#Context: finally read Song of Achilles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year ago

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A Final Poison Kiss Delivered Gently (ao3)

Nesta Archeron is a renowned and ruthless fae warrior, but she gets far more than she bargained for when, in the midst of battle, she finds herself up against the most fearsome General. Retelling of the Achilles/Penthesilea myth.

(For @nessianweek day 6! Read with the context of Autumn and Night being at war. Feyre has all her canon gifts but she’s not with Rhys yet. Idk suspend disbelief and don’t look too closely at the details. Title from the Mayday Parade song Without the Bitter the Sweet isn’t as Sweet)

Battle dawned, but Nesta Archeron was no stranger to its song, its call.

It thrummed through her as she donned each and every piece of her armour, the world outside dimming to nothing but a dull roar, chaos quieting as she shut it all out, took a breath, and brushed a finger along the hilt of her sword. She felt the pommel in the palm of her hand, cool and solid against her skin. She was a Valkyrie— a warrior born and bread, and battle flowed through her blood, eager, thirsty for every drop she would spill today.

Across the tent her sister looked back at her.

Feyre had donned similar armour - all smooth, hardened leather - but she was not a Valkyrie. Feyre was different, a soldier all the same, but… different. There was something else lurking beneath her youngest sister’s skin, something darker, like the night itself had marked her as one of its own, and though they had both been born under an Autumn Court sun, neither of them had stayed there. Only Elain had remained behind, but Nesta suspected that had more to do with a particular auburn-haired prince than anything else.

Cauldron blessed, they called them— the three sisters born to their parents in quick succession, when the birth of even one child was a rarity. Chosen, they whispered, when Nesta found herself skilled enough with a blade to earn a place with the Valkyries, when Feyre lifted her hands and found the ability to master the elements sitting waiting in her palm, and when Elain’s eyes turned vacant, glassy with foresight. The Mother’s favoured, they said, in voices weighed heavy with awe and terror in equal measure.

Nesta hadn’t ever cared much for any of it.

“You ready?” Feyre asked now, handing Nesta a small dagger to sheath at her hip.

“Always,” Nesta shrugged. “Are you?”

Feyre nodded, humming a little as she began working her hair into a braid that she would then wrap up in a tight bun. They were used to this— the war had been going so long that each step before battle had become a ritual, something almost ceremonial. Nesta didn’t know what they were fighting for anymore, or why the war had begun in the first place. All she knew that it was a conflict older than her, begun before she was born, against the fae from the most northern stretches of Prythian, as violent and as volatile as any other.

“They say there are some handsome ones out there today,” Feyre commented lightly. “That should make things interesting.”

Nesta scoffed. “Would you spare an enemy because of his pretty eyes?”

Feyre laughed, the sound ricocheting through the tent.

“Perhaps,” her sister said idly, holding out a hand to study her fingers. Feyre would use the powers the Cauldron had blessed her with to fight her way across the battlefield today, to wound and maim every soldier in her path, pretty eyed or not. She could heal with those powers, stitch skin as easily as she could split it, but today…

Today she would not be healing on that battlefield.

Today she would be killing.

Yet her hands remained steady as she readied for battle, for the blood that she was about to spill. It was how they had been raised, and even when the drums began to pound outside the tent, still Feyre was calm. The earth beneath their feet seemed to shake as conflict neared, and the song in Nesta’s blood built and built and built, reaching a crescendo as she tucked one more blade into a sheath at her thigh. It pressed against her leather armour, the weight a solid comfort. She’d done this so many times— it was second-nature now, to scent that tantalising mix of anticipation and fear and bloodlust on the wind and feel nothing but a sense of purpose, of stone-cold determination.

And as the drums grew louder, Nesta took a deep breath and looked at her sister through the dim of her tent.

“Come,” she said after a moment, lifting her head high and offering Feyre a wolfish kind of smile. “Let’s go and find some pretty-eyed enemies to slaughter.”

***

It was standing atop the crest of a gently sloping hill that Nesta Archeron first caught sight of him.

She surveyed the battlefield below, the fighting already underway, and she didn’t know what she was searching for until she found him— until she saw the remains around him of all those who had taken him on and fallen. Spears and swords lay scattered, discarded, in an almost perfect circle, broken bodies like flotsam. He was an Illyrian warrior, tall and dark and imposing, with wings that seemed to block out the sun when they spread, and seven gleaming red siphons that seemed to call to her, like a beacon across the killing field. His dark armour shone, the leather glistening with blood that almost certainly wasn’t his own, and even from across the battlefield, Nesta saw the glint of his sword, the gleam as the sun reflected off the blade as he raised it before bringing it down again. Like a scythe through wheat he cut through his attackers, moving as though he had yet to meet a real challenge, and at the sight Nesta’s heart pounded once, twice, a determined beat behind her ribs.

He was the one she wanted.

Whether it was the Mother or the Cauldron or some unknown and unnamed god of war that drew her to him, Nesta didn’t care. She watched him swing his sword and knew, simply, that he was hers— that his blood was hers to draw, to spill. His life hers to claim.

“That one,” she said to Feyre, nodding to where the warrior cut down three men with a single stroke. “I want that one.”

Feyre cast her eyes over the field below, smirking even as her own eyes snagged on another warrior— one in armour so dark it seemed to swallow the light itself. She shrugged, her fingers tracing the hilt of her dagger as she tilted her head, eyes still fixed on that soldier in obsidian armour, wielding darkness like a blade. “But you can’t see if he has pretty eyes from all the way up here.”

Nesta huffed a small laugh, noting the way her warrior moved, so fluid it was like water. She studied it— studied him. He moved like battle was a dance, like he felt the song of it in his bones the way she did, and she had never seen a more worthy opponent in her life. Her fingers twitched towards her blade, something in her chest pulling her forwards, begging her to find out how long he’d last against her.

“I don’t need to,” she shrugged. “He’s mine.”

Feyre hummed lightly. “I bet he has pretty eyes,” she said idly, nodding to the soldier crafted from the night itself.

Nesta rolled her eyes, glancing briefly skyward. A soft breeze caressed her cheeks, and as she surveyed the field below, she found her attention snapping once more to that mighty warrior, felling all in his path with a delighted kind of ease. She didn’t look back to Feyre, but her sister cleared her throat and turned, looking at Nesta’s mark with a renewed vigour.

“I heard some men talking in the camp this morning,” she began mildly. “They mentioned the enemy general— an Illyrian so fierce he makes even his own men tremble.They said he wears seven ruby siphons.”

Nesta smiled as she counted those bright red stones once more. All seven of them.

“So he’s the general?” she asked, watching him dance easily out of reach of another’s blade before lunging for the hilt and taking it in his own hands, turning it on its wielder and thrusting it through their gut. And he hadn’t even started to slow yet, barely seemed to be breaking a sweat.

Feyre raised an eyebrow. “Looks like it.”

Nesta’s lips split into a cruel smile. “Even better.”

***

Smoothly she descended into the chaos of battle, slipping into the fray as easily as breathing. All around her swords clashed, lives were ended and blood watered the earth, and through it all Nesta kept her gaze fixed on that gleaming sword, on the warrior who lifted it. As though the world itself held its breath, a path seemed to open between him and her, leaving the way clear as she edged towards him. No other attacked her, no other dared— as though the entire army recognised her not as their downfall, but his and his alone.

And with each step that brought her closer, she felt something tightening in the air between them, like lightning about to strike. It was magnetised, electric, and though she kept herself out of his line of vision, she wondered if he could sense her yet— if he could feel that pull towards her the way she felt a current dragging her towards him. If he did, he made no sign of it. He continued to cut down all those around him, and silently Nesta approached until she was standing a foot behind him, close enough that if she extended her arm…

If she was quick…

Her sword might just nick his neck, might slip through that gap where his helmet met his armour, severing enough vital arteries that this would be over before it really began.

It was tempting, but—

Not yet.

He was the finest warrior she had ever seen, and she intended to relish every moment of this fight.

Instead, she waited. Waited until the final soldier between them fell, a dagger through his throat, and only then did she unsheathe her own blade, hearing the soft whistle of steel as she pulled it free.

The warrior turned.

“Well,” he crooned, finding the space around him suddenly devoid of soldiers waiting for a chance to end his life. Indeed, all others seemed to have fled the immediate area, leaving the Valkyrie and the General more than enough space to dance around one another, circling like predators who had happened across their prey. He flashed her a smile. “I wasn’t expecting such a pretty opponent,” he drawled, wiping the blood from his blade by dragging the flat edge along his thigh.

With a mild kind of bemusement, Nesta blinked. Men. Always so cocksure, so certain that a woman couldn’t possibly pose any kind of real threat.

She rotated her wrist, her sword finding aim right above his heart, and that steady beat in her veins suddenly began to quicken, anticipation building as she searched in vain for any discernible detail beneath the helmet that concealed most of his face.

“Are you afraid it will be a distraction?” she asked, in a voice so smoothly saccharine it made a play of innocence.

He barked a laugh, and…

Gods, the sound skittered across her skin, like she could feel it in her very centre. She glimpsed dark eyes beneath his helmet, nothing more than a sharp glint as he rounded her, prowling like a wolf about to pounce. She turned in place, keeping her face to him and watching as his thumb stroked the hilt of his sword. His laugh died away, and Nesta could have sworn the entire battlefield had gone quiet, the chaos around them muted. It hadn’t— she knew it hadn’t. She could still hear the ring and clash of armour and blades, screams and shouts, but it had gone distant, quiet. Like the world— or her world, at least - was holding its breath.

“Never,” he answered after a minute, daring to smirk as he dragged his eyes across her. “Though it will be a shame to kill you,” he said, his voice as smooth as honey. “I would have liked to find out just how… distracting you can be.”

A laugh burst from her throat, and Nesta let her other hand drop to a second dagger at her side. He marked it— mirrored her.

Clever bat, she thought as she watched him balance lithely on the balls of his feet. Those wings looked cumbersome, like they ought to be a hindrance, but she’d learned enough from those few minutes she’d spent studying him to know that he was lethally smooth, fast, and those wings wouldn’t hold him back at all, but give him the extra momentum he needed to strike quick, to plunge his blade into her chest. She eyed the membrane now, and his smile turned menacing.

His helmet hid all but his mouth— all she could see was that infuriating smile, that taunting grin that had her pulse hammering.

“Come on then princess,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, almost husky. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He flipped his sword in hand, the blade honed to a lethal, lethal point. It’s edge gleamed, wickedly sharp, and even if Nesta knew nothing else about him, she knew just from the way he held that sword that he was no stranger to ending life— no stranger to a battlefield.

But then, neither was she.

She tightened her own grip on her shortsword, still pointed at his chest. It was thinner than the great Illyrian blade he wielded, but no less sharp, and lighter too. It was far easier to swing, much more nimble, and Nesta lunged forwards, tilting up and aiming for his godsdamned neck.

He twisted, ducked, and the edge of her sword scraped only the leather armour that covered his shoulder, spearing straight through the gap between his wings and leaving only the barest trace of a scratch behind.

