Some of the Goddess of Blood and Bone’s immortal kin viewed her methods as cruel or unorthodox.
“My brethren have no vision, Zeri. They are weak,” Nushka trailed on. “They do not possess the ruthlessness that is required to carry out the sentences bestowed upon the fallen.”
She went to take another sip of her wine, but the glass was again empty. With a flourish of her magic, another bottle appeared in her hand and she refilled the glass.
“They do not understand me, Zeri, not like you do. They do not understand that the usual laws and moral codes do not apply in The Pitts. Nor do they appreciate what it takes to Rule and survive here. It is a thankless job, being Queen of Moor. None of my kin would last a single day in my position. They would take one look at the volcanic plains; feel the unrelenting heat and be all too eager to return to the luxury of the Land of the Gods. Weaklings. Pathetic, spineless, weaklings.”
Zeri ignored her this time, their attention consumed by the aged bones they chewed upon.
“Useless creature,” she muttered.
Nushka put the bottle of wine down beside the throne and smacked the bhoot’s side. Zeri snarled weakly in response, though the beast wisely redirected its attention back to the Queen.
The wine of the Gods, with its aphrodisiac qualities now humming through her, had the Queen growing irritated with every passing moment she was kept waiting. Thankfully, her handmaidens would arrive shortly, and she would have her needs met. With her free hand she began absentmindedly scraping her sharp claws upon the edge of the throne.
“An eternity of pain and suffering for the majority, Zeri,” Nushka spoke. “Time without end, of debauchery and freedom for my chosen few. That is how I rule my realm. The Pitts of Moor; a land of sinful pleasure and eternal punishment, with I as its humble caretaker and Queen.”
Zeri’s ears perked upright as they roared and hissed in agreement. Bones cast aside, each of their heads now grinning in feral delight.
Through the side entrance to the throne room, in a perfect line, walked Nushka’s seven handmaidens, radiating fear and resentment. It was time for the Queen to play.
~
“Gather round, my pretties. Let me gaze upon your beauty, let me drink in your fear,” the Goddess cooed from her throne of bone as she curled a sharp claw towards her handmaidens.
Her emerald gaze appraised each of her servants like dishes at her own personal buffet. Nushka’s lips twisted.
‘Which one shall I feast of first?’ Nushka mused.
With her free hand, Nushka gestured to the room and by extension, the castle around her.
“Did you know,” Nushka drawled as her handmaidens slowly approached, fully aware they hung on her every word. “The bones of this castle are a gift from the Ruler of the Gods. A bone from each of the souls sent to my realm, as payment from Archè himself for taking over their care. A small gesture of goodwill designed to placate me. The King of the Gods believes he can confine me to The Pitts for all eternity. What he fails to remember is that you cannot keep a monster caged forever,” she spoke ominously.
A shiver seemed to ripple throughout the approaching servants as they fully comprehended just how many bones, and therefore souls, had been sentenced to her care. The numerous bones now thatched together to form the multi-level castle surrounding them, its turrets and towers soaring into the moonless, smoky sky. With each new soul’s arrival and bone’s delivery, the bone castle slowly expanded, becoming a thing of menacing beauty. A tower in the darkness, illuminated with raging fire pits and a surrounding moat of lava. A bridge of bones connected the volcanic plains to the wicked Goddess’s residence. Fissures in the plains revealed bright orange bubbling lava beneath the surface, that could melt skin and muscle from the bodies of immortals, and imbue unrivaled levels of pain to any who encountered it.
From her throne, the Queen of Moor began lazily patting Zeri’s soft coat. Each of her appointed handmaidens, clad in their usual uniforms of gauzy liquid night, approached on unsteady semi-translucent feet. They were not blessed with the refinement of a Deity, their movements clunky by comparison, but they would do. Nushka had not appointed them for their grace.
The handmaidens stopped at the foot of the dais, their eyes dropping to the ground as if to avoid drawing their master’s notice. The stench of their fear and anxiety flooded the throne room, just as the Queen of Moor liked it.
