He emerges into a storm.

One moment, he is suffused in a pearl-tinted, buttery warmth, welcomed in the embrace of the soul shield, its clasp so careful, so bone-achingly gentle that having it serve as a barrier of any kind seems nothing short of impossible. And in the next, that embrace is gone, scattered by the screaming onslaught of every wind in the world — gusts and gales of every direction whipping each other to shreds, desert heat and arctic chill racing each other for the prize of rending any soul unfortunate enough to find itself in their midst.

He can hardly see past the stinging of tears, skin burning with the unforgiving lashes. If not for the steady lift of three pairs of sun-white radiance, he would have been hopelessly lost, swallowed up by the mad churning of the winds before he even had a chance to tell up from down — once again saved by that limitless kindness, once again giving him time to stare like a fool at all the chaos he's wrought and scramble to comprehend—

He's not sure what he was expecting — a pit, perhaps, a volcanic cauldron simmering with the fires of his own selfishness, spewing blacksalt bitterness and red-hot desires — but certainly not this storm-torn sky, far too new but terribly familiar from the tops of its roiling clouds to the ring of desolate islands clinging to life in the gray-haze distance.

In the back of his mind, a tiny, stupid, eternally arrogant part has the gall to start screeching in irritation at the nonsensicality of it all — as far as horrors go, the Grim Basin doesn't even qualify for the bottom of the list, what does it have to do with anything about him — but even as he makes to stomp it out, freshly aware that someone else, a very specific someone else, may (will, always will) end up paying for it dearly, it's already too late. The winds are turning, sweeping back towards the cloud-packed center to part the curtains on a sight that not even two millennia in Pandemonium could have conjured up.

There is a crack in reality, or what passes for reality in this place, a spiderweb fracture in the very air, and—

Red, red, first pale like a cadaver in the last stages of bleeding dry, but rapidly deepening until it reaches the exact hue of a festering wound at the center, the color of flesh in the process of consumption.

And fanning out from it, surrounding it, a whirling charybdis of shards, hundreds, thousands, churning round and round, their metallic, frenzied chatter rising to eclipse any wind-born noise—

He knows what they are, abruptly, despite the lack of boiling cesspit, despite the sickly crimson glow bathing each and every one of them, he knows—

This is him, the real him, the true core of his being — violet obsidian, edged and jagged, forged from the sludge of dreams and memories, desires and delusions. Each sharp enough to draw blood on its own but sharpened further against the countless others of its kind — at first unwillingly, and then on purpose, for centuries, until they became sharp enough to slice apart any soft and vulnerable thing they could in an unfettered, willful play at strength.

Thousands, tens of thousands, one for every time his eyes caught on the movement of those fingertips, that barely there touch trailing along the rim of a cup, more porcelain than the vessel they were so absently caressing, and wishing he could be in its place—

One for every time he found himself on its receiving end and had to flinch back from the blossoms of heat that touch would open on his skin, the terrifying impulse to seize that hand and ask it to make him burn—

One for every time he had to watch the lines of that back, endless power and grace keeping each radiant wing aloft, and found himself fighting down the impulse to rush after it, to cage it and press himself against it, to speak any number of damning requests—

—don't leave, take me with You, I'll do anything, I'll be anything, I'll worship You more than those brilliant fools lining up to serve You, just say the word, just tell me how, I'll do it, I'll learn to please You—

One for every time he wanted to cry and beg, one for every lie he told, one for every spark of hate he felt for every creature under the sky for taking that person's tender gaze from him, when they all already had so much more than he ever would—

One for every doubt he nursed, one for every question he failed to voice but answered for himself anyway—

—a spare, a spare, nothing but a spare — and how could that ever be true? How could I ever be anything like You? How could I hope— how could I dare— but if— but if but if but if— why haven't You said...? Why haven't You told? Why do You not meet me as one Ruler of Creation would another? Why do You shake Your head, and tell Me not to ask for My purpose, why do You insist on feeding Me scraps of kindness till the end, the predetermined, already decided end...?

