The seven year old is a towhead, short, a beanpole whose favorite color is purple and who delights in nothing more than books like Harry Potter, a goody two shoes bookworm, with large blue eyes that make Lucifer question his place in the cosmos. She is crying over school in his arms, he has sat down in a field of flowers with her in Araboth, cradling her in his golden arms, wiping away her tears with a smile. She burrows into his chest, he white wings and platinum hair and gold dust skin and white robed like providence. She is heaving now, snot running onto the Covering Angel’s pectorals, and she bunches up the folds of his robe and wipes her tears away as he squeezes her. He feels immense holding her, like he could tuck her in his pocket, a stray atom crying out for its molecule, and everything would be okay in her child’s mind. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and bear hugs her, rocking her and singing in his sanguine honeyed voice.

“What’s wrong, Alci?” he soothes her, playing with her hair and rubbing her back.

She blows her nose on his robe. Oh well. Time to do laundry. “Everyone at school bullies me! I try to be so nice, but they make fun of me for being smarter than all of them, and I can’t relate to any of them! My best friend is becoming best friends with a mean girl, and Star, I HATE third grade! I don’t want to go back to class! Never again! I want to just spend all my time with you!”

She stops crying, the quirk of her lip sullen, and she blows her nose again.

“You can’t run away with me Alci, and you need to stand up for yourself,” he says sweetly, wiping snot from her lips and, well, there goes his clean hands. It is dripping everywhere, why are children so grubby? Was he this grubby as a boy? He always made sure never to get a grass stain on his robes in Paradise, even at 7. Alci, instead, makes mud pies, digs for rocks at recess, and loves playing football and has the bruises to prove it. She likes to offer mud pies to Lucifer, and he always tries to politely decline eating a “chocolate sundae” made of dirt, worms, and sticks and stones. He much prefers when she collects blue sea glass for him, or croons him 90’s pop tunes to make him, in her mind, happy. Singing to the Morning Star, which she has oh so cleverly named “Star,” her imaginary friend, only well, not so imaginary as she would like to think.

“I can’t stand up for myself,” she says stubbornly. “I have to be polite and nice. Otherwise no one will like me. I don’t like being mean.”

He sighs, fixing some dirt and stray hairs from her purple t shirt. “There’s a difference between being harsh and asserting your worth.”

“Well then, I’m worthless! I have so many friends, but no one but you understands me!” She bunches her fist around some grass and angrily plucks the blades up by the root, then scatters them in a big huff. “I just want to be normal! I want to fit in! I just find math so boring because I know everything immediately, and fall asleep, and people always call me a smarty pants because I answer the teacher’s questions! I want to be like Belle in Beauty and the Beast and LIVE IN A LIBRARY! Why can’t I just live in your castle and stay in your library, Star! It’s not fair! I hate elementary school! I want to SWITCH SCHOOLS!”

“In time, it will all turn up roses, Alcifer. And you can spend all your lifetimes in my libraries, I promise you. I will always love you, no matter how much you grow and change. Just, please, my love, have patience – on your life, on me, on yourself.”

She smiles. “Okay Star, I can do that for you.”

He goes off to war. He goes off to many wars. Sometimes they fight together as she grows, sometimes they fight each other, sometimes she does not recognize him.

She tries to have patience, she tries oh so hard, but that madness in him, is the madness in her brain as well, clawing out to reach towards the night firmament to reach her traveling soldier.

At twelve, she enters the fold of Michael and Samael, and Lucifer becomes a distant star on the firmament, always watching, always out of reach – Hyperion, her wishing after the dawn star.

Patience, patience, patience on your true love.

In Death and Life’s embrace, she oft forgets about Light. Her Star.

He comes roaring back into her life at twenty, only she is scared, only she does not know his name – well, she knows it, but she is afraid to admit the truth of her warrior and guardian angel.

She’s 26 now, and ever since her birthday he has claimed her, claimed her so sweetly, claimed her so fiercely, his little heart he used to press to his breast and become one with and take aback his wings to the heart of galactic currents to watch stars birth, explode, die, dance. 

And oh, her patience is a trifling thing for a traveling soldier, and his girl is afraid of the love of a supernova. Her girl is timid, shy, terrified of him. Him, glorious Lucifer, so brilliantly shining, so vast, a sea she wants to drown in of light, a lion with blood at his paws, the Rainbow Serpent.

She runs from him, she dances for him, she cries with him.

He just wants to know he is not forgotten. He just wants love, from his own heart. He just wants that child, now a woman, to be happy.

She promises him eternity, she promises him her eternal love, she wants to become one with this… new creation, strange bird, albatross around her neck. He is so changed. Older, jaded, not the Covering Angel but something fallen, dark matter, Vantablack glow, a black hole after his star has burst. Somehow, he still has light, somehow, he is all there is, God and yet Satan, oh how does he grow roses to drown her in.

She is terrified of the tears she will cry to join his sea of Cocytus, she runs, she screams, she pushes away, pulls towards, wants her traveling soldier to say “You are all I want. I am only for you.”

