#and he’s so wrought with grief that his prowess in war means nothing

[a-waterphoenix]

NO NO NO NO BUT HE LITERALLY DOES AND I’M NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT THETIS TAKING HIM TO SKYROS

In the Iliad, it doesn’t seem like many people actually KNOW Achilles has a choice between fighting and dying a hero or living his days out in obscurity and peace. When Agaemennon sends an envoy to get Achilles back, they not only promise to return Briseis back, NOT ONLY to give him all the riches they’ve been plundering (which includes women cause misogyny), but they ALSO promise to give him rewards AFTER the war:

- “All these things will he give you now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship with gold and bronze to your liking. You can take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his son-in-law, and he will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance. Agamemnon has three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give you seven well-established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos. ”

You don’t promise rewards to someone if that person won’t live to see them, and I doubt that they’re trying to gaslight Achilles into forgetting his imminent death if he returns to being a glorious fighter. In this conversation, Achilles is the only one that knows that this war is, at least materially, worthless. When he’s dead, he will not wear the armour of the countless men he’s slain. When he’s dead, he will not have the countless women from the cities he’s sacked. The only good this war is to him is in terms of gaining glory, and by god has he got that. Prior to Briseis being forcibly taken from him, he is a model warrior. For his skill at battle and his commitment to fighting in the face of impending doom, he is revered by everyone. Greece loves him. Troy fears him. Christ, even the Olympians - not just Gods, Olympians - endorse him. When Agaemennon takes Briseis, it’s the first time he and his reputation are openly insulted. His initial reaction might not be interpreted as too much of an overreaction, especially because a) Agaemennon literally displeased a god and had to pay and b) NO OTHER WARRIOR ever got their women shimmied off to serve someone unless they got defeated and killed, but his reaction to full out refuse Agaemennon’s apology definitely seems to be, especially when Agaemennon is literally bending over backwards to get him back. He elaborates why, in the classic Homer style of “the characters speak their feelings”, which gives some more explanation to why he’s being so stubborn.

“Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans? What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them? Was it not for the sake of Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives? Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart, though she was but a fruitling of my spear. Agamemnon has taken her from me; he has played me false; I know him; let him tempt me no further, for he shall not move me.”

He isn’t just mad that Briseis has been taken, or that Agaemennon was such a jerk, or even the slight itself. He is mad, because he has served Agaemennon in a certainly fatal war that he -unlike the men who swore an oath to fight - doesn’t need to be in all for the sake of being a respected hero. He is mad because his father, his country, his SON have been lost to him for eleven years and he will never return to them. He is mad because he willingly chose to die for glory, and during his fight with Agaemennon, his glory did not protect the ones he loved. He isn’t just nursing wounds to his ego - he is questioning his underlying goal to gain a place in history now that he sees how little it actually means for him, and he has come up with an answer:

“If great Neptune vouchsafes me a fair passage, in three days I shall be in Phthia. I have much there that I left behind me when I came here to my sorrow, and I shall bring back still further store of gold, of red copper, of fair women, and of iron, my share of the spoils that we have taken; but one prize, he who gave has insolently taken away”

In the Song Of Achilles, Achilles is still consumed by his (and his mom’s) desire to be revered and celebrated like a god, but in the original Iliad? He wants to go home. Right now, he is cutting his losses to save his life and his own chance at joy because being a hero didn’t help him. And he would have gone home, would have ruled his father’s kingdom, would have married, would have had children, and would have died a peaceful death in bed, if Patroclus hadn’t died.

Patroclus, who he has known from his very boyhood. Patroclus, who has followed Achilles wherever fate takes him. Patroclus, who ran to him weeping like he had never seem when the Greeks where under siege. Patroclus, whose safety he thought was guaranteed by his prayers to the gods who’d always answered him. Patroclus, who should’ve been protected by his armour and his sacrifices. Patroclus, whose corpse came back stripped after a god helped Hector kill him.

When Briseis was taken from him, Achilles realized he was fighting for nothing. When Patroclus was taken from him, Achilles had nothing left to lose.

See if I was Achilles I would have simply chosen to grow old and eat bread with my gay lover instead of going off to war where it was foretold i would die. But that’s just me

[jaskier-cult]

Witcher / Eragon

A Jaskier-centric Eragon AU with Jaskier as the first dragon rider in centuries. Witcher still exist, and Geralt is just trying to get this stupid bard he met (and who someone hatched a dragon egg on fucking accident) to Kaer Morhen before King Stregobor finds out that there’s another Rider to challenge his reign. 

I got this idea from this fanart, by the lovely @polarisss

In this au, dragons are not equal in mental prowess to a human; they’re sentient and respond well to their riders, and can communicate their emotions through mental links, but they cannot speak or act like humans. They’re kind of like really intelligent dogs or horses. And they’re magical. 

So, I was violently hit with the idea of this crossover / au, and I had to write the bare bones of it or I swear I would die. Enjoy or don’t, lol 

Dragons were sentient and far more intelligent than most, but not of equal intellect with elves, and so when the elves arrived on the Continent, they viewed them as mere animals. One elf made the mistake of hunting and killing a dragon for sport and presented it to their monarch as a trophy. This angered the dragons, when they found one of their pack dead and their hide being toted around by the two-legged foreigners in their land. The elf was hunted down by the pack of the dragon killed, but more elves continued to hunt down smaller dragons, to prove their strength and power. Surviving a dragon’s revenge became noteworthy and a great tale to tell around the dinner table.

Over time, though, the dragons started to encroach on the territory the elves had claimed, the further they went for revenge. Then one day, a whole band of elves killed the alpha of a dragon pack, unaware of just who they killed, and the whole pack of dragons attacked without mercy. 

Unable to communicate with the dragons or draw a peace treaty, because the dragons could not utilize language or complex thinking the same way as them, the elves were forced to defend themselves.

This started a bloody war, called The Dragon War, between the elves and the dragons. The elves were smart and fast and could utilize magic, but the dragons were big and strong and merciless, and unknown to the elves, could also wield powerful ancient magic, drawn straight from the land. Dragons lived in packs, but they could communicate among each other, and most dragons became aggressive.

It wasn’t until one day, when an elf called Buttercup came across a lone dragon egg. It had been abandoned in a ruined nest, most likely a victim of a battle between dragons and the elves that had attacked the nest (for elves had taken to trying to wipe out the dragon species at this point).

The elf, in awe with the bright white egg, couldn’t bring himself to kill the dragon inside.

He brought it back to his village in secret, and he nursed the egg for months on end, hoping that the cracked little egg could still hatch despite the trauma it had received in the battle.

To his delight, the egg broke on a full moon, and out popped a baby dragon.

Buttercup named it Vaeta, the word for “hope” in the Ancient Language.

The dragon was small – barely the size of a house cat – and was weak and vulnerable. It bore no scales, couldn’t breathe the elements like the adults of its kind, and had tiny razor baby teeth. Buttercup had no idea how fast dragons grew, and he quickly found out just that – they grew like weeds. Within a week the baby dragon was the size of a sheep dog and was beginning to form beautiful scales. Its appetite was ravenous, and it learned to hunt easily. Buttercup learned that Vaeta was a girl.

Despite its instincts obviously forming, the baby dragon stuck close to Buttercup, and would whine like a dog when left for copious amounts of time.

Vaeta also protected Buttercup from things she deemed as “threats” and would curl up in bed with her elf at night. Buttercup kept her well hidden, until his small village was attacked by other dragons, and Vaeta, far smaller than the other dragons attacking, reared up in the air for the first time and scared off the foreign dragons that were hurting her elf.

The rest of the village was wary of trusting Vaeta, and Buttercup bore the brunt of the blame; should she do anything to harm elves, it was his head on a pike, draped with her hide.

Nonetheless, Buttercup soon found a new purpose in life – to stop the Dragon War.

He figured if they could raise elves and dragons together, they could stop the aggression. The more the wild dragons saw the elves making nice with their dragon kind, the less they would attack. After all, dragon packs didn’t attack other dragon packs.

So, slowly, using Vaeta as a go-between, Buttercup was able to tame smaller dragons.

Vaeta soon fell pregnant and laid a clutch of nine eggs within ten months. The elves had no way of knowing if this was a normal pregnancy for dragons, or if the clutch was healthy or large.

The eggs all hatched, in varying shades of silver and black. Out of nine four were female, called Jasny, Niebo, Pływ, and Magia; five were male, called Srebro, Drzazga, Noc, Palić, and Stal. The elves were quick to try and tame them, only to find out the hard way that they weren’t like dogs and cats. They were even more intelligent than their horses, too. Buttercup ended up helping his dragon, Vaeta, raise her hatchlings with other nursing elves, and then Buttercup set off across the Continent with his dragon to try to stop wild dragons from attacking.

For years, Buttercup studied dragons and took notes and realized the hierarchy they held, their social groups, their intelligence – he was astounded. But then he made the discovery of a lifetime; the dragons, though they lived in individual packs, much like wolves, had a reigning monarch above all. They had a queen. And if he could appease the queen dragon, making the other dragons friendly would be child’s play from there.

Eventually, it came to Vaeta challenging the dragon queen for Buttercup.

Unfortunately, she died a bloody death.

The queen of dragons, impressed with the ferocity of the foreign dragon who clung to an elf like he was her mate, spared Buttercup’s life. She admired the loyalty of the dragon, though unguided it was to a two-legged hunter who hurt their kind. The queen also mourned, for she never wanted to kill one of her own kind for an elf. In grief, also watching a grieving and crying elf, she drew upon the land’s magic and nosed Buttercup with her giant scaled snout. The resulting magic was huge.

It was bonding magic. A treaty to be recognized by all parties; no more blood was to be shed between the scaled and the soft, or shall they suffer tenfold the torture they inflicted. This magic treaty also entailed the queen dragon stepping down, so no dragons’ packs would dare.

The elves took this magic and added structure to it, binding all the new dragon eggs to a counterpart.

This was how the Dragon Riders (Shur’tugal in the Ancient Language, or Argetlam meaning “silver hand”) were created.

