The day had been long and arduous, but it was one that would have surely brought much pleasure to Ares above his palace in Olympus. Though the Taengeans and Colchians oftentimes worked together in their battles and exchanged intelligence openly and freely, with senior commanders and generals usually forming strategies that benefited all who called themselves Greek, Damocles had not fought that day alongside the one he had by now most often shared the field of battle with: Achilleas. Instead, he had been instructed to lead the men he had been temporarily been given command, as Acting Captain against a marauding division composed of nothing short of savage animals and barbarous sand-snakes, which others would call Egyptians.

Truthfully, though he had not shared the spoils of battle with Achilleas, he was aware that the man had been occupied in his own endeavors as of late. While Damocles had led his own unit against the forces of the east, Achilleas had been to the South in another battle that the Silver-Eyed militant was not-to-sure about its outcome. Naturally, he wanted to believe that the Lions would find success with their own leader, whilst Damocles secured victory amongst the warriors of the Damned. Yet, he still wished to not be apart from the Taengean for long. By now, he had little doubt over his own talents and abilities as a soldier, and even came to regard him with some rarely found respect that not many could say the Magnemean reserved for others.

Yet it had been two months now since they had first shared a bed, and more than anything he feared for the safety of Achilleas his lover, not Achilleas the warrior. Strange as it was to find any sort of intimacy between the shifting sands of Egypt, Damocles had appearantly earned a similarly rare spot in the Taengean’s own admission of self, though in a different regard than only respect he bet. Deep down he knew there was little reason to worry for the safety of the man he had held and been close with for the time now, for his was a skill that few could rival, though the Colchian though he could number himself amongst that limited few. Yet, he did not trust the Taengean enough as it was. He wanted to fight sides him, to protect him and to be protected by him. To guarantee that they would return back to camp without much to call upon as sacrifice to the Gods. And the prospect that he had not been able to so at the fights that the day had heralded cautioned him to hesitation.

Still, there was only so much he could do. Powerful, and rightfully-promoted as he had been, Damocles was still only a soldier, and he could not shift his presence back to wherever it had been that Achilleas fought on that day. Hence, he focused on his own field of glory and pursued victory as he pleased, cutting down any who dared to stand against him and his forces with the fury and might of a beast. Thankfully, though he had prepared for the preparation of letters of condolences later on, it seemed that the day had been for the Colchians, for none under his command had fallen that day, a welcomed relief to say the least.

With a chest swollen with pride, though heavy with the dark armor that the Acting Captain had commissioned following his last true official promotion, Damocles returned to the side of the Greek, leading his rowdy army of men with the spirit and delight of a man bathed in glory and circumstance. It was expected that the return of the Magnemeans would be a loud and uproarious one, for that was the typical signal they gave whence they returned to camp, but as they broached their place of respite once more, the strength of their voices roused in an unusually callous roaring of weltered battle cries. For their singular success, Damocles rewarded his men with as much liberty and freedom as he could give them as their superior. Food and drink would probably have not been plentiful after the Damned finished with their celebrations, but that wasn’t as important for the day had been theirs.

Meanwhile, after settling in on his own tent and carefully arranging his armor on the stand that came to store his equipment for the time being, Damocles cleared his appearance and straighten his looks to a more presentable set than the ones his previously sweat-laced body allowed. He had re-grown his beard in its entirety since he first shaved it two months prior, an incident he would not repeat much often in the future, but his features had remained every bit as handsome as they were the night he and his lover had first kissed behind the covers of thin, canvassed walls.

Stridding with intention to greet and meet his lover, Damocles gleamed a bit more than usual and walked with the eagerness of a victorious General. He was of high spirits this night, and would rather spend his time with one that would appreciate him a bit more than his friends and comrades by the Colchian campside. Dressing in a dark blue chiton that hugged his Herculean built, but showcased his extremely-well-developed arms, biceps and triceps, Damocles stormed across to find Achilleas..but was instead met with a sight he had not been expecting at all.

