Indeed, these strings bear not only melodies but memories of my dear native land - of my father whose gift the lyre was, of noble Chiron who atop Mount Pelion taught me its sweet notes, and of Patroclus for whom I plucked countless songs, as I shall now pluck for you. With misfortune's dark shadow cast long over this island, we must seek lighter pleasures to ease the knots made of our minds.
[Although he cannot see her visage, nor the worry-bruised marks beneath her eyes, he knows her well enough that he can conjecture how the current climate has weighed upon her.]
Will you meet me outside the guest house [aka the inn] that we might walk together to somewhere we can better delight in one another's company?
[ the temptation of distraction is strong, and it would be a lie if olivia hadn't already indulged in it all these days. though this particular distraction is certainly different, certainly lighter than any she's buried herself into since the storm subsided, and so she finds herself not possessing the strength to refuse it.
she supposes she should be happy; it's been too long since she'd longed for a song. ]
I would love to, [ she says, and already she's begun to move. it won't be long at all till she's there at the first step, hands folded delicately over her lap while she waits. as usual, saffron stands vigil at her side, though the young lion looks rather bored in contrast to her quiet anxiety. ]
[She will not have to wait long before Achilles emerges from the inn with his lyre cradled in his bronze arm. The instrument is itself a work of art: the delicate curves of ash are carved with patterns reminiscent of laurels and polished to a rich gleam, and the tip of each arm is crowned in gold, into which tiny vines and leaves are engraved. Truly, it is a gift befitting a prince destined to be the greatest warrior among men.
Upon her, he casts a grin. While worry has not shrouded him as it has her in these past few days, his heart is not left empty of his own cares: he therefore yearns for levity and seeks it in her company.]
Closer to the shore there stands a grove of trees, which I have found to be quiet and hidden from those with less discerning eyes - it is there that I wish to bring you, Olivia.
[ the lion cub's ears perk at his arrival before olivia even notices him — which is an oddity all on its own. accompanying that, though, is the strange sense that she had not quite been there; not, at least, until she finally stirs out of that strange reverie, and her eyes fall back on him with an expression reminiscent of a seafarer finding land again — finally, at last, something with which she can anchor to.
she pivots towards him like a flower to the sun, and (not for the first time) she finds herself aching to reach out for him — if only to further find her ground.
relief clouds her voice, too, making her somewhat breathless despite having stood still in her wait. ]
You needn't have to do so much for me, [ she insists, but it comes off as something more customary than her usual brand of altruisim. in this moment, brimming with anxious energy, she can only think of her selfishness, of seeking comfort in the company of a person far stronger, more immovable than her.
when he's close enough, her gaze shifts to the instrument he holds in his hands. genuine awe and wonderment lights up her features, hands coming up to clasp delicately over her chest. ]
[He knows her to be shrouded in shyness when her limbs are not possessed by the rhythm of dance, at which moment she shines forth as if newly burnished, and yet the quiet which insulates her from the world when first he approaches is deeper than that, somehow thicker: like the frost which in the heart of winter would encrust the northern face of Mount Pelion, and as a boy he would peer down the corridors of barren tree branches, feeling the silence prickle his skin as much as the bitter wind, forgetting for a moment that others share the earth still.
Then she stirs, and the shell around her splits. Where she seeks steadiness, Achilles is willing to provide, for men were made sturdy as are pillars.
When her eyes lights upon the lyre, he delights in the awe which gleams from her features, and he shows off the instrument readily.]
Does it please you? You need not fret so, for it shall be my pleasure to share music with you - I find great comfort in pulling melodies from the lyre's strings, and so it is for my own sake too that I wish to play. Since receiving my lyre this morning I've only tested the strings to ensure their condition is suitable, but I've played no further. I wished to wait, that the songs I've not heard in long weeks might be fresh again in my ears, and thus I might share in your delight.
[With a gesture of his arm, and a nod of his head, he implies that they should walk.]
[ there is an odd expression that flickers across her face in that moment — some strange hybrid of surprise and flattery. somehow, the idea that he might have wanted to wait for her, before indulging in a comfort and reminder of home, is more touching than she had anticipated. a gesture so thoughtful and sweet that she is momentarily blind-sided by it. ]
Achilles, that's—
[ she lets out a breath, just a tiny puff of disbelief and gratitude. her cheeks warm, and she smiles sheepishly, despite herself.
she shifts on her feet, eager for the distraction of walking to draw her mind out of some muddy thoughts. biting down on her lip, she lifts a hand to press over her chest, wondering at the odd feeling of heaviness there. ]
I'm honored that you would think of me like that. I only wish you had a bigger audience to better appreciate your gift.
[He is as relentless in love as he is in war: his passions possess him to wield spear and charm alike, each shaped and pointed toward its purpose, whether it is the flesh and blood of men for which he aims or the heart of a woman.]
There is none here who could make a better audience than you. I care not about performing for great crowds: it is not for the admiration of the many that I play my lyre, but the pleasure of the few who truly matter. Would you not say too that such a crowd would ruin our enjoyment of one another? What need have we for their company?
[So speaking, they have entered the swath of forest which curves around the inn, and down the trodden dirt path he leads her. The farther they twist through the trees, the narrower the path will become, and the more nuanced, blending with the forest as light blends into shadow on a cloud-laden day.]
