Five months have passed.
It was on a warm spring night, beneath the stars, that Frigga gave birth to their child—a son.
Lucifer was at her side, holding her hand, whispering calming words in the village tongue.
When the child was placed into Frigga's arms, she smiled through her exhaustion and kissed his golden hair.
"I want to name him Michael," she said softly.
Lucifer blinked. He liked it. A name of purity. A name of light.
He smiled. "Michael…"
He kissed her forehead and then the child's.
"So be it."
---
One year later
Their son was walking.
Well, more like waddling—and occasionally flying five feet into the air before falling on his butt, giggling.
Lucifer watched with folded arms and a soft smile, sitting on a log outside their hut, Frigga resting against his side.
Michael had inherited everything from him.
Golden hair that shone like a halo in the sun.
Golden wings that shimmered even when folded.
Golden eyes like molten amber.
Nothing of Frigga.
Not her raven-dark hair. Not her soft green eyes. Not even her build. Michael was ethereal, otherworldly, radiant.
And for all the love Frigga had for her son, there were quiet moments—when she nursed him, or braided his little hair—where something bitter flickered in her eyes. Jealousy. Sadness. Distance.
Lucifer noticed. He said nothing. He didn't know how to fix it. So he just held her close when she needed it, and made her laugh when the silence became too long.
---
It was a quiet morning when the winds shifted.
Lucifer was in the hut, rocking Michael to sleep, when a chill crawled down his spine.
He stopped moving.
Frigga, who was tending the fire, looked up. "What is it?"
Lucifer narrowed his eyes. Something was approaching.
Something powerful.
He set Michael down gently in his cradle. "Hide. Both of you."
Frigga's heart skipped. "What's happening?"
He didn't answer. He just kissed her brow and walked outside, wings sprouting behind him, golden and strong.
And then—he flew.
---
He reached the village gates within seconds and then soared beyond them, scanning the horizon.
He didn't need to look far.
Just beyond the tree line, standing in the clearing with arms folded and a soft smile, was a figure.
He looked... normal. At first.
Tall, pale, fair of face. Long black hair, high cheekbones, robes of elegant silver and black. He could have been an Elf, were it not for the eyes—golden-red like fire trapped in glass.
Lucifer landed ten feet in front of him.
The stranger inclined his head. "You've grown."
Lucifer said nothing.
"I am Sauron. Surely, you've heard of me."
Lucifer nodded slowly. "Morgoth's lapdog."
The smile faltered. "I come as a messenger of your father."
"I don't have a father," Lucifer said, golden fire crackling behind his eyes. "Only a mistake for a creator."
Sauron sighed, as if disappointed. "You were made by him. Forged in his image. Do you not feel it? The power inside you? The flame? It is not from Eru or from the Light. It is his."
"I don't care," Lucifer said. "I have a family. A life. I'm not going back."
Sauron's smile turned cold.
"You don't have a choice."
There was a stillness in the air then. The birds stopped singing. Even the wind held its breath.
Sauron raised his hand.
And he changed.
The fair skin blackened, cracked like burned earth. His robes tore and reformed into plates of obsidian armor, jagged and cruel. Horns twisted from his brow, and in his hand now was a mace—a monstrous thing with spiked heads that crackled with darkness.
He was a shadow, a nightmare made flesh.
"I was sent to bring you back," Sauron said. His voice was deeper now, resonant like thunder in a cave. "Alive, if possible. Broken, if necessary."
Lucifer's wings flared behind him.
The golden fire lit his body.
From his palm, he summoned his sword—a blade of pure, holy flame.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
And with a step forward, he readied for war.
Then they clashed.
The sound was apocalyptic—steel and flame screaming against each other as they tore into the ground, the sky, and each other. The village trembled as their power shook the earth. Homes crumbled, fire spread, and terrified screams echoed as the villagers scattered.
Lucifer fought with desperation and fury, striking with blinding speed. His flaming sword carved through the air, lighting up the night like a dying sun. Sauron met each blow with his mace, shattering trees and stone with each swing.
They fought through the village, through the fields, through the sky.
Lucifer managed to burn through part of Sauron's armor, his sword gouging deep into the side of the dark lieutenant—but it wasn't enough. Sauron laughed through the pain and retaliated, his mace crashing into Lucifer's ribs, shattering bone.
Lucifer was hurled across the village, crashing through his own home—splinters and dust erupting around him. Frigga screamed as she shielded Michael beneath the hut's hidden cellar.
Lucifer staggered up, blood dripping from his mouth.
"For them," he growled, wings flaring, golden fire rising once more.
He charged again.
It was a beautiful, hopeless charge.
Sauron caught him mid-flight. The mace slammed into his spine, cracking it. Another blow to the face sent Lucifer to the ground. He coughed blood, his sword fading as his strength ebbed. Around him, the village burned. The people screamed. And then... they fell silent.
One by one, Sauron slaughtered them.
Lucifer could only watch, helpless.
Frigga.
She emerged from the ruins, blade in hand, desperation in her eyes. "No!" she screamed.
Sauron didn't hesitate. One swing. One moment.
Lucifer roared in agony as he watched her body fall to the ground.
"No!" he howled, trying to crawl to her. "Frigga!"
Sauron approached him, lifting the mace.
"You are nothing but a tool, Lucifer. Morgoth made you. You belong to him."
The mace came down.
Darkness.
Lucifer awoke in darkness.
The air was thick with heat and ash, choking his lungs as he coughed violently. Shackles bound his wrists, burning hot to the touch — forged from the blackened iron of Angband itself. His wings, still glowing faintly gold, were torn and chained as well, dragged behind him like broken flags. He lay in a vast chamber of obsidian stone, the walls alive with fire and shadow.
Then he heard it — slow, echoing footsteps. A towering figure approached, cloaked in smoke and flame. Morgoth.
The Dark Lord looked down on his creation with a gaze that pierced flesh and spirit. "You look so small still," Morgoth said, voice like grinding stone. "But you are still mine."
Lucifer didn't reply. Rage simmered beneath the pain, but the defeat was too fresh. His muscles trembled. His memories burned.
"You killed your little pets," Morgoth said, circling him. "Burned your beloved. And yet you weep? You deny who you are — but I made you, Lucifer. You were born of my blood. That golden flame you wield… it is my fire, twisted by the lies of love."
Lucifer snapped his chains in fury, wings erupting in golden light, but Sauron stepped from the shadows and slammed a mace into his gut. He hit the wall hard and collapsed. He spat blood.
"Do not mistake this place for mercy," Sauron growled. "We've let you live so you may understand."
For months — or was it years? — They tormented him. They starved him, fed him the screams of tortured Elves, showed him the broken bodies of those who defied Morgoth. They whispered in his ears as he slept, conjuring visions of Frigga begging for death, of Michael turned to ash.
"You could have been a king," Morgoth would say. "You will be. Let go of your weakness."
And yet… Lucifer refused to break.
He whispered Frigga's name in the dark.
He remembered the song that once saved him.
But with each day, his golden fire flickered weaker. And in its place, something darker stirred — something ancient and cold and utterly loyal to the voice in the flame.
Until one day, as he knelt in the shadow of Morgoth's throne, Lucifer lifted his head and asked a question:
"…What do you want me to do?"
Morgoth smiled.