Page 118 of Eldritch
Tiny hands held clasped in front of him, the Golvyn stepped into a beam of flickering light cast from a distant torch outside the cell. “Most wish to kill my kind on seeing us.”
“I grew up…with a Golvyn. I don’t…feel any malice…toward you.”
The Golvyn turned toward the bars of the cell, outside of which a bucket of water sat. He skittered across the cell on all fours, toward it, and lifted the ladle hooked to its edge. What Golvyns lacked in size, they made up for in strength, and hemanaged to awkwardly dip the ladle’s bowl into the bucket. Water splashed over the edge of the ladle when he raised it over his head and carried it through the bars of the cell. Tiny clawed nails scampered over Zevander’s skin, as the Golvyn climbed the length of his body and perched himself in the crook of his arm and shoulder. He tilted the ladle toward Zevander’s mouth.
Zevander eagerly sipped the warm fluid, not even caring that it stank like rotten eggs. The fluids sank into the cracks of his dry lips, and he drank every drop.
Once he’d finished, the Golvyn climbed back down his body.
“Thank you.”
The rat-like figure gave a nod. “Food is hard to come by, or I’d share.”
“I understand,” Zevander said weakly. He’d already begun to suffer the hallucinations of too little vivicantem. Had already seen visions of Vaelora. Two nights ago, it had been his father who’d chided him, for allowing him to die. He couldn’t stand to see them anymore.
His head fell forward, the wet and matted strands of his hair tickling his mutilated face. For how much longer could he fight? How much more could his body withstand? Days? Hours? Minutes? When would he finally break?
The creak of his cell door hardly churned much reaction out of him anymore. Pain was inevitable with each visit. Expecting anything else was a cruel madness he didn’t dare to entertain.
Zevander kept his head forward, not bothering to give her the respect she demanded. Her black boots scraped across the concrete floor as she drew closer, another set of boots trailing behind hers, both of them coming to a stop just shy of where he swayed on his feet.
“Beg for mercy. And I shall grant it.” Her voice, deceptively kind, crawled beneath his skin like venomous snakes.
A weak chuckle beat through his chest, the ache in his jaw flaring anew. “I’d sooner waste my breath…commanding the same of you…than give you the satisfaction.”
“You long for death. Is that it?”
“I long for any place where I no longer have to hear your fucking voice.”
“No one escapes me. Not even in death. Now, tell me, who devised this plan? I know it wasn’t you, which is why you’re still alive.”
“You think so little of me, is that it?” Zevander sneered.
“I could have bound your arms and thrown you back into that pit. Watched my precious pets ravage you. But that would’ve been far too quick. Too easy.” She held out her palm, opening it to show a curved, gold bar, with golden beads at each end. “Years ago, I traveled to the far reaches of Eremicia and came upon a small village there, where young men were put through trials, to the death. Each trial they survived was celebrated with a piercing to their cocks. A painful procedure, but a reminder of their victory. Their manhood. The more piercings, the more victories, the more respect they earned. I found it fascinating.”
“Of course you did.”
“Today will mark your first victory of survival. And every decade, you will be given a new piercing.” She handed the metal bar to the person behind her, who strode up to Zevander, rounded his body, and took hold of his injured ribs.
Zevander let out a grunt, as the man urged him upright, to his mutilated feet. “Not surprising you’d make a bastard mockery of your story.”
“I call it inspiration. Each piercing will come with an enchantment. A promise that you will carry to the afterlife. After tonight, you will never know pleasure without pain. Love without suffering. You continue to defy me, but this is when I take everything from you.”
The man at his back yanked down the tattered loincloth Zevander had worn since the bacchanal, leaving him completely exposed.
And once again, he braced for the agony.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ZEVANDER
“Iinvited you back,” Alastor said, as Zevander opened his eyes to find himself standing in the center of the village where he’d last watched a girl get trampled by horses. “I need to show you the consequences of your actions.”
A cold sensation twisted in Zevander’s stomach, as he followed his cloaked mentor toward the enormous cathedral with the red doors. Once inside, he led him through a maze of corridors, to a dark stairwell that descended into shadows.
It was when they reached the bottom of the staircase that he could hear her screams.
Zevander’s muscles tensed, his heart hammering in his chest as they approached a door with a small iron hatch at its center, which Alastor opened.
