Part VI: The Great Escape
Chapter 6: Abandoned by the Gods
Timeline AO 295
And now my friends, let us rip away the curtain that perhaps still shrouds Baldur’s true nature for some of you. It’s time to see what the king is really capable of – unfortunately Hecla is the one who will suffer…
Later the night, Hecla was alone in her bedroom. A fire burned in her hearth, the scent of the blackwood a rich, earthy aroma that was mixed with the faint hint of smoke – a contrast to the lingering fragrance of the bath oils still on her skin, reminding Hecla of the temporary solace she’d found earlier. Alas, that pleasure was all too fleeting, the princess lamented. Just like my tryst with Belgrath – who’s also deserted me.
As the fire crackled, it’s occasional pop and hiss added to the growing eeriness of her room, while the distant sound of wind whistling through the cracks of the castle walls heightened Hecla’s sense of isolation. Shadows danced on the walls, casting long, ominous figures that seemed loom over her. The flickering firelight briefly drove them away, creating a sense of fleeting safety, yet the glow was quickly swallowed by darkness again – just like Hecla’s soul.
The heavy, ornate bed she was in felt like a prison and although the room was warm, the princess pulled the quilts around her. She traced her fingers along the intricate patterns of the top quilt as a way to anchor herself. The blankets were heavy and suffocating, yet even with them piled on, Hecla felt as if the cold was seeping through the layers. Try though she might, the girl could not shake her anxiety. I should have had Jakki stay with me tonight. Yet even as she said it, she knew it would have been wrong. It would only cause trouble for her. He’s coming. I just know it.
The thought made Hecla afraid. The room seemed to breathe with her anxiety. Each creak of the wooden floorboards, every groan of the castle walls, resonated in Hecla’s ears like a sinister whisper. The ancient stones of the castle, steeped in history and cold secrets, seemed to amplify her fear, making her feel as if the very walls were closing in on her. Her heart pounded in her chest, a relentless drumbeat that echoed the dread swelling within her. Each heartbeat was a stark reminder of her vulnerability, the fragility of her safety. She lay rigid in her bed, muscles tensed, listening intently for the faintest sound of footsteps approaching her door. The anticipation of his arrival was a torment in itself, every minute stretched into an eternity of terror.
Every creak and groan of the old castle amplified her anxiety. Her heart was soon pounding, each beat a reminder of her vulnerability. Even though she was a royal princess, that fact did not protect her from her perpetrator – if anything it only made it worse. Although it had been nearly fours years since the man who began abusing her over a decade ago had last been in her bed, Hecla’s fear surged at the thought it might begin anew. What happened to me?
Hecla had enjoyed a happy (if sheltered) childhood in which she was given every luxury. As a young girl she was the picture of health, blooming like a rose that was just about to open, with freshness and charm radiating from her aura. With her brother by her side she felt safe and was confident in her future. Her imagination knew no bounds and her heart was filled with goodness and hope.
But all that changed after Hacktor was taken away to Itzak. Before Hecla’s flower ever fully opened, the first storm of her life broke her — crushing her petals and stealing her bloom over and over and over again as from the time she was eight until the time she was fourteen, Hecla was repeatedly abused by a secret tormentor. And despite her station in society (or perhaps because of it) Hecla knew she could never tell anyone about her ordeals.
Suddenly, the smell of his breath invaded her senses, a sickening blend of alcohol and decay that had haunted her for years. The roughness of his hands, like sandpaper against her delicate skin, sent shivers down her spine. His voice, a low, menacing growl, echoed in her mind, dripping with cruelty. These sensory memories crashed over her in waves, drowning her in the trauma of her past. She could almost feel his weight pressing down on her, the suffocating sense of being trapped with no escape. The room around her faded, replaced by the dim, oppressive chamber of her memories where she was once again an eight-year-old girl, helpless and alone
And so the abuse continued.
But then Hecla turned 14 — and her world changed again.
In spite of her suffering, Hecla became a fair maiden and her body developed all the curves Drokka men most desired, yet sadly for her, Hecla was unable to enjoy looking in the mirror. She missed out on that rite of passage that most girls her age derive so much pleasure from — for Hecla feared her beauty, believing it only enticed her tormentor more. Yet there was little Hecla could do to conceal her good looks – for beauty always finds the light of day.
As it turned out, Hecla didn’t have to worry — in spite of his regular visits in the past, Hecla’s abuser abruptly stopped coming. Unfortunately, Hecla had little time to enjoy her new reality — for it was around the same time that the Derkka Princess Gawain first arrived in Rhokki Pass — and instantly became a hated rival.
[Hecla never put two and two together back then. This was surprising to me at the time – for all her smarts, I would have figured Hecla would have figured out the connection between herself and Gawain. I guess that just speaks to the scars the abuse left on her psyche].
Meanwhile, having reached womanly bloom yet suddenly without a partner (no matter how reviled), young Hecla didn’t have to look far to find willing replacements. Everything was of course kept on the down low so that the princess could continue to protect her public perception, but the fact is that Hecla had secretly shared a bed with numerous men during her the years that followed. Although Hecla’s ‘other’ men were all of her own choosing — she used them to satisfy her own appetites while also trying to make sense of her world and testing her talents for navigating through it.
And yet the one man she wanted most had always eluded her heart – both then and now. Even though Hacktor had recently returned to court, and despite Hecla’s best efforts to win him over, still her beloved resisted. True, she’d had a brief tryst with the Belgrath, but the bard had since moved on to his next gig – leaving only a note of love behind that did little to quell the princess’s feelings of being jilted.
