Chapter Text
“The gods do not forsake their children,” says Grantaire, over the rim of a kylix which takes him both hands to hold. “How, then, has Aphrodite Anaduomenê left her son to the battlefield, and lavished her attention upon the man who brought ruin to Ilios? I will tell you why- it is because she is ashamed of our high-hearted hero, and would rather spend her protection on those of us whose emotions she can toy with, who would pursue passion instead of the hope of-”
“Grantaire,” says Musichetta, to whom he has been speaking, “You should get some rest. It will be nightfall soon, and the fighting will stop once it is too dark to see.” Beside her reclines Joly, who was struck by a Greek spear two weeks before. The wound is nearly closed, but he still claims to feel light-headed when he stands, and he eats little. Grantaire knows that this is just another of Joly’s ghost sicknesses, but he dares not say so- for who would believe him? He takes another drink from the kylix.
Sunset-colored light streams in the small window, making patterns in rose and orange upon the flagstone floor.
“How have you been taking your wine?” asks Combeferre, appearing suddenly in the doorway. He is still halfway in armor, his bronze greaves blood-splattered and the red dust thick in his brown hair, and there is a long scrape running down his cheek. Grantaire quickly drains what little wine remains in the bowl before Ferre can tell that he has been drinking it unwatered.
“Where is Bossuet?” asks Joly, sitting up in a panic.
“He is coming,” mumbles Grantaire, setting down the kylix and eyeing the rest of the jug of wine still sitting on the table.
Neither Musichetta nor Joly seem to hear him, and Ferre has to settle them before Bossuet himself appears, looking rueful.
“I cut my hand,” he says.
“We pushed the Greek forces away from the walls for the night,” says Combeferre, sitting down with a wince. “They have been nearly driven back to the loud-roaring sea, and most of the other captains believe that we can force a full retreat within the year.”
Grantaire feels his whole body shudder beneath the weight of prophecy, and he blinks and opens his eyes to look up at Ferre’s face as grey as dust, with blood dripping down over his bruised eyes- “The year turns towards its closing too quickly, tamer of horses,” he hears himself say from far away. He presses his eyes shut and fumbles for the jug of wine, but the words will not stop coming. “The people think you their shepherd, second only to brave Enjolras, but there are wolves on the plains of Troy, and their teeth are sharp and fit for rending shepherds and sheep both.” He takes a breath, and then another, and then as the worried gazes of everyone else in the room fall upon him he pours the kylix full of uncut wine and drinks deeply to drown out the buzzing in his ears.
“The wolves,” he mutters, looking back up at Ferre. “With their hands darkened as though dipped in this very wine. No one believes me or the words I say, so I will lie to you now and tell you that of course, of course you will see the year to its end, and the Achaean warriors will fall back and sail across the foam-topped waves by the light of rosy Eos. Of course they will, and there will be great celebration in the city, and enough wine to satisfy even me.” Grantaire smiles and takes another draught. One of these days, he hopes, the wine will cloud his senses permanently, so that the whispering and the visions are silenced, but until then he is only the mad son of the king, who cannot be sent out to fight for fear that he will spend his time swapping stories and bottles with the men of Greece.
“There may not be quite that much wine,” says Bossuet, laughing. Joly has begun trying to rewrap his hand, and is complaining of the dirtiness of the bandage. Grantaire sighs into his wine.
“By the way,” he says. His speech has become slightly slurred at the edges, but still he hears the whispers. “How fared the other captains? Is Enjolras still waiting for the king to change the way he portions out glory, or has he returned to his place on the front? Were the world just, then just men would be justly proportioned their- ah,” he breaks off awkwardly, “Do not mind me. Go and polish your armor and trade your honors and wait for rose-armed Eos to bring a new day of sorrows.”
“Grantaire,” Combeferre says softly, and then closes his mouth, for Grantaire is staring resolutely at the wall and seems altogether done with talking.