Heirs of the Gods

Ch 18.2: Oh, how the mighty have fallen

TW: VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF PAST VIOLENCE

Solid ground. Crunching leaves and twigs. Pitch black darkness. Pale moonlight filtering through leafy canopies.

A forest.

Ella stood in the midst of towering trees, obscured by their density.

The sound of muffled voices crashed against her ears and she edged towards them, making her way through the tree line, following the strange noises coming from up ahead. In a clearing between the towering maples and hickories, there stood a hunting lodge.

A simple building she vaguely recognized as one of House Blackwell's less used lodges, where the nobles stayed during these hunting trips. It was the smallest and less known one.

With a deep, unsettled frown, Ella edged forward, startled to realize that the building was surrounded by several horses, as well as a number of men and a carriage.

The doors burst open with a resounding smack, and out came three men, dragging another one between them. A restrained man with a sack over his head.

With her heartbeat quickening, Ella moved forward, prisoner of deep intrigue, in spite of sensing the dangerous, charged scene taking place. It was as if her legs were moving forward on their own accord.

The men dragging the figure were soldiers. Even with their heads covered and the lack of uniform revealing their identity, this much was obvious in their sheer presence and stance. With a burst of recognition, she recognized them as the same soldiers that carried Grayson.

One of them walked forward, removing his headpiece. She gasped at the sight of the golden, yellow hair.

Lord Jonas Pendergold.

Ella moved impossibly closer, ducking behind a tool shed and peering. By then, she'd realized that although they couldn't see or hear her, she wasn't imagining this, she was actually here, witnessing this scene unfolding.

Jonas reached forward and yanked the filthy sack from the hostage's head. The man lifted his head, revealing the greasy, choleric face of Harrion Blackwell.

Her eyes popped open and her pulse raced in a deranged manner. Even tied up, completely immobilized and gagged, Harrion elicited a deeply ingrained fear and hatred in her.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Harrion Blackwell, on his muddy knees, bruised and trembling with fury.

A marrow-deep satisfaction invaded her, overpowering her astonishment at the scene.

On his knees and quivering with fear, much like Ella was every time he punished her. A fitting position for the man who took a crop to her back for talking back to him when she was thirteen, rendering her unable to stand for three days afterwards. Bruised purple eyes and humiliation for the man that belittled her mother and had her wearing high collared dresses to cover up a necklace of bruises. Terror and soiled trousers for the man who killed her brother's pet rabbit in front of his eyes when he was a child and mocked him when he cried, all for missing a day's lesson with their governess. Choleric impotence and despair for the man who beat his servants and starved his citizens, preferring to indulge in obscene luxury.

Nothing less for Harrion Blackwell, only hellfire and all-consuming shame.

"I hope you know this is nothing personal, Harrion. Just business," Jonas said, as Harrion raged against his ties uselessly. "Terribly sorry about your eye, but this could have been easier and done sooner if you were not such a slippery, cowardly weasel. For shame, leaving your family to fend for themselves, running away and hiding in this shack, leading us on a wild goose chase to find you."