live fast, die young

“is it, amazonian? why, what great relief, to know that if only i act fast enough, i might make my selection before it is done in my name!” helen laughs, and it is a full, round sound, edgeless in its ability to spin in both mirth and grudge. the rest does not need to be said, for it hangs on the ornament of her laughter: such is the only choice i might make in these days.

lashes skirt low over cheeks as the sun does over sea-line at dusk, and she waves her hand dismissively at the notion that these festivities are built in the name of the daughter’s own enjoyment. “yes, yes, it is for me.” she repeats, clicking her tongue as her gaze brushes over the hall behind. “for me in the way that the fishmonger’s spear is for the sturgeon, or the hunter’s bow is for the stag.”

now her browse rolls back to penthesilea, and in the mist of wine something sharp protrudes on her fine features. you are huntress too.

“i do so hope the bucks know pleasures of the bottle before they are shot.”

In her words, she is cut with her own blade. No small modicum of guilt passes over her, her eyes meeting Helen’s with a hint of apology. Why, she cannot quite say. There is no shame in competing. Frustrating as this may be, this woman is not hard done by. That is what she tells herself as an easy smile returns. Arms folded beneath her breast, she moves to find the wall beside Helen, leaning her shoulders back against it and coming to rest with her. 

“Most don’t.” How many other women, princess or lesser, were sold to the highest bidder? How many met unkind husbands on their day of matrimony, became horseflesh sold at market, marvelled at but never spoken to? 

She listened, quiet and stoic, as Penthilsea talked of skulls being beaten. Such vulgarity would’ve caused the faintest of hearts to squirm, to cry and beg for an end. But Cassandra had seen much worse in her dreams, her visions. Oh, a skull beaten was mere as soft as a boot crushing a beetle in her cursed eyes. 

In this, she couldn’t have been special, for a warrior queen had surely made her own marks upon the gentle cycle of life, death, present and future. 

The daughter of feared Ares’ silence does not go amiss, as Cassandra acts like a companion. She wondered quietly, one thought left unanswered, if she saw such a god as a father? Had he ever given her time? Perhaps they were more alike, though her celestial blood ran thin through ancestors long gone, her mother had always been absent, too. 

“You speak as if you have seen something,” she mused, lips almost upturned in amusement as she continues their slow-paced walk. “As if you have some wisdom you refuse to offer.” 

The arm clasped about the priestess’s own held steady, strong and tense with the matter of the conversation, a certain discomfort clear around the Amazon’s features. Wide, dark eyes glanced sideways to study the smirk on the other’s lips, her own tilting upwards to match them in kind as she breathed a laugh. 

“Perhaps I sound ridiculous,” she admitted, brows lofting, head shaking just a touch as she ran a finger across one brow. Her gaze met the other’s, warmer this time, though despite her self-admonishments, it held back nothing. Joviality melted back into her person, a forcefully applied salve to her tension, but her conviction remained. 

@kidemxnas​

“That is enough,” shouted one Trojan soldier from the row below where Paris stood. “I don’t know,” he explains, holding what had been the forward-pointing apex of his helmet in one hand, now a scrap of bronze that could no longer regain its shape had Hephaestus hammered it down himself. I don’t know. How could it be? the idea resounds in silent looks between the other fighters from other end of the arena.

“Idiot, have you no eyes?” the other answers. “Did you not feel brunt of their strength as I? Did you not see them mount as they did? So others say that they can also mount their steed over the surface of the sea and the standing heads of harvest corn.”

“That is no act of a mortal,” a third one recounts bitterly, his legs locked in a stiff position from where they sat and lapped at their wounds. “That is the lost sister of the Furies.”

Agreeable, submissive, and lending an ear to the carving blade of these sibylline murmurs, Paris gleams under the callowness of his idleness but is no stranger to these men’s grievances. Though by way of luck (rather, reluctance to partake in the training grounds) he remained unscathed, the thought of this supposed sister of the Erinyes inflated the same panic he’d felt when they had ravaged the fields and claimed their prize. It clings to him to the late hours of the afternoon and leads him to turn upwind into the port of Gytheion where the scent of sweat and blood has weakened in lieu of the animated sounds of merchants. In a matter of minutes, Paris is no more than a distant star from the market place. It is at that the dockside where ships are made fast by mooring that he takes his place.

