The morning meal was predictably tense. Alcestis murmured a prayer to Ares, something she was not often wont to do, and even poured out a small libation to Athena, just to be safe.

"I want assurance that you shall be watched over even as you amaze us all with your prowess," she said with a wink to her adopted son.

When they had eaten their fill, she went out to meet Diodorus before they were to all leave together. Sherlock sat quietly on his seat, still jealous over the meaning of Jon's extravagant gift, but also dealing with the shame of his uncontrolled jealousy. He knew it was at least a little bit warranted, and by the gods, Sherlock would fight for Jon. Somehow. He knew he couldn't possibly best the gymnast physically, but there must be something he could find on him to make his interest go away.

Jon swept past him, having not uttered a word to him yet that morning, and Sherlock heard him pause in his steps. He jumped when an unexpected hand settled across his neck, and he twisted around to look up.

Jon gazed down at him, shaking his head. "Do not be so troubled. Today is supposed to be a happy one." He looked away and bit his lip. "I just… I want to do well. To please you. And your family. I want you to be proud."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he placed his hand atop Jon's. "I am proud. I am always proud of y—" his words were swallowed by Jon's lips. The blond quickly dipped down, stealing Sherlock's breath with a fierce and unexpected kiss, and Sherlock surged up into him, sliding a hand around his neck.

Jon pulled away much too quickly, casting a nervous glance at the doorway. Sherlock's blood pounded in his veins, and he blinked up at Jon in a daze. The older boy smirked and reached a hand down for his.

"Let's not quarrel. Come. Tell me how brilliant I am and how triumphant I will be today."

Sherlock laughed and squeezed Jon's hand. "I hardly think you need any further ego stroking."

Jon nudged his shoulder and leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I always enjoy your stroking, though."

Sherlock would have tripped over his feet had Jon not been beside him.

-*- φιλία -*-

When they arrived at the gymnasium, there were dozens and dozens of people gathered to watch their boys and to meet the famed Cleitomachus. Several men were milling about, talking and drinking from skeins of wine their servants had brought. Before Alcestis and Diodorus left to find a good seat, she kissed Jon on the top of his head and wished him good fortune. Sherlock decided to linger a bit longer with Jon before the students were called to prepare.

Feeling emboldened by Jon's display earlier, he leaned in. "Would you like me to give you my own special kind of luck in the forest?"

Jon bit his lips to keep from smiling, and peered up at Sherlock from under his golden lashes. "I would, indeed. Though, we don't have much time to go the forest."

"Hmm. I happened to notice a rather large oak not too far off…"

Jon stood close and discreetly tangled his fingers with Sherlock's, hidden in the folds of their chitons, and squeezed. "I swear you delight in compromising me before a competition."

Sherlock smirked and rubbed the back of his fingers over Jon's hip before pulling away to put a more appropriate distance between them. It wasn't a good time to announce to all in attendance the new status of their relationship, especially not to his mother. His gaze managed to land on the hulking figure of Cleitomachus, who had dressed in his finest military garb for the occasion. The armour at his shins gleamed in the sun, as did the xiphos strung at his waist. He was surrounded by men and women, all vying for a chance to speak with him, or to gaze up at him with adoration.

"I only care about one competition with regards to you."

Jon turned to him. "There is no competition, Sherlock. You have to know that."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Alcaeus chose that moment to slam into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. Jon steadied him and then bandied up to Alcaeus, fists clenched at his side.

"That was un-called for."

"My apologies. I cannot help that he did not see me coming. Perhaps he should practise using his eyes for more than looking at you."

Sherlock snorted. "Ah, so you can tell when someone is interested in another. It must be sheer, stubborn-minded stupidity that keeps you pursuing those who could care less."

Alcaeus puffed out his chest and took a step forward. Jon smoothly stepped in front of Sherlock and cocked his head, eyeing the other up and down. Sherlock knew Jon had already mapped his weak points and could lay him out in mere seconds if he chose to.

