Speaks to Nicodemus

“Enough, Nicodemus!” Michael thundered, and his voice rang from the marble and the riches of the vault. “Enough!”
The sheer volume and force in his voice staggered me. I found myself standing back to back with him so that I could keep the Genoskwa in sight.
“Has today not been enough for you?” Michael said, his voice dropping to something almost like a plea. “In the name of God, man, have your eyes not yet been opened?”
“Michael,” I growled, low, between clenched teeth. “What are you doing?”
“My job,” he answered me, just as quietly. “Nicodemus Archleone,” he said, his tone gentle, directed back toward the fallen Denarian. “Look at yourself. Look at your fury. Look at your pain. Look where they have led you, man. Your own child.”
From where he had fallen, Nicodemus looked up at Michael, and I saw something I had never seen on his face before.
Weariness. Strain. Uncertainty.
“This is what it has taken, Nicodemus,” Michael said quietly. “This journey into the darkness of greed and ambition. You stand amongst untold, unimaginable wealth, and you have lost the only thing that really matters because of them. Because of the lies and the schemes of the Fallen.”
Nicodemus did not move.
Neither did the Genoskwa. But I gathered another hailstone-cannonball onto the end of my staff, just to be sure I was ready if he did.
Michael lowered his sword, the wrathful fire of Amoracchius becoming something less fierce, less hot. “It is not too late. Don’t you see what has happened here? What has been arranged, all the pieces that have been moved to bring you to the only place where your eyes might be opened. Where you might have a chance—perhaps your very last chance—to turn aside from the path you have walked for so long. A path that has caused you and those close to you and the world around you nothing but heartache and misery.”
“Is that what you believe this is?” Nicodemus said in a wooden, uninflected tone. “My chance at redemption?”
“It isn’t a matter of belief,” Michael said. “I need look no further than the evidence of my eyes and mind. It’s why I took up the Sword in the first place. To save you, and those like you, who have been used by the Fallen. It’s why I have been given the grace to take up arms again, this very night—in time to offer you a chance.”
“For forgiveness?” Nicodemus spat.
“For hope,” Michael said. “For a new beginning. For peace.” He swallowed and said, “I can’t imagine anything happening to my daughter. No father should have to see his child die.” Michael’s voice stayed steady, quiet, and sincere. “As different as we are, as much separated in time and faith, you are still a human being. You are still my brother. And I am very sorry for your pain. Please. Let me help you.”
Nicodemus shuddered and dropped his eyes.
I blinked several times.
And for a second, I thought Michael was going to pull it off.
Then Nicodemus shook his head and let out a low and quiet laugh. He stood up again, and as he did, his shadow seemed to accrete beneath him, gathering darkness from all around the room and drawing it into a nebulous pool at his feet.
“Choirboy,” he said, contempt in his tone. “You think you know about commitment. About faith. But yours is as a child’s daydream beside mine.”
“Don’t do this,” Michael said, his tone almost pleading. “Please don’t let them win.”
“Let them win?” Nicodemus said. “I do not dance to the Fallen’s tune, Knight. We may move together, but I play the music. I set the beat. For nearly two thousand years have I followed my path, through every treacherous bend and twist, through every temptation to turn aside, and after centuries of effort and study and planning and victory, they follow my leadership. Not the other way around. Turn aside from my path? I have blazed it through ages of humanity, through centuries of war and plague and madness and havoc and devotion. I am my path, and it is me. There is no turning aside.”
The shadow at his feet seemed to darken as he spoke, to throb in time with his voice, and I shuddered at the sight, at the pride in his bearing, the clarity in his eyes, and the absolute, serene certainty in his voice.
Lucifer must have looked exactly like that, right before things went to Hell.


Skin Game Chapter 43, Page 360-363