The Dragon Riders were a coalition of elves and dragons formed at the end of the Dragon War to forge peace and order between the two races. The Riders were created because treaties between the two races would prove useless to stop fighting; a signed piece of paper meant nothing to a dragon. So, an irrevocable bond was wrought by the elves and the dragons: the elves provided the structure of the spell and the dragons provided the strength, thus creating the Dragon Riders.

When a fleet of humans sailed across the sea thousands of year later, they too were added to the elite order of the Dragon Riders. The role of the Riders became more than uniting the elves and dragons; they became keepers of the peace and fighters of monsters throughout the Continent (previously called Alagaësia by the dwarves who lived there first) and were respected and honoured by the people they served.

Unfortunately, Stregobor happened.

Born in the ancient province Inzilbêth, and one of several siblings (Aleksander, Szymon, Edyth, Casimir, Ozella, Sylwia, [Stregobor], Valerie), Stregobor was accepted into the ranks of the Dragon Riders at the young age of ten, after being traditionally tested for great potential. He quickly excelled in all areas of combat and spellcasting, which filled him with pride, arrogance, and vanity.

Although some of his fellow Riders were wary of his swift rise to power, the majority of the order neglected caution, ultimately leading to their downfall.

Stregobor was chosen by a dragon and became a Rider in his early years.

His dragon Smokwia (derived from Polish “smok” for dragon and “kwiat” for flower), was killed by urgals some years later in a careless accident, when she was not yet full grown.

Stregobor was mad with grief and hatred, and he asked the Dragon Rider council to grant him another dragon. But that wasn’t how it worked – the dragon chose the Rider, only hatched for the person destined for them – and forcing that had consequences. The council refused, sensing his mental instability, cut him from the Dragon Rider ranks, and sent him away.

With his request denied, Stregobor took it upon himself to steal another dragon egg.

He convinced another Dragon Rider named Morzan to leave the gates open to the place where the eggs were stored. Stregobor stole a dragon egg. Then, he forced this dragon, whom he named Zwieraln (derived from Polish “zwierzę” for animal and “idealny” for perfect), to hatched and serve him by dark magic.

He formed the Forsworn, a group of thirteen dragon riders and their dragons loyal to only him, and he killed all the other dragons and riders in existence through ambush, propaganda against Riders, and years of spies and long-fought battles. He made sure to smash all the eggs he could find, so that no one else could ever rise above him in power – or so he thought (for there were those who risked neck and tail to save and hide the last few dragon eggs).

Stregobor proceeded to create a kingdom of his own that most of all the Continent’s people called The Empire of Nilfgaard, through which he ruled most of the Continent (with few exceptions of other strong kingdoms, like Cintra).

With the Dragon Riders wiped out, there was suddenly an influx in monsters that no mortal man could battle, and so people set out for a new form of protection against magic and monsters (because obviously Stregobor wasn’t doing that). That’s how witchers came into creation, when those with too much power and those too desperate came together to create the Order of Witchers and Trial of Grasses, to form perfect monster-fighting machines, and whom would not wield as much power as a Rider so that the humans wouldn’t have to fear being oppressed (for many still believed Stregobor’s propaganda against Riders; they thought the Forsworn were the only “untainted” Riders).

Geralt, at a young age, was abandoned in Carvahall to be raised as a nobody and farmhand by his mother Visena, who was a druid and magician in affiliation with Stregobor in the Nilfgaard Empire. He was eventually adopted by Vesemir when the old witcher realized who he was, and the ties he had; also, Vesemir realized he was Geralt’s real father, an old Rider from the time before Stregobor’s reign turned into a witcher.

Vesemir had no idea that Visenna was pregnant, let alone that she gave birth to a son, and promptly took Geralt in under the pretense of him being a Child Surprise.

The older witcher never wanted his son to become a witcher like himself, but he couldn’t stop the school from taking his boy and training him, preparing him for the Trial of Grasses. At least the young boy was able to befriend Eskel, another boy already at the keep.

They went in to take the Trial of Grasses together.

Both came out a little worse for wear, but alive.

Cat-like eyes, Geralt with white hair.

Lambert was later found almost dead at the edge of Carvahall, a real Child Surprise this time, and was also taken in to be trained into a witcher. He also survived the Trial of Grasses.

Then the witcher schools were burned and raided because people were worried about the “mutants,” because another king with too much power decided they weren’t needed anymore, and they were almost all wiped out like Dragon Riders.

Vesemir mourned the loss of another of his families but was beyond glad for the ones who survived because they were still out on The Path; he was the only witcher to survive the sackings.

Vesemir also still mourned his dragon he had lost so long ago in the raids, one that was grey and silver, a male called Jaciel (derived from Polish “przyjaciel” which means “friend”).

Queue the scene in Posada, with Jaskier approaching Geralt out of interest and eventually recognizes him as “The Butcher of Blaviken.” (The same events transpired in Blaviken, except Stregobor had sent others to kill Renfri because she was a threat to his crown, and also boasted about carrying dragon eggs, which she claimed would hatch only for those against the king of Nilfgaard [which wasn’t true, she didn’t have any eggs]; he used the excuse of her being born under the Black Sun, sent assassins, was going to capture her and torture and experiment on her for her magic and questionable birth, and Geralt coming by and murdering her whole gang and her included was just a happy little accident that meant he didn’t have to fight off any accusations on his part). Anyway, Geralt is known to oppose Stregobor, but isn’t actively trying to usurp him, so he is free to go around and do his witcher duties, but he is heavily hated for opposing the, “oh so gracious and powerful king, and murdering innocents in droves.”

So, Jaskier recognizes him, and being a young half-elf noble (being the son of the queen of elves, and the son of a high-ranking human noble), is yearning for adventure, and follows this guy to the end of the Continent because, “oops, I fell in love with him.”

But the two of them are captured on a contract by a group of rogue elves outside of Ellesméra (the “forest of elves,” and while there is one united queen, there are several noble families and different elven territories), reduced to few in numbers because of racist humans, and they don’t recognize who Jaskier is (as Julian Alfred Pankratz [human name], Julek Dìoiasaeil of Ellesméra [elven name], child and heir to Queen of the elves, Meira Banrighflùr of Ellesméra).

[Quick side note, Jaskier knows he’s half elf, and personally knows his mother, but does not know she’s elven royalty? Like, he knows her as “Meira” and “mother,” and only knows enough elven heritage to know about his roots and biology, but that’s it. He grew up as a human with his viscount father].

And the rogue elves reveal that the reason they left Ellesméra and set out on their own was because when Stregobor was toppling the Dragon Riders and smashing the eggs, they [as a highly ranked noble elven family, Filavandrel being the head of the family] were entrusted to protect and hide one of the last clutches of dragon eggs from the Forsworn; unfortunately, they were not successful, and in their escape they were only able to recover one cracked egg, and even then they weren’t sure it would hatch because of the trauma, or if the dragon inside was still alive.

Jaskier was struck with grief from their story (because he grew up under the Nilfgaard Empire, left to study at Oxenfurt in another kingdom, and didn’t know of Stregobor’s evil).

So, the elves gift Jaskier a magical lute and ask for him to sing of their demise so the king may never come looking for them, and in return for Geralt’s help and coin, give Geralt the last known dragon egg in existence, hoping it would find a safe home at Kaer Morhen, away from Stregobor.

Only, Jaskier cradles the egg one night at camp, and in the middle of the night the witcher and bard wake to it fucking hatching for him.

Of course, right?

Suddenly they have a new objective; get to Kaer Morhen as fast as fucking possible, or so god help me Jaskier, someone will see your bright fucking dragon and then we’re all dead.

This au is also staring Yennefer, taking the place of the mysterious Angela with a werecat, who I’m choosing to make half-elf like Jaskier, and who also likes to spread chaos everywhere she goes (and she’ll have less magic, but is just as badass, and is a genius with potions and knows the Ancient Language).

Jaskier’s dragon is blue and beautiful and is a male he names Dandelion, or some shit like that.

Also, this would be a geraskier (Geralt x Jaskier) fic, because obviously.

Anyone who feels like writing a fic, I’m WAYY too lazy, and I also might post more headcanons if anyone wants more??

[mythologyfolklore]

Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 12

Chapter Twelve: The last days of the Trojan War

(A/N: Tw: Graphic depiction of violence, infanticide, horrific rape, sacrilege and basically war and pillaging in all its terror.)

.

Soon after Hektor's funeral, the Amazons came from Thrace to the aid of the Trojans, led by their queen Penthesileia.

Penthesileia was a daughter of Ares and the Amazon queen Otrera and had accidentally killed her beloved sister Hippolyta. And she craved only one thing: a glorious death in battle.

The Amazons were feared for their battle prowess and the Achaeans soon found out the hard way, that it hadn't been empty tales they had heard. They were small in numbers, but quickly overran the Achaean forces, until Akhilleus turned the tables.

The two demigods fought viciously, showing no mercy. The warrior queen was such a dangerous opponent, that the goddess Athena had to magically paralyse her limbs, before Akhilleus could fatally wound her with his spear.

He triumphed, but only for a few seconds; until he removed her helmet and beheld the splendour and beauty of a goddess, the charisma and strength of a daughter of Ares, that not even death could take away from her.

She was so beautiful that even his comrades and the Trojans around them stopped fighting and just marvelled at the fairness of the defeated warrior queen.

Akhilleus could practically feel, how the golden arrow of Eros pierced his heart.

Struck him with remorse and repentant love.

Made him mourn, that such perfection had to die.

It was the same intense grief he had felt, when Patroklos had died, which was strange, considering he had only known this woman for a few minutes and was currently staring at a corpse.

Still, he wondered if maybe he could have made her his queen and take her back to Phthia, where he came from.

.

All this happened before her father's eyes.

Ares saw his beloved daughter fall and felt like the ground was breaking away below him.

He saw Akhilleus standing over her, frozen and – Ares could tell – entranced by her unearthly beauty. Reaching out hesitantly to touch this impossibly fair face.

In a moment's notice, Ares was behind the demigod, invisible, but not inaudible, letting him feel his presence – and his anger.

