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Teucer didn’t know when exactly he decided. Or if he even decided at all. A decision… feels a certain way. Teucer didn’t decide as much as woke up one day with the knowledge and certainty. Or maybe, one day the wall he’d placed in his head ever since Ajax passed finally fell and he realized there was nothing left to stand for.
Maybe it was when he saw one of the soldiers looking after Tecmessa, and that his glare in their direction did nothing to deter it. When he knew, if he was to fight the man for the insult, few, if any, would actually take his side. The army from Salamis was still big, still strong, but few listened to him. Teucer knew respect would have to be earned, since he hadn’t been born with it, but he’d thought that ten years fighting by their side and not his family’s would’ve been enough to do the trick.
Or maybe it was when there was no longer a cup of wine for him at the table, or even a place at it. Not the big, chiefing table, but the small ones, the ones where people leisured outside of official business.
Or maybe…. Maybe it was the reveal about Phyrrus’ inevitable demise. He didn’t like his cousin….. nephew, not really, but he was a child. Painfully so, a child with none of the privileges of patience and kindness but all the responsibilities of obeying old men too high on power to care for the consequences of it. Phyrrus was cruel, yes, and Teucer did not trust him around anyone he actually cherished or valued. But it wasn’t like anyone respected him when he wasn’t cruel. Teucer wasn’t cruel either, he was skilled, but that didn’t get him respect either.
It was at that point that he pondered what he was even fighting for? For glory? For honor?
Maybe, in the beginning, he'd believed that. But his so called comrades had barely waited for Ajax to be cold before disrespecting him. He was skilled but not respected, and only allowed to walk free due to his demise not benefitting anyone yet
But when they were to share the spoils? When people started to fight over jewels and slaves?
He knew, the jests and calls of traitor and Trojan would stop being insults and start being facts, forever stained into songs and dragging his name through the mud.
Ajax was the only thing that ever kept him safe. And Ajax was dead. Dead for honor, for glory that he'd get but Teucer wouldn't because his mother was kidnapped instead of courted
Teucer was fast, he’d always been, and, once he had a plan, he was driven too. Days, weeks spent floating like an aimless wreck in the wind, not knowing what to do or how to do it, but, once a purpose came, so did his blood. He started to feel it again, the rage and the panic of war while inside the camp, amongst his comrades, but never safe because they were not safe for him.
He was, after all, a traitor. Had always been. Will be the second he demanded too much or became a threat. Tecmessa was a slave and Eurysaces was a bastard, and those were the only people in the camp he truly cared for. So, once he had a purpose – one he believed in, as small as inglorious as it was – he could finally move again.
There was one upside at least, to the Salamis not respecting him, and that he was very familiar with those who did. They were the ones who had trusted him in battles, who’s lives he’d saved, who always saved him a seat and a drink at the table when there was often no space for him.
At the same time, he could put his trust in the cowards, the tired ones and the ones who just wanted to go home. There were plenty of these in the army, but few who wouldn’t reveal his plan to anyone who might have wanted to stop him. So, the following week, was spent doing that: planning.
Talking to the people he trusted, making sure his ship – only one ship, despite the many they’ve arrived with, because more people meant a higher risk to be discovered and stopped, and Teucer didn’t feel any loyalty to anyone outside of who could fit onto that ship. The plan was good, if only because it gave him something to do, a reason to eat, and something…
It was truly such a joy to stop stressing. Troy wasn’t falling. The soldiers were wounded, Phyrrus was becoming more and more of a problem every day and Teucer, to his great relief, did not care. He could not care less about this battle that had stolen ten years of his life and his brother and everything else, because rarely did he have something to hold onto. But now he had, now he had something to look forward to outside the camp.
Tecmessa noticed. He didn’t want to burden her with too much, preferred to allow her to keep her routines and her safety, but she noticed anyway. She was, after all, a clever woman. It was one night, in their tent, before the candles went off, that she asked.
