Archive of Our Own ^beta

The plaza before Vee’s Tower was still smoldering, a jagged scar against the crimson sky of the Pride Ring. The ruins of Pentagram City’s downtown hadn’t even begun to cool; the heat radiating from the concrete was enough to blister skin, warping the air into shimmering hazes of distortion.

Yet, the sinners were already celebrating.

It started as a murmur, a nervous vibration in the throat of the city. Then, like a contagion, laughter broke out—swelling from tentative giggles into genuine, hysterical joy. Their warped hearts fluttered with a relief they hadn’t felt in decades. "The War" was over. The destruction threat was no longer. The angelic ray had stopped falling.

They were survivors. Cockroaches in the nuclear fallout, dusting themselves off and ready to sin another day.

Even the usually untouchable Overlords, allowed themselves the faintest curve of a smile. They were calculating profits, territory grabs, the new status quo. They were soothed by the awaited end of conflict.

But they didn’t notice the smell.

Or perhaps they did, but they mistook it for the usual stench of Hell—sulfur, rot, and desperation. But this was different.

The metallic tang of ozone clung to the air, thick and oily. It coated the tongue, tasting like a battery pressed against wet flesh. It was a lingering, sickly ghost of the explosion that had consumed the ultimate weapon built against Heaven.

It wasn't just the smell of burnt circuitry or melted steel. It was something older. Something sacred that had been perverted, chewed up, and spat out.
The air tasted like storm clouds and spilled ichor.
It tasted like the death of a star.
A weapon powered not by electricity, not by soul-deals, but by the pure, concentrated angelic essence of Lucifer Morningstar.

Ignorance in chaos is a mercy, isn’t it?
So much had happened in the span of an hour.
So much could have happened.
And so much would now never happen again.

But in the settling dust, amidst the cheering and the looting, an unasked question lingered like a phantom limb. A final thought that had never found a voice before the transmission cut, a worry so mundane yet so heartbreakingly human for the King of Hell:
“𝐼𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒?”

Charlie pushed through the ash and rubble with sudden, manic energy. Determination lit her steps from within like a fever, burning away the exhaustion that should have leveled her hours ago. She was the Princess of Hell, and she had won. They had won. The hotel was going to thrive, and her dream? Her mom's dream? It was alive.

Vaggie, sweet, dependable Vaggie, stayed right at her side. She was limping, her own wings battered, but her eye was fixed on Charlie. She moved with the protective instinct of a soldier who knows the war is over but can’t stop checking for landmines.

“We should head back to the hotel honey,” the former exterminator said gently, reaching for Charlie’s arm, trying to slow her frantic pace. Her voice was raspy, laced with pain she refused to acknowledge. “Charlie, stop. Please. You’re exhausted. You’re running on adrenaline.”

“Vaggieee, relax!” Charlie pulled away, almost violently energetic. Her eyes scanned the debris with frantic, brittle optimism. Her smile was too wide, stretched tight over her teeth like a mask that didn't fit. “What if someone got crushed? Or if someone’s still hurt? We need to help! Maybe they're right under us, buried under some concrete, waiting for help!"

She laughed. It was a wet, jagged sound that scraped against the silence of the ruins.
It was the laugh of someone who knows the punchline is terrible, but laughs to keep from screaming.

“Alastor?” she called out, turning to the Radio Demon who was trailing behind them.
Alastor didn’t answer.
The Radio Demon, who usually filled every silence with static, canned laughter, or a witty remark, had not responded to her in minutes. Not to her questions, not to her nervous rambling about rescue.
He didn’t need to say a word.
All he did was lift his gaze toward the center of the crater where the explosion had bloomed moments ago.

The epicenter.

His smile was still there—mechanically stitched onto his face—but the corners were tight. His eyes, usually half-lidded dials of amusement, were wide.
And his static… that constant, buzzing shield of white noise that filled every room he entered, the sound of his power and his presence… was dead silent.

The radio was off.

“He… His majesty... may still be down there,” Alastor said slowly. His voice was stripped of its usual filter, sounding strangely flat. Hollow. Like a recording played in an empty room. “Inside. Where the core was.”

