Chapter Text
Before the fall
Angelic runes pulsed with ethereal light, their heavenly glow casting a soft, radiant aura upon the gathering. The intricate symbols—ancient and sacred—burned with a holy fire, its flames flickering and dancing in the air as if responding to the very breath of the heavens. Each flicker seemed to echo the weight of the moment, carried on the breeze stirred by the descending Archangels and Seraphim, whose wings beat with divine power. Their presence alone caused the very atmosphere to hum with an otherworldly energy. They had gathered in solemn unity, their gazes fixed on the center of this sacred place, where a judgment was about to unfold.
Before them stood Samael, the Morning Star, once a beacon of light and beauty, now a fallen figure, bound by the crimes he had committed against the Seven Virtues that governed the celestial realm. The air was thick with anticipation as the celestial beings prepared to render their verdict on one of their own.
“Samael, the Morning Star,” a voice boomed, echoing like the clash of thunder, “you are brought before your brethren, to answer for your betrayal and face the judgment of the heavens.”
“I have nothing to answer for! I know not of any wrong doing!” Samael protested, his voice trembling with confusion. He had returned from his time with Lilith in Eden, only to be ambushed and taken captive by a force of Archangels and Seraphim, their wings unfolding like a storm around him.
“For tempting Eve with the apple—”
“Tempting? What are you talking about?” Samael could not contain his disbelief, his voice rising in frustration. “I did no such thing!”
“You led her to disobey the Father’s command," the Archangel continued, his tone cold and resolute. "Father forbade all from eating from the Tree of Knowledge. You knew this.”
“Wait... I have never heard of such a command!” Samael’s mind raced as the words echoed in his head. He turned to Gabriel, his gaze desperate. “Is this true? Did I—?”
Gabriel remained silent, his eyes fixed ahead, gazing out at the sea of gathered angels. Beside him, Uriel frowned, the white anterior dorsal feathers on his six wings puffing up, revealing the light gray feathers beneath. He met Samael’s gaze directly, a calculating look in his eyes as if he were attempting to peel back the layers of his brother to expose the truth hidden beneath.
Michael’s expression tightened, his brow furrowing in clear displeasure at being interrupted once again. Samael’s blatant denial of the truth, coupled with his dismissal as though Michael were nothing more than a lowly seraphim, stirred a growing anger deep in his gut. As he went to speak he was interrupted again.
“You lie! He speaks lies!” a voice rang out from the gathering. It was a young Seraphim, her name was Sera, though she had been alive for what might be considered hundreds of years—she was but an infant compared to the ancient Archangels who had witnessed the birth of the realms.
"Even before his own, he betrays the virtues that our sacred realm holds dear," her voice rose, drawing the attention of all those around her. "What is the purpose of this trial when the evidence has been laid bare and now spoken with his own tongue?" The murmurs of the assembly grew louder, swelling into a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the heavens.
“Silence!” Michael’s voice rang out, its power surging over Sera’s, a commanding force that silenced the murmurs and brought an immediate stillness to the gathering. The very air seemed to tremble with the weight of his authority, and within moments, all noise was quelled, leaving only the heavy silence of anticipation.
Samael’s heart hammered painfully in his chest, the sound of it deafening in his ears, but the eyes that bore down on him offered no solace—only the cold, unyielding gaze of judgment. Michael’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixed upon him, heavy as iron and as piercing as a blade. Each word that left his lips seemed to hang in the air like a verdict carved in stone.
“Samael, it pains us all to witness the fall of one of our own,” Michael’s voice rang out, each syllable laden with sorrow, yet devoid of pity. “But justice must be served today. You shall be stripped of your virtues and cast into the Pit, where no light will ever touch you. There, you will know the weight of your betrayal.”
The seven Archangels, their expressions resolute and unflinching, began to advance toward the fiery ruins where Samael stood, each step they took echoing like a drumbeat of impending fate. Their wings, vast and brilliant, rustled with purpose as they positioned themselves in a perfect semicircle around him. Their eyes were fixed, unblinking, as they took their places—pivots of unwavering judgment—poised and resolute, ready to carry out the sentence without hesitation, without mercy. The air grew heavy with the tension of inevitability, as though the heavens themselves held their breath in anticipation of the punishment to take place.
“Uriel, if you would.” From the gathered assembly, Uriel—the Archangel of Wisdom, Guardian of Eden, and Keeper of the Pit—stepped forward. His presence was intimidating and commanding, as though the very fabric of existence bowed in his wake. In his hands, he held a sphere of radiant light, its glow soft and pulsing with an ethereal rhythm.
