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Chapter Text

Smoke stained the air of all of Lakedaimon.

As devastating as it would be, many would undoubtedly prefer the fires to be from conflagrations sparked by the late summer heat catching fire in golden-dry grass, burned thin and brittle by the sun. Or even by armies come to siege and sack their cities, a quicker death than what was currently plaguing the land.

Quite literally plaguing it, for sickness had taken hold of the cities. Was creeping ever deeper, into the villages and settlements out onto the water-fed fields, all the way out to the coast.

Aphrodite is angry, the seer consulted after several months had said when the situation only kept getting worse instead of things running its hopefully normal course. Especially when they realized that the lack of increase in the flocks last year, when a surprising, straggling few calves and lambs had been born, had swelled into complete and utter barrenness in this year, both in the flocks and in the houses. The sickness, they realized, was merely a second, harsher lash of divine fury, even as the previously unnoticed sterility came to complete fulfilment. Menelaos, gripped by a cold sweat, had rectified what he'd forgotten four years hence. Even gripped by the sweetly heady rush, tinged by incredulity, of standing in front of Helen, her slender hands in his as they married, he still shouldn't have forgotten to sacrifice to to the goddess of love.

That was over two weeks ago.

"If my brothers' seers have no answer, we'll have to go to Delphi next," Helen said quietly, a frown carved deep enough between her brows the beauty spot between them was wholly swallowed as she searched the sky above them. There were no birds to see, except for swallows soaring high, so far up they were little more than black specks. There was nothing unusual to be found in that. "Which will take time, both there and back, and then the time to fulfil whatever the Pythia might say will be needed."

"Yes," Menelaos agreed, hands tight enough on the reins he continually had to adjust his grip, for it was aggravating the poor horses. "I know I shouldn't have forgotten..."

Their chariot jostling again, Menelaos cursed silently and eased up on his knuckle-aching grip once more. Glanced to Helen, but she seemed unbothered despite the nearly fully-grown weight she had to deal with. Amazingly enough; she was the only thing, animal or mortal woman, pregnant within the whole of Lakedaimon, and was, even, due to soon give birth. Had Aphrodite had mercy in this one instance, a favour to a beloved favourite, if not to him? Menelaos didn't dare hope, but by the months passed, the barrenness among the animals would already well have taken hold by the time the seed spilled within her would've begun to grow, so it was the only thing that made sense.

A realization that didn't help her anxieties, despite Helen's firm footing. Perhaps they ought to have taken a wagon, for aside from being a much more comfortable ride for Helen when she was pregnant, it would've been less susceptible to the vagaries of his worries being transferred to the horses. Helen had insisted on the quickest mode of transportation they had, however, so a chariot it was.

"So quick to take blame," his wife murmured, reaching over from where she had her hand fisted in the flounced layers of her skirts underneath the impressive swell of her stomach, needing only one hand on the chariot's rail to keep her balance. Menelaos suspected she only kept that hand there to appease him, especially because of her condition, and that she could stand sure-footed even on rougher ground than this straight road. Even like this. Could, perhaps, deal just as easily if the horses were in a full-out run, compared to this long-legged canter. He was rather thankful she made the gesture, if only for his sake. Now she wound her arm around the crook of his elbow, squeezing the meat of his forearm.

Menelaos swallowed, shaking his head, though the warmth of her hand eased him to once more ease up on his grip on the reins. Gentle warmth seeped into his arm, but it couldn't quite soften his darkened mood. Sleep had been hard, and yet he had little energy - he knew he could be slow to act, sometimes, but taking responsibility was at least straightforward.

"The seer is quiet," Menelaos said, chest tight and throat tighter, having to swallow down a tearful weight of as much guilt as concern, "and the sickness persists. No new animals have been born when they should have, and we'll be lucky if we see any born next year. I know I faulted - what else is there?"

"The seer is quiet," Helen agreed, hand tightening its grip as she leaned in. She was steady as a rock despite the regular jostling of the chariot no lighter grip on the reins or a smoother road could eliminate, and kissed his temple. "So until we have other proof, you have done your due diligence."

Sighing, Menelaos sagged a little. He had no argument for that, and Helen could for all that be correct. The words yet couldn't quite soothe him for long, as much as they ought to. The weight on his chest crept back in the more road the horses' legs ate, though he tried to tell himself that with arrival to Pharis there would be answers, and with answers there could come action. Action that now would hopefully lead to relief.

Menelaos wasn't the only one who grew tenser the closer they came to Pharis, however. Where Helen had begun the trip standing straight and firm beside him, face forward or searching the sky, she was now pressed in close enough he could feel her against him from ankle to shoulder, much like a calf comes seeking comfort and security from her mother, having bounded too far away from her sturdy shadow. The hand on his elbow was relaxed, but a glance sideways revealed Helen was clutching the rail hard enough to turn her knuckles white. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shifted his jaw around several possibilities, their words half formed, empty half-shapes against his tongue, and knew what he most wanted to say would be rejected.

"We could take a break," Menelaos finally offered, though that wasn't a solution.

Helen shook her head, gold jangling softly from her dangling earrings, sunlight catching in the tiny row of carnelian beads. Her gaze was locked onto the distant horizon and the growing shadow of the hills. Taking a break would really only drag the painful anticipation of soon arriving at Pharis out for longer, so would undoubtedly not help, but it was all he could think of.

Telling Helen yesterday she could just remain in Sparta, not because of her being pregnant and this close to birth - even if that was what he'd wished to say - but rather because her mother needed her presence more than he currently did, hadn’t gone very well. Perhaps he should've asked Leda to suggest it, instead of saying it right after Helen had suggested they go to Pharis and see if her brothers’ seer had anything more to say.

"We can't make Sparta, nor the whole of Lakedaimon, wait. It's not far now, anyway."

True statement, but it also had Helen flinch about her grip on the chariot rail even as she spoke the words. Menelaos' heart quailed for it, yet there was little he could do, when he had little understanding to offer. He'd been so young, when Atreus had murdered Aerope, and he'd had no tears to shed when Aegisthus had killed Atreus, for the man had been no kind father. Shock, certainly, that the towering shadow, cast so long throughout the whole of Mycenae, would no longer trouble them. Shock and incredulity when he and Agamemnon were tossed out of Mycenae, but no grief for the man killed. Helen had nothing but grief for the death of her mortal father, and this would be the first time since the funeral a year ago that they would be going back to Pharis.

"Helen--- what can I do?"

"You're here," Helen said with a shake of her head, then turning it to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, lingering despite the jostling.

Whether that was actually enough, could ever be enough as much as he hoped it was, Menelaos could of course not know. Could only be glad she’d softened from her temper of yesterday evening. When he was left uncertain of what to say or do other than suggestions to stay in Sparta, which Helen wouldn't have wanted, or to simply remain at her side, just as she'd now said was what she required, there was little else he could do. That they also had this sickness to worry themselves with, so close to Tyndareos' death, was a cruelty.

By now they truly weren't far from the city and its palace, but compared to normal, when they would've entered the city under the north-facing gate in the city wall, closest as it was to the road they were using, now Menelaos steered them around the sturdy wall instead. Followed the city along its edge outside of the wall, to reach a gate that was much closer to the citadel.

Over Pharis, too, there hung smoke, and while neither of them had fallen ill yet, it would be irresponsible of him to take them through the city, no matter how still it might be with as many people as possible hiding in their houses instead of moving about on the streets. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if Helen fell ill. The extra time it took to reach the palace by this route probably helped nothing, and the hill made for a somewhat less smooth ride. Helen was now gripping Menelaos' upper arm so tight one might think it was for the need of support. That was of course not why she was near to pinching shallow gouges with her nails into his arm, but even if she had truly punctured the flesh Menelaos would have said nothing. If all he could be was a firm pillar for her to cling to when she needed it, that was what he would be.

Polydeukes and Kastor were waiting for them when the chariot was brought to a stop, undoubtedly having been informed of their approach by a watchman. Helen paused, waiting long enough so that when she turned, she did so into Kastor's waiting hands. Had it been only her and Menelaos, she would have leapt off the chariot without a care, possibly even while being burdened as she was, and Menelaos would've been glad to see it.

It would've been something normal, at the very least.

Not that this option was bad, especially in this moment when Helen needed it, but his wife feeling free to act in such a manner in front of him, and never really having had reason to doubt it was important to Menelaos. The couple of years that had passed since they married had only made the difference between how Helen could and would act, and how she might wish to all the starker, more opportunities to see that difference and understand what it meant.

That he could trust her to know when to act, and when not to, was good, of course. It still mostly meant he did wish her to have every opportunity otherwise.

"Helen," Kastor said, eyes narrowing as he looked her over and pointedly landed on her belly.

Helen frowned, her own luminous eyes narrowing in reply, but Polydeukes cleared his throat before either of his siblings could fall into an argument whether or not Helen ought to travel at this late stage. It would of course be safer if she wouldn't; pregnancy was hard enough on women as it was, and Helen's hadn't been kind on her, though that wasn't currently obvious. She simply refused to let it hinder her in anything she wished to do, when she could push it. And with the sickness currently gripping Lakedaimon, travelling about breathing potentially miasma-darkened air, though it seemed clear as the cool air of the mountains in winter, it was an even worse idea. But she would not be deterred. Especially not when it came to her city and country's well-being.

"Not now. We're glad to see you," Polydeukes said, smiling tightly, and Helen closed her eyes, all the tension - well, most of it - evaporating from her shoulders.

"Brother---" Helen's voice caught, having forgiven Kastor and so already winding one arm around his waist while reaching for Polydeukes.

The three-way hug was really no different from what Menelaos had been offering as well as giving her, so it wasn't sick unease born of insecurity that squirmed in his gut, but rather warm relief. He knew how much it was worth, when you had siblings to offer comfort. Not that Leda had not given as well as received comfort since and because of her husband's death. Menelaos was frankly glad for her presence, even if her moving back to Sparta after she, her husband, and their sons had moved the capital after Sparta had been given to him and Helen at their marriage, had only been caused by Tyndareos’ passing since Pharis now clearly hurt her, no matter how much she loved her sons.

In the end there were just some things only siblings could give.

The twins might be older than Helen by a number of years, but with Klytaimestra in Mycenae since she married Agamemnon, only come back to Lakedaimon for Menelaos' wedding with Helen and then Tyndareos' funeral, her other sisters also elsewhere with their own husbands, her brothers were the closest she had. Certainly they weren't the meaner option for that.

Exhaling sharply, Menelaos scrubbed his face and followed Helen off the chariot, handing it off to the two stablehands who came up to give the horses what they deserved after the ride here. Kastor, soon extricating himself from the three-way hug, leaned in, tipping his face up so he could murmur into Menelaos' ear.

"The seers have been quiet for you as well, after sacrifices, while the sickness and barrenness still persists?"

Menelaos' heart sank. He had little else to give but a nod, but couldn't corral his grimace before he managed to smooth his expression out, lips pressed thin.

"He said Aphrodite was angry. I did what I ought to h---"

"That's what our seer told us as well, saying something about old debts forgotten, so we made a sacrifice in Father's name. Not sure what the fuck's left, now." Kastor scratched his scalp and tugged on the curling ends of his hair, trailing down around the nape of his neck. "Suppose someone's gonna have to go to Del--- Thalia?"

Pharis' seer came walking out onto the courtyard with Hilaeira and Phoebe trailing behind with cups to offer their guests. Kastor, despite the current tension, was distracted enough by his wife's appearance he looked past Thalia to smile at Hilaeira. She flushed, a little smile on her face even as she immediately frowned and gestured to Thalia.

"Has something new come to light?" Helen, pulling away from Polydeukes, spoke up before anyone else, both of her brothers snapping their mouths shut on a clack of teeth. Her bright eyes blazed as she pinned poor Thalia with her stare, but with only a slight shift of feet and an angled dip of her head, Thalia seemed to take it in stride. Nodded, glancing with a little frown between Helen and Menelaos.

"To bring an end, to show the restitution offered after much delay has been sincerely meant, Sparta is to sacrifice at the tombs of Lycus and Chimaereus."

"Who?"

"Where?"

Polydeukes and Kastor spoke in perfect unison while they frowned at their seer. Thalia, her dark eyes enormous in her faintly lined face, spread her hands wide as she shrugged. Even as she did so, however, she drew breath, her gaze growing slightly distant.

"Mount Ida of the many fountains cradle the dead in her dells. Sacred Ilion can light the way." Thalia sunk down over one of her hands, and Helen, who had stepped forward to take the cup Phoebe was offering, caught the woman by her arm. Helping to steady her, Helen rolled her eyes when Polydeukes huffed.

"That doesn't tell us anything," he scoffed, then immediately turned towards Menelaos, gesturing between him and Hilaeira. His wife took the cue given to come over with the cup she still held since Thalia had support. "Here, Menelaos, drink."

Heart heavy in his chest where it’d lodged itself, Menelaos took the cup reflexively. There was little else he could do at the moment, for how were they to find out what other Mount Ida there might exist? It couldn't be the one in Crete, for Menelaos knew nothing of any Ilion on Crete at all, never mind around the mountain itself. How was he to do as was needed to ease the epidemic if they couldn't even found out where he would need to go? Would they need to go to Delphi anyway, despite that they had information that ought to be enough? Or should he go to Crete despite that he knew that couldn't be the destination meant. To ask Katreus if he might know, if there was something Menelaos didn't know, about an Ilion somewhere around the mountain?

"It does," Helen said with a flap of her hand, her other still resting at Thalia's elbow. She summarily ignored everyone else, perhaps even a little pointedly so in the case of her brothers' twin, exasperated-confused looks, to focus on Thalia for a moment. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Lady Helen," she chuckled warmly, but when a maidservant came over with a cup of water, she still took it gratefully. "But don't worry about me in your own condition! If you do know what that meant, it's certainly fortunate you and Lord Menelaos came today."

"I think we all know this information was only given because we came here, all of us gathering in the same place," Helen proclaimed as if all of them had indeed known. Menelaos, at least, only benefited from the clarity of that conclusion after she said it, revealing it to be a possibility at all. Helen, dark, finely sculpted brows arched and lips pursed, looked between her husband and her brothers. "There have been a couple ships from Lesbos that's carried goods from Wilusa to sell at Helos for years. I believe a merchant arrived just last week with goods from the east, in fact. The capital is called both Troy and Ilion."

Helen away, across the courtyard where a poor kitchen boy came running after a honking goose. It snatched up first one, and then a second grasshopper, summer-fat and crunchy in its beak. It then continued off across the courtyard quite happily. Running eastwards, which trapped it against a building, allowing the boy to catch the goose.

"Like I said," Helen said wryly, her gray eyes sparkling briefly.

The weight on Menelaos' heart lightened at the sight, for there had certainly not been much cause for amusement lately, then emptied his cup with a determined sweep. "I know which merchant you speak of. I'll charge him with guiding the ship to Troy, then."

Knowing now what he had to do, it was easy to settle into the planning of it, thoughts already turning towards leaving. Lingering would help none of them, and this trip would take time enough of its own, leaving more to die.

He didn't much wish to leave Helen here alone - not because she couldn't handle herself, and she was with her brothers besides, but when Pharis still hurt her so it was hard to not desire to remain at her side - but Thalia's proclamation had been clear. Sparta. Not the whole of Lakedaimon, not the Tyndaridai. It thus fell to him. He could feel the weight of Helen's stare on him, could see the first syllable shaped silently by her soft lips, but she didn't voice what she wanted to say aloud, and Menelaos didn't speak up, though he stretched an arm out.

He could hardly take her with him. Not when she was pregnant, and soon to give birth.

Besides, Sparta would be better served with one of the two of them still being present.

"Are you leaving immediately?" Polydeukes asked, somewhere between a protest and relief. They all wanted - needed - this to be over as soon as possible. Especially so if there should be any hope of growth in the herds for next year. If they were left with another year of nothing in that regard, it would impact things even worse for all who would survive the epidemic.

"If I continue on to Helos immediately, I should be able to get at least some distance out before we'd need to stop for the night. Knowing what we need to do, now, there's no reason to waste time." The rudeness of leaving so abruptly and immediately upon arriving as guests sat ill, but they would all be in agreement that solving this couldn't wait. Worse to leave his wife in this condition, with sickness ravaging the land around them that could threaten both her and their unborn baby. Menelaos looked to Helen as she came over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. His other fell down, to touch her belly. "Will you be all right?"

Helen smiled faintly; a mask, though fortunately one Menelaos didn't have to see much of. Not even the times he made her angry.

"You need to leave," she said and leaned down - Menelaos couldn't help tensing, as little as he wanted to, but Helen didn't push far. Just enough to give them some brief form of privacy, her voice lowered to match. "I'm not fragile, my husband."

Still, she touched his fingers where his hand was wrapped - too tight - about her shoulder. She didn't touch the hand he had laying on her stomach.

"We'll get her back to Sparta in a few days, and stay with her if she gives birth before you're back," Kastor promised, his smile matching his loud voice, despite the weeks' old tension carved around his eyes. He matched Polydeukes in that way, even when his eyes were dark like both Tyndareos' and Leda's; Helen and Polydeukes shared their divine father's pale eyes.

In the safety of having her back mostly turned, Helen rolled her eyes, and Menelaos chuckled quietly, squeezing her shoulder. Still, he was glad for it, even if normally Helen wouldn't strictly need such an escort and Pharis was only a relatively short ride from Sparta by chariot. With how things were right now, he'd rather her brothers guarded her like eagles with only one chick, though it'd displease her. It made it much easier to step away from her and take the chariot the twins arranged for him, which he could leave in Helos and take back upon returning.

The additional hours it took to reach Helos only strengthened Menelaos' decision to have started this journey as soon as he could.

The villages and farms on the way were quiet - too quiet - and there were conspicuous bonfires, or the remains of them, on the edges of the farming communities. The same was to be seen when Menelaos reached Helos, and he did his utmost to take a route through the city that intersected with as few other people as possible, aside from when he found the merchant. He wasn't so eager to travel with a ship containing a crew from a land that was suffering sickness, but promising additional rewards for it finally got the man to agree, after Menelaos, on top of the already promised payment, agreed to partially load the ship up with some of the goods the merchant had intended to bring with him on his meandering journey back to his native Lycia.

Whatever got them to Troy, in the end.

Staring at the disappearing coastline, the sun dipping towards the horizon, Menelaos could only hope that the divinely caused epidemic wouldn't spread to the city they were going to. That couldn't be the intent - it was, clearly, Lakedaimon and Tyndareos, even dead as he was, as well as himself, the goddess was angry at, not Troy. He had to believe it wouldn't spread. That no one on the ship fell sick in the almost three days it took them to cross the sea, until they were rounding a cape and rowing into a small bay, was encouraging.

"Troy," the merchant said, pointing across the water glittering in the light of the late afternoon sun.

A harbour, rather small for the size of the city up on the ridge, sat low on the bay, with a short stretch of causeway built up to avoid the wetlands the harbour seemed to equally rise up from as fight back against. The widespread delta of a river to the right of them as they approached the harbour made clear why the harbour was as small as it was and where the wetlands came from. It was honestly hard to tell where the river reached the sea, so sludge-slow and indistinct was the border between water and wetland, and between wetland and sea. Troy itself sat as the well-carved pommel on the hilt of a finely forged sword where the citadel hill throned on the top of the low ridge the city lay sprawling along and rambled downwards from. The walls, the closer they came, were some of, if not the, thickest and highest Menelaos had ever seen. The stones were huge and finely fitted, and the fired mud-brick superstructure began higher up than he would have expected. By the point the ship reached the harbour itself and the city rose up above in the near distance, though the citadel hill was tall enough it would otherwise have been visible, the outer walls were too tall to allow any but the barest of suggestion of the tallest buildings up on the hill.

Leaving ship, crew, and the two unbred sheep he'd brought along for the sacrifice behind, Menelaos continued up into the city, and the citadel hill, alone. It would probably have been easier to buy the animals here in Troy itself, but if it was Lakedaimon and Sparta who were supposed to sacrifice at the tombs of Lycus and Chimaereus, then he was sure Aphrodite wouldn't be pleased if the animals were gotten elsewhere, no matter the extra work it'd been to find even just a single female animal who hadn't been bred in pure desperate hope of a single pregnancy taking.

The gate nearest to the harbour stood open, leaving Menelaos to walk freely where he needed to go. The guards at the gate up into the walled citadel hill only nodded when he explained he needed to see their king, if not without a brief, frowning pause as they both stared at him, quite hard. Still, no protest came and one of the two men broke away and gestured for him to follow with relaxed ease.

A couple small courtyards and a single large one later, they entered a building that for all that he'd crossed a sea and the decorations were different, was still familiar. It was reassuring, in its way. Even the torch-lit inside and the small crowd of people, seated on the wall-mounted benches around the length of the interior and standing in a vaguely drawn-out crowd near to the throne was as he could expect. They parted for Menelaos and his escort, who bowed shortly to the tall, broad-shouldered man sitting on the throne. Old but hardly ancient, his sturdy presence warmed the space around him and revealed the kindness carved around his mouth and set in unusually bright, blue-green eyes to be true.

"My lord Priam, King Menelaos of Sparta."

The guard stepped aside, someone handed Menelaos a cup of wine, and he took the opportunity to take a swallow before he stepped forward, nodding to the King of Ilion. The man, like the guards, at first stared impassively at him, but then he smiled, warm patience in every line of him, and for a very brief moment Menelaos had no idea what to do with that. Struck dumb, Menelaos was caught in the reminder of Tyndareos welcoming the exiled Atreidai to Lakedaimon during the very last part of their exile from Mycenae. Reminded, too, of another man who had very much not been what Priam at least seemed to be.

"You carry the weight of speed on your shoulders," Priam commented, his voice matching his frame, still suffused with a certain warm authority despite an edge of cool distance in his gaze. The open not-question aided Menelaos in regaining his wits. Taking a breath, he nodded.

"I do. The gods give and take as they will and are kindly minded to, but human frailties mean we misstep even in our most important responsibilities, sometimes. The city of Sparta, as well as the whole of the land around it, has been struck by sickness and sterility, and so I've been charged to offer propitiatory sacrifices at the tombs of Lycus and Chimaereus, the seer directing us here."

Murmurs punctured the silence around them, trailing and weaving in among each other. Confusion, not judgement or understanding, and that, after having sailed all the way over here, raked ice down Menelaos' spine.

Perhaps they really should've gone to Delphi first, no matter that Helen shouldn't have been wrong. But for all that she was clever, and sharp-eyed, she wasn't a seer. At some point she was likely to read the signs wrong, if there had been any to read at all.

In front of him, there was a pinch between King Priam's brows, a twist at his lips; hard to tell exactly, but if there was any other emotion but a pained reluctance, not wanting to disappoint but knowing he would have to, Menelaos didn't see it. He resisted the desire to close his eyes and sink in on himself. Drew his shoulders tighter against that urge, bracing himself for what was to come, unmoored once more, much like a ship having lost its anchor at night, drifting in perfect, glass-still darkness on the sea, not even moon or stars to guide it, no matter how clever the navigator.

"Lord Menela---"

"I know what he’s talking about."

The bright, warm tenor interrupted the king's address with certainty suffusing every syllable. He couldn't understand what was being said, but that surety allowed Menelaos to, if not follow the meaning, regain some hope. Someone must have recognized what he was talking about.

"Those tombs aren't far from here," the same voice continued, in Achaean now, only barely accented. It only emphasized the liquid flow of it. It caused another wave of suppressed conversation to break out and Priam relaxed, understanding unknotting his brow.

Menelaos looked to the left where a slender young man ducked away from a large hand trying to haul him back, a brilliant smile on his face that didn't disguise the earnest warmth in eyes the same colour as the king's. Torchlight caught in gold, in those sea-coloured eyes and in softly brown hair cascading down around the boy's shoulders in thick curls.

The man behind him, standing next to the throne, hissed something, too low for Menelaos to hear but with aggravation in every line of him. Despite that he was taller, broader, and darker in colouring, that they were brothers was undeniable. Menelaos almost found himself smiling as the youth rolled his eyes, his smile still lurking around the corners of his mouth in irreverent disregard for his older brother's exasperated rebuke.

"As my son says," Priam said, calling attention back to himself, though he, too, had glanced to his son, something of a frown and a partial smile both fighting for space on his face before the expression smoothed out. "I apologize. While Achaean is a well-known language in Troy, names, sometimes, can be trickier than most. Those tombs aren't the most well-visited, and it's a journey that will take at least two days, there and back. We will, of course, offer room and rest, for as long as you need it, during your stay."

Priam smiled, a tight expression softening as it lengthened, glancing sideways to the line of men of similar age to himself seated on the bench just to the right of the throne. The man closest to him nodded, straightening up.

"Allow me."

The advisor, Priam, Menelaos, and probably quite a few others in the megaron, turned their heads to the left. The speaker, the young prince who'd helped identify the tombs, stepped further beyond the reach of his aggravated older brother. A wide, bright smile lit up his face and his gaze as intent as he looked to Menelaos.

Chapter Text

"Alexander." Priam sighed, not quite forbidding so much as carrying shades of the same exasperation his older son had wordlessly expressed earlier. "My son, Antenor has a whole house, and you're still living in a single room in the palace."

If anyone else aside from this noble advisor was to offer lodgings and entertainment, it probably should be the king himself, having a whole palace and an overflowing amount of resources at his disposal, one king to another. Menelaos mostly found himself honestly amused for the first time in days, if not longer, at the cheerful audacity being displayed. It wasn't proper, and the king of Troy was correct to curb it, but it also wasn't insulting. As a prince, Alexander wouldn't be sleeping in any mean quarters, so as a suggestion alone it wasn't completely outrageous.

