Aeneas/Pallas slash...
May. 23rd, 2004 05:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againThis was considerably more difficult than Odysseus/Hermes, mainly because while I love Pallas, I've never been a big fan of Aeneas. However I kept at it and dragged it kicking and screaming down from the full-on PWP it wanted to be to an R. Am starting to think it was the wrong decision but the point of the exercise never *was* to write PWP, it was to encourage me to re-read The Aeneid. Oh and to fulfill the niggling Aeneas/Pallas bunnies I've had since before Christmas.
Title: Restless Tonight
Fandom: Classical (The Aeneid)
Rating: Middle/High R
Summary: On the return voyage from Pallanteum Aeneas comforts Pallas.
Notes: Aeneas/Pallas slash. Set during Book 10 of The Aeneid. (Mild spoilers for Books 1-10). Hints of PWP and non-con - this isn't the fluffy Odysseus/Hermes. The title comes from the Finger Eleven song, ‘One Thing’.
Restless Tonight
Pallas walked across the moonlit deck on tiptoe, side-stepping the dark heaps of sleeping men. All around him the ship creaked and rocked, sails rippling overhead in the strong breeze. It blew strands of golden brown hair into the young man’s eyes; he brushed them angrily aside, scattering silvery tears in the same motion.
The deck beneath his feet dropped suddenly as they hit a dip in the waves. Pallas lost his balance on untested sea legs and hit the planks with a thud.
“Quiet!” A foot kicked out at him, connecting squarely with his thigh. “M’sleeping!”
Pallas’ hand flew to his knife hilt. It was only half-unsheathed when an unexpected hand grabbed the complaining man’s tunic and lifted him off his feet.
“You just struck a prince of Pallanteum,” said a cold voice, laced with threat. “I suggest you make yourself scare before you find yourself swimming home.”
“Aye Sir,” the man gurgled through the tight hand around his throat. He was released; crashing to the deck harder than Pallas had and crawling away.
A gentle hand rested on Pallas’ shoulder; he flinched back. Startled his rescuer crouched down beside him and the younger man shamefully recognised the distinctive build of Aeneas silhouetted against the stars.
“Pallas? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Pallas muttered sullenly, drawing his feet under him to stand. “I was just looking for somewhere to sleep.”
“My cabin is empty. I told one of the men to show you where it was.” Aeneas sounded annoyed and Pallas shivered. Instantly an arm encircled his waist and the warrior was leading him away from the sleeping men towards the tiller. Wordlessly Aeneas sat him on the steersman’s bench and draped a thick cloak over his shoulders before sitting beside him. Pallas huddled miserably down under the soft folds of cloth as if it could shield him from the inevitable questions.
There was a pause of several long minutes. Pallas could hear the crash of their ship’s prow through the ocean, the soft snoring of their men further up the deck and the creak of the rudder as Aeneas steered them through the waves. It was almost relaxing. The young prince found his eyes beginning to drift closed.
“Who was it?”
Instantly Pallas was alert and guarded. “What?”
Aeneas shifted slightly on the bench, snagging a corner of Pallas’ blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. The movement forced the younger man to slide closer to the Trojan but Aeneas didn’t seem to notice. “You look upset. I assume someone said or did something to offend you?”
“It was nothing.” Pallas flushed and looked away, staring out over the dark sea. “I was stupid.”
“You don’t strike me as the sort of man to cry over nothing,” Aeneas pointed out somewhat tactlessly and a surge of humiliation had Pallas turning away, wiping angrily at his damp cheeks. “Tell me.”
“It was nothing!” Pallas started to wriggle free of the blanket, trying helplessly to untangle himself. “Just my stupid pride. I’m fine.” The blanket fell away and he leapt to his feet, refusing to look at Aeneas as he spoke. “I’m tired my lord. May I find somewhere to sleep?”
“Wait a moment.” Aeneas stood up, keeping a firm hand on the tiller. “Achates,” he called softly and a man further up the deck sat up. “Take the helm. I need to show Pallas where he can sleep.”
“Aye milord.” Achates sprung athletically to his feet and Pallas was ashamed to see the easy grace with which the Trojan strode the swaying deck. He was forced to spread his arms for balance as he followed Aeneas along the ship and down the ladder to below.
