Drabbles/Fics/Outtakes from Beloved and Vidae et Mors.
Drabble requests for doylebaby, alilacia, afra_schatz and realm_of_ylith.
I used the prompts they offered and a few prompts taken from my fanfic100 tables. (Which apparently, I've been pulled from as I was inactive for so long but I don't mind as I still plan on finishing them.) I decided to make them outtakes of Beloved (which is already finished so I really need the powers that be to resurrect my old laptop) and Vidae et Mors (which is all plotted out and only needs writing) as I'm trying to get the characters' voices down again.
What's Left to Us, Part I
For doylebaby. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: children. Takes place after Hector and Paris return to Troy with Helen, but obviously before the Greeks invade.
A young girl raced by, dark curls streaming behind her as she called out to the little boy that doggedly pursued her, “Catch me, Phaestos!”
“Leandra! Not too fast!” the little boy huffed, chubby legs pumping as fast as they could. “It is not fair! You have longer legs than I do!”
The young girl - a child already on the cusp of maidenhood - slowed slightly, looking behind her as she aimed a smile that was equal parts fond affection and buoyant mischief at her erstwhile pursuer. “Run faster then, little brother!”
They ran past two men who were making their meandering way through Troy’s crowded marketplace, the little boy nearly knocking down the slighter of the two. There was a hastily yelled but sincere apology that followed shortly, both children completely unaware that the two casually-dressed men were princes in disguise.
“What were you like as a child?” Hector asked, eyes following the movements of the two children as they raced merrily past vendors and buyers alike, leaving behind curses and laughter in their wake.
A soft smile lingered on Paris’ lips as he answered, “As mischievous as the girl that raced past, I confess. I remember this one time when I dyed one of my foster father’s sheep bright yellow.” The cherished memory made Paris’ eyes shine. “He was none too pleased.”
“You sounded like a handful,” was Hector’s diplomatic reply, but the undertones of amusement were recognizable.
“I was. My foster parents soldiered through my growing pains with nothing but infinite love and patience. I was always their gift from the gods.”
Hector’s amusement faded at those words, struck once again by the enormity of all that he had missed and never experienced - his brother’s first words and first steps, the day Paris first learned how to swim or ride or use a bow and arrow, questions that a younger brother would have had and he as an older brother would have gladly answered.
Paris noticed the silence that filled the space between them and he turned to Hector, head cocked in query. “What is the matter?”
“I cannot help but regret all the time, all the moments that were lost to us,” Hector murmured, gaze fixed on some distant point as his mind’s eye envisioned a rambunctious boy who chased after bleating, panicked lambs (he who was naughty yet sweet and loving all the same), the gangly (imperfectly, startlingly beautiful) youth who stole hearts and perhaps a kiss or two.
“Why?”
Hector turned to Paris, a bemused expression replacing the frown when the question pulled him from the melancholy of his thoughts. “Why? Is it not obvious, Paris? We have lost so much.” He took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I wonder at times what amusements the gods find from watching the convoluted paths we take due to their machineries.”
Paris shook his head slowly, the smile on his lips becoming kinder, tempered now with understanding and an everlasting hope, “Brother, think of all the years, all the moments that are left to us. How can there be regret in the face of such possibility?” He reached out to caress Hector’s face, fingertips gently (oh so gently) tracing the echoes his lips had left behind this morning. “Our lives are our own, gods and their plans or no, and I will walk the paths of our lives with you as the years and the road stretch on endlessly.”
Learning to Dance (Again)
For doylebaby Prompt from the fanfic100 table: sixth sense. Takes place before Better and More.
Orlando struggled to open the front door whilst carrying two grocery bags that overflowed with produce, toiletries and Sean’s cigarettes. Just as he got it open, an orange fell out of the paper bag, quickly followed by three lemons and several kiwi fruit rolling down the pathway. “Fuckity-fuck,” he muttered, contemplating whether or not he’d chase after the escaping fruit.
The sound of music from the living room distracted him, though, and he made his way inside, raising an eyebrow at the redecorating that had happened while he had been at the grocery store. To think, he had only been gone an hour.
All of the furniture had been pushed aside, the carpet rolled up and now leaning against the wall, leaving an empty space in the middle of the room.
