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The noise coming from the long hall reverberated across the empty space, clashing against the white marble columns and finally getting lost as it found its way towards the back of the Palace. The marble and mosaic abruptly gave way to the wall of planted myrtle that shined silver under the light of the full moon.
He took a step into the greenery, finding his way by the sound of water that came from between the low flowering shrubs that one day would grow to become small trees. The fountain that lay between them had been in plain sight once but it now stood in the midst of their flowers and leaves, hidden from anyone traversing the back colonnade.
He dodged behind a shrub and finally came to stand before the small fountain dedicated to Demeter. It lay tranquil, shining white under the moonlight, its water undisturbed. He sat slowly on the low stone basin, half glancing at his reflection on the water.
Alexander let out a sigh, at last feeling safe behind the wall of whispering leaves. His father was drunk again, and the moon had only just risen. He was young enough to be excused early, but he was old enough to revel in escaping his father's guards. He knew them well and he was known in return, they knew he would wander around the Palace for a while before coming back to his rooms. They wouldn't raise a fuss or tell the King. He was safe now, away from everything.
Lately he had become deeply aware of the flaws of the men around him, perhaps growing conscious of what in childhood he had overlooked. He felt admiration for so many men in the hall but seeing them lose themselves to Dionysus' wine could be hard. He knew the god gave as much as it took, but the wildness in the men's eyes sometimes proved too raw for him to handle.
Maybe he was just overly sensitive, like his younger sister used to say when he commented on the ill humor of any vendor in the agora .
A gust of wind flew across the myrtle around him and with it, a faint aroma wafted in from beyond the fountain.
The planted myrtle behind the water basin quickly gave way to real wilderness, line of trees rising in the dark. His brow furrowed as the smell stayed longer than usual, sweet and constant.
Once, a long time ago, he had smelled this same scent.
He instantly jumped up at the realization, feet quickly taking him towards the line of trees.
Flowering yarrow, that was the scent.
Lysimachus would not believe this, there was no way he'd believe him if he did not find that plant and brought back a specimen. His tutor could be relentless in his questioning, almost to the point of distrust. He had to find the yarrow, he would show him.
This was Achilles' plant, the one he had been shown how to use by Charon himself.
Alexander felt his heartbeat drumming against his ears. Could it be…? A long time ago he had smelled this scent on a starry night, wafting through his open window. He had told his mother about it, describing the scent in full. She had sent men after it, convinced of the omen. They had never found the actual plant, but they had brought back two small leaves they had found that matched the description his mother had given them. He still had one of those leaves on a small wooden box, shriveled and brown.
His mother had kept the other one, and ever since then she would bring up its existence whenever his father remarried.
Two leaves of achillea ambrosiaca , the plant of the gods. It was supposed to only grow on Mount Olympus, highly priced for its rareness. That he had been attracted by its smell meant something to his mother, and it confirmed his standing as her blood. He had Achilles' blood through her and ever since that long ago day he had felt deeply attuned to the hero.
He walked faster as another gust of wind brought the scent to him. There was no doubt on his mind, this was the same scent from years ago. Was it possible that he would find the sacred plant?
He ran deeper into the woods, oblivious to the song of the late birds around him. He didn’t even have his dagger, but it mattered not. If it was the achillea , he had to find it.
Low grunting coming from his left stopped him on his tracks. There weren’t big animals in these woods, it was probably some foxes. He scuttled closer to the sound coming from behind some juniper bushes, not wanting to be attacked from behind as he kept walking.
Beyond the greenery there was a small hollow and trees grew downwards. Against a crooked beech trunk two bodies were upon each other, oblivious to the wilderness around them. It took Alexander a moment to realize they were two boys, not much older than himself. By the light of the full moon filtering through the trees he could see them pressing against each other, low groans rising from the hollow.
They hadn’t even noticed his approach, even if it hadn’t been particularly discreet.
Their hands were between them, fast in their movement against the upturn cloth. Alexander retreated quickly, wishing he had never looked. One of the boys was his cousin, Leonnatus.
He turned and walked away, not caring if he was making noise as he moved. They wouldn’t notice his presence even if he was jumping up and down before them. He grimaced in the darkness, pushing away the images and trying to concentrate on the lingering scent in the air.