Nushka deeply inhaled their scents, siphoning their fear and turning it into her strength, feeling the years wipe away from her appearance with each new breath. Its scent barely invigorated her these days—at least not in the way it used to.
“Welcome, my pretties, you all smell sinfully delicious,” Nushka teased before taking another sip of her wine.
“I have been waiting for longer than I should have,” Nushka cautioned as she scraped her clawed fingers against the glass in her hand. “When I summon you, you are to arrive immediately. If you cannot follow orders, then I will find other handmaidens who can,” she warned. Her piercing emerald gaze surveyed each of her servants.
Zeri’s lion head huffed a grumbling laugh, the snake and dragon heads seeming inclined to agree, watching their master’s prey with predatory keenness.
Nushka’s long, black serpentine hair swayed idly around her waist, as relaxed as its master. Her hair was not actually made of snakes as Medusa’s was. It held no magical abilities. It could not turn its victims into stone. Yet it was as much a living part of her as her heart; writhing and behaving in such a way that it appeared as if it were a bunch of snakes, reflecting its master’s mood.
The Dark Queen’s shadow power swirled around the hem of the onyx form-fitting gown that clung to her slender frame. A blanket of her shadow power hovered around the throne’s base, begging to be unleashed. The sharp, obsidian painted claws of her free hand absentmindedly scraped along the arm of the bone throne.
“Perhaps you need reminding of who it is your serve, if you are willing to be so tardy,” the Queen of Moor mused in wicked delight. “You do not want to risk incurring my wrath…”
The handmaidens whimpered their prayers for forgiveness, to which the Deity rolled her eyes.
“Cease your meaningless begging,” Nushka spat.
Silence enveloped the room.
After tedious eons of exitance, with little change of pace or variation, Nushka grew tired of the unending boredom and feelings of numbness. To feel any genuine emotion was rare and prized by the long-lived Deity. Even the sex was not enough. The carnal pleasure only fleetingly made her feel alive: a momentary relief. Too soon, though, did the feelings dissipate, leaving her craving more. Craving life.
As she appraised each of her seven handmaidens in turn, sizing up her prey and appetite, the rogue scent of defiance drifted towards her. The aroma filled her immortal being with hunger and resolve. A challenge one bold handmaiden presented. Her predatory instincts locked upon that scent, all-consuming, deliciously enticing.
Nushka answering grin was untamed.
“Hello, Agnes.”
“Your Majesty,” the handmaiden replied as she dropped into a half-hearted curtsy. The insolence did not go unnoticed.
It was that point of difference, that fire still raging within her that had drawn the Goddess’s attention initially. It was one of the main reasons Nushka had appointed the fallen soul into her service upon her arrival into Moor. How many years ago was that now? Time had lost all meaning, but Nushka was sure it had not been long. Maybe five or so mortal years?
“Agnes the ungifted, the mortals once called you,” Nushka recalled with a cruel smile. “The common folk had whispered the name like a taunt. A vengeful mind conqueror disguised as a pitiful excuse of a Princess. A Royal with an appetite for payback and sacrifice, much like myself I suppose. A kindred spirit of sorts, you and I,” Nushka mused.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Agnes acknowledged tensely.
The other handmaidens listened with bated breath. Nushka’s grin widened, fully aware
she had hit a nerve.
“Your arrogance was your undoing. You met the poetic end you deserved,” she stated, reveling in the chance to get beneath her skin.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Agnes seethed. Fire raged in her gaze.
It was Agnes’s defiance, her anger, that tasted like rich wine upon the Goddess’s lips. The way the handmaiden resisted Nushka’s thrall and occasionally challenged her whilst they were alone, left the Deity wanting more after each dalliance. There was something about her that the Goddess of Blood and Bone could not get enough of. Agnes was the potential cure for her apathy, or if not a cure, a temporary answer to Nushka’s unholy prayers.
