gwenchan

Like a cradle in the sea

2023-04-02T20:30:30Z

Fandom: The Iliad

Prompt: AU- Supernatural, Selkie

Achilles was around four when he first asked about his mom and why he hadn’t one like other kids. Dad rubbed his eyes, then patted his knees and Achilles climbed on them.

“She is in heaven,” dad said.

And so, in the simple way children understand things, Achilles had understood why they went to the graveyard every Sunday, after morning mass.

It stood at the edge of town, on a hill to climb with the good shoes chafing onto the skin, and stomach rumbling. There dad would walk to a little area most people ignored and remained a long time staring at a simple stone. Achilles’ mom was under it.

Holding his father’s hand, the child wondered if that was really true. Something was strange. Something didn’t sit right with the story dad had told.

When he became old enough to go to catechism, he learnt that part of the graveyard was for those who didn’t receive the christening. This time dad had diverted the question.

"Your mom was just too free."

Sunday was the worst day of the week. The mass was long and dad always became sad and moody afterwards, only adding to the heavy hood of nostalgia that constantly pressed onto the house.

They ate in silence, onion soup with too much salt, then dad would lock himself in his room and Achilles left to wander around. Mondays were a blessing.

“What was mom like?”

Dad slowly put down his coffee cup, the smell filling the little kitchen.

“Beautiful.” It was a whisper as he stared out the window to the beach. Then, “Finish your breakfast. It’s late.”

Later dad showed him a grainy photo. Achilles understood without asking. On the shore stood a young woman with long hair flowing in the wind. Her simple dress swelled a little on the stomach. He studied it so long that eventually dad said: “You can keep it.”

Achilles put the photo under his pillow, to look at and hold to his chest before going to sleep.

***

Achilles had been tossing in bed all night.

The rough sheets plastered onto his skin outside was a cacophony of crickets and cicadas and the more he tried to catch sleep, the more that slipped through his fingers till he was staring in the dark.

He froze. The curtains flowed as a shade climbed inside: a woman, moonlit highlighting a little features. With a sad smile, she glided toward the bed and sat at the edge of the mattress, stretching a hand toward him. Achilles shivered at the touch, heart suddenly too heavy. He wanted to speak but words refused to come out.

“Find your skin,” she said, then bent to kiss the top of his head. Half way between sleep and waking, without knowing why, Achilles burst into tears.

"Mom," Mom,” he called to the void.

He must have screamed too because dad come and cradled him back to sleep, while Achilles sobbed and sobbed.

In the morning the sheets were cold and smelled of the sea and in Achilles’ mind remained the remnants of a dream.

The next night he stared at the window in wait till the sleep had the best of him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth upon his waking. He waited the next day and the day after, uselessly. Maybe it had been nothing but a dream, but he couldn’t believe it, fighting agains the pull of sleep and losing.

His whole body seemed to sink into the mattress.

A cold hand brushed onto his forehead, gone before Achilles could grasp it, catching only a glimpse of long fingers. He studied on his own. They were long too and in between was a translucent membrane, like that of some fishes at the market. Dad didn’t have it; neither did the other kids or anyone at the village. It must have been mom, but in all the few photos they had her hands were hidden.

“It’s only some excessive skin. It happens,” dad said when asked upon and Achilles had known he was lying.

Dad was a man of many secrets. Above all, his room was constantly locked and of several liberties Achilles was allowed, entering dad’s room alone was absolutely forbidden.

Only once he had disobeyed. It had been the first and only time dad actually slapped him, shouting like he never had before.

Achilles had spent the rest of the evening locked in his room, nourishing his resentment, with a plate of soup cooling on the floor. Dad brought him to the fair next Sunday and bought a small bag of sweets, but something had cracked.

Often he stood whole minutes staring at the closed door and the rare occasion dad allowed him in, his eyes darted around in search of secrets.

But even so, even with curiosity growing to the point of hurting under his skin, he kept away from the room.

He didn’t want to upset dad again, not when it was all he had left.

***

“We’ll have guests for a while. Behave.”

Achilles perked at the news, so quickly the dip pen left a ugly spot of ink under the last one of a neat row of column multiplications. Now he would have to redo it all over.

“What guests?”

“An old friend of mine and his son. They will arrive in a few days.”

The son would sleep in Achilles’ same room. Dad had him tidy and scrub it squeaky clean, repeating from time to time to be gentle with their guests. Then, he put Achilles in his Sunday best to go to the station.

Their guests arrived from the other side of the country, they would surely be tired and lost after the long journey.

At the station the trains came and went. Achilles counted the people getting down and the ones boarding.,trying to divine the strangers from the locals till eventually boredom began to get the best of him.

He didn’t know how much he had slept when dad nudged him awake. A rough-looking man was walking to them, an heavy suitcase in hand, and behind shuffled a scrawny boy, dark hair and dark face. Scabs littered both his knees.

“I was beginning to get worried,” dad said, getting up to hug the man.

“The train stopped midway. Crossing sheep.”

“You must be tired. Achilles, this is my friend Moenetius. And that is Patroclus.”

“Hi.”

It was the only word Achilles heard from him in a whole week, all his attempts met with silence. But when Achilles grabbed Patroclus’ hand, as they walked home from school, Patroclus didn’t snatch it away.

They did their homework face to face at the kitchen table, and Patroclus tapped at Achilles’ notebook each time he made a mistake. Then, they played football in the street and sometimes Achilles kicked the ball too hard, sending it right against the clothes hanging out to dry, and they had to run from the mess.

“Phew, that old Eurydikes is a terror,” Patroclus panted, hands on his knees and then for the first time he smiled.

Those were the first words he spoke.

***

Standing in the kitchen, Achilles had no idea how he got there, except he was looking for something. His skin. He had to find his skin.

On the door, Patroclus stared at him dumbfounded and yawned.

"You didn’t tell me you sleepwalk," he murmured, voice rough. "Lucky thing you didn't get hurt. Here." He poured Achilles a glass of water, took his hand and slowly led him back to bed.

“I need to find my skin,” Achilles muttered. Sighing, Patroclus squeezed his hands a bit more. "It's here. Your skin is here. It was only a nightmare."

Patroclus had warm hands, but his words weren't right. He didn't get it. "No, I need to find my skin," Achilles insisted. "Mom told me."

In the soft light of the candle Patroclus' eyes widened. "Your mom? “

“Yes, she visits me sometimes.”
“Like, you see her ghost?”

“No, it’s not a ghost. My mom is not a ghost.”

Mon couldn’t be a ghost, her caresses though rare were too solid. He refused to accept he was a ghost. His mother was alive and one day she would return and then they’d be a real family.

“I’ll show you.”

“Next time,” Patroclus murmured. Then, he climbed in bed next to Achilles, arms coming to wrap around him so he wouldn’t sleepwalk again for that night.

From under the cover, Achilles set his eyes onto the window.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d shown Patroclus.

Tomorrow became today and today became yesterday and the days turned into weeks.

“Achilles, it’s almost dawn. Your mom won’t come. I’m sorry,” Patroclus sighed, eyes falling closed. Achilles gave him a quick pinch.

“I didn’t make it up.”

“Ouch. That’s not what I said. Just maybe it’s not a good period.”

But Achilles stared stubbornly out the window, a light breeze moving the curtains. It was never the right moment.

He fought to stay awake, a lump settling into his throat. "That’s not fair," he whined, lower lip between teeth to stifle the sobs rising from his chest.

He had been so sure she would appear tonight and he would show her to Patroclus, to prove he wasn’t crazy.

“I want to see her. I want to see my mom.”

He let himself snuggle in Patroclus’ hug.

"I know. I know.”

Patroclus had lost his mom too. She wasn’t dead and Patroclus knew exactly where she was, but that didn’t make her any less gone for Philomela was mad. Not the madness that turned people violent, only melancholic and distant.

“Maybe she comes only when you’re alone,” he suggested. “Maybe she’s afraid to be seen.”

It added up. Mom hadn’t immediately stopped coming to him when Patroclus arrived, but surely since when they had started keeping watch.

“Then we hide.”

They would pretend to sleep, with covers pulled well over their heads. Shifting a little, Achilles peered from a thin crack in the sheets, knowing Patroclus was doing the same.

As he slid toward sleep, the mattress dipped. He didn’t dare to move.

They found wet prints on the floor in the morning.

***

Find your skin

Mom’s voice echoed in Achilles' brain. "What skin?" he asked the wind

Your skin

Laying onto the stomach, Patroclus peered under the bed in the guest bedroom. He sneezed. "Nothing. I told you. Exactly what skin are we looking for?"

"I am not sure"

He'd know when he saw it. He pressed a foot against the wardrobe to pry the shutter open, wrinkling his nose at the whiff of mothproof and the aftershave Patroclus’ dad used.

One by one coats, shirts, sweaters piled onto the floor, while Patroclus stood guard. "Father won't be happy."

"He won’t discover it. "

After the shirts came the turn of the pants, socks and even underwear till Achilles was sticking his whole body into the wardrobe. But of his skin no trace.

They rummaged through the drawers in the living room, stopping now and then to examine this or that trinket and swearing they weren’t there last time. Old fountain pens, crusted seashells, a box of chess, a set of glass for the ouzo, rough handkerchieves and so on. The drawers creaked and squeaked.

“Maybe in the kitchen?”

It would be a chance to grab a snack. Then, they perused each single cabinet, dishes and pans clanging together. They took a jar, put it on the counter, and put it back into the pantry. Took another and repeat.

“Achilles! Patroclus.”

A pan held to his chest, Achilles snapped his head to the door. Arms crossed, dad looked all but pleased.

“What in heaven is this mess?”

“We were—” Patroclus began to be promptly shushed.

“I don’t care. Fix things and go to your room. I don’t want to hear a peep till dinner. Understood?”

Eyes downcast, they both nodded.

Next week they tried to be less noisy but without much more luck, the possible hiding places discarded one after the other.

In the night mom visited Achilles, a spirit in the wind.

***

Achilles sat bolt upright, shouting into the darkness.

“It’s in his room!”

From his left, Patroclus groaned something vague. “What? What room. Achilles, it’s too late. Go back to sleep.”

But Achilles was already climbing onto Patroclus’ bed, nudging him to make room and slipping under the cover. Patroclus hissed.

“Ugh, your feet are cold.” Then. “Is it one of those nights?”

One when they would stay awake for hours and in the morning having to struggle to not drop dead onto the desks during Maths hours.

“Listen. My skin, it’s in dad’s room. It’s the only place where we haven’t searched.”

Patroclus made a dubious sound. “We don’t even know if it is in the house.”
He had a point. But before searching elsewhere, Achilles had to make sure they had searched every corner of the house.

“And anyway, it’s useless,” Patroclus continued. “It’s locked and we cannot enter there.”

“More proof there must be something precious there.”

The more Achilles grew up, the more such secrecy did not sit right with him, especially the excuse dad gave him once, saying he didn’t want Achilles to break or ruin anything by accident.

“Also, the locked door is not a problem.”

Picking a lock couldn’t be that hard. The problem lay with dad leaving the house for a sufficient time. And they would have to distract Patroclus’ father as well.

"Maybe when your father goes to the market?" Patroclus mused, but Achilles didn’t agree. "He never stays there long."

"What about the tavern?"

Achilles shook his head. In those occasion their parents called a woman to watch over there and she had a fine hearting and eyes worse than a hawk.

“There must be another way.”

They discussed till the walls coloured pink. A month turned into two. Achilles had retrieved a old pad lock and a pin, He spent hours juggling with it, breaking its defenses, over and over, till it could burgle it with his eyes closed.

He and Patroclus would time how long did it take for dad to return from his commissions.

They turned into two angels, the epitome of best behaviour, in the hope their parents would eventually trust them enough to leave them at home alone.

A thin ran tapped against the window as dad called Achilles’ attention at the table. “I need to go to Athens for a couple days. For some documents. Don’t drive Moenetius crazy.”

It took every single ounce of Achilles’ self control not to betray himself, but searching Patroclus’ hand under the table and tugging it in celebration.

The day didn’t arrive fast enough. Leaving on Friday evening, dad would be back Monday morning, allowing them two whole days.

“What if my father discovers us,” Patroclus hissed over the never ending priest’ sermon, even longer than usual.

“Don’t worry. I got it. I’ll show you when we get home.”

He had it hidden under the mattress for a whole week now, a small bother he wiggled under Patroclus’ wrinkling nose.

“What’s that?”

“Sleeping aid.”

“Sleeping aid? How did you?"

"I stole it. It wasn’t hard. We slip some drop in your father' soup at lunch and done"

From what proclaimed on the label, a small splash would grant a grown man a solid eight hours of sleep

“I don't like it. What if it’s dangerous? ”

“It’s not. A couple drops. Your dad get a good nap and I find my skin.”
Patroclus looked even less convinced.

“Please.”

“Oh, fine.”

Two drops while Moenetius was not looking, the bottle shining in and out Achilles’ hand, and before they had washed the dished the man was yawning. Patroclus took him by the elbow

“You look tired, father. You should go lay down”

Moenetius grumbled. “No. I just need to close my eye a moment.”

“At least sit in the armchair. It’s more comfortable,” Patroclus insisted, coaxing him to stand. “You always work so much.”
He had barely returned to the kitchen that they heard the first snores.

The big clock above the stove struck the new hour. They left the dishes half-washed in the sink, every second too precious to lose.

Heart in his throat, Achilles slipped the hairpin into the lock. It yielded surprisingly fast. He tugged Patroclus inside.

“Well, where do we search first?”

“The chest.”
Dad kept most of his clothes there and some documents as well, through which they rummaged without much interest, sneezing for the mothproofing.

A heavy looking desk sat opposite the bed. Achilles opened and closed every single drawer while Patroclus tapped the wood for hidden compartments.

“Then under the bed.”

Lying on his belly, he stuck his head in the gap between flor and mattress and slipped in one hand to feel around. It slapped against something, a harsh corner, and so he slipped in his other hand too, grabbed and pulled.

"Think the skin will be here?" Patroclus tapped the just revealed trunk.

"Where else?" Achilles replied, tilting his wrist a bit to the right. He was almost there. Easy, easy ….

The lock snapped open with a loud pop and the kids recoiled, noses wrinkling at the smell of rotten fish.

"Uh, that's disgusting," Patroclus gagged, turning away while Achilles took a peek.

"It's not so bad,"

Inside was a neatly folded cloak, colour between grey and ochre. The texture had a almost rubbery feeling under Achilles' tentative touch.

"What is it? A strange raincoat?"

"I don't think so…"

But it must be more than what met the eye, or dad wouldn't locked it away. Unfolded, it spread over a good portion of the floor, the inside warm and soft.

Something vague and strange blossomed in Achilles' chest, the call to a home long forgotten.

“I think it’s a sealskin" Patroclus was saying. A sealskin. Between his open fingers the extra skin stretched.
”Well, what now?”

“I’m not sure… “
He lifted the skin again to his face. It did look like a cloak, with a specific fold resembling a hood, and slipping under Achilles’ fingers almost like water as he pulled it over his shoulders. Walking to the window, it trailed behind.

In the distance a thin line against the horizon: the sea. The sea was calling for him.

He must answer the call.

“Achilles?”

Patroclus’ words came as from underwater. Achilles snatched his arm free, slipping it further into the cocoon of the pelt. He headed for the door, the sea singing in his mind.

Stepping outside, the sun burnt his nape, too hot at that hour of the day, and no people around.
Achilles snuggled a bit more inside the skin, rubbery and fresh. He walked past the church, past the school, the bakery and the pub, down the stairs leading to the beach.
A few waves rippled the water surface, washing upon the shore in a greyish foam.
The first contact was pure bliss. It sang to its core, the place where he had always meant to be. He dove and disappeared, the sealskin becoming his true form.
Seals swam at his side with happy grunts, pushing him further into the open sea. He followed them eagerly.

A group detached. When they reappeared a little later, they circled around a much bigger seal. A dark stripe ran from between its eyes down to its back.

It propelled itself toward Achilles, shape shifting.

“Mom!”

She was a bit seal, a bit human.

“Finally. You found your skin. Good job. Oh, I’ve waited so long.”

She kissed his cheeks and forehead, then rubbed her nose against his neck.

It all felt like a dream.

“Come, let's get you home.”

A bit dazed Achilles nodded.

They swam as sky slowly changing their colour, to a inclosure of searocks and natural puddles and there more seals than Achilles had ever seen in his life; piled in groups on the beach, playing in the water, taking a nap. Some had shed their skin to reveal the human form underneath.

Snapped head up and rush yo Achilles , with exclamations of delight and celebration, too many to count. He sunk a little more in his sealskin under the onslaught and they laughed.
"There's nothing to be afraid," Mom said. "You're safe here.”

“Is this him?” a male-selkie asked, grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Yes. Your lost brother. Finally home.”

She pushed Achilles forward toward the other selkie. He had the same black hair as her. A little behind him was a girl bearing a certain resemblance to dad-

His other family. His brothers and sisters, the one mom must have entrusted to the sea before their skins were locked away.

He wiggled his shoulders a little and the pelt fell to his elbow like a stronge shawl. There was a new round of laughers.

They feasted all night and there was music and guttural songs. Toddlers came to Achilles to curiously poke at his wet clothes and giggle at the texture. When the moon was high in the sky, they wrapped themselves in their pelts and dug a bed in the sand. Some adults stood guard. Most went to sleep as well, in group of three, four, five, both in seal and human form.

Mom too lead Achilles to a secured area of the beach, where she lay down, the lower part of her body a seal-tail, and he curled next to her on instinct.

They went out to swim in the first hours of morning, letting themselves be transported by the current, leaving behind their humanity for a while.

Only on land, once dry, the pelt completely separated from the skin and Achilles basked in the sun. Another female in the clan brought them fish to share and he ate it gladly while mom groomed his hair. She carefully combed away the knots.

It felt nice. Since he came to stay with them, it had been Patroclus to do it, his touch much gentler than dad’s.

Dad.

Achilles’ whole body jolted, likes uddenly waking from a deep dream. They must be all worried sick. He stood up abruptly.

"I need to go back,"
In a flash mom grabbed his arm, pulled him back. “You can't “

"But dad will feel sad. I can't leave him alone."

Mom tightened her grip. "He wanted to keep you prisoner. He hid your skin as he hid mine. Don’t you understand.
She squeezed his shoulders, digging her nails into the skin. He tried to squirm away from her grip.

”You're hurting me. I don't want to to stay here.”
He pulled harder, tears filling his eyes. Violent sobs shook his frame.

"Why did you leave? You left us," he cried, punching her on the chest in anger. "I needed you."
She could have remained with them and instead she had left. She didn't even have the excuse of being dead.
Mom stood motionless taking in all his anger till it was drained to the last drop and he sunk against her.

She swap him in a tight embrace.
”I'm sorry.

He whimpered into her shoulder.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have left. But when the sea calls one cannot resist and I couldn’t stay in a human home. But you belong to both world”

Gently, she pried Achilles from her chest, so to look him in the eyes. He dried them with a corner of the sealskin, on the edge between two choices.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whined, sniffling. She caressed his cheeks with a sad smile.

“And you won’t. I’ve always kept careful watch over you and I won’t stop now.”

“What about dad? He misses you too.”

A vague grumble rose from mom’s throat. Her face hardened.

“Even so, I’m still not ready to forgive him. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Maybe by then the wounds would have healed. Taking Achilles by the hand, she lead him to the water, swimming at his side till the coast was in sight.

***

On the beach, dad was shouting his name against the waves.
He didn't even wait for Achilles to reach the shore to run to him and before Achilles knew it he was being swept in the tightest of hugs.
"Thank God. You're safe.” Dad hugged and hugged Achilles. "I thought I lost you. I am sorry. I was so scared.”

Something wet hit Achilles’ cheeks. It took a moment to realise they weren't splashes of water but tears. He sniffled against dad's chest

“I… I just wanted to see mom.”
”I know. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. What matters it’s you’re home now.”

Home. He was home. But with the mom and the seals it had felt home as well. He had been safe in mom’s arms. The sealskin was part of him as it was his human flesh. He couldn’t stand to be separated from it now.

"Achilles? What’s wrong?”

“You won't take away my skin again, will you?”

He looked at dad expectantly, biting his lips as dad pondered the question for a long moment, face tensed. He held Achilles’ hands as if the sea could drag him away the moment he let go.

“No,” he said in the end, loosening his grip. “I won’t. I don’t have to.”

Now that Achilles had come back he didn’t have any more reason to worry.

“Come on. Patroclus was even more worried than me. You gave him quite a scare.”

"I didn't want to."

He would make up for it.

He stopped one last time to look at the waves. Among them he thought to catch a glimpse of a monk seal. He tugged at dad’s shirt.

Dad stilled, frowned, then slowly lifted his arm in a little and shy greeting. Rolling on its belly, the seal lifted its tail fin in a curt response before disappearing under the surface in a shower of sprinkles.

"We’ll see her again soon, right?”
”Yes, I guess we will.”

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In the blood

2023-03-30T21:31:07Z

Fandom: Iliad

Prompt: Vampiro

The sweet smell of incense hit Patroclus already on the church threshold, welcoming and familiar as always. Crossing himself rapidly he examined the ambience, but at that hour of the day the St Mary Greek Orthodox cathedral was empty. The sound of the man’s steps on the ceramic floor echoed as he made a quick beeline for the offering basket and the candles neatly piled next to it. Picking one, he fished a couple pounds from the depths of his pocket as a shiver ran across his back.

It must be the wind. Even the candle flame had flickered while Patroclus put it along others at the iconostasis and knelt. Then the words came automatically to him, hammered in his head since the days at the orphanage.

God-bearing Virgin, rejoice, grace-filled Mary

He let the himself focus on the prayer and its repetition to calm down. To say last weeks had been hectic would be an understatement. Moreover after Patroclus most recent exploit, Nestor had been breathing down his neck as he hadn’t in years, since Patroclus was still a hunter in training.

Patroclus couldn’t completely blame him, not after he had willingly followed a vampire to make-out in the back of a second rate club.

He truly had acted like an idiot, allowing himself to let down his guard despite all recommendations and years of training. Newbie mistake. And now he had two new shiny scars as memento of how stupid he had been.

As Nestor had said in length, with his usual tirade, Patroclus should consider himself more than lucky to be still alive and able to walk on his legs.

He pinched his nose. Something moved in the corner of his eye, and another shiver traversed his body, from the nape where all hairs stood up to his tailbone. He knew the feeling.

The cold of the tiles seeped through the cloth of his pants as he bent forward in a resemble of devotion to feel the side of his boot and the couple of knives providentially stashed there.

"Take another step and I stick a pole through your heart."

Behind him came a high and crystalline laughter. It reverberated all around the church, with a sound vaguely reminiscing of bells; but bells someone had forgotten to tune for too long.

"As said, I like to see you try. Took you long enough to notice."

Patroclus' shoulders slumped forward. The other was right: as a supposedly experienced hunter he should have felt the creature's presence long before he actually did. Maybe Nestor wasn’t so wrong on pestering him about revising the basics.

Still, he plastered on the most cocky and sure face he could muster before standing up and turning, a knife at the ready in each hand.

"I thought your race couldn't stand being in church."

Most couldn’t. The archives were old and some needed some updates, but the hunter clans wouldn’t survive that long on completely faux information.

Achilles chuckled behind his hand.

"Why wouldn’t we? They are really nice places. I have a penchant for the Catholic ones though. Some architecture and art are amazing. Ever been to Rome? The Sistine Chapel sure is something else, Michelangelo was a genius. A bit of a douchebag though.” He spoke casually.

“You knew Michelangelo?” Honestly it wouldn’t even be the strangest thing Patroclus heard in his career.

“Superficially,” the vampire shrugged. “Not exactly my type. Anyway, I hadn’t pegged you as the religious type,” he continued, hooking his thumbs in the loops of his no doubt very expensive pants. In the soft light of the candles he looked similar to a divinity, even more than under the harsh neon lights of the club.

But he wasn’t. He was the only creature of evil who preyed on others to sustain themselves and a life long past its due date. Everything about him was unnatural. From too dull skin to the way he moved, with a fluidity that had nothing normal about it.

“Instead I am,” Patroclus replied, sounding more offended than he’d liked, eyes darting toward the doors of the church. No use: he would never reach them in time if Achilles actually decided to attack.

He wouldn’t, would he? Unless Patroclus gave him a reason. He had shown too much interest—a definitely creepy interest—for Patroclus to kill him if not forced.

Or so Patroclus hoped. Vampires thought humans as toys, a nice, temporary diversion, at best and as mere food at worst. Often one thing did not exclude the other. And vampire were notorious for being fickle.

“But I don’t expect you to understand.”

”Why wouldn’t I?” Achilles smirked, upper lip pulling back to reveal his flashing white fangs, way longer than any tooth should be allowed to be.

Patroclus had no doubt they were as sharp as they looked, able to pierce through both flesh and metal as if cutting soft butter.

He scoffed. “Now you're telling me you believe in God.”

Achilles took a step further toward the iconostasis, tilting his head back as if to admire the decorations in the top rows. Patroclus tightened his grip onto the knife.

“No,” he said eventually, looking almost pensive. “But I do believe. My parents are two extremely religious vampires, for your information.”

Excellent. Another piece of information to add to the file. Thetis. Race: vampire. Nereid clan. From Greece. Age around five thousand. Control over liquids. Level of danger: Deathly. Avoid confrontation at all cost. And as for newest addition, also pious.

Also, Achilles had said parents. Plural. Of course, as a pureblood both his parents would be vampires. Patroclus made a quick side mental note to check who some millennia ago had been sufficiently brave or mad to couple with Thetis.

“What do you believe in then?”

Achilles made a wondering sound. “We do have our gods, but I guess you’d say we worship nature. What is the word? Animism?”

“Nature… “ Patroclus repeated, not more convinced than he was seconds ago, thumb brushing onto the knives handles. Achilles laughed, which only made Patroclus even more nervous. “Like, gods of nature?”

Thinking about it, Achilles was born in ancient times, when worshipping several gods was overall the norm and most of them were associated with some natural phenomenon.

“Precisely. Like the Moon. Call it Nanna, Artemis, Isis, something else… it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you call it?”

“Kangse.”

Well, there another new piece of information to add in the archive. Useless, yes but new. Or it could be somebody anticipated Patroclus. He hadn’t checked the hunters archive in a while, much to Nestor’ chagrin.

“But if you are so interested in our customs and rituals. I’d be happy to enlighten you. Give you some private lessons,” Achilles all but purred, again with that teasing tone that didn’t promise anything good and yet was terribly alluring.

Patroclus shook his head. No, he had to keep focused. He closed his fingers around the blade. The pain would help him stay grounded.

He realised his mistake a second too late. There was a blur, then a hand stronger than a hydraulic press closed around his wrist. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It was the first rule taught to any hunter: avoid under any circumstance bleeding before a vampire, unless extremely sure the vampire was fresh from the hunt and even then it was never a good idea.

Heart momentarily lodged in his throat Patroclus prayed Achilles had fed recently and wasn’t in the mood for a little extra.

Even though the vampire had no intention of killing him—and again, this was only a conjecture—the prospect of becoming his afternoon snack was just as bad. For a hunter getting their blood sucked was one of the greatest shame.

And God knew what ancient vampire could do from even a little sip.

Patroclus shivered, unable to move as Achilles turned his wounded hand palm up and brought it at eye level.

"Your blood is the prettiest red," he murmured, eyes glinting. Before Patroclus could say anything, let alone move, he flicked out his tongue. It was rough like one of a cat.

"And you taste as good as I'd imagined.”

There were a couple of small bombs stashed in the back pocket of Patroclus’ jacket, for emergencies.

If he moved carefully he could retrieve them without Achilles noticing.

But he was too mesmerised to do anything but watch the vampire lick the blood till the platelets began doing their job and the flow slowed down.

A drop lingered on Achilles’ lower lip. Then he was surging forward, fangs very well visible and so Patroclus did an extremely stupid thing.

But hopefully it would buy him some time; or dig his tomb further.

Grabbing Achilles by the shirt, he yanked him into a kiss. The vampire pressed against his body immediately, the kiss lewd and famelic. But as long as the fangs weren't on his neck, Patroclus was quite fine with it.

His head reeled a little. He had never been kissed with such force, such an intensity before.

He vaguely registered his hands clasping on the other's shoulders, the taste of his own blood filling his mouth, metallic and a bit rotten.

He was kissing a vampire.

He was kissing a vampire in a church, right before the iconostasis, under the very eyes of the Virgin Mary and the saints.

Patroclus' stomach lurched. It was disgusting, blasphemous and utterly abominable.

Even more, it was a trap and he willingly walked right into in. It would take so little for Achilles to break the kiss, pin him and shift his mouth just a bit lower.

Blessed years of conditioning then for keeping Patroclus’ nerves in check; that and the considerable amount of silvery jewellery he kept stashed on himself, a little trick every hunter learnt quickly. Often it were the small things to make a difference between life and death.

He only had to tilt his wrist just so. Got it.

The vampire recoiled. “Why did you do that,” he hissed, bringing a hand to the side of the neck where a small burn was blossoming in the shape of a crescent. At Patroclus wrist the bracelet clicked so to reveal a series of silvery spikes. In his left hand another two knives were at the ready.

“Sorry, as I told you, I am not interested.”
”Really? It seemed quite the contrary just a moment ago. Or was that another of your knives?”

"It—it was a knife" Patroclus replied, cheeks heating. And thank you stutter for running any semblance of threat.

Achilles leaned back casually, perfectly at ease.

"If you say so...it was really sharp... and hard.”

Achilles licked his lips again, as if already anticipating the feast, one where Patroclus had the unfortunate role of happening to be the central piece. He didn’t remember last time he had felt so exposed.

"I think you wanted to say sharp. "

"Did I shutter?"

“I don’t mingle with creatures like you.”

The vampire’s grin spread impossibly wider at the blatant lie. “Yet. See you next time, hunter.”

He was gone before Patroclus could even blink, his laughter lingering from the ceiling and in the corner of the church. He could still taste him on his lips, feel the coldness of his hands onto his skin. The palm of his own hand itched. He checked it, flinching: the cut still shiny with spit. With a grimace of disgust, Patroclus rubbed it furiously onto the front of his pants, while fighting to ignore the situation that so much had amused the vampire.

But it had been only a faux-step, a moment of weakness. It wouldn’t repeat. He was stronger than some God-cursed vampire, no matter how strong, old or alluring. He would severe Achilles’ head from his body and burnt the remains and then dump the ashes in a silver casket and threw it in a volcano.

Next time.

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Kneeling at your temple

2023-03-30T15:43:41Z

Fandom: Iliade
Prompt: Sacrificio

Peleus had chosen the most beautiful lamb in the flock, a lovely beast barely weaned with a soft coat of fluffy white curls that had become event whiter and softer after the bath.

If left alive, it promised to grow into a strong and fertile ram.

In Peleus' arms, it bleated quietly, then tried to snuggle against the man's chest while he slowly climbed the steps to the temple, the leaves the wind had blown there scrunching under his sandals.

Passed a row of columns, the inside was pleasantly fresh against the sun burning without respite outside. It had been a hot spring and it would be an even hotter summer.

Before the altar, on the left and the right, stood two imposing braziers, in them some embers still glowing. They drew little orangey tongues onto the giant marble statue behind, refracting in the folds of the dress.

Another bleat broke the quiet. There was too much quiet recently, with half the population gone from the kingdom. Phthia looked like a whole different place.

It would take a while to adjust.

The lamb pawed as Peleus put it down, the other extremity of the rope secured around its neck wrapped around the man’s wrist so the animal wouldn’t walk away. But after a moment the lamb stood quietly, obediently waiting in place while he rekindled the fire, beads of perspirations sliding down the back of his neck..

He brushed his sweaty palms onto the tunic before grabbing a handful of grains. They clinked softly to the ground.

“Silver-footed Thetis,” he called over the cracking of the flames, unable to hide a certain uncertainty in his voice, the knife tight in his left hand.

“I humbly beg you to accept this offer and watch over my son who -”

“Your son?”

A gust of sea breeze made the fire flicker. A shiver ran down the man’s spine and the knife fell to the floor with a loud thudding sound. Peleus whipped around so fast he craned his neck.

“Thetis…” It was hard not to stutter, as he faced his spouse, trying to divine her mood. “I did not—”

“You didn’t expect I would come.”

She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t a question.

“No… I mean, I thought.”

He hadn’t even completed the sacrifice yet. But he had long renounced to understand her. He took a slow, deep breath to recollect himself. It did go as well as previewed, tongue once more twisting.

“I wanted to—” he tried. She must have been close to come so fast and the thought left a strange, bittersweet taste in his mouth. He wasn’t as sentimental as to believe she’d heard his call wherever she may be. That was reserved to Achilles.

“I know. Well, continue. It is a nice beast.”
For a moment he thought she would cross the space and caress the lamb herself, but she stood on the threshold in wait.

So he retrieved the knife and yanked back the lamb's head. Black blood showered the floor, his hands and a little of his white tunic. He could feel her scrutinizing gaze piercing the back of his head.

It left him wondering what expression she would have if he turned, if disgusted or pleased at the offer.

Only when the meat had been put on the embers and he had thoroughly washed his hands in the basin, did he dare to face her.

Thetis was frowning. It didn’t promise anything good. And paradoxically it was almost reassuring in its familiarity.

“You do not have to tell me to protect my son or do sacrifices for that.”

“I know. It was not an order. I would never. Only a humble request. You are still a goddess."

He'd never ask anything from a god without the proper compensation. Something in her person shifted, glowed, the remainder of her inhumanity.

"Indeed am I. Only a lamb, though."

Peleus’ shoulders slumped. It was ridiculously little, he knew it. "We're a little short of cattle at the moment. The army took a good portion and then.."

"Of course." Glowering she didn't let him finish. She was right.

Luckily for him, Phthia was a rich and prosperous kingdom and the cattle or flock never lacked, no matter how many livestocks were sacrificed to the gods.

He would have to fix things as soon as possible. “There would be two calves, ochre furs, just weaned, giant liquid eyes. I think you saw them once.”

She hummed, pensive. “Yes…”
”Or, well… maybe a ox? Two years. It’s quite big.”

“That is more acceptable. And for the record, it'll be a while still before the army leaves for Troy," she continued. "The wind stopped blowing."

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. The wind does not blow. The ships sit on the shore, the sails stay limp.”

A silly, egotistical hope shot through him for a moment; the hope the war was not meant to be, the army would pack away the camp and turn the way around. But it couldn’t be. It wasn’t the Myrmidons’ way.

“Why?”

“I guess some god is upset. Do not ask me which one. I kept away from Olympus in the past days. I was not in the mood.”

It was understandable. She had never approved of the warrior life, never wanted for their son to leave for war.

“Did they consult a seer? What does Achilles say?”
”He’s impatient. Full of energy. It’s—I do not wish to talk about it,” she stopped abruptly and looked at him like it was his fault, the very bane of her existence. This, too, was familiar.

He wanted ask for more, but he couldn’t find the words; words to tell to stop thinking she loved their son more than he did. Words to smooth thing.

Ask if she would stay a little longer. But when he lifted his eyes, she was already gone.

He tossed the lamb in the woods.

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Quiet morning

2023-03-29T21:52:37Z

Fandom: Hades

Prompt: Drabble 400 parole

Thanatos as usual wakes a minute before his alarm goes off.

Next to him, Zagreus groans and shifts a bit more under the covers, till only the top of his messy head peers out.

"Already?" he says, voice rough with sleep.

"I'm afraid so." They have a funeral early this morning. "I still have so many things to do."

Normally he tries to not arrive last minute—that's incredibile unprofessional—but last week had been a chaos of requests and work simply kept piling up.

Zagreus hums. He doesn't mind talking about death. His parents too manage a funeral home, and he worked there for a while before deciding it wasn't truly his call.

It's pleasant warm under the covers, Zagreus' body always on the hot side, and it takes a lot of Thanatos' discipline and professionalism to roll onto the floor and then in the shower.

His shampoo his running low. Popping the cap open, he knows exactly who to blame. But Zagreus insists he likes to smell Thanatos on himself.

Thanatos showers slowly, a little luxury he indulges in. When he returns to the bedroom, Zagreus' eyes are wide open.

"Go back to sleep," Thanatos says, picking a pair of new slack and a freshly ironed shirt from the dresser. "I know you went to bed late last night."

"I'm not sleepy," Zagreus answers and then yawns. He appears in the kitchen a little later while Thanatos is waiting for the kettle to finish warming the water for his morning coffee. Giving Thanatos a quick peck on the cheek, he takes a tea-bag from the pantry and a package of his favourite chocolate cookies.

He pulls his sleeping T-shirt onto his knees as he sits, ignoring Thanatos protests he'll end up deforming it.It's only an old shirt.

They have breakfast in peaceful and companionable silence, and Thanatos cherish every single second of it. Zagreus is normally always so active, so full of energy, always moving that it's endearing seeing him quietly dripping a cookie in his tea careful to not let it soak too much.

"Go back to bed," Thanatos says again when they are done, gulping down the last of his coffee. Zagreus smiles.

"Uhm, maybe I will."

Standing up, he gets on his tip-toes to kiss Thanatos on the lips.

"Have a nice day."

"You too."

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For all the gold in the world

2023-03-29T17:13:03Z

Fandom: Yuri on Ice
Prompt: Drabble da 300

Hands interlaced behind Victor's neck, Yuuri giggles. His once neatly hairdo is falling apart. It's adorable.

"Hi there," he grins, eyes bright with mirth.

"Hi," Victor smiles back. Then he fights to not burst out laughing as his husband of five years starts to flirt with him.

"You're very cute. Has anybody told you that?"

"My husband. At least five times in the last hour."

Yuuri's cheeks are flushed with the prettiest shade of pink. Victor can smell the sweet scent of the champagne on his breath. Some things never change.

"Well, you are."

Fresh fingertips brush against Victor's cheeks. "And soft."

"Must be the new lotion you gave me."

It comes from the onsen springs and it does miracles against the increasing wrinkles. Humming, Yuuri cups Victor's face. "Very, very soft," he repeats solemnly. Then, rising on his tiptoes he pushes his nose under Victor's chin. "And you smell good too."

From Victor's left comes the loud sound of gagging. He gives an apologetic smile, but it does little to sweeten Yurio's murdering gaze.

"Get a room," he hisses with an exaggerated grimace just as Yuuri gives Victor a quick but loud kiss. It isn't a bad idea. It's been a busy day and it's getting sufficiently late nobody will protest if they don't stay beyond.

Gently, Victor drapes an arm around Yuuri's waist to steer him toward the exit.

They'll have a warm shower, and then cuddle in bed. Maybe order some herbal tea with the room service. Chuckling, Victor shakes his head. He truly has become the old man Yurio accused him to be.

But he's happy and he wouldn't go back for all the gold medals in the world.

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A little nuisance

2023-03-29T12:32:00Z

Fandom: Hetalia

Prompt: Drabble 200 parole

Accepting to work on the couch with the excuse he can use his laptop everywhere had been a terrible idea. Not even the time to get himself situated, Arthur's lap has been annoyingly seized by his husband' head.