All night long he had seen men do the same in the hall, barely hiding their movements under light quilts. Hetairas and women slaves had been pushed against the low couches, young male slaves in equal numbers. He hated the utter carelessness of men, sloppy in their need to meet skin against skin.
He had been told again and again that one day he would understand, that he would find the same pleasure in slaves and paid women. But the mere thought of taking a stranger under him filled him with abhorrence.
Achilles took Briseis as a war prize, but Patroclus was his true companion.
For him, there was no pleasure in ordering or paying for something that should be given. Perhaps in time he’d come to understand it under different terms, but so far, his morals hadn’t changed even if his voice had begun to.
He pushed some bushes aside, having walked briskly away from the two boys in the hollow.
He stopped in his tracks as he stepped into a small break in the woods illuminated by the high moon.
At the center of the glade a large boulder lay covered in moss, right by its feet rose the small achillea , soft leaves shiny with dew and small white flowers dancing against the moonlight.
He wanted to run towards it heedlessly, but he wasn’t alone in the glade.
A tall slender boy sat on the boulder with one leg dangling and the other raised, the sole of his sandaled foot against the moss. His face was upturned towards the sky, eyes closed.
He was Apollo bathing under the light of his sister, Artemis. His beauty was otherworldly, almost difficult to stare at. The straight nose, the long heavy hair. His brow was heavy, eyebrows etched against his temple as if carefully put there by a sculptor. His skin shined against the radiant moon, and even from a distance Alexander could feel its softness.
He took a step back, confused by his own reaction and he stepped on a small twig as he did so.
The boy came to life before him, quick yet graceful. He opened his eyes and stared straight at him, unwavering.
His eyes were as dark as his hair, two shiny orbs of opaque light.
He fought the urge to turn and run, in a quick moment both startled and frozen to the ground. No other boy—or man, for that matter—had ever looked at him like this. The coldness behind the gaze hid something he couldn’t name, something that pulled at him. He had seen that fixed light in the gaze of predators before, an almost resolute conviction of their own standing.
This boy knew his value. The gravity and poise of his stare was not for the faint hearted.
“Aren’t all-” Alexander started and stopped, suddenly feeling shy.
He cleared his throat and squared his feet on the ground. He slowly raised his chin and slightly turned his head to the left. He was the Prince, there was no place for shyness.
“Aren’t all Pages on duty tonight?” he said in a lower voice than he usually talked with, trying to impose his shorter body upon the lean body on the boulder.
The boy stared at him, unconcerned with the words he had uttered. He lowered his chin, letting his face hide in the shadows.
Alexander swayed on his feet, stomping the ground slightly. He hated being ignored and for a moment he felt the frustration rise in him. In the past months he had been acutely aware of rejection, and he felt its prickly heat on his belly now.
"I said, aren't all Pages on-"
"I heard you the first time," a melodic voice, smoother than he expected, rose from the shadowy face, "You think I'd be here if I were on duty?"
He stared back, silenced by the simplicity of the argument. For the first time he noticed his red Page's cape lying behind him, spread against the boulder. He might not be on duty but he was wearing the colors, which meant he was on call, as Pages always were when the King was at Court.
He realized he was gawking at the cape, enthralled by the way the gold-thread edge shone under the moon. He blinked and brought his attention back towards the boy's face. The dark eyes hadn't stopped glaring at him, caught between a deep analysis and a rude study.
The boy knew. There was recognition in his eyes. Even if he was new at Court, he was quick enough to read his posture and stance.
He had never thought himself above anyone, but Leonnidas, his old Spartan tutor, had once beat him for staring too long at a high-ranking man. He could carry his station without meaning to, shoulders square and head high. It was something not even Leonnidas could smack out of him.
The boy before him knew. But everything, from his lack of movement to his deep stare, showed that he did not really care.
That was new. Alexander had never encountered such a lack of interest about his station.
"Does my father know you're here?" he said, putting emphasis on the word to stress his position.
"Does he know you are here?"
He was struck mute again. The boy was quick enough to catch him by surprise. He wasn't afraid to shoot back at him, words sharp and sure.
He felt a tingling on his feet and he felt his face burning.
"Do you know who you're speaking-?"
"I know," the boy cut him short again.
Alexander was about to retort, angry at the provocation but he felt his blood fall to his feet as the boy moved off the boulder, light-footed and graceful.
