Reveille - daily15
I will get caught up, damn it. It will happen. Anyway: Trojan War, gen, nonsexual partial nudity, word was "reveal".
They stand in the megaron, watching the girls finger the trinkets and jewelry festooned on the tables and chairs, examine the fabric they're only too happy to unroll for the princesses' pleasure. The shorter of the two men is a born merchant, it seems; when one of the girls approaches the wares, he gives her a cheerful patter about its provenance. Perhaps it's real saffron from Crete, or Tyrian purple that won't run; it doesn't matter, he's delighted to make a sale. His taller, younger companion scans the women's quarters with worried eyes; when the eyes of the girls are elsewhere, he pulls the shorter man aside.
"Odysseus, this isn't going to work."
"Don't be such a pessimist. Of course it's going to work. It's got to."
"If he's in the palace at all, and we came here without any solid proof that he was and Lycomedes was awful disingenuous about it, he might not be here. Or else he's doing a really good job of pretending to be a girl, in which case he's probably a fruit and Agamemnon probably doesn't want him."
"I don't care if Agamemnon doesn't want him," Odysseus hisses back. "Prophecy says he has to have him. That man will not go to war without checking all the prophecies."
"I just think there are better uses of our time and energy," Diomedes mutters.
"Here comes one now."
The girl is tall, for a girl; she glowers, sullen, out of dark eyes at the happy gathering and folds her arms across her chest. Her arms, in fact, are suspiciously sinewy. Either she's a slave, or...
"By Zeus, I think that's him," Odysseus whispers when he turns his back to the assemblage, fumbling in a bolt of yellow cloth to lay the bait.
"Heard he was blond. If that girl's hair isn't black, neither is mine."
"Don't believe everything you hear, Dio. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
Odysseus has barely set his trap when the girl strides, disinterested, to their table and plunks down her fists on the wares. "Whatcha got?"
The voice is oddly husky. For a moment, Diomedes stares, half-believing that Odysseus is in fact right, and says, "Uhhh...uhhh...ah, well, there's this fabulous sea-blue wool from the Illyrian coast, which is suitable for a wide variety of, um, weaving and other seamstressy projects of such nature," whatever those might be, "and, uh, here's--" He signals frantically to Odysseus to help him, but the Ithacan is unrolling a bolt of cloth for one of the other princesses.
He has to hand it to Odysseus: he's good with a dramatic flourish. The cloth unfurls to reveal a sword and spear, shining pristine and untouched by human hands (or human blood) in the golden fabric, and the girl bites her lip. Her breathing quickens, and she reaches her hand hesitantly towards the yellow cloth.
"Perhaps madam would like a few yards for her own use?" Odysseus says, smiling unctuously.
"I...uh...no," the girl says, dark eyes caught up with the weapons, gauging the workmanship. "I--please--"
Diomedes nods briefly to the palace guard, lounging desultorily in the doorway. This is the prearranged signal: they know what's going to happen. The trumpets sound a loud, cacophonous alarum, the daughters of Lycomedes shriek, and the girl springs forward with the grace of a wildcat, catching up sword in one hand and the spear in another, as Odysseus catches her chiton in one hand. The material rips to the waist, exposing broad shoulders and flat chest: no woman here.
"You're coming with us, Prince Achilles," Odysseus says.
They stand in the megaron, watching the girls finger the trinkets and jewelry festooned on the tables and chairs, examine the fabric they're only too happy to unroll for the princesses' pleasure. The shorter of the two men is a born merchant, it seems; when one of the girls approaches the wares, he gives her a cheerful patter about its provenance. Perhaps it's real saffron from Crete, or Tyrian purple that won't run; it doesn't matter, he's delighted to make a sale. His taller, younger companion scans the women's quarters with worried eyes; when the eyes of the girls are elsewhere, he pulls the shorter man aside.
"Odysseus, this isn't going to work."
"Don't be such a pessimist. Of course it's going to work. It's got to."
"If he's in the palace at all, and we came here without any solid proof that he was and Lycomedes was awful disingenuous about it, he might not be here. Or else he's doing a really good job of pretending to be a girl, in which case he's probably a fruit and Agamemnon probably doesn't want him."
"I don't care if Agamemnon doesn't want him," Odysseus hisses back. "Prophecy says he has to have him. That man will not go to war without checking all the prophecies."
"I just think there are better uses of our time and energy," Diomedes mutters.
"Here comes one now."
The girl is tall, for a girl; she glowers, sullen, out of dark eyes at the happy gathering and folds her arms across her chest. Her arms, in fact, are suspiciously sinewy. Either she's a slave, or...
"By Zeus, I think that's him," Odysseus whispers when he turns his back to the assemblage, fumbling in a bolt of yellow cloth to lay the bait.
"Heard he was blond. If that girl's hair isn't black, neither is mine."
"Don't believe everything you hear, Dio. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
Odysseus has barely set his trap when the girl strides, disinterested, to their table and plunks down her fists on the wares. "Whatcha got?"
The voice is oddly husky. For a moment, Diomedes stares, half-believing that Odysseus is in fact right, and says, "Uhhh...uhhh...ah, well, there's this fabulous sea-blue wool from the Illyrian coast, which is suitable for a wide variety of, um, weaving and other seamstressy projects of such nature," whatever those might be, "and, uh, here's--" He signals frantically to Odysseus to help him, but the Ithacan is unrolling a bolt of cloth for one of the other princesses.
He has to hand it to Odysseus: he's good with a dramatic flourish. The cloth unfurls to reveal a sword and spear, shining pristine and untouched by human hands (or human blood) in the golden fabric, and the girl bites her lip. Her breathing quickens, and she reaches her hand hesitantly towards the yellow cloth.
"Perhaps madam would like a few yards for her own use?" Odysseus says, smiling unctuously.
"I...uh...no," the girl says, dark eyes caught up with the weapons, gauging the workmanship. "I--please--"
Diomedes nods briefly to the palace guard, lounging desultorily in the doorway. This is the prearranged signal: they know what's going to happen. The trumpets sound a loud, cacophonous alarum, the daughters of Lycomedes shriek, and the girl springs forward with the grace of a wildcat, catching up sword in one hand and the spear in another, as Odysseus catches her chiton in one hand. The material rips to the waist, exposing broad shoulders and flat chest: no woman here.
"You're coming with us, Prince Achilles," Odysseus says.