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The Order House was a somber, serious sort of place, the men who frequented it often thought of the same. The Order of Vasiliadon. Achilleas had known of its existence of course, of the men who served the city before all else, who walked its streets and kept the peace, stopping fights and making the citizens feel safe even with the lingering threat of The Creed. His father would disappear sometimes on Order business, though the eldest son of Irakles wondered if that did not sometimes translate to business at the whore houses.
Where else had he picked up that girl he flaunted around now?
He couldn’t stomach thinking on it, and unconsciously jabbed at his horse’s mouth, causing the beast to shake its head irritably and give a snort of disapproval. The Lord Mikaelidas, newly minted Baron of Euttica immediately slackened his grip on the reins, dropped a pat on the shiny chestnut neck of his horse before he slid from its back and led it round to the stables.
There were no servants to wait upon him here, the men of the Order were humble and did not set store in nobility or lack of it. So Achilleas himself stabled the red stallion, saw he had water and sweet hay to munch whilst his master was otherwise engaged. The young Mikaelidas lord did not much mind the menial chores, he did them infrequently enough that they did not become tiresome, and it was, after all, one of the fundamental requirements of the Order he was to join. Humility and willingness to serve the city of Vasiliadon.
Never had it had been a question of if he would join the Order, not with his father a serving member, but more a question of when. And now, at sixteen years of age, six months after he had taken on his barony, it had been deemed the right time. And he was not alone in this endeavour, his cousin the Prince also having been ear-marked to join the ranks of those sworn to the city, and Achilleas wondered where Stephanos had gotten to.
It would not be unusual for the prince to turn up late, if he turned up at all, and it made the young baron shift uncomfortably. He had no wish to start things off on the wrong foot with the men of the Order. Krateros did not seem a fellow that he wanted to offend. And so when the clattering of hooves heralded the arrival of his cousin a few minutes later, Achilleas was wearing a rather displeased expression.
“Good of you to show up, cousin” he said, arms folded across his chest as he glowered up at the prince. “It does not do to make an ill first impression you know” Achilleas was quick to push off the wall he was leaning against, dusting himself off and waiting impatiently for Stephanos to dismount.
Perhaps there were a few nerves feeding into his irritation, but he would not admit it to his cousin. If anything, Stephanos would be looking to him for guidance in this endeavour. He had the experience of holding his own barony now of course and so could impart a little of his wisdom to Stephanos, who spent most of his time in courtesans if he what he was told was to be believed. He had been too busy to keep abreast of everything that went on back in the city since being out in Euttica.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas asked in a no nonsense sort of voice, eyeing Stephanos a little doubtfully. His father had briefed him on what awaited them, and the lord could hardly say he was excited about it, but he thought his cousin would possibly balk at the reality of it. Achilleas knew better than to express his own reservations - there would be no tolerance for such things, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bring dishonour to his father’s reputation by appearing weak or spoiled. He wasn’t so sure about his cousin however...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The Order House was a somber, serious sort of place, the men who frequented it often thought of the same. The Order of Vasiliadon. Achilleas had known of its existence of course, of the men who served the city before all else, who walked its streets and kept the peace, stopping fights and making the citizens feel safe even with the lingering threat of The Creed. His father would disappear sometimes on Order business, though the eldest son of Irakles wondered if that did not sometimes translate to business at the whore houses.
Where else had he picked up that girl he flaunted around now?
He couldn’t stomach thinking on it, and unconsciously jabbed at his horse’s mouth, causing the beast to shake its head irritably and give a snort of disapproval. The Lord Mikaelidas, newly minted Baron of Euttica immediately slackened his grip on the reins, dropped a pat on the shiny chestnut neck of his horse before he slid from its back and led it round to the stables.
There were no servants to wait upon him here, the men of the Order were humble and did not set store in nobility or lack of it. So Achilleas himself stabled the red stallion, saw he had water and sweet hay to munch whilst his master was otherwise engaged. The young Mikaelidas lord did not much mind the menial chores, he did them infrequently enough that they did not become tiresome, and it was, after all, one of the fundamental requirements of the Order he was to join. Humility and willingness to serve the city of Vasiliadon.
Never had it had been a question of if he would join the Order, not with his father a serving member, but more a question of when. And now, at sixteen years of age, six months after he had taken on his barony, it had been deemed the right time. And he was not alone in this endeavour, his cousin the Prince also having been ear-marked to join the ranks of those sworn to the city, and Achilleas wondered where Stephanos had gotten to.
It would not be unusual for the prince to turn up late, if he turned up at all, and it made the young baron shift uncomfortably. He had no wish to start things off on the wrong foot with the men of the Order. Krateros did not seem a fellow that he wanted to offend. And so when the clattering of hooves heralded the arrival of his cousin a few minutes later, Achilleas was wearing a rather displeased expression.
“Good of you to show up, cousin” he said, arms folded across his chest as he glowered up at the prince. “It does not do to make an ill first impression you know” Achilleas was quick to push off the wall he was leaning against, dusting himself off and waiting impatiently for Stephanos to dismount.
Perhaps there were a few nerves feeding into his irritation, but he would not admit it to his cousin. If anything, Stephanos would be looking to him for guidance in this endeavour. He had the experience of holding his own barony now of course and so could impart a little of his wisdom to Stephanos, who spent most of his time in courtesans if he what he was told was to be believed. He had been too busy to keep abreast of everything that went on back in the city since being out in Euttica.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas asked in a no nonsense sort of voice, eyeing Stephanos a little doubtfully. His father had briefed him on what awaited them, and the lord could hardly say he was excited about it, but he thought his cousin would possibly balk at the reality of it. Achilleas knew better than to express his own reservations - there would be no tolerance for such things, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bring dishonour to his father’s reputation by appearing weak or spoiled. He wasn’t so sure about his cousin however...
The Order House was a somber, serious sort of place, the men who frequented it often thought of the same. The Order of Vasiliadon. Achilleas had known of its existence of course, of the men who served the city before all else, who walked its streets and kept the peace, stopping fights and making the citizens feel safe even with the lingering threat of The Creed. His father would disappear sometimes on Order business, though the eldest son of Irakles wondered if that did not sometimes translate to business at the whore houses.
Where else had he picked up that girl he flaunted around now?
He couldn’t stomach thinking on it, and unconsciously jabbed at his horse’s mouth, causing the beast to shake its head irritably and give a snort of disapproval. The Lord Mikaelidas, newly minted Baron of Euttica immediately slackened his grip on the reins, dropped a pat on the shiny chestnut neck of his horse before he slid from its back and led it round to the stables.
There were no servants to wait upon him here, the men of the Order were humble and did not set store in nobility or lack of it. So Achilleas himself stabled the red stallion, saw he had water and sweet hay to munch whilst his master was otherwise engaged. The young Mikaelidas lord did not much mind the menial chores, he did them infrequently enough that they did not become tiresome, and it was, after all, one of the fundamental requirements of the Order he was to join. Humility and willingness to serve the city of Vasiliadon.
Never had it had been a question of if he would join the Order, not with his father a serving member, but more a question of when. And now, at sixteen years of age, six months after he had taken on his barony, it had been deemed the right time. And he was not alone in this endeavour, his cousin the Prince also having been ear-marked to join the ranks of those sworn to the city, and Achilleas wondered where Stephanos had gotten to.
It would not be unusual for the prince to turn up late, if he turned up at all, and it made the young baron shift uncomfortably. He had no wish to start things off on the wrong foot with the men of the Order. Krateros did not seem a fellow that he wanted to offend. And so when the clattering of hooves heralded the arrival of his cousin a few minutes later, Achilleas was wearing a rather displeased expression.
“Good of you to show up, cousin” he said, arms folded across his chest as he glowered up at the prince. “It does not do to make an ill first impression you know” Achilleas was quick to push off the wall he was leaning against, dusting himself off and waiting impatiently for Stephanos to dismount.
Perhaps there were a few nerves feeding into his irritation, but he would not admit it to his cousin. If anything, Stephanos would be looking to him for guidance in this endeavour. He had the experience of holding his own barony now of course and so could impart a little of his wisdom to Stephanos, who spent most of his time in courtesans if he what he was told was to be believed. He had been too busy to keep abreast of everything that went on back in the city since being out in Euttica.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas asked in a no nonsense sort of voice, eyeing Stephanos a little doubtfully. His father had briefed him on what awaited them, and the lord could hardly say he was excited about it, but he thought his cousin would possibly balk at the reality of it. Achilleas knew better than to express his own reservations - there would be no tolerance for such things, and the last thing he wanted to do was to bring dishonour to his father’s reputation by appearing weak or spoiled. He wasn’t so sure about his cousin however...
When he’d been informed that joining the Order of Vasiliadon would be a good look for the crown, and a nice place for him to settle down a bit, Stephanos’s level of ‘thrilled’ hadn’t been what his father might have hoped, but definitely expected. The conversation had started with something like, “Come in, son. Take a seat.” At which point, Stephanos had plopped down in the chair across from King Zenon’s desk and looked at his father expectantly.
At that point, his father had begun explaining that Stephanos’s performance as a captain, up to now, had been fine, but no more than fine. “You’re just not where I’m comfortable with to promote you, son,” his father finished. Stephanos cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. He kept his smile up because he didn’t know what else to do in the face of such a bold faced truths.
“Well,” he’d shifted in his chair again, not really able to raise his eyes from his father’s interlaced fingers on the desktop. “I mean, I’ll train harder,” he started but Zenon put a hand up for silence.
“It’s not your ability to fight, Stephanos. It’s your lack of discipline. You don’t display the kind of caring for people that I’m looking for. A prideful soldier is a dead soldier. My preference is that you live a long, fulfilling life. Not make some rookie mistake.”
Stephanos swallowed and nodded, frowning. “Sure,” he agreed, while not agreeing at all.
“I think you can join your cousin in the Order,” Zenon was saying.
“The what? Oh, I don’t think that’s necess-”
“It’s perfectly necessary,” his father cut across him. “Irakles seems to believe that his eldest, who is an exemplary young man, would benefit. I’d be remiss to keep you from it.”
He stared. Was his father calling him inadequate? Because that was certainly what this was looking like. He sat up higher in his chair, straightening from the slouching position he had been in. Like that would fix anything. If he was looking for some kind of sympathetic word or an assurance of love, he was barking up the wrong tree. Zenon was a reserved man and while he did love his second born, it wasn’t in his nature to be overly demonstrative of that fact. So the king did nothing while Stephanos came to grips with this whole business.
“Is this room stuffy?” Stephanos asked after a few seconds. His father didn’t look towards the open balcony, where a fresh breeze blew in. “It’s a little stuffy. I’m going to go, by your majesty’s leave, and contemplate this...idea.”
“You can contemplate while packing your things. You’re expected tomorrow morning. I’ve already sent word to Krateros. He expects you before mid morning.”
“Zeus alive,” Stephanos swore. “That is early.”
“Get used to it, Stephanos. This will do you a world of good. Dismissed.” Zenon waved him off and Stephanos had gotten out of his chair, his mouth twisted into a small, puckered version of itself, and left the room. Krateros. The leader of the order. Was there a more boring, uptight man on the planet? He doubted it. And terrifying, he suddenly remembered. Well. Mildly terrifying. Certainly not a face he’d wanted to see when he’d been lying drunk in that gutter, pulling him up from his own vomit and carting him home to tell his parents. What fond memories Krateros inspired.
The next morning, Stephanos had left as close to mid morning as he could get away with. The night had been long, the packing dreadful, the wine never ending, and he was atop his horse, ruing every single step the beast took. His head ached, his throat was dry, and he wondered if ending it right now would be too dramatic. He was squinting at the people he passed, all of whom bowed and offered a good morning to their prince. This was a courtesy he wished they’d do away with for the time being. Each word hammered into his brain, just like the blasted sun trying to fry his eyeballs.
What was beautiful about Vasiliadon was that it was mostly white. This meant that, in bright sunlight, it gleamed like it was crafted by the hands of an Olympian god. A glittering jewel on the Aegean’s coast. What it also meant was that he wished he could stab out his own eyes so he didn’t have to practically lean into his horse’s neck for some blessed darkness.
When he finally made it to the Order House, he slid off his horse and led it to the stables. His gaze was on the paving stones and he was more aware of Achilleas’s presence, rather than actually making some kind of visual contact with him.
“Good of you to show up, cousin. It does not do to make an ill first impression you know.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Stephanos put heavy emphasis on the lower title to get this goody two shoes, not hung over jerk to shut up. It didn’t work.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas pressed on.
“Uh, yeah?” Stephanos kept the horse between them and laid his head against Achnos’s side. “I think I might throw up.”
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When he’d been informed that joining the Order of Vasiliadon would be a good look for the crown, and a nice place for him to settle down a bit, Stephanos’s level of ‘thrilled’ hadn’t been what his father might have hoped, but definitely expected. The conversation had started with something like, “Come in, son. Take a seat.” At which point, Stephanos had plopped down in the chair across from King Zenon’s desk and looked at his father expectantly.
At that point, his father had begun explaining that Stephanos’s performance as a captain, up to now, had been fine, but no more than fine. “You’re just not where I’m comfortable with to promote you, son,” his father finished. Stephanos cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. He kept his smile up because he didn’t know what else to do in the face of such a bold faced truths.
“Well,” he’d shifted in his chair again, not really able to raise his eyes from his father’s interlaced fingers on the desktop. “I mean, I’ll train harder,” he started but Zenon put a hand up for silence.
“It’s not your ability to fight, Stephanos. It’s your lack of discipline. You don’t display the kind of caring for people that I’m looking for. A prideful soldier is a dead soldier. My preference is that you live a long, fulfilling life. Not make some rookie mistake.”
Stephanos swallowed and nodded, frowning. “Sure,” he agreed, while not agreeing at all.
“I think you can join your cousin in the Order,” Zenon was saying.
“The what? Oh, I don’t think that’s necess-”
“It’s perfectly necessary,” his father cut across him. “Irakles seems to believe that his eldest, who is an exemplary young man, would benefit. I’d be remiss to keep you from it.”
He stared. Was his father calling him inadequate? Because that was certainly what this was looking like. He sat up higher in his chair, straightening from the slouching position he had been in. Like that would fix anything. If he was looking for some kind of sympathetic word or an assurance of love, he was barking up the wrong tree. Zenon was a reserved man and while he did love his second born, it wasn’t in his nature to be overly demonstrative of that fact. So the king did nothing while Stephanos came to grips with this whole business.
“Is this room stuffy?” Stephanos asked after a few seconds. His father didn’t look towards the open balcony, where a fresh breeze blew in. “It’s a little stuffy. I’m going to go, by your majesty’s leave, and contemplate this...idea.”
“You can contemplate while packing your things. You’re expected tomorrow morning. I’ve already sent word to Krateros. He expects you before mid morning.”
“Zeus alive,” Stephanos swore. “That is early.”
“Get used to it, Stephanos. This will do you a world of good. Dismissed.” Zenon waved him off and Stephanos had gotten out of his chair, his mouth twisted into a small, puckered version of itself, and left the room. Krateros. The leader of the order. Was there a more boring, uptight man on the planet? He doubted it. And terrifying, he suddenly remembered. Well. Mildly terrifying. Certainly not a face he’d wanted to see when he’d been lying drunk in that gutter, pulling him up from his own vomit and carting him home to tell his parents. What fond memories Krateros inspired.
The next morning, Stephanos had left as close to mid morning as he could get away with. The night had been long, the packing dreadful, the wine never ending, and he was atop his horse, ruing every single step the beast took. His head ached, his throat was dry, and he wondered if ending it right now would be too dramatic. He was squinting at the people he passed, all of whom bowed and offered a good morning to their prince. This was a courtesy he wished they’d do away with for the time being. Each word hammered into his brain, just like the blasted sun trying to fry his eyeballs.
What was beautiful about Vasiliadon was that it was mostly white. This meant that, in bright sunlight, it gleamed like it was crafted by the hands of an Olympian god. A glittering jewel on the Aegean’s coast. What it also meant was that he wished he could stab out his own eyes so he didn’t have to practically lean into his horse’s neck for some blessed darkness.
When he finally made it to the Order House, he slid off his horse and led it to the stables. His gaze was on the paving stones and he was more aware of Achilleas’s presence, rather than actually making some kind of visual contact with him.
“Good of you to show up, cousin. It does not do to make an ill first impression you know.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Stephanos put heavy emphasis on the lower title to get this goody two shoes, not hung over jerk to shut up. It didn’t work.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas pressed on.
“Uh, yeah?” Stephanos kept the horse between them and laid his head against Achnos’s side. “I think I might throw up.”
When he’d been informed that joining the Order of Vasiliadon would be a good look for the crown, and a nice place for him to settle down a bit, Stephanos’s level of ‘thrilled’ hadn’t been what his father might have hoped, but definitely expected. The conversation had started with something like, “Come in, son. Take a seat.” At which point, Stephanos had plopped down in the chair across from King Zenon’s desk and looked at his father expectantly.
At that point, his father had begun explaining that Stephanos’s performance as a captain, up to now, had been fine, but no more than fine. “You’re just not where I’m comfortable with to promote you, son,” his father finished. Stephanos cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. He kept his smile up because he didn’t know what else to do in the face of such a bold faced truths.
“Well,” he’d shifted in his chair again, not really able to raise his eyes from his father’s interlaced fingers on the desktop. “I mean, I’ll train harder,” he started but Zenon put a hand up for silence.
“It’s not your ability to fight, Stephanos. It’s your lack of discipline. You don’t display the kind of caring for people that I’m looking for. A prideful soldier is a dead soldier. My preference is that you live a long, fulfilling life. Not make some rookie mistake.”
Stephanos swallowed and nodded, frowning. “Sure,” he agreed, while not agreeing at all.
“I think you can join your cousin in the Order,” Zenon was saying.
“The what? Oh, I don’t think that’s necess-”
“It’s perfectly necessary,” his father cut across him. “Irakles seems to believe that his eldest, who is an exemplary young man, would benefit. I’d be remiss to keep you from it.”
He stared. Was his father calling him inadequate? Because that was certainly what this was looking like. He sat up higher in his chair, straightening from the slouching position he had been in. Like that would fix anything. If he was looking for some kind of sympathetic word or an assurance of love, he was barking up the wrong tree. Zenon was a reserved man and while he did love his second born, it wasn’t in his nature to be overly demonstrative of that fact. So the king did nothing while Stephanos came to grips with this whole business.
“Is this room stuffy?” Stephanos asked after a few seconds. His father didn’t look towards the open balcony, where a fresh breeze blew in. “It’s a little stuffy. I’m going to go, by your majesty’s leave, and contemplate this...idea.”
“You can contemplate while packing your things. You’re expected tomorrow morning. I’ve already sent word to Krateros. He expects you before mid morning.”
“Zeus alive,” Stephanos swore. “That is early.”
“Get used to it, Stephanos. This will do you a world of good. Dismissed.” Zenon waved him off and Stephanos had gotten out of his chair, his mouth twisted into a small, puckered version of itself, and left the room. Krateros. The leader of the order. Was there a more boring, uptight man on the planet? He doubted it. And terrifying, he suddenly remembered. Well. Mildly terrifying. Certainly not a face he’d wanted to see when he’d been lying drunk in that gutter, pulling him up from his own vomit and carting him home to tell his parents. What fond memories Krateros inspired.
The next morning, Stephanos had left as close to mid morning as he could get away with. The night had been long, the packing dreadful, the wine never ending, and he was atop his horse, ruing every single step the beast took. His head ached, his throat was dry, and he wondered if ending it right now would be too dramatic. He was squinting at the people he passed, all of whom bowed and offered a good morning to their prince. This was a courtesy he wished they’d do away with for the time being. Each word hammered into his brain, just like the blasted sun trying to fry his eyeballs.
