[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)
[ as delicate as the flower she wishes herself not to be, she bends and sways at just the slightest push and pull. like the dance she has dubbed their act to be, when he dares a step forward, she hastens back to reclaim the tenuous distance she'd tentatively placed between them.
because propriety, she chants in her head. because respect.
because the last time she stepped out of time, her partner drew back, choosing to sit the rest of the dance out.
(stupid. foolish. selfish. half of their own are missing, and here she is nursing a broken heart.) ]
You are... kind, my Lord. [ a small, sad smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but there is a warmth in the way he lines her back, as if to keep her from falling backwards (or further into herself) that prevents solemnity to traipse into her tone. ]
And far, far too generous.
[ both in sharing his gifts, and deciding worthiness.
but though her body had stiffened against his, she does not shift away. and though her eyes have not risen back to meet his, the hand beneath his has curled, fingertips tentatively plucking at a few strings. ]
Has ever man hurt another with generosity? Protest not, therefore.
[Achilles gives that he may receive. In his culture every exchange comes parceled with expectations: a man shares feast and gifts with a guest in his house in return for loyalty; he offers a bride price in return for another man's daughter to keep warm his bed and bear sons; and he gives sacrifices in return for the favor of the gods. Generosity is demanded that a man may grasp tight his reputation.
Here too is an exchange. His act may be taken as a token of love, although he gives nothing that Olivia can keep. Still it possesses tangibility: the heft of his palm embracing the back of her hand, the solid angles of his body shadowing her soft curves, and the weight of the lyre perched in her lap. Beneath her touch notes quietly unfurl from the strings as do birds in their incipient attempts at flight. Achilles guides her fingers from string to string, rising in a scale and then falling again from its zenith, and with each shift he hums the pitch there by her ear, that she might better learn its anatomy. He hopes that with every note the stiffness gathered in her shoulders smooths, like iron passed through the flame of a forge that it becomes malleable to the blacksmith's intentions.
After another stroll through each note he lets pause their hands, and begins to hum the lullaby from all those nights ago. The notes drift languidly from his throat and seem to hover on the breeze which brushes over the knoll upon which they sit. He feels no need to rush, nor to speak: the instrument speaks for itself, and in this pocket of quiet, intimacy thickens. When the melody circles back, he guides Olivia's finger to the correct string and urges her to pluck it.]
[ and so she does, prompted by both the desire to hear the music continue, and the urge to fill the silence that his lingering note leaves behind in its wake. the ache in her chest that she had been attempting to ignore for so long threatens to overtake her now, and in her desperation to try to move past it she plucks the string with too much strength, making the note cut through the serenity of the moment like a knife.
shamed, she shrinks back and tries again, and this time the note is as it should be.
in here reverie, she can't help but mull over that. at how, in her haste and selfishness, she had tried too hard with another, insisted on things that he was not ready for or willing to do, like pulling on a string that did not have the right give for that force... and in the end, it only ends on a sour note. perhaps she had been overzealous, and instead should have let the music go on as it should have, rather than try to force it into her own rhythm. ]
[He is one not touched by the ache of rejection. The call to arms had stolen him away from one lover, and it was her heart that fractured while his, although bruised, was buoyed by the promise of glory that waited beyond the horizon; yet cold death had robbed from him another lover, and so for the first time he had learned how the heart when broken collapses to a dark cavity. For all the blithe ardor with which he pursues Olivia, still he cradles this tender ache. In her he seeks not a replacement with which to fill the hole punctured in his heart: Patroclus had been his second self, and for that there is no replacement. His memory is untouchable, as out of reach from others as it is to Achilles tantalizing. Nor can the love a man harbors for a woman touch on the love he harbors for a brother in arms: one is the sun, and the other its dim imitation, a fire.
Even so, man requires fire that he might warm and nourish himself, and so he is drawn to her lovely flickering light.]
Yes, you are doing well, Olivia.
[So murmuring this encouragement, he hums the next note and again guides her hand to the proper string. Achilles knows the body of the lyre well enough that he need not even look, and instead his lidded eyes rest upon her beside him, so close that she consumes his field of vision. While she concentrates on the string beneath her finger, he presses his lips to her soft cheek and there he lingers, that the kiss stays suspended as does the note she plucks. He waits for her reaction: just as she tests the pliability of the lyre's strings, so too does he test her.]
