PreYandere!Prince was completely blinded by his own narrative. He fancied himself a tragic hero, a romantic rebel forced by his kingdom into an arranged marriage with you, while his "true love," a beautiful, sweet-natured court lady, was forced to watch from the sidelines. He decided from day one that you were the villain of his story, a parasitic royal who was actively stealing his freedom, and he treated you with absolute, freezing contempt.
You tried so hard in the beginning. You brought him his favorite tea during his strategy meetings, learned the history of his duchy, and genuinely tried to bridge the gap between you two. But he didn't just ignore you; he made sure everyone else knew you were unloved. Whenever you spoke to him in public, he would look right through you, turning his back to talk to his court lady instead, leaving you standing alone under the whispers of the entire aristocracy.
The cruelty escalated when he started letting his circle of high-ranking friends join in on the torment. At royal banquets, other princes and princesses would snicker and trip you as you walked past, or "accidentally" spill glasses of red wine and cold water down your elaborate robes. You would look to your fiancé for help, but he would just sit on his lounge chair, swirling his drink, a bored, cold smirk on his face. "You should look where you are going," he’d mutter, completely apathetic to your humiliation.
The turning point happened at a grand ball. After a princess purposely stepped on the train of your dress, causing the fabric to rip and sending you crashing to the marble floor in front of foreign dignitaries, you looked up through your tears at him. He didn't offer a hand. He just looked disgusted by the "scene" you were making. That was the exact moment something inside you snapped. You realized you were bleeding yourself dry for a man who enjoyed watching you suffer.
You didn't cry on the carriage ride back. You went straight to your father, the King, knelt before his throne, and begged him to cancel the engagement. You confessed everything: the bullying, the public humiliation, the total lack of respect. Your father was absolutely furious. The political alliance was instantly severed, and a formal declaration was sent to the prince’s kingdom, effectively cutting off all ties and declaring that you were completely free from him.
The day the alliance was dissolved, PreYandere!Prince thought he won. He finally had his "true love" sitting right next to him at his private tea table, no longer hidden in the shadows. But as the hours ticked by, a sickening, hollow feeling started to settle in his chest. His court lady was speaking to him, smiling her usual sweet smile, but he couldn't focus on a single word she was saying. His eyes kept darting to the empty chair across from him the chair where you used to sit, quietly enduring his coldness just to be near him.
The regret sets in like a slow-acting poison, and it’s quickly twisting into a dark, unhinged obsession. He goes to the training grounds, but you aren't there waiting with a towel. He walks the palace corridors, but there are no clumsy, anxious footsteps trying to keep pace with his. He sits through a boring council meeting, and for the first time, no one brings him his specific tea. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying spike in his pulse, that your warmth wasn't an annoyance it was the only thing keeping his cold world alive. And he threw it away.
PreYandere!Prince tries to find comfort in his "true love," but the illusion has completely shattered. When she spills a drink by accident, his mind instantly flashes back to the way he watched people pour water on you, and a wave of violent, nauseating guilt hits him so hard he has to leave the room. He doesn't want her anymore. He doesn't care about his rebellion. His mind is completely consumed by the memory of your tear-filled eyes looking up at him from the ballroom floor. The yandere switch is officially flipping; he doesn't care that the marriage is cancelled, and he doesn't care that you hate him. He is going to get you back, even if he has to drag your kingdom into a war to do it.
Yandere!Prince completely loses his mind the second he realizes your absence isn't temporary. The cold, empty silence of his palace drives him into a frantic panic. Within forty-eight hours of the engagement being canceled, he sits at his desk and begins writing. He doesn't just send an apology; he sends three letters a day, every single day, bypassing the standard royal couriers and hiring private, high-speed riders just to force his words into your palace.
The content of his letters shifts from desperate apologies to unhinged, possessive gaslighting. He completely rewrites history in his head. He writes pages upon pages detailing how the bullying was just a "test" of your devotion, or how he was only being cold to "protect you from political enemies." He will write things like, "I only let them spill that water so I could see how gracefully you would handle adversity, my love. You must understand that it was all out of adoration."
Yandere!Prince treats your lack of a response as a playful game of hide-and-seek rather than a total rejection. When your father’s royal guards intercept his letters and burn them, he just sends more through black-market contacts or smugglers. He begins attaching expensive, rare gifts to the wax-sealed envelopes—antique jewelry, your favorite tea leaves from foreign lands, and vials of his own cologne so you "don't forget his scent." He writes, "I know you are just hurting right now, but a princess should not keep her future king waiting for too long."
Yandere!Prince "true love" has completely discarded the court lady and now terrifies her. She tries to comfort him or sit at his desk, but he will literally snap at her, his eyes wild and bloodshot as he shoves her away to continue writing to you. He looks at her and feels nothing but disgust because she isn't you. If she speaks, he tells her to be quiet because he "needs to concentrate on making amends with his real spouse."
Yandere!Prince starts sending letters directly to your father, the King, offering insane, highly unfavorable political concessions just to get the marriage contract back on the table. He offers to give up disputed territories, pay massive tributes, and sign away his own kingdom's rights to its resources. His own councilors think he has lost his mind, but he doesn't care about his kingdom anymore. He tells his father, "If we do not secure this alliance, there will be no kingdom left to rule, because I will burn it down myself."
The letters get progressively darker and more threatening as the weeks go by without a reply. The elegant cursive font becomes messy, frantic, and stained with drops of ink (and sometimes his own tears). He starts tracking your daily routine through spies he placed in your kingdom, writing things that prove he’s watching you: "I saw that you wore the blue silk dress to the garden yesterday. It suits you, but it would look better on the balcony of my estate. Do not make me come drag you back myself, my sweet."
Yandere!Prince final letters stop asking for the marriage to continue and start stating it as an absolute, terrifying fact. He writes to you with the chilling certainty of a man who has completely detached from reality. "The priests have already set the date. The chapel is being decorated with your favorite lilies. Your father thinks a piece of paper canceled our souls, but you belong to me. Pack your things, my love. I am coming to collect my bride, and no army on earth is going to stand in my way."
"I know you are just hurting right now, but a princess should not keep her future king waiting for too long."
"I am coming to collect my bride, and no army on earth is going to stand in my way."
This is so good!? Enemies to lovers, except she doesn't want him and he's obsessed.
He's so going to get her back with a whole army, ready to destroy whatever gets in his way and I love it.
Summary: One day Earving leaves and a stranger comes back wearing his suit.
(implied kidnapping, non con touching, yandere, dark content, delusional behavior, i had this idea since the fourth season came out and im finally able to put it on paper so sorry if this doesnt make sense i wrote this all in 20 minutes, takes place before after s3 but before s4)
You know he’s back from the dull thump right outside.
It’s the longest he’s been gone, you muse to yourself while you hear the keys jingle through the door. A little more than a month, if you counted the days right. Usually, his missions were barely a week or two long before he was right next to you, silently staring and watching.
You’ve been with Earving for years now. You should be used to it. And yet, it takes a while to calm down your heartbeat and settle your nerves. You silently practice your smile as his footsteps get closer and closer.
Despite your unease, you were glad he came back. You were starting to run out of food.
The front door gives a dull creak and heavy footsteps echo across wooden floors. You fix your hair and prepare to step out and greet him. You already know what’s about to happen. He’s going to stare and not speak and stare and stare. For the rest of the evening, you will feel eyes rake down your back and your skin and you will pretend it will be fine like always.
You step out of the bedroom and into the living room. Earving is standing, fully masked as always, delicately holding a scarf you’d left out the day prior. He looks like he’s seeing it for the first time even though he was the one who gifted it to you.
He jolts at your voice.
“Welcome back–”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Five minutes later, you’re starting to piece together this Black Noir isn’t Earving.
Even before he spoke, you should have seen the signs. He’s usually so quiet when he comes inside, you barely hear footsteps before he’s right next to you. He never jolts or flinches or sways. Earving’s movements are often robotic and machine-like.
The talking however, is the biggest giveaway.
“-So, this guy lives in some creepy-ass bunker and he also has some random living with him, too? The lack of direction in this role. I’m telling you.”
You quietly sit on the sofa as Not-Earving paces around the living room. You hadn’t spoken, partially because you were trying to figure things out yourself and why this Not-Earving was in the role your captor once had.
“You’re an actor?” You finally decided on. It was the first thing you pieced together from his ramblings.
He pauses his pacing. You can feel him stare at you through the mask. Instinctively, you shift your eyes down.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally says, seeming to calm down. “Vought hired me to replace him but…I gotta’ be honest. The more I learn about the guy, the more confused I get and–hold on do you mind if I–”
He pulls off his mask with a relieved sigh.
You stare. You didn’t mean to stare. You couldn’t help himself. Earving was always so secretive of his face. He never took off his mask, not even with you. Some nights, when the lights were off and you were half-asleep, you swear the face pressed into your neck was unclothed and marred on one side–like a bad burn.
“That’s so much better,” he says. “No idea how anyone breathed in that thing. I still can’t believe they made me cover up my face. It’s the money-maker.”
He was handsome. You couldn’t deny it. If you saw him in the street, you might have wanted to track him down and beg for his phone number. You wondered if Earving was that type of handsome.
“Do you know what happened to him?” You ask. “To Earving, I mean.”
He looks at you. “That’s his name?” He makes a face. “I didn’t even know he had a name. Everything about this guy is a complete mystery. No one told me why he lives in a Dojo apartment at Vought. Is he Japanese? Am I supposed to learn Japanese?”
“It was a marketing tactic,” you find yourself saying, “Vought thought his brand would be more cohesive, with the suit and all that.”
You used to live at the Vought apartment, in the beginning. You should have appreciated how nice you had it back then. It was a cage, just like this bunker, but you had a semblance of freedom. You would see hints of people that weren’t just your captor. The city would glow right underneath you. Earving moved you when Homelander complained about hearing you cry through the walls at night.
Compared to the apartment, the bunker is plainer, sparser. It’s like an empty dorm that hasn’t been decorated yet. Plain and sterile and so much like Noir once acted.
The Noir II stares at you. You fiddle with your thumbs.
“You know a lot about this guy,” he says. “Tell me about him. What’s he like? What are his hobbies? What does he do for fun?”
“What?” You say, dumbly.
“I have no idea who this guy is.” He complained. “I need some type of guidance–something to know I’m doing the role justice.”
You want to ask for his help. You want to ask him to get that chip Earving put in your neck all those years ago. You want to ask him to call the police.
When you glance down, you see the dagger Earving liked to play with strapped right on Noir II hip. It was bloody.
You swallow.
“Okay. I…okay.”
~
Noir II was more punctual than Earving.
He was typically back in the evenings, unlike his predecessor, who’d often spend nights away. Perhaps it’s because Noir II wasn’t a trained assassin sent around the globe to carry out Vought’s dirty work.
