Work Text:
A bride.
She is going to be a bride. A real wife, traveling to a distant or familiar land, arranged to someone bountiful, honorable–because she knows her father would never let just anyone have her–and oh, she is elated beyond measure.
The great hero Achilles. Grandeous tales have reached Mycenae ten times over: touched by the gods themselves, his immortality by his mother, Thetis. His strength, his prowess in battle, how he had trained with the great centaur Chiron. Even tales of his musicianship with the lyre have kissed the span of her mind.
He is larger than life itself, and he will be hers.
It's exhilarating. It's exciting, even though no one else seems quite as interested as her. They all look in mourning, solemn faces staring at the stones when she and her mother disembark the ship.
Menelaus, her uncle, looks miserable, watching her as she takes the first movement to the shore, every step a soft bounce.
That must be the fact that Helen is missing. Her aunt is a treasure that many have vyed after, yet no one has come close enough to touch until Paris himself. Menelaus must be eager to end this, to bring her home.
No matter. They'll all be jovial after the ceremony, if only temporarily, with a feast as large as Greece itself, just as her father has promised.
Then they will bring Helen back to Sparta, and all will be well.
Still–
"Father, do you truly know he will like me?"
A pause.
Her father reaches over to tenderly brush a stray curl from her cheek. His hand lingers to cup her jaw. For a moment, tears glisten in his eyes, and her brow furrows.
She has never seen him cry. Nothing even close.
"Father?" She asks again, a sinking, swirling sensation in her gut threatening to consume her whole.
His voice comes out thick, like he's trying to swallow a stone.
"Of course he will. Do you think I would not choose the very best for you, my daughter?"
It does not sit right with her, but she is content with his response for the being as he turns away–though not before adding: "Mother wove me a dress."
Pure as a dove's feathers, as the sea foam lapping on the shore. Her mother is bringing a wedding gown, just for her, complete with enough jewelry to crown all of Mycenae itself. Something pretty and new. Something hers.
Suddenly she is a child again, swirling about in new woven robes too big, too loose, the weight of the first mantle on her tiny shoulders. It must be that he is nervous, giving his oldest, most precious daughter's hand to another.
It has to be.
His back hunches with a cough, his hand curling into his cloak to keep shaking hands at bay.
"My girl, you will be the most beautiful star in the sky."
Iphigenia's gaze shifts over to her mother as her father swallows thickly yet again, eyes tightly shut against the force of his emotion.
It's curious, the way her mother speaks, tongue biting out jagged words that seem to cut the poor servant boy beside her. He must have done something wrong, she thinks. Maybe they had missed a cloth while packing, or one of her mother's glorious jewels.
The rest of the army is across the way, glancing up ever so often to stare with an indescribable gaze. Perhaps it is pity, perhaps satisfaction. A mix of both.
Her mother's gaze shifts. Softens, almost imperceptibly, as she dips her head at a new approaching figure, greeting him with a motherly hand. The man's brows furrow but he returns the respect. He turns slowly when her mother gestures in Iphigenia's direction.
And oh.
There he is. Achilles.
By the gods, he is even more handsome in person. Golden hair and a tall, broad figure, godlike beauty that steals her breath.
He smiles. A giggle slips free before she catches it with her hand.
The subtle looks are continued throughout mealtime. By the time her mother ushers her to bed, she's quite infatuated with her betrothed.
"You are my precious one," comes her mother's voice as she closes the tent behind her. "Did you know this?"
"I am?"
A hum. Nimble hands find her comb, the familiar silhouette sliding behind her to sift through fine strands of hair.
She cannot remember the last time her mother did this. It has always been a rarity, but this is strange. Final, in a way that nothing else can be.
The hands still, then begin to plait.
"My Iphigenia. Your brother belongs to Mycenae, but you were mine first."
It is true. Orestes is heir. The first boy. For a while, she thought he was their mother's favorite.
That does not seem to be the case.
The braid is tied off. The moment is broken.
Her mother presses a soft kiss to her forehead, one that lingers and is reluctantly pulled away.
Her sleep is restless, filled with dreams, curious mind running astray. For moments, she can almost hear raised voices. Arguments, pleading, angered and desperate sounds that make her shiver.
Yet still, in the morning, Iphigenia is a bride.
She is nearly bouncing on her heels as servants dress her, quick movements to dress in the finest clothes imaginable. Gold adorns purple fabric, glittering stones and beads appearing like patchwork across her skin in a myriad of bracelets, anklets, necklaces, and earrings. Her mother twisted her hair up in the morning for it to be frame her polos, the movements jerky and almost detatched.
No one has spoken a word to her all morning.
Not until she hears it. A voice, almost unfamiliar, just outside of her tent, blending with her father's in a cacophony of sound.
Achilles.
"Surely you will not," comes the protest through the thin fabric. "You would use my name to assist you?"
He sounds as strong as his reputation. It would be almost swoonable if it was not making her heart drop from her chest.
