Father called upon him first. Samael knew it was petty to care about such things. That he did care, nonetheless, caused rifts between himself and his brothers and sisters. After all, each one of them had God-given talents, all perfectly formed and necessary to Creation. But light? What could be created in pure darkness? Light was the catalyst for all else, and it was his domain.
"Pride doesn't look good on you, brother," Uriel had already cautioned.
"I'll have you know everything looks good on me," Samael retorted with a laugh. He swept low through the air in an attempt to pluck one of Uriel's feathers—a favorite pastime he liked to call The Reckoning.
Uriel spun, anticipating the move, as he so often did. "I'm onto your tricks, Sammy."
"Yes, but for how long, brother!"
"Until always!" Uriel laughed and held up three fingers in a rude gesture that roughly translated to "You are Father's one mistake."
Now, in the darkness of space, Samael flew, his body crackling with joy and unspent fire. Every so often, he paused and tilted his head, his wings beating as he hovered. Here, he thought, overflowing with excitement. Light was needed here.
Lifting his hand to his mouth, he blew warm breath across his palm, willing his desires into being. Elements awakened to life, nearly weightless and utterly wild. They danced, spinning and spinning, pressing ever closer together, until, in union, they sparked and burst into a dazzling fire, into a solar mouth full of tongues aflame. This closeness enjoyed by the elements stirred something within Samael, some tightness in his chest, a desire he could not name. He, too, wished to dance with others and lose himself in the ecstasy of being.
Sometimes Samael sang to his stars. They weren't very good songs, truth be told, nothing like the ones composed in the Silver City that recounted their long history, how Father and Mother met and forged paradise. No, the songs he sang to his stars were given to meandering lyrics, abrupt key changes, and nonsensical, prolonged pauses as he concentrated. But they were also the truest kind of music that exists because the tones and words poured forth from the deepest recesses of his soul, where a part of him was always singing.
He told the stars they were lovely, that even when they perished, collapsing into a void where not even light could pass, he would never forget their once radiant existence.
How could he? They were pieces of him.
When he fixed the final star into place, he grinned widely and hovered in the sparkling darkness with his hands banked on his hips. His work was good—brilliant, even, if he were to say so himself (and he certainly would gloat to stuffy, firstborn Amenadiel later). The stars would live on as his father had requested: ever giving birth, ever living, ever dying, ever repeating this cycle for eons until the fire turned to ice. There really was something lovely about a contained system.
He flew among his stars, delighting in their luminous glow and the kaleidoscopic, ionized splendor of the nebulae, and he wondered what creatures would one day delight with him, who his father intended to place in this universe. Would they be as enraptured by the open expanse of the skies? Would he like them? How would they speak? He did so love talking to Father's creations, gobbling up their strange words and listening to their even stranger ideas about the worlds they lived in. They were often wrong about all manner of things—sometimes to their own detriment—but he liked to hear them speak from their hearts nonetheless.
The time came when he knew he should retrieve Father and receive God's judgment over his work, but Samael lingered for a while longer, basking in starlight. A very small part of him, something no bigger than what would one day be called a mustard seed, believed his own judgment mattered more.