Iphigenia

The first rays of sun illuminate the woods around the clearing, shrinking the pools of shadows that had covered the tribe’s hunters. Nelaust looks around, adjusting his eyes to see dozens of men crouched beneath the trees and in the brush. Light filters down through the trees and more appear, their nocturnal hiding spots exposed by the sun. The clearing is surrounded, dozens of spear points glinting in the sun as each group moves into their position.

Nelaust turns, checking to make sure his group had prepared themselves. His eyes land on the Phegenit. The boy is nervous, his large, round eyes dart from Nelaust and the other hunters, to the clearing, and then to the two priestesses fussing over him. They had wrapped him in a thin ceremonial cloth and smeared paint and oil on his face and chest. Nelaust and the boy’s eyes meet as the two women present him with the rings. Nelaust gives him a small smile, nodding reassuringly. The boy accepts the rings. They are made of thin metal, light and hollow, each one large enough to fit around the boy's forehead. The priestesses each kiss the boy on the top of his head, muttering prayers and thanks as they shrink back into the woods. They have played their part. Now the boy must play his.

Nelaust beckons the Phegenit to his side. The boy steps forward and follows Nelaust into the light of the clearing. The tree line ends, and the two stop a few strides in. The boy’s eyes scan the tribesmen that are scattered under the trees, a small smile creeps onto his face and he looks up at Nelaust. The nervous energy leaks from his body, he stands up straighter, sets his jaw and grips the rings tight.

His courage is impressive, the most impressive of any Phegenit that Nelaust had seen. He crouches down so that his eyes are level with the Phegenit.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” the boy responds, his eyes glistening. A tear drops into the dirt beneath him, but his lips remain a hard line, the determination as strong as ever.

“The tribe thanks you, Phegenit,” Nelaust’s words catch for a moment in his throat and he curses himself. “You shall be honored for eternity.” Nelaust stands, leaning forward and kissing the boy on the head. A tear drops onto the boy’s scalp as Nelaust straightens his back. The boy’s small smile does not waver, he nods as Nelaust turns to take his place under the trees. Nelaust wipes his eyes, moistening his forearm and takes his place among the rest of the hunters. The boy stands still for a moment, staring up into the lightening sky. Then he moves, launching his body into a dance and clanging the rings together. He begins to ululate, the sounds of his voice and the rings clashing together mingle, echoing throughout the woods.

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Arstem soars through the sky, breathing in the morning air. The sun appears in front of her, forcing her eyes to shut and her head to turn. Heat radiates through her body, her scales absorbing the sunlight from without and the fire from within. She beats her wings thrice, rising slowly into a cloud. The mist sizzles on her scales as she floats through it. She climbs over the cloud line, inhaling the cold, moist air. A rumble in her stomach sends her back down through the clouds. Trees stretch as far as she can see, so she drops down further to try to find something to eat. She stretches her claws beneath her, reaching toward the top of the trees. As the talons on her front paw brush across leaves and branches, she beats her wings once, the tips similarly brushing the tops of the trees. She levels out above the trees, the rare poking branch snapping off under her feet. She sniffs the air, trying to parse out the smell of meat under the canopy. A group of sheep, or goat, or maybe even a bear or two would greatly satisfy her hunger. Her mouth begins to water as she focuses her senses on breakfast.

A clamor below causes Arstem to jerk her head around. Behind her the sound of clashing metal and the shouting of men can be heard. She would have preferred bears, but men would have to do. Their metal scales might get caught in her throat, but her hunger could not be held off any longer. A few beats of her wings sends her higher as she scans the trees to try to pinpoint the sound. The men were always fighting each other, making it easy to track them down. The noise emanates to her left, and she turns and dives at it. The wind tears at her face as she spots a clearing, tucking her wings to move down faster. The clattering and shouting is surely emanating from the clearing. She spreads her wings to slow her descent, beats once and sees her prey. She feels a pang of disappointment, it is just one man, and a babe at that. Maybe he has kin nearby, she thinks as she moves to land. She belches fire at the babe as she hits the ground, shaking the trees around her. The babe squirms for a moment, wreathed in flame, before Arstem snaps it up. In one bite she swallows, coughing slightly at the molten metal in her throat. Suddenly, the trees erupt, screaming men pouring from the shadows. Arstem growls, excited that her meal has just grown.

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A shadow from above grows, and the beating of the dragon's wings can be heard. The tribesmen all hunker down, waiting for the signal. The clearing is darkened by the beast’s wings, but only for a moment. A shock of flame embraces the Phegenit, burning him instantly and searing the grass and trees around the clearing. The tribesmen falter, stepping backward as the ground shakes. The beast lands, swallowing the Phegenit’s burned corpse before it can hit the ground.

Time seems to freeze as Nelaust truly sees the beast before him. Even crouched, it is as tall as three men, its legs pressed under it, as thick as tree trunks. Muscles pulse under the deep dark scales that cover its body. Its wings, tucked on its back, could each cover more than a dozen men when outstretched. Its long neck begins to stretch toward the sky, bringing Nelaust back to reality.

