The Sacrifice

She was brought to his chambers, a sacrifice for her people, who showered her in gifts but could not look her in the eye.

From head to toe she was cloaked in golden fabrics, her fingers drip drip dripping gold paint, the white powder on her face applied an inch thick.

She was not afraid.

He had a sunken face, eyes like opals, a mouth that was neither generous nor entirely cruel. He asked her a question. His voice was low, resonating through her bones like the voice of God. He asked her again.

Do you know pain?

Her mother had not wanted her, she had been an afterthought for most of her life. She had spent her life on the fringes of society, and had often known intense hunger for a sense of belonging.

She hesitated. He backhanded her across the face. Blood filled her mouth like the sweetest ambrosia, the food of the God who she kneeled before.

No.

Pain had never touched her before. She was lucky, blessed even, a sacrifice to the God whose hands cupped her cheeks, his opal eyes glittering almost kindly.

That is why you are here, his gold voice told her, the most melodious song, every beautiful thing must be crushed before it is remembered.

He was a God, and he took her for his own, crushing her between his palms and his chest, inflicting pain in every wonderful way he could.

When she left him, her hands drip drip dripping red over the marble altar, he allowed himself a rare smile at the sight.

He would remember her.