Θ Ε Σ Μ Ο Σ

“is such a claim meant to impress me, theseus?” she holds his name now as she’s meant to, between the two cups of her silky palms, where it might be lifted and drank from. she speaks it clearly, informally, his resentment matched by her own indignation when she hears him lay claim by way of first landing: as though she was nought but muds and stick to be cultivated and put into a king’s name — his. “do you believe there have been no others before you?” no, exile-king of athens, there has been one, and he is sweet to me as marigold and poppy drought on summer eve.

“yes, you offered to move the earth and water for me, but perhaps i have changed — perhaps i no longer seek such displacement in my life.” it is all an embittered hypothetical, tangents of a lie dropped into a casket of wine and pulled out stinking. he quotes so much of the world to her name that helen has no recourse but to avoid the oblation altogether, unable to address such wide-spanning sacrifice in the hot night. “seasons have come and gone since you charmed me to your ship, mayhap in my womanhood i seek only peace and poetry, piety and quietude. you could not offer me such things.” you would not turn that knife in on yourself. “make no mistake, i will have my place in this world. and what i will have, i will have all of. no more false heavens or damned half-measures.”

yes, it says, one piece of her rebuff still an answer to his own. if i was to have you, it would by by the neck, the teeth, the ankles. when i want, i want all.

his offer to dine on his heart surprises her.

o dread goddess, patron saint of desire, is all love such a cannibalism?

as salt to meat, dear. salt to meat.

“it is undue. i ask for no feast. you are a fool to make a meal of yourself.” would you not have torn out and fed upon the ichor within me, if there had only been the choice?

yet something inside her churns, that briny piece of coral placed inside each mortal stomach by aphrodite herself, and smashes through the weaver’s loom. all is but a mass of black thread and barnacle as she thinks: would you be as a fool for me?

she cannot think more of it; there is no thought to begin with. it is but a flight of shapes and colours behind her eyes as they parry and advance from one another, and they recede as he comes to her for more answers. they are so close it is a war crime. what was he meant to think? that he was not the only half-god forced to great feats to prove their worth.

“that i, too, had a labyrinth before me, hero, and such was my escape.” did you bare the beast ill-will because it was your fate to leave it bloodied? no. you pitied the thing mangled long before you set your sword betwixt its ribs.

she goes and he follows, some arcane ritual drawn up long before their patterns and meant to last beyond even the horizons of their life. he is warm and solid behind her, of that champion-build that begets vast shoulders and even broader vision. helen looks up to the moon and asks for her kind eye.

i am afraid, she says. let it be, child. the voice answers, fear is the spur in the flanks of the beast. 

i am in want, she says. bathe in it, girl. desire too drives nations.

( just as it may fell them )

so helen reclines her head against theseus’ wide chest, broad like a barrel, broad like the chest of offerings he leaves at her feet. she closes her eyes and takes steps in the dark, down into the forgotten cellar of intimacy and its jawbone cousin, want, who two years ago she had been so frightened of it she had called theseus’ name to ensure he would not leave her alone in its grasp. now she let it froth over her, sure that in due myths, her patron goddess had washed in this as she did seafoam. 

“you made many promises, theseus.” cut-rope voice, one end loose in the water. she lets the tide pull her, only one end remaining on short.

“i do wonder if you remember them all…” her head lolls to the side, an exposure of column neck, that slender gold thing that held aloft sparta’s royal roof and all the fates within it. vulnerable and sweet it lays open, the pulse found just there at the base, pounding as a sapling does under the earth; thrumming, stretching, pushing, just visible under the coverings: what was meant to come here? tell me. “all this time past, have you borne them as stones in a satchel, carrying them around to lay out and count when recall forgot you?” one burning hand reaches to take his wrist, a tight hold on the arm not raised to caress her as if to bind him — but was it to anchor him in place, or to prevent trespass? “or were they left at the foot of your mother’s hearth, crumbled to one — dim — thing?”

the words she speaks leave an ashen taste on his mouth. in some twisted, dark part of him, he wishes to be her first in everything, even in the little things.  (  or perhaps more especially the little things: the first thing she sees in the morning, the first who will see her still covered in silken sheets awash in the golden rays of the dawn, the first who will sweep away the stray strands of hair from her face when she’s still slowly rousing herself from the grips of Hypnos’ charm.  )  the fact that this action, this making of an offer, is not the first to have met her wounds him in some way; but he supposes beauty becomes her to the point of making her an altar, and all the world a believer. he cannot fault her for being herself. in a way, perhaps he should consider it a blessing, that she would so consort with him still so very readily even after his purported transgression on her.

