#Polyxena

[theodysseyofhomer]

that one scene in hecuba

[ala-chrisgoods]

Imagine you have a lot of young siblings and Now there are thunder and lightning so they can't sleep, jump into your bed and scream 'Hector Hector'

some sketch in February, I love Trojan family.☺️❤️

[hlblng]

"Never again, never again shall I look on the light of the sun" - Euripides' Hekabe (transl. Anne Carson)

When the Greeks sail to Troy to retrieve Helen, wife of Menelaos, and lay waste to the city of Troy, the greek army is prevented from sailing on in Aulis. Artemis has been angered and demands a blood sacrifice in exchange for the winds that will carry the ships to the shores of Ilium.

So Agamemnon, chief commander of the army of Hellas, sacrifices his daughter Iphigenia at the altar of the goddess. Her death in exchange for eternal glory.

After the sacking of Troy, the remnants of the victorious greek army make ready to sail for home. But Achilles' vengeful ghost halts the winds, demanding proper sacrifice at his grave. Achilles demands blood in exchange for the winds that will carry the ships to the shores of Hellas.

So Odysseus and Agamemnon choose Polyxena, the youngest daughter of Priam and Hekabe, a princess of Troy. Her death in exchange for a homecoming worthy of the victors of Troy.

Though these two events are 10 years apart in the context of the story of the Trojan war, these two girls have always been connected with each other in my head. I imagine them at a similar age, looking similar even. I imagine Agamemnon thinking of Iphigenia as he watches Polyxena bleed out in front of him. Two sides of the same coin.

[katerinaaqu]

I love it how everyone is so hyping over how sweet and romantic Achilles is or even his anger issues and rage but...can we all like talk more on how obsessed that kid was with human sacrifice?

I mean...he sacrifices 12 Trojans to the funeral pyre of Patroclus (and two of his dogs) and then demands Polyxena as his human sacrifice...

I feel no one remembers these 12 Trojans! Poor guys!

Patroclus from the afterlife be like: Dude...no!

[incorrecthomer]

Cassandra: if you put 'violently' in front of anything to describe your action, it becomes funnier Helenus: violently studies Deiphobus: violently procrastinates Polyxena: violently bakes Paris: violently kidnap queenn of Sparta Hector: violently worries about that last sentence

[dilfaeneas]

Hecuba children height and age chart at the start of the war

How things stand at the start vs the end of the 10th year. Oof. (Ages/heights not adjusted)

[littlesparklight]

Got the (foolish lol) idea to go through some of the works I know give physical descriptions of at least some Trojan war characters and collate them. They aren't in alphabetic order, sorry, but the works/authors are colour coded, at least!

Trojans in this post!

Priam The Iliad: "beautiful as a god" = theoeides Dares: a handsome face and a pleasant voice. He was large and swarthy. Malalas, Chronographia: tall for the age, big, good, ruddy-colored, light-eyed, long-nosed, eyebrows meeting, keen-eyed, gray, restrained. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: meeting eyebrows and large nose, a fiercely glaring, flame-coloured skin and an admirable face, well-equipped, with thick hair and beautiful eyes.

Hecuba Dares: beautiful, her figure large, her complexion dark. She thought like a man and was pious and just. Malalas, Chronographia: dark, good eyes, full grown, good nose, beautiful, generous, talkative, calm. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: dark skin, tall and pretty, of a mature age, ambitious, gentle though.

Hektor Dares: Hector spoke with a slight lisp. His complexion was fair, his hair curly. His eyes would blink attractively. His movements were swift. His face, with its beard, was noble. He was handsome, fierce, and high-spirited, merciful to the citizens, and deserving of love. Philostratus, Heroicus: [Hektor and Aeneas] were both of the same age and height, and although Aeneas's appearance seemed less radiant[…], He was smaller than the son of Telamon, but not at all inferior in fighting, […] Short hair. His ears were damaged, not by wrestling […] but he fought against bulls and considered engagement with such beasts warlike. […] He died probably at the age of thirty. Malalas, Chronographia: dark-skinned, tall, very stoutly built, strong, good nose, wooly-haired, good beard, squinting, speech defect, noble, fearsome warrior, deep-voiced.

Andromache Dares: bright-eyed and fair, with a tall and beautiful body. She was modest, wise, chaste, and charming. Malalas, Chronographia: above average height, thin, well turned out, good nose, good breasts, good eyes, good brows, wooly hair, blondish hair long in back, large-featured, good neck, dimples on her cheeks, charming, quick. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: spirited, of middle age, with a long face, delightful; she had dimples on her cheeks when laughed.