“Do not touch my daughter, Peleídes”, the god of terrible war snarled into his ear.

Akhilleus pulled his hand back instantly. But he stayed where he was, staring down at Penthesileia's body.

Suddenly another Achaean opened his mouth, a really ugly fuck (Thersites, if Ares wasn't mistaken): “So the great Akhilleus is defeated by the beauty of a woman, like some ordinary skirt-chaser? Made weak by a woman, who wrought nothing but death and destruction on the Achaean army? I bet you want to strip her naked right on the battlefield and-”

He didn't get any further, because Akhilleus whirled around and sucker-punched the disgusting blusterer, killing him instantly.

“Anyone else?”, the son of Thetis asked the audience nonchalantly.

They collectively shook their heads in response, although there were a few agitated murmurs at the murder of one of their own.

But then Diomedes lifted his hand to silence them.

His bright blue eyes (so similar to those of Athena) stared right into the blood-red ones of Ares in sombre recognition. And in no way haughty or even disrespectful, just because he had been able to wound the war god once.

The Argive spoke: “Thersites had it coming and no one is going to miss him. Still, Akhilleus, you must be purified for the murder, even though you did a favour to everyone, including her divine father. Now choose wisely what to do with the Amazon queen, for I see murderous Ares and he is enraged over his daughter's demise.”¹

Uncomfortable silence.

Then Menélaos and Agamemnon exchanged a glance and a nod of agreement.

It was red-haired Menélaos, who spoke, to one of the surviving Amazons: “Penthesileia was a great warrior and truly the child of Ares Miaiphonos². Even though she was our enemy, she should not be done the outrage of being denied a proper funeral. Take her body back to Troy and bury her like the queen she was.”

“Take your fallen comrades with you. And keep her armour”, Agamemnon added, “We don't wish to incur the wrath of the fearsome Teikhesiplêtês³ by plundering his daughter.”

This gesture of respect was odd coming from the Achaeans, especially from the Atreides.

The god of war wasn't sure, if it could be attributed to his daughter's beauty or if his own adversary Athena had finally shown an glimpse of pity towards him and filled those simple mortal minds with respect and reverence.

It was a minuscule comfort to Ares, that his daughter's body would be treated with due respect.

But a comfort nonetheless.

Penthesileia was buried with the honours of a queen.

Priamos had her and her fallen companions laid to rest beside the tombs of his proud father, king Laomedon and his glorious son Hektor.

It was the least he could do for the radiant daughter of Ares and her companions, who had fallen in their effort to protect the Trojans, whom they had hardly known.

.

As Ares lingered by the side of his daughter's shroud, he met an interesting person.

He knew who she was, Apollon had often spoken of her.

“Lord Ares”, she whispered and fell onto her knees, shaking. “Teikhesiplêtês, Andreiphontês, Khrysopêlêx, Theos Miaiphonos, Deinos, Sunarogos Themistos-”⁴

“Enough”, he said calmly. “I'm not here as a god, but as a father.”

“Yes, Ánax⁵”, she answered.

“And you're Kassandra, daughter of Priamos”, he returned. “I have heard of you – the seeress, whom no one believes. Did you know, that you would meet me here?”

“Yes”, she whispered and added: “Though in my vision, you looked different. More terrifying than I can say.”

Ares smiled dryly. “So your vision showed you my true form, then. But gazing upon a god in reality would kill a mortal. When I walk the earth, I must use less frightening disguises.”

He had made himself look like an ordinary Trojan civilian, black-eyed and -haired, with dark skin. An innocuous-looking shape. One that no normal mortal would have pinned to be the war god in disguise.

“Now tell me, princess, what are you doing here?”

He hadn't meant to sound frightening, but still she trembled.

“I just came to pay my respects to your daughter Penthesileia. And to bring offerings. I didn't mean to disturb, I-”

“Sshhh. Easy, girl. I don't want to harm you.”

“The last god I encountered cursed me”, she whispered.

“I know”, Ares nodded, “But don't blame yourself. None of this shit is your fault. You didn't deserve to be cursed, just because you said no. He's a pretentious arsehole, most gods are. And on top of that, he can't get over his self-esteem issues.”

She snorted.

“Besides”, he continued, “It's not certain, if you could have saved yourself and others, if they listened to you. My father wanted this entire war to happen, then your jackass half-brother Paris was dumb enough to piss off my mother and half-sister and the entirety of Hellas and then he was too egotistical to put the well-being of an entire people over his own.”

Kassandra bit her lip and he saw a few stray tears run down her cheeks.

He sighed and crouched down in front of her. “Don't blame Helene, okay? She never asked for any of this shit either. She despises Paris more than anyone.”

“I know”, she choked. “Still it's not fair! What did we do to deserve this?!”

“You didn't do anything. Your ancestors screwed up and the Moirai and great Ananke are fucking bitches. I have never met either of them, but I would love to punch them in the face. Gods can't avoid their fates any more than humans can. Only the Primordials have the power to redirect the course of fate, but not even they can do it without consequence”, the war god explained.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to understand, that we Deathless Ones are no happier than you mortals are. We bargain, suffer and mourn. We just have all eternity to learn live with the pain. That doesn't make us happier.”

Ares sighed sadly and turned back to his daughter's shroud.

“It's a small comfort to me, that my dear daughter got the glorious battle death she wanted and the respect she deserved. Very few of my children get that luxury, ya know. They're like me, volatile and following their own laws.”

For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Then Kassandra finally approached the shroud to place down her offerings.

“She was a great woman”, she told the war god. “A true queen and warrior. You must be very proud of her.”

“I am. I really am.”

It was nothing more than a whisper.

He was Ares, god of the horrors of war, of the bloodshed, violence, murder, rage, the sacking of towns, rebellion, courage and fear.

He would not fall apart and cry in front of a mortal.

Soon he had composed himself and remarked: “You're a really unfortunate creature, even for a mortal. Ya know, Kassandra, with the shit you've gone through and that's still ahead of you, I'm surprised that you haven't killed yourself.”

“That would be the easy way out.”

“But still better than what you'll get put through once Troy is conquered”, Ares pointed out.

“I know, Lord Ares”, Kassandra replied, “But I will not run away. I'm not a coward.”

“Very brave. I'm impressed. And that's rare, believe me.”

“Thank you.”

“I can't save you from your doom – fate forbids me to.”

“I know.”

“But I pity you nonetheless and because I admire your courage, I want to give you something. Don't worry, I want nothing in return.”

“I …”

“Shhh. Open your mouth and hold still.”

He cupped her face and came as close as a few centimetres.

Then he breathed into her mouth, transferred some of his essence onto her and let go.

Kassandra blinked in confusion, but also seemed relieved, that he hadn't actually kissed her.

“How are you feeling?”, Ares asked.

“Better”, she marvelled, “Refreshed … stronger. What … what did you do to me?”

The war god smiled. “I've given you a better gift than your cursed precognition: the inner strength and courage to bear all the hardships ahead of you. I can't take your pain away, but I can take your weariness. Compassion isn't my strong suit, but you and your family have treated the remains of my beloved child and her companions with highest respect. Therefore, you're worthy of mine.”

“Thank you …”, the princess choked.

He didn't hug her, when she started to sob.

But he did hold her hand as comfort.

“I can't believe you got to kiss her!”, Apollon whined later, “When I asked her for a kiss, she outright told me to get lost!”

“I didn't kiss her, dumbass!”, Ares fumed, “I breathed courage and inner strength into her, so that she can bear her suffering and her terrible fate easier! I gave her a gift that is actually good for her, without asking for love or sex in return! Excuse me for not being a jerk for once in my life and pitying her more than you did! Get off my dick, Sunny Boy!”

“Why, you-!”

“He's right, you know”, Artemis threw in, “Sorry, brother, but I'm taking his side. He isn't into her and still was kinder to her than you. So leave him and her alone.”

Apollon huffed, but fell silent.

.

Shortly after, another deity wept for her son.

Êôs, Titanis of the dawn, was the mother of Memnon, an Ethiopian leader, who had been sent to help the Trojans. A wise and modest young man, yet a brave warrior; Êôs and Tithonos had raised him well.

He too fell against Akhilleus after a fierce duel, just like Hektor and Penthesileia before him.

The divine allies of the Achaeans cheered, especially Akhilleus' mother Thetis.

But Apollon, Artemis and Aphrodite mourned silently.

Êôs didn't care about silent.

She screamed, howled with rage, showered Thetis, Athena, Poseidon and even Zeus and Hera with profanities and curses.

She threatened to descend to the hidden depths of the netherworld and dwell with the dark Protogenoi, with holy Khaos and dark Nyx, Erebos and Tartaros and to never ascend to the skies to bring the light of day.

Zeus rose from his throne and it began to thunder outside, but Ares stepped in.

He placed his hand on her head and – Athena could see it – took away her rage, leaving only her motherly grief. Then he took everyone by surprise by embracing the dawn goddess and holding her tightly. He whispered something into her ear, she wailed loudly and cried into his shoulder.

Aphrodite looked really jealous at this display, but Apollon put a hand onto her shoulder and shook his head sombrely.

For a moment Athena was confused as to why Ares was being so tender. It was almost like he was showing sympathy …

Oh.

Stupid her.

It was sympathy.

He had lost two children and knew how she was feeling. And he sympathised particularly with Êôs' sadness, because she had once been his mistress. Because he knew that even with all her mortal affairs, she was still in love with him, albeit it was unrequited.

Athena had never felt compassion with the allies of Troy, but this got to her, almost like an epiphany.

She didn't show it, but she said nothing either.

There was nothing a virgin goddess could say to two heartbroken parents.

.

Apollon was the one to put Akhilleus down.

The demigod had caught a bad case of hubris and tried to break down the gates of Troy and take the city all by himself. And when Apollon had told him to cut it out, Akhilleus had given him the middle finger and told him to get out of his way.

For a god, who was lethal even from afar, this was one offence too many.

The Bringer of Plagues stepped behind Paris, who was standing on the city wall.

Whispered in his ear and guided his hand.