yet what wounds him still, cuts him deeper than her first words, is her accusation of half-measures. he has flayed himself alive in front of her, made himself a spectacle, turning out skin and bone to offer every atom that he has for her—for her alone—and she has deemed this display of most gratuitous violence not enough. for theseus, whose main language has mostly been in the steel of swords, the slaying of beasts, comfort and softness are two aspects that are unfamiliar to him as the thought of mediocrity. still, there is a thought that gives him pause:  ❛  do you think there will be no peace with me ?  ❜  he asks, his voice sounding almost like a patient begging a healer for some sort of balm, some sort of remedy.  ❛  do you not think that i, who has offered you the world, will not try to offer you all those things as well ?  even if it were not within my power, do you think i would not, with all my resourcefulness, i would not contrive some sort of way to give you all that you ask ?  ❜ 

he does not say: i have offered you the whole of me, is that not enough ?

he does not say: you are a cruel mistress; you ask me for more even as i give you everything.

instead he says: having offered you all that i am and the world entire, what more do you want from me ?  ask, and i shall give it—or i shall try to give it; because i cannot say no to you.

except he doesn’t say it in his words. he says it in his eyes, in his hands, in his breathing, in his being. she leans back against him and presents her slender neck, her pulse showing to him, open and vulnerable. in this angle, with the silver sliver of moonlight shining on her like this, it is as if he sees her in a new light: clearer and brighter. he hazards his hand to touch the small of her neck, that hollow where pulse is felt easiest, where his fingertips touch against physical evidence of the presence of divinity in this world. 

replies: 14 x  5 = 70

starters: 3 x 10 = 30

development: [ ( 3 x 10 ) + ( 5 x 3 ) ] =  45

task: 1 x 20 = 20

[2/?] they say that heroes need courage most of all. it is not courage to abandon a girl who loved you, not courage to kill a bull, not courage to cause your father to jump into the ocean in grief - what did your mother teach you, that for your own glory and gold the only option is to cast the net of grief unto others, wrapped in false promises of love and affection? they do say your father refuses to acknowledge you - would he care to taint the purity of his realm with one like you?

[3/?] a terrible man, that is what they shall say of you, before promptly forgetting you ever were.

At his words and the silence that undertook the arena, of said circumstances that were unknown to him but that had nonetheless earned him the ire of Sparta, Paris’ anger had dissipated in embarrassment. Eyeing him with a tentative approach, Paris is unmoved from where he stands as the images of a young Theseus throwing the temple builders’ ox over the height of their construction, as does the righteous hand that guides the blade to the neck of the beast that laid claim to the lives of many Athenian youths is replaced with more images of more sinister imaginings.

Could it be that the seasoned hero was seeking favor in Sparta, after all?

Expectantly turning to the man besides him, Paris’ next words were trilled, for it was a great honor bestowed. “Drachma for drachma,” he acquiesces, drawing his hand over Theseus’ shoulder in a firm grasp of appreciation. Next to him, his guards are catching fistfuls of his interest and inching closer in an effort to take him away. Rather easily, both guards are placated with Paris’ quick glance over his shoulder.

“Have you no guards, mighty Theseus? Or is it that a hero can only trust themselves in matters of protection? Nevermind that - please, lead the way.”

he does not even notice the guards until the other male bids them to his attention. theseus is half-amused, half-curious. there are many such princes and kings that populate the stage of this circus, but he has taken such security matters for granted—if only because it had not been a problem until now. this man was no common soldier, not another grunt in the sea of forgettable men whose stories shone a little less brighter than the luminaries of their age; this was someone important.

and yet, for the life of him, theseus cannot put a name to the other’s face. it disgruntles him, this lapse of knowledge, this gap in intelligence that he thinks is his best trait yet. 

❛  you have me at a disadvantage,  ❜  he says, voice ever so sly,  ❛  both in numbers and in knowledge.  ❜  it is not often that he confesses to such weakness, but—what of it ?  he sees no harm in it so far.  ❛  i said drachma for drachma, yes, but can the gentleman do me a show of charity and spare me his name ?  ❜  a charming smile like that of heaven’s delight graces his face. he is not above using old tricks for new faces, and who’s to say it would not work this time ?

