Work Text:
A figure sits upon an icy throne, eyes closed.
The halls are empty, everyone within the palace dismissed. There is no need for staff, no need for an army, no need for anyone to take care of the palace now that everything is over. The shining, white temples up in the sky had fallen, his singular goal achieved. He is no longer an Archon, no longer a ruler, and no longer does anyone have to stay within these icy halls under his command.
Yet, he still wears his veil. He still wears his armour. He still wears the heavy drapery. He still sits upon his throne, looking every bit the ruler he once was. There is no one here to put on a show for anymore, everyone has left.
Everyone, that is, except one.
The Tsaritsa knows what is coming. Has known for centuries. He had long accepted this ending from the moment he had saved that unfortunate soul so long ago. He will not fight this, there is no reason to. In a twisted way, the former Archon is even looking forward to it. Now that everything is over, what is coming seems fitting.
It will come full circle, for everything to come to a finale at the hands of that man. The Tsaritsa had aided in the destruction of his nation after all. Even after hundreds of years by each other’s sides, a slight of that magnitude can never be atoned for. The ex-Archon had ended a wondrous era, and now he will come to end this one. So why not put on a grand finale?
He knows what is to come, knows the final words of this chapter like a well read book, but that doesn’t mean it has to be lacklustre. The two of them are quite fond of putting on a show after all.
Only this time, the only audience would be each other.
The crystalline silence of the palace is broken only by the sharp, rhythmic click of metal against marble, echoing through the empty halls. Light pierces through the large, arched windows that line the walls, cold and bleak, bathing every surface in its glow. It is every inch the same Snezhnayan winter it has always been.
Even now, after everything, some things remain unchanging, and Alastor takes a modicum of comfort in how desperately Teyvat seems to cling to its shattered status quo.
His hand rests on the hilt of his rapier, claws curled against the freezing metal. Not his weapon of choice, of course, but he likes to keep his polearm tucked away in his shadows. Something to be called upon only when needed. But now, standing in the ruins of an era, he cares naught for the kind of violence associated with it.
There is a different kind of fire simmering in his veins.
Darkness clings to his feet as he moves forward, steady and unhurried. He can feel the curse slipping from his soul, as if the slick oil of Celestia’s sins were being washed away in the aftermath of their destruction, leaving him both lighter and heavier in their absence. Alastor pulls his cloak tighter against himself, the heavy fabric flowing behind him, a simple reminder of his status.
Harbinger.
It's almost sentimental, a tribute to who he was. Though there isn't much weight to the word anymore, he feels that it is only right to don the same title he has for the past few centuries for the closing act.
A breath.
He comes to a stop before a grand set of doors, spanning the full height of the walls and carved in intricate patterns reminiscent of the fractals etched into each individual flake of snow. With no one else left in the palace, the guard posts beside the entrance to the throne room are left bare, empty of the usual warmth of human life.
Alastor knows he's waiting for him on the other side.
It takes little effort for him to push open the doors, not bothering to knock. Why announce your entrance when both parties know exactly what is about to transpire? This was something he's dreamt of for centuries. The death of a god.
The path up to the base of the throne is familiar, his footsteps sure, Vision and Delusion resting at his hips. Twin gemstones that glint in the dim light, violet and crimson, Electro and Pyro. They had served him well in the final battle against the heavens, but now, they are little more than accessories. A formality.
In a simple, practised gesture, he sinks to his knees.
Despite the disturbance of his space, Lucifer doesn’t open his eyes. Not when the doors to the hall open. Not when he hears the footsteps steadily approaching his throne. Not when those steps finally stop, and the distinct sound of armour hitting the floor reaches his ears.
No, it was a sort of game they had played for centuries. A dance they have been engaged in for several lifetimes over. Today will be their final round, and he will make the most of every moment left. Time is ticking. The sand in the hourglass is running low. It is time to start their final act.
For a second, everything feels frozen in place. Everything stalls, a held breath, a moment of hesitation, an unwillingness to break the moment. A picturesque image, the loyal knight kneeling before his divine ruler in devotion. It is almost a shame that no one will ever witness this scene.
Finally, the ex-god lifts his head. His eyes open slowly, revealing their brilliant red—eyes that pierce through even the veil he wears. The Tsaritsa’s gaze locks onto the kneeling man. The man who will be his end. The man who still wears the former Archon's symbol of loyalty.
He raises a single hand, gesturing for the man to rise.
“Get up now. You’d think, after all these years, you’d forgo all the formalities.”
“I thought it would be fitting, given the occasion.”
Alastor rises to his feet, discarding his cloak, the fabric pooling on the floor. The rapier, he discards too. As much as it had served him well, this was something he wanted to experience without the distraction of a blade in his hands. He wants to feel the bare skin against his palm. Pulling off his rings, he lets them drop to the ground, clinking rhythmically against the floor as the delicate metal hits the marble.
Another breath.
In.
Out.
The gloves are next to come off, falling to the floor haphazardly as he steps forward, heels clicking against the cold marble. The air is absolutely frigid, but this doesn't deter him as he continues to shed layer upon layer of fabric, slipping out of each and every formality and role that he’s accumulated over the centuries. He extends his hand out, fingers bare of the rings he usually wears, simply left in a thin, black dress shirt and slacks.
Exposed. Vulnerable.
“May I?”
A soft exhale of air escapes from the Tsaritsa’s lips, the corners tugging up. He’s had very few things to laugh about in all these years, but Alastor has always managed to pull a couple of chuckles out of the former Archon. No one will ever know of course, these moments are always private—much like now.
Slowly, he raises himself up from the throne. The few steps that it takes to be on the same ground as the former Harbinger feel like an eternity. Yet in reality, it can’t have been even a minute before he stands in front of the other man.
He finds himself meeting Alastor’s unblinking gaze.