[ it is with shock that she meets his gesture, though in retrospect she'll find she hadn't any reason to be so surprised. the signs were all there, after all, evident even before they'd both taken their seats upon his cloak. whether or not she'd been purposefully obtuse to it is a subject for further analysis later — had she not seen because she did not want to see? Or had she not seen because she was afraid of how much she'd like it?
it's true — there are many different types of love. but for olivia, one does not trump over the other, and why should it?
love is not a competition, it is a blessing. should you find yourself lucky enough to be visited by that passion, isn't it only right to welcome it in? ]
I'm — glad, [ she winds up saying, breathing more like. the words themselves stutter out of her lips as if they were nothing more than mere afterthought after the shallow breaths she's now only capable of producing, chest rising and falling like its wont to right before a grand performance. and, just like right before a performance, she has to wonder—
is it fear or is it anticipation?
but just like with any dance, when your partner moves, so should you in turn. so while he lingers, she leans in, turning ever so slightly towards him. ]
[He had not planned to divert her down this path when first he invited her to join him - but nor had he barred the possibility from his mind. Where his passions tug him he shall readily follow.
The moment appears ripe, ready to be plucked from the vine off of which it so enticingly hangs, plump with juice and flushed with color. Achilles imbibes her breathy anticipation - for that is how he chooses to understand it - and lets swell his own desire: as the hand which reaches out to collect that tempting fruit, so too does he lean in to capture her lips with his own.
This time there is no gauzy strip of fabric to barricade her from him. There is only heat, languid and dreamy like the notes which have since evaporated into the silence that gathers around them as a veil. Here they are hidden.
His fingers curl into the spaces between hers, welcoming her to blur whatever borders may hold them separate, while still his other hand holds steady the lyre's arm. He knows how easily she shies away, how easily she wilts, and so he wishes to let her ease into him as one eases into water.]
[ later, much later, she will wonder if she had planned for it. though certainly this whole endeavor hadn't really been her doing, but she will entertain the idea of the hope for it, at least, and wonder if perhaps her aching heart had been signaling his to heal it.
whatever the reason, there is time enough to mull over it later. now, though, now... now she must take in the taste of him, no longer impeded by the thin strip of cloth she'd once used as a means of cheating. now she can take in the smell of him, a musk that at this proximity is intoxicating. it is easy to drown herself in him, drifting closer where his hand has curled, twisting in her place so that she may lean into his half-embrace, still somehow mindful not to jostle the lyre too much in her haste.
small hands have drifted up now, one curling around the base of his neck to play with the strands of hair there, while the other tentatively cups his cheek, almost imploring him to remain while she indulges in him.
there is no meekness here, but a similar fire burning within herself. misguided, perhaps. lonely, perhaps. but no less passionate than the fire she captures in her mouth right now, eager to call him hers if only for the evening. ]
[Although Achilles has the habit of letting his passions consume him as does one who plunges into a river and lets the water swallow him whole, lets the current carry him along, it would be inaccurate to presume this act absent of thought. His inhibitions have not been robbed from him: he deliberately chooses to shed them and lay them aside like clothing peeled away from a lover's body. He is all too aware of the plumpness of her lips and the warm insistence of her hands, the caress of her hair when a breeze flutters wisps of it against his face, and the sweet earthy aroma whose embrace he remembers from the last time they were stitched so close together.
Every allowance she makes whets his appetite ever more. When Olivia busies her hands with his hair and his beard, he leans in to recover the lyre from her lap, taking care so as not to disturb her from her passions. He breaks the seal of their lips for only a moment as he sets the instrument aside: then his lips are upon her again, fervent and heavy like the air before a rainstorm shakes loose the day's haze. He nips at her lower lip, tugs with his teeth, teases with his tongue, ravenous after his long fast.
Further and further does he lean into Olivia with his hand upon her waist, reassuring her that he will go nowhere, urging her to lie down. Gone is the patience he had affected just moments ago: it has turned to ash upon the pyre of his desires and is now scattered to the winds.]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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!
no subject
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.
no subject
because propriety, she chants in her head. because respect.
because the last time she stepped out of time, her partner drew back, choosing to sit the rest of the dance out.
(stupid. foolish. selfish. half of their own are missing, and here she is nursing a broken heart.) ]
You are... kind, my Lord. [ a small, sad smile tugs at the corner of her lips, but there is a warmth in the way he lines her back, as if to keep her from falling backwards (or further into herself) that prevents solemnity to traipse into her tone. ]
And far, far too generous.
[ both in sharing his gifts, and deciding worthiness.
but though her body had stiffened against his, she does not shift away. and though her eyes have not risen back to meet his, the hand beneath his has curled, fingertips tentatively plucking at a few strings. ]
fans self
[Achilles gives that he may receive. In his culture every exchange comes parceled with expectations: a man shares feast and gifts with a guest in his house in return for loyalty; he offers a bride price in return for another man's daughter to keep warm his bed and bear sons; and he gives sacrifices in return for the favor of the gods. Generosity is demanded that a man may grasp tight his reputation.