And in the center of it all was Sean, dressed in an open-necked white shirt (which appeared to be satiny and sparkly all at the same time) and very, very well-fitting black trousers.
Attempting what appeared to be a tango to the soundtrack of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
Attempting as best as he could without a partner and without any sense of timing or rhythm whatsoever, that is.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Orlando asked, trying (and failing) to stop laughter from tumbling free of his (not so) tightly-pressed lips.
Sean whirled around, nearly tripping over his admittedly shiny dress shoes in his haste. “Bugger an arse! Orlando!”
It was useless to try and pretend he wasn’t giggling anymore. “Thank you for the offer, but, no. Want to explain to me what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone?”
“Not really,” Sean hedged, walking over to turn off the iPod speakers. He picked up a face towel and wiped away the sweat that gathered at his nape.
Orlando made a non-committal sound that actually meant he wouldn’t be giving up this conversation any time soon. He made his way to the kitchen, taking note with equal parts amusement and fondness that Sean had likewise turned the dining room into a connecting impromptu dance space. As he started to put away the groceries, Sean walked over to help him, a look of concentration leaving furrows in his brow. They worked in easy, companionable silence before Orlando asked with a grin (that never really left), “Are you going to tell me what you were doing or will you leave me to my sordid thoughts?”
Sean scowled and closed the refrigerator door none too gently, “It’s nothing, lad. Just... Remind me never to bet with Lij and the boys again.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that before it actually sticks?”
“Once more it seems.”
Orlando laughed, shaking his head as he began preparing tea. “What do you have to do exactly?”
“Dance the tango at Lij’s birthday party.”
It was good that he hadn’t started cutting up the vegetables yet - he might have lost a finger. “By yourself?”
“They didn’t say,” was Sean’s huffy reply as he sat at the counter, looking quite put out. “I can't believe that I’m actually going through with this.”
Orlando put down what he was holding and walked up to Sean, slipping his arms around the other man’s waist and resting his chin on a broad shoulder (a shoulder he had been well acquainted with these past several months). “You’re an honorable man, Sean Bean.”
“I suppose.”
“No, you are,” Orlando murmured, burying his nose in Sean’s nape and inhaling deep, the scent of cigarettes, poppy seeds and coconut familiar and calming as always. He closed his eyes and said quietly (heart on his sleeve, where everyone could see it), “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you but I taught Eric how to dance. Would you like me to teach you as well?”
“Has anyone ever told you what an amazing dancer you are?”
“No,” Orlando replied, laughing as Eric twirled him around. “Because I’m not.”
“I beg to differ, Orlando. You’re the epitome of grace.”
“Oh, shut it, you. Or I’ll step on your foot.” But the warmth in Orlando’s smile rivaled the rays of sunlight that streamed in from the floor-length windows.
“How is it that our dancing is so seamless then? I’ve danced with Saffron and let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be allowing for a repeat performance.”
Orlando laughed again, resting his cheek against Eric’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of pine, earthy musk and ginger, the way Eric always smelled like - home.“I think that has more to do with the fact that I know exactly where you’re going to end up. I know exactly where you are, where you’ll be. It makes thing...easy.”
Sean turned in his arms, reaching up to cup Orlando’s cheek, looking for something in his eyes (leaving Orlando to wonder if Sean had found it or would keep looking till he did). “You don’t have to, lad. It’s just a silly bet.”
Orlando smiled, memories receding in the presence of the tangible here and now. “Sean. I want to. Let me.”
I Carry Your Heart
For alilacia. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: light (two birds with one stone!) Some random point in time but takes place before Coming and Dying
The late afternoon breeze stirred a wayward curl resting against Orlando’s brow. Eric brushed it aside absently, voice never wavering from their lovely, fluid cadence, “I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it.”
Orlando’s eyes drifted shut of their own accord, lulled to a state of utter peace and contentment by Eric’s voice, the gentle hands carding through his hair and the play of light and warmth against his upturned face.
“Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And what is done by only me is your doing, my darling.”
Lulled to state of unequivocal well-being.
And love, always love.
He could hear the wind stirring the leafy boughs of their tree. He could see them swaying in his mind’s eye, to a dance and a song only they knew of. He could hear the rustle of paper as Eric turned to the next page. He could see the words that were written, words that Eric spoke, so ingrained were they, so familiar and loved and true.
