So I was working on Brothers again today, and ran into a problem; how, exactly, does one ride a freakin' winged horse? By which I mean, where does one sit? Well that rather comes down to the anatomy of the beastie, doesn't it? Which brings us to- how, exactly, is Pegs put together? Which brings us to (drumroll, please)...
Research time! Woo!
Not research on winged horses, per se (because of course all I've go to go on are other people's potentially illogical imaginations) but rather on horse anatomy, swan anatomy, and how I, personally, shall the interface the twain. Which (in my case) means not just looking things up on the interwebs, but also literally drawing them out. Me being the visual person that I am, I need to see it to really understand it- and drawing helps me do that. I am definitely grateful for my ability to put pen to paper and churn out what I need (although truth be told I probably could have just written the scene and never even mentioned it- but it was bugging me). It also gave me some insight that may never actually show up in the written version of this, but I'll share it (and some other tidbits) with you here just because...
Species-wise, Pegs is kind of a cross between a 'gray' Arabian-esque stallion (but with a larger, more powerful chest, for obvious reasons) and a mute swan (yes, that is an actual breed, not just a description of his inability to vocalize). He is larger than your typical Arabian, and his skeletal system is more like a bird's (complete with air-filled bones and a keel). The wing structure is tweaked just a smidge in that I gave him a cross between the swan's wings and a bat's. Yes, bat. Pegs is a mammal- it makes sense for his wings to have mammalian traits. He has a sort of short skin-sail underneath all those feathers, which is part of what made it a little awkward to place Chrys on his back. But we're working it out...
(I feel like I need to add one last point- Pegs also has divine/monstrous blood flowing through his veins, which gives him that extra little oompf which allows him to fly in spite of it not technically being possible. It also explains the ability to sort of delicately hover without any more effort than a wing flutter- not something you'll see any mortal avian do...)
So anyway, that's what a lot of today's "writing time" went toward. Hopefully me explaining this sort of thing is entertaining rather than annoying. <=)
Showing posts with label Brothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brothers. Show all posts
3.13.2010
3.12.2010
Brothers, Pt XV
The winged horse had eyes like pools of rich black dye, and right now they were boring into Beautiful Killer’s with an uncomfortable intensity. He felt as though something important was being decided, and it left him afraid to breathe, lest he inadvertently bring about disastrous consequences. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the creature stood, walked over to him, and nuzzled his hair.
Beautiful Killer choked and almost fell over in shock, but instead raised trembling hands to stroke its snowy neck. For some inexplicable reason he found himself crying, and he buried his face in the creature’s mane, inhaling its scent- an odd mixture of feathers, sunshine, some sharp, exotic herb, and- mysteriously enough- ocean spray. The winged horse blew softly against his ear, sounding for all the world like a sea-side lullaby, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the young man felt at peace.
“His name is Pegs,” said a low, feminine voice behind him. Beautiful Killer froze, hands and face still hidden in the creature’s mane. “He would tell you himself, but he’s mute- which of course you’ve already discerned. Don’t be afraid, Chrys. None of us will harm you.”
Beautiful Killer turned slowly, and it comforted him to feel the creature- to feel Pegs, he corrected- moving to press its weight against his back. Standing there was an achingly lovely woman- he assumed she must be a muse- with dark hair and a wise smile.
“How- how do you know my real name?” he asked, surreptitiously tugging down on the hem of his tunic from where it had hiked indecently up his thigh.
“I am Nemie, one of Pegs’s foster mothers. We are in the business of knowing things.”
“And you can leave off that fidgeting!” cried another voice, its owner invisible. “We promise not to molest any portion of your pretty golden flesh!” This was followed up by a flurry of many feminine giggles, and Chrys almost thought he heard one sultry voice mutter, “I don’t promise anything…” but it may have been the wind.
“Sisters- that is enough,” Nemie said, and the giggling silenced. Chrys, trying to ignore his burning face, stood up and faced her with as much dignity as he could muster.
“Pegs, you say?” he asked, and turned toward the winged horse. It- no, he- tossed his head in agreement. “Pegs, then. Very nice to meet you. Your foster-mother is right: my true name is Chrys, but no one has called me that in years.” Pegs nodded his head again. “And- am I understanding this right? Are you willing to let me ride you, to face Kymera?” Pegs hesitated this time, but finally nodded again.
“First you must master being the passenger of a winged horse, before you can even begin to think of facing anyone down,” Nemie said. Chrys turned back to her.
“Can you help me?” She laughed at this, a full, rich sound that made him somehow less nervous- not his typical response to a woman’s mirth.
“My stars, child, no! As far as we know, no one has ever ridden Pegs, and he is the first and only of his kind. If he allows you upon his back, you must learn from him or no one. We will allow you to stay here for the time being, and we will provision you when you go, but the teaching must be from Pegs alone.”
“I guess… I’ll need that bridle after all,” he said, looking around for it.
“I think not,” her voice was light, but Chrys thought he detected an underlying note of tension. “Bridles are for dumb beasts who cannot understand what you ask of them. Pegs is not a dumb beast, and has no need of a harness of any kind.”
Chrys felt his face flush again. “Of course you’re right. I’m sorry, Pegs, I wasn’t thinking.” Pegs lipped softly at his shoulder, and he knew he was forgiven.
“Now,” said Nemie, “Let us have a meal before things progress any further, shall we? It’s been an emotional day for everyone, and my sisters are dying to meet you.”
“Er,” said Chrys, not entirely certain he’d even be able to eat with so many semi-divine women inspecting him. Pegs leaned against his arm and caught his eye with an expression of amusement, but gave no indication of arguing with his foster mother. No help to be had there. “Alright,” he sighed, and resigned himself to a miserable afternoon of feminine companionship.
3.11.2010
Brothers, Pt XIV
If you had asked him, Beautiful Killer never would have thought that an equine face could be capable of conveying human emotions. Now, however, he realized that they absolutely were- or, at least, this one was. The winged horse was staring at him in what could only be described as shocked recognition, and it was totally destroying any half-formed plan Beautiful Killer might have had regarding what to do with the golden bridal. Instead he let the divine gift slip from his fingers to the ground, where it coiled in and around itself like a sulking snake, forgotten in the dirt. He watched, confused and fascinated, as the expression of shock shifted to a strange war of longing and disgust. The creature was trembling, not as though it was afraid, but as though it was waiting to spring into action and hadn’t yet decided which direction to take.
“He- hello,” Beautiful Killer said. The winged horse flinched at the sound of his voice, but still made no movement one way or the other. Beautiful Killer held his hands out in front of him, to show he had no weapon, and the creature flared its nostrils in response.
“I was told to seek you out- that you are the only one who could help me. Will you…” he paused, suddenly unsure of how, exactly, he to explain himself. He was fairly certain this was not what the goddess had intended when she sent him to this mountain, this talking business. But she wasn’t here now, and Beautiful Killer was, and he knew in his gut that not even a gods-crafted device could compel this creature to do anything it didn’t want to. His only hope lay in his limited powers of persuasion, and so he drew himself up and continued.
“Will you listen to what I have to say, and maybe consider helping?”
***
Pegs blinked in confusion. This reunion was so outside the realm of what he had ever even remotely considered that his brain was doing a bit of a rebellion, turning his thoughts and emotions slippery and difficult to grasp. Here was his brother- long loved and long missed, ached for even now- but his brother was a hero, a thing to be despised, tormented, and perhaps even killed. But he wasn’t acting like a hero, swinging a weapon about and forcing his will upon others- he wanted to talk. To talk. Pegs might have laughed if he hadn’t wanted so desperately to cry, for here was the worst thing of all: he knew Chrys with a deep surety that rose up from his bones- but Chrys very obviously did not know him… and Pegs was incapable of forming the words to explain.
It’s just as Benthie warned, he thought. I have remembered for both of us, but how can I share my memories?
So he did the only thing he could do. He forced himself to relax, and took on an Air of Listening.
***
Beautiful Killer could tell the moment the winged horse made up its mind. Its body ceased its fine quivering, and it cocked its head at him in a manner that indicated it was, indeed, willing to listen to whatever Beautiful Killer had to say. He let out a sigh of relief and smiled at the creature, and then lowered himself to the ground. After a moment the winged horse did the same, folding its gleaming wings about itself, much like a swan gliding through the water might.
“Can you speak?” he began. The animal shook its head, and Beautiful Killer thought it looked irritated. “I’m sorry- I just didn’t want to assume that you couldn’t, just because you hadn’t. I met a creature that might be cousin to you earlier in my journey, and he spoke his opinions loudly and at length, so I thought maybe… well, never mind.
“They call me Beautiful Killer.”
***
Pegs let out an indelicate snort at hearing his brother’s epithet. ‘Beautiful Killer’ gave him a rueful grin and continued, “I know. That’s about how I feel about the title, myself. But that’s what they call me, and I’ve been informed that that’s what I am, so I may as well get used to it.” This gave Pegs a momentary twist to his stomach. He, too, might be described as Beautiful Killer, if those doing the naming knew of his exploits. He resolved to reserve judgment until his brother finished his tale.
The story that unfolded was a tangle of accidents and misunderstandings, and by the end of it the only thing Pegs knew for certain was that in order for his brother to be able to go home and not be executed on the way, Chrys (or, rather, Beautiful Killer) must kill the monster Kymera.
Pegs did not like the sound of that, not one bit. He had no intention whatsoever of helping anyone, not even his long-lost twin, kill an innocent monster. Even so... his heart didn’t want to believe that Chrys would really do such a thing. In fact, his heart ached with every fiber of its being for Pegs to move closer, perhaps even to lay his head in his brother’s lap.
And then what?
Pegs stared into Chrys’s burnished-gold eyes, and memories welled up. He remembered their mother’s blood, their aunts’ tears- he remembered dancing in the sand as the little boy laughed, the sense of belonging, of rightness that had been taken from him by the agony of separation. He remembered years and years of a lonely emptiness that none of his foster-mothers, no matter how loving or kind, could ever fill. No, he did not know what would happen if he were to go to his brother, make his allegiance clear- but he knew what would happen if he did not.
Chrys would leave. And he could not bear that a second time.
3.03.2010
Brothers, Pt XIII
Some subtle shift in the flavor of the wind roused Pegs from his slumber. He flared his nostrils, trying to place it. It was a complex scent- one that both attracted and repulsed him. The repulsion was easy to place- a combination of sweat, leather, and metal that so often accompanied heroes- but the attraction… He inhaled again. Familiar… so familiar… and comforting... and yet…
Pegs shook rose slowly and shook out his wings. The easiest way to resolve his curiosity was simply to leave his cave and see what- or who- had wandered into his foster-mothers’ domain. But first- he was thirsty.
***
Beautiful Killer had reached the edge of an improbably beautiful little meadow. He felt certain it must be sacred to the muses, for what other right did such a lush, inviting place have to be on the side of a mountain? Looking around uneasily (he could not help but remember that muses, as a general rule, were female) he finally settled himself in between two rocks to eat a few mouthfuls of dried fruit and plan his next move. Sooner or later he would come across the winged horse, and when he did- then what? Fling the golden bridle at it and hope?
Stupid deities, he scowled to himself. Just because they have access to hidden knowledge, they forget that we mere mortals don’t.
He was just starting to wonder if it might not be best to try and find the thing asleep when a rushing sound grabbed his attention. He glanced upward, wondering if Grif had (for some unknown monster-y reason) decided to follow him. What he saw took his breath away.
The creature was larger than Grif had been, but far more slender of limb. Also, it was a shining white to the cat-bird’s tawny gold and brown. Beautiful Killer sucked in a breath and almost choked on a date.
That’s him, he thought, trying (in vain) to cough without noise. And it was. The winged horse banked, circled, and finally came to rest at the edge of a particularly large spring, on the opposite side of the meadow from Beautiful Killer. As he watched, it dipped its head to the flowing water and began to drink.
***
Pegs heard the man approaching. How could he not, with such sensitive ears? But he continued to drink, weighing his options. It was the first time he’d encountered a hero since the day he had killed one, and he was no longer so certain in his response to them. So instead he waited to see what the hero would do, knowing he would temper his actions accordingly. It was probably too much to hope that someone with the determination to track him to his mountain home was anything other than a violent threat, but still…
When he judged the man to be a good three meters away, Peg brought his head up and around to stare him down. What he saw took his breath away.
Long of limb, fair of form, hair and skin shining gold in the sunlight- all these things registered in the back of Peg’s brain. But what truly captured him, what made it impossible for him to move, were the eyes.
His brother’s eyes.
Staring at him, wide with some unnamed emotion, from the face of a filthy hero.
2.22.2010
Brothers, Pt XII
Now this is more like it, he thought with a grim sort of satisfaction.
Beautiful Killer had been walking for the better part of a month, and he was currently soaked to the skin (and possibly even further than that) by rains that had been beating against him for the past seventy-two hours. Finally he felt as though he might actually be earning something for himself. Every day brought the muses’ mountain that much closer to him, and every night he went to sleep feeling more and more deserving of any epic poetry that might spring up about his current exploits.
He had no further dreams of the goddess, for which he was profoundly grateful. What he did have, however, were increasingly unbelievable stories from the local mortals; specifically, stories about a certain Winged Horse. It seemed that the closer he got to his destination, the more people had to say about the creature’s unearthly beauty, its divine grace- and its sheer mean-spirited devilry. It made him exceptionally grateful for the purported powers of the golden bridle neatly coiled in his pack- even if he didn’t entirely trust the source of said powers.
According to the locals, the monster hadn’t been seen for a while- years, probably- which as far as they were concerned only meant that it was about due to make some mischief. They warned him about its strange animosity towards heroes, and recommended he try to look less heroic. Since Beautiful Killer wasn’t entirely certain what made him look “heroic” in the first place (although he suspected it was the golden cast of his features), he didn’t even try. Besides, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t encounter the winged horse until and unless he got himself up the side of that mountain- otherwise surely the goddess would have just had him sit in a field, yelling about his own so-called heroics until the creature showed up of its own volition.
And so he continued, making the occasional stop to rescue imperiled people or rout bands of thieves (sometimes at the same time, which was particularly satisfying), and doing his best to cover as much ground as possible every day. Even when said ground had turned to mud up to his ankles, as was the current condition. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have wandered into a small stream- there seemed to be an unusual amount of them flowing from the muses’ mountain- and he was just starting to wonder if he might have better footing about a meter to the left, when he heard a terrible screech.
Beautiful Killer didn’t even think- he had his short sword drawn and had dropped into a defensive crouch before he’d even identified the source of the noise. It came again- a trifle less loud, this time- and he whirled to face it.
There, caught in some sort of hunter’s snare- a creature. It was winged, whatever it was, and beating those wings for all it was worth, making outraged shrieks, snarls, and a serpent-like hissing noise. Beautiful Killer let his sword drop a fraction, and moved closer to get a better view.
The beast had a body something like that of a cat- but with a sort of goofy gangly-ness that indicated juvenile status. The rain had spike its fur up in every direction by rain, with the effect of making it appear more ridiculous than fierce, but the razor-sharp beak suggested to Beautiful Killer that he’d best not take it lightly.
“There now,” he said to it in the same sort of voice he used on excited horses. “Calm down and let’s see if we can’t get you out.”
The animal puffed itself up and growled at him, long tail lashing. Beautiful Killer figured it would probably have taken a swipe at him, as well, if it hadn’t managed to twist its limbs up so thoroughly.
“Oh come now. I know you’re angry- I would be, too- but you, sir, are obviously in need of some assistance. And from what I can tell, the locals don’t take that kindly to monsters around here, so I’m probably your best bet for escape.”
“Monster!” spat the creature. “I’ll give you monster! Just you come a step closer!”
“Oh! You can speak. Excellent.” Beautiful Killer sheathed his sword. “I will come a step closer, but I’d appreciate you not savaging me. I can’t get you loose if you take off my hand.”