“You have beat three of my best men,” Paris announces from behind her, his expression smooth and welcoming (which is not quite the same as “pleased”).

“I know not which city you hail from, but Sparta has much to offer for the mighty and beautiful.”

Rolling waves mixed with the creaking wood of ships into a low, hypnotic hum. United with the not too distant sounds of the marketplace and punctuated by the occasional sailor’s shout, the queen felt at peace here. Such a rare thing these days, in a city illuminated by so many voices, to be able to tune them out. 

Unguarded, as ever, she leisured along the gangways of the docks, popping sweet, purple grapes into her mouth as her eyes cast upward and out across the harbour. 

Even a compliment cut through the serenity. For a moment, she withered, half tempted to waft the interloper away before he had finished his sentence. If she had wanted to hear of her prowess in battle, she would be back at the palaestra turning such words into action. 

“My own,” came her neat reply.

Biting her tongue, she chewed a grape as she looked across to Paris, recognising him immediately as the shepard’s son so lately lauded. A smile crossed her features, mostly polite, perhaps a quarter pleased, unlike himself. As with any rival, she remained wary, a certain tenseness appearing at her shoulders, in her bearing, though it did not venture in to her tone. 

She walked alongside her, her skirts brushing the dust-ridden stonework of the Spartan halls as her hands remain placed upon her belly. She had not met her yet, she told herself. Cassandra, too, had only heard her name by whispers only. She heard her name on the tongue of Paris, her brothers, her father and every other man who she had once thought her own.

Her brows rise as the Amazon answered her question, feeding her curiosity with handfuls of secrets as her naked toes rubbed against the cooling path beneath them. “You do not merely act as their guard?” Cassandra asked, her tongue moving before her mind could take ahold off it. “These men…” she mused, her eyes straying to overlook the heads of hair and broad shoulders; her eyes keen yet absent as she both looked for the men she adored and did not. With each and every head there came a slight taste of their future. 

( Death. Birth. Godliness. Nothing. )

Left with the taste of sand and grit in her mouth, the Trojan princess cleared her throat and slowly turned to meet Penthesilea head-on. “All these men will die to another’s sword… Why try to stop it?” 

Far from adoring the crowd, as she might ordinarily, the Amazon wasted beneath its weight. As they paused to survey their setting, still, as always, loud loud loud with some dozens of voices, she watched the blondes and browns and whites melted in to one great desert of hair and skin, each grain of sand utterly indistinguishable from the last. 

“Why should I guard men perfectly capable of refusing my help?” she queried, a sneer lifting her chin in derision. “I fear it will be more the case of beating one skull against another until both submit to peace.”

At her words, a brief silence passed between them. Though it lasted all of mere seconds, it contained a great deal of unspoken questions. The nature of this princess priestess was lost upon the Amazon’s ignorance, but something of her melancholy and pessimism coloured her curiosity. 

athena bottles the moment for the future; recollection of battle memories that please her, give her a sense of satisfaction. not many can impress the goddess of war; the last one to do so had been hercules, on the quest for greatness, a hero renowned. now the rhapsoidoi sing of the queen of the amazons, her skill and her stature. athena listens to the screeching of their swords, the swishing of the air— she had been play-fighting for so long, she’d forgotten the wonder of battle.

yet even demigods make mistakes. penthesilea does not underestimate her, no; but athena has held a sword in her hand for so long that she knows all the scriptures by now. her strategy never relies on overpowering her opponent— no, she finds that sort of fighting distasteful, remembers attempts at making her cower and submit with the force of muscle against steel, feels bitter resistance inside her mouth, and with a quick movement of her xiphos, she takes advantage of penthesilea’s position— the glaive is on the ground, and the tip of athena’s sword finds itself situated under the amazon queen’s chin.

“tell me, queen,” the goddess says, “where does your allegiance lie? with your father, or your people?”

In half a second, expectant victory is overturned. It feels bitter for only half a moment, for that first, gut wrenching horror as she feels her weapon slip from between her fingers. It is a battle instinct. Something from her very anima, forgoing context in anticipation of the cold sting of death. As always, there is a flash of remembrance. First of her sister, then of reality. In a swirl of dust, flat feet return to the soil and stand firm, lungs emptying of hot air as her own hand encircles the other’s wrist, keeping sword quite certainly away from skin. 