“I fear no fate. For you are my fate, my sweet. I want no world. For you are my world, my true.”
Orlando breathed in deeply, knowing that summer was fading away into autumn bit by bit from the rising scent of the earth.
“And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.”
Orlando opened his eyes, taking in the sight of his lover, and he reached out, his hands now being the ones to card through brown curls haloed by patterned light slipping through breaks in the green-laden branches.
“Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud. And the sky of the sky of a tree called life. Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.”
Eric stopped reading, putting the book aside as he took Orlando’s hand in his, lips brushing against knuckles bruised from a scrape with an overflowing bookshelf, “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”
A/N: The poem i carry it in my heart by ee cummings (the structure of which I changed to make it more conducive to reading it within this drabble’s framework so I heartily suggest reading the original) is quite obviously not mine but I’ve loved it ever since I first came across it and the idea of Eric reading poetry to Orlando on a perfect summer’s day was too good to pass up.
A Good Man
For afra_schatz. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: dark. This happened some time after Paris showed Helen how to escape from Troy.
Deiphobus believed himself to be a good man.
Not perfect by any means but a good man nonetheless.
Honorable despite a raging temper and a thirst for battle that even Hector at times frowned at. He could not be faulted, though, for being the first to leap into the fray because aside from Hector, he was always the last to leave, making sure that no man was left behind, that there were no questions from widows or mothers or sons and daughters that he could not answer.
Deiphobus was a Prince of Troy, a warrior in defense of Her golden walls (and those that slumbered within), he who lifted his sword in hopes that there would be a day when war would no longer seek Her shores (a dream his father taught him to love and live with every breath he gave).
Despite whatever came his way from being a Prince of Troy (lovers lost, wounds received, blood dyeing his hands a red that never faded) he did not shirk from the duties entrusted to him, from the part he had to play, from the responsibilities that he willingly carried for love of his family and his people - for love of Her.
As a Prince and as a son, his father had taught him many lessons but the most important were found in a code that each of his brothers had strived to live by come what may.
Honor the gods.
Love your beloved.
Defend your country.
Deiphobus watched Paris’ unmoving form silhouetted against the lightening pre-dawn sky. Fatigue and grief were written in every line of Paris’ slender frame and a memory tugged at the edges of Deiphobus’ consciousness - too heart-sick and tired was he to chase it. “Brother,” he called out, no longer able to stand by and observe Paris’ silent figure. “Were you here all night?”
Paris’ voice was without emotion, without inflection when he answered, “Where else would I be?”
A frown found its way on Deiphobus’ war-weary features before he walked to where his brother stood, watching the remnants of Hector’s funeral pyre turn to ashes and be borne away by the pre-dawn air. “With Helen.”
A bitter laugh mingled with the tangible, intangible remains of Troy’s greatest Champion. “No, not with Helen.” Paris’ voice broke.“Never with Helen.”
“I do not understand,” Deiphobus murmured, confusion deepening the furrows on his brow.
“I would not have expected you to, Deiphobus. Not when such a love is unsanctioned by the gods and fated to be forgotten by all.”
The lack of ire that Paris’ dismissive response provoked in him only spoke of the place he now had to fill. “Paris, love need not be sanctioned and need only be remembered by those whose lives it touched and made whole.”
Paris turned to face him, the grief found on that ash-smudged face striking a chord within Deiphobus, that which was deeper than that of brother’s sorrow.
--- the memory came unbidden.
”Hector,” came a whisper, causing Deiphobus to start, drunken trek to the barracks stalled as he recognized the shadowed figure of his eldest brother embrace another yet hidden by the darkness that surrounded them.
Deiphobus tucked himself into an out-of-the-way alcove, curiosity prevailing over common sense.
“Hector, by the gods, you torment me so.”
Hector’s laugh was velvety and spoke of promises Deiphobus thought his brother made only to his beloved Andromache. “Do I?”
“Yes. Now, cease your torment and love me!”
“Have I not always?”
It was the intimacy and sheer depth of meaning within Hector’s voice and the subsequent in-drawn breath of reverent awe that caused Deiphobus to slip out of his hiding place and make his way down the darkened corridor, more so than the rustling of clothing and the sounds of passion that faded and trailed in his wake.
