"Philomela's Tapestry", parts 1-3 - Greek mythology fan fiction
Title: Philomela's Tapestry
Fandom: Greek mythology
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Philomela, Daphne, Chrysippus, Persephone, Apollo, Laius, Atreus, Thyestes
Summary: Fighting to survive and escape, Philomela constructs a tapestry which weaves together stories similar to her own.
Warnings: Rape, violence, captivity, child sexual abuse
A/N: This is the first three parts of a longer project which I started two years ago. I couldn't get exactly the tone I intended, but I've decided now to share it anyway; I may or may not continue it.
Prologue: Philomela's Invocation
O dread Persephoneia, revered lady, sing in me. Breathe inspiration into my swift fingers; give them the skill to weave my story bright and clear as the works of knowing Athena. Let my tapestry speak out; let it cry loud and high-sounding, striking against the stars. For this work is all I have - warp and weft and dark-gleaming dye are now my vowels and my consonants, shaping the trick, the song, the web in which I shall catch the one who has wronged me. I have no other weapon with which I might fight, for my once-swift feet cannot take me from this close-walled prison, and my mouth (hollow, abscess, empty) has been forced to silence, each breath tasting of nothing but blood.
Exactor of justice, queen beneath the earth, lend me your strength, and your cold will of stone. For as I now suffer, held here, stolen from my friends and family and from the soft light of dawn, so you did once, when, as a fair-ankled maiden, lord Hades took you by your wrists and carried you underground. For many long months he kept you as his prisoner, while above your mother, great Demeter, scorched the dark earth dry in her fury, spreading barren winter over the land so that all gods and mortals might know the pain she felt, deprived of you, her beloved daughter. On behalf of your imprisonment, Persephone, the whole world starved.
I do not know whether I am so mourned, whether my sister calls out my name in lament within her great halls. I see no one here but the silent servants who give me food and fresh skeins of wool, and my tormentor, lord Tereus, whose very steps fill me with chilling fear. Was it so for you, my lady? Enthroned in the gleaming palace of Pluton, did you dream your mother’s tears? Or did you think yourself forgotten, severed forever from your mother’s house by the silver knife of marriage, lawfully relinquished for a fine dowry, for riches chosen from Pluton’s store of shining gems?
I know that you are the only one of the undying gods who I can hope will listen to my prayers. The wide blue sky, seat of Olympos, is barred to me, and I cannot lift my arms to it and beg the attention of the golden-throned gods who dwell there. Even if I could, I do not know that they would listen to me as I am now, frail, bloody girl. But you reign beneath my feet, and many times in the course of my imprisonment I have pressed my palm against the soil and whispered my soundless entreaties into it, hoping that you might hear me, though no words shall ever again come from my throat.
Lend your strength to this work, Queen Persephone, and I will honor you always. In Athens, where my lordly father reigns, sweet incense shall smoke upon your altars, and wine will darken the earth before them. The first flowers of the spring shall be yours, and the first fruits of the summer as well. And my body shall be yours, to put to whatever purpose pleases you.
Grant me freedom from this place, and I will open my veins for you, if it is your desire.
You know what it is, to sit quiet and waiting for hours upon eternity, statue-still, entombed. You must know that it feels like being dead: such stillness, such quiet. You know what it is to wait ever for his entrance, for his touch, his breath upon your shoulder and his narrow fingers beneath your tunic. Perhaps Hades Kthonios is a kinder captor than Tereus; perhaps he never held a knife, glimmering, before your eyes. Perhaps he did not - does not - leave bruises like jewels upon your neck. But, though the ways of the gods are obscure to man, I cannot imagine that you never feared him. I cannot imagine that you never felt despair.
Help me, then. This work is my only hope; a tapestry to tell my story, to let my sister know that I still live upon the earth. I cannot write the story out in broad, clumsy letters; he will see my works, clear upon the proud-standing loom. I must be clever. I must conceal my purpose, weave a web of stories so rich and true that she will understand my plight. This is my only hope.
My hands shake, lady. My mouth tastes of rust. I can hardly remember what the sky looks like.
Only the strength of a goddess could allow me to complete this task.
Pray, be with me.
Daphne
Look.
See her, frozen in flight. Trace with your fingertip, if you would, the curving line, from upraised, branching arms to arched back, bent leg. Note her grace, how perfectly the tilt of her head completes the picture, how smoothly the curling hair blends into leaves. And her pursuer’s body too, leaning forward, legs staggered in a running stance. See this, how still marble can shiver and threaten to burst with movement.
She was not still so, on that day. She ran.
Breath loud in her chest, legs aching, sweat hot upon her neck. She did not care for the arch of her back or the tilt of her head. She ran for her own survival.
Daphne was a swift runner, accustomed to skimming over the uneven ground of the forest, bow in hand, as she followed the the fleeting tracks of a deer or boar. She was the pursuer then, huntress, her body powerful, turned to its purpose, all the way from her lean ankles and muscled calves to the shoulders that could bend a bow, the sharp eyes that aimed closely at a target. Daphne loved her body, loved all that it could do, all that it was capable of. She loved the sensations of it, wind in her long hair, muscles worn and worked. She trusted her body, relied upon it. She could hunt, fight, dance, nourish herself.
But she could not outrun a god.
She lived alone in the forest. Her father, Peneus, was the god of a small river, and her mother, a mortal woman, had died when Daphne was still a child. When she wished to speak to her father she would sit at the banks of his river and trail her fingers in the water until he drew himself together and emerged, minnows and frogs darting away from between his toes. He would sit beside her and she would tell him of the color of the leaves, the chatter of the sparrows, all the rich, vibrant life of the forest. Peneus listened gladly, with the steady patience characteristic of quiet rivers which rarely overflowed their banks. Sometimes, though, he would still her words with a hand upon her shoulder and ask, “Dearest daughter, when will you give me grandchildren to bless my old age? Are there no men who you would have as husband, who might father your children?”
At the sound of the familiar words, Daphne would grimace. She had plenty of suitors, most of them numbering among the hunters who worked in the forest, but she desired none of them. She could not yet give up her solitude, her own private intimacy with her body, her self-willed life in among the trees. But her father loved her and, she knew, wistfully imagined children playing at his river’s banks. So, each time he asked, she laughed and reminded him that Artemis, goddess of forest and of the hunt, was still not wed, and her father, great Zeus, gave her no more grief for it. Peneus would laugh in return, and kiss her forehead, and they would sit together and speak about her mother, and about Daphne’s childhood. He never pressed her to another choice. Nor did the hunters who made propositions to her. They valued her too much as a partner in the hunt to risk giving offense.
It was for this reason that the pursuit, when it happened, came as such a surprise.
For all her jokes about Artemis, Daphne had never met one of the Olympians before. Apollo was unmistakable, so bright-gleaming in his power that he made her father Peneus seem like one of the frogs in the river. He was so clear that it almost hurt to look at him; his edges were defined so sharply that they they seemed to cut the air around him. He was very beautiful. And he stared at her as though transfixed; his eyes started at her hair (it was tangled, she realized suddenly - she had tied it back that morning but done nothing else with it, so eager she was to get to work) and moved to her eyes, her mouth, and then down to her throat, arms, hands, fingers. She felt uncomfortable, standing there - she wished he would say something, announce himself, though of course she recognized him. If he was a human man, she would have lobbed a joke his way, broken the silence with sarcasm, given both of them the opportunity to laugh and dispel the tension of the moment. But he was a god, an Olympian, son of the ruler of heaven. She could not speak first and certainly could not make jokes as she would with a low-born hunter. And he kept staring, his eyes now upon the breasts beneath her chiton, the straight line of her hips.
