this place is mine

Just as taken aback is he, but from a different standpoint. This pacifying, accommodating gild on the king is a new color, a new shine altogether. But then, Patroclus has never properly sat down with the man —the battles he fought for him, insignificant skirmishes in the borderlands or shows of force meant to defend the commercial routes — had really been fought for Achilles. He made no mistake: Agamemnon knew that much. There’s a certain penchant for peering in the heart of things, gripping the threads out with your teeth, that any man who fancies himself anax must hold. That includes brutal honesty pointed at the self. So, Agamemnon would likely allot no lies on the matter. The Myrmidons were not his, nor was Patroclus, and if their purposes converged for now, it was not for lack of dissension, but of options.

Something akin to respect arises within him, and he is startled at it, more so than at the initial  discourtesy, more than at the ulterior tact. Patroclus raises both hands at face level, a skewed grin inching onto his mien behind them.

❛ A rivalry ? Never harbored anything similar; offense doesn’t even know my name. ❜

And, as if it was the reasonable, clear-cut conclusion to their parlay, the Captain adds: ❛ So it is settled then: my commander won’t have to listen to discussion on how united we stand, divided we fall —I do believe your brother covers that memento daily. ❜

A questioning look is reserved for the younger man. Not a glance is spared for another. His attention is raptured, brow lowered. Something like confusion passes the atrean’s features, but only for a breath. Impartiality takes hold as swiftly. For half a beat, his gaze slips from Patroclus to the arena below, once smooth sand torn apart by the tracks of wheels and tread of horses. He considers the fall. The impact. 

“Only because I know he has no interest in the prize. Only because he is a sensible man and loyal soldier,” he assured Patroclus. A gentle dip of his head that should be respectful, but perhaps loses that quality along the way. “As long as that remains true, we shall remain friends. I hope that suits you. Thank you, kind sir, for taking the time to clear the air with me.” 

poimxn·:

A good show was victory. It was not a fair fight, it was not a happy conclusion, but an entertaining one. Something worth watching, worth retelling. If his brother did not win his prize, let him at least win glory. His mind’s eye pictured a far younger brother, petulant over a lost game of dice, throwing half the set in to the river so that none may best him again. A part of Agamemnon turned to stone. 

Blue eyes searched the masses for the man in question. A gentle sigh escaped the king’s lips. 

“How fitting it is to be fighting the gods again,” he mused, casting a world weary look to the smaller man. “Yet, have we not bested them at every turn thus far? Let us do so again.” 

Shoulder to shoulder they stood, heads upturned to the rest. He knew that broken they stood alone, or worse, fragile to the nature of gods and demi-humans. With his arms now positioned behind his back the prince did not look towards Agamemnon, with his bold voice and wise advice, yet instead found himself searching the crowd for men and their weaknesses ( mirroring what his brother had told him to do without realising it, was Menelaus doomed to forever be his brother’s pawn? ). 

“You are right, as always,” and though it was frustration that teetered upon his lips, Menelaus brushed it off as if it were something as simple as dust. “Let us retire, brother. I will find Achilles tomorrow…” 

Knelt before the shrine of Apollo, Cassandra muttered her prayers and daily ritual. She could not foresee short-term futures, so she could not have guessed that the fearsome Agamemnon would venture into the temple she sought as her sanctuary. Neither could she see his future as she could see many others; the others, who’s futures were force-fed to the seer through bloody prophecies. 

She sings his prayer with a sway to her bones, her shroud pulled far enough to keep her features hidden in fear of menacing boys who often dance around the temple to tempt the wrath of Apollo himself. How foolish! Or perhaps they came to the temple to see the evidence of a priestess gone mad by the power of the god. That, they may get. 

Lost in prayer, her tongue twisting and turning, she hears the footsteps of someone heavy and forthcoming. So she contorts, her shroud slipping from her crown to pool around her shoulders instead — exposing her olive skin, dark brown eyes and the full petal of her lips that left any man bereft. When she sees him, standing against the light of Sparta, she sees what he may become. A power to be feared, a man who dares to tempt the eye of Zeus and a warrior who will find his fate in the arms of someone so loved. 

She turns again not to face him, her shroud still hanging around her neck like a noose as she finishes her prayer. Hands held tight, her voice falls meek and gentle, so the man behind could not hear her, suddenly coy at the idea of being heard before she lifts to her feet, her head bowed in respect to the god himself. 

O Apollo, give me strength. I fear this man more than I can understand. He will not hurt you. Yet. 