That thought gave you more relief. If he was a lot less dangerous than Earving, you shouldn’t be as afraid, then.
Noir II was more friendly. This should be easier then, right? Noir II was constantly talking and talking, and he consistently said he got berated for it by the other Supes. He was nicer.
Truth be told, you tried to have this discussion with him numerous times. Each time you’d try, your words would fail, your throat would simmer back in your chest. Noir II would talk about how annoying Ashley was or how he hated the newest team up and you would sit there and nod.
A part of you tried to dismiss his avoidance of the topic as obliviousness. Maybe he genuinely didn’t realize what was happening? Maybe he didn’t know you were here against your will? He never once asked what Earving was doing keeping you down here, if you wanted to go outside. After all, it’s not like you were kept in chains or screaming for help.
Yeah, he was just oblivious. You’d talk to him about it, today.
You wouldn’t fumble around anymore. Tonight would be the last night you stayed in this damn bunker.
“I really gotta’ thank you,” Noir II says later that night. “I think I’m finally reaching a breakthrough to really get this character.”
His mask was off, but he was in his usual black armor as he talked to you. You were in the kitchen, working on dinner. Earving preferred less strenuous foods. Plain, for nourishment only. Canned beans, slightly stale bread. Something he can eat and get energy from.
Noir II liked richer foods. Some days, he’d bring home pizza or take out. He brought groceries on other days. You were able to play around with fresh fruit and vegetables rather than canned food and nearly expired bread.
It is a nice gesture, but you want to buy your own groceries and make your own purchases.
You want to go home.
You steel your nerves and place down the knife. The onion rests on the cutting board, abandoned.
“Seriously,” he continues, “Homelander hasn’t yelled at me in like…a month. That’s crazy.”
You feign a smile.
“I’m glad,” you respond, “I’m…happy things worked out for you.”
He's saying something about how he finally worked things out with upper management, when you can’t hold back any longer.
“Noir?” You ask. It felt wrong on your tongue.
“Justin.” You speak his real name. He stills at your voice.
You adjust your shoulder, baring your neck.
“There’s this…chip right below my neck.” You weren’t awake when Earving put it in, but you could feel it in the weeks after. Even your body knew how foreign it was. “It shocks me if I get close to the door. Could you maybe…remove it?”
He says nothing. For once, you’re the one rambling.
“If you can’t, then…could you call my family? The police? Or–or maybe the people at Vought. I’ll sign as many NDAs as they want me to. I’ll never breathe a word about this. I just…I just want to leave. Please?”
You could almost taste it on your tongue. Freedom was a door away, and Noir–Justin could make it happen for you. He wasn’t like Earving, he wasn’t like—
“Why?”
His head was tilted like a child with idle curiosity watching an ant.
Something dies inside your chest. Your smile becomes more forced.
You give a helpless shrug. “I want to leave,” you finally say the words out loud, “I want to go home back to my family. I–I don’t even think they know if I’m alive. Just…”
He cracks his neck. You can hear the pop, clear as day inside the still and silent bunker.
“But, why?” He repeats. “Things are going so well for us right now. My career is skyrocketing. People love our act.”
“Act?” You repeat. “But–but I’m not acting this is–”
Kidnapping, torture, dehumanization. Whatever words you wanted to say died in your throat the moment he took his first step to you. Then another. Then another. You’re forced to press up against the counter, shrinking against him.
He’s taller than Earving. Not by much, but it’s easier to see when he’s inches away from you like this. A gloved hand–Earving’s gloves– reaches out to softly touch your face, tracing the side of your cheek.
“Back at God U, my favorite performing arts professor had this really neat trick to get us warmed up. He told us to have a thing that kept us grounded, but something your character would also keep. It could be an eraser, an action figure. I think for me…that thing is you.”
Your vision blurred, but you think he started to smile.
“I think you were that thing to him, too. I mean, why else would he keep you? This shithole has nothing but a few drawings and then..you. That’s got to mean something, right? I think it does.”
You can hear your heartbeat. It pounds through his ears. You wonder if he can hear it too. You wonder if he can see every emotion flickering through your eyes as you silently plead him to let you go.
“I think I’m starting to get it now.” Fingers trace down to your throat. A thumb pressure just below where the chip would be. “I think…I’m really starting to get it.”
There’s a hitched breath before he’s turning away. He shakes his head with a laugh. You remain in your position, curled up in the counter as you stare at him.
“Fuck.” He curses, but he doesn’t sound upset. “We messed up the scene.”
“The scene…?” You ask, warily.
“I’m not supposed to speak, remember?” He reminds you. “And you aren’t supposed to call me that name.”
Black Noir dons his mask, straightening it across his face. He backs away.
if infinite monkeys on typewriters will eventually write shakespeare then surely 100 million americans with pistols will eventually successfully assassinate the us president
Every time your thoughts started to form, they spiraled— fast, sharp, and unforgiving— straight into you are not in your world anymore and you gave yourself Superman powers like an absolute idiot.
So, you didn’t think. You just breathed, slow and steady, like that might somehow anchor you in place.
“This is fine,” you said out loud, because apparently saying it made it more believable. “People wake up in alternate realities all the time. Totally normal. Happens every—“
Your reflection moved.
You froze mid-sentence, your body going rigid as your eyes slowly drifted toward the wardrobe mirror across the room. There you were— standing exactly where you should be with that ‘deer-in-headlights’ look— but something about it felt… off.
“… that’s not right…”
You took a cautious step closer, as if the mirror might betray you if you moved too quickly.
It didn’t, just like the floor didn’t crack when you moved. Still, better safe than sorry.
The mirror just stood there, reflecting you back with quiet, unwavering honesty.
Except… it wasn’t quite you.
You were taller. Not dramatically so, but enough that it threw everything off. Your eye level sat higher than it should be, your proportions just slightly stretched in a way that made you feel like you’d been shifted half an inch out of alignment.
Your shoulders were broader, too. Your posture naturally straighter, like your body had decided slouching was no longer something it tolerated.
Which was something you dreaded if you were to pull off the whole ‘Clark Kent’ persona thing—
You looked stronger.
Not bulky, or exaggerated— just built.
Like every part of you had been refined into something sturdier, something denser. Something that could take a hit and keep standing.
For the second time in an only a few minutes, your stomach dropped straight out of your ass.
“Oh my god, I got buff.”
Your hands came up immediately, patting at your arms, your sides, your waist, like you were checking to make sure everything was still attached properly.
Spoiler alert: you were not pulled apart and put back together again like some sort of Frankenstein experiment. Your nose shape was still the same, your lips still had the same pull as before, shit— even your hip dips remained!
Still, it was unnerving to see all these familiar features on an unfamiliar body.
Everything felt solid (R.I.P to the soft pudge on your stomach, you will be missed). Real. Warm beneath your touch.
“…Okay,” you said faintly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Okay, that’s— fine. That’s fine, I can work with this. I can—“
Something brushed against your brow.
You stilled.
And finally, your gaze rested on the one small thing that really drove the ‘oh-my-god-I’m-fucking-Superman’ idea home.
A single curl of hair, resting perfectly, deliberately, across your forehead.
You stared at it.
You pushed it back. It fell forward again.
You blinked, then pushed it back again, harder this time. It bounced right back into place like it had something to prove.
“No,” you said firmly, like this was the one thing you could not stand with. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I reject this. I did not sign up for branding.”
The curl, evidently, disagreed.
It stayed exactly where it was, like it paid rent.
After a stunted pause where you had to heavily resist the urge to march into the kitchen to grab a pair of scissors and snip this damn thing off—
You leaned closer to the mirror, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. “…Okay, but—“ you tilted your head slightly, studying yourself from a different angle. “—why does it kind of work?”
You straightened a little, almost unconsciously. Your shoulders squared, your posture shifted, and something about the way you held yourself changed in an instant. You plastered on a brilliantly bright smile, and— oh my god, are those dimples?!
“Hold on—“
You turned slightly, then the other way, taking yourself in from different angles. There was something undeniably different about your presence now.
Something that made even standing still feel intentional— like you occupied space in a way you never had before.
“…I mean,” you said slowly, “if I’m going to be stuck like this…”
Your gaze drifted downward as you shifted to see yourself from a side angle. A smug grin pulls at your lips once you see the buff increase also applied to your ass.
“… it could be worse.”
The moment lingered for just a second too long before your expression flattened entirely.
“Focus,” you told yourself sharply. “This is not the time to be hot and mysterious! This is the time to panic correctly.”
With that, you tore yourself away from the mirror (not without sending one last look at your behind— holy shit, even your back is ripped!) and started pacing the room. Every step was careful— you didn’t trust your own strength not to betray you if you got careless.
“Okay, so,” you muttered, ticking points off on your fingers. “New body. Super strength. Super senses. Probably the rest of the package too. That’s— great. Love that. Big fan.”
Your gaze swept the room— and then stopped.
There, sitting on a small desk near the wall, was a phone. Plugged into a charger. Completely normal. Completely out of place.
Your breath caught.
You rushed toward it, then forced yourself to slow down halfway there, visibly reining yourself in. “Careful,” you whispered under your breath. “Gentle. You are no longer allowed to run.”
A bit strict, yeah, but you can’t run (ha) the risk of accidentally slamming through the wall and giving the neighbors a fright.
You pick up the phone like it might explode.
It didn’t.
(Maybe you should stop being such a pussy and realize that not everything is going to crack under you— maybe. Hopefully.)
The screen lit up instantly. No lock screen. Not even a password.
“…Suspicious,” you muttered, eyeing the thing like Cecil-fucking-Stedman might pop out and ask threaten you to join his team. That obviously doesn’t happen so you allow yourself to relax— only slightly though, because that old man is more slick than a greased up eel—
Your thumb hovered for a moment before tapping the screen. The display flickered to life, showing the time, the battery— and then the date.
You nearly gagged at the sudden information presented before you.
February 26th, 2021.
One month before the events of Invincible start to take place. One month before Mark Grayson gets his powers. One month before Nolan Grayson murders the Guardians of the Globe and breaks the trust of everyone around him.
You’re gonna be sick.
You lean closer, as if the proximity might somehow change what you’re seeing.
It didn’t.
The date remained exactly the same. One month before everything.
Your thoughts came too fast now, tumbling over each other.
Cities reduced to rubble.
Blood stained concrete.
That train—
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head like you could dislodge the images.
“Nope! Nope, we’re not thinking about that.”
But you already were.
Because you already knew how bad it would get. You knew who was coming, what was coming— and now you were here, with powers that practically screamed Viltrumite-Level-Threat! Might as well write it across your forehead in bright red marker.
Worst of all, you have no idea how to use your fucking powers! You’ve been dropped in this absolute hellscape with no control, no training, and absolutely no clue on what you’re supposed to do.
Your breathing quickened.
