And Thine
"Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom.
—T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
1303 B.C.
Ilion
The blood carves dark streams over her naked skin.
Aia sucks in a breath. Sigama's cool palm tightens over the back of her skull as she starts to lift her head. She drinks greedily, blood dripping down her chin.
"Well?" he asks at last, and she shakes her head, licking her scarlet-stained lips.
"Nothing," she says. "Nothing at all."
Sigama catches her wrist as she starts to wipe the blood away. "Pity," he murmurs, and brushes a thumb over her chin and licks it thoughtfully. "It's only been a few days. Perhaps I should wean you off again."
"I haven't seen anything new in decades." She yawns, suddenly sleepy. "It's always the same vision. Fire, salt, and blood. The world burning. Yuu. Maybe nothing has changed."
Sigama doesn't answer. His hand slides down her back, his silky hair tickling her chin as he licks the blood from her skin, his head bent low over her pale chest, her stomach, the curve of her left leg.
She sinks down into his restraining grip, her head lolling back. The frescoes overhead blur in a sea of greens and reds and blues. A bath, she thinks absently. Maybe some of that perfume Lilli has been talking about, the one that doesn't reek of oils. And a wreath of something, to disguise his present–
The warm wet rasp swirling over the inside of her knee vanishes; she finds herself discarded gently onto a pile of bloodstained robes. Sigama licks his ruby lips. "The bath is ready," he says, turning away. "You may return in a few weeks."
"That long?" she says, dismayed. Sigama rinses his hands in the bowl and reaches for a fresh tunic. "Has your heart been beating that way for long?" he asks, ignoring her question. Aia clasps a hand to her chest self-consciously. Her heart quivers. It's still slower than a human heart, but it beats steadily to its own grudging pace now. She's never felt so alive. So human.
"Only for the past few weeks, I think."
A lie. But she's been getting better at them. Sigama doesn't seem to notice. "Hm. Take note of it. If it continues for long, we shall wait until it's slowed again for you to drink."
She swallows hard. "Yes. It worries me, the change. It feels too…human."
Sigama softens. "Do not worry." He pauses to cup a finger beneath her chin. "You are mine, now. You will always be mine. A few biological quirks will not change that. Go. Bathe. You don't want to be late."
"Yes, Father." Stop beating so loudly, heart. "Thank you."
He flaps a hand at her, shooing her away. She wipes her feet carefully on the stained robes, and retreats.
The bath is still warm. She slips gratefully beneath the surface of the water and waits for her heart to stop thumping against her ribs.
The lies are getting easier. Even slipping the faint inflection of fear into her voice was easy. She is afraid– afraid that her heart will go back to its marble stillness. Afraid that these exhilarating new feelings will die with it. Afraid of losing this newfound taste of what she once was.
She understands now what Sigama meant. Twisting her own emotions, her own thoughts and fears, to lace her words with sincerity and hide the lies in truth, grows easier every day. She's still careful to keep the lies simple and scarce around Sigama, but the adrenaline of lying to him– her heart betrays her voice. She has to be careful. Time. She has all the time in the world. Time enough to perfect even her traitor heartbeat.
But time is something that is suddenly precious, these days.
A bell tolls outside. Her heart thumps.
The ships have returned.
It's easy to pick Laomedon out from the crowd of bustling sailors. He's bent over the hatch, shoulder to shoulder with crew members as they pass amphora brimming with honey and wine through to the waiting slaves on the docks. His dark hair shines like carved mahogany under the blistering sun. His bronzed shoulders are bare, his tunic sleeves rolled back to show glistening muscle beneath sun-dark skin.
Aia waits on the docks until the unloading is finished. Troy, as the westernmost port of the Hittite empire, is kept wealthy off the merchant ships and trade that pass through her port, but piracy has been a time-honored tradition of obtaining battle experience for sons born in peace time since the first ships set sail for unknown shores. She knows how crucial it is that Laomedon, as the second son, proves his mettle.
Though, judging from today's haul, the queen will not have to worry about her second-born. They must have captured two ships, at least. She even glimpses a glint of gold ingots as the slaves pile the stolen goods onto the waiting carts.
One of the sailors recognizes her. Aia keeps her eyes lowered demurely beneath her veil as he grins and trots over to the prince. She's well-dressed today in lavender robes embroidered with gold and an opaque white veil that hides her eyes, ears, and hair from curious passersby. Her clothing is probably what gave her away. There's only one daughter of a lord who would be waiting for the prince's ship to arrive.
Laomedon straightens up and passes a hand over his glistening forehead. In the glare of the sun, she can't tell if the expression on his face is surprise or mild resignation. He mutters something to a crew member, ducks out of line, and comes striding down the gangway towards her.
"My lady," he says, bowing low. "What brings one of the queen's handmaidens down to the docks?" His tone is wry.
"I came to see if the high priest of Tarhun was wrong," she says, hands folded innocently behind her back.
