season. (Luke 4:13)
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Towards the Shores of Loss
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(Praeludium)
"You are sick with fever," the man says. He squats on his heels, close enough to smell rancid sweat and bad breath. "You are not going to make it back to the city like this."
And what a shame that would be. His thoughts worm their way into the other man's brain, make him claw into the earth, let him curse with a dying man's tongue, words thick and lolling.
"Let me help you," whispers the crouching man. There is no harm in it. Look. Gently, ever so gently, he threads fingers through the other man's hair, holds him when he wants to twist away. "Shhh, be still," he croons, pulling the feebly flailing shape to rest in his lap, "Be still, you. I shall watch over you tonight." Truly, I will. Upon all that is holy. We will talk tomorrow, you and I.
If by then he is still alive, but of course he will, oh will he ever, the thrice-damned fool, nevermind he came here with nothing to his name... You can fry eggs on these rocks, if eggs be to your taste, and he comes out here with nothing, not even a leaky goatskin. What on earth was he thinking? Tell me - the man looks up and studies the skies - is not that hubris? Your patience with him, will it wear thin? You don't have to answer me, of course. The man hums to himself while combing out snags and tangles from the other man's hair. As a matter of fact, I don't expect you to.
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(Luke 4:3-4)
And the devil said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, command this stone that it be made bread.
And Jesus answered him, saying, It is written, That man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.
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(Gestatio)
They've been through this. Been over it. Lots and lots of times. Walking up and down the valley, between crippled plants and the mineral-encrusted trickles no living thing can drink. They've yelled at each other, they've sneered, spat, and sworn.
Presently ensconced on a rock, picking thorns from his feet, Lucifer looks up now and then and points out (quite patiently, he thinks, and reasonably, too) that the food and fuel of Jeshua's faith isn't so much the word of God (he has a hard time saying that, God; he prefers to speak of the Name) but Jeshua's youthful arrogance, an affectation that comes from too much drink or hemp or from praying too hard; and how many men have not been led astray like that, going insane in their thirst for the Name, what with all the 'Art thou he that should come' - so many people think they're the Messiah, surely that can turn a perfectly good head around, but wouldn't it take much sterner stuff - not to pose the question too bluntly - wouldn't it show greater faith to actually come out and say, 'it is true, I am not he, I cannot work a miracle even to save myself, because bread is bread, and rock is rock,' and shake off this sad delusion?
Just as he pauses, testing a thorn between his fingertips, Jeshua's knees buckle. Lucifer blinks, then flicks the thorn aside. He gingerly slips from the rock and pads across his shadow to kneel beside Jeshua. "Ha-Nozri?" he asks. "Jeshua?" He slaps him, gets up and kicks him between the ribs.
Very well. The problem might take care of itself then. A body out in the desert - that's less than a week before it is picked clean. Lucifer is about to leave when a vestigial bone in him twinges. A remainder of pity, most likely; the luxurious sentiment of the hunter who, coming upon his prey, gets to watch its eyes break.
He might return later, if only to see Jeshua off.
Perhaps he'll even build him a pyre.
---
(Nigredo)
Jeshua Ha-Nozri isn't dead in the morning, but he isn't much better either. Eyes caked with pus, lips glued together, he has burrowed against Lucifer's side, while Lucifer has pulled up Jeshua's tallit to form a sail over that poor, throbbing head. Good morning, young prince, Lucifer's thoughts slither idly. Isn't that funny? A stained scrap of homespun to save your little head from boiling. For a second or two, he's almost tempted to extend a wing - take Jeshua under it - but then he might just choke on the irony.
Bored now, he digs his toes into loose gravel. The heat rises quickly; he can taste it. Salt, mostly, and the particles of things that once were: sand from rocks, rocks that had been mountains. The dry rustle of something that, in another lifetime, grazed in the shade of a palm tree, down by the Jordan. Carcasses and faeces.
Lucifer sniffs and licks his lips. Are you still with me, princelet? His enquiry sounds kinder now, without rancour. After all, it is the thirteenth day, and not a cloud in sight. How Jeshua must be suffering.
