A/N- I do not own any of these characters.

I'mmmmmmm back.

The inspiration for this story lies in the song Angels by Within Temptation. For the record, this is a one shot. There will be no continuation. Thank you. I apologize for nothing.

Enjoy. Love, Sai-Chan.

The cell was small, cramped although there was nothing inside it but one lone woman. Her long black hair fell about her shoulders in straight and curved lines that clashed dramatically at the same time they blended. Her washed out face highlighted her dark eyes with matching dark circles that bore a dead look to what had at one time been unmistakable beauty. She was dressed in an old fashioned blood red dress, faded now to a dull red. Black stripes ran down the skirt, bunching together in the back of the gown in a spider web design. This dress lay gathered about her legs as she knelt on the grimy floor without motion, without a flicker of eyelid, a ruffle of breath. She appeared to have frozen in time, her body dead to whatever was going through her mind. She had remained as such for the past few months since she'd been imprisoned in the makeshift structure that was currently housing the condemned souls of the Neitherworld.

The guard whom had stood across from her since her arrival continued to stare at her form. He was dressed in merely an old knights costume, a spear in his hand. He was positioned directly across from her cell in the empty corridor of cells with barred doors left unlocked for there were no longer people to occupy them. The two of them were the only souls, alive or dead, that had entered or left this area in the seven months since she had been placed in that cell. He didn't understand why she was there, for she was mortal and had no power within this secluded hell. Yet, she was the only prisoner with a personal bodyguard and that made him as curious about her as her demeanor had.

She never moved, she never even lifted her head. She refused to eat, she refused to drink. How she survived, he did not know. He assumed there was a curse on her so that she would not die of mortal causes, for that was the only explanation. Nevertheless, she didn't even blink. Her empty black eyes stared at the ground, not turning away from the same crack they'd been fixed on from the moment she had collapsed to her knees. Her hands laid one at her side, one in her lap, holding something tightly. She didn't try to escape. All she did was stare, searching perhaps her soul for whatever answer she was looking for. The guard didn't know what that was. He didn't even pretend to. He had no idea why she was there, what she had done, nor when she would be leaving. He just knew that he was supposed to stand there until her ultimate fate was met, whenever that was. Thus, when not stopping to grab some food or using the restroom, he stood before her, watching as this beauty looked at that crack with the intensity of someone whom had, at one time, had a great mind with excellent concentration and skill.

That morning, for it was morning just beyond the gates the two couldn't see in that walled up prison, he wondered, for the first time really, who she was. Rather, whom she had been. He knew who she was. She was a prisoner set to die at one date or another whom was allowing herself to meet that end without a struggle. Whom she had been, whom she had been before the war, before she had been jailed, he did not know. He hadn't been informed of her name, so he'd never had a chance to ask. As she was set to die, he knew she must of been a threat at one point in her young life, though whatever flames she had ever possessed had clearly diminished to nothing. She had probably been a political warrior during the war, a rebel maybe or a patriot perhaps, whom had been caught by someone and forced into submission. Maybe she had been a spy or a murderer or a witch or someone with importance during the war, the uprising that had brought the worlds to their knees in fear and panic. If so, she might have spoken to their new tyrant ruler, she might have helped him to the throne or fought viciously to keep him from it. She might have been powerful, with influences he could only dream of at his pitiful position. She might have been, he speculated, but she was of no influence now, in her state.

Sadly, he swallowed with a dry throat. Whomever she had been, she was no longer that woman. Something had destroyed her to the point of giving up on life, giving up on the fight. She had been a beaten woman when she had arrived, he knew. He had just arrived, late, and had just taken his position across from an empty cell. He had been excited to have been promoted from watching over the petty criminals. He'd assumed he'd be watching over rough and tough murderers who had gone against their ruler or something equally sinister. Then in stepped two burly guards, appearing pained, and this slender woman with pale skin, a red dress with black stripes, and an expressionless face. She had been gently shoved into the cell, had taken three steps, and then collapsed to her knees in the same position she remained in. The two guards had both moved to catch her, she had never raised her face to their offered hands, and they had reluctantly locked the cell and left. At first, he'd been thoroughly disappointed, so much so that he'd asked to be given a new assignment, that one of the rookies could care for the lady in red. He'd been curtly informed no such change was necessary and he'd taken to just glaring at her. She didn't move, speak, and even appear to breathe. She became statue like and like a piece of art, he'd begun to grow entranced by her simplicity and elegance in her self chosen solitude.

Having memorized every line, every remarkable detail of her faded beauty that had been so sharp and clean when she'd fallen into her position, he now tried to picture whom she had been. He found that he could not, as he had no idea how such a woman had ended up in that cell. He cleared his throat again, and went to step forward. Something stopped him. Instead, he fell back into a stiff backed position and guarded her with the upmost care. He desperately wanted to ask her something, anything, but there was a presence about her that halted every word in his throat. He could not disturb her. He couldn't. Therefore, he just watched, ready to bare witness to her fading into the abyss of time.

