Wregen #2
“Then I will find another to serve me,” I shrug.
My leg starts to bounce as Hel’s summons awakens the bugs in my gut, but I still don’t drag my gaze from the males at my feet.
They’re both trembling, the squire from pain more than anything else.
Still, it’s the prince’s dread that feeds my foul soul.
I can feel his terror, a tremble in the sweltering heat surrounding us.
“She bid me to tell you that she will not punish me alone. Every specter you choose to serve you will suffer the same fate, until she’s satisfied that you repent your defiance.” These words come with a touch of hope.
Justified hope, it seems. Hel’s threat is effective. She’s done that to me twice before, and both times, I grew to regret what I’d done.
“Fuck me,” I snarl, whipping my gaze toward Pudge, eyes narrowing as I consider ending him for the affront of carrying her despicable message to me.
His chin collapses to his chest, eyes cast down.
“Fine,” I bark, allowing his existence for now.
“Forget his ears,” I direct as I turn back toward the prince and his squire.
“Feed him your cock instead and I’ll end his misery and take you with me into the city. ”
“Feed him … my cock?” The prince’s words warble, the barest hint of fear whispering through them.
“I want to see you in his mouth,” I snarl, my fist twisting my own cock as the pictures erupt in my mind.
“But I can no longer experience that pleasure or relief.”
“Then you will feed him your cock,” I growl, my balls tightening as Wrath thrashes inside me.
I stroke mine more quickly, the tick-tock of Hel’s summons pushing me to an early release.
“You get it up and come in his mouth,” I continue, “or he bites it off. One or the other. And then you’re both done. ”
We all know it will be the other. No blood flows through the prince’s body. His cock will never bulge again. But most will do anything—and I mean anything—to force the impossible. I’m entertained as they try. But more importantly, Wrath is entertained.
“The mistress was very clear,” Pudge warbles, his words barely legible even to my sharp ears. “She bid you to come now,” he forces out after a moment.
“Fuck. Just … fuck.” Wrath grumbles in my chest, demanding more than I can give him with Hel yanking the chain forever tying me to her. Standing, I step closer, hovering over the males as I pump my cock frantically. And then I grip its tip and yank.
The pain forces the relief I’d hoped to savor.
My balls quiver and cum spurts onto the males’ faces in heavy lines.
Leaning over, I focus on their disparate reactions.
The prince looks shocked and eternally disgusted, his priggish upbringing twisting his lips in a delightful grimace.
His squire is resigned, eyes growing more dull as he faces his end.
He watches me with a flat gaze while I slide my fingers through the sticky mess and exhale slowly, forcing them into the prince’s open mouth and dragging them along his dry tongue.
It's not the same. It hasn’t been the same since she left.
And every time I try and fail to find the release I felt only in her presence, it pisses me off more.
Rising, I pull my sword from the scabbard across my back.
“This’ll have to do,” I mutter as I swing it down, taking both of their heads in one stroke.
I don’t let my gaze stray, enthralled by the emotions that flicker into their expressions—the prince’s terror revealed in wide eyes and a mouth caught hanging open, and the squire’s relief evidenced by the barest smile.
It’s all I can offer my beast with that manipulative bitch demanding my presence. Still, satisfaction pulses in my chest—the fist in my gut unclenching a bit—as Wrath accepts my gift, settling for now.
“Toss their parts into the pit,” I order Pudge as I turn to stride away.
I barely notice the entrance to Niflhel I pass through or the bodies that writhe and reach for me—corpses turned to steel exactly as they were when they arrived and then entombed in the gates.
Their suffering is but a drop in the bucket of the anguish in this place.
I learned to ignore it soon after I entered Hel’s service.
A path opens before me as her subjects recognize my presence, dropping whatever they hold to dip into a deep bow, their faces hidden as they display the respect I deserve.
My steps propel me along as my mind replays the final seconds of the males’ existence.
They served me well as they faced the end.
Sooner than I want, I’m striding through the iron trees and statues that line the walk to éljúenir, Hel’s castle.
My mistress is loath to admit it, but she yearns for the days when she could walk with humans in the sun.