A pale hand raises and lays itself in the other’s larger one. It is warm, the heat seeping into his chilled skin. If it weren’t for centuries worth of self control, he might have leaned into it. Might’ve tried to chase that warmth. Instead, he keeps steady. Allows himself only that point of contact. It wasn’t impulsiveness that brought him here, and he will not let it get the better of him now.
“Well, my dear Jester… I think you may.”
Bowing slightly, Alastor leads the two of them to the centre of the empty throne room. His steps are light, already following the beat of some tune that exists purely in the depths of his mind, his gaze focused entirely on the former Archon. The two had danced before, countless times over the countless years, and this should be no different.
Alastor pulls him close, enough to feel his Tsaritsa's breath against his skin, but far enough that the only real contact between them is between their bare palms. His hand moves to rest against Lucifer's shoulder blade, feeling the firm muscle of his back beneath the sheer layers of fabric as he takes a slight step back, guiding the two of them into the beginnings of a waltz.
It's slow at first. Steady, simple, a smooth step back as he sways in time with a familiar grace. As always, he leads, moving forward as he pulls his Tsaritsa into the first dizzying spin, feet gliding across cold marble. The ease in which the two of them fall into rhythm is intoxicating, and his blood sings with the knowledge that the two of them are so evenly matched. The bond between them is undeniable, two dying stars paying tribute to the dead heavens that had brought them together.
There is a certain reverence in Alastor's expression as he dips his Tsaritsa, watching the way his veil barely shifts to uncover his gaze, their eyes meeting. It's a clash of crimson on crimson, twin flames that he feels burn into his soul, and he happily lays bare every thought and emotion he has to offer.
He has nothing to hide from a dying god.
The bitter winter sunlight blooms across Lucifer's skin, pooling into each and every crevice as Alastor continues to guide him onwards. Their steps leave no physical mark against the pristine marble, but in Alastor's mind, he finds the throne room decorated with a map of every little movement.
A breath.
He moves back, his steps smooth and practised. It's exhilarating to have his Tsaritsa in his arms, knowing full well that this will be their last dance. The final act.
He plans to make this an unforgettable performance.
The two of them spin around each other, twirling from one end of the hall to the other. Perfectly in sync despite the pace of their feet. Each time Alastor dips him backwards, Lucifer can feel the air being stolen from his lungs. It is a moment of trust, to have full confidence that the other man will hold him secure in the precarious pose.
Every turn, every twist, feels like a retelling of their lives over the last couple hundred years. Full of danger, always alert for the unexpected, always ready to make their next move. Moments of triumph, of loss, of anxiety. All wrapped up in their dance.
Then everything slows. Their shared music changes in pace. Lucifer leans backwards, achingly slow, as the former Harbinger supports his weight.
And then another spin, his eyes never leaving the other’s.
The Tsaritsa pulls himself back up, almost flush with Alastor. The warmth from the red-haired man makes him shiver even though the two aren’t pulled directly against each other. They stare at each other for a moment, their dance slowing to a crawl.
A mutual understanding that what comes next will be the finale. The world stops for no one, especially not for two beings whose clocks are reaching their ends. And what a grand finale it will be, there will be no regrets in their last moments.
So they continue their waltz.
It's almost second nature to pull Lucifer into another set of spins, footsteps smooth and certain as the two beings glide across the entire length of the throne room. The sheer fabric of his Tsaritsa's dress fans out as they twirl, heels clicking on the smooth marble, matching him step for step, turn for turn. There's no denying the thrill of it, the way the two of them practically fly across the room, Alastor's Vision and Delusion flashing brightly as they spin.
Alastor is beaming, a smile stretched wide across his face, teeth bared and eyes closed as the music draws to an end. There's a certain kind of violent delight in the way he leads his Tsaritsa through the final few steps, his hold firm and unyielding, almost possessive.
This moment is his.
Lucifer is his.
He dips his Tsaritsa low, the two of them a picture of grace and elegance. Alastor opens his eyes, gaze locked on Lucifer's, and there's a certain moment of understanding; an unspoken question.
Are you ready?
Lucifer holds his breath for a moment as he is held suspended. On his next exhale, he lets himself sink into Alastor’s hold. It is his way of accepting the next steps. To let the man above him know that he is prepared.
Those red eyes hold him in place. So different—yet the exact same—as when he had first laid eyes on the man centuries ago. The same star-shaped pupils, the same brilliant scarlet, the same sharp shape.
But those eyes seem so different now.
Several lifetimes ago, those eyes had looked up at him. Dulled from witnessing the destruction of his nation. Darkened with hatred for Celestia. Hatred for him, and all the Archons, who did nothing to resist Celestia’s commands.
But now…
Now, they look deep into his very soul. It consumes him. Devours him. Until everything that was Lucifer is Alastor.
And he is looking forward to it.
Alastor tilts his head in understanding, pulling the former Archon up against him, his movements slow and sure as he leads his Tsaritsa back to his throne. There's a quiet reverence in the way he watches Lucifer take a seat, the fabric draping loosely over the crystalline edges of the armrests, the iridescence of the layers glittering in the dim light.
The metal of Lucifer's armour is cool against his fingertips, and despite the impatience bubbling in his veins, Alastor takes his time to drag his hand down the front of his chestplate. It's a painfully slow process to remove the layers of starsilver, though he knows it will be worth it in the end.
He's waited for this all his life.
Peeling off the individual pieces of armour is a soothing process. Simple. Rhythmic. A ritual of devotion and worship.
There's a deep seated hunger in his chest, something gnawing at his soul. Something singing—screaming—to be let out. It takes every ounce of restraint in him to not just tear through the thin fabric of Lucifer's gown, to sink his teeth into the soft, willing flesh. To feast.