"Do you mind?" he huffs, holding the laptop mid-air for emphasis and bumping his knee up in an attempt to dislodge the other.

"It's cozy," Francis grins, stretching leisurely.

"And I need to work. This report won't write itself."

"I thought it was finished."

"I still need to editi it. So, move."

But Francis doesn't budge a single inch, a complete dead weight. "Five minutes," Arthur tries then to negotiate. Francis hums in approval, snuggling closer. Five minutes quickly turn into ten and then fifteen.

This calls for desperate measure. What a fortune, then, his husband is extremely ticklish and he just left his throat exposed.

Arthur can't help a chuckle as Francis squirms away and asks for pity till he has to surrender.

"You're cruel," he pouts, resigning to shift to the other side of the couch. Placing the laptop on his thighs, Arthur smiles triumphantly.

"Now don't say I didn't warn you."

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To try again

2023-03-28T11:21:26Z

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Drabble 100

The water is freezing, Helios long disappeared beyond the horizon. Rubbing his arms, Peleus takes another step.

"Are you sure?"

He throws Thetis a dubious glance. The breeze blows foam in his face. Already half-melting in the sea, she shakes her head with an exasperated sigh

"You won't drown. I told you."

"I know. It's... are you sure?"

If she wants to keep him at her side for all eternity.

"I married you."

It'll be all he gets from her. They'll work things out. With another sigh, she takes his hand.

She dives and he follows.

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Le gambe delle donne

2023-03-26T10:34:06Z

Fandom: Hetalia

Prompt: Tombola

Feliciano sta cominciando a pensare che forse proporre a Romano di iscriversi alla tombolata di Ferragosto non sia stata una buona idea.

Le occhiatacce che il fratello sta lanciando agli altri in fila per comprare le schede non promettono nulla di buono.

"Sei schedine," annuncia senza preamboli alla ragazza in cassa.

"Per due?" Trilla lei. "Siete insieme, giusto?" Dice, indicando ora Feliciano ora Romano.

Romano fa una smorfia. "Macché per due. Sei schedine per me" insiste, con i soldi contati già in mano. La ragazza lo fissa per un attimo prima di ricomparsi. Del resto più schedine riesce a vendere, meglio è. Iniziando a contarle, si si volta verso Feliciano

"Sei anche per te?"

"Ovvio" risponde Romano prima che Feliciano riesca anche solo ad aprire bocca. Feliciano fa per protestare, poi decide che non ne vale la pena e caccia fuori i trenta euro necessari all'acquisto.

Mentre cercano un posto dove sedersi, Romano esamina le sue schede e borbotta contro le combinazioni di numeri. “Fa’ federe un po’ le tue.”

Feliciano gliele passa senza badarci troppo, ascoltando con un orecchio solo mentre il fratello fa strani calcoli.

“Facciamo cambio. Io prendo queste, tu tieni queste.

Un’allegra voce agli altoparlanti anni che la Grande Tombolata di Ferragosto inizierà tra poco e la gente è ancora in tempo a comprare una scheda. Venite gente. Venite. Il primo premio è un fantastico bimby ultimo modello.

“E io lo voglio” sibila Romano, afferrando Feliciano per un braccio.

“Ma dici sempre che sono gli elettrodomestici del demonio."

Romano rotea gli occhi, scansando con poca grazia un gruppo di adolescenti per puntare a una panca dove c'è ancora spazio per due persone.

"Mai detto" replica, sordo alle proteste. "E mica lo voglio usare. È inutile, non capisci nulla."

"Magari se ... " comincia Feli, poi si zittisce perché quando il fratello è così c'è poco da discutere.

Allora si limita a guardarlo disporre tutte le schede in bell'ordine davanti a sé e ad estrarre due matite dalla tasca della camicia, casomai una si rompesse.

"Concentrati" sibila. Feli annuisce, gli occhi fissi sul panzerotto che una bambina qualche posto più in là sta divorando.

Lo stomaco di Feliciano gorgoglia. Il panzarotto fuma e sembra avere davvero un aspetto delizioso.

Romano lo ferma prima che possa alzarsi. "Dove stai andando?"

"È che mi è venuta fame. Prendo qualcosa anche per te."

"Non se ne parla."

"Faccio in fretta. Guarda non c'è più nemmeno coda. Ordino e torno.”

Cinque minuti all’inizio, romba l’altoparlante.

Romano soppesa la questione, gli occhi che saettano a destra e a manca nemmeno si stessero preparando a un’incursione in territorio nemico. “Va bene” si prende alla fine. “Prendimene uno al prosciutto. E un’aranciata. Fredda.”

Poi si volta verso il palco, perdendosi ad ammirare la lucida plastica bianca e l’acciaio cromato dell’elettrodomestico dei suoi sogni. Il secondo premio è un cellulare. Il terzo una bicicletta da corsa e via via a scalare. Come sta ripetendo l’altoparlante ci saranno tre tombole e quattro cinquine. I premi per le cinquine sono per lo più mangerecci.

“Bah” fa Romano, pronto matita alla mano a segnare i numeri non appena saranno chiamati. Da parte sua Feliciano spera che la situazione non degeneri. Di nuovo, Romano sa essere eccessivamente emotivo e competitivo quando si tratta di tombola—l’ultimo Capodanno per poco non sono venuti alle mani. E lui stasera vorrebbe evitare di dormire sul divano.

“Sei qui in vacanza anche tu, tesoro?” lo interrompe la signora seduta a destra. Annuisce con foga, mentre a sinistra Romano emette un prolungato grugnito di disappunto.

Ventidue. Il numero è il ventidue. Venti. E. Due.

La signora è di Padova. Feliciano sorride, lo aveva capito dall’accento. Sì, è stato tante volte a Padova.

Quaranta.

Questa volta Romano esulta, segnando con foga il numero su tre delle sue schedine.

“Io sono qui con mio marito e i miei nipoti” continua la signora, indicando tre bambini poco distanti. “Ormai veniamo a Ostia tutti gli anni. Da quando è nato il maggiore, cioè. Alla pensione ci danno sempre la stessa camera a e —”

“Feli, ma tu hai il venti! E anche il quattordici e il cinquantasei. Maledizione, guarda qui. I numeri. Devi ascoltare i numeri.”

Benedetta la ragazza che porta loro i panzerotti caldi per interrompere la tiritera. O almeno ridurla a un vago borbottio. Facendo spallucce, Feliciano dà un piccolo morso al suo, attento a non scottarsi la lingua. Hanno esagerato un po’ con la mozzarella, ma è buono.

“Non mangi il tuo?”

Ma Romano è più impegnato a segnare il “trentacinque. Trenta.E.Cinque” con foga preoccupante. Su sei schedine che ha comprato, solo due hanno almeno completato una cinquina—ignorata, non gli interessa un altro salame e ha bottiglie di vino di gran lunga migliori nella propria cantina. Si sporge di nuovo per controllare quelle di Feliciano, ma anche lì non pare avere più fortuna.

Sessantacinque. Cinquantotto. Quarantadue.

Più i numeri vengono chiamati, più Romano si tende. Impreca. Feliciano lo sente bisbigliare invocazioni a San Gennaro. A ogni numero la possibilità che qualcuno faccia tombola diventa sempre più una realtà. È matematico.

Una goccia di pomodoro cade sull’angolo della schedina, appena sotto il “18”.

Diciotto. Dieci e otto.

Ha visto il diciotto anche su un’altra scheda, poco fa. Romano ora sta pregando San Gennaro e la Madonna. Non imprecherà per un mese, giura, se gli fanno la grazia di questa tombola. Anzi, due mesi. E farà anche tutte le faccende domestiche.

Ventiquattro.

Nessuna fortuna.

Due. Ottantasette. Settantatré.

Il panzerotto al prosciutto giace da un po’ abbandonato vicino alla mano sinistra di Romano e la prima matita ha da tempo perso la punta. La seconda non sta messa molto meglio. Romano trattiene il fiato a ogni numero.

Novantuno.

“Tombola!”

Romano emette un suono strozzato, la matita ancora sospesa a mezz’aria. È finita. Il bimby è andato.

“Devono ancora controllare la scheda” cerca di consolarlo Feliciano, senza troppo successo. “Se proprio ci tieni così tanto te lo compro io.”

L’offerta peggiora solo la situazione. “Non voglio la tua stupida elemosina” ribatte Romano sbattendo la faccia sul tavolo. “Due numeri. Mi mancavano due numeri.”
Se ne lamenterà per tutto l’indomani e quindi a singhiozzo per il resto della settimana.

“Vuoi andare via?”

Romano gli lancia un’altra ’occhiataccia. “Certo che no. Mi serve un cellulare nuovo.”

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Don't let the tower fall

2023-03-24T21:50:16Z

Fandom: Hades

Prompt: Jenga

Tongue between his teeth, Zagreus carefully places the last wooden block in place. The third Saturday of the month is game night and since this round was his turn to choose he picked jenga. The rules are easy, it's quick, funny, doesn't require any maths or complex strategy while still managing to be sufficiently challenging.

The perfect group game. Sometimes he plays alone too, but in a group it is definitely better.

"That doesn't look too stable," Than comments, carrying a tray of snacks from the kitchen.

"It isn't meant to be," Zagreus replies. The more unstable the tower, the funnier the game.

He quickly counts the chairs around the table. "Is your brother coming?"

"Last time I asked he said yes, but knowing him he must be napping. I'm going to give him a ring.

Then Meg and Dusa. Achilles, Zagreus' downstairs neighbour, and his husband. Finally Asterius and unfortunately his boyfriend, Theseus, who insists to come even after having profusely declared his distaste for Zagreus.

He adds a couple chairs more in case Meg's sisters decide to come along with the excuse of free food.

"Hypnos will be a little late," Thanatos informs him. "He says to start without him."

“Did he fall asleep again?” Zagreus chuckles. Thanatos rolls his eyes. “I still don’t know how he hasn’t been fired yet.”

“You should give your brother more credit.”

Asterius is the first to arrive with Theseus in tow, already ranting about how Zagreus better not to cheat.

"I don't need cheating to beat you."

Besides he decided the order of the turns to be sure he won’t be right before Theseus.

The pair has just sat down when the doorbell rings again.

Sorry for being late," Achilles says, "Dash vomited."- Dash being one of Patroclus' dogs.

"I'm sorry. Is he alright?"

"Fine," Patroclus assures. "He always eats too fast. This goes in the fridge," he adds, passing Zagreus a bottle to be shared later.

Dusa and Meg arrive a little after. To Zagreus' chagrin, there's Alecto too, Meg’s younger sister. He would have definitely preferred Tysiphone.

"Hello, redblood."

"Charming as always, Alecto."

Behind her Meg rolls her eyes, while Dusa sinks her head in her shoulders as if Alector was her fault. Zagreus gives what he hopes is a big, reassuring smile.

“Hypnos will be a bit late,” he informs the others as they gather around the table.

They chat while they wait for him, small talk about school and work and Theseus proclaiming he's jenga champion but will be magnanimous with them and try not to win too many times.

To which Pat replies Achilles' too is very adept with his fingers, the joke turning the man the same shade of Alecto crimson skirt. She sneers.

"And you, redblood?"

"Why don't you ask your sister?" He replies, unphased, ignoring Meg's glaring. He'll probably pay for his long-tongue in the near future.

"I bet you're terrible," Alecto insists.

“Aren’t you just jealous?”

They would go on bantering for hours if the doorbell didn’t ring once again. On the threshold Hypnos spots the sleepiest of sleepy heads and he definitely has his sweater backwards.

"Sorry! I meant to close my eyes for just like five minutes I swear.”
“I know, Hypnos, don’t worry. Come. There’s paprika chips.”

Hypnos lights up, then gives Meg a quick peck on the cheek in greeting before sitting next to Dusa.

“So,” Zagreus reprises. “I think we can go in alphabetical order. Alright with everybody?"

They all nod and mutter in agreement. First round goes without any particular complications. Despite what Than claimed earlier, it will take a while to make the tower crumble.

Second round things begin heating up. “Pat, stop that,” Achilles yelps while his husband feigns innocence.

“Stop what?”
“Stop kicking me under the table

“I’m definitely not doing that,” Patroclus says, grinning mischievously. He isn’t the only one trying to sabotage the others. Alecto snorts loudly each time her sister tries to remove a piece. It does little: Meg has the firm hand of a surgeon and is the type who can sit through jumpscares without batting an eyelash. Patroclus too is not doing too bad.

Theseus is a whole different matter. As Zagreus by now has learnt, the man is all talk and no action. “It’s your fault,” he mutters, struggling to pass his turn without having the whole tower fall. “You sabotaged me,” he accuses Zagreus, claiming he built the tower wrong.
“As if I needed it.”

The tower wobbles but still resists and Theseus' turn lasted long enough Zagreus had had plenty of time to decide where to do his next move.

After him Achilles plays perched on his chair and eyeing wearily Pat for any undertable kick, even if Patroclus is animatedly chatting with Dusa.

She giggles loudly at a joke and eyes Achilles who pouts, ears an intense pink. He'll have his revenge.

“Be careful, Asterius,” Theseus urges. Asterius snorts. For someone his size, he has surprisingly delicate hands, for Theseus’ delight.
“Wonderful,” he exclaims as if he had already won. But as Than pokes his brother who has dozed off already, it’s clear the tower will hardly survive another round. Hypnos hitting the table jolting awake doesn’t help.

“Seems you’re out of luck, Meggy,” Alecto laughs, leaning forward and pretending to blow onto the tower.

“Save it,” Meg replies, taking out another piece and placing it on top of the tower with a soft “click”, never breaking eye contact.

“Just luck.”

“I don't need it.”
“Neither do I,” Patroclus retorts. “So, Achilles stops muttering jinxes.”
“Worth a try."

Thanatos’ turn passes overall quietly, Pat more interested in teasing his husband than in winning. And Than is too polite to disrupt Theseus.

Theseus, on the other hand…

“Ah, beat that hellspawn,” he shouts so loud it’s a miracle the tower doesn’t fall. Zagreus takes a long, deep, breath. He won’t let Theseus win. It’s a matter of principle. Slowly, he brushes the pad of his finger against the highest possible centrepiece and gently pushes. Nice and slow. Again his tongue finds his way through his teeth. Little bit at a time till the block easies out of his slot.

Zagreus gives Theseus the smuggest of grins, not even being upset when his victory slips from him at Achilles’ hand. Alecto’s face is worth it all. She coughs and sputters around her mouthfuls of chips, enraged.

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t accept it.”

“Oh, cease the dramatics, Alecto.”
Unable to suppress another grin, Zagreus begins gathering the pieces. “We’re doing a rematch. Right?”
Everybody cheers.

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The apple falls straight down from the tree

2023-03-21T22:32:48Z

Fandom: Hades

Prompt: La V: una persona ha una relazione con altre due, che però non hanno una relazione tra loro

Zagreus moans, the lips on his rough and demanding. Gripping his chin with calloused fingers, Pyrrhus kisses him with ferocious passion, tongue forcing his way past Zagreus' teeth. Eyes closed, Zagreus surrenders to the sensation. He loves it when Pyrrhus kisses him like this, like the shade would die otherwise and Zagreus is his only lifesaver.

He is opening his mouth to reciprocate further when a new hand, larger and colder, abruptly pulls him back. Zagreus has barely the time to register it that new lips close on his.

This kiss is softer, slower but not less intense. It slides down Zagreus' oesophagus to his belly in waves of liquid pleasure.

Behind him Pyrrhus shifts and grumbles.

"You couldn't just wait, could you, father?"

Still at a breath from Zagreus' mouth, Achilles snorts.

"As your elder I ought to have precedence. I thought your mother taught you better."

"Oh, she did. Contrary to someone," Pyrrhus replies, in his voice a resentment Zagreus knows well, though with a different flavour.

He feels partially responsible, and claiming ignorance helps little. Certainly he should have noticed before the shade with which he began having a tryst on his runs through Elysium shared one too many similarities with his old mentor.

"Then you know you should sit back, listen and learn," Achilles says, his voice stern with more than a trace of mockery.

Pyrrhus laughs and rolls his eyes. "I am non taking advice about respect from you. You were no better when young."

There's a sharp inhale. Achilles' relationship with his youth is complicated at best, walking a thin line between pride and shame.

Zagreus clears his throat before he could reply. He didn't mean to sound so whiny and needy but he does, even rubbing his thighs together for emphasis.

The expression on his mentor's face shifts immediately.

"Oh, lad, you're right. Let's postpone the family matter to another time. Right, son?"

"As you wish, father. Now, Zagreus, how about we continue from where we left?" Pyrrhus asks, his voice low and sultry, his accent coming out strong with his lust.

Zagreus looks now at him, now at Achilles, finding himself unable to choose. If he could he'd have them both at once, but they have discussed it already and it goes a tad too over their boundaries.

Achilles smiles at him encouragingly.

"Go on. I can wait."

He matured. He changed.

Pyrrhus doesn't wait for any more permission, hauling Zagreus into his lap. He kisses him with twice the fierceness and Zagreus doesn’t doubt he is looking right at Achilles.

See how well I fuck your ward?

He looks too, turning his head just a little. Achilles is sitting on Zagreus' kline, body slumped forward and eyes trained on them like a hunter.

"Ah ah, none of this," Pyrrhus chides, reclaiming Zagreus' attention before starting to suck a mark on Zagreus' tender throat.

Whimpering, Zagreus shifts closer. He rolls his hip and tries to rub his cunt on Pyrrhus' thigh.

To his surprise, Pyrrhus doesn't stop him. Instead he grabs Zagreus by the hips and bumps his leg upward.

"Fuck ... blood and ... fuck."

"You like it, don't you?" Pyrrhus teases as Zagreus ruts down in frantic motion, his already abundant wetness easing the drag.

"Yes, oh gods yes," he moans, resting his hands on Pyrrhus' shoulders for leverage and riding his thigh. The build-up from the friction is a slow one, torturously so, each drag adding to Zagreus' pleasure.

He nearly yelps when Pyrrhus cups his left breast and rolls a nipple between thumb and index.

"Try pinching them," comes Achilles' voice. It's dripping with lust too. Even turned as he is, Zagreus can feel Achilles' stare burning into his back. He must be touching himself.

"I appreciate the advice, but I know what I’m doing."

Pyrrhus rolls Zagreus' nipple harder. It travels right to Zagreus' gut. His mouth falls open, his movements become more erratic.

To be honest, he'd like very much if Pyrrhus followed Achilles' advice. Achilles has been Zagreus' lover for longer and for how little Pyrrhus likes it, he knows Zagreus' body better.

But the son is as proud as the father was in life and so he keeps on with his ministrations.

"Close. Fuck, close," Zagreus hisses, rubbing down with twice the vigour, legs lightly spasming.

"Then let go, Zag. Let go. Cum."

With this he closes his mouth on Zagreus' other nipple and flicks his tongue over the areola.

Body going taut for a moment, Zagreus gives in to the pleasure. A spurt of wetness gushes from his cunt onto Pyrrhus' leg.

Then he has barely the time to catch his breath when he hears Achilles standing up.

"I believe it's my turn now. Neoptolemus, move."

"I told you not to call me that," Pyrrhus says. Then "You heard aristos achaion, Zag. Off you go."

He gently hauls him from his lap and onto the mattress, as Achilles orders, "On your back, lad."

Carefully Zagreus complies, then still, a new thought crossing his mind.

"Is there something wrong, lad?"

"No. It's just I." He swallows, searches for words. "I know you are not comfortable having me at the same time, but I was wondering if I could lean against Pyrrhus while you go down on me, sir."

Father and son exchange a long glance. Achilles is the first to break the silence. “It is fine by me. What about you son?”

It almost sounds like a challenge, one Pyrrhus would never refuse. Everything to match his matchless father.

“I think Zagreus provides enough distance between you and me,” he says, then setting comfortably against the headboard. “Come, Zagreus, here in my arms.”

He holds the prince close, resting Zagreus’ head onto his belly and caressing his messy hair. Zagreus sighs contently.

“Spread your legs a little more, lad. There, that’s perfect.”

Kneeling between them, Achilles immediately dives in. Zagreus cries out, the sensation bordering on pain. It’ll turn into a new pleasure soon enough.

“Blood and darkness, you’ll kill me,” he manages to slur.

“It’ll be a shame lad,” Achilles murmurs before reprising, licking Zagreus’ cunt in long broad strokes.

Zagreus would be arching off the bed without Pyrrhus holding him down. He sustains his head and dries his tears, whispering praises.

“You’re already so close…” he muses, while Zagreus clamps his thighs around Achilles’ head. The warrior alternates fucking Zagreus’ hole with his tongue to licking to sucking onto his cock, till Zagreus is babbling and begging for mercy.

Lifting his arm above his head, he searches for Pyrrhus hand and clasps it in an iron grip.

Then, he screams through the hand clamped onto his mouth as Achilles plunges his tongue in one last time, his second orgasm washing over him in electric waves.

“There we go, lad. You’ve been so good,” Achilles praises, gathering some of Zagreus’ juices that are staining his chin with his thumb and licking it.

Cheeks on fire, Zagreus stares mesmerised. He thinks he could die when he hears Achilles mutter, “Better than ambrosia.”
But then, Pyrrhus is tilting his head toward his and reclaiming his attention. “Now that my father has got you all nice and open, I think it's time I fuck that nice hole of yours.”

Zagreus nods feebly.

"Good boy. Sit up a little. Yes, like that. I want you to look at my father while I fuck you," he says in Zagreus' ear in the filthiest of whispers.

Grabbing his hips, he sheaths himself easily in Zagreus' cunt, setting immediately a punishing pace, bouncing Zagreus in his lap.

Standing at the feet of the bed, Achilles grabs himself from under the tunic, his hand soon furiously moving up and down.

The air cracks with tension.

Zagreus digs his fingers into Pyrrhus' forearms and clenches down onto his cock while unable to look away from Achilles. His mentor is a beast ready to pounce.

He thinks how it would be to suck him while being fucked; wonders how Achilles will fuck him next time, if slow and sweet or brutally to restate his dominion.

He'll have Pyrrhus watch to show him exactly how it's done.

As if he read Zagreus' mind, Pyrrhus pulls out and flips Zagreus onto his back. He doesn't need any lessons.

"You look so beautiful, lad," Achilles says, voice a little strained. A throaty sound follows. It takes Zagreus a moment to realise he must have come.
"Yes, you are. Absolutely gorgeous," Pyrrhus reistates, spreading Zagreus’s legs pushing in again. “I’m close. Gonna pump you full, Zag. Plant a baby in you. Just think about it. Would you like that?”

Zagreus nods frantically. It’s a silly fantasy. A shade can’t impregnate a god, but it’s nice to think about it and, who knows, maybe it’ll happen anyway.
He wants a baby from each of his partners.

He cries out as he cums once again, feeling Pyrrhus release abundantly inside him. Then he slumps onto the mattress, boneless and absolutely spent.

“Sorry, sir,” he manages to say, tilting his head back. “I don’t have another one in me. Too sensitive.”

“Don’t worry about that lad. My break is over anyway. I’ll have you next time.”

Zagreus smiles at the promise. “You have to go too?” he asks his other lover..

Pyrrhus bends to give him a quick peck on the lips.

“I can stay as long as you want.”

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Taming the beast

2023-03-16T12:02:36Z

Fandom: Iliad

Prompt: Finalmente il piacere

"You're going to wake everyone."

Patroclus' reprimand is hardly more than a whisper in the night.

"And even if it was?" Achilles huffs against Patroclus' throat, with the shade of a barely contained laugh. "I have nothing to hide."

He refuses the shame, to be chained down by such trivial concerns.

But Patroclus still insists on grabbing onto them like the man at sea holds onto the gods-sent trunk he found floating through the waves and like that waits for a ship to pick him up.

Patroclus’ left hand cups tighter on Achilles' nape to drag him against his chest in time to smother a new whimper as he continues to work him open, slowly but unrelentingly.

He's been at it for what feels like hours, the bastard, murmuring about how Achilles could truly learn some patience. Achilles has been too fretful lately, constantly jittery from a thrill of battle that remains even after the day is done, and tonight Patroclus has decided something had to do be done.

"Ah, ah," he chastises, voice low and rough, as he curls his fingers just so and really expects Achilles to contain his pleasure. "Or should I consider gagging you?"

He would have bound Achilles’ hands and arms as well, if he didn’t love too much the feeling of Achilles holding onto him when they fuck.

Achilles lets out a renewed moan, Patroclus' fingers devilishly brushing against his sweet spot. The proposal is somehow alluring, but even with a piece of cloth stuffed in his mouth, his cries at the height of pleasure would still be too loud. He presses his lips on Patroclus' pectoral and it's a sufficient answer.

"How long still?"

"Almost." A small smile makes the corners of Patroclus’ lips tug upwards. Achilles pouts.

"You already said that."

It wins him a laugh that rumbles right through his teeth. "And it’s still the same. Now, be a good boy." Patroclus commands while teasing a third finger at Achilles' entrance. Achilles inhales sharply, unsure if for the stretch or for Patroclus' words.

How he has the best of the Greeks wrapped around his little finger and knows it.

The thing is, for Achilles, submission has a whole different thrill, like the sudden discovery of a new flavour.

Arching his back, Achilles' hands clasp around Patroclus' neck. He rests his face in the crook.

"Please."

His cock is hard against the stomach and leaking profusely, while he stands at the edge of a precipice. But where he would dive without a single moment of hesitation, like he did plenty of time in his youth, in cold streams of crystalline waters back on Pelion, Patroclus prefers to ease in.

It's like cooking a good soup, or with bread, he says: you have to let it simmer on low heat or raise at its own time. It isn’t something you can rush.

Achilles bites back a protest he is neither some soup or a loaf of bread. But then Patroclus is rubbing against his sweet spot once more, more insistently this time, and it reclaims every drop of Achilles’ attention. It is as every fibre of his being, every thought, had come to exist in that single point.

Achilles will go mad.

He wiggles his hips in a renewed attempt to gain a bit more friction. He needs just a little more, only one last push over the edge.

"Feels good. Gods, it feels so good. Yes…just.”

Another touch and the coil in his belly will finally snap.

Patroclus stops again.

It takes Achilles all of his willpower to not scream in frustration, suffocating a long groan on Patroclus' skin. It tastes of sweat, a salty tinginess, and the perfumed oil of the soap they brought back from the latest raid. Achilles nuzzles further into the other's neck as those deft fingers keep torturing him, bringing him closer and closer but never quite enough.

Tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, he squirms in Patroclus' lap.

"Please," he sighs, too aware Patroclus could edge him for all night till rose-fingered Eos coloured the horizon behind the mountains.

“Tired?” Patroclus teases, unrepentant, sliding his free hand to rest on Achilles’ front. Achilles inhales in anticipation, a short puff of air through gritted teeth. Chuckling, Patroclus crawls his fingers onto the planes of Achilles abdomen, traces every ribs, then rests onto the sternum before moving to knead the strong flesh of Achilles’ pectorals, circling closer to his nipples but never truly touching them.

Achilles is sure if Patroclus did, he’d be coming apart in no time. Instead it’s the ghost of touch, a promise for things to come, and it’s already enough to set every nerve endings ablaze.

Patroclus’ beard scratches his ear when he leans forward to murmur against the shell. “I think you are ready. Are you?”

“Please, tell me you aren’t actually asking,” Achilles groans. It prompts a new chuckle. “I will take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” Achilles says frantically. “For the gods sake. I’m ready. Please.”

He is gently eased off Patroclus’ lap and onto his back, legs open and slightly bent. He watches the other retrieve the bottle of oil from where he left it though the furs earlier and slick his cock with a generous dose. The simple sight has Achilles’ mouth water and with three fingers still in his ass it is a sort of miracle he doesn’t come untouched there and then.

“Patroclus, move.”

“Sure, love.” He leans forward to give Achilles a little peck on his nose while he removes his fingers. The sudden emptiness has Achilles immediately clench down. It doesn’t get lost on Patroclus, his lust-filled gaze lowering to stare at Achilles’ hole.

“My, you are a needy thing,” he whispers before grabbing Achilles thighs and pushing his legs further apart. Then, he takes his cock, dark and thick, to guide himself in.

Even with all the previous preparation, it’s still a stretch, the burn a delight of which Achilles could never get tired. He fists the fur as Patroclus eases in, inch by inch, his long curls framing his face. A wrinkle has dug just above his nose. Clumsily Achilles lifts a hand as to smooth it away, but truly caressing Patroclus’ beard.

“Love you,” he mouths, the declaration spilling easily from his lips. “Now fuck me.”

With one last push, finally Patroclus sheaths himself completely, his hips coming flush with Achilles. He groans, something feral and primordial. “I could stay like this for hours.”

Achilles’ eyes widen in horror.

“Relax, love. I was joking.”

“That’s not funny.”

With a long sigh, Achilles lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

“Now,” Patroclus continues. “Think you can stay quiet, uhm?”

He gives a first experimental roll of his hips. Achilles bites down a loud moan.

“Guess not,” he huffs, a hint of disapproval in his voice, and clasps one calloused hand on Achilles mouth. If Achilles was hard before, now it verges on painful.

Patroclus fucks him with a steady pace, deep and controlled pushes, the kind he favours and never fails to reduce Achilles to a mess. He mumbles a vague plea of "faster" against Patroclus' hand.

Whether he didn’t actually hear or decided purposefully to ignore it, Patroclus keeps his pace. The control with which he moves his body, the precision of each roll of his hips, how he manages to always angle himself just right, it has a sort of divinity all in itself.

Then years spent dealing with Achilles' almost infinite sexual drive had given him excellent stamina.

Sliding his free arm under the back of Achilles’ left knee, Patroclus pulls out to slam back in a breath later. Then again, and again, managing to touch Achilles everywhere he is the most sensitive. In seconds the simmer in his guts spirals up to the boiling point, like a rope being pulled and pulled and pulled.

“Close. Oh, fuck. Gods. Fuck.”

The tent echoes with Achilles’ barely muffled screams. They break into a pathetic sob when Patroclus slows down his pace. He squeezes the base of Achilles’ cock, iron-hard and painfully red.

“Not yet,” he growls. “Don’t come just yet.”

“Pat…”

“I know you can do it, can’t you?”

Achilles gives a tiny nod with his chin. He can. He’s done already and he trusts Patroclus to know his limits.

It doesn't make the wait any less agonising. Sometimes there is a rule: Patroclus coming first or having to count backward to a certain number; this time, however, it is all left unsure, and up to the whims of his lover. Blinking away a bit of fogginess, Achilles tries to divine what’s going on behind those dark eyes.

“You’re still thinking too much,” Patroclus chides, then orders. “Close your eyes.”

Achilles obeys immediately. Like this all sensations are heightened, every touch multiplied, every breath magnified. He is made aware of every single fibre of his body, tight for the struggle to not come yet. Sweat drops onto his closed eyelids. His toes curl in anticipation.

Patroclus rocks him steadily, a boat on the waves, as Achilles surrender completely to the feeling. His guts burn with need, his cock twitching, surely leaving a mess on both their stomachs.

The pressure on his mouth lightens. "Pat, I'm so close. I can't. Please" he blabbers, limbs shaking. "I've been good. "

He locks muscles desperately trying not to come yet. His cock is rock-hard and an angry purple.

"Yes you have" Patroclus muses, infazed, with another snap of his hips. "Look at me," he commands. "I want to see your eyes when you come.”

It’s all permission Achilles needs. His eyes flutter open as the pressure in his groin reaches the breaking point. He screams through Patroclus’ fingers, cock spurting thick ropes of seed till he’s completely spent..

“Good boy,” Patroclus cups his cheek with tenderness. Achilles preens at the praise, his thoughts still a bit foggy from the intense orgasm.

He vaguely registers Patroclus still inside him. He hasn’t come yet. “Don’t worry,” Patroclus anticipates his concern, “I’m close.”

With this he reprises his pace, only a little faster this time, canting Achilles hips up to fuck into him with a single-minded focused intensity.

“Fuck, Achilles, you feel so good,” he says, breathlessly, the hand not gagging Achilles coming to rest palm flat at the side of Achilles’ head for better leverage.

Squirming from oversensitivity, Achilles still does his best to meet Patroclus’ thrusts, his cock already twitching back to life. He yelps as Patroclus pulls out enough to flip him over, laying completely on top of him.

Patroclus nuzzles at the juncture of Achilles’ shoulder, pushing into him impossibly deep, in Achilles’ ears only the obscene sound of flesh against flesh and Patroclus’ laboured breathing.

Next thing he knows, Patroclus is coming with a groan, hot seed flooding Achilles and sliding down his thigh. He lets himself being manhandled to lie on his side, Patroclus behind him.

“You’re hard again,” he notes with a chuckle, taking Achilles in hand. Achilles’ hips buck forward immediately.

“Like that, yes,” Patroclus whispers in his ear, “fuck into my hand. Gods, you’re beautiful.”

This time, it is a quick affair, the slide of Patroclus’ hand, smoothed by Achilles’ pre, giving the perfect amount of friction.

“Open” he hears Patroclus order. Two fingers slide into his mouth and he happily sucks on them as his second orgasm builds up to its climax. Eventually it takes one last stroke for Achilles to come again.

Turning, he rests his head on Patroclus' chest as his breath normalises, the room so silent he can clearly hear the pulse of his heartbeat.

"Reminds me of Pelion," Patroclus says, a little melancholic. "How quiet it was at night.”

"It does," Achilles agrees. It was never truly silent, not to the one who knew how to listen. There was wind blowing through the leaves, nocturnal birds chirping and hooting, the scattering of some creatures in the underbrush. The rose cave filled with the sound of their breathing and Chiron's snoring in a corner.

But there, as kids giggling under the same cover, they could believe to be the only left awake in the whole world.

It isn't much different now, the cloth of the tent thick enough to block any outside noises and nourish the illusion.

Everyone is sleeping, all things war-related discarded till dawn. Achilles could stay like this, eyes aware and wide-open in the candlelight, for hours, not a trace of sleepiness in his body.

He would suggest walking down to the beach if exiting the tent didn’t risk coming across another awake soul.

"Where you going?" He grumbles feeling Patroclus disentangle himself and the following, unacceptable emptiness.

"Be back in a second, love.”

There is the thud of ceramic along with a liquid sound. A wet piece of cloth is thrown in his direction, landing a little lower than his navel. He takes it to wipe lazily at his abdomen and groin, cleaning away most of the mess as Patroclus climbs back into bed. Achilles immediately tosses a leg across his lap. His eyes stare at a vague point in the penumbra.

“You aren’t going to sleep,” Patroclus sighs after a while. “Are you?”

Achilles ponders the question. “No,” he says eventually. He is more awake than ever.

“Have I at least managed to calm you down a bit?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I am much better now.”

He feels calmer, much calmer. The sensation of not fitting in his own body is gone and his mind is sharper, more focused. He snuggles closer to Patroclus.

“I am just not sleepy.”

”Me neither,” Patroclus says. “Do you want to go for another round?”

Achilles gives a small shrug, the faintest trace of arousal still in his body. “Maybe later.” Knowing things, this won’t be a night of sleeping. Some more minutes pass before boredom has the best of him. He traces a path on Patroclus' chest, demanding his attention.

“Well,” Patroclus suggests, amused, “you still have to read and revise that account on supplies Phoenix made last week.”

Achilles groans. Reading a long list of numbers is the last thing he wants to do now.

He'll have to tackle the problem, eventually.

“Or,” Patroclus continues, “we could play a game of Pente. You still owe me a rematch.”

“Do I?” Achilles jokes, but he still rolls out of bed, to relit the oil lamp; after that he quickly pads the tent to retrieve a wooden box. Inside are a folded board with five lines painted and double the pawns. “Black?” he asks, placing them and their white twin at the opposite ends of the board.

“Like always,” Patroclus confirms. “Now, let’s see who goes first.” He bounces the die in his palm a couple times, then throws and watches it roll between them. “Four. Not bad.” His optimism is short-lived, Achilles’ roll stopping onto a six.

“Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t look at me. It’s the will of the gods.”

"Sure is," Patroclus huffs. Then, as if stricken by a sudden idea. "In that case, let's raise the stakes. You win, I read that report and summarise it to you."

Achilles smiles. That sounds like a very good plan, if it wasn’t for the inevitable other side of the coin.

“And if I lose?”

“I’ll have you sit down till you memorise the list.”

“Alright, I—”

But unfortunately for him Patroclus isn’t done.“Also you’ll be forbidden from whining about assemblies for a week.” The corners of his lips twitch from a new smile.

“Seriously?”

“What? Not so sure anymore?”

Achilles brushes the indents of the die with his thumb. He’d ask if Patroclus’ prohibition extend to whining with others if he wasn’t too prideful.

No matter, he’ll win anyway. And in the extremely far fetched hypothesis he doesn’t, a week isn’t that long.

“You better start reading, philtatos.”

With this he throws the die

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The Impossible Ballads - Chapter 24

2023-03-14T10:04:23Z

Fandom: Hetalia

Prompt: Ultima volta

The Trial

"They will have to change the floor if you keep walking. I don't think the Treasurer will appreciate it."

Arthur kept walking. In the last hour or so he must have walked the perimeter of his apartments five times already, mumbling under his breath. Whining, Orvar scratched his calves, insistently.

It had been Howard's idea, thinking it would help Arthur calm down instead of covering the distance from Flanders to Albion by force of walking. All he obtained had been to have two pairs of paws more to ruin the floor, now with Orvar following his master closely.

"Sir!"

"What?," Arthur snapped. It wasn’t his fault his body refused to stay still and he couldn’t go for a ride in the middle of the night. Each time he stopped and sat down, thoughts swarmed over him, a terrible tangle. Then Horward had talked him out using his archery equipment inside and Arthur had had to admit he would finish to cause some serious damage. Just like he knew inside marching like this would only give him sore feet and nothing more.

"I am telling a maid to bring you a chamomile from the kitchens," Howard said calmly. "Then we will sit down and talk through this."

"Talk!" Arthur's voice cracked up. "About this?"

He had wanted to talk with Emma, discuss the situation till they solved it, but she instead had vetoed it. She had said it was too late, that they needed to rest and return onto it with a fresher mind. She had said it with seed of doubt already in her words, the doubt that he could even be objective; that she could trust him.

"Yes. I know you and I know how that mind of yours likes to imagine the worst scenarios. Nobody is in mortal danger and this is all a great misunderstanding."

Orvar barked so to say he approved, before returning to demand Arthur's attention, so insistently Arthur had to relent

"What if it isn't?" He retorted, as Orvar pushed his head against his palm for some scratches.

"It is. I will be right back. Things will be fine, I promise."

Crouched onto the floor, with Orvar's head on his knees, Arthur wished he could believe it. Drinking something warm, however, did seem like a good start and there was something in holding the pet that was already having a calming effect. It helped against the constant fidgeting, giving Arthur something to do while he waited for the chamomile.