The prince blinks. "Why–" he hesitates, frowns, sighs, and asks, "Why would the high priest be wrong?"
She shrugs. "He said the omens foretold your ship would return tomorrow."
"You've been wagering with priests again," Laomedon says, reproach in his voice again.
"Of course not," she says. "That would be sacrilegious. We just have a friendly agreement that if, say, your ship were to arrive today, at late noon, then he will let me offer a sacrifice to one of the lesser gods with my own hands."
"Which only violates three of the sacred laws," Laomedon says dryly.
"Well, yes. But such a thing could never happen, because he is the high priest of Tarhun, and even if he happened to make a mistake and misread the omens, it's impossible that your ship would arrive today, at exactly late noon, three days earlier than expected, and not at any point tomorrow or later. Which is what we made our friendly agreement on." She smiles through her veil.
Laomedon blinks again. "There were exceptionally good winds–" he breaks off, frowns, adds, "and it's impossible to know exactly when the ships will come in–" and sees the corners of her mouth curling beneath her veil, and stops.
"That is what the high priest said," she agrees.
Laomedon shakes his head. "Gods," he mutters, and scratches his beard. "Gods-blessed," he adds as an afterthought, and shakes his head again. "Will you really offer a sacrifice?"
She looks up into his dark hazel eyes, and lies. "Of course not. That would be sacrilegious."
Laomedon relaxes a little. "Does the high priest know yet?"
"I don't think so," she says, straight-faced. "He is still finishing the wineskin we opened when we made our little friendly agreement."
The prince purses his lips. The corners of his mouth are twitching. "I see. Well, my lady, since the high priest has a temper when he's in his cups, and since I am drenched in sweat and no doubt offending your lovely nose, will you give me the honor of accompanying you back to the palace?"
She curtsies low. "The honor is mine, my lord." She pauses. "Also, the water for your bath should be heated by now. I asked a slave to prepare one in your chambers shortly before I left the palace."
The prince stares at her. She tilts her head. "My lord?"
"Gods-blessed," Laomedon mutters again, and shakes his head. "Let me give orders to the crew. I'll be right back." He looks around at the bustling docks. "Where is your escort?"
Aia looks down. The light of amusement in Laomedon's eyes fades. He touches a callused fingertip under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Usually his touch would send her heart beating faster than she thought possible, but the stern disapproval in his face makes it go still.
"You are very clever, my lady," Laomedon says, speaking low so that only she can hear. "I know that you are not like most of the women. But you cannot travel alone. It is unsafe and unwise. You know how dangerous rumors are. And many men would seize the chance to kidnap you and sell you at some foreign court. You know this. I know you know this."
"Yes," she murmurs, but he isn't done.
"You are too clever to act like a silly child, ignorant of danger." He grips her chin as she tries to lower her head. "Promise me you will not do this again."
She swallows. "I promise," she whispers. The delight at surprising him is gone. Her pride stings. How can she tell him that she is stronger than the average man, maybe even stronger than him? How can she tell him that she is one of the things that make men shiver and mark themselves with the sign against evil, when the night grows dark?
Why, why does she want to tell him? Why does the truth demand to be told when lies are such a relief?
Laomedon sighs. "Gods, you make me worry sometimes," he says, and brushes a rough thumb over the layer of sheer fabric on her cheek. Her heart beats again. "Now, before I go tell the crew to finish unloading without me, are you going to show me that trinket you've been hiding so protectively behind your back?"
Aia curls her fingers over the statuette of a tiny lion, half-hidden in her skirts. She's not used to human eyes picking up on such small things– but then, Laomedon surprises her. It's one of the things she likes about it. One of the many things.
Scoldings, however, are not one of them. She smiles sweetly up at him. "That depends. Did you bring me back anything from across the sea?"
"What? Something the lady doesn't know?" The prince raises his eyebrows. "Truly, the gods still perform miracles."
"Maybe I just wanted to give you the satisfaction of surprising me."
"Kind as always, my dear lady." His fingertips brush her arm, a quick, warm gesture. Her heart remembers that it likes to beat faster around him. "Wait here a moment."
Aia watches him rejoin the sailors, fingers clasped over the echo of his fingertips on her arm. Her heart thrums.
Alive, alive, alive, it sings. The sunlight is warm on her skin, warm on the dock beneath her slippers, warm inside her chest. The air hums of salt in the water, salt in the sweat shining on skin, of sun-warmed gold and voices tumbling over each other and the scream of seagulls high over the city walls.
Aia tightens her grip on the small statuette clasped behind her back. Its carved edges dig into her palm. She savors the sensation, the warmth, the vivacy.
Alive, alive, alive.
The queen's chambers are quiet today.
Aia sets the bundle of wool she's been carding into a basket and picks up another and tugs her comb through the matted strands. The looms clack rhythmically above her as Brisa and Karuwa move their shuttles over the dyed wool. Lilli, the second youngest, sits across from her, her lips pressed into a thin line as she cards her own basket of wool. The other handmaids are off with the queen, taking a walk about the walltop to enjoy the sea breeze.