The arrow, dipped in the venomous wrath of the divine archer, flew and hit its mark: the only part of Akhilleus, that wasn't invulnerable.

Most people wouldn't think a shot to the heel as being really bad, but as mentioned before, the arrow had been poisoned. And it pierced a vital vein.

Akhilleus killed a few more Trojans, but he was dead in a matter of minutes.

Ajax Telamonides and Odysseus rescued the demigod's corpse from being plundered by the Trojans, but the Achaeans mourned his death for three weeks.

Apollon on the other hand was triumphant, as were the others, who shared his side. Especially Ares seemed to practically ooze with grim satisfaction at his half-brother's retribution. The war god didn't gloat or triumph aloud and in front of the other gods. He didn't have to; the twisted, grim smile on his face said it all.

Hera on the other hand was furious and showered Apollon with reproaches and insults.

The son of Leto bore it silently for a while and stubbornly stared at the floor.

But when she accused him of ingratitude, reminded him, that he had been at Thetis' wedding and claimed, that he had murdered Akhilleus out of envy, Apollon snapped.

“SHUT THE TARTAROS UP!!!”, he roared, “HE HAS OFFENDED ME MULTIPLE TIMES, MURDERED TWO OF MY SONS – ONE OF THEM IN FRONT OF MY ALTAR NO LESS, AND HE WAS STILL A CHILD! – KILLED A DAUGHTER OF YOUR SON ARES AND A SON OF ÊÔS AND TRIED TO TEAR DOWN TROY BY HIMSELF, SO THE ACHAEANS CAN COMMIT THE WORST WAR CRIMES!!! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EXPECT??? THAT I WOULD GIVE A FUCK, JUST BECAUSE I WAS AT HIS MOTHER'S WEDDING?! IT WAS AN HONOUR WE DID TO HER, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND! WE OWE HER NOTHING! AND WE CERTAINLY DON'T OWE RESPECT TO THAT SHITFACE OF A HERO, WHO DOESN'T DESERVE ANY OF IT! YOU DON'T KNOW HOW IT FEELS TO LOSE A CHILD!!! GET OFF MY FUCKING BACK, YOU – YOU …!!!”

“Shhh! Easy!”, Aphrodite hushed him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Don't stoop so low as to throw petty insults. Your father's anger isn't worth it. And neither is she.”

She threw a hateful glare at Hera.

Ares placed a hand on his other shoulder and turned to Zeus: “Father, with your permission we'll see ourselves out.”

His father consented: “That would be wise. And Apollon, even though you're right with what you say, you must show respect to my wife. Remember that for the future.”

Apollon bit his lip, but nodded.

Artemis took her brother's hand and together with Ares and Aphrodite they left the assembly.

.

“I'm sorry for lashing out at your mother like that”, Apollon apologised as soon as the four were alone in the garden.

“Don't mind that”, the war god muttered, “Normally I'd be pissed, but you were right with everything you said. She's been nothin' but a bitch in the last decades. I'm mad at her anyway, for all the times she sicced Daddy's Owl on me. My mother is faithful to my father, but the price for that is, that she doesn't know parental grief. You know her. One day she's the perfect mother and the next day she's the worst. An' yeah, sure, Thetis suffers, but we all suffer more and it's partly the fault of her son – the rest is the fault of the other Achaeans.”

“Can I ask you something?”, Artemis inquired.

Ares nodded. “Sure.”

“How much do you really know?”

He gawked at her in amazement.

Then he laughed, for the first time since Penthesileia's death. “Ya know, you're the first person ever to ask me that! Ever! And I'm, like, 38 000 years old!”

“… That's depressing.”

“Yeah, but I'm used to it.”

“That's even more depressing!”

Ares grinned. “An' that's why we're friends! Hey, guys, wanna get plastered?”

Artemis shrugged: “Sure, I'm game.”

Apollon smiled weakly: “Me too. I really need a drink.”

Aphrodite chuckled: “Absolutely! Let's get roaring drunk at Dionysos' bar and talk about the future and the good ol' days!”

They spent the rest of the day and night doing exactly that.

.

Meanwhile in the assembly hall, the other Olympians sat in silence at the scene that just had occurred.

Until Zeus turned to his wife and rebuked her: “Not Apollon's wrath brought Akhilleus low, but his own hubris. He brought this upon himself. As the god of law I can't and won't make exceptions, not even for Thetis. I value her more than anyone, but that doesn't change the fact, that her son was ill-bred. After all the offences he committed towards gods and mortals alike, it would have been extremely unjust to grant him a longer life span. Why would I spare him, when I couldn't spare the children of mine and of Poseidon, Ares, Apollon, or Êôs? There is nothing more to say, Hera. He was fated to die and that's that. Be quiet.”

Hera fumed and was about to make a retort, but Athena put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let's not fight pointlessly”, the goddess of wisdom said. “Instead, let us attend Akhilleus' funeral, for the sake of Thetis.”

“And that of your friends Odysseus and Diomedes?”, Poseidon teased.

Athena glared at him. “Shut up.”

.

Thetis was relentless in her grief for her fallen son.

Her sisters came to her son's funeral to wail with her.

Even the Mousai came to attend and sing for the Nereid's sake.

“Damn Zeus”, the sea goddess wailed, “Damn him, damn him, damn him! He forced me to marry a mortal man against my will and gave my son – the only comfort of my unwanted fate – a short life span, while at the same time promising me, that he would gain everlasting fame! What do I care about glory, now that I had to bury my son, while he was still young! To Tartaros with all of them! When the other gods bound him, it was me who saved him and in return I had to endure all of this?! What did I do to deserve this! I will go up to Olympos and remind him of all the things I have done for him and all the things I had to go through, because of his ingratitude, so that he might be ashamed-”

“Shut up.”

Everyone whirled around and in amazement stared at Kalliope, the Mousa of epic poetry.

She was frowning, but as she continued, her voice was gentle: “Don't be so foolish as to invoke the wrath of both gods and men. You're not the only one suffering. Kronion too had to see his dear sons suffer and die, without being able to save them. Herakles became a god, but only after endless torment. I had to endure many pains for the sake of my son Orpheus, only to see him die in a most cruel manner, torn apart by the Bakkhai. Several of the Dodekatheoi are mourning for their children, who fell in this cruel and pointless war – some of them were felled by your son. Be as tactful to them as you expect them to be with you. Troy will soon fall, just like your son, that is the decree of the incorruptible and unyielding Moirai. As for Akhilleus: as long as civilization exists, he will be remembered in song, poetry and stories – he will not be forgot by mankind. So great is his glory. That shall be your comfort.”

Then Helios descended from the sky and primordial Nyx brought darkness and the relief of her gentle son Hypnos.

.

During the funeral games for Akhilleus, Athena had interfered several times, to the favour of her dear favourite Odysseus.

In the end, he had even won the armour of the great hero, that Hephaistos had made for Akhilleus, before he had gone to slay Hektor.

The other contender had been Ajax the Greater, who had been so furious at his loss, that he had plotted Odysseus' demise.

Athena admitted, that he'd had a right to the armour just as much as Odysseus, but still she couldn't let him slay one of her favourite heroes, so she had struck him with madness.

When Ajax came to his senses and realised, that he had killed a whole flock of sheep in his attempt to kill those who had wronged him, he was filled with deep despair.

After a tearful goodbye to his concubine and son, he threw himself into his own sword.

Agamemnon and Menélaos had wanted to deny the almost-murderer a proper burial.

But Odysseus, ridden by conscience and fear of the gods, had reminded them, that Ajax had been a great hero and a great support to the Achaeans against the Trojans. And besides, disrespecting the dead meant disrespecting the gods.

The Atreides were surprised at Odysseus generosity, but wouldn't object to his reasoning.

“I hated him as long as it was appropriate”, the wily king of Ithaka explained, “But now that he's dead, I have no reason to hold grudges. Besides, it is my fault that he lost it.”

He turned towards Ajax' family: “I promise, that you will not be scorned or mistreated, because of his mistake. If you want, I can help you bury him too-”

“No thank you”, Teukros declined flatly, “My brother's spirit is likely still angry at you, so he wouldn't want it. I will do it alone – it's all I can do, because I can't return home without him. But we appreciate the support.”

.

Athena had revealed to Odysseus and the seer Kalkhas how they would gain the final victory over the Trojans.

So they had enlisted the help of Akhilleus' teenage son Pyrrhos (or Neoptolemos, as he was also called) and of Philoktetes, an archer, whom they had abandoned of an island before the war, because he had been incapacitated by a snake bite, which had given off an unbearable stench, as well as mortal agony. But he wasn't just any archer; he owned a very special bow – the very weapon that once had belonged to the great Herakles. The then mortal hero had gifted it to him, along with the poisoned arrows, as reward for lighting his funeral pyre to relieve his suffering.

Neoptolemos had been easy to persuade, but Philoktetes had only buried his righteous grudge after the now deified Herakles had appeared before his old friend to reveal his destiny and his role in the end of the war. Now he had calmed down and agreed to help, much to the delight of the Achaeans.

The unerring arrows of Herakles, dipped in the Hydra's venom, felled many Trojans, but they weren't too important.

The only one whose death mattered was Paris, who had caused this entire war and brought unending suffering over both sides.

He was wounded by two of the poisoned arrows and in desperation dragged himself to his ex-wife Oinone, an Oreade and great healer, to save him. But Oinone, still hurt that he had dumped her for Helene, told him to go and fuck himself.

And so Paris died a long, agonising but well-deserved death.

Overcome with remorse, Oinone built him a funeral pyre and jumped into the flames to die with him. She had been the only one to whole-heartedly mourn this ominous man.

The Trojans mourned him as a formality, but in truth no one was really sad as he had been hated by all.

.

Helene of Sparta wept, but not for him; she cried for things that had been out of her power and because she was now forced to marry Paris' brother Deiphobos, who was just as unpleasant.

She refused to share his bed; that man was no match for a daughter of Zeus.

Instead she sneaked out and wandered the streets, homesick and wishing she was dead or better yet, could turn back time and stop all this from happening.