“Paris, did you…”
Paris frowned, gaze questioning as Deiphobus trailed off and made no attempt to continue his thought. “Yes, brother? Did I what?”
Deiphobus shook his head, reaching out to pull Paris close to him, enveloping the slighter (trembling, trembling) figure in his arms. “Nothing, Paris. Nothing. Let me hold you a while. Hector would have never wanted you to grieve alone.”
Deiphobus was not a perfect man but he believed himself to be a good man, an honorable one.
A man who knew what it entailed to love your beloved as no one else should - or would ever come to understand.
I Kiss Your Hands
For afra_schatz. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: fixed. Takes place after the first battle with the Greeks, after that het sex scene in the aftermath of discovering that Paris had been captured.
Andromache was silent as she urged Hector to stand before her. Hector was silent, as well, thoughts on the upcoming battles, presence on the battlefield where he had killed so many, heart with he who was absent.
She knelt in front of him, hands carefully divesting her husband of his raiment (piece by bloody piece). When he was clad only in the tunic he wore underneath his armor - breastplate flung away into a corner with a loud clang that she was thankful did not wake Astyanax - she stood again, carefully (always careful, thankful even more so) resting her hands on his chest. She stepped closer, hands trembling as she took in the sight of him - unwounded, living, here.
For how long?
His chest rose and fell with each breath. Each one a cause for prayer and celebration.
“Andromache.”
“Yes, husband?”
“I killed so many today. So many. I fear that with each life I take, a piece of my soul is chipped away.” He turned anguished eyes on her. “What I would give for the Champion of Troy to shed no more blood and make no more widows for the sake of Her.”
Andromache embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder, streaked with dirt and sand, with blood not his own. “I know, my love. But you must. For that is the greatest price She will demand of you.”
The silence that followed in the wake of her words was broken by Hector’s wordless cry.
She stepped away, alarmed as he fell to his knees. “Hector? Are you wounded?” Terror filled her, prayers and entreaties ready on her lips.
“I saw Paris, Andromache.”
She stiffed in surprise, in confusion. “Paris?”
He looked up at her. “I saw Paris in the face of every man I killed. Every man, Andromache. Every man.”
Andromache knelt, taking his hands in hers and bringing them to her lips, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the vulnerable skin of his wrist, against bruised knuckles and into his open palm (shaking as it were), on each fingertip, one by one.
“I am Paris, Hector. Not those men on the battlefield today. I am Paris and I kiss these hands yet reeking with gore because they are capable of such tenderness and comfort, are made more for love and passion than anything else.”
She reached out and cupped his face, the roughness of his beard scratching against her own palm (lily-white, untouched, unknowing of the depth and cost of his sacrifice at his own hands).
Their eyes met as she murmured, “I am Paris. And I kiss your hands.”
As he pulled her to him, in that moment, she truly was Paris, for he alone could make their beloved whole.
What's Left to Us, Part II
For realm_of_ylith. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: fire. Takes place when Paris visits Hector’s body in the temple.
Some farewells were harder to say than others.
At the cost of forever, at the looming presence of finality, some were impossible to say.
Paris had already said everything, had he not?
He rested his head against Hector’s chest - unmoving and still, where was that heartbeat that lulled him to sleep?
He placed his hand over where Hector’s heart should have beat in this unfaltering, steady rhythm and felt nothing but an emptiness that echoed within his own thudding heart.
He shifted, curling his legs up as he tried to make himself comfortable where he lay at his brother’s side, at his beloved’s side. He knew that if any of the temple priests were to see him they would have been horrified. But for a moment, only for a moment, he wanted to believe - believe.
Paris watched the play of shadows on the temple walls, shadows caused by the flickering fires of untended temple lamps, and imagined for that one moment that those were the lives that he and Hector would have lived out if this was not the path that the Fates had chosen for them.
Only for one moment.
When that one moment had slipped away, Paris rose and climbed off the altar (what else could it have been but an altar to the sheer perfection of Hector?).
He looked down at the still form that was no longer his brother, no longer his beloved, no longer his Hector and said his impossible farewell.
Paris had known when Hector walked out to meet Achilles on that battlefield that it would be the last time, the only moment they had left.
It did not make every farewell thereafter any less impossible to make.
“Fare the well, Hector. Fare the well.”
---
So, have I lost my touch? :( Will post in communities later, sleep now.