Just a bit ridiculous, considering that, as his father had pointed out, he didn't even possess his own apartments within the citadel yet. He wasn't old enough, possessing no household of his own that would require it.

"And how long was it since anyone in Troy went to visit those tombs?" Alexander said, spreading his hands in question. There was nothing accusing in it, merely a statement, which stirred a jumble of awkward shifting and not a few frowns among both the older men in front and the people gathered around to be seen from where Menelaos stood. "The peak of Gargaron is well-visited, not the least by yourself, Father, and the priest of Zeus piḫaššaššiš, but I believe there's not been any visits the tombs of Lycus and Chimaereus anywhere near recently. You'd have to find a priest old enough to have had cause to go there, or search through Dardanos and the nearby villages for anyone who drives animals up on the mountain and have gone past the tombs enough to know the way. That will take time. Time it'd be most cruel to waste, if the need for this visit by our guest is to ease a sickness. I remember where those tombs are, and I also know the mountain more than well enough to find the best path up it. Shepherd Cottage isn't the closest or best location to start from, so taking our guest there and then going to finding someone to guide him the rest of the way, or, if you might already have found someone, starting the second half of the trip from there, I can already tell you isn't the quickest or the best."

Partway through the argument, Menelaos shifted backwards about half a step. He wanted to be able to better keep Alexander in view without staring too blatantly, while still keeping most of his attention on the front of the room.

Young, the prince may be, but he spoke with the liquid fire of someone years older and well-used to it. Not stumbling through the words out of eagerness or worried desperation he wouldn't be allowed the time to speak, each sentence filled the space around them, buoyed by the flickering light of the torches rather than disturbed by the faint, crackling hiss of the glowing flames. Light which also seemed reflected from within the young man. There was a near glow in his eyes, about his face, and lending slightly broader shoulders where he hadn't quite yet grown into what looked like it'd be width not nearly as impressive as his brother or father's. It offset the near ridiculous amount of jewellery he wore, more than anyone else in the room - not that he didn't wear it well - and gave cause to the rich purple of his tunic, the fine, golden fringe at the end of sleeves and the hem, the embroidered borders above. Some substance, as it may be.

The only surprise here was, to Menelaos at least, that such a clearly cosseted princeling would willingly seek the outdoors not just during hunting. A day's diversion of such activity would gift its own gilding to the rough surroundings, after all. Yet, here he was rather passionately arguing for the privilege of spending at least a couple days in probably questionable comfort.

Had it been his brother who'd offered the same, Menelaos wouldn't have blinked. There was a sturdy sort of dependability and simple practicality to the older brother, standing there behind Alexander with his arms crossed over his chest. He was dangerously close to grinding his teeth even when his expression had reluctantly opened up the longer Alexander spoke. He wore only a necklace and a couple rings to compliment the fine weave of his equally purple tunic. A warrior, as well as a prince, someone who surely had spent time outside for more than just hunting.

And yet it was the boy decorated like a maiden, who looked like he'd be absolutely delighted by and perhaps even well-suited to wearing flower garlands, who didn't just not have to be argued into lending his apparent expertise, but was eager to offer it.

"And if I am taking Lord Menelaos to Mount Ida and the tombs he needs to visit, why should I not then offer my room before and after? It's hardly small, and can easily accommodate another man in comfort." Alexander smiled with the glowing surety of being right, leaned slightly forwards towards the throne and his father as he finished. Even as he was leaning, more than enough in the rest of the room had bent towards him in his speech.

While the latter half of his argument might not be fully waterproof, the former certainly was. In the face of that, granting the latter, even if not completely proper, was rather small in comparison.

"I give it seems unnecessary to divvy up the privilege of hosting our guest in such a manner, considering the circumstances," Antenor said, and though he nodded gravely enough, there was a clear edge of muted amusement to his tone as he glanced between his king, said king's son, and their recently arrived guest. "And a room in the king's own palace is of course only suitable for a king, as well."

Menelaos himself had to suppress the need to shake his head, utterly baffled. Why he should have stirred such an interest in the young man, he couldn't figure out at all.

In this room alone there were certainly men of, if not full equal standing, then surely of as fine blood and at the least just as handsome, if not more so. Certainly more so. He doubted it could be the draw of the unfamiliar that alone should have driven young Alexander to this course of action, aside from wishing to be helpful, but perhaps that was all it was. This was perhaps not as baffling as when Helen had clearly been content with the husband she had finally ended up with, but it was near so, for very similar reason.

Flattering as it was, familiarity, which Alexander had ensured he would garner, would probably douse most of that ardour.

Probably just as well, even for all of, or maybe because of, the shiningly pleased smile on Alexander's face when his father inclined his head. Menelaos had to focus on what he was here for; what mattered was that aid would be given where he needed it, so that the suffering of Lakedaimonia could be eased.

"That’s decided, then," King Priam said and stood up, which signalled the rest to start breaking up and filing out of the room. He came up beside Menelaos and nodded towards the door, quietly genial. Menelaos turned to go with Priam pretending he couldn't see where the older brother was pulling the younger deeper into the megaron by the arm, Alexander looking rather put upon but silently suffering the manhandling. Priam pulled Menelaos' attention back to himself as he clapped a hand onto Menelaos' shoulder. "If you need to visit our markets for the sacrifice, you will find them fair, though Dardanos will be closer and might be more practical."

"Given the charge and reason for these propitiatory sacrifices, I brought what I need from home, as it ought to be Sparta and Lakeidaimonia where the blood and wine will come from. But I'm grateful for your aid."

The king smiled, revealing more and deeper wrinkles on his broad, kind face than were already in evidence. Squeezing Menelaos' shoulder before he let go again, Priam led them across the central courtyard and into the largest building abutting it. The shadowy coolness offered by the echoing insides as they entered a hall and turned towards a corridor was a great gift, for all that their exposure to the rising summer heat outside had been brief, a different sort of choking dryness compared to the torch-lit space of the megaron. It hadn't been as hot as the outside, but its lack of windows enforced need of light even in the middle of the day, which certainly didn't aid in keeping cool, particularly so when the space, however large, had been filled with people.

"As much of it as you need, will be given." Priam sighed, then, and didn't look over his shoulder, though there was a twitch in the corner of his eye that betrayed the urge to. "As my son so eagerly showed. I apologize for Alexander; he's young, and passionate. He does only mean to help."

If that help was offered on not entirely pure grounds, did that truly matter? By Priam's tone, he didn't expect anything but the same desire to render aid even if Alexander hadn't been staring with such wide-eyed intensity at their visitor. Menelaos would make sure to keep things only where they ought to go, even if he couldn't say the attention wasn't charming, in its own way. If he'd been here for anything other than by divine edict, hoping to ease sterility as well as the disease plaguing both humans and animals, he would maybe have been more tempted, if that interest survived anywhere past initial acquaintance.

Which he doubted it would. He was hardly particularly interesting, even if Alexander at a first glance appeared slightly different from most usual young men.

"He is young," Menelaos agreed with a quiet chuckle he found himself meaning with more earnestness for the first time in a while, in the same manner as his earlier smile, "and there is nothing wrong with passion, correctly directed."

"Indeed, though our Alexander has quite a lot of it." Priam laughed, a low, rumbling slide of a sound. Despite that, the smile gracing his lips, right before he corralled his expression into something more dignified, was more wry than merely amused or delighted. Considering the rather stark difference in presentation between Alexander and practically everyone else in the room, Menelaos suspected - but didn't linger on - the cause of that wry edge.

"A couple days outside the palace and the city should do much to temper such energy," Menelaos commented, quietly wry himself.

He was still baffled as to how that pretty, well-dressed young man had with such eager willingness suggested to lead him up the mountain. There must be something he wasn't seeing, despite the jewellery and embroidered fabrics - Alexander had spoken with certainty that he knew where they needed to go to find the tombs, and that he could lead the way much more efficiently than the time it'd take them to find someone else to do so, which spoke of familiarity with the area. Yet, his demeanour spoke of someone shying away from such surroundings.

"I think you may find yourself surprised, Menelaos," Priam said with a slow shake of his head, and this time there was genuine, if short-lived, pride in the older man's voice. "I don't think I've seen him ever run dry of that energy and passion, no matter if he should have slept past noon or gotten up with the sun. So fear not, you will be able to leave first thing in the morning."

Menelaos didn't want to question the assertion - that would be quite rude - but he had to admit to some helpless doubt, similar as to the creeping incredulity of where, exactly, Alexander's apparent expertise of the area had come from. He could ask, but again, it'd be better to wait for the privacy of solitude with his guide to ask something that would be explicit questioning of the hospitality and aid that had already been gifted. He both could and would wait, especially so when they strode into the large hall already smelling promising of food, though Menelaos had been having trouble finding any eagerness to eat, lately. He could extend the trust, no matter how much the contradiction made his skin prickle with uncertainty and the pressure of need from the situation, the sense of time slipping away.

If a proud father's faith in his son was proven wrong, that would be extra time wasted, and he would still have to go find another guide.

"Here," Priam said, gesturing to one of a couple chairs, before he stretched an arm out, drawing a surprisingly tall woman up beside him as she caught up to them. She was all warm green eyes and a tumble of dark-brown hair bound back, stark against the purple and rose of her dress. "My wife, Hecuba. Mother of eighteen of my sons and four of my daughters."

"My lady," Menelaos said quietly, bowing over her hand and keeping very precise control of his expression at that last pronouncement. Eighteen of his sons. How many sons had King Priam of Troy fathered? Twenty two children alone was an accomplishment, and from a single woman, at that.

"Lord Menelaos," Hecuba said quietly, a small smile on her face before she sighed, shaking her head. "I heard the reason for your visit. If only it could have been for a more pleasant one. I should hope we can help you to a swift end to your troubles."

Hecuba’s words were suffused with quiet kindness, of a similar kind but different to that of her husband’s.

There was some sort of expression on his face, and Menelaos couldn't make it a polite smile. His chest hurt for the reminder, no matter how kindly and warmly meant, worry soaking every syllable of Hecuba's words. Menelaos managed to keep his face neutral as he nodded, knowing he couldn't excuse himself from the company merely to indulge the threatening, sludge-like heat rising up from within that was moments from dragging him over a precipice that he little liked to fall over.

He'd come to know it well through the years, and sometimes even without seeming cause for his feet to toe the edge of it. To try and stave the feeling off, he focused on sitting down, quietly wondering at how he'd thought it proper, but also far more germanely, had been able to smile earlier.

"Food will be brought soo--- Ah, Hektor!" Priam's quiet reassurance, almost a distraction, warmed as he called for what must be his oldest son, the one who'd attempted to hold Alexander back.

Menelaos blinked, watching the young man stride across the floor to them and by his look alone the pleasure in Priam's voice for the appearance of his son was surely well-deserved. He couldn't be any older than mid-twenties, but he moved with a weight usually given men at least a decade older, and the notch between his brows - in evidence right this very moment - was already well-carved. Well-worn, too, lending Hektor a certain additional authority in his concern. Menelaos shook his head minutely and refocused as Priam continued while gesturing for his son to sit.

"Excellent timing. Where is Alexander?"

"He seemed to think it fit to change clothes," Hektor grumbled, taking the cup he was given with sullen grace. Even with his current mood he took the time to look up and nod, silently thanking the servant. He glanced to Menelaos and shook his head, the nascent frown turning deeper. "There was absolutely nothing wrong with his clothes, but there's no way to stop him."

Despite that Menelaos certainly didn't know Alexander well enough to be able to cast judgement on how typical this was, what he'd seen in the megaron gainsaid nothing of the picture Alexander's older brother was further filling in for him. Hektor wasn't pleased, and both Hecuba and Priam sighed faintly at the pronouncement, acceptance carving mirriored lines about their mouths. It wasn't truly amusing, but given that it was what Menelaos would have expected if he'd known to expect it, he found his chest much lighter than it'd been moments before. Not quite back to smiling, however Alexander had managed to draw a smile the first time, but the tearful weight that'd threatened to pull him off the edge had eased.

Curious thing was, as parents and brother shared a glance between them, still no one was suggesting Alexander wasn't both capable and able of doing what he'd offered to do. Not a whisper of suggesting that there might be better options even if they would include spending time wandering Dardanos, closer to where the tombs apparently were. Perhaps they were reserving criticism for when they were alone, but in that case Menelaos was sure he wouldn't have heard Hektor even mention the change of clothes, and even less so in the tone of voice he'd used. The need for censure was perhaps necessary, but while Alexander was a youth, at his apparent age he'd surely already learned that he should be more restrained. He'd clearly chosen not to take that to heart.

He wore it well, at least.

"Hektor!"

As if summoned by that assessment, Alexander came striding into the hall, briefly pausing to clap what was probably one of his apparently many brothers on the shoulder in passing before he crossed the floor to join them. He'd exchanged his purple for a longer tunic dyed carefully in saffron, the braided belt tied at his waist matching the decorations at hem, sleeves, and collar, below which hung heavy fringe. It blended with, and warmed up, the gold he wore, some of which had clearly been exchanged for other bracelets and necklaces, if Menelaos was any judge from his brief, quizzical assessment of Alexander in the megaron.

"Did I take too long?" Alexander asked as he came up to to them, eyebrows arched in guileless concern. Hektor, for all that he was still frowning, was already reaching out to squeeze Alexander's elbow, shaking his head. The frown lingered like a shadow, but was now soft, like the bare grayness of late night that was left clinging to corners and behind people walking out onto the fields with the rising of rose-crowned Eos.

"Not really," Hektor allowed, abandoning the elbow to pat his younger brother on the back instead. "But with a guest present, I couldn't very well wait for you, even so."

For all the muted censure expressed before, there was a surprising amount of indulgence on display.

"All right," Alexander said, laughing softly. The sound of it infused the words, never mind the rest of him as he looked from brother to parents, eyes sparkling in the light. It was on Menelaos he lingered however, and the tip of his head drew attention to the earrings in his ears, the colour of the gems set in them matching the colour of his eyes exactly. It was surprisingly hard to look away from comparing them. Menelaos caught himself trying to pinpoint if Alexander's eyes truly were that colour, or if the stones lent more green or blue to give the impression of such a blend.

"Mother, Father." Alexander nodded to his parents in greeting and straightened up. Turned his full attention on their royal guest, then, instead of stealing a smile and sidelong glance as if he was unable to look away. "Lord Menelaos."

"Alexander," Menelaos acknowledged, perhaps a beat later than he ought, but the smile on Alexander's face was no mere politeness, and the warmth of it lit him up from within. It was probably not attention he deserved, but Menelaos still found himself regretting that he'd probably stay long enough to be met with more balanced and less ardent smiles before he left. He might not be in the mood of indulging in anything, aside from any other needless complications. This whole journey was something with far more pressing necessity than a guest-friendship visit and the longer stay such a thing would imply. That didn't mean Alexander's attention was unwanted as such, so he'd regret seeing the smiles change, if only because he would know the difference even if it would otherwise not have the youth acting any less polite.

"Alexander," Priam said before Alexander had more than shifted on his feet, about to leave, "why don't you take a lyre in hand, later tonight?"

"Absolutely," he promised brightly with a nod that made the earrings sway with the motion. Light caught in the gems as well as in his eyes. It was a little like sun caught in shallow water near a shore. "In the meantime, I'll go see of Lykaon has space beside him for me."

By Alexander's expression, relaxed and warm, it was clearly not something he was worried about not finding as he turned away and strode off. Menelaos kept half an eye on his progress just to confirm it was the young man Alexander had greeted on his entry that he found company with, and then turned his attention back onto the king and queen of Troy, along with their oldest son. He couldn't, and didn't, expect to learn and remember even just the names of Hecuba and Priam's eighteen sons, but considering he was going to travel alone with Alexander for about two days, perhaps, knowing something more of the people he surrounded himself with was only right.

Knowing he was leaving for Mount Ida and the tombs tomorrow, which was as soon as anyone could expect to leave when he'd arrived in the afternoon, helped curb the crawling tension in his limbs. He was still left with an uncouth intolerance for the cheerful mundaneity on display around him, grating on his mind, his heart.

It was nothing but the expected conversation to be found in a royal hall at dinner-time, but Sparta had been subdued for weeks. Soot and the smell of burning flesh that had nothing to do with sacrifices or dinner-fires to roast succulent meat always hanging oppressively in the air, even in the deepest recesses of the palace. Troy’s great hall was all too bright and jarring, thoughtless and content cheerfulness that raked against his awareness that back in Lakedaimonia people were dying by the slow, ugly torture of disease.

Somehow, he didn't falter in conversation with Priam or his son. It was both from pressing necessity as well as Menelaos being used to not allow the aching darkness that might weigh on his heart spoil the surroundings he might find himself in.

Even so, it was a shameful relief to have Priam call for Alexander when the meal was mostly over, hearty dishes, meat and bread now exchanged for fruit and more wine. The young man took what must be a lyre, if somewhat strangely shaped by its asymmetrical arms and tilted crossbar, from the man who had sat in the background, providing wordless, soft music as a counterpoint to the buzz of conversation. Now, however, as Alexander wove among the tables and a spot was cleared in the middle of the hall, silence rippled out throughout the crowded room, Alexander at its center. Chairs turned around, a couple children were hushed when they made sharp, high-pitched suggestions as to what was to be sung with eager delight for the prospect of the music. Young Alexander was no less slight in build now, seating himself and running a light hand along the crossbar and down the strings, shifting the lyre in his lap with the obvious ease of familiarity. Somehow, though, the certainty in his movement and thoughtful, already distant look on his face, as if his concern was elsewhere, on a realm far less physical than his immediate surroundings, lent an aura of surprising authority.

It was perhaps somewhat spoiled when he shifted in place, then repeated it, squirming. When he then looked up, his eyes clear again.

"Can someone--- thank you." He smiled as if he'd been gifted a crown or a fine team of horses with a fully equipped chariot when a servant came forward with a second pillow, wedging it in place behind Alexander's back. Whether the snorts and soft ripple of amusement through the room was for the faint cast of pink on the retreating woman's cheeks in response to the smile she’d been given or for their prince's fussiness was hard to tell.

But then, looking to the comfort of one's bard was only proper. Even more so if their skill followed and one was supposed to get something like a good performance out of them.

Suggestions were being thrown out with friendly familiarity and ease. Not all remembered to speak Achaean for their guest's sake, and most suggestions were for songs Menelaos didn't recognize anyway. It was a little strange to sit there and listen to the flurry of hopeful excitement - usually the choice of song was left to the discretion of the singer. Finally, Priam stood up, silencing the hall.

"Since we have a guest, whose entertainment is our responsibility, he should be able to enjoy the songs performed, and so be left to choose one himself. Alexander?"

"It was what I would've suggested, if I'd had a chance. At least until I could translate something." The young man smiled, shaking his head, which caused a subtle explosion of sparks to ripple through his curls as the gold ornaments woven through his hair caught in the light.

Eyebrows briefly arching up at the idea of such an effort offered so easily, Menelaos only paused, words staggering to a crowded stop on the tip of his tongue, much like a flock of sheep might be halted by a shepherd's dogs as he abruptly decides to change the herd's direction. He'd been about to suggest something about Herakles, which surely would be well-known even here, but Herakles had sacked Troy, hadn't he? Decades ago, when the king standing at Menelaos' side and now sitting back down again, had been young. A terrible choice, all in all. There were better options, and thankfully, his startled brain offered one up without the moment dragging too long.

"You know of Bellerophon's fight against Khimaira?"

Alexander, a small smile on his face, nodded and settled into his chair properly once more, gaze going fuzzy with focused distraction. After a moment, he drew breath to match the rush of notes falling from the strings.

He had a lovely singing voice.

Like silver and embers to the gold and warm light suffusing the hall, able to infuse a surprising amount of authority in his tone when singing the lines of Proteus and then Iobates, lingering with curious attention and energy on Stheneboia's wrongful desire and Iobates' conflict. Tarried around Bellerophon's first contact with Pegasus, too, and while that caused some shifting around and shushing, Menelaos found himself smiling faintly for the charming care taken to allow Bellerophon to make friends with his divine steed, not just capture him by force.

He was clearly not the only one to appreciate the scene painted up; in the corner of his eye Menelaos found the oldest prince with soft-edged expression on his face as he listened, nodding with something far too close to satisfied pleasure for Bellerophon's connection with Pegasus to just be vague humour at how his younger brother chose to sing of the event. The smile on his own face widened briefly as he wondered whether Alexander's attention paid to this part was for his own preference, or for his brother's sake.

In startling comparison to where Alexander had lingered, the fight with Khimaira was dealt with in a quick-paced, near brutally short fashion. It was certainly dramatic and suitable for a fight, but had the climax of the song lasting a much shorter time than Menelaos would quite have expected. Which was perhaps the reason someone called out for Bellerophon's fight against the Amazons to be recounted next. Alexander, throwing a curiously narrow glance in the direction of the young man who'd made the suggestion, still settled back with liquid grace, raising his voice again.

Though he had to linger more over the fight with the Amazons, as there were more of them this time and there wasn't much else in this song to actually sing about aside from Iobates sending Bellerophon off, Alexander dealt with the fights in the same way as he had the one against Khimaira. It was perhaps less obvious when the individual fights were strung together like gleaming beads on a string, the skill being used to relate them obvious, but it didn't make it any less true.

Alexander also looked vaguely tense when he finally stood up, handing the lyre over to its owner with a whispered thanks.

Probably just tired, considering the effort he'd just spent entertaining them all. Given they were to start early tomorrow, Menelaos found no protest when Alexander offered to show him to his room not long after that. The reminder of a whole evening gone, despite that leaving this very afternoon would have been insulting and not gotten them very far depending on how distant the tombs were, was once more prickling at the back of Menelaos' spine, sitting tight in and around his wrists and fingers. He tried to excise it by flexing them slowly as they walked, but the tension wound just tighter instead of being eased. There seemed to be no great reason; the closest might be the servant following just a step behind him and the Trojan prince with an oil lamp, which hemmed the length of Menelaos' steps in as much as the shorter length of Alexander's own limbs, even built long-limbed as he was.

Realizing he was near to grinding his teeth, Menelaos attempted to ease up the pressure in his jaw, taking a deliberate breath. Paused there, lungs half-full of air but filled completely with the warmth of a scent familiar enough Menelaos had to catch himself from looking around for his wife. Helen wasn't here. And the scent wasn't, exactly, the same. Just close enough his breathing eased and some of the tension unwound.

He might have glanced around, looking to the maidservant following them, for she was the only woman close by, right then. The scent was far too fine for a slave girl, however, and it didn't come from behind, anyway.

Keeping his expression neutral, Menelaos glanced sideways. To the lamp-lit curls and flashes of gold and beads of lapis lazuli and that sea-green colour Menelaos had noted earlier. Alexander smelled more like a woman than the maidservant behind them did, for all that it was a pleasant scent. Shaking his head minutely, Menelaos tried to ignore the upwelling of returned doubt.

He wouldn't be so ill-served as to be given a guide who couldn't do his task. Priam had no reason to act in such a manner. Too, given the threads of criticism towards Alexander he'd picked up on, if he couldn't do what he said he could - wanted to - do, then he surely wouldn't have been indulged. Though his brother had certainly been indulgent, for all that. Menelaos resolutely pushed the tumble of thoughts away for all the darkness they threatened. As long as Alexander could guide him to the tombs, saving him time, what did it matter how he dressed, how he chose to decorate himself?

"Here," Alexander said, a relaxed, down-right sweet, smile on his face as he opened the door and gestured Menelaos inside. "The couch is over by the windows."

The room was gently lit by oil-lamps and a brazier, the latter which offered yet another whiff of scent, warm and welcoming. The bed, if it had been pillaged for bedding to make the couch more suitable as a bed, was still overflowing with cushions and blankets, their colours rich and the embroidery fine. A large lyre, of the same sort Alexander had handled down in the hall, sat securely up on a table, accompanied by a somewhat smaller and familiar phorminx and a long-necked lute carefully leaned against the table. There were long, trailing vines with tiny blue flowers painted on the floor, though the frescos on the wall was one long, continuous hunting scene that blended landscape images with the hunters chasing a deer.

"I hope it will be comfortable enough as a bed," Alexander added, and Menelaos turned around to an upturned face marred by a little frown. There was nothing wrong with the boy's hospitality, at least, even if he wasn't fully providing it by himself.

"I'm almost fearing I will sleep more comfortably in this loaned bed you have thrown together for a guest's comfort than in my own," Menelaos said with a shake of his head, laying a hand on a narrow, but surprisingly, subtly muscled, shoulder. Alexander lit up in uncomplicated pleasure, catching sparks in his eyes that briefly tugged on something within. Menelaos was now awkward for still doubting the young prince's ability to follow through on his promised aid. If nothing else he was, to all appearances, genuinely interested in seeing this through.

Biting back a sigh, Menelaos turned to the couch; sleep would, hopefully, ease both his prickling sense of disappearing time and his concerns.

Chapter Text

Menelaos woke up to humming, and the room lit in only the delicate, gray light of early dawn.

In fact, it was so early he was left staring with fuzzy incomprehension at Alexander's clothed back, swaying in time to the quiet, mostly wordless singing as he combed his hair with an attentive care few would have used.

