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Realistic or Modern Conquest and Loss {closed}
- Thread starter Asteria
- Start date
NickNacks
Zoinks
The scent of salt beat back with the costal wind, the breeze a small refuge from the sun that bore down on them. The sound of shouting, the constant rush of the waves, and the creaking of the mast all made for a backdrop of controlled chaos as the Spartan ship pulled into the harbor. Theron, his arms already exhausted from rowing, felt sore even as he got up, carefully bracing himself on the curving rail as he again found his feet. A few of his brothers, men he knew and was related to in nearly every way but blood, were chattering amongst themselves in the short respite they had while not under the supervision of the captain. The trip alone likely annoyed them-to be send on such errands was often construed as a mark on pride. Something that didn't involve running a spear through someones head was looked at as a waist of time to these young men, ever thirsty to prove themselves over and over again.
Theron wasn't offended by the assignment. He was only happy he didn't have to hurt anyone this time.
The party was a small one, only a delegate assigned out of a feeling of obligation to see the Athenian delegate back to shore. Typically, Athens and Sparta left each other alone, simply co existing on opposite ends of the sea, giving no interference or opinion. But, as their kinship in Greece demanded, their paths did cross at times, and this was one of them. It was Ageus they were escorting, one of the statesmen from Athens, a native there. He was tolerated by the Spartan court, at least enough to make his visits rather regular, for which Theron always counted himself lucky.
"Head up, Theron."
Speak of the man and he might appear-though Theron hadn't actually spoken. He hadn't spoken in around ten years.
Still, the older man's voice was a familiar baritone, to which Theron gave a short nod of acknowledgement. It had been long enough since his tongue had turned to stone in his mouth that his commanders and instructors had ceased trying to pry a word out of him. The theories had, at one time, been many.
Ares has cursed him. Perhaps he was being too boastful.
It's insubordination. An act of mutiny.
It's cowardice.
Perhaps it was a combination of the three. But, to Ageus, Theron didn't require an explanation. He was simply Theron, and he had gone quiet over the years, and that always seemed to be enough for the Athenian.
"You'll like it here. It's a bit different than what you're accustomed to, I'm sure. But you'll grow used to it."
Theron blinked, slowly, still examining the city that lay ahead. Coming in to the harbor, he had spotted structures so white they gleamed in the sunlight, almost enough to hurt his eyes. The people were dressed in longer, flowing clothes that sometimes reached all the way to their sandals-something which Theron noted would definetly slow them down if they were ever attacked. Even the women seemed to be different, holding their gazes steadily downward, usually not talking at all.
But still. As the crew begins to deboard the ship, Theron finds he's willing to believe him.
Paralia is less crowded than the main portion of Athens, Theron is sure of it. The houses lay almost dangerously close to the ocean, with plenty of fishermen's nets and sea glass strung out along the sand. The ground was wet when he stepped off-board, his candles sinking down almost to his ankle. Already, he feels a bit out of place. He's old enough to grow a beard, but for some reason, it refuses to grow. He seems to always be tense or analytical, brown eyes flickering this way and that for some untold danger. His hair is shorter than it was when he was a boy, as he had learned quickly that opponents would make a grab for anything they were able to reach. Most noticeable, however, are the scars.
You could nearly always pick out a native Spartan from the crowd just by the various white or red marks that scored their arms or chest. Theron had several-small cuts up and down his arms, a larger line of raised skin across his throat, another impact from a blade which had cloven his helmet in two and left a line from his right brow up into his scalp. These were signifiers of bravery, of resilience. He thinks little of them, most of the time. Still, his armor seems both heavy and unneeded as he follows his mentor up towards the house where he lives.
It's a large and impressive building, far more comfortable than the barracks where Theron is accustomed to staying. The gardens are probably the most notable bit. Still, as he approaches, Theron feels his nervousness mounting. He's not accustomed to being a stranger, even if he does know Ageus and Phaenna.
At least he isn't lugging his shield and helmet around this time.
Theron wasn't offended by the assignment. He was only happy he didn't have to hurt anyone this time.
The party was a small one, only a delegate assigned out of a feeling of obligation to see the Athenian delegate back to shore. Typically, Athens and Sparta left each other alone, simply co existing on opposite ends of the sea, giving no interference or opinion. But, as their kinship in Greece demanded, their paths did cross at times, and this was one of them. It was Ageus they were escorting, one of the statesmen from Athens, a native there. He was tolerated by the Spartan court, at least enough to make his visits rather regular, for which Theron always counted himself lucky.
"Head up, Theron."
Speak of the man and he might appear-though Theron hadn't actually spoken. He hadn't spoken in around ten years.
Still, the older man's voice was a familiar baritone, to which Theron gave a short nod of acknowledgement. It had been long enough since his tongue had turned to stone in his mouth that his commanders and instructors had ceased trying to pry a word out of him. The theories had, at one time, been many.