[ her cheeks color a bit in a show of sheepishness, embarrassed that she would forget the benefit of such intimacy in the sharing of artistic talent. perhaps it is the performer in her (for there is a stark difference between an artist and a performer, though the two often go hand-in-hand and can be interchangeable) but hasn't her dream always been to perform in front of a large crowd? to hear dozens — maybe even hundreds — cheer for her and call out her name in praise. ]
I suppose you're right, [ she says around a shy smile, words laced with an unspoken apology. she shrugs a little, bashfully glancing away as her words run away from her, spilling out before she has the chance to second-guess them. ]
Sometimes I forget that not every artist dreams of being center-stage in a large crowd...
[ it is a dream that seems to slip further and further away the more time she spends here. ]
Though I suppose as the son of a king, you could have an audience you wished for without struggle.
[It is for his preeminence with spear and sword that he has won renown among the Achaeans: rumor of his godlike strength spread to the ears of men before their eyes even had a chance to witness it in action. His skill with the lyre, however, is something more private, and thus he holds it close. Indeed he could have gathered an easy audience from his father's house, all ears forced to listen, and all mouths eager to please the young prince, but it was not the interchangeable attendants for whom he desired to parade his songs: he saved them instead for Patroclus, for Phoenix, for his father, and - by the seaside, when she paid visit - his mother. He was never meant to be a bard, but the hero for whom the bards weave together their melodies and poetry.
He regards her with interest when she lets slip her words. She is quick to turn the conversation away from herself, but whether or not she likes it that is where he holds his attention.]
So this must be the dream you nurture deep in your bosom. Did you not live it, even if for just one night, when we held the festival? Although I suppose one night is not enough, just as one bite from a feast will not sate a man whose stomach has grumbled all the afternoon, and whose eyes have beheld all upon which he might sup. I should not find myself surprised to hear of this, for I have seen the way your passion consumes you when you dance: you take to the stage as a dove takes to the sky, and with twice the grace and beauty.
[ just as easily as he sees through her attempts at redirection, so does she notice how casually he ignores it. she has to bite down on her lip, stifling what would have been a petulant look in response to her failure, though remnants of it remain in the way she glances at him beneath the heavy lashes of her eyes. ]
I have performed for crowds before, [ she admits, after a pause to recollect herself. the deeper they journey into the forest, the closer she hovers by his side and the lower her voice drops. it's an unconscious effect of the privacy that the flora around them provides — an almost reverent reaction to the serene silence of nature. ]
But my dream...
[ she seems almost too shy to say it. as if it were something more than just a dream — like some secret part of herself she has never quite been confident enough to share.
frankly, she feels selfish for it. confidence is one thing, but conceit had never looked all that favorable to olivia, and she worries constantly that her true desires border that, if not flagrantly embody that. ]
I want to build a theater. [ once the words are out, it becomes easier to embellish than she had originally predicted. each word punctuated with a quickening of her breath and a skipping of her heart; far too eager, perhaps, to share this dream with another artist like herself. ]
One large enough to house hundreds, thousands of people, people who come from all around the world just to see me — [ she's spent her whole life on the move, flitting from one place to the other, chasing after the faint probability that maybe, here, or there, someone will want to see what she can do; wouldn't it be great if, finally, someone makes that journey for her? ] — and I get to share with them every dance I've learned, and every song I've picked up, and they'll shout my name and it'll all be worth it—
[ i'll be worth it.
she pauses, suddenly, as if only just realizing how much she's said.
unconsciously, she has begun to play with the cloth that hangs from her wrists — one that should look familiar to her companion. her other, furrier companion, keeping vigil at her other side, takes note of her gesture and perks his ears up in interest.
she ducks her head, catching the lion cub's eyes. ]
[As she tells of her dream, she blooms just as she had done on stage during the festival, and again when together they danced: where once shivered a pale bud in the spring breeze now stands a flower full in brilliant pink flush, and he delights in such a sight. The concept of a space dedicated solely to dance is strange to him: the amphitheaters in which the plays of the great Athenian tragedians would be performed are distant stars hanging beyond the horizon. Yet he does not think it a silly dream. She paints the picture for him with such fervor that he can envision it clearly.
He had never asked after Deidamia's dreams: what would a princess of a smudge of an island wish for but the love of a husband and later a son to carry on Lycomedes' flickering legacy? It was he who spoke of his dream for glory, complained of being cooped up on Scyros, and she who listened, coaxed him to stay with her and their child, failed to hold him back from the war that was calling his name.
Briseis' dream had been only to return to the home from which he had stolen her, and the family whose blood his own spear had drank. This he learned secondhand from Patroclus - in the balm of his embrace, she kept her sorrows submerged and showed only the obedience and tenderness that is expected of a spear-bride.
This moment that he shares with Olivia, then, hemmed in tightly by the solemn silence of the trees, is something rare.
Then as quickly as she had bloomed, Olivia fades again, a flower which by the end of the day seals itself from the night. Even as she busies her eyes with her scarf and the lion cub bounding along underfoot, he holds a gentle smile.]
Indeed, it is not so very difficult to believe that your dancing could draw such a crowd from all corners of the earth: they would come as do flies tempted by a bit of honey, or moths entranced by the glow of fire. I should like to find myself a guest in your theater house, that I might see you dance night after night. It is a shame, then, that you remain in the custody of the sons of Alastair - it is here in this accursed crew that dreams drift out of reach.