While that revelation fit well with what Menelaos was starting to expect from what he'd already seen, the young man not being asleep was enough to grind his still mostly asleep brain into a baffled stop. He might not have thought it so clearly before he fell asleep, too distracted but Menelaos had, in all honesty, fully expected to have to chase a still-sleeping Alexander from his decadently piled bed when he himself woke up. Had expected to hear complaints from driving the boy up early in the morning, though admittedly it wouldn't have been quite this early. Yet here he was, not only awake but almost ready to leave, and that before Menelaos had so much as stirred.

"I had breakfast brought," Alexander said without turning around, having gone from combing through his curls to braiding them down, turning around enough to shoot Menelaos a smile over his shoulder. "I figured you'd not want to wait for the rest of the palace, so after we've broken our fast you can fetch the sacrifices you brought with you while I get a wagon ready."

Menelaos sat up slowly, scrubbing his face. Looked around, and sure enough, on a nearby table sat a large tray filled with bread, fruit, cheese and what must be jerky. More than generous enough of a breakfast considering how early it was.

"Yes," he said, grimacing at how rough his voice caught in his throat. "That was what I had been planning."

Clearing it, he found himself blinking again, staring for a beat too long at the comb Alexander was holding out to him. Sweeping his hair out of his face, he took the comb with a shake of his head. He would've used his fingers to tidy up his disintegrating ponytail back into its usual, low tie, but with the comb offered he could just as well take it. It wouldn't make any difference in the length of time it'd take to take care of his hair.

Untying the bit of ribbon he let it drop beside him on the couch as he dealt with his hair. The couch was truly far more comfortable a bed than he would have expected to find as a guest, even from a king and at a palace.

Menelaos frowned as he looked between loaded tray and Trojan prince. Alexander must be waiting for him to be ready as well, but he used the time to tie a headband about his head to keep his hair in place, matching the bit of ribbon he'd already used to tie his braid, and the bracelets - thankfully only two, one for each wrist, so he wouldn't jingle while he walked - matched the geometric pattern woven into the headband, which was echoed in the borders on his tunic. Less ostentatious and decorated than either of his outfits yesterday, yet still clearly chosen with care. All of that wasn't actually what Menelaos was concerned with, though it was hard to look away from the young man and his thoughtful expression.

"We could have eaten later," he said slowly, for while the kitchens would be among the first that woke up in the palace, he wouldn't have expected them to be this prepared so early. Alexander, however, laughed, shaking his head as he nodded to the servant lingering nearby. She moved the table with the tray over when Menelaos had pulled his tunic back on, and then fetched a chair for her prince before she left.

"I always eat before leaving for the mountain - I warned them yesterday, so all they needed to do was add more food to the tray," he promised with the air of someone saying something that wasn't unusual. Menelaos, with a piece of bread and cheese partway to his mouth, paused, eyebrow arched. Curious, for perhaps this would be an explanation for how Alexander knew Mount Ida so well.

"You hunt there so often the kitchen servants are well-used to your habits? I'm impressed by your dedication, if you usually leave this early."

Alexander blinked, his turn to freeze in a momentary pause with foodstuff partway to his mouth. He flashed a grin, then, so warm it practically made his face glow, and if Menelaos hadn't seen Helen smile in a similar fashion at least a few times since he married her he might have embarrassed himself. As it was, he lingered a moment too long anyway before he firmly made himself look to his food. He he was here for Lakedaimon, and thus also for Helen - she wouldn't be awake quite yet, would she? They both woke up early enough, certainly, but not quite this early. Especially not during her pregnancy; that was one of the greatest changes it'd wrought, that Helen slept more, and for longer.

Would she have given birth, by now? No, probably not. Which would mean she'd still be sleeping alone. Their bed would be so large with her alone in it, unravelling braid like twilight-dark waves around her face and shoulders. Hopefully there wouldn't be more large fires to greet her upon waking, whenever she did.

"While I do hunt on Mount Ida sometimes, and Hektor always chases us up terribly early when we've managed to get him to take such a break for hunting, my going to the mountain is for herding our cattle." Alexander chuckled warmly, a piece of fruit disappearing into his mouth in that pause. "I like getting started early, since it does take some time to get the cattle up to where I prefer to graze them."

Cattle herding.

Which did make sense, all in all. Menelaos was once more left studying Alexander as he ate. Wondered how, by the grace of the gods, this fussily well-appointed, pretty princeling found himself as at home in the middle of a herd of cattle as he sounded like he did. No matter what had just been said, Menelaos would have far more expected to find this boy inside, not ranging the countryside for any reason.

The truth of Alexander's words weren't gainsaid when Menelaos later came back with the sheep and the wine for libations from the ship, having seen to his men and the merchant that'd guided them to Troy. Alexander had done as he’d said, and handled the horses yoked to the wagon they'd be using with clear familiarity. He also helped him put the sheep up on the back of the wagon without complaint, only moved what seemed to be his bow and quiver as well as long-necked lute out of the way. Menelaos stared at the last as he sat down at the front, Alexander swinging himself up beside him and taking the reins from the stablehand with familiar ease. He had to smother the urge to tell the young man off. This wasn't a pleasure trip. They needed to focus on what would end the epidemic in Lakedaimonia, not on what might make the hours between now and coming back to the comforts of Troy into something pleasantly diverting.

The brisk pace Alexander urged their horses into, unhindered as they were by the still mostly empty streets, silenced Menelaos' growing frustration before it was voiced.

Troy shone in the early morning light. The walls were washed golden where there was white plaster, the colours of roof tiles or painted details glowing in jewel tones. As they passed the last gate, out towards the lavender-toned shadow of mountains in the distance, the sky was rose and saffron, Eos offering her sweet-smelling dress up as decoration for the morning.

"Mount Ida," Alexander said, pointing perhaps somewhat unnecessarily towards the silhouette of the mountain.

Menelaos only nodded, sitting back in his seat and trying not focus on the returning tightening of tension for how the road they took swung down and away from the ridge Troy sat at the head of, a ridge that otherwise stretched in the right direction towards the mountain. They, instead, followed the road that snaked along the Scamander, between water meadows mostly used for grazing horses, interspersed with farmed fields. Not enough to sustain a whole city, so most of the fields for farming for Troy must be further away, the horses valued greatly to be given such prime space. Frowning, Menelaos shielded his eyes with a hand to watch the peacefully grazing horses, glossy coats shining in the strengthening sunlight. Troy and horses.

"Are these the ones descended from Erichthonios' herd, that Boreas was said to have mated with a couple mares from, or from the divine horses the Cloud-gatherer gifted Tros for his son?"

A flash of blue-green towards him from the corner of Alexander's eye, and then he burst out laughing. Not at Menelaos, though surely such a question warranted it, for who would answer something like that truly, even if the question came from a guest? Such horses, even generations from their divine parent or immortal equine ancestor, though especially the latter, were certainly tempting targets for anyone. Alexander's laughter was winged, his throat an arch. Menelaos turned his attention back to the horses.

"The former," Alexander finally said, shaking his head. "I believe only Hektor has been told which of the horses are the immortal stallions gifted from the gifts the Son of Kronos gave Tros. Everyone can certainly guess which those horses are, but with the descendants of the twelve fillies Boreas begot among the herds, it’s not as easy as one might think."

Menelaos nodded, half of a noise caught in his throat in acknowledgement. There were certainly another reason; the privilege to be in possession of one of those immortal horses. There had been only two, and thus only one or two could ride them, never mind the offspring they might have, too. Their bloodlines must be much guarded.

The horse fields fell back for scattered cattle, Alexander turning his attention away from the road for a moment to smile at the distant animals. "These are ours, too. I take about half of them with me to Mount Ida whenever I g---"

A deep, rolling low echoed out over the fields, quickly rising in volume. Alexander promptly brought the horses to a stop, eyes bright as he tossed the reins to Menelaos, heedlessly leaving him to scramble to catch hold of them while Alexander jumped down from the wagon.

"A moment!" Laughing delight coloured Alexander's voice, lit his face, and it would have been charming - more than charming - if Menelaos could see any reason for them to stop. Even more so when laughing indicated it was nothing serious and in comparison, the reason they were on their way to Mount Ida certainly was so.

Alexander leaped over the dike running along the road, fearlessly throwing his arms out in welcome for one of the largest bulls Menelaos had ever seen as it came thundering to a stop in front of the Trojan prince. It was certainly a fine animal, coat so dark and glossy it shone with blue highlights in the early light, hooves giant and horns curving. Yet, it butted its huge head into Alexander's chest with the gentleness of a mother catching her tottering child. It once again lowed, the sound vibrating deep in Menelaos’ bones. It's head was near the full length of Alexander's torso, so he could hug the bull's whole head to himself easily, leaning over it to rub his cheek against the top of it, right between the horns, while he rubbed the bull's cheeks with his hands.

Had the situation been at all different, Menelaos would have been glad to wait until Alexander was finished, charmed to witness this display of rather unexpected affection. Now, the whole display hooked deep into his heart, into the weeks of watching fires not made for single men, but for droves of them, not for the sake of honour but the necessity of burning the sickness out of the dead, so it wouldn't spread further to the living. They might have gotten up early enough and on the way towards their destination, leaving them partway on the road at a time Menelaos would only just have expected to be waking up at, but this pause was was wasting them time they’d won.

Alexander had seemed to take this so seriously earlier, surprising him with his willingness to leave the comfort of his bed so early. Now here he was, more frivolous than a child.

"Alexander!" Menelaos snapped, thumping the seat beside him before he slapped that hand over his eyes, pressing down on the weight welling up from within. Took a breath and let it out, slow and wet unlike the tears he was refusing himself. Alexander had flinched, a wide-eyed, sinking look on his face that had briefly brought some vicious satisfaction. Now, Menelaos was feeling more guilty than not. Guilty over the surge of frustrated pleasure that he might get the boy to act more seriously as he felt guilty over treating what was, technically, his host, in such a manner.

Alexander really should be old enough he shouldn't have to scold him like a wayward child, however.

"I----" Awkward, his throat thick, Paris faltered, cheeks hot even if they were hidden against the bull's broad forehead. Had he now failed and shamed his family in a manner and situation he actually hadn't intended any such at all? Hadn't wanted to do it, either, as well as ruining what he'd been, just maybe, hoping might come of this.

"I apologise." Menelaos sighed, not so much interrupting him as speaking up before Paris could recollect himself. But that was no better, for he could hear the weighted tension winding Menelaos' voice too tight. He didn't sound angry now as he had before, though he had a right to be. The aching tone was as accusing - whether meant or not - as it revealed the pressure Menelaos was under.

"I'm the one who should apologize, aren't I?" Paris said with a shake his head, the braid heavy against his back. Turning away from his bull with a last scratch down its forehead, he came back to the wagon. "I didn't mean to make it seem as if I'm making light of the life already spilled."

Paris reached out, laying a hand briefly on Menelaos' foot, leather and skin against his fingers and palm. Summer-brown eyes, which he had seen flash briefly with both light and warmth last night and wished to see more of, met his. Dark now, matching the solemn line of Menelaos' mouth and deepening the worried weight, lending age where Menelaos truly wasn't that old.

"You're young," Menelaos said with another sigh, shaking his head, "and passion comes easy, then. I'm more concerned over the life being spilled right now, while I haven’t yet appeased the anger of the goddess, not all the life already lost, Alexander."

His voice gentling as he spoke, Menelaos tossed his head, indicating the seat beside him, and Paris hurried around the horses to retake his place and the reins. Whether he might have lost whatever opportunity he might have had or not, he wouldn't delay further either way. Menelaos - and the people of Lakedaimon - deserved better than that. Glancing at Menelaos as he got the horses trotting again, Paris tried to keep his shoulders relaxed and his spine soft enough to follow the wagon's rattling as he waited for Menelaos to continue.

Except, as they followed the road and the river, Menelaos staring into the distance they were attempting to lessen between them and their destination, he said nothing. Frowning, Paris glanced between the spot of road he could see between the horses' heads, to Menelaos' profile, to the fields rolling past them, the ridge rising on their left. He could see Thymbra in the distance now, and people could be spotted walking to their fields, or already out on them. Still, Menelaos was quiet.

Had that truly been all he'd intended to say?

It couldn't be, could it?

Glancing to Menelaos again, Paris studied his profile with an eye less for the cut of his jaw or the gentle, slightly curving thrust of his nose and more for the weight around his eyes and the tilt of his mouth. The shadows lingering underneath Menelaos' eyes were no different than this morning, or yesterday; they were deepened smudges carved from stress and unhappiness, bitten deep over an extended period of time, not anger. Menelaos' mouth might have been thinly held, a slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, but the tension that'd turned that soft mouth into stiff anger earlier, no matter how brief, was plain not there.

Stomach unknotting, Paris exhaled quietly - he'd make sure not to truly earn the return of that ire - and nearly jumped when Menelaos glanced to him. A reddish-blond eyebrow, darker and nearly reddish-brown instead of blond, rose up.

"What is it, Alexander?"

Paris was uncaring of having been caught staring, especially when he got the chance to see the bafflement softening Menelaos' expression, setting a different light in his eyes. Menelaos didn’t even seem exasperated, if he had noticed how much Paris had been staring for a while, now.

"You can't be that much older than Hektor," Paris said with a smile, which bloomed out into a laugh as Menelaos' confusion deepened before he frowned, gaze going distant as he thought back on what had last been said.

"Maybe not," he allowed with a shake of his head, Paris only regretting that he hadn't been able to make Menelaos smile. There was a lightening of his voice that was almost as good, however. Menelaos waved a broad, square hand between them, the single ring he wore, as well as a much larger one worn hanging from his wrist catching in the light. "But you're already making me feel as if I am many decades older, completely aside from the fact that I know I never behaved like you do, at your age."

Paris didn't realize he was bracing himself until his stomach was clenching on nothing, for there was no judgement or condescension in Menelaos' voice. Swallowing down something that was far too hot and tight when there was no real reason to be upset, Paris smiled as if he hadn't felt any of that. Simply doing so deepened his amusement into something real, and widened his smile in turn.

"I don't think many do," he said with a shrug, head cocked, chest so light in that moment it felt like his heart must have gained wings and vacated its necessary place. That feeling didn't change in the least when Menelaos glanced over again, for the weight of his gaze as it settled on him was considering, not judging. If it also trailed a little slower the longer Menelaos studied him, Paris didn't let that affect his smile. Not yet, anyway, too cautious even in his hope to dare much at the moment.

Besides, doing anything right now wouldn’t be well-received, surely.

"No, I wouldn't think so," Menelaos said slowly, irony in his voice, but warm, not cutting. Then his gaze returned, if only shortly this time, accompanied by a small frown. "Though I find myself surprised you've spent enough time in such an isolated location as Mount Ida, to know it well enough to be able to guide me."

He had to press his lips thin not to laugh, because he was pretty sure that what Menelaos was saying was that he thought he was too fussy about his clothing and hair, maybe too focused on his music, to wish to spend time outside of a city, never mind the palace itself. Would he have been, if he'd grown up in Troy entirely, never known even the beginnings of another life? It wasn't something that'd ever occurred to him before, when anyone who was liable to express something about him and Mount Ida, was rather more likely to suggest he go home, or just stay where he belonged, not scoffing over how he surely was too soft to deal with the wilderness. It was, too, a baffling thing to consider. Mount Ida was, if not home as such, then dearly beloved. If he hadn't known the mountain at all before he came to Troy he might first have been sent out to it as part of his education. Surely he would find himself here then either way. There were any number of other things Paris knew he would have liked less than herding cattle on its slopes.

Perhaps it would only have made him more determined to do this thing properly, since he would still be failing in other ways to be the prince, man, he was supposed to be.

"The mountain is beautiful," Paris said with a shake of his head, looking towards the blue-toned, distant silhouette, growing taller the more road the wagon ate, like a storm slowly rolling in from the sea, darkening the waters and the sky both, towering up around a lonesome boat of some daringly enterprising fisherman. There was nothing to fear when it came to Mount Ida, however, compared to the capricious ocean and storms. Mount Ida was near a second home, and her bosom and lap were wide and warm, welcoming. "And flowers and woven grass make as good jewellery as gold or silver and gems to wear while I herd the cattle!"

"Flowers," Menelaos commented, tone wry but followed by a chuckle that, as Paris had hoped if not expected even given the earlier lack of judgement, was kindly amused. Flower garlands were for feasts, yet Menelaos sat there, a fleeting smile lighting his face only for the second time, mostly pleased he'd been correct, perhaps. "I suppose that's not surprising. But, tending your father's herds doesn't demand you become so close as to have a bull running you down like a loyal hound to greet you the moment he sees you."

There wasn't a question in that statement, as such. Paris could still hear the questioning weight, matched by the brief arching of smooth brows. He shook his head, smiling. "I bought his sire from a man I know that keeps great cattle, and bred him up myself. He's already thrown offspring that will hopefully match him, too. Not all the calves his sire fathered was quite as excellent as he is, but I knew the moment I saw him born that he'd be a great one. I convinced Hektor to let me keep him up in the stables in the palace for the first year, whenever I wasn't with the herd on Mount Ida, and through that winter."

Smiling at nothing but for the memory of the eager calf eating out of his hands when he'd stopped nursing, Paris threw a look over his shoulder reflexively, but they were well out of view of the cattle meadows. All he could see was the two sheep on the wagon behind him, the road, Thymbra as they passed it, crossing the Thymbraion, and people working their fields. He hadn't quite had the little bull calf following at his heels, but it'd been a near thing.

"Worthy effort to put in," Menelaos said, and meant it, too. "It's a fine animal."

Paris could have waved it off by confessing he had prior knowledge to draw from, but he knew enough by now to know those eight years with Agelaos and Ulilawiya had only offered something to build on. If he hadn't actually put the effort in, long after he'd been brought into Troy, he wouldn't have had quite such a fine animal. So he only nodded, still brightly pleased with the compliment when Menelaos had been - rightfully - frustrated with him and his delay, over that same animal just before, and focused on the horses.

They reached Dardanos by noon, the wagon weighing the horses down no matter the brisk pace they'd kept. In Dardanos they left the wagon, for the hike up the mountain would have to be by foot. Food had been brought along, so they had lunch while walking, the sheep trotting along with them - leashed, since they hadn't brought any dogs to keep the animals under control. Being only two of them, that was, at least, achievable.

Late summer, nearly autumn, meant it was nearly unbearably hot this time of day, which made the hike up across the foothills oppressive and sweaty. Paris would rather have avoided it by starting later in the day, making their last part of the journey to reach the hut he called his own while seeing to the cattle through the late afternoon when things were at least beginning to cool down. But he'd been sure, even if he'd then forgotten for the distraction of his dear bull, that Menelaos would want to reach their destination as soon as possible, and so he'd woken up as early as he did when taking the cattle out on the fields closest to Troy instead of a couple hours later.

"There's a pool, nearby the hut," Paris said with a huff as they wandered through leafy shadows of the wooded foothills, pine starting to grow more numerous with the rise in altitude, "so there's a chance for a bath, before we take a meal."

He smiled over at Menelaos, blinking in confusion over the frown. Thoughtful and not angry, he was sure, by the gentler pinch between the brows and a mouth not held as harshly as it had been during Menelaos' brief outburst, so Paris only cocked his head.

"Menelaos?"

"How long would it take us to continue on to the tombs?"

Suppressing a groan, but not quite able to master his pout, Paris turned his face more fully to his companion, beseeching.

"Another two hours, thereabouts, I think. I don't quite count out time when I go up there, and I never went dragging animals along, either," he said, nodding to the sheep, who were becoming somewhat recalcitrant. They'd slow them down further the less willing they got to continue walking. "And it will be too dark to hike back and have a solid four walls and a bed - not a large one, but it should hold both of us - to sleep in for the night. Wouldn't it be better to break for the day, and get up early again tomorrow?"

Menelaos, though, shook his head. Huffed his own overheated, sweaty sigh and brushed away darkened strands from his cheeks, hooking them behind his ears. He then lifted his hair off the back of his neck for a moment, looking away from Paris and up along the path they were walking. It was only marginally comforting that his thin smile was apologetic, before his expression firmed.

"Would that it could have been either much earlier in the year, or late enough, for cooler weather, though before the storms set in. But no - if we wait until tomorrow, after reaching the tombs we'll have to wait until evening and sleep up there anyway."

"What?" Paris cried, utterly baffled.

"The dead should be sacrificed to in the dark," Menelaos said, glancing to him with an arched eyebrow, and even the flush from heat and exertion couldn't disguise the tanned smoothness of his skin above the fine shadow of a short beard that was more suggestion than fully one. "You do it differently?"

"Yes," Paris said, his sigh defeated as he held his hands up, palms out. "We walk, then."

Menelaos' dark-eyed, grateful expression made acquiescing worth it, even when Paris decided that if they were sleeping out under the stars tonight, they ought to at least have blankets. That meant adding more to carry after they reach the hut, unnecessary as the burden admittedly was. He probably should've left the lute in the hut instead of adding both blankets and food, but he'd been carrying it up until now, and the hike wasn't so troublesome that he feared he would damage it, so what was some extra distance?

By the point they finally reached the exposed little mountain meadow, steep enough it would only really have been good for letting goats loose on it, Paris was regretting his decision. The gentle hump of the joint tumulus was clear as they stepped around the jutting edge of the cliff, though, and Paris exhaled in relief as he pointed to it.

"There we are."

He could admit he'd been worried he might have remembered the way wrong, and that they would've been left wandering this part of the mountain for another hour while the sun turned deeper towards the horizon, slowly diminishing daylight making the search even more difficult.

"Thank you," Menelaos sighed, a trembling weight to his voice as he clapped Paris on the shoulder.

"I promised I could and would take you, didn't I?" he said, laughing no matter how tired. He smiled at Menelaos until the rest of the lingering tension about those amber-coloured eyes eased and he nodded. Paris only felt a little guilty that part of his pleasure was for the warm hand on his shoulder, broad and strong where it once more squeezed the hot, stiff muscle. He wished there was a chance to relax it, now that they were finally here, but unless the Achaeans differed here as well, they weren't actually done. Glancing to the shovel Menelaos had carried with them, he was rather sure they weren't finished.

"You should sit down," Menelaos said as he tied the sheep to a bush sturdy enough to hold them, his voice warm enough Paris wished he could sink right into it. "Or, since you pointed out the pool we passed not far from here, take that bath you wished us to have when we reached your herding hut."

No condescension, only understanding and encouragement there. It was perhaps more that than anything else that had Paris shaking his head as he divested himself of the food, blankets and his bow and arrows that he'd been carrying. Then, too, carefully laid his lute down on in the most protected spot he could find this side of the little meadow.

"We're not done, are we? And we should both bathe either way, before you sacrifice."

Paris didn't much want to spend another hour or so helping to dig the pit they'd need, but he also didn't want to leave Menelaos to do it alone. He turned around to a blank, considering look that it took much strength not to squirm under. He smiled instead, until Menelaos shook his head, and there was a tiny curl of a smile lurking in the corner of Menelaos' fine mouth that had Paris' heart skip a beat to see. He liked that much better than the dark, tearful tension, or the anger.

"True. Very well. I won't refuse the aid, and a bath will only be more rewarding, after we're done."

Paris was rather sure it wouldn't feel much more rewarding, as exhausted as he already was, but the sooner they got the pit dug and the wood gathered for fire, sacrificial as well as for their own use, the sooner they could have that bath, and a meal.

Chapter Text

The setting sun was staining the sky in burning oranges and reds, like the fire that would soon be lit in the pit dug in front of Lycus and Chimaereus' joint tomb, when Paris and Menelaos reached the pool. The heat of the day had long since fled, especially this high up, but the cooling, late summer air wasn't biting. In return, the pool was still warm, heated as it had been by the day's light, exposed to the sun aside from the cliff that rose up to cradle one side of it.

Paris paused, smiling up at the top of the cliff now casting dark shadows over the pool, the edge of it gilded with dying sunlight. He'd had a lot of pleasant fun here, through the years.

"The water's still warm enough it'll feel great after all that digging," he said, the smile only growing of the prospect. Talked more to the cliff than Menelaos, too distracted by the prospect of water and washing off the day's accumulated and dried sweat to look over at him. Stripped himself instead, and then with another look between the pool and the cliff, took off running.

"Alexander?" Menelaos called and Paris only laughed in answer as he quickly half-scaled, half ran along the barely-there, winding path that led up to the top of the cliff. "Weren't you the one who wanted to bathe, not subject yourself to more exercise?"

"I'm coming!" Paris called as he paused briefly at the edge of the cliff, Menelaos standing down by the pool, sun-lit like a golden figurine thrown into the fire, melting to the fiery heat. Shadows and light caressed his broad-shouldered frame, and Paris had to make himself look away, shaking his head.

"Ale---" Menelaos' understanding of what Paris was about to do cut off into a sucked-in breath lost to the rush of air, Paris' own laughter, and the loud splash of water that embraced him in an instant shock of pleasant coolness in the deep part of the pool. Lingering heat embraced him when he surfaced, easing the shock of the cooler water. "Alexander!"

Jerking at the sharp tone, Paris almost dunked himself in his surprise. Was helpfully hauled over into a part shallow enough they could both stand in while he sputtered. Sweeping his wet hair away from his face, Paris met hotly narrow, burning eyes the colour of amber held up to the sun, but he recognized protective fury when he saw it, and so only found laughter.

"I-it's fine, Menelaos! The pool is deeper, in that end."

He was well-acquintained with how safe it was, or wasn't, to jump from the cliff. Years of summers and early autumns on Mount Ida since he'd first stumbled upon this place had given him more than enough intimate knowledge of this spot.

