#hold my amphora

[hrefna-the-raven]

Hot as Hades

Masterlist

Words: 2154

Chapter 1 - Call me with a prayer

Summary: You always prayed to Hades and one night, he finally answered your prayers

Warnings: none, just cuteness and love

More and more people assembled for the festivities of Chtonia. Instead of partaking in the customary rituals like the rest, you chose to venture alone into the neighbouring forest. Your ebony peplos gracefully swayed in the gentle evening breeze as you strolled, held together by a sapphire belt that accentuated your form. Clasped tightly in your grasp was an amphora brimming with the finest wine as you navigated through the thick foliage. You had always been somewhat of a solitary soul, finding solace in the company of animals and the natural world rather than in the presence of others. Therefore, it came as no surprise that you would also pay homage to the gods in seclusion, or more specifically, one particular deity. Your steps came to a halt in front of a weathered shrine, a small wooden box housing an intricate statuette of Hades. Since your earliest memories, you had felt an inexplicable pull towards the ruler of the underworld, without understanding why or needing to know. For years, you had frequented this shrine, engaging in conversations with the god. Though he never responded, it mattered not to you; you continued to visit and converse with him nevertheless.

Little did you know that the ruler of the underworld listened to every single one of your prayers. You intruiged him, becoming a pleasant diversion from his daily dealings with the departed. Initially, he was cautious, as no one had ever approached him solely to pray without seeking something in return. Whether it was the resurrection of a loved one or an extension of their own lifespan, prayers were never simple or genuine acts of devotion, at least not for him. That was a luxury that was only granted to the other gods. Of course, he expected the same from you in the beginning, you were only human and mortal after all. However, as years went by, you continued to visit his shrine, offering prayers without any ulterior motives. And until this moment, you had never asked for anything in return, you simply came to talk, and boy, did you have a way of doing so. The jokes you cracked would have made him drop dead laughing, figuratively speaking. While you strolled through the forest, Hades was captivated by your presence, completely engrossed in observing you from the underworld, as Pain and Panic entered the throne room, arguing about who's turn it was to confess their mistake first. Panic suddenly grew silent and nudged Pain, pointing towards Hades, too engrossed in observing you to even notice his minions. Pain let out an amused giggle and stepped forward.

"Your most lugubriousness", he bowed, "are you watching the mortal again?"

Before Hades could respond, Panic interjected, approaching Pain with an impish grin.

"Ah you know the boss got the major hots for her", he could barely contain his smirk, "isn't that right, boss? When are you gonna talk to her? She prays to you for years now."

Hades' hair flaired up and turned a fiery orange before he quickly rushed his hands through, calming the flames until they turned blue again.

"Guys, guys, guys...you know the rules my stupid brother set up", he sighed, "no interaction is permitted until the mortal pleads for a favour."

"But if she does ask something, anything", Pain victoriously pointed his finger up.

"You could appear and talk to her, ask her on a date, boss", Panic finished the idea.

Hades was about to answer when his eyes fell back on you as you kneeled in front of the shrine, holding up the amphora.

"Wouldn't it be far more delightful to share this fine wine with you instead of pouring it to the ground in your name? I'd definitely prefer that", you playfully teased as you removed the cork.

"Boss, she's asking for something! She wants something from you!", exclaimed in a nervous tandem before they blinked and looked around the throne room, "where did he go?"

Just as you were about to pour the wine on the ground, goosebumps formed on your skin and the air around you seemed to shift.

"Baboom. Name is Hades, lord of the dead, hi, howya doin'?", a smooth voice resonated from the dissipating smoke that materialised out of thin air.

As the smoke cleared, a towering, muscular man stood before you, his piercing yellow eyes stared right into your soul. Your gaze trailed over his form, a gasp escaping your lips as you took in his bluish-gray skin and the blue flames crowning his head. Stunned, you found yourself unable to move as the amphora slipped from your grasp but instead of the sound of shattering ceramic, silence met your ears and it levitated toward the god's waiting hands, a mischievous smirk adorning his face as he held it before him.

"My sweet", he winked at you, "it would be shame to throw this on the ground, especially after you mentioned wanting to share it with", he took a few steps closer to you as he leaned down to face you directly, "me."

Hades' smug exterior was the perfectly constructed façade, hiding his crumbling confidence. Question: am I mortified? Answer: yes! What will she say? She will be either afraid or disgusted, either way, this will not work in your favour. He blinked a few times, trying to silence his own thoughts, until he felt your hand on his face. Your fingers trailed up his cheek, brushing against his hair as you observed him with curiosity. But when your fingers got too close to the flames on his head, you quickly pulled them back in pain.

"Ouch", you almost laughed as you licked the burnt fingertips, "one can truly say, you're hot as Hades."

And at that very instant, the mind of the god ceased all function, undergoing a painful shutdown in order to reassess the situation. Throughout the ages, he had revealed himself to countless individuals and witnessed a myriad of reactions, yet not a single mortal had ever responded quite like you did. You just casually not only touched him but also made an admittedly funny joke. Clearing his throat, he snapped his fingers, and in an instant, both of you found yourselves seated on a blanket in the heart of a forest clearing, beneath a breathtakingly clear night sky adorned with shimmering stars. Hades proceeded to pour you a goblet of wine.

"So let's embark on the delightful task of sharing of this finer beverage. What do you mortals fancy these days? Actually, never mind. Don't spoil, I have to try this myself", he remarked as he took a sip from his own chalice.

He hummed at the pleasant taste flodding his mouth, eyes falling shut for a moment as he tried to ignore the rapid beating of his heart in your presence.

"So uhm", you shyly began, peering at him, "how are things in the underworld?"

Great, you mentally scolded yourself, you finally get the chance to talk to your god and this is the best you could come up with?

"Well, they're just fine. You know, a little dark, a little gloomy. And, as always, hey, full of dead people. What are you gonna do?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, secretly pondering whether he was simply being polite or if the ruler of the underworld truly shared your sense of humor.

"Come up here and share some wine and jokes with a tiny mortal?", you playfully countered, raising your goblet in invitation.

"Well the dead certainly aren't going anywhere, so what kind of god would I be if I didn't set aside some time from my busy schedule to spend an evening with my most devoted follower?"

You quickly nibbled at your wine, trying to conceal the blush that crept onto your cheeks. The tales circulating about the lord of the underworld were plentiful, none of them portraying him in a favourable light. However, it suddenly struck you that none of these stories had taken the time to truly understand the god sitting next to you. You knew better than to assume that he was only nice and fun based solely on a few pleasantries exchanged, but it also seemed unlikely that he was the monstrous figure painted by the people.

"Here's to Lord Hades, the ruler of the underworld, the lord of the dead, and quite possibly the most handsome god I've encountered thus far", you sincerely smiled at him as you finished another goblet, toasting his name and hoping he wouldn't hold that bold compliment against you.

"Babe, I'm the only god you've met so far."

"But I've seen the statues of the others and meh", you shook your head, "nothing that would shake my acropolis if you catch my drift."

The god burst into a boisterous laughter in response to your remark. After all those years of listening to you, he cherished the warmth of your presence. The way your gaze explored him, brimming with awe and, he could swear, a trace of desire, made him feel woozy on the inside, a weird feeling he hadn't felt in, well, never actually. Time with you slipped away too swiftly, and when Hades caught sight of the sunrise, he let out a melancholic sigh. He took your hand, helped you up and with a snip of his fingers, you found yourself back at the shrine.

"I really enjoyed this, Lord, I mean, my god, Hades", you mumbled, unsure of how to express to an actual god that you yearned for more time together.

My god....my...that one little word, its weight pulling not only his mind in but also his heart which seemed to gravitate around your mortal being, unable to pull away again. Hades shook his head, nervously running his hand through his flaming hair.

"Well, gotta blaze. I have a whole underworld down there waiting for me, so see you around and don't forget to offer your prayers to your one and only", he winked before he disappeared into thin air, leaving behind only a faint trail of dark smoke where he had been standing.

A satisfied grin spread across your lips, your heart fluttering at the mere thought of having spent an entire night with a god. You hummed a sweet tune as you made your way back home, passing the still ongoing festivities. You chuckled at their efforts to please the gods while a small prayer of you summoned the Lord of the underworld himself.

Hades didn't return to the underworld but went back to the clearing, pacing around as the thoughts of the night lingering in his mind. You were a tiny mortal, he was a god, an immortal being, your life would be over within the blink of an eye and then your soul would be floating in the river Styx, for all eternity for him to watch. It would be torment, and he despised torment, at least when it came to himself. He had no qualms inflicting his favourite methods of torture on others. He groaned, his hands rubbing across his face, trying to push away that growing warmth within his chest.

"Well well well", a female voice spoke, causing Hades to spin around, "when I sensed the call of love, I certainly wasn't expecting to find you."

"Aphrodite", Hades huffed, "fancy meeting you here. Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Oh Hades", the goddess giggled, "the Lord of the underworld in love, and with a mortal no less. How could I be anywhere else when I can revel in taunting you?"

Aphrodite stepped closer, playfully poking her finger into Hades' chest.

"Don't fight it, you won't be able to ignore your love, it has already grown too much."

Hades' hair flared up, fiery orange flames engulfing his neck and shoulders as he suppressed a scream. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, attempting to compose himself while Aphrodite merely chuckled with amusement.

"WHAAAT ARE...? Okay, fine, fine. I'm cool. I'm fine", he grumbled, shooting an irritated glare at the goddess, "I'm.not.in.love."

Although his voice appeared calm, the underlying strain of anger was evident.

"Just savour the moment, my dear", Aphrodite waved at him, "oh and by the way, courtesy of yours truly", she winked at him, mockingly bowing her head, "the mortal loves you too."

And with those words, she disappeared. Hades rolled his eyes; he would never admit it, but she was right. If he set aside his pride and delved deep enough into his corrupted black oozing heart, he would have to acknowledge that the affection and curiosity he felt for you went beyond mere fondness and the fact that you seemed to feel the same way was both worrying and reassuring. Although, for now, he was content to just observe you, spend some time together and see what would unfold and, if possible, hide it from the other gods, they were insufferable enough as it is.

Chapter 2

#disney #disney villains #disney hades #disney hercules #hades #fluff #falling in love #some love for Hades #female reader #hades x reader #disney x reader

[lovelylittlelosers]

🚨 TOP TEN ANCIENT MEDITERRANEAN (Hellenic) POTTERY SHAPES (and their best in show) 🚨

A lot of these are going to be from Athens. This isn’t because Athens is the best polis at pottery, but because most of the surviving material culture from Greek antiquity was found in Athens. This is just the facts of classics, deal with it.

10.  The Oinochoe ⭐️⭐️

This is just a pitcher. A boring boring pitcher used to pour wine. It could have been so much more. where’s the flare? I have nothing left to say.

Best in show: Wtf is he doin with that hog? Wheelbarrow racing? Just kidding, this is actually Herakles defeating that boar and bringing it to Athena. which is cool  but its still just a fucking pitcher. (~510 BCE Athens)

9. The Alabastron ⭐️⭐️⭐️

It’s a little vial/jug that holds oils and perfumes. BORING. Do more, be better. Alabastra  are the type of vase that wouldn’t stand a chance in a fist fight. I need a bad bitch piece of pottery and this shit isn't cutting it.

Best in show: This Etruscan alabastron. She’s cute! I too like to paint little cats. (620-590 BCE, Corinth)

8.  The Amphora ⭐️⭐️⭐️ 

She’s tried and true. She’s a classic. She’s basic as hell. Amphorai have many uses but mainly they’re just glorified modern kitchen Pyrex. They just contain shit. Grains? ✔️ Oil? ✔️ Human Ashes? ✔️ Multipurpose icon, but it’s also the only pottery type with its own emoji 🏺 so she’s too mainstream for my taste. All my homies appreciate the amphora, but it’s never gonna be top 5.

Best in show: Exekias’ pot of mythic warriors Achilles and Ajax playing a lil game. How fun! I love a game night. (~540 BCE Athens)

7.  The Stamnos ⭐️⭐️⭐️.5

The amphora’s cooler cousin. stamnoi are bad bitches all around. They’re stouter and are made to hold liquids like water and wine (and sometimes as diluting vessels.) They have the same powerful vibe as amphorai but they’re more underground, you’ve probably never heard of them before.

Best in show: Listen. Is she a little flawed? Yes. Is she serving cunt? Kinda. This stamnos depicts Dionysus and his maenads and satyrs! Rad as hell. (370–360 BCE Etruscan)

6. The Volute Krater ⭐️⭐️⭐️.5

Kraters are wine mixing pots where water is added to super concentrated wines to make them actually drinkable. Kraters have many different styles but the best of them is the Volute Krater - just like a normal krater, but with fancier handles. They’ve got a very classic look I think, I’d want to hang out with one they seem like they have really expensive and classy tastes. The sugar mommy of ancient pottery.

Best in show:  What a pretty mother fucker. (~320 BCE Etruscan).

5. The Lebes Gamikos ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

So... This one is really weird looking and also really pretty. Has maybe the least practical lid I’ve ever seen but who can even blame it when it looks that pretty? A lebes would have been used as a cooking pot. A COOKING POT. CAN YOU IMAGINE WHIPPING THIS BITCH OUT TO MAKE MAC AND CHEESE????

Best in show: TO COOK WITH??????????? It’s got Eros on it and a smaller decorative lebes as the handle. So extra and for what? (350 - 325 BCE Apulia.)

4.  The Loutrophorus ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️.5

 These guys are tall and skinny and potters liked to go ham on the handles. They were ceremonial vases that held water. They’re just really impressive. I mean just look at it. Potters and Painters got to go crazy on these things because they were only really used for big and important rituals and events so they could be as fancy and special as they wanted.

Best in show: I mean,,,, come on folks. This piece has the head of a woman on the lid and each side is decorated with tons of gods and goddesses. It is ornate, it was expensive, it is a fucking queen. (330 BCE)

3. The Kylix  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️.5

Perhaps a little over rated but definitely not as overhyped as the amphora, the kylix is a wide shallow pot used for sippin’ on drinks in super style. They have painted eyes and when you drink from them the eyes become part of your face and the handles look like ears. This is life changing information. These bitches are big and dramatic, much like me. They were really popular in Mycenean Greece (before the dark ages that birthed the classical Hellenic period we all know and love -- the ancient Greece of ancient Greece) which just screams Scorpio energy; how mysterious and cool of them. These baddies have art not just on the outside, but the inside too! 

Best in show: Reminds me of that crazy look anime characters get when they’re about to go off the rails (~510 BCE Athens.) a second less cool kylix is also pictured to show you what they would look like when you drank from them. Hilarious.

2. The Pyxis ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Pyxides are the unsung hero of ancient pottery. Most pottery charts will not feature them. But Pyxides are a girl’s best friend.

The pyxis serves as a little jewelry box, a little box for all your trinkets, a little makeup kit. This is the fun type of versatility (👀🏺 get good amphora) These little guys sit on your ancient vanity and open up from the top with a fun shaped handle. Because they were made for women we get a lot of cool insights on women’s lives (and a lot of wedding stuff) in antiquity from these little guys!

Best in show: THIS pyxis depicting a bride preparing for her wedding. Outside she takes a little bath with Eros (winged god of love who later becomes our modern Cupid) and inside he sits on her lap. Talk about a wing man! (~410 BCE Athens.)

1. The Kantharos  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

If you don’t think a kantharos could steal your girl you’re wrong. These bitches have everything you could ever look for. They’re smaller drinking cups that were most likely used for rituals due to how crazy ornate most of them are. Some of them are even molded to look like heads, that is simultaneously really badass and also very unserious!!

Best(s) in show: A classic ornate kantharos with silver plating depicting the death of Orpheus and the kidnapping of Helen. Look at how fucking GORGEOUS it is (~415 BC.)  And a head kantharos (also called a janiform kantharos as they have two faces!) of a satyr and a woman. Imagine drinking from this I would feel so powerful (420 B.C. Athens.)

#guess my special interest #ancient greece #archaeology #classics #etruscan #athens #corinth

[babyrdie]

Thetis

I wanted to draw Thetis because I just adore her, so here we are.

Now I'm going to start chatting since this whole thing involving Thetis and Achilles is of great interest to me, so I'll separate this post into topics.

DIFFERENT COSTUMES

I generally design clothes based more on representations in amphorae or descriptions in Greek plays/poems from myths, which means that the clothes are not Mycenaean. However, I decided to try to make Mycenaean clothing (as it would be most accurate with the time of the Trojan War) at least on mortals. The gods will not necessarily follow costumes according to the timeline. For example, Athena will still have peplos and armor if I draw her.

In my drawings I intend to make Thetis in detailed Mycenaean costumes when living in Phthia, and peplos without adornments when not. I decided to make nymphs with a more "free" look of adornments or tied hair because I think it suits them, and this extends to the naiads and, therefore, Thetis. I intended to make this costume change due to the context of Thetis' story.

I'm following Argonautica a lot because I liked the portrait that Apollonius gave to Thetis. In Book IV, Apollonius shows us about Peleus interrupting Thetis as she tries to immortalize Achilles with fire. Because he interrupts her, the procedure doesn't work and she becomes frustrated and leaves [1], never to return. Achilles was a baby then. After this event, apparently she and Peleus find themselves in an even stranger situation judging by the way Hera comments on Thetis letting go of her anger and the cold interaction she has with Peleus despite this (I say "more" because it was already a situation tense from the beginning).

We also know, from the Hera lines, about how Zeus was interested in Thetis and tried to have something, but she didn't want it. And how Zeus was offended by this, declaring that she would never be the wife of an immortal, but still he continued after her. However, Thetis still never wanted anything to do with him [2]. Finally, Zeus is informed by Themis about the famous prophecy of Thetis' son being greater than his father and fears that her becoming pregnant by an immortal will end up giving birth a threat to him, and then forces her into a marriage with a mortal. Hera's part in this is that she steps forward to choose Peleus herself [3] and even holds the bridal torch for Thetis. Hera is an important relationship in Thetis' story.

In other words, Thetis was forced into a horrible situation against her will, which even involved her being a victim of abuse [4], for something she never had fault. Thetis even spent time on the surface with Peleus, apparently trying to come to terms with what reality should be. But the mere fact that she tries to immortalize Achilles shows that, in the end, she was never "ok" about it. And Peleus messing this up (accidentally. He thought Achilles was going to die for obvious reasons: fire) only made her even more frustrated at what her life had become. That was her limit and she returned to sea never to return to live in Phtia. The possibility of making her son immortal like her was what had been keeping her there, day after day discreetly trying to burn away Achilles' mortality. Without that being possible anymore, she left.