Ares has cursed him. Perhaps he was being too boastful.
It's insubordination. An act of mutiny.
It's cowardice.
Perhaps it was a combination of the three. But, to Ageus, Theron didn't require an explanation. He was simply Theron, and he had gone quiet over the years, and that always seemed to be enough for the Athenian.
"You'll like it here. It's a bit different than what you're accustomed to, I'm sure. But you'll grow used to it."
Theron blinked, slowly, still examining the city that lay ahead. Coming in to the harbor, he had spotted structures so white they gleamed in the sunlight, almost enough to hurt his eyes. The people were dressed in longer, flowing clothes that sometimes reached all the way to their sandals-something which Theron noted would definetly slow them down if they were ever attacked. Even the women seemed to be different, holding their gazes steadily downward, usually not talking at all.
But still. As the crew begins to deboard the ship, Theron finds he's willing to believe him.
Paralia is less crowded than the main portion of Athens, Theron is sure of it. The houses lay almost dangerously close to the ocean, with plenty of fishermen's nets and sea glass strung out along the sand. The ground was wet when he stepped off-board, his candles sinking down almost to his ankle. Already, he feels a bit out of place. He's old enough to grow a beard, but for some reason, it refuses to grow. He seems to always be tense or analytical, brown eyes flickering this way and that for some untold danger. His hair is shorter than it was when he was a boy, as he had learned quickly that opponents would make a grab for anything they were able to reach. Most noticeable, however, are the scars.
You could nearly always pick out a native Spartan from the crowd just by the various white or red marks that scored their arms or chest. Theron had several-small cuts up and down his arms, a larger line of raised skin across his throat, another impact from a blade which had cloven his helmet in two and left a line from his right brow up into his scalp. These were signifiers of bravery, of resilience. He thinks little of them, most of the time. Still, his armor seems both heavy and unneeded as he follows his mentor up towards the house where he lives.
It's a large and impressive building, far more comfortable than the barracks where Theron is accustomed to staying. The gardens are probably the most notable bit. Still, as he approaches, Theron feels his nervousness mounting. He's not accustomed to being a stranger, even if he does know Ageus and Phaenna.
At least he isn't lugging his shield and helmet around this time.
Asteria
⚔️
“Your fingers could be livelier, don’t you think? Melancholy has never suited you.”
Despite the critical observation that served as an interruption, Althaia’s voice carried such softness as if it meant to accompany the lyre that had been filling the misty air of that early morning. Her daughter’s fingers hovered lightly over the strings as the song ceased. No, melancholy didn’t suit her. There was nothing to be melancholic about, no distant memory she could long for. Even if there was, Phaenna imagined wistful yearning would be of little use to her. Yet, whenever she had found herself amidst the greens, amidst the soft whispers of the leaves, and the quiet murmurs of the stone fountains as the sun warmed her skin, her fingers seemed to recount a longing of their own upon the strings.
It had always fallen to her mother to awake her from such a sudden daze. This was their ritual – every morning, before her daily lessons, Phaenna would sit out in the gardens and play her instrument while her mother enjoyed the sight from the shade. As she aged, these moments of respite grew. She was a woman of seven-and-thirty, younger than her husband by ten years and yet, if it wasn’t for the light her grey eyes carried, a light so rarely seen in most women, one could say she was older. With each departure of her husband, she grew more tired. With each loss of a child, she grew sadder. With each lesson, she grew more distant. Whereas Phaenna moved towards womanhood with steady steps, her mother seemed to remain far behind.
Perhaps melancholy didn’t suit her.
But it did suit her mother.
When Phaenna raised her dark eyes to meet hers, the older woman smiled. It was a tired smile but a smile all the same and the young girl herself found the corners of her lips turning upright as well. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sadden you.”
Her mother’s features softened at the apology. “It’s in a child’s nature to sadden his mother and it is in a mother’s nature to let her child sadden her. A mother’s own sadness is bearable – seeing her child’s sadness is not. But you could never sadden me, Phaenna, not with a song,” she easily returned.
‘There are other things that sadden you though. You can feel those through a song,’ Phaenna thought idly but refrained from bringing her thoughts to light. “Saddening you is not in my nature it seems,” the girl found fit to add – a little jest meant to broaden her smile.
“No. Never was. You can’t sadden anyone.”
Phaenna’s heart remained heavy. Her mother’s words were spoken out of experience and love for her but she knew they also represented a lesson. There had always a lesson. Phaenna had since long passed the marrying age of Athenian girls. Her mother had been six-and-ten when she had married her father and by the time she had been seven-and-ten she had already brought a child into the world. Phaenna couldn’t say the same for herself. While she favored the thought of marriage, her father didn’t look so kindly upon it. Soon, he would say, soon. She had never thought that his soon would become years. He used the Spartan marriage age as an argument but Athens was not Sparta. And it would never be Sparta.