[His smile thus flattens under his displeasure toward their circumstances. With her close by his side, enough so that on occasion his cloak might brush against her arm, such festering grievances find salve in her gentle presence.]
[ she had been quite embarrassed, really, to divulge as much as she had. there are only a small handful of other souls who know of her dream, of this deep, dark part of her that she is sometimes quite ashamed of — but none of the others are here, making it seem, just as he lamented, as if that dream were even further out of reach.
she wonders about that now, now that there is one among them that knows. she wonders about the lightness she feels in her chest, like a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding had suddenly been released.
somehow, the fact that someone else within alastair is privy to her dream... somehow she feels she is one step closer to achieving it.
it's funny how that works, and she can't claim to know the logic of it, but there it is. and perhaps it is a feeling not only reserved for her. ]
...do you have a dream, Achilles? Will you tell me it?
[ they touch again, but this time it is with purpose: her hand lifts to lay along his arm, just as it had the first time they'd met. but when then it had been to try and stay his words, now she wishes to encourage more of them. ]
[This time when she nudges the conversation toward him, he allows her to withdraw from the light which had been cast upon her: her dreams shall stay held like a breath between them and the trees which stand sentinel over their path. At the reminder of her touch his expression calms to contemplation, like waters which turn placid when the wind abates. His voice too dips into the hush that the forest demands, and yet still his words resonate between them.]
My dream has always been to win glory, that my name shall be decorated with my great deeds and all among the Achaeans shall know well my honor. This I have won in steep Ilios: among the horse-taming Trojans there is none whose heart is not chilled with fear by my very name, by the mere glint of my armor and shimmer of my helmet's crest. My spear has drank the blood of a thousand of their race, leaving a thousand wives widowed, and from King Priam I have robbed many sons, including murderous Hector, he who was the best of the Trojans. So too have I claimed many fine treasures from the cities I've sacked across the fertile plains by Scamander's river: bronze tripods, gold mixing bowls, sturdy racing horses, finely woven cloaks, and more which proclaim my honor. Troy is destined by Fate to fall, and thus the men who bravely flung themselves into the bloody jaws of war shall win honor for all of the Achaeans.
Even here, far across the stars and the vast black sea from which they shine, my name has been met with recognition: while I am fated to be cast through death's gate, my name it seems has imbibed a draught of immortality. What greater fame could be dreampt of?
All I can think to pray for more is that before I die I might see again my dear father Peleus, who in fertile Phthia grows older and all the while knows not if his only son shall ever return from Troy. But I do not expect that I ever shall.
[ so he dreams of fame, of glory, of honor. of having his achievements acknowledged and his life's work validated. of knowing, at the end of his life, that what he has done has mattered, in whatever way possible.
though his dreams may be steeped in blood and warfare, they are at their core not entirely unlike those of a meager dancer wishing for the acknowledgement of the audience for whom she dances.
it is humanizing, and humbling, but also quite validating. it spreads a warmth in her chest that has her breathing a bit more easily, smiling with less strain. ]
Half a year ago, I never would have thought I would someday find myself traveling between words with the ability to heal at my fingertips...
[ she gives his arm a reassuring pat. ]
I wouldn't give up hope on seeing your father again, Achilles. More improbable things have happened.
[ her hand shifts along his arm, coming to rest just along the crook of it so that when they finally happen upon the clearing he had spoken of, they enter it arm-in-arm, like a lord and lady of the court.
once there, she disengages just so she can skip towards the center of the clearing and present herself to him, playfully lifting the ends of her cloak as if it were the folds of a dress, dipping into a low, graceful curtsy. ]
Your audience awaits, my Lord. Where would you have me?
[As a hunk of driftwood that is carried back to shore by the persistent push of waves, so too return the thoughts that have tugged at his mind for some time now: how can fate be anything short of absolute? His glory was to come at the price of his life. Yet here he stays with breath upon his lips and blood in his veins, waiting for Fate to find him and fulfill the unhappy promise his mother whispered unto him when he was a boy. The longer time spins away from him on the Nalawi isles, the more his once looming death fades from his fingertips.
Still it is far too soon to declare that he has cheated Fate: there is old age to rob from him yet. He dare not let himself hope that his homecoming might glimmer beyond the horizon, where his father glows with pride for the glory he has won, and his son gazes upon that which all men strive to be.
To turn away from such pleasant reveries, however, is as easy as turning away from the thick warmth of the fire when in winter's bitter grip. Thus, he accepts Olivia's words with no more protest than a pensive expression, for women were made of soft curves and supple skin that in them men might find shelter from the world's hard edges.
Then the trees thin and the clearing unfolds before them, and her playfulness coaxes from him a grin. The stretch of grass is buttressed by rocks, jumbled and jagged, which slope down to the wine-dark sea, whose waves smooth their edges.]
My fair and worthy audience shall find no better seat than beside me.
[So speaking, the son of Peleus gently sets the lyre upon the soft grass, unclasps his cloak, and unwraps the fabric from his shoulders. Despite the wear on it from tireless use, its deep red fibers and intricate weave still boast the garment's superior quality. This he spreads over the ground, and he gestures to the seat he has created.]
Will you sit? And I shall join you, lovely-haired Olivia.
