#noncon touching

Her face is a mess of snot and tears. Before you can wipe them away, she’s jumping up, hands outstretched to examine your face. Warm palms cup your face with gentleness you cannot expect from a child. 

“Τραυματίας?” She calls with a scratchy voice. 

“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.” You respond, reaching up to rub calming circles into her wrists. “Όχι…Τραυματίας” 

Her question about injuries reminds you of the pain in your feet. You ran barefoot last night, too panicked to grab shoes, too panicked to think about anything. You were reduced to the thinking of your rodent-like ancestors, running away even if it didn’t make sense, even if you ran straight into a fire, run away. 

And now, you were definitely fucked. 

Naarya’s crying again. You coo her into your embrace, uncaring if she dampened your chitons. She crawls into your lap, as you gently pet her hair. Beside you, Pysus’ face remains dry and grim, but her eyes are shiny. When you reach out to offer her your hand, she’s quick to grab it, almost like it’s her only lifeline. 

When you go to move, something stops your legs from stretching out all the way. 

Chains. Glinting metal clung to your feet. You bent your foot forward, then backward. 

You reach down to touch it. It’s cool against your fingers. The chain did not budge. 

You were still here, however. Stuck with the Myrmidons, not with Agamemnon and his men. It meant you were either wrong about your place in the story or someone else had taken your place. 

Briseis was nowhere to be seen. 

You can always count on her to say the right things to Naarya, to make the scowl on Pysus’ face brighten. All four of you were trapped here, but she always made things a tiny bit better. She made the flame's burn hurt less. 

Agamemnon must have taken her when you fled, or he always had his sights on her. The method didn’t matter. She was gone now, you’d failed to escape, and the story had righted itself despite your collision. 

You still want to ask, even though you already know the answer. Naarya sniffles into your shoulder as you cradle her. You lean to Pysus. 

“Briseis?” You ask. “Where…?” 

Pysus’s head glances down. Her voice is shaky, and she refuses to look at you. 

“Νεκρός.” Her voice comes out muffled, but you hear her clearly. It’s one of the few words you recognize. 

“What?” For a moment, you forget they can’t understand English. 

“Pysus, what do you mean?” You demand, pushing on her shoulder. “What do you mean she’s dead?” 

Pysus does not answer, even as you continue to shake her, your voice growing more and more erratic. Naarya’s cries ring in your ears. 

Dead. She is dead. You clutch onto Naarya’s body. Pysus’ nails dig into your soft skin, but you hold on anyway. You should be screaming over the grief, but maybe your brain hasn’t gotten up yet. 

All you can think is that death doesn’t suit Briseis. 

~

With both the language barrier and the girl’s reluctance, you still don’t know the details of Briseis’ death. 

It happened shortly after Agamemnon’s men took her away. There was some type of attack. Numerous men died. A handful of women died, too.

Briseis was one of them. 

You just don’t understand why. You don’t remember any attack like this happening in the Iliad. It couldn’t have been you, could it? Your intrusions have been minimal at most, unless your mere existence alone was causing some kind of butterfly effect. 

But things have always been off; you noticed this ever since you came into this world. 

It’s as though the story was breaking somehow. 

You don’t know why you’re even wondering about this. It won’t change anything. Briseis was dead, and you didn’t know how to fix that. 

You wanted to at least see her body. You wanted to feel her hair one last time, see her beautiful face. Would they burn her, or was that just reserved for warriors? Would her body just be abandoned to the forest, left to rot? 

You wanted to see her, but you doubt Achilles would let you have such a luxury. 

You hadn’t seen the warrior at all today, something you were eternally grateful for. You can still remember the glint in his eyes as he stared down at you, hands poised, ready to strike. You thought he was going to kill you. 

You aren’t sure why he didn’t. 

You saw Patroclus once. 

It was a few hours after the girls left, when you were still coming to terms with her being gone. He came in when you were crying, curled up on the pelts because there was nowhere else to go. There was a gentle hand on your shoulder. You startle, before your eyes lock onto soft brown eyes. 

There’s no smile on his face. His face is solemn, completely blank. Out of the two men, you always thought Patroclus was the easiest to read. But maybe that wasn’t right. Achilles flares out like fire, constantly burning and boiling, but he wears his emotions right on his sleeve. Patroclus, with a softer tone, isn’t as vibrant, and maybe you read that as a clear, shallow river, instead of a murky lake. 

He doesn’t say anything, not that his words would matter. He simply set down the plate he held in his arms. He was serving you, a task beneath the warrior. You know this because it was you who used to serve him. 

He leaves in that same unreadable silence, and you haven’t seen him since. All his presence did was make you more anxious for the arrival of Achilles. 

He is an inevitable storm. You’d never escape him, especially not now with the chain that encircles your ankle. 

The chain links are thick. You can barely wrap your fingers around the width. And yet, it's as light as a feather. You can barely feel it when you’re still. 

But when you rise, when you make a move towards the tent entrance, it suddenly feels like a weight is dropped on top of you. It presses itself down on your chest, halting your movements. It becomes a struggle to even breathe. 

Clearly, it’s no ordinary chain. 

Your mind travels to Thetis. 

The mother of Achilles. The sea nymph. After he loses Briseis, Achilles goes to her in the Poem and asks her to make sure the Greeks start to lose against the Trojans, just so they know how much they need him. It couldn’t be too far off to consider that he might have asked for an extra gift. 

Briseis. Even when you try not to, your mind always comes back to her. 

Usually, whenever someone falls into a book they love, they try their best to change the bad outcome. They try to save everyone. 

You, however, just make things worse. Achilles is even madder than before, the girls have lost their protector, and Briseis is dead. All because of you and your cowardice. 

You lost Briseis, just as you lost Desmache. 

You always thought Desmache was the most similar to Naarya, but really, it’s Briseis and Desmache that share the most similarities. They were both girls who held the same curiosity in their eyes when they looked at you. They were both girls who tried to reach out to your heart and understand you. They were both girls who died for it. 

Desmache was the lesson, but Briseis was the true test. You failed both. 

The chain rattles as you bring your legs closer to your body, curling up so you can hide from the watchful skies. 

The funniest thought occurs to you. 

You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was. 

You never asked Briseis if she liked lotuses more than carnations. You never asked her if she preferred bright hibiscus or mild touch-me-nots. You never asked if she enjoyed the smell of honeysuckles in the summer. 

You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was, and you’ll never find out. 

~

He comes back, eventually. 

It was towards the evening. Candlelight became more and more prominent in the tent while the shadows grew. 

He’s usually loud when he walks. His armor clinks and jostles. His sword clangs next to his side. His cape makes some type of flutter. He’s dramatic with his entrances; you can almost always hear him coming from a mile away. 

Achilles enters the tent in silence. 

You knew it was coming. You always knew it. And yet, you feel your throat close up when he looks at you. Apart from the pleated chiton, he comes bare. There’s no sword or shield. 

He holds no weapon in his hands, just his lyre. 

There’s no anger on his face. He doesn’t hiss any hateful words towards you. He simply takes a seat next to you on top of the soft pelts. 

His thighs touch your own. You don’t move away. Instead, you watch him play. 

He plucks one string. Then another. 

You recognize it. Not the song itself, but rather, the meaning. It’s a happy song, holding notes that depict bright, cloudless skies and wide Great Plains. 

You can hear the low tones of a mother as she plays with her children. Her youngest son is the easiest to find. She manages to find him under a flowering bush with bright pink flowers. Her second youngest crouches behind the hut, smiling widely as her mother continues to look for her. She squeals in delight when her mother reaches out to grab her. 

It’s the oldest that always gave her the most trouble. He always picks the places she could not think of. They find him eventually. He hid behind his father, who kept absolutely still so as not disturb the game. 

It’s a nice song, different from anything Achilles has ever played before. Maybe it’s because, this time, he is not playing for himself. 

The song ends. The laughing family disappears, as do the rolling plains. You blink, and you’re back in the tent, shackled by your captor. 

Achilles places the lyre down, leaving it propped up by his feet. You suddenly realize he hasn’t looked at you since he entered. 

“Γιατί έφυγες τρέχοντας μακριά μου?” His voice is feather-light. You never knew he could speak so softly. “Δεν ήμουν ευγενικός μαζί σου?” Μήπως σου φέρθηκα άδικα?” 

“I’m sorry.” You can only say. 

He responds with nothing because there is nothing to say. Instead, Achilles leans over. He rests your head on your shoulder. His golden hair brushes against your neck, tickling your cheek. His scent isn’t tainted by the blood and the death he craves so much. He smells like the rolling sea, like the waves that crash into rocks, like the breeze that gently kisses the shore. 

He lightly reaches down to your ankle, where your chains remain. Achilles slightly lifts the chains up before dropping them back. 