The world around Charlie froze.

Her breath stopped in her throat. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. A cold, electric shock raced down her spine, paralyzing her lungs. It was the sensation of falling in a dream, but she didn’t wake up.
Vaggie slapped a hand over her mouth, her spear clattering to the ground as the realization slammed into her.
“Oh my God—”

---

High above Pentagram City, in the unmarred white glow of Heaven, Sera finally allowed herself to breathe.
The battlefield below—once a storm of light and corruption, a chaotic blur of gold and red—had gone still.

The explosion had faded.

The chaos had settled.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, she felt relief wash over her like cool water. The tension that had held her spine rigid for weeks, the iron rod of duty that kept her upright, finally snapped.

Emily fluttered beside her, wings trembling from injuries and exhaustion, but safe. That alone made something tight and painful in Sera’s chest loosen. She had risked everything to keep the child safe, to keep Heaven safe.

“You did well,” Sera murmured, brushing a hand over Emily’s shoulder. Her voice was soft, devoid of the command she usually wore like armor.

Emily smiled weakly, leaning into the touch. Her halo was dim, flickering with fatigue. “We all did. It’s… it’s really over, isn’t it?”

Sera nodded, exhaling a breath she felt she had been holding since the creation of mankind. Her gaze drifted downward, past the clouds, toward the slowly calming sprawl of Hell’s skyline.

Smoke. Rubble. A strange new quiet.

But it was over. The threat of uprising was quelled. The order was maintained.

She even allowed herself a small, genuine smile when Sir Pentious— redeemed, confused, tired but ecstatic—practically crashed into her for a hug before returning to Emily’s side. A rare, unexpected moment of warmth in the aftermath.

Proof that redemption was real.

Proof that Charlie— and once Lucifer, so long ago, have been right all along.

The thought of him brought a pang of complex emotion. Guilt? Perhaps. Nostalgia? Certainly.
Though for the first time since the conflict began, the weight on her shoulders felt… lighter. The political maneuvering, the secrets, the burden of the Exterminations—it all seemed to recede.

Maybe now…
Maybe now there would finally be time.

Her eyes softened, gazing at the distant red horizon of the Pride Ring.

She had spent years dodging the subject. Eons ignoring the calls. Pretending the rift between her and Lucifer wasn’t as deep as it was. Pretending that the last words they exchanged weren’t sharp, defensive, stupid accusations.

She had promised herself:
Once this is over, I’ll speak to him.
I’ll apologize for the Exterminations. I'll listen to his ideas.
I’ll make it right.
And now, with Heaven stable, the threat gone, and her troops safe, that promise no longer felt impossible. They were immortals, after all. Time was the one luxury they had in abundance.
Sera folded her wings neatly behind her, a slow breath leaving her lips.

“Samael…”

The name felt strange on her tongue. Warm. Tentative. Like an old prayer remembered after centuries of silence.

“…I owe you so much more than silence, dear brother.”

She looked back down at Hell—unaware of the crater. Unaware of the smoke still rising from where the weapon imploded. Unaware of the unmoving silhouette buried beneath tons of steel.

Unaware that she was an immortal who had just run out of time.

---

The closer they got to the crater, the harder it became to breathe.

The air was thick, viscous with the smell of burnt magic. It wasn't like regular fire; it carried a static charge that made the hair on their arms stand up. It smelled like ozone and copper, coating the back of Charlie’s throat.

Charlie broke into a run before anyone could stop her.
She sprinted over shattered beams and scorched concrete, ignoring Vaggie’s urgent shouts and Alastor’s sharp warning. She scrambled up mounds of debris, her movements jagged and ungraceful. Her boots slid through burning ash; every step sent up a puff of glowing embers. Her hands—shaking, scraped raw—tore at twisted metal and melted plastic. Vox had always been meticulous about the sleek, tailored aesthetics of his toys. Even the weapon meant to kill God had been pretty.

Now, it was just a tomb.

And then—

Her fingers brushed something that wasn’t cold metal.

Something softer.

Something that clung to her skin like a memory.

Red.

White.

Singed along the edges.

Fabric.