There is no certainty here, not even in her survival as bronze gravel settles once again in to the arena. No certainty in this woman, her face as good as blank. Could early rivalry inspire a cutthroat? It was not like her to feel paranoia, but Sparta shifted her sensibilities. 

Nevertheless, bold indifference wins out and her question is met with a bark of easy laughter. With a lop-sided smile again in place, Pentheselia shrugs a shoulder. “Why would I defer to one man before every citizen of Themiscyra?”

unlike the other suitors, there had been no looking for the amazon-leader among the troops that had entered her kingly father’s halls — there had been no need. she had stood among them like a burr, a sword among the scabbards, a windflower in a sea of wheat, stoic and admirable among a congregation of pink-faced and braying men. she, helen was sure, could be known to all by glance alone.

“ah, penthesilea of themiscyra.” she takes from the wall with a missed lesson in equilibrium, lilting the name with an undue familiarity as if to say ah. you. at last. paused in the half-light, bronze-gleam eyes fixated on penthesilea as other sharpened things of that material might have, one could have mistaken helen for something else entirely. “aye, let me amend — queen penthesilea.” she drops to an embellished bow, unbalance covered by an innate finesse in her form, and all strangeness about her dissipates. she rises to yet another laugh, this one rumbling and low. such a sound is her seafoam.

she saunters to the amazon with fists bunched into her chiffon, lifting the long fabric to prevent  tripping before the queen as she had done earlier. even in this state there is something charming about helen of sparta, who sports both a measure of girl and sylph in her, and seemed to be entirely unawares of her own grace — as if was by reflex alone that her body was attractive, drenched in a sensuality that called men from all countries and dark corners. but was that the god or the royal in her? 

why not the girl, an old voice whispers.

“and what would i see?” she challenges, chin raised in an attempt to meet higher gaze. it is not disrespect that sees helen this way, but something deeper-seated and with a larger hook on the end. “the great beauty of the free nations, or a soused fool?” she thinks herself amusing until the words take step by her own ear; a measure of sobriety passes through helen, and her features with it. she has the good sense to look at least momentarily self-critical as she glances past penthesilea, to a far and useless wall, with a mumble.

“better that i do not know.” 

Warily, she stands back, accepting gracious greetings with a well rehearsed dip of her head. Formalities pass her by without comment, for they mean next to nothing to her. It is, of course, a pleasure to be recognised, and such familiarity is returned in the warmth of the amazon’s smile. But that is all. Queen has been said too many times both in reverence and revulsion for it to hold much meaning at all, yet these Greeks dote upon their formalities like they were speaking always to Gods. 

“Helen of Troy,” she bid in kind. 

For the sake of amusement, she returns the bow, dipping only a little at the waist as she lowers her head. At the other’s stumble, reflex ignites, and a hand flashes out with the intent of steadying her. It proves blessedly necessary, and the action dies half a foot from its host. Still half in a bow, she meets Helen’s gaze as they both right themselves and joins with a trickle of laughter. 

“Such philosophy,” she continues, her own amusement not yet dead. “That is for you to decide. You had better do so in haste, before others make your choices for you. All the same, it is a delight to see you let your hair down. Are these festivals not for you, after all?”

𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐖𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃𝐒 * / @kidemxnas

there had been no call to helen in mead or wine even after she had reached the breach of womanhood. in her years of more girlishness she had partaken in it not at all, but in seasons tighter to the chest she had tasted only sparingly, supping from goblets and chalices before guests to appease the image of one grown from their youth.

this, as with all things since the arrival of the suitors, was coming to a change.

the depths of her not-father’s great stores had been opened with their coming, and from the depths rose troves of pleasing things carried on the backs of servants; sweet and spiced wine, those aged to perfection and as such beyond the point of common use, imports and gifts, honey-laden things brought in from local merchants. yes, the wine was tasting sweeter to helen in these loathsome days, but it could not be said such a thing was borne from a shift in palate alone. 

she is drunk now in her own halls, with no others allusions that might be spun about it, attendant left behind in the grand hall, where feast had wrapped but festivities may yet rage. they were celebrations for those who might back theseus, new-winner of the contest’s latest trial (these were few), and solace to those who did not (this was most). too little was very easily too much for helen, so unpracticed as she was in the arts of drinking. as unpracticed as i am in all worldly things, she thinks, but the libation makes the thought free and wind-borne, rather than the shallows-dragging thing it might have been. the world is slanted and so she leans against torch-warmed marble wall, hair fanning out as feathers and wonder around her shoulders, eyes turning up to the ceiling as if she might see the music that paints it. 

she laughs. she laughs for nothing, and she laughs at it all.