He’d only been below deck on a boat once before and it had been a slimy, rat-infested space. Expecting the same here he was amazed to find a fairly dry passageway, lit with a hanging lantern, leading to a sturdy oak door. Some of the walls bore char marks.
“That happened in Sicily,” Aeneas commented, noting where Pallas’ attention had wandered to. “There was… an uprising I suppose it could be called, inspired by Juno. The women set fire to the ships.”
“How did you save them?” Pallas asked in fascination, tracing a burn mark with one fingertip that came away blackened. “Did another god intervene?”
“Jupiter himself, sending rain to quench the flames,” Aeneas answered casually, continuing down the passageway until he reached the door. Pallas hurried to keep up. “This is my cabin. It’s small but comfortable. It’s yours, for however long we’re on board.”
“Don’t you need it?” Pallas asked apprehensively. Aeneas shook his head, strands of shining dark hair falling over his face. He brushed them back impatiently.
“I prefer to sleep on deck near the crew, especially since we lost Palinurus. I get restless at night.” He turned the bronze key in the lock and swung the door open. “Go on in. I had the men clear out the cargo we were storing in there to make some more room.”
“I’m sure they were grateful for that,” Pallas murmured absently, taking down the lantern from above the door and stepping into the room. He made an appreciative noise when he saw the generous bed, tucked neatly to one side away from the outer hull. The room was tiny, more a corner blocked off for privacy than anything but the bed looked soft and rich hangings covered the bare wooden walls. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”
A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, almost losing his grip on the lantern. Steadying it with his other hand he turned to see Aeneas watching him strangely.
“Is- is something wrong sir?” Pallas asked uncertainly. Aeneas frowned, the lantern casting angular shadows across his face, veiling his eyes in darkness.
“What did you mean you’re sure they were ‘grateful’?”
“Nothing,” Pallas answered quickly. “Nothing at all.”
Aeneas cast a swift glance back down the passage; seeing it was empty he stepped into the room and closed the door. Taking the lantern from Pallas’ unresisting hand he hung it on its hook above the door and gestured politely towards the bed.
“Sit. Please.”
Pallas hesitated.
A steely note entered Aeneas’ tone. “Sit.”
Pallas sat.
Aeneas crossed the tiny room to lean against the ‘wall’ opposite the bed. The position cloaked him in shadow while Pallas sat exposed in flickering lamp light. The younger man shifted uncomfortably.
“Sir, I honestly meant nothing by it-”
“Who was it?” Aeneas asked the question in the same level tone as before. His expression was impossible to read through the shifting darkness. Pallas dug his fingers into the richly woven bed covering and wished the room would stop swaying.
“I don’t know what-”
“By the gods Pallas!” Aeneas slammed his fist against the wooden wall in annoyance. Pallas flinched back onto the bed, wishing he wasn’t backed into a corner. “Why can’t you trust me? Why won’t you trust me?!”
“I- I do trust- It’s not-” Pallas stared at his feet, flushing bright red. “It’s my own business. Sir.”
“Nevertheless it happened on my ship and what happens on my ship is my business.” Aeneas sighed heavily and moved out the shadows to approach the bed. Pallas, almost imperceptibly, leaned away as the Trojan sat down next to him. Briefly their shoulders touched; the younger man slid away. “I only want to help Pallas. Please. Tell me.”
“It was nothing,” Pallas repeated as if saying the words enough could make them true. Aeneas’ cold disapproval was palpable and the younger prince strove to justify himself. “A minor disagreement between myself and one of the men. Honestly nothing to worry yourself over.”
“Who started it?”
“I did,” Pallas mumbled, very carefully not looking at Aeneas. “One of them laughed at me when I lost my balance… and I challenged him to prove himself the better man. He… I’m not used to the movement of the ship. It damaged my pride, that’s all.”
“Did he hurt you?” The question was soft, almost gentle. Pallas shook his head once.
“No. If he had, he’d have had to kill me or I’d have killed him.”
Aeneas paused for a significant moment before asking for the third time. “Who was it?”
