Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
APERION, PRESENT DAY
His fingers retreat from my eye sockets. Blood spurts forward, flowing down my cheeks in rivulets. I choke and sputter as more blood and bile rise up my throat from the onslaught of pain.
My throat is raw and sensitive as I heave and attempt to spit out all the buildup. But the position I’m in, frozen upright, my neck paralyzed, does not allow me to do anything but swallow up the foul liquid.
With no more constant pressure, my eyeballs start to heal. It’s a slow process. I’m so depleted of energy it takes every ounce of strength to force my body to heal and stop it from shutting down.
My sight, too, slowly returns, only to see him wipe his bloody fingers with a disgusted expression on his face.
I draw a sharp breath in and grind my teeth against the pain.
But he doesn’t care. For him, I’m just a means to an end—a task he needs to perfunctorily perform.
My eyes slowly accommodate to the blinding ceiling lights as I register my surroundings. The room is bare of any furniture. Translucent runes are etched into dark gray walls, blinking a stark white every now and then—a sign they are active. Some, I recognize. Others not so much. But they collectively keep me hostage here, pinned to the spot, unable to move a muscle.
These runes are used for high-level interrogations, with some of them activated only by an astounding amount of spiritual energy—I suppose Azerius has that in spades.
As my body begins to heal, so does my mind, and confusion sets in.
I blink and frown as things I knew to be true suddenly are not so true anymore. Memories are slipping away from me by the second, replaced by foreign images that are somehow extremely familiar.
My first kiss. I could have sworn it was with Marlowe. But now… All I can see is Mine.
Wait. Mine? I called Lucien Mine?
But as the question echoes through my mind, it becomes a certainty. He was Mine. I could never call him Lucien. That wasn’t him. Valerion either.
To me, he was only Mine.
Yet more things become confusing. Like our first meeting and the fact that I got punished by the House of Moirai for intervening in human fate. Didn’t I meet him at the movie theater? There’s a vague recollection of that happening, but the more I try to visualize it, the farther it gets from me until it disappears.
No, I met him at the site of the bombing and I helped him save those people. Why I would ever do that when I knew the consequences… I have no idea. But I did.
Our relationship, too. Wasn’t he too ill to do anything? As we moved from friendship to love, his illness became considerably worse.
Yet as I remember the past now, though he was still ill, he was far more capable than he should have been, stronger, more…virile.
We engaged in forbidden physical relations, and to my surprise, not only was I accepting of that, but often I was the one initiating them.
If it weren’t for the dire conditions I find myself in, I would have blushed at the new pieces of information flooding my mind.
I allowed him intimacies I never thought I would, at least not before. I asked him to claim me with no promise for the future—a mistake on my part, or at least it should have been.
It was him who wanted to wait, him who wanted to make it special. How? Why?
Then there’s his death. He was supposed to have died of a human illness. Tuberculosis, I believe. But my memories of his illness are changed. He never named the cause of it, only that it was engineered by people in his country to destroy minorities. Even now, after having absorbed so much information about the new, technologically advanced Anthropa, I have doubts that it’s even possible.
But he was ill. And his symptoms were unlike any I’ve ever seen before.
My brows furrow in confusion as some information disappears altogether. Tuberculosis? No, he never had that.
A sliver of terror grips me. What is going on? Why am I misremembering things? Why am I forgetting things?
I…
What’s wrong with me?
What did Azerius do to me?
All the other big events in my life remain unchanged, except for the order. Or is that something I’m getting confused about right now?
The logical thing would have been to go to the House of Psyche after he died and then to the House of Moirai. Then why do I remember heeding some unknown female’s advice and going to the House of Moirai first? And how did she know Marlowe’s name when even I did not know it?
In fact, why am I suddenly remembering direct confrontations with Cerenios when before I would have sworn we barely ever crossed paths?
Everything is confusing.
Even my interactions with Theron seem different, though they all ended in the same outcome—he repudiated me.
This time, however, he had proof that he presented to the authorities. And this time, it’s because of that proof I was imprisoned and cursed to have all mortals look upon me with adoration so I could never know their true intentions.
Except it never worked on Marlowe. Because he’s not mortal. He never was…
My eyes widen in shock at the biggest change. Mine could see the spiritual world—he couldn’t before. Whereas before he was my solace of normality, now my memories are shifting, pointing him out to be my partner in crime rather than my silent comfort.