With a sigh that sounds very importuned, Lucifer slips one arm under Jeshua's angled knees, the other around his torso. What, no thunderbolt? You let me touch him? Just like that? It's no more than an aside, but it grates with a flare of scorn. "I could kill him right here, you know," Lucifer hisses, clenching his jaw.
How he hates the voice that deigns to answer, finally. Oozing with a love he no longer has part of. He hates it. Hates it. It were better if it went back to being aloof and terrible, fattened on the reek of sacrifice, and not bother him. It were better if the Name stopped meddling and accepted its failure, for what else is humanity but the failed excretion of God's will, a filthy milling breed of ingrates and liars, little better than animals in all of their ways, fornicating thieves that would never comprehend the gift they were given and -
Sharply, Lucifer raises his head and spits. Then, averting his gaze, he carries Jeshua to an overhang, the entrance of a cave far uphill, to shelter him from the sun. He is mine, he concludes, talking to himself like some idiot boy and wiping Jeshua's face. Mine because you put him here.
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(Luke 4:5-8)
And the devil, taking him into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time.
And the devil said unto him, All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it.
If thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine.
And Jesus answered and said unto him, Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve.
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(The Body Politic)
"I will not insult your intelligence by promising you dominion," Lucifer yawns. "I take it you believe that's your birthright."
Jeshua's tired head is propped against Lucifer's shoulder, his headache so bad he can barely see straight. Trees and outcrops double; the thin, dirty band of the Jordan twines up to where there is no river. A couple of skinny goats down in the valley become a herd, a multitude, and Jeshua has to close his eyes. "It is," he croaks. "And I will have none of yours."
"Of course not." Thin fingers stroke Jeshua's shoulder. "Besides, my liege, I am quite content with what I have. It may not look much to you, but it is mine. It is mine," Lucifer grunts, grabbing a clump of hair, "and I deem it better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven."
Twisting from Lucifer's grip, Jeshua wheezes. "But what" - he rubs his scalp and blinks with rheumy eyes - "what if God offered you forgiveness? I could speak on your behalf. Intercede for you. Why won't you believe He loves you still?"
Now Lucifer seethes. It takes little effort, very little effort indeed to drag Jeshua up the cliff and snatch him by the nape like a puppy. "The Name loves me not, whelp. He set me up. He made me a puppet. He made me the adversary, me, whose love was the purest and chastest He could find. Did you know that?"
"I know enough to know you're lying," Jeshuas mumbles, gazing at the mountains that surround them.
Letting go, Lucifer gets up and shakes dirt from his clothes. "Lies are a matter of perspective. Allow me to show you." He can't understand why Scripture insists on calling the desert unclean and the dwelling place of spirits; there is nothing unclean about starkness. There is nothing unclean about facing your demons. All those limp-wristed, soft-bellied, lily-livered city folk, the merchants and peddlers, what do they expect when they come here - here, where identity is stripped from them and alkali eats their feet? They want to fast, they say. They want to seek God. They act so surprised when their emptiness stares back at them.
There is nothing unclean about the desert. "Look, rabbi," Lucifer says, using the wasteland as a canvas. "Look at all these souls." He makes a sweeping gesture that lets the heat shimmer. It starts with Masada, with hundreds dead come morning, and the ruin of the Temple. Later, all of Jershalaim washed in blood, the brittle heads of babes smashed against walls, women defiled and thrown into wells, men put to the sword. There's Byzantium in flames. There are people dying in the mud, all races, all ages, men women children, wide-eyed and starved, skinny arms lifted above their heads, hanged shot gassed buried alive; a strange cloud and a naked girl with her face like a fried pumpkin and all she asks for is death.
Lucifer makes a deferential gesture. All yours, Jeshua. Your realm. I need none of it. And not only will this happen in spite of you- he grabs Jeshua's chin, unmoved by the thick, salty tears running down Jeshua's face, it will happen in your name.