“Why should you set me loose?” it asked. “Your kind is always trying to capture my kind. Or worse. My dad told me all about you.” It growled a bit for emphasis.
“Your dad may have told you about mortals in general, but I doubt he told you anything about me. As for why I should set you loose- well why shouldn’t I? I think it’s rude to eat things that you’ve carried on a conversation with, and I don’t, as a general rule, go around killing for killing’s sake. That’s wasteful. In fact, now that people are calling me “hero” I’m pretty certain it’s my duty to rescue others whenever possible. No one ever said those others need to have the same sort of limbs that I do.” Beautiful Killer had been slowly moving towards the creature as he spoke, and now he was close enough to touch the rope that had snared it. The creature trembled but did not lash out at him.
“You are an odd mortal,” it said at last. “I will allow you to free me.” Beautiful Killer smiled and slipped a small knife from his belt.
“Thank you,” he said, and began sawing.
Beautiful Killer had been walking for the better part of a month, and he was currently soaked to the skin (and possibly even further than that) by rains that had been beating against him for the past seventy-two hours. Finally he felt as though he might actually be earning something for himself. Every day brought the muses’ mountain that much closer to him, and every night he went to sleep feeling more and more deserving of any epic poetry that might spring up about his current exploits.
He had no further dreams of the goddess, for which he was profoundly grateful. What he did have, however, were increasingly unbelievable stories from the local mortals; specifically, stories about a certain Winged Horse. It seemed that the closer he got to his destination, the more people had to say about the creature’s unearthly beauty, its divine grace- and its sheer mean-spirited devilry. It made him exceptionally grateful for the purported powers of the golden bridle neatly coiled in his pack- even if he didn’t entirely trust the source of said powers.
According to the locals, the monster hadn’t been seen for a while- years, probably- which as far as they were concerned only meant that it was about due to make some mischief. They warned him about its strange animosity towards heroes, and recommended he try to look less heroic. Since Beautiful Killer wasn’t entirely certain what made him look “heroic” in the first place (although he suspected it was the golden cast of his features), he didn’t even try. Besides, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t encounter the winged horse until and unless he got himself up the side of that mountain- otherwise surely the goddess would have just had him sit in a field, yelling about his own so-called heroics until the creature showed up of its own volition.
And so he continued, making the occasional stop to rescue imperiled people or rout bands of thieves (sometimes at the same time, which was particularly satisfying), and doing his best to cover as much ground as possible every day. Even when said ground had turned to mud up to his ankles, as was the current condition. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have wandered into a small stream- there seemed to be an unusual amount of them flowing from the muses’ mountain- and he was just starting to wonder if he might have better footing about a meter to the left, when he heard a terrible screech.
Beautiful Killer didn’t even think- he had his short sword drawn and had dropped into a defensive crouch before he’d even identified the source of the noise. It came again- a trifle less loud, this time- and he whirled to face it.
There, caught in some sort of hunter’s snare- a creature. It was winged, whatever it was, and beating those wings for all it was worth, making outraged shrieks, snarls, and a serpent-like hissing noise. Beautiful Killer let his sword drop a fraction, and moved closer to get a better view.
The beast had a body something like that of a cat- but with a sort of goofy gangly-ness that indicated juvenile status. The rain had spike its fur up in every direction by rain, with the effect of making it appear more ridiculous than fierce, but the razor-sharp beak suggested to Beautiful Killer that he’d best not take it lightly.
“There now,” he said to it in the same sort of voice he used on excited horses. “Calm down and let’s see if we can’t get you out.”
The animal puffed itself up and growled at him, long tail lashing. Beautiful Killer figured it would probably have taken a swipe at him, as well, if it hadn’t managed to twist its limbs up so thoroughly.
“Oh come now. I know you’re angry- I would be, too- but you, sir, are obviously in need of some assistance. And from what I can tell, the locals don’t take that kindly to monsters around here, so I’m probably your best bet for escape.”
“Monster!” spat the creature. “I’ll give you monster! Just you come a step closer!”
“Oh! You can speak. Excellent.” Beautiful Killer sheathed his sword. “I will come a step closer, but I’d appreciate you not savaging me. I can’t get you loose if you take off my hand.”
“Why should you set me loose?” it asked. “Your kind is always trying to capture my kind. Or worse. My dad told me all about you.” It growled a bit for emphasis.
“Your dad may have told you about mortals in general, but I doubt he told you anything about me. As for why I should set you loose- well why shouldn’t I? I think it’s rude to eat things that you’ve carried on a conversation with, and I don’t, as a general rule, go around killing for killing’s sake. That’s wasteful. In fact, now that people are calling me “hero” I’m pretty certain it’s my duty to rescue others whenever possible. No one ever said those others need to have the same sort of limbs that I do.” Beautiful Killer had been slowly moving towards the creature as he spoke, and now he was close enough to touch the rope that had snared it. The creature trembled but did not lash out at him.
“You are an odd mortal,” it said at last. “I will allow you to free me.” Beautiful Killer smiled and slipped a small knife from his belt.
“Thank you,” he said, and began sawing.
2.21.2010
Brothers, Pt XI
(Author's note- I am beginning to feel vaguely crap-like again, so this is not as tightly edited as it might be- or will be, later. In the meantime, I beg your indulgence...)
Beautiful Killer, once out of the oracle’s cave, underwent an unconscious sort of transformation. His movements became a great deal more graceful, for starters: the sort of movements you would expect such fluid limbs to be capable of, rather than the awkward shuffling he’d displayed in the cave. Too, his shoulders came up and back, giving him an extra inch or two to his moderate height. The further he got from the female oracle, the more he began to look like he might actually be capable of killing, and not just of being decorative.
See, the thing was, women made him feel uneasy and self-conscious, and when he felt that way, well… it showed. Beautiful Killer was very bad at being anything but what he was in any given moment, and while that was a wonderful trait to have while swept up in the heat of battle, it was a something of a hindrance when it came to social interactions with the fairer sex. Not that they ever seemed to mind. Some of them even seemed to find it endearing, which of course only made things more horrible for him.
He repressed a shudder.
The oracle hadn’t been so bad, though. She’d been almost- almost- sexless, so he hadn’t felt the urge to flee as strongly as he often did around women. Women and their grasping little hands... And with the veil over her face, he couldn’t even see if she was ogling him, which was a relief in and of itself. He did get so very tired of being ogled.
He wondered briefly if he could somehow get more women wearing veils.
***
It took him less than two days’ march to find the place the oracle had foretold. It was at the top of a lonely sort of hill, in the middle of a roughly circular grove of olive trees. Standing there, Beautiful Killer had a perfectly lovely view of the surrounding plains plains (complete with misty peaks in the far-off distance), and he took a moment to enjoy it before turning his attention to his immediate surroundings. Someone had thoughtfully arranged a pile of stones, boughs, and twine that might be used to erect an altar just large enough for a young man to sleep under.
It made him very, very uneasy.
Oh he was grateful, to be certain- he hadn’t been entirely certain how he would make an altar without cutting down someone’s sacred something-or-other and getting himself in an even deeper mess- but the truth of the matter was this entire thing was just a little too ridiculously easy. Which meant that someone- and in this instance most likely a divine someone- wanted something from him.
Again.
Beautiful Killer sighed and began stacking rocks.
He was used to people wanting to help him, because of his looks. It was embarrassing, and also frustrating. It had made it exceptionally difficult for him to learn the art of fighting, because so many people kept letting him win- which of course taught him nothing. And then, too, he felt like there really wasn’t anyone in the world he could trust- because people inevitably had ulterior motives, when it came to him. Even if that motive was something seemingly benign, like trying to make him happy. Their idea of what would make him happy.
Not that he was adverse to happiness, of course. He just felt as though he ought to have more of a hand in earning it for himself. Take this whole “Beautiful Killer” thing. Oh, he was certain that the minstrel had thought he was doing a fine thing by exaggerating his minor exploits into a few epic poems, but the truth of the matter was that Beautiful Killer would much rather have actually done those deeds and not gotten credit for them, rather than the reverse. Especially once it started leading to the difficulties…
He shook his head to clear it, and refocused on the task at hand. The altar was taking shape, and he took a moment to fill in its underside with some conveniently located moss (he tried not to think about how convenient) so that he wouldn’t be sleeping directly on the dirt. Then, because there really wasn’t that much else to do when you’re waiting on a goddess, he went to sleep.
***
She showed up in his dream, almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes. Tall and terrible, the goddess stared at him until he began to feel his flesh creep, and he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he could not move. Her gaze was different from the way most people looked at him- her eyes held no adoration, no covetousness- only a sort of cold calculation that made him long for a shadow to hide in. Finally she bared her teeth at him in what might have been considered a smile.
“How… ironic,” she said.
Beautiful Killer might have liked to say something in response, but the truth was that his brain seemed to have gone into the same sort of frozen panic as his body. Apparently the goddess did not require his opinion, however, because she continued with barely a pause.
“Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Here, take this- it will bring the beast to heel.” She shoved what appeared to be a golden bridle into his hands. He looked down at it, confused. Sure enough, it was a bridle, perfectly ordinary save for the fact that it looked as though it might have been woven from Beautiful Killer’s own hair. It did not look like the sort of thing to help him best a monster. His eyes must have betrayed his puzzlement, because she snapped her fingers imperiously and he found he could speak again.
“You… am I supposed to ride Kymera?”
“What? No, don’t be ridiculous- she would char you before you got close enough to try. That bridle is for the winged horse which resides there, on the muses’ mountain,” she pointed far into the distance. “It is only with astride him that you can ride to meet Kymera, and have any hope of survival.”
“Oh. Well. That’s very-“
“Wake.”
And he did.
Beautiful Killer, once out of the oracle’s cave, underwent an unconscious sort of transformation. His movements became a great deal more graceful, for starters: the sort of movements you would expect such fluid limbs to be capable of, rather than the awkward shuffling he’d displayed in the cave. Too, his shoulders came up and back, giving him an extra inch or two to his moderate height. The further he got from the female oracle, the more he began to look like he might actually be capable of killing, and not just of being decorative.
See, the thing was, women made him feel uneasy and self-conscious, and when he felt that way, well… it showed. Beautiful Killer was very bad at being anything but what he was in any given moment, and while that was a wonderful trait to have while swept up in the heat of battle, it was a something of a hindrance when it came to social interactions with the fairer sex. Not that they ever seemed to mind. Some of them even seemed to find it endearing, which of course only made things more horrible for him.
He repressed a shudder.
The oracle hadn’t been so bad, though. She’d been almost- almost- sexless, so he hadn’t felt the urge to flee as strongly as he often did around women. Women and their grasping little hands... And with the veil over her face, he couldn’t even see if she was ogling him, which was a relief in and of itself. He did get so very tired of being ogled.
He wondered briefly if he could somehow get more women wearing veils.
***
It took him less than two days’ march to find the place the oracle had foretold. It was at the top of a lonely sort of hill, in the middle of a roughly circular grove of olive trees. Standing there, Beautiful Killer had a perfectly lovely view of the surrounding plains plains (complete with misty peaks in the far-off distance), and he took a moment to enjoy it before turning his attention to his immediate surroundings. Someone had thoughtfully arranged a pile of stones, boughs, and twine that might be used to erect an altar just large enough for a young man to sleep under.
It made him very, very uneasy.
Oh he was grateful, to be certain- he hadn’t been entirely certain how he would make an altar without cutting down someone’s sacred something-or-other and getting himself in an even deeper mess- but the truth of the matter was this entire thing was just a little too ridiculously easy. Which meant that someone- and in this instance most likely a divine someone- wanted something from him.
Again.
Beautiful Killer sighed and began stacking rocks.
He was used to people wanting to help him, because of his looks. It was embarrassing, and also frustrating. It had made it exceptionally difficult for him to learn the art of fighting, because so many people kept letting him win- which of course taught him nothing. And then, too, he felt like there really wasn’t anyone in the world he could trust- because people inevitably had ulterior motives, when it came to him. Even if that motive was something seemingly benign, like trying to make him happy. Their idea of what would make him happy.
Not that he was adverse to happiness, of course. He just felt as though he ought to have more of a hand in earning it for himself. Take this whole “Beautiful Killer” thing. Oh, he was certain that the minstrel had thought he was doing a fine thing by exaggerating his minor exploits into a few epic poems, but the truth of the matter was that Beautiful Killer would much rather have actually done those deeds and not gotten credit for them, rather than the reverse. Especially once it started leading to the difficulties…
He shook his head to clear it, and refocused on the task at hand. The altar was taking shape, and he took a moment to fill in its underside with some conveniently located moss (he tried not to think about how convenient) so that he wouldn’t be sleeping directly on the dirt. Then, because there really wasn’t that much else to do when you’re waiting on a goddess, he went to sleep.
***
She showed up in his dream, almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes. Tall and terrible, the goddess stared at him until he began to feel his flesh creep, and he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he could not move. Her gaze was different from the way most people looked at him- her eyes held no adoration, no covetousness- only a sort of cold calculation that made him long for a shadow to hide in. Finally she bared her teeth at him in what might have been considered a smile.
“How… ironic,” she said.
Beautiful Killer might have liked to say something in response, but the truth was that his brain seemed to have gone into the same sort of frozen panic as his body. Apparently the goddess did not require his opinion, however, because she continued with barely a pause.
“Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Here, take this- it will bring the beast to heel.” She shoved what appeared to be a golden bridle into his hands. He looked down at it, confused. Sure enough, it was a bridle, perfectly ordinary save for the fact that it looked as though it might have been woven from Beautiful Killer’s own hair. It did not look like the sort of thing to help him best a monster. His eyes must have betrayed his puzzlement, because she snapped her fingers imperiously and he found he could speak again.
“You… am I supposed to ride Kymera?”
“What? No, don’t be ridiculous- she would char you before you got close enough to try. That bridle is for the winged horse which resides there, on the muses’ mountain,” she pointed far into the distance. “It is only with astride him that you can ride to meet Kymera, and have any hope of survival.”
“Oh. Well. That’s very-“
“Wake.”
And he did.
2.18.2010
Brothers, Pt X
The oracle stared at the young man known as the Beautiful Killer in something akin to consternation. He was not at all what she would have imagined, based on the stories about him. Oh, he was beautiful, that much was certainly no exaggeration. He was just entering the first full bloom of manhood, with waves of shining gold hair and eyes that glimmered just a slightly darker shade- so unusual in a mortal. His youthful skin shone like smooth, flawless bronze over graceful limbs and lithe muscles. Everything about him seemed to shine, even his strangely shy smile.
And that little smile was at the heart of her discomfort.
Heroes, in the oracle’s experience, especially heroes that had earned the epithet “killer”, did not as a general rule look quite so… well, bashful. Look at that! The boy was practically rubbing his toe in the dirt! Where was the arrogance? The brashness? The ‘Here I am now aren’t you impressed!”-ness? And, for that matter, where were the scars?
The oracle, as a general rule, did not take instruction from the gods. She acted as an interpreter, no more, no less. But in this particular instance a goddess had given her a specific task, and although it had not bothered her in the beginning (who was she to question divine caprice?) now that she was faced with one of the major players she was beginning to have her doubts.
Beautiful Killer, indeed, she thought sourly to herself. Why has she chosen this one for her games? Something is amiss here…
None of these thoughts were revealed by her expression, however- and would not have been even had she not been wearing a veil to conceal the entirety of her face. One did not last long as mouthpiece of the gods without learning a thing or two about subtlety.
“Why have you come, oh Beautiful Killer?” Her voice rang out through the cave, echoing back to them like melodious thunder. Such lovely acoustics in this place.
“Um,” the boy said, looking pained. “Maybe- maybe you could not call me that? I mean, if you don’t mind? It’s not really my name.”
