Althea-P

[anakin-skywalkonme]

love being a multishipper because its like yk what hell yeah! more love for everyone, guys!

the gays? yup

the sapphics? 100%

my precious few straight couples? love y'all

and plus, so much more media is revealed to me when i can look for multiple ships

[2econd2ight2aver]

Alexander the great sounds like a 12 year old's first oc. So he has reddish-blond hair huh? And heterochromia? And he's an lgbtq icon who has extraordinary abilities from a young age? This sounds like something I'd write in 6th grade.

[althea-p]

[althea-p]

[althea-p]

Every clang of metal echoed in Patroclus's ears as, step by step, the crowd parted before him, mistaking him for the son of Thetis. Every head turned to follow him, watching his every step. No one could have guessed that beneath the helmet lay anything other than a swift-footed hero. The Trojan phalanx parted in response, like tearing fabric. The warriors' spears beat out a rhythm. Shields reflected the sun's rays, blinding them. The air grew hot like a forge. Clouds of dust filled the lungs with every breath. The smell of bronze and horse sweat hung in the air. The Trojan line finally parted. The archers broke ranks, letting the prince pass. Hector's figure cast a shadow that snaked toward Patroclus's feet, as if it were about to bite. The Trojan prince stood there, bouncing back and forth like a predator about to strike. His helmet, with its horsehair tail, fluttered in the wind, revealing a face beneath. Not angry, but stern and somewhat curious. Eyes glittered in the slits of his helmet. Each one was tense, waiting for one of them to make a move. To give the signal.

Patroclus couldn't bear it any longer. He leaped forward and rushed toward Hector. Hector, in turn, didn't move. He prepared to parry the Achaean's attack and held his shield out in front of him.

As soon as Patroclus closed the distance, he raised his spear. Hector didn't block it head-on. He stepped forward and held his shield at an angle. The spear slid across the bronze forge, sending up a shower of sparks, and veered off. At the same moment, the Trojan slashed the edge of his shield at Patroclus's shoulder—not deeply, but knocking his breath away.

They grappled like two cats. The clanking and clanking echoed across the battlefield. Dust rose and flew above them like a yellow shroud. Spears became useless—they struck with shafts, shields, and elbows. Dust rose underfoot, mixing with sweat and iron. Patroclus's chest heaved under the weight of his Achilles armor. He breathed quickly and angrily, trying to dislodge Hector, but Hector held firm like a rock—every step the Achaean took was met with a counterattack.

Then Patroclus dived down, slashing at Hector's legs. Hector leaped over, and in mid-air, the Trojan struck him in the bridge of the nose with the butt of his spear. Patroclus staggered. Blood gushed from beneath his helmet, filling his eyes. But he didn't retreat—on the contrary, he bared his teeth and advanced again, blinded and furious, like a wounded boar.

They parted for a moment, breathing heavily. Hector suddenly grinned, narrowing his eyes.

"Where is Achilles?" he asked, his voice even, without mockery. "I was expecting him, not you."

Patroclus didn't answer. He lunged again, but Hector dodged. Another blow—missed. Another—the prince caught with his shield, and at that moment there was a silence, the kind that only happens between two waves on a still surface.

Hector took a step back, lowered his spear, and exhaled. “You are not Peleus’s son,” he said. “I’ve seen him move. You are different. And you will die for his pride.”

Patroclus froze. For a moment, he saw himself from a different perspective. Not a demigod, but a mere mortal who would one day be consigned to flame.

Hector realized: it was now or never. He missed the blow, allowing Patroclus to get within range, and when the Achaean swung one last time, the Trojan slumped, dodging the spear, and thrust his own into his unprotected armpit, where his armor parted at the straps.

Patroclus froze. He exhaled long and hoarsely. The spear fell from his fingers. A few moments later, he sank to his knees. Pale and covered in cold sweat. He fell sideways, into the dust. His eyes looked up at the sky, but they were no longer visible.

Hector stood over his body, breathing heavily. He looked at Patroclus, at his motionless face, at his glassy eyes, still reflecting the passing day. For a moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee, reached out, and ran his palm over Patroclus's face, closing his eyelids. The blood from Hector's fingers left a dark mark on Patroclus's face, but he no longer felt the warmth. The Trojan held his hand for a moment, as if saying goodbye. Then he rose and silently began to walk away.