Finally Pallas looked up, meeting the other man’s gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t tell tales. Sir.”
“Good.” Aeneas nodded. “You did nothing wrong Pallas. I’m proud to have you on my side.” He rose from the bed, his bare arm brushing Pallas’ as he did so; the younger man shivered despite the warm air. “If you need anything I’ll be at the helm. We should make landfall around evening tomorrow.”
“Si… Aeneas,” Pallas said abruptly as the older man was about to open the door. Curiously Aeneas glanced back to meet the bright blue eyes that were wide with curiosity and the lurking shadow of fear. “May I ask... What… what’s it like?”
“What is what like?”
Pallas was pale in the flickering lamplight, hands rubbing together with short, desperate movements. His voice was quiet, empty, when he answered.
“To kill someone.”
Aeneas paused, startled. “Have you never…?”
Low, almost inaudible was Pallas’ answer. “Never.”
Aeneas studied him. Long blond hair curling over his bowed head, turning a burnished amber in the flickering lamplight; bronzed skin from days spent outdoors; the lithe muscled body of youth. There were the scars of hunting, of training and over-enthusiastic games but the thin white tracing of sword slashes were absent; the ridged battle scars Aeneas knew by heart had never touched the soft skin. Abruptly, achingly jealous of the boy’s innocence Aeneas turned from the door, taking a step back towards the bed.
“It depends on who, or where or how,” he said slowly. “A sword slash across the throat in the heat of battle is worlds away from a knife in the back in a lonely alleyway. I’ve killed men with knives, swords, daggers, arrows… for different reasons, on different orders. I’ve seen heroes die cursing their own mothers and I’ve seen common soldiers walk calmly into the arms of Hades without a backward glance because their king has told them too. I’ve felt blood still warm running over my hands and touched the cold, dead faces of men days dead. Death is death Pallas, whether I’ve killed them or not. I kill people because if I didn’t, they’d kill me.”
“But you still killed them.” Pallas’ voice was barely above a whisper. “When it came down to it you killed them. I… I don’t know if I can.”
Gold hair brushing golden skin; Aeneas itched to touch it, his treacherous feet drawing him another step closer. “You just need the right reasons to fight for Pallas,” he assured him softly. “For your home, your people, your family. Man is a fragile creature; there are a thousand ways to kill him and another thousand for him to kill your wife, your son, your grandchildren.” Another step disguised as an attempt to keep his balance on the unsteady floor. “If he was worthy he will find comfort in death; if not he shall be awarded just punishment. It is easy for us to kill men Pallas but only the gods can judge them.”
The younger prince glanced up; Aeneas caught a flash of trouble blue eyes before they slipped away again to study the floor.
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps when it comes down to it I’ll fight, and I’ll kill, and it won’t affect me.” The edges of a tight smile were visible through the sheltering curtain of hair. “But I think not.”
Aeneas had reached the bed. It was almost natural to reach out and touch Pallas’ shoulder; even more natural to slide curious fingertips down the warm, firm skin. Creusa had been familiar, like wearing an old but favourite shirt. Dido had been all alabaster-pale limbs and wide, shining eyes. Other faces flashed through Aeneas’ mind; Palinurus, Achates and once, in an encounter he’d never spoken of to anyone, the hated Ulixes with strong, scarred arms pressing him down. Never had he touched anything like the living gold of Pallas.
He wanted it.
A subtle change had come over the atmosphere of the small cabin. Pallas shifted uncomfortably under the curious touch; Aeneas drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The lamplight played over them both for a moment, frozen in place like bronzed statues. Aeneas’ fingertips traced an arbitrary path back up Pallas’ arm to pause at a lock of golden hair hanging over a muscled shoulder. Pallas was motionless, head bowed, hands twisted tight into the blankets. Tension was written across every line of his posture, every drop of sweat that slid on golden skin. Aeneas let himself stroke the strands of hair reverently, awed by the silkiness.
“There is more to be a warrior than killing men Pallas.” The words slipped out almost unnoticed; he would have thought unheeded had not a slit of shadowed blue glimmered through the protective hair. Aeneas’ hand found the back of the younger man’s neck and rested there, thumb absently stroking the tip of a earlobe. “Being a warrior is about passion… for the gods, for your ideals… for others.”