“But it is what you are, is it not?” She asked. He flushed a fetching shade of crimson and the oracle let her lip twitch in what would have been a laugh in a less controlled being.
“Well, I suppose that depends… I mean, certainly people seem to think I’m… not unattractive. A lot of… um, people… um. And yes, there was an incident or two wherein I may have killed someone… or more… than one… but it wasn’t like it was on purpose… and… fine,” he ended with a sigh. “Beautiful Killer works as well as anything else, I suppose.”
“I repeat- why have you come?”
“Oh! Right. Um, well, see, the thing is, there was this rather unfortunate… misunderstanding… which led to another one… and now, to keep my head attached to my neck- and I really do like it there, I do- I’m supposed to kill this monster, this Kymera, only it’s not so easy, right? And I don’t really want to die just yet, so I thought I might get some advice… from you…” he trailed off lamely, making helpless gestures with his beautiful hands. “Maybe?”
The oracle let her voice drop into what she privately called her Voice of Revelations; “You cannot hope to defeat this monster on your own. You have need of divine assistance.”
The boy all but wilted in relief. “Yes, yes I do! Can you tell me… how do I go about getting that? It seemed like it might require something a bit above and beyond the usual sacrifice, and I didn’t want to offend anyone by doing it wrong, or invoking the wrong one, or… you know. They’re so touchy, the greater gods.”
More than he knew. “You must go to a place I will tell you, and there you must create an altar to the grey-eyed goddess. Sleep beneath this altar, and she will come to you.”
“That’s… that’s it?” His beautiful brow furrowed. “You’d think it would take more…”
“Would you rather I gave you an arduous task?”
“No! No thank you! Plenty of those already, thank you.”
“You could always bathe in the blood of a white bull, if it would make you feel more deserving.”
“I- um, no. That’s alright. Build an altar, sleep under it, and wait for the goddess. I can do those things.”
The oracle gave him instructions on how to reach the place the warrior goddess had chosen, and as he left (somehow managing to trip over his own graceful-looking feet) (really, how had that young man managed to kill anything?) she couldn’t help but feel a small, painful squeeze in her heart. It was almost enough for her to consult the fumes to see what advice she should have given him- but she knew it would only make it harder on herself, knowing how it might have been had she the will to defy a goddess. Instead she sent up a quick prayer to her own patron god- he of warm sunlight and healing- that the Beautiful Killer might manage to stay out of as much trouble as possible. After all, he’d been so young and sweet- and, she must admit, so very, very lovely.
And that little smile was at the heart of her discomfort.
Heroes, in the oracle’s experience, especially heroes that had earned the epithet “killer”, did not as a general rule look quite so… well, bashful. Look at that! The boy was practically rubbing his toe in the dirt! Where was the arrogance? The brashness? The ‘Here I am now aren’t you impressed!”-ness? And, for that matter, where were the scars?
The oracle, as a general rule, did not take instruction from the gods. She acted as an interpreter, no more, no less. But in this particular instance a goddess had given her a specific task, and although it had not bothered her in the beginning (who was she to question divine caprice?) now that she was faced with one of the major players she was beginning to have her doubts.
Beautiful Killer, indeed, she thought sourly to herself. Why has she chosen this one for her games? Something is amiss here…
None of these thoughts were revealed by her expression, however- and would not have been even had she not been wearing a veil to conceal the entirety of her face. One did not last long as mouthpiece of the gods without learning a thing or two about subtlety.
“Why have you come, oh Beautiful Killer?” Her voice rang out through the cave, echoing back to them like melodious thunder. Such lovely acoustics in this place.
“Um,” the boy said, looking pained. “Maybe- maybe you could not call me that? I mean, if you don’t mind? It’s not really my name.”
“But it is what you are, is it not?” She asked. He flushed a fetching shade of crimson and the oracle let her lip twitch in what would have been a laugh in a less controlled being.
“Well, I suppose that depends… I mean, certainly people seem to think I’m… not unattractive. A lot of… um, people… um. And yes, there was an incident or two wherein I may have killed someone… or more… than one… but it wasn’t like it was on purpose… and… fine,” he ended with a sigh. “Beautiful Killer works as well as anything else, I suppose.”
“I repeat- why have you come?”
“Oh! Right. Um, well, see, the thing is, there was this rather unfortunate… misunderstanding… which led to another one… and now, to keep my head attached to my neck- and I really do like it there, I do- I’m supposed to kill this monster, this Kymera, only it’s not so easy, right? And I don’t really want to die just yet, so I thought I might get some advice… from you…” he trailed off lamely, making helpless gestures with his beautiful hands. “Maybe?”
The oracle let her voice drop into what she privately called her Voice of Revelations; “You cannot hope to defeat this monster on your own. You have need of divine assistance.”
The boy all but wilted in relief. “Yes, yes I do! Can you tell me… how do I go about getting that? It seemed like it might require something a bit above and beyond the usual sacrifice, and I didn’t want to offend anyone by doing it wrong, or invoking the wrong one, or… you know. They’re so touchy, the greater gods.”
More than he knew. “You must go to a place I will tell you, and there you must create an altar to the grey-eyed goddess. Sleep beneath this altar, and she will come to you.”
“That’s… that’s it?” His beautiful brow furrowed. “You’d think it would take more…”
“Would you rather I gave you an arduous task?”
“No! No thank you! Plenty of those already, thank you.”
“You could always bathe in the blood of a white bull, if it would make you feel more deserving.”
“I- um, no. That’s alright. Build an altar, sleep under it, and wait for the goddess. I can do those things.”
The oracle gave him instructions on how to reach the place the warrior goddess had chosen, and as he left (somehow managing to trip over his own graceful-looking feet) (really, how had that young man managed to kill anything?) she couldn’t help but feel a small, painful squeeze in her heart. It was almost enough for her to consult the fumes to see what advice she should have given him- but she knew it would only make it harder on herself, knowing how it might have been had she the will to defy a goddess. Instead she sent up a quick prayer to her own patron god- he of warm sunlight and healing- that the Beautiful Killer might manage to stay out of as much trouble as possible. After all, he’d been so young and sweet- and, she must admit, so very, very lovely.
2.15.2010
Brothers, Pt IX
His disconnected mind made it difficult for him to tell if he spent the next few hours awake or asleep, but he was aware that the girl monster, at least, had given in to an exhausted slumber. Pegs stared vacantly at the hero’s crumpled body. Flies had begun to gather, and he noted with disinterest the contrast between their intricate flight patterns and mundane crawling.
Finally something inside him shifted in response to the sinking sun, and he nudged the girl awake, shoving his neck under her arms. She clung to him and managed, painfully, to drape herself across his back, crying softly the whole time.
“Thank you,” she whispered, over and over. “Thank you so much. Thank you…”
Pegs did not try to fly. He did not think she was strong enough to stay on. Instead he began to trudge slowly back towards the sea. It did not take a genius to realize that’s where this tentacled she-creature belonged. Before long he could smell it, and soon enough they crested a hill that brought them high enough to see it. The girl on his back drew in a sharp breath and dug her fingers more tightly into Pegs’s mane. He was pretty sure he felt claws, but they did not bother him. He continued trudging.
At last he stood at the edge of the sea, foam swirling about his fetlocks. He walked further out, until the waves were breaking against his chest, until the girl could slip from him into the salty embrace of her home without jarring her abused body. This she did, letting out a sigh of relief, but she kept one small hand twined in his mane. He walked out further still, until his hooves no longer touched, until he was swimming next to her. He watched the blood stains slowly spiral off her skin, and did not realize that he was leaving a trail of his own.
At some unspoken signal they both ceased their movements and surrendered to the water’s whims. It was a relief to let a force outside themselves take responsibility for a while, even if that force decided to drown them. Back and forth with the tide they rocked, touching lightly, saying nothing. Finally the girl unwound her fingers from his mane, kissed him tenderly on the neck, and dove away from him. She did not resurface, and eventually Pegs found himself washed back ashore.
It did not bother him until much later that he had not learned her name.
***
When Pegs returned to the mountain, his foster-mothers found him a much subdued creature. No longer did his heart burn with an unquenchable rage- or if it did, he could no longer feel it. Part of him- a large part- had gone numb with the crushing of the hero’s skull, and he took to spending long hours sitting by the tantrum spring, staring at his distorted reflection and wondering who and what he was meant to be.
He knew he was a winged horse- the only one of his kind, and likely to remain so. He knew that he was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan- cut off from his blood family, and likely to remain so. He was also mute- another thing not likely to change. But now he knew he was something else, too- he was a killer. He had killed. He, Pegs, had used his hooves to end a man’s life. He didn’t feel ashamed, exactly, but he didn’t feel particularly pleased about it, either. He doubted anyone would say it was wrong to have killed a man who was torturing an innocent creature, but did that make it right? He didn’t know, just as he didn’t know what it meant to his future, now that he was a killer. He assumed that was the sort of label that didn’t go away, regardless of whether or not he ever killed again. Regardless of whether or not anyone ever knew it but him and the girl with the tentacles. And, of course, the dead hero.
His foster mothers worried about his newfound listlessness, but he didn’t know how to reassure them- or even if he should. They took turns sitting next to him as he contemplated, trying to stir him with their songs, poetry, and dance. Ourie lay down next to him at night and told him stories about the stars scattered throughout the heavens, about how some of them had once been great men, women, or creatures the gods had rewarded by turning them into constellations. Pegs thought vaguely that it didn’t seem like much of a reward to him, but then he never did understand the motivations of the gods.
The gods.
Although he did not know it, one of those gods in particular- specifically one goddess- was very put out with Pegs, very put out indeed. And so, while Pegs was coming to grips with what who he was, what he’d done, and what his lonely place in the universe might be, she was coming up with a plan to rid him of any and all of those things.
Permanently.
Finally something inside him shifted in response to the sinking sun, and he nudged the girl awake, shoving his neck under her arms. She clung to him and managed, painfully, to drape herself across his back, crying softly the whole time.
“Thank you,” she whispered, over and over. “Thank you so much. Thank you…”
Pegs did not try to fly. He did not think she was strong enough to stay on. Instead he began to trudge slowly back towards the sea. It did not take a genius to realize that’s where this tentacled she-creature belonged. Before long he could smell it, and soon enough they crested a hill that brought them high enough to see it. The girl on his back drew in a sharp breath and dug her fingers more tightly into Pegs’s mane. He was pretty sure he felt claws, but they did not bother him. He continued trudging.
At last he stood at the edge of the sea, foam swirling about his fetlocks. He walked further out, until the waves were breaking against his chest, until the girl could slip from him into the salty embrace of her home without jarring her abused body. This she did, letting out a sigh of relief, but she kept one small hand twined in his mane. He walked out further still, until his hooves no longer touched, until he was swimming next to her. He watched the blood stains slowly spiral off her skin, and did not realize that he was leaving a trail of his own.
At some unspoken signal they both ceased their movements and surrendered to the water’s whims. It was a relief to let a force outside themselves take responsibility for a while, even if that force decided to drown them. Back and forth with the tide they rocked, touching lightly, saying nothing. Finally the girl unwound her fingers from his mane, kissed him tenderly on the neck, and dove away from him. She did not resurface, and eventually Pegs found himself washed back ashore.
It did not bother him until much later that he had not learned her name.
***
When Pegs returned to the mountain, his foster-mothers found him a much subdued creature. No longer did his heart burn with an unquenchable rage- or if it did, he could no longer feel it. Part of him- a large part- had gone numb with the crushing of the hero’s skull, and he took to spending long hours sitting by the tantrum spring, staring at his distorted reflection and wondering who and what he was meant to be.
He knew he was a winged horse- the only one of his kind, and likely to remain so. He knew that he was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan- cut off from his blood family, and likely to remain so. He was also mute- another thing not likely to change. But now he knew he was something else, too- he was a killer. He had killed. He, Pegs, had used his hooves to end a man’s life. He didn’t feel ashamed, exactly, but he didn’t feel particularly pleased about it, either. He doubted anyone would say it was wrong to have killed a man who was torturing an innocent creature, but did that make it right? He didn’t know, just as he didn’t know what it meant to his future, now that he was a killer. He assumed that was the sort of label that didn’t go away, regardless of whether or not he ever killed again. Regardless of whether or not anyone ever knew it but him and the girl with the tentacles. And, of course, the dead hero.
His foster mothers worried about his newfound listlessness, but he didn’t know how to reassure them- or even if he should. They took turns sitting next to him as he contemplated, trying to stir him with their songs, poetry, and dance. Ourie lay down next to him at night and told him stories about the stars scattered throughout the heavens, about how some of them had once been great men, women, or creatures the gods had rewarded by turning them into constellations. Pegs thought vaguely that it didn’t seem like much of a reward to him, but then he never did understand the motivations of the gods.
The gods.
Although he did not know it, one of those gods in particular- specifically one goddess- was very put out with Pegs, very put out indeed. And so, while Pegs was coming to grips with what who he was, what he’d done, and what his lonely place in the universe might be, she was coming up with a plan to rid him of any and all of those things.
Permanently.
2.08.2010
Brothers, Pt VIII
Pegs did stop harassing the heroes for a couple of years- and hellish years they were. He was profoundly bored, for starters. Although he appreciated his foster mothers’ varying arts, he had neither the drive nor desire to follow any of the disciplines they specialized in. And as much as he loved flying, he felt his life needed some purpose beyond it.
Worse than the boredom, however, was the rage.
Without the regular outlet of hero-bating, the fury inside Pegs’ heart steadily accumulated, burning hotter and hotter, until there was nothing that did not set his temper off. He hissed and bit savagely at anything and anyone that got too close to him, sometimes following it up with a fierce kick for good measure. He knew he shouldn’t behave in such a way- it made him miserable to be so horrid to everyone- but he didn’t know how to turn it off… and soon the misery would fester and become more rage. The hurt in his foster mothers’ eyes made him ashamed, and he took to hiding in far-flung locations, spending all his days in bitter solitude. While this kept him from physically hurting anyone, it did nothing to cool the anger that pumped through his body like super-heated blood.
Finally, a little more than two years after he’d given his promise, Pegs snapped.
***
There was probably no avoiding it in the long run (not with the way his internal pressure had been mounting) but it’s quite possible that it might have been delayed a little longer had it not been for the specific scenario he witnessed.
Pegs was out for a flight, soaring low across the edge of a sea, when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of crying- feminine crying.
Now it must be said that Pegs had something of a soft-spot for women. How could he not, after being raised by so many? That, combined with the story of Meddie, his blood-mother, made him particularly responsive to females in distress. He banked his wings and headed inland towards the crying.
He soon found its source- a young woman with a tangle of tentacles in place of legs, trapped in a shallow pit. It would have been easy enough for a normal human to scramble out of, but the girl’s lower limbs were obviously not meant for climbing. Pegs eyed the pit, but decided there was not enough room for him to land in it without crushing the girl. Instead he landed next to the upper edge and peered over.
“Oh!” gasped the girl, momentarily forgetting her distress. “Oh, how lovely!” Pegs, who had spent his life surrounded by deities who both embodied and inspired beauty, returned the sentiment: the monster was absolutely stunning. Her tentacles were a gorgeous bronze-green, with just the faintest iridescence, mottled with a rust-colored pattern that continued up past her trim waist into the smooth olive of her skin; her hair was deep red and done in dozens of thick, elaborate braids that hung to her elbows; her eyes, dark brown with neither pupils nor whites, were luminous with tears. Just then, her finely formed features crumpled.
“Oh, oh! Flee! You must flee, before he returns!”
Pegs cocked his head to one side to indicate curiosity, but the girl failed to understand. Instead she groped along the floor of her prison until she found a small clump of dirt, which she flung half-heartedly at him. He dodged it easily, and lowered his head closer to her, attempting to lip at her fingers to give her some comfort.
