Judge of Masks

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a little boy with black hair and black eyes who woke up after a long sleep. Perhaps it wasn't quite a sleep, per se, but more an interlude from life, put upon him by powers that had existed far longer than he had – but that does sound silly, doesn't it?

Right then, so he woke up. But he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Do you see, there was no Heaven or Hell; there was only this purple room with a purple hall, and he wandered down it to see if he could find its end, but there was no end to be found. At first he would call out for his family, but no voices ever replied. On occasion he wandered through to other rooms where he found other lost souls, but all of them were mad and raving and appeared not to see him. So he would eat them and continue on.

This little boy, you see, was dangerous – or so we've been told. There are no absolutes in life, and until you sleep again you're stuck in it for a while, I'm afraid. It's up to you to decide what you want to be, really; a lesson I've been learning myself. But don't you fret, and don't you cry, because one day I'll find you again and we'll learn it together.

The story's nearly done now. It's coming to an end and so is your sleep. It's time to start wandering again, and when you find those souls you'll eat your fill and meander on your way like a good little boy; but we won't talk about that.

Eternity is a long time to miss someone, Damian. Be lost for now, but one day soon, I'll find you again.

Damian awoke with a start, the purple walls of his prison darkened by shadows and distorted to his sleep-bleared eyes. The child sat up and looked down at that familiar hall in front of him, falling away into darkness, and wondered what poor soul was lost there that would fill his aching stomach.

His sleep was usually empty. He did not dream, he did not 'see things' as other souls often did. That voice that had spoken to him, the man who had cradled him against his chest – he was familiar, but distantly so, a memory within a memory. But a sound? While he slept? His prison was silent. That was his existence. Perpetual silence, broken on occasion by the ravings of a lost soul, a soul meant for him to devour. He could not even remember a time when he was not in those purple rooms, or when someone had used his name.

Damian.

That was his name. He had almost forgotten it. Damian. Damian, Damian, the boy with black hair and black eyes who woke up after a long sleep.

But that sleep was over now. It was time for him to wander again, and so as he shook another hundred-year slumber from his limbs, urged the gnaw of his stomach to subside, he stood and looked down at the shadows that hid his next meal.

Life had resumed, and with it, he went.

Amenadiel had come to Lux after an urgent call from Maze, who claimed she had stopped by for an early morning drink before she went about her business. The angel stepped through into 'the den of sin' and saw no people there – no humans recovering from an intense night out, nor the leftovers of Lucifer's debauchery. What he found instead was his brother on the piano, dishevelled and playing a sad, mournful tune, while Maze stood near the stairs with her arms folded and her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Hey," he said when he approached. She turned to him, and in her eyes he could see her concern. "I got your message. What's wrong?"

"I don't know. He won't tell me."

"And you think he'll tell me?"

"You're his brother," she pointed out. Before he could respond she left for the bar, where she sat on a stool and poured herself a drink that burned like hot amber under the soft white lights. Amenadiel let out a little huff of disbelief, then shook his head and went to Lucifer's side.

The Devil had his cuffs rolled up to his elbows and his collar was unbuttoned, his own glass half-filled with a drink too strong to need that much of. His hair was unkempt and his eyes appeared far away as he tapped out the tune to Billy Joel's 'Lullaby'. When his brother approached, he did not even turn his head.

"Is that you, Amenadiel?" he asked. He did not sound angered or even annoyed, but simply apathetic. "To what do I owe a visit from my dear eldest brother, hm?"

"You're acting strangely."

"Strangely? Haven't I been an unpredictable whirlwind of chaos and bad decisions since you came here, brother?"

"Perhaps." He said as he took a seat on the bench beside him. Lucifer, despite his huff of annoyance, shuffled over to allow him more room. "But this is different. You're upset about something."

Another huff. Amenadiel rolled his shoulders and gave Lux a quick glance over, as if trying to ground himself before he disturbed whatever had troubled Lucifer's mind.

"I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong." He reminded him.

"You can't help regardless," Lucifer replied, but, after a pause, he reluctantly went on. "I had a dream. About Damian."

"Damian?" Amenadiel said. The name brought with it a flood of painful memories. "That Damian?"

"Yes, that Damian, do you remember? Son of the Devil, devourer of souls, what humans lovingly refer to as the Antichrist? Does that ring a bell?"

"I'm sorry Luci, it's just…It's been so long since I heard you speak about him."

"Yes, well," he started up on the piano again, "talking about my dead son sort of ruins the mood of the evening, doesn't it?"

Amenadiel hesitated before he went on. He had not thought of Damian in a long time, and wounds that he thought were sealed threatened to reopen just at the mere mention of his name.