Eyes silently followed Helen of Troy until she is swept out of view, and the Amazonian falls back into conversation. Amusement touched Penthesilea’s features, but she said nothing to the men she spoke with.

Second place might as well be last, no matter how she is told she was a hair’s breadth from victory. It tickles her to hear the bitter tones of those bested in the race as they talk tactics, preparing themselves for battle. As if their lives depending on this. As if anything was at stake. As if they could hope to rise up among the demigods already fronting this rigged competition. 

Ego, echoes a Greecian voice. Too far down that path and she will forget her purpose here. True purpose. How quickly victory - near victory - becomes a cloudy haze. 

Excusing herself from conversation, the amazon escapes the crush of people. Where once the constant thrum of hearty celebration might have fuelled her, she feels a curious vapidity. Perhaps it is the wine that speaks this way. It does not always bring her revelry. Not the mirth she hears now from unfamiliar corridors, spreading from some solitary figure far away from prying eyes. It is not with curiosity that she approaches the illuminated figure in the torch light. From an earlier glimpse of the wine soaked woman and from legend herself, she is recognised in an instant. 

And what it is to see the embodiment of beauty herself made human. God-touched blood and oft-kissed hands could not shield a woman from all mortal vices. Quite rightly, too. It serves the queen some selfish delight to be privy to this. 

theirs is but a dance. penthesilea knows her weapon— she is accustomed to it, bound to it only in a way a true warrior does. she moves with strength, an adaptive and quick mind, and attacks as if this is her destiny. athena hasn’t enjoyed a fight like this in a long time— memories of champions and beloved heroes come to mind, and she finds herself grinning like a fool. happiness comes from a good, honest, smart battle.

the push and pull of their dance continues, athena at first on defensive. she feels the lack of her shield at her side, but in quick fights like this it is mostly a burden. the thrill of fighting flows through her veins, and her respect for the queen of the amazons only grows stronger. yet she has her place; athena has her own. one does not become goddess of war with no skill in sword-fighting. 

she disarms penthesilea, but not without any effort. it wouldn’t be worth her time if she hadn’t broken a sweat; she points her sword at penthesilea’s throat as her glaive drops, a smile on her face, then lowers her xiphos. “your reputation precedes you, daughter of ares.” she says, “but you are not lesser to it.” an overwhelming, fresh smell of olives and leather surrounds them. “you would have my favor if it hadn’t been for your father.”

Since landing on Greek shores, her opponents had all been soldiers. Cocksure, ignorant of her kind, of the upbringing that outstripped them utterly. They fought with sword and shield, but lead with brutality. Fear tactics may work on the battlefield, surrounded by throngs of your kin, but against an amazonian queen, it was scarcely a distraction. 

What a pleasure it was to fight an educated opponent. From facing the first strike, she recognised skill. There was strength in the push back against her parry, uncommon agility in the next swipe, a counter against her own. Penthesilea’s marching pace of blow after blow is met and matched.

One swipe melts in to the next jab, crosses in to a block with the length of her glaive. An action takes only half a second of animal thought

achilles raised his cup to his lips and rolled his eyes at her over its rim. there was a sharpness to her words he did not appreciate, though he had never been the sort to call it out. at least not in context like this. 

he would take that irritation and keep it for a later date when this convoluted contest allowed him to cross swords with the amazon queen again. 

“perhaps we do. though i hope someone will do you the service of taking care of yours in turn. your father certainly passed that down through your ichor, no?” admittedly, as had his mother; nymph though she was, she had an olympian’s self importance. he grinned at the amazon in the candlelight. “it would only be fair.” hopefully he would even be around to watch, if the fates were to act in the favor of his amusement. 

Talk of her heavenly father was sparse, and for that, she was thankful. Rather that harbouring any resentment for him, she felt only a curious indifference. Stories of his exploits did not interest her in the slightest. He was foreign to her - more so than others of the pantheon, those tangible, worthy of respect. 

