Things return, as they always seem to, to a garden.
For a moment, Sandalphon keeps simply lying where he's been deposited, ears filled with the sounds of greenery swaying in the wind and flecks of sunlight dancing over his cheeks, struggling to remember when and why he lost consciousness.
There ought to be some kind of rule against such nonsense, losing self-awareness within himself, but then again… His inner workings never did manage to obey what is right or proper or even sensible, he's not sure why he's expecting them to start now.
Perhaps it's because this all seems too much like an act in one of those plays the sky dwellers are so fond of, a scenery carefully crafted to support dramatic declarations of feelings and dew-eyed confessions, and Sandalphon, forced to sit through it, would have to deduct points for a severe lack of originality and plot contrivance.
With his own soul, however, it figures.
It also figures that his heart should lurch like a storm-battered ship when he finally opens his eyes, despite knowing what sight awaits him, the only sight it could possibly be.
The same trees in the same spots, stretching their branches with lazy abandon. The same vines and shrubs, growing so closely together as to resemble a veritable thicket, but without any sense of struggle for space or nutrients. Leaves and buds opening without any urgency, fruit shining with sugary promise despite the season. Tundra mosses and tropical orchids growing side by side with desert roses in complete disregard for climate and altitude.
The same way things always were in Lucifer's private garden.
It used to be a part of the lab complex, Lucifer told him once, the site of a terrible accident long before either of them was even born, and he was allowed to care for it as he saw fit.
Back then, Sandalphon thought nothing of it, too awed at the idea that Lucifer would share such a treasure with him, and too enamored with the hundreds of new sights and sounds, the joyful chaos of their surroundings. So different from the laboratories and the holding pens, and even the courtyards, where each blade of grass was cut to perfection, each plant a study in geometric proportion.
It never occurred to him that this place, so alive and welcoming, might have itself been an experiment, that Lucifer might have been told to perform the feat of repopulating the scarred and poisoned ground as a test of his abilities, commandeered by the whims of the scientists just like the rest of them.
Amazing, really, that he never managed to put two and two together. That he kept thinking of Lucifer as untouchable, beholden to nothing and no one – inconceivable, that the whole world should not bend its knee to him when Sandalphon was willing to snap himself in half just for the chance to be of service.
/That was the whole problem, wasn't it? You wasted all this time scurrying along in his shadow, trying to delight him with inconsequential inanities, when you should have been walking ahead, clearing a path as His Sword and Shield—/
…But would he have wanted that…?
/Who cares? Who cares, as long as he was truly safe, as long as they would quail before the thought of ever touching Him, or anything that was His–! And to think, you almost had it that one time, that *one* time…/
A half-forgotten incident from the earliest days of his existence, of lying on an operating table and trying to obey the instruction to regrow the major muscles in his arms and legs, and the idle conversation of the researchers on watch, how someone really ought to do something about that east-wing jungle already, its weeds were starting to infest the actual gardens, best to raze the whole lot, really—
Even the later shame hadn't been quite deep enough to erase the tiny spark of pleasure at the shock on their faces when he'd come off the table screaming and cursing, and managed to trash half the observation bay before they found a way to knock him out.
He'd paid for it dearly, of course, wings broken into so many pieces he thought they might never knit themselves back together again, and felt quite foolish afterwards– how stupid of him, how downright blasphemous to believe even for a second that these dim-witted butchers would have ever stood a chance of harming that place of life and light – so much so that he never even thought to question who they might have been referring to with their sneering about "Lucilius's pet".
/You could have changed it all, right then and there, if only you hadn't been so wrapped up in playing at worship and servitude. And perhaps you would have both still been slaves, in the end, but they wouldn't have dared—/
Enough.
/—honestly, how much do you think they took away from Him, material and otherwise, while you were busy wallowing in self-pity…?/
I said, *enough*!
With a growl, Sandalphon tears himself away from the endless litany of his own past. There will be time for all of it, time to grapple, to hate himself, to reexamine, to grope for the words to shape the beginning of an apology, but not right now, not when he is in the exact place he was striving to reach.
He might not have expected to see it again outside of dreams, this place where he spent his dearest, more sweet than bitter hours, but the more he considers it, the more it makes sense that this should be the place where they might reunite, as they so often did.
The wind rises, carrying with it the scent of winter turning into spring, of a hundred tiny flowers bursting into bloom after long, dark months spent beneath the frost.
The scent of rebirth, of new beginnings, but more than that, what has Sandalphon taking off at a run is the feeling contained therein, that whisper-quiet promise.
Not might. Will.
*.*.*.*.*
There were a few occasions when Sandalphon didn't manage to get to the gardens ahead of time. A handful of times when he would burst into that sheltered clearing, frazzled and disheveled, only to find the little table already set for two, and Lucifer only a few paces away, engaged in a quiet sort of communion with the plants.
Face tilted into the slight breeze, eyes half-closed as if listening to a song only he could hear, as the surrounding greenery seemed to be stretching towards him, leaves and buds kissing his wings and fingertips in an unselfconscious greeting of their protector and life-giver.