"Let's go!" Hector shouted to his warriors.

[althea-p]

My thoughts will kill me one day. Achilles singing these lines over the body of Patroclus:

"Sleep, my sullen, my quiet, my most sensible of mortals,

He who laughs when I am silent, and is silent when the gods call.

I would give all the herds of Phthia and even immortality,

If only your sandals would forever crunch on the dusty road beside mine."

It was written in Russian, so it sounded more poetic in my language; I'm adapting it for English.

[althea-p]

A wind blowing from the sea blew through the canopy, causing it to rise. It raised dust and then lowered it back down in a whimsical dance. At sunset yesterday, Agamemnon had taken Briseis away, prompting Achilles to go on strike and decide not to go into battle. His indignant voice, mingled with the sound of chewing grapes, could be heard from the tent.

"No, tell that fat jackal that he won't see me in battle!" Achilles lounged lazily on the skin and played the lyre, pressing it into his belly. The youth's slender fingers deftly plucked the horsehair strings, sending a simple melody into the air.

"But Achilles..." Patroclus was about to object, but Achilles interrupted him, not even looking up from the strings.

"I said no, Patroclus!" the blond man's voice was sharp, laced with his characteristic capriciousness. "You need to fight, then, since you've decided to obey an old goat."

Patroclus sighed heavily, like a man who had walked this path many times before, and ran a hand over his face. Achilles seemed particularly carefree at the moment.

"You're acting like a child," Patroclus's voice didn't waver. "The whole camp is waiting, people are dying, and you lie there as if you're at a feast."

Achilles didn't answer. His fingers paused for a moment, hesitating, and then resumed strumming the same melody. It was as if the words had flown right past his ears.

"I understand that you're angry with Agamemnon," he said more quietly. "I know he acted vilely, and it hurt your honor and pride." But if you don't go into battle, the Trojans will break through the defenses, and the army will suffer greatly.

Achilles slowly raised his head. His gaze, heavy as lead, met Patroclus's brown eyes.

"So Agamemnon himself will go into battle," Achilles' voice was firm. "If he's good at waving a scepter in councils, he'll be able to wield a sword in battle. Or can he only take what belongs to others? And if you're so determined to go into battle, then take my armor; I have no use for it right now. Intimidate the Trojans into leaving the ships, and then you can return."

"Are you serious?"

"Why not?" he said with feigned laziness. "You always said I take on too much. Here's your chance to prove you're just as good as me."

Patroclus stepped closer and stopped just an elbow away from his friend, blocking the light filtering through the curtain. A shadow fell across Achilles' face, deepening his sea-green eyes. He raised his head and met Patroclus's gaze.

That look held everything—a challenge, a subtle desire to keep his friend at bay, which Achilles ignored out of pride, and something Menetides couldn't read.

"Are you asking me to wear your armor? The one forged by Hephaestus, the one that makes you stronger?"

Achilles smiled wryly, without humor. He rose to his feet and brushed off his tunic, walking over to the chest containing the armor. He ran his fingers over the metal, as if bidding it farewell for the day.

"It's only metal, my dear friend," Achilles said without turning around. "Good and expensive, but still metal." My strength lies not in them, but in me.

He turned, and a shadow of the vulnerability he so carefully concealed flickered in his eyes.

Patroclus came closer. He picked up the breastplate—heavy and golden, with a scene carved into the torso. Several youths: Meleus, Telamon, Laertes, and Nestor, and a girl named Atalanta, with bows and spears, participating in the Calydonian Hunt. His fingers slid over the relief, exploring every detail, feeling the cool bronze beneath his skin.

"It's beautiful," Patroclus said, not hiding his admiration. He brought the breastplate to his chest, trying it on, and frowned. "But won't it be too big? I won't fit."

"You will fit," Achilles replied, approaching him. "I'll help."

He took the breastplate from Menetides' hands and walked around his friend. Behind him, Achilles deftly began to tighten the straps, pulling them as tightly as possible. The armor hung loosely on him—his shoulders were broad, and his chest was too loose.

"Don't you think this is a bad omen?" Patroclus asked, shrugging. "The armor is too big for me. It's like I'm trying to become something I'm not."