In Argonautica, we also know that Achilles is on Mount Pelion, being trained by Chiron and raised by naiads. He must still be a child (instead of a teenager, for example), considering that at the Chiron's wife holds him on her lap and shows him to Peleus before Peleus leaves with the Argonauts in Book I. Hera suggests that Thetis isn't a figure present in this part, so I imagine that Thetis must not have been frequent in Pelion. Still, part of the reason why she helps the Argonauts is precisely Achilles, so I think that even though she was far away [5], she still cared about him.

I think that, while living with Peleus, Thetis was, in a way, already trying to fit into a life that was not hers. The sea was her life. Hence the obvious difference in the way she dresses. While in Phtia, she focuses on dressing like a high-class mortal, as she's married to a mortal king. However, she still wears marine colors, wave patterns, and pearl accessories because I imagine that even though she can no longer be at sea, Thetis still wants to keep part of where she came from with her.

After leaving Phtia, I imagine that she goes back to wearing less detailed peplos and her hair loose like the other nymphs. Because she doesn't feel like she needs to look like a king's wife and prefers the way she was before.

SKYROS

The second drawing is basically the myth in which Thetis, fearing that her son will follow the part of the prophecy that says he will die young, ends up hiding Achilles on the island of Skyros. Thanks to this, Achilles is one of the last to be recruited by the Achaeans to go to Troy. I think that being one of the only moments where it could just be her and her son, I like to imagine that Tethys would be a relatively more frequent presence. Perhaps Thetis was even excited by the idea of having him away from everything and wanted to enjoy it, deep down feeling that the time would one day come. So I like to think that she actively enjoyed arranging his hair into intricate hairstyles and choosing what he would wear. After all, Achilles himself wouldn't know how to do this because he'd never done it before.

She loved Achilles very much. It's evident in every scene of hers in The Iliad. She always listens to him, demands a favor from Zeus to follow his wish, appears with her sisters to console him after the death of Patroclus, and then demands a favor from Hephaestus to make armor for him (Book I, Book VIII, Book XVIII, Book XXIV). In the Odyssey, it's also said that from the sea came a terrifying scream that made the Achaeans, even the bravest, start running in the direction of ships until they noticed that it was Thetis, coming out of the sea after discovering the death of Achilles. After that, she's one of the people responsible for his funeral and is the one who chooses the prizes for his funeral games (Book XXIV)

So yeah, seeing as she's, I think Thetis would enjoy Skyros for as long as she can. Unfortunately for us, there is no Greek play/poem on the subject, at most mentions in other literary works and representations in art. The other sources are Roman, not Greek.[6]

DESIGN

Finishing with the design. Achilles' design has already been explained here and here. The difference is that in those designs he's already in Troy and, therefore older. I'm following one of the versions given by Pseudo-Apollodorus, in which he says that Achilles was fifteen years old at the time of preparations to go to Troy. So I'm giving him fifteen on Skyros too before he's discovered (fourteen at most, but I imagine fifteen). Here he's less tanned because he didn't spend the 10 years in Troy, but he's still tanned because he spent at least part of his life in Pelion. Shorter hair because it hadn't grown as much. He's also shorter in height. My adult Achilles is 1,90 (6'3), and here I imagine he's still tall compared to the other girls on Skyros, but not as tall as he is as an adult.

Regarding Thetis, I imagine her tall because she's not mortal, very pale because it reminds me of the coldness of the depths of the sea, with black eyes since fish usually have black eyes and blonde hair because Achilles' blonde hair reinforces his demigod trait, so I imagine it came from Thetis. The sharp teeth are not fangs, just slightly larger canines, which even humans can have. I imagine her being just over 2 meters tall in her main form, but being able to change her height.

Her having more obvious fish features, like the fin on her ear, isn't accurate with Greek mythology. In Greek mythology, nymphs have the same appearance as others: that is, similar to mortals, just very beautiful. However, I took the liberty of bringing her closer to fish features as I see people doing with various characters in modern interpretations. But I imagine that she when in Phytia's palace, wore a more human appearance. In the first image, she's in the sea, so it isn't a concern.

NOTES (I think...?)

1. Fun fact: a similar scene is in Hymn to Demeter with Demeter (Thetis), Metanira (Peleus), and Triptolemus (Achilles).

Demeter, disguised as an old human woman, receives hospitality from Metanira while searching for her daughter Persephone, who had been forcibly kidnapped by Hades. As a way of rewarding Metanira for her hospitality, Demeter intends to immortalize her son Triptolemus, using ambrosia and fire to do so. Once, Metanira sees her doing this and is scared, thinking that Demeter is trying to kill her son. Metanira's reaction and Peleus's are written in an extremely similar way. Demeter then reveals herself as a goddess and is stressed by Metanira's interruption.

2. One of the reasons cited by Hera, along with her having raised Thetis, which is a detail that is also present in The Iliad, for her to like Thethis. This is mentioned in The Iliad in Book XXIV. Hera raising Thetis is also identified by Pseudo-Apollodorus.

3. In the same book of The Iliad (XXIV), there is a mention of Hera having chosen Peleus.

4. She transformed into different animals to try to escape Peleus, but unfortunately, she couldn't. Examples of them fighting: 1, 2, 3, 4.

5. It's consistent with Euripides' version in Iphigenia in Aulis. Clytemnestra asks Agamemnon if it was Thetis or Peleus who raised Achilles, and he responds that it was Chiron since Peleus gave Achilles to him when he was still young because he didn't want him to learn the customs of wicked mortals.

Apollonius and Euripides give us both Peleus and Thetis as absent parents in Achilles' growth, apparently Chiron being the central figure for Achilles. However, Homer apparently did not. Achilles is still trained by Chiron, just as his father was, and there are signs of the centaur in the narrative (such as the mention of Patroclus knowing how to heal because Achilles, having been taught by Chiron, taught him. And also the ash spear itself having previously been of Chiron. This spear is mentioned that only Achilles of the Achaeans can lift).

But we have Phoenix in Book IX describing how he participated in the education of Achilles, saw him as a son, and he told things in general that happened in Phthia. In turn, Thetis occasionally mentions that she raised Achilles (although, perhaps it's a matter of translation and in the original Greek it's more linked to giving birth? But in the translation I read it's in the sense of being present in the growth). There's the whole thing about Patroclus having grown up in Phtia with him and Peleus knowing him well enough to entrust Achilles to him.

Furthermore, it's said that Peleus sent Achilles to Agamemnon, not that he was found in Skyros (Book IX). But Skyros is still mentioned as the place where Achilles' son Neoptolemus is (Book XIX). So, for Homer, Achilles was still on Skyros and had a son there (I assume Deidameia is the mother since in later versions she is, but Homer doesn't give a name), but he was not discovered in Skyros. I've seen this interpreted as a lie, since the person saying this is Odysseus (along with Diomedes, he's often said to have discovered Achilles in Skyros) and he could be covering up the way Achilles was found, since there were other characters present in this scene. But in the end it's still an interpretation, we can't say for sure.

In addition to Greek mythology, the relationship of Achilles and Chiron is still an important relationship of the character of Achilles present in Roman mythology.

6. The best-known version of the myth is Statius's incomplete epic called Achilleid. But it's a Roman version, so I'll avoid considering it here since I'm only referring to Greek mythology and I prefer not to mix the two too much. Despite this, it's possible to know that it's a myth of Greek origin from a few Greek sources on the subject that have come down to us.

#ik #digital art #greek mythology #tagamemnon #the iliad #achilles #argonautica #peleus #phyrra #hera #thetis

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Eleven

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

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Translations: hāedus - younger sister Bratsios - bitch lēkȳs - older brother Muñus - mother ñuhus trēsys - my son zēapos - little jadeling

Warnings: Aegon's suicidal ideation

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Whose Side Are You On

A maiden finds her claws. A drowning boy swims for the surface.

Curiosity was an excited animal inside of Lady Abrogail Strong, and it had taken every ounce of self restraint she had honed in her whole life not to immediately launch into the years of questions and ideas that had built inside of her.

She deserved praise for such restraint, and she knew none would come, but it didn’t keep her from wanting to crow about how good she thought she’d done. Abby had barely touched the meal, absently dropping her extra cold meats onto Aegon’s plate if only to get through it faster. Not even her betrothed’s clear hangover and the scent of sweat and cheap perfume clinging to his wrinkled clothing could bother her. She wouldn’t let it.

No, he would not ruin her morning with his terrible decisions and she wouldn’t dwell on it either.

“Lord Ryam will be here in a fortnight and wishes to discuss the amphora shipments,” Uncle Simon said, his brogue rumbling through him thicker than her father’s accent had been, but so heartbreakingly familiar in its ebb and flow. “It might prove a good opportunity to start getting settled, Your Grace.”

Aegon shoved a rolled piece of ham in his mouth, elbows on the table and eyes darkly circled and red rimmed. “Amphoras?” he asked through a mouthful of food. Abby raised an eyebrow at him before blowing gently on her cup of mint tea and taking a sip so she wouldn’t fling it at him.

“I would also like to take the opportunity to reach out to House Buckler. Lady Elinor came with the Baratheon retinue and she shall likely be coming with us,” Abby said quickly before Aegon could further embarrass himself. She smoothed her hands over the table. “While the Arbor is a purveyor of wines, I would like to look at bolstering the competition. I think it could be an interesting opportunity for us.”

Larys slathered cream upon his bread. “You will find my sister has fancied herself the Lady of Harrenhal for as long as she found words,” he said softly, his voice carrying over them in even tones. Abby’s ears pricked with heat. His words may have been encouraging, but there was a tone in his voice that made her feel like a child who had done something clever. Mockingly indulgent. “You will find yourself a very astute student, eager to learn. Isn’t that right, dear sister?”

“I only wanted to be helpful.” True to his word, they had begun having a weekly supper together, going over Uncle Simon’s latest reports on the running of their holding and that of Harrentown. It hadn’t given her much insight into the inner workings of her elder brother’s mind, but she had appreciated the education he was providing.

Now she felt the curl of doubt that Larys was so good at coaxing out of her. Aegon’s eyes were on her and she resolutely didn’t meet his gaze, instead taking another sip of her tea.

“Well that explains the rather detailed letter I received,” Uncle Simon chuckled, and it was fond. “The queries you both had were rather insightful. It is good to see you are also interested in learning to rule, your Grace.”

Aegon paused in chewing, and Abby felt the heat creep into her cheeks. She had stated in her letter that the questions had been from them both, and had framed it as a joint venture, wanting to put the best foot forward for Aegon, for them both.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Uncle,” Aegon said, voice rough from his clearly exciting night prior. She took a sip of her tea, some of the tension in her chest easing at the way he took to her Uncle so familiarly, speaking as if they were family already. “I do not quite remember all that I had asked sweet Abrogail to convey. I do know she wasn’t sure whether or not to put in the thoughts on aqueducts.”

That drew Abby’s gaze to him, but Aegon was cracking open his soft boiled egg and soaking pieces of bread in the sunny yellow yolk. She was hit with the recollection of how excited she’d been finding out about aqueducts in a dusty tome in the library. She’d dragged it all the way outside, trapping Aegon in her sudden lecture of how beneficial such things would be.

He remembered it.

“Th-that’s true! Aqueducts!” She said, finding her voice and her confidence once more. “My more immediate concern was, well… let me just go and show you.” She pushed away from the table and hurried into her bedroom that had now seen more use in the past weeks than it had in years. She came back with a haphazard folio of parchment and two larger rolls, setting them down on a side table. She took one of the large rolls, furrowing her brow. “Uncle Simon, could you hold this end for me, if you please. Ah, thank you. So I’ve been working on this for quite some time. Athair assisted with more logistical questions with the completion of the renovations and rebuilding of the hall. Harrenhal is simply too big for a simple seat. The stables can house two thousand horses, and is unfeasible. So with the sept needing to be rebuilt, and the repairs that…” she paused, the memories catching her off guard and pressing onto her with the weight of them, “that needed to be done after the fire, I thought that perhaps what would be better suited was opening it to the people.”

“The people?” Uncle Simon’s brow raised in curiosity. He didn’t seem quite as surprised as she had initially worried.

“Yes! I thought we could dismantle the right barracks by the godswood, and install the glassworks properly. In addition, the Tower of Dread - I haven’t figured what we should rename some of these towers, they really are awful - can be renovated into apartments or, if we could figure something out, to build shops and homes and places of education for those in Harrentown and truly, in the area around. Maidenpool, High Heart, even places further north. Not only that, but the everyday workings of Harrenhal do not require such expansive forges. We aren’t building an army. We could open them up to something more communal. Those who cannot afford to open their own smithies yet could work here, perhaps renting space. Of course, we need several of these for the reconstruction efforts, but I truly think we should focus on repurposing rather than to bring it up to the hubris-driven monument of cruelty that Harren the Black created. We can turn what was a curse upon our lands to something that gives back.”

Abby was breathless when she was finished, the parchment crinkling in her grip. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and Larys avoided looking at her to take a furtive bite out of his tansy cake. Uncle Simon’s eyebrows were raised so high, Abby thought they’d merge into his receding hairline.

She did not look at Aegon. She very purposely did not look at him, but from the corner of her eyes, she could see him occupied with his goblet.

“Well.” Uncle Simon broke the silence and picked up some of the parchment she had left on the table. The sheafs of paper were currently in danger of the potential tipped honey jar. “Your father did not exaggerate when he spoke of your insightfulness, niece.” Warmth spread between her ribs at the praise. “The exuberance is all your mother’s. That woman could command an army as easily as a summer ball.”

The comment stunned Abby. It had been years since someone had so easily spoken of her mother. Abby’s own memories were hazy. The smudged images she still held were of a frail woman with a warm smile and gentle voice. She could remember cold hands smoothing over her hot brow when she was ill. Visions of her mother sitting beside Queen Alicent, soothing her in those early days of bloody, picked fingers, flitted through her mind. The early days of seeing how sad the adults were, how angry they could be. The blissful ignorance in not understanding why.

“I shall look these over, Abrogail. Whatever ideas you and Prince Aegon would like to implement, I am at your command and will provide my counsel, just as I counsel Larys, and have your dear father.” Uncle SImon gave a hearty laugh and plucked up some of his cold meat. “How strange it shall be to have family in residence once more.”

The rest of the morning meal was uneventful, and Abby was caught in the strange current of nerves and excitement and the lingering uncertainty of how she felt about the mention of her mother.

“Celeste Strong could command an army as easily as a summer ball.”

Abby could not recall a time hearing her mother raise her voice the way the queen did, or Uncle Otto. Never did she recollect her mother raising a hand either. No, her few memories were warm and gentle comforts, but she could remember quiet conversations between her mother and the queen, when her mother’s blue eyes had been narrowed, and mouth pinched in displeasure. Abby remembered wondering why the queen was being scolded as a child once, how fierce her mother’s face had been.

Her father had been capable of yelling, and that was incredibly rare. The last time she’d heard him raise his voice was at Harwin after everything that had happened at Driftmark. They hadn’t realized she’d been there. The Strong household had never been a yelling household. It had never been a place she’d ever feared.

“We have dinner with the Tullys in the small hall,” Aegon said, his snappish tone pulling Abby from her thoughts. She looked over her shoulder to see that he’d followed her from the apartments. “Try not to throw yourself at Elmo Tully as you did with Vance at the feast.”

Abby’s eyes widened, mouth dropping open at the sheer audacity of what dared come from his mouth. “I beg your pardon, Prince Aegon. I seemed to have been distracted and therefore could not have possibly heard the accusation against my honor.”

He rolled his bloodshot eyes, and Abby’s firsts clenched in her pale blue skirts. Heat flamed in her cheeks, and there was a mad moment where she ached to push him over the railing into the court below.

“You do beg so prettily-”

She stepped towards him, pushing her finger into his chest. “And you’ll never hear me beg for you again, especially if you dare continue to speak to me this way,” Abby hissed. She would not cry, she refused to show him how he hurt her. “Your loss, clearly, since you are threatened so by their mere proximity, and my daring to smile and harmlessly flirt.” She scoffed and tossed her hair over her shoulder, her curls wild to keep the chill from off the back of her neck. “I’m not the embarrassing one who showed their face this morning drunk and smelling like a brothel.” She cursed the way her voice cracked at the end, and turned on her heel to go find Wylla, to distract herself with those who would support her, and not be the target of their self-loathing.

There was a time not so long ago, where she might have taken full responsibility for Aegon’s foul mood, but she was no longer that little girl, a somewhat steelier young woman taking her place, one who understood that she was not responsible for the entire weight of other’s emotions, including Aegon’s. Abby was sorry for the cruel words she had said, the words that she knew would hurt. She was truly sorry for it, but Aegon had no right in how he continued to behave toward her in his own river of whatever self-loathing he was trying to drown himself in.

He didn’t get to use her to weigh himself down into the depths.

Abby only made it a few steps before Aegon’s large hand wrapped around her bicep in a firm grip. Her hand came up immediately, nails digging into the skin, and there was an almost pleased look on his face, a darkening of his gaze, that sent a tumult of conflicted feelings in her. Anger at not being taken seriously. Curiosity at why he seemed to find it pleasurable. The desire to scratch and claw at him until she drew red.

Her spine went rigid, a swooping sensation rolling through her belly. A rush of anger was expected, the strange thrill that accompanied it was less so. "Let go of me, Aegon."

He leaned in closer, his lip curling and his white teeth flashing in his snarl. His eyes, however, lilac and blood red from his previous night, seemed rounded, panicked somehow. "No." Aegon's gaze fell to her mouth, and she swallowed, feeling heat along her throat. She couldn't figure out if it was from anger or embarrassment and it only served to incense her further.

They were so close and she wanted to kiss him, to feel the slide of his warm mouth against hers, taste the lingering watered wine on his tongue. She wanted to bite him until he bled, to taste the crimson that would well up, and let it make her dizzy and forget everything else.

She would have kicked him if the angle was right. She would have scratched at his wrist had they been alone. If the thought hadn’t been so abhorrent, she might have slapped him.

Try as the queen might to make it true, Abby was not Alicent Hightower.

“Aegon,” she whispered, steely eyed and spine stiff. “You’re hurting me.”

