Morning star

Semi selecive Lucifer RP blog. From the granblue fantasy series Sideblog of @noirmuses

[efestars]

Welcome! This is a Semi Private Lucifer blog, with slow activity and sideblog of @noirmuses​; thread with kindness!

About || Laws

[efestars]

"So how is your work marriage with your work wife Cosmos going?" Belial was bored and it was no Lucifer's problem. "The skydwellers actually have a term for it. Someone mentioned you two were literally bird watching this week! Did the species of bird survive or go extinct by the way?"

'' Oh, Belial. '' Surprisingly, Lucifer offers the smallest of smiles upon the other's arrival. Wings tucking themselves almost on instinct to receive his once dear friend along their creator.

Naive in where Belial's duties lies, immune to the other's barrage of teasing which even now understand more as simply his way of talking; even when more than once it brings other astrals to stare and make comments about his rather burglar attitude, but to Lucifer, it's just what the other fellow angel always has been and is. '' Cosmos... Ever since my time back she's often talking with me, the reasons of her revival so different to mine, where she wasn't destroyed and instead just wished into a new vessel of existence – So we've been catching up. '' His serenity is always an unmovable thing, gentle fingers trailing upon an empty mug, Lucifer lowers his eyes at the faint traces of what has been of his cup. '' I doubt my relationship with her is the equivalent of a skydweller's 'marriage' – It's more like... work colleagues? but since we both have been stripped of our duties, it's simply well versed friends. '' And to this, the primarch offers the other a spot where he sits by the beautiful balconies as wind licks at stray stands of white.

'' You... Are here in peace, right? '' Adds after a beat, serenity in his face still as the gentlest of clouds, lips purse a bit but even then, he never draws his sword up. Lacks them, for a better word. '' I know I can't change your heart about these skies, or these plans of our creator... Still, I ask, spare this day for the skies to be in peace. There are many in this airship that could easily drive you out, but I'd rather avoid any fighting. ''

[literanis]

oh, lucifer. his dove, erudite and wise for all he is also learning about the world as they learn from him. along with the morn his olive branches bring. what a fascinating phenomena, wasn’t it? he was correct to imbue him gentle curiosity yet deadly ferociousness where needed. the perfectly balance of nature and nurture, he thought to himself. between his hands lie the pinnacle of creation — what god itself ought to envy — and it was all his. the glory of the sun within fingertips. all this light only to be consumed by the black hole it opposes. he shouldn't have to ask what he requires, instead anticipating it with initiative, but how polite he was, how thoughtful of others. if it was anyone else, perhaps he'd find it sickening. here, lucilius can only find it to be a part of his conditions for existing. so he says nothing to that front, knowing that he knew that he knew.

“that’s what i like to hear,” was the encouragement.

oh, god, not another one of these. now, he isn’t outright admonishing the gesture like he does with belial (his trinkets are vastly more useless), though his expression always makes it known that it’s something silly instead of practical. in lucifer’s case, he tends to be more forgiving due to the fact that, ultimately, he is out there, interacting with mortals and exchanging information — a vital component of evolution and progress. technically, the supreme primarch is performing his function. lucilius just doesn’t understand that a gesture is that — a gesture.

the astral sits up a bit, taking the quill in hand and examining the quality. it’s fine, although the craftsmanship could be better in order to comment the holy pinion it utilized. then again, it was like decorating an ancient painting: you can’t compare gold to stone. “yes, you molt like nothing else in the world,” he says dryly, pinching one end of the plume and dragging his delicate fingers across its length. the pearlescent shine and distinct softness even when detached from its bearer... he places the downy tip against his lips as he often does when deep in thought. “though this is a use for it, i suppose. so long as your feathers are themselves indestructible — i believe they are, but i never thought to test their durability.” hmm. a thought occurred. “your plumage is too good to be used as feeble writing implement.” which was less a negative comment and more a roundabout way of saying he didn’t want lucifer to be giving these to just anyone in the future — because only his creator should have the privilege of such "artifacts."

"have you ever heard of the saying, 'the pen is mightier than the sword'?" lucilius posits, then gestures to the quill fashioned by his creation's material. "it's in reference to the fact that words have incredible power, enough to end even wars. i would not underestimate that. the documents which you sign decide many things, lucifer, just as every swing of your blades do. its not entirely a useless thing to keep on your person, at least symbolically" tucking the pen away within his robe, he considers another possibility. "you're a beast, not a brute. being discerning in what is appropriate is a learned skill."

perhaps it was an unprompted lecture, bordering on unnecessary, though he imparted it all the same. it's natural that a researcher such as he would value such philosophy over another kind, just as it was natural to simply speak on beliefs because it was a comfortable segue. that, and lucifer was easy to speak to. lucilius always asked for his opinions, even when it regarded other projects. to hear his logical thoughts based on facts and reason, his cadence of speech... a hand glides over one of lucifer's many wings, the one that embraced him, pulling it closer towards himself so that they may brush against the skin of his face. oh, how he dreads if something should happen to him. there really isn't anything else that compares. "does that make sense?"

[efestars]

a small encouragement, one that fills the otherwise ever so powerful supreme primarch with nothing but sincere delight. From the wrinkles forming at the edge of his eyes from that smile that paints pale porcelain visage to the glint in sky blue eyes that perhaps glow a tad brighter than usual. There's an airy chuckle that barely escapes his lips, but it's there, true joy – to see the other relent after something so small, to agree with him to something sometimes took a lot of bargaining, perhaps being a bit stubborn about it... but It's always sincere, born from pure utter worry for his fellow angels, for Belial, one of his equals to his eyes even when Belial kept trying to keep Lucifer at a distance he couldn't process why.

the enigma of this always bouncing off his head, and chances to ask, to perhaps understand what troubles Belial always there, but chances and actually inquiry about this impossible at best.

A shame, really. but one day in their long, drawn out lives perhaps he will get this answer.

'' Ah, depends how much of my essence they hold. Flight feathers tend to take centuries to dissipate while bristles, semi-plumes and downs take minutes or seconds. I believe the ones this time were old, worn Primary converts since flight feathers on me tend to measure more than this one. '' And yet he knows the other perhaps wouldn't mind much - but Lucifer does for him, cares for the little things, even the astral's well being. To be that light that lets others thrive, knowing Lucilius has this unknown feeling Lucifer cna pick on, an unease that most of the time it's only seen when he'd finally fall asleep and toss and turn n his grand bed, or sprawled over heaps of paper and ink. A smile easily dawns at the other's retort. '' Perhaps. But the mortal was more than glad to work with my feathers, even when unknown to them it's origins. Seeing people happy over the small things make my purpose all the more rewarding, ever so fleeting and fragile their lives are. ''

And even to eternal beings like them, time and fate never is kind. He knows Lucilius might remain forever or perhaps no. He changes, he's a wild river that has no path despise his logical calculations and research, and that Scares Lucifer. to not know and be prepared to be there... ah but thinking that would sour the moment.

So to swallow such heavy feeling he does, as always.

'' It does make sense, yes. '' and yet for as much power he holds, Lucifer feels still powerless. Unable to deal with everything all at once, needing respise as mundane as laying down every once in a while when fate has the mercy of offering him chances like this - but he cannot help it. Not when everything he does makes the skies better, for him, for belial, for the angels and even astrals. For the mortals.... It has a meaning. And if he can bring comfort to them, then so be it. '' I assure you, my friend. In the end, fear even on astrals from high ranks steer from their inability to do things, but I'd never fault them for that nor it would tamper my performance. '' The wing that embraces the other - a middle one, left wing that lazily sprawls like a weighted blanket for the other to also rest, another silent assurance. '' It concerns me, however... the discontent from other of the creations. The ones made from your hand seem happy enough, working as usual but the others... ''

'' My friend, I ask you. Is it right to keep watching as things unfold? even if it's the path of evolution – There's this tug in my chest, wanting to step in but even Belial has mentioned I've just to keep guard and wait. '' how was it called...? ah– to let the fledglings fly on their own?

[literanis]

throughout his time observing his creations, he couldn't exactly measure why lucifer displayed such selflessness to the degrees that he did even when considering his personality into account. him and belial together were like two feuding cats and it's not hard to see that should that help be offered, it'd most likely be candidly rejected. and really, the archangel of cunning could learn a thing or two from his opposite. though what his reservations were he had no idea — quite frankly didn't care, either. the adjutant was one to indulge in meaningless squabbles and whatever it was mattered not so long as it didn't interfere with operations. plain and simple.

instead of fueling that stupid notion, he'll just nudge lucifer's concerns elsewhere. that was always the safest option. "put it out of your mind. i did say what i required changed." there's special emphasis on the last part, both as a signifier and reiteration that whatever the previous conditions were had absolutely no relevance to the present. while lucilius doesn't elaborate exactly on what he meant, the implication is there all the same — because lucifer would always wordlessly understand the unspoken, leaning into the angel's featherlight touch with eyes falling closed in appreciation to the gesture. yes, indeed... very carefully did lucifer behave. as though he'd been meant for that and it alone. making up for what his creator lacked: empathy incarnate, gentle as a spring breeze, whisking him home. lucifer smoothing out his gown, "fixing" him... this is what he presently required...

his full attention.

lucilius rolls his eyes and delivers stern yet lenient reminder. "and what, pray tell, will they punish me with? nothing that wouldn't end up hurting their own pursuits far more, i'm sure." now, he isn't stupid either. he's not in the business of intentionally making enemies, let alone purposefully breaking rules for the sake of it. everything the genius astral does is exclusively in service to his own curiosities that just so happen to align with those of his people. aren't they so lucky... an idle hand takes hold of his crimson sash, running its silken length between his fingers. "it's safer for them to scorn me at a distance than spit right in my face. my own personal success lies squarely with the completion of your tasks. everything else is secondary."

the further advancement of the stars within the world of the skies lie upon the supreme primarch's shoulders. it's a massive burden, one that further strained with every beat of those six wings. but, his success should be guaranteed — this lucilius has no doubt in his mind, especially when he'd gone through so much effort in setting up everything. he doesn't make beings with flaws, least of all his most cherished beast. beneath obisidian armor, he'll never be tainted (both their hands are stained with the blood that forged progress). fate was his to control. everything in accordance to his plans. its this musing that has a bit of a smirk twitch upon the corner of thin lips, reaching then to hold the face that mirrored his own within palms — a gentle motion for all it is painfully possessive, thumb brushing against cheek.

"everything."