“I can’t— I can’t do this,” you muttered, your voice unsteady. “I’m not a hero, I watched this from a couch. With snacks. I didn’t sign up to—“
A sharp ping cuts through your thoughts.
You suppress the urge to send your head through the nearest wall.
The air at your right side shimmered.
“Come the fuck on—“
Light fractured across empty space, assembling itself piece by piece until the now-familiar screen snapped into existence.
But this time—
It looked different.
Not just a floating message— a full interface.
Clean lines. Structured panels. Soft glowing borders that felt less like something divine and more like something ripped straight out of a video game HUD.
Text scrolled in smoothly, accompanied by a quiet chime.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
USER SYNCHRONIZATION: Complete
POWER SET INTEGRATION: Stable
Welcome, PLAYER
You stared at the word.
“…Player?” you echoed faintly. “Oh, that’s not— no. I don’t like that. That implies mechanics. I don’t want mechanics.”
The interface did not care.
A new panel slid open to the side with a soft, satisfying click.
[PRIMARY DIRECTIVE INITIALIZED]
The text beneath it appeared one line at a time.
Objective: Establish Hero Identity
Time Limit: 30 Days
Requirements:
Gain Public Trust
Gain Recognition from Active Heroes
Achieve Positive Standing with Global Defense Agency
Your pulse spiked.
“…Excuse me?!”
Another line appeared.
Failure Condition:
Classification as Unregistered Threat.
Silence filled the room.
Your mouth opened slightly.
Closed.
Opened again.
“Oh, so you’re not even pretending this is optional.”
A soft ding responded as another panel slid into place.
[DAILY QUEST: HEROIC ENGAGEMENT]
Description: A hero is defined by action. Passive observation will result in failure.
Objectives:
Intervene in 1 Civilian Incident (0/1)
Prevent Property Damage or Injury (0/1)
Maintain Controlled Use of Power (0/1)
Optional Bonus:
Positive Civilian Reaction Recorded (0/1)
Rewards:
+1 Reputation (Local)
+1 Control
System Guidance Unlocked
Failure Penalty:
Negative Reputation Modifier
Increased Surveillance Risk
You blinked at the screen.
“…You want me to go outside?”
[CONFIRMED]
“…And do hero work.”
[CONFIRMED]
You let out a short, breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “In the Invincible universe. The one where people get obliterated. That’s the one you picked.”
The interface remained perfectly still.
Unbothered.
Unmoved by your plight.
Your hand slices through the air, the screen only flickering briefly in response. Your lips curl up in a snarl as you continuously try to swipe the screen away, the words remaining unchanged.
Your other hand came up, swiping harder, more frantic. Again. Again. Again.
“Go away—!”
Your voice broke completely now, rising with panic as you tried to shove it aside, to push it out of your space, your life.
“Stop it— just— stop!”
Your hands cut uselessly through light.
The interface didn’t move.
Didn’t even react.
[QUEST TRACKING ACTIVE]
“STOP!”
The shout tore itself free from your throat, raw and desperate, echoing off of the walls.
Silence.
Your arms dropped.
The fight drained out of your body like someone had pulled a plug.
You stood there for a second longer, shaking, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges as tears spilled over before you could stop them.
“I’m not— I’m not supposed to be here…”
That was the worst part.
Not the powers.
Not the System.
Not even the month.
The quiet, suffocating realization that everything familiar was gone.
Your home.
Your life.
Your mom.
Even the person in the mirror didn’t feel like you anymore.
“I don’t even—,” your breath stuttered, shoulders starting to shake as you pressed a hand to your face, trying and failing to hold it together. “This isn’t my body…”
The words came out in a broken whisper.
“I don’t— this isn’t mine.”
Your knees gave out before you really registered it.
You sank to the floor hard, catching yourself just enough not to crack the tile beneath you, curling in on yourself like you could somehow make all of this smaller.
Manageable.
It didn’t work.
Tears slipped freely now, hot and relentless. Your breathing uneven as panic bled into every inhale you took.
Fear.
You were scared.
“I don’t want to do this,” you whimpered, the words barely audible even to your sensitive ears. “Why me?”
The question hung in the air.
Your fingers curled weakly against the floor, your body still trembling as everything finally set in all at once— the reality, the responsibility, the impossible expectation sitting just inches from your face in the form of that damned screen.
It didn’t care.
Of course it didn’t.
It just hovered there.
Patient.
Waiting.
[OBJECTIVE REMAINS ACTIVE]
“…Yeah,” you whispered hoarsely, tears still slipping down your face. You make no move to wipe them away, your hollow gaze fixed on the glowing screen. “Of course it does.”
You let your head fall forward to rest against your arm, eyes squeezing shut like that might block it all out.
It didn’t…
Nothing did.
After a while— seconds, minutes, you didn’t know— your breathing started to slow. Not steady, your throat still caught every so often.
Just… less jagged.
You didn’t get back up.
Didn’t argue again.
Didn’t try to swipe the screen away.
You just laid there on the floor, feeling small in a body that felt too strong for you, staring at nothing as the weight of everything settled in.
You didn’t bother denying it anymore— this was real, and no amount of screaming or crying was going to change that.
═══════
The System had the decency to let you wallow in self pity for another half hour. You stayed slumped on the floor, your tears having dried out a while ago. A petulant pout stuck itself to your face as your body trembled just enough to remind you that you were still alive.
You let yourself breathe, small, shaky breaths, trying to convince yourself that the world hadn’t completely collapsed— just your personal world, your body, your future.
A sharp ding cut through the quiet.
You raised your head, fully prepared to cuss the System out for interrupting your little pity party.
The HUD glimmered again, impossibly bright in the dim room.
[SIDE QUEST ASSIGNED]
Your stomach lurched.
Objective: Prepare for Your First Day at the Daily Planet
Description: You are to integrate into your designated occupation to establish a cover identity.
Requirements:
Don professional attire suitable for office duties.
Arrive at workplace before 9:00AM
Maintain composure during first interactions with colleagues
Rewards:
+Reputation (Local)
+Public Recognition
+ [DAILY PLANET] Fondness
Your jaw dropped.
The world snapped into sharp focus. Your pity party evaporated instantly, mind racing as adrenaline floods your veins.
“No, no, no, no, no!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet. The room seemed impossibly small all of a sudden, furniture threatening to block your path as you made a mad dash towards the wardrobe.
Your hands gripped the glass knobs of the doors and flung them open, eyes darting across hangers and drawers.
Clothes. You needed clothes. Work clothes.
Your fingers flew over shirts, jackets, skirts, slacks, your mind moving faster than your body as you tried to find something professional. Fuck, you worked as a god damn librarian in your past life where the only dress code was to be dressed! You had no idea what shirt went with what skirt, or if heels are the only acceptable footwear.
You needed to find something professional, something you could survive wearing. Something that wouldn’t scream alien monstrosity disguised as human.
You yanked out a crisp white button-up and froze, staring at it. “…I… can I wear this? Is this even— does this even fit this stupid body?!”
Of course it fit.
Your new body was built differently, and the shirt clung in all the wrong—and right— places, but there was no time to freak out over it. You shoved it on, fumbling with the buttons, muttering curses under your breath the whole time.
You grabbed a blazer next, a pair of slacks, shoes— black flats that looked fairly comfortable— and tried to assemble an outfit that wouldn’t stick out too much.
All the while, the System’s screen stayed stubbornly by your side. It displayed a clock that was slowly ticking down to 9:00AM.
One hand mussed up your hair as the other adjusted the collar of the shirt for the third time in thirty seconds.
You carefully played with the strands to hide the pronounced curl that still fucking refused to blend in with the rest of it—
“Oh!”
A pair of light red glasses stared up at you innocently, like they weren’t the one thing that pulled this whole thing off. You paid no mind to how perfectly they were placed or how they fit the curve of your face— you were just happy that this whole thing might not go up in flames yet.
The System made sure to have you grab a lanyard and a briefcase, both tucked neatly by the front door.
The door slammed shut behind you as you rushed out into the hallway, almost crushing some poor guy against the wall.
“Sorry,” you called out over your shoulder, already speed-walking down the hall. “In a rush!”
The man grumbled some curses after you but you couldn’t make them out properly over the racing of your own heart.
Synopsis: You wake up in the bloody world of the Iliad, a fate you’d never wish upon your worst enemy. Though you’re desperate to go back home, being the captive of Lord Achilles makes your journey a bit harder than necessary (Dark!Iliad Isekai)
credits to @somewhatsunshiny cuz she cleared up so much stuff about the greek mythos. ty bestie youre the best<3
(Warnings: Misogyny, mentioned rape/noncon(not done to reader), reader has colored hair, kidnapping, slavery, murder, sacrifices, violence, child labor, dark content, yandere, terrible greek translation, Achilles is a bad person) You don't need to read the Iliad to read this....mostly cuz i butcher both the illiad+greek mythology
Part four: Death Song (WC: 11.3k)
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When you wake up, it all feels like a bad dream.
You never fell into a 3,000-year-old story. You were never captured and forced to witness men slay hundreds in the name of glory. A demigod with golden hair remained behind inked words and pages, unable to touch you.
Sunlight wakes you up; you probably forgot to close the blinds last night. You languish against bedsheets that oddly feel heavier than usual. It’s instinct to reach out for your phone, eager to reconnect with the rest of the globe.
Your hand remains empty, and you finally open your eyes.
The tent remains the same. Expansive and filled with armor and weapons that glint and shine with danger. Outside, you can hear the murmurs of Achaean men as they carry on their day. Your nightmare slowly ebbs back into your vision, real and just as terrifying as ever.
It takes you a minute to recognize the two figures hovering beside the mountain of pelts. They sit side by side, heads and arms resting on the bed. They were so still, you wrongly assumed they were asleep.
You gently tap Naarya’s shoulder. She startles with a jump.
Her face is a mess of snot and tears. Before you can wipe them away, she’s jumping up, hands outstretched to examine your face. Warm palms cup your face with gentleness you cannot expect from a child.
“Τραυματίας?” She calls with a scratchy voice.
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.” You respond, reaching up to rub calming circles into her wrists. “Όχι…Τραυματίας”
Her question about injuries reminds you of the pain in your feet. You ran barefoot last night, too panicked to grab shoes, too panicked to think about anything. You were reduced to the thinking of your rodent-like ancestors, running away even if it didn’t make sense, even if you ran straight into a fire, run away.
And now, you were definitely fucked.
Naarya’s crying again. You coo her into your embrace, uncaring if she dampened your chitons. She crawls into your lap, as you gently pet her hair. Beside you, Pysus’ face remains dry and grim, but her eyes are shiny. When you reach out to offer her your hand, she’s quick to grab it, almost like it’s her only lifeline.
When you go to move, something stops your legs from stretching out all the way.
