Give him a few hundred years of fake memories and he'll forget it, broken down to the bare bones that they had a fight, but not remember why. Much like how another hundred years after that he won't remember the full extent of the rift he caused in his family. And another few decades and he'll forget his Father, good riddance, entirely.
But give him three weeks of actual time on the end of waking up from where they're barreling towards and his perception might change entirely, circling back to it willingly.
Time and power are a funny thing when it comes to archangels. When it comes to him.
But he's not there, yet.)
Istredd's command gets even a pause from Lucifer, interest peering out through the rage. It's a nice look on the mage, earning a predatorial fixation from Lucifer. Not Istredd's goal, but doing something nonetheless.
Still. It's good Istredd doesn't touch him. Lucifer would likely break his arm, too, without a single processed thought.
They were never kids to Thorne. They have the same rights as the rest of us. Which is none. Pawns, fodder, just as he's always told everyone.
(They're not ready to run.)
He gets into the guard's face, gaze cold, breath even colder, ice crystals misting at the air. "You're not going to like it when I get back."
(They're not ready to run.)
The guard gives him a flat stare, broken arm limp at his side, but his other hand reaches out and loops a binding with a word of Ancient Thornean, snapped around one of Lucifer's wrists.
Lucifer jolts at the feel of it, furious, lunges forward, and sinks teeth into the man's protective shield, eats through fire, and comes back with skin bloodied in his mouth and burns along his face. Definitely making things worse, Istredd.
(They're not ready to run.)
"I'm sorry," is Enhardt's rushed-out apology to Lucifer, to Istredd, to his partner in pain. He steps up, quick, and latches the binding to Lucifer's other wrist, hooking the devil's hands together as though magnetized and Lucifer staggers as though weighted down.
(They're not ready to run.)
Lucifer slumps, exhaustion a tether itself, and maybe more involved with the less-than standard, practical guard bindings. He thinks, then, he does remember this guard. Not his name like he knows Enhardt's. But he was there when Lucifer charged after Ambrose. Knew from experience, though Lucifer restrained himself then, just how much strength was under Lucifer's surface, a snake coiled to strike.
Whatever pumping boiling anger was beneath Lucifer's thoughts cut out, left with fritzing static and solid color thrown over the usual chaotic art piece of his mind.
cw: violence, blood
Give him a few hundred years of fake memories and he'll forget it, broken down to the bare bones that they had a fight, but not remember why. Much like how another hundred years after that he won't remember the full extent of the rift he caused in his family. And another few decades and he'll forget his Father, good riddance, entirely.
But give him three weeks of actual time on the end of waking up from where they're barreling towards and his perception might change entirely, circling back to it willingly.
Time and power are a funny thing when it comes to archangels. When it comes to him.
But he's not there, yet.)
Istredd's command gets even a pause from Lucifer, interest peering out through the rage. It's a nice look on the mage, earning a predatorial fixation from Lucifer. Not Istredd's goal, but doing something nonetheless.
Still. It's good Istredd doesn't touch him. Lucifer would likely break his arm, too, without a single processed thought.
They were never kids to Thorne. They have the same rights as the rest of us. Which is none. Pawns, fodder, just as he's always told everyone.
(They're not ready to run.)
He gets into the guard's face, gaze cold, breath even colder, ice crystals misting at the air. "You're not going to like it when I get back."
(They're not ready to run.)
The guard gives him a flat stare, broken arm limp at his side, but his other hand reaches out and loops a binding with a word of Ancient Thornean, snapped around one of Lucifer's wrists.
Lucifer jolts at the feel of it, furious, lunges forward, and sinks teeth into the man's protective shield, eats through fire, and comes back with skin bloodied in his mouth and burns along his face. Definitely making things worse, Istredd.
(They're not ready to run.)
"I'm sorry," is Enhardt's rushed-out apology to Lucifer, to Istredd, to his partner in pain. He steps up, quick, and latches the binding to Lucifer's other wrist, hooking the devil's hands together as though magnetized and Lucifer staggers as though weighted down.
(They're not ready to run.)
Lucifer slumps, exhaustion a tether itself, and maybe more involved with the less-than standard, practical guard bindings. He thinks, then, he does remember this guard. Not his name like he knows Enhardt's. But he was there when Lucifer charged after Ambrose. Knew from experience, though Lucifer restrained himself then, just how much strength was under Lucifer's surface, a snake coiled to strike.
Whatever pumping boiling anger was beneath Lucifer's thoughts cut out, left with fritzing static and solid color thrown over the usual chaotic art piece of his mind.
Reluctant compliance.