My head feels as if it’s about to burst open, though I have no doubt Azerius would like that far too much. Every time I try to remember a specific event, a sharp pain spears through my skull. There is an echo of what should have happened in that memory. But when I recall it, it’s completely different.
What the…
All the changes seem to only revolve around him. Mine. Everything else feels the same, though at this point I don’t know how I can trust myself anymore.
Everything is changing in the blink of an eye, and I can’t keep track of what’s real or what’s not—what’s perhaps made up by my mind to survive this torture. Or…what he might have done to me.
Azerius, the God Killer.
He’s been trying to get information on Marlowe by digging into my brain—literally.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, or how long he’s been torturing me. I only remember the beginning. Being secured in place with magical runes and Azerius digging my eyes out so he can directly connect with my brain.
After that, everything is fuzzy, though the one constant is pain; my body being ravaged and trying to heal before being ravaged again.
Perhaps that’s why everything is different. Because Azerius has been messing so much with my mind, he might have caused permanent damage.
“W-what d-did you do t-o me?” I croak, my throat raw from pain.
He doesn’t answer me, merely going on about cleaning his fingers so there isn’t one drop of my blood on them.
“A-answer me!” I shout.
Moments trickle by. More memories resurface. They seem new and old at the same time, making me think I’m going crazy.
“Y-ou did something to m-my memories,” I shout. That makes him stop and glance up at me.
“I did no such thing,” he replies in a bored voice. Straightening his back, he walks toward me. “Though I find it odd that you would think so.”
“You d-did! Everything is wrong. Everything!” I cry out. Yet as I open my mouth to tell him what is wrong, I can’t remember. The new memories are now the only memories. I stare at him, mouth agape, unable to form a coherent sentence.
What did I want to tell him in the first place? I know something is wrong, but I cannot verbalize it. What in the Source is going on?
“Interesting,” he notes in the same robotic voice as before. “Though this session has been nothing short of enlightening.”
I blink. “Why?” I ask, almost afraid.
“There was something there, someone…” He presses his lips together. “They knew I was watching and did not want me to see something. Now that makes me even more curious. But it seems I will not be able to do it while you are alive, so I will just dissect your brain for any new information after your execution.”
His words are spoken casually as if he engages in such activities daily.
“Dissect my brain?” I repeat bleakly.
“I am still unsure what shields you used to keep me out, but I will find out,” he continues, more to himself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. My voice is finally healed enough that my throat isn’t on fire every time I say a word.
“Of course you would not.” He rolls his eyes at me. “You are not a very bright individual, Minerva.”
There he goes again. Even when he locked me up in this room, all he could talk about was how dumb I am.
And to think I idolized this male… He’s nothing but a bully. A robotic bully.
“Your insults are useless,” I fire back. It’s not as if I don’t already know I’ve made mistakes, that perhaps I was far more naive than I realized.
“It is not an insult. Merely the truth. I saw the same things you did, and yet you never questioned what was right in front of your eyes.”
I frown. He continues, “Perhaps you did not want to see it, but that does not make a difference.”
“What are you talking about?”
He stares me right in the eye.
His eyes are two bottomless pits. His lack of emotion has never been more clear to me than now.
He looks at me, but he doesn’t see me as a being. There is no empathy behind that cold gaze of his, only the mechanical impetus to do his duty. Unfortunately for me, his duty consists of punishing me.
“I initially theorized that your impetuous meddling in the House of Psyche caused a human to be reincarnated as a demon—something that is in itself an abomination. But based on the information I gleaned from your memories, the opposite is true.”
“You’re talking about Marlowe?”
“Valerìon,” he corrects. “Your meddling likely shifted his reincarnation timeline forward, but I doubt it did anything of consequence. I would, in fact, theorize that you did more damage to yourself than him when you interfered with your thread of fate.” He pauses then and shakes his head. “You could not even get that right, Minerva, could you?”
“W-what?”
“Of course you would not. Only someone with your…decreased intellect would confuse the potential thread for the love thread. But perhaps you are as visually challenged as you are mentally.”
“Can you stop commenting on my intellect?” I grit my teeth.
“Why? It is rather challenged.”
“So you’ve said.” I roll my eyes. “But back to my mistake. Did you just say I cut the wrong thread?”
