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zensations35 · 5 months

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King of Madness

Soooo, I knocked this thing out in like 48 hours. Because when inspiration strikes, nothing makes sense. This is an Orestes fic based on Greek mythology retellings. It's a different style than I normally write, but I did it this way to keep it loyal to the source material. I also wrote it specifically to be read as an audio fic, so, enjoy that! A little background: The furies are causing Orestes to hallucinate and Menelaus is trying to catch him acting mad so he can take over Orestes’ kingdom. It’s all very political and petty. Ok! Enjoy!

Pylades sweeps into the room, cloak whirling around his feet as he dips so quickly he cracks his knee on the smooth floor of the bedchamber.

“My King,” his voice is firm, respectful. Only slightly pitched with worry.

Orestes reclines--slumps really--against the headboard of the carved wooden cradle of the bed. He looks much worse than Pylades last saw him. Dark curls damp his brow, his visible flesh shiny and scented with the gleam of oils and sweat from his mental decline.

“Did…” Orestes chokes on the word, his lips dry, breaths hot like baked earth. “Did you bring it?”

Pylades pulls out a wooden box, gold filigree carved in the sides and woven in floral patterns.

“Yes, My King, but I know not why.”

Orestes shifts to sit upright and winces. His head spins and he swears he catches the sight of a sinister shadow just out of his field of vision.

“Open the box,” he says. “Dab the oil on your wrist.”

Pylades is dying to ask more, but he obeys. Even he concedes to Mycenae’s ruler.

The bottle of oil in the box is a voluptuous glass with amber liquid inside. He does what he is told and spreads a dollop around his wrist.

The odor is pungent, the sweet earthy scent of flowers permeating the air.

Orestes drinks in a liquid sniff. “Yes--that is the one.”

Pylades’s brow furrows. “Is this…the scent you react to?”

“It is.”

“My King, my Lord…why?”

Another sniff, this one punctured by a swift intake of breath. Orestes nose tips skyward and his lower lip quivers. Then his chest deflates with a sigh. He brings up a hand to whisk under his twitching nose.

“Menelaus comes for me. We must convince him my fevers are illness, not madness.”

“And you wish me to…”

Orestes presses the circle of his fingers into Pylades’ wrist. “You must aggravate my symptoms from the oil. But do not let my Uncle know what causes it. We must be--”

Orestes shivers, his breaths slick with panic. His eyes catch the sight of something above him, but he dares not look. “I-I'm not…” he cinches his lids, curling into himself and shuddering. He can hear them--the furies--cackling in the rafters, screeching.

Orestes smothers his face in his palms, muffling his mania. “I c-can't! I…I see them! I see--!” His voice pitches into hysteria and Pylades moves closer.

“My Lord, Orestes,” he breathes, steadying his voice, guiding his King back to the realm of reality. “You are here. You are safe. You are in Ithaca. You are safe!”

Orestes blinks shadows from his eyes and seals his lips. A beat of his heart, and then he sighs. “I…yes. I am…”

A bull of a knock makes both men flick eyes to the door.

“Nephew?”

Heart thudding in his neck, Orestes’ grip tightens on Pylades’ arm and he wrenches his wrist close, dipping his nose into the heartbeat of his skin. He inhales.

“Nephew? I--”

Orestes doesn’t hear the rest. His lungs crackle with force as he guzzles a breath. “HfSH-Mnn-!”

That silenced Menelaus. But his footsteps do not retreat. Orestes knew he wouldn’t. But now he knows this plan should work--as long as Pylades reads the cues as well as he does in battle.

Pylades helps Orestes stand and hobble to the door. His normally bouncy curls stick flat and limp against his slick brow.

The door creaks open and Orestes stands in the hollow arch. Menelaus is there, bold and ready to enter.

“Nephew, kin of my kin,” his shoulders bob--barely a bow but no one, no one, would insult the great Menelaus by questioning his prowess at bowing.

“I have come to escort you to the feast.”

“Uncle,” Orestes offers a respectful nod. He ambles forward, detaching himself from Pylades.

Menelaus watches them, a spark in his eyes that is close to malice. And then, gone. Replaced by a Kingly smile. “We have not started without you. I told them, I said, ‘We must wait. We mustn’t start without the King! Not without the Lord of Mycenae.’”

Menelaus is so close now, Orestes can smell the sour wine upon his breath and Menelaus can see Orestes’ sweat bathed forehead. The King of Sparta licks his teeth, eyes narrow and clever.

Orestes turns away to sniffle politely and cough.

“Your illness seems not to have improved.” Menelaus scans the room. “Where might Elektra be?”

“She helps the women prepare the feast, of course.”

A raised brow in mock surprise. “Who cares for you, then, nephew? Your noble hand,” he gestures to Pylades. “I thought him capable in battle, no? Such a good man. A good soldier.”