What was beautiful about Vasiliadon was that it was mostly white. This meant that, in bright sunlight, it gleamed like it was crafted by the hands of an Olympian god. A glittering jewel on the Aegean’s coast. What it also meant was that he wished he could stab out his own eyes so he didn’t have to practically lean into his horse’s neck for some blessed darkness.
When he finally made it to the Order House, he slid off his horse and led it to the stables. His gaze was on the paving stones and he was more aware of Achilleas’s presence, rather than actually making some kind of visual contact with him.
“Good of you to show up, cousin. It does not do to make an ill first impression you know.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Stephanos put heavy emphasis on the lower title to get this goody two shoes, not hung over jerk to shut up. It didn’t work.
“You know what to expect of course?” Achilleas pressed on.
“Uh, yeah?” Stephanos kept the horse between them and laid his head against Achnos’s side. “I think I might throw up.”
Achilleas was practically fizzing with impatience as he watched his cousin’s sluggish progress in crossing the courtyard to where he waited. He did not miss the rather sickly cast to the prince’s complexion, and a frown had etched its way across his brow even before Stephanos was so rude. The baron shook his head in disbelief, ducking around the horse to better see his cousin.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover” he asked, half-panicked, half-infuriated as he peered at Stephanos. He stepped forward to take the horse’s reins from his cousin, shaking his head as he got closer. “Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?”He tugged the animal away from Stephanos without much care for whether or not his cousin stopped leaning on it or not. More than a little annoyed that the prince’s lateness and state of being would reflect badly upon him, he pressed his lips together in a thin line to prevent himself saying any further.
Leaving Steph to his own devices, Achilleas hurried through untacking the horse, and when he had settled the beast with water and hay, he came out of the stables with a mutinous expression upon his face. “Hurry up then” he snapped, walking quickly past his cousin and back round to the front of the building. The doors of the Order House were resolutely closed, and so the lord was forced to knock, and he stood straight backed as he waited for someone to answer.
Achilleas did not like to be late, which they now were. He felt flustered and unprepared, which was ridiculous as he had left in plenty of time. And in the few moments that it took before the heavy door to be unbolted and swung open, the young Lord found himself nervous. A feeling that did not lessen with the grim face that met them.
“Ahh. Good morning” Achilleas began, giving a small incline of his head to the bearded man who stood before them “I am Lord Achilleas of Mika…”
“I know who you are, boy. Krateros is waiting. For you and the prince” With a jerk of his head, the older man motioned for the two young nobles to follow him, drawing back the door to allow them entry. Achilleas - a little taken aback at such an abrupt greeting - glanced at his cousin, but stepped inside promptly. He wished Stephanos did not look so surly, nor so green about the gills.
Within, the Order House seemed bigger than it appeared from the outside, a wide staircase leading up to another story, and numerous doors leading off the large foyer they had stepped into. Achilleas noted the bolts and locks that secured the door, and supposed he should not be surprised at it, for the Order House was almost a barracks.
The brother who had met them led them down a sparsely furnished corridor, bare stone underfoot and little in the way of natural light, and Achilleas walked smartly at his heels, so that he almost careened into the back of the man who suddenly came to a halt outside one of the doors.. The Lord Mikaelidas took a sheepish step back and received a glare for his trouble, muttering a “shut up” from the side of his mouth, because he could sensel his cousin about to say something and didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to listen to the words that were passed between their impersonable host and whoever was beyond the door instead. The mystery was not long lasting though, because when the door swung fully open, Achilleas recognised Krateros right away. He had seen him a couple of times when he had accompanied his father to the Order House, and as a boy had been a little intimidated by the man. Now though, here to join the Order himself, he tried to cast aside those feelings and squared his shoulders. Lord he hoped Stephanos was doing the same and not standing like some sloppy goon.
Beckoned inside, there were no seats placed before the desk that Krateros sat behind, leaving the two young nobles to stand as the Head of the Order addressed them. His shrewd gaze passed over both youths, before he steepled his hands before him and began to speak.
“Prince Stephanos, Lord Achilleas. I am glad you have deigned to join us here this morning. This is the last time within these walls that you shall hear those titles, for here they mean nothing, do you understand?” He did not pause for acknowledgement but went on, looking between the two and measuring the little shifts in expression that told him all he needed to know of their temperament and bearing. Krateros had seen countless men stand before him like this, and had grown quick at drawing conclusions about character. And these two were no faceless men of Taengea either, he was blessed - or not, perhaps - to know a little of them already. Raw materials was what he saw. Raw materials that could be sculpted into men of worth if they were willing and able to adopt the teachings of the Order.
“Today, you set aside your name and heritage, and take your first steps towards becoming men and soldiers of Vasiladon. You will be Achilleas and Stephanos, no more and no less, and it is your deeds here that you will be judged upon, not your bloodlines.”
Achilleas, looking at the man, was dying to glance at his cousin to see the expression that Stephanos wore. For even he, having tried to find out as much as he could about the Order, was feeling a little..apprehensive about how seriously this all seemed to be taken. And when their friend from the front door pushed a bundle of clothing into each of the young men’s arms, Achilleas dared open his mouth to speak for the first time since they'd been shown in to the room.
“Thank you, sir.” he said politely. “I believe a man will have come with my things, so I probably don’t need these” He felt a slight stirring of alarm at the small smile that Krateros wore, and was about to discover that it was not without good reason.
“Ah, of course, Achilleas. I took the liberty of storing away both yours and Stephanos’ things. You may have them when you have proven you have earned them. For now, you have the same as each and every initiate that walks out of that door you just came through” He looked at Achilleas with raised brows. “I trust you find that fair?”
The lord who would be called lord no longer glanced down at the humble package of things that they had been given and swallowed. He wasn’t sure that fair was how he would describe it, but he fought to keep the surprise from his voice when he answered.
“Of course, sir. I..uh..thank you”. He didn’t dare look at Stephanos this time.
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Achilleas was practically fizzing with impatience as he watched his cousin’s sluggish progress in crossing the courtyard to where he waited. He did not miss the rather sickly cast to the prince’s complexion, and a frown had etched its way across his brow even before Stephanos was so rude. The baron shook his head in disbelief, ducking around the horse to better see his cousin.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover” he asked, half-panicked, half-infuriated as he peered at Stephanos. He stepped forward to take the horse’s reins from his cousin, shaking his head as he got closer. “Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?”He tugged the animal away from Stephanos without much care for whether or not his cousin stopped leaning on it or not. More than a little annoyed that the prince’s lateness and state of being would reflect badly upon him, he pressed his lips together in a thin line to prevent himself saying any further.
Leaving Steph to his own devices, Achilleas hurried through untacking the horse, and when he had settled the beast with water and hay, he came out of the stables with a mutinous expression upon his face. “Hurry up then” he snapped, walking quickly past his cousin and back round to the front of the building. The doors of the Order House were resolutely closed, and so the lord was forced to knock, and he stood straight backed as he waited for someone to answer.
Achilleas did not like to be late, which they now were. He felt flustered and unprepared, which was ridiculous as he had left in plenty of time. And in the few moments that it took before the heavy door to be unbolted and swung open, the young Lord found himself nervous. A feeling that did not lessen with the grim face that met them.
“Ahh. Good morning” Achilleas began, giving a small incline of his head to the bearded man who stood before them “I am Lord Achilleas of Mika…”
“I know who you are, boy. Krateros is waiting. For you and the prince” With a jerk of his head, the older man motioned for the two young nobles to follow him, drawing back the door to allow them entry. Achilleas - a little taken aback at such an abrupt greeting - glanced at his cousin, but stepped inside promptly. He wished Stephanos did not look so surly, nor so green about the gills.
Within, the Order House seemed bigger than it appeared from the outside, a wide staircase leading up to another story, and numerous doors leading off the large foyer they had stepped into. Achilleas noted the bolts and locks that secured the door, and supposed he should not be surprised at it, for the Order House was almost a barracks.
The brother who had met them led them down a sparsely furnished corridor, bare stone underfoot and little in the way of natural light, and Achilleas walked smartly at his heels, so that he almost careened into the back of the man who suddenly came to a halt outside one of the doors.. The Lord Mikaelidas took a sheepish step back and received a glare for his trouble, muttering a “shut up” from the side of his mouth, because he could sensel his cousin about to say something and didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to listen to the words that were passed between their impersonable host and whoever was beyond the door instead. The mystery was not long lasting though, because when the door swung fully open, Achilleas recognised Krateros right away. He had seen him a couple of times when he had accompanied his father to the Order House, and as a boy had been a little intimidated by the man. Now though, here to join the Order himself, he tried to cast aside those feelings and squared his shoulders. Lord he hoped Stephanos was doing the same and not standing like some sloppy goon.
Beckoned inside, there were no seats placed before the desk that Krateros sat behind, leaving the two young nobles to stand as the Head of the Order addressed them. His shrewd gaze passed over both youths, before he steepled his hands before him and began to speak.
“Prince Stephanos, Lord Achilleas. I am glad you have deigned to join us here this morning. This is the last time within these walls that you shall hear those titles, for here they mean nothing, do you understand?” He did not pause for acknowledgement but went on, looking between the two and measuring the little shifts in expression that told him all he needed to know of their temperament and bearing. Krateros had seen countless men stand before him like this, and had grown quick at drawing conclusions about character. And these two were no faceless men of Taengea either, he was blessed - or not, perhaps - to know a little of them already. Raw materials was what he saw. Raw materials that could be sculpted into men of worth if they were willing and able to adopt the teachings of the Order.
“Today, you set aside your name and heritage, and take your first steps towards becoming men and soldiers of Vasiladon. You will be Achilleas and Stephanos, no more and no less, and it is your deeds here that you will be judged upon, not your bloodlines.”
Achilleas, looking at the man, was dying to glance at his cousin to see the expression that Stephanos wore. For even he, having tried to find out as much as he could about the Order, was feeling a little..apprehensive about how seriously this all seemed to be taken. And when their friend from the front door pushed a bundle of clothing into each of the young men’s arms, Achilleas dared open his mouth to speak for the first time since they'd been shown in to the room.
“Thank you, sir.” he said politely. “I believe a man will have come with my things, so I probably don’t need these” He felt a slight stirring of alarm at the small smile that Krateros wore, and was about to discover that it was not without good reason.
“Ah, of course, Achilleas. I took the liberty of storing away both yours and Stephanos’ things. You may have them when you have proven you have earned them. For now, you have the same as each and every initiate that walks out of that door you just came through” He looked at Achilleas with raised brows. “I trust you find that fair?”
The lord who would be called lord no longer glanced down at the humble package of things that they had been given and swallowed. He wasn’t sure that fair was how he would describe it, but he fought to keep the surprise from his voice when he answered.
“Of course, sir. I..uh..thank you”. He didn’t dare look at Stephanos this time.
Achilleas was practically fizzing with impatience as he watched his cousin’s sluggish progress in crossing the courtyard to where he waited. He did not miss the rather sickly cast to the prince’s complexion, and a frown had etched its way across his brow even before Stephanos was so rude. The baron shook his head in disbelief, ducking around the horse to better see his cousin.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover” he asked, half-panicked, half-infuriated as he peered at Stephanos. He stepped forward to take the horse’s reins from his cousin, shaking his head as he got closer. “Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?”He tugged the animal away from Stephanos without much care for whether or not his cousin stopped leaning on it or not. More than a little annoyed that the prince’s lateness and state of being would reflect badly upon him, he pressed his lips together in a thin line to prevent himself saying any further.
Leaving Steph to his own devices, Achilleas hurried through untacking the horse, and when he had settled the beast with water and hay, he came out of the stables with a mutinous expression upon his face. “Hurry up then” he snapped, walking quickly past his cousin and back round to the front of the building. The doors of the Order House were resolutely closed, and so the lord was forced to knock, and he stood straight backed as he waited for someone to answer.
Achilleas did not like to be late, which they now were. He felt flustered and unprepared, which was ridiculous as he had left in plenty of time. And in the few moments that it took before the heavy door to be unbolted and swung open, the young Lord found himself nervous. A feeling that did not lessen with the grim face that met them.
“Ahh. Good morning” Achilleas began, giving a small incline of his head to the bearded man who stood before them “I am Lord Achilleas of Mika…”
“I know who you are, boy. Krateros is waiting. For you and the prince” With a jerk of his head, the older man motioned for the two young nobles to follow him, drawing back the door to allow them entry. Achilleas - a little taken aback at such an abrupt greeting - glanced at his cousin, but stepped inside promptly. He wished Stephanos did not look so surly, nor so green about the gills.
Within, the Order House seemed bigger than it appeared from the outside, a wide staircase leading up to another story, and numerous doors leading off the large foyer they had stepped into. Achilleas noted the bolts and locks that secured the door, and supposed he should not be surprised at it, for the Order House was almost a barracks.
The brother who had met them led them down a sparsely furnished corridor, bare stone underfoot and little in the way of natural light, and Achilleas walked smartly at his heels, so that he almost careened into the back of the man who suddenly came to a halt outside one of the doors.. The Lord Mikaelidas took a sheepish step back and received a glare for his trouble, muttering a “shut up” from the side of his mouth, because he could sensel his cousin about to say something and didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to listen to the words that were passed between their impersonable host and whoever was beyond the door instead. The mystery was not long lasting though, because when the door swung fully open, Achilleas recognised Krateros right away. He had seen him a couple of times when he had accompanied his father to the Order House, and as a boy had been a little intimidated by the man. Now though, here to join the Order himself, he tried to cast aside those feelings and squared his shoulders. Lord he hoped Stephanos was doing the same and not standing like some sloppy goon.
Beckoned inside, there were no seats placed before the desk that Krateros sat behind, leaving the two young nobles to stand as the Head of the Order addressed them. His shrewd gaze passed over both youths, before he steepled his hands before him and began to speak.
“Prince Stephanos, Lord Achilleas. I am glad you have deigned to join us here this morning. This is the last time within these walls that you shall hear those titles, for here they mean nothing, do you understand?” He did not pause for acknowledgement but went on, looking between the two and measuring the little shifts in expression that told him all he needed to know of their temperament and bearing. Krateros had seen countless men stand before him like this, and had grown quick at drawing conclusions about character. And these two were no faceless men of Taengea either, he was blessed - or not, perhaps - to know a little of them already. Raw materials was what he saw. Raw materials that could be sculpted into men of worth if they were willing and able to adopt the teachings of the Order.
“Today, you set aside your name and heritage, and take your first steps towards becoming men and soldiers of Vasiladon. You will be Achilleas and Stephanos, no more and no less, and it is your deeds here that you will be judged upon, not your bloodlines.”
Achilleas, looking at the man, was dying to glance at his cousin to see the expression that Stephanos wore. For even he, having tried to find out as much as he could about the Order, was feeling a little..apprehensive about how seriously this all seemed to be taken. And when their friend from the front door pushed a bundle of clothing into each of the young men’s arms, Achilleas dared open his mouth to speak for the first time since they'd been shown in to the room.
“Thank you, sir.” he said politely. “I believe a man will have come with my things, so I probably don’t need these” He felt a slight stirring of alarm at the small smile that Krateros wore, and was about to discover that it was not without good reason.
“Ah, of course, Achilleas. I took the liberty of storing away both yours and Stephanos’ things. You may have them when you have proven you have earned them. For now, you have the same as each and every initiate that walks out of that door you just came through” He looked at Achilleas with raised brows. “I trust you find that fair?”
The lord who would be called lord no longer glanced down at the humble package of things that they had been given and swallowed. He wasn’t sure that fair was how he would describe it, but he fought to keep the surprise from his voice when he answered.
“Of course, sir. I..uh..thank you”. He didn’t dare look at Stephanos this time.
He stood, focusing on his horse’s steady, deep breathing. The barrel body heaved in and out, in and out. Even from right here, he could feel the gelding’s pulse through the fur. It was comforting and rhythmic and he felt like his headache might be receding just a little bit, but then Achilleas’s shrill hiss made him wince and turn away.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover. Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?””
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Stephanos demanded irritably. Then added, like this was going to fix Achilleas’s attitude, “It was my father’s altitudinarian idea for me to be here. Not mine. And keep your voice down.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s too early for your whining.” Before he could really gather his wits, Achilleas was guiding the horse away and Stephanos found himself stumbling forward, barely catching himself. He squinted down at the paving stones, debating throwing up, but deciding against it at the last.
When Achilleas had left Stephanos to his own devices, that merely meant that the prince took the time to find the most comfortable pile of hay he could find and lay down, trying to make himself not feel like death was the only option. All too soon, Achilleas was in his face with a kind “Hurry up, then.” Or, it should have been kind, at least, in Stephanos’s opinion. Instead, Achilleas’s tone sounded rather like someone dragging broken shells on shale rock while warbling out a baleful tune and about that attractive.
With a groan, he managed to sit up and followed Achilleas across the courtyard. His movements mimicked water spilling out from a bucket. A bit languid, weaving around paving stones a bit, and completely useless. He held his head and squinted irritated at Achilleas when the other rammed his fist against the wood of the door.
“Shhh.” Stephanos said and regretted talking. He winced when the door opened, winced again with Achilleas’s chipper good morning, and scowled against the new man’s loud voice. Couldn’t anyone in this horrible place be quiet? For just a minute, so that he could collect his thoughts? Everyone around here was ungraciously rude.
He was about to follow them but he stomach bubbled and he held up a finger for them to wait, turned around, and vomited. After that, he felt just a touch better. At least he was able to follow them in the building. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand but did not look around with any interest. Being here was the least of his priorities for his life.
He glared at Achilleas’s back while they walked. The man was like a dog at this brother’s heels and it was annoying. A grimace turned into the first grin of the morning when Achilleas received a glare. The grin was a very, very soft chuckle deep in his chest when Achilleas preemptively told him to shut up.
Following Achilleas, he spied Krateros across the desk and sighed. Somehow, he’d forgotten that this man was going to suck all the fun out of his life forever. Where Achilleas was worried about making a good impression, Stephanos was not. He rather hoped he made a tremendously bad one so that they would send him back and his father would have no choice but to accept him back into the palati.
Stephanos was barely listening to Krateros prattle on. It was meaningless. Whatever the man said about titles not mattering, he knew that was a flat lie. There was no way a prince of the realm was going to be subjected to the same idiot hardships that some common born loser was. He curled his lip derisively and elbowed Achilleas in the ribs. This was going to be easy. This man was just trying to scare them.
Judged on their deeds. Right. He made a little sound in the back of his throat at what he thought of that and then suddenly found clothes shoved into his arms. Glancing down, he noted that they weren’t quite the quality he was used to and tried to shove them right back, only to be met with resistance. When he pressed them back a the man again, the clothes fell on the floor and the man had the gall not to immediately pick them up. Stephanos glared and then finally swiped them up into his arms himself, frustrated with these men already.
When Stephanos heard Krateros had basically stolen their things, that was about as much as he could currently handle. “You will return our things,” he commanded with all the force of someone used to being obeyed. To his intense shock, this didn’t seem to bother Krateros at all. Nor did the man respond to that with anything other than a dismissal back into the care of the brother who had led them here.
“Hey!” Stephanos glared. “I want my things back!” He’d hidden quite a bit of wine in there. This was kind of important.
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He stood, focusing on his horse’s steady, deep breathing. The barrel body heaved in and out, in and out. Even from right here, he could feel the gelding’s pulse through the fur. It was comforting and rhythmic and he felt like his headache might be receding just a little bit, but then Achilleas’s shrill hiss made him wince and turn away.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover. Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?””