He tsked.

And yet when he looked at her, he did not seem hell-bent on vengeance. Instead he cast an eye appreciatively over her form-fitting armour, over the lack of helmet that left her face exposed. His eyes dropped to her lips, lingered, and as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, Nesta let out a huff so forceful it strained her chest. She was here to kill him, and yet he looked at her like he’d much rather find out what else she could do with her hands besides swing a sword. He smirked, and if Nesta wondered briefly what else he could do with that mouth besides rile her, then she quickly buried the thought, gripping her weapon tighter as if to remind herself of her purpose.

But— she raised her blade, and when it clashed with his, she could have sworn sparks flew as steel met steel.

His eyes met hers beneath his helmet, and something like adrenaline was racing through her, making her heart beat harder than it ever had before in battle. This was something else, something new, something that threatened to steal her breath, and as he slid his blade along hers, the gentle hiss of it made her want to shudder. He stepped closer, so close that the only thing between his chest and hers was their crossed blades.

Still, he smirked.

His eyes flicked down, and she caught sight of thick eyelashes framing eyes that weren’t dark at all, rather a shade of hazel that shone as the sun came out from behind the clouds. From this close, she could smell the cinnamon and leather scent of him, warm and soft and entirely at odds with the bloodlust that swam in his face as he pinned her with his stare.

He pushed harder with his blade, trying to force hers to bend, to break, but Nesta held firm, even though the bones in her arm and hands cringed at the effort it took to hold steady against this mountain of a man.

She gritted her teeth, and the warrior smiled.

“Well princess,” he murmured, “You’re a far worthier opponent than I thought.”

He pushed again, but Nesta held steady. Her lip curled. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

He huffed. “Oh, I’m not disappointed at all, sweetheart.”

His eyes turned molten, his tone a languid caress, and… gods, was he flirting with her?

Nesta snarled.

He thought her nothing but a weak and fickle female— one who would lose all sense of self and purpose because a man whispered pretty words in her ear. But if he thought that would get her to drop her guard and let him land a killing blow, then he was sorely mistaken.

He hummed, the sound low in his throat. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“Fun,” Nesta repeated flatly.

The warrior grinned. “You put down that blade and I have half a mind to show you exactly the kind of fun we could have.”

She barked a laugh. “And I suppose you’d like me to bare my throat for your blade too?”

“I’d certainly like you to bare your throat sweetheart, but not necessarily for a blade.”

Nesta blinked. “You’re insufferable.”

And then… he winked at her. “Shame that we find ourselves on different sides of this battle, isn’t it?”

Nesta sighed, pushing harder against his blade, so hard she thought her wrist might break. But his knuckles were white with how tightly he was having to hold her back, and she was tired of this charade, this game. “If you think I’m going to drop at your feet and give you the opening you need—”

“I wouldn’t dare to hope, princess.”

Nesta snarled again and took one swift step back, the edge of his blade singing, reverberating as hers slid along it, drawing away. Smoothly she turned on her heel, spinning out of his range before he could so much as blink. But his eyes followed her, intent shining dark on the parts of his face she could see— the small kick of his lips, the glint in his eyes. Before she could make her move he lunged, his blade once more aimed at her— but at her side this time, Nesta noticed, not at her heart.

For a heartbeat she wondered why he wasn’t levelling a killing blow whilst he had the chance— but it didn’t matter, not when she only narrowly deflected that blow, killing one or not. She knocked his sword aside with her own, the clang of metal echoing through her bones, and he laughed— like the fight was a delight to him, he laughed, and it didn’t matter that he’d just missed or failed to kill her. He was enjoying this, she realised, and she’d never met another who relished a fight as much as she did, who enjoyed the feeling of power that came with holding a sword in hand. He tilted his head, and when he raised his arm to aim his sword once more, she ducked beneath it, dipping low and moving quick, finding an opening, a perfect opportunity—

And he was just a fraction too slow, a heartbeat too distracted.

Nesta’s blade found the weak spot in his armour, just below his arm.

It slid between his ribs easily, cutting through leather and flesh and sinew as smoothly as a hot knife through butter, and the breath he took echoed in her ears as he gasped, a rasp sharp enough to wound all on its own. Surprise flitted across his face for the barest of seconds, his lips twisting as her sword drove deeper into his side, angled up and slicing something vital. She’d nicked his heart, and her own stuttered, missing a beat, and in the place where she’d expected to feel elation and the swell of triumph, she felt nothing— nothing but the hollowest kind of victory.

His blood spilled, slicking the hilt of her blade and flowing over her fingers, pooling in the crevices between her knuckles. She looked up, found his face, and when she saw those eyes beneath that helmet…

Something in her chest snapped.

It was a physical recoil that had her stumbling backwards, pulling her blade free and instantly wishing she’d never stepped foot on that battlefield. Something cleaved, something cracked, a thousand pieces falling into place as his blood stained her skin crimson, and his heartbeat suddenly seemed louder somehow, rebellious in the face of death.

Her sword fell from her hands.

She should have known that the gods wouldn’t let her take a life so smoothly— not his life, anyway. He swayed, staggered, one hand rising to his wound as a fresh torrent of blood rushed from his side, and the other lifted his helmet from his face and cast it aside, letting it fall in the dust.

And oh gods— he was beautiful.

His skin was burnished beneath the sun, a dark gold that brought out the brilliant hazel of his eyes, the green and gold and brown that seemed bright even as his life began to ebb away. His lips pulled into a mockery of a smile, a wry smirk.

You’d spare an enemy because of his pretty eyes, she’d quipped to Feyre that morning, and now… Gods, Nesta was on the brink of doing just that. Of begging him to live just because of the glint in those hazel eyes.

“Gods sweetheart,” he rasped, the blood seeping through his fingers. “As far as first meetings go, I’ve had better.”

His knees shook, threatened to buckle, and in that moment - one that stretched towards forever - Nesta knew with certainty that he really was hers— her mate, the one that fate had bound her to, for better or worse. Warmth swelled in her chest, and as she looked at him without his helm - his dark hair tumbling over his forehead as he tipped his face down, eyes bright despite his pain - she felt her heart ache, felt it break as he stumbled.

Nesta lurched forwards and caught him by the arm, her fingers gripping his leathers, feeling the hardened muscle taut beneath. He groaned as the breath slipped between his lips, pressing a hand harder to his side to staunch the bleeding, but still he canted his face to the side, catching her eye and offering her a smirk that beggared belief.

“Although,” he continued, his voice so liltingly smooth it was almost hard to believe Nesta had just dealt him a fatal blow, “I’ve had worse, too.”

“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, fingers tightening around his arm. She didn’t know why she held on— why she lingered. She should have cut him down and moved on. She’d have been half way across the battlefield by now.

He knew it, too. He was just as trained in strategy as she was, just as adept at killing.

“I’m not the one wasting time on an enemy soldier, princess.”

Enemy.

The word clanged through her, jolting her out of all good sense. She studied his face— that beautiful, rugged face that her heart already seemed to know as intimately as her own. Stubble graced a sharp jaw, generous lips curved up even though they ought to have been curling in pain, and even though his breathing was laboured, rasping, his voice felt familiar to her somehow, like she’d heard it before, somewhere in a dream. He was her mate— not her enemy. Never her enemy, even if they’d found themselves through poor luck on opposite sides of this war.

She wondered if he’d felt it too, if he’d noticed the bond clicking into place as her sword slipped between his ribs.

He faltered.

His blood still refused to slow, the wound too great for his fae blood to heal. Nesta cursed, and the warrior hissed as he sank to his knees, no longer able to stand. She felt her own knees threaten to give way too, a trembling unease racking her as he pitched forwards onto his hands, resting one palm on the ground as the other still pressed hard at his wound. Wrong, it was wrong, wrong, wrong, and she didn’t care that a war still waged around them, didn’t care that the clash of battle still echoed through her ears.

Desperately, she looked out across the battlefield.

Feyre— where was Feyre?

Her sister could heal him, could stitch that torn skin back together and keep him here, mend him and stop his life from slipping through his fingers. Nesta just needed to find her, to get a message to her and—

His arm shook, couldn’t hold his weight.

“Maybe when this is all over, I can take you out for a drink princess,” the warrior said, his voice cracking only a little as he spoke, showing barely a hint of the pain that must have been roaring through him.

Grief surged in her gut, and Nesta fell to her knees too. Her hand joined his, fingers slipping between the gaps in his knuckles as she put extra pressure on that wound and prayed that the bleeding would stop.

It didn’t.

“When all this is over you’ll probably be dead,” she said sharply, but the moment the words left her she regretted them. Regretted that her blade had ever pierced his flesh at all.

He hummed, and somehow he found the strength to lift one bloodied hand to her face, tracing the curve of her jaw with a finger. His touch was light, but it seared her right down to her bones and the bond in her chest thrummed, sang.

“True,” he said, shrugging. The movement pulled at his wound, sent a fresh cascade of blood spilling between his fingers and over hers. “Perhaps I’ll find you in the next life then, and we can have a drink there instead.”

His eyelids fluttered, and oh gods— Nesta couldn’t bear to see this man die. Something inside her revolted at the thought, like it would be the worst thing in the world to have him leave it without her, and a broken sound escaped her as she lifted her head up again, searching for her sister through the fray. Had she found the warrior with the night-black armour? Did she have a blade at his neck even now, and would Feyre regret it later, if she pierced his throat the way Nesta had pierced the General’s side?

Panic built in her chest, something that felt almost like a scream, and she cast her mind wide, praying Feyre would hear her.

Please, she begged. Please help me. Save him.

“No,” she said to the warrior who could no longer hold himself up on his knees. He tilted to the side, and Nesta eased him to the floor, mindful of his wings, taking him in her arms until his head lay in her lap, her arms around his shoulders. “I won’t allow you to die. I won’t.”

One hazel eye cracked open. “Should’ve thought of that before you stabbed me then, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t…” Nesta began, but cut herself off as her chest heaved. “I didn’t know you were…”

“What?” he asked, but his voice was slurring. Nesta only shook her head, patting his cheek to keep him conscious until Feyre could reach them.

Just a little longer, Nesta thought desperately. Hold on just a little longer.

“What’s your name?” she asked in a bid to keep his eyes open.

“Cassian.”

Cassian. It thrummed through her, her chest tightening. She shouldn’t have learned his name as he lay dying in her arms, shouldn’t have felt that bond snap the moment she cut his life short. But the gods were cruel— crueller than she’d ever imagined, and as she held her dying mate in her arms, Nesta nodded, feeling his name echo through her.

He groaned, and Nesta pushed back the hair from his face, her fingers lingering at his temple.

I’m coming, Feyre said into Nesta’s mind, and Nesta’s hands fell to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as though she could hold the shattered pieces of his life together, keep his thread from snapping. Hold on.

“And yours?” Cassian coughed, the little breath he had left rattling in his throat. “Don’t let me die without knowing your name.”

“You’re not going to die,” Nesta countered.

He tried to shrug again, but didn’t have the strength.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered. “Please.”

A solitary tear rolled down Nesta’s cheek.