It would be a lie to see that she hadn't watched the Spartan girls with jealousy in her younger years. They were wild and free and they fought boys bigger than themselves with no shame. They had scraped knees and hands and they were as dirty as dogs by the end of a day. They had been a strange sight to her just as she had been to them with her colourful silk dresses that she never dared to dirty and fresh flowers always braided in her hair. But she loved them dearly. And she loved Theron, her foolish Spartan warrior, dearly.
The sound of sandals scraping against stone attracted the attention of the two women. It grew louder and by the time Phaenna settled her lyre down at her feet, a hurried slave appeared at the entrance of the gardens, carefully eying her mother. “Despota has arrived back in Athens, despoina. By the looks of it, there is a Spartan with him.” A detail that unsettled the slave. Her father had become a usual presence in Sparta but Athens was yet to get used to the arrival of even a few Spartans on its land.
Theron. Her father had mentioned him in his writings but she hadn’t believed…
The girl rose to her feet with little thought but she didn’t move until she caught sight of the familiar face of her father. And then she ran. Her white linen skirts teased at her bare feet as she sprung through the grass and onto the stone pavement that split the gardens in half. The golden specks that had been weaved through the light material caught the light and shone as bright as her smile, a fond laugh parting her reddened lips.
It was her father who she embraced first and the man responded in kind, one arm moving around her waist and another around her shoulders as his hand lost itself through her freed curls.
“You arrived early,” Phaenna whispered into his shoulder, her tone amused.
“Early and with a gift,” he corrected her.
Phaenna looked over his shoulder. Her father’s hold on her softened until it was gone and she was free to approach his companion.
Theron.
Whenever she finds herself in front of him, she is reminded of how much he had changed. She too had changed – she was no longer a child, not even a young girl. She is a woman now, though she considers that the expected changes were more visible in body than in spirit. Theron had always seemed to age quicker however. Phaenna could remember a time when they used to be of the same height. But, over the years, he had grown taller than her, enough for her to need to tilt her head to look into his eyes. He became more muscular as well. And there were more scars. These had never been a pleasant sight to her. She had used to count them when she was younger. With each year though, with each training session and battle, she had lost count. Even now, her eyes move over each one as to pick the fresher cuts and commit them to memory. They were meant to be signs of courage and resilience in the eyes of the Spartans. Phaenna thinks little of them except for the fact that they remind her of the pain he had once endured.
Her eyes move to his armour instead. She likes him in his armour, she finds herself thinking. “You won’t need it here,” she breaks the silence as her fingers reach for the breastplate, a nail scratching it lightly. “The only battles you will be able to find in Athens are the ones held over a papyrus.”
Her father scoffs at that. As proud as the Athenians were, Spartans would remain the true warriors of Greece.
She had never expected an answer from Theron. Not a spoken one, at least. He had grown silent as time passed over him and whereas she had found it odd as a child, she came to find comfort in his silence.
Her eyes seek his once more before she embraces him as well. She is more careful – softer, gentler –, just as her father advised her.
“I missed you,” she speaks as her head rests against the hard armour that covers his chest.
Athenian girls are not to be seen embracing or keeping the company of men who were not their relatives. But he is Theron, a man that her father trusted more than any other Spartan. He may as well be her brother. It doesn't matter when it comes to Theron.
Althaia too left the comfort of her seat to join them. Her eyes travel from her husband to the Spartan. “So this is Theron.”
Despite the critical observation that served as an interruption, Althaia’s voice carried such softness as if it meant to accompany the lyre that had been filling the misty air of that early morning. Her daughter’s fingers hovered lightly over the strings as the song ceased. No, melancholy didn’t suit her. There was nothing to be melancholic about, no distant memory she could long for. Even if there was, Phaenna imagined wistful yearning would be of little use to her. Yet, whenever she had found herself amidst the greens, amidst the soft whispers of the leaves, and the quiet murmurs of the stone fountains as the sun warmed her skin, her fingers seemed to recount a longing of their own upon the strings.
It had always fallen to her mother to awake her from such a sudden daze. This was their ritual – every morning, before her daily lessons, Phaenna would sit out in the gardens and play her instrument while her mother enjoyed the sight from the shade. As she aged, these moments of respite grew. She was a woman of seven-and-thirty, younger than her husband by ten years and yet, if it wasn’t for the light her grey eyes carried, a light so rarely seen in most women, one could say she was older. With each departure of her husband, she grew more tired. With each loss of a child, she grew sadder. With each lesson, she grew more distant. Whereas Phaenna moved towards womanhood with steady steps, her mother seemed to remain far behind.
Perhaps melancholy didn’t suit her.
But it did suit her mother.
When Phaenna raised her dark eyes to meet hers, the older woman smiled. It was a tired smile but a smile all the same and the young girl herself found the corners of her lips turning upright as well. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sadden you.”
