Not Yet
Author: Doqz
Fandom:
Rating U Gen
Nobody sings about the day after.
The blind singer was good, the rhymes hitting
all the right spots, bringing tears to the eyes of men he remembered laughing
under the blade. They clapped and cheered and rushed to refill his cup. His son
kept glancing at him furtively, the silence of the king becoming more
conspicuous by the second. The old, oh so old, ruler of Ithaca sighed quietly
and rose praising the young bard with the clever tongue that has been legendary
among Hellenes long before the walls of proud Ilios
tumbled into dust, humbled in the sight of Gods and men. His court roared with
approval, the winds of memory sweeping through his hall, searing away the fog
of time and bringing back the mayhem days of glory, blood and splendor
Bright days, when legends
walked besides him and he could feel the jealous breath of the Immortals on his
neck. The Age of
Heroes. Didn't the young bard just tell them so?
Old, oh so old, king of Ithaca hid his smile
behind the cup and quietly slid out of the room, noting with quiet pride the
smooth aplomb with which Telemachus centred the attention of the room on himself, so that only
Penelope's clever, worried eyes followed him out.
The warm wind off the Etruscan sea caressed
his cheek with familiarity of the long friend and beckoned him. Back out there,
to feel the oar on the callused palm again, to feel the galley's wooden wings
spread under his feet again, to chase Eos and race Phaeton to the horizon
again. Again, just once.
The sugary sound of the lyre carried from
behind him and he smiled again, openly now with the acid scorn he's hidden for
so long. Swift footed Achilles. Of course, the singer was asked to sing of him
again. The broad shouldered idol of the
Agamemnon, my old friend, we did it you and
I, we yoked a hundred of dull-witted tin-pot kings and burned Priam's pride and made the pyre high enough to reach
Zeus-Father's throne. But you will go down in men's memory as an envious,
cuckolded braggart killed by an unfaithful wife and they will remember me as
the trickster, too clever for his own good. And the glory and honor will be
laid at the Achilles's feet, that bright-eyed killer
that almost cost us victory a hundred times, chasing his immortality and paying
with other men's blood.
He laughed; rich, soft sound. Imagining how
Agamemnon would rage at the unfairness of it all. Were
he still alive.
Agamemnon dead. It still seemed strange, unreal almost to imagine the
world without his mad force in it. A man so full of life and
hunger for it that he seemed to even tower over
Gods will always have the last laugh in the
end.
Nobody sung of the day after. With silver
creeping into the hero's hair, the muscles tiring, the
back stooping. None sung of time spilling through his fingers like water
through a sieve. None sung of what it felt like to envy his own son the youth
and bright promise of the years ahead.
The wind ruffled his beard, grey oh so grey
beard, and he gritted his teeth at the sudden onrush of the desire to simply
walk down to the pier and be off. Hermes, trickster and
wanderer pulling at his sleeve again. Impatient,
bored, sly smile full of promising and new horizons.
The burning
But Hermes, the God of my secret dreams, the
thief of calm, bring me another day of waves and wind at my back. Just one more day.
"My king?"
Her hand on his shoulder was lighter than a
feather and he covered it gently with his own, without turning. A second later
he felt her arm around his waist and her chin on his shoulder, peering into the
darkness along with him.
The silence stretched, until he felt more
than heard her sigh. Clever, regretful, forgiving.
"Not yet."
He bade the wind good bye and turned,
squinting against the glare of the light coming from the hall. "No, not yet." And he followed his queen back
toward the fire and wine, to reminisce about the bloody memories of glorious
days past.
The sea would wait.
He wouldn't be chasing Hermes this night.
Not yet.
But soon.
-fin-