A sight not seen in over two thousand years, and yet, it manages to knock the breath out of him even harder than it did on the first day, when the idea that he might never get to see it again was merely the self-centered fear that he might inadvertently do something to lose Lucifer's favor instead of bitterest reality.
How absurd, how fitting that his voice should choose to leave him too, unable to form even a single sound – and yet, Lucifer turns anyway, the plants pulling back as if aware their time has come and gone, his eyes lighting up with a glow that seems to extend to his entire being, six white wings rising in a greeting Sandalphon himself never dared return before, too awestruck and nowhere near confident enough to match this dazzling welcome with a display of his own plain brown plumes.
It's shock that's keeping them tucked away now, staring spellbound at the scene before him, heart seizing with the realization that although he'd been wishing, hoping, praying all the while – that even with all the encouragement he had received, all the evidence to the contrary, a part of him hadn't really dared believe, had been too afraid of what he might not find.
"Sandalphon."
Soft as a sigh but clear as a silver bell, each syllable at the exact frequency to send happy shivers down his spine – and how did he ever manage to convince himself that this was the sound of indifference? How was he able to take that voice, his own name on those lips, and ascribe its tender cadence to simple wishful thinking?
He has no idea how he manages to keep standing, let alone moving forward, leaden feet carrying him into the clearing like the dazed and graceless idiot he is.
"You're here."
"I— I am?"
And, a smile? He watches in awe as it blooms, unfurling like the rarest and most precious of flowers – its curl as gentle and quiet as always, but with eyes the color of clear midday skies to match, free of the shadows of pain and regret.
You never should have looked like that, nothing should *ever* make you look like that, least of all *me*—
It's enough to make him straighten up a little, to try and carry himself with at least some of the gravity the situation deserves, even though there is a cannonball lodged in his stomach and his throat still seems determined to strangle the breath out of him.
"…I am." Strange, that his mouth should feel so dry, when his voice sounds just this shy of wet. "Lucifer-sama— you… I'm sorry. I'm sorry it took me so long, I'm sorry I didn't– I didn't understand, I didn't realize— I just wanted to— but I never thought about what you— I— Damn it, I—"
"Sandalphon. Look at me." Knuckles grazing his cheek as if to wipe away the tears that haven't fallen, and while he can't quite bring himself to meet those eyes again, he can't stop himself from leaning into that touch, either.
Part of him is horrified at his own boldness, this shameless show of enjoyment, when he was always so careful before, on those rare occasions, to hold still and allow Lucifer to do as he wished. It had been so easy, too, stunned as he had been by the unexpected contact, the feather-light electric sweetness that came as much from the touch itself as the notion that Lucifer, in his kindness, would deign to bestow it upon him—
No, not deign. Never deign, especially not with the way that hand is now turning, offering an open palm to lean his cheek against — and then curling in his hair, gently guiding him forward until he is resting against a mix of cool and warmth.
Armor and unguarded skin, shocking in their closeness, wings rising to gently envelop him in their pearlescent shine, and it takes all he has not to crowd inappropriately close, trembling from the sensation as much as the idea that for all his failures, all his sins, all his selfish, pointless cruelty, this should be his reward—
"It is all right, Sandalphon."
"I—"
"You're here now. Everything is all right."
"Don't— don't say that, not when— not when I took so long, when I never thought—"
That I would get another chance, that you could find me again, that you would risk even your very soul for my sake—
A hum, as thoughtful as it is soothing. "Know that my faith in you never wavered."
He can't help the sound that escapes him, partway between a laugh and a sob, reeling too hard at the idea of being depended on, believed in, despite everything—
"You did well, Sandalphon. You did so well."
The words are like a healing balm, spreading over a wound so old he'd long since thought it scar tissue, capable of little more than a dull ache. It shouldn't hurt this much, nor should it feel this good to have it soothed, mended by the confirmation that he has at last managed to do the right thing, to do right by Lucifer.
"Was it difficult?"
"You— was it difficult. Was it difficult, you— you— I can't even— you have no idea, none at all—"
Another sound that can't decide what it wants to be, but settling on something high-pitched and slightly hysterical. No doubt he looks like a right fool, directing his protests into Lucifer's shoulder like this – and there will be plenty of time to have conniptions over that idea later — but right now, it's the best he can manage. The only thing he can manage, really.
"And who are you to say that, anyway? Don't you realize what could have happened…?! How can you just say it's alright, when you could have— you could have been—"
Torn apart, disintegrated, obliterated more thoroughly than even his murderers could have managed, but Sandalphon finds himself choking on the words, holding back the terror of reality — of Lucifer, robbed of his body and his core, vulnerable beyond all measure, and how close Sandalphon had come to snuffing out his soul entirely by accident, without ever even knowing what he'd done.
"You could have been... hurt, and I'm not— are you hurt? Are you alright?"
It's an effort to pull back, to deny himself this newfound closeness enough to study Lucifer's face for any sign of discomfort. He'd feel stupid to insist on asking in spite of so much reassurance, except that he's never done so before, never thought it might be something he should do, needed to do.
