epidemiology | ( closed ) hold your instincts hostage

Entry tags:

( closed ) hold your instincts hostage

CHARACTERS: Achilles and Gilgamesh
DATE: 3/28
WARNINGS: If you think there won't be blatant homoerotic overtones then I don't know what to tell you.
SUMMARY: Two ancient heroes walk into a public bath... What would ensue but philosophical discussion?

[When in the afternoon, as the sun's rays slant across the earth, Achilles finds his way into the bath house, his eyes pass over the scattering of Nalawi men to land upon the familiar visage of Gilgamesh: even absent the glinting armor and jewelry for which Peleus' son first admired the great king, his fair hair and comely features distinguish him with ease. Achilles passes through the water, which is shallow according to the purposes of men but tailored to the diminutive deer folk, that he may gain better proximity.]

Gilgamesh, shepherd of the people, so cross our paths again. Mind you if I partake in your company while we bathe our bodies?

[Giving proper greeting thus, he takes delight in looking upon godlike Gilgamesh: his frame is strung firm with muscles that attest to his prowess with bow and arrow and spear, and there remains in him the glow of youth. Despite the long lingering grief inside Achilles' heart that he finds himself stranded in such a predicament as this, with little more rights than a migrant, the warrior before him grants some respite. The king of Uruk is as a rope that ties him to a culture that is both familiar and comfortable in its absolutes.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Gilgamesh sits in the corner of the bath, yet seems to dominate it all with his presence. All the more so with a coy smile when Achilles approaches, as there's nothing upon his body save a stretch of silk across his legs. His form leaves little to the imagination; truly, he wouldn't be out of place among any of the other men from Achilles' time, so he's appreciative of being appreciated in turn. Approves of it, even.

He greets Achilles with a tip of his head, and gestures for him to come forward.]

By all means. There's plenty of room for two.

[Shamelessly, those pretty eyes roam across Achilles' form, and he makes no show of hiding his interest. Doesn't feel the need, never has with what he likes.]

Wash yourself and be well. We are at peace together, you and I.

[And he returns the nod.]

Indeed so.

[Upon the ledge that surrounds the bath he sets the small wooden tub given to him by one of the Nalawi who presides over the bath house: provided therein are various soaps and oils and a cloth with which to wash himself. But before that, a vigorous soak in the warm waters is in order. Thus, at Gilgamesh's beckoning, Achilles settles into the bath beside him. The water covers his lap, and over his shoulders spill his golden curls: that is all the cover his body has. He holds no shame, for it is only right to celebrate the beauty of the human form.

The king's wandering eyes do not escape his notice. Such a look goes beyond what one warrior gives another in admiration of his strength - but nor is it so foreign to Achilles. He has no need for coyness. The son of Peleus graces him with a smile lit upon features so often weathered by hardness. On his mind, however, their predicament lies heavy.]

It is now my wish, glorious Gilgamesh, to hear your thoughts. Tell me, therefore - how fares an eminent king such as yourself in these maddening campaigns, which offer little profit to make worthwhile your efforts?

[This was, truly, the male body in nearly pristine quality. In his experience, humans of the modern era were ever so scrawny, but such was not the case with Achilles, all taut flesh and toned muscle. It's only a kingly sense of restraint that prevents him from grabbing at and shoving down and having his way before he manages to settle. All good things in time.]

I've much to speak of on the matter. However...

[Cordially, Gilgamesh dips his head to Achilles, an obliging sort of gesture.]

I would hear of your toils and travails first. They may yet be fresher on your mind than mine, so shocking the transition must have been.

Very well - my curiosity will bide its time.

[In this land flung so far from home they haven't other duties to which to attend: the afternoon can pass in rumination.]

I will tell you what I think. Nine years my spear raged on behalf of the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus - nine years of battle unceasing, of days and nights both soaked in blood and the groans of men. Many fine prizes I won by my spear: talents of gold, cauldrons and bronze tripods, racing horses and herds of cattle, and fine-girdled women of weaving talent. All these have been left by the hollow ships, to be divided among the well-greaved Achaeans. As meat that is portioned out for roasting upon spits, that all who gather may receive equal share, so too will be the fate of my many treasures.

The prizes I pried from the bloody jaws of war, I would bring to wide-ruling Agamemnon to divide thus, and always he would keep the best for himself and distribute the rest to other worthy warriors. It is honorable for a man to be generous with what he has and to seek not only reward for himself, but seek also to strengthen the bonds between himself and his allies. Therefore I had no complaint, though it was my spear that took on the brunt of the work.

