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narcasse1776 words. AU. PG.
An experiment in putting three types of demon together within the same framework. There’s the distinct chance that I may have written this while still drunk because its around about then that I start to ruminate on the political structure of Hell.
Demons
Disclaimer: Anima Mundi - Dark Alchemist belongs to the Hirameki International Group & Karin Entertainment. Black Butler belongs to Toboso Yana, G-Fantasy and others. Majin Tantei Nōgami Neuro belongs to Matsui Yuusei, Shounen Jump and others.
++++++++++
After a while even demons get bored and the great Rhadamanthus finds himself tapping his fingers mechanically against the arms of his throne for want of anything else to do. It has been an age since his sojourn in the human world though in terms of human time it may have been anything from a few days to a few millennia. He suspects that it’s actually some estimation in between because upon his return to Hell he’d spent long months doing little other than lying stretched out sighing contentedly and occasionally patting his belly in satisfaction. The soul of one who should have been innocent, corrupted beyond measure had filled him completely in the way that a human might be happily filled by a good meal. He’d lain down in his tent and stared at nothing and none of his subordinates had dared disturb him.
Though the War has long been stalled and his troops haven’t mobilised since then Rhadamanthus is one of the few great generals who haven’t built themselves stable strongholds in the underworld’s caverns. His troops still live in their tent-city on the off chance that the call will go up that they once again will go to war with the Heavenly Host. Not all the generals of Hell’s army are like this though. Mephistopheles for instance, Champion of the Adversary, who reputedly tore a handful of feathers from the wings of the Archangel Michael, who still to this day sports a bald spot where feathers now refuse to grow, lives in a palace high up in the mountain range that looks down upon the underworld. He is lover of Lucifer’s grandson, a hybrid demon born into the human world, and seems to do nothing more than strut about in a frockcoat and lace cuffs as a result these days. Occasionally he descends from the royal palace and makes an inspection of the troops which always seems to involve his sneering at Rhadamanthus’ distain for human clothing, though arguably Mephistopheles’ own taste is at least two centuries out of date.
Rhadamanthus for the most part distains any clothing at all. He is a demon with horns and a tail, claws and, should he so desire to reveal them, warped, black wings. He is in fact one of the few demons with genuinely black feathered wings that moult everywhere of their own volition. He has no interest in human conceptions of modesty or fashion, especially not fashion as advocated by a demon who still bears a chip in one of his horns where an Archangel reputedly bit him.
“You’re rotting.” Mephistopheles had remarked once, deliberately, casually as he’d studied his nails.
Rhadamanthus had bowed to hide his annoyance. “Is there anything his lordship requires of me?”
“And those are the wrong genitals.”
Which had been admittedly the truth since that day the bottom half of his human-looking body certainly didn’t match the top.
“Or did your human master like that sort of thing?”
Rhadamanthus had laughed, long and loudly, enough to leave Mephistopheles momentarily nonplussed which had been far more effective in driving the Champion of Hell away than reasonably stating that Ceil had in fact only been twelve years old.
Rhadamanthus still smiles over the look Mephistopheles had given him in the face of his laughter. It’s not often that a demon of his rank scores a point over Hell’s Champion, though he does occasionally wonder whether Mephistopheles sets himself up deliberately so as to leave the other demons unaware of his true strength. It is a rare demon after all who delivers a soul to Hell when said soul has an archangel appointed in guardianship over it. It’s enough to trouble Rhadamanthus and set him wondering if Mephistopheles is simply portioning out enough rope for him to hang himself with one day. Hell is no democracy after all and if Lucifer’s Right Hand decides that Rhadamanthus has outlived his usefulness then his existence will simply be snuffed out and somebody else promoted to his position. Though at least there is some modicum of security there in so far as his troops are loyal to him and no one else so a new general would have to martial their own army under their own standard to take his place. In that respect it’s probably easier to just keep things as they are rather than trouble over a replacement and all the bother than entails, even if Mephistopheles is unusually proactive for a demon.
But even Mephistopheles’ political games aren’t enough to stave off boredom in this realm and Rhadamanthus, powerful though he is, is still not nearly powerful enough to even consider trying to topple his vaunted superior. He’d have to get through at least three layers of grand knights, disposing of them all, to even begin to consider challenging Hell’s Champion and he has every indication that someone of his comparatively low rank certainly isn’t viewed as a threat. In fact Mephistopheles probably makes the rounds visiting the lower generals in an effort to stave off boredom himself. Of his peers Rhadamanthus doesn’t have much urge to dispose of any of them. They are equals and within their circle for the most part there simply isn’t animosity enough to start anything like a battle. Besides, it would grant none of them any extra prestige and instead most possibly a genuine disadvantage should the call to arms go out after the fact. In the end Rhadamanthus, like most demons of his stature, is far too lazy to engage himself in extended squabbling anyway.
