Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
He was an angel.
This was the word that popped into Alastor’s mind when he first laid eyes on Lucifer.
Trees grew so wide they seemed to blot out an otherwise endless sky. Entangled with chains of swamp moss, the forest exhaled a dampness so heavy, it made Alastor’s skin itch to tear itself open.
His only pair of shoes—washed as his mother insisted, despite knowing they would be filthy again the next day—were caked in stubborn clumps of mud.
From the surface of this dreary planet, it was nearly impossible to catch a glimpse of the system’s lone sun. While the nights always became clear, the days were cursed with relentless drizzle from the swollen clouds above. His mother had told him that a patch of blue sky may come once every several years, but Alastor had no memory of ever witnessing what people called ‘The Sun’.
It was said that boarding a spacecraft could take you there in the blink of an eye—but of course, Alastor had never stepped foot on one. What he did know came only from the voices overheard through a makeshift comlink, pieced together from scrapped parts he had secretly gathered.
“You were born beneath a sky full of stars. That must mean you’re destined, someday, to see them all.”
His mother often said things like that.
Alastor hated this dim, sodden planet he called home. And so, that fantasy thrilled him. He would become a pilot. Like the ones in the novels he read before bed. Or perhaps, a legendary warrior? It didn’t matter which. Faster than light, he would soar beyond this world and travel endlessly from star to star.
Surely there were places out there that were nothing like his birthplace. There would be planets with skies so clear, not a single cloud drifted across them. There would be worlds of endless, bone-dry deserts, called by a mythic, strange name.
But, Alastor thought, if he left…he would want to leave with Mama.
He washed his shoes without complaint, wore a ragged raincoat—riddled with holes—that they couldn’t afford to replace, and ate meals that were spiced to mask the stench of swamp fish.
He did all of this because his mother was there.
He lived like this not for her sake, but because every gesture was for him. Each act was an expression of love by the woman he loved. Alastor accepted everything the way it was because of that.
Even if it meant that the sun could be nothing more than a myth, it was enough. So long as his mother’s bright smile lit each day.
Dreams were dreams, fantasies were fantasies. He understood that. Growing up in this world, he had no choice but to understand that.
However.
On the morning of his seventh birthday, the Angel came—bringing with him the first sun seen in over seven years.
Alastor couldn’t glimpse at the sun itself, which was hidden by endless layers of cloud and canopy. But at dawn, he noticed the sky glow faintly brighter. The swamp’s creatures stirred in the light, and just as they did, so too did a seven-year-old boy, and he slipped from his bed.
His first task each morning was to wash his face with the rainwater collected outside. Then, he would bring eggs to his mother in the kitchen and do the laundry while chatting idly with the alligators that lounged in the swamp—which burn you at best, kill you at worst if you strayed too close. After breakfast, Alastor and his mother would set out for the settlement nearby; she’d head to work, he to school. Before night swallowed the sky, they would return, prepare dinner together, and at last, he would read before bed.
Such was his daily routine, unchanging, even on his birthday. However that morning, with cloth in hand, whilst stepping outside to wash his face, Alastor found a young man waiting for him.
On this planet, most people had dark skin, brunette hair, and brown eyes—at least according to what he witnessed and overheard on his communicator. But here was a person with translucent white skin, hair that shimmered, and eyes of a color he had never seen before. The man appeared utterly alien. Yet, Alastor thought, perhaps he was meant to be described as beautiful.
Who could this be? Alastor tilted his head. The more he pondered, the more the answer seemed perfectly clear. This must be the “angel” described in his books. A being of otherworldly beauty. Convinced of his conclusion, Alastor asked directly,
“Are you an angel?”
The Angel widened those strange-colored eyes, then smiled.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because I read in a book that angels have golden and shiny hair.”
“You’re a clever child,” the Angel said, nodding. “Well then…” He glanced up through the branches, then knelt in the mud to meet Alastor’s gaze.
“Perhaps my hair only looks like it sparkles because of the sunlight.”
“The…sunlight?”
“Ahh, right. This planet almost never clears during the day because of thick clouds. Adam said the turbulence here is enough to make any pilot weep.”
Tur-bu-lence. Another new word. Alastor would ask his mother of its meaning later–or perhaps this Angel would explain.
“You can see the sun today. But since it’s only just risen, you might be too short to see it.”
“So the sun is what makes your hair shine?”
“That’s right. The light strikes it and bounces back. You’ve seen how starlight glimmers on the dark waters of the swamp at night, haven’t you? It’s much the same.”
“And your eyes? Are they shining because of the sun too?”
“Hm…I think that’s more curiosity than sunlight.”
Curiosity. He knew that word. The feeling of finding something strange and wanting to understand it. Exactly the way he felt now, looking into those gleaming eyes.
“This planet is beautiful,” the Angel said. “Overflowing with life, perfectly in balance. If I had my way, I’d rather live here than on Pride.”
Alastor’s jaw fell open. To think this murky world was beautiful, much less want to live here, was shocking enough. But more than that, Pride. A name he knew from every story, every whispered transmission over his comlink. The galactic capital. One of the Seven Planets at the heart of civilization: Wrath, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Envy, Sloth, and Pride.
Worlds he longed to see.
The fertile plains that stretched across all of Wrath. Gluttony, a dry and warm planet, free of rain and humidity. Greed, a sprawl of endless factories and hub of trade. Lust, where neon cities blazed in place of a sun. Envy, an ocean planet ringed with the mightiest, salty seas. Sloth, with its artificial colonies devoted to the cutting edge of medicine and science.
And Pride—the nexus of them all. A world where buildings rose so high, layer upon layer, until they eclipsed the sky itself.
For a boy whose only home was a humble hut with his mother, the thought was unimaginable.
And yet, this Angel had come from Pride. Weren’t Angels, he remembered reading, dwellers of the heavens? If so, perhaps all who lived in sky-piercing towers were Angels.
“Do the people of Pride all have eyes like yours?”
“There are many kinds of people in Pride. Some with eyes like mine, some not. Some even with eyes like yours.”
“Like mine?”
“Your eyes are rich in color. The same as my robe.”
Smiling, he plucked at the cloak draped over his shoulders. Sunlight broke through the leaves to touch the fabric, and Alastor thought; it looked warm.
So, ‘rich’ color meant a warm color, perhaps. Alastor’s cheeks grew hot. As his fingertips touched his face, he felt warmth there too. Sunlight has heat, the Angel explained. But it wasn’t the choking heat of swamp air or of fire, but something gentler…
Something like the warmth of his mother’s hand.