With a soft click, he unclips his Delusion from his belt, extending his hand to present it to his Tsaritsa.
Lucifer doesn’t remember the last time his heart beat so fast. Even when he had stood in the burning ruins of a falling nation, his heart did not speed up. Yet in this moment, it is like the beat of a drum. Fast and loud. The ex-Archon is surprised that Alastor can’t hear it.
Or maybe he can.
There is a certain agitated energy around the other man. But just like the Tsaritsa, the former Harbinger has centuries worth of practice of self control. Even if the man can hear—can feel the blood rushing under Lucifer’s pale skin—he has enough restraint to hold himself back.
Red eyes lock onto the red gem. Alastor’s Delusion. His sign of loyalty to the crown of Snezhnaya. The gem is much darker than a true Vision, a testament to the corrupt powers used to make it. The casing is a darker silver, gleaming in the dying daylight. Gingerly, Lucifer takes the Delusion into his hand. He simply holds it for a moment.
Then slowly. Carefully. His fingers curl and tighten around the Delusion. Lucifer’s grip tightens, knuckles somehow getting paler than they already are. It doesn’t seem to do anything, metal casing digging into his skin.
And then—
All at once, it
S H A T T E R S
Chunks of metal and crystal marrow fall from his hands, landing on his lap. Lucifer looks up from the pieces and into Alastor’s eyes. Waiting for the other’s next action. Alastor reaches down, gingerly picking through the crystalline shards, fingers curling around the sharpest piece. The edges dig into his flesh, slicing into his palm, but the pure exhilaration that runs through his veins drowns out any pain he may or may not be feeling.
The tip of the shard meets Lucifer's jaw, tracing downwards in a smooth line, slicing through the fabric of his gown as Alastor drags his hand down in a fluid arc. The dress peels away from his flesh easily, sheer layers shedding from his Tsaritsa like a butterfly shedding its chrysalis.
A metamorphosis.
Lucifer doesn’t shiver when his gown falls away, the cold air sinking into his very bones. The cold is his domain, not even Celestia's fall would change that. To be cold down to his very core is his natural state of being. That means Alastor’s touch burns.
Lifting his gaze upwards, Alastor's eyes meet his Tsaritsa's through the thin, translucent veil. There's no denying how hungry he is right now, how he's starving for a taste of his prize as he slips his hand down Lucifer's bare chest, nails dragging across the pale, unmarred skin.
He wants to see him torn apart.
The Tsaritsa can’t help the quiet gasp that leaves his lips when the former Harbinger rakes his hand down his bare chest. A trail of fire lingers on the path that those fingers take. Lucifer wants to squeeze his eyes shut, to hide away from Alastor’s intense gaze. Yet, he can’t look away.
His eyes are trained on the face above him, drinking in Alastor’s expression like a thirsty man in a desert. No matter how much his instincts are telling him to pull away, to hide from the other man's attention, he remains where he is. The former Archon is rewarded when Alastor surges down to press his lips against his collarbone, pressing his lips against the dip in Lucifer's collarbone to breathe in his scent. Alastor can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat in his throat, the pulse soft beneath his touch.
He remains there for a moment, eyes slipping shut as he allows himself this momentary lapse in composure, teeth grazing across his Tsaritsa's skin, and Lucifer can barely suppress the trembling that threatens to wreck his entire body. He feels so close to breaking, to falling apart right then and there, and Alastor has barely done a thing. No. This is just the beginning, a promise of more to come.
A breath.
In.
Out.
Alastor’s free hand digs into Lucifer's hip as he pulls back, readjusting his grip on the shard of his Delusion. Crimson blood drips down his palm—down his wrist—soaking into the dark fabric of his sleeve.
A beat. And then another. And then he finds himself dragging the makeshift blade across Lucifer's ribs, watching intently as the flesh splits effortlessly beneath the gentle pressure like the soft skin of a ripe pomegranate. The sharp edge slips deftly between skin and muscle, peeling away the layers with practised ease, golden ichor welling up beneath his touch, warm and slick against his palm. The blood leaves a dizzying pattern against his Tsaritsa's skin, and Alastor finds himself intoxicated by the sight of Lucifer spread out beneath him as he carves him open with such delicate precision.
Never had the former Harbinger looked at anything like that. Nothing had ever inspired that level of hunger. Nothing that roused that level of intense want. It makes Lucifer swell with pride, one more personal and deep than anything he’s felt before. No one but him will ever know how it feels to have all of Alastor’s attention.
That knowledge makes him feel more divine than all the years he had spent on the throne as Archon.
Calling upon the last dregs of energy in the shards of his Delusion is like second nature, it comes to Alastor as naturally as breathing, coaxing the glittering crystal marrow to heat up. It takes a little concentration to focus the heat to the tip of the crystal, pressing the flat edge up against the bleeding flesh to cauterise the wound. It wouldn't do to have Lucifer bleed out before he got to have his fun.
When the heated blade makes contact with his skin, Lucifer reflexively draws a deep breath. It has been so long since he’s known true pain. As Archon, few things could really hurt him, let alone leave a lasting mark. It had left him almost numb to pain, the sensation sliding off his mind with the knowledge that it didn’t matter.
But now. Knowing that there is no recovering from this. That every mark, every burn, every cut into his flesh, will be permanent. It amplifies every sensation that Alastor causes. There is a sensitivity that he hasn’t felt in centuries. It is agonising. It is torture. It is heavenly.
Lucifer thinks he would have cried if he hadn’t run out of tears lifetimes ago.
Alastor slides the blade up against the skin again, branching off of the initial cut to complete a Y-shaped incision, simply to aid in peeling back the layers. A pale imitation of an autopsy. A vivisection. Alastor revels in the clinical precision of it all.