EDIT: Cross-posted liek WHOA.
I used the prompts they offered and a few prompts taken from my fanfic100 tables. (Which apparently, I've been pulled from as I was inactive for so long but I don't mind as I still plan on finishing them.) I decided to make them outtakes of Beloved (which is already finished so I really need the powers that be to resurrect my old laptop) and Vidae et Mors (which is all plotted out and only needs writing) as I'm trying to get the characters' voices down again.
What's Left to Us, Part I
For doylebaby. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: children. Takes place after Hector and Paris return to Troy with Helen, but obviously before the Greeks invade.
A young girl raced by, dark curls streaming behind her as she called out to the little boy that doggedly pursued her, “Catch me, Phaestos!”
“Leandra! Not too fast!” the little boy huffed, chubby legs pumping as fast as they could. “It is not fair! You have longer legs than I do!”
The young girl - a child already on the cusp of maidenhood - slowed slightly, looking behind her as she aimed a smile that was equal parts fond affection and buoyant mischief at her erstwhile pursuer. “Run faster then, little brother!”
They ran past two men who were making their meandering way through Troy’s crowded marketplace, the little boy nearly knocking down the slighter of the two. There was a hastily yelled but sincere apology that followed shortly, both children completely unaware that the two casually-dressed men were princes in disguise.
“What were you like as a child?” Hector asked, eyes following the movements of the two children as they raced merrily past vendors and buyers alike, leaving behind curses and laughter in their wake.
A soft smile lingered on Paris’ lips as he answered, “As mischievous as the girl that raced past, I confess. I remember this one time when I dyed one of my foster father’s sheep bright yellow.” The cherished memory made Paris’ eyes shine. “He was none too pleased.”
“You sounded like a handful,” was Hector’s diplomatic reply, but the undertones of amusement were recognizable.
“I was. My foster parents soldiered through my growing pains with nothing but infinite love and patience. I was always their gift from the gods.”
Hector’s amusement faded at those words, struck once again by the enormity of all that he had missed and never experienced - his brother’s first words and first steps, the day Paris first learned how to swim or ride or use a bow and arrow, questions that a younger brother would have had and he as an older brother would have gladly answered.
Paris noticed the silence that filled the space between them and he turned to Hector, head cocked in query. “What is the matter?”
“I cannot help but regret all the time, all the moments that were lost to us,” Hector murmured, gaze fixed on some distant point as his mind’s eye envisioned a rambunctious boy who chased after bleating, panicked lambs (he who was naughty yet sweet and loving all the same), the gangly (imperfectly, startlingly beautiful) youth who stole hearts and perhaps a kiss or two.
“Why?”
Hector turned to Paris, a bemused expression replacing the frown when the question pulled him from the melancholy of his thoughts. “Why? Is it not obvious, Paris? We have lost so much.” He took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I wonder at times what amusements the gods find from watching the convoluted paths we take due to their machineries.”
Paris shook his head slowly, the smile on his lips becoming kinder, tempered now with understanding and an everlasting hope, “Brother, think of all the years, all the moments that are left to us. How can there be regret in the face of such possibility?” He reached out to caress Hector’s face, fingertips gently (oh so gently) tracing the echoes his lips had left behind this morning. “Our lives are our own, gods and their plans or no, and I will walk the paths of our lives with you as the years and the road stretch on endlessly.”
Learning to Dance (Again)
For doylebaby Prompt from the fanfic100 table: sixth sense. Takes place before Better and More.
Orlando struggled to open the front door whilst carrying two grocery bags that overflowed with produce, toiletries and Sean’s cigarettes. Just as he got it open, an orange fell out of the paper bag, quickly followed by three lemons and several kiwi fruit rolling down the pathway. “Fuckity-fuck,” he muttered, contemplating whether or not he’d chase after the escaping fruit.
The sound of music from the living room distracted him, though, and he made his way inside, raising an eyebrow at the redecorating that had happened while he had been at the grocery store. To think, he had only been gone an hour.
All of the furniture had been pushed aside, the carpet rolled up and now leaning against the wall, leaving an empty space in the middle of the room.
And in the center of it all was Sean, dressed in an open-necked white shirt (which appeared to be satiny and sparkly all at the same time) and very, very well-fitting black trousers.