“Come here!” he huffed with evident joy in his voice as he saw the object of his desires for the time, before noticing just how aloof and distracted he appeared. The Colchian had attempted to embrace the man and playfully push him inside his own tent, to sate his passions with him for the time and enjoy a few hours of privacy with him in a way only they knew each other capable of. Alas, the curtness on the other’s words had made the Colchians stop in his confident stance. The Taengean’s features were cold and distant, and though they had not spent a lifetime together, Damocles was more than able to determine that not everything was alright with the man. “Wait! Achilleas!” He called out in tone that underlined a bit more concern than he would have preferred.

Before he knew it, the slightly taller man reached out and seized the other’s wrist. Despite having brushed coldly against his shoulders, the Silver-Eyed militant was not going to let his lover go away without first telling him what was wrong. He had seen his tender side before, and he had even witnessed his angered side too, but this was different, he could feel it. With his own colossal strength gripping fiercely onto the Taengean’s wriest, Damocles attempted to halt the other from leaving his sight all-too-quickly, and instead turned him so they could see the color of their eyes once more after so many hours.

Out of fear of being caught in an situation that might have suggested more than just friendship between the two, Damocles quelled his desire to soften his touch and try to talk to the man, but rather refused to do so and otherwise redirected him back to the tent he had dashed away from. “Mind explaining yourself, Captain Achilleas?” coldly asked the Colchian once he had dragged the other man back inside the tent that had been emptied of people, save for themselves. “What is the matter?”

Aside from the field of battle, and ostensibly in times of heightened arousal between them together, Damocles had seldom witnessed anger become apparent in the face of the Taengean royal he had managed to get proximate to. There was rage in those blue eyes, one that he recognized before in his own moments of wrathful intensity. Yet, there was a noticeable difference in his own rage and the emotions he saw awash in the other man. There was anger, but it was fueled by something else. This wasn’t burning, torching rage, but cold and chilled, a silenced, quelled fury that the Colchian was honestly not that well-acquainted with.

With their secrecy restored, Damocles disengaged his firm grasp on the other man’s arm. Nevertheless, he stood in front of the tent’s entryway, crossing his broad arms over his chest while looking at the other’s fine features with a studious look on his face. There was more to that superficial anger that Achilleas showed, and the Colchian knew it. Or, rather, he intuitively felt something was wrong. The man was not an expressive one. He was a stoic, dignified person. Sure, he was young and prone to the weakness of his age, but that was not an ample explanation for his current state of being. He sensed a wrong had been dealt, and Damocles could not just allow the Taengean to go on soldier through in such a manner. He was the loud, obnoxious, expressive one, not Achilleas. And yet, to further confirm his suspicions, came the sharpness of the other’s words.

Since the shift in tone in their relationship to a far more privately intimate one, Damocles had not raised his voice at Achilleas. And to his credit, despite any disrespect that he might’ve shown once, the Taengean had never shown such an abrupt snap before. If he had any reservations that indeed something was off with his lover, his intuition was ratified in the way the paler of the two behaved. Aggressive, blunt and angry? These were not the ways of the man he had invested more than a few wayward hours of passion with, and for once Damocles was not going to let this state of being go unnoticed. Something had upset Achilleas, and the Colchian was having none of it. Whatever it was that caused this reaction in the man was a matter of worrying concern and yes, inner rage. Whatever, or rather, whomever had made the Taengean turn to such a despondent state would have to answer to him and his fists.

“That is a lie and you know it, you fucking moron!” he rather coldly addressed, failing to manifest a tone that at all reflected the warm origins of his concern. Damocles was well-aware that his bluntness could occasionally be misunderstood as blistering callousness, and more often than not, that was the case, but not now. Yet, he did not particularly care for being nice at this moment. Something had upset his lover and he was going to get to the bottom of this come hell or high water. “Ugh! Stop being so damned stoic and just tell me what is wrong? Don’t you understand I just want to help?” he called out, trying to be as outwardly sympathetic and caring as he tried, still poorly reflecting his own inability to be soft.

