A Collector

Collector (9/7/16)

"Michael's settled down, Gabriel's courting, and Raphael is getting married," God says. His holy light flares briefly in agitation and a subspecies of emu perishes. "When have you dated, Lucifer. When?"

"I date," Lucifer says, eyes sliding to the right. "You just haven't met them yet."

God levels his oldest with an unimpressed glare. "I created the universe, Lucifer, I've met everyone."

"Well, I, um," Lucifer says. He looks at the leather bracelet wrapped around his wrist as if it were a watch. "Goodness, look at the time! I'm roasting Hitler and it's just about that time of the century to turn him over. I'd love to stay and chat, but–"

"I know you're gay," God says, cutting to the chase.

Lucifer's heart plummets. "You–I—no, I am not ... that's not–"

"It's okay," God says gently. He sighs and his light dims. "Lucifer, is that why you haven't allowed yourself to find happiness? Are you still so afraid of my judgement?"

He makes it sound so ... childish. It makes Lucifer furious.

"The last time I faced your judgement," Lucifer says, "you cast me from heaven and watched as this planet tore at my wings and set me on fire. So forgive me if I'm not overly enthused to face your censure again."

"That was a different matter entirely," God says. "You know this. You know what you were trying to do and what I hoped you would learn."

Lucifer looks away, jaw flexing. He does but the memory of his siblings' hands on him, rejecting him, is still fresh, even after all these years. He's not the vengeful being he once was but he is still separate, still apart, and he hasn't felt the unity they were born into in millennia. He worries he never will if they find out and–well, God has found him out.

"I know what you're thinking," God says, not unkindly. His light drifts down to cradle Lucifer and then dims further when Lucifer, instinctively, flinches away.

"I–I don't like to be touched," Lucifer says. He can't say what the real problem is. He's held himself apart from comfort for so long that he doesn't know what will happen when the seal is broken. He thinks comfort will burn him worse than the hellfires that he's spent centuries tending.

God is silent for a long while. When he speaks again, his voice is enmeshed in the sound of water and tides. "Lucifer, there is no perfect being in this universe. Myself included."

The calm of His tone is all that's keeping Lucifer from reacting badly. He says, "Father?"

"I was lonely then," God says. "I was about as old as you are now and I had no one. I learned to create in the absence and that ... that was my salvation. I created you all, just children, and I could not bear to think of a time where you would not be with me. I made you to obey me, to do my will, and to never have the option to leave. I am ... sorry for that. More than you may know."

Lucifer swallows against the lump in his throat. This is the apology he's spent lifetimes for but not like this. "What are you saying?"

"I created the world," God says, "I made the sea and the land, I made animals and plants, I created beauty and majesty. I thought that if I gave you everything you could want, you wouldn't notice my sins against you and your siblings. The world was dark and you–" God's light burns brighter, more proudly "–you lit the skies for me. You brought light to the dark world."

"You told me too," Lucifer says. It was not his accomplishment. He'd been but a tool then, doing God's will.

God nods, his pride winking out to be replaced by an inexplicable sorrow. "I did. I created a utopia. My utopia. None of my children disobeyed, none of them disagreed with me, none of them wanted for anything. A perfect existence is empty. It's almost like being alone."