"I mean it wasn't like just, when, when she felt like it. It was ... for a punishment. Or ..."
Halting, now. "Or one time it was ... like I said before. When she was angry about something else, and ... and needed to take it out on somebody. Or she wouldn't be good for anything for weeks."
"He told me it was what He needed me to do. Let her hurt me." His shoulders are hunched, his head low; he doesn't look up as he speaks. "And ... and He didn't make it an order, at, at first, because ... because He said I might feel like I had to refuse to obey it."
He swallows hard, painfully.
"And I said if He commanded me to, I'd do it. And He, He was ... He was pleased with me, and He said to come to Him afterwards, and He'd heal me of whatever she did."
"That sounds to me like a forced choice," she murmurs, thoughtful. "If you refused to let her hurt you, he would still get what he wanted -- she would be manageable and you would be hurt with nothing to show for it yourself. And if you agreed, she would be manageable and you would be hurt, but you would have proved your obedience. And obeying him was your best chance at protecting yourself.
"And when you did obey, he eased the very pain he put you through. Again."
Her focus snaps back to him; she looks mildly alarmed. It had been an idle thought, not a tactic. And useful though it may be to have Andrew recognize the plight of another, she badly wants to forestall him from diving into guilt or self-recrimination.
"That isn't your fault," she hastens to tell him. "You were in pain and trying to keep yourself alive. His circumstances are Lucifer's fault, not yours."
"No, but --" He's shaking his head again, in dismay strong enough to approach horror. "He was, he was happy. To be serving Lucifer. He s-said something about -- about how lucky I was, that He chose me, that He needed me for something so important -- and that He healed me with his own hands, after ... "
It takes him a moment to speak; getting himself under control, or putting the terrible realization into words.
"I thought he'd always served Lucifer. And he was happy with it. Proud of it. He was trusted, and, and I thought -- I thought maybe someday I could be like him."
"Because if he didn't want to, to serve Lucifer, and they made him want to ... and then I didn't want to, and they made me ... and, and then we brought in someone like Matt, and he didn't want --"
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He swallows. "Because she only ever hurt me when He said she could."
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She lets out a slow breath.
"And you don't make amends for such things. Is that what you mean?"
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"Yeah," he whispers. "I guess. And like, it, it was always ... it was for a purpose."
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Halting, now. "Or one time it was ... like I said before. When she was angry about something else, and ... and needed to take it out on somebody. Or she wouldn't be good for anything for weeks."
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"He told me it was what He needed me to do. Let her hurt me." His shoulders are hunched, his head low; he doesn't look up as he speaks. "And ... and He didn't make it an order, at, at first, because ... because He said I might feel like I had to refuse to obey it."
He swallows hard, painfully.
"And I said if He commanded me to, I'd do it. And He, He was ... He was pleased with me, and He said to come to Him afterwards, and He'd heal me of whatever she did."
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"And when you did obey, he eased the very pain he put you through. Again."
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"And He sent someone, someone else, to ... help me, that night. After." Low and effortful; he still isn't looking up. "As a reward. To look after me."
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"He didn't come himself?"
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"I, I never learned his name."
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"I mean, I wasn't yet. I wasn't sworn to Him yet. But he was."
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"Do you think he'd -- been brought there against his will, too?"
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He looks up slowly, staring at her. Stricken.
"I don't know. I never --
"Oh god, I never thought --"
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"That isn't your fault," she hastens to tell him. "You were in pain and trying to keep yourself alive. His circumstances are Lucifer's fault, not yours."
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He presses a hand to his mouth.
"I never thought. I never ..."
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". . . Never thought what?"
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"I thought he'd always served Lucifer. And he was happy with it. Proud of it. He was trusted, and, and I thought -- I thought maybe someday I could be like him."
He rubs his mouth again, his hand trembling.
"I never thought maybe he used to be like me."
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"That idea upsets you," she points out, quietly. "Why?"
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His forehead furrows, with pain or concentration or both.
"Because if ..."
And a long silence, as he struggles with it.
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She waits, hardly breathing.
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His voice cracks.
"Is any of it real?"
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There doesn't seem to be a good answer to that. She shakes her head, regretful -- not to say no, but I don't know.
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