Chapter Text
"And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy."
- The Symposium, Plato
Book I
The Panathenaia unfolded over Athens like a living thing - days of noise and color and ritual, the city's breath quickened by the press of visitors and the favor of the gods. Banners snapped in the breeze from temple to portico, and the smell of incense tangled with dust and sweat. Athenians moved through it all with practiced pride, as though reminding every guest that this was their festival, older than memory and loud with meaning.
The hippodrome lay just beyond its heart, vast and unforgiving, its packed earth already scarred by chariot wheels. Horses stamped and tossed their heads as grooms led them to water, the air sharp with heat and animal musk. Hector stood among them with Rhesus, both princes momentarily freed from ceremony, sleeves rolled, hands busy checking tack and reins.
Rhesus ran a soothing hand down the neck of his lead horse, murmuring to it in a low voice. "Athens puts on a fine show," he said, glancing toward the stands where spectators were still shouting themselves hoarse. "Though I'd wager King Menestheus would applaud just as loudly if the Spartans tripped over their own reins."
Hector smiled faintly as he tightened a strap. "He is still trying to charm them, then?"
"Of course," Rhesus said with a grin. "After what Theseus did to their royal house, I doubt Menestheus believes there is such a thing as too much flattery. Best behavior, brightest smiles, and a judge who favors diplomacy over fairness."
Hector snorted. "Castor and Pollux will hardly need favor. Half the crowd would cheer them even if they drove straight into a wall."
"True," Rhesus said. "But it never hurts to have hosts on your side."
They moved together down the line of horses, checking hooves and exchanging quiet instructions with the grooms. For a moment, the world narrowed to leather and muscle and the familiar comfort of preparation. Then another voice joined them, calm and carrying easily over the noise.
"Unless, of course, Athens won't be the only one judging."
They turned to find Thrasymedes, prince of Pylos, standing a short distance away, his own horses tethered behind him. He wore the look of someone enjoying the weight of a secret.
Rhesus raised a brow. "You speak in riddles, Pylian."
Thrasymedes smiled. "I speak in rumors. Have you not heard?"
"Hear what?" Hector asked, straightening.
"That the triad of judges will this year have someone who's not of Athenian origin."
Rhesus let out a short laugh. "Since when? It was always the high priest, the current king, and the chosen noble house of Athens that would be given the honours. It's a custom older than three of us combined."
"So it is," Thrasymedes agreed. "But the city is fond of surprises. Word is the council has decided another would better suit the occasion."
Hector frowned, surprise cutting cleanly through his ease. "The judges were announced weeks ago."
"Rumor runs faster than heralds," Thrasymedes said mildly.
"And who," Rhesus asked, skepticism sharpening his tone, "could possibly appear now and satisfy Athens' pride?"
"The king of Ithaca."
For a moment, Hector said nothing. Ithaca. His mind supplied the name at once - Laertes, old but clever, spoken of with respect among kings. A safe choice, he supposed. A man known by kings thanks to his venture with Jason and the Argonauts. Many would trust his judgement.
Thrasymedes continued, unaware of Hector's silent conclusion. "My father has dealt with him before. I have met him a handful of times myself."
Rhesus laughed. "That hardly tells us whether he'll favor us over Spartans."
"No," Thrasymedes said thoughtfully, "but I would not wager against him. He is… observant."
Hector nodded along, still quiet, his thoughts already moving past the rumor. If it were Laertes, then there was little to worry over. Old kings preferred balance. They valued reputation, but they gained enough of it in their lifetimes to allow them boldness in court and in confrontations.
"Well," Rhesus said, clapping his hands together, "if Menestheus truly accepts someone from outside, perhaps we stand a better chance. Castor and Pollux won't have Athens whispering in their favor."
"A miracle worthy of the gods themselves," Hector replied, a smile returning as he reached for his horse's bridle.
Thrasymedes chuckled and excused himself, heading back toward his own servants. Hector watched him go only briefly before turning his attention back to the horses, to the weight of the coming race settling comfortably on his shoulders.
A foreign king judging Athenian games was unusual, perhaps, but not troubling. Whoever Athens had chosen, Hector would meet the challenge as he always did - head-on, without hesitation.
