Later, perhaps, Lucifer's eagerness to die instead of be caged might shock him.
(He's already made one promise to honour his death wish if he ever goes back to their Father's side. What's one more?)
The shift in appearance really doesn't change anything for Michael. Whether immaculate and radiant, blackened and snarling, or fractured straight through and streaked with hellish red, it doesn't matter. It's all Lucifer, so it's all Light. It's always his brother. That never changes, not to Michael's eyes.
Some corner of him doesn't object to the binding vines. They're just a thing, unfeeling and unthinking, something he can struggle against and claw at without the looming guilt of later, and so Michael thrashes. His claws cut deep furrows into the vines, new ones replacing them as fast as he can sever them. Ash and dry leaves drip from the corners of his mouth as he chews his way through the floral tentacles, but they're faster than him there, too.
He's listening despite his struggle with the binds. Sort of. The angrier he is, the simpler things become. Lights blinking on a machine, ones and zeroes, a binary calculation that spits out a simple yes or no answer. Does he stop, or does he push on? It's what makes him so decisive, so certain, at least in the moment.
There's always an after. After is always complicated.
The reminder that he's never been anything but a tool to their Father hits its mark. Michael snarls, wings straining against the vines. He remembers that part now. The fresh memory of his Father's betrayal slides neatly next to Lucifer's, and they are oh so alike in some ways. Caring only for their own egos and nothing for the people they hurt in pursuit of their goals. Like father, like son.
Soon, as Lucifer's rant winds down, so does the regrowth of the binds. Michael snaps an arm out from the grip of a frozen vine. Why does Lucifer think anyone would have come to liberate him from his prison? He says himself what they could have expected from him: more of the same thing that landed him there in the first place. More manipulation, more breaking everything he could lay a hand on.
"That's what happens when you prove to the people who care for you that they are worth nothing to you!"
Alone, and without support. Did it never occur to Lucifer that maybe no one was on his side because he'd made it impossible to stand next to him? Because he was in the wrong? Of course not. That's an archangel's ego for you. Michael can't claim to be much more aware of his faults.
"Do you think I didn't want to? Do you think I wanted you gone, that I wanted you dead?"
Does he really think it was easy for him? Does he think having to rip the grace out of him on their Father's behalf would have been better, less painful?
Despite everything that's passed between them, despite the betrayals and the insults and the anger, a few thousand years of strife is the blink of an eye compared to the billions that came before it. They were happy. Lucifer should know what Michael wanted. He wanted his family, and he wanted them all together. Some part of him wants that still, no matter how impossible it is now.
Maybe that's the proof how broken their connection is, that Lucifer thinks Michael's wants and their Father's commands were ever aligned. Maybe neither of them ever really knew the other.
Another arm finds its way out of the vines.
"People you haven't betrayed trust you. What a shock! I did too, once, more than anyone else. Have they seen you at your worst? Have you taken what they love most and gutted it in front of them, while they watched and begged you to stop?"
Michael thinks not. Michael thinks this 'evil' creature they've seen is in fact Lucifer on his best behaviour—because he lacked power, because he needed people on his side. A willingness to hide his teeth that he wasn't willing to extend to his brothers. Maybe he's wrong, though. Maybe Lucifer's found replacements for his demons, broken creatures with no values of their own, ones who'll thank him for ruining their lives.
To say he questions the judgment of anyone with absolute trust in Lucifer is putting it mildly. Been there, done that. Lived to regret it.
A pair of wings joins his free arms, withered vines sliding down his feathers to the ground.
"It was never about what you were, it was about what you did!"
For a moment, he betrays his own hypocrisy. Monster, evil, devil. That's the party line they'd used to keep the younger contingent of the Host in line. It's not what Michael held against Lucifer.
I've chosen these others
Michael hears the conclusion but not the reasoning. The rest is washed away, just muddy water clouding his view of the bottom. There's his answer. That's what it comes down to, isn't it? Here Lucifer stands, claiming them to be as vile as he has always said they were—but still more worthy of his time and effort than his own brother. There is no greater insult. He wasn't worth biting his tongue the first time, and even wavering in his faith, he wasn't worth it here. Lucifer's just filling a hole, and anyone and anything will do.
