#the line is always that she's 'easy to persuade' but it's a double edged sword

[fideidefenswhore]

His 'merciful inclination and princely heart' meant he was always ready to 'take pity and compassion on all offenders repentantly crying'. In the case of his daughter, since she was, 'frail, inconstant and easy to be persuaded,' he would be glad to remit some of his displeasure.

The King’s Pearl: Henry VIII & His Daughter Mary, Melita Thomas

[yuridovewing]

Shounen protag Firestar is awesome and cool and I love those types of designs, especially with the fire motif lending well to anime hair, but I know when I get to him, I want to make him look kind of like a geek? At least when he's Firepaw/Fireheart. I always saw him as the type that, while gullible and easy to persuade, is always questioning things and seeking out knowledge. He wants to learn each and every type of clan job there is, and he's all too willing to sniff around when Tigerclaw is acting suspicious. He's definitely an action guy, but he uses his head a lot and takes special care when making tough decisions, something that he honed when he became deputy.

So in my hypo-rewrite au, I wanna lean into this a bit. He joins the clan ready to stuff his brain with every bit of clan culture, their festivities, their training, their contruction, their meals, their practices, and he even becomes a bit of a medic assistant, spending a lot of time with Spottedleaf in the medic's den (NOT romantically like in canon, I wanna retool Spotty as well, but she's a mentor figure the same way Bluestar and Yellowfang are). He's ambitious, he is that guy who is striving for that 4.0 GPA, he wants to prove himself and be in every single type of patrol. And this combined with his knowledge from when he was a kittypet, makes it easier for him to note when things don't line up, and when that happens, he's shoving his nose in it.

But he's book smart, but not street smart. When he goes into a conversation unprepared, he can be tricked pretty easily with "Um, Tigerclaw was obviously at the border with brokenstar's lackeys cause he was telling em off, DUH." Because he still wants to see the best in people despite that- and that can be a double edged sword. So while he's a little detective, yeah he needs the help sometimes. He's also not great with thinking on the spot, he needs a lot of time to ponder what action he's going to take on sniffing out evidence for his case. He doesn't really hone this until he's deputy.

[semperintrepida]

The Puzzle in the Wanting

Kassandra threw the ladder over the edge of the Adrestia’s deck as a felucca glided alongside, and she held her torch out over dark waters, casting flickers of orange light upon the smaller boat’s sail and decking as shadowed figures moved below. The moon hovered at the horizon, lighting a path across the waves so radiant and inviting it seemed like they all could have stepped upon it and walked straight to Delos.

It would have been an easier trip, to be sure, instead of slipping away from port in the darkness and sailing to a cove where Kyra could meet them. Kassandra had tried to persuade her not to come to Delos at all; after their successful raid on the supply caravan, Podarkes had doubled the price on Kyra’s head, and it would have been safer for her to stay out of sight on Mykonos. But “safe” wasn’t a word Kyra thought much of, and once Kassandra had revealed her intention to take out the weapons stash on Delos by herself, Kyra had rolled her eyes and said, “I’m going with you. It’ll be safer if someone watched your back.”

Down below, one of the shadows stepped up onto the ladder and began climbing. The felucca turned and headed back for shore. Then Kyra emerged into the torchlight, and Kassandra took her hand and helped her find her footing on the Adrestia’s deck.

Kyra had come ready to fight, with her bow and quiver slung across her body and a xiphos sheathed at her waist. She’d tied the sleeves back on her chiton, exposing her shoulders and the long smooth muscles of her arms.

Kassandra smiled and said, “Welcome aboard,” as she slid the torch into a holder on the rail beside her and Barnabas came over to join them. Kyra’s skin was cool against her own, and Kassandra allowed herself to enjoy how it felt, just for a moment, before she let go. “Kyra, this is Barnabas, Captain of the Adrestia. Barnabas, Kyra.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Barnabas said, extending his hand.

They clasped arms in greeting, while Kassandra bent down and began pulling up the ladder.

“Thanks for the ride, Captain. I’ve always hated swimming to Delos.” Kyra said it breezily enough that Kassandra couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not.

“Aye, it’s dangerous,” he said. “Especially with the ‘maw lurking beneath the waves.”

“Don’t go swimming when Sharpmaw’s around, because he’ll bite your foot off—”

“—and come back for seconds,” they said in unison, before breaking into laughter over their shared joke.

“You’re from Mykonos,” Kyra said.

“Yes, and they’ve been telling that story since I was a boy.”

“You know, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen Sharpmaw once.”

“And I’ve never seen Zeus, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Like the gods — or like love, I suppose — he’ll show up when you least expect it.”

“A philosopher as well as a sea captain. Does the Eagle Bearer pick all her companions so wisely?”

At that moment, Gelon’s voice snapped loudly across the deck: “For fuck’s sake, boys, when I said row, I meant more than one stroke a year.”

