Last week’s short story makes use of relatively obscure titles. Enjoy (hopefully). Any feedback or comments are welcomed and highly appreciated.
Short Story - Virgo
The ripe grapes were heavy on the vine, and the scent of fruits filled the air. A young man sat on the grassy hill, reveling in the harvest. He was slim and pale, with a light voice and an even lighter heart. He laughed a little, raising his eyes from the riches of the valley, the riches of his father.
His heart skipped a beat at the smile of his companion: a man with burgundy curls tumbling over his bronze skin, and a strange, intoxicating drink. He had given his name as Agrios, and within a few hours had woven his way into the good graces of the farmer’s son.
“I thought old Icarius had a daughter,” Agrios said, pouring another cup. His cheeks matched the red liquid. “With a name like Erigone…”
“You have some old news. No one’s called me my father’s daughter since I was half your height.” Erigone took a sip of the liquid, and his head whirled. “Wow.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never tasted wine before?” A trace of amusement there, and why did it sound closer?
“I’ve never even heard of it.” His hands twisted the grass, all warm and prickly beneath him. The grass was beneath him, had to be. “Gods above…”
His companion chuckled. “Oh, they’re not only above.”
Warm fingers plucked out the goblet from his hands. He stifled an exclamation as heat curled around his wrist. Gods, gods, gods. God? God. He couldn’t think straight.
“We should get you to your father.”
“Father…won’t like…see me…like this.”
“He won’t.”
Something warm, propping him up. Hair tickling his nose, the aftertaste of the wine. Step after step after step. One foot in front of the other. Another step. Step. Step. A stumble. Get back up.
Up. The fog cleared from his head. His eyes opened. Agrios held him up, guiding him to a chair. His cheeks burned as he realized where he was.
“Father…” He coughed. The wine still tingled in his mouth. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t here to greet you—”
His father shushed him, softly. The house looked less rich, less of everything. Agrios seemed to be glowing. Perhaps he was still under the influence.
“I hope you wouldn’t mind my giving a present to your father and his men?” Agrios whispered.
“What sort of present?” All his words seemed to dry in his mouth. No eloquence, just blunt, direct blows. A tinge of jealousy too. “What did you give?”
“Wine.”
This week’s story contains rather graphically described blood and gore. If you’d rather not read that, please do not read the following story.
Short Story - Aries
It was over. The twins were rescued–well, one of them was. Who falls off a getaway vehicle in the middle of a rescue attempt? That girl, apparently. And of course she had to fall into the sea where no one and nothing could save her.
He smothered the thought before it could consume him. The job was done. Done, done, done. The prince had been delivered to the castle, in one piece. It was over.
So why was he so uneasy?
They gave him a berth in a royally-appointed sheep pen. They gave him food, enough to stuff him and feed his family. They gave him a bed, as soft as his own wool.
He glared at the other sheep from his bed. They stared at his golden wool. A few ewes and some rams approached him, asking in low sultry bleats if he was interested in a bit of fun. He avoided them as he avoided butchers, or the plague.
That alone counted for a great deal of his nerves. It didn’t count for all of it, though. The food was good, the place was great. He had tolerated more-than-friendly stares before. He had managed to avoid any unwanted attention for all of his life.
So why did they all stare so much?! The servants stroked his wool relentlessly, and some nearly tore his skin off by pinching. The prince kept staring at him inquiringly. The palace people crowded to look at him. He wasn’t used to this, dammit.
They kept on feeding him until he thought he would burst. They washed and brushed his wool until he gleamed in the night. They shined his horns. They even tended to his hooves. They scrubbed his entire being into spotlessness, although they left his soul alone. It could have used a bit of soap.
The next day, he found himself inside a temple, the prince standing over him. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, he wondered why he wasn’t dressed in ceremonial clothes. He hadn’t even removed the knife from his belt.
And the prince took a step towards him. He raised his knife.
No.
The first cut of the knife. He barely felt it, but blood gushed out of the wound. His voice reverberated off the walls.
I saved you.
The knife continued to cut. Flesh separated from flesh, bone from bone.
I rescued you, you ungrateful–
Cut. Cut. Cut.
–I snatched you from the jaws of death, I did what no one else dared to do–
Blood dripped down the sides of the altar.
STOP STOP STOP
There was no skin. No skin, no flesh. Blood, bone, and fat lay in a pitiful heap on the altar, the butchered corpse of a ram. The prince held up the golden fleece, turning his back on the remains.
