Interesting Times Fic
Furfur got pissed, and moaned at me to get this fic done, or else he'd do something loud and really obnoxious. So I complied!
Set in Beth's Interesting Times setting, reflecting on how Armageddon treated everyone's favorite little Furball.
Furfur stared at the ceiling of his cell, and, for the 100th time that day, relived in his mind the series of events that had lead to him ending up there.
Really, the days leading up to the End hadn't been so bad. Life had been looking up for once; Furfur was steadily growing in power, Asmodeus and the Old Man had backed off of him, and he was finally making headway into celestial politics, however violently. Furfur finally felt as if his existence was validated; then Baal came and informed him that he was to be first on the frontlines of the coming Final Battle, a great honor he had claimed.
Bullshit.
Furfur wasn't a fool, he knew how the game worked; he was going to be the fodder. Hell would watch him get killed, let the angels think they had the upper hand, and the Horde would use his slaughter as a way to gauge the foe's power.
Well, fuck that noise. Furfur wasn't going to play any games; he had plans for being a Prince long after the War had ended, for better or worse.
When the battle began (oh, how the carnage sang to him, how he had wanted to scream, and smash, and DESTROY, but the selfish fear of death was well in control, and it wasn't dissonant for him to run) Furfur had sent his forces out... and turned tail. He didn't manage to make it past the back lines when he stopped, dead in his tracks, and felt something wrench free in his stomach.
Furfur had turned to look. For one beautiful moment, frozen in time, he beheld Heaven and Hell, locked in the eternal conflict he had always called foolish, old, stagnant, useless.
He saw Lucifer, Lightbringer, First Fallen, fall dead, Freedom's blade run through him.
Furfur had been unable to speak. All went quiet. The dark noise that had always given him comfort rushed out of his ears like water down a filthy drain, and he could only fall to his knees as he felt everything that ever made sense to him come free and fade away, back to black, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Furfur, Last Crowned of Lucifer, Prince of Hardcore, was reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye.
He hadn't moved, even when they saw him. He hadn't moved, even when they threatened him. When they saw he didn't move, only stared blankly at the ground, they took him up and carried him away.
It was only when he was alone, corporeally, in some small cell they had thrown him in, that he started to cry.
First came great wracking sobs. Then choked wailing. Followed by angry screams. Finished with a soft, silent weeping, as he clutched his sheets and begged Lucifer, dead, begged God, hateful horrible being, begged anyone to just take his life and end the tearing, black emptiness inside of him. Furfur was alone, truly alone, for the first time in his existence, and he hated it. More than anything he ever had, or would, hate.
Days passed, and he had sat in catatonia, replaying in his mind again and again what had happened, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why. Lilith had killed Lucifer. She had betrayed them all, and a human, the lowest Prince of Hell, lower than even Furfur himself (or had she always been the greatest?), had killed Lucifer. In one fell stroke, the Revolution ended, and Heaven had won.
Now what?
He repeated that question to himself, over and over and over again. He hadn't said a word when he was put on trial, just stared ahead with a dead gaze, doing nothing to defend himself. They hadn't deemed him worthy of death. He was nothing. A fool Prince, a joke played by Lucifer, a distraction for Heaven and little more. So they locked him up again and left him there; Novalis had come to speak with him, but he didn't listen. He wasn't even able to bring himself to hate her anymore, and that made him feel even more empty. So she stroked his hair, patted him on the head (for he really was just a dog now, wasn't he?), and left the room. The two angels outside didn't say anything to him, and no one had come to see him. Hardcore had not visited enough evil upon the world to merit vows of revenge or threats of the horrors to come. Just as well.
Eventually, after several days of letting the emptiness gnaw on him like a starving hyena, Furfur released himself from his self-imposed coma. His mind was set on one thing- filling the emptiness inside of him. The cold, grating, massive void that would not swallow him whole, yet always kept him in its frozen jaws.
He paced about his cell, rubbing his hands, eyes wide. Something to do. Something to do. Something to do.
Something.
Something.
Nothing.
Two seconds passed before he fell down and started crying again, hitting the floor, clawing at it like an angry child. He tried once more to ask why, to demand an answer, and nothing came out, just more tears. Furfur hated crying. Crying meant he was destroying himself, acknowledging that he had lost something he loved, something that was precious to him, something that was him.
Thankfully, the pain went away faster than last time, and Furfur sat on the cold floor, wiping his nose and trying to feel something.