The pool near the hut was certainly more convenient, but the cliff made this location more fun. Many nymphs had enjoyed this place with him, but this pool - or rather, the little slice of mountain meadow with the tombs - had more meaning than that. It was here he'd met Grandmother Idaia after getting lost early on when he'd first come back to Mount Ida with cattle to herd - his royal father's equally royal cattle, this time. She'd led him back to the spot that would become the place the hut would be built, perfect as it was both to graze the cattle and as a stopping point while taking the cattle to other meadows during the day. She’d also told him whose the tomb was. Everyone knew there were tombs to Lycus and Chimaereus in the area, but where, exactly, was definitely the province of the older priests of Dardanos and the scattered number of herdsmen who found the place.

"And if you had been wrong and had smashed your head open on the bottom? What was I supposed to say to your father, then?" Menelaos shook him by the arm he was still holding, but his grip was gentle and the immediate anger had already softened into a pinch between those straight brows.

His fingers itching to rub it away, Paris shook his head, laughter dying for a smaller smile as he laid a hand on Menelaos' upper arm. Kept himself from squirming and kept his eyes focused on Menelaos' face, but it didn't save him from the feeling of muscle - Menelaos was still tense - under his hand.

"I've been here before, remember? I haven't forgotten if it's safe to jump that cliff since last time I was here. Though I might yet be a little taller, since then!"

Menelaos huffed at his teasing, in admittedly kind of bad taste as it was to imply he might have been tall enough the pool wouldn't have been deep enough for him this time around. That would only have been true if he should've come here last when he first found this place, and only visited it again now.

"Warn a body next time, would you?" Menelaos sighed, shaking his head. He shook Paris again, then let go.

Paris was obliged to let his hand slide off when Menelaos moved away to take a couple strokes around the deeper end of the pool, no matter how reluctant he was for it. His blond hair, out of its low ponytail, spread out in the water behind him, darkening to a deeper, more reddish, shade than it had when dry.

"You could make a jump yourself," Paris suggested cheerfully, having to look away from the shift of muscle in Menelaos' back and broad, solid shoulders. Surely the gods - maybe Zeus himself - had sculpted those.

"You've already given me more than enough excitement for the day," Menelaos said over his shoulder, twisting around as he righted himself. Water poured down his shoulders and chest, and maybe the latter wasn't as impressive as some other Paris had seen, but what did that matter? The ovals of his nipples drew attention far more than Paris might have guessed, perfectly placed, and his fingers itched again.

He was staring.

Menelaos had an eyebrow arched, and Paris smiled and ducked himself under, tugging on his hair. Maybe Menelaos wouldn't mind - he'd been surprisingly forgiving about his stupid slip with the bull earlier, thoughtless as it'd been - but Paris had also noticed that men were as attracted to him as they were terribly unimpressed by him. It was always a gamble which might win out, and while he could take being rejected, the idea that Menelaos, in particular, might do so made him shy away from doing anything to invite that possibility into reality.

Besides, it was only the first day.

Aside from the fact that Menelaos was clearly focused on the sacrifice and seemed not interested in distractions, even after it Menelaos wouldn't be sailing away immediately. Maybe there would, too, be something revealed in these next days that would kill any interest Menelaos' fair, reddish hair, sun-lit brown eyes and those great, thick thighs and broad shoulders had given him. Paris wasn't sure whether that was the better result or not.

Resurfacing with a splash, snagged into laughter for Menelaos' drenched, scrunched expression as he'd gotten closer to him than he'd noticed while underwater, Paris made his own circuit of the pool. Enjoying the lingering warmth of the water, the movement over his skin like a caress, he could almost distract himself from the awareness of Menelaos nearby. Could ignore the temptation to look - at least until rings spread out on the pool and he turned to Menelaos walking out, shaking himself off like a great lion having dunked himself after pausing to drink, the sun too hot even for such a great animal to resist the chance to cool down in a shadowed pool. Menelaos turned, bending to pick up his clothing, and Paris, mouth dry, ducked himself under again. When he resurfaced once more, he took himself across the pool, to where his own clothes lay in the grass, and was rather glad the chilling air left behind by the setting sun and darkening sky was an excellent distraction from watching Menelaos' dress.

He was still clammy as they walked back, and it seemed vaguely wrong to take pleasure from the fire they lit in the pit in front of the tomb, but meant for sacrifice or not, it warmed all the same. While Menelaos fetched the two sheep, Paris built up the fire meant for themselves and not for gods and dead heroes, stealing a bit of flame to light it. He still didn't understand the necessity of this happening in darkness. It was a little unsettling, actually, especially when the sacrifice was to go to those gone, belonging to the Dark Earth. A pit was only right, but the rest seemed somewhat far more than strictly needed.

Still, Paris didn't say anything. Only stepped up, offering Menelaos the small amphora of wine and the phiale that had been brought along with it, taking the rope to the sheep in turn so Menelaos could focus on the libation to be made.

A tension in Menelaos' shoulders unwound when he took the wine so he could initiate the divinely mandated sacrifice, dropping them to a more natural position that was only obvious now. It left Menelaos looking more centered as he poured the wine into the phiale, looking up at the sky and then staring at the fire burning in the pit for a couple silent moments. He'd had to come far, for this. What had it been like, watching the people - his own - dying and nothing to be done at all, until he was informed he would have to cross the sea to even begin to find the place where he was to hold propitiatory sacrifices?

"Glorious Kypris, and you, who live beneath the earth," Menelaos started, his voice rolling through the cooling air, filling the twilight that was slipping into full dark. The fire broke the wood they'd supplied for its fuel, cracks and snaps accompanying Menelaos' words.

Paris, intending to listen, still looked away. Squinted into the firelit darkness outside the little circle made up by the fire and the pit in front of Menelaos, and the more mundane fire behind them, burning merrily now. The sheep shifted beside him, against the rope, into his legs, quiet. Paris tried to ignore all other sound, for he could swear he'd heard something out in the darkness. Against the crackle of the fire, Menelaos’ prayer, and the sheep shifting against him, he could hear nothing else, and against the flames themselves, he could see nothing beyond. That was the problem with having lit fires at night - one simply couldn't see much of anything that wasn't standing right next to those fires. But the fires would also keep any enterprising beasts away, like a warning beacon lit on a high cliff for sailors to follow away from dangerous and treacherous spots along the coast, leading them to safety instead of ruin, though they couldn't see the danger itself, hidden under the dark shift of the waters.

"---take this, then."

The hiss of the wine being poured along the edge of the pit, threatening the flames while the liquid soaked into the freshly bared earth, startled Paris into facing forward again, shaking his head. It was fine. If there were, indeed, a wolf or great cat out there that he had overheard, the fires would be their safeguard. They might have two fat sheep here, but for as enterprising as predators could be to stalk a vulnerable herd, such a small target wasn't worth it.

The wine poured, the sheep were dealt with next. Fortunate they'd brought food; there'd be none from these two, even as juicy as they undoubtedly were, young and unbred. But from what Paris had come to understand as they dug the pit, one didn't eat of the sacrifices that were meant for beings of the Dark Earth, honoured mortals or dread immortals both.

Too, maybe it was a little crude, to be eating of the meat from the animals sacrificed to alleviate an epidemic plaguing a people who'd been held under the yoke of lesser means through an accompanying lack of fertility.

They arranged the sheep along the sides of the pit, cloven hooves sticking into the fire and close enough the flames would eventually consume the animals without being smothered by their bulk, and Paris exhaled softly as they stepped away.

"Thank you," Menelaos said quietly, hand on his shoulder and bleeding warmth into his skin, even through his tunic, and Paris shook his head, smiling. Dared to reach up to touch the fingers on his shoulder, if only briefly.

"I said I would help, didn't I?" Maybe he'd had - did still have - more reasons than a straightforward generosity and desire to help an afflicted people in need to offer that aid, but Paris didn't see what it mattered. Hiking all the way out here in a single day and then digging the pit was for far more than the fluttering hope in his heart. "But now that we've seen to the need of the blessed immortals and the dead, maybe we can see to the needs of the living as well."

Paris shot Menelaos a grin as the man huffed, a reluctant little smile lighting his face even up into his eyes, the fire from behind Paris just barely catching the sheen of them. He had to turn away from that view, to the other fire and the food laying there, waiting for their attention. Good thing they’d brought it along, for all that it'd been more to carry when it'd only been meant, Paris had thought, to be taken to the hut.

Menelaos had been correct, though. With the sacrifice happening in the dark, it would’ve been a waste of time to stop at the hut for the rest of the day, continuing out here tomorrow, and then waiting the whole day out here for the dark. On the other hand, it would’ve given them more time to dig the pit, and more chances for rest between all the work to do that.

Suppressing a sigh at the thought and the waiting reality of aching muscles, Paris sat down, though focusing on his food was terribly hard with the firelight catching gold and orange in Menelaos' hair and on his face, throwing part of it in shadow with its flickering play. Perhaps Menelaos wasn't the most handsome man Paris had ever seen, but there was a light in his summer-brown eyes, warming his words, though suppressed as it currently was, that drew him. Where Menelaos excelled, he excelled enough to leave Paris' breathless for his impressive thighs and broad shoulders, large, square hands that were near-hypnotically steady in whatever work they were put to.

"Since you brought your lute along, and it would be a pity to waste the entertainment you wanted us to have while out here, would you play something, after we've satisfied out bodies?" Menelaos asked, looking past the fire at him with an intent expression on his face - maybe a little apologetic, too. Paris had definitely caught the suppressed impatience when he'd put the lute into the wagon with his bow and arrows. Menelaos sighed, shaking his head. "Satisfaction of the heart and spirit in the form of song is important as well."

Delight filled Paris up to the brim, threatening to spill over, but he managed a nod that was collected enough. "Anything you want, though I'll have to warn you I don't know any of the songs around Herakles' exploits. They aren't a favourite, around here."

Menelaos snorted softly with a barely-there pull around his mouth that suggested the wry smile that could have been.

"I remember. Quite understandable why you wouldn't know them, even less in Achaean. That's not what I'd like to hear, anyway," Menelaos said slowly, tearing off a piece of bread while still watching Paris. "I'd much rather you sing something you prefer."

Caught, Paris blinked, staring across the fire at Menelaos. It didn't mean anything. Menelaos didn't know what he was asking for, and would surely rectify his request soon enough. That didn't stop the earlier delight from warming into something softer, only furthered by the intent weight on Menelaos' face, attentive. On him. Paris nodded again, distracted by nothing but the man across the fire from him.

Despite that he knew what the end result would probably be, even with Menelaos undoubtedly appreciating his skill, Paris wanted to fulfil the request as given. Wanted to show, and wasn't quite sure why, aside from the kind weight in Menelaos' quiet voice when he spoke, and, perhaps, the way his anger at Paris' thoughtlessness had burned out so quickly. Maybe he wanted to know with certainty what Menelaos' judgement would be. He wouldn't be less attracted, afterwards, but maybe it'd be easier to just enjoy the fluttery warmth like he so often did when someone caught his attention, instead of the feeling he'd gotten when Menelaos had stepped into the megaron, something like as if he'd been punched in the chest. Not that Menelaos didn't deserve it, from the fall of reddish-blond hair with its untamed fly-aways curling at the ends, to the sweep of his nose and a bottom lip that was thicker than his upper one. It gave him something of a near-constant almost-pout, and it was very charming.

With the meal over with, Paris pulled his lute into his lap, testing the strings and finding them good, still.

Looked up to flash Menelaos a smile that was greeted with a slight shake of that blond head, but there was part of a smile, however brief, pulling on the corner of his mouth. All that deliberate weight made Paris want to succeed in making Menelaos smile without reservation. Maybe he'd manage, before Menelaos left.

Trailing his fingers down the two strings, breathing out at their trembling noise, Paris slid right into a short festival dance song, wordless but catchy. The energy of it filled him up, after such a long day, and though he usually liked to keep his attention on his audience, this time he let his eyes close, enjoying the feel of the music as it spilled out around him. A harvest song was next, and then, while Paris had an idea of something he might want to sing for Menelaos, he'd save it for later. Save it, in case the effort wouldn't be worth it. Save it, because he'd need to translate it, and while he had a great memory, so he was unlikely to lose what he'd translated, he wanted it to sound as good as it might. The song deserved more than translation done on the fly, clumsily exact and thus lacking in finesse. He chose something easier, instead.

Something that he vastly preferred singing about rather than battles, no matter how heroic and great they were supposed to be, and the accomplishments the actions surely were. A smile fighting for space with the words now swinging into the darkness around them from his tongue, Paris found himself relaxing further. The love songs, too, were already translated; he'd done it as exercise to keep his Achaean fresh.

They made him think of Antheus' smile, even if those were no longer for him. Of the nymphs laughing in the shadows of pine trees, their eyes following him, their hands on him, his on them. Of Oinone, her eyes dark and her lips burning against his. Of the man across from him, more in the promise of his own desire than reality.

Blinking, Paris finished up the song he was currently singing, realizing he'd been left to sing several of them in a row. Looking up, past the lute in his hands, the flicker of flames between them that caressed Menelaos' face and shadowed his body, bent forward where he was leaning his elbows on his knees, to Menelaos himself. Menelaos' face was still, eyes closed and a look on his face Paris recognized, but not an emotion he'd expected. Yearning, instead of annoyance.

The only thing he regretted was that he knew he couldn't be the intended target for the emotion, no matter how quiet, so starkly on display.

"None could doubt your skill, to make the heart miss what is not currently present," Menelaos said quietly, straightening up. Looked away, out into the dark as he rubbed his chin. Cleared his throat, looking back only slowly, his gaze at first landing on Paris' mouth instead of meeting his eyes.

Swallowing, Paris sat still, quite unable to move and certainly gripping the long, thin neck of his lute far too hard, but how could he not under that intent stare. Menelaos snapped his gaze up quickly, but certainly not quickly enough. Paris might be unable to see the colour of his eyes in the fire-lit dark any longer, Menelaos’ attention was no less than when the weight of it had rested a little further down.

"You have a voice meant for this, I think, not for singing of battles, no matter how worthy. Golden Kypris and her son needs their heralds as well."

The little smile on Menelaos' face trailed off as he ended up looking away again as soon as he'd finished speaking. Paris didn't know him well enough to know, exactly, what Menelaos was feeling right then. The firelight also hid anything that wasn't already coloured red and orange by its flames, which crowned Menelaos in a gleaming wreath about his pale hair, but he'd meant what he'd said.

There was a fist in Paris' chest, squeezing his heart, and heat on his face that had nothing to do with the fire.

It wasn't that men never enjoyed these songs - of course they did, Paris had plenty of proof of that. It was just that their patience for them quickly ran out, especially if they were listening, whether they were the intended target or not, instead of being the singer themselves. But Menelaos' quiet words had practically glowed with appreciation, and whether Menelaos was flustered to have spoken so, or felt exposed in the yearning he'd been sitting with so clearly on his face mattered less. Paris had hoped, maybe, that he would at least be granted tolerance, but this was more than merely tolerance. It was terribly hard to ignore the fluttering squeeze of his chest, but Paris let the tension out in a smile. Wide, certainly, for there was no reason not to soak up and be grateful for the genuine compliment, but hopefully not too revealing of the depth to his appreciation. Maybe it really didn't matter, not when Menelaos had said what he'd said and so freely, but he'd gotten used to hide certain things.

"If I could sing well enough they would consider me worthy of such a position, if only here among mortals, I should count myself fortunate!" Paris laughed, the vulnerable edge to his pleasure, from both compliment and the look Menelaos had given him, now forgotten. "But, having pleased my current audience is more than reward enough."

His smile didn't so much widen as it deepened, accompanied by a slight dip in the pitch of his voice. Menelaos cleared his throat and shook his head. There was no way to hide that it wasn't denial of what Paris had said that caused that reaction. Pleased, Paris turned to his lute again. Cautious hope turning into something more solid for what might happen before Menelaos left.

He certainly wanted it to, even more now than when Menelaos had first stepped into the megaron, now having terribly little to do with the stranger's looks, handsome as he was.

Carrying the lute with him had been more than worth it, for all that it added admittedly unnecessary weight as they hiked up Mount Ida. But then, Paris carried - in various ways - so many things that might be considered unnecessary by some, so why admit to this one? He didn't fall into only love songs for the rest of the evening until they turned to their blankets for the night, as much as he wanted to - didn't quite dare to, for fear of straining that gentle, appreciative goodwill his skill at the lute had earned him - but he sprinkled them in, here and there.

In the morning, Paris woke to a cheerfully saffron sky and uncomfortably in need of getting up. Grimacing, he rolled out of the blanket, stepping around Menelaos to peer into the pit, where the fire had died down among the ashes sometime during the night and what remained of the sheep were charred lumps with sooty bones poking out. Presumably - hopefully - everything had been done correctly, so Menelaos could stop worrying about his people, and the people might be free of suffering they had carried for so many weeks.

Humming, Paris crossed the meadow to find a spot to relieve himself, then walked a little further, up to the pool so he could wash his face. By the time they reached the hut whatever good this brief wash might have done would have been undone and he would be glad for the pool near to the hut. This time, Menelaos would simply have to accept at least a brief stop there to wash off the sweat and get relief from the heat, instead of continuing all the way down immediately. Maybe, now that the sacrifices were done and Menelaos would be waiting for confirmation they'd been accepted and the epidemic lifted, he might be more amenable to taking the hike back slower. It didn't even matter if anything happened at all, Paris just wished for a chance to spend more time with their guest, especially with no one else around.

Smiling at the thought, Paris smacked the surface of the pool, shattering his reflection into thousand tiny little shards, and hopped back onto his feet.

A shout echoed over the rocks, twisting in on itself. It was followed by a second before the echo had died.

Paris froze, startled, caught like a fawn hiding under a bush as a lion stalks past nearby, both of them scenting each other but neither yet having set sight on the other, and then cursed, twisting around. Tore down the narrow path - more animal track up to a watering hole than one made by human feet - heedlessly, feet landing unflinching on protruding rocks and somehow not snagged by the roots sticking up past the shallow layer of earth here and there.

A wolf? Hopefully not, for a wolf always meant more than one, and the mountain didn't host any wolf packs anyway, Paris knew. Aeneas had cleared out the pack that'd been attempting to settle last summer. A great cat? A better option, but still not good in the least if Menelaos had been surprised. Mount Ida had bears, too, but Paris didn't think it'd be a bear. What else might have been lurking nearby?

The memory of turning to squint into the dark from a whispery flutter, dry on dry, that he could swear he'd heard cut through Paris' heart at the same time as he burst back onto the little mountain meadow.

"Alexander! Careful!" Menelaos shouted where he was standing with his blanket still twisted around his feet, sword held low in front of him. He was caught towards the edge of the meadow where it dropped off into a cliff, only the tomb offering some paltry protection from easy ambush from behind. Careful, he said, when he was the one cornered by two chimaeras, their wings spread out low, the rusty beginnings of roars rumbling in leonine throats, accompanied by the hissing of the drakon-headed tails. "What, by Heaven and the dark-clouded son of Kronos, are these?"

Menelaos' voice was understandably edged as he chanced another look past the chimaeras to Paris. He cursed when he was forced to stagger back against the tomb as one of the two chimaeras lunged, snapping not with her leonine jaws, but the grotesquely red-toothed human head above. Menelaos stilled only because he was dangerously near to stepping on the edge of the sacrificial pit and risk slipping, his sword once again gifting him a moment of space and safety.

"Chimaeras!" Paris shouted over his shoulder as he lunged for his bow and arrows, glad, right then, that he'd left them by the cliff on this end of the meadow where he'd at first dumped everything he'd been carrying. He'd not bothered to take his weapons over to their campsite - it'd not seemed necessary - and now, maybe, it would prove a boon.

"Khima... this isn't what she lo---!" With another curse Menelaos cut himself off, lurching away from one lunging chimaera. That unfortunately put him within reach of the second, though she got a cut to the swiping paw she attempted to tear him with for the trouble.

She roared, trebling and furious, winding together with an all too human but wordless scream. Menelaos backed away along the tomb’s side, far too close to the edge of the meadow and the fall awaiting there. The chimaera followed after him, while the second one jumped up on top of the tomb, attempting to cut Menelaos’ retreat off. Explanations would be had later. Right now, Menelaos' life was the more important thing. He needed to act before they decided he was a threat, too, and not just potential food to be turned on at their leisure, after they'd dealt with their current food-threat-target. These chimaeras might not have the fire-breathing goat-head, the human head in comparison rather useless, but they were still formidable opponents. Their wings gave them a different advantage to the one Khimaira had had, and unlike the dread Sphinx, there were two of them present.

Two, and probably more.

A problem for later. Right then, Paris nocked an arrow, quick plea to Apaliunas wordless but earnest on his tongue. For all that Menelaos' closeness to the chimaeras in such a terrible spot was worrying, with as large as the creatures were, and them also constrained in how much they could move unless they took to the air, he had little risk of hitting Menelaos instead of his real targets.

The chimaera on the tomb launched herself in the air, but even as Paris cursed, it didn't matter. The other one was the greater, immediate threat.

The arrow flew, swift and sure, Paris following it with a second as soon as he'd let the first go. Both of them buried into the back of the human head, and she convulsed, the scream that as of a dying woman, blood pouring forth out of her mouth like a waterfall sprung from a spring at the top of a cliff.

"Stab it in the other face, or in the heart, as well! Preferably both!" Paris shouted as he snagged a third arrow, the second chimaera's roar shaking the rocks before it dove.

At Menelaos.

Paris had no chance to aim with care, but fortunately Menelaos had lunged forward at the dying chimaera, aiming not for the leonine head but rather around its side to thrust his sword in the vulnerable spot behind its elbow. He ducked at the same time, too, having kept no blind outlook and clearly aware of what the second chimaera was doing. Fortunately, the airborne chimaera missed entirely, aside from perhaps cutting off a stray strand or two from Menelaos’ head that the swiping paws stirred up. Paris' arrow, as heedless as it'd been shot, still caught the chimaera in its leonine throat, though far too much to the side to immediately snatch whatever half-soul it might have down into the darkness of the Sun Goddess of the Earth.

It snarled, fangs now stained with bloody froth, but Paris took no heed - the second arrow took it full in the human forehead while Menelaos twisted around to leap alongside the chimaera, cutting off the drakon tail with a lucky swipe and the stabbing it in the flank towards the back.

"Thanks to the saving grace of Zeus piḫaššaššiš and Apaliunas," Paris murmured, heart hammering in his chest fit to burst through from the inside. Shaking his head, he drew the knife at his belt with a trembling hand and jogged forward. Smiled at Menelaos when he looked up from staring at the second chimaera, though the smile was perhaps not quite as steady as he might have hoped, for Menelaos looked him over as if it was he, once again, who'd been in greater danger, then shook his head.

"They are dead, both of them, by your fortunate skill. Thank you, Alexander," Menelaos said, voice warm in such a manner he wouldn't really need to state his gratitude because it was obvious. "And both of us whole, there's no need to look so concerned, is there?"

He smiled, then, a larger one than Paris had seen before now. That was just unfair, that it should come in these circumstances, and also not as cheerful as Paris had been hoping for. It did allow him the moment needed, laughter dispelling most of his shakiness.

"We need to be sure. They're hard to kill, and slow to die, so we need to get to all the heads and also their hear---!"

Menelaos convulsed, a bitten-off curse choking him as he staggering a step forward and whipping around, cutting the drakon tail of the first chimaera in half. Sinking to his knees, he fumbled behind him to rip the head out of his calf, where even death hadn't urged the thing to let go.

"Menelaos!" Paris cried, surging forward and only barely remembering to pause long enough to cut both throats of the second chimaera. Hopped over a clumsily swiping paw as it jerked for what was hopefully the last time and followed up with a stab between the ribs. Almost tossed his knife away instead of sheathing it, still dripping blood, so he could help Menelaos to his feet.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Never felt a more painful bite from something so relatively small, but it was a clean wound," Menelaos said, bitten-off pain in his voice but words certain and steady, as if he himself hadn't turned said clean bite into a messy tear from how he'd yanked the head with its long fangs out. Paris wished he could let Menelaos' warm solidity reassure him.

"It's not fine! The drakon head carry poison!"

Menelaos stilled, the hand on Paris' shoulder clamping down so tight he couldn't help but flinch for it and only barely swallowed the noise of pained protest. Brown eyes, sunlit but not warm right then, met his own.

"How poisonous?"

Paris’ smile felt wrong. It was too tense at the edges, nearly wobbling. "More than enough."

Chapter Text

Staring at Alexander, Menelaos wondered at the irony of assuaging the epidemic in Lakedaimon only to be struck himself with another sort of illness. On top of that, while still far away from what had become home in the last couple years. Home, with a wife and what soon would be a little child, too, after years of nothing.

No. There was no reason to give up that easily.

"Then we should start now, so we might get to Dardanos as quickly as possible. They will have healers, and, with your intimation of familiarity with these creatures, I assume the locals are familiar with the hazards they present and might have ways to deal with them."

Squeezing the strong, sleek shoulder under his hand that wasn't as fragile as it looked - Alexander was still growing into it, no matter how little more he might be able to hope for - Menelaos shook his head firmly. It was as much for Alexander, who still was wide-eyed and pale-faced, a trembling sort of tearfulness about his face he wished to soothe, as it was for himself.

Just moments before he would've thought that Alexander was worrying for nothing given how he'd felt nothing as soon as he'd yanked the head out, even with how painful the bite of the drakon-headed tail had been, there was now a burning throb in his calf starting to make itself known. It followed his heartbeat in a worrying fashion. The pain was presently only a small spot on his calf, undoubtedly where he'd been bit, but every pulsing beat already threatened to spread that spot wider. To hook its fangs into his blood and spread it further through his body like the most unwelcome of ardent merchants come crying his wares at a busy market for the delight and enticement of men's wives.