“What are you planning?”
Eurysaces was already asleep against her breast, preferring the softer, kinder tissues of his mother to his uncle’s war hardened muscles. Teucer remembered Hesione’s breast just the same, a heartbeat against his ear that was the only thing that felt stable in this world. His mother had said that, when he was newly born, he would only calm when she hummed to her heartbeat, for it was the only sound babies knew for longest.
A childish, reckless part of Teucer wondered whether he’d get to hear it again. Whether his mother would receive him within her arms and rest his head across her breast, or whether the scars given by the helmet would chafe against her skin. There had been plenty of beasts to take things from his mother, and Teucer did not want to wake himself and be one of them.
There was something to be said about the hope he had for his father. Those things remained unsaid for a reason.
“I will buy you blue dyes soon…” He said, looking at her. He’d never seen her in blue, but she would look good in it. Ajax must’ve had a vision for her wedding dress.
She narrowed her eyes. “I cannot marry your brother anymore.” She said, quiet, as if afraid the grief would grow sharper claws than it already had. Like they weren’t both too tender already, with Eurysaces blissfully unaware of why. He, alone, would escape Troy with no Ajax shaped hole within his heart. And Teucer would make sure he thrived wherever he landed also.
“You still deserve a blue dress.” He said, and hoped it was enough. He did not want to give voice to his thoughts, unless someone was listening, or, worse, in case they didn’t catch root. He could stand to disappoint his men, he could stand to break his own heart with hope.
But not hers.
Better for her not to have hope till it was a certainty.
It didn’t take long for the ship to be almost ready to leave, of course, in the middle of the night. In the middle of the night after a large, long party that left everyone involved happy and full of wine. It may be said that Teucer waited too long for the pettiest part of his plan.
But he also hadn’t been certain about it, not until he’d found Phyrrus wide awake to everyone’s messy merriment.
“You didn’t enjoy the wine tonight?” Teucer asked, as he found the boy sulking in the distant firelight while slaves were mingling around with plates and cups, celebrating the sacrifice towards the battle of the next few days.
Phyrrus glared at him. “Odysseus said I’m too young to appreciate it.” he grumbled, obviously displeased with the verdict, but too scared of the man to disobey him. Or maybe too confused. Of all the people to dig their teeth into the spawn of Achilles, it just had to be the snake.
Teucer sat neat him and grabbed a cup. From the skin of wine he’d carried with him – for he, too, had to enjoy himself at least a little for the voyage, and he couldn’t have anyone wonder why he wasn’t drinking – and poured it into a cup from a passing slave.
Phyrrus glared at him. “I don’t need it.”
“Suit yourself” Teucer smiled mockingly and drank from the cup.
Phyrrus snatched the whole skin from him. He tossed it back, spilling like half from it on the sides of his face, and stubbornly choking on the rest, as if his suffering was proof of might. Teucer waited for him to stop coughing before he spoke.
“They plan to kill you, you know.” He dropped it, and then took a sip of his own cup.
A few, blessed, seconds of silence.
“Lies!” Phyrrus stood up, empty wineskin sloshing in the spilled wine. “They wouldn’t…. they need me! I am the one who will take down Troy!”
“Yes. And they plan to kill you the second after that is over.” Teucer said, and allowed a grin to grace his features. Phyrrus scrunched his own – Achilles’, and whatever he had gotten from his mother – as he glared at him.
“You’re lying.”
“If it makes you feel better.”
Phyrrus glared at him in silence for a few more moments, to the point where Teucer finished his drink and was starting to get uncomfortable. Phyrrus leaned in to him, so close, so still and steady compared to his usual restlessness, that Teucer wanted to leave and put distance between them.
“You’re planning to leave, aren’t you?” Phyrrus said.
Teucer choked on whatever wine was still in him. How in the….
