Lucifer, the Morningstar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
phosphoriel) wrote2012-03-14 10:34 pm
phosphoriel) wrote2012-03-14 10:34 pm
For grimholdkeeper
The sea sighs and rushes against the austere coast, the barren space between cliffs and water; at high tide nearly all this stony shore would be underwater, but there are places where dry ground lingers, hollows set higher against the cliffs, yet still tucked against and sheltered by their towering reach. Lucifer walks beside the water, seeking, following no pathway or direction: only the sense of a mortal life held in his keeping some time ago. It is still his, of course; he has never unchained it, never let it go free, only let it be at the edge of his senses for a while, still shackled to his strange, lonely, twisted heart.
The water rushes cold and frothing over his bare feet. He is robed only from the waist down, broad wings trailing behind him in the surf like the train of a gown. All the world smells of salt and solitude, a sky gray and roiling with clouds now swiftly turning black with the approach of night. In the twilight he sees a set of stairs carved roughly into the rock a little way up the shore, leading to a hollow in the cliffside where a small hut perches, standing bravely, precariously against the roar of the ocean. Built of driftwood, perhaps, to judge by the not-quite-straight lines of the walls, their dark shining smoothness. Light glows from the windows, sparse but easily seen through the gloaming.
His feet mount the steps at no particularly hurried pace. At the door, he feels the barrier of a closed bolt, but at his hand on the frame and a murmured word it unlocks soundlessly, and he pushes open the door, stepping within. His wings fill the diminutive space. He looks first at the lamp on a table, and then the man sitting beside it. "Is that the only light you have, Balthazar?"
The water rushes cold and frothing over his bare feet. He is robed only from the waist down, broad wings trailing behind him in the surf like the train of a gown. All the world smells of salt and solitude, a sky gray and roiling with clouds now swiftly turning black with the approach of night. In the twilight he sees a set of stairs carved roughly into the rock a little way up the shore, leading to a hollow in the cliffside where a small hut perches, standing bravely, precariously against the roar of the ocean. Built of driftwood, perhaps, to judge by the not-quite-straight lines of the walls, their dark shining smoothness. Light glows from the windows, sparse but easily seen through the gloaming.
His feet mount the steps at no particularly hurried pace. At the door, he feels the barrier of a closed bolt, but at his hand on the frame and a murmured word it unlocks soundlessly, and he pushes open the door, stepping within. His wings fill the diminutive space. He looks first at the lamp on a table, and then the man sitting beside it. "Is that the only light you have, Balthazar?"