Disclaimer: All characters belong to Marvel Comics and are being used for non-profit entertainment only. The story belongs to me.

Note: Another sort of What If fanfic story, this one has Illyana defeating Belasco and taking over Limbo from the start.

Her castle burned with the blighted fire of evil. It sat on the horizon, dark red against the black sky of Limbo. It seethed; smoke curling into the air like it was a giant funeral pyre. Nothing grew around it except for spires of molten rock, shiny and dull swords of black rock rising from the arid, barren soil.

The small flickering shapes of demons could be seen flitting in and out of the castle's doors, green shadows against the blood colored walls. Theirs back were hunched, covered with spines and spikes, looking for all the world to be mistreated animals, broken by their mistress's will. But a revolt was crackling like wildfire in the legions of the damned.

The Darkchilde sat at her throne, her fingernails dug into the undersides of the smooth, cool, black armrests. Blond hair fell unto her shoulders, parted flawlessly down the middle. Yellow eyes glowed red intermittently, setting the corners to flame as they did so. Small, red horns pierced the perfection of her pale pink forehead, sticking up and out for the entire world to see. A barbed tail held her Soulsword aloft.

She released the rock and steepled her fingers on her lap, the frayed green cloak dusting against her skin like the wings of a moth. "S'ym," she muttered into the empty air, issuing a command that hung in the air like sulfur.

There was a flash of light, pure silver dancing with tendrils of yellow, and then the purple demon appeared. A black patch covered the empty socket where his left eye had lived. The Darkchilde had cut it out herself to punish him for his crimes. One of his feet had been mangled in a war against the dark demons of another realm. Nevertheless, the air of cigar smoke still clung to him, refusing to leave him no matter how many times his mistress had tried to rid him of it.

He looked at her and saw, for just an instant, the image of the past, the shadow of the child she had been. A rough smile passed over his features. He remembered that child. "Yeah," he cackled, spitting on the cold stone floor.

The eyes of the Darkchilde glanced down, gazing at the spot where her servant's spittle fell. "You will wipe that up, S'ym."

He grunted.

"With your miserable, misbegotten tongue!" she commanded, leaping from her throne, Soulsword shifting from tail to hand in one flawless, perfected movement.

Demon eyes locked with once human eyes and something seemed to dwindle like fire with too little wood. Again, S'ym was greeted with the image of the young girl, screaming as he beat her, tears rolling down her cherub like face. The Darkchilde saw herself, a young woman wielding a silver sword, desperate to win her freedom from the man who had taken everything and given her only evil in return, killing the man and discovering that only by taking his place would she ever have some glimmer of freedom.

The moment passed as all moments of bittersweet realization must, like a cloud of butterflies disappearing into the forest, or fog receding from the riverbank in the light of the all-encompassing sun.

The demon felt the sharp end of the Soulsword come to rest against his thick, purple neck, the metal biting into him slightly, as a promise of what would come later. "I said, lick it up," she repeated, her eyes scorched red.

He kneeled, keeping his eyes on her, afraid to look away and receive a cut throat. Slowly, painstakingly, he licked his spittle from the cool, damp stones. Only when he was done was the sword lifted, did his mistress back away, and return to her throne. The sword stayed, ready, and waiting, in her hand.

"Ya happy, now?" he asked as he got to his feet.

Yellow eyes threatened to cut him deeper than the Soulsword could ever hope to. "Don't push me."

S'ym shrugged, looking around the throne room from the corners of his eyes. The girl child had defeated Belasco in here, had cut him down with her own soul trapped in the metal form of a sword. The former demon lord's rank blood had spilled onto the floor, soaking into the stones, giving the castle a taste for human blood. One day, the rocks would rise up and eat the Darkchilde alive, no matter how valiantly she fought. But that day was a long way off and it was more likely that one of the demon rebellions would finish her off once and for all.

"Dangerous thing to think about, S'ym. Planning my demise so soon. I've barely been in power at all compared to Belasco's foul rule." Her voice floated through the halls of the castle, an echo of the child's voice, tempered by misery, and evil and well-bottled hate.

He let his eyes fall to the stones, pleading with them for help.

"Look at me, S'ym."

Their eyes locked again. Demon black against inhuman yellow. Pain and suffering, misery and longing, burned into each, marking them as each other's mirrors, branding them forever as beings not wanted by pure light.

"I am a better ruler than he, aren't I, S'ym? I am feared, yes, but I must be to retain control. I allow you and yours long leashes. I have the factions that love me for just being one of them, although I will never truly be one with the demons. That is what you resent about me. That is what all the rebels resent about me. But I am trying, S'ym. I could have abandoned you all. I stayed. God help me, I stayed, thinking I could change Limbo, make it beautiful like Storm's garden, make it wonderful. Why must you all hate me so when I have tried so hard for you?" she inquired. And had she been able to cry there would have been salt-water tears making their slow journey down her pink cheeks. However, demons have never known enough to cry and even human girls who are intertwined with demons do not keep the gift of tears.

"Ya could do more, boss," he huffed, trying not to look at her for fear of what would be burning in her eyes.

A breath escaped her lips, sounding too much like a sigh. "Ah, always, S'ym. There is always more. But I am young. Given time, I will be better. Then, then will you love me? Then will you bow and end the revolts?"