[ and so she sits, drawing her legs beneath her while saffron takes to lounging a few feet away, beneath the shade of a low-hanging tree. while she waits for him to join her, she begins humming a low, languid tune — one that he might find familiar from the time he'd helped her slumber after her fall.
it's.. nice, she decides. the levity of the situation might be somewhat forced but she cannot deny that she feels almost starved for it at this point. is it appropriate? should they really be doing this, enjoying each other's company, laughing, smiling, indulging in music and stolen touches while the nalawi mourn? while half of their own number are missing?
perhaps not. perhaps this time could be better used for other, more productive things.
though what those "things" are, olivia can only guess at at this point.
perhaps it is selfish, but she's grown rather tired of feeling so aimless and helpless.
an hour or two hidden away, spent in the company of a man who clearly delights in hers... that's not so bad, is it? surely it can't be. ]
[He has been selfish before, and so he shall be selfish again. He cannot see how worrying will help those who had been claimed by the storm: a heart heavy with cares makes a man immobile. He must set such cares aside for an afternoon at least. And Achilles looks at home here among the trees, with his tanned legs laid bare below the hem of his tunic, and his feet naked in the grass, and the sea calling from just beyond their grassy couch. For all his noble blood he is a son of the wilds too, raised upon the jutting jaw of Mount Pelion as much as in the grand halls of his father's house.
As he readies his lyre and purposes to settle down beside Olivia, he is surprised to hear the familiar tune reworked in the forge of her throat. His gaze is warm upon her.]
Remember you this song? I had thought that as feverish as your mind was that night, you may have forgotten much of what passed. I am glad then to hear that in this I was mistaken.
[For he remembers well how he had marveled at the intimacy bound up in such simplicity.
This too is a rather simple gesture whose intimacy is nurtured between them. He sits now with his lyre balanced upon his thigh, and his fingers dance nimbly over the strings, pulling from them a tumbling cascade of notes: despite the long weeks without practice, the sound comes with the fluidity of a stream which curves into the sea. After the braided scales have faded into the air, he pauses.]
However, I shall play for you now a different song. Do you care for tales of love?
[ the look with which she grants him after that question is an equal mixture of amusement and surprise. brows crinkling and lips pursed into a line barely holding back a laugh, though she takes care not to let out any sound; she'd hate to ruin the moment by laughing, even if she doesn't mean to laugh in his expense. ]
Asking me if I care for love stories is like asking me if I make a hobby of performance art, [ she responds instead, with a kinder, more playful tone.
they are still getting to know each other, after all, so it's understandable that he would be unsure. but she has never been very good at keeping her emotions at bay — it only made sense that someone who should feel so strongly all the time should gravitate towards the stories that would not only highlight that, but glorify it.
to prove her point, she shuffles even closer to where he's perched, turned almost completely towards her, attention rapt. ]
[He returns with a light tone and a grin hanging ripe from his lips.]
So it was the question of a fool - of course, I should have known that one as passionate as you, fair Olivia, must take to tales of love as one ordinarily takes to wine and bread.
[So speaking, his fingers caress again the lyre's strings, coaxing from it a lilting melody into which he soon weaves his voice, whose notes richly gleam as does the polished wood of the instrument in his hands.]
I sing of Zephyrus, whose love does arouse The crowns and lithe limbs of ash trees to dance In rev'rie of times gone, remembered today, Whose love-sweet intentions so swift blew astray.
Sing do I too now of Leto's sleek-haired son, Apollo of the silver bow, who in love Burns brilliant as the sun which spills its light Upon the truth which in shade hides from sight.
O muses so fair, which mortal was't that won With beauty in bounty these keen divine eyes? 'Twas Hyacinth then fresh in manhood's first bloom, Whose youth-dewey petals would wilt to his tomb.
[He goes on to sing of how it was that Hyacinth was courted by both divinities; how the fair youth loved well the companionship of Phoebus Apollo, and they passed their days delighting in sport and song and one another's embrace; how Zephyrus grew jealous for want of Hyacinth's favor, and in his bitter fury he blew upon the discus, thus sending it to strike the youth's noble brow; and how from the blood which soaked the earth where fell fair Hyacinth, Apollo in mourning grew the deep violet blossoms which today decorate fields.
With each stanza that pours forth, Achilles' eyes find Olivia that he may drink in her reaction to every turn in the tale. When the final note rings out over the rocks and fades into the foaming sea, somber for the tragic loss of life and youth, yet hopeful for the new beauty which flourishes thence, his hand withdraws from the strings to rest instead upon the instrument's wooden arms.]
[ so he looks, and so he shall find: a kaleidoscope of emotions that flicker and shift upon her visage. from wonder, to delight, to pain and horror and sorrow, to finally that bittersweet look of seeking hope in solemnity. by the time the final chord of his tale tapers off into silence, there are tears that dot along the long lashes of her eyes, threatening to spill with each flutter. ]
Oh, [ she says, though it is more like a breath in the way the single word seems to shudder throughout her body. one hand is placed over the swell of her chest, resting atop her pattering heart. the other has found his knee, seeking something outside of herself to found ground in. ]
It's humbling, isn't it...? That a love so pure and divine can also fall victim to tragedy.
[ she sniffs a bit, more overcome than she anticipated. ]
And you continue to sing beautifully, my Lord. Though I didn't doubt that for a second.