Chains. Glinting metal clung to your feet. You bent your foot forward, then backward.
You reach down to touch it. It’s cool against your fingers. The chain did not budge.
You were still here, however. Stuck with the Myrmidons, not with Agamemnon and his men. It meant you were either wrong about your place in the story or someone else had taken your place.
Briseis was nowhere to be seen.
You can always count on her to say the right things to Naarya, to make the scowl on Pysus’ face brighten. All four of you were trapped here, but she always made things a tiny bit better. She made the flame's burn hurt less.
Agamemnon must have taken her when you fled, or he always had his sights on her. The method didn’t matter. She was gone now, you’d failed to escape, and the story had righted itself despite your collision.
You still want to ask, even though you already know the answer. Naarya sniffles into your shoulder as you cradle her. You lean to Pysus.
“Briseis?” You ask. “Where…?”
Pysus’s head glances down. Her voice is shaky, and she refuses to look at you.
“Νεκρός.” Her voice comes out muffled, but you hear her clearly. It’s one of the few words you recognize.
“What?” For a moment, you forget they can’t understand English.
“Pysus, what do you mean?” You demand, pushing on her shoulder. “What do you mean she’s dead?”
Pysus does not answer, even as you continue to shake her, your voice growing more and more erratic. Naarya’s cries ring in your ears.
Dead. She is dead. You clutch onto Naarya’s body. Pysus’ nails dig into your soft skin, but you hold on anyway. You should be screaming over the grief, but maybe your brain hasn’t gotten up yet.
All you can think is that death doesn’t suit Briseis.
~
With both the language barrier and the girl’s reluctance, you still don’t know the details of Briseis’ death.
It happened shortly after Agamemnon’s men took her away. There was some type of attack. Numerous men died. A handful of women died, too.
Briseis was one of them.
You just don’t understand why. You don’t remember any attack like this happening in the Iliad. It couldn’t have been you, could it? Your intrusions have been minimal at most, unless your mere existence alone was causing some kind of butterfly effect.
But things have always been off; you noticed this ever since you came into this world.
It’s as though the story was breaking somehow.
You don’t know why you’re even wondering about this. It won’t change anything. Briseis was dead, and you didn’t know how to fix that.
You wanted to at least see her body. You wanted to feel her hair one last time, see her beautiful face. Would they burn her, or was that just reserved for warriors? Would her body just be abandoned to the forest, left to rot?
You wanted to see her, but you doubt Achilles would let you have such a luxury.
You hadn’t seen the warrior at all today, something you were eternally grateful for. You can still remember the glint in his eyes as he stared down at you, hands poised, ready to strike. You thought he was going to kill you.
You aren’t sure why he didn’t.
You saw Patroclus once.
It was a few hours after the girls left, when you were still coming to terms with her being gone. He came in when you were crying, curled up on the pelts because there was nowhere else to go. There was a gentle hand on your shoulder. You startle, before your eyes lock onto soft brown eyes.
There’s no smile on his face. His face is solemn, completely blank. Out of the two men, you always thought Patroclus was the easiest to read. But maybe that wasn’t right. Achilles flares out like fire, constantly burning and boiling, but he wears his emotions right on his sleeve. Patroclus, with a softer tone, isn’t as vibrant, and maybe you read that as a clear, shallow river, instead of a murky lake.
He doesn’t say anything, not that his words would matter. He simply set down the plate he held in his arms. He was serving you, a task beneath the warrior. You know this because it was you who used to serve him.
He leaves in that same unreadable silence, and you haven’t seen him since. All his presence did was make you more anxious for the arrival of Achilles.
He is an inevitable storm. You’d never escape him, especially not now with the chain that encircles your ankle.
The chain links are thick. You can barely wrap your fingers around the width. And yet, it's as light as a feather. You can barely feel it when you’re still.
But when you rise, when you make a move towards the tent entrance, it suddenly feels like a weight is dropped on top of you. It presses itself down on your chest, halting your movements. It becomes a struggle to even breathe.
Clearly, it’s no ordinary chain.
Your mind travels to Thetis.
The mother of Achilles. The sea nymph. After he loses Briseis, Achilles goes to her in the Poem and asks her to make sure the Greeks start to lose against the Trojans, just so they know how much they need him. It couldn’t be too far off to consider that he might have asked for an extra gift.
Briseis. Even when you try not to, your mind always comes back to her.
Usually, whenever someone falls into a book they love, they try their best to change the bad outcome. They try to save everyone.
You, however, just make things worse. Achilles is even madder than before, the girls have lost their protector, and Briseis is dead. All because of you and your cowardice.
You lost Briseis, just as you lost Desmache.
You always thought Desmache was the most similar to Naarya, but really, it’s Briseis and Desmache that share the most similarities. They were both girls who held the same curiosity in their eyes when they looked at you. They were both girls who tried to reach out to your heart and understand you. They were both girls who died for it.
Desmache was the lesson, but Briseis was the true test. You failed both.
The chain rattles as you bring your legs closer to your body, curling up so you can hide from the watchful skies.
The funniest thought occurs to you.
You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was.
You never asked Briseis if she liked lotuses more than carnations. You never asked her if she preferred bright hibiscus or mild touch-me-nots. You never asked if she enjoyed the smell of honeysuckles in the summer.
You never asked Briseis what her favorite flower was, and you’ll never find out.
~
He comes back, eventually.
It was towards the evening. Candlelight became more and more prominent in the tent while the shadows grew.
He’s usually loud when he walks. His armor clinks and jostles. His sword clangs next to his side. His cape makes some type of flutter. He’s dramatic with his entrances; you can almost always hear him coming from a mile away.
Achilles enters the tent in silence.
You knew it was coming. You always knew it. And yet, you feel your throat close up when he looks at you. Apart from the pleated chiton, he comes bare. There’s no sword or shield.
He holds no weapon in his hands, just his lyre.
There’s no anger on his face. He doesn’t hiss any hateful words towards you. He simply takes a seat next to you on top of the soft pelts.
His thighs touch your own. You don’t move away. Instead, you watch him play.
He plucks one string. Then another.
You recognize it. Not the song itself, but rather, the meaning. It’s a happy song, holding notes that depict bright, cloudless skies and wide Great Plains.
You can hear the low tones of a mother as she plays with her children. Her youngest son is the easiest to find. She manages to find him under a flowering bush with bright pink flowers. Her second youngest crouches behind the hut, smiling widely as her mother continues to look for her. She squeals in delight when her mother reaches out to grab her.
It’s the oldest that always gave her the most trouble. He always picks the places she could not think of. They find him eventually. He hid behind his father, who kept absolutely still so as not disturb the game.
It’s a nice song, different from anything Achilles has ever played before. Maybe it’s because, this time, he is not playing for himself.
The song ends. The laughing family disappears, as do the rolling plains. You blink, and you’re back in the tent, shackled by your captor.
Achilles places the lyre down, leaving it propped up by his feet. You suddenly realize he hasn’t looked at you since he entered.
“Γιατί έφυγες τρέχοντας μακριά μου?” His voice is feather-light. You never knew he could speak so softly. “Δεν ήμουν ευγενικός μαζί σου?” Μήπως σου φέρθηκα άδικα?”
“I’m sorry.” You can only say.
He responds with nothing because there is nothing to say. Instead, Achilles leans over. He rests your head on your shoulder. His golden hair brushes against your neck, tickling your cheek. His scent isn’t tainted by the blood and the death he craves so much. He smells like the rolling sea, like the waves that crash into rocks, like the breeze that gently kisses the shore.
He lightly reaches down to your ankle, where your chains remain. Achilles slightly lifts the chains up before dropping them back.
“Δεν είχα άλλη επιλογή. Θα προτιμούσα να πεθάνω παρά να ζήσω για να σε δω να φεύγεις.”
A part of you genuinely wants to know what he’s saying.
The other part just wants to hear him play again.
~
You think you hate the smell of cardamom.
Its scent only reminds you of Desmache and that hut you spent a few leisure weeks in. Any time you smell it now, you’re only reminded of the loss you had. The loss you continue to have every day since that massecre.
The dynamics of camp change.
You expected it. Briseis’ vibrant energy kept you grounded in a way. Now that she was gone, you finally realized how gray and uncolored this world was. It’s colder now, too.
(It makes you think she’d like speedwell flowers the most. Their presence in the forest is tiny, but you can feel their disappearance.)
Her disappearance hasn't faded away. It’s a hole within the story, one you keep stumbling over time and time again.
When Achilles deems it, the chain lengthens, and you’re able to traverse a small boundary. He must not think you’re sick anymore because you’re given chores again. This time, instead of resenting the work, you embrace it. It’s the only thing that distracts you from the hole.
You work outside the tent, but not often. The looks the soldiers give you have changed. Usually, they wouldn’t look at you at all, or you would see terror gleam through their eyes. Today, the tiny glimpses they do give you are angry.
(There are fewer ships in the ocean.)
Pysus has also pulled away, to an extent. She greets you, she smiles at you, but there’s this barrier you’ve never felt before. She’s farther away now. You think it’s because of the loss of Briseis.
If she blamed you, you wouldn’t blame her.
Naarya is one of the few who remain the same with you. She’s even more clingier than before, and it makes sense. Briseis was like a mother to her, soft and kind and gentle. Now, she’s finding comfort wherever she can.
“Έχετε βελτιωθεί!” Naarya tells you as you hand her yet another finished pleated cloth. They wilted next to her own, but you have to agree with her. You were steadily getting better.
“It’s the only thing I did for weeks.” You tell her. “It makes sense I’d improve.”
“Μίλα ελληνικά, σε παρακαλώ.” Naarya reminds you because she doesn’t know what English is.
“καλύτερα…πανί…φτιάχνω.” You’re cut off by her laugh.
No, you agree, your Greek is terrible. You have to smile alongside her.
Your eyes catch movement just then. Another soldier walks by. Your gaze shifts back to Naarya because you don’t recognise him at first.
And then, the world freezes.
Naarya stops laughing. She’s asking you what’s wrong, but you can’t answer her. You can only stare as he continues to get further and further away.
He’s the one who killed Desmache.
You remember it so clearly. She, twitching on the floor, convulsing because the spear broke her back. Her wide eyes refuse to leave yours. The way her breaths grew weaker and weaker as you held tightly onto her hand.
You’re rising before you even realize it. You take one step, then another. The chains weigh on your legs. Something starts to crush your chest but you don’t care.
He turns to face you just as you lunge.
Someone stops you. Then another. Men are shouting and yelling, Naarya is crying, but they’re all drowned out by the blood pumping in your ears. Someone grabs your shoulders, pushing you down. Your knees fall against the dirt. You don’t realize you’ve been screaming until your voice grows hoarse.
He clearly remembers you. You can see it within his eyes.
He just doesn’t remember what he did to her.