Paris/Alexander The Iliad: "beautiful as a god" = theoeides, (beautiful hair - not direct quote, merely taken by how his hair is talked about) Dares: fair, tall, and brave. His eyes were very beautiful, his hair soft and blond, his mouth charming, and his voice pleasant. He was swift, and eager to take command. Philostratus, Heroicus: appearance was most pleasing, and his voice and character were charming[…] He had a rather aquiline nose and white skin, his eyes were painted, and his left eyebrow rose above the eye. […] at eighteen he also sailed to Hellas, […] not yet thirty years old when he died. (calls him as good as Pandaros as an archer. He also gets compared to a peacock lol (for the beauty AND the (supposed) vanity of the bird) Malalas, Chronographia: well-grown, sturdy, white, good nose, good eyes, black pupils, black hair, incipient beard, long-faced, heavy eyebrows, big mouth, charming, eloquent, agile, an accurate archer, cowardly, hedonist. [He is in his early thirties when he goes to Sparta, due to being confined until that age, when he's brought back to Troy] Tzetzes, Antehomerica: had his beauty from the Graces. He was white, of a proper age [he is in his early thirties when he goes to Sparta, due to being confined until that age, when he's brought back to Troy], charming and well-bearded; he had his hair long and blond.

Deiphobos Dares: Deiphobus […] looked like [his] father, but [his] character(s) were not alike. Deiphobus was the man of forceful action[…] Malalas, Chronographia: above average stature, keen-eyed, somewhat snub-nosed, dark-skinned, flat-faced, brave, good beard. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: with a large face, with a small nose and dark skin, beautiful face and well-bearded.

Helenos Dares: Helenus […] looked like [his] father, but [his] character(s) were not alike. […] Helenus was the gentle, learned prophet. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, well set up, white, strong, blond, wine-colored eyes, long-nosed, incipient beard, slightly stooped, sensible, warrior. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: well-adapted, tall, with the beard just sprouting, white, blond, with a big nose and a pale face. He had a soft back, he could escape notice of many.

Troilos Dares: a large and handsome boy, was strong for his age, brave, and eager for glory. Malalas, Chronographia: big, good nose, dark, good eyes, black hair, thick beard, strong warrior and runner. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: big, of quick feet and dark skin, with a delightful face, shaggy-bearded and with long hair.

Kassandra The Iliad: like to golden Aphrodite Dares: moderate stature, round-mouthed, and auburn-haired. Her eyes flashed. She knew the future. Malalas, Chronographia: shortish, round-faced, white, mannish figure, good nose, good eyes, dark pupils, blondish, curly, good neck, bulky breasts, small feet, calm, noble, priestly, an accurate prophet foreseeing everything, practicing hard, virgin. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: a small bodily frame, like of a man, whiter than the milk with perfectly round eyes, she had huge breasts, a small face and she was gentle.

Polyxena Dares: fair, tall, and beautiful. Her neck was slender, her eyes lovely her hair blond and long, her body well-proportioned, her fingers tapering, her legs straight, and her feet the best. Surpassing all the others in beauty, she remained a completely ingenuous and kind-hearted woman. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, pure, very white, large-eyed, black-haired, with her hair worn long behind, a good nose and cheeks, blooming-lipped, small-footed, virgin, charming, very beautiful, 18 years old when they killed her. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: a beautiful aspect and a really long neck; she was tall and white; She had small feet, beautiful breasts and lips like flowers, so outstanding. She was eighteen years old, the age of the youth.

Laodike The Iliad: the most outstanding in beauty of [Hecuba's/Priam's] daughters.

Aeneas Dares: auburn-haired, stocky, eloquent, courteous, prudent, pious, and charming. His eyes were black and twinkling. Philostratus, Heroicus: [Hektor and Aeneas] were both of the same age and height, and although Aeneas's appearance seemed less radiant, he resembled Hektor more when that man had settled down, and he wore his hair long without offense. He did not adorn his hair, nor was he enslaved to it. Instead, he made virtue alone his adornment, and he looked at things so vehemently that even his glance itself was sufficient against the unruly. Malalas, Chronographia: shortish, thick, good chest, strong, ruddy, flat-faced, good nose, pale, balding, good beard. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: short but fat and had a big chest. He had white skin; he was bold with a large face.

Antenor Dares: tall, graceful, swift, crafty, and cautious. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, thin, white, blond, small-eyed, hook-nosed, crafty, cowardly, secure, a story-teller, eloquent. Tzetzes, Posthomerica: tall, slim and had the skin like the milk, white, with a curved nose and blond hair.