"I wouldn't," Jon said. His eyes flashed dangerously, and Alcaeus only hesitated a moment before backing down.

"No matter. We will have plenty of time to exorcise our aggression on the pitch."

"Indeed," Jon murmured.

Alcaeus turned and sauntered off, strutting around in what looked to be new leather sandals and acting as if he were a god amongst the people. Sherlock rolled his eyes and suspected he knew exactly where he was going. Sebastos and Morsimus were lurking off to the side, and Alcaeus was just enough of a fool to try to win Sebastos' favour one more time before the games were to begin. To have someone whose 'honour' he would fight to win. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

It was at this point that Cleitomachus separated from his admirers, and he and Grigórios began gathering their students together. Jon turned to Sherlock with a grin.

"Wish me favour with the gods."

Sherlock leaned in close enough to feel the heat faintly rolling off of Jon's excited body.

"You do not need it."

Jon's eyes widened and he smacked Sherlock on the arm. "Do not say that! Not now."

Sherlock laughed and placed a hand upon his bicep with a smile. "You don't need it because you already have it."

Jon smiled and relaxed. "You are an absolute terror."

Sherlock winked. "Yes."

Jon leaned in, as if drawn, and Sherlock could not stop his body from swaying closer. Their faces tilted, and even though he knew this would not be a good idea, he licked his lips, ready to press them against Jon's when a commotion behind them made them both jump and step back. There was a muffled curse, and Sherlock just saw Morsimus stumble gracelessly onto his backside. Sebastos instantly shoved an enraged Alcaeus, and was gathering back his fist when Cleitomachus stepped between them.

"Enough," the gymnast chastised. He placed a large palm against both boys' chests and glared at each. "Save it for the pitch. Now off with you. Go."

Alcaeus sneered down at Morsimus and turned to stalk away. Sebastos reached an arm down to tug the smaller boy up, who glared daggers at his offender. Sherlock had a very bad feeling about that look. Morsimus was the wrong person to upset and did not seem as if he were the type to quickly forget slights. Then again, Alcaeus was an idiot.

Cleitomachus moved to them and placed a hand gently on Jon's back. "Come, Jon."

Sherlock balled his own fists to keep from pushing the hand away.

"I will be right behind you," Jon said.

The older gymnast nodded and moved away to the rest of the group, while the audience settled themselves to watch the assembly.

Sherlock took Jon's hand and placed his other on Jon's chest. "Please be safe." His eyes darted to Morsimus and Sebastos. As if feeling his gaze, Morsimus looked back over his shoulder and threw a smirk at Sherlock. "Do not engage either of them needlessly. Morsimus will most likely try to unsettle you."

Jon smiled and placed his free hand at Sherlock's waist. "There is nothing you need worry about. Except how loudly you will cheer my name."

-*- φιλία -*-

The assembly began with a brief speech by Cletiomachus about what principles had been drilled into the boys, what manoeuvres they learned, and what they should expect to see that day.

It was followed by group exercises demonstrating their use of phalanx formations, involving spears and colourful war cries by the youngest ones, to the delight of their parents. They then moved on to demonstrations of their newly-acquired archery skills and precision with javelin throwing. There was a quick break for the next segment, during which the boys removed their tunics, while servants assisted with the traditional oiling of skin in preparation for sparring. Sherlock tried his very hardest not to watch Jon oil himself, nor to appreciate the way the sun sparkled across his glistening body. When his groin stirred he abruptly dragged his gaze away and snuck one peek at Alcaeus, which was more than enough to put a damper on his quickly heating desires.

The younger ones began first, showing off various grappling positions meant to display their proficiencies at obeying commands and mastering control of their young bodies. They then were paired off for sparring, competing against each successive winner until the final two remained. Cleitomachus, and especially Grigórios, looked on with fiercely proud expressions upon their faces. Though, neither could compare to the look upon the young victor's face when he was declared champion. He was given a small, terra cotta aryballos of perfumed oil, which hung on a leather strap around his wrist. With this, he swaggered over towards the older boys, who affectionately cuffed his head, and patted him heartily on his gleaming back.

