Disclaimer: I, sadly, did not create the genius that is Angel Sanctuary. Therefore I am not the owner of said manga nor any of its wonderful characters.
A/N: A re-write of my first fanfiction which was too awful to keep as it was.
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The peals of laughter rose.
Their pitch ascended and fell against the hard stones of hell. At times escalating in measures only to perish moments later. Dwindling to mere echoes before they commenced once more - but always wild in their mirth.
Long, long ago in a time that had almost passed from memory; a promise had been made.
The laughter climbed broken turrets where remnant stone had long since been neglected and left to rot.
In wrecked towers, which crumbled away into powdered fragments beneath the lightest of touch and dissipated with a swift polish of forefinger and thumb, Beezlebub straightened from a rigid bow. A being whose body betrayed him at every slow instant with a perpetual ache. A demon who was now no more than a dim shade of his glorious self. A prince amongst the flies. He paused in the stream of honeyed words which he crooned into a weak and susceptible ear. The iron weave of hair curling into Beezlebub's grip left the shoulder, tense and uncertain beneath his clutch, and a neck now ragged and ruinous. His sullen eyes glittered in the candlelight and lingered upon the banquet stretched out before them as an endless insinuation. Laden with exotic foods so abundant there was little space between the chipped dishes and the wood groaned out in hints of decay. Fruits substance burst forth from skins with a delectable ripeness. The lush array distracted the eye from the decorative cloth beneath, laid down to heighten the grandeur but discoloured by layers of dust. The edges tattered and worn. Beezlebub soiled robes glistened as they moved gracefully against him. His head tilted upwards to listen with disgraced ears.
A hushed pledge that had whispered against white, unpromising lips. Skin as pure and untouched as fresh fallen snow. Unblemished by wistful years.
It curled around and down into cavernous depths. Sunk into the emptiest of pits.
In the dank stomach of hell, where the air became fetid, the two fierce heads of Mammon bickered without ceasing. A film of grease lined the halls where Mammon's body skittered and scratched nervously amongst the rank straw and turned over grubby coin whose shine had long ago elapsed. Littered with stolen trinkets, the mounds of treasure towered on all sides as they strained upwards in a never ending reach. And still they grew. In places the gold stirred with thick, oily motion as Mammon disturbed them in his continuous stream of discontented quarrelling. For as one head lunged clumsily to snatch up an ornament, which charmed its beady eye with passing fancy, the gesture would attract the other. A previous gem won would be dropped and abandoned as the tussle between the two heads begun afresh. Smooth, callous mouths which arced into vindictive curves clashed. Elongated necks interlaced and pulled against the other, angled awkwardly in a space so confined. Its body convulsing as they tore it apart. A feathered flurry of flailing wings. Exposed flesh. And blood spilled onto the sea of churning riches below. Over the wet crash of metal, not a sound was heard.
A declaration made in the sudden thrill of a heated want. Because He could not tempted. Because His body had remained proud and still in her long, naked arms.
It became a hollow suggestion in the unforgiving edifices.
Following each begrudging beat of Barbelo's heel as she climbed the steps towards the chamber of her latest interest. Another demon. Another bed. Another slur to be disregarded with cold indifference. Barbelo's elegant nails, their tips refined and painted, grazed the muscle of the granite wall as she made her brooding path. Leaving profound gouges to ghost the course she had taken. She would not forget the insult made to her, she hissed into the enflamed shadows. She would not forget her seething heart. The fire from torches guiding her tread danced in their brackets and she faltered in her stride. Her breath gave an angry hitch. And her wretched hands curled themselves into wretched fists. It was then, in that fleeting interval where her rage suspended time, that she grasped them over the restless flame. The edges of hilarity resounding towards her from a distance far below. Barbelo's beautiful lips framed the shape of a delicate sneer as she threw a brief and scornful glance over her shoulder. Spite coursed through her with renewed strength. She picked up the layers of her dusky skirts once more and continued resolutely on in her initial pursuit. She had learnt her sorry lesson eons ago. There would always be those fools who never could.
With His next few words, frozen before they had even slithered from between His pitiless smile, she had fallen. Her soul cursed. The sordid deed done.
