Warnings: Misuse of biblical canon, sort-of-Satanism, abuse, m/m slash, possession.
Summary: In the Begining was the Word, and the Word was God...But someone just didn't listen...
He did not flee. But he turned and walked away, and Leo never touched him again, never came near him again. He did not dare.
The world did not know why Damian’s family cherished him so much. The world did not know the meaning of his eyes, blue as the ocean and silver as snow. But for a moment – just a moment – Leo caught a glimpse of that reason. And it was enough to keep him from trying to hold on to what had never really been his – for nothing stolen will remain forever with its captor, even if it must wait a thousand years to escape the one who would hold it caged.
Freed, Damian found himself drifting towards those green eyes; hesitantly, shyly, uncertain of his welcome. That one’s fire burned so bright, and Damian’s spark was still small, still weak, still cold; he longed to warm himself at Alex’s heart. Alex was his opposite in every way: he was not hesitant, nor shy, nor uncertain, but opened his arms, and smiled, and waited patiently for Damian to come to him, like coaxing a wild mustang into accepting a rider. And like the horse, that will eventually warm to the smells of sugar and leather, sweat and earth-love, Damian found himself in Alex’s embrace, and warm.
And it was good.
No, it was wonderful. Alex was Gifted too, though he didn’t think of it that way. His manifested in music, the one facet that Damian’s own did not touch, but together they merged their power in the same way they found their hearts melting into each other. A tune like birds in flight, or lightning, or the heat of summer sun came to life beneath Alex’s fingers on the strings of his guitar, or the ivory keys of his mother’s piano, and the words for the song came to Damian’s mind as if they had always been there, and needed only Alex’s music to call them forth.
Their songs were the epitome of how they were together. Music is nothing without the song; the song is nothing without the music. Damian felt defined by Alex’s golden kisses, like sunlight spilling over and between his lips; the silken caresses of his palms over Damian’s arms and the reverent way his mouth touched Damian’s throat, like worship. He never pushed and yet Damian couldn’t get enough; didn’t take and yet Damian gave and gave, and took himself, in a never ending circle that blazed and burned through them, the fires of a forge that was slowly but surely making them one. In Alex’s arms he was safe; in Alex’s mouth he found pleasure; in Alex’s heart was beauty and music and love so great that it took years of convincing before Damian believed himself worthy of it.
But he was worthy. More than worthy. Alex taught him that.
And yet…And yet. Alex was wonderful, was perfect, spent himself endlessly to show Damian the beauty of himself – not the hair and jaw and blue-silver eyes, but the beauty that counted, on the inside – and yet. Damian still woke in a cold sweat, remembering Leo’s body moving like cold flames in his; he still found it hard to surrender even when Alex played his body like a beloved instrument, still remembered too clearly that the skin that could tremble with pleasure could just as easily break and bleed. It was an ever-present shadow between them, no matter how Alex worked to banish it. It made Damian sick with guilt, though his lover made no demands of him, asked for nothing, looked at him with nothing but acceptance and love, never even a flicker of frustration or resignation.
Alex’s patience was inhuman.
Damian, however, was all too human. He knew it, felt it, hated it. Wanted so desperately to give Alex everything he deserved, that when the offer came, he said Yes.
They gave him the Book. On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, his mother took the precious family heirloom from the safe in the cellar, and left it on his bedside table. She kissed him goodnight, and told him not to stay up too late reading.
He had never been allowed to touch it before. The family had rules about it, rules of how and when to read it. He lit candles, and scattered them about the room; took the book and rested it on his lap, to read by candlelight, firelight. His fingertips, reverent, traced the silver star – not the pentacle, but the Morning Star, symbol of the Lucifer, not Satan – three times clockwise, to summon his family’s patron to guide him in his reading, in this seeking of knowledge.
He did not know that, of all the generations of his family that had come before him, Lucifer truly would answer his summons.