To be told that his eyes matched the angel’s robe pleased him more than he expected, and this realization made him ask his next question.
“And your eyes? What do they match?”
“Hm, people say the sky. A clear sky.”
“A clear sky…”
“Yes. A blue sky. You see it now, don’t you?”
The Angel pointed upward and squinted his eyes at the bright light. Alastor followed the gesture and gasped.
For the first time, the sky was clear. Rather than littered with clouds and drowned by rain, it was vast and open.
When he looked back down, the two eyes before him still sparkled, lit by the sunlight. Yet somehow, Alastor knew, even without the sun–
They would have shone just as bright. Eyes the color of the sky. Blue eyes. Something burst inside his chest.
Ah—so this color was called ‘blue’.
And as Alastor, who had only just named the most beautiful color he had ever seen, looked on, the Angel smiled and whispered,
“I’m glad it cleared.”
Rising to his feet, he added, “Now then, to return to your first question—I’m afraid I am not an angel.”
The one most deserving of this word refuted it himself, Alastor wondered.
“My name is Lucifer Morningstar. I am a Jedi. And I came to meet you.”
Chapter Text
To keep the hull from corroding, the ship’s climate system maintained perfect control of temperature and humidity. The air, which was filtered and recycled again and again, was the same air he had likely breathed only half a day earlier. Fresh in theory, stale in truth.
Space always felt a little cold. And always just short of suffocating.
Apart from the thoughts of his mother, Alastor rarely felt nostalgia for his homeworld. Even so, he could not help but recall how that swampy place—for all its harsh wilderness—had been free of this faint chill and sterile tang. Crude as it was, it had been alive.
He shifted his gaze from the spires below the thick cockpit glass towards the instruments. And then to the man slumped asleep in the copilot’s seat. With the flick of a thought, Alastor levitated the apple core that was set aside on a plate between their chairs, sailed it over the copilot’s lap, and lowered it into the narrow space at his feet. He would have never touched someone’s leftovers with his bare hands. Any “proper Jedi” would have scowled at such a frivolous use of the Force, but Alastor had no desire to be a proper Jedi. Nor, he suspected, would the useless copilot beside him—who snored like a child. He would have dismissed the matter with a simple, “Who cares.”
In fact, of all the habits that drew disapproval from others, this man—Lucifer—had never once reproached Alastor because of that nonsense.
The apple core struck the copilot’s brow, then rolled away into the cockpit’s shadows. A small, black and white, cat-shaped droid—made for personal assistance—emitted a disgruntled chirp from somewhere near the floor. Alastor ignored it. Watching the sleeping man’s eyelids twitch, Alastor put on a voice of weary formality.
“Ten minutes until arrival. Your slovenly sleeping habits really are intolerable.”
With that comment, Lucifer stirred at last, wiping drool from the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his brown robe. His eyes, still dripping with sleep, blinked open.
“Good nap,” he said flatly.
“Yes, that much is obvious.”
“Chairs are better for sleeping, because—”
“Because—as you so often tell me—’after spending all your time flying, lying in a bed makes you restless’. I’ve heard the line more times than I care to count. And I’m always the one tasked with waking you.”
“You like piloting, so I let you do it. Your master’s intuition. Ah, good morning, KeeKee!”
The catlike droid hopped into Lucifer’s lap. He stroked it absentmindedly while stretching and yawning. Then, as though nothing had happened, he nonchalantly asked, “Dinner?”
“I’ve already eaten. While you were busy putting on your idiotic sleeping face.”
“I’d hate to break it to you after all these years, but, you do know rations aren’t dinner, right?”
“If it fills the stomach, it’s all the same.”
“Honestly Alastor…can’t you ever just answer me straight? Your rebellious phase should be long gone. Or is this your second adolescence? Now, I admit, that sharp tongue of yours can be charming in negotiations, but…most problems can be resolved by just giving a direct answer.”
“And I suppose the fifteen years I’ve spent cleaning up the disasters caused by your foolish ‘directness’ do not count as ‘problem-solving’? How convenient your memory must be.”
Alastor snorted as he gripped the control yoke. His so-called master made a face, as though to say ‘I didn’t raise you to be like this’, then he lamented in an exaggerated, disappointed tone,
“You used to be such a sweet child.”
Not sweet, Alastor thought. Just ignorant. He hadn’t known space was cold. He hadn’t known that worlds without a sun were scattered across the galaxy. He hadn’t known that the man he once mistook for an Angel never truly slept. He hadn’t even known what ‘blue’ was.
“When you first came to Pride, you called me ‘My Master’ and wouldn’t leave my side. Now, it’s just ‘Lucifer’! It’s completely informal! Y’know I don’t really mind, but don’t do it in front of the other masters! They’ll scold me for poor discipline, but it will be your reputation that will suffer for it.”
Stating the obvious. As if Alastor would ever treat anyone else that way. It was far easier to keep a buffer of distance and to approach others with the minimum requirement of respect and courtesy. A week in Pride was enough to learn such survival tactics—he knew from experience.
So, if this man thought his attitude was a problem, then the fault lay with him.
For Alastor had never—not once—thought of Lucifer Morningstar as his master.
On his seventh birthday, the Angel—later known to be Jedi Master Lucifer Morningstar—stepped into the small home Alastor shared with his mother. Alastor had leapt back in shock at the word ‘Jedi’. The surreal feeling continued as the stranger followed him through the hut’s doorway and bowed with grave politeness to his mother.
“Forgive me for arriving so early in the day.”
Alastor's home was not one where birthday parties were ever held. There was no money for such things, nor any friends close enough to invite. The guest—who seemed to wear an uninvited air—was greeted by his mother’s quiet gaze. At last, she exhaled softly and whispered.
“Thank you. You finally came.”
She asked the guest if he would join them for breakfast, then turned to Alastor.
“Could you fetch three eggs for me, honey?”
Alastor nodded and slipped back outside. In the shed behind their home, they raised a few birds who faithfully provided them eggs. It was his duty to care for them and to thank them each time. Usually, he would take two. But today, his mother had asked for three. It was a day just a little more special than others, after all.
And someone very special had come to visit.
Alastor already knew of the Jedi. In the book he had been slowly reading, he learned that they were heroes who saved the galaxy in its times of peril. They could levitate vast, heavy objects with nothing but their mind or commune with animals without words. The knights in shining armor who piloted sleek ships across the stars, defending peace with strange weapons at their belts—swords of light that could cut through all things. They were the galaxy’s guardian angels, beloved by everyone, everywhere.