For now, the games mattered more than rumors. The rest could wait.
The noise of the city thinned the farther Hector walked from it. Stone gave way to packed earth, and the shouts of spectators dissolved into cicadas and the low, contented sounds of animals settling for the evening. Beyond the outer paths, where the land dipped gently, a small pasture spread out - temporary, no doubt, arranged for the festival sacrifices. A handful of sheep grazed lazily, bells chiming soft and irregular.
Hector slowed when he noticed the boy.
He sat on a fallen log at the pasture's edge, a young ram pressed companionably against his knee. One hand rested in the wool, fingers moving with practiced ease, scratching behind the animal's ear. The other lifted a piece of itra to his mouth. He took a bite without looking, eyes half-lidded, content.
The lamb, offended by the lack of generosity, stirred. With a sudden, indignant bleat, it craned its neck toward the brittle.
"Ah - no," the boy said mildly, nudging the ram's snout away with his wrist. The animal persisted, and the boy laughed, pushing it back more firmly. "Yours is grass. This is mine."
The ram huffed, thwarted, and settled again. The boy swallowed, wiped his fingers on lamb's wool, and returned his attention to the small block of wood in his lap, knife flashing briefly in the sun as he resumed carving.
Hector paused, taking him in.
At first glance, he might have been a shepherd: lean, barefoot, at ease among sheep with what seemed to be a relatively short shepherd's crook. But the clothes gave him away - brightly dyed chiton and chlamys, their edges finished with decorative ribbons that caught the light when he moved. His dark curls were cropped short, unruly as fleece, his skin deep olive and sun-warmed, one shoulder bared and burnished by long hours outdoors.
Not a servant, then. And not, Hector thought with growing curiosity, quite what he seemed.
He stepped closer, boots crunching softly over dry grass.
"You're remarkably patient," Hector said.
The boy looked up, unstartled, as if he'd known Hector was there all along. His eyes were mismatched - one blue, clear and bright, the other the color of polished bronze - and both of them sparked with amusement. The difference should have been jarring. Instead, it was weirdly mesmerizing.
"He's remarkably persistent," the boy replied, patting the ram's head. "We meet in the middle."
Hector smiled. "You let him win?"
"Sometimes," the boy said. "It builds character. Just not mine."
Hector laughed and folded his arms. "You don't look like you belong out here."
"Says the Trojan," the boy said lightly.
"Wait, how did you?-"
The man didn't hide the amusement. "You sound funny. It's obvious Greek rarely visited your tongue."
"You are no better."
"I just so happened to not care enough to speak cleanly."
Hector glanced at the knife, at the careful movements of his hands. There was a thick ring on the boy's thumb. There was some pattern on it, but it was too dark to see it in great detail.
"What are you making?" The Trojan asked, stepping closer despite himself.
The boy turned the object in his hand, revealing a small cube, its edges smoothed carefully. Carved symbols marked each face. "Dice," he said. "Or they will be, once I finish this set."
He held out the cube, and Hector took it, turning it over between his fingers. The craftsmanship was good - better than good for something made so casually. "You make a great many of them," Hector observed, noticing several others lined up beside the boy.
"I get bored," the boy replied cheerfully. "And everyone seems to be too focused on the games to do something as simple as chat, so I hope to convince someone to play with me later. Dice help with that. Many wouldn't mind some friendly gamble."
Hector let out a huff when smiling, almost in disbelief. "You expect strangers to trust dice made by someone they've just met? You could've tampered with them."
The boy's grin widened. "Oh, don't worry your pretty head about it. Only half of them are biased."
Hector startled, then laughed outright, the sound echoing in the quiet garden. "You admit it so easily?"
"Why lie about a lie?" the boy said, shrugging, "Besides, anyone clever enough to notice deserves the warning."
"You don't seem worried about being caught," Hector said, handing the die back.
The boy tucked it safely among the others. "Caught doing what? Passing time?" He tilted his head, studying Hector in turn. "You don't look like someone who passes time easily."
"I have duties," Hector said automatically.
"Ah," the boy replied, as if that explained everything. "Then you're exactly the sort who should play with me."
