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Achilles is lying on soft, scratchy sand, watching the grey of the approaching night creep like shadows across the sunset-hued sky when he is summoned by his father into the throne room. He nods passively at the messenger — a shy servant girl, who ducks her head and hurries away. He takes no more than a moment to pull himself out of his solace-filled head, and strolls back into the palace with his princely gait. If Peleus has called for his presence so late, it must be a matter of importance.He strides past the great doors of the throne room, a herald announcing his arrival. "Father," he kneels appropriately as a prince before his king."Rise, Achilles." His father's voice is warm, pleasant — barely touched by the frailty of old age. When Achilles rises and looks him in the eye inquisitively, Peleus takes a moment to simply gaze at him before he speaks. "Opus extends their greetings to us through a messenger, inviting us to their lands. King Menoetius's son is of age..."Achilles raises a brow."...and it seems he intends to orchestrate a great event in celebration. Opus is organising Athlos this year."Frowning, Achilles ponders, "I had thought the tradition was out of practice."Peleus gives an amused smile, "We had all. But the Opuntian prince is well-deserving of the distinction. He is the first omega to bless the royal households of Achaea in a very long time." Here, his expression turned grave. "I wish you to attend the games, Achilles."Achilles opens his mouth to protest but purses his lips when his father raises a hand to effectively silence him. He may take liberties with his father's love for him at times, but he would never refuse a direct order from him."This is a chance few and far between. Menoetius is being liberal even allowing people to lay eyes on his son. Princes and kings from all over the land will be attending the event for the hand of the young prince. It is also a way to secure a strong alliance with another country. There is no bond between kingdoms stronger than marriage.""If I may," one of his father's advisers interjects and proceeds when Peleus nods his approval. "You are nearly twenty now, Prince. And well-in-need of a spouse who can give Phthia a future heir. An unmarried king in the future is not a reassuring prospect for his subjects. The people want you to secure the future of Phthia. And —" he hesitates, looking at his king.Peleus concedes."Your mother is already searching for a consort for you." his voice grows quiet, "She thinks Deidamia of Scyros is a suitable match."Achilles feels his brow pinching in concentration as the picture of a spot on the map comes to mind. "Scyros?"Peleus suppresses his amusement smoothly enough from others, but Achilles knows his father better. As much as he tries to respect all his neighbouring kingdoms equally, Scyros is but a speck of dust in the sea, with no history of glory save for its dancers. Achilles' disdain is not unfounded. Peleus sighs at his son. "At least try to sound respectful."The court breaks into soft titters, always amused by their prince's straightforward nature."Would it please you, if I went?" Achilles cuts in.Peleus gives him a thoughtful gaze. "It would please the people." His answer is clear as day."Then I shall go."Three days later, Achilles is standing outside the palace grounds in a fresh, white chiton with a crown of laurel leaves dipped in gold set upon his radiant hair. He is about to set out for the journey to Opus, his few belongings already packed in trunks and chests of gift offerings for Menoetius and his son stuffed into carriages. He has been given newly tailored clothes ("The Opuntians are opulent," his father says) and a bit of light jewellery — not that he needs any, as his mother would put it. Who, speaking of, stands tall and terrifying, right beside him. Thetis is not pleased by the arrangement. She does not wish him to marry in a place that lacks her influence. Throughout his life, Thetis has paved the path for Achilles' future, and having him stray off it, even unwillingly, is uncharted territory for her.Achilles takes his mother's hand in a comforting gesture, just as he use to when he was a boy, and she melts almost unnoticeably. "I'll be back in a month's time." then leans closer to murmur conspiratorially, "You needn't worry. Other men will have marriages, I will have glory."Thetis cracks a small, wicked grin at the cat-like playfulness in her son's bright, green eyes. "You have my blessing." she announces just loud enough for Peleus to hear.The king turns in surprise as mother and son repress the laughter at their private joke. For Achilles really does not wish to marry just yet. He feels he has a long life to live before settling down and having children, of all things. However, Achilles does not lie. He promised his father to make an effort, so he will. But he is also quite confident that he is not going to get married to this prince. He knows, as Aristos Achaion, that his victory in the games is assured. But he plans only to secure an alliance. Menoetius is known to be overly fond of his son, so he will prefer to keep the boy to himself as it is, and Achilles will aid him in that area by not taking the prince's hand. It is as easy as that.He kisses his mother on the cheek and accepts an embrace from his father."Make me proud, my son." Peleus claps him on the shoulder before letting go."Of course, father," Achilles bows his head, then swings astride his steed in a single, graceful motion.And then he is riding away with his retinue, leaving clouds of dust in his wake.
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The first thing Achilles notices on his way to Opus is that it lacks the scenic greenery of Phthia. The land is made mostly of dirt, dry. But it is not until the city and the palace themselves come into sight that he realises how the Opuntians compensate for it. For, as much as the surroundings lack in beauty, the people certainly do not. Opus is a culture-rich land, its people dressed in decorative attires for even commoners. No one in the city is without at least a single piece of jewellery, whereas in Phthia, everything, including clothing, is very simple. Achilles understands now what his father meant when he asked him to carry those beautiful silk chlamys.Also unlike Phthia, where architecture is of plain marble and gold, houses in Opus are so intricately decorated that they are almost gaudy. The palace is another matter altogether.Achilles feels slightly awed when he passes off the reigns of his horse to a servant to have it catered to and comes face-to-face with the open front doors of the palace. At the entrance stands another servant who bows deeply to him, and begins to guide the way to what Achilles presumes should be the throne room. There are tapestries depicting hunting and history on some of the walls he passes, and beautifully crafted ornaments placed here and there."Opulent, indeed." he tells Phoinix, his father's most trusted advisor who had a great hand in raising Achilles, and who has now been sent with him to help oversee political affairs in Opus.Phoinix only chuckles softly, he has been to Opus before, so it is not so unusual to him.They are greeted in the throne room by Menoetius himself. He has the figure of an impressive alpha, lounging upon his throne with all the confidence of a man who knows the worth of his own kingdom. "Brothers of Phthia!" he booms, "Welcome!""We are most honoured to be received by your genial services, King Menoetius." Achilles bends his neck in a slight bow of acknowledgment and greeting. It is perhaps less than what a foreign prince should enact in front of a king in his lands, but Achilles is an alpha in his own right. He is also god-born.If Menoetius is offended, he does not comment on it, but his eyes glint with challenge. "As am I to have you as my guest, Prince Achilles. I understand that you have had a long journey, and must be seeking rest. My servant," he gestures to the boy who had brought them here, "will take you to your quarters for the time you will be staying in Opus. We shall hold an official feast of welcome tomorrow, and hopefully, all the expected delegates will have arrived by then. You are free to explore Opus as you desire until then. I wish you a pleasant stay."With few formal parting words, Achilles is once again led away. He is given chambers a bit less befitting than his status but he is, after all, a guest, so he is not surprised at being treated the same as other princes and kings.It is early in the evening when he lounges on his bed and looks out of his window at the view of the busy streets below. The sun stays longer in the sky here than in Phthia. He has heard that temperatures have a higher variance here. Phthia is too close to the sea to experience much climate change. It excites him.There is a soft rapping at his door."Come in," he calls.Phoinix enters, and bows sagely. "My Prince. If this is a suitable time to talk to you —""Yes.""I believe we should use our opportunity to appraise these foreign lands. Gather as much information as we can. It is always wise to know the worth of one's enemies."Achilles smiles. "We are not enemies with Opus, Phoinix.""But we are not allies either. And Menoetius is, pardon my language, a snake."He does not try to control his laugh at the old man's words. "As if you are any less conspirational. Drop your mistrustful restraint, gerós. We are not here for war.""Pardon me, it is simply a conditioning of years spent by your father's side through battles.""We can still visit the market," Achilles relents. "As long as you don't pull me into snooping around every corner."Phoinix laughs good-naturedly.The market is not fully set up as they stroll through the crowded lanes. People make way for Achilles with wonder-filled faces. It is the first time they have seen the famed Phthian prince in person. He hears his name whispered reverently, men recounting his tales on the battlefield ('swift-footed', he is called), women fawning over his godlike beauty. Fair skin and hair are not very common in Phthia, much less in Opus. Achilles' hair shines like a halo around his head, reminiscent of the sun.Phoinix has found his way to an apothecary, interest piqued by a healer's talk of remedies unknown in his own country. Achilles left him with two guards and took two with himself. He had wished to explore alone, but Phoinix would not have a word of it. Unlike most betas, he has no issue putting an alpha, that too a prince, in his place."Your father would have my head if I let you get into trouble while I am here." he had hissed.Achilles finds it admirable how well the man can control his second nature.He finds his eyes wandering to stalls of weaponry before they are seized by a small shop selling items of the loveliest craftsmanship he has yet to see. He wanders over curiously and picks up a finely forged dagger with a hilt so beautiful that he does not think it could belong anywhere but amongst this quaint little assembly of oddities."A clever choice, Sire," comes the raspy voice of a frail old woman. Her skin is so dark, it is almost black, and her eyes are sly and conniving. "Everything I sell is inimitable, you will never find a duplicate of these goods."Achilles finds himself ridiculously pleased at the lack of greeting. He expects himself to get angry at any moment, to demand the respect he is due. But he cannot bring himself to. It feels strangely nice to be treated unexceptionally for once. "It is clever skill," he compliments likewise, "and feels terribly well-balanced. Do you make these yourself?""Occasionally," she grins, as if hiding a secret, "but not this one. My nephew aids me. You behold his craftsmanship in your dexterous hands."Achilles laughs at how deftly she slides in the praise. He decides he likes her. "Give him my acclaim. How much is this for?""Two drachmas, but I will take three from you."His soldiers bristle, looking ready to argue. Achilles holds up his hand in a single command which is immediately obeyed. It is the first time he looks solemn in the woman's presence. He is strictly against people who cheat others. "Why make an exception?"The tradeswoman does not seem affected. "Because a good vendor does not refuse a chance at profit. And you do not seem like a destitute man that I will be robbing you of anything."It is as if all his tension and suspicion evaporate into thin air. He lets out an unruly laugh, he has not been this amused in years. A few passers-by look their way. "Take four," the coins drop with a chink on her counter."You are most generous, exalted." The woman cracks one of her sly smiles.Someone suddenly barrels into the arm of one of his guards."Briseis!" a voice hisses.At the same time, the intruder — a beautiful, dark-skinned girl — exclaims a profuse apology to the guard, who looks a little awestruck. Her companion, who has just disclosed her name, is a boy, from what visible parts of him Achilles can see, for his face is covered almost entirely by a shawl and he is draped in a long cloak that falls to his knees and covers the entirety of his torso. The only noteworthy part of him that is visible is his eyes, which Achilles barely catches a glimpse of before he turns away almost shyly.The girl — Briseis? — on the contrary, is brazen and giddy with all the youth and inexperience of a country peasant who has not yet seen the world outside her own. She gives him a quick bow, with an expression of very little demureness and guilt, when her companion nudges her imperceptibly and bows himself. Achilles finds himself both intrigued and dubious of how the boy completely refuses to look at him, let alone show himself. But the vendor woman seems to recognise them, and immediately pulls the two into conversation. Achilles cannot help but notice how the boy does not reply as frequently as his female companion, nor as loudly.Though, he stops himself from eavesdropping. He is not some undignified spy, he is a Prince. So he turns swiftly and marches away, his new dagger tucked safely in the belt of his chiton.Later that night, as he is about to part ways with Phoinix for bed, he brings up the boy from the market to him. Phoinix only laughs and tells him not to fall in love so quickly.
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The next day dawns quicker than anticipated.Achilles lays on his side, watching the rose colours of Eos paint the heavens and bathe the city in a shimmering light outside his window. The raucousness of yesterday has reduced to a silent bustle this morning. Few roam the streets, beginning with their never-ending list of daily chores. The market will be stocked to its full glory starting today, running until Athlos itself ends.Rising with a stretch of his limbs then, Achilles makes his way to his private guest baths. There are multiple scented soaps and oils kept at the edge of the water. Staring at the carved figures on the stone walls, he thinks that he will never get used to the grandiose of Opus. He calls upon the bath attendant to fetch him hot water and denies any further assistance.As he sinks into the prepared lukewarm water a minute later with a soft sigh, he ponders what new scheme Menoetius has planned for his visitors. It makes him sound like Phoinix, but the man was not entirely off target. Menoetius is an astute man. He is said to have raised Opus from the dirt after his father left it to him. It is no small feat, especially when the then festering land had been bordered by stronger kingdoms willing to seize it at a moment's chance. Menoetius has built an empire, and he will do anything to preserve it. Which means that apart from looking for a mate for his son, he will also be searching for a strong bond with the best of the kingdoms. It is Achilles' job to ensure that that kingdom is Phthia.For the first time then, he thinks of the very reason for the celebration — the Opuntian prince himself. He feels a bit sheepish, even in the privacy of his baths, at not having considered the prince at all. He is not some prize to be won in the gamble of strength and cunning of kingdoms. He is the most important figure here — if he refuses Achilles, no future can exist between Opus and Phthia. Achilles might not want to marry him, but he still has to remain in his good graces.He understands why his people wish to see an omega by his side. While alphas are the physical leaders, omegas are the spiritual ones. They symbolise new life and internal strength and are considered closest to nature. They provide their people with the sort of security that aloof alphas cannot. But he fails to see the appeal of an empty marriage, signed like a treaty. He does not wish to spend the rest of his life with someone who he feels nothing for. The notion reminds him of puppets on strings — forced to act in a play they did not choose and obligated to perform until the end.No, he will not cling to these worldly things. He, Achilles, the fastest boy in the world, will run till his feet take flight.Face set in determination, he pulls out of the water, dries, and slips on a new white chiton. He pins it at the shoulder with a golden clasp that features a beautifully embossed ant — the symbol of the Myrmidons — along with a crimson chlamys lined with fine golden embroidery. He fixes his crown of laurels into his open hair last and stalks out of his chambers.If Achilles had thought the throne room was lavish, it is like comparing a rock to a mountain when he looks upon the hall where the night's feast is to be held. Even through the throngs of guests filing in every passing moment, he sees the jewel-encrusted chairs for the visiting royalty, swathes of richly dyed cloths covering every available surface, and paintings on the ceiling depicting epics of gods and heroes alike. Deft fingers of musicians pluck the strings of the kithara to produce a gentle melody that serves as a means to dispel the lulls in conversations taking place all around.Menoetius may not be his favourite person in the room, but he is an excellent host.Achilles realises he is surrounded by faces he has met in various settings before, but never so eager, never so thrilled. There is Ajax, the king of Salamis, Diomedes of Argos, the king of Crete, the ever-unlikeable king of Mycenae with his renowned counsellor Nestor, Eurypylus of Thessaly, and even, from what he hears, the princes Deiphobus and Helenus of Troy with their sister Laodice.There is also the questionable presence of King Odysseus of Ithaca — is he not married? — standing comfortably next to Menoetius and engaging him in what Achilles is sure is silent scheming. Phoinix, by his side, follows his sceptical gaze to the two kings."That should be forbidden," Achilles comments with a frown.Two wily minds are a hazard.Phoinix agrees, instinctually on alert.The scent of alphas is heavy in the air all around, rivalry like crackling energy between suitors, and the prince has not even arrived yet. Achilles silently swipes a goblet of wine from one of the trays offered to him by a beta servant — since it is frowned upon for omegas to come near unmated alphas — and enjoys the scenario."Look at them getting at each other's throats already."Achilles startles and looks to his left.His first thought is concerned with how his senses did not seem to immediately pick up on the scent of another so close by, until he looks properly and recognises Odysseus' wife Penelope, also the daughter of Icarius of Sparta. Her marriage with Odysseus had been a controversial affair since alpha rulers had never been known to prefer beta women over omegas before. But with their similar way of thought, they make both a good and a dangerous match.Penelope has always been able to easily hide her already weak scent. She uses it as her primary weapon to sneak up on unsuspecting alphas. It is a feat she prides herself on."Let us hope your husband is not one of them,""He is not," she replies with unwavering confidence. "We are not here as the prince's suitors, Prince Achilles." There is that familiar twinkle in her dark eyes, daringly contesting the one he has often seen in the sharp blue of her husband's."What other reason, then?"She shrugs. "Politics."Menoetius is stepping forward on the dais then, Odysseus parting from him. Penelope nods at him in farewell and begins weaving between people to reach her husband.The feast is about to begin at last."Allow me to formally welcome you all again," begins Menoetius, "We are gathered here to celebrate my son, the Prince Patroclus' coming of age ceremony. This night hence will begin the Athlos, where you shall all be given a chance to fairly compete for his hand in marriage. The best of all will be chosen by and betrothed to the prince by the end of these games. So by virtue of tradition, let me now invoke the gods for their blessings upon us. May the fairest of us triumph! But let this night be a night of camaraderie. This night, let us sit as equals and feast!"A cacophony of cheers goes up at the well-delivered speech. The walls of the room reverberate. But it seems Menoetius is not done. He claps his hands loudly twice before taking his seat at the front, on his throne.At once, the sweet scent of omegas floods the room.Dancers, bedecked in ornaments and gaudy silks, enter with swan-like grace and swarm the centre of the room, the crowd easily gathering at a distance around them. The musicians pick up the rhythm, drums ringing as the dancers beat their elegant feet on the ground and twirl slender wrists. It is a dance of fertility, subtly sensual, as they fleetingly brush their fingers over each other's throats and swing their hips. The sound of the aulos makes it sweeter.They are all arresting in their own way, but all eyes are drawn to the single dancer in the middle. He is paired with that girl from the market — but her beauty no longer stands out. The young man, though veiled, is the loveliest of them all. He is dressed more finely than the others too: in an indigo silk chiton with ionic sleeves that only cover his upper arms, jewellery of sparkling silver and deep blue sapphires, and the see-through material of his veil.Achilles realises with a jolt that this is the prince.His eyes are locked upon his movements. He is too entranced to make a sound. A heat settles low in his belly when his eyes flick to the knee-length skirt of the prince's chiton, which lifts every now and then to give a sinful display of his lecherous thighs. He is lithely muscular — the perfect form of a good dancer — and nearly as tall as a beta. It is nothing like what he had expected him to look like. Poets sing of pale cheeks and supple maidens, but evidently, they have not seen this. They do not know of skin the colour of fresh earth and of plum-coloured lips. They have not seen teasing flashes of those lips curled in a smile that men will go to war over.Achilles had told himself he would not fall for the prince, but it seems the choice was never really there.The prince flicks his wrist, angles his neck, and Achilles has to stop himself from growling. His mental restraint is a string pulled taut as he attempts to hold in the overwhelming instinct of his alpha upon the sight of such a gorgeous omega. He has never felt desire this strong before and does not know what to make of it.Menoetius, on the contrary, knows exactly what he is doing by revoking such a tradition. 