Again, he continues to slip the blade between the flesh and bone, separating the warm skin from the curve of Lucifer's ribcage. There's no rush to his movement, adapting to the way his Tsaritsa's chest rises and falls with each breath, easily accounting for each and every movement. Steady. Efficient.
Alastor admires the exquisite detail of his Tsaritsa's body as he peels back the flesh, running his hand down the centre of his sternum. It's instinct to brush his fingertips over each individual rib, savouring the texture of bone against his bare skin, lips moving in silent prayer.
There's a single beat before he leans forward, shins pressing into the hard edge of the throne, knees resting either side of Lucifer's hips. He kneels over his Tsaritsa, one hand resting loosely in his lap, the other methodically tracing over his ribcage.
A picture of devotion.
After a moment of silent contemplation, Alastor slips the blade between the skin and muscle, gently splitting the layers of flesh apart before severing it from the rest of the body. He lays the flat sheet of tissue on his thigh, scraping off the remaining fat and slicing it into thin, even ribbons.
He's almost giddy with excitement as he rests the shard of his Delusion in Lucifer's lap, taking the strips between his fingertips, twisting and stretching the flesh expertly into long, delicate strands. There's something therapeutic about the way he works, moving with the ease of someone experienced in working with such materials, though Alastor can admit he's never used his skills for this purpose. For so long, Lucifer had been the object of worship—the one to sacrifice to. Now, his body is nothing but an offering for Alastor to use as he wishes.
If he is to be a sacrifice, then he is more than willing to play the part, as long as it is Alastor he is offered up to.
Once Alastor is satisfied with the twist of the skin-thread, he winds it around Lucifer's wrist, keeping it safe and out of the way as he picks up the shard of crystal marrow again. Lucifer, eyes the raised shard, eager to see what part of him would be used.
“Stay still for me.” Alastor says. Asks. Begs.
There's a breath.
In.
Out.
Alastor slots the blade up against the base of Lucifer's ribcage, feeling the soft resistance of cartilage as he pushes the sharp, crystalline edge upwards. It's becoming more and more difficult to resist the allure of his Tsaritsa's blood—his flesh—and Alastor reels with the urge to consume him wholly in every way he deems fit.
He's starving.
There's no hesitation as he carves through the costal cartilage either side of Lucifer's sternum, slipping his free hand beneath it and prying the sternal plate away from his chest. This, he sets aside for the moment, reaching past the open ribcage to slice open the pericardium, exposing Lucifer's heart.
Sitting back, Alastor takes in the view. The organ glistens in the dim light, slick with golden blood, the muscle pulsing with life. And in this moment, Alastor cannot deny himself a taste.
Lucifer does his best to heed Alastor’s plea. To stay still. To remain unmoving even as his sternum is removed from his body. Even as his flesh is cut apart to reveal his still beating heart. Any mortal would have died by now, succumbed to the pain, and passed away under such treatment.
But he remains breathing. His heart keeps its steady rhythm.
Steady, that is, until Alastor leans down to place his lips upon the beating muscle.
The coppery taste of blood blooms across his tongue as he leans in to press his mouth against Lucifer's heart. He revels in the feel of smooth flesh against his lips as he brings his other hand to the small of his back, tugging the former Archon flush against him.
That. That Lucifer can feel. Can feel the pressure of that mouth against the very core of his being. The Taritsa’s mouth falls open in a silent scream. There are no thoughts behind the way he leans into that touch, simply chasing that delicious feeling, pressing himself closer to the man, encouraged by the hand against his back.
Alastor’s fingertips trace the dip in Lucifer's spine, feeling the way his Tsaritsa arches beneath his insistent touch. Once again, he only allows himself a single moment of weakness before pulling away. Gold stains the skin around his mouth, flecks of sunlight, metallic freckles of divinity littering his cheeks.
He licks his lips, his tongue bringing up a thin line of blood to the corner of his mouth which he wipes away leisurely. His teeth are bared in a feral smile as he swallows down the ichor, his own heart thrumming with the indescribable knowledge that this is the first taste of what is to come.
Picking back up Lucifer's sternum, he makes an anthemic show of licking the blood from the bone, cleaning off the excess viscera with his mouth. He begins to carve into the bone, dividing the material into small cubes that he gathers in his lap. With each individual shape, Alastor whittles away at it, smoothing out the edges until he's left with a set of rough spheres.
Beads.
He unravels the cord from his Tsaritsa's wrist, knotting the end around a spare shard of his Delusion before threading ten bone beads on, clicking against each other as they slide down the skin-thread. Alastor’s fingers move deftly, with the precision of a surgeon, tying a barrel knot close against the last piece of bone.
Another bead. Another knot.
It's almost routine, for he's gone through these actions countless times throughout his life, threading beads and knotting cord. Unfortunately, he tends to outlive his creations, and Alastor would not be caught dead without his preferred method of prayer. A symbol of his devotion.
With the main strand of beads complete, he completes the loop, tying the loose end around the crystal marrow again. It's fitting, the idea of using a chunk of his shattered Delusion as the centre, and he finds himself dizzy with the delicious implications.
Another bead. Another knot. Three more beads. Another knot.
He slips the last bead down the length of the cord, tying it off simply. There's no hesitation as he unclips his Vision from his hip, reverently threading the last of the skin-thread through the metal frame to complete his little project.
A rosary.
He inhales softly.
In.
Out.
Alastor lets his finished creation sit in his hands for a moment, feeling the soft weight of bone and crystal marrow hang from his fingers, bringing it up for Lucifer to inspect. The Vision catches the last shreds of winter sunlight, glinting a brilliant violet as it dangles in the air.
He pulls himself off of Lucifer, legs a little numb from straddling the former Archon for so long without a change of position, though he immediately slips down onto his knees before the throne, head bowed. There's the slightest crack in his composure as he brings the rosary to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the bone as he begins to pray.