When it arrived, Howard set the tray with the carafe and the cups on the little table in Arthur's parlour and it wasn't long before Arthur found himself sitting on the edge of an armchair with Orvar comfortably set in his lap, which made it unthinkable to stand up again in the immediate future.

He gingerly brought his cup to his lips, mindful of the hot liquid, and finding already a certain comfort in simply feeling its warmth.

"What did Her Majesty say?" Howard asked, sipping from his cup.

"Not much. That she will have to discuss with the council and she wanted to sleep on it before. That I had to sleep on it too. But I don't need to sleep on it." Arthur sighed. "I bet she doesn't trust me. Why should she? Given the circumstances she must be thinking I am an accomplice."

Probably she was regretting having named him regent, wondering if she hadn't fallen into an elaborate plan to overthrow her.

"I mean, it makes perfect sense, asking my lover to kill her so to have my freedom back and-"

"And this is, with all due respect, absolutely ridiculous."

Howard was right and Arthur knew that, knew how those thoughts were borne from paranoia and would crumble if put under a more rational light, but paranoia was strong and dangerous and its honeyed whispers hard to ignore.

"For once, If she doubted you so much, you'd have guards outside these doors now. Second, you know better than haste brings imprudence. Did you pressure her to name you regent?"

Arthur shook his head. Up to a few weeks ago the fact didn't even cross his mind, and he had asked Emma if that didn't feel too rushed. Truly a convoluted plan his, if based on the vague chance of others' making certain choices. It would be more logical pry the regency before the attempted murder, instead of relying on the possibility Emma would be scared enough to offer him it.

It didn't add up, the recent events only a matter of ill-timed coincidences. Too bad often ill-timed coincidences were enough.

"Fine, let's believe the queen doesn't suspect me yet. But Francis? I saw the look in her eyes and it wasn't good."

Suspect and mistrust, that was what he had seen and what must be growing now in Emma's mind.

"Are you sure of that? That you aren't only projecting?"

Finally tasting his chamomile, Arthur shrugged and looked down into the cup, into the liquid mirroring his uncertainty.

"I told her he didn't do it. She didn't answer. What should I think, tell me?"

Orvar whined, shifting a little to better accommodate onto Arthur's legs and watching him with his dark, liquid eyes that seemed to wonder why his master was so upset. He seemed to say whatever worry Arthur had to face, he was there to help him. Adopting him had probably been Arthur's best decision.

"We all have doubts, sir." Howard folded his hands, leaning forward. He would spend the night talking Arthur out of his worries if Arthur asked, but his tone said he'd rather sleep. "It is part of being human."

"But she could be right."

"Do you think she is?"

"I don't … No, no … he isn't a murderer. He isn't. He isn’t, right?"

He had gone over this already, once. Francis was the opposite of a murderer with all his talking about love. He wouldn’t have any reason, not when Emma knew about them and had given the nearest thing to a blessing she could.

"He isn't," Howard repeated. "And you know it."

"But what if he was? What if he had pretended up to now? Oh Goddess, I am in love with a murderer."

He buried his face in his hands, pressing the lukewarm ceramic to his forehead. He cursed himself for his own naivety.

"You don't really think that, sir. You think it is a misunderstanding. You are thinking that vial isn't what it seemed or somebody placed it to mess with the investigations."

"But why him?"

Something was missing, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Either the person trying to frame Francis wanted a war with Dauphiné or they knew he was Arthur's lover. Arthur couldn't choose which was more plausible or worse. Probably the latter.

Definitely the latter.

Somebody had tried to kill Emma for still unknown reasons and they knew he had an affair with the Dauphinoise Ambassador, enough to use that to their advantage.

"And I thought we could finally be … as if it could ever be possible."

Each time he dared to believe they'd have at least the ghost of what other lovers had, each time Fate had said no. This time it could have been if not perfect, probably the best arrangement they could ever hope for.

"And you will be again. Have faith."

Taking a new sip of his now cold chamomile, Arthur couldn't share the optimism, his mind keeping thinking over it till tiredness eventually shut his brain. He woke up at dawn. Emma, as he discovered, would be busy for the whole morning. He had some time before his first duties, but neither riding nor archery brought him much comfort.

After that, he dived into work as a distraction. If he had hoped to face the issue with Emma that evening already, things didn't go as planned as the meeting with the council had been delayed another day. Francis wouldn't escape, not with guards stable outside his doors, and, though hard to believe, more pressing matters required Emma's attention, all the work that had piled up during the period of her illness.

Meanwhile Francis' rooms had been searched thoroughly. From what Arthur heard, things weren't good, as he struggled to keep his detachment. As consort it was his right to know about the investigations but he couldn’t allow an excessive interest, and the thread was too thin to balance. It didn't matter that he was innocent and Francis probably - No, surely - was too, not at court where appearances and rumours reigned free. Flanders made no exception. It wasn’t a matter of truth, but of what people believed. Above all, of what the queen believed, and each refused meeting left Arthur praying Emma's justified doubts hadn't sprouted into something bigger.

Before he knew it, a week had passed. Emma summoned him one evening, right after a dinner Arthur hadn’t really consumed..

By the look on her face, it was immediately clear her week had been as stressful as his. Sitting, Arthur repressed the need to trample her with questions about what the council had said and what she planned to do.

"I have to write to Dauphiné. I do not know where to start. One wrong word and the next letter we receive from them is a declaration of war. If we don't send them one before."

"Which you don't plan to do, I hope," Arthur said, mortally serious.

"Not if I can avoid it. But part of the council presses for it and there is the possibility he acted under Dauphiné order."

"Which could have simply paid an assassin."

"I know," Emma sighed, falling into her armchair, looking older, tired and lost. "But as their ambassador, he technically acts in the name of his kingdom."

"Did they find any letters? Orders?"

But it was silly to ask, thinking one wouldn't burn any paper evidence once received; or that Dauphiné would admit they had tried to assassinate the Flemish Queen.

"No. Only some notes about poisons. He said they weren't his. But they were in Dauphinois."

Arthur bit back a curse. Asking now if the note was in Francis' handwriting would be superfluous. He bet whoever planted them among other papers must have commissioned a good forger. He refused to accept any other explanation.

"I see. What are you going to tell Dauphiné? Can I know?" It was meant to be a sincere question but it came out harsh and bitter. For years Emma said they were a team, a close unit that would work in tandem, but now she excluded him for a whole week. It made him want to ask her if she regretted having named him regent and if she wanted his copy of the document to destroy it. The fact she hadn't yet only partially comforted him.

"Yes. On the contrary, I wanted to ask you a little help with it. I fear my Dauphinoiseisn't as good as yours."

It was hardly proof of trust, as Arthur doubted he was the only one at court to speak the language. Maybe Emma did not consider him a suspect, all things considered. Or maybe it was a test.

"What are you going to write?"

The clock tickled, each stroke thundering in the silence as Emma pondered the question, counting her thoughts on her fingertips like a child would do. "From the beginning, I suppose."

When not knowing where to start, the beginning was always a good idea. There would be explaining what happened, telling them about the investigations and how they were still on going. That last part would be of extreme importance, underlying how nothing was yet definite.

"Specify there will be a trial here, that we promise in our honour it will be carried out in all possible fairness,” Arthur hastened to remind.

Some people at court wouldn't take that well, with the nostalgia of when even the shadow of doubt would be enough to be sentenced to death. In the greater scheme of things, however, every concession was a step away from everything dissolving into war. Some people would regret that as well, people who could become dangerous; but between having to face infightings and the spectre of the whole Dauphinoise-Swabian army, he would choose the former with no hesitation.

He wondered if in the long hours of tutoring, Lord Bonnefoy ever imagined one day the skills he so painstakingly taught him slow day after slow day would be used to save his son from the gallow and two kingdoms from going to war.

"Maybe add that while we require them to take responsibility, we are not accusing them directly."

"That is a tricky one." Emma made a face, clicking her tongue.

It would take one wrong word, one that could be only vaguely misinterpreted the wrong way, and they would be all one step closer to having Dauphinoise troops pressing at the border.

"We have to take the risk. Tell them we still treasure our relationship deeply and want to preserve it. And let's hope it will matter more than the rest. You can draft the letter. I will translate it. As a start."

Hopefully, with something down on paper it would be easier to choose the right words, better than trying to get a hold of his thoughts, there on the verge of spiralling out of control. Words on paper became real. There was a certain clarity in crossing them out till he found the perfect one, rearranging sentences as he would do with pieces of a puzzle. Like generals moved armies in miniature on giant models, often able to foresee the outcome before a single shot was blown.

If Arthur thought about the outcome with which the ordeal could end, a cold grip tightened around his chest, terrible and unforgiving. He searched Emma’s face for a silent answer to his fears and to a question he still had to ask.

"You have to promise me one thing," he said, barely containing the urgency in his voice. "Please."

"If it is in my power."

"It is. Promise me he won't be sentenced to death."

That would be too much to bear. He would anyway, repressing all personal involvement like he had been taught to do, and beneath the surface would be an incurable wound. The Prince would take it, but not the person.

To his surprise, Emma attempted a smile, though tired and void. "I don't think executing a diplomat would be a good idea."

"Or executing an innocent."

Arthur spoke without thinking, and yet for the first time in the past days he did it certain of his words. "Until the sentence, he is. You said there will be a fair trial. If you don't believe he might be innocent, you can avoid having a trial altogether."

"Everything points against him,” Emma said, opening a drawer to retrieve a new inkwell, paper and pen for the important message she had to prepare.

She was only stating the facts, keeping above the situation and trying to prepare him for the most likely outcome. Arthur still wanted to scream, grab her by the shoulders and shout to open her eyes. They had nothing but a note and a vial that any maid could have put there.

“Yet, I would avoid writing that in your letter.”

His chair made a terrible sound, scratching against the floor, when he pushed it to stand up. “If you excuse me, I am quite tired.” He didn't wait for her reply.

He helped with the letter to be sent to Dauphiné. While Emma spoke a more than decent Dauphinoise, Arthur was largely better, even after years spent not speaking the language.

***

Arthur paced the palace aisles, looming dangerously close to Francis' apartments. It was strange seeing this area of the castle during daytime, and to think less than a month ago he would be there for a totally different reason. It was hard to believe it was only a few weeks ago. One day he was strolling down town repeating the impromptu tour was not a date, the next his paramour was held captive for having supposedly tried to poison the queen. One day he was the happiest he had been in ages, the next all had crumbled down.

Howard had warned him about the break it would cause on his relationship with Francis, something he risked to pay forever when this whole ordeal would finally be solved and past them. Real love was seen in dire times. Having someone stay in the room with them would suffice in keeping rumours of complicity at bay and as prince consort he was fully in his rights to visit a prisoner. He just had to measure his words and his reactions, but until he didn't tell Francis he'd help him escape from under the guards' nose he had nothing to fear. He thought about warning Emma, discarded it because he didn't need her permission, and chose two guards known for being faithful to the queen to accompany him.

Francis was already standing when Arthur entered, next to the chair when he must have been sitting till now.

"Arthur, dear Goddess." He took a step only to halt the moment after. His eyes went up and to the guards behind Arthur, widening in fear. "Are you here to take me away?"

His chuckle was on the verge of hysterical, like a person slowly realising something was no joke and yet pleading others to prove him wrong. A cruel part of Arthur wondered how Francis could ever take real imprisonment if he showed signs of derangement after only a few weeks in a gilded cage. But it wasn’t not being able to exit, not as much as not knowing what was happening, what would be of his life, with a charge as heavy as attempted regicide hanging over his head. He knew that feeling, the uncertainty, the inevitable wondering if the worst outcome was really on the platter. For him, it had been to be locked away for the rest of his life. For Francis it was having his pretty head detached or his nice neck broken. The more time passed, the more the worst scenario became less far-fetched, and to his credit, Francis did not know Emma had already decided she would not send him to the gallows.

"Arth- Your Highness, I swear it, I am innocent."

Words he must have repeated many times in the past days only to be ignored. He held his hands over his stomach, but by the intensity in his gaze, he would sooner grab Arthur’s arm.

He would have, if they had been alone, and Arthur told him he knew.

He knew he was innocent, knew he was going to pay for someone smarter than him, knew he had no real motive. He would say all this if they were alone, coaxing Francis to sit down on his couch and sitting next to him. He'd take his hands and swore he was going to fix everything, whatever it took. He had a feeling it might end like in those Dauphinoise poems with tearful goodbyes and he would allow it.

"There will be a trial," he said instead. Francis dropped back into his chair, shaking his head as he massaged his temples.

"A trial. I suppose I should consider myself lucky."

Lucky to be tried for something he didn't do and with all the chances to be condemned for it.

"Yes, you should."

Lucky that he had spent years building his relationship with Emma, so that now she trusted him enough to trust his judgement about Francis. Above all, lucky they lived in a period where kings couldn't sentence people at a whim. Only a century ago Francis would be waiting for an inevitable death sentence, and the trial, if held, would be a formality. In some other kingdoms things were still like that.

Instead, Francis would have a fair trial and if charged guilty, at least he'd stay alive to see one day those same charges dropped. It was a meagre consolation but one nonetheless.

"We wrote to inform Dauphiné of the situation."

"What did they say?"

Arthur grabbed a chair for himself, the guards still looming behind them, listening to their every word. "I can't tell you."

Francis looked at him outraged. "You can't? Arthur!"

"What? You are a suspect, the main suspect. What do you expect?"

"Seriously? What do you think I'd do? Escape?"

Francis' wide gesture toward the guards, the door and the window at the third floor was eloquent. "Oh, I see. Afraid it would put you in a dangerous position."

Arthur didn't deny, not when it could be read all over his face and he'd delayed this visit for days. Francis was right, but also unfair in his accusations, a strange combination.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?"

So to say, it was up to Arthur to choose the right words for not being accused of fraternities and by now he should have learnt to do that.

"We are still waiting for their reply."

"You are!" Francis retorted, even more outraged, but closing his mouth on whatever he was about to add, like it didn't matter in the end. It wasn’t hard to imagine, the frustration of receiving this little after all of Arthur's reluctance.

"And I suppose that isn't a good sign."

"It takes a while to go from here to Avennio."

"A while."

"I know."

They had sent the courier with the letter with the express order to reach Dauphiné the fastest possible, and by now the missive should have reached Dauphiné court. It was logical to assume now was on Queen Adelaide's desk, the centre of plenty of discussions, which in turn led to hope.

"But we still haven't received a declaration of war yet."

Francis gave him a smile that did not reach his eyes. "That is a good start. I have always known Her Majesty as the calm type. You are lucky she is not her grandmother.

"The one who personally led her troops in battle?”

Her portrait in battle attire had been among the very firsts he had seen when he arrived in Dauphiné.

“Queen Therese. Yes, her."

Francis said it like when they would revise the long history of the Dauphiné royal family together, only the two of them for a couple of long hours each day. Without the guards, or the fact they were talking in Flemish to avoid raising any suspicions, it would be the same.

It wasn't.

"You should go," Francis called him, gently, and silently screaming the opposite.

They should have run away when they got the chance, forget their roles, their duties, everything else, and restart somewhere. There must have been a place where his Lord Father wouldn’t reach them and the more he thought about it, the more the colonies did sound like a good plan.

Francis' eyes crinkled with a smile and there was what they could have had, the pretty picture of a life together in the Dauphinoise countryside. It would have been nice and now its impossibility hurt. It hurt for each second he stayed there, for the tiny spec of hope that persisted, claiming a sentence hadn’t been pronounced yet, that things would solve.

Even if Francis’ miraculously was pronounced innocent, his reputation would be too stained to stay at court.

“Right. I will make sure you are kept updated.”

***

Dauphiné's response arrived by the end of the summer, while the court was busy packing to return up north like a beehive in full activity and buzzing with the same intensity.

"They are ready to accept the trial will be held in Flanders," Emma said, passing the letter to Arthur, "but they want to send here a team of their lawyers for the defence."

"It's a fair request." Arthur considered. Emma, however, didn't look as convinced. "Do you plan to not accept?"

"It sounds like they don't trust our lawyers to be impartial."

"Now you are being unfair." He scanned the letter, the formal Dauphinoise still familiar though not as much as the manner of speaking he got used to with Francis. It brought him back to a time of long, tedious afternoons learning treaties or helping Queen Adelaide with her correspondence with Albion. "They could have insisted for the trial to be in Dauphiné. That would have been a real proof of distrust."

No party wanted to seem weak in the eyes of the other, lest it would retort against them, while also having to balance on the frail line that was compromising. It often took a single misstep to lose everything.

"And they offer to send a ransom." Arthur's eyes widened as he checked the name on the letter a second time. "Princess Marianne's son."

"Yes, a sign of good will."

"To use a euphemism."

Offering to send any hostage of a certain status was already, but choosing the crown princess' first born though not able to heir was on a whole different level. It was the closest to crawl Dauphiné could come while still maintaining an appearance of strength and dignity. They weren’t offering the heir herself and they demanded a ransom as important from Flanders.

"Do you plan to accept?" Arthur turned the letter in case he missed something. The message ended there. "You should."

It was an excellent offer and the request was fair. Certainly, there was always the chance Flanders could obtain more by playing hard, strong with being the wronged party, but they could lose all advantage as well.> Dauphiné could decide they didn't fear a war - or believe Flanders wouldn't go all the way.

By the way she closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, Emma was aware of that and more. For how hard the last weeks had been, Arthur didn't envy either Emma or Queen Adelaide and the responsibility that came with the crown.

"I will talk with the council about it." She folded the letter before storing it in the drawer. "But, yes, I think too we should accept."

"And if the council disapproves?"

Acting against the council wouldn't shine a positive light on Emma and the crown, and that plant the first seeds of discontent, breaking the silent oath Emma swore when accepting the crown.

"I will have to convince them. They will say we have the right to demand more from Dauphiné, to keep them on edge. But the sooner this ends, the better."

She buried her face in the cradle of her hands, as the clock ticked the time. Being too eager to accept Dauphiné's offers meant weakness; too demanding and they would be a step closer to take offence and decide to clean it with Flemish blood. It mattered little having kept a strong negotiating position if the price to pay was an annihilated kingdom.

"Make it clear Dauphiné will not offer a better deal than this and we need it more as an ally than as an enemy."

A laugh escaped Arthur's lips. If his younger self could hear him now, advocating for Dauphiné's friendship, he'd sooner thrown himself out the window.

"I know we have to consider the future and our reputation as well, but from what I see, we have almost nothing to lose from it now. We even have an advantage. The trial will be held here and with a Flemish jury."

Slowly, Emma lifted her head, and in the candlelight her face looked ten years older. The shadow showed a new strictness. "And for the hostage? We have no children or relatives to offer. I can impose the decision ..."

"But you'd rather avoid it. Present it as a great honour, or mask it as an important assignment, and above all assure a proper compensation." That always helped. "But someone has to go and that is not negotiable. Unless, of course, we renounce having a Dauphinoise hostage."

This time it was Emma 's turn to laugh. "I don't think the council would be happy with that."

"Then it's decided." Arthur clapped his hands once. "I'd say you should summon the council now, but it's late and people are always in a better disposition when rested. Dauphiné can wait a day more."

On the door, he held his hand on the handle without turning it. They should warn Dauphiné they had received their response.

"Is there something?"

Dauphiné hadn’t warned them.

"No, nothing."

One week later and some extra days, Arthur found himself editing a new missive, this time to negotiate the exchange of hostages. He should talk with the steward about hiring a nanny, too.

***

Prince Herbert arrived at Broekzele palace on a fresh afternoon of early autumn, along with the Dauphinoise lawyers, and a couple of old and unexpected acquaintances.

"Lady Lisa," Arthur greeted first the woman who walked right behind Prince Herbert, along with one that must be his closest nanny. "That is quite the surprise. I am sorry we have to meet again in similar circumstances. How was the trip?"

"Quite good, thank you," Princess Marianne's now lady-in-waiting said, a protective hand curled on the little prince's shoulder. She gave the boy a little nudge. "Or they will think we have no manners."

Princess Marianne and Prince Ludwig must have instructed their son aplenty about etiquette as the toddler produced an impeccable, albeit a bit goofy bow.

"And?" Lady Lisa pressed.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness."

The sentence as well was almost perfect, surely the product of hours of practice, till the words became sound without meaning.

"And I hope you will enjoy it here." Arthur smiled, crouching to be at the toddler’s eye level, as if he was on a holiday and not a bargaining chip to prevent a war.

He didn't hide, standing rigid and a little unsure in a manner that reminded Arthur of Ludwig; neither he cried now that a maid came to collect him from his Dauphinoise nanny.

Watching the child stop in the middle of the hall to look over his shoulder, to ask if truly his nanny or Lady Lisa weren't coming with him, Arthur wondered how much his parents told him about the situation. How much he could understand. Peter hadn't understood when he became a hostage for Gothia, though hopefully Prince Herbert wouldn't remain in Flanders that long.

"Your rooms are ready," Arthur returned his attention to Lady Lisa and the rest of the Dauphinoise entourage. "Please make yourself at home. For all the time you wish."

"Thank you " Lady Lisa's voice was the epitome of glacial courtesy, so different from the woman who had cheerfully talked gossip with Arthur at Princess Marianne's wedding. "But we will leave tomorrow morning. Our job here is done."

Prince Herbert couldn't travel without an entourage, for how small, but now that the boy had been delivered safe and sound it had no reason to stay around. Otherwise it might seem Dauphiné didn't trust Flanders to treat their precious hostage well. It was a proof of trust on Dauphiné's part but one the circumstances obliged them to give.

"I understand. But if you need anything do not hesitate to ask. Me and Her Majesty would be happy to have you at dinner."

"Thank you. I appreciate it" Lady Lisa said, and it already sounded like a refusal. She had just excused herself when a man stormed into the hall, red in the face for the effort.

At twenty-three Gilbert still had the same brashiness and disregard for politeness of his younger days.

"What the hell is this story?” he called, inches from Arthur's face, clearly displeased with the situation. The same protectiveness he had toward Ludwig must have translated onto his young nephew. For a brief moment Arthur wondered if he was angrier with them Flemish or with Princess Marianne, the degenerate mother who gave away his son as a hostage. Probably both.

"Prince Gilbert, glad to see you well. Your visit is quite unexpected."

A gentle way to say he showed up uninvited, adding one more problem to the all too many Arthur already had. Technically Flanders borders were open for anyone to cross with the proper documents, except Gilbert wasn't just anyone. He was the hostage’s uncle and the heir to a powerful duchy which certainly would side with Dauphiné in case of war. On top of that, he was Francis' friend. Arthur took a quick mental note to keep an eye on him.

"What? Did you need a warning? Of course I am here. First Lutz writes to me to inform me that my nephew will spend some time here. And when I ask him why, I discover my friend is on trial for attempted regicide. Did I forget something?"

Gilbert’s rant echoed in the hall, the Swabian in which he had slipped harsh, grating and oozing outrage, an outrage that Arthur didn't reserve. Except that Gilbert didn't know all the story. Arthur would be happy to fill him in and all things considered was exactly what he needed. With Gilbert he wouldn’t have to mind what he said, not as much as he had now. For one, Gilbert knew about his relationship with Francis and once adjourned, he'd hopefully be on Arthur's side.

"Only a couple details. I was planning to go out for a ride, why don't you join me? The weather is perfect. "

“It is. Yes, a ride is a good idea,” Gilbert confirmed.

***

"Well, that's some fucked up shit"

Thus was Gilbert’s eloquent comment as soon as Arthur had told him about all the events of the last two months or so: Francis' arrival at court, Emma discovering about their amorous relationship and accepting it, what happened at her birthday banquet, the terrible hours of the aftermath, the investigations and Francis' arrest. By now Broekzele palace was all but a dot in the distance and their mounts panted from the exertion, while the sun lowered on the horizon tinted with a deep orange.

"But you think he is innocent," Gilbert continued, holding the reins in one hand so as to use the other for emphasis.

"For the last time, I don't think that. I know it."

"Well, you didn't seem that much convinced a few moments ago."

"I had reasonable doubts, Gilbert," Arthur exclaimed. He lightly kicked his stallion in the flanks to make him turn. They had strayed enough from the castle and evening was already falling.

"Reasonable doubts ..."

"He has the motive and the opportunity."

He hated to be reminded of that, but it was the truth, or the one the prosecution would likely pursue.

It left him praying they would stop at the weapon and the fact Francis approached Emma’s during the banquet, leaving the motivations in the background. Otherwise he'd sooner prepare for everyone at court knowing about their affair, something for which the only lifesaver would be Emma knowing already.

Unless the prosecution didn't decide Francis acted on Dauphiné's behalf, dragging them all into an inevitable war. He should have to check they weren't all warmongers in their team of lawyers.

"Damn it, what's the matter with you?" Gilbert’s brisk voice demanded his attention, and Arthur humoured him with an eloquent look.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you are talking like you believe he is guilty. I mean, it's Francis we are talking about!"

He said it like there couldn’t be anything more ridiculous or far-fetched. Francis used to hate the sight of blood and the idea of killing, but Emma hadn't been stabbed. She was poisoned, and not a single drop of blood was spilled.

"And you once told me he had a penchant for vengeance, remember?"

He halted the stallion to evaluate the shortest and best route for the return. The animal huffed, shaking his head as the rays of the lowering sun hit him right in the eyes. Arthur slightly veered on the left, into a cooler patch of shade followed by Gilbert’s voice.

“We were kids. I was talking about childish pranks, him running to his father claiming I had pulled his hair, things like that. Not that he would kill someone.”

If weeks of reasoning, Howard and finally love hadn't already proven for Arthur Francis' innocence, Gilbert’s rant did the trick. If Arthur had been told a few years ago, he would have laughed.

“Gilbert, I don't pretend you understand, but it's not that simple.”

By his grimace, Gilbert was ages away from understanding, his dark eyes narrowed into slits and mirrors of the clogs going on into his mind. Maybe he was cursing having similar friends and Arthur couldn't blame him.

"Inside I know he would never do it. I know him. I ..." He rubbed the stallion's neck, his mane coarse under his fingers. "I've been labouring over it for days. And the more I do, the more I can see what will happen during that trial."

"Then why hold a trial at all?"

This time Arthur didn't bother humouring Gilbert with an answer. He wasn't down to explaining to the heir of a powerful duchy why people had the right to a fair trial.

"How long do you plan to stay?"

Gilbert’s eyes widened. "What kind of question is that? Till this whole mess has ended and my nephew is back safe and sound at home.”

“Till things are solved …”

Normally an uninvited guest wouldn't be a problem, they still had some spare rooms and in case around the palace were plenty of lodging. People come and go, it was a normal routine. It was always better, as well as polite, when guests warned of their arrival and it saved Arthur several blemish but some impromptu wasn't the end of the world.

Gilbert, however, wasn't any normal guest. Though not Dauphinoise himself, he was brother in law with the Dauphiné's heir, which in the eyes of some courtiers was pretty much the same thing. They were already rumoring for the delegation of Dauphinoise lawyers, they wouldn't accept Gilbert and Arthur wasn't down to take the risk.

"No. It's not possible."

"What?" Gilbert cackled, "Did you finish the rooms?" He cackled louder when Arthur explained his reasons.

"You are kidding me. Lutz might have married their precious princess, but I have nothing to do with them."

“Maybe. But here you are not only prince Gilbert, heir to the Duchy of Swabia. You are Dauphiné crown princess’ brother in law. Do you think that will not antagonise some people?”

“I do not care about some people”

“Well, I do.”

“It is not my problem,” Gilbert replied, stubborn. “I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” Arthur snapped. He had enough problems already without adding another element to another too fragile equation. “Listen”, he continued, after a slow breath to calm himself down. “You cannot stay at the palace or even in town. Please Gilbert.”

He didn't want to force Gilbert out of Flanders, not if he could avoid it, both because he was a friend and he preferred to keep on good terms with Swabia, but he would if needed. Hopefully Duke Beilschmidt was a smart man and would blame Gilbert more than Flanders. Hopefully removing Gilbert would help in preventing a war not the opposite.

“Fine. But I am doing this for Lutz. He already has enough problems.”

“I am sorry.”

***

The first hearing was held that summer was long past and autumn showed the first signs of winter, the ever present drizzle falling cold through the fog as Arthur and Emma's carriage crossed the town to the imposing building that hosted the tribunal. After weeks of discussions with the Dauphinoise delegation, it had been decided it would be more neutral than B. Palace. It certainly wasn't more reassuring, enough to make Arthur wonder if they weren't regretting their choice; or they must have considered here or at the palace, it wouldn't make much difference in the great scheme of things.

The next ten days of trial were both the slowest and fastest in Arthur's life, the defense countering every single evidence in hour-long sessions against a prosecution just as fierce. Watching them, it felt like on the stand wasn't only Francis but the whole queendom and, strictly speaking, it was exactly the case.

Sat in the seats reserved to the royals, Arthur covered his mouth to hide a yawn he couldn’t afford to show and squinted his eyes with the excuse of a speck. Next to him Emma didn't look any fresher, the latest months vexing on her even more than what the poison did.

Paradoxically, Francis appeared to be the most rested. Once determined he would be charged but not pay with his life, everything else became acceptable. Even more when the Dauphinoise lawyers must have already presented him with the alternatives. With his hair well combed, he wore a new and fresh suit, the most sombre Arthur had ever seen on him. Apparently, it helped in making him look more favourable in the jury eyes. For Arthur, more than making things better, it avoided making them worse.

He grabbed the cloth of his jacket to stop from fidgeting, the smooth texture of the fabric soothing under his sweaty fingertips. It would be fine. After all their efforts to keep the peace, they wouldn't ruin it by sentencing to death the Dauphinoise Ambassador. Emma promised.

In the back of the room, the public didn't share the sentiment, courtiers going to a trial like to watch a theatre performance, and rumouring that the show was late to begin. A man, a marquis and a common presence at court, claimed loudly any sentence less than death would be merciful. Some seats over three women were insistently muttering behind their fans, so much Arthur wanted to stand up and ask them if they didn't want some pastries too. It must be easy when they weren't the ones on trial. At the end of this, they would return him with a new story to tell and continue with their lives like nothing happened. In the first row, Lady Chiara gloated so much it was a surprise she hadn't exploded yet.

Arthur crushed his hands harder. Safe a couple of quick visits to inform Francis of recent developments, he hadn't seen him in almost two months outside the sessions. With him being the Flemish Queens' consort, the Dauphinoise lawyers had let know it wouldn't be appreciated. Emma had shared the feeling. Inside, she still believed Arthur would ruin months of diplomatic juggling and put his sentimental life over the lives of thousands. For Howard, Arthur was just being paranoid. Arthur had replied he had all the rights to be. He couldn't help it, not when on the stand was the only person he had ever truly loved and after today, he would lose forever.

The jury representative's words came from underwater, but the audience's cry of exultation left little doubt on what it had been. They were wrong. They were all wrong.

The sentence was long and pompous but also extremely simple: Francis was found guilty. He would be temporarily kept under arrest while discussing the specifics with the Dauphinoises. Two days later it was communicated the parts reached an agreement. The defendant would be permanently exiled in the most remote of Daphiné oversea possessions.

It took Arthur all his conditioning not to break into a hysterical fit of laughter.

Life truly had a sick sense of humour.

Only Howard could claim things were not as bad and that they would solve, Arthur only had to have faith.

"How?" Arthur furiously nocked a arrow, the target already drilled. "Think the real culprit will feel bad and magically confess?"

A second arrow.

"That some new evidence is going to magically appear?"

Third arrow.

"No. It's the end."

Last arrow. The bow string almost whipped Arthur in the face. Cursing, he gestured to Howard to not pass him the new quiver. He was done. After one last hour spent trying to calm down, it was clear archery hadn't done the trick if not acting like a temporary palliative.

"It doesn't have to be," Howard tried, taking the bow and working on the quiver belt.

"Right. Silly me. In twenty years he could be pardoned. Maybe ten if I am lucky. Ten years are not that long, after all. It's not like I am going anywhere either. And when we will be both old he could even visit here again, no hard feelings."

They could even restart from where they left, pretending the expanse in between was only a little, insignificant puddle. It was something that belonged in fairytales.

"They should write a poem about us. It's the perfect tragedy ladies love. Compared to us Sir S. had it good."

He dropped onto the ground, uncaring of the wet grass. He didn't feel like returning to the palace yet. Doing that would mean dealing with people, pretending he agreed with the sentence, that he sustained it even. "He's leaving," he whispered, carding fingers through the blades. "He's leaving and I will never see him again."

It was what he had always hoped for after all, a way to put an end to a doomed relationship once and for all. He had forgotten the Albish saying about being careful of one's wishes.

"You still have today," Howard said. "You should go to him then."

Arthur tore a fistful of grass. "I can't," he snapped, jumping back on his feet. "You heard it. And Her Majesty is not going to risk all our work when we are so close to solving everything."

"I am sure she would understand."

"Even so?"

The problem wasn’t her. Arthur bet she would give him her permission right now if she could. She must have imagined what would be being in the same position. But there weren't only their lives at stake now.

"She isn't going to risk upsetting the Dauphinoise."

They had been more than clear on that point, adamantly refusing to let any non-Dauphinoise alone with Francis. If they didn't trust the Flemish or their client, that was harder to say.

"You know. I recognised some of them from my days there. The lady with the grey hair, Lady T. I think I danced with her ten years ago."

Some other times their visits could have brought the chance for some reminiscing. They hadn’t looked past his role.

"One more reason to try talking to them."

"To say what? Ask them if by any chance they remember that Albish prince they met once years ago? Tell them about me and Francis? Ask them to please turn a blind eye on me?"

Booting toward the palace, he bitterly laughed. Howard carried bow and quiver. Arthur hadn't wanted anyone else around, not now.

"No. For them I am only Her Majesty's consort."

Aside from Howard, all the people with whom he could be only Arthur were gone. The last would leave tomorrow.

"I think they know already. About you and Lord Francis."

Arthur stopped in his tracks. "Already? Yes, of course."

Francis' lawyers must have convinced him had to know everything that happened since his arrival in order to help. A story with the prince consort wasn't something one could omit. Francis was smart, he would know that. Strangely, Arthur didn’t feel betrayed. They didn't even bring that up during the trial, preferring to focus on the evidence being circumstantial, while for the prosecution he did what he did to weaken Flanders.

"Then why make such a fuss?"

"I think it was a precaution. Maybe they feared you would plan a love escape."

"Oh yes, didn't I tell you?"

Though Howard meant well trying to cheer him up, Arthur wasn't at all in the mood. He quickened the pace, cutting through the lawn to lengthen the way back. Unfortunately for him, Howard was also stubborn, and just as fast.

"Talk with Her Majesty. You were friends. You are friends. See what she can do. Or you will regret it forever. Worst thing it can happen, she will refuse."

Arthur didn't reply. Howard was right. Worst thing could happen, Emma would tell him what he already knew. Before that, however, she would have to listen to his reasons.

***

Francis was sitting in the candlelight, with a book open in front of him and the air of someone who wasn't really seeing the pages. It was a progress from last time Arthur visited him, the constant pacing and jumping at every noise, all turned into a tired resignation .

It was in his eyes when Arthur called his attention with a quick knock on the door.

"Your Highness," he said, standing, the surprise for the visit growing and changing into something else, as soon as he noticed Arthur was alone.

"You will be leaving tomorrow morning already," Arthur didn't give him time to continue, speaking while staring into the void. "and I thought we ... deserved a proper farewell. Alone." He swallowed, his voice on the verge of cracking. In his pocket, the permit Emma gave him, the one he showed the guards, rustled.

Anything he could say, any formula that came to mind, felt mundane and trivial, while the knot in his stomach grew stronger. He couldn't move, letting Francis to close the space like he always did. At least for him to say something, anything, to save them for that paralysis. To invite him to sit down to better enjoy the time they had. To take his hand if words didn't work. A caustic comment too would be better than anything, if nothing, a fight would move things.

"It's only temporary," he muttered, though they both knew it was stupid to hope, to think the real culprit would be discovered one day by some kind of miracle. Even then, it could take years. "We've been there already ... oh."

It choked into a yelp, his body stiffening as Francis dragged him into his arms, tighter than he ever did.

"It's not the same," he murmured, his face pressed against Arthur's shoulder, so warm, gentle and safe. "You know it's not the same."

Arthur's composure crumbled. It was so stupid, as if farewells hadn't always been part of the deal, probably the only certainty in their relationship; like they weren't destined to have parenthesis of bliss in a sea of struggle and uncertainty.. He wanted to tell Francis to stop with all this useless mush, that it belonged only in his poems and certainly had nothing to do with them. He wished his heart didn't hurt as much.

"Arthur," Francis said, loosening the hug and caressing his cheek, "you're crying."

"I am not," he sniffed, his cheeks humid with pesky tears.

"Of course." Francis chuckled in a lame attempt at joking. "As Your Highness wishes."

"Stop it."

With a groan, Arthur hid his face in Francis' chest as his tears didn't show signs to stop. "I hate this."

He hated crying and doing it before Francis, like a silly love-sick maiden; hated Francis' hand cupping his nape and his soft touch. Above all he hated himself for craving more.

"And I thought we could finally ... I'm sorry."

He whispered, muffled by the fabric, so low Francis couldn't have possibly heard it. Francis cradled his face in his hands.

"Hey, it could be worse," he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood and failing. "We will make it work and you are lucky I am not the jealous type."

This time a punch in the chest was due. Arthur choked back a strangled mix halfway between a sob and an hysterical laugh.

"It's not me who courts every pretty person they come across."

"You know it doesn’t mean anything. I love you, Arthur. That is never going to change."

Even if one day he fell out of love, he would still be loving him. Thus Francis had said one sultry afternoon years ago, words Arthur had never forgotten. It was a promise a part of him never wanted to abandon, strong with the perspective they would eventually meet again.

He should now. It would hurt less. He should close this, say his goodbye before things become too pathetic, not let Francis take his hands and coax him to sit in his lap. But tonight wasn't any other night and like one so similar and yet so different in Avennio, he didn’t want to have any regrets. There would be time to heal the wound and put his armour back on. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend to be elsewhere, in their rooms in Swabia and far for all the problems. Unaware it would end like this.

"A coin for your thoughts."

Arthur looked down at his hands, idly rubbing the ruby of his ring. It was dull.

"Just thinking about the past," he began, measuring every word. "When we were young."

When they were young and the highest of their worries was who to invite at the next ball or what to wear. When they still didn’t carry the weight of kingdoms on their shoulders.

"About how much I had to court you?" Francis teased, brushing his nose against Arthur's nape, both squeezed onto the same armchair and arranged so as to fit perfectly as long as nobody wished to move. It saved him from a nudge in the ribs.

"Well, you were quite irritating. My hate was perfectly justified."

He had loathed that boy of the hate of youth, hated him because he had everything he wanted, unaware what he called hate was hiding a completely different sentiment.

"But I had already fallen there, didn't I. From the first time we met. I didn't love you and I was in love already. I think that looking back there wasn't a day in which there wasn't a part of me, even if tiny, in love with you."