And yet, despite his efforts to understand what had upset his lover so much, Damocles was repudiated and dismissed in a curt manner that only infuriated the Magnemean even further. “Don’t you dare walk away Achilleas! You hear me!” he shouted, again failing to channel the truth behind his way of expression. Try as he might however, it was too late, and with a push and a turn, the blue-eyed Captain escaped into Gods know where, but not before a piece of paper fell down on the floor, one that Damocles noticed almost immediately.

It was only then, after unraveling the folded document and scanning its content that Damocles came to behold what exactly had happened. At first he did not recognize the letter’s author’s hand, but it was obvious from the style and manner that the person who wrote it was well-educated and had a certain fondness for harshness. It was a scathing review of Achilleas, a damning report that did not at all acknowledge the many accomplishments he had witnessed himself upon the field of battle by the other’s side before. There was little to no kindness in that letter, and it was devoid of anything but criticism. Yet, it was the end of the letter that made Damocles truly feel sick to his stomach. Signed in clear, bold letters, the author’s name slashed across the paper, making it abundantly clear who the author was: Irakles of Mikaelidas.

Now that was a name he was less than happy to come across. Just a few years prior he had met a minor embarrassment at the hands of the man. Though he might’ve opened-up to the Mikaelidas Heir, he had no similar affection for the Patriarch, and that was before he read that letter. If he had once considered an apology of sorts directed at the General for any possible past transgressions, that was completely erased after this revelation. How could a father issue such words to his son? Was this just the first time this had happened? Or, worst still, was this just the latest in a string of similar past actions? Damocles did not know, and in all honestly did not care. Right now, there were more important things than some old geezer’s personal opinion. He had to talk to Achilleas, he just had to.

With the letter carefully hid on his own clothing, Damocles began to make his way to chase after the Taengean, but stopped at a moment. Nightfall was coming, and the coldness of the place would soon set in. It might have been innapropriatte to do so, but before setting himself on his pursuit, the bearded militant scanned the tent and noticed a himation that he grabbed and made away with. He himself garbed a cloak over himself, letting it hang loosely over his broad shoulders as he rushed out and gave way.

There were a few places that the Silver-eyed militant suspected could be the location of the Royal-born, of which a specific image came to mind, one of dried trees that provided some distance between the rest of the camp and the Nile. He was no stranger to that corner of the world at all. It was a small hidden precipice, one that the two had used before whenever they wanted to escape from the rest of the Greeks. Judging it to be the most likely of settings, Damocles casually made his way to amidst the dunes, past the crowds of people he had casually blended with by means of the hood he used to conceal his face better.

Just as expected, his suspicions had not failed him. Sitting by his lonesome, with his head hanging low and his body sunk against a ragged tree was Achilleas, morose and crestfallen in a way that only made Damocles want to reach out and hug him. The letter was fucking wrong. There may be some flaws in the man, sure, but he was nothing like he had been depicted. He wanted to hold him and reassure him that it was all a foundationless lie. He wanted to punch Irakles, reflecting that perhaps he had been justified in trying to sneak a punch down his nether regions last they fought. A man who treated his kin like this had no right to be called a father at all. But Damocles was not an emotional man. He did not know how to address the other and be as calming as he may have wished to be. Despite his attempts at changing, he still possessed the fundamental coldness of his people. Besides, gentleness was not his way at all and that might just as well warrant an awkward look from the other. So instead, he walked towards the man and threw the himation he brought over to warm the other man up, before lowering the hood of his cloak to reveal his identity.

