Chapter Text
After his parting words to Metatron, Michael hadn’t expected to wake up.
He had felt himself slowly dissolving. He knew he had been fading away for a long while—as powerful as he was, made in God's image and what not, even he couldn't escape the consequences of not sleeping for thousands of years.
Of course Michael had been mentally preparing himself for it. Either he would kill Lucifer and shortly die because of his stubbornness or die trying to bring him down—but his death was the only certainty in his plans, even when he wished for the best outcome where he came alive from the other side.
However here he was, alive once again, inhaling a breathful of air.
Before he could think about it, he arose from whatever the hell he was resting in and looked around himself, searching for anything that could tell him where he was or what had happened to him.
He was covered in exquisite silk, the bed sheets the softest he had ever felt—even softer than those Enoch had tried sneaking into his bedchambers multiple times, which he knew were obviously brought in bad faith.
Even if his bedroom had been made merely for decoration purposes, he quite remembers making it similar to his own fashion taste. This one, however, was covered in more somber colors. The dark mahogany was quite contrary to his beloved birch four piece; the curtains that covered his windows in what he suspected to be royal blue and ebony threads, nothing at all like his softer baby blue and cream coloured bedroom walls.
What made him realize, though, that this was nothing more than an absurd dream was the person that entered the bedchambers, unhurriedly though with notorious worry.
“Your Majesty, it's nice to see you've finally awoken from your sleep,” said he, his cadence steady with no sharp tones or shrill nervousness. “I’m sorry to bother you, what with having just rosen from such a deep slumber, but it seems there is a problem in the Throne Room.”
It was Samael, the Eastern Grand Duke of Hell and his brother’s beloved confidant.
A Godforsaken demon.
Michael was grateful that his vocal chords seemed to be uncooperating, because he was positive he would've shouted something uncourteous.