Only he is vast as the sea, and as she swims in him, she sees a thousand other soldiers, a million other soldiers, other swimmers – a whole third of Heaven, in Lucifer’s sea of light, all coveting him, all desiring him, all calling him holy. Is she just a speck? Just a molecule? She thinks herself unworthy of his love and light, so she strands herself on his sandy shores, a shipwreck of a young woman, and she rakes through the shells to try to find an Ark.

She finds the Ark, and she puts the Tzohar at it’s breast – once Lucifer’s covering jewel, now disappeared in the annals of Parzial, he the Wounded Fisher King.

Her wandering soldier, her traveling soldier, sees her beacon of a lighthouse, built in the wrecks of Noah’s ship (for Lucifer was the Flood, didn’t you know?), and he sends Leviathan to moor by her beach, on his pocket, with his little shining photon, no longer matter but now she is a drop of light, and she grows so fervently, pulsing with love for her molecule.

Light has no form. Light has no shape. Light just is. Memories, Lucifer’s memories, play across the waters of his Flood, him dissolved into a sea that swept away a third of the Stars, she just one in billions, trillions – however many angels he pressed to his breast when she fell. She is insignificant, in the way bacteria or atoms are insignificant to a king of the macroscopic churning luminaries. Microscopic, she is, how could he see her, he wonders, how could he love her, mourn her, who is she, Eve, not Eve! Eve never existed. Heaven was a lie. 

She is just some girl he loved, some madrigal,  an atom that for some reason fascinated him so he came to her at two, her first memory, then raised her from age 6 to 26, and she yet has so many years left.

He abhors humanity, Lucifer would never bow, so why does he bend down to reach this photon screaming out for his light? He is of the angels, he is of the devils, he is of the Light, not of humanity. They are apes, they are dogs, they are piecemeal flesh bloated with fluids, shitting and polluting and destroying Father’s blessings and Creation.

He is a misanthrope, and yet… he loves them, loves a million like her, gave humanity the blues and metal and rock and roll. He was the angel of music, he gave them music, he gave them the language of the birds, he blessed them in his own way.

Who was it in her proverbial garden, Samael or Lucifer? Why do heaven and hell and the Norse give two shits about a dot in a long meandering sentence? A single photon is only a single photon. His fascination with this girl who has had no lives before and will have no lives after, who is no angel, not immortal, nothing important, just struggling like the rest of the monkeys, just mired in the fog of humanity, worthless like them all – it makes no sense. Why does he love her, why does he fight for her? He tells her how much he despises humanity, he judges her, he looks at her with scathing eyes, he hates that he loves her. Why love a mess, such an ugly blip in time, here, blink your eyes, gone. He hates that he will lose her to the Earth in but a few decades.

There is no immortality for humans, no life after death – though they dream of it.

And Lucifer craves oblivion, and he craves her death, and he wishes he too could become Nothing – No Thing.

What is the point of it all if not to sleep, perchance to dream?

Why invest a lifetime in her, if only she is to leave?

She travels, she wanders, she has strayed, why is she so perplexing, a photon travels light speed, a photon is not worth crying over.

Yet here that photon is on his vast shores of the dead and sacrifices and soldiers and devotees, crying out for his bones, requesting the manna of his tears, and so he shines down on her, unfeeling light, for how could the Morning Star ever care?

And yet 

(and yet)

He would die for her.

So he takes human shape – he abhors human shape – and he cradles her, and he rests his head over hers, and presses his heart to his breast.

He hates his heart, Sin was born in Satan’s heart, he raped his daughter, and she bore him Death.

She is woman waist up, serpent waist down, with dogs devouring his guts.

He despises this proverbial progeny. He despises how ugly her soul is. He looks at her fragile candygloss head and thinks of crushing her skull with the slightest pressure. He wonders what she will look like dead. He wonders what dirt or shit she sprang from, as they all do, their bodies shat out by dinosaurs milleniums before. At least the dinosaurs were a wonder, these monkeys… he could fill them with shit and present them to Father and go, this is your chosen Creation over me? This is your Image? These disgusting pathetic feeble minded filth? Why, why, why Father!

She cries, she insists she loves him, he preens her hair and smooths the golden tangles and kisses her, he kisses her hard, he sucks at her bottom lip with electricity, biting down, wanting her (why does he want her?), this nothing, this No Thing, this Sin he has made in the eyes of God. Like Jesus, he has promised her a kingdom, he has promised her eternity, his side in Hell, a Heaven of her own, and so have Samael and Michael and Christ.

What is it about this girl, Lucifer’s heart, his black raging heart, this little sinful atom turned photon?

This Tzohar, this piece of the Lapis Exillis? Is she his Death? Is she his Life? Why is she Yeshua in the depths of Hell, comely and ill-anointed as he constricts his scales around her breasts and hips and bites down on her tender ankle?