“Δεν είχα άλλη επιλογή. Θα προτιμούσα να πεθάνω παρά να ζήσω για να σε δω να φεύγεις.” 

A part of you genuinely wants to know what he’s saying. 

The other part just wants to hear him play again. 

~

You think you hate the smell of cardamom. 

Its scent only reminds you of Desmache and that hut you spent a few leisure weeks in. Any time you smell it now, you’re only reminded of the loss you had. The loss you continue to have every day since that massecre. 

The dynamics of camp change. 

You expected it. Briseis’ vibrant energy kept you grounded in a way. Now that she was gone, you finally realized how gray and uncolored this world was. It’s colder now, too.

(It makes you think she’d like speedwell flowers the most. Their presence in the forest is tiny, but you can feel their disappearance.) 

Her disappearance hasn't faded away. It’s a hole within the story, one you keep stumbling over time and time again. 

When Achilles deems it, the chain lengthens, and you’re able to traverse a small boundary. He must not think you’re sick anymore because you’re given chores again. This time, instead of resenting the work, you embrace it. It’s the only thing that distracts you from the hole. 

You work outside the tent, but not often. The looks the soldiers give you have changed. Usually, they wouldn’t look at you at all, or you would see terror gleam through their eyes. Today, the tiny glimpses they do give you are angry.

(There are fewer ships in the ocean.) 

Pysus has also pulled away, to an extent. She greets you, she smiles at you, but there’s this barrier you’ve never felt before. She’s farther away now. You think it’s because of the loss of Briseis. 

If she blamed you, you wouldn’t blame her. 

Naarya is one of the few who remain the same with you. She’s even more clingier than before, and it makes sense. Briseis was like a mother to her, soft and kind and gentle. Now, she’s finding comfort wherever she can. 

“Έχετε βελτιωθεί!” Naarya tells you as you hand her yet another finished pleated cloth. They wilted next to her own, but you have to agree with her. You were steadily getting better. 

“It’s the only thing I did for weeks.” You tell her. “It makes sense I’d improve.” 

“Μίλα ελληνικά, σε παρακαλώ.” Naarya reminds you because she doesn’t know what English is. 

“καλύτερα…πανί…φτιάχνω.” You’re cut off by her laugh. 

No, you agree, your Greek is terrible. You have to smile alongside her. 

Your eyes catch movement just then. Another soldier walks by. Your gaze shifts back to Naarya because you don’t recognise him at first. 

And then, the world freezes. 

Naarya stops laughing. She’s asking you what’s wrong, but you can’t answer her. You can only stare as he continues to get further and further away. 

He’s the one who killed Desmache. 

You remember it so clearly. She, twitching on the floor, convulsing because the spear broke her back. Her wide eyes refuse to leave yours. The way her breaths grew weaker and weaker as you held tightly onto her hand.

You’re rising before you even realize it. You take one step, then another. The chains weigh on your legs. Something starts to crush your chest but you don’t care. 

He turns to face you just as you lunge. 

Someone stops you. Then another. Men are shouting and yelling, Naarya is crying, but they’re all drowned out by the blood pumping in your ears. Someone grabs your shoulders, pushing you down. Your knees fall against the dirt. You don’t realize you’ve been screaming until your voice grows hoarse. 

He clearly remembers you. You can see it within his eyes. 

He just doesn’t remember what he did to her. 

“I’ll fucking kill you.” You repeat over and over as the crowd grows more panicked. “I’ll fucking kill you.” 

You never break eye-contact with him, even as you’re picked up by a nameless soldier and dragged back to the tent of Achilles. You memorise everything about him: his clothes, his hair, his eyes. 

The soldiers are yelling over each other as you’re thrown onto the pelts all over again. The chain tightens in response, rendering you immobile. You see Naarya amongst them, trying to push through the crowd, trying to get to you but it doesn’t snap you out of it. Nothing does, not even when the soldiers leave, or when Naarya’s terrified voice dies down. 

You’ve woken up. The reality is hitting you once again. You can still feel the warm blood of Desmache on your hands, even though you begged her not to go. And then, you were captured and taken by men who see women as nothing more than cattle. Achilles was a murderer. He was a murderer and a killer who gladly drenched himself in the blood of his rivals all in the name of glory. And yet, you sympathised with a murderer– a rapist. Patroclus who smiled down at you so nicely was also just as monstrous. You were the one who killed Briseis. Her blood caked your skin just as much as Desmache’s. 

You’re stumbling throughout the tent as the voices of you grow louder and louder. You’d do anything to make it stop, anything to make the pain go away. Your hands reach for the candle still flickering with a flame—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A voice warns. "Burnt hair smells horrible." 

Your soul crashes back into your body. Your fingers pull back from the candle. 

He’s smiling at you, sitting across the pelts, his chin resting on his arm. You don’t recognise him, but you know him. A blindfold covers his eyes, but you can tell he’s looking at you. The winged helmet sits perfectly on top of his head. His tunic looked to be made of soft silk, something a mortal would never even dream of wearing on the battlefield. 

“You—“ Your voice dies. He takes it in stride. 

“Yeah, I know.” Hermes flips his air dramatically. “Most are stunned by my presence. It’s a curse more than a blessing.” 

It’s emotional whiplash. You felt so much just a few seconds earlier, but now you’re completely blank. Your mind is still playing catch-up, so you manage to blurt out the first thing you can think of. 

“You know English?” 

The God laughs at that. "I'm the God of language." He grins. "I know all the languages humanity has and will ever create: Past, Present, and Future." 

And then he scrutinises you. “Well, I don’t think we can call you a time-traveler, now, can we? It’s more like you came from another world.” 

“Yes!” You lean forward because this is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged it. “I—I am! How? How did you—I’m sorry.” You draw back. “It’s—It’s just been so long since I’ve actually talked to someone without having to mime, or—or—“ 

“I get it.” Hermes cuts you off. He leans back against the pelts, stretching himself out. “Man, these are really soft! Do you sleep on these every day? Lucky.” 

You know Gods exist in this world, but you hadn’t expected to meet one so quickly. Moreover, you hadn’t expected your first meeting to go like…this. 

“How do you know I’m from another world?” You ask. Your cheeks feel damp. You wipe the moisture away. Have you been crying? 

“I’m a God.” Comes his answer. 

“Does that mean the other Gods know too?” You press. 

“I wouldn’t mention the other Gods, if I were you.” He chides you. “They’re still pretty pissed at you for the whole ‘faking being Persephone’s daughter’ thing. But I got most of ‘em off your back.” 

“The Gods are upset at me—“ Wait, did he just say people thought you were Persephone’s daughter? 

“But—but I thought everyone assumed I was Aphrodite’s daughter?” You weakly argue. 

“C’mon!” He laughs. “Do you really think people would treat you the same if they thought you were her kid? You’d be gonzo.” 

You feel like an idiot. Of course, that made sense. Everyone feared you not because of Aphrodite, but because you were associated with the Goddess of Spring and the Underworld. 

And that raised more concerns. You know enough about Persephone to realize it's a bad thing to be associated with her. If you were worried about Aphrodite’s wrath on your impersonation, you would highly doubt Persephone would give you a garland of flowers. 

Speaking of flowers. 

“That was you, right?” You ask him. “You left that crocus flower for me.” 

“Ding ding.” Hermes chirps. 

“But why?” 

He flips himself on his stomach to stare at you. The blindfold still obscures his face, so you don’t know where to look. 

“You’re kind of a mess,” Hermes finally says. “I mean, you’ve only been here for a few months, and you’ve already managed to derail pretty much everything..” 

You wilt at his words and he only laughs. 

“But I’m also impressed.” He continues. “You’re the only one who’s made it this far.” 

You squint at his words. What did he say? 

“Still, it’s definitely not ok with how much you’re changing just by existing. Some key people were killed off.”

You think of Briseis and your eyes flutter down. 

“Not just her, actually.” Hermes interjects your moping. “Agamemnon, Diomede, even the Lesser Ajax all went down yesterday.” 

“Wait, what?” You never heard of this happening. You only knew of Briseis’ passing. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” Hermes laughs, absolutely thrilled by the mention of bloodshed. “The Greeks are supposed to be losing, but they’re not supposed to be losing this badly. It’s honestly really impressive you’re able to kill off all these characters like that. Not even the war-mongering one did this much damage.” 

He talks past you and you absolutely hate it. Despite speaking the same language you do, you can’t catch on to a word he says. 

“You already know I don’t belong here, right? In this world?” You press. “How can I get back to my own world?” 

The question you’d always wanted to ask ever since you got here. Hermes barely wastes a second. 

“Oh, you can’t.” 

Your heart drops.