“Flee!” She sobbed, and he noticed her teeth were ever-so-slightly pointed. “Flee quickly, or he’ll hurt you, too!”
Hurt him too? Pegs narrowed his eyes and re-evaluated the girl. He realized that what he had assumed was a natural pattern on her skin was, in fact, dried blood.
His heart exploded with fiery rage and he reared up, screaming silent fury. As he came back to all fours, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He whipped his head around and saw what could only be a hero.
The man was tall and well-built, just shy of his prime. He wore a much-dented breast-plate and matching arm-guards, all decorated with an olive-branch motif. In one hand he held a piece of dried meat that he was obviously making a quick meal of. The other held a long spear- a spear with dried blood on its head.
Pegs didn’t even think- couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The anger had control of his limbs, and he surrendered himself to it utterly. Quick as a snake, Pegs wheeled towards the man and lashed out with his hooves, striking him squarely in the temple. He felt the hero’s skull crush beneath the force of the blow, and the man dropped like a stone. Pegs stood over him, trembling and blowing hard, waiting to strike again should he see the slightest movement.
There was none.
Finally, feeling strangely disconnected from his own body, Pegs leaned down and grabbed the spear with his teeth. He dragged it over to the edge of the pit and let one end extend down. At first the girl let out a small shriek and cowered as far from him as she could, but when she realized nothing was attacking her she slowly uncovered her face and turned it upwards toward Pegs. He tossed his head, once, to emphasis the spear, made a motion as though he was pulling it out.
The girl understood, and although her hands trembled she wrapped them around the spear’s shaft, and held on with all her might. Slowly, painstakingly, Pegs managed to pull her out, and once free she collapsed into a shaking, crying heap at his hooves. Still numb, he knelt down beside her, stretched out a wing, and folded it over her battered form.
He did not notice her blood slowly staining his feathers.
Worse than the boredom, however, was the rage.
Without the regular outlet of hero-bating, the fury inside Pegs’ heart steadily accumulated, burning hotter and hotter, until there was nothing that did not set his temper off. He hissed and bit savagely at anything and anyone that got too close to him, sometimes following it up with a fierce kick for good measure. He knew he shouldn’t behave in such a way- it made him miserable to be so horrid to everyone- but he didn’t know how to turn it off… and soon the misery would fester and become more rage. The hurt in his foster mothers’ eyes made him ashamed, and he took to hiding in far-flung locations, spending all his days in bitter solitude. While this kept him from physically hurting anyone, it did nothing to cool the anger that pumped through his body like super-heated blood.
Finally, a little more than two years after he’d given his promise, Pegs snapped.
***
There was probably no avoiding it in the long run (not with the way his internal pressure had been mounting) but it’s quite possible that it might have been delayed a little longer had it not been for the specific scenario he witnessed.
Pegs was out for a flight, soaring low across the edge of a sea, when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of crying- feminine crying.
Now it must be said that Pegs had something of a soft-spot for women. How could he not, after being raised by so many? That, combined with the story of Meddie, his blood-mother, made him particularly responsive to females in distress. He banked his wings and headed inland towards the crying.
He soon found its source- a young woman with a tangle of tentacles in place of legs, trapped in a shallow pit. It would have been easy enough for a normal human to scramble out of, but the girl’s lower limbs were obviously not meant for climbing. Pegs eyed the pit, but decided there was not enough room for him to land in it without crushing the girl. Instead he landed next to the upper edge and peered over.
“Oh!” gasped the girl, momentarily forgetting her distress. “Oh, how lovely!” Pegs, who had spent his life surrounded by deities who both embodied and inspired beauty, returned the sentiment: the monster was absolutely stunning. Her tentacles were a gorgeous bronze-green, with just the faintest iridescence, mottled with a rust-colored pattern that continued up past her trim waist into the smooth olive of her skin; her hair was deep red and done in dozens of thick, elaborate braids that hung to her elbows; her eyes, dark brown with neither pupils nor whites, were luminous with tears. Just then, her finely formed features crumpled.
“Oh, oh! Flee! You must flee, before he returns!”
Pegs cocked his head to one side to indicate curiosity, but the girl failed to understand. Instead she groped along the floor of her prison until she found a small clump of dirt, which she flung half-heartedly at him. He dodged it easily, and lowered his head closer to her, attempting to lip at her fingers to give her some comfort.
“Flee!” She sobbed, and he noticed her teeth were ever-so-slightly pointed. “Flee quickly, or he’ll hurt you, too!”
Hurt him too? Pegs narrowed his eyes and re-evaluated the girl. He realized that what he had assumed was a natural pattern on her skin was, in fact, dried blood.
His heart exploded with fiery rage and he reared up, screaming silent fury. As he came back to all fours, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He whipped his head around and saw what could only be a hero.
The man was tall and well-built, just shy of his prime. He wore a much-dented breast-plate and matching arm-guards, all decorated with an olive-branch motif. In one hand he held a piece of dried meat that he was obviously making a quick meal of. The other held a long spear- a spear with dried blood on its head.
Pegs didn’t even think- couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The anger had control of his limbs, and he surrendered himself to it utterly. Quick as a snake, Pegs wheeled towards the man and lashed out with his hooves, striking him squarely in the temple. He felt the hero’s skull crush beneath the force of the blow, and the man dropped like a stone. Pegs stood over him, trembling and blowing hard, waiting to strike again should he see the slightest movement.
There was none.
Finally, feeling strangely disconnected from his own body, Pegs leaned down and grabbed the spear with his teeth. He dragged it over to the edge of the pit and let one end extend down. At first the girl let out a small shriek and cowered as far from him as she could, but when she realized nothing was attacking her she slowly uncovered her face and turned it upwards toward Pegs. He tossed his head, once, to emphasis the spear, made a motion as though he was pulling it out.
The girl understood, and although her hands trembled she wrapped them around the spear’s shaft, and held on with all her might. Slowly, painstakingly, Pegs managed to pull her out, and once free she collapsed into a shaking, crying heap at his hooves. Still numb, he knelt down beside her, stretched out a wing, and folded it over her battered form.
He did not notice her blood slowly staining his feathers.
2.04.2010
Brothers, Pt VII
(Author's note: I wrote most of this in my car, waiting to clock in at my second job. Please forgive any glaring errors that may have resulted...)
Pegs, who had once spent most of his time observing others from afar, now made it a point to be seen. Specifically he made it a point to be seen by heroes, or at the very least by the people he knew would be in contact with them. As the years passed, he refined his system. First he would scout out a likely-looking location, usually on a well-traveled road. He would spend about a week making dramatic appearances, to get the locals stirred up and talking, and then he would disappear for a day or two, to give any nearby heroes a chance to show up. And then? Then he would go hero-baiting.
It never got old. Each hero was different, and the best part was that as Pegs began to gain notoriety, more and more of the actually impressive heroes began to show up looking for him. These were men who had great cunning, or strength, or magical artifacts- all of which made the game that much more challenging for Pegs- and that much more satisfying when he ultimately shamed them.
He had been at it for about a decade or so before it began to make trouble for him.
***
Pegs was sunning himself on a cliff overlooking what his foster mothers referred to as ‘the tantrum spring’ when he got that peculiar prickling feeling between his withers that meant a god was in the immediate vicinity. Out of habit he moved himself into the dense foliage of a nearby tree, and turned his gaze downward to see what was afoot.
In the branches below him, an unusually large gray owl alighted. Pegs narrowed his eyes. It was full daylight out. That combined with the prickles told him exactly what- or rather who- that owl was. He bared his teeth at it, but held perfectly still.
The owl, oblivious to his presence, hopped down from the branch and melted into a proud-featured woman wearing a shining breast-plate. Only she wasn’t a woman.
She was the war-goddess.
The little glade was suddenly over-flowing with Pegs’ foster mothers. It never ceased to amaze him, how many they were- each one lovely- and somehow both alike in that loveliness and yet completely different- like a swirl of vari-colored snow-flakes. Nemie, who seemed always to be their default spokes-person, bowed graciously to the goddess.
“My Lady,” she said. “What brings you to our mountain-side?”
Cold gray eyes flashed, and the goddess gestured to the tantrum spring.
“This. Years ago I heard tell it was caused by the hoof of a horse. A winged horse. Isn’t that interesting? Have you ever heard of such a unique creature? I had not, nor did I again. Not until recently, that is. Because, you see, it appears that just such a creature has been bedeviling some of those who call me patron. Now, what are the chances that two such winged beasts are running- pardon me- flying about the countryside?”
Nemie did not reply, nor did her face give any indication that she knew exactly what the chances were, having mothered said winged beast for most of his life.
“And I thought to myself,” the goddess continued in icy tones, apparently not really caring what the chances were. “I thought, one of these monsters or two, I cannot have it or them making mockery of those heroes sworn to me. And then I thought to myself, I am in need of a creative solution- and who better to provide one than the demigoddesses of inspiration, who are surely used to dealing with- unique- creations.”
“My Lady,” Nemie demurred. “Creative and clever we may be, but we could never hope to be so wise as yourself.”
“Be that as it may,” Each word was precisely pronounced, and Pegs could feel the atmosphere literally thickening with the deity’s ire. “Be that as it may, if you and your sisters do not find a solution to my- unique irritation- then I will find one.” With that she swirled her skirts and was an owl once more, launching herself into the ether on silent wings.
Pegs blew disrespectfully at her retreating tail feathers.
The next thing he knew, his ear was being pinched- rather painfully- between the deceptively dainty thumb and forefinger of his foster mother Klio. He let out a hiss in protest.
“None of that, you naughty stallion!” She smacked him smartly on the nose, causing his eyes to water. “Just what, pray tell, does our recent guest mean by bedeviling her heroes?”
Pegs gave an equine shrug, and she twisted his ear a little harder. “Why don’t we take this down to the ground, and we’ll see if we can’t jog your memory,” This last bit was emphasized with increasing pressure on his abused ear, and he immediately leapt down. In his haste he forgot to check his landing, and a little spring rose up about his fetlocks, but none of his foster mothers seemed to care. They glared at him as one.
“Pegs,” said Nemie, “Have you been harassing heroes?”
He nodded sulkily.
“All heroes, or just hers?” This from Thalia, with a wicked glint in her eye.
He stretched out his wings and gathered as many of the muses to him as he could.
“Well at least she can’t complain that it was specifically against her,” she muttered, hiding a smile.
“That doesn’t make the slightest difference and you know it!” snapped Klio, who had finally released his ear. He twitched it in relief. “It’s no less of an offense to her divine ego!”
“There’s a larger problem,” said Mellie, most somber of his foster-mothers, in a low tone. “If she heard about the spring, she might hear about other things. Like who he really is.” Her sisters turned pale.
“If she figures out his parentage, it won’t matter what he does or does not do to annoy her- she will punish him for his blood. She would consider his very existence an insult!”
“Pegs, listen to me!” Nemie said, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You must stop harassing the heroes! I can imagine your motivations, but you have to stop. You have to fade from her mind! Because if she puts too much thought into your existence, and realizes who you are, none of us can keep you safe!”
Pegs bared his teeth. He didn’t need to be “kept safe”!
“Pegs, please, you’ve got to promise! Please!” Dozens of luminous eyes pleaded with him. At first he stared defiantly back at them, but then he saw how genuinely frightened they seemed, and he relented. He sighed, nodded his head, and let his wings droop.
“Oh thank you, Pegs!” They chorused, rushing forward to kiss him.
But he did not keep his promise.
Pegs, who had once spent most of his time observing others from afar, now made it a point to be seen. Specifically he made it a point to be seen by heroes, or at the very least by the people he knew would be in contact with them. As the years passed, he refined his system. First he would scout out a likely-looking location, usually on a well-traveled road. He would spend about a week making dramatic appearances, to get the locals stirred up and talking, and then he would disappear for a day or two, to give any nearby heroes a chance to show up. And then? Then he would go hero-baiting.
It never got old. Each hero was different, and the best part was that as Pegs began to gain notoriety, more and more of the actually impressive heroes began to show up looking for him. These were men who had great cunning, or strength, or magical artifacts- all of which made the game that much more challenging for Pegs- and that much more satisfying when he ultimately shamed them.
He had been at it for about a decade or so before it began to make trouble for him.
***
Pegs was sunning himself on a cliff overlooking what his foster mothers referred to as ‘the tantrum spring’ when he got that peculiar prickling feeling between his withers that meant a god was in the immediate vicinity. Out of habit he moved himself into the dense foliage of a nearby tree, and turned his gaze downward to see what was afoot.
In the branches below him, an unusually large gray owl alighted. Pegs narrowed his eyes. It was full daylight out. That combined with the prickles told him exactly what- or rather who- that owl was. He bared his teeth at it, but held perfectly still.
The owl, oblivious to his presence, hopped down from the branch and melted into a proud-featured woman wearing a shining breast-plate. Only she wasn’t a woman.
She was the war-goddess.
The little glade was suddenly over-flowing with Pegs’ foster mothers. It never ceased to amaze him, how many they were- each one lovely- and somehow both alike in that loveliness and yet completely different- like a swirl of vari-colored snow-flakes. Nemie, who seemed always to be their default spokes-person, bowed graciously to the goddess.
“My Lady,” she said. “What brings you to our mountain-side?”
Cold gray eyes flashed, and the goddess gestured to the tantrum spring.
“This. Years ago I heard tell it was caused by the hoof of a horse. A winged horse. Isn’t that interesting? Have you ever heard of such a unique creature? I had not, nor did I again. Not until recently, that is. Because, you see, it appears that just such a creature has been bedeviling some of those who call me patron. Now, what are the chances that two such winged beasts are running- pardon me- flying about the countryside?”
Nemie did not reply, nor did her face give any indication that she knew exactly what the chances were, having mothered said winged beast for most of his life.
“And I thought to myself,” the goddess continued in icy tones, apparently not really caring what the chances were. “I thought, one of these monsters or two, I cannot have it or them making mockery of those heroes sworn to me. And then I thought to myself, I am in need of a creative solution- and who better to provide one than the demigoddesses of inspiration, who are surely used to dealing with- unique- creations.”
“My Lady,” Nemie demurred. “Creative and clever we may be, but we could never hope to be so wise as yourself.”
“Be that as it may,” Each word was precisely pronounced, and Pegs could feel the atmosphere literally thickening with the deity’s ire. “Be that as it may, if you and your sisters do not find a solution to my- unique irritation- then I will find one.” With that she swirled her skirts and was an owl once more, launching herself into the ether on silent wings.
Pegs blew disrespectfully at her retreating tail feathers.
The next thing he knew, his ear was being pinched- rather painfully- between the deceptively dainty thumb and forefinger of his foster mother Klio. He let out a hiss in protest.
“None of that, you naughty stallion!” She smacked him smartly on the nose, causing his eyes to water. “Just what, pray tell, does our recent guest mean by bedeviling her heroes?”
Pegs gave an equine shrug, and she twisted his ear a little harder. “Why don’t we take this down to the ground, and we’ll see if we can’t jog your memory,” This last bit was emphasized with increasing pressure on his abused ear, and he immediately leapt down. In his haste he forgot to check his landing, and a little spring rose up about his fetlocks, but none of his foster mothers seemed to care. They glared at him as one.
“Pegs,” said Nemie, “Have you been harassing heroes?”
He nodded sulkily.
“All heroes, or just hers?” This from Thalia, with a wicked glint in her eye.
He stretched out his wings and gathered as many of the muses to him as he could.
“Well at least she can’t complain that it was specifically against her,” she muttered, hiding a smile.
“That doesn’t make the slightest difference and you know it!” snapped Klio, who had finally released his ear. He twitched it in relief. “It’s no less of an offense to her divine ego!”
“There’s a larger problem,” said Mellie, most somber of his foster-mothers, in a low tone. “If she heard about the spring, she might hear about other things. Like who he really is.” Her sisters turned pale.