“No,” Kassandra said in answer to Kyra’s question.

Gelon swooped past them on her way to the fore of the ship, saying over her shoulder, “Sorry, Commander. Apparently all that beach time left the crew too tired to row.”

Kassandra waved a hand after Gelon’s disappearing form. “And that’s Gelon, the Adrestia’s first mate.”

“She’s an excellent sailor,” Barnabas said, “But even her curses know how to curse.”

“I was fortunate to run into Barnabas when I did,” Kassandra said.

“But it was I who was the most fortunate, because at the time, a terrible criminal was trying to drown me in a pot of water, until she showed up…” He loved telling this story, and he gently guided Kyra back towards the ship’s helm as he dove into the tale.

Kassandra wandered to the fore of the ship and found Gelon shouting down the hatch that led below decks. Then Gelon spotted her, slammed the hatch shut, and stood up to meet her. “So that’s the infamous Kyra.”

Kassandra handed her the rolled-up ladder. “In the flesh.”

Gelon let out a low whistle. “You know how to pick 'em.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’ve got two good eyes and my blood’s as red as yours. You know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

“Too bad she’s already taken,” Kassandra said, ignoring Gelon’s skeptical look. “How long till we drop anchor?”

Gelon lifted her face to the sky and studied the constellation of the turning wagon. “An hour. Maybe two if the currents suck.”

“Good. Let me know when we reach the inlet.” Kyra’s contacts on Delos would be waiting for them. The Adrestia would send a signal, and the rebels on Delos would send over a boat.

Barnabas was still telling his story when Kassandra rejoined them at the helm’s upper railing. “…and she took his precious obsidian eye, and stuck it up the goat’s ass! The poor thing ran off like a harpy was after it.”

Kyra looked at her. “You didn’t.”

“I put his eye where it belonged,” she said with a shrug.

“Not only that… She told the Cyclops if he wanted it back, he should get it himself.”

“What did he do then?” Kyra asked.

“He wasn’t happy, I’ll tell you that!” Barnabas said. “He pulled out this huge mace, and his men drew their swords. And she just stood there, her armor shining in the sun like she’d been blessed by the gods…”

“My armor was shiny because it was new — I’d just gotten it.”

“Blessed by Apollo to deliver his shining justice, she was. And when this bunch of thugs ran at her with murder in their eyes, she just stood there, looking bored.”

“I was trying to draw them away from you, since you didn’t seem interested in running for safety.”

“And leave my front row seat? The gods had never answered my prayers so… directly before, and I wanted to experience the moment!” He peered at Kassandra, reliving the memory. “Then she finally drew her sword and that spear of hers, and… I swear to the gods… she fought like Achilles reborn.”

“I thought four against one were pretty good odds.” Kyra didn’t need to know her opponents in this particular scrap were three terrible swordsmen and one muscle-bound lunkhead who moved about as fast as a boulder lodged in a hillside.

Barnabas’s voice seemed to stretch under the weight of his awe. “It was the way she moved — faster than any warrior I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen my share of battles. She cut those thugs to pieces, and made it look easy.”

“I believe it,” Kyra said.

“Kassandra saved my life. So I offered her the use of my ship, and my services as captain.” He smiled slyly and winked at Kyra. “The fact that I get to watch a gods’ blessed hero at work is just a bonus.”

Blessings could be so close to curses, but Kassandra would never tell him that. “I got a ship and a friend out of that deal.”

“Yes! The gods smiled upon us both!” he said with a grin. “And I hope they keep smiling — we’re coming up on the southern point.” He shifted his gaze to Delos, a dark shape against the sky dotted with motes of light. “You’ll have to excuse me, it’s my turn to take up the helm and keep us off those rocks.”

Kyra leaned back against the rail and watched him hurry away. “How long have you known each other?”

“A year.”

“That’s all? You were on Kephallonia a long time, then.”

“Close to twenty years.”

“What made you leave?”

“Someone offered me a job. It was a way off the island, and I was more than ready to go.”

Kyra’s brow creased with delicate lines, as she tried to figure out where these tiny pieces fit within the thread the Fates had woven for Kassandra. “What did your family think of you leaving?”

Kassandra didn’t get a chance to answer, as a whistle sounded from the foredeck, followed shortly by Gelon bounding up the stairs to the helm. “The lookout spotted an Athenian sentry boat. We could go the long way 'round, or turn the lights out and slip by.”

She looked for the moon, and found it a sliver above the horizon. The moonpath that had once seemed so substantial had become a small pool of quicksilver that shrank the longer she looked at it. Soon the only light would be the ones shining on Delos, and the smaller specks on the islands in the distance that blended in with the stars. “Lights out and quiet, then,” she said to Gelon, before turning back to Kyra. “I’m afraid the answer to your question will have to wait.”