“Nesta,” she answered.

A small hum left him, and Feyre was closing in now, only feet away, but he was fading, slipping, his breaths stumbling in his throat—

“Nesta,” he repeated as his eyes fluttered closed again, and this time…

This time they did not reopen.

***

When the dust had settled and the blood had dried, Nesta Archeron waited in her tent.

The sound of battle had long since quieted, and outside the sun was setting, making shadows of the fallen that still littered the battlefield. Her heart was cut to ribbons, her nerves too, and she had spent so long around bloodshed and violence that she hadn’t thought anything could faze her until today— until she found her mate, right as her blade cut through his flesh.

Her sword leaned against a chest in her tent now, still coated with his blood.

It made her feel sick.

And then—

A breath, rattling and gasping, cleaved the silence. In the dimness of her tent his eyes cracked open, and as Cassian lay propped up against the pillows, he lifted his head. He let out a soft groan, one that was softened at the edges, as though he were still dazed. Nesta’s heart thumped, her own breath catching as he cast his eyes down to the bandages that Feyre had wrapped tight across his chest after healing the wound to his side.

He had been an inch from death. Another second and he would have been too far gone, but Feyre had sank to her knees beside him the moment he closed his eyes, had grabbed hold of his life before it could slip away entirely. She had taken one look at Nesta’s face and healed him, and they didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to discuss it.

She had healed him, and helped Nesta carry him back to her tent afterwards.

“Nesta,” Cassian rasped now, spying her seated on the edge of the bed. Her bed. “You stabbed me.”

Breathless, Nesta nodded. Her eyes wandered down to his ribs, as if she could still see the blood that had left him, the wound she had dealt. She waited for his anger— his vengeance, retribution. But the General before her only let out a dry laugh as he pushed up onto his forearms.

“How incredibly attractive of you,” he muttered.

Nesta blinked. “…What?”

He grinned— the same kind of grin that had driven her half to madness out there on the battlefield.

“What can I say?” he shrugged, lifting a hand and feeling tentatively across his ribs. “Women with blades turn me on.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He grinned again. “And you can’t hate me half as much as you pretend you do.” He looked at his surroundings, eyes lingering on the armour she’d taken off and discarded in the corner. “After all, you had me brought to your tent.”

“How do you know this is my tent?”

He winked. “Call me observant.”

Nesta couldn’t help but snort. “You were hardly observant when my blade went through your ribs.”

“No, I wasn’t, was I?” His eyebrows drew together, a parody of a frown. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you that your beauty is a rather lethal distraction, sweetheart?”

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you to hold your tongue before somebody cuts it out?”

A glint entered his eyes then, entirely wicked as his lips kicked up into a devious smirk. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about my tongue.”

“You’re a beast.”

He lifted one shoulder in an idle shrug, his hands wandering to the bandages again. He dipped his head, dark hair falling over his face as he did, and gods— Nesta wanted to brush it back, wanted to feel it slip through her fingers. Lightly, he prodded the bandage Feyre had wrapped him in.

“Who did this?” he asked softly.

“My sister,” Nesta answered. “She was… born blessed with a handful of powers. Healing happens to be one of them.”

Cassian blinked. “And you had her use such a power on an enemy soldier?”

I had her race across a battlefield dodging blades to use it on an enemy soldier, and then I had her help carry that soldier back to my own tent where she could heal him some more to make sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time.

“Yes,” Nesta said blandly.

“Why?”

Because you’re my mate— because I felt the bond snap the moment my blade pierced your flesh. Because I am yours and you are mine, and you’re not my enemy— never were.

“Because,” she shrugged. “I’d witnessed enough death already.”

Cassian snorted. “How flattering. And here I thought you saved me because you liked my pretty face.”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t.”

“Knew it.”

A small smile touched Nesta’s lips, and she lowered her gaze to his chest. Reaching out, she traced her fingers over his bandages, over the same path he’d just explored with his own hands.

“It doesn’t hurt?” she whispered.

“No, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Your sister did a good job.”

Gods— she was trying to ignore how close she was to his lips, how warm he felt beneath her hand. She swallowed, fighting the urge to lay her palm flat over his heart and measure its beat, and even though she wanted nothing more than to delve deep inside her and find that bond that stretched between her soul and his, to dance along it and feel it thrum beneath her…

She resisted.

Cassian swallowed, all hint of mirth falling from his face as he curled a finger beneath her jaw and lifted her gaze to his.

“Why?” he breathed. “Tell me really— why did you save me?”

Mute, Nesta shook her head.

She couldn’t form words, couldn’t think or speak or breathe. She could only look into those hazel eyes and wonder how she’d survived so long without them. His face softened, and as he blinked slowly he lifted his finger from beneath her chin and brushed it along her cheek.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to death before,” he said idly, his eyes turning molten as he scanned her face. She didn’t know what he was searching for, but when he gave her a small smile, she wondered if he’d found it. There was some kind of wonder in his eyes, some kind of fascination that had the hazel sparkling. “I don’t know whether I should applaud you or kiss you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think you should try and exact some revenge? Kill me the way I almost killed you?”

He huffed a laugh, and the sound was warm and soft and gentle, the kind that Nesta wanted to wrap herself in forever. “I told you before. Where would be the fun in that?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. The Cauldron had tied her to this man— this ridiculous man, and yet her chest warmed inexplicably at the sight of his smile. Suddenly a path stretched before her, one where he wasn’t her enemy. One where she woke with him each morning and heard that laugh as the dawn stretched its fingers through the sky, one where she felt his kiss as each night fell, his arms around her as they slept. Her heart swelled, and she dipped her face to hide a smile.

“Don’t,” he whispered, palming her cheek and lifting her chin back up. The edges of her smile faded, and he dragged his thumb across the corner of her lips. “I love that smile.”

“Need I remind you that I tried to kill you?”

“Not at all, princess. I love that, too.”

She wondered if he felt it yet— if he could tell that the twinge in his chest wasn’t just his wounds healing, but something of an entirely different nature. Had he realised yet, that the crack behind his ribs before hadn’t been her blade skimming the edge of his heart, but a bond settling into place?

Nesta didn’t think so, and now wasn’t the time to break it to him. Instead, she slowly pulled away and got to her feet, heading straight for the chest in the corner of her tent. He watched as she opened it, rifling through piles of clothes and fresh armour, and even with her back turned she felt the keen edge of his attention, sharper than any blade.

It made her feel slightly dizzy.

At last her fingers closed around the neck of a bottle— one she’d stolen months ago and stashed away, a fine vintage she’d been saving for a rainy day. She pulled it from the chest with a flourish now.

There were no glasses. They’d have to drink straight from the bottle, but it didn’t matter. She lifted it, and the man she’d almost killed look back at her across the tent with a fire in his eyes.

And Nesta looked at her mate, lying on her bed and wrapped in bandages and said,

“How about that drink?

#nessianweek2023 #nessian #who doesnt love Cassian covered in blood????

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thatinsufferablenerd · 2 months ago

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Post Spooky Update

The weather is slowly cooling off here finally. Spooky Season is over and another year has gone by without reading any scary books or movies like I say I’m gonna do every year. I’ve been enjoying all the festive content in my different social media feeds instead. Horror book recs from BookTube, video essays that analyze aspects of the horror genre, discussions of films or anime that set the mood. I probably should be more embarrassed of how much YouTube I watch, but seeing as I’m a housewife with a passion for learning and too many interests to succinctly sum up, I’m not going to lose too much sleep over it.

I wish I did have some mood appropriate reads to tell you about. I love books, I love storytelling, I love getting lost in a good book, but my ability to actually get into–let alone through–books has atrophied so much I’ve concluded it’s a Me ProblemTM. When I was young, in elementary and middle school, I could read a book a day. I DID for a long time, exchanging the one I just finished for something new during lunch. And then I got older. I got into movies and writing, I had a job, then I had longer hours, then I had kids that I stayed home with. The library was too far to walk to, we didn’t have money to buy books, and I was too tired to read them anyway. It was easier to focus on honing my craft of writing because it was simpler to hit the backspace button when a toddler smacked my keyboard than risk a library book.

And I regret that. The act of consuming story and pure, distilled joy I get from them is a core part of who I am. If I didn’t love reading, I would never have developed a love for writing. If I didn’t love the stories and characters I read in books, I would never have discovered the love I have for analyzing and discussing them. I would never have learned about the relationship between literature and culture, that I love learning about historical context, the art of interpretation, or linguistics, things like that. Ever since I stopped reading piles of books or trade paperbacks of comics from the library, I’ve said to myself every few months “I miss reading”, “I want to get back into reading”.

It’s not like I haven’t read anything since I was nineteen. Of course I have. I read all five books in the A Song of Ice and Fire series in the span of a year. I read monthly releases of DC comics for years, picked up pulpy romance novels ‘just as a palate cleanser!’, I tried starting book clubs with friends, promises of ‘I won’t buy or borrow any books until I read the ones I have’. And then I’d get through a few chapters of whatever I picked up only to put it down for the last time. I’ve made some progress! I read A Song of Achilles and Circe by Madelline Miller, Skyward by Brandon Sanderson, I accidentally read the sequel to Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter? In the last year. And I’ve gotten further in a lot of the books I’ve picked up than before. I’ve been reading manga more than anything the last few years. My Hero Academia, Spy x Family, My Dress-up Darling, Dungeon Meshi, Demon Slayer, One Piece, all stories I’ve enjoyed and have a lot to say about! I re-read the last six volumes of Demon Slayer a few weeks ago and wrote an entire comment section dissertation about it, the latest installment in a series that serves as the quiet void I shout into.

The first step for me was probably accepting that I’m never going to be able to read like I did in middle school. That’s okay, right? I might not have a JOB, but I am a grown-up with grown-up things to do. And it’s not like I’ve been sitting on my ass the whole time. I’ve learned so much, like how to actually form opinions, how to interpret text, how to analyze properly, how to do research, how to really write, among so many other things. Things I had to teach myself. I know, they say ‘the best writers are also prolific readers’. I believe that, I really do. I would never claim that I’m some genius writer and better than people who have gone to school for this or are so well-read that it improves their prose by default. What I am saying is that…I want to get there. I miss reading.

So, I set a small goal for myself. There are so many books out there that I want to read. And sure, my little local library has a limited catalog, and Libby has at least two weeks’ waits on everything, and I can’t afford to buy books brand new, but we can only work with what we have, not what we don’t. I’ve decided to read one contemporary book, one classic, and one (ish) manga a month. Sure, there are going to be some blurred lines here, but I think we’re all mature enough to handle that. I’m going to define ‘classics’ as anything more than a century old. Slaughterhouse Five is newer than that but it is taught as a classic and on my TBR, so maybe it will count as a classic for that month. Who knows? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. And if the manga is long, say, more than three hundred chapters, then I might split it into two months.

With that being said, my picks for November are: A Hero of France by Alan Furst, Tolkien’s translation of Beowulf, and for the manga, Bleach.