Turning back to the King of Mycenae, Cassandra approaches, her bare feet drifting against the stonework as she stands face to face. His power is influential, and yet, he does not seek the prize every other person is after. Why was that? 

“My lord… May I help you?” 

There was nothing she could do for him; this fae-like slip of a woman, meek yet mighty in a way he could not quite conceive. In him, there was no gift from the gods, only the innate perception and interpretation of another human. It only went so far; raising questions he was unable to answer, igniting a quiet flame of intrigue as his own blue eyes studied the darker hues opposite. 

Approaching her in kind, they maintained a distance of a few steps. Arms folded across his chest, an acting barrier against himself, and his own strange urge to pick at the worshipper’s skin to pry the secrets from beneath. 

It felt wrong to stare, but it was all he wished to do. The expectation to answer her question weighed upon him only slightly, its pull increasing with every passing second until it registered somewhere. First, deep in the back of his mind, then at the forefront. What time had passed since had she asked her question? 

replies: 7 x 5 = 35 starters: 1 = 10 development: 0

A good show. A good show normally entailed a brutish fight, a scrap and sharpened swords. Such a show ended in women, booze and comradery before resting your heavy heads upon stone and straw. And though the brothers had grown up alone and intertwined, with the years that spread Menelaus had found himself distant to the one he called family. The only one he called that. 

Lost on what to say or what to do, he left himself to snort in amusement. “Sure,” his nostril flared as he turned to face Agamemnon with crystal blue hues. He watched, contemplating what was roaming through his mind rather than his own head as he listened. A wife, a wife. He couldn’t imagine anyone playing consort to Agamemnon, but well, perhaps he’d surprise him. 

Caught in a thought he furrows his brows and juts his lower lip out, lost in his own head before seeking Agamenon once more. “I do not worry about Achilles, or that weak Eastern one from Troy - who I find myself thinking about are the demi-gods… Theseus is just one of many,” Menelaus pondered, his voice only loud enough for his brother’s ears as his eyes stray to seek his competition. Small, tall, large, skinny men. All kinds were due to fight for Helen’s hand. 

A good show was victory. It was not a fair fight, it was not a happy conclusion, but an entertaining one. Something worth watching, worth retelling. If his brother did not win his prize, let him at least win glory. His mind’s eye pictured a far younger brother, petulant over a lost game of dice, throwing half the set in to the river so that none may best him again. A part of Agamemnon turned to stone. 

Blue eyes searched the masses for the man in question. A gentle sigh escaped the king’s lips. 

Surprise washes over him, not so much a downpour but a light drizzle. He feels its droplets heavy on his brow, sneaking past his lips with a scalding sensation. They don’t taste like anything particular; they don’t taste like anything he hasn’t felt before.

Scorn ? No, rather its lesser counterpart, its unborn twin: dismissal. At the present moment of their covenant, Patroclus is no less than a footman for the Mycenaen king. Well, that is only a little galling. He’s heard worse ; he heard paiderastês. He heard hetairos. Things one cannot bite their tongue at, cannot withhold the blow— a man lets them go unanswered once, and then answers forever on their altar of shame.

The crux of the matter is this: Patroclus is schooled in underestimation like prodromoi are trained into hunger, into thoughtless obeisance. He knows how it arises, how it settles in place, the snug manner of habit; he knows how it can be uprooted, or culled, or demolished in its entirety, leaving only the cadaver of a man’s last mistake. Like an archer’s thumbprint, his soul is calloused to it. He brushes over Agamemnon’s veiled disdain.

 For now, there is no need for such choices, even if their precarious balance teeters and shakes. Underneath, the word yet rears its timely head.

To their left, a goat is bleating something fierce. It catches him off-guard, once more forgetting that the whole reality is divided on this precipice, cleaved in half: one realm for the brunt of mortals, another for those entrapped in divine games. How odd, to think that only an arm’s breadth away, farmhands gather their herds, merchants sharpen the adzes, and history moves still ; but oh, how quiet the steps. In their reality, it is thunderous.

The captain’s temples twitch. Neck arches to better regard Agamemon, curbing off-kilter to one side. With a patience as burning as passion, and just as hardly endured, he unclenches his jaw — no, he prevents it from locking in the first place. ❛  If by my men you mean Achilles, I’d object to the term. But it’s comforting, really, to hear of your disinterest, your noble impartiality. Not something I’d have wagered on, from what I heard; from what we heard, my men and all. ❜

Dismissal it was, plain as day, though that hardly dawned upon Agamemnon. Mind elsewhere, he was as untroubled by speech as the cries of an animal. It took the impertinence of the young man’s tone to rouse him, to earn another slow turn of his head as he reviewed the soldier. 

