The pain registered as a wall, blocking conscious thought from Lucifer's mind.
Every attempt to think on what had happened, on what he'd done to deserve as forceful an attack as he'd received, was blocked by a pain that went beyond his ability to heal. Pain caused by demons was pain that stayed. The ground had bent to his form, every imprint of every feather of his wings marking the forest ground. He tried to fold them around himself, but found he could not move.
He didn't understand why, but he couldn't focus hard enough. A cough resulted in warm and wet tickling his cheeks, and he stretched out an arm, hearing the bone crack into place and only then crying out in pain. He pulled himself out from the angel-shaped tomb Satan had tried to cast him into, but could not stand on his own two feet. He stayed, crouched below Satan, his own quivering wings folding to protect himself from the red glow of his master's eyes.
Like falling once hadn't hurt enough. Would he die in this forest? Was that the intention? He could see flashes of red and violet; maybe it was the reflections of their own eyes, but all he saw were angel eyes, the angels before and after Satanel's reign both watching him in utter contempt.
He gripped his arms with both hands for a moment, exhaling shakily and bowing his head to regain himself.
"Fly...up."
That was all he could say. His intention, and his path out of the forest. The floor was their enemy, and now, with it crushed deep all around him, it ate away at all of his nerves and strength, reducing him to a trembling wreck. He made no effort to fly.
Maybe the mistake had been flying ahead of Satan, or trying to escape at all. He didn't know. But he flexed one wing, and another snap echoed across the woods, louder than his snarl of discomfort.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2015-10-19 07:26 am (UTC)Every attempt to think on what had happened, on what he'd done to deserve as forceful an attack as he'd received, was blocked by a pain that went beyond his ability to heal. Pain caused by demons was pain that stayed. The ground had bent to his form, every imprint of every feather of his wings marking the forest ground. He tried to fold them around himself, but found he could not move.
He didn't understand why, but he couldn't focus hard enough. A cough resulted in warm and wet tickling his cheeks, and he stretched out an arm, hearing the bone crack into place and only then crying out in pain. He pulled himself out from the angel-shaped tomb Satan had tried to cast him into, but could not stand on his own two feet. He stayed, crouched below Satan, his own quivering wings folding to protect himself from the red glow of his master's eyes.
Like falling once hadn't hurt enough. Would he die in this forest? Was that the intention? He could see flashes of red and violet; maybe it was the reflections of their own eyes, but all he saw were angel eyes, the angels before and after Satanel's reign both watching him in utter contempt.
He gripped his arms with both hands for a moment, exhaling shakily and bowing his head to regain himself.
"Fly...up."
That was all he could say. His intention, and his path out of the forest. The floor was their enemy, and now, with it crushed deep all around him, it ate away at all of his nerves and strength, reducing him to a trembling wreck. He made no effort to fly.
Maybe the mistake had been flying ahead of Satan, or trying to escape at all. He didn't know. But he flexed one wing, and another snap echoed across the woods, louder than his snarl of discomfort.