“Yet another reason for me to curse the Athenians,” Kyra said, a half-smile at her lips. Then she turned away from Delos and faced the sea and its enigmatic darkness, and as Kassandra followed Gelon to the foredeck, she wondered how long that list of reasons would be if Kyra were to write them all down.

.oOo.

“So, what’s the plan?” Kyra whispered. “Other than pretending to be tree nymphs.”

They were hidden in a thick stand of bushes outside the Athenian camp, the sky above them just beginning to glow. Dawn would arrive soon, and the soldiers asleep in their tents would stir along with it.

“I thought you were the strategic thinker.”

Kyra turned to her, and even in this light Kassandra could see her roll her eyes. “Shoot the sentries, stab the sleepers.”

“Very catchy. But let me have the sentry with the torch.”

Kyra merely nodded and drew an arrow from her quiver.

The Athenians had built the camp within an ancient ruin, at the end of a road gouged with wagon ruts and pocked with hoofprints. The sentry with a torch stood watch at the entrance to the camp, where the road ended at a gap between the ruin’s crumbling outer walls. There were two more sentries at the camp’s back corners. A total of three sentries to watch over an unknown number of soldiers sleeping in the tents. Light security for a place so important, but then again, this was Delos, where spilling blood was illegal and everyone feared Apollo’s wrath.

Apollo was the very least of Kassandra’s worries. Of more pressing concern was getting to the outer wall without being seen. The wall was a long run of rough-hewn stones, chest high, with a sharp corner at the end closest to the sentry. She crouched, then chose a curving path that used the corner to block the soldier’s sightlines.

Above her, the sky reflected the halo of torchlight from where he stood on the other side of the wall. She could hear him breathing, and the creak of his armor as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

She drew her spear, her grip tight around its leather-wrapped handle. Then she vaulted over the wall, took one long step, then another, and drove the spear into the base of his skull. Time slowed, lengthening like thread from a dropped spindle, and she plucked the torch out of the air as he toppled to the ground. She didn’t want an uncontrolled fire waking up the rest of the camp.

The interior of the camp was lit by scattered oil lamps. She snuffed the torch out against the dirt road, its jeweled embers shining in the dark, and when she looked up again, she heard the quiet twang of a bowstring, then a second twang, and then two sentries became two bodies sagging down to earth. She really could get used to Kyra’s idea of backup.

She crept across the grass to the nearest tent. Listened for a moment and heard quiet snoring from within. Lifted the flap, let her eyes adjust to the light, and saw two sleeping forms. Then she was inside, flicking her blade once, twice, and afterwards, neither man would wake again.

There were two more soldiers sleeping in the last tent. She eased her way through its opening, crouched above the nearest man, lifted her spear — and he suddenly woke up, eyes wild, mouth wide. She dropped her knee onto his chest and clamped her hand across his mouth and stabbed him in the throat. The other soldier slept on, but his slumber was unsettled. He murmured nonsense and rolled over in his bedding. Death came for him swiftly and silently. What had he dreamt of before he found himself on the banks of the Styx?

Back outside, she wiped her blade on the flap of the tent and rinsed her hands in a basin of water on a nearby table. The sky had brightened to a pale, rose-colored glow, and she could see the crates of weapons scattered in piles around the camp.

An oil lamp rested on a post next to the tent. She picked up a jug sitting at the base of the post and smelled it. Oil. Perfect.

She flung the jug at the closest pile of crates, where it shattered into a spray of shiny droplets on impact. But before she could even pick up the lamp, a bright streak shot through the air and struck the pile. There was a loud whumph, followed by an impressive ball of flame as the entire pile of weapons went up like a pyre.

Kassandra turned and saw Kyra standing nearby with her bow in her hand and a smirk on her face.

They lit up pile after pile in short order, until there was only one remaining. Kassandra searched the camp, looking for another oil jug, and as she rummaged through shelves full of supplies, she spotted an amphora among a stack of empty vessels. She lifted it and read the stamp on its lid: Pramnian wine. Now that was a find. She tucked it back into place and kept searching until she found the oil she sought. Then she handed the oil jug off to Kyra while she went back to claim her prize.

Just as she was pulling the wine from its hiding place, she heard Kyra’s voice behind her.

“What have you got there?”

Gods, Kyra was quick. The last pile was already up in flames.

Kassandra turned around, hiding the amphora behind her back.

“Let me see it.”

“You’re not my polemarch,” Kassandra said, pivoting her body to keep the wine out of sight as Kyra darted from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of it.

Kyra put one hand on her hip and used the other one for punctuation. “So you’re a Spartan again? How convenient. Let me see it.”

Kassandra smiled benevolently. “No.”

“I’m paying you!”

