The Tide Turns
(Previously: “The Meager Prize”)
Old Breccan’s death arrives, at last, upon a rocky stretch of beach along the western sea. It’s been some months since his encounter with the pair of shepherd boys; some months since he had stuffed his guts back in his belly, wrapped his waist, and staggered, moaning, into the apothecary’s stinking hut. The woman stitched him, rubbed the wound with salve, and prayed he be made whole again; it took, and what’s more, they began to fall in love. For days on end and hours at a time, they’d fuck, their naked, sweating bodies writhing in the grass. His seed found purchase—soon enough, a baby will be born, a son, although he doesn’t know it. Or perhaps he sensed it coming, anchoring him, stifling his freedom, for one night he left without a word and never looked back. Bouts came; bouts went. Breccan slew and suffered still more wounds, then rose and slew again. Each time, the audience applauded him. The gladiator life he’d known so long would never end, it seemed... until today.
Apparently the gladiator has a bounty on his head, not very big, but big enough that young men seeking opportunity—young men like Ferwin Howe, a fisherman by trade but barely getting by—were drawn to take advantage. Ferwin is a tall, lean boy of barely twenty years, with tawny golden skin, long flaxen hair, and eyes the color of the waves. His body, naturally smooth, is quite a sight—flat, chiseled pectorals, a slender abdomen which glistens brightly in the sun when moistened by the surf. He’s never killed a man—not yet—but he has slit the squirming bellies of the fish he’s caught, and emptying a living thing of all its pulsing, vital viscera is something to which Ferwin needs no introduction.
Ferwin’s weapon is the trident, which he’s used before to bring down bigger fish. Three lengthy, rusted iron prongs with hooked tips jut forth menacingly from the shaft. Old Breccan’s sprawled out on the rocks, dazed, limbs akimbo; he has hit his head, and now he’s helpless to avoid the young man’s thrust. The fisher looms above him, eyes wide, mouth agape; his heart is beating hard within his swelling breast. The bounty will be paid no matter whether Breccan’s killed or captured, but the man is dangerous—to let him live would surely prove a deadly error, Ferwin thinks. And so, he lifts the trident high...
Splutch!
“Hunghkt—”
The piercing tines sink deep into the furry breadth of Breccan’s tanned gut, just above the waistline of his trousers; as they plunge, his head jerks upward with the sudden jolt. Aroused to consciousness by the assault, if only barely, he is just in time to watch, chin pressed into his chest, as Ferwin twists the trident. As he tugs, a low moan gurgles from the gladiator’s throat—“Aaarrrghhhhhh”—and his spine begins to arch, his punctured belly rising with the brutal motion. Grunting, Ferwin pulls his weapon loose, and Breccan’s bowels are tangled on its prongs. The old man reaches forth to grip the slick intestines, but there’s no avoiding his evisceration—as the boy takes back his wicked spear, the entrails of his foe are fully drawn out of his writhing abdomen: a tangled, stinking mess of purple guts that glistens in the burning sun.
The waves roll in, and wash across his bloodied, butchered corpse, the water tinged pink from the gore; he’s not yet dead, but may as well be. Ferwin spies the fat bulge of the gladiator’s prick inside his soaked pants, throbbing fitfully, the frothy semen mixing with the ocean foam. He prods it with his toe. How pitiful, the boy thinks, though he notices his own long, slender penis has begun to stiffen, swelling with desire that he doesn’t comprehend. Defeating Breccan pleased him; killing him—and disemboweling him, especially—has pleased him even more, and he would like to face a man in combat once again. Young Ferwin strokes himself erect, then masturbates; with just a few strokes, he explodes, and spills his seed on Breccan’s hairy chest.
The old man spreads his lips, as if he aims to speak... but then his tongue lolls, and his eyes grow glassy, like a suffocating fish. The victor kneels down, draws forth his knife, and severs Breccan’s head. He ties it in a sack, departs for town, collects his payment.
Three weeks later, Breccan’s son is born; his name is Rowan.
How does one become a gladiator? Ferwin doesn’t know; in fact, he’s slain the only man who might’ve taught him. Realizing this, he aches with something like regret—he’s killed a veteran, a champion, those years of precious wisdom lost amidst the surf. But at the same time, he is very proud of what he’s done—this act of strength, of mighty courage. He could slay a thousand men, he thinks sometimes, a thousand-thousand, unharmed, and remain triumphant!
Ferwin roams the land for weeks. At last, he stumbles on some farmland, where he sees a crowd has gathered; they have formed a circle, and within it lies a man—bare-chested, breast awash with fresh, slick blood—who seems alive at first, except his eyes are just like Breccan’s were that day: wide open, but a void. Beside him stands a burly, shirtless farmer, thirty summers maybe, with a mess of brown hair and ruddy tan. He grips a knife, the blade dipped red.
“Again, I ask” he shouts—“does any man here think that he can best me?”
“What’s the prize?” asks Ferwin, entering the ring.
The farmer laughs. “This ain’t a contest fer a boy what ain’t got hair upon his chest—I’d fuckin’ slaughter ye.”
“The prize,” he asks again.
“The prize,” the farmer spits, “is knowin’ yer the toughest man fer miles around. That good enough fer ye?”
Young Ferwin drops his pack and takes his trident in his hands.
“Ohhh no—not with that, ye won’t. It’s knife-to-knife, here.”
“Very well.” The former fisher draws his blade—the short, curved implement he once would use to gut his morning catch. It’s simple, butchering a man by speartip, at a distance; can the novice fighter manage to eviscerate and kill his foe up close, especially a foe as big as this? His penis swells within his pants, anticipating what’s to come...
They circle, knives out, while the others urge them on. The farmer stinks of ale and sweat; his barrel chest swells outward, huge and slick with perspiration. As the man swipes, steel catches Ferwin’s forearm, drawing blood; he winces, but instead of leaping back, bolts forward, jabbing his opponent underneath his ribs. The farmer grunts and stumbles, then lets out an angry growl. “I’ll gut ye like a fuckin’ pig!” he shouts.
“Then gut me,” Ferwin tells him. Stopping in his tracks, he plants his feet wide in the bloody dirt, straightens his spine, and stretches out his smooth, brown stomach for him. “Here I am—what’s stopping you?”
The crowd looks to the farmer, who begins to chuckle nervously. “All right, then...” First he takes a few steps—then he rushes for the boy, knife thrusting forward; as its point slides for his navel, Ferwin twists away, tugs at the farmer’s arm, and pulls him onto his own weapon’s tip, which tears into him just above the belt. “Arghk—”
“Perhaps I’ll spill your guts,” the boy says, inches from the farmer’s red and sweating face.
“No, wait, a-a-anythin’ but—hnnnrrrghhhfff...!”
The young man works his arm with all the strength that he can muster, slicing through the belly muscle, till at last the farmer’s entrails tumble down his thighs then hang between his knees like slick, fat sausages.
“Awww gods, me innards,” moans the man—“I’m fuckin’ gutted!”
Ferwin watches as the farmer staggers; suddenly, without so much as trying, he begins to climax. Semen fills his trousers, and the wet stain spreads across his crotch. “I’ve beaten you,” he says, chest swelled with pride.
“I’m fuckin’ dead!” the gutted man cries, clutching at his waist. He goes down on his knees, attempts to gather up the spilt intestines, but it’s no good; moments later he collapses, all but slain. Ferwin departs as quickly as he had arrived... but soon the tales spreads of a mysterious combatant, young and beautiful, who fights with bravery and disembowels his foes with savage ease, the way a man might gut a fish.
(Next: “Nothing and Yet Everything to Lose”)