Finally, he settled cross-legged on a velvet cushion, materials laid before him, and prepared to undergo an ancient truth ritual. The steps were simple: gather the materials, add a bit of Divine blood, and speak the words of the spell. Then tell the truth. It should be child’s play at best, though Lucifer had a nagging suspicion it would be more complicated than it seemed to earn another piece of the Armor. It had been the first time, at least.
He pushed back the worry, dropping his flowers and herbs into the heavy mortar and beginning to grind with a practiced hand. It was soothing, in a way. Once he’d reduced the plants to a fine powder, he picked up a crystal athame, lifting his open palm over the bowl and dragging the blade across his skin to let a trickle of gold spill onto the herbs.
The wind picked up outside, the breeze becoming stronger as it wound through the room. Not enough to disturb things, but enough that Luce knew he was on the right track. He began to chant old Enochian words about conjuring truth and dispelling imbalance; words that were heavy on his tongue and rough in his throat.
He felt every minute of his countless eons upon the earth when he used his native tongue, every long day and sleepless night, every joy and sorrow of his life. It pulled him to a secret space at his core, which was exactly where he needed to be to make this ritual a success.
Luce closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in darkness. The breeze still enveloped him, but gone were the shelves, the warm afternoon sunlight, the view from his patio.
Cold black stretched around him, making his skin tense at the change in temperature as he cautiously rose to his feet.
“Hello darkness,” he sang softly, a smirk tugging the corners of his lips, “my old friend.”
The ground beneath was now cool stone, smooth and slick as he walked slowly toward the only object he could see in the dim gloom—a shimmering, smooth mirror in a golden frame, suspended in midair and level with his line of sight. He circled the mirror, inspecting it curiously. No ropes suspended it; no wall held it aloft. It simply hung, still and delicate, like a wafer-thin slice through space itself.
“Approach,” the toneless voice he had come to associate with his inner conscience commanded. “Speak your truths, son of Perdition.”
Luce winced at the title. Somehow, the flat delivery made it worse, as if it were a fact and not the opinion he had always considered it to be. “Right, yes.”
He returned to the front of the mirror, touching his fingers to the glass and smiling fondly at his own reflection. The image rippled, and his mirror visage suddenly lost all affect, its face falling into a placid, neutral expression.
“Speak your truths,” his reflection commanded again, and it was utterly bizarre to see his own face speaking with that toneless voice.
“Okay, truth number one is that I find this experience highly disturbing.”
“Irrelevant, and meaningless,” his reflection droned. “Do better.”
“Rude,” Luce huffed, and paused. “Do you have to wear my face?”
“I am you. Confront yourself. Speak your truth.”
He shifted uncomfortably, and his reflection did not move with him. “So creepy,” he muttered, shuddering. “And about as helpful as an automated call line.”
No response this time. Luce sighed. “Okay, okay. Commencing with the truth-telling, got it.”
He paused, considering, and then touched his hand to the mirror again. In his other hand, the vial he had prepared appeared, empty and waiting to be filled.
“I neglected my son,” he said quietly, and a thin wisp of smoke trickled from his lips, hazy and insubstantial. “I abandoned him in a time of need.”
The smoke collected in the vial, barely enough to cover the bottom of the container.
“That is hardly a valuable truth,” his reflection observed, raising its mirror image of the vial Luce cupped in his palm. “You must delve deeper.”
Luce frowned. “Who decides the weight of these truths?”
Sharp eyes cut to meet his gaze, and Luce was almost cowed by his own intense stare. “You do, Morningstar. I am you, and you judge yourself.”
The Devil turned away from his reflection, a chill passing down his spine. This was not a test that could be passed easily, after all. It made sense that it would be difficult, but if there was one thing Lucifer knew he was good at, it was avoiding uncomfortable discussions—not embracing them. With a groan, he turned back around and found himself waiting patiently.
“Continue.”
“I still care for Michael,” he admitted softly, and another trickle of smoke spilled forth, stronger than the first but still barely there.
“Do better,” his reflection commanded again, cool and even.
“If you’re me, why don’tyoutry, hm?” Luce snapped, defenses coming up in the face of critique, even from his subconscious.
“This test is yours.” Detached, impartial, and infuriating.