"Stop it," Achilles' voice grew firmer. "You're not trying to become me. You simply donned my armor to frighten the Trojans."

Achilles knelt down, holding the greaves in his hands. He secured them around Patroclus's legs and tightened the straps. Then he rose and stepped toward the chest. He picked up the helmet, which smelled of sea salt and the blood of fallen enemies. In his hands, it seemed alive—the sunlight glinted off the carved scene depicting the Pleiades, Orion aiming his bow at them from Earth. He studied it with an attentive gaze, as if saying goodbye. From the helmet, his eyes slid to Patroclus in his armor, which was slightly too large. He stepped closer and, adjusting his friend's hair, placed the shining helmet on his head. His eyes peered out from the slits with their familiar, calmly confident brown gaze.

"Go," said Achilles. "And come back."

Patroclus turned and was already heading for the exit, but stopped at the curtain, hearing his friend's words, and turned around.

"I will return. By the Styx."

Only the curtain swayed in a light breeze.

Achilles stood motionless, looking into the empty doorway where his friend had just stood.

[althea-p]

Telemachus always slept as if he had been tossed into a ravine while sitting on a diphros stool, tumbling head over heels down the slope. One of his legs was casually flung across his companion's side, the other stretched out like a taut line, but with his foot twisted at a forty-five-degree angle—as if in his sleep he were trying to replicate the curve of a ship's bow. His left arm was thrown behind his head and hung limply, his fingers brushing the ground. His head was thrown back so far that his Adam's apple jutted out like a sharp promontory. His mouth was slightly open, and from it trickled a thin, glistening trail of drool, catching the light of the dying embers of the fire.

Peisistratus endured this outrage every single night. Hard was the life on campaign with the carefree prince of Ithaca, when Peisistratus himself slept on his side, Spartan-style, with his knees slightly drawn up—a posture that even a spear-strike would not disturb—one hand tucked under his head and the other resting on his sword at his belt, so that at any moment, in case of attack, he could defend himself and his travelling companion. Telemachus snorted in his sleep.

Telemachus's heel, twisted at that forty-five-degree angle, made its usual nightly forced march and landed with a dull thud square on Peisistratus's cheekbone. The son of Nestor flinched as if struck by a spear, but he did not cry out—only exhaled through his teeth and habitually grabbed the other's ankle to remove it from his face.

"Yes..." Telemachus mumbled drowsily, without opening his eyes, and rolled onto his back, simultaneously attempting to drive his heel into his companion's ear. "Mhm... so we're already in Sparta..."

Peisistratus was silent, wearing the expression of a man who had survived the siege of Troy ten times in a row. He pushed the leg aside. He rubbed his cheek, where a red imprint from the other's heel was already beginning to form, and gazed with longing at his sword. The temptation was great—simply to press the blade against the sleeper's throat and quietly but clearly explain what xenia meant, in the understanding of the son of Nestor. But Peisistratus had been raised better.

Instead, he rose, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and sat down, staring at the prince of Ithaca. Telemachus slept with absolute trust in the world, as if Athena herself held her invisible shield above him. His left hand had slipped off his bedding and was now tracing unknown patterns on the earth with his fingers. His mouth opened a little wider, and the trickle of drool, glinting in the light of the dying fire, connected his chin to the ground in a thin but sturdy thread.

"Zeus the Thunderer," Peisistratus whispered, addressing the gods rather than the sleeper. "Why? How have I angered you? I ate garlic in moderation and did not taunt the bulls. And why must I have this heel-demon every night?"

Telemachus snorted and, with a start, suddenly sat bolt upright. His eyes flew open but were utterly vacant—he was still asleep, yet already in motion. He stretched out his arm, grabbed Peisistratus by the knee, and squeezed hard, clearly mistaking it for an oar on a ship.

"Row," Telemachus said with an utterly serious face. "Row, I tell you! Athena said—only forward! We've almost reached home!"

"We're in Laconia," Peisistratus replied quietly and calmly, carefully freeing his knee. "On dry land. And you, O light of my eyes, were just now sleeping face-down on my pillow."

Telemachus blinked once, twice, then smiled that serene smile that made one want to weep with helplessness—and collapsed back onto his bedding. This time he landed with his elbow squarely in Peisistratus's gut.