Damian read the flowing script for as long as he was able. It was an old tongue, one long fallen out of use, but his family had kept the knowledge of it. Damian and all his brothers, and his cousins, could all read and write and speak the First Runes just as easily as English. He traced the diagrams of the Circles with his eyes and fingertips, awash with awe, with wonder. All the uses for their power, for his Gift, were held in this book. All the many uses of the Secret – inside becomes outside – were here, scribed on these pages.
He read and read, soaking in knowledge, breathing in the scent of old parchment and the herbs pressed between the covers.
Until the candles – all but three – went out.
He was not lying in bed. Damian was sitting, cross-legged at the edge of the bed. Providentially, he faced his birthday gift; a full-length mirror, old, perhaps as old as the Book, its gold rim a wreathe of stars and angels’ wings that told the story of the Fall, its surface burnished diamond. It was a priceless treasure, another heirloom, one that Damian would have been expected to pass on to his future children.
But in the mirror, now, with the glow of three candles behind him, movement drew his eyes to it. His Gift was strong, and he did not panic when he saw his reflection unfold gracefully – more gracefully than the real Damian ever could – from the bed, to stand before the mirror. He had seen such things before. Instead of fearing, he merely followed directions, and stood, carefully placing the Book to one side, out of reach of the candles. And waited, patiently, for whatever would come.
It was not what, but who. The figure who was suddenly there was not in the flesh behind him, but stood behind the mirror-Damian as if he had always been there. As if the two of them – both golden-haired, both fair of face and form, though the stranger was so unspeakably beautiful as to be heartbreaking, and blinding, and incomparable – had always been there, and together.
And then Damian saw the wings. As like to an eagle as a newt is to a dragon, that was how those wings appeared. They were huge, rippling with starlight feathers over realms of muscle, glimmering in the soft light of the candles. There were no words that could possibly describe them, and thus no chance that Damian could be left doubting who it was that had appeared to him.
He tried to kneel, to bow down before the unbearable glory of it; but the figure’s hands tightened – gently, firmly – on the mirror-Damian’s shoulders, and Damian found himself held fast.
Spellbound, he shuddered with boneless supplication as those arms embraced him from behind. He could only stare, helpless, awed, aroused beyond bearing as the tips of those wings, the glowing wing-tips, stroked him through the slacks he wore to bed, trailing over his thighs. He saw and felt the perfect hands caress his bare arms, the thumbs rubbing smooth circles into the muscle, as those red lips moved, those silver eyes flashed, staring into his own, holding him hypnotised.
My chosen one, my beautiful one. I had not even dreamed that you would be so perfect…And so powerful…I can taste and here Damian moaned, his hands fisting at his sides as the angel’s sinful tongue just touched his earlobe the magic on your skin…Yes. You are perfect.
So many times, Alex had said those words. There had been love in his voice, love to rival even that of this being that now tilted Damian’s head gently to look him full in those silvery eyes, glowing like twin moons, opals in a marble face. And yet. The words had never felt truer, coming from Lucifer’s lips.
You were born for me, Lucifer whispers, and his voice is like honey and smoke, cinnamon and chocolate. You were born for this. His lips brushes Damian’s as he speaks, and Damian is only human, only mortal (for now), he cannot keep back the low whimper of longing, needing more so desperately. His hands ache to tangle in that golden hair, like living light.
Say yes, Damian…Say yes, and let me in.
Born for me…
“Yes,” Damian breathes, with the last of his breath – and the kiss, when it comes, is more than he could ever dream, more than he or any mortal could ever dare to dream of. That kiss alone sears his soul, an ecstasy so great he screams with it, and hears the sound as if from a great distance as those wings enfold him, and those arms, as that hair falls about them both like a living curtain. He screams, and it is not enough, not nearly enough to do this justice though he should wake the world with his sound – for it is not a penetration of body, but of soul, and he cannot – he cannot bear it, no human can survive it, no mortal, and yet he must, and so he screams. Screams because he cannot stand it, and has to; because he cannot brace to meet it and cannot escape from it; because it will end, and that will be a hundred thousand times harder to bear.
It does end. Too soon, and not soon enough, it ends.
And when he opens his eyes, there is only one face in the mirror. His.
But he has wings.
And they are not his eyes.