Between Lions and Men

11: his dear comrade

Menoetius

"Why come all this way-----where did you find that?" he laughs, tugging my hand as we make our way down to the beach, in the shadow of our great ships, the wine colored sea lapping peacefully against the moon-washed sand. Why come all this way? Because you're happier when you're by the water, beautiful one. I don't say it though. He's not looking for an answer anymore, instead walking through the thick sand up to the radio which I set upon a rock.

"Where did you get it?" he repeats, laughing a bit and fiddling with it.

"I relocated it, just for tonight," I say, but he is barely paying attention to the answer. A song has begun. I can't hear it past the static. But he knows all the words.

He spins in the soft sand, head tipped back. His bare feet beat the beach in perfect rhythm. He loves dancing, hours were spent in his mother's court, pale calloused feat weaving complicated dances, all for his own amusement in her stone halls. Now and then, I was permitted to come and watch. And I did, in silent amazement at such grace in human form. He'd be better suited to life as a wave, or bird. But no he's here with us. Spinning around, gold curls drunk on moonlight as they tip over his face.

He takes my hand, tugging me with him, still singing the words to the song that I don't know. His voice is fine, high and light. I laugh a bit as I let him lead me to dance with him, his warm limbs sinewy against mine. I was never as graceful as he.

The men can't understand how he moves so quickly, so fluidly on the battle field. It's because he's not a born soldier. He's a dancer. I see the same steps, the way he can hop easily into the air, and cross his feet, tumble then easily roll back up, flip fully over another solider. He's just dancing.

But I prefer him here. At peace, dancing in the light of the stars. The smile on his face, maybe I'm the only one to see it like that. But it could light up the whole world. Such joy for such a violent creature. Not a bit of anger burning in him now. They all want him angry, want him killing for them. I want him like this. Smiling as he sings words I'm sure he's making up now.

He gives up dancing to kiss my lips, tripping me easily by wrapping one slim foot around my ankle, so I fall on top of him in the soft sand, crushing him like he likes. I kiss him, putting my hands through his hair.

"Why don't we just go home?" I whisper. Please, let me take you home.

"I was just going to say this war can't go on long enough to suit me," he says, grinning still, starlight glittering in his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Just us. Like this. Not hiding behind curtains in my father's court. Here it's like nothing matters," he says, stroking my cheek, "We're together, nobody—your father, isn't sending for you. My wife isn't here, for example."

"You'd miss your son, Neo needs you," I say, gently.

"I can't choose."

"You're not losing me if we go back. I'm not going anywhere, Prince," I say, taking his hand and kissing it, "I'm staying right here. With you. Where you want me. No matter what. War or no war."

"Promise?" he asks, eyes soft and sad like a child's, "Only---"

"Is this about the other day?" I left him in battle. I left to tend to the wounded of course. It's not like he needs my help.

"When I couldn't see you, I thought I'd lost you, I thought you might have fallen," he says, sighing, "When that happened—when I thought of it. I couldn't stand it. I need your eyes to wake up to in the mornings. You're my sun, there's no dawn come if you're not there."

So when he says, he couldn't stand it. He means that for two minutes (I know it's two minutes because Ithaca times everything, we don't know why yet, but he does) it was two minutes though, one minute, and fifty four seconds so we'll round up. Two minutes.

Anyway, I saw one of ours go down, wounded, and because I'm a medic, I ran to help. And we carried the wounded to safety, then I ran back because I could hear a lot of screaming. Like a lot. This took place over two minutes. Apparently, someone did not see me leave so he assumed I was wounded or dead.

Everyone else knew where I was. Ithaca, who was timing things for no apparent reason, he knew, everyone else saw me go with the wounded as is my job. Anyway. I wasn't there. Two minutes.

Two minutes, he killed ninety one people. Not shot. He threw down his gun, again we don't know why, and just started like, ripping heads off, and tearing throats out. Then he saw me. And was okay again.

How do I know it was ninety one people? Ithaca and I, we went back later, after the battle was over, and we counted. And yes, it was the enemy. But still, ninety one people. Two minutes. And at the time—I didn't know he was worried about me, we just kind of knew it happened.

So Ithaca immediately says "we have to test it." To which I say "we absolutely do not have to test it". You don't take away a child's toy to see if they have a screaming tantrum. You don't separate a baby from its mother's breast to see if it sobs. You don't take me away. You put me someplace nice and visible, with a cross on my uniform so nobody shoots me. Because. Ninety one people. Two minutes.

He quit because I came back and he walked up and hugged me and that's normal so I didn't realize until a few minutes later when he went to help Aias that I was standing near this actual mound of bodies. Ithaca was obsessed for a full three days and he thought maybe we could turn it on without me going missing and I said "We do not need to know that" and then finally, he dropped it.

Anyway. That was what happened. It was a few days ago now, though. I thought he'd forgotten. But now he's crying after I brought him music and let him dance by the ocean and all the things he likes.

"I'm here, don't," I say, rubbing his cheek with one thumb, "I'm not going anywhere. Till I'm old, and grey, and telling war stories that completely didn't happen, like old Nestor."

"Till we're old and grey, they'll bury us together," he says.

"You're eternal, my prince," I say, kissing his cheek.

"Don't say that. I wouldn't go on without you," he says.

"You're a star, you can't love a boy," I say, stroking his curls from his face. He needs to cut them they're beyond regulation; he's as bad as Ithaca.

"Don't say that. I chose you, I told my mother that you remember? I told her I'm keeping you forever and I don't care for her prophecies and her plans. There's me and you, that's it," he says, eyes still glittering and moist. "Promise me you believe it to?"

"I believe it. They'll tell stories about us, and sing your praises, and your name will be known for centuries and me? I'll be here, being so glad I knew you, and got the chance to love you."

"Swear it? You're not going anywhere?"

"I swear it. I'm not going to leave you," I say, kissing him again, "Now hold me you, you can't tell me you prefer that girl's soft legs."

"No, I prefer nothing but you. I'm intended to be married to a woman. I have to practice loving one sometime," he says, kissing me roughly, "You're different."

"Yes, I am, I'm very different, you get to abuse me and you like it and I like it," he is strong enough to hurt me I suppose, but he does not. He's small and likes being held tightly and cuddled and crushed in my arms and made to feel like less than all he's supposed to be.

"I just want to be a man," he says, quietly.

"You are for me, shh, now, shhh," I kiss his face again, "Stop thinking about losing me because you're not going to. Nothing can tear us apart."

"Nothing, till the end of days."

"Till the end of days."