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rareslashTitle: Odysseus
Author: Taz
Pairing: Odysseus/Ares (Yes, it's Troy/H:tlj)
Rating: You do see the slash up there, don’t you?
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Homer; anyone else claiming them is a lyre.
Odysseus
By Taz
They said his tricks were a gift from the gods. He knew better. The truth was that when you’re king of a small poor country you have to be tricky, and his only gift, wherever it came from, was being able to sense the possibilities latent in men’s weaknesses. Greed, lust, hate, pride: all it took was a push, the force of a suggestion, a hint...a word.
If he went to Agamemnon tonight, told the High King that Priam of Troy was in Achilles’ tent begging for the body of his son…with Priam dead, the ineffectual Paris, whose only skills were in bed, would dance like a puppet to the will of the Trojan council. Priam’s only other son, after all, was a child...Hector’s an infant...
All he had to do was betray Achilles.
Odysseus turned away from the tents and hid himself in the darkness. If it happened that he didn’t see them place the body on the cart, there’d be no need to lie.
Out along the dunes the wind carried the smell of smoke, the sound of drums and the shrilling of pipes. Triagus’s ships were beached on the other side, as diplomatically far from Agamemnon’s as possible. It was the custom in Thessaly to dance in mourning. He’d join them. Mourn Patroclus.
As he approached, he saw the Thessalians had built a great driftwood fire. Before it, two lines of men were advancing and retreating. He wrapped his cloak over his head and entered the circle of watchers.
Fully armed, the dancers raised and lowered their swords, their blades catching the colors of the fire, blue and pink and orange, thumping their shields on the beat of the drums. The shrilling rose. The tempo of the drums went on building. The dancers raised their swords, one last time, and swung them across the lines. Bronze met bronze, and the night was filled with sparks and the echoing crash. As it died, the lines of dancers broke apart, although, the drumming continued.
Priam and his pitiful load would be gone by now.
He needed a drink. Undoubtedly, there was wine in Triagus’s tent but, within the circle, men had begun to dance singly, stepping high and leaping over the fire, daring the hungry flames to catch them. One man in particular caught his eye. A big man whose black hair whipped around his face, jumping over his own sword, time and time, even as he leapt the flames. He watched until the man looked straight at him and, for a moment, he thought it was Eudorus, the captain of Achilles’ myrmidons, and then he saw his eyes were dark and knew his mistake. But it brought what he’d seen to his mind—Achilles, kneeling on the ground, whispering to Hector’s ear-less, eye-less, nearly face-less head...
He left the circle and went further along the crest of the dunes until the old wound in his calf began to stab, aggravated by the uneven ground. It was easier going where the waves overlapped the sand. When he came to a place where a quick running stream had carved a deep gouge out of the shoreline he waded across, but the bank on the other side was high and the rim soft and crumbling. He grabbed of handfuls of grass and hoisted himself over, not looking as he scrambled up. A voice said,
"The gods are most inclined to favor those who don’t tread on them."
A clump of earth broke off the rim. His foot slipped back but he was caught, pulled to firmer ground and fetched, belly to belly against a powerful body. It was the same black-haired the man he’d seen jumping the fire. Behind him were two angled spears thrust butt down in the sand. A shield and sheathed sword hung from the cross. Not that he needed the signs. Odysseus smelled the smoke and holy incense in horror. You don’t need to be clever to recognize the bloodiest minded god—not if you want to live. They said he’d been seen on the battle field inciting the Trojan army.
It felt as though the strings of his knees had been cut and he’d have fallen, except for the arm like a hoop of bronze around his waist. There was a swelling hardness burning his thigh. Lightening danced over his skin and every hair on his body stood.
"Drink King of Ithaca." The voice was a chord struck from a lyre.
The stream from a raised wine skin splashed Odysseus’s face, black as blood in the star light. He opened his mouth and caught it. Sweet as honey, it filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The god bent over and kissed him, drinking as though Odysseus were a fountain. The hardness churned against him and he thrust back. The god threw his head back, howling with laughter. Seed ran hot down his legs as the wine ran down his chin. He was spilling over, without and within the arm that held him, aloft in the night.