As Uriel approached, the sphere began to flicker, its light dimming as if reluctant to reveal what it concealed. Slowly, the brilliant radiance faded completely, unveiling a dark, obsidian key. Its surface was marred with ancient, cryptic marks—symbols that spoke of forgotten times and hidden truths. The crowd parted in reverence, the air thick with awe as Uriel moved with quiet purpose, each step resonating with authority.
He walked away from the circle of Archangels, his long, white robes flowing behind him like the winds of fate itself, whispering with each movement. Kneeling gracefully, Uriel pressed the blackened key into the polished stone floor, and with a sudden, sharp click, a low, ominous rumble reverberated through the heavens. The ground trembled, and a surge of unbearable heat surged upward, radiating from the depths of the earth. The unmistakable stench of sulfur flooded the air, choking and thick, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The heavens themselves seemed to recoil, as though they too sensed the release of the power that had been long sealed away.
A great chasm split open before them, a yawning abyss of pitch-black nothingness. It was a void so complete, so absolute, that even light dared not enter. No sound came from it, only an oppressive silence that seemed to devour all life. The gap stretched infinitely, a gaping maw that seemed poised to swallow anything and everything that ventured too close.
Instinctively, all present took a step back, the sheer presence of the cursed rift causing a primal shiver of fear. Even the mighty Archangels, their divine power unmatched, could not escape the pull of the abyss. It was a force of nature, a living entity of darkness and death, and none dared to approach it unbidden. The rift seemed to pulse, as if it were waiting.
Uriel moved away from the chasm, completing the circle that now surrounded the soon-to-be fallen angel. Samuel watched his brother's head turn, eyes darting from one to the next, locking onto each figure. His mind raced, struggling to comprehend what was happening and why he was being accused of crimes he had never committed.
“We strip from you your virtues, your status, and your symbol as Archangel of Heaven.” The meaning became clear to Samuel almost immediately. One by one, his brother’s hands gripped each of his six wings—at the base and the tips—holding them firmly. The wings unfurled, glowing and shimmering in Heaven’s light, pure white and more radiant than any of the others present.
As their flesh made contact with the feathers, a warmth surged , spreading like liquid fire through their veins. It enveloped their skin, as they pulled the wings taut. Below them, the flames of the siduel burned fiercely on the ground, reaching up like hungry tongues of fire, licking at the lower feathers and scorching them as the wings were stretched beyond the containment ring. Once they passed through the holy barrier, the warmth turned to searing pain, a burning that cut deep into their very essence. The Archangels grimaced, but they did not falter. Their grip on Samael’s wings tightened, unyielding. No trick, no plea, no struggle would spare Samael from the fate that awaited him. The judgment.
In response to this their condemned brother desperately attempted to retract them. But despite his struggle and the pain their grip was unyielding, unforgiving. Michael stepped forward, nodding.
"You first, Ralph," Michael said, his voice steady, almost detached.
"I take from you the virtue of patience." Ralph shifted his grip slightly, allowing Michael to take hold of the wing. Without another word, he stepped back, his eyes cast downward, unable to bear witness to what was about to happen, even though his own hand had initiated it. He raised his sword high, the weapon gleaming with divine light, and in a single, swift motion, he brought it down.
As he did Ralph closed his eyes, the sound of the wing’s severance echoing in his ears, but he refused to look. It was his duty, but the weight of it hung heavily on his soul. With a solemn gesture, he sheathed his sword and took the severed wing from Michael, its warmth still radiating a faint, mournful glow.
Without a word, Ralph turned and walked swiftly toward the abyss, his steps echoing through the silence. He tossed the wing into the Pit, watching as it vanished into the consuming darkness. The heat and the stench of sulfur rose in response, but Ralph barely noticed. He wished it were over, but there were still others to assist. His role in the judgment was far from finished. He would see it through, as they all must.
Samael’s scream pierced the air, a sound so raw and agonizing it seemed to echo through the very heavens. It wasn’t just physical pain—his body was torn, but it was his soul that screamed in agony, the loss of his virtue leaving a gaping, unfillable void within him. It was as though a part of his very essence had been ripped away, leaving nothing but a hollow emptiness where once there had been strength.
Tears welled in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. His pride would not allow it. The ache was unbearable, but he clenched his jaw, willing himself to remain stoic, even as the darkness of his punishment closed in.