But that was only in stories. To most who lived in the galaxy, the Jedi were little more than a myth: an enigmatic people wielding inexplicable powers and bizarre weaponry who were whispered about like urban legends. In that sense, Alastor supposed they were not unlike angels in fairytales at all.
Alastor would not come to understand the truth until later—after he became one of those beings called ‘Jedi’ himself. At the time, he was only a child. He was already aware that his home was poor. He knew that his mother worked tirelessly to raise him alone and that his father’s absence drew side glances from neighbors. Alastor was no stranger to his harsh reality compared to other children his age. And yet—perhaps because he was still so young—he dreamed of impossible dreams.
“Can you talk to the birds?”
The golden-haired Jedi, who had unknowingly followed him outside, crouched at the coop and helped Alastor gather eggs. Alastor’s eyes widened. Only his mother knew about that.
“Yes.”
“Are you friends with them?”
“...Don’t you want to ask how? Or why?”
Surely the Jedi should laugh. Surely he should tell Alastor that animals don’t talk. He’d call Alastor strange or a liar. But the Jedi’s expression softened instead.
“For you, it’s simply the truth, isn’t it?” he said.
Alastor stared at him.
“Then there’s no how or why. Just as you and I are talking right now, so too do you speak with them. That’s your everyday life, is it not? So, are they your friends?”
“They talk with me. But…I don’t know if that makes them my friends.”
“Y’know you really are a clever child.”
The Jedi rose, passing the eggs gently into his hands. Alastor clutched them to his chest, then spoke up.
“Um…How does a lightsaber work?”
“Oh? That’s a question I wasn’t expecting,” the Jedi laughed. For a fleeting moment, Alastor realized—this man was not so very old after all. The age gap was smaller than he had first believed. Lucifer Morningstar, a Jedi, and unlike the stoic figures drawn in books, was full of honest, visible emotions. He smiled, frowned, and laughed so openly. He could lower himself to a child’s eye level with such ease, and yet there was nothing childish about him. He was, in his own way, more adult than any of the others.
People would say that Lucifer was gifted with deep empathy. That it was the Jedi’s spirit of compassion. Lucifer only laughed and claimed he was acting with curiosity. But Alastor sometimes thought it was something else entirely—that by spreading his kindness so wide and shallow, Lucifer truly cared for nothing, or no one in particular. Even for Alastor, the one he called ‘My only Padawan,’ that thought would linger.
“This is a secret, so don’t tell anyone,” the Jedi said, lowering his voice as if he was sharing something in confidence. His long strides slowed to match the younger one’s small steps through the muddy yard.
“There’s a crystal inside.”
“A crystal?”
“Yes. Not just any stone—a special one. Found only on a planet called Eden. When we train to be Jedi, we must face many trials. But one of the most important is building our own lightsaber. We gather the parts ourselves, and with guidance from our masters, we forge a weapon unique in all the galaxy. The heart of it is this crystal.”
With practiced ease, the Jedi unhooked the weapon from his belt—the very one Alastor had only seen in illustrations—and pointed to a spot on its hilt.
“You can activate it with this button. When pressed, power runs through the crystal inside. The crystal amplifies the energy, shaping it into a blade of plasma that is sharp enough to cut through anything. Every Jedi must travel to Eden, to the cave where only the chosen apprentices may enter, and find their crystal among countless others of every color and shape.”
“How do you find it?”
“The crystal calls to you. Just as the birds speak to you.”
“You too—” Alastor caught himself, reconsidered, and tried again. “Master Morningstar…did a crystal call to you as well?”
“Yes.” His voice was gentle. “The power we use is called the Force. People think only Jedi can wield it, but that’s not true. It’s everywhere. Around you, around your mother, around the birds and the plants. We Jedi are simply a little more apt at listening to it. Like hearing the scent of rain in the air, or deciphering the frog’s croak hidden in a chorus of insects’ chirping. That’s why we hear the stones. If you believe, and if you listen closely enough, you will hear them too.”
“Like how I hear the birds? Or the alligators?”
“Exactly!”
The Jedi’s smile broadened as his fingers worked deftly at the hilt. “Ah, there we go.” He beckoned Alastor closer. Alastor adjusted the eggs in his arms and peeked inside.
And there it was.
A crystal no larger than his thumb, was set within the weapon’s core.
“This is the crystal.”
Master Morningstar’s crystal was blue. As if savoring a newly learned word, Alastor softly whispered, “Blue…”
The Jedi’s eyes, too, were blue. The crystal had chosen him, just as heaven itself might have done for an Angel.
It was perfect.
“Do you want to hold it?”
Alastor nodded. The Jedi took the hold of the eggs from Alastor carefully, and placed the glowing shard of crystal into Alastor’s small palm.
“It’s beautiful,” Alastor breathed.
He looked up, into those radiant eyes—two gleaming jewels of the very same shade.
“The same color,” he whispered.
To this day, that conversation was repeatedly brought up by Lucifer.
He took to that clumsy impression from a naive child with absurd delight and boasted to anyone who would listen about how being told that his saber’s crystal matched the blue sky was the greatest honor a Jedi could ever hope for.
In retrospect, the most unbearable moment occurred ten years ago, when Alastor finally obtained a lightsaber of his own. Upon learning that the crystal his padawan had secured from the caverns on the planet Eden was blue, the blonde man’s face was plastered with a foolish grin for an entire month—utterly bereft of dignity. Lucifer wore this unearned, prideful attitude despite the fact that he himself claimed that it was the call of these precious gemstones that determined who their wielder would be.
Lucifer should have known better than anyone that no matter how deeply one longed for a blue crystal, the matter was left entirely up to the crystal’s allowance.
The lightsaber Lucifer now wielded housed a green gem, unlike that first one he witnessed. His master misplaced his saber at least once every mission. And every few years, he would lose the weapon outright. It always fell upon his padawan, Alastor, to retrieve it. Or worse, to lend him his own blade in the heat of battle. Each time, this blond-haired man declared it as ‘unavoidable’. To Alastor, there was only one word: careless.
Thus, he never once saw that blue-bladed saber from his childhood ignite. Having left his homeworld, he had expected to remain at his master’s side. But instead, he was thrown—without warning—into a class of children much younger than him. By the time he had swallowed his indignation and endured the group’s basic training, that famed weapon of Lucifer’s was already gone, lost to some distant corner of the galaxy. That was the second time he had lost his weapon.
