A/N: This is a dark fic, will probably contain skeevy stalking and psychological terror. There will be fighting, a good vs. evil complex and lots, and lots of demons. Also, there will likely be Bible!fail as what's written in that book as being Gospel doesn't work very well in the Charmedverse. And canon trumps source material, sorry.
I will post warnings on individual chapters, but also in the summary; if the fic changes in any way I see no reason to not update accordingly for my readers. Oh, and Cole is the main character in this because the idea was all inspired by dialogue in my head said from his perspective. And yes, my muse is fucked up, we don't talk about this in mixed company. If I forgot to add anything, PM. Or flame away, I don't really care.
Story was inspired by a song of the same name. If you know it, you probably have an idea of the fuckeduppery that is in store for future episodes. Ye've been warned.
They certainly named the place appropriately when they gave it the moniker "Hell." Even for a demon, the Wastelands of the Underworld were no cake walk. And given how most of the demons forced to wander there came about being trapped in the dismal abyss that served as a demon's final resting place, it wasn't much of a surprise that it was all of a flat, dull, lifeless existence; punishment for crimes committed topside.
Knowing all of this, and especially knowing why he was forced to this fate, did nothing to numb the pain from being forced to spend eternity within the confines of the worst pineal colony imaginable any easier to swallow, nor make that time move any faster. While he understood her reasoning – she was protecting the innocent and her sisters, after all! – Cole still clung to the thought that somehow Phoebe still loved him, she just kept that locked deep down inside her heart, where it could not hurt her any longer.
Previous attempts to win his wife back – for yes, he still felt she was his wife in the utmost Holiest, well, Unholiest, sense despite the legal divorce – were... less than successful, to put it mildly. So how to get her back? Using his new found powers in this never ending pit of despair didn't win points with her. Giving them all up seemed to work well, until the Seer muddled things. And even then, when he managed to change the past, it backfired in his face pretty badly. So no, her sisters were not the issue. Could it be her?
"But she's perfect," he said to himself, aloud and not caring who heard. It's not like anyone was around, after all, and even if they were he could banish them back to another section of this bedamned pit. But obviously she wasn't, if she could so deny his own perfection. Doesn't perfection recognize when it meets its level in another, after all?
That thought gave him pause, and not entirely to contemplate the tracks it laid. A cursory search of the area provided no other watching him, so the next logical step, in Cole's mind, at least, was to search for the breach within it. "You're not dead, obviously, else I'd be able to pinpoint you," he called to the open air, half wondering if he was crazy, half assuring himself that he was crazier.
"I should have known you're smarter than that, Belthazor," came the reply, in the soft tone of a gentile-sounding woman. That had to be a ruse, of course, as no one gentile would be able to find themselves within the Wastelands and still living. She appeared before him, fading in with none of the usual flare favored by most demons. That alone was telling of her power, and perhaps even her age.
"I'm sorry, have we met?" Ever the gentleman, Cole extended his hand to the figure; well, figurine may have been a better descriptor. She looked like a statue, like finely carved marble, and even had the features reminiscent of Old Italy to sell the picture more easily. Given that she had demonstrated excellent control of telepathic power, Cole gave enough pause, even before uttering the first syllable of his polite, though guarded greeting, to guard his mind; ward it from further unwelcome entry.
"We have not, Belthazor," she returned kindly, taking his hand delicately and failing to surprise him with a soft, but firm handshake. "A meeting until now would have been... difficult considering I was locked a way well before your time."
So he was right, to some extent.
She was trying so amusingly to modernize her speech, but it was obvious that even the older English Cole grew up with would have been far too new for her understanding. This new creature, which he was studying with earnest and even, quite possibly, delight – the most excruciating aspect of this droll desert was the very fact that it was so boring around here, making this new, puzzling addition quite exciting comparatively – kept giving subtle clues to her origin in her mannerisms; enough for him to begin forming an idea of it, anyway, even though his educational interest had been Law, not History. Curious enough was how well she took to the language, despite her struggles with its more modern ways.
"I'm not sure on how many demons grew up speaking Latin, but I bet if I knew, I could count them on one hand." He sounded cocky. Not entirely an unfounded assumption, either, as no one knew quite as well as Cole how full of himself he was.
"What makes you think I spoke Latin as a girl?" the yet unidentified demon queried, raising a brow. She seemed apparent to keep up whatever charade she was prancing in, but ever a practical man, Cole would have none of it.
"Most demons as old as you don't pick up on English at the drop of a hat. My guess is you'd also have about as much trouble with other Romanticized languages as you did this one. Tell me, how long did it take you to learn? A week? A year? Two?" Arms crossed over his chest, Cole leaned in, turning one ear as if her answer may be to quite to catch.
"You care more about how long it took me to learn your language than why I am here?" she asked mildly, not quite taking the bait. Whomever she was, she was very impatient.