One for every curse he spit, one for every memory he twisted to fit into the wider story of his pain, one for every time he thought to take, to hurt, to own—

And in the midst of all that swirling rot, a faint shimmer, alone, gentle, and so hopelessly pure — the most precious soul in all the world.

*.*.*.*.*

In his darkest, most ignoble moments, too numerous for anyone except the most persistent of sinners, Sandalphon has dreamed of this:

Of confronting Lucifer (just Lucifer, reverence and propriety thrown away in childish daring) with the full scope of the power he had always been denied, to dance a bloody, magnificent pas-de-deux that would make the very skies tremble with every clash of their blades, and—

Of having Lucifer strike him down, breathless and final but eyes alight with recognition, admiration, want—

Of pinning Lucifer down like a butterfly, wings straining against the swords holding him in place, as Sandalphon sets the whole of creation on fire just to finally, finally be rid of the entire stupid, useless, undeserving world, to become the only thing that can exist in the scope of that blue gaze—

Of bringing the Supreme One to his knees, making him bow with the same awe that used to be directed at him, and basking in his reverence, the same reverence Sandalphon never could help but give him for his mere existence—

The endings to the dream were a dime a dozen, each a lurid shade of blasphemous and filthy, but never, not in any of their iterations, no matter how wild his hunger, how feverish his desire—

Never this.

Never Lucifer, devoid of swords and armor, devoid of everything but this near-translucent form — devoid of even his wings, for they're currently keeping their thief from crumbling, and— are those feathers? are those shards of bone, sticking to silvered gashes against that unprotected back—?

Never Lucifer, weaponless, defenseless, motionless, bare and vulnerable against this unholy maelstrom howling with a fury far greater than itself, and even as Sandalphon is still struggling to comprehend the sight, face to face with the true cost behind those soothing words—

~~I heard you calling, my dearest light~~

—there's another realization all lined up to turn his stomach: that it's been months since the Battle of the Grim Basin, months since the miracle that reawakened those white wings and saved him, months that he spent indulging in denial and another run at grieving while doing nothing but taking and taking and taking.

The maelstrom shudders, metal screeching against metal, the red glow brightening with sudden purpose.

It's only an instant, less than a breath, and yet it seems to go on forever, each sword-shard snapping into formation, angling, rising, building up, up, up until the multitude has formed a wave, pulsing in time with the red-hot fracture at the center.

And still, that utterly unguarded soul does not move, is making no effort to defend or avoid the looming strike because—

He's always taken everything you threw at him, no matter how hurtful or unjust, like it was his due. Isn't it just so nice knowing that no matter what you do... isn't it just so, so nice...

The wave rears back, its target plain as day—

Lucifer-sama…!

—and, as if that choked, voiceless whisper were a signal, the sword-shards come rushing downward, a single strike aiming for execution—

"Lucifer-sama!"

It's too late, of course, even with the frantic beating of those wings, at last moved to action where their undeserving cargo remains frozen, caught between this moment and the one he failed to witness, failed to stop — again, again, again —

The wave hits.

*.*.*.*.*

The wave hits, and— parts, and shears in two, like water at a watershed, because there is—

—a hand, a single, outstretched hand, its translucent palm open as if to placate rather than quell, not commanding but asking, because—

This how Lucifer fights, this is how Lucifer has always fought, with sorrow and with great compassion, unwilling to strike until it is the last resort, and perhaps not even then—

~~forgive me~~

~~I failed to understand how much you suffered~~

The crimson spiderweb is pulsing, vibrating with furious intent, but the swords keep veering off, slowing, stilling, floundering like disoriented fish separated from their swarm.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the outstretched hand lowers as the last swords fall away. On anyone else, it would look like a motion of finality, an attack successfully repealed, but Sandalphon has had ages to learn the effortless grace in every move and gesture, the way Lucifer moves with the light and the light moves with him, and this is nothing but a pale afterimage, a weary soldier sheathing a weapon—

"Lucifer-sama!"

No pause, no hint that Lucifer has heard or even noticed his entrance.

