Ok, first I want to apoligize for the fact that although this story has a beginning, a middle, and end and a plot…it really doesn't flow scene-to-scene. So if you can't handle some brief blips between scenes…this story isn't for you. The urge to write this left before I could fill it out, but I DID write an end…it was the first time I ever had managed to write one. Wow. ::starry-eyed::
The base of this is set more from the Iliad then the movie Troy, because I never saw they movie. However, I did read the Iliad. Furthermore, I heard the entire story got mangled in the making of the movie…that's Hollywood for you. ::sighs:: Homer must be spinning in his grave. So if the characters don't seem like those in the movie, (i.e- Breseis,) it's because…SURPRISE, THEY AREN'T!
So with that in mind, I shall now wheel the curtains off this fic ::pullpull, screechscreech:: (A bit rusty,) and let you read it. I've wasted enough of your time, and you're probably ready to jump at me and demand you're just fill of the action. Without further ado, I present to you....
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The night Chryse became Chrysaor, it rained so hard it was as if the gods were crying. They probably were. I was trying not to as my hand drew the sharp knife blade across my waving hair. Spans of it dropped to the ground, covering the bare clay floor, creating a gold rug. My father stood in the doorway, his back to me as I went about my horrible task.
"You can't go by Chryse anymore. That's a maid's name." He winced as he heard me tug the blade through my hair, and it snapped off, leaving me with hair that grazed my shoulders. The waterfall of sunshine that had once fallen to my waist lay around me, and my father cried privately as his daughter discarded her only dowry. Actually, make that his son.
"Chrysaor," I whispered, gathering up the strands in my arms and offering them to my father to dispose of. His muscled smith arms closed around them, and his fingers stroked his load for the last time. "The horse that sprang from Medusa's spilled blood when Perseus cut off her head."
My father looked up, alarmed. "It's a story mother had told me," I finished, running my fingers over my scalp and down my hair, surprised how short it ended now. My father looked at me and started out the door. I stared at my fingers where they curled at my side. "I know," I whispered half to him and half to myself. "Don't talk about her."
My father returned a few minutes later, and by that time I exchanged my long dress-tunic for a short tunic and loose pants that stopped at the knee and had bound my chest. "It's a good thing you're built like your-…Synae." He took me in from head to toe. "And that you've been helping your poor, feeble father work the forge. You've got muscles on you like an ox." I smiled, and my father, Hectos, master smith of Athens, continued with a gentle smile. "Well, maybe just a ox calf," he amended. All play aside, he continued, serious. "I won't be doing this, Chryse, if I didn't think you could handle it. And thrive. You'll be much better off there then you'll be here. Take care," he said, eyes bright with tears. My father pressed something into my hand, and I looked down.
It was one of his own creations, a bright dagger with its own sheath. "Can't have you going off to war without your own weapons," he told me. "Take care of it, because if you don't, I can't guarantee you'll get another to replace it," he warned. "At least I'm sending you off with all the knowledge I have. You can hold your own, and you're a clever maid. Boy. Remember, pray to your gods, and follow every order that's given to you, unless you have reason otherwise. And then, have a good reason."
He hugged me fiercely. "I'll see you when you come home," he promised, and handed me my small pack. "There's food, spare clothes, a kit, and some money. Be careful, Chryse. Watch who you talk back to, and be good to your master. He could save your life." I nodded, swinging the pack onto my shoulders and climbing into the window. Sitting on the ledge, I looked back one last time at my father. "When Orpheus passed the Siren's lair, he played his harp so that the ship wouldn't be dashed on the rocks. In distracting his crew, he saved their lives. A Siren's song called our nation to war, and now someone has to find an Orpheus. I'll be standing alongside those who could be Orpheus." With those last words, I dropped from the window, onto the street below. Chryse cried inside her, for the loss of her life, but Chrysaor had a mission that kept his feet walking unwaveringly toward the wharves.
I was a maiden of just sixteen when I left home and country to be a boy and fight a war started because of a woman. Or three, depending on who you listened to. The gods, or more correctly, the goddesses, said they caused it, but in my heart I thought it was Helen. Men were stupid creatures, risking all for a woman, fair or not. And maybe I was stupider yet for following them when my woman sense told me not to. But someone had to listen to the gods, and mine were telling me to go.