My local library had a book sale recently. I bought a hundred and thirty books for eighty-five dollars in two trips. Not all of them are novels! I’m very proud of the memoirs and other non-fiction books I got. But that should keep me occupied for a good while yet. Not to mention the books I already have. That Furst novel is one of the ones I picked up last year at the book sale. It’s historical fiction about an agent in the French Resistance. I like historical fiction, I think it’s a versatile genre for both readers and writers. I read about half of a book called Lion’s Blood that was alternate US History last year that I’m gonna have to go back to because I STILL think about it. Anyway, that Furst novel. I’m about halfway through and I’m going to finish it. I’m invested enough to see it through, and I’m enjoying the experience. When I finish it and have had some time to collect my thoughts, you’ll be hearing them.

While at that book sale, my almost nine-year-old became infatuated with a book. He liked the cover and title so much that he wanted me to buy it for him. I told him, “Buddy, this book would be a tough read for a grown-up.” He said he would figure it out, that he would ask for help when he needed it. The book was a dollar, so I bought it. I can’t say I’ve ever read Clive Cussler, but if I can help him understand it, I can be persuaded to read dry historical fiction. I know enough about WWII to explain what’s going on to him. It’s not on my list to get done by the end of November, but it is a high priority read.

I picked Beowulf (and this translation) specifically because A) I know how influential Beowulf is on western storytelling, B) I’m a fan of Tolkien as a writer as well as his love of and gift for languages, C) I watched Monstrum’s episode on Grendel’s Mother and the Cardinal West YouTube documentary on Tolkien in the last few months, both of which I enjoyed a lot, and finally D) I’m a fan of Dr. Chase from The Best of Fantasy. My friend was kind enough to surprise me with a shiny new copy. It’s probably going to be a difficult read for me. I plan on taking notes and going slow to really digest it. I’m also trying to talk my mom into a buddy read, but we’ll see how the cookie actually crumbles with that one.

Now, for how I landed on Bleach. I watched the entirety of Naruto and Shippuden (yes, even the filler) back in 2020, 2021, and then binged One Piece in 2023 into the early part of this year. So, of course, the insufferable nerd in me said ‘I want to be able to say I’ve seen the Big Three’. So I watched the anime. I wasn’t that impressed with it. Yes, certain characters stayed in my brain, yes I LOVE the Thousand Year Blood War (I’m currently behind), but it didn’t really hit me like Naruto and One Piece did. I thought the passion of the fandom might get me more into it. I tried art, lore videos, discussion, analysis, and that did help! But Bleach just…kinda fell by the wayside for me. A lot of fans say the anime isn’t as good as the manga, but it’s a long series. I didn’t have the time or energy to commit, especially when I had other series I was actually into to follow. I do follow One Piece, Spy x Family, and My Dress-up Darling on release. I followed MHA for more than three years week to week, only binging the last hundred or so chapters last month after its conclusion.

And then AJ dropped his video titled ‘The Hollow Melancholy of Bleach’. It brings up some of the feelings I had watching the Fullbringer Arc and the Thousand Year Blood War and expresses something the anime just…didn’t capture for me. But that video and Geoff Thew from Mother’s Basement’s video on Bleach finally sold me. It took me a couple weeks, according to the notes I’ve been taking I started on October fourteenth.

The manga is fantastic. I tried for thirty chapters a day and haven’t been as consistent as I’d like, but I’m in the two-sixties now. The art is beautiful, the character writing is great, the fights are intense, the vibes immaculate and the emotions are SO deep, so complex and resonant. I am so glad I jumped in, and I’m going to continue to take notes as I go.

Reading isn’t the only thing I do, obviously. My first love will always be writing. I took a bit of a break cough-BookTube-cough, but picking it back up is always a joy. I’ll probably be spending some time in front of my white board in the near future working out some world building details that were not super relevant till now. I watched Jake over at Nerd Level Rising talk to Christopher Ruocchio and was sent into a PANIC over idiolects and regional dialect features, which I’ve been doing all along, just not enough? I guess? I looked everything over and did some light edits, took some notes to make things more consistent. Culture is a complex web, all interconnected and inseparable from the individual parts. Building them is hard work, a job that never seems to end, even if the document of notes is for me, not the hypothetical reader.

You could say that I was too heavily influenced by long form stories with extended casts, because even though I’m closing in on a hundred and seventy thousand words, I’m in part two of…five? Maybe? In epic fantasy, there are so many moving parts to keep track of at any given moment aside from the nuts and bolts of prose and pacing. I worry all the time that everything I have is trash, and even if it isn’t, it would never get picked up by a trad publisher and I won’t be able to afford self-publishing. I’ve had some other sets of eyes on my prologue as alpha readers. Positive, encouraging feedback that I’m grateful for! It’s not the same thing as having someone who’s familiar with the story, who knows where my head is at, where I’m going. I don’t write to publish, I do it because I love it. But I’ve been writing for twenty years, and actively working to get better at it for fifteen of them. There’s just nothing to show for it. Everything I’ve finished has ended up in an old computer’s recycle bin or in a literal paper shredder, with abandoned works in progress along the way. As terrifying as it is to expose yourself to the light, it’s impossible to soak in the warmth of sunlight in the dark.

I’m going back to the grindstone when I’m done here. I won’t give up.

Other than all the YouTube distractions and trying to rightfully earn the title of bibliophile, I’ve been trying to watch shows again. Just a few things. I watched Kaguya-sama: Love is War and loved it, enough to put the manga on my TBR. I finally got around to watching Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End with the same result. I watched Dungeon Meshi twice, read the manga front to back. What a story! I’ve been meaning to write an essay on it, but I can’t imagine having anything to say that hasn’t already been said. I watched Mob Psycho 100 and can’t express enough how much it resonated with me. For the first time, I watched Over the Garden Wall. The kerfluffle on Twitter over it being removed and restored to Hulu recently had me digging that up. Quality Culture did a great essay on that series last year which I highly recommend. My friends have been obsessed with the new Interview With the Vampire series, enough to read the books, so I watched three episodes of season one and liked it a lot. I’ll get around to it. I watched Steven Universe: Future, which I’ve been wanting to for a while. We watched the main series with our kids and enjoyed it, and I thought the sequel series built on the themes and story well.

And like everyone else in the anime community right now, I’m watching Dandadan. It’s GREAT. The animation, the sound design and OST, the character writing, the action, all of it is just stunning. It’s funny and got a lot of heart to it. Momo and Okarun are so cute. I haven’t watched the new set of episodes in the Thousand Year Blood War yet, but I’ll catch up in the next week or so. I’ve been impressed with this adaptation, especially with the old series not really pulling me in until its final episodes. Not only is it visually enrapturing, it really hits on the atmosphere and emotions; not just in service to the story but truly elevates the material.

With all the things I take in, it’s probably no surprise that there’s no less than five trains of thought going on at any given time. That video Tale Foundry did last week about Weird Tales and pulp fantasy, and this comment arguing that the fanfic community has stepped in to fill that niche? Yeah, I’m still thinking about it. Zoe Bee’s most recent drop about how metaphor influences the way we think and how that relates to politics? Of course I’m thinking about it! Not just about how it affects rhetoric but how it affects diction in prose, which is more my wheelhouse. Princess Weekes’ follow up to her ‘Tall, Dark and Racially Ambiguous’ essay surrounding casting Heathcliff gave me food for thought, and Jess of the Shire’s fantastic essay ‘Monstrosity & the Vampire’ did too. Tim over at Hello Future Me did a video about ‘Arcology: The City in the Image of Man’ and I’m still chewing on that one too. How could I not? The ideas presented there are FASCINATING, big picture questions about structuring society and the growing subgenre of solarpunk. Broey Deschanel and Final Girl Studios both doing amazing videos on The Substance? Of course I’m over here thinking about them! Final Girl Studios’ essay is called ‘The Simulacrum of Feminine Performance’, how could I not sit here and think about that, and what that is, and what that means?? And on top of all that, I opted into a DnD one shot in a couple weeks! Gonna need a character for that, one that’s PG…man, I’ve been busy!

#spilled thoughts #small talk #digital diary #book tumblr #booklr #writeblr

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booksandria · 11 months ago

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the song of fury - thoughts on Homer's Iliad

spoiler alert!

"I have endured what no one on earth has ever done before – I put my lips to the hands of the man who killed my son." | "Priam at the feet of Achilles", Jérôme-Martin Langlois.

After a month, I finally finished reading the Iliad. What a book, everyone! Although it's quite a tiring read, it's very obvious why it's a classic. It's a little funny to do a spoiler alert of a 3000+ old book, but beware anyways lol.

(btw i'm once again writing this in portuguese and translating it to english, sorry for any weird wording and grammar mistakes)

The tale of this piece on time of the ninth year of the Trojan War, which opens with the beginning of Achilles' fury until the moment when it is appeased, is heartbreaking, mainly because it is such a vivid portrayal of the horrors of war. How many were the victims of that war in the 24 books of the Iliad, and how many in all the other years that the poem leaves out? It's moving in every sense, and becomes even more impactful considering the context we're living in, with two wars going on in the world.

It's necessary to point out that a large part of the reason it's such a tiring book to read is because it has such a different formula from what we're used to: because it has an oral presentation context, there are many repetitive and formulaic parts that can be hard to swallow at times. Honestly, at every battle book I had the impression that I was reading the same thing over and over within 500 pages. Interestingly, despite this, I still felt quite involved in the battles, especially those that take place after book 9. You can feel the desperation on both sides of the war emanating from the pages, as if you were there in the middle of the battle. It's an intensity that can't be explained.

Of course, you can't talk about the Iliad without mentioning its most important character: Hector. There's no greater tragedy than reading this man in battle giving his all, convinced that he was going to win the war and be able to protect his city and his family, while we know exactly what's going to happen and that there's no escaping it. There's no other way the war can go, even if we want it to. It was inevitable that Patroclus would return to battle after seeing his companions massacred and that, manipulated by the divine will, he would go after the Trojans and sign his own death warrant. It was inevitable that Hector would kill Patroclus the first chance he got, doing literally the only thing that would make Achilles return to battle and also signing his own death warrant. And of course, it's inevitable that Achilles would kill Hector after everything and that, being who he is, that wouldn't be enough to calm his anger and ease his grief. Achilles' fury was simply inevitable. You can't escape the fate given by the gods, no matter what you do.

By the way, it's worth persevering through the fatigue that can take you up to book 15 precisely because, from book 16 onwards, it's simply impossible to stop reading. The battle around Sarpedon's body, then the chase to Troy, Patroclus' battle with Hector, the battle around Patroclus' body. Girl, you can't put the book down, I swear! From that point on, I just couldn't stop reading or crying. It was much worse to read Achilles' reaction to learning of his companion's death than it was to read Patroclus' death itself. The rage is suddenly not just rage, but the pain so deep and so suffocating of losing the person you love most in the world. Achilles knows he's going to die after killing Hector, but it doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is avenging Patroclus, whatever the cost.