Wearily, she rested an elbow on the table and her chin upon her palm, her eyes settling on his own as she made herself comfortable. “You don’t know a thing about me, Achilles. Why don’t you be quiet and enjoy your dinner?” she suggested, gesturing to half empty cup and clear plate with her free hand. “You cannot live on venomous words alone.” 

❛  Well as I might.  ❜ There is no humility interspersed through the words, but then, the other would know that by now. It’s like blade-sparks are cast by the mere sounds that flit between them, the Queen and the Huntress, the contender and the patron; from air, the world becomes iron. If not for similarity, if not for understanding that forgoes intimacy, the exchange would be almost terse. But there are unborn smiles staining both their lips. Shades of comfort.

❛  You fared quite good the last time. It was the bull-boy that bested you, ah ?  ❜ Without waiting for a breech in the conversation, she chuckles, stepping closer into the marrows of the temple. The soles of her barren feet brush against the inlaid agate. ❛  I should’ve known. Athena’s at daggers drawn with him. Ack, these men, really ! Lodging like fishbones in one’s throat.  ❜

No fear is found in the Amazon’s countenance. One would not be remiss in quaking before the gods, not least of all against the steel tipped tongue of the huntress. But it is so easy to mistake terror for humility, yet find it ingenuine. Respect comes more readily from Penthesilea, utterly unmarked by false pretences. She remains on her knees because she wishes to, not because she ought. Gods - or goddess - knew she would never do what was bid of her. 

 She doesn’t dip her head to laugh, but does so plainly, smile lingering on full lips. “Those gathered in Sparta may be the most obtrusive of all,” came her sigh, casting a weary hand over her eyes, thumb and forefinger rubbing them awake. “Long have I journeyed, across the Mediterranean and beyond, but never have I found such a congregation of cunts.”

Standing together the two women could not be more dissimilar. Yet she pines for her; the soft beating of her heart enough to push her forward. Yet, she assumed that it was due to the lack of information she had on her ( even if she was not a hoarder of secrets, the Priestess was swept with curiosity that engulfed her ). With her hands at rest upon her belly, Cassandra offered a small smile and dropped her head. Was she surprised to think that she would fight for Helen’s hand? No? Yes? Maybe? She could not make up her mind, and in truth, it’d take an evening for her to understand why someone as strong and powerful as Penthesilea of the Amazons would compete for the Spartan.

“Of course, I am quite good at keeping secrets,” Cassandra answered, fingers fidgetting once more as she tries to fight off visions and the whispers of great Gods. “But I am pleasantly surprised to hear you will compete for Helen’s hand,” she continued, taking Penthesilea’s offered arm in a tender motion - giving the Amazon the reigns of where they may go when surrounded by drunk Greek men who lured women to their laps or were busy shouting noisily for more drink and more sweetmeats. “Have you met her?” 

While the opinion of a woman may not be held in much regard in the court of Sparta, Penthesilea prided herself as an exception. With an arm entwined with the Amazons, they may receive looks, but they would be left alone. This royal princess would be left alone, which seemed all but fundamental to the young woman. She guided her on - nowhere in particular - along the sides of rooms at a meandering, conversational pace. It allowed her eye to wander from her no less interesting companion, to observe her competitors when their guards were down. 

“I have not met her,” she admitted. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” 

the languid nature of the amazon queen’s movements wound achilles tight. he knew it was intended to mock him, and perhaps it was a testament to his own personal vanity that it did just that. he felt like he was being watched like a bird of prey, ready to plunge out of the sky straight for his gullet.

“i do not think it will come to that - i would not do the princess the harm of rejecting her outright.” at least that had not been the plan since he had met sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued helen of sparta in the woods the day before. 

“i will merely compete in as many events as i see fit.” whoever won would claim their prize knowing innately that he had let them. the mere thought would bring him the smug kind of joy he would thrive on for years to come. “and then when the competition is drawing to its close, i will pull back.” he shrugged. “no point complicating matters for the spartans. and best give the rest of you the chance to impress her too, no?” he picked idly at the food laid out on the table in front of them and eyed her curiously. “what’s your plan, amazon? will you try to win the contests, or her heart too?”