"What was the dream about?"

Lucifer did not stop in his playing, "I was reading him a story."

"That's it?"

"Well, the last time I saw him our dear brother Michael threw him into a celestial chasm and obliterated him from existence, so forgive me if it wasn't more inventive."

"I'm sorry, I…" Amenadiel shook his head. "I remember."

"It's not something you forget. Not without a lot of alcohol and lovely ladies to distract you – both of which I have."

"Just not right now," his brother said. Lucifer let out a little chuckle, and a soft, small smile came across his face.

"No. Not right now."

"What was the story?"

The Devil looked up at the lights of his nightclub. He had often found comfort in them, in the stylish décor and sleek finishes of his own little world, but for a moment he could hardly recognise it. It was as if it had all been displaced.

"I don't remember," he admitted. "All I remember saying is, 'I'll find you again.'"

Amenadiel looked at him with a furrowed brow and a confused expression. The only sound for a moment was of Lucifer's playing, before the Devil turned and saw his brother's stare.

"Find him?" the angel asked. "What does that mean?"

"Well I don't bloody know, do I? It was a dream."

The music resumed. Maze watched from the bar, her glass to her lips as she leant against the counter and tried to figure out what crossed Amenadiel's mind at that moment. The angel looked away from his brother, his face bewildered, and then quickly put his hand over Lucifer's to stop him playing.

"Brother." He said. His voice had changed – his tone was now serious, a far cry from the sympathy he had shown before. "What if it's a sign?"

"That I'm finally losing my mind? Afraid that ship has sailed."

"No," he replied. "What if it's a sign that what happened didn't happen the way we thought?"

"What part? When Michael led an army through Hell or when he killed my son?"

"What I'm saying is – what if he didn't kill him? What if he's still alive?"

Lucifer stared at him for a moment that seemed to span hours. His expression flickered from confused to sudden realisation, and then settled to a silent, deep anger. He returned to his keys and looked away; a quiet dismissal that Amenadiel had received from him all too often.

"He's dead," the Devil told him. "We all saw it happen."

"But what if—"

"No!" he half-shouted. There were slight tears in his eyes, and his brother found himself stunned into silence. "I saw it – I saw Michael throw my child, my baby son into that chasm. What? Do you think I'd forget the little details? Being forced to watch my own son die while an army held me down? Being told he was too dangerous to live? That it was the Will of God? Do you?"

"No, Luci, I just thought—"

"Don't think, Amenadiel. It's not your strong suit."

Lucifer started to play.

"You can leave now."

The angel paused, conflicted on whether or not to press the issue, before he stood and left up the stairs. Maze watched him as he went.

The law firm that his mother masqueraded at was closed, but she was still there. Amenadiel came in to find her at her desk, files on either side of her and a pair of glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. Her office was the same as he remembered, with all of its modern furniture and sleek edges and angles – an entire life that she had overtaken. When he came in, she smiled and stood.

"Amenadiel," she welcomed him with a hug. "This is a surprise."

"I went to see Lucifer today." He said. The angel moved to one of her chairs placed neatly around a coffee table and sat down on it. The Goddess did not follow, instead folding her arms and letting her face fall into one of concern.

"Is he alright?" she asked.

"No, Mom, I don't think he is."

"Well what's wrong? Can we help him?"

Amenadiel sat forward and fixed her with an inscrutable look. "I don't know. He had a dream about Damian."

"Damian?!" she repeated. "That's…upsetting. What was the dream?"

"He didn't remember all of it. He said he was reading him a story, but the only part he remembered was telling him, 'I'll find you again.'"

He saw his mother's face change then. A sudden flicker of fear, of knowing, and Amenadiel felt a hot bloom of anger that he quickly had to quash. She knew more than she had told them. She turned away from him and walked towards her desk, as if she thought that it would help shield her from his wrath.

"Mom," he said. "Did Damian really die that day?"

The woman turned and looked at him. He knew the answer then. He saw it written across her face, the tightness of her lips and the deep, endless regret in her eyes. When she looked down at her feet, a single tear fell down her cheek.

"No," she whispered in a voice hoarse with pain. "No, he didn't."

"Mom, where is he?"

"He's…" she started, then trailed off to wipe her tears and shake her head clear of her memories. When she had composed herself to some degree, she fixed him with a sort of resolution that he had come to expect from her.

"It wasn't mean to end like that. Michael thought he was doing his father's will. He…He thought that Damian needed to die, but I couldn't – I couldn't let that happen. Not like that."

"Mom. Where is he?"

She sniffed hard.

"He's in purgatory."