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Stephanos demanded irritably. Then added, like this was going to fix Achilleas’s attitude, “It was my father’s altitudinarian idea for me to be here. Not mine. And keep your voice down.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s too early for your whining.” Before he could really gather his wits, Achilleas was guiding the horse away and Stephanos found himself stumbling forward, barely catching himself. He squinted down at the paving stones, debating throwing up, but deciding against it at the last.
When Achilleas had left Stephanos to his own devices, that merely meant that the prince took the time to find the most comfortable pile of hay he could find and lay down, trying to make himself not feel like death was the only option. All too soon, Achilleas was in his face with a kind “Hurry up, then.” Or, it should have been kind, at least, in Stephanos’s opinion. Instead, Achilleas’s tone sounded rather like someone dragging broken shells on shale rock while warbling out a baleful tune and about that attractive.
With a groan, he managed to sit up and followed Achilleas across the courtyard. His movements mimicked water spilling out from a bucket. A bit languid, weaving around paving stones a bit, and completely useless. He held his head and squinted irritated at Achilleas when the other rammed his fist against the wood of the door.
“Shhh.” Stephanos said and regretted talking. He winced when the door opened, winced again with Achilleas’s chipper good morning, and scowled against the new man’s loud voice. Couldn’t anyone in this horrible place be quiet? For just a minute, so that he could collect his thoughts? Everyone around here was ungraciously rude.
He was about to follow them but he stomach bubbled and he held up a finger for them to wait, turned around, and vomited. After that, he felt just a touch better. At least he was able to follow them in the building. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand but did not look around with any interest. Being here was the least of his priorities for his life.
He glared at Achilleas’s back while they walked. The man was like a dog at this brother’s heels and it was annoying. A grimace turned into the first grin of the morning when Achilleas received a glare. The grin was a very, very soft chuckle deep in his chest when Achilleas preemptively told him to shut up.
Following Achilleas, he spied Krateros across the desk and sighed. Somehow, he’d forgotten that this man was going to suck all the fun out of his life forever. Where Achilleas was worried about making a good impression, Stephanos was not. He rather hoped he made a tremendously bad one so that they would send him back and his father would have no choice but to accept him back into the palati.
Stephanos was barely listening to Krateros prattle on. It was meaningless. Whatever the man said about titles not mattering, he knew that was a flat lie. There was no way a prince of the realm was going to be subjected to the same idiot hardships that some common born loser was. He curled his lip derisively and elbowed Achilleas in the ribs. This was going to be easy. This man was just trying to scare them.
Judged on their deeds. Right. He made a little sound in the back of his throat at what he thought of that and then suddenly found clothes shoved into his arms. Glancing down, he noted that they weren’t quite the quality he was used to and tried to shove them right back, only to be met with resistance. When he pressed them back a the man again, the clothes fell on the floor and the man had the gall not to immediately pick them up. Stephanos glared and then finally swiped them up into his arms himself, frustrated with these men already.
When Stephanos heard Krateros had basically stolen their things, that was about as much as he could currently handle. “You will return our things,” he commanded with all the force of someone used to being obeyed. To his intense shock, this didn’t seem to bother Krateros at all. Nor did the man respond to that with anything other than a dismissal back into the care of the brother who had led them here.
“Hey!” Stephanos glared. “I want my things back!” He’d hidden quite a bit of wine in there. This was kind of important.
He stood, focusing on his horse’s steady, deep breathing. The barrel body heaved in and out, in and out. Even from right here, he could feel the gelding’s pulse through the fur. It was comforting and rhythmic and he felt like his headache might be receding just a little bit, but then Achilleas’s shrill hiss made him wince and turn away.
“Please tell me you are not seriously hungover. Hades’ balls. I can smell the wine on you. You couldn’t even take a bath?””
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Stephanos demanded irritably. Then added, like this was going to fix Achilleas’s attitude, “It was my father’s altitudinarian idea for me to be here. Not mine. And keep your voice down.” He rubbed at his face. “It’s too early for your whining.” Before he could really gather his wits, Achilleas was guiding the horse away and Stephanos found himself stumbling forward, barely catching himself. He squinted down at the paving stones, debating throwing up, but deciding against it at the last.
When Achilleas had left Stephanos to his own devices, that merely meant that the prince took the time to find the most comfortable pile of hay he could find and lay down, trying to make himself not feel like death was the only option. All too soon, Achilleas was in his face with a kind “Hurry up, then.” Or, it should have been kind, at least, in Stephanos’s opinion. Instead, Achilleas’s tone sounded rather like someone dragging broken shells on shale rock while warbling out a baleful tune and about that attractive.
With a groan, he managed to sit up and followed Achilleas across the courtyard. His movements mimicked water spilling out from a bucket. A bit languid, weaving around paving stones a bit, and completely useless. He held his head and squinted irritated at Achilleas when the other rammed his fist against the wood of the door.
“Shhh.” Stephanos said and regretted talking. He winced when the door opened, winced again with Achilleas’s chipper good morning, and scowled against the new man’s loud voice. Couldn’t anyone in this horrible place be quiet? For just a minute, so that he could collect his thoughts? Everyone around here was ungraciously rude.
He was about to follow them but he stomach bubbled and he held up a finger for them to wait, turned around, and vomited. After that, he felt just a touch better. At least he was able to follow them in the building. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand but did not look around with any interest. Being here was the least of his priorities for his life.
He glared at Achilleas’s back while they walked. The man was like a dog at this brother’s heels and it was annoying. A grimace turned into the first grin of the morning when Achilleas received a glare. The grin was a very, very soft chuckle deep in his chest when Achilleas preemptively told him to shut up.
Following Achilleas, he spied Krateros across the desk and sighed. Somehow, he’d forgotten that this man was going to suck all the fun out of his life forever. Where Achilleas was worried about making a good impression, Stephanos was not. He rather hoped he made a tremendously bad one so that they would send him back and his father would have no choice but to accept him back into the palati.
Stephanos was barely listening to Krateros prattle on. It was meaningless. Whatever the man said about titles not mattering, he knew that was a flat lie. There was no way a prince of the realm was going to be subjected to the same idiot hardships that some common born loser was. He curled his lip derisively and elbowed Achilleas in the ribs. This was going to be easy. This man was just trying to scare them.
Judged on their deeds. Right. He made a little sound in the back of his throat at what he thought of that and then suddenly found clothes shoved into his arms. Glancing down, he noted that they weren’t quite the quality he was used to and tried to shove them right back, only to be met with resistance. When he pressed them back a the man again, the clothes fell on the floor and the man had the gall not to immediately pick them up. Stephanos glared and then finally swiped them up into his arms himself, frustrated with these men already.
When Stephanos heard Krateros had basically stolen their things, that was about as much as he could currently handle. “You will return our things,” he commanded with all the force of someone used to being obeyed. To his intense shock, this didn’t seem to bother Krateros at all. Nor did the man respond to that with anything other than a dismissal back into the care of the brother who had led them here.
“Hey!” Stephanos glared. “I want my things back!” He’d hidden quite a bit of wine in there. This was kind of important.
His cousin’s quietness was rather alarming, speaking to how much he was suffering. And though Achilleas had never thought to find himself missing Stephanos’ persiflage, on this occasion he thought the silence much more ominous.
Still, any sympathies he might have worked up for the youth were decimated when the prince vomited on the doorstep. Achilleas vowed then and there that he was not going to be tarnished with the same wine soaked brush at the prince, and he did not wait to see if his cousin kept up as they were led inside, a sinking feeling that this could only get worse beginning to trickle like cold water down his spine.
Such speculation was not misplaced.
After Achilleas studiously ignored the elbow in his ribs, and made no acknowledgement of the strangled snort of dissent he heard from his cousin, he could not help but turn his head to witness the tussle over clothes that was going on beside him, his face an almost comical picture of dismay as Stephanos shoved them back at the brother and then ended in swiping them up from the floor. What was he doing?! And when Krateros explained in simple terms that they would receive the same clothes and equipment as all who joined the order, Achilleas could not believe it when Stephanos dared to demand their own things returned.
Did he not know who he spoke to? The elder of Irakles’ sons was no more enamoured with this turn of events than his cousin, but he was not about to go and shout his mouth off about it to the man who headed up the entire Order. He could imagine the short shrift he would receive from his father were the man to hear of such a thing, but his cousin seemed to have no such compunction and Achilleas could only glare at him and will him to shut up before everything got out of hand.
Summarily dismissed, he almost offered an apology on Stephanos’ behalf, but the raised eyebrow from Krateros when he opened his mouth had him close it again, and so he followed the other Brother from the room, clutching the controversial pile of garments to his chest. This time, he dawdled so there was a little space between they and the dour man they followed, and hissed furiously to Stephanos. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
As he said it, he half-wondered if that was not his cousin’s plan, and shook his head. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just..” The pause as he tried to decide if the scratchy bundle of grey fabric really qualified as such. “...clothes” And of course, he had brought his own weapons and armour, and some dice and a book or two and...
Achilleas sighed. “It will not be so bad” he whispered, entirely unconvincingly. And his assurances seemed even less believable as they followed the leader up, and up into the roofspace of the Order House, into a tiny room with no furniture other than two pallet beds shoved under the eaves.
Dust motes danced before their eyes, and the place had the slightly damp, stale smell of a room that had not been used in some time. If it could even be called a room.
There was a very awkward silence when the Brother indicated that this would be their quarters for the duration of their stay, Achilleas grinding his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack.
“You’re to change and then return downstairs” the man said, looking between the stony faced lordlings with what perhaps passed for amusement upon his weathered features. And when he had left, Achilleas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a quiet “Don’t” all the words offered to his cousin before he went and collapsed onto the nearest bed.
It had almost no give at all, and Achilleas pushed the bundle of clothes away from him in disgust as he sat back and glared balefully at Stephanos.
“This is foul” he groused, looking around their accommodation. “It’s a test, of course? They are testing us. We aren’t expected to actually sleep here?”
He had known simple quarters before of course. On the field one had to make do with whatever their was. But to live like slaves when his own home was within walking distance? Well that was a challenge. His earlier optimism was fading fast, and there was a pained expression upon the lord’s face as he eventually shook out one of the bundles, looking at the dingy grey fabric that resembled sackcloth more than anything he had ever worn in his life.
“I don’t want to wear this”
But as was so often the case, Achilleas set aside his own wants and did what was expected of him. With a precise economy of movement, he stripped off his own chiton and replaced it with the scratchy, coarse one provided, standing looking displeased with it as he waited for his cousin to do the same.
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His cousin’s quietness was rather alarming, speaking to how much he was suffering. And though Achilleas had never thought to find himself missing Stephanos’ persiflage, on this occasion he thought the silence much more ominous.
Still, any sympathies he might have worked up for the youth were decimated when the prince vomited on the doorstep. Achilleas vowed then and there that he was not going to be tarnished with the same wine soaked brush at the prince, and he did not wait to see if his cousin kept up as they were led inside, a sinking feeling that this could only get worse beginning to trickle like cold water down his spine.
Such speculation was not misplaced.
After Achilleas studiously ignored the elbow in his ribs, and made no acknowledgement of the strangled snort of dissent he heard from his cousin, he could not help but turn his head to witness the tussle over clothes that was going on beside him, his face an almost comical picture of dismay as Stephanos shoved them back at the brother and then ended in swiping them up from the floor. What was he doing?! And when Krateros explained in simple terms that they would receive the same clothes and equipment as all who joined the order, Achilleas could not believe it when Stephanos dared to demand their own things returned.
Did he not know who he spoke to? The elder of Irakles’ sons was no more enamoured with this turn of events than his cousin, but he was not about to go and shout his mouth off about it to the man who headed up the entire Order. He could imagine the short shrift he would receive from his father were the man to hear of such a thing, but his cousin seemed to have no such compunction and Achilleas could only glare at him and will him to shut up before everything got out of hand.
Summarily dismissed, he almost offered an apology on Stephanos’ behalf, but the raised eyebrow from Krateros when he opened his mouth had him close it again, and so he followed the other Brother from the room, clutching the controversial pile of garments to his chest. This time, he dawdled so there was a little space between they and the dour man they followed, and hissed furiously to Stephanos. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
As he said it, he half-wondered if that was not his cousin’s plan, and shook his head. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just..” The pause as he tried to decide if the scratchy bundle of grey fabric really qualified as such. “...clothes” And of course, he had brought his own weapons and armour, and some dice and a book or two and...
Achilleas sighed. “It will not be so bad” he whispered, entirely unconvincingly. And his assurances seemed even less believable as they followed the leader up, and up into the roofspace of the Order House, into a tiny room with no furniture other than two pallet beds shoved under the eaves.
Dust motes danced before their eyes, and the place had the slightly damp, stale smell of a room that had not been used in some time. If it could even be called a room.
There was a very awkward silence when the Brother indicated that this would be their quarters for the duration of their stay, Achilleas grinding his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack.
“You’re to change and then return downstairs” the man said, looking between the stony faced lordlings with what perhaps passed for amusement upon his weathered features. And when he had left, Achilleas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a quiet “Don’t” all the words offered to his cousin before he went and collapsed onto the nearest bed.
It had almost no give at all, and Achilleas pushed the bundle of clothes away from him in disgust as he sat back and glared balefully at Stephanos.
“This is foul” he groused, looking around their accommodation. “It’s a test, of course? They are testing us. We aren’t expected to actually sleep here?”
He had known simple quarters before of course. On the field one had to make do with whatever their was. But to live like slaves when his own home was within walking distance? Well that was a challenge. His earlier optimism was fading fast, and there was a pained expression upon the lord’s face as he eventually shook out one of the bundles, looking at the dingy grey fabric that resembled sackcloth more than anything he had ever worn in his life.
“I don’t want to wear this”
But as was so often the case, Achilleas set aside his own wants and did what was expected of him. With a precise economy of movement, he stripped off his own chiton and replaced it with the scratchy, coarse one provided, standing looking displeased with it as he waited for his cousin to do the same.
His cousin’s quietness was rather alarming, speaking to how much he was suffering. And though Achilleas had never thought to find himself missing Stephanos’ persiflage, on this occasion he thought the silence much more ominous.
Still, any sympathies he might have worked up for the youth were decimated when the prince vomited on the doorstep. Achilleas vowed then and there that he was not going to be tarnished with the same wine soaked brush at the prince, and he did not wait to see if his cousin kept up as they were led inside, a sinking feeling that this could only get worse beginning to trickle like cold water down his spine.
Such speculation was not misplaced.
After Achilleas studiously ignored the elbow in his ribs, and made no acknowledgement of the strangled snort of dissent he heard from his cousin, he could not help but turn his head to witness the tussle over clothes that was going on beside him, his face an almost comical picture of dismay as Stephanos shoved them back at the brother and then ended in swiping them up from the floor. What was he doing?! And when Krateros explained in simple terms that they would receive the same clothes and equipment as all who joined the order, Achilleas could not believe it when Stephanos dared to demand their own things returned.
Did he not know who he spoke to? The elder of Irakles’ sons was no more enamoured with this turn of events than his cousin, but he was not about to go and shout his mouth off about it to the man who headed up the entire Order. He could imagine the short shrift he would receive from his father were the man to hear of such a thing, but his cousin seemed to have no such compunction and Achilleas could only glare at him and will him to shut up before everything got out of hand.
Summarily dismissed, he almost offered an apology on Stephanos’ behalf, but the raised eyebrow from Krateros when he opened his mouth had him close it again, and so he followed the other Brother from the room, clutching the controversial pile of garments to his chest. This time, he dawdled so there was a little space between they and the dour man they followed, and hissed furiously to Stephanos. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
As he said it, he half-wondered if that was not his cousin’s plan, and shook his head. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just..” The pause as he tried to decide if the scratchy bundle of grey fabric really qualified as such. “...clothes” And of course, he had brought his own weapons and armour, and some dice and a book or two and...
Achilleas sighed. “It will not be so bad” he whispered, entirely unconvincingly. And his assurances seemed even less believable as they followed the leader up, and up into the roofspace of the Order House, into a tiny room with no furniture other than two pallet beds shoved under the eaves.
Dust motes danced before their eyes, and the place had the slightly damp, stale smell of a room that had not been used in some time. If it could even be called a room.
There was a very awkward silence when the Brother indicated that this would be their quarters for the duration of their stay, Achilleas grinding his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack.
“You’re to change and then return downstairs” the man said, looking between the stony faced lordlings with what perhaps passed for amusement upon his weathered features. And when he had left, Achilleas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, a quiet “Don’t” all the words offered to his cousin before he went and collapsed onto the nearest bed.
It had almost no give at all, and Achilleas pushed the bundle of clothes away from him in disgust as he sat back and glared balefully at Stephanos.
“This is foul” he groused, looking around their accommodation. “It’s a test, of course? They are testing us. We aren’t expected to actually sleep here?”
He had known simple quarters before of course. On the field one had to make do with whatever their was. But to live like slaves when his own home was within walking distance? Well that was a challenge. His earlier optimism was fading fast, and there was a pained expression upon the lord’s face as he eventually shook out one of the bundles, looking at the dingy grey fabric that resembled sackcloth more than anything he had ever worn in his life.
“I don’t want to wear this”
But as was so often the case, Achilleas set aside his own wants and did what was expected of him. With a precise economy of movement, he stripped off his own chiton and replaced it with the scratchy, coarse one provided, standing looking displeased with it as he waited for his cousin to do the same.
Achilleas and Stephanos had been born to different privileges in life and it was never so evident as it was now. Being the son of a prince and only ever destined to be a baron, it seemed like Achilleas did not understand something that Stephanos had figured out long ago; people obeyed princes. When he flippantly gave orders, they were carried out without question. So when he’d ordered Krateros to turn their clothes and trunks back over to them, he’d fully expected the older man to see reason.
He was irritated already, as they headed back out into the hallway and Achilleas’s hissing didn’t improve his mood. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
“Calm down,” Stephanos answered wearily. Achilleas was only getting warmed up. Achilleas’s weakness was his fear of his father and he voiced that now. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just...clothes.”
Stephanos quickened his pace, gripping his clothing bundle tighter and pressing his shoulder to Achilleas’s shoulder so that they were nice and close, allowing him to whisper into the other’s ear. “Clothes and wine. And a bit of Egyptian opium. How are we supposed to unwind now?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. To his cousin’s assurances, Stephanos snorted derisively.
Up the staircase they went. With each step, Stephanos was becoming increasingly sure that this was a punishment of some kind. He looked about the room with a grim expression. Not even the ‘Don’t’ from Achilleas made him smile. He waited until the Brother left before dropping his bundle on the sleeping pallet and kicking it.
“No girl will be impressed with this,” he snarled, like it was Achilleas’s fault. “Foul is a word. Disgusting’s another.” When Achilleas’s last, desperate thought that this might be a test was voiced, Stephanos lost all patience. “No. It’s not a test. This is where they expect a prince and a baron to sleep!” This was all said loud enough that his voice rang off the stones. There was no way the retreating Brother did not hear.
Stephanos angrily jerked his clothes off and glared at Achilleas as the other finally complained. “Of course you don’t want to sleep here. We’ll fix this,” he promised and swiped up his new clothes. These were...awful. Not fit for his body. He’d rather go naked and he seriously considered it. In outright disappointment, he watched Achilleas dutifully exchange his find clothes for these rags. Really. He was going to have to work pretty hard to undo the blind obedience the other young man constantly displayed.
“For you,” Stephanos said, “I will put this on. And for no other reason. Because this smells like it was taken from a dead man.” It didn’t. He was greatly exaggerating but it made him feel better to whine about it. Finally slipping the new clothes onto himself, he affixed the beld at his waist and held out his arms for inspection. “At least I still look good. You...eh. I’m teasing!” He clapped Achilleas on the shoulder.