“Nailed it!” Phyrrus leaned back on his heels, pumping a fist in the air in satisfaction. Teucer kept blinking at him, but Phyrrus grabbed the wineskin and started to knead it. “Everyone else was too busy worrying about the battles and the cows and all that. And you weren’t there.” Phyrrus grinned at him, crossed legs fluttering in agitation. “You’re usually there, peacocking like you matter, but this past week you haven’t been. That slave of yours also leaves the tent less often, and I’ve seen the supplies…”
“You were paying attention.” Teucer said, cursing under his breath that he allowed something like this to be so easily noticed. He’d thought himself stealthy and clever.
“Of course I was! Odysseus said that I need to be more “aware of my surroundings” if I wanna make it past the walls.” Phyrrus said, in an surprisingly accurate depiction of Odysseus, and Teucer managed not to chuckle at that. It kept his heart rate and panic low. Of course, Odysseus would criticize the boy he was sending head first into certain death.
After all, a prophecy was a prophecy.
“Odysseus plans to have you killed.” Teucer said, bursting the bubble of pride and accomplishment.
Phyrrus deflated for a few seconds, before the anger mask came back on. He’d inherited his father’s wrath, that was for sure. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I be lying?”
Phyrrus opened his mouth, rage on his tongue, and Teucer cut him off. “I have no reason to lie to you. Nothing to gain. The worst thing is you’ll hate me and die later.”
“Because you’re leaving, right? That’s why you think you’ll get no consequence for lying?”
That was true. Teucer hadn’t expected Phyrrus to figure him out, and he considered killing the boy where he stood before his plan could be discovered. No one would notice, not tomorrow at least, with how hungover they were going to be, and if he dragged his body far enough near the shore, he wouldn’t get discovered for a lot longer.
“Do you want your father’s glory?” Teucer asked.
Phyrrus blinked. “Of course….”
“Then stay and obey Odysseus. He’ll make sure the spear you fall on will be Trojan. He’ll make sure to up the number of Trojans too, so that you slayed about twenty wicked enemies before falling. He’ll give you a worthy death, at least to the songs, he’s kind like that” he spit the word. Phyrrus’ view was faltering. “But he will kill you like a dog. Because you served him like one.”
Phyrrus didn’t cry. He did not show weakness, but his lip quivered and the moonlight was dim enough for Teucer to pretend he didn’t see it. They stayed in silence for a little longer.
“Where are you going?” his voice was soft, for once. As if the show he put on to deepen it was not worth it anymore. And why would it be?
Teucer would be leaving him and the consequences enough.
Teucer shrugged. Then, a reckless, kind idea, popped into his head and out his mouth before he could stop it. “I could drop you close to home, if you want.” He offered and almost punched himself. There was a reason he hadn’t let him sleep into his tent, and another he should not let him onto the ship. But hopefully, with Teucer between them, he couldn’t ….
“I’ll stay.” Phyrrus said, with more conviction than probably necessary. “I’m not done yet.”
Teucer nodded.
“I’ll come visit you when this is over.”
“No.”
“I will.” Phyrrus said, and then ran away, skipping his steps much like a child. Teucer watched him, trying to decide if killing him would’ve been the wiser choice.
~O~
There were many young warriors into the war camp. And if young men were anything, they were fodder for the elder to do with as they pleased. That was the way of things, after all. The longer one survived, the more authority they had, no matter if they mind had caught up or not to their age. That was the reason for which many, many people of great age and bravery and courage were allowed the kind of position their mind was simply not made for.
That was the reason so many people died on the altar of pride of powerful man.
And that was the reason – although they were mainly unaware of that at the time – that the Achean war camp was currently in disarray.
Phyrrus was a youth. The youngest of all, which made him target for those older and more victimized than him. Everyone was oh so ready to take their frustration out on the one available target, and Odysseus was oh so ready to let them. After all, how else was Phyrrus meant to love the scraps of care thrown his way, if he hadn’t starved for them to begin with?