“Your man,” he clarified - he is a singularity, in this case - a subtle wrinkling of his nose, intended more in disdain for his misunderstanding than disapproval of his position. This remained entrenched into his features, a lingering betrayal of his own emotion, straying from disinterest into disapproval. 

A hand touched his brow, a lock of flaxen hair smoothed back from his brow. Their countenance could not be more different, he considers. 

By his side, the guard remains, another sceptical eye set upon the myrmidon. There is a tense readiness in his armoured form that is lacking in the king, whose only sharpness remains firmly fixed in his gaze. 

“Are you intent on starting an argument?” the Mycenean inquires, his voice slow, brow lofted. “I do not wish to offend you, Captain. There is no rivalry due between us.”

— ✹ agamemnon

Quietly, he watched the man muse to himself. Half an eye returned to the world around them, a sign that his attention was dwindling, despite the promises he lay at the commander’s feet. There was much else to attend to in Sparta, though the first day was still only dawning. Achilles, it seemed, would not pose too much obstruction to the Atrean purpose here, and for that he was thankful, yet it seemed all in hand for now. 

“I should think,” he echoed, taking the other man’s words. “He would certainly like to get a leg up.” A short, sharp breath of laughter escaped him, though he was quick to silence himself. Crudeness was not terribly becoming of a king – but of a soldier? 

Without looking to Achilles, he inclined his head, bestowing another, brief smile upon the younger man. “You shall manage it,” he confirmed. There was not a breath of hostility in his tone. Nevertheless, it was spoken with such sincerity, it might as well have been an instruction. 

Levity returned to Agamemnon in an instant. Looking back to his companion, he reached out, clapping a hand against one broad shoulder. “And now I must make my introductions at the palace. Will I see you at this evening’s feast?” he inquired, already making steps along the gangway. 

achilles got the feeling that despite agamemnon’s sand-paper calm exterior, there was a cacophony of things, stratagems, ideas, concerns, racing around behind that noble brow. oh to be a king - achilles did not envy him. his own joy was to fight, not to lead. 

the joke, if it was one at all, was as unexpected as it was amusing. achilles did not particularly associate the atrean king with tavern humour, and that only made him laugh all the more to hear it come from him - and at menelaus’ expense no less. 

“i should aid my men. there is much to be done before i must do the same.” he nodded curtly, already stepping back into the throng of his myrmidons and flashing the mycenaean king his city-shaking smile. “i’ll see you at the feast, indeed. though if i find your brother first, i shall likely already be too drunk to know my own name, let alone yours, by then.” 

Base pride prevented him ever swearing fealty to a god. Even in terms of kinship, let alone in reverence, Zeus himself was a rival. Hiking the mount of temples blasted into the otherwise pristine, white face of the mountain, he spared as much thought for a street side shrine to Ptoecheia as the temple of Artemis. His pace only lingered outside of one of these frankly mausoleum like structures out of duty. 

Not every meeting could be taken in safe company. Some men simply did not belong in the palaces of foreign kings, their very visage prone to make tongues wag. It was not in the nature of most kings to meet with such people, but he was not like most. Only he knew every piece in his game, and he intended to keep it that way. Men could not be trusted not to speak to one another. 

It was not as reliable as he was indispensable. The quiet of prayer made a fine obstruction to their intent, but it seemed it must have proved too intoxicating. Some minutes passed by in idle waiting. An ear turned to the temple out of boredom, finding peaked curiosity where he expected only boredom. 

ft.   @poimxn​      ///      the arena sidelines.

Neither of them competed in the chariot race ; one wouldn’t guess it, though, from the way they watched it from the honor lodge. Tipped forward, sinews drawn by a thether, hands clenched on the rests of their seat, around sword pommels and wine cups and everything there was to hold. The stakes they had in the game were equally high. Does it matter, when all is frayed down to the barest bones, if one’s concern was born of pride and the other of love ? After all, dishonor and suffering spread just as quickly, the contagion just as dire. While Patroclus could give a blasted damn about Achilles’ reputation, his psyche was a different matter. So: he approaches Agamemnon. Just short of stealthy, since he’s still a few tantrums away from having a death-wish, and a knife in the belly is less than auspicious amidst all this.