Lucifer can't even feel disappointed when Alastor pulls away from above him. How can he? How can he be upset when the man kneels at his feet, head bowed? It is an act of vulnerability—of submission—to the former Archon. It is nothing, however, compared to the prayer that spills from his lips. He may no longer be an Archon, but he is far from mortal. He can still feel the prayers made in his name, can still feel the pleads from his people.
None of them could light a candle to the prayer Alastor delivers to him now.
“I believe in Lucifer, Mother of Harbingers, ruler of Snezhnaya, of all things visible and invisible. Archon from Archon, light from light, true god from true god, begotten not made, consubstantial with the Lady, through him all things were made.”
Alastor brushes his fingertips over his Vision, the prayer falling easily from his lips.
When the Tsaritsa is prayed to, it is rarely a simple act of devotion. Many of the common folk will pray to him in hopes of a lighter winter. Will pray for leniency during harsh storms. Soldiers pray for swift victories in battle or pray for his mercy when they are felled.
There is no worship, not truly, in their prayers.
“I believe in the Cryo Archon, the Tsaritsa, the Lady of Love. I believe in his one, holy ambition. I confess my soul for the forgiveness of Sin, and I look forward to the fall of the old world and the life of the world to come.”
Amen.
But Alastor has always been different. Despite being from Khaenri'ah, despite his hatred for Celestia—for the Archons—he had always been devoted in his prayers. There was no reason for him to ever show such devotion to the Archon that had felled his nation, yet still he prayed.
If there was one being that deserved their wishes made true, it would be Alastor. There's a beat before his thumb presses over the first bead, feeling the bone dig into the soft pad of his thumb.
“Our Lady who opposes Celestia, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Teyvat as it is in Snezhnaya.”
There's a certain delight to his voice as he begins this prayer, his eyes gleaming with sharp amusement as Celestia is mentioned.
“Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”
Amen.
Exhilaration floods his veins, and Alastor feels the familiar dizzying fire burn through him as he prays. His lips pull back in a snarling grin, eyes shining with manic delight. The prayer wraps itself around Lucifer like a warm blanket, each word feeling like a caress on his skin. He feels more like an adored treasure when he feels the tug of Alastor’s prayer. There is nothing but praise in every line.
It's pure adoration.
It's Love.
His fingertip presses into the space after the next bead, separating it from the rest of them with a click.
“Hail, Lucifer, full of grace, Fate is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst all, and blessed is the fruit of thy labour. Holy Tsaritsa, Lady of Love, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
Amen.
Alastor moves onto the next bead, a repeat of the previous prayer, and then a third repetition. The final bead before the shard of the Delusion brings with it a different prayer, though he has it memorised just as clearly as the rest.
“Glory be to the Mother, and to his Sons, and to Snezhnaya. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”
Amen.
It's agonisingly slow, but Alastor revels in the way the ritual stretches out. He wants to bury his face into the dip in Lucifer's collarbone, to indulge in the pleasure and possessiveness that comes with having him in the most intimate way, though he simply suppresses a shudder and continues with his prayer.
Though he would never admit it, Alastor basks in the delicious discomfort of kneeling at his Tsaritsa's feet, his fingernails digging into the exposed skin-thread that separates each individual bead. The prayers are soothingly repetitive, slipping easily off his tongue like golden honey. Like nectar.
The comparison sets alight the burning need to taste Lucifer's blood on his tongue again.
An eternity almost passes before he reaches the last bead, thumb raw from the pressure of bone against skin, the final prayer heavy on his tongue.
“Hail, Holy Tsaritsa, Archon of Love, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy towards us, and after this exile show unto us the blessed fruit of thy labours. O clement, O loving, O sweet Lucifer.”
He lifts his gaze to meet his Tsaritsa's.
“Amen.”
A final breath.
Observe how, in a millisecond, Alastor's composure breaks. He finds his lips against Lucifer's neck, bodies slotted neatly together as he breathes in the heady scent of divine blood, dizzy with devotion. There is nothing malicious about the way he digs his fangs into his Tsaritsa's collarbone, teeth carving into the soft flesh, feeling the way the skin splits and yields easily as he finally claims his prize, pulling a wounded sound from the ex-Archon’s lips.
Lucifer can think of no better offering for his most devoted priest.
Alastor sinks his teeth into Lucifer's flesh, revelling in the way the air blooms with the tangy scent of iron. The golden ichor flows down his Tsaritsa's pale skin and he catches it on his tongue, swallowing down mouthfuls of divine lifeblood, oddly sweet on his taste buds.
There's no denying how intoxicating the taste of blood is as he bites down hard. The way he digs ravenously into Lucifer's neck like a starving man—as if he hasn't eaten in centuries. It's undeniable how much he needs to have him right now.
He presses himself against Lucifer, one hand slipping up his spine to tangle itself in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other cupping his Tsaritsa's heart with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Alastor's breath ghosts across his pulse point, his touch leaving burning trails of fire across Lucifer's skin, a possessive pattern of passion and delight.
And he is alive.
His teeth tear through the soft muscle, feeling how submissive and pliable Lucifer is under his touch, as he teases apart the fibres of his being, feeling the firm texture of flesh in his mouth—in his throat—and he almost chokes on the pure ecstasy of it all. There's a simple adoration in the way he moves against Lucifer, carving into him, marking him as his.
Lucifer belongs to Alastor.
And how he delights in that knowledge. For so many years the deity had belonged to Celestia, unable to be free from the ever watching eyes of those above. The gnosis was a false heart that kept him chained, a chain he despised.
But now his real heart is exposed, touched upon, by the same man who is tearing his flesh from his body. There is no questioning Alastor’s ownership over himself, but there is no resentment. He can think of no one else he would rather belong to than Alastor.