His fabric. The ridiculous, ostentatious coat he wore like a shield. The coat she had hugged just hours ago.
Charlie froze for half a heartbeat. A strangled sound tore from her throat, animalistic and terrified. It was the sound of a child waking up from a nightmare, only to realize the nightmare is the reality. She clawed at the debris with wild, frantic motions, scattering sharp fragments she didn’t even feel cutting her palms.

“No… no, no, please— please— not him, take anything else, just not him—”

Her voice cracked into panic, rising in pitch as she dug deeper.

Alastor was suddenly beside her. He didn't offer a quip. He didn't offer false hope. His hands, usually reserved for holding his staff, were uncharacteristically trembling as he heaved a massive slab of concrete aside with a grunt of effort.

Husk joined a second later, muttering curses under his breath, his ears flattened against his skull.

Niffty paused, holding a piece of rubble, her single eye blinking rapidly, sensing the shift in the air. Even her chaotic mind understood the gravity of this silence.

Vaggie dropped to her knees next to Charlie, tears already trembling in her eyes as she helped pull apart the ruins.

Layer after layer.

Stone after stone.

Until finally…

…a shape appeared beneath the wreckage.

And then a hand.

A hand Charlie knew better than her own.

Those long, elegant fingers—the ones that had made her rubber ducks, the ones that had played the fiddle with manic joy, the ones that had wiped her tears.
Now blistered. Black scars missing in places, showing bright red flesh inside. And so awfully still...

Charlie’s breath hitched.

Stopped.

Restarted too quickly, too violently.

“Dad!” she screamed—the sound ripping itself out of her like an open wound. It echoed off the ruins, a raw plea to the universe.

But the hand didn’t move.

There was no answering twitch. No sharp inhale. No sarcastic quip about how heavy the building was. No groan of pain.

Nothing.

---

Together, carefully—almost reverently—they pulled him free.

What was left of him.

Lucifer’s body was limp, heavier than it should have been, as though death had filled him with lead. His pristine white suit was torn, scorched, soaked in gold. His skin bore the story of prolonged agony carved into it in burns, bruises, and exhaustion.

The wires... the ports where Vox had drained him, used him as a battery... they were still embedded in his arms. He had been harvested. Consumed.
He looked like someone who had fought far past the point of breaking.

Charlie collapsed backwards, pulling him into her arms with shaking, desperate hands. His head fell against her shoulder, lifelessly, horribly softly.

He was still warm.

Barely.

Like the last embers of a fire that once roared, now fading into gray ash.

Charlie stared at his face—at the peacefulness that didn’t belong there. At the silence that felt obscene.
He had fought.
Longer than he should have.
And the explosion… the blast that had ended Vox’s creation… had only been the final blow. Not the first. Not the worst. Only the one that finished what torture had begun.

Charlie knelt in the dead center of the crater with Lucifer’s body draped across her lap.

For the first minute, she didn’t cry.

She didn’t even breathe properly.

She just stared.

Her mind refused to load the information. It was like a glitch in her reality. The part of her that still believed in happy endings, in Disney songs and rainbows, insisted that he was immortal.

Because fathers weren’t allowed to die.
Not the ones who broke the world open with their powers.
Not the Kings of Hell.
Not hers.

But the silence didn't last. It couldn't.
Because Charlie Morningstar was not built to accept silence. She was built on dreams, on redemption, on the stubborn, impossible belief that anything could be fixed if you just tried hard enough. If you just sang loud enough.

Her hands, slick with his golden blood, suddenly ignited.

A warm, healing light flared to life in her palms—bright, desperate, blinding against the gray ash of the crater. It was the color of sunrise, mocking the death around her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice trembling but manic with purpose. Her eyes were wide, unblinking.

“It’s okay. I can fix this. I just… I just need to stitch the magic back together.”

She pressed her glowing hands against the gaping wound in Lucifer’s chest.

“Charlie…” Vaggie started, her voice breaking. She reached out, but Charlie jerked away with a snarl that was more demon than princess. A primal warning.

“Don’t!” Charlie snapped, her pupils dilated into panicked slits. “I just need to focus! He’s… he’s an angel, Vaggie. He’s the King. He doesn’t just die like some sinner. He’s just… drained. I just need to refill him.”

