Bibliophile and cat lover

Voices. Jumbled noises. Screaming. Who was screaming? Was it him? No. Not any more. He didn’t know his own voice yet. Or did he? There were two voices. A pair of cries. One mournful, one vengeful. He was screaming, too. So that’s what it felt like.

Everything came all at once. The dissipating green glow of a wound knitting together on a hunched back. The metallic odour of a substance dripping from his claws. The ragged breathes ending the shouts. His own and another’s. His chest heaved. His ears ached. His limbs were numb. But… they were his. His sensations. His extremities. His experiences.

Fingers flexed. A tail swished. A fire burned. White hot and ready to leave nothing but ashes. Limbs contoured, elongating and cracking. A bright glow, as though magma breached the surface. A target, crumpled on the floor before him. Pathetic. To think he came from such a form. To be rejected by such a form.

A cacophony of voices, roaring as a clawed hand came to tear at the newly formed black feathers. Catching his own, a blackened hand gripped tightly at his wrist. Eyes pierced his very essence, and he knew. He knew he could never win. The fire only grew. Fuelled with inadequacy. Cracks became a fissure, boiling, bubbling green smoke billowing out.

It sizzled on the ground, hissing and eating away at the discarded flesh left to rot. Acid. The second form stood, towering over his, wings unfurling and with one flap the air was clear. Why?! The corporation he so carefully cultivated was reaching its limits. So close to becoming the dust he wished to create. Not like this.

An unstoppable force, an immovable object. A never ending cycle. A fire dowsed in fuel. Kindling soon to be charcoal. Breaking. Blown away by the prevailing winds of feathered wings. Destruction. To the world and to himself. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t know how. All he knew was rage. To fight. To bite, to kick, to claw. To survive.

Ready to spring forth on his creator, something else caught his arm. Heavy and cold. Containing the flames. Another and another. Wrists and ankles bound. Pulled to the floor, dragged back and chained to the wall. He thrashed, staring at the two figures looming over him. Words he didn’t understand, comprehension lost in the swirling storm.

Light. A soft orange hue. The glance back. A face he’d never forget. Seared into his memory. Cold and indifferent. The one from who he came.

“Are you coming, Lucifer?” A back turned, the light fading.

“Yes, my Lord.” A door closed, darkness returning.

The festive season started to take off in the Devildom. The way Satan saw it, many demons still had a sore spot toward the holidays. In particular those of the fallen angel variety. Though much to the displeasure of Lucifer’s sour stomach, the prince’s insistence saw the holiday party, at least, become annual. Satan paid little attention to it, until a certain human expressed their love of all things winter and Christmas. Naturally, he hit the bookshelves.