Punishment; The Daily Post Prompt

The day she had turned eighteen was the day she was brought upon the judgment of the gods.

They ordered her exiled from her country- Rome and homeland-Spain*, stripped of her titles, claims by birthright, lands, and riches. They cursed her; every time she uses her powers, if she so much as hold or touch a weapon, even a knife, she’d feel torment. She couldn’t breathe properly; as if her heart was being crushed. She felt incomplete, like she had a phantom limb. She’d coughed up blood, her limbs weakening. She lay there, in front of the gods, suffering. She lay there, powerless to fight and weak enough to let the Furies drag her to hell, the gods raising their glasses full of nectar high for tomorrow she would die.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

She had lost count for how long she had been falling, but a great poet had once stated that a mortal who have heavily sinned would take nine days and nights to reach the depths of Hell.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

That great poet had also said that “The descent into Hell is easy.” How right he had been. The fall was smooth, but to crawl back up again on the surface of the mortal realm, she would have to suffer first. She was condemned in the darkest and deepest area of Hades’ realm, known as the Underworld, where the gods imprison their enemies.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

She landed on the cold, hard ground, wincing in pain as a sickening crunch vibrated through her body, her left leg twisting in an awkward angle.

There was no wind. At least, she could not feel it. Nothing in the ground ever grew here, except for blood-red pomegranates. The place had no hope, just lies, despair, and eternal torment.

She resisted them every moment she could get.

So they paralyzed her body, wrists bounded in chains, ankles in shackles and overtime she had grown used to sounds of whip, sharpening steel, the smell of blood and screams of pain. Her soul was weakening, she could not move even if she wanted to.

Every time she closed her eyes, the demons would reign in her mind. The Furies would taunt her, beat her, and starve her raw. Rarely, they’d tell her information about the state of the war and she listens. They told her of the people in Rome; the people that she had left behind. They tell her of the Greeks, mourning their loss of fellow men and their prince; the son of the sea god. She woke up from nightmares, only to be plague with torment. The Furies gave her punishment for her crimes, she took it.

She stays still as the electrum whip slashed across her face, sending lightning sparks to the very core of her soul, her whole body reverberating in pain. She had only survived because she was half-mortal, ichor ran through her veins, healing her wounds but not strong enough to heal her shattered soul.

Grief and sorrow had made her numb to the torment the Furies bestowed on her, body, mind and soul. Oddly, she had found solace in the silence of the darkness.

Hell is cold. A friend had whispered once, she remembered. And now the cold has devoured me.

Punishment

 


*Back when Spain was a Roman province. Rome divided Hispania-later Spain into two provinces, known as Hispania Citerior (Near) and Hispania Ulterior (Far).

 

 

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