A shiver trembled through Pallas’ body.
“I can make you a warrior Pallas,” Aeneas offered and there was honey-sweetness lacing the words. “I can teach you everything, how to wage war, how to give orders, how to survive. How to kill.” The hand deliberately travelled further round, bringing the full lips into reach. Aeneas let his fingertips explore them, learning their moist warmth by touch alone. Inadvertently Pallas licked his lips; the tip of his tongue collided with rough, salty skin and Aeneas’ breath sucked in almost sharp enough to be called a gasp on the last few words.
“… How to love.”
“I know how to love,” Pallas said without looking up. His mouth brushed Aeneas’ hand as he spoke. “I don’t need you to teach me that.”
“But would you like me to?” Aeneas suggested carefully.
A measureless pause, a second, a minute, an hour. Slowly Pallas lifted his chin, hair falling back. Clear blue eyes met dark ones, indecision racing across the former like clouds on a windy day.
“I don’t- I’ve never-“ Pallas looked away with a wordless groan of frustration. Fear shivered through him. “I never meant to make you think I-“
“Hush.” Aeneas sank onto the bed beside the young prince, turning Pallas’ chin towards him. “It’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured, leaning in inch by inch. Pallas quivered in his grip. “I’ll be careful.”
His lips met Pallas’, which parted in surprise. Taking advantage Aeneas slipped in to explore the dark recesses of the warm mouth, tracing the points of teeth and the soft, moist tongue with relish. One hand came up to run through the silken hair, letting strands of it fall through his fingers like liquid gold.
“Don’t…” Pallas whispered.
Aeneas ignored him, tilting the younger man’s head back to probe deeper, duelling with Pallas’ tongue. He used his weight to press Pallas backwards, down onto the bed. Pallas went, not eagerly but not making any attempt to fight back. Aeneas used his apathy to begin unlacing the young prince’s tunic without breaking their kiss.
“Don’t,” Pallas tried again, weaker this time.
Aeneas wasn’t listening, absorbed in the fascinating heat of Pallas’ mouth and the intricacies of the tunic’s leather ties. He worked free the last knot with a growl of triumph and pulled the cloth away, leaving Pallas naked from the waist up.
“Si… Aeneas…” Pallas choked out. His eyes were screwed shut, head thrown back, spreading a fan of golden hair against the dark blankets. Finally taking note of the desperate tone, Aeneas lifted his head to trace the prince’s swollen lips with a fingertip.
“It’s okay Pallas,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” His hand followed the dusting of pale golden hair down Pallas’ chest towards the top of his leggings. “Please. Let me…”
Silence for a moment. Pallas’ eyes stayed shut, his entire body trembling at the teasing touch of Aeneas’ hand. It seemed to take an immense effort for him to nod his head, just once.
“Thank you,” Aeneas murmured with a smile, bending once more to taste the reddened lips.
He was careful, though it was a blissful kind of agony to move so slowly with something so beautiful. Pallas surprised him by making no sound louder than a moan and it was Aeneas’ cries that made the men above stir uneasily in their sleep. Pallas obediently made the right moves, gasped at the right moments, shivered with pleasure at Aeneas’ skilled touch but not once did he open his eyes.
In the dark after, lying tangled together under the covers, Pallas exhaled once, a shaky, halting breath. Aeneas pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“This doesn’t change the fact we have to fight,” Pallas answered quietly. “In a few days I could be dead.”
“Hush.” Alarmed, Aeneas tightened his grip on the slender body beside him. “I’ll protect you Pallas, I promise you that.” He kissed the soft hair, damp with sweat. “Get some sleep. Everything will seem brighter come Dawn.”
Pallas turned his face into the pillow. “Maybe,” he murmured agreeably, thinking of the tales he’d heard of Creusa, Dido, even Palinurus. I’ll protect you. The words failed to comfort him. From under one dark-lashed eyelid trickled a tear, sliding down his cheek to vanish into the blankets.
Unaware, Aeneas smiled contentedly into the darkness and drifted into sleep.