[efestars]

the protest had been there, yet dispelled as easily as they rose into the forefront of his mind upon the other's words. Where others would scorn at his harshness, which Lucifer meets with accustomed friendliness. Where usually other primarchs would stumble upon words to simply address to his presence, Belial and Lucilius both would sometimes even scold him or talk over his own words - that felt much better than being a leader, even when his role guaranteed to be the frontline of everything. To have a moment where he's nothing but an equal, to be on friendly terms, a bond... This he cherishes about his creator, about Belial so much that he'd only smile with innocence at the other's words. '' Very well. '' and oh, he could tell... partially what it is what the other wanted. Attention? his time? he might not have as much free time as before but even then he was selfeless enough to ignore duties if it wont hurt anyone, so long this means the astral gets very much needed rest. '' Then... inform me what it is what you require, my friend. '' Which is not even a question, nor does he expect an answer even if it hangs in the air. The softness and adoration in his eyes says it all, how quickly he'd say yes to anything as small as finally wanting one of his coffee cups or other things he could do, to dust away any book or bring him a new specimen for studies – to pass time in silence even, anything.

But... he could make up what the other doesn't tell, even when the power of telepathy ingrained in his core he didn't need it's use to have an idea– That is something he could feel a deep connection with, admiration and comfort.

which is even more true despise the possessive touch bringing his face closer. If Lucilius had fangs and claws, even then Lucifer would not flinch back, on the contrary - receives such touch with nothing but reverence and patience. Sky blue eyes lightly falling from comfort alone, half mast. Long lashes thick of white like gentle curtains of a sterile room. '' Even then, I worry. '' Reassures. Because if no one will worry then he always will, for everything that's the smallest inconvenience to the biggest of concerns. Lucifer worries deeply and such is the mysterious enigma that is the heart, so full of contradictions that even escapes Lucifer's own cognition that maybe he should worry about other things, that his duties are as important.

which is true. They are, but so is his creator, his bonds... If the skies are safe, then so they will be. If Lucilius is feeling better, then it means he's doing a good job, and seeing it with the other's usual demeanor, sometimes mocking the high council with venom in his words that do nothing but amuse Lucifer in turn; for he knows that so far the threats are just words, had he wanted to do something bigger it would've happened already. Then... His mission has been done and will keep doing it that way. A stagnant equilibrium. '' Then, whatever lies in the future or the present will be carried out to the best of my ability. That is always my biggest wish. '' For you, for Belial... doesn't get spoken, but hopes the other two can feel it. Even when his words never reached his lips sometimes, he wonders if maybe his actions translates in a better world for them, for the other archangels. Wonders and wonders, and maybe... This is what his success looks like.

He'd never change it.

'' Ah... My friend. '' The words roll off his tongue like a small question that wasn't nescesary to even answer. Never pulling away from the other's hold nor his wings moving an inch as one of them curls into a gentle embrace for the other. '' Actually, in one of my travels I had also brought, in turn as exchange, a small souvenir. I hope it is of your liking or find it useful. '' Which, in turn, makes one of lucifer's hand rise a bit from where it had been previously laying on his side, it's quick. It produces a shape which then manifets the object in question - a new quill. '' I learned through mortals the production of quills and, since sometimes my wings shed and some feathers tend to not dissapear, asked them to forge one for me. I believe you might make use of this more than me. ''

[efestars]

[ @literanis ] My dear friend: in the face of the universe, there is no such thing as good and evil — only facts. within those facts lies the ultimate truth. this, lucilius pursues. getting to these bare fundamentals was assuredly difficult even with an entire team and the backing of astral society. then again, if god wanted to make its secrets known, it would have made it plainly obvious. there is the simple fact that god is only named so because it was privy to things that mere creatures such as them could not replicate. lucilius came close when he created lucifer and his kin. no, that was an overstatement. it was only lucifer who fit that criteria at all — the title of perfection, the pinnacle of creation. the rest were merely to support his existence, nothing more and nothing less, to serve the advancement of astral presence within a world they did not belong. but his masterpiece was different. to beget him was to come close to godhood itself — understanding what the omnipotent must have felt when crafting life, a sense of pride, achievement, of... "lucifer," he announces plainly, interrupting whatever silence often hung off the seraph as though another pair of wings. "belial will be taking over your next assignment. what i require has changed." further details don't matter; regardless of what he said, it would never be due to a deficiency. and so his body descends upon, white satin cascading over black armor as though light banishing darkness (two halves of a whole). lucilius' hand encircles the crown of the other's familiar hair, careful with what is ultimately the most precious object in the world. his gaze, for all it is known for being stoic and harsh, is markedly appreciative here, head tilting in kind within quiet fascination. "it's clear as day the council is afraid of you," arrives the unprompted question, though there is reason for its utterance. "i trust that you not pay their caution with any mind and that you will continue to perform your duties." because those who are ignorant are afraid of what they don't understand. even worse, those who cannot accept that there is something that far surpasses them. and that is one of many truths.

it's one of those times of peace, missions having once been all over strong taut shoulders all lent over newer angels the more they are produced for each and every single task known to living beings. Lucifer would never stop worrying for each and every single of them though; the wonder and questions there, always, at the tip of his tongue. To take upon himself again such tasks, from the most meaningless ones to the more gruesome ones. Such is the selflessness of the Supreme primarch that when presented with one of the now rare chances Lucilius had also taken some time off it was hard to pace back and forth. Instead, bask in what is ultimately something he stresses his dear creator to do and take breaks every so often.

which most of the time are spent in silence, an understanding one. Sometimes idly talking about this and that. Some new war between mortals or new creature species he's managed to witness evolve as timeless eyes spare nothing but adoration upon these blessings of casualty. Lucifer lies there as wings perfectly tuck on his back like a mantle of white sheets that perfectly while sky blue eyes peer at the other's ethereal features, content where he is, the smallest of smiles displayed there openly for the other even when they're never reciprocated.

He knows Lucilius shows it in different ways.

'' Hmm... '' There's a protest he wants to voice, but knows little he can do and take over those duties again, even if what are them it's an unknown enigma that Lucifer would probably not know until much later. The frown that mars his seamless, almost porcelain like skin devoid of any flaw wrinkles just a tad, before it relaxes and releases a gentle, silent sigh that, in hand, deflates the Supreme primarch a bit. '' Very well. But should he need assistance he can let me know anytime. '' Which was a better option, even when he'd rather be the frontline of whatever war or otherworld apparition happens, to be the sword that stains his hands as much as it pains him to rob of life other organisms, even wretched creatures that he's tried to reason more times he'd admit to count.

and doubts dissolve instantly upon that tender touch. Many would describe the astral with disdain, with a scoff, scorned - a heartless person that others would rather reach with a pole than talk to him but Lucifer knows that isn't the case. He's logical, he's brilliant. A lone star that tries so hard over things others ignore which in turns, wins nothing but inmense respect from Lucifer as he learns even by just being by his side whenever he can. 'That feels nice. ' is written all over his eyes as they, perhaps, mirror the stars adobe the clouds beyond eternal skies. A wartorn hand reaching out, devoid of scars that would otherwise paint his own gloved palms. Slender, delicate fingers gliding over the black fabric that covers what he knows is skin that needs a bit more sun exposure but even when he's tried to get Lucilius to spend more time out it'd be chalked up as nonsense. The memory bringing amusement to the action given as Lucifer marbels at the other's sight, the closeness that tears away every worry and lingering feelings that weight down his tired core.

'' It does not bother me, honestly. '' Softly comes his voice not long after Lucilius's words reach him, that same hand that touches upon the other's descending to idly 'fix' white silk robes that cascade without any kind of order. A selfish action, to bring some comfort maybe to himself or the other; such is the convoluted heart that each and everyday is an enigma even to the supreme primarch. '' What worries me more is what could befall you should the council cut resources; even when it's logical they'd still somehow not let you go like this. '' I worry about you, is what he'd love to say and yet, knows isn't the time. When can it be? it's the mystery that plagues him. But lucifer perseveres. Patient as he is and the one that has honed nothing but millenia of knowledge beyond what Lucilius imprinted in his memory. '' It is my concern because I wish for your success, my friend. '' Adds after a beat – no more than a gentle whisper so soft as the fabric that embraces the other's frame shielding his lithe form away from the world.

For now, he can at least enjoy this calm before the storm, whatever fate will bring them. Little or big as it can be, for now... He shall indulge in such 'nonsense' the other keeps contradicting himself about breaks being meaningless and a waste of time. To lucifer? Such thing doesn't exist, as even being there, existing with his dearest companion and equal is nothing but time well spent. To rest is a privilege of the living, and if he can bestow such blessing over the other then...

[literanis]

combat was never a trait lucilius was known for; a man of science is what he is first and foremost who only knew of such offensive technique by happenstance, as all astrals had basic knowledge of all manner of disciplines. it merely depended on where they slotted into society. one could say it was only natural that he was learned in particular areas which had to do with the arcane. else, how would he invent such advancements? (well, cruel fate had given him the answer to that one). so, it is plainly obvious to the trained eye his execution and style is brutal and ungraceful, every motion in service to causing harm and absolutely nothing more. against an individual whose major function was this, he must use cunning as a reliable defense.

yet as this dance of blood and blade continues, with every laceration marked upon ashen skin spurting venomous ichor, the more a type of acrimony burns within vacuous soul. the sensation of "pain" is at the very bottom, as deep wounds stirred a sensation that could only be described as some dull ache. high above that, it's frustration, it's upset, it's many affects that he believed to be gone. lucifer's sword impaling him is a mild detour from his thoughts that are becoming increasingly difficult to keep focused. he summons runes along a random path that detonate dark aether by proximity less to be successful in causing harm and instead keep the other on edge. "i would tear through you regardless, no need to sell it to me." and he'll never wrap his head around this foolhardiness. every swing is a question, and every outcome, whether it be sword biting skin or mutual sword, was an answer. no, it's something else. it's an evasion. it's—

"what makes the sky blue? why are shackles iron instead of gold? why do people ask questions they already know the answer to? i'll tell you: it's a wish." his fingers flare out, baring burnished talons, and swipes for his face regardless of opening. "wishing that if they continue asking, maybe the outcome will finally be one that suits them." another swipe. "it's yearning. it's hope. it's delusion and i will no longer entertain fantasies that will never matter."

because lucilius had been a victim of curiosity. to ask questions, finding answers. wishing, yearning, longing for ones that explained phenomenas between dual worlds of star and sky as though the split god had left little pieces behind to solve. the one he'd never been able to account for was himself and thusly resolved on replacing that missing part. yet the one he created — whom he now threatened to tear out of his heart for good (it's less a fight and more akin to violently smashing a mirror born from that wish) — didn't quite fit that space, though satisfied he was with the outcome until such emptiness became unbearable. that wishing to become bereft of everything. hope... is the most worthless thing of all.

that rage, that betrayal from god; it'd been the hours spend, the lengths he'd taken to make this all happen just for causality to reduce that work to lesser states. free will... lucilius preached that constantly. whatever one chose to do with those liberties was up to them and he could and would never deny them that. lucifer chose to be a fool. he chose attachment. he chose something above the skies and perhaps that more than anything proved how little this life meant. he could think of a million reasons and they would collectively appear as some sort of mistake. for every time lucilius was struck, regenerated, struck again, the amalgamation of astral and primal is a walking wound and his infection is eternity.

that anger reaches a tipping point and with a powerful beat of his wings, he speeds towards the angel he begot, aiming to tackle him head on and bring him right into the ground to skid until a rough stop. the triad of wicked blades following, plunging into the ground in spots dangerously close to neck, limbs, and wings. he'd straddle to pin him, grab his throat (he doesn't squeeze, although the sharp tips of gauntlets threaten to break skin), and stare down into that mirror. feathered obisidian blots out the sky and the world from view. searching, wishing. both fresh and dry scarlet on lucifer's complexion catches his vague attention. new spots of black dripped upon him which mixed with red, though where they came from he's not paying mind, nor can he feel from where (they blur his vision for all he assumes it's due to injury and his sagging hair doesn't help matters). the silence breaks.

