It was a normal day for him: wake up, think of Leda, make an offering to Demeter, milk the cows, think of Leda, hoe his fields, think of Leda, water his fields…

But sadly, it didn’t end normally. His irrigation ditch was clogged up by something. Frustrated, he hiked up to the stream.

Leda’s body lay in the water.

Her pale, smooth neck was nicked and there was a gaping slice of flesh missing in her chest. But none of it had any blood or scabs surrounding it, Leda could have been posing for a still life…except she was dead. His throat tight, he caressed her cold cheek.

He knew what bloodless wounds meant.

A god had heartlessly sliced her open like an animal.

Blindly, he stumbled back to his farm, and into his house. Leda dead…no, it couldn’t be.

Leda, Leda, taunted a soft voice in his head. He clumsily lit a small pyre and threw some incense over it.

O, Demeter, please save Leda’s poor soul. And please, please, O Great Goddess, tell me who did this and why Leda…Why Leda?

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