“You haven’t given me a single drachma yet. Come to think of it, you’ve been costing me money.” She started counting on her fingers. “Docking fees for the Adrestia… Boarding fees at the stables….”

“Those are your problems, not mine.” Kyra had both hands on her hips now.

“Your curiosity is your problem, not mine.”

“You’re really not going to show me, are you?”

She pretended to think about it. “I might be persuaded… but until then, no.”

Kyra threw her hands up and turned on her heels. “Fine!” she said. “I don’t care what you found.” She took three steps up the road, then looked back over her shoulder. “I mean it.”

Kassandra shrugged and didn’t start walking until Kyra was several steps ahead of her. From that vantage, she could enjoy how Kyra’s irritation had permeated her very movements — including the sway of her hips. Provoking Kyra was proving to be highly entertaining.

After a while, she called out after Kyra, “Probably not a good idea for us to stay on the road. Patrols and all.”

Kyra whirled around. She waited until Kassandra came close; then, with lightning quickness, her hand shot out and grabbed the edge of Kassandra’s chestplate at its neckline.

“You…” Kyra said, voice like smoke, her weight shifting with the intent to pivot Kassandra around. She had to have known Kassandra could be moved only when Kassandra wanted to, but she seemed to expect it would happen anyway, like she’d expect the sun to rise in the east. It made Kassandra curious, and instead of rooting her feet to the ground, she let Kyra turn her and push her backwards off the road and into the forest.

“Are…” Kyra said, and she kept pushing, until Kassandra could sense something solid coming up behind her, and she dropped the arm holding the amphora to her side just before her back ran into the trunk of a tree. Kyra stepped close — so close they could have kissed, close enough for Kassandra to catch her scent: faint woodsmoke, and the sharp, spicy sweetness of laurel.

“Annoying,” Kyra finished. Her indignant tone made Kassandra smile, but Kyra’s knuckles were warm against her skin and she wondered if Kyra could feel how hard her heart was pounding. It was taking everything she had to stop herself from doing something rash, which was puzzling. She’d never been this tentative, this cautious with someone before.

She drew in a breath, then held up the wine. “Careful. Wouldn’t want to damage this.”

Kyra glanced down at the amphora. “You sneaky, sneaky misthios. Pramnian wine.”

“I was thinking we could share it later.”

Kyra’s eyes shone in the morning light, and her voice softened. “You surprise me. And to think I nearly threw my blade through your neck.”

“No one’s perfect.”

“Not even you, Eagle Bearer?” She still hadn’t moved her hand.

Kassandra’s first impulse was to tell a joke, some throwaway line about being the next best thing to a god, a line she’d prop up with confidence and a smile. But something made her answer honestly. Perhaps it was Kyra’s skin touching hers, or how close Kyra was standing, or her sudden certainty that Kyra would see right through anything less than the truth, that made her say, “I am far from perfect.”

Kyra smiled gently. She released her grip on Kassandra’s armor, but instead of pulling her hand away, she set her palm against the center of the chestplate. “Maybe so,” she said, “but I like what I’ve seen.”

Kassandra knew the layer of bronze between Kyra’s hand and her chest had made the gesture safe enough to be possible, but it didn’t stop her from cursing her armor for being there, for separating Kyra’s skin from hers. And worse still, she had no idea what Kyra wanted; Kyra’s eyes were studying her intently but gave no hint of the conclusions being drawn behind them. She let the moment stretch as long as she could bear, before she put on a smile and said, “Am I free to go?”

The hand on her armor jerked away as Kyra returned from wherever she’d gone to tally up Kassandra’s measure. She flushed and looked everywhere but Kassandra’s eyes. “We should probably get moving.”

“Yes,” Kassandra said agreeably, cradling the amphora of wine as she let Kyra lead the way through the forest. It wasn’t long before they reached a game trail that made travel far more easier than hacking their way through the underbrush.

Kyra picked up a long, straight stick from the side of the trail and began using it to skewer leaves on bushes and trees as she passed. Her aim was unfailingly accurate, and her wrist moved with such precision that she made very little noise, just the stick whipping through the air and the quiet thhk of leaves plucked from branches. Eventually, she said, “I learned this game from the huntresses at the Temple of Artemis.”

“My mother taught me one like it in Sparta. All we needed was a stick and a pine tree covered in cones.” Sometimes the game was to knock all the cones off as fast as possible. Other times it was to touch all the cones without making any fall. A game of coordination and muscle control, eyes to arm to wrist, skills useful when wielding a sword, or dagger, or javelin. Even the games of children served a greater purpose in Sparta.

“Do all Spartan women know how to fight?” Kyra switched from stabbing to parrying, her stick striking each branch with a solid thwack.

“My mother does.” Present tense was the hopeful tense. “But she’s an exception. Most Spartan women just learn the basics of hand-to-hand. The real combat training is reserved for men.”

“How did you learn?”

