Instead, Ariston had faded into the abyss of time, sinking deeper every day. A cautionary tale used to keep young males from debauchery and females from venturing alone into the Arcadian forest he’d lived in lest they be rutted upon by a monster of legend. Ariston had been feared, ridiculed, and on the odd occasion, lusted for.
But now?
He was a myth in the minds of mortals—a monster whose name lacked infamy and was never recalled; not like Pan, who was a god. Or Adonis, his brother, glorified for his masculine beauty while he’d been human and revered as a rare “mortal god” because of it. Adonis found notoriety through stories of Aphrodite, the beautiful goddess who’d mourned the death of her human lover. Those same tales made a mockery of the truth, as Adonis hadn’t really died, but fallen victim to the same curse as Ariston. No one would hear tales of Adonis’ twin brother because, in the end, Ariston had been insignificant.
When Pan and Dionysus accidently created the race of creatures known as the Satyroi, Ariston and Adonis had been unfortunate enough to be present as the curse had affected each and every human male who’d witnessed the two gods clash. They’d all been horrified when horns sprouted from their skulls and their feet changed into cloven hooves, altering the overall structure of their legs below the knee. Legend claimed the Satyroi, commonly referred to as satyrs or fauns, were half-man and half-goat. But they were fully human once, despite their mutated appearances. Fear, however, did not stop for details. It didn’t help that Pan became renowned for popping out of the bushes and chasing hapless mortals through the woods when he grew restless—a proclivity thankfully not shared by the Arcadian satyrs and very few of the Boeotians.
Somehow, the satyrs who’d been standing behind Dionysus at the time of the curse had grown long, vertically pointed horns. Dionysus, though, appeared not to have changed outwardly. Pan, and those who had been behind him, sprouted ram horns which curled around on the sides of their heads, blunted tips pointing forward. They followed Pan back to Arcadia; the others had remained on Mount Kithairon with Dionysus in Boeotia.
While neither the Arcadians nor the Boeotians had made attempts to harm the other, they remained divided by mutual distrust and disdain. To further drive the rift between them, the Fates had allowed Adonis to become a Boeotian satyr. Ariston, though thankful to be an Arcadian, often regretted not fighting to take his brother with him when he left with Pan. He’d not seen Adonis since that night.
Ariston shook his head to dispel all thoughts of gods and Adonis. The stones clacked against one another as he riffled through the pile. Finding one that was still somewhat whole, he lifted it and squeezed. It didn’t crumble, and he knew he wasn’t strong enough to crush it despite the demolished state of his former home around him. What happened here? Sixteen hundred and ninety years had passed since he’d been home, and he didn’t even know what had come of it in his absence. The tang of dampened earth and moss tickled Ariston’s nostrils and he sighed.
The scent of home. The scent of loss. The destruction I wrought on my family.
Whatever had occurred was his fault. He should have inherited the land, passed it on to his children.
You never could have provided for a family when you couldn’t even protect your brother from the gods.
He couldn’t blame himself. Wars devastated that part of the land for years. Athenians, Thebans, Spartans, Persians...there was never a point in times’ past where a battle had not occurred in Boeotian soil. Ariston wondered if Adonis had ever returned, or if he left Greece long ago. And if he had come home, did he stand in the same spot longing for the time when they’d been human and not caught up in the lives of the gods?
Ariston slipped the stone into the leather pouch he wore at his hip. It would be a memento for his journey as he suspected he’d never return again. What would his parents have thought of him if he’d arrived at the door as a satyr? Would they have accepted him as they did the more colorful stories of the gods, or would they have made him live among the goats outside? Perhaps they would’ve even attempted to kill him. A monster was no use to a farm; it would scare the sheep. True monsters preyed upon humanity—Ariston would know—and before long, all the neighboring farmers’ daughters would have been his for the taking.
