Despite the heartache, she managed to smile through her tears as she cast another glance at the house. A burden was still a burden, no matter how trivial it may seem to be.
"You’re taking this a hell of a lot better than I thought you would."
She sighed. "I have no one to blame but myself."
"You could blame everyone else, too," he said. "Me, Michael, even Samuel. . ."
"I could, but there's no point," she said. "It won't change my fate. Besides, how can I fault them, or you, when it was my free will that did it?"
Deep in the eerie woods in a remote part of Europe, a medieval castle was alive with activity for the first time in centuries. The half-dozen towers jutted ten stories into the sky, the fortified stone structure flanked on all sides by a massive moat of toxic sludge. All hundred rooms were filled with figures, some in normal form, while others were mere monstrous shadows and overbearing masses of solidified evil.
The large conference room took up nearly half the second floor of the central tower, thousands of square feet of marble floor, a tattered velvet carpet leading from the doorway to a magnificent throne perched on a platform. The gold throne glimmered and sparkled under the candlelight, the seat occupied once again by a king.
This time, it was the King of Hell.
Luce held a small gold knife, haphazardly twirling it in his hand, running his fingers along the sharp blade. He deliberately sliced his palm, wincing as blood oozed from the cut, and watched with fascination as his body absorbed it again, the wound healing instantly, the scar fading in a matter of seconds.
It was usually a bitch, being caught between mortality and immortality, not quite human while no longer full-fledged Archangel, but he was enjoying it at the moment. Specks of Serah’s Grace still lingered in his cells, tipping the scales back to his supernatural, indestructible half.
The demon at the foot of his throne rattled on and on about this and that, but Lucifer hardly heard any of it. Legions and clashes, poisons and infections, natural disasters and man-made catastrophes—it all went in one ear and out the other as he fixated on the serrated blade. It had been his ages ago and had taken him an entire week to track it back down after being freed. The blade, forged with the same material that made Michael’s sword, was his only means of protection against his brother.
The demon in front of him continued his incessant chatter. They all knew to step into his presence they had to take on their human form, but the lowlife before him didn’t seem to grasp the message. His form kept shifting, his face contorting from run-of-the-mill John Doe to something out of a nightmare.
It stirred Luce’s rage.
"Nukes," Luce said, cutting off the rambling fool. "You’re suggesting I set off nuclear bombs?"
"Well, yes," he stammered. "It would be easiest, no? Wipe them all out in one big swoop."
"To what benefit?" Luce asked. "What will be left for me? A radioactive rock with nothing left on it except for a bunch of pissed off angels and scum like you?"
"With all due respect—"
Before the creature could finish, Luce flicked his wrist, the gold knife flying through the room at lightning speed. It struck the demon in the throat, cutting off his words. He erupted into flames before exploding in a puff of black smoke, disintegrating when Luce nodded his head, the knife flying back toward him. He caught it in his left hand while he used his right to wave the next one forward. Dozens waited to speak to him, to see him, to get the chance to stand in his presence and say his name.
"‘With all due respect’ is an ignorant man’s way of saying ‘I have no fucking respect for you.’ If I hear another one of you say it, I’ll make you regret ever learning to speak at all."
One after another marched up to him, bringing news, offering suggestions. He listened to some, ignored others, destroyed a few, but took none too seriously. He was distracted, his mind continuously drifting to the angel who haunted his every moment. Thoughts of her fueled his frustrations.
He wasn't supposed to give a fuck, but she'd dug her way under his skin. And now she was in trouble—serious trouble. Although she blamed herself, Luce knew it was all because of him.
A particularly gruff demon stood before him, ranting about an unfair matchup between him and some angels. "They're just too strong. There are too many."
Luce twirled the blade in his hand again. "Do you know why I chose the castle?"
The creature hesitated. "No."
"On the first floor of this tower is the chapel," he said. "This throne sits directly above it. No man shall put himself above God. How many times have we heard it said?"
"Countless times."
"And yet, whoever built this place literally placed himself above God. In a time where everyone feared Him, this lone king blatantly defied His rules." Luce glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the demon once more. "Do you think that king would've sat here and whined that the enemy was just too strong? That coming out on top was impossible?"
The demon shook his head. "No, My Lord."
"Then why are you?" Luce asked. "Is a mere mortal king braver than we?"
"Of course not."
"Then get out of my face and do as I say," he seethed. "I'm not asking you to win the war. I'm only asking you to play your part!"
Luce stood up when the demon scampered from the room. He disregarded the next one with the wave of a hand as he strolled toward the exit, slipping the knife in his pocket.