“If she figures out his parentage, it won’t matter what he does or does not do to annoy her- she will punish him for his blood. She would consider his very existence an insult!”
“Pegs, listen to me!” Nemie said, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You must stop harassing the heroes! I can imagine your motivations, but you have to stop. You have to fade from her mind! Because if she puts too much thought into your existence, and realizes who you are, none of us can keep you safe!”
Pegs bared his teeth. He didn’t need to be “kept safe”!
“Pegs, please, you’ve got to promise! Please!” Dozens of luminous eyes pleaded with him. At first he stared defiantly back at them, but then he saw how genuinely frightened they seemed, and he relented. He sighed, nodded his head, and let his wings droop.
“Oh thank you, Pegs!” They chorused, rushing forward to kiss him.
But he did not keep his promise.
2.03.2010
Brothers, Pt VI
Pegs was four years old and, as far as his foster mothers could tell, physically mature. He was beautiful, fast, and strong, and he didn’t need anyone. This is what was running through his head as he soared through the flame-colored sky. He had started flying early that morning, but now evening was falling and he had no desire to return to the mountain. Instead he decided he would find a nice lake to land in, spend the night there (he found water to be almost more comfortable to him than air), and fly back the next day.
Maybe.
He gave no thought to how his foster-mothers might react to his prolonged absence: the only thing that mattered to him was the anger burning in his heart, and the desire to fly and fly and fly until the rushing winds dampened it or the icy heights froze it. So far, neither had worked.
He folded his legs and wrapped his great wings tightly against his body, then let himself free-fall a few hundred meters, baring his teeth against the speed in a silent scream. His wings snapped out and his body jerked up, and he glided close to the tree-tops, scanning the neighboring plains for a suitable body of water. A brief glint on the horizon looked promising, but in an instant he changed his mind about landing there. Instead, he let himself drift to the ground, and gave in to the luxury of a run. He was never allowed to run on the mountain- but here there was no one to scold about any watery trail he might leave, and so he pushed himself as hard as he could, tearing across the earth towards the setting sun. Behind him, his hoof-print-springs made an eerie, bubbling wake before settling into a kind of exceptionally energetic rivulet.
By the time he reached the lake he was feeling a little better. Enough so that he stopped stomping quite so forcefully, and went back to his habitual hopping-flutter to keep from further tearing up the turf (his foster-mother Terpsie said it was more graceful than most people’s dancing). He slid into the water, grateful for it’s cool embrace, and began to duck his head in search of a few succulent plants to make his dinner.
He had just raised his head back up, mouth full of a particularly nice batch of weeds, when something landed around his neck. Pegs immediately surged up and out of the water into the air, and as he did so he felt his left wing glance off something heavy. He did not pause to look, but pumped with all his might until he was higher than the trees. Only then did he hover, shake whatever-it-was off his neck, and turn his gaze back towards the earth.
There by the edge of the lake was a young man- a very pale and sweating young man who was holding his arm at an awkward angle. Pegs narrowed his eyes, and descended ever-so-slightly. The young man seemed to be having a bit of difficulty. He was saying some words that Pegs knew for a fact were expressions of extreme displeasure, and kicking at what appeared to be- was it a snake? A rope! Pegs hissed in disdain, dropping even further. The stupid human had tried to use a rope on him?!
“Oh majestic steed!” the young man cried, gazing upward. His voice sounded tight with pain. Pegs was glad. “Won’t you let me mount the heavens astride you? Of course you are too glorious by far for any ordinary mortal, but surely I, the hero who slew the monstrous serpent that plagued Kenos, surely I would be a worthy rider of one such as yourself?”
A hero! Not just a mortal but a filthy monster-killing hero had tried to bridle him?! Pegs seriously considered voiding his bowels on the man’s head.
But then he had a better idea.
Arching his neck grandly (one couldn’t spend so much time around springs and not be aware of one’s best angles) Pegs began a slow, spiraling glide back to the ground. He noted with satisfaction that the hero’s eyes never left his wings. He landed close- but not too close- to the man, and fixed him with what he knew to be his most come-hither stare (Erie’s lessons had not been entirely lost on him). The man took a step forward and reached out a trembling hand. Pegs let him get within two meters, and then danced back ever-so-slightly, tossing his head like an ordinary, nervous horse might. The man made soft, soothing noises, and moved forward again.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
***
In the end he got the hero to chase him a good five twisting kilometers into the forest, until they were up to their knees in thorns. The barbs didn’t bother Pegs, of course (one of the perks of being a semi-divine half-breed) but they tore the man’s legs up pretty well, and caught on his tunic, causing him to wrench his bad arm (inevitably followed by muffled curses). Finally, when Pegs decided he had gotten enough entertainment for the evening (and anyway his stomach was beginning to growl) he stopped inching away and fell very still, then took an apparently timid step towards the hero, blowing air in an inquiring manner.
The man stood a little straighter, his eyes feverish with excitement. Pegs let him come within a half-meter of him, let him reach out his hand to touch Peg’s shining white coat-
Then sprang straight up, giving a powerful down-stroke of the wings that grazed the man (and probably broke the other arm) and carried him high into the tree-tops.
For the first time in his life, Pegs wished he could laugh aloud. As it was he contented himself with emptying his bowels (although more from contempt than malice at this point) and began the long flight home.
He no longer felt quite so angry.
Maybe.
He gave no thought to how his foster-mothers might react to his prolonged absence: the only thing that mattered to him was the anger burning in his heart, and the desire to fly and fly and fly until the rushing winds dampened it or the icy heights froze it. So far, neither had worked.
He folded his legs and wrapped his great wings tightly against his body, then let himself free-fall a few hundred meters, baring his teeth against the speed in a silent scream. His wings snapped out and his body jerked up, and he glided close to the tree-tops, scanning the neighboring plains for a suitable body of water. A brief glint on the horizon looked promising, but in an instant he changed his mind about landing there. Instead, he let himself drift to the ground, and gave in to the luxury of a run. He was never allowed to run on the mountain- but here there was no one to scold about any watery trail he might leave, and so he pushed himself as hard as he could, tearing across the earth towards the setting sun. Behind him, his hoof-print-springs made an eerie, bubbling wake before settling into a kind of exceptionally energetic rivulet.
By the time he reached the lake he was feeling a little better. Enough so that he stopped stomping quite so forcefully, and went back to his habitual hopping-flutter to keep from further tearing up the turf (his foster-mother Terpsie said it was more graceful than most people’s dancing). He slid into the water, grateful for it’s cool embrace, and began to duck his head in search of a few succulent plants to make his dinner.
He had just raised his head back up, mouth full of a particularly nice batch of weeds, when something landed around his neck. Pegs immediately surged up and out of the water into the air, and as he did so he felt his left wing glance off something heavy. He did not pause to look, but pumped with all his might until he was higher than the trees. Only then did he hover, shake whatever-it-was off his neck, and turn his gaze back towards the earth.
There by the edge of the lake was a young man- a very pale and sweating young man who was holding his arm at an awkward angle. Pegs narrowed his eyes, and descended ever-so-slightly. The young man seemed to be having a bit of difficulty. He was saying some words that Pegs knew for a fact were expressions of extreme displeasure, and kicking at what appeared to be- was it a snake? A rope! Pegs hissed in disdain, dropping even further. The stupid human had tried to use a rope on him?!
“Oh majestic steed!” the young man cried, gazing upward. His voice sounded tight with pain. Pegs was glad. “Won’t you let me mount the heavens astride you? Of course you are too glorious by far for any ordinary mortal, but surely I, the hero who slew the monstrous serpent that plagued Kenos, surely I would be a worthy rider of one such as yourself?”
A hero! Not just a mortal but a filthy monster-killing hero had tried to bridle him?! Pegs seriously considered voiding his bowels on the man’s head.
But then he had a better idea.
Arching his neck grandly (one couldn’t spend so much time around springs and not be aware of one’s best angles) Pegs began a slow, spiraling glide back to the ground. He noted with satisfaction that the hero’s eyes never left his wings. He landed close- but not too close- to the man, and fixed him with what he knew to be his most come-hither stare (Erie’s lessons had not been entirely lost on him). The man took a step forward and reached out a trembling hand. Pegs let him get within two meters, and then danced back ever-so-slightly, tossing his head like an ordinary, nervous horse might. The man made soft, soothing noises, and moved forward again.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
***
In the end he got the hero to chase him a good five twisting kilometers into the forest, until they were up to their knees in thorns. The barbs didn’t bother Pegs, of course (one of the perks of being a semi-divine half-breed) but they tore the man’s legs up pretty well, and caught on his tunic, causing him to wrench his bad arm (inevitably followed by muffled curses). Finally, when Pegs decided he had gotten enough entertainment for the evening (and anyway his stomach was beginning to growl) he stopped inching away and fell very still, then took an apparently timid step towards the hero, blowing air in an inquiring manner.
The man stood a little straighter, his eyes feverish with excitement. Pegs let him come within a half-meter of him, let him reach out his hand to touch Peg’s shining white coat-
Then sprang straight up, giving a powerful down-stroke of the wings that grazed the man (and probably broke the other arm) and carried him high into the tree-tops.
For the first time in his life, Pegs wished he could laugh aloud. As it was he contented himself with emptying his bowels (although more from contempt than malice at this point) and began the long flight home.
He no longer felt quite so angry.
2.02.2010
Brothers, Pt V
Pegs grew swiftly under the somewhat eccentric care of Benthie’s creative kin. By the time he was six months old, his stubby little wings had begun to fill in with feathers, and he took great delight in flapping them furiously, in spite of the fact that they were nowhere near large enough to support him. His color began to lighten, until, by age two, he was a pure and snowy white, save for his golden hooves and liquid black eyes. It was around this age that the most mischievous of his foster-mothers, Thalie, pushed him off the mountain’s edge.
(Thus it was he learned to fly.)
Pegs loved all his many, many foster-mothers (yes, even when they were endangering his equine frame ‘for his own good’): they were lovely, smart, and funny, and taught him many wonderful things about the world and its inhabitants. They filled his life with beauty and wonder- but he longed for his brother Chrys, whom he never forgot. When he was feeling particularly low about it he would go and sit with his foster-mother Mellie, who could be counted on to fully commiserate with him in miserable silence. The misery was expressed in silence because Pegs never did develop the ability to speak; in fact, he was borderline mute. He could snort, grunt, and even hiss- but he could not articulate even a single word-like sound. Not even the whinny of a normal horse. It was something he found profoundly frustrating, although he became quite adept at conveying meaning through body language and intense stares. The muses, mistresses of communication all, never had any difficulty understanding him- although Pollie was prone to expressing regret that he would never be able to sing praises to the gods- something which usually prompted the rough-and-tumble Borie to punch her.
Pegs privately thought he’d never sing the praises of the gods even if he had a voice. Thanks to Kallie's epic poetry, he knew that it was the war-goddess who was responsible for his mother’s curse, and that she had probably outfitted and sent the ‘hero’ that slew her. He also knew that his father was a sea god- and that he had done nothing to save his mother. Pegs watched from hidden places when other gods came to visit his foster-mothers, and although they were bright and beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, devastatingly charming and occasionally quite generous, he saw nothing particularly redeeming about them. As far as he could tell, they were selfish, spoiled, and prone to deadly tantrums.
Not that he, himself, was immune to tantrums. In fact, that was part of Thalie’s motivation in her impromptu “flight lesson”. The day before, he had gotten so angry that he had stamped his hoof in blind fury, much harder than he ever had in the past. It shattered the rock beneath him, and a great spring shot forth, soaking him and all his foster-mothers before carving out a path down the mountainside. Once it was established that he could fly, they began to insist that he flutter his wings to avoid stepping too hard.
“I mean, the little springs you’ve made while prancing about are one thing-” said Klio while watching the water surge down to the plains far below. “Our gardens and groves were never so green or lush before you came- but we really can’t have you making any more like this one. You’ll wash us all away, and then where would our mortal supplicants be?”
Pegs didn’t know, and didn’t much care: as far as he could tell, mortals were just like the gods- although fortunately without powers (really they managed more than enough mischief as it was). It seemed to him that the monsters, the semi-divine, and the half-breeds tended to turn out best- although of course many of the half-breeds grew up to be gods-pandering “heroes”.
Still, he did do his best to avoid any more rage-fueled stamping. Instead he began taking long, strenuous flights to work out his bouts of temper.
It was during one such flight that he had his first real encounter with a hero.
(Thus it was he learned to fly.)
Pegs loved all his many, many foster-mothers (yes, even when they were endangering his equine frame ‘for his own good’): they were lovely, smart, and funny, and taught him many wonderful things about the world and its inhabitants. They filled his life with beauty and wonder- but he longed for his brother Chrys, whom he never forgot. When he was feeling particularly low about it he would go and sit with his foster-mother Mellie, who could be counted on to fully commiserate with him in miserable silence. The misery was expressed in silence because Pegs never did develop the ability to speak; in fact, he was borderline mute. He could snort, grunt, and even hiss- but he could not articulate even a single word-like sound. Not even the whinny of a normal horse. It was something he found profoundly frustrating, although he became quite adept at conveying meaning through body language and intense stares. The muses, mistresses of communication all, never had any difficulty understanding him- although Pollie was prone to expressing regret that he would never be able to sing praises to the gods- something which usually prompted the rough-and-tumble Borie to punch her.
Pegs privately thought he’d never sing the praises of the gods even if he had a voice. Thanks to Kallie's epic poetry, he knew that it was the war-goddess who was responsible for his mother’s curse, and that she had probably outfitted and sent the ‘hero’ that slew her. He also knew that his father was a sea god- and that he had done nothing to save his mother. Pegs watched from hidden places when other gods came to visit his foster-mothers, and although they were bright and beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, devastatingly charming and occasionally quite generous, he saw nothing particularly redeeming about them. As far as he could tell, they were selfish, spoiled, and prone to deadly tantrums.
Not that he, himself, was immune to tantrums. In fact, that was part of Thalie’s motivation in her impromptu “flight lesson”. The day before, he had gotten so angry that he had stamped his hoof in blind fury, much harder than he ever had in the past. It shattered the rock beneath him, and a great spring shot forth, soaking him and all his foster-mothers before carving out a path down the mountainside. Once it was established that he could fly, they began to insist that he flutter his wings to avoid stepping too hard.
“I mean, the little springs you’ve made while prancing about are one thing-” said Klio while watching the water surge down to the plains far below. “Our gardens and groves were never so green or lush before you came- but we really can’t have you making any more like this one. You’ll wash us all away, and then where would our mortal supplicants be?”
Pegs didn’t know, and didn’t much care: as far as he could tell, mortals were just like the gods- although fortunately without powers (really they managed more than enough mischief as it was). It seemed to him that the monsters, the semi-divine, and the half-breeds tended to turn out best- although of course many of the half-breeds grew up to be gods-pandering “heroes”.
Still, he did do his best to avoid any more rage-fueled stamping. Instead he began taking long, strenuous flights to work out his bouts of temper.
It was during one such flight that he had his first real encounter with a hero.
1.31.2010
VIP POVs
So let's talk about the inspiration behind "Brothers". You have probably pieced together the fact that I've been telling a few familiar Greek myths (Medusa, for example) from the point of view of the traditional "monster" rather than from that of the "hero".
I have to say, I really love doing this. It's a device that I often take with stories, and there are several reasons. The first time I really remember the concept making an impression on me was when I read The True Story of the Three Little Pigs. It's mostly a picture book, told from the point of view of the Big Bad Wolf- and needless to say, his story differs considerably from that of the pigs. In his story he is the victim, not the villain (I mean come on- even in the traditional story they light the dude on fire).
