There's a stutter to his radiance, like someone's accidentally elbowed a light switch. Geralt's hand is a fiery brand to Lucifer's ice. There's a haunting expression twisted across his face like the withered vines.

Life is supposed to be what flashes before your eyes, but Lucifer sees death, and not the version that he summoned and chained to do his bidding. He sees two instances where Geralt manages to slice his neck open: the Hunting Grounds an aching, embarrassing memory that he can't shake, but at least he survived. And now, seconds before, where instead of his still-bleeding chest wound is him crumpled on the floor, body atop the wolf's.

Neither instance has the tattoo-black feature of his wings splayed and burnt across the floor and that shakes Lucifer more than anything because sure, he hasn't died by an archangel blade, but he's still an archangel, it's still part of him, he's not--he's weakened, yes, but he's not human--he shouldn't die like the sad, sickened sods of--