He does not want to marry her?
Just as there is a stammered sentence back, she ducks her head into the clearing where they all stand.
Her mother, on her knees, eyes red and mouth twisted into a heartbroken snarl. Her uncle, who's gaze has snapped to her now and holds nothing but burdened guilt and sorrow. Achilles, in all his golden glory, now moving to stand with an arm in front of her, blocking her from her father.
Her father, who has visible tears rolling down his face.
"Tell her," Achilles hisses. "Tell her what you have been plotting."
"Father?"
Iphigenia watches the way his expression crumples at the soft cadence of her voice. The way his shoulders shrink inwards, the way her mother's eyes flash, glare at him with murderous intent.
Nothing comes from his open mouth but a strangled sound before he clears his throat.
"My girl. My girl, I have angered a goddess. The lady Artemis, she demands–" he has to inhale between phrases, "she demands you as payment."
He reaches for her, only for her so-called betrothed to shove him back.
Her mother hurls a serpent tongue of insults at the man responsible, but Iphigenia's ears ringing deafens it all.
The world tilts.
"I have no choice," her father sounds composed, resigned–of course he does, he is a king–but his words are shaped into begging. She does not think she has ever heard him beg, either.
Every sound is muffled, comparable to the times of swimming in the river with her uncles and aunts; to just waking up from a deep, deep slumber.
"It is you or all of Greece. If I do not do this, we will not be able to set sail, Iphigenia."
He is so much closer now, calloused hands grasping at her shoulders, her face.
"The army will be upset," he coaxes. "You know what will happen."
Has he truly convinced himself that all of Greece will tear down his doors if this is not seen through?
Dull eyes flick to the rest of the soldiers. How they stare, blank, nothing more to wait for than orders as it is decided whether the deed will be done.
They do not seem as hostile as her fate.
Her voice is small when she finally answers, "Surely there is another way, father. There must be."
"My girl–"
"No!" There is a pressure behind her eyes as she stumbles back, her voice cracking. "I won't do it! I want to live. Surely you would not take that from me, father?"
He shudders as if struck.
"Why did you lie to me?" She begs for his answer recieves none.
Achilles pulls her backward, the stones and path leading to her fate slipping under her feet. He dips his head low to catch her gaze, and she grasps at his biceps for a purchase, breath hitching.
The soldiers' murmuring voices strengthen, swell with volume as they protest his intervention.
"Nothing will happen to you," his thumb strokes her shoulder. "I swear it."
Time blurs under his hands, the crowd, the stuttering of her breath.
She is not ready.
Old enough to be a bride, yes, old enough to watch over her siblings. Almost old enough to be a mother herself, the same as many women that had come before her in the strength of both Sparta and Mycenae's lines.
Never old enough to die, to be sacrificed for the error belonging to her father.
What does one do in the face of a goddess?
Heroes face them, yet never defeat them without assistance. The gods have sunk ships, buried cities thousands of times over, condemned mortal men to eternal punishments one cannot even dream of.
There is no escape.
Her father is set on the sacrifice.
Orestes. Hermione. Little Telemachus, just a baby. Aunts, uncles, grandparents. Helen, all alone in a far away land with that man as her captor. All of them depend on it, for Greece to thrive and for Troy to fall, which it cannot do without this, without her.
Perhaps she could be a hero, like the stories. Maybe the goddess will place her in constellations, where all can gaze up and see what she has done, or perhaps steal her away to be one of her hunters, safe and sound.
Iphigenia's eyes flick open again, the world sharper, anxiety thrumming through her veins. Alive, alive, alive.
Achilles, directy in the line of sight, reaches for his weapon, determined to protect no matter the cost, but instead of his blade, it is her arm that he grasps.
His head jerks up.
"No," slips from his mouth, set in a tight line.
"It's alright."
She tangles her hand in his. Squeezes once, twice, three times in a row before letting it drop and stepping around the wall of his frame.
Her father welcomes her with trembling arms, none of his strength to be seen.
"My Iphigenia."
There is no apology, but he presses his head to hers, just once.
Tears slip down his cheeks.
To her left, her mother thrashes against guards, screaming, hurling threats upon her tongue to all in sight.
The stage is set, straight ahead. A doomed path.
A man in priests' garments reaches for her.
"Let me walk," she jerks back, the first step daunting. Warm hands, her own, adjust the cloths. She must be presentable. She will be the pride of Mycenae.
She would rather die a hero of Greece than an unwillling sacrifice. At least she will have a choice between the two.
Young knees sink to the Earth.
The King of Mycenae turns his head away, eyes shut tight. His queen wails, sharp enough to pierce the sudden silence.
She never notices the blade. Perhaps she chooses not to, for peace. The stones are smooth. Cold. Unforgiving.
They will be for the rest of her life.
It is morning, and Iphigenia is a bride.
Her father would not let just anyone have her.