As an adult who's done a bit of study into literature and creative writing, I've learned that the truly great villains never consider themselves villains- and they are never evil just for evil's sake. That smacks of prop more than character, and an evil-for-evil's sake villain may as well be replaced by an evil mop- it won't matter, because the villain has no personality beyond Evil. And that is boring.
The other thing I've learned over the years is that the victors write the history- and according to history the victors are never, ever villains. Which is kind of an amazing coincidence, don't you think?
Yeah, me neither.
So it stands to reason that at least some of the time, the victors really were the villains- and that there might just be a story of the forces of Good on the other side. (This is, of course, ignoring the fact that in the real world it's more often a pretty good mix of good, evil, and neutral on both sides of the conflict).
Add to that the fact that I have an absolute fascination with legends, fairy-tales, and myths of all sort (most story-tellers do, I find), and you end up with a girl who finds Medusa a potentially damn sympathetic character- not to mention her poor sisters. The nice thing about myths, of course, is that they are so beyond public domain it's not even funny. They've entered the collective consciousness of civilization, and everyone has their own personal version of them. They can be told again and again, with new discoveries each time, new moments of "Well why did character X do this? What if s/he had an actual motivation, one that made sense to them beyond narrative necessity?". I like to delve deeper into those "what-if"s, and I think that the answers make pretty good tales, breathing new life back into the old.
I hope that you like this version of Medusa's myth, and I hope that you'll enjoy where I'm going with the story of Pegasus and his brother, as well. Once it's all over I'll probably do an entry explaining where I got each of the characters from, so if there's someone about whom you're saying, "Wait, who is that obscure figure?" you'll get to go, "Oh! Right!" (Or maybe you'll go, "Nope, never heard of 'em. Good thing Jenny O has taken it upon herself to further my knowledge of Greek mythology!" And then you'll send me cookies in gratitude.) (Or a cake. I'm not picky.)
I have to say, I really love doing this. It's a device that I often take with stories, and there are several reasons. The first time I really remember the concept making an impression on me was when I read The True Story of the Three Little Pigs. It's mostly a picture book, told from the point of view of the Big Bad Wolf- and needless to say, his story differs considerably from that of the pigs. In his story he is the victim, not the villain (I mean come on- even in the traditional story they light the dude on fire).
As an adult who's done a bit of study into literature and creative writing, I've learned that the truly great villains never consider themselves villains- and they are never evil just for evil's sake. That smacks of prop more than character, and an evil-for-evil's sake villain may as well be replaced by an evil mop- it won't matter, because the villain has no personality beyond Evil. And that is boring.
The other thing I've learned over the years is that the victors write the history- and according to history the victors are never, ever villains. Which is kind of an amazing coincidence, don't you think?
Yeah, me neither.
So it stands to reason that at least some of the time, the victors really were the villains- and that there might just be a story of the forces of Good on the other side. (This is, of course, ignoring the fact that in the real world it's more often a pretty good mix of good, evil, and neutral on both sides of the conflict).
Add to that the fact that I have an absolute fascination with legends, fairy-tales, and myths of all sort (most story-tellers do, I find), and you end up with a girl who finds Medusa a potentially damn sympathetic character- not to mention her poor sisters. The nice thing about myths, of course, is that they are so beyond public domain it's not even funny. They've entered the collective consciousness of civilization, and everyone has their own personal version of them. They can be told again and again, with new discoveries each time, new moments of "Well why did character X do this? What if s/he had an actual motivation, one that made sense to them beyond narrative necessity?". I like to delve deeper into those "what-if"s, and I think that the answers make pretty good tales, breathing new life back into the old.
I hope that you like this version of Medusa's myth, and I hope that you'll enjoy where I'm going with the story of Pegasus and his brother, as well. Once it's all over I'll probably do an entry explaining where I got each of the characters from, so if there's someone about whom you're saying, "Wait, who is that obscure figure?" you'll get to go, "Oh! Right!" (Or maybe you'll go, "Nope, never heard of 'em. Good thing Jenny O has taken it upon herself to further my knowledge of Greek mythology!" And then you'll send me cookies in gratitude.) (Or a cake. I'm not picky.)
1.30.2010
Brothers, Pt IV
When Sthenie and Eurie returned, they found no trace of their sister’s murderer. To make matters worse, he had taken her beautiful head. Only a single, sad snake remained, wriggling feebly in the gore around her severed neck.
Weeping bitterly, the twins gathered up what was left of Meddie (including the little mutilated golden snake) and bore it down to the sea, where Benthie had appeared just moments before. When the nymph saw the remains of her friend, a terrible storm rose up about her, and she screamed her grief and rage to the skies.
Suddenly she stopped, a wild look in her eyes.
“Give her to me!” Benthie said, surging as far out of the water as she could. The twins, confused by her urgency, hesitated. “Give her to me!” she shrieked. “I might still save the children!” Quickly, but with as much gentleness as they could, they placed the still-warm body in the water- trying not to notice the way the blood swirled out from the neck. Benthie immediately slashed the abdomen open, ignoring the cries of distress from the twins. There in the exposed womb, curled snugly around one another, were two little forms, neither of which moved.
“Oh little cousins,” the nymph moaned, and pulled them out, still entwined. Sthenie and Eurie could see that one was a perfectly formed little boy, with hair as golden as his mother’s had been- the other was a delicate foal, blood-smeared wing-stumps folded tightly to its gray flanks. They watched, dumbfounded, as Benthie cleared out the children’s mouths, and then slapped each one firmly on its back. Infant wails soon filled the air.
“You shall be called Chrys,” she crooned through her tears to the boy. “And you,” she turned to the foal, whom she’d placed on the sand. He was struggling up onto his spindly little legs, wing-stumps trembling with effort. “You we shall call Pegs.”
And they did.
***
After long discussion, the three women decided that the safest thing for the children was to separate them, the better to hide them from the war goddess’s continued wrath (for it was well known that gods had a tendency to visit punishment unto many generations of whoever they felt had trespassed against them). Chrys they could easily foster out to a mortal couple, but Pegs presented more of a problem.
“I’ve never seen his like before,” Benthie murmured, watching the little colt run and kick about his human brother. His tiny sharp hooves came close to the baby’s head, but never once did they touch him- it was obviously a game to Pegs, meant to entertain Chrys, who laughed delightedly the whole while. Unfortunately, whenever Pegs stamped too hard, a tiny spring would form, resulting in his twin spending much of his time half-soaked. The wings looked less stubby and pathetic now that they’d dried, and the gray down on them suggested that one day they would be covered in feathers.
“A winged horse,” Benthie continued. “Truly he is marvelous and unique, and likely to draw attention. He’ll need protection more powerful than I alone can give him.”
In the end they decided he must be taken to a far-off mountain, where the muses dwelt.
“They are kin to me, and can pass him off as one of their idle creations,” Benthie had explained. “They are greatly favored by the king of gods, and none would dare offend them. Also, they take a certain delight in pulling a fast one over on those they deem too serious.” And certainly few were more serious than the gray-eyed goddess.
The only problem was Pegs. He, being a foal (and of divine parentage, at that), was shockingly mature for his few days of age; he understood perfectly well they were going to separate him from his brother- and he did not like it. He hunkered down over the baby and bared his teeth when they came close, daring them to bring a finger within striking distance. Chrys, for his part, babbled contentedly and patted at his brother’s legs.
“Oh Benthie,” wept Sthenie, stroking the little golden snake that was all they had left of Meddie. “It breakth my heart to give them away! And tho much worthe that they mutht be divided! When our parenth gave uth up, at leatht we had each other!” Eurie, who was re-wrapping the snake’s stump of a tail, shook her head to keep tears at bay.
“It’th the only way to keep you thafe, Pegth! Jutht becauthe your mother ith dead won’t keep thothe horrible heroeth from coming back around- ath far ath they’re contherned, there are thtill two monsterth to thlay. And the moment they thet eyeth on you, they’ll take you by forthe! And then you’ll be theparated from Chryth with no hope of ever theeing him again! At leatht thith way we’ll know where both of you are, and thomeday, when you’re grown, you can be together again.”
Pegs snorted at this, but relaxed his stance ever so slightly.
“Little one,” Benthie coaxed, “Sometimes we must sacrifice our own momentary happiness for a deeper, harder to perceive happiness- the happiness of knowing one you love is safe. Can you not do that for Chrys?”
Pegs drooped, and stepped aside. Benthie reached up a transparent hand and ran it over his muzzle.
“It will be alright, Pegs. You’ll find him again someday. Or he will find you. He won’t remember, so you must remember for him.” The colt whinnied sadly as Benthie took his brother into her arms, and lipped at the baby’s fat arm. Chrys gurgled in reply.
“Sthenie, Eurie- look after Pegs for a few days more. Once I’ve delivered Chrys to his new parents, I’ll return for him. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Oh, we’ll thtay away from trouble,” Eurie said grimly, flexing her talons, “Ath long ath it thtays away from uth.” Sthenie nodded her agreement.
“Yeth- we aren’t the innothent maidenth we onthe were.”
Weeping bitterly, the twins gathered up what was left of Meddie (including the little mutilated golden snake) and bore it down to the sea, where Benthie had appeared just moments before. When the nymph saw the remains of her friend, a terrible storm rose up about her, and she screamed her grief and rage to the skies.
Suddenly she stopped, a wild look in her eyes.
“Give her to me!” Benthie said, surging as far out of the water as she could. The twins, confused by her urgency, hesitated. “Give her to me!” she shrieked. “I might still save the children!” Quickly, but with as much gentleness as they could, they placed the still-warm body in the water- trying not to notice the way the blood swirled out from the neck. Benthie immediately slashed the abdomen open, ignoring the cries of distress from the twins. There in the exposed womb, curled snugly around one another, were two little forms, neither of which moved.
“Oh little cousins,” the nymph moaned, and pulled them out, still entwined. Sthenie and Eurie could see that one was a perfectly formed little boy, with hair as golden as his mother’s had been- the other was a delicate foal, blood-smeared wing-stumps folded tightly to its gray flanks. They watched, dumbfounded, as Benthie cleared out the children’s mouths, and then slapped each one firmly on its back. Infant wails soon filled the air.
“You shall be called Chrys,” she crooned through her tears to the boy. “And you,” she turned to the foal, whom she’d placed on the sand. He was struggling up onto his spindly little legs, wing-stumps trembling with effort. “You we shall call Pegs.”
And they did.
***
After long discussion, the three women decided that the safest thing for the children was to separate them, the better to hide them from the war goddess’s continued wrath (for it was well known that gods had a tendency to visit punishment unto many generations of whoever they felt had trespassed against them). Chrys they could easily foster out to a mortal couple, but Pegs presented more of a problem.
“I’ve never seen his like before,” Benthie murmured, watching the little colt run and kick about his human brother. His tiny sharp hooves came close to the baby’s head, but never once did they touch him- it was obviously a game to Pegs, meant to entertain Chrys, who laughed delightedly the whole while. Unfortunately, whenever Pegs stamped too hard, a tiny spring would form, resulting in his twin spending much of his time half-soaked. The wings looked less stubby and pathetic now that they’d dried, and the gray down on them suggested that one day they would be covered in feathers.
“A winged horse,” Benthie continued. “Truly he is marvelous and unique, and likely to draw attention. He’ll need protection more powerful than I alone can give him.”
In the end they decided he must be taken to a far-off mountain, where the muses dwelt.
“They are kin to me, and can pass him off as one of their idle creations,” Benthie had explained. “They are greatly favored by the king of gods, and none would dare offend them. Also, they take a certain delight in pulling a fast one over on those they deem too serious.” And certainly few were more serious than the gray-eyed goddess.
The only problem was Pegs. He, being a foal (and of divine parentage, at that), was shockingly mature for his few days of age; he understood perfectly well they were going to separate him from his brother- and he did not like it. He hunkered down over the baby and bared his teeth when they came close, daring them to bring a finger within striking distance. Chrys, for his part, babbled contentedly and patted at his brother’s legs.
“Oh Benthie,” wept Sthenie, stroking the little golden snake that was all they had left of Meddie. “It breakth my heart to give them away! And tho much worthe that they mutht be divided! When our parenth gave uth up, at leatht we had each other!” Eurie, who was re-wrapping the snake’s stump of a tail, shook her head to keep tears at bay.
“It’th the only way to keep you thafe, Pegth! Jutht becauthe your mother ith dead won’t keep thothe horrible heroeth from coming back around- ath far ath they’re contherned, there are thtill two monsterth to thlay. And the moment they thet eyeth on you, they’ll take you by forthe! And then you’ll be theparated from Chryth with no hope of ever theeing him again! At leatht thith way we’ll know where both of you are, and thomeday, when you’re grown, you can be together again.”
Pegs snorted at this, but relaxed his stance ever so slightly.
“Little one,” Benthie coaxed, “Sometimes we must sacrifice our own momentary happiness for a deeper, harder to perceive happiness- the happiness of knowing one you love is safe. Can you not do that for Chrys?”
Pegs drooped, and stepped aside. Benthie reached up a transparent hand and ran it over his muzzle.
“It will be alright, Pegs. You’ll find him again someday. Or he will find you. He won’t remember, so you must remember for him.” The colt whinnied sadly as Benthie took his brother into her arms, and lipped at the baby’s fat arm. Chrys gurgled in reply.
“Sthenie, Eurie- look after Pegs for a few days more. Once I’ve delivered Chrys to his new parents, I’ll return for him. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Oh, we’ll thtay away from trouble,” Eurie said grimly, flexing her talons, “Ath long ath it thtays away from uth.” Sthenie nodded her agreement.
“Yeth- we aren’t the innothent maidenth we onthe were.”
1.29.2010
Brothers, Pt III
As the months passed their collection of violent-looking statues began to outnumber them, and Sthenie and Eurie took great pleasure in arranging the stone men in disgraceful poses. The twins had grown accustom to their half-serpent forms, and were now quite graceful, sometimes even using their wings to raise themselves above the ground for short spans. Meddie, on the other hand, was growing quite large and clumsy. She spent as much time as she could floating in the ocean, the only place where she felt at peace. Her handsome god never reappeared- but then, she didn’t really expect him to. They were so capricious, those great ones.
She only ever let her tears mingle with the seawater, so that her sisters would not see them on her face.
One clear evening while she was floating a head popped up in the water next to her. Meddie, taken by surprise, thrashed about awkwardly before managing to cover her eyes. Her hair snakes writhed in confusion, and one of them attempted to hide in her ear. The other head giggled.
“It’s okay,” said a light, fluting voice. “You can’t hurt me. I’m not made of flesh.” Meddie peeped out from between her fingers. Sure enough, the head appeared to be formed entirely of clear, shining water- a feminine head of great delicacy and beauty. The girl smiled, and dimples appeared in her transparent cheeks.
“I’m Benthie ,” she said, “And you must be Keto’s daughter.”
“Yes,” Meddie responded, letting her hands drop and wondering why so many of the immortals of the world seemed to be concerned with the offspring of her monstrous mother. Her hair-snakes lifted in curiosity. “My name is Meddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Meddie. I’ve come to be your friend.”
And it was as simple as that.
***
Every few days Benthie would make an appearance near the caves- although of course she could not leave the water. She was so sweet and nurturing, so utterly charming that Meddie could not help but love her- and the twins did, as well. She was a strange combination of sister, mother, and friend to them all, and they bloomed in the radiance of her affections. It provided a much-welcomed contrast to the increasing number of hostile young “heroes” that kept popping up. It reminded all of them that they were not really monsters, for what monster would enjoy such simple things as sharing hot fish chowder, or giggling over girlish jokes, or singing nonsense songs to the child growing in Meddie’s womb? And Benthie turned out to be a wonderful midwife, full of knowledge pertaining to all things pregnancy and birth related. She always had some piece of advice or an herbal concoction to soothe Meddie’s stomach, and the girl began to be far less afraid of what would happen to her when the baby decided to be born. Gods-children births were notoriously hard on the mothers, after all- often fatal for both parties.