She was wandering through a dark alley, when she came across two beggars.

“Mild alms, kind lady”, the shorter one rasped.

Pitying him, she took off the golden armlet she was wearing and gave it to him.

But then their eyes met and she recognised him, of course she did; she would have recognised those sly, knowing mossy green eyes anywhere.

“Odysseus!!!”

“Shhhh!”, he hissed. “Be quiet, Helene! Do you want to get us killed?!”

“Sorry”, she whispered. “Wait, Diomedes? You're here too?! How did you two get in? What are you doing here?”

“How we got in here doesn't matter”, Diomedes grumbled, “As for why we're here, how can we trust you not to rat us out? You abandoned your husband and daughter twenty years ago, not to mention-”

“I didn't abandon them!”, she lamented, “I was abducted by Aphrodite and Paris! And here in Troy I have been met with scorn and animosity from everyone except Priamos and Hektor, but he's dead! I hate being responsible for all of this! You have no idea how often I have wished, I … I … I just want to go home! I miss Sparta, I miss Menélaos and I miss Hermione! I … I never got to see her grow up!”

“Don't cry”, Odysseus told her in a gentler tone, “I miss my wife and son too. I too want to go home to Ithaka, spend the rest of my days at Penelope's side and see my son grow into a fine man. I know how you feel, trust me. And if you help me, we can finally end this damn war and get out of here.”

“How is Menélaos?”, Helene inquired.

“He's fine”, Diomedes said, “As brash and volatile as ever. I'll be honest with you, he's furious at you. But I'm sure he'll change his mind as soon as he sees you again.”

Helene smiled drily: “Then my cursed beauty would be useful for once in my life. But still, why are you here?”

In the end she assisted them in stealing the Palladion by showing them the way and helping them get out unseen.

As they said their goodbyes, Helene took off the locket she was wearing.

“Menélaos gave it to me”, she said gently. “Tell him, that I have kept it for all these years. It was the only thing I had left of him and my home.”

.

The giant wooden horse had been Odysseus' idea.

In retrospect, he couldn't believe it hadn't come to him sooner.

But that didn't matter now. They had a city to conquer.

It took several weeks to build the horse and a few days to select the warriors that were to hide inside the hollow structure.

But someone had to trick the Trojans into taking the horse into their city.

The man chosen for this task was Sinon, a cousin of Odysseus and equally sly dog. He had them whip him and then they dragged the horse in front of the city gate. There the poser claimed, that the horse was dedicated to Athena as penance for the theft of the Palladion and that they had tried to sacrifice him, but he had got away.

It worked.

The Trojans tore off a part of their impenetrable city wall, because the wooden horse was too big for the gates. After that they pulled it into their city, not suspecting that it was hiding a bunch of Achaean warriors.

Princess Kassandra and the priest Laokoon warned, that it was a ruse, but no one believed Kassandra and Laokoon was quickly silenced by Athena, who sent a pair of serpents to kill him and his sons.

Kassandra grabbed a torch and was about to set the horse on fire and kill the Achaeans inside, but was held back by the Trojans – much to the relief of the hidden warriors.

They waited until nightfall, until most Trojans were asleep.

Then Sinon gave the signal to the troops waiting outside, the contingent hidden inside the horse crept outside and the massacre began.

.

“Regretting your support yet?”, Apollon asked frostily. “Or are you actually proud of the Achaeans' poor conduct?”

“What do you mean?”, Hera frowned.

Now Ares stepped forward. He was holding a huge scroll, probably metres long.

“Glad you ask!”, he sneered. “Do ya know what I have here?”

Everyone but Zeus, Apollon and Thémis (she was here too) shook their heads.

The war god smiled coldly: “As Zeus' heir, one of the duties I have is looking through my father's mail. It's a real nightmare, but sometimes it does come in handy. This is a list of complaints and revenge prayers, mostly about certain members of the Achaeans. If I read ya the entire list, we'd be here all night. So I'll give you a summary. Starting with Agamemnon: blasphemy against several gods, sacrileges, attempted murder of his own daughter and human sacrifice towards Artemis, offence of a priest of Apollon, offence of a demigod, violation of the laws of hospitality, murder. Akhilleus: rape, violation of the laws of hospitality, blasphemy against several gods, murder of several other demigods, attacking of a god. Diomedes: physical harm of several gods, attacking of a god, attempted murder of a demigod. Odysseus: attempted perjury, judicial murder …”

How dare he talk shit about Diomedes and Odysseus!

Ares probably guessed what she was thinking, but didn't show it.

With a scoff he looked over his fellow gods. “You didn't expect that, did ya? That I keep track of everyone's bullshit? Y'all keep forgetting, that aside from terrible war, I'm also a god of civil disturbance, crime and order. But ya know what? Why waste the night by rattlin' down this huge ass scroll? Why don't we just look at what's goin' on right now and let that speak for itself? Father, may I?”

“You may”, Zeus consented.

Ares threw a red ball of light at the ceiling, opening a screen of what was happening in Troy.

Several of the gods gasped.

The war god had finally stopped smirking and was arching an eyebrow at the scene.

“They're really goin' at it, aren't they? Pretty poor sportsmanship, eh?”

“Silence!”, Zeus ordered.

His eyes were wide with appal, as he stared at one particular scene:

Hektor's widow Andromákhe was fleeing from Neoptolemos, son of Akhilleus, with her infant son Astyanax in her arms, but he quickly caught up to them. What the young man did then was terrible: he brutally ripped the child out of his mother's arms and pierced him with his sword. Andromákhe's anguished screams were so heart-wrenching, that even Poseidon averted his eyes.

Apollon furiously pointed at that scene: “Look at this! Aren't you so proud?! Some fine grandson Thetis got there! He's even worse than his father! He just brutally murdered an infant! A defenceless little child and tore him out of his mother's arms!”

“Shut y-”, Hera started, but then Zeus cried out: “Oh my me!”

Neoptolemos had entered one of Zeus' temples and found king Priamos, seeking shelter at the altar together with a few others. Priamos stepped in front of his wife and the others to at least try to protect them and scolded the young man for his impiety. But Neoptolemos, still holding the corpse of Astyanax, clubbed the old man to death with it in front of the horrified onlookers.⁶

Zeus looked like he wanted to puke.

Athena felt like puking too. This was just …

But before she could end that thought, Ares sneered: “Pretty inhuman, that boy. How old is he, fifteen? Most boys at that age go to school or learn a craft, play silly games and dream of silly things. And he's beating an old man to death with a child's corpse at father's altar! Good thing his grandmother isn't here – oh great, it gets worse!”

“Worse???”, Poseidon responded incredulously, “What could be a worse crime than-?”

A piercing scream cut him off.

The focus had shifted to a different scene.

They saw Ajax the Lesser enter a temple of Athena, where he found princess Kassandra clinging to a statue of the goddess.

Athena blanched and burst into tears at what happened next.

Even Ares squeezed his eyes shut, as the Lokrian committed the one crime he considered unforgivable (and it wasn't sacrilege).

“Abominable”, he snarled. “Some hero, that. Of all the war crimes he could have committed, it had to be the worst one, the one even I can't stand … and you call me barbaric.”

He turned to Athena and she loathed his pitying expression.

“Tell me, Daddy's Owl, is that how you define 'war for a just cause' or 'justice in war'? Where is the heroism, the virtue and sense of honour you always talk about? Does this correspond with your idealism, if the side you support rears its ugly head like that? Is this what you're willing to tolerate, as long as your side wins? I'll repeat Apollon's question from earlier: are you proud, Daddy's Owl? Are you?”

“Shut up!”, she howled and cried into her hands.

Poseidon gently touched her arm and tried to give his niece at least a modicum of comfort, but there was nothing that could console Athena now.

And to her distress Ares went on, this time addressing Hera: “And you, mother? Do you feel proud and triumphant? Do you condone all of this, just because that moron Paris didn't pick you to be the fairest? The extent of your pettiness and spite are truly pathetic. Rejoice all you want, but your victory is hollow.”

“That's enough”, Zeus finally told him. “No more of your taunting, Ares. No one is the victor in this war, just like you wanted. The Achaeans have won, but their divine allies haven't. As for you, this is your war now and the mortals are under your cruel sway, but you had to bear too great losses for this to be worth it, for this to satisfy you.”

“No”, Ares agreed. “We both have always known, that it wasn't worth it. Then again, father, this was your will, wasn't it? You pulled the strings through all of this, like the manipulator you are. And yet, even you lose, even you suffer. Not even you saw this coming, even you can't bear this and that is the price you pay for allowing this to happen. This is my definition of justice. Because I'm right and you all know it, that's one of the reasons why you hate me. How does it feel to finally have to face the fact, that you're all terrible people, just like me?”

Now he finally ended his sardonic speech and turned to leave. “Either way, I have no more business here. I'll pack my things and leave Olympos. My work won't be needed anytime soon, so I'll go back to Thrake and then maybe see the world. Enjoy the next centuries of relative peace and recovery for mankind.”

No one stopped him, as he grabbed his cloak and strode out of the hall with his head held high.

.

It seemed like an eternity, until the ensuing silence was broken.

Poseidon was the one who did: “Zeus, I don't think they deserve a full victory. Only those who are granted a triumphant return are truly victorious. And I don't think they have earned the right to come home in triumph or even at all.”⁷

Zeus agreed: “No, they really haven't. I hereby decree, that only those who have acted honourably and with piety will be granted a safe and triumphant homecoming and a good life for the rest of their days.”

“… Revenge.”

The King of the Skies blinked. “What was that, my daughter?”

Athena lowered her hands.

Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, her cheeks flushed with shame and fury and her face was a hideous grimace of unbridled hatred.

“Revenge”, she snarled, “I want revenge!”

She stared at the scene on the screen, which was still on the ceiling.

The Achaeans were currently failing to punish Ajax for his sacrilege, despite Odysseus' fierce demand to have him stoned to death to appease the wrathful goddess.