His gaze was intent, focused, and hungry.
She felt discomfort winding in her. She could not have said precisely why, but she was afraid of him, and of that intense gaze. Beneath it, she felt like a deer being gazed upon by a wolf. And Daphne was a huntress. She did not enjoy feeling like a deer.
And so, without thinking, without heeding anything but the energy building in her veins, she turned from him and ran.
She did not expect Apollo to follow her. She thought he would dismiss her as a mad, irrational girl and go about whatever business it was that brought him to her forest. The story would get around, perhaps - she would be laughed at for taking flight like a skittish doe, and she would lose her chance to talk to an Olympian. But she did not think - not deep in her, not in the part of her ribs where she held important things like her father’s love, her mother’s memory, the surety of her own safety in the forest - that he would follow.
But he did. She could her the footfalls, lightly cracking against the twigs. She thought, This is mad. Who pursues a woman like they would an animal? and kept running. The discomfort that she had felt at the feel of his eyes on her body was blossoming, blooming into a feeling of fear that was entirely new to her. The more she ran, the more she knew that she must keep running. She felt jagged stabs of panic in her neck, her ankles, like arrowshafts of lead spurring her on.
She tripped over an exposed tree-root and nearly fell; his steps grew louder behind her and her breath caught. She ran faster than before, feeling the ground slap against her feet. He called out to her; his voice was clear and sweet-sounding; the wind carried it as though he stood at her shoulder. “Please,” he cried, “daughter of Peneus, hold still! I do not mean to hurt you - lambs flee wolves such, but I am no wolf, child. I pursue you out of love alone.”
If you are not a wolf, she thought, why are you acting like one? He could easily find a willing girl, who wanted his eyes upon her hips and his hand at her waist; for a handsome god, there would be no shortage of them.
She had no breath to speak.
“I fear that you’ll fall,” he continued, “if you run so swiftly. I could not bear to be the cause of injury to you. Please slow down, Daphne. I will not harm you; I am not some rough-hewn hunter or shepherd, but the lord of Delphi, Claros, Tenedos, the son of Zeus, the revealer of prophecies. I have been struck with love for you, and cannot cure myself of it. Cease your flight, and I will grant you wonders that you cannot imagine.”
She was out of the depths of the forest now; the trees were thinning around her, and she could see the silver gleam of her father’s river, far at the edges of her vision. She thought only of reaching it, and his protection, finding the safety that she had taken for granted before now.
She could not think of slowing, yielding to him. Perhaps he told the truth, at least to his mind; perhaps he did not mean to hurt her. But he would not run after her for so long and then easily accept a refusal. He would take her body, whether gently or cruelly. And Daphne could not bear to think of her body beneath his, held down by godly strength. It was not his body that repulsed her (he was beautiful, so beautiful), but his gaze, his implacable desire, his swift, unyielding pursuit.
She kept running.
Wind lashed at her, tangling her tunic around her knees, catching up her hair. Even in her panic, she enjoyed the feeling, which was welcome in its familiarity (she could not imagine that, centuries later, a poet would write about her beauty in this dishevelment, the desirability of her fleeing body). The wind had ever been her companion. Stay with me, she begged it, silently.
Her calves seized and cramped. She did not know how long she had been running, but weariness and pain was mingling with her panic, though not diluting it. She did not know how much longer she could run, whether she could reach the twisting line of the river without her legs collapsing beneath her.
Behind her, Apollo was speeding up. At first, she only knew by the audibility of his footsteps, and then she caught a glimpse of his golden hair at the corner of her eye, barely behind her. He was so near. For, although she had started ahead of him, the Olympian gods do not tire as mortals or even nymphs do. She knew, suddenly, that she could never outrun him, that her strength would fail her before his desire failed him.
Apollo’s breath was hot upon her neck.
She was alone beneath the sky. The covering of her forest had deserted her. She had only the wind in her hair and the power of her will and the certainty of her fear. There, in the grass, Daphne knew, she had come to the end of her former life. Whatever came to pass for her after this would be something new, changed, unforeseen, unimaginable. She would be something other than the self she had known for all the years of her life up till that moment.
“Father,” she screamed, with all the breath that remained to her, “father, help me!”
The wind carried her words into the water, where they left wide ripples.
Apollo’s hand closed over her waist.
Daphne stopped running. And everything changed.
(This is the moment: arched back, tilted head, bent knee. Such beauty, such harmony.)
Her feet extended, sinking into the earth, deeper and deeper, reaching, groping into the soil for purchase. Above her head, her arms, fingers, hair all stretched out, branching towards the sun, spreading out their leaves. Her skin changed, toughening, holding her within it. She was still, now. She could not be other than still. Her whole being was stillness.
And, within her skin of bark, Daphne breathed. She was safe. She was immovable.
Apollo’s hand, which was now wound around the trunk of a slender laurel tree, retreated, and then came back, gently, caressing, feeling for a pulse within the wood. The whole arm encircled her, and then the other; he embraced her, pressed his lips against her branches. Tears of frustration dripped down upon her roots.
Daphne did not care. He could not touch her.
“You cannot be my bride now,” Apollo said, grief edging his voice, “but you will be my own tree now, and always. Your branches will adorn my head, my lyre, my arrows. Your leaves will be a garland of honor. Just as I am forever youthful, so you will be too, evergreen and glorious.”
He kissed her again, and plucked a sprout of green and silver leaves from one of her branches. She felt a brief, distant, twinge of pain. But soon, he was gone.
Daphne was alone. She was immovable, but, upon her skin and leaves, the sun danced. The wind, obedient to her prayer, lingered in her branches caressingly. Her roots stretched, slowly but certainly, towards the touch of her father’s river.
Nothing would ever be the same again. She would not again be a fearless, swift-ankled girl whose arrows hummed through the forest. She would never run again.
And yet, she was herself. She could not have said how that was true, but she was as much herself as she had ever been in her life.
Daphne was a laurel tree, the daughter of a river.
Seasons passed. Apollo came and sat beneath her branches and played his lyre. Sometimes he wept. Always he took leaves from her to crown his golden hair. Always she felt a twinge of pain, but nothing more. She saw him as though from far away.
Worms embraced her roots with their winding bodies; incests scampered at her feet; squirrels clambered along her trunk; birds nested in her branches. The sun nourished her, and the wind danced in her hair. Her father sang to her in the soft murmur of his river. She wove from herself tight, golden berries and then white flowers, spreading and bright.
Daphne breathed. Daphne stretched herself as high and as deep as she could reach. Daphne built layers upon her trunk, study rings of strength and safety.
Daphne never ran again. But, throughout the long years to come, she grew. She blossomed.
Chrysippus
They asked him, afterwards, how it was he did not guess: was Laius’ criminal desire not written in his eyes, his words, his every movement? How could he have had no hint of the man’s intentions? Why did he not tell someone, run away, ask for help while he still had a chance?
But it is difficult to guess a thing that should be inconceivable, a thing which makes one’s whole being draw away in fear and repulsion. The assault was a danger that he did not know to anticipate, and whatever signs there might have been he found ways to explain away. A lingering glance, an admiring word, a hand resting too long upon the small of his back - all of these would have been innocent in themselves, and the treacherous picture to which they added up was blurred, obscure, hard to discern. He was uncomfortable, yes; he feared, even, with a deep, stomach-roiling, formless dread. But he did not guess.