But still, Phyrrus was, most of all, important. Important to the war effort, to the prophecy, to ending the ten year long hell they’ve all been stuck in ever since Odysseus had tried being clever and the gods decided to give him consequences for it.
Phyrrus was also cruel, bloodthirsty, and a quickly raising problem, one that needed a steady, strong hand, and absolutely no kind hands willing to deal with it.
Phyrrus was many things. The most pressing and important one as of yet: missing.
~O~
Teucer hadn’t seen his home, his land, or his mother in ten years. After decades of dreaming of it, he was here, in front of the fact, and he was one thing: terrified. There were a few men at his back, the few who hadn’t raced home the second they stepped back. The men who were still loyal but had no place to go in Salamis. He took a few of them and let the others on the ship.
He didn’t tell them to dock, he didn’t tell them to keep the ship prepared, but they kept it anyway, so Teucer took is as a sign. That maybe his fear was clear on his features, and the men themselves knew what was what.
Tecmessa grasped his hand in quiet support. Eurysaces grasped his other because he was nice like that. He took a deep breath and entered.
The hall was just as he remembered it. Large, long and full of paintings. The paintings were new, probably having been replaced in the past decade.
And, on the throne, as grand as ever, was his father.
Teucer was sure that somewhere, in his memories, his father had been kind. That his face had held a look not as displeased as the one he wore now. He was sure he remembered his hand on his shoulder, rewarding him for his good job learning to shoot the bow – Ajax’ hand had always been lighter, more steady, like he offered encouragement and support in case he tripped – his face wrinkling with pride.
There was no such thing on his face now. His father looked at him with criticism, finding him lacking. Teucer swallowed.
“Father….”
“There is one man who gets to proudly call me so.” His father spoke, and his voice rang in the empty hallway. Teucer swallowed. Tecmessa whimpered. His father lifted his chin. “Where is your brother?”
Teucer knew, that second, that his father knew. Somehow, news had reached him first, on faster ships, or maybe divine dreams, so his anger and grief could grow and fester just in time for Teucer to come and receive them. Still, he powered through. There was little he could do about it.
“He fell on his own sword…”
“And couldn’t it be you?” Teleamon sneered. Why did my favourite son have to die when you didn’t?” his father’s face wanted to be stone cold, but there was pain seeping through. Ajax had gotten his temper from their father, the fast burning spark that would decimate everything as long as it had fuel, but die the second there was nothing left to sustain it.
Unfortunately, Teucer had inherited the same trait.
Teucer looked his father in the eye “Did whoever deliver you the news tell you details too, father, or did you simply believe them without proof?”
“What proof do you have that they are wrong? If your brother was alive, it wouldn’t be you who greeted me like this” Teleamon gritted his teeth at him, and Eurysaces whimpered. He squeezed Teucer’s hand harder, like Teucer could protect him from his grandfather. Teucer swallowed. He hated it, but the whole… display left a bitter seed deep in his throat. He had cried for Ajax too. He had mourned him and fought for his funeral rites, and he knew Ajax would do the same… but still, he wondered… would their father had cried the same for him?
No. He needn’t wonder. Ajax had always been the one to love him the most, yet Teucer never appreciated it. He’d lapped at Teleamon’s attention…. Why? Why had he loved Teleamon so?
Teucer opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes were taken by the movement at the corner of his eye. Hit mother stepped through and his voice went out.
Ten years. He hadn’t seen his mother in ten years. Her features softened when they landed on his, the mark of a smile in the wrinkles of her eyes, and Teucer could almost believe she was happy to see him.
His father glared at him, but Teucer didn’t know what to say. What proof did he have that Ajax had died of his own accord, for his own madness? He only had his word, and the fact that he’d never betrayed it to Teleamon.
Something told him it wouldn’t mean much right now.
He was right. His father had seemingly grown tired of waiting and switched his gaze upon Tecmessa and Eurysaces.