~ Fin ~
Well that was fun. What next? *consults notes* More Odyssey fic. Still need to see Troy again dammit. Will bug my classics teacher to set a date this week for our class to go. Better save up too; she's stated she won't see it again unless copious amounts of alcohol are involved. Which means us buying her drinks. ;-)
Title: Restless Tonight
Fandom: Classical (The Aeneid)
Rating: Middle/High R
Summary: On the return voyage from Pallanteum Aeneas comforts Pallas.
Notes: Aeneas/Pallas slash. Set during Book 10 of The Aeneid. (Mild spoilers for Books 1-10). Hints of PWP and non-con - this isn't the fluffy Odysseus/Hermes. The title comes from the Finger Eleven song, ‘One Thing’.
Restless Tonight
Pallas walked across the moonlit deck on tiptoe, side-stepping the dark heaps of sleeping men. All around him the ship creaked and rocked, sails rippling overhead in the strong breeze. It blew strands of golden brown hair into the young man’s eyes; he brushed them angrily aside, scattering silvery tears in the same motion.
The deck beneath his feet dropped suddenly as they hit a dip in the waves. Pallas lost his balance on untested sea legs and hit the planks with a thud.
“Quiet!” A foot kicked out at him, connecting squarely with his thigh. “M’sleeping!”
Pallas’ hand flew to his knife hilt. It was only half-unsheathed when an unexpected hand grabbed the complaining man’s tunic and lifted him off his feet.
“You just struck a prince of Pallanteum,” said a cold voice, laced with threat. “I suggest you make yourself scare before you find yourself swimming home.”
“Aye Sir,” the man gurgled through the tight hand around his throat. He was released; crashing to the deck harder than Pallas had and crawling away.
A gentle hand rested on Pallas’ shoulder; he flinched back. Startled his rescuer crouched down beside him and the younger man shamefully recognised the distinctive build of Aeneas silhouetted against the stars.
“Pallas? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Pallas muttered sullenly, drawing his feet under him to stand. “I was just looking for somewhere to sleep.”
“My cabin is empty. I told one of the men to show you where it was.” Aeneas sounded annoyed and Pallas shivered. Instantly an arm encircled his waist and the warrior was leading him away from the sleeping men towards the tiller. Wordlessly Aeneas sat him on the steersman’s bench and draped a thick cloak over his shoulders before sitting beside him. Pallas huddled miserably down under the soft folds of cloth as if it could shield him from the inevitable questions.
There was a pause of several long minutes. Pallas could hear the crash of their ship’s prow through the ocean, the soft snoring of their men further up the deck and the creak of the rudder as Aeneas steered them through the waves. It was almost relaxing. The young prince found his eyes beginning to drift closed.
“Who was it?”
Instantly Pallas was alert and guarded. “What?”
Aeneas shifted slightly on the bench, snagging a corner of Pallas’ blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. The movement forced the younger man to slide closer to the Trojan but Aeneas didn’t seem to notice. “You look upset. I assume someone said or did something to offend you?”
“It was nothing.” Pallas flushed and looked away, staring out over the dark sea. “I was stupid.”
“You don’t strike me as the sort of man to cry over nothing,” Aeneas pointed out somewhat tactlessly and a surge of humiliation had Pallas turning away, wiping angrily at his damp cheeks. “Tell me.”
“It was nothing!” Pallas started to wriggle free of the blanket, trying helplessly to untangle himself. “Just my stupid pride. I’m fine.” The blanket fell away and he leapt to his feet, refusing to look at Aeneas as he spoke. “I’m tired my lord. May I find somewhere to sleep?”
“Wait a moment.” Aeneas stood up, keeping a firm hand on the tiller. “Achates,” he called softly and a man further up the deck sat up. “Take the helm. I need to show Pallas where he can sleep.”
“Aye milord.” Achates sprung athletically to his feet and Pallas was ashamed to see the easy grace with which the Trojan strode the swaying deck. He was forced to spread his arms for balance as he followed Aeneas along the ship and down the ladder to below.
He’d only been below deck on a boat once before and it had been a slimy, rat-infested space. Expecting the same here he was amazed to find a fairly dry passageway, lit with a hanging lantern, leading to a sturdy oak door. Some of the walls bore char marks.
