Reflection

The lake seemed edged in pure white marble, so boldly did the sand and stone shine in the bright day. So simple a thing, and so out of place in this meadow. He had passed through here on many a day, yet he could not recall seeing this.

A mirage, perhaps? It would be natural, when the sun stole the very moisture from his breath. His throat felt ripe to crack, and his inside might soon dry up. The wind would lift what remained to Elysium--or perhaps back to Father’s river. Born anew into the godly form that waited beneath this skin.

The gentle shimmer of that water tempted him sorely. He should not answer that siren’s call. He, who knew full well the power of the gods, and how they could choose to lure a man. The old prophet had warned his mother of a threat to the length of his life. Vague, as all such things were.

He turned away, but the gentle lap against the shore called him still.

But perhaps…

Might his father have placed this pool here for him? It was well within his power, and on occasion had responded to such a need.

Yes. That must be it. And to deny this sign of favor would, indeed, be a grave insult. One must never take a god’s gift for granted.

Or had his own divine blood manifested at last? Called the water in answer to his need?

Gentle shimmering drew him toward the pond’s edge. Ripples lapped at the sand, shaping it to form the perfect resting place. The sun’s heat lessened as he neared. So blatant an invitation must be accepted--yet still a part of him balked. Questioned such convenience. He had uttered no prayer, and though his blood was of the water, having such ability manifest for so petty a reason served little purpose. No matter how great his thirst, a greater driving force should be required to wake sleeping power.

Each tiny motion, each mote of light, beckoned. No matter how strongly that voice insisted this could not be, that little in life was so simple, another insisted this was his right.

As one greater than a mere mortal—

A tiny drop of water touched his skin. Flashes crowded his mind. Memories.

People had ever sought his regard. Countless half-remembered forms had thrown themselves at his feet. Pled for some small sign of favor as though they had some right to it. One by one he banished the ghosts.

All but two.

Words had been spoken, yet he could recall none of what he had said to the persistent young--nay, that one had been more boy than man. For days the lad had sought his embrace. Dared touch him. Accosted and followed him.

The smile, as trembling hands took the offered sword and drove that blade through his body, was almost beautiful. Almost worthy of attention. More notable still, he had failed to scrape the blood from his splendid golden sandals--a gift of Hermes himself. No longer could he wear them, though he could not bear to discard them.

Perhaps such pure, beautiful water as this could cleanse them.

Another face. The girl’s words were echoes of his own. Skin gray as mountain stone. Hair in a strange, inhuman shade of brown streamed behind her as she lunged for him, her feeble movements and grasping hands missing his sleeve by scarcely a finger length. He no more recalled that conversation than what he h-ad exchanged with the boy.

Perhaps she, too, had chosen an end over so small a thing.

He puzzled over the memories. Wondered why he saw these two now, after so long. Such grasping, desperate behavior was best forgotten. If they had chosen death, it was no affair of his. They could have sought those who should be theirs--fellow mortals, worthy of them. Or they could have found a way to win his regard. Instead…

Ah, enough, he thought, and pushed the ghosts away. You were of no account in life. If indeed the girl, too, has cast herself to the Styx, it is no affair of mine. It falls to your parents, your families, to pay your passage to the afterlife. If they cannot, or will not…such is your lot, born from your choice. Wander this side of the river for eternity and leave me be.

The water glimmered, blindingly bright as the sun focused his gaze upon it--and upon him. He blinked, and slowly, slowly it faded.

An image gazed up at him. Soft, long-lashed eyes gazed adoringly into his, the color swimming gold to blue to green. Skin, fair with just a hint of gilding, glowed softly in the water. Masses of cropped curls draped tantalizingly into those splendid features, and the colors shifted just as his eyes did. Whether it be brown, gold or night, he could not be sure.

Yet there was nothing feminine about that beauty. The sheer strength and contour of those muscles, the perfect masculinity of that face…!

Parted lips issued an invitation. A strange sensation, one his mortal acquaintances had spoken of in whispers and soft chuckles, stirred. Flames licked through him, heightening for each second their gazes met. The sun shone down at so perfect an angle, it turned the man’s eyes and hair to a brilliant divine gold.

At last...at last, a worthy...surely this must be Aphroditos himself, come at last to fold him in a sweet embrace and carry them to Olympus.

Words spilled from him, though he knew none of them. He dropped to his knees. Reached to gather the beautiful young man to his breast.

Cold struck him. Water--cursed water!--rippled, though the image did not distort.

Again strange images and irrelevant memories intruded. He shoved them away. Screamed at them, vicious in his rage. The past was past; the dead best left to their own. All that mattered….

There he was. Beautiful, beautiful beloved. Parted lips spoke his name--and ah, that sound. The way his mouth moved. Rarely had he seen such splendor, even among the gods. Gentle whispers caressed him, sending the flames to such heights of intensity his skin might blacken and crack.

Gasps. Desperate pleas spilled from his lips as he grasped once more for his beloved. It mattered not whether he claimed this man or was, in turn, claimed.

Yet the image in the water held back. Then, slowly, water brushed his cheek. A ghost, there and gone.