“Indeed. Because of your challenged intellect, and vision, perhaps both at the same time, you cut your potential thread instead of the love thread. I must confess that was quite amusing to witness. It’s not every day that I see such idiocy.”
I decide to ignore his continuous jibes and instead focus on the core of the issue.
“And what does that mean?”
He shrugs.
“It has not been done before, therefore there is no frame of reference for it. But you do not need to concern yourself with it since you will die soon enough and it will be of no consequence then.”
“But did my cutting the wrong thread have anything to do with Marlowe and what happened to him?” I press on.
Azerius sighs in frustration.
“Valerìon. And you do not follow, do you?”
“I…don’t?”
“Of course you do not. Valerion was a Son of Tenebreis. The Son of Tenebreis that breached Aperion and murdered General Leotar. You lived with him for so long and you never suspected he might be the enemy?”
What? No, that cannot be. Yet as I attempt to deny it, the clues start to assemble in front of me, forming a rather alarming picture.
“Impossible…”
“Very much possible,” he interjects. “And given the illness he had, I would put his age at a minimum of seven thousand years old,” he adds pensively. “Most likely far older than that since he must have left Tartareia before it was sealed.”
My eyes widen in shock.
“What?” I blurt out. “What are you talking about?”
Mine, over seven thousand years old? No, I refuse to believe that would be the case. And yet…
“I have heard rumors of that illness, though it is now considered extinct. It ran rampant through Tartareia some seven-eight thousand years ago, targeting anyone with predominant Aperite blood. The disease died out once Tartareia was sealed off, but I have never heard of anyone surviving it or living with it.” He pauses. “There is no cure for it, so I would be curious how he managed to live with it for so long.”
Mine’s words echo in my head as he explained how the disease was made to target a certain bloodline. He mentioned his father’s bloodline specifically. Could Azerius be right?
“If this illness affects those with predominant Aperite blood, doesn’t that mean he’s one of ours? He’s not the enemy!”
“Perhaps in your skewed perception. However, Aperite law does not recognize half-bloods.”
“How could he be a half-blood? Aperites and Tartareians were once the same race…”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Minerva. There might be similarities between Aperite deities and Tartareian Sons of Tenebreis, but they are not the same race. That is a common misconception. If that were the case, the disease could not only target Aperite blood. It would inadvertently also affect Tartareian.”
“But—”
“Why do you think Sons of Tenebreis consume souls?”
“Because they are evil?” I snort at the obvious answer. “Because they always want more power?”
“Perhaps in the case of demons, yes. Their core is so corrupt, their only goal is to gain more power. But it is not the case for the Sons of Tenebreis.”
I frown. “What are you talking about? This is what we’ve always been taught. That the Sons of Tenebreis are born evil.”
“And of course you would never question the logic of it, would you?” he mutters under his breath.
Hands behind his back, he walks around the room, deep in thought. “Aperite deities were created by the combined efforts of the Seven of Light and Seven of Nether Primordials. The core of your souls, is as such, in harmony. There is a balance that is not present in the Sons of Tenebreis, whose creators were the Seven of Darkness. The Sons of Tenebreis consume souls in search of that harmony.”
“You may think of their soul as a mass of chaos that is one step away from imploding. The energy of a soul stabilizes that chaos, for a period. But soon that wears out and they need yet another soul, then another, in a never-ending cycle.”
“So it is their nature, not out of inherent evil but because their biology requires it. Why are they so reviled then?”
He claps at me. “Bravo, Minerva. It seems your intellect is only half-challenged.”
“Just get to the point,” I mumble.
“It is the way of nature. The Sons of Tenebreis are part of that nature. And all predators become prey eventually. It just so happens that Aperite deities and the Sons of Tenebreis are in a perpetual predator-prey relationship that swings like a pendulum.”
“Then by that logic it shouldn’t be possible for Aperite deities to consume souls, no? Yet we’re always reminded how forbidden that is. Why would we need the warning if that is not part of our biology?”
His lips tug up.
“Another brain cell has awoken, I see.”
I roll my eyes.
“You are correct in that assessment. Aperite deities’ souls are originally in harmony. If you were to consume a soul, your energy signature would change because your own soul would become pure chaos. You would be tainted. And to keep yourself from going mad—which, by the way, is what happens to the Sons of Tenebreis who do not consume souls regularly—you would have to continue consuming souls. You would, essentially, become the same as a Son of Tenebreis.” He pauses. “Well, in your case, a Daughter of Tenebreis.”
