Chapter 20 #4
All his life he’d been terrified of being weak.
His father had taken to beating him any time he’d dared to cry, to complain, to relax, to feel even an ounce of sentiment.
And that had been while Tisander lived. Theron had known all his life he was the lesser son, compared to his older brother in every way and forever found wanting.
When he’d become the sole heir, his father’s lessons had gone from harsh to brutal—lessons that had only just prepared him for the viciousness of his courtiers.
Rebellions, assassins, poisonings, and more had marked his early reign, cementing every lesson his father had imparted as wisdom in Theron’s mind.
He’d lived his life believing that to show even a hint of weakness was to invite ruin.
Opening himself up enough to allow rejection to sting was simply asking for pain. But today? Today, he faced it all.
In a way, it was freeing. If she rejected him, his heart would be turned to ashes.
More practically, his position would be stripped from him, his destiny one of exile.
There would be no more courtiers, no more politicking, no more duties.
He wondered briefly if such a thorough scouring of his life would at last make him into a man worthy of her.
After all, even if he was no longer king, he’d been called by the magic of Aureum to serve the elder gods.
Perhaps as their cleric rather than their monarch he would find the fate the gods had meant for him all along.
“You understand what is to transpire? The punishment you will be made to suffer? The…curse you ask me to lay on you?” Myrina asked, her brows pinched with worry.
“Yes. If my fated cannot find it in her heart of hearts to forgive my transgressions, all that is mine becomes hers. I will then be forced into exile, and no temple of Passion may give me succour until the day I die.”
Theron swallowed, hoping it would not come to all that.
“Could you not have chosen a less…extreme form of apology?”
He might, but none of them would suffice. Anything less and she would always wonder at his sincerity.
“I might have at one time, but the wounds I inflicted are too deep for anything less.”
“Then I pray she will forgive you, Theron.”
“As do I, Aunty.”
Myrina released a shuddering breath, wiped an errant tear from her eye, and stood to her full height. Divine magic poured out from her, her eyes taking on a flicker of flames.
“King Theron of Aureum, as the High Priestess of Passion, I hereby curse you to perform the Rite of the Penitent Lover. You have insulted Passion. You have wronged your fated. Accept the curse of the goddess and make amends.”
She touched him then, just above his heart.
He screamed in agony, collapsing on the floor as a fire roared through him.
His whole body was one gaping wound, and the goddess poured salt over every inch.
Theron gasped for air, and yet every breath felt like living flame chasing its way down his throat, filling his lungs.
A raging inferno consumed him, sinking into his very bones.
He must have blacked out. When he’d come to, the priestesses were already stripping him and heating the metal rods.
Theron tried to catch his breath, and yet every breath was torture.
The divine magic of the temple, once inviting, had become hostile.
Acid burned in his veins, and every instinct shouted at him to flee.
He pressed a hand to his heart—only to find a ruby glinting there, and angry red tendrils stretching out from it like an infected wound.
His magic roused to heal him, and yet it could not.
Theron stood in a panic as the last of his clothes were taken from him.
“My magic,” he gasped.
“Suppressed for the duration of the rite,” Myrina replied softly. She took the first metal rod, the end heated to a bright orange, and bit down on her trembling lip. “For treating the gift of Passion with contempt, you will burn.”
She pressed the hot metal to his cheek. He held back a scream but only just, clenching his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter. Each cheek was burned, then his forehead. By the end, he was sweating from the pain, the salt stinging his wounds. The stink of burned flesh invaded his nose.
“Now go, King Theron of Aureum. Walk from the temple of Passion to where your fated resides, so that all who see you will know your penance.”
Myrina turned from him then, marching on ahead of him with tears in her eyes. Her paladins surrounded her, clearing the way. Theron shook. From pain, from the violent shock of the curse, from all that was yet to befall him.
He followed.
“For treating the gift of Passion with contempt, you will burn.”
The first priestesses to burn him did so at the temple entrance, pressing molten brands into his arms. He barely held back a groan.
As he exited the temple, the agony of the curse marked on his chest lessened a fraction, and yet his punishment had just begun, the stink of burned flesh making him nauseous.
Two more sets of priestesses waited for him in the temple district along his path, brands in hand.
He looked up towards the palace. A dozen more waited along the path.
The people of Aureum had stopped in their tracks, gaping at him, shouting in disbelief as their king walked among them. He was no longer their monarch like this, stripped of all pride and dignity—he was an object of morbid curiosity. Theron’s heart raced with fear.
Yet he took another step. And then another.
Until the second branding was upon him. He cried out and kept marching.
He braced for the third to no avail. When he was free of the temple district, the sting of the curse mark was lifted, replaced by the agony of his burns and the weight of the stares piercing him as effectively as their stunned silence.
He stood as tall as he could and focused on the rite.
These stares? No worse than his fated had suffered when he’d called her mad.
This searing pain? Less than she had suffered when his lies had driven her into Orithyia’s clutches.
Theron marched on, taking the agony as his due, chanting in his head not to slow, not to stop, not to flinch from the heat of the brands.
He’d endured his father’s beatings, assassins’ blades, agonizing poisonings, bloodthirsty monstrosities, and more besides. All for a crown. He could endure this, too. He could endure it for a reason far more precious. He could endure it for her.