This story was originally written for the Scorpio Challenge for a Zodiac challenge that sort of “Petered out” after a few months.  This one was based on song lyrics which I doubt if I can even locate now.  It is hard to use lyrics from songs you don’t know.  This was written during one of my periods where the sexual action is only talked about – so the rating is between PG-13 and R depending on your feelings about slash.

 

 

 

SON OF THE WINE

 

It had been centuries since I had tasted the red liquid that now sat before me. Considering what I now know about biology and chemistry it is a wonder that my remembered recipe had created wine instead some other toxic beverage.   It is most interesting to think how human history would have been affected if I had . . . but that diverges far from the scope of this conversation.  At that moment, all I could think about were the pleasant results, that I vaguely remembered, that would come from drinking my creation.

 

Things were different then.  Life was different then.

 

I think about measuring my consumption in glasses, though we had the most primitive of cups, hollowed horns I believe.  Often we drank from our own cupped hands, the same way we drank water from a stream.  Still a method of measuring incremental ingestion is important to this story.  As I remembered the wine I had consumed when I had lived in more advanced civilizations, the first “glass” would produce a pleasant warm feeling, a second would instill an enlightened sense of bravado, a third would begin to produce tingling in the fingers and toes, and finally four or maybe five would produce a strong desire to engage in combat or sex depending on the company.  . .  Only with Kronos it was an “and” not an “or”.  There was something about that night and the intoxication produced by the homemade wine that sealed the bond between the two of us. 

 

I can never be sure which details from my memories of that night are factual and which have been colored by millennium of other observations.  However, one thing is certain, if I were to tell my story of the involvement with the four horsemen, it would begin that night. I had never opened myself up to this and might not ever again, so please bear with me.  

 

*  *  *  *

 

I had lived for decades with people who, while still technically nomads, did not travel far from the river valley where they lived. They had not yet begun planting and harvesting crops, but existed by keeping sheep and goats, eating their flesh and using their skins for clothing.  Sometime during my stay they discovered, perhaps at my suggestion – but maybe not because they never listened to me -- that the heavy coats of wool the animals produced in this climate could be cut off and traded for small items to those who sometimes passed through the valley.  Spinning and weaving were generations away for these people, to be only learned someday when a man acquired a wife with these skills . . . but for now it was a meager existence.   They knew nothing of the great cities to the south where I had lived and overstayed my welcome.

 

In the autumn, I could be found just outside the village harvesting the wild grapes that covered the rocky banks of a small stream.  Earlier in the season, no one would touch the fruit.  I remembered finding the fruit, which I had remembered as being sweet and juicy, and how my first taste had produced howls of pain.  It was only the touch of the winter cold that could bring back the sweetness hidden in them and make them suitable for food.  I was willing to wait.

 

At first, only I would eat them and dried only enough for my personal consumption. I remember that I still cut the grapes from the vine with a stone knife – a little memento from the Neolithic period – and kept my crude sword hidden in my hut.  People in other areas of the world had been making wine for many years from wild and cultivated grapes.  As soon as they grew grain, they made beer as well as bread.  It says a lot about my state of mind during the time I lived in this village that I never fermented the grapes into wine. 

 

Since I spent a lot of time telling stories to the children of the village, it was only a matter of time until I shared some of the dried fruit with them and discovered the excitement they shared for the grapes.  Compare raisins with hard dry lamb, you’ll understand.  I was never sure if their parents sent them to me for my stories, my food, or just to keep them out of the way for a few hours.  I was the Mr. Rogers of the Bronze Age.

 

One afternoon my solitary labor was broken by a young shepherd running up the bank of the stream.  I tossed a small bunch of grapes to the boy who was young enough to remember their sweetness.  He popped two in his mouth, but it did not wipe away the worried look on his face.

 

“One of my lambs ran away.  I spent all morning looking. Just like that story you told me about the ‘good shepherd.’  He had climbed up on a rock outcropping and wouldn’t come down.”  The boy’s story was enhanced with frantic arm gestures.  “That is when I saw him.”

 

“Who?”

 

“A man on a horse.”

 

This was not a good sign.  The people in the valley were too poor to have horses, thus the rider was marked as a stranger.  Strangers always brought trouble. 

 

“Perhaps he is just passing through?”

 

“Then why ride down into the valley?  The high road is easier.  There is no reason come to the valley unless you want something from us.”

 

“Do you want me to go talk to him?”  The look on the boy’s face indicated that this was not something he expected to hear.

 

“I’m sure my father and the other clan members can deal with him.”

 

“Then why come to me?”

 

“I thought perhaps you might want to hide.”

 

It was true, often I had hid when strangers came to the valley; but I did not realize that the others had noticed.   My existence here was couched in the ignorance and naivety of this simple society.  I had hoped people had not counted the winters I had lived among them or noticed that my face had not developed lines or my hair white strands.  I rationalized that I improved their lot by bringing news of advances made by other cultures; but the truth was, after childhood, few people listened to my stories.