Attempting what appeared to be a tango to the soundtrack of Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
Attempting as best as he could without a partner and without any sense of timing or rhythm whatsoever, that is.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Orlando asked, trying (and failing) to stop laughter from tumbling free of his (not so) tightly-pressed lips.
Sean whirled around, nearly tripping over his admittedly shiny dress shoes in his haste. “Bugger an arse! Orlando!”
It was useless to try and pretend he wasn’t giggling anymore. “Thank you for the offer, but, no. Want to explain to me what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone?”
“Not really,” Sean hedged, walking over to turn off the iPod speakers. He picked up a face towel and wiped away the sweat that gathered at his nape.
Orlando made a non-committal sound that actually meant he wouldn’t be giving up this conversation any time soon. He made his way to the kitchen, taking note with equal parts amusement and fondness that Sean had likewise turned the dining room into a connecting impromptu dance space. As he started to put away the groceries, Sean walked over to help him, a look of concentration leaving furrows in his brow. They worked in easy, companionable silence before Orlando asked with a grin (that never really left), “Are you going to tell me what you were doing or will you leave me to my sordid thoughts?”
Sean scowled and closed the refrigerator door none too gently, “It’s nothing, lad. Just... Remind me never to bet with Lij and the boys again.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that before it actually sticks?”
“Once more it seems.”
Orlando laughed, shaking his head as he began preparing tea. “What do you have to do exactly?”
“Dance the tango at Lij’s birthday party.”
It was good that he hadn’t started cutting up the vegetables yet - he might have lost a finger. “By yourself?”
“They didn’t say,” was Sean’s huffy reply as he sat at the counter, looking quite put out. “I can't believe that I’m actually going through with this.”
Orlando put down what he was holding and walked up to Sean, slipping his arms around the other man’s waist and resting his chin on a broad shoulder (a shoulder he had been well acquainted with these past several months). “You’re an honorable man, Sean Bean.”
“I suppose.”
“No, you are,” Orlando murmured, burying his nose in Sean’s nape and inhaling deep, the scent of cigarettes, poppy seeds and coconut familiar and calming as always. He closed his eyes and said quietly (heart on his sleeve, where everyone could see it), “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you but I taught Eric how to dance. Would you like me to teach you as well?”
“Has anyone ever told you what an amazing dancer you are?”
“No,” Orlando replied, laughing as Eric twirled him around. “Because I’m not.”
“I beg to differ, Orlando. You’re the epitome of grace.”
“Oh, shut it, you. Or I’ll step on your foot.” But the warmth in Orlando’s smile rivaled the rays of sunlight that streamed in from the floor-length windows.
“How is it that our dancing is so seamless then? I’ve danced with Saffron and let’s just say I don’t think she’ll be allowing for a repeat performance.”
Orlando laughed again, resting his cheek against Eric’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of pine, earthy musk and ginger, the way Eric always smelled like - home.“I think that has more to do with the fact that I know exactly where you’re going to end up. I know exactly where you are, where you’ll be. It makes thing...easy.”
Sean turned in his arms, reaching up to cup Orlando’s cheek, looking for something in his eyes (leaving Orlando to wonder if Sean had found it or would keep looking till he did). “You don’t have to, lad. It’s just a silly bet.”
Orlando smiled, memories receding in the presence of the tangible here and now. “Sean. I want to. Let me.”
I Carry Your Heart
For alilacia. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: light (two birds with one stone!) Some random point in time but takes place before Coming and Dying
The late afternoon breeze stirred a wayward curl resting against Orlando’s brow. Eric brushed it aside absently, voice never wavering from their lovely, fluid cadence, “I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it.”
Orlando’s eyes drifted shut of their own accord, lulled to a state of utter peace and contentment by Eric’s voice, the gentle hands carding through his hair and the play of light and warmth against his upturned face.
“Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And what is done by only me is your doing, my darling.”
Lulled to state of unequivocal well-being.
And love, always love.
He could hear the wind stirring the leafy boughs of their tree. He could see them swaying in his mind’s eye, to a dance and a song only they knew of. He could hear the rustle of paper as Eric turned to the next page. He could see the words that were written, words that Eric spoke, so ingrained were they, so familiar and loved and true.
“I fear no fate. For you are my fate, my sweet. I want no world. For you are my world, my true.”
