Lucifer, from Somewhere Between the Lost and the Forgotten, a roleplay on RPG

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New York City, New York

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#2014-03-16 08:18:17, as written by Nephilim

Khalid’s sword clanged off of Sephiriel’s, the black metal meeting the shining radiance of hers and creating a shower of sparks. Both leaped back, and then forward again in such perfect synchronization it could have been choreographed. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done to make the angel decide he was worth sparring with now, but she seemed to have taken to the practice with some aplomb. They were well-matched for most purposes, and that was really saying something on his end. She was also absolutely relentless, and he knew that this was a greater kindness than mercy would have been, because she forced everything out of him that he could give, and in turn, he made her fight harder as well. The desperate edge of the match was enough to push both of them to be better, sharper, faster.

They had spectators for the match today, Cassiel and Caspar both present, having just finished their own practice, which from the smell of ash on the air, likely had to do with their shared pyrokinesis. Neither combatant could afford to pay much attention to the fact that they were being watched however, and while Caspar’s bass occasionally cut over the clangor to reprimand one of them for dropping an elbow or slouching too much, he was for the most part quiet and observant, allowing their focus to rest solely on each other.

He’d always been fascinated with the purity and obvious goodness to angels; it made them beautiful in a way he did not quite grasp, perhaps because it was a way in which he could never be the same. It almost hurt him, to look at Sephiriel’s soul, but he dare not go without even one of his advantages when he faced her like this, and so he made himself deal with it. It was oddly comforting that there was no number whatsoever to be found above her head. It should have been obvious, considering the immortality of the angels, but in a situation like this, nothing could be taken for granted. There was perhaps one thing he held back from their fight, but she did not know of its existence, and he supposed she didn’t use her spellsong on him, so they were still about even.

Khalid blocked an incoming bolt of lightning with a swift wall of ice, which shattered and exploded under the impact, sending a million tiny chips of ice flying into the late spring air. Neither of them stopped to watch the descent of the glittering particles, instead charging forward again. Or at least… Sephiriel did. Khalid had caught something out of the corner of his eye, and it froze him in his tracks.

The number over Caspar’s head was zero.

It was in that moment of absolute shock, when Sephiriel threw her weapon to the side in a last ditch effort not to accidentally kill him, that Khalid’s entire body locked into place and the air around him shifted. Death had an aura that was dark and cold, insidious and wicked, even, but it was nothing compared to the evil that could be felt now. From his feet outwards, everything withered and died, grass shriveling and turning brown as if in a time-lapse video of decay. The light of the sun seemed to dim overhead, and the temperature dropped until they could all see their breaths on the air. “What the Hell…?” Sephiriel muttered, shuddering. This presence… she’d only been in it once, and it was not an experience she’d thought to repeat yet. Not like this.

Khalid’s eyes closed, and when they opened, both were aglow, one the malevolent red-on-black of the mightiest of demon lords, the other a frosty, ice-blue, the faint hint of purple to it giving the game away to both the angel and the fallen. Sephiriel actually swore, summoning her sword back to her hand, but the only sign Caspar gave of acknowledging what had surely happened was the tightening of his jaw. So it was to be today, then.

Khalid tilted his head to the side, his lips lifting in what might have been a grin, but for the fact that it bared sharpened canine teeth without a trace of mirth or joy to be found. Given how little he ever expressed, the malicious expression looked wrong on his face, though perhaps it would have anyway. It was wrong. He flexed a hand experimentally, looking down at both of them before sliding both the glove and bracer from his left one. The entire limb was inked in black, up to his shoulder, where the pattern spiked beneath the line of the sleeveless shirt he wore. The tips of his unnaturally-long fingers bore wicked claws, black as night in sharp contrast with the gleaming white of his distended canines.

When he spoke, however, it was not Khalid’s voice. The tones were similarly aristocratic, but rather than being monotonous or flat, they seemed to hold dozens of tiny pitch variations, similar to the way Sephiriel’s voice became multitonal when she used her spellsong. The underlying sounds here were serpentine hisses and sibiliant rasping, however, the voice holding a certain kind of dark allure to it that Khalid had never tried for. “Ah, now there’s a boy, Azrael,” the voice said, almost playfully, then he glanced around at the three people before him. Sephiriel, the dear thing, that abominable little Nephilim, and of course…

“Michael. So very good to see you again. The years have not been kind to you, fallen one.”

Cassiel leaned on her elbows, propped against her knees, as she watched Sephiriel and Khalid spar. She watched quietly, listening to the clamor of their weapons clashing against each other while her father would occasionally reprimand them. She shook her head, a faint smile on her lips, each time her father said something. She was a little tired, having just finished her own match with Caspar moments ago, and she was enjoying watching her two friends have at each other. It was something, really, watching two different beings fighting. Their auras were radiating from each other, as if they were having a separate battle all their own, and she couldn't help but be fascinated by it.

The small smile slowly spread further across her lips as she continued to watch them, trying to keep up with their pace. Though they were not moving fast, it was still a spectacle. She glanced at her father, watching and studying his face. She wondered what he was thinking about for a moment, watching how his eyes never left their forms, and she leaned over so that her head was propped against his shoulder. She closed her eyes momentarily, taking the moment to enjoy being with her friends, her family. It wasn't until something disturbed the air, that she reopened her eyes. She pulled back, glancing around as she tried to find the source.

There was no one around, but the air became chillier, their breaths present along the air as they breathed. Without much thought, Cassiel tried bringing her temperature up a degree, just enough to keep from getting too cold, and glanced a Khalid, a sharp gasp exiting her lips. His face, his eyes; they seemed different. Though physically he resembled Khalid, something spoke of not being Khalid. A frown marred her face as she stared up at her father, watching as his jaw tightened subtly and glanced towards Sephiriel who had summoned her weapon back to her. Her eyes traveled back to Khalid, who then spoke.

And when he did, it hurt. Something lurched in the pit of her stomach when he spoke in that multitonal way, and she couldn't understand why. It wasn't until a name was spoken, Azrael, that Cassiel finally managed to move, even if slightly. Who was Azrael? Was he referring to himself? Who was that, that was speaking? She was so very confused. "Dad...what's wrong with Khalid?" she spoke in a soft whisper, concern laced in her voice as she tried not to reach for her father's arm. Something about what he radiated frightened Cassiel to a degree she couldn't even understand.

Caspar shook his head. “That’s not Khalid,” he said softly. “That’s Lucifer.” Reaching over, he laid a gentle hand on the side of his daughter’s face, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He could sense her fear, and she had every right to it. Even without his own body, Satan manifesting in this realm was about as frightening as a prospect could be.

“I love you Cassie,” He said, moving his hand to rest on her head for just a moment before he pushed himself into a stand. Sephiriel was scowling, having summoned full battle regalia in the meantime, her sword in one hand and shield in the other, but the devil in Khalid’s body looked unconcerned with her, his eyes rather fixated on Caspar and his daughter, something like a sneer ghosting over his face at the display of paternal affection.

“Really now, Michael? I’m surprised. I quite knew that you were too softhearted, but humans? Nephilim? No, perhaps I should not be surprised. What was fool enough to fall for the son of Satan is fool enough to have mortal children of his own, I suppose.” How far the mighty had fallen, really—he at least had never been so distracted by mortals to actually bother having feelings for one. He was not weak in that way. In fact, he wasn’t weak in any way, unlike this pathetic excuse for an offspring whose body he now inhabited. He was somewhat surprised that Azrael was fighting him, struggling against the possession, but it was a useless effort in the end. If the Devil wanted a body, that body was his to use as he saw fit.

He could read clearly the revulsion in Sephiriel’s eyes, but the Second Sword was ever subordinate, and did not move to attack, rather glancing over at Michael, who had surprisingly not summoned his own armor, nor even his sword. Lucifer knew he still had it—had managed to retain that much divinity when he fell, more than any angel ever had. Uriel was closest, but even he did not have Michael’s power. Lucifer tugged the second glove off his vessel’s hands and let it fall beside the first. Azrael’s powers were admittedly quite intriguing, but it was his own that he intended to use. The Death Touch would kill far too quickly for what he had planned. Oh no, this adversary of his, he was going to make suffer. It wasn’t time to kill the Witness or Sephiriel yet, though he could certainly still do so if he really wished, and it was with this that he coerced his opponent.

“Leave the extras out of this, Michael, and so shall I.”

Caspar raised an eyebrow. “A deal with the Devil?” he asked in reply, his sonorous bass rumbling in a way that Lucifer recognized well. The chuckle that responded was dark, wicked, and slow.

“I suppose if you want to see it that way, you are welcome to.” Nevertheless, Michael shot Sephiriel a look that had the other angel wearing a look of consternation. They appeared to have a conversation that passed in nothing but looks and facial expressions, and lasted for no more than thirty seconds, but when it was done, Sephiriel was shaking her head, blinking back moisture from her eyes. Caspar, on the other hand, cracked his neck from side to side, fixing Lucifer with a hard stare.