And now with Gawain’s disappearance, things had just gone from bad to worse again – Hecla now feared her abuser would be the next man in her bed – regardless of what she wanted. And yet he is not Hacktor. Never was. Never will be.
Hecla prayed that she was wrong. She prayed that it would be Hacktor who came tonight and not the one who she loathed. Yet she had little faith that her prayers would be answered. Why should the gods suddenly start listening now? They’ve never answered my prayers before.
Although she didn’t mention it to Jakki earlier, Hecla was no stranger to prayer — nor to the gods, all of them. As a young girl, raised in the Drokka religion, she’d dutifully prayed to Mother Kalypzo and Father Rhokki. Although they didn’t necessarily seem to listen all that much, since her childhood had been good, Hecla wasn’t troubled about it back then. But even before she’d had the chance to flower, just when the world seemed to be so promising, then it was that her beloved twin Hacktor was torn away from her by Mirkir. Yet even worse than that loss was the abuse that followed.
Suddenly alone and afraid, surrounded by uncaring half-brothers and sisters who envied her hereditary position, Hecla began to pray with all her might that her miseries might end. When Kalypzo and Rhokki wouldn’t listen, she dared pray to the great creator He Who Has No Name — yet He apparently didn’t have any ears either because He never answered Hecla’s pleas.
After that, the princess tried a handful of other supposedly good-natured gods she’d occasionally heard foreigners talk about, including Mannah, Mezmeriza, and more – but again it was to no avail.
As her loneliness grew, Hecla pleaded to Father Kane – the patriarch of their people who supposedly abandoned their forefathers in order to choose a life of loneliness himself. Surely of all the gods Father Kane would commiserate with me, she thought at the time. She even contemplated killing herself in order to redeem Father Kane from his everlasting sin — if only he would give her a sign.
Yet the wind was her only reply.
Eventually the abuse grew worse, and in her desperation Hecla began offering prayers to the gods of evil — since it was surely they who took pleasure in her troubles. She asked the goddess of lust Hekubuz to stop her tormentor from visiting her in the night. She prayed to dread Zar to have the man killed in battle — should one ever occur. She even asked Shedu Mazai, the god of death, to come take him away. Still nothing worked.
[By the way, I did hear Hecla’s prayers – but like all my friends, I chose not to listen – for it served my purposes to have Hecla suffer at the time].
In the end, Hecla went so far as to offer to sell her soul to the Dark Lord Baal — willing to accept an eternity of torment with him and his daemons — if only he would kill her tormentor.
And still – nothing.
[Here again, I heard Hecla – after all the Baal she prayed to was my alter ego. Alas for poor Hecla, I chose silence over action. Sometimes pawns must suffer…and die…to serve their masters].
Abandoned by all, Hecla’s torment continued.
Three things resulted from all this — Hecla’s heart became cold and calculating, she lost compassion for others, and she hated her abuser more than anything in the world.
And this time, Hecla was not the same frightened child. Despite the fear that gnawed at her, she clung to a small dagger hidden beneath her covers.
Its cold metal was a lifeline, a tangible reminder of her strength and determination. She gripped it tightly, feeling the edges press into her skin, grounding her in the present. Her mind oscillated between the paralyzing memories and the fiery resolve that had grown within her over the years.
[And that’s when I knew she was ready to change the world. What’s that? You don’t think Hecla was in a position of power to make a difference? Oh yea of little vision. Don’t you know the truth yet? Haven’t you guessed who Hecla’s abuse was yet? It’s not hard. You merely have to look at the princess’s face to know the truth. Who did Hecla fear so much? Why her father Baldur of course. Like so many ‘great and powerful’ men throughout history, the mighty Drokka king had been abusing his daughter for years. Baldur was the reason why so many of Hecla’s nights were cold and full of terror. And soon Baldur would pay for his crimes!]
As she lay in the darkness, Hecla’s lips moved in a whispered prayer. “Mother Kalypzo, Father Rhokki, if you ever listened, hear me now,” she murmured, the words a desperate plea. But even as she spoke, bitter doubt ravaged her. “Why would they listen now? They never answered before.” Her whispers turned bitter, almost a curse. “May Hekubuz take his soul,” she muttered, her voice trembling with rage. Her thoughts were a chaotic swirl of hope and hatred, prayers for deliverance mingling with vows of revenge. “Please, Hacktor, come back to me,” she thought, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Why did you leave me? Why am I always alone?”
The conflict within her was relentless. She longed for her brother’s protection, the safety she once felt by his side. But the reality of her isolation cut deep. “I can’t rely on anyone,” she reminded herself, her thoughts fragmented and repetitive, mirroring her spiraling anxiety. “I have to do this on my own. No one else will save me.” Her mind flashed back to happier times, fleeting moments of joy before the darkness descended. “Hacktor would know what to do,” she thought, clinging to the memory of her twin. “But he’s not here. It’s just me.”
Knowing she was alone, Hecla resolved to fight back, to reclaim her power. The dagger she held was now more than just a weapon; it was a symbol of her will to survive, to end the torment once and for all. Her fear might still be there, but it no longer defined her. She was ready to confront the darkness that had overshadowed her life. She was ready to do anything to make it stop — anything — even to include killing a king!
Committed to taking action, to ending her tortures before they had a chance to begin again, Hecla wrapped herself in her covers and clung with her to dagger, even as her mind clung to a single thought, “My father is coming for me tonight, but this time it will be different!”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 