Orlando breathed in deeply, knowing that summer was fading away into autumn bit by bit from the rising scent of the earth.
“And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.”
Orlando opened his eyes, taking in the sight of his lover, and he reached out, his hands now being the ones to card through brown curls haloed by patterned light slipping through breaks in the green-laden branches.
“Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud. And the sky of the sky of a tree called life. Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.”
Eric stopped reading, putting the book aside as he took Orlando’s hand in his, lips brushing against knuckles bruised from a scrape with an overflowing bookshelf, “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”
A/N: The poem i carry it in my heart by ee cummings (the structure of which I changed to make it more conducive to reading it within this drabble’s framework so I heartily suggest reading the original) is quite obviously not mine but I’ve loved it ever since I first came across it and the idea of Eric reading poetry to Orlando on a perfect summer’s day was too good to pass up.
A Good Man
For afra_schatz. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: dark. This happened some time after Paris showed Helen how to escape from Troy.
Deiphobus believed himself to be a good man.
Not perfect by any means but a good man nonetheless.
Honorable despite a raging temper and a thirst for battle that even Hector at times frowned at. He could not be faulted, though, for being the first to leap into the fray because aside from Hector, he was always the last to leave, making sure that no man was left behind, that there were no questions from widows or mothers or sons and daughters that he could not answer.
Deiphobus was a Prince of Troy, a warrior in defense of Her golden walls (and those that slumbered within), he who lifted his sword in hopes that there would be a day when war would no longer seek Her shores (a dream his father taught him to love and live with every breath he gave).
Despite whatever came his way from being a Prince of Troy (lovers lost, wounds received, blood dyeing his hands a red that never faded) he did not shirk from the duties entrusted to him, from the part he had to play, from the responsibilities that he willingly carried for love of his family and his people - for love of Her.
As a Prince and as a son, his father had taught him many lessons but the most important were found in a code that each of his brothers had strived to live by come what may.
Honor the gods.
Love your beloved.
Defend your country.
Deiphobus watched Paris’ unmoving form silhouetted against the lightening pre-dawn sky. Fatigue and grief were written in every line of Paris’ slender frame and a memory tugged at the edges of Deiphobus’ consciousness - too heart-sick and tired was he to chase it. “Brother,” he called out, no longer able to stand by and observe Paris’ silent figure. “Were you here all night?”
Paris’ voice was without emotion, without inflection when he answered, “Where else would I be?”
A frown found its way on Deiphobus’ war-weary features before he walked to where his brother stood, watching the remnants of Hector’s funeral pyre turn to ashes and be borne away by the pre-dawn air. “With Helen.”
A bitter laugh mingled with the tangible, intangible remains of Troy’s greatest Champion. “No, not with Helen.” Paris’ voice broke.“Never with Helen.”
“I do not understand,” Deiphobus murmured, confusion deepening the furrows on his brow.
“I would not have expected you to, Deiphobus. Not when such a love is unsanctioned by the gods and fated to be forgotten by all.”
The lack of ire that Paris’ dismissive response provoked in him only spoke of the place he now had to fill. “Paris, love need not be sanctioned and need only be remembered by those whose lives it touched and made whole.”
Paris turned to face him, the grief found on that ash-smudged face striking a chord within Deiphobus, that which was deeper than that of brother’s sorrow.
--- the memory came unbidden.
”Hector,” came a whisper, causing Deiphobus to start, drunken trek to the barracks stalled as he recognized the shadowed figure of his eldest brother embrace another yet hidden by the darkness that surrounded them.
Deiphobus tucked himself into an out-of-the-way alcove, curiosity prevailing over common sense.
“Hector, by the gods, you torment me so.”
Hector’s laugh was velvety and spoke of promises Deiphobus thought his brother made only to his beloved Andromache. “Do I?”
“Yes. Now, cease your torment and love me!”
“Have I not always?”
It was the intimacy and sheer depth of meaning within Hector’s voice and the subsequent in-drawn breath of reverent awe that caused Deiphobus to slip out of his hiding place and make his way down the darkened corridor, more so than the rustling of clothing and the sounds of passion that faded and trailed in his wake.
“Paris, did you…”
Paris frowned, gaze questioning as Deiphobus trailed off and made no attempt to continue his thought. “Yes, brother? Did I what?”
