Weiss Kreuz; Schuldig/Crawford
Title:Bearing Gifts
Author: daegaer
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating:PG-13
Word count: 1530
Summary: While serving the Great King Darius in 5th century BCE Macedon, a Persian noble meets an Illyrian slave.
Notes: The story as found in Herodotus 5.18,5.19 and 5.20. Thanks to louiselux for her beta!
Khurshid lay back upon his couch and laughed with the rest of the Persian envoys as the Macedonian king reluctantly agreed to bring the women of his family out yet again to sit with the guests. The barbarian had offered earth and water to the Great King and was in no position to stand on his honour. It was amusing to see the shame upon the man's face and the way he tried not to look his son in the eye.
Khurshid supposed that he himself might find it difficult to look upon his own son if he had just agreed to prostitute the boy's mother and sisters. One might almost imagine the barbarians capable of decent sentiment, he thought with wine-laden hilarity, wiping his eyes. King Amyntas dropped his gaze, red-faced and impotently angry, as his son spoke quietly to him.
"I must make my goodnights," he said, his voice shaking. "Alexander my son will make sure you have everything you may need."
"All we desire is the pleasant company of your ladies!" one of the envoys cried, his voice trailing into laughter as Amyntas bowed, flustered, and left as if he feared he would be hunted.
"Let the women have time to dress properly, to do you every honour you deserve," King Amyntas' son said with a cheerful smile upon his young face. "I'll go to the women's quarters to see they don't tarry overlong." He strolled out of the room with his friends, and the Persians laughed harder.
Khurshid sat up abruptly, ignoring the drunken protest as he nearly upended the goblet held loosely by the other junior officer sharing the couch. Something was wrong, was about to be very wrong. Just as in battle, he could tell where an enemy's blow would fall before even the enemy did, he felt now a warning. When such moments had first come upon him he had felt he was mad, or that the devas deluded him. Now, however, he trusted such warnings, and knew them for the touch of the Wise God. It felt like the thunderclouds gathering. The red-painted walls looked a brighter colour and wet, like fresh-spilled --
"Sir?" a voice said before he could speak to his friends.
Khurshid turned his head to see the Illyrian slave who had poured his wine. The youth looked excited, half-wild under a thin overlay of polite manners. He had caught Khurshid's attention earlier, his hair as bright as new-forged copper drawing the eye as he moved about the room; Khurshid had wondered why so obviously recent a slave had been allowed serve gentlemen.
"Please, sir, there's something I must show you," the slave said.
"Not now, boy," Khurshid said shortly, leaning back and shaking his couchmate, the nearest of the envoys. "Mehrzad - Mehrzad! There's something wrong -"
The boy put importunate hands upon him. "Sir." Before Khurshid could rebuke him or shake him off he felt a strange fog creep over his mind; it seemed all at once as if the world had receded and there was nothing of import. He looked at the youth in dull bewilderment as he took Khurshid's hand and smiled beguilingly.
"You've found something worth a moment's regard in this pigsty!" Mehrzad chuckled. "Such a friendly lad!"
"Won't you come with me, sir?" the boy said, tugging gently at Khurshid's hand. His fingers stroked Khurshid's, tracing round the ring that had been his father's before grasping his wrist loosely.
"Go on," Mehrzad laughed. "You're as well to take the bird that has alighted in your hand as wait for the women. European women have faces like horses, anyway." He held out his cup. "More wine before you go, boy."
The youth near sprinted to the side table to catch up the nearest jug of wine, and was back before Khurshid could catch his wits. "You won't want water with it, will you, sir?" he asked, filling the waiting cup to the brim.
"Is this not a celebration amongst friends? It is not a time for watered wine," Mehrzad said, settling back. "Run along, boy, and leave Khurshid with a more pleasant expression upon his face."
Khurshid found the boy tugging him up from the couch and pulling him along. He slid Khurshid's arm about his waist and looked down and away as if he were ashamed; shamed or not, he seemed determined in his efforts to get them both from the room. Macedonian hill nobles glared at them, muttering insults under their breath they thought Khurshid couldn't understand. Persian pigfucker, he heard but the boy pulled him away. Outside the room the boy dropped his pretence of shamed compliance and seized Khurshid's arm in a strong grip.
"Quick, quick!"
"Don't think I'll reward such forwardness," Khurshid said, finding it hard to concentrate on why it was he had felt foreboding. The boy shot him an irritated glance and hurried him past the guards at the door, who leaned upon their great spears and laughed at what they took to be drunken lust. It had been raining, he thought dimly, looking in some dismay at the mud outdoors. Could the barbarians not keep even their king's courtyard clean?
"The stables are this way," the boy said, and led him along by the hand. Khurshid felt less and less as if he was weighted down with knowledge of coming evil, and curled his fingers about the boy's. He wasn't bad looking, he supposed; the flame-coloured hair was interesting at least, and his hands weren't those of a peasant. The lad probably hoped to find himself a more civilised master and wanted to show he was worth buying. Khurshid looked about him as they slipped into the stables - one of the stalls was empty, it would do. It didn't have straw strewn upon the floor, but that was all right; it was cold, Khurshid had no intention of lying down. He pulled the boy closer for a kiss.