Francis dragged him closer, something Arthur wouldn't believe possible.

"Romantic, are we? Who are you? What did you do to my Arthur?"

"Don't ruin the moment."

He had loved him before knowing what that meant.

"What about tomorrow ? Will you still love me?"

There was a little uncertainty in Francis' voice, beneath the pretence playfulness. For all his proclaimed faith in love, sometimes he became more insecure than Arthur himself.

"When it becomes yesterday." When he would look back and reason about it, he'd found the same love again. He traced vague paths on Francis' palm, words without a meaning.

"There's a problem then. I don't want tomorrow to arrive. I don’t want tomorrow or today to become yesterday."

Laying his head on Francis' shoulder, Arthur sighed. He didn’t want it either. "We still have some time," he said, freeing one arm before it got too stiff. Some more minutes wouldn't hurt anyone. They soon rolled into hours. They passed too fast.

When tomorrow came, it was too early, but delaying the inevitable would only worsen things. In the palace courtyard, Arthur watched the Dauphinoise coaches till they disappeared in the horizon.

“You could follow him, if you so wish,” Emma said, quietly.

“No, I can’t,” Arthur replied, in a bitter whisper. It wasn’t her fault, as Queen she couldn’t have acted otherwise. But still he couldn't help thinking she could have used her power better. As soon as news came Dauphiné had carried out the sentence, Prince Herbert would leave too. For now, he seemed to be enduring the separation quite well, and to have inherited his father's calm and sense of duty. From Ludwig he had taken the love for dogs as well. Maids said his favourite place in the palace were the kennels. Arthur couldn't blame him. After the recent events he was more and more convinced animals would be a better company than people. Hugging Orvar as soon as he was alone he fought back a new rush of tears.

In the corridors he caught some courtiers chatting about the annual winter party, the dress they had ordered and other amenities, the incident with the Dauphinoise old story already.

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Primo giorno

2023-03-11T11:41:57Z

Fandom: Iliad
Prompt: Scuola

Patroclus swung his brand new backpack in one hand as his mom fixed the collar of his shirt.

"Bye my love, you behave, alright?" She said, hands on his shoulders. He quietly nodded, as in the corner of his eye some kids flocked around Miss Hestia. Miss Hestia was a super nice teacher.

"Yes, mom."

"Good. Now go to your friends."

Patroclus hadn’t seen most of them for all the summer holidays. Busy playing with toy cars sitting on the floor, Ajax and Odysseus waved at him.

"Did you have fun?" Ajax grinned. "We went to the mountain with my—uncle Peleus!"

Patroclus' head snapped toward the entrance. On the threshold a tall man was trying to pry a crying child off his leg.

"No. No. I want to go home," the kid screamed, turning his back to Miss Hestia to go grab further onto his father.

"Your uncle? So that's your…"

"My cousin. Achilles," Ajax confirmed. In the hall Achilles was still firmly glued onto Ajax's uncle.

"It's only for a few hours, poppet." The man cooed, bending to gently pat Achilles' head and giving miss Hestia an apologetic look.

"He woke up on the wrong side of the bed, right?"

"No," Achilles muttered, stubborn.

"It'll be fun. Look, there's even Ajax. See, I told you he'd be here too. Don't you want to play with Ajax?"

He beckoned Ajax closer as he said this. Curious, Patroclus trudged behind.

"Hello Achilles. Nice to see you" Ajax said, grinning.

"Hi, Ajax," mumbled Achilles, who didn't seem to share the enthusiasm. But, Patroclus guessed, at least it was a familiar face.

"And I'm Patroclus," he offered. "Wanna come play with me?"

He was still holding a toy car in his hand. "See, this is my favourite," he said, showing it to Achilles. Achilles sniffled. He had the nicest backpack Patroclus has ever seen, with colorful fishes and glitters.

"Your backpack is super cool," he said, unable to resist the urge to touch the plush-looking appliques

They were as squishy as expected.

"Patroclus," Miss Hestia chided. "It's not polite to touch others' things without permission."

"Sorry, Miss Hestia."

"That’s fine. But, yes, it's a very nice backpack you got there, Achilles. Can I see it.”
Achilles pondered the question for a moment, then slowly let go of Peleus’ trousers to shim out of the backpack straps. He clutched it to his chest.

"Mama bought it for me," he said, while Peleus exploited that second of distraction to finally free himself.

Before Achilles could realise it, Patroclus and Ajax were already dragging him away. In the time they were gone Odysseus had decided he'd rather play with LEGOs.

"That’s—" Patroclus made to introduce him, Achilles' free hand still solidly clasped in his.

"Nobody" Odysseus muttered, not lifting his head from the tower he was building.

"That’s not true. Odysseus, don't be mean."

Odysseus shrugged. Patroclus turned to Achilles, whose eyes were mostly still glued onto his father.

"He's not always like this," he said, just as Ajax perked up. "Look, that's your girlfriend. Hi, Pitsa!"

Odysseus' ears turned the same bright red of the LEGO piece he was holding, refusing to meet eyes with the girl, now twirling around to show Miss Hestia her new dress.

But everybody knew Penelope and Odysseus were together.

Achilles hadn't let go of Patroclus' hand, perusing the crates of toys for something of his interest. After long consideration he fished out a plastic T-rex.

"You like dinosaurs?"

"A little," Achilles said, but still grabbed a Triceratops as well and sat on the floor. Patroclus opted for a stegosaurus, which was attacked by Achilles' T-rex in record time. Patroclus responded just as fiercely.

They played like this for a while. At a certain point Achilles picked up a toy car, which he made to race around the dinosaurs.

"The yellow owls with me," Miss Hestia called. Patroclus jumped up and Achilles looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Gotta go," Patroclus explained. Ajax was already in line, while a little over Odysseus was bickering with Menelaus, much to Miss Ebe’s , the young teacher of the red class, chagrin

"Yellow owls. Yellows with me," Miss Hestia called again.

Achilles' hand shot out to grab onto Patroclus' shirt. Patroclus shook his head.

"No. You are too little. You can’t come." And gently tugged himself free to reach his friends

There was a moment of silence. Then Achilles' brows scrunched, his lower lip quivered and he broke down into a new wave of ear-piercing sobs.

Mrs Demeter came rushing in. “What happened?” She asked, looking severely at Patroclus.

“I think he wants to stay with me, Mrs Demeter. I didn’t mean to make him cry.”

Mrs Demeter let out a long sigh. “I know, sweetie. Go now, I’ll take it from here.”

“No!” cried Achilles, stomping his feet, face all red and blotchy.

“We can play later."

"Now."

"No, now we go to class, lil man," Mrs Demeter said, easily picking him up despite his kicking. "Come on. We’re going to have a lot of fun. Look at the other kids, they aren't crying."

As she dealt with Achilles, Patroclus hurried to reach the others, stopping right behind Ajax.

“Is your cousin always like this?”
“He tends to get very attached and quickly.”

Achilles wasn’t the only one making a scene. A row over Mrs Leto was trying to separate Hector from his younger brother holding firmly onto him.

"Always the same story," Miss Hestia shook her head. “Alright. Is everyone here? Then we can go."

First morning of school passed quickly. Miss Hestia gave them papers, coloured markers and told them to draw their holidays. As anticipated, Ajax had spent most of them in the mountain in the family lodge. Castor and Pollux had been to Crete.

"What about you, Patroclus?"

That summer Patroclus' family had decided to remain home, but dad still brought him to the pool every day and bought plenty of ice pops to fight the heat.

"And I learnt how to ride a bike," he added, proudly.

By snack break he had drawn himself and dad at the pool with matching blue T-shirts and ice creams and a little over him and dad, again, only around a bike this time.

Achilles too had spent a good portion of his first morning at school drawing. And Mrs Demeter must have found a way to console him as upon spotting him he went straight to Patroclus with a big grin.
Then he shoved a paper into his hands.

The pictured featured two kids holding hands and surrounded by coloured shapes Patroclus guessed must be toys

One had curly hair sprouting from his head and above Achilles had scribbled a wobbly "Π", "Α" and "Τ".

Floating over the other kid were an iffy "ΑΧΙ". Both kids were smiling.

"That’s nice. Thank you," Patroclus said, a bit unsure, with Achilles tailing him as he put the drawing in his backpack.

Achilles kept following him as he walked to his friends too, quickly trudging behind.

"Is he always so quiet," Patroclus asked Ajax, who laughed.

"Achilles? Not at all. He’s only a bit lost” he said, squeezing his cousin into an enthusiastic hug. “How's the first day going?”
“Nice. I like Mrs Demeter. She gave us stickers.”

“Which stickers?”
“Animals. I took a shark.”

“See?” Ajax told Patroclus. “Wait a couple days and you’ll regret it when he didn’t talk. Isn’t that right?” he said, then smacking a big kiss onto Achilles’ cheeks, who giggled and squirmed away.

They played together again after lunch, the three of them, alongside Odysseus and Menelaus, Achilles always tailing Patroclus as if a little shadow; except for the part he decided to race with a classmate called Diomedes.

“Wanna come to my house today?” Ajax asked Patroclus as they were waiting for their parents to arrive. On the other side of the hall, Achilles was jumping in place.

“Of course.”

To Patroclus’ surprise, he found his dad instead of mom waiting for him at the exit. He was chatting with Achilles’ dad.

“There you are,” dad said, bending to pick Patroclus’ backpack. “Did you have fun?”
“Mhm,” Patroclus nodded, just as Achilles dashed next to him to run into Peleus’ waiting arms.

“I made a new friend,” he said, enthusiastically, grabbing onto Patroclus.

“That’s good, love.”
“Can Patroclus come to our house?”
Peleus looked at Patroclus’ father, pondering the question for a moment. “I don’t think there’s any problem."

"Can he come now?"

“But Ajax invited me already,” Patroclus protested. “Can I stay for dinner, please?”

“Only if his parents agree,” dad replied. “You know it.”
“Can I go too?” Achilles asked. “Ajax won’t mind.”

“We can ask him. And see if uncle Telamon agrees, alright?"

Ajax didn’t mind, enthusiastic instead of having his younger cousin home to play. “We can go to the pool,” he said, while the grown-ups chatted. Achilles beamed.

There was some more back-and-forth, then finally Ajax’s dad ushered them all to the family car where they piled with some laughter, Achilles firmly attached onto Patroclus’ shirt and Ajax already asking if they could have fried meatballs and chips for dinner.

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Because you are the reason

2023-03-03T08:47:38Z

Fandom: The Song of Achilles, Iliad
Prompt: Il rapporto tra un personaggio protagonista ed "eroe" della storia e il suo fedele "compagno".

"Why did you choose me?"

Patroclus is sitting in Achilles' chamber when he asks this, on Achilles' bed to be precise.

Achilles has ordered the second bed the servants brought for Patroclus to be taken away immediately upon seeing it. "My bed is big enough for two," he said. "Right?"

He then looked at Patroclus, as if to ask for his approval.

The idea of sharing a bed attracts and terrifies Patroclus at the same time, two completely opposite forces that left him there, his mouth half open, unable to formulate a proper answer.

"If it is alright with you" he muttered, eventually.

Achilles bed is indeed large, on the pair of a wedding bed. Patroclus has heard rumours the Prince is quite the restless sleeper and a larger bed prevents him from falling over too many times

He supposes he'll soon learn if it's true or only another exaggerated story.

It has been so long since he slept with someone that he doesn't remember when last time was. Probably when he was still young enough to be allowed to sleep with the nurse or, if he was truly lucky, his mother after a nightmare.

He wonders rapidly if sleeping with Achilles will finally chase away the memory of what he has done.

So now he is sitting on Achilles' bed, the recent meeting with King Peleus still bright clear in his mind, Achilles taking his arm in a fierce but not truly hurtful grip and proclaiming he will be his therapon, his squire.

His companion.

Achilles looks up from the basin in which he's currently washing face, arms and upper torso. "Because I like you," he says, without a hint of hesitation.

"You like others too, though. People you've known longer than me." Patroclus retorts with a snort. He is not so naive as to think Achilles doesn’t have other friends. Correction, he doesn’t even dare to consider himself Achilles' friend.

"And I like you most."

"But why?"

He has no discernable qualities to make him shine over the others. He is not particularly witty or pleasant to be around, even less in the past months. He doesn't even pose a good challenge as a training partner. He is neither older or more expert than Achilles.

This time Achilles ponders the question, shaking away the excess water before dabbing himself with a towel. Patroclus watches the perfect skin of his forehead scrunch.

Everything he says, he realises suddenly, Achilles takes seriously

"Because you're the only one who didn't try to woo my attention," Achilles says.

***

Sometimes Patroclus loathes Achilles. It is the pang of envy and annoyance he felt when he actually spoke to him for the first time; lazily playing the lyre, completely unbothered, cherished and loved and with everything when Patroclus had been left with nothing.

He loathes Achilles’ confidence that borders on hybris, how he is never plagued by self-doubts, never has to second-guess anything.

He envies his prowess, the way he naturally excels in everything he does, never to lose, never to make a mistake.

"And you plan to play that before the king's guests? I don’t think they’ll appreciate it.”

It's a lie, the ballad Achilles put together almost on the fly is perfect, so beautiful Patroclus has to fight back tears. But for that he feels a deep visceral desire to tear it apart.

After all, he says to himself, a vague justification, it is his explicit duty as Achilles' therapon to advise him.

"Uhm, you think so?" Achilles muses, his fingers adjusting on the strings to play the first chords. The harmonies are absolutely stunning.

“What do you suggest?".

Again, it takes Patroclus aback. Achilles has to reason at all to care for his words—Patroclus is no musical genius—but he does. For the first time Achilles questions his choices.

"The finale is too abrupt and the last chord should be a third below.”

Achilles plays the last few bars, slower this time, and changes the final chord to be lower.

“Yes,” he says, after having tweaked at it a little more. “It sounds much nicer. Thank you.”

***

Patroclus wouldn’t go as far as to proclaim to be Achilles’ friend.

Maybe he won't ever. Inside, he knows it's stupid. They have shared secrets, deep ones, whispered in the heart of night.

He told Achilles about the moment of ferocious joy as he pushed Clytonimus to the ground, the fleeting excitement thinking his father for once would have been proud of him.

And Achilles in return has confessed sometimes he fears his mother deep down hates him, the product of a forced union.

They spend all their time together, do the things friends do, every day a new adventure, stunts that leave old Phoenix with more and more white hair.

Patroclus was supposed to calm Achilles, to mellow his infinite energy.

The reality couldn’t be more different, Achilles a force too strong to be resisted and Patroclus has long abandoned the pretence to be indulging him only to avoid ever greater damage.

Achilles wants to sneak into the kitchens at night? Patroclus is there hissing about how they’re going to get caught again.

Achilles decides to climb onto the palace roof? Patroclus is already struggling behind and fighting against his own vertigo.

They cast glances at each other as, heads low, they receive the umpteenth scolding. Between Patroclus’ toes is still the sand of the beach, Achilles’ idea to sneak out the palace to watch the sunrise. He doesn’t regret anything.

On the contrary, he has to bite his lips to fight back a new rush of giggles.

On their way back to Achilles’ chambers, Achilles searches for Patroclus’ hand

It’s warm and Patroclus wonders when the gesture has become so natural.

***

The first seeds of infatuation begin to put their roots when Patroclus has just turned twelve.

It is the age when a boy starts to be considered old enough to be taught about the secrets of love and pleasure.

Watching Achilles he feels a new pang in his chest as he notices things he never did before; and the things he already did, now he sees them through different eyes.

He already knows the feeling of Achilles’ perfect skin, its texture, its warmth. They have bathed together plenty of times and fought naked in the training courtyard, but suddenly Patroclus’ fingers itch from the desire to touch. Suddenly Achilles snuggling to him as he sleeps leaves him breathless.

They are sitting on the beach at sunset, fresh wet sand under their feet and Achilles is still glowing pink from the exertion of his recent run. He grins wide and his eyes glint.

Patroclus should really approach things slowly, test the waters, but with Achilles it has always been nothing but to dive in.

It is only a light brush of lips against lips, salty, the blink of an eye before Patroclus comes back to himself.

Achilles stares at him for a second that lasts an eternity. Then, he scrambles to his feet and runs away. Hugging his knees, cursing himself and his stupidity, Patroclus cries.

He spends the evening expecting the order to pack his things and leave Achilles’ room to be dropped at any time. Worse, they’ll tell him to leave Phthia.

At dinner he gingerly sits next to Achilles and waits for him to scoot away. Achilles doesn’t, though he does turn his back to Patroclus when it’s time to blow out the lamp and go to sleep.

The next afternoon, Patroclus walks to Achilles with all the courage he has managed to gather. “Wrestle with me,” he says.

If he doesn’t want things between them to change, he will act as yesterday never happened.

***

When Achilles leaves for Mount Pelion at the crack of dawn , Patroclus realises soon he can’t envision spending the next three or more years without him.

He finds himself running through the woods before mid day, before he could even make sense of his decision, for once determined to make a request and fight for it.

He is Achilles’ companion. He is supposed to be at his side, to soothe his dreams—Achilles is always in a sour mood the times he sleeps alone— and to bring him back down to earth when he flies too high.

Part of Patroclus hurts thinking Achilles could at least have asked him to follow, but when it comes to Thetis even he is powerless. Patroclus can still feel the frozen hand of the goddess tightening around his throat and the raspy threat underneath.

He doesn't care. Achilles needs him and Chiron can take one more student.

As for Achilles’ mother, she’ll have to forcefully drag Patroclus away from her son if she truly wants to separate them.

***

Patroclus has buried his feelings down in the pit of his being for so long he forgot about them. Whatever took over him when he kissed Achilles is gone, a mistake not to be talked about ever again. He doesn’t even tell himself if Achilles doesn’t love him that way is fine, because neither Patroclus loves Achilles that way.

Not anymore. He is content with having his soul and mind, he doesn’t need his body as well.

So he buries everything, covers the lust and desire in layers of friendship and devotion till, inevitably, it explodes back full force in his face. From one day to the other staying too close to Achilles becomes unbearable, each casual touch hotter than molten metal, so much Patroclus doesn’t know by which high power above he hasn’t yet shoved Achilles onto the nearest flat surface to find satisfaction to his desire.

It fills Patroclus with repugnance. Then, he is a fool to think he could ever overpower Achilles, but in his despicable fantasies he can. Achilles would be soft and hot and tight and all Patroclus can do is to busy himself otherwise and hope he never notices.

Then one evening, on his sixteenth birthday, Achilles abruptly says: “My mother can’t see us here.”

Patroclus frowns. He feels like there’s more to it, a hidden message that for some reason Achilles doesn’t say outright.

Given, he gladly welcomes the reassurance the cave is a safe haven from Thetis’ terrifying presence, but Achilles is throwing him those glances as if he is expecting something.

Patroclus wrecks his brain.

Thinking about it, Achilles has been restless since he came back from his talk with his mother—and it wasn’t because he fought with her. He has gobbled down his dinner and then insisted to retire for the night when normally he would stay awake for hours more to watch the stars, even more now that it is full summer.

Climbing into their pallet, he leans so close their noses almost touch. Patroclus can smell the fruit on his breath.

Thetis can’t see them here.

Achilles heavies a huffs before pulling away, a despondent expression on his face.

And then, it clicks.

“Wait!”

Achilles turns, stills, and Patroclus prays to not have misinterpreted anything. He wouldn’t stand to see again the horrified stare Achilles gave him that day at the beach, the fear of having ruined everything.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he dives in. This time, Achilles doesn’t run away. This time, here away from the constant watch of the sea, Achilles does the opposite of running away. His hands buries in Patroclus’ curls and then he’s kissing him, truly, properly, not a shy peck on the lips, but open-mouthed, messy and demanding and with the absolute intensity that has always characterised everything Achilles has ever done.

Something inside Patroclus sings, as their bodies flush together. Achilles wants him, he is baring himself, giving him all to Patroclus down to its core.

It’s only fair for a joy so great to leave space to an equally large terror in the morning.

Waiting for Achilles to stir from sleep and remember what happened the previous night is nerve-wracking. He blinks, rubs his eyes, gingerly slides a hand down between his legs and Patroclus expects nothing but accusations and disgust.

But then Achilles’ face softens into a bright smile as he greets Patroclus a sleepy “‘Morning” and all fears melt away.

***

Patroclus’ ears are ringing, Achilles’ arms still around his neck with the unbridled enthusiasm of his hug.

Husband.

Achilles introduced Patroclus as his husband.

Given, currently Achilles is dressed in feminine clothes and nobody but Patroclus are aware of his real identity, but it doesn’t make it any less powerful.

Husband.

Patroclus says it under his breath, testing how it feels in his mouth. Husband. Husband. Husband.

He thinks about it all evening, instead of focusing on other things that rationally should concern him more. Like Achilles having been forced to lay with someone and that resulting in a child.

Even as Achilles takes his hands, after they are left alone, and beg for Patroclus' understanding—or the closest thing to begging when it comes to Achilles—Patroclus has to force himself to actually listen.

“Patroclus, please," Achilles cries, frantically, cupping his cheeks. "I swear I didn't want it. Any of it. Please, forgive me."

Oh. Achilles thinks he’s angry at him. Patroclus wants to slap himself. He definitely should.

“Oh, Achilles,” Patroclus exclaims and drags him into a solid embrace. “I’m not mad at you.”

Sniffling, Achilles presses himself into the hug. “Then what’s got into you? There’s something, I know it. You feel so distant."

“You… you called me your husband.”

Achilles could have introduced him as a relative, a brother maybe. “You weren’t pretending,” he adds, without waiting for an answer. “You would marry me if given the chance.”

Achilles looks up at him. His eyes are lucid, but he’s smiling, the smile he has when waiting for Patroclus to catch up with him.

“Wouldn’t you?”

To be fair, he never thought deeply about it. It isn’t like he would love Achilles any more in case. He will always be at his side, with or without oaths before the gods and men.

"It would be nice," he murmurs, taking Achilles hands in his. “I think I’d like that.”

***

One day, overall between the third and fourth years of war, Briseis asks Patroclus why he loves Achilles.

Patroclus can’t answer. He doesn't love Achilles for a specific reason, or even for a ensemble of them. It simply happened, slowly, a little more each day, growing on him till it encompasses everything else.

"I don't know. I simply do."

It wouldn’t be love otherwise.

With someone as intense as Achilles, after years spent at his side, Patroclus had no other choice than either to loathe him viscerally or fall impossibly in love.

A third, milder option has never been in the picture

It would be a lie to say Patroclus hasn't find himself attracted by anyone else in the years, especially after returning from Pelion. And though nothing but drunken kisses and some heavy petting ever happened, Achilles wouldn’t mind. As he told Patroclus once, he sees no reason to concern himself with jealousy. Leave that to people so unsure about their partner’s love that they’d rather chain them.

Not when Patroclus loves him in a way that surpasses everything else, so rooted into him than to stop would mean losing himself.

***

Patroclus has lost Achilles. He has spent years trying to prepare for when the moment would come and now that it happened he is completely lost.

Maybe with a corpse to bury and a tomb on which to cry it would be easier.

But Achilles is still alive and more distant than ever, lost to an abyss of anger, resentment and pride.

Patroclus hasn't felt so abandoned since he still lived in Opus.

Maybe the others were right about Achilles.

He is a weapon, a killer. Using a sword as a walking cane won't change its nature

Odysseus' words ring in Patroclus' ears.

Maybe Patroclus has been too blinded by love and devotion to see the truth.

Now all he wants is to punch Achilles, to shake him till he comes back to his senses.

Achilles says he wants to leave, pack everything, gather the Myrmidons and sail back to Phthia.

For the first time Patroclus isn’t sure he will be able to follow.

Yet he swore, years ago, promise to never abandon Achilles, no matter the circumstances. If they leave, countless men will die, the weight of their deaths on Patroclus’ conscience.

But Achilles will live. They could find some forgotten place and rebuild and be content with a simple life.

It would be hollow, joyless, not with the foundations on which they had built it. Eventually the guilt and the resentment would bring them both to destruction. They’ll hate each other.

Nor he can let Achilles leave alone. And not because cutting a limb would be less painful, not because he could sooner pluck his heart out of his chest and give it to Achilles to pack with the rest of his belongings.

It’s not him. It’s the fact Achilles will be ruined if he leaves, his name stained, the glory for which he fought lost.

Leaning onto a tree, Patroclus prays to the gods to show him the way.

***

Patroclus is about to cry again. Achilles is worried about him. After days Achilles is looking at him and really seeing him.

It tugs at the strings of Patroclus' heart, stronger than any rational thought.

For a moment Patroclus himself be egotistical, relish in the knowledge Achilles would let the world burn to the ground if that saved him.

If Achilles truly loved Patroclus he would be putting on his armour instead of helping him wear it.

If he truly loved him he would have never chosen the war.

But that person wouldn’t have been Achilles and Patroclus has fallen in love with Achilles, not with some hypothetical other, humbler and more reasonable version.

I love you, he thinks, climbing onto the chariot but doesn’t say. It’s already in the look he gives Achilles and the way Achilles’ squeezes his arm just a bit longer

“Be careful. Come back to me," he urges

Patroclus nods.

You could come with me, he thinks too, but doesn’t say this either. He can’t ask Achilles to put aside his pride more than he could demand him to learn how to fly. It is part of him, and Patroclus accepted that a long time ago.

"Don’t worry.” He forces a smile, despite the shaking that is slowly taking over his limbs.. “I’ll be fine.”

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Longs for peace and security

2023-02-28T22:53:53Z

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Due personaggi che si trovano ai lati opposti di un conflitto trovano un punto in comune.

Scratching his chin, Odysseus looks critically at the two tunics laid out onto the bed. He’s been pondering on which one to wear for hours by now. The yellow one is newer, actually woven there at camp by the girl-slaves, but also much simpler in its craft. It is the tunic of a commoner.

The other he brought from Ithaca is a rich blue with both the hem and neckline richly embroidered in a geometric pattern. Normally it would be Odysseus’ choice without a second thought, but despite all the precautions taken moths have eaten holes all over the fabric. They are small, hardly noticeable, but they are there and showing up to the Trojans with mothballed clothes would not seem a good starting point.

“And the access to the river. That is not-negotiable.”

Then, there’s Agamemnon. The King of Men has been pestering Odysseus with his recommendation ever since this morning, Menelaus coming to take his brother away to discuss some urgent matter the only moment of reprieve.

“I know, son of Atreus,” he sighs, picking up the yellow tunic to examine it more closely. Maybe paired with a richer belt and cloak it would make a better impression. “And if I am not mistaken it was I to remind you of the point.”

“And no new troops are to be called or arrive during the truce,” Agamemnon continues, unrepentant.

“Yes. You said that already. Three times, to be precise.”

On closer examination the holes don’t seem to be too big. Odysseus could order them to be quickly repaired before heading to the Trojan gates.

“And the gifts.” Agamemnon again stops his thinking. “Did you check that there is something from each king?”

“Yes. I did. You were there too, remember?” Some gifts he even ordered to be sent back and changed because they were deemed not suitable. “Look, I get you are nervous, but this fretting is not going to help anyone.”
“I—I know,” Agamemnon grumbles, a bit offended at the reprimand. He pinches his nose, massaging the root. “You should fix your hair, too. You look like a beggar.”
“Uhm. You think so?”
Odysseus walks to his polished cuirass, the closest thing he has that is similar to a real mirror. Talking about the cuirass, he should consider wearing it as well. He discards the idea immediately after. He’s going to discuss the basis of what they all hope will be a long truce, better to keep any battle-gear to the side.
He looks at his distorted image. This time, Agamemnon is right. He hasn’t cut his hair in quite some time and it has started to grow all over the place. He’s also in need of a good shave, if he wants to present the image of a solid army who could camp outside the walls for another decade. Reality couldn’t be more different and it’s imperative the Trojans don’t know.

Or maybe they should. They would be moved to pity and return Helen. Odysseus shakes his head at his own thoughts and how ridiculous they are.

***

He goes for the older tunic in the end. Penelope made it herself and for a man who prides himself for his wit and rationality, Odysseus can be extremely sentimental.
King Priam's hospitality is exquisite, if a tad overwhelming, but only if Odysseus wants to find something to criticise at all costs and he doesn’t.
When he isn’t sitting in the assembly of the Trojans to discuss new details of the truce he is overall free to roam the palace and the city as he pleases, as long as he doesn’t linger too much near the walls. Sometimes he thinks a similar trust borders on stupidity and wonders if it isn't to compensate what Prince Alexander did, to show the Achaeans most Trojans aren’t like him and they all take hospitality extremely seriously.
The negotiations take a long time. Before Odysseus knows it a week has already passed.
The Trojans are polite but unyielding, as firm as mountains on their positions, and there is always one to bring forth an issue or a detail they didn’t previously considered, which inevitably sparks a whole new discussion till the matter is inevitably referred to the following day.
The possibility to access the river is surprisingly what causes more problems.
Odysseus finds himself dwelling on the matter all night, staring at the ceiling till he has it memorised and unsure if praying Hypnos for sleep or Athena to show him a solution. Just in case, he prays to both and probably offended by his half-assed invocations they both deny him their help.
Odysseus tosses in bed, feeling more awake each passing moment, as each possible scenario plays in his head.
Eventually, at the umpteenth time his eyes snap open, sleep slipping even more from him, he gives up. A walk will help clear his mind. It is an old trick and it has yet to fail him. Back on Ithaca he would often roam the island for hours, covering miles of coast, till he came back home exultant with the right fix to the problem.
Grabbing his new cloak—a gift from his hosts—he tosses it rapidly over his shoulders and slips on his sandals. He wouldn’t dare to walk the city at night—even the best of hospitality has limits—but Prince Hector’s chambers in which Odysseus is currently a guest overlook a courtyard. A pear tree grows at the centre and today, just before dinner, Odysseus caught what he believes must be Prince Hector’s wife gathering some fruit in a basket.
Stepping outside, he is immediately made aware of someone else's presence. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who thought about a night stroll. Though difficult to discern the person’s features in the feeble light of the crescent autumn moon, from his built Odysseus has a pretty good guess who the other may be.
Prince Hector doesn’t notice his presence, busy as he seems pacing the courtyard perimeter while muttering something unintelligible under his breath from time to time.
Taking another step, Odysseus clears his throat, loud enough to be heard. Last thing he wants now is to give Troy’s Crown Prince a heart attack, though that would favour the Achaeans immensely. But it brings bad luck to kill one’s host, if only by accident.
“Can’t sleep either?” he calls, casually, hands interlaced behind his back. As expected, Prince Hector jolts.
“Son of Laertes,” he exclaims, turning toward Odysseus. “Not quite. Actually it is not for lack of sleep I’m kept away from my bed.”
Odysseus’ next question receives an answer the moment the prince shuffles closer to a small puddle of silvery light. He is holding something to his chest, a bundle of cloth Odysseus guesses before correcting himself a moment later as the bundle shifts and a small head pokes out.
“I see,” he says, simply, watching Prince Hector gently bouncing in his arms what must be his baby son. The prince gives Odysseus an unexpectedly apologetic look, while, much to the father’s chagrin, the baby stirs a bit more in the swaddling.
“Andromache was exhausted,” Prince Hector explains. “My wife,” he adds a moment later, in case Odysseus didn’t know already. Odysseus nods in understanding.
“Yes, I am familiar with that. Newborns can be a greater and more fearful challenge than facing a whole army sometimes.” He chuckles at his own joke, a little too loud probably as the next moment a cry pierces the air.
If Prince Hector wants to murder him now Odysseus wouldn’t even blame him that much. Instead Prince Hector heavies a long, despondent sigh that deflates his whole form.
“No, no, no,” he whispers, urgently, rocking in place. “It’s nothing. Hush, go back to sleep. Daddy’s here. Hush.”
The baby’s wailing only becomes louder. Odysseus speaks without really thinking. “Can I try?” He holds out his hands in a half-hearted gesture.
Prince Hector hesitates. It is understandable. Despite having momentarily set aside the hostility in the name of hospitality, Odysseus is still the enemy and one famed for his danger.
“I suppose,” Hector surrenders in the end. There’s a bit of shuffling as the baby is carefully passed from one man to the other. It has been years since he last cradled Telemachus to sleep, but Odysseus’ whole body immediately adjust. He rubs soothing circles on the baby’s upper back.
Slowly but surely, the crying subsides.
“You seem more expert than me in this,” Hector comments. His whole body is taut, eyes trained on Odysseus’ every move. “You have a son as well, if I remember correctly.”
“You do. Telemachus. Approaching his tenth year.”
And if the prophecy that was told to him once is true, Odysseus won’t see him for a long time still.
“Ten years?” Hector repeats, slowly. “Which means…”
“Yes,” Odysseus confirms. “He was born only a few months before I joined the war.” He pauses, not sure of how much to reveal. He has never been one to expose himself more than necessary. Nothing good ever comes to those who do. But he has a feeling the things said tonight will be set apart and forgotten as soon as dawn comes.
“Not that I didn’t try avoiding it. I was quite satisfied with continuing to take care of my affairs at home.”
“I see.”
Hector doesn’t ask him for the details or why he changed his mind. Odysseus guesses it doesn’t matter now.
“My wife would approve,” Hector adds. “She… she would rather have me stay inside the walls.”
”I can’t say I don’t agree. It would make things a lot easier for us.”
He chuckles again. Hector doesn’t. Thinking about it, Odysseus hasn’t hear him laugh a single time in the entire week. The baby snuggles closer to his chest.
“What’s his name?”
“Scamandrius. Yes, like the river,” Hector anticipates Odysseus’ following question. “Though Andromache and I are the only ones to call him that, actually.”
“How so?”
“The other Trojans… my siblings too, really, they like to call him Astyanax.”
“Lord of the City,” Odysseus muses. “I guess it is to honour the father.”
“Yes.” Hector speaks quietly, not even the tiniest trace of pride for it, sounding rather shy and embarrassed instead. Without his armour and his habitual double-crested bronze helmet, dressed in a plain tunic, his hair dishevelled, he looks incredibly young. He must be at least ten years Odysseus junior, if not younger. With his usual fierce demeanour and the fury with which he normally fights on the battlefield it’s easy to forget.
“You are lucky.” Odysseus’ mouth formulates the words automatically. It wins him another side-glance half-way between weary and dubious. Then, good manners prevail over whatever snappy answer Hector could have for him.
“I don’t follow,” he says, the picture of propriety. They have moved to one side of the courtyard to a bench carved from stone. Odysseus sits gingerly, carefully to not wake up Scamandrius-Astyanax. Hector’s outstretched arms while he sits as well are a sufficiently clear request. The baby’s tiny fists immediately clutch onto his father’s tunic. It takes cunning Odysseus a single glance to understand: there is nothing in the world that matters to Hector more than his own son. This is the real reason why he fights.
He knows that look, he has seen it on his face in the mirror years ago, how he abruptly stopped the plough in the field before it could hurt Telemachus.
"You're home," he says. "You have your father, your mother, your wife. Your whole family. I am not even sure if my family is still alive."
Again Hector could tell him nobody forced him to come here, though it wouldn’t be the actual truth. That it matters little to be at home when that home is under siege and constantly in danger. He could hold all his dead siblings against Odysseus and the other Achaeans. At least a couple must have fell by Odysseus’ sword.
But he doesn’t, not tonight. Tonight they are guests and grudges have no space in xenia. Yet even rightful Hector can’t help the trace of bitterness seeping into his voice
“If I was told they’d be safe if I leave and never see them again I wouldn’t hesitate a moment. I’d be on my way without further question. I wouldn’t look back once.”
Though a whisper so as not to wake up Astyanax, Hector’s words are fierce and sure. He brushes his lips against the top of the baby’s head in a light kiss. “If I knew it would take so little to—”
He trails off, suddenly aware of how much he’s exposing himself before the enemy. Sage move.
“You love them indeed.”
“More than anything. And If I dare, I’d say you can understand me in this.” Hector asks slowly, testing the ground. “Yes, I can admit that. There’s no day I do not miss Telemachus or Penelope. Or the whole of Ithaca, truly.” A pang of nostalgia cuts through Odysseus’ chest, but it’s dark and in years he has become a master of dissimulation.
“It must be a beautiful place.”
“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Ithaca is no mellow paradise.”Immediately Odysseus' mind fills with barren stretches of land, dusty and rocky, yellowish tufts of grass sprouting between the stones like hair on the head of an old man. He thinks about the salty air constantly blowing from the sea, the faded paintings on the houses.“We don’t have green meadows to nourish the horses your people so much love and we must be content with goats. But I wouldn’t change it for any kingdom, no matter how bigger and richer.”
If they weren’t a war, if Odysseus wasn’t too well aware the Achaeans could hope to win only with Hector down in the Hall of Hades, it would be easy to drop him an invitation to come and see Ithaca himself. Odysseus would return the hospitality the Trojans are currently providing aplenty. He guesses Penelope and Hector’s wife would get along.
He would think about possible treaties and newly found trade routes.
If things were different, he wouldn’t be reminded at each moment how the baby he rocked to sleep moments before has no future or hope.
“There’s an orchard not too far from the palace, where King Laertes, my father, planted trees in neat rows. The pear and the apple, the fig and the vine. He taught me how to care for each of them when I was a child, told me how each one is different. In the summer when the sun burns without respite, so hot it would break the rock, a person there can always find a little shade.”
He misses the apples the most. There at camp they are quite the rare luxury and their taste never compares to the ones he had on Ithaca.
“It does sound beautiful,” Hector says. “I admit I don’t know much about plants or how to care for them. I’m better with animals.”
“Especially horses-”
Not only it is rumoured in King Priam’s stables are horses given directly from Zeus, but all Trojans seem to have a connection with those animals.
“Especially the,. Sometimes I enjoy their company more than that of other men.”
Having so many siblings must be challenging on the nerves from time to time. From the little Odysseus could witness, Prince Hector disagrees with some of his brothers quite often. They still have a profound bond, though. That is undeniable. It is the greatest strength of the Trojans.
“I hope you forgive me if I don't keep you company further but I am quite tired and it's rare I get to sleep in my bed."
Then, as suddenly struck by a thought he didn't previously consider. "But I haven't asked you yet if you need anything. Whatever it is, do not hide."
It is sadly endearing how he worries for the comfort of a man who in a month or so will be back to killing his siblings and comrades.
“No reason to fret, son of Priam. I am not awake for a shortcoming in your or your family’s hospitality. But often my mind races and takes me away from sleep. I was thinking about how to find a middle ground between our people about the latest issues.”
“I truly hope for that. We can all use this truce and I will try to talk again with—”
Hector doesn't finish the sentence but there's no need. Odysseus knows. He will try again to talk with his stubborn younger brother and convince him to return Helen to her rightful husband. Odysseus has caught a glimpse of her in the past days, too fast to discern what she may think. Then, he is not risking the whole truce by trying to actually approach and talk with the fulcrum of the whole conflict.
Was he a bit more of a dreamer, Odysseus could even hope, hope this time Prince Alexander and the Trojans supporting him will come back to their senses and that he will be sailing home by the end of summer. He gives himself the luxury of a long second to indulge in how it could be, to dismantle camp, to put his twelve ships back into the waves and after a few days finally see the shores of Ithaca. He would get to hold Penelope in his arms and see Telemachus become a man.
But he left dreams behind years ago.
“Goodnight, son of Priam,” he says instead, one eye to the moon.
“Goodnight, son of Laertes.”