"Deceiver," Jeshua murmurs. "You're lying." He shivers and trembles, arms wrapped around himself.
"I wish I were," Lucifer says, squatting next to him. "You really believe they are good, don't you? That they can love each other? Well they can't. And they aren't good." Intrigued, patiently, he listens to Jeshua's painful heaving. "Come," he beckons, arms outstretched, "come here. Let me take this from you. Abide by my side, and none of this shall come to pass."
Jeshua glances up at him, a string of gall dangling from his lip. "Get thee behind me," he stammers, and passes out.
---
(Sol Niger)
He's well made, Lucifer notes again. Strong arms, long legs. A pleasant-enough face. His eyes - when they don't cloud over with dust and specks of red - his eyes shine with a light that Lucifer wants to see put out.
It's the third night after Jeshua has recovered his wits, and Jeshua lies flat on a rock, arms behind his head, legs crossed at the ankles... just lies there and watches the sky.
There's no art in being the Messiah like that, is there? Lucifer sits up and studies him. The scythes of Jeshua's pelvis jut in a most alluring way. Comely, that. A body that fits his soul like a glove. What if he were a mumbling hunch-back with a roving eye? A leper, a woman, a lunatic with his head in the clouds and his toes stuck in manure? Who'd follow him then? Oh, Lucifer can see them, his disciples. What a motley gang that would be, laughed at and driven from every town. Pelted with shit.
Just before he can lift a finger to touch that most alluring hip, Jeshua rolls over. "Tell me, Morning Star," he says quietly, facing him. "What was it like to light the skies?"
Lucifer's mouth opens and closes. Morning Star. His nostrils flare, and he grips his knees a little harder. Why would you call me that.
"That was your name, was it not," Jeshua says.
Throwing him a look, Lucifer crouches, then rises. "It was," he says, raising his arms to embrace the infinite. Grand gestures come easily. Perhaps it was. But I no longer need names, Jeshua. It is sufficient that I am. He smiles beatifically, hands open to the heavens. For, you see, I have become an idea. I am the no to your every yes. When you say stop, I say go. What you deny, I give, and I give amply. Amber eyes aglow, Lucifer turns and lets his arms fall. "My name is of no concern to you."
"Amen." Jeshua shrugs, propped on one elbow. "But what was it like?"
There's a sheer drop, several yards from the cave mouth, and Lucifer walks to the rim. He is silent for a while, gazing into the abyss. "It was... beautiful," he says slowly. The thought weighs heavily, like the bowed heads of the vanquished. He still has no words for that shimmering arc of love, blazing across the sky.
Samael? Even Jeshua's thoughts sound sweet. Sweet and regal.
Yes, prince. Lucifer stares at the pitch black valley floor, distracted by something.
"Come and sit vigil with me?"
"Not now." He shakes his head, once, with the jerky shrug of a viper. "But I will, I promise. Before this is over, I will." He straightens and stretches, flexing his shoulders. He'll fly for a while, he's decided. Let the currents carry him.
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(Putrefactio)
When he returns, Jeshua is asleep. Lucifer kisses him awake. There's the ammonia stink of hunger, of a body turning against itself, but Lucifer can pretend. Oh, he is well schooled in pretension. He can convince a one-legged whore she's fairer than the Rose of Sharon. He can kiss a corpse without gagging. And he can make Jeshua believe that his lips are like honey.
At least his eyes are still beautiful, the way they fly open: bewildered at first, then with a confused sort of come hither. Lucifer cradles Jeshua's head and drinks from those eyes. They are Jeshua's own, not a trace of the Name in that grey (makes you wonder about Mariam's people, doesn't it), and Lucifer can't resist. It's not in his nature, not trying. I can take this body of yours and make it immortal, he purrs. Now, if you wish. Give you the strength to finish your fast. Fulfill your fate. That would please you, would it not? You could pray day and night without tiring.
