Symposium (Part 1)
anonymous
July 14 2009, 05:55:06 UTC
Er, um. Hopefully anon likes it? I'm not sure it's entirely what you had in mind... orz ------
The American seems to turn up on his shores quite a lot, Herakles can’t help but notice. He first realizes it when he spots the man on Ródos, presumably on holiday (for Herakles is finding more and more that his islands draw in visitors from all over). They brush shoulders just beneath the Colossus and Herakles briefly entertains the idea of stopping the man, perhaps welcoming him personally, but his arms are full of stray cat and his guest seems preoccupied, so he thinks better of it. They almost cross paths again just a few months later on Krete, but Herakles only learns this long after the fact.
There’s no real protocol among their kind with regard to hospitality; for the most part, their personal travels are treated much like those of any ordinary person. It’s only for the state functions that they’re required to bear witness to one another’s arrivals. But as far as Herakles is concerned, a guest is a guest and guests, invariably, are to be welcomed hospitably. That’s how it was done in Mama’s time, and that’s how it’s going to stay. So regardless of protocol or lack thereof, he extends a welcoming hand and a bottle of water to Alfred when he sees him once more in Athina. Basin summers can be scorchers, after all. Alfred seems surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so. He thanks Herakles for the water and graciously compliments his architecture.
“It’s really nice,” he says, grinning. “Even your Parliament building looks cool.”
Herakles thinks Alfred might like to see the Acropolis, then, and offers to take him. Alfred accepts with boyish delight, and they walk the rest of the way in a comfortable silence.
Symposium (Part 2)
anonymous
July 14 2009, 05:58:43 UTC
It’s like this that they fall into a rhythm of sorts. Call it coincidence, or call it serendipity or what you will-somehow their feet always seem to lead them in the same direction. Often it’s by the shore. They laugh it off at first, and joke that it must be the fault of some inborn sense among their kind. The “wacky old NATDAR”, in Alfred’s words. In time it borders on odd, and then, perhaps, karmaic. He suggests this as they sit by the wine-dark sea one afternoon, watching the ships come in.
“That’s crazy, there’s no such thing,” Alfred chides. “Stuff like that’s all superstitious bull.”
Who’s to say? Over time, Herakles has come to believe that things happen according to some higher design. Perhaps there’s an element of free will involved, but even that’s been anticipated on an even greater level, it always has been. The outcome of anything is simply an eventuality. He chews this over as the sun creeps below the horizon, not even realizing he’s gone adrift in his own thoughts until Alfred’s voice calls him back to shore. Alfred asks if he’s okay and Herakles tells him yes, he’s fine, he’s just been thinking.
What kind of just thinking pulls a guy in like that? Alfred demands to know. (It isn’t a demand in the traditional sense. It’s simply that his tenacity is unparalleled, when the man sets his mind to something.) Herakles assures him that it’s nothing important and asks him if he’d like to visit the Archaeological Institutions.
Would he? Herakles finds it amusing that he answers with a question.
They take their time, stopping for sticky loukoumades and feeding bits to stray cats as they go.
Normally Herakles prefers to keep his thoughts to himself. They wander quite a bit, he knows, and unless he keeps himself in check, he finds himself trying fruitlessly to explain just how he might have gone from the subject of how to punish Francis Bonnefoy to a sudden and intense craving for eggs over rice. For instance. So when Alfred asks him again and again what thoughts could possibly be so interesting that they command his attention the way they do, Herakles deflects. It’s nothing, he tells him, just idle musings.
But those are the best kind, Alfred insists. Out with it.
Herakles relents, after a decade of insistence. And Alfred laughs.
“That’s it?” he asks. He’s surprised-he expected it’d been all Iliads and Odysseys swirling around up there in his head all the time.
Only some of the time, Herakles admits. The rest of the time, it’s just metaphysics and eggs over rice. Alfred laughs again, appreciatively.
Symposium (Part 3)
anonymous
July 14 2009, 06:01:54 UTC
Sometimes they dig through the rubble of what’s left from Herakles’ mama’s time. He’s learned that the American is utterly fascinated with the ancient world- Arthur’s old fancy taken to its logical extreme, perhaps. Those days, Alfred is practically glowing, grinning as he dusts off ruins with infectious glee. He always shows Herakles what he unearths. It’s flattering, and Herakles doesn’t mind answering his rapidfire questions. And how many questions he has!