Lucifer knows, of course, that he owns Alastor back.
There is no one who can drive this man into such a frenzy. No one else can inspire such ferocity. No one who can accept Alastor in all that he is. The Tsaritsa raises his own arms, securing Alastor against himself, one hand reaching up to hold the man by the nape, to press the former Harbinger even closer. Encouraging him to bite down. To tear his flesh clean off.
Lucifer wants to see Alastor consume him. To know that a part of himself is within the other.
Pressing himself tighter against Lucifer, Alastor drags his tongue across the jagged gash, nipping and sucking at the raw skin. He can feel the hot blood run down his throat—feel it settle in his gut like a warm flame—and it is absolutely heavenly. There's a single beat before he's slipping his tongue into the wound, letting the muscle flick and curl against the nerves and tendons.
He wants to hear Lucifer scream.
Alastor's hand curls tighter around his heart, claws digging into the soft flesh as he slots his leg between Lucifer's. With a single smooth motion, he slips the rosary off of his wrist and over his Tsaritsa's head, the bone and skin-thread settling against his bare neck.
And then he tugs.
The beads bite into Lucifer's skin as Alastor pulls hard at the rosary—savouring the way his body instinctively jolts at the sensation—his throat spasming as he strangles him. There's a shift in the air, Alastor's eyes gleaming with a sort of manic euphoria as he tightens his grip, tongue still pushing deep into the wound. He laughs against Lucifer's skin, dizzy with delight.
Alastor releases his grip on his heart for a moment, leaning back to take in the view. His fingertips ghost across the sheer fabric of his Tsaritsa's veil reverently, and with a flick of his wrist, he discards it. There's something loving about the way he brushes the stray strands of hair out of Lucifer's eyes, fingers trailing down his cheeks to hover against his lips for a moment, feeling the way he trembles and chokes for air. As the other’s hand brushes his face, Lucifer can’t help but yearn for more. He doesn't mind the violence. Doesn't mind the pain. Doesn't mind anything as long as he is granted these moments of gentleness.
The blood on his hands leaves golden streaks across Lucifer's pale skin—a mockery of a lover's touch—and Alastor revels in the way tears slip down his cheeks, leaving wet tracks through the gore. He dips his head down slightly to lick up the mess, tasting the heady mix of salt and iron on his tongue.
Alastor flicks his tongue across Lucifer's cheeks, savouring his taste, lips hovering dangerously close to his Tsaritsa's. He smirks, mouth ghosting across his skin, breath hot as he peppers little kisses from the corner of Lucifer's lips, all the way up to the skin below his eye. With a soft laugh, he raises a trembling hand to his cheek, gently stroking the soft skin reassuringly as he presses his open mouth against Lucifer's eye, tongue sliding against the moist organ.
It's clear that there's nothing behind Alastor's actions other than deluded hunger—nothing short of pure adoration. He slots his body closer against Lucifer, as if the action would merge their beings into one, rubbing reassuring circles against his skin as he laps up the tears directly from the source. The Tsaritsa can't help but squirm at the feeling of Alastor’s tongue sliding along his eye, at the press of lips against the vulnerable organ. The sensation is unnatural, every instinct telling him to pull away.
Loosening his grip on the rosary, he gives his Tsaritsa a moment to breathe. And if it's any indication by the way Lucifer chokes and claws at his arms, it is a much needed break. He's otherwise relentless though, continuing to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against his eye, teeth grazing across the sensitive flesh. When the pressure around his neck leaves, Lucifer sucks in desperate lungfuls of air and drops his hands to his sides. He isn't able to hold back the whimper that leaves his lips when teeth just barely scrape his eye.
“Please—” He begs softly as Alastor pulls back.
Lucifer doesn’t know what he is asking for. For it to finally end? For the man to continue his torture? The former Archon's mind is too lost to know himself. All he knows is relief when Alastor caresses his face, leaning into the contact.
There's a moment before Alastor pulls back slightly, panting, the taste of tears lingering on his tongue. He leaves the rosary hanging around Lucifer's neck, beads warm against his skin and Alastor's Vision glinting as it rests in the centre of his chest, right against his heart. There's some kind of internal battle as Alastor stares at his Tsaritsa, gaze flicking between the soft, beating muscle and his eye, though he seems to come to a rather quick decision.
He slides his hand up Lucifer's cheek, fingertips grazing against the long lashes, feeling them flutter against his hands. Everything about the two of them is stained in gold—shimmering and incandescent in the way that only something divine can be—and Alastor is positively captivated by Lucifer's beauty as he dips his fingers past his eyelids, claws slicing through the soft muscle of the eye, rending it out of its socket.
Lucifer makes the mistake of trying to take a deeper breath.
His ears ring. There is a cry, loud and hoarse, and it is the burn of his throat—the aching of his lungs—that makes him realise that he is the one screaming.
Alastor leans in, golden ichor collecting on his tongue, hot and sticky as he swallows it down. He can hear Lucifer's strangled cries as he laps at the raw, exposed nerve, the heady mix of salt and iron burning in his gut. There's nothing better than the feel of his Tsaritsa squirming beneath him as he presses his mouth to the empty socket, chasing more of that searing warmth—more of that divinity. Choked gasps leave Lucifer’s lips as Alastor drinks his fill of his blood. It’s relentless, the way that the former Harbinger takes and takes from the ex-Archon, and he cannot help the high whine that comes from the back of his throat when Alastor dips his tongue into the now empty eye socket.
It's euphoric, the way he feels his throat work around the viscera, one hand still grasping onto the eye, the other cupping Lucifer's cheek tenderly. They're a mess of tears and blood—tongues and teeth—and Alastor knows he's moved far past toeing the line between pleasure and pain, solely determined to bring his vision to fruition. To see his Tsaritsa torn apart beneath his skilful fingers, to play god as he moulds the former Archon into something gruesomely beautiful.
