#because demon!aelynthi is a wonderful version of him

[justanartsysideblog]

Strictly Business

What’s this? I wrote more for the Demon AU?

Vitality (mention) belongs to @lycheemilkart.

---

Taking a life requires an equal payment in return.

In the grand scheme of things it does not put a dent in Melarue’s ledger in the slightest, not enough to warrant much attention, but it is enough to set them on edge. A little hollow feeling in their chest, that lasts for several weeks while they devise a plan to thrust the debt onto someone else.

Being a Lord of Hell means they can do as they will, and the fastest way to fix the imbalance is to spread it out into the ledgers of others in their Precinct.

Or…

They glance over at where Anaris has sprawled himself over half their desk. Sometimes they think he’s gotten far too comfortable in his current form. They know he’d like nothing more than to have his old shape back, but he hasn’t complained about the present one for a while.

They reach out unconsciously and begin scratching just behind his ears.

“I’m not an actual cat,” Anaris reminds them, pressing the top of his head against their palm. “I don’t appreciate the condescension.”

“My lack of respect for you has nothing to do with you looking like this,” Melarue chides, scratching his ears, “And everything to do with your inability to properly maintain your ledger.”

Anaris, despite the glare in his eyes, begins to purr. “It isn’t my fault mortals love to bargain. It’s so much fun, to watch them try and make deals to save themselves.”

“It is your fault that you let them win so many times,” Melarue responds.

Anaris rolls his shoulders in a feline equivalent of a shrug. “You win some, you lose some.”

Melarue lets the debt sink into Anaris, hears his purr stutter as he notices something change, even though he doesn’t know what, exactly. It is unfortunately but this is business. Anaris is a scapegoat, and Anaris cannot control what happens with his debt here and now, not when he has sunk so low and is in the process of working off so much of it.

It’s just one extra death on his ledger, after all. He’ll hardly notice.

They almost feel guilty about it. Almost.

But they don’t have time to think further on the twinge of a conscience, as the door to their office opens and Treachery walks inside, carrying a box covered in a mixture of magical runes and mundane looking information labels, whistling a tune they vaguely recognize.

The box gets placed on the coffee table, but the whistling continues as he saunters over to their desk, eyes glinting from behind a pair of stylish glasses.

“Hello kitty,” Treachery coos, reaching down to scratch his chin. He pulls up as Anaris hisses and swipes at him with his claws before darting off the desk and toward the small office lounge. Treachery’s grin widens at the attack, showing off a pair of long fangs, before he turns back to Melarue. “I have the record of the current debt standings of the Precinct like you asked. I sent them to your tablet.”

Melarue nods absently, glancing through another set of documents with a sigh. So much to do…and all before that horrid meeting tomorrow.

Meetings between the Lords are always a balancing act between civility and murderous rage. Sometimes it devolves to the latter, and it’s an awful mess afterwards. Melarue holds very few of their fellow Lords in any sort of esteem, and finds most of them properly revolting.

I can think of at least seventeen things I’d rather do than go to that meeting tomorrow, they muse to themselves, and one of them involves experiencing a lobotomy. Unfortunately these meetings need to be had, in the grand scheme of things. Power balances only last when all parties are participating, after all.

Treachery braces his hip against the edge of their desk and glances down at his reflection in the polished surface before he turns his gaze toward them again, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I heard there might be a vote.”

Melarue looks up from perusing the listings Treachery has just sent them with an air of boredom. “My my, rumors really do spread like wildfire.”

“Quite a few rumors,” Treachery agrees, “About Lord Belomar being weak and feeble, and riddled with hidden debt. It would be terrible if they were true, don’t you think? Especially if the Lords vote for a Rite of Challenge.”

Anaris’ ears perk up as he glances over from where he’s curled up on a nearby couch. Belomar was his old Lord, back when he was a high-ranking demon. 

The one who had sold him and his debt to Melarue.