(A hole he himself helped create, the side that knows responsibility and accountability is taking note of, but in this moment it's not given a voice.)
Michael thinks of Lucifer and their Father again, side by side. All either of them has ever wanted from him is a toy soldier, a tool to be put to work and discarded as soon as it didn't perform exactly as they wanted. Whether it's his Father or the first of his brothers, he has never mattered as much to them as they do to him.
It's all clear to him now. He's seen it firsthand, and he's seen it through Adam's eyes. Family will betray you. Family will leave you behind. Family will disappoint you, every time.
Family sucks.
"What does it matter what I want? When has it ever mattered to you? To our Father?"
Did he ever matter at all? Did he ever have a place in the story? He's just one of thousands of loyal little Michaels their Father created and set up to fail. Just another face Lucifer might throw at his loneliness. He'd been happy once, but it'd been built on a foundation of lies; he'd been happy here, and all it had been was a fantasy. Has joy always been the illusion?
There is nothing to fix. Nothing is broken. This is what they are: monsters put together by unkind hands, made to be at war, never to be happy.
The last of the binds snaps. Freed, Michael slams every limb into the sand and lets out a roar that resonates in the air and trembles through the ground. The sand vibrates with the noise. It's a sound more fitting of the maddened version of himself from that other universe. Did his other self stand there and scream, the moment he'd realized it had all been for nothing? Did he take out his pain on that other Earth and leave it a barren wasteland, like Michael will his domain?
There's a limit to even his grace, but rage and grief feed it as he channels it into his surroundings. The pools of spilled grace burst into flame. The sand around his hands and feet begins to look wet. It falls in on itself, clumps together, and then runs like a thick, glowing syrup between his claws and down the side of the dune.
He's going to glass this desert, and then he's going to shatter it.
Michael doesn't lunge for Lucifer again. He's not paying him any attention at all. This is not about him anymore.
no subject
(He's already made one promise to honour his death wish if he ever goes back to their Father's side. What's one more?)
The shift in appearance really doesn't change anything for Michael. Whether immaculate and radiant, blackened and snarling, or fractured straight through and streaked with hellish red, it doesn't matter. It's all Lucifer, so it's all Light. It's always his brother. That never changes, not to Michael's eyes.
Some corner of him doesn't object to the binding vines. They're just a thing, unfeeling and unthinking, something he can struggle against and claw at without the looming guilt of later, and so Michael thrashes. His claws cut deep furrows into the vines, new ones replacing them as fast as he can sever them. Ash and dry leaves drip from the corners of his mouth as he chews his way through the floral tentacles, but they're faster than him there, too.
He's listening despite his struggle with the binds. Sort of. The angrier he is, the simpler things become. Lights blinking on a machine, ones and zeroes, a binary calculation that spits out a simple yes or no answer. Does he stop, or does he push on? It's what makes him so decisive, so certain, at least in the moment.
There's always an after. After is always complicated.
The reminder that he's never been anything but a tool to their Father hits its mark. Michael snarls, wings straining against the vines. He remembers that part now. The fresh memory of his Father's betrayal slides neatly next to Lucifer's, and they are oh so alike in some ways. Caring only for their own egos and nothing for the people they hurt in pursuit of their goals. Like father, like son.
Soon, as Lucifer's rant winds down, so does the regrowth of the binds. Michael snaps an arm out from the grip of a frozen vine. Why does Lucifer think anyone would have come to liberate him from his prison? He says himself what they could have expected from him: more of the same thing that landed him there in the first place. More manipulation, more breaking everything he could lay a hand on.
"That's what happens when you prove to the people who care for you that they are worth nothing to you!"
Alone, and without support. Did it never occur to Lucifer that maybe no one was on his side because he'd made it impossible to stand next to him? Because he was in the wrong? Of course not. That's an archangel's ego for you. Michael can't claim to be much more aware of his faults.