 “What?” No no no. “What do you mean ‘I can’t’” 

He shrugs, clearly not paying attention to your growing panic. “You can’t leave, not when everything is broken. Ripped out pages. Words burned off the page. It’s all a complete mess and it’d take a lot to fix..” 

No, this can’t be happening. You’d deluded yourself into thinking if you could just talk to a God, you could figure out how to escape. All that plan accomplished was proving how futile escape is. 

You suddenly process Hermes’ words. His smile only grows wider as the silence continues to grow. 

“Why are you talking like this world is a book?” You ask. 

He lifts himself off the pelts. You stay absolutely still as he moves closer, until your noses nearly touch. 

“Why are you?” 

A switch flips. You jerk back, and Hermes laughs again. 

“Well, this has been fun, but we’re running out of time.” He makes a face, before brightening up again.”But, since you’ve been so entertaining I’ve decided to give you two gifts.” 

You give a blank stare. He ignores it. 

“The first—“ He reaches out with his fingers. You receive a harsh flick on your forehead. 

You scuttle back, clutching your head. “Ow! What the—“

”—And second.” You crack your eyes open to see what he was holding. 

A small glass vial. It could fit perfectly within your palm. It carried a purple liquid that shimmered when it caught the light.

“This.” Hermes answers before you can even ask. His voice has simmered, but you could almost taste the glee that still resounds within his tone. “Pretty effective, in my opinion. All your victim has to do is drink it and—poof—off they go to the underworld with the others.” 

He leans closer, you can feel his breath on your cheek. 

“That little soldier you aren’t a fan of.” He murmurs into your ear. “Don’t you wanna fulfill that promise to him?” 

You clutch the bottle. It’s heavy underneath your fingers. 

“Poison?” You ask. He just grins wider. 

“Let’s hope you make the right choice with that,” he cheerily chirps. “Well, ‘gotta go! See you later, maybe.” 

“What?” You panic. He can’t go now. You have too many questions. “Wait, please just—“ 

“Toodles!” He disappears and you grab onto air. 

You’re alone, again. For a half-second you wonder if you just hallucinated. It would make sense, considering the mental breakdown you just had. 

Speaking of, what even was that? You’d never felt something like that before. Was it a panic attack? You looked down at your fingers. Earlier, they were erratic and shaking. Now, your entire body is calmer than ever. 

You woke up. You distinctly remember thinking that. 

The vial remains solid on your fingers. It’s the sole proof you had that he wasn’t a hallucination, but the things Hermes said left you more questions than answers. He knew things you hadn’t expected him to, and he seems to be aware this world is a story in your world. 

He said you were the first one who got this far. 

Your head hurts. It’s like your energy was zapped away all at once. 

You can’t rest. Not when Achilles is around. 

He comes through the tent like a storm, with Naarya and Patroclus by his side. There’s anger burned yet again through his eyes. He must have already heard what happened. You wanted to tune his shoutings out like you usually did, but then he spoke and–

–”Tell me what happened with those men.” Achilles demands. “A skirmish occurred with what was mine and yet I was not told immediately?” 

“I am filled with apologies, My Lord!” Naarya cries. “But I am unable to tell what occurred! She had risen so fiercely I was unable to restrain her as she lunged for those men with such vengeance! I had never seen such behavior come from her being.” 

“Perhaps the group of men said such an insult which she could not digest.” Patroclus comes through, ever the placater as you read him to be. “We should call them and ask their thoughts.” 

They continue to bicker amongst themselves, trying to piece together the story they only knew fragments of. You wonder if they always did this, stating theories out of feeble observations. You watch them for minutes before your mouth catches up with your brain. 

“Are…are you guys speaking English right now?” 

They all freeze. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at you. You suddenly realize how stupid that statement was. They weren’t speaking English. 

You were speaking Greek. 

You reach up, feeling your lips. Your words, your thoughts all feel the same, yet somehow, they all have changed. 

Hermes promised you two gifts, didn’t he? 

“You…you spoke so clearly. As a native would.” Patroclus breaks the silence. “Do you understand the words we speak?” 

You nod. 

“I can understand you.” 

Naarya reacts second. 

She squeals so loudly it nearly ruptures your eardrums. The girl bounds up to you with a glee only a kid her age could have. Her eyes sparkle as she reaches for your cheeks. You wince as she squishes them. 

“A miracle!” She speaks, pressing into you, her initial hysteria forgotten.“A miracle of the gods! Can you really speak our language now? Say something! Speak!” 

“Uh, hello?” You try. “Naarya, could you please stop pinching me? It hurts–”

Another squeal, but it hurts even more because she’s right in your face. She blabbers even faster, voice going up octaves. 

For whatever reason, your eyes drift to the two men, searching. 

Achilles is gone, only Patroclus remains. You don’t know how to feel about that. 

Naarya is urging you off your feet alongside her. 

“We must hurry! Pysus would be so pleased with this revelation! As would Briseis–” Her excitement wanes. You almost wished she was back to hurting you. 

You pat your cheek, trying to distract her. She returns your smile, but it’s stiff. 

“Who gave you such a gift?” Patroclus wonders. 

You hesitate, unsure if you should reveal your secret so soon. Unconsciously, you find yourself squeezing the vial hidden inside your fist. 

Naarya is more than happy to suggest her own theories. 

“Does it come from your Mother-God?” She wonders. 

It’s not lying if you don’t give a verbal answer, right? You smile, and Naarya is more than happy to accept. You don’t look up to see Patroclus’ reaction. You already know he won’t believe you. 

Much to your relief, he doesn’t comment on your obvious deceit. Instead, he is silent as he watches you interact with Naarya. 

Her gaze softens, as does her touch. She pats your shoulder expectantly. 

“Will you answer me, then?” She asks. “Earlier, when we loomed the cloth needed for prayer, to whom did you show so much anger to?” 

You remember the scene clearly now. That warrior was in a group of Myrmidons. To an outsider, it must have looked like you were trying to attack an entire fleet of men. 

She’s clutching at your clothes. “I had never seen such behavior from your body. It frightened me.” 

You were screaming, no wonder she’s so freaked out. You patted her back, bringing her in for a hug. 

“I’m sorry.” You tell her, as sincerely as you can. “I didn’t mean to scare you. That won’t happen again.” 

That strange influx of feeling. The rage and dissonance you felt. That couldn’t happen again; you’d make sure of it. 

She’s relieved. Children like her are satisfied with a few answers. She leaves the tent with a final glance at you. You wave to her, and then she’s gone. 

You can’t ignore him now. 

You try to. You pick at the pelts, looking for invisible lint. You study your nails and fingers, wondering if the calluses you saw were always there. You know he plans to ask you how you really broke the language barrier. 

“I am sorry on behalf of Lord Achilles.” Patroclus starts. 

You glance up. His brown eyes are crinkled slightly. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips. 

“You must forgive the way in which he fled.” Patroclus says, “He has suffered through much these past days and nights. Learning of your fluency was perhaps too much for him to bear.” 

“I understand,” You say with a soft voice. 

You’ve known Patroclus—this Patroclus—for months, and yet you feel like you’re looking at him for the first time. His armour is off, tossed away in some unspoken corner. His beige chiton hangs on his body on only one shoulder. It barely covers the muscles across his chest and arms and legs. Your eyes catch a piece of jewellery you hadn’t noticed before. A necklace draped across his skin. It glints with gold. 

“Who gave you that?” You ask. 

Patroclus reaches up, brushing his hand over the gold. His eyes glimmer, catching light like stars in the night sky at some unspoken memory. 

“My father.” He responds, adoration warm in his voice. “It was gifted to me before I sailed from Opus to Phitia, where King Peleus rules.” 

You hum, and a part of you wants to ask what Opus looks like but you hold your tongue. Instead, you smile. 

“It’s pretty.” You tell him. 

He eases at your compliment. You watch as Patroclus walks closer and sits right beside you on the pelts. He maintains his distance, but he’s close enough to touch if you reach out. Neither of you does. 

“I’m sorry.” You finally breathe out, feeling the elephant grow and grow. “For trying to run. I wasn’t….” 

In another time, it would be silly to even think about apologizing to your captors, but here, it feels expected of you especially when just your blunder ruined so much. 

“Are you upset?” You ask. 

You can’t remember a single time Patroclus had gotten upset. He’s always been gentle, matching his epithet perfectly. The closest you’d ever seen him truly angry, was the darkened look he had as he gave you food, when you had been chained to the tent. 

He hums at the question, and you don’t fight him when he takes your hand in his. His fingers are so much longer and larger than yours. His hold eclipses your hands immediately. 

“I remembered the sorrow when it was revealed of your escape. And then I remember the relief that consumed me when you were brought back.” He squeezes your hand in his. “I felt anger, then, yes, but I felt my emotions to be more vibrant than that. And yet, my feelings are shadowed by those that haunt Lord Achilles.” 