After a good hour of trying, he still had nothing. But through the haze of pain and confusion, an idea came to him. Something small and simple that had always, always given him some comfort.
He walks to the door of his cell, and taps on it gently, arm limp. He makes his request, quick and simple, and does not repeat himself, even when the angel quirks her eyebrow and looks uncertain at her companion. He goes and sits back down on his bed, and stares at the floor.
Something to fill the void. Something. A drop in an ocean as dry as bone. But at least it will be something.
It's only a few minutes before there is a knock at his cell. There is no wait for his reply, and the door swings open. A tall and stern angel (probably a Malakite, probably an Ofanite, probably doesn't care about him) walks in, and places down a battered and non-descript leather case, before turning heel and walking out again. Furfur wants to be amused that the angel wore the sigil of Flowers on an armband, but he can't.
Slowly, stiffly, Furfur walks to the case. He bends down and opens it up, and what is inside, still intact, albeit a little more battered than it was before, allows him a small smile.
It is a guitar. It is old, beat up, and cherry-red in color. Furfur takes it out of its case, and holds it like a mother would her child. His hands fit comfortably into familiar places, and although it reminds him of what he lost, it still has enough good memories inside of it that it brings him comfort.
A single star in an empty universe. But it's something.
He sits on the bed, and plucks at the strings. A familiar grimace comes to his face; as always, it's just slightly out of tune. He focuses on tuning it up, and lets his mind drift away from the pain. His hands move over the strings, gliding with a grace uncommon to his Band (but common to his Bright twins, oh how Asmodeus has always hated that little detail about him).
Music no longer plays inside of him. He is empty. But at least he can make his own music, like he did before, before he lost everything, before he became nothing. The music is only a shadow of what was there before...
But it's something. One note of a lost symphony.
He makes music, like he used to, and is content with that much. The days will be long, and hard, and bleak. But at least there's something to pass the time now, he reasons.
He even sings a little as he plays along, and the angels outside of his room exchange looks, but say nothing. Furfur smiles a little more, and doesn't mind when the tears start to flow from his eyes again. He'll fill himself up, one note at a time, even if it takes until the next Armaggedon. He has time.
Hell, he tells himself, maybe he'll even try ordering out for pizza.
Set in Beth's Interesting Times setting, reflecting on how Armageddon treated everyone's favorite little Furball.
Furfur stared at the ceiling of his cell, and, for the 100th time that day, relived in his mind the series of events that had lead to him ending up there.
Really, the days leading up to the End hadn't been so bad. Life had been looking up for once; Furfur was steadily growing in power, Asmodeus and the Old Man had backed off of him, and he was finally making headway into celestial politics, however violently. Furfur finally felt as if his existence was validated; then Baal came and informed him that he was to be first on the frontlines of the coming Final Battle, a great honor he had claimed.
Bullshit.
Furfur wasn't a fool, he knew how the game worked; he was going to be the fodder. Hell would watch him get killed, let the angels think they had the upper hand, and the Horde would use his slaughter as a way to gauge the foe's power.
Well, fuck that noise. Furfur wasn't going to play any games; he had plans for being a Prince long after the War had ended, for better or worse.
When the battle began (oh, how the carnage sang to him, how he had wanted to scream, and smash, and DESTROY, but the selfish fear of death was well in control, and it wasn't dissonant for him to run) Furfur had sent his forces out... and turned tail. He didn't manage to make it past the back lines when he stopped, dead in his tracks, and felt something wrench free in his stomach.
Furfur had turned to look. For one beautiful moment, frozen in time, he beheld Heaven and Hell, locked in the eternal conflict he had always called foolish, old, stagnant, useless.
He saw Lucifer, Lightbringer, First Fallen, fall dead, Freedom's blade run through him.
Furfur had been unable to speak. All went quiet. The dark noise that had always given him comfort rushed out of his ears like water down a filthy drain, and he could only fall to his knees as he felt everything that ever made sense to him come free and fade away, back to black, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Furfur, Last Crowned of Lucifer, Prince of Hardcore, was reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye.
He hadn't moved, even when they saw him. He hadn't moved, even when they threatened him. When they saw he didn't move, only stared blankly at the ground, they took him up and carried him away.
It was only when he was alone, corporeally, in some small cell they had thrown him in, that he started to cry.