Not until the son of Atreus disgraced me so thoroughly did I raise complaint: for just as it is honorable for a king to distribute the treasures he is brought, it is cowardly and vile for him to revoke the prizes he has awarded thus. So it was with Agamemnon and I. Because he was forced by Phoebus Apollo to yield his own prize, he took mine as recompense - the girl he took from my bed, though I won her by my spear, I loved as any man loves his wife. So great was my rage for this slight against my honor, I withdrew my men from the fighting and in my hut beside the beaked ships, I set down my spear.

So too shall it be with the sons of Alastair. Thus far I've toiled that the Nalawi race can be at peace, for they are our hosts - and just as Zeus demands for hosts to welcome guests with proper hospitality, guests too must obey the code of treating well their hosts. The sons of Alastair, however-- These madmen I abominate, I care not a splinter for them. They cannot give prizes of great enough worth to spur me to take up arms on their behalf. I know the value of my life - it is not meet that I live like a migrant, stripped of my rights as well as my treasures.

[So he speaks, and his words become as the forked lightning thrown by Zeus who delights in thunder, his brow as the clouds that bow low and swollen when a storm breaks out. The son of Peleus takes up the washcloth he was given, and he sets to drawing warm water over his chest: work with which to occupy his hands while his heart is agitated.]

[Gilgamesh must admit: Achilles has a real knack for telling a story.

As before, when they first met, he sits transfixed for the duration of his tale. It is as if he could shut his eyes and find himself in that ancient land, so vivid are his details, so earnest his recollection. This was what he always dreamed of, for his garden: men of valor, of strength and dignity, who would face any foe and not simply revel in their own debauchery, as the men of the modern era did. The men he'd someday destroy, or else try.

By the end of it, he has curled close to the other man. And when he moves to wash himself, Gilgamesh assists without ever being asked, taking up a second cloth and working it along his arms. Though it could not quite be called a display of submission, it is undoubtedly a display of respect, that Gilgamesh should take up the role of a dutiful wife and attend another man in this way.]

You have been slighted. I see this.

[How could he not? His story is true, so too is his anger. He almost feels sorry for him, were he capable of such a thing.]

They took me from my throne, cast me away from my rightful place... some days I wonder if I have simply fallen under their spell, to accept it.

[Nor does Achilles speak to the gesture: as Gilgamesh draws the cloth over first one arm and then the other, softening the skin with nourishing water and dissolving the day's grime, he merely bows his head to acknowledge the act which is ripe with intention he understands well.]

The gods will often rob the wits of great men such as yourself. As a shroud of fog that overcomes the shore, and makes men blind to its jagged shape, so too do the gods place blindness in our hearts. That a king should be seized from his dear native land, the scepter slipped cunningly from his hand, as if he is a child or a woman to be made a slave-- That such a fate should befall any warrior clothed in honor, to be taken without a chance to raise shield nor spear - it fills my heart with a black fury, as it should yours. The honeyed lies fed to us by those of Alastair's stock, that we are here by unhappy mistake, cannot sooth my chapped breast.

It is true, though, that even the gods cannot stay angry forever. Atreus' son and I are now reconciled: he admitted to his blindness and it was then right for me to accept the bounty of gifts he offered as recompense for my besmirched honor. More than that, however, I was stirred to action by an even greater rage that consumed me. This, my rage for Hector, son of Priam, was so great that all the treasures in Agamemnon's possession were as nothing to me: for I desired only the glut of murderous Hector's blood, enough to sate Ares, the fighter with the bulls-hide shield. Such was the payment I desired for the death he brought upon Patroclus, pleasure of my heart, for which loss of valor and youth I despaired.

The difference, gold-clad Gilgamesh, is that there are none here who are so dear to me. Do not misunderstand - you are an ally more than worthy enough, yet we've not known each other long. Thus, so long as my attachments to this forsaken crew are few, and the dread sons of Alastair will not grant me the address that is rightly deserved by a man of my honor, my heart will remain unmoved.

[Gingerly, he turns the great expanse of the man's back to wash along there, too. Across shoulders, up and down sharp ridges and outlines of powerful muscle. Though they may be both in questionable states of dress, this is more an act of bonding than of suggestiveness; in his culture, bathing was very intimate, simply because water so very hard to come by. It was wasted for nothing and no one, not even the King. So too Gilgamesh does not waste it here, soothing Achilles even if words cannot.]

I cannot say that I blame you for your spite.