"Yes--- but no," Alexander's gasping agreement froze as he shook his head, stilling, too, where he'd started to turn away to set them moving. "There's somewhere closer, someone whose skill with herbs and healing will serve you far better, and far quicker, than if we went all the way down to Dardanos."

Relief at the realization washed most of the tension out of the young man and he shot Menelaos a bright-eyed smile. Despite the nearly breathless switch in Alexander's mood, Menelaos found himself strangely thankful instead of aggravated for it. Perhaps it was easier to not feel as if the injury was made light of when Alexander was still quick as a hunting falcon darting down on prey huddling on the ground, relying on long grass to conceal it from raptor-sharp eyes, as he gathered up the blankets and his lute and bow and arrows. Even that quickness wasn't quick enough, revealing Alexander's pronouncement of 'more than enough' as unfortunately true and not exaggeration. Menelaos had started to break out in a sweat when Alexander came up beside him, and there were twinges of cramps in his bitten calf, while the pain had reached his knee.

"How far to your healer?" Menelaos asked tightly, starting forward to meet Alexander and completely ignoring the boy's badly suppressed flinch and wide, begging glance. He was not so incapacitated just yet that he couldn't do something as simple as walk.

Menelaos held that thought firmly in his heart, desperate to convince himself it to be true, but what the twinges of pain when he'd shifted around to change his stance earlier had hidden was that walking must be speeding up the spread of the poison.

"Less than an hour, normally," Alexander said, watching him with too-large eyes, attention just as sharp as the arrows he carried in his quiver. Or perhaps, more aptly, as sharp as the fangs that had been driven into Menelaos' calf. He opened his mouth, but Menelaos passed him, grim determination in every step.

"Then we walk," Menelaos said with a grunt, closing his eyes against a stab of pain that, while it didn't threaten to make his leg give under his weight, still reached up to his thigh and made the muscle there quiver as if in exhaustion. He didn't like it, but he'd slow them down even further like this, which wouldn't actually be beneficial, least of all to himself. Shifting his jaw, Menelaos sighed. Held an arm out, Alexander sliding in next to him as if he’d merely been waiting for such a signal.

For all of his sleekness, Alexander held more hidden strength than he seemed to, and bore up well under what of his weight Menelaos would share with him. It perhaps matched the surprising skill and competence he’d shown during the short fight, unflinching as he’d driven his dagger into the beasts’ necks. Still, Menelaos would keep as much of his weight off the boy for as long possible, which should hopefully keep them reaching their destination as close to the time frame Alexander had given. Hopefully shorter than that, to be entirely frank. Menelaos resolved not to make any further concession to the pain, however. Not with how Alexander's fingers were digging into his ribs, despite that the expression on his face was almost as untouched as it'd been when he'd smiled. He kept glancing to him, however, in-between searching looks of their surroundings.

"I'd offer to carry you," Alexander said, bursting out laughing at the look Menelaos gave him. "Yes, yes, that's why I said I would offer, if I thought I'd be able to carry you for long enough for it to matter! The nymphs of the mountain are one thing, but you're quite a bit more impressively built, my lord."

Lashes lowered over shining blue-green eyes, dark with something that was perhaps more than concern, but Menelaos told himself he was being ridiculous. Alexander wouldn't flirt in a moment like this. Even if he would, he also clearly knew there were other matters to focus on, for he quickly went back to frowning past pines and up at jutting cliffs. For all his frivolity, it was a relief to find Alexander knew to focus. Still, he had very thick and long lashes. Could probably rival Helen's. He hoped Helen was doing fine, and that her brothers were staying with her.

"Could there be more of them?" Menelaos looked around as well, but if there were so much as a large cat to stalk among the trees to take advantage of their hobbling stride, then the shadows were empty.

"There most probably are, but I'm looking for their nest. It's going to be nearby, otherwise they would've avoided us, sheep or no sheep. The fires would've been enough, like for any beast." Alexander shook his head, squinting into the bright morning light now reflecting off the rocks around them. "I'm going to have to come back, after Oinone has helped you, to make sure they haven't left behind young. They're far easier to kill when young, but left alone they'll still survive - or gain new caretakers. Though hopefully Aeneas and his men will get all of the rest that have come, as soon as they're told there are chimaeras around Dardanos."

"We'll look, after," Menelaos agreed, casting another look around, but since they were following a path of a sorts, he was rather convinced that if the nest was indeed close to the meadow with its tomb, it would be away from even rarely used paths and tracks, animal or not. Alexander shot him a bright-eyed little smile, the unconscious, tense digging of his fingers easing up for a kinder squeeze against his ribs.

"I was holding too tightly, wasn’t I? Sorry. And it shouldn't be hard to find the nest, they're not small at all. But first, the bite needs to be taken care of."

Menelaos waved the apology off with a half-hearted flap of the hand he had dangling over Alexander's shoulder. What little pain to be caused by his worry was far easier dealt with that the burning pulse indeed spreading further and biting itself deeper with the exertion. Unfortunately, even if they should stop to make a stretcher that Alexander might be able to drag, the mountainous surroundings were hardly fitted for such. Walking was what was left, and so Menelaos grit his teeth, blinking the occasional drop of sweat that threatened to sting him out of his eyes. Those came far more often than even the day's walk up the mountain yesterday, most of it in full afternoon sun, had managed to squeeze out of him, and he was hot under his collar, in his face. What had begun as a creep of uncomfortable heat was now a firestorm, and his mouth was dry.

He needed a distraction.

"Chimaeras, Alexander?" He had to clamp his hand onto the shoulder so he could keep his balance as he glanced sidelong to meet Alexander's eyes. The boy clearly understood his question as he laughed wryly.

"Oh, yes. Araisodarus of Lukka bred Khimaira, in secret at first, before she became too unruly and dangerous for him to keep." Alexander glanced sideways, eyebrows arched to match the tilt of his mouth. "You can imagine how long that secret stayed one, when the creatures proliferated out of his control and spread, after. They're only native to Lukka... ah, Lycia, and the lands around the southern coast there, but they sometimes migrate north over summer, and need to be dealt with."

Not unexpected to hear in the least. The only thing that gave Menelaos pause was the comment about Khimaira being bred, and the chimaeras they had faced having human heads among the two animal ones. Menelaos glanced around them, biting on his tongue as much for the searing pain now threatening to truly weaken his steps as it'd reached his hips, as for surely not wanting to ask the question on the tip of his barely restrained tongue.

It didn't work.

"They have human heads," he muttered, disgusted.

"They do, though Araisodarus claimed he never bred the young Khimaira with humans," Alexander said, then paused. Shrugged, throwing Menelaos another arch look, laughter in the back of his words. "But anyone would claim that, if they know they're the architect of such a plague, no matter how it might have come about, wouldn't they?"

"Indeed."

There was surely little to laugh about in such folly, but, even shaky, thoughts growing distracted and unsteady thanks to the rising fever, Menelaos could tell Alexander wasn't laughing in any glee over the troubles and deaths Araisodarus' foolishness had wrought. If there was anything at all to laugh about in such a situation, it was surely the simple relief of not having been author to such grief.

The somewhat uneven path wasn't helping in the least, either for pain-cramping muscles or the fever that made Menelaos further unsteady on his feet. Alexander was solid and sure in his steps, and surprisingly capable of keeping his balance when Menelaos might misstep, but he was still both taller, broader - by quite a bit - and heavier than a young man not yet twenty. Watching the tense, downwards curve of Alexander's usually soft, smiling mouth in the corner of his eye, Menelaos felt unaccountably disturbed by the darkness on his face. He would've told him to let go and precede him if that would've been feasible, to spare him.

It simply wasn't. Not when the arm he had around Alexander's shoulders ached and the hand gripping him was shaking, and not when he was exhausted by more than the pain tearing through his muscles like an eager, starving dog might tear at the corpse of its former master, the formerly mild and loyal hound now heedless of anything but its own stomach, even ignoring the encroaching fire as the city around dog and dead master burned.

"How are you feeling?"

"As well as I currently might," Menelaos said tightly, even as he attempted to soften his tone. Ignoring the twitching cramps in his hand as soon as he attempted to control it, he squeezed Alexander's shoulder.

The concern wasn't unwanted, and neither was it undue, but while he wasn't going to lie, neither was he going to elaborate. Both because Alexander clearly being knowledgeable of the effects of chimaera poison he wouldn't need it, and Menelaos didn't want to unduly burden the boy. He was already concerned and unhappy; going into detailed descriptions of how much it hurt and what a struggle it was to merely convince himself to continue walking and not just drop most of his weight on Alexander's supporting body would help nothing and no one.

"We could sit, fo---"

"Alexander," Menelaos interrupted, managing a gentler tone this time, as well as a small, tight smile Alexander met with a wavering one of his own. Menelaos shook his head, eyeing the path snaking out and away between trees and cliffs in front of them. "As tempting as that offer is, if I sit down, you'd have to drag me to my feet to get me moving again. There is a reason we started walking immediately, isn't there?"

"There is," Alexander said with a soft little laugh as wavering as the smile still fighting to remain on his face. It gave just as much proof as Alexander firming his shoulders and raising his chin that at least sometimes, that lightness of mind was a deliberate action, to help others as much as himself. "So we continue walking, then."

As firm as anything, and he even tried to speed them up, though Alexander didn't quite have the build or strength to carry enough of Menelaos to convince more speed out of his aching body than he, himself, could squeeze out. That earned him a tense, quiet glance and soft lips pressing together into a thin line, but at least Alexander was far less dramatic about the whole matter than his brother would be. He loved his brother, but sometimes Agamemnon's catastrophizing about any given injury of his and its probable end result could become, not exactly tiring, but certainly not helping Menelaos' own peace of mind while he was in pain.

Alexander chuckled again, softer and quieter this time, which drew Menelaos' attention though he was far too aching and tired to do more than glance at Alexander's face. There was still a thread of tension in the sound, but it'd certainly been lighter than the one before. Bare as his glance was, Alexander had noticed and smiled lopsidedly.

"Hektor would be insisting he was fine, and wouldn't need to sit, until we got to our destination and then he'd be collapsing. Lykaon - he's a brother with another one of my father's wives - would be trying to avoid acknowledging his pain by distracting from any questions of it at all. I think I like your approach better."

Another laugh, carried on a wink this time, and Menelaos, though tired as he was, snorted. Was still drawn into a smile that didn't quite make the muscles in his face hurt. With the way Alexander's expression lightened, it was worth it even before he paused to concentrate, trying to find the words he needed.

"My brother... is much the same. If perhaps not... to the same degree."

"Oldest brother prerogative," Alexander said with a smile that, in that single moment, carried no shadow of worry in its shining, fond amusement.

It was surprisingly soothing.

Still, Menelaos merely nodded shortly in silent agreement, having to focus on keeping himself moving along with Alexander. Unfortunately, while he could at least do that much, Menelaos more often than not soon found Alexander's arm an urging press around his back as the young man, even shorter than him as he was, kept managing to draw up in front of him. His long legs was only partial explanation for that, for all that they were indeed very fine legs.

Grimacing at himself, he steered his tired eyes slightly sideways, back to the part of the path right in front of his own feet instead of following the motion of Alexander's knees as he walked. Looked away from the way the limbs tapered down to the shins in front and the flaring suggestion of strong calves Menelaos couldn't quite see from this angle, unless he wanted to pitch over. It didn't matter if Alexander had very nice legs. He wouldn't be here long enough he would feel comfortable actually starting anything, if that was indeed something that was on the table.

It probably was, unless he'd massively misunderstood something, but he was rather sure he hadn't. The fact that Alexander apparently was still interested only left Menelaos confused once more. He was a second son, plainer than his brother and many other men, and here this boy, beautiful enough most might have assumed him the son of one of the Deathless Ones, was still making eyes at him.

His head hurt.

"Oinone!" Alexander shouted, Menelaos' head throbbing along with the rise and fall of his voice, but when he opened his mouth to ask the boy to be quieter, he had to stop and swallow. There was not enough saliva even when he did, his tongue thick in his mouth, his throat scratchy as if he'd perhaps swallowed a handful of dust somewhere on the walk.

He didn't think he had.

"Oinone, I nee---!"

"Paris!"

Menelaos, surprised to hear another voice, looked up to stare, quite dumbfounded until he remembered Alexander mentioning that he had a better, and closer, destination in mind instead of Dardanos. The girl was small and slender, with long, long and slightly wavy dark hair that nearly shone blue where the light hit and shining green eyes. She slid to a stop, graceful as a hind, to stare at Menelaos staring at her, then looked to Alexander. She also started moving again, bustling up on Menelaos' other side to slide an arm around his back. She was stronger than she looked if Alexander's slight exhale of relief was anything to go by.

"What happened?"

"Chimaeras. One of them got him with its drakon head. Could you please help him?" Alexander asked, his eyes wide enough they surely took up half his face. Those thick, long lashes Menelaos had noticed earlier framed Alexander’s eyes, the green of them standing out brilliantly even without kohl. Distraction he might want for, but staring at Alexander's eyes wouldn’t assuage his pain. Menelaos shook his head slowly, glad he didn't have to talk.

"For you, certainly," Oinone said with a quick flash of a smile cleaving her face. Menelaos was only watching both of them out of the corners of his eyes, but it was interesting to see Alexander smile in response and Oinone's smile soften with a blush.

If it wasn't already clear she knew how to help him, he would have suspected other motives for Alexander to take them here. Whatever his suspicions, Oinone wasn't caught in the moment of staring at what most interested her. Instead she shook her head, all brisk business.

"I'll have something that will counteract and drive the poison out, but even with that you're going to want to wait to leave until tomorrow. Chimaera poison is hard on mortals, as you know. It has retained some of the fiery aspects of Khimaira's fire-breath."

The cave Oinone led them into was high-roofed, a little spring bubbling out of a crack in the rock low to the floor and trickling away, out of the cave, clear and fine. Carpets, fine enough to decorate a king's floor, lay spread on ground alternately sandy and made of nearly polished, flat stone. A couple large pots provided plants somewhere to grow, and the plants providing both decoration and partitioning the cave into rough rooms. A large drapery, woven and embroidered with Mount Ida and the rivers that originated from it, all of them twining around the mountain in an artistic swirl instead of anything more realistic, further cut off what was surely Oinone's bed from any undue scrutiny.

Menelaos didn't care about the surroundings. He was glad to merely sit, when he was guided down on a chair. The cushion was so thick and soft he sank down enough he would have thought he'd feel the chair's firm seat cutting in against his behind, but there was nothing but softness, still.

He was hot and dry - as if he truly was burning up from the inside out, his body like a seemingly burned-out hearth where coals yet glowed, dangerously hidden under layers of white, cold ash.

"Menelaos, here." Alexander stuck a cup of cold water in his hand, though had to close his own around it, too, for Menelaos was trembling too hard to keep hold of it. "You need to drink."

Realizing he'd simply been staring at the cup, at where Alexander's more slender hand laid over and interlaced with his own, broader and larger one, even when his throat and mouth was indeed thick with lack of moisture, Menelaos nodded belatedly. Let Alexander guide the cup up, but drinking, as soon as a drop of liquid touched his lips, was fortunately easy. The cup was empty far too soon.

"I need..." Menelaos trailed off not for a lack of words, but his tongue's willingness to shape them out slackening. Alexander squeezed his fingers, the smile on his face tight.

"You do," he agreed, taking the cup back, but not to refill it, for all that he stared at it as if it was guilty of withholding more water, not Alexander himself. "You're sweating like an ox forced to work through high summer noon, at a large field and dragging a plow all alone. Oinone wants you to drink the antidote before you drink more water, though."

The brief flash of teasing died partway through the talk of the poor ox, Alexander unable to quite hold on to what was clearly meant as a way to lighten the mood. His tight smile had softened into reassurance that held even when voice and words did not.

"Not much longer now," Alexander said, touching Menelaos' shoulder, then walked past and beyond him, disappearing out of direct view since Menelaos didn't have the energy to turn around. "Right? He won't have to wait for long, does he? Otherwise he's going to need more water."

"As soon as I'm finished. You have fine hands, so if you can make use of them other than plying strings, cut these."

Alexander laughed, his answer something that dropped a little lower than Menelaos' attention was currently capable of following. If he didn't have ample evidence of Alexander's concern for his safety, the flirting while he was supposed to help with what would hopefully save Menelaos’ life might have been aggravating. It still was, but Alexander had also dragged him here as speedily as he could, the hand around his to help him drink had been steady, careful not to force the cup too far, too fast. The only darkness in the look Alexander had first thrown Oinone as he walked around Menelaos had been concern.

Begrudging the boy a moment of levity when he also was doing, and had been doing, all that he could to help was unfair.

If nothing else, both Oinone and Alexander had pleasant voices, lending some sliver of distraction even if they couldn't do anything for the pain. His calf was a hard, solid lump of nothing until he might shift his weight; then Menelaos was reduced to quiet shaking, biting down on his teeth and locking his jaw so he wouldn't make any noise.

The nymph needed to focus on her work, and worrying Alexander wouldn't hurry anything along. It would, however unintentionally, perhaps even slow the proceedings along.

It was hard to be silent, though. Hard to be still, when unexpected shifts or his very heartbeat sent cramps through his limbs, fiery quivers of pain that set his heart stumbling or galloping in his chest. If he hadn't already been sitting down, he would undoubtedly be lying collapsed on the floor. It was still a near thing - Menelaos found himself clutching the edge of the heavy wooden tabletop to keep himself from slumping over, only not wilfully biting the inside of his cheek from the vague concern that if he did, he might bite too hard, even if that pain would surely be more manageable than the one currently seizing him.

For all that Agamemnon would be able to do just as little, or much, as Alexander currently was, and would be far louder while doing so, Menelaos was now rather wishing his brother might have accompanied him to Troy. He hadn’t seen him for a while, and the possibility he might not at all sat heavy.

"Menelaos? I can get more pillows, if you think that might help. Oinone will lend them."

Alexander's hand on his shoulder was warm, but an entirely different warmth from the forest fire searing him from the inside. For as much as Menelaos wished such a simple solution might work, though more because of the plaintive tension in Alexander's voice, his desire to ease the pain with what method was available, than that he had any hope it would, he had to shake his head. Shuddered, gritting his teeth. Could hear himself then, and no matter how quiet he'd been, it was no wonder Alexander had noticed. He might not be loud, but the cut-off, gasping hisses were undoubtedly more than loud enough in the silence of Oinone's cave.

"Thank you," he managed to grit out, closing his eyes instead of looking up at Alexander, the weight of the young man next to him almost a gentle balm over his too-tight skin, spasms tearing through it near every breath, it felt like. It took another couple moments before he could find words - or rather, maybe the right ones. "I don't--- what?"

Had he said something else? Menelaos finally opened his eyes and forced himself to look up at Alexander, dark-eyed like a cow mourning her calf, lost to the tearing teeth and claws of a lucky great cat.

"Your brother isn't here," Alexander said quietly, biting his lip. Almost managed to turn the grimace into a smile, however tense and small. "Oinone!"

"In a couple moments!"

"I know, he isn't," Menelaos grumbled, mouth unwieldy, embarrassed that he, even for just a moment and his mind too hot from fever and twisted with pain, had thought the weighted presence of this slight young man anywhere close enough to fool him into thinking of Agamemnon.

Alexander might not have finished growing yet, but it would take quite a bit of growth in the shoulders for him to catch up to Menelaos' older brother, even if Agamemnon wasn't terribly broad-shouldered. Not like Menelaos was. Not that there was anything wrong with Alexander's presence, and imagining him built any different didn't suit him. It just wasn't anywhere near of what Agamemnon felt like, standing close. Or Helen, for that matter, who might not be any broader than the Trojan prince, but was much taller. He couldn't die here, not seeing either his wife or his brother again. Or his new child, for that matter.

"I will... manage."

Menelaos could feel the weight of Alexander's distress, but his head was far too heavy with fever, his limbs too light with pain, for him to scrape together the words he needed before Alexander disappeared. Which, for all that he was nowhere near Agamemnon's solid, comfortable presence, Menelaos found himself missing, but Alexander, compared to his brother, quickly presented himself at Menelaos’ side again. The blanket he draped around him was thoughtful, but hardly useful.

"Alexa..." Menelaos sighed, shrugging the blanket off, forced to freeze there as another rippling cramp, heralding pain and carried on it, speared through him. "Too hot. If the lady, needs help... you should---"

He flapped a hand towards the space behind him, where Oinone still was. Alexander frowned and reached over, pulling the blanket back up.

"You're still sweating. It might not be cold out, but you're soaked through. You're going to feel clammy soon."

"Which is good," Oinone said as she came up, rounding Alexander and firmly wrapping Menelaos' hands around a cup. It steamed faintly, though what it might smell of, Menelaos couldn't tell, even when he managed to pull the cup close to his chest without spilling anything through another spasm. She nodded to it as she stepped away, letting Alexander slide into the space so vacated. "As long as you're sweating you still have liquids in your body to sweat. It's still fortunate you came as soon as you could."

Touching Alexander's shoulder in passing, the nymph and Trojan prince exchanged a look even Menelaos' fuzzy-headed attention didn't miss. Very good they came here and he didn't insist on going to Dardanos, even if that should perhaps have been the destination most would have wished to reach when injured. The healing of the blessed immortals was always superior of mortal knowledge, however, even just a nymph. And while even 'just' nymphs shouldn't be barged in on without invitation or surety that one would be welcome, Alexander had obviously been certain Oinone would help.

If only because he was the one asking.

"Here," Alexander murmured, helping Menelaos to drink something that tasted much like a forest smelled, thick and rich.

At the moment that taste almost had Menelaos heaving, but he drank the whole cup with grim, shaky determination. Hopefully it would be enough, and would help.

Chapter Text

Menelaos had once more declined an offer of more pillows, leaving Paris uncertain what else to do. If they'd been in Troy, or even just his own hut here on Mount Ida, he could easily have tried to make things more comfortable, even if Menelaos didn't think it was needed. Here, he could hardly commandeer Oinone's bed, no matter how worthy the cause, and so Paris was left uncertainly wandering the main space of the cave, contemplating stealing another blanket, perhaps. Or get at least one more pillow anyway. Surely sitting there plagued by fever that was happily finally burning itself out would be much more pleasantly dealt with if Menelaos was more comfortable?

He just didn't know what else to do, aside from making sure both the pitcher and the cup was filled with water. Not that such was useless, for Menelaos needed to drink to replenish what he'd sweated out, now that he'd both drunk the antidote and Oinone had given permission for him to drink. Being comfortable made feeling miserable as pleasant as it could be, and far more easier to deal with, at least in Paris' opinion.

"Alexander," Menelaos said with a sigh, voice low and somewhat rough, but sounding much better now than just half an hour ago. "Sit. Here or out there, with your nymph friend. You're making me dizzy, looking at you."

Paris laughed sheepishly, thumping down in the chair he'd pulled out earlier but hadn't been able to remain in for long.

He ignored the look he could feel burning his cheek from where Oinone sat. Even when she was sitting with her back turned to them, at the cave's opening, shelling nuts, he could tell she was staring. She'd invited him to help her, earlier, and if it was a normal day, he would of course have gone with her. Hoping to make her smile, hoping for one of her off-handed flirting comments. To make her blush, too, and certainly to kiss her. All that and more for as long as it might last. He wasn't sure where they were going, though he didn't dislike it in the least.

She'd been his first, though she'd practically disappeared for a bit after that, and when asked, had assured him it was fine. That nothing was wrong.

Whether that was true or not, at the moment, even if he did very much want to go sit with her, Paris just couldn't concentrate. Not with Menelaos' face still slightly beaded with sweat. At least he was no longer running so hot one could think he was melting into a second spring for this lovely cave to house. There were still spots of colour on his cheeks, but they could almost be mistaken for his skin colour by now, and Paris was grateful.

"I just want to be able to do what I can," he said, while smiling across the floor as Oinone looked over her shoulder again. Still he didn't get up. Turned around to face Menelaos instead, relieved for the returned sharpness in his eyes, the brightness now not fever but merely attention. Warmth. Paris shifted in his seat and smiled once more, because he couldn't not. "Are you sure I shouldn't get more pillows and blankets? Being more comfortable always makes me feel better."

Menelaos snorted softly, taking a sip of water - he no longer needed a steadying hand, and that was nearly enough to squeeze Paris' lungs empty in relief - shaking his head.

"You would." He said it not with any mocking edge to the words, just wry warmth. Paris would feel ridiculous for the little flutter in his chest if Menelaos hadn't done and said what he'd done since yesterday. "It's fine, Alexander. I'm feeling much better. Are you sure you would not rather sit elsewhere?"

Would he?

Some part of him undeniably did, exactly because of the new direction his relationship with Oinone was taking, but the remembered weight of dragging Menelaos' increasingly heavy body, intermittently shaken by cramps and his skin wet and clammy wherever he was pressed against Paris, kept him in his seat. That, and those light brown eyes on him, which, when light caught in them, reminded Paris of the two bracelets with amber beads that he had.

"Maybe," he admitted with an easy smile, shaking his head. "But it was only just recently you stopped sweating yourself to death, and I think some part of me is convinced I'll turn around and find you fading, even if there is no reason to mistrust Oinone's skill with herbs and plants! And, too, you're a guest even if we're not in Troy right now. I'm perfectly happy to be right where I am."