“I’ll fucking kill you.” You repeat over and over as the crowd grows more panicked. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
You never break eye-contact with him, even as you’re picked up by a nameless soldier and dragged back to the tent of Achilles. You memorise everything about him: his clothes, his hair, his eyes.
The soldiers are yelling over each other as you’re thrown onto the pelts all over again. The chain tightens in response, rendering you immobile. You see Naarya amongst them, trying to push through the crowd, trying to get to you but it doesn’t snap you out of it. Nothing does, not even when the soldiers leave, or when Naarya’s terrified voice dies down.
You’ve woken up. The reality is hitting you once again. You can still feel the warm blood of Desmache on your hands, even though you begged her not to go. And then, you were captured and taken by men who see women as nothing more than cattle. Achilles was a murderer. He was a murderer and a killer who gladly drenched himself in the blood of his rivals all in the name of glory. And yet, you sympathised with a murderer– a rapist. Patroclus who smiled down at you so nicely was also just as monstrous. You were the one who killed Briseis. Her blood caked your skin just as much as Desmache’s.
You’re stumbling throughout the tent as the voices of you grow louder and louder. You’d do anything to make it stop, anything to make the pain go away. Your hands reach for the candle still flickering with a flame—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A voice warns. "Burnt hair smells horrible."
Your soul crashes back into your body. Your fingers pull back from the candle.
He’s smiling at you, sitting across the pelts, his chin resting on his arm. You don’t recognise him, but you know him. A blindfold covers his eyes, but you can tell he’s looking at you. The winged helmet sits perfectly on top of his head. His tunic looked to be made of soft silk, something a mortal would never even dream of wearing on the battlefield.
“You—“ Your voice dies. He takes it in stride.
“Yeah, I know.” Hermes flips his air dramatically. “Most are stunned by my presence. It’s a curse more than a blessing.”
It’s emotional whiplash. You felt so much just a few seconds earlier, but now you’re completely blank. Your mind is still playing catch-up, so you manage to blurt out the first thing you can think of.
“You know English?”
The God laughs at that. "I'm the God of language." He grins. "I know all the languages humanity has and will ever create: Past, Present, and Future."
And then he scrutinises you. “Well, I don’t think we can call you a time-traveler, now, can we? It’s more like you came from another world.”
“Yes!” You lean forward because this is the first time anyone has ever acknowledged it. “I—I am! How? How did you—I’m sorry.” You draw back. “It’s—It’s just been so long since I’ve actually talked to someone without having to mime, or—or—“
“I get it.” Hermes cuts you off. He leans back against the pelts, stretching himself out. “Man, these are really soft! Do you sleep on these every day? Lucky.”
You know Gods exist in this world, but you hadn’t expected to meet one so quickly. Moreover, you hadn’t expected your first meeting to go like…this.
“How do you know I’m from another world?” You ask. Your cheeks feel damp. You wipe the moisture away. Have you been crying?
“I’m a God.” Comes his answer.
“Does that mean the other Gods know too?” You press.
“I wouldn’t mention the other Gods, if I were you.” He chides you. “They’re still pretty pissed at you for the whole ‘faking being Persephone’s daughter’ thing. But I got most of ‘em off your back.”
“The Gods are upset at me—“ Wait, did he just say people thought you were Persephone’s daughter?
“But—but I thought everyone assumed I was Aphrodite’s daughter?” You weakly argue.
“C’mon!” He laughs. “Do you really think people would treat you the same if they thought you were her kid? You’d be gonzo.”
You feel like an idiot. Of course, that made sense. Everyone feared you not because of Aphrodite, but because you were associated with the Goddess of Spring and the Underworld.
And that raised more concerns. You know enough about Persephone to realize it's a bad thing to be associated with her. If you were worried about Aphrodite’s wrath on your impersonation, you would highly doubt Persephone would give you a garland of flowers.
Speaking of flowers.
“That was you, right?” You ask him. “You left that crocus flower for me.”
“Ding ding.” Hermes chirps.
“But why?”
He flips himself on his stomach to stare at you. The blindfold still obscures his face, so you don’t know where to look.
“You’re kind of a mess,” Hermes finally says. “I mean, you’ve only been here for a few months, and you’ve already managed to derail pretty much everything..”
You wilt at his words and he only laughs.
“But I’m also impressed.” He continues. “You’re the only one who’s made it this far.”
You squint at his words. What did he say?
“Still, it’s definitely not ok with how much you’re changing just by existing. Some key people were killed off.”
You think of Briseis and your eyes flutter down.
“Not just her, actually.” Hermes interjects your moping. “Agamemnon, Diomede, even the Lesser Ajax all went down yesterday.”
“Wait, what?” You never heard of this happening. You only knew of Briseis’ passing.
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” Hermes laughs, absolutely thrilled by the mention of bloodshed. “The Greeks are supposed to be losing, but they’re not supposed to be losing this badly. It’s honestly really impressive you’re able to kill off all these characters like that. Not even the war-mongering one did this much damage.”
He talks past you and you absolutely hate it. Despite speaking the same language you do, you can’t catch on to a word he says.
“You already know I don’t belong here, right? In this world?” You press. “How can I get back to my own world?”
The question you’d always wanted to ask ever since you got here. Hermes barely wastes a second.
“Oh, you can’t.”
Your heart drops.
“What?” No no no. “What do you mean ‘I can’t’”
He shrugs, clearly not paying attention to your growing panic. “You can’t leave, not when everything is broken. Ripped out pages. Words burned off the page. It’s all a complete mess and it’d take a lot to fix..”
No, this can’t be happening. You’d deluded yourself into thinking if you could just talk to a God, you could figure out how to escape. All that plan accomplished was proving how futile escape is.
You suddenly process Hermes’ words. His smile only grows wider as the silence continues to grow.
“Why are you talking like this world is a book?” You ask.
He lifts himself off the pelts. You stay absolutely still as he moves closer, until your noses nearly touch.
“Why are you?”
A switch flips. You jerk back, and Hermes laughs again.
“Well, this has been fun, but we’re running out of time.” He makes a face, before brightening up again.”But, since you’ve been so entertaining I’ve decided to give you two gifts.”
You give a blank stare. He ignores it.
“The first—“ He reaches out with his fingers. You receive a harsh flick on your forehead.
You scuttle back, clutching your head. “Ow! What the—“
”—And second.” You crack your eyes open to see what he was holding.
A small glass vial. It could fit perfectly within your palm. It carried a purple liquid that shimmered when it caught the light.
“This.” Hermes answers before you can even ask. His voice has simmered, but you could almost taste the glee that still resounds within his tone. “Pretty effective, in my opinion. All your victim has to do is drink it and—poof—off they go to the underworld with the others.”
He leans closer, you can feel his breath on your cheek.
“That little soldier you aren’t a fan of.” He murmurs into your ear. “Don’t you wanna fulfill that promise to him?”
You clutch the bottle. It’s heavy underneath your fingers.
“Poison?” You ask. He just grins wider.
“Let’s hope you make the right choice with that,” he cheerily chirps. “Well, ‘gotta go! See you later, maybe.”
“What?” You panic. He can’t go now. You have too many questions. “Wait, please just—“
“Toodles!” He disappears and you grab onto air.
You’re alone, again. For a half-second you wonder if you just hallucinated. It would make sense, considering the mental breakdown you just had.
Speaking of, what even was that? You’d never felt something like that before. Was it a panic attack? You looked down at your fingers. Earlier, they were erratic and shaking. Now, your entire body is calmer than ever.
You woke up. You distinctly remember thinking that.
The vial remains solid on your fingers. It’s the sole proof you had that he wasn’t a hallucination, but the things Hermes said left you more questions than answers. He knew things you hadn’t expected him to, and he seems to be aware this world is a story in your world.
He said you were the first one who got this far.
Your head hurts. It’s like your energy was zapped away all at once.
You can’t rest. Not when Achilles is around.
He comes through the tent like a storm, with Naarya and Patroclus by his side. There’s anger burned yet again through his eyes. He must have already heard what happened. You wanted to tune his shoutings out like you usually did, but then he spoke and–
–”Tell me what happened with those men.” Achilles demands. “A skirmish occurred with what was mine and yet I was not told immediately?”
“I am filled with apologies, My Lord!” Naarya cries. “But I am unable to tell what occurred! She had risen so fiercely I was unable to restrain her as she lunged for those men with such vengeance! I had never seen such behavior come from her being.”
“Perhaps the group of men said such an insult which she could not digest.” Patroclus comes through, ever the placater as you read him to be. “We should call them and ask their thoughts.”
They continue to bicker amongst themselves, trying to piece together the story they only knew fragments of. You wonder if they always did this, stating theories out of feeble observations. You watch them for minutes before your mouth catches up with your brain.
“Are…are you guys speaking English right now?”
They all freeze. Three pairs of eyes turn to look at you. You suddenly realize how stupid that statement was. They weren’t speaking English.
You were speaking Greek.
You reach up, feeling your lips. Your words, your thoughts all feel the same, yet somehow, they all have changed.
Hermes promised you two gifts, didn’t he?
“You…you spoke so clearly. As a native would.” Patroclus breaks the silence. “Do you understand the words we speak?”
You nod.
“I can understand you.”
Naarya reacts second.
She squeals so loudly it nearly ruptures your eardrums. The girl bounds up to you with a glee only a kid her age could have. Her eyes sparkle as she reaches for your cheeks. You wince as she squishes them.
“A miracle!” She speaks, pressing into you, her initial hysteria forgotten.“A miracle of the gods! Can you really speak our language now? Say something! Speak!”
“Uh, hello?” You try. “Naarya, could you please stop pinching me? It hurts–”
Another squeal, but it hurts even more because she’s right in your face. She blabbers even faster, voice going up octaves.
For whatever reason, your eyes drift to the two men, searching.
Achilles is gone, only Patroclus remains. You don’t know how to feel about that.
Naarya is urging you off your feet alongside her.
“We must hurry! Pysus would be so pleased with this revelation! As would Briseis–” Her excitement wanes. You almost wished she was back to hurting you.
You pat your cheek, trying to distract her. She returns your smile, but it’s stiff.
“Who gave you such a gift?” Patroclus wonders.
You hesitate, unsure if you should reveal your secret so soon. Unconsciously, you find yourself squeezing the vial hidden inside your fist.
Naarya is more than happy to suggest her own theories.
“Does it come from your Mother-God?” She wonders.
It’s not lying if you don’t give a verbal answer, right? You smile, and Naarya is more than happy to accept. You don’t look up to see Patroclus’ reaction. You already know he won’t believe you.
Much to your relief, he doesn’t comment on your obvious deceit. Instead, he is silent as he watches you interact with Naarya.
Her gaze softens, as does her touch. She pats your shoulder expectantly.
“Will you answer me, then?” She asks. “Earlier, when we loomed the cloth needed for prayer, to whom did you show so much anger to?”