“And who is this woman here? And the whelp with her?”
Tecmessa straightened her back, as the princess Ajax had made her. Eurysaces hid. Cowardly, but smart. Something he’d gotten from Teucer then. Ajax would have never cowered.
“This woman is Ajax’ wife, and that is your grandchild.”
Teucer’s voice rang in the empty room, and then he waited. Waited for his father’s featured to soften, for some of the love he was sure he’d felt growing up to surface. And if not for him, then for Ajax. Eurysaces was what was left of Ajax, he even looked like him already, as much as a baby could look like a hardened warrior, surely his father would….
“You call that bastard my heir?”
Tecmessa gasped. Teucer froze, but something hotter than fear was burning inside him, something that made his fists clench and ache for a weapon. Another, pettier part of him felt offended.
His father could have at least pretended the throne was going to his other living child.
“He is no bastard, for Ajax married her properly” Teucer scrambled his pockets for the piece of parchment, because Tecmessa’s fate was hanging onto it.” Here is the letter…” he stretched it to his father, climbing the stairs to the throne in a hurry. He felt his mother’s eyes on his back, silent as she waited for the events to unfold.
His father snatched the letter out of his hand, like he was disgusted to touch Teucer. But, inside the man, there was no shame this time. He’d noticed old men had no shame. Nestor used to joke he used up all of his during his youth, and, in his old age, he had no need for it.
Maybe Teucer, too, had lived too long to feel it. Or maybe he’d wasted it all as a child, living as a bastard.
Teucer took a few steps back, out of politeness. It hit him, then and there, how much taller than his father he was. Even a few steps down from the throne, he could look him in the eyes, if his father would only so will it.
His father didn’t.
His father only looked over the letter. He didn’t read it, his eyes glazing over the words, as if they were not the one last truly honest piece of Ajax he was going to get. Surely, there was war and glory and all of that attached to his weapons, his armor….
There was love attached to the letter. That was the love for Tecmessa, for Eurysaces, the love he held for Teucer when he’d married Tecmessa to spare Eurysaces Teucer’s fate, to spare him what Teleamon wouldn’t. Was that not…. Was that not enough…?
Teleamon didn’t apparently care for love, and Teucer didn’t understand why he was surprised.
Teleamon “Am I supposed to believe that? Am I really supposed to believe that my son, my pride and joy, would waste his life on a war bride?”
Teucer face grew hot, his heart even more so. Tecmessa picked up Eurysaces, as if she would need to bolt at a moment’s notice, and Teucer took a step forward. His heart was bursting, his fingers were clenching, and, for once, he understood what other warriors said when their hands yearned for a blade.
“You call him your pride, but did you know him any?!” he said, loud and clear and it echoed. Teleamon pulled back, the rage gone for a moment, as if he now realized how close Teucer was.
Cursing his name was one thing. Teucer was a warrior, a child who'd never known his father's knee, for he had been too old for stories by the time his father chose to love him. Teucer was a warrior, and Tecmesa was a woman, a little older than his own mother had been. Tecmesa did nothing to deserve her misfortunes and everything to deserve Teucers care and Teleamon dared look at his son's wife, the woman his brother respected more than Teleamon did his mother, and spit on her.
“He is your pride, but did you know him any?” he repeated “Or are you simply ashamed that he had more honor than you and decided to marry the woman who’s life he ruined?” The words spilled form his mouth, leaving silence in their wake.
His mother gasped. His father pulled back, shocked, and then he stood up. It felt…. Performative. Like a cat puffing up to look more threatening.
“Do not dare speak to me like that! I may have allowed Ajax to….”
Teucer did not allow him. “He died and I’m here.”
His father sneered, lips pulling to reveal his teeth. “And what good does it do me? What glory do I get from a traitor?”
