“I know!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, and only the ritual’s magic kept the smoke from spilling out of the vial. He cupped it hastily to his chest and sighed again. “I know.”
He turned away from the mirror, unable to face himself while he dug into his wounds and pried out the things that truly hurt. The things he whispered to himself in the dark of night, when he really wanted to suffer, but had never said aloud even in those lonely hours.
“I am…a bad father,” he forced the words out slowly, like pieces of glass scraping their way up through his throat and into the air. “A terrible one, actually.”
The smoke was pouring freely now, a steady stream from his lips to the glass vial he clutched like a lifeline. “I’m selfish and stubborn and I care more about my own needs than my son’s. I left the burden of raising him to his mother, out of fear and out of convenience, and so I hardly know him.”
The vial was slowly filling; a viscous purple substance twisted and coiled within the glass as Lucifer choked on his own pride and regrets. He turned, facing his apathetic reflection where it waited for him.
“The world is careening towards destruction because I was more concerned with protecting my peace and my heart than I was with being a father. I should have been there, and I chose myself, and now it might be too late to fix this.”
“Yes.”
Luce brought his palm to the mirror, and for a moment it flickered. He caught a glimpse of his true face, of the pain that had been dragged up to the surface etched across his expression.He looked ready to cry. But the vial was almost full, he couldn’t stop now.
“I’m scared,” he confessed, watching the smoke pour thickly from his own lips. “I’m scared that I am not strong enough. That I will sacrifice and try and desperately pray and stillfail. I’m afraid, more than anything, that my brother was right, and I will never be enough.”
The pain of saying those words, of confessing his deepest fear aloud, brought him to his knees. Shame and terror burned in his chest, warring with each other and his pride—or at least the wounded creature he had made of it. He gripped the vial in both hands, curling over it protectively as if it needed to be guarded.
This was the manifestation of his oldest scars, and Luce trembled as he came to terms with how truly terrified he was that they might fail because of him. Because ofhismistakes, and his inability to correct them.
“Rise, Fallen Star,” his reflection urged him, and Lucifer tore his gaze up to meet the mirror. “There is much to be done.”
“Am I enough?” Luce rasped, throat tight with restrained emotion. “Can I even do this?”
“Truth is subjective,” the mirror Luce evaded his question. “I am the echo of your conscience, and nothing more. Decide your own fate.”
Lucifer scoffed. “Helpful, thank you.”
“If I could answer you, you would not need to ask me.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he sighed, and got back to his feet again. He eyed the vial dubiously, turning it from side to side to examine the shifting substance. “Now what? Did I pass the test?”
“You will know once you drink.”
“Drink?”
His reflection cast its gaze to the vial.
“What, no,” Luce said, furrowing his brow. “I just went through a lot to produce this stuff, and you want me to put it back?”
“You were changed by the process, and your perception of truth shall be changed by the drinking, as your ‘truths’ are only your own.”
Luce blinked. “So the ritual…changed my truth?”
“Drink, Morningstar, and answer your own questions.”
He tossed back the contents of the vial like a shot.
A wave of power rushed through the space with a boom of noise, before the world tilted sharply on its axis. The nebulous dark shifted wildly around Luce like shadows come alive. His vision blurred, rendering him completely disoriented as the mirror shattered, bursting into a thousand crystalline shards that glittered like falling stars.
Luce felt himself falling, but had no perception of which direction was up, or even the speed at which he fell. Then colors burst behind his eyes as his head smacked a hard surface, and suddenly the world stopped spinning.
He was back in his ritual room, panting and sweating with the cool breeze fanning over him where he lay sprawled on the wooden floor. Luce could feel his pulse racing and began taking deep, calming breaths while he waited for the nausea to pass.
“Well, that sucked.” He imagined this was what a hangover might feel like, if he could get one.
He had expended a great deal of power; more than he had used for a single ritual in longer than he could recall. He didn’t remember it taking this much of a toll when he had forged the first piece of the armor—though Luce had been a much younger god then. Regardless, he knew he would need at least a few days to replenish the stores of his magic before he could even consider forging another piece.
