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Pain was the way of things.
Not for them, of course. Not a one of them had even suffered the indignity of a flu shot, or the affront of a errant splinter from improperly varnished oak.
No, pain was the way of things...for other people. They never suffered it. They wielded it, as they wielded the Talons who enforced their rule.
The mask was tight, and it itched. But she kept it on. Her Mother had allowed her to come to this gathering only on her sworn promise that she would not remove her mask.
She’d agreed, a beatific smile on her angel’s face, as her handmaidens had carefully slipped her into her finest coral chiffon dress, her white silken stockings, her belted black shoes, polished to a high sheen. The maidens took extra care to gently maneuver her into the outfit; a stray fingernail catching her porcelain skin, a shoe buckled too tightly, and the Talon would feed upon their entrails before they left the mansion.
Her beloved Father had taken her hand in his own gloved fingers, and led her down, down the wide marble stairs that led to the labyrinth beneath their palatial estate. So many wonders took place beneath their feet--the Talons were resurrected there, and great men of power were brought to heel. But the best thing, she had been told, was the torture of the Waynes.
What luck, they all chuckled, that she got to enjoy that tonight.
So many of the Court had already gathered, perching above the maze, peering, jeering, judging the Wayne below them. She pouted beneath the mask, angry. They were so big! She wouldnt be able to get a good seat!
The Court was already screaming, shouting. The Wayne had already been broken. It was bleeding, screaming; the Talon had stabbed it, run it through with his sharpest, sweetest blades. Their faithful servant bellowing, requesting orders, direction. It sought permission. How sweet.
The Court, her parents friends--no, peers, my peers; she had the mask now, she was one of them--shouted their propositions down. It was a chorus of miseries, each more indelicate than the last.
Then her own parents, her loving, tender Mother and Father, forced their way to the front of the crowd. They raised their voices, drawing the others’ attention, petitioning that the youngest among them--her, their own daughter--be allowed to make the choice.
Her heart swelled with love for them. Their devotion to her was unparallelled. She almost couldn’t believe when the Court chanted yes, let her speak. Let her be the one to choose.
On disconcerted feet, she stepped forward, looked down. The Wayne hung from their beloved follower’s arms, his bloodshot eyes wet with fear and begging pity.
She gazed upon the crippled, beaten thing, the sack of meat and broken bones, and took a breath.
Pain was the way of things.
“Hurt him...more,” she said, her voice ringing out like a clear bell.
She smiled. She’d learned her lessons well.