You remember the scene clearly now. That warrior was in a group of Myrmidons. To an outsider, it must have looked like you were trying to attack an entire fleet of men.
She’s clutching at your clothes. “I had never seen such behavior from your body. It frightened me.”
You were screaming, no wonder she’s so freaked out. You patted her back, bringing her in for a hug.
“I’m sorry.” You tell her, as sincerely as you can. “I didn’t mean to scare you. That won’t happen again.”
That strange influx of feeling. The rage and dissonance you felt. That couldn’t happen again; you’d make sure of it.
She’s relieved. Children like her are satisfied with a few answers. She leaves the tent with a final glance at you. You wave to her, and then she’s gone.
You can’t ignore him now.
You try to. You pick at the pelts, looking for invisible lint. You study your nails and fingers, wondering if the calluses you saw were always there. You know he plans to ask you how you really broke the language barrier.
“I am sorry on behalf of Lord Achilles.” Patroclus starts.
You glance up. His brown eyes are crinkled slightly. A ghost of a smile lingers on his lips.
“You must forgive the way in which he fled.” Patroclus says, “He has suffered through much these past days and nights. Learning of your fluency was perhaps too much for him to bear.”
“I understand,” You say with a soft voice.
You’ve known Patroclus—this Patroclus—for months, and yet you feel like you’re looking at him for the first time. His armour is off, tossed away in some unspoken corner. His beige chiton hangs on his body on only one shoulder. It barely covers the muscles across his chest and arms and legs. Your eyes catch a piece of jewellery you hadn’t noticed before. A necklace draped across his skin. It glints with gold.
“Who gave you that?” You ask.
Patroclus reaches up, brushing his hand over the gold. His eyes glimmer, catching light like stars in the night sky at some unspoken memory.
“My father.” He responds, adoration warm in his voice. “It was gifted to me before I sailed from Opus to Phitia, where King Peleus rules.”
You hum, and a part of you wants to ask what Opus looks like but you hold your tongue. Instead, you smile.
“It’s pretty.” You tell him.
He eases at your compliment. You watch as Patroclus walks closer and sits right beside you on the pelts. He maintains his distance, but he’s close enough to touch if you reach out. Neither of you does.
“I’m sorry.” You finally breathe out, feeling the elephant grow and grow. “For trying to run. I wasn’t….”
In another time, it would be silly to even think about apologizing to your captors, but here, it feels expected of you especially when just your blunder ruined so much.
“Are you upset?” You ask.
You can’t remember a single time Patroclus had gotten upset. He’s always been gentle, matching his epithet perfectly. The closest you’d ever seen him truly angry, was the darkened look he had as he gave you food, when you had been chained to the tent.
He hums at the question, and you don’t fight him when he takes your hand in his. His fingers are so much longer and larger than yours. His hold eclipses your hands immediately.
“I remembered the sorrow when it was revealed of your escape. And then I remember the relief that consumed me when you were brought back.” He squeezes your hand in his. “I felt anger, then, yes, but I felt my emotions to be more vibrant than that. And yet, my feelings are shadowed by those that haunt Lord Achilles.”
You look up at him. He tilts his head, surveying your expression with an affectionate smile.
“You do not realize how much the man sacrificed for you.” He tells you. “I sometimes wonder if I could sacrifice such a thing.”
Your eyebrows pinch together as he continues.
“Lord Agamemnon asked for you when Dear Chryseis was to be returned back to Chryses for ransom. Achilles had refused his demand.” Patroclus turns away, staring off into space. “I remember being amongst the crowd of warriors and watching as Achilles reached for his sword he kept on his hip. And then he stopped.”
Patroclus’ smile fades slightly. “It was then when Lord Achilles offered Briseis as well as five of his beloved ships.”
You almost don’t believe his words.
”What?”
He pats your hand. His skin is warm and strong, filled with the callouses of being a warrior and fighting for his own glory.
Glory and pride is what Achilles holds more than anything.
And yet, he gave up five ships to keep you?
“His heart has been severely wounded.” Patroclus says with kindness.
“I pray you do not fault him for his humanity.”
The more you study the vial, the more colors you see.
There’s a hint of blue; maybe a touch of magenta. When you shake the glass, the colors swirl together, creating that purple gradient. It looked more like a sleep potion than a poison.
You flip it upside down, then right up again. Back and forth. It’s mesmerizing.
Hermes gave this to you so you could kill that warrior. His face is still burned into your skull. You can feel that rage that still simmers deep within your rage.
He can’t be left to live. Not after what he did do Desmache.
She wasn’t even given a burial.
A part of you slugs behind. You were talking about killing a man. How could you even speak about doing something like this? Regardless of how evil this person was, how could you kill a real person?
But…he isn’t real, is he?
You catch yourself then. You got that same feeling when you freaked out and collapsed in yourself. It’s pain. Real, tangible pain. And it was all because of that man.
But, why don’t you feel that way towards Achilles? He kidnapped you and forced you to be his captive. Why don’t you feel that way about Patroclus? He’s just as terrible, in that regard. So many traumatizing things have happened to you and yet you don’t seem to be affected by them at all.
You aren’t having the reactions a normal person should have. It’s like, your emotions have been stunted somehow, refusing to be any more dynamic than someone who was merely reading a book.
Footsteps. You tuck away the vial just as Achilles comes through the tent.
He’s regained his prior composure. His signature scowl is back on his face, and he’s glaring at you.
You don’t move. His face continues to sour.
“Now that you have learned our tongue, you must greet those of higher class than you accordingly.” He demands.
That was a thing you had to do? You never saw the girls do that. Still, you better appease him. You hesitantly rose from the bed. You gave a weak bow with your head.
“...Greetings?” You finish. It sounds weak even to your own ears.
Achilles remains unimpressed.
“You talk so ugly and crude,” He tells you, “I rather the days where you remained mute.”
You can’t help it. You laugh.
You can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. It shakes your shoulders, making you lose your breath. Somehow it lightens your heart. The air smells a tiny bit sweeter.
At his face, you give: “Sorry, I just…I always knew you were insulting me. Hearing it…” Your voice trails off.
The warrior studies you, eyes searching. He doesn’t seem as angry as you thought he’d be over your laughter.
“Why has your hair lost the color of florals?” He demands.
You glance at your hair. You refrain the urge to touch them. You sit back down, forgetting where you were, who you were with.
It all felt so pointless now.
“I’ve been here for too long,” You answer.
It’s true. Your hair was only meant to last for a month, maybe two if you were lucky. By now, you think you might’ve switched to blue, or maybe a more neutral color.
In just another week your roots will start to show. That would truly be the end.
He doesn’t like that answer, you can tell by the way his jaw tightens.
“I’m not sick,” Maybe you’re trying to comfort. “But it’s fading because I need to go back.”
But you never will.
He doesn’t sit next to you. Instead, he kneels, knees hitting the tent floor so he can stare up at you. It’s out of character. The Achilles of the Iliad wouldn’t do anything like this. He would never willingly lower himself for another.
This Achilles reaches out. You feel warm fingertips brush against your cheeks.
“You are aware I would never allow an action, correct?”
You feel like laughing again.
“I don’t think that’s up to me or you.”
You never really had a choice, that was the real joke here. All this time you worried about these characters and their behaviors as though you had any more autonomy over yourself than they did.
You’d never see your friends and family again. You’d never have slow mornings where you would scroll aimlessly on your phone.
You’d never have the little things again—like coffee.
You don’t know why that’s the last thought you have, but you’re crying anyway. They’re slow, silent sobs–the ones that make your throat clamp up and your eyes red. It shakes your shoulders,
He’s brushing away your tears. You think it might be the softest way he’s ever touched you. It mimics the way he touches flowers as he ever so slightly grazes fingers over petals.
“Patroclus told me of your reasonings to flee.” Achilles starts.
You stare down at him. His eyes have melted, simmered into bubbling honey.
“You are a fool to think I would give up such a value to such a man.”
You don’t understand why he tells you that, but maybe you don’t have to. This is how a man like Achilles loves. It’s ruthless and possessive and violent. He can’t love any other way. This was what he was created for.
His character was meant to be fierce and raging. Even if he wanted to, he’d never know anything different. His love is brash and comes out in spurts like: giving up five beautiful ships, or tying you down with immortal chains.
This is what he was made for. This is all that he’ll ever be.
He’s lived in this book-shaped prison his entire life.
You don’t know who to feel more pity for:
him, who’s only lived in these pages,
or you—who knows what’s outside the script but can never return.
Status quo returns eventually.
The chains come off sometime in the next few days. You are let off the hook to work alongside the women. Days pass and things become more or less the same as before. Achilles is still an ass but he’s a bit less of an ass. Patroclus was always the aloe to his burn. Naarya became more talkative as the days went on.
Pysus remained distant.
You don’t fault her. Grief comes to people in many ways. This is how she deals with it. Quieter. Less jokes, Less smiles. You try not to notice how she barely glances at you these days.
You haven’t done anything with the vial yet. It remains tucked deep inside your chiton, burning against your skin each time you remember it. You haven’t had the chance to do anything with it, yet.
Rather, you have no idea what to do with it.
It was supposed to be for that warrior, but you still hesitate from time to time. It’s not because of your hesitance to kill, but rather, you weren’t sure if you’d come out of the aftermath unscathed.
(Sometimes, you see him around camp. You know his name now as well as who he likes to spend time with. You’ve never hated anyone’s laughter more.)
Sometimes, you wonder if you could just ask Achilles to do it. How would he react if you told him you wanted one of his men dead?
You could never bring yourself too, if only because you were fearful of the backlash. He’s sacrificed people in the name of your ‘supposed Mother-God’, but could you ask him to do the same to his fellow warrior? All for the sake of your vengeance?
Speaking of Persephone, that’s another can of worms you‘d have to open soon.
Unknowingly or not, you have been parading around as her child. You’ve seen how terrifying other Gods can be when they think they’ve been insulted, but the Queen of the Underworld herself? It’s a miracle the ground hasn’t opened to swallow you whole, yet.
Somehow, you managed to summon Hermes. Maybe there’s a chance you could do the same for her.
And then, what? Just kindly explain that it was a case of mistaken identity?
“See here!” Naarya gleefully tells you, holding up the cloth she weaved.
You admire the gorgeous patterning. “Amazing! Did you come up with the pattern yourself?”
Pysus only glanced up from her weaving to send Naarya a quick smile. Naarya basks in the praise.
“Yes.” She beams. “I hope to ask Lord Patroclus if this can be offered to Goddess Athena with bright eyes.”
“I’m sure he’d say yes.” You nod along and Naarya babbles happily.
She doesn’t notice when Pysus rises with her own cloth. You watch as the girl disappears behind the tents. You wait for five minutes before you abandon your own project to follow.