“My parents taught me the fundamentals. They start early in Sparta, as soon as a child can walk. But I wasn’t there long enough to learn how to fight like a true Spartan.”

Kyra’s stick hand hesitated, but if she had a question, she didn’t ask.

Kassandra wanted her to keep talking. “Did the huntresses also teach you to shoot a bow?”

“They did. I think they harbored secret hopes I’d join them one day.”

“As accurate as you are, I’m not surprised. So why didn’t you?”

“I’ve only wanted one thing in this life: to kill Podarkes with my own hands. Vengeance has left little room for anything else.” The thwacking was louder now, her stick hitting the limbs and branches with more force.

“What will you do once he’s dead and the rebellion is won?”

Kyra stopped walking. She waited until Kassandra drew up next to her, and said, “The sad truth is I have no idea.”

Kyra was a glimpse of Kassandra’s future. She knew she’d already let her search for her mother all but swallow her whole, while the vengeance she planned to take out on the Cult merely sat there, waiting its turn. And when she thought of what she would do after every Cultist was dead, she saw nothing but a vast and empty space. “I’m beginning to think we have much in common.”

“Is that so? And what would that be?”

“I know what it’s like to be driven by an overwhelming need, and I’ve had to fight and claw for everything I have. Seems to me you’ve done the same.”

“We should probably compare notes sometime.”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Along with a great many tales, I’m sure. But what will I bring?”

The question was a trap. Kassandra made a show of thinking about her answer, then resumed walking up the path without saying anything. After a few steps, she turned around and said, “Your bow… And yourself, I guess.”

“You guess? You sure know how to—” Kyra didn’t finish.

“How to what?”

“Nothing,” she muttered. Perhaps she was catching on to how much Kassandra enjoyed needling her. “What do you want with my bow?”

“I have some questions.”

“Such as?”

“Find some time for us to compare notes. Then you’ll find out.” Just an evening with Kyra was all she wanted, someplace safe, where they didn’t have to worry about Athenian patrols, or the rest of the world for that matter, where they could trade questions and she could find out the things about Kyra she wanted to know: how she’d escaped from Podarkes as a child, how she’d learned to throw a knife like that, how she’d gotten that scar on her forehead. The answers would fit together like tiles in a mosaic. The full picture was what she wanted to see.

And maybe she’d even be able to figure out if Kyra wanted anything from her.

.oOo.

They were crossing the forested hillside above the Sanctuary of Apollo when Kassandra caught the scent in the breeze. She stopped moving and breathed in deeply. There it was: metallic and cloying and all too familiar. “Do you smell that?” she asked Kyra, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Smell what?”

“Blood.”

Kyra shook her head.

Kassandra placed the wine in a hollow between the roots of a nearby tree and drew her spear. The scent was faint, and she began moving across the wind, turning as the wind shifted, narrowing down the direction of its source. Kyra followed close behind; alert, but mainly curious.

The scent had to be coming from a pile of boulders and exposed rock in the slope up ahead, the pile about as far away as a good javelin throw. Kassandra headed in its direction, picking her way carefully through the thick underbrush, and soon her hunch was confirmed: there, on the ground, was a drop of blood. It had been there long enough to turn the dark red of garnet but hadn’t yet begun to dry. She pointed at it with her spear, and Kyra nodded wordlessly and drew her sword. Another few steps forward revealed more blood, some trailing northwards, the rest leading up to the rocks.

They were close enough now that Kassandra could hear labored breathing and the faint sounds of something moving between the boulders. She readied her spear, then felt Kyra change course behind her, turning back to see Kyra begin climbing up the hillside on a path that would let her flank whoever — or whatever — was hidden nearby.

Kassandra rounded the boulder and found a woman leaning against the rocks, her tunic stained dark red, her bloody hand brandishing a dagger.

Kassandra held out a hand, and said, “I mean no threat.”

The hand holding the dagger dropped, and the woman slumped as if exhausted by the effort. She wore an eyepatch, and her good eye stared at Kassandra. The eyepatch wasn’t new, but the wound at her belly certainly was. “Come to turn me in to the priests?”

Kassandra knelt outside the woman’s dagger range and said, “Depends on what you’ve done.”

“Don’t know if anyone told you, but it’s illegal to spill blood on this gods-forsaken island.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Shame nobody told the beast roaming around.”

“Beast?”

“I’d call it a bear, but I’d be lying. It’s a nightmare sent by Artemis.”

“How’d you run into it?”

Kyra’s voice sounded from the rocks above them. “I’d bet good drachmae that she smuggled it here.” There was a blur and a thump as she leapt down and landed next to Kassandra. “You’re awful far from home, aren’t you stranger? And giant bears don’t just appear on Delos.” Her tone was frosty, as if she’d summoned Boreas himself into every word.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman said.