First came great wracking sobs. Then choked wailing. Followed by angry screams. Finished with a soft, silent weeping, as he clutched his sheets and begged Lucifer, dead, begged God, hateful horrible being, begged anyone to just take his life and end the tearing, black emptiness inside of him. Furfur was alone, truly alone, for the first time in his existence, and he hated it. More than anything he ever had, or would, hate.
Days passed, and he had sat in catatonia, replaying in his mind again and again what had happened, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why. Lilith had killed Lucifer. She had betrayed them all, and a human, the lowest Prince of Hell, lower than even Furfur himself (or had she always been the greatest?), had killed Lucifer. In one fell stroke, the Revolution ended, and Heaven had won.
Now what?
He repeated that question to himself, over and over and over again. He hadn't said a word when he was put on trial, just stared ahead with a dead gaze, doing nothing to defend himself. They hadn't deemed him worthy of death. He was nothing. A fool Prince, a joke played by Lucifer, a distraction for Heaven and little more. So they locked him up again and left him there; Novalis had come to speak with him, but he didn't listen. He wasn't even able to bring himself to hate her anymore, and that made him feel even more empty. So she stroked his hair, patted him on the head (for he really was just a dog now, wasn't he?), and left the room. The two angels outside didn't say anything to him, and no one had come to see him. Hardcore had not visited enough evil upon the world to merit vows of revenge or threats of the horrors to come. Just as well.
Eventually, after several days of letting the emptiness gnaw on him like a starving hyena, Furfur released himself from his self-imposed coma. His mind was set on one thing- filling the emptiness inside of him. The cold, grating, massive void that would not swallow him whole, yet always kept him in its frozen jaws.
He paced about his cell, rubbing his hands, eyes wide. Something to do. Something to do. Something to do.
Something.
Something.
Nothing.
Two seconds passed before he fell down and started crying again, hitting the floor, clawing at it like an angry child. He tried once more to ask why, to demand an answer, and nothing came out, just more tears. Furfur hated crying. Crying meant he was destroying himself, acknowledging that he had lost something he loved, something that was precious to him, something that was him.
Thankfully, the pain went away faster than last time, and Furfur sat on the cold floor, wiping his nose and trying to feel something.
After a good hour of trying, he still had nothing. But through the haze of pain and confusion, an idea came to him. Something small and simple that had always, always given him some comfort.
He walks to the door of his cell, and taps on it gently, arm limp. He makes his request, quick and simple, and does not repeat himself, even when the angel quirks her eyebrow and looks uncertain at her companion. He goes and sits back down on his bed, and stares at the floor.
Something to fill the void. Something. A drop in an ocean as dry as bone. But at least it will be something.
It's only a few minutes before there is a knock at his cell. There is no wait for his reply, and the door swings open. A tall and stern angel (probably a Malakite, probably an Ofanite, probably doesn't care about him) walks in, and places down a battered and non-descript leather case, before turning heel and walking out again. Furfur wants to be amused that the angel wore the sigil of Flowers on an armband, but he can't.
Slowly, stiffly, Furfur walks to the case. He bends down and opens it up, and what is inside, still intact, albeit a little more battered than it was before, allows him a small smile.
It is a guitar. It is old, beat up, and cherry-red in color. Furfur takes it out of its case, and holds it like a mother would her child. His hands fit comfortably into familiar places, and although it reminds him of what he lost, it still has enough good memories inside of it that it brings him comfort.
A single star in an empty universe. But it's something.
He sits on the bed, and plucks at the strings. A familiar grimace comes to his face; as always, it's just slightly out of tune. He focuses on tuning it up, and lets his mind drift away from the pain. His hands move over the strings, gliding with a grace uncommon to his Band (but common to his Bright twins, oh how Asmodeus has always hated that little detail about him).
Music no longer plays inside of him. He is empty. But at least he can make his own music, like he did before, before he lost everything, before he became nothing. The music is only a shadow of what was there before...
But it's something. One note of a lost symphony.
He makes music, like he used to, and is content with that much. The days will be long, and hard, and bleak. But at least there's something to pass the time now, he reasons.
He even sings a little as he plays along, and the angels outside of his room exchange looks, but say nothing. Furfur smiles a little more, and doesn't mind when the tears start to flow from his eyes again. He'll fill himself up, one note at a time, even if it takes until the next Armaggedon. He has time.
Hell, he tells himself, maybe he'll even try ordering out for pizza.