Agnes’s peaked breasts were framed magnificently by the gauzy delicate uniform of the handmaidens. Her slender form and long blond hair, even in spirit form, inspired heat within the Dark Queen’s core. But it was her eyes—the piercing brown gaze, the animosity and fire that smoldered even in death—that was her true allure.
The handmaiden was not particularly beautiful. In fact, by mortal standards, she would be considered quite plain. She was pretty, yes, but not striking by any means. And yet… the passion within her raged unlike any other. Her uniqueness compelled the Goddess to pursue her like a moth to a flame. If Agnes had fawned over her from fear like the rest, Nushka would have likely grown bored of her by now.
The shadows around Nushka’s feet unfurled in anticipation, sensing the Deity’s heat rising from within.
“Agnes,” Nushka summoned with a hint of amusement, lifting her other hand from her pet before scraping her claws tauntingly against the arm of her bone throne.
The former mortal Royal, reduced to a mere spirit handmaiden, jutted her chin. The sharp, piercing eyes that Nushka had grown so accustomed to met her own emerald gaze, promising something more.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she daringly drawled, likely anticipating another onslaught of insults.
“You and I are going to play,” the Goddess of Blood and Bone decreed, her sharp teeth gleaming in wild delight.
The handmaiden sighed. “As you wish…”
As the Goddess of Blood and Bone rose from her throne, the remaining handmaidens dropped into reverent bows. The shadows at Nushka’s feet tensed in anticipation, the atmosphere in the throne room suddenly taut.
*
2
Agnes
The volcanic plains of The Pitts stretched out from the Goddess’s seat of power, the overpowering smoke and ash filling the air causing Agnes to gag. All manner of nightmarish winged beasts, including chimera and the colossal fire-breathing, venomous snake dragons—the peuchen—soared through clouds of billowing smoke, patrolling Nushka’s domain. Their expansive, booming wings were like silhouettes amongst the flashes of lightning that cracked through the smoky night sky.
The vibrant glow of the lava and white flashes provided the only natural light in this hell realm. The heat it radiated felt scorching against the handmaiden’s spirit.
“How these creatures can tolerate the heat and smoke I cannot fathom,” Agnes mused to herself. “Perhaps their thick hides or hard scales protect them.”
Whilst in spirit form, Agnes couldn’t technically be harmed by the elements—or the lava for that matter—though the heat, pain, and smell still felt as real as it would have if she were still human. Each sensation, as Agnes understood it, was a well-fabricated illusion, gifted to her from the Goddess of Blood and Bone upon her arrival into Moor. Her new gift was a mockery of the mind conqueror gifting she had received from the Gods in her mortal lifespan.
A peuchen guard slithering around the castle on patrol, caught Agnes off guard and tripped her with a thrust of his barbed tail. She crashed hard to the ground, landing on her behind. The impact of the barbs swiping her skin caused her to hiss in pain, though the action didn’t leave a physical mark.
“Fucking son-of-a-serpent!” Agnes cursed, making a vulgar gesture.
“Shuttt yourrr filthhhy mouthhh, whorrre, or I’lll shuttt ittt forrr youuu,” the guard hissed telepathically.
The peuchen’s mode of communication was also a handy way of getting away with underhanded jabs.
“Obnoxious prick! If I still possessed my mind conqueror abilities, I’d make you pay!” Agnes yelled. “I’d make you all pay,” she trailed off under her breath, then got up from the ground with as much dignity as she could muster.
She forced herself to walk away, needing to create some distance between herself and the entitled guard.
“Eternity’s looking pretty bloody bleak indeed. I don’t know why Nushka keeps me around. I fucking hate my life,” Agnes groaned to herself.
‘Other than tending to my own needs, I’d had no experience with a woman before Moor. I still don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. It’s a far cry from fucking Sir Riley amongst the rose gardens back home. I’m not a pushover like the others. Perhaps that turns her on.’