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The way that you look to me

2023-02-28T10:21:50Z

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Un personaggio si prende cura di un altro personaggio infortunato, malato, e/o bisognoso di conforto

Patroclus' hands were covered in fresh blisters and new burn, pink and wet flesh exposed.

Achilles couldn’t help a hissing breath at the sight.

“Must have been a vivid flame.” He tried to melt his clear worry into a joke, pretending Patroclus’ half destroyed palms were no big deal.

“It was.”

Letting his hands rest in his lap, Patroclus glanced away. “It looked so... luminous. I couldn’t help it.”

His upper wings fluttered once, a tiny and quick movement but the vibration enough to blow a gust of air in Achilles’ face.

In the penumbra, the light of the oil lamp turned them almost gold, the soft layer of fuzz only adding to the effect.

“I know.”

He gently took Patroclus’ hands to better see the damage. Transparent blisters full of liquid had to be deflated and the wounded skin properly bandaged.

“Holding a sword will hurt for a while.” He spoke more to himself, checking for further damages also on the back. “But I guess it could be worse.”

At least it wasn’t Patroclus’ face. Achilles' eyes darted up instinctively to the patch of skin on the man’s left cheek, pinkish against otherwise dark skin and rough to the touch. Only by a miracle of the gods the fire hadn't left him blind that day.

“I am not that… distracted,” Patroclus snorted, wings flickering again, all hairs standing up. “And I can take care of it myself.” He spoke with a note of petulance

”I know you can. I didn't mean to diminish you or your worth. I don’t do this because I think you can’t. But you are in pain and I don't want you to aggravate that further.

By the state of Patroclus' wounds touching anything must be agony, the situation only worsening the more time passed, but he was still a grown-up man and full-fledged warrior. Achilles rubbed gently on his knuckles.

By now, he had lost count of how many times he did this before, long before the war, since they were still kids in Phthia and hadn't shed yet their childhood wings

There any flame, from the minuscule one of candles to the fire in the braziers during the rituals sung to Patroclus their siren call till he inevitably fell into their trap.

Achilles had spent countless nights awake till dawn to console him, cradling Patroclus in his arm as he sobbed because it hurt so much. Achilles would tell him stories and jokes and sing songs, anything to distract from the pain.

Crying, Patroclus had told him how his mother went increasingly mad from the fire till one day she jumped into the pyre as if into the arms of a waiting lover.

Patroclus often stood behind in training because his hands couldn’t grip any weapons properly.

Soon holding Patroclus' hands to keep him away from the fire had become for Achilles a second nature, at least until Patroclus had learnt to better control his impulses.

Still, the habit persisted and even after years Achilles found himself to be truly at peace only when his fingers interlaced with Patroclus’. By the time King Peleus entrusted them both to Chiron, the two kids had become absolutely inseparable and threating burns had been a skill Achilles had since long acquired. The old mentor refined them, teaching how to limit the risk for infection and assure the skin grew back without scars.

He taught Patroclus how to control his breathing, had him meditate in the cave for hours, till the man could sit at a breath from the campfire without immediately feeling the urge to sink his whole body into the flame.

But instincts still lingered, the way Patroclus' whole body shuddered the moment Achilles rekindled the lamp, his pupils blowing with desire.

“Maybe I should have blown this out too. I've patched you enough times I could do it blind.” As to confirm his words, Patroclus' jaw had a light spasm.

"Well, you could try," he joked, but it was hollow.

“I never say no to a challenge,” Achilles retorted, leaning forward to extinguish the flame with a pinch of his fingers. Patroclus grabbed his wrist, face twisting into a grimace.

"No," he hissed. "It's not the moment."

His flesh was so hot, radiating a sick warm that seeped into Achilles skin.

"Fine,"Achilles yielded. "I suppose you are right."

Gathering what he needed was a quick affair, all medical equipment carefully kept in a wooden casket. He washed his hands first, mindful of Chiron’s teachings. rubbing them with oily soap and going between his fingers and under his nails till he was sure no trace of dirt remained. When he was satisfied with the result he dried them to the last drop.

Patroclus' eyes followed his every movement, except when they glanced at the lantern and the shadow it projected on the wall of the tent.

He gritted his teeth when Achilles brushed a fingertip on the blisters.

“They all seem quite superficial,” Achilles said, taking a long needle from the medical kit.

He kept it on the lantern flame for a good ten seconds, his stare locked onto Patroclus whose body was shivering in an effort to keep still. His pupils were blown wide, one arm already sneaking toward the lamp as if with a life of its own.

Rapidly, Achilles moved the flame out of reach, shifting to hide most of it with his body and his spread out wings.

Patroclus shook his head.

“Sorry. I don't know what's got into me today.”

“It's fine.”

It wasn’t a linear path. Some days the biggest bonfire in all its flaming glory did nothing to him and others the tiniest flame became an irresistible temptation.

"Tell me if it hurts."

Patroclus snorted again. It turned into a small sigh of relief as the hot needle pierced easily through the blisters outer layer, letting out the liquid inside. Achilles made sure to pop even the tiniest ones.

“You having fun?" Patroclus asked, with a bit more levity than before.

“I admit I quite like it." Despite what others might think, he liked to spend time in the medical tent as much as he enjoyed being on the battlefield.

“Then I should burn myself more often.”

”Don’t even joke about it. There. I think that’s all.”

Achilles dabbed at Patroclus’ palms gently with a piece of cloth to dry them as much as possible.

"How do you feel?"

"A bit better."

"Good. Hold still."

Quite a collection of vials lined up in the casket. Achilles took the fourth without a hint of hesitation. A strong herbal smell filled the air between them the moment he uncorked it.

“It’s going to burn,” he warned out of habit. Patroclus didn’t reply. He knew it without having Achilles telling him and it couldn’t be worse than the pain he already felt.

Only thing Achilles could do was to work as fast as possible. He double-checked to have properly rubbed the oil on every wound, careful not to use too much, and finally wrapped Patroclus’ hands in fresh bandages, assuring they wouldn’t hinder the movements.

"There, all fixed," he said, a big and satisfied grin spreading from cheek to cheek.

Patroclus didn’t reciprocate. He was biting his lips and his eyes were filled with tears. They got trapped in his dark eyelashes a moment before falling onto his lap.

"What's wrong with me?" It was a bitter mutter. "Why am I like this? I hate it. Just look at me."

“I like looking at you." Achilles met Patroclus' tiny sobs with a soft smile. "You are beautiful and you make for a very nice view. I could look at you for hours."

Patroclus huffed again, sniffling. "You don't count. You would tell me I am beautiful even if I were a monster. I mean, I couldn’t take after my father. It would have been too kind."

When the time to wrap himself into his cocoon had come, Patroclus had covered himself in layer of silk and prayed to the gods he would come out finally shedding his moth part.

But after a whole week, he had emerged only to discover a new pair of brown and grey moth wings had sprouted from his back, and this time they were permanent. He had cried in anger and frustration for hours, upset like Achilles had never seen him..

One day Achilles had found him angrily trying to cover the wings in a thick paste in an attempt to change their colour. Patroclus had looked at Achilles’ own, shining new, mostly King Peleus’ glossy black with two big stripes of Thetis’ blue with such longing, such envy that Achilles would sooner rip them out of his back than having Patroclus look at him like that ever again.

“You would be beautiful even as a monster. And aside from that, I can assure you I am not the only one to think that. Should I summon Automedon? He will tell you the same.”

“Automedon counts even less than you. It’s just… look at these things.”

He spread his wings for emphasis, causing another puff of air. In the lamp light they glowed even more, shimmering in gold. Achilles wished Patroclus could see them, could see himself the way he sees him.

“They are as beautiful as their owner,” he said firmly. “No, no but. They shine brighter than bronze, brighter than gold and silver. And they are also very nice to the touch, I may add.”

Shifting closer to Patroclus, he carefully brushed his knuckles on the fuzziness covering the wings, soft like silk under his fingers. He caressed them following the growth of the hairs, slowly, half-expecting Patroclus to move away and tell him to stop.

For Achilles’ joy, Patroclus didn’t. On the contrary, he relaxed under the touch, the tension gradually melting from his body. He made a sound quite akin to a purr when Achilles came to stroke a specific spot close to his shoulder blade.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he sighed. “A little higher.”

Smiling, Achilles complied. He traced every single line on Patroclus’ wings and the pattern they drew. “You’re beautiful,” he said, leaning in to press a light kiss on them, the thin bristles tickling his lips.

“Every part of you.”

He kissed Patroclus upper left wing.

“Both inside and outside.”

A kiss on the upper right wing.

“From head to toe.”

Another for the lower left one.

“And there isn’t anything of you I don’t love.”

Lower right one.

He perched his chin on Patroclus’ shoulder, tilting his head to see Patroclus’ face. A tiny, embarrassed smile was gracing his lips now. Despite the awkward angle, Achilles quickly kissed them as well.

“Thank you,” Patroclus murmured after a while. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” Achilles gave him another kiss for good measure. “Now, how about we go to bed? I know you’d rather stay awake till dawn, but you need some sleep.”

If given the chance, Patroclus would gladly invert the day with the night. It made him the perfect member to have during night raids, but also made him feel more and more sluggish on the battlefield if he spent too long without a chance to follow his more natural sleep-waking rhythm.

He still indulged Achilles when he offered him his hand. As he had often explained to Achilles, even when he couldn’t truly sleep, laying with his eyes closed and Achilles next to him helped in making him feel less tired.

“It sounds like a good idea,” he said, leaning back on his heels to use the momentum to get up.

They set for bed quickly, only shedding their clothes before dropping onto the furs, their bodies immediately searching one another. Snuggling against Patroclus’ chest, Achilles folded his wings so they wouldn't bother during his sleep. Patroclus did the same.

“Comfortable?” he asked, one side of his wings resting on top of them like a cover. Yawning, Achilles nodded.

“What about you? Your hands?”

“They hurt a bit but I can manage.”

Achilles brought them to his lips, making sure to kiss each finger. “Better?”
“You are a sap, you know that?”

“So you told me.” His mouth opened onto another yawn. He let his eyes close, tucking his head under Patroclus’ chin. “Wake me up if the pain increases. I mean it.”
Even though he knew Patroclus wouldn’t, too prideful for that to call Achilles like a child their mother after a nightmare. It didn’t matter. What mattered was to let him know he would always have a helping hand and a shelter in him.

“I love you,” he murmured, then, to let the message seep further into Patroclus’ brain.

“Love you too.”

comments

Supplica

2023-02-21T22:22:46Z

Fandom: Iliade, Mitologia Greca

Prompt: Un rifugio alla fine del mondo

È stato il pianto di Astianatte a svegliare Andromaca, anche se svegliare non sarebbe la parola giusta; piuttosto strappare dal limbo di esausto dormi-veglia che ormai per la donna ha sostituito il sonno. Nemmeno ricorda più l'ultima volta che ha dormito, che Ipno l'ha benedetta con un sonno lungo e ristoratore.

Stropicciandosi gli occhi impastati col dorso della mano, li socchiude nella penombra della camera da letto illuminata solo dai bracieri, guizzi di rosso nell'oscurità. L’aria è pesante.

Meccanicamente allunga le braccia verso il bambino, lo stringe a sé senza dire nulla. Sono mesi che Astianatte dorme nel letto con lei, contro il parere delle altre donne, dei parenti e delle ancelle. Non è sicuro, dicono, non fa bene al bambino

Ma Andromaca li ignora, tutti perché senza almeno il figlioletto ad accoccolarsi contro di lei fino ad addormentarsi ci sarebbe solo un letto troppo grande e una metà vuota e fredda.

Astianatte singhiozza, col faccino tutto raggrinzito, e per un momento è tutto ciò che Andromaca riesce a sentire. "Shh," fa, "shhh". Stringe il bambino al seno e lo culla, il gesto automatico. Va tutto bene, mormora, mente, la mamma è qui, va tutto bene. Le parole escono per abitudine, una litania vuota a cui ha smesso di credere da tempo, ma che continua a ripetere. Del resto ad Astianatte basta ascoltare il suono della sua voce per calmarsi.

Pian piano il pianto si affievolisce, e Andromaca comincia a sentirli: urla in lontananza e rumori metallici. Poi schiocchi. Tonfi. Lo scalpiccio di centinaia di passi, di cuoio e pelle nuda su pietra.

Di nuovo un'ombra rossa invade la stanza in lampi. Andromaca arriccia il naso, l'aria che entra dall'unica finestra ha un odore strano, acre, non la lieve brezza marina a cui è abituata. Nemmeno l’odore della battaglia, del sudore e del sangue. È un odore diverso eppure familiare. Buttando le coperte di lato fruga nella memoria.

Lentamente, quasi in sogno, prende in braccio Astianatte e va alla finestra, con le gambe già deboli, e un gelo nella pancia. L'odore cresce d’intensità, sempre più forte, sempre più familiare, finché Andromaca non riesce a afferrare la memoria sensoriale corrispondente. Ricorda i sacrifici al tempio, il muggito prolungato dei buoi condotti all’altare, la legna secca nei bracieri di bronzo e il fumo che saliva a volte fino al soffitto.

L’aria crepita, mentre fuori la notte si riempie di fiamme.

Ad Andromaca si sciolgono le ginocchia. Cade in avanti, un braccio teso d’istinto a fermare la caduta. Le dita stringono il davanzale finché le nocche non diventano bianche. Sotto i piedi il pavimento ondeggia.

Dopo dieci anni il nemico è riuscito a penetrare le difese della città: Troia sta bruciando, lingue di fuoco che lambiscono le case. Nelle strade la gente si riversa alla rinfusa come le formiche quando un monello d’estate, seduto sui calcagni, stuzzica la loro tana.

Astianatte ricomincia a piangere, nascondendo il viso nel collo della madre. La bocca secca, Andromaca si riscuote. Deve pensare a suo figlio: se il nemico lo trovasse non avrebbe pietà.

Delle ancelle stanno fuggendo nel cortile della grande casa, i corridoi del palazzo una confusione unica di gente che corre, urla, si urta, piange, cade, barcolla, si rialza; domestici e figli e figlie di Priamo, tutti con i capelli arruffati e gli occhi persi, ancora gonfi di sonno.

Andromaca li ignora, le facce che si mescolano nella penombra, e corre, Astianatte aggrappato al collo. Corre senza sapere dove andare, corridoio dopo corridoio, stanza dopo stanza. Sala dei banchetti. Tempietto. Salone. Girando a destra si imbocca nel cortile per andare nelle stanze di Deifobo. Appena più avanti a sinistra dormiva Cassandra. E due stanze più avanti gli appartamenti della regina Ecuba..

Andromaca corre.

Potrebbe rischiare di andare fuori, buttarsi a perdifiato giù dalla rocca, correre fino alle mura e da lì cercare di arrivare al mare; potrebbe riunirsi con altri Troiani e magari riuscire a prendere una nave, imbarcarsi per un’altra terra.

Ma fuori il fuoco divampa per le strade che già brulicano di Achei, e la spiaggia è lontana. Se si gettasse nel dedalo di vie, Andromaca non andrebbe lontano.

Meglio piuttosto rimanere nel palazzo, trovare una stanza e chiudersi dentro. Chiudersi dentro, barricare la porta e pregare gli dei. Un'idea fugace le balena in mente, mentre gira un angolo alla cieca, il clangore del bronzo che cresce d'intensità dietro di lei.

C'è un punto del palazzo dove una botola si apre su una scala di pietra ben costruita e immette in una stanza sotterranea. Vi si conserva il vino e il cibo d’estate quando altrimenti marcirebbe subito per il caldo eccessivo. Andromaca conosce bene la strada, l’ha percorsa più volte, accompagnando le domestiche o andando lei stessa a recuperare qualcosa dalla dispensa.

Se almeno un dio ha pietà di loro, i soldati si preoccuperanno di saccheggiare altre ricchezze prima di pensare a otri di vino e formaggi.

Passa altri corridoi, premuta a ridosso della parete, nelle orecchie solo il pianto di Astianatte.

Le fanno male le braccia e il fianco duole per la corsa.

Un nuovo cortile, il vecchio l’ulivo che re Priamo innaffia personalmente, destra, sinistra, sinistra, di nuovo destra, le urla si fanno più intense. Le pare di sentire la voce di Medesicasta, ma Andromaca non si ferma. Immagina spade di bronzo, mani che le strappano il bambino dal seno, la lama sulla carne tenera, il sangue, ed è sufficiente per non farla voltare.

Il peplo si impiglia tra le gambe nella corsa, la fa inciampare. Andromaca ruzzola in avanti, il dolore delle ginocchia contro la pietra le toglie il fiato.

Gli occhi si riempiono di lacrime. Ma i passi incalzano, e non c’è tempo per piangere. Ingoia il dolore, barcollando si rimette in piedi. Con foga controlla che Astianatte non si sia fatto nulla, spostando i ciuffi della frangetta scura dalla fronte. Il bambino continua a piangere, ma per fortuna pare incolume.

Sospirando per un breve sollievo, Andromaca strappa il proprio vestito: il lieve lino si lacera facilmente sotto le unghie.

Destra, sinistra, sinistra, i rumori giungono più ovattati ora. Ancora un corridoio.

Il legno scricchiola quando Andromaca afferra il pesante anello di ferro per aprire la botola, tirando con un braccio solo per non lasciar andare Astianatte. La spalla protesta, mentre il sudore cola dalla fronte e lungo la schiena. Dentro la botola c’è il buio. Anche nelle giornate più luminose bisogna scenderci con la lampada a olio per non rischiare di inciampare sulle scale e cadere o andare a sbattere contro qualche scaffale.

Andromaca si ricorda di una stanza simile, una volta, tanti anni prima, nella casa di Eezione, una cripta dove non entrava mai nemmeno il più debole filo di luce; di come i suoi fratelli si sfidassero a passarci sempre più tempo, finché trascorrervi la notte non era diventato un vero e proprio rito di passaggio.

Aggiustandosi Astianatte in braccio, tenta il primo passo nel vuoto. È breve, il piede nudo subito sostenuto dal primo scalino, poi un altro e un altro ancora. Passi brevi e rapidi, un braccio esteso a seguire la parete. Cerca di ricordare il numero dei gradini. Dodici. No, undici. Ne conta sempre uno in più.

Un refolo le fa drizzare i peli sulla nuca—ottavo gradino, nono—e maledice di non poter chiudere la botola dall’interno. Dopotutto, chi l’ha costruita non ha certo pensato che sarebbe mai potuto servire.

È troppo tardi per pensarci, ormai può solo pregare che nessuno pensi di cercare anche lì. Decimo gradino. Undicesimo. Una parte di lei ride di una simile fantasia. Non appena si accorgeranno che la vedova di Ettore e il figlioletto mancano all’appello ribalteranno il palazzo da cima a fondo. Ribalteranno la città.

Ma se resistesse fino all’alba, allora sarebbe più facile orientarsi e Andromaca saprebbe dove andare.

I rinnovati singhiozzi di Astianatte la strappano a simili fantasie.

“Shh! Silenzio. Shhh,” ripete, un braccio ancora steso davanti a sé finché il palmo non sbatte contro il muro opposto. Per sua fortuna la stanza è piccola.

Andromaca segue i contorni delle nicchie scavate nella parete, piccole, grandi giusto lo spazio per metterci le rondelle di formaggio. Il ginocchio urta qualcosa, una forma bombata: forse un’anfora dimenticata. Si ritrova a domandarsi brevemente se contenga olio o vino, come se potesse importare ancora qualcosa.

All’angolo della stanza si lascia cadere. I polpacci bruciano per la corsa, le viene da vomitare, e ogni battito del cuore risuona così forte che è solo questione di tempo prima che i soldati sentano. Se non li attirerà prima il pianto del bambino.

Gentilmente, nell’oscurità più totale, Andromaca lo fa saltellare appena su e giù, mormorando l’abituale ninna-nanna a fil di voce. "Shh. Dormi. Shh."

Il bambino trema nella celletta, la pietra umida e fredda contro la pelle nuda. Dentro di sé Andromaca si rimprovera, pensa che avrebbe dovuto portare con sé almeno uno scialle con cui ripararsi. Invece avvolge di più Astianatte tra le braccia, invitandolo di nuovo a dormire. Gli preme appena una mano sulla piccola bocca per soffocare il pianto senza smettere di cullarlo.

Qualcosa zampetta sul dorso della sua mano, lieve, ma sufficiente a farla sobbalzare. No, è solo un ragno. Cammina un poco sul polso di Andromaca prima di saltare sulla coscia e infine correre via.

L'attesa è snervante, il buio che dilata ogni battito in un'eternità, nulla da fare se non aspettare e pregare. A fior di labbra recita tutti gli inni e le odi che conosce, snocciolando un dio dopo l’altro. Prega la saggia Atena e la sempre-vergine Artemide e Apollo dall’arco d’argento. Invoca Latona che protegge le madri e Afrodite dal dolce sorriso. Chiama la spada di Ares ed Era, regina di tutti gli dei.

Da sopra la testa si sente rumore di passi. Poi voci, grida in una lingua e un accento che le fa gelare il sangue nelle vene. Disturbato nel suo sonno agitato, Astianatte si agita in grembo.

Altri passi. Una risata sguaiata e crudele. Andromaca si rannicchia ulteriormente nel suo angolo e se potesse si fonderebbe con la parete. Ma la parete rimane di solida pietra e lei è un topo in trappola.

Poi Astianatte ricomincia a piangere.

***

Il sole del primo pomeriggio filtra tra le colonne del tempietto, solletica le palpebre di Andromaca finché non le schiude da un sonno breve e superficiale. I rimasugli del sogno che non era un sogno si accumulano attorno al cuore, lo premono finché lacrime non spillano dagli occhi.

Per un attimo ha creduto di essere tornata a Troia, a quella notte il cui ricordo ancora la tormenta. Nelle narici sente l’odore del sangue. Nelle orecchie risuona il clangore delle spade.

Le braccia sono ancora piegate come a reggere il peso di un bambino, nel loro spazio un fantasma. Astianatte riposa a Troia, un corpicino martoriato sepolto in un minuscolo tumulo scavata di notte, di nascosto e in fretta e furia.

Ogni giorno Andromaca prega che almeno padre e figlio si siano ritrovati fra le ombre dell’Ade, che anche nel Regno dei Morti Astianatte abbia qualcuno che si prenda cura di lui.

Asciugandosi il viso con l’orlo della veste, la donna si aggrappa al basamento dell’altare per alzarsi e una risata amara sboccia nel petto al pensiero di doversi appellare all’aiuto della famiglia di chi le ha causato tanti dolori.

Ma re Peleo ha fama di essere un sovrano giusto, un uomo saggio e pio, e di certo proteggerà chi è sangue del suo sangue, quel bambino che Andromaca ha avuto da Neottolemo. Molosso. L’unico figlio che le rimane, amatissimo.

La donna l’ha mandato di nascosto a casa di amici con la complicità di un’ancella, per sottrarlo alla furia della principessa Ermione.

Le mani giunte fino a stritolare le dita e la fronte contro il freddo marmo, Andromaca prega. Che i messaggeri raggiungano presto Farsalo. Che re Peleo risponda all’appello. Che questa volta le cose vadano diversamente.

Andranno diversamente. Andromaca non ha intenzione di seppellire un altro figlio. Giura: dovesse morire, Molosso vivrà.

Gli dei glielo devono.

comments

CRISALIDE OSSEA

2023-02-21T12:06:22Z

Fandom: The Locked Tomb, Harrow la Nona
Prompt: Un rifugio alla fine del mondo

Ti sei rifugiata in un bel bozzolo d'ossa, cara Harrowhark, la Veneranda Figlia della Nona Casa, nuova Santa del Signore Imperituro, Lord John Gaius, Supremo Imperatore dell’Universo, Nostro Salvatore eccetera, eccetera.
Le tue adorate ossa, amate, fedeli, forse sono davvero tue, estratte da uno scheletro che comunque si rigenera, e ti ci sei imbozzolata dentro per bene come un bruco.
Magari pensi di riemergere farfalla, dopo un sonnellino di qualche giorno o mese, finalmente littore completo, non l'errore che sei, e nemmeno sai bene che cosa sei. Sai cosa non sei, però. Non sei un littore. Non sei quello che saresti dovuta essere fino dalla nascita. Non sei quello per cui hai lasciato la Nona Casa.
Non sei quello per cui altri sono morti per te.
Peccato che G-Ortus Nigead avesse occhi così anonimi, di quel marrone fangoso che quasi si può confondere col nero dei tuoi, così non ti basta guardarti allo specchio per avere conferma che una parte della sua anima continui davvero a vivere in te; che possa difendere il tuo corpo quando lotti nel Fiume, che in caso di necessità impugnerà la spada e muoverà i tuoi arti come una marionetta.
Non c'è molto spazio in questa tua costruzione, nessuna sorpresa, e non per mancanza di tue capacità con la materia di base. Con le ossa ora potresti anche costruirci un palazzo più grande del Drearburh. Non guardarmi così, sappiamo entramb* che è la verità.
Molto più banalmente, hai dovuto limitare le dimensioni per non farti notare—un ammasso di costole, vertebre e femori tutto raggrumato in un angolo della stazione dopo un po' salterebbe all'occhio.
Per fortuna il Mithraeum è grande, di sicuro impiegheranno un po' di tempo a trovarti, sebbene a bordo ci sia un littore che ha giurato di ucciderti—per quale reale motivazione ancora non è chiaro— e ti fiuta come un lupo con la sua preda. Ti ha tolto il sonno, quel poco che ti aveva lasciato il condividere l’alloggio con la necromante Principessa di Ida. Le lettere di una te passata dicono che è tua alleata, ma dubiti di poterti fidare persino di te stessa.
Soprattutto perché Ianthe Tridentarius, OttavaSanta al servizio del Re Imperituro, è una littrice completa. Con un braccio che non funziona come dovrebbe e in generale ancora alle prime armi, ma una littrice completa.

Sobbalzi. Ogni tanto qualcosa guizza nella coda dell'occhio e già il sistema simpatico si attiva. Il tuo cuore accelera i battiti, pompa sangue a irrorare arti e cervello per la lotta imminente. La pressione sale. I canali polmonari si dilatano. Le surrenali rilasciano adrenalina. Quei pochi muscoli che ti ritrovi si contraggono.
Già immagini una mano pronta a chiudersi attorno al collo, premere sulla carotide; un pugnale che si conficca nella pancia, attraversa la pelle, strato di muscoli—decisamente sottile nel tuo caso—e trapassa l’intestino da parte a parte.

Ma è solo la tua ombra distorta.
Ti costringi a respirare. A calmare i battiti di un cuore che va troppo veloce. Dentro. Fuori. Dentro. Fuori. Entra ossigeno. Esce anidride carbonica.
Dentro.
Fuori.
Al petto stringi una spada. Vorresti poter dire di non sapere, di non ricordare di averla portata con te, ma mentiresti. Non ti separi mai da quella spada, uno spadone a due mani, grande, troppo grande per te, che ti curvi sotto il tuo peso e nemmeno riusciresti a sollevarlo se non fosse per l’esoscheletro di ossa che ti sei costruita. Una voce in un remotissimo angolo della mente grida che non è quella la soluzione, ma il grido viene come da sott’acqua ed è presto dimenticato.
Non riesci a immaginarti di separarti da quella spada e allora ci dormi insieme, la abbracci come un letale orsacchiotto, quasi che in caso di attacco la potessi usare per difenderti.
Idea adorabile la tua quanto ridicola. Se anche riuscissi a sollevarla e, una volta sollevata, mollassi un fendente, scopriresti che una lama col filo smussato può fare un danno ben limitato. Succede a una lama quando non viene curata, lucidata, oliata e affilata con amore e regolarità.
Ma la si può sempre dare in testa al nemico di turno.
Dentro ridi all’assurdità di una tale immagine.
Accarezzi piano le ossa: sono ruvide sotto i tuoi polpastrelli. Ne senti la porosità, la consistenza, carezzandole con un gesto quasi d’amore. Ne inspiri l’odore, quel sentore come di polvere che ti riporta alla Nona, agli scheletri che lavorano negli orti o in biblioteca, alle funzioni lunghe ore nel tempio.
Prego per il sepolcro, che resti sigillato in eterno
Le hai modellate come un bozzolo di spine, nella sciocca idea che questo possa fermare Santi con diecimila anni di esperienza sulle spalle. Finora se riuscita a fuggire, ma non hai idea di quanto ancora potrai resistere.
Il fatto è, cara Harrowhark la No—pardon, la Prima—, il fatto è che non vuoi morire. Correzione. Non puoi morire. Non ti è permesso. Non con la colpa che porti sulle spalle. Non con quello che hanno fatto i tuoi genitori. Non dopo che…
Una fitta al cervello. Una stretta al petto. Si capisce. Dopotutto tu non sei più solo tu, e devi ancora digerire ciò che hai consumato. Lo senti, che fa l'altalena nello stomaco, va su e giù, giù e su, per un pasto che non avresti mai voluto mangiare. Sei stata costretta, non sei certo come Ianthe.
Lei il suo paladino se lo è pappato senza battere ciglio, il povero Babs. Mangiato e digerito anima e corpo.
A volte pensi che dovresti essere come la Tridentarius, che avresti meno problemi. A quest’ora saresti un littore completo se fossi come Ianthe.
Ma non lo sei.
A te Gid—Ortus è rimasto bloccato nella pancia, un peso incandescente lì a metà strada. Accarezzi l’idea di infilarti un dito in gola. Subito dopo la scarti, ha vomitato già abbastanza per dieci vite intere, e opti per raggomitolarti ulteriormente. Incroci le braccia sul ventre in un gesto infantile, come se bastasse quello a far passare il dolore. È il simulacro di un abbraccio. L’ultima volta che ne hai ricevuto uno, uno vero è stato… a dire il vero non ricordi. Presso la Nona Casa l’affetto si racchiude in gesti infinitamente più piccoli di un abbraccio, nello sfiorare di una veste, in uno sguardo in cui potevi cogliere un’ombra di orgoglio, in una mano che correggeva la tua postura.
Ortus Nigead mai si sarebbe azzardato ad abbracciare la Veneranda Figlia, a meno che non glielo avessi ordinato, e anche allora sarebbe stata una cosa goffa e veloce. Avrebbe avuto paura di romperti, scricciolo pelle e ossa—ossa! Divertente!—che sei.
Capita, nella follia del dormiveglia, che sia il Corpo a stringersi a te. Senti le sue braccia avvolgersi attorno alla tua vita, il mento appuntito che si posa sulla cima della tua testa, le gambe che si intrecciano alle tue. Non osi respirare allora, per una speranza che è anche terrore, e rimani immobile, in quella paralisi notturna finché l’illusione non si scioglie.
E anche lì è solo aria.
Così ti avvolgi nelle ossa, così pulite, spigolose, semplici. Ancora non capisci perché gli altri nutrano tutto questo interesse nella carne. No, a te bastano le ossa. Da una falangetta può costruire delle braccia, un torso, tutto un corpo, ti puoi accoccolare nella sua sicurezza, ed è sempre meglio di nulla.
Il mal di pancia comunque non si placa. Potrebbe anche essere colpa del cibo sulla stazione spaziale, troppo intenso, troppo speziato. Hai il vago sentore che dopo diecimila anni ci si assuefi anche ai sapori più forti, il che porta a un uso sempre maggiore di spezie.
Ma probabilmente anni passati a ingollare cibi senza alcuna traccia di condimento hanno reso le tue papille gustative così sensibili che ora ogni nuovo sapore rasenta un’insopportabile estasi dei sensi.
Dietro i denti e sul retro del palato hai ancora il gusto dei biscotti alla cannella che Dio ti ha offerto durante l’ultimo incontro e che tu hai dovuto educatamente accettare, sebbene il tutto sia avvenuto ormai tre giorni fa. Ti è rimasto in gola.
Anche il dentifricio è troppo forte, una pasta che riempie la bocca di freddo—menta—e diventa solo un nuovo sapore di cui vorresti al più presto liberarti.
È Dio ad insistere perché continui a lavarti i denti, poco importa che tu possa riparare ogni carie giusto pensandolo vagamente.
I sapori ti fanno sentire viva e, paradossalmente, è l’ultima cosa che vorresti. Ma viva sei e viva devi rimanere. Perché hai una missione. Perché ti sei spinta troppo oltre. Perché—
Ti chiedi chi sarà a trovarti per primo. A dover scegliere, spereresti in Mercymorn, così, a sensazione. Borbotta e ti tratta come una poppante, ma ci puoi convivere. Accetteresti anche Augustine. Sarebbe persino meglio. Se si trattasse di Ianthe l’umiliazione diventerebbe tale da farti accarezzare l’idea di buttarti nel vuoto cosmico—in mancanza di una Bestia Resurrezionale a portata di mano—e tanti saluti.
Non escludi nemmeno la possibilità che sia Dio a bussare al tuo rifugio. Ti chiedi se ne sarebbe più divertito o deluso.
Oppure finirà di nuovo con Gi-Ortus Primo che sbriciola ogni tua barriera. Sei decisamente propensa verso quest’ultima ipotesi. A conti fatti è davvero la più credibile.
Le mani scivolano a stringere l’elsa della spada—non è così che si tiene una spada a due mani, ma dettagli—e di nuovo ti illudi che possa servire a qualcosa in caso di attacco. Fortunatamente la follia è di breve durata. Ortus il Primo, Santo della Pazienza, Terzo Santo al servizio del Re Imperituro, farebbe in tempo a ucciderti cinque volte prima che tu riesca a menare anche solo un fendente. Utilizzare l’abbondanza di materia prima con cui sei tanto abile è un piano decisamente più fattibile. Inspiri. Espiri. Provi a figurarti il littore, immaginarti il corpo fino al più minuzioso dettaglio, e decidere dove sarebbe meglio colpire.
Gli occhi, di sicuro, sono sempre un buon punto d’inizio. Ti darebbero quei due, tre secondi di vantaggio per progettare la tua prossima mossa; dove con “prossima mossa” non escludi la possibilità di dartela a gambe levate fino a incrociare un littore più benevolo.
Oppure la carotide. No, sciocchezza, Ortus la riparerebbe prima ancora di accorgersi del danno. Se riuscissi a fargli respirare un poco di polvere d’osso allora sarebbe facile agire dall’interno. Anche lì però il danno dovrebbe essere abbastanza rapido e intenso da impedire una guarigione immediata.
Sempre che riuscissi col punto uno, si intende.
Non nutri molte speranze in proposito. Un bitorzolo d’osso ti scava nella schiena ma non ti sottrai, anzi quasi cerchi il dolore. Sei convinta di meritarlo, così ci premi contro ancora di più, in prossimità della tua vertebra lombare L4, finché un lieve pizzicore non scende giù fino al coccige. Devi aver sfiorato un nervo.
Spostandoti appena—ora lo spuntone preme sulla S2—tendi le orecchie e i sensi: ancora nessun rumore né cenno della lenta energia thalergica dei littori. Ti concedi il lusso di un sospiro, di rilassare i nervi per il battito delle tue ciglia. Magari pure due battiti. Anzi tre.
Quattro. Cinque. Sei.
Al settimo hai la granitica certezza che la prossima cosa che sentirai sarà il tuo riparo andare in frantumi in una miriade di schegge. Ma non succede. Non ci sono altri battiti di cuore, altri respiri nei polmoni, altri pensieri, sangue nelle vene, stomaci intenti a digerire cibi nel raggio di metri e metri, nessun alto se non te.
Otto. Nove. Dieci.
Ci siete solo tu e le tue ossa.
Non durerà a lungo. Sei troppo cinica per sperare altrimenti, ma è già più di quanto osassi chiedere.
Undici. Dodici. Tredici.
Sei sola in questo angolo del Mithraeum, sola nella vastità incommensurabile dello spazio, solo con stelle deboli e pianeti morenti. Non pensi di essere mai stata più lontana dalla Nona come lo sei ora. Sei sola con le tue illusioni, la tua pazzia, i tuoi ricordi, i tuoi rimpianti e desideri, la tua nostalgia.
Quattordici. Quindici. Sedici.
Inspiri. Espiri. Un altro battito di ciglia. Stringi il bozzolo appena di più attorno a te.
E per un istante sei in pace.

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In life and in death

2022-04-05T20:49:55Z

Fandom: Hades, Iliade
Prompt: Matrimonio

It all started out by chance, actually.

It's a day - or night - as any other in the placid routine of Elysium when Zagreus rushes in Patroclus' glade.

"Hey, sir," he grins. He's wielding Aegis today and he's a little scorched on his arms, but the thing doesn't seem to be bothering him that much. In seconds, he invests Patroclus with a motormouth of what has recently happened down below in the house of Hades.

"By the way your husband apologises for not having been able to visit you in a while but we just got this new intake of souls lately. It's been crazy and - why are you laughing?"

Bringing a hand to cover his mouth, Patroclus forces his laughter to subside to a more polite chuckle.

"Forgive me stranger, but I'm afraid you are mistaken"

"Mistaken, sir?"

Finally, Zagreus stops his walking and gesticulating to stare at him with the confusion of a puppy. It is truly adorable. Now he sees why Achilles grew fond of him

"I suppose when you say husband you are referring to Achilles "

"Well, of course sir," Zagreus says.

"You do know we never married. It was not costum when we were alive. Between men - well, people of the same gender."

Achilles used to joke about it, when he drunk one goblet too much of wine, about having themselves their little ceremony, carrying on the proper sacrifices, but in the end they never went through with it.

"And if we were to survive, he would have married a princess. Just as-"

He trails off. He had laid with women, more than once, and even found himself being enamoured with them. But him with a wife wasn't something he could have ever pictured.

The prince's dark eyebrows are knitted together. Everything concerning the mortal realm is always a mystery for him.

"I think I understand sir. Did you ever miss it?"

Tearing blades of grass on the banks of Lethe, Patroclus searches for an answer. "Not really."

Marriage or not, he knew he was Achilles' and that Achilles was his. They didn't need some proof of legitimation.

Sometimes, still, it would have been nice.

"But if you could have, you would have married him, right?"

The answer is easy

"If given the chance? Of course stranger, one hundred times."

There's a strange glint in Zagreus' eyes when some moments later he bids his goodbye to continue with his quest.

***

Patroclus knows there are visitors coming one second before the door leading to his angle of Elysium slides open. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth in seeing the shade that is now walking briskly to him, his long tunic swaying with the movement.

"Hello heart," he says, tilting his head back to accept Achilles' kiss. "How are things?"

Huffing, Achilles flops on the grass. "Tiring."

"Yes. The stranger told me something."

Achilles fidgets with his dress and bracers, a nervous telling of which few people know about, so little he has been nervous in his mortal life.