“A tactical approach, then,” she mused, her head tilted his way by a fraction as she listened. It was full of bullish confidence, but of course, that was Achilles. That was her as well, yet victory sat more comfortably in her stomach than his own pride. It was a double standard she hardly even recognised in herself. “How very gracious of you, sir, to allow the rest of us a chance.” 

This came with another sharp, belittling laugh of amusement. 

“As for my plan, I don’t intend to draw back. I should like to win and take every prize on offer, glory and bride included,” she assured him, spoken with a small but easy smile as she sat back on the bench. While this was true, she knew it went deeper than that. It was more than could be spoken of through jibes over dinner. “It might do you and yours the favour of checking your egos for you. Gods know you need it.”

As for taunting, Cassandra was no stranger to mockery and false-niceties. In fact, she almost felt at home with the words of malice rather than the words of honeycomb. Yet she simply stared ahead to not meet her gaze. She had no reason to think ill of the Amazon; if anything, her presence only intrigued her further! After all, the Trojan beauty had yet to envision Penthesilea in the forms of hallucinations or fantasies — the Amazon was a vague face, but she knew that most of the folk who set upon the Spartan shores would be doomed to feature in her god-given prophecies. 

“No,” she answered, honesty dripping from every word till she greeted the surveying nature of the Queen — Queen? A Queen of what? As a Priestess and Princess she knew little of their system or how such titles were managed — whether she owned land or cities or people were to be questioned — but not at that moment, not when the fate of Troy unravelled before her eager, acute chocolate eyes. “Though we may take part in revelry I prefer to keep my gaze pure and immaculate,” Cassandra revealed, her fingers drawing intricacies upon her lap — long and delicate fingers drawing the emblem of her righteous god as if a symbol alone would wish the curse from her bones. 

“Priestess,” she corrects, eager to boast of her duty before she gets to her feet, exposed toes harmed upon the stone floor ( she preferred the rugs that had coated her apartments within the heart of Troy. Sparta seemed to lack that comfort ). “May I be so bold as to ask why you have ventured so far? Do you wish to win Helen’s hand, too?” 

A priestess. Pure and immaculate. Though she had once shared the former title with this curious woman, these words made her feel somewhat alienated. Did she believe herself above them all, this serious girl? Fidgeting fingers suggested a lack of conviction in her words, but they lacked no confidence. The Amazons eyes swept her from head to toe, but could not read her. It brought the ghost of a smile to her lips, to be so confused. 

“I have travelled further for less.” This was spoken with a smile, half in pride, half in reminiscence. “I shall compete with the rest of them, and shall win with any luck. But may I let you in on a little secret?”

ft.   @kidemxnas​      ///      the mountain temples.

The sky is fretful above her head as she climbs the steps. What the Spartans have made of heaven was not on the precipice of a mountain, but inside one. Each deity was consigned their own shrine built deep into the rock-mawls, colossals teeth of stone, their dark entrances a gap. Her forehead is raised in ecstasy, in gratification, in sated need for greatness. The thought of her statue being hosted in such a place, right below the moon’s downpour, fills her with pleasure. When she shakes her head, it’s as if she shaking off the heaviness of the sky.

It doesn’t take long to reach level earth, some three furlongs around, and step into the open chamber. It also doesn’t take long to see the other visitor.

Morning is not yet full; its sight only middling. But the tall frame, specter-like were it not for its full battle garb, for the earthliness of its strength, comes in easy recongition to the Goddess. Yet there is suprise, too— perhaps from some misplaced sense of paternal duty, something the Huntress herself never enterained, she had imagined the Queen would serve at the hearth of Ares.

❛  Penthesilea. Are you here for a paen before the day’s race ?  ❜

Touching a hand to the stone of the altar, she whispered practised prayers against empty air, her eyes closed to her surroundings. Passing footsteps, other visitors flitting through the temple, did nothing to disturb her. This was a well rehearsed practice, but, in a rarity for the warrior queen, not a performance. Not even for the goddess she spoke such words to. 

Her name roused her, turned her head to face the speaker. She remained on her knees, body turned at the waist to regard the mortal form before her. The softest of smiles stirs her lips. 

“I am,” she confirmed without a second’s hesitation for nerves. “Do you come to receive it?”