#torero

- TRAJE DE LUCES -

Erwan by Quentin de Ladelune

Print now available :  www.quentindeladelune.bigcartel.com

The Spanish sun beat down on the empty bullring. Lorenzo, his blond hair plastered to his forehead, sank onto a concrete bench in the lower stands. His tour group, a swarm of bustling tourists, followed their guide's monotonous voice. He watched them descend into the belly of the arena, their enthusiasm for historical facts, architectural masterpieces, and cultural significance  - lost on him. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a souvenir from last night’s cheap sangria. A distant murmur of his tour guide’s voice, explaining the arena’s architecture, faded into the drone of cicadas. He didn't care. He just wanted a cold drink and a shaded corner.

A shadow fell over him. A figure, impossibly fast, moved from the tunnel beneath the stands. Not a man, not fully. Broad shoulders rippled under taut skin, a powerful torso bare. Dark, shaggy fur covered his legs, like chaps woven from beast hide. From his temples, massive, curved horns, grey and silver, spiraled upwards, catching the light. A silver ring pierced his nose, glinting. His dark eyes, intense and predatory, fixed on Lorenzo.

Lorenzo’s breath hitched. He tried to scramble back, but the creature’s hand, calloused and strong, clamped around his arm. Bone-crushing. Before a scream could form, a jolt of raw power surged through him. The creature, a human-bovine hybrid, dragged Lorenzo over the barrier, down the steps, and onto the sun-baked sand of the arena floor. The air shimmered, twisting like heat haze above asphalt. A searing pain lanced through Lorenzo’s body, a thousand needles of fire pricking his skin, then a crushing pressure, as if his bones were reshaping themselves. His vision blurred and he felt himself stretching, hardening, his muscles swelling, his skin thickening. His hands became hooves, his mouth a muzzle. An unbearable weight pressed down on his head, something new and heavy sprouting from his skull. The pain receded as abruptly as it began, leaving a dull ache and a profound sense of wrongness. He stood on four legs, his head heavy, his vision now framed by the curve of immense, yellowish horns. The sandy floor felt rough beneath his new hooves. A deep, rumbling sound escaped his throat – a sound too deep, too powerful, to be his own. He was a bull. A huge, black, snorting bull.

Before him, where the horned beast had stood, a man now posed. A man with Lorenzo’s face, but sharpened, chiseled. The man’s blond hair, wavy and sun-kissed and the blue eyes, were familiar, but the startlingly clear blue eyes, held a mocking glint Lorenzo had never possessed. His body rippled with lean, hard muscle, an eight-pack etched across his abdomen. Dark satin torero pants, intricately embroidered with gold thread, clung to his powerful legs, ending in red socks and black shoes. A black, gold-fringed jacket hung open, revealing his sculpted physique. This was Lorenzo, but better, stronger, leaner. A perfect specimen.

He moved with an arrogant grace, a smirk playing on his lips. “Look at you,” the man’s voice, a deeper, richer version of Lorenzo’s own, echoed in the vast space. “A magnificent beast. A fine bull, indeed.” Lorenzo tried to speak, to scream, but only a confused bellow escaped him. He shook his heavy head, his horns clattering against nothing. The man chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Confused? Of course. Let me enlighten you. I am Taurus. A demon, punished for a failed task. Forced to live in a form half-human, half-bovine. Until now. Thanks to you, I am free. Fully human.” He spread his arms, admiring his new physique. “And you, my friend, are fully bull.” Taurus took a step closer, his blue eyes gleaming. “I could simply end you now. A quick, merciful thrust of a blade. But where’s the sport in that? No, I prefer to corrupt. To break the mind before I break the body. To watch you succumb to primal urges until you can’t fight the bull nature anymore. Until you are nothing but instinct, regret, and self-contempt.” His eyes gleamed. “I want to see your will shattered. Then, I will kill you, here, in a glorious bullfight.” Lorenzo tried to charge, to gore him, but his new body felt clumsy, unfamiliar. “Oh, don’t bother. You’ll get the hang of it.” The man flicked a red cape, a blur of crimson. “This is far more fitting for you than boring tourist trips, isn’t it?” Lorenzo’s rage surged. He lowered his massive head, horns pointing like twin spears. The sand beneath his hooves churned. He charged. Taurus sidestepped, a blur of black and gold, the cape a taunting flash. Lorenzo thundered past, the momentum nearly toppling him. “Excellent! See? You already embrace your new nature.” Lorenzo spun, disoriented, then charged again. Taurus danced, a dark silhouette against the sun, each pass a taunt, each flick of the cape a spark to Lorenzo’s growing fury. A triumphant smile played on Taurus’ lips.

