ere he is, opens his eyes, and drowns. He feels the danger before getting up. There's something in the air perhaps, something changed in the room, though not much has changed at all. It's the same room he fell asleep in some five hours ago, yet undeniably strange. The man lies in his bed and makes as if he's sleeping. He must move fast, yet he doesn't remember how to move. How does this go? And who was it that trained him? What did they tell him under the shade of the maple tree and does it really matter now? He was safe then, at ease in the comfort of the chill spring air, it seemed nothing like this could ever happen. And yet, here he is, in his dusty perennially shaded room. And he isn't alone. His hand bolts and grabs the gun on the nightstand – how is it still there? The thought flashes across his mind like a lost arrow – why wouldn't the intruder take it, first thing, render him helpless?

'Relax, Lucifer, I am not here to hurt you,' the voice is familiar, yet it's one he can't place. Lucifer sits up, heart racing and peers into the dark corners of his room. Small, but big enough to hide them both. He can't see the intruder clearly, can't trace his features or recognize his voice.
'Who are you?' he asks, trying hard to not let his voice – or his hand – shake. The intruder ignores the gun pointed at him and takes a careful step towards the bed.
'I am a guest inside your house, Lucifer, and I must say your behavior as a host leaves a lot to be desired.' The figure gives a short, booming laugh and Lucifer sees his white sparkling teeth through the half light.
Inside the privacy of Lucifer's bedroom, the stranger grins.
'If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead. Not even the devil is endless, Lucifer, you of all people should know that. I chose to spare you, now surely, that's enough to make you put your gun down.'
Lucifer, the devil as he's known on the street, shakes his head once, face set in a grim conclusion.
'I'd rather take my chances,' he says and the stranger nods. Very well.

'Aren't you tired, Lucifer?'
The man speaks his name as it's known of old, rounding each letter inside his mouth. 'Don't you wish you could just rest for a bit? How long have you been here?' he asks, gesturing at the small rented room. 'How long before you have to run again? Is this really the throne you'd hoped for?'
The stranger is calm, mocking almost, but Lucifer ignores him. He knows this serpent is only sent to crawl under his skin and bury his lying eggs deep into his soul.
'You don't have to tell me,' the stranger shrugs, taking yet another step. 'I'm just the messenger. I'm the truce you've been offered. You better look closely, cause you won't see me twice.'
'Who sent you?' Lucifer asks, finger on the trigger.
'Isn't it obvious? Our glorious father, the great Commander himself.'
'Why am I not dead then? Why would that lying bastard spare my life?' Lucifer bellows. There he is, the intruder marvels, the demon who has terrified an entire country, the soul of a revolution inside the body of one man.
And he laughs, because he can't help it. It seems such an innocent question, so unlike Lucifer to ask.

'Because you're much more useful alive. Don't you see? To kill you would be to assume that another like you will come along sooner or later and I'm not sure my master believes that. Think of all the things you and him could accomplish if you wanted to. Why, no one would be able to stand in your way. Lucifer, the world would be yours. You could be king and all that comes with it. My master is a generous man, despite what you may think. He'd be happy to welcome you at his side.'

Closing his eyes, Lucifer understands and his finger squeezes twice, sharp. Both bullets fly into the intruder's chest and the rebel opens his eyes just in time to watch him collapse. Breathing, though not for long.
'I would rather die as a dog before coming to your master's side,' he says coming up close to stand over him. The intruder, he sees, is young and suddenly looks fragile. He's seen the man before, out there, in the shadows of the battlefield. 'You should've killed me when you had the chance, little boy,' Lucifer whispers and then, he is gone. Left without a trace to another shitty hide-out as the war rages on.

But the messenger could've never killed him, for that was not his purpose. It wasn't his fate to kill the great revolutionary, the man called Lucifer. He was merely sent to warn, or rather to tempt, because his master delighted in tempting the old devil. He knew Lucifer would never give in, and yet he just might, because no man is unbreakable and as the years wore on, the fight only got harder. Lucifer and his band of rebels were pushed out into the outskirts, the pits, the hideouts that even the roughest of bums would find unwelcoming.
Often, they fought through days of not sleeping, until their bones ached and they felt their hearts giving out. Sometimes, they even won, but it wasn't enough to make them forget the bitterness of their losses. Night was never a time for rejoicing. They were too busy burying their fallen brothers.
And so, the Commander hoped that one day, the losses would wear Lucifer down, that his offer would one day be accepted and all hope lost. Because see, he never cared about killing Lucifer, the man. How would that serve him? It would just be another dead man on the streets that were already overflowing with bodies.
What the great Commander longed for was to kill the idea of Lucifer, the myth behind the man and that could only be killed through the devil's surrender.
In the bright-light corridors of his peculiar palace – towering over the dead-dirt slums of the dying city – the Commander waited.

This story is my entry to @themarkymark's writing prompt contest. This week's prompt was 'tension'. You can find the contest here and if you hurry, you could still enter.

Thank you for reading,

_{Photo #1 by MichaelGaida on Pixabay
Photo #2 by Comfreak on Pixabay}