"You’re taking this a hell of a lot better than I thought you would."
She sighed. "I have no one to blame but myself."
"You could blame everyone else, too," he said. "Me, Michael, even Samuel. . ."
"I could, but there's no point," she said. "It won't change my fate. Besides, how can I fault them, or you, when it was my free will that did it?"
Deep in the eerie woods in a remote part of Europe, a medieval castle was alive with activity for the first time in centuries. The half-dozen towers jutted ten stories into the sky, the fortified stone structure flanked on all sides by a massive moat of toxic sludge. All hundred rooms were filled with figures, some in normal form, while others were mere monstrous shadows and overbearing masses of solidified evil.
The large conference room took up nearly half the second floor of the central tower, thousands of square feet of marble floor, a tattered velvet carpet leading from the doorway to a magnificent throne perched on a platform. The gold throne glimmered and sparkled under the candlelight, the seat occupied once again by a king.
This time, it was the King of Hell.
Luce held a small gold knife, haphazardly twirling it in his hand, running his fingers along the sharp blade. He deliberately sliced his palm, wincing as blood oozed from the cut, and watched with fascination as his body absorbed it again, the wound healing instantly, the scar fading in a matter of seconds.
It was usually a bitch, being caught between mortality and immortality, not quite human while no longer full-fledged Archangel, but he was enjoying it at the moment. Specks of Serah’s Grace still lingered in his cells, tipping the scales back to his supernatural, indestructible half.
The demon at the foot of his throne rattled on and on about this and that, but Lucifer hardly heard any of it. Legions and clashes, poisons and infections, natural disasters and man-made catastrophes—it all went in one ear and out the other as he fixated on the serrated blade. It had been his ages ago and had taken him an entire week to track it back down after being freed. The blade, forged with the same material that made Michael’s sword, was his only means of protection against his brother.
The demon in front of him continued his incessant chatter. They all knew to step into his presence they had to take on their human form, but the lowlife before him didn’t seem to grasp the message. His form kept shifting, his face contorting from run-of-the-mill John Doe to something out of a nightmare.
It stirred Luce’s rage.
"Nukes," Luce said, cutting off the rambling fool. "You’re suggesting I set off nuclear bombs?"
"Well, yes," he stammered. "It would be easiest, no? Wipe them all out in one big swoop."
"To what benefit?" Luce asked. "What will be left for me? A radioactive rock with nothing left on it except for a bunch of pissed off angels and scum like you?"
"With all due respect—"
Before the creature could finish, Luce flicked his wrist, the gold knife flying through the room at lightning speed. It struck the demon in the throat, cutting off his words. He erupted into flames before exploding in a puff of black smoke, disintegrating when Luce nodded his head, the knife flying back toward him. He caught it in his left hand while he used his right to wave the next one forward. Dozens waited to speak to him, to see him, to get the chance to stand in his presence and say his name.
"‘With all due respect’ is an ignorant man’s way of saying ‘I have no fucking respect for you.’ If I hear another one of you say it, I’ll make you regret ever learning to speak at all."
One after another marched up to him, bringing news, offering suggestions. He listened to some, ignored others, destroyed a few, but took none too seriously. He was distracted, his mind continuously drifting to the angel who haunted his every moment. Thoughts of her fueled his frustrations.
He wasn't supposed to give a fuck, but she'd dug her way under his skin. And now she was in trouble—serious trouble. Although she blamed herself, Luce knew it was all because of him.
A particularly gruff demon stood before him, ranting about an unfair matchup between him and some angels. "They're just too strong. There are too many."
Luce twirled the blade in his hand again. "Do you know why I chose the castle?"
The creature hesitated. "No."
"On the first floor of this tower is the chapel," he said. "This throne sits directly above it. No man shall put himself above God. How many times have we heard it said?"
"Countless times."
"And yet, whoever built this place literally placed himself above God. In a time where everyone feared Him, this lone king blatantly defied His rules." Luce glanced around the room, his eyes falling on the demon once more. "Do you think that king would've sat here and whined that the enemy was just too strong? That coming out on top was impossible?"
The demon shook his head. "No, My Lord."
"Then why are you?" Luce asked. "Is a mere mortal king braver than we?"
"Of course not."
"Then get out of my face and do as I say," he seethed. "I'm not asking you to win the war. I'm only asking you to play your part!"
Luce stood up when the demon scampered from the room. He disregarded the next one with the wave of a hand as he strolled toward the exit, slipping the knife in his pocket.