You find her in a small clearing, further away from camp. She sits next to a dying fire. The smell of smoke lingers in the air.
“You look tired.” You offer your hand. “You can go rest, if you want. I can finish up your work.”
She doesn’t even glance up. “Your tenderness pleases me,” she tells you, “and yet I cannot abandon my duties.”
“It’s not abandoning.” You reason. “I…I know you’ve been having a hard time. I can help–”
“Is this how you give penance?”
Pysus always struck you as quiet, with a soft voice. She was gentle and sweet.
You’ve never heard her say something with such venom before.
“No.” You immediately rebuke. “No, of course not. Pysus–”
“I see, so it is not guilt that you continue to seek me out.” Her voice hardens. “It is not that you wish for me to assuage your despair with my assurances. Then what do you continue to pester me for?”
You can only stare as she rises up to her feet. The cloth she worked so hard on for days is left abandoned on the dirt but she can hardly care.
Her eyes parallel crashing waves of the sea, and yet, they look so fragile, like thin waterlilies. Her eyes are more green than blue. You don’t know why it took you so long to notice.
“Briseis called for me when she was taken away by men of Lord Agamemnon,” she tells you, “she begged me to assure your safety. Even as men with bronze armor led her away, she only wept tears for you. Where were you as she was sent to her deathbed?”
You can see it clearly in the back of your head. The grip the men had on Briseis in as they took her away from you. Her pretty green eyes, red and watery. You can see it so clearly, even though you weren’t there, even when you were–
(Maybe Briseis would like the fragrant freesia the most. Much like her, their scent is fresh in the air long after the petals have wilted.)
–”Gone.” Pysus spits out. “You fled and abandoned her when she needed your comfort the most.”
Her voice cracks, but she isn’t stopping. Tears drip down her cheeks. It doesn’t stop her sharp words from cutting deep into your skin, straight into your heart.
“She should not have had such a horrific fate. She stole such suffering from your thread.”
She doesn’t mean it. You know her too well by now to know she isn’t being sincere. She’s angry. She’s grieving. She lost her sister. She needs a punching bag and you are all she has.
But what lie did she tell you?
“You’re right.” You tell her because there’s nothing else to say. “I ran because I was a coward, and I’m sorry. Even if I thought…I shouldn’t have run.” Pysus is getting blurry. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you guys. I’m sorry. I'm so so sorry, Pysus.”
Pysus’ arms are warm and strong against your back. It’s reflective, the way you cling onto her, uncaring if your tears dampen her shoulders.
“Do not acknowledge my ridiculous claims!” She sobs into your shoulders. “Forgive me. I spoke such ill of you and villainized you in such a horrendous way. Forgive me.”
She keeps saying sorry, but you keep telling her she has nothing to apologize for. She doesn’t listen, and neither do you. The two of you just cling onto each other. She’s so tiny against your fingers, she can’t be any bigger than Naarya.
You’re speaking before you can even think.
“I’ll bring her back.”
She’s pulling away to peer up at you. Her eyes are like rippling pools.
“What?”
“Yes.” You nod and for once, your voice is clear and stable. “I’ll bring her back.”
You leave her like that. She calls for you, but you aren’t listening. You don’t stop moving until you’re surrounded by the privacy of the tent. Completely alone.
You take out the vial. It swirls with glittering purple and blues.
You pray you weren’t wrong about this.
It burns down your throat, and then your heart stops.
There’s rapid tapping on your cheek. Your eyes flutter open.
“I knew you’d figure it out!” Hermes cheers. “Took a bit longer than I thought you would, but I’ll still give credit.”
You rise up from the hard floor. You’re not in the tent anymore. You hardly even think you’re on Earth. The cave is dark, only illuminated by torches stapled to the walls. The flames are a fiery pink, creating shadows and shrink and jump.
The underworld looms ahead of you.
“Couldn’t you have told me instead of being all cryptic?” You ask with a scowl.
“I can’t just give you the answer!” He scolds. "Where's the fun in that?”
If you had doubts he was a Greek God before, they were all gone now.
Hermes struts off confidently ahead. You follow him.
It reminds you of the catacombs under Paris, except more claustrophobic and more illuminated. Hermes leads you into a tunnel, then another, then another. Various passageways wind and fold against each other. You lose track of your mental map five minutes in. In the end, you’re forced to follow him with blind trust.
“So, that wasn’t poison, right?” You confirm. “Then, what was it? Some kind of sleeping potion?”
“More like a coma-inducing spell.” Hermes corrects. “It tricks your soul into thinking your body is dead, and that’s how I was able to transfer you down here.” He trails off like he expects you to congratulate him.
You don’t.
“Before,” you start. “You said that the book was broken, and it needed fixing.”
He said nothing. You continue.
“Were you talking about the dead characters?” You ask and something breaks within you as you call Briseis a character. “That’s why you brought me here, right? If we can bring them back, that’ll fix the story.” And then, you could go home.
He glances back at you.
“Aren’t you being a little too confident?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice.
“I’m willing to do anything.” You answer. “No matter how tiny of a chance I have, I want to try.”
“That’s exactly what the others said too.” He muses. “It’s kinda funny how alike you all are.”
“Others.” You repeat. “Are more people like me here, too?”
“Yeah, loads.” He shrugs. “I stopped counting after the first hundred. It’s interesting how different their paths were. This one guy managed to usurp Agamemnon and took over the entire Achaean army. Uh, this other one tried to play both sides and it didn’t really end so well for him. Oh! One person actually managed to beat the Achaeans and flipped the entire war! That guy was my favorite.”
“What happened to them? Did they return home?”
“No.” He grins with teeth. “Not a single one.”
The shadows across his face make it sound even more off-putting. He leads you into another tunnel. It’s even smaller than the last one. You can barely fit through without your shoulders brushing against the walls.
“To get to the end, you have to make sure the story stays in place and you survive. Not many were able to achieve both. Readers derail a lot. They push Gods to act in ways they otherwise wouldn’t, or they create new problems all together. They always create a shitshow, but at least it’s entertaining.” Hermes studies you.
“Then…why me?” You ask, and you suddenly realize that your voice echoes through the caves. “Why was I chosen to come here?”
He loses it. He’s laughing so loudly, he clutches his stomach, nearly falling to the floor. You flinch at the mockery.
“Sorry, you thought you were chosen?” He says when he’s finished, rising back up to sneer. “A little narcissistic, don’t you think?”
“There was never a choice,” he tells you. “You read the story, and now you’re here. Simple as that.”
“But what does that mean–”
“I meant what I said last time.” He cuts you off. “You’re the only one who’s got this far. Out of all the people who’ve come here, you’re the only person who’s survived this long. Granted, it was mostly due to lots and lots of luck, but hey! Still a win in my book.”
He grabs a torch from the cave wall. The tunnel was starting to open up.
“Which means, you still have a chance to put everything back.”
You think of Briseis: gone and dead.
“Nothing’s been cemented, yet. Knowing those three, I bet they aren’t too keen on cutting the thread. So, if you can convince her to let those souls go, you might have a shot of re-righting the story.”
You already know who he’s referring to. It makes you deflate.
“Is that even possible?” You ask, voice small. “She must be furious with me, right now. What if she…” Kills you on the spot? Demands your soul as penance?
Hermes smiles.
“Do you have a choice?”
Right. That’s the harsh lesson you keep learning over and over again.
You never had a choice. In this place, you were nothing more than a character.
The only power you had was knowing the script beforehand.
Hermes stops walking.
“The throne is right through there.” He gestures at the rest of the tunnel. “If you keep walking, you’ll find it. It’s kinda hard to miss.”
When you stare at him, he continues.
“Not a big fan of people down here. Everyone’s so depressing.” He complains. “Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting right here for emotional support.” He flashes a thumbs-up.
A part of you wanted to beg him to come with you, but you know you won’t get far with that. That chance you kept begging the Gods for was finally being given to you. You’re taking it, no matter how small it is.
“Thanks.” You tell him. “For getting me this far.”
He just smiles. “Don’t thank me, yet.”
You turn back to the cave. You take a step. Then another. You keep walking as the cave gets wider and wider and it spits you out into a large expansive room. It’s brighter than the cave, pink flames flickered and licked at the rocky walls. Gloomy shadows jump and flee at the sight of you.
The rock is oddly smooth and damp beneath your feet. You walk along the surface, feeling the floor dip and bend in places. It mimics nature.
You see them then.
You expected more dramatics. Or maybe that’s yet another assumption you had for this world. They sit quietly together, side by side. They look human, but there’s something off about each of them. Their eyes are far too big for their face. Their fingers are thin and spindly as they move around the loom. Their skin is sickly, almost green.
The Three Fates pay you no mind as you step forward, continuing on their project. You swallow, feeling your throat drying up. You were finally here, but now what?
“Not many are bold enough to ignore me so brazenly.”
The voice is feminine, dark with humor. Your eyes travel up and up the rock.
Not a rock. A giant throne.
She sits with one leg crossed over another. Her cruel smile shines on plush, painted lips. She’s easily the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You feel your voice die in your throat the more you stare. Your eyes burn– no mortal should be gazing upon such beauty. Among the dread, she stands out like a rose in full bloom, daring to be plucked.
Oh.
That’s why so many assumed you belonged to her.
Her hair sat in beautiful curls, draping over her neck and chest towards the edge of the throne. Strands spill out like the sea.
The brightest pink you’ve ever seen. The exact same shade yours once was.
~
You don’t know how long you stood like that.
Entranced–utterly captivated.
There’s a subtle tilt of her head. Your body moves before you can think.
You drop. Your knees hit the ground. It’s not a bow. It’s more like you are begging for mercy.
She laughs. It’s soft and delicate. Pretty. You’ve never felt so cold before.
So this is what it’s like catching the attention of a Goddess.
“At the very least,” her voice is amused, light. You don’t know whether that’s good or bad. “You aren’t entirely foolish.”
You don’t know that much about the Goddess. Her descent into the underworld is the only tale that comes to mind. In that story, she was depicted as sweet and frail. The loving daughter of the Goddess Demeter.
The woman before you now cannot be described as any of those traits.
There’s a sigh above you. She sounds impatient.
“Speak now, mortal of faraway lands.” She speaks your name. Forgetting yourself, your eyes shoot up to look at her.
She takes your stunned silence as the rightful question it was. “It would be strange not know your name. After all, your presence has shaken the mountain and heavens of Olympus.” Her lips quirk. “And you in particular have been so daring as to use my name.”
You are trapped in a maze; each route leads you straight into the claws of the cat.
The cloak of death pins you down to the ground.
“I’m sorry.” Your forehead presses into the rough rock floor. “I’m so sorry. I–I never meant to–”
“Enough.” Amusement vanished from her voice. She sounds bored again. “It appears your brazenness was your sole trait of redemption.”
