The Mortal Feast, Part 2
This is the second part to an earlier story. If you haven't read The Mortal Feast, you can find part one here!
The guise of life returns to the ruined hall and so the children of Death wake with new creations in their twisted minds. The brother conjures a new bottle of dark glass and darker wine. The sister rouses herself from the grave and finds neither root nor berry clutched in her cold hand but something with a life of its own. Its silky skin is just as cool as hers. It coils its long, thin body about her wrist until she cannot tell which of them is holding the other.
Her brother pours his wine as always and offers her the gilded cup. This time its perfume speaks of citrus and clove. Whatever poison the cup holds is well disguised, and she smiles at her brother’s creativity. There was a time when he favoured boldness – loud poisons that were too bitter for her tastes. She is relieved his focus has turned to the subtler arts.
“A toast to our father,” he intones. He lifts his cup aloft and waits for her to join him.
She raises her cup to meet his. A soft chime fills the air as their glasses touch. “To our father, God of Death,” she says.
He lifts the wine to his lips but does not drink. His golden eyes scan the table between them. All the devilish plants in all the known worlds cover its polished surface, and yet he knows at once that nothing has been added since their last feast. The realisation feels unsettling – a misstep in their everlasting dance.
“Are we not to break our fast this night?”
His sister smiles and takes a sip of her wine. “I had a new idea. One I believe you will find just as enjoyable as any fare I have put before you at feasts past.”
That is all the reassurance he needs. He takes a long draft of wine and sets down his cup, his interest piqued. The rules of their unspoken game have changed, and he is eager to learn them anew.
His sister downs her own glass, returns it to the table, and rests her hands in her lap. The beastling uncoils itself from her wrist. It slips silently down the folds of her gown and slithers across the broken flagstones beneath the table, forked tongue tasting the air.
“So, what is this new idea of yours?” asks the brother. The interest is bright in his eyes. “I should warn you my wine is not slow this time.”
She plucks a gnarled root from the cluster on the table and holds it up to the light. One of her earlier creations. So base, so lacking in imagination. She is an artist now. “I thought tonight we might be the feast.”
Confusion flits across his pale features. The beginnings of a frown crease his brow. His expression changes to one of surprise and she knows her beastling has found its mark. Beneath the table, the creature draws its fangs from the flesh of the brother’s ankle and curls up the leg of his chair and into his lap. He lifts it back onto the table, marvelling at the way its black scales drink up the candlelight.
The pain of its bite is clear from the tightening muscles in his neck, the sweat that beads on his brow, and the veins sticking out of his temples. Still, he manages to speak.
“Beautiful,” he groans. Gold trickles from his ears. “What is it?”
Her throat is burning from the wine. “I like…snake. Yes, snake,” she whispers. The brother clutches his chest and then grows still, lips parted in an expression that is both shock and delight. The sister watches the snake winding its way across the table. Her eyes are heavy with the death the wine is bringing. Just as she slips into oblivion, she feels the venomous bite of her own creation.