Euphorbos The Iliad: His hair gets compared to the Graces' hair. Philostratus, Heroicus: His hair […] he dyed golden-yellow […] He says that his beauty charmed even the Achaeans, for he resembled a statue whenever Apollo appears his own most lovely self with unshorn hair and grace. Protesilaos thinks that Euphorbus was his own age [adolescent]

Briseis/Hippodamia The Iliad: like to golden Aphrodite, a woman like the immortal goddesses Dares: beautiful. She was small and blond, with soft yellow hair. Her eyebrows were joined above her lovely eyes. Her body was well-proportioned. She was charming, friendly, modest, ingenuous, and pious. Malalas, Chronographia: tall, fair, beautiful-breasted, well-dressed, with close-knit eyebrows, a good nose, big eyes, eyelashes with kohl, curly hair worn long in back, with a ready smile, age 21. Tzetzes, Antehomerica: tall and white, her hair was black and curly; she had beautiful breasts and cheeks and nose; she was, also, well-behaved; her smile was bright, her eyebrows big; […] she was twenty-one years old.

Diomede of Lesbos Malalas, Chronographia: fair-skinned, round-faced, blue-eyed, fully grown, not quite blonde, a little snub-nosed, 22 years old, a virgin.

Chryseis/Astynome Malalas, Chronographia: rather short, slender fair, blonde, with a nice nose, small breasts, 19 years old. Tzetzes, Antehomerica: very young and thin, with milky skin. She had blond hair and small breasts; she was nineteen years old; she was still a virgin.

[lotussgrl]

Pio Fedi (1885-1865)

[smokey07]

Some Iliad character designs of the old Greek Myth children comic book series published a long time ago in my home country, which had low key inspired my art years later.

I used to own the whole series, now I don’t even know where some of the volumes are.

P.S the whole series is a combination of many famous myths and is arranged in a somewhat chronological order, so from the formation of the world towards the rise of the 12 Olympians and in the end the Age of Heroes and Aeneid.

Hector with his magnificent mustache

Aeneas

Andromache, she is so pretty

Paris and Polyxena

Big Ajax ( ft Achilles and Odysseus chilling in the background)

Helen my girl

Clytemnestra. She’s magnificent.

Menelaus(left) and Agamemnon(right). Looking back, the little crown on Agamemnon’s head is killing me fr. This is also why long hair Menelaus is supreme.

Diomedes, he has very generic design compared to the others, which ironically fits his fate of being underrated.

Odysseus. I swear the artist is a Ody fanboy, he was given the silkiest and floatiest hair, though the red color made him look like Achilles’ cooler cousin, even more than Ajax.

The inspo for this long post, Achilles himself. It seems they followed the “Pyrrha” route, so he is a redhead here. Funny that he was drawn to be quite huge and bulky, in some scene even more than Ajax.

Neoptolemus. He had red-brown hair instead and had very minor appearance in the whole series, so they just drawn him like a smaller and younger Achilles

[sarafangirlart]

“Agamemnon didn’t want to kill Polyxena!” He still enslaved and separated her family, sacked her city and raped her sister.

[girlfromenglishclass]

"Iphigeneia and Antigone are sensationally significant victims: Iphigeneia's sacrifice is the lynchpin of all that happens to Agamemnon afterwards; Antigone's death is the transcendent culmination of Sophokles' play. The deaths change the stories in which they are set, transform the lives around them and force moral reasoning to an extreme confrontation with itself.

Polyxena's death is different. It is not placed at the beginning or the end of the play but muffled in the middle; does not constitute either cause or culmination of the action; it does not change the plot or other people in any substantial way, and it forces us to no moral conclusion at all except that such a sacrifice is irrelevant to the world in which it is staged.

Polyxena is a shooting star that wipes itself across the play and disappears. And Euripides wants us to notice this -- this irrelevance of Polyxena.

- Anne Carson, in the preface to "Hekabe," from Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

[theodysseyofhomer]

it's interesting how often odysseus' role is to get his hands dirty by shepherding along the next plot point. i'm thinking about iphigenia and polyxena, because i'm obsessed with polyxena right now, but it's like agamemnon and achilles are in opposite positions re: the parallel sacrifices and odysseus is just. getting the girls from point a to point b by whatever means necessary. what's most expedient to keep the plot moving? that's what he'll do

[adriles]

tragically, i'm afraid i'll be passing away due to the whims of Fate within a month. in lieu of returning my remains to my native pythia, kindly just put me in the fucking dirt and offer my spirit a violent sacrifice.

[dagondelrio]

Second poll for my book. I want to get a couple of points of views of multiple women on each side of the conflict.

[katerinaaqu]

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…

**

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! ^_^

[incorrecthomer]

Polyxena: The floor is lava! Helenus: *helps Cassandra onto the counter* Hector: *kicks Paris off the sofa* Helen: *lays on the floor* Polyxena: ...Are you okay? Helen: No.