His grip immediately released as if he’d been scalded, and she was sent stumbling back from the abruptness of it. Aegon’s mouth opened, shut, clenched with whatever conflict was going through him.

“Touch me like that in anger again, and it won’t be the ghost of my dearest brother you’d need to fear. I’ll geld you myself.” Wylla would gladly help her and hide the evidence. The murderous eyes that she held for the prince since the feast would have incinerated Aegon on the spot if Wylla had the power.

“Since when have you become so violent? Was your sweet and forgiving nature also a deception? A game to make me-“

Aegon fell silent, soft cheeks flushed and the silence was full and rolling with the years between them, all of the weight that brought them here. Abby was flushed with hurt that had her snapping and spitting in a way she never knew she was capable of, in a way she’d never allowed herself to feel, let alone show.

It felt good. It felt good in the way sobbing in Helaena and Wylla’s arms had done. She felt… brave.

Her mother had shown it. Celeste Strong had been more than the smiling wraith of her childhood memories, even though she had never witnessed it.

‘My mother was a lioness of Castamere. Do I not share that legacy as well?’

“I play no games, Prince Aegon.” He was not my prince right now. Her prince, her Aegon, would not treat her so. Yet, here Aegon was, doing exactly that. Behavior she had seen extended towards others had finally reached her. She thought of the list of qualities the queen found wanting in her son and her own immediate defense and her vow that she was not blind.

She had hurt Aegon, it was true, but he’d taken it and run, wielding his pain like a warhammer. It was a wound he had not expected from her. Had she truly expected him to act differently? Had she expected him to look past her words to see the pain she was in? ‘Yes,’ she thought, and he should have, but why had she chosen to hurt him instead of asking for comfort? Why had she not confided in him?

‘Am I truly so stupid and naive? Is the Queen right?’

In turn, he had expected perfection. Pretty and pliant. To comfort him as she always had. Her head ached with the confusion of all the questions.

“Did you know he got a child on one of my maids? I gave her moon tea and gold and sent her away.”

“Do not take my sweet and forgiving nature for weakness,” she hissed. Abby was the type to cry when angry, but her eyes remained mercifully clear. “I care for you, but you do not get to treat me as a toy - as a plaything that only exists for you.”

That had Aegon stepping forward and back into her space. “You’re mine, Abrogail Strong. You’ve always been mine.” The words stole the breath from her and her mouth went dry at his vow, his lilac gaze black and bloodshot, edged with a possessive desperation that was unlike what she’d seen from him before. So confusing were the warring sensations inside of her as he spoke them into being.

Abby wanted to bite him when he said those words, and the strength of the feeling frightened her with its intensity. She wanted to bite him and leave an imprint of her mouth on his skin. Where, she did not know. She wanted to tear into him with an unrecognizable drive that confused her.

Abby swallowed as the tip of his tongue touched his lower lip in that way of his.

“Let me be the only one you touch this way.”

She thought of his face wet against the crook of her neck, her fingers stroking through his hair, the curls she’d cut gathered at their feet. She thought of the way she rested her head on his shoulder, and he promised she would never go away, that he would keep her safe as she lit mourning candles in the wake of the fire.

“You’re mine, Abby,” he repeated into existence. “You’re my betrothed and you fawn all over that Vance welp one moment, and tell me you care for me the next. What is it to be?”

“I was being polite!” She only half-lied.

“You did it to make me jealous!”

“And? How do you think I feel when you show up this morning smelling like a brothel and still half drunk? How do you think I feel seeing you dance with Lady Cassandra, let alone ogling her so openly.” How desperately she wanted him to look at her that way. “If I’m so unequivocally yours, then why does it only go one way, you selfish, cruel man? Do I not get to call you mine?” Aegon drew back at her words and Abby did as well, gulping in air that didn’t taste of him. Enough distance created between them that Abby could not feel him. “I wish I could say how sorry I am to disabuse you and your mother of this notion that I am the Maiden. I’m not, and…” Her voice halted, and the flushed heat beneath her skin was suffocating and prickling, robbing her of words.

“And I’m full of vice as they come,” Aegon said as if finishing her sentence, his voice hollow and glimmering eyes that did not meet hers. “No amount of tender touch and soft words can change that.”

A fleeting twist of guilt coiled through her at his tone and she thought of Alicent Hightower’s insistence that she was meant to cure whatever was broken and wrong with Aegon. She was not the Maiden or some holy miracle, but neither was Aegon broken and irredeemable either.

“I suppose that makes us…that makes us ourselves then.” It felt strange to say, it felt strange to feel those words and to even hear them.

“Yes,” Aegon rasped. Abby’s eyes were hot, and Aegon’s were wet.

The moment stretched between them, a gulf rushing with water, soaking into her skirts and threatening to drag her under.

Abby took a deep breath as if preparing to dive into the Blackwater itself, to dive into the rush between them. Instead she turned, gathering her skirts in hand and walked away, forcing herself to look ahead to shore when half of her wanted to be pulled under with him.

The clash of steel on steel echoed through the training yard and Aegon spun his left sword, the right one connected and sliding against Harrion Karstark’s greatsword. Sweat dripped into Aegon’s eyes and Harrion himself was flush with exertion. Not even the gathered crowd around them nor the gaggle of ladies above could draw his attention.

They didn’t matter. He already had thrown up his breakfast after the first bout so whatever humiliation left for him was negligible.

Aegon sprang back and brought his dual swords down and across himself, trapping Harrion’s blade between them. He met the man’s eyes, and the northerner gave him a twitch of a grin and an approving nod of his head.

“Watch me. Ignore the distractions,” Harrion had said when Aegon stormed into the training yard half an hour earlier. Aemond was the one who took his anger out on the squires and Cole and whomever else unfortunate enough to get in his way. Normally, Aegon would have fled to Sunfyre and the sky above, but it would take too long to reach him and the space between Aegon’s ribs craved blood.

Preferably his own.

If he flew in that moment, Aegon could not promise he’d come back. Whatever that would look like.

Aegon wondered if Harrion’s blade had some strange northern magic that could carve the rot out of him that flame could not burn and cleanse away. Mayhaps he was more Hightower than Targaryen. Mayhaps that’s why he was like this.

Harrion’s swing knocked Aegon’s right blade from his grip, sending it skittering across the gravel. The larger man was on him, pressing Aegon back with great swings and the force of blocking him vibrated painfully in his arms.

"You are a million miles away, Your Grace," Harrion said, still circling him, his blue eyes discerning far more than Aegon appreciated. "That's how you end up with a blade through your shoulder. Trust me, I know."

Aegon ignored him, grinding his teeth.

"You could tell me what was bothering you, perhaps. At the least it would provide me with more of a challenge that… whatever it is we're doing now."

“We’re not talking about her,” Aegon grunted, swinging his blade out and moving around the larger man. “It. We’re not talking about it.”

“I’ve heard say that a good swordsman doesn’t let himself get distracted by such things, so that answers that.” Harrion’s mouth twitched up as he winked and Aegon felt a surge rumble through him. With a shout, he darted behind the training dummy and kicked it violently towards Harrion, buying himself enough time to go for his thrown blade.

“Begone!” Aegon commanded with thunderous force in his voice at the crowd, sending several bystanders stumbling back in surprise.

Aegon’s blades met Harrion’s with his teeth gritted and forced him back.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere. Red hair? One breath away from dissolving into tears.” Aegon swore he saw judgement on Karstark’s face but the elder man simply rotated his greatsword in hand. “Don’t tell me you stepped on her feet while you were making a spectacle of yourselves.” He didn’t see the shoulder check coming and Aegon went stumbling back, nearly falling on his ass had he not come up against the weapons rack. “See? Better than a blade in the shoulder.”

A growl tore from Aegon’s throat and he swung his blades, causing the taller man to jump back out of the way. “You stick a blade in my shoulder, it’s treason.”

Harrion looked unsuitably unimpressed. If anything, Aegon swore he saw another twitch on his mouth and the greatsword was coming at him again, sliding along his left arm and leaving a white hot sting that had Aegon hissing and looking at the cut of his padded tunic and the bright slash of red along his bicep.

"Well," Harrion said with a shake of his head. "Shame. So what happened?"

Aegon looked incredulously from his arm to Harrion’s face, a weird sense of satisfaction emanating from the sharp sting of the slice on his arm. It lacked the brute force of a punch to the face and with the pain, he felt an unknotting sensation in his chest.

“I... don’t fucking know,” he said with feeling, swinging his left blade to meet Harrion’s with a clang. “I don’t fucking know what she wants from me when she never asked for anything different!”

The blades slid against each other, coming back again and again with the bright sound of steel clanging and Aegon wondered if Valyrian steel would sing differently in his hands.

“The thing about women is that they expect you to pay attention,” Harrion said, turning so Aegon’s swing missed and he turned the greatsword over his head and brought it down again in a move reminiscent of Harwin Strong and came down and would’ve taken Aegon’s head off had he not managed to black it in time. “You’re not great at that, are you?”

“How in the seven hells am I supposed to pay attention when she doesn’t fucking say anything!” he yelled, frustration tearing out of him with the force of dragon flame. “She’s always accepted me, she’s always been there for me, stood by me, she knows who the fuck I am and never said or asked for me to change. And now she thinks that since we’re going to be married I’m not what? Going to flirt and fuck and drink and be whatever…” He was choking on spit and something tangy and metallic in his mouth. “Whatever the fuck is wrong with me.”

There was a slap of metal against his chest and he looked down at the flat of Harrion’s blade pressed against his chest. “You missed,” Aegon said, tilting his chin up with a long look. “Neck’s here.”

“You’re pathetic, Your Grace.”

Aegon blinked. “What did you just say?”

Harrion lowered his blade and drew it along the end of his tunic, not looking at him, completely unbothered that Aegon could have lost his temper again and swung his blades at him. “I said, you’re pathetic. What kind of man are you, what kind of prince of the realm are you? You’re to be married and become lord to one of the largest keeps in the realm, and yet here you stand, a soft bellied boy, fretting over the idea that the lady you’re engaged to might not like your behavior.”

There was a rushing in his ears and Aegon opened his mouth to retort, to snap that Harrion Karstark, heir to a little backwater hovel, couldn’t speak to him like that, just as his sister didn’t have a right to do so.

“She’s been twisting herself in nervous circles preparing for this outing,” Wylla had hissed at him, the most courteous smile on her face but her fists clenched at her sides like she was about to fight him herself. He had stood beside his horse, resolutely ignoring the confused hurt on Abby’s face when he’d directed her to the carriage before they headed out into the city to attend the guild festival all those weeks ago. “So you are going to stop being a petulant, mercurial child and act like you are the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms to have her waiting for you.”

“She said we were lucky to like one another,” he finally rasped out, his palms sweaty around the grips of his blades. “That it’s more than what most can say.”

“She’s right, you are lucky, and revelations abound for you, Your Grace, because you’re so lucky and you do like one another, she expects you to afford, oh, I don’t know what it’s called, mayhaps respect?” Harrion’s gaze had lost the amusement and was now flat and cold as ice. “That girl is a prize that you’ve been given. I’ve seen that in the short time I’ve known her. And it seems you can’t grow up and be the man that she deserves. How would you feel if she went and fucked one of those other lords fawning over her, and then said ‘well, you didn’t ask me to change’.”

It must have been the hangover. Aegon was sure of it. The longer he stared at Harrion Karstark, the more he swore he saw Harwin Strong standing there, speaking conversationally to him after catching Aegon hacking one of the training dummies to death with his new blade.

He blinked again and it was Harrion once more, far closer now than he’d been on the other side of the training ring. Aegon hated how much taller the man was, how small he felt beneath his cold, stormy eyed gaze. Harrion gripped his shoulder in his large hand and Aegon swayed beneath it.

This would normally have been the point where his mother would snarl at him, “Do you have nothing to say for yourself?”, but Harrion? He said nothing except look down at him, waiting.

"I'm marrying a woman I've never laid eyes on when I head back north. Never met her, never heard the sound of her voice. I've written to her, tried to learn what I could of her through her own words. You though? You should probably pull your head out of the dragon shit and stop treating your situation as I would wager you treat everything else." He paused, then added, “Your Grace.”

“It’s growing late, my prince,” Erryk said with a disapproving look that Aegon didn’t give two shits about as he rubbed his hand over Kostōba’s golden cream neck, scratching his fingers along the line of his mane. “Are you sure you want to go out now?”

“Cargyll, when have I ever decided against going out this late?” It wasn’t as if it was late. The sun was a molten line on the horizon, the stars beginning to show along the eastern horizon. Night was better for him.

How ironic that he rode the sun. How ironic that the one he…

His thoughts were interrupted by another horse whickering, a dappled grey stallion with a braided white mane. Helaena sat astride him, her silver hair braided back, her riding leathers blue scaled leather with silver edging. Arryk Cargyll was coming up on his own horse, his Kingsguard armor gleaming in the evening light.

“Well, come on then. Aren’t we going flying?” she asked, eyes languid, voice expectant.

“No!” Aegon started, glaring at Arryk who was allowing his sister to think she could just ride out. “It’s not safe for you out there this late.”

“Oh, but it is for you when you avoid Ser Erryk every night?”

“Ser Erryk doesn’t make for good fucking company,” Aegon snapped. “Go back inside, Helaena.”

Helaena looked at him and then softly commanded her stallion to head out towards the gate. Kostōba snorted and whinnied softly, pawing at the ground and bumped his head into Aegon’s shoulder. He pet the horse’s neck gently, murmuring soft words to him before he gripped the saddle and hauled himself up. “Fine. Come on. If you’re lucky, you won’t even have to wait for us.”

They just wouldn’t come back. Maybe he’d talk Helaena into it.

The ride through the city was mercifully uneventful. Aegon kept beside his sister, glaring down at any lurking in the shadows that might come towards her. Helaena didn’t seem bothered by it, smiling at those who waved, their cries of ‘Princess Helaena!’ endearing in a way Aegon would not admit he was jealous of. He could see the tension in her shoulders at being noticed, and the way they relaxed once they went through the outer gates of the dragon pit.

Sunfyre was already out, chirping and chortling in his concerned way where he kept dipping his head trying to get closer, ruffled and annoyed at the dragonkeepers who kept him from rushing forward.

Aegon and Sunfyre set off first, and he looked down below as Dreamfyre’s great, blue bulk was led out into the yard. She was at least twice the size of Sunfyre, all pale blue scales and silver markings that twinkled like starlight. They circled languidly, and Aegon felt the chill of the air caress his cheeks and leech the heat from him, and for a moment, he swore he could feel Abby’s fingers cool across his brow, asking him if he was alright.

To watch Dreamfyre launch herself into the sky was a sight to behold. She wasn’t whip fast the way Sunfyre was, she didn’t lumber like Vhaegar. She took off, smooth as silk, flowing through the air like a fish swam through the sea. Her wings were great things, pale blue membranes veined with more of the silver markings that covered her great form. Aegon would never admit it, but Dreamfyre might have been more beautiful than Sunfyre when she took off into the twilight gleam, melting into the streaks of the swiftly darkening sky.

Helaena’s laughter echoed across King’s Landing, louder and brighter, Aegon swore, than the bells of the city itself. There was no need to give command to Sunfyre. He looked towards the south and Sunfyre let out his low call and took off, racing ahead towards the looming dark of the Kingswood.

Riding with Sunfyre was like flying through the sky himself. He leaned over the horn of the saddle, gloved hands outreached to press against his neck and together they moved, one being and one thought. No command passed Aegon’s lips. He simply felt his desire to run, to fly and flee until they could outrun all that plagued him. Away from old River Lords, and the storms of the North embodied in wolves with blades and teeth, away from the brokenhearted look in a pair of eyes as blue and endless as the ocean.

It wasn’t long before the pair of them circled the cliffs at the edge of the Kingswood, Sunfyre fluttering down as light as a leaf on a pond. Dreamfyre landed not long after and Helaena waited for him, perched like a little blue beetle on the rocks and looking out over the great gorge.

His sister watched him in her inscrutable way and Aegon stood some distance from her, unsure if he wanted to go to her, for he didn’t know what it was he wanted. Aegon’s gaze drifted over his shoulder to the cliff edge, the breeze tugging his hair across his face. He could simply just-

“Aegon.”

Lilac eyes snapped back to look at his sister and he kicked his foot against the ground, pawing at it like his horse before he came over and settled beside her. She said nothing, only reached over to take his left hand in both of hers to hold in her lap. His shoulders sagged beneath the leather of his jacket, his fingers twitching in hers.

“Sunfyre would be upset if you did,” she said and Aegon rolled his eyes.

“Sunfyre would get over it.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar.” Helaena’s voice remained soft and calm and he scoffed lightly, a half hearted smirk playing on his face.

“I’m quite a good liar. You should play me at cards.” Levity amidst the depths that he was sinking in. Water and dirt or fire and blood flooding his mouth and ears and weeds and rock weighing him down.

The sounds of the forest were alive around them, the gentle song of crickets, the distant rustles of night time animals coming out of their daytime slumber. Aegon fiddled with a stone and chucked it out over the cliff edge and imagined it spinning out into the night sky to knock one of the lofty stars from their perch. Would Abby want him if he brought her back a fallen star?

“I told Aemond I wasn’t going to marry him.”

Aegon raised his eyebrows at her. “Huh.” An elegant response but there was a headache pulsing behind his eyes and he was at a loss for anything substantial. “How long has… how long have you been sitting on that revelation?”

A soft shrug, her fingers sliding across the rock towards a little lizard that had previously been sunning itself. “Some days I thought I could. Some days I wanted to marry him. I liked the way he looked at me, kissed me, desired me. Other times, I missed him. Who he was before Vhaegar.”

“Who he was before those bastards attacked him,” Aegon snarled, tossing another rock over the edge of the cliff. Helaena’s hand still held his and she squeezed his fingers, a gesture he instinctively returned back. His stomach lurched with nausea thinking about Ser Harrold carrying his bleeding, screaming brother into the throne room of Driftmark. They held his mouth open to pour milk of the poppy down his gullet to ease the pain.

‘Where was Ser Criston’, Aegon remembered thinking. Where had the guards been to find that Aemond had never gone to bed? Where had the guards been to see a loud, squabbling bunch of children on their way to what? Dragons couldn’t be stolen. Jace and Baela knew that, should have known that.

“We should have been better,” Helaena whispered and Aegon looked over at her. She was watching the little lizard crawl over her hand, the thing curling beneath her sleeve with the little head poking out as it sought out her warmth. “You should not have teased him so.”