Kyra crossed her arms. “We’re wasting our time here, misthios.”

There was something about the icy edge to Kyra’s voice that told Kassandra to play along. “Agreed,” she said, getting ready to stand.

“Misthios? Wait, wait. Look. You’re right,” the woman said, nodding at Kyra. “We were smuggling the bear. To Kos. But Poseidon had other ideas — sent a storm that smashed our ship upon this damn island, and that evil beast broke loose. It went right for the crew.” She grimaced with pain and looked at Kassandra. “They were my family, and I’ll pay you good drachmae to put that bear down before it kills anyone else.”

“At the rate you’re bleeding, you’re not going to live long enough to pay me,” Kassandra said. She glanced at Kyra. “Are physicians illegal here too?”

“No, but the ones here are living on the edge, that’s for sure.” She gestured to the woman. “We could take her to the camp. There’s a healer there.”

“Let’s go, then.” Kassandra pulled one of the woman’s arms across her shoulder, and Kyra did the same with the other, and together they lifted the woman to her feet.

“What’s your name?” Kyra asked.

“Iola,” she said, in between panting breaths. “My gratitude to you both.”

“Thank us once we reach camp,” Kyra said. “It’s a long way over rough ground, and you’ll be cursing us most of the trip.”

It wasn’t long before her words proved to be true.

.oOo.

Barnabas was waiting for them at the camp, and he hurried over as soon as he saw they’d brought an extra person with them. He helped Kassandra ease Iola onto a cot while Kyra hurried off to summon the healer. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“We burned the weapons to ash. But it was slow going on the way back.” She looked at Iola. The woman’s eyes were closed, her skin nearly white.

“And who is this?” he asked.

“Captain of a smuggling ship run aground. Got mauled by a bear that escaped from her cargo and ate the rest of her crew.”

He glanced around, as if expecting the bear to jump out from the bushes at any moment. “And where is this bear?”

“I’m going hunting for it shortly.” And she would, after she took a few moments to rest and work out the kinks in her shoulder after carrying a load upon it over hill after rocky hill. She also needed something to eat.

He looked relieved. “The Adrestia’s ready to depart at any time.”

“Good. While I’m gone, make sure she” — a nod to Iola — “makes it on board the ship. We’re taking her back to Mykonos with us.”

“Aye, Captain.”

She wandered away, then, but not before she heard him kneel beside Iola’s cot and begin murmuring, “Great Asklepios, I beseech you, hear my prayer…”

.oOo.

Some time later, after Kassandra had eaten, and gone through her armor piece by piece to ensure it was ready for the next fight, she sat with her legs straddling a wooden bench, drawing the blade of her spear across a whetstone.

The steady shhshht of metal against stone was soothing. She’d realized something earlier, as her fingers had brushed over her chestplate looking for dents and damaged hinges: she hadn’t felt any pleasure killing the men in the Athenian camp that morning. There was satisfaction, yes, in accomplishing what they’d set out to do, but none of the warmth, or the silky, sensual delight that followed every time she killed. There was also none of the craving for more blood, and none of the queasiness from coming off the murderous high. There’d been no high to come down from.

She wondered what had made this morning different from all the days that had come before.

Her hand trembled, upsetting the course of the spear and disrupting her rhythm. She stopped sharpening, and breathed in and out, deeply, until her hands became steady again and she could resume sliding blade over stone. What had been different this morning?

Footsteps behind her, someone light and quiet. She didn’t turn around to look.

Kyra’s voice floated over her shoulder. “The healer says Iola will probably survive. She stitched her up and gave her something to knock her out. She’s not happy you want to move Iola onto your ship, but Barnabas wasn’t hearing any of that.”

Kassandra smirked as she imagined his ire, but the strokes of her blade remained constant.

“He’s keeping watch over Iola,” Kyra said. There was silence for several moments, then: “He’s a good man.”

“He is. One of the very few in Greece.”

Another silence. “We left the wine up in the forest.”

“I’ll get it on my way back.”

“So you’re going after the bear. By yourself.”

Kassandra lifted the spear and began testing its edge with the pad of her thumb, checking for nicks that had escaped her efforts.

“The bear that just killed an entire shipload of hunters and smugglers. Sometimes I wonder if you’re just confident, or if you have a death wish.”

“Yes, it’s a miracle I’ve survived this long.” She picked up a scrap of linen and began polishing the blade with it.

“If I offer my help, will you refuse it?”

“Looking for a cut of some drachmae?”

“I don’t care about the drachmae.”

Kassandra put the cloth down. “This isn’t your fight, and I wasn’t going to assume you’d want to take part. But if you want to help… I won’t refuse you.” She tilted the blade, caught Kyra’s reflection in its bright surface before she rested it across her knee. She chose her words carefully. “I’ve enjoyed our work together.”