“It is not usually to blacksmiths and jewellers who one exhibits their jewellery,” Hades said, a never-ending sea of evenness to his tone. With his hands clasped behind his back, he was silent for a moment as he decided whether to tell him, “It’s an imitation, well-made as it may be. Fool’s gold.” Disinterestedly, he turned his head away. And then he picked up another  —  similarly designed, but of doubtless veracity. “This one is real. Twins of different origins, one merely deceit of another. The proprietor is likely unaware of its truth.” With a single touch, he imbued death upon the intricate piece of metal. It would not kill him, no, but it would bring him closer to the grasp of the Invisible One, and one day he might find himself haunted by the hails of every sorrowed soul in the Underworld, but for now, it would bring him ill luck.

open to all. ​      ///      the soldier’s armory.

Chaos blooms inside Sparta like nettles on a riverbed, like the weeds him & Achilles would gather in childhood, wolf-wild and defiant under Chiron’s watchful gaze. Such chaos allows unassuming men to let their roles slip, their duties sputtering at uneven ends, robbed of both weight and meaning. These gaps carved by disarray is where Patroclus’ function resides — where his job actually begins, rather than on the race-course or at a ship’s wind-bitten helm.

The cadence sets off in the armory, up at the first crow: he oversees requisitions, prepares the men, mingles with Trojans and foreign sellswords. Most importantly, he guards each cuirass and girdle-plate that bears the tawny hue of Myrmidon battlegarb, the emblem they have come to embody, as they’re polished for the next day. When one thinks Thessaly, it’s no longer the gaoled bride that springs to mind, the wedding feast that nursed perdition. Nor is it the fugitive mother, fingers marroon with crusted blood, half-ready to consume their son as Titans had. By Achilles’ side, the two of them effaced all dishonor from the maps of thought and rumor, cleansed the names in fire. When people say Thessaly, now, they say: rebirth. They say: harrowing, luminous order. They say: a glory that defies piety.

And it starts on days like these, in places such as these. The slates are erased anew each morning. At times, the best he can do is hope he can uphold the rhythm, the unrelenting standard they have imposed years ago. More often, he takes it all in stride, no feat too small — no feat too paltry to prove himself worthy of his position, his lover, the symbols they carved, basiliskos, imperial, faultless.

The doors swing open. Rickety hinges, unoiled, creak with a baleful wail. An inching sign not all is gold-plated in Sparta, not if you bend an ear to it. Hissing through his teeth, Patroclus flaps a hand at the sound without turning to regard the newcomer. ❛ By blessed fuck, kick that sodden thing closed or they’ll come to arrest us for disorder. Shrieks like Hades’ hounds. ❜

there is much to glean in a soldier’s armoury and much yet still that he can make use of. theseus, king without a crown, hero with more shame than valour, cannot now lay claim to the extensive collection of soldier’s shields and swords that lie wasting away in the depths of the athenian collections. his presence reviled, he cannot don the garb that had been his habit: his sword rusted, his armour pierced, and his shield made brittle by the passing of years. in short, he had no proper tools to equip himself with for this competition, this moot for helen’s hand—and while he likes to think himself witty and resourceful, there is only so much that one’s brains can contribute. where words and plans fail, swords sing of a separate glory. yet to possess swords, he must dip into the common pool, debase himself  (  though it is not as if that hasn’t already been done for him  )  and hope that whatever generosity he can find something worthy from tyndareus’ succour. 

yet the moment he steps into the door, there is a squeak of rusted hinges, a shriek almost like a death knell, a tell-tale sign of oversight and disuse. before this contest, scheming tyndareus probably had not much use for such gross displays of military strength. it is, perhaps, an admirable trait: no realm suffers under a peaceful king, and perhaps such prudence is wise in this age of men thirsting for glory. yet theseus has no he grows disgruntled at this, the smallest of signs, because if he is to win, then he must need possess tools that will help him win. so far, it seems that he will be better off finding some drunk soldier in the tavern if the tyndareus’ armoury matches how he presents the tools that would be his kingdom’s defence.

though, perhaps, it is the chiding that surprises him more than anything else.