 

“No, I will be here.  I need to finish picking and drying the grapes for the winter; but if you need me, please come.”

 

“We won’t need you.  We have enough men in our tribe.”

 

I noticed that the boy looked back at me as he walked away.  The look on his face was most unpleasant, almost disgusted, but it could have been caused by eating a sour grape. 

 

History would have been different had I run. Most of my life had been lost in the memories of days gone by. I had been running so long that I had not remembered where I had started or the places I had gone.  I’d had forgotten my family and my friends.  I couldn’t even remember my own name.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

While I was not there to observe the details of Kronos’s encounter with those he met that day, and he never shared that story with me, I assume it went something like this.

 

He had to have been amazed at how very little the valley had to offer him.  He didn’t want sheep and goats.  He didn’t want dirty, barefoot, pregnant women or young children.  He didn’t want the dried lamb they had stored for the winter.  Even the soft wool they used to trade for metal tools was worthless to him.  He wouldn’t take their metal tools; his knives were longer and sharper.  There was no gold, no silver, and no precious stones.  He was going to have to get his fun in this village by killing someone – preferably someone who would give him a little challenge.

 

Still they welcomed him to the valley and invited him to sit with the elders sharing their roasted lamb and cheese.  The clan leader seemed proud of the offering and smiled broadly revealing rotting teeth.  Kronos would have regarded it as the perfect time to strike; the leaders being totally unaware that anything was wrong.  The stranger leapt to his feet and grabbed the leader’s hair, pulling his head back.  His dagger was at his throat.

 

“I don’t want to kill you.  It would be way too easy.”

 

The man nodded his head, bringing his neck perilously close to the blade.

 

“Since you have nothing that I need, I’ll just leave here after a good fight.  A contest.  Me -- against your best warrior.”

 

“We have no warriors here.  We are shepherds.”

 

“Who protects you?”

 

“We protect ourselves.”

 

“I’ll fight your best swordsman.”

 

“We are too poor to have swords.  We have metal knives for gelding and slaughtering lambs but we fight away the wolves with sticks.”

 

Someone, perhaps a young child sitting at his father’s feet, probably let slip that I had a sword.  I might have shown it to some of the children during a story time . . . the details escape me now.  Anyway this stranger, bent on killing for a good time, had to have learned about the presence of an old man with had a sword.  I can only imagine the look of disgust on the faces of the elders when they told him that this time of year you could find me somewhere up the river picking grapes.  That is, if I hadn’t run off to hide in a cave somewhere.

 

* * * *

 

I had carefully spread the grapes on flat white rocks to dry in the autumn sun, but on the third night it had rained.  It was a hard cold rain transforming the grapes from wrinkled to slimy.  My only hope for this season was to extract the juice and make wine.  I filled my leather sacks with the grapes and headed for my hut in the village.  I would have to work fast to press the grapes before they grew a coating of mold as wooly as the sheep.  Even then the wine would probably taste of earth and dust, but at least it would make me feel good when I drank it.

 

Entering my hut, I was surprised to find a strange man sitting at my table with a metal knife in his hand staring at my corroded sword.  The man was not tall, but solidly built.  He sported long stringy hair and a face marked with a large scar and several dark tattoos.  I have seen those facial designs on men from many diverse cultures, and still shudder at the pain they endured for personal adornment. The designs did produce the desired effect; the man was terror personified – decorated with the symbols evil.  What struck me as even more strange was the feeling in my head, like I had already consumed too much of the beverage I had been fanaticizing about making.

 

The man looked up with an equally perplexed expression on his face. 

 

“I was looking for the old man who owns this sword.”

 

“It’s mine.”

 

“This man was described as old and wise.  You appear to be neither.”

 

“I understand the ‘not old’ part.  Most people here don’t notice.  But why do you think I am not wise.”

 

“If you were wise, you would have continued up the river and not returned here.  By the end of the day tomorrow, you will no longer be old or wise . . .  just dead.”

 

“I can go hide now, if you wish.”  I smirked.

 

“No, we will fight at noon tomorrow.  Outside the hut of the village elder.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I enjoy killing – especially when others are watching.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

 

That night I considered running, but decided to stay and fight.  My decision was not based on a foolish hope to defend the people of this valley.  I owed them nothing.  They owed me nothing.  It wasn’t like I was going to try to win.  Already I had developed my strong instinct for survival; but that day given a choice between running and dying, I was opting for the latter.  I’ve always wondered if he had sensed that, too. 

 

I had not yet realized that there were ways I could really die, so I figured at worst my death would provide a way to get out of the valley.  They would haul my dead body out to be consumed by vultures and other predators and I would, at least I was fairly certain, awake sometime later and move on.  I would be free of my past and my reputation in that valley.  I didn’t even bother to sharpen my sword, having not used it for so long that I was as tarnished as the bronze of its blade.

 

The fight had been short and vicious -- a few not-so-quick moves and a sword in the stomach.  At least death had been quick; I did not have to wait to die of chills and fever.