The older boys stepped forward to demonstrate more elaborate techniques, and Sherlock had to bite his tongue to keep quiet as Jon was placed prominently in the centre. It was now more obvious than ever how much the training had altered his physique. Jon had a graceful command of his body, and Sherlock heard more than one young girl sigh whilst he performed.

Once the sparring session began, the adults really started to get vocal, with people cheering their sons and favourites. Jon seemed to pull the loudest cheers, and Sherlock's chest glowed with pride. He, his mother, and even Diodorus, cried out for him and chanted his name.

Jon beat his first competitor effortlessly, pinning him with a clever move in less than thirty seconds. He beamed around at the audience, and when the next pair stepped into the pitch, cheered his fellows on. He caught Sherlock's eye a few times, and Sherlock would've sworn aloud at how easily he blushed if he weren't adamantly trying to keep his reactions neutral. Unfortunately, his mother glanced at him once when this happened, and raised a subtle brow in response. Sherlock did his best to contain his reactions for the rest of the set.

When the final two remained, and of course it was between Jon and Sebastos, Sherlock was on his feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd. Both were talented, but Sebastos had the advantage of height and weight. In the end, however, it was Jon's cleverness and speed that brought him glory, and he pinned the larger boy beneath him until Cleitomachus loudly proclaimed him the champion.

The crowd erupted into a raucous applause, and Sherlock might even have jumped in excitement himself. Jon quickly sprang away from his opponent and offered his hand to Sebastos, who reluctantly took it, mouth twisted with a grimace. After, Jon's eyes again sought Sherlock's and he flashed him a blinding smile. Sherlock's felt his insides melt as if they'd become warmed honey.

"He is very talented," a man behind them said, leaning towards Alcestis.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, eyes tracking him across the field, where the rest of the class were donning their armour and preparing for the final demonstration. Swordsmanship.

This final exhibition passed quickly. The littlest ones' armour clinked and their blunted swords pinged harmlessly off the others. They demonstrated their stances, lunges, and other moves that honestly bored Sherlock until he finally gave up the pretence of paying attention and simply went back to watching Jon.

He was standing calmly beside Grigórios and Sebastos with Morsimus hovering nearby. The dark-eyed youth murmured something to Sebastos, who smirked and looked at Jon with a hateful grin. Jon shifted on his feet and gripped his sword. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Morsimus. Jon had not said what their extra performance would entail, though he had said it would involve those two.

The older boys roused themselves for presentation, lining up and arranging their weapons at their sides. As in the sparring session, they were paired off with duelling partners. Only this time, neither Jon nor Morsimus were included. Sherlock had frowned as the last pair finished, and his mother leaned towards him.

"This must be the secret Jon alluded to."

A sense of unease settled over Sherlock like an unwelcome blanket, and he nodded, hoping against hope that what he was beginning to suspect would happen would not. Putting Jon anywhere near a Morsimus armed with a blade sounded like his worst nightmare.

When Cleitomachus called for the boys to settle, he stepped forward and addressed the crowd.

"I have been honoured to teach your sons this brief introduction to the ways of battle. They have all performed admirably, and their families should be proud. I have no doubt that should any of them wish to pursue a military career, they would do well." He smiled back at his charges, who proudly beamed in response.

"It happens that during the course of my many travels I meet those who are especially gifted. It is rare to have two in one group, but I am pleased to say that it is so here."

He gestured for Jon and Morsimus to step forward.

"Jon, whose patron is Septimius of Athens; and Morsimus, son of Molpagorus of Sparta. Both have demonstrated their many talents at this gymnasium, and it is their elevated skills with a blade that you shall have the honour of witnessing today."