❛ Do you begrudge him ? ❜  His head motions towards the outstripped grounds, now laying bare in preparation for the following challenge, sandbags and fences and rake-brooms littering what had only just now been a miniature of Elysium.

❛ Throwing in the gauntlet, that is. I have half a mind to, since I suppose now we’ll never hear the end of it. What, with the forest-fiend snatching the crown from them both ? Oh, it’ll be days ‘til it blows over. ❜  He gives out a simile of laughter, short, chipped to the point. Then his eyes focus on Agamemnon, and gravity slips in. He wouldn’t have gotten where he is, had he not known how to flip between jest and mortal danger, as naturally as balancing a blade. ❛ Because if you are, is what I’m getting at, you’d best tell me now; give me the whole rebuke, the haul over the coals, and I’ll pass it on. But do not have it out with him, not in the state he’s in. ❜

Bitter feeling had replaced the blood in his veins for many years of his life. Such was better left in youth, in adolescent angst. In this day and age, stirrings of resentment made better kindling to a flame. Indeed, he could not deny a disappointment in the race’s result, but these were early days. They could portent, they could be fluke. It hardly mattered at this stage. 

Familiarity kept the guard at Agamemnon’s back rather than in Patroclus’ face. Quietly, the heads of soldier and king both turned to regard them, the former’s with only passing curiosity, the latter’s with more pressing regard. It was so clearly study, disapproval, without the usual glaze of performative warmth. 

“Have you come to gloat?” Scepticism brought a cold tone to an otherwise smooth voice. 

“You waste your breath, soldier. I am not at odds with any of these men, least of all your own.” Elbows rested on the wooden frame of the stands, his back slouched over them. Lackadaisical.

This was the truth. There was no begrudgement for Achilles or any other. Indeed, if there had been, he was less than inclined to speak to Patroclus on the matter. Not when stronger messages could be delivered in the dead of night. Yet, they were a far shot from such things as of yet. 

Menelaus was unsure whether to admit his fondness of Achilles, long gone were the times of secrets between beloved brothers. Now came the time of weariness that drew thin alongside secrecy and companionship. Mycenae, after all, seemed not to be his home but rather his brother’s realm… Helen was his chance of a new life. Freedom of his own. 

Two young ones seeking freedom of their own, wasn’t it simply written in the stars? 

( If only a goddess wasn’t to play on the other side. )

“Only as nervous as the next man,” he grunts in reply, boyish and stubborn as he puts his cup aside to cross his arms by his broad chest. He had been told before that his physique was quite like the marbled statue of Apollo or Hermes ( not Ares, for he was the God of War and his cult was not one to be tempered with ). Yet, it was the softness of his eyes that always gave him away. Ocean-blue hues that dazzled in the sunlight and mellowed in the evening. 

“What are you to do with your days, brother? Or do you intend to simply watch me?” 

Taking in the sighs and smells, unpleasant as they were, he had to wonder just how nervous the next man was. At present, they hardly seemed it. Each of them was all bravado, guts to gall. Circumstance demanded it. It demanded much of them all, allowing them to draw a curtain over their short comings for the time being. One could only wonder what the coming festivities would show. 

As much as temptation willed him to question his brother, he stayed silent. These words were spoken carefully. They did not defer one way or the other. As confounding as it was, it gave him pride. Fraternity or otherwise, he, at least, believed they earned their secrets. 

And if he were nervous, what help could Agamemnon be? Gods knew he ought to be terrified. 

“That depends. Do you intend to put on a good show?” he wondered, lips curling in a sardonic smile. 

achilles knew the irony to his words, but it was not anything he begrudged him for. agamemnon was not some perfumed eastern king who sat atop a jewelled throne and gave orders for soldiers to die while rings grew to suffocate ever-inflating fleshy fingers. he was a warrior and a commander just as much as a king; equally garbed in bronze armour and golden crown. achilles could abide that, warrior to warrior.

“him and every other man in this city, i should think.” the poets had spun such an image of helen. “though i suppose menelaus has a leg up on them for knowing her. i’m sure he made quite the impression when you both were last here.” achilles laughed, and then chewed thoughtfully on this inside of his cheek. “but tyndareus is unlikely to let helen choose for herself, no? menelaus will need more than the embers of an old flame to win her.” 

he chuckles. “i have my moments.” moments when he had no sword in hand, largely. he did not fancy himself a cruel man by nature, but he could not pretend that on a battlefield he was anything less when that battle-hunger swallowed him toe to crown.

blue eyes searched agamemnon’s face with satisfaction. it pleased him to be offered something in return for throwing the victory, just as it pleased him to to see the atrean king in his role as his younger brother’s steadfast protector. achilles’ feet had been flat on the dirt of sparta less than ten minutes, and already agamemnon was assuring a selfless victory for the house of atreus. “i will be sure to do so. placing anything less than first will not come easily.”