'Let this be a night of camaraderie,' Achilles recalls his words as the air thickens with the changing, tense scent of alphas. He does not know if they will all slay each other tonight or wait 'til morning.Albeit, the prince's feet stop before swords can be unsheathed. The music has ended and applause rings, interspersed with lewd whistles of some bolder youths. The other dancers bow and disperse, but the prince makes his way to his father's side, who is already standing to receive him. An affectionate kiss is pressed to his forehead before he sits on the smaller throne next to his king's. It is the signal for them all to follow similarly. More servants quickly shuffle in, precariously balancing trays laden with piquant meats, spiced loaves of bread with bowls of oil to dip them in, ripe, fleshy fruits, an assortment of sweetmeats and enough wine to serve the entire country. Dishes that Achilles has never heard the names of are put on the table.Keen, lascivious eyes watch the prince as he takes his first bite, but it is in futile hopes since he does not lift his veil enough for them to catch a proper glimpse of his face.Menoetius pointedly glowers at those unseemly looks. He may have orchestrated the incidents thus far, but none of them is entitled to look at his son so disrespectfully. He is yet unmarried.Achilles busies himself with his meal before his thoughts wander off with the prince again.Phoinix speaks in a low murmur to him. "You seem quite taken, Exalted." The humour in his tone is imaginably apparent."It is a rather delectable portion of meat, Phoinix."Phoinix does not fall for the terrible excuse for deception, of course. He has known Achilles since he could toddle and tells him as much now. He is also a very unconvincing liar and is reminded of that as well. Achilles refuses to indulge him any further."It is nothing to be distressed about, Achilles." the wine has loosened his tongue, "If not now, then when will you fall in love? I never did and look at the hag I have turned into. Enjoy your youth." With that, he pats his hand twice before letting go.Achilles sent him a cool, sideways look. "I shall have your tongue cut out for that." he offhandedly threatens.Phoinix laughs. He does that a lot these days, perhaps Achilles needs to increase his workload. He thinks of any pending tasks for the rest of the meal. It is not until all the plates have been cleared of every last remaining crumb that Menoetius rises to his feet to address them again."With the hope that you are all sated, I would now like to call upon my herald to personally introduce you all to Prince Patroclus one by one."No sooner than the words leave his mouth does a herald come swooping in at the edge of the dais with a lengthy scroll in hand. At the same time, two maidens step up to the prince and draw off his veil.Achilles is struck.He feels the arrow of Eros deep in his gut, which churns with hunger. "With the hope that you are all sated," Menoetius' words ring in his ears yet again. He has been taunting them all evening, for who could ever feel fulfilled after looking at such a face and knowing it does not belong to them?Prince Patroclus' beauty is not sharp like that of Helen of Sparta's. It is soft, gentle. It glows with his shy smile, unravels like the dark curl that falls into his eye despite the many jewels woven into his hair.Names are called by the herald in what seems to be a sequence of importance. Thessaly and Mycenae are one of the first. Agamemnon looks at the prince with such open desire that it is disgusting. It seems Menoetius agrees."Agamemnon," he greets the king, who is much too old for his son to be married off to, "How is your wife?"Agamemnon falters visibly but recovers just as quickly. "She is well." He has the audacity to smile.Achilles has never felt such animosity towards anyone. He has met Agamemnon before and had even thought him a decent ruler, but infidelity is a sin after committing which he can never vindicate himself in anyone's eyes. It is the greatest immorality to betray one's mate by taking another, especially when the first one is still alive. Even Nestor looks uncomfortable with his presence here.Menoetius holds years of experience over him, however, Agamemnon will never get to marry Prince Patroclus.Troy follows, with its three suitors. Menoetius is surprised, but oddly pleased as he looks upon Laodice, the only alpha female here. She is known to be the most beautiful of all the children of Priam, and nearly comparable in strength to their crown prince, Hector.More names are called — Ithaca, Argos, Salamis. Achilles feels indignant that Phthia has been put towards the end. His irritation becomes increasingly apparent with every name called that isn't his own. Phthia may be a kingdom small in size, but the glorious tales of its king are known to all. Tales of Achilles himself are better known than the very names of most of these other kingdoms."Prince Achilles of Phthia."Green eyes sharp and focused, Achilles moves to the dais. His head is held high, his demeanour kingly, and his grace casual and effortless. People begin to whisper his name as he passes them.God-born, they say.Aristos Achaion.Till the time he is stood in front of Menoetius, a great quietude of equal parts reverence and fear has settled over the hall. He does not bow.He can sense how Menoetius' alpha stirs at that by the way his scent turns slightly bitter. He smiles despite his displeasure."I hope Peleus is in good health, Prince Achilles. It has been long since I last met him.""He is, but he anticipates stepping down soon." Achilles tells him. The real message is clear in his tone, I will be king soon. Your equal. If Menoetius wishes to speak in tongues, Achilles can play along."It is a rational decision to seek a partner before taking the throne." he nods sagely, as if he did not just underestimate Achilles' ability to get suitors without looking.Achilles gestures for Phoinix to instruct the Phthian servants to bring forward the gifts for Menoetius and Prince Patroclus. "It is the wonder of good counselling. Please, these gifts are for you."He finally turns to look at the prince, feeling his heart quicken in his chest. He was beautiful from even a distance, but it does not even begin to compare to what he can see up close.Prince Patroclus is like a figure out of his dreams.His hair looks impossibly soft, glowing golden where the light touches it. His cheeks are flushed, the colour visible despite his complexion. But what catches his attention the most are the young prince's eyes. They are large, doe-like, and lined with kohl to emphasize their beautiful cinnamon brown colour, flecked with gold."And for the prince," he does not register speaking, or dipping his head in deference, so lost he is in those eyes. His reverie is broken when the prince replies."You are most generous, Prince Achilles."His voice is smooth, pleasantly deep, and the colour in his cheeks deepens. Achilles smiles at him, and he ducks his head. He loves how his name sounds coming from that pretty mouth. He thinks that if he were really to ever get married to Prince Patroclus, he would not mind it so much.
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The first day of the Athlos is set to begin with the simpler sports — jumping and running. Early in the morning, when the night's dew is just starting to drip from leaf tips, nearly half the kingdom gathers around the temple of Hermes. Kings and princes in turn offer great sacrifices to the god. A hecatomb of a young goat takes place at the altar, large vessels of honey placed on the cool marble floor, incense burned, and crocus flowers litter every available surface. It is a gathering the likes of which no one has ever seen.After they are certain the god is appeased, the races begin for the common folk. Menoetius evidently wishes all of Opus to showcase its prestige in every aspect possible to the other kingdoms. It is also a disguised strategy to ensure he is still popular among his people and a chance to pick men filled with good potential to add to his army. Phoinix points out all of this to Achilles. He has the eyes of a hawk.The first race is for children of and below the age of ten.It reminds Achilles of when he was little, and so, so proud of his prowess. He remembers leaving the other children as a blur as he ran past them like the Anemoi themselves were propelling him ahead.Obviously, none of these children is as quick as he was at their age, but he can see how they delight in the opportunity to run haphazardly without anyone to scold them. The victor is a thin boy of eight, eager-eyed and blushing fiercely as he kneels before his prince, for it is he who is to crown the winners for the category of children. Achilles cannot help wishing that Prince Patroclus be the one to crown him as well when he inevitably wins the races of royalty. What he wouldn't give to have that sweet smile directed at him instead of the boy, to feel his breath on Achilles' lips as he whispers praises to him. It is childish, and yet he is not the only one dreaming of such a vision if the faces of the other kings are anything to go by.When at last the boy hurries down to his parents, a wreath of fresh laurels nestled in his wild black hair and a complementary golden coin clenched tight in his fist, he is so red-faced that one might mistake him for being sick.The competition carries on.By the time the commoners are done competing, the spectators are vibrating with fervour. They scream the names of their favoured contestants as the princes and kings rise from their thrones. Achilles reaches a hand up and unpins his chiton in a simple motion. He unties his belt, letting the chiton fall to the ground fully.The crowd goes wild as the other kings and princes follow similarly, abandoning all ornaments and clothing, and stepping down into the dirt.The hellanodikas for the tournament is a stern-faced man with a greying beard and distinctly percipient eyes if his pervious judgements are any testimony. He offers them no worship and does not speak of their greatness. On the field, he is the one with the highest authority as he presides over the judgement of fairness of their performance. Experience lies in the wrinkles of his face.Achilles aligns with the others and readies himself, the feeling of rough dirt under his feet familiar. Ajax's enormous, brawny form is to his left, Agamemnon's grape-like sour face to his right. They are larger than him but not as impressive in form, nor as nimble.The hellanodikas signals for them to begin, and Achilles darts off like a falcon swooping through the field, pink soles flashing. The wind blows his hair back refreshingly, he feels as if the wings of Hermes himself are attached to his feet. Although, his mind inexplicably tangles in thoughts of Prince Patroclus. He remembers the sight of silver against the smooth column of his neck, his reserved smiles. Princes do not usually wear silver — gold is the preferred choice to display wealth. But Prince Patroclus had shone like the moon, wearing it. He remembers wine-stained lips and kohl-lined eyes. Achilles cannot deny how he wants him now. The very thought of the prince spurs him on, and he knows by the dull slapping of a singular pair of feet against the earth that he has left everyone else behind a long time ago. Opus chants his name.There are three types of races — the stade race, the diaulos, and the dolichos. Achilles emerges the victor in all three.He kneels before the hellanodikas, and rises with green laurels to replace his forgone golden ones. He rests his stare unmistakably at the prince then and is pleasantly surprised to find him already looking his way. But he averts his doe eyes just as quickly, biting his lip in a way that maddens Achilles' inner alpha.He thinks of running his thumb over that lip, then kissing it tenderly.He is equally relieved and annoyed when Phoinix puts an end to his salacious thoughts by clapping him on the shoulder as soon as he is back on his throne. The old man's eyes gleam."Tell me you still do not wish to marry him."Achilles keeps his intense gaze trained on the Opuntian prince as he replies. "I do." He feels he has never spoken truer words in his life.Phoinix is utterly delighted.The long jump begins. It proceeds much as the races had — beginning with the citizens of Opus and ending with the aristocrats. Achilles thinks that Menoetius had perhaps forgotten when belittling him for his age that this was a tournament of physical strength, and that no one is stronger than the youth. His only true rivals in the long jump are Diomedes and Laodice. They constitute the only three people at the pinnacle of their fitness. Achilles has a lot of regard for Laodice, as he watches her leap across like a leaf fluttering in the wind and land on perfect footing. She sweeps her dark tresses over her shoulder, paying little mind to the rustled fabric of her short chiton. Women are not allowed to compete in sports, but few exceptions are made for alphas.That does not mean he will allow her to win.When Achilles gets crowned a second time, his smile sets the kingdom aglow.That night, another celebration is in order.Achilles has pulled out one of the silk chitons with much persistence from Phoinix and feels strange wearing armlets and threads of gold with pale blue quartz (to match the colour of his clothing) in his much brighter hair. In most countries, including Phthia, he would expect to be laughed at, for jewellery is considered effeminate — unbecoming for men. It is far from the case in Opus.He does not think he has ever seen Agamemnon dressed so garishly in his entire life. He seems to be wearing his kingdom's worth in gold, paired with a rather beautiful himation, the green of pine leaves. His face ruins it. Achilles, oppositely, has never looked more enchanting. His beauty is glaringly obvious even when he doesn't try but the gold and blue really do wonders to make him look ethereal — like a god already forged.Even so, no eyes stray to him when Prince Patroclus sits just a short distance away, lean figure twisted towards the musician who plays a pretty tune on his lyre. His eyes are closed, not outlined with kohl today. His fingers rest idly on the gold-embroidered edge of his maroon chiton, seemingly unaware of the tempting image the pose creates. He wears armlets more elaborate than Achilles' but made of gold nonetheless. Menoetius has engaged his guests in a vicious cycle of socialising so that every time someone tries to approach his peaceful son, they find themselves inadvertently sidetracked.Odysseus and Diomedes are the first to break out of this cycle.Achilles feels envy wrap around his heart like a particularly venomous serpent when Diomedes is successful in pulling a sweet laugh out of the prince.Unfortunately, he is caught up in the inane prattling of an enthusiastic noblewoman who thinks she can win him over by twirling her hair and shifting her hips every five seconds. He is appalled to think of what she might want from him. Achilles' tastes have never inclined towards women very much. He has rarely taken lovers before, simply uninterested in those kinds of pleasures when he has had so much better to do and learn throughout his youth. There is also the facet of living alone with Chiron on a mountain for approximately three of the most crucial developing years of his life, so lovers were out of the question.This only serves to make him all the more enamoured with the omega. His heart feels like it is doused in scorching flames; he wonders if the prince's touch would be a balm.When Diomedes seems to have run out of jests to regale Prince Patroclus with and excuses himself from his company, Achilles takes the opening. He pardons his departure from the noblewoman. "It is time for me to win over a certain prince." he shoots a dazzling smile at her, which she returns tightly before he is off — a beacon of sunlight amongst clouds of insipid thespians.His eyes focus on the omega through the troupe of performers between them. The games will win him the prince's hand, but for him to truly want Achilles, he has to win his heart.When he reaches the prince, having barely beaten Agamemnon on his way, he watches the omega respond to his scent before his voice. "May I join you this fine evening, Prince Patroclus?"Pa-tro-clus.The name feels like a prayer rolling off his tongue.Dark eyes, erotic in how they peek up in surprise from beneath thick, dark lashes, peer at him. There is colour mottled high on Prince Patroclus' cheeks as he nods his head in the gentlest motion Achilles has ever witnessed, and answers a soft, "Of course."Achilles feels heady with the sweet smell wafting from the omega as he settles across him, so much so, that it takes him a while to speak. "Do you play?" he gestures vaguely to the musician next to them, leaning on one hand and tossing his head to the side inquisitively.He seems to garner the prince's rapt attention. "No," he says, "I prefer to listen, I'm not very good at playing."Achilles smiles, "I could teach you."Prince Patroclus' lips form a small 'o' shape as he breathes out in surprise. Achilles knows why — his hands are crafted for violence; people do not expect him to find joy in something as gentle as a lyre. That is why he has hidden his love of music from so many others before. Alphas do not tend to take part in this mild sort of activity, it is merely another thing that is not considered manly enough. But Achilles wants this benign omega to know, he wants to play to him, sing to him. He does not want him to see Achilles as just a weapon for war, as the world does.Alas, the only answer he receives is yet another smile, a formal one. One a prince would give to another prince. So Achilles changes the topic."I have heard you have beautiful gardens here, in Opus."The omega prince's eyes brighten. "Yes, my mother loved flowers. The gardens were hers when..." he trails off uncertainly, eyes flicking down to his lap in a brief moment of sadness. The unsaid words ring in the silence between them, "when she was alive". Queen Philomela is known to have died when the prince was quite young. Menoetius never considered a second wife. "They are mine now." the prince finishes.Achilles' gaze softens perceptibly. "Perhaps you could show me?"Prince Patroclus blinks at him a few times, disbelievingly. Then he smiles, true and resplendent. "Come," is all he says, standing up.He leads Achilles out, efficiently swerving between people with his smaller frame, though multiple eyes follow him still. Achilles accidentally catches Agamemnon's furious look as they pass, and cannot help how his lips lift smugly at the corner.They wind through hallways, the prince brushing his fingers across a marble column, or some trinket of ivory inlaid with gold filigree every so often. The motion feels sensuous, especially as the crowd thins the further out they travel. It is then that Achilles begins to notice the arcane bits of jewellery that the prince is wrapped in. His hair is unadorned, but on his index finger is the ring belonging to his mother, bearing the crest of her esteemed lineage. It is made of gold, as is the necklace falling gracefully over his clavicle, and — this he notices with a sharp intake of breath — the delicate chain wrapped around his waist, scintillating when his hips sway just so and catch the flash of moonlight. Body chains are associated with Aphrodite, and thus, love and fertility. Achilles lifts his head to the sky. He has never prayed before but does it now to protect his sanity.Prince Patroclus looks back at him to check whether he is following, just as his mind begins to wander off with images of that chain around bare skin, and offers him a small, bashful smile. Achilles abstains from responding in fear that he might just grab the prince and pin him against the next column if he has to tolerate any more of this — teasing. His alpha is embarrassingly affected.As the first cool breeze of the night hits him, awash with the fragrance of night-blooming jasmines and frangipani, his head feels immediately lighter and clearer. He had not realised how strong the wine being served was tonight. Ceremonial wine always is; perhaps he should have predicted that. In his mind, he partially inculpates the swaying effect of this wine for how his heart stills in his chest, watching the omega prince pivot on his heel spiritedly, his hair haloed by Selene, his rich, dusky skin glowing against the stark white of swathes of flowering bushes. His is a guileless beauty, like the gentle lapping of sea waves or a songbird crooning at sundown. Achilles is drawn into the tides, entirely trusting of the deep waters, for how could the sea ever hurt him?So he follows the prince. Strolling deeper and deeper into the depths of the exquisite garden, watching blindly, listening to the omega's calming voice as he points out different flowers to him.Here, a clump of roses the prince had planted himself with the help of his servant friend Briseis and the guidance of his mother. There, the pond of lilies his mother had loved most. A clump of fruit-bearing trees, carnations of the sweetest scent that always attract butterflies, his favourite spot under the shade of magnolias."We also have yarrow, for —""Treating wounds," Achilles interrupts without really meaning to."Yes. You have knowledge of healing?"Achilles cannot look away from his eyes. "We use yarrow in Phthia, a staple treatment for soldiers during battle. You seem to know a lot of medicinal plants as well, my prince, from what I have gathered."Prince Patroclus blushes prettily, yet there is a gleam of determination in his gaze. "Healing is a passion of mine. I wish to help people — I — our palace physician is helping me learn. I cannot fight well enough, but I can still contribute to saving lives." His eyes pierce into Achilles' as if he is searching for something, but mistakes his awed silence for something else, for the very next second, he physically retreats from Achilles, bowing his head and rubbing the inside of his wrist with his thumb nervously. "I suppose you think it is unflattering of an omega to be dreaming of entering areas meant for alphas and betas. Forgive me. I have spoken too much.""I — no!" Achilles protests as the prince begins walking away with an incoherent excuse. He catches up in two long strides, refraining against every instinct of his from touching the omega and causing international incidents. "No," he says, softer, once he has made sure the other is looking at him, "I find it admirable. Whatever I had expected from this journey, it was not you. You are exquisite, Prince Patroclus."Prince Patroclus pulls his lip between his teeth, eyelashes fluttering, as he looks away to the side. "Patroclus," he murmurs, so softly, that Achilles nearly misses it the first time. He repeats, "You may call me Patroclus."Achilles beams. "Only if you call me Achilles."Patroclus returns his smile. "Alright," he concedes, "Achilles."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.
Patroclus rolls over and buries his face in the softness of his pillow. His head is filled with golden hair and golden smiles. A flash of vivid green amidst it, of eyes like spring leaves and peridots. He imagines nimble fingers picking on lyre strings and fair, golden arms of perfect musculature caging him in. He feels flushed with heat. He cannot stop replaying how his name had fallen from those pink lips. Like it was the most beautiful sound in the world. People cannot bring themselves to pronounce his name at all — often running the syllables together. His father had always told him he has a beautiful name but he is only beginning to believe it now.He has talked to the prince of Phthia only twice in total, of which only one was a proper conversation. Yet, his thoughts always seem to be occupied with Achilles. He is an archetypal alpha in all the essential connotations of the term, and still so straying from the norm. In the physical sense, his strength and beauty are unbelievably well-balanced. His build is large, but not as frightening as that of Ajax or Agamemnon. He is just lithe enough so that every movement he makes looks utterly graceful.He is also beautiful in a way that men of his sex seldom are. His features are so fine that they are almost feminine.Then there is his scent — like almonds and fresh earth and something so unmistakably alpha, that Patroclus feels faint every time he is near the other. It does not help that his next heat is within days. He had been precariously hoping that it would not come to this — the compulsion of hiding away while so many guests are in the vicinity. Alas, he is stuck lying in a half-built nest of pillows and blankets, feeling droopy while his mind swirls with longing for the type of comfort only a mate can offer.He had spent the morning in the physician's ward, insisting to be taught more about the purpose of surgeries and how to best keep a wound from infection. But the physician had sent him away within minutes, adamant about making him rest — "You will have to be present for the games in the afternoon, my prince." he had mildly reprimanded, swiftly plucking the scalpel out of his hands, "And you are in pre-heat. Best to get some sleep now, unless you would enjoy fainting in front of nearly half of Hellas."Patroclus would have been embarrassed if anyone else had mentioned his condition to him, but the physician has a way of making the most personal things sound factual. Besides, he has partially raised Patroclus since his mother's death. He is impervious to talking about such things.So Patroclus finds himself burrowing deeper into his extremely warm bed, trying to hold on to the remnants of the sleep he had fallen into before Briseis comes inevitably to wake him up. If only his mind would relent on the thoughts of Prince Achilles. The previous night's conversations keep running through his head over and over again. He smiles to himself when he remembers how impassioned the alpha had seemed as he told Patroclus that he admired his efforts to learn medicine. People have ridiculed him for his aspirations before, telling him he is meant for nothing more than bearing children of greater men — only — twisting the words to sound milder, sweeter, because he is the prince, after all. He refuses to tell his father, because Menoetius will only be angry, and have the skin stripped off their backs for their insolence, before forgetting about the matter.No, this is more to Patroclus than just a passing insult. He wants to prove wrong all those people who think omegas do not have the capability to work independently and bring about change. It is one thing to worship omegas for bearing people the future of the world; another entirely to think they can do nothing else. Patroclus will erase the doubt from their minds.His father is already having him train in combat secretly. He believes everyone, regardless of who they are, should have some skill in fighting. His mother's last gift to Patroclus had been a dagger — her own, in fact, wonderfully crafted and nefariously keen. He knows why it was a weapon of all things — he had once heedlessly overheard his father speaking to one of his advisors after his mother's death. "He has his mother's soft beauty," his father had commented, the queen's crown nestled in his calloused palms, "it is of the essence that he learns how to defend himself from those more powerful than him should I be away or unavailable." The next day, a bow and arrow had been placed in eight-year-old Patroclus' hands, and he had spent the day springing arrows uselessly at the ground. He is a lot better now but still cannot hit an exact mark.He intends to get back into his training routine as soon as his heat is over. For now, he reaches a hand over the mess of silks strewn haphazardly all around him and grabs the beautifully embroidered epiblema Queen Penelope had given him only yesterday. He has known her since the time he had gone with his father on a diplomatic visit to Sparta at the age of thirteen. It was also the only time his father had let him out of their kingdom. Penelope had been endeared by him, as he was quiet and aloof, and she always liked challenges. Odysseus had also been present and quite taken aback by his beauty, which he himself had been unaware of at that age. In the summer that followed, after he returned to Opus, he and Penelope wrote to each other and became fast friends.Now, she has given him a piece of her — her epiblema with her scent that she rarely reveals. The scent of a beta is naturally calming to omegas, and even more so when it is a beta they know and trust. Patroclus draws the cloth close to his chest, slowly inhaling the scent of rosemary and the sea breeze that clings to Penelope from her many voyages."Patroclus?"He hums contentedly, "Come in, Briseis," then snuggles closer to the sunlight pouring through the window.He hears the sound of bare feet against marble, then, "Are you well-rested?" She places her cool fingers against his forehead. It is a strange sort of relief. "You are warming up again. Come, let us have you fed and readied. It is noon and the games will begin shortly."Patroclus allows himself to be tenderly pulled up, albeit a little whine escapes his lips at the sudden requirement for activity. Nevertheless, he pulls on the chiton Briseis lays out for him — made of a pure white, pearlescent material that glows where Apollo's light touches it — and lets her adjust it on him properly with gold pins while he feasts on ripe figs that have been specifically sliced into pieces to prevent him from dirtying his hands and clothes. His lips redden from it