Author's Note: Please don't ask me why I'm writing this. I have no idea. The story just got under my skin and took hold of my imagination, I guess. Another of those stories that wouldn't leave me alone until I'd written it.

The time frame for when this story is supposed to take place is purposely fuzzy. It could be modern times, it could be the 1930s, it could be the 1840s. You pick. Also, I realize that in the songs there's no mention of Johnny having a girlfriend, and certainly not a Sidhe; I put that in purely for my own enjoyment. Because for some reason, I can't imagine Johnny being too concerned about his own soul. But if he were playing to save the life of a woman he called his soul… that I can believe. Meh. My fanfic, my rules.

Disclaimer: This two-shot is based on The Devil Went Down To Georgia and The Devil Went Back To Georgia, both owned by the Charlie Daniels Band [as well as a few other country stars]. If I owned the songs, I wouldn't have made the sequel such a cocktease.

Play Bys: Johnny is portrayed by Norman Reedus [so if he acts way too much like Murphy MacManus, that's why]. Máire is portrayed by Amanda Seyfried. The Devil is portrayed by Johnny Depp [because really, he is too sinfully handsome for anyone's good].

Hell was once immortalized in Dante's Inferno as a nine-tiered downward spiral of increasingly horrific tortures, each proportionate and specific to their sin. A place of fire and lava and wind and ice and wailing and gnashing of teeth. And all of this was true… or at least, had been once. But every few centuries or so, the Prince of Darkness would get tired of the layout of his domain, and he'd remodel.

Lately, Hell was much quieter. There were still fire, lava, and brimstone, of course, but now they were only at the entrance, and it was mostly for appearance's sake. Once you reached Hell itself, you learned what Hell truly was. Hell was total and complete, utter isolation. One was lost within one's own mind, feeling constantly the separation from other souls, from God Himself. That all-consuming aloneness was all the punishment these souls truly needed. When left completely alone, there was nowhere to hide from themselves, from the heinous deeds they had committed in their lifetimes. Eventually, the soul would combust, disintegrate into Nothingness. That was truly Hell, nonexistence. For one's deeds, words, feelings, emotions, their entire being to simply no longer exist, not even in memory.

The Devil really enjoyed the creativity afforded by his job.

Lately, though, the Master of Deception had noticed a problem. You see, the Devil was by no means an independent force. His power came from the misery of souls; without their torment he had nothing. He would cease to be, and that was simply unacceptable. And lately- he didn't really pay much attention to Time, but he assumed it had been about the past fifty years or so- his supply of souls had been dwindling. He wasn't sure why his demons weren't as effective at temptation as they had once been; perhaps it was because for hundreds of years they had specialized in seducing entire groups of people. Modern culture was much more fragmented, placing heavy emphasis on individuality rather than the collective. Instead of seducing en masse, the demons now had to tempt soul by soul, which was both time-consuming and inefficient. However, the whys were ultimately irrelevant. Right now, all Old Toby cared about was getting his numbers up.

He walked into his office- yes, he had an office now. He had quite liked the Renaissance idea of a gentleman of leisure's study, with walls lined in books and a large desk with a wingback chair. And so he had created such a place for himself in Hell. The room was, of course, outfitted in red and orange with accents of flame blue and touches of black; one did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and resting them against his thin lips as he considered the problem that lay before him.

That he would have to go Above and solve this problem himself was obvious. His demons were remarkable little workers and infernally talented at temptation, but most of them hadn't been gifted with much by way of intelligence. The higher ranking demons- the angels that had Fallen with him- could be sent Up There, he supposed, but they were already stretched thin as it was, supervising the lesser demons and guarding the trapped souls. No, he would deal with this himself. The only question was, where should he go?

South America had been a good region for the past couple hundred years, he contemplated. Irony aside, God bless the South American drug trade; it had ensnared more souls for him than anything else in recent history. There was the mess in Africa to consider; he'd spent so much energy stirring up tribal tensions, he may as well reap the benefits. Then there was America. Ah, America; one of his favorite playgrounds. With the legendary American greed and pride, he had a seemingly never-ending supply of souls. Yes, he would visit America.

"Alastor!" he called lazily, his voice echoing through the labyrinth that was Hell.

A moment later, a demon appeared before his lord. He was a tall, thin man, intensely pale, with black hair that fell to his shoulders and black eyes. Quiet and elegant, Alastor was a demon of possession, a master of illusion and persuasion.

"Yes, my lord?" he inquired.
"I'm going Above to acquire a soul," Lucifer stated. "Where do you suggest I go?"
"I have been watching a youth, my lord, in Georgia," Alastor replied. "A young man, of great pride. I believe he will be sufficient to succor your power."
"Show him to me," the Devil commanded.