The sad thing is that Hector doesn't know what fate has in store for him. Hector doesn't know that he has just planted the seed of his own death. It's horrible to read the chase around Troy, it's horrible to read Athena deceiving Hector. Imagine you're about to die in battle because you know you can't face the storm that is the guy who wants to kill you, and then you have a quick hope that you'll survive because your brother has come to your rescue. Except he didn't, it was a goddess making you believe he did so that her will would be done. Absolutely horrible! I don't even know if I need to comment that all I could think about was the scene in book 6 where he meets his wife and little boy. Literally the last time they see each other, and neither of them knows it.

The thing is, Iliad is a sad book. It's refreshing and funny and exciting, but above all it's a sad book. And that's what interesting about it's ending, because it is still sad, even if in nature its hopeful. Priam goes to beg Achilles for his son's body and Achilles, deeply moved by him, agrees. The fury meets its end and merciless Achilles finds in himself to have mercy of this old man who could have been his father, because it will be his father right in the next year, grieving the child lost in battle. Hector can finally rest, an ending to all that death and all that pain we read for 24 books.

Except it isn't. Troy will still fall, fathers will still lose their lives, wives and kids will either meet their death or be forced into slavery. Priam's city will be lost forever, we just don't see it here. So, just like the trojans, we're allowed this brief moment of peace, though we both know it will end soon.

After a month digesting this book, I can't say anything other than how marvellous it is, the kind of book everyone should read at least once in their lives. I have to say, though, that there's still a bitter taste left in my mouth after reading this one because, as I said before, its harder to read it while we're living two major wars in the world right now. I just hope that this book story remains just a book story and we can see a different outcome in real life. We have to. Unlike in Iliad where fate is woven by gods, this is a man-made horror. We can put an end to it.

#books of 2024 #gia reads #feb 2024 #homers iliad #the iliad #bookblr #readerblr #readers of tumblr #books and reading #classic books

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nausikaaa · 2 years ago

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WIP Wednesday

thanks for tagging me @forabeatofadrum! i’m a little late posting, but finally found some inspiration to write again, so here’s some of a new perspective from my post-troy novel- Hermione. context below the cut as always!

All in all, I was thoroughly unimpressed with my husband, and his awkward mannerisms were beginning to grate on my already exposed nerves. And then he did something that did more than just irritate me. He stood up, walked away from me, and joined the dance.

I didn’t move a muscle, but I could feel eyes on me. This is ridiculous, I thought. Dancing was for young girls, not men such as him, small and lithe as he may have been. I wondered if he intended to humiliate me, or was he truly oblivious to the ways of the world? I knew he grew up on an island, isolated from the rest of Greece, but this was unorthodox by any standards.

He leapt and whirled with seven women from Skyros, ranging from barely his elder to just over a decade older. They all shared his ginger hair and blue eyes- his aunts, and there in the centre, his mother, Deidamia. I thought she ought to be ashamed of herself, a widow, dancing! Her skirts flew around her, her feet barely touched the ground, and she laughed and laughed as she took her son by the hand and spun him round.

I took a small sip of wine and hoped my veil would hide the red of my face. My grandfather made furious eye contact with me from across the hall, as though this shameless display was somehow my fault, while my mother had the audacity to clap along with the beat. My father didn’t even seem to notice anything amiss, deep in conversation with one of Neoptolemus’s advisors.

I cast my eyes skyward and silently prayed he would get whatever this was out of his system by the end of the song and return to my side, where I would pretend to be amused by his antics to save face and return to the silence we had been comfortable in before, but the song came to an end, a new one started, and he didn’t stop.

I downed the rest of my wine and waved a slave over for a refill.

i love writing Hermione so much, i think anyone who reads my carry on Agatha fics can tell i just really enjoy writing from the perspective of a total bitch (affectionate)

Hermione is the daughter of Helen of Sparta/Troy and her first husband, Menelaus. after the war she was married to Neoptolemus, also known as Pyrrhus, the son of the hero Achilles and a hero (or war criminal, depending on your persuasion) in his own right.

Hermione had been engaged her entire childhood to her cousin, Orestes, but sources vary on which man she loved. whatever the case, Orestes eventually killed Pyrrhus and took Hermione by force.

the interpretation i chose to go with is that Hermione and Pyrrhus’s relationship begins very strained, Hermione has very rigid ideas about what is proper while Pyrrhus, having grown up surrounded by young women and then losing any remaining childhood wonder he may have had when he was drafted for the war at 15, likes to cut loose and buck tradition.

eventually, they manage to find common ground- the expectations they have grown up under due to their parents. Pyrrhus is the son of the greatest warrior the world had ever known, but he hates violence and can’t stand the sight of blood, for all he was forced to endure it at Troy. Hermione is the daughter of the most beautiful woman in history, but she resembles her father and has a very strained relationship with her. after this, they grow close and have a loving relationship, but Hermione struggles to conceive.

after only 4 years together, Hermione suffers a miscarriage, prompting Pyrrhus goes to Delphi to pray to Apollo, who has cursed him. Hermione also carries a family curse, but there’s nothing she can do to end it, it’s built upon generations of infanticide and cannibalism (the House Of Atreus is wack), and there he is killed by Orestes, who then goes as kidnaps Hermione.

Hermione’s POV ends there, but we see from Astyanax, the main character, that she eventually escaped Orestes and went back to Skyros, Pyrrhus’s home country, the place she was happiest, where she was accepted as the Queen by his aunts and the people. so a bittersweet ending.

and here’s what Hermione and Pyrrhus look like, in this scene and 4 years later:

fun fact: Hermione’s hair is short in the first picrew because Spartan girls would cut it short for their weddings. Spartan men and women lived very segregated lives as men were raised in military barracks since childhood, and both young men and women often had gay relationships with others their age because there just wasn’t the option to be with someone of the opposite sex. so the short hair was both a symbolisation of rebirth for women but also to ease men into heterosexuality 😂

for a late wip wednesday or next six sentence sunday, i tag @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @ileadacharmedlife @ionlydrinkhotwater @martsonmars @confused-bi-queer @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @bazzybelle @castawaypitch @ivelovedhimthroughworse @gekkoinapeartree @erzbethluna @facewithoutheart @sillyunicorn @moodandmist @tea-brigade @whatevertheweather @stillgeekingout @wetheformidables @onepintobean @basiltonbutliketheherb @theearlgreymage and @whogaveyoupermission

#untitled post troy project #hermione #neoptolemus #pyrrhus

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noahsbookhoard · 4 months ago

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📚May 2024 Book Review (Part 2/3📚

The september weather is not being kind to me right now so let's travel to Greece and Nigeria! And solve a murder too, why not.

Le Meurtre de Roger Ackroyd (The Murder of Roger Ackroyd) by Agatha Christie

Roger Ackroyd is murdered just a day after Mrs Ferras, the woman he was planning to marry, was found dead from an overdose. One year earlier this was Mr Ferras who was found dead. Illness? Murder? This was unclear at the time, but the two deaths at 24 hours interval piqued Hercule Poirot's curiosity. Did Mrs Ferras really commit suicide? And who killed Roger Ackroyd?

My first Poirot and as of writing this, my favorite! (Granted I only read three so far but still.) Maybe it was a mistake to start with one with such a particular ending, maybe not. I fell from my chair at the revelation, I really saw nothing coming and it was thrilling.

I can't say too much because spoilling a murder mystery is not nice but I especially loved how this one had the answer staring us in the face this whole time and if you missed the one (1) clue or failed to understand it, the murderer would pass you by until Poirot unmasked them. Brilliant work but I understand why people were mad about it.

Poirot is unsufferable but that's why I love him so much, he has a flare for drama that suits the genre, you can almost feel him wink at you through the pages (and Agatha Christie through him as well, she would enjoy watching the read pull their hair trying to solve it and always ending up two steps behind her detective)

Surely one of the best, I can't recommend it enough. It is one of the earliest Hercule Poirot novel but still works really perfectly well today.

The Illiad by Homer (translated by Emily Wilson)

Ten years after the beginning of the Trojan War the city is still under siege and the Greeks, away from home. Homer recounts the final months of the war, Achilles' anger at Agamemnon, the emboldening of the Trojan army, the death of Patroclus and Achilles' revenge on Hector.

This is my first reading of The Illiad, although I have heard the story of the Trojan War multiple times in different forms, my favorite being The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. It was tume to give the original a go! I had a lot of choice as for as translation goes, both in French and English but I was curious about Wilson's translation. Also I was adamant that I wanted it as an audiobook, to have a closer experience to what it would have been to listen to an epic in Homer's time and Audra McDonald does a pretty good job in my opinion!

I loved all the events that never make the cut in retelling or abridged version of the epic, the details of the conversations, the battles, even the Catalogue of the Ships that I was dreading was interesting and soothing during a long train ride.

And it was nice to finally hear some of the most well known moment of the Greek mythology in one of the most ancient form: the wealth of details and dialogues makes it so much more vivid and intense.

Having studied Ancient Greece a little, especially the perception of otherness in Greek culture was really enlightening to put some context on the events. Even so, after thousands of years, it is just as entertaining and touching. Hector saying goodbye to Andromaque and taking his helmet off so it wouldn't scare Astyanax will never stop being endearing to me.

The characters are still relatable at times, Achilles' anger, his grief. Hector's love for his family and telling off of his brother. The words have travelled times and find us exactly the same today, there is some poetry in this.

A long journey, but a really satisfying one. I have The Odyssey audiobook at the ready, waiting for a podcast or another to go on hiatus so that I have a listening slot available!

Akata Witch (The Nsibidi Script #1) by Nnedi Okorafor

Sunny is albinos and Nigerian, born in America before her family moved back to Nigeria. Her difference always left her a little lost, until she met Chichi, Orlu and Sasha and discovered the Leopard people, where her difference makes her magic even stronger. But the foir friends will have to face a hard apprenticeship and a dangerous enemy: Black Hat Otokoto, a children serial killer.

This one wasn't my pick: I joined a book club back in May and every month each member suggest a book, we deaw one randomly and read it together. I love the concept, it's super fun, it invites people to try books they wouldn't have read otherwise.

It is a middle grade/early young adult novel, very Harry Potter like (very very much like it, some elements are a bit too close to pass as accidents) so I was definitely not the target audience and might have been a bit too old to appreciate it. This is a young girl discovering her magic abilities that had been hidden from her and with her friends she will have to defeat a menacing man that uses dark powers. That's really cliché as far as plot goes and I wasn't very invested because I could see it coming from a mile away.

The characters were archetypes and did not make a lasting impression on me. Among the children there's the clever boy, Orlu, the bitchy girl Chichi, and the American boy Sasha. I found them very two-dimensional, dialogues often felt flat and their actions were really predictable, not to mention how the group dynamic looks earily like Harry Ron and Hermione. The adults are worse: they are fully aware of the threat of Black Hat Otokoto and won't do anything except send four kids do the job for them. I found them very cold, not to say cruel at times. Physical punishment is expected and treated as normal, which I was really uncomfortable with.

However the setting is really interesting: I really enjoyed discovering the Nigerian culture through daily life and adventures of Sunny. It made me want more of this universe and its magic.