He breaks the kiss as soon as Jeshua's tongue starts to respond. "I can give you the strength to preach," Lucifers whispers. "I shall be your nourishment, and your lamp in the night. You said it yourself; it was I who brought the light to this world. Now let me keep you from darkness." His fingers stroke Jeshua's brow. He can taste him already, melting in his mouth.
The laughter surprises him. He backs off, allowing Jeshua to roll away. What?, he glares, what is it?
Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Jeshua considers him and slowly, creakily sits up. "I know who you are, First of the Fallen," he says hoarsely. "That's enough not to listen."
"But you heard me."
"Hearing is not listening, Morning Star."
Lucifer snorts. Then he cocks his head. I can shut up, he suggests drily, following a hunch. Would that be more palatable, rabbi?
Possibly. Laboriously, Jeshua moves towards the cave mouth, a passage on hands and knees that devolves into a drag across the rocks. Once he's settled himself against the cave wall, he closes his eyes and makes a face.
Who would have thought; the prophet has a sense of humour. Fascinated, Lucifer crawls closer and reaches for him, thrilled that Jeshua would permit such proximity. He is quite, quite perfectly formed, if ordinary-shaped, and his iliac crests stand out - three fingers now, compared to the two when Lucifer first noticed. Cupping one, Lucifer curls his hand around flesh and bone as if it were an anchor; something to keep them both from becoming adrift in the night.
That body is crumbling. And now it is yielding. How can that spirit be still such a fortress?
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(Luke 4:9-12)
And he brought him to Jerusalem, and set him on a pinnacle of the temple, and said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down from hence:
For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee:
And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone.
And Jesus answering said unto him, It is said, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.
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(Leukosis)
Bare feet bouncing, Lucifer dangles his legs from the turreted wall and watches the streets below. "Such pious people," he says. "Observant to the letter." He squints and picks his teeth. "Look at those hagglers and whoremongers, how they hasten their steps for Shabbat eve. And God blessed the seventh day," - Lucifer burps discreetly, for the Word tends to stick in his throat like a fishbone - "and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made. Speaking of which, resting," he adds while Jeshua is making a mess of his hands, hanging on for dear life, "I don't see anyone come to your rescue."
A small rock falls, and Jeshua scrabbles for purchase.
"It's a theological quandary, isn't it?" Lucifer offers solicitously. "It seems I can't kill you, and he can't let you die. Not here, at least. Shall we try and see how far we can push the Name, you and I?"
Eyes squeezed shut, Jeshua mumbles prayers and digs bloodied fingertips into stone. His muscles tremble and start shaking. Sweat runs down his temples. He loses one sandal, finds unexpected hold with the other until his body locks and slips. Soon he hangs from one arm only.
"You could let go," Lucifer suggests, peering down. "Try Him."
Jeshua exhales, swallowing what must be a string of expletives and, with an impressive amount of will, slaps his bleeding hand between two merlons. It's not so much a climb but a convulsion that throws him back over the crenel and onto the roof. There he doubles over, hands curled against his breast.
The sun is about to set; Shabbat is about to begin. Evening falls, and Lucifer gazes towards the Jaffa road. "Just as well," he mutters. "Not here, of course. Not now." Eyes softening, he glances over his shoulder. "Say, Ha-Nozri. Has it occurred to you that I might have your best interests in mind?" Do you know what it means, to die on the cross? The desert would have been kinder. This fall would have been kinder.
Clutching his tallit, Jeshua raises his eyes. "My life... is not mine to take." His heart must be racing; else he wouldn't slur. He sits there with one sandal and blood-smeared fingers and rocks back and forth in something like supplication. "Only He who gave it can take it," he rasps. "Not you."
Lucifer lifts his shoulders and bounces his feet and looks at the evening redness in the West. It doesn't matter, prince. He has set you up, like I was set up. Leaving his perch, he makes sure he brushes Jeshua's side again: he wants to feel that ridge of bone again. Wants to cup it in his hand while kissing Jeshua's lips. Again.
"Don't worry, rabbi," he says, smile fading to dusk. "I will sit vigil with you. I promise."
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