"i've never seen you bleed."

though he knows well lucifer had died a painful death, was intentionally subjugating himself to that torment yet again, perspective was... something. something he cannot place. just like actions he cannot make sense of. belial had imparted a notion rather strange, once, about contradictions. it sounded like nonsense. as gingerly as though years hadn't past and nothing changed, the knuckle of his index reached toward the other's face and brushed away red blood that was near his lips. the sight was contemplated over with an unreadable expression. so he asks the question of the hour, for the reasons why lucifer continued this path of self-destruction.

"why?"

[efestars]

'' I've never seen you cry... my friend. Lucilius. '' Was the non answer that croaks breathless, even now never defeating Lucifer ever present gracefulness despise the carnage between them. '' I apologize.... ''

Creator and creation, an ironic outcome of their terribly grand differences, blood spilled and his armor with holes in more parts that he can count, red spilled everywhere just like the flaring skirt of the astral whose towers before him as dark blotches of poisonous ichor sizzles against his own skin, tears through muscle and bone like acid as it also taints the little energy and ether his own body consumes for sustenance. Even now, he knows how powerless he is – but hope remains. after each swipe and punch, each kick avoided and then met with the full brunt of raw strenght; Lucifer's body was in not the best condition.

'' I always had bleed. Even in the past... '' Hushed as even now, Lucifer meets the cold gaunlet that caresses his face by leaning ever so sightly into it. Even when these are the same hands that hold his throat down with the tip of a bladed claw right there. There's no regrets in his eyes beyond old talks of the past, things that he could've done, questions he never asked and words that were at the very tip of his tongue that hadn't been able to be said. Now, even when his lungs barely function, when mayor organs had been impaled and scorched in dark aether – Lucifer remains steady, his breath sparse and strained, his eyes half lidded. '' I've never been perfect, Lucilius. This, I wanted to let you see and know for the longest time. I'm flawed, and yet... I welcome my flaws and shortcomings because it means I'm alive. '' Even now, with the grand blades of void that exude corrosion and darkness threaten to split each and tear his body into million pieces once more, Lucifer's gaze never waver at the mirror of the man that he admired and wishes to reach out. '' Your imperfections.... ah. They were something I sought, to understand; so I could discern my own. I understood them a little bit more because of Sandalphon – and yet, I still made many mistakes. ''

Even now when Lucilius could easily dispose of him, Lucifer's own mind was both on him, and the angel that laid very far from them now; the fight having been a gruesome, cruel and wild that brought tremors to the land and gusts strong to push the other further and further – there's a faint light by the corner of his eye. Familiar lights... Ah. Help had arrived but not everyone, from what little he can sense. It's not strong, not crew members that could held on a fight but they do pick the fallen Archangel before looking at the scene and understanding the situation beyond words to carry the other away as quietly as possible. Good.

'' I wish..., '' A gasp, one that brings a few blotches of red staining lips and cheeks again despise the other's small touch. Stains already dirtied golden armor that had been brought to rust and dirt. tattered wings that even against the grand mantle of cosmic dark pinions that block all of the light left, even now can reflect back the gentle glow of a small sunrise even when pinions were unkempt, torn, some of them cut in uneven ways and many of the loose feathers cascading even now in a slow, silent rain of white and black. '' to have been there more for you... Even if it perhaps it's selfish of me, that it could've changed anything. I know it wouldn't, but to me... The sky is blue. For all of these choices we make, even when a god out there, split in two because of mortal sins committed for the sake of freedom that all have their own definition continues to give no answer. I ask you, old friend – What if even god doesn't know? what if even they are imperfect by themselves and nothing more than an asset to a bigger thing? '' It's not worth it. He knows – the memory is vivid, perhaps the other even had access to that memory; perhaps no. First and foremost Lucifer wants is to protect, to keep Sandalphon as safe as he can. The other is to live, which translates on the hand that gently holds on the other's gauntlet even when skin burns when ichor meets torn gloves that curl around the other's hold on his neck.

Even now, Lucifer is just as smart. Cut from the same cloth of the once astral that now offered nothing but the same dull pain that Lucifer was just as accustomed of. Even when his body had been pierced multiple times, broken, torn from inside out – even with the slight knit brows of a grimace from the sting and burn from it all Lucifer continued to persevere. '' There was once a very dear friend of mine that taught me many things. '' He says, his wings slowly stopping to glow dimly, shaking limbs slowly rising like an old memory of an embrace. Ether pouring like droplets while lines draw all around them. '' To pay attention, to not falter even in the worst cases. I... thank you. For everything. Now... '' As a breath exhales cold from his eyes, Lucifer's head drops back. Drained, tired – but the slight hint of a smile is there. The circle done for as light around them grows hot, scorching. Last resort.

It wouldn't be able to hurt Lucilius, to end him but it can make time, even if it leaves his own body drained and in the verge of death, if the other allows.

[literanis]

his chin rises at such a haughty declaration by the other. it's not worth deigning with chastisement, let alone a response at all. if the failed supreme primarch wants to speak as though he has leverage, then fine, but he'd better prove it as lucilius isn't a believer that those threats can be made good on, not when he had a permanent stain on what had previously been a stellar record. as for himself... well. lucifer ought to know well enough his creator has and always did carry out every single one of his intentions. now was no exception. his hard, steel gaze devoid of any affections should be a reminder of just what he was dealing with; this was not the astral who died with a bloody smile that day several millennia ago. if he wanted a remote chance despite the assumed disadvantage he'd do well to anesthetize feelings from the distant past.

they weren't a "talking" breed, cut from the same dastardly cloth of emotional ineptitude (an angel who practiced discernment, spoke with divine and gentle sagaciousness to spearhead advancement, not to dabble in what was patently imperfect: emotions). whatever left unasked, unanswered, unspoken, would remain so, and what managed to be conversed were only expressions of bygone courtesies. it only took wearing his old body, but for once, lucilius can look at him straight in the eyes at equal level and tell to his face that he's going to kill him.

but despite this newfound stature, the view was the same. no, wait, that's not entirely true. he is now on the receiving end of the full might of what had been his masterpiece, an eon's worth of research and miscarried prototypes. this was not a vantage he'd once think possible, but now that he was presented with it, a very strange thought occurred: in seeing lucifer's cold, resolved countenance, the danger that lurked underneath pristine countenance prepared for war in the same way he'd slaughtered countless armies of otherworlders... he cannot help but be nostalgic; this was the face befitting the lord of archangels, supreme among primals, apex to mortals. the grand intimidation display of pale wings signified approaching white death. he takes a pointed step forward, blue flames of his tainted divinity smoldering inlaid footprint. in response, lucifer swiftly advanced, closing the gap that'd grown for thousands of years.

of course he takes the first move. water is wet. lucilius will spare no shelter against the wrath of his raging inferno, that which consumes creation and reduces all to the state from which it'd been found by the so-called omnipotent: ashen desolation of the old, forsaken world. as the fallen primarch's creator, it was his responsibility — perhaps even duty — to have ensured his ability to stand on his own and fly towards heights unbound, unseen. thus, it's only appropriate that such a builder give progeny the mercy of a dignified unmaking that wasn't given the first time (corpse rent asunder, thoroughly exsanguinated of life, light, and glory). lucifer still isn't a pushover. the force of his strike sends lucilius skidding backwards as he blocks polished blades that have seen innumerable carnage. stern visage did not waver at the repeated warning. how desperate of him.

"i was very clear."

he pushes back against the forward momentum to create distance between them, using the very small time he had to manifest his wings. while lurching, six limbs sprout from his back, sinew entwining bone and pinions blooming thereafter in swift succession. one flap of strong wings caused a harrowing gust, fanning outward to blot out the sun, the stars, the moon, the world. impossibly tenebrous. his body wrenches itself upright once more. this vessel heavier than any dense star and he has no desire to wrestle fluid control.

"neither of us are leaving."

so declares lucilius, king of angels, harbinger of the end, the impious astral who dedicated his life towards the thankless exploration of the universe. his magnum opus, crafted to hold the dreams of the world within white wings and deliver salvation, had already given answer. lucilius was a thing that could no longer be saved, abandoned. in response, he will mete out the suffering he so foolishly chose. if that wasn't respect of highest regard... reaching inward once more, from his ribs, were torn out blades of renunciation to join gold broadsword, surface as sanguineous crimson as the blood he'd spill once this was over, as his tattered skirt with wildly billowing train. this single flame against yawning prison god subjected them.

this time it's lucilius who lunges in a flash of blinding, dark aether. his grand blades strike and slash in quick succession, ethereal metals screeching and sparkling for every powerful clash. for all that's happened, he can at least take pride in the fact that even with a rough-hewn body not made by his own hand, the other can still output a vast amount of strength — a primal was one part their body, the other their core, and he was in possession of the most powerful one. he catches one of lucifer's strikes in between the steel heel of his grieves, twisting to try and knock his blade away and follow up with a strong swipe across torso with an opening. magic circles appeared behind, thin yet powerful rays of darkness shooting forth to try and continue pressure. this is the language of blood, pain, and creation... is his sole understanding.

[efestars]

truth to be told, Lucifer knew since the beginning the only way out was to either bring him down himself, or incapacitate him enough to ensure a chance of escape – anything to be able and scoop Sandalphon in his arms and draw a great distance between them. He only knew from words alone the danger Lucilius posed, especially when he had been in his full might in Sandalphon's last battle with him donning twelve wings; but still even at six, weakened out, his power was still as devastatingly grand as his core could sense. Logical part of himself knowing full well that his creator would spare not even him from the carnage if it comes to it, knowing well that Lucilius would carry on his plans without stopping.

it was a grace of luck that he had chosen to entertain Lucifer with this dance of death, truly – but at the same time there's a glint of hope in his heart, something.... something can perhaps throw him off, flicker a spark of light amidst the darkness that Lucilius had welcome and enshrouded himself in; made his and became the monster that stands equal and meets his own polished blades with the same, if not even greater strength that he can muster. '' I know. '' States as a fact. His voice unbothered despise the strain from the full brunt of blades meeting and hot sparks flying from metal meeting the unknown material that forms those blades. Wings help maneuver between each of the slashes - barely. As quick as they are; it was an advantage having his own white pairs shrunk just slightly as to being barely graced, white fluff kicked off easily from the full strength of Lucilius's own strength that bombarded his ears almost terribly similar as millennia old war engaged against countless numbers of otherworld beings.