All that meets him, though, is that smile. "All is well, Sandalphon."
"But are you?"
"Of course." A slight headshake, as if Lucifer is downright bemused by the question. "You're here. How could I not be?"
For a long moment, Sandalphon can't do anything but stare. Mouth open on the words that won't come forward, muscles slack with shock, his stupid heart awash with the incandescent joy of being wanted, needed, treasured like this, of being able to do for Lucifer what Lucifer has always done for him just by existing.
For a long, drawn-out, utterly disgraceful moment, comprehension eludes him, too overwhelmed by all this easy affection, the heart-stopping beauty of that beatific face—
Which is exactly the problem.
He knows now, has seen with eyes unclouded for the first time in his life what lay beyond the boundaries set by his own worship, his own need to cling to a transcendent vision. It used to sustain him during all the dreary, hopeless days of his existence, used to chase away the pain and ugliness and allow him, for brief, precious moments, to feel like something better, something of worth, simply by being allowed to bask in Lucifer's radiant perfection.
You weren't perfect, though. You were lonely, and I made you more lonely every time I refused to walk beside you, every time I bowed harder when you asked me to raise my head, every time I was too much of a coward to reach for you as you reached for me, every time I wouldn't press when you told me—
You told me—
—You never told me you were alright.
When you grew quiet, when your gaze went distant, those few times I managed to work up the courage to ask you, you would always say it was nothing, you'd always tell me not to be troubled, that there was no need for concern—
And I thought you meant— I thought you meant you truly didn't *need* it, when it was just that you couldn't lie—
—You couldn't lie and tell me you were alright.
"You're… not Lucifer-sama, are you."
The words are out of his mouth before he even knows what he's saying, unreal, ludicrous — but far less ludicrous than the idea of Lucifer, who had his body stolen and his core violated so deeply it could never again house his essence; Lucifer, who died alone, uncertain of whether his last words ever managed to reach anyone, convinced it was only right to pay with his own life for the sin of a simple wish; Lucifer, who had risked his last fragile remnants to save the very person who made all that tragedy possible in the first place — the idea of that Lucifer being able to say, with conviction and without hesitation, that he was alright.
You weren't alright, you weren't alright when I last saw you, and I didn't manage to see it past my own feelings—
He takes a step back, the impostor's hand slipping from his cheek without resistance, smile fading, and part of him, the stupid part, almost wants to mourn the loss.
"Who are you."
The impostor merely shakes his head, the unbearable look of fondness in his eyes spelling out his answer more clearly than any words.
Don't you already know?
"I don't—"
But even as he makes to protest, Sandalphon realizes that it's true. He knows this impostor, this apparition — knows him from endless, lonely hours of useless waiting, watching from on high as primal beast after primal beast would leave the Astral labs to begin their duties elsewhere in the world, watching as his bright-winged counterparts took to the skies with purpose, heart aching with the wish to join them, to know what it was like to live for a reason, and hoping, dreaming—
Dreaming of the day he would return from an assignment of his very own, and rush to deliver his report, so that he might receive that most precious reward — a contented smile to confirm his worth, a word of praise to acknowledge his usefulness, perhaps even, in his more daring fancies, a hand resting upon the crown of his head, expressing pride and satisfaction rather than mere kindness—
An audacious fantasy to retreat into whenever his doubts became too heavy, the embodiment of all his childish yearning, and he fell for it like an idiot, as if he'd learned nothing at all, as if he hadn't just promised, hadn't just sworn—
The creation shifts, once again extending a hand to cup his cheek, once again offering comfort and understanding where none are deserved. It takes more effort than it should to reach up and remove that touch, as warm as the real thing, supported by the memory of a thousand tiny gestures both real and imagined.
"You don't…" Clenching his fists, Sandalphon swallows past the vise around his throat. "You don't have to do that anymore. I'll be… well, I won't be okay, but it wouldn't be right if I were, now would it?"
The creation nods, though whether it's in understanding or agreement, he can't tell.
"Thank you. Could you just. I… I need to think, and I can't do that when you're— You're entirely too much like Him for me to concentrate."
Perhaps it's cowardly to do, but if he closes his eyes so he doesn't have to watch it acquiesce, doesn't have to watch it shimmer and disperse into a thousand fireflies, then, well, there's no longer anyone here to judge him for it.
So he simply keeps standing in the small clearing filled with wildflowers, in this space where everything speaks of Lucifer, feels like Lucifer, letting the spring breeze taunt him with its promise, his mind at last truly and completely blank—
Until the silence is shattered by the ugly, jarring sound of laughter.
*.*.*.*.*
TBC
Author's Notes: Sorry, Sandalphon, your princess is in another castle, and the castle fucking hates you. XD
- Three guesses as to who showed up at the end there, and the first two don't count.
- Lucifer's an actual Disney princess fight me.
- You know that little fluff-and-wingstretch thing that birds do when they're greeting each other? Yep, that one.