She poured more power into him.
Her aura flared, turning the debris around them into glass.
Sparks of creation magic danced over Lucifer’s skin, trying to knit flesh back together, trying to jumpstart a heart that had been silent for too long.

For a second—just a cruel, fleeting second—Lucifer’s chest seemed to heave.

“See?!” Charlie gasped, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat, tears finally spilling over. “See! He’s breathing! Dad? Daddy, come on, I’m right here!”

But it wasn’t a breath.
It was just the air escaping his lungs as her magic forced his ribcage to expand artificially. Mechanical. Dead. A puppeteer pulling the strings of a broken doll.
As soon as her power flickered, his body slumped back down.

Heavy.

Hollow.

The golden light she tried to pour into him didn't absorb. It spilled out of his wounds like water from a shattered cup, pooling uselessly in the dirt.

“No, no, no—don’t do that,” Charlie begged, pressing harder, her magic turning erratic, burning her own skin. She didn't feel the pain. “Take it! Why won’t you take it?! DAD!”

“Charlie, stop!” Vaggie lunged forward, grabbing Charlie’s wrists, forcing them away from the body.
“LET ME GO! I CAN SAVE HIM!”
“HE’S GONE, CHARLIE!” Vaggie screamed, tears streaming down her face, pinning Charlie’s thrashing arms to her sides. “He’s gone! You’re hurting yourself! Look at him! Look at him!”

Charlie stopped fighting.

Her breath hitched in a ragged, ugly gasp.

She looked.

Really looked.

Without the glow of her magic, the truth was unavoidable.

His skin wasn't just pale; it was gray. The eternal, inner light that always seemed to radiate from Lucifer—that faint, celestial glow he couldn’t quite hide even in Hell, the starlight he carried in his veins—was extinguished.

He looked small.

So incredibly small.

The fight went out of her instantly.

Charlie collapsed against Vaggie’s chest, sliding down until she was curled in the ash beside her father’s hand. She buried her face in the scorched fabric of his coat, inhaling the scent of ozone and apples.

“He promised…” she whimpered, her voice sounding like that of a lost child, not the Princess of Hell. “He said… he said he was here to stay. He promised, Vaggie.”

Vaggie just held her, burying her face in Charlie’s hair, sobbing silently.

And a few feet away, Alastor watched.
His smile was still there, technically. It was stitched onto his face like a scar. But his eyes were wide, and his radio static was completely silent.
He stared at the fallen King, at the empty vessel that had once reshaped creation.
He had always sought power. He had always wanted to see the mighty fall. But this? This wasn't a victory. This was an unmaking.
So, Alastor thought, a cold, hollow realization settling in his gut like lead. Even the Morningstar can burn out.
It made the world feel suddenly, terrifyingly fragile.

---

But the death of an angel like Lucifer does not stop at the physical body.

While Charlie wept over the empty shell, something unseen released.
A fragment. A spark. A final exhale of the soul.
Far beyond the golden gates, far beyond the serene clouds where Seraphim sang their endless hymns, there existed a place that was not a place.

It was the Loom. The Breath. The Quiet.
A realm of abstract geometry and colors that the human eye would simply interpret as madness, but here, they were the threads of reality.

Here, the Creator existed.
Not as a man on a throne, but as a Presence. A consciousness so vast it spanned dimensions, weaving the birth of nebulas with one thought and the decay of atoms with another.

For eons, the Creator had felt a hollow ache in the tapestry. A missing thread. A golden strand that had torn itself away and fallen into the dark.
They had waited.
Time, after all, meant nothing to the Timeless.
They knew the story of the Prodigal Son better than anyone—because They had written it. eventually, the anger would fade. Eventually, the pride would break. Eventually, the Lightbringer would look up from the pit and remember where he belonged.

And then… it happened.
A ripple.
It started faint, like a heartbeat returning to a flatline. Then it grew—a sudden, sharp spike of familiarity that cut through the cosmic noise.

Him.