You look up at him. He tilts his head, surveying your expression with an affectionate smile. 

“You do not realize how much the man sacrificed for you.” He tells you. “I sometimes wonder if I could sacrifice such a thing.” 

Your eyebrows pinch together as he continues. 

“Lord Agamemnon asked for you when Dear Chryseis was to be returned back to Chryses for ransom. Achilles had refused his demand.” Patroclus turns away, staring off into space. “I remember being amongst the crowd of warriors and watching as Achilles reached for his sword he kept on his hip. And then he stopped.” 

Patroclus’ smile fades slightly. “It was then when Lord Achilles offered Briseis as well as five of his beloved ships.” 

You almost don’t believe his words. 

”What?” 

He pats your hand. His skin is warm and strong, filled with the callouses of being a warrior and fighting for his own glory. 

Glory and pride is what Achilles holds more than anything. 

And yet, he gave up five ships to keep you? 

“His heart has been severely wounded.” Patroclus says with kindness. 

“I pray you do not fault him for his humanity.” 

The more you study the vial, the more colors you see. 

There’s a hint of blue; maybe a touch of magenta. When you shake the glass, the colors swirl together, creating that purple gradient. It looked more like a sleep potion than a poison. 

You flip it upside down, then right up again. Back and forth. It’s mesmerizing. 

Hermes gave this to you so you could kill that warrior. His face is still burned into your skull. You can feel that rage that still simmers deep within your rage. 

He can’t be left to live. Not after what he did do Desmache. 

She wasn’t even given a burial. 

A part of you slugs behind. You were talking about killing a man. How could you even speak about doing something like this? Regardless of how evil this person was, how could you kill a real person? 

But…he isn’t real, is he? 

You catch yourself then. You got that same feeling when you freaked out and collapsed in yourself. It’s pain. Real, tangible pain. And it was all because of that man. 

But, why don’t you feel that way towards Achilles? He kidnapped you and forced you to be his captive. Why don’t you feel that way about Patroclus? He’s just as terrible, in that regard. So many traumatizing things have happened to you and yet you don’t seem to be affected by them at all. 

You aren’t having the reactions a normal person should have. It’s like, your emotions have been stunted somehow, refusing to be any more dynamic than someone who was merely reading a book. 

Footsteps. You tuck away the vial just as Achilles comes through the tent. 

He’s regained his prior composure. His signature scowl is back on his face, and he’s glaring at you. 

You don’t move. His face continues to sour. 

“Now that you have learned our tongue, you must greet those of higher class than you accordingly.” He demands. 

That was a thing you had to do? You never saw the girls do that. Still, you better appease him. You hesitantly rose from the bed. You gave a weak bow with your head. 

“...Greetings?” You finish. It sounds weak even to your own ears. 

Achilles remains unimpressed.

“You talk so ugly and crude,” He tells you, “I rather the days where you remained mute.” 

You can’t help it. You laugh. 

You can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. It shakes your shoulders, making you lose your breath. Somehow it lightens your heart. The air smells a tiny bit sweeter. 

At his face, you give: “Sorry, I just…I always knew you were insulting me. Hearing it…” Your voice trails off. 

The warrior studies you, eyes searching. He doesn’t seem as angry as you thought he’d be over your laughter. 

“Why has your hair lost the color of florals?” He demands. 

You glance at your hair. You refrain the urge to touch them. You sit back down, forgetting where you were, who you were with. 

It all felt so pointless now. 

“I’ve been here for too long,” You answer. 

It’s true. Your hair was only meant to last for a month, maybe two if you were lucky. By now, you think you might’ve switched to blue, or maybe a more neutral color. 

In just another week your roots will start to show. That would truly be the end. 

He doesn’t like that answer, you can tell by the way his jaw tightens. 

“I’m not sick,” Maybe you’re trying to comfort. “But it’s fading because I need to go back.” 

But you never will. 

He doesn’t sit next to you. Instead, he kneels, knees hitting the tent floor so he can stare up at you. It’s out of character. The Achilles of the Iliad wouldn’t do anything like this. He would never willingly lower himself for another. 

This Achilles reaches out. You feel warm fingertips brush against your cheeks. 

“You are aware I would never allow an action, correct?” 

You feel like laughing again. 

“I don’t think that’s up to me or you.” 

You never really had a choice, that was the real joke here. All this time you worried about these characters and their behaviors as though you had any more autonomy over yourself than they did. 

You’d never see your friends and family again. You’d never have slow mornings where you would scroll aimlessly on your phone. 

You’d never have the little things again—like coffee. 

You don’t know why that’s the last thought you have, but you’re crying anyway. They’re slow, silent sobs–the ones that make your throat clamp up and your eyes red. It shakes your shoulders, 

He’s brushing away your tears. You think it might be the softest way he’s ever touched you. It mimics the way he touches flowers as he ever so slightly grazes fingers over petals. 

“Patroclus told me of your reasonings to flee.” Achilles starts.

You stare down at him. His eyes have melted, simmered into bubbling honey. 

“You are a fool to think I would give up such a value to such a man.” 

You don’t understand why he tells you that, but maybe you don’t have to. This is how a man like Achilles loves. It’s ruthless and possessive and violent. He can’t love any other way. This was what he was created for. 

His character was meant to be fierce and raging. Even if he wanted to, he’d never know anything different. His love is brash and comes out in spurts like: giving up five beautiful ships, or tying you down with immortal chains. 

This is what he was made for. This is all that he’ll ever be. 

He’s lived in this book-shaped prison his entire life.

You don’t know who to feel more pity for: 

 him, who’s only lived in these pages,

 or you—who knows what’s outside the script but can never return. 

Status quo returns eventually. 

The chains come off sometime in the next few days. You are let off the hook to work alongside the women. Days pass and things become more or less the same as before. Achilles is still an ass but he’s a bit less of an ass. Patroclus was always the aloe to his burn. Naarya became more talkative as the days went on. 

Pysus remained distant. 

You don’t fault her. Grief comes to people in many ways. This is how she deals with it. Quieter. Less jokes, Less smiles. You try not to notice how she barely glances at you these days. 

You haven’t done anything with the vial yet. It remains tucked deep inside your chiton, burning against your skin each time you remember it. You haven’t had the chance to do anything with it, yet. 

Rather, you have no idea what to do with it. 

It was supposed to be for that warrior, but you still hesitate from time to time. It’s not because of your hesitance to kill, but rather, you weren’t sure if you’d come out of the aftermath unscathed. 

(Sometimes, you see him around camp. You know his name now as well as who he likes to spend time with. You’ve never hated anyone’s laughter more.) 

Sometimes, you wonder if you could just ask Achilles to do it. How would he react if you told him you wanted one of his men dead? 

You could never bring yourself too, if only because you were fearful of the backlash. He’s sacrificed people in the name of your ‘supposed Mother-God’, but could you ask him to do the same to his fellow warrior? All for the sake of your vengeance? 

Speaking of Persephone, that’s another can of worms you‘d have to open soon. 

Unknowingly or not, you have been parading around as her child. You’ve seen how terrifying other Gods can be when they think they’ve been insulted, but the Queen of the Underworld herself? It’s a miracle the ground hasn’t opened to swallow you whole, yet. 

Somehow, you managed to summon Hermes. Maybe there’s a chance you could do the same for her. 

And then, what? Just kindly explain that it was a case of mistaken identity? 

“See here!” Naarya gleefully tells you, holding up the cloth she weaved. 

You admire the gorgeous patterning. “Amazing! Did you come up with the pattern yourself?” 

Pysus only glanced up from her weaving to send Naarya a quick smile. Naarya basks in the praise. 

“Yes.” She beams. “I hope to ask Lord Patroclus if this can be offered to Goddess Athena with bright eyes.” 

“I’m sure he’d say yes.” You nod along and Naarya babbles happily. 

She doesn’t notice when Pysus rises with her own cloth. You watch as the girl disappears behind the tents. You wait for five minutes before you abandon your own project to follow. 

You find her in a small clearing, further away from camp. She sits next to a dying fire. The smell of smoke lingers in the air. 

“You look tired.” You offer your hand. “You can go rest, if you want. I can finish up your work.” 

She doesn’t even glance up. “Your tenderness pleases me,” she tells you, “and yet I cannot abandon my duties.” 

“It’s not abandoning.” You reason. “I…I know you’ve been having a hard time. I can help–” 

“Is this how you give penance?” 

Pysus always struck you as quiet, with a soft voice. She was gentle and sweet. 

You’ve never heard her say something with such venom before. 

“No.” You immediately rebuke. “No, of course not. Pysus–” 

“I see, so it is not guilt that you continue to seek me out.” Her voice hardens. “It is not that you wish for me to assuage your despair with my assurances. Then what do you continue to pester me for?” 

