( video ) un: achilles

[heelies]

[There appears the grave countenance of Achilles, son of Peleus, his princely features marred by grief. His eyes are rimmed red and below them sink dark purple hollows. His beard is untrimmed and his golden curls, once long and flowing, hang choppy about his ears, hacked off by his own hand. Yet still he stands with shoulders squared and chin held high, as befits one who speaks before the assembly, and still his voice rolls forth like the iron-grey clouds that fill the sky before a storm falls.]

I come bearing unhappy news amidst a sea of unhappy news - but for me, no news could be more unbearable than this. An honorable man lies dead, overpowered in all his power, victim to one of the flesh-hungry who strike fear in the breast of this city. This was Menoetius' son Patroclus, my dear brother in arms...my partner in life. He was not long among this crew, and thus if you have no other cause for lament, then lament that you are robbed the opportunity to know him for a friend.

Yet now you might meet him through my words, I who have known him for the better part of my life and love him as I love my own life. Among the Achaeans there never was a kinder man: he cared more for the man beside him than for himself, and what he had he shared generously with friend and stranger alike. Almighty Zeus, bright-eyed Athena, and Apollo the lord of light always received supplication and libation enough from his hands. With so worthy a man gone down to the House of Hades, the country of the living is left far poorer.

In this nation flung so far from my fatherland, strange enough that the shores of windy Ilios seem almost friendly, I have not the riches I once possessed. I cannot give so grand a funeral as I would wish, as great-hearted Patroclus deserves, like that which I gave on the headland over the Hellespont. There a thousand men harnessed in bronze bore the son of Menoetius to his pyre, each one's heart filled with a dirge, while my deathless mother and all of the daughters of Nereus rose from the sea wailing and beating their breasts - but who in this land shall mourn him so? The honors I heap upon him here shall be only a pale shadow of all that he is worth, and for this my grief grows twofold.

If you have any respect for the dead and for the laws decreed by the gods, then hear my plea. A pyre must be built that my dear friend may pass proper into the House of Hades. At present he wanders lost by death's gates, the Acheron's distant shore far out of reach. How can I rest while he who is dearest to me suffers unwearying? Thus, his pyre must be built today. There is more than space enough in Oakwood Park, which lies to the west. I need strong men to stack the timbers, whatever wood can be found, and others to assist in the slaughter of the oxen, that the rich blood may make sacred the flame. None need worry about drawing the curious eyes of the Woodhurstians, for Sieglinde the Green Witch shall shield the area from sight by her clever magic.

All who come to honor Menoetius' gallant son are welcome to feast afterward. To fill my stomach when my heart is so empty is hateful to me, but what food and wine I have I shall freely share with any who proves a friend to my dear companion even in death.

[CLIFFS NOTES VERSION: His not-at-all-platonic life partner is dead (again), so anyone who lends a hand in performing Ancient Greek funeral practices shall be fed a hearty dinner of oxen kebabs. I will post a log for the funeral this weekend, but that will mostly provide narrative for the various rituals and handle the aftermath. You are more than welcome to assume your character's involvement there or in the feast that follows. If you have any questions or would like to plot, please PM this journal or find me on Discord at aristosachaion#4902!

EDIT 3/15: I have come down with a fever and am slightly dying, but nevertheless I will do my best to persist in answering these tags. Sorry for the delay!]

Comments

[heelies]

[He is startled by the voice that comes suddenly from behind, and when he turns he is startled all the more to see a skeleton standing there, all white bone beneath the garment in which the figure is draped.]

Are you he whose messages I received?

[Achilles for his part does not at present fit the part of legendary hero, clad as he is in jeans and flannel. At least, to avoid copying the grunge look too closely, he is freshly bathed - Jin and Asher have seen to this.]

[skelepun]

That's me.

[He holds out a hand.]

Name's Sans.

[heelies]

[For all the time he has now passed among modern men, he does not infer from San's gesture the intent to shake hands - and so instead, he tentatively takes the bony hand in his grasp and welcomes him with a light squeeze.]

I am Achilles, son of Peleus.

[From his countenance it is plain that he is perturbed by his appearance, a man of bone rather than of skin and flesh. He had met Papyrus once yet this meeting is no less strange to him.]

By what arts did you arrive so quickly? It is only the gods who move as though by mists, disappearing from mortal sight and appearing once more as they will.

[skelepun]

[Just me thankful there wasn't a whoopie cushion in his palm this time, buddy.]

Guess you can call me a god, then. [He shrugs, pocketing his hands.] I just know a few shortcuts, is all.

[heelies]

Then by these same "shortcuts" shall we find the way to that house I have claimed for my own in this land? The roads grow more treacherous by the day as men and women succumb to this gnawing madness.

[The body that lies on the couch in this very room, draped in a sheet that hides not its human shape, is a sharp reminder of the dangers that lie out there.]

[skelepun]

[No kidding. Sans has been pointedly ignoring it. Plausible deniability is a hell of a motivator.]

Got it in one, pal. [He extends a hand again, this time not to shake.] You still wanna go?

in which sans is aladdin and achilles is jasmine ig

[heelies]

[He gives a nod that is as decisive as the fall of an ax blade, and he reaches for the skeleton man's bony hand once more. Perhaps he ought to tell Jin that he is leaving, but he would explain upon his return.]

Let us go then.

shit that needs to be a thing that gets drawn fuck

[skelepun]

[In the space of a moment, the house they'd been in blinks away, replaced by an even brief stretch of darkness. It's cold there, but it's also fleeting, and the next moment they're somewhere else entirely.

A foyer, to be precise. Achilles' foyer.]

... This it?

[Hopefully he did his math right.]

i can show you the wooooorld...

[heelies]

[As in a dream when the landscape shifts suddenly and the sleeper follows without question, so changes the room around them, although his eyes remain open and his feet still. Achilles gives no answer to Sans' question. In silence he drifts his gaze over the modern accommodations that had at first been so foreign but slowly grew familiar as the days passed: with Patroclus gone from his side, all seems foreign once more. The house suffocates in quiet, the air inside undisturbed in all these days and stiff for it. Still it is akin to wandering through a dream, one from which he hoped never to awaken.

The stairs stand to the left, stretching up to the second story, and up these he starts to climb. This will have to be answer enough.]

[skelepun]

[As a rule, silence is a complicated concept for Sans. Filling silences with talk -- meaningless, vague talk, but talk all the same -- came naturally to him. Feeding into others rambling, encouraging them to continue, it was a comfort. A distraction, sure, but a welcome one.

Silence felt a little too much like being alone. Sometimes necessary, sometimes forced, but never restorative.

Still, in this instance, Sans found himself untroubled by the sobriety of the moment. It was shared, even across different timelines and distances. He'd climbed stairs that same way more than once himself. This time, he merely hangs at the base of them, watching and waiting for Achilles to say goodbye in his own way.]

[heelies]

[It is silence that sits in his heart, and all his songs have turned to dirges.

Halfway up the stairs he looks back at the skeleton man over his shoulder. His words break the silence as footfall breaks through snow.]

Will you be here still when I must go? I shall not be long - there are many preparations to tend to.

[He would secure the music box, his lyre too, which Patroclus had delighted in listening to on languid afternoons and merry nights. He might lie upon the bed and remember how secure he had felt in this life, weep for how fleeting it was. And then he could go back to his companion's side where he belongs.]

[skelepun]

Yeah, buddy.

[The usual vague condescension Sans flavors his words with isn't present this time. If anything, he sounds something akin to somber. It's a scene that was all too familiar, and yet all too new all the same.]

I'll be right here.