Chrysippus was a prince, but not an important one; as his elder brothers never failed to remind him, he was a bastard, and thus worth little in the complex negotiations of the Argive court. His mother, Axiomache, was a handmaiden of the queen who had caught King Pelops’ eye. She could easily have been dismissed from the palace once her pregnancy was found out, but out of affection for her Pelops allowed her to remain, and raised Chrysippus alongside his wife’s own children. Chrysippus was aware every moment of his life that the fine clothes he wore, the rich food he dined on, and the education he received were not his birthright, but gifts of charity, and could be taken away at any time. He knew himself to be fortunate, for his mother was attentive and his father indulgent. The servants and courtiers in the palace thought well of him, and were always ready with a kind word of a small gift. He had few playmates his own age, and was often lonely, but these were little griefs. His life was rich and bright and protected.
He was his mother’s greatest joy, and, when he was a child, she delighted in his youthful beauty, enjoyed giving him fine-woven tunics and brushing his dark, curling hair with sweet oils. “When I was your age,” she told him, “I never had such things. But the king is kind. You will never need to a work in a field, my son, or labor till your hands bleed. You will always have enough to eat, and a home to protect you from the wind and rain.”
His brothers, the king’s legitimate sons, did not treat him so kindly. The eldest of them, Atreus and Thyestes, taunted him mercilessly about his parentage, his oiled hair, his soft hands. Returning, skin gleaming with sweat, from a session of boxing or riding or chariot racing, they would laugh to see him bent over a wax tablet or a lyre. Their military training reminded Chrysippus of a fact he would rather have forgotten - his brothers would soon become adults, with all the privileges and responsibilities of manhood. They would serve in combat, lead armies, govern the state. But he would remain, in many ways, perpetually a child, with no place but the one that his superiors gave to him.
When he turned eleven, Chrysippus went to his father and asked to be given military training. He would serve the king faithfully, he swore; he would make him proud upon the battlefield. Pelops refused; the armor, weapons, and horses required for a noble warrior cost money that would be more profitably spent elsewhere. Moreover, he wished to give weapons to as few of his sons as possible. He was already concerned enough about the conflicts that might arise between Atreus and Thyestes over the throne of Argos, without creating new pretenders to the kingship. Disappointed, Chrysippus returned to his books and his music, and watched Atreus and Thyestes’ practice sessions with barely concealed envy.
It was that same year that Laius came to stay at court.
Laius was also a prince, though many years older than Chrysippus or his brothers. The rightful heir to the throne of Thebes, he was living in exile after usurpers had stolen his throne, biding his time and forging alliances until such a time as he might dare to take it back. For another prince, such exile might have meant a swift death, but, fortunately for Laius, he was a witty, well-spoken man, and an accomplished musician, and kings were glad to have him as their guest-friend.
When he came to the palace of Argos, Pelops held a banquet to celebrate his arrival. Chrysippus was there, far at the end of the table, beside his mother, but he could see his father clearly, and Laius, who sat at his right hand. Once the meat had been eaten and the first cups of wine poured, Laius called for his lyre and played. It was not usual for a nobleman to perform at a banquet, but no one cared when they heard Laius’ voice. It was rich and clear, sliding easily over the melodious syllables of his song. After he finished the first song there were calls for another and another. When he finally laid down the lyre, Chrysippus heard groans of disappointment.
“Son of Labdacus,” Pelops addressed Laius, “your skill is wondrous. I wonder if, while you take shelter in my court, you might be willing to tutor my sons in music? I do not mean, of course, to treat you like a slave, but such a gift as yours must be shared!”
Graciously, Laius agreed. Chrysippus, who had always had tired old men as his tutors, was thrilled.
Laius turned out to be a careful and attentive teacher and, of all the boys, it was Chrysippus who spent the most time with him. Partly, it was because he had the most time to spend - Atreus and Thyestes, of course, were often upon the training grounds, and the younger boys were still learning their letters. But Chrysippus began to think, as the weeks wore on and his lyre-playing improved, that Laius showed particular interest in him. Perhaps, as a disinherited son he felt compassion for the bastard excluded from the business of the kingdom. Or perhaps he was simply a kind man who noticed his student’s loneliness.
One bright, sun-filled afternoon, Chrysippus was watching Atreus, Thyestes, and Laius playing at racing their chariots. Atreus was very good, and normally won at such games, but Laius was giving him a challenge. Chrysippus watched Atreus bent forward over the reins, tight-lipped, concentrating hard, while Laius threw his head back and laughed, open-mouthed, even as the pounding footsteps of the horses swallowed up the sound. Chrysippus was wound up again in envy. He wanted to possess that feeling of excitement; that joy; that speed.
Laius slowed and came to a halt before the bench where Chrysippus sat. “Would you like to try?” he asked, grinning.
Chrysippus nodded, trying not to let his delight show.
Easily, Laius put his hands around Chrysippus’ waist and helped him into the chariot. Chrysippus stood in front of him, his chest against the railing, as Laius gathered up the reins and set the horses to moving again, first slowly, and then faster and faster.
It was unlike anything Chrysippus had ever felt before. In the chariot, he was aware of everything around him in a way he never had been before - the wind in his hair, the smell of the horses’ sweat, the sound of his own breath in his chest. His body was pressed up against Laius’, and he could feel the other man’s shoulders shift each time he used the reins to direct the horses differently. Chrysippus was suddenly struck by the fact that this incredible, exhilarating movement was caused by bodies communicating with one another - Laius’ hands and arms and shoulders talking to the backs and necks and legs of the gleaming horses. And in that moment, pressed against his tutor’s chest, he was a part of that communication.
He was very sorry when it ended.
“Did you enjoy that?” Laius asked him, helping him down from the chariot.
Chrysippus felt embarrassed showing the extent of his gratitude. “I did,” he said, “very much. Thank you for taking me.”
Laius grinned, and it was the same expression as the one that been on his face as he raced Atreus. “I’ll take you with me again, sometime, if you want to. You do want to, don’t you?”
Of course he did. “Yes, yes please.”
(Later, they would say he consented.)
For several weeks, Laius made no reference to his promise. And then finally, on another afternoon, one not quite as sunny as the first, Chrysippus came for his lyre lesson and saw Laius carrying two packed saddlebags. “Would you like to take that chariot ride now?” he asked.
Chrysippus felt faintly uneasy - perhaps it was the idea of someone noticing them missing from the lesson, or the cloudy sky outside. But he did want to go, and Laius was being very generous with him. It could not be long until he turned towards more serious matters and stopped wasting his time with an illegitimate younger son. And so he agreed, and followed Laius down to the stables, went with him as he fetched his horses, led them out, and hitched them to the chariot. Just as he had before, Laius put his hands at Chrysippus’ waist and lifted him into the chariot in front of him. He gathered the reins. He set the horses moving.
For a few minutes, it was as wonderful at had been before. There were clouds overhead, and the sky was heavy with moisture, but there was still wind in Chrysippus’ hair and movement all around him. And then Laius gathered up all the reins in his right hand and threw the left around Chrysippus’ chest, pulling him close. And he swerved off the training ground.
Chrysippus did not understand and everything was moving too fast - it was impossible to translate Laius’ actions into a comprehensible meaning. He was working on formulating a question, but Laius was driving ever and faster and faster, around the palace’s outbuildings, forcing people to dash out of his way in shock. Chrysippus suddenly saw in front of them the gate at the center of the walls which encircled the palace. It was open.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shouting to be heard.
Laius didn’t answer. Chrysippus heard a scream, and saw an older serving woman, who had cared for him when he was a child, pointing at the chariot, her eyes wide. “Someone get Axiomache and the King,” she cried, “he’s taking her son!”
And Laius barreled at through the open gates and, all at once, Chrysippus realized it was true.