“Come on then. Or are you the same coward you’ve always been, that you fear to attack even a fallen?” That was a bravado Lucifer knew well—it had always given him cause to envy and hate Michael, who could walk around with all his strength and the legions of Heaven at his beck and call, and yet still betray nothing more than an easy confidence. No arrogance, no misplaced swagger, just belief in himself and the strength to back it up. But that strength was gone now, and Lucifer would make him pay for it.

When they clashed, Caspar was still barehanded, but he caught the sword whistling for his head in his hand, stopping it with a pair of fingers and throwing it to the side, wrenching it from the Devil’s grip. Lucifer had the disadvantage of not being in his own body, and it was evident to the fallen angel that Khalid was fighting the possession from the inside with everything he had, trying to prevent what they both knew was coming. It made him more sluggish and erratic than he otherwise would have been, but Caspar was not in this fight to survive it. He was in it to win—but the prize was not his own life. He took the first opportunity that presented itself, locking grips with Lucifer, palm-to-palm, both sets of arm muscles straining as they pushed against one another, their feet digging into the ground, a small crater forming from the sheer aura pressure both were exuding. Sephiriel moved to Cassiel’s side, in the event this didn’t work and she needed to protect her.

“Khalid, I know you’re in there,” Caspar said, searching the eyes of the man in front of him for sign of the boy he’d raised. Not Death, not Azrael, but Khalid—the son of his old friend and the child without a place in the world. It was that boy who would be able to do this, not the horseman or the half-demon. “I need you to help me. Use your hands, both of them. Take what I’m giving you, and let me do this. Please.” Caspar’s words were thick, both with the strain of fighting off the physical assault from Lucifer and also with the emotion that came of this moment. It was funny—he’d known it was going to happen, but he’d been unprepared for just how it was going to feel. There was no pain or uncertainty, just the honest desire for that lost little boy in there to have one more chance, one more opportunity to make right what had always been wrong for him. To overcome his nature and learn to listen to what his heart told him.

Cassiel may have been the only child of his blood, but Khalid was his, too. In every way that mattered.

He saw it—the moment when that frightened child broke through, and regained some control over himself. “Michael… I can’t. I can’t. Please… don’t make me do this.” The fragment of Khalid seemed to slip away, the Watcher’s eye regaining the violet tint of Lucifer’s own, but Cass wasn’t about to let it go that easily.

“You don’t have a choice, kid. I’m not giving you one, this time.” And he wasn’t. Dredging up every last fragment of the divinity that was left to him, he started to force it into Khalid’s body. He could feel Lucifer fighting it, but only to limited success. It was going to happen one way or another, and Khalid activating his powers would make it hurt less for the both of them. The kid knew it, and so did Cass, and after a moment, he felt both channels open up—the life and divinity that Cass was giving became absorbed through the one arm, and the aura of death, and in this case Lucifer as well was pushed into him through the other.

With a final great heave, Caspar gave all that he had left, and he felt the connection between Khalid and his father snap, plunging the Devil’s soul back into his body beneath the ice in Hell and releasing his son from his grip. The effort did the fallen angel in, and, stripped of all his divinity, he slumped heavily against Khalid, who supported him with a staggered step backwards.

“Caspar…” he choked, shutting off his powers immediately. He could feel it, in the way that only Death knew. The man who had raised him, was more father to him than anyone, was dying. And not even angelic healing could bring him back. “No, please. Not for me. Not for me.”

Lucifer? Son of Satan? Khalid...was Lucifer's son? Those thoughts were immediately banished when she felt her father's hand upon her head, and the words he spoke confused her. He loved her, of course. He was her father, she loved him too, but why would he say something like that? Why would he say those words now? She furrowed her brows at him, watching as he left her side and cracked his neck. The exchange between her father and Lucifer was odd, and confusing, even when they clashed, Cassiel could only watch. Her fists clenched at her sides, trying every thing within her power to remain as calm as she could be. She glanced at Sephiriel, who stood beside her fully cloaked in armor, and furrowed her brows. She wanted to ask what was going on, what happened to Khalid, and why Lucifer had possessed him.

She wanted to know how she could help, if she could help, however; the words never made it out of her mouth. The sheer pressure of their aura was enough to alert Cassiel's attention back to the two that battled, and when her father spoke, the way his body shifted just slightly, a fear crept within Cassiel. Something was happening to her father, to Khalid. She couldn't place what it was, only that something was taking place. She felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart lurch in a painful way she couldn't explain, and it wasn't until her father collapsed that she was finally able to move. Something wasn't right, her father was leaning heavily against Khalid, and Khalid...

She stopped half way towards them, noticing the way Khalid choked on her father's name. She didn't have Death's ability to sense death, she didn't have the ability to see someone's death clock, but she didn't need any of those to know what death looked like. The back of her eyes burned as she stared at Khalid and her father, willing her body to move, but it wouldn't. She was stuck, glued to the spot she was in as she watched the life fading fast from her father. Not again. She was losing her father, the one parent she had left, she was losing him. Why? It wasn't fair! Why did he have to die? He was supposed to look after her, take care of her until she no longer needed him to. But he wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to live, in place of her mother.

He was supposed to be there for her when she got married, give her away to the one she loved, be there with her cousin, her aunt, her uncle. He was supposed to live. And yet, here he was, dying. Something of a strangled cry escaped her throat as she finally forced her legs to move again, moving so that she was at Khalid's side. She could feel her tears finally falling, burning streams down her cheeks as she glanced at her father's face. He was leaving her. He was leaving her alone, with no mother, no father. "Daddy," she called out to him, trying so hard to search for a light in his eyes. "Daddy, please don't go. Please, don't leave me too," she called out to her father. He couldn't leave her.

"Please," she continued to beg, waiting as if for a miracle to happen, for him to be healed and be okay. "I love you daddy, please don't go," she continued weeping for her fallen father. She wiped away at her eyes with the back of her hands, trying to keep herself from drowning in them. How could she ask her father to stay? If it was his time, she should let him go, but she couldn't. She felt more tears burning at the back of her eyes as she lowered them to the ground. "I'm sorry, dad. I love you, but...but I know mom needs you now. I...don't know if you'll see her again, but if you do," she continued, pausing to hold back a strangled sob. "Tell mom I love her and I miss her. I love you daddy, you...can rest now," would be the final words she would be able to tell her father.

She couldn't keep him here for her selfishness. She couldn't keep him here because she didn't want to let him go, but she had to. She had to let him go. She had to say goodbye. For the second time in her life, Cassiel lost a parent, and she wept.

Leaning against Khalid for support, Caspar managed to move his hand to his daughter’s shoulder. Kal had turned his head away, unable to watch, but that did not stop him from hearing what she said. And this, too, was his fault. This man, the best man he’d ever met, was dying, because of him. Because he was too weak to fight off his father. And because he was too despicable to refuse what was being offered, the chance to live a little longer, one more time.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Cass said softly to his daughter. “I never wanted to leave you.” But he had to. Because this was about more than his selfish wish to stay with his friends and family as long as possible. This was about what had to be done, so that they could live, all of them, and be happy in the end, even if he was not. His divinity was gone, and he knew that could very well mean that the rest of his eternity would be spent deep in the bowels of Hell, but for them, he would do it. He must.

It was Sephiriel that noticed it first, perhaps because she was the most attenuated to it—the way the atmosphere bent and shifted. She tore her eyes from her brother and his daughter and Death and fixed them at a specific point on the sky, and then, not unlike she’d emerged like a falling star more then three years ago, another angel appeared, this one with hair a darker gold than Seph’s own and wings of metallic bronze. He was beautiful, as they all were, wearing pristine white robes that glittered with some inner radiance, as he was bathed in. Sephiriel tended to suppress the same effects in herself, because even traces of them were uncomfortable for those she kept company with, but Gabriel had no need to do the same.

There was a severity to this angel that well-matched the kind Sephiriel had once worn. It was not so harsh as Raphiel’s, but it was far from as soft as Caspar or Kazehaya or even herself had become. His feet touched the ground, and much of what had been destroyed by the presence of the Devil was repaired. “Sephiriel,” he greeted with a short nod, one which she returned.

“Gabriel.” He wasn’t here for her, though, and she had a feeling he knew why he was. Indeed, the angel’s sandaled feet tread over the ground, carrying him forward and into the presence of his grandson and what had once been his brother-in-arms. He spared a glance for Cassiel, but none for Khalid, who also dared not lift his head to look. He knew well what this particular angel thought of him. It was taking a lot out of him not to react negatively to Gabriel’s presence—the strong angelic aura was demanding on his own demonic side, which fought to surface in response. As it was, he simply endured the pain while Gabriel reached out, touching Caspar on the forehead and then drawing back.

A ripple of holy energy disturbed the air, and it seemed that the entire world shifted just slightly before settling back into place, completely altered and yet somehow the same.

The returning of a seraphim to the service of God was just that momentous an occasion.

“Congratulations, brother,” Gabriel said, the faintest hint of happiness suffusing the words. The Messenger’s voice was a light, pleasant tenor, almost as musical as Sephiriel’s own natural one. “None of the fallen have ever before returned. But He has deemed that you may. Rise, Michael.”

