Spiders

Five years had passed since Lucifer saved the village.

It was now the 90th Year of the Sun.

The village nestled in the valley had changed. Stronger walls. Deeper wells. More voices, more laughter. Peace, for the most part.

And Lucifer—now known only as Demiurgos to the people—stood at the center of it all. Protector. Guardian. Savior.

His golden wings had become a symbol of hope. And so had the woman he loved.

Frigga.

---

That morning, sunlight spilled through the window slits of their small hut, painting gold across the furs. Lucifer lay beside her, his arm draped gently around her waist. Her breathing was slow, peaceful. One hand rested against the swell of her belly.

She was with child.

And for the first time since his creation, Lucifer felt a calm that reached beyond fire and fury. A true life. A future.

This is what I was meant for.

Then—a pounding at the door.

Lucifer blinked, rising. Frigga stirred slightly but didn't wake.

Another knock—more frantic now.

He got to his feet, golden eyes narrowing. His wings remained hidden, tucked beneath his skin as he stepped toward the door.

When he opened it, a breathless elder stood before him—white hair disheveled, eyes wild with fear.

"D-Demiurgos," the old man gasped. "The children… they're gone. A whole group. We can't find them anywhere—we—we think something took them into the forest—please…"

Lucifer's stomach dropped.

He stepped out, hand on the elder's shoulder. "I'll find them."

---

He moved through the village quickly, golden fire faintly glowing at his fingertips, helping illuminate the dim morning.

Parents cried. Doors swung open. Names were shouted—desperate, terrified. All they had were footprints. Tiny ones. Leading into the woods.

But something else caught Lucifer's eye—webs.

Thin strands clinging to trees. Soft as silk. Nearly invisible.

He crouched beside one—rubbed it between his fingers.

Sticky. Strong. Unnatural.

Not wolf. Not troll. Not orc.

He looked deeper into the trees. The air felt colder. The birds had stopped singing.

A sick feeling settled in his chest.

Spiders.

He had heard whispers, even in Nogrod, of the Great Spiders of the world—spawned from the monstrous Ungoliant, the ancient devourer of light. Creatures that wove death and shadow.

But here? Near his home? Near Frigga?

No. Not allowed.

He followed the trail.

---

The webs thickened the deeper he went.

Soon, they clung to everything—branches, rocks, even the air itself seemed laced with something dark. The trees grew warped, twisted. Something ancient slept in this forest, something cruel.

And then he found it.

The nest.

A towering cocoon of web and bone—strung between stone pillars like a fortress of filth.

Lucifer stepped forward, his foot crunching down on a child's toy.

He stopped.

His jaw tightened. He walked inside.

Bodies. Small ones. Wrapped in webbing. Silent. Still.

Lucifer's heart sank. His breath caught in his throat.

They were too late.

Some had been eaten—others, drained. A few still twitched, barely alive.

He knelt beside one boy—his chest rose and fell in shallow gasps.

Lucifer whispered something—words he had learned in their language. A prayer. A promise.

Then he stood.

The light from his wings began to glow. Gold at first—then hotter. Brighter. Fire burst from his shoulder blades, shaping into blazing wings that filled the cavern with warmth and fury.

He raised his hand, called on the fire within him.

And from flame, he forged a sword—long, brilliant, crackling with holy heat.

He gripped the hilt tight.

And from the shadows behind the nest, he heard a sound.

Skittering.

Clicking.

Legs.

Something massive began to crawl toward him.

Lucifer stepped forward, sword burning like a piece of the sun.

His eyes locked onto the dark.

And he was ready.

---

The nest was alive with movement.

From the shadows, the spiders came—dozens of them, hissing, screeching, scuttling across the walls and ceiling. Their hairy black legs tapped like drums, their eyes gleaming red in the golden firelight.

Lucifer did not flinch.

His sword of fire blazed in his grip, and his wings spread wide—each feather burning with the heat of a star.

They charged him.

The first spider leapt, jaws wide, but he swung clean through it, splitting the beast in half. The fire cauterized the wound instantly, leaving behind the smell of scorched flesh.