So even though this book was not for me and I won't be reading the rest of the series I am really curious about Nnedi Okorafor's work. I browsed a little and the author also have some adult books too, including some Nebula and Hugo award nominees. I'll probably try it at some point.

#book review #bookblr #books #agatha christie #the murder of roger ackroyd #the illiad #homer #nnedi okorafor #akata witch

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wistfulwisp · 10 months ago

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For a bit of context, the song of Achilles is a book that’s been sitting on my shelves for YEARS. Legit, when I picked it up there was a receipt in there from 2021. Oops! To be honest, I think I’ve been intimidated by this book. It’s been renowned as a modern classic by basically everyone that’s read it, and I think the weight of statements like that made me feel like I had to be in the right mindset or the right mood, or the right place in life to read it. I had read Circe a while before this, and thought it was good but I can’t remember enough about it to properly give my thoughts. Let me just say, it’s about time I finally picked this one up

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smokey07 · 3 months ago

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I. AM. SOBBING 😭😭😭

This fic is prefect!!!! Every single detail!!!

I have also happened to read your “Guilt” so I have full context of this hehe.

I love it when he acted like a moody teenager earlier in the fic (uuuuggh old people, I don’t like being around adults 😂), unfortunately along with the power over hundreds men and strength of a warrior. Dear god this combination is lethal.

It’s also staggering that we have some similar thoughts about him talking to the grave of Achilles. I actually have a fic for that on ao3! Though it’s more of snippets of random talks hehe XD In this fic Neoptolemus also asked if his father was happy after he sacrificed Polyxena and angry when the grave was silent XD

I love it when you add Phoenix. Phoenix was such an important figure in his life, he acted all soft and gentle with the teen. And Andromache, she called him monster again and again!! I don’t know if it’s your intention but it reminds me of my own drawing “Achillides”.

The breakdown of Neoptolemus here was just chef kissed. The final scene in the end revealing a small child under all of those armors, killing and blood. Thank you for corporations my weird head canon in here!!! Dio acted like a mama hen to him, wiping his mouth clean and all XD!!

Btw at that point of the war I think it would either Agamemnon or Diomedes who has the chance to physically overpower him.

The song choice is also very fitting too, I forgot that in some albums Skillet will have one song sounds a bit different from the overall tone of the album, often a bit sadder. It’s like you said, as if Neoptolemus himself was speaking. If I may, I’d also add the song “Gone Forever” by Three Days Grace to “describe” the fic, this song is a bit point about getting drunk and being in denial haha.

I am inspired so much by this, please expect me to spawn something out lolol (finger crossed that I could finish it!)

It's you; always has been you! (A Neoptolemous songfic)

A song-fic I came up with on the spot today after talking with @smokey07 and the band Skillet! ^_^ Consider it a veeeeeery late birthday gift! As late as poor Neoptolemous was for the funeral of his father. TW: Violence and alcohol involved

He was staggering softly at his feet as the ground and the sand were too soft to support him. In one way he almost seemed uncomfortable not to be dressed in his armor and the fact that he had probably chugged the sweet wine of victory down faster than he should be didn’t really help his situation. Pyrrhus, or as he was known by everyone now, Neoptolemous totally seemed out of his waters dressed in soft chiton and chlamys instead of his father’s lustrous armor; the one blackened by the holy flame he dedicated to Troy. The celebrations to appease the gods seemed to be going well but in his mind all seemed pointless. The majority of the kings and soldiers had no idea on what had happened behind closed doors and behind conspiracies. Conspiracies were not his thing. He hated them. It was the fire of battle and blood that gave him life; inside Troy he had felt alive like he never felt before. His heart was pounding in his chest; hammering against his bones. It was the thrill of taking a life; feeling one’s blood running upon his spear that gave him life. He was training for it all his life and when he got it, it was like adrenaline had gave him life he never felt before; the smell of metal smelt sweeter than anything he had ever smelt before. It was the mixture between bronze and tin and tar along with the metallic scent of blood that made him feel alive. Perhaps that was the reason he was mostly drinking than talking in the party; parties were just not his thing; dull, meaningless ways of concealing the bloodlust everyone had felt, he was sure. Hypocrites! They pretended they yearned for peace and yet they were ready to eat each other’s flesh upon sharing the spoils! And, by the thunder of Zeus, Neoptolemous despised and loathed every single one of them for it! Every time his mentors or his elder peers were scolding him for making a comment about the war, he felt this contempt inside him to the point he wanted to scream to the heavens.

However there was one thing that Neoptolemous despised them more for; Calchas had said he had spoken to the spirit of his father, when he had demanded the concubine to his bed in the Underworld. Every single one of those old fools, the talkative old men, had got to meet his father, bond with him, talk to him… He, on the other hand had only heard of him from stories of his mother, stories of the others at the army and then his father’s ghost had visited them making one last request…

But he hadn’t spoken to him…

Neoptolemous absolutely despised them all for it. He was angry, furious even! Why! That was all he could think of; why them and not me! Why that couldn’t have been me? There was a primitive fire burning inside him; an insatiable thirst had taken him over and he somehow knew that fighting was not the option so he chose to drink that night, hopefully to erase this burning from his chest. He wasn’t used to strong drinks before and he never felt the need to indulge to it. However that night he just couldn’t take it. All the people he despised around him were talking and talking, speaking on their future plans and how their conflict had divided them; some of them already gone home and others stayed here to offer sacrifice some others didn’t even bother. The talk was giving him headache. These men he despised had met his father, they even talked about him once or twice before (even if they avoided the subject now). It was as if he weren’t even there, as if the throne he was sitting on was not for him but for someone else; wine was giving him a reason to pretend he was listening and hating every second of it. So when he couldn’t take it anymore and the sweet wine was not enough to erase the fire that was scorching him inside, he just stood up, not even bothering to mumble an apology or an excuse and he had moved slowly outside of that ceremonial or whatever the hell that was, dinner and found isolation to the previous battlefield. It was as if the ghosts of the dead were better company than all those who claimed to be alive. His unstable feet brought him to the ceremonial monument they had set for his father; a sema mentioning his name was set to the area of his burial. Although he was aware that the urn would be taken with them, back home. The monument seemed small and petty before him and yet it also seemed tall and dark and unfriendly. It was the first time he saw his father in more than 10 years when he arrived at Troy; barely had any recollection of his face and, by gods, he couldn’t even see his corpse! This monument was what greeted him upon arrival to Troy. He mopped some sweat off his forehead (when had he started sweating? The night wasn’t particularly hot. Maybe it was the wine that set his skin aflame) and looked up.

“Well?” he asked to the cold stone, “What do you think? Are you satisfied?”

There was no response. Of course stones wouldn’t talk back and yet Pyrrhus didn’t seem ready to accept that.

“I did what you ask… I gave you your whore as you asked of me. Are you happy now, father? Are you proud?”

The stone did not respond once more. Neoptolemous felt every inch of his young body trembling with primary rage; the type of rage that you would need an army to slay till it subsided. His turquoise eyes seemed to be sparkling like cold flames in the dark.

“So…you choose to appear to everyone else…except from me? Is this how you wanna play it, dad? Is it?”

The notion suddenly seemed hilarious! The idea behind it was such a tragicomedy that he burst out in a loud laughter. The laughter was cold, uncontrollable and bitter. His stomach hurt, his chest was palpitating for breath and yet Neoptolemous, the son of Achilles couldn’t stop laughing. He nearly fell down from his unstable feet; held up by a mixture of determination and luck.

“So after everything I’ve done for you…after everything I did to please you, to live to your name…THIS is what you give me? You do not even grace me with your presence!? You just entered my life and then gone and you have nothing else to say!?”

He swayed a bit in his place trying to find his balance and then looked at the stone anew. He refused to shed tears. He hadn’t shed any ever since he was a toddler! He wouldn’t start now.

“After everything I’ve done…” he repeated, “I’ll never be good enough will I? You will never be proud of me! I will never live up to your name! Tell me, dammit! Tell me why you showed your face to everyone but me?! WHY ARE YOU SILENT!?”

The last was a cry to the heavens, or maybe towards the Underworld. He no longer knew and in all seriousness he didn’t really care.

“I’ll surpass you!” he finally said, “Do you hear me! I will become greater than you ever dreamt to be! You can’t shadow my life like this! You cannot overshadow me!”

He had no idea what made him spew all that and booze made him unthinkable as to why he would say things he never admitted not even to himself. All his life he worshipped his father; he was raised to be his heir and his rightful descendant; his legacy. Right now, though, after the war and the conquest, after the atrocities he performed to his name and after this night he was feeling empty inside. What was his purpose now? Ever since Odysseus came to pick him up from Skyros he knew he would have to fight and finish his father’s war. What was left of him now? How would he proceed?

“It was never me, wasn’t it…?” he finally whispered, “It’s you…it always has been you!”

He didn’t return to the feast, that much he knew. He couldn’t go through another round of the old men talking and feeling their gazes judging him when he was downing one goblet after the other so he wouldn’t lose control. The bottling emotions were too much to contain. He wouldn’t wish for yet another headache like that. So he took the decision to stagger back to his tent. Perhaps, he thought, get some privacy and maybe some sleep. As he entered the familiar environment of his tent (no…his father’s tent) he came to face the several slaves and servants (his father’s slaves and servants) roaming about. He also saw old Phoenix in. Apparently the old man retired early. As he entered the eyes turned to look at him. Among them there was Andromache; his prize; the only thing that truly belonged to him in that tent! His pale red locks were messed up from wind and his own carelessness; his chiton was stained with some wine (he hadn’t noticed some had dripped there) and his eyes were flaming with unshed tears and rage. His prize eyed him and glared; a queen till the end even if tied with chains of slavery.

“What are you looking at, huh?” he challenged her stumbling in his tent and removing the chlamys from his shoulder

He let it fall on the floor. He didn’t care where it would end up. He slowly staggered to the small table and poured another goblet for himself as if by instinct. He had no idea what he was doing; he just felt the same irritation by sensing the eyes stuck on him; judging him! He took a gulp of wine trying to ignore it (“You shall never be your father”, their eyes felt to be saying).

“Son…” Phoenix began, “What’s this…? What’s the matter?”

Neoptolemous laughed again. It was a mocking, humorless laughter, indeed.

“What’s the problem, old man? Don’t I have your permission to retire to my bed?”

“Are you drunk?” the old man asked worriedly

“Not as drunk as I would want to be, I assure you!” Neoptolemous retorted finishing his drink

Once again he had no idea why he even said that. He didn’t drink away that night in order to get himself inebriated. Why was he admitting things he never intended?

“Control yourself, boy” Phoenix said in his sweet voice, “This is unacceptable behavior!”

“Would you dare to talk to my father like this, old man?” Neoptolemous demanded draining yet another cup, “I think not! I demand from you to act the same with me! I have proven myself to be his equal! Treat me such! And I shall do as I please! You have no right to count the cups of wine I drink. Save me the lecture!”

“Son…please…”

“I am NOT your son, old man!” Neoptolemous snapped at him, “I am Achilleides! Not your son! Stop calling me that!”