“I thought you might need it, considering the coldness.” He addressed in a tone that was not at all the bluster and rage he had shown before. There was a double meaning to his words, a fact that the Colchian revealed as he took out the letter and flickered it. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He calmly said, squatting down besides the man while staring off-handedly at the streaming river. “In fact we don’t have to talk at all. We can just stay here, away from it all as long as you want. Away from all the Irakles and Greeks and Egyptians in the world. Right now, it’s only you and me.” He sweetly said, trying his best to be as compassionate as he could. A warm smile fastened on his face, and his eyes were robbed of their intensity, replaced with a soothing maturity that Damocles made a point to hide from almost everyone. “Just know that I’m here if you need anything.”

As a general policy of sorts, Damocles rarely took the thoughts and opinions of others into consideration when it came to matters he was well-versed in. So what if someone was of a higher rank or station than him? There were plenty of captains and commanders who thought themselves cleaver but could not tell a short spear from a javelin. He had never been quick to accept authority, and it was obvious from his previous experiences that the Colchian did not take being told what to do or think as an easy pill to swallow. He was stubborn, bull-headed and intransigent, unyielding in his beliefs or dispositions in situations he understood. Besides, the only reason he oftentimes refused to bend the knee and let others convince him otherwise was because half the world was mad already.

Perhaps, that was why he did not feel much of a connection to Achilleas, who seemed to be deeply affected by the words of a man who had no right or place to make judgements on policy and command from his faraway base of authority. Military structure was built on trust and loyalty, and to doubt the capacities of one’s officers and subordinates was to show a lack of leadership and an inflexibility of character that denoted inexperience and unelegance. Though he was just recently thrust into the helm of the Damned by the frailty of his own nominal superior, Damocles knew better than to question the wisdom of his soldiers in matters that he was not fully aware of. How could Irakles know what were the realities of the Damned and the Lions in their current space and time? Did he possess the mythical powers of the Gods to have a foresight so magnificent so as to know the going-about of them? Did he have eyes floating about that the Colchian had not see, reporting their whereabouts and decisions at all time? Because as far as he could tell, the Taengean general was only a man, fallible and very much capable of being killed by the folly of his own hubris and the stupidity of his blind ambition.

Theoretically, Achilleas’s rantings held some truth to them. If they had pressed onwards they might have been able to conquer more land and take the battle against the Egyptian barbarians closer to their core. Yes, this plan sounded well and good, but only again in theory. It seemed as though neither the Mikaelidas Lord or his son had taken into account the fact that the armies of Alexandria, Benin and El Daihab had been hot on their trail and were positioned in an advantageous way that would have made the two royal’s tactic a two-pronged attack that would have spelled absolute disaster and madness to the two colossal Greek units. Furthermore, not a week past had those same Egyptian armies had sent aid to the forces of Manopotapa, resulting in a bloody and barely won battle that had forced the combined might of both the Damned and the Lions to push back. He might have been young in his new position as the commanding officer of his army, but Damocles had not been keen on following anything remotely similar to such an uncalculated attack. It was far too risky and would have resulted in nothing but spilled guts and ruined glory, neither of which he presumed both he and the Taengean youth would appreciate.

“Yes…in theory General Mikaelidas’s tactic might have resulted in a more intense fight towards Cairo…but you do realize that it would have also spelled doom for our own forces? I for one am not keep on fighting one-third of Egypt in a multiple-angled coordinated attack. So, forgive me for my candor, but in this regard, I must categorically disagree.” He bluntly put, knowing that his words, while logical, might have upset the Taengean. “Besides, it's not like we're just sitting on our asses doing nothing. Last week we won a battle, remember?" He said, trying to lighten the intensity of his words with a compliment that was not too obvious he thought.

“What I am trying to say is….” He began scratching the back of his head and narrowing his eyes as he tried to amass a more gentle approach than pure, blunt logic in what was increasingly a primarily emotional encounter. “I…I don’t say this often, but it’s been an honor fighting alongside you. In these past months you’ve shown a maturity and talent for leadership that I haven’t seen much, even in Colchis. I’m proud to fight alongside you. So what, your dad thinks you’re not the best commander ever. This matters how? Just focus on proving him wrong and don’t pay too much thought to the opinions of a man who is just as infallible as anyone else. In my own honest opinion I think you’ve been a strategic and pragmatic leader, worthy of far more praise and recognition that you seem to be receiving, and if Irakles is too blind, stupid or blind to see that then maybe I ought to have a rematch with him and make him see otherwise!” he said, adopting a more humorous tone to his words in the end to try and cheer up the other man.