“Pylades does just as well with other tasks.”

“Sickness is inherent in your family, is it not?”

A muscle feathers in Orestes’ cheek. “Are you implying, Uncle, that Agamemnon--your brother, greatest of Greeks--has a tainted bloodline?”

Menelaus chuffs, “Of course not. Obviously I meant in the matters of caring for ailments and illnesses, Elektra has experience with these. Wiping brows and blowing noses is women’s work.”

Orestes stiffens. “I find it distasteful to assume men cannot perform such simple tasks.” He twitches his head to the side to hide a silky curve of his lips. “But perhaps it is more Kingly to see women as superior in some aspects.”

Menelaus’ eyes flash, a peevishness hooding his eyes. He blinks it away. “How silly of me, very silly. I know not enough about your condition to say.” He tilts his head to the side, shifting his bulk from one foot to the other. “What exactly ails you, my nephew?”

Orestes opens his mouth to speak but instead of words escaping, air flows in.

Pylades, taking the subtle cue, places his oiled hand on Orestes’ shoulder.

Orestes turns his head as if to look at Pylades, nose pinking from the cloying scent a mere hairsbreadth away.

“My King…”

Orestes dips in a small sigh, brushing his nose against Pylades’ perfumed skin. “Hih-ieh!” his chin juts upward, nostrils jumping to life, “Hnk-ZZHeu!” His body warps and coils, avoiding Pylades’ skin with the spray.

A thick sniffle follows and he knuckles the itch still lingering behind.

Pylades notices the dizzying intensity of the sneeze. Notices every muscle Orestes must use to keep himself standing and stoic. He notices the slight tremor in Orestes’ legs, though the robe shades it from Menelaus’ notice.

“My sickness is from Thebes, come about when merchants came into the city for trade. It is quite Hie-TZHhhh-! Hn…” a thick swallow. “It is quite contagious. This is why Pylades cares for me. He has already been through the ailment.”

Menelaus rocks back on his heels, feeling the weight of his body rolling up and down his joints, his muscles. “Contagion is a myth.”

Orestes plasters on a smile. “I am glad to hear you say that, Uncle. I would hate to miss tonight’s festivities beca--” his eyes widen. The furies are there. Just above, in his field of vision. They giggle and cackle and caw.

One of them reaches down with a long, blackened finger, and curls it upward in an arcing motion.

“Hhh-ih!” Orestes feels the pull of his sinuses, as if his breaths were on a puppet string attached to the finger of the furies. The others giggle, glee replacing anger. Torment amuses them.

The finger lifts higher and his nose follows the motion.”Hhh-hh…”

Menelaus stares at him. Pylades stares at him. For the other men, it seems a normal, if highly exaggerated sneeze.

But it is not. It is well controlled by the furies. A monument of torturous prickles, like hanging partially off a cliff. “--ieh-HHh-Hhhihh!” Orestes’ nose stands poised, nostrils glistening, eyes wet, blurring their shadowy forms.

His chest swells, hitches coming like a songbird in his throat. And then, with a skip of his heart, “Hieh-TSZHSHH-! EGK’TNNKSHEU!”

The sounds ripping from his throat casts Orestes forward, stumbling so hard that Pylades wraps warm hands around his King’s shoulders to steady him.

Menelaus, eyes wide, teeters back. Takes a small step in retreat, before catching himself, anger hardening his features. Menelaus, King of Sparta, recognizes when to withdraw.

“Perhaps, nephew, you should pray to the gods for recovery first,” he says, sweeping back through the door. “I shall send my best priest to your chamber.” He peeks over his shoulder, lips curling. “After all, we want the best care for the King of Kings, do we not?”

The door bangs shut. Footsteps retreat. And then, unable to hold himself up any longer, Orestes falters, collapsing to the marbled floor.

Pylades dives for him, heartbeat threading through his throat. “My Lord, my Lord--” he holds Orestes in his arms. The King of Mycenae, son of Agamemnon, weak like liquid in his embrace.

“Pylades,” Orestes pants, hand fumbling, searching. “I…I…” he speaks with the ashes of fatigue, his energy burned away from the mere act of standing too long.

Pylades touches the back of his hand to his King’s brow. The closeness of his wrist lights a fire in his nose.

“Hih-EXTSHue! HihTSHHoo!” His neck bends, moisture painting Pylades’ hands. He can’t suppress his shudders, lips trembling as he speaks. “Apologies. Apologies--I--”

“My Lord, all is well. Menelaus has gone. You are safe, you are safe…I will care for you.”

Orestes slumps further into Pylades and sighs. “It is rotten work.”

Pylades’ finger drifts over his thumb, “Not to me.” He uses the folded cloth of his robe to dab at Orestes’ cheek. “Not if it’s you.”

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