A hot flush of shame and anger washed through him and he jerked his hand out of his sister’s hold. “Īlon kydȳbagon. Beqes? Iā valonqār īlvrot idīnnoso pirtrirzi zoklākore?.” Let us measure. A pig? Or falsely enticing our brother with marriage?

“Se qringaomnot dijāvē qrimbughere, marta issa?” Helaena countered. And is that the same as drowning in your vice and lust? The words clawed at the meat of him. Her eyes bore into him as hot as dragonfire and Aegon pushed away from the rocks and scuffed his feet in the dirt, putting distance between them so she could not see him so easily, perceiving his rot and ruin.

“She didn’t even care, so why should he?” Aegon snarled. Rhaenyra hadn’t cared about her brother, her blood, just an insult as if the whole fight had been Aemond calling them bastards, not the whole of them attacking Aemond and he needing to defend himself.

“Would you like to go riding?” his sister asked him softly, a gentle smile on her face. Her belly was starting to round with her own child, and mother was in her room, pacing with her own child to come. Aegon clutched his dragon to his chest, looking up at her uncertainty. He wasn’t meant to be alone with Rhaera, his little mouth struggling with the syllables of her name. The idea of riding up in the sky, on a real dragon rather than a toy in the nursery, excited him and he nodded, reaching and taking her hand and giggling with surprise when she scooped him up, the way mama said he was too big for.

“She didn’t even care,” Aegon repeated, his harsh voice a rasp in his throat, betrayal and hurt that he hadn’t felt in some time coursing through him.

The cliff edge was so utterly appealing.

“Dragons of flesh weave dragons of thread,” Helaena’s voice drifted softly on the evening breeze. He chewed on his lip and looked over his shoulder back at her. She was fixated on the lizard along her hand and lowered it, allowing the little thing to flee into the cracks among the rocks.

Aegon pushed the hair out of his eyes and turned then. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” It was simple, matter of fact, and she palmed her knees, the leather creaking with the movement. “He’s not, but…” Aegon was quiet, ignoring the call of the void, and focused on the way his sister’s hair gleamed in the fading light. In another life, they would be married, in the way their Valyrian blood demanded and every day, Aegon was grateful that they had both escaped the fate. He loved his sister, but couldn’t imagine doing what would have been required. He couldn’t imagine touching her, instinctively recoiling at the thought. Helaena was beautiful, Aegon would readily agree on that. Buxom and beautiful, with eyes that could stare into your soul and a smile that was warm as firelight.

“But?” he asked when her gaze grew distant. She shook her head.

“I think he felt as confused as I did. But you know Aemond. Once he has his mind set on something…” She tucked a loose strand of hair back from her face and drew her legs up to rest her feet against the rocks. “I told Mother. I suppose this means Aemond will go to Storm’s End.”

The sight of Cassandra’s mouth on his cock flashed across his vision and he thought of what that woman would do if she got her hands on his brother. Aemond was intimidating, Aegon was loath to admit it unless it was to his advantage, and women either were drawn to it or repelled. But he was still a green boy, inexperienced despite Aegon’s attempts to get him with the best the Street of Silk had to offer. Cassandra could very well tear him apart if Aemond wasn’t careful.

“Well he can have his pick out of the four, although I think that little hyperactive deer would be the best choice.” It would be several years until the child would be old enough to wed, which might appeal to his disinterested brother.

“Floris is going to fell a stag next Storm Festival. She shot a bullseye and everything.” Helaena’s tone was fond and lighter than it had been before. “I’ve claimed her, by the way. You’ll be taking Cassandra Baratheon with you. Hope her tits fit in the carriage.”

Aegon snorted, laughter bursting from him in surprise. “My my, hāedus, are you jealous of her fantastic tits. If you need reassurance, you do have some of the better breasts I’ve only passively looked over.”

“You called her tits fantastic, and mine ‘some of the better’,” Helaena said airily, and Aegon let out another snort of laughter. “It’s fine. I’ll forgive you. You have been a bit messier than usual. Ever since the feast.”

His laughter trailed off, and while his sister had elevated his mood, it wasn’t enough to erase away the tangle of vines that had woven their way through his ribs, constricting like the venomous snakes of Yi Ti. “Mmmm, have you been sending your many creatures to spy on me?”

“No,” Helaena replied. “But I spent the whole night comforting a hysterical Abrogail Strong in my chambers afterwards. I’ve never seen her cry so hard, let alone cry in general. Dear girl doesn’t like to show that side of herself.” She shook her head. “Not to mention you looked like Mother had forbidden you from riding Sunfyre before the feast started and I heard Ser Erryk talking about pulling you from a brothel and dragging you back to the keep slung over the ass of his horse.

“Well, when you put it that way.” Aegon shook his head and kicked at a stone, sending it dancing across the ground. He felt sick to his stomach at the idea that he’d sent Abby into hysterics after the feast, and there was little convincing himself that it was everything else that had upset her, when she had upset him so much.

When it was more than just her that had upset him, and he’d taken it out on her.

“She wants to geld you. Well, no. She said were her dearest departed brother still alive, he’d gift her your balls on a platter.”

“Oh, no, she threatened to geld me herself this morning.” Helaena giggled and Aegon flushed. “I showed up to break our fast hungover and smelling of perfume. That was embarrassing for her. Apparently.”

“I would be embarrassed if my betrothed showed up to eat with kin smelling of other women.” Helaena’s voice was in that easy way of hers, no judgement and matter of fact. When he met her eyes though, they flashed in the dark, a fire burning in her lavender gaze. “Aegon, you’re an idiot.”

“Thank you,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ll be pleased to know this isn’t the first time today I’ve been called as such. Lucky for me, you don’t have a sword.”

“Yes, but I do have a dragon.” As if on cue, Dreamfyre rumbled from where she was sitting nearby, an antler hooked on her mouth from her meal she’d just finished. Aegon made a face. “Harrion Karstark is handsome though. I wouldn’t mind it if-”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Aegon cut in sharply. “Besides, he’s rather devout to the bride he hasn’t met yet. Riverlands girl.”

“Right. Riverlands girl. Not dissimilar to your own, I’d wager.”

“And what, pray tell, are you getting at? If you wish to lecture me, then do so.”

“I don’t need to lecture you, Aegon, but I do have a question.” Aegon gave her a blank look, stealing himself for whatever it was that Helaena was about to throw in his face. “Why do you think Abby hasn’t come asking to have the betrothal broken after all of this?” He opened his mouth, and shut it with a click, a shake of his head. “You’re an idiot,” she repeated.

“She’s nice! She does whatever Mother fucking tells her to do. She’s such a proud little member of her household, doing everything she can to fucking be her.” Helaena made a little face in response, but didn’t argue and Aegon tugged at the clasps on his riding jacket, shrugging out of the leather and letting the breeze cool his too hot skin.

“Do you like it when she’s like Mother?” Helaena asked curiously and Aegon flushed.

“I like it when she’s bossy. Not my fault it sounds like-” He snapped his mouth shut as his sister let out an indelicate snort, snickering from her spot. “Bratsios,” he swore at her, which only caused Helaena to let out another snort. “Fine! Fine I’m a fucking idiot. Happy?” He threw out his arms and gave a little spin for dramatic effect. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, She went into this whole thing about why the tables only go one way, and that at the end of the day, we’re just ourselves and she walked away and I think she wants to break this whole thing off-”

“She’s not,” Helaena cut in with another soft chuckle and leaned back against the rocks, tilting her head back to gaze up at the sky. “And she may sound like Mother sometimes, but she’s not. She’s not Mother.”

“She’s not the Maiden,” Aegon finished, the memory of Abby’s eyes, large and wet and flashing with anger and hurt seared on the back of his own eyelids. “She’s not… She’s just… Abby.” He felt his shoulders droop, the tension that had knotted through him for the past few days released, albeit slowly. “She’s just Abby with her needlework and her cat and her drawings and all her books.” He felt his mouth twitch. “She had a whole presentation this morning, did she tell you? I’ve never seen her handle so many scrolls, going in about all the changes she wants to make to Harrenhal for the people and she had pages of sums and she was talking about fucking trade agreements with some house and her whole face was lit up and she was talking too fast and I swear I thought she’d faint from forgetting to breathe.”

He looked down at his hands and from beneath the edge of his cuff, three half healed lines from where she’d scratched him bloody were still visible. Aegon instinctively brought his wrist to his mouth, sucking on the healing skin that still held the faint tang of copper. “When she lets herself, she’s full of fire and passion. She’s biting and vicious.” His hunītsos so sweet and soft but teeth that would bite when a hand threatened. “What did I do that made her so angry with me to begin with?”

His sister shrugged. “Maybe you should ask her before it’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice was sharp and focused on Helaena’s impenetrable gaze. “Helaena.”

“She was rather pleased on a walk with Ser Edmund the other day in the garden,” his sister finally said. “She’d left the picnic and ran into him. They were quite close together when Floris and I found them, all blushing and shy.”

Aegon’s stomach plummeted and his hands tingled, cold dread and hot fury rushing through him. Whatever look was on his face had his sister jumping up and closing the distance to grab at his arms.

Sunfyre growled nearby, Dreamfyre answering with a short, sharp huff of annoyance.

“You’re an idiot, but do you understand why she hasn’t gone to break this off yet? Because she cares for you. You’ve been pulling her away from the rest of us for years. Mittys iksā, Aegon.” You are a fool. He tried to jerk his arms from her, but Helaena held fast to him. “You are, and I resent you for it often. Aemond resents you for it, hoarding her as you try to do, but what you don’t see, lēkȳs, is that she allows you to do it. Had she not wanted you in return, Abby would not allow you to get away with it as you do.”

Had she not wanted him in return.

‘I never wanted you.’

Abby had never spoken those words though. Even the memory of it in his head didn’t sound like her. It sounded suspiciously like his mother, like his excuse for a sire, even Cole but… but never Abby.

In his grandfather’s office, Abby’s hand had been trembling in her lap before she reached for him, the smile tremulous and panic in her eyes. Not fear. Not disgust. She had reached for him, and he had reached for her when the world felt like it was breaking apart beneath their feet.

“And yet she flirts with that pompous cunt,” Aegon snarled and Sunfyre responded in kind with another growl that had Dreamfyre reaching out a clawed foot to push at his snout.

“So what? You flirt all the time and don’t you dare say it’s any different. The only difference that lays between you two is that you often go to paw and prod and fuck those you flirt with. She doesn’t.”

The idea of Abby doing more with one of her rare flirtations had the coil of anger firing inside of him once more as he thought of what he’d done with Cassandra Baratheon, with Marla Lefford after the feast.

“And? How do you think I feel when you show up this morning smelling like a brothel and still half drunk? How do you think I feel seeing you dance with Lady Cassandra, let alone ogling her so openly? If I’m so unequivocally yours, then why does it only go one way, you selfish, cruel boy?”

Protests died on Aegon’s tongue and he staggered back, feeling sick and dizzy, feeling angry and brokenhearted. Confused and uncertain, and yet entirely certain all at the same time. Helaena’s hands drifted back but she didn’t move away from him, didn’t tear at him, and certainly didn’t take advantage of the moment to push him over the cliff’s edge.

“I tried to be good for her,” he rasped.

“Did you truly? Or were you simply doing what it is you always do, and thinking it would work this time?” Helaena asked.

Aegon gave her a wary look. “When did you become such an insightful one, heltusītsos?” It had been years since he’d called her little beetle, the nickname coined by Aemond. Helaena startled at the words, her head ducking down and averting her gaze.

“You all try to baby me and I’m sick of it,” Helaena muttered, pushing him without any real force behind it. The wind kicked up, whipping at her moonlit braid and tugging tendrils of hair across her round features. Sometimes it was like staring into a mirror, the pair of them with the same round features and their mother’s large eyes. “So I’m endeavoring to speak my mind and tell you how I feel and when I think you’re all being foolish, which is quite often, you know.”

Jealousy and anger continued to roil in the pit of Aegon’s gut in the silence that followed his sister’s declaration. The idea of another man’s hands on Abby, his fingers in her hair, on her skin, of someone else making her laugh - that was Aegon’s laughter that was stolen. He always did what he could to make her laugh, to draw the bright sound from her so she would forget how sad she was, how lonely. How she giggled in his arms when she kissed him, when he kissed her. Her shrieks of laughter when he’d defend her in children’s games, their hands grabbing each other as he tugged her to the safety of his camp away from Jacaerys and Lucerys in the gardens and in the woods.

The soft sound of pain when he grabbed her cut through the memory. ‘Had she learned to quiet them as he had?’

Her eyes, so endlessly blue as the ocean itself, shining with tears that he’d caused.

Aegon just wanted to make her laugh and smile, instead of shutting down as she had after her father and Harwin’s death, when it looked as if she would simply blow away as dust. The memory of a small girl, eyes perpetually red and cheeks chapped with endless, silent tears looking so small in the sept before the Stranger. The way she’d looked at him when he approached and how her hands had fisted into his sleeves and she sobbed into his shoulder.

He remembered telling her the story of Ser Harwin slipping in the mud when they were in the stables and swearing Aegon to silence with a laugh. He told her of the time Mother had lost her wits at a giant Dornish spider getting loose in the cloisters and how Lord Lyonel had come, speaking calmly and rattling off all these interesting facts about it with a box in hand and how Mother lost her mind to just kill the cursed thing!

‘I could never hate you, Aegon.’

Did she truly mean it?

“What if I’ve just fucked it up beyond repair? What if we’re just doomed to be fucking miserable?” Aegon’s voice was small, his eyes wide and frightened in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since he was young and the first time the Tower had kicked him and nearly crashed his head in, lashing him with such cruel words that had Aegon stunned and spinning.

Helaena shrugged. “What if you haven’t?”

Hope unfurled, a frightened animal in his chest that wasn’t sure if it was safe, long boxed away and his breath hitched, an uncertain smile crossing his face.

Jace leaned against the carved stone of the shallow balcony outside his room. The sun had set and the moon was rising, the deepening blue of the sky beginning to glitter and twinkle with so many stars.

His thumb rubbed over the ridges of the long dead little sea creature embedded in the stone he held, lavender eyes hooded in thought. His room felt bare this night, his belongings loaded into trunks and taken down to the ship earlier in the day. Shelves that had been bursting with books and maps, with trinkets and baubles now gone and packed carefully away. Jace suspected that Luke had made off with some of the more coveted items he’d been sneaking off with, like the history of the Vale of Arryn that he’d been particularly interested in as of late.

A knock on the door drew his attention and for a moment, Jace thought about not answering, pretending he was tucked in bed and fast asleep. The heavy door creaked open and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Mother-”

“I know, you’d like me to wait before barging in,” his mother said. She was dressed for an evening of relaxation - a loose, scarlet robe with woven and knotted clasps over her nightgown, her hair braided back from her face and slung over her shoulder. The Princess rubbed her hands together and her gaze flitted over the bare spots across the room. “Well, you are six and ten. The gods know there are things I do not want to walk in on.”

Jace felt his cheeks flush, a sputter escaping him. “Muñus-” He would not think about the last time that had nearly happened, rolling off the side of the bed and being convinced he’d broken… things.

“I know.” She looked beautiful in the candlelight, her pale skin flushed golden in the flickering candlelight around his room. “Indulge me, zēapos. I only have a few hours left to tease you.” She stood beside him, gazing out at the Narrow Sea. Her warm hand reached up to stroke through his hair, dark brown curls wild and tugging free along his face and shoulders. Jace was struck by how strange it was to finally be taller than his mother, who loomed large over him for as long as he could remember, a beacon of home and warmth. He slung his arm around her shoulder and ducked his head at the kiss she pressed against his cheek.

The Valyrian flowed from him as it did his mother. Since he began his lessons in earnest, most conversations took place in their ancestral tongue. “I promise to keep Baela out of trouble.” His sister was coming with him, having raged for near a fortnight at being sent away when she had only just returned from Driftmark with Rhaena. Daemon had raged back, their voices echoing off the stone of the citadel whenever they were in the same room until Luke had declared he was moving into the caves with Arrax until they stopped.

His mother chuckled. “Oh, neither of us will hold you to that. Baela is like her parents, clever and wily. But you two will have one another to rely on, as well as your grandfather. You are second in line for the throne, ñuhus trēsys.” Jace turned and she took his face in her hands, tilting his head down to rest his forehead against hers. “No matter what anyone says, or insinuates, you are my son, my heir. You will sit the Iron Throne, you are not just a prince of the realm, se dārilaros iksan.”

“Nyke dārilaros iksan,” he repeated.

I am the prince.

Her smile was gentle and soft, her eyes crinkling at the corners and she pushed up on her toes to press a kiss between his brows. “I’m so proud of you for doing this. Do not let them forget that you are a dragon. You ride Vermax, and only a dragon can bond with a dragon.”

“I miss him,” Jace whispered before he could draw the words back. His mother’s hands trembled against his face. As he knew she would, she drew back and her hands dropped to his shoulders, smoothing his loose shirt.

“Laenor was a good man and he would be proud of you.” There was honesty in her words, but Jace could not say that Laenor wasn’t who he had meant. It had been another man, who had been unwavering by his mother’s side, who had been there for everything, that Jace referred to.

But that was treason and not even he could speak it.

Jace sucked it up and he gave a short nod. “He would.” His father had been good to him and his brothers, even if he wasn’t always there, often with Ser Qarl and other men at Driftmark. He was never cruel, always kind and encouraging upon his visits, even with the distance between them that never felt lonely, not with his mother there, not with Ser Harwin.

How lucky he was, to be loved as he was. To have so many who cared for him.

How frightening it was, to go to a place that had once been his home, and now full of those who loathed him.

Jace rubbed his thumb against the stone he held and he watched his mother’s hand join his. “What’s this?”

“I found it a few days ago, when Vermax and I went to the other side of the island.” The curled seashell had long turned to rock, broken in half over time so the inside ridges were visible. “Don’t know what it is. It just…” Another shrug. “Called to me, I suppose.”

“It must mean good fortune on your journey, then,” his mother said and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now, my brooding boy, get some rest. You have a long journey ahead of you, and your men will be looking to you to not be half asleep slumped over a pile of rope.”

Right. He needed to be alert and present. He needed to be seen, he needed to participate, and work side by side with the sailors on their journey. Prove himself to be one of them. Prove himself more than the rumors that chased them from King’s Landing. Rumors that flashed bright as dragonfire in his step-grandmother’s gaze in the flickering great hall of Driftmark.