❛  disorder ?  ❜  he asks, a hint of mirth appearing in the corner of his mouth.  ❛  pray, tell, who would be here to arrest us ?  ❜

—

❛  My soul, guard against pomp and glory. And if you can't curb your ambitions, at least pursue them hesitantly, cautiously. And the higher you go, the more searching and careful you need to be.  ❜

————— now playing :  (  🎵 )  ain’t no grave — crooked still

a silence falls. in this late hour, torch-lit hallways somehow seem bigger and more cavernous than they had been in the golden hours of the dawn. long shadows fall and streak upon the floor, seeming like hooded figures themselves in the dim light if theseus did not look for too long.

for his victory, he allowed himself this: one night of revelry, a lengthy stay at the tavern, as if the bottom of the ale glass would give him some sort of surge in strength—yet the hours passed and the place gets emptied out, leaving him alone in his corner. theseus is left to make his way back to his designated quarters, alone and unaccompanied by anyone. 

(  it does not feel lonely—not if he doesn’t let himself think about it.  )

as he snakes his way through the hallways—how odd that he thinks about the cretan labyrinth now—he cannot help but feel the presence of another, in the far end of the hallway, still too far to be recognised, but close enough that theseus can call out to a friend.

(  or is it to be a foe ?  in the darkness, everything blurs.  )

❛  who’s there ?  ❜  he asks, voice almost echoing in the silence.

                                                 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋

         THE ( ATTEMPTED ) ABDUCTION OF HELEN & PERSEPHONE 

                                                  PART TWO

                                                 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖘𝖙 𝖔𝖋

         THE ( ATTEMPTED ) ABDUCTION OF HELEN & PERSEPHONE 

                                                  PART ONE

clanging swords became the melody of the morning, metallic sounds evolving into a symphony of strength forged by steel. there are very many people that populate the palaestra who seem eager to put up a fight, make a name for themselves, mark their own status as first amongst the fray—all of them contributing to the mixture of sanguine veracity that inhabited the grounds and seemed endless in its hunger for blood and sweat. the renewed fervour is easily explainable: the results of the chariot race had made undeniable the reality that this whole thing is an actual competition, with palpable stakes that demands to make itself known. where once there was carefree abandon, almost reckless gestures that merely played at the act of combat, some were now visibly imbued with a thirst to fight on and fight harder. the first victory is but the beginning, and it’s clear that theseus cannot afford to rest on his laurels if he wants to keep challenging for helen’s hand.

yet as he descends towards the common ground of the palaestra, there seems to be a holied hush descending on the crowd. at first, he thinks it is for himself, supposing that it is as if the others are giving him his due respect as victor of the first competition, but then he realises that the silence is instead for someone else. he turns and—

he feels her first rather than sees her, that weaver-warrior goddess who would make herself queen of the world. 

(  he feels, too, as if caught on a knife’s edge of destiny: some kind of reckoning shall pass.  )

❛  patroness,  ❜  he calls, deigning still to deem himself dignified enough for such an action, as if he is no longer anathema, as if he is already absolved.   ❛  are you not pleased by the victory of one from your sainted city ?  ❜

Odysseus lets out a hearty laugh at the notion that he might be in Sparta seeking Helen’s hand - only partially to dodge the question of what his real purposes in Sparta are, it is genuinely funny, the notion of him participating in Tyndareus’ ridiculous competition for the sake of a woman he only knows through the tales of her cousin - and leans back in his chair. “No,” he says with a slight shake of his head, voice still carrying the echo of laughter. “You won’t be finding a competitor in me. I’ll leave that particular ordeal to finer men.”

He takes a sip of his drink, casual, appraising. It’s easy enough to say why he isn’t in Sparta - what interest does he have in golden women and the attention of every enterprising sailor, solider, and king in Ilia? - explaining why he is will be a slightly more delicate manner. “I’m here because King Agamemnon wants me here,” he continues, slightly irreverent. Things have never been that simple between he and Agamemnon, and there’s no doubt that Theseus knows it - more clever than he lets off, that man is - but Odysseus isn’t trying particularly hard to be convincing, Theseus wouldn’t believe him anyway. 