nonetheless, and when Briseis adds faint strokes of kohl to his eyes, he comments that he might as well join a brothel.She laughs. "It does not look excessive, Exalted. It just... suits you. Besides, it is not every day that there is an occasion to dress up well."He rolls his eyes at her. "Obviously you enjoy this.""Only as much as our guests do." she giggles mischievously.Patroclus elbows her in the side, where she is ticklish, making her nearly drop his crown as she begins cackling. "Perhaps father is right, perhaps you are a bad influence to keep around." Menoetius strongly disapproves of Briseis for several convincing reasons, but she still works in the prince's household only because she is very good at her job and rather well-liked by Patroclus.Patroclus huffs and pulls on his sandals by the time she catches her breath. Her hands finally sort out his curls (one of which drops into his eye anyway) and fix his crown on his head."There," she coos, cupping his face, "you look like every alpha's dream."He playfully slaps her hands away and glimpses at his face in the mirror before Briseis begins enthusiastically pushing him out of his quarters. They part ways near the council chamber. Patroclus nods to the guards at the doors, who bow their heads until he passes them. Inside the room is his father, bent over maps while his advisors spring trade suggestions at him. Menoetius looks up at the intrusion and smiles — one of his real ones that become rarer as the years transcend."Patroclus," his voice is like the rumble of thunder, but he manages to make it sound balmier while speaking to his son. He steps forward to meet him halfway while the other men in the room pay obeisance to their prince and king and dismiss themselves.Patroclus does not miss how they look at him as they pass, and is suddenly thankful for the perfume Briseis had dabbed all over him to cover the strengthening of his scent from the pre-heat. His father notes the difference immediately and mutters some indirect praise about Briseis as he embraces him."I did not wish to intervene. I only thought today's games were about to begin, and that you had perhaps lost track of time in the meeting," he speaks as he pulls himself from the king's arms."You thought right, my child. Our counsellors are tedious. Even that wily king of Ithaca can pull better ideas out of his —"Patroclus flushes. "Father,"Menoetius chuckles at his tone, "Sometimes I forget how extraordinarily like your mother you can be," and places a hand on his shoulder to guide him out.Patroclus teems with delight. His father hardly speaks of his mother, even less with such normalcy and delectation. It makes him deeply appeased to be the reason for this joy. They exchange few words while they meander outside, chiefly about some political issues that Menoetius feels a prince should know of, despite the notion being heavily frowned upon in the case of omegas, and crucial precautions for Patroclus now that he will be surrounded by so many untrustworthy alphas during his heat."Keep your dagger with you at all times," It is spoken in an undertone. "And remember your training. If someone tries to touch you, do not hesitate to slit their throat."Patroclus shivers but nods solemnly. His father's words are harsh, he knows. They are also a veritable reality.Their quiet moment is broken by the thunderous tumult of cheers as they enter the stadium where the games are being held. It is noteworthy that louder than Menoetius' name are the sounds of Patroclus' name. His father only raises a single eyebrow at him, easily discerning this, and Patroclus feels his face get hot, the sensation spreading to his neck and ears. He seats himself, pretending to be immensely interested in the lines on his palm as the king steps forward to deliver a brief word of welcome, silencing the assemblage with a peremptory raise of his hand.The discus throw is the first event.Patroclus watches men of great stature from Opus come ahead to prove their worth to their king. Polite applause follows each performance, Patroclus smiling at some of his people whom he recognises. He has always connected better with the common folk, frequently engaging with them and personally bringing their plights to the king's attention. They prefer to come to him, knowing the power a prince's word holds and trusting him to get their worries resolved quicker than the court. Over the years, he has grown to know many of them individually. So he is not surprised when Nikolaos, an accomplished rogue wrestler who prefers to spend half of his time picking fights and the other half in the brothels, effectuates the farthest throw. Disrespectful as he is, he winks at Patroclus after the hellanodikas crowns him, and Patroclus laughs.Their guests, who are apparently insulted on his behalf and ready to draw swords, are perplexed by his reaction. Menoetius does not look pleased, so Patroclus sheepishly looks away.Before the competition begins again, this time for the kings and princes who will be called by name sequentially, Patroclus summons a servant to bring him the discus that will specifically be used for their guests. The discus is an aesthetic contrivance, made of bronze with poetry engraved on its surface. It is a perfectly balanced instrument with ancestral worth. He is to personally bring it to the hellanodikas — as a sign of goodwill and faith that Opus will let other kingdoms hold something of such personal value to their own. Patroclus smiles sweetly at the hellanodikas as he steps barefoot into the dirt and hands over the discus. The old man smiles back at the familiar greeting. He had helped Patroclus train when he was younger, and sometimes still presides over his practices to guide him.Patroclus is, in his eyes, much of the same boy he used to be — guileless and gentle, easily swayed by others' woes. Although, he does recognise the strength in him now, appreciating how he has retained his good heart while being cautious. There is also a certain sadness to him since the queen's passing, but it is rarely apparent.Now, he sits beside his father with all the grace of a prince and the easy temperament of his own nature, tangible in his warm eyes that reflect his mother's wholly. It is quite the contrast to Menoetius' conniving ones, sweeping over the King of Mycenae with unbridled malintent. Patroclus, unfortunately in such matters, is still oblivious. His trust in those he loves is as stubborn as a horse when told to do something it does not like. Menoetius is partially to blame; the boy has never known any grief that could not be dispelled by his father. He is ruthless when it comes to his son. The boy is, after all, all that is left of his mate. That he is so like his mother only makes Menoetius' parental instincts stronger.His judgement, as such, is unforgiving. Critically instructed, the soldier positioned at the sides to fetch the discus after every throw, marks the landing points with pedantic precision. So far, out of Orchomenus, Laconia, and Salamis, Ajax the Greater with his barbarian strength has achieved the farthest throw. Covering a distance that crosses the halfway point, competition for him is certainly negligible.Patroclus, silent in his seat as opposed to the hoarse cheers of his people, shivers unnoticeably. Ajax has been nothing but nice to him in the very few times they have interacted, like most of the others, but Patroclus is unnerved by his physicality. Ajax's body is in frighteningly large proportions everywhere. Patroclus admires strength to a certain limit. Ajax makes him feel meek. If he wins this tournament, Patroclus dreads spending the rest of his life with him. He would run away and disgrace himself before allowing himself to be torn apart in bed by this man.The dread keeps spreading in him with each king or prince whose throw does not even match Ajax's. It is like a burgeoning ache in the pit of his stomach. He prays to any god that will listen that Ajax is not the one he ends up with.Finally, his attention is caught and held by Achilles as he takes the discus from the hellanodikas, naked in the glory of a half-divine being. It incites a different kind of feeling in his abdomen. Achilles is also proportionate, but of a kind that reddens Patroclus' cheeks and makes him purposefully put his eyes on the other's face rather than anything below.Achilles spaces his feet and stretches his fair, golden body in perfect form, unintentionally emphasising the smooth curves of his musculature. His eyes are glittering; the green of spring, of the sea reflecting the sun. There is determination in the tense of his brow, purpose in the curve of his honed features. He swings the discus back and forth a few times, slightly turning his body with the movement; then, after the last preliminary swing, he shifts his weight onto one foot and hurls the discus in one powerful, swift motion, sending it spinning across the stadium — flying past Ajax's mark, and farther yet until it lodges, with dead accuracy, into the wall on the opposite end.Patroclus' eyes widen.Very slowly, blinking through his daze, he says, "Oh."Menoetius tightens his grip on the armrest of his throne, as he notices the sudden straight-backed posture and dizzy expression of his son. His kingdom has exploded with awe and screaming, and the prince is too stunned to speak more than a word. With all the calm he can muster, he raises a hand to his temple and massages it slowly. This little demi-god princeling is going to wreck his life.Patroclus, close to his heat and indulged with such a delineation of alpha strength, cannot put his eyes elsewhere. Much as he tries to affect indifference, he cannot bring himself to care for the others throwing the discus after Achilles. No one can contest that throw, he knows this, as does Achilles with his serene surety.Eventually, the sun reaches peak position, its burgeoning heat forcing a respite under awnings. Large tents are set up a short distance from the stadium, offering nibbles of fruit and cheese and ewers of water. Patroclus sequesters himself to the best of his ability, only taking a few sips of water, before getting frustrated by the rapidly filling tents and sneaking out with the help of Briseis, unnoticed by his father, to the secluded stream a few ways off that only he knows of. Briseis leaves him only after he promises to return quickly and allows her to come to look for him if he is late.Alone, he slips unnoticed into the shallows of a copse and sighs in sweet relief under the cool air of the canopy of the greenery overhead. His sandals are off expeditiously and his gaze shifts focus in alacritous movements, voraciously drinking in the refreshing sight. His eyes dance from the moss-draped boulders to the slight indications of worn-out grass and wet soil that lead him to the stream. The swards beneath are lush like an artfully woven carpet, soft and rough, with the faint prickle of pebbles digging into his heels. Upon the first sight of the stream, it seems as if the white arrowheads growing along its shallow edges are swaying to the shrill song of the téttix. He drops his sandals at the base of a tree and moves to kneel beside the stream, cupping some water in his hands and pouring it down the back of his neck. It feels like a shock against the slow burning-up of his body, and he cannot help the small, desperate noise that escapes him.Just then, a sudden rustling sound alerts him. He is up on his feet in seconds, head snapping around to find —Achilles."Prince Patroclus," he says, equally wide-eyed.Patroclus feels a strange defensive feeling crawling up his spine. "How long were you there?" he asks, almost demanding."I just arrived," he says calmly, gaze assessing. "I apologise, I did not expect to find you here. If you wish, I can leave."It is the last line that placates him. He turns his eyes away, staring at a point over the alpha's shoulder, and asks, voice meek with the subject of his next question, "How much did you see?"Achilles opens his mouth, then closes it; that is answer enough for Patroclus, who begins to turn red with embarrassment. "Enough to know you were uncomfortable back there," he replies anyway. "It was not my intention to follow you, I apologise again."Shoulders hunching, Patroclus turns fully away and clears his throat. "No, it is — alright." Then adds, more shyly, "You don't have to leave."Achilles, endeared, smiles at him.When Patroclus is seated on a rock with his feet dipped in the stream, he speaks again, "You called me 'Prince Patroclus' before... I thought we had agreed on just 'Patroclus'.""Ah, the predisposition of being raised amongst royalty. It takes time to break habits, Patroclus." This time, Achilles makes sure to enunciate every letter of his name and feels his alpha nearly rumble with pride when it has the desired effect on the omega. Patroclus flushes beautifully. Clearly, he is not used to people pronouncing his name properly — Achilles has heard it all — and Achilles finds his name the most wonderful song that has ever graced his ears. His mind conjures up a brief image of himself calling Patroclus' name in bed and the omega responding with that sweet little sound he made just when Achilles stumbled upon him, but he waves it away. It feels dangerous to be around Patroclus, like a predator holding back from devouring its prey. He wants to press him against the nearest tree and drink the nectar from his lips. But Patroclus is a prince and deserves to be courted like one.So he asks, daringly, as he watches the prince reach down to scrub his feet clean, "If I may?"Blinking, "W-What?""May I assist you?" Achilles repeats and gestures obviously to his feet."But you are a prince!" he protests, horrified.Achilles chuckles, "So are you,""I-It is not —" he stutters through red cheeks, and maybe Achilles is enjoying it more than he lets on, "ethical.""It is only unethical if you decide. I just think that you should not have to do this yourself when you have someone to serve you nearby, prince.""But —" Patroclus flounders for a few moments, but then stops short and buries his face in his hands, "alright."For the next few seconds, he feels his blood pounding in the vein of his neck so violently that he has to bite down on his lip. Achilles moves closer at his leisure; it only tightens the coil of anticipation in the pit of his abdomen. No alpha except his father has ever touched him. There was one time when he was seven and an alpha friend of his had taken him by the hand. Menoetius had been furious and Patroclus had cried and begged him to exempt the little boy from punishment. He had never talked to the boy again.But the first touch of Achilles' hand feels scorching. Flowers seem to bloom where he traces his finger over his heel and along the underside of his foot. He is knelt before Patroclus, performing this submissive act as if he were not half-god. Menoetius would slaughter him where he sat. He is beautiful, his hair spun from the sun's light and his eyes sparkling as if by divine right. Patroclus is drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He thinks, that if it were by Achilles' touch, he would burn willingly.Patroclus is forced to look away from the perfect bow of his lips when the other tilts his head down and, to his reticent disappointment, cleans the earth off his feet in short, clinical movements. He likes how his hands feel warm compared to the cold water, and how they are gentle in their administrations. He does not like the guilt mounting in his heart when he thinks of his father, so he begins, "You were admirable. Earlier. With the discus."He is unprepared when the green of Achilles' gaze hits him again, and pretends to lean back on his arms in an effort to hide how he nearly fell."I am glad you think so," his gallant tone contests the playfulness of his eyes."Yet, you did not choose to stay in the tents with your many admirers?"Patroclus' face contorts into a confused frown that, unbeknownst to him, Achilles finds rather adorable. "No," says he, "it was tedious." and swipes his thumb over the side of the omega's other foot, drawing a soft, breathy gasp from him that would have not been audible if Achilles had not been looking for it.In an obvious attempt to distract the alpha, Patroclus points out, "The water keeps splashing. Your clothes will be ruined if you sit so close to it any longer."This time when Achilles looks at him, his eyes are glinting, "They will have to come off later anyway."Patroclus knows he is speaking about the next event. He knows it. However, it doesn't stop the colour his thoughts bring to his face. He does not deign Achilles with a response, but the other only laughs. It is a lovely sound; combined with the babble of the brook behind him and the quiet twittering of birds, it makes him sound like a nymph of the woodlands."Done," he announces, "where are your sandals?"Patroclus snaps from his daydream and begins to slide off the rock, "Oh, they —""Uh-uh," Achilles closes his hand around his ankle, "tell me,""By the — by the tree," he points vaguely, pointedly not looking at the sublime contrast of their skin against each other's, "the willow," He waits for Achilles to be a suitable distance away before he allows himself to pull in a shaky breath and slowly let it out to calm his jumping heart.When he returns, Achilles silently ties the straps of his sandals around his feet, focusing on the simple task like it is the only important thing in the world, and not that they have most likely been gone for a noticeable while. After he finishes, he washes his hands in the running water and wipes them with a cloth he appears to have carried, while Patroclus finally moves from his place and onto his feet. "You should —"Achilles is cut off by a figure stepping through a pricky cluster of crossed branches."Patroclus? Patroclus! Oh, thank the gods —"Patroclus stills at the sight of Briseis, whose words quickly die on her tongue once she spots his company."Prince Achilles," she greets, but it sounds like a threat. She lowers her head just enough that her glower is visible, then turns her eyes on Patroclus again, softening considerably, "Prince Patroclus, your father is searching for you."Like a rabbit caught by a hunter, Patroclus jolts to alertness and steps forward. Menoetius is looking for him, which means things can go very, very wrong if he catches wind of what transpired between himself and the Phthian prince. "I shall come right away," he nods rapidly, then turns an apologetic smile to Achilles. "I must leave at once. Thank you for your... company..."Achilles returns his smile with a small one of his own, bordering on smug. "Of course, I will take another path." After Patroclus looks reassured, he looks at Briseis, who is still defiantly glaring at him, and cocks an eyebrow challengingly.She clenches one hand into a fist by her side but says nothing as she begins following her prince out of the dense thicket. Achilles, left behind, reminisces the feel of the Opuntian prince's soft skin against his rough palm. His blood is still thrumming with the desire to plant kisses of worship over his feet. Achilles has never wanted something this badly, and he certainly has never had to work for it. This means, obviously, that he will do anything for it. Anything for Patroclus. It is the one thought resonating in his head as he picks his way out through the forest."What was that, Patroclus?"Patroclus actually takes a step back when Briseis whirls around on him just as they are about to exit the treeline. "What do you speak of, Briseis? Are we not getting late? We should not stop here, father will be furious.""He will be furious regardless. But not at you. What have you done, Patroclus? Did Achilles touch you —""Briseis!" Patroclus gasps, "You cannot simply call him by his first name, someone might hear!""Oh," says Briseis, brows rising sleekly, "so me calling another prince by his name is more dangerous than the idea that an alpha might just have laid his hands on the esteemed omega prince of Opus, is it? I might lose my position because of my tongue, but if your father discovers that you have even been in the vicinity of a foreign alpha when I was clearly supposed to take care of you, I might as well be beheaded."Patroclus shrinks in on himself from the reprimand. Though, he feels no regret for his actions. And he has always been rather good at lying anyway, so he quickly tells her, "Nothing untoward happened between us, Briseis. He did not know I was there, and we only... talked for a bit." He looks at her with his most innocent expression, widening his eyes just so, and blinking normally. He knows all the tells that people look for in a person they think is lying and has learnt preventive measures accordingly. Besides, Briseis always tells him that his owlish eyes are any sane person's weakness. She is not exempt.Looking long and hard into his face, she eventually sighs and concedes. "If I had the strength to, I would scratch your pretty eyes out."Patroclus smiles. "Now, father must be waiting."Briseis rounds him and nudges the small of his back, "I am not talking to him,"He laughs.Menoetius meets them just outside the largest tent, hands poised on his hips menacingly, as he would sometimes look at Patroclus when he was young and would act in any unprincely manner. He has not been looked at like that for a long time. It still incites the same guilty sensation in him."You were looking for me, father?" he asks, very carefully.Menoetius folds his arms across his broad chest, making Patroclus feel very small. "Where have you been, Patroclus?" It is all he asks, waiting patiently."I was... I — left to get some fresh air, I was feeling unwell." Patroclus does not look him in the eye.Menoetius' mouth thins. "I see. And if you were unwell, did you not think of asking me to excuse yourself rather than just disappearing in a mass of strangers for as long as you pleased? I nearly had soldiers sent after you.""I am sorry, father. I did not intend to be gone for so long."Menoetius stares him down for a while before he too, like Briseis, gives up. "Take care that it does not happen again. You might be the prince, but right now, you are also a host. You must speak to the dignitaries and learn to judge them by yourself.""Yes, father.""As for the girl," he drawls, springing a cool look upon Briseis, "I shall have some disciplinary action administered on you, so the next time you wonder whether you should leave Patroclus alone, you think twice. The prince's favour is not an excuse for incompetence."Briseis's dark cheeks darken further. "Apologies, Exalted," she mutters.Patroclus looks on at her worriedly when his father excuses Briseis and calls him to enter the tent. "Father," he begins, skittish, "you will not be harsh on her, will you? It was not her fault, I asked her to stay behind."Menoetius pauses and looks at Patroclus, tired, "You cannot keep saving her, Patroclus." But he is not deterred, so the king exhales and cards a heavy hand through his son's hair. "Alright, but this will be the last time. After that, I will no longer tolerate her irresponsible behaviour."At this, Patroclus beams, sweet and dazzling. It is the sight that greets the inhabitants of the tent as the flap is pulled back by a set of guards and they enter. The reaction is immediate, the pungent odour of competition pierces the air, and Patroclus, rattled, steps into his father's shadow, who lets out a sound very close to a growl."Now, let us not forget ourselves, men of Hellas," he grits out, and the tense air dissolves slowly. "Prince Helenus, Prince Deiphobus," he smiles tightly at the Trojans and strolls ahead in their direction, Patroclus following in a scurry."King Menoetius, Prince Patroclus," Prince Deiphobus inclines his head in greeting. Prince Helenus echoes the salutation and his eyes linger on Patroclus curiously.While his father engages Prince Deiphobus in matters of war and weaponry (Troy is said to be an impenetrable fortress, enclosing divine riches), Patroclus, in turn, takes in the sight of Prince Helenus — his unusually pale skin and long, straight hair the colour of coal. His eyes are just as dark and contain a strange depth; like a well that contains all the secrets of the world. He is beautiful, without a doubt. But the knowledge in his eyes is slightly unnerving."