He twisted in Laius’ grip. “Let me go!” he shouted, “What are you doing? You’ve frightened everyone!”
But Laius held him tight and said nothing until they were several miles from the city. Then, though he did not stop the chariot, he let the horses slow their pace. “There,” he said, “no one should catch up with us now, if anyone has even bothered to follow. Don’t yell, boy; there’s no need to be foolish.”
Chrysippus was too worn out with confusion and fear to yell. “What are you doing?” he asked again, “Why have you taken me like this?”
Laius did not look at him; his eyes were on the ground before them. “I knew it was wrong,” he answered, “but nature compelled me. You are a very beautiful boy.”
Chrysippus felt all the emotion within him suddenly coalesce into a dense, heavy ball, which fell abruptly to the pit of his stomach.
He thought about escaping, then. He thought about biting Laius’ arm with his teeth to make him let go, ducking away from him, jumping out of the moving chariot, running back towards the palace.
And then he thought of Laius wheeling his chariot around and pursuing him more swiftly than he could run, seizing him and dumping him back inside. He thought about the fact that he had only very rarely left the palace walls, and had no idea where they now were.
He did not run away.
After some time, Laius stopped to let the horses rest. The saddlebags, it turned out, were filled with food, coins, and Laius’ lyre. Laius gave Chrysippus bread and salted fish, which he ate mechanically, though he did not feel hungry. Laius ate as well. He said little. He sat for a long time beneath a tree, gazing at Chrysippus.
Chrysippus wished that Laius had no eyes.
When the horses had rested sufficiently, Laius again lifted Chrysippus into the chariot and drove on. Once they had been traveling for about half an hour, it began to rain. Laius continued until the rainfall turned heavy and made the road muddy. Then he cursed at it and they stopped again, taking shelter under a few trees at the center of the road. Laius gave Chrysippus a cloak from the saddlebag. Chrysippus took it and felt empty. It was as though a part of his mind was still thinking, still working, but he could not access it. All the rest of him was numb.
It was not until the next day that Laius raped him.
Chrysippus had done nothing sexual before, not even with boys or girls his own age. Laius was gentle, and attentive to Chrysippus’ pleasure. He stopped often to give Chrysippus marveling compliments on the beauty of his body, and each one made Chrysippus shrink further and further inside himself. The penetration hurt, and Chrysippus could not keep himself from crying, though he did not let Laius see. When it was over, Laius took out his lyre and played a sweet-sounding hymn to Eros. Chrysippus covered his face in his cloak and tried not to think how long it might be until he saw his home again.
Weeks passed in that way, though they did not spend many nights sleeping outdoors after the first one, for Laius had a heavy purse of gold with him and many friends. Everyone they encountered seemed to assume that the two of them were on some sort of scandalous tryst, perhaps without the agreement of Chrysippus’ parents. When Chrysippus failed to promptly answer their questions, they deemed him shy.
Chrysippus wondered if it would ever end. He pictured himself in the unknown Theban court, years from that moment, sharing a bedroom with Laius. He asked himself, Could I survive that? and found he had no answer. Laius was not cruel, though he could, especially as the weeks wore on, become brusque and frustrated. In many ways, a life as Laius’ catamite would be little different from the life he could have expected to live as Pelops’ bastard son. He would have food, shelter, fine clothes. His hands would never grow calloused from field work.
But his body would not be his own. He would have no choice in when or how it was touched. He would ever have to hear Laius’ voice, talking about the beauty of his chest and arms and hips. He would have to touch Laius as well, draw him into pleasure when he wanted nothing to do with his captor’s skin.
He would never see his mother again.
Once, he thought of killing himself. They were staying at the home of one of Laius’ rich friends; Chrysippus was alone in the bedchamber. He saw Laius’ sword, leaning against the wall, and picked it up. Its weight startled him. He could, he thought, plunge it into his own belly, or fall upon it and let his weight draw him down, eviscerating himself. Then this would be done. There would be no question of what his future would be.
To admit it was shaming, but the pain frightened him. It would be a messy, ugly death, and he was terrified of that, terrified of lying on the blood in agony, waiting for Hermes, the guide of souls, to lead him down to Hades.
And he did not want to die. He did not want to live like this, as Laius’ pet, but neither did he want to die. Perhaps he did not know who he was, did not know what his life could be, but he at least wanted the chance to find out. He knew no way of getting away from Laius, had no method of getting home to Argos, but he would hold onto life until he could find one.
As it turned out, not two weeks later, one found him. And it came the form of his detested older brothers, Atreus and Thyestes. They intercepted Laius’ chariot in the road, their horses circling around and cutting him off. Chrysippus looked up and saw Laius’ face blanch with fury.
“Come on,” said Thyestes, “your fun is over. Father sent us to bring the boy home.”
“We’ve ridden hard for days,” Atreus added, “you didn’t make yourselves easy to find. But it’s over now.”
“Why does he care?” Laius snarled, “He’s only a bastard. I’d treat him well in Thebes -”
Thyestes seemed almost to explode in anger. “Do you know how terribly you’ve violated the laws of guest-friendship, stealing your host’s son from under his very roof? Of course father cares! I wouldn’t be surprised if the gods themselves curse your family for what you’ve done.”
“We will kill you,” Atreus said lightly, “if you don’t give him back. No one would fault us for protecting the honor of our family.”
No one, during the entire exchange, addressed or even looked at Chrysippus directly.
With resentment and barely controlled rage, Laius released his hold on Chrysippus, who stepped down from the chariot, his head light with the suddenness of what had just happened. He realized that it was the first time he had ever stepped out of a chariot without Laius’ hand helping him down.
“Come on,” Thyestes said to him, “we have a long ride ahead of us.”
Chrysippus mounted his brother’s horse, feeling embarrassed at the childishness of riding at the front of his saddle. He wasn’t a little boy any longer. He had turned fourteen, he realized, during the time he spent with Laius.
Who was looking at him still, lingeringly, longingly. “Remember me,” he said to Chrysippus, as he gathered up his reins, “and once I take back my kingdom, remember that you will always have a home in Thebes.”
Chrysippus thought faintly that he would avoid Thebes as he would the pit of Tartarus. Quickly, he looked away from Laius.
The chariot went one way and the horses another. As he gazed down at the dust of the road, Chrysippus imagined how Laius must look at that moment, with the wind in his dark hair and his face twisted in useless rage.
“Well, Chrysippus,” Atreus said, “we never would have thought of you. Taking a lover, maybe, but running off like that -”
“I didn’t go willingly,” he said tightly. He had, somehow, not expected this.
Atreus shrugged. “Say whatever you like,” he said, dismissing the question.
The journey back with his brothers was tedious and frustrating, but at least not filled with fear and humiliation. When they reached the palace of Argos, Chrysippus’ mother rushed out to meet them and embraced Chrysippus tightly as soon as she saw him. Chrysippus could hear his brothers sniggering at the sight, but he didn’t care.
The time immediately following his return was difficult. There were jokes made about him, cruel, sidelong glances, harsh questions which implied that he was either lying about his unwillingness or a hopelessly naive fool for not anticipating Laius’ attack. Each of these hit him hard, bruised him, drove the terrifying memories of Laius’ touch, his breath, his admiring compliments further into Chrysippus’ abdomen, causing his stomach to twist in pain. But it was better than having it still happen. And they would forget, eventually. They would stop caring.
One morning, he found his lyre, hidden beneath a dusty pile of scroll in his bedchamber. Bile rose in his throat and he almost thrust it aside in nausea. But then he stopped, and inhaled deeply. He was here. Laius was not. And he would not let Laius take this from him as well.