"Talk with me."
Odysseus fell to his knees, his hand covering his crotch. He was still coming. The god simply sat, crossed leg, beside him. He bent over with his head touching the ground until last of the spasms had rocked his body.
"Talk."
"Lord Ares." The words were a croaked whisper to the damp earth.
"I know my name. Say something else."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Not tonight. I saw you sneaking away from Achilles tents."
"Please." What was he begging for? "I honored a hero who died for his country."
"Please." The god mocked. "That only makes him dead meat. A hero doesn’t die for his country, or his leader...or his gods, for that matter. Look at me!” Odysseus looked. If it hadn’t been for the heat radiating from his body, the god could have been a warrior on either side. “He may fight for them, but he won’t die for them."
"Then there’s equal honor for one who battles hard and one who lingers behind. They both meet death alike. What does a hero die for, Lord?"
"His face. A hero will die rather than loose face. Hector knew he was going to die if he fought Achilles. He was scared piss-less, but he went anyway. Honor his courage."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it. The race of immortal gods and the race of men who walk on the earth are not at all similar, but you’re a man after my heart. I think if you were leading the Greeks, I’d be torn as to which side to fight for."
Side-by-side they sat on the dune. His drying thighs began to itch and he wondered if he wiped them, would the god take offense.
Across the water the rising moon paved a silver road to the north. In that direction was everything he loved: Ithaca and home, his wife and the son he’d just glimpsed as a squalling bundle of red rage before giving the order to sail.
Hector had left a wife and child.
I could be going home.
Cold water, swirling around his calves woke him to the fact that he’d gotten up and walked into the sea.
"Clever, clever, Odysseus, starting home without a boat."
He was alone.
"You’re the god of piss-less men," he shouted.
And immortal laughter rang out.
Finish: 02/05/06
Author: Taz
Pairing: Odysseus/Ares (Yes, it's Troy/H:tlj)
Rating: You do see the slash up there, don’t you?
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Homer; anyone else claiming them is a lyre.
Odysseus
By Taz
They said his tricks were a gift from the gods. He knew better. The truth was that when you’re king of a small poor country you have to be tricky, and his only gift, wherever it came from, was being able to sense the possibilities latent in men’s weaknesses. Greed, lust, hate, pride: all it took was a push, the force of a suggestion, a hint...a word.
If he went to Agamemnon tonight, told the High King that Priam of Troy was in Achilles’ tent begging for the body of his son…with Priam dead, the ineffectual Paris, whose only skills were in bed, would dance like a puppet to the will of the Trojan council. Priam’s only other son, after all, was a child...Hector’s an infant...
All he had to do was betray Achilles.
Odysseus turned away from the tents and hid himself in the darkness. If it happened that he didn’t see them place the body on the cart, there’d be no need to lie.
Out along the dunes the wind carried the smell of smoke, the sound of drums and the shrilling of pipes. Triagus’s ships were beached on the other side, as diplomatically far from Agamemnon’s as possible. It was the custom in Thessaly to dance in mourning. He’d join them. Mourn Patroclus.
As he approached, he saw the Thessalians had built a great driftwood fire. Before it, two lines of men were advancing and retreating. He wrapped his cloak over his head and entered the circle of watchers.
Fully armed, the dancers raised and lowered their swords, their blades catching the colors of the fire, blue and pink and orange, thumping their shields on the beat of the drums. The shrilling rose. The tempo of the drums went on building. The dancers raised their swords, one last time, and swung them across the lines. Bronze met bronze, and the night was filled with sparks and the echoing crash. As it died, the lines of dancers broke apart, although, the drumming continued.
Priam and his pitiful load would be gone by now.
