He could tell you the exact number of days since his fall. He could tell you every soul that had decided it needed punishment and what their desires had been. He could tell you in detail how the world was created and how humanity had failed in every way. But in this moment, all he could think of was his wings. You would've thought they'd be tinted red by now with the pain and suffering he'd been surrounded with for so long. But they were still the purest white, a color had replicated.

"I want them gone," he finally said, spreading them slowly until fully outstretched. "I want you to cut them off."

Mazikeen, his right-hand demon and protector, looked at him with confusion. He'd always had pride in his wings. They were the separating factor between him and the demons, had terrified the humans. They were the one gift from his father that he actually cherished.

"Cut them off," he told her again, more direct this time. He got down on his knees, facing the bed and away from her. His hands gripped the bed sheets, knuckles turning white before the pain even started. He knew she was questioning his command, knew this was crazy. But he was full of crazy ideas these days. His breath hitched as she took a hold of his right wing. The first cut made his muscles tense up. He could feel her hesitate, so he tried to stay still. The consecutive cuts tore screams from his lungs. The sounds of Hell quieted, hearing the pain and anguish coming from Lucifer.

When she finished with them, she set them aside, knowing he'd want to keep them. He was breathing heavily, muscles quivering as he stood. There was a sense of longing for them, a void where they should have been.

He could feel the blood slowly rolling down his back, sticky and wet. The sounds of Hell resumed once more, leaving him with a new understanding. "Mazikeen, we're going on vacation," he finally said, breaking the silence between the two. It was time for some time away from all this pain.