He stepped back, and the pair assumed their positions, preparing to fight. Sherlock's heart hammered in his chest and he felt sweat bead along his brow. He hastily murmured a prayer to Apollo, Jon's chosen patron, to protect and bless him. The crowd held its breath as seconds crept by in tense stillness.

Morsimus was the first to attack. The crowd collectively gasped at the speed with which his blade rushed at Jon, and Sherlock's teeth ground together at the sound of vicious metal connecting.

The two went back and forth, circling each other and lunging. The first few minutes seemed to be structured so that it was less about fighting, and more about artful skill and movement. Begrudgingly, Sherlock had to admit that the additional hours of training, if that indeed was the only reason Cleitomachus had kept him so late, (which it was not) were well spent. Jon was a marvel to watch. He moved effortlessly and with precision. Had their weapons not been so potentially lethal, it would have been a beautifully choreographed sight to behold. Jon was very quick, and very intelligent, nearly always anticipating Morsimus' moves. But Morsimus was ruthless, and soon his strikes became less aesthetic and more deadly. After a third near miss, Alcestis swore quietly, clutching her peplos and looked as if poised to stand.

"How can Cleitomachus approve of this?" She winced as the blade narrowly missed Jon's stomach, and the crowd gasped again. "This is madness! Someone should stop this. Surely, a demonstration should not be so wreckless?"

Sherlock nodded, and the pinched look on Diodorus' face indicated he agreed as well.

Jon twirled away from a wicked slash aimed at his thigh, and retaliated with a swing towards Morsimus' back and Sherlock swore he hit skin. The crowd cried out, but Jon smiled, triumphant, as it was revealed he had only split the fabric of Morsimus' tunic, rather than his flesh. There was thunderous applause, and Morsimus stilled, chest heaving. Jon swirled his blade, circling his prey like a lion might a wounded animal. The boys stared at each other, and Sherlock watched as Morsimus spoke something for Jon's ears only. Jon's step faltered and he threw a look of utter loathing at him, and it was that moment that Sherlock had warned Jon he would do. Jon was a kind, warm person, but he had a temper that was quick to flare, and Morsimus was purposely manipulating that fact. Sherlock slid forward in his seat as Jon's lip curled and he cried out, lunging wildly at Morsimus.

"No, Jon," Sherlock breathed, standing now and wringing his hands. "Don't engage him." Beside him, his mother was also on her feet, her lips busy chanting a prayer of protection.

The two slashed at each other, grunting and crying out. Their blades were silver blurs that just missed piercing flesh time and time again. At last, the crowd began to stir and mumble anxiously. Like Sherlock, they were finally beginning to sense that something wasn't quite right, or perhaps safe, and more than once Sherlock tore his eyes away to glare at Cleitomachus. The muscled gymnast stood to the side, watching the pair intently with a furrowed brow. To his credit, he also looked uncomfortable, and Sherlock noted the muscles in his great thighs quivered with aborted steps towards the pitch.

"Why doesn't he stop this?" his mother asked again between clenched teeth.

Morsimus dodged a particularly sharp downward swing, and then time seemed to slow as Sherlock watched his retaliating move: a horizontal cut which sliced into the skin of Jon's abdomen. Sherlock's breath left in a rush and all other sounds faded to the background except Jon's audible gasp from the pitch. The blond stilled in shock and looked down to the bright red line blossoming into the white fabric of his tunic.

Alcestis cried out and immediately ran towards the pitch with Sherlock following blindly after. The gathered assembly roared in surprise and dismay behind them, while ahead, Jon growled and launched himself at Morsimus. Jon's reaction must not have been what Morsimus was expecting, chiefly hand-to-hand combat, and was swiftly overtaken. He landed on his back with a huff, sand flying around them, and Jon's fist gathered back before pounding into his cheek. Morsimus attempted to throw him, but Jon was quicker, grabbing him and spinning him around into a tight headlock. His forearm wound around his neck, cutting off his air supply and turning the smaller boy's face a livid red. Finally, Cleitomachus rushed forward, brow furrowed and arms waving to call the match off.

Sherlock stumbled through the sand as soon as his feet hit it, and he watched as Jon was pulled away by several of their peers before collapsing onto his back. Blood soaked through the front of his tunic now, and he blinked up into the sky.

"Jon!" Sherlock cried, falling to his knees beside his mother, who was tearing at the sopping fabric and hurling obscenities at both Cleitomachus and Morsimus. A gathered group of boys shuffled awkwardly around them, each with varying looks of concern marring their expressions. Sherlock settled beside Jon's shoulders and leaned over his head, blocking them from view. Jon blinked up at him and gave him a slow grin. Sherlock's shaky hands reached for his face, cupping his cheeks and wishing he could pull him close and force everyone else away. His heart was pounding wildly and he was fairly certain he was breathing even faster than Jon.

"Let me see, oraiótatos," Alcestis murmured, gently probing the skin around the wound. Sherlock's vision swam at the sight of so much blood, of Jon's blood, and he clutched at him more tightly.

"It's fine," Jon ground out, twitching away from her fingers. "It is a scratch."

"It is not," Sherlock spat. He glared up at a smug-looking Morsimus, who was nevertheless rubbing at the reddened skin around his neck. Sebastos stood behind him with a hand at his back.

"He is right," Cleitomachus said. His brows were knit as he examined the wound, which was not a slash through his abdomen so much as a slice at his hip. "Nothing major has been punctured. It is merely a flesh wound. His blood was up which makes it look worse." He smiled kindly down at Jon. "You will be fine."

Alcestis sighed in relief, and Sherlock leaned down to press his forehead against Jon's as relief washed over him.

"You are an idiot," he murmured, trembling and so, so grateful it really was a scratch and nothing worse. He was startled by a sudden, fierce arm around his neck from his mother, who was clutching both of them to her.

"I do not like swords," she swore. Jon chuckled, and then winced.

Cleitomachus crouched down to rest his palm atop Jon's head, rubbing slowly back and forth, and Sherlock's skin crawled. He wanted to throw it off. He wanted to curse him for placing Jon in danger, but the man was currently glaring fiercely up at Morsimus, so he delayed.

"That was not the agreement, Morsimus. You were both told to do no harm. Not for a demonstration. It was dishonourable and there can be no dishonour among warriors."

Morsimus smiled, affecting a look of contrition. "Forgive us. I suppose the heat of battle swept us both away." He directed his black gaze down to Jon. "Didn't it?"

Fury bubbled up in Sherlock's veins, but Jon met Morsimus' gaze with a curled lip. The two stared at each other in silence until, eventually, Jon jerked his chin once and then struggled to rise. Sherlock's arm was instantly around his back, easing him, but Jon shrugged him off and got to his feet. He plucked at the sticky tunic and tisked.

"I have ruined this. I'm sorry, Alcestis."

Her eyes widened in disbelief and a startled laughed blurted from her lips. "That is the least of my worries, Jon."

He forced a tight smile and then strode away from Sherlock and the bloodied sand, limping only a little, to show the audience that he was well. This was met with uproarious applause. Jon demurely dropped his head and dipped a slight bow to the audience before turning back to Cleitomachus, who was smiling at him with radiant pride. Sherlock's stomach twisted in knots at the sudden, differing mass of emotions trying to overpower the other. Relief, confusion, jealousy, fear, anger... his head was spinning.

The gymnast then moved forward to address the assembled audience, closing out the day with his prepared, if not slightly unsteady speech; of which Sherlock could care less. He resolved to remain by Jon's side, even as he was shooing everyone else so he could strip and wash away the blood before leaving for home. Alcestis ran a soft hand over his cheek and assured him that a fine, hot meal would be awaiting them when Cleitomachus approached her. She turned to the man with an enquiring brow, and he gently pulled her aside, leaning in close to her ear. Sherlock's instincts prickled and he watched with narrowed eyes as the man spoke quietly to his mother. Sherlock just managed to catch her brows rising in surprise before she turned with her back facing him. Around them people were dispersing and breaking away to their families and homes. The sounds of their excited chatter following them.