It flowed along the wind of corridors to spiral into the black pitch of Hell's heart.
Secured within his enclosure, a warren of treacherous paths, Astaroth did not blink. His gilded stare hypnotised by the beads of crimson as they trickled into pools. The sight no longer sent the waves of excitement trembling through his limbs. No longer did he feel the chill of ecstasy as the blood wept into the cracks of paved stone and streamed its red, accusing fingers towards him. But there had never been any spark of ambition within his soul. So he sat upon his lavish chair - each ornate arm, carved from the bones of unfortunates, slid into a pythons yawn - and continued to watch with calm disinterest. Metal devices whirled and steamed and rasped. The bodies writhed in their contortions. The muffled whimpers, those concise cries of pain, disfigured themselves amongst the faint resonance which came to him as a vague and indistinct implication of another domain. So very little registered with him in this lifetime. A white, lethargic hand drew indolent patterns in a dark liquid presented to him from a plain, wooden bowl held in the clawed hands of an ugly demon. Astaroth's eyes did not shift as he brought the tip of a slim finger to trace his lower lip. Tainting it scarlet. His other hand kept lazed fingers laced possessively within the coils of a white serpent draped around his slender shoulders.
She had drawn back then. Far back into shadow once more. Removed her desirous hands. Kept her longing gaze.
And dripped itself into every crevice until came to rest upon watery graves.
Levithan dwelled in a realm of shadow. His immeasurable body of sleek muscle wrapped around a bleak crag of jagged rock as ivory talons ground deep into its sides and secured his footing. His fierce grin pressed close to a dark lake which steamed beneath the hot gusts of his breath. A skin of rock and clay formed the caverns ceiling where a void – the roof worn thin by incessant years, perhaps through an act of violence - dropped a single shaft of light like a blessing. It transformed the waters below. Brightened them. Made the gloom within them gleam with all the clear honesty of a mirror. From the instant it had fallen into his dominion it had held Leviathan transfixed and he submitted. To its bright elegance. To his yearning. To his reflection which consumed him. To part from the light was akin to pain. The clamourreachedhis ears and was initially no more than a mild distraction. A disturbance in his steady vigil. Then those mocking tones sent small waves through the lake he loomed over and shattered his reflection into rippled distortions. Levithan's anger was a snarling explosion of pure fury. Beckoned by a brief rumbled growl before breaking into a storm. Cheated, he dived into the cold depths. In a thrashing of scales he was gone and when the waters calmed once more, it was if he had never been.
One day, she was certain, He would lean towards her to sully Himself with the treacherous kiss of acquiescence.
As persistent as the tolling of the death bell. A substance of lighter quality.
Asmodeus fancied indulging in something thin and so lit up a cigarette. With his casual feet he strolled towards the elaborate window – vines, cages, grapes and butterflies gouged into an oak frame – whilst one large hand snagged a decanter up into his languid fingers. He swept the curtains, dense with velvet, aside. The room swamped with an abundant light which caught within the intricate patterns of the crystal he raised and betrayed his restless state. Stray droplets of a rich wine gone sour escaped as he grimaced at the taste and wiped an arm, stiff with drink, across the purple stain of his lips. Yet he gasped like a man satisfied. Around his decadent room silken clothes escaped their luxuriant confines in hoards. Massing around the backs of extravagant chairs and entwining into his soft bedsheets. Selected. Considered. Discarded. Forgotten. A compendium of fine glass gathered on every surface, decorative or otherwise. Half-filled and topped up with ash. As he leant against the windows' frame Asmodeus mused idly over when he had last changed – his dress shirt open, dirty and dishevelled – and discovered he could not be bothered to remember. With closed eyes he savoured the lilting tones drifting across to him like a dream. As light as a summer's breeze blowing a careless smoke ring into the reminiscent blue sky. To him it was the most delicious sound. The saddest of songs.
He would never be hers. Not truly. For if she wins - if He surrendered to her tips - the game would have to end. There would be nothing left for her in this world. And He was too perfect to lose.
Smiling, wiping the humorous tears from the corners of her eyes with a white thumb; Belial collapsed into a helpless heap once more.