“That happened in Sicily,” Aeneas commented, noting where Pallas’ attention had wandered to. “There was… an uprising I suppose it could be called, inspired by Juno. The women set fire to the ships.”
“How did you save them?” Pallas asked in fascination, tracing a burn mark with one fingertip that came away blackened. “Did another god intervene?”
“Jupiter himself, sending rain to quench the flames,” Aeneas answered casually, continuing down the passageway until he reached the door. Pallas hurried to keep up. “This is my cabin. It’s small but comfortable. It’s yours, for however long we’re on board.”
“Don’t you need it?” Pallas asked apprehensively. Aeneas shook his head, strands of shining dark hair falling over his face. He brushed them back impatiently.
“I prefer to sleep on deck near the crew, especially since we lost Palinurus. I get restless at night.” He turned the bronze key in the lock and swung the door open. “Go on in. I had the men clear out the cargo we were storing in there to make some more room.”
“I’m sure they were grateful for that,” Pallas murmured absently, taking down the lantern from above the door and stepping into the room. He made an appreciative noise when he saw the generous bed, tucked neatly to one side away from the outer hull. The room was tiny, more a corner blocked off for privacy than anything but the bed looked soft and rich hangings covered the bare wooden walls. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”
A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, almost losing his grip on the lantern. Steadying it with his other hand he turned to see Aeneas watching him strangely.
“Is- is something wrong sir?” Pallas asked uncertainly. Aeneas frowned, the lantern casting angular shadows across his face, veiling his eyes in darkness.
“What did you mean you’re sure they were ‘grateful’?”
“Nothing,” Pallas answered quickly. “Nothing at all.”
Aeneas cast a swift glance back down the passage; seeing it was empty he stepped into the room and closed the door. Taking the lantern from Pallas’ unresisting hand he hung it on its hook above the door and gestured politely towards the bed.
“Sit. Please.”
Pallas hesitated.
A steely note entered Aeneas’ tone. “Sit.”
Pallas sat.
Aeneas crossed the tiny room to lean against the ‘wall’ opposite the bed. The position cloaked him in shadow while Pallas sat exposed in flickering lamp light. The younger man shifted uncomfortably.
“Sir, I honestly meant nothing by it-”
“Who was it?” Aeneas asked the question in the same level tone as before. His expression was impossible to read through the shifting darkness. Pallas dug his fingers into the richly woven bed covering and wished the room would stop swaying.
“I don’t know what-”
“By the gods Pallas!” Aeneas slammed his fist against the wooden wall in annoyance. Pallas flinched back onto the bed, wishing he wasn’t backed into a corner. “Why can’t you trust me? Why won’t you trust me?!”
“I- I do trust- It’s not-” Pallas stared at his feet, flushing bright red. “It’s my own business. Sir.”
“Nevertheless it happened on my ship and what happens on my ship is my business.” Aeneas sighed heavily and moved out the shadows to approach the bed. Pallas, almost imperceptibly, leaned away as the Trojan sat down next to him. Briefly their shoulders touched; the younger man slid away. “I only want to help Pallas. Please. Tell me.”
“It was nothing,” Pallas repeated as if saying the words enough could make them true. Aeneas’ cold disapproval was palpable and the younger prince strove to justify himself. “A minor disagreement between myself and one of the men. Honestly nothing to worry yourself over.”
“Who started it?”
“I did,” Pallas mumbled, very carefully not looking at Aeneas. “One of them laughed at me when I lost my balance… and I challenged him to prove himself the better man. He… I’m not used to the movement of the ship. It damaged my pride, that’s all.”
“Did he hurt you?” The question was soft, almost gentle. Pallas shook his head once.
“No. If he had, he’d have had to kill me or I’d have killed him.”
Aeneas paused for a significant moment before asking for the third time. “Who was it?”
Finally Pallas looked up, meeting the other man’s gaze unflinchingly. “I don’t tell tales. Sir.”
“Good.” Aeneas nodded. “You did nothing wrong Pallas. I’m proud to have you on my side.” He rose from the bed, his bare arm brushing Pallas’ as he did so; the younger man shivered despite the warm air. “If you need anything I’ll be at the helm. We should make landfall around evening tomorrow.”