Quietly, he watched the man muse to himself. Half an eye returned to the world around them, a sign that his attention was dwindling, despite the promises he lay at the commander’s feet. There was much else to attend to in Sparta, though the first day was still only dawning. Achilles, it seemed, would not pose too much obstruction to the Atrean purpose here, and for that he was thankful, yet it seemed all in hand for now. 

“I should think,” he echoed, taking the other man’s words. “He would certainly like to get a leg up.” A short, sharp breath of laughter escaped him, though he was quick to silence himself. Crudeness was not terribly becoming of a king -- but of a soldier? 

Without looking to Achilles, he inclined his head, bestowing another, brief smile upon the younger man. “You shall manage it,” he confirmed. There was not a breath of hostility in his tone. Nevertheless, it was spoken with such sincerity, it might as well have been an instruction. 

agamemnon of mycenae was nothing if not honourable - he doubted most of the men clamouring to toss helen over their shoulder and carry her back to their bleak little keeps would have taken such a thing into account. “how very noble.” he recalled some story about the atreans and sparta, but could not quite place the details. “you and menelaus spent time here in your youth, did you not?”

achilles prided himself on unpredictability - he did not liked to be pinned down, not even by kings of far greater means than he would ever likely have, physically, at least. “i suppose so. he goes practically cross-eyed at any mention of her name. it would be cruel not to aid him.”

truthfully, if there were anybody he’d see win, it was agamemnon’s younger brother. he knew menelaus to be a good man, and a good friend - perhaps he would help him win his ichor-blooded princess, if he played his cards right. achilles’ charity did not come easy. 

Noble. How amusing. Briefly, there was a break in his attention. An inspection of his nails. Blood crusted beneath them, flicked clean by the pad of his thumb. How very noble. 

Head still dipped, a breath of laughter slipped through closed lips. “It was then that he became besotted. Started this life long quest. He still holds tight to his youth.” But didn’t they both, in their ways? At least Menelaus had happier memories. 

Agamemnon’s eye returned to Achilles, accompanied by a tight lipped smile. “You are not a cruel man,” he confirmed. Having seen him in battle, he doubted his own words. A man lost in the heat of combat was a different devil indeed. Could he count on this glory hound to accept a defeat he had not earned? 

“If you do not care for the winner’s prize, think on what might be given to a second.” There was a plainness to his tone. Warmth was not needed to strike deals. “Return to me when your decision is final.”

The scent of sweat, salt and burning sacrifice besieged them; the scent smelled as home did to a boy constantly moved, and so Menelaus did not cower or grimace. If anything, it had lured him into a false taste of security that was only a threat to his standing in the competition. So like any younger sibling, he fled to the wing of an older brother, his head tucked closer to hear Agamemnon’s words under the guise of guidance. 

In truth, it seemed that the council Agamemnon offered was wisdom Menelaus already learned; he knew not to douse himself in wine or ale, to remain prepared for the challenges ahead. As a boy who been raised within exile from his own motherland, he knew well how to hide secrets and how to plot a route of attack. Though perhaps he should’ve acknowledged his brother for that.“Yes, I know,” he grunted in response, hiding his nose against his cup as his eyes deserted his brother’s piercing hues to instead regard their surroundings.

At least Agamenon was not after Helen.

But there remained others, a myriad of fathers, brothers and sons with outstretched claws — greedy for refreshment, nourishment and the skin of women who performed as servers or pretty little things. And though as a mortal he could’ve been easily seduced by temptation, whilst under the eye of Helen he remained pure and diligent. He had to win, he had to win. “I know half of these men and what they pretend to boast. They are obvious pickings. I look instead to the men yet arrived; the ones from Troy, for example. I hear the youngest brother raised by sheep is doomed to arrive,” Menelaus pondered, tapping one finger upon the wood chalice before he lifted to look back to his brother. “Have you heard of anything since our arrival?” 

Once again, he watched the bottom of his brother’s cup and briefly closed his eyes against irritation. A point had been missed here, but he wouldn’t weary himself in labouring it further. Standing straight, he mirrored his brother, casting a look about the room as he hummed in quiet thought. 