“Now!” Nelaust screams, pistoning up and running into the clearing. From all around the clearing the men burst into action, howling like wolves. Shouts of “Attack!” and “For the Phegenit!” emanate from around the clearing. The dragon’s head jerks around and it growls as the men close on it. A blast of flame absorbs a group of men in front of it, and its wings begin to stretch.

“Ropes!” bellows Nelaust. The call is picked up by other tribesmen. The men haul their ropes forward, tossing them with all their strength over the dragon’s back. Its tail whips around, sweeping men off their feet, while on the other side of the clearing it snaps and spits fire at another group trying to distract it. Their distraction holds the beast’s attention for only as long as it takes to engulf them in flame. But that is enough. A heavy rope lands three strides from Nelaust, who jumps at it, calling for help. All around him groups of men are launching and catching ropes, straining to keep the beast from escaping. Its head swivels, snapping at another group of men who have moved to distract it. They poke and prod at it with spears, howling as they try to dodge its teeth and blasts of fire.

Nelaust grips the rope, pulling with all of his might to try to keep the beast down. The rope is too thick for his hands to reach fully around and it’s been soaking in water for days, to prevent the dragon’s heat from fraying it. Nelaust’s hands start to slip, but three men move from behind him to help. Some of the ropes have begun to fray and snap over the spikes on the dragon’s back, but the tribe holds the beast down. Three ropes have been fastened over its neck, keeping the flaming maw of the beast away from most of the men. The beast shrieks, a piercing sound that chills the tribesmen to their bones. A steady stream of flame erupts from its mouth, putting whole sections of the forest to death.

The men strain against the beast trying to wriggle free from under the ropes. Some of them start to fray and snap, causing the men holding them to fall backwards.

“Spears!” shouts Nelaust. A dozen men break from the trees behind him, followed by the priestesses, chanting prayers. The men carry huge spears, as tall as a man and a half, tipped with dark metal. They charge at the dragon’s head from the side, slowing as they near it. The dragon is still spitting fire and snapping its jaws, shifting slightly as it fights against the ropes over its neck. The men begin to clamber onto the beast’s head. A few fall off and one is impaled through the eye by a spike on the neck of the dragon. The rope slips through Nelaust’s hands as he is distracted. Cursing, he grapes higher on the rope and yanks down. Two spearmen have by now gained traction on the head of the beast, gripping spikes as the beast tries to throw them off. The priestesses' chant grows louder as the spearmen brandish their weapons. One leans forward gripping his spear in one hand, but tumbles forward onto the dragon's snout. The beast wriggles and the man falls in front of it. Flames swallow him whole and he dies, wordlessly. The other man leans forward, still gripping a spike at the top of the beast’s head. He howls a warcry and plunges the spear downward, directly into the dragon’s eye. The spear goes in all the way, only a small handhold peeking out from the beast’s eye.

The dragon lets out another shriek, a small ball of fire burps from each nostril and it shudders. The tension in Nelaust’s rope evaporates as the dragon’s corpse sags. All around the corpse the tribesmen fall to the ground. Small fires burn in the forest and the smell of burning grass and flesh and brush is thick in the air. Wails and whimpers echo throughout the clearing. Nelaust lies back, looking up at the sun overhead. The image of the Phegenit pops into his head.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the air.

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“To the Phegenit!” a cheer goes up through the hall. Mugs clatter against each other and massive platters of dragon are passed around. A platter is passed to Memnet and she passes it across the table, repulsed at the steaming pile of charred meat. All she can think about is her son. Her son that never got a name, her son that was raised to be killed, her son that gave the entire tribe life.

The hall is dimly lit by a handful of braziers, long tables filling the low room that was already full of smoke and sweat. The men had come back from the ritual not two hours ago, and the dragon had been butchered and cooked within that time. The smell of cooked dragon, harsh and smoky, made Memnet feel sick. She remembered the last feast, five years ago. That dragon had been delicious, the firewine that was mixed from its acid had pleasantly burned the back of her throat with each of the several mugs she drank. Yet, she had now lost all interest in the meat and wine, all interest in the festival, and sorrow smothered her entire being.

“You should eat something, Memnet,” her husband, Temnest, leans over and whispers into her ear. His hands rest on hers and she lifts her eyes to meet his. Through the blur of her tears, she can see his eyes glistening, a sad smile on his face. He reaches out and wipes a tear from her cheek.

“No.” Memnet takes her hand out from under her husband’s and pats him on the arm. “This can not go on, Temnest,” she said, setting her jaw and drying her eyes. “Our son is dead, and for this,” she gestured around to the feast. “They gorge themselves on the beast that ate our child, and arm themselves with the claws that ripped him apart. How long can this go on? How many of our children have to die?” Temnest looks around, worried that someone might hear her. At the table around them a few people start to nervously glance in their direction.

“Memnet, please!” hisses Temnest. “Quiet down.” She turns away from him, glowering. Temnest turns toward the table in front of him and takes a small sip of his wine. Across the table, someone leans forward and pats Memnet on her hand. She looks up, wiping her eyes. She can feel Temnest’s entire body tensing next to her. Kernet, one of the village women, is leaning across the table, trying to put on a comforting smile.