A clanking came to his left, shaking him out of his stupor less then an hour later. He jumped at the sound, she appeared not to hear it, and then the bolted door to the corridor opened. In entered three figures. One was a magistrate with a thick roll of paper in his hands. The other two were the same burly guards whom had brought this woman to the cell in the first place. The guard stood straight, eying them suspiciously. The police, as he knew them to be, stood at attention, their jaws set, and their eyes looking anywhere but the fallen woman. The magistrate, however, approached the cell and unlocked it by running a finger over the pad lock. He stepped inside. Each step sounded hollow and forced. Opening the roll, he took in a deep breath and turned to the unmoved female. Her eyes did not move from the deep cracks in the floor. A heavy, tumbling voice filled the space, echoing slightly for the lack of life inside.

" Do you continue to defy the Lord and Master of the Land? Or will you agree to pledge allegiance to the Lord and Master?" the magistrate asked, looking over the paper towards her. The room was as silent as the grave and one of the police made a sound in his throat. Still, not a single twitch of acknowledgment ran down that firm body, " Do you understand that your silence will condemn you to the scaffold?"

Again, there was no answer. The guard watched in shock as she remained as though craved from the very stone surrounding her. The skill was as impressive as what she was denying, what she refused to answer. The impact of her simple silence had the same effect on the air as her simple appearance and utter resistance to move at all. For a moment, all four of the men stood and watched her stillness in awe. Then, squeezing his eyes shut to do so, the magistrate rolled the paper up and put it under his arm. He motioned to the police and the guard, turning his head away with considerable effort. The police hesitated, then moved forward and into the cell. The guard could only stare as one held his hand out to her. There was no movement whatsoever.

Then, as if a spell had been shattered, she raised up the arm that had been laying at her side in waiting. She flexed slender white fingers as she carefully rested them in his huge hand. Her body shook and shivered while she rose with quiet dignity. The dress swung about her frame, but she had lost no weight for whatever curse was upon her. Her hair spilled over her back and shoulders in their contradicting manner, framing her face as beautifully now as they had for the months she had stared at the floor. Those black gems glowed with the fire that seemed to trickle into the air the very second she began to move again. The dark circles only enhanced that appearance. Slowly, she folded her hands in front of her delicately, the hand holding something under the one that wasn't. Without the assistance of the police, she lightly stepped over the stone and out of the cell. Her heels clicked against the ground. The sound was deathly entrancing, following the sway of her body as she glided over the floor with such ease, everyone felt as though in the presence of royalty.

The police moved after her, the magistrate took his place in front, and the guard brought up the rear. His knees shook from the effort not to ask the millions of questions running through his head. Rather, he walked behind the party through the prison and felt his eyes widening. Every prisoner stood at the edge of their cell, watching in silence and respect, as she moved through the crowds. All the other guards removed their hats, a few bowed to her, and one began to sob and mutter how unfair it all was. He, he did not know what was unfair, but he suddenly knew that this matter was far greater then a rebel refusing allegiance to their new ruler. He knew, without a doubt, he was in the presence of a great political warrior as he'd dreamed he had been. The doors to the prison courtyard were opened by men who turned their faces away as if they couldn't bare to open the doors for this woman.

Light poured in through the cloudy sky of the bleak and dreary Neitherworld. The courtyard had been transformed from a grassy tumble yard into a stage for an execution. There were thousands of people standing beyond the gates that the police were attempting to keep shut. In seemed everyone had shown up and stood there in what had been a screaming uproar. The moment the doors had opened, however, silence had filled the air with a magnitude that couldn't be matched by any voice, any sound. She moved over the grass without ever looking about her at all the faces pouring down on her motion. The guard followed the procession as they walked over to a stage set eight feet off the ground. The woman ascended the steps, sweeping her dress up with a single motion of her hand. The others moved in her shadow until they stood on the scaffold. The police eased themselves to either side of the woman as the guard stood at the corner of the scaffold as he was supposed to. The magistrate bowed to the right of the stage where a canopy covered throne was rested. The young guard felt his breath catch in his throat as he took in the glaring figured seated in said throne.

Their new Lord and Master sat with his legs crossed at the knee, his red tipped hands gripping the armrests so tightly, the knuckles were white. His infamous black and white suit was polished, new, as if to make a statement to someone in the crowd. His boots were sleek black leather, the heels sharp like knives. His blond hair fell over his shoulders in tangles, next to touching his black tie and now red shirt. A golden crown rested on his head, a fur lined coat draped his shoulders, but the regal attire could not hide the malice in his light yet dark eyes. They glowed with hatred, though it appeared to be an uncertain hatred, lined with dark circles that hinted at a difficult road before and ahead. His figure was stiff and hard despite it's curves, and he dripped with an evil so vile, it filled the air with a terrible taste.

The poltergeist Beetlejuice stared intently at the woman as she raised her head to face him. Their eyes met and the power from the gazes meeting was enough to send the rookies in the field to their knees. She was unshaken and stood her ground with a blank slate of a face. He gritted his teeth, swallowed hard, and motioned to the magistrate to continue with a single flicker of his wrist. The man turned to the lady in red and unrolled the scroll one more time. His hands shook. The crowd inhaled in what could only be described as disbelief.