Days bled into a blur of endless dust and the scent of other bulls. Taurus led him to a sprawling ranch, acres of green pasture fenced by sturdy wood. Here, Lorenzo learned to fight. Or rather, Taurus taught him to hate. Taurus pushed him, prodding with a stick, waving the cape, always demanding more. Lorenzo learned to turn, to pivot, to follow the red cloth with an almost unnatural precision. He felt his body, this new, powerful form, respond. Each day, the rage burned more. “That’s it, bull,” Taurus’s voice sliced through the air, sharp as a whip. He waved a crimson cape, dancing just beyond reach. “Come on. Show me that fire.” Lorenzo halted, breathing heavily, steam pluming from his nostrils. He saw the calculation in Taurus’s eyes, the satisfied curl of his lips. A cold dread seeped into him. *He wanted this.* He wanted the charge, the fury, the instinct. The demon wasn’t just training him to fight; he was training him to *be* a bull. Lorenzo had played right into his hand. He had given Taurus exactly what he sought.

The next morning, Taurus entered the training ring, a red cape draped over his arm. Lorenzo stood in the center of the arena. Taurus unfurled the cape, a scarlet splash against the ochre dust. “Come on, toro,” Taurus’s voice purred. “A little dance?” Lorenzo didn’t move. He stood, breathing deeply. He heard the distant lowing of cattle, the buzz of flies. He felt the sun warm his back. Taurus flicked the cape. “Lost your fire?” Lorenzo’s eyes, dark and fathomless, fixed on Taurus. He didn’t charge. He didn’t bellow. He simply stood, radiating an infuriating calm. Taurus’s grin tightened. He snapped the cape. “Are you deaf, beast?” Lorenzo’s muscles tensed, a tremor of the bull’s instinct to respond, but he held it back. He stood his ground, a black monolith of defiance. A muscle twitched in Taurus’s jaw. His face, usually alight with cruel amusement, darkened. He lowered the cape, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Stubborn, aren’t we?” Lorenzo only snorted, a plume of dust rising from his nostrils. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not anymore. He would turn the tables. He would provoke Taurus with his very calm. Taurus’s taunts grew sharper, his movements more aggressive, but Lorenzo refused to bite. He felt a flicker of triumph each time he saw the frustration etch itself onto the man’s chiseled features. Taurus’s lips thinned, his eyes narrowing to slits. The easy amusement vanished, replaced by a simmering resentment. On the fourth day, Taurus’s patience snapped, his grin felt strained. “Perhaps you need a true sparring partner.” He led Lorenzo through a gate, into a smaller, separate meadow. Another bull, a hulking beast with scarred flanks and horns like polished granite, already grazed there.

The other bull lifted its head, dark eyes fixing on Lorenzo. A low rumble vibrated in its chest. It pawed the earth, a challenge. Lorenzo felt a jolt of alarm, a deep, instinctual warning. He braced himself. The other bull charged first, a snorting, thundering mass of muscle and bone. Lorenzo tried to defend, to block, to evade. But the raw, animalistic challenge, the scent of the other bull’s aggression, ignited something deep inside him. His defense sharpened, became more aggressive. He lowered his own head, parried a horn, then drove his shoulder into the other bull’s flank. A snort of triumph escaped him. The other bull stumbled. Lorenzo felt the surge of adrenaline, the intoxicating rush of dominance. His blood sang with the thrill of the fight, the sheer, brutal power of his body. He was no longer just defending; he was obliterating. Taurus watched from the fence, a slow smile spreading across his face. “There it is,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “The true nature of the beast.” The next time Taurus entered the paddock, cape in hand, Lorenzo didn't wait for the provocation. The memory of the fight, the scent of blood, the taste of victory, still coursed through his veins. He lowered his head, a guttural challenge rumbling in his chest. His hooves tore at the earth, sending clods of dirt flying. He charged, a force of pure, unadulterated aggression. Taurus grinned, a flash of white teeth. This was what he wanted. This was the perfect fighting bull, honed by rage, stripped of human inhibition. The training began in earnest, a brutal dance of man and beast. Each clash, each near-miss, each surge of adrenaline, pushed Lorenzo further into the abyss of instinct, his hormones soaring, his human mind fading, replaced by the relentless, untamed spirit of the bull. Taurus watched, a connoisseur of cruelty, as Lorenzo transformed. He’d perfected the art of the picador, jabbing at Lorenzo’s psyche with calculated remarks, exploiting every raw nerve. “You’re becoming quite the animal, aren’t you, Lorenzo?” Taurus paused, cleaning his sword with a silken cloth, eyes glinting. “Almost a shame to put you down. Almost.” Lorenzo snorted, pawing at the dust. The words meant little now, just background noise to the thrumming power in his limbs.

