Almost done with next chapter of 'We All Fall Down'. In the meantime, I wrote this happy little fic. Enjoy.

(I meant to write a fic about Lucifer mourning the brothers he killed. I don't even know how this happened...)

Disclaimer; I do not own Supernatural, nor any of the characters, ideas, concepts, or other materials within.

Star of Mourning

Lucifer remembers Light, first and foremost. Michael is pressing him down with his flaming sword, dead and dying angels screeching their pain across Creation as other brilliant forms surge over Lucifer's scant followers, beating them down through the skies of Earth and down, down, down, until they're Falling through Earth, past reality, and the sheer force is burning their forms so they're a cascade of falling stars, streaming down, down, down, and Lucifer thinks, absurdly, I am truly a star at last.

And then there is darkness.

A star in space, he thinks, and tries to fly. But he can't. He hits more darkness, and everything around him is black, endless, and empty. And he is alone.

Lucifer calls through the twilight for his brethren. "Beelzebub! Abaddon! Baal! Belial, Bereth! Penemuel!" Then, wondering if his faithful have forsaken him, he calls for his newly twisted demons. "Lillith! Oce! Rahab! Zagan!"

But there is silence, utter and deafening in its emptiness. He flaps wings that once spanned the distance between galaxies, flying faster than he ever has before, a pace that would outstrip Michael and Gabriel and Raphael all, but there is darkness, darkness, darkness, and nothing to grasp onto.

There is no telling of time, but a few years pass in this manner. The once-angel of music thought to sing to pass the time, but he knows of no songs except those of worship, and these slide off his forked tongue like oil in water, an ugly, dismayed thing that he detests, so he is silent. Everything is silent.

Years pass. The blackness encroaches on his eyes, weighing them down. His own radiant brilliance is hidden away, and sight is forgotten. Even the light of Michael's sword has become a dim memory, and maybe it was never real at all, because of course there is nothing but the dark. And he wonders, is this what death feels like?

Years pass. His wings grow heavy and sore, and eventually fail. Lucifer plummets, and knows terror, but there is no ground to this prison, so he wheels and spins endlessly through the black, and if there was ever direction here it is now lost forever.

Years pass. His huge limbs are numb. He prods himself all over, thinking, these are my arms, these are my legs, my head, my wings, and he tries to remember that there were once other things, too, but this is all that's left in the darkness.

Years pass. Lucifer sings songs of worship, for his voice is failing him, and the songs sting his Grace and make his double-tongue burn. That is good. It is feeling. He keeps singing.

Years pass. Lucifer screams for them, his angels, his poor Fallen brothers, but there is no answer. He wonders if they are in their own black, and the greatest archangel weeps shining tears into the darkness, unseen and unheard, and cannot even feel them.

Years pass. He begs for Father to let it end, for rest, for respite. For light. There is no answer. He didn't really expect one.

Years pass. He tumbles and spirals down without knowing or caring, and tries to remember their names, his brothers' names, but he can only think of Michael, and that brings a different darkness.

Years pass. He tries to sing, and cannot. Song has left him, and Lucifer is left dumb.

Years pass. If he had ears, they would ring with the silence, bleed with it, and he strains to hear and cannot.

Years pass. There is Nothing. It is like everything else.

Years pass. There is darkness.

Years pass. Lucifer is an archangel. He remembers this. He is blessed. He is blessed. He is blessed.

Years pass.

There is light.

A bright light, a brilliant light - his light. And Lucifer flies through the hole in his cage, his prison, his Hell, and looks out upon a ruined world, and he thinks, yes. Because he is an archangel, and he is blessed. The world is blessed. The world is his.

"Forever," he says, and his crackling voice thunders in his own ears. And he looks up toward the sky, the blue-grey sky with its bright golden sun, with trilling birds flitting over the world, singing against the blessed ceiling of the sky, and he can't even smile through the pain. "Forever. Forever."

"Let there be light."