Her mother’s features softened at the apology. “It’s in a child’s nature to sadden his mother and it is in a mother’s nature to let her child sadden her. A mother’s own sadness is bearable – seeing her child’s sadness is not. But you could never sadden me, Phaenna, not with a song,” she easily returned.
‘There are other things that sadden you though. You can feel those through a song,’ Phaenna thought idly but refrained from bringing her thoughts to light. “Saddening you is not in my nature it seems,” the girl found fit to add – a little jest meant to broaden her smile.
“No. Never was. You can’t sadden anyone.”
Phaenna’s heart remained heavy. Her mother’s words were spoken out of experience and love for her but she knew they also represented a lesson. There had always a lesson. Phaenna had since long passed the marrying age of Athenian girls. Her mother had been six-and-ten when she had married her father and by the time she had been seven-and-ten she had already brought a child into the world. Phaenna couldn’t say the same for herself. While she favored the thought of marriage, her father didn’t look so kindly upon it. Soon, he would say, soon. She had never thought that his soon would become years. He used the Spartan marriage age as an argument but Athens was not Sparta. And it would never be Sparta.
It would be a lie to see that she hadn't watched the Spartan girls with jealousy in her younger years. They were wild and free and they fought boys bigger than themselves with no shame. They had scraped knees and hands and they were as dirty as dogs by the end of a day. They had been a strange sight to her just as she had been to them with her colourful silk dresses that she never dared to dirty and fresh flowers always braided in her hair. But she loved them dearly. And she loved Theron, her foolish Spartan warrior, dearly.
The sound of sandals scraping against stone attracted the attention of the two women. It grew louder and by the time Phaenna settled her lyre down at her feet, a hurried slave appeared at the entrance of the gardens, carefully eying her mother. “Despota has arrived back in Athens, despoina. By the looks of it, there is a Spartan with him.” A detail that unsettled the slave. Her father had become a usual presence in Sparta but Athens was yet to get used to the arrival of even a few Spartans on its land.
Theron. Her father had mentioned him in his writings but she hadn’t believed…
The girl rose to her feet with little thought but she didn’t move until she caught sight of the familiar face of her father. And then she ran. Her white linen skirts teased at her bare feet as she sprung through the grass and onto the stone pavement that split the gardens in half. The golden specks that had been weaved through the light material caught the light and shone as bright as her smile, a fond laugh parting her reddened lips.
It was her father who she embraced first and the man responded in kind, one arm moving around her waist and another around her shoulders as his hand lost itself through her freed curls.
“You arrived early,” Phaenna whispered into his shoulder, her tone amused.
“Early and with a gift,” he corrected her.
Phaenna looked over his shoulder. Her father’s hold on her softened until it was gone and she was free to approach his companion.
Theron.
Whenever she finds herself in front of him, she is reminded of how much he had changed. She too had changed – she was no longer a child, not even a young girl. She is a woman now, though she considers that the expected changes were more visible in body than in spirit. Theron had always seemed to age quicker however. Phaenna could remember a time when they used to be of the same height. But, over the years, he had grown taller than her, enough for her to need to tilt her head to look into his eyes. He became more muscular as well. And there were more scars. These had never been a pleasant sight to her. She had used to count them when she was younger. With each year though, with each training session and battle, she had lost count. Even now, her eyes move over each one as to pick the fresher cuts and commit them to memory. They were meant to be signs of courage and resilience in the eyes of the Spartans. Phaenna thinks little of them except for the fact that they remind her of the pain he had once endured.
Her eyes move to his armour instead. She likes him in his armour, she finds herself thinking. “You won’t need it here,” she breaks the silence as her fingers reach for the breastplate, a nail scratching it lightly. “The only battles you will be able to find in Athens are the ones held over a papyrus.”
Her father scoffs at that. As proud as the Athenians were, Spartans would remain the true warriors of Greece.
She had never expected an answer from Theron. Not a spoken one, at least. He had grown silent as time passed over him and whereas she had found it odd as a child, she came to find comfort in his silence.
Her eyes seek his once more before she embraces him as well. She is more careful – softer, gentler –, just as her father advised her.
“I missed you,” she speaks as her head rests against the hard armour that covers his chest.
Athenian girls are not to be seen embracing or keeping the company of men who were not their relatives. But he is Theron, a man that her father trusted more than any other Spartan. He may as well be her brother. It doesn't matter when it comes to Theron.
Althaia too left the comfort of her seat to join them. Her eyes travel from her husband to the Spartan. “So this is Theron.”
Last edited:
NickNacks
Zoinks
There wasn't much sound aside from that of Ageus, conferring with a servant in a dialect of Greek Theron only ever heard in this region. Theron, for his part, remained a respectable distance behind the elder man, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The air was crisper here, carrying a sense of cold that sharpened the senses, not quite enough to be unpleasant. Other than that, the surrounding area was quiet, reminding him of some of the wealthier homes in Sparta. A few servants passed by, either carrying items or leading animals away. Occasionally, one would give Theron a curious, rather wary glance.