So instead of disrupting the rather surprising peace of Hell, Rhadamanthus must come up with other methods to hold back the perpetual tide of boredom. And to this end he considers the importing of cats into the underworld. Cats at least he could pet gently, he could enjoy the softness of their fur or the tenderness of their paws. He could watch them wash themselves carefully or chase their tails. So to that end he sends a lesser demon into the human world to fetch him a kitten. Predictably that doesn’t turn out so well when Neuro returns empty-handed with fur stuck between his teeth.
“Did you bring me a kitten?” Rhadamanthus had leaned forward in his throne trying not to presume upon the meaning of the strands of soft fur that the lesser demon was sporting.
Neuro has shaken his head and answered in his blithely innocent monstrosity: “They don’t taste very good.”
And that had been the end of that. In retrospect Rhadamanthus is aware that sending so low-ranked a demon as Nōgami Neuro, low ranked enough that he even sported something resembling a human name, hadn’t been the best of ideas. But Neuro had been prone to wandering off to the human world so Rhadamanthus had presumed that it was safe to assume that he passed as human for the most part, even if Neuro’s approximation of being human involved bright blue clothing and a white cravat worn without a shirt underneath. Most definitely in retrospect if that was Neuro’s approximation of being human then his ability to interpret “Fetch me a kitten” was also going to be suspect. Besides, while he might be familiar with the human world he was also a simple demon concerned only with filling his belly and little else: a sort of idiot child who nonetheless was dangerous anyway. Perhaps it was even possible that he wasn’t one of the Fallen and was instead one of those strange creatures that grew out of Hell itself never having seen the light.
It was at times like these that Rhadamanthus sometimes wishes he hadn’t eaten the boy’s soul and had instead brought him down to Hell to torment. But that sort of thing is rare really: the souls of the damned go into the Pit where the lowest of the low, assigned pit duties generally torment them and keep them in their prison. Occasionally a greater demon will go visit the Pit and on rare days one might even find Mephistopheles roasting chestnuts over the eternal flames but that it still only a passing distraction. Besides, he doesn’t have anybody specific that he wants to torment down there and tormenting a random soul in bondage gets old very quickly.
Sex of course is the other option when it comes to passing the time, a handful of demonic couplings with a few underlings might keep him occupied for a little while. And he doesn’t lack for offers. He has a reputation for being unaffected by even the most violent coupling and while he enjoys the sensation he has a tendency to simply get up and walk away afterwards as if entirely untouched, no matter how much effort has gone into pleasing him or how long he’s been distracted for. Which always means that there are new suitors willing to try their hand at conquering him. Still, even that gets repetitive after a point.
Hell can and does get terribly dull. They are the massed armies of the Adversary, ready at a moment’s notice for war and the conquest of Heaven but they haven’t stirred since long before human memory. Staring at his banner hanging limply from its pole driven into Hell’s cracked ground Rhadamanthus wonders if they’ll ever march again, if they’ll ever challenge the Heavenly Host once more or if, now defeated, they are simply being left here to rot. He flexes his wings, his moulting, withering wings and stands up. Several of his officers immediately turn to him, wondering if this is the final summons to war, if his superior rank grants him the sound of the clarion call to arms long before it reaches those of their station. He looks at them fondly, at their willingness to follow him still, their desire to tear the stars from the firmament and cast the angels down into the Abyss. Then he shakes his head gently, lightly brushes his fingertips against the cheeks and hair of several of them as he moves around the camp.
“I’m going to the human world.”
And then he spreads his wings and begins his assent, his form changing into something a little more suitable for mortal eyes.
By the time he reaches the human world he is an approximation of Sebastian Michaelis again, this time in a fashionable low-waisted dress, heavy makeup and furs.
Sébastienne is popular on the party circuit. She smokes fashionably expensive cigarettes, drinks her gin straight up and is quite capable of dancing till dawn. The young Viscount Druitt is quite taken with her and his latest gift has been a teacup sized black kitten.
++++++++++
Canon doesn’t give any indicators of Sebastian’s real identity. Rhadamanthus is according to various traditions one of the judges of Hell.
