“Aye,” Kit said, tugging his aching fingers firmly out of Lucifer’s grip. He floated, hugging himself, and took a miraculous breath of nothingness. “I’ve been lucky at the brink of death before–”

Lucifer chuckled like breaking glass. «So say you.»

“Thou sayest otherwise?”

It was a spectacular thing, to see an angel shrug. «The blade entered your brain, who was Christofer Marley. It broke through bone and severed the great artery above and behind the eye. You died.»

“But I–”

«You died.»

He would not let Lucifer see him tremble. “The Devil asks me to believe him.”

The Devil… winked. «The Lord works in mysterious ways. When he works at all.»

And Kit, quite suddenly, saw through him. He swallowed. How have I been so blind so long?“But couldst protect me, Lightbringer?”

«Lightborn, aye. I never liked that role so well as the others thou didst grant me.» Lucifer smiled, that glorious expression that turned his crown of shadows into the gentle darkness of a moonlit night.

Kit looked up, regarding the serpent for a long, long moment before he answered. “What sort of apples are you peddling this time, old snake?”

“The same old apples every time,” Amaranth answered, her hair twining out of the shadows around her face, her heavenly blue eyes gone the flat color of steel. Kit forced himself to watch the transformation, clenching his fists until blood broke around his rings. The image lasted only a moment, and then the twisting tail was wings, the crown of snakes become a crown of shadows once again, and Kit’s breast ached with the beauty of the angel who reached to take his crimsoned hands.

“Oh, yes. Thou always wert the teacher, wert thou not? The seducer with truths, the bestower of knowledge and power. The rebel condemned to torment. Mankind’s scourge and seducer, warden and guiding star,” Kit said. “The serpent and the apple. The gift of terrible knowledge. The light‑bringer, the fire‑bringer. I know thy name, my lord.”

«I have many names, my love.»

Kit drew a breath that hurt. “Prometheus.”

«A11 stories are one story.» Lucifer said, and drew Kit–unresisting–close, and kissed him with a lover’s passion. «Come now love, and I shall free thee from thy prison, and thou shalt dwell with me.»

The kiss was a brand on Kit’s mouth before he pulled away, and he felt the wild tumult of Mehiel, within. He reached for poetry, and could not find his own, but there was other verse would serve. Kit drew breath and quoted his old friend Sir Walter Raleigh into Satan’s face– “If all the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd’s tongue, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love. ”

And the devil laughed. «Doth thy shepherd lie to thee, Sir Poet? It is the way of shepherds. Lying creatures, the more so when they talk of God.»

“Father of lies,” Kit answered, with a shrug.

«But all my lies are Truth. Dost love me, Kit?»

Kit edged away from the angel, and found his back scraping the rough damp wall of the oubliette. Dirt moved under Kit’s feet, a transformation sudden enough to dizzy him. Lucifer’s halo filled the grim little room with light, and he seemed suddenly more beautiful than ever. Something fragile and almost mortal, unreal, outlined against the sweating stone.

“How could I ever love anything else, once having been loved of thee? I can’t comprehend thy logic, Father of lies. Both ends against the middle. Like a two‑headed serpent devouring itself. Christ. What canst thou hope to obtain?”

Lucifer smiled only, and in the sadness of that smile Kit knew the answer. “Oh. For the love of God.” Oh, he if right: we are more alike than not, my lord Morningstar and I.

«For the love of God. One way or another. Dost judge me? Begrudge me?.» Lucifer beckoned, cupping feathers brushing the stone.

Kit shook his head, and did not come closer. “What would I not give for the same?”

«Mortals are everso clever. And you tell stories. Sooner or later one of you will tell the story that will set me free. That will make Him to love me again, for He cannot forgive me my trespasses as He is, and I cannot be content without Him.» The angel sighed and looked away. «Why should such as I care what story that is?.»

“A lover’s quarrel, Lucifer? That’s all?”

«What is more divine than love?»

Kit hadn’t an answer. He balled his fists again, freshening the drip of blood, and came to the center of his prison. “Forgiveness,” he said, and smiled. “Forgiveness is more divine than love, my lord Lucifer. That was Faustus’ fatal flaw too, thou knowest. I’m always startled how few understood.”

«That Faustus could not be forgiven? Mustn’t the fatal flaw come from within and not without?»

“No,” Kit answered. “He could have been forgiven. Anyone can be forgiven, who repents. Faustus had opportunity, time, and chance to repent, again and again and again. But he never meant to. Never meant to repent, my lord Prometheus.”

«Then what was his fatal flaw, Sir Poet?» Lucifer’s eyes sparkled. He tilted his head aside, lovelocks drifting against the exquisite curve of his neck. Enjoying the game.

“‘But Faustus’ offence can ne’er be pardoned,’” Kit quoted. “‘The serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.’ Faustus’ flaw was the sin of Judas, who deemed his transgression too great to repent of, and thereby diminished the love of God, who can forgive any offense, so long as the sinner wishes forgiveness. Faustus sinned by hubris. I for one had always thought it plain, but they say the playmaker is the last to see the truth in any play–”

«Hubris, my love? And is that thy sin as well?»

Kit laughed. “No, not my sin. My sin is not hubris. My sin is love, in that I love my sin too well to wish to repent of it. I am not Faustus.” He looked up into Lucifer’s cerulean eyes. Read my mind now, Lucifer Morningstar.

The angel blinked once, considering, and the barest part of a frown creased the corners of his mouth. His wings expanded on a breath, a slight wind stirring. He nodded once. «Wilt come with me, then, Christopher Marlowe? And comfort one another in our exile, until the world shall change?»

Kit’s laugh hurt, sharp edges that cut the tender inside of his throat. “Even thou–”

«Even I?»

“Even thou hast forgotten my name.”

«Come with me. Let me be thy shepherd, and bring thee from this dismal place.»

Kit turned in the open circle of Lucifer’s wings and let his eyes rove over the seeping stone walls of the abandoned well, the rough round shape of the scold’s bridle kicked into the corner, the dank and odorous earth under his feet. “No,” he said thoughtfully.

«Kit?»

No.” He couldn’t quite manage the defiant glance over his shoulder and the lift of his chin he would have liked, but his voice stayed steady and that was a victory in itself. “No, my love. Thank thee. I’ll do it on my own.” And then he turned away again, blood oozing from his fingers and the flutter of Mehiel’s approval like a heartbeat in his breast, and waited for the light to fade around him.

The first touch of returning agony came as the darkness told Kit he was alone. Golden wings, golden eyes, a dream of memory and warmth as Kit dropped to his knees, body clenched around a scream he was still too proud to give voice. «God loves a martyr, Sir Poet.»

God’s welcome to get himself fucked too.

Act V, scene xii

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note,

Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,

By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

Can chase away the first‑conceived sound?