He didn't blame them. He was a stranger.
As Theron stood and waited for the main inhabitants of the home to be alerted, he became aware of the faint sound of a lyre being played. He remembered hearing the song, once before. He'd still been a child at the time, and his knees had been scraped and bleeding after he'd taken a fall on the stone. Some training areas were made of sand, to avoid injury when training children fell during wrestling. But Theron hadn't been trying to practice-he'd only been trying to walk home.
He hadn't yet known Ageus's daughter by name, at that time.
He'd heard of the man from his own father, in passing and in an unfavorable light. Ageus, named for a ruler, dwelled in a coastal part of Athens, and had served many a year there as a statesman-but, Theron's father had little time or patience for these things. As for Theron himself, he had little attention for such details at that age. But, when he'd heard the lyre, and subsequently come across the person playing it, he'd sat a respectable distance away and listened.
Now, years later, Theron listened again.
He hears Phaenna before he sees her, the rapid scrape of sandles as she no doubt abandons all semblance of diplomacy in favor of bounding into her father's arms. Ageus, of course, welcomes the embrace, and the two seem to meld into each other like twin trees. Despite himself, a flash of jealousy rises in Theron at the sight, just for a moment. Such tender exchanges were utterly foreign between himself and his father, even before the man had passed on. Theron had been to little to properly understand what was happening, only that his father had earned a mighty place amongst the Gods, and that he should be glad.
Theron hadn't felt glad. He'd only felt empty and a little sad.
This malconentent melts, though, soon after Phaenna approaches him. He remembers when she was taller than he was, just by an inch or so, and how distinctly it had irritated him at the time. Now, he towers over her, which he illustrates with a small, crooked smile and a gesture with the flat of his hand, starting level with his forehead and across to hover over the top of Phaenna's, pointing out the stark difference between them.
She's always had a way of looking at him as though she were waiting for something. He's still not sure what to think of it.
There is a distinct difference in the way she carries herself that goes beyond mere differences in society or culture. It's something which belongs uniquely to Phaenna, a kind of shiftiness that isn't threatening, more humorous. It seems like she's constantly holding back some clever comment, not voiced out loud, but glinting in the corner of her eye or mouth. This time, of course, she doesn't hold back, commenting on the unnecessary aspect of his armer. Theron quirks a scarred eyebrow, as though to point out that one couldn't always see conflict coming until it had arrived.
There's a small slab of papyrus, hanging on a leather strap around Theron's shoulder, which he can write upon with ink if nessecary. But, with Phaenna, there isn't usually that need. She knows him as well as he knows her, and that is simply the way of things.
The hug is a little unexpected, when it comes, but he supposes that's because he's grown a little unused to her company in their time apart. Living on separate isles made communication prove difficult. Most days he was too tired to send any letters to her, which he hoped she would forgive him for. Still, there isn't any cold awkwardness between the two, and Theron settles a hand respectfully high on her back.
Despite being miles from Sparta, it feels like coming home.
A woman's voice brings him back to the present, and Theron carefully takes a step back, eyes finding a woman who stands a little taller than Phaenna, and looks like her, too. Ageus is quick to save him from fumbling for his pen and dry ink.
"None other," the man replies, and the note of pride in his voice makes Theron's stomach jump. "Theron expressed an interest in studying Athenian politics. I thought, what better place than here?"
Feeling compelled, Theron carefully inclined his head in the woman's direction, not low enough to be mistaken for a full-on bow, which would prove overly loyal, but low enough to signify his respect and gratitude for being a guest in her home.
He didn't blame them. He was a stranger.
As Theron stood and waited for the main inhabitants of the home to be alerted, he became aware of the faint sound of a lyre being played. He remembered hearing the song, once before. He'd still been a child at the time, and his knees had been scraped and bleeding after he'd taken a fall on the stone. Some training areas were made of sand, to avoid injury when training children fell during wrestling. But Theron hadn't been trying to practice-he'd only been trying to walk home.
He hadn't yet known Ageus's daughter by name, at that time.
He'd heard of the man from his own father, in passing and in an unfavorable light. Ageus, named for a ruler, dwelled in a coastal part of Athens, and had served many a year there as a statesman-but, Theron's father had little time or patience for these things. As for Theron himself, he had little attention for such details at that age. But, when he'd heard the lyre, and subsequently come across the person playing it, he'd sat a respectable distance away and listened.
Now, years later, Theron listened again.
He hears Phaenna before he sees her, the rapid scrape of sandles as she no doubt abandons all semblance of diplomacy in favor of bounding into her father's arms. Ageus, of course, welcomes the embrace, and the two seem to meld into each other like twin trees. Despite himself, a flash of jealousy rises in Theron at the sight, just for a moment. Such tender exchanges were utterly foreign between himself and his father, even before the man had passed on. Theron had been to little to properly understand what was happening, only that his father had earned a mighty place amongst the Gods, and that he should be glad.
