Disclaimer: I do not own Angel, he is Joss Whedon's creation.
Hell, as depicted in this story, is an original character.
A/N: Written for livejournal's THE 7-DAY CHALLENGE #1 found at dailyfics. The prompt was 'War'
Warning: Somewhat graphic descriptions of war. This is not set in any particular season and could be considered a future AU.
War is an unpleasant business. He supposes that business isn't the right term for it, not really. It's an ugly, brutal enterprise where men, women and children are pitted against each other to win land, or gain some sort of privilege that is lacking.
Humans have their reasons for warring, and their justifications for the cruelties and violence they visit upon each other. Everyone feels justified and entitled to exorcise the demons from society when one of them raises its ugly head.
This isn't the first war that he's seen, and Angel knows that it won't be the last. He used to relish in the blood spilled on the various battlefields. Carrion – burnt, brutalized, bloody. The smell of fear – constant adrenaline rushes, sex and sweat – was a heady perfume for vampires, especially ones as ruthless as Darla, Spike, Drusilla and he, The Scourge of Europe. It had been a mad, blood-soaked rush. He supposed the human equivalent would be to call it a high. One borne of human suffering and cruelty.
He stood on the outskirts of the battlefield, a modern-day Babylon, and watched as men fell to bullets – their chests riddled with small silver slugs, burgeoning dark crimson; brain matter spattered on sidewalks and walls; gasping for air with collapsed lungs, broken ribs; faces half blown away; missing arms, fingers, legs; bits and pieces of humanity scattered to the four winds…
He waited, listened to the anguished cries – a cacophony of noise that used to be music to his ears. Now, it made him feel sick, and his soul hurt. Broken men begging forgiveness to a god they barely professed to know prior to war. Men crying out for their mothers, fathers, lovers. Tormented screams torn from men on the verge of dying.
Angel lifted his head, furrowed his brow as he scented the change in the air. It was imperceptible to mere mortals – the men dying a few feet from where he stood in the shadows of skyscrapers rocketing up into the smoke-blackened atmosphere. A new warrior had arrived.
Hell herself had come to earth to play at war. She reeked of brimstone and raw flesh. Her skin, if it could be called that, constantly shifted as flames, the red-orange fire of Hades, licked at it. Her eyes, a striking blue so cold that it turned men's hearts to ice, smoldered with an internal blaze. A smile contorted her broad facial features. The goddess known as Hell had been carved of variegated agate, enlivened and set afire by the devil himself.
Angel surged forward without thinking, broadsword in hand; the silver glinted in the light of Hell's fire and he let out a guttural cry as he plunged the knife into the burning goddess. Roaring – the voice of a thousand lions shrieking in pain and fury – Hell pulled the sword all the way through, pinioning herself on Angel's sword until the hilt stuck out of her chest and the blade stuck out of her back.
She smiled, sickly sweet, and grasped Angel's hand, pinning the vampire to her. The fire emanating from the goddess licked at Angel's skin, but the flames didn't burn. The touch felt infinitely worse, millions of red ants marching beneath his skin.
There was a feral glint in Hell's icy, blue eyes, a hint of lust, and Angel's soul cringed. He attempted to pull away, but Hell held him fast, and twisted the blade with a flick of her hand. Hell's mouth twisted in pleasure and Angel relinquished the sword.
"Abandon mankind and join me," Hell said, her voice thundering, the sound of it reverberated through Angel's body.
Angel opened his mouth to protest, his soul balking at the very thought of abandoning his charges and following after Hell, but his words were cut off as Hell drew him near. The hilt of the sword dug into Angel's stomach, and he let out an unnecessary breath of air.
Hell's eyes sparked with mischief and madness, her hands cupped Angel's face – a million fire ants burrowed beneath his skin – and then the ungainly beast kissed him. The world shifted beneath his feet, flames engulfed him and Angel was falling into a kingdom of darkness and fire. His lips tingled and his tongue burst with the intoxicating taste of power – a fusion of the blood of innocents, liquid magma, and a hint of cinnamon.
His promises to Buffy, to the Powers that Be, were lost to that power, and Angel's heart was won. Hell broke off the kiss and drew the sword from her body, placed it in Angel's hand and then led him through the streets to pillage, plunder and drink his fill of blood.
Hell gazed sidelong at her prize, purloined from heaven itself, and smiled. Spoils of war, she thought, come in all shapes and sizes.
She pinched Angel's cheek, dirt-smudged and streaked with blood, and pulled him close for a kiss, relishing the blood she tasted on his lips and in his mouth– fresh and filled with something far more potent than what even the devil can offer her – sorrow and despair.
Please review, thanks