To his right, he glanced to the spot where his mother would sit and mend clothing by the fire. Ariston stood, and the images of the past bled out to the present. Without walls, he could see the expanse of surrounding acres. The fields where the sheep used to graze were overgrown and sagging under the rain’s assault. There, beyond the unkempt landscape with Mount Helicon looming in the distance lay the cluster of trees where Ariston used to meet with lovers instead of doing the daily chores around the house. Pan caught him in the act once...
He didn’t want to think about Pan. He’d left the Arcadians to their own devices without remorse as soon as he’d grown bored. It was time for Ariston to do the same, yet something lured him back to this spot. Perhaps he could not move on without fully letting go of the past. Perhaps his guilt needed to see, needed to confirm, he was truly alone in the world. Returning did nothing to comfort him. Rubble and dirt and rain greeted him where once there had been love and family and warmth. This is no longer my home. He patted the pouch where he’d placed the stone from the ruined hearth. No, he no longer had a home, but he was always a sentimental fool.
Thunder roared behind him as lightning sliced through the sky, as though Zeus signaled for him to leave. Ariston saw no problem there. He made his way down the hill to the horse he’d left tied to a tree where branches shielded it from the worst of the rain. The animal raised his head at his approach and then disregarded him, resuming his snacking on the appetizing grass as though Ariston wasn’t worth his attention. You and everyone else, horse. He hoped it found its new owner more intriguing than him when he sold it at the docks.
Once he removed the pouch and secured it in the small bag of belongings hanging off the saddle, Ariston checked, again, to ensure the syrinx lay wrapped securely in his spare clothing. The set of magical panpipes Pan had fastened from the water reeds which had marked Syrinx’s grave proved to be too powerful to remain in one place too long. Pan had worried even he would be inclined to abuse the magic it contained. Coming from the one Olympian who had next to no lust for power, it was a heavy sentiment.
Ariston had volunteered to travel out of Greece with the syrinx when the instrument passed from Xanto to him a few days before. He’d prepared to leave anyway, but the syrinx provided a purpose. Like Pan, Ariston had no desire to use it, and he only used the similar panpipes Pan modeled after the syrinx when magic became necessity. Eventually, he’d have to track down one of the other Arcadians to keep the syrinx’s location from being discovered. As long as it switched hands, locating it would remain a challenge for any who dared. In time, it would be forgotten, fall to quiet retellings of legend, and the hunt for such an item would all but die out. Until then, he would be able to put the rest of the Satyroi from his mind as well as behind him.
He untethered the horse, the rain making the soft brown fur appear inky black as he strolled beside it. Ariston could ride on horseback as any other man. However, he could feel the phantom presence of the hooves even though they were unseen. When he wiggled his toes in human glamour, nothing moved other than the illusion. His hoof would be no more than a heavy, stumpy, well...hoof. Regardless, walking was good for him. It kept him focused on the present instead of the past.
A branch snapped somewhere in the distance as he led the horse into the forest. Ariston hesitated in order to search the trees and the rise of the mountain range for signs of trouble. Beside him, the horse whinnied softly and shook his head, but didn’t appear distressed. The wind bit into his damp skin, the chilled air more evident as nighttime approached, and Ariston would have to take to the woods to avoid being seen on the main roads. Even though the Greeks used to believe in their legends, it didn’t mean they would relish encountering the creatures they knew of now only from bedti
me stories. Nor did he wish to be mocked or assaulted due to his appearance on the lands he formerly called home. He didn’t need the memory of the place tarnished any further.
Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, Ariston led the horse into the woods. He’d make a fire to keep them warm if he could locate some wood that wasn’t too damp to burn. Motion stirred out the corner of his eye, and Ariston heard a hum of feminine singing so faint he was half-sure he’d imagined it.
Securing the horse to a new tree, Ariston took stock of his surroundings while pretending to make a shelter for the night against the weather. There. The singing again, to his left. He raised his head and squinted against the raindrops, but saw no one. Then it dawned on him.