Caspar’s eyes, closed in death, cracked open, and where once they were a dark cinnamon-amber, they were now the brightest of liquid golds, and met Gabriel’s crystal-blues fuzzily at first, but then with clarity as he realized what must have happened. Slowly, he righted himself, taking his weight off Khalid, though one of his arms remained on the man’s shoulder, the other on Cassiel’s. A slight rustling sound, and a pair of wings, as brilliant and golden as his eyes, materialized at his back, free of the ostentation of Gabriel’s appearance but even more glorious in form, if that were possible. The heavy black stripes across his skin did not fade, and his hair was the same flame-red it had always been.

His mouth twitched slightly, into a smile that softened the lines of his face, and that too was familiar. With either arm, he tugged the two people he considered his children towards him in a hug. “I really am sorry,” he said, intending the sentiment for both of them, though different reasons were operative in each case. To Cassiel, he continued. “I’ll tell your mother everything, Cassie. We’ll be watching out for you, I promise. You’re never alone, kiddo. Never.”

Stepping back from the both of them, he pulled Seph into a hug as well, the words exchanged between them too low to be heard, but when he pulled away, the other angel had a little smile on her face, despite the fact that her eyes were sad. “I’ll see you all on the other side,” he promised, then paused, smiled a little wider, and added, “but not too soon, okay?” But it was time to go; he’d kept Gabriel waiting too long already. With a nod, he took off after the other angel, looking back over his shoulder just once, to raise a hand in farewell to the ones he left behind. His heart pulled to have to do it, but, just like everything else he’d done, it was for them, in the end, and that was what gave him the strength to do it.

The world around her seemed to grow quiet. She couldn't hear, nor see anything other than her father's face, and she forced a smile upon her face when he spoke. It hurt. It would always hurt, but she would be okay. She would heal, just as she did with her mother; she would heal. Perhaps not as quickly, or not properly, but she would because she had to. She had to be okay for them, for everyone else, because they would need her to be. She wiped away the last of her tears, and kept them from falling further when her father closed his eyes, the air of death surrounding him in the process. He was gone. She took a struggled breath before something shifted.

Her gaze followed Sephiriel's, turning to the sky as she stared at it. It was then he appeared, an angel. At first, she covered her eyes, the light a little too much for her tear stained gaze. Once she was able to focus, she watched as he spoke, walking over to her father and spared her a glance. She stared at him in confusion before he spoke again, talking and congratulating her father. She was confused, why was he congratulating him? Her father was dead, why...it didn't click automatically. It didn't register to her that her father's eyes, once a deep shade of amber, were now blazing a liquid gold, nor matching colored wings sprouting behind him.

It wasn't until he grabbed her and Khalid into a hug that it finally registered that her father was alive, and she couldn't keep her tears back any longer. He was alive, but he was leaving. He was still leaving because he had to. She returned the hug, squeezing him as tightly as she could before he pulled back. She wiped away the tears again as she offered him a bright smile. "I know," she whispered softly to his statement. She would never be alone; she knew that. She had her family still, her aunt, her uncle, her cousin. She had Khalid, and Akeldama, and they were as much a part of her family as her blood was.

She would never be alone. "I love you, dad," she called after her father as she watched him leave, chasing after Gabriel and watched as he disappeared. She wouldn't have her parents, but she still had them. They would be with her still, with her always. She turned towards Khalid and Sephiriel, grasping Khalid's arm in an attempt at comfort. Why, she didn't understand it, but the need to do so was strong. "Lets...go home."

Setting

New York City, New York

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#2014-03-21 07:06:09, as written by Asilian

It is time.

The mental whisper cut through all of Khalid’s other thoughts like a hot knife, and he stiffened for a moment, freezing where he was in the library, his fingers curling tighter against the spine of the book he held. For a moment, he entertained the notion of resisting this, the call that would end the world, but he could not. He knew it, and his father knew it, and so with a certain kind of agonizing reluctance, he set the book down on the table, stood, and walked out of the apartment.

Because he kept his aura suppressed entirely on most days, nobody would sense him leave, because they didn’t sense him at all in the first place. Kirito would know when he entered the Ninth Circle, but there was nothing to be done about it, and perhaps he would understand that, too. Perhaps not. It was of no consequence to Khalid—even Conquest could not stop him, could not stop this. It was as fated as an event could ever be, and wholly necessary for what would come after.

Necessary for the end of the world.

And he was the only one who could do it.

He walked a few blocks, mostly to give himself some distance from the place he’d been living and the people he was betraying, and then came to a stop, seemingly for no reason at all other than arbitrary choice. With a gesture, Khalid summoned a weapon to his hand—not his usual sword, but a scythe. And it was no crude Reaper’s implement—this was the Scythe of Death, counterpart to the Bow of Conquest. The lacquered shaft seemed to be cut from night itself, and the massive, curved blade glimmered the bright silver-white of the moon. He removed both of his gloves, catching the implement in the hand that was inked the color of shadows. With an easy swing that belied the weapon’s weight, Khalid cut through the fabric of reality itself, opening a portal to Hell.

Death paused at the door, staring straight ahead, but his thoughts were obviously directed behind him. For a long moment, he lingered on the threshold. Blue eyes closed, and his head dropped slightly, his shoulders hunching as he accepted, once and for all, the burden that had been his from birth. He’d almost thought—but no. This was who he was, and what he was born to do. There was no escaping it, no matter what they said or how much he wanted to believe them. Their time was up—because the End was beginning in truth now.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

His eyes opened, both red, and Death stepped through the Gates of Hell.

Once inside, it was not particularly difficult to locate the place on the ice under which his father was sealed. His aura was strong now, stronger than it had been in eons, as he fed from the sin and chaos of the world and exploited his direct connection with Khalid to get at it faster. Death ignored the tormented souls that called out to him, reached for him, their hands almost brushing him before they stopped, sensing that he was not as human as he seemed. Even the damned could not bring themselves to touch him. He wasn’t surprised, and as he passed the throne of Asmodeus, he stopped holding in his aura, allowing it to flare around him with the cold heat of dry ice and settle. There was nothing more to rot, but where he tread, even more frost slicked the floor, and the air seemed to grow stagnant and stale.

He reached a specific spot on the ice and crouched, able to feel the power of the seal—divine power, from three angels long ago. One of those angels was now dead, and so Lucifer was now held by the combined might of Michael and Sephiriel alone. That would be more than enough to contain him, were he not made stronger by all the time he’d spent gathering power to him… and by Khalid, who could do some things that even Lucifer himself could not. Like fool the seal into believing something divine attempted to break it even as something unholy pushed from the other side.

The fingertips of his pale hand brushed the ice, and Khalid channeled life energy down, down, down into the dead frozen ground, feeling it reach with the warmth and tenderness of his mother, the holy inheritance of Gabriel made softer by her intercession and passed to him in a deeply-disturbing twist of irony. Death had life at his beck and call. He felt the seal drawing closer to the surface of the ice, until if glowed no more than a foot beneath his feet, the holy radiance issuing from it more than he’d ever seen in one place in his entire life. He wondered how much divinity each of those angels had sacrificed for this. They would be getting it back now, he supposed, but it would be cold comfort considering that the one they had imprisoned with it would walk free upon the earth once more.

With a surge of power from Khalid, the seal ruptured and broke, the ice above it cracking and shattering away to nothing, leaving a circular depression in the floor from which a figure emerged. His hair was white as Khalid’s, but underneath the distinctly demonic red glow they currently possessed, his eyes were a captivating violet. He was tall, lean, and exquisitely, darkly beautiful—there was considerable resemblance between he and his son, though Khalid would have said that was true only insofar as a shadow resembled the object it was cast from.

Lucifer flexed his hand, looking down at the pale, clawed digits of it, then over at his son, from whom the divine aura was fading rapidly. In fact, he was rebounding to the other end of the spectrum in his sire’s presence, his teeth extending over his lower lip, black claws forming at the end of each hand. Azrael was always a bit… feral in appearance when his more powerful heritage overtook him, but even this was not quite what he could become. It would seem the boy held back for some reason. Well, it was irrelevant to Lucifer—Azrael was of concern to him only as a tool, and he had fulfilled his purpose most admirably in this case.

Choosing not to acknowledge his progeny, Lucifer allowed his own power to reach equilibrium for the moment. There were a number of orders of business to attend to, and the first was assembling the so-called princes of Hell, and then crushing the ones who did not answer the summons voluntarily. Lowering his hand, the black-armored figure strode to the throne in the Ninth Circle and sat in it. It was the simplest way to do what he wanted.

Consider yourselves summoned, wretches.

The call would echo in the minds of every last ruler of a circle, but he did not place the force of compulsion behind it—not yet. Just the same dark menace that pervaded everything he did. He already knew how his two no-shows would be: Mammon and the current Asmodeus. He understood the former one was now regrettably deceased, though not quite as dead as most of his family believed him to be. Azrael knew the truth of course—being Death itself had certain advantages, like knowing when someone was actually dead. Because his foolish vessel knew, Lucifer knew as well.