[A smile softly shapes his lips, and his eyes stay on her: it is for this precise reason that her prefers a more intimate audience. The emotions suspended in someone's countenance cannot be seen with such clarity at a distance, yet here he can discern the bright tears which gather at her eyelashes like raindrops upon the jagged edges of leaves. For more than just the proximity of their bodies and the warm shade of her hand upon his knee, he feels connected to her.]
Even the gods hold sorrows in their hearts. As a man limited by the mortality in my blood, there is nothing so fearful to think on as black death - and yet a god too feels the weight of death's pall when it is a mortal who wins his love, for while his lover passes through death's gate he must live forevermore without that lover's sweet words and sweeter touch.
[One hand he places over hers where it perches upon his knee. With his thumb he caresses the knob of her wrist.]
Your compliments give me great pleasure, and your delight is plain. Truly, music must resonate deep within your breast for you to be stirred to such passions: this is one of Phoebus Apollo's gifts to men.
[ olivia cannot imagine a pain such as that, but she has always been quite empathetic without even trying, and so her voice is thick with the sorrow a god must feel when faced with such a devastating future of loneliness. she thinks it might be akin to the pain one feels when one's love is not achieved... to stand alone in your love while the object of your affection carries on content without you.
—or perhaps she is merely projecting now.
upon sensing his hand fall over hers, her cheeks color under his attention, feeling the full weight of it now that her eyes are not busy watching his fingers pluck at strings. ]
It's true, I've danced and sung to music before, but I admit I've never created it myself. There were many talented bards in my troupe, [ she confesses, feeling sheepish. ] But I don't think I can say I've ever even held an instrument before.
[Achilles knows well the pain of losing a lover to death, like a sword which cuts not flesh but something more tender, and its blade is at once sharp upon the nerves and yet blunt in how it mangles the heart's tendons, both breath-stealing in its swiftness and excruciating in its slow crawl. He had found some scrap of peace with which to drape his cold shoulders only in the vengeance wrought upon Hector, and the forgiveness gathered for Priam: but above all there is comfort in knowing that Patroclus' ashes wait for him, and when death claims him as he fears it must they shall again be together on Acheron's far shore.
It is a hope that strains at his breast.
With her before him, too, peace is palpable.]
Would you care to do so, Olivia? I can teach you the lyre's notes that you may delight ever more in its music. If you are half so laden with music's gift as you are with skill in dance, then a fine player you shall make.
[ and, just like that, the serenity of the moment is shattered.
though to call it ruined would be a bit melodramatic, but she has certainly reverted back to the flustered, meek woman she might be more typically known for. her hands lift from him, waving in the air as a look of surprise flashes across her face. ]
O-Oh no — I couldn't possibly...!
[ she gestures towards the lyre, and where she had been bold enough as to so easily touch him moments ago, now she can't even seem to bring herself to be within arm's reach of the instrument itself. ]
That lyre was a gift to you — a divine gift! A peasant girl like me can't lay hands on it — it'd be blasphemy!
[He remembers how when first they met he delighted in her shifts to shrinking violet, for by such shifts he could mark his effect on her: although still her cheeks are pretty when blooming thus, he has now learned that when she flusters she is sealing herself off. It is when she sheds her shyness and opens herself that she is most radiant.
And so he persists in gently prying her from that shell once more.]
What need have you to fret so? Though a peasant you claim to be, there is nobility in your beauty, in the grace with which you dance, and in your compassionate heart. If truly I did not find you worthy, I should not care to pass time in your company.
Here-- [He shifts closer, that the space between them stitches shut, and he sets the lyre in her lap. His arms encircle her, ghosting her lithe limbs: one hand steadies the instrument's arm while the other grasps her hand and guides it to the strings. His golden hair brushes against her shoulder, and his voice is warm by her cheek.]
If you will not lay your hands upon it, then lay only one.
Edited (every day i'm editing) 2016-06-01 02:38 (UTC)
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[Although he cannot see her visage, nor the worry-bruised marks beneath her eyes, he knows her well enough that he can conjecture how the current climate has weighed upon her.]
Will you meet me outside the guest house [aka the inn] that we might walk together to somewhere we can better delight in one another's company?
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she supposes she should be happy; it's been too long since she'd longed for a song. ]
I would love to, [ she says, and already she's begun to move. it won't be long at all till she's there at the first step, hands folded delicately over her lap while she waits. as usual, saffron stands vigil at her side, though the young lion looks rather bored in contrast to her quiet anxiety. ]
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Upon her, he casts a grin. While worry has not shrouded him as it has her in these past few days, his heart is not left empty of his own cares: he therefore yearns for levity and seeks it in her company.]
Closer to the shore there stands a grove of trees, which I have found to be quiet and hidden from those with less discerning eyes - it is there that I wish to bring you, Olivia.
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she pivots towards him like a flower to the sun, and (not for the first time) she finds herself aching to reach out for him — if only to further find her ground.
relief clouds her voice, too, making her somewhat breathless despite having stood still in her wait. ]
You needn't have to do so much for me, [ she insists, but it comes off as something more customary than her usual brand of altruisim. in this moment, brimming with anxious energy, she can only think of her selfishness, of seeking comfort in the company of a person far stronger, more immovable than her.
when he's close enough, her gaze shifts to the instrument he holds in his hands. genuine awe and wonderment lights up her features, hands coming up to clasp delicately over her chest. ]
Oh, my Lord... Is this it? It's beautiful...