She surrounded herself with a pale replica of the most glorious cities in Midgard—the world humans call Earth—because she’s trapped here like everyone else.
Well, everyone except me. Since my heart beats, I can go wherever Hel sends me.
éljúenir would rival any palace on Midgard but for the fact it’s made entirely of shadows given form.
In this strange place, the darkness belongs to Hel, so she can manipulate all of it.
In the light of day, though, it would evaporate.
All of the surfaces that feel solid here would disappear completely.
Not that it matters. éljúenir will never see the sun. It’s bound here too.
None of Hel’s drudges bother me as I stride toward her rooms, my gaze landing on a few of the statues I pass as I recall their days walking these halls with me.
They’re why I haven’t let myself get close to anyone for a long time.
Everyone who captured any part of my attention became an ornament for Hel’s amusement as soon as she learned of it.
A dozen or more wraiths I once called friends now stand sentry here—along with many others—their expressions forever stuck in the gasp of horror she ignited in them as they died.
Hel likes to capture that evidence of her power so she can gloat over it as she walks her home.
It’s why I tried to stay away from Finaan, terrified Hel would learn of my need for her.
I couldn’t and eventually gave up trying.
I’m not a noble male. I wouldn’t be here if I were.
I learned long ago that I will only find joy in taking what I need, when I need it.
I needed her, so I took her. That I did it in secret, keeping my obsession even from her, was the most I could do to protect her from Hel.
It’s been eight fucking weeks since Finaan disappeared from this world, along with the other elves.
I felt her go, as if a fist wrapped around my still-beating heart to tear it from my chest, just as I heard Hel screech in fury.
For a moment, I wondered if Finaan had taken that unwanted organ with her, dooming me after all these centuries to truly join the specters that surround me.
But the fucker gave an angry pump, and then another, and I knew I still lived.
I’d grown too dependent on Finaan’s presence.
I let her fill my days, watching her move through this world whenever I wasn’t compelled into my mistress’s service.
My fierce skjaldmaer never knew, and my beast took savage pleasure in that fact.
She has no gods-damned idea that she belongs to me. But she is mine.
I know every part of her.
I’ve seen every part of her.
I’ve touched every part of her.
And, yes, I’ve tasted every part of her.
And she had no fucking clue.
Wrath reveled in it. The depravity of our obsession with her.
The knowledge that she could do nothing to stop it.
She’d need to discover us first, and we’d never let her.
My powers are stronger in Helheim than they were in Midgard.
And I used those powers whenever I chose, however I chose, to make Finaan mine in every way that matters.
Hel’s latest drudge, a dwarf named Lit who’s lasted longer than I would have expected, swings open the doors to her rooms and I stride in.
My liege sits on her throne—the only piece of furniture in the room—as she always does.
She’s staring into a fire that burns perpetually, drawn from the pit to cast its flame into a room that’s already too fucking hot.
But Hel likes it that way. Her frozen soul needs constant warmth.
“My mistress,” I intone as I close the distance between us and drop into a deep bow, rising only when she clicks her tongue at me. Like a gods-damned dog. “You summoned me,” I add in the reverential tone she demands.
“I should not have to threaten you when I call,” she clips out, turning her head to glare at me.
I stifle the shudder her appearance would trigger, even after all these years.
Her right side calls to mind the females of my youth, her skin pale, hair the color of flaxseed, and eyes as vibrantly blue as the sky on a clear day.
Like the other gods, her strong chin, high cheekbones, and perfectly-proportioned nose give that side of Hel a classic beauty that would have inspired the tunes of many bards.
I might have loved her for her looks alone if I’d known her then.
And if that were her only half.
Her left side is rot, pocked skin in various stages of decay, with a gut-churning mix of color disturbing the pitch-black that dominates.
None of it has peeled off, although it looks as if it was moments away from giving up and abandoning its fetid host when it was fixed in place.
The hues could have been drawn from the pit—purple and blue, yellow, orange and red—but for the fact that the pit’s fire lives.
This side of Hel is death and rot. And I will forever be disgusted and repelled by it.
I can swallow a lot. The wraiths’ waste and torment feed my soul. But Hel’s decrepit visage is too disgusting, even for me.