Now, however, he is.

"You know I love you, right?" He says, insecure as he had been months ago - it must have been months - when he appeared before Patroclus' eyes for the first time in a lifetime. He stood there, unable to move, he whom they called swift footed, till Patraclus got up and bridged the gap.

"I think you proved that time and time again"

It doesn’t seem to soothe Achilles’ nervousness however. "And that if I could, I would have chosen you?" he presses on.

"Yes, you said that too. Love, what is it?”

Because it’s clear Achilles has something in mind and he’s only dancing around the subject, him who in life charged head on into the battle without an ounce of fear.

Patroclus watches his well defined shoulders raise and lower as he takes a breath.

"Do you - would you be my spouse?"

For a moment Patroclus isn’t even sure if he has understood well. But when Achilles repeats, it becomes clear his ear didn’t fail him. He considers the fish swimming in the Lethe.

"Am I not already?"

Even in life, he had been Achilles’ spouse in everything but name. Surely more than princess Deidamia. In any case, they were dead. Their time was gone. He doesn’t say that however.

"Is that so important to you?"

Achilles’ eyes are undecipherable. “Not really …” But it’s clear he’s lying and he can try to lie with others but not with Patroclus. “Fine, yes. Look, it’s the lad.”

“What about him?”

“I believe he wants to organise our wedding.”

If Patroclus was still alive, he probably would have choked on his spit.

"He wants to do what?"

The stranger never failed to surprise him. But if it hadn't been for Zagreus, now he would still be alone with his apathy and depression, bitter with nothing but the belief the person he loved the most had abandoned him.

So, in other words, the prince has done enough to obtain his trust.

"What do you think?"

"And you?"

A charp jumps out the water, shining silver for a moment. A wedding. In the Underworld. Being dead and yet to marry. The more Patroclus thinks about it, the less absurd it sounds.

"If any, it'll be a feast

***

"Lord Hades hasn't been particularly enthusiastic," Achilles helpfully informs Patroclus at the first occasion, "But Lady Persephone and Zagreus convinced him."

So it was truly happening.

"The Lad wanted to know everything about our banquets," Achilles says, getting comfortable with his head in Patroclus' lap. "Just as I left he was trying to explain to the cook the recipe for baking bread."

"I don't remember you have wheat in Tartarus"

"We don't. And I'm not even sure Zagreus knows what an ear of corn looks like.”

The lands just outside the temple of Styx are immersed in an eternal winter and, as far as Patroclus knows, Zagreus hasn’t been yet able to visit Persephone’s garden again.

"Are we really doing this?"

It is meant as a joke but Achilles frowns. "Does it bother you, love? I know Zagreus can get a little overwhelming. I thought it would be nice but I can tell him to stop."

"Peace, Achilles," Patroclus hastens to soothe his worries. "I find it simply strange, but in a good way. Can't stop thinking about how it would be in life.”

“Well, you would have had to ask my father for my hand.”

His voice lowers as he says this. As far as Patroclus knows Achilles is sometimes searching for king Peleus but hasn’t been able to locate him yet.

The Elysium is vast, chambers upon chambers each hosting a shade whose merits in life made them worthy. Peleus was a hero as well, so it’s legit to think he must be there as well. But Elysium is also a labyrinth and few know its structure and those who know have other more pressing matters.

“Have you tried asking the stranger?”
“Not yet. I should.”

***

When they were alive tradition wanted the wedding feast to be held in the bride's house. There isn’t a really a bride but for simplicity sake they decided Achilles would take on the role

“Because now he can visit you in Elysium” has been Zagreus’ explanation.

As Achilles doesn’t really have a house and Patroclus doesn’t feel his glade would adapt - in the end they decide the house of Hades is still better suited for the banquet.

Upon entering the House for the first time in ages, Patroclus is rendered speechless for a good five seconds.

It is nothing like he remembered, the once gloomy and Spartan ambient turned into something cosy and warm, almost a little corner of Elysium this side of Tartarus

Zagreus then overdid himself with the decorations. They are mostly bones, but carved so delicately it looks like lace. There are Pomegranates leaves and Pomegranates polished to become shiny as rubies

Lady Persephone brought from the surface some flowers, the kinds that didn't need much care and thrived also in winter and in the darkness of the Underworld.

A gorgon head swirls on the ceiling carrying a dust ruffle to polish already shining bones-chandelier from even the smallest speck of dust. Zagreus lifts an arm above his head and waves.

“His Dusa.”

The head yelps and lets her ruffle fall. Patroclus catches it easily.

"I'm so sorry! It was- you started me and I should go" the head - Dusa - says, bolting away.

"Wait" - Zagreus chases her. "How are things going?"

"Oh, it's going well. But I've still so much to do and Cerberus left hairs everywhere. "

Just as she is saying this, the three-headed guardian of the Underworld woofs and shakes. The result is a considerable amount of hairs and slobber being spread around.

“Cerberus!” Dusa whines. “I’ve just cleaned that spot.”
“I’m sorry Dusa.”

Patroclus feels sorry as well. It’s clear Zagreus wants to go big but it’s already too much. He wasn’t a hero. He doesn’t need a giant ceremony and he’s sure Achilles must have told Zagreus the same.

Zagreus simply waves away his concerns. “Nonsense, sir. You’re my friend and of course you deserve this. Come.”
He guides Patroclus to another area of the palace where Hypnos, in between registering the arriving shadows, checks another, smaller list. “The guests, sir,” Zagreus anticipates Patroclus’ question. Achilles’ mentioned some shades he’d like to invite, if we manage to locate them.”

“Has he mentioned his father?” Patroclus inquires.

“Yes. Working on that. “

At his desk, Lord Hades is the only one not amused with the situation, grumbling about all the time he is going to lose for this theatre. He didn’t do all this mess when he married. An exchange of promises, a small sacrifice so that the union would be blessed and they were done and ready to return to work.

"You can continue to work if you like Father," Patroclus hears Zagreus say. "But you would have more fun.

"Fun is for the fools," The Lord of the Underworld scoffs, head buried in his documents.

But for his joy it won’t be Hades still to preside and bless the union, but the Queen.

As the goddess of spring and rebirth and one of the few divinities that married love it is only fitting that the honour befalls on Lady Persephone.

As she soon will have to leave the House for the obligatory time on Olympus, it’s the perfect moment.

*** .

The day arrives strangely soon, given the absence of real time in the Underworld. As a shade Patroclus doesn’t have a real need to sleep or eat and so the days - and night- are quick to mingle together.

Zagreus' occasional visits are probably the best way he found to distinguish yesterday from tomorrow.

Patroclus bathes in the Elysium fountain chambers, where the marvels of chtonic plumbing have diverted some of the Lethe into a vast pool encased into the rock.

While he doesn’t really need to bathe, certainly not to wash away the dirt, there is something soothing in going through old gestures. It reminds him of when he and Achilles would bathe together, first on Pelion, then on the shores of Troy.

As he soaks into the water, he finds himself being more and more stupidly nervous, as if he was for real a young groom waiting to start a new life with his bride.

A day that could be yesterday Thanatos on Zagreus' behalf materialised in Patroclus' glade to bring him a new chiton. Shadows don't need to change clothes but they can. It's soft material and cream colored, bordered with purple.

He puts it on and then the Myrmidon bracers without which he feels naked.

He is adjusting them and the laurel crown when a high pitched voice announces a newcomer

“Lord Hypnos' ' he greets, with the respect ought to all the Chtonics. Despite his absent- minded demeanour Sleep Incarnate is just as dangerous as Death.

He is donning a new cape today, looking even fluffier than his habitual one.

"Hello sir," Hypnos greets back. "Are you ready?"

Patroclus nods.

***

First stop is the temple of Styx where Zagreus and Thanatos must have done a deep work of pest control as there is no trace of the usual vermin and satyrs that normally haunt the place.

Achilles is already there. He’s dressed simply, an embroidered tunic not much different from Patroclus’ own, but as he did in life, he’s radiating.

The circlet in his golden hair is the same he always wears but today it seems to shine more.

“You look beautiful,” Patroclus has to inform him. Achilles always looks beautiful in his eyes, a beauty underneath that would have stayed even if Fates allowed him to grow old. But now, as they move to the altar, it’s different, deeper. It must be in the way Achilles is looking at him, that shy and yet determined gaze and all the love of the world.

Zagreus has provided them with nectar and they offer them to the gods. Then, Achilles cuts a lock of his hair as well.

***

In Hades' palace the feast has already begun, numerous shades crowding around the tables that fill the common area. Another, bigger, has been placed before Hades' desk and begrudgingly there sits Hades. From time to time Lady Persephone caresses his massive forearm, soothingly.

In a corner, Orpheus is playing a less mournful tune than usual.

“Patroclus, Achilles!” Zagreus welcomes them, and in his toe are a couple of unknown shades but that Achilles must know. “How was it at the temple? I hope you didn’t cross with any satyr. I tried to kill them all but they keep coming back and -”

“It was fine, stranger,” Patroclus stops him while a nearby shade requires Achilles’ attention.

At the entrance Hypnos is checking invitations. One shade captures Patroclus’ attention and the reason is soon clear. He knows this shade and so does Achilles, who beams in recognizing him.

“Anthilocus!”

It’s not the only shade from their past life. Still, however, no trace of King Peleus. But Zagreus told them he couldn’t promise anything. For now, Achilles doesn’t seem to mind - or he is very good at concealing.

Patroclus is about to reach him and begin the feat when a tall woman blocks his path.

“Where do you think you are going?” Blue-skinned, imponent, golden studs and a whip secured at her hip, she must be no one but the Fury Megaera.

"The groom dines away from the bride,” she reminds him.

Patroclus wants to say it's ridiculous. That it was meant to separate the men from the women.

But Lady Megaera wraps an arm around his shoulder and another shade presses a goblet in his hand and he thinks he can bear to be separated from Achilles a little longer.

It's a rich banquet. There's plenty of ambrosia and nectar but also wine, roasted fish thanks to Zagreus rod and dry fruit, courtesy to Persephone

"Hypnos suggested we skewer and grill the vermin of the temple,” Zagreus informs Patroclus at a certain point. “But I vetoed it.”

“Good idea.”

***

Many bottles of nectar and ambrosia lay around empty by the time Lady Persephone calls everyone attention. She thanks all the presents for their company and Zagreus for having organised such a nice feast.

"But it is time for the spouse to leave his old home for a new home.”

Cheering the shadows agree. Patroclus swallows a laugh. It's all pretence - Achilles will never be truly free from Hades' employment and neither he wants to be - but traditions are like an anchor in a storm. They give a sense of security and purpose. They give a sense of security .

The portal for Elysium has been opened.

Traditions want the bride to move to the groom’s house and family. Patroclus’ parents have long been forgotten and if anything it was Achilles to welcome him into his family.

And the portal will just lead to the usual glade and the small house he built there, a house Achilles already knows well. Somebody has wrapped a cloak over his shoulders and the hood is now shadowing his face.

Patroclus offers him his hand. The portal seems to tickle as they cross it. Some shades are already there and they welcome the newly wed with a shower of dried fruits. Lifting an arm above his head as a shield, Achilles breaks into a grin.

Patroclus would very much want to lift him in his arms and kiss him there and then.

He can wait a little more. Patience is his specialty. The ceremony is almost done, just one last blessing from Persephone, some congratulations and then they will be finally left alone.

Patroclus has a feeling there won’t be much sleeping tonight.

***

Patroclus stirs in the bluish light of Elysium. Sprawled next to him Achilles blinks and smiles. "Good morning"

He doesn’t even know if it's really morning but that's the concept that matters. He moves to press his nose against Achilles’, an old gesture of affection.

"Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?"

"The best, dear husband.”

Rolling in bed, Patrolcus can’t help but grin. “I like how that sounds.”
It’s not the first time Achilles has called him his husband, always only half-joking, but now it has a different taste as he repeats the word. Husband. They’re married. They’re still dead and they’re married.

It’s enough to make him feel dizzy. But then Achilles is smiling at him and everything is replaced by a solid sense of fondness.

“You know,” he murmurs, as they laze in bed, carding fingers through Achilles’ hair. “I think Prince Zagreus had a great idea.”

“I couldn’t agree more. “

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Aftermath

2022-04-05T20:30:15Z

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Unità aristotelica

Returning from the battlefield always left a strange taste in Patroclus' mouth, when it came the moment to check on the soldiers, count the dead and wounded, and prepare one-self for the night. When he could finally breathe without a cuirass pressing onto his ribcage and the metal of the helmet hot against the skin. He examined his arms and legs quickly, squinting at the traces of blood on tanned skin, less than in other days, nothing a quick sponge-bath couldn't solve.

Achilles, on the other hand.

"Gods, you're a disaster."

It must have been one of those days in which he threw himself head-on into the fight and right in the core of it, and his hair sat on his head in a dry tangle more akin to a bloody thorn-bush.

Achilles' hair had always been on the longer side, even when he was a boy prior to the war, longer than the other kids at Peleus' palace. Maybe, Patroclus sometimes found himself thinking, it was one of the consequences of having divine blood.

Then came Peleus' oath upon their leaving, a useless oath like Achilles would sometimes say, and yet he kept respecting it. Once Patroclus had asked him why, why if he knew he wouldn't return home to honour the offer. Achilles hadn't really answered.
Maybe it was just another act of rebellion against the Fates.

And so his hair had kept growing, as weeks became months and months turned into years, past his shoulder blades and his waist, cut only when it started to break and a trim became mandatory. When any longer it would become unmanageable and a threat on the battlefield

But even so there wasn't an evening where Achilles' hair didn't carry some traces of a whole day of soldiering. On good days, it was mostly dust and knots, tangles when the wind blew strong and salty from the sea. Under the helm sweat matted it at the scalp.

On bad days, like this one, it was blood and smelly bits of viscera trapped between fair locks.

It promised to be a long, long evening.

"Warm the water. A lot," Patroclus ordered a couple of girl-slaves as Achilles finished removing his armour, making it clear he would need a bath as well.

Warm spirals of vapour rose from the tripod when the slave-girls placed it just outside the tent and bowed deeply, asking if they'd need anything else.

"Prepare another," Patroclus instructed.

With this, he gingerly dipped his fingers into the water and when he deemed it had cooled down enough, he filled a jug. A work for the women, someone would say, but he liked it, the soothing and sweet intimacy that came with the ritual. Achilles became less jittery in his hands.

"Head forward."

As Achilles obeyed, long hair swinging before his face, he started pouring onto his scalp, letting the stream wash the first layer of dirt.

"Is the water alright?"

Achilles hummed a vague but affirmative response. Patroclus repeated the process, till the hair was drenched to the tips and the water splashed to the ground mostly clean.

He twisted it onto itself to squeeze out most of the wetness.

They washed each-other after that, with the fresh water the slaves had fetched before Achilles dismissed them, curt and brisk. Part of the household for some years now, they had lit up two bracers inside the tent and prepared two fresh tunics for their masters. Patroclus tied his haphazardly while retrieving an ivory comb and a vial of odorous oil, as Achilles sat on the pallet still in the nude, half-wet hair cascading over his muscled back.

With a clean linen cloth Patroclus rubbed his head till it was just damp. He poured some oil onto his hands, scrubbing them together, before working it from Achilles’ scalp and down through his lengths, fingers carding through the locks to begin disentangling most of it. In days like this he could never comb past Achilles’ shoulders without getting stuck.

“Still don’t understand why you don’t simply tie it,” he said, squinting to examine a knot and the way around it.

“That’s for women,” Achilles replied, as he tilted his head back to assecondate the pull that came from Patroclus’ finger-brushing.

“If you say so.”

He knew there was another, far more real, reason, how in truth Achilles did refuse to tie his hair so as to have Patroclus wash it again for him. For being the most feared warriors among the Greeks, he did like being pampered.

“Some men wear their hair in tresses,” Patroclus pointed out, picking up the comb, sturdy and with large teeth. He dipped them into the oil.

"I don't like tresses," Achilles insisted, stubborn, "They pull and itch."

"If you say so."

In the end, there was no point in arguing. Arranging himself behind Achilles, Patroclus separated the first section of hair from the rest. He combed it the way Achilles liked, the way he learnt years ago when he had just become his squire, a kid on the cusp of boyhood who had lost his home and was just starting to find a new one.
“Do you want to go for a walk, later?” He asked to fill the silence, working the comb from the bottom and moving up only when he was certain all the knots in that section had been tamed.

“Maybe, after dinner. If we aren’t too tired.”

Patroclus nodded, moving away the disentangled portion to start with another. On these shores summer arrived early and a stroll on the beach, next to the ships, even at night, would be pleasant. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever return to the lands beyond the sea. To home. Then, he would catch himself and shake his head. If Achilles was to die in Ilium shadow, he wouldn’t live much longer.

“Maybe we’ll see some dolphins,” Achilles murmured, almost as if he had read Patroclus’ mind and wanted to distract him.

“Maybe.”

Normally, dolphins swam in the open, to be seen only when they sailed to raid this or that nearby island. Sometimes, however, they did push to the shores, their shiny and slick grey heads bobbing through the waves on the water’s surface. They rolled on their bellies and greeted the men with their high-pitched verses and funny dolphin smile.

“But no swimming,” he added. By now, he knew for Achilles a walk on the beach almost always meant a night dip. He had always had an affinity for water, another thing he had taken from his mother’s side- “You’re not going to undo my work.”
Even turned, he could easily see Achilles scrunching his lips into a pout. “It will get ruined anyway tomorrow”

“And that's a problem for tomorrow," Patroclus didn't miss a bit. Years of living with Achilles taught him the importance of harsh "no" when it came to his companion.

Of course, he still wondered why he bothered so much when tomorrow morning Achilles would put on his helmet again, go to battle and return once more covered in blood and with a bird nest on his head.

Because otherwise it would become worse, he told himself after a brief moment.

Because those moments of normalcy were the best things they had.

Combing through the whole of Achilles’ hair took a considerable amount of time, so much the first stars were already appearing outside, through the flaps of the tent.

They talked about various other things during the process, simple, immediate things, like what animal to slaughter for dinner, if they decide to stay on their own with the other Myrmidons instead of joining the rest of the generals.

It was easy to imagine Achilles' answer. In years of war, living elbow to elbow, he had to smooth out some of his distaste toward some of the other generals, but never completely. He'd still jump at every chance to dine with the other Myrmidons and no one else. Anthilochus was a rare exception.

“And Agamemnon always uses so much spice,” he lamented, rolling his eyes. Separating his hair into three sections, Patroclus chuckled. “That’s easily solvable.”

The thing was Achilles had always been the fuzzy eater, picky about the way his food was cooked and that hadn’t really changed with adulthood. Patroclus had seen old Phoenix still cut Achilles’ meat from time to time in the same manner of when Achilles was little.

“But we should really join the others for today.” Patroclus kept his voice level and coaxing, while he began to fashion the hair into a loose braid. “For appearances.”

Achilles made a verse of pure distaste.
“It’ll be brief. Hold this.”

Passing the braid to Achilles so that it wouldn’t unravel, Patroclus searched for a lace with which to secure it. “As soon as dinner is done, we invent an excuse to leave. How does it sound?”

“Better.”

With that Achilles tossed the braid over his shoulder and got up to retrieve a clean tunic.

“And we leave as soon as Nestor begins one of those anecdotes of his. I gwet he was a great warrior in his youth but I’ve had enough.”

Oily fingers tangled in his curls, Patroclus sighed, the resigned but amused sigh so typical of his daily life with Achilles.

“Deal.”

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Forced rest

2022-04-04T18:49:13Z

Fandom: Iliade
Prompt: Unità aristotelica

That morning Hector wakes up greeted by the worst headache he has had in weeks. Which says something already. It feels as if some Achaian managed to slip past the guards at the gates, past the security of the palace and stuck a spear right between his eyes.

But then he would be dead and as far as he can remember shades don’t feel pain. Gingerly he brings one hand to his forehead. It burns but as suspected he feels no point of spear or sword sticking out.

Blinking in the sunlight streaming from the window of his bedroom - the bedroom he uses less and less recently - his eyes hurt from too much brightness. He groans and buries himself under the bed-sheets as the idea of spending a whole new day on the battlefield makes his stomach turn. But go on the battlefield he must and so the first step is trying to sit up.

The world swirls as soon as he tries, forcing him to close his eyes and rest his forehead against his knees to keep the rush of nausea at bay.

It’s so hot and his skin feels sticky and gross. Maybe a bath could help. Yes, a cold bath sounds like a good idea.

Finally getting up, tossing on a clean tunic and walking to the door to cross with a maid is torture, but he manages.

“Sir,” the maid bows, “are you sure to be alright? Forgive me but you look terrible.”
He is clearly not fine. He feels he is not fine.

“I’m fine,” he croaks out instead with a voice too feeble and lips so dry they hurt when he speaks. “It’s been a hot night. Can you prepare a bath, a very cold one, in my rooms.”

“Of course. But … shall I warn someone. Your wife, maybe.”
“No!”

The word exits his mouth a little too fast. Andromache is definitely the last person who has to know about his current indisposition.

Never has he been so happy he and Andromache sleep in separate bedrooms for the time being or this time she would really try to tie him to the bed, like she has already to do.

The bath is as cold as one can expect with summer temperatures and does the bare minimum to cool him down a bit. The headache however doesn’t show sign of subsiding and he does feel like a rag. It doesn’t help that he hasn't eaten yet.

Some prevident maid has brought a bowl of fruit as well and placed it near enough the bathtub he can reach it. He has always mocked Paris for that habit of eating when bathing but now he’s pretty sure there’s no way he can stand up again if he doesn’t put something in his stomach right now.

Unfortunately his stomach is of different advice, twisting in itself at the mere thought of food.

Hector yet bites into the fruit and swallows, pursing his lips against the gagging.

Dressing after the bath is a whole type of struggle, both his muscles and head aching, but he does.

***

Deiphobus comes up to meet him from the end of the corridor. Through the haze that has fallen over Hector’s eyes he looks at him with a pitiful expression.

“You look like Tartarus ate and vomited you up again,” he kindly informs him.

"Very informative."

But Hector's words have absolutely no bite. He leans against the nearest wall, weak in the legs already. He would surely fall if it wasn’t for Deiphobus' quick intervention.

"Woah careful there," he says, passing one arm under his armpit to better steer him. For once, Hector doesn’t protest, not at least until they're going the wrong direction.

"The armoury is the other way."

"The armoury? Oh, no, you're going back to bed this instant."

Hector's attempts at pulling away prove useless. Normally he has no problem besting Deiphobus in wrestling but now his body is like a too ripe fruit.

Before he can do anything they are back before Hector’s chambers and Hector’s stomach twists in seeing his mother on the threshold, looking a strange mixture of worried and displeased.

With one gaze she has assessed the situation. “You’re sick, my child,” she says, matter of factly. If she were a bit younger and him a bit smaller, she would forcefully carry him to bed as when he was little. “You shouldn’t be around.”
“Mother, “ He begins, only to be promptly shushed the way he hasn’t been shushed in years.

“No, son. Nothing good will come to Ilion if you fall in battle today because prey of Fever. Now, go lay down. I have already summoned the physician, he should be here in moments.”

Still in his brother’s grasp, Hector has no choice but to obey. By now the camp must have woken up and start the usual routine. Surel, they’ll notice his absence soon, if they haven’t already. He should have stayed at the camp.

When he arrives, the physician’s visit is nothing more than a quick glance and as fast touches on his sticky forehead and at the sides of his throat.

Fever is the expected verdict, probably due to excessive heat and consequent exhaustion. Absolute rest is the final cure prescribed

They force him to sit down, soon to drink from a concoction of herbs and wine that makes him feel even more confused than what he already is.

“I better go,” Deiphobus says. Hector nods, weakly. He wants to say he’ll join them in a moment, but his tongue refuses to collaborate and the headache that is coming back isn’t helping. He closes his eyes, cradling his face in his palm.

He could rest for a moment. Vaguely he registers someone helping on his feet and toward his bed.

***

Hector chambers are showered in the light of late morning when he manages to unglue his eyes and finally gets free from Hypnos’ greedy clutch. He stretches, bringing his arms above his head, feeling already better. The sleep has done wonders for his headache, reducing to a dull pain at the base of his head.

It explodes back full force as soon as Hector moves, a hammer hitting his cranium over and over.

He feels like he's about to vomit. But he had worse and as he is still not bound to bed, he has no excuse to be missing from war.

About it, it's strange Apollo still hasn't appeared demanding an explanation for his absence, the god so often eager to push him where the battle is more heated.

Hector could tell him about his predicament and the god would quickly heal him, instilling new vigour in his limbs. But today other duties must be holding Apollo occupied.

And just Apollo has his duties, so does Hector. He doesn’t need the god's help to respect them.

He has barely taken a few steps that the little content of his stomach rushes back up leaving him barely the time to grab a nearby vase.

Cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, he breaths to steady himself.

At least the nausea has subsided a little. Summoning all his strength, he goes to the door.

Hector has to lean against the wall for support, closing his eyes, breathing heavily to steady himself. It feels like the last time he was on a ship for a brief journey to visit a nearby allied kingdom and they got caught in an unexpected storm. The waves had swayed the ship left and right and with it the content of mostly everyone's stomach.

The floor now moves under his feet the same way, so much he presses a hand on his mouth in a weak form of prevention.

The corridor feels endless. Taking another step he has no idea how he'll reach the armoury, put on his armour and then go to the Trojan camp, but somehow he must.

And quickly or night will fall before he has a chance to fight. So many things must have happened already on the battlefield, but if he hastens, he must still be on time.

He takes just another step before, like a wave on the shore, darkness sweeps over him.

***

When Hector opens his eyes again, he is in bed once more, laying among soft, freshly cleaned sheets. They are almost too white.

Perched on a chair, Enea is bent on a slate and muttering what sounds like numbers

"Oh, welcome back," he greets. "Heard a maid found you on the floor. Uh, nasty thing.”

Hector looks at the ceiling.

"Shouldn't you be on the field?"

It's already bad enough he is being forcefully kept from battle. They can't afford missing another of their best warriors from battle.

"They thought you would at least listen to me. Don't worry, I left Deiphobus and Sarpedon in charge."

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Hector tells himself it could be worse. Deiphobus is quite smart and Sarpedon is famed for his courage, though often it results in pure recklessness, so much to make him look cautious by comparison.

“How is it going?”

“Not that bad.”

Aeneas says but with a hint too much hesitation and Hector is already thinking about the worst scenarios. He scrambles to get on his feet. What he obtains is only a new wave of dizziness, his vision blackening for a moment.

"I have to go. And you have to help me"

If only his body decided to collaborate.

“You have to stay there. Look at you, you can barely stand. I’m not surprised after yesterday.”

“Aeneas!”

Propping on his elbows, Hector sits up. “I feel better already. I - just need to take a look at the camp. ”

"I'm sorry," Aeneas sets aside his paperwork. "I can't."

Hector studies him. In any other situation he could easily pin the man to the ground, if he didn't fear Aeneas' divine mother repercussions. Today he doubts it.

His internal debate, still, is short lived. Pink in the face a young soldier wearing a light tunic enters the room in a rush. He goes straight to Aeneas, mutters something quickly. Aeneas’ eyes widen for a second. Hector doesn’t miss it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing to worry about. But I have to return to the field. You …”

Aeneas hesitates. On one hand if they sent a messenger to retrieve him, he can’t ignore the call. On the other hand, he knows too well Hector will try to get away the moment he turns his back.

There are guards at the door and the chamber is built so that it doesn't face directly to the ground. Hector makes a great effort to not glance at the window. And luckily for him Enea doesn't think him that crazy

For a long, terrible moment he fears his cousin will call a maid to check on him, but he just leaves with a "You better be there when he come back"

It makes Hector feel only a bit guilty.

He goes to the window as soon as the door clicks shut. It is quite the jump , one that risk ending very badly without a perfect landing, and one he surely cannot pull today.

Shortening the fall, maybe … an idea blossoming in the haze of his mind, he eyes the bed sheets.

Hector's hands move disastrously slow, a bit behind his brain, as he twists the bed sheets together to form a rope that could sustain his weight enough to lowers to the ground.

Once he’s finally finished, he drags a bracer to the window to have something to tie the rope. Tossing it over the sill, he put all of him in balancing on his heels to check if it sustains his weight.

The makeshift rope stretches but doesn’t budge. Hector breathes again to steady himself and begins his descend

"You're going to hurt yourself"

Heart jumping in his throat Hector almost lets go of his grip proving the voice right.

"Cassandra," he pants, clutching to the rope for dear life "what are you doing here?"

He knew his sister at the temple, performing sacrifices to win the gods favour.

"Taking a stroll. You're going to fall," she repeats in a monotone tone. At least she's not throwing a fit and ripping hair from her scalp

"Is it a prophecy?" He asks anyway.

"No," she replies, still with the same calmness, as he loses his grip.

The collision with the ground knocks the air out of his lungs. Everything hurt, but at least he is outside. Now he just needs to exit the palace and reach the gates …

As soon as he remembers how to move. His back pulsates with a constant pain. He doesn’t dare to imagine how moving and fighting will be tomorrow.

By the time he finally remembers how his limbs work someone has noticed his absence and sent guards to retrieve him.

***

"You could have died."

Andromache is angry. She is very angry. Andromache doesn't get angry often, normally she limits herself to worry and sadness but now she is angry.

Andromache is scary when she’s angry.

“Remember what happened to that man that fell from the roof, right? Remember what happened?”

A broken spine. Paralysed.

"And even if you went to the battlefield, what do you think would have happened? I tell you, you'd be too weak to fight and fall under the first Achaens' spears."

"Andromache…" Hector attempts to stop his wife. For how much he loves her, he doesn’t like being lectured. She hasn’t the right.

“I would have stayed in the backs.”

“Would you?”

Unfortunately for him Andromache knows him too well to fool her.

By her grimace it's clear what she is thanking. She's debating if she still trusts him enough to not stay there to keep an eye in him

The temptation is clearly strong.

In the end, however, the respect and obedience a wife must have for her husband is stronger. She won’t stand guard.

Hector doesn’t have time to rejoice for that as Andromache tells something to a maid who nods and leaves. She returns soon after and is accompanied.

“Hello, brother,”

Paris struts in looking too fresh to be coming from the battlefield. Hector isn’t sure if considering it a good thing or not.

He still squints his eyes in the most menacing glare he can manage. Last time he checked, his younger brother still feared him.

“Paris,” he calls, as soon as Andromache has left for real, “remember when you said you wanted to make me proud?”

"Y-yes, I clearly do, brother."

"Then help me out"

By the look on his younger brother' face he is clearly conflicted, so eager to please but also smart enough to know this isn't good for Hector. But if he helps him, then Hector will be grateful, at least for a while, and Paris is constantly chasing after that gratitude.

"Lean onto me, brother." He offers him an arm, which Hector gladly accepts, laughing inside at the ridiculousness of it all because normally he could lift Paris without breaking a sweat.

The corridors of the palace are never empty at this hour, always with one or another maid or messenger going up and down, but there’s hope they'll be too busy to notice.

Maybe this will be the right time.

It isn’t. Fates are against Hector today.

"Thankfully I came back to chek,” Andromache rants and this time there will be no calming. "Do you want so badly to make me a widow?"

"Of course not-" Hector speaks the best he can without moving his chapped lips. He has neglected keeping himself hydrated and his tongue still feels gross.

“Seems like the contrary to me.”

Andromache scolds him like with a disobedient child who doesn’t know any better. He won’t apologise. She doesn’t understand how he must go, now more than ever.

Except a new wave of dizziness has him sway to the side, only proving Andromache’ right.

“I alerted the maids outside. If you have some respect for me, stop trying to die.”

“I’m not …” But by Andromache’s glare he decides it’s better to stop there.

“Let me go to the camp,” he tries another approach. “I won’t fight but let them know I’m not a coward hiding behind the walls.”

He won’t be able to exit his rooms, to walk down the streets if the Trojans even just doubted him to be a coward, if he felt the minimal trace of reprimand in their gazes.

Andromache’s expression softens. She takes his hand, soft skin against the calluses of war.

“I’m sure by now they have been informed of your predicament. And that nobody thinks you a coward. We all fall ill from time to time, my husband, and there’s no shame or cowardice in that. Now for once listen to your wife. I’ll tell the maids to draw you a new bath and then bring you something to eat. Does it sound so bad?”

It doesn’t. It actually sounds extremely nice. He could take a pause. Yesterday he fought all day under the scorching sun, with barely a moment to eat and drink and the day before the same.

For once, Hector listens. “I’m lucky to have such a wise wife.”

Still standing in a corner, Paris perks up. “Do I have to -” he begins to ask but quietens at Andromache’s glare. “Of course. I stay. Of course.”

***

Hector takes a bath and then changes into a new, fresh tunic and Andromache insists on bringing him some more pillows. She rests a bowl of fruit, ripe, easy to swallow on a table next to the bed.

It’s … really nice. It's not like Hector can admit it, not outloud, but resting in his bed for once, with no fear for a spear or arrow to end his life, is something he actually enjoys.

Paris, probably still feeling the need to apologise for having failed to help him in his new escape attempt, does his best to make his house arrest the best he can.

His younger brother is normally a coward and more than once Hector found himself thinking the town would benefit greatly if he died, but now he has to admit he is actually nice company when he puts himself to it.

Though tempted, Hector doesn’t tell Paris. Just like he refrain from asking him again why he doesn’t renounce Helen and put an end to the war. His brother would simply say the woman was given to him by Lady Aphrodite and it’s his legitimate right to have her at his side.

Helen does pass by to pay him a quick visit and discuss something with Paris while she’s at it.

After her it's Troilus' turn, then Polydamas and after Helenus. Each brings a new piece of news from the battlefield. Despite Hector’s fears of the Achaeans exploiting his absence, their men managed to hang on.

“The gods were on our side today.”

All gods but one apparently.

“Anyway, I’ve just seen Cassandra. She told me you had quite the fall.”

"I wouldn't if she hadn't distracted me," Hector replies, with the most sharpness he can master given his current condition. The physician had him drinking a bit more of medicated wine and it's already making him feel sleepy.

They chat some more, siblings’ things, nothing important, with a casualness they so rarely have now.

“Take care. I’ll see you on the field tomorrow,” Helenus says, when it’s time for him to return to the camp. Half-asleep, Hector murmurs a vague response.

***

Somebody bends over Hector as he sleeps, a shadow but warm. It whispers in his ear, a command he cannot ignore. He slowly opens one eye.

Perched onto the mattress, Apollo stares back at him, looking almost puzzled.

By the purple outside the window, Night must have fallen already.

"Thought I'd found you on the field. Instead you are here."

Apollo speaks gently, but with that ever present threat underneath that has Hector's hairs stand on his arm and on his nape.

"It wasn’t my intention," he hastens to say, so quick it must come out like a babble. "My lord, please believe me."

"I know."

With a long finger on Hector's lips the god shushes him. He rests his palm on his forehead. "Fever paid you a visit," he says, mostly to himself.

"There are guards outside your door, but it’s not to keep someone outside, right?"

The question doesn't require an answer. Eyes to the growing darkness outside, Apollo hums. "Seems like I've come too late. The battle has ended for today …"

He leaves a choice in the pause, or the illusion of it at least. He can heal him now and probably even magically transport him to the camp; or he can leave him now and come back tomorrow morning.

But, as said, more than a real choice it's an illusion.

"The battle has ended but not the work at the camp," Hector notes. Besides they might decide for some raid, if pushed by his absence the Achaeans lower their guards.

"No, it hasn't."

With this Apollo bends to kiss him on the forehead. It's quick and when he pulls back the headache, the nausea, the fever, it’s all gone. Hector stands, feeling as if he could battle one hundred Greek soldiers alone.

"Thanks."

Bowing his head he waits for the habitual aftermath, the payment in flesh the god so often demands. But Apollo only gives a light pat on his cheeks and a chaste peck on his lips.

"I expect sacrifices tomorrow morning," he says simply before disappearing, certain of Hector’s obedient answer.

Finally lucid, though a bit shaken as it always happens when having to do with Apollo, the prince dresses, puts on his sandals and opens the door, knowing exactly where he has to go. First the armoury, then out of the palace and at the gates.

This time nobody stops him.

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Best reward

2022-04-03T14:48:45Z

Fandom: Iliade

Prompt: Ambientazione sportiva

Tag: Alternative Universe_Modern; Alternative Universe_Athletics; Established relationship

Rating: NSFW

The World Championships are homophobic. Always have been. Achilles will die on this hill. They are deeply inconveniencing him, an absolutely not-straight man - and in more than one way.

"Pat …" he whines, pouting and draping himself onto the other.

He trails fingers on his companion’s chest, trying to get his attention. Scooting a little away, Patroclus flips another page of the magazine he’s reading.

"No," he says, sternly. Despite having a very gorgeous and very, very willingly boyfriend basically spread in his lap, he’s not even a bit hard. One must admire such self-control.

Or hate it.

Achilles will surely go crazy. “I can take it," he insists, lowering the magazine to stare at his partner. "Please."

He is met with eyes as cold as an iceberg.

"No,” Patroclus tugs the magazine away. “You know the rules. No sex before a competition.”

Achilles pouts. His boyfriend is a cruel, cruel man, pretending to be more interested in an article about the ten best smoothies to start the day than in him.

“You’re a killjoy, you know?”

"I just want you to win tomorrow."

“I can win anyway.”

For one, he’s no virgin. Second, he could win this in his sleep, running on one leg. At the semifinals he gave a good eight tenths to the second. “Please. Look, you can use your fingers.”

"No."

"Can I fuck your thighs? Only once!"

"No."

"Rut against you? Please, I’m going crazy."

He finds neither pity nor understanding.

“Then I advise you to take a cold shower.” Patroclus says, unfaltering. “Or better, I can go back to my room, fix the problem at the root. I shouldn’t even be here.”
Throwers sleep all together on the floor below the sprinters, but that hasn’t stopped Achilles. Their teammates snicker and close one eye. By now, though it is not officially news yet, everybody in the athletics team knows he and Patroclus are together. As long as they keep it down, it’s fine. Tonight Antilochus, blessed boy, even jumped at the chance to give up his bed to Patroclus and sleep on the couch.

“I have no competitions for two days.”

Unfortunately, Achilles’ dreams and plans have soon shattered.

“Your hand,” he pleads in one last attempt. Patroclus makes to leave the bed. “Wait, I'll stop.”

With a frustrated groan, Achilles relents. But Patroclus is right.

He really, really needs a cold shower. Eventually, he stays under the freezing spray till the southern situation has cooled down enough he can trust himself to think about something else that isn’t Patroclus’ strong biceps, the way his thighs flex, his c-

Maybe he needs another five minutes. When he comes back to bed, tossing on one of the T-shirts Patroclus brought, his body temperature must be close to hypothermia. At least Patroclus has finally abandoned that stupid magazine

“Hi,” he smiles placidly, adjusting under the covers and switching off his lamp. “Feeling better?”

“I’m not going to answer. I hate you.”

