As his blood poured off his back and on to me, I wept. For him, for the loss, for the end. For as evil as he was, there was something far greater lost as well. Please, do not ask me to explain. He deserved every last little bit of suffering he felt in those final moments, but he had it coming.

He felt every second those daggers slid under his wings and down his back. He felt it as his wings pulled away, and as the blood started trickling down his back. He felt it as he weakened quicker with each moment; as the realization settled in on his face, and then the shock, and the anger. It was what came next that will never leave me, and that I will never tell. But it is that which haunts me, and that which is why I still weep three years later. Even though he deserved to be mortalized, so he could be killed, which I would have gladly done as well; except it was not mine to do.

Michael took him with blood pouring out of his back away from me, where another waited to finish him. He was beheaded then. Lucifer is dead and gone now.

He never knew what was coming.

Neither did we.