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In the dining room of a quiet palace, the room wrapped in Nyx’s shroud with the only source of light being a dying fireplace, there was a figure of a man sitting across from Diomedes. His hair stuck to his forehead in thick, wet clumps. He would not meet his gaze. If Diomedes was not imagining it, the man at the table was shivering slightly.
Ostensibly, he was Aeneas. He did not look like Aeneas, save for his face.
Aeneas was a demigod, the only one who could claim Aphrodite as his mother. He was an exception among demigods, even, at least from what Diomedes could tell–he shone, but not like a star, distant and untouchable. To look upon him was like looking at a hearth in winter–he was beautiful, warm, a guiding light, almost out of place in the center of battle. He could have the same draw as his mother while being as ruthless as her. Maybe that was why Diomedes always would seek him out in the fight, captured by the glow his mother blessed him with. Maybe he hoped to know what it was like to be a moth consumed by a sparkling flame.
The years did not wear Aeneas’ luster away, or at least Diomedes did not think so when he found him again, seven years later, this time while at peace. He came to him dressed in clothes that were fine, but not gaudy, with his thick curls done up in a braid and gold earrings that popped against his warm brown skin. He looked as though he was in the state he was always meant to be in, poised and honorable and kingly. Diomedes could see his face more clearly when he took the olive branch from his hand, no longer obscured by a helmet, how his dark eyes danced from blue to green to hazel to honey and back to brown again, depending on how the light hit them.
Establishing their allyship was not an easy conversation, Diomedes had not expected it to be, but all things considered it went smoother than expected. The more time he spent with Aeneas, the more he picked up on a somber note in the rhythm of his movements and the song of his speech. It seemed off to Diomedes, this sort of resignation in Aphrodite’s son, but he figured he had no way of knowing how long that aspect had been there, or if it had always been present (given what Diomedes had put him through, it was not like he had no right to it).
However, the man across from him at his table was completely, horribly extinguished. There was no warmth or passion left in his eyes, they were bloodshot and dim. He was like a corpse dragged out of the water and forced to play guest, as if the blanket wrapped around him was to trap the stench and not warm him.
“How’s your drink?” Diomedes ventured, watching Aeneas stare blankly into the cup of hot water he provided him with.
“It’s water,” Aeneas croaked, and Diomedes was sure that no, it was not just him, there was something fundamentally wrong with Aeneas sounding that flat.
“Would you like wine? I could have someone bring you some, I have many kinds. Or something stronger?”
“For what?”
Diomedes pressed his lips together. “Thought you might want it.”
Aeneas said nothing. He glared at Diomedes underneath his lashes, his form fuzzy in the low lighting. From the right point of view, it looked he was peeling, dissolving into the darkness. The whole situation felt like something out of a dream. Diomedes was still not even entirely sure it was not.
He woke up earlier with war drums pounding in the back of his mind, bidding him to move. He never knew where he must go when this happened, or why, but this was far from the first time he awoke with the smouldering embers of a fractured remembered dream clearing from his eyes and the overwhelming charge to go.
His house did not feel real when he left it, the night did not feel real when he walked into it, he did not feel real when he arrived, inexplicably, near the riverbank. He never went that far on his night walks. There is another point for it being a dream.
He never had dreams so vivid as that night, he had heard anything so clearly as he did the weighty splash that broke the night’s quiet. But then again, as he often did in dreams, his body seemed to move on his own as he dove into the water, with the urgency of a medic tending to a man as he bleeds out. What else was there to think?
(There was something else he could think, but he forewent the presumption. He would figure out which option it was soon enough.)
As his body plunged into the water, the unexpected cold snapping him fully awake, he laid eyes on a bloom of cherry brown hair. The sight really did appear like something out of a dream, but not the kind that he usually has; probably the kind of dream the muses bless artists and poets with. Yet again, Aeneas was a contradiction–grace surrounded by frigid, wild death.
He did not stop to admire it. He knew what he was here to do. He grabbed onto the man, peaceful and limp as though he was in sleep, and pulled him up.
He broke the surface of the water, feeling as out of sorts as the man held close to his chest. He swam to the bank best he could while holding onto a grown man, keeping his knuckles twisted in the collar of his chiton—a very nice chiton, he noticed, the kind of thing you could get married in—to make sure he did not lose purchase. He hoisted himself and Aeneas out of the water and caught his breath as Aeneas coughed up water. Diomedes braced Aeneas against himself and hit him hard on the back to get the water out.
Aeneas looked at him up and down, processing where he was. All he coughed out was, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Diomedes spilled out, voice coming out uncharacteristically weak in a way he hated. He panted, steadied himself, and tried, “Are you hurt?”
Something like grief fell over Aeneas’ eyes, and he slumped and into Diomedes’ arms, like a woman falls to the ground upon hearing her husband has been killed in battle. He let out a sob, short and curt, and went quiet. Diomedes asked if he was hurt a few more times, before giving up, picking him up in his arms and carrying him back to his palace. Aeneas, thankfully, did not resist or go limp.
As he sat across from Aeneas, Diomedes could not stop mulling over how he did not struggle. How there was no fear on his face. The bubbles curling around his mouth and nose. How he accepted the embrace of the surrounding water.
Suicide was, typically speaking, a coward’s way out, at least in Diomedes’ opinion. It was what a man unwilling or unable to face an enemy or push through his own circumstances chose.
Still, for all the times they danced together with their blades, for all the times Aeneas narrowly dodged death against all odds, Diomedes never thought him a coward.
“You seem sober,” he offered. He could have stumbled into the river while drunk, and sobered up as I took him here. He hoped that was it.
“I would hope so.”
“Are you sober?”
“Do you think I am a drunkard?” Aeneas huffed and let his shoulders drop. It loosened the tension, if just by an inch. Annoyance was better than no emotion at all. “Now that I consider it, maybe I should have become one. That might have made my life sweeter, drowning it in a flood of wine.”
“And you don’t sleepwalk?”
“Don’t dance around what you mean, Tydides. I’m not in the mood for games.”
“I don’t know what the right way to ask is.” Was there even a right way to ask someone who was a tentative ally at best, ‘did you just try to kill yourself outside my house’?
“Then don’t.” Aeneas straightened and stared him down, as an archer stares down his mark. “Someone must have sent you.” He said it like an accusation.
“No one sent me. I had no idea you would be there.”
“Sure you didn’t. By providence, you just happened to be by the river, after I double-checked no one saw where I went.”
“I get restless at night sometimes. I take walks to clear my head.”
“Do you usually go all the way to the riverbank? It is some ways away from your home. How can you be certain no one was watching you? Imploring you? Or,” Aeneas leaned in, like he was challenging him, “Who is to say I am even in the presence of the Argive commander at all? I know of a certain gray-eyed goddess who likes to disguise herself as men to meddle with mortals.”
“That’s a bold claim. And a bold mouth, if you were right.”
“Tell me I’m wrong, then. Tell me the gods have left me to my devices.”
Diomedes wished he could do that, say what he thought would make Aeneas feel better. Still, there were things he could not help but remember. Sweet smells at the riverbank, of unseasonal myrtle. The fluttering of bird wings. His sudden fit of panic, so intense though it stirred from nowhere, like he had just gotten word his only son was dying.
It would only make sense. Aeneas was a pious man, and certainly not a stupid one. He would know that Diomedes, of all people, would know the gods’ game as well as he did. Diomedes was not even sure he knows what it would feel like to not be under heaven’s eye.
“If you think I am Pallas Athena, I am not.” He could, at the very least, deny that. “These are just my normal gray eyes. I can cut my arm or something to prove my blood runs red, if you would like.”
Aeneas pinched his nose. “I don’t want you to cut your arm.”
“If I was moved by divine providence,” Diomedes spoke tentatively, as a favored serving boy would ask his king for a favor, “and that is an if, would that be a bad thing? It could be a sign.”