It's the distance Lucilius makes, a breath to take, seconds that take long for Lucifer to stand upright and allow his own steely eyes meet back against the abyss that looms like the prey he is right now that his expression drops a bit as the grotesque display only brings sorrow to his eyes. Not from fear, not from worry; a melancholy that always the former supreme primarch carries in his eyes like an old friend, even when his face remains neutral anyone could sense that there's a deep burden on his shoulders - a weight greater than all of the islands that make the skydoms that even now Lucifer gladly would carry on his back if it meant to keep them safe from plunging to the depths of the otherworld. Legs grounded, tendons pulled taut, hands firm against the hilt of two swords and the last one still in it's own sheath. That's all he needs, even with the slashes that rain upon him Lucifer's a wall, meeting each strike expertly despise the rainfall of sanguine red and dull gold that meet his blades. A dance of old tale, able to see when they will strike from instinct alone – even now Lucifer in not his full might can be the shield of the world in combat alone.

It cannot be said the same about magical traits. His wings enough to sustains a fraction of what he used to yield - his aura enough to just heal the same as the strongest mortal priests and mages but not to use it as offense – Lucifer's eyes do not waver even if those condensed rays of aether cleanly breaks through armor and flesh, even when blood red as the other's skirt billowing like a dangerous maw of the dephs spills against burnt rock and dirt. They are clean, cauterized fast but the sting still at the back of his mind – meeting the pain with open arms for all of the sins he carries as it also helps keeping his stalwart composure. Pain, for lucifer, was what fuels him. '' And just like I know neither might meet each other's demands with peace, I hope you remember that I could be torn away, but I won't move out the way as well. '' Even when blood and bile gathers at the back of his throat, acidic taste grotesque and dry, Lucifer can only meet the other's power with his own tenacity, propelling himself back at the other, meeting strength with strength and letting the other's twist of blades open his own arms; blades rolling on his palms to face now inwards and plunge down against the other. It might not do anything, but it's a good distance to meet flesh anyways – pin even if for seconds the other's arms and jump back to create a safer distance and recall his blades as quickly as they had met dark blood. '' Ah... '' In a slight distraction.... eyes meet the darkness of the other's fluids despise the corner of his own mouth spills bright, deep red drops as well. Another display, another truth about his old friend long gone. Corruption and celestial manifestation of the other's soul like an illness and miasma that wafts from the stench alone. More apologies gather at the tip of his tongue from this, eyes clearly perplexed at this revelation but defensive stance not changing anytime, always a distance away from sandalphon in case anything happens, always using himself as the bait when he knows if to get to the other, Lucilius will have to kill him first and foremost.

none of those apologies come out, unlike the blood of wounds that take long to heal when in the past, tissue would connect in seconds.

[literanis]

he chuckles, though it's far from amused. "i was right. there is grit in your system. else you wouldn't be a broken record of platitudes." calling him ungrateful is at the very tip of his tongue, but it doesn't slip if only because he knows the truth. lucifer was programmed to think this way, like a wrangler to a herd of sheep. otherwise he'd be a poor archangel of evolution who wouldn't be able to nurture anything. the problem lie in where his priorities seemed to stray.

and he abhors the gentleness on display for someone who shouldn't have been made in the first place. the gentleness stolen from him. rather, perhaps lucilius was right in having a back-up, and it's more he thought it amusing for sandalphon to exist as a pet than having him destroyed. ah, maybe the astral himself had a moment of weakness, unable to deny lucifer's at-the-time seemingly genuine concern for practicality. after all, it'd have been a waste of his hard labor. never again. lucilius doesn't create anymore and is no longer in the business of adding to this empire of dirt the omnipotent subjected them to.

"nor would you confuse degradation with evolution of all things."

it's not lost on him what the other is doing, like a lion protecting its keep. he is not slick and he is not subtle, though whatever posturing done here didn't matter in the long run. they know each other like a well-read book, the binding having been worn out with extensive use. to lucilius, it's a story that has soured, leaving him with only the echoing pangs of desolation. he couldn't believe how easy it'd been — problems do have solutions, able to be fixed in one determined stroke. everything in this world was red; the deepest shade of red had spilled out of their necks. like that meant something.

it's strange. this feels like the textbook definition of stalling for time — not even cleverly, it was quite blatant. but he can't help himself. as though he wanted more time to wrap his head around just what happened these past twenty centuries, how everything fell apart so easily. as much as he wanted to blame sandalphon for all his woes, it admittedly didn't explain the whole story. there's only so much that fool could logically effect.

he shakes his head. "i hate how you sound right now..." he has no idea why he uttered this — it just sort of spilled out. these are indeed things he told lucifer; a reiteration of his strict programming, the etchings upon his core that dictated nearly every single aspect about him — but spared enough variance that he'd be able to make his own choices based on free will and fancy. even now, despite it all, despite all the trials and tribulations, he would rather lucifer choose his ill-fate than a mindless machine. worse still, it's an aspect he despised because of what he chose to do with it. though the truth behind his creation was more complicated than that, and it's something lucilius cannot and perhaps could never admit to aloud. to live as his better half. in my nothing, you meant —

"giving me the illusion of choice? you showed me no mercy that day. don't offend me with a lame excuse for commiseration. you're a bad actor and a worse liar."

burnished claws release their vice-grip upon the other's sterling blade. they're not going to move unless someone does. stalemates were annoying, though he has no current incentive to instigate something he's not sure he can win. what he is able to praise is how determined the former supreme primarch's expression was. perhaps it was a bit cruel, but lucilius very much desired to see what thousands of years protecting the skies have yielded, to feel the full brunt of his prowess, even if physically diminished. he sneers. let's forget about that unconscious vessel, for now.

"that's the face i remember. it was only yesterday." the face of his greatest work, forever was and forever will be. he reaches inward, grabbing the hilt of a sword forged of stygian matter polished with eons of malevolence. with force, it's painfully wrenched out of his chest, revealing a golden luster that could cut through light as a dark opus. what are we doing here? where will we go? all that could've been. questions that were destined to an unanswered oblivion.

"so you chose suffering. who am i to deny you of your free will?"

[efestars]

giving me the illusion of choice? you showed me no mercy that day

Lucifer can only wince visibly at this, newly formed core that stores his soul falling deep into his stomach... something he can feel so physically it hurts when he knows nothing happened in reality, such is the weight of emotions that they can manifest in physical pain sometimes that never cease to impress and even spark wonder in the archangel, even now when faced with his own mistakes and regrets - all he wishes is to apologize, again and again. Not for killing Lucilius, not for each time he didn't talk or couldn't convey his emotions into words that kept hurting others. But for simply not doing enough. He wanted to spare Lucilius, he asked and asked for answers he already knew that fateful day. Hands quaked with the resolve he had, his body had reacted before his mind could stop himself; it was the laugh, it was everything all at once. And before the noise in his ears had subsided, the grotesque sound of flesh and blood meeting floor and the wet plip plop of drops falling from his sword had been all he could hear so close.

' I didn't want to. I'm sorry, If Only I had been there more... ' left unsaid, knows it'd change nothing. Knows his priority at this very moment is Sandalphon and Sandalphon alone. '' Evolution can be so many things. For better or worse. I might not be as strong as I used to but my goals stay the same, Lucilius. '' Six wings still fanned out, a hard habit in the battlefield when facing an opponent, even at the gruesome display of flesh cage revealing the hilt of the calamity bringer's blade as it materializes from raw power alone, crystalized from void and more – part of him is curious, the innate researcher in him, imparted by the former. But even now Lucifer knows the chances of ever studying such elements up close would mean to get first hand experience of their edge against his flesh, which wont do. '' I'm only doing what my heart desires, which right now is to stop you, to keep him safe from you. '' 'to try and understand you now that we meet again' his mind finishes but tastes stale upon his tongue – it was enough stalling as the tension in the air, scorching ashes of a previous strife with the current supreme primarch had left in it's wake. So now Lucifer is the back up, even when his will to fight had ceased so long ago.

So he takes the first step. It's like the pace of a walk, but it hides Lucifer's astonishingly, still, superior speed propelled by a lower set of wings. Almost flying, quick and direct, graceful like a great stork's quick and preciseness. Blades both pointed in a cross as taut muscle of both arms tense with all of their might.

This, he know isn't fast enough, Lucilius had his speed now, perhaps more. If he was able to take on Sandalphon and still be standing, even after his initial defeat, imprisonment and now breakthrough, then his battle now is not going to be a fair one – But Lucifer's memories are untouched. Millennia of taking on armies of even the greatest of warriors from the otherworld to his own comrades, a phisical tool compared to nothing against the weight of his regrets and sins. So holding on, stalling and keeping Lucilius attention on him is the best. Even when knowing the loud sound of metal shrieking upon the strike against the other's broadsword would blow a mortal's eardrums Lucifer's eyes never leave the other's – eerily cold, emotionless sky blue eyes glaring back at the void and mirror of his own. Even when deep down, within the white of tired irises, there's still apologies lingering there.

'' I'll ask again... Please. Leave in peace for now, Lucilius. '' Is more like a whisper that Lucifer didn't mean to say, or perhaps he wanted. He doesn't know, such is the enigma of the heart that in this life, the archangel has chosen to see where it goes, how it evolves. In this new chance at life he wants to see it, feel it – and if to face an once old, dear friend turned now into such a corrupted, and yet not dissimilar, more catastrophically wrong version of what it had been, then his goals are just two. Stay alive, protect Sandalphon at any cost. Both wishes perhaps a bit difficult to fulfill with the current situation.

A memory sparks. A distant one – thousand years ago, in a not so different position where he is. Lucilius donning Astral robes, long flowy fabric disturbed by the air as a long spear with a beautiful opalescent blade at it's tip could easily block even his strongest of attacks. A sparring session that happened so, so long ago.... Oh... What changed, my friend? Was there any hope to make even the slightest difference? oh fool that I am.