It felt so uncomfortable to use words like these. Comfort and warmth did not come naturally to the Colchian, and he was of the opinion that instead of moping about one was better off facing their problems head-on and moving forward with nothing but raw courage and pure determination. “Yes, yes, I know I am a commoner…but if you ask me, you’re a great captain Achi…” said Damocles using the shortened version of the other’s name, reflecting the undeniable affection that laid beneath the intensity of his words and blunt demeanor. His silver eyes fell on the other’s blue stare, and a familiar, albeit rarely shown genuine smile formed on the edge of the bearded militant.

“Don’t apologize...” Responded the slightly taller captain after rolling his eyes and snickering a bit. Suddenly, he noticed the proximity that they were about, causing the Colchian to turn his head sideways and surprise the other man with a brief, but accepting kiss that lasted just seconds. Afterwards, he pushed his forehead against the other man, closed his eyes and grunted softly. “Just tell me what’s wrong next time.” He asked, breaking from the softer gesture of intimacy and returning to his former position with his orbs looking at the other with their hypnotic glimmer still to them.

To say that Damocles had felt awkward during that entire conservation was an understatement in the extreme. The idea of offering words of comfort and tenderness was already bewildering enough, but to make things worst, given his past experiences with the other man, he figured that the words he said about the old man perhaps had not been invited at this late hour. Still, while emotional support had never been his strong suit, he was far from unexpressive when it came to showing his regards, unsubtle and blunt as they were.

The kiss and, unexpectedly intimate, press of their foreheads could not be more indicative of the changing nature of the relationship between Achilleas and Damocles. Just as he knew that the other man was uwaveringly loyal to his own family, so too was he tight-lipped about matters more private and…personal. It was not the first time that he had thought it ironic how the Colchian seemed to be the bold, energetic and outgoing one, while the Taengean seemed more subdued and quiet, enjoying his own privacy and quarters than the loud blast of soldier songs or fireside story-sharing. Still, even if they somehow betrayed the stereotypes of their countries respectively, the silver-eyed man had to admit that, to his surprise, he had grown to care for the other man. Of course, he could not tell whether or not the Captain of the Lions felt the same way, but, as he had learned throughout the confusing entity that was their relationship, Achilleas was far more subtle in his own shows of affection, signs that, maybe most, would ignore. But not Damocles. No, he had developed an uncanny ability to try and decipher the mystery that was the blue-eyed man.

“Shut up!” he snarled with obvious humor in his tone, lightly throwing a soft fist against the other’s shoulder before smiling widely and laughing a bit at the other’s attempt at humor. “I only did what I did because you looked like you were on the brink of having an existential breakdown!” he teased back with an over-exaggerated haughtiness to his words that betrayed the real light-heartedness of his approach. “Shut up!” He repeated, once more levying the same tone of humor against the other’s observation that he, indeed, was not a very graceful man when it came to moments of soft gentleness. “You try being supportive of a handsome stoic that shuts himself tighter than a clam when it comes to matters of the heart.” He jestingly retorted back, laughing again as he relaxed against the press of the tree he used as seat while his steady eyes sat by the lazy sway of the river. And then, he felt something that he did not expect.

Unexpectedly elusive as it was, the typically brazen and bold-hearted Damocles knew when the other man had meant to show his affections. In that moment, the older of the two did not react overtly, nor did he make a big showing of the small concession that Achilleas had given him. It wasn’t much of a sign for most people, at least that was what the Colchian thought, but in that moment, it felt nice. It felt enough. He didn’t need to have the other go out of his way to express his fondness. Doing things in the same, subdued way he had done before was more than enough for now. Turning his head to once more see whether or not they were alone, only for him to confirm their welcomed solitude, Damocles smiled at the other man and once more pressed his lips against him, this time with a bit more passion and push, but with an unspoken intimacy that quite conveyed his own feelings for the other man. “I think you like me…” He whispered once that short gesture of returned attraction was over, letting the man that sat against him have the word here and then.