Kyra moved closer, and she curved her hand against the base of Kassandra’s neck, holding onto it as she leaned into Kassandra’s shoulder. Kassandra closed her eyes, stopping herself from her want, and a surge of anticipation coursed through her body and across her skin, as if she were standing in a storm, holding her breath while the air charged around her and the hair on the back of her neck stood up, holding on as she waited for the strike of lightning. But Kassandra didn’t know if she should be anticipating Zeus’s fury or something else entirely. Then Kyra’s voice slid across her ear and brought her back to here and now. “So have I, Kassandra,” she said. There was a smile in her voice, and perhaps something more. “I’ll get my bow.”

And then she withdrew her hand, breaking contact, her footsteps fading in the air, leaving Kassandra’s skin tingling and her heart rumbling in her chest like distant thunder. No, she wasn’t going to be able to stop herself for very much longer.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story, or on to the next...

[storiesofwildfire]

"Don't chase the rabbit" (Fan!)

@forsakenmyths

meme: send me “Don’t chase the rabbit” and your muse will be shown a random memory from my muse’s past – status; accepting

♔—- “Our dear friend is banished to Earth! Loki sits on the throne of Asgard as our King! And all you have done is eat two boars, six pheasants a side of beef and drink two barrels of ale! Shame on you!” Fandral shouted at Volstagg, knocking over a plate of food at his friend’s side before he really had time to think about what was truly coming out of his mouth, what his friends would think of what he was implying rather than what he actually meant.

He and Loki had always been close. Closer than either of them truly let on. Most didn’t know that Loki was the reason Fandral came to Gladsheim in the first place, that Loki had been the one to encourage him to seek something better, and that Loki ultimately led Fandral to Sigurd, who didn’t just gloss over him as a pretty boy who happened to be good with a sword, but a proper, respectable agent.

In truth, Fandral loved Loki dearly, and he often questioned just how deep his love for the younger prince actually ran. Part of him desperately wanted something more than friendship, while most of him understood that a public relationship with the prince of Asgard wasn’t practical or appropriate for either of them, especially on Loki’s part. Most of Gladsheim might have just assumed Fandral came from some sort of nobility, but Loki knew the truth. Nothing more than the son of a farmer and certainly not a suitable match for a royal who may one day obtain the throne.

Fandral even believed Loki was better suited for the position. As much as Fandral genuinely cared for, loved, and respected Thor, he’d spent quite a lot of time with the thunderer, watching the way that he handled moments of extreme stress, and how irrationally hot-headed he was. Thor was the break-noses-now-ask-questions-later type and with how egotistical he could be mixed with how easy it was to wound his pride, he often jumped the gun to violence in times when diplomacy would have been far more appropriate. 

He never meant to imply that Loki being on the throne was the wrong decision. He never meant to imply that they couldn’t trust Loki sitting on the throne. He never meant to rally up anyone’s nerves despite his pointed comments to Volstagg, he was just… having a difficult time processing everything that unfolded in front of him.

Thor convinced them all to rush off to Jotunheim, where they killed well over one hundred Frost Giants because of Thor’s ego. The battle resulted in a life-threatening injury that he was still not fully recovered from, and just thinking about it made his shoulder ache. The open vest he wore with no undershirt might have seemed flashy and unnecessary, but the truth was, putting heavier fabrics on the still-healing wound only served to hurt him further. His vest was more or less all he could handle at the moment without risking becoming even more frazzled.

And then Odin banished Thor, fell into Odinsleep immediately after, and left the throne to Frigga, who immediately passed it onto Loki. Loki, he knew, could be a capable ruler, but something wasn’t right with the younger prince. They seemed particularly shaken, especially after their venture to Jotunheim, and whatever they were facing, they were facing alone. Something rattled the God to their core, causing an upset that made the weight of the crown crushing and Fandral feared for Loki’s wellbeing more than he really implied. He feared for Thor and for Asgard as well and having to put aside the trauma and fear of the near-death experience he just endured to deal with everything else only served to amplify his stress.

“Do not mistake my appetite for apathy!” Volstagg barked around a mouthful of whatever it was he’d moved onto devouring.

From there, the entire conversation got out of hand. Hogun was suggesting that Loki was at fault for the Frost Giants, Sif was insinuating that Loki was somehow at fault for Thor’s banishment, and they were both in an upheaval that going to Midgard and retrieving Thor despite direct orders from the king that he remain there was the only option they had. Why Sif and Hogun so openly disliked and even despised Loki, Fandral truly didn’t know. As far as he could tell, Loki had never done anything to either of them to warrant such hatred. Harmless pranks and backhanded comments that were no worse than what Thor’s friends dished out, but nothing to justify such… raw hatred.

They were talking about committing treason purely because they didn’t want Loki on the throne.