She doesn’t allow you to speak any further, beg any further. She continues onward like the force she was. Unrelenting. Continuous.
“You are not here for pleasantries, are you? Come. Remain in your daring nature and coerce me into giving up what I rightfully own.”
Of course, she knew why you were here. You wouldn’t be surprised if she could read your mind. Her knowledge of why you’ve come doesn’t make it easier to talk to her. It just makes everything that much harder.
The ground is so cold, but you remain in your pliant position. She may have mentioned that she liked how bold you appeared to be, but you know well enough how much of a warning that was.
“The soldiers, the men who died. Briseis.” It’s hard not to crack at her name. “It was not their fate to die. They…they need to be brought back for the sake of the story.”
She’s laughing. It startles you. She’s laughing so loudly it echoes off the caves.
“Story?” She repeats. “What story do you speak of?”
You blink. And then something clicks.
She doesn’t know about the poem.
Persephone either doesn’t notice your silence or takes it as something else. Nails drag themselves through rock as she lifts her hand up to examine perfectly manicured fingernails.
“I do agree it is unwise to keep these souls at this time.” She sighs. “Yet, I have no true desire to relinquish them. You understand how undesirable it will be if mortals of the upper realm realize how easy it is to raise their dead.”
She’s asking for a price. A trade. Your pockets are empty. You have nothing to offer that you haven’t given already.
You clear your throat. The fates have yet to acknowledge you. They continue around their loom, stretching the thread. You wonder which one is Briseis.
“I don’t have anything to give.” You admit, and her brow quirks. “I can only beg that you’ll listen.”
“You admit defeat readily,” she says, “do people of your lands do the same?”
You say nothing. It gets too much to look at her, so you pull your gaze down.
Another sigh.
“I accept.”
What? Your head shoots up to look at her.
“I cannot say I have not benefited from your presence in the mortal world.” She tells you. “The Myrmidons have pleased me with their meat and fresh fruit. I will consider that enough.”
You almost can’t believe her words. The Goddess is actually accepting your audacious request. It feels almost like a joke. A trick.
“You are lucky–” she sits up from her throne– “to have such loving allies. One in particular was quite vocal. Had they not, I highly doubt your own skills would be enough to get you this far.”
The insult is scathing, but it doesn’t cut as deeply as it should. Your mind is still searching for who she could possibly be talking about. Who’d care for you enough to plead your case to the Goddess of Death?
You hadn’t noticed the shimmer of light surrounding her left ear until then. It’s a tiny orb that glows a bright pink. It hovers above her shoulder. It looks like a fairy, dancing and giggling in the Goddess’s ear.
The smell of cardamom nearly makes your heart stop.
Desmache—
“I will release the souls.” The Goddess says, “However, I will need one more thing in return.”
You look at her and immediately understand what she wants from you.
You want it too.
You don’t respond. She grins more openly.
“Then it is done.”
She taps her fingers. The fates barely glance up from their weaving. A silk string is carefully coiled onto skeletal fingers before it is dipped into pink flames. The string shrivels into nothingness.
“You can continue the ritual in the land of the living.” The Goddess calls. “I have done all that I can.”
You did it. Your legs feel like jelly. You can barely stand upright. You did it. You did it.
“Thank you.” You breathe.
She smiles. The venom is sweet on her lips.
Hermes is still waiting.
You expect more applause. More sarcasm.
He’s quiet until you step closer.
“I didn’t think you’d come back so soon.” He finally admits. “No, that’s a lie. I kinda’ expected you to never come back at all.”
You didn’t expect it either.
“I’m surprised she didn’t keep you with her.” Hermes continues. “You’re a lucky one.”
Your laugh startles even you.
You’re practically crying. Hunched over. Shoulders trembling. Your laughter bounces off the walls of the cavern, against the flickering lanterns. Hermes is silent even after your voice dwindles. You’re heaving. Maybe you were crying.
“That’s what she said, too,” you say, not to him, not to anyone. “I’m lucky.”
You were lucky to make friends with people who loved you and who you loved in return. You were lucky to have those you loved enough to pave the way for you so your trek up the mountain could be just a bit easier.
You don’t think that’s so much of a bad thing.
You walk past Hermes. He doesn’t follow. After a few steps, you stop too.
“She mentioned something else, too.” You don’t turn back to face him. You’re almost afraid of what you’d see on his face.
“She didn’t know.” Your heart feels like it’s in your throat. “She didn’t know she was in a book. I’m starting to think the other Gods don’t either.”
All Persephone knew was that you came from a different place. It’s what all the characters knew. Hermes, just Hermes, was the only one who ever mentioned the story specifically.
You steel yourself, slowly turning to face him.
He’s not smiling. His face is still, and you hate that you can’t see his eyes. You’re not used to seeing him so monotone. It’s like he’s dropped the act.
Or maybe he’s dropped his character.
“Who are you?” You ask.
He swallows. You catch a single tremor down his throat.
He says nothing. It’s the only answer you need.
~
The next time you open your eyes, you're surrounded by wailing.
You sit up in Achilles’ bed. Immediately, Naarya is on you, clinging onto you like a Koala. She’s sobbing and blubbering something you can’t decipher. You had to stop doing this to the poor child. You might end up aging her 20 or so years because of your antics.
There are others around you. Pysus stares at you with glimmering eyes. You wish you could explain things to her. Comfort her. Maybe another apology. Patroclus says something, perhaps pleads for another explanation.
You can’t stop. There’s a script running through your head. Gentle words of Dread Persephone, only you can understand.
You only have to search for a second before you find him. In the dim light of the tent, his eyes resemble the color of warm honey. His golden mane shines like a bright flag.
A Myrmiddon who gave up five Myrmiddon ships for you.
A man, characterized by pride, who unhesitatingly ripped his to shreds for you.
You want to know if he will do it again.
You know what his answer will be.
He’s still screaming when the warriors continue to tie him down.
He’s crying. He’s begging his fellow warriors to release him. They ignore his begs. He then begs Achilles to release him. The man’s face is bare. His sword is firm in his grip as his men continue with the ritual.
He looks different now. With his armor and spear gone, he resembles a scrawny man. The rope that binds his arms and legs barely gives as he continues to struggle.
It’s a bit strange to think of it now, but before he almost resembled a monster. Once, he towered over you and a dying little girl. His spear was coated in the blood of innocence.
Now, as you stand above him, he’s just a man.
He sobs louder as Achilles lifts the sword. You briefly wonder if he had a family. A wife. Children. These thoughts mean nothing. The hatred you feel for him isn’t one you may have for a human. It’s not dynamic. It’s just as flat as the pages he exists on.
To you, he’s just a character.
Achilles brings the sword down. Everything stops. The crowd remains silent.
Blood seeps into the Earth.
It’s nearly dusk. The sun continues to dip further into the ocean. Soon, the only light you have will be the torch you hold–tiny orange flickering flames.
You watch as Achilles lifts the corpse’s head to chop off a lock of hair.
You remember he did this a couple of months ago. Offerings, he thought, the Goddess you stood for would like. Before, you would squeal and heave with disgust.
Tonight, your thoughts are filled with royal green eyes flecked with gold. Eyes unfit for a corpse.
You accept the lock Achilles presents to you. You drop it into the flames.
Orange turns to fiery pink.
You can hear Persephone laughing somewhere beneath you. This was what she wanted. Not a single soul to replace the 24 she would soon lose.
It was your vengeance that she craved for.
Pink flames light the pyre. You watch the corpse disappear as the fire gets higher and higher–appetized by flesh.
You abandon the torch, letting it hit the sand and naturally smother out. You feel empty as you leave the flaming pyre, heading towards the sea of still bodies.
Each one is laid on the sand. Eyes closed. Untwitching. Unmoving. Your eyes remain solely on her. She looks as though she could be sleeping. Despite the days that have passed since her departure, her body remains fresh and clean. Nothing is rotted or dissolved.
As though even fate knew to keep her until you could come for her.
You don’t know how long you sit with her. Watching. Waiting.
Around you, the soldiers start to awaken. Corpses fill with life. Soldiers with life-ending injuries sit up as though they’d just woken up from a coma.
You just continue to wait.
Green with flecks of gold peer up at you.
Her face is still like uncracked porcelain.
She smiles. It’s so beautiful it breaks your heart.
She speaks first. Her eyes crinkle.
“Your hair,” she rasps, voice soft, almost a whisper.
She reaches up, and you let her. She brushes over a single coil of hair.
“It is the color of florals once again.” A crystal tear trickles down her face.
You follow her gaze. Your hair, once dull and washed out, resembled the shade you once had all those months ago. No, it was even brighter than before.
Dread Persephone’s final gift.
You want to laugh. Even at death’s door, Briseis still only looks at you.
You pet her cheek. Her eyes flutter at your touch.
“What’s your favorite flower?” You wonder.
She smiles, confused.
“My favorite flower?” She echoes. You nod.
“If I had to choose…it would be roses.”
You actually laughed that time. It’s wet, the kind that sticks to your tongue. She smiles up at you. A hand reaches up to cradle your own.
“That’s so…normal.”
It’s not any of the flowers you thought of for her.
She tilts her head. “Should I choose another?” She asks.
And yet, you can’t think of another more perfect answer for her.
“No.” You tell her. “You shouldn’t.”
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i miss fandom before ai. there was no risk of accidentally reading an ai generated fic based on stolen material. i don't want to stumble upon ai generated videos my ship kissing and see comments like "this is what ai should be used for". i don't want to see gifs of those ai generated kisses when i browse for fun reactions gifs of them. i don't want ai generated photos and definitely not ai generated art. i don't want ai to be part of my community and i definitely don't want to hear anything about anyone using it because they "can't write" or they "can't draw".
there's no valid excuse for anyone to use ai. use your imagination.
hello. I would like to play a game. in front of you is a computer and you have to log into your account and if I see chatgpt in there regularly I’m gonna blow your fingers into smithereens
It might just be me but I’m tired of people coming into the slasher community and asking “but why??? They’re killers you must have —“ SHUT UP!!!! ITS NOT REAL!!! NOBODY HAS TO EXPLAIN THEIR REASONING TO YOU!!!! They’re always trying to diagnose you, like, if you’re not into it then you’re not!!! Move on you don’t have to understand
Maria Skłodowska-Curie's notebooks are crazy once you think about it. They're so radioactive they have to be sealed in a lead box. Imagine a world where atomic theory is forgotten and a dude just goes "yea there's a book that details the secrets of the universe, the machinations of the creation of existence down to its barest essentials, but if you get close to it you fucking die. The more you read it the more your body slowly disassembles into mush." like wat excuse me
*sends out email I've been putting off* ah finally :). ah that's a weight off my shoulders :). ah I can relax an-- *receives response to email* what the fuck. what the fuck. what the fuckkkk
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turnnoffyourmind