His mercurial temper may have earned Damocles a reputation for signature harshness that oftentimes served to cloak him with an air of intimidation that staved off his enemies, but Achilleas wasn’t an enemy. Yes, their demeanors might have been different, if not diametrically opposed, but that had not translated into scorn or disgust. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Whereas Damocles burned and blazed with his fiery, intense and raw personality, the steady coolness from the Taengean more often than not served to quell his passions and keep them at their appropriate brightness when needed. He was hot-headed, direct and blunt, and though he did not feel shame nor embarrassment for his abrasiveness, he did come to enjoy the calmness that emanated from Achilleas, relishing in the comfort that came with his more subdued side in a way that few had done before. It was soothing, to know that, for the most part, his Taengean counterpart would be there to offer that perhaps underappreciated serenity that Damocles might have once dismissed as boring, but, lately, had learned to value in the other man.

“Perhaps…” He said, his smile still on his face, before shifting its mood to a more quiet, and personal one. “I worried when I saw you like I did. When I saw you that upset…well…it made me angry. Not because of your reaction, but because some else dared to hurt you.” Confessed the typically boisterous and loudmouthed Colchian as he turned his now slight smile into a more heartfelt expression that tethered between honesty and commitment. “I don’t want anyone to hurt you, not like that. And even if the Gods themselves dared to do so, I would cut them down, each one, before harm came to you again.” There was that familiar intensity in his tone, one that betrayed his seriousness, stemming not from rage, as he seemed to claim, but out of care, out of concern, as he did not know how to express unto Achilleas. “I would slay anyone that dared made you feel like you are anything less than perfect.”

His eyes returned to Achilleas, with his breath somewhat ragged from the emotions that had simmered within him before. And yet, just as he felt once more turning to his rage, Achilleas rested a part of himself against Damocles, causing the Colchian to snap out of his rage as he settled himself back to that toasty, warm demeanor that even less people knew him capable of showing. Afterwards, there was their kiss, far more romantic and intimate than it had been intended to, but not in an uninviting way that pushed either away. Others might’ve discouraged the way that Achilleas had returned his affections as stoic or cold, but the Colchian had learned far more about his blue-eyed companion than he believed most did. Unlike their earlier exchanges, their was a certain willingness, an unspoken enthusiasm and a clear longing that he felt on those lips, and it was there that Damocles realized that whatever they had done before had now turned into something far more serious.

“Well, you have been known to be fairly contradictory, prince-y” He obviously teased, pulling the other man unto his chest as he slung his arm over Achilleas’s shoulder and invited the other man to relax for the moment, knowing that their surrounding afforded them a privacy that even tented walls occasionally failed at granting. “Oh? And you think I expected this too?” He softly laughed as he heared the other’s words once more, feeling an unexpected fondness for the other that might have gone unheard of before. “If I had been told that I would have welcomed the man whose cousin I almost skewered years ago unto my bed, I would had scoffered and struck thought from head.” The touch of the Colchian’s skin was warm, far more than the garments he had brought over for them to wear as Damocles tried to snuggled with the other man, his big, powerful arms holding the Taengean in a loving way. “And yet here I am, quite happy and content with one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever met.” In that moment, Damocles met the other’s raised gaze and stole another kiss from Achilleas, closing his eyes so that this one would be far more romantic than the one they’d had before.

Maybe it was the case that fire and water did not meet often, but, in that moment, the fiery Damocles welcomed the cool Achilleas, not as someone he would solely visit for the sake of pleasurable releases, but for the unorthodox intimacy of this strangest of relationships that, in that moment, deepened unto new, previously unexplored levels.