Achilles, son of Peleus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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epidemiology2017-03-19 11:24 pm
heelies) wrote in epidemiology2017-03-19 11:24 pm
( open ) thou wilt not leave us in the dust: thou madest man, he knows not why
CHARACTERS: Achilles and company
DATE: Right after this
WARNINGS: Gratuitous animal sacrifice
SUMMARY: The Iliad, Book 23 (Reprise)
On the eve of Patroclus' funeral, there on the shores of Dardanus' land where he had lain sleeplessly, longing for his companion, he had declared that a second grief so harsh would never touch his heart while still he was among the living. So it was - for this grief come a second time falls all the more harshly. It seems to Achilles a grave injustice then that the funeral he gives cannot be half as grand as it was when first he escorted his dear friend through death's gates.
Yet he must do what he can, all that is in his power. With the city's resources whittled away and such light manpower under his command, he who had once marshaled a thousand men, there shall be no pyre stacked one hundred feet in length and breadth upon which to lay the son of Menoetius. He shall have to accept the outrage of a lesser final throne, one constructed from what timber can be felled in the park and scavenged from the town.
When this is prepared, Achilles calls forth Jin, son of Kung, and Asher, son of Millstone, and any friends who will help to bear godlike Patroclus to his pyre: he himself holds the head, sobbing for his steadfast friend. The body is clad in a simple black suit, loaned by Asher in the absence of his native garb, the fine woolen tunic in which Achilles would have wished to wrap him for his departure. His lifeless skin, the flesh restored from its raw ruins by virtue of Koltira's godcraft, gleams with the oils with which Peleus' son had tirelessly rubbed into it. Clasped in his cold hands are the golden locks he had hacked from his head, that a piece of him too would burn away with Patroclus' mortal parts, all turned to cinders.
He had once blessed his beloved comrade's pyre with droves of long-horned oxen and fat sheep, four sturdy stallion, two of the dogs Patroclus had fed at his table, and a dozen sons of the proud Trojans, but today he has only a half dozen oxen and one goat. These were generous gifts granted by those of ALASTAIR, yet still his grieving heart sinks for how paltry an offering he sends with his friend. One by one he slits their throats, reddening the snow-muddied earth around the pyre, and skins and dresses them well. The fat he flenses from their great bodies to wrap the honored corpse from head to foot in folds rich and white; the meat he sets aside that from it the evening meal can be made. Around Menoetius' gallant son he heaps the carcasses, and against the bier he sets small jars of honey and of oil, which in a time of dearth seem a worthy gift although less than he would like to give.
The fire catches fast and burns brightly by the hand of Aqua, beloved of Zephyrus, and by the craft of young Wylan it crackles rich purple. Into the blank white sky howl the flames. Peleus' son sends all those who had lent their aid to feast in his house: all that which is his is open to them, his honored guests. He himself has no hunger for food nor thirst for wine: all that he desires burns now upon the pyre. All evening the corpse-fire rages, and all evening brilliant Achilles pours wine over the ground, calling out to the stricken shade of Patroclus, weeping as he burns his bones. Choked by sobs, he speaks little: what words he could say, his second self knows already.
Even when at last the flames fade, leaving behind smoky ghosts to wreathe the night air, still he does not rise. He must wait until the winds cool the slow glowing embers, that he may sift through the ashes at the center of the deceased pyre to retrieve his companion's bones. Until he can gather the dear white bones in the golden urn his mother gave him, he is reluctant to leave the site, despite the chill that grips the darkness and the weariness that grips his body.
[OOC NOTE: Now you know more than you ever wanted to know about Ancient Greek funeral rituals. You're welcome. Offer your condolences at any point in the evening, try to pry him away at the end of the night, or go ahead and make your own threads as you see fit. This space is open to be whatever you would like it to be!]
DATE: Right after this
WARNINGS: Gratuitous animal sacrifice
SUMMARY: The Iliad, Book 23 (Reprise)
On the eve of Patroclus' funeral, there on the shores of Dardanus' land where he had lain sleeplessly, longing for his companion, he had declared that a second grief so harsh would never touch his heart while still he was among the living. So it was - for this grief come a second time falls all the more harshly. It seems to Achilles a grave injustice then that the funeral he gives cannot be half as grand as it was when first he escorted his dear friend through death's gates.