“Christ, how old is this thing? It’s got to be somewhere in the thousands,” for example. Or “Look at this, Herc, wow. They’ve even carved the outline of his spine and everything- how?”
Herakles likes talking about his people. He likes talking, when he’s interested enough in the conversation, which he imagines must surprise Alfred. He’s relaxed the lockdown on his mouth with his guest, because Alfred always seems so content to just listen to him. So he talks about his people and their things. His things. His past. And Alfred sits with him by the sea and listens.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Alfred says, scratching beneath a cat’s chin. Herakles doesn’t understand what he means, and he says so.
“Taking all this time off on my account. Not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s been seriously awesome being with you. I’m just worried I’m keeping you from doing, like,” he pauses, casting about for the right words. “You know. Important things. Because of xenía and all.”
But he doesn’t mind, not at all. Once a guest, twice a friend-otherwise Herakles might not have spent as much time with him. So Herakles shakes his head and asks where Alfred heard that word, xenía. Alfred seems surprised.
“Huh? Where else? It was in your stuff, Herc,” he explains. “The Odyssey’s pretty popular reading where I come from, you know.”
He would never have suspected. Yet the American says that’s how it is, insists a good number of his people read it before they even graduate high school. He sits, stroking the stray cat, still, and recites line after all-too-familiar line of poetry. The experience is a surreal one for Herakles- to hear his own words parroted back at him in the graceless English tongue makes them sound…
Well, for as well as he knows them, they sound alien. Though not in a bad way. Perhaps next time they meet, he will bring his lyre. Perhaps he will teach the other man to set the words to the appropriate music. Herakles thinks it might be interesting to hear it in Alfred’s language; if he does not like the sound, he will teach the man in Greek.
Symposium (Part 4)
anonymous
July 14 2009, 06:04:44 UTC
Herakles forgets to bring his lyre. Alfred seems to have forgotten as well. They spend the entire visit just picking apart ripe pomegranates and talking instead. Herakles wishes to know more about Alfred’s literary culture. In some ways it stands to reason that the child of so many nations might gravitate towards their works. In some ways, it seems so unlike him. Alfred seems to understand.
“Because your heroes aren’t really black-and-white, right?”
Exactly. Their respective notions of the “superman” are quite unalike, from what he’s seen. For some reason, Alfred finds this funny.
“It’s not all about red underwear and saving the day. There’s more to being a hero than being right, or kicking ass, or wearing some seriously gnarly tights.”
Herakles nods. There’s much more than that. He thinks of Oedipus, who only wished to avoid a fate laid out for him; Odysseus, who only wished to return home; his own namesake, who sought to atone for his sins. Indeed, he thinks, there’s more to it than that.
Alfred asks him if he knows who John Galt is. Herakles shakes his head and says he doesn’t, and Alfred just grins. Alfred asks if he would perhaps like to borrow some books.
Herakles thinks he might.
Because Alfred already knows Herakles’ heroes, he introduces the man to his, instead. From their visits, Herakles becomes acquainted with Jay Gatsby, and Victor Frankenstein, and Captain Ahab, and Bruce Wayne. It’s strange-at times, he can see little flickers of his own heroes in these men. And yet, they’re somehow something entirely Alfred’s. He meets some women like that, too: Alfred tells him many stories, older stories. Alfred holds his stray cats in hands all sticky from pomegranate juice and tells of mad men and wild women and giants and sky-scraping dreams.
Herakles likes to listen. In some ways, he thinks, the two of them are quite alike.
He decides not to bring his lyre and his poetry just yet. It will be hard to play with sticky hands.
“Maybe I could teach you to wrestle in the traditional way,” he says one afternoon on Samothrace.
Alfred smiles and says yes, he’d like that.
----- Enjoy! Author!anon has some notes, which they promise to add when it's not ohshitjesus2AMwhat.
- Xenia is, to put it briefly, hospitality. There's more to it than that-- it's more of a cultural institution than calling it "hospitality" conveys, but, ah well.
- The lyre: before Homer actually took the time to write down the whole Odyssey, the story was passed down by way of oral tradition. Now, that's one hell of a story to try to memorize, so oftentimes, storytellers would employ little tricks to make it easier. (I believe this is where certain stock phrases came from? Someone correct me if I'm wrong?) Musical accompaniment helped as well, in that it provided cues and served as a vital menmonic device. Also it made your story sound that much more epic.