Leaning forward so he could touch Menelaos' knee had no intent other than the undeniable need to reassure himself. Menelaos stilled at the brush of his fingers and Paris paused, breath caught. Looked up past the spill of curls over his forehead, for he hadn't exactly had a chance to deal with his hair this morning, or on the walk here. Curved his hand with more intent over the knee, soft, thin skin just barely cushioning the hard cup of the kneecap underneath. His fingers tingled, but what was far more riveting than the feel of skin under his palm was watching the shifting flex of Menelaos' great, thick thigh at the touch. The drape of his tunic teasingly hid most since the hem reached a little below mid-thigh, but still gave ample suggestion of what lay underneath.

"Right," Menelaos said, clearing his throat as he nodded sharply. It drove Paris to straighten back up. Not from any disapproval in his voice or some shift away from his hand, but rather any lack of certain welcome that Paris could read.

It was much easier with fellow shepherds and neatherds, usually closer to his age. Easier with the nymphs and servants, as well as with a couple of his friends in Troy, too. Menelaos' indulgence - interest, because Paris didn't think he was wrong that there was, indeed, interest - lacked any condescension. He was drawn to it with the careless desire of a moth come flittering out of the dark, through a window open to the summer heat, oppressive even when the sun had gone down, drawn to the candle placed on a table by a diligent woman tending her spinning or weaving even late into the night. But he didn't want to turn that lack into the sort of sneering want that he most often was faced with, even by those peers and older men who so wanted what he very much did wish to share, and so he was hesitant to push, far more than usual.

It was a little strange, to be entirely honest, completely aside either trying to wait until Menelaos wasn’t so pressured by his cause here or Troy, or Paris’ own caution with men otherwise.

"You do your father and your city honour, Alexander."

"Oh, I don't know about that!" Paris laughed until his chest hurt, ignoring it to smile with honest gratitude at Menelaos, which at least softened the nascent offense to the scrunch of his nose and the pull of his lips. "But I try, where I can."

And where he was willing. There were just many things he refused to be willing about and had long since stopped paying attention to the displeasure and scorn. Younger, he'd hoped people would stop when they realized he had no interest in being different than he was, but as they hadn't, Paris had decided he didn't care. Not that it was possible to make the displeasure not hurt at all, or avoid the flushed pleasure any actual approval caused, hurting all the more for that. Yet he couldn't stop himself from wanting it.

"I can assure you, right now you definitely are," Menelaos said firmly, and Paris was left with heat stealing up onto his cheeks, though he tried to shake it away.

"All the more reason to remain, then," he said with a shrug and a little smile, meaning it as much for Menelaos and his father's positive regard as for, far more personally, his own concerns and desires. The small smile on Menelaos' face, as if framed by his short beard, barely more than stubble, drew his own smile wider.

"If you're insistent on depriving me of company and conversation while I work and your guest recovers, might you at least use that lute and entertain both of us?" Oinone called from the front. Paris chuckled, not so much feeling foolish as wishing he'd thought of it himself before she'd had the chance to ask. He'd just been far too distracted by worry, up until now.

"I think I can have you feeling like there's only the two of us, doing that, while yet not forgetting my guest."

Paris shot Oinone a smile that had her huffing as she looked over, then promptly looking away in an attempt to hide the blush on her fair cheeks, resisting tanning as it did for all naiad nymphs. Standing up, he fetched his lute from where he'd left it with all the other things he'd been lugging while dragging Menelaos over here. Meeting Menelaos gaze, he arched his brows, a silent apology on the tip of his tongue, but Menelaos shook his head, vaguely flapping a hand as he took his cup and drank more water.

"Music will indeed entertain all three of us, I believe."

Thus blessed, Paris still made sure to fill Menelaos' cup before he sat down, lightly setting the lute in the crook of his elbow. Exhaled, and as the first couple notes fell from his fingers, the two strings vibrating underneath, found himself finally relaxing. It would be fine.

Fine still didn't mean they left Oinone's cave that day - she insisted, and Paris was only glad that she was taking Menelaos' well-being seriously. Oinone made beds for them in a protected corner of the cave, with many fine blankets and a couple furs too, more than fine and soft enough to sleep on.

He was glad they stayed not just for Menelaos’ sake. Like this, it meant he had the chance to talk to Oinone privately in the morning. Paris slid out of the bed and up to the entrance of the cave, breathing in the cool morning air with a smile. The dew shimmered on blades of grass and leaves about the space in front of the cave in the rising sun much as if a cluster of high-born girls had come running through the clearing, laughing and cheery, jostling as they ran, one or the other's hand catching on a necklace of gold and glass pearls and, with an unexpected yank, breaking the necklace and sending the beads all over, left behind in their excitement. Stretching, Paris only turned when a shift of fabric and the brush of bare feet on stone announced Oinone's arrival.

"Good morning." Smiling, Paris leaned against the wall so he could face her. As always, there was a giddy pleasure in the sight of Oinone's fair skin reddening, her gaze sliding sideways and down. Light brushed her forehead and the top of a cheek with golden warmth, Paris' smile only softening for the sight. "You wear sunlight like golden crowns and necklaces - there's no gift I could bring from Troy that would suit you better, I think."

Oinone huffed, but the shy smile only strengthened at that, and the way she straightened up, tossing her head, spoke of well-worn and self-certain pride - and agreement. "I need no other jewellery than flowers, so the only gifts I would want from you is the sound of your voice and the songs you sing, Paris. And more of your time. You stay so rarely."

She sighed, pouting, but Paris only laughed. Leaned forward, and no matter the pout on her pretty little mouth, she kissed him until he had her trembling just slightly against him, and Paris was flushed.

"Rarely? I am up here for months come the warmer months! Weeks at a time, with my cows and with your sisters, as well as in your company alone. It's a wonder my parents and siblings don't entirely forget me!" Paris chuckled, brushing another kiss to her lips before straightening up. "You don't think that's plenty?"

"Going back and forth is surely unnecessary," Oinone said, touching his cheek, then tangling her hand in his curls and lightly tugging. Paris squirmed a little, for Oinone knew not to tug into pain, leaving him only with a shimmering sensation in his scalp with the pressure of her grip. "Especially during these months, but even later, too. Neither we nor Greamother Idaea would let you take harm, even in the deepest of snows. Everyone likes you, you know. You fit in so well! We want you here."

Oinone pouted again, tugging on his hair a little more firmly this time. Paris subsumed the would-be grimace into a faint smile, shrugging.

"And I always long to return, but there's equally much I miss when I stay here."

"We're nicer," Oinone said with a huff, and that, certainly, was true.

Paris kissed her again instead of answering, for this was a conversation they'd had even before now. He'd had it with more or less every nymph he knew, whether he had ended up kissing them - or more - or not at some point.

Oinone was the one that was most insistent, for the first conversation they'd had about the matter, in the glowing aftermath of her first teaching him the joys of pleasure, hadn't been the only one. It wasn't like he hadn't seriously contemplated the nymphs’ insistent suggestions. They all were very delighted by his presence, and certainly had never judged him as lacking in anything. If that was the only qualification needed for him to decide to remain on Mount Ida indefinitely, he would have taken that step by now. The idea of only seeing other mortals rarely, as they wandered the mountain, perhaps, other shepherds and neatherds tending their own herds, was unsatisfying, however. So, too, was the idea of not seeing Hektor, or Lykaon, or even his parents and younger siblings, and the friends he did have in Troy again, or far more rarely than now. There might be less patience and understanding to be had among his family, but how could he judge that as a reason worth abandoning them for? Even if he should still have been living with Agelaos and Ulilawiya he couldn't imagine he wouldn't have wished to return to them regularly.

The nymphs were excellent and delightful companions, in and out of flowered beds, whether he might merely converse with them or not, but they were, for all that, not other humans. They didn't follow the same celebrations and life and he would dearly miss all of it.

Pulling back from their kiss, lips tingling, Paris contemplated Oinone's bow-like, plump lips, her cute, pointed little chin and the high arch of her forehead, decorated as if by fleeing swallows over a winter-pale sky in the shape of her dark brows, half framing her large, river-green eyes. She blushed like a maiden when complimented, was blunt near to being wince-inducing sometimes, and was very dear to him. He would not mind, he was rather sure, to spend his life with her, but she'd never mentioned any desire of coming with him to Troy, to see how she might live there if they were to do so. A couple of the other nymphs had come with him to Troy, in fascinated delight at the idea or just passing curiosity. He'd even taken one of them to a festival once, which had led to her marrying one of his older half-brothers, and he could only be glad for her; she seemed happy enough.

Oinone, though, remained silent on such a matter.

Perhaps she was waiting for him to bring it up. He would, too, if they didn't deviate from this course they were slowly falling into, a more serious reflection of her giving him his first kiss, taking him to her bed first among her nymph companions.

He just wasn't convinced she actually would want a life in Troy. While she could of course remain on the mountain even if they were married, would that then be a true marriage? She already wished him to remain on Mount Ida indefinitely, and Paris simply found he couldn't.

Suppressing a sigh and pushing those thoughts away, Paris glanced to the lump across the cave where Menelaos still slept. His stomach twisted around itself at the sight of red-blond hair spilling out against the blankets and furs, out onto the cave floor. The ageing morning couldn't quite reach its light so far into the cave as to touch even the tips and set the strands to burning, but Paris knew very well what that looked like, by now. The desire to creep over to run a hand through that long hair, to see if the colour might make it feel different to touch it, was near overwhelming.

"I'm sorry I barged in with an unfamiliar guest, Oinone," Paris said as he turned back to Oinone, touching his chest. It was rude, but there had seemed little choice or option if he should be assured of Menelaos' survival.

"No, it's fine. He's not from here, is he?" Oinone shook her head, bright eyes narrowing as she, too, glanced to Menelaos, lips pursed.

Paris shook his head. "From Sparta - somewhere on the mainland of Ahhiyawa, I believe."

"So much the better that you came here, then. If he has family that might have taken it badly if he should have died while in your care, as the guest of the rulers of Troy and not believing you to have done the most you could to make sure he survived - and, if you'd gone to Dardanos and not come to me, you wouldn't have done all you could - who knows what might have happened. No. Much better you came here." Oinone shook her head again, and though she sighed, her voice was firm and her hand on Paris' cheek soft. "And while I had less of your attention than I'm used to while you're here, getting to see you, still, is enough."

"You have it, still, so what say you I help you put our breakfast in order before my guest wakes up?" Paris smiled, laying his hand on top of the slightly more slender one resting against his cheek before he turned away to do as he'd suggested. Was stopped by that hand, falling away from his face, twisting around to grab his wrist instead. Oinone's nails dug into the delicate inside of his wrist, feeling sharper than he knew they were. He could feel his pulse protest against the pressure, making it echo like drums through the rest of him, even from such a small touch.

"Be careful, though."

"What?" Startled, Paris turned back around, no less bewildered by her slightly unfocused, scrunched expression. She was as much staring right at him with an intensity that prickled the back of his neck as she was looking past, through him, somewhere beyond that wasn't here at all.

"Sparta, the Ahhiyawans... danger, Paris. If you're not careful, you're the one who might come to need me for my knowledge of herbs." Oinone shuddered like a girl might, having jumped into a pool proven much too cool yet despite the heat of the sun beating down and the pool seemingly offering a welcome respite. A silly comparison, for as a naiad nymph she would never shudder at water, no matter its temperature.

"You said it yourself, by coming here to avail ourselves of your skill, we've surely averted any possible problems!" Laughing quietly, not wishing to disturb Menelaos before he woke up of his own accord - sleep would surely aid in his recovery as much as Oinone's antidote had - Paris shook his head. Leaning in to kiss Oinone's cheek, he used her grip on his wrist to pull her deeper into the cave. "Now, I don't know about you, but mortals hunger in the morning, and though I might wish it, I can't be sustained by your beauty and the taste of your kisses alone."

Oinone huffed, but her cheeks glowed pink and the toss of her head was as proud as it was pleased.

They had breakfast almost ready by the point Menelaos stirred from his bed, and the morning was growing mature but not late when they were ready to leave Oinone's cave. Paris kissed her in farewell, resting his forehead against hers for a moment.

"I'll be back in spring," he promised. Oinone sighed and shook her head, but didn't pout this time. Waved him off, mouthing to be careful again, though if she'd hoped to keep Menelaos unaware of the exchange by her silent warning, she'd not quite succeeded.

"Is she worried for your safety, that we might run into more chimaeras and she might be needed again?" Menelaos asked when they were well out of view of Oinone's cave. Paris, blinking, realized after a beat what Menelaos must be referring to, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

"No - though that's not an impossible worry, for where there are one or two there will be more. She was rather more worried about what might have happened if I hadn't gotten you to her in time. There's a difference between failing to heal a common peasant and failing to heal a king, and a visiting one at that, after all."

Paris' smile grew wry as he shrugged. Menelaos snorted faintly, but inclined his head in agreement.

"Unfortunately there is. You said something about looking for the nest?"

Relieved, Paris nodded. "It shouldn't be hard to find, really; it's undoubtedly somewhere close to the meadow, and that's why they noticed us, on top of possibly being attracted by the sheep. I think... I actually heard them while you were conducting the sacrifice, but the fires kept them at bay. Their poison might be fiery inside their bodies, but they're as afraid of fire as any beast."

"Then we make sure we're not leaving anything living behind," Menelaos proclaimed with a nod, hand falling to his sword, intent more than clear. What was far more reassuring than company for this task was that Menelaos' gait was sure, his shoulders relaxed, and his eyes clear. As the morning heated up, sweat gathered like pearls on his temples, but no more than might be expected, and his breathing was even and steady.

The poison had been fully purged. Paris fully believed the quick recovery was due to Oinone's skill and knowledge. Any mortal healer with the right knowledge would still have been able to make the antidote, even if it had been invented only in his father's youth, but Menelaos’ fight to recover would've been much longer and harder.

"When we reach Dardanos, you can take the wagon back to Troy immediately, if you wish - I need to go up to the citadel and warn them about the chimaeras. Those need to be dealt with as soon as possible," Paris commented, loath as he was to cut down on whatever time there was left that Menelaos was staying that he might have him to himself for. Normally, he wouldn't mind - hunting was enjoyable, and a properly prepared chimaera hunting party, while still dangerous, was a lot easier and less risky than their impromptu chance encounter.

"I'll come with you," Menelaos said, eyebrow arched as he glanced sidelong to Paris. "Having performed the sacrifices, hopefully to the goddess' satisfaction, that is currently all I can do until there is news otherwise. With days still until I could be informed if the sickness and curse of sterility has been lifted, I’d rather lend my aid if it might be welcomed than sit, waiting."

"It would almost be like any hunt we would've, or still might, take you on," Paris agreed with a small smile. "And I doubt Aeneas would decline skilled help."

"Aeneas?" Menelaos asked as he kept an eye on their surroundings once more, though there was some distance from where they'd started just yet. But if he should spot another nest to be dealt with, that would only be to everyone's benefit. At least the walk back to the tombs was easier, with only his own burdens to carry instead of Menelaos as well, for all that he would do it again if he had to.

"Oh, the oldest son of Anchises, lord of Dardanos. They're related via a brother further back in the line."

Paris made sure to keep an eye on the surroundings as he spoke, a hand near his quiver and his bow in the other hand, but this part of the mountain seemed to be clear. A relief, since Oinone shouldn't have to deal with the chimaeras. Besides, if there had been any chimaeras near to her cave, she would have warned them as they left. Still, Paris could admit to some worry, and so couldn't stop himself from glancing around even if he knew the likelihood of there being any chimaeras around here was slim.

"And as for what we're trying to find, you'll want to look for a mess of thorns. Chimaeras favour using that at least for the outer layer of their nests, even when they're already so amply supplied with weapons." Paris rolled his eyes, the exasperation real but far more rewarded by Menelaos' quiet huff of laughter than Paris needing to express his annoyance and lingering antipathy when a chimaera had been so close to kill the man walking beside him.

Soon they were on the incline up to the meadow, having slowed down only for one or the other to take a couple steps off the barely-there, narrow path to take a closer look at whatever suspicious thing had caught their attention. It wasn't until they reached the part of the path that ran along a stretch of cliff before the meadow was reached, Menelaos chancing a look over the edge, that the nest was found.

"There. It's not empty." Pointing down the cliffside, fortunately not so steep or untraversable as it might first seem if they should need to climb down, Menelaos frowned at the two curled-up whelps. The drakon tails, rising up and alert while the rest of chimaera whelps slept, were large and unwieldy for how small the rest of the whelps were. "Here I thought the human heads were bad enough - the infant heads on those bodies are worse."

Paris, smothering laughter, drew an arrow. "If I can get both of them from here, you won't have to suffer a closer look. And those look newly born, so with luck few or no other chimaeras will have filled their own nests yet."

It would make things a lot easier. For more than one reason. Paris paused, lowering his bow slightly as he glanced to Menelaos.

"You might want to stuff your ears," he offered, but Menelaos' arched eyebrow and silent shake of his head refused that. Sighing, Paris shrugged and lifted his bow again. He wished he could quiet his hearing and fire arrows at the same time, but with no wax on hand, there was little to do. Grimacing, he fired first the one and then a second arrow in quick succession.

Not quick enough to avoid the shrieking, infant-like wails from the whelps as they were shot. The sound echoed through the mountain like a grieving woman wailing at her husband's corpse, arrayed out on a couch and no longer warm and welcoming of her body, her hands, or her gladdening words.

At least Paris wasn't the only one who shuddered, Menelaos standing just close enough he could feel the tensing shift in the tall, sturdy body beside him.

"Right," Menelaos grunted, lips thin and frowning as he turned away. "Dardanos, then?"

"Dardanos," Paris agreed, quietly hoping that the rest of the nests would be empty. Two wailing whelps were more than enough.

Chapter Text

The streets of the city of Dardanos, hard and firm under their feet, was, frankly, a great relief to Menelaos.

He certainly enjoyed hunting, and the wilderness didn't bother him, but the echoing cliffs swathed in darkness and empty wind had left him unsettled even after the sacrifice had been completed. After that nothing at all had been helped by then having to fight in a most unexpected and disadvantageous manner and the whole thing capped off with being bitten by the chimaera's poisonous drakon head.

The unease after the sacrifice was, he knew, merely due to worry. There was no reason it shouldn't work, but if there would be further demands laid on them - demands he might be required to fulfil instead of Kastor or Polydeukes - he would be in no position to receive them immediately. Even if there were no more complications and Aphrodite had finally been appeased, there were still at the very least another couple days before he might know the epidemic and curse had been eased. The wide open wilderness, with such a lack of people around, had to his distressed heart only suggested a landscape devoid of people not from the relative isolation of the mountainous surroundings, but rather a dearth from death. Unreasonable, but the mortal mind and heart was weak and fragile.

Weak and fragile in more ways than one, as was proven by his glance straying sideways to young Alexander as he strode alongside him. His curls bounced about his shoulders as he walked, shining in the sunlight, and if he had been struck by the desire before but not noticed – or been able to ignore it so thoroughly he didn’t notice it was there - he was now prey to the urge to touch those gilded locks. There was a sweetly shining smile that could most assuredly leave a stone or the clear water of a spring blushing on Alexander's face, which was drawing the attention of a wide array of people. Young, unmarried maidens, proper matrons, and fleeting looks from boys his age, as well as a couple older men.

Understandable, certainly.

Menelaos didn't look away in time not to be caught in the glowing warmth of that smile as Alexander turned to him, an eyebrow arching after a beat or two.

"Are you all right, Menelaos?" As soon as he'd spoken, the lightness fled from Alexander's face, fair like any virgin girl's, and he frowned, head tipping close. "Are you all right? Oinone wouldn't have let us go if she weren't sure of her craft and your recovery, bu---"

"I'm fine. Your nymph companion has restored me to full health. Even if she might have missed some sign and let us go a little early, the walk would have given me time to recover. I'm hardly that delicate, so pay attention to where we're going, not my every breath and step."

Alexander, of course, laughed, throwing his head back with an ease of delight that was only distracted by the sun sliding down the arch of his bared throat. Menelaos looked away, to the street ahead of them even if the shadow weight of Alexander's presence beside him was harder to turn away from than with a simple turn of the head. The lessening pressure of worry, though some of it still lingered and would until he had favourable news of the situation back in Lakedaimonia, was making it increasingly difficult to ignore Alexander.

"As you command," Alexander said, a wink Menelaos couldn't avoid seeing, but at least that was the end of the matter.

The end of which matter, precisely, Menelaos rather feared he didn't actually know, which meant it was only half of a relief to be walking with determination up to Dardanos' citadel hill and the palace there. Alexander barely said anything as they walked past the guards at the gate, merely a quick question of where Aeneas and Anchises were. Understandably, given it was near noon, they were directed towards the great hall and provided with seating and food first of all.

Alexander, despite the slight notch between his arched brows, sank into his provided chair with a pleased sigh, melting into it much like a dog released after a hard day's work might splay himself out on the sun-warmed stones of the courtyard of his master's house. A bare frown as he straightened up again had a servant bring an extra cushion, much like had happened the eve of Menelaos’ arrival. That annoyance with the niceties against what he considered to be a more needful reason could clash in such a manner with Alexander's rather devouring desire for bodily comfort sat strangely, and the one clearly didn't win out over the other - nor won over etiquette - to stop the food from being devoured as soon as they'd washed their hands.

Given this moment of forced pause, Menelaos studied the lord of Dardanos and his son between bites of meat and fine bread and some truly fine wine.

Anchises was at least a little younger than Priam, but he sat slightly bent as if he was just as old or much older, propped up on and surrounded by several cushions. One of his eyes were cloudier than the other, but by far the most curious thing was the strange, branch-like pattern extending up along his right leg, pale against sensitive-looking skin. Next to Anchises sat Aeneas, leaning as much back into his seat as he did towards his father. Beside him sat a slightly younger man who shared much with what must be his older brother, though he was slightly shorter and almost as beautiful as Alexander. Aeneas was tall and broad-shouldered, and shared with his brother the sort of deeply green shade to his eyes that turned his gaze as penetrating as Helen's, though Aeneas was much gentler in mien. Aeneas, at the very least, but perhaps even both of them, was the son of a naiad nymph as well as of Anchises, for the similarity between the bright, near breathless colour of his eyes and the only slightly less intense greens and blue-greens of his relatives in Troy was clear as day.

Menelaos glanced side-ways, down at Anchises' right leg, then looked to his plate again, though not before he met Alexander's gaze, slim eyebrows arched over those very similar blue-green eyes, as perfectly mortal as they could be and yet endowed with shimmering depth.

He was slightly ashamed of the surge of anticipation when Alexander mouthed 'later' at him; as ghoulish as it undoubtedly was to be curious as to the reason for the poor man's current condition, Menelaos couldn't help but be so. Curse his wandering attention and very mortal curiosity. Having most of the pressure taken off him now compared to earlier also, again, offered more time and attention to spare to other things. Like this, though he should keep such unnecessary curiosity to himself.

"What's this, then, Alexander?" Aeneas asked as they had seen to their meal even as he offered his kin a filled cup of wine.

Alexander took it with a small, easy shrug, sipping the drink before he nodded to Menelaos. "This is the King of Sparta. He's here by divine ordinance, and since I knew the best path to where he needed to go to fulfil it, I've been hosting him. We met chimaeras on the way back. Only two, but you know what that means."

Aeneas wasn't the only one who cursed at these news, and both he and his brother were standing up even before Alexander had finished talking. Menelaos, meanwhile, was not sure he deserved the sensitive side-step of the reason he was here, though it was a kindness clearly earnestly meant.

"Lyrus," Aeneas said, meeting his brother's bright eyes, silent words perhaps exchanged between them as Aeneas stopped there and said nothing more. His brother nodded in the next moment, as if full words had been exchanged, and strode out, calling a couple names as he did so, though there were a couple more men than that that joined him.

"We'll be coming with you, for this afternoon at least," Menelaos said as he stood up as well, once more glad for the nymph's healing skill. It was as if he hadn't been suffering the ravagings of a deadly fever just yesterday, and he could swear he felt more sprightly than he had in weeks - probably better than he'd felt since the epidemic slowly crept over Lakedaimonia, enfolding its fair fields and soaring mountains within its black, muck-dripping arms and a most foul embrace.

"An extra sword along with Alexander's skill with the bow will always be welcome. You'll be provided with arms and armour, of course."

Which they duly were, though when Menelaos turned around to find Alexander only having availed himself of greaves and armguards, he arched a silent eyebrow. The boy merely laughed, flicking a couple curls over his shoulder. His solution to tying it back for the hunt was to leave tresses to frame his throat, which seemed ill-practical, but Alexander presumably knew what he was doing. Menelaos would just rather wish he might have decided for some more tucked away method, for the softly brown curls teasing the sleek stretch of his throat was very hard not to get snagged on, whether facing him or merely glancing at him out of the corner of an eye. Why had he thought this would get easier the longer he was here?

His certainty that Alexander would lose interest had proven false, as well. Menelaos had no idea what to make of that.

"I'm an archer, and not about to go up close with any chimaera we might meet now that there's a far more properly armed and armoured group to work together with than us, alone, caught up on the mountain. What do I need more armour for?"

Menelaos frowned, pursing his lips, but it wasn't as if that wasn't true.

"As long as you actually do stay back," he grumbled, staring hard at the young man.