“Pyrrhus…please…” old Phoenix tried again

“Don’t you DARE use that name either!” the son of Achilles yelled, pointing his finger at him, “That name was given to me by my mother and father and NEITHER of them is here! I am Neoptolemous now! You shall NOT speak the name that is not here now!”

“My boy, please…please come back to your senses… This war has destroyed you, cursed the names of those who started it! What fate was to strike me, to see my dearest boy end up like this?”

He was met with yet another wave of uncontrollable laughter.

“That boy you THOUGHT you knew is DEAD!” the young man yelled, “You hear me! Dead! Gone! Forget he even existed in your mind! I have done so much in this war! So much for this glory you will never imagine!”

“This can’t be, Pyrrhus! Please!”

Neoptolemous almost pounced at him; like a wounded lion he huffed and puffed, waving his fist over the man’s face; his breath reeking of wine.

“Do you see this…?” he whispered in wild triumph, “Do you know whose blood is this?”

The old man seemed surprised. What? He couldn’t see the blood? He could see it as clear as day. Wasn’t there blood in his right hand; the hand that wielded and used the sacrificial knife? He turned to look at Andromache grinning triumphantly; self-complacently at her.

“It was someone you knew, by the way, madam! The same well as you knew your father-in-law! You see…my father wanted a concubine can you imagine?!”

He laughed mockingly, almost like a madman at the notion. He didn’t care what he was saying. He was too drunk to care.

“That was how far his legendary love for his dear comrade went! He wasn’t in the grave but a little and he already felt cold and needed company! Isn’t it wonderful?!”

He drained his last cup before throwing it to the other end of the room.

“So I provided it for him! Like a good son!”

“Monster…” Andromache whispered, tears almost burning her eyes

“I am sure you heard too…your dear mother-in-law losing her marbles! I heard she plucked a man’s eyes out before! Who is the bigger monster I wonder!”

“Curse you!” Andromache cried out, “You and your filthy kin!”

“Oh yes, you remember me, alright!”

He rushed at her, without even knowing what he was doing; red of wine and anger clouding his mind. He grabbed her chin. She tried to bite his hand but he held her closer, preventing her from doing so.

“You remember me, when I came to your husband’s tomb and took that crying brat away from you, right? You remember that much!”

She tried to pull back. He didn’t let her. He was stronger than her.

“Let me tell you one more little secret to your information…” he leaned to her ear before whispering, “I was the one who killed your little brat!”

Phoenix swore he heard the Erinyes coming down from heavens to deliver justice; this is how the wail Andromache made that made his ears suffer. The queen had her eyes set aflame as she screamed in lament.

“MURDERER! MONSTER! MONSTER!”

“Wail all you want!” Neoptolemous cried out in return, “You shall come with me, when I begin my true destiny! You will give me sons to continue my legacy, isn’t that what my father would do? Is it, old man?”

Phoenix didn’t know how to deal with this; the boy he had held as a toddler upon his knees who was excited to learn life was gone; in his place there was a madman, someone who was lost in anger and drink. He was too stunned to speak anymore; war had taken everything he had left inside him to fight for.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?”

The familiar, strong voice of Odysseus made him thank heavens for the first time that week. The son of Laërtes, barged in the tent, with the son of Tydeus right behind him; obviously they were both alarmed by the cries they heard in the tent; possibly on their way to sleep or to walk about the camp to inspect.

“Have you lost your damned mind?!” Odysseus demanded, “Let her go!”

His strong arm grasped Neoptolemous and pushed him back. The youth was too distracted, too inebriated to resist and he ended up staggering backwards, nearly losing his balance if it weren’t for the table behind him to support himself (throwing down some things that resided on it that fell down with tremendous sound). The son of Achilles breathed heavily in rage upon the interruption.

“Stay out of this, old man!” he growled like a lion at the wolf that came to take a piece of his hunted meal, “This is none of your concern! She is my slave!”

“She is also a Queen!” Odysseus demanded, eyes cold like obsidian glass, “I would suggest you to pull yourself together and remember that!”

“SHE IS MINE!” Neoptolemous screamed on top of his lungs, “THE ONE THING I EARNED MYSELF! YOU HAVE NO SAY IN THIS!”

“Someone cannot handle their wine well!” Odysseus commented strangely calm, “I suggest you to stand by. You had enough to drink for one night! You are a king now! Act accordingly!”

“WHY YOU-!”

Diomedes rushed to grab Neoptolemous from the back, before he jumped upon his friend in his blind fury. The stronger and taller male, despite the fact that young Neoptolemous was obviously weaker in his inebriation, he still had to struggle a bit to hold him, for Neoptolemous was struggling as if to get away from Charon himself.

“Enough!” he said in his deep voice, “Easy!”

“LET ME GO! DAMN YOU!”

“Pull yourself together, boy!” Odysseus demanded again in his infuriating calmness, “You can boast your strength in battle all you want but now you seem like another drunk! Haven’t your tutors told you how strong the centaurs were in battle? And yet in the arms of alcohol, their actions embarrassed both themselves and their hosts! I would advise you not to fall to that path!”

“SCREW YOU OLD MAN!”

“Phoenix” Odysseus ignored him, “What is going on?”

“He…” the elder man gulped, “I am not sure…”

“Did you come to admire your work!?” crying Andromache interrupted, “Curse you, schemer! Come and muzzle your murderous dog now!”

“What did he say to you?” Odysseus demanded, suddenly his eyes becoming even colder; his face pale.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know! Liar! Heartless monster! You allowed him to take me! The man who killed my son!”

“Is that what he told you?”

His eyes scanned the place; the furious young king struggling in the arms of Diomedes who was trying in vain to calm him down, the old man Phoenix pale as a sheet and finally crying, furious Andromache.

“Well the kid is drunk! He doesn’t know what he’s saying! I was the one who killed your son!” the Man of Many Wiles lied, “I had promised to the council I would and I did! I threw him off the walls and I would do it again! As many times as I had to!”

“BASTARD!” Neoptolemous roared, “YOU SHALL NOT TAKE MY GLORY!”

“Stay put, you foolish child!” Odysseus interrupted, “You are drunk and furious. Calm yourself first! This isn’t you!”

He turned to the former Queen looking at her sincerely.

“This child lost his father too early! He tries to impress him in the underworld! It is not what happened! He is just drunk. Tomorrow he will come back to his senses”

And the king of Ithaca was met again with the flaming eyes of the former Trojan Queen.

“I don’t care for your reasoning or his! Murderer! Get out of my sight! Get out! GET OUT!”

“Gladly…” Odysseus mumbled, “Diomedes, are you coming?”

“In a minute…”

Odysseus nodded. Neoptolemous was almost limb in Diomedes’s arms for a little. He knew his presence would only agitate spirits further so he decided to walk away, leaving the tent. He didn’t wish to remain much, close to either Neoptolemous or Andromache. He exited the tent and only then the young king found his fighting spirit anew.

“COME BACK HERE, COWARD! LIAR! YOU SHALL NOT TAKE OVER MY GLORY! MY VICTORY!”

“Stop it, now!” Diomedes growled again before whispering to his ear, “Don’t you see? He just took the blame from you! You don’t want another stain in your name! Trust me, my friend, you don’t! Let him do it!”

As if a dam collapsed, Neoptolemous broke down; it was a scary mixture of laughter and tears; yes, this time Neoptolemous cried for real as he hadn’t cried for years! It was a furious, desperate cry of all the accumulated and bottled up emotions he had gathered up over the years and the last weeks of unstoppable battle; of slaughter. He was crying and struggling against Diomedes’s iron grip. The king of Argos looked at Andromache; she was staring in stupefaction.

“See…?” he whispered, “He is just a child…no older than what you have been when you married, probably… This war…broke many people…”

Words weren’t his strong point, he knew. That was Odysseus’s field and yet he felt this profound grief in his own heart and too many words seemed unneded. Somehow he could see Andromache looking with a mix of surprise, shock and perhaps pity. Neoptolemous doubled over and threw up on the tent’s floor, coughing soundly.

“GET HER OUT OF HERE!” Diomedes ordered Phoenix, “NOW!”

Phoenix didn’t even need to be told as he was already escorting Andromache out of the chamber, leaving the tent empty but the two men. Neoptolemous seemed to be struggling to stabilize his breathing as his system was rejecting the alcohol he was not used to.

“Easy…it’s okay…it’s okay…”

“Don’t you dare pity me!” Neoptolemous cried, “I don’t need your pity! I don’t need anyone!”

“Kid…I know how you feel…trust me!”

“How can you know?! Don’t pretend you know me! Stop acting smart!”

“I understand, kid…” Diomedes insisted, “I know this pain…I lost my father too! I was young, younger than you when I lost him but you and I lived the same long without him… I was forced to fight his war… I lived in war so far. Kid, don’t make the same mistake…”

“What should I do?” Neoptolemous cried again, “What’s left of me to do?”

For the first time his true age was shown; he was a child, younger than what he was and had such a huge name on his shoulders. He was the son of a demigod and he had already fought a bloody war…he had already been corrupted in it.

“You will find your way…you shall make your own legacy. I know you are angry but this is just not the way. Don’t live in his shadow forever!”

Neoptolemous moaned again and threw up some more trying to find his balance. Diomedes supported him upright, helping him wipe his mouth with a cloth.

“I…” Neoptolemous panted, “I…I shall be better than him! I shall surpass him!”

He was repeating the same tune, stubbornly. No, it was impossible for him to let go of the life purpose he had gone by since infantry. He couldn’t let go of the image of Achilles.

“After the war…I shall make my course! Wait and see, father! I will leave behind a legacy much bigger than what you ever imagined!”

He struggled to his feet only to be assisted to sit down a chair by Diomedes.

“The old man Nestor can have the urn!” the son of Achilles added, “Let him bury it to whatever place he wants along with his son or any other! I have no use for it! I shall not melt away like he did! I shall surpass him!”

Diomedes sighed deeply. Yes, he knew the symptoms. The child was in too deep, too profoundly deep to change now. And war had made it worse. Yes, he was no longer Pyrrhus.

He was Neoptolemous, the New Warrior, the New Conqueror

And it was never him…

It was always about his father…

He was not himself…

He was the Son of Achilles…

youtube

So forgive me if this seems messy for it was a random inspiration but then again maybe it is supposed to be messy after all. Neoptolemous is lost; his mind is a mess becaue he realizes that the war was never about him; that he lives under the shadow of his father!

Of course song-fc inspired by the amazing song by Skillet "It's not Me It's you"

I know that my friend said that Skillet is perhaps "too soft for the profound madness and sadness in Neoptolemous" but somehow I thought this is the back of his brain speaking, which comes up with wine.

The mentioned of the blackened armor is a dedication to the amazing comic page @smokey07 created here

So yeah dunno I thought that Neoptolemous with his anger issues he would be an out-of-control angry drunk so I made this! So random drama so forgive me my friend if it is messy! Hope you like it! I also randomly added Diomedes in a few minutes ago thinking on your headcanon that Neoptolemous follows Diomedes around, forming mutual trust between them

Ironically after war both kings have similar paths for different reasons; Diomedes is self-exiled from Argos and is off to Italy to found several cities while Neoptolemous begins the kingdom of Epirus in North Greece.