[It reminds him of his conversation with Daenerys, of a warrior similarly unmoved. Nothing he could say or do would change their minds, at least not right away, and maybe it wasn't his place to do so. Not everyone could find their own Pearl, as he had. Not everyone was a slave, as he had been, so freed—if unintentionally—by the designs of ALASTAIR.]

However, I would tell you this... if your heart thirsts for adventure, you may yet find it here. At the venue we visited last, we faced mighty demons that could make even your great heart sing. We acted as heroes, and were rewarded as such.

[Sort of. They also ruined the town, which he skips over.]

My advice to you is thus: hold onto your anger, but make it useful. Employ it towards our enemies, and keep watchful eyes on ALASTAIR all the while.

[Achilles gathers his hair over his shoulder, that Gilgamesh can better access the expanse of his back. The moment they share cannot be reduced to the primal charge of skin against skin, nor would it be accurate to equate such intimacy to the way man and wife relate to one another: his is a culture where the bonds forged between brothers in arms are strongest and most sacred, on par with those forged in blood between father and son. Women are as accessories in a society where men occupy the center of thought.]

I've no enemies in this land, nor any other land to which we may find ourselves sent. Whomever it is that the sons of Alastair will oppose, I have no quarrel with them: how can I, when they've done me no wrong? When I know not who they even are?

Furthermore, I've won glory enough in Troy. I am told that tales of my deeds will travel not only throughout the many scattered lands of the Danaans, but through the many distant eras of men as well: surely, such is the nearest to immortality a man can hope to attain.

[For all that he seems a man of swift temper, a man composed of reaction as much as he is muscle and bone, the son of Peleus sits quiet for a moment as he imbibes the words of Gilgamesh. The king of Uruk sees the world from much the same level he does: such reassurance grounds him, even as he is asked to amend his position.]

Still, your counsel brings me to consider-- My mother, the silver-footed goddess Thetis, told me as a boy of the two paths by which death would find me. I was to live to an old age and ebb away as the sea does from the shore, in my dear native land - or I was to find glory in Troy, but die while youth still grips my soul and body. I chose the latter, though there were times I nearly reconsidered. However, now I find myself neither in Troy nor in Phthia. Then what is to become of me here? I already accepted, once I set my heart to destroying murderous Hector, that I should never again return home, nor see my dear father nor my son Neoptolemus. For it is so that when I killed Hector, it would soon be my own lot that sinks low in the bronze scales held by the son of Chronus. Shall I expect my fate to find me here? What then of my vow to cherished Patroclus, that my ashes and his should be mixed upon my death?

[Gilgamesh's hands pause. They slip to the sides of Achilles' face, and although these are the same hands that—like his own—could do great harm, they provide comfort here. Faint magic flows from his fingertips, intending to soothe. A healing spell that will find no wounds to seal, but will instead mend an uncertain heart, or at least try.

Meanwhile, he leans on the man's shoulder, leans in close, and speaks as the serpent did to Eve.]

I will tell you of your fate, Achilles. Not in this world, but my own. It is true, you met a swift and certain end, yet you also become a Hero. A Hero of my stature, that sat upon the Throne to someday join me in glorious battle. A Rider of glorious renown, the envy of all Greece.

[It was a rather blase way of explaining the Holy Grail War, but more details would have to trickle in, come with time rather than overwhelm like a tsunami. There was so much he had to tell him and not much of it he would understand, at least not right away. He can only give these hints until he catches on.]

So too you must carry the burden of that legend here. For good or for ill, the choice is yours. Will you idle, or will you bear your spear with pride?

[His teeth click together, just shy of nipping his neck.]

If you find yourself lacking purpose, then make one. Forge it in the glory of every sweep, of every strike, and force their respect on bowed heels.

[Achilles' eyes fall shut as he imbibes Gilgamesh's touch: the magic soothes as did the ambrosia slipped past his lips by Athena when he refused to eat for the grief that consumed him on the eve of battle with Hector, the same ambrosia which filled Patroclus' wounds until the time would come to grant him the full honor of funeral rites. He had been filled, yet not sated; Patroclus' flesh had been preserved, yet his life could not be.

Still, he welcomes the warmth pulsing from the king's fingers, from his words which hover over his skin. Achilles' neck arches in the way that a door opens on its hinges to beckon guests inside. While their speech concerns the politics of men, the shadow conversation held by their bodies speaks to politics of a different sort.

With his eyes open once more, he cranes to better see the man who leans into him as a vine trained over a tree branch.]

Bow-famed Archer too spoke of a throne for heroes, and of how it can be so that his soul has not slipped through death's gates. So upon this throne you too have sat, progenitor of all heroes, awaiting the call of war while never hearing the call of fate.