“Wait a moment!” I cry out. “What do you mean they go mad if they do not consume souls?”
“The chaos inside them eats at them until they go mad. When that happens, they usually self-destruct.”
“W-what…” I gulp down. “You mean all Sons of Tenebreis consume souls? Even now when they’re trapped in Tartareia?”
“Why do you think they have demon thralls, Minerva? They are using them as proxies to get them souls when they are unable to.”
“But that means… Mine…”
He rolls his eyes in exasperation.
“You were the one who noticed the missing souls at the military base. How you did not think of it before is beside me.”
“But the greed demon…”
“You know as well as I do that this happened before the greed demon appeared.”
“But—”
“You may continue in denial for as long as you would like. Frankly, I do not give a damn about you. Valerìon, on the other hand… I am interested in him.”
“Why? It can’t be just because he’s a Son of Tenebreis outside of Tartareia.”
“That is not for you to know. Alas, I have spent far too long in here. It appears duty calls.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait! You’re leaving me here? Like this?”
He stops just in front of the exit.
“Well, no. Tomorrow you will be taken to the public square for your execution. I did mention it will be a public execution, no?”
My lashes flutter in surprise—though at this point, why is any of this surprising?
“Public execution?” I stammer.
“Aperion must know we do not abide any rule break. Your death will serve as a good example for it,” he says. “I look forward to killing you. Until tomorrow.”
With that, he leaves the room.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. Though I know I should be resting after the continuous torture I endured, the thought of what’s going to happen tomorrow keeps me awake and perpetually petrified. Yet it’s not dying that scares me. That should be fairly quick—after Azerius has paraded me around the main square so everyone is aware of my sins.
No, death does not scare me, which is surprising in itself considering how much I’ve agonized over the act of dying. It’s the thought that he might die again that terrifies me.
Because if Azerius is so interested in Marlowe, he will most likely use this opportunity to draw him here, using me as bait.
Marlowe might be a Son of Tenebreis, but he is undoubtedly no match for Azerius.
No one is.
Perhaps I should spend my last waking minutes contemplating my life so far and how blind I’ve been to what was there in front of me from the beginning.
Perhaps .
But I find that I don’t have the energy to care that Marlowe is or isn’t a demon. The missing souls in his basement make sense now, as do the missing souls from the military base. But he needed them. Azerius himself said that it’s not always malicious. Sons of Tenebreis need those souls to survive. How can I condemn him for doing what I, too, have been trying to do all this time? Surviving…
I am disappointed he never trusted me enough to tell me. Not in this life when he did not remember, but in the past when he knew fully well what he was, what I was. He knew everything and yet he kept it from me. Perhaps he knew far more than I ever did, at his advanced age and such.
That gives me pause. He’s over seven thousand years old? Though still hard to believe, retrospectively, I can see the instances in which his maturity and experience shone through.
Wait a moment, though!
He knew so much, was capable of so much, and yet he still made me do all the work. Was he silently laughing at me all those times he portrayed himself as a puny human in need of help?
When I catch you, Marlowe… You’re going to regret making a fool out of me.
If anything, I’ll find a way to defy death just so I can get revenge for all the times you made me a fool.
He made me carry him on my back… The gall on this male. Back then I was impressed he would go along with it without taking a hit to his male ego. Now I know better—he was laughing at me all along.
I grind my teeth in annoyance—the only movements I am able to do with my body held still by those runes.
Every little interaction I had with him where he hid behind me, asking me to protect him because he’s just a puny little human flashes before my eyes. I was so proud then, that he would trust me to keep him safe. Now all I feel is a growing rage.
Marlowe, Marlowe. You will pay. It doesn’t matter what I have to do to get back to you, but you will pay. How dare you use my weaknesses against me? Ply me with sweets and praises while silently laughing at me?
The door suddenly opens. There are no windows inside the room to notice the passage. Though I did not get the opportunity to rest, with my mind so busy working up scenarios to torture that blasted male, I do feel much better than the day before. My body is as healed as could be considering my low levels of energy.
Yet my mood immediately plummets when I note it’s not Azerius who comes inside.
It’s Cerenios. His gaze meets mine and a slow, sadistic smile pulls at his lips.
“We meet again, Minerva.”