[literanis]

@efestars sent: '' My frie…. No, Lucilius, '' His words fall low in a gentle, ever so graceful manner despite the moment at hand is one of danger. Old long lost tales of the past brought back because of his own mistakes, things he should've been stronger to fix, happenings that he had been too weak and immature to judge beyond the heartbreak that he had experienced over and over. From Sandalphon's depart being so sudden despise his ignorance on what could've made the angel to leave millenia ago, to Belial and Lucilius's plans as he knew, for a long time, what was brewing behind curtains but had been too hopeful he could change something, that maybe if he had reached hard enough, just maybe… he could've been capable of changing the astral's mind. Alas, also he knew how futile it was, the spiraling had came far before he had been aware Lucilius's deep rage had rooted itself, as the flames had burned slowly and slowly adding fuel until the very end, and he knew Belial would've done everything in his hands to bring him back – it was a contradiction to not have disposed of the body. How could have he done that though? after seeing that smile? How could've burnt off the remnants of his creator and leave as if the man had never existed in the first place? He didn't have the heart nor the power, even with eternal light burned bright at his very palms, something much stronger held him down – Love. He loved Lucilius, he loves the skies, he loves Belial, Sandalphon, and loves so much it hurts. So despite his plan was to dispose, at the time, of the astral; he just couldn't. Now his mistakes glare back at him, in a weaker body thanks to the alchemist, the speaker's power and Sandalphon's beyond strong wishes and efforts. Something he didn't want and yet, at the same wanted to. A dying star to what a bright blue sun he used to be – and yet, prefers this than what he had in the past. And yet… Lucilius's back from whatever prison the Speaker had cast him to. Donning his broken down, burnt and corrupted body when night efforts had paid off protecting one of the only one existences that was left for him that mattered the most. Powerlessness for once back again in his mind as the tattered armor of Sandalphon's lay limp against his lap as his own wings flare in warning, bristling loudly as a meager spark of power try and gather between downs and plumes of what little he can do while tending on the injured archangel. ( He was still alive, his core felt perfectly fine. That's alright, he tells himself. ) but his eyes are more struck by the demons he's never fought, back before him. A job half done, and also the source of his hurts and regrets. '' You have no power here, I know. I can feel it. Please leave in peace, I beg… '' And yet is not from powerlessness he asks, no. To raise his blade against him once more is a feat of great strength and yet his hand at the hilt of one of the three katanas felt suddenly like lead. So heavy, so still. Shaking with millennia of regrets as Lucifer awaits what happens. Will the crew catch up fast? Will Lucilius try anything and finish the job here? And yet, having been given the gift of life once more Lucifer, the former supreme primarch, knows he'd not hesitate to throw it away once more, for Sandalphon. But he also know how much Sandalphon hurts from this alone, knows that the other would try and bring him back again and scold him for centuries…. ah. How complex the heart can be sometimes. '' Just this once… I won't tell the crew you're here, but leave Sandalphon out of this. '' And despise the herculean effort to bring that long katana up pointing at the tall figure shadowing like a big, shadowy monster, an echo of what it had been. Lucifer's resolute against his fears, against his creator that is far too gone. '' I won't ask, too. What is what you wish now, for it's clear… But know I won't stand for it. ''

when he realized lucifer had perished, a small part of him — the one tucked away in some far corner of his atrophied heart — had felt a type of relief. not because lucifer would be unable to impede his schemes, but more that he was freed from this pitiful cage called "existence" they'd been imprisoned him to, where death was the only escape. his death was as proof as any that there was no fixing this world and the experiment in improving it was a patent failure. imagine that, having invented salvation only for god to have made life so contemptible that even the most hopeful light would wither from its obscene wretchedness. all his work rendered absolutely ineffective and at worst useless. maybe it was best this way. everything would soon follow so he wouldn't even be alone.

like everything else, it seems, fate had other plans. these two relics of ancient history stood before each other well beyond the grave, waking, with unsaid lamentations and unfinished work. they both came back worse, this he knows. lucilius is forced to wear lucifer's corpse as a vessel, festering with cosmic corruption and festering hatred — and lucifer? oh, what a pitiful state. whatever sack of flesh his core was housed in wasn't anything like the one he was created with. more still, the spare vessel — the laughable new supreme primarch — had all the ingredients needed to just... fix lucifer. it was all right there in front of them waiting to be dismantled for parts. yet, in knowing all this, the potential to restore some of his plans back on track he cannot find that he cares too much.

because at the end of the day, lucifer failed and putting him back to his prime wasn't going to undo that fact. and he failed because of sandalphon. just one little... person. such was perhaps the most damning reality of them all. existence, the world, all of it, facilitated misery. that was what all this was: misery, misery, misery.

"two thousand years is a long time regardless of one's mortality." he begins, voice dripping with acidic contrition. "and you haven't learned a thing. no. i retract that statement — you did. you learned how to beg."

something impossibly bitter creeps up on darkened expression. his once opalescent hair that shimmered like clear, morning dawn was a setting sun, and they curtained his face as though to hide the small hints of nuance that was something... grieving. "you beg for his life yet spared no time in extinguishing mine" goes unsaid. his creation had even abandoned that nickname of his, epithet once spoken with such incomparable devotion and reverence. lucilius did not understand the nuance of such affections, but he did know one thing: to be someone's friend was to be their equal and that was all he needed. once upon a time, anyway, in an island far away in the middle of the skies hidden within the heavens. eden might've been genesis, but canaan had been the true paradise, where this all started and where it was all supposed to end.

lucilius doesn't move, nor does he look lucifer's way, a ramrod puppet awaiting the force of its strings. "begging is for dogs, lucifer. i did not dabble in creating animals and i'd loathe to put you down like one."

the head researcher is rarely stirred by emotion, his peers once said. yet when a particular thorn in his side digs in, well; at last his gaze, cold as any dying star, meets with lucifer's (his eyes mirrors his own in a way he now hates). the words rip off his tongue, body flaring in kind in reaction to his unbridled anger and centuries of unabated frustration. he doesn't care that that same exact blade that had slain him so many millennia ago threatened to repeat the act. it was used to this.

"i don't want to hear that name again. he murdered us, lucifer! look at us!" his teeth grit, jaw tight. "you'll take your chances — so you said. that was an unreasonable gamble and you lost! you lost because of him!" thoughts feel faster than what his mouth can spit out. "no, i made a mistake. i erred on the side of ignorant caution and i permitted his existence. i won't let that happen again."

finally, lucilius moves from where he stood, stalking over towards lucifer with an abundance of confidence. or was unabashed anger more accurate? he grabs his blade with his gauntlet-clad hand, squeezes tight. it's a dare, it's a declaration, it's a million and one things he can't find the words for.

"you're tired. i know you are. i can feel it. don't try to hide it." lucilius knows well the kind of exhaution that's begotten from the turmoil of living, how it wears one down like sandpaper until there's nothing left but whatever it happened to expose, whether it be thorns or no edge. "for as long as we live this is how it has to be. killing me, killing you. again and again. maybe if i made you to kill, that'd be a fine life, but i didn't."

"my lucifer," he stares at him, piercing gaze into his core. "what did i make you for?"

[efestars]

To believe, to hope is been Lucifer's grand virtue and also his undoing. This much he knows and yet, he never stops believing, persevering even amidst his death and awaiting in that timeless dimension when Sandalphon had been the one to depart for an unknown amount of time. Where he accepted his fate happily even if there had been words unsaid and things his tongue had never allowed out despise his core hurting terribly at the very need to let them out. Right now... He wants to apologies, again and again. If only he had known, if ony he had been stronger... Lucilius wouldn't be in such a state, he believes. If he had been stronger, had reached out, maybe he could've known Belial's own feelings. But oh how he also know that those 'what if's would not change anything at the moment. The battlefield soiled in burnt patches, a telltale of the other's fight with Sandalphon that left the archangel on his lap needing a moment to recover, a moment he will oh so give enough for Sandalphon to be back on his senses, or for the singularity and the rest to come for aid. Lucifer may not be on his prime but his swordsmanship remains unrivaled, even to the most powerful of the current primal beasts around, he still can hold on his own – but the only roadblock being the man he's protecting.

this, he doesn't mind. For Sandalphon, his own life, his own neck could be cut again if it gives the other a chance again and again.

But it is also a promise he wants to hold on to try and live, to be among the mortals even should catastrophes loom again that require their intervention; and oh how ironic is that it is his creator the one he has to face. '' You needn't to. I will not fall that easily, and you're as tired, if no spent from your strife. '' But knows any talk is nothing but stalling the inevitable, even when with his new makeshift core, the deepest parts of his soul still wishes that it could mean anything, that maybe he can change his mind for as impossible as the stakes are. Lucilius was ravaged monster, of bloodied skirt and a mirror of what once has been his body – the sight haunting of what he had experienced upon his death at the hands of the astral who could manipulate chaos matter. Oh... It had been that bad, isn't it? And he laments if anyone had seen the carnage, as such a sight is nothing anyone deserves to see. '' Sandalphon didn't murder me. Nor did the omnipotent – It was my choice... I had all the power to stop Beelzebub but it could've hurt the island and him in the process. I accepted death knowing he'd be able to live. '' His voice trembles resolute, but past grievances give them a cold, sad melancholy as his eyes fall a bit on the gentle rise and drop of the other's ribcage. The hand that does not wield the hilt of a worn katana gently pushing away curly, aurburn bangs despise how the act itself solves nothing. A reassuring gesture for himself.

'' If to fight once more, if... for a chance to amend my shortcomings, perhaps even die at your own hands in penace for my own sins. Then... '' Even when his legs felt as if they weight ten times they do, even when bone and muscle feel stale and sore, even when he lets Sandalphon rest behind him – even when he can feel the smallest spark of aura that wafts from his body and invigorates his own with a little bit of energy. Lucifer stand upright, free hand slowly, heavily also unhilting a second katana. '' I can still fight, and I will. Leave Sandalphon out of it. '' His grieving tone now replaced to a stoic, cold one. Lucifer wastes no time to let a flap of his wings push Sandalphon's body at a safe distance, an apology at the tip of his tongue for the unorthodox measure of keeping a distance between them. Eyes never leaving the other's glare, matching it with his own as blades are ready at either side of his body, red ribbon aimlessly swaying by the winds pushed. '' You made me to oversee the skies, to protect them – and I've evolved, like you. Realized how much I care for you, for Sandalphon, Belial... But that sacrifices have to be made in order to keep them safe. And that's what I wish to do. Your move, Lucilius. '' Which is more a formality than an order.

Since last time, it was him who had the first move.