His master’s current saber, the fourth incarnation, had miraculously survived nearly three years. Secretly, Alastor wished it would break or vanish as quickly as the others. Lucifer, of course, remained oblivious to the simmering irritation that sparked in Alastor’s chest each time their green and blue blades ignited together. The blue crystal, his master admitted, had only ever chosen him once. He said he had remade his lightsaber just before he journeyed to Alastor’s planet, only for it to fail him shortly afterward during a solitary mission. Alastor was the sole witness to behold the azure crystal that once laid in the saber’s hilt.
That fact beset upon him a small measure of pride, though he knew better than to confess that aloud. To voice such a sentiment would summon swift reproach: excessive attachment leads to ruin; one must not be enslaved by darkness; Jedi should cast aside anger and resentment. Alastor knew all of this. He heard it countless times and was scolded and admonished without end. And yet, the thought returned unbidden: perhaps the green stone had indeed spoken, but its dark, forestlike hue—which evoked the canopy that smothered the light of his home planet—was utterly ill-suited to that man.
The moment they touched down, Lucifer rose, fastening the green-bladed saber to his belt. He swept his brown robe from the console where it had lain and slipped it over his shoulders, muttering with heartfelt weariness, “Reporting to the Council. What a pain. How about you take that role instead?”
“I graciously decline.”
“All you’d need to say is ‘No issues.’ That’s it!”
“If you believe an ambush by hostile natives, followed by the mistaken worship of a supposedly prophesied king—all of which cost us precious time—can truly be filed under ‘No issues.’ then sure. By all means.”
Alastor, shutting down the main engines and running through post-landing checks, turned to meet a long, accusing stare. Lucifer folded his arms, pouted, and tilted his chin in a display of mock offense before pronouncing with dazzling, pompous clarity, “You’re still holding a grudge, aren’t you, Alastor?”
“Kindly perish the thought, please. Failing to uncover a native faith centered on a golden-haired king was the result of my negligence as the appointed investigator. Shame on me, an impetuous padawan. I would never dream of blaming you.”
“Oh? Well, while I was paraded around on their shoulders, you—lacking golden hair—were offered up as my sacrificial tribute. Trussed hand and foot, you were nearly roasted alive. Tell me, what was it like to be knocked senseless by a pebble thrown by those tiny natives, half the length of your proud legs, and carried off as a prize? A rare experience, surely?”
“I was bound only at the wrists and ankles, not trussed. And did you have any idea what they were saying as they carried you on their shoulders? ‘Our king is so short! He can’t see a thing without a platform!’ That was so sweet of them to think of your limits. Consider yourself blessed to have such thoughtful subjects, oh ‘Little King’.”
“So that’s what all their cursed-sounding chanting meant? And for the record, I am three times their size, thank you very much!”
“Indeed, a colossal height but…not so colossal of heart. After all, you looked deeply amused, grinning down at me while I was about to be burned alive. Never once lifting a finger to come to my aid. What a master I have.”
“Oh, so now I’m your ‘master,’ am I? Spare me the meek disciple act. You’re hardly blameless in all of this. You kept crying, ‘Please, Lucifer, do something!’ so desperately that the absurdity of the ordeal made me laugh even harder.”
“To call a brush with death absurd—your sensibilities are in serious doubt.”
“If you can’t even loosen a knot, you’ve got a long way to go as a Jedi.”
“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one tied up.”
“Well, I’ll give them this; their ropework was impressive. Forest hunters, after all.”
“Shall I test their methods on you next?”
“You’d tie me up? You’d teach me?”
“Not teach. Demonstrate. I learned a few tricks from them as an apology.”
“No, I’ll pass.”
“Oh? Should I take that to mean you already indulge in such hobbies? Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“I do not. And twisting my words is a bad habit of yours.”
“Twisting words was precisely how I brokered peace between the forest and water clans, remember?”
As Alastor flicked off the final switches on the ship, Lucifer lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“Fine! You win. Better to report to the Council than bicker with you.”
“I’m glad you see reason at last.”
“Not a compliment, by the way, in case you misunderstand. Though judging from your face, I’m sure you’ll take it as one.”
“I recommend you consult an eye doctor immediately.”
“And I recommend you check the prescription on your monocle. It’s five years old, isn’t it?”
When Alastor finally rose from his seat, his master was already at the hatch, absentmindedly stroking the cat droid at his heels. Rubbing his stiff neck with a groan, he said, “About our next mission—”
“That soon?” He arched a brow. Normally, missions were separated by days—if not weeks—to allow for some rest and preparation for the next assignment. Every planet in the galaxy had its own language and customs. And while it’s true a common language called Basic existed, nothing built trust and connection like speaking in the natives’ tongue. A single misstep from misunderstanding the culture could mean death. Nearly being burned alive was, frankly, not unusual.
“This time, we’ve been requested by name.”
Lucifer opened the hatch and descended the ramp with a buoyant step, his droid trotting closely behind. The mirrored walls of towering skyscrapers blazed with sunlight, dazzling to the eye.
Jedi. Guardians of peace, angels of the galaxy. That lie was believed only by those ignorant to the truth. In the name of ‘peace’, they killed the others. For the sake of their survival, they struck first. Wielding their sabers, they prayed that someday their actions would bear fruit. Alastor did not think this was wrong. It was a lie, yes, but a necessary one. Lucifer, on the other hand, seemed to truly believe in the ideal, and such conviction spread like fire. Those that he saved saw him as a vision of some sort of celestial being they had never known: pale skin, golden hair, eyes the color of the sky, boyish features, slight of frame, and voice sounding like a lullaby. Even when stained with blood, his white tunic gleamed as though untouched. Everything about him described an angel, but when called such, he only looked sorrowful. Perhaps it displeased him. Perhaps it wrought shame.
Long ago, when Alastor had called him ‘angel’, he remembered his gentle smile. Or did he? Maybe his memory betrayed him. For on that day, beneath the sun he had seen for the first time, the searing brilliance of those blue eyes had burned away all else.
“Requested by name. Interesting. As popular as ever, I see.”
With his hands folded at his waist beneath his black robe, Alastor descended at a measured pace. By seventeen, he had long since overtaken his master in height. When the notoriously arrogant, cynical young Jedi Padawan Alastor stood deferentially at his master’s side, the sight never failed to draw his fellows’ stares–some surprised, others suspicious. Padawan always follow their masters, Alastor explained, and most accepted that. Somehow.
The truth was simpler: Alastor needed his master within sight. If Lucifer wandered off or fell to some sort of ambush, Alastor would be left to shoulder the consequences. Besides, such things had already happened. His master’s excuses were always something like, “But Alastor, there was some sweet delicacy in the shop’s window!” Or, he would insist Alastor’s injuries were worse than they were and thus must be treated first. Even if his master was the one with a more grievous wound. Careless, oblivious, irresponsible. Alastor really should force Lucifer to accept responsibility and take accountability for his actions.