Louder than any beast the heat roared, and burst from him with indescribable fury. He cried out, and parts of his body moved of their own accord. When it passed, he was shaking. Spent. Blinded by...surely these were not tears. Even as a small child he had not wept.

Yet he could not long consider the ramifications, for that strange heat had already begun to build anew. A craving, a new thirst like none he had ever felt before, gnawed at him. Truly a need that not even Sophrosyne would be capable of denying.

“Please,” he sobbed. Arms spread, hands grasping for his beloved, he plunged into the pool. Swallowed water, but it mattered little; water and air had always been one to him. He needed...!

“Please!”

And the man came. Cold and aloof, yet hot enough to burn. Wrapped around him in an embrace so complete, he soon forgot where it ended and he began. He floated and soared at once, and begged for more--with and without words.

At last--at last!--that beautiful face drew close to his own. He shivered as those strong, perfect hands cupped his chin. Held him still. Closer and closer those lips drew to his, their very nearness chilled him to the bone. Shivers wracked his body, and those eyes.

Cold. Aloof. Not the merest hint of affection did he—

The embrace tightened. Whispered words skirted his ears as the man moved against him. Invaded parts of him he had not known existed. He gasped anew. Writhed. Perhaps screamed. Even as the fire reached undreamt-of heights, the strength drained from his muscles. Left him limp, shivering.

And those ever shifting eyes stayed on his. He could no more look away than flee, longing for the moment where the passion, the heat, overtook the chill. Surely the deep color they now reflected--that darkness--reflected the man’s desire for him!

As wave met surf, so their lips came together. Such searing glory, such pleasure! Ah, yes…

The man drew back. Left him on the edge of something wonderful. Longing for something for which he knew no words. Yet he began to speak anyway. Whispered the words of love he’d heard the would-be poets say to their…

“You are truly beautiful in body, boy,” the man said, in a tone that swept all other words away. The chill set in, sharp and biting. They slammed together in a furious assault. Battered, conquered, taken up to Elysium only to plunge back to the depths of Tartarus. The man commanded his body, and it responded. Consumed his mind.

A bruising kiss. Hints of teeth, but there was so much more that the pain seemed slight. Added something deeper. Again he drew back, and those freezing eyes pinned him down. Stopped his movements.

“But in all other regards…”

Those lips quirked in, not a smile, but a smirk. Leaned in and spoke, so soft it was scarcely audible. Each caress burned. Stole something from him. He shivered and drew nearer to that golden, divine warmth.

“...you are nothing special.”

Once more, that kiss. That tongue inside his mouth. Petting. Stroking…wait. Had he just said...

Water poured into his open mouth. Forced down his throat with ripping force. Those same gentle caresses made free with his body, and the heat surged as that water--that presence--filled him. But this was not the light, the glory of Elysium.

“Get thee gone from my sight, worthless would-be godling.”

This was the consuming darkness. Those taunting words replayed in his mind. He could think of nothing else as the man tore through his body. Pervaded his soul. Anger bubbled in his chest. He tried to shout, to deny what he had said, refuse to believe the ice in the man’s voice. To make him acknowledge the bond that must be there. Surely if he did these same things to him…!

Laughter, colder than the water around them. “I merely gave you what you wanted,” the man said. Those hands continued to stroke and pet. “The same attention and care you would give to anyone who drew your gaze. Even those you call friends are not equal in your sight, but mere tools to be used.”

The man moved, and it left him gasping. More water, now bitter as tears, surged down his throat.

“And discarded if it suits you.”

His beloved, the only one he had ever met who had made his heart sing, had cast him aside.

“This is no more than you deserve, boy.”

Eyes aching. Throat raw. The embrace crushed his chest--all pleasure turned to pain. Despair swept through him like the tides of the sea, tugging him away. A silent invitation to follow, and leave this behind. But behind it, a seed of angry defiance still lingered. He closed eyes and let the water--the man--do as he would. It could have him.

He broke the surface of the pool. Strong strokes took him swiftly to the shore, and he delighted at the flow of each muscle. The sun shone down as he left the water, a golden, gentle blessing.

In his hand lay a single flower. Ruffled white, with a stem the color of a perfect spring day and a yellow cup as the bloom’s heart.

“You were warned, boy,” he murmured, shaking his head. Short curls--first gold, then brown, then near to black, bobbed into his face. “By Tiresias himself. You will love long only if you never discover yourself.” He chuckled. “For your cruelty and thoughtlessness, the gods decreed your fate. Whether by your own hand as Ameinias died, or the slow wasting of the nymph Echo. But this, I think…”

He crushed the flower, and cast the petals to the wind.

“Yes,” he said, watching the flower’s cup fall to earth. Two petals floated into the sky, until they were lost in the sun’s light. “This is much more fitting. A god your body may yet be, but...”

A long, deep drink from the pool’s sweet water, and he was ready to depart.

“...a pity you are no longer here to enjoy it. For I am you. Now...”

He looked across the meadow, in the direction of Thespiae, and smiled--as the boy never had in his life.

“Tis time I find one to offer myself to. This one has never had a lover, and a good thing. Until now, he--I--have not been capable of true courtesy.”

With another rueful head shake, he started down the road. It would take time to grow accustomed to this physical form and new identity.