Leaning back slightly in the throne, the Devil placed an arm on either rest and crossed one leg over the other. His more fearful minions would be with him presently—and then he would remind the dissenters why their brethren were fearful.

A day later, and the household had definitely noticed that Khalid was missing. Kirito had also been able to inform her that the seal in his Circle had been broken, meaning that the Devil himself was walking around like a free man. Sephiriel independently confirmed this, confiding that she had felt the return of a chunk of her divinity she had never wanted back. It left Kaz feeling a little edgy, which was perhaps understandable. Still, in some sense, life had to go on even after catastrophic events that the rest of the world didn't know about, and the apartment happened to be in need of more food. So, leaving Sephiriel with Cassiel, who was otherwise unprotected, she took Kirito with her to the grocery store. The angel had managed to vehemently protest even without acknowledging her son’s existence as such, which was actually kind of impressive, but Kaz had won out by saying that if they had to split up, it was better to split the power more or less evenly, to make no target more appealing if something did happen.

And she wasn’t taking them all to the freaking grocery store. It was bad enough that Dama had wanted to come, and Kaz had spent the last half hour trying to prevent the girl from eating literally everything in the place. It was kind of funny, but… really. She had no idea how someone as doormat-like as Khalid had ever managed to control her. It was hard enough for both her and Kiri, and neither of them even resembled passive or shy.

Still, she was smiling on her way back, half the groceries in her hands and the other half with Kiri. She’d even caved and bought Dama several packages of candy. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. At least… she was smiling until she felt the shift of something in purgatory. Something big, and very, very dark. Something that repelled her nature in a way that As and Momo never had.

She was in Purgatory herself in an instant. Whatever this was, she wasn’t going to let it take anyone else from her. Not today. The bags of groceries clattered to the cement, and Kazehana watched with morbid fascination as, seemingly out of nowhere, a man materialized.

Her first thought was that she was looking at a more polished version of Khalid, with different eyes and a different mark under the one. Instead of red, it was blue, but many of his other features bore a striking resemblance. But where Khalid was often a bit off-putting, she suspected intentionally, this one was… she felt a pull, a foreign desire that was not quite hers, to be near him. It was only the angel in her that fought it, and, well, her own stubbornness, of course. The figure wore an expensive-looking white suit, cutting a sharp, crisp line with his bright silhouette, and his shirt and tie were both black, as were the shoes that looked like they cost more than most of her wardrobe put together… plus Cassie’s.

In retrospect, it may not have been the wisest thing to say, but Kazehana wasn’t all that wise, to be perfectly honest. “You’re kidding,” she said flatly. “The devil actually wears Prada?”

She nearly choked on her tongue with shock when he smiled at her. Actually smiled. Oh, it was mirthless and entirely wicked, and the way he looked at her sent chills down her spine, but… she wouldn’t have expected the Lucifer to be the smiling type. “Armani, actually, but I suppose that doesn’t mitigate the effect much,” since the whole point was that he looked quite human, he supposed. He seemed to fixate on the woman for a moment, as though drinking in the sight of her, but then he turned his attention to the other two, passing over Famine for the moment and making eye contact with the boy.

“You’re not very good at answering summonses, Asmodeus,” he said coolly, and the temperature around them seemed to drop by a good fifty degrees, plunging them to subfreezing conditions. “Perhaps it is time you learn.” He delivered the words with a smile, but it seemed quite suddenly that pain spiked through both Kirito and Akeldama, who had the misfortune to be standing close enough by to be caught in the radius. Only Kazehana, having no demon heritage or power, was unaffected.

Kirito had, indeed, felt it when Satan had been freed from his prison below the Ninth Circle, and Akeldama had known, too. She'd actually known when exactly Khalid had left; she had chosen not to follow.

But every half or whole demon in the family felt it when they had been summoned. Kirito and Morgan had spent that day, for the most part, sitting as still as they could, just to resist the pull. Lucifer had not put any compulsion behind the summons, but that didn't mean that there wasn't a pull, still.

Kirito and Akeldama had gone to the grocery store with his mother, while Morgan and Des had stayed behind with Cassie. Kirito had said little, still feeling highly uncomfortable, when he felt him. Unlike his mother, he knew exactly what was going on; Lucifer had come.

Kirito had barely even payed attention to what was said, not until the Devil addressed him directly. He narrowed his eyes, even now fighting the pain; but in the end, all he could do was kneel. Even as he did so, he was glaring at him, that last little measure of defiance. "I'd tell you to go to Hell, but you've already been there."

Akeldama, however, had knelt from the very start. Unlike Kirito, she had no measure of divinity at all; she couldn't fight her "father's" influence any more than one could turn back time. She had to submit, because there was no other choice.

Kazehana watched as Dama knelt, and Kirito was forced to the ground as well. She could read his pain in the rigidity of his posture. Her own teeth grit tightly, and her eyes flashed. “Let go of my son,” she growled, and as though keeping control over the both of them cost him no effort at all, Lucifer left them there, in fact clamping down harder if the flinching was anything to go by, and swung his eyes to her. There was a glimmer of amusement in them, and also recognition. It would seem that Sephiriel had been right—he knew who she was, and for some reason, that made her very uncomfortable. She pushed the feeling aside though, and met the unnerving gaze without fear. Her meaning was clear: don’t make me repeat myself.

Lucifer cocked his head to the side. The resemblance was faint, but present—she looked a bit like Esther. Even said the same words, as she had the day he came to exchange eyes with Azrael. It made him chuckle darkly. Well, that just simplified things. He’d broken Esther, he would break this one as well. Lucifer bore down harder with his aura, and even she was feeling it now, angelic ancestry or no.

He had to admit, he was not expecting her to react to this by kicking for his face. In fact, it surprised him so much that her foot caught him right in the jaw, snapping his head to the side. He bent with it, his hold on the other two temporarily disrupted, but not for long enough for them to take advantage. Straightening back up, Lucifer brought a hand to his jaw. That technique… she’d moved holy energy into her limbs. That was Uriel’s technique—the seraph had preferred not to use weapons other than those attached to his person. Apparently, he had taught his daughter to do the same. Interesting—Gabriel had taught his child almost nothing.

He was about to say something, but she was apparently not done, launching a flurry of punches for his midsection. He was more prepared this time, however, and blocked them all with his free hand, lifting a knee to catch the kick leveled to shatter his hip. She might have even been capable of it—the method she was using was quite formidable in its own right. Impressive, in a way. But he was growing irritated with the interruption, and so the next time he caught a hand, he wrenched her wrist around until it snapped—and blinked when she did nothing more than hiss and knee him in the stomach. “Stubborn woman,” he muttered, shaking his head and showing her backwards hard enough to send her sprawling onto the pavement. The impact left a crater, but she was rising immediately after, the bones in her wrist healing already—he could hear them.

All of this was not to say that he was unhappy—he’d not met with such resistance in a very long time. Even under the ice, he’d been able to see much, particularly in the last year or so, through Azrael’s eyes. His own flickered between the standing woman and her child. Unlike his other problem, he could not kill Conquest—he still had a function to perform, after all. But the notion of punishing him had just taken an intriguing new turn in Lucifer’s mind, and he smiled sadistically. “Well, I suppose even the most bullheaded can be convinced, if one persuades in the right way.” Building a concentration of power in one hand, Satan vanished, reappearing in front of the woman.

“You, Kazehana Fuhen, will endure his punishment for him.” Her eyes went wide, but she had not the time to evade him, and his forefinger touched her brow, discharging a cracking bolt of black energy. It was too much for her system, and she fell unconscious, slumping against him when he stepped forward and lifted her over his shoulder as though she weighed nothing at all. He refocused his attention on her son for a moment. “I suggest you consider the consequences of defiance, Asmodeus. When one deals with me, one rarely pays them directly. Just how much is your little family worth to you, I wonder? Famine,” he addressed the girl, and crooked the index finger of his free hand to beckon her forward. The portal opened with nothing more than his will, and both of them stepped through, Lucifer carrying Kazehana. He had one more stop to make, but he would wait until Mammon and the insect that buzzed about him were clear of the angel. Now was not the time for him to confront Sephiriel. Not while he was still beneath the full measure of his power.

Kirito and Akeldama both flinched when Lucifer put an extra push into the power he was exerting over them; it was unessecary for Famine, but even with that, Kirito was still struggling. He would never submit, not willingly.

But his eyes widened when he realized what the Devil's intent was, to take his mother. Anger, hatred, pain flashed through his crimson eyes, and he tried to stand, but to no avail. The demon half of him simply could not be swayed to disobey his "master". A growl tore itself form his throat as he watched Akeldama stand up and leave through the portal, the doorway closing behind her.

The pressure lifted as Kirito sagged forward, catching himself on his hands. He gasped as his limbs shook, his body still reeling from the pain caused by the pressure that Lucifer had used on him. He'd taken his mother; she was gone. His eyes slid out of focus as he clenched his hands. "No." he whispered hoarsely. He lost conciousness then, his only thought for his mother, and getting her back.

