Lucifer awoke with a jolt.
Cold stone pressed against his back. The air was thin and biting. A slow drip of water echoed somewhere deeper in the cave where he lay. He blinked at the jagged ceiling above him, and for a long moment, he didn't move. Couldn't.
Then it all came back.
The fire. The screams. Thror's face. His father's.
His mother's voice.
What have you done?
Lucifer sat up suddenly, breathing hard. He was still in his clothes from the feast, though they were singed and torn. His hands were bloodstained. His golden hair hung in knots over his shoulders, tangled with soot.
His wings—
He looked over his shoulder.
They were golden again. Bright, soft, feathered like before. No more bone. No more flame.
He stood, slowly, painfully. There were cuts and bruises, though they were already healing. His body, ever strong, seemed untouched by time. But his soul—his soul felt like ash.
He stumbled out of the cave, into the blinding daylight. He squinted. Below him, the mountain sloped down toward a clear, still lake, nestled between cliffs and forests of pine. The wind howled through the peaks, and somewhere in the distance, birds sang.
Lucifer stepped to the edge and fell—not to die, but to fly.
His golden wings unfurled, and he soared. The wind tore through his hair. He banked hard, landed on a rocky outcrop beside the lake, and dropped to his knees.
He looked into the water.
And saw himself.
Golden hair shining in the sunlight. Golden wings arched like a bird's. His eyes, deep and full of pain.
He looked like a creature of light.
But inside… he felt like a monster.
Lucifer picked up a stone. Heavy. Sharp-edged.
He raised it above his head.
His breath shook.
"I killed them."
His voice cracked.
"My brother… my father. I killed them."
He closed his eyes.
Then—
A voice.
Faint, soft—like the wind. Like silver bells ringing underwater.
A song.
Lucifer froze. His eyes opened, the rock still held above him.
The voice grew clearer. A woman's voice. Not in Khuzdul, not in Elvish—but some language he did not understand. But the melody… it was beautiful. Pure. Like moonlight turned into sound.
He lowered the stone. His hand shook. He tossed it aside and stood.
Drawn by something he couldn't explain, he followed the sound. Into the trees, barefoot, bleeding, wings tucked tight behind him.
And there—by the water—he saw her.
A young woman, sitting on a stone. She wore simple clothes, woven from leaves and soft cloth. Her dark hair was long and wild, her eyes closed as she sang to herself. Her skin was warm like the earth, her voice brighter than the stars. She looked like no one he'd ever seen.
Not a dwarf. Not an elf.
A mortal. A woman of the race of Men.
Lucifer stepped closer, barely daring to breathe.
She opened her eyes.
They met his.
And in that instant—both froze.
The girl gasped, her song cutting off.
Lucifer, startled, took a step back.
She stood. Stared. Her eyes were wide with fear.
He raised his hand slowly, trying to show he meant no harm.
But she turned—and ran.
Lucifer panicked. "Wait! I—I'm not—!"
She didn't understand. Of course she didn't. She probably didn't even speak the same language. Her people were from the East, far from Nogrod or Belegost.
Lucifer gave chase—not out of anger, but desperation. She was the first person who had made him feel something other than guilt.
"Please—just—stop—!"
He caught up easily, and without thinking, he tackled her gently to the ground, pinning her to keep her from fleeing again.
"Stop! I'm not going to hurt you!"
She screamed. Her voice was raw, terrified.
Then—shouts. The sound of rushing feet.
Lucifer turned his head—a group of men had emerged from the woods. Hunters. Warriors. Family, perhaps.
They saw him—his wings, his glowing golden hair, and the girl beneath him.
They didn't hesitate.
Stones flew. Arrows whistled through the air.
Lucifer rose, wings flaring wide to shield himself. The arrows bounced off his feathers like raindrops. He didn't want to hurt them.
"Stop! I didn't do anything! I—!"
But they kept shouting, kept throwing. He caught the girl's terrified expression. Her eyes full of fear, not wonder.
His heart sank.
He looked one last time at the men, at the girl, and then shot into the sky, his wings carrying him high into the clouds.
He didn't look back.
But even as the wind whipped past him and the trees shrank below,
he could still hear her voice—
soft, distant—
singing.