... and I have heard no lies about the beauty of the Opuntian prince," Prince Deiphobus' voice slices through Patroclus' pondering. "I have also heard the Queen Philomela was a lady of great splendour. Prince Patroclus must look quite like her."Patroclus almost does not catch the disguised wisecrack. Almost. Prince Deiphobus, he realises, is quite cunning — enough that he might contest Odysseus himself. He has never met a person, especially a prince, who might deliver insults on saccharine platters as Prince Deiphobus does. Unfortunately, his wit is restricted to inciting the ire of his father, who dishes his jibes back with equal slyness and the added experience of having faced several upstart princes before. That is, before Patroclus interrupts, conjuring all his courtesy, and asks about Prince Helenus."Ah," says, Prince Deiphobus, cutting his eyes to Patroclus, then to his brother. "I do not know if you have heard, but Helenus is a seer. He spends much of his time meditating and reading."This seems to catch his father's interest. His own as well. Seers are quite rare in Achaea, let alone in Opus; Patroclus finally understands the omniscience of Helenus' eyes. "I have heard you have a twin sister — is she a seer as well?"Prince Helenus hesitates. "Cassandra — is of unsound mind. She was a priestess of Apollo, quite intelligent too before an illness took her wits. She does not make much sense these days."Patroclus does not like the way the prince talks about her. His tone is unkind and derogatory, despite the fact that this is his twin sister who is being spoken of. "You should have brought her here. A change of atmosphere could have helped her mind recover. The physicians claim that new sights refresh the mind's health. I am certain she would have liked to see Opus."His kindness, however, is not received well.Prince Helenus sours and Prince Deiphobus tries to play off his suggestion as a joke, "Now, prince, Cassandra would have only become a bother to us all here, with everyone too busy to take care of her. Besides, I do not think Helenus here would like to be turned down for his own sister. Cassandra is, after all, astonishingly beautiful. Is that not right, dear Helenus?" He nudges the seer in his ribs and obtains a carefully contained scowl."Well," Menoetius interjects, "I am certain Princess Laodice quite makes up for that. Alpha women are scarce in Achaea, more so in royal households, and your sister seems to be doing excellent in the tournament so far."Prince Deiphobus smiles again and says he will convey the compliment, but it is not genuine. Patroclus discerns how divided the children of Priam are amongst themselves. Like this, Troy will go to war with itself before someone else decides to pluck its bounty.Finally, he and the king excuse themselves. The worst of the sun's heat has passed; it is time for the javelin throw to begin.Javelins of fine make are brought out. Smooth elder wood of the highest quality, tipped with metal and perfectly balanced — appraised by the king himself. A leather strap, ankyle, is wrapped around the shaft of each, already tested for firmness. These javelins are lighter than the ones used in wars, lithe as a finger and tall as a fully-grown alpha when held standing. There is a stark simplicity to their appearance, no markings or motifs — Menoetius, of course, had wanted to disguise a trick in every weapon offered, but as he thought of Patroclus' benefit, his better judgement won and he resolved to be honourable, at least for the sports.Repentant now, he looks upon the convocation of kings, and among them, particularly, a certain godling, whose eyes do not stray to his son once, concentrating diligently on the task of examining his javelin for errors. Patroclus does not look elsewhere.His frown becomes more pronounced every passing second that his son seems to grow fascinated by the Phthian prince. If he could, he would never have Patroclus marry and keep him hidden from prying eyes, within the bowels of his palace forever. He is all that is left of Philomela, and Menoetius does not wish to let go of her. Not yet.He knows what people see in Patroclus: a gentle brightness that envelops all that he touches. His smile is like the first light of dawn after a distressful night, beauty like a soft caress, features the delicate balance of male and female so that there lies no discrimination in the lure of his charm. He is so like his mother, in not just appearance but also in idiosyncrasies, that it aches Menoetius to just look at him sometimes. He knows Patroclus is not naive, nor innocuous — there is a flame behind the brightness. But he looks at him, and all he can see is that sweet little boy who once sang him a lullaby when they were in mourning of the queen, a child comforting a king's sorrow while disregarding his own. Is it really wrong of him to want to hold onto that light a little longer?The contestants move to and from the running tracks in sequence, each running to the beginning line before letting lose their javelins. Commoners, then royalty, then there he is — Achilles — golden hair flashing, unparalleled divine strength unravelling in how he twists his arm back, fingers hooked in the leather loop and surges the javelin forward. It spins on its axis, a stable throw.Menoetius knows, the moment the javelin escapes his touch, that the next set of laurels will also belong to Achilles.Patroclus grins beside him, a heavy crimson creeping on his cheeks when Achilles looks straight at him and smiles knowingly as if sharing a secret only the two of them are privy to.It is the same look they share hours later in the evening when the mauves, lavenders and tangerines of the Hesperides have just begun to fade into indigo and black and they all assemble in the palace hall for repast. Patroclus does not stop blushing for the rest of the evening.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The inception of spring brings with it warm weather, a balance of the sun and the moon, and a riot of colours in the form of flower-draped meadows and gorges. Opus thrives as if Iris herself has unfurled her blessings onto its dry lands. As far as the eye can see exist a panorama of anemones in blue, white, and soft purples, pink peonies, amber florets, and pious crocuses. Most important, however, is the grape harvest — the weak green of vineyards turning a lush violet as sprays of grapes sprout, as if hailing the Great Dionysia.The kingdom, it seems, has burst into a rainfall of enthusiasm. Dionysia, due to its widespread disrepute, is not celebrated across all lands. It is a rite in Opus.As preparations for the festival begin, the increased activity and errands that require being looked over by the king leave Patroclus free to sneak out of the palace and into town, not as the prince, but as a meagre peasant who has only a single friend in the form of a palace maid. It feels like an amnesty, the feeling of escaping the constraints of princely protocol. He had been so eager to leave that Briseis did not even have to suggest the idea to him before he had brought out a shabby white himation (the same one he wore every time) and thrust it into her palms to properly pin around his face and shoulders. He even suffered the inconvenience of his eyes burning when she begged to apply kohl around his eyes again.It matters very little to him now, when he is running through a vineyard and stealing grapes with Briseis, laughing despite the stifling sensation of the thick cloth covering his nose, mouth, and forehead. His feet are bare and the soil is fresh, and he is certain that they will soon have an enraged farmer on their tail, demanding compensation for their thievery, which he will later mysteriously find in the form of a few drachmas lying under the densest swathe of grapes when he inevitably goes to pluck them. But it will not be so thrilling without the element of their mischief."You are quicker than I had imagined," pants Briseis, bent over with tiredness after they have successfully trespassed and egressed the vineyard and are eating, quite literally, the fruit of their labours."My training lessons are not unavailing, Briseis," he is still laughing with the delirium of their escape.Briseis makes a face as if she had not thought of that at all, then straightens and begins in direction of the open land anteceding the forest. Patroclus follows, taking in the sight of the sweeping vegetation with ravenous eyes. He lets the cloth around his face fall once he is a safe distance away from the locality and inhales the sweet, herbaceous scent of wildflowers and new grass. This, he thinks, is something the royal palace of Opus cannot provide him. Because what he has here, outside the perfect and static walls of the palace, is a feeling, a freedom, a childhood that he perhaps never lived the way children are supposed to. Here, in his anonymity, he is allowed to be imperfect. He can hunch over, he can let his shoulders droop, he can laugh and smile as he pleases without someone telling him to straighten his spine, set his shoulders, and smile even when he does not feel happy.Here, he is not the renowned omega prince of Opus with suitors vying for his attention. He is just Patroclus: a gangly boy, who is not as pretty as people make him out to be, who has a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks that no one can really see because they have never looked close enough, who is not grown up enough to be married off just yet.And even if this peasant boy flying on the breezes of liberty is not real, it is a lie worth living.Soon, he will have none of this. He does not know what kind of kingdom he will be sent off to after his marriage, he does not know the terrain of any other land apart from his home, and he does not even know if he will ever be able to leave that new home to explore the world outside. So, he thinks, he deserves to live his brittle fantasy before all of that.Briseis grabs his forearm excitedly, "We should see the markets! There must be so much for the festivities!" then adds, with a sly undertone, "I am sure they will have bigger phalluses there than those of your suitors,"Patroclus is sent into hysterics; he cannot help it. His nose scrunches ungracefully and his facial muscles begin to ache the longer and louder he laughs. Tears begin forming at the corner of his eyes as he clutches his abdomen. When he begins to find it difficult to breathe, Briseis becomes properly concerned. It takes her physically holding him and rubbing his back for his reaction to curb, and even then not completely. He buries his face in her shoulder, waiting for the giggles to subside, while Briseis herself struggles with keeping in her own laughter in order to prevent setting him off again.Her jests are always so inappropriate that they are simply ridiculous. Dionysia suits her in a way he cannot explain. It brings life to her like the rejuvenating earth in spring.They do go to the market.Patroclus giggles every time he sees a phallus being carved; Briseis and her bawdy humour are to blame. When they come across the stall of their favourite vendor, Ianthe, she leans into his ear and says, "Perhaps you should use your princely privileges to have a phallus crafted according to your own tastes. Just in case your future husband does not turn out to be satisfactory," and Patroclus feels his face go bright as a berry under his himation, even as he begins laughing again.Ianthe throws a stern look at Briseis and clamps her hard, wrinkled hands abruptly on the juncture between Patroclus' neck and shoulders, where his scent glands are, and steers him into her stall's awning. Briseis follows, cackling."Briseis," chides Ianthe, "Your silliness will get poor Damaris in danger. The mixing of an omega's scent with Dionysia's wine will make even the tamest alpha lose his wits. Especially in a market like this."Patroclus, while getting his scent under control, thinks that if the old woman knew his true identity, she would not be half as composed as she is now. Briseis is seemingly thinking along the same lines because she bows her head guiltily and apologises. But the very next second, her attention is caught by a pair of bracelets. She gasps in adoration and Ianthe smiles and moves to fetch them for her. Patroclus looks around at Ianthe's quaint collection."Are you not feverish under that, Damaris? It is warm today.""No," replies Patroclus, "I am fine." He knows Ianthe is suspicious about why he always covers his face, and that she does not believe the excuse Briseis gave her about his affliction due to the dust in the market. He is unsure whether she believes any of the lies she has been told about him, but she does not act like she particularly cares. "I think I would like to explore the rest of the market for a while, however."Ianthe nods silently and watches him go.The real reason Patroclus leaves alone is so that he can inspect the ails of his kingdom through the eyes of a commoner. Like this, he can discover all those little problems that get lost in the multitude of requests that are proffered and never quite reach the king's ear. The lack of Briseis' company is also important, because he does not want anyone's behaviour to be influenced by her presence or that she interject in situations on his behalf. This is a routinely practice of his every time he sneaks out.He observes the haggling of prices, where customers complain of outrageous costs. He embeds into his mind the names of all the traders whose craftsmanship is worth the notice of the king so that he can later steer his father toward them with casual recommendations when they come for official inspections. He even spends some coin on trinkets, quaint puzzle toys, and a piece of jewellery or two, enjoying the normalcy of it. Some of those he gives away to a group of children playing around. He examines the preparation and quality of wine that is to be sold keeping in view the beginning of the Great Dionysia. He even encounters a brothel once he enters the outskirts of the market and feels vines of colour creeping across his face as an omega boy opens the door of it, giving him a complete view of the obscenities inside, and then winks at him as if it were perfectly alright for an omega to be interested in another omega.He hurries away, wide-eyed.Thereupon he comes across a brawl in an inn, where he sequesters himself to a table in a corner but with a good view of the fight and orders nothing but water. Nikolaos is part of the brawl, predictably. He finds it interesting to watch him. It is also an efficient way to learn a few fighting skills for himself. He carefully records in his memory, the way Nikolaos twists his opponent's arm, who quickly maneuvers his slighter body around and jabs his elbow into Nikolaos' ribs. Being bodily stronger and experienced, though, enables him to recover quickly. All it takes is a few well-aimed kicks and his muscled arm around his opponent's neck in a sturdy chokehold, and the other finally relents. They clasp hands in a congratulatory gesture and return to drinking as the inhabitants of the inn erupt into cheers. Patroclus pays and leaves unnoticed.A little while of aimless wandering from the inn leads him to a small, dancing celebration in the middle of a street. As he watches the swaying bodies, his eyes gleam.There is little Patroclus loves more than dancing.It is well past midday, the sun catching its first hints of apricot and the sky slowly dousing in its flames. Refreshed after a bout of skilful and underhanded dueling with the king of Ithaca, Achilles begins his barefoot journey to the temple of Hermes. He is, by no means, a pious man. But it has been long since he spoke with his mother and he is sure that a few prayers and offerings to the herald of the gods will allow him to convey his words to her. Opus, being so far away from the sea and Phthia, has cut off a majority of his communication with almost anyone from his own kingdom. The runner he brought with him as part of his retinue can only travel so far in one day. He does not know how long it will take him to reach Phthia. He does not even know if his mother would deign to look upon a mortal such as him. He is sure she will be offended at receiving word of her own son through such a means. There have never been any messengers between them. Achilles has always spoken to his mother directly, not behind the illusion of another's face.The earth is warm under the soles of his feet. The dusty terrain of Opus is suddenly blossoming with stretches of woodruff and caspia. They tickle against his feet as he traverses the acclivity upon which the temple rests. Offhandedly, he plucks a sprig of caspia, examining it. Its purple is softer than that of the cape he is wearing, and reminds him, inexplicably, of Prince Patroclus. When his eyes fall to the silver trimming of his chiton, he thinks of the silver and sapphire blue that the omega had been adorned in on the night of his viewing.He is unable to understand why he cannot get the other out of his thoughts. Closing his eyes, he stops for a second to feel the clear wind on his face, hoping in vain that it will clear his head as well.It does not, because he does not truly wish it to.When he thinks of the prince's smile, his gentle eyes, his endearing shyness, he cannot find it in himself to stop. He remembers the spark of intrigue in the prince's eyes on the night they spoke in the palace gardens. He wants to see it again. He wants to be the reason behind it. It leaves his heart in a whirlwind of emotions and puts him out of breath.He is glad Phoinix decided to part ways with him halfway through his little pilgrimage and took the guards with him upon Achilles' behest. The old man enjoys teasing him as if he is some little boy who has found his first love. Achilles opens his eyes and exhales. Once. Twice. Again. Distantly, he hears some music of merriment and is drawn to it before he can change his mind. Surely, his mother can wait awhile?He suspects he knows what the celebration is for. The Great Dionysia has begun, and, as Phoinix informed him this very morning, it is quite the cause for revelry in Opus. Even the tournament has been adjourned. Truthfully, Achilles does not know what to expect. He has never really seen any festivals; only heard stories of them since they almost never occur in kingdoms as small-scale as his own. It is, therefore, no wonder that the vigorous planning for a festival as scandalous as that of the God of Wine has left him speechless.The celebration at the fork of a street, thankfully, is none of what he expects. It is just a little group of commoners dancing, and he passes his eyes over them rather uninterestedly, almost turning to leave, when his gaze falls on him — the boy from the market. The one who hid his face the same way he does now. Except now he looks alive — with joy, with pleasure and mirth, unlike how he had been when Achilles last saw him. He can tell the boy is laughing by the crinkles around his eyes, even if his laughter is lost in the thrum of the melody. His figure is svelte, and bends and turns gracefully as he dances with a lightheartedness Achilles did not anticipate. He was so very stiff last time. Could that have been because of his presence?No, he thinks. People do not avoid him the way this boy had. They gather around him like cattle, always eager to catch a glimpse of him or to propitiate him. There has to be something wrong with this one. Something suspicious. Why does he refuse to unveil his identity?Though he is standing in an unnoticeable spot, his vantage allows him an unobstructed view of the boy eventually slipping out of the crowd. He is so focused on where the boy is going that he does not notice the intruder slinking up behind him until it is too late. Foolishly, he thinks for a second that the people around him will go to his rescue, but he then realises that the music nearby is too loud for anyone to notice what is going on. His eyes widen as he watches the boy struggle against the formidable figure of the alpha while being ruthlessly dragged into an alleyway. The moment his body catches up with his thoughts, he runs.It is hard to get by inconspicuously, given his build. But he manages, avoiding the crowd altogether and entering the alley from the opposite end. He is able to find their location only by the scents that pierce the air — one astringent and meant to weaken, and the other a manifestation of fear. By the time they come into sight, the alpha has the boy pressed up against the wall by the neck and is growling filth at him. Achilles is still not close enough to help, but he watches the boy as he knees his assailant and effectively twists himself out of his hold, only to be caught again. The alpha's back is facing Achilles now and dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he wonders if he might be too late.He then hears the unmistakable sound of a dagger being drawn, and just as he stops before the two, he watches blood spill in a thick, gruesome mess. The alpha and the boy spin around, trading stances, and then a bloodied blade is pressed against Achilles' throat.His lips part in astonishment.Carefully inhaling, he stares hard into a pair of fierce brown eyes, blazing with an untameable fire. They glare at him lethally for a moment, and his veins thrum under his skin like thunder. He is girdled by the presence before him, the coarse breath filling his ears, the heady proximity of the other. And then, all too quickly, those intoxicating eyes widen and the dagger and its owner are pulling away.Achilles wishes to say something, but words are lost to him. He glances past for a split second, at the lifeless figure of the alpha lying in a pool of his own blood — thick and dark, darker than wine — then back at the omega boy. But their spell has been broken and before he can utter a sound, let alone ask his name, the boy pushes past him wordlessly and flees.It is not more than a while later that some villagers find him. They notice the blood on his neck that is not quite his own, but, oblivious in their alarm, call for the nearest guards and a physician to tend to him. There is no trail of blood left for them to track, no stained footprints on the dirt. According to them, there was never a third person.Achilles stares at where the boy disappeared, and thinks, he would know those eyes anywhere.
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"Prince Achilles of Phthia, son of Peleus and Thetis, you are charged with the offence of having taken an innocent alpha's life on the grounds of Opus. Witnesses have attested to having seen you on the site of the slaughter, and a trusted physician of our people has proven that the blood upon your skin had not been your own. In compliance with the laws of both, the kingdom of Opus and the tournament Athlos, you must be forbidden from participating further in the tournament and pay recompense to the family of the victim. Further, you will be sent back to Phthia, stripped of your prestige. Under no circumstances are you to ever step foot on the land of Opus again..."Achilles nearly reels backward at the weight of the accusations against him. He and Phoinix have been marshalled in the middle of Menoetius' throne room with one of the Opuntian King's lickspittle raving a spiel of diatribes against him. He is being publicly incriminated for a crime he did not commit. It is partly antagonising, partly impressive in its creativity, and fully ludicrous. How did he end up here?"If you have any justifications for your actions —"Phoinix, furious as Achilles has never seen him, steps forward in his defence. His voice is sharp with surfacing indignation; he says, "Prince Achilles has no need to justify anything —"But before he can continue, one of Menoetius' counsellors has opened his mouth with a vile expression of triumph, "So he is not even repentant of his transgression?" It seems the whole of the courtroom is against him, skulking as a predator might for an opportunity to pounce upon its prey. "How ignoble —"Menoetius raises a hand, his expression that of a charitable saint as if he has not fabricated every little piece of this. The court goes silent. "Let the prince speak for himself," he commands. There is a spark of amusement in his eyes as he leans interestedly on the arm of his throne as if he were watching a particularly exotic farce. There is power in every undulation of his figure, but there is also cruelty. One would say he was nothing like his son.Achilles moves a step ahead of Phoinix, phlegmatic and self-assured. "I have not taken his life," he says simply.Outrage."Silence," declares Menoetius with unimpeded authority. His eyes narrow on Achilles. "Let us not play the game of children, Prince Achilles. Do not debase yourself with lies and half-truths. We have presented all grounds for the appropriate verdict. You are yet to give any testimony for your reprieve."Achilles feels the first flickers of displeasure come to life inside him. What seemed a jest to him up until now is evolving into a predicament. "Evidently, I was carrying no weapon. How would you propose truth to the lie that it was I who had killed this man?""You mean to say," begins the King's mouthpiece, yet again, "that you, an outlander prince in a kingdom you do not know of, decided to rely on pure strength of muscle and mind to defend yourself should any danger cross your path?" he scoffs, "None of us is convinced.""You mean to say your people would be dishonourable enough to attack an outlander prince?" he ripostes. "I am confident in my abilities. Why should I depend on the availability of a knife to beat an opponent? And what quarrel do I have with your people to do so? I do not even know this man.""Then why were you present at the site?"Achilles purses his lips, considering whether it is worth revealing what he knows. He will not tell them what he suspects, however. "I saw him attempting to force himself on an omega." he decides, at last.Shocked murmurs pervade the crowd.The gravity of his tone draws Menoetius' full attention. "Be careful with what you accuse our people of, son of Peleus. Who you speak of is an acclaimed warrior of the Opuntian army. Any of your concocted libels against him, if proven wrong, could cost you dearly.""Lying," he begins with thinly veiled acrimony, "is not one of my virtues, King Menoetius. I do not speak lies, nor I do believe in them. You have brought me here on a whim, accusing me of deeds I have not committed while you refuse to look into the atrocities of your own vassals. I have given you the unadorned truth as you try to twist my words. If you wish to hear it plainer still: the man assailed an omega whose face was obscured from my view. I rushed to help but by the time I arrived, the omega had killed the alpha himself. When the omega noticed me, he mistook me for another assailant and threatened me with the knife. The blood of the alpha that was still on the knife smeared on my neck, but the omega realised who I was and took off before I could act."I do not know the extent of the severity of the laws of Opus, but considering the penalties you have imposed upon me, I suppose it would befit the King to properly investigate such a horrendous crime and penalise the assailant for his actions against the omega if his death was not punishment enough." There is a deadly finality to his tone that raises no questions. But then Menoetius is speaking again, and a headache sears across his mind."That is a fine story you have crafted, Prince Achilles." he reclines disinterestedly, "I must point out only two discrepancies — or rather, just one. I believe that you have never lied in your life, I have heard remarkable tales of your righteousness. Even so, how do you expect me to believe that an omega might overpower an alpha? The possibility is unthinkable. Omegas are not trained in combat — they do not even wield weapons required beyond the preparation of food."Achilles thinks, briefly, about the incredulity of the statement. If omegas are not even permitted to keep a vestige of weaponry on them, how would they defend themselves against unwanted peril? What if someone were to force themselves on an omega as in this case, but with no rescuer around? He feels sick at even the probability of such a situation. "You forget that I was not involved in the scrimmage itself, King Menoetius. The matter is not mine to look into."Whatever modicum of appeal had been present in the lines of Menoetius' face drains out now. "My jurisdiction has found your reasoning unreasonable, Prince Achilles. You have not only committed a heinous crime against a citizen of Opus but have also demeaned the integrity of this court with your impertinent falsities. You are hereby —"Menoetius is cut