"Do you think I didn't want to? Do you think I wanted you gone, that I wanted you dead?"
Does he really think it was easy for him? Does he think having to rip the grace out of him on their Father's behalf would have been better, less painful?
Despite everything that's passed between them, despite the betrayals and the insults and the anger, a few thousand years of strife is the blink of an eye compared to the billions that came before it. They were happy. Lucifer should know what Michael wanted. He wanted his family, and he wanted them all together. Some part of him wants that still, no matter how impossible it is now.
Maybe that's the proof how broken their connection is, that Lucifer thinks Michael's wants and their Father's commands were ever aligned. Maybe neither of them ever really knew the other.
Another arm finds its way out of the vines.
"People you haven't betrayed trust you. What a shock! I did too, once, more than anyone else. Have they seen you at your worst? Have you taken what they love most and gutted it in front of them, while they watched and begged you to stop?"
Michael thinks not. Michael thinks this 'evil' creature they've seen is in fact Lucifer on his best behaviour—because he lacked power, because he needed people on his side. A willingness to hide his teeth that he wasn't willing to extend to his brothers. Maybe he's wrong, though. Maybe Lucifer's found replacements for his demons, broken creatures with no values of their own, ones who'll thank him for ruining their lives.
To say he questions the judgment of anyone with absolute trust in Lucifer is putting it mildly. Been there, done that. Lived to regret it.
A pair of wings joins his free arms, withered vines sliding down his feathers to the ground.
"It was never about what you were, it was about what you did!"
For a moment, he betrays his own hypocrisy. Monster, evil, devil. That's the party line they'd used to keep the younger contingent of the Host in line. It's not what Michael held against Lucifer.
I've chosen these others
Michael hears the conclusion but not the reasoning. The rest is washed away, just muddy water clouding his view of the bottom. There's his answer. That's what it comes down to, isn't it? Here Lucifer stands, claiming them to be as vile as he has always said they were—but still more worthy of his time and effort than his own brother. There is no greater insult. He wasn't worth biting his tongue the first time, and even wavering in his faith, he wasn't worth it here. Lucifer's just filling a hole, and anyone and anything will do.
(A hole he himself helped create, the side that knows responsibility and accountability is taking note of, but in this moment it's not given a voice.)
Michael thinks of Lucifer and their Father again, side by side. All either of them has ever wanted from him is a toy soldier, a tool to be put to work and discarded as soon as it didn't perform exactly as they wanted. Whether it's his Father or the first of his brothers, he has never mattered as much to them as they do to him.
It's all clear to him now. He's seen it firsthand, and he's seen it through Adam's eyes. Family will betray you. Family will leave you behind. Family will disappoint you, every time.
Family sucks.
"What does it matter what I want? When has it ever mattered to you? To our Father?"
Did he ever matter at all? Did he ever have a place in the story? He's just one of thousands of loyal little Michaels their Father created and set up to fail. Just another face Lucifer might throw at his loneliness. He'd been happy once, but it'd been built on a foundation of lies; he'd been happy here, and all it had been was a fantasy. Has joy always been the illusion?
There is nothing to fix. Nothing is broken. This is what they are: monsters put together by unkind hands, made to be at war, never to be happy.
The last of the binds snaps. Freed, Michael slams every limb into the sand and lets out a roar that resonates in the air and trembles through the ground. The sand vibrates with the noise. It's a sound more fitting of the maddened version of himself from that other universe. Did his other self stand there and scream, the moment he'd realized it had all been for nothing? Did he take out his pain on that other Earth and leave it a barren wasteland, like Michael will his domain?
There's a limit to even his grace, but rage and grief feed it as he channels it into his surroundings. The pools of spilled grace burst into flame. The sand around his hands and feet begins to look wet. It falls in on itself, clumps together, and then runs like a thick, glowing syrup between his claws and down the side of the dune.
He's going to glass this desert, and then he's going to shatter it.
Michael doesn't lunge for Lucifer again. He's not paying him any attention at all. This is not about him anymore.