Something exquisite.
There's no denying how the proximity makes his head spin, how he intuitively seeks out more of that intimacy. Who is he to refuse the call of such divine insanity? Alastor is a ravenous monster, and he is more than happy to surrender to the demands of his baser instincts.
He's desperate to sample every inch of Lucifer's flesh, to let him invade each and every one of his senses, to experience every drop of ecstasy he has to give. Alastor pushes further, tongue delving into the wet heat of his eye socket, keeping his Tsaritsa pinned between his scorching warmth and the bitter cold of the throne.
Distantly, he acknowledges the way his hips are tightly pressed up against Lucifer's, knows his body's instinctual reaction to the stimulation. A very human reaction to his excitement. Alastor had renounced everything human about himself centuries ago.
He draws himself back, flushed and panting, the blood painting golden trails down his chin—down his throat—the dying winter sunlight bathing him in a brilliant glow. It's a perversion of something sacred—a rotten halo—and Alastor revels in the blasphemy of it all as he lifts his Tsaritsa's eye to his lips. His mouth is wet and shining with a tantalising hunger. Something primordial.
Something insatiable.
Alastor's mouth works around the soft organ, feeling the way the flesh yields beneath the pressure of his fangs, carved and split open like the fresh pulp of a lychee. He shudders as the taste floods his mouth, somewhat bitter and meaty, his throat bobbing as he swallows down the jelly. There's a careful contemplation in how he savours the flesh, chewing at the cartilage with unhurried appreciation.
Lucifer watches, hungry in his own right, as Alastor brings his eye to his mouth. Watches as those sharp teeth tear into the delicate organ. Watches as, bit by bit, another piece of himself is devoured by Alastor.
It's effortless, how he slots himself against Lucifer again, face buried against his neck as he hooks his claws on his open ribcage. He keeps himself there, breathing in his scent, so painfully aware of the way his Tsaritsa's flesh settles in his stomach. His to touch, his to taste. His to keep.
“Lucifer.” Alastor whispers, his voice hoarse, name falling from his lips like a prayer. He readjusts himself, feeling the thrumming of the former Archon's heart beneath his skin—beneath his fingertips—as he rests his hand against the beating organ. “Lucifer. Listen.”
He licks his lips, tongue trailing saliva through the blood and gore that decorates his mouth. Alastor groans, throat wet with ichor, fingers trembling against Lucifer. There's only so much time that they have left together, and his own heart flutters with some unfamiliar emotion, like some kind of frightened animal clawing at his chest, drawing a choked breath out of him.
“Remember this. Me. Keep it.”
Alastor isn't entirely sure what he means by his own words, but he knows that what he wants to say is important in some way. He knows he's shaking, whether it's from excitement or anticipation or some other unknown emotion, he cannot tell. All he knows is that this is it.
“Lucifer.” This time, his voice is even softer. Tender. He's surprised by the adoration in his tone, dripping from every syllable, or perhaps he isn't. Alastor supposes he will never know. “Look at me.”
The air feels hazy and warm. Hot. Searing. Blazing with some kind of unknowable fervour. It seeps into his flesh, into his bones, into his being, and he feels torn apart and remade under Lucifer's gaze. He doesn't know if he can call this love anymore. Lucifer nearly scoffs when he is asked to look at his former Harbinger.
How could he ever look away?
“Thank you for the meal.”
At this, Lucifer can no longer hold back his hoarse laughter—his throat ruined from the choking and screaming. He raises a hand to caress that warm face, “Oh my dear Alastor… There is nothing I wouldn’t give to you. So take.
“Take your fill Alastor, take more than you will need, take until I have nothing left to give.”
The sound of Lucifer's laugh is enough to leave Alastor breathless, choking for air in a way he's wholly unfamiliar with. He finds his chest uncomfortably tight, as if someone had strung him up with rope and chain, as if he'd been left to rot. Alastor shifts his head, pressing his lips into his Tsaritsa's palm, the cool skin a soothing balm to the searing heat in his gut. He wants more.
“I want your heart.” His voice is rough, Lucifer's blood thick in his throat. Alastor wants far more than just that. To know him intimately, to snatch his breath away the same way that his Tsaritsa steals the air from his own lungs. Perhaps he should choke him again—the closest he is willing to allow himself to what he truly desires—and not let go this time.
It's purely instinctual, the way he seeks out Lucifer's touch, drawn like a moth to a flame. He's starving for more of him—be it flesh and blood, or perhaps something less tangible. Alastor supposes that Lucifer's words were enough invitation to proceed without seeking more permission, claws biting into the flesh of his heart, carving it from his chest lovingly. He moves with surgical precision, feeling his own heart stutter in response to the soft rhythm of his Tsaritsa's.
How… divine.
What a shame that there are no words that can truly describe the feeling of having Lucifer beneath him.
There's the freezing burn of something in his veins, something heavy and unknowable, something he would've chased in another lifetime. It twists at his gut, leaving him warm and giddy as he slices at the connective tissues, coaxing the organ from Lucifer's chest. The heart flutters beneath his fingertips like a songbird, and he's rendered breathless again. It is an instant change, and Lucifer can feel the way that his energy leaves him, every sensation numbed as his very core is taken.
Alastor lifts the heart to his lips, breath ghosting across the ventricles, swiping his tongue across the frayed veins. Observe, how little it takes for him to break apart beneath his Tsaritsa's gaze, body pressed tightly against him. He's unsure when it happened, but he finds himself tucked up against Lucifer's side, head resting lazily on his shoulder, one hand still hooked on his ribcage and the other sticky with gilded blood as he sinks his teeth into the muscle and devours.
In this moment, there is nothing human about Alastor, and nothing divine about Lucifer.