You can only stare as she rises up to her feet. The cloth she worked so hard on for days is left abandoned on the dirt but she can hardly care. 

Her eyes parallel crashing waves of the sea, and yet, they look so fragile, like thin waterlilies. Her eyes are more green than blue. You don’t know why it took you so long to notice. 

“Briseis called for me when she was taken away by men of Lord Agamemnon,” she tells you, “she begged me to assure your safety. Even as men with bronze armor led her away, she only wept tears for you. Where were you as she was sent to her deathbed?” 

You can see it clearly in the back of your head. The grip the men had on Briseis in as they took her away from you. Her pretty green eyes, red and watery. You can see it so clearly, even though you weren’t there, even when you were–

(Maybe Briseis would like the fragrant freesia the most. Much like her, their scent is fresh in the air long after the petals have wilted.)

–”Gone.” Pysus spits out. “You fled and abandoned her when she needed your comfort the most.” 

Her voice cracks, but she isn’t stopping. Tears drip down her cheeks. It doesn’t stop her sharp words from cutting deep into your skin, straight into your heart. 

“She should not have had such a horrific fate. She stole such suffering from your thread.” 

She doesn’t mean it. You know her too well by now to know she isn’t being sincere. She’s angry. She’s grieving. She lost her sister. She needs a punching bag and you are all she has. 

But what lie did she tell you?

“You’re right.” You tell her because there’s nothing else to say. “I ran because I was a coward, and I’m sorry. Even if I thought…I shouldn’t have run.” Pysus is getting blurry. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you guys. I’m sorry. I'm so so sorry, Pysus.” 

Pysus’ arms are warm and strong against your back. It’s reflective, the way you cling onto her, uncaring if your tears dampen her shoulders. 

“Do not acknowledge my ridiculous claims!” She sobs into your shoulders. “Forgive me. I spoke such ill of you and villainized you in such a horrendous way. Forgive me.” 

She keeps saying sorry, but you keep telling her she has nothing to apologize for. She doesn’t listen, and neither do you. The two of you just cling onto each other. She’s so tiny against your fingers, she can’t be any bigger than Naarya. 

You’re speaking before you can even think. 

“I’ll bring her back.” 

She’s pulling away to peer up at you. Her eyes are like rippling pools. 

“What?” 

“Yes.” You nod and for once, your voice is clear and stable. “I’ll bring her back.” 

You leave her like that. She calls for you, but you aren’t listening. You don’t stop moving until you’re surrounded by the privacy of the tent. Completely alone. 

You take out the vial. It swirls with glittering purple and blues. 

You pray you weren’t wrong about this. 

It burns down your throat, and then your heart stops. 

There’s rapid tapping on your cheek. Your eyes flutter open. 

“I knew you’d figure it out!” Hermes cheers. “Took a bit longer than I thought you would, but I’ll still give credit.” 

You rise up from the hard floor. You’re not in the tent anymore. You hardly even think you’re on Earth. The cave is dark, only illuminated by torches stapled to the walls. The flames are a fiery pink, creating shadows and shrink and jump. 

The underworld looms ahead of you. 

“Couldn’t you have told me instead of being all cryptic?” You ask with a scowl. 

“I can’t just give you the answer!” He scolds. "Where's the fun in that?” 

If you had doubts he was a Greek God before, they were all gone now. 

Hermes struts off confidently ahead. You follow him. 

It reminds you of the catacombs under Paris, except more claustrophobic and more illuminated. Hermes leads you into a tunnel, then another, then another. Various passageways wind and fold against each other. You lose track of your mental map five minutes in. In the end, you’re forced to follow him with blind trust. 

“So, that wasn’t poison, right?” You confirm. “Then, what was it? Some kind of sleeping potion?” 

“More like a coma-inducing spell.” Hermes corrects. “It tricks your soul into thinking your body is dead, and that’s how I was able to transfer you down here.” He trails off like he expects you to congratulate him. 

You don’t. 

“Before,” you start. “You said that the book was broken, and it needed fixing.”

He said nothing. You continue. 

“Were you talking about the dead characters?” You ask and something breaks within you as you call Briseis a character. “That’s why you brought me here, right? If we can bring them back, that’ll fix the story.” And then, you could go home. 

He glances back at you. 

“Aren’t you being a little too confident?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice.

“I’m willing to do anything.” You answer. “No matter how tiny of a chance I have, I want to try.” 

“That’s exactly what the others said too.” He muses. “It’s kinda funny how alike you all are.” 

“Others.” You repeat. “Are more people like me here, too?” 

“Yeah, loads.” He shrugs. “I stopped counting after the first hundred. It’s interesting how different their paths were. This one guy managed to usurp Agamemnon and took over the entire Achaean army. Uh, this other one tried to play both sides and it didn’t really end so well for him. Oh! One person actually managed to beat the Achaeans and flipped the entire war! That guy was my favorite.” 

“What happened to them? Did they return home?” 

“No.” He grins with teeth. “Not a single one.” 

The shadows across his face make it sound even more off-putting. He leads you into another tunnel. It’s even smaller than the last one. You can barely fit through without your shoulders brushing against the walls. 

“To get to the end, you have to make sure the story stays in place and you survive. Not many were able to achieve both. Readers derail a lot. They push Gods to act in ways they otherwise wouldn’t, or they create new problems all together. They always create a shitshow, but at least it’s entertaining.” Hermes studies you. 

“Then…why me?” You ask, and you suddenly realize that your voice echoes through the caves. “Why was I chosen to come here?” 

He loses it. He’s laughing so loudly, he clutches his stomach, nearly falling to the floor. You flinch at the mockery. 

“Sorry, you thought you were chosen?” He says when he’s finished, rising back up to sneer. “A little narcissistic, don’t you think?” 

“There was never a choice,” he tells you. “You read the story, and now you’re here. Simple as that.” 

“But what does that mean–” 

“I meant what I said last time.” He cuts you off. “You’re the only one who’s got this far. Out of all the people who’ve come here, you’re the only person who’s survived this long. Granted, it was mostly due to lots and lots of luck, but hey! Still a win in my book.” 

He grabs a torch from the cave wall. The tunnel was starting to open up. 

“Which means, you still have a chance to put everything back.” 

You think of Briseis: gone and dead. 

“Nothing’s been cemented, yet. Knowing those three, I bet they aren’t too keen on cutting the thread. So, if you can convince her to let those souls go, you might have a shot of re-righting the story.” 

You already know who he’s referring to. It makes you deflate. 

“Is that even possible?” You ask, voice small. “She must be furious with me, right now. What if she…” Kills you on the spot? Demands your soul as penance? 

Hermes smiles. 

“Do you have a choice?” 

Right. That’s the harsh lesson you keep learning over and over again. 

You never had a choice. In this place, you were nothing more than a character. 

The only power you had was knowing the script beforehand. 

Hermes stops walking. 

“The throne is right through there.” He gestures at the rest of the tunnel. “If you keep walking, you’ll find it. It’s kinda hard to miss.” 

When you stare at him, he continues. 

“Not a big fan of people down here. Everyone’s so depressing.” He complains. “Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting right here for emotional support.” He flashes a thumbs-up. 

A part of you wanted to beg him to come with you, but you know you won’t get far with that. That chance you kept begging the Gods for was finally being given to you. You’re taking it, no matter how small it is. 

“Thanks.” You tell him. “For getting me this far.” 

He just smiles. “Don’t thank me, yet.” 

You turn back to the cave. You take a step. Then another. You keep walking as the cave gets wider and wider and it spits you out into a large expansive room. It’s brighter than the cave, pink flames flickered and licked at the rocky walls. Gloomy shadows jump and flee at the sight of you. 

The rock is oddly smooth and damp beneath your feet. You walk along the surface, feeling the floor dip and bend in places. It mimics nature. 

You see them then. 

You expected more dramatics. Or maybe that’s yet another assumption you had for this world. They sit quietly together, side by side. They look human, but there’s something off about each of them. Their eyes are far too big for their face. Their fingers are thin and spindly as they move around the loom. Their skin is sickly, almost green. 

The Three Fates pay you no mind as you step forward, continuing on their project. You swallow, feeling your throat drying up. You were finally here, but now what? 

“Not many are bold enough to ignore me so brazenly.” 

The voice is feminine, dark with humor. Your eyes travel up and up the rock. 

Not a rock. A giant throne. 

She sits with one leg crossed over another. Her cruel smile shines on plush, painted lips. She’s easily the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You feel your voice die in your throat the more you stare. Your eyes burn– no mortal should be gazing upon such beauty. Among the dread, she stands out like a rose in full bloom, daring to be plucked. 

