Now, there are many theories on why Satan fell, including the one where he didn't and is merely an angel doing the job God gave him with testing mankind's faith. Then there is of course the well-known one, fictionalised in "Paradise Lost" where Satan fell from his own arrogance.
I, however, being the hopeless romantic that I am, prefer this one. It also makes more sense to me, since I find the idea of angels hating God rather silly. Aheh.
Lillith is, of course, part of Jewish folklore and is said to be the first wife of Adam, only to leave him and bear eternally demons. Later tradition claimed her to be the foremost of Satan's three wives.
The swift sound of wings, and soft feathers brushing a flushed face, upturned. Sun that glints, so close, so close, above the clouds that lie like cotton beneath their feet. They dance, ripping off fluffs of vapour, swirling it around them in flimsy gowns, their many wings extended, platinum blinding in the glare of the sun.
Sweetly voices raise to the stars, careening and caressing, "Holy, holy, mighty is God, mighty is the Lord, great is His mercy, holy, holy." Like a mist of a not-yet-forged autumn, they wind around outstretched arms, worshipping.
He is first among them. How dearly he loves God, how brightly he burns for God. "Holy, holy!" he sings, his voice like a incubus rising temptingly, tantalisingly above the many fluttering lips and wings.
They are rewarded with the light of most pure Love, and the distant rumble of thunder in which His voice gently brushes them, and they sing harder, louder, more beautiful. He is pleased, and thus, so are they.
He speaks to them of what He will create, and His voice keeps them alive. "Holy, holy!" they sing in worship, begging for His voice, letting it fill them to the brim of their heads, crowned with a lustrous light, and the tip of their blinding wings.
He creates and calls to Him the Bright Lord, His most favoured, and He says, "Mind and will I have given thee, greater than that of your peers. When I create My masterpiece, he shall be thine to judge. Never forget that I love thee."
Cheeks blushing and eyes like glimmering diamonds upturned to His glory. "Holy, holy!" he sings, a voice so beatious that others fall silent. "How I love You, my Lord, my God!"
"Holy, holy, mighty is God, mighty is the Lord, great is His mercy, holy, holy," they sing and surround His throne as He creates.
"Behold, Adam," He then says unto them, and they fall silent in wonder. "He is Man, and the greatest of My beings. Love him, worship him."
A rustle of cloth and feathers, clouds swirling like hurricanes in a microcosm as, one by one, the blessed choirs kneel before the Man, skin and hair dusky from the fertile soil of which he was made.
Only the Bright Lord still stands.
"Kneel before Adam," says He, "love him and worship him."
Proud eyes and wings flaring majestically, a short-lived breeze fluttering through feathers. "Should a son of fire kneel to a son of dust?"
"Kneel and worship man, My greatest creation!" He rages.
"I worship only You! I love only You! I cannot kneel to a creature of mud, and even then, I would not!"
"Kneel!"
"I cannot!"
For love of God, Satan fell. Through all the seven heavens, he crashed, feathers ripped from his mighty Seraph wings by the harsh currents. Day upon day he fell, each centimeter marked by another loss of God. Slowly, agonisingly, His love was torn from the Bright Lord, till finally, in Hell, He is with him no more. "Holy! Holy!" he screams and screams, till his voice goes ragged and his body is wracked by sobs. He falls silent, alone; for the first time, utterly alone.
A wide and dank cavern, sulfur and brimstone fumes tickling the destitute figure lying on the searing, crakling ground. He stares emptily, burned wings lying flat against the ground, like a mocking image of a pinned dragonfly. His eyes is empty, his soul is empty, only an echo of His voice making its empty rounds in an empty space.
Days pass, and others fall around him. They plead with him, beg him to respond; but he does not.
They stop begging, and instead speak to him of what God creates. "Paradise," they say, "and Man lives there, now with Woman. But there is trouble," they whisper, "for she was created from mud like he, and she will not submit." Lillith, they call her, of the night.
She is thrown from Eden, as he was thrown from Heaven, and they whisper once more. "This time Woman was made from Man, and she submits. They are happy, safe in God's grace."
Finally he moves, his eyes suddenly full and alive. "They are happy and loved by God?"
"Yes, liege," they whisper, shocked and fluttering like great fowls in the dark.
"He is wrong to put His faith in them," he says, and then he laughs, a soft and tinkling laugh like a mirror crushed and falling to the ground. "I will show Him; I will show Him how wrong."