Lilli sets her wool back in its basket. "Chamber-pot," she mutters, gathering up her skirts. Aia doesn't look up from her task. She likes the mindless work of carding. Her mind empties as her fingers untangle the knots.
She notices, with serene detachment, how Karuwa watches Lilli leave, and looks at her through the threads of the loom. She keeps her head low over her work. One of the shuttles pauses, and rejoins the rhythm as Karuwa murmurs, "Has she gone to see him yet?"
Brisa's slender fingers never falter over the loom. "Not yet. Aliwasu is with him now."
"He's been ill often, these days."
"I heard the priest say it's the cold winds from the Isles. The seasons are changing."
"So you don't believe in the curse?" Karuwa asks curiously.
Brisa shrugs without changing her pace. "He's always been a sickly child."
"Arinna believes in it. You can tell by the way she talks to the priests. She thinks her god Apollo is behind it."
"The king doesn't," Brisa counters.
"The king has five healthy male heirs. He doesn't care about Ganymede."
Aia's fingers fumble with a knot.
"That's not true," Brisa says sharply. "The king is a good father. He just doesn't tarry with superstition."
"It's not superstition if it's true."
"So you believe in this Apollo?"
Karuwa shrugs. "All the gods are real. Just because we worship them by different names and faces doesn't change that."
"Where did you hear that?"
"The priest at the temple of foreign gods."
Brisa snorts. "That priest? He's so young he's still beardless. I've heard the priest of Tarhun talking of him. He's full of crazy theories about the gods."
"The priest of Tarhun is an old drunkard," Karuwa says dismissively.
"Hush, you. You just like this priest because he's handsome."
"We~ell, he is."
Aia tunes them out as their whispers turn to old gossip. Her serene mood is gone. Her thoughts are racing.
Ganymede. She's never met the king's youngest legitimate son, but she knows the whispers. She only knows the whispers. No one she knows has seen the prince, or if they have, they never speak of it. There are rumors of a curse, of a strange sickness since birth, that the queen is growing increasingly desperate for a cure for her youngest child.
Aia's fingers move haphazardly through the wool. The rumors have been rising again. And queen Arinna has looked pale and worn lately…
And that one whisper, that she overheard only once, accidentally, from Aliwasu, the queen's most trusted handmaiden...a whisper so soft that it took all her inhuman hearing to catch it.
God's-child.
There are always whispers, when it comes to things humans do not understand. Lady Rumor is easily started, and runs far and fast.
Wings are all very well, but words fly farther and faster than even them, Sigama had said, when she asked why he never flew. Three humans might see one miracle, but three thousand will believe it.
The queen discouraged the rumors. The king only laughed at them, and only Lilli had even mentioned it, with the wide-eyed belief of a child still ready to believe in miracles. The other handmaidens only smiled and shook their heads. But Aia had listened raptly.
They say the queen was so beautiful the gods themselves noticed.
The wool threads apart in her fingers. Aia carefully tugs the comb through one final time, twines it into a neat bundle, and sets it back in the basket. Her mind pieces the rumors together with the same deliberate care.
They say the gods noticed.
And the youngest son, who no one has ever seen and who they only speak about in whispers…
God's-child.
Aia rises to her feet. Brisa and Karuwa look at her curiously as she smooths her skirts out and sets the basket of carded wool at their feet. "I'm going out for some fresh air," she murmurs.
She passes Lilli in the doorway. The other girl's skirts are ruffled, a stray wisp of dark hair escaping from her headscarf. Her cheeks are flushed. She dodges Aia's gaze guiltily and hurries past. Aia files that away for later thought, but she's too preoccupied to give it much attention. The puzzle pieces are dancing in her mind.
It's almost evening. Laomedon will be out on the walltop, surveying the weather with his ship captain. With the seasons changing, there might not be enough time for one last expedition before the winter storms set in.
She ducks past the curtain shading the tower entrance and steps into the fading sunlight. The light is still strong enough to make her eyes water; her skin prickles uncomfortably. She risks a quick glance up.
The skies are a soft cloudy blue. Far out over the endless sea, the horizon is tinged with grey. Aia smiles. There will be no more expeditions this year. Laomedon will be disappointed. The captain will be going to inform the crew, and the prince will be heading back to his chambers to tell the king. She can catch him on the way.
He'll want wine. And once he's had a drink or two, then she can ask him about his little brother. If she's careful, and clever, she'll know the truth behind the rumors.
Anticipation quickens her heartbeat. The name dances through her mind again.
Ganymede.
The vision comes sweeping in like the sea breeze, carrying the first winter chill. The sky turns scarlet.
She doesn't feel her knees hit the stone, or hear the voice that cries out her name. The world has been engulfed in light.
Unconscious, she smiles.