Somehow, hearing the words from his father’s mouth left a deeper wound than he’d expected. His rage simmered for a moment, and, when he spoke, Teucer’s voice was low and quiet. “you would have gotten no glory from me if I stayed.”He forced more body into his voice, because if he’d learned anything this past decade, it was that sense and reason always lost to sheer volume. “Not when the people who dishonored my brother so were going to do the same thing to me.”
“Oh?” Teleamon said, sarcastically “And how did the other kings, my old friends, dishonored him?’
“Ajax wanted right to Achilles’ armor, and they stopped him. My brother fought and protected everyone valiantly for all these years, yet, when it came to the sharing of the spoils, people voted against him. Wicked Odysseus took the armor, and then Wise Athena scrambled my brother’s brains to try and kill them. When he woke from his reverie, he fell on his sword….”
His father didn’t let him finish. “He had the decency to die with honor! You deserted them because…”
“For what purpose was I to fight?” Teucer yelled back, and he was louder. His chest rang in a way the man knew would ache the next day. “What difference does it make, if I am a living traitor or a dead one? You would still only be known as the father of a mad man and a foreigner!’
His father took a step towards him. “Do not speak to me like that!”
Teucer climbed the stairs, matching his father “How else am I supposed to speak to you then? How am I meant to talk to you, when you’re not willing to listen?! I am your son, yet my word it not even worth pausing to ponder for! You made your mind about me from the second some foreign tongue poured poison into your ear…”
‘I do not listen because you have no right! You call yourself my son?! You with your disgrace? You’re not my son! Your mother is a slave and a Trojan! Maybe if she was some princess…”
“Who made my mom a slave?!” Teucer was now on the same level as his father, seeing his own features twisted in the shine of his eye. “Who took her from her land and into your bed? Was she not born a princess when you met her? If you blame her so for being a slave, why did you not court her properly? Why didn’t you come bearing gifts and praises, and take her in a golden chariot?! You had them all!
“Don’t be stupid, I was already married…”
“So my mother was a slave because you got to her second. That is all.”
His father heaved, catching his breath, baring his teeth as if that would be enough to make him cower.
But What right did he even have?! Teucer didn't ask to be born! He didn't ask to be scorned for never being enough. And he was not the child of a slave! His mother was a princess! She would've married a king in honor, had her lot been better with her father. Had Herakles not taken her. Why was Teleamons choice Teucers shame? Her shame? How dare this man sit on his throne, after a childhood of either dereliction or conditional love and cry for the son he'd sent to the slaughter?
His father opened his mouth.
Teucer didn’t let him. With renewed vigor, he stepped forward and cried." Was I born from rain? From dew? Were you away on campaign at the time of my conception, that you so easily remove your blame from my existence?! Who made my mother a slave?” he stepped closer, and, for once, his father stepped back. Teucer didn’t stop.
From the corner, his mother gasped.
Teucer didn’t look at her. He grasped his father’s shoulder, and forced the man to look at him.” Did she not have honor when you took it from her?”
His father didn’t answer him. His father didn’t look at him. Teucer was not naïve enough to hope for shame, for regret, so he made himself feel satisfied in the outcome.
At least, this one battle, he’d won. He took a step back, looking up and down at the man who’s blood he’d worshipped, because that was the only way he could bear to stand his own. Teucer searched for the place where his love was. He'd loved his father, surely. Surely. He’d yearned for it to be returned for a reason after all. He remembered his heart soaring at the praise, his shoulder burning where his father had placed a proud hand on it. He remembered promising his father glory, and gis father beaming and believing him.
He searched for that, for the love, not in the old man in front of him, but in himself.
If there was any, it had died with Ajax. Love and cheer and happiness, they'd all died with Ajax, and, apparently, the thing between his father and him too.... it all died with Ajax.
Teucer stretched, grabbing his the decorative sword from above his father’s throne. His own had been left on the ship, one of Ajax’, so his father wouldn’t confiscate it.
For the first time since he’d stepped off his ship, he felt grounded.