Theron hadn't felt glad. He'd only felt empty and a little sad.
This malconentent melts, though, soon after Phaenna approaches him. He remembers when she was taller than he was, just by an inch or so, and how distinctly it had irritated him at the time. Now, he towers over her, which he illustrates with a small, crooked smile and a gesture with the flat of his hand, starting level with his forehead and across to hover over the top of Phaenna's, pointing out the stark difference between them.
She's always had a way of looking at him as though she were waiting for something. He's still not sure what to think of it.
There is a distinct difference in the way she carries herself that goes beyond mere differences in society or culture. It's something which belongs uniquely to Phaenna, a kind of shiftiness that isn't threatening, more humorous. It seems like she's constantly holding back some clever comment, not voiced out loud, but glinting in the corner of her eye or mouth. This time, of course, she doesn't hold back, commenting on the unnecessary aspect of his armer. Theron quirks a scarred eyebrow, as though to point out that one couldn't always see conflict coming until it had arrived.
There's a small slab of papyrus, hanging on a leather strap around Theron's shoulder, which he can write upon with ink if nessecary. But, with Phaenna, there isn't usually that need. She knows him as well as he knows her, and that is simply the way of things.
The hug is a little unexpected, when it comes, but he supposes that's because he's grown a little unused to her company in their time apart. Living on separate isles made communication prove difficult. Most days he was too tired to send any letters to her, which he hoped she would forgive him for. Still, there isn't any cold awkwardness between the two, and Theron settles a hand respectfully high on her back.
Despite being miles from Sparta, it feels like coming home.
A woman's voice brings him back to the present, and Theron carefully takes a step back, eyes finding a woman who stands a little taller than Phaenna, and looks like her, too. Ageus is quick to save him from fumbling for his pen and dry ink.
"None other," the man replies, and the note of pride in his voice makes Theron's stomach jump. "Theron expressed an interest in studying Athenian politics. I thought, what better place than here?"
Feeling compelled, Theron carefully inclined his head in the woman's direction, not low enough to be mistaken for a full-on bow, which would prove overly loyal, but low enough to signify his respect and gratitude for being a guest in her home.
Asteria
⚔️
There was a touch of sadness to Althaia’s tenderness as she looked the Spartan over. She smiled at his light gesture of respect, she did, and yet – as she could at last place a face to the name that she had heard being chanted over and over in her household, either by Ageus or Phaenna –, she could feel the embers of a long-forgotten jealousy burning and cooling all at once.
She had been jealous of the boy. She had thought, at first, that Ageus had chosen to nurture him out of pity; she herself was well-aware of the harsh treatment Spartan children had to endure in order to be called grown men and women – proper warriors. Where Spartans saw glory, Athenians saw brutality. It had been no wonder to her that Ageus had found it fit to ease such a heavy burden for one child or a dozen. But she had been proven otherwise. Theron had stood out among the others. Ageus cared for him and Althaia would go as far as to claim that he loved him. And while her husband had praised the Spartan’s every childish proudly, Althaia had grown more silent and distant.
There were many ghosts of her own that she could see in Theron as he now stood in front of her: desired sons, sons that were born too early, sons that were not born at all. Phaenna was the light of her father’s eyes but she had never been enough. She could not be enough, not when only a son could carry on his father’s legacy. Ageus had wanted a son and Althaia had wanted to grant him that gift from the gods. But the gods had proven to be unwilling.
Yet, they had given Ageus Theron. They had been merciful towards him while they had given her nothing at all. Or perhaps they did, now that Theron was in their home. Althaia found some comfort in that thought.
“You thought well, my love,” Althaia offered to her husband.
But it was Theron that she carefully watched. “I am happy to meet you, at last. I have heard so much of you that it seemed rather unfair to not meet you myself,” Althaia spoke up, her smile not leaving her lips. Most of the time she had been too tired and too weak to join Ageus during his travels. “You are most welcome to stay for as long as you would like, Theron. My home is my family’s and yours too.”
Her words seemed to please Ageus and Phaenna, the latter’s smile broadening with each word. Even if their embrace had been cut short, she still lingered close to his side. There was pride in her gaze too as she watched Theron, but there was also a softness, a childlike spark that spoke of trouble – Theron was her childhood friend, after all. She had carried the unwilling Spartan on many imaginary adventures across the harsh sand of his homeland. But then he had grown more silent, more tired, and busier all at once. To Phaenna, it had seemed as if he had grown overnight.
“You have corrupted my Spartan warrior, pater,” Phaenna jested. “What would great Sparta have to say about your betrayal?”
Ageus lightly chuckled as he shook his hand in her direction. “Nonsense. He has been rather willing. You came here of your own accord, didn’t you, Theron?”