Now that his hangover was ebbing, his good humor was returning, and with it, his mischief. “We’ll get our trunks back. I just need to know where. Give me a few days and we’ll steal them.” This was murmured close to Achilleas’s ear so that the sound wouldn’t travel. After that, he gave Achilleas a good natured slap on the ass and headed for the stairs. “Last one down’s a whore’s son!”
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Achilleas and Stephanos had been born to different privileges in life and it was never so evident as it was now. Being the son of a prince and only ever destined to be a baron, it seemed like Achilleas did not understand something that Stephanos had figured out long ago; people obeyed princes. When he flippantly gave orders, they were carried out without question. So when he’d ordered Krateros to turn their clothes and trunks back over to them, he’d fully expected the older man to see reason.
He was irritated already, as they headed back out into the hallway and Achilleas’s hissing didn’t improve his mood. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
“Calm down,” Stephanos answered wearily. Achilleas was only getting warmed up. Achilleas’s weakness was his fear of his father and he voiced that now. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just...clothes.”
Stephanos quickened his pace, gripping his clothing bundle tighter and pressing his shoulder to Achilleas’s shoulder so that they were nice and close, allowing him to whisper into the other’s ear. “Clothes and wine. And a bit of Egyptian opium. How are we supposed to unwind now?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. To his cousin’s assurances, Stephanos snorted derisively.
Up the staircase they went. With each step, Stephanos was becoming increasingly sure that this was a punishment of some kind. He looked about the room with a grim expression. Not even the ‘Don’t’ from Achilleas made him smile. He waited until the Brother left before dropping his bundle on the sleeping pallet and kicking it.
“No girl will be impressed with this,” he snarled, like it was Achilleas’s fault. “Foul is a word. Disgusting’s another.” When Achilleas’s last, desperate thought that this might be a test was voiced, Stephanos lost all patience. “No. It’s not a test. This is where they expect a prince and a baron to sleep!” This was all said loud enough that his voice rang off the stones. There was no way the retreating Brother did not hear.
Stephanos angrily jerked his clothes off and glared at Achilleas as the other finally complained. “Of course you don’t want to sleep here. We’ll fix this,” he promised and swiped up his new clothes. These were...awful. Not fit for his body. He’d rather go naked and he seriously considered it. In outright disappointment, he watched Achilleas dutifully exchange his find clothes for these rags. Really. He was going to have to work pretty hard to undo the blind obedience the other young man constantly displayed.
“For you,” Stephanos said, “I will put this on. And for no other reason. Because this smells like it was taken from a dead man.” It didn’t. He was greatly exaggerating but it made him feel better to whine about it. Finally slipping the new clothes onto himself, he affixed the beld at his waist and held out his arms for inspection. “At least I still look good. You...eh. I’m teasing!” He clapped Achilleas on the shoulder.
Now that his hangover was ebbing, his good humor was returning, and with it, his mischief. “We’ll get our trunks back. I just need to know where. Give me a few days and we’ll steal them.” This was murmured close to Achilleas’s ear so that the sound wouldn’t travel. After that, he gave Achilleas a good natured slap on the ass and headed for the stairs. “Last one down’s a whore’s son!”
Achilleas and Stephanos had been born to different privileges in life and it was never so evident as it was now. Being the son of a prince and only ever destined to be a baron, it seemed like Achilleas did not understand something that Stephanos had figured out long ago; people obeyed princes. When he flippantly gave orders, they were carried out without question. So when he’d ordered Krateros to turn their clothes and trunks back over to them, he’d fully expected the older man to see reason.
He was irritated already, as they headed back out into the hallway and Achilleas’s hissing didn’t improve his mood. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get us slung out of here before we’ve even been initiated!”
“Calm down,” Stephanos answered wearily. Achilleas was only getting warmed up. Achilleas’s weakness was his fear of his father and he voiced that now. “Stephanos, I swear to you. My father will kill me. They are just...clothes.”
Stephanos quickened his pace, gripping his clothing bundle tighter and pressing his shoulder to Achilleas’s shoulder so that they were nice and close, allowing him to whisper into the other’s ear. “Clothes and wine. And a bit of Egyptian opium. How are we supposed to unwind now?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. To his cousin’s assurances, Stephanos snorted derisively.
Up the staircase they went. With each step, Stephanos was becoming increasingly sure that this was a punishment of some kind. He looked about the room with a grim expression. Not even the ‘Don’t’ from Achilleas made him smile. He waited until the Brother left before dropping his bundle on the sleeping pallet and kicking it.
“No girl will be impressed with this,” he snarled, like it was Achilleas’s fault. “Foul is a word. Disgusting’s another.” When Achilleas’s last, desperate thought that this might be a test was voiced, Stephanos lost all patience. “No. It’s not a test. This is where they expect a prince and a baron to sleep!” This was all said loud enough that his voice rang off the stones. There was no way the retreating Brother did not hear.
Stephanos angrily jerked his clothes off and glared at Achilleas as the other finally complained. “Of course you don’t want to sleep here. We’ll fix this,” he promised and swiped up his new clothes. These were...awful. Not fit for his body. He’d rather go naked and he seriously considered it. In outright disappointment, he watched Achilleas dutifully exchange his find clothes for these rags. Really. He was going to have to work pretty hard to undo the blind obedience the other young man constantly displayed.
“For you,” Stephanos said, “I will put this on. And for no other reason. Because this smells like it was taken from a dead man.” It didn’t. He was greatly exaggerating but it made him feel better to whine about it. Finally slipping the new clothes onto himself, he affixed the beld at his waist and held out his arms for inspection. “At least I still look good. You...eh. I’m teasing!” He clapped Achilleas on the shoulder.
Now that his hangover was ebbing, his good humor was returning, and with it, his mischief. “We’ll get our trunks back. I just need to know where. Give me a few days and we’ll steal them.” This was murmured close to Achilleas’s ear so that the sound wouldn’t travel. After that, he gave Achilleas a good natured slap on the ass and headed for the stairs. “Last one down’s a whore’s son!”
Achilleas did not know whether Stephanos’ revelation of the extras he’d snuck in made him more or less stressed. What if Krateros found them? It was not that he was any more humble than his cousin - the young baron might have been the son of a prince rather than a king, but he had been raised for leadership,and with the sense of entitlement that came with the Mikaelidas name. It was more that Achilleas had also developed a rather dominating need to excel at things. It was one of the only ways he could attract the attention of the man he spent so long trying to impress, and in Achilleas’ mind, flouting rules and disrespecting the Head of the Order was not conducive to excelling.
So as he sat on the thin straw mattress and stared up at his cousin, Achilleas was fighting his disdain for their accommodations while also telling himself that it was part of their trial, that endurance was key to succeeding. Having pulled on the dismal uniform they had been provided, he gifted Stephanos with an eye roll at the Prince’s dramatics, and irritably balled up his own discarded clothes and threw them onto the bed. There was a disbelieving snort at his cousin’s next words, blue eyes slanting towards the blonde “I don’t think even your arrogance can stretch so far as to believe that, cousin.” They looked...like particularly well fed and clean peasants. Deciding he would just ignore Steph’s comment regarding stealing their things back, he kicked out with his foot to catch the back of the Prince’s heel, and as the other stumbled, shouldered past him and down the stairs.
Once they had reached the areas of the Order House where they might come across other brethren, Achilleas had adopted a more dignified pace, and glancing at Steph with a shrug, headed back towards the room they had met the leader in earlier. Only before the got there, a voice called out from one of the other doors, and it was their friend from before beckoning them into another room.
“I..beg pardon, but I’m not sure I learned your name?” Achilleas asked, as they once again found themselves following the man. He was only trying to be polite, and it seemed as though they ought to at least know who they were dealing with, but the man glowered at him as if he had asked if his sister’s virtue was intact.
“Alexei of Vasiliadon” came the gruff answer, and Achilleas wisely held his tongue and just offered a mild nod. Alexei of Vasiladon did not seem greatly enamoured of his noble charges, but his demeanour improved a little as he led Stephanos and Achilleas through the Order House and outside again, back to the stables where they had left their horses a few scant minutes ago. Here, he stopped them with a “Wait here” and disappeared out of sight, only to return with a couple of crude pitchforks which he tossed towards the younger men.
Achilleas caught it out of instinct, his hand closing around the heft like it would a spear, but he had a sinking feeling that it was not any kind of weaponcraft that they were expected to use these for. And his suspicions were confirmed in the next moment when Alexei gestured towards the stables. “You clean these. Each day. It is your first duty”
Silence.
Achilleas looked blankly at the man, quite sure this was some sort of joke, because he knew he had not been sent here to clean stables like the slave boys at his father’s house. He was a baron for Zeus’ sake. But there was no trace of humour on Alexei’s weathered face, and so there remained an awkward sort of stand-off, with him holding the fork but making no move to agree to the man’s words, nor to begin the task they had seemingly been assigned. Nowhere in his conversations with his father about the Order had the Prince told him they would be expected to do this.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.”
And with that, the brother strode off, leaving two dumbfounded young nobles in his wake.
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Achilleas did not know whether Stephanos’ revelation of the extras he’d snuck in made him more or less stressed. What if Krateros found them? It was not that he was any more humble than his cousin - the young baron might have been the son of a prince rather than a king, but he had been raised for leadership,and with the sense of entitlement that came with the Mikaelidas name. It was more that Achilleas had also developed a rather dominating need to excel at things. It was one of the only ways he could attract the attention of the man he spent so long trying to impress, and in Achilleas’ mind, flouting rules and disrespecting the Head of the Order was not conducive to excelling.
So as he sat on the thin straw mattress and stared up at his cousin, Achilleas was fighting his disdain for their accommodations while also telling himself that it was part of their trial, that endurance was key to succeeding. Having pulled on the dismal uniform they had been provided, he gifted Stephanos with an eye roll at the Prince’s dramatics, and irritably balled up his own discarded clothes and threw them onto the bed. There was a disbelieving snort at his cousin’s next words, blue eyes slanting towards the blonde “I don’t think even your arrogance can stretch so far as to believe that, cousin.” They looked...like particularly well fed and clean peasants. Deciding he would just ignore Steph’s comment regarding stealing their things back, he kicked out with his foot to catch the back of the Prince’s heel, and as the other stumbled, shouldered past him and down the stairs.
Once they had reached the areas of the Order House where they might come across other brethren, Achilleas had adopted a more dignified pace, and glancing at Steph with a shrug, headed back towards the room they had met the leader in earlier. Only before the got there, a voice called out from one of the other doors, and it was their friend from before beckoning them into another room.
“I..beg pardon, but I’m not sure I learned your name?” Achilleas asked, as they once again found themselves following the man. He was only trying to be polite, and it seemed as though they ought to at least know who they were dealing with, but the man glowered at him as if he had asked if his sister’s virtue was intact.
“Alexei of Vasiliadon” came the gruff answer, and Achilleas wisely held his tongue and just offered a mild nod. Alexei of Vasiladon did not seem greatly enamoured of his noble charges, but his demeanour improved a little as he led Stephanos and Achilleas through the Order House and outside again, back to the stables where they had left their horses a few scant minutes ago. Here, he stopped them with a “Wait here” and disappeared out of sight, only to return with a couple of crude pitchforks which he tossed towards the younger men.
Achilleas caught it out of instinct, his hand closing around the heft like it would a spear, but he had a sinking feeling that it was not any kind of weaponcraft that they were expected to use these for. And his suspicions were confirmed in the next moment when Alexei gestured towards the stables. “You clean these. Each day. It is your first duty”
Silence.
Achilleas looked blankly at the man, quite sure this was some sort of joke, because he knew he had not been sent here to clean stables like the slave boys at his father’s house. He was a baron for Zeus’ sake. But there was no trace of humour on Alexei’s weathered face, and so there remained an awkward sort of stand-off, with him holding the fork but making no move to agree to the man’s words, nor to begin the task they had seemingly been assigned. Nowhere in his conversations with his father about the Order had the Prince told him they would be expected to do this.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.”
And with that, the brother strode off, leaving two dumbfounded young nobles in his wake.
Achilleas did not know whether Stephanos’ revelation of the extras he’d snuck in made him more or less stressed. What if Krateros found them? It was not that he was any more humble than his cousin - the young baron might have been the son of a prince rather than a king, but he had been raised for leadership,and with the sense of entitlement that came with the Mikaelidas name. It was more that Achilleas had also developed a rather dominating need to excel at things. It was one of the only ways he could attract the attention of the man he spent so long trying to impress, and in Achilleas’ mind, flouting rules and disrespecting the Head of the Order was not conducive to excelling.
So as he sat on the thin straw mattress and stared up at his cousin, Achilleas was fighting his disdain for their accommodations while also telling himself that it was part of their trial, that endurance was key to succeeding. Having pulled on the dismal uniform they had been provided, he gifted Stephanos with an eye roll at the Prince’s dramatics, and irritably balled up his own discarded clothes and threw them onto the bed. There was a disbelieving snort at his cousin’s next words, blue eyes slanting towards the blonde “I don’t think even your arrogance can stretch so far as to believe that, cousin.” They looked...like particularly well fed and clean peasants. Deciding he would just ignore Steph’s comment regarding stealing their things back, he kicked out with his foot to catch the back of the Prince’s heel, and as the other stumbled, shouldered past him and down the stairs.
Once they had reached the areas of the Order House where they might come across other brethren, Achilleas had adopted a more dignified pace, and glancing at Steph with a shrug, headed back towards the room they had met the leader in earlier. Only before the got there, a voice called out from one of the other doors, and it was their friend from before beckoning them into another room.
“I..beg pardon, but I’m not sure I learned your name?” Achilleas asked, as they once again found themselves following the man. He was only trying to be polite, and it seemed as though they ought to at least know who they were dealing with, but the man glowered at him as if he had asked if his sister’s virtue was intact.
“Alexei of Vasiliadon” came the gruff answer, and Achilleas wisely held his tongue and just offered a mild nod. Alexei of Vasiladon did not seem greatly enamoured of his noble charges, but his demeanour improved a little as he led Stephanos and Achilleas through the Order House and outside again, back to the stables where they had left their horses a few scant minutes ago. Here, he stopped them with a “Wait here” and disappeared out of sight, only to return with a couple of crude pitchforks which he tossed towards the younger men.
Achilleas caught it out of instinct, his hand closing around the heft like it would a spear, but he had a sinking feeling that it was not any kind of weaponcraft that they were expected to use these for. And his suspicions were confirmed in the next moment when Alexei gestured towards the stables. “You clean these. Each day. It is your first duty”
Silence.
Achilleas looked blankly at the man, quite sure this was some sort of joke, because he knew he had not been sent here to clean stables like the slave boys at his father’s house. He was a baron for Zeus’ sake. But there was no trace of humour on Alexei’s weathered face, and so there remained an awkward sort of stand-off, with him holding the fork but making no move to agree to the man’s words, nor to begin the task they had seemingly been assigned. Nowhere in his conversations with his father about the Order had the Prince told him they would be expected to do this.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.”
And with that, the brother strode off, leaving two dumbfounded young nobles in his wake.
“Hey!” He should have expected Achilleas to pull something like that but he’d counted on Irakles’s eldest son to have a bit more decorum. Achilleas’s dirty trick of catching him on his heel had him stumbling forward and catching himself just shy of smacking face first into a wall, only to be further shoved aside as the other man barrelled past him and down the stairs. The game was on and all the way down they were pushing, shoving, darting, and basically trying to get the other one to fall headlong and laugh at his misfortune. Luckily or unluckily, both managed to keep themselves upright and slowed their pace once they hit the bottom of the stairs. Even Stephanos straightened his clothes and looked around with a cool air of self importance like they hadn’t just been acting like twelve year olds.
Looking around, he didn’t spot anyone right off hand. Without speaking, he gave Achilleas a questioning look, to which the other responded with a shrug. As one, they opted to go back the way they’d originally come and to the room where they’d met Krateros. The Order house wasn’t a massive building, but it wasn’t small either and the hallway was lined with doors behind which could lay anything at all. Stephanos had never seen so many doors, not even in the palati. In the palati, the rooms were massive and so when there were doors, they were spread out and it was usually evident who lived in said rooms.
Just before they reached that large room, a voice summoned them elsewhere. Stephanos jerked his head to the right and saw the man that had led them up to that ratty attic room. Before words about that could leave his mouth, Achilleas was speaking and asking the man’s name. “Alexei of Vasiliadon”. Well. Alexei of Vasiliadon could use a lesson in manners, Stephanos thought. The man’s disposition left a lot to be desired. He was used to people attempting to please him or placate him in some way. Alexei didn’t look like he cared much what a prince or baron might think which was confusing.
When they were bid to follow, Stephanos was game enough until they headed toward the exit. That started triggering bells of alarm for him. Why were they going outside? There was nothing they needed outside, right? Of course, he didn’t much know what they were going to be doing inside, either. And then, as he stepped down the short two steps and into the courtyard, he relaxed again. Of course. They were going to be training, which couldn’t very well be done indoors. And he felt like an idiot for doubting Alexei.
This idea of his persisted even up to the stables where Alexei told them to wait. Stephanos pushed his shoulder against Achilleas’s and nodded towards the stables where he made a face like Poor sod who has to do this, right? and shook his head with a sardonic smile. He stood with his hands loosely on his hips, looking around the courtyard of the Order House, trying to familiarize himself with it. If he was going to live here until his father let him come home, he didn’t want to appear like a moron and not know his way around.
Movement caught his eye and he’d just turned to see Alexei coming out of the stables, two pitchforks in hand, when one of those pitchforks was tossed in his direction. Stephanos took a step back and let the thing clatter on the stones at his feet. His posture did not change and neither did his bemused smile. It was obvious what Alexei wanted but he was honestly shocked that this man would have the gall. Achilleas didn’t move either and Stephanos continued to stand, hands on hips like he was watching a tournament, with Alexei staring at them.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.” Alexei finally said and walked away.
As he passed, Stephanos called over his shoulder, “Going to have to think of a better threat than that, Alexei,” in a bored tone. Stephanos made a pft sound and nudged the rake with the toe of his sandal. “Right. This is quite clearly a test,” he said. “See if we’ll do menial labor. Try to bring us down a notch.” Stepping right over the rake, he walked into the stable and sought out the only stall with clean hay and flopped down on it. He crossed his arms over his chest, his legs at the ankle, and closed his eyes. “Wake me when the bell rings,” he said through a yawn.
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“Hey!” He should have expected Achilleas to pull something like that but he’d counted on Irakles’s eldest son to have a bit more decorum. Achilleas’s dirty trick of catching him on his heel had him stumbling forward and catching himself just shy of smacking face first into a wall, only to be further shoved aside as the other man barrelled past him and down the stairs. The game was on and all the way down they were pushing, shoving, darting, and basically trying to get the other one to fall headlong and laugh at his misfortune. Luckily or unluckily, both managed to keep themselves upright and slowed their pace once they hit the bottom of the stairs. Even Stephanos straightened his clothes and looked around with a cool air of self importance like they hadn’t just been acting like twelve year olds.
Looking around, he didn’t spot anyone right off hand. Without speaking, he gave Achilleas a questioning look, to which the other responded with a shrug. As one, they opted to go back the way they’d originally come and to the room where they’d met Krateros. The Order house wasn’t a massive building, but it wasn’t small either and the hallway was lined with doors behind which could lay anything at all. Stephanos had never seen so many doors, not even in the palati. In the palati, the rooms were massive and so when there were doors, they were spread out and it was usually evident who lived in said rooms.