[literanis]

since the very beginning, that face has always been there in the background passively observing his thoughts. sometimes it accompanies a morsel of fascinating wisdom he'd never happened upon. sometimes it's noise that didn't amount to anything immediately sensical. in between, it made the space within his ribcage ache. over the span of thousands of years, what was once just a strange mental anomaly — perhaps conjured by a vivid imagination — became hard to ignore as simply that, and thus the idea it could be a sign of worse things to come started to infect what should otherwise be normal. it had to be something. something important. the one equation that could never be factored.

he deplores the fact that lucifer had to be caught in the middle of his warring self. but, what was the primarch if not deliverance incarnate? his entire existence revolved around filling the gaps of what was missing in this world (within himself). especially now, as he shields his creator's eyes from visions of evil, he knows it to be true. this he contemplates as his head is hidden underneath lucifer's chin, tucked away as the rest of his body sags with the weight of an entire lifetime, unmotivated and limp as a white-clothed sandbag. to sink into him, trying to sublimate with his other half.

except lucifer says something that briefly sparks an exhausted anger. curling his fist tightly he strikes the other's side as hard as he could presently muster — this time with conscious intent. "don't you dare..." the biting words come out strained, exasperated. a pause. he remains still otherwise. "don't you dare apologize to me." because he shouldn't. everything he does, or doesn't, is because it's purposeful. that was in his programming. he remembers every inch of his extensive blueprints made manifest. lucifer is unsuited for such fleeting words, for such... foolishness...

his fist loosens — as does the rest of his ramrod muscles — then lamely, reaches to gently caress the outline of lucifer's face in wordless assuagement. he definitely scratched him; there's a slight mark where there shouldn't be. there is no comment to be made other than that his expression, although remaining obscured, becomes impossibly dark.

to be curtained by those grand wings was like returning to the genesis of creation; a bright, white nothingness. pure, white splendor. what was it like to return to that in totality? to nothingness...? the question, increasingly, becomes a tempting offer. that forbidden possibility dangles in his mind's tree. he looks at it regularly and imagines how it tastes, but now he craves knowing. if it's anything like the radiance lucifer emits, then... just maybe... would it even be worth it?

he will fix this, just as he fixes everything else. astral society was built off the back of his hard work. surely there is a solution to these ails as well. lucilius does not make mistakes. then, when all this is resolved, it'll be naught but trifling memory, and nothing will stand in his way.

[efestars]

Eyes crinkle in visible pain, not for the strike at his side - that is nothing compared to million other things and the pinprick of million thorns against his core as emotions flare heavily within his rib cage. Lucifer's apology, another one to follow Lucilius's words hangs dangerously at the tip of his tongue, breaths so quiet one would believe he stopped breathing entirely but no. He doesn't want to worsen the astral's mood anymore than it must be due to those dreams that keep haunting him. '' I understand. '' He tries, instead. Even when his eyes alone bleed apologies over and over, but knew that the other was too tired to notice.

When lucilius sinks into his embrace, Lucifer's magic does another small gesture. Replacing cold, always worn armor into just the layer of thin, black bodysuit underneath. To lay atop a hard surface would leave dents and aching spots, and it was the least the supreme primarch would want for his friend, his creator. '' I'll not say that again, It is just my worry that I had stirred you or even scared you, my friend. '' And yet he knows Lucilius would discard that soon, never delving into arguments for too long before being too irritated to keep up with it. '' I just hope relaxing like this may be of help. '' Adds, a tone softer as he takes a long breath in hand to a slow, long exhale. chest heaving in an out almost like a gentle lullaby while gloved hands gingerly caress and play aimlessly with loose, wild opalescent hair that sticks at odd directions, trying to soothe them down only to fail.

'' Later I could offer you some food, while for some reason I am not to touch the kitchen room, Belial left some provisions already done for today. I can heat those up for you. '' Something the other would deem nonsense, but Lucifer would insist. A dance back and forth of selfishness versus selflessness. '' But for now maybe try again, I'll not leave unless you say so, my friend. '' And the way he says it holds a deep fondness, sky blue eyes closing mimicking the way the astral would when taking these naps, even if he needed no sleep - it was a nice gesture, where closing them wouldn't reveal later horrors of otherworld beings, wars, famine... it was a good break even when duties all but haunted Lucifer from a distance. Something he can ignore for now.

[literanis]

lucifer's pitiful hesitance on the matter was annoying, enough that even with his eyes closed the slumbering astral can't help but show exasperation by the way thin brows crease between. usually, he'd scold him for his lapse in immediately grasping his meaning, but alas he's too tired to bother, wafting off into that unconscious state known as slumber, curtained by

if lucilius were to go as far back as his memory allowed — which he has, at least lately — he'd find that the irregularities in his sleep were akin to building masonry on a slight tilt: the lean isn't apparent until one steps back to see the extreme angle. it didn't start out that way, at least if such memories were to be trusted. the deeper he invested himself into his work, the more exciting discoveries he made, and the less he invested in rest. of course it could be solved with some degree of self-discipline, but that didn't matter in the wake of his progress. though more, more, and more, it was becoming less about his work and increasingly about... avoidance. habits became reckless, other aspects of his well-being were neglected, and his irascibility could be nothing short of problematic.

because behind closed eyes there is a man. a man he does not know, does know, does not know. one who is him and not all at once. as familiar as a mirror's reflection, foreign like an intruder. the disembodied call of his own voice, straining towards with its (his) own hands. lucilius is a morning star, this he knows. but then this man is also the morning star, white and faceless, shining madly around the nothingness of the sun, staring down at him with glowing, gossamer white hair.

he does not fear. however, in those instances, being burned under intense light, it's all too evident he is fearful. fearful of what infinite meaning such unexplainable phenomena is. all over the idea his face is upon the body of something he doesn't recognize as his own. and he wants it back. there is someone out there who has stolen something of his! the notion grips him so intensely that his hands in the real world snatch the closest thing to him, awakened by rage, straddling and digging nails like claws in as best he could with the intent to harm. even awake, shining, bright eyes mock him. his face that he wants back. his body that he wants back. this figment was real, in his most private quarters. blue hues are wide and wild, mouth agape as though trying to rip out words that never form, and he's pale from the shock of his own intense fear. all that manages is the loud heave of him trying catching his breath and the strain of his body putting all its energy into attacking the familiar stranger to no avail. lucilius' heart feels as though he's going to throw it up, blood and all, purging toxins.

this body is stubborn. it will not die. it will not vanish. which body he is referring to... he does not define. however, lucifer's passive aura, emanated by his splendorous wings, abate his mania. what felt like an eternity was only a few seconds. it could've been longer, and god knows he's had them worse.

[efestars]

It largely had been quiet, only the drum of a heartbeat an gentle, stiffled murmur of breaths as bedsheets and wings moved slightly up and down, blue eyes serene as the skies adobe inmaculate, untainted marble and stone that makes up for the astral's buildings and pillars coated the ceiling with. His own presence silent, never missing any detail but allowing his memories to space out, remember the good or curious things he could fetch from his mind such as those mortals and their eyes when they'd look surpriced at the guest Lucifer made himself be when asisting them, as another mortal.

His wings sagged in mayor and messy heaps, a second blanket, a much more alive and welcoming one almost like the clouds beyond that rested atop the astral's frame as Lucilius barely could be seen from the heap of messy pearly locks that definitelly needed brushing later. Something Lucifer would help later – a though that he neatly piles along the things he'd like to indulge his creator with before missions whisks him away for a long time. Gentle eyes soften at the sight, even from his side where he could feel the other... stirring.

It happens all too fast and almost in slow motion. Hands like dark claws no dissimilar as those he's seen from otherwordly beings shooting up, grasping, clawing whatever could be close - the pants and hisses he could hear as Lucilius rose from his deep sleep. How much has it been? Lucifer has lost count of the hours; just knows that at first it all had been peaceful, perhaps dreamless as much as he attempted shushing the often nightmares he knows Lucilius was prone to have, but this time somehow they had been gotten the best of him. Brows crease in though trying to weight his options, thinking what couldl0ve failed in his part considering his innate ability to enter, manipulate and even shape little dreamworld dimensions at one though away; his wings quickly retreating – Or so he attempts but Lucilius is quicker than he is right now, and before he can do anything, move out the way or reach out, give Lucilius space and not accidentally rip his feathers in fistfuls he's now at the other's grasp. A bit of the felt blanket, at some point, pushed aside - either by the other's outburst or Lucifer's movement. Thankfully not destroyed in his wake.

Nothing comes out his mouth, parted as they are, the surprise is there, but so is the guilt. Pinned to the bed with a single foot meeting dusty floors for leverage by the edge of the bed, Lucifer simply stays there, letting the other's strength dig into his skin – strong enough for him to feel and perhaps draw out blood, not strong enough to significantly damage compared to the knifes at his core he feels seeing his creator like this; failing to be the comfort he had offered to be this time. Ah... '' My friend... '' Even when his windpipe is being crushed and his breastplate clawed on, his voice is nothing but quiet and solemn, a tinge of sadness at himself, and lucilius more than anything else. He'd never blame him for these moments, they happen time from time, he knows how to react; from the hand that reaches back to those bloodshot eyes that stare back at him but glazed by clouds Lucifer can't seem to grasp what happens. Tentatively touching pale skin, a question he doesn't ask, and then... '' It's a dream, please don't worry. I... '' His palm covers ever so gently those eyes, so cold like the worst of winters, a storm of knives and icicles behind eyes that mirrored his but at the same time were so distant, as if Lucilius had not even been here at all, and instead left behind this cocoon that sought to protect desperately what's left of it. Hollow.... It scared Lucifer. But he never asks, too. '' I'm sorry. '' 'I failed you, again' his voice tries saying but dies down before he can conjure the rest of it. He can only hope with his eyes covered, a pair of wings also ever so silently draping the two of them as a gentle embrace, can ease whatever is haunting Lucilius. He will endure whatever to come, no matter how deep nails might dig into him, no matter how many thorns prickle him.

He's endured far worse, down by the crimson horizon. Wounds that were long healed before even arriving back in canaan that this was nothing, almost penance and retribution for his sins. His burdens.

[literanis]

since the beginning of astral society, lucilius was never one for flourishes. his quarters would have the bare minimum of functional furniture only accentuated by the ornate trimmings they’d been made with. such remained unchanged until the dawn of the primal beasts; one of them liked to store away things he found interesting in lucilius’ room for some reason, like a crow sharing its shiny objects. the other, just as right now, enjoyed small “gift giving.” and so, his room gradually became the expression of his two “hearts” — or, an amalgamation of intruding ideals. regardless, he didn’t think much of either of either gesture, piling up as “things.”

“then make sure no one gets through that door,” arrives the tired mutter, lazy hand reaching out to stroke feathers of man-made providence before curling up fully to become lost in lavish sheets. “if anyone asks, impersonate me and say that ‘you’re’ sick. if belial asks, tell him i died.”

not that belial would listen, but it was worth it all the same. the three often spoke in coded language, more or less knowing what’s being implied through various contexts. most would call that a bond, or kinship. lucilius only interpreted these behaviors as being dutiful. whatever the actual definition was didn’t matter, only the results of it.

the space could be barren with not even a bed to lie on so long as he had his equal, wings splayed across as a lazy shield from the rest of this forsaken world, his serene gaze ever vigilant. may his vigil never waver, for his creator dreads the possibilities of blinding darkness that haunts his deepest recesses. clawing through, threatening to break free from his astral shell. his light’s shine abates it, or so it feels like. how lucilius dreams of a dreamless eternity as his eyes close.