Belomar had never been good with managing his Precinct. A high-ranking demon in debt, with nowhere to disperse the loss is a bad situation, especially for a Lord whose own ledger is failing due to trying to balance his district. He’d practically gift-wrapped Anaris before handing him—and his debt—to Melarue.

It’s a pity that the reprieve he’d gained has only lasted 500 years.  

Melarue smirks, “And if the Rite of Challenge were allowed would you run off to try your hand at becoming a Lord?”

Treachery shrugs, “The position of Lord is too dangerous. So many complications, and the threat of assassination by lesser demons, especially the desperate ones that think they can end their debt forever by doing so. Not my cup of tea. No, I’ll stay here as the second most powerful demon in the 5th Precinct, thank you.”

It is a popular story, that if a demon manages to fell a Lord their debt will be wiped clean and they’ll take over the mantle. The actual process, of course, is much more complex. Only the Lords can decide if another Lord is to be replaced…and it must be a majority that agrees to a Rite of Challenge in which demons can fight the Lord in question for their position.

Rites of Challenge are bloody and brutal, and often end with the challenged Lord reigning victorious again…and bad blood between the Lords for centuries afterward.  Lords do not have their position because it was given, but earned. They are the most powerful and bloodthirsty and vicious, and in order to gain the strength needed to fell one, even a weakened one…the difference in power between a Lord and a high-ranking demon is vast, let alone between a Lord and the general populace.

Usually the only way a demon can overcome a Lord is with the help of another Lord in some way. It is an underhanded, rotten affair to its very core.

Melarue doesn’t particularly enjoy them. They’ve seen plenty, and seen Old Lords fall to be replaced by new. 

They have made certain to keep their own image cold, cunning, and efficient. A few public displays every now and then does the trick well enough, and their reputation is one that makes demons think twice before suggesting a change is in order. Besides that, there is also the matter of their connections to Sariandi, and his own hold over many other Lords that makes a Rite of Challenge nearly impossible.

It is the complacent Lords that end up with demons that question their rule.

The truly cruel and heartless, like Sariandi, rule by fear. No demon will ever speak up and question him. No one would have the gall to announce publicly their belief that he is not fit. And the truly efficient and cunning, like Melarue, and Vitality, make certain there is no room for questions, and keep their own populace content enough that they don’t see a need to question. Fair by the laws of Hell, and always involved in their Precincts so that it seems they have eyes everywhere.

It is the complacent and lazy that find themselves challenged. Those that let their Precincts run without regard for the structure of it, content to enjoy themselves while other demons toil, who think their position protects them, rather than makes them a target.

“But there is a meeting of the Lords tomorrow,” Treachery continues, smiling.

“There is,” Melarue agrees.

“I suppose that’s all I’ll get out of you.” Treachery sighs, “I’m the last Collector to ever know the inner mind of his Lord. It’s almost like you don’t trust me, and that stings.” He pats his chest, where his heart should be, if Melarue thought for a moment he possessed one, “Right here.”

“I don’t tell you anything because you’re intelligent enough to find out the information yourself. In most cases I wager you learn it before I do. And you’re a fool to think any Lord is naive enough to trust the demon closest to their throne,” Melarue scoffs. “I trust two people in this world, Treachery. One of them is myself, and the others is certainly not you.”

Treachery’s grin widens, “Touché.” He absently pulls out a small device and points it just in front of Anaris. Anaris stares him down, before Treachery flicks the laser pointer on, and Anaris gives a loud hiss, followed by several expletives and threats about what he’ll do once he gets his body back, before he leaps off of the couch and out the door.

“Once he regains his form he’s going to challenge you for the position of Collector, and I’ll let him do it.” Melarue drawls, as they go back to their files.

Treachery snickers, “Anaris would be a terrible Collector, you’d never allow it.”

“I still might let him kill you,” Melarue quips, reaching for their wine glass, “Just to see the look on your face.”

“It warms me to know you value me so much,” Treachery sighs.

“How is my son?” Melarue asks, taking a sip. A nice vintage, thought they can’t remember the exact year.