He’s met with a low laugh. There’s no winning. He flips out his phone, looking at the last news. As expected of all the things he said during the post qualification interview, the journalist reported half and not even the good half. Patroclus beating his personal best at the qualifications - a lucky shot, he belittled himself - is confined to a pitiful excerpt.

“You’re huffing. Whatever the reason, it’s not worth it,” Patroclus groans against the pillow. “And you better go to sleep.”

“Four lines. You went this close to beat the current record and all you get is four lines!”

“And I don’t mind. No, put that phone down, you are not calling anybody. I mean it.”

Rolling his eyes, Achilles stops his tapping on the phone to search for the newspaper contact page. Knowing Patroclus, there’s no way he can call without being discovered.

Locking it, he tosses the phone aside. Patroclus is right, he really shouldn’t get nervous less than a day from the final.

Having to deal with Agamemnon on a daily basis is already enough.

The next morning, he wakes up at the smell of cheap coffee and the rustling of fabric.

"'morning," Patroclus greets him, already dressed. He has never been a morning person but the anxiety that something may go wrong on competition day always manages to kick his internal alarm into high gear. Rolling on his belly, Achilles reaches blindly till he manages to grab the phone he left resting on the bedside table

Ignoring Patroclus’ usual reprimand it’s not good for him, he squints at the screen

"There’s a briefing at eleven," Patroclus anticipates him, rummaging to search for a hair band with which to tame his curls.

"And Agamemnon wants us down at breakfast in an hour."

On the phone the clock reads seven thirty. "Agamemnon has to stop bugging me."

"He's just trying to keep the team together."

"Useless effort."

As if they aren't all going to be opponents in the span of a few hours. Achilles, on his part, isn’t going to feel better if, in a far-fetched scenario, the one beating him is a teammate.

Unless that one is Antilochus. In that case it would be a well-deserved victory.

“Are the others already up?”

He has just formulated the question when the door slams open. Half-dressed Diomedes, mid-distance runner, thirsting for gold as Achilles is currently thirsting for something else, waves his finger at them.

"Achilles, you ought me money?" He shouts. "You both do."

On his way to the common bathroom, Achilles stops

"And why is that?"

He doesn’t remember having bet anything with Diomedes. He doesn’t even remember having talked with him if not for a couple of words and the fact they sometimes train together having an event in common.

“I bet with Odysseus you'd jump at each other as soon as you were alone but you did nothing.”

Diomedes and Odysseus are what people call partners in crime with a hint of vitriol. Always scheming together but also unafraid of throwing insults at each other. They definitely have slept together at least once, nobody can convince Achilles of the contrary.
“Not my - Pat!”

He yelps as without a warning Patroclus hugs him from behind and nuzzles his neck. His morning beard scratches the skin, sending shivers all down the spine.

“And how do you know?” Patroclus says, eyes on Diomedes, deliberately suggestive. Achilles’ breath hitches in his throat. Normally shame is not something he cares about, but now he is suddenly glad to have slipped into that oversized T-shirt last night.

"Yes. I mean, it's not like Odysseus can prove anything.”

Diomedes rolls his eyes. “You're both unmarked. Everybody knows how you get when you are together. Odysseus is going to see through this immediately.”
A grin blossoms on Achilles’ face. “That’s easily fixable.”

But just as he’s about to turn, Patroclus pulls away, securing his neck from Achilles’ lips and teeth.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” he says simply to both Achilles and Diomedes’ immense frustration. The muscles of his back flex when he bends for some morning stretches.

Later, as he brushes his teeth with mechanical gestures, Achilles groans into the basin.

It’s going to be a long day.

***

The situation doesn't improve at breakfast. Agamemnon is already there and his sight alone is enough to make Achilles' stomach turn. Cousin Ajax and other Ajax are sitting at a nearby table. In joining them, he makes a point of ignoring the older man.

"So," Other Ajax - javelin throw - welcomes him as soon as he has put his tray down, "my namesake here was telling me dear Patroclus sneaked out last night."

Achilles glares at cousin Ajax who's busy munching what looks like his second portion of fried eggs. "I didn’t tell Agamemnon," his cousin says. Reaching and surpassing two metres in height he is their best bet to bring home gold with the hammer. Achilles nods curtly at the courtesy.

"That better be."

Despite what Agamemnon insists in saying, as long as he doesn’t flunk at competitions, what he does in his private time is his business and his business alone.

Pouring himself some orange juice, he signals a fellow teammate the seat next to him is occupied. Achilles has been saving it for Patroclus who's taking a strangely long time deciding what he wants for breakfast.

"Oy, your love is over there," Other Ajax kindly informs him, unable to help a snicker. Achilles follows Ajax's fingers to a couple tables over, crowded with the dark red of the Turkish team, interrupted only by a spot of blue.

Over there, Patroclus, breakfast tray to his chest is chatting amiably with best thrower and crown jewel of the Turkish team, Hector.

Achilles isn't jealous. Not a bit. Despite what some second-rate magazines have started to say about a presumptuous rivalry with Hector, he has nothing against him. Yet, he still can’t see how he and Patroclus became friends. It must have happened during those throwers-exclusive meetings.

At his table, both Ajax stare intently at him.

"What? He can chat with whoever he wants."

“Trouble in Paradise?” Odysseus interjects, flopping down onto the free chair and ignoring Achilles' glare, while at the Turkish table Patroclus has apparently decided to consume his breakfast there. Odysseus laughs. Achilles has never liked that laugh much. “Seems like it. Diomedes was telling me everything. But I knew Pat is too dutiful.”

“Not enough to not sneak out apparently, though,” Other Ajax says, while Achilles seriously ponders going to finish his breakfast at another table. But then Anthilocus is joining them and he decides he can stay.

“Anyway,” Other Ajax continues, “I’ve heard you are thinking about leaving us.”

"I see that news travels fast. I simply realised my talents may be lying somewhere else.”

“Yes, but archery,” Other Ajax continues. “One doesn’t even sweat.”

Cousin Ajax snorts at the veiled insult. His step-brother is in the national archery team coming at a breath from the podium at the latest championship.

But Odysseus soon won’t anymore in his prime and if he can bring the country another medal by changing sport, it’s all for the best.

“Achilles?” Anthilocus calls his attention, a blessed diversion. He asks him for advice for his final, 1 500 metres in three days. Achilles is extremely happy to help, the boy truly has a shot for the podium, and chatting with him makes him forget a moment about the upcoming briefing.

***

The briefing is torture, a hour worth of nothingness, only pompous and empty wors, and it’s a combination of Patroclus’ warning glances and thinking constantly about the medal he is going to win to keep Achilles from punch Agamemnon in the face. After that he has to endure Patraclus being dragged away by cousin Ajax and a couple of other throwers for a routine check up with the physiotherapist, while Agamemnon leads him and the other who will do the relay outside to spend the next hour or so trying the changes for the relay. That old man is talking about putting him in the second fraction. Second fraction, him!

Agamemnon must be out of the little mind he has left.

“He must have a strategy,” Patroclus shrugs instead after Achilles has informed him once they have reunited for a brief lunch before transferring to the stadium.

“To lose?”

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing. Have a little bit of faith.”
“You truly aren’t helping.”

It's not faith to win races. It's placing their best athletes where they can perform better.

Patroclus isn't helping either by being so close and so unfairly attractive as they sit on the bus.

His lips, Achilles considers, today looks more kissable than usual. But Patroclus has turned to discuss something with other Ajax, leaving Achilles to ponder his life-choices

Throwers warm up away from the other athletes, for safety reasons. Nobody wants an obituary for a badly thrown discus or hammer. As he has said already, it is deeply unfair.

“I’ll try to get away,” he says, leaning to steal a kiss without much success when Patroclus tilts his head back at the last second.

"That would be very sweet. And stupid. You’re so close to winning, don’t waste this chance.”

“I’m not wasting my chance.”

It won’t be that half-an-hour spent watching his boyfriend practise the last throws to make him lose. Besides, he has amply demonstrated his worth, bringing home enough national and one world record that he can be pardoned something.

“Achilles ... “

It rings with a threat. In the end, it’s that to stop Achilles. If he messes up there are only two possible scenarios. Either Patroclus is going to be disappointed and Achilles hates when it happens. Or Patroclus is going to be all smug and “told-you-so” and that’s possibly even worse.

"Courage." Patroclus playfully taps him once on the nose, a gesture Achilles would hate coming from anyone else. "I'll see you later. Oh, your left shoe seems a little loose."

Achilles rolls his foot. The shoe does feel a bit on the large side. He crouches on the pavement. “Thanks.”

The stadium is already a frenzy of activity, people from various nationalities runnin up and down the tracks as trainers shout instructions at them. The tension is palpable, each preoccupied to not overdo it. It would be silly to exhaust one’s energy before the race itself.

Yet, there’s no way Achilles is going to simply stroll. The track seems to be calling for him, a red carpet for his lap of honour. He feels it in his feet as he jumps a couple times in place just as his phone rings. He can’t help a grin from spreading on his face

“Missing me already?”

“Did you stretch?”

“Stretching is boring. I'm just start with a slow jog”
“Stretch.”

He stretches. He’s not that stupid and despite what others might think he’s a professional, he knows talent can only bring him that far. He stretches till his muscles have become warm and pliant and he can demand a little more from them without having to worry about cramps or strains.

Then he resets the timer.

***

Finalists for the 400 metre-dash are summoned to the call room about an hour before the race. Many find it nerve-wracking. Achilles doesn’t mind. He knows his worth and that nobody here can beat him.

The discus throw final is still going on when he and the other finalists enter the stadium, but too far from this part of the track to understand much about what’s happening. Passing by, Achilles catches a glimpse of the screen, sees the white and blue of the Greek flag in the upper half.

Patroclus is sitting on a bench, in that dark blue jumpsuit that complements him so well, waiting for the next round of throws.

Achilles waves at him. It's truly, truly unfair he can't watch him climb all the way to gold because his final just happens to be on the same day. He has checked the temporary results on his phone from time to time during the afternoon but it’s not the same thing.

Patroclus is holding a discus between his thighs and polishing it. Achilles would very much want to be in that discus’ place. He has barely formulated the thought that things south begin to stir already.

He shakes his head. Not yet. The bright-coloured tapping pulls at his calf when he bends to check that the starting blocks are positioned correctly.

His heart beats steady. He smiles for the cheering crowd, basks in how it is cheering,

greets the public home when the camera frames him, brings his hand up to undo and redo his ponytail one last time, a ritual. It’s not like he needs luck, but repeating some gestures help in putting him in the right state of mind. Redoing his tail is one. Re-tying his shoelaces to be tighter another.

He glances again at the throwing circle, but nothing much comes from it. And he must keep focused.

Inhaling from his nose, he crouches. 400 metres is a short distance. It’s one lap. Quick, less than a minute for people running at this level.

But if anything goes wrong, it can become neverending.

He checks his blocks one last time, before planting the soles of his shoes firmly in place. Breathing to force his body to stillness - he’s not going to lose it all on a false start - he waits for the familiar shot. It explodes in his ears, but doesn't faze him, never has done.

His body reacts as it should do, like it has done hundreds times before.

Then, he runs. He knows the moment his feet leave the blocks he’s going to win.

A gut check, people call this. Just one lap but that brings you to the limit, till all you want to do is curl into a ball and never get up again. But not for him. It’s an easy race, the track responding so wonderfully to his feet, with each metre that brings him close to the final line.

He crosses it with a good head of advantage on the second, legs only slightly trembling from fatigue. Sweat drips in his eyes.

He won and he feels as if he could just run again in an hour or so. Someone passes him a Greek flag before a photographer is on him for some celebratory shots with the second and third place.

Leaving them to take a picture together, Achilles glances over his shoulder at the field. If he's not mistaken, the Lithuanian thrower has just concluded his performance. He was fourth at the last round, just behind Patroclus who has undressed his hoodie and is doing some last minute stretches.

He can win gold.

Achilles waves the photographer away, his eyes glued to the throwing circle. One spin, two spin, the discus flies.

A flash of white. Good throw.

Achilles doesn't breathe. He never does, not until Patroclus’ discus has hit the grass. Once Patroclus told him to count after he has thrown, that if he can count more than five, it’s a good throw.

Achilles counts.

He is about to mouth seven when the crowd onto the bleachers erupts into a roar. Glancing up, he sees some people waving blue and white up and down.

But it’s not over yet. There are still two throwers left and while Achilles isn’t worried at all for the upcoming throwers, Hector has proven time and time again he can easily climb to the highest step of the podium at the last throw.

His technique is impeccable, a show for the eyes even from this distance.

Eyes glancing from the discus, to Patroclus and back again, Achilles counts again.

One. The discus seems a bit lower than usual, a bit too tilted.

Two. And the wind does blow in the opposite direction.

Three. It'll be a matter of millimetres.

He realises he has stopped breathing again. Four. Five. Six. Sev - With a thud Achilles is too far to hear, the discus plummets to the ground. He watches the judges rush to check where it has hit and take the proper measurements. The bleachers are silent, minutes sluggish by before finally the screen blinks back to life.

The crowd shouts again, a cacophony of voices, exultation and disappointment all overlapping. Achilles eyes run at the screen. Blue and white and underneath red. He hears people shouting and chanting in Greek.

Next moment he's sprinting across the field, the photographer long forgotten.

Clutching a matching flag as Achilles', Patroclus is congratulating himself with Hector. They hug, celebratory, bear-like, all muscles and manliness.

Achilles mouth goes dry again.

He doesn’t wait for them to finish with the obligatory shots to grab Patroclus by the arm, spin him around and drag him into a very deliberate, definitely open-mouthed kiss, so passionate and enthusiastic that after a brief confusion, Patroclus can only reciprocate.

They kiss, clutching to each other, and definitely with a little too much tongue.

Back at the village Agamemnon bores Achilles with ten minutes worth of shovel talk, about how he can’t always do as he pleases and he should be more respectful of his sponsors and things like that.

“If my sponsors are offended because I kissed my boyfriend, then I should start looking for new ones.”

Besides the shot one lucky and ready photographer managed to take was truly amazing. White and sky-blue stripes, muscles tensed, the juxtaposition of fair and dark skins. Close enough to show the way their lips lock and the curve of Patroclus' neck. It’s the kind of shot that could win a prize. Achilles is going to demand a copy, print and frame it for everyone to see.

The award ceremony is held the following day and after that is the 800 metres final in which in the end Achilles has to give up the silver to Diomedes. Anthilocus comes fifth in his race, an excellent result given his inexperience and the competition. Cousin Ajax comes so close to the podium but in the end his nerves have the best of him. As for Odysseus it’s immediately clear he’s not actually aiming at any medal. Other Ajax, instead, is. With his javelin he brings home another silver.

Then, the relay, where Achilles and the rest of the team snatch bronze from the jaw of defeat and all because Agamemnon stood by his idea of putting him in the second fraction. They were first place when he passed on the baton to the third fractionist and watched helplessly as the runners of three rival teams surpassed him.

Luckily for them one team messed up the changes in the last fraction, enough to recover some ground and win bronze.

Playing idly with the medal, as a foreign anthem fills his ears, Achilles can't stop thinking it could have been another gold.

But even then his irritation can’t last for long. Watching the Greek flag being lifted to the sky once more, soon new thoughts blossom in his mind. The competitions are finally over and that means only one thing.

***

Patroclus’ gold medal got him a chance to stay till the closing ceremony. It glows softly against his dark olive skin, a show in itself. It was Achilles’ idea, one Patroclus indulged.

It rests quietly on his sternum, between his strong pectorals and Achilles thinks many things at once.

He thinks he is the luckiest man in the world, having this masterpiece of a man just for him. He thinks maybe it was worth waiting. And he thinks once he starts there is no way he'll be able to stop

He hopes and prays Patroclus doesn't tell him to.

"There are no races tomorrow, right?" He purrs, low and throaty, before kissing Patroclus' under chin where his beard stops. It’s a rhetorical question.

Tilting his head to better accommodate Achilles' attention, Patroclus laughs against his lips.

"No, there aren't."

It's done. They are flying home tomorrow.

Patroclus guides Achilles into a kiss, soft but deep, one that has him moan around his tongue and whimper for the cold of the gold when he brushes against his skin.

He loves it.

"Been thinking about this all week," he says, straddling Patroclus' lap and wondering briefly why they are still wearing underwear.

He doesn’t lose time to fix the situation, shifting back to fill his eyes with the spectacle that is Patroclus' naked body.

"Can't wait to have this inside," he murmurs, tracing a tantalising finger over his half-hard cock.

"Damn" Patroclus' mouth opens into a new, beautiful, though cruel laugh "you really are horny.”

Achilles slaps a hand down his taut stomach. "And who's fault is that?" He snorts. Unfortunately for him, Patroclus is too muscled to be ticklish.

"You did win," he says, unrepentant, propping himself on the elbows to adjus better against the pillow, and looking so beautiful Achilles can't really reply.

"Yes, I did win," he repeats once he had found his voice. Two bronzes and a gold. It could have been better, but the 400 metres dash was his event and there he won exactly how he was supposed to do. He feels the faintest trace of pull in his upper back as he bends forward, "and now I can finally take my prize."

He kisses Patroclus again, slow, deep and all too filthy, indulging in how he tastes against his tongue and in the delicious friction of their cocks rubbing together.

He could come just from this. By the glint in Patroclus' eyes he must have thought the same.

"Do it."

It's a filthy, filthy whisper and all Achilles needs to spit in his palm and reach to grab both their erections in one hand. He grinds down with a roll of his hips and soon he is positively rutting against the other's, pleasure coiling more in his stomach at every brush of flesh against flesh.

"We could -" He pants, muscles contracting, "could have done this sooner."

Patroclus is flushed dark on his cheeks and cheekbones as he relaxes into a sigh.

"We could -" He admits. "But I stand by my belief."

"As expected."

Despite all, he’s aware Patroclus only means the best for him and his reluctance with sex during the competitive season goes further than the possible risks that comes from penetration.

“But now we have some catching up to do.”

With that, he picks up the pace till he feels the familiar tightening in his groin, the coil of pleasure about to burst. He searches for Patroclus’ eyes.

"You close?"

It’s silly, a thing for teenagers at their first crush, but suddenly he doesn’t want to come until Patroclus does.

“Almost. If I -”

“Of course.”

Achilles pulls away his hand only to be replaced by Patroclus’s and, oh, this is heaven. The squeeze is just right, the curve of Patroclus' palm adapting so well to his cock, his calloused skin eliciting all new sensations. It sends multiple jolts down his spine, thrilling.

Achilles' first orgasm has him tense and close his eyes before relaxing in the afterglow, relishing in the wetness of both their seeds cooling on their stomach. He rests his forehead in the crook of Patroclus’ neck, nuzzling there. It smells of sweat and Patroclus' face cream.

“Can I leave you a mark now?” he teases. Patroclus’ affirmative response vibrates against his lips.

Feeling his accelerated pulse with the flat of his tongue, Achilles doesn’t waste anymore time before latching his mouth there. He grazes the skin with his teeth before biting down, hard enough to draw blood. It explodes salty and metallic in his mouth.

The way Patroclus hums his name is music.

“You like when I bite you, don’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, going for another bite.

After that he surges up to have another look at his work and gorgeous, gorgeous, partner. He truly is a man sculpted by the gods.

“How are you so perfect?” Achilles sighs. Patroclus laughs in response.

“If there’s someone perfect here, that isn’t me.”

“I disagree.”

It is a mouth-watery sight, from the curve of his jaw and neck to the dip of his hips, the trail of dark curls running from his navel to his groin. Still soft from the recent orgasm, his cock is promise for things to come.

Achilles inhales sharply.

"Can I suck you?" He breathes wantonly, unable to not lick his lips in anticipation, thinking at what he has been denied, the weight on his tongue, the taste of him.

"You're going to be insatiable, aren’t you?" But it is said with hilarity. "Go ahead, if it's what you wish "

“You have no idea how much it is.”

Achilles takes Patroclus in mouth as if he has been made for it. It's just as he remembered and better, how it fits his mouth so well and the growing thickness as it fills again..

He gives one first, experimental swirl with his tongue and grins when Patroclus bucks his hips slightly to meet the movement. His growing groans are a telltale of how much he too longed for this beneath the surface. It goes right to Achilles' dick, filling the more Patroclus' fills against his throat.

One hand on his hips, Achilles keeps him there. This is an opening, a start, but he wants that cock inside at least once and he isn't going to risk anything.

So he just works to have it nice and hard and profusely slicked before pulling back with the lewdest sound he can manage.

Sprawling a hand on Patroclus' stomach, he curls the other around his erect cock to guide it inside.

He is very, very disappointed when his boyfriend surges up, grabbing his wrist in his strong hand to stop him.

"Lube, love."

"I don't need it."

He waves at Patroclus' cock, dark and shiny with his spit, as he says it. Patroclus however isn't impressed.

"Lube. Or you'll hurt yourself. Don't make that face, we have all night."

Hesitantly, Achilles relents. Grunting he stands up. He had meant to prepare before but between a press conference, interviews, another briefing to inform them about tomorrow schedule at the airport, nd preparing for the closing ceremony they barely had a moment of freedom till dinner. At that point things have rolled another way.

The lube is in a pocket of his suitcase, the bottle still unfairly full.

Patroclus grabs it on the fly. After a brief moment of consideration, Achilles tosses him a condom as well. They are exclusive but better safe than sorry. Then he lays down and spreads his legs in open invitation.

The first finger slipping inside has him softly gasping, shifting his hips on the mattress to better accommodate the intrusion.

"Damn time."

Patroclus' fingers are thick as he works him open, slowly, methodically, and the way they touch and brush inside is only anticipation of what will come.

"Is this satisfactory?" he croons, gently manoeuvring Achilles' body for a better angle, pushing his fingers deeper.

"It's" Achilles whimpers, curling his toes till they pop at a new jolt of pleasure, "a start."

He doesn’t know how much time Patroclus spends fingering him, knows only he feels his orgasm build stronger each passing moment.

"Pat ... I'm ready. Pat, stop."

But Patroclus doesn’t stop, simply curling his fingers and scissoring them. Squirming, Achilles tries to pull away.

"No. Pat, please," he blabbers.

"What?" Patroclus' chuckle puts hot air against the shell of his ear. "I remember well you said I could use my fingers."

He brushes against his prostate and Achilles struggles to delay his orgasm.

"It was a - ah - different situation. I want - ah - you."

It happens sometimes that Patroclus takes him after he has spent already, their staminas different, orgasming inside while Achilles stays soft and sensitive. It’s part of love too, another compromise in a relationship.

But this time he truly wants to come from Patroclus' cock, so much it hurts.

Despite what Patroclus said about his horniness, he isn't sure to have another in him if he comes now. Reaching down he tries to grab Patroclus' hand to stop it.

"Please .... I- deserve it.”
He has been so good and patient, and he deserves a medal just from that. By Patroclus’ dark and throaty chuckle for a moment Achilles fears he isn’t going to stop. But then Patroclus stills. The emptiness left when he withdraws his fingers has Achilles shudder but it's a short lived one as Patroclus hooks his legs over his shoulder and enters him with one, sharp thrust.

It's pure perfection. Bracketing the sides of his head with his arms, Patroclus fucks him with a intense and steady pace, more strength than speed, the way Achilles adores.

He doesn’t last long. While he tries his best to delay his orgasm, to make this last, Patroclus' previous ministrations just brought him too close to the edge to resist.

Achilles comes with a strained cry of ecstasy, clamping down Patroclus' hips with his thighs.

Then he lets himself sink into the mattress and relax as his partner continues to thrust inside. From time to time the medal Patroclus still has around his neck swings and brushes against Achilles' lips. He kisses it lazily. By then it has completely lost the feeling of metal and tastes just like Patroclus' skin.

In a new surge of inspiration, Achilles flicks out his tongue to lick it properly and can say by the way the other’s face twitches it is that to push him over the edge.

“Have I finally satisfied you?” Patroclus bends to give him a quick peck on the lips. Achilles nods lazily.

“You’re lucky it was a tiring day.”
“So you aren’t going to fuck my thighs?”

There’s teasing in the question. A tired laugh bubbles in Achilles’ chest.

“Not tonight.”

They lay intertwined for a considerable amount of time till the feeling of stickiness stops being somehow intimate and begins to become really gross.

To Achilles' dismay Patroclus vetoes any proposal of showering together. Even without their built the box is small and cramped.

Achilles washes quickly, eager to return to bed, to the intimacy and cuddles he is absolutely going to pretend, dorm rules be damned.

"Think Diomedes is going to get back some of his money?" Patroclus asks when he rejoins him. He has shampooed as well and he's rubbing the excess water from his thick curls with a towel.

"I think they should stop betting about our sex life," Achilles replies, scooting to snug against his body.

It's a pity that while they have managed to push the beds together they couldn't force the sheets to adapt. Maybe if he wears his tracksuit he'll be able to sleep without a cover.

For now he is content with wrapping himself on Patroclus, tossing one leg across his lap.

"Can't wait to be home," he murmurs, eyes fluttering close. Between acclimatisation and the actual competition period it has been almost a month. And home means having finally a proper queen-sized bed to share with his beloved. He thinks about the two drawers filled with Patroclus' spare clothes, his facial lotions and shaving cream occupying one shelf in his bathroom and the packets of his fave brand of biscuits left in the kitchen. They should really discuss moving in together once and for all.

He likes Patroclus' place, it has a nice view of the city, but his own is bigger, fitter for two people.

"Me too," Patroclus agrees. "So, one week of holiday.”

Achilles hums, contently. Then they’ll have to start to prepare for an upcoming local meeting, but in a week.

And he knows exactly how they are going to spend their free time.

comments

The impossible ballads - Capitolo 18

2022-04-01T16:14:45Z

Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: HWS England, HWS Belgium
Prompt: Matrimonio

Arthur spent up to late September in Gothia, enjoying King Berwald's hospitality, the Geatish court the most welcoming, probably to compensate for the cold climate. It was with a little regret that he watched his packed bags being loaded onto the carriage when the time arrived to return to Swabia, a three month puppy with a shiny dark brown coat and intelligent eyes jumping at his feet.

It felt a little strange thinking a year had passed already since he came to Swabia. He changed a lot. Several things had changed, actually, and little was left of the boy who came here escaping from an hopeless love.

Whereas last year he escaped Dauphiné, now he was counting the days for him to return there. There was only the little detail his Lord Father had yet to communicate his decision about the matter. Given the past occurrences, Arthur doubted he would be down to satisfy his least favourite' son request. But Dauphiné was where Arthur was meant to be in the first place, thus making his choice to return there sort of an apology.

In any case, any new letter spotting the royal sigil made his heart jump in his throat more than the missives Francis insisted on sending him, most of the time weaving words that made him blush in frustration.

"From the king ?" Howard asked across the room.

"From the king and the queen," Arthur countered. A letter from both his parents at once could be a harbinger of wonderful as well as terrible news. Only the most important matters would require a letter from the sovereigns in unison.

"Pray for me," he tried to joke with the valet before breaking the wax sigil. At first glance the letter didn't mention Dauphiné anywhere. That, already, wasn't a good sign. Still, it could be that he missed it. He'd better actually read the letter before drawing conclusions.

Once he reached the bottom, the floor pulled out from beneath his feet in one, swift motion.

He read the letter again and a second time after that, slowly in case his eyes were playing tricks to him. The words did not change. If anything, they became clearer.

"Read this," he called Howard, giving him the letter.

The valet hesitated. No matter the level of complicity he might have with his prince, a letter from the sovereigns not addressed to him wasn't something he was supposed to read .

"I don't believe this is a good idea, sir."

"Read it. It's an order," Arthur cut it short. He needed someone else to confirm what he had read. He watched the frown deepen on Howard's face, the same frown on his forehead.

"Do I have to read it aloud?" the valet asked. Arthur nodded a quick confirmation. Those words needed to be pronounced. "Very well," Howard obliged, skipping to greetings to go immediately to the core of the letter, for Arthur's relief.

For once, he would rather not beat around the bush.

"Therefore, we are happy to inform you that the negotiations with Queen Emma had at last reached an agreement. Given the delicacy of the situation, both parts agreed it was imperative to secure the union as soon as possible. However, for the impossibility for the future spouses to meet in a timely fashion, the parties agreed to celebrate a marriage by proxy in wait for the actual wedding."

"A marriage by proxy," Arthur echoed.

“It's, well, we knew it could happen."

But Arthur hardly had the mind to pay attention to Howard now, not with too many thoughts filling his head and no idea of where to start.

"I'm married," he muttered, unable to bring himself to believe it. While his parents had previewed the fact Queen Emma proposed a marriage covenant and that negotiations were being held, he expected his Lord Father to have at least the decency to inform him the negotiations were successful, before the proxy took place.

"Like a thing. They really treated me as a thing." He searched Howard’s gaze for some sympathy.

"But you have been married to a queen," Howard said "and you are going to rule Flanders at her side. It is a great responsibility ruling a kingdom and even more a new one."

"I know. And I think you are too optimistic. Consorts do not rule."

"We will see once there," Howard still insisted. "And you got some lands with it."

"Yes, a marquisate and only because the queen had the lands."

He crumbled the last paper, one carrying only his Lady Mother's signature. It was tradition for Albish princes to receive a complimentary duchy from the royal lands upon their marriage, but he had long understood traditions did not apply to him. If his Lady Mother didn't have lands to use in her own right, he wouldn't have received anything.

"It is still something. But if you don't want it, I know someone who might like it."

Arthur didn't reply. It would be only a waste of time and before that he still had to wrap his mind around the whole matter.

"Should I already tell the maids to begin preparing your clothes for the journey?"

"I suppose."

Packing for Flanders was not what he had envisioned for his immediate future. He guessed his Father had in the end given his response about Arthur's request to return to Dauphiné, a punishment for last year's disobedience. As if Arthur had thought he'd let him go back when he so much insisted to leave.

"Leave me," Arthur ordered Howard. "I ... I need to write a letter."

Even more, he needed to be alone to accept the fact. He wasn't sure he could write any letter now. Howard nodded his understanding.

"Of course, sir. Is there anything else I can do now?"

Arthur shrugged, not even trying a fake smile. Part of him wished to ask Howard to help him escape, run away somewhere his Lord Father would never find him. Escape maybe to the colonies where nobody knew his name or face and rebuild a new life from there. He'd ask Francis to join him, a test of his devotion.

It was a beautiful and silly fantasy. He was a prince and as such he refused to run forever searching for a safe place away from his Lord Father's wraith. He was no hunted animal and if that was the behaviour his Lord Father expected from him, he would not give him the satisfaction.

As Howard had said, he'd help rule a country, sit almost at the same level as a king, and find his revenge there.

"No, thank you. I am fine. It was only abrupt."

"Very well," Howard accepted. By his tone, he understood but said nothing and respected his master's privacy.

Alone, Arthur let his head fall into his crossed arms.

He should have listened to Francis and returned to Dauphiné with him when he had the chance. They could have had the whole summer for them, the time Francis claimed could be so abundant if Arthur only stopped for a second to run away.

Arthur had never believed him and now it was late.

He traced doodles on the page, the pen still dry, looking for the right words to explain the situation. It wasn't only a matter of communicating his new status. The letter was a farewell that didn't preview a reply while also expecting it.

In his mind, their correspondence ended there, continuing it too heavy on his heart.

It would be the last letter he sent to Francis for a long time and the next one, if ever there was one, would be for politics.

He wrote in Albish, unable to find the right words in any other language. Francis would find a way to translate it.

All left to do was inform Beilschmidt, though the approaching footsteps were telling Arthur someone might already know. He counted on his fingers. At four, his door slammed open.

"Tell me it's a joke," Gilbert burst in, red in the face for the recent run.

"Good afternoon to you too. It's not. It's all written there, you are welcome to see yourself," Arthur said, pointing at the missive that in seconds had changed everything. Gilbert grabbed it with eagerness. He read it slowly, for both disbelief and his uncertain Albish.

"They cannot do that," he exclaimed, not before having asked for confirmation the letter said what he thought it said.

"They can," Arthur said, too focused on keeping detached and collected, "and they did."

Unless it turned out to be a giant, elaborate prank.

"Well, you are not going," Gilbert stated like it was no matter of discussion. "You never agreed to this and you are not going."

"It's funny you believe I have a choice, Gilbert"

The dream was there, within reach, the dream of cutting all ties with Albion royal family and asking asylum in Swabia; to live there and re-join with Francis. It was a beautiful, impossible dream and Arthur couldn't let it in.

“No. I appreciate it, but I will not hide or escape. We are not kids."

"But a wife," Gilbert protested again, his whole face a mirror of his disappointment. "And you'll have to do things."

He said it low, like the prude he was beneath all his boosters. Arthur didn't have the heart to remind him that being married was no requirement for doing things or that he wasn't completely a stranger to them.

Gilbert’s reaction, albeit funny and expected, left Arthur wondering what would happen when this touched someone closer to him.

"It was bound to happen," he repeated what Howard had said. "To me as it'll do with you and Ludwig."

"Don’t even say it," Gilbert whined like he'd been wounded. "I'll surely never let my brother be touched by such a treacherous thing."

Arthur didn't comment. The silence however didn't last long.

"And Francis? I don't want to put up again with letters upon letters of him writing how much he misses you and how cruel you are and -"

"I took care of it," Arthur cut it short, pretending to ignore the implications of what he discovered. But that was something he had suspected for a long time.

“You took care of it” Gilbert parroted back, rolling his eyes. “You better have.”

“I did.”

Later, with Gilbert gone to vent somewhere else, Arthur tore his medallion from his neck and threw it across the room. Afterwards he marched in the gardens, where he methodically nocked arrow after arrow imagining his Lord Father’s head where the bullseye would be, so focused in the practice to forget for a moment the message carved in the bow. When no arrow was left in his quiver and his anger had subsided enough his hands at least had stopped trembling, the words caught again his attention, each so painstakingly carved in the wood.

May your heart be always the light that guide you

Arthur threw the bow away.

***

The journey to Flanders went as nicely as Arthur supposed a trip with Albish staff his lord father sent specifically to keep an eye on him would go. If he expected familiarity in being surrounded by Albish people for the first time in almost three years, reality soon proved well different. He had servants who liked him at the palace. They were not this ones and he could only thank the relative shortness of the ordeal, only about eight days of travel.

Flanders' welcome to the future prince consort was warmer. When conducted into the throne room, Queen Emma stood on her feet almost immediately to greet him. If she was scared of the role thrusted upon her so abruptly, she was doing an excellent job in hiding it. After all, she accepted the crown. She had some agency. Arthur didn't even wonder why she had welcomed the burden of ruling a kingdom. He and Emma were much similar in this aspect, both spares, both groomed to know the throne wasn't part of their plans. When the chance presented itself, only a fool would refuse the call.

"Your Majesty," Arthur said in Romanic, and bowed appropriately. In the days traveling, he had promised he'd try to not blame her for the situation and to not harbour feelings of hate before knowing her. He had made that mistake once already. He would not loathe someone he did not even know, not when he knew already who was to blame.

"Please, call me Emma," she invited him with a warm smile. She curled her lips in a way Arthur couldn't help but compare to a cat.

"Thank you ... Emma."

The name without any honorifics tasted strange in his mouth. Not only did she ranked higher than him, but she was still a stranger, despite what was already written on paper. Beyond a former princess, beyond being the queen of a newly formed kingdom, before him stood his young wife. Without any outstanding features, she didn't strike as a breath-taking beauty like Princess Marianne or Lady Anya; but she had bright, green eyes and a cheerful face. She also had blonde hair, fashioned into an elaborate bun, blonde as the glimpses he caught in his dream. He didn’t love her now, but maybe he would learn and in time he’d forgot about Francis. He’d -

“I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

“Excellent, my lady,” Arthur shook himself back to reality, cursing himself. Making a good impression with the queen was imperative and for how much he wished the contrary would set him free again, inside he knew it wouldn’t happen. It’d only send him from a gilded cage to a real one. Therefore, he couldn’t afford to dream about the past, about things that never came to be, and especially not before Emma, not in front of his wife.

“I am happy to hear that. But you must be tired. The usher will show you to your quarters.”

"She seems nice," Howard said cautiously once they were alone, in Arthur's new rooms.

"Yes. She seems."

Starting from the accommodation she ordered for him, the ensemble of bed chamber, sitting room, studio and wardrobe the biggest Arthur ever had. At least, if he was to read the inner meanings, she was willing to make him comfortable in his new home.

Court life, however, was a world of appearances, where everything had a hidden agenda. Mistreating her link to a powerful ally might simply not be the best course of action, and he'd better not confuse politics with real affection; especially not when he was a stranger in a court born from a secession where somebody must be harbouring hard feelings.

Arthur should have known how to act, the choices to be made to let him survive and even thrive at court, at least in the theory he spent years learning

This wasn't anymore theory to be read in books or discussed in long afternoons of banter, it was real, and its stakes were too high to ignore.

With his first day at court previewed for the next morning, there were things that needed to change even before dawn came.

"Howard?" Arthur called the valet, as he helped him out of his travelling clothes.

"Yes, sir?"

"We - You will speak to me in Romanic from now on," Arthur ordered. Speaking in Albish risked being interpreted as an offense toward the Flemish court, even as the Prince consort having something to hide or, Goddess forbid, being plotting against the crown.

"Certainly, sir. But, even in private?" Howard asked, still in Albish, the last link Arthur had with home. Except, Albion was not his home anymore. It couldn’t be. Arthur shook his head with vehemence for the ill choice of words even in the privacy of his mind. Flemish court was where he belonged now, as long as Emma wanted him at least, and if she ever decided he was not fit for the role, Albion would not provide him asylum. Not until his Lord Father was alive. It was already a miracle Howard had been permitted to stay at his service.

"I -"

There shouldn't be any problems for him in using Albish when they were alone, only that nobody in any court was ever safe from prying ears. The less he spoke Albish, the sooner he'd learnt Flemish and Batavia, which he must do the sooner possible. He could hear Lord Bonnefoy's mantra loud and clear if his mentor was there with him now: not knowing the language of a place was and would always be a liability.

Arthur's choice was obvious.

"Yes, even in private.”

***

The wedding would be held in two weeks, the sooner possible to finalize preparations while still allowing a certain grandeur. They were packed with activities, though for the most part Arthur spent his days studying the language and learning the most possible about the region's culture and usage. It helped that he already had a vague understanding of the language, courtesy to Lord Bonnefoy’s teaching. He observed the local court dynamics for a spot in which inserting. In the meanwhile, he toured Broekzele palace, the capital and even visited a couple of nearby towns.

In the evening, sometimes, Queen Emma asked for the pleasure of his company.

"Would you accompany me in the gardens?" She invited, her voice warm but firm. He could refuse, theoretically, claiming tiredness for all the activities during the day, just like he could do several other things.

He wouldn't. It wasn't sage. "It would be my pleasure, my lady." He bowed his head slightly before offering her his squared arm. They walked in the palace gardens under a sky grey with impending rain, the path littered with small puddles. A little shiver shook Arthur's body.