Just before they reached that large room, a voice summoned them elsewhere. Stephanos jerked his head to the right and saw the man that had led them up to that ratty attic room. Before words about that could leave his mouth, Achilleas was speaking and asking the man’s name. “Alexei of Vasiliadon”. Well. Alexei of Vasiliadon could use a lesson in manners, Stephanos thought. The man’s disposition left a lot to be desired. He was used to people attempting to please him or placate him in some way. Alexei didn’t look like he cared much what a prince or baron might think which was confusing.
When they were bid to follow, Stephanos was game enough until they headed toward the exit. That started triggering bells of alarm for him. Why were they going outside? There was nothing they needed outside, right? Of course, he didn’t much know what they were going to be doing inside, either. And then, as he stepped down the short two steps and into the courtyard, he relaxed again. Of course. They were going to be training, which couldn’t very well be done indoors. And he felt like an idiot for doubting Alexei.
This idea of his persisted even up to the stables where Alexei told them to wait. Stephanos pushed his shoulder against Achilleas’s and nodded towards the stables where he made a face like Poor sod who has to do this, right? and shook his head with a sardonic smile. He stood with his hands loosely on his hips, looking around the courtyard of the Order House, trying to familiarize himself with it. If he was going to live here until his father let him come home, he didn’t want to appear like a moron and not know his way around.
Movement caught his eye and he’d just turned to see Alexei coming out of the stables, two pitchforks in hand, when one of those pitchforks was tossed in his direction. Stephanos took a step back and let the thing clatter on the stones at his feet. His posture did not change and neither did his bemused smile. It was obvious what Alexei wanted but he was honestly shocked that this man would have the gall. Achilleas didn’t move either and Stephanos continued to stand, hands on hips like he was watching a tournament, with Alexei staring at them.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.” Alexei finally said and walked away.
As he passed, Stephanos called over his shoulder, “Going to have to think of a better threat than that, Alexei,” in a bored tone. Stephanos made a pft sound and nudged the rake with the toe of his sandal. “Right. This is quite clearly a test,” he said. “See if we’ll do menial labor. Try to bring us down a notch.” Stepping right over the rake, he walked into the stable and sought out the only stall with clean hay and flopped down on it. He crossed his arms over his chest, his legs at the ankle, and closed his eyes. “Wake me when the bell rings,” he said through a yawn.
“Hey!” He should have expected Achilleas to pull something like that but he’d counted on Irakles’s eldest son to have a bit more decorum. Achilleas’s dirty trick of catching him on his heel had him stumbling forward and catching himself just shy of smacking face first into a wall, only to be further shoved aside as the other man barrelled past him and down the stairs. The game was on and all the way down they were pushing, shoving, darting, and basically trying to get the other one to fall headlong and laugh at his misfortune. Luckily or unluckily, both managed to keep themselves upright and slowed their pace once they hit the bottom of the stairs. Even Stephanos straightened his clothes and looked around with a cool air of self importance like they hadn’t just been acting like twelve year olds.
Looking around, he didn’t spot anyone right off hand. Without speaking, he gave Achilleas a questioning look, to which the other responded with a shrug. As one, they opted to go back the way they’d originally come and to the room where they’d met Krateros. The Order house wasn’t a massive building, but it wasn’t small either and the hallway was lined with doors behind which could lay anything at all. Stephanos had never seen so many doors, not even in the palati. In the palati, the rooms were massive and so when there were doors, they were spread out and it was usually evident who lived in said rooms.
Just before they reached that large room, a voice summoned them elsewhere. Stephanos jerked his head to the right and saw the man that had led them up to that ratty attic room. Before words about that could leave his mouth, Achilleas was speaking and asking the man’s name. “Alexei of Vasiliadon”. Well. Alexei of Vasiliadon could use a lesson in manners, Stephanos thought. The man’s disposition left a lot to be desired. He was used to people attempting to please him or placate him in some way. Alexei didn’t look like he cared much what a prince or baron might think which was confusing.
When they were bid to follow, Stephanos was game enough until they headed toward the exit. That started triggering bells of alarm for him. Why were they going outside? There was nothing they needed outside, right? Of course, he didn’t much know what they were going to be doing inside, either. And then, as he stepped down the short two steps and into the courtyard, he relaxed again. Of course. They were going to be training, which couldn’t very well be done indoors. And he felt like an idiot for doubting Alexei.
This idea of his persisted even up to the stables where Alexei told them to wait. Stephanos pushed his shoulder against Achilleas’s and nodded towards the stables where he made a face like Poor sod who has to do this, right? and shook his head with a sardonic smile. He stood with his hands loosely on his hips, looking around the courtyard of the Order House, trying to familiarize himself with it. If he was going to live here until his father let him come home, he didn’t want to appear like a moron and not know his way around.
Movement caught his eye and he’d just turned to see Alexei coming out of the stables, two pitchforks in hand, when one of those pitchforks was tossed in his direction. Stephanos took a step back and let the thing clatter on the stones at his feet. His posture did not change and neither did his bemused smile. It was obvious what Alexei wanted but he was honestly shocked that this man would have the gall. Achilleas didn’t move either and Stephanos continued to stand, hands on hips like he was watching a tournament, with Alexei staring at them.
“If it is not complete by the time the noon bell sounds then you do not eat until dinner. So I would not stand around thinking about it for too long, lordling.” Alexei finally said and walked away.
As he passed, Stephanos called over his shoulder, “Going to have to think of a better threat than that, Alexei,” in a bored tone. Stephanos made a pft sound and nudged the rake with the toe of his sandal. “Right. This is quite clearly a test,” he said. “See if we’ll do menial labor. Try to bring us down a notch.” Stepping right over the rake, he walked into the stable and sought out the only stall with clean hay and flopped down on it. He crossed his arms over his chest, his legs at the ankle, and closed his eyes. “Wake me when the bell rings,” he said through a yawn.
Achilleas had looked over at Stephanos as the second pitchfork clattered uselessly to the ground, glanced at the one he now held and then back to Alexei, an honestly befuddled expression upon his face. This was supposed to make them better men? Really? And when the Brother had left his final words and stalked off, the Mikaelidas lord actually turned to watch him go, as if half hoping the fellow would turn and reveal that this was all an elaborate initiation prank.
But Alexei just disappeared inside the Order House and Achilleas stood, brow creased in consternation. His cousin’s words, flippant and unaffected as always had him return his attention to the young man, and Achilleas frowned. “ A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!” He followed Stephanos without knowing where the other was going, fork still clutched in one hand. And when the Prince flopped down into the hay of the end stall, Achilleas blinked at him in disbelief.
“What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order”. He kicked a footfull of hay at his cousin, staring at him under the misapprehension that it might stir the youth into action. There were enough stables that if they did not at least make a good effort they would stand no chance of finishing. “ You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” He asked, outraged.
Achilleas waited a moment longer, his eyes boring a hole into his cousin, willing him to sit up and stop this idleness, but Steph did not move, even as the young baron huffed and muttered all manner of uncomplimentary things under his breath. And then because Achilleas was worried that someone might come out to check on them and find they had not even started , with a dark look at the still supine prince, he noisily began the work of forking out the soiled straw from the stall next door.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster” he ground out from between gritted teeth as he used the pitchfork to prod gingerly at the banked straw “If you would get off your ass and HELP”
It smelled like dung and stale horse piss, and was not light work, so Achilleas had soon worked up a bit of a sweat, made even more galling by the fact that Stephanos had not moved, not lifted even a finger and was now snoring lightly. He considered stabbing him with the pitchfork, but it was a fantasy only, and the Lord was wary of the deadline they had been set. He desperately did not want to fail at the first task they had been set, even if was a demeaning and revolting one.
And so he toiled away, moving the damp and dirty straw into a pile outside each of the stalls until his dissatisfaction with his cousin became too much, and Achilleas paused in removing a heaping pile of dung from the stall he was working on. He was not content to let Stephanos laze about whilst he broke his back doing the work of a stablehand! And in a moment of unusual vengefulness, the baron strode down the length of the stables and pitched the forkful of dung all over the snoring prince, before standing back and waiting, a glower set upon his face.
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Achilleas had looked over at Stephanos as the second pitchfork clattered uselessly to the ground, glanced at the one he now held and then back to Alexei, an honestly befuddled expression upon his face. This was supposed to make them better men? Really? And when the Brother had left his final words and stalked off, the Mikaelidas lord actually turned to watch him go, as if half hoping the fellow would turn and reveal that this was all an elaborate initiation prank.
But Alexei just disappeared inside the Order House and Achilleas stood, brow creased in consternation. His cousin’s words, flippant and unaffected as always had him return his attention to the young man, and Achilleas frowned. “ A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!” He followed Stephanos without knowing where the other was going, fork still clutched in one hand. And when the Prince flopped down into the hay of the end stall, Achilleas blinked at him in disbelief.
“What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order”. He kicked a footfull of hay at his cousin, staring at him under the misapprehension that it might stir the youth into action. There were enough stables that if they did not at least make a good effort they would stand no chance of finishing. “ You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” He asked, outraged.
Achilleas waited a moment longer, his eyes boring a hole into his cousin, willing him to sit up and stop this idleness, but Steph did not move, even as the young baron huffed and muttered all manner of uncomplimentary things under his breath. And then because Achilleas was worried that someone might come out to check on them and find they had not even started , with a dark look at the still supine prince, he noisily began the work of forking out the soiled straw from the stall next door.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster” he ground out from between gritted teeth as he used the pitchfork to prod gingerly at the banked straw “If you would get off your ass and HELP”
It smelled like dung and stale horse piss, and was not light work, so Achilleas had soon worked up a bit of a sweat, made even more galling by the fact that Stephanos had not moved, not lifted even a finger and was now snoring lightly. He considered stabbing him with the pitchfork, but it was a fantasy only, and the Lord was wary of the deadline they had been set. He desperately did not want to fail at the first task they had been set, even if was a demeaning and revolting one.
And so he toiled away, moving the damp and dirty straw into a pile outside each of the stalls until his dissatisfaction with his cousin became too much, and Achilleas paused in removing a heaping pile of dung from the stall he was working on. He was not content to let Stephanos laze about whilst he broke his back doing the work of a stablehand! And in a moment of unusual vengefulness, the baron strode down the length of the stables and pitched the forkful of dung all over the snoring prince, before standing back and waiting, a glower set upon his face.
Achilleas had looked over at Stephanos as the second pitchfork clattered uselessly to the ground, glanced at the one he now held and then back to Alexei, an honestly befuddled expression upon his face. This was supposed to make them better men? Really? And when the Brother had left his final words and stalked off, the Mikaelidas lord actually turned to watch him go, as if half hoping the fellow would turn and reveal that this was all an elaborate initiation prank.
But Alexei just disappeared inside the Order House and Achilleas stood, brow creased in consternation. His cousin’s words, flippant and unaffected as always had him return his attention to the young man, and Achilleas frowned. “ A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!” He followed Stephanos without knowing where the other was going, fork still clutched in one hand. And when the Prince flopped down into the hay of the end stall, Achilleas blinked at him in disbelief.
“What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order”. He kicked a footfull of hay at his cousin, staring at him under the misapprehension that it might stir the youth into action. There were enough stables that if they did not at least make a good effort they would stand no chance of finishing. “ You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” He asked, outraged.
Achilleas waited a moment longer, his eyes boring a hole into his cousin, willing him to sit up and stop this idleness, but Steph did not move, even as the young baron huffed and muttered all manner of uncomplimentary things under his breath. And then because Achilleas was worried that someone might come out to check on them and find they had not even started , with a dark look at the still supine prince, he noisily began the work of forking out the soiled straw from the stall next door.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster” he ground out from between gritted teeth as he used the pitchfork to prod gingerly at the banked straw “If you would get off your ass and HELP”
It smelled like dung and stale horse piss, and was not light work, so Achilleas had soon worked up a bit of a sweat, made even more galling by the fact that Stephanos had not moved, not lifted even a finger and was now snoring lightly. He considered stabbing him with the pitchfork, but it was a fantasy only, and the Lord was wary of the deadline they had been set. He desperately did not want to fail at the first task they had been set, even if was a demeaning and revolting one.
And so he toiled away, moving the damp and dirty straw into a pile outside each of the stalls until his dissatisfaction with his cousin became too much, and Achilleas paused in removing a heaping pile of dung from the stall he was working on. He was not content to let Stephanos laze about whilst he broke his back doing the work of a stablehand! And in a moment of unusual vengefulness, the baron strode down the length of the stables and pitched the forkful of dung all over the snoring prince, before standing back and waiting, a glower set upon his face.
“A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!”
“A test for our characters,” Stephanos clarified, still in that flippant tone that so maddened his cousin. “They want to see if we’ll actually subject ourselves or not. I didn’t mean he doesn’t actually expect it done.” Achilleas’s pedantic nature was sometimes fatiguing and Stephanos was in need of a nap for more than that one reason. Achilleas, the hangover, this whole day, coupled with last night’s late hours all settled to make him fairly unhappy and not in the mood to play servant.
When he laid down in the hay, that seemed to be it for Achilleas. The man’s panic increased and he could practically hear the shrillness of Achilleas’s voice, had he been born a girl. As it was, the deeper voice had still reached that little break that sometimes happened to a young man’s voice. It made Stephanos snigger a bit. “What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order.” Achilleas said while kicking hay.
Stephanos sighed through his nose. “Can. Am,” he said, unperturbed at his cousin’s display of temper.
“You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” Achilleas demanded. Stephanos didn’t have to look to know that the little vein in Achilleas’s temple throbbed as anger seethed inside him.
“As you see. Go away, Achilleas. You’re not my nursemaid. You go shovel. I’ll sleep. You’ll get your golden laurels, I will not.” He gestured with his finger in a circular motion. “And the world will spin on.”
It wasn’t that he loved to provoke Achilleas to anger, because he certainly did not. Stephanos liked to play and to laugh. In this moment, neither of them were laughing, and his little stunt with lying on the hay had absolutely nothing to do with Achilleas and everything to do with showing his father and the Order that he didn’t need any of them. His body relaxed when Achilleas finally trudged off and he was almost asleep when he heard the first scrapings of Achilleas’s work.
Go ahead, he thought, do everything you’re told.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster. If you would get off your ass and HELP!”
Stephanos wasn’t listening. He’d succumbed to the comfort of the hay, the rhythmic scraping sounds of Achilleas shoveling shit and piss, and the other, more pleasant scents of the horse barn. Like every Taengean, or almost all of them, Stephanos loved horses. He liked riding them, the power they gave him. He liked the intelligence in their eyes, like they were sometimes actually listening and understanding what he was conversationally telling them. And then, other times, when they did stupid things, like shy at frogs, he was reminded they were just animals. But there was still something wholly comforting about the scent of horse, mingled with hay, inside a pleasant heat that promised today would be sweltering outside, and relatively cool in here.
He hadn’t slipped off into a dream yet, and the sudden weight of something soft pelting him made sure he wouldn’t. Stephanos sat bolt upright, arms slightly raised, glaring down at his front, only to be assaulted with the smell. “What!” he demanded of no one in particular as he jumped off the hay pile, realizing what this was in an instant. He scrabbled to get it off his clothes but it smeared them and his hands, all while dropping into new, clean hay.
His eyes cut to Achilleas and before he was quite master of himself, he flew at his cousin, bellowing all the slanderous things he’d call a peasant whore’s son. The two of them collided and Stephanos did not rest until he had Achilleas down on the ground, straddling him, and was griding fist fulls of horse shit and pee sodden hay into his cousin’s chest. “How’s that feel?!” he shouted.
“Is there a problem?” A deep, smooth voice asked from the doorway. Stephanos twisted around to find Krateros standing there as calmly as if he was surveying an empty barn.
“No,” the prince managed and gave Achilleas one last hit before rolling off him and sitting beside him in the dirt, in the aisle. Stephanos elbowed Achilleas in the ribs to get him to say that there wasn’t a problem either. It was at that moment that Krateros produced the rake Stephanos had left in the courtyard. He said nothing. Just held it out and Stephanos felt his cheeks heat and stood up with as much dignity as he could manage to quietly take it. Krateros said nothing else to them and simply left.
Stephanos leaned around the doorway, watching the older man walk away, clutching at his rake. He’d expected to get yelled at or cajoled or something. Not…’silenced at.’ Without another word, and with a last dirty look thrown at Achilleas, he went to the other end of the barn to start working.
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“A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!”
“A test for our characters,” Stephanos clarified, still in that flippant tone that so maddened his cousin. “They want to see if we’ll actually subject ourselves or not. I didn’t mean he doesn’t actually expect it done.” Achilleas’s pedantic nature was sometimes fatiguing and Stephanos was in need of a nap for more than that one reason. Achilleas, the hangover, this whole day, coupled with last night’s late hours all settled to make him fairly unhappy and not in the mood to play servant.
When he laid down in the hay, that seemed to be it for Achilleas. The man’s panic increased and he could practically hear the shrillness of Achilleas’s voice, had he been born a girl. As it was, the deeper voice had still reached that little break that sometimes happened to a young man’s voice. It made Stephanos snigger a bit. “What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order.” Achilleas said while kicking hay.
Stephanos sighed through his nose. “Can. Am,” he said, unperturbed at his cousin’s display of temper.
“You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” Achilleas demanded. Stephanos didn’t have to look to know that the little vein in Achilleas’s temple throbbed as anger seethed inside him.
“As you see. Go away, Achilleas. You’re not my nursemaid. You go shovel. I’ll sleep. You’ll get your golden laurels, I will not.” He gestured with his finger in a circular motion. “And the world will spin on.”
It wasn’t that he loved to provoke Achilleas to anger, because he certainly did not. Stephanos liked to play and to laugh. In this moment, neither of them were laughing, and his little stunt with lying on the hay had absolutely nothing to do with Achilleas and everything to do with showing his father and the Order that he didn’t need any of them. His body relaxed when Achilleas finally trudged off and he was almost asleep when he heard the first scrapings of Achilleas’s work.
Go ahead, he thought, do everything you’re told.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster. If you would get off your ass and HELP!”
Stephanos wasn’t listening. He’d succumbed to the comfort of the hay, the rhythmic scraping sounds of Achilleas shoveling shit and piss, and the other, more pleasant scents of the horse barn. Like every Taengean, or almost all of them, Stephanos loved horses. He liked riding them, the power they gave him. He liked the intelligence in their eyes, like they were sometimes actually listening and understanding what he was conversationally telling them. And then, other times, when they did stupid things, like shy at frogs, he was reminded they were just animals. But there was still something wholly comforting about the scent of horse, mingled with hay, inside a pleasant heat that promised today would be sweltering outside, and relatively cool in here.
He hadn’t slipped off into a dream yet, and the sudden weight of something soft pelting him made sure he wouldn’t. Stephanos sat bolt upright, arms slightly raised, glaring down at his front, only to be assaulted with the smell. “What!” he demanded of no one in particular as he jumped off the hay pile, realizing what this was in an instant. He scrabbled to get it off his clothes but it smeared them and his hands, all while dropping into new, clean hay.
His eyes cut to Achilleas and before he was quite master of himself, he flew at his cousin, bellowing all the slanderous things he’d call a peasant whore’s son. The two of them collided and Stephanos did not rest until he had Achilleas down on the ground, straddling him, and was griding fist fulls of horse shit and pee sodden hay into his cousin’s chest. “How’s that feel?!” he shouted.
“Is there a problem?” A deep, smooth voice asked from the doorway. Stephanos twisted around to find Krateros standing there as calmly as if he was surveying an empty barn.
“No,” the prince managed and gave Achilleas one last hit before rolling off him and sitting beside him in the dirt, in the aisle. Stephanos elbowed Achilleas in the ribs to get him to say that there wasn’t a problem either. It was at that moment that Krateros produced the rake Stephanos had left in the courtyard. He said nothing. Just held it out and Stephanos felt his cheeks heat and stood up with as much dignity as he could manage to quietly take it. Krateros said nothing else to them and simply left.