Another one came at his side—he ducked, rolled, drove the sword upward into its abdomen. It shrieked, legs flailing, and he tore the blade free in a spray of black ichor.

Three more surrounded him. One managed to sink its fangs into his thigh. He gritted his teeth, grabbed it by the mandibles, and ripped its face apart with his bare hands, the fire licking through its skull.

He was a whirlwind of wrath and flame.

The cavern echoed with screams—spider screams.

He fought like he was born for it.

Because he was.

---

Then—a tremor.

The ground shook beneath him. The walls vibrated with a horrible clicking sound, heavier, deeper.

He turned slowly, wings still glowing.

And from the far tunnel, it came.

The Great Spider.

It was monstrous—its body larger than a house, its legs as thick as tree trunks. Its eyes burned with malice, and venom dripped from fangs the length of Lucifer's arm. Its hide was armored in spiked chitin, glistening like obsidian.

And it spoke.

"I smell it in you… the darkness…"

Its voice was cold, ancient, layered with whispers like the echo of screams in a cave.

"The mark of your father. Morgoth. The Black Flame lives in you, child of ruin."

Lucifer froze.

That name again. Morgoth. His creator. The one who made him from blood and darkness.

His grip on the flaming sword tightened.

"I don't care who made me," Lucifer growled. "You're just another monster. And I'm going to kill you."

---

He launched forward, wings flaring, sword raised.

He brought the blade down in a sweeping arc, aiming for the creature's head—but the spider jerked to the side with terrifying speed, and his blade slammed into the stone floor, cracking it open.

The spider lashed out with a leg and slammed Lucifer into the wall.

He gasped, coughing blood, but got up.

The spider pounced.

Lucifer flew upward, dodging at the last second. He spun in the air and let loose a volley of blazing feathers, each one a dagger of holy flame. They peppered the spider's back, causing it to screech in rage and pain.

The beast fired webbing at him—he burned through it mid-air.

They clashed again.

Lucifer cut off one of its legs. Then another. Ichor sprayed across the walls, burning where it touched flame. But the beast was fast—too fast—and slammed him down again, pinning him beneath one of its limbs.

It opened its jaws to bite.

Lucifer screamed, summoning the fire from deep within.

Golden fire erupted around him, melting the spider's leg, and he burst free, wings aflame like a god descending from the sun.

With a roar, he stabbed one leg. Then another. He moved like a blur, driving a sword of fire into each of the spider's limbs, pinning it to the ground like an insect on a scholar's page.

The monster shrieked in fury—but it couldn't move.

Lucifer rose above it, wings beating hard, his body scorched and bleeding. He looked into its hateful, ancient eyes.

And he brought his wings downward, both edges like searing blades.

He cleaved the spider's head in two.

It spasmed—twitched—then slumped into death.

Silence followed.

Lucifer stood still, breathing heavy, soaked in sweat, gore, and firelight. He was shaking—not from fear, but from something else.

Something rising in him.

Darkness. Power.

The voice of the spider echoed in his mind:

"The Black Flame lives in you…"

He stared at his hands.

"What am I?" he whispered.

---

He staggered back. He found the broken bodies of the children. Some were whole. Most weren't.

But a few still breathed.

He wrapped them in cloth, gently, reverently. Their small bodies felt weightless in his arms.

He carried them all.

And he flew.

---

When he landed in the village, the people gathered, silent at first. Then came the screams. The cries. Mothers clutched the bodies of their children and wailed into the sky.

Lucifer stood in the center of it all, wings folded, his skin still smoking, the spider's venomous fangs tied in a bundle at his waist as a trophy.

They called him a hero.

They wept for the dead.

But no one blamed him.

He helped nurse the injured children, hands trembling. He lit the pyres for the lost, and stood beside their families during the funerals.

He said nothing.

And when the sun had set and the fires died down, he returned home.

Frigga was waiting, her arms open.

He collapsed into her embrace.

And for the first time in a while, he let himself cry.