Sherlock strained his ears to hear the conversation. "What is he doing?" he asked Jon.

Jon shrugged and pulled off his filthy tunic with a grimace. "No idea." A young maid stepped forward with a large vessel of water, and Jon nodded before she slowly poured it over his head. His hands quickly scrubbed the sand, dirt, and blood from his skin. When the water ran out, he shook his head like a dog, sending water droplets in all directions. He winced and gently touched the wound at his hip with a hiss before tossing a cheeky grin over his shoulder to Sherlock. "That stings a bit."

Sherlock stared at him. "You are fortunate that is all it does."

Jon shrugged and reached for his spare tunic.

-*- φιλία -*-

After far too long, Sherlock and his relations finally made their way along the forest path towards home. Several times people had stopped them to congratulate Jon, to exclaim over his greatness. To gush over the fact that the gods had obviously blessed him. Jon's confidence grew with each comment, and Sherlock had smiled to see him so happy. Flesh wound, aside.

Jon had his arm slung around Sherlock's neck, at Sherlock's insistence. His mother walked on the other side of him, and Sherlock kept throwing her glances. Her lips were pinched, and her eyes were focussed elsewhere in deep thought. A troubled, deep thought. He squeezed the hand around Jon's waist tighter. He had a feeling her disturbed expression had something to do with Cleitomachus.

The forest was a welcome respite of quiet, with only the soft susurrus of their footsteps on hard-packed earth, or the occasional crunch of a raspy leaf or broken twig. A few neighbours who were taking the same path ambled ahead, several of whom had lingered to also express their admiration to Jon before letting them get on to tend his wound. One of the neighbours to the west of their land had brought along their two young children, a boy and a girl, who were darting in and out of view to play in the forest edging either side of the path. The children had been the last to finally leave Jon's side having exhausted all of their questions, or perhaps because Sherlock had shooed them away. Regardless, Sherlock had had one eye on them and one on Jon as they walked in case they decided to return and pester him. Fortunately, they seemed content gambolling in the path, and it didn't take long before Sherlock felt his adrenaline tapering off from earlier. His mind was racing ahead to ways to tend to Jon and get him settled. Perhaps his mother would ask him to fetch her herbs to make a poultice.

He was just easing into his mental plans when the little girl and her brother disappeared again into the forest. They continued on, Sherlock taking care not to jostle Jon too much, but after a time, Sherlock registered an odd sort of calm when the sounds of their play went suddenly quiet. Apparently, Jon noticed as well and stiffened at his side. Sherlock looked away towards the woods when the sound of a high-pitched scream pierced the unnatural still of the forest, and everyone jolted to a stop. The children's mother and father rushed in, alarmed, and Alcestis moved to block both he and Jon on instinct. Another neighbour, an older man, called after them to see if they needed help. Jon's hand strayed down to the xiphos at his hip while they waited, and soon the father emerged, carrying his son; the mother their daughter. All four faces were pale, and the children were sobbing.

"Someone go and bring back Cleitomachus and Grigórios," the father said, clutching his son close. His face was wan and grim.

Sherlock felt his adrenaline surge again and he slid his arm free of Jon to move past his mother. His curiosity was now peaked and he looked away towards the forest. Alcestis automatically gripped his wrist to stay him.

"What has happened?" she asked the father.

"It is one of the boys from the gymnasium. He is dead."

-*- φιλία -*-

A/N: I struggled a bit with this chapter, but I hope it doesn't come across as so.

Also, if anyone is wondering what to expect for the length of this Book, I think there will be about four more chapters.

Thank you to the lovely folks who have left comments. :)