Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Michael sat at the dinner table, staring at his plate, while his twin asked God if he loved them. What a stupid question, hadn't he figured it out yet? All of his antics, from the rebellion to the demons running around the Earth, were hushed up and forgotten, as if nothing had happened. And Uriel's death... They forgot about it, too, as if everyone had forgotten that Lucifer wasn't holy and that this return to Hell for "love" was just a paltry achievement, since he was supposed to stay there from the start.

A dull pain pierced his shoulder and the archangel clenched his teeth, cursing now, because appearing weak in front of his father was the last thing he wanted at the moment. God hadn't given him any worthwhile tasks anyway, except for paperwork and dealing with his brothers and sisters, which was getting boring for the hundredth time from the same words and the same decisions.

And already sitting all hunched over these piles of papers, Michael wondered, why there are no more battles, no training or small skirmishes with at least someone, has his purpose outlived itself so? Have all his purposes outlived themselves so? At first it was his part with creation, which was no longer needed anywhere after the creation of everything, then there was fear, which was immediately a bitter pill, because he could not do anything with it, except to drive everyone away from himself and then a goal appeared where fear was an extension of his hand, his shield and his weapon.

The battles were pleasant, Michael felt free and light when he held the sword and soared through the enemies, getting every hidden fear from his opponents to keep an advantage over everyone. But then even this goal began to outlive itself and first the battle disappeared, and the archangel killed on the orders of God and then even that stopped.

In a way it was good, I didn't want to relive Sodom or the murder of the firstborn, there were no problems with adults, there was a reason to kill them, but with children there was a pang of conscience, because children were the few who could approach him in heaven, and not immediately run away like from a leper. But an order from God is an order and Michael still feels how warm children's blood flows down his hands and drips onto the sand with this disgusting sound. At that moment, his shoulder only reminded him of itself more and the spasms made him tremble and squeeze his fork with his hand like a vice.

- Michael? - God's voice called somehow distantly. The Archangel could not understand how much of the conversation he had missed since the moment he listened, and was not immersed in thoughts, which tied a nervous knot in his lower abdomen.

- Yes, father, - clearing his throat, the dark gaze tore itself away from the plate and rose to the face of the creator.

- You look thoughtful, could thoughts remain after dinner, - the god looked calm, but Michael saw in those eyes that it was not a request at all and that it was necessary to concentrate on this dinner. However, the archangel thought that such a game was not worth the candle, he could listen to what a vile, cowardly and pathetic archangel he was even without Lucifer and Amendiel, who made himself a sick wing and did not deserve to be his father's right hand. He heard all the whispers of his brothers behind his back when he passed them and with each year these voices pressed on his head more and more, that there were thoughts that on a beautiful day the skull would crack and everything would become quiet. The miracle did not happen.

- Of course, I can do it, - answered Michael, finally concentrating again on what was happening around. Not much had changed, but his nose wrinkled on its own as he noticed that Amendiel's man had overdone it with wine and was the only one who could relax in the presence of the god.

- Michael, why are you unhappy about something now? You didn't have to come, - Lucifer glared at his brother, still too angry that his twin had stolen his life and wanted to ruin everything, like a lopsided gremlin.

- And I didn't know that now I shouldn't be invited to family dinners. After all, I wasn't the one who started the riot and didn't turn my nose up at the family like cholera, - the voice sounded in response with pressure and it was clear that the angel of fear was deliberately pulling out the truth at the most inopportune moment, just to cause pain.

The devil let air through his teeth and looked at Michael, sorting through the gears in his head in order to hurt him more in response. Amendiel looked at the twins and then at his father, who didn't get involved in the argument and the elder didn't understand why he was silent, hadn't he gathered them for a quiet dinner and a family reunion? However, he understood that if the two were not stopped, they would again leave new mental scars on themselves. - That's right, because your family turns their noses up at you! Nobody needs you, you just walk around and confuse everyone with your appearance and your fear. Would anyone even talk to you if it weren't for dad, huh? I don't think so, - said the fallen one and looked pleased with his attack, because he knew that the words would go under the skin perfectly, he remembered his twin's weak spots even now.

