Dinner was art. As it should be. I don't waste my divine time on mediocrity. Plates fit for gods, wine that dripped like velvet down the throat, flavors mortal chefs would sell their souls to even imagine. I sat across from her, lazy smirk firmly in place, savoring both the meal and the company.
"This," I declared, gesturing at the dish as though I'd painted it myself, "is my favorite."
She gave me that eyebrow, half challenge, half boredom. I adored it. So I launched into one of my grand reminiscences. The eighties. Neon, hair like small empires perched on heads, music that shook bones. Excess upon excess. And oh, how I had thrived.
I expected her to roll her eyes. Maybe sigh. What I didn't expect was: "Yeah, I remember the eighties," she said, calm as anything, slicing into her dinner.
I laughed, waving it off. "Annie, you're twenty-two at best. Maybe twenty-three if you're lying about your birthday."
She didn't even blink. "I was born in 1969."
I snorted. "Cute. Be serious." She was serious. The grin slid off my face as I did the math. 1969. 2024. Fifty-five.
"FIFTY-FIVE?!" She shrugged. SHRUGGED. Casual as if she'd just confessed to liking strawberry jam over raspberry.
"Annie? What?" Another shrug. Chaos preserve me. "Annie?! HOW are you that old?"
Her eyes met mine. Steady. Ancient. And suddenly, I saw it, the wisdom I'd mistaken for coldness. The sharp, knowing stillness of someone who had lived far longer than her face suggested.
"I was blessed with magic to stop my aging process," she said simply.
That was it? That was the explanation? A single sentence to unravel my entire perception of her? "That's all you're giving me?" I demanded.
She sipped her water. Cool. Detached. Infuriating. I drummed my fingers on the table. "Annie, beautiful Annie. How did they do it? What magic?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "All I know is that they used pain. And it worked."
I shut my mouth. My tongue was a weapon, but for once it faltered. I looked at her. Really looked at her. That forever-young face, that perfect mortal-not-mortal beauty. Not artifice, no illusion I could see. Just her. Enhanced, perhaps, sharpened into something flawless, but still her. My gaze caught her hands. The runes. I'd seen them before, in passing. Thought them pretty, strange. But now? Now they burned in my vision. Not ink. Not delicate jewelry. Not art. Scars.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached out. Stopped just short. Met her eyes. "May I?"
A sigh. Hesitation. Then, she nodded. I took her hands in mine, and the god of chaos, the one who'd unraveled empires, shattered armies, rewritten reality with a flick. I held her like she might break. Scars. Raised, uneven, carved with the brutality of intent. Some faint, like whispers. Others deep, jagged, carved into the bone of her. My thumb brushed over one, and the texture crawled up into my chest like a curse.
"When did they start this?" I asked, voice lower than I meant, thunder barely caged.
She inhaled. "I was eight."
I froze. Every bone in me locked.
"The magic only works if the pain is present," she continued. Her voice steady, but her eyes… her eyes weren't. They carried memory. Endurance. A child's horror buried under an adult's stillness. "So no numbing. No reprieve. Just pain." My grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Just enough that I had to force myself to let go.
"The first rune was my forearm," she said. "I passed out halfway. They stopped. When I woke, they continued." I stared at her. "It felt like days," she whispered. "Chanting. Cutting. Over and over."
I burned. Every piece of me burned with something I hadn't felt in centuries. Not chaos. Not rage. Something darker. Something sharper. I had no name for it. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I, the god of mischief, the unshakable jester, the immortal who always had a quip... Did not know what to say.
She rolled her sleeve higher. More scars. Carved deep, winding like jagged vines across her arm. My fingers ghosted over them, tracing lines I knew weren't meant for beauty, but for pain.
"Can I see more?" I don't know why I asked. I didn't want to see. I needed to.
She nodded. Calm. Too calm. Without hesitation, she pulled her shirt over her head. My brain broke. Gods above. Boobs. Oh. Oh no. Focus. Focus! Do NOT be that god. I made a sound, choked, undignified, the strangled cry of a man sucker-punched by existence itself. She didn't even blink. Just stood there, unbothered, as if being half-undressed in front of me was no different than setting down her fork.
Meanwhile, I was malfunctioning. Eyes bulging. Mind screaming. Trying desperately not to fixate on the swell of... STOP IT. Focus. FOCUS. And then, I saw them. Not the perfect curves. The runes. Everywhere. Her arms, her ribs, curling across her stomach. Elegant in places, jagged in others. Each one cut into her, scars raised and uneven, but precise in their brutality. The band of her bra barely hid more underneath. I exhaled sharply, chest tight. This was not what I had expected. This was worse.
"What are they?" My voice barely held shape.
She met my eyes. Calm. Calculating. Then nodded. "You can touch them."
My breath caught, and for once, it wasn't lust. It was… reverence. My hand rose, fingertips brushing her ribs. Tiny swirls of chaos, delicate and curling across bone. My bone. Why did they remind me of me? My palm flattened over her skin. Soft flesh. Hard scars. Pain carved into art.
"They're beautiful in their own way," I whispered before I could stop myself.
She stilled. My thumb traced one swirl, memorizing it. "When did they carve these?"
Her hesitation was brief. "In my twenties. The ribs."
I clenched my jaw. Decades. They did this for decades. Still, I didn't let go. Couldn't. "I want to see them all." The words slipped out before I knew I'd said them.
Her eyes searched mine. Whatever she saw, it was enough. She slid her pants down and stepped out, standing before me in bra and panties. No nerves. No shame. No modesty. Just… indifferent. Why? Why was she so unshaken by her own nakedness? I looked. Not with hunger. With awe. Her body was a map of survival. Some runes beautiful. Others jagged, merciless, carved into thighs, stomach, back. Not art. Branding. Ownership. My jaw tightened.
"Annie," I rasped, "what are you? What were you?"
She didn't blink. "I was a shrine worker."
A shrine worker. The word tasted wrong.
I leaned forward. "What kind?" There were a few options I had debated in my head that could fit her.
She knew what I meant. She looked at me, calm, unflinching. "Do you really want the answer?"
For once, I hesitated. Then, I nodded. "Yes."
Her inhale was slow. Controlled. "The temple called us shrine workers," she said evenly, "but our role was… more intimate." My fingers twitched against her skin. "We were trained to serve the divine. To bring pleasure, to offer comfort, to fulfill any desire asked of us."
The words were plain. Clinical. Not shameful. Not bitter. Just… truth. My body went still. They used her. The priests. Religion. My own priests. My own damn priests had added to her pain. To her scars. I would be dealing with this. This was not done in my name or with my divine permission. Someone would pay in blood just as she did.
"For many, we were sacred. Living offerings. Blessed." A pause. Her eyes didn't move from mine. "For others, we were just bodies."
CRACK.
The sharp sound tore through the air. It took me a second to realize it was me. My fist. Slammed into the table hard enough to splinter wood. She noticed. She always noticed. But she didn't react. She just watched. For the second time that night, I had nothing clever to say. Nothing dramatic. No joke, no smirk, no mask. The table cracked and something in me cracked with it.