Between Lions and Men

36: let us now set battle in aray

Briseis

I wake up to harsh sunlight on my face. The dawn is just coming. And I fell asleep here on the grass. I am sore, and ill. I sit up as horrible waves of it rush back. Mostly Menoetius' limp body, forever in my mind's eye, his innards spilling out of that terrible wound.

"Is he up?" how is it awake and dressed crisp and neat in its uniform like nothing happened? Hermes claimed him, but I feel like there's more to it than that. Some sort of in bred bastardry that cannot be explained by one simply paternity.

"I just woke up, it's dawn," I say, rising, "Also, I'm not his keeper."

"Well his last keeper died so I elected you to the position however brief it may be; I hope you enjoy it," Ithaca sneers, not at all cheerfully, offering me a bag which I assume is breakfast.

"Is this for me or him?" I ask.

"Yourself, I assume he's not eating," Ithaca says, lightly, going to the tent door.

"Let me do it," I say, ducking in past him. My heart breaks as I do.

Peleus is curled up with the body, his face on his chest, like they lay so many mornings. Except now Menoetius is still, pale from bloodloss. But he is cleaned, Peleus must have bound the wounds himself, and dressed him in one of their few sets of civilian clothes. His hair is clean and brushed back, and neck bound with clean bandages.

Peleus, for his part, is sound asleep, face red stained from tears, and nestled on his lover's chest. He's snuggled like a lioness around the body of an injured cub, every muscle tense, prepared to attack, and yet taking comfort from the one thing he cares for.

"Sir," I move over, but he does not sir. "Please. It's time to wake." For a moment I fear he poisoned himself. Then I realize tears are leaking from his eyelids and he's just not moving intentionally.

"Please," I don't dare say his name again. He didn't want it on my lips I think.

"Son," I look over. His mother stands there, glowing sliver in all her glory, still dripping sea water. Her dark hair hangs about her face but light brown flinty horrible eyes flit over her son's miserable form. In her hands she's holding bronze chainmail.

He does not move.

"Come to me, boy, see the armor I fetched you, from Hephaestus' forge no less," she coaxes.

He obeys, numbly, like a child, and looks at the mail. It will go underneath a blouse, and is probably light enough that he can move with it.

"You said you wished to fight today," she says.

"If I leave him and fight, then flies—maggots will be on him, I'll not leave him just yet. Let me lie here a while longer," he mumbles, letting the mail fall into her hands and going back to Menoetius' still form.

"We do need to bury him," I say, gently.

"No, not till I die, you can bury us together," he says, lying back down and closing his bloodshot eyes, fully prepared to remain there.

"I will anoint the body, so that it will be preserved," his mother says. That's very enabling of her. I was against the keeping the body. Especially once I knew his shade hung with it. I'm going to have to talk with her about this if she's going to keep coming around. I had frequent talks with his boyfriend about letting him have whatever he wanted because 'look how precious he is'. I did not think that the mother would be worse than the boyfriend, yet here we are. At least with the boyfriend he usually had to ask twice. We had multiple conversations to the effect that if he asked twice and said that a thing would make him happy was not a reason to let him do it. We didn't get very far. I'm apparently going to have to have the same conversation with his mother if we all live through this day.