off by the hefty doors of the throne room opening with a vociferous groan."Father!" exclaims a voice, and all heads turn to see a startling figure striding forward resolutely towards the dais, pale blue cloth fluttering behind him with every adamant step. The pearls in his hair glint and wink softly, but his gaze is fiery, scathing. Plush lips are thinned in displeasure. He looks ethereal — as if he is a messenger of the gods descended from Mount Olympus itself. Kings and Princes in attendance gasp at the audacity of his raised voice, Achilles at the audacity of his beauty. Patroclus marches past him in a whiff of an invigorating perfume that is tinged with something intoxicating. Looking every inch a prince, from the pellucid blue cloth winding around his waist, then draping over his arms, to his regal stance, he stops just before the steps of the dais to meet Menoetius' eyes, who is slightly taken aback. "Let him go. Prince Achilles is not the one who killed Eneas."Menoetius rises. "Patroclus," he says severely, "you best hope that you have a convincing reason to interrupt the council and back up your claims.""I do," he says. He twists his body to call for a servant, "Bring in the witness."Clasping his hands together, Menoetius stares forward critically. Intimidated, the servant cowers before him as she brings in an elderly lady, bowing so low that her hair nearly touches the floor. She dismisses herself meekly."This griá claims to have been present at the time of the assault," says Patroclus, "you may question her about what she knows."The woman shuffles forward, giving a customary bow, and at her king's indication, greets him and introduces herself before starting in a slow, raspy voice, "I was sitting in my room by a window, Exalted, when I saw —" she breaks off into a chain of hacking coughs, Patroclus immediately swooping to her side to rub her back soothingly."At your ease," he murmurs to her. Like this, it is easy to comprehend why the prince is so well-loved by his people. Any other at a position as esteemed as his would never consider waiting, let alone deign to offer comfort to a lowly peasant.The old woman heaves a breath and gives him a weak smile, patting his arm to tell him she is well enough to speak again. He withdraws. "I saw this brute of a boy two houses across with a dainty little thing — an omega — engaged in some physical activities I could not make out. My poor eyes deceived me and I thought they must have been quarrelling lovers — there is always a pair looking for a secluded spot — but the struggle got very violent and I caught their scents. The bigger boy was trying to dominate the omega. My legs are frail, and my voice did not carry when I called for assistance, Exalted. The houses around were empty because everyone had left for a small celebration on the street. A moment later I saw a third man join them, he had light hair. But then the ground came to be covered with something dark — it was blood — and one of the three fell. The little omega ran away. By then, I had managed to get to my door and I was opening it, so I did not see any of their faces, or where the boy went. But I managed to get to some other houses and called for help. After that, you know all, my king." she retreats, immediately launching into another set of coughs as if she was holding back all this time. She sounds strangled.Patroclus calls for water and has her taken away with a quiet 'thank you'. The court is silent. "There is more to be said, Exalted. Eneas apparently has a history of harassment that his victims have been unwilling to reveal because they were ashamed and afraid of what he would do to them should their accusations interfere with his standing in the Opuntian army. Now that he is dead, a few of them have come forward with some coaxing to present their cases. As they are still hesitant to disclose their identities, I have collected statements from them on papers with their scents rubbed onto them. Some of them are sullied by Eneas' scent. To compare, there is a letter from Eneas that was discovered amongst his personal belongings with his scent on it." He gestures to a footsoldier, who brings forward the papers and the letter, passed on from the hands of the king's personal guard to him. "You can meet the victims privately later to authenticate their scents."Menoetius looks at him, almost impressed, before reading the statements and checking the scents. Anticipation permeates every fibre of every person in attendance. The silence is ringing. Menoetius hands back the papers."But that is not all." Patroclus proclaims, "Upon a more thorough searching, our soldiers discovered a concoction of sorts that Eneas was working on: when one of the soldiers inhaled from it, he fainted. It seems a thorough examination of the contents of this liquid is required. Unfortunately, I was lacking time and could not ask the physician to do it myself. The soldier is currently with him, however, and you can visit them any time to discover whatever has been diagnosed of the brew yet."Achilles knows from this very moment that he will never have another omega again if it is not Patroclus. And it is not for his beauty — though it is no less a contributing factor — it is for his heart and his mind and his sheer will. Patroclus is true and unconditionally kind. Patroclus is the other half of Achilles.Cornered into the alley of truths by his own son, Menoetius changes his verdict. Achilles is acquitted of all charges.Patroclus smiles at his father, who returns the sentiment twisted with palpable pain. He moves to have a word of gratitude with Patroclus but suddenly finds himself swarmed by Phoinix and a considerable population of dignitaries from different kingdoms who wish to deliver their good wishes, who mere seconds ago were gleefully watching him on the verge of getting banished. Slowly, the throng begins to shuffle out of the hall, carrying him away in its tide. Between acceptance of the congratulatory gestures, he turns his head and tries to catch Patroclus' eye, but he has been summoned into a private conversation with Menoetius and refuses to look at him.Now that he thinks of it, he hadn't felt the intensity of Patroclus' gaze the entire duration of his duplicitous trial. As he finally allows Phoinix to call on his personal faction of guards and draw him into a quiet, lazy discussion, he thinks he knows why."To fos mou," sighs Menoetius, resting his hands heavily on Patroclus' shoulders, who barely hides his flinch.But this is his father, and he cannot hope to keep anything from him. He is only thankful that even as Menoetius' eyes darken with impending violence, he does not mention it. For an infinitesimal moment, they float in an interstice of wordlessness, Patroclus losing his nerve and becoming incapable of meeting his eyes. When his hands begin to tremble with nervousness, he clenches them into his chiton so that the cloth covers it. The room has emptied save for the two of them, with only the guards standing outside the closed doors. Here, in their seclusion, Menoetius finally lets down his guard. He does not use endearments anymore and it has been a long time since he has called Patroclus that. It is too much for him when he knows the weight of the conversation that will inevitably follow, he only hopes he will not tear up before he can get a word out.Ultimately, his father squeezes his shoulders to unconsciously relieve them of their tenseness, and mourns, "When did you grow up?"Patroclus ducks his head, a crease appearing between his brows, "Am I to assume you are not wroth with me, father?""I could never be, my child," Menoetius says, expression imperceptibly and uncharacteristically softening. "I will not admit that your actions were ideal, yes, given the impact your forwardness will have on the minds of your suitors. But," he gentles his voice further as Patroclus' expression falls, "I suppose it is better that they seek to marry you for your strength rather than your beauteousness. I would not have anyone think my son is simple."Patroclus is at a loss for words."Besides," his father's tone turns humorous now, "that was a compelling case you put forward. No one stood a chance. You will make a great ruler someday."Joining in, Patroclus looks up at him, a timid smile crawling up his lips. "Better than you?" he teases."The best." He pulls Patroclus into an embrace. "I thought you were unwell."Those five words freeze Patroclus. He had asked Briseis to deliver that message to his father, had he not? After the events of the previous evening, he had stayed locked in his room for hours on end, refusing to leave for anything. His heat could begin any day now, and his nest had been already complete — its comforting sight calling to him invitingly as he had stumbled into his room, weak and torn on the inside. He had only left his nest when he heard of Prince Achilles' trial, hastening to collect evidence. Any objections his guards had raised had been cut off with a withering look.He swallows. "I came as soon as I heard. But I promise I am much better than before."A pregnant pause; then, "Is there," his father solicits, steadily plowing on as his hand begins to rub slow circles over his back, "something you wish to tell me, my son?"Patroclus leans into his caress, resting his head on his broad shoulder as his throat fills up with hampered sobs. "No," he whispers, blinking rapidly.Menoetius' hold tightens around him for just a moment before he is peeling away and holding Patroclus at arm's length, who now has indurated his face into a detached mask. He cups Patroclus' cheek. "You had no incentive to come.""I felt it was my duty to. They are here for me, father. I hold as much responsibility for their welfare as I do for my people. Prince Achilles did not kill Eneas." he repeats."You sound so certain of it. Why?"Patroclus lifts one shoulder, then lets it fall helplessly. "He is not that kind of man."Menoetius' mouth forms a hard line. "And what makes you trust him so? He is half-god."This time, Patroclus looks him straight in the eye, the bells of irrefutable surety ringing deep in his soul. "He is also half-human."Around midday, Patroclus finds himself dawdling through his mother's gardens — a place he often finds himself in when he is disconcerted and contemplative and feeling all too much all at once. He has not made any effort to be approachable after his intervention in the trial this morning. Usually, his days are riddled with obsequious interactions with his overeager suitors, only a few of whom are forthright in their motives. A majority seem to think of him as something akin to the spoils of war — a means to establish their dominance over other royal households including his father's. It makes him sick to his stomach to imagine himself as a trophy.The bile rises higher in his throat when he imagines how much worse it must be for the omegas who lack the security he has. And now that he has experienced it first-hand, it is rather easy to as well.Patroclus wraps his arms around himself, clutching his skin tightly, digging his nails into it as he feels the phantom of hands grappling and harrowing him — inexorable and ruthless. The hands move to his neck, and the ghost of a sensation sweeps over him; the hands pressing and bruising until he is gasping for air, terrified. Behind the screen of his eyes is unadulterated trepidation, a memory of an acrid scent trying to stamp out his conscience. A flicker of limb-locking fear had settled in the pit of his belly when he had tried to numbly stave off the touch of the alpha. His skin crawls even now. He does not know if he should be grateful that the alpha had not managed to pull the cloth away from his face. He dreads to think how horrific the situation could have turned had his attacker known he was the prince of Opus.He loathes how shaken the encounter with the alpha — he cannot even bring himself to speak his name in privacy — has left him. This is what his father had meant, though he does not think Menoetius could have seen it coming from one of his own people. He does not feel safe in his own kingdom anymore. For all that, he feels worse when he thinks of the blood he now has on his hands. One of his own citizens. Patroclus is no stranger to blood or death. He has seen his mother taking her last breaths, he has learnt to skin and cook meat since he was a child, he has seen men return beaten and bloodied from battles. But he has never killed.In the heat of the struggle, it had felt so easy to take up his knife, to slice his opponent's throat as if he were merely cutting fruits. Only after he had made it to a safe distance from the alley, somewhere in a boscage near the outskirts of the village, had he allowed himself to crumble, shuddering violently as he had sunk into the bracken sheathing the earth. That was how Briseis had found him, besmirched with dark, thick blood, staring emptily at nothing. He had felt like a frightened animal, dagger clenched in his hand as she had reached for him. She had been so gentle with him, pulling him into her arms, mumbling reassurances over and over again as she soothed him into a stupor. He had not liked the feeling of blood on him, had not liked the metallic stench of it. He had retched, but nothing came out, only a few broken sobs.He had not even been able to think of Achilles then, which was why it had come as a shock to him that he had been taken in for questioning by his father's council. He had despised the idea of revisiting the scene of his attempted assault again, but his heart could not rest knowing that the weight of his crimes had fallen on Achilles, who was innocent and undeserving of the fate the council had in store for him. He remembers how hard his heart had beat as he had heard his father's words echoing past the doors to the throne room. He remembers the neurotic tension in each fibre of his being as he had stood stoic in front of the entire court, keeping his chin high audaciously as he addressed the room without formality or permission. Omegas do not preside over political matters, and they certainly do not utter a sound in official gatherings unless prompted.Wary even now, he creeps along the verdure of hedgerows to a small pond that rests near the furthest end of the garden which no one apart from him and his family knows of. It is a beautiful spot, with gleaming white marble forming a low, flat barrier around the water and an awning of grapevine supported by tall marble pillars forming a passage around it in a half-circle. He does not realise his feet are drawn to a piece of distant music luring him to that spot. He wants to desperately rid his thoughts of everything bad that has occurred in the past few hours. He does not have the energy to cope with the remorse of having lied to his father. He feels selfish when he imagines how all of his father's stringency stems from the need to keep him safe, and how he blithely throws caution to the wind, endangering himself repeatedly with his escapades. But he knows that he will never be permitted to lay a toe outside the palace's boundaries if his father were to discover the culmination of his latest deed. He lays down beside the pool of water with a huff of breath, pressing his cheek against the cool marble barrier and dipping a hand in the water.As his eyes fall shut, dappled sunlight from the shadow of the grapevine falling on his back, his ears single-mindedly pursue the drifting music. It is the sound of a lyre, tranquil and ethereal with every pluck of the strings. Patroclus is air and ether, floating away with the tune. He begins to hum absently, catching on fairly quickly. He loves music, as did his mother. Nearly all of his fondest memories of her involve her singing or humming or intently listening to music. She taught him his first steps of dancing. He remembers how she would sing to him as he danced and then break off laughing sweetly when he would make a blunder.Briefly, it crosses his mind that he should find this exceptional player and either reproach them for intruding on the private part of the prince's garden or commend them for imparting his soul such bliss. However, he is exhausted and drained of all thought and so very warm. As the music lulls him into a slow, lackadaisical slumber, he cannot find a bone in his body that protests this intrusion.
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In hindsight, it should have been easier than an oracle for him to predict it. But such things far too often than not for his depleting sanity seem to occur when he is least expectant and most unarmed. Mercy has begun to seem an increasingly outlandish notion, even as he slumps against Briseis entirely.It happened when he was roaming the gardens, having found Briseis somewhere along the way; she immediately began reprimanding him about missing his archery session. They had entered a rather invigorating discussion about how the other kingdoms would view the participation of the infamous Maenads in their Dionysia — a practice that Menoetius himself is wholly opposed to. The Maenads are untameable. They are cruel, vicious outlaws vitalised with wine. This religious sect of Dionysus is composed of almost only omegas, and although there seem to be more female omegas than male in his cult, it is only because male omegas are so very rare. Compared to the worshippers of Aphrodite, Dionysus seems to always have gained a special favour from male omegas, who still believe him to be more of a god of fertility than the relatively newer Aphrodite. Patroclus knows this very well because he has been singing the dithyrambs of the god since he could. It is how the ritual of the Maenads visiting Opus was brought into existence.Six-year-old Patroclus had been discovered by a group of unruly women in the forest, plucking grapevine and ivy for making his own thyrsus. The women had, of course, been Maenads. They had been impressed by the devotion of the little boy clad in fawnskin and with a cask of wine of his own that he sought to offer to Dionysus, and had picked him up in their arms to take him away with them. Halfway through the kingdom, a soldier had spotted them and sped back to the palace to inform the king and queen. Little Patroclus had been too caught up in the Maenads' promises of meeting Dionysus to comprehend what was truly happening.When Menoetius and Philomela had found him, they had pleaded with the Maenads to give them back their only son, instead offering them to visit Opus every Dionysia henceforth, where they would be granted a safe stay and everything they would need to venerate their god. They had accepted, and so they come to Opus every year with their ribald atrocities, bringing life and terror alike.Briseis had been proposing the possibility of half the kings scarpering at the mere mention of the Maenads when Patroclus had doubled over in pain, gasping as a sudden wetness had made its appearance known between his thighs. Terrified on his behalf, she had set her priorities straight and started to usher him out of the garden, wrapping her epiblema around his body as tight as she could and pressing a hand over his mouth to keep him from giving away their location with his pants and painful groans.Patroclus is blinded by the ache of his lower muscles, the unfilled void in his body, the lack of a mate to help soothe him. His omega is clawing at his insides — only half of itself, demanding the other. His womb is empty, unavailing. He needs an alpha, his alpha. Someone just for him to have and hold onto forever. Someone who can grant him the child he so deparately craves. As another wave of pain hits, a single tear escapes his eye, but Briseis is resilient. He loathes it now as much as he would be grateful for the same if he were in his senses. There are a few alphas across two broad rows of hedges on his right, their faces darkened against the apricot evening — he can sense them from afar so easily. Surely, one of them can appease his body, sate his heart? Through his obfuscated, warped perception, he notices them freeze and then turn in his direction."Patroclus," Briseis repeats in anxious prayer, "Patroclus, please, come with me."Patroclus doesn't know how to explain to her that a headache is searing across his skull, that his hands are so clammy with sweat that he can barely keep a hold of himself, that all he wants is for someone to wipe his tears and erase the hollow feeling in his chest, whispering endearments and praises to him. He doesn't know how to tell her that he is trembling so much he will surely die, that he simply wants to belong.The soldiers in the garden are betas, specifically allocated to control such a situation, but they are no match for alphas, especially those in the vicinity of an omega in heat. Deep down, Patroclus knows that he does not want any strange alpha to lay a finger on him, but his body craves the lick of desire like no other. He is but a cloud of lust, ready to fall apart at the tenderest of touches. He notices the alphas advancing, but Briseis breaks into a run, dragging him along. Patroclus' skin burns, but he runs with her because underneath all of that sickening headiness, his faith in her is still unclouded. She hurries him along one of the servants' passages, obscuring them from the alphas completely. Although, it is not nearly enough to stave off the increasing intensity of his scent.Along the way, Briseis calls for one of the servants to alert the king about the alphas in their transgressive pursuit. It is obvious now, the one thing they had failed to calculate — their facile preparations had not taken account of the danger he would be put in with this multitude of alphas all around, unbonded and unfettered. All the pragmatism left in him, floating to the surface of his mind every few seconds, is warning him to impede his pursuers from discovering the situation of his chambers. Dread settles in the pit of his gut when he realises he is unable to convey this to Briseis through his affliction.They are nearing the base of the stairs leading to the upper level of the palace, where his chambers are, when they encounter two new figures. Patroclus buries his face against Briseis' shoulder as she stops dead in her tracks with nowhere to run. Tears flow from his eyes like a hurricane now, his raw throat choking out a sound of utter torment. "Please," she whispers to them, her features twisted ominously, "stop them,"Patroclus catches only a peek of the pair before she is hurrying him up the stairs — one of them he recognises as Odysseus, the other a golden-haloed god. Yet, there is something about his green eyes that he thinks he would recognise anywhere, the surety of shoulders turned golden by sunlight, the parted petals of pink carnations that are his lips, the hand clasped around a sword swiftly unsheathed as if it belonged there — things he has perused so thoroughly, he thinks he would know them even in death. He cannot put a name to the figure in his haze, but then, no name can truly delineate what he knows in his heart of hearts to be half of his soul.As he is carried away, he hears the shrill clanging of iron on iron and squeezes his eyes shut. By the time he opens them, he no longer endorses any appreciation for the thick marble walls of his private chambers. He is sensation made corporeal, crawling into the warmth of his bed-turned-nest as he struggles to pull the uncomfortable chiton off his scorching skin, the pins holding it together coming undone and scraping his shoulders and hips to leave jagged trails of scarlet. He can dimly hear Briseis quickly bolt the doors and hurry to his side to assist him with his clothing before helping him cover himself with as many layers of blankets as she can find.She stays there awhile, providing him with food and water until he begins to calm down just enough that he is capable of closing the doors himself when she inevitably leaves him to his own devices.Then, the worst of the pain begins, making him sob into his sheets as the sky outside grows darker with the approaching nightfall.Patrocus curls into a ball, shaking like a leaf in the windiest of winters. There is no reprieve. He does not even attempt to touch himself because he knows it will be futile. He has spent enough of his heats experimenting on himself to realise that nothing less than an actual alpha can put him out of his misery. There is no point in teasing himself, to hold out for something he knows he cannot obtain by himself. It will only leave him feeling emptier than ever. He only wishes his father had been more lenient in letting those he trusted touch him. Even Briseis is forbidden from staying in his room while he is in such a condition, whatever feeble comfort her touch as a fellow omega can offer put to waste. With every passing minute a fear settles in his chest that he is unwanted. If he were not consumed by his disposition he would not pay any heed to this, but the way things are, his isolation is tantamount to rejection.Nudged to the forefront of his thoughts, he is promptly reminded of all the heats he has spent before likewise in complete lack of human contact because he is "too precious to be tarnished by anyone." He deliberates why no one wishes to touch him if he is that precious. He needs contact skin on skin, lips against lips, breath over breath. He needs slow hands to edge, inch by deliberate inch, up his thighs in sensual symphony until they discover where he is eager and slick and waiting. He wants carnal kisses pressed against the hollow of his throat in vicious worship and blandishing whispers pressed into damson bruises all over him. On tenterhooks, he wants to be taken under the gentle hands of a lover. Kissed and fed and protected. Loved.He realises too late that his body has given in to his fantasies, and before he knows it, he is whimpering from his half-hearted release, twisting in his sheets to stare up at the ceiling and wait for the inexorable loneliness to creep over him.What he sees instead is the unmistakable image of Achilles.He looks away, but suddenly, the demigod is everywhere, leaning against the balustrade of his balcony, his form misty against the curtained moon; lying next to him when he turns to his side, looming over him when he rolls onto his back again. He is there when he closes his eyes, flaxen and fair, whittled by the gods. It takes him a moment to understand that this is what his omega desires, and all in a trice, discovers he is helpless to his imagination.When he touches himself at last, his lips can only form one word: