26. Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Before

The blond-haired child laughed, his seafoam green eyes dancing with joy as he raced into his parents' cottage on the heels of his mother's call. Stumbling slightly on wobbly, two-and-a-half-year-old legs, Remmus bounded inside with a grin and a crudely sharpened stick.

"Mama, look!"

Proudly showing off his latest treasure to the woman who had her back turned to him, he held still until she caught sight of him.

"I made a sword!"

"Sit, Ciru." Mithelda's eyes, dark with a lunacy Remmus saw but never understood, tracked over his muddy barren feet with a sneer. "Feral child. You will clean up every speck of dirt you've tracked into my home."

Ciru was the name she'd gifted him whenever she was cross with him—which was most of the time. Translated simply as ‘boy', it went to show just how little she cared for him.

Remmus dropped his stick on the floor, forgotten for the time being.

She shoved a bowl of broth into his hands, the hot liquid spilling over and burning his small fingers. He'd long ago learned not to cry out in distress in his mother's presence.

Slowly, careful not to arise her anger, Remmus leaned over the table and delicately tugged on a dirty spoon beneath a bundle of cloth. The first tug was unsuccessful, but he added a bit more strength and happily pulled the spoon free.

His elbow jerked back into his bowl, the liquid splashing out of its borders. Though only a few droplets spilled, his mother spun and backhanded him across the face, hitting him hard enough to send him flying to the floor beside his sharpened stick.

"Worthless fool."

"I'm sorry, mommy."

Frozen in terror, Remmus' little hands had slapped against the cool flooring of their house, not daring to move a single muscle for fear of reprisal. He had gone without eating before, and though his tummy hated feeling empty, he feared his mother's punishment even more.

As he watched, the furious expression on his mother's face turned pensive, then cruel. And then his mother did something she'd never done before.

She crouched by him, gazing into his soul with a stark madness that was so potent it was nearly tangible. Mithelda's eyes ghosted white, a tell-tale indicator that she was about to use a phenomenal amount of psychic power.

Remmus didn't even know to be scared.

When Mithelda spoke, her voice was laced with her psychic gift of coercion. "Never apologize, Remmus; regret makes you fragile. Never forgive; it is the ultimate sign of weakness. You'll take it from your flesh when you fail."

The psychic power of her voice entrenched within Remmus' mind, below his paper-thin layer of shielding that'd yet to mature. It snaked itself around his psyche, melding with the core of who he was, and stained his mind.

The white that'd colored his mother's eyes bled back to brown, and her mouth stretched into a maniacal smile. "Apologize to me, Remmus."

Blinking wide, guileless eyes at his mother, Remmus followed her command. "I'm sorry, mommy."

Without his consent, his right hand grabbed the sharpened stick—his latest treasure—and dragged it across his left forearm. Blood welled in its wake, drawing a startled noise from the two-year-old child. Lower lip quivering, Remmus stared at the crimson beads dotting his arm, too scared to sob.

"Again, Remmus." Mithelda grew haunty, the elegant lines of her features sharpening in glee. "Apologize to me again."

His lip quivered, and when the tears threatened in his eyes, Remmus let them fall. "I'm sorry, mommy."

Another line of blood, drawn by little hands. Another. Another.

His mother was only satisfied when he'd refused to repeat the mantra once more, giving him an approving nod. "Don't be weak, Remmus; I won't stand for a pathetic progeny. I'd rather kill you first."