“As a human I was a lion disguised as a mouse, sizing up my prey. As a spirit, I suppose little has changed,” Agnes shrugged.
The equivalent of five mortal years had passed since she had entered the Afterlife. Five long years where each day felt like a year and each year felt like a century. Five years of tending to her Goddess’s every need and sinful pleasure. Five years in which her heart had further hardened and her anger had only grown.
‘Long ago my melancholy morphed into the depression that now holds me in its grasp. I used to fight it with all I had, but now I yield to its call. The dark monster zaps all your strength and when you have nothing left to give, it takes some more. The black hole in my mind is so deep that there is no end in sight. I couldn’t care less for my own safety or what happens to me.’
“Ether take my soul and be done with it!” Agnes prayed to the stars obscured by the smoky sky and to the universe. But not the Gods. She would never pray to them again.
Only her intrenched survival instincts prevented her from doing anything brash.
Anxiety stirred in Agnes’s blackened heart, deepened by not knowing if or when she would grow out of the Goddess’s favor. Her greatest fear was that one day she would morph from the source of the Goddess’s pleasure, to that of her sadistic amusement. The realm’s inhabitants all knew just how quickly the Goddess grew tired of her playthings.
‘Two handmaidens since my appointment have mysteriously been replaced. One day they were there and the next they were not. A shiny new soul left in their wake as if they had been there all along,’ Agnes recalled. ‘Perhaps someday Nushka will move our antics from the bedroom to one of the many torture chambers instead. Both settings are forms of pain and punishment in their own ways. Both require a strong will to endure.’
“A position of honor,” a fellow handmaiden described their role as.
“How lucky we are to have garnered the favor of such a beautiful, immortal Deity,’” another had told her.
Both instances Agnes had caught the slight tremble from fear in their voice. Fear was the only motivator for such lies.
Agnes was angry more than anything. Livid, for being treated as a plaything rather than the prize Royal Princess she was—deprived of the power she deserved.
It was after another long session of satisfying her Dark Queen’s needs that had left the handmaiden with renewed hunger for power and revenge. From a mortal life of living in her gifted siblings’ shadows, to an eternity serving a Goddess who was more beast than woman. She wanted more.
Agnes stopped at the end of a balcony overlooking the volcanic plains. Alone for a moment. A rare opportunity.
“After five long years I’m done,” she vowed to the sky. “I can’t take it anymore. For too long have I bowed to others and been denied of my rightful place at the seat of power. I am a Queen without a crown and that has to change.”
As Agnes looked out over the plains from a platform of bone, an idea began to form. A small thought blossomed, twisting and developing into something more. An idea inspired by the High Witch’s rise to power. A plan
to settle debts—old and new. A risky move with the potential to damn or save her forever. A spark of hope reignited within her. A feeling so wholly unfamiliar that she almost couldn’t place it.
“The greatest rewards require greater risks,” Agnes vowed to the cosmos. “Things have to change, and I will go as far as it takes to claim the power that I deserve. I will take control of my own destiny. This will not be my fate.”
*
3
Agnes
The bone horns sounded from the castle’s soaring turrets; a signal that the nightly festivities were about to commence.
Agnes released a frustrated sigh. “How can it be that time already?!”
Straightening her shoulders, Agnes took a deep breath and prepared herself internally for battle. Depending on the Queen of Moor’s mood, the evening’s entertainment would result in debauchery, pain, or both. Usually, the Goddess took pleasure in both.
The majority of those sentenced to Moor lived each day in a perpetual cycle of pain and torment. For the Goddess’s chosen, eternity offered a little more variation and pleasure. Fortunately for Agnes, she fell into the latter category.
The nightly gathering in the Hall of Bone was an escape of sorts; an unleashing for many of the Deity’s more wicked creations. Immortals, creatures, and departed souls alike, each tread a slim line between pleasure and pain. They treated each moment as if it would be their last, and for the inhabitants of Moor, that very well could be the case.
The Goddess of Blood and Bone Page 2