Instead, he moves closer to the blades, heedless of their foul glow, heedless of their nature—

"Lucifer-sama, what are you—?!"

—arms spreading in a gesture so awfully, achingly familiar that it has the words coagulating in Sandalphon's throat.

~~take solace in my core~~

Comfort for the inconsolable. Redemption for the irredeemable. An opening for things forged to hurt and rend and tear apart, and they take it, of course they take it, because they are nothing if not pieces of a foolish, half-mad blacksmith looking to return to innocence even as he vowed to smash everything to pieces.

And just like back then, when he opened his most sacred door to a struggling, half-mad traitor, Lucifer doesn't even flinch as blade after blade crowds into his embrace, doesn't cry out as they inevitably cut him, a hundred small gashes from something that cannot but hurt, over and over and over—

Holding them close even as the crimson poison writhes and lashes at his soul form, gleeful that its target has come to it so willingly, has been coming to it willingly, over and over and over, to purify and heal a wounded core.

Taking all of the trash, all the bits that were broken long before the Crimson Horizon nearly broke their owner apart, allowing all those lies and delusions and old selfish pain to cut him like a sacrificial offering, and cradling them like precious gifts, worthy of being saved and restored—

"Wait— Lucifer-sama!"

For a hoarse, desperate moment, he's sure Lucifer has finally heard.

For a moment, Lucifer's actions line up with his pleas — he turns, just a little, his embrace loosening, and the swords fall away, gleaming with nothing but their own viciousness, the red malice seeping into the cuts they left behind and fanning out like lightning scars.

Then, Lucifer opens his eyes, and the look in them is so much worse than what Sandalphon found in the ruined halls of Canaan — not the haze of a soul desperately trying to stave off the end, but the all-consuming brightness of a soul who has already given everything, memory and feeling and sensation, and who is determined to keep giving, for whom the pain of an eternal death means nothing if he can do so while protecting—

"No! Lucifer-sama, please— please stop this, you'll—"

—die—

Except it will be worse than dying, worse than being killed, worse than having his body taken and his core violated and his soul forced into unending purgatory, where—

—you left him, you *left* him there, just because it looked so quaint, soft like a dream, a pretty little dream, you thought it was all right to leave him, to make him wait until you got done finding yourself, until you thought you managed to become whatever would make him happy, without understanding the *first thing*—

—worse than being crushed to dust in the center of Pandemonium, worse than falling into the Crimson Horizon, because even being devoured by malevolence and nightmares is not as bad as being gone, wholly and completely, a soul razed from the very fabric of existence as if he had never been—

Above them, the pulsing of the foul scar is quickening, a gateway to a world of rot filled with nothing but envy for the living, nothing but hatred for the one keeping it at bay, and the befouled swords begin to stir anew, drawn irresistibly to that promise of endless rage and destruction.

My weakness, my failure, why does it always come back to *you* paying for *my* sins?!

And Lucifer — the remnant, the afterimage, the breath of a wish — raises his hand again, slowly, so slowly, with the weight of aeons of devotion—

"Please, please don't—! You don't have to do this! Why would you do this?! It's not worth it! It's not worth anything, especially not you—!"

It's much too late for courage, of course, much too late to breach the boundaries of worship and finally touch Lucifer, to rest his hands on the bare outline of his forearm and feel not skin but pale winter light filtering through frosted glass — and the acid sting of the befoulment, crimson fading into the raw pink of a fresh kill, devouring and being devoured by even that faint light—

I can protect you, if you'll just let me— it's enough, you've done enough, please let me be for you what you have always been for me… you always— just by existing— please, I know I'm not a savior but… I want to save you…

"Please, listen to me! I'm here, I'm here, you see? You don't have to do this anymore, you never had to, I swear, I never wanted— you never should have— it should be me, damn it— I'll fix this, I'll do anything to fix it, but I can't do it without you—"

He's crying again, or perhaps for the first time, hot tears and words tumbling over themselves in their haste to escape into the open — finally, finally, always too late—

"I know you're still in there, you have to be, you can't not be—"

It's fairytale logic, the wailing of a stubborn child who can't bear things not going his way, and Sandalphon knows there's nothing he could offer that wouldn't be selfish, that wouldn't revolve around his joy, his wishes, his desires, because he's never learned, never tried, never even thought to try speaking the language of giving before.

