Chapter Text
It’s hard to know where things begin.
Probably, because everyone has their own beginnings. The moment they enter stage left. Open the box. Turn the page. Suddenly finding themselves in the story, without quite knowing how they got there.
For Shane, the eldest son of the Trojan king, ruler of the wealthiest city in the ancient world, it begins when he watches his brother slip out of the Spartan banquet hall, followed by the Spartan Queen a few minutes later.
Hayden is adopted, a ward of his father’s that soon became more than that. Shane has always thought of him simply as his brother, the pair too close for something as crude as blood to be of importance. And he loves him, more than anything probably, but Hayden is led by his heart (and other less admirable body parts) and not his wits. Which, when you’re attempting to negotiate a delicate peace treaty, is not ideal. Still, the agreements have been signed, the hands shaken, and tomorrow they will be sailing home. So really, he just needs to survive tonight without the Spartan king noticing where his queen has wandered off to, and all will be well.
“Is your goblet empty?” Kent, the king, immediately grabs the wine jug next to him, an impressive feat seeing as he is balancing a courtesan on his lap. The wine splashes over the edges of Shane’s cup which is, in fact, not empty. Shane is used to his wine being significantly weaker than this, and therefore has been barely sipping at his drink. Still, he smiles tightly at the man next to him.
“Thank you,” taking hold of the cup and lifting it in acknowledgement.
Kent laughs. “Of course, let it not be said that Spartans lack hospitality, huh?” Turning his face towards the girl in his lap, growling and biting at her neck.
Shane wonders how much longer he’ll have to sit here before he can slip off to bed without seeming rude. His eyes go nervously to the staircase again, and he feels his stomach flip. There will be no sleeping until Hayden comes back, or until he’s certain Kent isn’t going to walk-in on his wife with another man. Gods, he hopes they aren’t fucking in Kent’s bed. The thought making him ill enough that he reaches for his drink, taking a real swallow this time.
“You know,” Kent, apparently done toying with his courtesan, turns his attention back to Shane, “as fruitful as these peace talks have been, I am a bit disappointed we didn’t get to see how the Trojan force measures up against the Greeks,” he elbows Shane who does his best not to react. “The two strongest armies this side of the world?” letting out a low whistle. “What a show that would have been.”
It is work for Shane not to grimace. “I find myself rather more inclined to spare lives than sacrifice them.”
Kent waves his hand flippantly through the air. “Sure, sure, but still. Is there no part of you that is curious?”
Shane finally turns to look at Kent fully—ruddy cheeks, diadem askew. “Curious about what?”
Kent leans in a little closer, nearly unseating the girl in his lap, breath smelling of wine and something heavier—rotten. “Ilya,” a certain gravitas to the name. “He is said to be the best of the Greeks,” Shane feels his face twitch. He has, of course, heard about Ilya, the boy with the nymph mother and prophesied glory. People whisper his name like he is one of the great heroes, but as far as Shane is concerned, Ilya is nothing but a spoiled prince living in his father’s palace. “And you,” Kent goes on, bringing Shane’s attention back to the present, “are the greatest Trojan warrior your people have ever known,” hungry smile on his face. “Surely you must be curious what it would be like to face him. And who would win.”
The truth is, though Shane is loathed to admit it, he is curious. It is hard not to be, when you have heard so much about someone. When you have been compared as he and Ilya have. Of course, Shane’s reputation comes from success in battle. Not gods. Not fate. He’s not sure how one matches up against the other. Not sure what a boy made of myths looks like in the light of day.
“Well,” Shane finally makes himself say, “luckily for the Greeks, I do not start wars just to satisfy my own curiosity.”
For some reason Kent laughs at that. “No,” reaching for his goblet, “no, of course not. But you never know, war is a bitch,” jostling the girl in his lap before nuzzling at her neck, making her squeal, “and she has a tendency to bite people when they least expect it.”