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#2014-03-21 10:53:38, as written by Dynamite

She had not been happy to awake in Hell, to say the least, but that was easily—enough accounted for. With his power, Lucifer formed chains, of the kind sufficient to bind a prince or the most fearsome of hellhounds, and shackled her at the wrists and ankles to the ground on the dais next to the throne. He’d chosen the Fifth Circle, as he was about to topple its prince anyway. Besides, he was feeling a bit… angry at the moment. Of course, he was always angry, so there was that.

Getting them there was a simple matter—he simply applied the compulsion he had neglected to use before, pulling the half-demon insect along because he had what had once been her sister anyway. Both of them were dragged to Hell, and when they arrivd, it was to find Lucifer seated on the throne like he owned it—which really, he did, and Kazehana struggling fiercely against a set of chains that seemed to be made entirely of solid darkness, umbral and smoky even still. When they did show up, she looked over sharply, her eyes going wide as she understood the implications of their presence. “No,” she said, though the demand cracked through the air with impressive forced for one in no position to back it up.

“Leave them alone—leave them out of this. Whatever sick shit you have planned doesn’t require this.”

At that, the Devil actually laughed—a deep, rolling sound that sent a shudder down her spine. “Require? My dear, I do not do anything because I am required to. On the contrary, this shall be purely for my enjoyment.” He turned his eyes to the two kneeling figures and contemplated for a moment, leaning his chin on a hand. “And the most exquisite enjoyments are painfully slow.” Drawing it out wouldn’t be too difficult—he’d simply eliminate them one at a time. As for how to cause the most pain, well—obviously, he’d have to save the best for last, which meant the insect went first.

A wicked smile spread over his face. “The price for defiance is high, Mammon. I hope you are pleased with what you have earned. Famine—kill the girl. Slowly.”

Morgan Alistair was not at all surprised to find himself in the depths of his own Circle, nor to find Lucifer and Kazehana there. It angered him to see her in chains, but there was nothing he could do about that. He and Desdemona were both kneeling, while Akeldama stood behind the throne, a gaunt look on her face, her expression rather blank.

Desdemona said nothing as Lucifer ordered her sister to kill her. It was not her fault, she could no more resist the order than Desdemona could fly. She stared blankly at the floor, the Horseman padding silently over to the Reaper. To his credit, Morgan did not look away.

Desdemona had never feared death, and she was not afraid now; but it hurt to see that look in Morgan's eyes. Even after almost ten years, she'd always known that no matter how fond Morgan had been of her, some part of his heart had always belonged to her. Even so, the Reaper had not held it against her; she'd been the one to have Morgan, and she had contented herself to that.

She was lying on the dais, blood running from her nose, her vision going black. She'd lost count of how many times her body had been broken and then healed. It had gotten to the point that she couldn't feel anything anymore. Akeldama stood over her, cocking her head to the side as she watched the woman move. At first she thought that she was trying to get away, but then it became rather clear that she was, in fact, moving towards Mammon, who was looking at her with a bleak desperation.

She smiled at him, and his heart broke; he didn't deserve her, he never deserved her. It was his fault she was dying now, when all she had wanted was to get her family back. Desdemona reached out, her hand stroking his cheek.

"I love you, Morrigane."

Morgan's eyes widened as he watched the light suddenly die in her eyes; Akeldama had plunged her hand through the woman's chest, and the Reaper collapsed, her body turning to ash. The only thing that was heard afterwards was the heart-wrenching sob that tore itself from Morgan's chest.

“How perfectly sickening,” Lucifer drawled when it was done. Love. As though such a piteous concept had any weight. As though it existed at all. There was only possession, obsession, lust. It was dressed up and called love because people wished to excuse the dark, clothe it in light and call it pure. And yet so many were held under its unholy sway, like the very demon prince who knelt before him. Unable to let go of the woman he’d died for, not wholly, no matter how much he wished to. And the woman herself so amusingly unaware of his torment, herself devoted to a dead man. Would she begin to doubt, to question, if she knew? Would it cause her more pain, to know and watch him die again? He quite thought so.

She pulled and struggled against her chains, and he could smell the blood where they cut into her wrists. She was straining forward, making every possible effort to get to her grieving friend. Her brother. “How much did it sting, when she called you brother as you died for her, Mammon?” Lucifer inquired casually. The struggling stilled—ah, so she was confused. Perfect. “In fact, I think it would be rather interesting if you told her everything you felt, don’t you? Everything you still feel, even. Speak, and don’t spare us the ugly details.”

Kazehana, confused, looked from poor Des to her beloved brother, and then to the Devil. “The fuck are you talking about, asshole? Haven’t you done enough? Fuck it, you son of a bitch. If you’re going to kill me, just get it the Hell over with. I get it, you’re a motherfucking sadist. You took my sister and my brother and my husband and my friend,” she looked mournfully at the dead Reaper, her language growing more caustic as her anger crackled back to life. “I know you’ll have my son, eventually. Just… don’t. Don’t take him. Let him go—I won’t even fight you if you do… please.”

She didn’t know what he was hoping to achieve with this, but all she could think was not him, too. Not again. Sephiriel had failed to mention that this interest Lucifer was taking was going to involve the deaths of people she cared about. The Devil, however, only glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, smiling almost pleasantly, only it was so coldly malicious that it couldn’t quite retain the impression of politeness. “She’d beg for your life, Mammon. She’d die so I would let you free. I think you owe her the truth, don’t you?” He touched the words with compulsion, even as the woman resumed her struggle with her chains, the sound of her blood dripping upon the ground audible over the clinking of the chains.

Morgan's eyes widened, and he found the words tumbling from his mouth without his consent. He supposed it didn't matter anyway. "She was happy with him." he said through clenched teeth. He didn't want to tell her, she didn't need to know. She had been happy with Asmodeus, and that had been enough. Pain lanced through his head as he tried to fight the compulsion. In the end, he couldn't. He hung his head as he spoke.

"I loved you the way he did, and I still do. But you chose him; that was why I stopped him that night. I can still remember the last thing he tried to tell me. He told me to look after you, and that was when I stopped him." He couldn't bring himself to look at her. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop him this time."

Kazehana’s eyes were wide with shock, locked with her friend’s single red one. He… he loved her? Like that? She’d… “I never knew,” she said softly, shaking her head. It suddenly struck her how much she could have hurt him, with the careless way she’d acted, her penchant for physical contact and casual I love yous and her perfectly earnest, honest desire to find a brother in him, and a friend. “I never knew.” She said it more to herself than him, as though still trying to understand. Something strange clicked in her mind then, and she saw the way things could have been, might have been, if their lives had gone a little differently and she’d loved him instead.

It tore her in half that this was what they were getting instead, that somehow their choices had led them to the place where he was forced to tell her what she was never meant to know, and then she had to watch him die. Because she knew, when her glance flickered to Lucifer, that Morgan would not be walking out of this place alive. “Don’t apologize,” she said softly, moving her gaze back to him. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Morgan. Nothing.” It wasn’t his fault. None of it was.

But she knew, she knew, that his death would be hers, for the second time. Perhaps he’d made his own decisions the first, and she knew that what she’d told her son about allowing other people to make their choices was true. But this… this was her fault. Lucifer would have likely been content to leave things as they were, if Morgan were not connected to her in this way. If he hadn’t loved her. If it wouldn’t hurt her so much to watch him perish.

And hurt her it did. Lucifer was not quick, not merciful in the slightest, and Kaz shouted at him to stop, begged him to stop, until her voice was hoarse and her wrists were worn to the bone from trying to escape her bonds. She didn’t even notice. Her eyes never left Morgan’s, never dropped or closed or moved away to his tormentor. At the end of it all, long after she had fallen to her knees, as far forward as her chains would permit, her cheeks streaked with tears and her breathing labored, she took a deep breath, watching the light fade from his eye, and she gave him the only thing she could.

She smiled through the tears. “I love you, Momo.” Not in the way he loved her maybe, but deeply and irrevocably all the same. “And I promise I always will. It’s okay to rest now—you don't have to protect me anymore.” She’d never realized just how much he was protecting her, not only from the obvious dangers, but the subtler, more insidious ones as well.

It was pain unlike any he had ever imagined, but even that felt like nothing compared to seeing her cry. He didn't want to see her cry, he never wanted to see her cry. His lungs were full of blood, making it impossible for him to speak. So he did the only thing he could do.

Please don't cry for me, Kaz...

It was the last thing he ever said to her, before that connection, too, was gone.

When Lucifer offered her his eye, she spat in his face.

He would not win. He would not break her. She wouldn't cry anymore, just like Morgan had asked. She owed him that much.

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#2014-03-29 08:10:14, as written by Dynamite

She’d lost track of time. How long had she been down here? Months, years? It seemed hardly relevant. At each turn, she was presented with a new challenge, and though it might have been a comfort to say that she simply turned her emotions off and killed her way through Hell with some kind of robotic stoicism, it was impossible to do that. Because at every moment, she was keenly aware that she didn’t have all the time she wanted to do this. She had someone to find, someone to save, and if not she, then nobody would. So it was fated, inscribed in stone into the very stuff of the universe.