The son of Nestor grunted, doubled over for a moment, and then, at last, gave in. Slowly, with a sense of duty fulfilled in the name of hospitality, he shifted the other's elbow onto his own shoulder, adjusted Telemachus's head so that it would not press on his liver, and heaved a heavy sigh.

"When I return to Pylos," he whispered into the darkness, "I shall ask my father to build a temple in honour of Hypnos, and I will offer sacrifices every day, so that this sleeping wretch might at least once appear to you in a dream as a sober and motionless olive log, and not as this... octopus."

In response to his words, Telemachus smacked his lips contentedly and threw his leg across Peisistratus's chest, clearly continuing to row toward Ithaca in his sleep. Peisistratus closed his eyes and resolved to resist no longer. He simply imagined that it was not a leg but a warm blanket, and that tomorrow would surely bring a day when Telemachus would wake up and, perhaps, at least apologise.

But Peisistratus knew: Telemachus would not apologise. Because the prince of Ithaca never remembered his nocturnal exploits. And so tomorrow he would say again: "How did you sleep, friend? I heard some noise—were we ambushed?"

And Peisistratus would say again: "No, Telemachus. All is quiet. Sleep, I'll keep watch."

[althea-p]

The din of battle had died down about an hour ago, but the camp still hummed like a disturbed beehive. Beyond the tent flaps came the groans of wounded warriors and the neighing of horses. Someone was giving orders, someone else was weeping over a fallen comrade or brother. The air was thick with the smell of iron, sweat, and scorched grass—burned to keep flies away from open wounds.

The prisoners scurried about, fetching wine and clean rags. Machaon was issuing instructions to the slaves and bandaging the wounded. Warriors dragged their comrades on their backs. Patroclus moved like a driven horse—heavy-footed, stumbling over stones, but never stopping.

On his back he carried Achilles, from whose shoulder protruded an arrow with a barbed head, and every movement made the shaft tremble, while the belly of his armor bore a deep dent. Achilles jerked, trying to break free, and Patroclus tensed, holding him steady.

"Put me down on the ground..." Achilles exhaled, his voice breaking as Patroclus stepped over an abandoned shield. "I'm a demigod, after all..."

"Shut up. A chariot ran into you, but no: 'Patroclus, leave me,' 'Patroclus, I'm a demigod'—and now what? Broken ribs and an arrow to top it off. And now you're lying on my back like a sack of grain."

At the tent flap they noticed Briseis, who had been about to leave, carrying only pieces of clean cloth and a jug of wine. Patroclus stumbled into the tent, bending under the weight of his burden. He dumped Achilles off his back onto a rough sheepskin rug, as if he really were a sack of grain.

The fair-haired man howled—more from outrage than pain. He cursed under his breath and struck the rug with the fist of his good hand.

"Be more careful..." Achilles hissed, trying to sit up. Patroclus was already standing at the entrance, looking back at the chaos surging beyond the flap.

"I don't have time to nurse you," Patroclus threw over his shoulder, with the tone of a man carrying half an army on his own. "There are countless wounded, and Machaon only has two hands."

Stepping out of the tent, he said loudly:

"Briseis, bandage his wounds."

"You're joking," Achilles said quietly, but his voice rang like a bowstring before a shot. And Achilles himself was seized by an agitation he didn't quite understand. No, he certainly wasn't afraid. He feared nothing. Probably. "You're serious? You're leaving me, wounded, with her?"

He got no answer. Patroclus walked out in silence. He dissolved into the bustle, and his voice merged into the tangle of other sounds.

The tent flap swayed, and she entered. Her steps were silent, tangled curls falling over her shoulders. In one hand she held clean cloth, in the other a clay bowl filled with dark, thick wine. Briseis stepped forward, then another step. She came close and sat down, placing the bowl beside her without asking permission and without meeting his eyes. Her dark gaze slid to the arrow jutting from his shoulder. The blood had already crusted around the shaft but still oozed, running down his arm to his fingertips, mingling with sweat and grime.

In her eyes there was neither pity nor compassion, only cold appraisal and a lack of interest.

"I'll remove it. Don't flinch," she said flatly.

She reached for his shoulder, and at that moment something inside Achilles exploded.

"Keep your hands off me, woman!" he roared. His voice was so loud that someone beyond the flap started. "Patroclus! Call Machaon! I am the king of Phthia! I am a demigod! Son of Peleus! I—"

She had no intention of stopping.