[Chapter Twelve]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby #my fics

[catt-nuevenor]

Interpretations

Here's a challenge for you all.

This is part of an amphora found in Italy, dating back to 625-600BCE. It's thought to be Etruscan/Rasnan.

More photographs of the paintings can be found on the British Museum website here

My challenge is for you to try and think about what the circular objects on the chests of the figures are, and why they (mostly) have swirling patterns inside.

Some possibilities:

Shields, though do note that the less worn figures on the right appear to have two limbs either side of the disk not engaged with holding it.

Clothing, definitely possible, though structurally challenging.

A representation of something less literal particular to whatever the profession of these individuals is? Again, certainly possible.

Some other pictures from different parts of the same vessel:

#background work #background research #etruscan art #ancient art

[alatismeni-theitsa]

in the bronze age were there more dresses that women wore? i know the well-known minoan dress, but was there another? asking bc I was reflecting on how achilles would be able to hide as a woman if we consider the dress to be historically accurate from the bronze age, as it shows too much of the neck and chest for it to be practical to a man pretend to be a woman. the representations of him hiding are always wearing peplos, which really makes it easier since it covers the region and is even looser, but did peplos already exist in the bronze age?

i was unsure if: a) there was another model of dress that made the disguise easier b) creative freedom of the myth in considering that no one noticed that achilles had no breasts and he had an adam's apple c) this myth emerged/became popular at a time when the models were already different, so although the story theoretically takes place in the bronze age, the popular imagination was with dress models that were not from that time. i.e a kind of natural anachronism, which is not an impossibility since the Iliad itself does this here and there ​

That's a good question and you don't know how many weeks I have pondered the answer to this 😂😂😂 Since the art we have from the 8th century BCE is mostly stick figures, I tried to find the next oldest and closest to the war depictions of men and women. (6th century BCE)

But first, a 8th century b.C. Boeotian amphora, from Thebes, which probably depicts a nature goddess. Artwork-location: Athens, National Archaeological Museum. (I have to celebrate my accomplishment of finding a full figure!!)

Ok, now some 6th BCE century ones:

Attic Black-Figure Volute-Krater, known as the François vase, ca. 570-565 BCE signed by the potter Ergotimos and the painter Kleitias depicting young men and women holding hands and dancing in a line.

Attic Black-Figure Hydria, ca. 510-500 BCE depicting women filling jugs at the public water fountain.

Attic Black-Figure Neck Amphora by Swing Painter c. 540-530 BCE depicting the legendary “Judgement of Paris.”

Judgement of Paris, from the Louvre, 560-550 BCE

Also based on the 8th century BCE stick figures, looks like generally dressing for men and women was different at the time. There are some choices for wider clothing, but there's also the matter of the Adam's apple.

I got a possible answer, from another amphora depicting Achilles:

Thetis brings grieving Achilles his new weapons. Side A of an Attic red-figure volute-krater, ca. 460 BC.

There's always the option of a wide cloak which covers your Adam's apple, too! While this amphora is latter, and the cloak is for mourning, there's the option of the complete cover. I haven't found it so far in 8th c. BCE depictions but... why not. Our ancients did nothing else but drape fabrics.

If the part with Achilles disguising as a woman is latter, the anachromism would be the Greek women veiling in later eras makes it easier for him to cloak himself completely.

If somoene knows more, please add it to reblogs :)

#I knwo this took forever but I just coulndt think #this was a good ask anon xD #με παιδεψε κανονικα! #answered

[luciuscaelus]

Our Story (Fanfic)

Chapter 2 Odysseus and Nestor

I never told Telemachus that I’m not the man I once knew as myself anymore.

That Odysseus of Ithaca was lost somewhere on his way home. I am what remains.

And what remains is the strong man that he was, though a broken man already.

And this broken man no longer recognized his Ithaca, for he came home a foreigner.

And this broken man fears darkness, for it can only harbor a monster.

And this broken man is scared of unknown islands, fearful of the lurking strangers.

And this broken man is frightened by the ocean, now more than ever.

This broken man is what I am now, though still I hold myself together—just for Penelope’s and Telemachus’s sake.

But I no longer rejoice at the sight of an infant.

I no longer feel comfort in a bed made for two.

So has my wandering changed me. So will it change everyone who’s out for an adventure, for one can never remain the same afterwards.

So will I always remain foreign, here in my homeland.

Is that a good thing? I don’t know. But wandering brings nothing but pain, for it is not an adventure, but something far worse.

It’s tribulation. A punishment from Gods.

What’s an adventure, then, if not the one I’ve been through two years ago? Or, to put it simply, when does an adventure become tribulation?

I don’t know for sure. Adventures would certainly bring you good memories, while tribulation does not; Adventures help build friendships…while tribulation destroys them; Adventures are easier to been through than tribulation. If there’s any praise I would say about an adventure, it’s these.

But still, there are wounds that never truly heal, wounds you’ll receive when you take on an adventure.

And now Telemachus is longing for adventures...

“Venerable king of Ithaca, if I may ask, what is disturbing your mind with unease?”

Odysseus stirred back into reality. Through the cascading morning light across the room he can see Nestor walking towards him in a welcoming pace, steady and kingly, despite his old age. Nestor was a large person, fair-skinned, his white hair glittering in the bath of sunlight, three generations of vicissitudes carried within his broad chest. Odysseus couldn’t help but marvel at his healthy build.

As he sat down beside Odysseus by the feasting table, Nestor continued. “From your face I see the weariness of your soul. Those creases upon your forehead thick as dark clouds gathered by the thunder god, as if a storm is accumulating its strength, preparing for the destruction of many a warrior, who’re fighting for the brother-kings on the vast plain of Dardania; so are you now, preoccupied by your brooding, even though you have been emancipated from your hardships. Tell me then, O noble Odysseus, what sort of matter is troubling you?”

“Honorable Nestor, truly nothing can escape your sharp eyes,” Odysseus complimented as he glanced at the two servants delivering an amphora of wine to the table. “It’s my son, actually,” He sighed. “Telemachus has an adventurous heart. In his mind, it’s some kind of a grand adventure that was the reason I was delayed for 10 years. He didn’t even blame me for anything, saying that I’m always his childhood hero because my shrewdness is unmatched except by Athena, and I’ve taken an adventure he’s always dreamed of when he was younger.”

Halfheartedly, Odysseus took hold of a cup. “But that nostos,” he continued, clenching his other fist subconsciously. “Was never an adventure to me. It’s tribulation. I had faced peoples, gods, monsters, even goddesses. And I never desire any of this. All I wanted is to stay where I belong since the very beginning—when the Argives hadn’t come to my palace, and that goddamn Palamedes hadn’t messed with my son—hadn’t messed with me.”

Odysseus paused as the servants filled his cup with mellow wine. The wine glittered with the vibrancy of a fair morning, reflecting sunlight that danced in harmony with the winds, decorating the chamber with spots of light, sometimes revealing the outline of those swaying leaves through shadows, and drawing a sketch of them on the ceiling. Such a lovely sight, as on the day when I departed from Telemachus once again. “But then,” he continued. “How am I going to explain all this to Telemachus—these reasons that I couldn’t even organize the words myself?”

Nestor smiled, and grasped Odysseus’s right hand lightly. “Bear no such worry in your heart, my old friend. For Gods will deem what would be the best for each of us, and the Fates will see to it done.” He raised his golden cup to Odysseus, as if saluting to a past that was long gone—a past which they had once shared as comrades. “We all endure losses, some physical and some mental. Had the war not taken from us persons that were dear to us, things that we deemed valuable? Had the tribulation you’ve suffered not deprived you of your happiness, as right now? But just as a hard-won battle would compensate us for our fallen comrades with bountiful spoils, so will we gain strength from our suffering: From a myriad of battles rise the champions, through losses of friends vengeance is sought and justice restored. Such tribulation did bring you sorrow and pain, yet it also rendered you harsh, and with that comes your strength. Here, let’s drink it up, to the glorious past of ours, and the prosperous future of our sons'!”

Odysseus gladly drank to that, of course. Nestor does have a point here, though that’s not precisely what I need to hear. But of course, Nestor is just trying to be kind and nice here, and that’s his way of open arms. Odysseus thought, and cracked a grateful smile towards Nestor. “I see you haven’t changed a bit, my old friend,” Odysseus commented. “The wine tastes great, and my sorrow seems to have vanished for the moment, since your kind words have dissolved in such a nectareous flavor, and worked their way straight to my heart.”

“Well I have to admit, there’s one thing I’ve been wrong about you all along, my friend,” Nestor chuckled. “It seems that you haven’t lost that sense of humor on your way home, after all.”

“Anyway, how fare you in Pylos, honorable Nestor?” Odysseus finished the last sip, and attempted to start a new topic. As the servants filled their cups again, Nestor replied with a genuine smile. “Apparently the Gods have deemed my toils to be enough, thus we have spent the last eleven years in joy and happiness. My sons are growing up rapidly, and soon Peisistratus, the youngest son of mine, will get to take on his own journey, for he is always longing to see other places of the world, other people—quite a resemblance to your son Telemachus, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes…yes I guess,” why are we back here again? Odysseus quickly inhaled, trying to hide his fright with this sudden reprise of topics. “I mean, yeah. He and Telemachus do have a lot in common. And Tele always talks about his best friend in Pylos. There is something special about them, though. A bond, perhaps. Something tells me that they’re going to spend more time together in the future.”

“Interesting,” Nestor appeared to be thoughtful, while he gently massaged his white beard. “Interesting indeed. Have you told Telemachus about the new journey you’ve had a year ago?”

“Not really,” Odysseus replied quickly, still wondering what Nestor had in mind. “There’s…not much to talk about, anyway. I followed the prophecy to honor Poseidon with sacrifices, I got home safe and sound, and I never have to sail afar ever again. That’s already satisfying enough.”

“Then you’ve taken your son on a trip to other cities, which lasts for a whole year if I’ve heard it right. Sightseeing?”

“Indeed, sightseeing.” Odysseus was so confused right now.

“Hmm,” Nestor nodded pensively. “Have you been to Crete during this time?”

“Crete? Haven’t got a chance yet. But to be honest, I do miss Idomeneus. He, and Meriones. We used to have such fun together, even when we’re in the middle of a war.”

“Then I suppose you haven’t received the news that he has been exiled from his homeland, approximately 10 years ago?”

“What?” Odysseus gasped exaggeratedly. “I mean…what has he done to deserve such grim fate?”

Nestor looked distressed. “Some say that he has sacrificed his own son to Lord Poseidon, and some say that his wife was unfaithful to him, and had abandoned him as soon as he returned to Crete. But one thing is true: the reigning king of Crete at present is his foster son, Leucus, who’s as tyrannous as his real father—Talos the infamous bronze giant.”

“His son…Poseidon…Talos…” Odysseus was still trying to recover from his shock. Idomeneus exiled because he killed his own son? His throne taken by a foster son out of no reason? Somehow this thread reeks of deception and falsehood, I can smell it. “But what about Meriones?”

“He was kept by the king at Crete as a charioteer, even though it goes against his will to abandon his former king, who’s also a good friend of his.” Nestor sighed heavily, as if relating a tale from the distant past. His eyebrows furrowed with concentration, but a twitch of his lips gave away the impression that there’s more to this matter than meets the eye.

“Listen, Nestor, I’m sure that you and I have come up with the same conclusion, since you are equipped with the wisdom of three generations, and I my shrewdness unparalleled. This matter is not as simple as it seems. We both know Idomeneus well, and even the Gods could not play such a mischievous game this cruel and gruesome. The sequence of these events—death of his son, exile of a virtuous old king, rise of an evil new king—just seems too coincidental, that one could almost suspect,” Odysseus let the feelings uncoiled for a moment, and apparently Nestor had known what he was thinking at the exact moment already. “That it was Leucus who had murdered Idomeneus' son, outcast our dear Idomeneus, and usurped his throne.”

“My conclusion as well,” Nestor smiled with apparent appreciation. “Indeed great minds think alike. Nevertheless, this fact remains: Crete is now under the tyranny of a false king. The reduction in merchandise from Crete has stated it well, and gossips that travel afar have already proven our worst fear.”

“Wait, but that doesn’t necessarily discredit Leucus' rule, does it?”

“No it doesn’t. However, more and more fugitives from Crete are migrating to Argos, Mycenae, Sparta, along with other famous poleis. Moreover, it has been confirmed that the Cretans are raising a number of horses, forging countless weapons, constructing ships the scale of which cannot be measured within the scope of recovery. This has the peace-loving migrants told us truthfully, and may Zeus damn them if they all prove to be Sisyphus still-living.”

“Wait, but doesn’t that mean—”

“Yes I’m afraid so,” replied Nestor, dropping his voice. “It is rumored that Leucus is plotting a war.”

Odysseus couldn’t believe it. Crete, Now desiring for war after merely eleven years of peace? Who among the gods could’ve kindled their passion, to excite their lust for bloodshed, even when most of its people are still clinging to their hard-won peace?

But then again, one could never predict what is concealed in the mind of Gods, and neither should him. If the rumors are true indeed, then he must look for an answer through reason. For after all, isn’t this what it means to be a warrior of the mind?

“Well I suppose?” Odysseus was quick to come up with a theory, nonetheless. “After all the Cretans didn’t suffer so great in number during our latest conquest of Troy, and now that the population of other kingdoms is stretching thin, while Crete, being remote from the Mainland, hasn’t been affected by the decline in prosperity of other poleis to such an extent. I guess it’s not such a big surprise after all.”

“Young Odysseus, you have spoken well,” Nestor complimented on his analysis, while taking another drink from his golden cup. “And while it is true that most of the other kingdoms cannot afford to risk war against Crete, there still lurks a possibility, that we can take down this devious plot from within, before it ever starts to bring havoc to Panellas. Let us aim at the usurper—he would be nothing without his supporters. Let us help a new king to his throne, a new king who would be wiser and more peace-loving.”

“What?” Odysseus couldn’t have been more surprised. “Tell me, Nestor, is such audacious plan conceived by your own intelligence? Because if so, then you are perhaps more guileful than I think. Nevertheless, it is not appropriate for us to interfere with the politics of another kingdom, no matter how evil a conspiracy it is devising. Let us talk about the weather instead. For indeed it infuses us with happiness, even though such a topic we’re engaging right now isn’t quite fit for this sunny day.”

“You speak wisely, noble Odysseus,” Nestor remarked with certain appreciation. “But there is one more thing I’d like to add: no, this plan is not of my own counsel. Now, let us sing of the weather, the soothing wind that massages a forest of leaves, the glittering water that melts with the vast robe of sky, the sandy landscape that coats the champaign of Pylos. For none can resist such beautiful scenery, as if captured by the sight of a lovely maiden, so mesmerizing is the view of everything here…”

…

The chariot of Lord Helios slowly climbed to the zenith, leading traces of light bathing the vast plains of sandy Pylos. The gentle breath of Zephyrus rode its way straight to the distant mountains, laving the verdant forests with vapor and warmth. Sitting by the Ionian Sea, the city of Pylos was composing a song of laboring with everlasting conversations of city folks, and clatters of metal which rang though the web of streets, encompassing the grandiose palace of Nestor in the center.

Inside the palace, a conversation that had lasted for hours was now coming to an end, as the servants were preparing appetizing dishes for lunch. Roasted thighs of well-fed bulls and sheep were served, along with luscious fruits and flavorsome wine mixed with wheat. As they were waiting for all the princes and princesses to join them in feasting, the two kings spent their time sipping their wine silently, as they had already conversed for a whole long morning.

It was Nestor who broke the silence first. “So Odysseus, I have a trip in mind for both of us, and our sons. A trip you may find rather…interesting.”

“What kind of…trip?” Odysseus' tense eyebrows slowly creased.

“It’s not a long trip, really. And it’s an invitation to dinner, for the birthday of a certain prince, whose father you might find yourself very familiar with.” Nestor returned the golden cup to the plate held by his servant. “It’s a suggestion, though. Since you have not received the invitation—and I don’t suppose you will. But the strife must be dealt with between the two of you, for we must be fully prepared for what is to come if the Cretans are really devising disasters. You can come with me and my sons, bring prudent Telemachus along the way as well. You’ll be counted as my noble guests, whom I cannot hurry away for fear of the wrath of Zeus—protector of all outlanders, nor can I left in my own palace since Menelaus' latest lesson was far too great.”

“But where are we going exactly?” Odysseus pressed. Is Nestor stalling for the answer? But why? Is that supposed to be a place I wouldn’t be willing to go? But how can any place be worse, now that I’ve seen what Ogygia has in store? Just bring it on, my old pal!

“It may not please you to hear this…” Nestor seemed hesitant, but as he looked into that pair of fathomless yet sorrowful brown eyes of Odysseus, he decided to continue. “But this afternoon we’re leaving for Salamis.”

As if a peal of thunder suddenly cracked out of nowhere, shaking the ground with a shock and an ancient fear, Odysseus exclaimed loudly, quaked with fear of an old nightmare.

“Salamis?!”

Nestor nodded in silence.

“The Salamis?” Odysseus repeated, still shuddering in disbelief. Is this some kind of trick Nestor is trying to play on me? First to interfere with Crete’s internal affairs, now this? “Ajax’s Salamis? Oh nonono, I don’t think so. The people would enjoy stoning me to death, for one. Besides, what would their prince, Eurysaces son of Ajax, have to say about me? This is completely out of the question. I’m not going.”

“Seriously, Odysseus? You have encountered a Cyclops, withstood the spells of that dangerous Circe, paid a visit to the Underworld in life, hearken to the song of the Sirens unaffected, passed between Scylla and Charybdis, survived the devastating storms wrought by Poseidon himself, then returned home to wreak vengeance on all of the suitors. And now you’re terrified of meeting a people, whose previous king was once a friend of yours before he succumbed to his own folly and paid the price for his unreasonable ire?” Nestor replied rhapsodically, his hands dancing in dramatic gestures. But he soon stopped as he seemed to notice something. “Besides, what would the prince of Ithaca, Telemachus son of Odysseus, have to say about it?” Nestor suddenly raised his voice, and one of his eyebrow, while casting a glance over Odysseus' shoulder. And as Odysseus turned around to trace the line of sight of Nestor—

“I say, father,” Telemachus answered with a smile, his god-like figure radiating a sense of confidence, accompanied by Peisistratus and other sons and daughters of Nestor. As they walked gleefully through the gate into the chamber, Telemachus continued. “Let us confront this guilt of yours, and together we will get rid of it once and for all.”