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Then she stirs, and the shell around her splits. Where she seeks steadiness, Achilles is willing to provide, for men were made sturdy as are pillars.
When her eyes lights upon the lyre, he delights in the awe which gleams from her features, and he shows off the instrument readily.]
Does it please you? You need not fret so, for it shall be my pleasure to share music with you - I find great comfort in pulling melodies from the lyre's strings, and so it is for my own sake too that I wish to play. Since receiving my lyre this morning I've only tested the strings to ensure their condition is suitable, but I've played no further. I wished to wait, that the songs I've not heard in long weeks might be fresh again in my ears, and thus I might share in your delight.
[With a gesture of his arm, and a nod of his head, he implies that they should walk.]
no subject
Achilles, that's—
[ she lets out a breath, just a tiny puff of disbelief and gratitude. her cheeks warm, and she smiles sheepishly, despite herself.
she shifts on her feet, eager for the distraction of walking to draw her mind out of some muddy thoughts. biting down on her lip, she lifts a hand to press over her chest, wondering at the odd feeling of heaviness there. ]
I'm honored that you would think of me like that. I only wish you had a bigger audience to better appreciate your gift.
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There is none here who could make a better audience than you. I care not about performing for great crowds: it is not for the admiration of the many that I play my lyre, but the pleasure of the few who truly matter. Would you not say too that such a crowd would ruin our enjoyment of one another? What need have we for their company?
[So speaking, they have entered the swath of forest which curves around the inn, and down the trodden dirt path he leads her. The farther they twist through the trees, the narrower the path will become, and the more nuanced, blending with the forest as light blends into shadow on a cloud-laden day.]
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I suppose you're right, [ she says around a shy smile, words laced with an unspoken apology. she shrugs a little, bashfully glancing away as her words run away from her, spilling out before she has the chance to second-guess them. ]
Sometimes I forget that not every artist dreams of being center-stage in a large crowd...
[ it is a dream that seems to slip further and further away the more time she spends here. ]
Though I suppose as the son of a king, you could have an audience you wished for without struggle.
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He regards her with interest when she lets slip her words. She is quick to turn the conversation away from herself, but whether or not she likes it that is where he holds his attention.]
So this must be the dream you nurture deep in your bosom. Did you not live it, even if for just one night, when we held the festival? Although I suppose one night is not enough, just as one bite from a feast will not sate a man whose stomach has grumbled all the afternoon, and whose eyes have beheld all upon which he might sup. I should not find myself surprised to hear of this, for I have seen the way your passion consumes you when you dance: you take to the stage as a dove takes to the sky, and with twice the grace and beauty.
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I have performed for crowds before, [ she admits, after a pause to recollect herself. the deeper they journey into the forest, the closer she hovers by his side and the lower her voice drops. it's an unconscious effect of the privacy that the flora around them provides — an almost reverent reaction to the serene silence of nature. ]
But my dream...
[ she seems almost too shy to say it. as if it were something more than just a dream — like some secret part of herself she has never quite been confident enough to share.
frankly, she feels selfish for it. confidence is one thing, but conceit had never looked all that favorable to olivia, and she worries constantly that her true desires border that, if not flagrantly embody that. ]
I want to build a theater. [ once the words are out, it becomes easier to embellish than she had originally predicted. each word punctuated with a quickening of her breath and a skipping of her heart; far too eager, perhaps, to share this dream with another artist like herself. ]
One large enough to house hundreds, thousands of people, people who come from all around the world just to see me — [ she's spent her whole life on the move, flitting from one place to the other, chasing after the faint probability that maybe, here, or there, someone will want to see what she can do; wouldn't it be great if, finally, someone makes that journey for her? ] — and I get to share with them every dance I've learned, and every song I've picked up, and they'll shout my name and it'll all be worth it—
[ i'll be worth it.
she pauses, suddenly, as if only just realizing how much she's said.
unconsciously, she has begun to play with the cloth that hangs from her wrists — one that should look familiar to her companion. her other, furrier companion, keeping vigil at her other side, takes note of her gesture and perks his ears up in interest.
she ducks her head, catching the lion cub's eyes. ]
—or. Something like that.
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He had never asked after Deidamia's dreams: what would a princess of a smudge of an island wish for but the love of a husband and later a son to carry on Lycomedes' flickering legacy? It was he who spoke of his dream for glory, complained of being cooped up on Scyros, and she who listened, coaxed him to stay with her and their child, failed to hold him back from the war that was calling his name.
Briseis' dream had been only to return to the home from which he had stolen her, and the family whose blood his own spear had drank. This he learned secondhand from Patroclus - in the balm of his embrace, she kept her sorrows submerged and showed only the obedience and tenderness that is expected of a spear-bride.
This moment that he shares with Olivia, then, hemmed in tightly by the solemn silence of the trees, is something rare.
Then as quickly as she had bloomed, Olivia fades again, a flower which by the end of the day seals itself from the night. Even as she busies her eyes with her scarf and the lion cub bounding along underfoot, he holds a gentle smile.]
Indeed, it is not so very difficult to believe that your dancing could draw such a crowd from all corners of the earth: they would come as do flies tempted by a bit of honey, or moths entranced by the glow of fire. I should like to find myself a guest in your theater house, that I might see you dance night after night. It is a shame, then, that you remain in the custody of the sons of Alastair - it is here in this accursed crew that dreams drift out of reach.