- Lucifer, - called out Amendiel and looked amazed by such a tirade, yes, it was true in his thoughts, but not at all what could be said at dinner in front of his father.

- And what am I wrong? I'm one hundred percent right, even my demons wouldn't get along with him, - the fallen one proudly turned up his nose and looked at his older brother, showing that no, he would not change his words one bit.
Michael froze from the direct attack and stared ahead, trying to throw these words out of his head. The truth is much more painful to face when it is thrown in your face like that, and the pain from it is completely different from physical pain, something that you can not survive by gritting your teeth and calling yourself a weakling, it is much deeper.

- How dare you, Samael! How dare everyone say such things. I have wasted all my energy and time on this family, and in return I get nothing. Not a drop of fucking respect. Not a single positive word. You could say. Thank you, Michael, for not letting the creatures of chaos kill us! Thank you for doing all the dirty work on Earth! Or, for example, thank you for toiling in heaven like hell. I have not heard anything like this, or have you all forgotten that I do not just scare everyone with my mojo, - Michael rose from his chair and rested his hands on the table, so that his fingers were pale from such force that they were squeezing the unfortunate tree.

And the archangel himself looked truly angry and it was clear that the patience that had lasted for a millennium had snapped with a deafening bang. The anger continued to boil and it was difficult to restrain himself from turning the table over or throwing it at the twin and the temptation was burning too much inside.

Lucifer was not convinced by Michael's words and his menacing pose, believing that he had touched the most painful nerve now and it was fun to watch the reaction.

- Maybe because you did more evil? How is that possible? - the smirk did not leave the devil's face, seeing how the twin was shaking with anger and his face became serious when the pudding flew and Lucifer dodged at the last second so as not to be smeared in dessert.

- This suit is worth more than your miserable life, - the fallen one was indignant because of Michael's childish act of throwing food, but the words did not reach him, because he bit his lips painfully so as not to throw something more dangerous in the direction of his twin.

The desire to do this was very strong, but the black wings opened and carried the archangel away, until he tried to smash Samael's head for real and at the same time not pay attention to the god and his damned orders and words.

- Ah, look how he always ran away like a coward, - Lucifer grinned again, but did not receive a single answer, except for a heavy sigh from the older angel.

Chapter Text

Michael flew with his last ounce of strength, diving through the clouds like a wounded hawk. His damaged wing tore the air with ragged beats. With each movement, his strength waned, and soon the archangel glided down into a desolate place – alien, yet achingly familiar. Here, on this border, he had once battled Chaos itself. Victory had come hard, at the cost of wounds, but he had won it. Now the place was empty, dark. The earth was a viscous mire, sucking at his boots up to the laces.

His chest heaved with heavy breaths. Air rushed through his nose, but the pain in his shoulder only intensified, pulsing in fiery waves from his reckless attempt to flee headlong. Michael clenched the wound, gritted his teeth, rubbing the skin – a foolish hope to smother the agony, but it only flared brighter, and spots danced before his eyes like witches around a Sabbat bonfire.

Through the pain, he felt an icy breeze on the back of his neck. Goosebumps raced across his skin like a stampede. The cold was alien and... familiar. Somewhere in the backwaters of his mind, a memory glimmered.

Michael spun around sharply. Behind him stood a shapeless, hideous entity. Anger struck his chest, but deeper down, fear and a swarm of questions churned.
It can't be! Chaos is imprisoned! How is he free? And why now, when I'm weak? flashed through his mind. The questions fell silent when the entity flashed unseen eyes and took on the features of a long-dead brother-in-arms.

The same ashen hair, brown eyes, upturned nose, brows arched like a house... But instead of a smile – a smirk. And his gaze... empty as the primordial Void before Creation.

“How dare you?!” Michael growled, clenching his fists until his knuckles cracked, nearly lunging into a fight. To defile his brother’s memory! This vile creature!