He had almost stepped on the achillea .
The boy stood to attention abruptly, feet stomping the ground dangerously close to the white flowers. Alexander was again startled at the change in the youth before him.
"My Prince," he enunciated clearly, head bowed. He looked at him from under lowered lids, eyes dark.
He felt the heat rise on his neck again. He was making fun of him. The tone, the stance, the mischievous gaze. Everything about it was contemptuous.
"Stand down, new recruit," his voice boomed across the glade, anger rising in him, "Do not forget your place."
The eyes glinted from across the distance. If the youth felt affronted or regretful of his manner, he showed no sign of either.
"Not short enough to be from up north, not heavy enough to be from the hills. Pale enough to be from a pampered state from the valley," Alexander scoffed, darkness rising in him, "But your accent is slightly Athenian. I didn't know my father had friends from the south."
The boy snorted disdainfully, but there was something in his eyes that registered his complex train of thought. He was still weighing him, trying to deduce if he was sharp or simply overeducated.
"I am Macedonian," his velvet voice half whispered, "And your father has no friends. He has vassals."
A wave of emotion passed through him, the sudden memory of the hall hitting him fullforce. The men around his father, feeding upon the plates he kept filled with food from the Royal cellar. All pliant and comfortable, eased with the security of the winner.
"His vassals are his Friends," he used the political term instead of the companionable one, "It is custom. Or do you think men would follow a King for no reason?"
He gave back as much as he was given, privately enthralled by the unabashedness of the boy. He was answered by a loud snort.
"The men would follow a dead rat if it was coated with gold," he said icely, reaching around for his red cape, turning his back on him.
Alexander felt heat rise to his face again. How dare he undermine his father's achievements like that? A long line of Kings behind him had culminated in the possibility of their comfort.
"Don't fret," the youth uttered as he turned, arranging the cape on his back, "I meant no disrespect towards your father. He is worthy to be followed. I'm simply saying you need to consider that not all men look for virtue in their leader. Almost all of them look for their own gain."
He stayed silent as the youth finished pinning his brooch in place. In that quick moment, he realized he had never felt this comfortable with a stranger. Usually, he was the one controlling the conversation, whether the listener wanted it or not.
"I know most men are only interested in what they can get out of something," he said softly, "I may be younger-"
"And shorter."
Shame rose in him like a wave and he tried to control his facial expression. He had always been insecure about his height, rather square in build and stature. The boy before him was a head above him, tall and angular.
"... I may be younger ," he continued quickly, noticing the boy smirking at his reaction, "But you'll find out soon enough I am not slow. You'll do well to remember that."
He raised his chin, defiant. This time around he would stare back at the stranger, as unwavering as the gaze before him. Men always said his grey-blue eyes could be scary in their intensity, and he would put the stranger to the test. He had been lenient up until now, more curious than defensive. But this was the test he had to endure if this interaction was to continue.
The youth gazed down at him, an unreadable gaze cutting across the distance. He didn't lower his eyes as Alexander glared at him, he simply looked back.
They stood in silence for some heartbeats and Alexander noticed a slight diminishing in the heaviness of the stranger. He hadn't moved but he looked calmer, almost subdued.
Perhaps he hadn't expected Alexander to be confrontational. Perhaps his heaviness had always driven people away before he could begin to show something different.
But he knew, he had trained himself during childhood. At Court, the ability to read men's gazes was as important as rhetoric. He saw the dark gaze unwind before him, even if the boy was good at hiding it.
Alexander had passed the test he didn't know he had been taking. The gaze softened considerably.
A small smile broke on the youth's face, almost shy. He took a couple of steps forward, looking to close the distance between them.
Alexander immediately lunged forward, half running towards him. He pushed him aside roughly, muscles taut.
He looked down alarmed, but it only took him a breath to calm down. The achillea's white flowers were untouched, its leaves sighing against the wind they had created between them.
The sacred yarrow was safe.
He sighed in the same breath the stranger cursed behind him. He turned around appalled at his actions.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
The boy towered above him, close enough for him to feel his breath on the crown of his head. His dark eyes went past him and stared beyond him, towards the ground and the source of his wonder. From up close, his black hair shone with reddish streaks as it silhouetted against the moonlight. His skin was closer to a light honey than an olive tone. His eyes were almond-shaped and his eyebrows heavy set.