[efestars]

Serene grace of a stillness ever belonging to the astral realm, a realm so far by now as the laboratory aimlessly looms over an everchanging landscape that emerged from the mighty roar of a grand omnipotent, one that even now lucifer knows little about, but knows of it's legends, the smallest of things both books and Lucilius's own words speak of it.

Worry seeps into serene and graceful features, the smallest of crinkles oozing nothing but sincere worry that Lucifer doesn't voice. Often when spoken of met with dismissal, and only now entertained with the ideal of rest that the astral's body oh so cried for in every way Lucilius himself would rather chew on ice than voice out himself. That much, Lucifer he understands - but never ceased the pleas he gives with eyes alone that the other ought to perhaps try and take better care of his very much alive body. Even when he, himself, as a primal beast has never needed more than just a very fast, almost cyclical check up. No food, no water, breathing is more of something embed into his being rather than a need, something to blend in that even astrals themselves didn't need yet needed to do. Such are the infinite contradictions within an imperfect world that never cease to inspire Lucifer, catch his ever drifting attention towards it's expanses, and that for once; has a moment of standstill, his feathers melting by the tough of worn gloves.

'' I'll... Try my best. '' And yet he wants to argue, how it'd be unbecoming of his image to replace the astral or even attempt to impersonate him - not something that hasn't happened already with rather... peculiar results. Exasperated astrals, the council making new rules just specific to Lucilius alone and... many more things. '' And you're not dead, just tired, but I'll inform him should Belial be free of duties and wonder were you've been. '' He says as a matter of fact, the jest lost to him entirely and almost puzzled why would Lucilius even say that - another normal occurrence when, as he's learned in time, just means the Astral wishes solitude and to not be bothered. This, however doesn't mean he's quick at realizing it fast enough before his words come out.

And sleep never was easy, even when finding Lucilius in the very edge of slumber many more times he can hope to count, it always seemed as if something bothered him, a peaceful face twisted in agony, hurt, horror, or perhaps more. Lucifer cannot tell, and he'd not barge into his dreams unless he's consented to it, despise the very chance at his fingertips. It never occurs to Lucifer to dwelve into those dreams to see what is it that they haunt his creator this strongly but, has chosen to use his ability instead to mute them out, whatever they are. Silence the unconscious part of the brain that brings those terrors if this somehow can appease Lucilius just a fragment of time he allows slumber to come. More than content to sit there, watch the gentle rise and fall of the other's chest under, now, his feathers and the plush fluffy blanket presented to the Astral. The smallest things always fascinating the surpreme primarch far more than grandiose things and brilliant pillars of the most delicate marble. It's life itself, the odd ways Lucilius's dull hair seemed to shine ever so sightly like stars, different and yet so similar to his own. And this brings, alongside, a warm smile, weightless of burdens Lucifer's started to carry since centuries of existence. '' Just rest well... my friend. '' And his gloved hand reaches for a pale forehead, pushing gentle, downy strands of white locks away from the other's eyes as lights dim out upon lucifer's magic silently manifesting.

At some point, despise being able to stay still like a soldier for even centuries, Lucifer had chosen to shift a bit and half lay down next to the other, never once making a single sound, never once adding a new wrinkle to the sheets. Only to offer warmth he's heard mortals say can help on the worst of winters and even the coldest of dreams.

[literanis]

oh, thank god he took the bait. shoulders sag in relief as the tension of getting lucifer to focus has been washed away with simple little wordplay. the faintest musing of 'maybe i overtuned his capacity for sincerity' crossed his mind, although it wasn't a serious consideration. no matter. at worst, such was a mild irritation, and from lucilius' calculations, the feeling of frustration begot an increased desire to solve problems. emotions of all kinds were necessary, whether they be ones found in mortals, astrals, or primals. they're the backbone of existence — what it means to be free.

even though some continued to elude him despite best efforts to replicate them, fashioning missing pieces into beings that stood to his left and right.

he takes lucifer's presented hand (such practiced movements from both of them, silent display of centuries-long respect, of reverence, of appreciation) and stands, knowing the larger man would sweep him off the ground and carry him off. he is strong because he had been made that way. considerate, because he was made that way. above all, they partook in this exchange because of choice.

lucifer's fascination with the world around him was a resounding success, although the other side of it was that he wanted to share that knowledge. now, lucilius had... no interest in what mortals got up to. such was akin to wondering what ants in a molehill did in their free time; he was only interested in the insight that observing them provided. the emotional aspects were lucifer's job, as such enabled his tasks to be efficient. and indeed lucilius nearly regretted asking, but he did with purpose. the murmur of the other's voice would ease him into sleep, so getting him to recite his adventure was the easiest way. they may share the same vocal cords, but lucifer's cadence, the delivery of that voice... was somehow more serene. and that was a testament to his individuality.

the unconditional warmth he exuded abated the oppressive cold of darkness that lives in his empty soul. by his wings, that when outstretched rivaled the sun's rays, blotting out the sky with sheer divine might. a visible god, one who would deliver the people when their former one would not. they already were grateful for his shrewdness, his capability, if his recounting of recent events was to be taken as truth (and lucifer did not lie). what a dream, that was... could be. to have invented... salvation.

oh, my morning star. illumine this, my twilight, and prevent the pall of utter darkness.

alabaster pillars, grand arches and porticos, statues of beings memorialized despite not having died. these tributes of arrogance littered canaan, more opulent than anything erected by the skyrealm. lucilius is reminded of how meaningless these monuments are when true innovation so tenderly whisked him past these lofty paragons. he tucked the white pelt around himself more tightly, lulling off into a half-sleep. no, the words didn't register, although he'd picked up enough that at later date, he ought to impart a lecture on "idolatry" and how that could manifest. for now, he cannot be bothered.

"we'll do your maintenance tomorrow," a yawn follows. "to make sure there is no contamination from your mission."

when they arrive at their destination, he injects one more request.

"stay."

[efestars]

the mere act of walking was a graceful thing Lucifer was capable of doing. Muted by the grand expanse of these empty halls, permeated by the rustle of distant branches and leaves against a soft breeze, the sway and shift of long robes that hang from his arms as the frame of the Astral neatly slots in between. His voice drowned gently as if they were mere whispers while Lucilius would listen (or so he thinks.)

But it all is nothing but things he sees each time between missions. Unchanging ornaments that once he saw with wonder and smiles that now are just another more familiar scene that he'd quickly diver his gaze from, replaced with worries of those he feels deeply for. Asking for Belial, checking on Lucilius, filling up information from the four primarchs and the usual formalities that came with it. A dance he's known for centuries now and fills his core with accomplishment as he gets rare chances like these, and indulge a bit.

The yawn that follows his friend's words brings nothing but the quirk of his lips. Fondness too clear on his face, wings that neatly tuck behind his back shifting a bit as sunlight bounces of every pinion giving them an almost opalescent brillance equal of the first specks of light during sunrise. '' Hmh. And I'll trust your verdict in the maintenance. '' But he can already guess the result. His core never felt any anomaly, his body felt relatively normal. His wings were entirely untouched beyond the breeze that caresses them as he goes - but knows where the worry comes from, as the otherworld's power was an unknown not even Lucilius has been able to contain or even recreate, so it was unknown how it'd affect him, or other primal beasts should contamination happen.

But his thoughts and hypothesis get cut the moment Lucilius speaks again. Any other person in his place would've believed the Astral's tone an order. Blunt, harsh - heavy with the implications but Lucifer knows it's a request. That he was entirely free to choose the cource of action, that the other would absolutely understand if he was unable to fulfill this for now. And yet, he's drawn to it all too easily – head ever so slightly tilting to the side while leaning forth to finally place down Lucilius on the undisturbed bed within his quarters.

It really has been a long time the other has used it, as dust had collected on various of the empty, plain basic furniture scattered around. But he doesn't comment this.

'' I believe I'm free of missions for a few days, so... You needn't to ask, my friend. If it's my presence needed, for anything, I'll gladly stay however much is required. '' Even now, he tries to never impose, to offer an alternative despise somethin deep inside, something Lucifer's not aware of pulled him into staying even without the need of words. It'd take a look, a gentle wave of the other's finger perhaps, to resolve the choice and remain for a bit longer - push away a few tasks if he can. It goes unsaid how much Lucifer misses those days right at the begining, when he'd listen for hours both Belial's insight to Lucilius extensive talks about this and that. Gracefully, joining the other by sitting on the edge of the mattress, even then disturbing the sheets as little as he could, despise the press of feathers spilling almost as a grand extra blanket by the extend of the bed.

[literanis]

one unique thing regarding primals who were tasked with various expeditions through the skies was that they often came back with new information. not necessarily in the clinical sense of having literally learned a fact worth reciting, but little things that most wouldn't pay mind to. it's in their actions, their wonderment for the vast world, their keen observations. lucifer in particular was engineered to be receptive to these things. gestures such as the one he had offered lucilius just now, with a finely woven blanket with an exotic fur, was one such thing.

despite his fingers being gloved, he can still recognize that the texture was plush, and most of all, comfortable. a thought crosses his mind, though it's something worth asking later. at the moment, there was the pressing issue of simply getting his priorities straight.

he inhaled sharply, trying to think of a way to dissuade the other in a manner that left no room for debate. oh, how stubborn he had inadvertently made his masterpiece. phrasing was everything. "i don't know if i ever told you this, but we already have a primal beast of paperwork." belial. he's talking about belial. "you needn't waste your time on such trivial tasks. i don't think you'd want to deprive another of their job, would you?"

when lucifer had a bone, he did not let go. so, there was the act of bargaining, which lucilius was perfectly fine with doing so long as it wasn't humiliating. hands steepled over the bridge of his nose, fingertips pressing into the corners of his eyes as his lethargy fought with his waking mind. "however, since you are so insistent, i will present to you a compromise. it is as follows: you leave everything where it is — as it is — and in exchange, you can help me to my quarters. does this sound adequate?"

there is an unspoken facet to this as well, one thats heavily implied though would never be directly spoken on. it's that he doesn't want lucifer's attention to waver from him. what was the point of fussing over inanimate tasks when he could simply fuss over him instead? the phenomena regarding black holes was that they absorbed everything, including light. voraciously so. "in the meantime, do tell me about where you procured this... sheet of animal pelt."