Inclining his head, Alastor waved his hand, creating a vision of the young man in question. When he saw his intended target, Lucifer smiled- the beautiful, devastating smile that was only one reason he had once been known as the Morning Star.

"Yes," he nodded. "Yes, he shall do."

Georgia was likened to Hell in the summertime. The heat was muggy and oppressive, as if the earth herself had opened up to release the vapors of Hell. Georgia slowed down in the summertime; people were driven inside, seeking the shade and the cool.

John Brown, universally known as Johnny, reveled in the summer heat. An Irishman born and bred, Johnny had immigrated to America following a labor strike. He had thought for a while of settling in New York or perhaps Boston, but a few too many brushes with the law had led him to believe that he should seek his fortune further south. Upon seeing the green, rolling hills of Georgia, Johnny had known that he was home. He had settled down in the midst of the rural hills, offering his services as a carpenter. His nimble, unusually long fingers produced furniture of surprising beauty, and in short time he had made enough money to build himself a modest home.

Yes, Johnny had done well for himself. But the pride of his life was his violin. The violin was a beautiful Stradivarius that he had won in Dublin in a poker game. Johnny's father had been a fiddle player, and his father before him; Johnny had grown up learning how to play. His ma had liked to say that when Johnny set his bow to a violin, he made the very angels weep with joy.

It was his violin playing, in fact, that had won Johnny his woman. Máire was part Sidhe; the daughter of a mortal father and a faerie mother. Máire's mother, Maeve, had enchanted her father Colum when he approached a faerie hill at twilight. They had lain together, professed their love, and then Maeve had flitted off, leaving Colum behind. Nine months later, Colum had found a tiny, elfin looking baby on his doorstep. Because Máire was a half-blood, she had never been fully accepted in either world. Her mother's people shunned her for her human blood, while her father's people feared her for her Sidhe magic. As such, Máire had kept mostly to herself, rarely leaving her father's homestead.

But for some reason, she had come to a town party one night. Johnny had been drinking with his mates, having a grand time. Then old Angus Bramson had shifted in his seat, and Johnny had caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair carefully arranged to cover her slightly pointed ears, her luminous tilt-tipped leaf green eyes wide with wonder. Like all Sidhe, she was stunningly beautiful, but it wasn't just her physical beauty that caught Johnny's attention. There was something in her eyes, some pure, burning light that not only intrigued him but set him ablaze. The world faded into insignificance, and in that moment he wanted to describe her in the only way he knew how. He had reached for his violin and begun to play, creating melodies describing the way the light caught her golden hair, the roses in her cheeks, the beautiful planes and curves of her body. Máire, like almost all of her kind, was spellbound by music. The moment she heard it, she had begun to dance. And Johnny had utterly lost his heart to her. People said that Johnny made magic when he played, but that night Máire laid a spell on him with her graceful, utterly joyful Sidhe dancing. From that moment on, there could never be another woman for him.

They had made many sacrifices to be together, had Johnny and Máire. Her mother, though never a very attentive parent, was still Sidhe and as such very much against mixing the blood and magic of a Sidhe with that of a human [conveniently forgetting that she had done the selfsame thing]. Maeve was a high-ranking Sidhe princess, and she had tried to forbid Máire from choosing Johnny by stating that she would never be welcome in the Summerland if she were to stay with Johnny. But Máire had pointed out that Maeve had never taken her child to Summerland anyways, so why should she miss it?

As if her mother's disapproval wasn't enough, there was Máire's very nature to contend with. Máire had done her best to curb the Sidhe side of herself, but she could never totally succeed. Magic flowed too strongly through her; she could never fully successfully pretend to be human. During the full moon, Máire was uncontrollable; she would be out in the evening dew, she would seek the faerie rings and dance to music that only she could hear.

Leaving Ireland had been unspeakably hard for the young Sidhe; being away from her ancestral home and her native magic weakened her, left her more susceptible to the human world. She tried to mitigate the effects of America by always wearing a Sidhe-made pendant [one which Maeve had reluctantly had made for her daughter] that contained within it a drop of pure Sidhe blood [thus imbuing Máire with sustaining power], but she knew it would not forever hold at bay the effects of being so far from home. Someday, Máire would have to return to Ireland for a time, to restore her youth and health.

And yet, Johnny didn't mind these tests. If it meant that his Máire, m'anam, his soul, would stay with him, he was willing to do anything.

