𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄.
— NAME : aeneas.
— AGE : 30.
— GENDER : cisgender male
— FACE : remy hii.
If Odysseus is poikilios, wily, you are pius—you are pater to your men in arms. To all, you have become heros. They hear your war cry from the battlefield, thunderous and noble and toeing the line between divinity and man, and they watch as your soldiers return your roar and rally around your command, fighting for your honor as much as their own. They see your love for your fellow man first, how great your capacity for tenderness and sorrow can be, and your piety second. But for the gods, it is reversed: you, favored among the divine. You listen to sacred forewarnings without question, ever a dutiful servant to fate, even if they go against your innate instinct. But heed this—it is not out of naivete, nor extreme deference, nor a slight ego. You have seen your father struck by Zeus himself for his hubris. You have never doubted the gods since, for to see one's progenitor felled for his vanity is to be humbled in ways that go beyond blood and sense. And perhaps, because your first memory is of the nymphs of Mount Ida, their glowing retinue singing golden poems and slender fingers combing through your hair, whispering hushed things that sound grand even to your young ears; glittering prophecies and auguries of destiny. Though you are far from Ida now, you have not forgotten their whispers. And hidden by your armor, you tremble—for it would not do to hear a servant of fate marked by skepticism.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.
✹ APHRODITE — Long and bitter is the list of lovers your mother picked, transfigured, and then lost. Harrowing & wasteful is the crown they give as patron. They are apotheose, but apostasy too—they are the space between offering, freely given, throat naked to the sky, and sacrifice: not given, but reaped from you. You will see Paris among them by the time this is over. You will not reliqnuish your own self.
✹ PRIAM — The first figure to put their faith in you, to touch the hem of your tunic and say: go forth, lead them. Long before your father's body was gnarled in its earthly grave, long before he lost his wits, Priam's will remained unyielding. Welded against iron, but renewed each day with blood, with sheer mastery of one's own spirit. The way they stopped themselves from falling into either dispair or tyranny has won your respect a thousand times over. When the time comes for your own grief—and oh, godly-prince, it will not be long—you vowed to show the same willpower.
✹ HECTOR — Your skill is only second to your cousin & confidante, but there is no ill will, no nascent envy between you—only easy comaraderie and trust earned, never demanded. There are few who know the prince as well as you do, and you sense their growing restlessness with Paris' influence, their eagerness to leave Sparta behind. You cannot say you disagree,but you are torn. Part of you would caution them to remain at ease, to wait for a sign from the gods, while the other part hailing the first ship back to Troy.
✹ POSEIDON — You sense them at the back of your neck, like the unfurled wings of a great beast, bidding their time. Their vessels & acolytes circle the path you're walking on. No one knows if they favor Mycenae for good, or what plans lay hidden in their realm, what chrysalides of foam. You cannot possibily hazard what the abysmal God is waiting for—your downfall, or your surge to the heights ?
This skeleton is TAKEN BY K.