#greek mythology #odysseus #nestor #fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic writing #idomeneus #ajax #telemachus #epic the musical #It’s way longer than I expected #Seriously Nestor’s part is both the easiest and hardest part to write #Ody and Tele are gonna have a talk about the difference in their attitude towards adventures vs tribulation in chap.4 #It’s not only about Tele’s and Peisis’s and Eurysaces’s adventure #Ody will have his own arc too #But anyway it’s already long so I’ll stop ranting

[kirishimasensei]

what spring does with the cherry trees (part II)

You stay at your godfather’s ludus for the summer, where you meet Bakugou Katsuki, his champion gladiator.

part I | part II

author :: KirishimaSensei (Misha) pairing :: Bakugou Katsuki x f!Reader word count :: 2.5k tags :: Spartacus AU | gladiator AU | adult characters | adult language | descriptions of violence | ancient Roman slavery | mentions of sex work

ii. "How to un-want what the body has wanted,

explain how the flesh in its wisdom was wrong?"

Enji has already moved Katsuki’s living quarters. No longer does he sleep in the dank, dark bowels of the villa, but across the training arena, underneath the open sky. His room is one of four, the three unoccupied on either side of his own, built into the mountainous cliffs that surround the Villa Todoroki. It offers him not only a reprieve from the commotion of the ludus, but privacy as well, of which you are thankful for.

And while the night gives way to celebration for his fellow gladiators, the champion chooses to spend his time in said cell, apart from the others, instead of reveling in the joy that he himself brought to the House of Todoroki.  

You try not to retch at the sights and smells and sounds, all so overpowering to the senses. The gladiators and the whores bought for the night are lost in their celebration, drinking and fucking, paying you no mind. But even so, you attempt to not draw attention to yourself, winding your way through the maze of bodies like a mouse, nose turned toward promising reward.

You only feel as though you can breathe again once you step outside underneath the night sky, but just barely. The air is dry, the ground parched from lack of rain, the dust unsettling with every step. It’s still hot, despite the late hour, and you can feel the promise of sweat prickling at you skin as you make your way across the training arena.

Your heart is pounding, stomach fluttering as you knock on Katsuki’s cell door, and in your eagerness, you open it before the gladiator has the opportunity to grant you entry.

You close the door behind yourself, hand lingering on the rough wood to give yourself another moment before turning toward the gladiator. You watch as Katsuki stands from the bed with a slow and weary stretch, not at all threatened by your sudden appearance. 

You have never been so close to him before, always looking down at him from the villa balcony or pulvinus at the arena. And from your position now, you can see that the gladiator is even bigger than you imagined, taking up all the space in the already miniscule cell. 

Katsuki is bare but for his subligaria, a piece of folded cloth barely covering his most intimate parts. His skin glows in the candle light, with the light too accentuating the lines around his eyes. He looks… tired, world-weary, but even so, he still maintains an air of strength and superiority about him, staring down at you through a slitted gaze. 

You look back at him beneath fluttering eyelashes as he walks toward you, only a few sauntering steps to get to where you stand in front of the door. You can feel your heartbeat hastening as Katsuki’s eyes, so ruby red, never waver in their gaze. 

A small smirk slowly forms upon the gladiator’s face, and in your momentary weakness from the glorious sight, you don’t respond quickly enough when Katsuki reaches out and takes your jaw in his calloused hand. He turns your head first this way and then that, and although you are unsure of his intentions, you allow him to do so. After a moment of appraisal, Katsuki releases you, but makes no move to retreat. 

“You’re bold to be here,” he says, voice rough but quiet.

“I am bold to my purpose,” you reply, attempting to steady your own voice. “I come bearing gifts. Wine for our champion.”

You hold up the amphora of wine that you have brought with you to emphasize your point, along with two cups. You then sit the cups on a small table, but before you can pour the win, Katsuki lets out a laugh, startling and confusing you. 

“Do you find me amusing?” you ask, cheeks aflame.

Katsuki takes a step even closer to you, and you don’t know whether to stay put, firm in your courage, or to move away, farther from his reach. You choose to stand your ground, not giving the gladiator any reason to doubt your devotion.

“Though you do bear a striking resemblance to your slave,” Katsuki says, “I am neither simple nor blind.”

You are stunned to silence. No one has ever caught on to your scheme, recognizing you in the guise of your companion. No one has ever given you a second look while hiding true self behind false facade. And there you are with this man, not but for a moment, in darkness and shadow, and he can see through you like glass.

“I wonder what venture is so great,” Katsuki continues, “that you would put yourself in such compromising position.”

There’s no point in denying it now. No reason not to voice true intent.

“I have noticed how eyes wander to the balcony as you train,” you tell him, “in them something akin to desire. The same in which is reflected in my own.”

“Desire?” Katsuki repeats, a question.

“Yes,” you reply, regaining confidence. “And I desire only the finest in all things. Silks from the ports of Neapolis, exotic furs from across the seas. The most exquisite foods, the sweetest confections. And now I desire the finest gladiator, a warrior from beyond the mountains, standing a masterpiece as though chiseled by the gods themselves. Better than the softest furs, the most succulent fruits. Better than all the wonders of the world combined.”

With a trembling hand, you allow yourself to reach out and touch the gladiator, fingers fluttering down the hard expense of his chest. His skin is hot, slick with oil from his cleansing. Oh! You think, to be the strigil in which he must hold so tightly in hand every night, to feel the curves of his body, the hard planes. How such a simple thing causes you envy, yet Katsuki is here with you now, and you would touch him, memorizing his every inch, every detail of his form, carved so carefully as though lovingly tended to by the greatest master of the art.

You follow the trail of golden hair that leads down from Katsuki’s stomach to the top of his subligaria, disappearing beneath the rough fabric.

“You are a thing of beauty, are you not?” you say, your voice soft, curious, speaking more to yourself than to the gladiator.

Your hand doesn’t wander any further down, but instead, you run his palm back up Katsuki’s stomach, his chest, his neck. Your fingers trail across the braid down the side of the man’s scalp, behind his ear, but before you can sink your fingers into his hair, Katsuki grabs your wrist and stops you. 

“You see me as a thing to add to your collection?” he asks. “A trinket for you to use?”

You stare at thim in confusion, taken aback at his tone. You thought the gladiator would be flattered by your appreciation. Did he not realize that your declaration was one of praise, words a reflection of the heart?

“I did not mean it as a slight,” you tell him.

Katsuki growls, “Though I receive it as one.”

“Most men in your position would be pleased!”

“My position?” he repeats, jerking you closer by your wrist. “You think because you are Roman and I am slave, I would drop to fucking knees to please you? That I should be flattered that you would deign to look upon me with something other than contempt?”

“No! I merely –”

“You are used to getting what you want,” Katsuki continues. “But I do not want a spoiled Roman whore.”

You gasp at his words, heart-broken, and begin to fight against him. But the man is immovable and you cannot pull your wrist from his firm grasp. In your struggle, you drop the amphora resting in your other arm to the ground, the clay shattering and wine covering your feet.

You use your hand, now free, to try to push Katsuki away, but the gladiator only takes that wrist in his other hand, trapping you completely. 

“Have you been so long a slave,” you ask, fatigued from your struggle, “that you have forgotten when someone does not treat you as one?!”

Katsuki’s nostrils flare, eyes darken like molten lava, as he forces you back against the door. He holds both of your wrists in his grasp, above your head, and in your fear, you no longer fights against him, allowing the gladiator to do with you what he wishes in hopes that you will be left with no more than bruised skin.

“You have not treated me like a slave?” Katsuki asks.

His voice is soft again as he bends down to speak to you, his lips so close to the yours that they would brush if he so desired them too. It’s a cruel imitation of a near kiss, so like the one you would have risked all to receive before you stepped foot in the gladiator’s cell.

“You come here to use me,” Katsuki says, “deceive me. You want me for your own pleasure, with no thought to my will, my choice.”

You’re trembling, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. You’re ashamed, suddenly, struck dumb at the gladiator’s words. In your hubris, you thought your presence a gift, with no thought it would be denied or ill-received. You did not consider how such deception would make Katsuki feel. Even if he did give into desire, how would he react if he knew that desire was misplaced, projected on to the wrong person?

You turn your face away, lest the gladiator see your tears fall, but Katsuki grabs your jaw with one of his hands, making you look up at thim again.

“To what end?” Katsuki asks, his brow softening with the question. “Do you merely wish to fuck a gladiator? There are many others who would have you.”

“Apologies,” you plead, more tears trailing down your cheeks, but whether from fear, humiliation, or rejection, you know not. “Desire was born of good intentions.”

Katuski lets you go, but he does not yet move away. You bring your wrists down, close to your chest, and rub the sore and aching bones, the skin that is sure to bruise.

“If you truly wish to please me,” Katsuki says, “send me someone who could actually stir my cock.”

The gladiator turns from you and walks to bed, lays down with his hands behind his head, eyes closed. It’s a clear dismissal and you don’t have to be told any more clearly to leave. You open the door to flee, but before you can, you hear Katsuki’s voice once more. 

“Send more wine, too, if you would,” he says. “I would not want the night of my victory to go to waste.”

Hiroko is occupying your bed when you return to your chambers. Hiroko’s room is joined to yours, but she is playing her part, pretending to be you, and you are glad of it. You need familiar and loving arms to comfort you after such a devastating night.

“You’ve returned too soon,” Hiroko whispers as you crawl into bed beside her.

“He did not want me,” you reply, trying to control the tremor in your voice.

You feel shattered, scattered into infinite pieces, left trailing from Katsuki’s cell to your own room. You’re scared, sorrowful, and full of desire to sleep so that you may be free of this waking nightmare. 

"How could he not want you?” Hiroko asks.

“He called me a ‘spoiled Roman whore,’” you tell her, flinching at the thought.  “His words do ring true.”

“That beast!” Hiroko gasps. “How dare he say such a thing! And you, determining worth on the words of a gladiator!”

You hold on tighter to your companion, not having strength enough for anymore words. Hiroko persists, though, not allowing you to hide from cruel reality.

“How did he know it was you?” she asks. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” you reply. “We are not so alike as I thought. You are wise and I should’ve listened to you, but instead I chose to play a child’s game. How will I ever be able to face the morning sun?”

Hiroko strokes your hair, comforting you. “Sol is a merciful god,” she says. “He will show you mercy as he rides his chariot across the sky. You must only take leave of your bed and the task is done.”

The two of you lay in the dark, in the silence. Hiroko’s words do lift some of the weight from your shoulders. Has the world ended because you have been denied? No, you suppose, tomorrow will come and you will move on. No matter how difficult the thought seems.

“Your step-brother comes one week hence, for the Vulcanalia,“ Hiroko tells you. “Your godfather came to inform you when you were away.”

You sigh, fresh tears flowing. “Oh, how the gods piss on me this night.”

Your step-brother is the last person you want to see, though the only family you have left, even if not by blood. The only true blood you have in the world is Hiroko, though Rome does not recognize the kinship, and by unfortunate fate she is condemned to be a slave. 

After your mother died, so long ago, your father married the widow Shigaraki, your step-brother’s mother. And then she, too, died. Along with a child as she was giving birth. And if those tragedies were not enough, your father passed within the last year, while you were away at school, leaving Tomura, his eldest male child, as his heir and the master of his home.

Tomura, being a legatus – a high ranking military officer – was often away from home, leaving you as sole steward of the villa after you finished school. But then Tomura married Himiko, a senator’s daughter, and since she came to live at the villa with you, you could not stand to be there any longer, and had to leave. Thankfully, your godfather allowed you to stay at the Villa Todoroki.

“Himiko will be close in tow, no doubt,” you say to your companion.

“She is the spoiled whore,” Hiroko replies, the lilt of humor in her voice. “But worry not, for Touya accompanies them as well.”

Now, that piques your interest. Todoroki Touya is Enji's eldest son, Shouto's brother. And, as you and Shouto were childhood friends, so were Touya and Tomura friends, what seemed so long ago. In more recent years, their relationship has turned more into that of rivals, but that is no matter to you, who have always fancied the eldest Todoroki. And what's more, like Tomura, Touya is a legatus now, but yet free from the bond of marriage. 

You think that this visit could prove very profitable.

“Remove gladiator from thoughts and turn them toward proper men,” Hiroko says, and you can tell by her tone that the discussion is ended. 

ii. Cecilia Woloch, from “Postcard Beginning With a Quote from Mark C., Avenue de l'Opéra,” Carpathia

#mdni #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou imagine #bnha imagine

[lumosinlove]

Day Eleven:

On the eleventh day of Winterfic, Hazel gave to you, Bridgerton AU Part Three

Logan could do nothing but stare back at Leo. His blond hair looked bright in the moonlight, a white-gold that made his eyes seem even paler, almost silver. Even his tuxedo looked paler, the black bleeding out into the night and replaced by a fairer gray-white. Leo wasn’t holding their cups of punch anymore and his fingers curled at his sides, empty.

Logan felt too exposed. Not even the circle of tall trees helped. Not even the fountain, whose trickling at least did something to fill the silence. The crickets, too, all around them. No one had ever seen him and Finn like this. This close and curled against each other. Finn had released Logan immediately, stumbling backwards and catching himself on the edge of the fountain. Logan could only watch him from the corner of his eye, unable to take his gaze off of Leo.

For so many, this was a nightmare. A lover, a garden. A dark night, a full moon. An intruder and prying eyes. Logan’s mind took him through two thousand possibilities, as it had so many times before. With all the wonderful things that came with loving Finn—waking up to his warm skin and his familiar voice, having his hand to hold on evening walks—there also came all the things they were both afraid of. The first of which had become a reality when Noelle had met Finn on the staircase up to Logan’s room. But Noelle was Noelle. Logan could never be afraid of her.

This was Lord Leo Knut. He had every connection, ever possible good fortune in the world. He had just danced with Logan—three times—only to find him kissing and confessing his love (if he had even heard that part) to another boy. He had every single right and means to put into reality everything that Logan and Finn feared.

So why, why wasn’t Logan more afraid of him?

“God, I’m—” Leo began, and fell a step back, too, just as Finn had. He looked down at the grass between them, as if that would restore their privacy and undo what had just happened. “I’m so sorry, I…I didn’t mean…” 

Logan tried to form the words he wanted, but all he seemed to be able to do was look at Finn, and then at Leo. Finn was still clutching the lip of the fountain with white knuckles, frozen into place. A summer breeze picked up, and his ruffling hair and rapidly rising chest were the only things giving him away as a human and not one of the statued Greek figurines that forever poured the water out of their amphorae.

Leo seemed to be having the opposite problem. His hands were nervous at his sides, and he stumbled over his words. “I worried…You never came back, so—And I thought maybe something was—Whatever made you go, you looked so surprised, or perhaps I thought scared, and so I wanted to make sure—”

“It’s all right, Leo,” Logan finally managed, then looked back at Finn, who’s eyes were wide and afraid. “Finn, it’s okay. He’s—he’s a friend.”

Logan didn’t know what made him say it. They’d only just met, but something was there, obviously, keeping Logan calm. Or maybe it was what wasn’t there. Nothing about Leo’s face told Logan he was about to go running to tell. Nothing about his face looked horrified, either. It was obvious Finn was a servant by the way he was dressed, but Leo made no confused glances or questions. He was looking respectfully away, head bowed, hands behind his back—fingers twisting together furiously by the looks of it.

“I’m was just going,” Finn said suddenly, and bowed to Logan. “My Lord.”

Logan’s heart lurched.

Finn bowed to Leo. “My Lord.”

Logan reached out and caught Finn’s hand. “Don’t. Finn, don’t, it’s all right—”

Finn just closed both of his hands around Logan’s and squeezed firmly, his back towards Leo. He looked more nervous than before, cheeks high in color, brown eyes a little wild. He kept his voice low. “We will see each other tomorrow. We will. Remember what I said—”

“No,” Leo called. “Sir, please, it was my intrusion.”

“Logan, please trust me,” Finn whispered when Logan wouldn’t let him go.

Logan could only shake his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Finn whispered. “I know you don’t, and—and I will explain it all, I promise.” He glanced back towards Leo. “Only not now.”

Finn’s hand slipped through Logan’s fingers and he watched his red hair disappear into the night with nothing but the slight rustle of his footsteps in the grass. He was only partially aware of Leo stepping towards him, his fingers brushing his arm.

“Logan,” Leo said gently, and when Logan looked at him, he was gazing after Finn, eyes puzzled.

“Please, don’t look at him like that,” Logan said softly. “He’s not—Don’t tell me you care that he’s…”

“No,” Leo said. “God, no, what must you think of me? It was only…I feel as though we have met before. I only can’t quite place him.”

Logan was too exhausted to bring up the markets, or the cooking. Tomorrow, Finn had said. They would next see each other tomorrow. Not tonight. Not at home. Logan tried to think of why, why would he not tell Logan to come with him now, or even to meet him at home like they had planned.

Only, Logan thought of his mother back in the ballroom. She was probably throwing a silent fit. No doubt people had seen him rush out. At least Leo had waited some moments, but wasn’t that Logan’s oldest trick in the book? I’ll go, you wait five minutes, and then follow.

“We should go back,” Logan said softly. “This isn’t…”

“If you say proper, I’ll remind you that we are practically engaged.”

Logan looked up at him sharply, but only to see that Leo was smiling hesitantly.

“That was a joke,” Leo said softly. He held out his arm. “I…you don’t have to explain anything to me, my Lord. Logan. We hardly know each other. Only I ask—please let me escort you back inside. We can show our faces, and then you can do whatever you wish. We don’t have to dance, we don’t have to talk. You can even make your goodbyes.”

Logan could only stare at him. It was a risk, it was all a risk. “Aren’t you worried—”

“Logan,” Leo said gently, and put a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “I have nothing to fear. I’m privileged in that way. I am lucky. I’m not worried about anything. What could I have to fear? People saying that the most handsome boy in the room has taken me to the gardens for a midnight stroll?”

“I have a reputation,” Logan reminded him, flush on his cheeks. “It is a midnight one, but it’s certainly not for strolling.”

The smile Leo gave him was surprisingly sharp, eyes turning playful. “Then I should be so lucky.”

Logan couldn’t explain it, but his breath caught in his chest at seeing such a look on Leo’s face.