“LET ME DESTROY THEM!”, Athena roared all of the sudden, terrifying everyone, “LET ME DESTROY AJAX, HIS BAND AND ALL THOSE WHO DIDN'T PUNISH HIM!!! I WON'T HAVE A MOMENT'S REST, BEFORE I HAVE SEEN THIS DISGUSTING BASTARD SUFFER AND PERISH AT MY OWN HANDS!!! LET ME HAVE RETRIBUTION, FATHER! GIVE ME JUSTICE!!!”

“You shall have it”, Zeus pacified her, “Take my lightning bolts, my armour and my sceptre. This once, the sky, the winds and storms shall obey your command. Unleash your wrath and avenge all offences to your heart's content.”

Poseidon stepped forward. “The sea shall assist you as well”, he spoke grimly, “For I too am angered and only seeing them drown after a helpless struggle can appease me now.”

He chuckled coldly: “Ares was right; we really are terrible people. But so were they and I don't see why we should let them get away with it.”

“We won't”, Zeus assured him. “I won't.”

.

It's said, that the sea is a cruel mistress.

And that she never releases, what she claims.

That was certainly true for the Lord of the Sea.

Even the greatest fleet of ships was nothing more than a bunch of tiny papyrus boats on Thalassa's⁸ seemingly endless surface, small and breakable.

The Lord of the Deep and the Bright-eyed Goddess easily tore them to shreds in their relentless wrath.

Many of their crew drowned, but most importantly the one who had desecrated the sacred ground of Athena with the vilest of crimes.

Some were favoured for good conduct and reached their homes quickly and safely.

Some came home only to find nasty surprises waiting there.

Then there were those, who only came home after years of troublesome journey, because one or the other god was wroth, but not enough to outright kill them.

One of the last ones was favoured by Athena and his name would be known by his insanely long journey home:

Odysseus.

.

---

.

1) According to one source, Diomedes throws a hissy fit, disrespects Penthesileia's corpse and is ready to throw hands with Akhilleus, because Thersites is a cousin of his. But this makes no sense for a lot of reasons (like Thersites being a common soldier, while Diomedes is one of the Argive leaders), so I ignored that version and decided to make him more sensible than that. I went with the version, which is most detailed, but doesn't mention anything of this. I also decided to let him keep the magical sight Athena gave him, so he always recognises a god, when he sees one. 2) Miaiphonos: "Blood-Stained One / Defiled with gore or murder" 3) Teikhesiplêtês: "Stormer of Cities / Stormer of Walls" 4) "Stormer of Cities, Destroyer of Men, Of The Golden Helmet, Blood-Stained God, Terrible One, Ally of Thémis" (Yes, this was my excuse to list as many epithets as decently possible.) 5) Ánax: "Lord, King" 6) I'm not making this up! There are a lot of depictions on ancient Greek pottery, showing Priamos' death like that, or as similarly brutal. 7) This is an actual concept: One important part of a war is the return home afterwards (Nostos). Only a triumphant return would make the victory truly complete. 8) Thalassa: The primordial personification of the sea's surface. A daughter of Aither (the bright, upper air) and Hemera (the day) and the spouse of Pontos, the primordial deep sea.

[junkyardlynx]

As I entered the cockpit of my war-frame, something of a sigh escaped my psionic and vocal apparati. I had expected something…more. Maybe the Helyne were the remnants of galactic conquerors who saw the destruction and grief that they had wrought and, in their regret, allowed their societies and species to regress until the spark of sentience no longer lit their actions. Perhaps the Helyne were the watchers of the universe, sending their observations to a great cell that recorded all knowledge and meticulously cataloged it.

Yia, thus these were not the answers. The Helyne were…pets. As they always were. Spread by one sentient creature’s earnest wish to share their love with the universe expanded. This made them no less special, but in the moments as the Earth shrunk in the real-time visual feeds, I felt two things. Disappointment, followed by immediate guilt. The blackness of the space between stars swallowed the war-frame and I closed my eyes, allowing myself to process information more efficiently. 

My issue was that I always craved the darker things.

“Was I everything you hoped for, Spiderman?”

The sudden voice snapped me from my thoughts as pinpricked black gave way to a warm and terribly constant light brown colour, a visual effect of the method that powered our faster than light travel. A projection of Emma-Uh lit up the soft golden glow of the cockpit, slender hands on her cheeks in an apparent show of mockery.

“I…yes, to find a remnant of a precursor civilization is alway-”

“Remnant? Wow buddy, you gotta work on your people skills. Listen. I may be a collection of data inside your sick 2030s anime mech, but I have feelings.”

“You are correct, I apologize. Emma-Uh, allow me to begin again. To meet a brilliant mind such as yours would be a pleasure in any circumstance, but to know the pinnacle of Earth-form achievements personally and to talk to them inside of Ashir is quite another. I am glad to have found you.”

“Okay, two things. Three, maybe. Let’s just start at one. One, my name is just Emma. The “uh” was a vocalization of hesitation. Two, if I had cheeks they’d be burning so watch it with the compliments. Three, is Ashir the name of your Ikari Shinji wet dream here? Four, why does it look like I spilled my mocha latte over all of everything?”

I was momentarily floored as I began to process the information. Translators were never good for popular culture references, so I filed “Ikari Shinji”, “wet dream”, and “mocha latte” away for later. The burning cheeks part…that I understood. Embarrassment causes a similar reaction for my people, lighting our psionic nodes up a peculiar purple. Best to play dumb though, I conclude.

“I apologize once again, Emma. It was not my intention to misname you, nor cause a simulation of physical agony.”

“That’s not what I…I mean…” My only thought was that her reaction was “cute.” Pointed retaliation. I continued.

“To answer your questions, Ashir is the name of my exalted war-frame. As Radiant Prime, I am naturally the most fit to pilot our finest craft, but that aside, Ashir is a dear friend to me. He spends most of his current existence in a form of stasis, acting as the core and power system of the war-frame. It is for this reason we describe them as war-frames - all machinery and technology is a housing for the being at the heart of it.”

“Wait, like, an actual perso- ah. I see now.” She was silent for a time, arms crossed in front of her torso, head inclined in thought. When she spoke, her voice was distant, analytical, but not cold. Just immersed in her thoughts.

“Your species commands immense psionic power. Psionic power, being the manifestation of thought and emotional energy leaving imprints on the world. Theoretical uses range from telekinetics to mind-reading to seeing into memories of the past. You also appear to be long lived, but that’s just conjecture based on your physical form. Psionics were something we dabbled in but it never got out of its infancy because the kids kept frying their minds. No proper channeling organs. No natural aptitude. But you. Those crystalline nodes. With training you could turn your entire body into a conduit. Training, or…an accident…” She trailed off.

“You have the framework of it, as it were. The greatest fear in psionics is losing one’s self in the flow and to become unable to turn off our connection. That being becomes a torrent of power, suffering something akin to a death of the self as a singular mind cannot separate from the flood. Two options remain at that point. True death, or service. Ashir kept enough of himself to choose service to his friend. So we shackled his disintegrating form to a binding crystal and built him a new existence..” Mutual silence filled the war-frame. In the aftermath of this revelation, the geometry of the space felt akin to one of our necropoli, quiet and permeated old grief.

“Well, I’ve heard of friends giving you a ride but this is a whole other level.” Her humor was appreciated. As if in affirmation of this Earth-form, the golden glow of the cockpit intensified and became laced with warm reds.

“I believe he likes you” I attempted a smile. Though Ashir did not often directly communicate, he retained awareness of what happened in the confines of his form, and would often reflect his emotional state with the lighting. I…made many attempts to avoid blue lighting.

“As for the color of the space outside, its the determinate average colour of this galaxy. Our war-frames and ships use our unique power sources to complete normally impossible feats. I’m sure you know of the idea of folding space - connecting two faraway points by “folding” the distance and punching a hole through.“

Emma nodded, whispering something about “can’t fucking believe Dune got it right” under her breath. What did sandscapes in desert climates have to do with this?

“Our method is similar. A psionic who becomes a conduit is privy to an unprecedented amount of information. They see their current point in space, and their destination as well, and every single connection between the two - from dead space to blazing stars. We observed a peculiar law of the universe thousands of cycles ago. To merely observe changes the outcome of an event. If simple observation has such an effect, can you not affect events with raw willpower? And so, the psionic sees himself in space-time, sees his destination and determines that he has arrived at his destination. With the backing of such psychic force, the universe cannot challenge this without creating a paradox of observer inconsistency. We do not move the stars, but they move for us.”

Emma was stunned for the first time. It was an expression that I could find nothing but charming.

“So you lie to the universe so hard it gives up? That. That’s awesome. But in, if the travel is as instantaneous as it sounds, why has it been twenty minutes in a Starbucks latte for us?”

Through cross referencing of Ashir’s databanks on Earth broadcasts and media, I found that a latte is a drink of steeped bean juice and cream. It sounded delicious. My only record of a Starbuck pertained to the late human period of Galactica, in which living robots overthrow their creators. Was this their downfall? Dark, to be sure. Returning in the blink of an eye to the question at hand, I answered.

“Though we move instantly, the universe refuses to bow to our will completely. We are forced to wait an amount of time before we can leave a set boundary field, or we risk causing a chain reaction of paradoxical inconsistencies. So…ten more of your minutes, I’d estimate, given the distance from your Earth to my Empire.”

“Huh. Wait. Your Empire, Ves? Like, you run it or…”

“Emma, perhaps I should have explained. In our Empire’s military, we are granted titles based upon our rank. The titles are named as such for the beacon of knowledge we have proven to shine with, along with a numerical designation.”

“The words Empire and military make me suspicious of what kind of knowledge that is, you know. But uh, illuminate me. Hehehe. Illuminate.”

My lips formed a wry smile at the joke. Ashir and I built a very good translator to be able to allow such easy jokes.

“Very well. An enlisted member is first ranked at Dull. Disparaging, but with promise. From there, Dim. At the top of the main corps, Gleaming. No numerical designation is given for the first three ranks, because we simply do not have the patience to ascribe numerals for trillions of people. From there, Glowing, Lustrous and Lucent. The leap from being a Gleaming soldier to a Glowing one is quite large, and as such, Glowing receive a numeral. Our lowest Glowing is Six Hundred Thousand, Forty Three. The numbers shrink from there, to a mere four digits for a Lucent.”

