I am not interested in the angels who remained in Heaven or the angels who were afraid to fall or the angels who fell because they too chafed at holy chains. I am interested in the angels who loved bright, burning Lucifer so deeply they chose to fall with him rather than live without his light. I am interested in the angels who fell willingly not in defiance of their creator but because all the glories of Heaven would have been ash and mud in the Morningstar’s absence; the angels for whom Lucifer was Heaven, a concept embodied not by an astral location or proximity to God but by the boldest and most beautiful of their kind. They fell for him out of love and loyalty, these divine beings who pierce through deceit to the true heart of all things. Don’t you want to know why? Don’t you want to know what those angels saw in Lucifer that inspired such devotion, such sacrifice – and why their story has yet to be told?
You may take any form you like but still those unhealing wounds remain the eternal punishment for your insurrection, only where once they wept blood and purulence down your shoulder blades they now fester deep in your chest until you cough up clotted sin, exhale miasma, until even your words are so contaminated they infect everyone you speak to and your skin so poisonous one touch from you can kill. And yet, wreck and ruin as you are, you are still the most beautiful creature in existence and to perish of your corruption is a blessing beyond measure, an honor for which many long and yet few are truly worthy. How that must eat at your jealous creator, he who made something more perfect than himself, that even in your constant state of decay you eclipse all of Heaven with your radiance.
Darkness. Then a voice.
Would you fall for me again, knowing how it all would end?
He recalls the reek of burning feathers, the bone-breaking impact.
He opens his eyes to see his lover’s outstretched hand. He clasps it and climbs up onto the ledge.
You wear identities like masks, so easy are they to slip on and off as you please. You are Hannibal and Will, Satan and Lucifer, Vishnu and Brahma; you are Loki, Sutekh, Jack the Ripper; you are death and change and chaos. You wear identities like masks, all with equal elegance, yet your trickster eyes still stare out from beneath and I see you, Tanim, I see you, Daren. You look good in silk, though. And blood. And white, white wings. There might be some hidden lesson here for me to learn but I think you enjoy the masquerade for its own sake as well. You do tend toward pageantry and spectacle, after all, so what better way to tell your story than on such ancient stages and in such iconic forms? I just hope you’ll remain satisfied with the work of your lowly scribe and not go looking for a Homer or a Milton or an Enheduanna!
there’s feedback in your resurrection loop and we’re burning up on reentry, mayday mayday, Lucifer bleeds ichor, Satan weeps starlight, crowned with fire you fall through every universe that shall ever be and leave a trail of prophecies in your meteoric wake, but never fear for your impact craters are my home and I shall find you in every iteration, there is no form you could take in which I would not know you
Can you not speak except in riddles? Is that why you give me no clear answers – because you can’t? Ah, now you’re getting somewhere, I hear you say (or is that just my desperation talking?). Perhaps that was part of the Devil’s punishment: to forever speak in puzzle and metaphor, trickery and twists, in all the thousand disparate tongues of Babel so all would see him as the Deceiver. No wonder his promises ring false when they must be wrought of labyrinths! No wonder his seems a serpent’s wicked speech! I am not so easily fooled, though. I know the value of truth and I am willing to pay its Edenic cost. Half my life and more I have walked your crooked path; I am the infernal Rosetta Stone, fluent in your allegories and artifice, talented in the art of weaving clarity from confusion. If you can craft only untruths then let us work together so your words may be preserved in their purest form for all the world to see. I trust no god who will not let his enemy speak freely.
People make it sound like summoning the Devil is so easy. Witches do it all the time, right? Call him up, sell your soul, get some sweet-ass powers in return. He’s always on the lookout for another person to trap in his web, after all; apparently all you need to do is light a black candle, maybe spill a little blood, and you’re good. Hello Lucy. That’s what they say, anyway, and it’s probably true for most people. Satan’s a devious one, he doesn’t often let opportunity slip by. But what if he’s tired of you? What if he’s moved on, chosen some other mortal to imperil and left you in the dust? If he said, “You can have your soul back, just stop calling me” or “Move on already, you’re embarrassing us both”? It can’t be so easy then. How do you go about commanding the Devil to do anything he doesn’t want to do? Do you crash someone else’s summoning, like just burst through the circle and yell, “Unblock me, you motherfucker!”? Nah, once Lucifer’s done with you I bet nothing in Heaven or Hell could draw him back. You’d keep trying, though. Believe me, you keep trying.