“I…” Logan shook his head. “I don’t know why he ran away. I mean, I do, but…” He looked in the direction Finn had gone. “I don’t know…” We will see each other tomorrow. Remember what I said.

“He was scared,” Leo said and began guiding Logan back towards the ballroom. “You were, too, when you first saw me. I could tell.”

“I was surprised,” Logan said. “There’s a difference.”

The garden became brighter as they ascended the stairs back up to the patio. They stood for a moment, watching the dancers whirling within.

“At least one of us doesn’t look like they’ve been snogging,” Leo said, and it startled a laugh out of Logan, who put a hand to his mouth.

“God, do I?”

Leo smiled. “No. You look…” He took a breath. “You look…you look very well.”

“Thank you,” Logan said softly. The most handsome boy. The fact that Leo still saw him that way after what he had just done…Logan didn’t know what to make of that. Looking at Leo in the warm light, he wanted badly to reach up and brush back that gray wave of hair, mixing it into the blond that feathered back in Leo’s soft curls.

“Shall we? You look conflicted still.”

“No,” Logan said. “I mean, yes, we should, but…”

Leo tilted his head. “But?”

“I don’t know why but…I know you won’t hurt me. Or him.”

Leo just looked down at him, and shook his head. “No. I won’t.”

~

Logan woke up the next morning feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He had kept waking in the night, thinking he had heard the creak of his door, felt a dip in his bed, felt Finn coming to him, finally, with an explanation. Logan couldn’t think what he had done. What could be so rash? What could go so wrong? He pushed himself up in his bed, and it felt too big to be alone in. His chambers, too—looming and empty and cold, even in the summer morning. They had felt that way ever since Finn had stopped sneaking upstairs at night. He looked outside at the bright sky. Finn would be downstairs now. Logan would have breakfast, and then corner him. He’d make up some excuse for Mrs. Hawk to steal him away from his duties. Logan groaned and pushed himself out of bed. He didn’t know what excuse. It wasn’t like he was prone to accompanying the staff to the markets.

When he finally made his way down to the breakfast table, it was to chatter that sounded too loud. Even the clink of cutlery was too much—and Logan wasn’t even hungover, he was just a wreck. Nervous and worried for Finn—guilty about Leo.

“Little brother,” Noelle greeted him.

Logan just sat down, distastefully eyeing the way she was clacking her spoon against her boiled egg.

“Late riser,” Sydney said. “Are you going to tell us where you disappeared to last night now?”

Noelle leaned in. “You and Knut.”

His mother sighed. “The entire ballroom was talking about it, Logan, and not in the way we wanted exactly—”

“What do you do with your boys in gardens, Lolo?” Sydney asked, and Logan’s mother shushed her.

“It doesn’t matter,” his mother said in matter-of-fact voice. “A Knut is a Knut, and nothing can change that. Not even my son who romps around like—oh well, a Knut is a Knut.” She laughed happily. “And he volunteered. Good gracious, Logan, you have done well.”

“That sounds like something out of a nursery rhyme,” Noelle said, then put on a very posh accent. “A newt is a newt, an egg is an egg. Never, oh, never ask ladies their age!”

“Everyone be quiet, please,” Logan sighed and took a small bite of toast.

“But—” his mother began, though Logan was saved by the butler coming in with the morning mail.

“Oh, oh, new Whistledown!” Noelle called, and gestured for it. “Bring it here, Morris, if you please. Thanks.”

Logan didn’t even want to think about Whistledown right now. “Save it for later, would you, Noelle. God knows what’s in there.”

Noelle just scoffed and tucked it by her plate so she could read while she ate. “Exactly. We better be prepared.”

“Did you just go walking?” Sydney asked. “Lily says she saw you bolt outside and leave poor Knut alone, only for him to follow you later.”

“That is one of his old tricks,” his mother said.

“You are not supposed to know that, mum,” Sydney laughed, and his mother just smiled and sipped her tea.

“Um,” Noelle said.

“Stop,” Logan sighed. “Honest. I don’t want to hear it. We just walked. Nothing happened.”

“Um,” Noelle said more loudly, holding up the latest Whistledown and fixing Logan with a hard stare. “Excuse me.”

“What did she say?” Sydney asked. “Is it about Logan and Lord Knut?”

“It’s about Logan, all right, but—” Noelle fixed Logan with a pointed stare. “When were you going to tell us—when—Jesus Christ, I—when were—” She slapped the pamphlet down. “You’re courting Whistledown?"

Logan frowned, looking up from his eggs and toast. “Huh?”

Noelle all but shoved the pamphlet in front of him, and Logan narrowed his eyes at her when it nearly upset his tea, but picked the paper up.

“Noelle, what are you talking about?” their mother asked.

Logan didn’t have to look far to find his own name. He passed by remarks about a worker’s strike to read later, some others about the Queen’s expenses, until finally, he found whatever had made Noelle shriek so in the pamphlet’s famous slanted type.

Logan Tremblay and Leo Knut danced three times at the Queen’s ball last night. The diamond of the season—though Tremblay was mysteriously absent to see himself be named—and the handsome Lord Knut made a fine pair. Anyone who is anyone knows how rare a true Tremblay smile is, and Lord Knut had him positively laughing.

Many speculate this is a sure match, that we are to expect a proposal in no time—and what a season treat would that be.

But I’m afraid that this Author has other intentions.

Logan frowned. He set his toast down.

This Author is not who you expect, dear Reader, though they are sure that you all prefer the mystery of it all—this Author favors it, too. It has been exceedingly compelling, a fine way to fill the late hours of the night, our correspondence. But our time as two estranged confidants has come to an end. This Author’s true identity means more to them than ever.

While this Author may write about ballrooms, they do not dance within them.

While this Author may critique the latest fashions, they do not wear them.

And yet this Author made you believe they belonged in the same rooms you occupy, dear Reader. Did you not believe me? You did.

And so—one final question to pose to you before I uncloak myself, and depart: If you, dear Reader, could not guess that I was not one of you, how different can I be? I, in my real life below the ballrooms and below you all.

While this Author writes about the loves and losses of your world, dear Reader, can they not feel them just as keenly?

This Author thinks they can. In fact, he knows it.

This Author knows love, a universal subject. He knows love for Lord Logan Tremblay. He is in love with him, and he wishes to request the first dance at tonight’s Starlight Ball, should the Lord permit it—please. This Author can explain everything.

Logan put his fingers to his mouth. “Oh…”

“Whistledown is a servant…” Logan’s mother breathed, staring wide-eyed at her own copy. “Logan, I don’t…I don’t understand. Do you know this person?”

“Logan.” Noelle’s voice this time—knowing. Understanding. “Logan, do you mean to tell me that…All this time, is this the writing of—”

But Logan shook his head, gesturing for her to be silent, because suddenly it was clear in his mind. There had always, always been something he liked about the Whistledown pamphlets. Something almost familiar about the way the author spoke, the way she wrote. She tore people down, yes, but only those who deserved it. She poked fun at Logan himself, yes, but never in a way that was ruinous.

Even here, with Leo, Logan had been merely portrayed as desirable. He and Leo both had.

All the times he had read aloud from the pamphlet to Finn. All those times, had he merely been reading Finn’s own words back to him?

You don’t love it? Logan could remember asking Finn recently when he’d barely had a reaction at all to a Whistledown piece. The writing had fiercely and openly supported a Lady in Kent who was to marry her driver. Look at this Finn, Whistledown would be for us, too. And he hadn’t been able to understand it when Finn had merely given him a soft smile, a casual nod, a stroke of a hand down Logan’s cheek. Yes, I think so, Lo.

Logan pushed back from the table without a word. He didn’t care that he was leaving behind stunned faces, didn’t care that he nearly knocked one of the maids down as he blew through the dining room doors. He had to get to him. He had to get to Finn. He thundered down the servant’s staircase, whipped around the corner and dashed down the hallway until he reached the kitchens. They all had probably heard him coming, because they were much stiller than usual when he arrived, flushed and out of breath. Mrs. Hawk was poised by the ovens, wringing her hands in her apron, her brown hair curling around her kind, aging face.

“Mrs. Hawk,” Logan said, out of breath. “Mrs. Hawk…”

Logan scanned the kitchens as best he could. Finn wasn’t in sight. Not at the work tables, not at the stoves, or the ovens. Outside? Fetching milk perhaps?

“Yes, my Lord? Breakfast is upstairs, you know.”

“Oh,” one of the maids chimed in. She was clutching Whistledown to her chest. “Who is it, my Lord? Who are you in love with?”

“Maisie,” Mrs. Hawk hissed, and Maisie ducked.

“It’s only romantic, that’s all…” Maisie mumbled.

Logan’s eyes caught on her, on the phrase. Romantic. He shouldn’t have come down here. What had he been thinking? He’d give Finn right up asking about him after that declaration, and he’d lose his job, or he’d—God, what was he doing?

Maisie put that together just about as fast as him. She gasped.

“Oh gosh, is he—is he here? Does he work here, my Lord?”

Mrs. Hawk waved a hand at her. “Maisie.”

“No,” Logan said quickly, not knowing what else to say. “No, I—I only wanted…” He tried desperately to think of something he could have wanted from downstairs. “Aspirin—my—a headache from last night, I…”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hawk said. “My Lord, do let us send things like that up to you, would you now.”

“Whistledown,” Maisie said, sounding delighted. “Did you know, sir? Did you know?”

Logan tried to plead with her with his eyes to please stop.

“My Lord, pardon me,” came a voice from behind Logan, and he turned, feeling dizzy.

“Yes?” Logan asked the butler, Morris. “Yes, Morris?”

“Sir,” said Morris again. “Lord Knut has called on you this morning.”

“Oh,” came a muffled gasp from Maisie—even Mrs. Hawk seemed to allow herself to succumb some to the drama of it all.

Logan blinked, pressed a hand over his heart to feel its pounding. “Really.”

“I have seated him in the South parlor,” Morris said in his low, smooth voice. “Shall I bring tea?”

Leo. Leo was here. Leo had no doubt read Whistledown. And Leo had seen him and Finn. Last night. If anyone but him, and Noelle, knew who Finn really was then it would be Leo.

“Yes,” Logan said. He pushed a shaky hand through his hair. “But wait. Not in the South parlor.”

[TBC post-Winterfic…this story has taken over my brain, gotten so much longer than I had thought originally, and I’m loving it…:)]

#12 days of winterfic 2022 lumosinlove #Bridgeton au #o'knutzy

[ltwilliammowett]

A message in a bottle

A Message in a bottle is something very special today, and the curiosity to find out what the writer had left behind is particularly great, and usually it was a nice happy message. Unlike today, the messages back then were not happy ones. The news should begin with the Greek Theophrastus, who put small messages in amphora and asked for a reply from the finder in order to study the movement of water. Christopher Columbus is also said to have put a message to King Ferdinand in a small barrel when he was afraid of sinking during a storm in 1493. Unfortunately for him, the messages never arrived, but he himself survived the storm. In the 16th century, Queen Elizabeth I also came up with the idea of introducing the office of the uncorker of ocean bottles. His task was to collect all the bottles and open them, because there was a belief that spies tried to send secrets this way.

On 28 September 1875, the schooner Maria Helena under the command of Captain Arend B. Schumacher (1837-1913) was caught in a hurricane while sailing in the Skagerrak. The ship sprung a leak and before it capsized, Schumacher wrote this message and a farewell letter to his family. All his men drowned, but he himself saved himself on the cabin roof. A few days later he was rescued by a Swedish brig, and a few days later a fisherman found the bottle and sent it to the German embassy in Oslo, which forwarded it to the family.

Translation of the message:

Dear Sara and children. I am writing these lines in the last hour of my life. It is Tuesday 28 September at 1 a.m., a gale from the WNW, and our ship must have sprung a leak due to heavy seas. We pump all night with all our pumps, but we still have 4 feet of water in the hold. We want to try to get to Sweden. But little hope. May the good Lord have mercy on us. I am confident. Dear parents, do not leave my wife and children. Farewell. - Photo by me- IMM Hamburg

In fact, messages in bottles were written as SOSs or calls for help from shipwrecked sailors or sailors in distress hoping for help. If such a message was found, it had to be handed in immediately to the local authorities, who took care of everything else and forwarded the message to the consul, who then decided whether help was necessary or not.

Another message from the late 19th century:

Dear Parents, 3 Feb. (1898)9 am. We are in an extremely critical situation & we don't know if we will survive the same. Yesterday we had a collision with the Hamburg barque Poncho, which hit us in the stern & caused 2 holes below deck. As a result, we could no longer continue our voyage because of the extremely high seas before the wind & had to turn the ship both ways during the night to such an extent that the collision bulkhead between Provisions Room No. IV was damaged by the seas pushing in & No. IV room ran full of water. We are now only dependent on the pumps & the question is whether they will be able to cope with the water. there is still a NW storm & terribly high seas, a steamer is close by, but it cannot give us any help in the high seas. Take this as the last message. Farewell, may heaven protect us. Your son T. Breckwoldt on board the Hamburg steamer Karnak. - The young man survived the accident, unlike the crew of the Poncho. - Photo by me- IMM Hamburg

But also emigrants or inhabitants of very small islands sent messages in bottles. They would add some money or tobacco in the hope that the finder would pass the message on to the person on land.

The sending of messages in bottles became particularly popular in the work of Edgar Allen Poe, MS. Found in a Bottle, 1833, or Charles Dickens' A Messages from the Sea, 1860. this even caused a real bottle craze, as people hoped to receive nice replies from abroad.

So do today's mailers or stamp collectors hoping to get a message back with a foreign stamp.

#naval history #messages in bottles #ancient history #age of discovery #age of sail #age of steam #today

[greekbros]

"greek-Bros": moo.

*Heracles, Perseus and Achilles are lounging in Olympus trying to solve another fascinating problem*

Heracles: ...how about Jason? He clearly has the gumption to join our guild.

Perseus: nope, Zeus and Hera says due to his actions, he's forbidden from being pulled from Tartarus.

Heracles: hmm.....Caster and Pollux?

Achilles: no! Too similar!

Heracles: oh goodness why?

Perseus: Surprisingly Heric, he actually can't tell the difference between the two...plus considering his injuries I doubt he'll want to.

Achilles: *grumbles to himself on the confounding nature of two twins who wear completely different outfits*

Heracles: ........ Odysseus?

Achilles: :D ! *Hopeful*

Perseus: nope. Apparently he's enjoying his afterlife retirement. Can't say I blame him.

Dionysus: *walks by with a huge amphora of wine* hey what's up?

Heracles: oh greetings, Dionysus.

Perseus: Oh hey Dio, we were wondering....you know any other demigods willing to join me and the guys? We were planning on making a guild.

Dionysus: hmm...I heard Atalanta is available?

Perseus: uggggh would you believe she refused to join us? Said we would "cramp her style"...

Dionysus: ah women, sometimes they're just right about stuff hehe. Just the other day, Ariadne told me that she would teach her older brother, Asterion, how to do certain things with his horns so he didn't bump into things and she found out that on-

Perseus: wait hold on....your wife has a brother?

Achilles: horns? :L

Heracles: ....what a minute, who's Asterion?

Dionysus: yeah and you'll never guess who he is. Seriously when she told me I was like "NO WAY!" and she was like "Yes way and THATS just one of many reasons why I'll NEVER forgive Theseus -"

Achilles, Heracles and Perseus: *look at each other in confusion* you don't mean!?

Dionysus: oh but I do!

*later*

Hades: ....you want me to do what?

Heracles: *hands Hades a hand written appeal for Asterion 's release from Tartarus* please oh glorious one, he deserves a second chance at reaching his potential as one us.

Perseus: besides the guy got the short end of the shit stick on the first try it's not like it's going to kill anyone to give the guy a break.

Achilles: *gives his own appeal for Patorclus* ....paper.

Hades: *reads Achilles 's appeal* ...my sincerest apologies Achilles, Patorclus is serving his eternal sentence in Elysium as a guard. I'm afraid you'll have to pass on to join him.

Achilles: *slumps down and whines*

Hades: ....just to say I am not unfair, I shall release Asterion on the bases he has had a tumultuous starting life.

Heracles and Perseus: *hi-fives each other*

Achilles: *still understandably upset*

Perseus: By the way, how's Theseus? I heard he's gotten the royal treatment last time I heard?

Hades: ah yes, I'm not surprised his list of wrong doings out weighted his accomplishments...the life of governing and riches will do that to a soul.

*later*

Hera: *working on some needlework*

Heracles, Achilles and Perseus: *try to sneak a supremely confused Asterion to the baths to clean him up*

Asterion: *groans while bewildered at his ascendancy to Olympus* moo.

Perseus: shh.

Achilles: SHUT THE FUK UP!

Heracles and Perseus: D:< .... Achilles!

Hera: ? *Looks around* What's going there? And who sacrificed a cow? I hadn't heard of any recent ceremonies. *Stands up and turns the corner and sees the three heros and their hulking minotaur* oh my goodness!

Heracles: Lady Hera, I can explain.

Hera: No need. Looks like someone extra special needs to be taken good care of. *Goes up to Asterion and marvels at him* oh look at you, you poor thing. Oh look at you, what a sweet creature you are. *Loving gives Asterion a huge hug*

Asterion: *although not actually use to kind of affection, really does appreciate this considering he hasn't felt a mother's love in years* mmmmoo

Heracles: His name is Asterion, it has come to our attention that he is actually lady Ariadne's brother.

Perseus: Making him one very interesting in-law.

Hera: Well! I see she comes from good stock after all. I've always had a deep admiration for the Minoans and their culture anyway. Who's a sweet boy? *Gently holds Asterion's muzzle*

Perseus: so you're not mad?

Hera: oh Perseus you silly fool of course not, bovine are extremely special to me and the fact I was never told of him offends me. Speaking of which, where is Theseus? He told everyone that he killed a monster and yet all I see is simply a misunderstood soul.

Achilles: Theseus dead. He's in Tartarus now. C:<

Hera: good. Of all the demigods I've had the displeasure of talking to, I'm surprised Athena didn't smite him from the start.

Heracles: My lady, if I may, we planned on letting Asterion join us. We have your blessings I presume?

Hera: Oh of course. *Scratches Asterion behind his ears* all he needs is to freshen up and he'll be good as new.

Asterion: *wiggles his ears in joyful glee* fr-f--friends!

Perseus: Oh shit he talks?

Achilles: moo.