They weren't married, not yet. Though Máire was ostracized by the Sidhe, she was still the only daughter of a high-ranking Sidhe princess, and thus the royal family had to take an interest in her. Because Máire had not yet attained maturity [that would occur when she was 27], the Sidhe king and queen- Máire's grandparents- had the power to withhold the ability for the pair to wed. King Fionn and Queen Nuala had struck a deal with their granddaughter [Maeve had taken Máire to the Sidhe court when she learned of her daughter's intention to leave Eire]; if she would consent to wait until she had attained maturity to make her mortal lover her husband, Máire would be acknowledged as Sidhe royalty and thus afforded a permanent connection to Ireland, which would allow her to remain with Johnny without withering away into nothing. Until then, Máire and Johnny lived in Georgia, pretending to be married so as not to scandalize their neighbors.

It was a hot July day, a sultry, sunny summer day that shone with merciless intensity. Johnny had taken the day off work, since it was so hot that his furniture glue wouldn't set. Instead of working, he had taken his violin and Máire deep into the forest, where the dense canopy afforded some shade from the unrelenting sun. They had spent the whole day out here, shedding their clothes since they were away from all human eyes, feeding each other berries and cool water from the nearby stream. Then Johnny had pulled his violin out of its case and tuned it, and he had played for Máire, who in turn had danced for him, her golden hair flying to reveal her elfin ears.

"What a charming tableaux."

Johnny's bow quivered, stilling mid-note. Máire, who had been joyously spinning in circles, halted, her hair falling around her shoulders to cover her nudity [much to Johnny's relief; he was rather possessive of Máire]. They both looked up to see a tall, elegant man standing in the clearing with them. As opposed to their nude dishevel, he was resplendent in a perfectly tailored black pinstripe suit, the only color in his outfit the blood red of his tie. His dark hair was swept back off his face, which was arresting and beautiful in its unusual, angular delicacy. He stood with his feet casually spread apart, hands folded before him. He exuded power and control far beyond that of an ordinary mortal man. Máire, recognizing the stranger for what he was thanks to her Sidhe abhorrence of evil, hissed as she scurried for her clothes.

"A bheith imithe as an áit seo, Diabhal. Is féidir leat a dhéanamh ar aon olc anseo," she spat out, the Gaelic heavy on her tongue.
"Peace, little Sidhe," the mysterious man said, holding up his hands. "My business is not with you."
"What is yer business, then?" Johnny asked, casually getting into his pants but nothing else.

The Devil didn't answer for a moment. Instead, a small smile played across his sinfully handsome features as he stepped onto a nearby hickory stump.

"I'll bet you didn't know it, but I'm a fiddle player too," he said conversationally, casually removing his suit jacket. "And if you care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you."
"What kind o' bet?" Johnny asked, running a hand through his dark hair.
"You play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the Devil his due," Lucifer replied, rolling up his shirtsleeves with quick precision. "I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, because I think I'm better than you."

Máire's breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat in her terror. Even if she tried to deny that part of herself, Máire was Sidhe, and she knew that you didn't make bets with nonhumans. Nonhumans didn't follow the same kinds of logic; there were always twists and catches to every deal, ways for the nonhuman to get exactly what they wanted. She looked at Johnny, anguish in her beautiful eyes, but for once he paid her no mind.

"Me name's Johnny," the young man said, standing, confidence and determination in his blue eyes. "And it might be a sin, but I'll take your bet. Yer gonna regret it, coz I'm the best that's ever been."

The Devil smiled darkly, satisfaction burning in his brown eyes. He waved his hand, and instantly the golden fiddle appeared. It was a beautiful piece, literally Heavenly in its design; Lucifer had had it with him when he Fell from Grace. Even now, untold millennia since he had Fallen into Darkness, the Heavenly violin had retained its pure nature. It pained the Devil to play it; the goodness and divinity inherent in the instrument was contrary to everything he was made of. But it was a piece of home, and the music that came from the violin was too sweet for the Devil to relinquish.

"Máthair Danu," Máire whispered, casting her eyes up to the sky. "Hell's broke loose in Georgia an' the Devil deals the cards."

As the Devil rosined up his bow, a small band of demons appeared in the clearing. Sinfully, devilishly handsome, all of them; some of them held instruments to accompany their master; others were clearly there to dance for him. When he saw the demons staring at Máire, hunger in their eyes as they recognized her Sidhe magic, Johnny frowned and stepped forward.

"Might I make a request, Devil?" he asked.
"A request," the Prince of Darkness repeated, raising an eyebrow.
"Not fer meself, tis for Máire," Johnny said. "Y'see, if I play me fiddle, she'll be wantin' ta dance. I'd ask that none o' yer boys grab 'er and keep 'er from it."
"On the contrary," the Devil said graciously. "We would be honored to witness Sidhe dancing. It's a powerful magic that we've not seen in centuries."
"Much obliged," Johnny said, infinitely satisfied.

