Burning Chains

Chapter 12

Mohg regretted for the first time in his life the decision to put his throne at the top of a set of stairs. The dramatic menace of looking down upon the person unfortunate enough to have been brought before him from such a high position, with a god sprawled across his lap like a pet, was unmatched. Of course this did not account for him having recently speed-recovered from a rather painful wound.

Given a few hours rest he would have been fine, but at the moment he was tired and the new scar itched. Gareth’s hand twitched at his side as he resisted the urge to scratch as well. He walked a little strangely as the both of them struggled up the stairs, the bandage they’d wrapped over the tattoo clearly not protecting the raw, freshly healed skin from the burn of friction.

In tandem they looked at Mohg’s throne, Mohg looked at Gareth, and the god nodded sadly before standing behind it, leaning a little on its high back. They’d have to build him one too eventually. Though, they could just make Mohg’s larger. That approach actually appealed to Mohg quite a bit now that he thought of it, especially now that his love was more comfortable with his body. It probably wouldn’t take much to convince him to sit on his lap for a meeting wearing nothing but chains. His flame would reflect off the metal beautifully, turning even iron into gold. Perhaps Mohg could wear a gilded collar as well, allowing his betrothed to hold his leash making their audience wonder who was truly the master. Of course the two of them would understand that the truth was both far more simple and far more complicated than that.

Mohg sat down, his head still foggy. He needed to pull himself together, he’d shaken off worse injuries. Gareth put an apologetic hand on his shoulder and Mohg realized it wasn’t the pain that had him so dazed. All the more reason to pull himself together, he couldn’t be acting like a love struck fool in front of guests, unless of course it was part of a power play. He was quite happy to come off as an unrestrained sexual hedonist or an utterly besotted fool if it benefitted him, however, with someone whose identity and background was unknown to him, it was better to employ tact. As he heard the sound of approaching voices, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit straight.

The smell of blood in Mohg’s domain was overpowering. Lakes of it sat outside the palace grounds as Sir Margit guided them to the throne room. It didn’t smell like a battlefield, it was too sanitary, only the scent of salt and iron hanging in the stagnant cave air, but his mind supplied the memories of sweat, piss, and shit accompanying it. He forced himself to focus on the wedding. Better to be Godwyn the foolish romantic than Godwyn the broken. Better to focus on love with near single minded determination than remember Kristoff’s dead eyes staring up at him from the snow on the mountaintops of the giants, or the feeling of the hatred, so strong it made him sick, that had once filled his heart at the very sight of the one he now loved.

If he didn’t know better, he might think this was yet another sick power play from one of his siblings. He’d heard rumors about Mohg and the kind of man he was. He hadn’t been sure if he should believe any of them after meeting him for the first time. After all the rumors claimed he was a mad beast with an insatiable lust for blood and torture, whereas the man he had spoken to was intense, but not unreasonably so given the circumstances of his upbringing. Now, having seen the lakes of blood, hearing the distant screams of the captured he was not so sure. Though even if he truly was a mad beast, he did not think even Mohg had the dramatic dedication to flood his home with blood merely to upset a man that might have never visited. Mohg did not strike him as one to put in so much effort just to toy with him so impersonally. A man like that would never torment him so indirectly. He would want to see his face, see the light leave his eyes and despair enter, watch his stomach turn and his guts spill across the ground. The rumors and his initial impression had begun to synthesize in his mind. Mohg was just as brutal and sadistic as others had suggested but he was not mad, he was completely sane. He merely enjoyed it.

“Your majesty?” Margit stood with his hand on the door. The knight had offered him some small amount of comfort. Morgott must have been an honorable man if he could compel the loyalty of such a grump, even as he was described as melancholic and temperamental.

“I am alright.” He was not alright. His fingers were cold. The snow had frozen them turning them red and then purple until they felt as if they might snap off. His father shook him, the lion at his back digging into his shoulder to remind him of who he was supposed to be. He had to return to the battle, he had to kill, that was his lot, he was the son of Marika and Godfrey, he should have been a warrior, but he wasn’t he couldn’t be, but still he had to be or they’d die all of them would die and their blood would be in his hands and when they’d return he’d feel their reproachful eyes wondering why he the strong one could not dirty his hands-

Alecto grabbed his arm.