Yet he must do what he can, all that is in his power. With the city's resources whittled away and such light manpower under his command, he who had once marshaled a thousand men, there shall be no pyre stacked one hundred feet in length and breadth upon which to lay the son of Menoetius. He shall have to accept the outrage of a lesser final throne, one constructed from what timber can be felled in the park and scavenged from the town.
When this is prepared, Achilles calls forth Jin, son of Kung, and Asher, son of Millstone, and any friends who will help to bear godlike Patroclus to his pyre: he himself holds the head, sobbing for his steadfast friend. The body is clad in a simple black suit, loaned by Asher in the absence of his native garb, the fine woolen tunic in which Achilles would have wished to wrap him for his departure. His lifeless skin, the flesh restored from its raw ruins by virtue of Koltira's godcraft, gleams with the oils with which Peleus' son had tirelessly rubbed into it. Clasped in his cold hands are the golden locks he had hacked from his head, that a piece of him too would burn away with Patroclus' mortal parts, all turned to cinders.
He had once blessed his beloved comrade's pyre with droves of long-horned oxen and fat sheep, four sturdy stallion, two of the dogs Patroclus had fed at his table, and a dozen sons of the proud Trojans, but today he has only a half dozen oxen and one goat. These were generous gifts granted by those of ALASTAIR, yet still his grieving heart sinks for how paltry an offering he sends with his friend. One by one he slits their throats, reddening the snow-muddied earth around the pyre, and skins and dresses them well. The fat he flenses from their great bodies to wrap the honored corpse from head to foot in folds rich and white; the meat he sets aside that from it the evening meal can be made. Around Menoetius' gallant son he heaps the carcasses, and against the bier he sets small jars of honey and of oil, which in a time of dearth seem a worthy gift although less than he would like to give.
The fire catches fast and burns brightly by the hand of Aqua, beloved of Zephyrus, and by the craft of young Wylan it crackles rich purple. Into the blank white sky howl the flames. Peleus' son sends all those who had lent their aid to feast in his house: all that which is his is open to them, his honored guests. He himself has no hunger for food nor thirst for wine: all that he desires burns now upon the pyre. All evening the corpse-fire rages, and all evening brilliant Achilles pours wine over the ground, calling out to the stricken shade of Patroclus, weeping as he burns his bones. Choked by sobs, he speaks little: what words he could say, his second self knows already.
Even when at last the flames fade, leaving behind smoky ghosts to wreathe the night air, still he does not rise. He must wait until the winds cool the slow glowing embers, that he may sift through the ashes at the center of the deceased pyre to retrieve his companion's bones. Until he can gather the dear white bones in the golden urn his mother gave him, he is reluctant to leave the site, despite the chill that grips the darkness and the weariness that grips his body.
[OOC NOTE: Now you know more than you ever wanted to know about Ancient Greek funeral rituals. You're welcome. Offer your condolences at any point in the evening, try to pry him away at the end of the night, or go ahead and make your own threads as you see fit. This space is open to be whatever you would like it to be!]
no subject
Gone are the lips he once kissed, the skin he once held close against his own, the muscles that once shifted beneath him. The eyes that struck him like the lightning hurled by almighty Zeus.
Everything else, however, he slowly harvests to place piece by piece in the golden urn that his mother had gifted him. All the while, he speaks nothing aloud but only weeps for his fallen companion, for his own vacated heart.]
no subject
Sieglinde had always thought she would know, because she's said comforting words to those who had lost people before. In Chantes, she had apologized to the natives after the chimera attacks, those who lost family she couldn't save. The same, in Nalawi, after the storm and floods, and in Perdition's Rest, after the fracking incident... but they were things that came automatically in the moment, things with vague words and sympathies over the bodies she did not know.
But this bone in her hand is someone she knew. It's Patroclus'. She knows if she studied it properly, she would be able to prove it. Prove that the size of the rib fit a man of his description, that the wear would fit a man of his physical proclivities, that the make would fit a man who had grown up in the region he had, eating the things he had...
That science didn't seem to matter so much any longer, and with a small tremble she deposits the bone in the urn.
Then another, and another. Molar. Cracked tibia. Phalanges. Femur. Jaw. All pieces carefully plucked from the ash and brushed clean, to be placed reverently.
Until her small hands sort through the ashes and begin to come up empty, come up with only the grey dust that used to be a person.]