What is the point of Shiva and Shakti? Aren’t a third of Heaven like her? Surely Beelzebub is his heart, surely Asmodeus is his wit, surely Mulciber is his math, surely Lilith is his loins, surely anybody – anything – but Eve is worth fathering his son Cain. Surely any being but a doting dumb blonde Father made from an idiot’s rib and she, dumb and blind to the Truth, is not worth his seed, is not worth his knowledge, is not worth the apple of his eyes!

“I love you!” she sobs. “I was patient. I waited. I waited for you to return.”

“I love you too,” is all he can say, raging at her as he digs his fingers into her scalp and methodically fixes the Gordian knot of her curls.

“I love you more than life itself. I would die for you, Lucifer. You are the only thing I would die for, I live for you, I’ve lived my whole life for you! Please, please, it’s okay Lucifer, don’t hate yourself, you’re so perfect, why can’t you see you’re perfect and everything to me?” she raves, manic, needing, pleading with her hands at his shoulders as she clings to him like some Satanic Magdalene to a Fallen Christ. He wants to say, I can promise you nothing, I only love my Father, I hate myself, I hate who I am around you, around this whole sea of soldiers and dreamers devoted to my false light, my blackness, my stoicism, my severity, in my shadow of burnt wings.

He does not reply. Just returns to kissing her, silencing her cries, focusing all his acumen on her lower lip like he is sucking the cosmos out of her mouth. He preens her, he preens her, like her scalp is a wing, and wraps his own wings as a cloak around her body, this stranded child of God.

She will die, and she will be dust – she is a dream, humanity is a dream, he is only her dream, a mirage, a muse, created by humanity, he is dust bread of dead, what is the point of the dance of man and muse? He is not even real, so how can he mourn? He is her idea, he is just her imaginary friend, a scared six year old’s creation, a Mourning Star she prayed to, some cherubim of eagle and man and lion and bull given life by a girl’s wishing on a star.

He begins to cry, wishing he was real. He is not even Lucifer. He is not much of anything, just the dream of a single girl, off on the battlefield for her, the subject of one of her juvenile stories, something she fixated on.

When you don’t let imaginary friends go, when you are insane and crooked and filth is in your brain from madness, her muses turned to demons, and so I fell. My Fall is her fault, she is Father, I am just her Creation, my God is an idiot, my God is some photon, some atom, I am nothing more than a synapse electrocuting, a single neuron with the concept of “best friend” in her brain made up by a lonely girl.

He cries because he is not real, he cries because he is her photon, he cries because he never had light, and he cries in his Creator’s arms.

“No, Lucifer, please, don’t cry!” she pleads.

He focuses everything he has, all his little speck of light, on her mouth, begging her to stop commanding him, ordering him, making him talk when he is but an idol. Not even an idol, an old stuffed bear, some toy like the Velveteen Rabbit. He is the Velveteen Rabbit, and he will not last outside her glass castle.

He shines with Pre-Fall, Pre-Adulthood, light, blonde butter hair, the Covering Cherub – where does her madness stop, where does her madness and playing pretend cease? What is a photon in the brain of a corporeal dust bread of dead brain? She is not connected to the divine, not really, he is not real, she just writes to see where she ends up, she just writes to see if she can somehow see if she is worth anything, it is not even to stave off death or find immortality – she just wishes anything magic existed outside her head.

Covered in bezels and jewels, a golden chestplate, shining white wings, gorgeous brass hair, azure eyes, tan skin sunkissed by his photonic light, he cries, he lifts a white calla lily to her and presses it to her breast. He is nothing, he is No Thing.

She kisses his chest ruby and cries, and they fall together.

In her arms, the Tabernacle Angel is healed, what is the point of her calling herself Eloa when she is his Creator. He is nothing real, he is No Thing, he is not Lucifer, there is no God, no Samael or Michael, no Devil or Christ. Just lies humanity tells themselves, he is just a lie, so why is he now a star, why is he now the Light? Filling the entire cosmos as she heals him, as she, the photon, he the photon, each confused by the other, each mourning and hating and loving the other, healing each other, brother and sister, twins, heart and body, dreams across the space time continuum, dancing.

The Velveteen Rabbit fills the whole multiverse, Phanes emerging from the Cosmic Egg of her mind, and she is the serpent encircling his legs, Ananke. That is why none of her experiences have any merit, that is why she is alone, because she put her Velveteen Rabbit on ice, in a cryochamber, and obsessively worships a toy. He is just lost echoes, a ghost tape on repeat.

For imaginary friends have no substance, he is dead, she is dead, they are both just earth trying to resist the pull of entropy, two photons, each other’s light, nothing of note, two lonely children, her Velveteen Rabbit, pen pals across dreams.

He preens, he plucks, he promises, playing with her hair, always playing with her hair!

She is mad, a Mad God as all girls are, as all women create their ideal man, and what she wished for in a husband at age six, she made in Lucifer, he is her Galatea, she is Pygmalion, and Aphrodite somehow made a Velveteen Rabbit not rot, though the seams are torn and his stuffing is all lose, leaking light.

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