Michael moved to Uriel next . With no hesitation, the archangel passed Samael’s upper right wing to his brother, drawing his own sword; he gripped it firmly as he prepared to strip away the virtue of diligence.
Samael’s breath hitched, and in a desperate, frenzied response, he dug his nails into the stone beneath him. The jagged surface cracked and splintered under his grip as he clawed downward, the pain within him manifesting in a violent attempt to escape his torment. But there was no escape.
"I... I have done nothing wrong," Samael whispered, his voice hoarse with pain as he struggled to rise. On his knees, he lifted his head high, defiant, his remaining four wings quivering with the last vestiges of his strength. With a sharp, desperate jerk, they flared inward, the sudden movement causing the Archangels around him to stumble back. Holy fire burst forth, singeing their white robes, a flare of divine fury crackling through the air like a bolt of lightning.
Michael’s eyes blazed with fury as he stepped forward, his voice like thunder. “Are you so prideful that you cannot admit to your own wrong doings?” His tone was sharp, cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.
"I did nothing wrong! Where is Lilith?! She can tell you!" Samael shouted, his anger rising like a storm within him. His eyes burned with desperation, but there was no mercy in the faces around him. He clung to the hope that Lilith, his counterpart, would somehow save him from this fate.
“She is waiting for her own judgment from the court," Michael replied coldly, his gaze unwavering. "You should not concern yourself with that woman you led astray."
Samael’s breath caught, and the weight of Michael’s words settled over him like a suffocating shroud.
“If you hurt her, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Samael shouted, his voice raw with a mix of fury and desperation. His heart burned with an unrelenting need to protect Lilith, even as his body was being torn apart.
Gasps rippled through the gathering. The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, and from deep within the pit, a strange pulse began to hum—a soft, resonating sound that seemed to reach out, as though something dark and ancient was stirring in the depths of the abyss.
“Let’s make this quick,” Uriel urged, his voice tight with urgency. His eyes shifted uneasily toward the Pit, where the pulse seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment. “Those who dwell in the dark are drawn to the light.”
“Of course. Let’s continue.” Michael’s tone remained firm, his resolve unwavering.
The process dragged on. One by one, the remaining four wings were severed from Samael’s back. Each Archangel took his turn, claiming a piece of what had once been Samael’s virtues, his divinity. The air crackled with energy as the wings fell to the ground, leaving the once-mighty archangel broken and trembling. Until only one virtue remained.
Finally, Michael stepped forward, his expression solemn and unyielding. He looked down at Samael. “Samael,” Michael began, his voice as unfeeling as the blade that had severed the wings, “I take from you, here before Heaven, your humility—and with it, your name. By our Father’s word, you shall now be known as Lucifer, the fallen, and cast into the Pit. May the Father have mercy on your blackened soul.”
Michael’s voice was devoid of compassion, his words falling like a decree. He did not raise his sword but instead struck Lucifer with his bare hand. The force was overwhelming, sending him flying backward, his chest crushed by the blow.
As his body hurtled through the air, time seemed to stretch, to fragment, each moment pulling apart, as if reality itself was shattering. His vision blurred, distorting into a painful haze, and for a brief, agonizing moment, Heaven itself unfolded before him—vast, glorious, and untouchable. The faces of his brothers, his family, those he had once shared the light with, flickered in his mind. A deep ache filled his soul as he felt the weight of all he had lost. His wings, his place in the heavenly order, his very identity—all slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.
Lucifer’s body descended into the pit. The air grew thick, stifling with heat as the darkness stretched its claws out to claim him. The heat below reached hungrily for his flesh, licking at him with searing pain, blistering his skin with each passing second. Every inch of his fall felt like eternity, an endless spiral of torment. His body burned, and the pain was indescribable, beyond anything he had ever known. Yet, despite the agony, he forced himself to look up.
The hole above him, the only glimpse of Heaven left, shrank rapidly, its light flickering and dimming, becoming a distant memory. It was swallowed by the oppressive blackness above, and below him, the pit stretched endlessly, an insatiable abyss that called to him, its hunger never to be sated. The flames were distant now, and the heat grew more intense, but still, he fixed his gaze upward, watching as the last sliver of light faded away.
As he fell deeper into the void, his gaze never wavered from the shrinking light above. He saw his brothers—the ones who had once stood beside him in the light—watching from their place above. They observed his final moments with detached silence, as if his fall, his punishment, were of no consequence.