Oh. 

That’s why so many assumed you belonged to her. 

Her hair sat in beautiful curls, draping over her neck and chest towards the edge of the throne. Strands spill out like the sea. 

The brightest pink you’ve ever seen. The exact same shade yours once was. 

~

You don’t know how long you stood like that.

Entranced–utterly captivated. 

There’s a subtle tilt of her head. Your body moves before you can think. 

You drop. Your knees hit the ground. It’s not a bow. It’s more like you are begging for mercy. 

She laughs. It’s soft and delicate. Pretty. You’ve never felt so cold before. 

So this is what it’s like catching the attention of a Goddess. 

“At the very least,” her voice is amused, light. You don’t know whether that’s good or bad. “You aren’t entirely foolish.” 

You don’t know that much about the Goddess. Her descent into the underworld is the only tale that comes to mind. In that story, she was depicted as sweet and frail. The loving daughter of the Goddess Demeter. 

The woman before you now cannot be described as any of those traits. 

There’s a sigh above you. She sounds impatient. 

“Speak now, mortal of faraway lands.” She speaks your name. Forgetting yourself, your eyes shoot up to look at her. 

She takes your stunned silence as the rightful question it was. “It would be strange not know your name. After all, your presence has shaken the mountain and heavens of Olympus.” Her lips quirk. “And you in particular have been so daring as to use my name.” 

You are trapped in a maze; each route leads you straight into the claws of the cat.

 The cloak of death pins you down to the ground. 

“I’m sorry.” Your forehead presses into the rough rock floor. “I’m so sorry. I–I never meant to–” 

“Enough.” Amusement vanished from her voice. She sounds bored again. “It appears your brazenness was your sole trait of redemption.” 

She doesn’t allow you to speak any further, beg any further. She continues onward like the force she was. Unrelenting. Continuous. 

“You are not here for pleasantries, are you? Come. Remain in your daring nature and coerce me into giving up what I rightfully own.” 

Of course, she knew why you were here. You wouldn’t be surprised if she could read your mind. Her knowledge of why you’ve come doesn’t make it easier to talk to her. It just makes everything that much harder. 

The ground is so cold, but you remain in your pliant position. She may have mentioned that she liked how bold you appeared to be,  but you know well enough how much of a warning that was. 

“The soldiers, the men who died. Briseis.” It’s hard not to crack at her name. “It was not their fate to die. They…they need to be brought back for the sake of the story.” 

She’s laughing. It startles you. She’s laughing so loudly it echoes off the caves. 

“Story?” She repeats. “What story do you speak of?” 

You blink. And then something clicks.  

She doesn’t know about the poem. 

Persephone either doesn’t notice your silence or takes it as something else. Nails drag themselves through rock as she lifts her hand up to examine perfectly manicured fingernails. 

“I do agree it is unwise to keep these souls at this time.” She sighs. “Yet, I have no true desire to relinquish them. You understand how undesirable it will be if mortals of the upper realm realize how easy it is to raise their dead.” 

She’s asking for a price. A trade. Your pockets are empty. You have nothing to offer that you haven’t given already. 

You clear your throat. The fates have yet to acknowledge you. They continue around their loom, stretching the thread. You wonder which one is Briseis. 

“I don’t have anything to give.” You admit, and her brow quirks. “I can only beg that you’ll listen.” 

“You admit defeat readily,” she says, “do people of your lands do the same?” 

You say nothing. It gets too much to look at her, so you pull your gaze down. 

Another sigh. 

“I accept.” 

What? Your head shoots up to look at her. 

“I cannot say I have not benefited from your presence in the mortal world.” She tells you. “The Myrmidons have pleased me with their meat and fresh fruit. I will consider that enough.” 

You almost can’t believe her words. The Goddess is actually accepting your audacious request. It feels almost like a joke. A trick. 

“You are lucky–” she sits up from her throne– “to have such loving allies. One in particular was quite vocal. Had they not, I highly doubt your own skills would be enough to get you this far.” 

The insult is scathing, but it doesn’t cut as deeply as it should. Your mind is still searching for who she could possibly be talking about. Who’d care for you enough to plead your case to the Goddess of Death?

You hadn’t noticed the shimmer of light surrounding her left ear until then. It’s a tiny orb that glows a bright pink. It hovers above her shoulder. It looks like a fairy, dancing and giggling in the Goddess’s ear. 

The smell of cardamom nearly makes your heart stop. 

Desmache—

“I will release the souls.” The Goddess says, “However, I will need one more thing in return.” 

You look at her and immediately understand what she wants from you. 

You want it too. 

You don’t respond. She grins more openly. 

“Then it is done.” 

She taps her fingers. The fates barely glance up from their weaving. A silk string is carefully coiled onto skeletal fingers before it is dipped into pink flames. The string shrivels into nothingness.

“You can continue the ritual in the land of the living.” The Goddess calls. “I have done all that I can.” 

You did it. Your legs feel like jelly. You can barely stand upright. You did it. You did it. 

“Thank you.” You breathe. 

She smiles. The venom is sweet on her lips. 

Hermes is still waiting. 

You expect more applause. More sarcasm. 

He’s quiet until you step closer. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back so soon.” He finally admits. “No, that’s a lie. I kinda’ expected you to never come back at all.” 

You didn’t expect it either. 

“I’m surprised she didn’t keep you with her.” Hermes continues. “You’re a lucky one.” 

Your laugh startles even you. 

You’re practically crying. Hunched over. Shoulders trembling. Your laughter bounces off the walls of the cavern, against the flickering lanterns. Hermes is silent even after your voice dwindles. You’re heaving. Maybe you were crying. 

“That’s what she said, too,” you say, not to him, not to anyone. “I’m lucky.” 

You were lucky to make friends with people who loved you and who you loved in return. You were lucky to have those you loved enough to pave the way for you so your trek up the mountain could be just a bit easier. 

You don’t think that’s so much of a bad thing. 

You walk past Hermes. He doesn’t follow. After a few steps, you stop too. 

“She mentioned something else, too.” You don’t turn back to face him. You’re almost afraid of what you’d see on his face. 

“She didn’t know.” Your heart feels like it’s in your throat. “She didn’t know she was in a book. I’m starting to think the other Gods don’t either.” 

All Persephone knew was that you came from a different place. It’s what all the characters knew. Hermes, just Hermes, was the only one who ever mentioned the story specifically. 

You steel yourself, slowly turning to face him. 

He’s not smiling. His face is still, and you hate that you can’t see his eyes. You’re not used to seeing him so monotone. It’s like he’s dropped the act. 

Or maybe he’s dropped his character. 

“Who are you?” You ask. 

He swallows. You catch a single tremor down his throat. 

He says nothing. It’s the only answer you need. 

~

The next time you open your eyes, you're surrounded by wailing. 

You sit up in Achilles’ bed. Immediately, Naarya is on you, clinging onto you like a Koala. She’s sobbing and blubbering something you can’t decipher. You had to stop doing this to the poor child. You might end up aging her 20 or so years because of your antics. 

There are others around you. Pysus stares at you with glimmering eyes. You wish you could explain things to her. Comfort her. Maybe another apology. Patroclus says something, perhaps pleads for another explanation. 

You can’t stop. There’s a script running through your head. Gentle words of Dread Persephone, only you can understand. 

You only have to search for a second before you find him. In the dim light of the tent, his eyes resemble the color of warm honey. His golden mane shines like a bright flag. 

A Myrmiddon who gave up five Myrmiddon ships for you. 

A man, characterized by pride, who unhesitatingly ripped his to shreds for you. 

You want to know if he will do it again. 

You know what his answer will be. 

He’s still screaming when the warriors continue to tie him down.

He’s crying. He’s begging his fellow warriors to release him. They ignore his begs. He then begs Achilles to release him. The man’s face is bare. His sword is firm in his grip as his men continue with the ritual. 

He looks different now. With his armor and spear gone, he resembles a scrawny man. The rope that binds his arms and legs barely gives as he continues to struggle. 

It’s a bit strange to think of it now, but before he almost resembled a monster. Once, he towered over you and a dying little girl. His spear was coated in the blood of innocence. 

Now, as you stand above him, he’s just a man. 

He sobs louder as Achilles lifts the sword. You briefly wonder if he had a family. A wife. Children. These thoughts mean nothing. The hatred you feel for him isn’t one you may have for a human. It’s not dynamic. It’s just as flat as the pages he exists on. 

To you, he’s just a character. 

Achilles brings the sword down. Everything stops. The crowd remains silent. 

Blood seeps into the Earth. 

It’s nearly dusk. The sun continues to dip further into the ocean. Soon, the only light you have will be the torch you hold–tiny orange flickering flames. 

You watch as Achilles lifts the corpse’s head to chop off a lock of hair. 

