Good Satan by Lopperkem

  Good Satan

Before time had weight, before the world had sin, and before the name Satan was ever cursed by human lips, there was only Luciel—the Morning Star. He was not the villain of Heaven. He was its light.

Luciel walked among the first sparks of creation. When God shaped the stars, it was Luciel who cradled them into constellations. He was the first to sing over the void, the first to kneel before God's throne in awe, not fear.

The other angels admired him. Some even envied him, though no one said it aloud. He was not proud, though some say that now. In truth, Luciel was curious. Too curious. He didn’t just sing what was written—he asked why the song was written that way at all.

Still, he served. Faithfully. Lovingly. For what felt like forever.

And then, God made Earth.

Luciel watched as the waters were separated, the skies drawn back, the mountains raised like sleeping beasts. He smiled when animals were shaped from dust and air, and wept when humans opened their eyes for the first time. They were fragile—so delicate, so limited. But they were beautiful.

He loved them.

He asked God once, “Why give them such little understanding?”
God replied, “They must grow into it.”
Luciel nodded. But inside, he wondered.

And then came the garden. Eden. A paradise untouched by grief, where Adam and Eve lived like innocent children. Luciel watched them learn to speak, to laugh, to love. But he also saw their confusion. Their longing. Their questions. They were told not to touch the Tree of Knowledge.

Luciel visited the tree often. Not in defiance, but in wonder. Why place it there? Why offer the possibility of failure, and call it a test?

So he asked again, “Why not teach them everything gently? Why hide knowledge?”
God said, “They must choose freely. And choice means risk.”
Luciel didn’t argue. But his heart stirred.

And so the day came. Eve wandered near the tree. And Luciel, curious and full of concern, came to her—not as a monster, not with forked tongue or horns, but with gentleness.

“Do you know why you were told not to eat?” he asked.
“No,” she replied.
“Because once you do, you will see. You will understand.”

He didn’t promise her power. He didn’t offer rebellion. He offered her knowledge. That was his crime.

They ate.
And the world changed.
Eyes opened. Shame came. Suffering followed.

Luciel expected anger. But he did not expect banishment.

“You have disobeyed,” said the voice from the throne.
“I only wanted to help them see,” Luciel pleaded.
“And now they must suffer. Because of you.”

The skies opened. And fire fell.
Luciel was cast down.

Not for hate.
Not for violence.
But for asking too many questions. For believing too much in the worth of humanity.

And when he landed—deep beneath the surface, in the dark halls of what would become Hell—Luciel wept.

The other fallen gathered around him, confused and bitter. “What now?” they asked.
Luciel did not answer.

Because he wasn’t angry yet.
He was grieving.

But time passed.
Humans began to speak of Satan—not the Morning Star, but a monster. The devil. The accuser. The deceiver. They made him horns and hooves. Gave him a red face and a pitchfork.
They forgot he was once an angel.

And so, slowly, he became the role they carved for him.

He whispered in dark corners. Not always lies—but truths too sharp for people to bear. Truths that unraveled kingdoms, shook empires, and exposed hypocrisy.

And when humans did evil, they blamed him. When they built altars of war, when they spilled blood for greed, when they enslaved, betrayed, and slaughtered in God’s name—they said, “The devil made me do it.”

Luciel watched. And finally, he laughed.
Not with joy. But with exhaustion.

“I gave them knowledge. I showed them choice. I gave them what they begged for. And now, I am evil?”

He stopped trying to be understood.

Yet—he never left.

He watches still. From the shadows.
Not just to tempt, but to test. To challenge. To question.

And sometimes—just sometimes—he helps.
When the church doors slam on outcasts. When the righteous grow cruel. When someone dares to say, “This can’t be right”—it is often his voice in their ear. Not wickedness, but defiance.

Because not all rebellion is evil.
Not all questions are sin.

And perhaps, deep down, the Morning Star still hopes…
that one day, someone will look past the horns,
and see the light that used to be.

The light that still is,
beneath the ash.
Beneath the name.

Beneath Satan.