Her father’s defence amused Phaenna. “I know he did.” Theron had been, was, and would continue to be enthralled by her father’s teachings. He had taught him to read and to write, and to treat the written word the same way he would treat an enemy – with wariness. Had he been born in Athens, perhaps things would have been far different for him. Perhaps he would have chosen to speak again, to smile more, to laugh more. She had imagined him, day and night, on their land, free of his armour, free to do as he pleased.
“And I am happy.” He was here now. Her hand reached for his arm, fingers coiling around the exposed flesh. He was here, Phaenna continued to remind herself, and not just in mere passing. He intended to stay, at least for a while. Phaenna’s heart soared at the thought, the possibility of him leaving too soon far from her mind.
“Leave the poor boy to breathe, both of you,” Althaia’s motherly tone was heard then. She was rather amused herself. “I will have a room prepared for him. He should rest and eat. As should you,” her eyes fell on Ageus.
She had been jealous of the boy. She had thought, at first, that Ageus had chosen to nurture him out of pity; she herself was well-aware of the harsh treatment Spartan children had to endure in order to be called grown men and women – proper warriors. Where Spartans saw glory, Athenians saw brutality. It had been no wonder to her that Ageus had found it fit to ease such a heavy burden for one child or a dozen. But she had been proven otherwise. Theron had stood out among the others. Ageus cared for him and Althaia would go as far as to claim that he loved him. And while her husband had praised the Spartan’s every childish proudly, Althaia had grown more silent and distant.
There were many ghosts of her own that she could see in Theron as he now stood in front of her: desired sons, sons that were born too early, sons that were not born at all. Phaenna was the light of her father’s eyes but she had never been enough. She could not be enough, not when only a son could carry on his father’s legacy. Ageus had wanted a son and Althaia had wanted to grant him that gift from the gods. But the gods had proven to be unwilling.
Yet, they had given Ageus Theron. They had been merciful towards him while they had given her nothing at all. Or perhaps they did, now that Theron was in their home. Althaia found some comfort in that thought.
“You thought well, my love,” Althaia offered to her husband.
But it was Theron that she carefully watched. “I am happy to meet you, at last. I have heard so much of you that it seemed rather unfair to not meet you myself,” Althaia spoke up, her smile not leaving her lips. Most of the time she had been too tired and too weak to join Ageus during his travels. “You are most welcome to stay for as long as you would like, Theron. My home is my family’s and yours too.”
Her words seemed to please Ageus and Phaenna, the latter’s smile broadening with each word. Even if their embrace had been cut short, she still lingered close to his side. There was pride in her gaze too as she watched Theron, but there was also a softness, a childlike spark that spoke of trouble – Theron was her childhood friend, after all. She had carried the unwilling Spartan on many imaginary adventures across the harsh sand of his homeland. But then he had grown more silent, more tired, and busier all at once. To Phaenna, it had seemed as if he had grown overnight.
“You have corrupted my Spartan warrior, pater,” Phaenna jested. “What would great Sparta have to say about your betrayal?”
Ageus lightly chuckled as he shook his hand in her direction. “Nonsense. He has been rather willing. You came here of your own accord, didn’t you, Theron?”
Her father’s defence amused Phaenna. “I know he did.” Theron had been, was, and would continue to be enthralled by her father’s teachings. He had taught him to read and to write, and to treat the written word the same way he would treat an enemy – with wariness. Had he been born in Athens, perhaps things would have been far different for him. Perhaps he would have chosen to speak again, to smile more, to laugh more. She had imagined him, day and night, on their land, free of his armour, free to do as he pleased.
“And I am happy.” He was here now. Her hand reached for his arm, fingers coiling around the exposed flesh. He was here, Phaenna continued to remind herself, and not just in mere passing. He intended to stay, at least for a while. Phaenna’s heart soared at the thought, the possibility of him leaving too soon far from her mind.
“Leave the poor boy to breathe, both of you,” Althaia’s motherly tone was heard then. She was rather amused herself. “I will have a room prepared for him. He should rest and eat. As should you,” her eyes fell on Ageus.
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NickNacks
Zoinks
Ageus had always wanted Theron to hear what people were not saying. It was perhaps one of the most central fixtures in politics, a skill that any Athenian needed to possess in order to have his voice heard. Observing Phaenna's mother, it was clear that the two were related-the two shared hair color and facial features. The difference lay in the eyes. Althaia looked impossibly sad, even when she was trying to be happy, and there was another aspect when she observed Theron that he couldn't recognize. He was trained to observe the body, to detect the faint movement of a foot or finger that might signify an oncoming attack. But in the subtitles of reading emotion...That was Ageus's forte. Not Theron's.
He had the feeling she didn't like him. He only wish he knew why, or at least why she pretended otherwise if she didn't really mean it. Even if she was rude or spiteful, at least then Theron would know how to act. In the meantime, he simply acknowledged the welcoming statement by briefly pressing a hand to his chest in gratitude, managing an almost strained smile, as though it were a gesture that simply didn't come naturally the way it came to her daughter. Maybe that was the common ground between the two of them-an unexpressed sadness that, for the sake of those around them, was kept concealed.