He was even more beautiful from up close.
"There is no way…" he whispered, breath tickling his crown. His powerful gaze darted down towards him and Alexander took a step back as their eyes met, suddenly realizing their proximity. He catched himself quickly, hiding his sheepish look almost instantly.
"Well, there is a way. My mother said we are close enough to Mount Olympus for it to be possible. Extremely rare but possible.”
"But Olympian achillea is-"
"Sacred? Yes. And also incredibly powerful when used correctly."
He threw out a hand towards the youth, almost touching his chest. He hadn’t created more space between them, conscious of the fragile plant behind him. The one before him was apparently comfortable invading his space, for he hadn’t stepped back either. The boy raised his eyebrows, not understanding the gesture.
"Give me your dagger,” he said, looking sharply up at his face in their height difference, “The one all Pages keep on their left boot."
The youth stared at him for a moment, weighing him in their proximity. Alexander stared back, noticing the way his eyes danced with the light. He had turned his head slightly and the moonlight was illuminating him from the side. From the angle at which he stood, Alexander could see his dark eyes clearly. They weren’t deep brown as he had expected, they were deep blue, almost purple: a true indigo.
The boy slowly reached down to retrieve the dagger, not breaking eye contact while doing so. His face passed before him in the movement, barely a hand away from his own. His movements were smooth, almost feline in nature, and Alexander thought for a moment on how agile he would be in battle.
The youth put the dagger on his hand, rising slowly to tower before him again, unapologetic.
“You better use it wisely,” he whispered, “I would hate to die by the same dagger my father comissioned for me.”
Alexander snorted loudly, turning his back on him. He reached down and cut the achillea from the base, carefully keeping the roots as intact as possible. He latched the dagger unto his belt to cut the delicate plant in two, dividing the treasure equally.
He stood again and turned, extending one half of the plant to the youth. In a heartbeat, he had decided he could trust him. If he was brave enough to be honest with a Prince, he must have a good heart too. And besides, he was a Page, he couldn’t run far even if he tried.
The boy slowly took the sacred plant, surprisingly gentle with it. He seemed shocked at the gesture, like he was rarely included in secrets. In his disconcert, Alexander could read a whole new side of him, covertly shy and tender.
He was probably good with animals and children. Most men who appeared rough and cold on the outside often were.
Alexander silently took his own half of the achillea and tucked it carefully on his golden belt, raising a silent prayer to Persephone in thanks. The youth slowly wrapped the plant in a corner of his red cape, unsure how to best care for the delicate plant.
"No, wait,” he reached out and grabbed his arm, noticing the softness of the skin, “Let the flowers take the light that Artemis provides. Even Achilles did that."
"Achilles?" the boy whispered, suddenly subdued in both volume and energy. His tone was almost gentle, like one who speaks to a newborn foal.
"This is his herb. Well, not exactly this one, this one belongs to the gods in Olympus," he whispered back, "But still, all achillea have medicinal properties. When applied in the right way it stops bleeding. It is a rare gift the gods not often provide."
The youth stared at him, silent. Alexander tugged that information on the back of his mind, relishing in having found a way to subdue this boy’s confrontational spirit. He was curious then, and intelligent. He absorbed the information quickly, and Alexander could see he wanted to ask more about it, but was too humble to do so. He dropped his gaze timidly and actually followed his advice. He slowly unwrapped the flowers from his cape, letting them shine in the moonlight. Even in his gentleness a small white flower fell from the bundle and floated down into the ground. Alexander reached down to retrieve it quickly, catching it before it reached the earth.
"Don't let Persephone take it with her to the underworld," he whispered softly, and in their closeness the boy stared at him as he uttered the words.
He stood still for a moment, gaze lowered. He was embarrassed at having uttered the words he usually said to himself under his breath. His mother had taught him from a young age to be respectful to the gods, but most men found his zeal a bit unusual for his age. The youth before him stared at him silently, and from the corner of his eye he could see a bit of mockery behind the gaze. He clearly wasn't a devout believer but it mattered not to Alexander. He believed in his gods, and no bad omen would fall under him if he could help it.
He raised his head to stare defiantly at him, daring him to comment. But the youth simply stared, quarrelsome nature somewhat tamed by the herb on his hand. Alexander took a step forward and reached out a hand, letting it fall on the youth’s shoulder. He reacted and tried to lean backwards but Alexander tutted behind his teeth and he froze. He stood on tiptoe, trying to reach his head.
