THE SHEPHERD OF HERN
-
Content Warning:This story contains explicit sexual content, incest, live burial, and dark tragic themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Part One: The Temple of Apollo
Somewhere in the hills of a Hellenistic land, where the mountains met the sky and the olive trees bent under the wind, there lived a young shepherd named Hern. He was between fourteen and nineteen—old enough to feel desire, young enough to be reckless with it. He tended his flock with a staff in hand and a mind that wandered as far as the sheep ever did.
One afternoon, while grazing his sheep on a slope overlooking a narrow valley, he saw her. Lilith. She was drawing water from a stream, her hair loose and dark, her body young and curved in ways that caught his eye. She was not a goddess, but she was beautiful in the way of mortal things—unfinished, uncertain, full of promise.
He followed her. Not with intent, at first. Just drawn. She sensed him, turned, and saw him standing among the rocks. She could have run. She did not.
"You are the shepherd," she said.
"And you are the one who draws water," he replied.
She smiled, hesitant. He stepped closer. She did not step back.
They talked—of the hills, the sheep, the heat of the sun. He touched her hand. She let him. He kissed her. She kissed back, surprised by her own willingness.
But where could they go? The hills were open, the village too close. And then Hern remembered the old temple of Apollo, abandoned for years, half-collapsed, but still standing at the edge of the valley.
He took her hand. "Come with me."
She followed.
The temple was quiet, the roof open to the sky, the statue of Apollo still standing on its pedestal, cracked and weathered but still proud. Vines grew over the stone. The air smelled of dust and thyme.
Hern laid his cloak on the worn floor. He kissed her again, more deeply this time. She responded, but her hands trembled.
"I'm nervous," she whispered.
"I will be gentle," he said.
He was. He undressed her slowly, touched her softly, entered her with care. She gasped, then relaxed. He moved with the rhythm of the hills, steady and warm. She clung to him, unsure but not unwilling.
When it was over, he lay beside her, breathing hard, his body shining with sweat.
"That was good," he said.
She said nothing. Her face was turned away.
"We can meet again," he said. "Here. Tomorrow."
She looked at him. She wanted to say no. She did not say no.
"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow."
Part Two: The Weight of the Act
They met again. And again. Always in the abandoned temple of Apollo, always beneath the cracked statue of the god who had witnessed their first act. Hern grew bolder, more confident. Lilith grew quieter, more distant.
She wanted him, but she did not want to want him. She had been swept into it, and now she could not stop.
Hern did not notice her hesitation. He was too young, too full of the joy of discovery. He thought she felt the same.
They met for weeks in the abandoned temple of Apollo. Lilith came each time, drawn by something she could not name—desire, fear, the weight of Hern's attention. He was gentle with her, but he was also relentless. He did not understand her hesitation. He was too young to see it.
One afternoon, she did not come. He waited. She did not come the next day either. On the third day, he found her by the stream where he had first seen her. She was weeping.
"Hern," she said. "Stay away from me. For the sake of the gods. For the sake of any higher power that watches over us."
He knelt beside her. "Why?"
"Because I carry your child."
The words hung in the air like a stone dropped into still water. He stared at her, his mouth open.
"How do you know?"
"I know my body. I know what is growing inside me."
He touched her stomach. She flinched but did not pull away.
"I will take care of you," he said.
"How? You are a shepherd. You barely make enough to feed yourself. And I am enslaved to a house I must return to every night. If they find out, they will kill the child. They may kill me."
He was silent. He had not thought of that. He had only thought of desire, of her body, of the warmth of the act. He had not thought of the weight of what he had done.
He stood up. "I will find a way."
"Hern—"
"I will. Trust me."
She looked at him, her eyes red. She wanted to believe him. But she had seen the world. She knew that shepherds do not save slaves from the houses that own them.
He took her hand. "Meet me at the temple tonight. I will have a plan."
He arrived before her, the stars bright overhead, the statue of Apollo casting a long shadow. He had made his decision. It was not a good decision. It was not a kind decision. But it was the only one he could make.
Lilith came, her face pale, her hand on her stomach.
"What is your plan?" she asked.
He took a breath. "I cannot support you. You cannot leave your house. The child will be a burden to both of us."
She nodded, tears forming.
"So I will take charge. I will do what must be done."
She looked at him, hope flickering. "What must be done?"
He did not answer. He pulled her close and held her. She pressed her face to his chest.