His cry struck her ears like a wave against a cliff. Briseis's hand didn't waver. She abruptly grasped the shaft with her right hand, pressed her left palm flat against his shoulder to brace the wound, and yanked.

A wet, sucking crunch rang out—the sound of raw flesh tearing. The barbed head ripped through muscle, snagging on every fiber like a jagged hook on a fish. Achilles was no longer shouting but had clenched his teeth and hissed from the sharp pain, like a wounded beast. A muffled sob escaped his lips, but no tears came from his eyes.

Bright red blood gushed forth. Thick and warm, it spread over his shoulder, leaving a dark trail. The hide beneath him darkened, soaking up the moisture and the smell of iron mingled with sweat and the scent of the herbs burning at the entrance.

Briseis wasted no time. She took the bowl of wine while he hissed and clenched his fists, dipped a sponge into it, and her fingers—without a single tremor—got to work. The wine gurgled, mixing with the blood into a murky slurry. Dark flakes coagulated on the surface of his skin, which Briseis wiped away with a piece of clean cloth. The smell of vinegar hit his nostrils. She washed the wound, cleansing away the grime the arrow had carried in, and did it as if she'd been doing this all her life.

She poured honey over the wound, laid on fresh linen, pressing it firmly with her palm. Briseis's fingers, still damp with wine, slid across his skin. Achilles felt their warmth—a contrast to the cold metal and the burning of the wound. She tied the knot—neatly and evenly.

"Done," she said, leaning back. "Don't strain your arm now. Call me if it festers."

She rose, gathered the soiled cloth and the empty bowl. Briseis had already turned and was heading for the exit when his voice stopped her:

"You..."

She paused.

"Why are you so calm?" Achilles's voice came out hoarse.

"What should I do? Cry?" she replied flatly. "Right now, you can barely move. All you can do is scream like a wounded boar, and I can only leave so I don't have to hear your shouting."

"Don't forget that I can make it so you never see the light again," he said, and his voice took on the steel he usually used to frighten enemies. "Do you think I can't hurt you?"

"If you wanted to, you would have done it long ago."

"Get out!" Achilles shouted, and there was such despair in his voice that Briseis froze for a moment. She didn't move from the spot, and that was the last straw. He grabbed the first thing within reach—the clay bowl she had brought the wine in. The vessel whistled through the air and shattered against the post by her shoulder. Briseis flinched. She jerked, but she didn't run.

She looked into his eyes, but saw no rage or anger there—perhaps sympathy, so strong that it was unbearable, and its object made you want to strangle them. And that was more frightening than any threat. The flap swayed and fell, and all that remained of Briseis was the scent of herbs and olive oil—warm and earthy. In her presence, he had always been a demigod, an enemy, and simply a capricious youth who got away with everything. Now that she was gone, Achilles could finally exhale. Finally relax and drop his shoulders. And before whom had he been playing this absurd role? Before himself?

Inside him seethed a raging maelstrom that kept surging up with thick foam in his mind, flooding everything: his pride and his accustomed certainty.

The smell of herbs and oil gradually faded, mingling with the familiar iron and sweat. A thought flickered through his head—that he couldn't remember what a smile looked like on Briseis's face. "Had she ever smiled?" Unlikely. Maybe even before captivity she was one of those whose smile you had to fight for.

The sea smelled of salt and seaweed. The heavy, damp air tangled in her dark curls, mingling with the smell of blood that had seeped into the folds of her faded yellow peplos. She sat on the shore, her back against a boulder, gazing at the dark water. Wave after wave rolled toward each other slowly and lazily, making a pleasant sound, as if the war had nothing to do with them. Briseis's shoulders relaxed, and her chest fell as she released the air along with the tension. In the camp, she usually held herself steady—no fear, no anger. Nothing that might provoke. Now she could allow herself to close her eyes.

Her toes touched the damp sand—cool and fine, still holding the last warmth of the day. She dug her fingers into it, clenching. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them. Her curly mane hid her face, and longing trickled down her cheek in a thin salty trail.

Once, in childhood, she had run along this shore, splashing water in all directions while her brothers and sisters shrieked with joy, laughing loudly and freely, while her mother, standing on the beach, called out for her not to go too far.