Stephanos leaned around the doorway, watching the older man walk away, clutching at his rake. He’d expected to get yelled at or cajoled or something. Not…’silenced at.’ Without another word, and with a last dirty look thrown at Achilleas, he went to the other end of the barn to start working.
“A test? I don’t think so? You heard him yourself, every day he said. Every day!”
“A test for our characters,” Stephanos clarified, still in that flippant tone that so maddened his cousin. “They want to see if we’ll actually subject ourselves or not. I didn’t mean he doesn’t actually expect it done.” Achilleas’s pedantic nature was sometimes fatiguing and Stephanos was in need of a nap for more than that one reason. Achilleas, the hangover, this whole day, coupled with last night’s late hours all settled to make him fairly unhappy and not in the mood to play servant.
When he laid down in the hay, that seemed to be it for Achilleas. The man’s panic increased and he could practically hear the shrillness of Achilleas’s voice, had he been born a girl. As it was, the deeper voice had still reached that little break that sometimes happened to a young man’s voice. It made Stephanos snigger a bit. “What? No! Steph you cant just ignore an order.” Achilleas said while kicking hay.
Stephanos sighed through his nose. “Can. Am,” he said, unperturbed at his cousin’s display of temper.
“You are not seriously going to lie there and do nothing?” Achilleas demanded. Stephanos didn’t have to look to know that the little vein in Achilleas’s temple throbbed as anger seethed inside him.
“As you see. Go away, Achilleas. You’re not my nursemaid. You go shovel. I’ll sleep. You’ll get your golden laurels, I will not.” He gestured with his finger in a circular motion. “And the world will spin on.”
It wasn’t that he loved to provoke Achilleas to anger, because he certainly did not. Stephanos liked to play and to laugh. In this moment, neither of them were laughing, and his little stunt with lying on the hay had absolutely nothing to do with Achilleas and everything to do with showing his father and the Order that he didn’t need any of them. His body relaxed when Achilleas finally trudged off and he was almost asleep when he heard the first scrapings of Achilleas’s work.
Go ahead, he thought, do everything you’re told.
“This. Would. Go. Much, Faster. If you would get off your ass and HELP!”
Stephanos wasn’t listening. He’d succumbed to the comfort of the hay, the rhythmic scraping sounds of Achilleas shoveling shit and piss, and the other, more pleasant scents of the horse barn. Like every Taengean, or almost all of them, Stephanos loved horses. He liked riding them, the power they gave him. He liked the intelligence in their eyes, like they were sometimes actually listening and understanding what he was conversationally telling them. And then, other times, when they did stupid things, like shy at frogs, he was reminded they were just animals. But there was still something wholly comforting about the scent of horse, mingled with hay, inside a pleasant heat that promised today would be sweltering outside, and relatively cool in here.
He hadn’t slipped off into a dream yet, and the sudden weight of something soft pelting him made sure he wouldn’t. Stephanos sat bolt upright, arms slightly raised, glaring down at his front, only to be assaulted with the smell. “What!” he demanded of no one in particular as he jumped off the hay pile, realizing what this was in an instant. He scrabbled to get it off his clothes but it smeared them and his hands, all while dropping into new, clean hay.
His eyes cut to Achilleas and before he was quite master of himself, he flew at his cousin, bellowing all the slanderous things he’d call a peasant whore’s son. The two of them collided and Stephanos did not rest until he had Achilleas down on the ground, straddling him, and was griding fist fulls of horse shit and pee sodden hay into his cousin’s chest. “How’s that feel?!” he shouted.
“Is there a problem?” A deep, smooth voice asked from the doorway. Stephanos twisted around to find Krateros standing there as calmly as if he was surveying an empty barn.
“No,” the prince managed and gave Achilleas one last hit before rolling off him and sitting beside him in the dirt, in the aisle. Stephanos elbowed Achilleas in the ribs to get him to say that there wasn’t a problem either. It was at that moment that Krateros produced the rake Stephanos had left in the courtyard. He said nothing. Just held it out and Stephanos felt his cheeks heat and stood up with as much dignity as he could manage to quietly take it. Krateros said nothing else to them and simply left.
Stephanos leaned around the doorway, watching the older man walk away, clutching at his rake. He’d expected to get yelled at or cajoled or something. Not…’silenced at.’ Without another word, and with a last dirty look thrown at Achilleas, he went to the other end of the barn to start working.
It was childish and beneath him. He knew it. But that didn't stop the sweet sort of satisfaction Achilleas felt at watching his cousin get his rude awakening. Feeling vindicated, he raised his eyebrows at Stephanos in a condescending manner. Well perhaps you should have helped then?
But as much as the elder of Irakles sons tried to practice an even temper - at least in public - the younger of Zenon’s was hardly known for such. Achilleas had not even heard some of the insults that were spewed in his direction, but he guess well enough the meaning, and the pitchfork he held clattered to the floor as he was forced to intercept his cousin’s ill-mannered leap towards him.
It was a tangle of arms and legs then, sly punches and shoves and rolling around in a manner most unbecoming of both age and station. Achilleas let out a grunt when he caught an elbow in the ribs, pushed his forearm down across his cousins throat and tried to still the fists flying at him by choking off the other’s air. They were well matched though, no easy victory to be had and it was the baron who found himself pinned in the next, his eyes widening almost comically as he watched Steph reach for a handful of the soiled straw he’d spent so long collecting “Don’t you dare!” he threatened impotently, because as it stood unless he was going to clock his cousin full in the face then he was sort of stuck. Instead he was ineffectively trying to push the Prince’s hands away from their fouling of his already foul attire, when movement over Steph’s shoulder had him freeze. His cousin succeeded then, in grinding a fragrant handful against Achilleas’ chest, the prince’s voice ringing loud in contrast to the smooth, unruffled one that followed it.
Achilleas did not even react to the last jab from his cousin, scrambling to sit upright from his prone position, mortified to have been caught in such a childish scuffle. Steph’s elbow knocked him out of his dismayed staring, and he managed a tight throated. “No Sir. No problem”.
The first day he thought desperately, as he too climbed to his feet, cleared his throat and bent to collect the fork they had thankfully not rolled over in their tussle. And silence was worse he appended, as Krateros left without addressing them further. It smacked of ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ and Achilleas hated to disappoint. He stared balefully at his cousin. This was clearly his fault.
Though as he set back to work redoing what they had undone in that undignified scrap, Achilleas was silently castigating himself for having been so easily riled. He knew better, he knew what Stephanos was like and what the outcome of his moment of petulance would be. And now, Ares knows what it would cost them. He worked diligently, quickly, moving all of the soiled straw into one heap. What did they do with it then? Not being certain, the young man flaked a new bale, scattered it over the top of the stalls he had been attending, and as some form of a peace offering, strode down the aisle to where his cousin worked, clutching similar armfuls of fresh straw for him.
Shooting him a wary glance because Steph was still holding a pronged weapon, Achilleas shook the fresh bedding down and then stood back, hands on hips. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff” he admitted, breaking the silence between them. “..save for slinging it at each other”.
The latter came with the arch of a brow, a slanted glance toward Stephanos to ensure that he had made reparations enough not to expect any further attack. The sound of a bell ringing made it known that their time was up anyway, and Achilleas twisted to survey their work, wondering if it counted at all as finished.
He was hungry, but then as he glanced down at himself he thought they could not possibly be expected to present themselves to eat as they were. They would need to change, surely? Wash? He brushed ineffectively at the front of the roughspun tunic. “Was there more than one of these hideous things?” he asked Stephanos, tugging at it and beginning to drift toward the main house. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit”.
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It was childish and beneath him. He knew it. But that didn't stop the sweet sort of satisfaction Achilleas felt at watching his cousin get his rude awakening. Feeling vindicated, he raised his eyebrows at Stephanos in a condescending manner. Well perhaps you should have helped then?
But as much as the elder of Irakles sons tried to practice an even temper - at least in public - the younger of Zenon’s was hardly known for such. Achilleas had not even heard some of the insults that were spewed in his direction, but he guess well enough the meaning, and the pitchfork he held clattered to the floor as he was forced to intercept his cousin’s ill-mannered leap towards him.
It was a tangle of arms and legs then, sly punches and shoves and rolling around in a manner most unbecoming of both age and station. Achilleas let out a grunt when he caught an elbow in the ribs, pushed his forearm down across his cousins throat and tried to still the fists flying at him by choking off the other’s air. They were well matched though, no easy victory to be had and it was the baron who found himself pinned in the next, his eyes widening almost comically as he watched Steph reach for a handful of the soiled straw he’d spent so long collecting “Don’t you dare!” he threatened impotently, because as it stood unless he was going to clock his cousin full in the face then he was sort of stuck. Instead he was ineffectively trying to push the Prince’s hands away from their fouling of his already foul attire, when movement over Steph’s shoulder had him freeze. His cousin succeeded then, in grinding a fragrant handful against Achilleas’ chest, the prince’s voice ringing loud in contrast to the smooth, unruffled one that followed it.
Achilleas did not even react to the last jab from his cousin, scrambling to sit upright from his prone position, mortified to have been caught in such a childish scuffle. Steph’s elbow knocked him out of his dismayed staring, and he managed a tight throated. “No Sir. No problem”.
The first day he thought desperately, as he too climbed to his feet, cleared his throat and bent to collect the fork they had thankfully not rolled over in their tussle. And silence was worse he appended, as Krateros left without addressing them further. It smacked of ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ and Achilleas hated to disappoint. He stared balefully at his cousin. This was clearly his fault.
Though as he set back to work redoing what they had undone in that undignified scrap, Achilleas was silently castigating himself for having been so easily riled. He knew better, he knew what Stephanos was like and what the outcome of his moment of petulance would be. And now, Ares knows what it would cost them. He worked diligently, quickly, moving all of the soiled straw into one heap. What did they do with it then? Not being certain, the young man flaked a new bale, scattered it over the top of the stalls he had been attending, and as some form of a peace offering, strode down the aisle to where his cousin worked, clutching similar armfuls of fresh straw for him.
Shooting him a wary glance because Steph was still holding a pronged weapon, Achilleas shook the fresh bedding down and then stood back, hands on hips. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff” he admitted, breaking the silence between them. “..save for slinging it at each other”.
The latter came with the arch of a brow, a slanted glance toward Stephanos to ensure that he had made reparations enough not to expect any further attack. The sound of a bell ringing made it known that their time was up anyway, and Achilleas twisted to survey their work, wondering if it counted at all as finished.
He was hungry, but then as he glanced down at himself he thought they could not possibly be expected to present themselves to eat as they were. They would need to change, surely? Wash? He brushed ineffectively at the front of the roughspun tunic. “Was there more than one of these hideous things?” he asked Stephanos, tugging at it and beginning to drift toward the main house. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit”.
It was childish and beneath him. He knew it. But that didn't stop the sweet sort of satisfaction Achilleas felt at watching his cousin get his rude awakening. Feeling vindicated, he raised his eyebrows at Stephanos in a condescending manner. Well perhaps you should have helped then?
But as much as the elder of Irakles sons tried to practice an even temper - at least in public - the younger of Zenon’s was hardly known for such. Achilleas had not even heard some of the insults that were spewed in his direction, but he guess well enough the meaning, and the pitchfork he held clattered to the floor as he was forced to intercept his cousin’s ill-mannered leap towards him.
It was a tangle of arms and legs then, sly punches and shoves and rolling around in a manner most unbecoming of both age and station. Achilleas let out a grunt when he caught an elbow in the ribs, pushed his forearm down across his cousins throat and tried to still the fists flying at him by choking off the other’s air. They were well matched though, no easy victory to be had and it was the baron who found himself pinned in the next, his eyes widening almost comically as he watched Steph reach for a handful of the soiled straw he’d spent so long collecting “Don’t you dare!” he threatened impotently, because as it stood unless he was going to clock his cousin full in the face then he was sort of stuck. Instead he was ineffectively trying to push the Prince’s hands away from their fouling of his already foul attire, when movement over Steph’s shoulder had him freeze. His cousin succeeded then, in grinding a fragrant handful against Achilleas’ chest, the prince’s voice ringing loud in contrast to the smooth, unruffled one that followed it.
Achilleas did not even react to the last jab from his cousin, scrambling to sit upright from his prone position, mortified to have been caught in such a childish scuffle. Steph’s elbow knocked him out of his dismayed staring, and he managed a tight throated. “No Sir. No problem”.
The first day he thought desperately, as he too climbed to his feet, cleared his throat and bent to collect the fork they had thankfully not rolled over in their tussle. And silence was worse he appended, as Krateros left without addressing them further. It smacked of ‘I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed’ and Achilleas hated to disappoint. He stared balefully at his cousin. This was clearly his fault.
Though as he set back to work redoing what they had undone in that undignified scrap, Achilleas was silently castigating himself for having been so easily riled. He knew better, he knew what Stephanos was like and what the outcome of his moment of petulance would be. And now, Ares knows what it would cost them. He worked diligently, quickly, moving all of the soiled straw into one heap. What did they do with it then? Not being certain, the young man flaked a new bale, scattered it over the top of the stalls he had been attending, and as some form of a peace offering, strode down the aisle to where his cousin worked, clutching similar armfuls of fresh straw for him.
Shooting him a wary glance because Steph was still holding a pronged weapon, Achilleas shook the fresh bedding down and then stood back, hands on hips. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff” he admitted, breaking the silence between them. “..save for slinging it at each other”.
The latter came with the arch of a brow, a slanted glance toward Stephanos to ensure that he had made reparations enough not to expect any further attack. The sound of a bell ringing made it known that their time was up anyway, and Achilleas twisted to survey their work, wondering if it counted at all as finished.
He was hungry, but then as he glanced down at himself he thought they could not possibly be expected to present themselves to eat as they were. They would need to change, surely? Wash? He brushed ineffectively at the front of the roughspun tunic. “Was there more than one of these hideous things?” he asked Stephanos, tugging at it and beginning to drift toward the main house. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit”.
He stabbed his pitchfork into the first pile of muck he came across, savagely flinging it from here to there in a steady rhythm of hostility. Who was he most angry at, he wondered? His father for forcing him to come here? Krateros for being infuriating? Achilleas for being a twat? A deep sigh seethed through his gritted teeth and he let his eyes wander. Something huge skittered along the edge of a stall and Stephanos jumped backward, impressively over the pile of muck and into the aisle.
“Is that…?” he muttered, now looking a huge, fat rat in the face. Its beady black eyes stared at him and its whiskers quivered. Just as Stephanos was about to turn his head and call for Achilleas to come look at this thing that was the size of a small cat, another, larger, darker shadow leaped up, took the rat off the stall, and fell into the next stall with the horses. Such a fierce squealing and growling followed that Stephanos moved so that he could see what in the blue skies above was going on. A massive black cat had hold of the mouse and was playing with it. The cat let the rat go, then streaked after it, causing more squealing and more growling. Bits of hay flew in all directions.
“I’m naming that rat Achilleas…” he muttered under his breath, glanced in his cousin’s direction, and then went back to mucking stalls.
The rest of the time went by relatively easily. The work was disgusting, to say the least. But with a bit of diligence, Stephanos found himself moving without thinking, working without thought. Shoving the pitchfork into the stall, bringing muck out, scattering in new hay, rinse and repeat. It was nose hair curling, eye wateringly bad work and there was no escaping the smell, ever, thanks to Achilleas. Unlike his cousin, he didn’t have any hopes of making it to the midday meal. What was he going to do? Eat naked? Probably he and Achilleas were going to have to launder their own uniforms, but gods only knew how that worked. He assumed there was a giant cauldron somewhere, bubbling away and someone stirred the clothes. That was about all he knew of the process.
Finally, as he was pushing the mound of muck to the center of the aisle and nearest to the door, he noted his cousin walking contritely toward him. Stephanos didn’t look right at him. He kept his attention on his task until Achilleas spoke. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff...save for slinging it at each other”.
Stephanos dragged his blue eyes up from the pile of fly buzzing, urine sodden, shit covered hay, to the matching blue eyes of his cousin. That gene was strong in the family, at the very least. Their eyes were nearly the same shade, though the shape was vastly different. And it was in that thought, and the lifted eyebrow that Achilleas aimed his way that he understood his cousin was attempting to mend things.
Stephanos was not made to hold grudges and he leaned on his pitchfork, a slow grin replacing the frown, and inclined his head towards the courtyard they’d been in previously. “There’s a wagon full of it out there.” The prince led the way with the first pitchfork full of gunk, walking all the way out to the wagon that stood beside the protective wall of the order house, hurled it onto the already small pile there, and walked back to get another load. He realized it was already past noon. They’d already missed the meal. Krateros showing up must have been their signal or something. Stephanos’s stomach growled but he wouldn’t give Achilleas anything more to be angry about and so he said nothing at all of his suspicions.
“Was there more than one of these hideous things?” Achilleas complained. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit.”
“There were no more,” Stephanos said as he walked back for yet another load. “And I think we will probably have to wash them. So don’t throw more shit on me, dufus.”
They worked without being interrupted until the stables were completely clean. Then, Stephanos leaned on his pitchfork and looked around. No one had come to get them yet but he was definitely ready to be done with this. Blisters had formed on his hands and he looked at them. “I guess we go ask about the laundry and some bandages. These look like they’re going to hurt pretty bad.” He glanced at Achilleas. “How bad are yours?”
Stephanos’s hands were not soft by any stretch, but nor were they the hardened, roughened working hands of a servant. Blisters were a natural course of not doing this sort of work often. At this point, Stephanos didn’t really care about food. The stench coming from his own clothes cured any real want to eat, whatever rumblings his stomach came up with.
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He stabbed his pitchfork into the first pile of muck he came across, savagely flinging it from here to there in a steady rhythm of hostility. Who was he most angry at, he wondered? His father for forcing him to come here? Krateros for being infuriating? Achilleas for being a twat? A deep sigh seethed through his gritted teeth and he let his eyes wander. Something huge skittered along the edge of a stall and Stephanos jumped backward, impressively over the pile of muck and into the aisle.
“Is that…?” he muttered, now looking a huge, fat rat in the face. Its beady black eyes stared at him and its whiskers quivered. Just as Stephanos was about to turn his head and call for Achilleas to come look at this thing that was the size of a small cat, another, larger, darker shadow leaped up, took the rat off the stall, and fell into the next stall with the horses. Such a fierce squealing and growling followed that Stephanos moved so that he could see what in the blue skies above was going on. A massive black cat had hold of the mouse and was playing with it. The cat let the rat go, then streaked after it, causing more squealing and more growling. Bits of hay flew in all directions.
“I’m naming that rat Achilleas…” he muttered under his breath, glanced in his cousin’s direction, and then went back to mucking stalls.
The rest of the time went by relatively easily. The work was disgusting, to say the least. But with a bit of diligence, Stephanos found himself moving without thinking, working without thought. Shoving the pitchfork into the stall, bringing muck out, scattering in new hay, rinse and repeat. It was nose hair curling, eye wateringly bad work and there was no escaping the smell, ever, thanks to Achilleas. Unlike his cousin, he didn’t have any hopes of making it to the midday meal. What was he going to do? Eat naked? Probably he and Achilleas were going to have to launder their own uniforms, but gods only knew how that worked. He assumed there was a giant cauldron somewhere, bubbling away and someone stirred the clothes. That was about all he knew of the process.
Finally, as he was pushing the mound of muck to the center of the aisle and nearest to the door, he noted his cousin walking contritely toward him. Stephanos didn’t look right at him. He kept his attention on his task until Achilleas spoke. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff...save for slinging it at each other”.