"Are you cold, sir?" Emma looked at him with a little wrinkle between her eyebrows.

"Oh, no," Arthur assured, quickly deciding he could as well add something more if they were to converse. "Autumns in Albion are colder. It was only a draught."

"I heard they are rainy."

"Very. I wouldn’t advise visiting if you do not stand rain."

One would go crazy with days after days of constant rain that could only reduce to a drizzle when there was good weather, to the point light rain meant sunny in the mind of locals.

"We have quite the rain here too," Emma chuckled, tilting her head back to briefly examine the sky. She carried herself with the bearing of a princess sure of her birthright; like a queen who could not show hesitation.

“I’d like to visit Albion, one day.”

I, she said, not we, and it could be an unconscious choice or the fact she had never been to Albion, contrary to him; but also the implied message it would not be possible, not good, for a prince consort to visit their native kingdom when their allegiance was now to another country. One day she’d visit Albion, if her kingdom resisted long enough to grow sufficiently solid to allow the monarch to leave for a while, but he would be left home.

“And I hope you will like it,” he answered, instead. “I know I'm biased but some views are breathtaking. “

They were still in his mind even after years away, the acres after acres of luxuriant green meadows, the forests so deep and ancients, the high cliffs jumping into the stormy sea -

“Forgive me, I got a bit carried away. But I trust I will come to consider this my home.”

It was not a matter of trust or hope. It wasn’t something onto which he had a choice. He must consider it his home and the sooner he accepter it, the better he would feel.

“I hope so, too, sir.”

They walked in silence for a while, a small chosen group of Emma’s ladies-in-waiting and Howard, along with a couple of Flemish gentlemen, following shortly nearby. Though technically already married and thus not in need of a chaperone, it was not safe for a queen to roam the palace alone. Emma, too, kept a sort of distance, one for which Arthur could only be grateful.

“And I heard you have brothers, too*, if i recall correctly,” she reprised the conversation. Her eyes glinted with the eagerness of sharing an experience with someone who would understand.

“Yes, your - Yes, four.”

“Four. It must have been quite lively.”

"Y-yes," Arthur murmured, his mind rushing to days so long in the past to have become a fantasy, Alistair, Dylan and Niall's shenanigans and the rare times they let him partake in their games, the stories at night in their quarters, being chased by servants all around the palace aisles. "Yes, I cannot say it was boring. You know what I mean."

She should, with two brothers, though, as a former princess, unable to share the same experiences of a group of boys growing together.

"Indeed. The games with Jan and Ësti, I mean August, are still dear to my heart."

Crown Prince Jan was Batavia designated heir, rumoured to be a man of few words and slow to laugh. Prince August - Ësti outside of formal contexts - had been the one to marry Princess Marianne if the secession hadn't happened.

The one voices said should have received the new crown

"Thinking about it, I believe you already met my older brother Dylan," Arthur reprised. Dylan had been sent to Batavia like he had been to Dauphiné. Unless the former princess lived away from the palace, she must have crossed paths with the Albish spare. Another question, then, pressed in Arthur's mind, wondering why Dylan wouldn't have been a better fit for the marriage.

"Oh, yes, I did. We actually became quite good friends I believe. He -"

She stopped and though Arthur hadn't said anything, her expression told him something on his face had troubled her, a little of his ever present jealousy slipping through the cracks.

"Yes," he anticipated her, "Dylan had always had that gift. Don't tell him, but I think he is my favourite brother."

He didn't ask if his brother ever talked about him, nor what he said. But they were only kids at the time.

"I trust we will become friends as well”.

"I hope so, my lady."

He considered her while they walked, wondering if she had been surprised when the crown was offered to her and not Prince August. But it was stupid to fret excessively over it, as she certainly wasn’t going to tell him she had doubts. One day, maybe, years down the line. His stomach knotted at the thought.

A week, he recalled. In a week they would be officially married

***

A week passed quickly, too quickly, filled with activities in which to partake, visits to do, clothes to try and documents to sign. Each day was a new face to memorise.

One night Emma knocked at his door at night.

"May I come in?" she asked, a courtesy not required by her position.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me, I mean Emma,” Arthur said, closing his book and automatically jumping on his feet to give a proper bow."

She chuckled. "No need for that. We're private and equal. She sat down and invited Arthur to do the same. "No, no the armchair."

Though Emma sounded sincere, Arthur still opted for the stool.

"I am afraid we are not, my lady."

That would have been true a year ago, maybe. Now, instead, one of them was a queen, the other only the consort. Emma, however, didn't seem to share the idea.

"We are", she insisted. “Or I would have fought in Council for nothing.”

“I am afraid I do not follow you,” Arthur said, but to test the waters, already sensing where Emma was going.

“I have no use for a prince consort if he does not help me rule at my side. May I be frank with you, sir?”

“If you feel safe doing so.”

Though he knew already nothing she might say would bring his Lord Father to break the engagement. The only thing could be her threatening to attack Albion, a far-fetched possibility if she didn't want to destroy her newborn kingdom, and even in that case his Lord Fathert would sooner order his son to stop his wife than to allow for a divorce.

“Soon we will be properly wedded," Emma began, as if repeating a discourse she had prepared beforehand. "But I am not as naive as to believe you maybe do not already have someone already. A love-interest, perhaps even a paramour."

"What happened in the past does not matter," Arthur answered coolly.

"It should instead. I do not expect you to love me as a husband does with a wife when their union comes from the heart and not necessity," she said. “I do not need a lover. I need a partner."

Her words were risky, as she was almost openly admitting she would take lovers if she felt like too.

Worrying was silly. As a queen she could do whatever she felt like. He wasn’t in a position to do anything.

"I will try to be,” he said. That he could be. It wasn’t what he had been trained to do, but it came close.

It rained the day of the wedding, a slow and constant dripping from a plumbeous sky. In his chambers, Arthur searched for Howard as the only familiar face in the room.

“Are you alright?” the valet’s expression said what he didn't dare to say in words, not with Flemish servants fretting all over Arthur to fix his hair and clothes

Arthur wasn't supposed to be anything but alright the day of his wedding and just asking would raise unwanted doubts. They would talk later, alone, but now his feelings were not of importance.

He tilted his head only a little, lips in an impercettibile and empty smile that he knew Howard would interpret correctly. He was. He must be. Being otherwise on his wedding day would start unwanted rumours.

Inside, a voice screamed the contrary, like it had screamed from the moment his coach left Swabia for Flanders. He did not care he was marrying a queen, that he might even rule in a distant future, when he had had no choice. Let his Lord Father send him to the farthest, most inhabitable corners of Esperia, where at least he'd be free.

He collected himself, hiding a bitter laugh behind a small cough the servants could interpret as the natural nervousness, for the wedding and what was to come after. Escaping was for tragic heroes in romance novels, not for him, not for a prince. He had gone over all of this already once. To redo it all over again would only bring him grief. He couldn't escape when in his mind was burnt the face his Lord Father would certainly make, that satisfaction for the wretched son that proved him right.

Sitting at a vanity for a servant to fix his hair, Arthur grabbed the edge of the table, eyes down-cast. They dressed him in Flemish fashion, rich garments worthy of his status, but overall simple in their cuts and with something reminiscent of Swabian clothing. The colours were Albish, probably to underline the good relations that would hopefully bloom from this union. Oil in abundance helped in keeping his hair in place.

"You look good," Howard complimented, calm. Eyes in the mirror, Arthur did not listen for he wasn't there anymore but in a coach slugging up a dusty road among fields of lavender with Francis sitting across from him, carding fingers through his hair, his touch soft and expert. For the first time Arthur had looked in the mirror and felt beautiful. He didn’t now.

The actual wedding was a simple and rather quick affair, or quick in comparison to the lavishness of Dauphiné.

In the temple hall, flowers of cloth lined Arthur's steps and decorated the altar, Albish roses, poppied and even irises. No flower hung from the ceiling.

That detail his dream had gotten wrong. How funny. It had warned him, if he hadn't been too blinded by love to see. He curled his fingers to not fidget with the velvet of his justaucorp, then cared his gaze did not stop for too long on the same spot while also returning periodically to the temple door as expected, with Emma and her entourage owing to arrive at any minute

According to Flemish traditions, he had not seen Emma in almost a whole day, something rooted in a long standing superstition stronger than the technicalities of a marriage by proxy. Thus Emma was to reach the temple after a brief parade through town, to receive the blessings of her people. She would cross the same route but backward after the ceremony, now with Arthur as legitimate husband at her side.

A quick, loud fanfare preceded Emma's arrival, pretty in her beautiful wedding gown - with its long veil spotting the traditional Flemish lace.

Everybody got up, curtsied and bowed accordingly at the Queen's passage, and she made sure to be generous with her nods and smiles. She didn't glow like happy brides usually did when about to marry, she hadn't their shy but joyful smile; instead in her eyes was resolution and the determination of a plan.

"Your Majesty," Arthur welcomed, bowing deeply, whatever bother he might feel long repressed inside him.

"Your Highness. You look good," she nodded as well.

"As you do."

They sat down, facing the priestess, Emma first and Arthur at her nod, part of him still trying to make sense of what was happening. He was getting married. He would live in Flanders for the rest of his life, unless anything happened to break the marriage, something whose consequences were not bright. He could not make sense of what the priestess was saying, the words in Romanic but reduced to a vague buzz to which answer mechanically with formulas he had practiced to the point of nausea.

"Now, please, take the rings."

They lie on a dark red, velvet cushion presented by a page, two identical bands of intertwining gold and silver around a single gem, blood ruby for Arthur and gentle, blue sapphire for Emma.

They glowed, an excellent work of the best goldsmith masters in Flanders, and Arthur could not take his, his hands shivering for what he prayed be mistaken for excitement.

"Are you alright, sir?" Emma murmured with the usual gentleness, nothing but understanding in her eyes. For just that, Arthur ought to put himself together, for the opening she showed him the night she came to his rooms to speak about their union.

"Yes, my lady."

He watched his hand picking up the ring, taking delicately Emma's in his to finally slip the band onto her anular. When she did the same, it felt like burning.

The priestess turned to address the room at large. "If there is anyone among you that believes this wedding should not take place, speak now or forever hold your peace

"I," Arthur wanted to scream, "I have something against this union. I oppose it."

It was a blessing that thoughts were still secret and free, and that in his mind he could cry to his heart's content, a blessing he had learnt to put on a mask. Put on a neutral face as inside him something still prayed, still hoped, still waited for some miracle. The church doors would open, and there would be Francis, drenched in water, hair and clothes in disarray from the run, like it could only happen in novels. The hero came to save their true love at the last second. Like he had ran to Arthur in the courtyard at Avennio Palace at dawn to stop him from leaving, a year ago. It felt like a whole life.

He would appear to tell the presents he had something against the union, as if he could actually have something strong enough to stop the union; as if being in love with the spouse had ever been a valid reason.

The doors remained closed. No one among the presents said anything.

"In that case, I hereby pronounce you as husband and wife."

The guests cheered. Leaning forward to press a light kiss on Emma's lips, Arthur's heart sank.

The wedding feast lasted too long and too short all at the same time, the hours losing themselves in the music and the small talking with various guests whose names and titles Arthur could hardly grasp.

Adjusting once more his face into a pleasant neutrality, he nodded and smiled at need, repeating the same formulas to thank or to inquire about this or that well being till the words sounded alien to his ears.

He cut into his roasted meat, unable to not periodically glance at Howard standing right behind him.

"You are doing good," the valet whispered, leaning in with the excuse to fit an already perfectly tied ribbon on Arthur's jacket.

"Thank you," Arthur mouthed in response, not daring to leave his grip on the fork or he'd be grabbing Howard's arm for reassurance. His other hand rested on the table, gently cupped by Emma's, another gesture holding all too many messages.

It was nothing but a light touch, but there was also a certain pressure, a shift of weight telling the story of a queen as worried as he was. It didn't last more than a few seconds, Emma retrieving the hand to take her goblet in response to a man - a duke, probably - who lifted his own to toast to the new union.

With a freshly filled chalice, Arthur imitated her, the sip he took doing little to ease the lump in his throat. At least, Flanders had excellent beer, dark, rich, fruity and with only a touch of bitter undertone, the kind that needed more than a taste to be truly appreciated. Arthur found fitting for the occasion. He'd found a way to appreciate this new life, as he did in Dauphiné, as he did in Swabia, as he'd always been meant to do.

When the wedding cake arrived, he focused on counting the sugar glazed decorations and all the swirls of cream, or the way the choux squashed under his little fork when taking the first piece to feed Emma, as tradition demanded, to not think about what the night was heading to.

Arthur wasn't ignorant on that matter. A couple weeks of travels had been a sufficiently long time to go over the dynamics of a carnal union between man and woman and touch all the needed details. Being ignorant became impossible when being friends and more with a Dauphinoise.

When the time came, maids guided Emma away as servants did the same with him.

In a chamber adjoining Emma's they helped him out of his garments, piece after piece, working off the same layers he wore a few hours before. They worked fasted-paced, so much so that for the first time, he regretted Dauphinoises clothing and the lengths required to undo the buttons and lacing. Even better, he should order everybody to leave him alone to undress by himself. That would buy him the time he needed, something no one here could understand.

Surveying from a distance, Howard was the only exception, bringing Arthur back to a time when he had painstakingly dressed him so as to win some more minutes.

Feeling his outer jacket loosening enough to be slipped off, Arthur gestured for him to approach, clasping his arm as soon as the valet was within reach.

"I do not feel anything," he hissed, slipping into Albish while the other servants rushed around him, too busy to care. "I mean, for her. What if ... I am not, not able to -"

Raising to the occasion, a member of the Albish entourage who delivered Arthur to Flanders had called it, before delving into explanations that had Arthur bit his inner cheeks to the point of blood to banish other memories.

"You will," the valet said, reassuringly. "You are sane, your things works. It will be fine."

"I must."

Howard was right. It would be alright, maybe even pleasant as rumors said it was, if he was to trust rumours and what he happened to read in Dauphinoise literature. Besides, a nuptial bed was still a better alternative than a cell.

The door closing on him felt the same, still. Allowing himself the luxury of fidgeting while he was still alone, Arthur crossed the room to climb onto the bed.

Emma joined him soon after. She sat on the edge of the bed as well, the cream of her nightgown a stark contrast with the dark gold of the sheets, making no sign to move. She didn't look at him, head dipped, hands clasped to summon the courage to act.

"Should we ..." Arthur swallowed, stammering. Almost two years spent elbow to elbow with Dauphinoisies and their fame when it came to these things had done nothing to ease his embarrassment.

With Francis had been - would have been - easy, for reasons stronger than him being a man

Arthur had not fall for him because of that, nor hesitated now with Emma because she was of the fairier sex. It was a connexion going deeper than his body's impulses and desires.

With Francis there had been passion, a long burning fire refusing to be extinguished, teasing touches into which melt and kisses that set his nerves ablaze.

"We should," Emma said, her voice mirroring his own insecurities. She was the one with him now, about to share the nuptial bed.

"We must." A unconsumed marriage could be the base for an annulment, a risk too big when the wedding linked a new, fragile kingdom with its only ally for the time being.

"Then," Arthur swallowed again, imagining to be one of those lovers in the poems that Fr - Dauphinoisies held so dearly, "may I kiss you, my lady?"

"You ... may."

Be gentle, a voice inside reminded him, when he moved the cloth of her underdressed to press a first kiss onto her shoulder. She didn't move but neither refused the touch. He dared a second, light into the hollow of her throat, the beating of her frantic heart against his lips, the beating of someone scared.

Her hand grabbed his nape before he could lift his head to check. “I am fine, sir,” she urged, fingers pressing into his skull as her heart kept thundering under his mouth. All other Arthur’s attempts were futile, till she were leaning back onto the mattress and guiding him on top of her.

Arthur lied there, his forehead pressed against her chest over the nightgown, unable to bring himself to move further.

"You should have me now, sir" Emma called, finally relaxing her grip so that he could look at her. When he focused on her, she had her eyes toward him but not looking. It did not take a genius to know she was not liking this, the wellbeing of her kingdom the only thing keeping her there. For a moment Arthur wanted to tell her they could stop, that he'd never expose her to the man who sold him without even the decency of a warning; if courtiers were what worried her, they would find a way around it.

Prudence held his tongue, painfully aware two weeks were too little to know a person to the point of blind trust. Taking chances was for fools, not for someone meant to navigate courts and their intrigues. She could be testing him. She could wait for him to crash to sever the marriage and the alliance. She was a queen and no royal was ever sincere.

Albion could maybe sustain losing the alliance, but then he would never be safe from his lord father’s wrath.

"As you wish," he accepted, his cock only half-hard between his legs. Glancing away from Emma's lying body, he touched it temptatively. It barely twitched, little in the room helping to ignite Arthur's arousal. Emma was a pretty woman, young, in her prime, with fair skin, a firm bosom and a nicely plump body. In any other circumstance Arthur would at least be interested, but seeing her as she was, eyes shut like someone waiting for their sentence, he could feel nothing but concern.

Closing his eyes, he found himself imagining other fingers, another mouth on his skin. He and Francis had never gone further than some accidental touches, a quick brushing on heated skin over the fabric, the teasing of what might be and that Arthur never allowed. Digging the heel of his hand further into the base of his cock, he recalled an afternoon, one in late autumn as it was now, Francis kneeling between his thighs and his mouth wet onto his sex even through the cloth; them lying together on the same couch and how it felt to have Francis suck onto his lips, a hand playing with the waistband of Arthur breeches.

“Sir?” Emma called. Arthur forced himself to collect himself. He took Emma’s hips, aligning himself, his fingers slippery with cold sweat. Emma whimpered, so tense and dry that Arthur almost froze. He took in a breath, repeating the same things he'd been told, how the first part was always the hardest, that it was supposed to hurt a bit at the beginning. She choked another sob.

"I can't." He pulled out. "Not like this, my lady. I cannot have you by force." She hesitated, as if Arthur's words weren't even in her wildest dreams. A second later, it was gone.

"It is not by force, when I asked you to do it."

"In that case, I will have to refuse your order." He spoke, praying she would take his rebellion as an act of solidarity, the knowledge they were feeling the same.

"Or at least, please tell me what you wish for me to do."

Some ladies had their preferences, ways they liked to be touched to feel pleasure, by hand or maybe by mouth. Whatever she'd say, he would compromise. Inside, he prayed silently she wouldn’t order him to continue.

"Please, wait."

Propping herself onto a elbow, she reached between her thighs to palm her sex.

Arthur looked away before she asked him. He found no pleasure in watching, and he could feel himself going soft if he didn’t keep going over the same fantasy in his mind. He couldn’t say how long had passed when Emma finally informed him she was ready. After that, he braced himself and did what he had to do. The rest of the night got lost to him.

He woke up at the usual hour to find Emma still in his - their - bed, sleeping soundly, a scene he wasn't sure he'd ever see again; nor he knew how to feel about it. The prospect, though, didn't appear as worrisome as it should be.

Her back to him, she had curled into a ball under the cover, a way of sleeping more akin to a child than a sovereign queen, sleep the only moment she could undress the mask; something private and precious.

Arthur diverted his gaze. Judging from the darkness outside, even if used to rise early, she wouldn’t wake up for some other hours and that moment would be marked by maids coming to check on the queen after the wedding night.

"Are you awake already?" She murmured, her Romanic laced with Flemish.

"I am used to waking up early, my lady," Arthur replied, attempting to speak Flemish as well. "You stood."

Emma rolled on her back before propping up in a sitting position, hair gathered into a quick braid falling over one shoulder. "Yes."

"Why?"

Somehow sleeping together felt more intimate than having sex. It spoke of vulnerability and the uttermost trust. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep at bay a thought before it could form.

"It would have been strange leaving during our wedding night."

"Right.” He sat up as well, sure going back to sleep would be useless by now. “Are you ...”
“I am fine, sir,” she assured, a little too quickly, rubbing her legs together under the covers. “You were very considerate.”

He nodded vaguely. He didn’t feel to have been considerate at all.

"I could call the staff since we are both awake."

It was tempting, rushing the latest marriage formalities to then be able to start on the path that would be their wedded life, Emma onto her daily duties and him on his. The hour, however, was still too deep into the night.

“I believe it is really too early,” Arthur resigned, with a vague attempt at joking “You should go back to sleep, my lady.”

“What about you?”

“I will as well.”

But it became soon clear sleep had abandoned both of them for the day, as the sudden awareness of what passed last night set heavily between them. There was something strange in sharing a thing so intimate with a person while knowing pretty much nothing about them.

“Thank you for last night.” Emma murmured, crouching before the fireplace to revive some of the embers. They slowly grew into low flames, lighting the room in red undertones. Carefully she lit up a couple candles as well. “For giving me time.”

“Of course.”

She said it like he had done her a great favour, but he couldn’t imagine things in any other way. If he had forced himself on her, their union would be more doomed than what it was already.

“I know it wasn’t -” Emma began but Arthur stopped her there and then.

“Please don’t say it. We are going to make this work.”
They would. They had to.

Emma visited him again at night in the following weeks, always with the tension of an obligation she’d rather escape; enough that Arthur never dared the first move, waiting for her to open, word by word, chatting till the first light of days till she crawled in his lap, and they did what society demanded of them.

***

They held a banquet to be followed by a Grand Ball for the Winter Solstice, the first official event for Arthur at court as Prince consort, not even a month after the wedding.

He sat at Emma’s right at the head of the table, somehow a message from the queen to the whole court for what concerned the position in the palace of her consort. Though not allowed to rule and a foreigner on top of that, he was the queen's husband and ought to be treated with the due respect and deference.

Most courtiers agreed, or were well trained in masquerading their displeasure to more private circles. Some, however, either did not care to hide or could not, all the signs of their aversion well visible behind their mask of pleasantry if someone only looked with a trained eye. Several were seated at this banquet, a couple chatting here, another trio over there, a marquis who seemed to want to kill him by staring alone. They all spoke Flemish, in the way one does when trusting a language to hide secrets from unwanted ears.

"You look worried. Is there something bothering you, sir?" Emma whispered, inclining her head toward him only slightly, an eye still on the room. Glancing in his goblet, Arthur searched for the best answer. Showing insecurities about his place at court was never a good plan, even less at a banquet; neither he wanted to rush or hide behind the queen at the first offense like a crying child would do. On the other hand, she had told him they wanted their marriage to be something and nothing good was ever born from secrets in a relationship. Besides, the hate toward him could reflect on her.

"Nothing that cannot wait another moment, my lady,” He assured, taking a slow sip of wine while not breaking eye contact with the room at large and especially some courtiers. “But I was watching Lord V. over there. He seems particularly happy about his new jacket,” he said, carefully moduling his voice to have the levity needed for small-talk. One she caught swiftly. Lord V. was indeed wearing a terrible magenta justaucorp totally mismatched with his reddish hair.

“He does. Poor man has no taste for colours. But I should still remember to compliment him about it before the night ends.”

"Yes. He keeps adjusting it."

It was clear the man wanted his new garment to be noticed, especially by the queen and ignoring that would be a faux-pas, along with risking brewing a new enemy. On the contrary, complimenting people's dresses was always a good way to make connections.

"At least it is a beautiful colour."

In saying it, Arthur repressed a hollow laugh and returned to his plate, away from the memory of hours spent talking clothes, from a time that belonged to another life.

When they entered the ballroom, all courtiers bowed and curtsied deeply, as deep as nobody had ever bowed before Arthur only a few months ago. Emma must have felt the same, a princess turned queen, but he couldn't ask about it now and probably not for a long time.

Head up high, back perfectly straight, he walked the length of the room looking nowhere but in front of him. On a platform, Emma's throne and his smaller own, waited. Turning to the room at large Emma graced it with a warm smile.

"Might the dance commence." In the silence, her voice echoed loud and clear, before a quick gesture toward the orchestra sufficed for new music to fill the ambient as she sat down and Arthur afterward. The musicians played a courante and a gigue, both livery in the steps of those dancing for the queen's delight. She looked at the dancers intently.

"Do you wish to dance, my lady?"

The invitation was due, if he wanted to build a certain reputation at court. After years of practice, though mostly against his will, dancing was something he could tackle.

"Gladly, sir. Shall we wait for the next piece?"

"As you wish."

With the first notes of a menuet in his ears, Arthur stood up and offered his hand to Emma, which she eagerly accepted in the sudden silence of the room. Only when they were in the middle of the floor, bodies set in position, the music reprised from the beginning.

The steps came to Arthur with more ease than he had expected, a certain muscle memory guiding his feet and arms over the whole sequence.

Emma danced with grace, her movements fluid and precise despite the complex and heavy gown. As a former princess, she must have received dancing lessons as soon as she started walking. When the music picked up in a crescendo, she pirouetted with ease in place, her dark blonde hair flashing in the candlelight.

Arthur almost tripped. He and Francis had never had the chance to dance together again since that gig at the Queen' ball, a lifetime ago. There had been little, silly impromptu dances Francis liked to drag him in, but always when they were alone. To dance properly at a Ball, however, had remained a fantasy. Pirouetting as well, Arthur swallowed a bitter laugh.

“You dance beautifully,” he complimented as the last notes echoed in the ballroom.

“Thank you. You are a good dancer yourself.”

They danced another round after that before Arthur could ask for a pause, gladly handling her over to another partner to return to his seat.

It was well into the evening when he started to notice, by force of looking and the more he did, the more it became evident.

Emma seemed definitely more interested in the ladies than in their partners. Her chin delicately posed onto her cupped palm, she stared toward a duchess, if Arthur remembered well, a few years her senior. Her green eyes almost glimmered, mouth half open in a soft sigh. It closed abruptly when the duchess turned toward her, half faced hidden behind a feathered fan. Lowering it only a little, the noblewoman winked, quick but not enough that Arthur missed it. A light blush coloured Emma's cheeks, another piece of a puzzle Arthur was rapidly putting together. He could be mistaken, the easier explanation; but he'd been taught to pay attention to all the details and they were showing him a story hard to ignore. He repressed an impetus of hope, too soon with the little he actually had, and yet something to remember, to secure. Emma didn't visit him that night.

***

"She is like me. Like me or Francis. "

Arthur's words cut through a crisp winter afternoon. He didn't have to wait much for Howard's answer, the two of them alone. However courtiers might take it, sometimes he needed time with no one around but his valet.

"What do you mean?"

"The queen, Emma. She likes - Or I think she likes … "

Retrieving a stick covered in slob from the mouth of an eager puppy, Arthur hesitated. At the ball Emma had overall ignored all the men but he wouldn't bet his life yet she didn't like them at all

"Both sexes" he concluded instead, launching the stick once more as far as he could. "Go, Orvar, go take it."

The puppy had already bolted, barking loudly. The horse Howard was holding for the time being, snorted.

The animal, a beautiful, young chestnut stallion had been Emma's solstice gift, one that left Arthur counting the hours till he could leave his royal obligations to take the animal for a ride.

The combination of sapphire necklace and earrings he bought for her paled in comparison, also considering how she bestowed upon him a duchy in the southern part of Flanders with relative title and estate upon the wedding.

"Are you sure?" Howard inquired, trying to placate the stallion, which unfortunately for him answered only to Flemish. When Arthur asked for the reins, he passed them to him eagerly.

"Not absolutely, no," Arthur said, caressing the horse's nuzzle. "But at the ball ... and even before ... she truly seems interested in the ladies."

“Yet, you seem quite sure.”

Arthur brushed his free hand on his breeches one time. “I suppose. I guess it is because, well, I am too.”

“Yes, I know. What about it?”

“I am not sure,” Arthur admitted, with Orvar wiggling proudly with the stick secure in his little mouth. With one last pat, Arthur let go of the reins for a moment to crouch and retrive the stick again. He held Orvar’s nuzzle between his palms, cooing Albish praises. Orvar barked, ecstatic, head jerking up toward a nearby tree where some birds were chirping on a branch.

“I suppose nothing, for now.”

The topic was still too delicate to confront it without a certainty he couldn’t have after only little more than a month, even more when Flanders could not have the same tolerance he experienced in other courts

Holding the reins fast in his grip to prevent the stallion from rear because Orvar had just zig zagged between his legs, he saddled in. Next to him, Howard tumbled to the ground,with Orvar licking his face.

“No, down,” the valet attempted to free himself, feebly, the command losing effect for the laughter that laced his voice. It wasn’t long before he accepted his defeat.

“Take him back to the kennels,” Arthur called, slowly turning the stallion around. “After that, you can consider yourself free till I return to the palace.”

A wrinkle cut Howard’s forehead. “Shall I send someone to accompany you?” he asked, raising to his feet, brushing snow from his legs. Arthur’s refusal was on his lips, an order easy to deliver. He didn’t need any chaperon for a simple ride in the area. The ever present risk of injury and how it might evolve if not treated quickly, in addition to what that might cause to Flanders, held his tongue. While his lord father wouldn’t cry his demise or declare war in his name, there was always a grey area Arthur wanted to keep the smallest possible.

“Yes,” he resigned, “tell them I’ll be waiting for them by the Northern fountain.”

With this last order, he kicked once into the stallion’s flanks to start him into a trot, a few snowflakes melting in his face.

At the beginning of spring the invitation to Crown Princess Marianne and Prince Ludwig's marriage reached Arthur, as a personal connaissance of the princess.

"I suppose Lord Gilbert is not having a good time right now," Howard commented in an attempted mixture of Flemish and Romanic during one of Arthur's stroll near the palace. "From what I recall, he wasn't particularly fond of the idea ..."

Arthur made a vague sound. How Gilbert had taken the news of his precious little brother being married to what he insisted on calling an harpy was not of his concern; not when something more pressing demanded his whole attention. He hadn't stopped thinking about it since the invitation came in.

"The wedding will be in Dauphiné," he sighed to the gardens at large. In Southern Dauphiné, to be precise, given how it would be celebrated in summer. That made only things worse.

"Yes. I was actually looking forward to finally see it. If you'd have me, I mean."

"Of course I'd have." Arthur jerked his hands over Howard's futile doubts. "No. The wedding will be in Dauphiné."

"Yes, you already ... oh."

That was the perfect reaction.

"What do I do?"

"Well, I suppose it depends on how you feel about him

"I ... don't know."

In the past months all of Arthur's left energies had gone into banishing every single memory he had with Francis. It was going as well as it did the previous time, all his feelings piling up behind a new wall that promised to crumble the moment Arthur was once more in Francis' company. If he didn’t think about it, didn’t indulge too much in it, he could almost believe he got over his love; unfortunately his mind had developed an eagerness for returning to lands of what might have been. He'd been sighing a lot like a fool, for sure.

Somewhere in his chambers were a bundle of letters with a rooster in their sigil, letters Arthur couldn't bring himself either to open or to throw away.

"Forgive my boldness, then, you could as well exploit the situation. After all, it might be the last time you see each other"

Last. The word, however, would have impacted Arthur more if he wasn't still elaborating on the rest of Howard's proposal..

"Are you suggesting I cheat on my - on my wife, the queen?"

Of course*, conjugal infidelity between royals wasn't unheard of, even more with two people brought together by nothing but political gain and Arthur had envisioned the possibility in the long nights of doubts before finally giving in to Francis' love. Those, however, were fake scenarios, ones that Howard seemed well-intentioned to turn into a reality.

"From what you told me, she wouldn't particularly mind," he said, with the usual tone of when Arthur refuting him would be lying.

Emma did not love him; nor Arthur did love her or not in the same way he loved Francis. That he had loved. He hadn't seen him in a year. Sometimes, he could still feel the warmth of his palm against his cheek

“Probably,” he muttered. He would think about it later. For now he blessed having a new pile of work waiting on his desk to distract him.

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Hot summer day

2022-03-26T16:59:22Z

Fandom: The Song of Achilles
Characters: Achilles, Patroclus
Prompt: Antica Grecia
Tag: Missing moments

Sweat drips salty into Patroclus' eyes. Blinking, he dries his forehead with the back of his hand and pushes back his wet curls.
It’s hot and sultry, the air heavy even here on the mountain. It must be the hottest day of the whole summer, a day in which Helios' carriage is burning up more than ever.
Back against the warm trunk of a fir tree, Patroclus lets himself slowly soccombe to lethargy.

It's too hot to do anything, but find a nice tree and relax in the shade it offers. Even Chiron agreed, dispensing them from their usual tasks.
The light makes everything look brighter.

Achilles has brought his lyre today, in the bag where he keeps his knife, the hunting tools and the herbs and instruments for first-aid in case of an accident.
Now, he lazily picks at the chords in some more akin to arpeggio exercises than a real song. His music, normally limpid and clear, now envelops Patroclus, rich and pasty.

It lulls him to sleep as a few bees buzz around them. From time to time, one lands on the tip of Patroclus' nose, tickling with its tiny legs; or on Achilles' fingers; through his hair.
They don't care much. Chiron has told them aplenty bees are normally gentle and not to be feared if approached with calm, that they sting only if feeling threatened.
Those poor little things must be thinking Achilles' gold hair and their chitons are a new and strange type of flower.
The important thing is to not make any sudden movements. Even their buzz after a while stops being a nuisance, mingling with the cicadas chirruping and birds chirping.

They have lunch under the tree, as the sun reaches its peak in the sky. It’s fresh berries they gathered yesterday, figs, cheese and the fish that fill the mountain streams. The other day Achilles caught three in one go while Patroclus struggled to hit one. Now they roast the fish on a skewer on the embers, though Patroclus is pretty sure the stones are hot enough to cook food on them.

After lunch, with their bellies full, staying awake becomes pretty much impossible.

Well, for Patroclus' at least, judging from how Achilles is nudging him in the side.

"Did you hear that?"

"What? The crickets?"

He will have to be more specific.

"No. A bird, tweeting. Listen?"

Eyes still closed, Patroclus listens. Around him the mountain sings with all its voices, and below all that, a desperate chirping. Probably a bird has fallen from its nest. Patroclus hasn’t yet the time to say anything that Achlles is already pulling him on his feet for an impromptu hunt

Achilles moves fast and sure. Chiron taught them how to understand where sounds came from to not get lost. When they finally find it, the bird is screaming and flapping its too wings at the feet of a tall tree. The nest must be hidden through the branches

“It’s too high,” Patroclus considers. “Maybe with a - what are you doing?"

Having grabbed the bird, squeezing firmly, Achilles moves from branch to branch with the fluidity of a cat. Patroclus can’t help but to watch, completely mesmerised.

And terrified, of course.

"Be careful," he shouts, as the branches become thinner and thinner the higher Achilles climb.

“Don’ worry,” Achilles shouts back. “Oh, there it is. Found it.”

He’s so high that even if he’s shouting, Patroclus has a hard time hearing him.

“Good. Now please come down. Before you -”

He hasn’t completed the thought yet that he hears a horrible crack. He stares, helplessly, as Achilles’ fall.

“Achilles!” he shouts. But Achilles only catches a branch and uses his body to stop the fall as if it was nothing. On the ground, Patroclus is sure to have just experienced one of those heart attacks Chiron talked about.

Achilles will be his death and he isn’t even aware. He’s grinning and brushing his hands from the dust and traces of bark. "Let's go to the river for a bath?"

Hand on his chest, Patroclus smiles too.

“Yes. Good idea.”

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Divine inspiration

2022-03-26T16:53:07Z

Fandom: Odissea
Characters: Penelope, Telemachus

Prompt: Antica Grecia
Tag: missing moments, pre-canon

They didn't come all in once. That would have been too obvious. No. It started slowly, with his or that prince asking for hospitality and amply outstaying it. Sometimes were local nobles with the excuse of discussing this or that issues

First the men from around Ithaca, then Dolicha and Samo and farther islands.

Their interest for her as well has been subtler at first. One gaze indulging a little too long, being a little too lustful. A double-entendre joke. One hand groping or squeezing her arm a little too tight. The not so casual slaps on her ass

Penelope hides behind a mask of indifference. She keeps her head high. She is a princess born from a nymph, the Queen and They're nothing.

Odysseus will come back and make them pay. She's certain.

Telemachus however is too young and inexperienced to know patience, in that age where every offense makes a boy's blood boil with rage.

She sees it in the flash in his eyes now that Antinous tries to drag her in his lap, in the way his fists curl around the knife. His knuckles are white, his face patched with red.

"Telemachus, son," Penelope calls. "Why don't you go to see if your grandfather wants to join us today."

Laerte has retired to the farthest rooms of the palace. Telemachus will take a while

"How can you stand it?" He snaps, later, in the privacy and relatively safety of her rooms, oozing frustration.

It pains Penelope to the core.

He's fifteen and he is too young to do anything but watch. The men in the palace, those still loyal to Odysseus did their best to train him in the sword and bow but there’s only little a boy can do against a whole group of grownups.

They might even kill him if he steps too much out a supposed line, strengthening their claims on the throne.

He's fifteen and has never met his father.

During the years Penelope tried to compensare as best as she could, reminiscing of the boyish education she received in Sparta, of the games with Castor and Pollux. But there’s only as much she can do.

Laerte helped too, at least, raising his only nephew as if he was his own son.

He's talking about retiring away from the palace.

It reminds Penelope she should send Telemachus somewhere safer, if she knew where. Maybe to Mycenae, to Clytemnestra. Or even to Sparta, to Tyndarus.

No, it'd be too dangerous. Yet, there's no doubt the only thing keeping him alive for now has been her refusing to take another husband and they have been careful enough to not force themselves onto her.

But it won't last forever

Telemachus is sufficiently smart to know it as well.

"We must do something" he insists, pacing the room with nervous energy.

Stopping to change the threads and examine the pattern, Penelope refutes. “Not yet.”

It would end in tragedy for them, without allies as they are now, most of the men loyal to Odysseus went with him to Troy and never returned.

She doesn’t trust most of the guards left at the palace, most old and weak and prone to be bought..

"They say father is dead."

“He’s alive.” By now they have become empty words, but Penelope keeps on repeating them nonetheless. She must, to convince herself before anyone else, or everything she’s doing would be useless.

“I wish he hadn’t left.”

Oh, how Penelope wished that too. The strength she has to show in the house, however, doesn’t allow her to falter, not even with her son.

“Your father had a duty. And our if to be loyal and faithful and defend here till his return.”

But the years are weighing on her shoulders, now that Troy has long fallen and most kings have returned. She doesn’t know how long she will be able to resist. How long till she won’t be able to calm Telemachus anymore, before he kill someone.

She can't always be with him, always ready to stop his hand.

"Mother …"

"I'm fine." Penelope takes a slow breath to push back her tears. "I'm fine. Go back to your duties."

Telemachus hesitates, clearly not wanting to leave her alone with her sadness but there isn’t much he can do and this pain she feels is for her and her alone.

Returning to her work, she let it take control, let nothing occupy her mind but the rhythmic sequence of the movements.

When she comes back to her senses, the pattern is wrong, a change of lines where it shouldn't be. A silly mistake, once she normally wouldn’t make. She has to snap out of it.

Praying the gods for guidance, Penelope leans forward to start unraveling her work. She has worked through the first row of wrong stitches when it hits her like a lightning.

She has just found a way to gain some more time.

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