(no subject)
Who: Lucifer and Gabriel
What: Breaking outta prison, or how Gabriel was a knight in shining armor.
Where: the Unnatural and then Gabriel's place.
When: TYL, BACKDATED to Tuesday~
Warnings: Lucifer? Gabriel?
Lucifer knows what captivity is. He knows the claustrophobic clutch of imprisonment and the sucking void of never get out never leave die here die alone that settles in and takes its toll after so many seconds and minutes and lifetimes alone. Even the shortest amount of time has a unique way of rotting the mind and sinking dewclawed fingers in until nothing remains but pain and the dullness of acceptance.
It wasn’t even that bad. It wasn’t. Just a few dead, scores injured, what? Had he done so wrong? No. They didn’t matter, they deserved it- they needed to be set free. Lucifer knows. The day has faded from his prominent thoughts after so much time but sometimes in the deep of the night, when even his voice is taken from him, the angel recalls the day it all broke open. He had to set them free. He was sure of it. He’s still sure. An unchanging city of plasticine dreams, and all around him gods and warriors lost their minds and lives and molded to this new tyranny.
He knows captivity. Thousands of unchained years lived and decayed and died in thankless bonds have hollowed out his formerly-beautiful mind with nothing but hate and the worst parts of himself; he is strong and proud and cannot be broken by humans.
But that’s the thing. These aren’t humans, are they? They’re strong enough to kennel Death Herself (himself- Him? When did he start capitalizing that?) and gods and archangels, strong enough to deprive them of voice both human and true every night at their pettiest whim. At least in Hell, with the despair of utter isolation sinking in over the rise and fall of civilizations, Lucifer had himself and the twisted glory of martyrdom. He was an angel, dammit, and he would rise once more to wreak his revenge. It was nothing like this indignity. Nothing ever compared to being robbed of his powers as completely as if his jailers had ripped his Grace out with their bare hands and fed it to him. Eating, sleeping, exhaustion and muscle pains that spat in the face of this former warrior of the Lord and mighty one-time ruler of Hell. Nick has bad eyes; Lucifer has had a headache for three years that won’t abate.
The days have long since run into each other. Time passes unmarked in his cell in the Unnatural and he has nothing but himself for company. Almost like old times, but now he knows better than to call out for his Father in vain hope. Escape is impossible for now. He knows that. Nobody is coming for him (nobody has ever come for him) and all he has left to do is wait. It doesn’t escape his notice that this city is probably centuries or even millennia old, and still unchanged, still running, still endless. It could easily be an eternity in this forsaken place.
And all the while, he stares at the walls of his cell and remembers. With food brought to him by human scum and exhaustion taking him every other day against his will all he has of himself is his memories, and the diamond-hard knowledge of who he is. He is Lucifer. He is the Morningstar. He is alone.
Time meanders on endlessly, every second stretching into hours stretching into eternities, marked by random noises, the regular, unimportant arrivals of food and water from his worthless captors, and his relentless murmuring in his native Enochian that keeps him company for long stretches until the night steals his voice again. Disturbances and noises don’t faze him anymore, which is why one day when the place echoes with strange, far-off sounds Lucifer doesn’t lift his head to look. It doesn’t matter. This too will pass, and more of his life with it. He wonders sometimes if his vessel will age in here, if he will die with it. It almost seems like a way out, but he would only awake in the Unnatural again. There are no vessels to take here, and Sam knows better.
The sounds get closer. He doesn’t notice. Footfalls, someone running- a guard, probably, or someone rushing to find Genero. It doesn’t matter.
What: Breaking outta prison, or how Gabriel was a knight in shining armor.
Where: the Unnatural and then Gabriel's place.
When: TYL, BACKDATED to Tuesday~
Warnings: Lucifer? Gabriel?
Lucifer knows what captivity is. He knows the claustrophobic clutch of imprisonment and the sucking void of never get out never leave die here die alone that settles in and takes its toll after so many seconds and minutes and lifetimes alone. Even the shortest amount of time has a unique way of rotting the mind and sinking dewclawed fingers in until nothing remains but pain and the dullness of acceptance.
It wasn’t even that bad. It wasn’t. Just a few dead, scores injured, what? Had he done so wrong? No. They didn’t matter, they deserved it- they needed to be set free. Lucifer knows. The day has faded from his prominent thoughts after so much time but sometimes in the deep of the night, when even his voice is taken from him, the angel recalls the day it all broke open. He had to set them free. He was sure of it. He’s still sure. An unchanging city of plasticine dreams, and all around him gods and warriors lost their minds and lives and molded to this new tyranny.
He knows captivity. Thousands of unchained years lived and decayed and died in thankless bonds have hollowed out his formerly-beautiful mind with nothing but hate and the worst parts of himself; he is strong and proud and cannot be broken by humans.
But that’s the thing. These aren’t humans, are they? They’re strong enough to kennel Death Herself (himself- Him? When did he start capitalizing that?) and gods and archangels, strong enough to deprive them of voice both human and true every night at their pettiest whim. At least in Hell, with the despair of utter isolation sinking in over the rise and fall of civilizations, Lucifer had himself and the twisted glory of martyrdom. He was an angel, dammit, and he would rise once more to wreak his revenge. It was nothing like this indignity. Nothing ever compared to being robbed of his powers as completely as if his jailers had ripped his Grace out with their bare hands and fed it to him. Eating, sleeping, exhaustion and muscle pains that spat in the face of this former warrior of the Lord and mighty one-time ruler of Hell. Nick has bad eyes; Lucifer has had a headache for three years that won’t abate.
The days have long since run into each other. Time passes unmarked in his cell in the Unnatural and he has nothing but himself for company. Almost like old times, but now he knows better than to call out for his Father in vain hope. Escape is impossible for now. He knows that. Nobody is coming for him (nobody has ever come for him) and all he has left to do is wait. It doesn’t escape his notice that this city is probably centuries or even millennia old, and still unchanged, still running, still endless. It could easily be an eternity in this forsaken place.
And all the while, he stares at the walls of his cell and remembers. With food brought to him by human scum and exhaustion taking him every other day against his will all he has of himself is his memories, and the diamond-hard knowledge of who he is. He is Lucifer. He is the Morningstar. He is alone.
Time meanders on endlessly, every second stretching into hours stretching into eternities, marked by random noises, the regular, unimportant arrivals of food and water from his worthless captors, and his relentless murmuring in his native Enochian that keeps him company for long stretches until the night steals his voice again. Disturbances and noises don’t faze him anymore, which is why one day when the place echoes with strange, far-off sounds Lucifer doesn’t lift his head to look. It doesn’t matter. This too will pass, and more of his life with it. He wonders sometimes if his vessel will age in here, if he will die with it. It almost seems like a way out, but he would only awake in the Unnatural again. There are no vessels to take here, and Sam knows better.
The sounds get closer. He doesn’t notice. Footfalls, someone running- a guard, probably, or someone rushing to find Genero. It doesn’t matter.