[efestars]

lips part for a tad, a quiet breath away from a gentle protest that dies down at his throat as wings relax a bit behind him, and hands carefully places the stack of papers he had managed to hold and rearrange neatly back where it had been first taken from. His small smile never wavering but the ever so present guilt still tasting at his palate just enough for it to hang on his mind for a bit. But it's Lucilius words that finally break through the thick layer of stubbornness Lucifer is built upon, replaced with genuine curiosity, his attention drawn back at the astral slumped upon the desk and now, looking more like a fluffy lump of white thanks for the blanket that drapes around his frame. This not helped by the fact the robes worn already made his figure broader that it is. '' A primal beast of paperwork? '' comes the question with clear curiosity.

Had he been gone so long that Lucilius had needed to create such a being to aid him or Belial being too busy on his own end? Many questions arise in the back of bright sky blue eyes as the smile is replaced with small surprise and curiosity that, even when he'd not ask aloud, the questions hung ever so clear with his gaze alone. '' I... Didn't know. '' Is all he settles with, instead. He'd bombard Lucilius later, perhaps meet this primal beast as well and get to know them. For all of the things Lucifer is, he is much more curious that his personality lets on. Always observing, made to see evolution as it is, and thus, naturally drawn to the new. '' Then I won't deprive them of their work. My apologies. ''

Ah but even when he had been so adamant for a moment, the bargain picks at Lucifer's interest and ultimate goal he had at the forefront of his mind. To aid Lucilius and get him to rest, even if to have a small nap that, according to his knowledge, was enough to soothe a fraction of the exhaustion the astral always had burdened himself with that not even the best healing he could offer was capable of fixing. Light greets his eyes as wings lightly rustle, and hands relax on both sides of his broad frame as he takes a gentle step back to give the Astral some space, a fond sigh released between relaxed lips. '' Very well then. I promise not to touch your office, in exchange of this. I'd be nothing but grateful to at least help with this. '' More than glad, even, but such emotions sometimes escape him, Lucifer still unable to process them beyond a warmth within his rib cage, a bubbling of butterflies and birds inside that logically did not make sense when he knew such creatures would never be inside of him like this. But however complex these emotions are, the mere gesture Lucilius allowing one selfish act like this was enough to push down those questions that most likely would be shot down or dismissed as nonsense by the other.

So a hand is held for his creator, gentle as feathers themselves, unstained of blemishes where cuts and blood had been in those days where he waged lonely wars that later would heal as if nothing had ever stained his body. Gloves pristine as the dull light of candles and lights from the study office bounced gently on the great armor and leather of his attire. '' Allow me, then. '' Caves, too easily too – this never questioned in his mind, too naturally falling for the rare times finally Lucilius, perhaps, yields to the silent pleas of Lucifer's gaze alone wanting the Astral to rest, even if just a bit.

So it comes almost too naturally when he picks the other's frame all too hilariously easily with how little Lucilius weights, and to Lucifer's streght who could easily free mortals from an avalanche that had fallen on them one arm alone enough to resist it's weight. The soft pelt tickling at his neck and the exposed part of his shoulders and arm, as his smile, small as it is, felt grander, and a lower set of wings unconsciously brought around the pair to support Lucilius. '' Oh... '' It comes the surprise the question falls between them, and oh the words almost escape him too fast - eager even when brought out. Especially with how little Lucilius ever asked or wanted to know from mortals in his time in the skies.

Halls of canaan were grand, imposing. Greater than castles even sometimes Lucifer felt small whenever traversing them alone, but with the Astral by his side they felt more welcoming than stale and empty. It made it easier to ignore how white and marveling everything is. It comes from muscle memory by now where Lucilius's quarters are for the many times he's needed to carry the other, conscious or not, in there. '' It was a present from villagers of the mortal realm. I had been observing areas where otherworld gates had opened and tampered with, most of them by now disposed of because of my interference or the mortals themselves amble to produce their own ways. ''

'' By the time this village was free of the invasion, which otherwise I would have not intervened in had it been a natural war between other mortals or local beasts, I descended to observe closely how they'd deal with the aftermath. In this... I got picked by them, as one of them. I helped carrying a few of their cargo and help from other countries since they didn't have enough people and I gladly accepted. '' And oh it was... fulfilling, in a sense. This, Lucifer never mentions despise words fall like a sweet, gentle poem that he speaks as fingers keep the other steady within his arms. '' This village, I observed, had domesticated rabbit that generations ago were wild, aggressive, sometimes threats for the mortals themselves. ''

'' As centuries passed, selective breeding, patience and nurturing, they managed to produce domesticated and slightly dependent varieties that produce a lot of fur. Each summer they'd need to be aided by the caretakers to speed the shedding, unlike other parts where they hunt beasts for their pelt and process every part. I find it quite symbiotic despise their intervention. The bunnies... Carbuncles they call them, get to live a much peaceful time and in exchange they offer a fine material these people can produce clothing and other furniture with. They gifted me this blanket for the aid, but... as much as I'd love to thank them for it, I am in no need of this and though you'd need it more, my friend. ''

[literanis]

@efestars sent: [ 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 ] ― sender wraps a soft blanket around receiver’s shoulders

there are many things that the head researcher was known for, though three tenants stand out most prominently. one, that he has no respect for decorum. two, that he lacks tact. and three, lucilius is, above all, insufferable. so, outside of the absolute need for his cooperation on all matters, most of his kind tend to leave him alone. of course, this suits him just fine. he doesn't care for their approval, let alone whether they happily allow him to participate in society or not. so long as they provide him with the necessary tools to conduct his exploratory research, he's content to be locked away in his study, perusing the wealth of knowledge collected over eons incomprehensible to the average mortal.

however, the eccentric astral's proclivities and off-putting nature does not appear to deter a select few: namely, his creations. a common misconception by his peers was that lucilius demanded their fealty, hard-programming them to obey his every word. this was far from the truth. they respect him out of choice, endeared to him by merit of their own feelings that he blessed them with. maybe that was most comical of all... imagine that, someone actually caring for a being who felt eternally uncared for. perhaps it was this very idea that disgusted the others, that such unconditional devotion to someone so shunned could exist on its own.

a beast that bears your face, a certain high-ranking astral once spat. stars, the cosmic bodies that they were, do not change as living tissue does, which was forever morphing, evolving, adapting. of course it is only natural that an astral could not accept the idea of creation, let alone why he bestowed his likeness upon one. it doesn't bother him, no. such reasons were personal, anyway. private, in a manner that could be called uncharacteristic.

however, for all his people were ascended beings — or at the very least designed to mimic their draconic god's idea of perfect — he still was constrained to the typical functions of natural existence. that meant, that while in the claws of inspired obsession, he could become exhausted from skipping sleep. grimoires and scrolls were scattered within his study, colored labels and bookmarks like little decorations atop an otherwise monotone mess. his posture sagged as lethargy crept up his body as though a kind of rot. it's then he completely misses when a primal walks through his open door, but even if he doesn't look up, he knows exactly who it is.

"lucifer..." lucilius groans, stubborn about the gesture for all he allows it. he brings the soft fabric closer to himself absent-mindedly. "you're the supreme primarch, not a paltry servant."

[efestars]

such is the existence of astrals and mortals, other primals that are in the works and every living being. Even astrals had their weaknesses. He has seen this, been taught through tomes and papers that both his creator and the libraries offered, and also observation alone. They all could get tired, need sleep, supply energy through consuming adequate sustenance. Astrals, though, would never die from missing these things - fall into long comas that somehow replenished the lost energy, like when the sun sets and night falls - announcing a moment of respite for most living beings. Lucifer wasn't privy of this, always awake, always alert. Something his core had been programed and accepts dearly as it helps his functions never cease; sometimes with free time between missions thanks to the peace currently within the skies.

The halls of canaan were quiet from usual bustling, very little number of them walking among the halls and the garden had been left alone for the day, or so he can feel. Lucifer, for all of his worries and wishes, can't help but sigh content at this. Perhaps, just perhaps... he could maybe arrange a small oh so called ''diner'' with his friend and belial should they both not be piled in papers he'd gladly count if Lucilius could let him assist in managing at least part of them and ease his burdens that with each visit he pays the astral, seems as if it keeps growing in size and the room itself? Becoming more and more of a mess. His core heavy with a small guilt for not being able and maybe help him with it, but soothed because Belial would, in his place, choose himself to clean up that vast office of great windows that rarely sunlight would kiss at marveled, sterile floors.

Knowing the Lucilius would often disregard his own health and learning that trying to push the other to a proper, more healthy schedule proved naught a long time ago since his creation, but this would never stop Lucifer in his attempts, whenever he could in his limited time within the comfort of this island, to greet him with something that could bring comfort. This time, he had been tasked to keep a look closely within Mortal Villages as just another civilian. His wings stretching behind him and rustling a bit before settling on his back, tucked neatly in their three rows as to never accidentally knock anything over. Having been rewarded for something so menial and small; helping carrying a few things and then dropping them off withou never asking in return but the villagers insisted. And it's how he finds his arms full of a delicate, soft and fluffy blanket made of soft rabbit fur, the kind that the rabbits were domesticated enough to red in cycles of the year and this way being able to harvest and produce fine fabrics with it. Such is the symbiosis mortals manage to exist with that Lucifer loves and admires so dearly it was hard to deny them this.

And now he knows where to use it, for he has no use for it as his body self regulated temperatures on it's own. A shame. '' I know, My friend, '' His voice gentle, quiet like a small whisper. Seeing the astral in such a state never ceased to bring great worry to the supreme primarch but, he knows, questioning or suggesting better ways for his studies were out the question. So the least he could offer was a small, temporal comfort. '' I may not be tasked for serving but it is my choice to bring you this, I believe it can help you keep warm during Canaan's cold winter and fall. '' A present, he would like to say but it falls mute behind his tongue for no reason he can process. What he knows it's the wave of fondness that courses through him, seeing dark gloved hands pull the blanket closed to his lithe frame.

'' I just wanted to greet you after I was done with my missions eradicating otherworldly beings that had appeared in certain areas. That was done earlier than I though I'd take, so I supposed a visit wouldn't hurt before I am to depart again. '' After all, he's free to choose, ever the dutiful primarch he is meant that his list of things to do was always to the brim for months and years, and ever the rare moments of there being a window of nothing to do he'd just let this time spent with either Belial, or Lucilius for who he feels the most comfortable with. '' Ah – I could help you sorting these papers if you are exhausted, too. I insist. '' This, was a choice as well, he could very well leave again and find islands to observe, but... there's that invisible thread that tugs at his hand, never too great but still noticeable, one that made his core swell with emotions he'd read about but even then feel too far from grasp. But he's content with what he has. So with ever so graceful hands, with a tough so light it contrasts with the carnage he's capable of when his armor, hands, and swords spilled black and purple ichor from formless beasts that spat curses at him from the distance as they feel back to the large abyss from where they came from. Picking the papers to give them an aimless look and tap the edges a bit on the pretty wooden desk to straighten all of them in place.