After all, Lucifer was the one who had dragged Alastor this far. He was the one to whom his mother had entrusted her precious son. He was the one who, when asked why he wanted to be friends, smiled and said, “Because I like you”.
“They say there’s a girl. A potential Jedi candidate. Her name is Charlotte. I saw the image. She’s an adorable little one.”
“From brokering peace in a war-torn world to babysitting an infant? Truly, life is full of drama.”
“Hearing that from a sharp, little boy who grew into a young, clever Jedi carries weight indeed.”
Lucifer’s profile softened as his gaze turned inward to fifteen years past.
“You should have more faith in yourself. You’ve defied every obstacle. Age, doubt, scorn, and you have proved yourself worthy. I’m proud of you, Alastor.”
Lucifer knew his padawan’s reputation. A conceited, arrogant apprentice. And yet, he remained unfazed and urged Alastor to be confident.
A Jedi must forsake jealousy and attachment. Love, desire, and obsession endangered peace. Infants were taken before they could choose their way. Before the sense of self had formed. They were to be molded swiftly into obedience lest they grow unstable and dangerous. Charlotte, then, must be no more than a round-faced baby with no will of her own. To cease being a Jedi was possible, but to refuse to become one was not. Whether by parental ambition or fear, or even the chance encounter of a roving knight, the path always closed around those chosen.
Alastor had been the one and only exception amongst them. At seven years old, he chose the path, remembering his mother’s face and voice, and loving her enduringly.
He was the only Jedi who could say and understand the meaning of that word.
Additionally, most padawans who were bound to their masters for years entertained fleeting infatuations. But only Alastor had nurtured an attachment so fierce, so enduring, that even after fifteen years, it burned beyond his own control.
The child Lucifer picked up—that label would follow him forever. He didn’t care. Hypocritical as it was, even Jedi could not completely banish attachment. That was why the prohibition of it was so emphatic. Couldn’t anyone see through the charade of this deception?
Alastor, the one shunned by his fellow padawans—who should have been his companions–and treated as a pariah by the adults—who should have been his protectors, had one friend. Before he became his master, Lucifer was the only friend who treated Alastor with warmth. Like an older brother, near enough in age to quarrel with him, yet always ready to shield him when it mattered. And like a father, offering love without asking anything in return.
Master Morningstar. Behind his gentle public image, there stood a man of no small stubbornness. One who knew how to wield, to his convenience, his reputation as an ‘angel’. He was a Jedi who cherished all living things without favoritism. After all these years, Alastor now understood that it was Lucifer who bent the inviolable codes to procure him as an apprentice. All because that naive child he had just met blurted out, “I want to become a Jedi.”
Lucifer knew that the boy’s mother, who thought only of her son’s future, had scraped enough of her meager wages together to pay the exorbitant cost of transmitting a message across the galaxy, pleading for someone to come see this special boy. Lucifer knew that if it hadn’t been him who received that message, no one would have ever bothered setting foot on the planet. Lucifer, refusing to even utter the words ‘too old’ pressed forward based on his intuition and conviction alone. Knowing all along, and vowing in turn, that should anything happen, he alone would bear the responsibility.
Lucifer had no duty, no reason, no need whatsoever to shoulder the fate of strangers. And if this was what the Jedi meant by their vaunted creed of compassion, then perhaps it was truly so.
That was why Alastor knew the situation well. To his master, he was special. A cocky, but caring padawan who made him proud. A precious child that he wanted to express his deep affection to. Yet, Alastor wished he did not know this truth.
That Lucifer’s words, “I love you, my padawan” uttered with such clear sincerity, hurt more than any wound a lightsaber could sear into flesh and bone.
Notes:
Fanart appreciation time!
I'd like to share this wonderful art by my dear friend Mare, who not only did the beta for me but is also an incredible artist! Now we can see why Lucifer described Alastor's eyes as warm and rich 🥹
You can check Mare's wonderful arts on Bluesky!
Chapter Text
After filing his mission report to the Council, Lucifer visited a familiar bar that blared a grating kind of electropop at full volume. Same as usual. He silently wished for earplugs as he swept a glance around the needlessly spacious interior. A raised hand in a corner booth served as his marker. He weaved his way between the bar counter and its patrons and arrived at a table where two shot glasses brimmed with luminous blue liquid rested beside the source bottle.
“What’s this, Adam? How uncharacteristically thoughtful of you.”
His friend snorted at Lucifer’s comment.
“No doubt you’ve got nothing good to say.”
Adam leaned back against the neon-lit sofa. Lucifer slid in beside him, pushing back the hood of his brown robe that he had low over his head.
“If you seek a pleasant conversation, you should’ve chosen a more stylish bar. No offense, but this racket of electronic beeping doesn’t even qualify as music.”
“I picked this dump precisely because I don’t want to linger here with you. You think I want to sit through this shrill trash? It totally ruins the taste of my drink. Truth is, any liquor shared with your prim and proper face in front of me is gonna be ruined.”
“You might as well admit that being seen in public with a Jedi of high moral standing damages that outlaw image that you have so carefully cultivated. A bit bad for business, isn’t it?”
“Oh, the only one who should be sweating about that kind of thing is you. Once the pristine halo of the angelic Master Morningstar gets dragged through the mud, who will really be in trouble, hm?”
His friend, hair spiked with wax, combed his fingers idly through it, his knuckles adorned heavily with rings.
“Anyway, pour me another drink. I’ve been sick and tired of waiting for the very busy Master Jedi.”
Adam having waited so scrupulously was proof enough of a generous heart. The liquor, glowing faintly blue as if fitted with lights, boasted an alcohol content of some forty degrees. Its base ingredient was a species of shrimp native to the seas of Envy, well known for emitting a luminescent substance once a year during mating season. The resulting nightly glow upon those waters was one of the planet’s most treasured attractions.
“I think I’ll start with some food,” Lucifer remarked, running his eyes over the same unchanging menu laid on the table.
“You haven’t eaten?” Adam asked.
“I invited Alastor, but he turned me down. I don’t think living off of ration bars is good for someone still growing. So whether we’re on Pride or on missions, I’ve made a point of dragging him out to have real meals. But now, he says, ‘I’ve already eaten a lifetime’s worth of restaurant food. I’m done.’ Can you believe that? I deserve some gratitude, don’t you think? He owes that ridiculous height of his to me!”