Nymphs. At least one, anyway. And she was either very aware of what he was, or she merely toyed with whom she assumed to be a mortal man since the sun hadn’t set enough for his human appearance to fade back into that of a satyr. Nymphs were known to prey on humans, much like satyrs did, since they took their pleasure where they could find it. According to legend, if a man were to capture a nymph, he could make her his bride. She would be his alone until the next Satyr Moon.
Ariston scoffed inwardly, knowing firsthand those types of stories were often a joining of truth and imagination. However, he did know nymphs seduced men they found desirable, but rarely formed a relationship with a human, except on rare occasions. And it was nearly impossible to seek a nymph out because they chose their sexual partners and could vanish seemingly in midair by becoming one with the earth or water if threatened. Forcing one to be a bride—laughable. Ariston hadn’t been able to track down a single damned one since the night of the curse. Of course, he had a distinct disadvantage since he couldn’t actually see any nymphs unless they wanted him to.
Yet he heard a woman’s lilting voice where no woman could be seen. Would the Fates really have put such an opportunity into his hands? A nymph necessary to break his curse and make him mortal again? He could be free, but first he needed to find her and convince her he was worth saving.
“Where are you?” Ariston looked around him, turning this way and that, when he felt a gaze upon him.
“I am up here, satyros.” A nymph teased. Ariston followed the sound and discovered her perched in a tree, smiling down at him. She wore a simple white robe similar to those worn by the Olympians. The modern dress had changed, making her appear positively ancient. Spirits of his past floated through his memory.
“Daphne.”
She’d been present the night of the curse until Apollo left them all there to rot eternally as half beasts, taking the nymph with him. Her dark hair clung to her forehead and shoulders from the rain, tangled rather than wavy. It didn’t take away from her appeal in the least, but made her seem wilder, carefree, and only tempted Ariston more.
“You remember me? I am charmed.”
“I do not care what you are, nymph. Come down here and fix me!”
“Gods, Ariston. You certainly know how to make a woman feel desired. However do you plan on relieving yourself of your horns when you cannot so much as woo a woman down from a treetop? No, I cannot fix you. Either way, I did not seek you out to undo your curse.”
Was that a growl he’d emitted? He couldn’t recall having ever made such a noise, but why had Daphne come here to tease him? She could be his salvation. His freedom! Yet she taunted him from a safe height.
“Then you leave me no choice.” He advanced on the tree, meaning to climb up there and pluck her from it. What he’d do with her after she was in his grasp was a different story. He couldn’t have sex with her to break the curse until the next Satyr Moon, and he didn’t know when one would appear. There were people who could track star and moon movements, but he would have to seek them out to ask while preventing Daphne from running off.
“Cease this right now.” Her voice lost its playful edge. “I came to talk, and I need to relay a message before Apollo realizes I am gone. Which will probably be soon.” She glanced above her at where the sun hid behind the dark clouds on the horizon, and she shuddered.
“Let me get this straight,” Ariston stated. “You flaunt the remedy you refuse to provide in front of my face, and you bring the wrath of Apollo down upon me?”
She sighed, and her shoulders drooped. “Ariston. Sweet, beautiful Ariston. Would that I could remove this burden for you, but I have given my heart to another. It would dishonor him to do it.”
“Like it dishonors him to be chained to Apollo’s side?”
Lightning flashed above, reflecting across her glaring eyes. “Apollo has not had me in that way. You have your curse, and I have mine. I am not here to talk about my woes. Being stuck in Olympus has its advantages. So does befriending the Fates. Well, a Fate. Clotho might have the habit of leaving things lying around—a crystalline orb that allows her to see the fates of anyone in any time. I did not have long with it, but I was able to figure out how to make it work. Unfortunately, I had to sneak out of their cavern before Apollo discovered me missing from his temple.”
“You glimpsed your own fate?”
Daphne gaped at him. “No. It never occurred to me to look.”
“Why bother at all if you are not seeking to cheat your own destiny?”
“Some things, some people, are more important than your own life. I hope you find out for yourself someday.”
He never would. Immortals were less equipped at retaining lasting relationships. Any mortal lover he took would age and die while he would not, and other immortals could be downright frightening. “Why come to me? Clearly I am not the one you love; you said as much when you refused to fix me.”