“Know that you are not alone, Memnet,” she says. “Many of us have had enough of this barbaric tradition. Why should we fear our child being selected to be the next Phegenit. It is not fair.” Kernet gestures to a few of the villagers sitting on the bench next to her, husbands and wives sit staring at Memnet with solemn, hard looks on their faces.

“What is there to do?” Temnest whispers, leaning into toward Kernet and the others. Memnet stares down at her plate, trying to ignore Kernet. “The dragon sustains the entire village, we don’t know how to live without it.”

“We do not know,” Kernet sits back and breathes out a sigh. “This is all any of us have ever known. Even the elders have never lived without a Phegenit being sacrificed.” Memnet lets out a small whimper, memories of her beautiful boy flowing through her. She clamps down her lips and hurriedly wipes her eyes. Another villager leans in toward Memnet and Temnest, Zellart.

“If we can make the others see-” Zellart is cut off by a clattering of mugs and fists at the head table. The hall quiets and attention is brought on Calchet, the village leader.

“This bountiful feast was brought to us through the sacrifice of many men.” A soft murmur ripples through the crowd. “But no sacrifice is more noble than that of the Phegenit!” A much louder cheer erupts, taken up by almost everyone but the members of Memnet’s table, who only lightly clap. “Will the mother-” Calchet leans down and Nelaust whispers something into his ear.

“Will Memnet join me here at the high table?!” Calchet raises his mug and the villagers begin to chant Memnet’s name. Temnest nudges her and she reluctantly stands. Her head swims as she moves through the hall, tears start to fill her eyes again. The faces of the villagers blur together as she moves through the tables. She climbs the three steps and reaches Calchet, who wraps her in a hug. She stiffens at his touch, and he turns her to face the crowd. A cheer erupts through the hall as Calchet grips her wrist and holds it up, laughing. She wipes her eyes with the other hand, grimacing as Calchet yanks her arm around. Looking back at her table, her eyes meet Temnest’s, who gives her a small encouraging smile. She scans over to Kernet, who nods solemnly.

“The Phegenit’s mother!” Calchet calls out with a final pump of Memnet’s limp arm. Another wave of cheers rolls over the crowd, and Nelaust moves from behind the table to stand behind Calchet. Memnet’s hand drops to her sides.

“Memnet,” Nelaust hands a wrapped parcel to Calchet, who presents it to Memnet. “For your sacrifice, the village thanks you.” Memnet looks down at the parcel, knowing what it contained, but having no wish to accept. She looks up at Calchet, her arms remaining at her side. His broad smile wavers for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure. He starts to unwrap the package and pulls out the two items enclosed.

“To the Phegenit’s mother, we gift you these spoils of the ritual.” He holds out a long, black blade. Memnet knows what it is without having to look at it. For as long as she knew, the mother of the Phegenit was given the largest claw and scale from the dead dragon, as a trophy. Calchet tries to press the claw into Memnet’s hands, but she does not move.

“No.” It doesn’t seem like Memnet had said the word, but it came out nonetheless. She looks up into Calchet’s eyes, his face slackening at her refusal.

“Wh.. what do you mean, no?” Calchet mutters, a hard look making its way onto his face. Memnet takes a deep breath and stares back at Calchet, feeling a strength flow through her body.

“Fuck your gift,” she says sternly. The hall falls quiet, only a few murmurs passing through the villagers. “You think this is sufficient payment for my son’s life!” She slaps the claw out of Calchet’s limp hands. It clatters to the ground, silencing the crowd completely.

“This ritual, this barbaric, evil ritual, has claimed my son, and you think to mend my broken heart with the claw that killed him!” Her voice steadily rises, rage and venom leaking into her throat.

“You mark my child for death as soon as he is born, force me to raise him, to love him, knowing that I will have to send him into the maw of a beast, and you think that I will allow this because you give me some measly prize!” She spins to face the crowd. “You all support this. Eat the meat of the beast, drink the wine of its stomach and cheer at the death of my son! No! This can not go on!” She turns toward the table that Kernet and Temnest are sitting at, trying to meet her husband’s gaze. Not one eye rises to meet her’s. She falters for a moment. Would they not support her? Her legs begin to shake and she drops to her knees. Tears fill her eyes and she begins to sob uncontrollably.

"No!" Memnet wails. "This is not fair!" A small laugh comes from the crowd and slowly grows. Jeers start to fly toward Memnet, but she can’t care. Her sobs grow louder, filling her ears and she starts to shake.

“Are you done with your blasphemy?” barks Calchet, laughing and grabbing her by the hair. He yanks her up to face the crowd, but she only sees her tears.

"Blasphemer!" Someone howls from the crowd. A mug is thrown at Memnet. More shouts of anger fly at her.

"Kill the blasphemer!" Howls a villager. From behind her, Memnet can hear Calchet laughing through her sobs. Cold metal presses against her throat, and her sobs are cut off. The skin of her neck parts and blood flows out, covering her chest within seconds. A smile erupts onto her face and a gurgling laugh bubbles out as she hits the ground. The hall erupts in cheers as Calchet drops her lifeless body.

“To the Phegenit!” he calls out, raising his glass.