It is true, no warrior wishes for death when into battle he rides. It was glory I sought, but death I merely accepted as one must accept that with light comes the shadow it casts: thus, I fought despite it. Immortality was not meant for man. It is when man finds himself closest to the glory of the gods, when his fortune rises up untipped by sorrows, that he is most in danger of being struck down by the envious gods, who resent him for escaping the writhing misery that is man's lot.

Tell me, glorious Gilgamesh-- What is it that you've found inside the jaws of bloodshed never-ending?

[Gilgamesh chuckles under his breath to hear Achilles speak of Archer, much like how fellow warriors would rib each other over the dinner table.]

You might consider him a colleague of mine. I rule over him as kin; that is the true meaning behind my title, "King of Heroes". I believe you can trust in what he says, but I would be mindful not to incite him in any way. He can be dangerous.

[To say nothing of himself, who once tried to drown the world in curses. Not even Achilles at his most bloodthirsty would likely ever consider such a thing. Considering his question, though... that takes more time to answer, during which Gilgamesh openly drapes himself over Achilles, wet and slick against his backside.]

Mm. I've found many things, many treasures, so few of which you would believe. I have been cursed by gods, and witnessed my beloved struck down by them, but here—in the jaws of this particular beast—Achilles, I swear to you, you might think I lie, but...

[A deep, shuddering breath, and then—]

I have found freedom.

[Gilgamesh's advances are as the shift from one season into the next: the change is noticeable, palable in the air and on the skin, but it is the natural order of what follows. Achilles does not object to the pressure of water-slick muscles pushing against his back, hot skin holding an atmosphere of its own. His own chest rises and falls with the king of Uruk's deliberate breath, as the moon has reign over the tides.

He is pulled in not just by Gilgamesh's worthiness as a warrior, nor by his beauty, but by threads which the eyes cannot so easily pluck out: the loss of a beloved companion is an ache he knows well. Achilles too, godlike and war-loving, has heartstrings over which to glide deft fingers, and so he pauses to consider. His washcloth has long stilled and over the lip of the bath he drapes it.]

You are right that when I hear such a claim, my heart cannot help but reject it. Freedom in the rights stripped from us? In the absence of our consent? No, it turns all reason around. Yet you are an honorable man, and your counsel I should therefore consider, disagreeable though your claim may be. The freedom you have found in these wretched circumstances - how can this be so?

[He reaches for the vial which holds distilled bath oils and administers a small amount to his palms, that he may continue the ritualistic cleansing. Again he begins with his chest, consecrating his skin with the nourishing oils.]

Before, even as King, I was enslaved.

[A simple remark that's not so simple in practice. But what more could even be said?]

[His hands slow as he absorbs Gilgamesh's words: he senses the catacombs beneath the deceptive simplicity, for such a truth is incongruous with the world he knows. That there remains something hidden is inherent.]

It is not for kings to be cast down into slavery: women and children are ripe for the taking when the cities of men are sacked, but the men are slaughtered where they stand. How came you to such vile circumstances? A warrior of such godlike power as what you possess?

It is a long story.

[And he's not entirely certain if this was the appropriate venue for it, lounging all over each in the bath. Ultimately he just sighs, shakes his head, and returns to his place beside the man. Staring outward, at nothing in particular, or perhaps something only he can see.]

Even bearing a crown, sometimes there are certain realities beyond our control. I suppose you might see this situation as the same way.

[His fingers, briefly, encircle Achilles' wrist before pulling back.]

Well, regardless of what you choose to do, I will still provide counsel. It is my duty as a King, after all.

I shall not ask you to recount such a story, which might pull sorrows down around your shoulders. As such, my curiosity will have to wait for another day.

[As he speaks, godlike Achilles continues the ritual of bathing: his palm plays over his abdominals, slow and purposeful as are the waves that lull the sands upon the shore. It is not intended as an exhibition for Gilgamesh's sake, although he is well aware of the sensual sheen to such an act.]

Your counsel I value, glorious Gilgamesh, for you are indeed a worthy king. The freedom of which you speak - perhaps I too might find it here, in the escape from the fate which was supposed to bind me to death's gate. Yet even as I speak such words they ring hollow as the hull of a ship. It is not for man to deny fate - no, even the gods who watch from on high Olympus must listen to fate's steady beat.

There is but little of which I can be certain here - but I do know that in you I can place my loyalty, so long as you continue to shine your favor upon me.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( closed ) hold your instincts hostage

no subject

no subject

no subject

i hope ancient politics get you moist

so... much... moisture...

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject