swift-footed

❛  I upset you  ❜  the Goddess assents —no apology to the words, but a kind of odd curiosity, as though upheaval was particular only to mortals, and no deity was ever tried by it. The Huntress brings two fingers together, and she sketches an arrow-tipped motion through the air: a signal, plain for supplicant and demigod alike, its understanding inherited from wiser ancestors, from lines of men who made survival inextricable from piety. The symbol dictactes: you can look. You can see.

❛  You would be in the right if I have. Your mother’s fate, the interference in what her fate should’ve been: it upsets me as well. I loved her, you see. Of course, not like you love your hunting companion—— ❜

A faint, intimate smile hangs from the corner of her lips; a break in the pattern, like the rapid shudder of a loom missing a spoke. ❛  ——but well enough. ❜

The oblique turn to her mouth means to say, oh, I know of your heart.She finds herself revelling in it: the radiance, lonely and unique, carried in Achilles’ bond. So easy to pick apart from all the others, the luster of what they have, the way it singes the night sky even now, miles into the forest. Like the burning stars of yore: beings wrought into legend not through kratos, but through agape. She is no Aphrodite; she finds to delight in love in and of itself. What she had glimpsed in them, however, is something endless, unquenchable and appeased at once. It seems to her brandished holy.

❛  I give you leave to be cross with me for bringing your mother here, though we both know, her impact is just as momentous in absence. But I do not give you leave to be afraid.❜  

“there is much i do not know of her. it is not surprise to learn such a thing.” he would not admit to being hurt outloud, both out of pride, and the knowledge that the olympian before him likely was not looking for confirmation. she knew. they always did.

as the veil of understanding is pulled back, it makes sense to him that he speaks with silver-bowed artemis.  “Πότνια Θηρῶν.” the epithet escapes his lips in reverence but not necessarily shock, as he called artemis by the moniker with which they worshiped her in phthia. she had been the subject of many of his mother’s stories when he was a boy, the ones she used to tell with a far off look in her eye as he curled up in her lap, a slow, dewy hand painting rivers into his soft hair. 

he had always been torn. achilles loved his father, but he found it painful beyond measure to reconcile that love with the stories of anguish that ripped from his mother’s mouth like screams. “it is certainly an unsettling tale.” perhaps that was part of the reason his mother hated patroclus’ influence on him so vehemently; she had never been given the chance to choose. 

“—and no, i do not believe many love their hunting companions so much as i do mine.” it was as honest as it was a warning. there were gods that would see him hurt, artemis’ twin soul among them, and he had a venomous enough mind to anticipate the knowledge that he was sure most gods possessed; the chink in his armour was not his styx-dry heel, but the noble-browed son of opus to whom his very being belonged. he laid his claim in his words, protective, adoring and reverent.

“it is news to me that she is here at all, lady artemis.” she had not shown herself to him thus far in sparta, though he knew it was only a matter of time before she put her damp finger to her son’s chin and tried to push his gaze from his patroclus to the spartan princess. "i would not bear you ill will for that, even with permisson. i just hope she has not come for things i cannot give her." he spared artemis a sad smile. "my mother and i are at odds, you see, about my future." 

His lips catch the fingertip when Achilles turns to touch him. They graze over the spirals embedded in its print, beyond callouses and telluric wounds, beyond the world-heavy scent of wine and leather and ammonia-oil. He has to wonder, lulled by a languid wave, by a cradle of sunlight: what had the Fates encrypted there, in the imprint they proclaim to be unique to each man ? His lover’s future ? The makeshift to his soul ?

Patroclus laughs quietly into the caress.

❛ If you could hear my thoughts. Gods, you send me rambling with a single touch. You appear, and nature scatters. The very laws of it. ❜ His hands begin to rake themselves through the other’s curls, but it happens in such instinctive stages, so visceral the impulse, that it touches his sight before it does his mind. He cannot even remember where he put the kylix, which is proper enough, considering that often it’s his name that goes. it’s as though the golden downpour has swallowed the world. What remains: the warmth of the curls spilling into his palms, the saccharine acid of the alcohol on his tongue. He must’ve drained it all — that’s how it usually went. He would lay hands on Achilles and get drunk twice over.

A pause follows the demigod’s words. Diastem, they call it in music. In sports and warfare, they called it: losing focus. Yet he is at that limn between too liquored up to discuss politics and nowhere near liquored enough. He had seen what his placation could do, just about the fair measure of it — it was only a few hours ago that he tried to sit down with Agamemnon. He’d caught the ruler around the arena, just in the span of time between the spectators starting to mince their ways home, and the contenders escorted to the changing rooms and stables. Their very lengthy tete-a-tete had two chief conclusions: one, that Patroclus’ diplomacy, drawn out over the years, was only a little streamlined and a lot unendurable. Two, that Agamemnon might’ve learned ten different ways to stage a siege, but he only knew one way to say fuck you.

❛ The Atreides can go eat one. Might not be what Menelaus ‘s hunting for, but likely what he needs. As for the high-king, oh, he could do with two. ❜

His eyes are set ablaze with laughter, even as his mouth remains a careful slant, an apse sustaining Achille’s touch. But as they grow brighter, so too they grow blacker, full with intent. At once, Patroclus curls his lips around the finger — out with the Fates, out with flesh-stitched messages; he would have folly, and closeness, and unheeding bliss.

for all that patroclus is razor sharp wit and corded muscle, their lips feel like satin against the pad of his thumb. the muses sang at his birth that he was destined for greatness with sword and spear in hand, and their voices had not wavered in the twenty years since, but he wondered how they could ever have left this out. surely he could never achieve more worthy feats on the battlefield than he did here, on the beats of patroclus’ mortal heart. 

achilles would pray that they should be added to the lists of famed lovers - pallas and athena, apollo and hyacinthos, orpheus and eurydice, persephone and hades, patroclus and achilles. the muses would be fools not to take note. 

“you make mine all but halt as though i will never be allowed to think any thought ever again but of you in front of me.” he was a vessel of conflict, bursting with temper and violence like blister filling with blood. on the battlefield, his mind raced miles a minute, ichor filling synapses like a river flows to the sea. and yet he was rendered slow, saturated and silly by mere proximity to his lover. 

he had been part of patroclus for longer than he’d been a man in his own right, he’d learned to kiss him as a method of earning his manhood, and to fit his arms around his waste as a hero’s trial by fire. he did both now as easily as breathing air through his lungs, though it was a far more delightful essential function than that.

“i will humour the atreides for now. one day i might need leverage for a favour from our would-be high-king if he is content to use me as his guard dog much longer.” he was not usually so pragmatic, but discontent with fighting another man’s battles had caught up with him in the past few months. his sword would not come free.

a breathy laugh escapes him. “but hush. don’t speak any more of them in our bedchamber, ἀγαπητέ. they have no place here.” his finger makes way at patroclus’ lips for achilles’ own, and he presses reverence to them as he had thousands of times before. 

5. top five favourite things not available in their canon verse.

instagram, rupaul’s drag race, protein shakes, vodka & redbull, liberal marriage equality laws

7. one example of a significant change in their backstory now that the world’s changed.

in ancient greece, if he looses his temper and gets violent he’s “a hero” and “avenging the death of his love” but when he does it now he’s “causing a threat to public safety” and “sir you can’t threaten to burn down the wholefoods because that man pushed in front of your boyfriend in line for check out”

11. thoughts on sports.

replies: 75 development posts: 50 (30 points + 20 points for other characters involved) starters: 70

he snorted in both amusement and annoyance as they spoke candidly of the athenian hero - theseus, exiled yet still famed. alas, menelaus knew that he was not the only competitor to unravel carefully sewn strings, he knew fully well that the ones of broadened shoulders and strong foreheads were plentiful.. that was what stirred the son of atreus and the brother of agamemnon so thoroughly. what tore him apart with ravaging humiliation! for he should’ve at least come in the top three, he was strong enough - he knew this. 

and yet he played along with achilles, or rather, pulled him into the joy of playing malicious games. they had been boys not all that long ago after all; for he remembered well what he had looked like the first time menelaus caught his eye. 

eager to play dirty to get what he so wanted, the prince held his brother of war’s shoulder with a gentle squeeze. and though his smile was hidden behind the down-turned grump of a scowl he paraded alongside the son of thetis, eager to seem his equal rather than lackey, menelaus boasted with a volume that could match achilles’. “what shall we do? we both deserved a win this day. blasted horses and their butcher.” 