“Go home.” Her gray eyes were cold as always, but her voice wavered slightly.

“I’m alright,” he insisted again. Then, his nose was filled instead with the scent of lilies. Godwyn breathed a sigh of relief. It was an illusion surely, but it helped. The battlefield pulled its claws from his mind. “Thank you, Alecto,” He whispered. She did not react though he noticed her gaze shift to Sir Margit. The knight for his part, appeared to be pointedly avoiding looking in their direction. It was kind of him to allow him his privacy, perhaps he’d misjudged Margit. Maybe beneath his surliness lurked a gentle soul. Or perhaps he was just uncomfortable, he did have a rather constipated look on his face.

“I will go request the presence of my king.” The omen knight said as he pushed the door open. “I cannot guarantee he will wish to see you, but I will ask.”

“Thank you. You have done more than enough.”

Margit’s gaze lingered on him for longer than was necessarily comfortable. Godwyn heard a soft rustling noise, the source of which he could not immediately identify. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being scrutinized. Then Margit turned to leave.

“Save your flattery for more worthy marks,” Margit grumbled. Which Godwyn took to mean “You are welcome.” By the Great Tree if Margit considered Morgott unsociable, just how ill mannered was he?

Godwyn hid a gasp as he entered the throne room. They kept it dark, lit by twin rows of blood-red candles that lined the way up to Mohg’s throne. The seething shadows played tricks on Godwyn’s mind, causing him to read in them the forms of assassins and great beasts. Mohg himself wore black robes, embroidered with golden thread and rubies, the metal and crystal glittering resplendently in the candle light. His face was strange in the candle light, the shadows pooling in his sunken eye sockets and his thicket of twisting horns. Above him loomed the Frenzied Flame, a ball of flame like a wraith, disembodied by the darkness. Now just as towering as Mohg, he stood behind the throne, his hands gripping the high back. The dark center within his yellow flame making it appear to stare at him like a great eye. It seemed out of all of the rumors, those of Mohg’s sense of gravitas were the least exaggerated.

“I see you’ve solved my riddle,” Mohg stated matter of factly.

“A tax of blood for an audience with the lord of blood, it was not particularly difficult to guess.”

“Whereas your own was fairly difficult, yet I have discovered the answer regardless.”

“You have?” He swallowed.

“That Queen Marika takes two forms and has now wed the other? Yes, I have discovered it. Could they not have found another to marry following my father’s exile or was the only person in The Lands Between that could stand them themselves?”

Godwyn was shocked at the sheer venom of his response, but he answered regardless.

“I do not pretend to know.”

“My dear fiancé is so upset because, were they more open with their nature, our lives would have been much easier.” The voice of the frenzied flame came from just behind his right ear, whispered, as if he stood behind Godwyn instead of Mohg. It made the hair on the back of the demigod’s hair stand up, not the least of which because it was as if he responded to his thoughts rather than his words.

He had grown up in the house of the god of order, he had believed himself well used to the frightfulness of something so far from those who were once mortal, but the flame was a different animal. Even at their most stone-like unreadability, at least the god of order had a face. Despite their legions of spies, Godwyn was always certain that his thoughts at least were safe from scrutiny. Finally, just looking at the roiling mass of yellow flame made his head ache after a few moments.

“Now have you come on business or is this merely a casual visit? I assume business given your escort, unless you truly trust me that little.”

Alecto froze in place at being directly referred to. This was an unbalancing situation for her to begin with. She did her work under the cover of darkness and anonymity, not exposed among a possibly hostile court as she was now.

“Apologies, allow me to introduce you. Alecto will aid in the final portion of the ritual Ranni and I intend to perform.”

“You may speak plainly here. I do not faint at the mention of violence.” Mohg waved his hand.

“Pretty words don’t make the deed any prettier, they just make the people that order violence more comfortable.” The voice of the Frenzied Flame seemed to echo from different corners of the room. Next to him, Godwyn saw Alecto shiver.