It was a long time before he let her go.
Part Three: The Weight of Guilt
Hern had made his decision. He would leave her. He would slip away in the night, take his sheep to a distant valley, and never return. She would find a way to survive, or she would not. That was not his concern.
He told himself this as he walked to the temple. He told himself this as he saw her waiting by the statue of Apollo, her hand on her stomach, her eyes full of hope.
"Hern," she said, "you came."
He opened his mouth to speak the words of departure. They did not come.
"Hern?" She stepped closer, searching his face. "What is wrong?"
He looked at her—at the girl he had taken by surprise, the girl who had fallen into his desire and now carried his child. He looked at her belly, round and full, and he felt something crack inside him.
"I was going to leave you," he said.
She went still. "What?"
"I was going to leave you." He sat down on the worn stone steps, his head in his hands. "I was going to take my sheep and go to another valley. I was going to pretend you never existed."
She sat beside him, her voice soft. "But you didn't."
"No. I didn't." He looked at her. "Because I am a coward. But I am not that kind of coward."
She reached out and took his hand. "What will we do?"
He thought for a long moment. Then he said, "We will keep meeting here. Until the baby is born."
"And after?"
"I will take the child. I will hide it. I have no parents to answer to—my mother is dead, and my father does not care enough to look at me. The sheep are our only property. No one will suspect a shepherd of anything."
She stared at him. "You would take the child? Raise it alone?"
"I would try." He squeezed her hand. "I cannot support you. I cannot buy your freedom. But I can take what comes from this act and give it a life."
She wept. He held her. The statue of Apollo watched over them, cracked and silent.
They met in secret, as before, but now there was a purpose to their meetings. Hern brought what little food he could spare. Lilith told him about the house she served, the other slaves, the master who did not know of her condition.
They spoke of names for the child. They spoke of the future, though neither could see it clearly.
When the time came, Lilith gave birth in the temple, Hern by her side, the statue of Apollo the silent witness. The child was small, dark-haired, and silent until it took its first breath.
Hern held the child in his arms—a son. He looked at Lilith, exhausted and pale.
"I will take him," he said. "I will keep him safe."
She nodded, tears streaming. "What will you name him?"
He looked at the child, then at the statue. "Apollon," he said. "After the god who watched over us."
She closed her eyes. He kissed her forehead, then wrapped the child in his cloak and disappeared into the night.
Hern raised the child in a small cottage at the edge of the hills, far from the village. He told the neighbours the boy was an orphan he had found. No one questioned him.
Lilith returned to her duties, her body healing, her heart hollow. She did not see Hern again. She did not see the child.
And Hern—Hern grew older, tending his sheep, raising his son, and never forgetting the girl in the temple of Apollo.
Part Four: The Unraveling
The child was young, still nursing, when Hern began to feel the old hunger again. He had sworn to himself that he would stop, that he would leave Lilith alone, that the child was enough. But the hills were quiet, the nights were long, and Lilith still came to the temple when she could.
She came because she was lonely. She came because she had nowhere else to go. She came because Hern was the only man who had ever held her.
They met in secret, hidden from the world, the statue of Apollo a silent witness to their sin. Hern was not gentle now—he had grown bolder, more reckless. He took what he wanted, and Lilith let him, because she did not know how to refuse.
One evening, the sun low behind the mountains, he was too rough. She cried out, but he did not stop. He drove into her with a force that sent her stumbling backward, her head cracking against the stone altar. She crumpled to the ground, limp and still.
Hern froze.
He shook her. She did not move.
"Lilith."
He pressed his ear to her chest. He could not feel a heartbeat. He could not find breath. He was young, unskilled, terrified. In his panic, he was certain she had died.
He did not think clearly. He did not call for help. He did not wait to see if she would stir. He dragged her body through the temple, out into the night, and buried her beneath a pile of rocks near the edge of the valley.
He spoke no words over her grave. He did not pray. He simply covered her and walked away.
Hern returned to his cottage. He raised the child—a girl, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, named Apollonia. He told the neighbours she was an orphan. He told no one about the mother.
He tended his sheep. He watched the seasons turn. He never went back to the temple of Apollo.
Apollonia grew tall and clever. She asked about her mother, and Hern said only that she had been taken by higher powers, swept away by the gods, too beautiful for this world. The girl accepted the story, because she had no other.
On the day she turned seventeen, she asked again.
"Father. Who was my mother? And what did she truly look like?"