Either she brought Kirito out of here, with whatever strength was left to her, or he didn’t leave at all.

She’d had little to no opportunity to consider what he’d told her, before he died, or what she thought of it, but all the same, she knew one thing with great certainty: she couldn’t bear the thought of failing, not now. And her concern with it was no longer just the dread of her own death or what it would mean for humanity or the world. It was, first and foremost, a desire that he live that drove her forward. Cassiel was safe and back with the others, and thus half her job was done. All that was left was to bring him back—and somehow, that seemed impossibly important to her.

Her Descent had begun in the second level. Each time she’d moved further down, she’d been met by the Prince of the realm, and each threw a challenge at her. Sometimes, it was a fight—two had even challenged her themselves. Both were dead. Sometimes, they had a champion, their strongest servitor-demon, do it for them. They were cowards, but still alive. One challenged her mind, but she had no patience for petty deception, and tore through him with her aura alone. The few that remained had varied, but honestly, she’d mostly forgotten by this point. Everything was a haze of blood and flashing steel and song pouring from her tongue with all the force of striking lightning. The only thing that was clear through it all was the singular thought that drove her ever downward:

I have to save him.

The Gate to the ninth circle appeared with the death of the eighth demon prince, and Sephiriel knew she was exhausted. She knew she’d used too much getting here. She’d imagined this mattering to her, but it didn’t. Nothing mattered at this point. Nothing but him.

When she stepped through the gates and into the throne chamber, she looked quite worse for wear, in some senses. The robes hung off one shoulder, the other long since sliced or torn away by someone, she couldn't remember. The fabric was only white in very small places, now—it and her face were both spattered by blackish-red demon gore, as well as her own blood. Green eyes shone fiercely from amidst that dark red, and her hair glimmered the color of the sun even still. It and her wings, so white they were almost translucent, were smeared here and there with blood as well, and the freshest of the kills dripped still from a sword that crackled quietly with contained electricity.

“I am Sephiriel Storm-Singer, Second Sword of Heaven,” she said the familiar words, though this time there was a kind of contained intensity to them, and from the way she glared at the man on the throne, they almost sounded like a threat. “And I come on behalf of the mortal world, to return to it a soul that has not yet fulfilled its purpose. …I challenge Hell for he who will save us all.” She stood to her full height, though it was not great, and leveled her sword directly for the Devil, who smiled.

“Well, well, well. You’ve made it so very far, Sephiriel, but I’m afraid it may be for nothing. Isn’t that right, Conquest?”

The one who stood beside the throne -well, actually, he was leaning on it; it would seem he cared little to actually respect the Devil and his things- looked like Kirito. But he didn't feel like him. He'd been here for approximately five months or so, perhaps a little longer, he wasn't sure. He didn't really care, either. And she wasn't quite as late as Lucifer led her to believe, there was still a small portion of the Witness inside of him, fighting to survive.

But it was very small indeed, and no one ever said Conquest was a man who did not enjoy playing with people. He looked idly at his hand, as if studying his fingernails. "As true as that may be, Pops, did you have to work the kid over like that? I don't like dealing with that." He shrugged, turning scarlet eyes on the Angel in front of him. For a split-second, there was something in his eyes; a fraction of longing, or recognition. Well, the recognition could easily be accounted for, all demons knew all Angels, that was how the universe worked. He smiled, the grin anything but kind. There was some fight left in the kid after all, how amusing.

"Sorry Blondie, but I'm afraid you're simply just a bit too late. Hell's atmosphere doesn't sit too well with Angel-born, after all." He looked down, pretending to look at a watch the clearly was not on his wrist. "I'd say you have maybe half an hour left before the one known as Kirito disappears permanently. And that is only if I don't speed up the process myself." The grin he wore made it entirely unclear if he would or not.

Sephiriel’s anger manifested only in a sharp spike in her aura, washing over the entire circle and causing everything in it but the two by the throne to shrink back as far as they could possibly go. Some of the weaker demons outright died. Her face, however, remained largely the same as it always was, her eyes swinging to the Horseman for only a moment when she replied. “Ten minutes.” She said simply. “That is all it will take. This pathetic shell of an angel is not worth more than that.”

That ruffled Lucifer’s feathers, so to speak, and she’d known it would. She’d known him back then, and she knew him now, as well as anyone did. She knew the way he obsessed, the way he stewed, the way he hated more than anything else to be disdained. When it was mere arrogance that spoke down to him, he enjoyed destroying the offender. But when it was power, or he didn’t know which, he got angry, like now. His lips lifted in something caught between a sneer and a scowl, flashing pointed canine teeth, and violet eyes turned red, the right one gaining a black sclera of the same sort as Khalid’s left.

“I will tear out your pretty eyes and feed them to you, Sephiriel,” he snarled, summoning a black spear to himself with a terse gesture and stepping down from the dais. “I will eviscerate you and stake you to my wall, and the last tiny fragment of that boy will watch me do it.” The spear stabbed directly for her unprotected midsection, but she batted it away with the sword, sending sparks all about the frozen floor beneath them. Frozen… a slight smile ticked Seph’s mouth upwards, and it wasn’t too hard to sheath her bare feet in just a thin layer of energy, enough to function well enough for the purpose she had in mind.

“Try.”

Seven minutes in, and her shoulders were slumped, her breathing heavy, and even her song kept going in only the softest of tones. The atmosphere was positively nauseating, the bright warmth of her aura clashing with the cold darkness of his, a writhing, roiling mess of power and sensation. No doubt half the demons in the ninth circle were dead or miserably sick from it—this much raw energy wasn’t meant to be used like this. Not in any kind of confined space.

She was not the only one worse for wear, however. Her method of movement—skating around on the ice, as she’d learned to do in the human realm—was not at first predictable to him, and she’d drawn the Devil’s blood several times, with unconventional attack patters that he hadn’t been able to block in time. There was no mistaking, however, that he was fresher than she was. She was confident she could wear him down—she felt it, in the way they moved opposite each other. A flame that burned twice as bright burned half as long, and she had learned much more patience than he had.

The problem was, she didn’t have the time. She could do it—she could keep going and kill the Devil—a strange and tempting thought. To slay the manifestation of the worst evil in all the world, to be responsible for his defeat would exalt her, would earn her all the worth she’d never been able to find in herself.

But it would kill Kirito for good.

That, she could not do. So she was taking the third option, the one that was never supposed to exist. Maybe it didn’t, but she was going to make it work. She could condone no other possible end to this encounter. Even as she came to the resolution, she felt something alter in Heaven, and knew that somehow, He approved. She was being allowed out of Hell, forgiven for her trespass in taking Cassiel’s soul from Heaven, and allowed to remove Kirito’s from Hell. A task she would gladly undertake. Sephiriel leveled her blade at Lucifer, lunging forwards into a skating glide over the ice, but when he prepared to defend, she went left instead, swirling past him and jumping up onto the dais.

“Time to go,” she told the Horseman with a little bit of Kirito left in him. She left no room for argument, seizing him by the arm and pulling him behind her through the passage that had been opened out of Hell.

The passage took much more out of her than she would have expected, perhaps a dash of punishment for making up her own ending to this little episode, or perhaps the residual blast of energy she’d caught from Lucifer on the way out, moving herself to block it from hitting Conquest-Kirito. Whatever the case, she landed hard, still pulling him behind her, and staggered over to where Kirito’s body lay. “Asilian… you’re going to have… to put him back in. I don’t…. have… enough left,” she managed between deep breaths.

It was not quite what he was expecting to hear when Sephiriel returned, but then again, fighting against the Devil, he was more surprised that she wasn't dead, honestly. His mouth pursed into a thin line, and then, he placed both hands on her shoulders. His voice was soft when he spoke. "You're still going to have to do it, Sephiriel. You of all people know that I can't, but I can lend you enough power to do so yourself." It was almost unsettling, how soft and...not snarky he was with her, utterly unlike their normal relationship. But then, this was an entirely different situation.

His eyes rested on his son's soul, and he was not overly happy with the fact that it was mainly Horseman. He wasn't surprised, and he was happy to see that there was still some of Kirito left. That meant, above all else, that she had succeeded. So long as they could put him back, of course.

He sat down in front of where his son's body lay, his hands held in a meditative posture. Energy flowed from him to Sephiriel, and in no small amount, either. She did not need quite as much as he was giving her, but it was his own way of getting across the words he had never been one to say. He was thanking her in the one way he knew how.

A minute or so later, Kirito was sitting up, once again, alive. He still was not, however, quite Kirito. He rubbed the side of his head slightly. "Well well, Blondie succeeded after all. Impressive, though Pops will be anything but pleased. Then again, he's never pleased."