“Your padawan is probably mortified that his master dissects food culture before language or religion in every preliminary research before your missions.”
“Eating is the foundation of life, Adam.”
“Don’t preach at me in that pretentious tone. It kills the mood.”
“Oh? Huh…are you planning on picking someone up tonight?”
“Idiot. When a man spends his life in the sky, his one true love is his ship.”
“Okay, I know that. But you can’t sleep with the ship herself, can you? It’s a shame, really, when you’ve got to make better use of the joystick.”
Feigning solemnity, Lucifer raised a hand to signal for a server. Adam stared at him, then let out a demonstrative sigh.
“Sleeping with you was the greatest mistake of my life.”
“On that, I wholeheartedly agree.”
“Hey, use that fancy power of yours. Wipe my memory. Erase it all.”
“You know we can’t do that. Besides, don’t be ridiculous. Hitting my thirties has taught me the meaning of ‘youthful indiscretion,’ anyway.”
Jedi were still human after all. They fell in love with dashing older padawans or beautiful princesses they met on assignments. Their bodies responded as any other would. It was then a matter of learning how to live and survive with their impulses. Most endured stoically; some, inevitably, took care of their needs in secret. Unless it caused a true scandal, a youthful fling was usually left unpunished. Dismissed with that very phrase: ‘youthful indiscretion’.
In such closed, rule-bound environments, a young padawan’s yearning for recognition from their master often twisted into something more like infatuation. In Lucifer’s case, his master had been old enough to be his father and was often at odds with him. So he fell outside that sphere of longing. That did not prevent respect, or the genuine affection, to grow greater than he had ever felt for his own father. As master and apprentice, they were sound.
More often than not, though, those misplaced affections shifted towards friends instead. Adam had been the most convenient choice back then, just as Lucifer had been for him. Looking back now, he could only see it as profoundly unhealthy. Though, in truth, most Jedi had walked some kind of variant of that path. There were exceptions, of course. Serious souls who never strayed. Foremost amongst them was his very own disciple.
Alastor had been a model student. There was no doubt his upbringing played a role in a certain way, but for his age, he was remarkably composed and received top marks. His tongue was sharp—very sharp indeed—but his eloquence made him a skilled negotiator. He forever complained about his disdain for physical exertion, yet his combat style harnessed his powerful and tall frame. And his skill with a lightsaber could not be denied. Lucifer, who favored close-range speed duels, and Alastor, who exploited his long reach for sly endurance fights with distance, made a perfect duo.
When it came to unforeseen crises, such as that “burning alive” incident several days ago, Alastor still needed more experience to react with true flexibility. But every word Lucifer had told him before had been the truth. Lucifer was prouder of him than of anyone. And the boy grew to be as magnificent as any master could hope for. Perhaps that was why, in some corner of his heart, Lucifer felt a faint sadness.
His padawan would soon leave the nest. And when that time came, he would have to let him go.
“Our next mission is on Eden,” he said, tracing the rim of his glass with a fingertip. “And I intend to enter by…an unofficial route.”
Adam pressed his wrist to his brow and groaned. “Spare me. I’m not your personal pilot.”
“But there’s no one else I trust.”
“Expand your network, then. Or cozy up with your precious padawan, pose as refugees, and smuggle yourselves in.”
“I plan to pose as a refugee. I mean, imagine Jedi or any nobles disembarking from your rust bucket of a ship. It wouldn’t fit the picture.”
“Say that again and I’ll deck you. And who in their right mind would want to set foot on Eden anyway?” Lucifer’s friend spat out the words, “that trauma factory of a planet”.
Lush forests, plains awash with flowers, an ecosystem likened to a garden of paradise—Eden was famed across the galaxy as a world of beauty and wonder. And every Jedi was required—at least once—to descend into a cavern on that idyllic lake planet and seek the crystal that would power their lightsaber. Lucifer had ventured into that cavern not once, but four times. But the prizes were not won so easily. Among the countless gems of all shapes and hues, one had to be chosen, and to choose in return. And only by enduring the trials imposed by the Force.
Each trial was different, yet always the same in its essence. Confront and conquer what you fear most. Some faced visions of a terrible future. Others relived the horrors of their past. The lesson was clear. Fear was nothing more or less than what the heart gave rise to. Do not turn away from the shadow within. Accept it, and you will always find the light. Unshaken, even in sudden calamity. Jedi who yielded to fear and hatred were often likened to demons. And the only protection against the inner devil was the brilliance of a light strong enough to burn the dark out in an instant.
Lucifer didn’t know what trial Adam had endured. Nor did Adam have any inkling of the terror Lucifer had barely driven back. Lucifer could understand why his friend had no wish to return. But for him, there was a reason. An inevitable reason that pulled him to go back.
“Lilith has taken in a promising child,” he said.
“That makes it all the worse.”
Adam snatched a rib jerky—without asking—from the newly arrived platter of food. He tossed it into his mouth with a snort.
“The queen who only thinks of her own planet? Now she’s playing patron saint to the Jedi?”
“Politicians are the same everywhere, Adam. But you know Lilith isn’t like that.”
“Listen to you. The Morningstar family, discoursing on politics. You’re more like that brother of yours every year. Keep this up and you’ll be bald like him in no time, mark my words. Oh, here’s good news for you. Last month, I was handling some stock–vile stuff: hair tonic and virility boosters. I should’ve saved a bottle for you. My bad.”
“He’s not balding. He tears his hair out from stress. Did you catch the last Senate broadcast? Mid-debate, he clawed at his head and half of his bangs came out.”
“Yeah, and the camera cut right to that Greed senator opposite him, face screaming, ‘What a lucrative business opportunity.’”
“They say Mammon Enterprises’ stock spiked right after. Hilarious, isn’t it?”
“Politics, economics, I’ll never see the appeal.”
“Says the man who left the unpaid service of the Jedi to become a smuggler of contraband. Now that is rich beyond measure.”
“Listen. What I love is flying my ship and roaming the galaxy. But a ship and a man both need fuel. So I haul high-priced goods, make enough to feed myself and my ship. That’s all.”
“Hair tonic and virility boosters, I see. Just don’t get into trafficking.”
“You’re lecturing me? When you’re about to have me smuggle a child?”
“Ah. Touché.”
Lucifer gave a small shrug as he speared a cluster of pickles steeped in apple vinegar with a skewer, their fragrance fresh and tangy.
“Words carry weight when spoken by someone who was once smuggled himself.”
