Surviving the Astral labs has left Sandalphon with an unintended gift: a fairly exact understanding of just how little he needs to remain functional.

Limbs, breath, blood and even sanity are all optional, extras in the same way an airship requires neither deck varnish nor brass portholes to remain airborne. He can keep going, even if he no longer knows why or how or what for – Lucifer's not here, he's never been here, Sandalphon has failed him yet again – he can keep fighting, he'll drench this nostalgic facsimile with the blood of any fiend who dares trespass upon it—

"By the skies," says the voice, still dripping with hilarity, "You should sign up as an actor, truly. Nobody'd be able to beat you in the role of melodramatic bitch."

Sandalphon isn't sure who he expected to see – an emissary from the Crimson Horizon, perhaps, so apt at slipping through the cracks in a weakened heart, or maybe the snake-eyed bastard, escaped from his dimensional cage because of course, or any of the hundreds of mortals and creatures alike who would actually have the right to call him names, even if they do not have the right to step upon this hallowed memory.

He isn't prepared for the slight figure that detaches himself from the shade of a magnolia tree, idly brushing off a petal, and even with the hood drawn so deeply as to obscure all his features, Sandalphon knows – knows – what must lie beneath.

"That's rich coming from someone skulking in the shadows like a third-rate villain," he says, watching the intruder's movements from across the length of his blade. He has no idea whether the sword will accomplish anything when push comes to shove – what the rules are, whether this inner non-space can turn a fiction born from his own self-image into a real weapon capable of doing real damage – but that doesn't mean he won't try.

"You have five seconds to show yourself before I start carving you up. Slowly."

The intruder seems intent on testing his willingness to keep his word, approaching with the kind of casual sashay in his step that is nothing short of ridiculous – should be nothing short of ridiculous, except for the fact that he chose to show up at this very moment, when Sandalphon has yet to stop feeling like he's been split open, an inexpert surgeon struggling to pull closed the chest cavity exposing its whole bloody mess to the world, and not having the slightest idea whether pure willpower will be enough to let him stab an asshole in the face.

As if in answer, the intruder heaves an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, please. I know you've fully devoted your sad allotment of brain cells to Lucifer-sama dearest, but do try to think at least a little."

"How dare you—"

"How dare I? Simple." A casual toss of his head casts off the hood, revealing a knife-edged smirk on a mirror-image face.

"I'll spare you the effort of having to figure this out on your own, heaven knows you've been dynamite at the soul-searching thing so far," the intruder continues, casting an unimpressed glance at the blade now hovering barely a hand's breadth from his sternum. "I'm part of you. Or me. Or us."

"More precisely, I'm the part you don't like. And, well, since you hate everything about yourself except the hypocritical bullshit persona you've been cultivating for the past year or so… I'm a pretty solid chunk of the flaming trash heap we call a soul."

"Let's say I believe any of this for even a moment. What the hell are you talking about."

"Oh, come now. I'm not the one who's spending his time playing house with a bunch of mortal children. Whose heart goes all flutter-flutter when they buy into the fantasy of you being a good little angel."

"That's called atonement, you piece of shit."

"Is it, though? Is it really? Isn't it just that their innocence reminds you of His innocence? That if you're able to convince them of some kind of innate goodness in you, it'll be the same as convincing Him? And He'll believe you, of course, because He's the same as them – forgiving and naive to a fault."

"Watch your tongue, you miserable little—"

"Watch my tongue? Oh, well, I guess I didn't pick quite the right word, did I. Let's see… would 'gullible' be a better description?"

Nimbly, he sidesteps Sandalphon's answering swing, just far enough that the blade remains frustratingly out of reach of his insolent throat.

"Wow, is that all it takes to set you off these days? A tiny sip of the unfiltered truth, without milk and sugar? Tell me, when was the last time you thought of taking yourself to task, hm? Or are you truly so far gone that you've forgotten?"

A gust comes sweeping through the garden, sharp with the promise of wilting leaves, and Sandalphon blames it for the chill settling in his limbs, rather than the doppelgänger's all-too-knowing stare.

"As if you didn't mar His name with every curse under the sun, as if you didn't spend every day of the past two thousand years gleefully sullying His every word and gesture just to make yourself feel better?!"

Another gust, its shrill whistling tumble carrying off stalks of yellowing grass and leaving ruinous echoes in its wake.

Is this fun to you? Are you trying to teach me a lesson?!

So that's it, isn't it? You won't even show yourself? You won't even think of me as a threat that needs to be met?!

Why won't you say anything? Why won't you give me a purpose? I know you can, so why—? Do you take satisfaction in keeping me like this?! Does it amuse you to watch me beg for your favor?!

When you told me of the world you protect, was that just to torture me? Was that just you letting me know that I'll never be a part of it?

At least hate me, destroy me! If you don't, then—

"Ah, but then, you know He'll forgive you. 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, absolution is basically a given–"

"Shut. up!" In an ideal world, his voice would be shaking with nothing but rage at the insult, the implication that he doesn't know exactly how undeserving he is, that he wouldn't gladly take any punishment, any disappointment or scorn, if only Lucifer were to direct it at him–

"There you go again," the doppelgänger groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're like a stars-damned broken record–" and here, his voice leaps to a mocking, breathy tremble, "Please notice me, Lucifer-sama. I'm being good, Lucifer-sama. I'm no longer a twisted vengeful selfish failure, Lucifer-sama."