“That’s my story, anyway,” he says, and pauses to sip his drink. “I’ll do what I can to help Menelaus secure Princess Helen as his bride - may the best man win - but I’ve got my own reasons for coming along.” He thinks of Penelope, of soft smiles and long late night walks, and he thinks of the webs of alliance weaved, the chaos bound to come. He wonders which dominates his smile, the slyness or the softness. No matter. He’ll let Theseus make what he will of it. “But that, my friend, will all come to light in due time.” His tone is friendly, bordering on warm, but eyes dart around the room. Not here, he says without speaking, too many prying eyes, though he’s not sure how much he’d give away in private either.

Something tells him that things to come will prove Theseus wrong - it may be harder to change a city than a person - but he looks at the world and he finds it in flux. Cities rise and fall, in the end, just as mortals do. Still, he smiles at the notion, acknowledges it with a nod. He knows precious little reliable about Helen herself, her name haunted with countless tales of beauty and renown, each more fantastic than the last. Penelope speaks fondly of her, and for that alone he’s inclined to think well of her as well, there are few whose judgement he trusts so completely. Theseus reveals precious little, both about Helen and the city she is Princess of, immutable, he calls them both. ‘Helen is Helen.’

“What must she make of all this?” Odysseus wonders aloud, almost to himself, but only almost. He drops the pretense of asking about the city, Theseus had spoken her name first, after all. He does not envy anyone caught up in the contest, Helen least of all, her fate turned to a mere prize to be fought over in these contests. Fathers making suitors participate in some trial or another to earn a daughter’s hand is hardly unheard of, but Tyndareus takes it to an entirely new level. It’s as impressive as it is distasteful.

❛  menelaus ?  ❜  he asks, voice incredulous.  ❛  i understand using every tool in one’s arsenal  ❜  — and odysseus is a mighty fine tool indeed, if the atreides brothers put in all that effort into dragging him here — ❛  but... ah, i fail to see how you can win him helen’s hand.  ❜  not to mention: isn’t it embarrassing, having to win through outsourcing ?  but he supposes victory at all costs is victory still, even if it was achieved through less than ideal ends.  ❛  unless — shall i then look forward to getting sabotaged by you, odysseus ?  i might consider it an honour.  ❜  the remark, even worded the way it was, is easy and light. it might even be remarkably cheery, and the only thing that stops theseus from grinning from ear to ear a well-timed sip from the glass. he does not say any more about the matter. there is nothing else to be said, really. in the competition for helen’s hand, why not use every tool at one’s disposal ?

(  but ah, theseus does so very much hate even the mere thought of being dependent on anyone.  )

❛  but ah, behold the man of mystery !  ❜  he says, almost as if he’s beginning to see odysseus in a new light. there is precious little known about odysseus—or perhaps it is more correct to say that there is precious little worth knowing about him ?—and so he savours the piece of information for the gem that it rightly was. despite this confession, however, theseus must confess to a lack of creativity that might give him insight as to the mycenean’s designs for sparta. his imagination is not so constricted as to be useless—after all, he has thought up of many daring schemes, the most infamous among them his plot with pirithous—but he cannot think of anything else to take note of in this citadel, save that which he came for.

unless, of course, the designs are incidental.  ❛  mayhap an investigation on your origins while here might do you good ?  ❜  he suggests, though really it is more of a query. he is not so deaf as to what the others whisper about the man he sits beside for this day. it is a conundrum he shares: suspected descent from divinity, even as confirmation eludes him. perhaps, together, they can find a way out of the mess that their fathers put them in.  ❛  though do feel free to correct me if there’s a higher purpose that calls you here,  ❜  he adds, almost offhandedly, his tone sounding as if there can be no other purpose.

❛  what would you think if all the world came for your hand ?  ❜  he asks, the question almost rhetorical.  ❛  it would be flattering if it was her own designs that proved the root of this contest, but i suspect this is more borne from tyndareus’ scheming and pursuit of profit that he does this.  ❜  he shrugs, an easy gesture that seemingly conveys some sort of apathy about the ruckus of this whole carnival. his focus, as a whole, is set upon helen; all else is superfluous, petty distractions that can be ignored.  ❛  what is interesting is the fact that even the gods themselves have thought it wise to come down from their most holy mountain to meddle in mortal affairs.  ❜  he looks down at his glass, a blurred mirror-image of his face staring back up at him through ember liquid.  ❛  it does not bode well when gods assemble like this,  ❜  he adds, voice conspiratorial, yet ever quiet.