the demigod's name.Wantoned hands roam over himself with the same thought echoing in every thrum of his nerves until he is moaning it aloud to no one but himself. Patroclus writhes against an invisible pull of lechery. Achilles is carved in the image of the sun, Patroclus in the image of carnality. If he is a flame, Patroclus was made to burn. His back arches, a single image of the demigod's bare form from his memories enough to send him over the edge completely.Later, when he lounges in his bed, bone-tired with his covers thrown to the side, he is surprised at how easily his body accepted the idea of the alpha as his lover. He has never even caught a proper whiff of the prince's scent. Its amorphous trace is something fresh, like soil, with the slightest hint of sweetness. Truthfully, he does not think he would be able to bear the full force of his scent. This is not simply attributed to his divine heritage — albeit he imagines it does make him different than all his other suitors. The thought sends a shiver up his spine. It hits him unexpectedly in at least ten different ways that Achilles is not like the rest. It leaves his lips hollow and yearning to feel those of the demigod's. He has never kissed anyone to compare, but would it too be unlike all others? Would it taste better, sweeter?The notion is unbearable.He shoots up from his little hideaway abruptly, chasing whatever rationality he is privy to while his bestial urges are quelled for the moment. He wraps a single, thin sheet around himself and moves to grab a pitcher of water, drinking from it directly and relishing in the coolness of it pouring down his throat. In the washing room connected to his bedroom, he laves and wipes away the mess on his legs and stomach, knowing he will be back in the same state in a few hours but wanting to enjoy the cleanliness while it lasts.Finally he moves to the balcony, his favourite spot, sweeping aside the curtains that are so white and so sheer that they are like milk against the bright silver beam of Selene's gentle smile. The air outside is crisp and perfumed with a hedgerow of jasmines that grow just under — the part of the gardens his balcony overlooks. His grip on the sheet loosens a bit, allowing the night breeze to graze his shoulders as the edge of the cloth slips down them. The curtains billow softly behind him, and everything is quiet and dreamy. Until he looks further into the shadowed garden. And blinks. And thinks softly to himself, "Oh no,"Of all the plans Achilles had made for the day, defending the Opuntian prince against three raging alphas was never on the agenda. What had started out as a practice with Odysseus in the training area developed into a small battlefield experience when he encountered a shaking Patroclus in his servant's arms, and the terror on her face when she spotted him. It wasn't that he hadn't seen it coming. He could recognise the scent of an omega in heat even if he was halfway across the palace, but he had learnt to maintain some modicum of control of his body even when he was close to one. He just had not expected the omega to be the prince.Looking back on it, he is unable to believe how he held himself back from feasting on the divinity of the omega's flesh. Perhaps it was the desperation in his deep gaze, perhaps it was the protectiveness of his alpha overwhelming the impulse to claim him, perhaps it was that he already was beginning to consider the omega as his and was, as a consequence, maddened by the idea of anyone else touching him. It does not matter now. The alphas — the kings, he is appalled to call them, are in the care of the healers of Opus and their own kingdoms, awaiting punishment from Menoetius. He half expects that Menoetius will himself finish the job that Achilles left incomplete and kill the alphas. He wonders if he would have done so the moment he discovered them injured and bleeding at Achilles' feet, wry with wrath as his face was, had Odysseus' silver tongue not persuaded him otherwise, just as he had with Achilles only minutes before.Only when he had been assured by the prince's servant that he was safe and resting in his chambers did Menoetius pay proper attention to him, meeting him and Odysseus separately to thank them. Curiosity had pulled the chariot of his tongue when he had expressed how unusual it was for an alpha to be able to resist an omega in heat, to which Achilles had nearly, very nearly, replied that he did not have to resist that which was eventually bound to be his. But of course, if he had any hope of winning Patroclus' hand, he would have had to maintain a benevolent image in his father's eyes. Every now and then, however, he wonders if he should have enunciated his true answer only to see the look on the old king's face.Regardless, he thinks, he wouldn't have said it. Because it would have been disrespectful to Patroclus.His answer was not quite a lie, only a curtailed truth, when he expressed how his mother had sought to make him immune to his worldly needs. He is meant to ascend to godhood, after all.What he did not admit to anyone, however, was how profoundly it had affected him to see Patroclus in that condition. Try as he might, he is still unable to erase those potent doe eyes from his mind. The softness of his body, the craving in every curve, the way his eyes had briefly darkened when they rested on him, no doubt recognising a potential mate in him. And his scent: invigorating and fruity, with that hint of spice that he still expects might launch him into a rut any second. Alone to himself on a nightly stroll now, he allows himself to release that low growl that has been stuck in his throat since forever. He closes his eyes to push down the rumble his alpha threatens to release and focuses on the stillness of the night, followed by the little things that bequeath life to said stillness — the chirping of concealed crickets, punctuated by the gnashing of masonry and the ripple of cloth in the wind like thunder crackling in the distance — the sounds of the preparations of the Dionysia wrapping up for the day. The evening dew gathered on the grass lends a freshness to the soil. He regrets that he didn't think to remove his sandals.Something about the placid undulating ambience of the gardens reminds him of days spent walking along the shore, singing to his heart's content in his homeland. Opus may flaunt its own grandeur, yes, but it does not hold a candle to Phthia and her simplistic magnificence. The lofty crest of Mount Othrys and beside it, the resplendent cant of Mount Pelion. The curl of foamy waves against his ankles constrasting the warm cushion of sand that tickles his toes just so.If he concentrates long enough, he can still smell the salt in the air. It is tinged with the scent of ripening figs, of his childhood, of... jasmine?Achilles opens his eyes to a rather beautiful bush covered in white inflorescence and feels a small laugh bubble up his throat. It seems even the aroma of Opus is ostentatious. But then his perceptive nose catches another, more distinctive combination of fragrances, making him glance up to the source of it.Bathing in the liquid moonlight, eyes big and dark as an owl's, is Patroclus. It takes Achilles several moments to accustom himself to his state of near-undress. For a while the omega stares only at the moon like a lifelike sculpture of a poet's amorous muse, hair tousled and windblown, his lissom curves glimpsing through the swaddle of white cloth made pellucid by the light. His visage is languorous, the vision of a swan, what with all the whiteness surrounding him. When those eyes meet his, his mouth is sultry with sweet promises of lust.He is in heat, he reminds himself, as if the thought is supposed to discourage him from climbing up the impossible wall and snaring him to consume his innocence. But Patroclus is looking at him heatedly as if he is the only thing in his vision, all shyness vanished from his face and replaced by pure instinct. The look in his eyes is predatory, even if his smile is soft and dainty. Achilles lets his eyes feast on his naked shoulders, the utterly debauched look of him suggesting exactly what he had been doing before he stumbled upon him. Nary a word is exchanged between them; it is not needed when their eyes trade a thousand secrets, when Patroclus' expression turns sly, his smile changing into an inviting smirk as he turns around and lets the cloth drop wilfully lower down his back.Achilles hungers for the coy display of his sacrum as he stretches, loitering back inside. And if, when veiled by the curtains, he lets go of the sheet completely, his shape silhouetted even clearer by the more translucent curtains, Achilles cannot be blamed for the taste of his name on his lips when he pleasures himself hours later in the seclusion of his own chambers, finding his torturous release only with one face imprinted behind his eyes.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Menoetius announces the next task of Athlos as Patroclus' heat begins to draw to a close a few days later. Opus glows with the preparations of Dionysia but holds naught a spark to Patroclus himself, whose beauty burgeons like a sunflower waking from Spring's first golden sun. One of the traditions of the festival involves hunting, not only for the sacrosanct value of sacrifice but also because Dionysia demands the making of animal masks to celebrate the wild. Precious horns and fur pelts are garnered and sewn into impressive imitations. The celebrations require all including the host to be disguised.It is only by coincidence that Athlos entails the need for a task that assesses almost every aspect of a good warrior — strength, vision, endurance, strategy, intellect, speed, and gallantry. What better way to execute that proposition than to challenge the competitors to bring Prince Patroclus the greatest kill? Especially when the beast is to serve as their disguise?Achilles quivers with ardour when he first hears of it.Hunting is one of his keenest skills. There is a thrill in stealing through forests woven with danger at every turn whilst giving chase across the uneven earth. At times, a fiery back-and-forth with a much stronger beast incites a battle-like bloodlust in him. For years, he has trained under the great centaur Chiron, who proclaimed having nothing left to teach him in their first year itself. This tournament may not be a war, but it is a path to glory nonetheless. Some would say more acclaim is earned from Athlos than from any warfare, for not only is one challenging royalty directly, but the tasks also lack the guile of battles. This is no game for the gods; there are no deceptions, no favours, no divine interventions. A sacred code of honour is invariably a part of it. Whole kingdoms are defeated without armies. The strongest bond between kingdoms is one of marriage, after all.Achilles decides to write to Thetis before abruptly changing his mind and returning to the temple of Hermes, hoping to spot that strange veiled boy on the way. It proves fruitless, but he does not dwell on it for too long. He offers a quick prayer to the God of Speed before entreating him to relay the message of his well-being and triumphs to his mother. Later, he has Phoinix compose a letter describing the same in more detail to Peleus. He carefully excludes anything related to Prince Patroclus. Sweltering afternoons are spent practising his combat techniques in a clandestine patch of barren land amidst nowhere, and cool evenings sequestered in the blessed royal gardens. Phoinix urges him to create correspondence with other princes and kings to no avail."There is strength in unity, my prince." says the old man."If not for the laws of this contest, Phoinix, we would all be at each other's throats." says Achilles, whetting his spear.Phoinix offers no argument except, "You realise King Menoitius is not especially fond of you?"His mouth curls up into a small smile. "I am aware."Frustrated, Phoinix announces the discussion a moot point before launching into a report of his recent observations. He informs Achilles he has tasked their best seamstress with preparing his disguise for Dionysia once he has brought his kill. "You also, naturally, have a feast to attend tonight where presumably King Menoitius is to confirm when, where and at what hour the hunt is to commence —" he plows on, and Achilles, who had stopped listening a while ago, is jolted back to awareness quite unpleasantly."I shall dine in my chambers, Phoinix." he declares firmly, examining the tip of his weapon. "I have neither need nor desire to mingle with the likes of these people any more than absolutely necessary.""Ah," he answers as if it were a question; Achilles' eyes narrow with every word hence, "how tragic. I suppose I shall inform the others of your absence accordingly. I heard the prince has recovered from his fleeting illness and shall be attending tonight as well. King Agamemnon has great plans of charming him — or so I have heard. Of course, establishing an alliance with Opus is his focal intent. There is sure to be competition. Oh but — forgive this old man's ramblings. I see old age has turned me into a frightful babbler. I shall speak to Menoitius' servants right away."A sharp, threatening screech of stone against metal breaks his stride as he makes to leave. Achilles, who had noticeably perked up when the Opuntian prince's name was mentioned, calmly places the stone aside and walks over, loosening his grip on the wooden shaft of the spear just enough that it makes a terrible clang as its back end hits the ground when he halts before the old advisor. "I suppose I cannot be disinclined to offer my company at such an event where I am sorely needed. You may refrain from delivering any news.""Oh, wonderful!" smiles Phoinix, the portrait of guileless servitude, and moves to the doors. He is stopped by the demigod's hand landing squarely on his shoulder in rather a show of amiability."Phoinix," begins Achilles with utmost sincerity, "I am thankful to have someone as capable as you in my ranks,"Stunned, the man tries to process the praise, but the Phthian prince is already speaking ahead."And as you well know how generous I am, I thought a night of leisure for my retinue should be in order." His lips split into a smile as honed as his blade and Phoinix, perplexed, pulls up a few words of gratitude."That is very kind of you indeed, Exalted.""Then you have no objection if I delegate their duties to you for tonight?" Achilles claps him on the shoulder, strength just shy of crippling and his eyes dance with mirth as Phoinix's widen in comprehension, "Wonderful!" he mimics before the old man can utter a sound. "You are excused now." And he turns and busies himself with arranging the spear alongside the rest of his weaponry.Phoinix grumbles incomprehensibly and takes his leave."The hounds of Opus are fiercer than its wolves," Odysseus informs the table at the feast. "I would know because they were a present from Penelope's father."Menoitius, two cups of wine in, thumps his back and says, "They have never failed us. Give my compliments to Icarius and Tyndareus when you next see them, would you?""Of course," grins Odysseus, slyly ordering a servant to refill the man's cup."Keep to your wolves, Odysseus," sniffs Agamemnon, "the less cowardly of us will hunt nothing less than an auroch."Achilles, who had been silent all this while, says with an aura of calm self-assurance, "If it doesn't get you first."Across the table, Patroclus sputters with laughter.The particular shade of puce that creeps up the King of Mycenae's face is as satisfying to watch as it is unsightly. But what surprises Achilles the most is when King Menoitius throws his head back and guffaws. Evidently, inebriated, he is less hostile toward his son's suitors."And what would you know of aurochs, Pelides?" scoffs Agamemnon, "Phthia does not even span large enough to cover an entire forest."Achilles could challenge him for that little barb. An accomplished warrior though he may be, he would not last a full minute against Achilles in a duel. But Patroclus is looking on at their little discussion (for Agamemnon's word does not even weigh enough for Achilles to call it a spat) with the rest of the table, and he is not inclined to present himself as a hotheaded fool. So he spares the alpha's life in favour of his dignity. "We have the sea, Agamemnon." Achilles reminds him, and that effectively shuts everyone up.A beat. Then Patroclus asks, eyes full of wonder and anticipation, "What's it like?"Ideally, omegas are not allowed to speak unless directly spoken to when in the company of an alpha, let alone so many. The wine is too strong to draw attention to such trivial matters, however, and with how starved every suitor seems to be to discover more of the Opuntian prince, his soft, dulcet voice is more than welcome.Achilles falls back into his seat and lazily gazes at him. Patroclus squirms a bit at the effortless intensity of it, although none notice. None but Achilles. So he replies, "No words do it justice." and smiles quietly when he successfully manages to intrigue the omega even further. And when the prince frowns, perplexed, he imagines smoothing a thumb across his cheek and kissing the furrow between his brows."Well," begins Penelope from her seat between Patroclus and her husband, "perhaps Patroclus himself can give us a more accurate description of the aurochs of Opus.""They are massive," explains Patroclus, owl-eyes wide, drawing rapt attention, "With their horns, they stand a head taller than even father. They are one of the rare creatures who deliberately pursue men. Once, one found its way into a farm and wreaked havoc across several houses; isn't that right, father?"Menoitius slams down a tankard of mead, his drunken slur booming and abrasive, in sharp contrast to his son's voice. "Took six men and four horses to get a handle on it." he informs the others, "It was returned to the wilderness but not before it brutally injured two of my best soldiers. They are beasts of sheer muscle, Atreides. Between the hooves and the horns, you never know which might be more dangerous."Agamemnon nods his head in reluctant deference, eyes sweeping to the side in a loathsome look aimed at Achilles. "I shall heed your warning, King Menoitius," he rumbles, indignant, "but my quarry remains unchanged.""Know this too then: you will be alone once you engage with your prey. Some of my soldiers will accompany your faction to ensure that none interfere beyond fulfilling their requirements. My hounds will only serve the purpose of tracking, not chasing. Should the beast engage you first, your soldiers may aid you only in case of mortal peril. However," Menoitius' dark eyes narrow with focus, "should you engage the beast first, not even the threat of death shall defy the will of Athlos. Your men will raise no weapon, my hounds will give no chase, and not even your horse may raise a hoof. There will be no saviour."Evidently, Achilles thinks, there will be no glory in such a death. Only a rudimentary honour shall be bestowed upon the contestant for their participation in the tournament — no more, no less. He glances around and notices everyone seems to have reached the same conclusion. One would have to pick their quarry carefully.But Agamemnon's pride has already taken as many hits as it can for the evening. "Kings do not require saving." he says, keeping a bruising grip on his goblet.It is a jibe at all those who are yet to become kings. It is a jibe at Achilles. All it does is humour him. When Menoitius does not reply further, the table collapses into conversation about Dionysia. Achilles, meanwhile, wonders what kind of quarry he would like to hunt. He looks deeply into the garnet liquid in his cup, swirling it in contemplation. It would have to be a beast possessing every area of ability that he does, be it strength, speed, or an agile mind. He pauses the motion of his hand, the ring bearing the shape of his kingdom's symbol glinting back at him, then raises the cup to his mouth and drinks from it until he feels a pair of eyes burning into him.He places the cup back down and meets the eyes of the prince of Opus. They are so intently focused that it takes Achilles a moment to realise that the omega is not seeking his eyes at all. The prince's gaze is trained below, at his throat, then at the lower half of his face as Achilles' tongue chases the last of the moisture left by the wine on his lips. His mouth is parted just slightly as if it wishes to follow where his eyes have been.Only when an involuntary tug pulls at the corner of Achilles' mouth does the omega notice that he has been caught. His brown eyes flicker up, peering through his lashes as if in two minds whether to look closer or look away. It is such a simple act, yet, it incites a desperate need for self-restraint within him. His alpha preens somewhere deep in his gut, and with all thoughts of spears and beasts fleeing his mind for the remainder of the evening, Achilles thinks that perhaps he would like to hunt a different game altogether.It is in the cloudy, pink light of dusk the day before the hunt that Achilles sees the mystery boy from the market again.Having been informed by his soldiers that Balius and Xanthus are restless, unwilling to be touched by anyone, he is making his way down to the royal stables. It is unsurprising to him that his horses would refuse the proximity of just any mortal — they are, after all, of divine descent. They have only ever bowed to his touch, apart from his mother. He dismisses his soldiers from the stables altogether despite their protests regarding his own safety. If he were petty, he would even take their concern as an insult.The stables are dirty with muck — the stablehand has been scared away. Achilles knows this because the stable master himself informed him in the middle of his midday meal, sweating profusely as he stammered through his explanation, which the alpha found rather amusing. When he catches his first glimpse of Xanthus and Balius, he is expecting to see their teeth bared, heads raised high, ears laid flat against their heads as they stomp and pull at their restraints. He expects some soldiers to have remained, thinking they know more about his horses than him, he expects the whites of the horses' eyes to be showing. He expects a stressed and threatening reaction from them that he would rush to pacify.He does not expect a slight stranger clad in white, an increasingly familiar border printed on the edges of his clothes. He does not expect dark arms reaching out to ever so tenderly cradle Xanthus' head. He most certainly does not expect Balius to be eagerly nudging the boy — that boy from the market — to earn the same affection.Achilles stops short.He is not usually one to cowardly spy on others, preferring direct confrontation — slyness is more of his mother's forte. But he needs to know who this boy is, and how he snuck into the heavily guarded royal stables. Most importantly, he needs to know how this boy managed to tame beasts of such enormity, let alone ones who bleed ichor. Beside the feeder in the stall of his third horse, Pedasos, is just enough space for him to squeeze in. And Achilles — swift, silent-footed — slips into the gap while the boy's back is still turned. A little closer now, he pats Pedasos' neck to quieten him while he peers past him. Usually, Balius and Xanthus, unbidden, sense him when he is this close. However, Balius does not turn his dappled neck toward him and Xanthus does not even spare him a glance with his dark eyes. Achilles frowns.The boy then pulls out a small vial that contains what appears to be oil, and, opening the lid quick as lightning, pours out a single drop before closing it. He rubs the liquid between his fingers and Achilles is hit with the powerful, soothing scent of jasmine. It reminds him, inexplicably, of the jasmines in the royal gardens. The boy proceeds to apply the oil over the bridge of both the horses' noses, instantly creating the closest semblance to docility that has ever been observed on their visage. They are quick to allow him passage into their stalls in turns then, zealous even, as he frees them from all their restraints, save for a single rope. With soft, affectionate murmurs, he lures Balius out, then Xanthus.The horses whinny and paw the dirt beneath impatiently. The boy's shoulders shake with soft laughter at their antics as he pulls them to the edge of the stables, checking around the corner for any guards. Then he turns, removes the last of their bindings, and as they make to stomp their hooves in celebration of their newfound freedom, he hushes them.Achilles watches, awed, as just with that single command Xanthus and Balius — the terror of mortal men, scions of the daunting west wind, whose hooves beat across bloodied battlefields like Zephyrus' breath over a cloud — bow their magnificent heads in gentle supplication. The boy pets their mane as a child would his colt. Achilles wonders if he knows how many men have been trampled to death for daring to attempt the same. He wonders if the boy realises that these horses are vessels of violence. If he is an arrow, swift and sharp, Balius and Xanthus are the bow. If he is a thundering river, they are the current.Yet, dauntless, he steps aside and boldly offers them the gateway to freedom. The horses raise their front hooves, that wild gleam in their eyes that no artist could ever capture, and with a sound like sudden applause, take off at a gallop out of the stables toward the sunset. A contingent of soldiers jumps to attention and chases after them. In the commotion created, Achilles leaves Pedasos' stall with the intention to confront the boy but he is surprisingly agile in the crowd, easy to blend, and manages to slip away.As the moon climbs the sky later and he seeks rest in his chambers after his horses have been found and secured in their stalls again, he wonders why he did not confront the boy when he had the chance. He tells himself it is because the boy knew what he was doing, because he had realised, just like Achilles had upon observing, that the divine creatures had become restless and anxious due to being confined in one place for so long. He tells himself it is because even Automedon, his charioteer, had agreed upon being reunited with Balius and Xanthus that they looked to be more hale than they had been in the past few days. Even so, he knows somewhere deep in his bones that this is only part of the truth. There is a