Slowly, he took up the lyre, tightened the strings, and began to play.
Fandom: Greek mythology
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Philomela, Daphne, Chrysippus, Persephone, Apollo, Laius, Atreus, Thyestes
Summary: Fighting to survive and escape, Philomela constructs a tapestry which weaves together stories similar to her own.
Warnings: Rape, violence, captivity, child sexual abuse
A/N: This is the first three parts of a longer project which I started two years ago. I couldn't get exactly the tone I intended, but I've decided now to share it anyway; I may or may not continue it.
Prologue: Philomela's Invocation
O dread Persephoneia, revered lady, sing in me. Breathe inspiration into my swift fingers; give them the skill to weave my story bright and clear as the works of knowing Athena. Let my tapestry speak out; let it cry loud and high-sounding, striking against the stars. For this work is all I have - warp and weft and dark-gleaming dye are now my vowels and my consonants, shaping the trick, the song, the web in which I shall catch the one who has wronged me. I have no other weapon with which I might fight, for my once-swift feet cannot take me from this close-walled prison, and my mouth (hollow, abscess, empty) has been forced to silence, each breath tasting of nothing but blood.
Exactor of justice, queen beneath the earth, lend me your strength, and your cold will of stone. For as I now suffer, held here, stolen from my friends and family and from the soft light of dawn, so you did once, when, as a fair-ankled maiden, lord Hades took you by your wrists and carried you underground. For many long months he kept you as his prisoner, while above your mother, great Demeter, scorched the dark earth dry in her fury, spreading barren winter over the land so that all gods and mortals might know the pain she felt, deprived of you, her beloved daughter. On behalf of your imprisonment, Persephone, the whole world starved.
I do not know whether I am so mourned, whether my sister calls out my name in lament within her great halls. I see no one here but the silent servants who give me food and fresh skeins of wool, and my tormentor, lord Tereus, whose very steps fill me with chilling fear. Was it so for you, my lady? Enthroned in the gleaming palace of Pluton, did you dream your mother’s tears? Or did you think yourself forgotten, severed forever from your mother’s house by the silver knife of marriage, lawfully relinquished for a fine dowry, for riches chosen from Pluton’s store of shining gems?
I know that you are the only one of the undying gods who I can hope will listen to my prayers. The wide blue sky, seat of Olympos, is barred to me, and I cannot lift my arms to it and beg the attention of the golden-throned gods who dwell there. Even if I could, I do not know that they would listen to me as I am now, frail, bloody girl. But you reign beneath my feet, and many times in the course of my imprisonment I have pressed my palm against the soil and whispered my soundless entreaties into it, hoping that you might hear me, though no words shall ever again come from my throat.
Lend your strength to this work, Queen Persephone, and I will honor you always. In Athens, where my lordly father reigns, sweet incense shall smoke upon your altars, and wine will darken the earth before them. The first flowers of the spring shall be yours, and the first fruits of the summer as well. And my body shall be yours, to put to whatever purpose pleases you.
Grant me freedom from this place, and I will open my veins for you, if it is your desire.
You know what it is, to sit quiet and waiting for hours upon eternity, statue-still, entombed. You must know that it feels like being dead: such stillness, such quiet. You know what it is to wait ever for his entrance, for his touch, his breath upon your shoulder and his narrow fingers beneath your tunic. Perhaps Hades Kthonios is a kinder captor than Tereus; perhaps he never held a knife, glimmering, before your eyes. Perhaps he did not - does not - leave bruises like jewels upon your neck. But, though the ways of the gods are obscure to man, I cannot imagine that you never feared him. I cannot imagine that you never felt despair.
Help me, then. This work is my only hope; a tapestry to tell my story, to let my sister know that I still live upon the earth. I cannot write the story out in broad, clumsy letters; he will see my works, clear upon the proud-standing loom. I must be clever. I must conceal my purpose, weave a web of stories so rich and true that she will understand my plight. This is my only hope.
My hands shake, lady. My mouth tastes of rust. I can hardly remember what the sky looks like.
Only the strength of a goddess could allow me to complete this task.
Pray, be with me.
Daphne
Look.
See her, frozen in flight. Trace with your fingertip, if you would, the curving line, from upraised, branching arms to arched back, bent leg. Note her grace, how perfectly the tilt of her head completes the picture, how smoothly the curling hair blends into leaves. And her pursuer’s body too, leaning forward, legs staggered in a running stance. See this, how still marble can shiver and threaten to burst with movement.
She was not still so, on that day. She ran.
Breath loud in her chest, legs aching, sweat hot upon her neck. She did not care for the arch of her back or the tilt of her head. She ran for her own survival.
Daphne was a swift runner, accustomed to skimming over the uneven ground of the forest, bow in hand, as she followed the the fleeting tracks of a deer or boar. She was the pursuer then, huntress, her body powerful, turned to its purpose, all the way from her lean ankles and muscled calves to the shoulders that could bend a bow, the sharp eyes that aimed closely at a target. Daphne loved her body, loved all that it could do, all that it was capable of. She loved the sensations of it, wind in her long hair, muscles worn and worked. She trusted her body, relied upon it. She could hunt, fight, dance, nourish herself.
But she could not outrun a god.
She lived alone in the forest. Her father, Peneus, was the god of a small river, and her mother, a mortal woman, had died when Daphne was still a child. When she wished to speak to her father she would sit at the banks of his river and trail her fingers in the water until he drew himself together and emerged, minnows and frogs darting away from between his toes. He would sit beside her and she would tell him of the color of the leaves, the chatter of the sparrows, all the rich, vibrant life of the forest. Peneus listened gladly, with the steady patience characteristic of quiet rivers which rarely overflowed their banks. Sometimes, though, he would still her words with a hand upon her shoulder and ask, “Dearest daughter, when will you give me grandchildren to bless my old age? Are there no men who you would have as husband, who might father your children?”
At the sound of the familiar words, Daphne would grimace. She had plenty of suitors, most of them numbering among the hunters who worked in the forest, but she desired none of them. She could not yet give up her solitude, her own private intimacy with her body, her self-willed life in among the trees. But her father loved her and, she knew, wistfully imagined children playing at his river’s banks. So, each time he asked, she laughed and reminded him that Artemis, goddess of forest and of the hunt, was still not wed, and her father, great Zeus, gave her no more grief for it. Peneus would laugh in return, and kiss her forehead, and they would sit together and speak about her mother, and about Daphne’s childhood. He never pressed her to another choice. Nor did the hunters who made propositions to her. They valued her too much as a partner in the hunt to risk giving offense.
It was for this reason that the pursuit, when it happened, came as such a surprise.
For all her jokes about Artemis, Daphne had never met one of the Olympians before. Apollo was unmistakable, so bright-gleaming in his power that he made her father Peneus seem like one of the frogs in the river. He was so clear that it almost hurt to look at him; his edges were defined so sharply that they they seemed to cut the air around him. He was very beautiful. And he stared at her as though transfixed; his eyes started at her hair (it was tangled, she realized suddenly - she had tied it back that morning but done nothing else with it, so eager she was to get to work) and moved to her eyes, her mouth, and then down to her throat, arms, hands, fingers. She felt uncomfortable, standing there - she wished he would say something, announce himself, though of course she recognized him. If he was a human man, she would have lobbed a joke his way, broken the silence with sarcasm, given both of them the opportunity to laugh and dispel the tension of the moment. But he was a god, an Olympian, son of the ruler of heaven. She could not speak first and certainly could not make jokes as she would with a low-born hunter. And he kept staring, his eyes now upon the breasts beneath her chiton, the straight line of her hips.