- American literary heroes are lot like the tragic heroes of antiquity, aren't they? Maybe it was just my high school, but I can't remember ever covering American literature that ever had anything but a dismal end...
I loved this. Something about it just felt so friendly and warm.~
And I agree about covering American Literature, and finding everyting reaches a dismal end... ^^' It became a running joke in our AP Lit class to ask "How many die this time?" and more often than not, at least one did...or left their family to pursue their own shadowed dreams...or something sad XD
I now blame you for wanting to see some Greece/America. You made it work
------
The American seems to turn up on his shores quite a lot, Herakles can’t help but notice. He first realizes it when he spots the man on Ródos, presumably on holiday (for Herakles is finding more and more that his islands draw in visitors from all over). They brush shoulders just beneath the Colossus and Herakles briefly entertains the idea of stopping the man, perhaps welcoming him personally, but his arms are full of stray cat and his guest seems preoccupied, so he thinks better of it. They almost cross paths again just a few months later on Krete, but Herakles only learns this long after the fact.
There’s no real protocol among their kind with regard to hospitality; for the most part, their personal travels are treated much like those of any ordinary person. It’s only for the state functions that they’re required to bear witness to one another’s arrivals. But as far as Herakles is concerned, a guest is a guest and guests, invariably, are to be welcomed hospitably. That’s how it was done in Mama’s time, and that’s how it’s going to stay. So regardless of protocol or lack thereof, he extends a welcoming hand and a bottle of water to Alfred when he sees him once more in Athina. Basin summers can be scorchers, after all. Alfred seems surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so. He thanks Herakles for the water and graciously compliments his architecture.
“It’s really nice,” he says, grinning. “Even your Parliament building looks cool.”
Herakles thinks Alfred might like to see the Acropolis, then, and offers to take him. Alfred accepts with boyish delight, and they walk the rest of the way in a comfortable silence.
Alfred is back again within the year.
Reply
“That’s crazy, there’s no such thing,” Alfred chides. “Stuff like that’s all superstitious bull.”
Who’s to say? Over time, Herakles has come to believe that things happen according to some higher design. Perhaps there’s an element of free will involved, but even that’s been anticipated on an even greater level, it always has been. The outcome of anything is simply an eventuality. He chews this over as the sun creeps below the horizon, not even realizing he’s gone adrift in his own thoughts until Alfred’s voice calls him back to shore. Alfred asks if he’s okay and Herakles tells him yes, he’s fine, he’s just been thinking.
What kind of just thinking pulls a guy in like that? Alfred demands to know. (It isn’t a demand in the traditional sense. It’s simply that his tenacity is unparalleled, when the man sets his mind to something.) Herakles assures him that it’s nothing important and asks him if he’d like to visit the Archaeological Institutions.
Would he? Herakles finds it amusing that he answers with a question.
They take their time, stopping for sticky loukoumades and feeding bits to stray cats as they go.
Normally Herakles prefers to keep his thoughts to himself. They wander quite a bit, he knows, and unless he keeps himself in check, he finds himself trying fruitlessly to explain just how he might have gone from the subject of how to punish Francis Bonnefoy to a sudden and intense craving for eggs over rice. For instance. So when Alfred asks him again and again what thoughts could possibly be so interesting that they command his attention the way they do, Herakles deflects. It’s nothing, he tells him, just idle musings.
But those are the best kind, Alfred insists. Out with it.
Herakles relents, after a decade of insistence. And Alfred laughs.
“That’s it?” he asks. He’s surprised-he expected it’d been all Iliads and Odysseys swirling around up there in his head all the time.
Only some of the time, Herakles admits. The rest of the time, it’s just metaphysics and eggs over rice. Alfred laughs again, appreciatively.
Reply
“Christ, how old is this thing? It’s got to be somewhere in the thousands,” for example. Or “Look at this, Herc, wow. They’ve even carved the outline of his spine and everything- how?”
Herakles likes talking about his people. He likes talking, when he’s interested enough in the conversation, which he imagines must surprise Alfred. He’s relaxed the lockdown on his mouth with his guest, because Alfred always seems so content to just listen to him. So he talks about his people and their things. His things. His past. And Alfred sits with him by the sea and listens.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Alfred says, scratching beneath a cat’s chin. Herakles doesn’t understand what he means, and he says so.
