abraxaslogs | [Closed]

"Flesh sacrifices are advanced High Magic. You wanted basic."

And this is, most certainly, a very basic offering.

When Michael looks at the puff of a dandelion in his hand, he thinks of those he's met in Abraxas. He's sure Claire would have a thing or two to say about the nutritional value of the plant; maybe something about its use in teas.

He glances between Lucifer's hand and face a moment, deciding if there's genuine sentiment behind the selection or if his brother means to offer an old god a weed. There might be a double meaning to the gesture, but he's quick to decide it's real enough. Lucifer does like nature. He's probably offended on the dandelion's behalf that it's been widely dubbed a weed in the first place.

"It'll do. The quality of an offering is in whether or not you believe it's worthy rather than its intrinsic value, remember that. Now put it in the bowl."

He motions at the stone offering bowl atop the altar he summoned to replace the table a few minutes ago.

Cryin' shame that flesh sacrifices aren't considered basic. But also he's hardly going to bleed for an experiment.

He's almost surprised that Michael does accept Lucifer's choice, expecting maybe a fight just 'cause or... something. Always brimming with positive thoughts about Michael, Lucifer is.

"Belief holds power regardless of the deity," Lucifer says as he places the dandelion into the bowl. Belief and faith and the intertwining of the two.

Mind, that's how you also can get fanatics, but that's a different story.

"Something like that."

The value of faith and belief are both in question. They got him exactly nowhere with their Father, but that's not a conversation he's ready to take up with Lucifer of all people.

"Congratulations," Michael says after Lucifer has let go of the dandelion, his voice flat. "You have performed the most basic of High Magic. Do it out there and you may even get something out of it."

And that is the other reason he didn't bother arguing with Lucifer's choice of offering: it doesn't matter. He's pretty sure offerings in the Horizon don't hold the same weight as in the physical plane, and he's not going to pretend to grant Lucifer some sky-related boon. Most of the time it's not an immediate reward anyway.

He wonders what would even happen if he started to give offerings to a god in Thorne.

Maybe he could find some disenfranchised natives, that just need a little something other to put their hopes and dreams to. Something that they can act like is backing them. Isn't that what religion basically is? Something Good and something Evil to base all their life around just to make them feel better for five seconds, like everything isn't on them?

... It's a possibility, anyway. It's been there before in his mind, but he didn't have the knowledge of what gods Abraxas houses.

"While I don't imagine this will do anything," he waves at the bowl, then glances at Michael, "I don't believe they have no influence, or some connection to the Horizon." He doubts the heralds coming forth and the affects on the Horizon were mere coincidence. It could be that by influencing the Summoned, they influenced the Horizon.

Too many theories, zero answers. Per usual.

He says in false, childish tones, batting his eyes at Michael, "Do I get a gold star?"

Does this face look like it's handing out gold stars, little brother?

(The answer is a firm no, just in case his years away from the cage and a few months of separation in Abraxas have blurred Lucifer's recollection of what irritation looks like on Michael's borrowed face.)

"Not from me. Or do you plan to start making offerings in my name?"

Though mocking, he doesn't sound particularly excited by the opportunity to be elevated to godhood. He had it—sort of—and all he got out of authority was a lot of work, whining subordinates, and a trip to Hell. It's something the other version of him might've set his mind to, but not this one. At least not for now.

Unfortunately, there is Lucifer.

"Wouldn't that be something," he says lowly, but there's a wickedness to his gaze that is all the warning Michael needs as Lucifer continues, loudly, all feigned mysticism, "O Glorious Saint Michael, protect us from our sins and that vile--dastardly--Serpent!"

He nips at his finger to roll out a dollop of blood and makes to literally drip it to the floor.

This is more-than-likely how he gets punted out of Michael's domain.

If they were in the diner? Quite possibly. But they're not, and they don't have an audience—the larger the crowd, the shorter Michael's temper gets—so instead he looks on with a disapproving frown.

This is what he gets for giving his brother the time of day. Somehow, he's not surprised. For all the names he's known by, Lucifer is always Lucifer.

(i.e. a brat, most of the time.)

"Are you sure that's what you'd ask of me?" Michael snaps his fingers and the walls of Josselyn's home flicker. For half a second they're the bars of the Cage, a featureless black void stretching beyond. He still has that replica kicking around a dark corner of the forest. The vision is gone as quickly as it came, and the blood on the floor along with it. "I help you, and you antagonize me in my own domain. For all your harping on about change you prove over and over again that you're incapable of it, little brother."

Michael stands. They're done here.

"Clearly you can figure out blood sacrifices on your own."

Clearly.

Half a second is time-too much. Lucifer's instant-reaction terror is there, quickly swallowed up by rage, stepping up to the bars even as the vision fades.

And then the rage dips down under another, just as dangerous level. Delight.

He brought this upon himself--isn't that how it always goes? But he's already shaken out his wings, his nerves, his anger. He smiles and it nearly reaches his eyes.

"I'd have to be able to put my faith into you, for me to ask anything of you that would have any effect," he says melodiously.

They are done here.

He drops out of the Horizon.

[Closed]

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