Stephanos dragged his blue eyes up from the pile of fly buzzing, urine sodden, shit covered hay, to the matching blue eyes of his cousin. That gene was strong in the family, at the very least. Their eyes were nearly the same shade, though the shape was vastly different. And it was in that thought, and the lifted eyebrow that Achilleas aimed his way that he understood his cousin was attempting to mend things.
Stephanos was not made to hold grudges and he leaned on his pitchfork, a slow grin replacing the frown, and inclined his head towards the courtyard they’d been in previously. “There’s a wagon full of it out there.” The prince led the way with the first pitchfork full of gunk, walking all the way out to the wagon that stood beside the protective wall of the order house, hurled it onto the already small pile there, and walked back to get another load. He realized it was already past noon. They’d already missed the meal. Krateros showing up must have been their signal or something. Stephanos’s stomach growled but he wouldn’t give Achilleas anything more to be angry about and so he said nothing at all of his suspicions.
“Was there more than one of these hideous things?” Achilleas complained. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit.”
“There were no more,” Stephanos said as he walked back for yet another load. “And I think we will probably have to wash them. So don’t throw more shit on me, dufus.”
They worked without being interrupted until the stables were completely clean. Then, Stephanos leaned on his pitchfork and looked around. No one had come to get them yet but he was definitely ready to be done with this. Blisters had formed on his hands and he looked at them. “I guess we go ask about the laundry and some bandages. These look like they’re going to hurt pretty bad.” He glanced at Achilleas. “How bad are yours?”
Stephanos’s hands were not soft by any stretch, but nor were they the hardened, roughened working hands of a servant. Blisters were a natural course of not doing this sort of work often. At this point, Stephanos didn’t really care about food. The stench coming from his own clothes cured any real want to eat, whatever rumblings his stomach came up with.
He stabbed his pitchfork into the first pile of muck he came across, savagely flinging it from here to there in a steady rhythm of hostility. Who was he most angry at, he wondered? His father for forcing him to come here? Krateros for being infuriating? Achilleas for being a twat? A deep sigh seethed through his gritted teeth and he let his eyes wander. Something huge skittered along the edge of a stall and Stephanos jumped backward, impressively over the pile of muck and into the aisle.
“Is that…?” he muttered, now looking a huge, fat rat in the face. Its beady black eyes stared at him and its whiskers quivered. Just as Stephanos was about to turn his head and call for Achilleas to come look at this thing that was the size of a small cat, another, larger, darker shadow leaped up, took the rat off the stall, and fell into the next stall with the horses. Such a fierce squealing and growling followed that Stephanos moved so that he could see what in the blue skies above was going on. A massive black cat had hold of the mouse and was playing with it. The cat let the rat go, then streaked after it, causing more squealing and more growling. Bits of hay flew in all directions.
“I’m naming that rat Achilleas…” he muttered under his breath, glanced in his cousin’s direction, and then went back to mucking stalls.
The rest of the time went by relatively easily. The work was disgusting, to say the least. But with a bit of diligence, Stephanos found himself moving without thinking, working without thought. Shoving the pitchfork into the stall, bringing muck out, scattering in new hay, rinse and repeat. It was nose hair curling, eye wateringly bad work and there was no escaping the smell, ever, thanks to Achilleas. Unlike his cousin, he didn’t have any hopes of making it to the midday meal. What was he going to do? Eat naked? Probably he and Achilleas were going to have to launder their own uniforms, but gods only knew how that worked. He assumed there was a giant cauldron somewhere, bubbling away and someone stirred the clothes. That was about all he knew of the process.
Finally, as he was pushing the mound of muck to the center of the aisle and nearest to the door, he noted his cousin walking contritely toward him. Stephanos didn’t look right at him. He kept his attention on his task until Achilleas spoke. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do with the dirty stuff...save for slinging it at each other”.
Stephanos dragged his blue eyes up from the pile of fly buzzing, urine sodden, shit covered hay, to the matching blue eyes of his cousin. That gene was strong in the family, at the very least. Their eyes were nearly the same shade, though the shape was vastly different. And it was in that thought, and the lifted eyebrow that Achilleas aimed his way that he understood his cousin was attempting to mend things.
Stephanos was not made to hold grudges and he leaned on his pitchfork, a slow grin replacing the frown, and inclined his head towards the courtyard they’d been in previously. “There’s a wagon full of it out there.” The prince led the way with the first pitchfork full of gunk, walking all the way out to the wagon that stood beside the protective wall of the order house, hurled it onto the already small pile there, and walked back to get another load. He realized it was already past noon. They’d already missed the meal. Krateros showing up must have been their signal or something. Stephanos’s stomach growled but he wouldn’t give Achilleas anything more to be angry about and so he said nothing at all of his suspicions.
“Was there more than one of these hideous things?” Achilleas complained. “I’m starving, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to eat covered in horse shit.”
“There were no more,” Stephanos said as he walked back for yet another load. “And I think we will probably have to wash them. So don’t throw more shit on me, dufus.”
They worked without being interrupted until the stables were completely clean. Then, Stephanos leaned on his pitchfork and looked around. No one had come to get them yet but he was definitely ready to be done with this. Blisters had formed on his hands and he looked at them. “I guess we go ask about the laundry and some bandages. These look like they’re going to hurt pretty bad.” He glanced at Achilleas. “How bad are yours?”
Stephanos’s hands were not soft by any stretch, but nor were they the hardened, roughened working hands of a servant. Blisters were a natural course of not doing this sort of work often. At this point, Stephanos didn’t really care about food. The stench coming from his own clothes cured any real want to eat, whatever rumblings his stomach came up with.
It was perhaps a good thing that neither of the Mikaelidas men leant towards holding grudges, the fit of pique cast aside with a great deal more ease than the casting aside of the soiled straw. Achilleas could not help but wonder why they would not place the wagon next to the stables, which would make the task that much speedier, but he decided to keep his musings to himself, lest he be accused of whining.
There was a regretful look down at the state of their clothes when Stephanaos mentioned washing them, and the dark haired youth gave a weary sigh. Of course they would be expected to launder their own clothes. Titles meant nothing, after all. “ Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then” he huffed in retort as he heaved another forkful of wet and heavy straw into the back of the laden wagon.
Though the young Lord was in no way unfamiliar with physical exertion - he trained daily without fail - this was a different type of work, and he could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders drawn tense. They would hurt later. And when their work finally seemed to be done, he was already inspecting his hands and frowning. “Not wonderful” he said, poking at one of the blisters with a finger “ Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
But there was little that could be done about that, and Achilleas moved toward Stephanos and relieved him of the pitchfork he still held, returning both of them to the stables where he propped them carefully against a wall. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in seeing the stalls banked high with fresh straw, but as the baron wandered back over to his cousin, he was certain he would have found just as much satisfaction in a sparring session, and would not have ended up smelling or looking as rank as he was sure he did now.
“Come on then”. He brushed himself off as best as he could and then led the way over to the Order House, pushing through a door that led them into a cool, stone walled scullery, just off the kitchen. The cook, a swarthy, russet-faced man, looked up at the two dishevelled young men from where he was gathering plates off the wide wooden table. He wrinkled his nose.
“You two smell like something died. Set foot in my kitchen like that and it’ll become a foretelling of your fates!”. He made a shoo-ing motion with a fist the size of a ham, and Achilleas paused, uncertain.
“Is there...a washerwoman?” he ventured after a moment, looking hopefully at the cook, who gaped at him and then gave a bark of laughter.
“Ha! No such luck, young un, but if you and your little friend go through that door behind you you might find two washer lordlings and a barrel of water that’ll see you right.”
The Mikaelidas Lord blew out a breath, biting his tongue before he spun on his heel and pulled open the door the man had indicated. Much to his chagrin but not surprise, there was no one in there, and he turned to look at Stephanos.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking” he said, taking an inventory of the room they stood in. There was indeed a barrel of water, and some wooden racks intended for gods knows what. It smelt damp and vaguely unpleasant. And the room appeared to serve as some sort of excuse for a bathing chamber too, with a dish of oil and strigils on the wide stone sill. Achilleas sighed. Perhaps the satisfaction of waking his cousin so rudely had not been worth it, after all.
It took much longer to remove the evidence of their mornings work than it did the few minutes punching and wrestling for it to get there, but eventually at least Achilleas and Stephanos emerged from the scullery looking a little more presentable. They’d been lucky in availing themselves of some clean garments they found folded in one corner, and had made a half-hearted attempt at swilling the soiled chitons in the barrel with the few rocks that were in there. Leaving them to soak had been a strategy the two lords had been able to agree on at least.
But the kitchen was empty, with no sign of the cook they’d seen before, and more worryingly as far as Achilleas was concerned, no sign of any food.
“Did we..” he began, but it ended with a rather beleaguered “Never mind.” as he resigned himself to the fact that they had missed the midday mean as Alexei had warned them. It was not as if it were any great hardship, but it just added to the litany of discomforts that had already been foisted upon them so far by the Brethren. “I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then” he muttered, not wanting to be caught idling when they had -in his eyes- already disgraced themselves enough for one day.
It took a little wandering, but it was Alexei they found first, the man bent low sharpening a wicked looking blade, and he looked up at his young charges with a blank expression. “ You done then? About time. How’s those pretty hands fared under some manual labour?” He spared both young men a glance, and shoved away from the table irritably, leading them back through to the kitchen where he retrieved some rolls of linen and a jar of ointment which he handed to Stephanos. “Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
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It was perhaps a good thing that neither of the Mikaelidas men leant towards holding grudges, the fit of pique cast aside with a great deal more ease than the casting aside of the soiled straw. Achilleas could not help but wonder why they would not place the wagon next to the stables, which would make the task that much speedier, but he decided to keep his musings to himself, lest he be accused of whining.
There was a regretful look down at the state of their clothes when Stephanaos mentioned washing them, and the dark haired youth gave a weary sigh. Of course they would be expected to launder their own clothes. Titles meant nothing, after all. “ Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then” he huffed in retort as he heaved another forkful of wet and heavy straw into the back of the laden wagon.
Though the young Lord was in no way unfamiliar with physical exertion - he trained daily without fail - this was a different type of work, and he could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders drawn tense. They would hurt later. And when their work finally seemed to be done, he was already inspecting his hands and frowning. “Not wonderful” he said, poking at one of the blisters with a finger “ Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
But there was little that could be done about that, and Achilleas moved toward Stephanos and relieved him of the pitchfork he still held, returning both of them to the stables where he propped them carefully against a wall. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in seeing the stalls banked high with fresh straw, but as the baron wandered back over to his cousin, he was certain he would have found just as much satisfaction in a sparring session, and would not have ended up smelling or looking as rank as he was sure he did now.
“Come on then”. He brushed himself off as best as he could and then led the way over to the Order House, pushing through a door that led them into a cool, stone walled scullery, just off the kitchen. The cook, a swarthy, russet-faced man, looked up at the two dishevelled young men from where he was gathering plates off the wide wooden table. He wrinkled his nose.
“You two smell like something died. Set foot in my kitchen like that and it’ll become a foretelling of your fates!”. He made a shoo-ing motion with a fist the size of a ham, and Achilleas paused, uncertain.
“Is there...a washerwoman?” he ventured after a moment, looking hopefully at the cook, who gaped at him and then gave a bark of laughter.
“Ha! No such luck, young un, but if you and your little friend go through that door behind you you might find two washer lordlings and a barrel of water that’ll see you right.”
The Mikaelidas Lord blew out a breath, biting his tongue before he spun on his heel and pulled open the door the man had indicated. Much to his chagrin but not surprise, there was no one in there, and he turned to look at Stephanos.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking” he said, taking an inventory of the room they stood in. There was indeed a barrel of water, and some wooden racks intended for gods knows what. It smelt damp and vaguely unpleasant. And the room appeared to serve as some sort of excuse for a bathing chamber too, with a dish of oil and strigils on the wide stone sill. Achilleas sighed. Perhaps the satisfaction of waking his cousin so rudely had not been worth it, after all.
It took much longer to remove the evidence of their mornings work than it did the few minutes punching and wrestling for it to get there, but eventually at least Achilleas and Stephanos emerged from the scullery looking a little more presentable. They’d been lucky in availing themselves of some clean garments they found folded in one corner, and had made a half-hearted attempt at swilling the soiled chitons in the barrel with the few rocks that were in there. Leaving them to soak had been a strategy the two lords had been able to agree on at least.
But the kitchen was empty, with no sign of the cook they’d seen before, and more worryingly as far as Achilleas was concerned, no sign of any food.
“Did we..” he began, but it ended with a rather beleaguered “Never mind.” as he resigned himself to the fact that they had missed the midday mean as Alexei had warned them. It was not as if it were any great hardship, but it just added to the litany of discomforts that had already been foisted upon them so far by the Brethren. “I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then” he muttered, not wanting to be caught idling when they had -in his eyes- already disgraced themselves enough for one day.
It took a little wandering, but it was Alexei they found first, the man bent low sharpening a wicked looking blade, and he looked up at his young charges with a blank expression. “ You done then? About time. How’s those pretty hands fared under some manual labour?” He spared both young men a glance, and shoved away from the table irritably, leading them back through to the kitchen where he retrieved some rolls of linen and a jar of ointment which he handed to Stephanos. “Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
It was perhaps a good thing that neither of the Mikaelidas men leant towards holding grudges, the fit of pique cast aside with a great deal more ease than the casting aside of the soiled straw. Achilleas could not help but wonder why they would not place the wagon next to the stables, which would make the task that much speedier, but he decided to keep his musings to himself, lest he be accused of whining.
There was a regretful look down at the state of their clothes when Stephanaos mentioned washing them, and the dark haired youth gave a weary sigh. Of course they would be expected to launder their own clothes. Titles meant nothing, after all. “ Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then” he huffed in retort as he heaved another forkful of wet and heavy straw into the back of the laden wagon.
Though the young Lord was in no way unfamiliar with physical exertion - he trained daily without fail - this was a different type of work, and he could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders drawn tense. They would hurt later. And when their work finally seemed to be done, he was already inspecting his hands and frowning. “Not wonderful” he said, poking at one of the blisters with a finger “ Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
But there was little that could be done about that, and Achilleas moved toward Stephanos and relieved him of the pitchfork he still held, returning both of them to the stables where he propped them carefully against a wall. There was a certain sense of satisfaction in seeing the stalls banked high with fresh straw, but as the baron wandered back over to his cousin, he was certain he would have found just as much satisfaction in a sparring session, and would not have ended up smelling or looking as rank as he was sure he did now.
“Come on then”. He brushed himself off as best as he could and then led the way over to the Order House, pushing through a door that led them into a cool, stone walled scullery, just off the kitchen. The cook, a swarthy, russet-faced man, looked up at the two dishevelled young men from where he was gathering plates off the wide wooden table. He wrinkled his nose.
“You two smell like something died. Set foot in my kitchen like that and it’ll become a foretelling of your fates!”. He made a shoo-ing motion with a fist the size of a ham, and Achilleas paused, uncertain.
“Is there...a washerwoman?” he ventured after a moment, looking hopefully at the cook, who gaped at him and then gave a bark of laughter.
“Ha! No such luck, young un, but if you and your little friend go through that door behind you you might find two washer lordlings and a barrel of water that’ll see you right.”
The Mikaelidas Lord blew out a breath, biting his tongue before he spun on his heel and pulled open the door the man had indicated. Much to his chagrin but not surprise, there was no one in there, and he turned to look at Stephanos.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking” he said, taking an inventory of the room they stood in. There was indeed a barrel of water, and some wooden racks intended for gods knows what. It smelt damp and vaguely unpleasant. And the room appeared to serve as some sort of excuse for a bathing chamber too, with a dish of oil and strigils on the wide stone sill. Achilleas sighed. Perhaps the satisfaction of waking his cousin so rudely had not been worth it, after all.
It took much longer to remove the evidence of their mornings work than it did the few minutes punching and wrestling for it to get there, but eventually at least Achilleas and Stephanos emerged from the scullery looking a little more presentable. They’d been lucky in availing themselves of some clean garments they found folded in one corner, and had made a half-hearted attempt at swilling the soiled chitons in the barrel with the few rocks that were in there. Leaving them to soak had been a strategy the two lords had been able to agree on at least.
But the kitchen was empty, with no sign of the cook they’d seen before, and more worryingly as far as Achilleas was concerned, no sign of any food.
“Did we..” he began, but it ended with a rather beleaguered “Never mind.” as he resigned himself to the fact that they had missed the midday mean as Alexei had warned them. It was not as if it were any great hardship, but it just added to the litany of discomforts that had already been foisted upon them so far by the Brethren. “I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then” he muttered, not wanting to be caught idling when they had -in his eyes- already disgraced themselves enough for one day.
It took a little wandering, but it was Alexei they found first, the man bent low sharpening a wicked looking blade, and he looked up at his young charges with a blank expression. “ You done then? About time. How’s those pretty hands fared under some manual labour?” He spared both young men a glance, and shoved away from the table irritably, leading them back through to the kitchen where he retrieved some rolls of linen and a jar of ointment which he handed to Stephanos. “Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
“Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then,” Achilleas griped as he hefted more urine soaked straw into the wagon.
“I think I could be standing in perfect formation and you’d still find a way to be upset,” he shot back but there was no heat in it. Further arguing was pointless and he didn’t want to fight with the one person who might be his only ally here. Besides, he liked his cousin. Achilleas was a good person and a constant source of amusement. Stephanos supposed he’d much rather be friends with Achilleas than not, and doing that meant to work without fail or complaining for the rest of the time.
By the time they finished, his upper back, portions of his lower back, and his arms were fatigued. Like Achilleas, Stephanos trained daily with the sword and in a chariot. What he didn’t do was shovel manure and bend and dip and throw and repeat, over and over and over, for hours. His hands, thankfully, were not in danger of getting terrible blisters. The leather reins of the chariot had long ago rendered his hands impervious to that, which was one small blessing inside of this horrid nightmare of a day. He did have one or two.
He watched Achilleas taking stock of his blisters. “Not wonderful. Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
He’d have loved to make a sharp quip but the work had sapped most of his will to be hilarious and so he simply nodded and let Achilleas take the pitchfork from him. Crossing his arms, he waited for the other to return before walking with him back into the Order House. They passed into the kitchens and Stephanos groaned at the heat of the place. It was like entering an oven and smelled a bit like it, too. Only, he couldn’t see where the food was supposed to be.
On the tables, there were carcasses of animals, picked clean until exposed ribs remained. Two dogs were in the corner, lapping at entrails that had been tossed to them, and a huge cauldron boiled away, ready to provide water to buckets that would probably be used for cleaning the stack of dishes that stood in an impressive tower next to the plates of bones. He took all this in at a glance because he was suddenly being shunted through a room to look for some lordlings - though, as they went, he had the sneaking suspicion that he and Achilleas might be running into a mirror of some kind. Up to now, they’d been treated like vermin. He couldn’t imagine that there were two brothers dedicated specifically to the washing of clothes...and he was right.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking,” Achilleas muttered, when they came to the washroom.
“That does happen frequently,” Stephanos said tiredly and loosened his belt. If they were going to be the ones to wash their own clothes, better get started. He shed his soiled, disgusting clothes and used the clean water to wash his chest and face and arms first. Then he dunked in his clothes. It might have been a little embarrassing, standing naked in a room with his cousin directly across from him, the huge barrel between them, but really, on a scale of acceptable to awful, this was directly in the middle of everything thus far.