One afternoon, Taurus led Lorenzo away from the main training grounds, through a gate into a smaller, enclosed paddock. Lush grass, tall and green, stretched under a warm sun. A lone cow stood near a watering trough, her tail flicking. Her scent hit Lorenzo like a physical blow. A sweet, musky aroma, thick with desire. It permeated the air, a siren song to his new, dominant nature. He felt a stir, a deep, unfamiliar ache in his loins, a heavy throb in his massive, pendulous balls. His thick, purple sheath twitched. The cow, sensing his presence, turned, her eyes soft, her low moo a clear invitation. “A beautiful specimen, wouldn’t you agree, Lorenzo?” Taurus’s voice was smooth, almost purring. He stood at the edge of the paddock, watching with an unnerving intensity. “She’s ready. Are you?” Lorenzo’s breath hitched. A flash of human thought, a desperate, fading memory of shame, flickered. This was the final degradation. He stared at the cow, then at Taurus, a silent, defiant refusal. His body, hot with the cow’s scent, pulled towards her, but his fractured mind screamed *no*. He lowered his head, not in aggression, but in a stubborn, weary resistance. Taurus sighed, a soft, disappointed sound. “Still clinging to that pathetic humanity, are we?” He pushed off the fence, walking closer to Lorenzo, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s a simple act. Nature’s call. Deny it, and you deny yourself. Give in, and you become whole.” Lorenzo lowered his head, a guttural growl rumbling in his throat. He wouldn’t. Not this. This was the line. Taurus stopped before him, his gaze piercing. “Very well. For now.” He spread his hands, a gesture of mock surrender. “But understand this, Lorenzo. I *will* see you breed. I *will* see you mount her. I *will* watch as that last, desperate shred of your human self shatters, leaving nothing but primal instinct, regret, and self-contempt.” He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “It is inevitable. You cannot fight what you are becoming.” Lorenzo held his stance, a defiant black monolith against Taurus’s taunts. The cow lowed softly, a mournful sound that echoed the struggle within him.

Then, one morning, a new bull appeared in the paddock. Larger, older, with scarred hide and horns chipped from countless battles. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, his eyes assessing Lorenzo, recognizing a rival. The new bull lowered his head, scraped a hoof, and let out a guttural bellow, a challenge that vibrated through Lorenzo’s bones. Lorenzo met the challenge. He had no choice. This was territory, dominance, survival. The two bulls circled, a slow, tense dance, before erupting in a violent collision of bone and muscle. Horns scraped, hide tore, and the air filled with grunts and snorts. Lorenzo, honed by Taurus’s cruel training, fought with a ferocity that surprised even himself. He drove the older bull back, gored him once, then again, until the rival stumbled, defeated, and fled through the open gate Taurus had left. Victory surged through Lorenzo, a potent elixir. His blood thrummed, hot and fast. His muscles quivered with spent energy and raw power. He stood over the vanquished ground, chest heaving, a roar tearing from his throat – a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. His blood pounded, a frantic drumbeat in his ears. Adrenaline surged through every vein, hot and fierce. His hormones soared, a dizzying rush of pure, unadulterated power. He had won. He was king. Just then, a cow ambled into view, her steps slow, her gaze soft. The same cow from the pasture, the one with the heavy, sweet musk. The scent, previously resisted, now struck him with overwhelming force. It mingled with the scent of victory, of his own surging power. The flickering human flame within him sputtered, drowned by the roaring inferno of primal urge. He couldn't resist. His massive body moved without conscious thought, propelled by an ancient, irresistible command. He trotted towards her, a low, rumbling groan escaping his throat. The cow stood still, her head lowered, inviting. He mounted her, his heavy balls swinging, his thick bull cock emerging from its sheath, hot and engorged. He thrust, once, twice, a primal scream tearing from his lungs. The human part of him, the last, tiny flicker, extinguished. Taurus, who had watched from the fence, clapped slowly, a wide, triumphant grin splitting his face. “Magnificent, Lorenzo. Truly magnificent.” He walked towards the exhausted bull, his footsteps light on the churned earth. “You see? I told you it was inevitable. Your humanity, a fragile illusion, shattered by primal truth.” He reached out, patting Lorenzo’s flank, a gesture of ownership. The final capitulation. The last bit of human cum, spattered into a cow. Your last potential human offspring, dying in a bovine womb.” He savored the words, a connoisseur of suffering. “The next load will be pure bovine. Completely, utterly, magnificently animal.” Taurus’s eyes, glinting with malicious glee, swept over Lorenzo’s heaving form. “It’s time, my friend. Time to dance one last dance.”