“A pretty peacock,” Treachery shrugs, “He’s fine. You’d know if he were in any danger, I don’t know why you have me keeping an eye on him. How old is he now? He doesn’t need a sitter.”

“Do you remember what happened to Gallia’s son, before Sariandi slew her and took her mantle of Lord?”

Treachery winces at the memory, “Point taken. Though I don’t think anyone would be foolish enough to attack Aelynthi.” A shake of the head, and a fond smile, “He’d give them a verbal flaying before they bared their fangs.”

Melarue knows. They made him strong for that very reason. Made him quick to react and quicker to assume the worst in everyone. They wish they could have raised him to live a kinder life…but they needed to raise him to survive this one first.

He was not meant to live.

They could not keep all their promises to his mother and father, but this one they can.

He will live. And he will thrive. And one day, perhaps, he will leave.

But he will live.

---

It would be nice, they think, if they could get through this meeting without having to actually talk to anyone. A hollow wish, meetings tend to involve talking, but at least they’ve had a nice glass of wine before all this.

They’ll need a second one once it’s done. Perhaps a third.

They nod at a few other Lords as they head toward their seat, a smile for one, a snarl for the next, a wink or a glare depending on who meets their eyes. The air in the room is tense, as always, but hidden beneath a veneer of professional amiability.

The weather outside, at least, is pleasant enough. It’s difficult to get the look of sunlight just right in hell. A waste of magic, but one Melarue isn’t going to complain about. Looking out at whatever hellscape the Spire has placed itself in this time while listening to powerful demons threaten one another would be twice as depressing.

At least this way they have a bit of blue sky to look at, even if it is just a glamour.

“My dear Melarue.”

Ah, the last person they wanted to see, and the only one they can’t avoid.

Sariandi, Lord of the 1st Precinct of Hell, is quite handsome when he tries. A smart looking suit nearly the same color as the artificial sky on the other side of the windowpanes and a pair of white, square-framed glasses cut a smart figure.

But they’ve seen too many of his other shapes and forms before, the not-so-handsome ones, to think him as attractive as they once did.

“Sariandi,” Melarue greets in turn, expression carefully blank.

If Sariandi notices the cold reception—which he most certainly does—he chooses to ignore it as he steps closer. “I’ve missed you.” To most his voice is charming, they know. It was to them as well, long ago; now it sounds off, with an oily quality that makes them inwardly recoil.

Even the overwhelming scent of saffron cannot hide the underlying metallic smell of blood that clings to his skin.

“Mmm,” Is their noncommittal response.

“I believe this is the part where we exchange bland and arbitrary comments on the weather and family,” Sariandi replies, “What do the mortals call it? Small talk?”

“The weather is as it always has been,” Melarue drawls, “And you have no family for me to ask about. I believe that covers everything.”

Sariandi laughs. An oddly warm sound for so cold a man. They catch a glimpse of it again, the part of him they’d been drawn to all those centuries ago. Buried deep, and so corrupted that it isn’t salvageable.

They’d tried once, to spectacularly disastrous results.

“One of my servants was telling me of a deal they struck a few years back,” Sariandi smiles, reaching forward to brush a lock of hair behind Melarue’s ear, “An old dwarven woman asked for a boon so severe, she needed to give something she valued most of all in return. Do you know what she gave?”

“I know what I will take from you if you do not remove your hand, Sariandi.”

“The eye from her granddaughter. Her heir, the one she loved above all else. It reminded me of us.” He sighs, and there is a manic fondness in his gaze, as he presses a nail just under their eye, “Do you remember what it felt like?”

Melarue freezes his hand solid with a wave of their own.

He laughs again as he steps back. Ice shatters, and shards fall to the ground, melting into steam in an instant. His fingers have already begun to blacken with frostbite, and he clucks his tongue. “What a temper, I’d nearly forgotten.”

“I’d advise you not to forget again.” Melarue warns.

“Oh I won’t,” Sariandi agrees, holding their gaze. “You’re not an easy person to forget, Melarue.”

An odd coldness settles in their chest, and refuses to leave for the rest of the meeting.