Loki hadn’t even proved to be an irresponsible or misplaced king. He wasn’t at fault for Jotunheim. He wasn’t at fault for Thor’s betrayal and, genuinely, he wasn’t wrong about how it would look if he–the new and supposedly temporary king–overturned his predecessor’s last decree as king. Loki bringing Thor home would have undermined Odin’s rule and shown a blatant lack of respect for the king that came before them. 

Fandral hadn’t meant to contribute to the ramblings of angry warriors ready to jump off the edge of treason and yet, as Sif and Hogun egged one another on, it seemed very blatant to him that he’d done just that. His words had been interpreted in a manner that made it seem as if he wanted Loki off the throne as much as they did and now that the first domino had fallen, there was no stopping it. 

Had he not said anything at all… Had he kept his frustrations internalized and kept his damn mouth shut rather than blurting out the first string of anguish he could muster to try and express everything that ran through his mind, maybe they wouldn’t have come to that conclusion at all.

Logically, Fandral knew that Sif and Hogun had already been thinking along these lines, that they would have been prepared to commit treason even without Fandral’s little outburst, but the swordsman couldn’t help but feel responsible. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders, especially as any further attempt he made to soothe his friends’ rage towards Loki and persuade them away from thoughts of acting against the crown went completely unheard. Now that Sif and Hogun agreed, there was little stopping them, and as good of a person as Volstagg was, it was sort of easy to bulldoze over him and convince him to go along with just about anything. With both Sif and Hogun chatting in his ear, he’d probably give in to their ridiculous whims in a matter of moments.

Before the four of them could even decide firmly on what they would going to do and, more importantly, before Fandral could have an ample chance to talk his friends off the ledge, Heimdall summoned all four of them to his home at the end of the Bifrost. As the Watcher of Yggdrasil and Asgard’s first line of defense, they all knew that he could see everything and anything he wanted. He likely saw the argument and talks of treason as well, and Fandral prayed that Heimdall called them all to talk some sense into them or, at the very least, to close the Bifrost to them.

Instead, he only instigated the situation further.

“You would defy Loki, our king, break every oath you have sworn as Asgardian warriors and commit treason by bringing Thor back?” Heimdall asked, to which Sif answered on behalf of all four of them that they absolutely would. “Good!” Heimdall exclaimed as he let go of the hilt of Hofund, the sword Heimdall used to control the Bifrost.

“Then you’ll help us?” Volstagg asked, confirming Fandral’s suspicion that he would be easily persuaded to go along with this ridiculous plan.

“I am bound by my oath. I cannot open the Bifrost to you,” Heimdall said in a matter-of-fact tone that suggested he wasn’t willing to help them. Still, he stepped away from the platform that held Hofund and the mount that would open the Bifrost.

Fandral’s heart sank in his chest. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined Heimdall would willingly betray Loki in such a manner. Heimdall had a strong connection to the young king, after all, so why… Why was he even willing to do this? To turn a “blind eye” and let Thor’s friends commit treason against their new king? Did he have some sort of ulterior motive or was he truly turning his back on Loki?

“Complicated fellow, isn’t he?” Fandral asked meekly as he watched Heimdall saunter off, his last hope of shutting his friends down following after the Watcher. ‘Why, Heimdall? Why did you do this? Had you not gotten involved, we would have been stuck here…’ Fandral couldn’t help but think, but as disappointed as he was to watch Heimdall leave, he was more disappointed in himself for being the one to start all of this. He hadn’t meant to, but intentions meant nothing. Actions and the result of those actions meant everything.

Would Loki ever forgive him for this?

“My friends,” he continued, turning to the trio that stood before him. “Please, let us reconsider this. We are all distressed by Thor’s absence, but Loki has given us no reason to believe he will make for a bad king. Committing treason against Loki seems extreme.”

“Hypocritical, coming from the man who seemed so distraught by the idea of Loki sitting on the throne in the first place,” Sif murmured, though she and Hogun were already hovering closely around Heimdall’s purposefully forgotten sword. “Weren’t you just complaining about it?”

“Yes, I can see how my words came off poorly,” Fandral agreed. “But I didn’t mean for this. I was venting frustration, not trying to rally actual betrayal. Please, be reasonable. If we do this, we’re committing treason, not only against Loki but against Asgard. Odin banished Thor, not Loki. Would it not be better to stay and try to assist our new king to get through these troubling times? We can help Loki–”

“Or we can help Asgard by dethroning Loki all together!” Sif snapped as she took hold of Hofund’s hilt to activate the Bifrost. Fandral felt like he might be sick. Gods, he felt like he actually might double over and expel the contents of his stomach across the floor. How had one moment of venting understandably conflicting and confusing emotions lead to this? How could he let his own feelings get in the way of what needed to be done?

Loki would never forgive him for this, but Fandral wasn’t sure he’d forgive himself either.

‘This is all my fault…’