A wave licking her toes pulled her from her thoughts. Briseis didn't move. She stayed still, feeling the water wash over her skin, carrying away the grains of sand, leaving emptiness between her toes.

"You fool... Though I'm no better," her lips whispered.

[althea-p]

It feels like Robin Hood is about to jump out of the bushes at any moment😭😭😭

[althea-p]

[epic-cycle-hcs]

Ctimene looks like Anticlea but is a daddy's girl and Odysseus looks like Laertes but is a mama's boy

Cute!

[althea-p]

So cute😻

[epic-cycle-hcs]

Ctimene looks like Anticlea but is a daddy's girl and Odysseus looks like Laertes but is a mama's boy

Cute!

[althea-p]

Illustration for my text about Helen

[althea-p]

Aphrodite

[7pleiades7]

Perseus and Andromeda (1891) by Sir Frederic Leighton (British, 1830 – 1896), oil on canvas, 2,350 mm (92.51 in) x 1,292 mm (50.86 in), Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool

[althea-p]

"Three Days in Babylon"

Alexander had not drunk wine for several days. That was the strangest thing to happen at court in recent years—ordinarily, he drank often. He lay on his couch, covered up to his chin, and trembled—finely, ceaselessly, so that his teeth chattered and his fingers clutched at the silk.

"Bring wine," he ordered hoarsely. The voice was unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. "Cold. A lot of it."

The physician brought a cup. Alexander seized it with both hands, but his fingers would not obey—the cup fell with a clatter to the floor, the wine spreading across the purple fabric like a dark stain, like blood.

"You're shaking," said Ptolemy, standing in the doorway. "You never shook."

"I'm cold! Cold!" Alexander snapped back. "I'm freezing, like... like..."

He did not finish. His teeth clenched again and began to chatter, no matter how he tried to stifle the sound. His body arched, and he groaned—low, drawn-out, like a wounded beast.

Ptolemy approached. Touched his forehead. Drew back.

"He's burning," he told the physician. "Do something!"

The physician spread his hands. He had the look of a man who already knew the sentence.

"The king has drunk too much," he said quietly. "Days and nights. Months. His body cannot cope with the wine. And now on top of that, fever. I cannot..."

"You can," Ptolemy cut in. "You can do anything! Or I'll cut off your head and put a man in your place who can."

He was not joking. The physician paled but said nothing.

Alexander, meanwhile, was staring at the ceiling and whispering:

"Hephaestion... are you here? I can smell... the scent... like in Mieza after rain... Cypresses... Did you bring water?"

No one answered. Ptolemy lowered his head and stepped out into the corridor, so as not to hear the sick man's ravings.

On the second day, the delirium worsened. Alexander thrashed on his couch.

By morning, Alexander had stopped recognizing faces. He looked at Perdiccas and called him Philip—his father's name. He looked at the torches and said the stars had descended too low, that the fresco on the wall was the Moon.

"I'm sailing," he said, lying on his back and moving his arms as if rowing. "The water is warm. Red. Like wine. I'm sailing, and you... you're standing on the shore and laughing. Why are you laughing? I'm drowning, Hephaestion!"

He screamed—so loudly that the guards outside started. His body arched, his spine lifting off the couch, his mouth opening in a silent cry. Then he fell back, spent, and grew still.

"Water," he whispered. "Cold water. The kind from the stream. Remember? We sat by the water, and you said... you said I was too loud. That I scared away the fish. And I laughed so hard... Loud..."

He smiled into the darkness, then his face twisted in a grimace of pain. His hand jerked, reaching for someone else's palm. Found only air. Clenched.

"Don't go..." he whispered. "Don't go, I beg you! I don't want to be alone!"

The physician approached, put a spoonful of brew into his mouth. Alexander spat it out and coughed. Turned his head toward the wall and said no more.

Only once, already toward midnight, he said distinctly, clearly, as in his youth:

"You were right. About everything."

And fell silent.

On the third day, he lay motionless. His chest rose faintly with each breath, his eyelashes fluttered. His whisper drifted through the room.

Perdiccas merely watched and listened to Alexander's voice, his head bowed. When the whisper ceased, he walked out, leaving the cold body on the couch.

Outside, the sun blazed down, the heat relentless. The city hummed with noise.