"We don't have years," Amenadiel was saying. "Someone needs to sit on the Throne--"

"Does someone?!" Lucifer snapped helplessly. "Are we sure Father's interventions actually made any bloody difference? Did he intervene at all? All this time--"

"If you don't sit on the throne, then what did we do this f--"

The terror and the anger crept up and up and up through Lucifer's bones, shading his face an ugly red.

"Why won't you listen to me? This was always your obsess--"

And crept. And crept. And crept.

"I wasn't the one who chose to go to war!"

And--

"Because I was trying to save us from--"

--crept--

"From what? From Michael? Michael just stepped into a vacuum that Father--"

"--created!" Lucifer snarled, angry tears brimming in his eyes, and he swept his arm through the air in a desperate attempt to funnel all this pent-up feeling somewhere.

He did not notice the skyline shifting as he did so.