Here too is an exchange. His act may be taken as a token of love, although he gives nothing that Olivia can keep. Still it possesses tangibility: the heft of his palm embracing the back of her hand, the solid angles of his body shadowing her soft curves, and the weight of the lyre perched in her lap. Beneath her touch notes quietly unfurl from the strings as do birds in their incipient attempts at flight. Achilles guides her fingers from string to string, rising in a scale and then falling again from its zenith, and with each shift he hums the pitch there by her ear, that she might better learn its anatomy. He hopes that with every note the stiffness gathered in her shoulders smooths, like iron passed through the flame of a forge that it becomes malleable to the blacksmith's intentions.
After another stroll through each note he lets pause their hands, and begins to hum the lullaby from all those nights ago. The notes drift languidly from his throat and seem to hover on the breeze which brushes over the knoll upon which they sit. He feels no need to rush, nor to speak: the instrument speaks for itself, and in this pocket of quiet, intimacy thickens. When the melody circles back, he guides Olivia's finger to the correct string and urges her to pluck it.]
crawls back in here
shamed, she shrinks back and tries again, and this time the note is as it should be.
in here reverie, she can't help but mull over that. at how, in her haste and selfishness, she had tried too hard with another, insisted on things that he was not ready for or willing to do, like pulling on a string that did not have the right give for that force... and in the end, it only ends on a sour note. perhaps she had been overzealous, and instead should have let the music go on as it should have, rather than try to force it into her own rhythm. ]
...i-is this right?
welcomes you to the trash pile
Even so, man requires fire that he might warm and nourish himself, and so he is drawn to her lovely flickering light.]
Yes, you are doing well, Olivia.
[So murmuring this encouragement, he hums the next note and again guides her hand to the proper string. Achilles knows the body of the lyre well enough that he need not even look, and instead his lidded eyes rest upon her beside him, so close that she consumes his field of vision. While she concentrates on the string beneath her finger, he presses his lips to her soft cheek and there he lingers, that the kiss stays suspended as does the note she plucks. He waits for her reaction: just as she tests the pliability of the lyre's strings, so too does he test her.]
makes self comfy uwu
it's true — there are many different types of love. but for olivia, one does not trump over the other, and why should it?
love is not a competition, it is a blessing. should you find yourself lucky enough to be visited by that passion, isn't it only right to welcome it in? ]
I'm — glad, [ she winds up saying, breathing more like. the words themselves stutter out of her lips as if they were nothing more than mere afterthought after the shallow breaths she's now only capable of producing, chest rising and falling like its wont to right before a grand performance. and, just like right before a performance, she has to wonder—
is it fear or is it anticipation?
but just like with any dance, when your partner moves, so should you in turn. so while he lingers, she leans in, turning ever so slightly towards him. ]
no subject
The moment appears ripe, ready to be plucked from the vine off of which it so enticingly hangs, plump with juice and flushed with color. Achilles imbibes her breathy anticipation - for that is how he chooses to understand it - and lets swell his own desire: as the hand which reaches out to collect that tempting fruit, so too does he lean in to capture her lips with his own.
This time there is no gauzy strip of fabric to barricade her from him. There is only heat, languid and dreamy like the notes which have since evaporated into the silence that gathers around them as a veil. Here they are hidden.
His fingers curl into the spaces between hers, welcoming her to blur whatever borders may hold them separate, while still his other hand holds steady the lyre's arm. He knows how easily she shies away, how easily she wilts, and so he wishes to let her ease into him as one eases into water.]
no subject
whatever the reason, there is time enough to mull over it later. now, though, now... now she must take in the taste of him, no longer impeded by the thin strip of cloth she'd once used as a means of cheating. now she can take in the smell of him, a musk that at this proximity is intoxicating. it is easy to drown herself in him, drifting closer where his hand has curled, twisting in her place so that she may lean into his half-embrace, still somehow mindful not to jostle the lyre too much in her haste.
small hands have drifted up now, one curling around the base of his neck to play with the strands of hair there, while the other tentatively cups his cheek, almost imploring him to remain while she indulges in him.
there is no meekness here, but a similar fire burning within herself. misguided, perhaps. lonely, perhaps. but no less passionate than the fire she captures in her mouth right now, eager to call him hers if only for the evening. ]
paaaast the point of no return...
Every allowance she makes whets his appetite ever more. When Olivia busies her hands with his hair and his beard, he leans in to recover the lyre from her lap, taking care so as not to disturb her from her passions. He breaks the seal of their lips for only a moment as he sets the instrument aside: then his lips are upon her again, fervent and heavy like the air before a rainstorm shakes loose the day's haze. He nips at her lower lip, tugs with his teeth, teases with his tongue, ravenous after his long fast.
Further and further does he lean into Olivia with his hand upon her waist, reassuring her that he will go nowhere, urging her to lie down. Gone is the patience he had affected just moments ago: it has turned to ash upon the pyre of his desires and is now scattered to the winds.]