“Much. I have ears to the ground,” he confirmed, dry and confident in his speech. “The young hermit comes with some repute, though only gods know why. Achilles of Phthia comes in search of glory rather than victory. Perhaps you will find an ally in him?” Suggestion came with a sideways glance, studying the face of his brother. 

Odysseus had no illusions as to what had truly brought Agamemnon, and himself by extension, to Sparta. Tyndareus throws himself a party, and they see the prelude to a war. The higher he built himself and his kingdom up on the strength of a false daughter as a prize, the easier it was to see all come crumbling down. The summons to the Agamemnon’s quarters came at no surprise. They had much to discuss, the king and his advisor, and even the quietest corners of the palace were all too prone to watchful eyes.

“What a gathering, indeed. Tyndareus has certainly… outdone himself.” He replied, echoing a phrase he’d heard countless times within the palace walls, but with none of the reverence. He spoke of Tyndareus with the same amount of reverence he might hold for a common sheep, even if this one might think itself a wolf.

“Correct on both counts.” Odysseus may enjoy a strong draft and a good conversation, but here, in this grand den of snakes, he took little interest the numerous delights of the party, choosing instead to stay on the edges, watching and listening, letting others enjoy the drink and smoke the sharing of stories and secrets while he kept his senses sharp. “I care little for this sort of thing, but the company, at least, is proving somewhat interesting.”

“But I know you didn’t ask me here because you value my opinion on party-planning, βασιλεύς.” He regarded Agamemnon carefully, brow quirking slightly upward as he spoke. He respected the King - sometimes even came within a hair’s breadth of liking him - but this was not a social call, no sense in pretending otherwise. “What is it that you seek to know?”

Meeting the other’s careful regard with a half smile, he nodded slowly, saving his smiles. There was no sense in a performance for this man, who knew too much of the human condition to be tricked by rehearsed gaiety. Pacing backwards, he distanced himself, returning again to his cup. A flippant gesture invited Odysseus to a seat deeper into the suite, while his other hand raised the cup to his lips. 

“As much as you can share,” he replied, at length. “I know the princes and kings in our company, but make no habit of fawning after heroes and fighters.” Not strictly true. There were those in his collection; the phthian warrior, for instance. “As you know, I have a horse of my own in this race, and may judge its odds of winning by the shortcomings of its competitors.”

the myrmidons and the mycenaens mixed like dye into water; they were of different kingdoms, but they knew each other well enough by now that they melded into one with ease. fighting alongside men had that effect, achilles had found, and he hoped the battles would only be larger the longer he spent in the contingent of the atrean king. 

he clasped agamemnon’s arm in greeting, pleased at the privilege of his full attention. “you and i have something in common then.” his eyes followed agamemnon’s over his own shoulder to locate his reason milling about in the crowd. patroclus, gilded as ever in the eyes of his lover, walked among the myrmidons with their usual unobtrusive ease and achilles bloomed with pride just to see him. “what causes you not to throw in your sword?” he could not deny curiosity, especially about a man he could never quite understand. 

“i will compete, but for no prize but glory. i have little interest in tyndareus’ daughter, for obvious reasons.” his smile was fond as he ripped his eyes from his lover and turned back to face agamemnon. “i could not very well stand by in phthia, twiddling my thumbs and letting every other young man in the known world have all the fun without me, could i?”

his eyes flickered with humour, and a grin brightened his usually serious features. “besides, menelaus will need someone to pretend to beat to make helen swoon, and who would make him look better than me?” 

Their eyes settled on Patroclus simultaneously, though Agamemnon’s soon turned back to Achilles. A taste of the affection he felt for them was mirrored in his expression, in the swell of his chest and the light in his eyes. Something in this fascinated him, deeper than he would care to admit. It was cast from his mind the next instant. Such fancy had no bearing on his reality.

Wiped clean, he constructed a smirk of amusement for the younger man, his gaze turning outward again to scan the sea of their men. “When we first met, the princess was three years old. In my mind’s eye, she is still the same child. No amount of beauty or regard can change that for me,” he admitted, his tone bright with levity. 

There was more to it than that. Pride, as always, drove him further than all else. 

Side-long at first, then fully, he looked aside to the Phthian and quirked a brow. “May I hold you do to that? If glory is what you seek, I am confident you will achieve it, but if you are beaten by my brother, I can assure that you will not lose face.”