Never made to Pleasure

I own nothing, dangit! It would be cool to own something! Well… moving on…

It was rarely quiet in hell, but now the realm of Leviathan lay silent. The chains swung from the ceiling making a soft chime as they clinked together, the only disturbance. A breeze blew past, rattling them until their song became an insistent clamor. Then all fell silent again, stiller than before. He had come.
It was said in hell that the wind blew only for him, and never unless his mood was fair. It was said to that the chains would bend themselves to no others will under Leviathan, for only he understood the song the chains shrieked, or the tune the blades carved in the emptiness… His eyes shut, savoring the moment behind an expression of ice. The chains clanked a greeting, various carnage hanging from their hooks swayed about his feet.
Another sound.
He turned to it, and nodded his approval before the figure approached. Chatterer stepped in, his head cocked in question, but said nothing under the sound of the snapping jaws. The moment was intruded upon as another entered the chamber. The one known by no name human tongue can pronounce paused in the archway, she waited for his signal. Finally, there came the third set of footsteps. Butterball lowered his head, and the entire Gash stood assembled. The sound started soft, like a Childs music box from a distance. It swelled within the chamber, echoing off the stones of the labyrinth, calling, calling. The door opened, and unhindered by the blinding light, the cenobites stepped through…
… into the middle of an empty kitchen. Chatterer glanced about, confused. The unnamed cautiously fingered a blade. Butterball looked to the left, to the right, lowered his glasses as if the action would help him to see better. Topec did not move at all. His eyes remained shut, something was amiss, more amiss than the matter of the missing puzzle opener. He curled his fingers experimentally. Nothing, the chains did not answer.
At a silent signal the room plunged into darkness. All four of the Gash made as if to go forward, only to encounter a barrier before them. It was to the sides as well, to the ceiling and the floor. The air began to ripple with wards and locks. “What is this? Who would dare?” She struck the ward with her blade. It crackled like static electricity, and the blade turned red-hot. Surprised she let the tool drop, but retrieved it a moment later, savoring the feel of the scalding metal against her fingers.
From the doorway stepped two youths dressed for show, their locks curled, and their garments fine. Both were heavy in the shoulders, and neither one had opened the box. Topec spoke, and the air paused to listen.
“You did not summon us, we are not for your eyes.” Neither paid him any mind, their eyes gazed strait ahead, insolent, if they had actually been seeing anything. Their gaze did not hold his focus for long, his eyes settled on the emblem both bore on their bare breast. His eyes widened slightly, and his nostrils flattened. “Behemoth commands you, speak. We will hear it.” Now the life bled back into them, both spoke in time, their tone that of a man unable to rest for more years than the finger can count.
“We speak on behalf of the order of the Horrif, servants to Master, to you, servants of Leviathan the betrayer. We have snared you for the rights of midwinter, sacred to the Master. You will comply, or you will be scattered.” The unnamed laughed, sharp and metallic, chatterer barred his snapping teeth and leaned his weight against the barrier. Butterball raised his glasses back into place and drew a blade. Zipe Topec stood silent, but his empty eyes spoke his refusal.
“We, are the Gash. We do not bow to the defeated gods of faded time. Fear is nothing, pain, is bliss… our obligations are not yours.” Both men smiled, empty and haunted.
“Pain is insignificant to fear, fear can invoke response with never a touch to the flesh.” Topec laughed low in his throat, a glacier sound.
“You have it backward, allow me to, reeducate you.” Without warning the engineer dropped down behind the two and slit into their sides, pulled the flesh taunt, and began stitching them together. Both cried out, caught surprised, the haze of the god gone from their mind as they attempted to pull away. “…Fear, is insignificant to Pain, for the mind will destroy it, and learn to ignore the fear so that it becomes nothing. Perhaps a day will come, when you will not feel pain any more than fear.” He smiled, and the smile was cold. “…But that will not come for a long, long, time. Welcome, to hell.”
The moment they passed the threshold the runes faded, the walls were gone as if they never were. Butterball and Chatterer stepped back into the shadows. The unnamed paused as she regarded Leviathan’s Morningstar. “Shall we wait for you, You want the first flesh?” Topec gestured for her to go. “The one who opened the box, I will find her.” She bowed, unable to nod, and passed behind him into the labyrinth. Silently, he grasped a pin, and pulled it free. There was pain, he hissed and reveled in it, but concentrated and placed the point against his palm. A shallow incision, the ichor gathered in his palm, rippled, and showed him a door with the handle half broken. His eyes narrowed, but no more than that was to be seen. He replaced it, and let the black fall to the floor. The wood stained, and warped, a soft sound rose from it like the scream of a tree.
The halls were dark, and cold. The doors were open. Up a flight of stairs, and another. Then a lone hallway, and a shut door. The latch hung uselessly from the door, the knob lay ajar. Against his greater will something gave him pause. A silent warning ran along his hairless skin, instinctual and wild. A need to turn and move away, fear. Yet, not fear. For fear was an impossibility among his kind. Still, whatever it was called out to turn, and instead he moved forward.