Deiphobus shook his head, reaching out to pull Paris close to him, enveloping the slighter (trembling, trembling) figure in his arms. “Nothing, Paris. Nothing. Let me hold you a while. Hector would have never wanted you to grieve alone.”
Deiphobus was not a perfect man but he believed himself to be a good man, an honorable one.
A man who knew what it entailed to love your beloved as no one else should - or would ever come to understand.
I Kiss Your Hands
For afra_schatz. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: fixed. Takes place after the first battle with the Greeks, after that het sex scene in the aftermath of discovering that Paris had been captured.
Andromache was silent as she urged Hector to stand before her. Hector was silent, as well, thoughts on the upcoming battles, presence on the battlefield where he had killed so many, heart with he who was absent.
She knelt in front of him, hands carefully divesting her husband of his raiment (piece by bloody piece). When he was clad only in the tunic he wore underneath his armor - breastplate flung away into a corner with a loud clang that she was thankful did not wake Astyanax - she stood again, carefully (always careful, thankful even more so) resting her hands on his chest. She stepped closer, hands trembling as she took in the sight of him - unwounded, living, here.
For how long?
His chest rose and fell with each breath. Each one a cause for prayer and celebration.
“Andromache.”
“Yes, husband?”
“I killed so many today. So many. I fear that with each life I take, a piece of my soul is chipped away.” He turned anguished eyes on her. “What I would give for the Champion of Troy to shed no more blood and make no more widows for the sake of Her.”
Andromache embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder, streaked with dirt and sand, with blood not his own. “I know, my love. But you must. For that is the greatest price She will demand of you.”
The silence that followed in the wake of her words was broken by Hector’s wordless cry.
She stepped away, alarmed as he fell to his knees. “Hector? Are you wounded?” Terror filled her, prayers and entreaties ready on her lips.
“I saw Paris, Andromache.”
She stiffed in surprise, in confusion. “Paris?”
He looked up at her. “I saw Paris in the face of every man I killed. Every man, Andromache. Every man.”
Andromache knelt, taking his hands in hers and bringing them to her lips, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against the vulnerable skin of his wrist, against bruised knuckles and into his open palm (shaking as it were), on each fingertip, one by one.
“I am Paris, Hector. Not those men on the battlefield today. I am Paris and I kiss these hands yet reeking with gore because they are capable of such tenderness and comfort, are made more for love and passion than anything else.”
She reached out and cupped his face, the roughness of his beard scratching against her own palm (lily-white, untouched, unknowing of the depth and cost of his sacrifice at his own hands).
Their eyes met as she murmured, “I am Paris. And I kiss your hands.”
As he pulled her to him, in that moment, she truly was Paris, for he alone could make their beloved whole.
What's Left to Us, Part II
For realm_of_ylith. Prompt from the fanfic100 table: fire. Takes place when Paris visits Hector’s body in the temple.
Some farewells were harder to say than others.
At the cost of forever, at the looming presence of finality, some were impossible to say.
Paris had already said everything, had he not?
He rested his head against Hector’s chest - unmoving and still, where was that heartbeat that lulled him to sleep?
He placed his hand over where Hector’s heart should have beat in this unfaltering, steady rhythm and felt nothing but an emptiness that echoed within his own thudding heart.
He shifted, curling his legs up as he tried to make himself comfortable where he lay at his brother’s side, at his beloved’s side. He knew that if any of the temple priests were to see him they would have been horrified. But for a moment, only for a moment, he wanted to believe - believe.
Paris watched the play of shadows on the temple walls, shadows caused by the flickering fires of untended temple lamps, and imagined for that one moment that those were the lives that he and Hector would have lived out if this was not the path that the Fates had chosen for them.
Only for one moment.
When that one moment had slipped away, Paris rose and climbed off the altar (what else could it have been but an altar to the sheer perfection of Hector?).
He looked down at the still form that was no longer his brother, no longer his beloved, no longer his Hector and said his impossible farewell.
Paris had known when Hector walked out to meet Achilles on that battlefield that it would be the last time, the only moment they had left.
It did not make every farewell thereafter any less impossible to make.
“Fare the well, Hector. Fare the well.”
---
So, have I lost my touch? :( Will post in communities later, sleep now.
EDIT: Cross-posted liek WHOA.