"…"

"And if you come back, I'll be even better. I'll serve you, and adore you, and protect you, and I won't wish for a single thing in return!" The other pauses, shaking his head like a disappointed mortal parent at an obstinate child. "Even though we both know what we are like inside. How we yearn. How we covet. How we want."

"So what if I do?!"

It's taking an effort to keep the blade still, and a greater effort still when the doppelgänger smiles slowly, like splinters driving into flesh, too knowing and too satisfied for Sandalphon not to believe him. He knows the emotion that comes with that smile, after all, the ugly, liberating feeling of knowing he has at last managed to strike true, to soothe his own pain by turning it on someone else.

"So what if you do? So what if you do. So what if… You still don't get it, do you," the other says, the look of relish fleeing his expression as quickly as it appeared. "You still think this is the bottom of your soul? A garden of paradise, with Him as the rarest and most beautiful of flowers, just waiting for you to take Him home?"

For one long, blissful moment, Sandalphon can honestly say that he doesn't understand – the words are just words, their meaning as plain as their loathing, nothing he hasn't already thought of himself, from the moment he set foot into this gold-filigree world and thought it much too beautiful to belong to someone like himself. And then, like a sword snapping free from the thread keeping it suspended, realization comes crashing down.

"…You know where He is."

Distantly, he's aware of the crackle of frost, of leaves wilting and crumbling into dust, of the wind rising to a silvery keen.

"I just know what we want," the other shrugs, poking at the ground with the toe of one boot. "What we thought about, on so many lonely days and nights. How wonderful it would be if He were to return and stay. If there were no sky for Him to take care of. Nothing and no one else to command His attention. Or if there were, that they wouldn't matter. You remember, right?"

Primal beasts cannot drown, don't need air to live, and yet, here he is, lungs filling with the burn of ice and salt water.

"'Lucifer-sama, who looks only at me. Smiles only for me. Sees only me.' We could never have Him in life, but we can have Him in death."

He can't breathe.

He can't think.

There's an ocean threatening to burst his lungs, there's a desert in his mind.

Distantly, he's aware of someone screaming – no words, just the howling of a wounded beast – of razor wire threading through his veins and pulling his muscles taut, of the grooves of the sword hilt biting hard and deep into his palms—

—no—

And it's so weak, two little sounds, two small, shaky letters, scrawled by a hapless hand–

—no no no no no no—

Somewhere else, in another time and place, it would be funny, perhaps, how repeating them, stringing them together in a chain from here to infinity only seems to make them smaller, weaker–

—not true, not true not true— can't be, can't— never— never—

—*never*—

Something hits the ground, no grass left to catch the weight, to cushion the crack of frozen earth against bone–

—*I* could *never*—

And the soft, wet sound of a body yielding—

—wouldn't—

Pain lances through him in a white-hot javelin, fierce enough to scatter the desert and boil the ocean into nothingness, carving a path for a single, horrified scrap of a whisper—

…wouldn't I…?

The world stills.

The winds quiet.

…wouldn't I.

It's a good thing he is already on his knees, and he appreciates the hard earth, the shards of frost digging into his legs. The pain is spreading, pulsing like an erratic star in the center of his stomach, but it too is welcome, wrapping around the uncertainty and bidding it settle, two different kinds of torment to balance each other out.

Beneath him, the doppelgänger – the mirror, the truth – is silent, simply gazing up at him. There is no mockery in his expression, no vicious satisfaction, as if he is content with the knowledge that Sandalphon will no longer evade him, the core of his own selfishness.

As if I even could, comes the darkly humorous thought, startling a laugh that quickly turns into a cough, blood speckling the ground and both their faces.

He glances down, fully expecting the sword buried in his abdomen oh so poetically – perhaps there is something to be said about his aptitude for the dramatic after all – and startles hard when he finds armor unchipped, cloth untorn. There is no blade save for his own, driven into his spectral twin in the exact same place where he can feel his own blood seeping into his intact clothes.

"What—?" he croaks, eyes darting up to search his own face for an answer, but even as the thoughtless surprise escapes into the chilled air, there's something in him whispering of course.

It makes no sense, but it makes perfect sense.

The other only smiles, a rust-flecked little twist of pity. "You know it's not normal, don't you. What we have. What we feel."

This, at least, is something he can answer.

Once upon a time, when he didn't know any better, Sandalphon thought he had a name for it. Back when the feeling was still fresh and sun-bright, when it would warm every last particle of ether that made up his being, when he would still feel that happy rush, that breathless wonder when pausing and examining it, a precious gem, a delightful secret too new to even desire to be shared.

I love You.

He thought he knew what it was, even as he slowly began to realize that it wasn't right, how it kept growing with every passing day, flaring brighter with every word and touch and gesture until his very skin itched with the effort to contain it, this feeling that had grown so enormous, so wonderfully, frighteningly total, and yet would always be woefully insufficient–

He knows better now.