The next weekend, a chill wind swept through the empty stands of the bullfighting arena. Lorenzo, his body heavy with a grim certainty, felt the familiar rough hand on his hide, guiding him through the dark passage. The next weekend, a chill wind swept through the empty stands of the bullfighting arena. Lorenzo, his body heavy with a grim certainty, felt the familiar rough hand on his hide, guiding him through the dark passage. The scent of dust and ancient blood filled his nostrils. He knew where he was going. He knew what awaited him. The grand, brutal stage of his end. Taurus, lean and predatory in the black satin *traje de luces*, awaited him at the center. Every embroidered stitch on the suit seemed to gleam with dark intent. Lorenzo had lost so much, given into primal urges he despised, but he would not die without leaving a mark. Taurus would feel his rage. Taurus flourished a scarlet cape. Lorenzo charged. The ground trembled beneath him. He lowered his head, horns aimed at the dancing figure, a black blur against the red. Taurus sidestepped, a whisper of movement, the cape a flash, then gone. Lorenzo thundered past, his momentum carrying him to the barrier. He spun, snorting, the taste of dust on his tongue. "A little slow today?" Taurus’s voice carried across the arena. "Thinking about your cow, perhaps?" Lorenzo ignored the barb, the memory of his shame a fresh wound. He charged again, faster, feinting left, then right. Taurus laughed, a sound that grated on Lorenzo's raw nerves. He moved with impossible grace, always just out of reach, a ghost. Lorenzo’s frustration mounted with each failed lunge. Sweat, thick and musky, coated his powerful hide. He couldn't even graze the demon. Taurus, too confident, paused, his chest puffed out, an arrogant smile splitting his lips. He spun the cape with a flourish, his eyes momentarily fixed on the admiring crowd in the stands. A fraction of a second. A breath. Lorenzo saw it. He didn't think. He didn't plan. Pure instinct, honed by weeks of forced aggression, drove him forward. He lowered his head, a black battering ram, and surged. The horns, sharp as daggers, found purchase. A sickening crunch echoed in the, now death silent, arena. Taurus’s breath hitched, a gurgling sound. The arrogant smile dissolved into a mask of shock and agony. Lorenzo felt the resistance, then the sudden give.  Taurus stumbled back, a puppet with severed strings, eyes wide and unseeing. He crumpled to the sand, the black satin a stark contrast against the ochre. He lay still, a limp, broken doll. Lorenzo stood over him, chest heaving, the metallic tang of blood filling his nostrils. He had done it. He had killed the monster. A strange, hollow victory. Then, a cold, unfamiliar sensation pulsed through him. Not his blood, but something else. His life force, his very consciousness, tugged, stretched, then plunged. He felt himself sinking, dissolving, pulling into the still form on the sand. A dizzying rush, a sudden shift. The black satin of Taurus’s clothes shimmered, then bled into a brilliant sky-blue, the gold embroidery turning silver. Lorenzo gasped, a human sound, and stumbled. His hands, no longer cloven hooves, flexed. He looked down. The blue *traje de luces* clung to a body he recognized, yet didn't. His own face stared back from the reflection of puddle of blood, but it was sharper, the jawline chiseled, the blond hair falling in perfect waves. An eight-pack rippled across his stomach, a testament to raw, potent strength. He felt... powerful. Agile. Lorenzo grinned.

Achieta

Artist: Ignacio Zuloaga (Spanish, 1870-1945)

Date: 1911-1913

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, United States

Despription

photographer: Ramón Masats