victory is an aphrodisiac whose taste lingers on his tongue for far too long. he feels light and heaven-sent, glory-crowned even with just one victory. his mind bids him caution, lest an overeager pride come before the fall; but what else can he feel aside from elation at this, his first taste of satisfaction in what seemed like too long a time ?  there will be time for training and for making preparations. for now, he is looking for a way to celebrate: taverns can be ever so crude and common, the cottina too base, but art of a higher sort might prove his soul’s solace—and what better way to cap off a victory than watching men play pretend for a little bit of time ?

it is alone that he sojourns into the amphitheatre, packed as it is by people of varying sorts and ages. in the crowd, he almost dissolves, anonymous and indistinct. perhaps he should be thankful there were no laurel leaves for him to be crowned, because he’s thinking he quite likes the idea of being unrecognised, of hiding in plain sight.

“i was not there,” she answered, though her voice was timid and almost inaudible as she stood before him with a softened presence. the underworld was a place unmovable by mortal hands, and though she had seen him stuck in the realm ruled by both hades and persephone, cassandra could not fathom how it must have felt. did he feel death? had he felt the embrace of the king and queen themselves? had he died out in the wilderness whilst the woman of troy stood at the walls with patience and diligence? or had he traded eternity beneath the mortal realm for something precious and other-worldly? how had he escaped such clutches, after all? 

questions were in abundance, and cassandra’s tongue felt almost numb with anticipation. yet, she knew she must be slow - after all, they were meeting once more as two souls who had one almost shared themselves with one another. she had been untainted and bereft of madness, he had been a hungry hero who had once seen something of need inside the princess of troy. 

she gives and she gives, forever tearing her flesh apart in offering to someone else as she touches his cheek, his jaw and ( with merely a brush ) the soft petal of his lower lip. she wondered if he saw the past within her? a future? or nothing at all? perhaps he was right, though she did not know it, she was a ghost. forever stuck and forever simply thought about. 

but she was still a girl. a girl who had waited. a girl who remained truthful.  was she ever to be rewarded? 

torn all over, she shudders and lets him hold her hand. as if in reaction her pulse quickens beneath his thumb, the bleat of blood and life pushing upon his skin as if to shout his name in desperation. in response, she relinquishes her voice to instead nod in timid determination. it was true then, that he took her voice when he had left troy. it was true that he left the shores in search of one more adventure and within his pockets lay the spirit of a princess taken by anyone who was willing to take. the truth seethes within her, her blood hot beneath the fragility of her skin before she takes his hand into her own - her grasp not her own, but of someone else. “come,” she instructs, her tongue stronger than every other noise she had released as she takes him through the agora. 

they pass fresh scents of ripe figs, harvested honey and salt sweat from the sacrificial meats. the agora was still alive with activity from the recent journies across greek oceans to meet the spartan princess. there were men aplenty, men draped in foreign colours and glistening skin. women accompanying them as ladies of aphrodite, consorts and esteemed daughters. sparta, it seemed, was another world entirely; where fame meant little due to the supply of heroes and, where all that mattered relied on one woman. 

ah, how was she meant to ever compete?  why should you care? you are doomed to remain.  to wait. 

( a girl may still dream. )

guiding him to a secluded crescent she sits upon marble and watches theseus who boasts shoulders of brawn and a crown of delicate chocolate shades. mirroring his action of before she holds his hand and gently pressed the fat pad of her thumb upon his wrist to feel his pulse in an effort to bring forth some whisper of the girl she had been. when they lay upon the gardens of troy with the wash of the sea behind them, she had yet to have promised herself to apollo and had kissed as any other princess would’ve. and though her madness was truly built upon other’s perceptions, she had been easier on herself before she had seen him within hades’ grasp. 

“it feels…” she began, confessions licking her lips as the tide did the shores as she tried to find the words. grasping for air as she averted her gaze down towards their hands instead. “i missed you so,” cassandra whispered, her lips swollen with need and despair as her eyes seemed to water before she pressed ever so gently ( honeyed, gingerly, enveloping ) upon his wrist. “…why are you here?” 