particular intrigue attached to that boy, like that of a kind stranger in passing or a rebel with a sphinxlike enigma.Achilles would have thought him a spy of Opus if not for his strangely mundane mannerisms. Apart from when he manages to accomplish feats such as defeating an alpha in single combat with only a dagger and reducing demigod beings to puppies, that is. It throws Achilles for a loop again. He will have to figure this boy out.After the hunt, he tells himself and allows Hypnos to envelop him in his embrace.The day of the hunt dawns clear and bright.Patroclus' chiton is the rich colour of turmeric, his face equally radiant, and all eyes draw to his cheer. Achilles thinks that, combined with his armlets and necklace of gold, the colour really brings out the streaks of amber in his irises. He looks like a narcissus in full bloom. Achilles could sing his praises all day, create melodies in his name, even pluck the sound of Pa-tro-clus on the strings of his lyre — except, Phoenix is shooting him a knowing look from the audience in the arena and he must reluctantly pay heed to the instructions of the hellanodikas.As the man repeats to the spectators what Menoitius had already informed them of at the feast after his announcement of the task, Achilles quietly observes the behaviour of his horses. Only one horse of their own is permitted to be taken with each competitor for the hunt. Pedasos, Achilles knows, is out of the question. While his speed and strength are keen enough that he is able to keep up with his equine brethren, he is still no match for them. Out of the remaining two, however, he notices that while both are equally fit to be taken with him, Xanthus appears to be exuding the same enthusiasm he usually would before a battle.Hunting, contrarily, is a sport that requires more level-headedness, especially in the face of danger. Balius' temperament is far more suited to hunting, while Xanthus' spirit to war. He needs a steed that will not be easily challenged or spooked when faced with a threat.Upon King Menoitius' indication, the hellanodikas leads them out of the arena toward a small temple of Artemis in a steady-paced procession of their chariots. The man himself walks barefoot at the front, followed by the chariot of the king and prince of Opus, then a few guards on horseback separating them from the line of suitors. In the wake of this procession, children skip along, throwing flower petals joyfully. The adults behind cheer the name of their ruler, their prince, and then their preferred contestant.The chariots pull up in the formation of an arc at the entrance of the temple with the Opuntian chariot a few spaces ahead in the middle. Those who cannot fit in the first row assemble behind. At this stage, not a single sound is uttered; they all bow their heads in prayer. Ideally, the queen would have entered the temple to perform the sacred rites, but in her absence, only the prince and his servants can enter given that the goddess is a protector of omegas and children.Achilles, naturally in the first row, has a clear view of the proceedings inside the temple. Prince Patroclus carries with him a burning torch that he uses to light the shallow, basin-like cressets in the interspaces between pillars lining the sides of the aisle leading to the altar. The hunting hounds trail him until he stops at the base of the idol of Artemis and places a small bundle of cypress and palm branches at her feet. The dogs, clearly rehearsed in this ritual, bow their heads as well. After the hunt, one of their kills will be chosen to present at her altar. For now, Prince Patroclus backs away as King Menoitius raises his bow, fixing in it an arrow tipped with gold, alluding to the golden-horned hinds of the goddess. He shoots straight at a fragile pot hanging from the ceiling of the temple right above the idol that Achilles had not noticed before. It breaks, showering the goddess with red amaranth and asphodel blooms in a fascinating display.In the same single-file procession, they proceed to the forest after that. At the edge of their destination, they dismount from their chariots and pick their horses."Balius," commands Achilles, offering his open palm to the horse. As Automedon frees his bindings, Achilles hushes Xanthus' quiet protests. "Next time," he promises. Pedasos is far more understanding. He mounts Balius in one swift motion while Automedon pulls the chariot away. Two of his soldiers and two of Opus place themselves behind him on their own horses. He would hand his weapons over to his therapon to carry like the others, but he does not have such a person who has ever acquired his complete trust. An anonymous Myrmidon makes do. While most choose bows or swords undefeated, he chooses spears.The hellanodikas instructs some Opuntian soldiers to inspect their weapons to ensure that none are laced with poison. Phoinix explains that it is believed to pollute the sanctity of the hunt and is also seen as an artifice that obscures the true skill of the hunter. Achilles would feel offended at his honour being doubted as such if not for the presence of more cowardly competitors.When the inspection is over with no weapon found to be corrupted, he steers his steed to the edge of the forest where all the suitors take position side by side. He watches Patroclus embrace his father, himself receiving a beaming, "Good luck!" from Automedon. Phoinix clasps him firmly on the shoulder once, eyes aged with wisdom conveying all he needs to before he joins the young charioteer.Menoitius proceeds on his own mount to the middle of the line, the hunting dogs trailing him with quiet growls and impatient whines. The hellanodikas prepares himself to signal the beginning of the hunt, and Achilles' eyes stray one last time to Patroclus, who, in a most delightful turn of events, already has a little smile aimed at him. His diadem, a plain band of luminous gold, gleams halo-like amongst his dark curls, and when he tips his head to the side slightly in an adorable conveyance of his well-wishes, Achilles imagines a sequence of indecent things he would like to do to him. He might even endure Apollo's wrath in accordance with the admittance that Patroclus shone brighter than the sun like this. His eyes flick up and down as they absorb the sight of the omega, and the most he allows himself is an infinitesimal smirk at the corner of his mouth before he turns away.The hellanodikas raises his staff, and Kronos himself stills. For only a moment, the wind stops blowing, falling leaves caught mid-air. Green eyes look deep into the forest, hands steady over the reins. A single bead of sweat rolls down his temple under the heat. Achilles releases a breath.As the staff comes down hard on the ground, horns at both ends of the gathering blow loud and clear. The hounds charge.The first few seconds are lost in the thundering of hooves. Then comes the sound of his heartbeat, then the wind, then the birds. As the soil kicked up by the horses settles, the world appears twice as vibrant. The competitors pick their directions early on, tracking the indications of life nearby. Achilles rides on. His division of soldiers struggles to keep up, particularly the Opuntians. King Menoitius ensures that at least one hound is present in every direction. Agamemnon, too proud to be left behind with the others in the shallows, follows deeper.It takes about three deer sightings before Achilles slows Balius to a canter. A pattern of larger hooves is impressed into the ground ahead and he would get down to inspect it if he did not wish to confuse Agamemnon with Balius' tracks over and alongside it. Achilles has never seen an auroch in his lifetime but he knows the precise shape of cattle spoor and this is not much different. He is still uncertain about what he would like to hunt, but curiosity draws him to spots of many broken branches and patches of crushed grass. As he moves exactly opposite the fully risen sun, the land opens out. With a scarcer cover of trees, it is much easier to determine the shape of an enormous beast in the near distance.He turns to an Opuntian soldier, "I suppose that is what you would call an auroch?"The man replies in the affirmative at the same time a bolder voice declares, "Quite."Agamemnon, accompanied by a hound, stands barely a few feet away. His face is twisted into a particularly irritating display of condescension."It appears," begins Achilles with a cool glance at him, "that even a most adept hunting hound cannot save you the disgrace of being an incapable tracker. Or is it typical of you to simply allow others to lay out a path for you to follow?"A brilliant shade of vermilion, the alpha growls, "Listen here, little prince—""Perhaps," adds he, louder, as Agamemnon and Menoitius' soldiers gather, "they make the kill for you as well—""Slander!"Achilles sits straight-backed, mouth smiling, eyes smirking. "If you claim it to be so — the auroch is right there, Agamemnon. Prove me wrong."That little bit of goading is enough for Agamemnon, with his particular brand of conceit, to charge headfirst toward his target. His faction of soldiers scrambles after him with bows and swords raised."My dear Myrmidons," says Achilles, "we have ourselves a hunt!"As the soldiers cheer, the skin around King Menoitius' eyes noticeably tightens.It is a most basic rule of hunting to never approach prey greater in strength than oneself with an overtly offensive attitude. Larger beasts are most irascible and have a tendency to attack when threatened. The auroch's ears perk, its tail twitches, then it turns on its heel and, with a good assessment of its newfound situation, charges right back at Agamemnon. The whole event turns out to be quite a disaster; strong though the King of Mycenae may be, he is hardly a match for a creature twice his size and strength. The auroch dives with its horns at its opponent with such ferocity as never witnessed by Achilles in the case of cattle brethren yet. They are two bold, tapered devices — the horns — and Agamemnon is just unfortunate enough to discover them to be the only part of the great wild ox he can hold onto so as to prevent getting impaled by either. This succeeds in enraging the beast further, which causes Achilles to begin to consider that the alpha might be actually attempting it.Just as the auroch effortlessly tosses the king a good distance, making the melee at once further interesting, Achilles' amusement is interrupted by the thought of preserving his own time lest every animal scutter into hiding come dusk. Wrenching the reins, he stirs Balius into motion, careful to ensure that no other suitor is on his tail this time. The Myrmidons follow loyally. As he bypasses Menoitius, marmoreal chin regally high and peridot eyes gleaming with mirth, he is steadily ignorant of the look of caustic contemplation sent his way.While taking his tour through the forest, Achilles comes across several magnificent stags, antelopes, onagers, and boars. Nothing, however, gives Balius' hooves a pause until, at length, he glimpses an unusual tear across the bark of a tree trunk. Ordering his men to hold their placement and refrain from interrupting him until asked to, he proceeds to dismount, taking his spear, and inspects the mark closer. He looks around for any more signs of the presence of life nearby and finds a few plants crushed by the impression of footprints that are nothing like hooves. Horns, he then concludes, could not have created such a sharp tear. He moves ahead into an uneven clearing, instructing Balius to return to the Myrmidons.The crackling of a branch on the tree next to him, followed by a violent rustle of leaves, is the only warning he has before a roar of a baritone pitch accompanies lethal claws seeking purchase on Balius. Most valiantly, his horse manages to free itself from the predator for the span of a single moment, which is long enough for Achilles to drag the beast's attention to himself. A wounded Balius intelligently flees.Achilles knows enough from Chiron's lessons on tracking and identification to recognise the low growl directed his way before it escapes.Spear poised and pointed, he slowly shifts his steady gaze to match the beast's. Its eyes are a most vivid blue-green, glinting ravenously, its powerful jaws open in a snarl, one claw covered in divine blood. Under the scorching afternoon sun, its fur gleams almost as gold as the aureole of his own curls. As he draws it step-by-step into the clearing, he observes a sadistic playfulness nuancing the agile shift of its bones.Achilles, presented with the perfect challenge, finds his mouth curling into a slow grin. The beast keeps its keen eyes on him as it lowers into a crouch, and sweeps its tail so gently as if to feel every movement of the air.Then, it leaps.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Patroclus waits in idle fervour for the hunters to return. A messenger is left with the hellanodikas and some soldiers to inform the kingdom upon first glimpse of the troop's arrival, which would mark the end of the hunt, as he is ushered inside the palace before the sun reaches its peak. He goes through the motions of his usual activities: overlooking some small matters of the kingdom, inspecting the preparations for the welcoming and accommodation of the maenads, attending his archery lessons, and learning his dances for the Dionysian rituals.His trainer is a feisty old woman — possessing half his height and twice his strength. In the serene courtyard in the middle of the queen's wing, her voice echoes as loud and sharp as the sound of her stick. Patroclus follows the step she demonstrated to him and his fellow dancers for the eighth time since their lesson began. He joins his wrists, fingers spreading open, and twirls his hands around each other, the motion not coming off quite as smooth as he had hoped. It is followed by a quick slap on his left wrist by the trainer's stick. "Ouch," he hisses, pulling his hands back and cradling them against his chest. That earns him another slap on his arm."Stop flinching, boy," says the trainer, and somewhere behind him, Briseis snickers.He snaps his head around to glare at her, only to be brought back to the matter at hand with another slap, this time against his side. "Stop it!" he exclaims, retracting with an awkward hop.The little old lady puts her hands over her hips and with the look she directs his way, Patroclus knows he is in for a bit of trouble. "Ah, apologies little prince, " she says with cheek, as if she is not straining her neck just to look at him — "did I hurt you? You shall find yourself thankful for it when you must woo your alphas with those very hands. But if you don't practice —""I am trying!" he grits out, face flaming in response to her words as the other dancers around him all muffle their giggles."You are not trying hard enough," she snaps, "Briseis, come forward and show the prince how it is done."Patroclus folds his arms over his chest at Briseis' smug look. Of course, she is wonderfully perfect at performing the step. The entire courtyard's attention hones in on her when she dances; such is the fluidity of her movement. She is naturally graceful, while Patroclus has to go through rigorous training to match the expectations that come with his title."See, now," says the old woman, "that is the swiftness you need. Do not press your muscles together — let them flow. You must remember that you will be holding a torch lit on both ends when performing the other half of this dance. You cannot afford even a slight misstep. I assure you your suitors will not appreciate an omega who cannot even perform a ritual dance properly. So, unless you wish to spend your next twenty heats crying for nothing, I suggest you do more than 'try'."Patroclus has never wished harder for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He hopes the shades of Hades' realm do not practice such dancing rituals. He is assigned Briseis to help him master the "seductiveness" of the dance while the gria goes around correcting his fellow omegas.Briseis, the demon of a girl, wags her brows suggestively as she drapes herself over him and takes his joints into her delicate grasp. "It seems today I must train you in the art of enticing, my prince," she says with a ridiculous expression, and Patroclus pushes her away with a flicker of a smile. She laughs, a tinkling sound, and helps him through the steps, gently fixing his posture and angling his limbs when he is wrong. They giggle and tussle with each other, receiving multiple scoldings from their trainer. Briseis tries her best to embarrass him at every opportunity she gets. She, obviously possessing more experience in flirting than he could ever hope for, does not hesitate to grab ahold of him when he feels shy performing a very visibly sultry move."Here," she says, resting her hands on his waist and tapping two fingers against it. "You must accentuate the lower half of your body because that is where you want people to look. Pretend I am an alpha. Tempt me."Patroclus finds it puerile, no matter how hard he tries — until Briseis huffs in annoyance, spins him around, and catches him perfectly by the hips. She then presses up against his back — and it is strange — because he has known physical intimacy with her, but not like this. He has not known intimacy like this with anyone, and the sensation is new — a stutter in his throat, a flame springing to life in his belly. Her lips brush against the shell of his ears and he stiffens, not knowing how to respond. The other dancers do not spare them a glance."Imagine I am your preferred suitor," she begins, and something in her tone tells him she has an idea of who it might be, "imagine I want you as you want me, imagine I am the only one watching you. I am waiting for you to move, Patroclus." Her hands slip just a little lower, and Patroclus allows his thoughts to be drenched in this obscene fantasy; where the hands on his hips are larger, stronger — the pale skin of palms blends into the golden tan of wrists underneath which muscles are taut with desire. His eyelids slip halfway close. He imagines the curls brushing against his jaw to be flaxen, like wheat, and the tips of the fingers massaging his skin through the fabric of his chiton pink as the mouth he wants to taste. Distantly, Briseis says, "Show me how much you want me," and he does.Her hand chases the motion of his hips as he swings them, picturing in his mind's eye how it would look against —"That's it, Patroclus!" trumpets his friend, snapping him out of his stupor. And then, with actual admiration nuancing her features, "Wow, if I were an alpha and an omega did that for me, I would have fainted." Patroclus flushes to his roots and snatches himself away from her abruptly. A look of understanding passes over her face. "Oh," she says, mouth curving into a smirk, "I see our dear prince has already been ensnared. Who is it, Patroclus?" she pokes him, and when he refuses to answer, begins tickling him cruelly.Just as the trainer turns to them with another annoyed look, their names at the tip of her tongue, the messenger from the hunt arrives with the sound of a horn blowing somewhere in the distance."My prince," he pants, keeping his head bowed, for he is not permitted to look at the prince without his veil.Patroclus straightens and steps forward, two servants coming up to him to fix his appearance and fold his chlamys over his shoulders. He gestures to a soldier stationed at the entrance to the courtyard, "Nikias, kindly bring our guest a cup of water." Meanwhile, turning to the messenger, "What news?""The first of the suitors are returning, my prince," he blurts out in a single breath, then meekly expresses his gratitude as he is handed some water. When he has had a few sips and slowed his breathing, he conveys, "The hellanodikas has requested your presence.""Very well," Patroclus answers, "have my guards prepare my chariot," and moves away dismissively so his servants can continue dressing him. As two girls busy themselves in tying his sandals, the messenger takes off once more. His trainer turns and continues her lesson.The hunters return with the sun at their back, blood-red and spilling across the horizon in increments; undulating oranges and ochre — like carnelian melted and poured upon the earth. Patroclus expectantly watches his father's broad figure leading, the tired hounds quietly rushing ahead toward him, his familiar presence a comfort to them. He steps down from his chariot to greet them, noting the hints of blood across their snouts and paws and yet extending his palm for them to nuzzle. A kiss or two pressed behind one's ear, then another's neck. They crowd him and clamour around him with such delighted enthusiasm that he is knocked from his crouch onto the solid dirt. He maintains some of his dignity by sitting upright but cannot hold back the helpless giggles that escape him. Menoitius has to kick them aside to reach his son, who he hauls up in a swooping tug directly into his embrace. It is then Patroclus' turn to receive a kiss, lovingly pressed against the top of his head as his father gently sways them in a way he usually reserves for when they have more privacy. It is sweet and playful, and wholly unsuited to the moment.Patroclus has to be the one to pull away before any of his suitors notice. "You appear far too merry for someone who has probably had a very tiring day," he points out.The look in his father's eyes can only be described as boyish: the giddy enthusiasm in them, the youthful spark, the crinkle by the edges that only ever shows itself when he is truly pleased. "What tales I have for you, my son," he says, and there is little else Patroclus can do but smile back.He then turns around so that they can both receive their guests together.The hunters all look bloodied and exhausted, drooping in their saddles, though trying obviously to affect otherwise in the face of the King and Prince. Soldiers are carrying huge sacks and carts covered in cloth. None but the hunters themselves know of the kills until Dionysia officially begins the next evening. Only one sacrifice will be presented before that, to be offered to the goddess Artemis for her blessings.Patroclus looks and looks, perhaps not quite subtle in his keenness, for that flash of gold that paints his dreams every night, that has consistently tethered itself to them ever since this tournament commenced. When the Phthian contingent emerges from the thicket, Achilles is at its head, straight-backed and unwavering, threads of sunlight weaving through his locks with such ferocity that his crown seems to dull in comparison to the lustre of his hair. His arrival is like a tide washing over the shore, all-consuming and powerful, sweeping over Patroclus' very being and taking with it his breath. As he moves ever closer, Patroclus observes several things at once: the horse he rides on — not his own, the crusted blood coating his hands thickly, smears of it across his chiton and torso; then, the scrapes across his arms, some small as scratches, some downright gashes. The set of three bleeding lines across his left cheek. Patroclus is half-surprised he bleeds scarlet and not gold, like the gods. To him, however, each droplet seems as precious as ichor itself.He would mourn for the marring of his refined skin, if not for noticing how the other thrives in it. This violence, he understands with a steady dawning of realisation, is a part of him. It even suits him, as it would suit any deity of such absolute power. He retains his beauty through it somehow — it is awe-inspiring — the sight it renders altogether. In that moment, he is the most beautiful creation of the gods, settling into his role so naturally, with such subliminal ease. This is what he was made for.But Achilles does not look at him as he passes the hellanodikas with a nod, and Patroclus feels some loss for the warmth of his gaze. The palace physician and some of his attendants have joined to aid those in need, making Patroclus suddenly wish that he could be one of them right there, if only to get an opportunity to cradle Achilles' scars, to treat them with all the knowledge he has, to kiss his skin with fingertips if not lips. But the demigod waves the physician's concerns away, directing him instead to his horse — Balius — who is wounded and being helped to the stables by at least three soldiers. Patroclus' hands itch to help. The healers care little for horses when they have kings and princes to attend to, but Patroclus, having already gauged the depth of the wound he bears, knows that it will fester if not treated instantly.As he moves to interject, someone catches his wrist from behind — Briseis. "You must not," she warns, eyes already grave with the knowledge of his abandoned actions."Ask a physician to be sent to him," he commands, then tone softening to a whisper, "please.""Not now, not like this," she mutters, "not from you. It will be seen as obvious favour towards Phthia." She slowly releases her hold. "I will speak to the healers personally once everyone moves to the temple. The horse will be hale, I vow to you. Now look forward, you still have some suitors to welcome back."With a reluctant nod, he does as he is bid. However, even as the last of the suitors round up and their gathering starts toward the temple of Artemis, his heart is left behind with Balius.The procession to the temple is slow and torch-lit. So as to avoid offence to the goddess, for a reason untold to the spectators, she is presented with the second-best kill of the lot: an auroch. It is not disclosed yet who has made the kill but there is some wonder to be found in watching a creature of such might and enormity be reduced to a husk. The gesture is cursory, however; later, the auroch will be taken to have its horns removed. It will be skinned and cleaned: the fur will form clothing; the meat will serve as the centrepiece of tonight's feast. It is as good a game as it can get.And still, Patroclus turns his silent gaze to Achilles and wonders.The grand hall is crowded the next morning. Delegations from a few more kingdoms have joined: small crews consisting mostly of omegas, all of whom are talented dancers. Some have even crossed the sea and journeyed further on horseback to reach Opus. They are greeted with little fanfare, however, since it is necessary only for the king of Opus to receive them. It is tradition to invite dancers from different kingdoms to participate in the rituals and rites of Dionysia but never before has there