Herald
Written for my English final. Ugh, I have to present it and everything.
Fandom: The Odyssey
Characters: Telemachus, Medon, briefly Eumaeus and Phemius
Words: ~500Rating: G
Summary: Telemachus doesn't know how to get rid of the suitors. He goes to Medon for help taking his mind off things. (pre-story, of course)
Sing to me, Muse, of the words of Medon, the clever herald of the house of Odysseus. Many times did young Telemachus come to him for shelter and wisdom and was never turned away.
Scarlet Eos opened the gates of a new day as Telemachus, unseen, plotted in his chambers and then discarded his plans. The first of his plans required strength, either in battle or in numbers, but he had neither. The second was clever, but he could not use his mother as bait. The third was complex and nearly impossible.
He burned the inky papyrus scrolls in the hearth and went down to the halls, where the suitors feasted and drank to their hearts’ content, while the bard Phemius sang as he was told.
“Bard,” the suitor Eumaeus interrupted, seeing the unseen Telemachus where he stood in the shade, “sing of Troy now - sing of the men who died and were lost from mortal view.”
Phemius obliged, telling of how the men fell under volleys of arrows from the top of the cruel Trojan walls, and Telemachus wandered on. The sunlight streamed down from shining Helios’ chariot, warming the prince’s shoulders as he passed, unseen, through the fields.
“Medon,” he said, approaching the herald where he stood with his bag, “has there been any news of my father yet today?”
“Not yet,” Medon replied, as he did every day, with regret in his tone. “But soon, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Telmachus said, and returned, unseen, through the hall where the bard still sang of Troy and to his chambers where the smell of burnt papyrus hung like fog.
The evening approached, and fair-winged Selene’s waning moon along with it, as Telemachus, unseen, plotted in his chambers and then discarded his plans.
When he had burned his writings in the hearth, he once again rose to leave his chambers unseen, and went down to the dwellings of Medon where the herald supped alone.
“Good Telemachus,” Medon said, rising to greet the prince, “sit down here, for I have another riddle for your young mind to puzzle over.”
This was a game that the men, both intelligent, had been playing for years. Words were twisted, riddles swapped, and answers given, both right and wrong.
“The man who is not yet a man,” Medon said today. “The son of a ghost, and with a mind keener than a sword’s tip, who chooses his battles wisely.”
Telemachus thought, and said, “I don’t know.”
“It’s you, young Telemachus - you whose name means ‘clever battle’ and who has never seen his father.”
“But I have chosen no battles at all,” Telemachus said, “and I am more like a ghost myself than is my father, passing through his halls unseen.”
“But that is the point,” Medon replied wisely. “No intelligent man has ever chosen a battle; if the gods will him to fight it, it comes to him.”
Fandom: The Odyssey
Characters: Telemachus, Medon, briefly Eumaeus and Phemius
Words: ~500Rating: G
Summary: Telemachus doesn't know how to get rid of the suitors. He goes to Medon for help taking his mind off things. (pre-story, of course)
Sing to me, Muse, of the words of Medon, the clever herald of the house of Odysseus. Many times did young Telemachus come to him for shelter and wisdom and was never turned away.
Scarlet Eos opened the gates of a new day as Telemachus, unseen, plotted in his chambers and then discarded his plans. The first of his plans required strength, either in battle or in numbers, but he had neither. The second was clever, but he could not use his mother as bait. The third was complex and nearly impossible.
He burned the inky papyrus scrolls in the hearth and went down to the halls, where the suitors feasted and drank to their hearts’ content, while the bard Phemius sang as he was told.
“Bard,” the suitor Eumaeus interrupted, seeing the unseen Telemachus where he stood in the shade, “sing of Troy now - sing of the men who died and were lost from mortal view.”
Phemius obliged, telling of how the men fell under volleys of arrows from the top of the cruel Trojan walls, and Telemachus wandered on. The sunlight streamed down from shining Helios’ chariot, warming the prince’s shoulders as he passed, unseen, through the fields.
“Medon,” he said, approaching the herald where he stood with his bag, “has there been any news of my father yet today?”
“Not yet,” Medon replied, as he did every day, with regret in his tone. “But soon, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Telmachus said, and returned, unseen, through the hall where the bard still sang of Troy and to his chambers where the smell of burnt papyrus hung like fog.
The evening approached, and fair-winged Selene’s waning moon along with it, as Telemachus, unseen, plotted in his chambers and then discarded his plans.
When he had burned his writings in the hearth, he once again rose to leave his chambers unseen, and went down to the dwellings of Medon where the herald supped alone.
“Good Telemachus,” Medon said, rising to greet the prince, “sit down here, for I have another riddle for your young mind to puzzle over.”
This was a game that the men, both intelligent, had been playing for years. Words were twisted, riddles swapped, and answers given, both right and wrong.
“The man who is not yet a man,” Medon said today. “The son of a ghost, and with a mind keener than a sword’s tip, who chooses his battles wisely.”
Telemachus thought, and said, “I don’t know.”
“It’s you, young Telemachus - you whose name means ‘clever battle’ and who has never seen his father.”
“But I have chosen no battles at all,” Telemachus said, “and I am more like a ghost myself than is my father, passing through his halls unseen.”
“But that is the point,” Medon replied wisely. “No intelligent man has ever chosen a battle; if the gods will him to fight it, it comes to him.”