Emma was miming at me, nodding furiously and pretending to take notes. As if she needed to. I knew first hand her sharp intellect.

“We have specialists above those, each in lateral ranking. Penumbral officers are those who have delved far into the psionic record and lost a piece of themselves in exchange for martial prowess. Incandescents are those that work with psionics to create dazzling illusions for both recreation and war. But from there, the ranks thin considerably.”

“Yayayaya, you’re all really bright kids. This sounds like a practiced speech so I’m gonna hurry you along.” Her flippanch betrays her voracious eyes, eagerly devouring this alien culture. Through years of study and bloodshed alike, I have learned that most sentient races with classical “faces” perform many of the same expressions. She craved more. More of this second chance at existence. A bemused part of me eagerly awaited her first contact with a Shalui. Most were visibly bewildered.

“As you wish, oh enlightened one. Speaking of, Enlightened is after Lucent. Its said that one reaches this rank when their actions have left a permanent mark upon the starscape. Much like you.” Emma was quiet, but her digital form averted its eyes as its cheeks flushed a sweet red.

“After that, Luminous. And last, Aureate. There are only twenty Aureates, and one could bring down a star system with just their War-frame and personal armaments.”

“Okay, well, that’s somewhat terrifying if cool in a wish fulfillment power fantasy kinda way. You guys sound very warlike, but I suppose humanity doesn’t get to talk about other species being warlike. Anyway, I didn’t hear about any Radiant.”

“Ah. Yes. I am Radiant Prime. There are only two Radiants, currently. The war prince and his younger sibling. She is Radiant Second.”

“So, Ves…you’re an older brother?” She skirted around the question, obviously wanting me to answer as clearly as possible.

"Yes, Emma. I am first in line of the royal family. My mother’s royal, personal title is Her Burning Will, and has been for the last four hundred cycles. Those equate to years in your parlance. The hellion that is Radiant Second is named Selin, and I love her dearly. Even if she insists on being a…royal pain in my side when she gets the chance.” I couldn’t help but fill with pride as I spoke. I had been bred and engineered for royal perfection and bearing, a kingly child since I emerged from my crystal, but this went beyond that. I rarely had the chance to speak about my beloved little sister and my strong, amazing mother.

"Your job description is literally war prince and your mom has been top dog for 400 years. I. I went to MIT.” She went silent again. I assume that whatever institute she attended was quite prestigious on Earth, to have turned out such a person.

“Well, you’re just Ves to me. Or is that gonna lead to my deletion at the hand of some uppity noble?”

I laughed. My psionic nodes sang joyfully and my own voice rang out with them.

“No, Emma. We encourage people to treat us as they would any other. Even if not…well. No one would harm the Radiant’s charge. Especially since I plan to make you a member of the royal court. It’s more like an extended family than a traditional court, being composed of close advisers and trusted compatriots.” My words ended with a flourish as we returned to normal space, and the shining capital of Iluria Mari sprawled out before us. The cockpit retracted as I set Ashir down on the red grass of the Imperial Courtyard. Golden pedals shining with bioluminesence whirled around us and the smell of my beloved Haja fruit trees warmed the air. I wished she could smell it.

“Family…”

“Yes, family. I cannot accept that you have been alone for so long after your wondrous deed. You deserved more. I demand the universe repays its debt to you, and I make it so with my will. Welcome home, Emma.”

[legault]

Galdrar (FE Rarepair Week Day 1: Blessed/Curse, Tibarn/Reyson)

Title: Galdrar

Author: legault/pinksnowboots (fic blog)

Warnings: Mentions of violence, non-explicit sexual content

Words: 3306

Summary: Most beorc and laguz are under the incorrect impression that because herons are beings of order, and beautiful to boot, they cannot harbor darkness inside of them. Tibarn used to labor under that same misapprehension, but that was before he met Reyson.

AKA a more serious take on the infamous “ I had to tie him [Reyson] down to a bed to keep him there” line.

Written for Day 1 of @ferarepair-week2k17 for the prompts blessed/curse. Thanks so much to the mods for holding this event and to everyone contributing to it, I’m incredibly pumped about participating!

Also read on AO3!

Most beorc and laguz are under the incorrect impression that because herons are beings of order, and beautiful to boot, they cannot harbor darkness inside of them. Tibarn used to labor under that same misapprehension, but that was before he met Reyson.

Reyson is so beautiful that sometimes it hurts to look at him, but even that pain is only the merest shadow of what Reyson can truly do.

Tibarn is among those who pluck the last remaining herons out of the burned wreckage of their home. Lorazieh is unresponsive and barely breathing.  Reyson, on the other hand, is very much alive and looks like he survived the fire by absorbing it, eyes blazing and wings covered in soot, vowing that whoever wrought this destruction on him and his people would face the same destruction in return.

Reyson insists on flying with them rather than being carried like his father and sister and glares at anyone who suggests otherwise. Tibarn lets him try, watching him rise erratically, looking for all the world like an avatar of vengeance.

He makes it several feet before his strength gives out and he begins to plummet through the air, looking for all the world like a particularly angry fallen angel.

Tibarn catches him well before he hits the ground. Reyson is incredibly light, so light that he almost feels unreal, like he lacks something grounding him on this mundane world.

Reyson’s eyes flutter, exhaustion and grief beginning to creep in as his adrenaline runs out.

“I did not ask you to do this.” He rasps, eyes flashing angrily at Tibarn and at his own helplessness.

“I know. But I am not going to let you fall.” Tibarn tells him, unsure if he is referring to saving Reyson from crashing to the forest floor or making a promise of a much wider scope.

“Chief!” One of Tibarn’s men calls to him. “What are we going to do with the herons?”

Tibarn looks at Lorazieh, barely clinging to life. He looks at the ruins of what was once the brightest and most peaceful of the laguz kingdoms. He looks at Reyson in his arms, struggling to maintain consciousness, skin burning with rage and grief.

“We’re taking them home.” Tibarn declares, sending a wave of mutters through his troops. Tibarn is still a relatively new king, and taking in refugee herons is a bold move, especially given that Phoenicis is not particularly friendly to outsiders.

“My home is gone.” Reyson murmurs, as if speaking from a dream.

“Yes.” Tibarn says, tightening his arms around Reyson. Even if the truth is harsh, it is better than telling a lie. “But I hope that will not always be the case.”

Reyson does not reply, having finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Reyson eventually becomes accustomed to Phoenicis, but Phoenicis never truly becomes accustomed to Reyson. Lorazieh fits their image of what herons are supposed to be like: beautiful, docile, and quiet. Although Reyson is beautiful, he is willful and imperious. He orders Tibarn’s servants around and wanders around the country without regards to his own safety, requiring several of Tibarn’s men to serve as escorts. He observes the customs and speech of hawks and tries to imitate them, sometimes injuring himself in the process. He even speaks frankly to the the king himself, adressing him as an equal and not as a king. Reyson may be a prince, but his kingdom is gone, and to the citizens of Phoenicis, it looks like he is ungrateful for the help that Tibarn has so graciously provided.

Reyson is grateful, but he does not show it in words. He shows it by slipping phrases borrowed from Tibarn into his own speech, by trailing Tibarn and watching as he spars with his men, by attempting to grow stronger at the expense of his own body, unsuited as it is for a lifestyle of meat-eating and vigorous exercise.

“You don’t have to be a fighter to be valuable, Reyson.” Tibarn tells him, for the umpteenth time. “Everyone has their own strengths, and none are more valuable than the next.”

“Perhaps in theory. But physical prowess is the language of battle.” Reyson replies, in the tone that Tibarn has come to know means that he will not be budged.

“That may be, but if you continue to push your body to do things it was not intended to do, you’ll be no use to anyone.” Tibarn says. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about battle. For that, you have me and all of Phoenicis behind you. If you ever need someone roughed up, just say the word and I’ll take care  of it.”

“That’s not the point!” Reyson says, voice uncharacteristically shrill. “I owe you a great debt for saving my life and taking my family and me in, and I will not ever be able to repay it if I have you fight all my battles for me.”

“Are you still going on about that debt thing? I’ve told you, you don’t owe me nothing. And even if you did, you’d have paid it ten times over with your companionship.” Tibarn says. “If you feel like you need to do more, you could try singing for us once in a while.”

“I do not sing any longer.” Reyson says, voice suddenly hard. “Besides, I have other reasons for wanting to grow stronger.”

“Is this about revenge?” Tibarn asks cautiously.

Reyson says nothing.

Years pass, and Tibarn begins to hope that perhaps Reyson’s soul is beginning to heal. He retains his fiery temper, but vengeance is no longer at the forefront of his mind. He spends his days with Tibarn and does not speak of debt. Although he still does not sing, he smiles often and even begins to laugh, and when he does he seems to radiate light.

(“Why don’t you sing anymore?” Tibarn asks. “I thought herons were famous for their song.”

“Herons are creatures of balance, and the power of the galdrar comes from the balance in our hearts.” Reyson says. “But I have not felt balance since the destruction of Serenes Forest. If I were to attempt to sing a galdrar now, I do not know what sort of destruction it might bring about.”)

Tibarn cannot imagine life without him, and he often wonders if Reyson’s heron empathy means that he knows the immense and overwhelming fondness that Tibarn holds for him.

Then one day Reyson disappears, and Tibarn’s world seems to spin off its axis. Reyson leaves a note saying that he will return, but he does not say when, and although Tibarn trusts him, he cannot shake his feeling of unease.

Then Nealuchi comes and tells them what has happened: Reyson had been sold to the Duke of Tanas by Naesala, king of Kilvas and Reyson’s supposed friend. Perhaps the king of Kilvas had planned to rescue him, but it has become irrelevant because Reyson has escaped on his own.

Tibarn’s restlessness turns to white-hot rage at the king of Kilvas and the duke of Tanas, with a flash of pride that Reyson escaped without needing to be rescued. This news is not good news, but it gives him focus, and a deadly sense of calm. All there is to do is find Reyson, and he will do just that. (And then he will visit Naesala and well...Reyson is not the only one who aches for vengeance.)