An experiment in putting three types of demon together within the same framework. There’s the distinct chance that I may have written this while still drunk because its around about then that I start to ruminate on the political structure of Hell.
Demons
Disclaimer: Anima Mundi - Dark Alchemist belongs to the Hirameki International Group & Karin Entertainment. Black Butler belongs to Toboso Yana, G-Fantasy and others. Majin Tantei Nōgami Neuro belongs to Matsui Yuusei, Shounen Jump and others.
++++++++++
After a while even demons get bored and the great Rhadamanthus finds himself tapping his fingers mechanically against the arms of his throne for want of anything else to do. It has been an age since his sojourn in the human world though in terms of human time it may have been anything from a few days to a few millennia. He suspects that it’s actually some estimation in between because upon his return to Hell he’d spent long months doing little other than lying stretched out sighing contentedly and occasionally patting his belly in satisfaction. The soul of one who should have been innocent, corrupted beyond measure had filled him completely in the way that a human might be happily filled by a good meal. He’d lain down in his tent and stared at nothing and none of his subordinates had dared disturb him.
Though the War has long been stalled and his troops haven’t mobilised since then Rhadamanthus is one of the few great generals who haven’t built themselves stable strongholds in the underworld’s caverns. His troops still live in their tent-city on the off chance that the call will go up that they once again will go to war with the Heavenly Host. Not all the generals of Hell’s army are like this though. Mephistopheles for instance, Champion of the Adversary, who reputedly tore a handful of feathers from the wings of the Archangel Michael, who still to this day sports a bald spot where feathers now refuse to grow, lives in a palace high up in the mountain range that looks down upon the underworld. He is lover of Lucifer’s grandson, a hybrid demon born into the human world, and seems to do nothing more than strut about in a frockcoat and lace cuffs as a result these days. Occasionally he descends from the royal palace and makes an inspection of the troops which always seems to involve his sneering at Rhadamanthus’ distain for human clothing, though arguably Mephistopheles’ own taste is at least two centuries out of date.
Rhadamanthus for the most part distains any clothing at all. He is a demon with horns and a tail, claws and, should he so desire to reveal them, warped, black wings. He is in fact one of the few demons with genuinely black feathered wings that moult everywhere of their own volition. He has no interest in human conceptions of modesty or fashion, especially not fashion as advocated by a demon who still bears a chip in one of his horns where an Archangel reputedly bit him.
“You’re rotting.” Mephistopheles had remarked once, deliberately, casually as he’d studied his nails.
Rhadamanthus had bowed to hide his annoyance. “Is there anything his lordship requires of me?”
“And those are the wrong genitals.”
Which had been admittedly the truth since that day the bottom half of his human-looking body certainly didn’t match the top.
“Or did your human master like that sort of thing?”
Rhadamanthus had laughed, long and loudly, enough to leave Mephistopheles momentarily nonplussed which had been far more effective in driving the Champion of Hell away than reasonably stating that Ceil had in fact only been twelve years old.
Rhadamanthus still smiles over the look Mephistopheles had given him in the face of his laughter. It’s not often that a demon of his rank scores a point over Hell’s Champion, though he does occasionally wonder whether Mephistopheles sets himself up deliberately so as to leave the other demons unaware of his true strength. It is a rare demon after all who delivers a soul to Hell when said soul has an archangel appointed in guardianship over it. It’s enough to trouble Rhadamanthus and set him wondering if Mephistopheles is simply portioning out enough rope for him to hang himself with one day. Hell is no democracy after all and if Lucifer’s Right Hand decides that Rhadamanthus has outlived his usefulness then his existence will simply be snuffed out and somebody else promoted to his position. Though at least there is some modicum of security there in so far as his troops are loyal to him and no one else so a new general would have to martial their own army under their own standard to take his place. In that respect it’s probably easier to just keep things as they are rather than trouble over a replacement and all the bother than entails, even if Mephistopheles is unusually proactive for a demon.
But even Mephistopheles’ political games aren’t enough to stave off boredom in this realm and Rhadamanthus, powerful though he is, is still not nearly powerful enough to even consider trying to topple his vaunted superior. He’d have to get through at least three layers of grand knights, disposing of them all, to even begin to consider challenging Hell’s Champion and he has every indication that someone of his comparatively low rank certainly isn’t viewed as a threat. In fact Mephistopheles probably makes the rounds visiting the lower generals in an effort to stave off boredom himself. Of his peers Rhadamanthus doesn’t have much urge to dispose of any of them. They are equals and within their circle for the most part there simply isn’t animosity enough to start anything like a battle. Besides, it would grant none of them any extra prestige and instead most possibly a genuine disadvantage should the call to arms go out after the fact. In the end Rhadamanthus, like most demons of his stature, is far too lazy to engage himself in extended squabbling anyway.
