Blood Horn: Chapter 31
The Wrath of Man Made Monstrous
Welcome Back to Bloodthirsty Thursday!
CHAPTER 31
The ancient goddess waited, cross-legged, before the infernal unicorn, who was belly-down in the valley.
Time waited with her.
“I offer a curse without end, without coin,” the Horn said, his voice low and sleepy, inches from the abyss. “This curse will be truly everlasting, unable to be broken by any god or being.”
The goddess huffed. “You are a fool if you offer me such a gift.”
“I am.” He pinned her with a gaze more human than not, his eyes still red yet steel-cut as they had been. “But even fools win wars.”
“Only fools win wars. And only fools start them. This does not sell me on your trade.”
“Yet you still listen.” The longer the Horn spoke, the cleaner his speech. Something had snapped inside him. A thread, a cord that had once bound his feral lips and jagged teeth. A crack of fate, a shock of mercy.
“You have one minute.”
“I offer myself to serve you, honor you. I will worship you from now till forever. My indenture will be permanent without loophole or fail-safe. I will be yours in name, blood, and bone. Make me suffer. Make me hurt. Punish me for every slight against Scotland. I will be your scapegoat, your whipping post. My pain will feed, fuel, and strengthen you. And when you rise, Caledonia will, too.”
The goddess—the Morrigan, he realized—narrowed her eyes. They glowed softly, like green embers. She was thinking. Considering. Juggling outcomes. Weighing his soul on a scale. “If I agree—which would no doubt be a grave mistake—what would you ask in return?”
Time shivered around them. Raindrops sank an inch, then slid to a stop. Wind ruffled the Horn’s mane. He was a fingernail away from her agreement. “In return, I request amnesty for Orsa and her kin, blood and found, including Eamon and Oscar.”
“Amnesty.” Time shivered again, a tickle of air and hope and storm. The goddess frowned and stood, her body unfurling like a sail on the sea. “Amnesty from what exactly?”
“From unnecessary hardship. Let them live and die in peace.”
“And why should I choose you for this servitude? Many others would offer themselves with far less demands.”
“Because I want this curse. I accept this form. I haven’t till now, but you will receive no resistance from me henceforth.” As the Horn spoke these words, time jolted awake. Rain spilled from spun-sugar clouds. Gusts lashed him. Hail struck him. Dusk yielded to night, and the valley dimmed around them.
The only light came from the Morrigan’s glowing green eyes.
There was no moon, no stars.
Only the writhing dark.
“I will never fight you,” the Horn whispered, his voice shredded by wind. “I will never try to escape. I only wish to protect my family.” His confession was raw, vulnerable.
The Morrigan studied him as a shark would a fish. Her gaze flashed yellow. Nails sharpened into talons. Canines lengthened. The goddess stepped forward till her bare feet planted inches from his muzzle. She did not breathe. She had no heartbeat. Her body was a shell, a vessel for this realm, but she was something larger, stronger, more than anything he had met before.
“Are you sure?” she purred.
“Certain,” the Horn rasped.
“You will regret this.”
“Undoubtedly.”
The Morrigan placed her hand on his cutlass. Her talons pierced his flesh, his skull. Blood dribbled into his eyes. It didn’t steam this time. “To curse you permanently, I need your name. Your true name. Either born or forged.”
His name. The Horn hadn’t thought of his name in decades. Before he was the Horn, he had been the Sword, and before the Sword, he had been sønn and bror. But son and brother were descriptions, not names, not an identifier woven into his spirit, his soul. And he had forged titles for himself, had branded letters with nightmares, but he wanted to curse his truth, not his lies.
“My parents named me Aon,” the Horn said. “Aon Sverd.”
It was a good name, not a great name, and it was not how he was remembered.
“Well then, Aon Sverd,” the Morrigan crooned, “I curse you to serve me forever, without end, a curse that shall sustain Scotland. In return, the blood and chosen kin of Orsa Biasio, along with all their descendants, shall live and die in peace, without unnecessary hardship, with minimal struggle. It shall be now as it shall always be.” Without warning, she sank her fangs into his neck.
The curse latched. Pain radiated through him. Agony pumped through his veins with every beat of his ragged heart. He seized, muscles locked, bones blades against his meat. His body convulsed, flopping like a gutted fish. He was embarrassed. Ashamed. Yet prouder than he’d ever been. This was the cost of redemption. Of absolution. His cage would set his boys free.
So he savored his bars.
Relished his chains.
And roared at the storm as this new curse became him.
I wondered if she might end up being the Morrigan!!! What a breathtaking, terrifying portrayal. You are an absolute genius, and I bow to your creatrix powers!!! Such a painful thing for the Sword…for Aon…and yet, it will be such a weight lifted from his shoulders. Excellent, brilliant Halo! ♥️♥️♥️
Brilliant. Your words were clever & beautiful....🥰