A week had passed since the night that haunted Lucifer's dreams.
The cave he had returned to—high among the cliffs, veiled in clouds and wind—had become a quiet prison of thought. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the girl. Her voice echoed in his mind like a ghost: that song, that light, that moment when he almost gave up—until she sang.
He hadn't seen her since.
But he couldn't forget her.
Lucifer stood now at the mouth of the cave, wings folded behind him. The wind brushed through his hair. Below, the world stretched wide—green forests, glimmering lakes, villages like tiny specks under the sky. Somewhere down there, she was.
He clenched his fists.No more hiding.
He leapt into the sky.
He found the place again by memory—the clearing by the lake, where the trees bowed in a circle and wildflowers grew between the stones. And she was there.
But she was running. Frantic. Her face pale with fear.
Lucifer's heart jumped. He scanned the trees—and then he saw it.
An orc.
Grotesque, snarling, charging after her with a jagged blade. Its eyes red, its tongue lolling with hunger. He had seen orc corpses before, dragged into Nogrod after border skirmishes—but never one alive. Never this close.
Lucifer didn't hesitate.
He dove like a spear from the sky.
In seconds, he crashed into the orc—and tore its head off with a single motion.
The sound echoed through the trees.
Lucifer stood over the body, panting slightly, surprised at himself. He stared at his own hands, slick with black orc blood.
I didn't even feel it.It didn't take effort.
And then he felt it—that strange heat again. Power surging inside him, like his veins were fire. The more he fought, the more he killed… the stronger he felt.
What am I becoming?
He turned back to the girl. She had fallen to her knees, her eyes wide. She was still afraid—but not screaming. Not running. Not anymore.
Lucifer approached her slowly, wings folded, hands raised in peace.
"It's alright," he said softly, though she couldn't understand. "I'm not going to hurt you."
She looked up, breathing hard.
And then—he hugged her.
She stiffened, but only for a second. Then she relaxed. Trembling.
The girl raised her hand and pointed behind her, toward the distant hills. Toward smoke.
Toward a village.
She said something in her language—fast, urgent—but he could only make out a few words.
He understood enough.
Danger. Help. Save them.
Lucifer scooped her into his arms without a word and launched into the sky.
When they arrived, the village was under siege.
Orcs moved like shadows through the smoke, dragging villagers from their homes, cutting down those who resisted. Lucifer's eyes burned. Rage swelled inside him—not mindless rage, not like before. This time it was clean, sharp, just.
He dropped to the earth like a falling star.
Orcs turned—screamed—fled.
But they were too slow.
His wings erupted in light and fire. Gold and crimson. Flame wrapped around his body like armor. His hands crackled. With every step, the ground smoldered.
He became a whirlwind of burning wings and fury.
Blades shattered against him. Arrows turned to ash mid-flight. He ripped through the orcs, tearing them apart with his bare hands, or burning them to cinders with a sweep of his wings. Their screams were brief.
By the time it was over, the village was in ruins—but the people were alive.
He set the girl down gently, and she rushed to the villagers, pointing at him, shouting words in their language.
They looked at him in awe. In fear. In wonder.
Lucifer knelt beside the captives, slicing through their bindings with a blade of golden flame formed from his own hand. He said nothing. He didn't know the words.
But they wept. And thanked him anyway.
One month passed.
Lucifer remained with them.
They built huts again, repaired what they could, and planted new fields. They watched him from afar at first—but slowly, they drew closer. Curious. Reverent. The children came first, wide-eyed and laughing when he flew.
Then the elders. Then all.
They called him Demiurgos.
Lord of Light.
Lucifer didn't correct them.
He liked the name. It felt right—like it came from somewhere deep inside him. Somewhere older than even Morgoth's black throne.
And in time, he began to understand their language. Not fluently, not yet—but enough. Enough to learn her name.
Frigga.
She taught him how to speak like them. How to listen. How to laugh again.
And Lucifer—Lucifer felt something shift inside him.
Something soft.
He no longer felt like a monster.He was starting to feel like a man.
But deep down, behind the fire and golden light… something still stirred.
Waiting.
Watching.
And it whispered in the quiet:
You were born for more than this.