“we’ll train together every day until the next contest.” perhaps it was unnecessary, considering they had sieged more than a few cities shield to shield, but achilles was not willing to take any chances at the next contest’s victory. not with menelaus heart on the line, as it had always been on his sleeve. the myrmidons usually trained only together, but an exception would be made for the atrean prince. 

achilles thought for a moment, a rare act that was even rarer fruitful. “you should go to your brother, and ask him advice. you will find better counsel with him than me.” he laughed as he raked a hand rubbed raw but his chariot’s reigns through knotted curls.

he had no family of his own to consult here, but he would go to the sea and pray for his mother to show her face so that he might ask her advice, and for any kind of favours she could drum up from her kind. “i will try to contact my mother, she is never without tricks up her sleeve. though she has not been forthcoming with her presence recently. i believe she would rather see me take this contest for helen more seriously than i am.” 

dawn paints a pretty picture across the seas. the oranges and the blues mix together into a particular sort of serenity; the sun begins its travel across the horizon and colors the beach golden. athena breathes in the winds, the sharp scent of sea-salt. she sits on top of a rock, half-boulder; an olive tree has grown next to her, and she thinks of oil, of flesh, of victory. achilles swings his sword at an invisible opponent not far from her; the winds catch at his curls, the fresh air and the first lights of day strengthen him. 

leader of the myrmidons. soldier of the mycenaeans. chaos trapped in a half-divine body. athena’s best chance of winning the crown that belongs to her.

she watches him, her presence unknown. he is strict with his movements, accurate with his slices. there is a refusal to the anger that brews behind the surface. he is a curious case; transgression on legs, cultivated skill that overpowered the sun god. he has all the qualities athena has found in champions of a recent past— but she has never found that same pull to him. not until now. 

she remains unseen, unnoticed. sand covers her feet, and she buries her hand in it, watches as drops fall, collecting at the surface. the wind carries her hair towards the east, and athena looks at achilles. a hero in making. 

she says, “achilles.” in a word there is power and history; in a name there is future and misery. his form is tainted with tragedy; she can tell the crimson-red threads of fate pulling at his ankles, his wrists. the fates will be cruel to achilles, same as they have been to her. “come. rest.” will he pray to her? like theseus did, before. like menelaus does, under her patronage. 

achilles has always been a man who sticks to routine. perhaps being raised with a soldier for a father and a memory for a mother instilled that in him, but it was something he’d never managed to shed. every morning, as the sun rose, he trained with his men on the beach. the myrmidons that were early risers served as his sparring partners, though he ached for someone more challenging to face. 

they are myrmidons, and they are trained well under patroclus’ watchful eye. but they are men, and they tire, and their limbs are not given speed by ichor. it can never be a fair match. 

his focus is usually so hard to crack, when he has a spear in hand not even the cracking of the heavens can penetrate his concentration. but when someone calls out his name in that silvery voice, liquid smooth as oil from an olive, heavy as a shield colliding with the beaten earth; he has no choice but to listen. 

his head turns as though he is possessed, and he brushes errant, sweat-soaked curls out of his eyes to be sure they are not playing tricks on him. his opponent slows their blows, and achilles dismisses him for more important matters at hand. he stakes his shield into the sand, and approaches the goddess, and her olive tree sprouting miraculously out of the rocks. 

“pallas athena.” he calls, not in prayer, but in greeting. he is not theseus, and he is not menelaus, so he will not pray. but he bows his head as a motion of respect, and lays his spear at her feet, eyes downcast, before rising to his feet and meeting them. perhaps a little brazenly. 

the silver-eyed goddess has answered his prayers all his life before battles, and for that he carries a great deal of reverence. some on olympus may despise him, but he has offered enough victories to her name that he feels only the usual kind of fear that should possess a mortal standing before an olympian.  “i do not feel as though i have earned one just yet. but if you bid it, i will abide.” 

― Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad

it was the humiliation that shaded his brow as he wiped the sweat from his temple. to not even come in the top three competitors of the two-horse chariot race was a disgrace! humiliation, rage and frustration teased at his edges, daring him to burst with the tact of a child as he huffed and puffed — his nostrils flared, as he unwound himself from the armour prepared by agamemnon’s busy workforce. “those goat-fuckers! they clearly have patrons on their sides! απατεώνες! χοίροι!” he snapped, his voice rough and frayed as he tried to keep his volume down; the last thing he needed was a bruise that’d hinder him in other competitions. 

what if he lost again? what if he did not win? 

he was sure his father, lost to the underworld for his misdeeds, would come back to their mortal planes to scold him for losing against theseus, the queen of the amazons penthilsea and his war-fellow, achilles. 

but he was softer than his brother; after all, had he not inherited the bold and cunning traits of their father but rather the subdued temperament of their mother and the gentle misgivings of their aunts? though frustration seemed to dwindle upon his crown, menelaus approached his competitor and slapped his palm upon his shoulders. “i would try to congratulate you for coming third, achilles. but i fear we must discuss the subject at hand. how on earth did that Πουτάνας γιέ win? i wouldn’t mind losing to you, friend. but to him?!“ with a snort, he took his hand back and breathed heavily through his nose — sweat still shimmering upon his brow. 

o’ celestial gods. why do you not choose to help the prince of mycenae?