It was Benthie, too, who came up with the idea of training Meddie to function like a blind person.
“You need to get used to moving about using your other senses. Your gaze doesn’t hurt me or your sisters, but there’s no guarantee that it won’t hurt your little one- and I’m certain that’s an experiment you don’t wish to conduct.”
Meddie was horrified- she’d never even considered the fact that looking at her newborn child was a potential death-sentence. She immediately began wearing an eye-mask that her sisters fashioned for her from discarded packs, and she devoted many hours of every day to learning to navigate without sight. Such was her determination to protect her baby that she made amazingly swift progress, and could soon maneuver through the caves in utter darkness.
One evening, as she was practicing dodging waves by the sounds they made, Benthie brought up something else that had never occurred to her.
“You know, Meddie, you’re awfully gigantic. And even tho’ I know you have monstrous heritage, and it’s entirely possible that your little one will have some… interesting traits, I am fairly certain that it’s not a little one you’re carrying. I’m pretty sure it’s a little two.”
Meddie froze, and cold water rushed up to swirl around her ankles. Her hands moved protectively over her belly, and in response someone’s limb gave a particularly forceful jab.
“Oh my,” she finally said, but she didn’t deny it. The moment she heard the words, she knew. There were two little lives sharing space within her body, just as Sthenie and Eurie had once shared Keto’s womb.
“I mention this not only to prevent surprise at the birth,” Benthie continued, “But also because twins have a habit of coming earlier than singles. Which means that rather than two months left in your pregnancy, you may have as little as one.”
“Oh my,” Meddie repeated, and plopped down, breathless, in the surf.
***
Meddie was exhausted.
Her body had been rippling for twelve hours, but true labor (as Benthie had once described it to her) had still not yet begun. To make matters worse, Benthie herself was nowhere to be found- a fact which, while it was of mild concern to Meddie, the twins found absolutely terrifying. They kept rushing in and out of the caves to look for her, hopping and fluttering in their agitation. It might have been funny if Meddie were not so very tired, and so desperately wanting some quiet so she could sleep. Even her hair-snakes had curled up tightly against her skull, trying to hide in their own coils.
Finally, using her best Big Sister voice, she gave her sisters tasks.
“Sthenie, you must go up into the cliffs to find me some of the bark Benthie told us about, to ease my pain. Eurie, you must go down to the sea and call for her. Maybe a passing nymph will hear you, and get her the message.”
At first they refused to leave her, but finally she convinced them that she would be fine for an hour or two- certainly the babies were in no danger of making an appearance- and moreover she promised she would leave off her eye-mask for self-defense.
“My hearing has gotten so acute- you know nothing will enter the caves without waking me, and one glance is all it will take to ensure my safety. So go! Go, go, go, because you won’t have a chance to go once my pains begin in earnest.”
Thus it was that Meddie found herself alone, and was finally able to slip into a fitful slumber.
***
It was not a noise that a normal person (or perhaps even a normal former-semi-immortal) would have noticed. It was so light, just the gentlest movement of air, but it woke Meddie immediately. She sat up, glancing around, wincing as her body gave the first shudder of a true contraction.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, although she saw no one- not even a shadow in the torches’ light. Still, she knew there was someone there. She could smell male sweat, leather, and that strange scent she had come to associate with the ‘heroes’. If pressed she would have labeled it arrogance. She turned towards the empty air that- according to her ears, nose, and the air currents against her skin- should have held a figure.
“Show yourself!” she hissed, and the snakes of her hair hissed with her, fanning about her head in their most impressive aggression-display.
“Oh I think not,” came a young, laughing voice. “Although I must admit, being invisible does not seem to be nearly the advantage she assured me it would be.”
Meddie wrapped her arms about her middle, glaring as hard as she could. Even if she couldn’t actually see him, if she could get him to accidently catch her eye she might add another statue to the collection. Her sisters would probably be delighted by an invisible statue.
She heard the sound of a sword being drawn, and her blood went cold.
“What do you want?” she demanded, panic rising. Her gaze was her only defense- without it there was nothing she could do to protect her babies- not even run, with her body in spasms. For the first time she found herself wishing that the grey-eyed goddess had cursed her with the same fangs and talons she’d given to the twins.
“Oh, it’s not what I want,” the young man said in a conversational tone. He seemed to have moved closer, although she had heard no footsteps. “If this were about what I wanted I certainly wouldn’t be here, in this filthy little cave. I’d be fishing the open sea, or- better yet- I’d be sitting by my true father’s side, enjoying my rights as his natural son. But no, instead here I am, carrying out the whim of that stupid tyrant who only wants to sleep with my mother and doesn’t have the stones to do it while I’m around. But just you wait- I have plans for him.”
During this speech Meddie had scootched herself as far up against the cavern wall as she could. Now she glanced surreptitiously about for a rock to throw.
“If you hate him so much, why do his bidding?” She reasoned, fingers closing about a likely-looking stone.
“I’m not,” came the petulant reply. “He only thinks I am. I told you, I have plans-“
Just then Meddie flung the rock with all the force she could muster right where she guessed his nose should be.
Clang!
“Hey!” screeched the youth. Then he laughed, and Meddie’s stomach sank. “Not bad for a swollen old monster. Too bad for you I’ve got this excellent helm.
"And now I think we’re done talking.”
She only ever let her tears mingle with the seawater, so that her sisters would not see them on her face.
One clear evening while she was floating a head popped up in the water next to her. Meddie, taken by surprise, thrashed about awkwardly before managing to cover her eyes. Her hair snakes writhed in confusion, and one of them attempted to hide in her ear. The other head giggled.
“It’s okay,” said a light, fluting voice. “You can’t hurt me. I’m not made of flesh.” Meddie peeped out from between her fingers. Sure enough, the head appeared to be formed entirely of clear, shining water- a feminine head of great delicacy and beauty. The girl smiled, and dimples appeared in her transparent cheeks.
“I’m Benthie ,” she said, “And you must be Keto’s daughter.”
“Yes,” Meddie responded, letting her hands drop and wondering why so many of the immortals of the world seemed to be concerned with the offspring of her monstrous mother. Her hair-snakes lifted in curiosity. “My name is Meddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Meddie. I’ve come to be your friend.”
And it was as simple as that.
***
Every few days Benthie would make an appearance near the caves- although of course she could not leave the water. She was so sweet and nurturing, so utterly charming that Meddie could not help but love her- and the twins did, as well. She was a strange combination of sister, mother, and friend to them all, and they bloomed in the radiance of her affections. It provided a much-welcomed contrast to the increasing number of hostile young “heroes” that kept popping up. It reminded all of them that they were not really monsters, for what monster would enjoy such simple things as sharing hot fish chowder, or giggling over girlish jokes, or singing nonsense songs to the child growing in Meddie’s womb? And Benthie turned out to be a wonderful midwife, full of knowledge pertaining to all things pregnancy and birth related. She always had some piece of advice or an herbal concoction to soothe Meddie’s stomach, and the girl began to be far less afraid of what would happen to her when the baby decided to be born. Gods-children births were notoriously hard on the mothers, after all- often fatal for both parties.
It was Benthie, too, who came up with the idea of training Meddie to function like a blind person.
“You need to get used to moving about using your other senses. Your gaze doesn’t hurt me or your sisters, but there’s no guarantee that it won’t hurt your little one- and I’m certain that’s an experiment you don’t wish to conduct.”
Meddie was horrified- she’d never even considered the fact that looking at her newborn child was a potential death-sentence. She immediately began wearing an eye-mask that her sisters fashioned for her from discarded packs, and she devoted many hours of every day to learning to navigate without sight. Such was her determination to protect her baby that she made amazingly swift progress, and could soon maneuver through the caves in utter darkness.
One evening, as she was practicing dodging waves by the sounds they made, Benthie brought up something else that had never occurred to her.
“You know, Meddie, you’re awfully gigantic. And even tho’ I know you have monstrous heritage, and it’s entirely possible that your little one will have some… interesting traits, I am fairly certain that it’s not a little one you’re carrying. I’m pretty sure it’s a little two.”
Meddie froze, and cold water rushed up to swirl around her ankles. Her hands moved protectively over her belly, and in response someone’s limb gave a particularly forceful jab.
“Oh my,” she finally said, but she didn’t deny it. The moment she heard the words, she knew. There were two little lives sharing space within her body, just as Sthenie and Eurie had once shared Keto’s womb.
“I mention this not only to prevent surprise at the birth,” Benthie continued, “But also because twins have a habit of coming earlier than singles. Which means that rather than two months left in your pregnancy, you may have as little as one.”
“Oh my,” Meddie repeated, and plopped down, breathless, in the surf.
***
Meddie was exhausted.
Her body had been rippling for twelve hours, but true labor (as Benthie had once described it to her) had still not yet begun. To make matters worse, Benthie herself was nowhere to be found- a fact which, while it was of mild concern to Meddie, the twins found absolutely terrifying. They kept rushing in and out of the caves to look for her, hopping and fluttering in their agitation. It might have been funny if Meddie were not so very tired, and so desperately wanting some quiet so she could sleep. Even her hair-snakes had curled up tightly against her skull, trying to hide in their own coils.
Finally, using her best Big Sister voice, she gave her sisters tasks.
“Sthenie, you must go up into the cliffs to find me some of the bark Benthie told us about, to ease my pain. Eurie, you must go down to the sea and call for her. Maybe a passing nymph will hear you, and get her the message.”
At first they refused to leave her, but finally she convinced them that she would be fine for an hour or two- certainly the babies were in no danger of making an appearance- and moreover she promised she would leave off her eye-mask for self-defense.
“My hearing has gotten so acute- you know nothing will enter the caves without waking me, and one glance is all it will take to ensure my safety. So go! Go, go, go, because you won’t have a chance to go once my pains begin in earnest.”
Thus it was that Meddie found herself alone, and was finally able to slip into a fitful slumber.
***
It was not a noise that a normal person (or perhaps even a normal former-semi-immortal) would have noticed. It was so light, just the gentlest movement of air, but it woke Meddie immediately. She sat up, glancing around, wincing as her body gave the first shudder of a true contraction.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, although she saw no one- not even a shadow in the torches’ light. Still, she knew there was someone there. She could smell male sweat, leather, and that strange scent she had come to associate with the ‘heroes’. If pressed she would have labeled it arrogance. She turned towards the empty air that- according to her ears, nose, and the air currents against her skin- should have held a figure.
“Show yourself!” she hissed, and the snakes of her hair hissed with her, fanning about her head in their most impressive aggression-display.
“Oh I think not,” came a young, laughing voice. “Although I must admit, being invisible does not seem to be nearly the advantage she assured me it would be.”
Meddie wrapped her arms about her middle, glaring as hard as she could. Even if she couldn’t actually see him, if she could get him to accidently catch her eye she might add another statue to the collection. Her sisters would probably be delighted by an invisible statue.
She heard the sound of a sword being drawn, and her blood went cold.
“What do you want?” she demanded, panic rising. Her gaze was her only defense- without it there was nothing she could do to protect her babies- not even run, with her body in spasms. For the first time she found herself wishing that the grey-eyed goddess had cursed her with the same fangs and talons she’d given to the twins.
“Oh, it’s not what I want,” the young man said in a conversational tone. He seemed to have moved closer, although she had heard no footsteps. “If this were about what I wanted I certainly wouldn’t be here, in this filthy little cave. I’d be fishing the open sea, or- better yet- I’d be sitting by my true father’s side, enjoying my rights as his natural son. But no, instead here I am, carrying out the whim of that stupid tyrant who only wants to sleep with my mother and doesn’t have the stones to do it while I’m around. But just you wait- I have plans for him.”
During this speech Meddie had scootched herself as far up against the cavern wall as she could. Now she glanced surreptitiously about for a rock to throw.
“If you hate him so much, why do his bidding?” She reasoned, fingers closing about a likely-looking stone.
“I’m not,” came the petulant reply. “He only thinks I am. I told you, I have plans-“
Just then Meddie flung the rock with all the force she could muster right where she guessed his nose should be.
Clang!
“Hey!” screeched the youth. Then he laughed, and Meddie’s stomach sank. “Not bad for a swollen old monster. Too bad for you I’ve got this excellent helm.
"And now I think we’re done talking.”
1.28.2010
Brothers, Pt II
It didn’t take long for the first of the heroes to show up.
Sthenie and Eurie were too ashamed of their new forms to show themselves, and Meddie (after several unfortunate, miserable accidents with the surrounding wildlife) had learned it was best for her to stick to shadows. Thus it was, when they heard a young man hallooing at the mouth of their caves, none of them rushed forward to greet him.
“Halloo!” His voice was getting nearer.
It was Meddie who finally responded. The fangs that now filled the mouths of her sisters made their speech difficult to understand, so they spoke as infrequently as possible.
“What do you want?” she called from behind a stalagmite. Her voice was as cold as the stone that surrounded them, but just as beautiful as it had ever been.
“I-“ the young man sounded taken aback. “I heard… there were… monsters?”
“Not here, there aren't. Just three sisters who never hurt anyone. Now leave us alone.”
But he would not.
“Please, lady- might I not be of some assistance?” Meddie opened her mouth to spurn his offer, but immediately shut it again. It was difficult for them to obtain food. She was useless at hunting, now that her gaze turned living flesh to stone, and her sisters, still not used to their legless forms, were not much better.
“Do you have any food?” she finally asked.
“I- yes? I mean- yes, I do! Of course you may have it! But- are you sure there aren’t any monsters you need me to slay?”
“No monsters,” she said firmly. “If you truly wish to help, you will leave the food and go.” Suddenly, inspiration struck- “My sisters are ill, and it is not wise for you to be here.”
“I could bring you medicine!” he declared. She sighed.
“There is no medicine you could bring us that would help. Only a god can heal them.”
“Then I shall petition the gods for you!”
“Yes, yes, go do that. But leave the food.” She heard rustling, then the sound of a pack hitting the ground.
“I shall return, my lady! You need not languish in exile forever!”
“Wonderful,” she rolled her eyes. As soon as she heard his footsteps receding, she emerged. Sthenie and Eurie did the same, giggling.
“You’re tho mean!” Eurie said, and Meddie’s heart gave a squeeze. It was the first time either of them had smiled since they’d been cursed.
“Do you really think he’ll find a way to help uth?” Sthenie asked wistfully.
“I really hope he doesn’t petition the war goddess,” she replied grimly, and reached down to pick up the pack. “Although I suppose she’s the one we have to thank for rumors of monsters circulating amongst the mortals.” She dug a bit and produced strips of dried meat, handed them to her sisters. Further rummaging produced a few soft apples, and a heel of hard bread. At the bottom, carefully wrapped, was a bit of still-soft cheese. It was a veritable feast compared to the seaweed, eggs, and few small fish her sisters had been catching. The sisters soon devoured it all of it. Meddie tried to make sure the twins got larger portions, but they ganged up on her and forced her to take the largest.
“You’re eating for two, Meddie!” they insisted, with affectionate glances towards her rounded abdomen. “We’re thtill immortal- a little leth won’t hurt uth. But your baby needth all the food you can give it!”
***
Other heroes came, and Meddie managed to get food out of them, as well. Usually she could get them to leave their packs and go without too much trouble, but every once in a while she ran into a stubborn one. Some of these were foolish enough to come into the cave, and eventually one caught sight of Eurie. He cried out in revulsion, and then made the mistake of taking out his sword and lunging towards her. Meddie, who had never considered herself particularly brave, found that when it came to people threatening her little sisters, she had no fear- and absolutely no mercy. She leapt in between the so-called hero and her cringing sister (who had somehow managed to get tangled in her own tail) and fixed him with a furious stare, snake-hair hissing. His face twisted in terror before he turned to stone- so swiftly that his arm was still upraised to strike.