“Because your fate is intertwined with his. Whatever you do, no matter what anyone says, you have to trust Melancton. Please, Ariston.” Daphne sat too far away to tell for sure, but Ariston noticed a sparkle in the corners of her eyes and thought she might weep.
“Melancton is Boeotian.” Sometimes facts needed to be stated outright.
The nymph made a sound of disgust and began climbing down the tree, occasionally tossing the skirted end of her robe out of the way when it tangled with her feet. “Speaking in terms of distinction, yes. I would remind you that you were born on Boeotian soil, so such a statement is rich coming from you. It makes no difference really. Boeotian. Arcadian. They are simple words used to define and divide you.”
Daphne hopped to the ground and advanced on him. “You have formed a bond with Pan because you are his friend, and the others have it because they were affected by his half of the curse. It connected you all. Same with the side that stood behind Dionysus. They cannot help it any more than you, but it does not make one side good and the other evil, only the actions of the individual does that. The horns are merely a physical sign of who stood where at an unfortunate time and place. Melancton wanted to follow Pan. He’d planned on seeking him out. Apollo wouldn’t allow it.”
Daphne stood toe to toe with Ariston, defiantly glaring up at him. Her jaw clenched tight, and he could make out the subtle motion of a pulse ticking a nerve against her cheek. She really was beautiful, and Ariston realized Apollo must have given her the ambrosia of immortal life for she hadn’t aged a day. In proximity to her, the curse of the Satyroi began taking over his thoughts, making him yearn for her beyond reason. He balled his fists and backed up a step. Her scent, wildflowers on a hot summer day, assailed his senses. Ariston wanted her. At least, his body did. He only wanted his curse removed, and while Daphne was beautiful, he felt no connection to her.
Sure you don’t. Think of how she’d feel beneath you, writhing in the pleasure you’d provide her.
Disgusted with himself, Ariston backed up farther, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. Daphne played a dangerous game, coming close to him with his control still so fragile.
“I am not sure I understand why Apollo would care.” He clasped his hands behind his back to avoid reaching out and dragging her to him. How was he supposed to control himself around a nymph and wait for
the Satyr Moon? He could barely keep himself from mauling Daphne where she stood. Inside, he raged that he couldn’t have her, couldn’t end the curse. Couldn’t be normal again. But Ariston wouldn’t force himself on her. He refused to become the monster he appeared to be on the outside. He needed to be stronger than that. Pan had taught him the only way to cling to his humanity was by denying himself as often as possible.
But, gods, the sex, the sensations. The stamina never let up. He could just keep going...
No. Do not think about it. He jerked his gaze from where her breasts pressed against the silky fabric of her robe. If she noticed his leering, she chose to ignore it. Daphne’s lips were moving, but Ariston only heard a distant thumping of his heart and was intensely aware of the hardness below his waist. He blinked rapidly and shook his head. What was she saying?
“—told you more than you should know. I cannot lose him.”
Pretending to have heard every word, he replied, “I will consider it, but understand if he gives me any reason not to trust him, I will not have any choice but to follow my instincts.”
“Understood.” Daphne tilted her head up as the pounding rain slowed to a drizzle, and the clouds drifted away from the sun enough to illuminate the forest below and highlight the soft ivory paleness of her skin. “The hour grows late, and Apollo will seek me out before night falls. I must move on and lead him away from you.” She leaned toward him and whispered conspiratorially, “I saw what you kept hidden in your bag. Apollo would abuse such magic.” With that, Daphne vanished, but Ariston felt a soft touch upon his cheek, like the brush of a flower’s petal against his flesh. A gentle voice whispered against his ear, “Never give up, Ariston. You will find your nymph one day. Not now, but one day. I saw her, and she is beautiful. Keep her safe.”
“Safe from what? From whom?”
No answer. At least the rain finally stopped.
Chapter One
The Cursed Satyroi: Volume One Collection Page 28