His gaze was intent, focused, and hungry.
She felt discomfort winding in her. She could not have said precisely why, but she was afraid of him, and of that intense gaze. Beneath it, she felt like a deer being gazed upon by a wolf. And Daphne was a huntress. She did not enjoy feeling like a deer.
And so, without thinking, without heeding anything but the energy building in her veins, she turned from him and ran.
She did not expect Apollo to follow her. She thought he would dismiss her as a mad, irrational girl and go about whatever business it was that brought him to her forest. The story would get around, perhaps - she would be laughed at for taking flight like a skittish doe, and she would lose her chance to talk to an Olympian. But she did not think - not deep in her, not in the part of her ribs where she held important things like her father’s love, her mother’s memory, the surety of her own safety in the forest - that he would follow.
But he did. She could her the footfalls, lightly cracking against the twigs. She thought, This is mad. Who pursues a woman like they would an animal? and kept running. The discomfort that she had felt at the feel of his eyes on her body was blossoming, blooming into a feeling of fear that was entirely new to her. The more she ran, the more she knew that she must keep running. She felt jagged stabs of panic in her neck, her ankles, like arrowshafts of lead spurring her on.
She tripped over an exposed tree-root and nearly fell; his steps grew louder behind her and her breath caught. She ran faster than before, feeling the ground slap against her feet. He called out to her; his voice was clear and sweet-sounding; the wind carried it as though he stood at her shoulder. “Please,” he cried, “daughter of Peneus, hold still! I do not mean to hurt you - lambs flee wolves such, but I am no wolf, child. I pursue you out of love alone.”
If you are not a wolf, she thought, why are you acting like one? He could easily find a willing girl, who wanted his eyes upon her hips and his hand at her waist; for a handsome god, there would be no shortage of them.
She had no breath to speak.
“I fear that you’ll fall,” he continued, “if you run so swiftly. I could not bear to be the cause of injury to you. Please slow down, Daphne. I will not harm you; I am not some rough-hewn hunter or shepherd, but the lord of Delphi, Claros, Tenedos, the son of Zeus, the revealer of prophecies. I have been struck with love for you, and cannot cure myself of it. Cease your flight, and I will grant you wonders that you cannot imagine.”
She was out of the depths of the forest now; the trees were thinning around her, and she could see the silver gleam of her father’s river, far at the edges of her vision. She thought only of reaching it, and his protection, finding the safety that she had taken for granted before now.
She could not think of slowing, yielding to him. Perhaps he told the truth, at least to his mind; perhaps he did not mean to hurt her. But he would not run after her for so long and then easily accept a refusal. He would take her body, whether gently or cruelly. And Daphne could not bear to think of her body beneath his, held down by godly strength. It was not his body that repulsed her (he was beautiful, so beautiful), but his gaze, his implacable desire, his swift, unyielding pursuit.
She kept running.
Wind lashed at her, tangling her tunic around her knees, catching up her hair. Even in her panic, she enjoyed the feeling, which was welcome in its familiarity (she could not imagine that, centuries later, a poet would write about her beauty in this dishevelment, the desirability of her fleeing body). The wind had ever been her companion. Stay with me, she begged it, silently.
Her calves seized and cramped. She did not know how long she had been running, but weariness and pain was mingling with her panic, though not diluting it. She did not know how much longer she could run, whether she could reach the twisting line of the river without her legs collapsing beneath her.
Behind her, Apollo was speeding up. At first, she only knew by the audibility of his footsteps, and then she caught a glimpse of his golden hair at the corner of her eye, barely behind her. He was so near. For, although she had started ahead of him, the Olympian gods do not tire as mortals or even nymphs do. She knew, suddenly, that she could never outrun him, that her strength would fail her before his desire failed him.
Apollo’s breath was hot upon her neck.
She was alone beneath the sky. The covering of her forest had deserted her. She had only the wind in her hair and the power of her will and the certainty of her fear. There, in the grass, Daphne knew, she had come to the end of her former life. Whatever came to pass for her after this would be something new, changed, unforeseen, unimaginable. She would be something other than the self she had known for all the years of her life up till that moment.
“Father,” she screamed, with all the breath that remained to her, “father, help me!”
The wind carried her words into the water, where they left wide ripples.
Apollo’s hand closed over her waist.
Daphne stopped running. And everything changed.
(This is the moment: arched back, tilted head, bent knee. Such beauty, such harmony.)
Her feet extended, sinking into the earth, deeper and deeper, reaching, groping into the soil for purchase. Above her head, her arms, fingers, hair all stretched out, branching towards the sun, spreading out their leaves. Her skin changed, toughening, holding her within it. She was still, now. She could not be other than still. Her whole being was stillness.
And, within her skin of bark, Daphne breathed. She was safe. She was immovable.
Apollo’s hand, which was now wound around the trunk of a slender laurel tree, retreated, and then came back, gently, caressing, feeling for a pulse within the wood. The whole arm encircled her, and then the other; he embraced her, pressed his lips against her branches. Tears of frustration dripped down upon her roots.
Daphne did not care. He could not touch her.
“You cannot be my bride now,” Apollo said, grief edging his voice, “but you will be my own tree now, and always. Your branches will adorn my head, my lyre, my arrows. Your leaves will be a garland of honor. Just as I am forever youthful, so you will be too, evergreen and glorious.”
He kissed her again, and plucked a sprout of green and silver leaves from one of her branches. She felt a brief, distant, twinge of pain. But soon, he was gone.
Daphne was alone. She was immovable, but, upon her skin and leaves, the sun danced. The wind, obedient to her prayer, lingered in her branches caressingly. Her roots stretched, slowly but certainly, towards the touch of her father’s river.
Nothing would ever be the same again. She would not again be a fearless, swift-ankled girl whose arrows hummed through the forest. She would never run again.
And yet, she was herself. She could not have said how that was true, but she was as much herself as she had ever been in her life.
Daphne was a laurel tree, the daughter of a river.
Seasons passed. Apollo came and sat beneath her branches and played his lyre. Sometimes he wept. Always he took leaves from her to crown his golden hair. Always she felt a twinge of pain, but nothing more. She saw him as though from far away.
Worms embraced her roots with their winding bodies; incests scampered at her feet; squirrels clambered along her trunk; birds nested in her branches. The sun nourished her, and the wind danced in her hair. Her father sang to her in the soft murmur of his river. She wove from herself tight, golden berries and then white flowers, spreading and bright.
Daphne breathed. Daphne stretched herself as high and as deep as she could reach. Daphne built layers upon her trunk, study rings of strength and safety.
Daphne never ran again. But, throughout the long years to come, she grew. She blossomed.
Chrysippus
They asked him, afterwards, how it was he did not guess: was Laius’ criminal desire not written in his eyes, his words, his every movement? How could he have had no hint of the man’s intentions? Why did he not tell someone, run away, ask for help while he still had a chance?
But it is difficult to guess a thing that should be inconceivable, a thing which makes one’s whole being draw away in fear and repulsion. The assault was a danger that he did not know to anticipate, and whatever signs there might have been he found ways to explain away. A lingering glance, an admiring word, a hand resting too long upon the small of his back - all of these would have been innocent in themselves, and the treacherous picture to which they added up was blurred, obscure, hard to discern. He was uncomfortable, yes; he feared, even, with a deep, stomach-roiling, formless dread. But he did not guess.
Chrysippus was a prince, but not an important one; as his elder brothers never failed to remind him, he was a bastard, and thus worth little in the complex negotiations of the Argive court. His mother, Axiomache, was a handmaiden of the queen who had caught King Pelops’ eye. She could easily have been dismissed from the palace once her pregnancy was found out, but out of affection for her Pelops allowed her to remain, and raised Chrysippus alongside his wife’s own children. Chrysippus was aware every moment of his life that the fine clothes he wore, the rich food he dined on, and the education he received were not his birthright, but gifts of charity, and could be taken away at any time. He knew himself to be fortunate, for his mother was attentive and his father indulgent. The servants and courtiers in the palace thought well of him, and were always ready with a kind word of a small gift. He had few playmates his own age, and was often lonely, but these were little griefs. His life was rich and bright and protected.
He was his mother’s greatest joy, and, when he was a child, she delighted in his youthful beauty, enjoyed giving him fine-woven tunics and brushing his dark, curling hair with sweet oils. “When I was your age,” she told him, “I never had such things. But the king is kind. You will never need to a work in a field, my son, or labor till your hands bleed. You will always have enough to eat, and a home to protect you from the wind and rain.”
His brothers, the king’s legitimate sons, did not treat him so kindly. The eldest of them, Atreus and Thyestes, taunted him mercilessly about his parentage, his oiled hair, his soft hands. Returning, skin gleaming with sweat, from a session of boxing or riding or chariot racing, they would laugh to see him bent over a wax tablet or a lyre. Their military training reminded Chrysippus of a fact he would rather have forgotten - his brothers would soon become adults, with all the privileges and responsibilities of manhood. They would serve in combat, lead armies, govern the state. But he would remain, in many ways, perpetually a child, with no place but the one that his superiors gave to him.
When he turned eleven, Chrysippus went to his father and asked to be given military training. He would serve the king faithfully, he swore; he would make him proud upon the battlefield. Pelops refused; the armor, weapons, and horses required for a noble warrior cost money that would be more profitably spent elsewhere. Moreover, he wished to give weapons to as few of his sons as possible. He was already concerned enough about the conflicts that might arise between Atreus and Thyestes over the throne of Argos, without creating new pretenders to the kingship. Disappointed, Chrysippus returned to his books and his music, and watched Atreus and Thyestes’ practice sessions with barely concealed envy.
It was that same year that Laius came to stay at court.
Laius was also a prince, though many years older than Chrysippus or his brothers. The rightful heir to the throne of Thebes, he was living in exile after usurpers had stolen his throne, biding his time and forging alliances until such a time as he might dare to take it back. For another prince, such exile might have meant a swift death, but, fortunately for Laius, he was a witty, well-spoken man, and an accomplished musician, and kings were glad to have him as their guest-friend.
When he came to the palace of Argos, Pelops held a banquet to celebrate his arrival. Chrysippus was there, far at the end of the table, beside his mother, but he could see his father clearly, and Laius, who sat at his right hand. Once the meat had been eaten and the first cups of wine poured, Laius called for his lyre and played. It was not usual for a nobleman to perform at a banquet, but no one cared when they heard Laius’ voice. It was rich and clear, sliding easily over the melodious syllables of his song. After he finished the first song there were calls for another and another. When he finally laid down the lyre, Chrysippus heard groans of disappointment.
“Son of Labdacus,” Pelops addressed Laius, “your skill is wondrous. I wonder if, while you take shelter in my court, you might be willing to tutor my sons in music? I do not mean, of course, to treat you like a slave, but such a gift as yours must be shared!”
Graciously, Laius agreed. Chrysippus, who had always had tired old men as his tutors, was thrilled.
Laius turned out to be a careful and attentive teacher and, of all the boys, it was Chrysippus who spent the most time with him. Partly, it was because he had the most time to spend - Atreus and Thyestes, of course, were often upon the training grounds, and the younger boys were still learning their letters. But Chrysippus began to think, as the weeks wore on and his lyre-playing improved, that Laius showed particular interest in him. Perhaps, as a disinherited son he felt compassion for the bastard excluded from the business of the kingdom. Or perhaps he was simply a kind man who noticed his student’s loneliness.
One bright, sun-filled afternoon, Chrysippus was watching Atreus, Thyestes, and Laius playing at racing their chariots. Atreus was very good, and normally won at such games, but Laius was giving him a challenge. Chrysippus watched Atreus bent forward over the reins, tight-lipped, concentrating hard, while Laius threw his head back and laughed, open-mouthed, even as the pounding footsteps of the horses swallowed up the sound. Chrysippus was wound up again in envy. He wanted to possess that feeling of excitement; that joy; that speed.
Laius slowed and came to a halt before the bench where Chrysippus sat. “Would you like to try?” he asked, grinning.
Chrysippus nodded, trying not to let his delight show.
Easily, Laius put his hands around Chrysippus’ waist and helped him into the chariot. Chrysippus stood in front of him, his chest against the railing, as Laius gathered up the reins and set the horses to moving again, first slowly, and then faster and faster.
It was unlike anything Chrysippus had ever felt before. In the chariot, he was aware of everything around him in a way he never had been before - the wind in his hair, the smell of the horses’ sweat, the sound of his own breath in his chest. His body was pressed up against Laius’, and he could feel the other man’s shoulders shift each time he used the reins to direct the horses differently. Chrysippus was suddenly struck by the fact that this incredible, exhilarating movement was caused by bodies communicating with one another - Laius’ hands and arms and shoulders talking to the backs and necks and legs of the gleaming horses. And in that moment, pressed against his tutor’s chest, he was a part of that communication.
He was very sorry when it ended.
“Did you enjoy that?” Laius asked him, helping him down from the chariot.
Chrysippus felt embarrassed showing the extent of his gratitude. “I did,” he said, “very much. Thank you for taking me.”
Laius grinned, and it was the same expression as the one that been on his face as he raced Atreus. “I’ll take you with me again, sometime, if you want to. You do want to, don’t you?”
Of course he did. “Yes, yes please.”
(Later, they would say he consented.)
For several weeks, Laius made no reference to his promise. And then finally, on another afternoon, one not quite as sunny as the first, Chrysippus came for his lyre lesson and saw Laius carrying two packed saddlebags. “Would you like to take that chariot ride now?” he asked.
Chrysippus felt faintly uneasy - perhaps it was the idea of someone noticing them missing from the lesson, or the cloudy sky outside. But he did want to go, and Laius was being very generous with him. It could not be long until he turned towards more serious matters and stopped wasting his time with an illegitimate younger son. And so he agreed, and followed Laius down to the stables, went with him as he fetched his horses, led them out, and hitched them to the chariot. Just as he had before, Laius put his hands at Chrysippus’ waist and lifted him into the chariot in front of him. He gathered the reins. He set the horses moving.
For a few minutes, it was as wonderful at had been before. There were clouds overhead, and the sky was heavy with moisture, but there was still wind in Chrysippus’ hair and movement all around him. And then Laius gathered up all the reins in his right hand and threw the left around Chrysippus’ chest, pulling him close. And he swerved off the training ground.
Chrysippus did not understand and everything was moving too fast - it was impossible to translate Laius’ actions into a comprehensible meaning. He was working on formulating a question, but Laius was driving ever and faster and faster, around the palace’s outbuildings, forcing people to dash out of his way in shock. Chrysippus suddenly saw in front of them the gate at the center of the walls which encircled the palace. It was open.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shouting to be heard.
Laius didn’t answer. Chrysippus heard a scream, and saw an older serving woman, who had cared for him when he was a child, pointing at the chariot, her eyes wide. “Someone get Axiomache and the King,” she cried, “he’s taking her son!”
And Laius barreled at through the open gates and, all at once, Chrysippus realized it was true.
He twisted in Laius’ grip. “Let me go!” he shouted, “What are you doing? You’ve frightened everyone!”