"Bow your head a bit, I'm sho-... you’re too tall," he huffed out, exasperated.
The youth smirked, eyes dancing with mirth at his words. Alexander huffed again and made him bow his head with a gentle pull on his long hair. The boy simply let himself be guided, smirk spreading across his face. One day this boy would come back and remind him of those words. He hadn't admitted to being short, but it had been close.
He reached up and took a strand of hair by the crown of his dark head. He noticed it was softer and heavier than it looked as he deftly wove the white flower in the strand, making sure to attach it properly so it wouldn’t fall. It took him a couple of breaths to secure it, and while he did so the youth stayed pliant, obediently bowing his head. He was finally satisfied and tucked the hair behind his ear, flower properly woven in the strand.
"There, Hades will take your head first before Persephone takes the flower," he said with the simplicity of a child.
The boy snorted and threw him an amused look behind long lashes, head still half bowed. With him on tiptoe and the youth bending down, they were almost eye to eye.
Alexander fell back on his heels and smirked.
"So the Prince knows how to weave flowers into hair…" barely a whisper, mockery on his voice again. His almond eyes shined as he teased him.
The subdued flow had gone, he was back into a combative stance.
"The Prince has sisters," he said matter-of-factly, "And that knowledge just saved you from a bad omen."
"At least I know that if Hades takes my head…" he paused dramatically, raising his chin towards him, "you already got the thyme to burn at my funeral."
Alexander looked up at him, confused. This boy had the habit of baffling him without preamble, changing the course and tone of conversation in a heartbeat. In between breaths he remembered he barely knew him. He didn't even know his name.
"You'd have to be a great warrior for a Prince to attend your funeral."
"I am a great warrior," he answered in an arrogant voice, "and an even better long-range planner, but… I am afraid I am not an expert on bee stings."
He let his hands fall to his hips, still confused as to how this conversation had turned so confusing. What in Hades was he talking about?
The boy laughed softly, reading the confusion on his face.
"I've heard people get lightheaded with power and status, but I never knew to what extent," he leaned forward and whispered the next words menancingly, "There's a bee in your flower crown."
In a flash Alexander understood and he angrily reached up and took off the flowering thyme crown someone had put on him earlier in the hall. He threw it on the ground, fresh purple flowers flashing in the moon. He wasn't afraid of the bee but he was embarrassed at having forgotten he had flowers on his head all along.
"You could have just said…" he huffed and half kicked the crown away from him, red-faced with embarrassment, "With that attitude no Prince will attend your funeral."
"I’d hope not…" Alexander looked up, surprised at the words, "I’d take nothing less than a King."
He stared at the smug face for a couple of breaths, anger rising in him.
"Well, if I’m too low for you…" he turned around, annoyed at the stranger.
Why had he stayed with him for so long? The moon was high in the sky now, he had lost too much time bickering with this Page boy. He had come here for the achillea and he had it now. If the boy had the other half, let him keep it if he wanted to. He knew now where the plant grew, he hadn't pulled the roots out. Maybe soon enough there'd be more to take. He'd have to come back later, when no more strange arrogant boys lurked around.
He heard quick steps behind him and he jerked around, startled. Two arms flew past his head and he flinched and closed his eyes, accustomed to his father's slaps.
But of course, no hit came. An object was placed softly around his head, and the arms retreated. He slowly opened his eyes to find the youth before him, close enough for him to have to look up at his face again.
"You forgot your now bee-less crown, my King," he said without a hint of mockery in his voice, bowing his head slightly and not breaking eye contact.
The smell of thyme reached Alexander's nostrils.
"May the next crown I put on your head be golden," the boy said in a soft whisper, eyes ardent.
He stood still, frozen. There was no mockery in the eyes before him. The trees around the ticket danced with the soft wind and Alexander felt a bolt of lightning run down his back. Another omen. This time around, he wasn't sure what it meant. The stranger broke their locked gazes and walked past him, almost without a sound.
"Keep the dagger, my Prince," he said as he entered the line of trees, "It's not safe to be alone in the woods at night. I think you saw what the other Pages are up to."