❛  of course,  ❜  he says, though still he did not understand. her touch meets his face, and he feels memories rushing back, like a familiar siren-song that trapped him in its call. once they were a beacon against darkness; but now that he has stepped towards the realm of visible light, where the sun shines on him as it does all others, he cannot help but feel as if he has done her a disservice, degraded her to a mere tool against tenebrous tendrils taking hold of him instead of appreciating her as the woman she is.  ❛  i only meant to ask how you knew it and—  ❜

his voice falters. he means to ask: how long did you know ?  did she know it ever since the beginning, many moons of knowing he was stuck in the underworld ?  but how did she know ?  he had thought word about his confinement there was sparse, which is just the way he liked it, but if word of it reached as far as troy, then does that mean it’s well known ?

(  here, so out in public, he almost blanches: can people, upon seeing him, simply know ?  he had long felt tainted by his stay in that chthonic realm, some kind of anxiety and nausea coming over him if he so much as even thinks about it. with such a thing in mind, is it too out of the question to ponder the possibility of some external mark giving him away, as if he is blemished both in body and soul ?  )

he follows her past labyrinthine stalls, past wandering hawkers and vagrants alike looking for ways to make coin; he follows her through the wondrous consolidation of life until its noise passes from rumbling to murmurs to quiet. the path they walk together is long and winding, but it is one that is at least taken together. how many of these did they undertake in the past, when they were younger, less jaded, more innocent ?  for they are less so now, that he sees as much: the years have done her just as much cruelty as they did to him, fate twisting them into something harsh, something cold, something that can survive.

(  oh, darling, what has become of us ?  )

strands of ebony frame a face that seems seraphic, a little closer to the heavens than mortality, a kind of strangeness in her that seems to set her apart. there is beauty in holiness, yes, but this brand seems more the type that inspires a sharp intake of breath than one that evokes softness.  ❛  and i you,  ❜  he says, fingers caressing chin, thumb on her cheek.  ❛  you cannot possibly begin to fathom—  ❜

but ah, how easily she brooks the heart of the matter. for a moment, theseus still carries the same fond expression, before the full extent of the meaning of her words hit him. the smile dissolves into nothingness. perhaps the ghost of it can be found still in the aether, but now there is not even a hint of it on his face, as if joy became a stranger, fallen ashen in his mouth, which becomes heavy with words he doesn’t know how to express.

❛  i am here,  ❜  he says,  ❛  for the same reason all are gathered here.  ❜  even with this pithy statement, trying desperately to remove responsibility from his shoulders, as if he’s saying see, i’m not the only person doing it, as if proximity to a mob would save his skin—even with all that, the words still feel heavy on his tongue. he has strayed from her; he has forgotten her.

(  she, however, has not.  )

there is nothing else to say. he looks down, the guilt pressing down on his shoulders, concrete and heavy, feeling a little bit like how the world must surely feel to atlas’ own.  ❛  i’m sorry,  ❜  he says.

Piles upon piles of fresh fruits and vegetables and cheeses and freshly slaughtered meat upon stalls; with one burst of power he could reduce it all to rotten flesh. Not that he would disrupt the order of this world-that-was-not-his, not without reason. Still,it was a curiosity to wander through such delicate life, and even more through the mortals walking shoulder-to-shoulder with their day’s purchase with baskets in their hands. How fragile it was, life. Once escaped from the fresh bounties of the Earth onto safer audience   — little lifeless trinkets and wonders, he took an easy breath, that was, until, a familiar figure came into sight. Familiarity laced with blood-boiling rage, a memory not so long past seeping through to divine mind. One act, indeed, could decimate the entire agora along with this detested figure, but the rage tided over easily and just as quickly as it had appeared. He approached, wondering if the other would recognize his once-tormentor in this mortal vessel, and before he could say anything a question was posited to him.

Hades inspected the object with a single gaze. A well-made counterfeit, a simulation of its intention so true that it could easily pass as such to mortal eyes. "If there is no way to discern,” said the god, the voice of his vessel quiet and even. “What does it matter?”

❛  oh, it matters a great deal, i think,  ❜  he says, voice sounding ever so sure. his mother taught him thrift, even as a prince—albeit a prince of some middling kingdom whose dominium was composed merely of weather-worn rocks and empty greenery—and it is a value he finds himself relying on now as but a mere exile.  ❛  blacksmiths and jewellers always have their way of discerning,  ❜  he adds, before he examines the bracelet even closer, almost as if by proximity he can figure out the flaws and the tells that would make its origins clear.