Sephiriel, exhausted as she was, managed to muster the focus necessary to guide the energy properly to bind soul to body, and she understood quite well what Asilian was trying to tell her, though… she hardly found it necessary. She could understand, though, because she was grateful, too, to have him back in this world. Or rather… some part of him. She frowned when he woke up as Conquest more than anything, glaring into red eyes and pursing her lips. She’d rather assumed all the angelic power required for everything they’d just been through would be sufficient, but apparently Alamgir’s grip was stronger than it had once been, possibly because of the way the Horseman spirit was integrated with Kirito’s own soul, which would indeed have had a hard time in Hell for that long. That his mother had lasted a year was indeed incredible in a way.

But it left her with a conundrum: how to return Kirito to himself? Sephiriel considered herself a logical rather than an emotional person as a rule, but there was no mistaking how badly she wanted Kirito back. Badly enough that it hurt, to look now and see so little of him. Perhaps that was why, when logic led her to an inescapable conclusion, emotion supplied the method of achieving the solution, and she went with it. Alamgir’s grip on their shared soul had to be loosened, and the best way to do that was shock him, preferably while also giving Kirito a reason to take advantage of that shock. She supposed it was high time to see if her effect on him could be as surprising as his on her.

Sephiriel narrowed her eyes. “Who cares what he thinks?” she said, tilting a brow. Laying one hand flat against the center of his chest, she pushed him back onto the ground, hovering over him for a moment, her expression caught between contemplative and rather… intent. “You would be better served considering the thoughts of the people near enough to make a difference.” Her mouth ticked up slyly at the corner, and she lowered her head, blood-streaked face and all, to kiss him fiercely.

Asilian was perhaps less surprised to see that it was Conquest who woke up rather than Kirito. What did surprise him, was the fact that Sephiriel just flat out kissed him. The Angel raised both eyebrows as he grinned; he was trying very hard to not laugh at the moment, and it was proving difficult. His wife, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem in showing her mirth. Asilian allowed himself to chuckle slightly. "I think I owe you about, what, forty bucks now?"

“At least,” Kazehana managed between gouts of laughter. It was good-natured of course, but she couldn’t help herself.

Kirito, however, was a bit too shocked at first to even react. Not only was he able to pull himself back to the surface and return himself to his normal balance, but Sephiriel was kissing him. That in and of itself simply just did not compute, at all. He'd been well aware that she considered him her friend, but he never thought it was anything more, even after he'd told her that he loved her. In the end, however, he decided to simply stop thinking about it.

"Well, if you keep doing that, then I think I'll just be happy with being alive, thanks. Maybe I should die more often." he murmured.

The side of a curled fist slammed into his ribcage for that, and she glared at him so hotly it might have almost been possible to believe that she actually hated him after all. “Don’t. You. Dare,” she hissed. Her face was turning red again, because she’d done what she did kind of impulsively, and there were still a lot of things she needed to sort out. Between his death and the Tribulation, she hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to think about it all, but she was sure of at least one thing: if he left her again, she’d kill him herself. She couldn’t deal with the anguish a second time. “I didn’t save your sorry hide for you to end up back down there, you ungrateful brat.” She sniffed, harrumphed, and pushed herself up off of him, standing quickly.

Of course, her injuries and bone-deep exhaustion chose that moment to catch up with her, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, and she swayed dangerously on her feet. Perhaps it was Asilian’s extra energy that had kept her conscious this long, but it was no permanent fix—she needed to recover from her ordeals, which properly should have killed her, had she not found a superhuman degree of drive and motivation to match her superhuman power. “Don’t… go…” was all she managed before her eyes fell closed and she collapsed.

For a split-second, Kirito looked almost worried, but then, he only smiled softly as he caught the Angel before she fell.

"Don't you worry...I'm not going anywhere."

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#2014-04-16 02:18:34, as written by Mihael

Blood ran down the side of Kirito's face, and he wiped it away, his face a solid mask of stoicism. Eight years had done a lot of damage to the world; not only had governments destabilized and civilization fallen, but the very universe seemed intent on destroying itself. Natural disasters were commonplace any more, and demons were well known to the common man. Purgatory no longer existed, because the human plane was Purgatory.

Kirito and the others were now all that stood between them and the rest of humanity.

He wasn't sure how long this battle had been going on for, he'd stopped keeping track after twenty-four hours. He sighed through his nose, the bow in his hand taking out one demon after another, often more than one at a time, and still they kept coming. His red eyes slid over to Khalid; he was well aware that his fellow Horseman was not having an easy time of it, not when he had to suppress Satan and fight a horde of demons at the same time. But, to Death's credit, he didn't show it. Perhaps that wasn't an ideal situation either. Kirito's wings rustled slightly, the raven black feathers gleaming with crimson blood. One of them had been injured early on by a hellhound, grounding him for the duration of the battle. He wasn't overly pleased about that, but there was little he could do about it now.

Destri was cutting through opponents with a serene grace that was eerily reminiscent of Akeldama, but then, she was part demon herself. Even so, it was hard for her to cut down her brethren. Evil or not, there was still a connection there. Her face was grim as she tore through a pair of winged females. Like the others, she had enough endurance to keep going, but this battle was the worst they'd ever seen.

And there seemed to be no end in sight.

Khalid was indeed experiencing some difficulty—he’d long since released his hold on his humanoid form, taking on his more demonic aspect and tearing through entire hordes of foes with the Scythe, slinging waves of ice or furious gales of wind to control the crowd of them where necessary. It was getting progressively more difficult due to the way his father’s soul was pressing at the edges of his mind, wearing away at the barrier he’d created between them. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up possessed again, and they both knew it.

Sephiriel, meanwhile, was not burdened by such trials, and wielded her divinity like a second sword, crushing the legions of Hell beneath the weight of it, the song on her lips darkening the sky and striking them with lightning over and over again, leaving giant scorch-marks in the earth where demons had once stood. When she wasn’t carving through them with her electricity-edged sword, she was flying above them, swooping in to assist her allies when they needed it, only to rise once more several moments later to assess the flow of the battle.

Kazehana had planted herself in one spot, and now simply held it the way a dam holds back water, hitting everything that came at her with fists and feet backed with divine energy. The wings she’d been given to flee Hell had never quite left her, and she was using them to her advantage now, buffeting the few things that tried to get around and attack her from behind. No way was she dying here—no matter how many of them were thrown at her.

When had the world gone to hell? She couldn't remember really. She remembered the falling of civilization, people turning into animals, turning on each other, the governments falling. She remembered when that started, however; when had it gone to hell? For twenty-four hours, she and her family had been fighting, and though they were durable, their endurance would not last forever. Even if the legions of hell seemed endless, it would not be enough to keep them sustained with energy. Something painful lurched in Cassiel's heart, causing an ache she wasn't sure could be cured, but she had to move on. She had to protect her family, what was left of it, and herself from the constant dangers the world had brought. And now, here she was with her family, fighting for that world.

She ducked, a demon's claw missing her face by mere inches as she brought her hand up, searing the creature's flesh as it howled in pain. The sickening smell of burnt flesh caused Cassiel to cover her mouth. It was a horrid smell, like bile and acid mixed together, and it left a sour taste in the back of her throat. She pushed herself away from the creature, rolling so that she was on its back and holding onto one of its horns. She held on tightly with her thighs clenched around its neck, and summoned her flames to her hand, raising the heat to a high enough temperature that, when she brought her hand down, it was enough to sever the bone from the creature's head. She grabbed the remaining horn and shoved the now severed horn into the back of the creature's head. It fell, crashing to the floor a few feet away from Kirito and the others.

Cassiel stood, her eyes widening when she felt something pierce her shoulder. She stood, gazing out in front of her as she slowly glanced down. There was a speared tail hooked to her right shoulder, and her head slowly turned behind her, watching everything move in slow motion. The demon roared, pulling its tail back, taking Cassiel with it through the air. She grabbed the tail, keeping it from releasing from her shoulder until her body met the ground with a hard thud. She severed the tail quickly with her flames, listening to the maddening hiss of the creature as it stalked off to nurse its wound. She stood, pulling the tail from her shoulder and immediately began applying pressure to her wound. She channeled a bit of her healing to it, however; she couldn't use much energy for it. She needed to save it for the remaining battle.

It was like there was a drumbeat in his head. Or maybe—maybe it was the distinct sound of a second heartbeat, one that belonged to someone else. It grew louder in him with every servitor he slew, until he could hear nothing else, feel nothing else, just the continuous thumping, a rhythm to which he matched the movements of his own body, until it seemed his own heart was in a terrible synchronization with the foreign one. The battle moved onwards, more and more of the Legions pouring forth from the gates, and Khalid knew that the time had come to make a choice: he could leave the battle, leave them to fend for themselves, and keep his father contained a little while longer—or.

Or he could release the Devil himself onto the field, and remain to fight him with the others. This could well be the last stand they made, the crossroads of destiny and choice. And it all came down to one decision, one that was his alone to make.

He’d never been more afraid of anything in his life.