Hern looked at his daughter—beautiful, young, so like Lilith. He could not tell her the truth. He could not tell her that he had buried her mother alive in a panic, that he had not known she was only faint, that he had left her under rocks and stones.
"She was the most beautiful woman I ever knew," he said. "And she was taken by the gods. That is all I can tell you."
Apollonia looked at him, her eyes wise beyond her years. She knew there was more. She did not press.
---
Part Five: The Unraveling of the House
Apollonia grew into a woman of seventeen, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, with her mother's face and her father's stubbornness. She tended the sheep alongside Hern, kept the cottage, and asked fewer questions as the years passed. She had learned that her father did not answer.
But Hern had grown lonely. The hills were quiet, the nights were long, and his daughter had become beautiful in a way that troubled him. There were no other girls nearby—no travellers, no villagers who would have him. Only Apollonia.
He began to watch her. He began to touch her, casually at first, then with intent. She pulled away, confused.
"Father, what are you doing?"
He did not answer. He kept touching.
She told him to stop. She told him it was wrong. She told him she would leave if he did not stop. He could not stop. He was too lonely, too full of the same hunger that had driven him to Lilith.
One evening, he took her. She struggled. She cried out. He did not stop.
Afterward, she lay still, her face turned away. He lay beside her, breathing hard.
"I am sorry," he said.
She did not answer.
He took her again. And again. Each time she told him to stop. Each time he could not. He had become something else—no longer a shepherd, no longer a father, but a man consumed by his own desire.
Apollonia grew cold. She stopped speaking to him. She stopped looking at him. She went through the motions of the day—tending the sheep, cooking the meals—but her eyes were empty.
He tried to apologize. She would not listen.
One night, he came to her again. She pushed him away.
"Stop," she said. "I will not let you do this again."
He reached for her. She grabbed a knife from the table—the same knife she used to cut bread, to shear wool, to prepare meat. He did not see it until it was too late.
She drove it into his chest. Once. Twice. Three times.
He fell to the floor, his eyes wide, his mouth open.
"Apollonia—"
She stood over him, breathing hard. "I told you to stop."
He tried to speak. He could not.
She watched him die.
Apollonia dragged his body to the hills and buried him beneath the same pile of rocks where he had buried her mother. She spoke no words over him. She did not pray.
She took the sheep, the cottage, the small plot of land, and lived alone. She did not marry. She did not leave the hills.
Sometimes she would walk to the abandoned temple of Apollo, where the statue still stood, cracked and silent. She would sit on the worn steps, remembering nothing, because she had never known anything.
The temple watched over her, as it had watched over her father and her mother. It held their secrets. It held their sins.
She never spoke of what she had done. She never told anyone about Hern. She simply lived.
---
## Sub-Idea: A Dream of Lilith
*(Non-Canonical)*
**A Prose Fragment**
She was not dead. Not yet.
The world was dark, and heavy, and her head throbbed with a pain that seemed to pulse in rhythm with the earth itself. She tried to open her eyes, but the light was gone. She tried to move, but something pressed down on her—heavy, cold, unyielding.
She remembered Hern. She remembered the temple. She remembered the blow, the fall, the silence. And then nothing.
Now she lay beneath the rocks, her body broken, her mind drifting. She could not hear him. She could not hear anyone. She was alone, buried alive, waiting for a death that would not come quickly.
*Hern,* she thought. *Hern, I did not want this.*
She thought of the child—the girl, Apollonia, her daughter. She had held her once, briefly, before Hern took her away. She had seen her face, so small, so perfect. She would never see her again.
She closed her eyes, and she dreamed. She dreamed of the hills, green and golden, where she had first seen Hern. She dreamed of his hands, gentle at first, then rough. She dreamed of the temple, the statue of Apollo, the god who watched and did nothing.
She dreamed of her daughter, growing tall, asking questions, searching for a mother who would never answer.
And then the darkness grew deeper, and the dreams faded, and Lilith was no more.
The End
## Author's Note
This story is one of the *Ideas* from my collection, **The Book of Fornication**—a series of works, ideas, and poems exploring desire, power, justice, and faith across time and culture. If you enjoyed *The Shepherd of Hern*, there are more stories in the collection, including full-length *Works* and other *Ideas*, each with its own setting, characters, and themes.
If you're interested in reading more, feel free to follow me or check out the collection as it becomes available.
Thank you for reading.