All he has is honesty, here at the core of himself, honesty and that horrid, selfish, all-consuming love that wants everything, and everything is—

"You made this…?"

A smile, small and sweet and startled, matching wide blue eyes.

"I— I wanted to try. I mean. I — forgive me, Lucifer-sama, I should have asked your permission, I just… I wanted to see if I could, and I tried to make it just like you always do— not that— not that I ever—"

"This is… from you… for me?"

—that moment, over and over, in a thousand iterations, until surprise gives way to nothing but delight.

Above them, the storm rises to a metallic howling, and Sandalphon doesn't need to look up to know the shards have resumed their frenzied circling, puppet predators all honing in on their prey — their willing prey, who makes to step forward, to meet his doom head-on.

~~my punishment will be death, and yours will be to live on~~

"Don't do this," he begs, or tries to, voice breaking on fear and desperation, and there's something bitterly funny about the fact that he spent most of his life shying away from Lucifer's hesitant touches, so convinced allowing them would reveal the depth of his desire — and yet, here he is, here, when it almost doesn't matter anymore, crowding as close as he can, pressing his forehead against Lucifer's chest, close to the worst of the lightning wounds, and desperately wishing for something, anything to get through. "I know that's how it's always been, I know everyone always let you get hurt thinking you couldn't be— I know I'm no different, but I swear—"

"Would you… perhaps, if it pleases you… would you not… call me by my name?"

He's not sure why the memory chooses that moment to resurface, that quiet request on one of their earliest meetings in that sun-dappled garden, and his stuttered, flush-faced answer, so certain it was meant to be a test, a way to demonstrate his respect and understanding of his own place.

"I— I don't— wh-what do you mean? You are Lucifer-sama, aren't you?"

How he couldn't have been more wrong than in that moment, and managed to be wrong again two-thousand years later, chose to be wrong again—

"I was lying, you know— I was lying when I said you were my Guiding Light—"

The closest he could come to an endearment, the chastest term he could find without letting go of the safety of worship, when he should have just allowed himself to choose from any of a hundred equally artless, but far truer names—

—my heart, beloved, my morning and my evening star, the first light I want to see when I open my eyes and the last before I let them close—

"You're so much more than that, to me— to everyone, even if they don't know it yet—"

The air shudders, heavy with killing intent, a thousand swords shrieking misery and rage as they take aim once again, and Sandalphon tightens his grip as much as he can, terrified of the moment his fingers will close around the empty air—

—again, again again again—

"You're you— and I don't want you to leave me, not when I finally understand— please…Lucifer!"

Objectively speaking, it's beyond pathetic: a last-ditch effort, his voice breaking on the name, sobbing it into an insubstantial shoulder. An offering unfit for anyone, least of all someone so dear, and yet there is— and yet there is—

A feather-light touch at the back of his neck, more breeze than physical sensation — and a saner man might doubt himself, but he knows this, this barest graze, this most careful of contacts, forever gently asking, it could reach him from anywhere, across any distance, and he'd know—

A breath, a heart-sigh, as if spoken from the very ends of memory—

"…san…dalphon…?"

—and Sandalphon has but a moment, a singular fraction of a moment, to look up and catch the kindling of awareness, the first faint hint of true sunlight filtering through a fog bank, carrying the promise of the blue skies beyond, a moment to be shattered, obliterated and reborn as a creature of pure joy—

—yes, oh gods, please, yes—

—and then the storm howls triumph, and the swords strike true, and it almost doesn't hurt at all.

*.*.*.*.*

TBC

Author's Notes: Go look at that official Q-POT merchandise Lucifer artwork and tell me that radiant smile isn't worth getting stabbed for.

- Everything about this last part is shamelessly TM Utena.
- The fact that Lucifer was apparently going around offering his fellow angels to drop the formality, and it was always rejected... yeah. I think about that a lot.