Heracles: No Achilles you can't trade speech patterns with Asterion.

Achilles: hehe

#greek mythology #hellenistic #greek gods #greek posts #greek bros #greek myth memes #Heracles #asterion #Perseus #Achilles #hera

[euphoniouspandemonium]

💬💬💬

Hiiii thank you so much for the ask and apologies for my very very late answer !!!!!!!!!! I'm taking that as three excerpts :]

1. This is from my novella Carpe Vinum Motion Picture! (?? working title) which is set a few years after Cotton Mendings (the plot is just Oscar being a menace to society). Adonis isn't even a Cotton Mendings character, he's from TTaSS (me and @writing-is-a-martial-art's WIP), so I might not keep this scene idk.

Oscar could confuse him for Percy if he tried. Adonis had large blue eyes and thick black hair similar to Oscar's, but he had seen this quartz rose-petal softness before. The room draped over his body like brushstrokes he had long ago memorized: frail floral curtains, garden-shaped chandelier, amphora vases holding clusters of pale roses. Myth boy, sculpting a museum around his skin. Fragile, tragic. Beautiful, mostly.

2. Same WIP. Tw for mention of injuries/implied physical violence ??

"That does not matter at all right now," he said. Not the chill in his words when he spoke with [REDACTED]. Just a knot in his brow. "Are you alright? If they've hurt you in any way…" What? What then? What would he do, Salvatore, martyr in reverse, Joan of Arc inverted? Sit around, smoke his cigarettes. Say something cruel. Eat God over dinner with a socialite named something like Clementine, Natalya. "I think I'm alright," said Percy. Nevermind the red skin around his wrists, nevermind the bruise on his stomach, the bruise on his cheek.

3. Carpe Vinum again. Tw for mention of alcohol.

He could steal someone's wine collection. Drink it in a graveyard, lose track of himself, wake up sitting in the Seine. Let it gurgle around his empty body, let it arrogate him, water guts seeping into human guts: in the end, a glass and mineral statue, glowing, glowing. From the bridge, someone would stare and fall in love. Kiss his petrified lips.

#answers to ask games

[itsjustanne]

Caryatids and Repatriation

This is a duplicate post of a blog post I made on my blog (I started a blog! For regular people who don't spend their lives on this hellsite (affectionate)). You can find the post here ! I did my best too translate it from a webpage format to a tumblr format but I'm sure things still got screwed up, so feel free to look at either post!

 Preface: I am by no means an expert on either ancient history or issues surrounding repatriation. This is a compilation of research that I've done. I will link sources where necessary in text and provide a list of sources at the end of this entry! I will always note when a conclusion I draw is my own opinion (which will be most of the time), and when my opinion is echoed by, similar too, informed by the opinions of experts.

Welcome to my first "lesson plan"/"lecture" style post. This is a format similar to what I would use as a rough draft for a paper, though there will be editing and consideration made for clarity. I hope that the way I've laid this out is acceptable and makes for easy reading. If you think there is a way to improve future "lecture" posts please don't hesitate to let me know!

For now, enjoy learning about the Caryatids, repatriation, and what it means for museums.

The Caryatids and Issues of Repatriation

I think the best place to start will be to explain, in a very basic sense, what repatriation are. Khan Academy defines repatriation as "the return of stolen or looted artifacts to the countries of origins." To go even further in depth, The Field Museum tells us that, domestically, within the United States, the act of repatriation follows the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) and works to find cultural items and human remains and see them returned to the proper individual descendants and descendant communities. In international terms, the Field Museum states that they [the Field Museum] take full consideration for repatriation requests for the return of funerary items and human remains to "culturally affiliated descendants for whom NAGPRA does not apply." There are further examples of international repatriations, with France, Belgium, and Germany returning artifacts to various countries in Africa. Additionally, and more relevantly to the Caryatids that I'll be discussing soon, Sicily returned the portion of the Parthenon's frieze that was in the custody of the Antionio Salinas Regional Archaeological Museum. Currently this repatriation effort is part of a deal, sending the frieze to Athens and two objects (a headless statues and an amphora) to Sicily; set to expire in 2026 there is opportunity to extend it four another four years, while efforts are being made to make the repatriation of the frieze to Greece permanent.

This deal has also been noted to have cleared the way and provided a blueprint for the British Museum to begin planning to return a group of objects known as the Elgin Marbles. 

"The Elgin Marbles" refer to a group of marble works from the Acropolis in Athens, Greece. Included in this group are: 15 metopes (square spaces often decorated with relief sculptures), 17 pedimental figures (a pediment is a triangular space as part of a gabled roof, often found above entry ways), and 75 meters of the frieze from the Parthenon (the frieze was originally 160 meters). One of these marbles that was brought to the British Museum is a tall columnar structure in the shape of a woman. 

She is tall, over life size, standing at 2.23 meters/7 feet tall. Her hair is sculpted into a braid down her back and on her head rests a basket made to bear the weight of a building on top. She wears a simple Peplos tunic, belted at the waist, which cascades down her body in beautiful folds. She stands in contrapposto, her let leg holding majority of her weight while her right leg is bent at the knee. She is missing one hand, that may have held a sacrificial vessel at one point in time. 

This astoundingly beautiful woman is known as a Caryatid (pronunciation guide: carry-ah-tid-). There are five more just like her at the Acropolis Museum in Athens. These five "sisters" leave a space open for the missing, while the Greek government attempts to reunite the six Caryatids as well as the rest of the marbles. 

These artifacts were taken from Greece by a man named Thomas Bruce, aka Lord Elgin, in 1802. During this period in history, Greece was under the rule of the Ottoman Empire and Elgin had documented clearance to start an archaeological dig near on the Acropolis. Despite this, it is debated weather or not he had permission to remove anything from the country. 

Part of the British Museums arguments for keeping the collection of marbles comes from the belief that Elgin took these artifacts from the rubble. However, multiple experts have chimed in after examining the objects stating that this is not true. Anthony Snodgrass, a renowned classical archaeologist, has said that after examining the metopes from the Parthenon he can say that they were "violently detached." He has also been quoted saying that "it's incorrect to say that much of what Elgin took was already on the ground."

In 2022 the deputy director of the British Museum was quoted saying "there will never be a magic moment of reunification because half the sculptures from Parthenon are lost forever." Which to me is saying that there's no point in returning the marbles because the Parthenon will never really be whole again. Which is true, there were many statues destroyed and the building is in some state of ruin, however displaying the marbles in their true historical context sounds, to me, to be the best way of displaying them. Boris Johnson was also quoted saying that although he had "reflected deeply" on the marbles he thought that it would be a "grievous and irremediable loss if they left the British Museum."

This statement is, to me, incredibly insensitive. While I understand that individuals form attachments and memories with objects that they interact with, and that these objects may be very beloved within the British Museum, they are much more significant to Greece. Another issue I take is with a statement made on the British Museum website. 

The argument we are presented is as follows: the sculptures "convey the influences between Egyptian, Persian, Greek and Roman civilizations and argues that they are best presented in this context." While I assume that these sculptures are being presented to an audience in a setting that shows examples from each of these cultures, I don't think that the argument is as solid as it may first seem. The historical, cultural, and environmental contexts are all still very much present elsewhere in the world. The Acropolis museum is five minutes away from the Acropolis (according to Google Maps). The Erechtheion Temple, where the Caryatids originate, is still extant and you can see faithful and detailed replicas at the original site. While it may be a wonderful opportunity to see artifacts from different cultures displayed near to one another, it is still much more beneficial to see them in their original context. This allows for a greater understanding of the object. Its use, its aesthetic, how it may have gotten to its location, all of these are better understood in its original location. Once removed, an object may lose meaning to some extent because of the lack of context.  

It is my opinion that Greece is not being unreasonable in asking for negotiations regarding the repatriation of these artifacts. In the case of Sicily's repatriation negotiations, Greece has exchanged other artifacts for the frieze portion. The Greek Government has also offered an exchange with the British Museum, allowing for artifacts to visit the museum that have never before left the country. As far as I know, nothing has been done with this offer. The British Museum has offered for the Elgin Marbles to go on tour and visit places like the Acropolis Museum, however the Acropolis Museum and Greek government have turned this down in hopes of holding out for a permanent repatriation deal. The British government has tried to surrender the issue to the board of trustees at the British Museum, but UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) has ruled that due to how much government involvement would be necessary in the process, the British government would have to be involved to some degree. 

Greece is still fighting to bring home the sixth "sister" of its Caryatids, as well as the rest of its stolen artifacts, and repatriation efforts by Italy, Germany, France, and Belgium have provided Kytiakos Mitsotakis, the Prime Minister of Greece, with hope. Especially considering that "the majority of Britions," 59%, "appear to support" the efforts to repatriate the artifacts. 

The issue of repatriation is one of cultural importance, not only within the United States but also internationally. In cases like the one of the British Museum it feels to me like a left over of colonialism and imperialism, but thats just my thoughts on it. This summer I will be making a trip to the British Museum while I'm in London and it is my goal to see the Caryatid that is in their possession. Later on I definitely want to make an effort to see the other five "sisters" at the Acropolis Museum. It is my genuine hope that I will see the return of the lost "sister" to Athens so that I can see them in their natural home. 

At the very bottom of the page will be the places that I found the images used as well as a the links used in this post and extra citations that aren't noted in text. Like I said at the very top of this post, I am no where near an expert on these topics. This is all the research that I have found and interpreted within a fairly short span of time. I want to keep learning about issues of repatriation and it is my goal to help spread information about the topic as well. If there are any mistakes in this post please feel free to reach out and if you have any questions I can do my best to answer them. 

Until next time, keep learning and exploring!

-Anne

#art history #studying #history #study motivation #history studyblr #student #studyblr #history student #annie talks #mostly to myself #grad student #college student #art history student #studyspiration #study notes #study aesthetic #college aesthetic #college stress #college #college studyblr #grad school #grad studies #ancient objects #ancient history #museum studies #museum education #museum exhibit #museums #museum

[nysus-temple]

BEHOLD ! My bullshit... Again.

i probably shouldn't be showing this and keep it a part of my private life, but have ya'll heard of Miitopia? No? Great. Then this will be worse, have fun listening to my... thingies !

If you own a Switch i REALLY recommend getting the game, you could literally make your cousin fight your cat if you wanted to, you create the characters of the entire game and the gameplay style is REALLY fun.

In my case, well, i have two teams: the main gang of this blog and a Greek heroes gang. i apologize for the randomness. Also money doesn't grow on trees and therefore i don't have a way to post the direct screenshots from the game, so i apologize for the bad quality since you can't see very well the details and the effort i put onto them. Cries.

THE GANG !

Apollo is a mage! ( come on, it fits him ) He has a little drawing of the Sun around his left eye and loves shiny things !

Artemis is an archer ! ( well, an elf, actually, since only that class allows said unit to use a bow ) You know all the times she's represented with a moon around her head? Well, she has one on her forehead and the bow she's actually using is called a Moon Bow.

Hermes is a warrior ! ( i WAS gonna make him a thief, but it was a weaker class and for me Hermes is strong as hell, but with a good heart ) He has freckles messy hair and i love his armor. Can't say the same about the sword, but out of all of them, it's the one that fits him the most, so here we are.

Dionysus is a chef ! ( because him slapping enemies with a frying pan is pretty neat, it's something he would do ) i wanted his hair to be longer, but it was very similar to Apollo's, so he ended up like this. His frying pan is purple because who doesn't associate Dionysus with purple. ( no it's not because of the grapes )

Now, the second team, THE HEROES !

i don't think i ever got to say who were my favourites... so here they are xD

Odysseus is a scientist ! ( he WOULD be one if he could ) He throws a literal black whole onto enemies and the jar he uses is the closest thing i could find to a vase, or an amphora- yeh.

Medea is a mage ! ( like Apollo, but what else was she gonna be? A cat? ) For some reason i made her blonde, she's... NEVER depicted as such, if i'm aware. i apologize for that.

Atalanta is a warrior ! ( LIKE HERMES I KNOW but what else could she be? A tank? ) Again she's never depicted as blonde, as long as i know. And even worse, who wore twintails back in those times? No one. But here she is. Being something. i was trying really bad to be creative.

Perseus is a thief ! ( THANKS i'm aware this should have been Hermes' class, it's just very weak and not that useful, as i said ) He has freckles just like Hermes, because i thought that was nice. i also love his clothes.

Some shenanigans that happened in the game:

The main bosses were Cronous and Chaos using Rhea's face. And believe me, that was pretty funny to watch.

Apollo cooked something for Hermes, but apparently he got the sugar and salt wrong and it didn't end well.

Odysseus and Medea were on that boat, but Odysseus started doing acrobatics for some reason and fell. Medea didn't feel like rescuing him, apparently.

Dionysus and his mom, Persephone ! Her hair strands aren't white, they're a more light purple, it's the camera dskdjkdf

Also, yeh, they have a horse. i named him Pegasus like the one we know, his bestie is Perseus and he only shows his wings with Apollo because no one else can imitate Zeus' fury and start throwing lighting towards the enemies except him. No, that's- for real. He does that. Also he has horns because... Horns !

Persephone's eyes are really pretty and i wanted to show them too

The story of this picture is Dionysus holding a very, VERY big gurdge towards Apollo, to the point were he didn't want to attack the enemies ( Achilles moment? Kind off ) and Hermes had to, literally, slap him in order for him to stop behaving like that.

He still didn't forgive Apollo until THREE days had passed. Holy.

BONUS ! My hermenysus scrumbs:

Imagine lurking through the "greek mythology" tag and you find... This.

#but here we were going through it while playing the game #so it did help me a lot with stress and some personal shenanigans going on #i recommend the game very dearly in case you own the console <3 #miitopia #greek mythology #miitopia switch #dionysus #artemis #hermes #apollo #persephone #odysseus #atalanta #medea #perseus

[athensandspartaadventures]

Athens and Sparta Adventures: Chapter 8: Book of Ships pg. 16

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Quick Ref:

Heroon: A shrine dedicated to the cult worship of a hero, such as the Menelaion in Sparta dedicated to Menelaus. The concept of the ancient Greek ‘hero’ is rather different than the modern conception; a hero was a person of noble birth who lives and dies pursuing glory and not necessarily one who did ‘good’ deeds.

Zoroastrianism: One of the oldest continuously practiced religions in the world and the most popular religion in the Persian Empire at the time.

Comments:

There was no particular inspiration for the depiction of Agamemnon here because I wanted to get the composition right and depict him holding both his scepter and a spear, but the depiction of Menelaus and Helen is based off a black figure amphora by the Vatican Painter ca. 530 BCE. The story goes that after recovering Helen, Menelaus threatened to kill her for her infidelity at which she begged forgiveness.

I feel like even if Persia didn’t have a particular relationship with Troy and was far from being an empire at the time Bronze Age Troy was razed that he is taking personal interest into the contemporary use of Troy to represent Asia In General and Therefore Indirectly Referencing Him. 

We also get a very small peek into Persia’s opinions, which he usually is much more private about. This may be an oversimplification of Zoroastrian beliefs on my part, but I guess I’m also recognizing that Zoroastrianism did influence the Abrahmic religions in particular ways that may carry over to our own understanding.

I also think in modern cultural reception (and I have made this mistake myself back in my first year of uni!) we tend to understand Achilles as the “hero” and Agamemnon as the tyrant, the despot, the no fair bad antagonist man, and that’s not how the Greeks would have considered them.

That all said, there’s a cultural shift that will be starting to happen on the streets of 5th century Athens that reconsiders the morality of these stories... but who’d be talking about stuff like that...

#athens and sparta adventures #historical hetalia #aasa persia #aasa ionia #aasa miletus #aasa athens #clip studio paint #digital art #aasacomic #agamemnon #helen #menelaus #aasachp8

[twotrojanwomen]

Encounter at the Temple

I am alive. Death is a fickle thing. He wraps his hands around my neck whispering "prepare," but the final squeeze never arrives. just a slow suffocation of gasps. Unrelenting. Perhaps my divine connection is to Thanatos, not the heavenly father, Zeus as they tell me.

They arrive less then an hour after I found myself in the temple. It was a flood of them, like wasps swarming around a cutlet of meat. I was right in my prediction that I would find violence by them, but as they collected their rocks and pulled me every which way, they froze from a single yell and released me. 

I knew the voice was Menelaus, even as I write this, that command rings in my skull. His sword scraped against its sheath as he drew it, the wasp-men parting with no more than a buzz, holding their breath in anticipation. Its strange. I've seen him a handful of times in these long years, but he has not changed. Oh, his eyes have sunken, and his beard no longer sticks to his face in patches, but because he believes himself an unbroken man, his body molds to that image. 

I did not run or weep when he approached. I faced Menelaus as he faltered. As I resigned myself to death, he spared me. I wonder if he knew I had felt similarly when we first married. Then again, I had no was of articulating that, young as I was. I wonder If I had asked for freedom through exile or resisted him in any way would he have dropped his blade like he did when I was silent? Or was it just my looks that sway his hand? Did he pity me or lust for my body? [9] I have no answers.

Before writing this, I looked back on my last journal entry. I held it with me as I walked to what I had thought would be my death. I took comfort in the knowledge that my last moments and thoughts would be preserved, but now its just a reminder of my station in life. Cold and loveless. 

It’s been less than an hour since he dropped his blade and embraced me. As the men move their way through the last of the city's districts, I am escorted back to the central tower, where I now sit, men at the windows and doors, unsure if I would attempt to jump or flee. I debated it momentarily,

I can’t be sure where I will go from here. The screams have begun to fade but not into silence. They are replaced with the cries of thousands as they reconcile with their fates. I would join them, but I lost my tears years ago. So, I sit, and I write. I am still unsure if I was foolish in breaking from the will of men. I suppose I'll have time to reflect on this in the coming days. The men that strip these halls of their goods don't seem keen on conversing with a cursed woman like me.

[9] MacLachlan, Bonnie, "Women divine and mortal in the Homeric epics," In Women in Ancient Greece: A Sourcebook, (11 York Road: Continuum, 2012,) http://dx.doi.org.login.ezproxy.library.ualberta.ca/10.5040/9781472541017.ch-003, 12-25.

[Image Credit] Menelaus recovering his wife Helen, 550 BC, Side B from an Attic black-figure amphora, Tales of Times Forgotten, 602 x 494 cm, https://talesoftimesforgotten.com/2019/08/24/what-did-helen-of-troy-look-like/.