Older men than Alexander was, giddy at the prospect of glory, would surge to the forefront at the first opportunity even when not properly armoured if they thought they could make a killing attack. Menelaos wouldn't begrudge anyone a chance to show themselves to their advantage and best skill, and they should do so, too. It should just also happen with armour being worn, when there was armour to wear. Was the boy liable to deliberately wear as little armour as possible to make a later display even more impressive? Eyes narrowing at the thought, distracted from adjusting the heavy leather and reinforced linen corslet he'd been given, Menelaos looked back up. Alexander who, just as Menelaos drew breath to remind him there was no lack of glory in taking proper care, burst out laughing.

"Don't worry, I will. I will swear it, if you wish. I am much more comfortable and skilled with my bow, first of all. While I'm handy enough with a sword, there are enough men of considerable skill here with us now, and I don't doubt that you number among them, so why should I bother myself with attempting to take a place at the front, too?" Alexander's eyes danced with light, his amusement warm and above all full of good humour, though not disguising the sincerity of the words.

The dismissive ease with which Alexander disregarded any reason he should want to be among the hunters armed with melee weapons among their javelins was almost incomprehensible. Menelaos, stolen of words, just stared down at him for a moment. Few - if any - men would willingly put themselves in such a position, and yet, here was Alexander doing just that. Blue-green eyes narrowed with lingering amusement, not burgeoning anger, at Menelaos' silence.

"I can almost guarantee you I'll kill more chimaeras than the rest of you," he said cheerfully. It was a boast, and as such a much more familiar reaction. The good-natured way it'd been expressed was, however, surprising but also rather refreshing. No defensiveness there at all.

"How impressive is it to get them from afar, however? And they're not particularly small targets," Lyrus commented as he passed them, tossing the baldric for a sheathed sword over his head to settle it against his side. He ran a hand through dark, loosely curly hair before he paused to tie it into a bunch at the back of his neck, throwing an arch look Alexander's way.

The nonchalance almost entirely covered the pointed tone Lyrus had used, echoing a thought Menelaos had just barely had the chance to think, too, past his surprise for Alexander's unusual disregard. Who would ever admit to such comfort in staying at the back? Yet, if he was a coward he was of an unusual sort, since he hadn't hesitated to throw himself to Menelaos' aid, and he was here with them, even if he was claiming the relative comfort and safety of the bow, and the distance it would afford him to his target, with pride.

"You know as well as I do that if I should be able to say I killed them, I'd have to get at least two of the heads, and even that might not be enough, not just fire my arrows everywhere. A wide, vast target means nothing if only the smaller ones might assure any strike to be lethal," Alexander said with a frown, hands on hips and his voice tight but not nearly as angry as could maybe have been expected at the obvious but still definitely deliberately challenge.

Lyrus snorted but said nothing else, stepping out of the way for a stablehand leading horses for them. Menelaos took the reins of his, watching as Alexander jumped up on the horse and seated himself with the comfortable ease of familiarity. The slave that'd been hovering nearby handed him first his own bow and quiver, then helped strap an additional two quivers in the front of the horse, letting them hang over the shoulders, and Alexander needed no one to keep the horse steady as he dealt with his weapons.

"You know there would certainly be time to get both a sword and chest armour," Menelaos said quietly, reaching out and only realizing as his hand closed about a firmly muscled calf that he perhaps shouldn't have. If only to spare himself. The subtle flex of muscle under his palm was a stark contrast to the smoothness of the skin, and surely it shouldn't be as distracting as it was.

"It's fine," Alexander said with a shake of his head, but there was a fleeting warmth in his words that perhaps revealed the lingering aggravation Lyrus' comment had provoked. Or perhaps Menelaos was looking too deep, considering Alexander's easy manner; in the next moment he smiled, sweetly bright. "Someone should be offering the security of being able to bleed the monsters at a distance greater than the javelins, and, over all the swords, will allow. They're going to have more archers when they go out tomorrow anyway."

Alexander's smile turned wry, and Menelaos couldn't help a snort, having to suppress the threatening curl of the corners of his mouth. Squeezed the calf under his hand, tucking his thumb away to resist the urge to stroke over the skin even if he'd intended the touch as reassurance only. He might not be able to keep it as no more than that. Especially not so when Alexander leaned into the touch with a shift of his body, the calf under Menelaos’ hand once more shifting, revealing the muscle under the generous curve. Fingers twitching, Menelaos pulled away to get up on his own horse, but the weight of Alexander's gaze on top of Menelaos' head was heavy.

He avoided searching those bright eyes out to attempt to divine, precisely, what Alexander might be feeling. Alexander was very clearly still as interested as he’d been a couple days ago.

Anchises being led out onto the courtyard, supported by a maidservant, disrupted Menelaos' thoughts, and he was rather grateful for it. Horses were moved out of the way so the man could walk the shortest and most unobstructed path over to his sons, and for all that Anchises wasn't well, his voice rang with a gilded vitality that brought to mind a proud bull of no great age but fully realized strength, guarding his herd against any threat and taking the finest pasture for himself.

"I'll send word out and get to organizing the party so that by morning we will have enough men to deal with this threat fully, unless you manage to clear the mountain today." Anchises chuckled, the praise perhaps peremptory of successes that were unreasonable when Mount Ida wasn't a small mountain and it would surely take more than a day or two to be entirely sure it had been cleared of the dangerous creatures currently roaming it, but it drew pleased, agreeing laughter from both of his sons as well as the men around them.

"Thank you, Father. Let's go!" Aeneas leaned down so he could squeeze his father's shoulder, then straightened up, tossing his arm forward and getting them all moving.

Menelaos did his best not to cast a last, curious look over his shoulder, but even if he had fully managed he doubted Alexander wouldn't have drawn his horse up alongside him in that moment.

"If it's not my place---"

"Everyone knows," Alexander promised with lopsided smile, though the look he threw over his shoulder was more measured. "Not that anyone should know anything considering what happened when Anchises told just a couple months ago, but you're not going to know something only the royal family does."

The clatter of the horses' hooves on the stones of first the courtyard and then the paved main road that led through Dardanos was all-encompassing thunder, drowning out much of anything else. It meant Alexander went unheard except for by Menelaos as he shrugged, shifting slightly in his seat and giving his gelding a distracted pat on the neck.

"Our kin were visiting Troy for a feast, and quite far into the night someone made a rather uncouth comment about how little similarity there was between Aeneas and his brother compared to their several sisters - saying, certainly, what all of us have been thinking, especially those of us who have seen Hippodamia and knowing he keeps no other consorts beside his wife. I think the intention of the unfortunately loose-tongued man was to make some comment about Anchises clearly having consorted with the nymph of the mountain that we all thought were his sons' mother, even after having married the lovely Eriopis in the years before Aeneas was brought to his father."

Alexander paused, glancing to Menelaos with both eyebrows arched high on his forehead. "Have you ever seen lightning appear inside a room, as if manifested from the ceiling even if there, of course, are no clouds there? That's what happened after Anchises got to his feet and drunkenly bellowed that he'd slept with golden Kypris herself, but had otherwise been chaste aside from Eriopis. No one else was hurt, not even singed, no matter how close they were to the lord of Dardanos in that moment."

Menelaos nearly choked at where this little tale ended, though perhaps it should've been expected. Even if one of the greater goddesses should sleep with a mortal man, such things weren't to be spoken of. There were no exceptions made for reveals blurted out in high emotion, impaired by drink, compared to boasts made with sober pride. Whether Anchises could count himself fortunate to still be alive, or unlucky to be the same when he now would have to live the rest of his life with this manner of quality to it, diminished as it was and unable to take to the battlefield should the opportunity present itself for the possibility of a more glorious death, was a question Menelaos quietly set aside. What was the point in thinking unkind thoughts when the lord of Dardanos was undoubtedly suffering enough already?

"A secret is easy to keep until one gets caught in a moment's worth of carelessness, for Ate loves such things," Menelaos said with a shake of his head.

"And I think someone is fond of considering the gods' part in everything." Paris laughed softly, and Menelaos, feeling hit more than he might have expected of such a comment - it was true, others had said the same - frowned, tension firming his mouth. Perhaps it was the laughter that stung where other comments hadn’t in the same manner.

"Disregarding the gods and their influence, as well as their rightful part of all things, isn't the way to live a long life, Alexander."

The Trojan prince, mouth still soft with a smile that, Menelaos had to admit, wasn't actually mocking or meanly edged, stilled. The amusement still on display, though he might have caused it, wasn't aimed at him like the bloodied edge of a warrior's sword which had tasted the flesh of the enemy, now hungry for more and the other man already at a disadvantage for the injury.

"I didn't say that," Alexander said mildly, the smile softening further but not going away as he leaned in slightly towards Menelaos, no matter his moving seat even as they made ready to speed up now that they were out of the city. "You just get this expression on your face when you talk like that."

Alexander's smile bloomed back out into brilliance, perhaps a little teasing but not in the least insincere.

Menelaos, heat burning his cheeks, was saved any other need to react as Alexander urged his horse into running. The pace was hardly suitable for conversation, especially not the intimate and secretive sort to spare the Dardanian branch of the royal family some possible awkwardness. Perhaps he was too tense about such comments. So many thought themselves ever free of stepping wrongly, no matter how often folly and recklessness led the way to divine retribution. Or when plain, knowing cruelty was allowed free rein, too - or just something as simple as the circumstances making one forget. Perhaps he was too guarded in such matters, but Menelaos had both the shadow of his father's crimes and cruelties hanging over him as well as the very recent reminder of both his own and Tyndareus' missteps, however little they'd been meant in earnest.

The ride back up into the foothills of Mount Ida took much less time than it'd taken them to walk from Oinone's cave and back to the meadow, or down from there to Dardanos. Obvious, of course, though it made the distances travelled seem far too small compared to the events that had transpired during them. Menelaos shook off the feeling as they slowed their horses into a more collected walk, cliffsides and collections of rocks examined.

"Did you find any whelps?" Aeneas asked, squinting up towards the bulk of the mountain towering up above them.

"Small, but not newly born," Alexander confirmed, which drew a displeased mutter from the group around them.

"Old enough the parents would have started to range further for food soon enough, and for more of it, as well. A forewarning before we started to lose livestock and their herders is fortunate. Where there's one or two chimaeras, never mind a breeding pair, there are always more." Aeneas sighed, shaking his head.

"And there's one!" someone on the right edge of the group shouted, pointing off at a nearby hill. Half of it had had its insides exposed, by weather or perhaps during the gods' fight with the giants, going by what looked like a sharp cleft deep into the rock, crumbling about the edges. More importantly, a nest had been wedged into the cleft, about midway up it. The chimaera in it raised its head, both sets of lips pulling back in a growl they couldn't hear at this distance, and then it roared.

It cut off into a pained scream as an arrow hit it square between the leonine eyes - another arrow, from a slightly different angle, just barely missed the human head. Menelaos glanced over, watching Alexander fire another arrow, taking the human head in the throat just where the fluff of fur began while the chimaera attempted to lift off, only exposing itself more.

It tumbled off both nest and hill, but staggered, stubbornly, to its feet. The men that rushed it used javelins to deal more injuries before someone ventured close to cut off the drakon head, still lashing wildly.

Alexander proved he wasn't just a good shot, but quick on the draw, injuring even when he couldn't bring a chimaera down with his arrows alone. Whatever to say about a man who preferred bow and arrows to javelins and swords, it was clear, as noon slowly turned over into afternoon and the afternoon grew later, other nests or just ranging chimaeras found here and there, that he didn't hesitate to use his skill to full advantage. And, it was a skill that certainly made it easier when the creatures were so hard-killed, proving Alexander's comment that Aeneas and Lyrus would rather need to bring more archers on the following hunts to clear the mountain.

Six chimaeras and four nests later, with the sky turning bloody as if to match the blood spilled across the foothills, they paused, Aeneas frowning back in the direction of Dardanos.

"While we don't have any torches with us to continue in the dark, with it being chimaeras we're after, that'd be a more dangerous prospect than for most oth---"

"Ambush!"

Whether that was something they were capable of planning or not, four chimaeras dove in concerted flight into the clearing they'd gathered in.

Two arrows, fired in quick succession, seared through the bleeding sky to meet the chimaeras while most of the rest of them were scrambling for horses and weapons, Alexander having remained on the back of his own horse. Which also made him one of the most easy targets at the moment. That was probably why one of the chimaeras, roar shaking the boughs of the oaks and firs around them, winged around the struggling chimaera who'd been struck by both arrows in its human head and dove straight at the Trojan prince.

"Alexander! Get off the horse!" Menelaos bellowed, giving up on trying to catch his spooked horse to snatch one of the javelins he had been given during the afternoon, still crusted from its last quarry.

Tossing it had it lodge itself into the flank of another chimera, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The creature staggered, allowing one of the Dardanian men to stab upwards into its gut with his javelin as well, bringing that chimaera down onto the ground, roaring in pain and within reach of the men's swords, with some care.

It did, unfortunately, do nothing to stop the chimera aiming for Alexander, though his spooked horse saved both of them as it leaped forward while Alexander ducked close to the sleek neck. The chimaera just barely missed, but wasn’t deterred.

Roaring, it dove again.

Alexander, throwing a wild, wide-eyed look over his shoulder to Menelaos, couldn't calm his horse down enough to get off in a manner that wouldn't have him trampled by his own horse's hooves. That he was still on the horse's back as it skittered and hopped, leaping this way and that with the other panicking horses, was a rather firm testament to his horsemanship that few among the Achaeans would manage.

It was admiration of skill that had no place here other than as a small, sour surge of relief in the back of Menelaos' throat. The second look Alexander threw him before he glanced up at the chimaera, coming around to dive, was as if he'd turned that lost javelin into his own heart.

He had no more javelins, and Alexander couldn't use his useless, foolish arrows to try and ward the monster off when he needed to cling to his horse.

Menelaos looked around, the tail of his hair smacking him on shoulders and back, but none who were close enough had javelins to spare. He could, perhaps, toss his sword. Menelaos turned around, almost stumbling over the large rock in his way. The chimaera dove just as he cursed, about to ignore the reason for his aching toes before he actually looked down, assessing the size of the rock in a fleeting moment.

Large enough, but more importantly, loose enough. It came out of the ground as he tore at it, about as large as two men's heads together. Certainly not as large and heavy as he could toss, but with a moving target this was better.

The rock met the diving chimaera in the join between leonine and human heads, the crunch of impact echoing as the monster roared, desperately beating its wings to keep itself aloft. It was that, as the chimaera lumbered through the air and setting Alexander's horse running, that brought Alexander down onto the ground from a heavily flailing paw. He slid off the side of the horse with a startled shout, hooves just barely missing him.

Cold, Menelaos surged forward, a couple men with him, though they passed him to deal with the downed chimaera while he lurched to a stop by Alexander. Practical reason had it he should take care of the monster first, threatening all of them as it did, not just Alexander, but concern locked his feet there and he went to his knees.

"Are you unhurt?" Menelaos snapped as he clutched the young man close, pulling him further away from the flailing chimaera while the Dardanian men dealt with the creature to fully incapacitate and kill it.

There was a heart beating wildly under his hand - why had no one insisted the ridiculous boy wear at least a leather corslet despite his assurances? Why hadn't he? - a hot cheek pressed against his throat, and a hand clutching at the layers of reinforced linen of his chest armour. Alexander was whole and hale, confirmed even before he opened his mouth to state what Menelaos could already feel. The thunderous surge of relief brought a realization which was only underscored by his disobedient feet that'd kept him going no further.

He didn't want Alexander hurt.

By hungry claws and cruel teeth of flying monsters, or his own, clumsy heart.

There was no time to explore, to proceed with proper care to find where the boundaries that ought not be crossed lay. Alexander was young and he might wish to proceed where he might later find he didn't, actually, want to go as far as he’d gone. It wasn't just Alexander who was a concern, either; the lingering worry over the reason he was here had Menelaos now fearing he might allow the boy to pull him too deep, push too much. Might, perhaps, let Alexander himself tempt him into too much as much as the boy might push for it simply because he wished for distraction. Alexander deserved better - more - than that.

"I am," Alexander promised, a laugh that couldn't be anything but pure relief escaping him.

The way he leaned his head in against Menelaos' throat was much too close to a kiss, a hand twisting around to attempt to keep Menelaos bent down over him - there was no way to mistake that. His breath, hot and slightly uneven still, puffed with the force of punches against Menelaos' throat and chin, threatening to caress his lips. His lips tingled for the lack of what was so very close. He wanted very much to tip his head down to close the distance, to give in to the hand clutched with trembling weight to hold him where he was, even with his new resolve and realization.

It wasn't, after all, like he could find much resistance in his heart.

Alexander was beautiful - far too much so, even, a reminder of his wife not as a lesser shadow but rather a similarity that was intimidating in much the same way though slightly easier to conquer.

Surely Alexander was too beautiful for him to claim both of them, for who should have the right to such things? Even better men than he might hesitate, for it must be risking something if he should be presumptuous enough to be able to both call himself the husband of Helen and lay hands on Alexander of Troy. The boy might not be the divinely breathless beauty that shone from Helen, lived in her eyes, was manifest in how she moved and breathed, but he was still stunning, more god-like in his beauty than most mortals could hope to be - how could Menelaos avoid to appreciate, see that, when he had Helen to so closely compare to? But that was what set some uneasy squirm in Menelaos gut, that very same similarity, and while the curse on his family surely had never manifested itself in such a way, on top of all the other reasons to resist, this was no less of one.

If only he could make sure to resist. It would surely be to the better for both of them, even if Alexander, young as he was, would probably not see it, or at least not agree. Would be eager to assure Menelaos he was cautious as a man much older, teasing smile on his face, and Menelaos would be hard pressed not to give into such reassurances. So it was up to him to be the older between them, just not in the way they both wanted.

Unfortunately, Menelaos was weak. So very weak, for it wasn't that he wasn't attracted to the boy, wasn't that the sweet disposition and slightly exhausting, fiery life of the prince of Troy didn't have charm. Everything would, perhaps, have been far easier if Alexander was much less attractive than he was, yet still interested. Simpler, certainly.

Menelaos found himself wanting, despite all of that.

Certainly he would want even outside the desire for distraction his mind and heart was near crying for now that he paradoxically had more attention to spare after having done what he could for Lakedaimonia. Being driven by the need to perform the sacrifice had eaten up nearly any other interest, even in such life-necessary things as food and water. Being now without it, yet not in Sparta where there would be many things to devote himself to, never mind Helen, he was at loose ends. Alexander was offering, but the ease of that offering seemed far too much like it would offer a chance to take advantage.

Menelaos looked down, meeting bright, wide, blue-green eyes, and swore he couldn't and wouldn't take something when he couldn't be sure his motives were as pure as they should be. Not even if it was being offered so ardently as Alexander was offering it by the way he stretched his throat in a far too giving arch, silently begging despite the people around them.

He would protect both of them, even if Alexander would, he knew, not thank him for it.

Chapter Text

Paris was rather sure he was dying.

In comparison to the brief flare of winter-chill from the prospect of death by the teeth and claws of a chimaera come diving at him, this was a death far slower, but no less cruel for that.

They had regrouped and taken stock after killing the four chimaeras that’d surprised them. Two men dead, another injured in such wise his survival was a guess better left to the knowledge of Kamrušepa. Her divine skill and protection would hopefully bear both that man, and the other three who were injured, though those less so than the first, through. After that, returning to Dardanos immediately had become a necessity rather than a possibility for consideration. They'd reached the city with no further ambushes or otherwise stumbling over more chimaeras, and had been given the chance to clean up and relax a little before dinner.

Relaxing was the least of what Paris would call what was currently going on, however. For all that he deeply appreciated the chance to wash off the dust of the walk to Dardanos as well as the sweat and stink of worry the afternoon's hunt had left behind, he had now found other causes for discomfort.

He'd been hoping for Menelaos to look at him with want, which he now was. It was also all he was doing.

Perhaps Paris should, truly, not expect more immediately after Menelaos' gaze had landed on his lips as he held him clutched to his chest earlier and then met his gaze, weighted with too much and absolutely nothing to tell what it fully meant. Paris could even suffer to wait - he could - but what was torturing him wasn't the stare on his back, the attempts at corralling it and Menelaos failing, sliding back to watch him sit down in the tub full of blessedly warm water. No, what was torturing him was that he wasn't sure if waiting would give him what he wanted or not. Would Menelaos act, if given the time to do so, and Paris made sure to show he was very much wanting of it? Would he not, for whatever reason?

Being more hesitant with men wasn't even his issue any longer. Antheus choosing Deiphobos over him a little over a year ago might have left Paris more laid towards waiting until he was approached so he could be sure he was wanted in some manner, certainly. A couple times over the years he had, too, definitely let an opportunity slip by, his affection dying lonely for fear of a harsh rebuff when it was so much more difficult to tell whether he would be welcome at all when it came to men compared to women. It wasn't just about whether he could take rejection, wanting until he was nearly short of breath with how hard his heart might tremble for it.

He wanted Menelaos, yes. Had since the man had stepped into the megaron. But if it was only about his own uncertainties, he would turn around right this moment, suffering his aching heart if he was indeed rebuffed. At least he'd know.

The problem rather was this; would Menelaos appreciate the distraction?

If he acted, would Menelaos reject him not because he wasn't interested, but because he would feel it wasn't fitting for the current circumstances? If it was him in Menelaos place, a distraction from the concerns of the situation now that all that could be done by Menelaos had been done, would be what he would want. Something to pull worried thoughts away from useless and helpless dwelling, wearing grooves in the ground much like stubborn oxen bearing a heavy yoke to pull the plough through a stony field and carve furrows into it for later planting. Would Menelaos appreciate that?

Paris didn't mind at all to act first, especially when it was clear by now it wasn't just him that was attracted, not just him wanting and feeling a building need for hands and mouths. It was just, if he acted, and Menelaos did not appreciate that this could be a blessed distraction for he seemed rather like the sort who would wallow in his heart pains and worries - almost, in some perverse way, enjoying doing so - would he ruin any chance he might otherwise have had?

This, then, was what now had Paris locked in indecision. A different, but no less unpleasant, indecision than the one he'd been plagued with since shortly after Menelaos stepped into the megaron.

That and the way it felt like he was being pinned by Menelaos' stare, his cheek and neck tingling with the awareness of being stared at. He unfortunately couldn't see enough of Menelaos by how the tubs were placed to catch him without Menelaos looking away. Calling him out on it, no matter how encouragingly teasing, might make Menelaos stop, whether or not he might otherwise choose to act later. He seemed the type to be flustered by such. Paris didn't want Menelaos to stop, just wanted him to, hopefully soon, be pushed into acting.

Worrying his bottom lip, Paris took to actually cleaning himself up while contemplating the conundrum before him.

There were fewer immediate options than he would usually have available to him, and even less for after the bath, so he'd simply have to make do, as annoying as that was. Keeping his hands careful in his hair should remedy the matter some. It also slowed him down as he lightly combed through his curls, squeeze-rubbing through them with thoughtful shifts of his arms to get to all of it.

Partway through, he had Menelaos' eyes on him again, lingering on the bared nape of his neck from how he was leaning, hair all pulled forward. Paris kept his eyes on the screen of his own wet hair, on his knees, as Menelaos lost his battle and let his gaze wander down along his arms, down his flank. He could just barely tell for how he’d positioned himself, and that was merely torturing himself further, but it was also worth it for the dark-eyed look on Menelaos’ face.

Paris shivered, but it wasn't as that would be noticed. What might be noticed was the bare stirrings of arousal if he moved further. He'd wanted Menelaos' attention on him back when they bathed in the spring up on Mount Ida, for whatever fleeting glances had been bestowed then had been part of what'd stirred his desire for more. To know how it'd actually feel to have the man's attention, for it had been clear Menelaos' thoughts had been elsewhere, then. Understandable, certainly, but he hadn't been able to not want for more than the brief flickers of weighty gaze brushing him to offset the cool spring water.

At least Menelaos was looking now. He sat quietly as if he was perhaps worried he might make Paris stop if he noticed he was staring. How he was supposed to not notice that Menelaos was staring, Paris couldn't fathom, however. Biting his lip to corral his smile, he stood up after he was done with his hair. Put a foot on the rim of the carved frame that held the tub to start to deal with his body, working upwards from feet and ankle.

That it also let Menelaos have a very good view of his ass as well as the bent curve of his back as he leaned over his leg was fortunate gift, well repaid by the catch of breath from beyond him, accompanied by splashing water.

It took away the thrilling weight of Menelaos' attention as he turned to cleaning himself off as well, spell broken, but Paris figured it was a price he didn't regret paying. There'd not been displeasure in the reaction, as little as he had been able to actually see. Perhaps it was just a little amusing to now be able to give back for having been left staring in wanting appreciation at Menelaos during the bath in the spring, but Paris could in truth not hold onto any smug edge to that amusement. How could he be smug over it when it was more probable Menelaos was trying to hold himself aloof because of the situation back in Sparta, rather than any mocking assessment of how Paris presented himself? Menelaos had, from the start, shown himself to be kind in a way few men - anyone, really - was. How could he not appreciate that?

Paris just hoped he might be able to tempt Menelaos into realizing that it wouldn't be a betrayal of the people he ruled, or the unpleasant bind he was in, to enjoy himself a little now that he had done what he could.

Such wants and thoughts aside, Paris was still deeply appreciating the chance to clean off for itself, not just for the opportunity to show off now that Menelaos was paying attention. He sank back down into the water with a loud, relaxed groan, smiling up at the ceiling when Menelaos chuckled from his own tub.

"Indeed. It wasn't the easiest of days," he commented with quiet wryness, standing up - Paris would be a lot more generous than he could admit to be if he didn't watch as Menelaos crossed the floor to pick up the folded linen so he could dry himself.