“Si… Aeneas,” Pallas said abruptly as the older man was about to open the door. Curiously Aeneas glanced back to meet the bright blue eyes that were wide with curiosity and the lurking shadow of fear. “May I ask... What… what’s it like?”
“What is what like?”
Pallas was pale in the flickering lamplight, hands rubbing together with short, desperate movements. His voice was quiet, empty, when he answered.
“To kill someone.”
Aeneas paused, startled. “Have you never…?”
Low, almost inaudible was Pallas’ answer. “Never.”
Aeneas studied him. Long blond hair curling over his bowed head, turning a burnished amber in the flickering lamplight; bronzed skin from days spent outdoors; the lithe muscled body of youth. There were the scars of hunting, of training and over-enthusiastic games but the thin white tracing of sword slashes were absent; the ridged battle scars Aeneas knew by heart had never touched the soft skin. Abruptly, achingly jealous of the boy’s innocence Aeneas turned from the door, taking a step back towards the bed.
“It depends on who, or where or how,” he said slowly. “A sword slash across the throat in the heat of battle is worlds away from a knife in the back in a lonely alleyway. I’ve killed men with knives, swords, daggers, arrows… for different reasons, on different orders. I’ve seen heroes die cursing their own mothers and I’ve seen common soldiers walk calmly into the arms of Hades without a backward glance because their king has told them too. I’ve felt blood still warm running over my hands and touched the cold, dead faces of men days dead. Death is death Pallas, whether I’ve killed them or not. I kill people because if I didn’t, they’d kill me.”
“But you still killed them.” Pallas’ voice was barely above a whisper. “When it came down to it you killed them. I… I don’t know if I can.”
Gold hair brushing golden skin; Aeneas itched to touch it, his treacherous feet drawing him another step closer. “You just need the right reasons to fight for Pallas,” he assured him softly. “For your home, your people, your family. Man is a fragile creature; there are a thousand ways to kill him and another thousand for him to kill your wife, your son, your grandchildren.” Another step disguised as an attempt to keep his balance on the unsteady floor. “If he was worthy he will find comfort in death; if not he shall be awarded just punishment. It is easy for us to kill men Pallas but only the gods can judge them.”
The younger prince glanced up; Aeneas caught a flash of trouble blue eyes before they slipped away again to study the floor.
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps when it comes down to it I’ll fight, and I’ll kill, and it won’t affect me.” The edges of a tight smile were visible through the sheltering curtain of hair. “But I think not.”
Aeneas had reached the bed. It was almost natural to reach out and touch Pallas’ shoulder; even more natural to slide curious fingertips down the warm, firm skin. Creusa had been familiar, like wearing an old but favourite shirt. Dido had been all alabaster-pale limbs and wide, shining eyes. Other faces flashed through Aeneas’ mind; Palinurus, Achates and once, in an encounter he’d never spoken of to anyone, the hated Ulixes with strong, scarred arms pressing him down. Never had he touched anything like the living gold of Pallas.
He wanted it.
A subtle change had come over the atmosphere of the small cabin. Pallas shifted uncomfortably under the curious touch; Aeneas drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The lamplight played over them both for a moment, frozen in place like bronzed statues. Aeneas’ fingertips traced an arbitrary path back up Pallas’ arm to pause at a lock of golden hair hanging over a muscled shoulder. Pallas was motionless, head bowed, hands twisted tight into the blankets. Tension was written across every line of his posture, every drop of sweat that slid on golden skin. Aeneas let himself stroke the strands of hair reverently, awed by the silkiness.
“There is more to be a warrior than killing men Pallas.” The words slipped out almost unnoticed; he would have thought unheeded had not a slit of shadowed blue glimmered through the protective hair. Aeneas’ hand found the back of the younger man’s neck and rested there, thumb absently stroking the tip of a earlobe. “Being a warrior is about passion… for the gods, for your ideals… for others.”
A shiver trembled through Pallas’ body.
