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one more cup of coffee...
Mar. 2nd, 2018 01:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
primarchy[ Lucifer remembers very little of the time between being attacked in Canaan and now. He remembers what came before: Sandalphon's cradle, his long watch over it, waiting, hoping that Sandalphon would emerge. That they could talk, finally. That they could understand each other. And he remembers pain and duty, the knowledge of what Beelzebub must have come for. The knowledge of what he needed to do to keep the sky realm safe from Beelzebub and Lucilius's plans.
He remembers, distantly, a presence. Hoping that it was a presence, that there was someone there, listening as he slowly faded away. As the last of his consciousness dispersed, praying to no one, the god that he'd betrayed, that someone would hear him and carry his last words to the ears they were meant for.
And then nothing. Nothing, for he doesn't know how long. He had not died, not completely. He had existed, still, but as something too weak to be aware. Too weak to mark the passage of time. Too weak to pull himself back together.
The fallen angels had done that for him.
His stolen body. The head they had retrieved from Canaan. But his power, they could not take, not when it was already in another's hands, safeguarded by a new supreme primarch. He was still useful to them. A subject for experiments, a tool, for the fight against the Singularity, if they could replace his missing power with their own, if they could convince him to join their cause.
When he hears footsteps outside the door of his cell, he expects it's another attempt to persuade him, through force as much as words, as the last few attempts have been, to do exactly that. But the loud howl has him stiffening with a rattle of chains, his darkened wings spreading as he braces himself to meet whatever comes through the slowly opening door— ]
Sandalphon?
[ A dear name turned into little more than a whisper by the surprise of that familiar figure. ]
He remembers, distantly, a presence. Hoping that it was a presence, that there was someone there, listening as he slowly faded away. As the last of his consciousness dispersed, praying to no one, the god that he'd betrayed, that someone would hear him and carry his last words to the ears they were meant for.
And then nothing. Nothing, for he doesn't know how long. He had not died, not completely. He had existed, still, but as something too weak to be aware. Too weak to mark the passage of time. Too weak to pull himself back together.
The fallen angels had done that for him.
His stolen body. The head they had retrieved from Canaan. But his power, they could not take, not when it was already in another's hands, safeguarded by a new supreme primarch. He was still useful to them. A subject for experiments, a tool, for the fight against the Singularity, if they could replace his missing power with their own, if they could convince him to join their cause.
When he hears footsteps outside the door of his cell, he expects it's another attempt to persuade him, through force as much as words, as the last few attempts have been, to do exactly that. But the loud howl has him stiffening with a rattle of chains, his darkened wings spreading as he braces himself to meet whatever comes through the slowly opening door— ]
Sandalphon?
[ A dear name turned into little more than a whisper by the surprise of that familiar figure. ]