“Taking all this time off on my account. Not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s been seriously awesome being with you. I’m just worried I’m keeping you from doing, like,” he pauses, casting about for the right words. “You know. Important things. Because of xenía and all.”
But he doesn’t mind, not at all. Once a guest, twice a friend-otherwise Herakles might not have spent as much time with him. So Herakles shakes his head and asks where Alfred heard that word, xenía. Alfred seems surprised.
“Huh? Where else? It was in your stuff, Herc,” he explains. “The Odyssey’s pretty popular reading where I come from, you know.”
He would never have suspected. Yet the American says that’s how it is, insists a good number of his people read it before they even graduate high school. He sits, stroking the stray cat, still, and recites line after all-too-familiar line of poetry. The experience is a surreal one for Herakles- to hear his own words parroted back at him in the graceless English tongue makes them sound…
Well, for as well as he knows them, they sound alien. Though not in a bad way. Perhaps next time they meet, he will bring his lyre. Perhaps he will teach the other man to set the words to the appropriate music. Herakles thinks it might be interesting to hear it in Alfred’s language; if he does not like the sound, he will teach the man in Greek.
Alfred seems to like this plan.
Reply
“Because your heroes aren’t really black-and-white, right?”
Exactly. Their respective notions of the “superman” are quite unalike, from what he’s seen. For some reason, Alfred finds this funny.
“It’s not all about red underwear and saving the day. There’s more to being a hero than being right, or kicking ass, or wearing some seriously gnarly tights.”
Herakles nods. There’s much more than that. He thinks of Oedipus, who only wished to avoid a fate laid out for him; Odysseus, who only wished to return home; his own namesake, who sought to atone for his sins. Indeed, he thinks, there’s more to it than that.
Alfred asks him if he knows who John Galt is. Herakles shakes his head and says he doesn’t, and Alfred just grins. Alfred asks if he would perhaps like to borrow some books.
Herakles thinks he might.
Because Alfred already knows Herakles’ heroes, he introduces the man to his, instead. From their visits, Herakles becomes acquainted with Jay Gatsby, and Victor Frankenstein, and Captain Ahab, and Bruce Wayne. It’s strange-at times, he can see little flickers of his own heroes in these men. And yet, they’re somehow something entirely Alfred’s. He meets some women like that, too: Alfred tells him many stories, older stories. Alfred holds his stray cats in hands all sticky from pomegranate juice and tells of mad men and wild women and giants and sky-scraping dreams.
Herakles likes to listen. In some ways, he thinks, the two of them are quite alike.
He decides not to bring his lyre and his poetry just yet. It will be hard to play with sticky hands.
“Maybe I could teach you to wrestle in the traditional way,” he says one afternoon on Samothrace.
Alfred smiles and says yes, he’d like that.
-----
Enjoy! Author!anon has some notes, which they promise to add when it's not ohshitjesus2AMwhat.
Reply
- The Foreign Archaeological Institutes (in Athens): http://www.cig-icg.gr/en/greece_links/schools.html Theeeeeere's a lot of 'em.
- Xenia is, to put it briefly, hospitality. There's more to it than that-- it's more of a cultural institution than calling it "hospitality" conveys, but, ah well.
- The lyre: before Homer actually took the time to write down the whole Odyssey, the story was passed down by way of oral tradition. Now, that's one hell of a story to try to memorize, so oftentimes, storytellers would employ little tricks to make it easier. (I believe this is where certain stock phrases came from? Someone correct me if I'm wrong?) Musical accompaniment helped as well, in that it provided cues and served as a vital menmonic device. Also it made your story sound that much more epic.
- Who is John Galt?
- United States folklore and tall tales. They are seriously bitchin': http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Folklore_of_the_United_States
- American literary heroes are lot like the tragic heroes of antiquity, aren't they? Maybe it was just my high school, but I can't remember ever covering American literature that ever had anything but a dismal end...
Reply
And I agree about covering American Literature, and finding everyting reaches a dismal end... ^^' It became a running joke in our AP Lit class to ask "How many die this time?" and more often than not, at least one did...or left their family to pursue their own shadowed dreams...or something sad XD
I now blame you for wanting to see some Greece/America. You made it work
Reply
Author anon, you are wonderful, and I love you ♥
Reply
Definitely one to bookmark~
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment