Chapter Text
Diomedes had lost track of time since he had lost his dearest people.
He stopped paying attention to himself when Euippe died, who was his anchor and ground to reality. He wasted away into ashes when Sthenelus passed away. He was so lost in his grief, he failed to save his children from death too.
So he stopped existing for a bit, he stayed in the shadows, just watching.
The rise of Christ, the fall of Rome. Rise of Islam, fall of tribes. The Bubonic Plague’s sickly hands ghosting people’s groins and pits, her horse racing all through Asia and Europe. Wars and plague and death.
He didn’t stand with them. He just watched. His grey eyes looking at saints dying and scholars collecting words of a dead man like precious stones to be found. He watched and indulged in technologies that had been created to create luxury for the men. He watched the little things too, cats were now kept as rodent killers, men were ruining their lives with pamphlets, women were slowly fighting for their rights and art was the holder of the eye.
Diomedes watched, silent as a mouse.
↭
He had found sanctuary in the West. Like other civilizations, he watched it grow. It was but a fresh start to a land too young to be here. He was used to pants now, and seeing it on other people. It was uncomfortable to wear. . . tight, rough jeans snug against his thighs and calves, but it was now the norm, so he wore it too.
He had taken the role of a herdsman, or as many people called it: a ‘cowboy’. It was the only thing similar to his life in Italia, tending to cattle, smelling like horseshit and being able to ride them, getting drunk and waking up with a throbbing headache. Lovely shit, he could do it everyday if it didn’t require having to wear slacks that clung to his legs.
As was today.
He had finished milking the last cow, she bumped her head against his chest afterwards. A playful creature, young and so full of life. Her beady eyes looked at him so innocently, as if she didn’t almost topple him over.
“Easy, girl.” He huffed, patting her head as though she were another one of his old hounds back in his palace. He took the bucket of milk and walked towards the big white car, attached to it was the cart that carried the milk to local stores to be given to mortals.
“That’s the last of them,” he stretched, and looked at the shorter man who was lazing about, ling on the cart, likely warm from the heat of the Sun. He looked at him through his hat with his big, hazel eyes, and then at the buckets.
“Last of ‘em? Well, ‘t looks better than what we got last month.” He sat up, putting his hat on his brown head as he mentally counted the buckets of milk, and his eyes lit up like a dog being offered a treat “Oh, it is better than what we got last week! Good job, big guy.”
“You’re mucking the stables,” Diomedes said, resting a hand on his hip, “I mucked ‘em last time. Come on, don’t give me that look, Harv, it’s 50/50 like you said.”
Harvey was frowning, dramatic and exaggerated. He got off of the cart and stretched his limbs. “Fine, fine, whatever you say…” he muttered as he took the manure fork and headed to the big, white-washed house that held the horse stables.
“Ye better go easy on m’ Rascal, ya hear me?” He called out behind him, and Harvey gave him the middle finger as he disappeared into the darkness of the shed. Diomedes did not smile, rather he just walked into town. They were running out of supplies, only surviving on milk or beer.
The towns were dusty and crowded, if it wasn’t for the laughter of women buzzing through, Diomedes would have
The sky, now red from fire and the fall of the Moon, so open and vast. The Sun was laughing at him from above as he killed man after man, horse after horse they fell. Arrows shooting like crows descending from the trees to snatch food.
He could hear the icy voice of his mother, oh, but it wasn’t her. He no longer trusted voices he heard. Alongside her voice, he heard the screams of dying men, his comrades, his enemies. The sword and shield were too heavy for his youthful limbs, but he pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.
And-
“Hey! ‘Medes!”
He freezes as he sees Harvey in the scene with him. Still wearing his stupid hat and pants. He wasn’t here. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here. He shoul-
“Snap out of it!”
The scene changed as he found Harvey holding his shoulders, panicked and wide-eyed. For a moment, Diomedes stared.
It was dark, the only light coming from the Moon, who held the scene so gently. He was sitting on the side of the road, hugging his knees and crying.
“God! I was looking for you everywhere!” Harvey sighed, “You back in reality now, at least?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t. The words wouldn’t come out. So he just nodded, wiping his tears. Harvey helped him up, keeping a hand on his shoulder and leading him towards the bar.
“Let’s get some drinks, yeah?” Harvey tried to smile as he led him to the bar. It was bustling with life, despite it being too late for anyone to be awake.
It was warmer inside, old men were playing cards at one table, on the other table, some men were laughing too loud for Diomedes’ comfort. The area was lit with candles and lanterns, the smell of alcohol and someone’s vomit was overwhelming, as well as the scent of too-sweet incense.
The same scent Euippe used as perfume. The same incense Sthenelus would use to offer to him after Diomedes became immortal. It was, collectively, their favorite smell. They would light it up during festivals and sacrifices.
“Big guy, fallin’ in his head again~” Harvey said in a sing-song voice. Diomedes huffed. “T’wa’nt,” he sighed, his voice seeming alien, even to himself, “Shut up.”
Diomedes sat at one of the booths, it had a small, round table and very uncomfortable chairs. But no drunkard would pay mind to it, of course. Diomedes would know.
“Heyy darlin’! Two beers, the usual!” Harvey spoke in a sultry voice (though to any normal person, it would sound like someone was high) to the bartender. The poor man rolled his eyes and went to fill their glasses. Harvey sat down across from him, casual, without a care in the world. Diomedes had learnt to read people, if he didn’t know before, and Harvey was always readable.
Harvey was the opposite to Odysseus, whose face he was forgetting. Did he have brown hair? Black, like a raven? His eyes were grey, he remembered, they would crinkle when he smiled. How did his smile look? He only remembered how his eyes looked, when he stabbed him in Troy. Smiling, mad, maniacal.
If Odysseus was the moon, then Harvey was the stars. Diomedes considers him smaller, further, because he doesn’t want to grow attached to Harvey. Another piece of himself would be lost, grieving if he lost Harvey. Yet he was as bright as them.
Harvey was very smiley, too smiley for Diomedes’ taste. He had a heavy, earthy voice. Easy to disguise as anyone else. His eyes were big and gold, harsh to look at, but Diomedes wasn’t very pleasant on the eyes either. He treats the world like it’s his own, walking easily even if he were at gunpoint.
“So, you gon’ explain t’ me what happened?” the younger man rested his head on his palm. Diomedes averted his gaze to the wooden floor, they added a new carpet, finally.
“I don’t know either.”
“Yeah you do,” Harvey chuckled humorously. “So c’mon big guy, you gon’ mope around, lookin’ at the floor, or talk?”
On one hand, telling Harvey he was an immortal being who fought a war that was now documented and played as literature would lead into disaster, but seeing Harvey’s face would be funny. But on the other hand…
Perhaps it would help Harvey to understand him better. Maybe.
But he chooses to lie.
“Blacked out, I guess…” Diomedes shrugged, thanking the waiter when he got his beer “I don’t remember much.”
“Ah c’mon!” Harvey scoffed, taking a big gulp of his beer “You don’t just find yerself in an alleyway with bread like that.”
Diomedes raised an eyebrow. “Bread?”
Harvey patted his bag. “Bread,” he echoed “good ol’ loaf, white bread. The good stuff.”
Diomedes nodded, looking away again.
“Listen, partner.” Harvey started, his voice more grave now. More serious. “I don’t want to take you to a looney bin, just stay put for a lil’ while longer, eh?”
Diomedes sighed, taking a sip of beer, it tasted like piss with sugar mixed into it. “I’m not a child, I know.”
“I know you’re not a child.”
“So stop treating me like one.”
“I’m older than you, you’re like a nipper compared to me.”
Diomedes rolled his eyes. He could be any age he wanted to be. He is thousands of years older than Harvey, and everyone in this room combined.
“I’m twenty seven.” He lied through his teeth, yet believable. He looked young anyway. Turns out the false songs of the siren Odysseus was taught him a thing or two when it came to concealing himself.
“Yeh, and I’m thirty-nine, so quit jawin’.” Harvey took another sip of his beer “Finish yer beer so I can go hang with Sal.”
Diomedes let out something between a scoff and a snort. “You’re going back to that ? Thought we’d get food or somethin’. We’re runnin’ out, y’know.”
“Ey shaddup, finish yer beer.”
↭
He was alone in his poor excuse of a house again that night. Perhaps he should have stayed in the bar and gotten black-out drunk, he’d have company at least.
His room was lit by a single candle. It was plain and bland, save for the blue painting of a dog, since he never had a thing for aesthetics or to pretty things up. Usually it was Euippe who would decorate everything. She would weave tapestries with bright, lively colors that would catch everyone’s eye, she would press flowers onto parchments whenever she would send letters to other kingdoms, she would help him look good in social situations.
“This color matches your skin,” She said as she draped a wine dark robe on shoulders, he later learnt that this color was blue, and he cherished that color “See? Won’t it look good with your jewelry too?”
“... eh..” he had muttered, pursing his lips into a thin line as she stepped back to observe him. He felt vulnerable in that moment, like he was a painting and she was the artist. She was quiet for a moment, her eyes flickered with that familiar awe that she always looked at him with. It wasn’t the way a wife looked at her husband, no, Euippe never looked at him that way. She always looked at him like he was art, like a child would look at the statue of a god.
“You look gentler,” she whispered, “kinder.”
Now he sat at the edge of his bed, hands on either of his arms. He still felt vulnerable, like a child. He didn’t even have the energy to cry, he ran out of tears to mourn his loved ones. He curled onto his bed, trying to feel the ghost of her hands, or Sthenelus’ hands. Fuck, he’d even rather feel Odysseus’ cold hands on him again.
Just anything.
Fuck.
He didn’t realize he fell asleep, but he woke up at noon. His eyelids felt thin and hot, his limbs felt heavy.
He got out of bed and got ready, another day at the barn, and another day to take care of Mrs. Carleton . Another day of making it through the motions, even though he can control the time if he so wished. Another day of having to wear pants. Another day of drinking sweet-piss beer.
He made his way downstairs. His routine was simple: tend to Electa till 3 in the afternoon, tend to the horses and cattle with Harvey till 8 in the evening, rot or find something to do until he passes out at 12 at night. Lovely.
He made his way straight to the marketplace, careful not to wake the young girl up. It was still so early, so no one was there except for a few old people and young boys. He bought a loaf of bread, fresh, soft and moist, then he went to get the milk. He opened the springhouse and collected the milk in a bottle, and went back to town to his home.
“I’m back.” he announced his grand entrance, Electa was sorting through pages, student work, he supposed. The poor girl was married early, and still in school, and her husband died not too long ago from liver failure. Diomedes was glad, he was an asshole to her.
She looked up from her work and smiled. “Oh, mornin’ Diomedes…” She muttered, thanking him for the food.
“Mornin’.” He echoes the last bit, his voice gruff as he goes to book breakfast. He doesn’t need to eat, he just chooses to because he likes the sensation of something on his tongue, preferably something like beef or chicken, but omelet would do.
He cracked two eggs into a bowl, pursing his lips at the feeling of the goo on his fingers. He took a spoon and began mixing the two as fast as he could, then adding the milk and mixing it again.
“Ah, Diomedes, sir…” she muttered, so quiet he almost misses it. He looked at her as he placed the oil-slick pan onto the stove “If it isn’t a bother… could you please get Paradise Lost from the local library?”
He raised an eyebrow as he poured the egg-milk mixture into the pan “by Milton?” at her affirmation, he shook his head “No, you have that test. Of the uh.. Biology, was it?”
She nodded again, her face reddening. “It’s for after the exam, sir… I have wanted to read it for a while.”
He frowned, flipping the omelet that was now half-done with the spatula.
“If I get that ‘Palamedes’ Loan’ book—”
“Paradise Lost…”
“Same thing,” he rolled his eyes, placing the omelet onto a plate and cutting it in half with the spatula and giving it to her “You are going to take that test by the neck, and bed that shit into ashes. Got it?”
She nodded, averting her gaze as she placed her half of the omelet on another plate with her fork and eating it. Careful, always slow. To buy time? To savor the taste?
“You’re a top dog in school anyway, so keep that up.” he said before eating the omelet on the plate that held her own omelet for a few seconds.
↭
After milking the cows once more and brushing his horse’s fur for an hour, he decided to go on his word and went to the local library on horseback.
“Been a while since I took you out of town, huh Rascal?” he petted her mane, and Rascal grunted in response “Aye, lad. We’re jus’ goin’ to the book store in the next city. Got it?”
Pain shot in his hand as Rascal bit him, he chuckled and swatted her away. You can feel pain as a god, it seems, but he’s used to it. “C’mon girl.”
The next town was filled to the brim with people, great hustle bustle and noise. Diomedes tightened his grip on Rascal’s reins as he walked in.
Blood on his hands as he sliced a man’s head off, the fallen’s eyes still looking about and—
No. Not right now. Not yet.
He got off of his horse and led her to the local book shop, tying her to one of the fences. It had a comfortable, modern exterior, brick and glass. Newspapers carelessly placed on a stand next to the entrance of the store, the walls painted a nice green. The inside was lit nicely with lanterns and he could smell tea inside. There was a redhead at the reception-
The smell of blood and dirt clung to him as they all say at the campfire. He sat alone, he always did. He didn't like talking much after battles, his throat hoarse and scratchy from screaming. Menelaus, large and silent like a panther, sat on the log next to him. He gave him a cup of wine. “You—”
“You quite alright there?” the man asked, looking at him with earthy eyes. Not blue, thank the Gods.
“Aye,” he nodded, talking towards him “do you have the.. Er.. Paradise uh…”
“This Side of Paradise?”
He shook his head, “Uh.. Paradise something. Popular in schools and um… yes.”
The man raised an eyebrow, and chuckled. “There’s a librarian there, in the thiiird hall way over there. Ask her.” He leaned forward in his chair and pointed at a hall section of the library, a hall with walls of books and wood.
“Ah, yes. Um..” he stammered. Fuck him, how hard was it to say thank you?! “... chárin oída soi.” he left before he could see the librarian’s face.
He passed the many rows of books, bound in leather or paperback. There was the familiar smell of dust that he was familiar with, comforting and disgusting, along with the silent chatter of what he assumed to be scholars or students, and the occasional fly or mosquito looking for food and shelter in the heat of summer. He should eat soon, a sandwich would do, maybe with beef and cheese. He should eat something instead of just drinking himself sick today. But he can do that later, he has to drive the new batch of milk to the penthouse. Maybe then, or he can go to the local restaurant and—
A voice. He hasn’t heard in years.
His mother’s, soft and comforting, but it felt like a slap in the face, a punch in the gut.
“We meet again, Tydides.”
He turned around, slowly, hesitant.
There she was in all her glory. A blue collared shirt, a long floral maxi skirt that looked like an old painting made by a mentally ill man. Her dark hair was in a tight bun, some of the strands falling down her face, her steel grey eyes looked through him, her slim face was all he could see now.
He paled, taking a step back.
He felt his breath shortening, like his own lungs wanted to break out through his mouth and splatter to the floor. The world narrowed to her cold eyes and the voice of his mother, the one she imitates.
“You reveal yourself now?” He asked her once, rock bottom and tired. Bleeding out and watching Sthenelus’ near-dead body resting in bed—
“Falling in your head, as usual.” she scolded him, her words made him want to split “And running away, too? You always ran from your problems.”
“What..” he exhaled “..you- you reveal yourself- of all times-”
“Yes,” she walked towards him, her eyes like icicles. He was too scared to look away, he hated looking her in the eye.
He usually liked it when the world buzzed out, but now he hated it.
He hated it.
He hated her.
He hated—
“I assume you’re looking for this?”
She handed him a red hardcover book, thick and slightly yellowed.
“PARADISE LOST”
John Milton
She turned and left, her shoes leaving a light tap each step.
He stared at the book, and his hands trembled. The world spinned around him, the books around him but a blur. He choked out a sob and sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in the library, still holding the bright red book.
Perhaps he should have never come.
“I thought you was dead meat for a second there pal! You quite alright?”
What?
Sthenelus…?