The Creator stopped.
The expansion of a distant galaxy paused mid-breath. The singing of the spheres fell silent.
The sensation was unmistakable. It was the specific, unique frequency of the Morningstar. Beautiful, chaotic, brilliant Samael. The favorite. The heartbreak.

And he was coming up.

He was ascending.

The Creator turned—a movement that shifted the alignment of stars.
Joy, pure and blinding, flooded the space. It was a joy that transcended divinity; it was parental.
He is coming home, the Creator thought, a wave of warmth that could have ignited a thousand suns. He is finally tired of the dark. He is coming to talk. He is coming to be held.

The Creator formed a shape—a vessel meant to be comforting, a fatherly silhouette made of starlight and forgiveness—and reached out.

“Samael,” the Voice resonated, not with thunder, but with a gentle, welcoming hush that vibrated through every atom of existence. “My beautiful dreamer. You have been gone so long. I am here. I am listening.”

But as the presence drew closer, the Creator’s joy faltered.

Something was wrong.

The energy approaching wasn’t the blazing, defiant comet that had fallen thousands of years ago. It wasn’t the proud King of Hell marching up to demand an audience. It wasn't the rebel returning to make a point.

It was… fluttering.

Weak.

Desperate.

It was merely a fragment.

The Creator’s hands—hands that had sculpted leviathans and painted the voids—trembled as the presence finally broke through the barrier of the divine.

It wasn't Samael.

It was what was left of him.

A small, flickering ember of a soul. A wisp of golden light, tattered and unraveling, drifting through the void like a leaf caught in a hurricane. It wasn't climbing; it was floating on the last momentum of a dying wish.

The Creator froze. The welcoming smile of the cosmos shattered.

The ember drifted closer, blind and insensate. It didn’t have the strength to take a form. It was just raw consciousness, stripped of pride, stripped of the crown, stripped of the sins.

It was just a child, scared of the dark, desperately trying to find the light switch.

The Creator scooped the fading spark into palms that dwarfed galaxies.

“Samael?” The Voice cracked. The universe shuddered with it. “My son? What… what have they done to you?”

The spark flickered against the Creator’s skin. Faint. So terrifyingly faint.

And then, for a microsecond, a thought—a memory, a final transmission from the dying soul—echoed in the Creator’s mind.

It wasn’t an apology.
It wasn’t a plea for forgiveness.
It wasn’t a bargain for his daughter's safety.
It was just a feeling.

Cold.
So cold.
Dad?

The Creator’s light flared in panic. “I have you. I have you, little star. You are home. You are safe. Breathe. Just breathe for me.”

They poured power into the spark. Essence of life. The very stuff of creation. Take it. Heal. Shine again.

But the spark didn’t absorb it.
It was too broken. The vessel was gone. The connection was severed. The soul had unraveled too far to be knitted back together.

The Creator watched, helpless for the first time since the dawn of existence, as the golden light in Their hands pulsed once.

Twice.

And then…

…it went out.

The warmth vanished.
The presence—that unique, irreplaceable, annoying, wonderful, brilliant signature of Samael—was simply… gone.

Erased from the tapestry.

The Creator stood alone in the vastness.
Holding nothing but a handful of spiritual ash.
He hadn’t come home to be saved.
He hadn’t come home to reconcile.
He had dragged himself to the doorstep of Heaven just so he wouldn’t have to die alone in the dark.

And he had missed the embrace by seconds.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. A silence deeper than the void before time. A silence that swallowed hope.

Then, the Creator wept.

And in the mortal realm, the stars did not just dim.
They screamed.

---

And when the screaming of the stars finally faded into a dull, aching hum, only the terrible clarity of hindsight remained. Sera had kept her apologies for a quieter day; the Creator had kept His door open for a prodigal return; Charlie had kept her faith in a happy ending. They all believed the beautiful lie that "later" was a promise guaranteed to immortals. They thought they could fix the broken things tomorrow. But as the ash settled over the cooling body in the crater, the universe whispered its cruelest lesson to those left behind. They had loved him. They had wanted to save him. They would have given the world, the Heavens, and Hell itself to bring him back. They realized, with crushing weight, that they had loved him more than anything—but even 'anything' was not enough to buy them more time.