“Alecto has been given the burden of killing me.” He felt his mouth twitch into a nervous grin.

“Good, it ought to be a professional given the time constraints you outlined. Provided she has been properly vetted.”

Alecto went rigid.

“She has been my protector since childhood!” Godwyn protested.

“Forgive me if I doubt you, brother, but given the sensitive nature of our endeavor I would like to make sure.” Mohg motioned and the Flame stepped out from behind his throne. His physicality had changed significantly from the last time Godwyn had seen him. He had been a thing small and in pain, frightening because of how quickly he could be made to snap, to turn from making jokes to scouring the world with flame. Now the flame stood straight, his steps sure even in the flickering candle light.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” The god’s voice assured.

“Wait!” Godwyn felt his own voice escape his body against his will. “Me as well! If you must examine Alecto I will submit as well.” He couldn’t let her go through this alone. After all, he could have been a god, once. He should be able to endure one poking around in his mind. The god shrugged, the humanity of the gesture almost more unsettling.

“If that’s what you want.”

Godwyn’s vision went white. He didn’t even realize he was in pain at first. His body reacted, all of his muscles seized at once and sweat poured from his skin. Then his mind caught up. There was nothing but pain, white hot and sharp, he would claw at his eyes if he could move at all. He heard a distant sound but could not identify it past the endless white wall. Then as soon as it had begun, the pain stopped. Tears of relief came unbidden. The sensation of not being in pain was suddenly rapturous, so much so that he barely noticed that his throat was sore. Godwyn understood what made mortals want to worship gods. The relief was so intense it made him forget all that came before it.

“They’re clean.” He said it so matter of fact. As if he wasn’t a spike of hot metal driven directly through Godwyn’s brain. Alecto was still steady on her feet, having been trained to resist a myriad of tortures, but a trail of blood was slowly leaking from her nose.

“Thank you dearest. Again I apologize, but you must understand my desire for caution.” Mohg’s yellow eyes seemed to linger on Alecto’s face, or more likely the blood that ran down her face.

“I understand,” Godwyn rasped, “but was that truly necessary?”

Mohg looked at Gareth. The god did not turn around, but Mohg’s expression changed slightly.

“Yes, it was,” there was an odd tone to his voice now, one that Godwyn couldn’t quite place. “As you seem to have discovered I am to be wed this evening, there is still much to be done and I do not have time to play nursemaid.” Godwyn simultaneously resented and was relieved at the remark. “You wish to meet our older brother, yes? I understand Sir Margit has gone to fetch him. Perhaps he can keep you from getting underfoot.” He was beginning to realize he didn’t like Mohg, not that Mohg seemed to like him very much either. How a needlessly cruel man like him had gathered any followers, let alone a small army of them, was a mystery.

There was a knock at the throne room doors.

“We’re done,” the voice of the Frenzied Flame echoed and the door opened.

Morgott carried a cudgel similar to the one wielded by his vassal, a length of gnarled wood more like a walking stick than a weapon. However, unlike his vassal he had a long tail, studded with wickedly sharp horns, like those manifested by his father’s personal guard. His horns were straighter than Mohg’s curling upward like a lopsided crown, thick enough on his right side that they had forced his eye permanently shut. He did not seem to share his brother’s taste in finery as well, instead clothing himself in a simple hide tunic and leggings with a ram’s skin shawl. Though Morgott was significantly more lithe and wiry, with his long white hair and square jaw, he was the spitting image of their father.

“I was told you wished to meet with me, brother.” His voice was soft and oddly creaky, as if he had somehow managed to become an old man even in these ageless times.

Morgott had called him brother. He was unsure of what to say.

“Morgott, why not take him to see your troops.” Mohg suggested, waving the three away.

Morgott raised an eyebrow, but gestured for the demigod to follow.

When the doors closed behind them, Mohg finally let his concern show on his face.

“You’re certain?” He asked, still facing the door, not wanting his betrothed to see.

“Yes I’m sure,” Gareth answered, putting a hand on Mohg’s shoulder.

“Then may Rosus guide him.”