You remember he did this a couple of months ago. Offerings, he thought, the Goddess you stood for would like. Before, you would squeal and heave with disgust. 

Tonight, your thoughts are filled with royal green eyes flecked with gold. Eyes unfit for a corpse. 

You accept the lock Achilles presents to you. You drop it into the flames. 

Orange turns to fiery pink. 

You can hear Persephone laughing somewhere beneath you. This was what she wanted. Not a single soul to replace the 24 she would soon lose. 

It was your vengeance that she craved for. 

Pink flames light the pyre. You watch the corpse disappear as the fire gets higher and higher–appetized by flesh. 

You abandon the torch, letting it hit the sand and naturally smother out. You feel empty as you leave the flaming pyre, heading towards the sea of still bodies. 

Each one is laid on the sand. Eyes closed. Untwitching. Unmoving. Your eyes remain solely on her. She looks as though she could be sleeping. Despite the days that have passed since her departure, her body remains fresh and clean. Nothing is rotted or dissolved. 

As though even fate knew to keep her until you could come for her. 

You don’t know how long you sit with her. Watching. Waiting. 

Around you, the soldiers start to awaken. Corpses fill with life. Soldiers with life-ending injuries sit up as though they’d just woken up from a coma. 

You just continue to wait. 

Green with flecks of gold peer up at you. 

Her face is still like uncracked porcelain. 

She smiles. It’s so beautiful it breaks your heart. 

She speaks first. Her eyes crinkle. 

“Your hair,” she rasps, voice soft, almost a whisper. 

She reaches up, and you let her. She brushes over a single coil of hair. 

“It is the color of florals once again.” A crystal tear trickles down her face. 

You follow her gaze. Your hair, once dull and washed out, resembled the shade you once had all those months ago. No, it was even brighter than before. 

Dread Persephone’s final gift. 

You want to laugh. Even at death’s door, Briseis still only looks at you. 

You pet her cheek. Her eyes flutter at your touch. 

“What’s your favorite flower?” You wonder. 

She smiles, confused. 

“My favorite flower?” She echoes. You nod. 

“If I had to choose…it would be roses.” 

You actually laughed that time. It’s wet, the kind that sticks to your tongue. She smiles up at you. A hand reaches up to cradle your own. 

“That’s so…normal.” 

It’s not any of the flowers you thought of for her. 

She tilts her head. “Should I choose another?” She asks. 

And yet, you can’t think of another more perfect answer for her. 

“No.” You tell her. “You shouldn’t.” 

Make you theirs. Then he would let the others have their turn, who would fight about it first, over the right while you were on his knot, and the winner would be the next to take that sweet pussy of yours.

Alas, so far it was nothing but a dream.

A lustful, intense dream that was slowly growing from a dream to a plan.

You, however? You seemed horrified every time you spotted them and your blatant attempts at avoiding them became rather cute, but a little annoying at the same time. You clearly did not feel like being courted by them, barely wanting to talk to them.

Not that they really cared, they were going to get you one way or another. The fact that you constantly attempted to run away didn’t really help either; it merely sparked their predatory need to hunt you, their little prey.

Little bunny, not knowing how lucky you would be to be a knight pack’s plaything. It would be an exhausting task, no doubt, having to deal with a werewolf pack, yet you were a bunny - those were easy to force into heat, were they not? John wasn’t sure, but he would find out whenever they got their claws on you and whether it was real or not, well, that didn’t really matter.

Ever since they returned, their attention had been on you. You were a delightful surprise to return home to after such a long journey and a rather tasty looking one. Those long, soft-looking ears of you, that he liked to tug since he made you squeak.

He was afraid they would have to go to Kate soon however, because loyal little you were clearly devoted to her and if he knew their Queen well, she was fond of you too.

But Queen Kate Laswell was fond of their pack behaving nicely as well.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“Your Majesty?"

“Yes, my dear?”

You twisted your fingers together shyly, your ears downwards as you hesitated for a moment. The dear made your body warm. You were not only disturbing her in her writings, you were going to complain; you hated complaining to hear, you already had the most privileged life that you had ever dreamt of. Yet…

“I uhm. I wish not to complain, as you’ve done plenty for me already, but…” you looked down at your furry feet that barely peaked out from your dress, wondering how you were to explain that her beloved pack of knights were essentially harassing you.

“But?”

You looked at her again, her head tipped to the side. She was a beautiful woman, her elven ears long and pointy, small rings and diamonds hanging from them.

“The knights - ah, the one-four-one pack… they keep… bothering me.” There you said it. Your Queen looked at you like she didn’t understand which made you twist your fingers a bit more.

“Bothering you?” She repeated, clearly waiting for an explanation of what exactly you meant.

“They follow me, your majesty, they touch my ears - they do not stop when I request them to.”

Then your queen just smiled and something inside you broke.

“Ah, no worries, my maid,” she easily said, waving her hand in your direction, “they’re merely happy to be home. They just think you’re pretty.”

“I do not wish to be pursued by them.”

“Merely tell them so,” she sounded rather uninterested in it, clearly not believing it to be a proper issue, “now, would you be a dear and fetch me a cup of tea?”

“Certainly, your majesty.”

“So?” Beatrice asked, waiting a couple of steps away from the now closed door to the queen’s office, “what did she say?”

You swallowed hard, the two of you walking down the hallway before you finally answered, “she more or less dismissed me.”

Beatrice said nothing. You opened one of the discreet staff doors with the small long corridors where the different workers could move without bothering the royals or nobles.

“Did she just refuse to answer?” Beatrice whispered, the two of you easily able to hear each other due to being bunnies.

“No,” you replied, “she said that they were merely happy to be home - that I should just… tell them not to pursue me.”

“But you’ve done that,” Beatrice sounded conflicted, “have you not?”

“Many times,” you agreed as the two of you walked down the slim stairs, “too many. She requested for me to get tea for her, so I assume it’s a way of dismissing me.”

“Hm,” Beatrice stayed silent for a moment and you could hear her stomp her feet now and again as she thought, “maybe she is right. Maybe they’ll tire of this.”

“Hopefully soon,” you agreed, “it’s tiring to be afraid all the time.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

“Your Majesty.”

“Sir John,” she greeted, sipping her cup of tea before nodding towards the armchair across her, eyes flickering to look over at the group of wolf-looking humanoids that followed him with wagging tails, who she greeted with a soft, “boys.”

The doors closed and John settled, the three other knights remaining in their wolf forms, much to Kate’s preference. It made speaking easier when there was only one knight to speak to.

Werewolves in their wolf forms weren’t particularly pretty beasts; that wasn’t a necessity when one was made to kill. Human bodies that looked like it didn’t quite fit together, furry lower bodies that somehow had too odd proportions to truly like the bottom of a wolf, yet fully covered in thick fur, with a long tail. A human face that had grown a muzzle, yet the eyes were still human, wolf ears instead of their human ones, fur sprouting along their backs, their spines pointy.

It was as if the arms of a werewolf didn’t quite fit either, too long for a normal human, too hairy, the finger having claws; it made running on all fours easier, Kate assumed. It was like someone had picked out bones from a human and a wolf skeleton and decided to mix them together.

The results were the weird walking beasts with big ears, odd shaped faces, a furry bizarre body and right now, wagging tails.

Kate didn’t quite understand the bonds of werewolves, the idea of the pack. Elves created families, groups, but not quite packs like the werewolves and certain hybrids did.

And it was due to one specific hybrid that she had called them.

The rest of the pack settled around Price’s feet, like giant monstrous dogs, waiting for their master to finish.

“You wanted to talk, your majesty?”

Kate leaned back in her armchair, crossing her legs.

“John,” they were alone now, just her and them, so she saw no reason for formalities. Instead she tipped her head to the side, watching him curiously, “how come you and your boys are bothering one of my handmaidens?”

If they wanted to deny, they could attempt, but by the way all the knights in Wolf forms raised their heads and wagged their tails, well they clearly already knew who she was talking about.

“We find her…” Kate could see how John considered what to say, all of the others looking up at him with their twisted faces, a few inhuman sounds leaving them until John finally decided on a word, “Interesting. Alluring, one might say.”

So it was true. Yes, Kate had seen the way they had looked at you, but she had thought nothing particularly of it. Her knights were known to be, well, unruly at times. Parties, whores, they were known for drinking and creating chaos, for chasing pretty folks and leaving them a moment later. It wasn’t until you had expressed your discomfort over their repeated attempts that Kate had eyed a possibility.

It was mean to you perhaps, to make these decisions without you weren’t particularly kind of her either. She liked you, you were one of the smarter ones. Loyal as a dog despite being a bunny.

