Changeling | Hannigram AU | Rye Ambrose

FADE IN: HELL.

Hell. The breeding grounds for all sin and evil.

    It reeked of everything wrong with the world.

The rotting sulfur, the ash, the decay of souls... never once a pleasant aroma, nor a glimpse of pleasant emotion... always with the screams, the clanging shackles... the cliche fire. It was obscene, revolting... and most of all, distasteful. Unappetizing.

    Hannibal loathed it.

    His throne was no more than a burden—his status nothing but a curse.

    Eons and eons would pass, and still, he would sit at his throne, legs crossed, chin up, wings tucked neat and pretty—and he would stare down at the souls of the damned with a faint scowl of distaste.

    They were pigs. All of them.

    Even his servants, his acquaintances... his fellow demons.

    He desired change.

    He needed change.

    He pulled his gaze from the sea of writhing, chained bodies, the clanging of their shackles becoming a faint song in the background. With a shift of his wings, he stood, alerting his assistant.

    "Your Majesty?" she breathed, standing taller. The scales on her face fluttered in surprise.

    "Take over for me, Chiyoh," said Hannibal, walking past her. "I'm going to get some wine."

    She wavered in her place, bat-like wings twitching. Hannibal noticed her hesitance through the corner of his eye.

    "Would you like some, as well?" he asked.

    Chiyoh cleared her throat, and she shook her head. "No, sir," she said, walking over to the throne. She stood beside it—on the right—watching the souls scream and wail and slave over pointless tasks.

    Hannibal gazed at her a moment longer, then walked into his penthouse, fetching a glass and a bottle of wine. He carefully poured the viscid, red liquid, nearly filling his glass to the brim.

    "One of those days?" called Chiyoh's voice.

    Hannibal looked up as he carefully sniffed the wine, letting the aroma fill his nostrils. It was only disappointing—lacklustre. It was nothing like mortal wine.

    "I'm afraid so," said Hannibal, walking back over to the throne. He rested a hand on the top of it, but despite his presence, Chiyoh didn't pull her gaze away from the souls below. Her stance remained rigid, militarian—her entire being focused on the task.

    Hannibal carefully sipped at his wine, gazing out at the sea of bodies. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and his eyes glinted.

    "Call Hastur for me," he said gently, sitting back down on his throne. "I want to see him."

    Chiyoh glanced over at Hannibal, then stiffly nodded.

    "I'll be right back, Your Majesty," she said.

    Hannibal numbly watched her go, turning back to the endless pit of tortured souls. He had this same view for eons upon eons... even during his rebellions or random attacks on the Mortal Realm, it never changed. The people he killed would either ascend into Heaven or end up in the same squirming pit of pigs that was before him.

    He tilted the wine glass to his lips, stared at the damned souls, and sipped slowly. He stared at specific souls... stared at the chains seering into their supernatural skin... but before he could daze off, the click of heels and the rotten smell of flesh pierced his senses.