Also Odysseus, officially declaring he killed Astyanax a little thing my devious brain came up with to show why there is "confusion" between the sources as to who killed Astyanax! Hehehehe I know I am ranodmly evil here! (I am also winking to my fanfiction "Guilt")

Anyways I am eager to hear your opinions guys! ^_^

#tagamemnon #iliad #homer iliad #the iliad #pyrrhus #neoptolemous #diomedes #achilles #odysseus #andromache #phoenix #reblog #fanfic

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alpineglow · 2 years ago

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The Song of Achilles - a Review

Every time I go to speak about this book, I feel like I’m at a loss for words. After some time to digest it I feel like I’m finally ready to write an actual review on it! As with every book, there’s the good, the bad, and the interesting. So, without further ado…

The Good:

A lot is absolutely phenomenal about this book. First off, the writing and voice of the character is absolutely gorgeous. The language strikes such amazing balance between timidness and certainty in Patroclus’ character- which is pretty uncommon to find in a lot of writing, at least in my experience. On top of that, Achilles’ characterisation, of this aloof young boy who eventually evolves into someone brash, and cursed to fall to the weight of his title is something I feel is such an amazing take on the original myth. It humanises him, in a way. To put the good of this book into a short list:

Amazing perspective

Amazing characterisation of both the leads and supporting characters (Odysseus and the like)

The language is colourful and paints amazing imagery

It stays relatively true to the myth

The Bad:

“Bad” might be an over-exaggeration of what I’m about to put forward. Overall, the pacing of the first half of the book is pretty good. It feels like we’re gently sloping towards this slow ascent to Achilles’ moment, with an inevitable downfall to the well-known ending. Plenty of books have us know that the characters will die by the end. I personally love it because it adds a unique set of stakes, for both the characters and the story. But SOA didn’t really hit that for me. It felt like once we reached the moment they landed in Troy, the story became simultaneously too slow and too fast. There was no real direction, even though we all know very well where the story is headed. It was very odd- like there was no wind in the sails of the story. Maybe it’s just me, but that was a major drawback in my mind. Super difficult to tell where we were in the timeline with the hazy time skips. And since the voice of narration - Patroclus - didn’t really change in his demeanour as the story went on, it became even more difficult to decipher the ages and timeline of the war.

The Interesting:

Interesting in the usual sense is meant to be positive. This isn’t really meant to be- it’s like a neutral ground of stuff I go “wtf” at. It could be good! Could also be super bad. In this case, SOA leans slightly towards the bad end of the spectrum. For starters, the, uhhh, steamy scenes near the beginning of the novel are a bit… odd? I understand this is a way to show love, but with such eloquently worded introductions I would’ve thought that it could be communicated better. Not by showing two young men, early in their teens, going through that. Just sorta gave me the ick because I was there for the overall tragedy and not vague wattpad+ smut. On top of that, Achilles was placed on a really high pedestal that was quite unlike the OG myth. While it makes sense 90% of the time, since in context he was the best of the Greeks. But it was as if modern values were being transposed onto the original myth, with the concept that Achilles is morally incorruptible. Really, he was much like the other men in his encampment, if only a little bit clearer in the head. Just felt like a bit of a disconnect for me.

Overall, Song of Achilles is an amazing read, despite a few minor drawbacks. Ignoring them, it’s obvious why it’s so revered. Loved it, got me back into reading more than I used to.

#song of achilles #book review #review #classic lit aesthetic #ancient greek #dark academia #dark academia books #lgbt books #literature #classic literature #poetry #madeline miller #Achilles #Patroclus

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itsfeckinwimdy · 3 years ago

Text

NTMY Chapter Two - The Bored.

Eventual cc!Quackity x fem!reader (romantic) (soulmate au)

Reader Pronouns: She/Her

Summary: Y/n is bored. There are cats and Minecraft.

Word Count: 1.4k (1404) words.

Tags: series: nice to meet ya; multi series: just found my soulmate feeling good; type: soulmate au.

Will include references to the other characters in this series (Ellis, Evie, Kaci, Jay, Kora, Sam, and Achilles.)

Soulmate attribute: When you and your soulmate look into a mirror at the same time, you can see each other rather than your own reflection.

NTMY Series Masterlist / Soulmate Multi-Series Masterlist / Soulmate Extra’s Masterlist / DSMP Masterlist

Published: 04/11/2021

(I promise that Quackity will appear next chapter, don't worry.)

"Are you worried about having Netflix back in the garage?"

"Not really... It's kind of a rumour, well more like a saying, that when Netflix is around things go wrong. Like bad luck almost. It doesn't bother me really, except the fact I have to focus on what I say and do when I have a camera on me. People tend to take things out of context a lot when it comes to me so I just have to be careful, you know.

"Make sure I don't say anything 'suspicious'."

The interviewer nodded her head in response before asking the next question, prompting Y/n to continue talking.

"Having Lewis Hamilton as your teammate, most people would think is a nightmare. But to me, it's quite fun. The two of us are both world champions, um, Lewis obviously having won more than I have, but I don't think either of us outranks the other really.

"Obviously, he was on a winning streak and was doing exceptionally well when I joined Mercedes and still is, to be honest. But because the two of us are so competitive, both of us are always striving to get first place in each race. And when you don't, it can make you feel like you've sort of lost. Because you're always aiming to be better than your teammate because you want to win, right?

"I don't have anything against Lewis, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't have anything against me, but the two of us are the contenders for the podium this year. So I do expect to be butting heads with him."

"Is that going to become a problem later in the year?"

"I mean, it didn't last year or the year before, so I don't see why it would. We just kind of accept that one of us is going to win and the other one won't. But until then it's fair game."

May 2020

Recording music was something Y/n thought she would never get the chance to do so. It was something on her bucket list of things to do, to which thinking about it, she needs to add more as most of the items on there are already completed.

So now that she could finally check that off her list, now came the release date. See it wasn't just up to her when the songs would be released; it ended up being a group project between herself, Ellis, and Evie, the youngest one having the most musical skills out of the three of them.

Her cousin, Kaci was also part of the project, herself recording some vocals and helping the trio with the lyrics and production as well.

The only thing Y/n was worried about was any of the criticism she or the others might face. It was one thing, being a formula one driver, it was another dragging your friends/family into the drama; to a world where critics were breathing down your neck; to a world where one wrong move could end everything.

And maybe she didn't want that for everyone.

Or maybe Evie was just going to take forever to edit the music videos because she wants to animate them and therefore take ages to get them finished. After all, she was also busy doing other things.

It was probably just that and Y/n's brain causing her thoughts to spiral.

Yeah, it was that.

Y/n listened to the demo again for the eighth time, trying to figure out what was missing from it. Ellis was sat with her, them taping their fingers along to the beat as they were reading messages from their phone.

‘At least George isn’t here for once,’ Y/n thought before scolding her brain for thinking that, ‘At least he’s not snogging Ellis.’ Now that she could agree with.

Just as she thought that Ellis’ phone began to ring, them answering the call with a dumb lovestruck smile on their face.

‘Fucking George,’ Y/n thought shaking her head, as she gave a pointed look to Ellis, shooing them out of the room, turning her chair to watch them retreat.

Swivelling around to face her computer, she closed the application that was playing their music on repeat as Lance, Evie’s cat, let out a meow and attempted to swat at her before he stopped at the look Y/n gave him. She stared down at him, daring the fucker to try and swat at her. Lance knew that a spray bottle was coming his way if he dared try that again.

Seeing Lance decide to be docile, she picked her hand up to pet him, running her hand through his fur. He let out a loud meow in appreciation before he started to purr. His fur was black, as dark as coal as some might say, but to Y/n, it reminded her more of the night sky, when the sun would finally set and you would look up only to see a whole load of emptiness.

Maybe that ended up sounding a bit too sad, a bit too dreary. But that feeling you get when you look up into the dark abyss and just remember that you're a blip in all of existence but you managed to exist, to survive this far through this hell hole called life.

Y/n blinked a few times as Lance meowed at her, her coming out of her head and back into reality.

Maybe May was the time to be having existential crisis’, maybe it wasn’t. But we’ll never know because we're moving on because all things had to keep moving forwards, unfortunately.

June 2020

Y/n was bored. Completely and utterly bored. If there was a scale on how bored you could be then Y/n wouldn't even be on it. She felt like she had nothing to do, even though there was plenty of things she could've been doing.

It was like when you were hungry and there were all these options of anything and everything to eat but nothing seems appealing.

To be honest, that also applied to her sexuality. Or that was the way she described it to others. When you have all the options of every single food in the world but nothing seems appetizing but you're hungry. Now replace hunger with libido and the 'nothing seems appetizing' with sexual attraction. Yes, she was asexual.

That came as a surprise to people apparently. I mean, the number of sex jokes she makes and how 'dirty minded' she was she could understand where they were coming from. heh, coming.

Y/n shook her head in disappointment at her own thoughts, feeling betrayed by them.

She sighed out loud before a knock sounded against her door, her spinning around in her swivel chair to face the person who decided to bother her.

"Yeah?" Y/n asked causing the person behind the door to open it. It was Ellis, them leaning around the edge of the door rather than stepping into her room.

"You wanna play Minecraft with us?" Ellis began, seeing that they had piqued Y/n's interest, "It's just vanilla survival on the Dream Team server, but you don't have to join if you don't want to."

Y/n thought about it for a second before nodding her head in response, "Sure, I wasn't doing anything anyway. Not like we can continue with the album at the moment."

Ellis nodded their head in understanding, they were also kinda bummed out that their project had to be put on hold until the future. It was due to covid and everyone working from home causing only the essential business to be open. Understandably, of course.

"Okay, I'll send you the IP and add you to the discord," Ellis disappeared back out of the room forgetting to close the door before they appeared back where they were stood, pointing a finger at their sister, "Join!"

Ellis retreated back to their room, but not before shutting the door. During that conversation, Ellis' cat, Cooking Fat, or Stitch for short, had snuck into the room and jumped up onto the windowsill, lying in the sunlight.

Compared to Lance, Evie's cat, Stitch was more docile but would always climb to places he shouldn't. Especially on bookshelves and any high places he could theoretically reach. She shook her head at the cat's antics, seeing him attacking one of her window plants but deciding to leave him to as if she went over there and stopped him, he would only continue once she sat down again.

Turning around in her seat, Y/n faced her pc before opening the Minecraft launcher and discord. Seeing she had been added to a new server, she found the message with the version and IP address.

As she clicked the join button and the screen loaded in, she thought it was just going to be another server she would join, not something bigger.

So that was June, the month where nothing really happened because there was nothing to do. Or maybe this was just a filler chapter because things were to come, or maybe the author had nothing really planned for this chapter because Quackity doesn't show up until the next one, but because of how they wrote it this chapter had to exist.

So that was June. The month of boredom.

⇥ Taglist

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧ — There's nothing here yet!

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