Page 5 of Of Gods and Pain

Anellah

My screams echo throughout the room, bouncing off of the lifeless marble walls. I once questioned why Andras built this castle to be completely white. I’d convinced myself it was because he likes things to look clean and uniform, and white was the best color for that.

I was very wrong.

His favorite color is blood. And what better way to see the warm, red substance splattered along the walls than to have them all white? Not a single drop goes to waste, being showcased like his own personal work of art. As soon as the liquid leaves my body and spreads on the different marble surfaces, Andras’s lifeless soul ignites again.

He almost looks happy during those moments. Genuinely.

Imogen is a whole different specimen. She couldn't care less about my blood, but takes deep pleasure in cutting me open and hearing my pain. You would think she’s getting the best fuck of her life, given her moans of pure ecstasy each time I scream.

Honestly, at this point, I’m not sure who’s more deranged. The ex-god, whose only hobbies are to paint his walls with the life circulating my veins, and fuck me until I’m sure I will prolapse; or the witch, who pretended to be my therapist for years, and comes each time I show a hint of being in pain.

Things are different this time. Before, Andras had me locked in an underground room, unable to move anything but my eyes. He would stick to his usual routine—either skinning me or fucking me—and then move on with his day, not letting me out of that room. He also never let Imogen near me during that time.

But now, he amicably gives me access to my neck and head. Though I have the distinct impression that it’s because he wants to hear the moans I try so hard to suppress when he’s fucking me. He wants to see the pleasure he’s forcing my body to take, that I can’t always mask in my expressions. I think he’s hoping I will 'come to my senses' and submit to him. The way he watches me tells me he feels something deeper than rage for me, and maybe he thinks he will find it hidden in my broken soul.

“Stop whining. It was just your foot. We haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet.” Imogen shakes with a big grin on her face, preparing herself for the fun.

Just my foot.

Yes, because a sharpened, splintering piece of wood being slowly shoved through the middle of your foot, and pulled through the other side, isn’t painful at all. Feeling the bones separate, the muscles get slivers stuck in them, and the tendons tear as they’re cut through? Yeah, my whining obviously isn’t warranted.

I peek over at Bren, who's tasked with watching over me day and night. When Andras brought me back to the castle, Bren fought to stop his torture. He almost got himself killed, but I begged Andras to spare him. I don’t think he did it because I asked; he did it because he now forces Bren to watch everything they do to me, knowing that it’s a worse punishment for him than death. Andras used my magic and instructed him to not interfere with any of our meetings. So, no matter how much his body is trembling with rage, he physically cannot help me. He’s suffering just as much as I am, but I’m selfishly glad he’s here. I was so alone last time, and he’s been the comfort that keeps me going.

His eyes shift to mine, creasing deeply at the sides when his brows scrunch. I muster as much of a smile as I dare, not wanting to draw attention to him, knowing Imogen will just have some more fun with the information that we’re friends. For now, she and Andras just think Bren has a big heart. They’re not aware of the friendship we built while I was here months ago, and I intend to keep it that way. He will not be hurt because of me.

The witch faces me again, eagerness flowing off her in waves. She truly feeds from fear and pain, and honestly, that’s scarier than torturing me for information. She has no limits on what she’ll do. Whereas Andras does, because he doesn’t want to permanently damage—or kill—me. Yet. He needs to wait until my time on Earth is up before his plans can begin.

I look down at my markings, heaviness circulating through me. Not for my current situation, but for the life I once had, and the life that I truly want. Growing up in Europa, with the two most powerful gods as your parents, is not easy. It was much better than the fake life Imogen put into my head, as I was privileged enough to always have food, and never be subjected to the evil that the mortal realm corrupts its inhabitants with. That was why I was so naïve when I first came here. I trusted blindly because I never thought anyone could be so horrible. I wasn’t prepared for this, and I’m paying the price of my ignorance.

The beautiful patterns on my naked body comfort me. The marking on my arm that leads around my breast, and curves along my neck was what I received when I completed physical training. Each god spends fifteen years of training as a warrior, after the twenty years of their education and magic training. The markings on my arm and leg represent my completion of those.

My back marking is different, however. Growing up, I never realized I was anything other than normal. I thought I was like the other children: the demi-gods. I was always stronger than them, and had more magic than they did, but I just thought that was luck. But no, I'm just the product of breeding between the God of Balance and the Goddess of War. A unanimous decision among the gods, specifically to give me the best genes…and so I could take over Andras’s responsibilities when I came of age. The day I found this out was the day that I realized my parents didn’t see themselves as parents, but as guardians of me until I grew old enough to look after myself.

“Hale,” my mother says sternly. She always uses that voice with him, though I don’t know what he does to be punished. “She needs to know. She’s getting too comfortable, thinking that those other children are her friends. That she’s the same as them.”

A deep sigh resonates through the large house. “I don’t understand why she shouldn’t be allowed friends. She’s just a child, Aeryn.” My face scrunches at his words. I am not a child. I’m almost ten!

I jolt as a hand slams down on the table; the sound echoes through the sandy stone that makes up the walls of my house. “She is not just a child, and you know it.” I cringe back behind the wall further…I don’t want her to catch me listening. She’ll direct her anger toward me, then. My lip quivers because I know they’re fighting about me. Again.

“We conceived her to fulfill a purpose, and she can’t do that if she doesn’t know the truth. She has expectations she needs to fulfill, so why would we wait until she is twenty years to tell her this?”

Silence.

Tears slide down my face. I furiously wipe at them, trying to hide any evidence of my emotions just in case mother finds me. She doesn’t like when I show emotions. She says it’s weak, and I need to learn to control myself. It’s just so hard…I feel heavy; and really sad. How does she control these feelings? I need to be more like her. Then she’ll be proud of me and maybe stop fighting with father.

“You’re right. Let’s tell her tonight, then,” father’s voice is quiet, and I barely made out what he said. But I can tell their conversation is over, so I swiftly run back to my room, knowing mother will come find me now.

She doesn’t knock on my door, just opens it and informs me dinner is ready. She no longer needs to tell me she expects me to change into my dinner clothes and make my way to the common room within five minutes. Timeliness is essential, she always says.

I sit with her and father at our table. The wood is cool to my touch, as is everything in here. The scratchy stone that makes up the walls is always cold, but it doesn’t change the temperature inside for some reason. I’ve wondered about that frequently. Perhaps I will ask Instructor Kane during our chemistry lessons. Maybe he wouldn’t know, but none of the other instructors particularly like me, so I will not ask them.

I look down at my plate, covered in a spinach salad, which has my favorite ingredient: cranberries. I get annoyed with myself whenever we have these salads, because I always pick out the cranberries first and don’t leave any for the end. My nose scrunches.

“Anellah,” my mother snaps, and I instinctively straighten my back and meet her gaze. She and father are sitting across from me, both watching me with different expressions.

“Yes, mother?” She expects an answer when she speaks to you, even if there’s nothing to answer to.

---