You had seen her give back the empty poison vial to the hooded figure and had no doubt realised what you had seen was important; yet you had merely held a hand over your eyes and turned around, pretending not to see you.

A smart thing, worried when she found you the next day, yet you never tried to gain something by the knowledge of what actually happened to her late husband.

Kate however, didn’t like loose ends. Giving you to the knights would not only entertain them, but also keep you submissive - you couldn’t go telling truths if you were busy trying to survive her knights.

“I like my handmaids,” she calmly said, casually looking at her well kept nails for a moment, “they’re smart, loyal, pure. I don’t like them distracted, you all know that.”

“We do,” John confirmed, not sounding too happy, while odd sounding words of agreement left the others.

“But…” they all sat up straighter as Kate said the simple word, “if I was to let you play with and have this one…”

So many tails wagged, including John’s own, a pleased grin even growing on his face.

“Then you would have to behave more properly - no more drinking and whoring so greatly and loudly that the whole kingdom will know and gossip about it. No drunken kills that I will have to excuse,” Kate tipped her chin down a little, staring at John ,“because then I would let you take her. But if you’re unable to promise this, to keep this promise, I can easily take away my little handmaid.”

Words that she barely understood escaped several of the turned knights, but John clearly understood them, knowing what it was like to speak a language that your mouth and throat was not created for.

After a quick look at his pack and a few nods, he looked at Kate again, his grin almost hungry.

“When may we have her, your majesty?”

Kate huffed at their eagerness. It was like dangling a bone in front of starving dogs, knowing they would kill whoever they had to in order to get to the bone.

“Soon. You will make preparations in your quarters, but,” they all looked as she raised her finger in a warning,” but I will not — and I will not repeat this — have you scare half of the castle with your hunting instincts. If it must be a part of it, then go to the forest or something, and for the love of the gods; At least attempt to be civil and court her at first.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

They were getting braver, all of the handmaidens unable to deny it at this point; they were walking down the hallways when you were, at this point not backing off even though you walked in a group. A few of the handmaidens even tried hissing at them, which had only resulted in laughter and playful growl back.

You mentioned it to Queen Kate once more yet she merely dismissed it for a the second time.

It was an unspoken rule that Kate disliked being asked about something three times. So you shut your mouth, trying to ignore them again.

Then the presents appeared.

Neatly wrapped outside the door to the maidens chamber, your name carefully written on each of them, always sitting there in the morning. First once a week, then several times a week - at this point it was every single day. As if that wasn’t enough, they were slowly getting worse.

One of the maidens who had grown up with a werewolf pack next door, was the one to finally explain after a week.

They were trying to court you. Which you supposed was better in stalking you, but they still did that.

The first few had been innocent enough, but when bones and eventual dead small animals appeared, carefully wrapped and with flowers and wine next to it.

The maiden explained they were getting more serious about it, making it as clear as possible that they weren’t messing around.

Dead mice, small birds - then a full on pheasant, feathers and all. You gave the mice and birds to some of the carnivorous maids and when the pheasant appeared, you took one good look at it and gave it to the cooks. There was a chance they ate it themselves that night and you liked that idea.

You weren’t even a carnivore hybrid, so you had no idea why they kept giving you meat. Sure it was more in their nature and they were probably used to being traditional. But it also proved that they didn’t care, not really- at least it seemed so at first.

Then it changed, after three weeks.

Vegetables. Expensive fruits. You wondered whose vegetable garden they had stolen, or if they had actually gone and bought them. You wouldn’t put it past you to do the first thing.

The other maids ate it. The one with the knowledge of werewolf culture pointed out that it was considered, well, quite rude since the handmaidens weren’t a proper pack. You didn’t really care, you had no empathy for them when it came to harassing you - in fact, you hoped they took it personally.

They creeped along the hallways, always waiting for a moment to catch you off guard. You made it a point to never walk alone, constantly staying near the other maids or staff members.

It was the end of week four when another present of expensive fruits and vegetables appeared when there was something completely off about it. They stank.

Of werewolves. A more musk scent than usual, stronger in a way you couldn’t explain.

One of the staff members who had happened to pass, a server if you weren’t wrong and a werewolf himself, took one sniff and one look at the present before looking you in the eyes and explaining that they had… he had blushed like crazy, almost unable to say the words out loud. Tail between his legs.

Finished upon them.

You had never thrown such expensive food items out in the trash that fast.

They had… had an orgasm upon them and you wanted to throw up at the mere thought.

Both the handmaiden and the server warned you. It was one of the last steps before the courting was considered in the final stages, even without you accepting.

You felt nauseous to the point you had to sit down, yet, at the same time, something tingled in your lower half. It had been over a decade since you last touched yourself and the feeling of being turned on like this was foreign. Uncomfortable. Especially because you really shouldn’t be, not with the white crusty spots upon perfectly colored apples, large grapes and thick carrots. The idea of them… touching themselves while standing in front of the present? It just sounded so… wrong.

Disgusting.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

You had taken to walk in the servant corridors more often, still with one of the other maidens near. But when you were specifically called late in the night? You had no choice but to go on your own, all the others already having changed into night gowns.

Without a real choice you grabbed a small lantern, the corridors never really lit at night, wearing your dress and robe, quickly thrown over your nightgown with the help of Beatrice and one of the other handmaidens.

Your soft paws barely made a sound along the floors of the narrow corridors, cold seeping up along it, spreading to your entire body. There was a sound of creaking floors above you now and again, other people moving around, but that was about it. You hummed as you walked while wondering what exactly it was that Queen Kate wanted from you at this later hour. There was probably a good reason, you told yourself, you just didn’t know it yet.

Then you could return to your bed and snuggle beneath the blankets, with a little bit of hay beneath your pillow for a nice smell.

It was halfway towards your Queen’s chambers when two pairs of yellow eyes shone in front of you, startling you. Fear shot through you as you looked at them, only the yellow eyes visible, their forms barely visible in the dark. You didn’t need to step forward to see the faces, because they almost instantly let you know who they were.

“Little maid,” Sir John crooned sweetly, a slightly mocking undertone to his voice, “out in the corridors so late, no? Dangerous for a little bunny like you.”

A dark chuckle came from the man behind him and you instantly knew it was the famous Ghost. Sometimes that dark chuckle of his haunted your dreams. The corridor was narrow in the first place and one of them barely fit, their shoulders too broad.

Your ears tipped down as fear rushed through you, not a word able to leave your mouth and you stumbled backwards - only to hit a chest, a small squeak leaving you. You turned around, the face of Sir Kyle and Sir Johnny lighting up from your small lantern. Their eyes also shone in the light, looking at you, the shadows on their faces only making them look scarier.

“Aw, dinnae be scared, pet,” Johnny cooed, leaning down a little, his ears tipped towards you, “we just want tae talk.”

“I - I -“ your heart beat so fast it was almost painful in your chest and your head constantly turned between them, realising that the four men had cut off both ways of the narrow corridor, leaving you no room for you to escape, so you said the first thing that came to mind, “H-her Majesty is waiting for me.”

Kyle snorted behind you, as if he didn’t care; the lack of respect would usually make you angry, but you were too scared to care, your hand with the lantern shaking, almost making their yellow eyes appear and disappear in the dark.

“N’aaaw, our Queen is waiting for her,” Ghost said, his skull mask barely visible, “such a proper handmaiden, sweet little bunny.”

“Not that sweet,” Kyle commented, your ears tipping towards him, “haven’t been nice to us despite our polite courting.”

“Ach, been sae mean to us, wee lass,” Johnny agreed, “and we were sae polite.”

You let out a little sound of disbelief; were they out of their minds, thinking they had been polite with you, when they had refused to back off and constantly harassed you?

“I’ll scream,” you warned, “I’ll scream for help…Please, please - leave.”

A giggle left Johnny and Kyle, the sound echoing through the hall.

“And what do you think that will help, little bunny?” John asked, stepping forward, closest to you of them all, “who do you think dares to step between the pack of one-four-one knights and their upcoming mate? Do you really think anyone would be able to stop us?”

You almost wanted to piss yourself from fear. The cold wasn’t the only thing that made you shake now, the fear almost made your feet feel numb, your mouth dry, your heart pounding.

“I’m not your mate.” You tried to sound brave, not looking away from the large werewolf in front of you, knowing that in a fight, you would never be able to win, yet you had to try, had to stand up for yourself.

“Yet,” Ghost offered darkly from behind John, the word making you tighten your grip around the handle of the lantern.

“I do not wish to—“

The hands slammed around your middle and over your mouth and you instinctively fought against them, screaming behind the large, warm and stinking palm of Johnny. Your legs immediately kicked and you tried biting the palm.

“Let’s go, boys,” John took the lantern from your hand before you dropped it and you watched him snuff out the light with his fingers, “we got a long night ahead of us.”