His eyes fell to the water and scrubbing his clothes. They didn’t speak much while they worked and he found he wasn’t in the mood anyway. His thoughts drifted back to last night and how much fun that had been. Such a sharp contrast to today, and how he assumed life might be from now on - not worth living. Then, he began to think on how he’d get their trunks back. And the wine. And the...other stuff in there.
At last, he and Achilleas gave up and ended up finding new clothes folded in the corner. Stephanos privately thought that Krateros had something to do with this, but he wasn’t in the mood to be charitable to his ‘jailor’ and so chose not to voice the thought aloud. They dressed and returned to the kitchens, with Stephanos casting a last look at their clothes. He hoped that he wasn’t right in thinking that the brothers might wait until they were asleep to sling their wet, disgusting clothes back at them. The two of them moved along until they stopped and Stephanos laughed and shook his head while Achilleas was just realizing that, yes, they’d missed the meal.
“I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then,” Achilleas grumbled.
“Lead the way, oh fearless one,” Stephanos held out his arm and let Achilleas go first, but he soon fell into step with him. By now his bad mood had lifted and he was looking forward to whatever tortures that the brothers had devised next. That was, until they saw the sun-shiney face of Alexi.
“Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
Stephanos caught the linen rolls tossed at him and looked them over. He didn’t need them terribly bad, but if they were going to do hand to hand, he figured he’d want his knuckles wrapped in linen and began to see to that, as well as wrapping the blisters on the insides of his thumbs after he'd used some of the putrid smelling ointment. “Do you think they’ll have us do that naked? Otherwise it’ll be more laundry,” he mused out loud as he kept his focus on his hands, winding the long strip around and around until he had a nice cushion on his hands.
“You know,” he said after a pause. “You do have rather dainty hands. Kinda like woman hands. How do you hold a sword, anyway?”
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“Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then,” Achilleas griped as he hefted more urine soaked straw into the wagon.
“I think I could be standing in perfect formation and you’d still find a way to be upset,” he shot back but there was no heat in it. Further arguing was pointless and he didn’t want to fight with the one person who might be his only ally here. Besides, he liked his cousin. Achilleas was a good person and a constant source of amusement. Stephanos supposed he’d much rather be friends with Achilleas than not, and doing that meant to work without fail or complaining for the rest of the time.
By the time they finished, his upper back, portions of his lower back, and his arms were fatigued. Like Achilleas, Stephanos trained daily with the sword and in a chariot. What he didn’t do was shovel manure and bend and dip and throw and repeat, over and over and over, for hours. His hands, thankfully, were not in danger of getting terrible blisters. The leather reins of the chariot had long ago rendered his hands impervious to that, which was one small blessing inside of this horrid nightmare of a day. He did have one or two.
He watched Achilleas taking stock of his blisters. “Not wonderful. Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
He’d have loved to make a sharp quip but the work had sapped most of his will to be hilarious and so he simply nodded and let Achilleas take the pitchfork from him. Crossing his arms, he waited for the other to return before walking with him back into the Order House. They passed into the kitchens and Stephanos groaned at the heat of the place. It was like entering an oven and smelled a bit like it, too. Only, he couldn’t see where the food was supposed to be.
On the tables, there were carcasses of animals, picked clean until exposed ribs remained. Two dogs were in the corner, lapping at entrails that had been tossed to them, and a huge cauldron boiled away, ready to provide water to buckets that would probably be used for cleaning the stack of dishes that stood in an impressive tower next to the plates of bones. He took all this in at a glance because he was suddenly being shunted through a room to look for some lordlings - though, as they went, he had the sneaking suspicion that he and Achilleas might be running into a mirror of some kind. Up to now, they’d been treated like vermin. He couldn’t imagine that there were two brothers dedicated specifically to the washing of clothes...and he was right.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking,” Achilleas muttered, when they came to the washroom.
“That does happen frequently,” Stephanos said tiredly and loosened his belt. If they were going to be the ones to wash their own clothes, better get started. He shed his soiled, disgusting clothes and used the clean water to wash his chest and face and arms first. Then he dunked in his clothes. It might have been a little embarrassing, standing naked in a room with his cousin directly across from him, the huge barrel between them, but really, on a scale of acceptable to awful, this was directly in the middle of everything thus far.
His eyes fell to the water and scrubbing his clothes. They didn’t speak much while they worked and he found he wasn’t in the mood anyway. His thoughts drifted back to last night and how much fun that had been. Such a sharp contrast to today, and how he assumed life might be from now on - not worth living. Then, he began to think on how he’d get their trunks back. And the wine. And the...other stuff in there.
At last, he and Achilleas gave up and ended up finding new clothes folded in the corner. Stephanos privately thought that Krateros had something to do with this, but he wasn’t in the mood to be charitable to his ‘jailor’ and so chose not to voice the thought aloud. They dressed and returned to the kitchens, with Stephanos casting a last look at their clothes. He hoped that he wasn’t right in thinking that the brothers might wait until they were asleep to sling their wet, disgusting clothes back at them. The two of them moved along until they stopped and Stephanos laughed and shook his head while Achilleas was just realizing that, yes, they’d missed the meal.
“I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then,” Achilleas grumbled.
“Lead the way, oh fearless one,” Stephanos held out his arm and let Achilleas go first, but he soon fell into step with him. By now his bad mood had lifted and he was looking forward to whatever tortures that the brothers had devised next. That was, until they saw the sun-shiney face of Alexi.
“Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
Stephanos caught the linen rolls tossed at him and looked them over. He didn’t need them terribly bad, but if they were going to do hand to hand, he figured he’d want his knuckles wrapped in linen and began to see to that, as well as wrapping the blisters on the insides of his thumbs after he'd used some of the putrid smelling ointment. “Do you think they’ll have us do that naked? Otherwise it’ll be more laundry,” he mused out loud as he kept his focus on his hands, winding the long strip around and around until he had a nice cushion on his hands.
“You know,” he said after a pause. “You do have rather dainty hands. Kinda like woman hands. How do you hold a sword, anyway?”
“Don’t give me cause to sling shit at you then,” Achilleas griped as he hefted more urine soaked straw into the wagon.
“I think I could be standing in perfect formation and you’d still find a way to be upset,” he shot back but there was no heat in it. Further arguing was pointless and he didn’t want to fight with the one person who might be his only ally here. Besides, he liked his cousin. Achilleas was a good person and a constant source of amusement. Stephanos supposed he’d much rather be friends with Achilleas than not, and doing that meant to work without fail or complaining for the rest of the time.
By the time they finished, his upper back, portions of his lower back, and his arms were fatigued. Like Achilleas, Stephanos trained daily with the sword and in a chariot. What he didn’t do was shovel manure and bend and dip and throw and repeat, over and over and over, for hours. His hands, thankfully, were not in danger of getting terrible blisters. The leather reins of the chariot had long ago rendered his hands impervious to that, which was one small blessing inside of this horrid nightmare of a day. He did have one or two.
He watched Achilleas taking stock of his blisters. “Not wonderful. Will make holding a sword fun, that’s for sure.''
He’d have loved to make a sharp quip but the work had sapped most of his will to be hilarious and so he simply nodded and let Achilleas take the pitchfork from him. Crossing his arms, he waited for the other to return before walking with him back into the Order House. They passed into the kitchens and Stephanos groaned at the heat of the place. It was like entering an oven and smelled a bit like it, too. Only, he couldn’t see where the food was supposed to be.
On the tables, there were carcasses of animals, picked clean until exposed ribs remained. Two dogs were in the corner, lapping at entrails that had been tossed to them, and a huge cauldron boiled away, ready to provide water to buckets that would probably be used for cleaning the stack of dishes that stood in an impressive tower next to the plates of bones. He took all this in at a glance because he was suddenly being shunted through a room to look for some lordlings - though, as they went, he had the sneaking suspicion that he and Achilleas might be running into a mirror of some kind. Up to now, they’d been treated like vermin. He couldn’t imagine that there were two brothers dedicated specifically to the washing of clothes...and he was right.
“Fine, you were right but I thought it was worth checking,” Achilleas muttered, when they came to the washroom.
“That does happen frequently,” Stephanos said tiredly and loosened his belt. If they were going to be the ones to wash their own clothes, better get started. He shed his soiled, disgusting clothes and used the clean water to wash his chest and face and arms first. Then he dunked in his clothes. It might have been a little embarrassing, standing naked in a room with his cousin directly across from him, the huge barrel between them, but really, on a scale of acceptable to awful, this was directly in the middle of everything thus far.
His eyes fell to the water and scrubbing his clothes. They didn’t speak much while they worked and he found he wasn’t in the mood anyway. His thoughts drifted back to last night and how much fun that had been. Such a sharp contrast to today, and how he assumed life might be from now on - not worth living. Then, he began to think on how he’d get their trunks back. And the wine. And the...other stuff in there.
At last, he and Achilleas gave up and ended up finding new clothes folded in the corner. Stephanos privately thought that Krateros had something to do with this, but he wasn’t in the mood to be charitable to his ‘jailor’ and so chose not to voice the thought aloud. They dressed and returned to the kitchens, with Stephanos casting a last look at their clothes. He hoped that he wasn’t right in thinking that the brothers might wait until they were asleep to sling their wet, disgusting clothes back at them. The two of them moved along until they stopped and Stephanos laughed and shook his head while Achilleas was just realizing that, yes, they’d missed the meal.
“I suppose we should try and find Alexei or Krateros then,” Achilleas grumbled.
“Lead the way, oh fearless one,” Stephanos held out his arm and let Achilleas go first, but he soon fell into step with him. By now his bad mood had lifted and he was looking forward to whatever tortures that the brothers had devised next. That was, until they saw the sun-shiney face of Alexi.
“Get yourselves fixed up and then meet me in the courtyard. We’ll test your unarmed skills, give those hands a break, you’ll need them again tomorrow after all.”
Stephanos caught the linen rolls tossed at him and looked them over. He didn’t need them terribly bad, but if they were going to do hand to hand, he figured he’d want his knuckles wrapped in linen and began to see to that, as well as wrapping the blisters on the insides of his thumbs after he'd used some of the putrid smelling ointment. “Do you think they’ll have us do that naked? Otherwise it’ll be more laundry,” he mused out loud as he kept his focus on his hands, winding the long strip around and around until he had a nice cushion on his hands.
“You know,” he said after a pause. “You do have rather dainty hands. Kinda like woman hands. How do you hold a sword, anyway?”
Achilleas had first stuck his fingers into the jar of salve, pulling them out thick with the unctuous blend of honey and whatever herbs had been steeped and boiled to create the foul smelling goo. His lip curled but the young Lord spread it over his blistered skin before reaching for a roll of linen and beginning to wrap his hands as his cousin did. He paused only a moment to shoot Stephanos a withering look. “Right. Like they couldn’t beat the stuffing out of you” he scoffed, before continuing to bind the linen. He knotted it and flexed his fingers a couple of times to loosen it off before jerking his head toward the door.
“Are you ready?”
He was keen to get outside and actually learn something useful as opposed to the menial tasks they had been given thus far.The Order were renowned for their subtle methods of combat, and the promise of being shown something new was enough to have the elder of Irakles’ sons forget that his back ached and that he was hungry, Achilleas’ steps’ almost spritely as they returned the courtyard where they were thankfully not greeted with pitchforks this time.
Instead, it was Alexei and another man, shorter and thicker set who waited for them, the crude outline of a fighting ring laid out in a sandy area away from the Order House. Stephanos’ question of before suddenly seemed more prudent as the older men had stripped down to nothing but their skin.Well then. The young Lord glanced around their surroundings consideringly. If it were a choice between retaining any questionable modesty, or having to do more washing, then Achilleas knew which he’d choose. He quirked a brow at Stephanos and gave a shrug.
It seemed they were to be spectators at first, for the brethren were circling eachother in the ring. Achilleas folded his arms, this was not anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d been pitted against the men of the Lions since he was twelve, and as he watched the older men he found himself hoping the shorter one triumphed, just because Alexei had been so dismissive of them already.
They stood off each other a little while, before Alexei made the first strike, a quick and sharp snapped kick to impact against the other man’s thigh,followed by a flat handed blow to his chest. The shorter man bore the blows well, countering swiftly and for a while there was nothing but the heavy breathing of the fighters and the dull thud of body striking body with neither man proving stronger than the other. It was when Alexei drove a fist into the other’s gut that there was a grunt, a moment where the stocky one fought for air and the taller man could bear him down to the ground and the bout became a contest of who could get a lock on the other.
Achilleas almost wanted to ask Steph who he would back, but he didn’t quite dare and so remained silent as they watched both men try and get the better of the other. Eventually, it was a painful looking arm lock that had Alexei raising his finger to signify his surrender, and the brothers of the order broke apart and got to their feet, sand sticking to their damp skin.
The men clasped each others shoulders briefly before Alexei turned his focus to his young charges, gesturing for them to disrobe.
“Now you show us what you are cabable of. I’ll go easy on you and pit you against one another first. No eye gouging, no biting. Try not to main one another because it will make the rest of your duties difficult to complete.” He tugged on the tunic the other man handed off to him and looked at Achilleas and Stephanos expectantly. “Well go on then, what are you waiting for?”
Achilleas moved first, sliding another glance toward his cousin before he tugged the horrible scratchy chiton off and stepped forward into the ring. He knew his cousin would not easily be defeated, they had fought often enough for that, but equally he did not want to be the first one to get a faceful of sand. There was more than a little desire for them both to prove themselves too:mucking stables might not be a thing young nobles excelled at, but they certainly had a better grounding in fighting.
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Achilleas had first stuck his fingers into the jar of salve, pulling them out thick with the unctuous blend of honey and whatever herbs had been steeped and boiled to create the foul smelling goo. His lip curled but the young Lord spread it over his blistered skin before reaching for a roll of linen and beginning to wrap his hands as his cousin did. He paused only a moment to shoot Stephanos a withering look. “Right. Like they couldn’t beat the stuffing out of you” he scoffed, before continuing to bind the linen. He knotted it and flexed his fingers a couple of times to loosen it off before jerking his head toward the door.
“Are you ready?”
He was keen to get outside and actually learn something useful as opposed to the menial tasks they had been given thus far.The Order were renowned for their subtle methods of combat, and the promise of being shown something new was enough to have the elder of Irakles’ sons forget that his back ached and that he was hungry, Achilleas’ steps’ almost spritely as they returned the courtyard where they were thankfully not greeted with pitchforks this time.
Instead, it was Alexei and another man, shorter and thicker set who waited for them, the crude outline of a fighting ring laid out in a sandy area away from the Order House. Stephanos’ question of before suddenly seemed more prudent as the older men had stripped down to nothing but their skin.Well then. The young Lord glanced around their surroundings consideringly. If it were a choice between retaining any questionable modesty, or having to do more washing, then Achilleas knew which he’d choose. He quirked a brow at Stephanos and gave a shrug.
It seemed they were to be spectators at first, for the brethren were circling eachother in the ring. Achilleas folded his arms, this was not anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d been pitted against the men of the Lions since he was twelve, and as he watched the older men he found himself hoping the shorter one triumphed, just because Alexei had been so dismissive of them already.
They stood off each other a little while, before Alexei made the first strike, a quick and sharp snapped kick to impact against the other man’s thigh,followed by a flat handed blow to his chest. The shorter man bore the blows well, countering swiftly and for a while there was nothing but the heavy breathing of the fighters and the dull thud of body striking body with neither man proving stronger than the other. It was when Alexei drove a fist into the other’s gut that there was a grunt, a moment where the stocky one fought for air and the taller man could bear him down to the ground and the bout became a contest of who could get a lock on the other.
Achilleas almost wanted to ask Steph who he would back, but he didn’t quite dare and so remained silent as they watched both men try and get the better of the other. Eventually, it was a painful looking arm lock that had Alexei raising his finger to signify his surrender, and the brothers of the order broke apart and got to their feet, sand sticking to their damp skin.
The men clasped each others shoulders briefly before Alexei turned his focus to his young charges, gesturing for them to disrobe.
“Now you show us what you are cabable of. I’ll go easy on you and pit you against one another first. No eye gouging, no biting. Try not to main one another because it will make the rest of your duties difficult to complete.” He tugged on the tunic the other man handed off to him and looked at Achilleas and Stephanos expectantly. “Well go on then, what are you waiting for?”
Achilleas moved first, sliding another glance toward his cousin before he tugged the horrible scratchy chiton off and stepped forward into the ring. He knew his cousin would not easily be defeated, they had fought often enough for that, but equally he did not want to be the first one to get a faceful of sand. There was more than a little desire for them both to prove themselves too:mucking stables might not be a thing young nobles excelled at, but they certainly had a better grounding in fighting.
Achilleas had first stuck his fingers into the jar of salve, pulling them out thick with the unctuous blend of honey and whatever herbs had been steeped and boiled to create the foul smelling goo. His lip curled but the young Lord spread it over his blistered skin before reaching for a roll of linen and beginning to wrap his hands as his cousin did. He paused only a moment to shoot Stephanos a withering look. “Right. Like they couldn’t beat the stuffing out of you” he scoffed, before continuing to bind the linen. He knotted it and flexed his fingers a couple of times to loosen it off before jerking his head toward the door.
“Are you ready?”
He was keen to get outside and actually learn something useful as opposed to the menial tasks they had been given thus far.The Order were renowned for their subtle methods of combat, and the promise of being shown something new was enough to have the elder of Irakles’ sons forget that his back ached and that he was hungry, Achilleas’ steps’ almost spritely as they returned the courtyard where they were thankfully not greeted with pitchforks this time.
Instead, it was Alexei and another man, shorter and thicker set who waited for them, the crude outline of a fighting ring laid out in a sandy area away from the Order House. Stephanos’ question of before suddenly seemed more prudent as the older men had stripped down to nothing but their skin.Well then. The young Lord glanced around their surroundings consideringly. If it were a choice between retaining any questionable modesty, or having to do more washing, then Achilleas knew which he’d choose. He quirked a brow at Stephanos and gave a shrug.
It seemed they were to be spectators at first, for the brethren were circling eachother in the ring. Achilleas folded his arms, this was not anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d been pitted against the men of the Lions since he was twelve, and as he watched the older men he found himself hoping the shorter one triumphed, just because Alexei had been so dismissive of them already.
They stood off each other a little while, before Alexei made the first strike, a quick and sharp snapped kick to impact against the other man’s thigh,followed by a flat handed blow to his chest. The shorter man bore the blows well, countering swiftly and for a while there was nothing but the heavy breathing of the fighters and the dull thud of body striking body with neither man proving stronger than the other. It was when Alexei drove a fist into the other’s gut that there was a grunt, a moment where the stocky one fought for air and the taller man could bear him down to the ground and the bout became a contest of who could get a lock on the other.
Achilleas almost wanted to ask Steph who he would back, but he didn’t quite dare and so remained silent as they watched both men try and get the better of the other. Eventually, it was a painful looking arm lock that had Alexei raising his finger to signify his surrender, and the brothers of the order broke apart and got to their feet, sand sticking to their damp skin.
The men clasped each others shoulders briefly before Alexei turned his focus to his young charges, gesturing for them to disrobe.
“Now you show us what you are cabable of. I’ll go easy on you and pit you against one another first. No eye gouging, no biting. Try not to main one another because it will make the rest of your duties difficult to complete.” He tugged on the tunic the other man handed off to him and looked at Achilleas and Stephanos expectantly. “Well go on then, what are you waiting for?”
Achilleas moved first, sliding another glance toward his cousin before he tugged the horrible scratchy chiton off and stepped forward into the ring. He knew his cousin would not easily be defeated, they had fought often enough for that, but equally he did not want to be the first one to get a faceful of sand. There was more than a little desire for them both to prove themselves too:mucking stables might not be a thing young nobles excelled at, but they certainly had a better grounding in fighting.