He felt heat traveling up his neck, remembering the locked embrace of the two boys in the hollow. He laughed, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, pushing the image away. He turned around, following the soft smells of the achillea that the youth had with him.
But before him there was no youth, he had disappeared behind the line of trees.
Alexander stood silent, listening intently and trying to pinpoint the boy's location inside the woods. But only the crickets sang, there was no movement of underbushes or light muted footfall.
"What's your name?" he said loudly, voice echoing across the glade, "You never even told me your name."
"Hephaestion Amyntoros," a loud melodic voice echoed around the glade. He couldn't pinpoint from whence it came, "And you better follow before the moon hides behind the trees. I wait for no one. Not even Princes who steal into the woods in search of Achilles' memory."
"I am not looking for Achilles," he whispered to himself, checking the plant on his belt, "I am from Achilles' blood."
"Then don't daddle, Peleus' son," the soft voice came from behind the closest tree. The damned arrogant Hephaestion Amyntoros hadn't even walked beyond the first tree, "Patroclus has things to do."
Alexander snorted loudly, arranging the thyme crown on his brow.
"We'll see if you live up to Patroclus statue, Amyntoros," he quickly walked into the woods, noticing the tall dark boy following him almost instantly, "You have big steps to take before you even get close."
A short laugh behind him got lost in the sounds of the woods that slowly began to envelop them. Alexander laughed back, unsure of his own mood.
Tomorrow he'd talk to Cleitus, the Pages' trainer, and ask about Hephaestion. Even if he was newly arrived to Pella, he was sure he had already made some eyebrows raise with his arrogance and turned more than one head with his beauty.
Even as Alexander walked silently into the woods, followed by his presence, he was sure he'd hear more about him soon. And even if he didn't, he had an excuse to seek him out. Even if he had half of the achillea tugged safely in his belt, he was certain the whole specimen would yield more medicinal samples and offer more.
Only a hoard of gods would stop him from getting something he wanted and this time around, he wanted everything he could extract from the achillea .
He might be Amyntor's son, from the rich valley of central Macedonia, but he was Alexander, third of his name, son to the King that would surely one day subdue half of Greece.
Not even Patroclus could stop Achilles once he wanted something. Amyntoros would find, in time, that he had much more in common with the hero than he thought possible.
"Are you drunk or did that bee manage to sting your heavy head?" soft voice said from behind him, "The Palace is on the opposite direction."
He huffed, stomping his feet as he changed his course.
Let Hades take Hephaestion's head, achillea flowers and all, he cared not.
He sighed exasperated as he tripped on a tree root. Before he could catch himself, he felt an arm around his midsection. He batted it away, too angry to accept help.
"I can take care of myself, thank you very much."
A soft chuckle reverberated near his ear and the arm retreated slowly. In the same instant the heat against his back withdrew, the same he hadn't even noticed had come close to him.
"Whatever you say, Achilles," barely a whisper.
Alexander rolled his eyes against the gathering darkness of the woods and stomped ahead, branches cutting his cheek.
If Hades did not take Hephaestion, he would kill him with his own hands.
"Shut up, Patroclus . You better have that plant I gave you intact or else-"
"Or else I'll have to find another tent to sleep in?" arrogant tone echoed against the trees, "Maybe I could find a welcome inside Troy, or who knows, maybe even Briseis will be willing to come with me and we'll start another life together, without Achilles."
He walked faster, annoyed at the mocking voice and at the words. He was even annoyed at the soft breathing behind him.
He simply decided to stop listening as Hephaestion began to recite some direct lines from the Iliad, lowering his register as he voiced Patroclus' lines.
Yes, he would kill him one day. Whether that day was close or far, only the gods knew. But something told him he had a long path to tread before that happened.
And perhaps, that path would coincide with Hephaestion's.
He shrugged to himself, not in the mood to ruminate on that. He could see the light from the torches ahead, between the trees. He was getting close to the hall. Soon, he would be upon Demeter's fountain. And this time around, he wouldn't be alone.
Only time would tell if Amyntoros was worth his time. For now, as annoyed as he felt, he had the sacred yarrow, his achillea ambrosiaca.
And if the self-proclaimed Patroclus trailing him had half of it… maybe they could eventually reach an agreement and find a way to share it.
For even if he felt the elation of having found something sacred to hold in his hand, he had to admit it grew even stronger when shared.