His father stared at the sword, and then at Teucer. The previous rage and insult was gone, and his body was tense all over. "You’d kill me?’ His voice was soft, and Teucer’s heart bled with grief at the accusation. So little trust… he’d never truly been his father’s son, had he? Not in anything but blood.
Teucer sighed. When he spoke, the rage was gone, his own exhaustion ringing on the empty walls."I've slayed plenty of my cousins for your glory. I’ve been called a coward and a traitor by cousins, uncles before I’d slayed them, and by my friends, after Ajax was dead.” He lifted his chin. “Did you not just disown me as your own?” he took another step and his father toppled on his throne.” If I am to slay you right now, would it really be a sin, since you’ve loudly declared you’re not my father?”
Teucer wondered if that was what his brother had seen, when he wanted to kill the Arterides. Weather his brother’s all consuming rage was divinely given, the same way Aphrodites herself must have plucked the feeling from Teucer’s heart, for it sat heavy in his chest. He wondered if it was now made of stone, unfeeling, so he’d be able to carry on a sin without regret. He wondered if there was more at play that wanted his father gone
If that was the plan, then the gods would be disappointed, because his father caved. Teleamon, one of the great Argonauts, caved. It was disappointing in a way. Now, miles away from the war, Teucer hands were thirsting with bloodlust.
Teleamon stepped closer, as if to fight, but stopped. He seemed to realize the same thing Teucer had when he stepped into the dais and faced his father.
Teleamon had never held him on his knee, so he didn’t know how heavy he was, how heavy his own hand could land upon the older one. Because, for all of teleamon’s glory, all his wars and his battles, there was one very cruel truth of life and that was age. And, along with that one truth came a few more: namely, Teucer was younger. He was taller than his father. Stronger, faster. He'd never grown as big as Ajax, but had gotten the same thing from Teleamon, the same thing Teleamon had lost. The strength of his youth, the fortitude of his soul. Teucer wondered if there was anything in his father's soul but his love for Ajax, or if his brother had killed their father too when he'd killed himself. He'd thought Tecmessa had lost her cheer, but there was still life and love in her. His father was hollow.
Was he already dead maybe, and the gods had simply sent Teucer to collect? Was he, too now, under divine influence, now that he’d left the war and the bloodshed? Had he not killed enough people, and the gods had allowed him home to settle that debt?
He didn’t. If the coldness of his heart was truly of divine fuel, then they must’ve wasted it all on Ajax’s madness. Because Teucer himself took a step back. “I will take my mother’s dowry.” He announced, and saw the servants start to scurry. His father was still frozen on his chair, and Teucer hoped he would not punish them too harshly. After all, he would be alive to do so. “I will take her too, since obviously don’t cherish her enough to care.”
That was a lie. His father, for all the affection he rationed their way, had always spared more for his mother. At least enough to call her to his chambers every so often, and assure Teucer never wanted for anything but his love. But it felt good, to dig in the blade and see his father’s eyes widen at the words.
His father didn’t speak and, for the first time, Teucer looked at his mother. She’d… she’d grown strong. She’d spend his childhood telling him to learn and bear the pain, because being in pain meant you were alive enough to feel it. Would she even want to go, to leave the cold, detached safety of his father, for Teucer and the uncertainty of their future?
His mother met his eyes, and then looked away as she slowly stepped towards Tecmessa.
“I will take a ship too, fully stocked.” He added, at the end, although it lacked the bite of his previous words. It was now… he was now awkward. Teucer turned around, ready to leave and spare himself further embarrassment. Later, when his heart would unfreeze, he wanted to be able to cherish this moment, this feeling, without the burden of shame.
He must be able to cherish it in the future.
He was two steps down the stairs when his father stood up. “Wait!” he said, running towards the edge. “You cannot take her, you cannot leave me alone!” his father’s voiced had no more poise, only pain and desperation. It cracked at the end, turning the last words into a cry.
