Legacy of the Destroyer: Ragnarök

Chapter I: Thief

CHAPTER I: THIEF

“MISTRESS, MERCY!” A YOUNG boy screamed, his throat raw, his wrists tied to the racks, preventing him from escaping. It seemed nothing he did would cease the whipping; on the contrary, it seemed his words fueled his mistress’ fury.

Tears made dirt-stained tracks on his cheeks, tanned from long hours outside. “Please, I didn’t! I would never—“

“Silence!” screamed Mistress Micah, looking quite mad. “Tell me where you hid the earrings, you lying thief!” Her shrieks only intensified the whipping, her servants taking her hysteria as a sign to wield the cowhide harder. His back, already bleeding profusely, was a mass of crisscrosses.

Not that they were all fresh wounds. Many of the scars were over ten years old. Raised and ridged, the scars were a reminder of both his status and unending servitude to the Micahs. The worst whippings he had endured were from his early childhood.

The strokes continued as his mistress continued to scream and rant.

“Please, Mistress,” he pleaded, crying out in pain when the sting of the whip, delayed a couple seconds after the initial crack sounded, reached him. It was as if a hundred angry bees had chosen his back to relieve their anger. “I was outside, helping Agar with the wood-chopping! I didn’t steal anything!” He looked for his mother. “Tell her, mother… I’m… I’m a good boy!”

Avera Razier was heaving heavily, wracked by withheld sobs. When he called out for her, she started to weep openly, and a wave of shame passed over him like a cloud of rain.  

The mistress looked grimly satisfied as he hung limply from the whipping post, too tired to even stand up straight. She strode forward, a jewel-encrusted fan adorning her crimson gown. She patted his cheek with it, deeming him too filthy to touch with her bare hands. The hand that held the fan was plump; Demetri fought the urge to spit at it.

“Where is it Demetri?” she asked in a dainty manner, her voice sickly sweet like honey. “If you confess now… I’ll make sure your punishment is light.”

He knew they were empty words. Agar had once been caught planning to run away with one of her maidservants. He had given up her name after being promised to be let off easy—now they both had one less toe. A reminder to never attempt anything under her roof.

“Mistress,” he begged, trying to convey sincerity with his eyes.

She drew away, her nostrils flaring with annoyance. “Brand him,” she said, her tone still calm and honey-sweet. “So he will never steal from me again.” She pondered this. “On his cheek—make it visible to the world what he is.”

The servants held Demetri’s flailing body still as another walked towards him with a red-hot iron in his hand. He screamed, the heat already overwhelming. And it hadn’t even touched him yet. The sucking in of breath in front of him reminded him his mother was watching. Trying to save face in front of her, he held still as best he could. He couldn’t help the tears that dripped down his face without any thoughts of stopping.

Just as the iron was about to touch his cheek, the mistress called out, halting the servants. “His shoulder—I want his shoulder branded. I don’t want a servant walking around with ‘thief’ written across his face. The disgrace—how would I bear it!” She shielded her eyes with the fan as the iron drew closer to his arm.

At last, with a sickening sizzle, the iron made contact.

Demetri felt nothing at first; the iron simply rested on his forearm. The first couple seconds taunted him, making him nauseas with the threat of what was to come; it had been much the same with the whipping. The initial pain was minimal, but the rebounding pain was unbearable.