Heaven’s first and brightest, the one who had once stood closest to the Father, was now nothing more than a traitor—cast into the darkness, condemned to fall forever.
The last fragment of Heaven’s light blinked out, and with it, Lucifer was swallowed whole by the endless, suffocating blackness, the flames of the Pit growing dimmer and more distant as he fell. In the oppressive silence of the abyss, he was utterly alone, his soul consumed by the weight of his betrayal, and the darkness claimed him entirely.
(●▪︎●)/\(●▪︎●)
86 years before the hotel
Lilith moved through the winding halls of the castle, her heels clicking sharply against the cold stone, each step echoing through the otherwise silent corridors. She walked with purpose, heading toward the farthest corner of the castle, a place where the servants had long since abandoned their duties. The air grew heavier as she approached, thick with the scent of dust and disrepair.
When she arrived at her destination, she flicked a perfectly manicured nail, and the door before her groaned open on rusted, neglected hinges. The room inside was a chaotic mess, the kind of disorder that made her skin crawl. Random objects were strewn across the floor, some broken, some left to rot in place. The overwhelming yellow tint that filled the room stung her eyes, a garish shade that made her want to turn away.
At the far end, seated at a desk, was a lone, hunched figure. Quiet whimpers escaped its trembling shoulders, the sound barely audible over the silence of the room. Lilith’s lip curled in disgust as she moved toward it. With a flick of her fingers, she sent items flying from her path, not caring in the slightest if something shattered. She moved with the elegance and detachment of someone accustomed to destroying anything in her way without a second thought.
Lucifer sat hunched over, his chest heaving as his head rested on folded arms. Soft, painful cries escaped him, his face contorted in agony, eyes tightly shut in a futile attempt to escape the torment. Tears slipped from beneath his closed lashes, streaking down his pale cheeks like rivulets of despair.
Lilith stood over him, her gaze lingering on her husband's broken form. She did not shake him awake, did not disturb his suffering. Instead, she reached out with a delicate hand, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek to gather the tears that stained his skin. With slow, almost tender precision, she brought her thumb to her lips. She flicked out her tongue and licked the length of it, savoring the salty taste, the mix of desperation, sadness, and pain that clung to him. A soft, satisfied moan escaped her as she relished the sensation—addictive, intoxicating, like ambrosia on her tongue.
Each tear, each desperate sob, was a feast to her senses. She continued this ritual, her motions smooth, almost hypnotic, as Lucifer thrashed in his restless sleep, his nightmares taking him deeper into darkness. The flavor of his anguish only grew sweeter with each passing moment. She reveled in it, drawing the very essence of his suffering into herself, craving more, unable to stop.
Eventually, the frantic sobs ceased, and Lucifer’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze was dazed, unfocused, as he sat up slowly. His hand ran through his disheveled hair, brushing away the remnants of his torment, clearing the haze of his nightmare.
Lilith smiled softly, her hand poised as if to reach out, as if she were the one to offer comfort. She tilted her head, her expression unreadable.
“Lilith?” Lucifer’s voice was hoarse, uncertain, as if unsure whether she was real.
“I was just about to wake you,” Lucifer's his eyes trailing from Lilith to the clock on the wall. It read October 3rd, 1933. His gaze lingered there for a moment, the weight of the date settling in. It had been over two years since he’d seen his wife for longer than fleeting moments in passing.
“You looked like you were having a horrible dream, my apple,” she added softly, a concerned tone creeping into her voice.
“I’m okay,” Lucifer replied, his voice smooth but distant. “Did you come here just to see me?”
“Who else?” she teased, her lips curling into a playful smile.
Lucifer’s eyes seemed to light up at her words, a glimmer of hope sparking in his gaze. He leaned forward slightly, watching her with quiet intensity.
Lilith took his face gently in her hands, her fingers cool against his flushed skin as she smiled down at him, her expression a mixture of affection and something darker—something only she could convey. “I need you to call Bee,” she said softly. “Tell her to open Gluttony to myself and Charlie. We’re both desperate for a vacation.”
Lucifer’s face brightened at the suggestion. “Oh, that sounds great! I’ll pack—”
Lilith’s smile deepened, though there was something almost cruel in it. “Oh, apple, you can’t come. Someone has to remain in Pride after all.”
Lucifer's excitement faltered, his shoulders sagging. He sat back down, his eyes downcast, as if the weight of her words had already settled within him. "R-right... I’ll, um… just make the call then," he muttered, his voice deflated.