Meddie found she didn’t feel the tiniest bit sorry for the man, either- although she did regret that his food had changed along with him.
Sthenie and Eurie were too ashamed of their new forms to show themselves, and Meddie (after several unfortunate, miserable accidents with the surrounding wildlife) had learned it was best for her to stick to shadows. Thus it was, when they heard a young man hallooing at the mouth of their caves, none of them rushed forward to greet him.
“Halloo!” His voice was getting nearer.
It was Meddie who finally responded. The fangs that now filled the mouths of her sisters made their speech difficult to understand, so they spoke as infrequently as possible.
“What do you want?” she called from behind a stalagmite. Her voice was as cold as the stone that surrounded them, but just as beautiful as it had ever been.
“I-“ the young man sounded taken aback. “I heard… there were… monsters?”
“Not here, there aren't. Just three sisters who never hurt anyone. Now leave us alone.”
But he would not.
“Please, lady- might I not be of some assistance?” Meddie opened her mouth to spurn his offer, but immediately shut it again. It was difficult for them to obtain food. She was useless at hunting, now that her gaze turned living flesh to stone, and her sisters, still not used to their legless forms, were not much better.
“Do you have any food?” she finally asked.
“I- yes? I mean- yes, I do! Of course you may have it! But- are you sure there aren’t any monsters you need me to slay?”
“No monsters,” she said firmly. “If you truly wish to help, you will leave the food and go.” Suddenly, inspiration struck- “My sisters are ill, and it is not wise for you to be here.”
“I could bring you medicine!” he declared. She sighed.
“There is no medicine you could bring us that would help. Only a god can heal them.”
“Then I shall petition the gods for you!”
“Yes, yes, go do that. But leave the food.” She heard rustling, then the sound of a pack hitting the ground.
“I shall return, my lady! You need not languish in exile forever!”
“Wonderful,” she rolled her eyes. As soon as she heard his footsteps receding, she emerged. Sthenie and Eurie did the same, giggling.
“You’re tho mean!” Eurie said, and Meddie’s heart gave a squeeze. It was the first time either of them had smiled since they’d been cursed.
“Do you really think he’ll find a way to help uth?” Sthenie asked wistfully.
“I really hope he doesn’t petition the war goddess,” she replied grimly, and reached down to pick up the pack. “Although I suppose she’s the one we have to thank for rumors of monsters circulating amongst the mortals.” She dug a bit and produced strips of dried meat, handed them to her sisters. Further rummaging produced a few soft apples, and a heel of hard bread. At the bottom, carefully wrapped, was a bit of still-soft cheese. It was a veritable feast compared to the seaweed, eggs, and few small fish her sisters had been catching. The sisters soon devoured it all of it. Meddie tried to make sure the twins got larger portions, but they ganged up on her and forced her to take the largest.
“You’re eating for two, Meddie!” they insisted, with affectionate glances towards her rounded abdomen. “We’re thtill immortal- a little leth won’t hurt uth. But your baby needth all the food you can give it!”
***
Other heroes came, and Meddie managed to get food out of them, as well. Usually she could get them to leave their packs and go without too much trouble, but every once in a while she ran into a stubborn one. Some of these were foolish enough to come into the cave, and eventually one caught sight of Eurie. He cried out in revulsion, and then made the mistake of taking out his sword and lunging towards her. Meddie, who had never considered herself particularly brave, found that when it came to people threatening her little sisters, she had no fear- and absolutely no mercy. She leapt in between the so-called hero and her cringing sister (who had somehow managed to get tangled in her own tail) and fixed him with a furious stare, snake-hair hissing. His face twisted in terror before he turned to stone- so swiftly that his arm was still upraised to strike.
Meddie found she didn’t feel the tiniest bit sorry for the man, either- although she did regret that his food had changed along with him.
1.26.2010
Brothers, Pt I
(Author's note: again, this is more of a prelude to the actual story I have in mind, which struck me like a bolt of lightning today. It just so happened to segue beautifully from a story idea I've had for ages, so I'm combining the two into the following...)
Once upon a time, there were three beautiful maidens with hair of shining gold. To say they were immortal would be stretching it a bit (in spite of their divine parentage) but they certainly weren’t quite mortal, either. The three sisters loved one another very much, and the eldest, Meddie, although by nature somewhat shy, was fiercely protective of the younger two, who were twins called Sthenie and Eurie.
The maidens, having been left to their own devices by their parents (god-monsters not generally being well-equipped to nurture), had entered in to service at the temple of a wise but temperamental goddess. The goddess was a sworn virgin, and she expected as much of her temple-maidens. This was not as great a burden on the girls as you might have thought- in large part because there were no men around to tempt them.
At least, no mortal men.
It just so happened that the temple was located not so far from a particularly lovely beach, and when the sisters had no other duties they enjoyed spending time there, walking the sands and splashing in the surf. On this particular afternoon, Meddie was alone, and so perhaps that is why events unfolded as they did.
“You’re Keto’s child, aren’t you?”
The voice was deep, beautiful, and absolutely resonated with power. It could only belong to a god. When Meddie turned she was surprised to see not the large and terrible form suggested by his voice, but a slim, handsome man just barely out of youth, with hair as golden as her own and even more tangled by the salt-spray. He gave her a charming smile, and her heart squeezed in her chest. She fell in love with him right then, and who can blame her? It is not every day the Earth Shaker gives his favor, especially to the daughter of a monster.
Even so, Meddie was a fairly sensible girl (oldest sisters often are) and she knew better than to fraternize with the higher gods. That way lays only heartache, and often destruction. She gave him a polite nod and tried to take her leave, but he would have none of it.
“Where are you going, daughter of Keto? Surely you can make time for your mother’s friend?”
“I have to go now,” she insisted. “I have duties at the temple.”
“But you’ll return?” he pleaded. “I will see you again?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to ignore the way her blood was surging towards him, strong and inevitable as the tide.
“I’ll see you again,” he drawled, but she turned and fled before he could say any more.
***
He did see her again, for in spite of all her best intentions she returned to the shore the next day, in the company of her sisters. He saw her, but she did not see him, for he did not appear while they were about. A full week passed without her seeing him, and Meddie began to grow ill with longing. She hated herself for the weakness, but could not help it, and when the moon shone full in her window that night, she slipped down to the sea, certain he would appear if she was alone.
When she reached the sand she found it glowing silver against the stark black and white of the surf- beautiful, but empty. She sunk to her knees, feeling more foolish than she had in many years.
“Why so sorrowful, golden one?”
She jerked her head up and there he was, still dripping with ocean water.
“Surely not for me? Why, just the other day you had no time for a salty sailor. Does your heart wax and wane with the moon, then? Is it now full of love for me?” She could not answer him, but her eyes never left his. She watched in silence as they grew dark as a storm-tossed sea, and he knelt beside her.
“You will come no further, will you? I must bridge this last span myself.” So saying, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. And in that moment, Meddie lost herself completely.
***
Meddie’s handsome god was sometimes called ‘the Tamer’, which implies that he knew a thing or two about coaxing shy wild things to do his bidding. Thus it was, as the months passed, he managed to become Meddie’s lover, and in the beginning they were very careful of where and when they had their trysts. Sthenie and Eurie were not blind to their sister’s sudden blossoming into joy however, and when they confronted her on it she confessed all to them. They thrilled at the forbidden romance, and volunteered their services as diversions, should Meddie need them. At first she was reluctant to involve them, but the Earth Shaker was delighted by their devotion, and took full advantage of their enthusiastic youthful wiles.
As one might have suspected, things could not continue this way forever. One day, perhaps six months into her relationship with her handsome god, Meddie and her sisters were bathing in the temple when their goddess appeared. She took one look at Meddie’s naked form, and rage clouded her pale grey eyes.
“What. Is. That.” She demanded, pointed at Meddie’s abdomen. The girls looked down, surprised. They could see nothing out of the ordinary- perhaps her belly was a little more rounded than usual, but surely that was nothing to upset the goddess!
Oh, but surely it was. For the goddess, while herself a virgin, was not unfamiliar with the ways of the world, and she knew full well what the swelling of a womb looked like, even a womb so recently filled as this one.
When she realized what Meddie had been up to, and that her sisters had been aiding her, her anger was what one might expect from a goddess of war. She demanded to know the father- but none of them would tell her.
“This is what I get for taking on the children of monsters!” she shrieked. “I was taken in by your fair forms and seeming innocence, but this is how you repay me? With whorish betrayal? Well never again shall you trick another deity as you have me!” So saying, she flung a curse at the twins, causing their bodies to become snake-like, their teeth to become fangs, and horns to curl down from their smooth temples. From their backs sprang forth wings, and the girls wept in terror.
“Stop!” yelled Meddie, throwing herself between the angry goddess and her targets. “Leave them be! Their only crime was their love for me! If you must punish someone, let it be me!”
“Oh you will be punished,” snarled the goddess, “but I shall not be as lenient towards you as I have to them! For all that I have given them shapes more befitting their treacherous natures, I have let them keep their immortality. You, however- I vow you will die butchered like the monster you are! In the meantime, never again shall you use your face or your hair to seduce a living creature. You shall be terror and death to all who approach you: in life, and after! See if your paramour wants you now!”
With that she once again hurled a curse. Meddie’s hair began to rise with the breeze- then began to dance on its own. She heard hissing, and suddenly realized that her golden hair had become a nest of snakes. She shrieked in terror, but still did not call out for her beloved. Her two sisters, their own fates forgotten, rushed to surround her with their arms and wings. The three girls huddled down against the now raging wind, clinging to one another as anchors against the storm.
Silence descended with the suddenness of a thunder-clap. When Meddie raised her eyes she saw that they were alone on a strange and foreign shore. In the distance she saw caves, and gently she coaxed her still sobbing sisters towards them. They might be monsters in form as well as lineage now, but she had no intention of letting them come to further harm. They would collect themselves in the safety of the caves, and then they would plan.
Once upon a time, there were three beautiful maidens with hair of shining gold. To say they were immortal would be stretching it a bit (in spite of their divine parentage) but they certainly weren’t quite mortal, either. The three sisters loved one another very much, and the eldest, Meddie, although by nature somewhat shy, was fiercely protective of the younger two, who were twins called Sthenie and Eurie.
The maidens, having been left to their own devices by their parents (god-monsters not generally being well-equipped to nurture), had entered in to service at the temple of a wise but temperamental goddess. The goddess was a sworn virgin, and she expected as much of her temple-maidens. This was not as great a burden on the girls as you might have thought- in large part because there were no men around to tempt them.
At least, no mortal men.
It just so happened that the temple was located not so far from a particularly lovely beach, and when the sisters had no other duties they enjoyed spending time there, walking the sands and splashing in the surf. On this particular afternoon, Meddie was alone, and so perhaps that is why events unfolded as they did.
“You’re Keto’s child, aren’t you?”
The voice was deep, beautiful, and absolutely resonated with power. It could only belong to a god. When Meddie turned she was surprised to see not the large and terrible form suggested by his voice, but a slim, handsome man just barely out of youth, with hair as golden as her own and even more tangled by the salt-spray. He gave her a charming smile, and her heart squeezed in her chest. She fell in love with him right then, and who can blame her? It is not every day the Earth Shaker gives his favor, especially to the daughter of a monster.
Even so, Meddie was a fairly sensible girl (oldest sisters often are) and she knew better than to fraternize with the higher gods. That way lays only heartache, and often destruction. She gave him a polite nod and tried to take her leave, but he would have none of it.
“Where are you going, daughter of Keto? Surely you can make time for your mother’s friend?”
“I have to go now,” she insisted. “I have duties at the temple.”
“But you’ll return?” he pleaded. “I will see you again?”
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to ignore the way her blood was surging towards him, strong and inevitable as the tide.
“I’ll see you again,” he drawled, but she turned and fled before he could say any more.
***
He did see her again, for in spite of all her best intentions she returned to the shore the next day, in the company of her sisters. He saw her, but she did not see him, for he did not appear while they were about. A full week passed without her seeing him, and Meddie began to grow ill with longing. She hated herself for the weakness, but could not help it, and when the moon shone full in her window that night, she slipped down to the sea, certain he would appear if she was alone.
When she reached the sand she found it glowing silver against the stark black and white of the surf- beautiful, but empty. She sunk to her knees, feeling more foolish than she had in many years.
“Why so sorrowful, golden one?”
She jerked her head up and there he was, still dripping with ocean water.
“Surely not for me? Why, just the other day you had no time for a salty sailor. Does your heart wax and wane with the moon, then? Is it now full of love for me?” She could not answer him, but her eyes never left his. She watched in silence as they grew dark as a storm-tossed sea, and he knelt beside her.
“You will come no further, will you? I must bridge this last span myself.” So saying, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. And in that moment, Meddie lost herself completely.
***
Meddie’s handsome god was sometimes called ‘the Tamer’, which implies that he knew a thing or two about coaxing shy wild things to do his bidding. Thus it was, as the months passed, he managed to become Meddie’s lover, and in the beginning they were very careful of where and when they had their trysts. Sthenie and Eurie were not blind to their sister’s sudden blossoming into joy however, and when they confronted her on it she confessed all to them. They thrilled at the forbidden romance, and volunteered their services as diversions, should Meddie need them. At first she was reluctant to involve them, but the Earth Shaker was delighted by their devotion, and took full advantage of their enthusiastic youthful wiles.
As one might have suspected, things could not continue this way forever. One day, perhaps six months into her relationship with her handsome god, Meddie and her sisters were bathing in the temple when their goddess appeared. She took one look at Meddie’s naked form, and rage clouded her pale grey eyes.
“What. Is. That.” She demanded, pointed at Meddie’s abdomen. The girls looked down, surprised. They could see nothing out of the ordinary- perhaps her belly was a little more rounded than usual, but surely that was nothing to upset the goddess!
Oh, but surely it was. For the goddess, while herself a virgin, was not unfamiliar with the ways of the world, and she knew full well what the swelling of a womb looked like, even a womb so recently filled as this one.
When she realized what Meddie had been up to, and that her sisters had been aiding her, her anger was what one might expect from a goddess of war. She demanded to know the father- but none of them would tell her.
“This is what I get for taking on the children of monsters!” she shrieked. “I was taken in by your fair forms and seeming innocence, but this is how you repay me? With whorish betrayal? Well never again shall you trick another deity as you have me!” So saying, she flung a curse at the twins, causing their bodies to become snake-like, their teeth to become fangs, and horns to curl down from their smooth temples. From their backs sprang forth wings, and the girls wept in terror.
“Stop!” yelled Meddie, throwing herself between the angry goddess and her targets. “Leave them be! Their only crime was their love for me! If you must punish someone, let it be me!”
“Oh you will be punished,” snarled the goddess, “but I shall not be as lenient towards you as I have to them! For all that I have given them shapes more befitting their treacherous natures, I have let them keep their immortality. You, however- I vow you will die butchered like the monster you are! In the meantime, never again shall you use your face or your hair to seduce a living creature. You shall be terror and death to all who approach you: in life, and after! See if your paramour wants you now!”
With that she once again hurled a curse. Meddie’s hair began to rise with the breeze- then began to dance on its own. She heard hissing, and suddenly realized that her golden hair had become a nest of snakes. She shrieked in terror, but still did not call out for her beloved. Her two sisters, their own fates forgotten, rushed to surround her with their arms and wings. The three girls huddled down against the now raging wind, clinging to one another as anchors against the storm.
Silence descended with the suddenness of a thunder-clap. When Meddie raised her eyes she saw that they were alone on a strange and foreign shore. In the distance she saw caves, and gently she coaxed her still sobbing sisters towards them. They might be monsters in form as well as lineage now, but she had no intention of letting them come to further harm. They would collect themselves in the safety of the caves, and then they would plan.
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