The Mortal Feast
The cup gives off the heady perfume of cold nights and blotted stars. She takes it gladly, raises it toward her brother with a smile.
“A toast,” he says from across the table. “To our father.” Wine spills from the brimming cup and trickles over his knuckles.
“To our father,” she repeats. “God of Death.”
Brother and sister tip back their heads. A fine wine, rich and velvety, underscored by the bitter taste of monkshood. It stains her lips red. She smears it across her cheek and brings a faint smudge of colour to her otherwise alabaster skin. The alcohol leaves behind a faint prickle in the throat; one that promises darkness.
There is something delicious about that promise.
“How do you like it?” asks her brother. He watches her over the array of golden platters bearing twisted roots, wrinkled mushrooms, and fresh berries - all the fruits of their beloved labours for the past thousand years. Nettles and white hemlock, bright red fly agaric and pale oleander. There is not a poison in all the worlds that did not first cross their table.
His sister takes her time in replying. She draws her mind away from their desolate chamber and looks within herself, listening not to the wind rushing in through the hole in the roof but to her own organs. Nothing. The promise was empty.
“The flavour suits, but the effect is slow,” she says, “or weak.” She pours herself another glass, and this time the wine has a kick.
The brother shifts in his seat. He does not like the suggestion that his work is weak. It rankles him. “Slow,” he says. “I thought we might take our time tonight.” He looks down at the bowl of berries she has placed amongst the roots and fungi. Their skin is the deep, intoxicating red of mortal blood. His own blood, and that of his sister, runs gold.
“Will you break your fast with me?” she asks, following his gaze to the bowl. She squeezes a berry between her thumb and forefinger until the skin splits, revealing the indigo flesh within. Dark juice runs down her palm.
“As always.” He plucks a berry from the bowl with long fingers and places it on his tongue, breaks the skin between his teeth.
“Subtle,” he says. Then he chokes. “The bite, not so.” It is like a glowing coal in the pit of his stomach.
She smiles, blood pouring over her lips as her insides begin to burn. “I went for speed this time,” she starts to say, but already her tongue is like lead in her mouth. There is a ringing in her ears. Gold trickles down either side of her neck. The wine coating her throat turns to acid.
Across the table, she sees her brother’s lips move. He sinks in his chair, head rolling to the side and cup falling from his grasp. If the glass shatters on the cracked flagstones, neither hears it, for the blood in their ears has grown thick.
She feels her strength ebb away, rests her brow upon the table with just enough forethought to push aside the bowl. It rocks on the table, overbalances. Red berries roll among the roots and burst upon the floor.
A final breath moistens the table beneath her mouth.
There the pair remain. An age passes in the world beyond their ruined hall. Kings rise and fall, the nights grow colder. Another portion of the roof collapses and allows the stars to peek in.
Their father visits. Once. He stays long enough to note his children are once again dead at their own feast, still caught up in their endless game, and then he departs again in search of souls without so much as disturbing the crisp leaves gathering at their feet.
She wakes first. A new breath passes without warning through her lips. By the time she has regained enough strength to lift her head, her mind is vibrant with new thoughts, new ideas. This time the berries are white as ripe mistletoe. A sprig rests in her palm, and she drops it into a new glass bowl as her brother comes around. His hand clutches a fresh bottle of his mind’s wine. A new concoction to rival their last feast.
He shakes off the heavy mantle of death and pours two new glasses, offers one to her. This time the fragrance is earthy with a hint of spice. She takes it gladly.
“A toast,” he says, “to our father.”
Continued in Part 2