In another life, Ajax would’ve cried the same. He would’ve let Teucer hold him, and he would have come back home. In another life, Ajax would’ve entered the palace with Eurysaces on his shoulders and Tecmessa at his side, and his father would’ve been so happy he would’ve given Teucer some praise too, for manner’s sake.
In that same life, Teucer would’ve heard his father cry and stretched a hand to hold him close and near.
That was not that life.
Teucer turned towards his father. “Now, you love the slave?” his voice cut and it felt good. “Now, when you are afraid to lose her? Where was this love in the years where I grew up?!” Teleamon opened his mouth and Teucer stopped him, he pushed him and his father fell. The metals on his belt rang on the cold floor and Teucer looked down at him. This time, when he spoke, his voice came in a whisper. “Where was this love when I came in, when I needed it? Where was this love when I needed you?”
His father looked at him, and Teucer couldn’t read it.
He didn’t waste more time trying to. He merely turned around and left.
If Teucer looked, he could have spotted something, maybe a spark of pain, of regret, not for the dead but for the living. But Teucer didn't look. Didn't doubt. He didn't want to questions whether his hot tempered father truly regretted his outburst, or if only now did he realize this wasn't a fight that he could win. That Teucer could kill him and take his place, and there were not enough able fighting men to stop him.
If Teucer had looked, then maybe his father’s loneliness would’ve moved something in his stone heart, something strong enough to ask for an apology. For the right to stay.
But Teucer didn’t look. He left.
~O~
His mother had yet to ask him for his plans. After they’d left – with no opposition, his mother’s dowry and the promised/stolen ship – she had exchanged a few words with Tecmessa and was currently playing with Eurysaces. She was too old to chase him around, but her voice had been made for stories and legends and battles, and Eurysaces looked at her with starts in his eyes.
Teucer wondered if she would receive him too. If, when she came to drip storied into Eurysaces’ ear at bedtime, she would accept Teucer’s head on her lap, card her fingers through his hair, and speak to him the sweet lies he yearned to believe again.
Tecmessa was also on the ship, not taking her eyes off of them. Teucer was not offended. He understood her fear and hoped that, with enough time, he’d learn to trust his mother too. She stepped next to him, grasping his wrist.
“What now?” she asked, and Teucer wished he knew.
“There are kings who hadn’t heard of us. Or who do not carry anger nor loyalty. They would be in need of a soldier.” He said, and hated how unsure his voice was. “My mother’s dowry and the spoils from Troy should carry us for long enough to settle.”
“So you don’t plan to raid the closest settlement? You may have few men, but they are still enough.’
Teucer couldn’t parse her voice. It would be a lie to say the thought didn’t cross his mind. But, if Troy had taught him anything, it was how easy lands could change hands, and how harsh that was on the people of it. Teucer was skilled. He was good at being seen. He could conquer any lands, because Troy was grand, but it was also the one grand thing. He’d conquered plenty of it already. He could always take another one. He could kill one more king and settle in his place, and then deal with all the people who’d ever been loyal to him.
That would be the logical thing to do, at least if you asked any of the kings whoose answer to mistortune was to inflict a bigger one onto others. But then he would look at Tecmessa and at his mother, at two Trojan war brides, at himself and Eurysaces, two Trojan princes who would never truly know what it’s like to be Trojan, and the lust for war would simmer down into exhaustion.
He could carry another war. He didn’t want to.
“I can always raid it later” he finally spoke. “There is never a too late time to raise a sword and sack a city…” the words didn’t feel like his own, his mouth didn’t feel like his own. “But I cannot ask for sanctuary once I’ve already attacked.”
“So it is sancruary you hope for?”
Teucer nodded.
Both him and Tecmessa were too old, too war wrought to have hope for the future. They had too little heart to spare. But Eurysaces burst into a fit of giggles at something his mother said, and Teucer knew he could scrounge up more hope for him.