“I can make you a warrior Pallas,” Aeneas offered and there was honey-sweetness lacing the words. “I can teach you everything, how to wage war, how to give orders, how to survive. How to kill.” The hand deliberately travelled further round, bringing the full lips into reach. Aeneas let his fingertips explore them, learning their moist warmth by touch alone. Inadvertently Pallas licked his lips; the tip of his tongue collided with rough, salty skin and Aeneas’ breath sucked in almost sharp enough to be called a gasp on the last few words.
“… How to love.”
“I know how to love,” Pallas said without looking up. His mouth brushed Aeneas’ hand as he spoke. “I don’t need you to teach me that.”
“But would you like me to?” Aeneas suggested carefully.
A measureless pause, a second, a minute, an hour. Slowly Pallas lifted his chin, hair falling back. Clear blue eyes met dark ones, indecision racing across the former like clouds on a windy day.
“I don’t- I’ve never-“ Pallas looked away with a wordless groan of frustration. Fear shivered through him. “I never meant to make you think I-“
“Hush.” Aeneas sank onto the bed beside the young prince, turning Pallas’ chin towards him. “It’s nothing to be afraid of,” he murmured, leaning in inch by inch. Pallas quivered in his grip. “I’ll be careful.”
His lips met Pallas’, which parted in surprise. Taking advantage Aeneas slipped in to explore the dark recesses of the warm mouth, tracing the points of teeth and the soft, moist tongue with relish. One hand came up to run through the silken hair, letting strands of it fall through his fingers like liquid gold.
“Don’t…” Pallas whispered.
Aeneas ignored him, tilting the younger man’s head back to probe deeper, duelling with Pallas’ tongue. He used his weight to press Pallas backwards, down onto the bed. Pallas went, not eagerly but not making any attempt to fight back. Aeneas used his apathy to begin unlacing the young prince’s tunic without breaking their kiss.
“Don’t,” Pallas tried again, weaker this time.
Aeneas wasn’t listening, absorbed in the fascinating heat of Pallas’ mouth and the intricacies of the tunic’s leather ties. He worked free the last knot with a growl of triumph and pulled the cloth away, leaving Pallas naked from the waist up.
“Si… Aeneas…” Pallas choked out. His eyes were screwed shut, head thrown back, spreading a fan of golden hair against the dark blankets. Finally taking note of the desperate tone, Aeneas lifted his head to trace the prince’s swollen lips with a fingertip.
“It’s okay Pallas,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.” His hand followed the dusting of pale golden hair down Pallas’ chest towards the top of his leggings. “Please. Let me…”
Silence for a moment. Pallas’ eyes stayed shut, his entire body trembling at the teasing touch of Aeneas’ hand. It seemed to take an immense effort for him to nod his head, just once.
“Thank you,” Aeneas murmured with a smile, bending once more to taste the reddened lips.
He was careful, though it was a blissful kind of agony to move so slowly with something so beautiful. Pallas surprised him by making no sound louder than a moan and it was Aeneas’ cries that made the men above stir uneasily in their sleep. Pallas obediently made the right moves, gasped at the right moments, shivered with pleasure at Aeneas’ skilled touch but not once did he open his eyes.
In the dark after, lying tangled together under the covers, Pallas exhaled once, a shaky, halting breath. Aeneas pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“This doesn’t change the fact we have to fight,” Pallas answered quietly. “In a few days I could be dead.”
“Hush.” Alarmed, Aeneas tightened his grip on the slender body beside him. “I’ll protect you Pallas, I promise you that.” He kissed the soft hair, damp with sweat. “Get some sleep. Everything will seem brighter come Dawn.”
Pallas turned his face into the pillow. “Maybe,” he murmured agreeably, thinking of the tales he’d heard of Creusa, Dido, even Palinurus. I’ll protect you. The words failed to comfort him. From under one dark-lashed eyelid trickled a tear, sliding down his cheek to vanish into the blankets.
Unaware, Aeneas smiled contentedly into the darkness and drifted into sleep.
~ Fin ~
Well that was fun. What next? *consults notes* More Odyssey fic. Still need to see Troy again dammit. Will bug my classics teacher to set a date this week for our class to go. Better save up too; she's stated she won't see it again unless copious amounts of alcohol are involved. Which means us buying her drinks. ;-)
