Big Book Of Smornby One Shots

This Is Who They Sing About (In The Verses) [N]

TW: mentioning of blood/injuries/death/fire/sex, kidnapping, Greek Mythology!AU

Ross is not a warrior, but he finds himself among those who are. He bandages gashes and resets broken bones (he frowns at blood stained tunics and ear piercing screeches). He makes certain that those who can be rescued are saved from the trip to Hades for the time being (he suspects that they'll have to face the judgment before the end of the war anyway).

He gets used to the dirty sheets and the small tents and second hand medical tools to work with. He gets so used to it that one day, he looks at his hands when they're stained in blood; blood that isn't his (and in dirt, and in things he can't – won't – name), and feels no disgust (and no surprise, and no despair) rise up in him.

He gets used to the way people look at him with dead eyes, broken skin, and tired bones. He gets so used to it all that he isn't terrified anymore when he looks his chief in the eye and sees lost hope and burning hatred, slowly growing with every passing day.

Ross gets so used to the situation that when he arrives it's even more noticeable than it'd have been before (he stands out and shines like the sun). He doesn't seem human (he isn't – cannot be) with his eye crinkling smile, and glowing skin, and smiling eyes. Ross feels unworthy (forgotten, lost, dead) in his presence (in the presence of this man with his curling hair and flawless skin and beauty that seems so natural, but cannot be).

The man looks at him once and the warmth that curls in the pit of his stomach and races through his veins isn't normal (it isn't the heat, it isn't the sickness that has been creeping up on him from weeks, it isn't anything he can describe – it's not human). The man looks at him once and leaves him in shreds that he cannot sew together with the string he has for open wounds (he doesn't want to think about what could – would – happen if the man was to talk to him).

The man (being, not a man – cannot be a man, his mind supplies) dashes past most of them and no one raises a sword (or a dagger, or a fist, or anything) and somehow Ross isn't surprised. He cannot think of a man (except perhaps those Catullus painted in his poems) who would be able to scratch (damage, destroy) the fair skin and find himself not skinned after (by himself, by his brothers in arms, by the gods).

Ross sees the stranger disappear behind the flap of the chief's tent. And even if he cannot hear his voice, Ross pretends that he can and he thinks of palaces of gold and silver. There's something about the stranger, something that makes his fingers tremble and his wrists shake (something that leaves him dizzy at the mere thought of him, something that makes him miss a wounded soldier's arm three times with his needle).

(Something that leaves him lost, much like Odysseus. The difference between them being that he's just a medic and Odysseus was a hero – the gods do not favor him).

+

Ross sees the man again and again. He sees him in his dreams and catches glimpses of a blinding smile in the corner of his eye. He tries to find him, attempts to trail after him, but he always finds himself at the gate of their camp, staring at the sea that holds no life, time and time again.

The thing that manages to capture his attention the most however is that his chief smiles at him with all teeth, and sharp edges – so, so wide, so full of life and so full of hope (hope Ross thought he lost).

(If Ross didn't know better – but he does, he does, really – he would say it was the work of the gods).

+

The soldier beneath Ross' palms is dying. He is trying (oh, gods, he is trying), but the man's life is slipping between the cracks of his fingers and away from his control. He's trying to keep the man breathing, but his lungs seem to have given up and his eyes have been closed for longer than they should have been – longer than Ross said he could give them a rest.