Trojan raised his brow, "Because I should rest?"
"Because you will be easy to scam." The man answered, smiling shamelessly. If not for the hair, Hector could swear that the stranger looked exactly like one of the cats that his sisters would regularly bring to the palace, to his mother's dismay.
He smiled despite himself. "And you? What are you, besides bored?"
The boy stood up, waking the lamb that was leaning on his leg. Then dusted off his clothes before giving an exaggerated bow. "I'm but a guest," he said lightly. "Like everyone else here. Enjoying Athens. Avoiding wrestling matches."
"Why avoid them?" Hector asked, amused.
The boy rolled his eyes. "Have you seen the men who throw themselves into the ring? Most of them are at least twice my size. I'll wait until the gods offer me some more mass. There is a difference between being confident and being straight out suicidal. Besides," he added with a conspiratorial smirk, "I would not want to potentially embarrass myself in front of judging kings."
"Kings? So you heard about the change in a jury?"
The stranger once again adorned this feline smile. "I was one of the first to learn it, actually."
"And what do you think of the king of Ithaca then?"
"The king of Ithaca? A smartmouth and a menace. I would stab him if forced to stay with no one but him."
Hector barked a laugh. "You think the king is a menace?"
"I think any man who prefers openly judging people instead of proper sportsmanship is hiding something," the boy said solemnly, then ruined it by winking.
"You speak like you figured everyone out."
"I speak like someone who enjoys conversation, but due to a lack of a partner, was forced to watch others for entertainment," the boy replied. And as he was speaking, the lamb bleated clearly, unhappy with being ignored. The animal took a step back before headbutting the calf of the man, who just laughed, amused, before rubbing its head and shoving it to the side. He moved easily, though when he shifted his weight, Hector thought - only for a moment - that something in the motion was careful.
"What's your name?" Hector asked.
The boy inclined his head. "Outis."
Hector frowned. "That's not a name."
Outis smiled, unbothered. "It's the one I'm using."
"Very well, Outis," Hector said, indulging him. "Are you here to compete, at least? Or will the dice be your sole contribution to the games?"
Outis adjusted his chlamys, tugging it into place with deliberate attention, ensuring the fabric fell to cover his legs. "You could say I'll be participating."
Hector tilted his head. "That doesn't answer the question."
"It answers one you didn't ask," Outis said pleasantly.
Hector laughed under his breath. "You enjoy being difficult."
"I enjoy being underestimated," Outis corrected.
There were at least a few times where Hector should've gotten annoyed and decided not engage further with someone who clearly enjoyed messing with him. But for some reason, he couldn't help but find the company relaxing. Maybe because they weren't acting formally, or because there were no expectations.
"And for now?" Hector asked. "Do you plan anything other than carving in wood and petting sheep?"
Outis cocked his head. "Why?"
Hector hesitated, then shrugged, feigning ease. "Because it seems a waste to carve dice alone when the night is still young."
Outis's smile softened, something thoughtful passing briefly through his mismatched eyes. "And what would you suggest instead?"
"Company," Hector said. The word was deliberately vague, offered lightly, as if it meant nothing at all. "Conversation. Perhaps a game."
The ram chose that moment to bleat, loud and accusatory.
Outis laughed, reaching down to scratch its chin. "He disapproves."
"Of me?" Hector asked.
"Of me running away with a stranger." Outis laughed, petting the little ball of wool. "You never gave me your name."
With the same exaggerated courtesy as was offered to him before he bowed to the mysterious shepherd. "Prince Hector. Son of Priam of Troy." Then he matched the cunning smile. "But you probably already knew that."
The man of mismatched eyes got closer. Their faces almost touching. Now it was even easier to notice the difference in height, with the man being probably half a head shorter than him. But he just looked at him before moving his hand towards the Trojan's face and flicking the bronze band on his forehead.
"I had my suspicions."
If Hector's ears went red in embarrassment, Outis didn't say anything.
Hector led the way along a narrow rise that overlooked the training grounds, where the land fell away into a shallow bowl of trampled grass and churned earth. From here, the noise softened into something almost pleasant - shouted commands dulled by distance, the thud of feet, the rattle of practice chariots looping the track below. A low stone wall ran along the crest of the hill, half-swallowed by ivy and sun-warmed enough to sit on comfortably.