[His smile thus flattens under his displeasure toward their circumstances. With her close by his side, enough so that on occasion his cloak might brush against her arm, such festering grievances find salve in her gentle presence.]
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she wonders about that now, now that there is one among them that knows. she wonders about the lightness she feels in her chest, like a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding had suddenly been released.
somehow, the fact that someone else within alastair is privy to her dream... somehow she feels she is one step closer to achieving it.
it's funny how that works, and she can't claim to know the logic of it, but there it is. and perhaps it is a feeling not only reserved for her. ]
...do you have a dream, Achilles? Will you tell me it?
[ they touch again, but this time it is with purpose: her hand lifts to lay along his arm, just as it had the first time they'd met. but when then it had been to try and stay his words, now she wishes to encourage more of them. ]
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My dream has always been to win glory, that my name shall be decorated with my great deeds and all among the Achaeans shall know well my honor. This I have won in steep Ilios: among the horse-taming Trojans there is none whose heart is not chilled with fear by my very name, by the mere glint of my armor and shimmer of my helmet's crest. My spear has drank the blood of a thousand of their race, leaving a thousand wives widowed, and from King Priam I have robbed many sons, including murderous Hector, he who was the best of the Trojans. So too have I claimed many fine treasures from the cities I've sacked across the fertile plains by Scamander's river: bronze tripods, gold mixing bowls, sturdy racing horses, finely woven cloaks, and more which proclaim my honor. Troy is destined by Fate to fall, and thus the men who bravely flung themselves into the bloody jaws of war shall win honor for all of the Achaeans.
Even here, far across the stars and the vast black sea from which they shine, my name has been met with recognition: while I am fated to be cast through death's gate, my name it seems has imbibed a draught of immortality. What greater fame could be dreampt of?
All I can think to pray for more is that before I die I might see again my dear father Peleus, who in fertile Phthia grows older and all the while knows not if his only son shall ever return from Troy. But I do not expect that I ever shall.
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though his dreams may be steeped in blood and warfare, they are at their core not entirely unlike those of a meager dancer wishing for the acknowledgement of the audience for whom she dances.
it is humanizing, and humbling, but also quite validating. it spreads a warmth in her chest that has her breathing a bit more easily, smiling with less strain. ]
Half a year ago, I never would have thought I would someday find myself traveling between words with the ability to heal at my fingertips...
[ she gives his arm a reassuring pat. ]
I wouldn't give up hope on seeing your father again, Achilles. More improbable things have happened.
[ her hand shifts along his arm, coming to rest just along the crook of it so that when they finally happen upon the clearing he had spoken of, they enter it arm-in-arm, like a lord and lady of the court.
once there, she disengages just so she can skip towards the center of the clearing and present herself to him, playfully lifting the ends of her cloak as if it were the folds of a dress, dipping into a low, graceful curtsy. ]
Your audience awaits, my Lord. Where would you have me?
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Still it is far too soon to declare that he has cheated Fate: there is old age to rob from him yet. He dare not let himself hope that his homecoming might glimmer beyond the horizon, where his father glows with pride for the glory he has won, and his son gazes upon that which all men strive to be.
To turn away from such pleasant reveries, however, is as easy as turning away from the thick warmth of the fire when in winter's bitter grip. Thus, he accepts Olivia's words with no more protest than a pensive expression, for women were made of soft curves and supple skin that in them men might find shelter from the world's hard edges.
Then the trees thin and the clearing unfolds before them, and her playfulness coaxes from him a grin. The stretch of grass is buttressed by rocks, jumbled and jagged, which slope down to the wine-dark sea, whose waves smooth their edges.]
My fair and worthy audience shall find no better seat than beside me.
[So speaking, the son of Peleus gently sets the lyre upon the soft grass, unclasps his cloak, and unwraps the fabric from his shoulders. Despite the wear on it from tireless use, its deep red fibers and intricate weave still boast the garment's superior quality. This he spreads over the ground, and he gestures to the seat he has created.]
Will you sit? And I shall join you, lovely-haired Olivia.
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it's.. nice, she decides. the levity of the situation might be somewhat forced but she cannot deny that she feels almost starved for it at this point. is it appropriate? should they really be doing this, enjoying each other's company, laughing, smiling, indulging in music and stolen touches while the nalawi mourn? while half of their own number are missing?
perhaps not. perhaps this time could be better used for other, more productive things.
though what those "things" are, olivia can only guess at at this point.
perhaps it is selfish, but she's grown rather tired of feeling so aimless and helpless.
an hour or two hidden away, spent in the company of a man who clearly delights in hers... that's not so bad, is it? surely it can't be. ]
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As he readies his lyre and purposes to settle down beside Olivia, he is surprised to hear the familiar tune reworked in the forge of her throat. His gaze is warm upon her.]
Remember you this song? I had thought that as feverish as your mind was that night, you may have forgotten much of what passed. I am glad then to hear that in this I was mistaken.
[For he remembers well how he had marveled at the intimacy bound up in such simplicity.
This too is a rather simple gesture whose intimacy is nurtured between them. He sits now with his lyre balanced upon his thigh, and his fingers dance nimbly over the strings, pulling from them a tumbling cascade of notes: despite the long weeks without practice, the sound comes with the fluidity of a stream which curves into the sea. After the braided scales have faded into the air, he pauses.]
However, I shall play for you now a different song. Do you care for tales of love?
