"Never."

For a moment, a short moment, it seemed as if the world had fallen still. Nobody moved. The air was devoid of sound.  But as quick as it came upon them, it was shattered by the quiet, stoic voice. "I was hoping you'd say that."

A screech of agony echoed through the air as the blade of Lucifer's knife sliced through Abaddon's chest. It didn't puncture him, not going deep enough remove his wings, just scratching the surface and siphoning out what was left of his Grace. In the blink of an eye, the ancient sigil appeared, the star locked in a circle burned into the Guardian's chest.

The Mark of Satan.

Lucifer pulled the blade away, his eyes burning red. So, so red. It made Michael's spine prickle as his blade of fire ignited in response to the scene, when Lucifer kicked Abaddon hard, sending the angel skidding a few feet away on his back. Dropping the knife, Lucifer raised his hands defensively and turned to Michael before he could react. The smile was back on his lips, the red dulling as the reapers descended from the sky, Abaddon's wailing escalating as he was attacked by the black masses.

"Sorry, brother," Lucifer said, the blue once more reappearing in his eyes. "Old habits die hard."

Michael was silent, pointing his sword at Lucifer, as he watched Abaddon be carried away. The sky cleared when the reapers disappeared, leaving the world around them in silence again.

Slowly, Michael lowered the blade. "He's gone."

"For now," Lucifer said, "but not forever."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm here," Lucifer said. "I know what being in the pit does to you. Give him a few thousand years to get adequately pissed off and he'll find his way out of there."

"Then why did you send him there? Why not end him now?"

"Because when I take him out, brother, I don't want him to be on his knees," Lucifer said, picking up his knife and twirling it for a moment. Michael watched with fascination as Lucifer sliced his own hand with the blade. There was no blood, simply a line of glowing light as some Grace trickled out before the wound sealed. Lucifer stared down at it, smiling, before meeting Michael's eyes. "When I take him out, I want him to learn a lesson he was too dense to learn today."

"What's that?"

Lucifer stepped toward Michael, and he tensed, gripping the handle of his blade tighter, but he didn't move. Lucifer's smile grew when he caught it, though, his eyes flickering down to the sword briefly as he said, "Nobody fucks with an Archangel. Nobody."

Michael shook his head as Lucifer laughed, the pop of static cutting off the amused sound as the Archangel disappeared.  Michael stood there for a moment as something swam inside of him, something he tried to push back, but it got the best of him eventually: curiosity.

He apparated from the area and popped up in front of the small house in Chorizon. Serah was inside, fast asleep. Michael stood in the street for a moment, glancing around. All was how it had been the day before, the slate wiped clean, removing the fight between angels from all mortal memory. Michael remembered, though. He always would. Just like his brother, he remembered everything. He remembered how it felt the day he spared Serah not far away in the street, the grief he'd felt for the first time in his existence.

He'd felt it again, not long ago, right in this spot when he couldn't spare her again. Orders were orders, and his Father had expressly stated it when he'd been sent to help Lucifer.

Whatever comes of the one called Serah, you're not to intervene.

The grief of leaving her to die wasn't because of her lost life. It was because him and Lucifer were still connected, and he felt it inside of his brother, grief like he'd never known before.

Michael took a last look at the house before turning away. There was nothing left to make him want to stay. She'd left him long before today. Now it was time for him to let go.

Epilogue

Colors.

Mortals have thousands of names for them, different shades of different colors, only subtly altered from the one before it. They hold colors in high regard, mixing and matching, coordinating their clothing and painting their cars and even going so far as to alter the shade of their lawns. Colors, to them, are symbolic… they grow red with anger, they feel green with envy, or they catch the blues when they're feeling down.

It puzzled Lucifer.

Colors, technically speaking, are wavelengths of light. The eyes merely detect what light the item reflects most. There's nothing metaphorical about it. The shade the grass grows doesn't make it more or less useful. Pink tulips don't smell better than purple ones. If they put stock in reflected light, they should cherish white, as it reflects the most, whereas black simply absorbs it.

It's why angels are usually seen in white, especially the Archangels. Light surrounds them. They're pure. It's also why Lucifer stood in the middle of a the vast white space he'd once again come to think of as 'home', wearing his usual get-up of black from head to toe.

Sixty years.

He'd stayed up here for the past sixty years, not stepping foot down below, and merely watched as the Earth continued to turn. It spun round and round, reflecting light, sustaining life, still the magnificent creation his Father dreamed it would be.

"Feels like just yesterday, doesn't it?"

Lucifer turned his head at the sound of the familiar voice, seeing Michael standing behind him. He saw his brother occasionally, once a month or so. Michael still spent most of his time in the throne room at their Father's side. Lucifer hadn't stepped foot in there since arriving, not because he wasn't invited… mostly because he felt like he didn't quite belong.