It feels like confession, the way Lucifer's heart cleaves apart beneath his touch—his bite—a ripe pomegranate filled with sparkling gold. Alastor cracks into the fresh fruit, undeterred by the way the blood spurts from the flesh, bathing him in shining ichor. Something like a baptism. Something like rebirth.
He wants to crawl up into Lucifer's chest and rest there, cradled by his lungs and rocked to sleep by his breathing. Alastor doesn't quite understand it, the way he stares up at the former Archon, eyes glittering past the long, crimson lashes. He's hungry for something he can't quite reach.
If Lucifer were human, mortal the same way that Alastor is, there is no doubt that he would have died in seconds. But he isn't human, has never been. So even as he feels his life draining from him, Lucifer watches Alastor devour his heart, his remaining eye trained on the way that those sharp teeth tear into the muscle.
Maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe all these years so focused on vengeance had twisted his mind. Maybe he has always been like this. But right now, Lucifer can only think of one thing.
Beautiful.
Alastor makes an egregious show of ripping into the soft flesh, splitting the left ventricle from the right as he sinks his razor teeth in. His tongue works to catch the blood that spills from the severed veins and arteries, curling around the heart as he swallows down the viscera. All he can taste is Lucifer, sweet and cloying on his tongue, dripping down his chin in golden rivulets.
Watch as he tears the muscle apart with ease, chewing through the walls of the heart as he feasts. Piece by piece, drop by drop, until he is full of that saccharine divinity. Alastor is built to consume—brimming with insatiable hunger—sick with yearning to possess Lucifer in every way he knows how.
It's barely a moment after he finishes off the heart that he buries himself against the curves of Lucifer's body, desperate to feel his Tsaritsa's skin against his own. He wants to crack open his body and swallow him whole. To be so intimately entangled within each other's bodies that their atoms are indistinguishable from each other.
Weak as he is, Lucifer can only slowly bring one of his arms up to lightly cradle the other man. How he wishes he could simply melt into Alastor. To mould together into one… alas their time is short. If he still had his heart, Lucifer is convinced that it would have skipped a beat.
“Lucifer, my love.” Alastor rasps, slick with blood and sin. He slips one hand into Lucifer's, palms pressed seamlessly together, fingers curved to cage him in his grasp. It comes perfectly naturally to him, and everything is as it always should have been. He buries his face against his collarbone, the bridge of his nose slotted neatly against the curve of Lucifer's neck.
“It has been an honour.”
Love.
Despite how weak he is. Despite how his vision is starting to grow dark. Despite the numbness that is settling into his body.
Lucifer can't help but feel so very warm.
He had known that Alastor held love in his heart. But knowing is different from hearing it from the man himself. It almost makes him regret that this is the end. This moment—the closest they have ever been—will be their last. He will never be able to shower Alastor with his long held affections.
But he would not regret it. Not now, not when he had known the day was coming. Instead he smiles the best he can as he feels Alastor slip his hand into his own. Lucifer tries his best to squeeze his hand back, though he can't feel much.
“Yes…” Lucifer murmurs, “It has been the greatest honour, my hart.”
Lucifer is so cold against him, and Alastor presses himself closer, offering up his own warmth. That horrible feeling claws at his chest, howling in his ribcage as he holds Lucifer tightly. He wants to tear his own heart from between his intercostals—the wretched thing—that which stutters and sings mournfully at his core, a soft melody of grief and resignation.
“Yes… yours.” He whispers. His fingers scrabble at the thin fabric of his shirt, peeling it away from himself as he digs further, claws splitting apart the muscle of his chest as he reaches in. Alastor thinks that perhaps it should've been excruciating, searching for something unattainable, wanting something he can't have. And he knows what he wants. “Are you still lucid, love?”
There's no response, or at least none that he can really make out, his mind hazy and his body undeniably exhausted. Surely it no longer matters if he allows himself one final indulgence. He hopes Lucifer would forgive him—whether it be for not asking permission, or for the fact he had waited until so late. Alastor does not hesitate to lean in, lips pressing softly against Lucifer's, a gesture for an emotion he still cannot truly name.
It isn't a beautiful moment. There are no fireworks, no butterflies in his stomach, none of the fanciful fantasies he'd heard over the years. There is only the icy cold of Lucifer's lips on his—still and unmoving—and the unbearable silence, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing. He supposes it is fitting for him. It is all he deserves. And now, cradled in the arms of a dead god, Alastor knows there is nothing else left for him here.
Dying beside Lucifer is all he could ever ask for.
Alastor is not sure whether he screams or not. He's not sure whether the tears are his or from Lucifer, whether the pain is truly there when he rends his heart from his chest, whether he actually speaks when he presents the organ to his Tsaritsa. He is trembling, throat burning with unspoken phrases and regrets, his body a forest for the wildfire that he knows he has set loose with that simple kiss.
He is bathed in blood—gold and crimson—a gorgeous mix of organic inks, and this is perhaps the closest Alastor will ever be to divinity. His throat is hot and sticky, the taste of tangy iron at the back of his mouth as his body practically chokes on itself. It's almost amusing, how quickly he feels himself slipping, vision foggy and arms heavy with a weight he has not known in centuries. His hands are shaky as he struggles to slot his heart in beside Lucifer's lungs, nestling it amongst the wet viscera, still warm and brilliantly red.
Observe, how the former Harbinger curls in on himself, gilded and gory, tucked within a divine corpse. Perhaps, if he had been present enough to truly see the scene for himself, he would have had something to say. How idyllic. How gorgeous. How horrifying. This is what they had always wanted, to be so entangled that no being could ever hope to pry them apart.
Alastor laughs—or perhaps he cries—or perhaps he says nothing at all. Simply resting. Peaceful.
And he is finally at home.