He watched as Ageus's gaze flickered between Theron and Althaia, wondering if he, too, sensed the odd tension there. Of course, he shouldn't be surprised-Ageus was trained to detect these things. Perhaps the only person who seemed unaware was Phaenna, still standing close enough beside him that he could almost catch scent of the flowers that undoubtably surrounded her house. Their home seemed like them-it was beautiful, without threat, safe.
He looked towards her once her hand reached up to settle against his arm, and for a moment, Theron felt his stomach twist in a not entirely unpleasant way. The gesture was entirely instinctive, reminding him briefly of the times before all the fighting had happened, when he'd still been permitted to be a child. Though he only saw her on occasion, it was rare that they spent much time apart when she was there. One thing about Phaenna was that she was near constantly full of ideas, ideas that Theron had been too intrigued with to try and dissuade even if they did end up getting him in trouble. That had been back when Theron was quiet-he was always quiet-but not silent.
Phaenna was the only person who knew why he couldn't speak anymore. It was something he hadn't even told his mother, because it was a feat he was meant to be proud of, or at least resilient from. Being small for his age, Theron was a favorite target for the larger boys in his troupe, even if infighting was discouraged. Under the guise of sparring, he'd wound up limping home with countless scrapes and bruises, only to face the abject dissapointment and frustration of his mother, listing the sons who had come before him, ghosts of brothers that he'd never truly known, all of which stood leagues above him on a pedestal impossible to reach.
It had been after one of these talks, when Theron was frustrated enough to scream, that the boy had approached. Alec.
He'd not meant to kill him when he'd picked up the rock. Theron had just wanted to be left alone.
Yet, at age twelve, Theron had spilled his first blood.
It had taken a very long time for the nightmares to stop, and even then, they never stopped completely.
Presently, thought, he was content to stand in the wash of conversation, letting the voices lap over him like the waves which rolled over the nearby shore, grateful for the moment's rest. Of course the nervousness would come later, once he tried to sort out how one should conduct themselves in Athens, how to decide the way in which he should stand or appear. But, for the moment, worries were set aside for now.
Not to mention, Phaenna was practically humming with impatience. She was probably dying to show him around where everything was.
He had the feeling she didn't like him. He only wish he knew why, or at least why she pretended otherwise if she didn't really mean it. Even if she was rude or spiteful, at least then Theron would know how to act. In the meantime, he simply acknowledged the welcoming statement by briefly pressing a hand to his chest in gratitude, managing an almost strained smile, as though it were a gesture that simply didn't come naturally the way it came to her daughter. Maybe that was the common ground between the two of them-an unexpressed sadness that, for the sake of those around them, was kept concealed.
He watched as Ageus's gaze flickered between Theron and Althaia, wondering if he, too, sensed the odd tension there. Of course, he shouldn't be surprised-Ageus was trained to detect these things. Perhaps the only person who seemed unaware was Phaenna, still standing close enough beside him that he could almost catch scent of the flowers that undoubtably surrounded her house. Their home seemed like them-it was beautiful, without threat, safe.
He looked towards her once her hand reached up to settle against his arm, and for a moment, Theron felt his stomach twist in a not entirely unpleasant way. The gesture was entirely instinctive, reminding him briefly of the times before all the fighting had happened, when he'd still been permitted to be a child. Though he only saw her on occasion, it was rare that they spent much time apart when she was there. One thing about Phaenna was that she was near constantly full of ideas, ideas that Theron had been too intrigued with to try and dissuade even if they did end up getting him in trouble. That had been back when Theron was quiet-he was always quiet-but not silent.
Phaenna was the only person who knew why he couldn't speak anymore. It was something he hadn't even told his mother, because it was a feat he was meant to be proud of, or at least resilient from. Being small for his age, Theron was a favorite target for the larger boys in his troupe, even if infighting was discouraged. Under the guise of sparring, he'd wound up limping home with countless scrapes and bruises, only to face the abject dissapointment and frustration of his mother, listing the sons who had come before him, ghosts of brothers that he'd never truly known, all of which stood leagues above him on a pedestal impossible to reach.
It had been after one of these talks, when Theron was frustrated enough to scream, that the boy had approached. Alec.
He'd not meant to kill him when he'd picked up the rock. Theron had just wanted to be left alone.
Yet, at age twelve, Theron had spilled his first blood.
It had taken a very long time for the nightmares to stop, and even then, they never stopped completely.
Presently, thought, he was content to stand in the wash of conversation, letting the voices lap over him like the waves which rolled over the nearby shore, grateful for the moment's rest. Of course the nervousness would come later, once he tried to sort out how one should conduct themselves in Athens, how to decide the way in which he should stand or appear. But, for the moment, worries were set aside for now.
Not to mention, Phaenna was practically humming with impatience. She was probably dying to show him around where everything was.