“A sign?” Aeneas went wide-eyed, and pushed himself up from the table, making contact with the wood with a smack. “A sign. What a surprise! The great Diomedes, wise Athena’s favorite, sacker of cities, can add ‘trusted seer’ to his list of acolytes!” He waved his hands around in large, theatrical gestures as he shouted, pitching up an octave. He seemed more like himself, having remembered his rage and his passion–or, rather, closer to what Diomedes was used to.
“I have never been able to interpret the will of the gods, nor would I claim to.”
“No, no, tell me Tydides,” Aeneas marched to where Diomedes was sitting, becoming more visible as he moved closer to the light emanating from the fireplace–his eyes were a burning amber then, “tell me what you think it all means, so we may leave at once! What great city must I sail to next? Where shall I go next? You have my ear!”
“Aeneas, I’m not trying to upset you.” Diomedes traced a scar on his bicep, not breaking eye contact. “If you must leave on another endeavor, I would be willing to provide you with whatever aid you need.”
“What are you even saying? Is that what you think the problem is? That I’m worried about resources?”
“I wanted to see if I could make your yoke lighter.”
“You offer me your generosity now, of all times? Don’t waste it on me, you poor wretch. You might as well try to do the farmers a favor by plowing the beach.”
“I’m not exactly a gentle man, or a sensitive one, I’ll admit. I offer what I can. I understand that my services may not be,” Diomedes swallowed, and could not help but break his gaze, “enough.”
Aeneas took in a few sharp breaths through his nose, nostrils flaring like a bull. He turned on his heel and paced around the table, shoulders hunched and fists balled. He walked to and fro, in some manic fervor, before faced Diomedes again, looking like he hoped he would not be there when he looked back. He hissed through his half-parted teeth, as though pulling an arrow out of his skin.
“Why are you even here?” he spat.
Diomedes around the room. “This is my house?”
“No, dumbass, obviously I didn’t mean that! Why are you with me? Why did you drag me out of the water and bring me here? Why are you so determined to get in my good graces anyway?”
“For one, I took you out of the water because I didn’t want you to drown.”
“Oh! I see, then! Tydides my destroyer is now Tydides my savior, isn’t he? Hasn’t my luck taken a sudden turn!” Aeneas hunched over Diomedes, a hair away from his nose, baring his teeth in the sort of smile that would have been more suitable on a wild dog, one she may flash to a wounded hunter that had killed her mate.
“We are no longer at war, I don’t want to see you die.” Diomedes stood up to his full height, forcing the shorter man to look up at him. He bowed his own head slightly and tucked his hands behind his back, as not to threaten him. “I thought you were open to an alliance. If I was wrong, you must forgive me.”
Aeneas stretched up to meet Diomedes better, holding his arms out. “We are no longer at war, are we? How could I have forgotten! Troy is burned, and gone forever. Every action ever taken there was just a backdrop to,” his voice broke, he stalled and let his arms drop, a lid briefly being put on his fury, “this. This great, glorious, fucking thing I've become. Isn't it a marvel, Tydides? To be this loved?” He said 'love' like it was profanity.
“I never said it didn’t matter.” He dropped his posture lower, as Odysseus did when appealing to someone. “I know I have brought you pain, I hope you know I realize that. I don’t think what you’ve done and what you’ve endured will be forgotten. It shouldn’t be. All of this will have mattered, I believe that.” On his honor, he must believe it.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? Everything matters horribly, yet never in any way I can understand.” Aeneas paced a circle around the floor again, then shoved a finger towards Diomedes. “Nobility towards your enemies will earn you no reward, son of Tydeus. Trust me on that.”
“I don’t seek a reward.” Diomedes tried to take his hand in his, a small show of sincerity, but Aeneas swatted it away. It did not deter Diomedes. “Everything I ask from you–your allyship, your company, and whatever else–is just that, an ask. I come to you as your humble servant, and I expect nothing from you. If you hate me, then, well, I can’t fault you for that.”
“Wouldn’t that just make this all so much easier?” Aeneas’ voice dropped to a grave, controlled drone, still bearing that man-slaying smile. “If I could really, properly despise you? If my heart could only drive me to decorate my hands with your blood? Then I would either get my revenge, or you would take me down with you. Either way, I would get my satisfaction.”
Aeneas tried to keep his snarl, but his face faltered, before collapsing all together. “I really tried to hate you. I kept at it for years, even when my anger failed to take. I wanted to curse you for stealing my life from me. I hoped you would be scared of me when you saw me again.” He squeezed his eyes tight, “I wanted to picture you killing my wife, even when you attested that you didn’t.”
Diomedes remembered their first meeting together, when Aeneas looked him in the eye, described his first wife, Princess Creusa, in detail, sparing as little as he could, told him how he looked away and turned back to be facing her ghost. He asked him if he was the one to kill her. Diomedes did not kill women as a general rule, he did not think he would go out of his way to strike down one fleeing from a burning city, so he told Aeneas as much–he did not kill anyone that night that could have possibly been her.
Still, Diomedes’ memory has always been a finicky, rotten thing. It was dark that night. He could have killed her on accident. Or on purpose, and forgot about it. Accidentally-on-purpose. Forgotten on purpose. He started turning over the question at night, over and over, going back over everything he did when they took the city. She could have gotten swept up in the tide of bodies and fire. It was not like he was above robbing this man of what he cared for, this man he now begged for understanding and companionship from.
“Do you think I’m a liar?” He could feel sweat on the back of his neck.
“Your recollection makes sense. You didn’t have a liar’s eyes. I don’t even think it would matter if you did, it’s not as if you would remember where her body was.”
Diomedes let out a breath. He was not quite sure how to offer condolences–he had already tried before, but he was not a great comfort at the best of times, much less for this type of heartbreak, much less for a woman who did not know him and would likely hate him if she did. Instead, he gave a small nod and went back to fussing over his scar tissue, this time the small ones that peppered his hands.
Aeneas sighed and sat down against the wall near the fireplace. The light rose and fell across his form as the fire flickered, painting his curls a golden orange.
“I’m not even sure I can hate you, at this point.” When Diomedes did not respond, watching in unsure silence, Aeneas continued, “To hate you need to have something inside you to fuel it,” he fiddled with the fringe on his chiton, “something to lose, something to fear, a debt to collect on, a score to settle. If you don’t have that kindling, it will just smoulder and die out. I’ve already burned most of it in Ilium and the rest while taking Latium, I suppose.”
After taking a few steps forward, Diomedes squatted down in front of where Aeneas was sitting, meeting his eye level. Aeneas looked up, and Diomedes saw his eyes were glistening and wet, and now flecked with silver.
“I can’t even be angry with you anymore, isn’t that just sick? When I look at you, all I can muster up is…I’m not sure what it is. Pity, or,” he was about to say something else, but apparently decided against it, “...something of that kind.”
“I’m glad you don’t want to kill me, I think. I didn’t make the right arrangements to die today.” Diomedes replied, in lieu of the comfort he had no right or ability to give. He meant it as a half-joke, but he surprised himself as he said it. It was a strange feeling, to realize he was, at the moment, glad he was still there, not joined to his martyred comrades in death. “Although, if it means anything, if anyone were to kill me, I would want it to be you. You are a skilled and honorable warrior. If you cut me down in Ilium, I would have been honored to die by your hand.”
Aeneas gawked at Diomedes like he just cut off his own head, and a new one sprouted from the hemorrhaging stump. “You know that is an insane thing to say to someone, right? What am I even supposed to say to that? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I only meant that,” Diomedes backtracked, “if, hypothetically, the gods lined up every man I had ever fought or ever would fight and asked me to pick who my killer would be, I would pick you.”
This, seemingly, did nothing to make Aeneas less confused. “Why in all of Hades would you ever be in that situation?”
Diomedes shrugged. “The gods have put me in stranger situations.”
Aeneas gaped at him for another moment. Then, he began to laugh. It was the kind of laugh that came from his core, subdued but warm and full. Diomedes realized he has never heard him laugh before, or seen him genuinely smile before, for that matter. He liked the way Aeneas laughed, he thought.
“You are a very odd man,” Aeneas attested, speaking through his laughter, “has anyone ever told you that?”
Diomedes lowered himself onto his knees as he tried to figure out if he had made some kind of misstep, and where. “It is not something I have been told often. Why do you say so?”
“You are just very,” Aeneas searched for the right word, “accepting? Even when presented with the utterly absurd. I don’t understand it. I could have sworn you were a cocky, loud-mouthed shitbird. Did I even fight you?”
“In the past, I guess I have been what could be described as a ‘cocky shitbird.’ I get carried away.” Diomedes felt flushed. He ran his hand through his hair, then down to his neck, and glanced at the ground next to Aeneas. “You are a bit of an ass calling a bull stubborn, aren’t you? You were a worse braggart than I ever was.”
“I was never worse than anyone else.”
“I remember you declaring you would be the one to slay Achilles, man to man, on your own.”
“I got a few marks on him over the years, that’s more than most can say.”
“You boasted you would send the son of Telamon, Ajax, crying home to his mother, and then you got stabbed by him not even a blink later. He told me he missed your dick by an inch.”
“And you’re just going to take his word for it?”
Diomedes smirked. “You’re calling him a liar?”
Aeneas shook his head, playing at being offended. Diomedes took his seat next to him on the floor, and shared in the warmth of the fire. Aeneas did not protest. His hair was starting to dry by then—it looked remarkably good, considering the night he was having. Perhaps it is a perk of having a goddess as a mother, Diomedes thought. All the demigods he had encountered somehow had astonishingly well-kept hair.
He managed to amuse Aeneas, was a victory in a way, but a small one. As the silence started swallowing them and any levity they brought, the water building in Aeneas’ eyes threatened to fall.
He started again with, “From what I’ve heard, Latium is prospering. If you have gotten bad news, I haven’t heard of it. Forgive me for being blunt, but why would,” he spoke like he was walking over broken glass, already regretting what he was saying, “you come to the river?”
“Why not?”
“I could think of a lot of reasons. Drowning is a slow, lonely way to die, for one.”
“My blood comes from it, might as well return myself to it, right?” Aeneas shook his head and smiled again, tight-lipped and mournful. “What else is there for me to do? I’ve made our new Troy, my father is dead, and my son is no longer a boy. My mother’s plans for me have been fulfilled. You would have an easier time finding another use for a shattered vase, or a spear tip rusted beyond recognition. I thought,” and, as water leaks through an old roof after years of ware, the tears in his eyes began to fall, “I thought she would let me be finished. Is that so wrong of me? Am I awful for wanting my life in my own hands?”
“The gods don’t let go of their chosen heroes easily.” Diomedes lowered his volume, as if fearful someone would hear, “I think it wounds their pride.”
Aeneas let out a noise half between a laugh and a cry. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“It’s not your fault, it’s just their nature. And, you are her strong, noble, pious son. I don’t think she would want to discard you.”
“Why would you say that? Don’t try to dress me all up in honey. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Am I wrong? What evil have you committed? Have you done anything that would ruin your favor?”
There is a beat. No confirmation or denial.
Diomedes repeated, “Have you?”
Aeneas sucked in a breath like he was sucking in glass. “I’ve done nothing that would be your concern. I’ve not ‘lost my favor’ apparently, you’ve seen that.”
“I guess not.” He supposed he did not have the right to question Aeneas, not now.
“You know what,” Aeneas sniffed and made an attempt to staunch the flow of tears, “maybe my mother does really love me. She chose to stir you, and she is really out for your blood. Do you have any idea how angry she is with you?”
“That’s fair. I did stab her. Not every day a goddess gets stabbed.” Diomedes leaned back on the wall. “I threw that spear clean through her wrist. I’d say I got her from a good 185 pēchys away. Damn good shot, if I do say so myself.” He moved closer to Aeneas, conspiratorial. “If she keeps accosting you, maybe I can chase her off.”
“You shameless man.” Aeneas put a hand on his face and shoved him away. “Shameless, shameless bastard. I take it back, I despise you now.”