" Do you pledge your undying loyalty to our Lord and Master?" he repeated, his deep voice failing to hide the fear within. She didn't answer, she didn't even look at him. She had yet to break her stare with Beetlejuice. The magistrate paused, then shut the scroll with a reluctant snap. The scroll vanished and he bowed his head. The guard saw his knees shake out of the corner of his eye, but he found himself unable to take his eyes off this woman.

He realized whom she was right as her name was spoken.

" Lydia Deetz, it is with a heavy heart that I must then, condemn you to die for the act of treason," he mumbled just loud enough that the entire crowd drew back collectively. The guard nearly dropped his spear as his mouth fell open. Lydia, she bowed her head as was expected in acceptance of the position of the condemned while an executioner in black materialized at a wooden slab placed on the opposite end of the scaffold. Having broken her stare, she began the long and steady journey to her death.

The guard could only let his spear drop to the ground as the crowds began to roar with their disapproval. The magistrate covered his face, the police tensed, as the screams echoed throughout the entire realm. Throughout it all, she walked with the regal appearance as was befitting the only surviving savior of the people of the Neitherworld whom had not been murdered during the war.

The war that Beetlejuice had begun less then two years ago, when he'd decided to overthrow the established government of the entire Neitherworld. He'd single handed destroyed the sanity by assassinating the Mayor, the ruling Kings and Queens, and even the Prince. Chaos had spread throughout the land in a trickling sensation that had rocked the realm to it's foundations. The rebels, those whom supported a new system, had been involved in a civil war with the patriots, those whom supported the former system. Both sides had torn the world to pieces, from start to finish, eliminating long lineages with gun blasts, cannons, and magic the likes of which the world had never seen. Horrendous crimes were committed in the names of politics, including the infamous and gruesome rape and murder of several young ghouls the Neitherworld had watched grow up, selling cookies and the like, as well as the public execution of the popular Juno, the case worker. After a newly dead couple by the name of Maitland had been shot dead, the famous mortal partner of the insane Beetlejuice had risen as the ultimate figurehead of peace. She had rallied the troops and instigated the capture of whom had been not only her companion and business partner, but her lover. In what had been known as the end of the world as everyone had known it, the two had faced off.

Lydia had been in her prime, Beetlejuice at the top of his game. She had not wielded any magic, she had not attacked with any forces. She had merely stood before him and demanded that he stop, stop before he lost everything that mattered and ruined everything that didn't. He had just toppled the societies completely and had begun to laugh. Though it was only legend at this point, eye witnesses said he had pointed to her heart and declared her a fool. He had revoked their friendship for the throne and revealed his scheme as it had been for years. Pit the Neitherworld against one another, have them murder each other, and claim supreme power in their darker days. All the while, using her connection to the mortal realm to wield more power by collecting the souls of the living. She was his pawn and she had fallen for his best trick yet. People claimed that she had lost it. She had began to scream and grabbed at his throat, shrieking something no one but apparently he could understand. He'd disappeared and left her to be chained and jailed. She had fought, resisted every attempt, and then, suddenly, she had complied.

Their only savior, the only one who tried to take back control, had complied. Everyone said she had been possessed into agreement. Then they realized she still did not agree. She resisted that one last thing, and had allowed herself to be jailed. As the guard knew, she had not given up. She had been broken, shattered, by the deception, by watching her world crash to the ground around her. No one really knew what she had said, what had taken place. All they ever knew was she had demanded something, had laid her hands on him, and he had left her alone. Some claimed that she had been abandoned by her lover and that breech of promise between the two had eliminated her will to fight him.

Watching her walk to the block, all the hearsay vanished. Beetlejuice had won his throne, but he had lost the war. He had been unable to capture the fight of the one person whom had stood against him, and only him. She moved as though she was unaware of this, unaware of everyone's eyes on her back, until she reached the edge of the slab. Her red heels tapped to a halt and she turned her head to face their ruler. His harsh eyes stared at her and every cry, every scream, evaporated. She raised up her hand, which had clutched something for all these days, and opened her fingers just slightly.

From a beaded chain hung a spider brooch in an elegant black color. It sparkled and spun in the sunlight as she touched it gently. Beetlejuice's face drained of all color as she closed her eyes to a memory that appeared to be both painful and pleasurable. The air tightened, thinning every moment her dark eyes were closed. Then, without warning, they snapped open, locking instantly on the ghost whom had stolen her innocence, her heart, and now her life.

Lydia jerked her hands in opposing directions. The spider broke clear in half with a crack that rang out to the heavens and everywhere in between. Face blank, she threw the pieces to the ground and twisted away from Beetlejuice. With a sweeping motion, she moved her long hair over her head and she dropped to her knees. Her eyes closed slightly, her face hidden on one side. Yet, for all the tangled locks, everyone in the Neitherworld watched as a black tear ran down her face as that axe was raised. Her hands gripped her dress at her stomach and the blade was brought down as she let out her final breath, her final word, that broke the silence and forever would.

" Beetlejuice."

Fin.