It's odd to have to listen to not one, but two patron goddesses. And especially two so drastically different. As I began my trek to the waterfront, two people materialized on either side of me. A dark-haired woman with wild eyes tugged at my newly short hair, and another woman with gray eyes who wore a crested helmet slapped at her hand. The huntress pouted, and the warrior-woman frowned at her sister. "That's all good and well, Artemis, if you're planning on having her appear loose before she even gets with the soldiers," Athena chided in her rich voice.
Artemis sighed and squeezed my shoulders. "But she makes such a clever figure, doesn't she?" the wispy-voiced goddess asked, trapping my chin between her fingers and tilting her head to the side. "She's too boyish-looking to make Aphrodite mad, and too feminine to be a man. She'll be a stunning standard boy."
"I'd like to survive at least to the ships, please," I said quietly, putting my thoughts in. "And showing up with two women with me won't exactly endear me to my fellow soldiers." Artemis laughed gaily. "Ooo, Athena! This is going to be exciting!" she squealed. Athena glared as her sister disappeared, and the serious warrior looked down at me.
"If you need help, you know how to call us. Keep away from the rowdy ones, and keep your stories to yourself. No flirting, and tie your hair back. You look like a kitchen boy." She was gone too before I could respond.
"That's the look I'm hoping for," I said quietly, but did what she had told me. It's never good to ignore what a god tells you.
The burly captain looked at me, taking me in from the top of my head to the soles of my sandals. He grunted at me, and I took it to be the male equivalent of "You'll do." Tapping the papyrus scroll with his reed pen impatiently, he ran through the basics in a bored tone that I knew was from saying the same thing over and over again.
"Name?"
"Chrys-aor, son of Hectos the smith, of Athens."
"Age?"
"Ten-and-six."
"Any skill? Trade?"
"I worked with my father in the forges."
He eyed my arm muscles and nodded. "Been taught to fight?"
"Yes."
"Sword-"
"Yes."
"Dagger-"
"Yes."
"Bow-"
"Yes."
"Spear?"
"No."
His eyebrows shot up alarmingly high into his bushy hair. "No spear?" I shook my head.
"No, sir. We only forged the spearheads. We didn't attach them to the spear staff."
"Hmm…" The captain peered closer at me and frowned. "You're too pretty to be a soldier. What man would want you around, distracting the women from him?"
I smothered a snort of laughter. Keeping my face straight, staring right ahead, I replied. "Right, sir. I suppose they'd want to be distracted from you." I heard the other boys and men behind me snorting in laughter, trying to keep quiet.
Suddenly, a shout of laughter met my ears, and a strong hand fell on my shoulder, almost buckling my knees under me. "Oomph."
I turned around to see who was laughing. A tall man, much taller then I, stood in full bronze armor, fair hair grazing his shoulders, a bit shorter then mine. Blue eyes laughed down at me, and he smiled disarmingly. Oooooh…Oh, yes, that's right…I'm a man. No swooning over your fellow soldiers.
"Who's the sharp-tongued whelp?" the man asked, tightening his grip on my shoulder. The burly captain looked down at me with distaste. "I don't know, but he's surly not joining this army."
The warrior gave another laugh. "C'mon, someone this clever? You can't win a war on muscle alone. Look at Odysseus. You, boy, what's your name?"
"Chrysaor, your lordship."
He looked down, catching my chin in-between his thumb and fore-finger. "Mmm. Right. He's right about one thing. You would distract the ladies. How old are you, boy?"
"Ten-and-six."
"Perfect. Too young to really distract. Come with me."
"With you, lord?"
"I need a standard boy. It'll be amusing, having the prettiest standard boy for once. Make everyone jealous."
He took off toward the boats, and I looked between him and the captain, who was shooting me murderous glares. I'd probably live longer with the warrior, I decided, and took off after him. "A standard boy, sir? What does a standard boy do?"
The warrior stopped and looked back at me. "Whatever I tell you to do. Usually clean the weapons and armor, look after the horses, help me with my armor; that sort of thing." I had yet to get the hang of walking alongside him, and for now I was doing an odd sort of half-running half-walking thing to keep stride with him. Kind of like how a puppy follows its' mother. For every one of his strides, I took two. At that point, I thought I'd kill myself just walking with him. I hadn't got that hang of walking alongside him yet. That would come later, among with other things, once I lost my innocence and naïvety on the battlefield.
"Your name?" I asked, almost out of breath. He stopped and looked back at me.
"Achilles."
My mouth opened and closed like a fish. "No," was what I came out with.
"Yes," he insisted.
"No."
"You know," he said, tilting his head at me, "It's endearing when you talk back to superiors, but not when it's about simple things that are facts."
"No."
Achilles sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Here we go again."