“Ah, well. Fuck me, then.” Diomedes fought a smile, and lost.
“What are you trying to do here? Are you trying to distract me? Make me laugh? What’s your strategy here? I didn’t take you for a comedian, of all things.”
“I am not. I’ve been told my jokes are ‘disturbing’, or ‘oddly graphic,’ or ‘much too specific to be jokes.’”
“I’m not going to argue with that. Pitiless Diomedes, threatening my poor mother. Your cruelty knows no bounds, truly.” The mischevious glint in Aeneas’ eye said otherwise.
“I may be cruel, but you are the one who wanted to spend his last day on earth with me. That may say something about you.”
“Oh.” Aeneas sobered. “I just wanted to do it away from my home. I didn’t want my son to be the one to find the body. I’ve tortured him enough already. He’s barely in his fifteenth year, and he’s seen more than some men ever will.”
“Ah.” Diomedes clenched his jaw. He just could not help but put his foot in his mouth, could he? “That is wise. In a way.”
“Might be the wisest thing I’ve ever done.”
“He would still miss you. You are his only father.”
“My son is engaged now. The wedding will not be for some time, but he is happy with the match. I thought maybe he would be well taken care of. His father-in-law could take my place, teach him all the things I couldn’t.”
“I think your son would like you to attend his wedding, at least.”
“You’re probably right.” A groan escaped Aeneas. He twisted a hand in his hair, slightly ruining the improbably perfect way it had dried. “Gods, I’m a horrible father. I can’t even claim that, I might as well be several sacks of straw in the shape of a father.”
“You are certainly not the worst.”
“‘Not the worst.’ Yes, I suppose I didn’t murder or sodomize or banish my own son. Quick, fetch some laurels to crown me with.”
“You were around for him. That’s something, at least. Especially considering everything you’ve survived.”
“I suppose I don’t exactly come by it.” Despite being able to stop himself from crying, Aeneas’ voice still splintered. He slid down against the wall and let his head drop back.
“I may be as shameless as you say, because I have a request to make of you.”
Aeneas opened one eye. “Testing our luck, aren’t we?”
“You know my ways well. I’m not one to back down from risk.” Diomedes turns to the side and meets Aeneas’ gaze. “I would like you to live. I don’t have a good argument to give you, so don’t expect it. I can’t even explain to you why, really. I would like you to live on the strength of me having asked you. I guess I’d like to find out who you are when someone isn’t trying to kill you. Or, maybe I’d like to think I’m capable of saving someone for once.”
“That’s pretty selfish, isn’t it?”
“It might be.” Somehow, despite being in his own home, trying to be the one to console and ground another, Diomedes felt very raw and exposed, like a pitted peach. He thought he might start weeping himself, if that was the kind of thing Diomedes was one to do. “I wish I had something sweeter to tell you. I’m sorry. You deserve to be held by someone kinder.”
The edge of Aeneas’ lip twitched up, just a tad. He looked Diomedes up and down, considering, with an expression that he could not exactly read. It was not the kind of look Diomedes was used to having on him.
“I think I could manage it, living a while longer.” Aeneas sighed, resigned. He clasped his hand in Diomedes’ and shook it. “I will try to fulfill your request.”
“Thank you.” Diomedes did not realize how much tension was in his shoulders until he relaxed. In a horrible display of audacity, he took his free hand and put it over Aeneas’. “I will be in your debt for that.”
Aeneas broke the hold and shoved him again. “Quiet, you. It’s not for your sake. I will live out of spite. I’ve decided I can’t let you outlive me.”
“I don’t need to be the reason. Just as long as you fulfill it.”
“Sure you don’t. I’m astounded by your humility.” Aeneas breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth. “I don’t want to go back to the guest room yet. It doesn’t feel right.”
“You may do as you wish. For the time being, my house is yours.” Diomedes let his head fall against the wall, his tangled waves pushed up against the surface. “The offer for the wine is still standing.”
Aeneas pressed his knuckles to his lip. His eyes were dark as night again–deep, shining, endless and beautiful. “I’ll only have a cup.”