"I spotted this place not too long after arriving," Hector said, sitting down with a satisfied air. "You can see everyone, and no one bothers you."
Outis joined him, settling with an ease that suggested he approved immediately. He produced a wineskin as if by magic and tipped it toward Hector in a silent offer.
They drank and watched.
Below them, men trained in pairs and clusters - wrestlers testing grips, runners pacing themselves, charioteers drilling turns again and again. Hector found himself pointing out strengths and weaknesses without thinking, his voice low and thoughtful.
"Too eager," he said of one man. "He burns himself out."
Outis hummed. "And this one is about to trip," He took another sip. "Just watch."
He pointed at a different runner, and as if on command, he tripped, sliding his bare torso over the ground, making both men wince in pain.
Hector shot him a look, then laughed. "How did you know?"
"The speed was uneven. He was forcing himself to continue."
"You are very observant."
"I enjoy watching," Outis replied lightly. "People forget themselves when they think they're being impressive."
After a while, Outis tilted his head, studying Hector with open curiosity. "So," he said, "which contest claims you?"
"Chariot racing," Hector answered. "That was always the plan."
"Only one?" Outis sounded genuinely surprised.
Hector shrugged. "One done well is better than many done poorly." He paused, then turned the question back on him. "And you?"
Outis didn't answer at once. He drank, eyes on the men below, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.
"Why so curious?" he asked.
Hector smirked and leaned closer, shoulder bumping Outis's. "Because now I know who to watch for. Perhaps even remove my competition."
He gave Outis a playful shove, just enough to imply making him fall down the hill.
Outis laughed, steadying himself easily. "You wouldn't dare. You're far too noble for that."
"Am I?" Hector asked, amused.
"I think so," Outis said. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, "As for me - I'll be in most of the games."
Hector scoffed. "That's a lie."
Outis hummed, thoughtful, eyes dancing. "Maybe."
They both laughed, the sound easy and unguarded, carried off by the breeze.
Then something barked.
The sound was sudden and close - deep, furious, doubled. Hector turned just in time to see two massive dogs burst from behind a stand of scrub, their hackles raised, teeth bared. They had the look of guard dogs gone feral, all muscle and momentum, and they were already charging up the hill.
Hector was on his feet instantly. "Run!"
He ran as fast as he could towards the stone wall, which he hoped was high enough so dogs would not follow. He climbed onto it with a practiced movement and turned back -
- and froze.
Outis was running, but badly. There was a hitch in his stride, a fraction too slow, too careful. One of the dogs gained fast, paws tearing at the earth.
"Outis!" Hector shouted, reaching down.
Outis lunged for the wall, fingers slipping on stone. The dogs were almost upon them.
At the last moment, Hector caught his wrist and hauled, bracing his feet against the wall as he pulled with everything he had. Outis stumbled, nearly wrenched back, some of the chiton torn off where one dog got to bite it, then Hector dragged him up and over in a tangle of limbs.
They were breathing heavily as they looked down at the dogs. One was having its front paws against the wall, barking at them, as the other was more focused on the piece of fabric that was in its mouth.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Outis lay on his back, breath coming fast, curls plastered to his forehead. Hector hovered over him, heart pounding, hands still tight around his arms.
"…So," Outis managed, grinning breathlessly, "about removing competition."
Hector let out a shaky laugh, relief flooding him. "I should've kept my mouth shut. Gods are too big fans of such ironic deaths."
"Next time I'm picking the hangout spot."
"How was I supposed to know that it was a private territory?"
"By actually checking the place."
"Oh, fuck off."
"Then let go of my hand."
Hector realized then that he was still holding the man by the wrist. He released him at once, standing and offering a hand to pull him up - this time more gently.
Below them, the dogs finally lost interest and wandered off. The hilltop returned to its lazy quiet, the games continuing as if nothing had happened.
But it was clear that they shouldn't get down since the dogs could come back at any moment, and they weren't so sure if the other side of the wall had similar surprises for them.