He needed a drink. Undoubtedly, there was wine in Triagus’s tent but, within the circle, men had begun to dance singly, stepping high and leaping over the fire, daring the hungry flames to catch them. One man in particular caught his eye. A big man whose black hair whipped around his face, jumping over his own sword, time and time, even as he leapt the flames. He watched until the man looked straight at him and, for a moment, he thought it was Eudorus, the captain of Achilles’ myrmidons, and then he saw his eyes were dark and knew his mistake. But it brought what he’d seen to his mind—Achilles, kneeling on the ground, whispering to Hector’s ear-less, eye-less, nearly face-less head...
He left the circle and went further along the crest of the dunes until the old wound in his calf began to stab, aggravated by the uneven ground. It was easier going where the waves overlapped the sand. When he came to a place where a quick running stream had carved a deep gouge out of the shoreline he waded across, but the bank on the other side was high and the rim soft and crumbling. He grabbed of handfuls of grass and hoisted himself over, not looking as he scrambled up. A voice said,
"The gods are most inclined to favor those who don’t tread on them."
A clump of earth broke off the rim. His foot slipped back but he was caught, pulled to firmer ground and fetched, belly to belly against a powerful body. It was the same black-haired the man he’d seen jumping the fire. Behind him were two angled spears thrust butt down in the sand. A shield and sheathed sword hung from the cross. Not that he needed the signs. Odysseus smelled the smoke and holy incense in horror. You don’t need to be clever to recognize the bloodiest minded god—not if you want to live. They said he’d been seen on the battle field inciting the Trojan army.
It felt as though the strings of his knees had been cut and he’d have fallen, except for the arm like a hoop of bronze around his waist. There was a swelling hardness burning his thigh. Lightening danced over his skin and every hair on his body stood.
"Drink King of Ithaca." The voice was a chord struck from a lyre.
The stream from a raised wine skin splashed Odysseus’s face, black as blood in the star light. He opened his mouth and caught it. Sweet as honey, it filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The god bent over and kissed him, drinking as though Odysseus were a fountain. The hardness churned against him and he thrust back. The god threw his head back, howling with laughter. Seed ran hot down his legs as the wine ran down his chin. He was spilling over, without and within the arm that held him, aloft in the night.
"Talk with me."
Odysseus fell to his knees, his hand covering his crotch. He was still coming. The god simply sat, crossed leg, beside him. He bent over with his head touching the ground until last of the spasms had rocked his body.
"Talk."
"Lord Ares." The words were a croaked whisper to the damp earth.
"I know my name. Say something else."
"Are you going to kill me?"
"Not tonight. I saw you sneaking away from Achilles tents."
"Please." What was he begging for? "I honored a hero who died for his country."
"Please." The god mocked. "That only makes him dead meat. A hero doesn’t die for his country, or his leader...or his gods, for that matter. Look at me!” Odysseus looked. If it hadn’t been for the heat radiating from his body, the god could have been a warrior on either side. “He may fight for them, but he won’t die for them."
"Then there’s equal honor for one who battles hard and one who lingers behind. They both meet death alike. What does a hero die for, Lord?"
"His face. A hero will die rather than loose face. Hector knew he was going to die if he fought Achilles. He was scared piss-less, but he went anyway. Honor his courage."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it. The race of immortal gods and the race of men who walk on the earth are not at all similar, but you’re a man after my heart. I think if you were leading the Greeks, I’d be torn as to which side to fight for."
Side-by-side they sat on the dune. His drying thighs began to itch and he wondered if he wiped them, would the god take offense.
Across the water the rising moon paved a silver road to the north. In that direction was everything he loved: Ithaca and home, his wife and the son he’d just glimpsed as a squalling bundle of red rage before giving the order to sail.
Hector had left a wife and child.
I could be going home.
Cold water, swirling around his calves woke him to the fact that he’d gotten up and walked into the sea.
"Clever, clever, Odysseus, starting home without a boat."
He was alone.
"You’re the god of piss-less men," he shouted.
And immortal laughter rang out.
Finish: 02/05/06
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Date: 2006-02-07 03:00 am (UTC)