“Dare? Me?” Chaos spoke in the dead man’s voice, squinting slyly. Malice flared in his eyes. The entity spread its hands, looking down at the archangel as if he were something small and pitiful. “Oh, my dear Mikael... I could always afford a great deal. And you?”

“Shut up!” Michael drilled into him with his gaze. Instinctively, fear condensed around him into a flimsy shield. “What are you doing here?!”

“What am I doing here? Or what did you forget?” Chaos laughed venomously. “Ah, yes! You forgot your pride. Your worth. Funny, isn’t it? Those you protected rejected you.” The words struck true, deep into the core of his insecurity. The entity seemed to bloom from the inflicted blow but immediately wilted – the enemy wasn't burning with his customary rage.

Michael clenched his jaw savagely. He understood the game. "It" was looking for a crack. To break him morally, then finish him off. The archangel glared at Chaos from under his brow, his gaze turning cold, calculating. His mind spun feverishly like gears, weighing the odds. The strategist within him battled despair.

Odds? Below zero. No weapon, no comrades nearby, no armor. Gone was his former confidence, even the desire to save the world from this horror. What was the point, if his merits were forgotten, and he remained only a broken angel – a stain on the pristine canvas of Heaven?

“Oh?” Michael snorted coldly, staring straight into Chaos’s empty eyes. “Last time, your pride was trampled into the mud.”

“True enough!” Chaos snorted back, his lips stretching into a barely perceptible sneer. “But you should wear victory over me like a medal, not a brand. You’re like trash. Do they really throw generals onto the scrapheap first now?” He chirped insolently and vanished. He reappeared behind him, fingers digging into the wounded shoulder. A rasping groan echoed across the emptiness.

“You know, little bird, I’m far closer to you than all your heavenly brothers and sisters?” The entity squeezed the wound harder. Tears of fury sprang from Michael’s eyes. He tried to kick at Chaos, but his rage only inflamed him, and his strength, without constant training, was fading. “Don’t get feisty, little bird,” the voice behind him sounded increasingly mocking. Chaos’s head rested on the enemy’s other shoulder. The facade of the "brother" crumbled, revealing the pre-natural, terrifying essence beneath.

Michael froze, suppressing the urge to flinch away. He stared into the formless gloom where a face should have been.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a little bird,” he hissed through clenched teeth, feeling icy terror crawl from his heels to the tips of his feathers. His shoulder was still in an iron grip.

“Disappointing. Nicknames used to rile you up much more,” Chaos said in a distorted, mouthless voice. It held an almost... paternal disappointment. “Weakened. Even my lesser kin would tear you apart now.” A pause. Chaos’s fingers slid along Michael’s jawline. The iron grip suddenly loosened. “And you know what? Under my hand, you wouldn’t have rusted away in oblivion. Think, Mikael, where does your loyalty lie?” The entity dissolved as if it had never been.

The final words sank in like a nail into a coffin lid. Into the coffin of his jealousy, doubts, anger, and disappointment – everything that embodied Creation. Disappointment in himself. What had he done wrong? Why had he ended up at the bottom of this abyss of self-flagellation? Was he too flawed for the heavenly order? Did he blindly obey the Father’s cruel commands? He was rejected, and his enemy saw the weakness and spat the truth in his face.

Michael tensed. His fingers dug into his palms. A wave of fury rose from the depths, bringing to the surface all the bitter memories he could cling to.

The archangel writhed under the thoughts. From the force of his grip, his nails pierced his skin. Angelic blood – bright crimson, luminous – gushed over his palms and dripped onto the viscous earth. The muck hissed as it absorbed the drops, as if accepting an offering.

In the darkness, on the edge of the mire, a lone figure stood frozen. It watched as the seeds of doubt, skillfully sown and nurtured by poisonous words, sprouted their first shoots. The idea of lost potential, of a better fate in other hands, took root. Chaos smiled, almost bloodthirsty. He had taken the form of Michael himself – an exact copy, only with a shadow of cruelty in his eyes. Arms crossed over his chest, the ancient entity whispered under its breath:

“Come on, Mikael. Make... the right choice.” He felt it – the chance for revenge against the Creator had become tangible.