"Perhaps I am idling. Stalling. You obviously want something from me – surprise, surprise – and rather than eat out of the palm of your hand like you're expecting, why not try to unravel the mystery for myself? And hey, I'm having a good time of it. Can't imagine why you wouldn't be. It's not like I've got places to go or anything constructive to do with my time, after all." Snorting, he uncrossed his arms to hold them up in a gesture of indication, waving them around to showcase the Wasteland as emphasis.
Further expressing impatience with him, she fidgeted, crossing her arms as she shifted weight between each foot, attempting to decide which to tap without giving much thought to it. Absently, she reasoned with the left, leaning to the right to do so.
"Perhaps you should reserve your disrespect until you've learned with whom you speak," she grumbled, annoyed more at his deriving entertainment from her than any out right disrespect he may have shown. Nevertheless her words were heated, and the agitation colored them with a noticeable accent.
"Hmm, a Latin-speaking woman with an Old World accent in the tattered remains of what looks like a Romanized linen dress wishes something of me, but would rather get pissed off at supposed insolence than tell me her name or explain what it is she wants," he ticked off on his left hand, using the right index for indication. "Now, my knowledge of ancient demons is notably fuzzy, at least when they predate my old Brotherhood, but I can say with a hundred percent certainty that if you don't remedy that issue, at least in regards to yourself, whatever it is you want of me you will not get. It's been fun, my mysterious wannabe friend, but though I lack anything of value to do, I get the feeling that anything else I could do would be far more interesting than continuing this bland conversation. Good day."
He made as if to tip a hat, though he possessed none, bowed to her, and began to walk passed. It was a ploy he'd used many a time before to get others to act, and certainly was hoping it would work again. It wouldn't surprise him much if she just faded out of existence as easily as she did in, but the hope was still there that she was as easy to manipulate as she led on. And if whatever she wanted was important enough, he was confident in the knowledge that she was.
"Oh I knew you were the wrong man for the job," she spat venomously, anger making her eyes aglow in an unnatural shade of gold. It appeared two could play at that game, but Cole wasn't new to it, nor as dim as she seemed to believe of him. Then again, perhaps she was just that narcissistic. Perhaps, even, that legend of Narcissus got the gender wrong.
"You'll have to try better than that," he said flatly, not even looking back at the woman while addressing her; waving his hand as if to dismiss her insult flatly. The image was likely comical: the scruffy, dirty looking demon waving off a slightly more polished one as if she were more of a bore than their surroundings. There was even a bit of irony to it, lost, perhaps, on her, but certainly not on Cole; the thought of it brought a small, sad smile to his unkempt face.
"And if I threaten your witch?" she asked maliciously, not realizing how strongly she was grasping those straws. To this, he paused, though not for long enough to even turn around.
"Your first mistake was calling her my witch," he offered finally, raising his voice a bit due to the small distance between them. She hadn't moved to follow, yet. Another ironic statement to his mind, and one he flagged instantly as hypocritical, since he was previously thinking of ways to get her back. This time, the irony was not lost on her.
"Were you not thinking of ways to restore your marriage?" she asked coyly, starting to follow for fear of losing him. Whatever she wanted, she was desperate for it. Again he stopped, though this time he did turn.
"Regardless of my thoughts, she is still not my witch. And that, again, was only your first mistake." Though his tone did not reflect this, Cole was beginning to become irate with the woman. She wouldn't reveal what she wanted, nor who she was, nor anything remotely close to that, and yet she expected him to grovel.
"Listen, lady, I don't know who you are, nor do I care. Whatever minion service you were used to prior to being locked up will not be found in me. You are certainly welcome to fuck with Phoebe and her sisters if you so choose, but time and again that's proven rather stupid. Can you count how many demons have survived the Charmed ones? Cus I can. I don't even need a full hand." No, he thought to himself, a finger would do. Since they can't vanquish fear, only keep the demon representation from harming innocents.
She stood there, mouth agape, not at all sure how to take this blatant, and flat out rude, dismissal of her thoughts and attempts before remembering her composure.
"You're just like Adam!" she spat, turning heel and beginning to walk away, muttering to herself as she strode along.
"Like who?" Cole asked accusingly, the cogs working to fit the pieces together. He didn't care about being compared to someone, just confused as to why she'd think he'd understand the reference, if she even did at all. Her angry mutterings began to give way to an older and more archaic language until that was all she spoke, and, though he could string two syllables of it together in any comprehensive manner, it struck a chord in his memory.
"Lilith?" he grunted, disbelief and frank shock apparent amidst the amused chuckle. "First wife of Adam?" he continued, now incredibly baffled that she'd seek him out, of all people.
"I mean no disrespect," he mused, licking his dry lips to by him time to choose his wording. "But I had always thought you were a myth." This caused the ancient demon to stop in her tracks, full rage seeming to waft off her form like a bad odor; a rage reflected in the glare she leveled on him when she did finally turn around. Blood began to drip from her fists, which were clenched in an attempt to keep from clawing him. Regardless of his insolence, she still needed him to carry out her plan.