“And resonate deeper when spoken by someone who was delivered to his parents in a crate.”
Only infants up to six months were accepted as Jedi candidates. If a child began to show attachment to family, friends, pets, or even a favored toy, the risk of falling under the sway of the Dark increased exponentially. Such was the long-held tradition among the Jedi, and a rule considered inviolable. When Adam was brought to the spire that towered above even the tallest skyscrapers of Pride—the so-called “Temple” where the Jedi, the angels, made their home—he was five months old.
Lucifer, for his part, had been scarcely a month into life.
The only way Lucifer knew that the senator of Pride, whose role in the Senate steered the galaxy, was his father, was by reason of their shared surname and their physical features which reflected each other like mirrored glass. Though their paths crossed several times in the corridors of the Senate chamber, they had not exchanged words once.
The results of medical tests confirmed the tale that appearances alone could not. In a high-rise condominium where no draft could possibly enter, was a newborn with a crib mobile that spun wildly above him and whose bottle would topple from the table whenever his cries of hunger rang out. Such supernatural occurrences made his parents suspicious.
And when the tests confirmed their fears, Lucifer Morningstar’s future shifted in an instant—from a second-generation senator and heir to an empire built by his parents, to the strongest of bargaining chips. A favor owed by the Jedi that would secure the family’s place in the very core of power. From what Lucifer had glimpsed of his relatives in news broadcasts, watching them strut across the political stage, he only felt gratitude that he had been cast out before the political circus could sour him.
Even so, it remained rare for a Jedi’s lineage to be so clearly documented as in Lucifer’s case. Missions for retrieval often came from tips. A family member or an acquaintance who suspected a child might harbor the Force abilities would summon a Jedi to confirm their speculation. Every fellow Jedi and young apprentice who thrived across the galaxy had once undergone the same process when traveling to Pride. Within the Temple, Lucifer knew of only one other Jedi who had ever seen their birth parents’ faces: his own padawan.
Attachment, left unchecked, would one day consume a soul. That was true enough. The restrictions laid down by their forebears had its logic. Lucifer understood that. Though he had never received love from his biological parents, the masters and friends he met within the Temple had become his family in their stead. Lucifer loved them dearly, just as he cherished the strangers he was sworn to save. Without the ability to love others indiscriminately, a Jedi’s duty could at times be impossible. But—
Lucifer had long wondered if that rule might not tell the whole truth. If one had—in the span of their lifetime—a single soul to love with all one’s being…a family, a partner, someone dear…Might that not make them stronger?
The most compelling proof of that possibility was, after all, his very own padawan.
“So. What’s that insufferably pensive brat who turned down your dinner date up to now?”
As if reading his thoughts, Adam raised the topic of Alastor. Spinning his skewer of pickled vegetables idly on his plate, Lucifer replied.
“I sent him to Rosie. To pick up our clothes. Something to fit us posing as refugees. They’re close, so I thought it would be a good chance for him to take a breather.”
“Always so well-prepared. You didn’t actually think I would refuse you, did you? That’s exactly what I hate about you.”
Adam snatched a pickle in petty revenge and muttered in a low voice, “So Eden’s gonna be his graduation exam, huh?”
Lucifer reached for a fresh skewer and nodded without a word.
“Did the ‘Court’ say so?”
“I went to report on our last mission earlier today. Turns out that graduation thing was their real agenda.”
“I bet it was Sera who mentioned it. Something like: ‘Listen well, Master Morningstar. Only when your padawan leaves your protection and stands on his own, will we begin to reassess that misplaced sentimentality of yours that’s been buried these past fifteen years. Though should Alastor prove himself a Jedi in his own right, do not expect us to welcome him with open arms.’”
“Amazing,” Lucifer said, genuinely impressed. “That’s exactly what she said…word for word.”
“Figures.” Adam grimaced, chewing noisily on his pickle. “Is this pickled in apple vinegar? Pickles aren’t supposed to be sweet and sour.”
He tossed the empty skewer onto the platter and let Lucifer pour him another shot. Adam sighed, “So Sera’s still running the show?”
The assembly of venerable masters who led the Jedi and the body that decided on candidates, promotions, or missions, were—with a blend of reverence and bitter scorn—known amongst the rank and file as “The Court”. Adam’s tone left no room for doubt as to where he leaned in that blend.
A Jedi’s worth doesn’t always align with how much of the Force they can wield.
And if one wanted to sit among the judges of the Court, then one better know how to play politics.
The fact is, no one has ever been able to explain exactly why some can use the Force and some cannot. There was a recent study that claimed its ties to a certain cell body or something genetic, but just look at Lucifer. In his family, he was the only one whose abilities stood out. So he supposed the Force doesn’t exactly follow those rules of inheritance, after all.
“Sera’s the same as ever. Zestial barely leaves his quarters—too busy brewing whatever mysterious tea he’s obsessed with at the moment. Oh, and Velvette finally got promoted. So, Camilla’s frown lines have eased up a little now that she’s on her own.”
“And your padawan?”
“No issues. Sure, he is a little older than the average Jedi at the time of promotion, but that’s just because he started later. Compared to his peers, he is by far the most capable.”
“Ah. Now you’re blind with affection.”
Adam scoffed, then leaned on his elbow, his golden eyes narrowing on Lucifer. His voice turned languid as he stated,
“I hear they’re calling him a Demon. Poor kid. Serves him right, having you as a master.”
Lucifer drew his untouched glass closer and drank in silence. Adam, already pouring his third, beat him to the next refill and swallowed it in one gulp.
“On one hand, you’ve got the poster boy of the Jedi Temple. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and robed in shining white. On the other hand, his shadow. A towering man draped in darkness. His dark hair and eyes, and with clothing as black as night. Light made brighter by darkness? Or darkness trying to swallow the light? Honestly, if people are going to coin phrases, couldn’t they come up with something less trite than ‘Angel and Demon’?”
“Alastor is strong,” Lucifer said firmly. “A child who knows love is strong. Stronger than me, who grew up with nothing. Strong enough to be a Jedi.”
“That’s just wishful thinking.”
“Even so, nothing can be proven without believing so first.”
Lucifer set his glass back down with a sharper sound than intended. He could tell Adam heard it clearly, and his friend grinned crookedly.
“Don’t get so uptight. I know you. You played the good little angel, the perfect role model for the Order, but then stumbled into something way over your head. You’ve been different ever since you took that kid in.”
“‘I’ll leave before I end up like you.’ That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it? I remember what you told me on that day.” Lucifer let slip a sigh he failed to swallow.