So instead of disrupting the rather surprising peace of Hell, Rhadamanthus must come up with other methods to hold back the perpetual tide of boredom. And to this end he considers the importing of cats into the underworld. Cats at least he could pet gently, he could enjoy the softness of their fur or the tenderness of their paws. He could watch them wash themselves carefully or chase their tails. So to that end he sends a lesser demon into the human world to fetch him a kitten. Predictably that doesn’t turn out so well when Neuro returns empty-handed with fur stuck between his teeth.
“Did you bring me a kitten?” Rhadamanthus had leaned forward in his throne trying not to presume upon the meaning of the strands of soft fur that the lesser demon was sporting.
Neuro has shaken his head and answered in his blithely innocent monstrosity: “They don’t taste very good.”
And that had been the end of that. In retrospect Rhadamanthus is aware that sending so low-ranked a demon as Nōgami Neuro, low ranked enough that he even sported something resembling a human name, hadn’t been the best of ideas. But Neuro had been prone to wandering off to the human world so Rhadamanthus had presumed that it was safe to assume that he passed as human for the most part, even if Neuro’s approximation of being human involved bright blue clothing and a white cravat worn without a shirt underneath. Most definitely in retrospect if that was Neuro’s approximation of being human then his ability to interpret “Fetch me a kitten” was also going to be suspect. Besides, while he might be familiar with the human world he was also a simple demon concerned only with filling his belly and little else: a sort of idiot child who nonetheless was dangerous anyway. Perhaps it was even possible that he wasn’t one of the Fallen and was instead one of those strange creatures that grew out of Hell itself never having seen the light.
It was at times like these that Rhadamanthus sometimes wishes he hadn’t eaten the boy’s soul and had instead brought him down to Hell to torment. But that sort of thing is rare really: the souls of the damned go into the Pit where the lowest of the low, assigned pit duties generally torment them and keep them in their prison. Occasionally a greater demon will go visit the Pit and on rare days one might even find Mephistopheles roasting chestnuts over the eternal flames but that it still only a passing distraction. Besides, he doesn’t have anybody specific that he wants to torment down there and tormenting a random soul in bondage gets old very quickly.
Sex of course is the other option when it comes to passing the time, a handful of demonic couplings with a few underlings might keep him occupied for a little while. And he doesn’t lack for offers. He has a reputation for being unaffected by even the most violent coupling and while he enjoys the sensation he has a tendency to simply get up and walk away afterwards as if entirely untouched, no matter how much effort has gone into pleasing him or how long he’s been distracted for. Which always means that there are new suitors willing to try their hand at conquering him. Still, even that gets repetitive after a point.
Hell can and does get terribly dull. They are the massed armies of the Adversary, ready at a moment’s notice for war and the conquest of Heaven but they haven’t stirred since long before human memory. Staring at his banner hanging limply from its pole driven into Hell’s cracked ground Rhadamanthus wonders if they’ll ever march again, if they’ll ever challenge the Heavenly Host once more or if, now defeated, they are simply being left here to rot. He flexes his wings, his moulting, withering wings and stands up. Several of his officers immediately turn to him, wondering if this is the final summons to war, if his superior rank grants him the sound of the clarion call to arms long before it reaches those of their station. He looks at them fondly, at their willingness to follow him still, their desire to tear the stars from the firmament and cast the angels down into the Abyss. Then he shakes his head gently, lightly brushes his fingertips against the cheeks and hair of several of them as he moves around the camp.
“I’m going to the human world.”
And then he spreads his wings and begins his assent, his form changing into something a little more suitable for mortal eyes.
By the time he reaches the human world he is an approximation of Sebastian Michaelis again, this time in a fashionable low-waisted dress, heavy makeup and furs.
Sébastienne is popular on the party circuit. She smokes fashionably expensive cigarettes, drinks her gin straight up and is quite capable of dancing till dawn. The young Viscount Druitt is quite taken with her and his latest gift has been a teacup sized black kitten.
++++++++++
Canon doesn’t give any indicators of Sebastian’s real identity. Rhadamanthus is according to various traditions one of the judges of Hell.