But Laius held him tight and said nothing until they were several miles from the city. Then, though he did not stop the chariot, he let the horses slow their pace. “There,” he said, “no one should catch up with us now, if anyone has even bothered to follow. Don’t yell, boy; there’s no need to be foolish.”
Chrysippus was too worn out with confusion and fear to yell. “What are you doing?” he asked again, “Why have you taken me like this?”
Laius did not look at him; his eyes were on the ground before them. “I knew it was wrong,” he answered, “but nature compelled me. You are a very beautiful boy.”
Chrysippus felt all the emotion within him suddenly coalesce into a dense, heavy ball, which fell abruptly to the pit of his stomach.
He thought about escaping, then. He thought about biting Laius’ arm with his teeth to make him let go, ducking away from him, jumping out of the moving chariot, running back towards the palace.
And then he thought of Laius wheeling his chariot around and pursuing him more swiftly than he could run, seizing him and dumping him back inside. He thought about the fact that he had only very rarely left the palace walls, and had no idea where they now were.
He did not run away.
After some time, Laius stopped to let the horses rest. The saddlebags, it turned out, were filled with food, coins, and Laius’ lyre. Laius gave Chrysippus bread and salted fish, which he ate mechanically, though he did not feel hungry. Laius ate as well. He said little. He sat for a long time beneath a tree, gazing at Chrysippus.
Chrysippus wished that Laius had no eyes.
When the horses had rested sufficiently, Laius again lifted Chrysippus into the chariot and drove on. Once they had been traveling for about half an hour, it began to rain. Laius continued until the rainfall turned heavy and made the road muddy. Then he cursed at it and they stopped again, taking shelter under a few trees at the center of the road. Laius gave Chrysippus a cloak from the saddlebag. Chrysippus took it and felt empty. It was as though a part of his mind was still thinking, still working, but he could not access it. All the rest of him was numb.
It was not until the next day that Laius raped him.
Chrysippus had done nothing sexual before, not even with boys or girls his own age. Laius was gentle, and attentive to Chrysippus’ pleasure. He stopped often to give Chrysippus marveling compliments on the beauty of his body, and each one made Chrysippus shrink further and further inside himself. The penetration hurt, and Chrysippus could not keep himself from crying, though he did not let Laius see. When it was over, Laius took out his lyre and played a sweet-sounding hymn to Eros. Chrysippus covered his face in his cloak and tried not to think how long it might be until he saw his home again.
Weeks passed in that way, though they did not spend many nights sleeping outdoors after the first one, for Laius had a heavy purse of gold with him and many friends. Everyone they encountered seemed to assume that the two of them were on some sort of scandalous tryst, perhaps without the agreement of Chrysippus’ parents. When Chrysippus failed to promptly answer their questions, they deemed him shy.
Chrysippus wondered if it would ever end. He pictured himself in the unknown Theban court, years from that moment, sharing a bedroom with Laius. He asked himself, Could I survive that? and found he had no answer. Laius was not cruel, though he could, especially as the weeks wore on, become brusque and frustrated. In many ways, a life as Laius’ catamite would be little different from the life he could have expected to live as Pelops’ bastard son. He would have food, shelter, fine clothes. His hands would never grow calloused from field work.
But his body would not be his own. He would have no choice in when or how it was touched. He would ever have to hear Laius’ voice, talking about the beauty of his chest and arms and hips. He would have to touch Laius as well, draw him into pleasure when he wanted nothing to do with his captor’s skin.
He would never see his mother again.
Once, he thought of killing himself. They were staying at the home of one of Laius’ rich friends; Chrysippus was alone in the bedchamber. He saw Laius’ sword, leaning against the wall, and picked it up. Its weight startled him. He could, he thought, plunge it into his own belly, or fall upon it and let his weight draw him down, eviscerating himself. Then this would be done. There would be no question of what his future would be.
To admit it was shaming, but the pain frightened him. It would be a messy, ugly death, and he was terrified of that, terrified of lying on the blood in agony, waiting for Hermes, the guide of souls, to lead him down to Hades.
And he did not want to die. He did not want to live like this, as Laius’ pet, but neither did he want to die. Perhaps he did not know who he was, did not know what his life could be, but he at least wanted the chance to find out. He knew no way of getting away from Laius, had no method of getting home to Argos, but he would hold onto life until he could find one.
As it turned out, not two weeks later, one found him. And it came the form of his detested older brothers, Atreus and Thyestes. They intercepted Laius’ chariot in the road, their horses circling around and cutting him off. Chrysippus looked up and saw Laius’ face blanch with fury.
“Come on,” said Thyestes, “your fun is over. Father sent us to bring the boy home.”
“We’ve ridden hard for days,” Atreus added, “you didn’t make yourselves easy to find. But it’s over now.”
“Why does he care?” Laius snarled, “He’s only a bastard. I’d treat him well in Thebes -”
Thyestes seemed almost to explode in anger. “Do you know how terribly you’ve violated the laws of guest-friendship, stealing your host’s son from under his very roof? Of course father cares! I wouldn’t be surprised if the gods themselves curse your family for what you’ve done.”
“We will kill you,” Atreus said lightly, “if you don’t give him back. No one would fault us for protecting the honor of our family.”
No one, during the entire exchange, addressed or even looked at Chrysippus directly.
With resentment and barely controlled rage, Laius released his hold on Chrysippus, who stepped down from the chariot, his head light with the suddenness of what had just happened. He realized that it was the first time he had ever stepped out of a chariot without Laius’ hand helping him down.
“Come on,” Thyestes said to him, “we have a long ride ahead of us.”
Chrysippus mounted his brother’s horse, feeling embarrassed at the childishness of riding at the front of his saddle. He wasn’t a little boy any longer. He had turned fourteen, he realized, during the time he spent with Laius.
Who was looking at him still, lingeringly, longingly. “Remember me,” he said to Chrysippus, as he gathered up his reins, “and once I take back my kingdom, remember that you will always have a home in Thebes.”
Chrysippus thought faintly that he would avoid Thebes as he would the pit of Tartarus. Quickly, he looked away from Laius.
The chariot went one way and the horses another. As he gazed down at the dust of the road, Chrysippus imagined how Laius must look at that moment, with the wind in his dark hair and his face twisted in useless rage.
“Well, Chrysippus,” Atreus said, “we never would have thought of you. Taking a lover, maybe, but running off like that -”
“I didn’t go willingly,” he said tightly. He had, somehow, not expected this.
Atreus shrugged. “Say whatever you like,” he said, dismissing the question.
The journey back with his brothers was tedious and frustrating, but at least not filled with fear and humiliation. When they reached the palace of Argos, Chrysippus’ mother rushed out to meet them and embraced Chrysippus tightly as soon as she saw him. Chrysippus could hear his brothers sniggering at the sight, but he didn’t care.
The time immediately following his return was difficult. There were jokes made about him, cruel, sidelong glances, harsh questions which implied that he was either lying about his unwillingness or a hopelessly naive fool for not anticipating Laius’ attack. Each of these hit him hard, bruised him, drove the terrifying memories of Laius’ touch, his breath, his admiring compliments further into Chrysippus’ abdomen, causing his stomach to twist in pain. But it was better than having it still happen. And they would forget, eventually. They would stop caring.
One morning, he found his lyre, hidden beneath a dusty pile of scroll in his bedchamber. Bile rose in his throat and he almost thrust it aside in nausea. But then he stopped, and inhaled deeply. He was here. Laius was not. And he would not let Laius take this from him as well.
Slowly, he took up the lyre, tightened the strings, and began to play.