“You’ll lose your happiness if you go on like that,” Adam said flatly.
When Lucifer set off to Orleans—Alastor’s home planet—he was dispatched on his first mission after being promoted from his master’s side to stand on his own. Alongside the thrill of setting foot on an unfamiliar planet solo, he also felt a weight of responsibility that was so crushing, he fell into a pattern of sleepless nights. It was then, in the midst of that feverish strain, that he slept with Adam—his fellow padawan. Just once. Adam’s excuse afterwards was that after seeing Lucifer’s pitiful face pleading, “I just don’t want to think anymore”, Adam acted against his better judgment in a single instance of insanity.
In those days, Lucifer had been fond of Adam. Despite his foul tongue, Adam was a friend to whom Lucifer could entrust his life without hesitation. A childhood companion with whom he had shared countless missions, both bitter and sweet. He was the closest stranger imaginable. Yet, when set upon the scales that measured the duties of a Jedi, that feeling was but a thin, pale affection. Something that could be easily cast aside. At least, for Lucifer, it had to be.
After that awkward entanglement—clumsy, uncertain, rough and unpracticed—Adam had murmured a single phrase that Lucifer would never forget. And with those words, his friend unknowingly opened a debt that Lucifer could never repay. If not for Adam’s rejection, who knows if Lucifer would have learned the demands of his fate as a Jedi. And so, only weeks after their intimate deed, Lucifer returned from Orleans with a boy in tow. And Adam abruptly declared, “I’m going to leave the Temple.” Lucifer made no move to stop him.
“Your padawan is too easy to read sometimes,” Adam remarked, refilling his glass until the luminous liquor nearly spilled over the rim. “He’ll be heading to Eden only to be told, after his trials are over, of his inevitable fate which was kept from him. Suppose—for argument’s sake—that those rose-colored lenses you wear are in actuality the faintest shade you can imagine. Your padawan will suffer at the hands of that detested queen and cling to life with all his strength. Then, after making it out and returning to Pride, he will be greeted with, ‘Congratulations. You are now promoted as a full-fledged Jedi. Your apprenticeship with Master Morningstar is over and thus, the bond with him dissolved.’ He’ll be sent straight down to hell from heaven, huh?”
Adam then added, as casually as if he were speaking of the weather, “He’s in love with you.”
Lucifer knew that.
He had known for a while now that Alastor harbored such feelings for him. He knew that this bright boy who had grown into such a cynical man remained to hold Lucifer in esteem for some reason. Of course he knew.
“It happens all the time,” he answered.
And indeed it did. The yearning to be recognized by one’s master. The desire to be watched over. It could all too easily drift beyond admiration into something more abstract. Something more dangerous. Especially for Alastor. Who was not like other Jedi.
Raised in the glow of his mother’s love, it was only natural that he would eventually crave that feeling he had lost once more. Beneath his incessant, arrogant words and haughty bearing beat a tender heart. One capable of loving those he cherished so deeply. Lucifer had been the only true witness to that softness. And it was likely Lucifer who had nurtured it into being himself. He alone could sense what lived beyond Alastor’s cold and imperious facade. If just one more soul appeared who could recognize that hidden kindness, then surely his padawan would be alright. Lucifer clung to that hope as his master.
In place of the mother he had, in effect, stolen away, Lucifer longed to remain at Alastor’s hand. Ever ready to extend his grasp like a father might. As they quarreled over trivial affairs, Lucifer wished to be like an elder brother who would—without hesitation—shield Alastor in his time of need.
Or, to be his closest friend. To whom any story might be told without fear or shame.
That was all the love Lucifer, who had never known his own parents and spent his life in the Temple, could give to Alastor. It might not be the shape of love his padawan craved—but again, this shortcoming was the kind of thing that happened all the time. And the bitterness certainly dulls over the years. For instance, at this very moment, he sat together with Adam and spoke of their past as nothing more than an old memory. Back when Lucifer had been powerless to stop his long-time friend from leaving the Temple. Back when he never dreamed that such a painful day might come.
And so, it would be the same with Alastor, one day. He could even see it clearly: the young, beautiful man—only a little older from now—would roll his eyes at Lucifer in exasperation and say, “It was nothing but a folly. Youthful indiscretion. That I, of all people, would have fancied you…”
Adam, without glancing at Lucifer, gave a small nod.
“True enough. It does happen all the time. Still, I’d say your taste is abysmal.” He poured even more liquor into his glass before adding, “As a Jedi, his talent and power may be flawless, but—as a man, you have utterly failed him. Before you take on another padawan, you’d best reflect long and hard.”
“Well, I’ll grant you this much. I can say I failed him when it came to food.”
“That’s it? The problem lies first and foremost in his contempt for every living soul but you. Every time anyone associates with you, they’re met with his complaints. Especially me. Or Lilith. Whoever. You’d best beat that habit out of him.”
“Even if he complains about you, it’s not like you take it to heart,” Lucifer countered.
“Take it to heart? It doesn’t even brush my ears. But that’s for me to decide, not you. Take some responsibility for his attitude,” Adam shot back.
“Now that you mention it, I’m reminded of one of his most shocking moments. He was silently eating those bland rations. All while sprinkling on his own spice blends. Who knows what he puts in them…Then, as we began to be chased, he just continued seasoning his rations in the cockpit, saying, ‘I’ve grown tired of the flavor.’ Meanwhile I was trying to shake off our pursuers with a barrel roll! Then, his little concocted powder scattered into the air and fell straight into my eyes! I fought off blindness as tears streamed down my face, and I broke into a fierce sneezing fit. I thought we were going to crash then and there. And y'know what Alastor had the gall to say? ‘At this rate, you’ll never be fit to pilot.’ Can you imagine that?”
“It’s a grave problem that you allowed to sprout in the first place. His weariness with rations is your own fault. You spoiled him by dragging him to eat wherever you pleased. And with every mission, you brought back spices as souvenirs. Of course he grew accustomed. And of course he grew bold.”
Lucifer puffed his cheeks at the sting of the candid retort. Adam watched him for a moment from the corner of his eye. Then, after downing his fourth drink in a single draught, he spoke with a sigh of resignation.
“Fine. I’ll fly you there. But only the outbound leg. You’ll find your own way back.”
Notes:
So! That’s all for today, hope you had fun reading! Like I said earlier, this fic’s gonna be updated kinda sporadically over the next few weeks. I’d love to hear what you think—any comment is super welcome!
And once it’s wrapped up, I’m thinking of posting some of my other radioapple fics, including the Our Flag Means Death AU I dropped this spring. :)