His laugh shook the walls of her castle, tore through the core of her being, shoving her into the black tar pit of her memories. When he hurt her, he laughed like that. "Nothin' ya could evah do would be enough to stop th' revolts. There will always be demons who challenge ya right ta rule. Maybe if ya embraced all the black power in that sword, in ya soul..."

"No!" she screamed, hand tightening on the hilt of the sword. "Never. I'll never touch that."

"Then ya'll always have enemies, never have complete loyalty. Ya could be so much more than Belasco evah dreamed, Darkchilde. But ya still act like ya are a child. Too worried about what's left o' ya fancy looks ta savor the true taste o' power," he mocked her, his voice taking on the snide tone he always used when he talked to her when she was a child.

She had hated that tone. It made her feel like she was nothing, worthless, useless, not fit to live. And in her mind, she would tear his throat out with her bare hands and beat him bloody with her fists whenever he used that tone of voice with her.

Now, she just raised herself up in her throne, red eyes piercing him, cutting him to the core, reminding him who was the master and who the servant. She held the power. Not him. Never him. Never again would he hurt her or even touch her. "You have no right to speak to me like that, demon."

The stones pressed into his feet, slick with the memory of Belasco's spilt blood. They spurned him off, daring him. "And ya have no right ta rule here, human child. Either accept the evil in ya soul or get out."

"Shut your filthy mouth!" she yelled at him, standing. Swirls of faded, moss green cloak surrounded her, rippling over the white leotard that covered her body. Her long legs, flushed pink for eternity, quivered with suppressed anger. But no fear lived in that shell of a woman anymore. Fear had died a long time ago.

There was a sharp banging against the castle gate. It sounded like the shriek of dead metal being pulled through a keyhole. Burned out torches in the halls leapt to life, their flames bristling, covering the walls with shadows. The legions of the damned walked on, towards their goal.

"They're comin' for ya, princess," S'ym muttered as he heard the telltale clatter of demon armor and heard the hushed voices of the stones calling out in recognition.

And her hand tightened against the hilt of her sword, burning the raised edges into her palm. Blond hair drifted around her head like a halo. Nevertheless, halos are not for demons; they are not even for little demon sorceresses. Panic fluttered like a captured butterfly across her face before it was laid to rest by calm assurance and the knowledge that things were coming to a head, this would be her last stand.

Live or die. Leave or stay. It all jumbled down to one decision. For she could not go back to being Illyana Rasputin, the girl was dead, and she could not continue on as the Darkchilde, ruler of Limbo, as long as part of Illyana still lived on. It was the time of reckoning. It was judgment day.

The demon hoards charged into the throne room, snarling, spit dribbling down their black lips, swords and spears held high in their hands. Hate plastered itself to their faces. She had wronged them and they wanted revenge although her transgressions had been done in hopes of doing the right thing, taking the right path.

S'ym glanced at her. "There are no right paths, here, child. There's only damned and more damned."

Her eyes fluttered closed and she raised the sword above her head, arching the shiny metal into the air. "Stop. Stop right there. I must talk with you."

Amazingly enough, they stopped. For they were eager to listen to her. They had no idea how to run a kingdom, no clue as to how they should proceed. In truth, they did love her. They loved her so much that it burned in their black eyes and tore at her dead, cold heart. A questioned danced in the shadows on their faces. How, they whispered. How can we love a ruler who is more than demon but less then human? How? Tell us and we'll follow. Help us, please.

The last sharp point of her humanity caused the Darkchilde to cry out in something that resembled a stifled sob. "You can't love me like this. I was wrong to distance myself from you for so long. I am yours. Your ruler, your queen."

Their accusations rose up at her like a tidal wave and she parted them with one hand. A pale pink hand, still too human by far, still too pure, and wrecked with light. "So we will close this gap once and for all."

S'ym shielded his eyes as the Soulsword began to glow. At first it hurt, the white light that poured out of it, it burned his skin as deeply as holy water burns a vampire. Then it shifted along the spectrum, to dark red. There it stayed, hovered, flowed through and over her, changing the child forever.

Keening sobs could be heard throughout the castle, they echoed over the lands of Limbo, filling each foul creature that lived there with a somber touch of humanity. In the waning light that covered the Darkchilde, the soulless learned what it was to cry, to be human.

The light retracted into the Soulsword, staining the silver metal black. And their queen was now magnificent. Her skin was scaled and deep red, her blond hair covered with a thick layer of blood. The horns curled, thick, dark, and ornate, over her head. Large yellow eyes, dipped into and out of redness, and were sad but omnipresent. She was one of them now. The Darkchilde was complete. The human was dead.

A lame demon approached her, his useless leg dragging on the ground. His hands were small and cold as he set them on either side of her face and peered into her eyes. He was the oldest of all demons, and the gentlest, formed from the broken soul of a man. "You are most beautiful, my queen," he whispered and a smile, soft and noble danced across his face.

Seeing that their leader had accepted the Darkchilde as their queen, the legions of Limbo began to cheer and shout for joy. Now they could love her as they had always wanted to. Even the stones in the castle settled down, content at last to lick out the remainders of Belasco's substance, knowing that human blood would never flow over them again.

His queen looked over at him and S'ym bowed his head at her. There was no longer a shadow of the child in her eyes, staining her face. It made him a little sad, a little hurt to know that it was gone just like that. But childhood is fleeting and everyone must grow up someday.