“φίλος, if we are to win the next sport i say we should team up…” 

achilles, as it happened, was similarly pissed off. third was a disgrace, especially against spartans, and trojans, and other assorted strangers from far less noble localities than thessaly, and mycenae. it would not do, especially when menelaus’ goals were on the line. 

“who the hell is this athenian bastard?” achilles spat, his words catching a growl in his teeth. the myrmidons had already cleared off, knowing all too well the rage of achilles that was called close when anything but the best was earned. “i heard he killed a bull and that makes him a hero.” his eyes rolled, an angry, frustrated gesture. “a butcher could do something more impressive.” 

he clapped his friend on the back, letting his hand remain on the the far side of his armour in an act of camaraderie. with his arm around the atrean, he hummed low in his ear. “fear not, friend. we’ll win you your princess.” they just might have to play a little less fair. and menelaus might have grease the palms, or the altars, of a few deities not yet with a horse in this race. 

“i would not object to that. it will be an honour to fight by your side, friend.” his knuckle closed white over the edge of his helmet, held low at his side. “do not let this get to your head - a horse wins a race, a man wins a fight. and you raced well, i’m sure helen noticed.” 

his eyes flashed with the kind of ambition the myrmidons knew to be unsteady, the mycenaens knew to be profitable, and that, one day, the trojans would come to know as disastrous.

achilles has this routine down to a fine art. fight, get hurt, retreat to macheon’s care, wait to heal - rinse and repeat. even when not at war, a sword or a spear is never out of his reach for long. he was bred to fight, even if it is just sparring with his men, or practicing drills alone when there was nobody to humour his constant need to be moving. 

“macheon, old friend. we need to stop meeting on such grim circumstances.” he called, shouldering open the door with one hand clenched over a bleeding arm, as if he were not the one constantly coming to him with scrapes to fix. “it’s not as bad as it looks, patroclus and i were just sparring - he hit a vein, i think.” so much for that swim in the styx as a baby; it may have imbued him with some favourable aspects immortality, but his skin could still be pierced by any mortal blade (those that could catch him, of course). “any chance you can fix me up so i can get back out there?”

1. how is their social media presence?

picture of patroclus, picture of his own abs, picture of him and patroclus on holiday, throwback picture of him winning sports game at uni, picture of wild party, another picture of patroclus, thirst trap picture at the beach, thirst trap picture at the gym, another bloody picture of patroclus 

13. show us what their last ‘sent’ text message is from five different text convos.

helen 👑: i have to go to some charity gala next week and P is busyhelen 👑: be my date? i love to see straight men get upset

light of my life 🍆: your dogs are crying and i dont know how to make them stop babylight of my life 🍆: i tried showing them a cute pic of you on my phone and it didn’t worklight of my life 🍆: pls come home!! help!!

menelaus: what happened to bros before hoesmenelaus: i know you’re at helen’smenelaus: im watching the game without you and next time i hang out with her im gonna tell her about the time we got drunk in spain and i had to talk u out of getting her name tattooed on your arm

mum: if patroclus isn’t invited to the birthday dinner at your place then i’m not coming either, sorrymum: package deal, we’ve discussed this

penthesilea: new phone, who dis?

15. what does their diet look like?

achilles laughs, the column of marble that is his neck shaking like the foundations of a city under siege. “i should be.” he answers plainly, knowing all too well what loving more than one ought to can do to a man. “it consumes me so much i fear who i would be without it.”

he wonders often if the gods were to take patroclus away from him, who he would be. the son of menoetides fills every part of him that he is not man enough, not hero enough, to fill himself. he has forged himself, like a smith hammers out a blade, to fit perfectly against his captain, to be the man he deserves. there is little to recognise, between the broad shouldered hero he is now, and the small, lonely, shell of a boy patroclus crawled inside of to make a home. 

“but it would not change a thing.” he turns to the princess of swans and smiles. “and i would wish the same on you, one day. there is no greater loss than part of yourself to another. especially when it is kept well, guarded like cerberus guards the underworld, or the hesperides keep their golden apples.”