Page 10 of Styxx (Dark-Hunter 22)
The scold turned his dark eyes to Styxx. "Your Highness?"
It galled him so that he was forced to grant immunity to the person who was about to cane him. But since it was death for anyone to strike a member of the royal family, it had to be done before the scold could carry out the king's orders against a prince. And if he didn't grant it, his father would only make it worse on him.
"Aye. I grant it," he whispered.
"When you're finished, take him to his room and see to it that he's kept there until morning with no comforts."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
His lips trembling from his pent-up tears, Styxx watched as his father left him alone with the giant mountain of a man. For lesser offenses, which he never seemed to commit, he had a whipping boy who would take his punishments for him. But for anything that was deemed a personal insult to his family, Styxx, unlike Ryssa, had to bear it all himself. The princess was never whipped for anything. She was too precious and dainty for such. Most of all, she wasn't being groomed for manhood and kingship.
And now that the scold was granted immunity by the two of them, he would take a great deal of pleasure in hurting him. He always did. Even if Styxx didn't cry or whimper, he would still receive the harshest punishment his father had called for. And all because the scold, like Ryssa, thought him to be a spoiled, undeserving brat who needed to be humbled.
You think you're so much better than the rest of us. You're not, dog. You're just a rich man's son. A drunken god-whore's whelp.
Laughing in greedy expectation, the scold pulled him into the small room that was reserved solely for Styxx's private punishments, and bent him over the caning bench. He shoved a piece of leather into Styxx's mouth for him to bite down on and muffle his cries so that his pain wouldn't disturb others or embarrass his father. He tied Styxx's hands to the front of the bench to hold him in place and make sure he didn't try to run then bared his buttocks for the beating.
Styxx placed his cheek against the cold stone and tried to be brave. He did. But when the scold lightly brushed the wood cane against his naked thighs to let him feel how thick and hard it was, he wet himself in fear of the coming pain.
"Some worthless king you'll make," he mocked then he lashed him with every ounce of his massive strength.
Horrified and in pain, Styxx held his screams in for as long as he could, but in the end, he was as worthless as they all thought. He couldn't help it, especially since the scold didn't hurry it along. Rather he dragged it out, waiting for the numbness to pass before he struck again.
At least it took Styxx's attention away from the bruises on his arm and cheek. He should probably be grateful for that.
When it was finally over, the scold dragged him to his room and locked him inside. The servants had already come in and stripped his bed of its linens and pillows. Everything except his bed and chamber pot had been removed.
Tired and aching, Styxx limped toward his bed, but he hurt too much to climb into it. Rather he lay down on the stone floor and wished that he was the son of anyone else. He hated being a prince. Too much was expected of him and everyone despised him for it.
Even his own sister and mother.
Just once he wanted to be free to go outside and play like other children did. To have them welcome him as another playmate and not run away in fear or hatred. While they frolicked with carefree abandon, he had to learn how to speak, read, and write Atlantean, Greek, Akkadian, Egyptian, Sumerian, and a million other languages he didn't care about. Other children got to participate in fun games and friendly competitions, while he had to master swordplay and military tactics taught to him by instructors who detested him even more than the others. Instructors who knocked him to the ground and delighted whenever he bled.
Get up, Highness. In battle, you'd be dead or taken already. You have to fight the hardest of all so that your men will respect you and be willing to lay their lives down at your command. No one follows a coward, no matter what crown he wears....
Don't laugh, boy, it isn't kingly. Don't smile or they'll think you're soft or stupid. You must be composed and dignified at all times. Never let your guard down. They are your subjects, not your friends, and you are their future king. You mustn't ever forget that.
On and on it went until it rang in his head alongside the voices of the gods and horrible thoughts of other people.
He didn't see a single perk to being king. Not if it meant you couldn't enjoy laughter or ... well ... anything.
I wish Acheron was the heir....
But as soon as he had that thought, shame filled him for it. He would never wish this sort of misery on his beloved brother. Acheron had enough to deal with.
"One day I will be king," he sobbed, slamming his small fist against the floor. And when he was, things would be very different for both of them. No one would ever make either him or Acheron feel like this again.
Not even his sister.
February 3, 9541 BC
Long after midnight, Styxx lay abed, trying to sleep, yet it was impossible. If the pain in his skull wasn't excruciating enough, Acheron had been beaten earlier for the high grand offense of meeting their father's gaze as they passed in the hallway.
His back burned in sympathetic pain for his brother's wounds. He still didn't know how he'd made it through dinner without crying or screaming from the agony, but now that he was alone, he could writhe and moan in peace.
Why can't I just die already?
Surely death would be better than living like this. How could one head hurt so much and not render the victim dead or brain damaged?
How?
Sucking his breath in sharply between his teeth, he heard someone at his door. He froze in panic. It couldn't be Acheron. They were both in too much pain to leave their beds.
The door opened to show his father in the dim firelight. This couldn't be a good thing. His father never disturbed him at night.
What have I done now?
That was a stupid thought. He'd done nothing. Rather, what does he believe I've done?
Styxx squeezed his eyes shut, feigning sleep and praying that his father would leave him in peace. Instead, his father sat on the edge of his bed. Styxx held his breath, terrified of what this meant. Why was he here? What could he possibly want with him at this hour?
I didn't do anything....
He'd been on his best behavior for weeks now. Only Acheron had been acting out lately. Not that he blamed his brother. They were both tired of how they were treated.
His father sank his fingers into Styxx's hair. His hand was so large that he was able to cradle the whole of Styxx's head in his massive palm.
Styxx's eyes flew open as he waited for the pain he was sure would follow.
Yet his father began running his hand through Styxx's blond curls, toying with them, brushing them back from his face. Maybe he wasn't angry with him, after all. Hoping for the best, he met his father's gaze in the firelight, but didn't dare speak a word. There was rare tenderness in his father's gaze, mixed with concern.
"You remind me much of Estes when he was a boy. Things you say and do ... It makes me think of our childhood together and how much I miss it. Even this was his room back then...." His father brushed his thumb over Styxx's brow and smiled at the memories. Suddenly, the smell of alcohol on the king's breath hit him hard. His father was terribly drunk.