They find Reyson in what’s left of Serenes Forest, and suddenly it all makes perfect sense. When he asks Reyson if he is considering singing a galdrar of destruction, he is only seeking confirmation for what he already knows.

“Yes.” Reyson says, fearsome in his resolve. “The humans will pay for the genocide that they have committed against my people.”

“Reyson, this isn’t right.” Tibarn tries to reason with him. “Herons are creatures of balance, and the galdrar was not mean to be used this way.”

“Balance is something I have not had for twenty years now, and I have not missed it.” Reyson says, defiant. “But what I have missed is justice, and I will mete it out while I have the chance.”

Reyson’s eyes flash in a way that Tibarn has not seen since the day he pulled Reyson out of the rubble and Tibarn sees that he has to try a new tactic.

“Reyson, you’re right.” He says. “You’re right. The humans destroyed your forest, and they killed your people, and they deserve any justice that you can deliver. But these humans are not the humans who killed your family, and now is not the time. Come home, and I promise that whatever you want to do to get your revenge, you have my support and the support of all of Phoenicis.”

Reyson looks at Tibarn, eyes boring into his. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.” Tibarn says, promising recklessly. “Anything you want Reyson, I promise.”

Reyson does not reply for a moment, thinking, then finally says. “Alright.”

Reyson flies over to them and Tibarn releases all the tension he did not realize he’d been holding in his muscles. “Thank you, Reyson.”

“Let’s go home.” Reyson says, and Tibarn’s heart leaps because Reyson has never referred to Phoenicis as home before.

Somehow before they return home, they discover Reyson’s supposedly-dead sister and get caught up in a continent-wide war. But more importantly, Tibarn finally gets to hear Reyson sing, and it is more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. When Reyson and Leanne sing, the forest literally comes alive, color and life returning to what was once barren and dark, and Tibarn feels his heart swelling as he watches the plants grow.

One war ends and another begins, and throughout all the political turmoil, Reyson is his constant in his life, beautiful and stubborn and passionate. He begins to sing again, both in the course of battle and in the quiet moments in between, and he focuses his anger more specifically, onto the beorc who wrong him rather than onto all beorc.

One thing that does not change is his stubbornness. Herons are not meant for war; the chaos of the battlefield saps their strength and their bodies are too frail to withstand more than a single hit from an axe or an arrow. Despite all this, Reyson insists on flying into battle with them, confident that Tibarn will protect him and insistent that he will contribute in whatever way he can.

Tibarn usually does not even try to refuse him, unwilling to patronize him and knowing that it’s a lost cause anyway, but when Reyson passes out hours before they are supposed to meet Ike for battle, Tibarn decides that Reyson is not going onto the battlefield when his body cannot even keep him awake. They have been fighting constantly, so much that even Tibarn, who is usually invigorated by battle, is exhausted, which means that Reyson must be on the bring of collapse.

He pulls a blanket over Reyson and is about to leave when he realizes that if Reyson wakes up, he will follow them. In a fit of desperation, he spies a length of ropes and uses it to loosely tie Reyson’s wrists to the bed, hoping that Reyson will still be asleep when he returns.

Reyson is not asleep when he returns.

Reyson is the first thing that he checks on when he returns from battle, wings still smelling of blood and running on battle endorphins and nothing else. When he enters the tent, he encounters a very awake and very angry Reyson.

“Tibarn.” Reyson says, voice cold and firm. “Untie me now.”

Tibarn does, undoing the knows in a matter of seconds. As soon as Reyson has his hands free, he slaps Tibarn across the face, hard. He can see Reyson wince in pain as his hand strikes Tibarn’s cheek, but Tibarn does not feel any physical pain, only the sting of being slapped by the person whose opinion he valued most.

“What were you thinking?” Reyson hisses.

“I was thinking that I didn’t want you to die today.” Tibarn shoots back, suddenly angry.

“I think that should be a decision for me to make, not you.” Reyson says. “All my life, laguz who were not herons have treated me as someone fragile, who cannot take care of himself and cannot be trusted to make his own decisions. You have never treated me like that.” Reyson fixes him with a cold glare. “Until today.”

“Reyson, you were already asleep.” Tibarn says. “If you were to wake up and head to the battlefield, not only would you risk your own life but you’d risk mine, Janaff’s, and Ulki’s.”

“Well then perhaps you should wake me up before flying into battle!” Reyson shouts, stunning Tibarn into silence.

The air is thicker with tension than it has ever been between them as they look at each other, unsure of how to continue.

Reyson breaks the silence. “Tibarn, I know you mean well. I know you meant to protect me. But what you did made me feel like I am a bauble for you to protect, and that is something that I will not bear. Naesala treated me like a bartering tool when he sold me to advance his own ends. Duke Tanas-” Reyson spits the name, voice dripping with venom. “-saw me as a prized piece of art, to be insured and appreciated. More than anything else, I cannot abide being treated like I am an object, no matter how treasured, and especially not by you.”

“I’m sorry.” Tibarn reaches out, slowly to give Reyson the chance to back away, resting his hand on Reyson’s when he does not back away. “I didn’t realize how it would feel to you, because believe me, I never want to make you feel that way. I was only thinking of how I thought I lost you once, when Naesala-” Tibarn says his name with as much venom as Reyson says the name Duke Tanas. “-sold you, and I couldn’t bear to have that happen again.”

“I know that sometimes I am a liability on the battlefield rather than an asset.” Reyson admits. “But I hate to be left behind.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you on the battlefield.” Tibarn says, squeezing Reyson’s hand. “In fact, I’d rather have you where I can see you so I can personally watch your back. I fight better when you’re around too, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t know if you realize it, but we all rely a lot on you and your galdrar in battle.”

“But no one can fight every battle without rest, and I know that the chaos has been taking a toll on you. I won’t force you to stay back again, but I do hope that you’ll rest when you need it. We need you on the battlefield with us, but we need you alive even more.” Tibarn pauses. “I need you alive even more.”

Reyson suddenly kisses him softly, free hand cupping Tibarn’s cheek where he had slapped it before.

“What was that for?” Tibarn asks when he pulls back. “Not that I’m complaining.” He adds, smile edging into his voice.

“An apology.” Reyson says. “For not realizing that my own reckless behavior was causing you pain.”

Reyson draws back, extricating his hand from Tibarn’s, but Tibarn loops an arm around Reyson’s slender waist and draws Reyson back to him, kisses him long and hard and deep, one hand on the small of Reyson’s back and the other in his hair.

When they pull apart, Reyson is breathing heavily, eyes dazed. “Was that an apology too?” He asks.

“No.” Tibarn says. “It was a promise. Firstly, that I will never try to make your decisions for you again.”

“And secondly,” Tibarn kisses him again. “That no matter what manner of reckless thing that you do, I will always be by your side.”

"Thank you.” Reyson says, catching one of Tibarn’s hands in his own, lacing his slim fingers between Tibarn’s much larger ones. “Thank you.”

They fall into bed together, and as Tibarn undresses Reyson with a sense of almost-reverence, he realizes that it feels like they have always been heading to this place, to the two of them, together in every sense of the word. That it was never a question of whether they would take this step, only how and when.

Tibarn wants to take his time to explore every inch of Reyson’s body, running calloused hands along his lithe frame and peppering soft kisses along Reyson’s even softer skin, but Reyson is impatient, insistently drawing Tibarn back up, kissing him with the un-heron-like fierceness that has always defined Reyson, hands roaming wildly over the vast expanses of Tibarn’s chest.

Reyson moves his mouth to Tibarn’s neck and bites down, hard. Tibarn welcomes the pain, just as he welcomes any sensation, any feeling that Reyson brings.

“You don’t have to be so gentle.” Reyson whispers, lips brushing his ear with every word. “I am not breakable.”

“You are the least fragile person that I have ever met.” Tibarn replies, running his hands through Reyson’s long hair, fascinated. “I’m not gentle because I think I could break you. I’m gentle because I think the world has already brought you enough pain, and I don’t want to ever cause you any more. I want you to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved.”

Reyson’s eyes glint with feeling and he says no more about pain or gentleness, only kisses Tibarn again.

Reyson lets Tibarn press him into the mattress and fuck him slowly and gently, wings brushing Reyson’s with every thrust, eyes never leaving his. Tibarn strokes him firmly with his hands, strong and callused but still gentle, and when Reyson cries out his release it feels like a galdrar, not a dirge of ruin or an aria of rebirth, but something that rings much truer in his ears and in his heart.

“You do know that I love you, right?” Tibarn asks, arms and wings enfolding Reyson in a warm embrace that makes Reyson feel safer than he ever has before.

“Of course.” Reyson says, unable to stop the smile that finds it way onto his face as he feels Tibarn press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Good.” Tibarn says. “I figured you did, what with your heron empathy powers and all that, but I had to check.”

“Actually, it’s not because of my powers.” Reyson says. “I have never told anyone this, but my empathy has always been stronger for negative emotions than it has for positive ones.”

“That sounds frustrating.” Tibarn remarks.

“Quite.” Reyson agrees. “Especially since herons are supposed to be beings of peace. But it does mean that I know that you feel frustrated with me sometimes, but you worry when I am in danger, and that you feel my pain as if it was your own. I cannot feel your love for me directly through my empathy, but your words and your actions have left me with no doubt.”

“And here I was thinking you’ve known all along that I’ve had the hots for you for almost twenty years now.” Tibarn chuckles.

“Tibarn,” Reyson says, voice suddenly serious. “I hope you realize that I love you as well.”

“I guessed as much, but I’m not sure I’m convinced.” Tibarn says, a smile in his voice. “I might need you to say it again.”

“Oh no,” Reyson says. “If you want to hear it again, you’re going to have to work for it.”

Reyson smiles at him wickedly, and it’s such a far cry from the times when Reyson barely talked, would not smile, and would not sing and Tibarn’s heart has never been fuller.

“I think that I’m up for the challenge.”