He's learned what love is, real love, has seen and received it often enough to understand–

Love is the Singularity, willing to open her home to any weary traveler, to any wayward soul, regardless of their burdensome history.

Love is Lyria, giving out trust and affection with both hands no matter how often it is spurned by a world that is not hers.

Love is even the annoying loudmouth lizard, weak and scared and without a shred of understanding of his true self, but so very willing to follow his friends to whatever bitter end they choose.

Love is the Four, who can remember and grieve but move on, close the door on the past with a fond sadness in order to greet the future with open arms, to join its endless possibility in fulfillment of His last order, His final wish.

And love, love in its highest, truest form is Lucifer, who sheltered the whole of creation within the embrace of his wings, no matter how much he suffered for it, silently and gladly, who gave and gave to a world that would never know, would never care, would never give back a single thing to him.

He knows what love is now, perhaps not all of it, but enough to understand that this huge, nameless, all-consuming thing that's been a part of him for as long as he can remember is nothing like it.

"Yes, I know."

After this long, it doesn't even hurt very much to admit – or perhaps that's another benefit of a self-inflicted gut wound. That what he feels, has always felt, will continue to feel until the sun itself comes crashing down from the sky and all the stars fade like so many candles winking out, has never been pure or noble, and any attempts to make it so are just an exercise in self-deception.

"I know. And… I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to fix anything, but if what you say is true, if I really—"

If this, too, is my fault, if the reason You won't show Yourself is because You *can't*, because of *me*—

"Even if I want— I don't want—" He swallows around the steadying taste of iron. "I don't want this!"

Not this, not anything like this— not like I wanted when I didn't know any better, when I thought of You as a god-king, free to go and do whatever You please— by the skies, I really was *that* stupid…

"And I don't care how often I have to run myself through to make that point. I'll kill anyone who even thinks of hurting him — and I don't give a damn if that includes me."

Beneath him, the other is silent, watching him intently.

Sandalphon lifts his chin as well as he can, slumped over and shivering from the pain of the phantom blade. "…What, nothing to say to that?"

"There's no need," the other says, mouth twisting into something closer to a smirk. "Rare as it is, I know when we're being honest."

"Then tell me where He is. Now."

"I can't tell you what you don't know," the other admits with a sigh, sounding almost frustrated at the idea. "I told you. I'm just part—"

"—of my soul," Sandalphon finishes, though even as he says it, it sits wrong on his tongue.

No, the trash heap I call a soul. That's what he – what *I* – said.

At the time, he didn't pay much mind to the words, an insult that failed to sting since it was just the simple truth—

/I can't tell you what you don't know./

Trash. What do you do with trash? What do you do with…

Eyes widening, Sandalphon swallows against the new surge of blood in his mouth.

…You reject it.

You discard it. You bury it. You try to forget.

You keep the parts that are still working, the parts that can be useful, and you keep them together with safety pins and hope, because they're at least better than– better than–

What you don't want to see.

What you don't want others to see.

What *I* don't want *Him* to see.

"Oh gods."

Nightmares. Nightmares and dreams and memories that may as well be both or neither, terror and agony without the wall of clinical detachment, desire raw enough to make him wish to smother himself in shame, rage and hatred and despair shoved down, down, down—

A sudden tremor pulls him from the frantic swirling of his thoughts.

For a second, he's not even sure why it does – for all he knows, it's just his body struggling against an injury that shows no sign of closing up as it should, but that's before it comes again, longer and stronger this time, crawling through the ruins of his wishful sanctuary, shaking about the naked husks of the trees.

"…What was that?"

The other closes his eyes. "…Why do you ask if you already know?"

And he does.

Gracelessly, Sandalphon pushes to his feet, fingers unclenching from their death grip around the hilt of his sword, leaving bits of leather and skin. It hurts to straighten up, far more than a simple stab wound should, but he does, and if he finds himself staggering more than walking towards the edge of the ruined sanctuary, an arm carefully wrapped around his middle, then, well, there's no one around to judge him but himself.

He's barely aware of his surroundings starting to fade — the ground, the trees, even the other — a self-made illusion slowly dissolving and wafting away like so much gold-tinged dust.

This time, when the tremor hits, it just doesn't stop, a sound like a glacier splitting open, a dull, eternal groan that has long since become embedded in his very bones.

It makes no sense, but it makes perfect sense.

Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply, waiting for the wave of existential terror to subside to the sort of indistinct background roar it became after the first one thousand years or so.

Well, you used to fantasize all the time that you would go through hell for Him.

Now you can finally prove it.

Soundlessly, he steps over the edge, feeling the rush of air that doesn't exist, the exhilaration of a fall that isn't — and the maw of Pandemonium, rising up to meet him.

*.*.*.*.*

TBC

Author's Notes: I immensely appreciate Disasterphon he's such a razor-sharp bitch. Sandalphon would totally kick his own ass if he could. Five-inch heels and all.

Next stop: Lucifer. For real this time. I swear it.