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Asking me if I care for love stories is like asking me if I make a hobby of performance art, [ she responds instead, with a kinder, more playful tone.
they are still getting to know each other, after all, so it's understandable that he would be unsure. but she has never been very good at keeping her emotions at bay — it only made sense that someone who should feel so strongly all the time should gravitate towards the stories that would not only highlight that, but glorify it.
to prove her point, she shuffles even closer to where he's perched, turned almost completely towards her, attention rapt. ]
please love me
So it was the question of a fool - of course, I should have known that one as passionate as you, fair Olivia, must take to tales of love as one ordinarily takes to wine and bread.
[So speaking, his fingers caress again the lyre's strings, coaxing from it a lilting melody into which he soon weaves his voice, whose notes richly gleam as does the polished wood of the instrument in his hands.]
I sing of Zephyrus, whose love does arouse
The crowns and lithe limbs of ash trees to dance
In rev'rie of times gone, remembered today,
Whose love-sweet intentions so swift blew astray.
Sing do I too now of Leto's sleek-haired son,
Apollo of the silver bow, who in love
Burns brilliant as the sun which spills its light
Upon the truth which in shade hides from sight.
O muses so fair, which mortal was't that won
With beauty in bounty these keen divine eyes?
'Twas Hyacinth then fresh in manhood's first bloom,
Whose youth-dewey petals would wilt to his tomb.
[He goes on to sing of how it was that Hyacinth was courted by both divinities; how the fair youth loved well the companionship of Phoebus Apollo, and they passed their days delighting in sport and song and one another's embrace; how Zephyrus grew jealous for want of Hyacinth's favor, and in his bitter fury he blew upon the discus, thus sending it to strike the youth's noble brow; and how from the blood which soaked the earth where fell fair Hyacinth, Apollo in mourning grew the deep violet blossoms which today decorate fields.
With each stanza that pours forth, Achilles' eyes find Olivia that he may drink in her reaction to every turn in the tale. When the final note rings out over the rocks and fades into the foaming sea, somber for the tragic loss of life and youth, yet hopeful for the new beauty which flourishes thence, his hand withdraws from the strings to rest instead upon the instrument's wooden arms.]
throws panties at tbh
Oh, [ she says, though it is more like a breath in the way the single word seems to shudder throughout her body. one hand is placed over the swell of her chest, resting atop her pattering heart. the other has found his knee, seeking something outside of herself to found ground in. ]
It's humbling, isn't it...? That a love so pure and divine can also fall victim to tragedy.
[ she sniffs a bit, more overcome than she anticipated. ]
And you continue to sing beautifully, my Lord. Though I didn't doubt that for a second.
nice
Even the gods hold sorrows in their hearts. As a man limited by the mortality in my blood, there is nothing so fearful to think on as black death - and yet a god too feels the weight of death's pall when it is a mortal who wins his love, for while his lover passes through death's gate he must live forevermore without that lover's sweet words and sweeter touch.
[One hand he places over hers where it perches upon his knee. With his thumb he caresses the knob of her wrist.]
Your compliments give me great pleasure, and your delight is plain. Truly, music must resonate deep within your breast for you to be stirred to such passions: this is one of Phoebus Apollo's gifts to men.
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
[ olivia cannot imagine a pain such as that, but she has always been quite empathetic without even trying, and so her voice is thick with the sorrow a god must feel when faced with such a devastating future of loneliness. she thinks it might be akin to the pain one feels when one's love is not achieved... to stand alone in your love while the object of your affection carries on content without you.
—or perhaps she is merely projecting now.
upon sensing his hand fall over hers, her cheeks color under his attention, feeling the full weight of it now that her eyes are not busy watching his fingers pluck at strings. ]
It's true, I've danced and sung to music before, but I admit I've never created it myself. There were many talented bards in my troupe, [ she confesses, feeling sheepish. ] But I don't think I can say I've ever even held an instrument before.
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It is a hope that strains at his breast.
With her before him, too, peace is palpable.]
Would you care to do so, Olivia? I can teach you the lyre's notes that you may delight ever more in its music. If you are half so laden with music's gift as you are with skill in dance, then a fine player you shall make.
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though to call it ruined would be a bit melodramatic, but she has certainly reverted back to the flustered, meek woman she might be more typically known for. her hands lift from him, waving in the air as a look of surprise flashes across her face. ]
O-Oh no — I couldn't possibly...!
[ she gestures towards the lyre, and where she had been bold enough as to so easily touch him moments ago, now she can't even seem to bring herself to be within arm's reach of the instrument itself. ]
That lyre was a gift to you — a divine gift! A peasant girl like me can't lay hands on it — it'd be blasphemy!
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And so he persists in gently prying her from that shell once more.]
What need have you to fret so? Though a peasant you claim to be, there is nobility in your beauty, in the grace with which you dance, and in your compassionate heart. If truly I did not find you worthy, I should not care to pass time in your company.
Here-- [He shifts closer, that the space between them stitches shut, and he sets the lyre in her lap. His arms encircle her, ghosting her lithe limbs: one hand steadies the instrument's arm while the other grasps her hand and guides it to the strings. His golden hair brushes against her shoulder, and his voice is warm by her cheek.]
If you will not lay your hands upon it, then lay only one.
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fans self
crawls back in here
welcomes you to the trash pile
makes self comfy uwu
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paaaast the point of no return...