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xifengI'm not really happy with the way this turned out; the word presented great possibilities, especially for this duo, but I think I may go back later and rework this one when I don't have anything else on my plate. The word of the day was "glum"; it's Trojan War fic, Achilles and Deidamia. Bad language, but nothing other than that.
Here on Skyros, the rain comes down in great, shining sheets that blow this way and that across the lawn and the marble courtyards of the palace; most people are safely inside, but the boy sits on the balcony, staring into the rain. Because it obscures everything, he can't see the ocean, but knows that behind it lies the mainland and his real home. Where are his parents now, she wonders; what are they doing? Is it raining for them, too?
When will he get out of here?
There is the light slapping noise of a sandaled foot touching down in the puddle of rain pooling on the balcony; when the boy's head snaps around to fix the interloper with narrow, dark eyes, Deidamia rolls her eyes. "Relax, it's just me." Tall and stately, she makes her deliberate way to the bench where her father's charge sits, and, gathering the fine pleats of her chiton underneath her, sits down. The rain has already started to stick the fine linen close to her body, emphasizing hips and breasts; he can see the outlines of her nipples.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." Taking no notice of his unabashed stare, Deidamia deliberates with her belt for a moment. "What's going on?"
"Nothing." The boy folds in on himself, wrapping his arms around his middle.
"Don't be so glum, Achilles. You've been like this all week."
"I want to get out of here."
"Don't we all, kiddo." Deidamia does not fancy the decent political match that her father will manage for her; Lycomedes is shrewd that way, and she knows she is unlikely to marry for love. Still, she sometimes cherishes that dream, despite her common sense.
"It's different for me."
"Yeah, I know. You want to beat up on someone."
"It's not just that. Patroclus is there."
In the six years he's been on Skyros, Achilles has not shut up about Patroclus. Patroclus is more fun than a bunch of girls. Patroclus is smarter and funnier and kinder. Patroclus would never shunt him out of his bed when he was sick, as Deidamia did to Achilles once when he was ten and seeking comfort.
"It's a hard life, kiddo."
"Don't call me kiddo. There's only a year's difference between us." He hunches over, and Deidamia rests a hand on his back; he can feel the bands of her rings through his own soaked chiton. "Besides, what do you know about anything important?"
The words sting her. "You think only war and destruction are important. You know what I think is important? Common sense and hospitality and marriage and being able to keep on and human life and dignity and not being a dick to people!" She smacks him, hard, on the back, the fist half-closed; distantly, she is aware of one of the slaves staring from inside.
Achilles wheels around and grabs her wrist, the fingers pinching her plump, white flesh. "I'm not being a dick!"
"Yeah, you are. You always are. You think you're the only person in the world with feelings? Look at you. You're always shuffling around, moping. OH WOE IS ME. I AM NOT IN PHTHIA. MISERY AND SUFFERING. MOPE MOPE MOPE. You hate it that bad? Then do something about it." She pinches his thigh as if to accentuate her words; Achilles curses and drops her wrist. "But don't come whining to me. I'm not Patroclus. I'm not going to indulge you in that, so just put it out of your little lentil-sized head."
"I hate you."
"Good," Deidamia says, as she stands to walk away. "Then we'll get somewhere before the end."
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daily15 stuff! Hooray! (Or not, as the case may be.)
Here on Skyros, the rain comes down in great, shining sheets that blow this way and that across the lawn and the marble courtyards of the palace; most people are safely inside, but the boy sits on the balcony, staring into the rain. Because it obscures everything, he can't see the ocean, but knows that behind it lies the mainland and his real home. Where are his parents now, she wonders; what are they doing? Is it raining for them, too?
When will he get out of here?
There is the light slapping noise of a sandaled foot touching down in the puddle of rain pooling on the balcony; when the boy's head snaps around to fix the interloper with narrow, dark eyes, Deidamia rolls her eyes. "Relax, it's just me." Tall and stately, she makes her deliberate way to the bench where her father's charge sits, and, gathering the fine pleats of her chiton underneath her, sits down. The rain has already started to stick the fine linen close to her body, emphasizing hips and breasts; he can see the outlines of her nipples.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." Taking no notice of his unabashed stare, Deidamia deliberates with her belt for a moment. "What's going on?"
"Nothing." The boy folds in on himself, wrapping his arms around his middle.
"Don't be so glum, Achilles. You've been like this all week."
"I want to get out of here."
"Don't we all, kiddo." Deidamia does not fancy the decent political match that her father will manage for her; Lycomedes is shrewd that way, and she knows she is unlikely to marry for love. Still, she sometimes cherishes that dream, despite her common sense.
"It's different for me."
"Yeah, I know. You want to beat up on someone."
"It's not just that. Patroclus is there."
In the six years he's been on Skyros, Achilles has not shut up about Patroclus. Patroclus is more fun than a bunch of girls. Patroclus is smarter and funnier and kinder. Patroclus would never shunt him out of his bed when he was sick, as Deidamia did to Achilles once when he was ten and seeking comfort.
"It's a hard life, kiddo."
"Don't call me kiddo. There's only a year's difference between us." He hunches over, and Deidamia rests a hand on his back; he can feel the bands of her rings through his own soaked chiton. "Besides, what do you know about anything important?"
The words sting her. "You think only war and destruction are important. You know what I think is important? Common sense and hospitality and marriage and being able to keep on and human life and dignity and not being a dick to people!" She smacks him, hard, on the back, the fist half-closed; distantly, she is aware of one of the slaves staring from inside.
Achilles wheels around and grabs her wrist, the fingers pinching her plump, white flesh. "I'm not being a dick!"
"Yeah, you are. You always are. You think you're the only person in the world with feelings? Look at you. You're always shuffling around, moping. OH WOE IS ME. I AM NOT IN PHTHIA. MISERY AND SUFFERING. MOPE MOPE MOPE. You hate it that bad? Then do something about it." She pinches his thigh as if to accentuate her words; Achilles curses and drops her wrist. "But don't come whining to me. I'm not Patroclus. I'm not going to indulge you in that, so just put it out of your little lentil-sized head."
"I hate you."
"Good," Deidamia says, as she stands to walk away. "Then we'll get somewhere before the end."
Next up: yet more
daily15 stuff! Hooray! (Or not, as the case may be.)