Just because he'd seen Menelaos naked the first time they bathed didn't mean the sight should already have lost its charm. He couldn't imagine that it ever would.

"And yet you're already up out of the bath," Paris complained, not quite able to summon the strength to move. Not even with the temptation of walking to the great hall and their meal together with Menelaos. The water was still warm, embracing his bruised back and limbs that had been stretched too far. He'd had worse landings than when he fell off the horse today, certainly, but that didn't mean it'd been pleasant in the least.

"No one will think anything of it if you remain for a little longer, Alexander," Menelaos said, a small smile on his face as he looked over his shoulder, warm in a way that squeezed Paris' heart.

Menelaos was wrong, but right in this moment perhaps not too wrong. Either way, Paris didn't actually care what anyone else might think.

"I'll catch up in a bit," he said with a smile that still carried the lingering effects of seeing Menelaos smile like he had just done, but he closed his eyes before he could catch any reaction from Menelaos, relaxing again. The tub might not be large enough to stretch out in, but the warmth of the water made up for that, loosening his muscles and mind both.

If he wasn't to present his case quite so openly, then it was most definitely time to turn to what he'd vaguely been working at in the back of his head since he played for Menelaos after the sacrifice. He'd made progress on the translation, but he could do better, and needed to get further for the song to actually be worth to perform. The warm water was doing much to aid in his work, the room now completely quiet. Restful. When the door opened again not much later, Paris sat up with a frown, quite annoyed to have been interrupted. Menelaos appearing in the doorway was a surprise.

"You'll want to get dressed. Someone's here to see you," Menelaos said, calm and relaxed, revealing there was no need to worry.

Perhaps Menelaos was the type to be good at hiding his true feelings about a matter if he thought it might not actually help to spread panic or distress in a situation there it wouldn't help anyone to feel such any earlier than it was absolutely necessary, but Paris didn't think so. He was too open, given far too easily to letting all his emotions have their place on his face. So Paris got dried off and dressed, a little grumpy he had to deal with his hair only in passing as he followed Menelaos out onto the central courtyard. He might not look a fright, but the clean, blue tunic could have been set off to much better effect and his poor hair could certainly be in better order if he'd been given some additional time.

His annoyance flittered away into the twilight warmth of the sky when he spotted the figure talking to Aeneas.

"Lykaon?"

"There you are!" Lykaon cried, grabbing his offered forearm to squeeze in greeting as much as to use it to haul Paris close into a brief hug. It was a little surprising, considering Lykaon had started to lose patience for too much affection shown 'if there wasn't cause for it'. Perhaps this was cause for it, but as to why, Paris couldn't see. Didn’t mean he didn’t take the moment to soak up the warmth of his half-brother’s body and the clear affection in the embrace. "You know, it doesn't take this many days to travel back and forth to Ida. If you were running into trouble, you should've sent a message back."

Lykaon lightly punched Paris' shoulder, rolling his eyes even as he smiled. "Hektor sent me, and I think he was near to sending a couple extra men with me as well. Father looked about seconds away from agreeing before he caught himself and convinced Hektor it would be worse to assume something had happened that would require an armed rescue than to first go ask if Dardanos knew where you were."

"We only came to Dardanos today, Lykaon!" Paris protested, shoving his brother. There was still a warm light in his chest, blooming out into a laugh. "Perhaps I should've asked to have a messenger sent over when we came here at noon, though I wonder if they would have passed you by. We were surprised by chimaeras, but it turned out fine."

Lykaon's searching glance, a brief hand landing with the quickness of a darting falcon on Paris' elbow as if that alone might tell him if his brother truly was unharmed or not, only brightened the glow in his chest. Smiling, he turned Lykaon around. "We'll set Hektor's mind at ease tomorrow, as he undoubtedly expects even if he’d rather have news in the middle of the night even when there is no emergency. No one's going anywhere this late."

"Indeed," Aeneas agreed, gesturing all three of them to follow him. "There's more than enough food and wine for all, and all of us certainly deserve it given the day we've had, travelling and hunting both."

Lykaon glanced between Aeneas' back and to Paris, arching a pointed eyebrow.

"Bruises only, thanks to Menelaos," Paris said, a completely different smile than the earlier one blooming out over his face with slow warmth as he looked over at Menelaos where he walked next to Aeneas, following the long tail of hair swaying with every step. Lykaon huffed a laugh, elbowing him.

"Oh, I see."

Paris rolled his eyes and refused to answer, even knowing that wouldn't refute Lykaon's conclusion. Not that Paris was bothered about refuting it, he would only rather minimize anything Lykaon could use to tease him with. Fortunately, they were all hungry, and Lykaon could be tempted with food much like anyone, completely aside from how rude it would have been to ignore all the fine things served. Paris even had some time for further translating, that evening as well as during the ride back to Troy, even if Lykaon made a nuisance of himself the whole way back. Lykaon's presence meant he lost the chance for another half-day of having Menelaos to himself, but it was, by now, a loss Paris was willing to accept.

Knowing Menelaos was indeed interested made the loss far less acute, and if he was to be able to do what he wanted with the song he was working on, he did need the extra time.

He’d need even more time to translate the whole song, but he could just start at the beginning of it. No one would complain, either; the songs about Gilgamesh were always popular, and it was doubtful anyone would complain when he sang in Achaean. Menelaos was a guest, not from their own lands, so even if especially the younger ones would have some trouble keeping up when they were only just starting to learn, they could deal with it for a couple days.

Would this even work?

Even if if it didn't, Paris was pleased with what he'd accomplished with the translations. If nothing else, he would have provided Menelaos with some distraction in this way, though it wasn't quite the distraction he wanted to provide.

He was getting ahead of himself. They were back in Troy, a day passed, Hektor assuaged and reassured. Menelaos had appreciated his singing before, and when Menelaos' gaze fell on him as he trailed his fingers through the first couple notes, looking up from where he'd been staring with a quiet frown and darkened downturns at the corners of his mouth that was far too cruel for someone who had done all he could, Paris' first desire was to take away that expression. There were days yet - at the very least, possibly longer, before anyone would arrive from Sparta with news. Menelaos shouldn't have to spend it torturing his heart over matters he could do little about.

So Paris fell into the first song about Gilgamesh with the pure, intent enjoyment of singing itself, pride for his craft, and the ability to share it with someone who hadn't heard it before.

That didn't mean he didn't let his gaze fall on Menelaos when Gilgamesh went to his mother to ask for interpretation of his dream, lingering just long enough for Menelaos to realize he was indeed looking at him. A smile unintentionally snatched at the corners of his mouth when their eyes met, and it was Paris, not Menelaos, who looked away first, though his voice and hands remained steady and relaxed. He wouldn't allow something like the squirming flutter of his heart to ruin his music, no matter how high up in his throat his heart seemed to have fled in its flustered delight.

He spaced the songs out - both to give himself time to translate them and to hopefully engender the effect he was looking to cause - over the next couple evenings. There was a hunt the next day, simple and almost ridiculously relaxing compared to the confrontation with the chimaeras, and on the third day after they were back from the mountain Paris managed to convince Menelaos to wrestle with him.

Perhaps it wasn't at all fair, but if he'd suggested they race Menelaos would have been much more alert. Would have guessed he might be fleet of foot to match the sleekness of body, and perhaps Menelaos wouldn't wish to test his stamina and speed against someone both younger and built for running. So perhaps Paris had taken a bit of advantage, knowing to be careful of Menelaos' very obvious greater strength.

"How?" Menelaos grumbled where he lay in the sand, squinting up at Paris over his shoulder.

Paris kept his smile on his face for a moment or two longer, and then burst out laughing. Laughter that was shoved out of his chest when he lost most of his breath as Menelaos used his momentary distraction, his own greater strength put to proper use to break free and twist them around. Paris had undoubtedly lost an extra moment or two, never mind needing to catch his breath, by being far too caught watching Menelaos' biceps bulge for that brief moment.

Still laughing, Paris twisted, shoving his heel into Menelaos' thigh. Squirmed around and heaved, almost managing to shove him over. Menelaos, however, was already learning what Paris' strategy was, and was using not only strength, but the same methods, to subdue him. Which meant Paris ended stomach down, Menelaos pinning him in place with one hand at the back of his neck, the other twisting his arm behind his back, and his thighs pressed against his. His very muscular, flexing thighs. Paris bit his lip at the feel of the hard muscles pressed against him.

"I don't see why you're complaining when you still turned the situation to your advantage," he said with a laugh, attempting to heave but now failing to get anywhere at all.

The only reason he didn't flinch back from the pain of his arm being pulled was because Menelaos, even if he didn't need to, eased up on his grip so Paris had a little more leeway. It didn't help him free himself, but the gesture was appreciated. The pain would otherwise have cut an unpleasant knife into the warm light filling his veins instead of blood, taking enjoyment from this even if it wasn't quite as or how he wanted it.

"I'm going to let you up," Menelaos said with the thready suggestion of a chuckle deepening the pitch of his voice into the sweetness of summer mead, "and we'll start from the beginning."

He won once more, but Menelaos beat him twice in a row after that. Paris couldn't find any distress for losing. Wouldn't have either way, for while winning was a sweetness he didn't need it with the desperate fury of a man left staggering through the wilderness, having found no fresh spring or even the smallest trickle of water to try and moisten his lips and throat with for days. Besides, how could he be upset about losing when it was a reward itself if he got to have Menelaos' pinning him down?

Whether the wine-thick delight of the day sweetened his voice further that evening or Menelaos might simply have started to notice what was going on, there was a tension in the way Menelaos swallowed whenever their gazes met.

Tension that wasn't anger even if Menelaos looked away. Kept looking back, too, so that every time Paris turned his attention onto Menelaos when he sang of Gilgamesh and Enkidu conversing, or someone mentioned the one to the other, their eyes met. If Menelaos wasn't interested, it would have been ease itself to keep his gaze averted, yet he kept looking back. Kept staring. A moment here and there could easily be an accident, but Paris had enough chances to look over at Menelaos over the three nights he sang that the fleeting moments of their gazes locking to be sure none of it could be conceived of as accidental. Not with Menelaos stiffening slightly more often than not, a hand tensing into a fist where it was hidden next to his thigh, or shifting back in his chair, before he looked away once more before Paris did.

For all that Menelaos’ eyes were coloured like warm amber, they were dark enough to have Paris shivering, with heat sliding down low for the weight.

It didn't quite seem to be enough to spur Menelaos into acting, even when he could feel Menelaos' eyes on him even when he'd looked away, watching a gaggle of younger siblings sit around their nurses with scrunched expressions as they tried to keep up. He'd have to make it up to them later, but it wasn't as if he'd only been singing in Achaean these past couple evenings. Smiling at them, which earned him a couple grimaces, a tongue stuck out, and two smiles, Paris turned his gaze onto the curve of the swan heads topping the arms of his lyre. Paint, gold, and the small turquoise gems set as the swans' eyes gleamed in the light. Watched Menelaos from under lowered lashes despite that it threatened to make his fingers stumble for the stare on him, even seen at an angle as it was.

Menelaos was clutching his poor cup tight enough it was probably fortunate it was metal, not terracotta. Paris didn't smile, but hope slid sweet up through his throat, honeyed his tongue and gilded his singing for the rest of the night.

He could still feel Menelaos' gaze flick to him as they walked back to his room later that evening, leaving a prickle to Paris' skin and a tightening tension in his gut. This would surely be it, one way or another. Closing the door seemed final in a way, his heart fluttering with the weight of his body as he turned around.

"You've actually been translating these songs by yourself?" Menelaos asked, having stopped not far into the room. There was a tension to his voice that set the fluttering weight in Paris' gut on edge, but he smiled instead.

"It's a story worth sharing, and I thought you might appreciate it," Paris said as he continued deeper into the room, past Menelaos, close enough fabric brushed against fabric of his clothed shoulder and the loose drape of Menelaos' short sleeve. He stopped not far beyond, in the middle of the room. Took a breath to brace himself, to keep from shifting on his feet. He wanted... Oh, he wanted so many things. And so very much.

"It is," Menelaos agreed, clearing his throat, and Paris nearly whipped around. He should give it a little longer. "But perhaps you should take better care how you sing, as impressive as such full-throated emotion is and brings the story to worthy life. People could get the wrong id---"

No.

"Menelaos, please."

Now Paris whipped around, understanding what was happening and could only hope he could redirect it. Menelaos was talking himself out of this.

He'd been so close, and he knew they would both enjoy it if Menelaos just let himself instead of burying himself in his concerns. Thoughtlessly, Paris snatched at one of Menelaos' wrists, thick but finely built with thin, vulnerable skin stretched over his pulse. A brief tremble wracked Paris’ hand before he could stiffen his hand and smother it. He'd had plans, but planning was simple. If there was something in particular he needed to do to convince Menelaos to turn down in the direction that would be pleasurable for both of them, he couldn't, at that moment, think of it. Wanting spilled out of him like a cup filled with too much wine, the cupbearer growing clumsy and distracted for the late night, his skills forgotten.

"I want--- I thought, perhaps, you..."

Paris stared up at Menelaos, wide-eyed and begging. Had lost words he thought he had firmly in his mind and heart. He leaned forward, drawn but also pinned by the golden light in Menelaos’ eyes, brown turned to honey by the lamps lit earlier by slaves and servants. His mouth was in shadow, but not so dark it was impossible to see the shifting weight as Menelaos pressed his lips together.

Menelaos raised his free hand, fingertips barely ghosting down the side of Paris' face. Stared. At his eyes, at his lips, so heavy Paris could barely breathe. Certainly he couldn't move. The hand skated down to slide around the nape of his neck, Menelaos' brown eyes going dark even when they were still lit. He shifted on his feet, then settled again.

"Go to bed, Alexander." Menelaos' voice was so gentle, it almost disguised the way he was still staring at Paris' lips. Almost distracted from the squeeze to Paris’ neck, from way there was a brief tremble to Menelaos' fingers as he lightly urged Paris to let go of his wrist.

Almost, but not completely, and it helped nothing at all.

Victory twining together with defeat was bitter and heady, almost making Paris heave as he swallowed thickly, throat dry and tongue thick. Turned sharply on his heel and stalked over to his own bed. He threw his tunic off in passing where he would normally never toss his clothes on the floor to wrinkle unless he was far too busy with something else, focus on something - someone - that deserved it.

Menelaos did want this, but wasn't going to let himself have it.

It wasn’t a situation Paris had had to deal with before. Maybe he should push. Maybe he should turn around right now and get up on top of Menelaos where he was on the couch. Maybe that would break the last of the resistance. But while that might be what Paris would have done normally, with the situation as it was, Paris, no matter how much he wanted to, couldn't bear to do it.

Burrowing in under blankets and into pillows, for the first time he regretted having pushed past Antenor's much more proper intention to offer to host Menelaos. Having to listen to him breathe, so close by, was torture.

He still fell asleep, soon enough. Woke up before Menelaos, too, and left quietly, hiding in Aphrodite's temple after he'd gotten something to eat until everyone else should have had more than enough time to break their fast as well. Spent the next few hours avoiding any part of the palace he thought Menelaos might find himself in, though he had to catch himself several times from walking off in the direction of Menelaos' voice.

It wasn't until, sitting in the shadow of the tower up on the battlement of the citadel wall and a man coming through the gate below him that Paris changed his mind about avoiding Menelaos. The man was Achaean. That could mean only one thing.

Hopefully it would mean Menelaos' sacrifices had indeed been accepted, but as much as Paris hoped that, he started to his feet, heavy with something entirely different than relief for Menelaos' sake. Menelaos would be leaving, either today - it was just past noon, which meant plenty of time to set sail before it got dark - or first thing tomorrow, and if he didn't try at least one more time, Paris knew he would regret it. It'd hurt either way, no less than it already did, so what had he to lose? Jaw tight, Paris hurried down from the wall and took off running. Through the central courtyard, making a loping circle past the training yard, but while there were both regular soldiers and a couple of his brothers there, there was no Menelaos. Slowed down to be able to peer into the megaron without drawing attention to himself by lumbering into it like a spooked bull, but while his father was there, conversing with a couple of the elders, including two of Priam's brothers, there was no Menelaos. Paris peeled away, shot through the great hall - not there either - worry growing.

If any servant sent to go looking for Menelaos found the king of Sparta before he did, he’d certainly lose any opportunity he might have. But where was Menelaos, then? The palace was large. Paris knew he had little chance to find Menelaos by simply running around all over it, and so took a chance. Back to his own room.

"Menelaos!" Paris called, almost stumbling over his own feet as a trailing, questioning call echoing from outside and below the floor his room was on mirrored his own. Menelaos, turning from the door he'd just opened, looked to Paris first, though he threw a glance towards the nearest window. Paris lengthened his steps, so catching Menelaos' attention again.

"There you are," Menelaos said, a weight about his mouth that seemed unable to decide whether it should be a frown or a smile, no matter how small. His eyes lightened with relief, and Paris' heart twisted.

It wasn't fair. He didn't get to look relieved after last night. He was the one who’d put a stop to anything that might have happened.

"Menelaos, please." It was a repeat of last night's plea, and not any less of one than it'd been then. Paris reached up, snagging Menelaos' tunic and pulling him close even as he backed off, turning a half step around to leave himself up against the wall. Hands tightening in the fine linen until his knuckles ached, Paris stretched up, ignoring the weight of a hand on his upper arm, light and too tight all at once. "What can I do that might give us both what we want when you have watched me, so closely you could just as well have kissed me already, yet now have also refused me?"

He needed something to work with. Did Menelaos want him to push? He could, but he didn't want to do something that would have Menelaos thinking he didn't take this - any of this, the situation Menelaos was in, here for Sparta and Lakedaimonia as he was - seriously. That would, Paris was certain, be the death of anything that could be between them.

Menelaos stared down at him, gaze once more landing on Paris' lips until they tingled with the weight of it. He stood there, lips pressed thin, weight tilting forward so their chests met, and not for Paris’ clutching at his tunic.

Finally Menelaos closed his eyes, turning his face away.

"It's not you, Alexander. And it's not that what you're offering is unwanted." A sightly shaky breath escaped Menelaos as he opened his eyes again, meeting Paris' gaze with unhesitating weight. What he said next wasn't an explanation or even a way for Paris to move forward. "Listen to me. You're always welcome in Sparta."

Menelaos' voice was a quiet rumble, and where it wasn't usually deep enough to make bones vibrate even at such a low pitch, like this it was resonant enough the teasing suggestion of such depths was its own charm. Warm, and slightly strained, it revealed the sincerity of the offer as much as the desperate attempt to hold on to some distance.

Paris had a moment of staring into warm brown eyes that evoked the view of standing by a summer-yellowed field of grass, air warm on the skin, the horizon trembling with the heat as the grass swayed in a faint breeze. His throat was too tight to say anything in that moment, and then Menelaos laid a hand over his eyes. Paris blinked into the shadows caught behind the palm now obscuring his vision, with only a few, spear-bright slivers of light peeking through the gaps between fingers pressed together. Menelaos’ thumb was resting against his cheekbone, light but not stiffly indifferent in the least. It brushed over his skin, and there was no way that was anything but a caress.

"Menelaos---"

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Menelaos shifted in, a suggestion of weight and presence just beyond Paris' body. It wasn’t enough to couldn't tell whether there was any slight additional weight leaned into the hand that might reveal if Menelaos had rested his forehead or lips there, or if he had, like in his room, like just before, frozen right before he'd fully closed the distance. This wouldn't even have been a kiss as such, if so, but it was yet a cruel thing to be robbed off.

Paris swallowed heavily, floundering for what would usually come easy. Flushed hot, his heart was too large and heavy in his chest. He'd already done everything he could, and while it was tempting to duck free and just surge up and take that kiss, it wasn't how he wanted this.

Still, his lips ached for the absence, tingled with the electrified lack of distance now between them. He couldn't quite suppress a slight tremble, to his lips, in his body, as he swallowed again. The hand over his eyes pressed down more firmly for a beat, thumb stroking his cheek once more, trembling as if his own unwilling display had set an echo in Menelaos.

"I---"

"Lord Menelaos?" The wondering shout from the servant looking for the king of Sparta, coming ever closer, echoed down the corridor.

Paris sighed, slumping against the wall and practically drooping into the hand over his face.

"Yes."

Menelaos shifted away again, withdrawing his hand not with the simple practicality such a gesture should imply, but rather freezing just as he lifted it off, and then ran it down the side of Paris' face in a caress.

Opening his eyes only when the retreating steps weren't quite so loud, Paris stared at Menelaos’ disappearing back, at the long, reddish-blond tail of hair swaying with every step and only emphasizing the width of those shoulders. Near the end of the corridor, right when Menelaos paused, shifting his weight in a manner that twisted Paris' chest tight with stupid hope, the servant found him, leaning in to murmur whatever message he had to deliver in Menelaos' ear.

It was like watching a flower bloom, for the lingering tension eased out of Menelaos' spine and shoulders so obviously Paris’ gut twisted hard enough he was almost sick for having drawn the moment out and delayed this. Menelaos preceded the servant, steps long enough the man had to hurry along a little, leaving without that last look back that he might have intended.

Paris slumped back against the wall again, head tipped back to stare up at the ceiling. Light and shadow was cast over it in alternating patterns from the windows and blurring his vision with the stark difference between them.

He didn't at all understand why Menelaos should have held back. He’d clearly wanted exactly what Paris had.

This was different from how things usually would go. By men, sometimes he’d be welcomed with eager, pleased hands and mouth, if not without some scorn, but often found himself rebuffed, for while he was beautiful there were other things about him that usually weighed heavier. Only Antheus had ever really been kind about it when he chose Deiphobos over him for those very reasons. This trembling half-between, want throbbing in the distance just barely left between him and Menelaos was entirely new and heart-achingly unpleasant.

Would it really be so different, if he did go to Sparta later, whenever the opportunity might come up?

Scrubbing his face, his palms tingling as if Menelaos’ lingering touch was rubbing off there, Paris couldn't suppress the hope that it would be. That Menelaos' sincerity and desire might not cool in the interim. Sighing, he pushed off the wall and followed Menelaos' path, back towards the courtyard, the main hall and the megaron.

Knew what he would find there.

It was thus not a surprise when Menelaos announced he was leaving that very afternoon. It was only a slight sweetness to the bitter reality that Menelaos didn't hesitate to lay a hand on his shoulder, squeezing too tight, and told him to keep in mind what he'd said. An implicit reiteration of the invitation didn't change anything, but it was something of a reassurance.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest if just for the pressure that might disguise the internal squeeze of his heart, Paris watched Menelaos walk out past the western gate, down towards the Scaean gate, and the harbour beyond.

Chapter Text

Menelaos stepped down from the chariot and onto the main courtyard in front of the palace's main building with a sigh of relief.

Everything on the ride up north from Helos had only confirmed what the messenger had told him; the sickness had been lifted, probably the very moment he'd begun the sacrifices. Many who had been in rough condition had made near miraculous recoveries during the night of the sacrifice, and it had only gotten better from there. A messenger should possibly have been held back another day or two at least, but with how stark the difference between the sickness rampaging and it being lifted, who could blame anyone for acting quickly?

Helen, accompanied by Aithra and a couple other maidservants, came out to meet him. There was a small, sparkling smile on her face, and she reached for him before they were within an arms’ length of each other. He snagged her hand and squeezed her fingers, relief spilling out of his chest to match her grip on his fingers, the smile on her face. Still, for a brief moment her sedate - controlled, more like - pace almost brought him up short.

Why was he expecting her to rush towards him, perhaps to throw her arms around him?

Such wasn't fit for public, and it'd never been Helen's style. While she had been rather exuberant at times when he and Agamemnon lived here before they took back Mycenae with Tyndareos' help, even that had been away from the eyes of all and sundry who might be around such a place as the central courtyard.

How had Alexander managed to make him expect such exuberance in such a short time, especially when he had most definitely, and several times, thought that while the life and light filling the boy up was certainly charming, it was at least a little exhausting, too? Shouldn't it thus be a boon to be back with his wife, not thinking that something was missing?

Helen squeezed his hand again, sliding around it more firmly in a gesture small enough to be proper in full view of everyone, but the strength of it as she laced their fingers together, was an echo of that youthful exuberance he’d met a couple times before Helen had grown into herself as a woman. Menelaos smiled, exhaling. Helen’s hand was slimmer than his own, but the size near-matching, so they fit together well. He'd missed this, though he hadn’t been parted from it for so very long.

"Everything went well, I trust?" Helen asked, head cocked and an eyebrow arching.

It was a question that had a very easy answer, yet it was far more complicated than it had any right to be from what was supposed to be a trip of such straightforward intention. Smiling wryly, Menelaos nonetheless nodded.

"As well as could be hoped for, though with some complications."

The second eyebrow joined the first in silent inquiry as Helen tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. His wry smile became an equally wry chuckle, if not without irrepressible warmth sneaking in and turned them around.

"It certainly made the journey a lot more exciting than I expected. I'll tell you as soon as we've eaten."

They fell into step beside each other, the walk easy. It was good to be back in Sparta, whether or not there was an unsettled weight to his heart that made it seem as if something was missing. He had no reason to think so - he had done what he'd done partly to make his stay in Troy as simple as possible - and yet...

Menelaos shook his head. It was what it was. And if Alexander perhaps took him up on his invitation, nothing having changed when he came, then they could see what might happen then.

(Perhaps he looked forward to the possibility a little too much, especially with Helen right there beside him, but if so, it would be a secret for his own heart to keep.)