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It only took a single swing of his blade.
Lucifer stands as sole witness to the aftermath. A pool of blood gathers at his feet, slowly, steadily seeping past the soles of his boots. Scattered documents float in the blood, white pages stained red, black ink smudged beyond recognition. The putrid odor of metal sullies the air, but he’s long since familiarized himself with the way it sticks wet to his nose and lingers as a bitter taste on his tongue.
This isn’t the first time he’s killed. It certainly won’t be the last.
Amid the crimson, lying there as one would on a bed of roses, is Lucilius, his throat half torn. His robes weigh heavy, drenched in his blood. His skin pales even whiter under the bright red droplets splattered across his face. His lips hang open partway, the last words already spoken, and his dull eyes, devoid of light and life, remain affixed to Lucifer’s person.
The last thing Lucilius saw was Lucifer, his greatest creation. Lucifer, the morning and evening star. Lucifer, the bringer of light to a man drowning in the dark. But light always casts shadows. It can’t hope to dispel what it yields.
Lucifer stares at those eyes. His hand tightens onto the hilt of the sword heavy with the blood dripping off the tip. It will always be heavy now, heavier than it’s ever been. It will always be heavier than the burden he’s carried on his back for thousands of years alone.
Alone. He’s alone again. First, it had been Sandalphon, and now…
He closes his eyes. The memory plays vividly, frame by frame, across the black. Time stops only to hurl him into the past, over and over again.
“I knew we wouldn’t see eye to eye. And that you’d confront me about it.”
“Lucilius!”
It only took a moment for his instincts to decide that Lucilius—his creator, his friend—had to die.
It had been so easy, so natural. He responded to the threat of Lucilius’ words in the only way he knew how. His wings propelled him forward, arousing a powerful gust of wind that tore through the study; documents and feathers scattered in all directions, cabinets and shelves rattled against the walls, books and chairs flung into the air. Everything suspended in time, held up by thin strings.
He remembers the scene as though it were an illustration. He remembers the way Lucilius tried to evade, hurling himself back, a wave of his hand manifesting a sigil of magic over his head, like a halo he didn’t deserve to wear. He remembers the way he clutched a fistful of Lucilius’ robes, yanking him toward himself, his blade raised and aimed steady for the thin, fragile column of Lucilius’ neck. He remembers the black wings unfurling from Lucilius’ back, never once seen before, colliding into a cradle of feathers with Lucifer’s own white majesty.
Steel kissed skin. Red stained white. Time resumed anew. Books and chairs clattered onto the ground, papers and feathers floated down to settle onto the sea of crimson spreading over the floor.
Only then did Lucifer realize what he had done.
Lucilius’ final words echo in the haze of the memory. They had been a warning, vague and cryptic, but a warning that his death would only be the beginning.
“I’ll take my chances with the skies,” Lucifer mutters under his breath again. Lucilius’ cold, pale lips say nothing. Lucifer says it again. Nothing. He says it again. Still nothing. No matter how many times he repeats those words, clinging onto the memory of the last second shared between them, he will never hear Lucilius again. Not beyond dreams or memories at least.
His friend is gone. His friend is dead, struck down by his own hand.
The heavy sword falls from his grip and clatters against the bloodstained floor. Lucifer raises his hands and stares at them. These hands… These callused, weathered hands. They had been built to be perfect. To enact justice and carry out punishments for the wicked. Never had he questioned their purpose— his purpose—but now in the wake of what he’s lost, he wonders for the very first time.
He wonders if this is all he’ll ever be.
His legs move before his mind does. He descends to a kneel beside Lucilius, indifferent to the cooling blood seeping through his clothes. Carefully, he gathers Lucilius in his arms, lays Lucilius’ head against his chest. The warmth has left Lucilius’ body, so Lucifer offers his own. His wings form a cradle around them, shielding them from the horrors of the world that brought them to this point. He bows his head. His fingers trace the gash across Lucilius’ throat, hoping in vain to thread the flesh together.
“My friend…” His voice is unsteady, cracked and broken; an antithesis to the sonorous voice of the Supreme Primarch whose declarations shook the skies.
His bloodied fingers ease Lucilius’ eyelids closed. He’s only sleeping, he tells himself. Tomorrow Lucilius will wake at the rise of dawn and life will resume its ordinary pace. Tomorrow Lucifer will return from a mission, deliver the news of success to Lucilius, and join Sandalphon in the garden for a cup of coffee.
Tomorrow will bring the yesterday. He’s sure of it.
He’s absolutely sure of it.
A shuddering breath echoes throughout the quiet room. Another, and another. Heaving, muffled sobs follow soon after, stuttering and choking on the anguish that floods the lungs. Whispered, broken pleas interweave with convulsive gasps, unheard. A prayer drowns in the sorrow weeping from quivering lips.
It’s only when Lucifer feels the hot tears streaking down his cheeks that he realizes the grief is his. Mourning isn’t new to him. He’s mourned once before, for Sandalphon and the halcyon days spent with him in the garden, but pain felt a second time isn’t any less painful than the first.
He holds Lucilius closer. His wings cradle them tighter. He shuts his eyes off to the world stained crimson and imagines one dyed azure.
“...Forgive me, please.”
The winds carry his words, and sing a lovely song. A hand he cannot feel settles onto his soft hair and threads through the strands. A face he cannot see gazes down at him and smiles softly.
A voice he cannot hear breathes the final words of their elegy.
Lucilius stands at the edge of the Crimson Horizon. He traces his fingertips along the crude stitching across his throat. He closes his eyes, and repeats the finale of their elegy.
“Until the end, you were my greatest creation.”