been such a grand influx of performers.Amongst the newcomers is a small retinue of only female omegas. As they step forward, Patroclus, from his vantage point beside his father, catches sight of a stunning girl at their head.With full lips and blushing cheeks, with coal-dark hair falling in long, gentle sweeps against her back and framing a pair of deep earthy eyes, the princess of Scyros is a beauty near-unmatched. There is an air about her that immediately tells one of the power she holds, that she knows it intimately herself. Her chin is held high with pride, and when she locks eyes with Patroclus, she does not blink. Her gaze is assessing, and Patroclus feels pinned. Hesitantly, he cracks a small welcoming smile. She does not return it.When she turns and speaks with his father, her voice is clear and sweet. Although there is no mistaking the authority in it.Patroclus knows very little about Scyros — it being so far away — except that its king, Lycomedes, is old and weak and his eldest daughter alone runs the entire kingdom. The princesses of Scyros are known for many things, but most widely, they are known for the beauty of their dancing. Which implies that the last of Patroclus' dance lessons will now have him paired with Princess Deidamia to help him hone his skills.But he looks at her cold, unsmiling eyes, the impassive set of her mouth, and feels unsure.He is given little time to dwell on it, however, as the next guests to enter send soldiers scrambling to make way. A great deal of pomp and commotion accompanies it — amidst it, the sound of an exclusively played flute, and drums to herald.The maenads of Dionysus are fierce as a pack of wolves, and when they enter the hall to a deathly silence, the way they set their sights on him makes him feel a bit too much like cornered prey. They haven't been to Opus in about three years — off creating mayhem in other kingdoms if the lewd rumours are anything to go by. It is long enough for them to not expect what he looks like anymore, long enough for him to notice the change in the way they eye him now. Patroclus has never before felt the weight of his being an omega more than he does now. He does not dare pull his gaze away from them as one maenad walks up straight to him, waving off the smooth welcome from his father. He remains rooted in his little throne, knowing not what to do with his muscles and bones.Her name is Phaedra, and Patroclus knows it because she was the one who almost carried him away to join Dionysus' cult. She takes his chin up between her fingers, and his breath catches. He can almost sense the derangement pulsing beneath her skin, which makes him fear for his life like some animal instinct when he thinks of all the men, beasts and babes that have been torn apart by those very fingers. She is perhaps the most dangerous of the lot — there is violence in her blood, and for all the soft beauty in her honeyed tresses, one could never imagine she was an omega with that ravenous glint in her eye. But then, he supposes, if omegas are no less feral in their heats than alphas during a rut, it makes sense for them to be capable of experiencing the same thirst for blood. If he is not to her liking, will he finally meet the fate he has so often dreamt could have occurred all those years ago had he not been a prince swathed in the symbols of their god?Although, it appears his worries are for nought. After boring her eyes into his for a moment longer, Phaedra's face looks inordinately pleased as she tells him, "It is such great tragedy that you are mortal and for marriage. Our Lord would have taken you for his own without a second thought."Heat glows in his cheeks, and Patroclus cannot help turning his head away as she pulls back. It is impossible to believe what she is insinuating. Patroclus has heard tales of gods taking mortal princes and princesses as lovers or companions — Apollo and Hyacinthus, Zeus and Ganymede, Aphrodite and Adonis. But this? This is insanity. He is only Patroclus. Hardly a match for a god.(But then, his traitorous mind supplies, Dionysus is the God of Insanity.)Phaedra offers her attention to Menoitius at long last. "I dearly hope your wine cellars are full, my king," her mouth curls around the last two words like a jab, "it would not do to orphan such a lovely omega before he finds himself a husband." Some titters go around the hall. The maenads are never shy about expressing their delight.Menoitius however, used to her only half-in-jest threats, passes her a kingly smile. "Opus has not disappointed you in all these years, and it certainly will not now. Especially when it is preparing to bid its prince goodbye. You may rest assured that we have plundered the earth for our best harvest. Patroclus will show you our arrangements and you may begin your practices as you please." To a foot soldier, he instructs that Deidamia and her ladies be escorted to their rooms in the meantime.Patroclus rises to his feet, stomach bursting into something jittery, and leads the maenads out of the hall. Phaedra returns his father's smile, wolf-like, and follows.The wine, undoubtedly, is the first to be inspected. Servants are instructed to pour it into different vessels for different occasions. Beautifully painted and gilded pots are brought out, their designs depicting the various exploits of Dionysus and his devotees. Patroclus has to stifle a laugh when the maenads "taste" the wine in jugfuls. He carefully peels them away from the stock before they drink it all up, tempting them with talk of catching a glimpse of the effigy of Dionysus — not the old one but the one that has been newly made in honour of Athlos and Dionysia falling in the same season. A maenad stops to murmur some instructions to one of the winemakers before swiftly joining her fellow companions. Patroclus does not get the chance to ask before he is hastened away, his silent question getting lost amidst the raucous chatter of the omegas.They pass the phallic effigies on their way through the kingdom, and Patroclus pretends not to take notice of the ribald remarks of the maenads discussing exactly what they would like to do with them, staying one dignified step ahead of them. But then they happen to stumble upon the kanephoroi, who are carefully sorting the flowers and fruits they must have handpicked that morning. It begins with Phaedra stopping to examine their baskets and ensuring that all of Dionysus' sacred vegetation is present in ample quantity but quickly devolves into something else when the other maenads catch sight of the omegas. One of the maenads begins interrogating a terrified woman about her loyalty to their god, and inches forward slowly until the woman is caught between the wild nymph and a basket of bread right by her feet that she risks knocking over if she tries to move away. At first, he turns to intervene, thinking that the omega is being threatened — and then, when the maenad grabs the meek, pretty little thing by the chin and says something to her with a look in her eyes that makes the woman turn the colour of crushed wild berries, he catches a hint of exactly what is occurring.It is the oddest sight, making his entire face burn as well, for he never thought that two omegas could be allowed to do — that. He knows it should be no surprise, what with the maenads openly committing to nearly every act deemed unseemly by society but witnessing it in person is quite different. The maenads are actively seducing the kanephoroi, and he has to tear his horrified gaze away from one who begins to get a little too physical with the kanephoros she is "inspecting".Patroclus looks to Phaedra and loudly clears his throat, willing his voice to rise above a stuttering squeak. "The other preparations await your judgement." Phaedra's answering laughter is positively wicked.Next come the musicians, waiting in the palace's backyard, where each is asked to display their skills. Patroclus wonders just how meticulous his father's operations have been that no blood has been spilt yet. In the royal storehouses, Dionysus Eleuthereus and his vine-wreathed litter await.He sees the moment absolute joy spreads across the maenads' faces when they lay eyes upon the effigy. They are inordinately pleased with the depiction of their god — and even Patroclus must admit that it is one of the most beautiful sculptures he has ever seen made. Dionysus stretches over the back of his leopard, clay and colour. His skin is just the right side of sun-kissed, unlike Apollo's burnt brown. His eyes are the shadowy green of the forest floor, of the ivy woven through his dark hair, and his mouth is plush and wine-stained — rosy as the debauched colour in his cheeks. A maenad sighs, heart set aflutter, and Patroclus carefully bites his lip to keep in his amusement. He won't laugh, he will not.At last, he begins to guide them to their chambers.Phaedra stops him. "Not now, little fawn," she says, "there are some things we must prepare ourselves. You may leave us be now, I am certain you have other chores to be engaged in. We will see ourselves to our destination." She then calls two guards to escort him, who staunchly keep their eyes off him, and leaves without another word.Patroclus blinks a bit in perplexion, then begins to make his way to his dance lesson, with a pit of dread yawning open in his gut when he remembers who will be waiting there for him this time. Briseis will be there too, he reminds himself firmly. His instructor rarely pairs him up with anyone other than her: for the simple fact that no one else is allowed to be in his vicinity like that — and so he convinces himself that this time will be no different. Surely, the gria is not that cruel. Surely not.It turns out that the gria is, in fact, crueler. Not a minute is wasted in keeping him apart from the princess of Scyros.Deidamia looks at him like he is the dirt under her feet. The way she narrows her eyes at him when he fumbles just the slightest bit — so slight as to be barely noticeable unless one is looking for it — with the stick in his hands makes him feel so small and insignificant that he wishes to go crawl under his bed to hide from her disappointment. Which is ridiculous. He is her equal. He may even hold a higher status than her: he is the prince of a larger kingdom, and Athlos is being held in his name. And yet, no one commands the attention of the room like she does. Where Patroclus cannot even get his instructor to look at him admiringly, she catches the gaze of his most loyal guards with a flick of her hair.He puts the stick aside as the call for respite is heard and is immediately snatched aside by a familiar hand."Patroclus," Briseis hisses before he can even touch the rim of a goblet of water to his lips, "you must do something. You cannot allow a foreign princess to thieve all the attention from you like that. This is your kingdom, your tournament, and all eyes should be on you — not her!"He releases a breath that sounds a lot like a sigh of defeat. "She has been doing this her whole life, Briseis. It is what she is known for. I cannot possibly hope to outshine her.""But the flame dance, Patroclus," she says impatiently."Yes, the very same flame dance she has been practising with us for the past hour, at which she has proven to be better than me." One glance at her face tells him she does not appreciate the sarcasm dripping from his tone."Patroclus," slowly, as if he is a child, "she does not know it is a flame dance.""Of course she does, Briseis —""No, she knows it's a dance that involves sticks but she thinks they are an accessory, not that they will be lit with flames. That is why she keeps getting confused when she sees some of the steps. No one has mentioned it yet because the dancers arrived too late and had to be rushed into practice. Besides," she adds, arms crossed, "Scyros does not partake in Dionysia. They know nothing of our ritual dances. She is a good dancer, yes, but she can't match you in a dance she has never done before. You have trained with the maenads. Use that. Or those suitors might just marry themselves into an alliance with Scyros."Patroclus, slightly stunned, considers her words. Perhaps he has more to discuss with the maenads than he assumed. It has been long since they taught him their ritual dances. For the past few years, their skill and knowledge had been passed on to him through his instructor, but it appears he is in need of relearning it directly through them.He endures Deidamia's disdainful sniffs for a while more, pretending to not be aware of her presence, even as they touch and twirl around each other. Just a moment more, he thinks throughout it, and the instant the gria declares the final practice done, offers a dismissive nod of his head to her before snatching Briseis by the wrist as she is about to dress him in his sandals and veil, and darts out of the yard.He locates Phaedra near the edge of the forest, where the maenads seem to be dictating some servants to erect a makeshift gazebo with long wooden sticks draped in grapevine. Under it a cot is being placed as enormous vases of wine are brought in. A few yards away, wood is being layered into a tapered pile for a large bonfire. The area is not very far off from the temple of Dionysus — strategic and carefully chosen for xoanon — the ritual procession. Patroclus tears his gaze away from the marvel of the work the maenads have accomplished and calls out, "Phaedra?"The maenad is all of a whirl of golden hair as her mouth sets into its usual smirk upon the sight of him. "Would you look at that," she whistles, sharp enough to attract the attention of her fellow omegas, "the prince has come to meet the commoners — without his veil! Isn't that just scandalous?"Patroclus' mouth slams shut, immediately warier and now embarrassed. Perhaps this was not the cleverest idea. Thankfully, before he can overthink it, Briseis and Phaedra guide him under the cover of the half-made gazebo to shield him from the wandering eyes of the builders. He takes a second to wonder how many times he can get away with dismissing royal decorum before he is sanctioned for it."What brings you here, little fawn?" bids Phaedra, marginally more considerate, as she lifts his chin.Patroclus steels himself and looks her in the eye. "I wish to relearn the ritual dances." Behind his back, his thumb picks up a nervous rhythm of kneading unsteady circles into his palm. "I know I am late in my asking but I cannot master the flow of the dance. It is different from what I have been practising in the past years; I was hoping you could help me."A moment: Phaedra's eyes pass over him briefly and then she pivots on her heel and abandons him without a word. Both he and Briseis survey her movements in bewilderment, protests on the tips of their tongue to ask her return. But the maenad pays them no heed as she takes a small pot that fits snugly in her palm and dips it into a wine cask till it's overflowing. She brings it back to him, uncaring of ruby droplets gliding off the sides and creating splatters on the ground. "Drink," she commands."This is holy wine," he protests, "for the offering—""Drink,"He pauses, looks doubtfully at the pot, then at Briseis. Tentatively, he accepts it and takes a sip."All of it," warns Phaedra, and with that tone of voice, he has no alternative but to obey.He hands the pot to her once it is drained and inquires as she puts it back in its place, "How will this help me dance better?""What you need," she starts, "is not a dance lesson. What you need, sweet prince, is a little bit of insanity and a lot of lechery." She leans into his ear before he can contest her argument, murmuring low enough that not even Briseis can hear, "Go dream of some cocks, little fawn. Then dance like you need one up your—""Phaedra!" he jerks away, a scarlet stuttering mess. He gapes at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, completely mortified as she bursts into loud cackles. Then he buries his face into his hands and waits for the call of Hades for the second day in a row. When it doesn't come, he is left with Briseis frowning silently beside him."Well," she says, "that was completely unhelpful."With the sun at its peak, and frustration simmering in his veins, Patroclus makes his way to the palace physician, where he knows he will find Balius being treated. He is first met with the physician's disapproving glare, and then Balius' soft whimpers of recognition. He immediately rushes to the steed's side, laying one arm around his broad neck and pressing the palm of the other just above his nose, over the velvety fur."Polytimi kardia mou," he murmurs in pity, mouth dragged into a frown at the unease of the horse. He presses a few kisses of consolation onto Balius' face, and gently massages his neck and sides."Perhaps we should have you here more often," grunts out the physician as if it physically pains him to say the words. "Since he received his wounds, Prince Achilles is the only one who has been able to get him to stay still for long enough that I can treat him. He ripped his stitches again this morning, and will not let me touch them.""I could do them," he volunteers, looking to the older man for permission."Absolutely not. It is dangerous enough that the king allows you to practice medicine and healing in the palace. Prince Achilles knows Balius listens to only him. And it is an auspicious day. If word were to get out that you healed his mount, or if you were found with blood on your hands — I dread to think what your suitors would think — it is simply unimaginable — no, you shall do nothing."Patroclus scoffs. He grabs an apple from the bowl the physician has kept hidden and lures Balius with it until his muzzle touches the ground. He applies some guiding pressure against his neck — and Balius, being cleverer than the average horse, takes the cue to lower his front knees to the ground.With nuanced horror, "My prince, what are you doing?"Pausing in his efforts, he throws the physician his driest look. "Treating him. Since evidently, you are incapable of it." He resumes his instructions to Balius, brushing aside the physician's protests, until he has the steed lying on his side. Then, cutting through the man's rambling: "Go fetch me a clean cloth, wine, vinegar — you know the rest. A needle and string. Make no loud noises, you will agitate Balius. Keep your distance from him, ensure no one I don't know enters this area, and start preparing the salve." Patroclus removes the ridiculous amount of jewellery on him and sets it aside. Briseis will take care of it when she returns from checking up on the progress the tailors have made on the costumes for the festival.Lying like this, he can get a clearer look at the sharp, clean lines running down Balius' side to his belly. Where the stitches have loosened or broken, ichor is leaking out in increments. Once Patroclus gets over his disbelief of the fact that he is about to coat his fingers in divine blood, he slowly holds the horse's head and neck down, applying only enough force that he understands that he is expected to stay like that. He begins by pulling out the old stitches one by one — a long and painful task — but one that Balius handles with praiseworthy heroism. When he is brought the mixture of wine, vinegar and boiling water by the physician, who is now silently observing the process, he cleans the long lacerations and sterilises them. Then, he takes the needle to Balius' skin while petting him comfortingly.Briseis enters at some point, and once she gets an explanation for what is happening from the resigned physician, she quietly collects his bangles and rings and sequesters herself next to the table of salves and medical equipment. He prompts her to relay her report on the tailors and listens with his hands busy and bloodied how the masks have been cut and painted, how large pelts and patterned coats of fur have been sewn into imperial chlamyses and chitons."Do you know who the winner is?""No," she huffs, "they did not even let me look at all the clothing. I was simply told by the Master Tailor that most of the work is done and shown a few pieces as proof."He breaks away from the sight of the half-shut stitches for only a moment to look amusedly at Briseis. "Tell me that Odysseus caught his wolves at least.""And King Agamemnon his auroch," she reminds him with a snort.Patroclus, unable to suppress his laughter, has to pull his hands away from Balius for how his shoulders shake. Once he forces himself to concentrate again, Briseis retires to a stool, content to look away from the gruesome sight of his hands coated in ichor up to his wrists.That is how Achilles finds him an hour later, fixated to the point of near madness and looking like he has been caught mid-slaughter, if not for the agonised huffing of his steed.He does not immediately register who it is, the idea of a foreign presence setting his nerves on edge as he calls to Briseis severely, "I told you to keep awa—" Then, as all senses hone in on the familiar rhythm of roughened soles, on the sure and composed intakes of breath, the faint aroma of a salted summer's sweet seduction, his tone drops into unprecedented surprise. "Achilles," he breathes out meaninglessly, cutting himself off without really considering the informal manner of greeting in public view. His eyes snap to the other as the name strikes a flame in the air between them. Briseis is on her feet with her head reluctantly bowed; beside her, the physician's expression is one of equal parts horror and reverence.Achilles remains in the doorway, too stunned to utter a sound.It is Balius' restless shifting that breaks the stillness of the moment. Carefully, pulling the needle in his hand a secure distance away, Patroclus makes a soothing noise in his throat as he reaches over to place a gentle but firm hand on the side of the horse's face to keep him in place. To Achilles, he says, "He senses your presence." It is not an observation that needs voicing but it encourages the alpha to break his steadfast scrutiny. "Come," he invites and nods at the two other wide-eyed inhabitants of the room as a cue to move far enough away that they can have a semblance of privacy.The Phthian prince approaches him with appraising eyes flickering between him and the sprawled steed. Patroclus levels his gaze with an unbreakable one of his own, mentally bolstering himself to hold as Achilles slowly kneels next to Balius' head. At last, he tears his eyes away, cupping a hand under Balius' neck to lift his head. Achilles understands the intent and pulls the horse's head into his lap, fingers readily finding their way into the white mane, sifting through the smooth strands.Without another word of explanation, Patroclus resumes patching up the last inch of the wound. The physician's unease can be felt from across the room, but so can the other prince's burning look, searing a brand into the back of his mind."Do all the injured receive the prince's personal attentions?"Patroclus ducks his head to hide the sudden smile that threatens to stretch over his lips. His face warms a little. "No," he answers. As he ties up the excess end of the string and extends a hand behind him to hand over the needle and shears, he tentatively enquires, "How do your wounds fare?""Not nearly as well as Balius'—""Achilles," — it breaks out of him, unintended, with a faint chortle that takes away from the warning in his tone. The warm glow under his skin turns into a flame. Achilles' words are teasing, but his countenance is humourless.The godling's shoulders rise, then fall helplessly. "A prince has softer hands."If the physician is offended by that, he does not show it, placing a bowl of warm water next to Patroclus' hand, along with a clean cloth and the freshly prepared salve. Patroclus reaches for the bowl to wash his hands in it. "You should treat your own wounds then," he retaliates.Achilles laughs brightly at that.Patroclus carries on cleaning the ichor on Balius' dappled coat, then tenderly spreads the salve on it. With the help of the physician and the other prince, he heaves the barrel of the steed to bring him into a seated stance, allowing him to neatly wrap up his work with a long strip of cloth. The moment Achilles returns to his place next to his warhorse's head and all support is withdrawn from his body, Balius flops onto the ground with a great thump."Oh, Balius," giggles Patroclus, leaning over the heap of horse limbs to caress his magnificent head, pampering him with delicate affection. "You've been so wonderfully brave. We'll have you healed in no time."Balius nickers in acknowledgement and Patroclus' fond smile grows wider. Only when he pulls up a little does he become aware of his proximity to Achilles — who, it appears, has been more interested in the prospect of having Patroclus nearly half in his lap than ensuring the welfare of his steed this entire time. Clearing his throat, he briskly shifts away. "The physician could not tame him," he mentions, because if he does not focus on something other than the alpha's piercing eyes, he may simply melt under their intensity."He is divine. He cannot be tamed."The words that follow lie unspoken in the air between them, tightly wound with implication: And yet, Patroclus could tame him. Achilles' eyes sparkle at him with a knowing curiosity from where he leans back on his arms with a lapful of silken silver hair. Not a soul outside of Briseis and the physician knows that Patroclus is acquainted with the Phthian horses. Had Achilles not cared for his horses as much as he does, he would not have suspected why one of them gave in to his affection and demands so easily. However, their divine lineage means that Balius and Xanthus are stubborn, and it takes rigorous effort to earn their trust. Achilles, as their devoted master, knows this."Patroclus—"Just as Patroclus' heart climbs up his throat, Briseis swoops in to save him from being discovered by announcing, "My prince, the sun begins its descent. We must leave to find the maenads.""I — yes. Of course." He shoots up from the ground and spins away from the resting Balius and his master to take ahold of his ornaments as Briseis thrusts them at him. The expression on her face is grim, but he has never been more thankful for her presence. He passes hasty goodbyes to the physician and Achilles, willing his thoughts to turn to worry about the upcoming rituals instead. But Metis abandons him, and the lingering sight of the Phthian prince's lips dangling in a half-smirk follows him all the way back to the palace.