Ares and Aphrodite Myth
And yet, Apogonos had always known some part of him was not right, was off somehow. In his heart of hearts he was sure he did not want to grow from boyhood to manhood, and would much rather cast off maleness entirely and claim a woman’s body. But he would have violently denied any such accusation, said they were wrong, he was a boy and would be a man.
For Apogonos had been struck at birth by the poisoned shaft of Ares, and drawn into a whirlpool of male and female.
The poison had seeped into his blood, lay mostly dormant for ten years, but was slowly coming to a boil.
The poison had always whispered in Apogonos’ ear, telling him that something was amis, and on his tenth birthday Apogonos dreamed:
A fire casts long, flickering shadows across the room, obscuring the rooms’ borders and making it appear to stretch out forever. A raised platform is lit by the fire, covered in blankets, and at its center lies a tiny figure, cradled by the cloths and furs and drapings. It is a baby, or the spirit of a baby, or the baby of a spirit. Its sleep is quite, its breathing steady.
A figure walks in front of the fire, sending a dark shadow across the platform and obscuring the baby. The size of the figure is impossible to determine, and seems to shift and bend as rapidly as the fire itself. Drawing closer, it becomes clear that the baby is a girl-child, nude, and now sensing the presence of the figure and turning in worry and agitation.
The figure draws a bow that is simultaniously overpoweringly large and somehow perfectly proportioned to the baby’s size. It is both the extreme of brute force and perfect delicacy; a bow that a strong man would have trouble drawing and that a young child could easily break.
The figure draws an arrow that is made of wood simultaneously as thick as a man’s thumb and slender as a piece of yellowed straw. Its tip is razor sharp and shines in the light of the fire as if covered in a toxic ichor.
The bow is notched. The arrow drawn back. Released. It flies with a savage beauty and lands true. For a split second, the baby is pierced with a huge war-arrow and killed instantly, without time to cry out. For a split second, the baby is pierced with a delicate arrow of improbably fine craftsmanship, and barely feels it enough to notice.
Both arrows fade into nothingness and the figure is gone. The baby remains, whole and sound and seemingly unharmed.
Seemingly. But, in spite of her safety, she begins to cry.
But, Apogonos knows that elsewhere, ten years in the past, he is lying in a swadling cloth, crying those same tears. Where is she, his spirit-self? Has Ares killed her? Has Ares doomed him? Ares has robbed him/her of his/her birthright and womanhood, left male by what all rights was female,.
Apogonos woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, the dream fresh on his mind’s eye.
Themocracy
[...] (Where we last left off…) [...]
[...] and B) more understandable for the audience. This piece will be taking components from each of the three Ares and Aphrodite pieces I’ve written so far, as well as incorporating new material [...]