 

I was most surprised to revive, not in the open air, but in a room, albeit it a cave, warmed by a fire.   I was naked with my hands tied behind my back.  Kronos was pacing back and forth moving slowly from darkness to light.   It was obvious from my lingering pain, that he had used me sexually. 

 

“To what do I owe this privilege?”  My tongue was not as tarnished as my sword.

 

“You are alive because I wish it, and you stay alive as long as you please me.”  The strong ties holding me were an indication of that.

 

“At least you could have waited until I returned to life. I hope it was fun.”

 

“You are a cheeky one.”

 

“Been told that they are among my best features.  But you know that now, don’t you?”

 

 “And modest, too?”

 

“So, what are you going to do with me now, kill me again or let me go?”

 

“You’ve got a place to go?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why not stay here with me?”

 

“I was that good then?”

 

He stabbed me again.  As I revived, I made a mental note to curtail my sarcasm.

 

“I want you to live again. I want you fighting and killing on my side.  You and I are brothers.”

 

“I don’t know who you are, but I guarantee we are NOT brothers.”

 

“I am Kronos, and you my brother have much to learn.”

 

“And I suppose you are going to take it upon yourself to teach me.”

 

“Yes, after you tell me what you intend to do with those moldy grapes.”

 

“Haven’t been to a city in a while, huh?”

 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

 

Despite my constant reassurance that I was not like the man who had killed, raped and abducted me, it became obvious there were strong and undeniable similarities between Kronos and myself. While we both had died, several times, we would not stay dead.  Both of us had been aware of this for a long time, but we had looked at it differently. 

 

Kronos had concluded that, perhaps we were gods, and as such should be treated with deference if not worship and respect.  Fear was something the poor and ignorant readily understood.  He had chosen to use terror to obtain the things he wanted and needed.  When he told me this, I laughed and asked just how much pleasure or treasure could be obtained from fighting and killing poor people.

 

He turned and asked me what I had hoped to accomplish by hiding from danger and drying grapes for poor children.  I had no answer.  My life, such as it was, had accomplished very little.

 

My transformation was not a case of my turning from everything I believed, because the truth was, at that time, I believed very little.  I convinced myself that there was little of value left in the world.  Whatever I had that I had held dear, I had abandoned it long ago.  My life was nothing.

 

It was at dark times like this that Kronos would exert his will upon me. I knew it was merely a seduction, but still a man hears what he wants to hear.  He would take my dark thoughts and transform them in his own perverted way.   He’d convince me that I was like him after all and together we could conquer the world.  As we waited for the juice to ferment, I was completely convinced.

 

We spent hours practicing with weapons. I regained the coordination that I had lost during those years of living in the valley and with them my skills with a sword.   On a given day, a fight between us could go either way. 

 

At night the two we discovered the same sort of equality.  No longer was I forced to submit to the will of my captor.  I had enough experience with obtaining and giving pleasure to even teach him a few things.  On a given night, the scope of pleasure seeking between us could go either way.

 

I painted half my face blue with woad, so that I always appeared to be exiting the shadows.  I wore long wool capes to ward off the wind and sometimes made a mask from an animal skull to hide my face.  I learned to ride a horse.  The animal’s speed gave me a new sense of freedom and power.  I was becoming like him.

 

He talked constantly of the how the world would be when we brought our form of terror down upon it.  I thought constantly about how the world would be when my wine was ready to drink.

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

 

I remember the day that I finally told him it was time.  Of course, I was talking about something more than just the wine.  I was ready to ride with him.  My old life was gone.  A new life was about to begin. 

 

I visualize us toasting ourselves as brothers, but that custom did not evolve for many centuries.  Still there was something more than just a shared experience.   We punched a hole in the bottom of the leather bag which held the wine and directed it into our mouths until we were overcome by its intoxication.  I remember that the feeling it produced in me was one of desire. I probably leaned over and kissed him.  He would have laughed and licked the wine off my face.  The wine was doing its job.

 

“Does this have a name?”  He asked and at that point I realized that during these last few months he had never asked the same question of me.

 

“I believe it is called Methü”

 

“Methü . . . Methü. . . “ he repeated softly.  “I will call you Methos, son of the wine.”

 

“It’s probably a better name than the one people last called me.”

 

“We will ride out of the sun and bring terror to the world.”

 

I remember, after our sex, lying on the ground and thinking that this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.  Maybe I had completely changed.  Maybe it was the wine.  Still  . . . there was a sense of fear, perhaps that I was not worthy to ride at his side.

 

“I’ve been thinking, Kronos, maybe this conquering the world would be a lot easier if we get a couple of more guys to ride with us.  Immortals like us -- big and strong but not real smart.  We could be the four horsemen and spread our will across the land.”

 

Kronos reached over and pulled me to him.  In him I felt all that I had long lost to the world.  “My brother, Methos, this is why I treasure you.  You will be responsible for planning our raids . . . our victories.”

 

McJude

October 11, 2004