DOMINIC

EPISODE 4 : The Goddess' Dog (1)

A mother’s lullaby is a special thing, not something everyone can experience. The saying that every mother in the world can’t hate her child is a lie. What about the story of Circe, the greatest sorceress, who never once heard the word “love” spoken to her? Or the story of Achilles, the mightiest warrior of all, who never once heard the word “affection” uttered in his life? At least they would have future admirers, worshipers, and even looters. At least they would have a peaceful ending, whether in this world or the afterlife, either loved in paradise or cursed in hell, surrounded by flowers and rivers or by flames and apocalypse.

“I died before this all began.”

If there was a God, Rebecca wouldn’t be here. Born from the fires of hell with the curses of her mother. In the agony of sorceresses screaming, casting spells, and cursing her birth, the servants whispered about how dark and grim her home was. Her mother cried out in pain, unwilling to look at her daughter’s face, not even for a moment. Her father, arrogant as ever, pointed her toward the prison. A daughter like that didn’t belong here.

“I lived before it all ended.”

If there were gods who cared, Aiden wouldn’t have been cast away, crawling and begging for mercy. His mother wouldn’t have gone mad after he took his first breath.

But if they didn’t exist, if they didn’t care, it was no wonder these two found each other. They both trapped and restrained one another, striking each other down. The servants had long since closed their eyes, unable to bear watching Rebecca cruelly revive Aiden from his near-death, dragging him back to life, birthing him into hell once more.

It had been a month, then two and a half, then a year, two years. Not much had changed in her expression, but a lot had changed in her gaze, in every breath he took. She had come back to life, reborn. Aiden wasn’t sure what he would become to Rebecca. Was he her dog, her weapon, or just a rag? It was clear enough.

***

The temple altar was filled with tears and offerings. Wives prayed for the safety of their husbands, who had ventured into hell. The land of businessmen was under siege. The bandits had chosen their target wisely, but they were still somewhat foolish. Businessmen couldn’t fight, but they had the most powerful weapon humanity had ever known: money, capable of bringing everything on earth to its knees. Filth was familiar to them, after all, who hadn’t waded through the mud for a piece of bread? The bandits were no different, wallowing in the muck of hell, trying to bring about the apocalypse. Their ships sailed far, collecting hundreds of corpses and thousands of spoils, and now the golden island—the island of wealth—was their target. The kingdom grumbled when the Grahams firmly refused their offer of help. “We don’t want to be indebted to them.” Even until the last grandchild of the family was born or until the end of the world, they knew what would happen if they accepted the help. The debt of mercy—how awful that sounded, even to say it aloud. “It’s as if we’re welcoming a mountain of debt, along with its interest.” The Grahams held the age-old principle of merchants, dating back to the time when Zeus himself set foot on earth and opened Pandora’s box for the fool.

The war didn’t last long. As predicted, the rice millers were still calmly working amid the rumors of war. It wasn’t something to be taken seriously. Like clouds slowly drifting across the sky, the war vanished just as slowly. The bandits, thieves, or whatever they were, never set foot or even breathed on their land. The wives, now tearful, bowed in gratitude before the statues of the gods, offering, “The gods have been kind.”

Before the footprints left the temple’s steps, and the breath from their lips faded, rage boiled in her chest. Her red eyes, furious, issued the command: “Kill them for me.” And her loyal dog obeyed. He drew sickles, swords, axes—whatever was sharp enough to deliver his master’s message. “If God is real, why am I the one dealing with these bastards?” Rebecca knew well the ungratefulness of those women. Their husbands had been spared, thanks to her generosity, for protecting the land so that not a single step of the bandits ever touched it. Yet, look where their gratitude and prayers went. Would eliminating them ease Rebecca’s anger? Certainly not. She just needed to set an example for her precious dog. What happens when he misbehaves, no matter how many offerings are made to gods, demons, or angels?

The one who saved them was her master, the goddess, Rebecca.

***

Aiden pulled on the reins, unraveling the rope from the stable gate. The horse's breath quickened, shaking its head once, twice, before its hooves began to move, following its master. Aiden fastened leather bags filled with weapons on either side of the horse. He slid a dagger into the sheath strapped to his waist, hiding another in his boot. He placed his foot in the stirrup and leaped onto the saddle. Tugging the reins and kicking the horse’s sides, he swiftly galloped out of the stable. The horse’s hooves thundered as it flew through the trees, parting the darkness. Without any light except for the new moon, Aiden could smell the river from afar, and he could hear the villagers negotiating over their harvests, including the women whose faces were still swollen from two days and nights spent crying at the temple. Now, they were probably laughing with joy, their husbands safe from stepping into hell. The commotion was audible to Aiden as well. The forest, the chirping of night birds, the strong wind suddenly howling through the branches—all were like music together. The bandits were likely praying for mercy, hoping they would survive the night. After all, the landowners wouldn’t remain silent while they were compared to the gods, who had never done anything other than demand unreasonable offerings.

***

“If the story is true, tonight will be filled with blood.” A girl selling bread, her goods just purchased by village elders—bandit sympathizers—worried aloud. After all, she hadn’t just received silver coins for her bread but also strange prophecies passed down from generation to generation. Every new moon night, the God of Death would come to visit, scouring every soul in his path. Which one was worthy of being taken aboard Hades' ship, crossing over into the underworld?

The girl quickly tucked the silver coins into her now-empty basket. She didn’t want to linger too long among the bandits. She had been forced to sell bread there since no one else had bought even a crumb all day. The villagers had been right—the bandits were nothing but a bunch of crazies who didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. Including the prophecy.

“They’re the ones who caused the bloody nights!”

The villagers’ accusations, based on the bandits’ prophecies, had once helped them, but in the end, they were exiled to the foot of the mountain, far from the town or even the outskirts. Now, the girl had to make the long journey home. At least her load was lighter. She rested at several points before finally reaching her house. It was hard to call it a home, given that she was just a foster child within its walls.

Her foster father hadn’t died in the war after all—the war that never happened. And her mother, who had spent the day weeping at the temple, was now filled with joy. But that happiness didn’t reach the girl, whose miserable life remained unchanged.

“If only the war had really happened,” she thought. Perhaps then her father, mother, and sisters would suffer as she did.

But even without a war, their lives were hanging by a thread, as were their breaths and souls.

With wide eyes, the girl peered through her house’s window. Everything was red. Everything was filled with rage. And she couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction. A little fear crept in too—was she next? Her father’s body was slumped in the corner of the living room, his blood splattered across the once-plain wall in red streaks. It poured from his gaping neck down to his stomach, where two or three bullet holes had torn through. His organs spilled out from the holes in his abdomen. His head was blown apart like a balloon. His wife was screaming, chanting anything that came to her mind, so incoherent that it was impossible to understand a word. Her cries were cut short by the sound of a blade and gunfire to her chest and head—just to make sure she was really dead. The killer walked toward the bedroom, looking for anyone else in the house. The sound of his boots echoed through the room.

The girl swallowed hard. Should she go to the village chief and report the state of her family? Wouldn’t that mean she could be killed too? The murderer wouldn’t just let a witness live after seeing his work.

Damn. The red eyes suddenly turned toward the window. Their gazes met.

***