An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Her thoughts threatened to break her hold over the little sanity she had managed to rein in over the past few years after meeting him. The mental clarity that came from all this time she spent with him and her children felt like it might just up and go, and she could not allow that, she could not allow madness to lay claim to her once more.

No, that cannot happen. He will leave me…

Miranda was slowly losing herself until the small voice of Estrel reached her ears.

"Mother, what are you doing staring at empty air for?"

The girl complained, her face still flushed from over exertion, "Hurry up and go meet him!

That strange uncle said he had something he wanted to tell you after waking Father up."

The girl's face was clouded with questions at the mention of the strange uncle who had suddenly appeared in their home and miraculously treated their father's disease.

Miranda, still a bit lost in the gloom of her thoughts, barely managed to regain some sense of clarity—until her daughter's words filled her with sudden panic.

"What do you mean, strange uncle, Estrel?" Miranda questioned, her voice rising a few octaves as her eyes contorted with worry and something that mirrored fury.

Realizing the tears threatening to spill from her daughter's eyes, she felt a pang of guilt.

"I'm sorry," Miranda apologized, almost wanting to slap herself for her blunder.

"I'm sorry, princess. It was not my intention to scare you. This situation just seems so strange, Estrel, and your mother is simply worried about the implications. You and your brothers have seen just how sick your father has been the whole time and now he has suddenly woken up!"

Miranda pulled Estrel into a hug, placing her head in the crook of her neck to comfort her, wrapping her in a tender warmth, hiding the girl away from how veins of crimson had snaked their way into her earthy browns, and the slight tremble of her pupils in the morning light.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "Now tell me, what do you mean by a strange uncle?"

The girl, having calmed down from her mother's outburst, quickly forgot about it and excitedly told her mother what had happened.

"When I woke up this morning, I wanted to go see Father for a bit. But when I entered your room, I saw a strange uncle standing by his bedside, saying some words I couldn't understand.

When he saw me, he told me he was here to wake Father up.

Then he told me to go call my mother, so I woke up my brothers first before coming to find you."

Her eyes overflowed with innocence and joy at the prospect of having her father awake, blissfully unaware of the danger in the situation.

Miranda hugged her daughter once more before immediately rushing back toward the house.

But as she ran, her mind was consumed with dread.

Who could it be? she asked herself.

How did someone enter my house without me knowing? And what do they mean by 'wake my husband up'…?

The thought of her husband waking up filled her with fear.

No, I cannot allow him to wake up.

He must not wake. I will not allow it.

A scream of rage echoed in her mind, trembling with trepidation at the thought.

Her body moved with unnatural speed and strength—abilities she shouldn't have possessed as a mere mortal. She climbed the stairs in a blur, rushing toward their chambers.

She passed by the children's rooms, her feet carrying her straight to the end of the hall, where their room lay.

Without waiting for permission, she strode in with her daughter in tow.

And there he was.

Her husband was awake.

He stood there, unmoving, showing no signs of grogginess or weakness. His broad back was turned to her as he gazed through the pale windows.

The way the soft light from Astrea hit all the right places on his form drove her with a need she did not ant to acknowledge at the moment. The way his body rose slightly with every breeze that filtered through the room made her squirm for reasons other than the fear she was supposed to be feeling at the moment.

He looked like a god descended upon the earth, his form radiating a might she thought had long disappeared, one she had only seen when he was drenched in the blood of his enemies, slaughtering them as if they were mere flies, against the power of a towering mountain, she had been ensnared then and even now it was no different.

His broad shoulders, wavy hair, and glistening skin—he was the epitome of manliness. The only man she had deemed worthy to bear her children. The only man who had ever conquered her heart, the only man she had given her love and more, her soul her everything, and she would never regret it.

But she snapped out of her reverie immediately.

For what she felt coming off of him was dread.

A deep-seated malevolence radiated from his being in waves.

This man standing before her… was far more terrifying than anything she could have ever imagined she had forgotten the danger he once possessed because she got comfortable with being able to subdue him at his weakest, she had forgotten that this man drank blood of those he slaughtered, she had forgotten the terror he represented.

Her whole world crumbled in an instant.

She could only watch as her dreams shattered, one by one.

The fantasies, the desires, the world she had wanted to build with him… all of it came crashing down.

He was angry.

No.

The better word was furious.

Who wouldn't be?

If you had been trapped in a state of lucidity for twelve years…

If you had been forced to sire children you never intended for…

If you had been forced into carnal pleasures, stripped of your innocence against your will…

Being forced to be a man when you would never feel like one again....

A story akin to Odysseus and the island goddess.

Only she was no goddess.

A witch might fit the bill.

She might just be worse than the goddess ever was...

And now, the culprit stood before him.

Kyrios—or Aeris, as he went by in this life—had never felt such a powerful mix of emotions.

Anger.

Rage.

Fury.

Wrath.

Shame.

Perhaps only his so-called excuse of a father in his first life had made him feel anything close to this level of rage.

A storm of hatred and vengeance clouded his mind.

Had it not been for the presence of a higher power, the entirety of these outskirts would have been wiped away by his wrath alone.

She had used him.

Taken advantage of his vulnerability.

Manipulated his mind to force his intent into his seed—trapping him with children he had never wished for.

And the worst part?

He remembered everything.

Every single moment.

Every three years, he would wake in the throes of passion, his body barely able to resist itself.

He would plant his seed in her, in aching climaxes that shamed him to no end, awaking to nights of her flushed face, his mind filed with nothing other than the urge to end his own life for the shame he had experienced.

And then… he would blank out—watching, helpless, as she raised the children he had never wanted.

Like a ritual, she would give birth in his presence, ensuring he saw it all.

And then she would take his blood, his ichor and feed it to them while they were still so young… as though fearing they would not be his otherwise, she would have forced his hand into naming them had she not wanted to risk him being awake long enough to escape her control...

His only solace in this cursed nightmare was that she had raised them well.

A mother's care had been given to them, regardless of the circumstances of their birth.

But it did not change his fury.

Every day, he had contemplated what he would do the moment he regained control.

Would he strangle this witch?

Would he burn the only living proof of his shame?

Would he snuff out their tender lives to erase the stain on his pride?

But he had grown to like them instead.

Grown to see them as his own.

And he could not bring himself to snuff out their innocent lives.

They bore no fault in their mother's sins.

He had no right to punish them.

But her?

He had every right to kill her.

To strangle her.

To watch the life drain from her body.

But then…

A voice stopped him.

The voice of the being responsible for his awakening.

The being he feared and loved more than himself.

"Now, now, Thorne," it spoke in a near-careless tone.

"That's no way to greet the mother of your brood."

The voice was smooth as aged ale, yet darker than any edge.

It was deep, sonorous, reminiscent of an ancient beast long awakened from slumber—one that had gone senile with the eons yet retained just enough sanity to rival the most lucid of minds.

And with those words—

All thoughts of vengeance faded like dust in the wind.

His body locked up.

Bones within his weakened form shattered—only to be reforged anew.

His blood was purged and reborn in the fires of the cosmos, the majesty of its horrifying might.

Power refilled his veins.

A gift from his lord's careless words.

And in an instant—

He no longer cared for the woman who deserved to suffer more than the eighteen circles of hell.

All he cared for…

Was him.