As long as his Máire could dance, Johnny could play. To keep her dancing, Johnny would produce the most beautiful music he was capable of; her dancing would give him the strength to win this hellish bet.

"I'll start this show," the Devil said smoothly.

He pulled the bow across his strings and it made an evil hiss. Then his band of demons joined in, and they began to play. The music was haunting, beautiful, seductive; at once the saddest of ballads and the wildest of reels. His dark eyes bore into Máire's, and his mouth turned up in a smirk as she began to walk forward, as if in a trance. He knew that she was moving against her will, yet he could sense that her resistance to his temptation was beginning to waver. Entranced by his music, Máire began to dance, twisting and turning along with the music he played for her. Lucifer watched her, smirking; yes, he would win Johnny's soul, his m'anam, before this day was over.

Who knew how much time passed as the Devil played and Máire danced for him. The demons that had no instruments joined Máire in her dance, and while they didn't touch her it was clear that they were exerting a powerful influence over her, trying to tempt her to the Darkness where she could dance for them always. When the music ended, Máire's feet stilled. She and the Devil stood staring at each other, she gasping for breath, he darkly satisfied. There was fire in Johnny's eyes as he stood, striding forward and placing himself between his soul and the Devil.

"Well, yer pretty good, ol' son," Johnny said conversationally. "But sit down in that chair righ' there, let me show ye how it's done."

The Devil inclined his head, seating himself in the wingback chair that Johnny had indicated; he had caused it to materialize after he'd finished playing. He tenderly packed his violin in its mother-of-pearl case as Johnny rosined his bow and made a last-minute tuning. The demons all clustered around him, turning their attention from Máire for the moment because they knew she stood on the brink of losing herself to them.

Inhaling a long, slow breath, Johnny set his bow to his violin. He had no idea what he was going to play; it didn't matter what notes came out, as long as he called Máire back to him. He spoke to his soul through his music; told her how beautiful he found her, the million reasons why he loved her. He spoke to her of the sunsets she loved so much, how they looked like fire on the mountains; he sang the songs the river made as it flowed outside their home. He reminded her of the songs of the trees, of the music that they made together. His eyes never left her form; as he played he willed her to turn around, to give her back to the demons that had tempted her and to return to him. He poured all his love for her into his music, pushing his fingers to fly over the strings.

And slowly, Máire turned around. Her green eyes sought his blue, and when their gazes locked he forced the music into her. He forced the notes to envelope her, to sink into the marrow of her bones. He coaxed her feet to move, persuaded her body to begin its graceful undulations, begged her to weave her magic for him. And finally, she responded. Her eyes never left his as she abandoned herself to him, as he laid her bare, as she lost herself within the music and the dancing. Their gazes never broke as Johnny called his soul back to him, as he saved her and himself from the Devil's clutches.

Finally, Johnny's bow stilled. He lowered the violin, his fingers bleeding over the neck of the instrument. Silence reigned for a long moment; even the wind held its breath in anticipation.

The Devil bowed his head, because he knew that he'd been beat. Gracefully unfolding himself from his throne-like chair, he gently picked up his divine violin, and laid it on the ground at Johnny's feet. Johnny didn't take it; instead he reached his free hand forward and pulled his soul, his m'anam, his Máire firmly into his arms, assuring himself that she still belonged to him and not to Lucifer.

"Devil, jus' come on back if ye ever want ta try again," Johnny said, a triumphant smirk growing on his handsome face. "I told ye once, ye son of a bitch, I'm th' best tha's ever been."

The Devil fixed Johnny with a Look, a look of cold, piercing calculation and unthinkable evil. For a long moment, the two stared each other down, before the Devil turned on his heel, he and his demons disappearing in licks of infernal fire.

Only when he was gone did Johnny dare to shakily exhale, to gather a trembling Máire in his arms and soothe her. Slowly, he leaned down and picked up the Devil's violin, testing its weight in his hands. He reached for the golden bow, curling his fingers around it possessively.

"No, Johnny, dinna touch it," Máire asked, tears in her eyes.

But Johnny, transfixed by the feel of the violin in his hands, didn't answer her. Experimentally, he drew the bow across the strings. A pure, unbearably sweet note hovered in the air, a sound that stilled even the incessant birdsong overhead. A blissful smile growing on his face, Johnny began to play, telling Máire of his relief and his joy that they had won, that he had wrested her from the Devil's clutches. Tears sprung to Máire's eyes at the heavenly beauty of the music; in Johnny's hands the violin sang music so pure that even the angels must surely be envious.

And once again, Johnny's soul began to dance.

m'anam = my soul

a bheith imithe as an áit seo, diabhal. Is féidir leat a dhéanamh ar aon olc anseo = be gone from this place, Devil. You can do no evil here.

Danu = mother of the Irish gods