They walked the length of the wall as the night appropriately settled over Athens, the festival's noise thinning into distant laughter and the clink of cups. Torches burned low along the paths below, their light wavering like tired stars. The stone beneath their feet still held the day's warmth.
Outis lagged behind almost immediately.
Hector noticed after a few steps, then slowed without comment. After a dozen more, he glanced back. Outis was still smiling, still easy in his manner - but his breath came a little too fast, his steps just a touch uneven.
"You've gone quiet," Hector said, after which he smiled, jesting. "You aren't dying by any chance?"
Outis stopped for a moment. His breath is studying. With utmost elegance, he responded to the prince with his middle finger. "Of fatigue. Walking is terribly demanding, you know."
Hector arched his brow. "You're tired from walking?"
"From running," Outis corrected, a little too quickly. He inhaled, then added, "And from enjoying myself excessively."
Hector snorted. "If this is you after a little excitement, how exactly do you plan to participate in any race? You run like -" he searched for the word, then smirked, "- like a three-legged goat."
Outis tried to move faster. His face was squinting. "I am an excellent runner," he said, affronted. "As for you to know."
"Really?"
"At least I'm fast enough to kick you back to those dogs."
"Oh?" Hector reacted with apparent sarcasm, though his own legs ached and his breath wasn't much steadier. "I'll be sure to remember that."
"You should," Outis replied, dignity wounded but intact. "I simply have… methods."
Hector nodded solemnly. "Of course you do."
They continued, Hector very obviously not believing a word of it.
The wall ended where the stone broke away into a lower road - a narrow stretch that led back toward the guest quarters. Hector jumped down easily and turned, ready with another quip.
Outis followed - and stumbled.
He caught himself before falling, but not before dropping to one knee. Hector opened his mouth to tease him -
- and stopped.
Dark stains marked the hem of Outis's chiton, soaked deep enough to glisten faintly in the torchlight.
Hector's stomach dropped. "Outis."
Outis glanced down, then back up, far too casual. "It's nothing."
"I thought the dogs didn't get you," Hector said sharply. "So explain that."
Outis shrugged, already trying to straighten. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It looks worse than it is."
Hector's jaw tightened. "You're lying."
Outis smiled, infuriatingly mild. "I prefer the term 'being optimistic.'"
Hector exhaled through his nose, irritation sparking hot and immediate - but instead of arguing, he stepped closer and crouched in front of him.
"Get on," he said.
Outis blinked. "What?"
Hector turned his back, bracing himself. "If you don't wish to be honest, that's your choice. But you are not walking anywhere while bleeding through your clothes."
There was a pause. Then a quiet, mortified laugh.
"You are unbearable," Outis muttered - but he shifted forward, careful, and climbed onto Hector's back.
Hector stood, steadying himself with ease. Outis was lighter than he expected.
They started down the road together, the rhythm of Hector's steps sure and unhurried. After a few minutes, Outis's grip loosened, his chin settling against Hector's shoulder.
"Mmm," Outis murmured, drowsy now. "I was right about you."
"Oh?" Hector said.
"A virtuous, perfect prince," Outis slurred fondly. "Exactly as suspected."
Hector smiled despite himself. "Careful," he said. "I can still throw you into the river."
Outis huffed a soft laugh, already half-asleep. "You won't."
Hector adjusted his hold, carrying him onward through the quiet streets, and did not correct him.
They did not reach their destination at once.
The road curved and stretched, and between one torch and the next, they let themselves drift into talk that meant nothing and everything - remarks about the wine, about Athens' crooked streets, about which gods were most fond of meddling and which at least had the decency to be obvious about it. Their voices stayed low, unguarded, as if the night itself were listening and had decided to keep their words.
Around them, the city softened. Doors closed. Laughter thinned into murmurs, then into silence. Athens drew a slow breath and let it out again, settling into sleep only to promise waking before dawn. Even the stones seemed to rest.
It was so quiet that a well-trained ear might have heard it: the faint whistle of something cutting through the dark.
An arrow of a golden glow and tip sharper than a needlepoint.
It found its mark without sound, without blood, without either of them turning to look. Yet the night warmed subtly, as if touched by something unseen.