And yet, he knew what the choice must be. He could not, would not, leave them. Not to the legions which might slay them, not to their fates. He would not run away from the confrontation that was sure to ensue if he released his father. He would not run from the death that would result. As long as it was his, or Lucifer’s… he would be able to live with that knowledge between now and then. He would simply have to make sure that the Lord of all demonkind was not allowed to hurt anyone else. Much easier said than done, but necessary. He knew his father wanted to kill him almost as much as he wanted to slay him. Perhaps more—Khalid had defied him and thwarted his plan to be rid of Sephiriel or Kirito or both, one way or another. His anger for that incident was still burning-hot, and Khal could feel it.

Stilling slightly, he took the last of the threads that bound his father’s soul inside his body and snapped them, willing the spirit to manifest right in front of him. Death called his scythe to him—it was now or never.

But the soul of the Devil did not quite obey the mandate, and though he returned to the plane nearby, he did it by inhabiting a body not his own…

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#2014-04-18 05:10:23, as written by Asilian

It was unlike pain he had ever experienced. Not even dying was this bad. It was as if every single nerve in his body was being attacked simultaneously along with his very soul. Kirito was in mid-swing when suddenly he froze. His eyes were wide, but there was absolutely nothing that he could do. He was powerless to Satan's interference.

His body stayed motionless as the demon he'd been attacking bowed. Kirito's hand twitched. Powerless as he might have been, he was still trying to fight, and desperately, too. It seemed that Lucifer was trying to get used to a vessel that he was unacquainted with as well. He turned his head then, his red eyes locking with another pair of ruby orbs. He grinned, the smile anything but genuine.

“You miscalculated, Azrael, and this one cannot resist.”

Khalid snarled, the sound tearing from his chest with a rare ferocity, and a rent tore in the earth, swallowing no few demons, but Lucifer only laughed, knowing that his fool child would not attack this body, lest he risk killing his friend. And it would be just like the Devil to make him do it. Still, as always, he fully intended to wring all the exquisite pain out of this maneuver as he could, and so when he at last adjusted to the parameters of the body he presently occupied, it was not Azrael he made Kirito attack.

It was Sephiriel.

The arrow loosed from Conquest’s bow, aimed squarely for the angel’s back, but she turned just in time, cleaving through it with her sword, the force of its passage still enough to stir her hair and what fabric was visible beneath her armor. Her shield had succumbed already to the battle, and so she wielded the blade in both hands. As her gaze shifted, moving from the place the arrow had been to the one who had shot it, her eyes widened. She figured out almost immediately what had happened, and her pretty face twisted into a grimace, the revulsion clear in her eyes, aimed directly at the one puppeting the person she loved. How very droll. “No,” she said, the word soft, but unyielding. “You don’t get him.”

“I am afraid, dear girl, that I really do.” With the tugging of a few mental strings, he sent Kirito forward, firing several more arrows while advancing to where she stood. Sephiriel held her ground, slicing every last one as it approached, the ends flying off in all directions mercifully robbed of their power to utterly obliterate. Lucifer made Kirito banish the bow and summon a sword instead, one of the devil’s own, as black as the one Khalid held, when he was not using his scythe. The blades clanged together as she blocked, and she stepped forward, driving her shoulder into Kirito’s chest with enough force to knock the wind from him, but she did not press the advantage. She never would—this, Lucifer was counting on.

Indeed, he could not resist, not wth this much demonic influence. So instead, Kirito turned his attention inward, silently apologizing to Destri. What he'd asked of her would not be easy, but it would be neccesary. He couldn't simply let Satan run amok in his body, after all. He mentally grit his teeth. This would not be easy, hell, it might even be impossible.

But he had to try.

With all of the mental energy he could gather, he pushed through to the surface. It was brief, barely the space of a breath, but it was enough to just brush the edge of Destri's mind and feel her flinch. If he made it out of this alive, he would have to apologize to her. He was then forced back under, and simply turned inward, away from the outside world.

Destri halted in her attack when she felt Kirito's mind against hers. It hurt, and she flinched visibly. She knew what he wanted, what he'd asked of her earlier. She hesitated. It quite possibly wouldn't even be possible, and Kirito well knew that. He'd also not planned on himself being the one to be the Devil's target. She bit her lip, drawing blood as she gazed at each of the others, her gaze lingering on Kazehana and Sephiriel. She took a deep breath and centered herself.

They may never forgive her for what she was about to do, but she was damned anyway. She smiled slightly, wiping the blood from her lip and running a line across her forehead, finding her resolve. Kirito had asked this of her, and she would do as asked. Even if it killed her.

She took a deep breath, and began to sing. It was soft at first, not heard above the din of battle, but it began to swell until it was the only thing heard. Her voice carried a deep tone of darkness and evil, and the demons around her began to wail and disintigrate; demonic spellsong was well known for its need for sacrifice. Runes appeared both on and around the Reaper, the very air around her burning with demonic energy. As the song finished, the runes began to glow, and she began a new song. The runes dissappeared then, and everything became centered around the mark that appeared on her forehead, and she moved.

Lucifer was in mid-swing when Sephiriel blocked him, and Destri took the opening, speaking as she appeared in front of the Devil. When she spoke, her words were harsh and grating to the ear. She was speaking in demonic. She laid a single finger to Kirito's forehead, and the mark vanished from her own forehead and reappeared where she'd touched him.

"jaci svaust ui ti di wer mamiss nishka qe qe rechan ekik. kwi opsola di malsvir, si meage wux ekess ehaism jaci svaust wux tepoha xuuta."

She stepped away from them then, a look of sorrow on her face. "I'm sorry. It's what he wanted. It's up to him, now."

Sephiriel knew what was going on as soon as the girl touched Kirito’s forehead, and her own song, the one that summoned storms, ceased, the arm that held her sword falling to her side, her grip slackening. “No,” she said hollowly. “You stupid, stupid fool. You’re going to die, Kirito!” She was overwhelmed with the desire to hit him somehow, do something to assuage the stabbing pain in her chest, but there was nothing. She couldn’t risk disturbing what was going on inside the body of the one she loved, and so she stood sentinel beside him instead, fighting off everything that tried to come within ten feet. Her fury was the lightning, the flash of her sword, and the impotent desire to destroy everything that would harm him. If only he’d given it more time, the two of them together would have been able to force the devil out! So why this, why now? She didn’t know, and the result already made her weep, the tears falling silently from her eyes as she cleaved another demon in twain. She knew what was going to happen, she just couldn’t accept it.

But some part of her already had, and that part mourned.

Inside Kirito’s mind, Lucifer manifested across from the boy himself, buffing his fingernails casually on his shirt. “It’s cute that you think a halfling could compel me to do anything, but if this is the way you prefer to expire, I suppose I can indulge you. They get to watch you die either way, after all.”

Kirito knew that dying was a likely scenario. But the more he thought about it, the more something seemed...right about it. It was like when he'd died at the start of the Tribulation. He couldn't explain it then, and he certainly couldn't explain it now. Emotions like fear or nervousness weren't a part of him, he was simply calm. His eyes bored into the Devil's, his expression placid.

"Demonic spellsong is the mockery you made of true Spellsong, is it not? Even you are subject to both of these, for you were not always as you are now. You like to brag, but even you could not fully resist the power. Power and control has always drawn you. Pain, and suffering. It's why you sought me out, rather than anyone else, right?"

There was a grim smile on his face, and he sighed slightly. "While I would rather simply the both of us remain here, I know you would never allow that. So, I guess it's just down to you and me." He stood from his sitting position, the old, comfortable grip of a spear manifesting in his hand. "Shall we?" One lone thought flickered across his mind. [color=#1bcde]Please forgive me, Sephiriel.[/color]

Lucifer sighed; there was little point in explaining the difference between being subject to something and being commanded by it. The result was in this case the same either way, and he cared not to make a point of educating the soon-to-be dead. “Well, I do like to cause pain,” he admitted, “especially hers, as it happens.” He shrugged, summoning to hand a second blade to match the first he carried, black steel glinting darkly. “Come then, Conquest. It is time to die.”

Blood ran down his side as he clutched it. Even so, the placid look on his face never left. There was simply somthing he couldn't shake, a feeling like he was forgetting something. Or perhaps it was something he had yet to realize. Either way, he kept up his tactic of merely blocking or dodging. Every time he would press the attack, something held him back. He narrowed his eyes, trying to think. What on earth could be so damned important?

The words he'd thought flickered through his mind again, one word reverberating through over and over. Images flashed through his mind, both his own and not, memories and visions of times both near and long forgotten. Everything seemed to center around that one word, and softly, so quiet you could barely hear it, he spoke it.

"...forgive..."

He saw Lucifer advancing, but this time, he lowered his guard. Everything clicked, everything made sense. He knew what was about to happen, and he made no effort to stop it, because it was meant to happen. He knew that now. He felt the blade connect with his flesh and slide through. He smiled, and reached out, grabbing Lucifer's wrist in the process. He smiled even as the light began to leave his eyes, and he spoke one thing before he stilled entirely.

"I forgive you."

It was then that he knew nothing else.

Lucifer

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a character in “Somewhere Between the Lost and the Forgotten”, originally authored by Dynamite, as played by RolePlayGateway

So begins...

Lucifer's Story

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