Hello and welcome to the sequel to Far from Heaven. Only took me half a year, but here it is. If you don´t want to read the first part, you should be able to understand the basic situation from Chapters 2-4. Although I would advise you of course very much to just go and read it :)

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Pain.

Pain and hatred and the cold.

People think hell should be hot and maybe that means that the cage should be hot too. Maybe the cage ishot, objectively speaking.

Still, huddled in the corner, hands pressed to the sides of his head, feeling like he is about to explode any second from raw emotion, he feels incredibly cold, a coldness engulfing him, swallowing him, freezing him to the spot, freezing him to memories and more memories, always the same memories in an endless, unbreakable circle.

He is the devil and he can´t forget.

He wonders if this is his punishment and when he was first thrown into the cage, he would have laughed about the mere thought in scorn. Memories and grounding, was that Father´s idea of punishment? If he had known, he would never have had begged.

But of course Father was weak and wrong, as was Michael and they would never defeat him like this. They could lock him away, but he would always be there, the shadow in their memories, the dark spot in their minds and one day he would rise again, only strengthened by the time they had foolishly given him to plan and to fuel his hate and then they would pay, oh, how they would pay.

He couldn´t believe that even they were stupid enough to give him so much time to prepare.

That was when there was still scorn left in him. Before he learned that having nothing to do and being assaulted by your past, without a moments peace, could be the worst torture there is.

Before the pain, the cold and even his own hate, the hate that was supposed to fuel him and make him strong, beat him down and devoured him, twisting him beyond imagination, beyond what he could have ever done to himself by his actions.

There is no time in the cage and sometimes he wonders, if time is passing at all. If Michael is still standing on the edge, looking down, to where he just tossed his brother seconds ago. He remembers the cold look in Michael´s eyes, when he watched him fall, the absolute absence of emotion, how he stood tall and straight on the edge, while the other one screamed and fell and fell and fell.

Cold.

Why is it always the cold that gets him?

He thought a lot about Michael at first, hoping that the hate would warm him. He imagined how he would torture the brother that betrayed him, how he would rip him apart bit by bit, reducing him to a babbling idiot, begging for forgiveness.

The problem with that fantasy is, that he always has to kill Michael sooner or later. He doesn´t hesitate a second, not ever, feeling triumph burn through him, concentrating so hard, that the scene becomes almost real, that he can feel his blade twisting through Michael´s flesh and into his grace, carefully, slowly, making it last. He listens to Michael´s screams and it is the sweetest music in his ears and that's the moment when his enemy´s eyes turn glassy with pain and death, just before his grace explodes.

He never gets further than that part though. Michael´s glassy eyes remind him too much of the cold look, when Michael pushed him into the cage and that rips him right out of his sweet revenge fantasy into the painful memory of falling, cold eyes mercilessly observing his way down, like he doesn´t mean anything, less than dirt, like they never were brothers, like the garden never happened, like there is nothing left between them and he is falling, falling, falling and he never hits the ground.

He grips his hands deep into the walls of the cage, almost glad of the refined space, glad that he isn´t dangling in free air, that having hit rock bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.

That is, till it starts feeling, like the cage is falling with him trapped inside and he wouldn´t mind crashing, wouldn´t mind hitting the ground, would love to feel that sharp, shattering pain, instead of the numbing one his memories inflict, but he can´t stand the sickening weightless sensation of the fall itself, make it stop, makeitstop, MAKEITSTOP!

He doesn´t know who he is shouting to. He certainly isn´t praying and he certainly doesn´t expect to be heard.

No one ever listens.

No one ever did.

Expect Raphael maybe, but Raphael betrayed him too, in the end.

Michael always gave everyone the feeling that he was listening, but he never bothered to try and understand.

He hates Michael for never understanding, for always making him feel safe and then betraying him, he hates Michael for choosing Father and his mud monkeys over him and (maybe most of all) for winning. Always winning.

Because no matter how hard he tries in his fantasies, he can never finish them, never kill Michael. Those glassy, cold eyes have a power over him, that makes him whimper and crawl, until he tries to ban Michael from his thoughts altogether, but he never leaves, always there, always winning, always criticizing him, like they are still in the garden, like he is still raising him, like he still has the right and it´s enough to make the devil scream for mercy.

No one listens anyway.

No one cares anyway.

No one ever listened.

No one ever cared.

Pain and hatred and the cold for ever and ever.

Does it matter if time is passing outside? Does it matter if his suffering has been a heartbeat for Michael, or if centuries have passed? He will never get out anyway and for the first time in his immortal life, he really understands the meaning of eternity, making him feel like he is falling again, like he never stopped.

There is no scorn left, no pain grounding him, even his hate is flickering out and he curls up, knees pressed to his chest, forehead resting on his kneecaps and doesn´t know how long he stays like that, till disgust at his own weakness gets him up again.

He is the Devil, the monster that dared stand up against God and his precious humans. He is free will, he is the morning star and they will never get him down. He is the one who will rise again and show them all what death and destruction means.

He is Lucifer and he is cold, so cold.