The room was dark and still, against the far wall a chair was placed. In the center a tiger skin covered the floor. Other than this, the furnishing was scarce. Alone on the rug she sat, a priestess of Behemoth. In one hand she held the box, and he felt his blood sing at the sight. In the other she held an opal, stone long known sacred to Behemoth. For it was said his essence dwelled in them, or that they were a portal into ones own fears, if one looked deeply enough. She did not raise her eyes, but closed them instead, and whispered in the tongue of gods the ancient rights of winter, the season of death.
The words had power, enough that he hardly noticed his own eyes shutting. They opened, and angered he strode forward, hands summoning the chains… that did not come. His lips drew back into a snarl, and his fingers flexed, but still there was no answer. The barriers were here as well, invisible though they may be. She raised her eyes now, deep, dark eyes that were like a demons more than a mortals. She raised her hands, and called out. Pain shot through him, arching like lightning down his spine, through his ligaments and muscles. He cried out, but the cry was silent. She rose then and stepped forward, placing her palms upon his chest. “The master has called you here to the ancient rights of winter, over which I reside. You will assist, and we shall consecrate the season to Behemoth.”
Stunned by the rush of power, Topec gazed at her without hearing or understanding. (She has the power, the bane of the labyrinth in her. Placed by the rival, the fallen lord of Hell. But this skin is frail, it cannot house that strength…) his thoughts were clouded then, for her chanting had begun anew, calling out the tale of the land murdered by winter, the fear, of the beasts, the plants, the people, how the gods trembled at the sight of Behemoths might. His eyes glazed, his palms grew damp, a tingle rode down his neck, and he felt the urge to swallow. She continued on, how the oceans cried out as the ice threatened to cover them, how the rain fell and was frozen to death as it dripped screaming from the sky.
It was too much, it defied his making, his being, and he tossed back his head and roared. The sound seemed not his own, his breath frosted the air. She raised her hands, and drove them against his wounds, using the pain to ground him. A mighty trembling seized him, his eyes grew wild and sharp, he began to pant. She sped up, words jumbling in her frantic attempt to speak them before the power of the god left her and she forgot herself. It ended in a scream. The walls shook, and the ceiling and floor moaned. Like a wild thing she fell panting against him, the tremors having taken her as well. He reared back, out of his mind with it, his form so much more sensitive to the old powers than she.
The feeling lay heavy in the air, the rite unfinished.
Slowly, so not to be undone by her own shaking, she let her robe fall. It could not be done, until the sacrifice was made to frigid winter. Topec pulled away, trying to reset his mind, to rise above the tide swamping him and swim back to order. She gave him no chance, frenzied as she was she raised the leather of his robe and slid over him, crying out from the cold. His form locked up in shock, unresponsive and stiff.
Slowly, returning to herself, she began to ease it. Run her hands down his chest, his waist, unreachable through the leather. He sought her calm, focused on it, anchored. Instantly she cried out in pain as he seized her wrists in a grasp of steel. “You realize, that what you offer, you must accept in turn.” The voice was a death knell, a promise of retribution. Cold, and clear, and deep as a mourners moan. She nodded, looking him in the eyes to show her agreement. His eyes burned black, a harsh frown grazed his mouth, but he closed his eyes. “For this night you have me, do not waste it.”
He relaxed, allowing his mind to follow her roaming hands, her warmth. He was pain, not pleasure, and had only engaged thus in his new formed days. Then the power of leviathan had flowed through him unfettered, before the sense of order could calm the demon in his skin. The faint tinges of the right still simmered their terror into the air, she was growing weak from his chill. She slumped finally, unsated and frustrated at his lack of response. He gazed down at her from cold, unfeeling eyes. The power had deserted her, she was no more then flesh now.

He moved to slide free from her, but something bid him still. A presence pressing on his own, not that of his god, but of another. Wild and maddening, filling him with a terror that bade him shake. She roused at his tremor, misinterpreting the source and began her efforts anew. He panted, feeling full for the first in a long time, desperate to pull away from the fear and place himself into the hands of Leviathan, pain and pleasure. She was warm to his chill, moist to his dry. He wondered at how it had escaped him before. No it was not thrilling, and it gave him no pause to let his head fall back and savor it, as pain did. But it banished the fear, and he moved forward to meet her. Her breaths were growing tired, and she began to slump. Irritated at the interruption he forced her to the floor, continuing to move as she arched below him. She was speaking again, finishing the ritual, and he pushed hard against her as she cried out her words, feeling the gods bidding him to finish.
It was over before he had realized it had begun, like a wave cresting and tossing you to the shore, it was done. He shivered the aftershocks away, arched above her, remaining perfectly still. His eyes had shut without his knowing, and he opened them to find her still as he below. She sighed, still milking at him with her walls, before she fell forward and did not stir. He pulled away and fixed his robe, and stood with head bowed, awaiting Leviathans judgment. Like a foghorn from the distance came the call and the chains returned to him as leviathan broke through the barriers.
("She opened the box, she offended hell. Take her; she will sate my hunger many a night. The fallen are always sweet.")
The cenobite known as Pinhead bowed, and straitened like an oak. He turned, and flexed his fingers. Out shot the chains, clamoring to share his kill. They speared her, pulled her screaming to his feet, wrapped about her like a lovers arms. The silence was sweet with suffering, and he pulled her up until their eyes met. “You opened the box, called us, and now you must taste our pleasures.” She screamed, flailed and kicked, invoked her god, but he had fled Leviathan, abandoning her. Topec smiled, and his smile was like the winters frosty death. “We have such sights to show you...”

Alone on the floor lay a puzzle box and an opal, the opal faded, and soon Was no more than a stain on the back of the tiger. The beast did Not care, it had born worse things on it that night. The Guardian walked through the doorway, he picked
Up the box, turned, looked out the door, and
Whispered,
“What’s your pleasure sir?”