"Not now," the boy snapped, pushing him back.
Khurshid covered his surprise with a scowl. "What? Look, there's no point being shy -"
"You listen to me, sir," the boy said. "I got you out here to save you, not to have you screw me." He looked about. "Which is your horse?" Almost before Khurshid had glanced towards his gelding's stall the boy was there, coaxing the bridle on. "They're killing the Persians, you know. Or will be in a moment. I saw it in the prince's mind. He'll dress his friends as veiled women and have them cut your friends' throats."
"What?" Khurshid said. He stepped back cautiously. The boy hadn't looked mad -
"I'm not mad," the boy said with a narrow grin, putting tack on another horse. "Or if I am, it's the same sort of madness you have. We need to go. You know that - you felt it before it has even started. I saw that in your mind."
Khurshid stared at him. "What are you?" he asked as the boy led out the horses.
"The Macedonians came on my village at my cousin's wedding," the boy said. "We were dancing, and the girls were singing to the bride -" He stopped. "Everyone I know is dead, or a slave, or ravished," he went on. "It's a lucky one of us to whom only one of those applies." He threw the reins of Khurshid's horse to him. "As to what I am, I'm not dead. And I'd like to remain so. Quick! You can't go back, they'll kill you!" He glared at Khurshid in exasperation. "Stop looking at me like that! You know something is wrong!"
Khurshid did. The heavy feeling was upon him once more now that his mind was clear, and he felt ill as he looked back at the king's house. "Why did you go through that charade? Why worry about getting me out here?"
"You know what will happen before it happens," the boy shrugged. "It seemed to me that would be useful in keeping me alive. We must leave, now. They'll have to kill all your servants and conceal everything you brought with you, they'll come to the stables soon."
He put his hands upon the horse's withers and leapt up, sitting easily on the beast, though it had to be taller than he was used to. Khurshid could see he was a warrior's son. This was not, he thought, a slave looking for a new master. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Selefkos. I already know yours. Mount!"
Khurshid jumped up, and looked angrily back at the brightly lit house. The feeling of wrongness overwhelmed him, and he urged his horse into a trot down the road that would take them from Pella. One man could do nothing, he thought. All he could offer his friends was vengeance. As they passed the last of the houses he and Selefkos looked over their shoulders as if they had heard something call out too loudly to be denied, then resolutely set their faces forward once more.
By the time the screams and fighting had died down in the king's house they were far into the shelter of the dark forest.
Author: daegaer
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Rating:PG-13
Word count: 1530
Summary: While serving the Great King Darius in 5th century BCE Macedon, a Persian noble meets an Illyrian slave.
Notes: The story as found in Herodotus 5.18,5.19 and 5.20. Thanks to louiselux for her beta!
Khurshid lay back upon his couch and laughed with the rest of the Persian envoys as the Macedonian king reluctantly agreed to bring the women of his family out yet again to sit with the guests. The barbarian had offered earth and water to the Great King and was in no position to stand on his honour. It was amusing to see the shame upon the man's face and the way he tried not to look his son in the eye.
Khurshid supposed that he himself might find it difficult to look upon his own son if he had just agreed to prostitute the boy's mother and sisters. One might almost imagine the barbarians capable of decent sentiment, he thought with wine-laden hilarity, wiping his eyes. King Amyntas dropped his gaze, red-faced and impotently angry, as his son spoke quietly to him.
"I must make my goodnights," he said, his voice shaking. "Alexander my son will make sure you have everything you may need."
"All we desire is the pleasant company of your ladies!" one of the envoys cried, his voice trailing into laughter as Amyntas bowed, flustered, and left as if he feared he would be hunted.
"Let the women have time to dress properly, to do you every honour you deserve," King Amyntas' son said with a cheerful smile upon his young face. "I'll go to the women's quarters to see they don't tarry overlong." He strolled out of the room with his friends, and the Persians laughed harder.
Khurshid sat up abruptly, ignoring the drunken protest as he nearly upended the goblet held loosely by the other junior officer sharing the couch. Something was wrong, was about to be very wrong. Just as in battle, he could tell where an enemy's blow would fall before even the enemy did, he felt now a warning. When such moments had first come upon him he had felt he was mad, or that the devas deluded him. Now, however, he trusted such warnings, and knew them for the touch of the Wise God. It felt like the thunderclouds gathering. The red-painted walls looked a brighter colour and wet, like fresh-spilled --
"Sir?" a voice said before he could speak to his friends.
Khurshid turned his head to see the Illyrian slave who had poured his wine. The youth looked excited, half-wild under a thin overlay of polite manners. He had caught Khurshid's attention earlier, his hair as bright as new-forged copper drawing the eye as he moved about the room; Khurshid had wondered why so obviously recent a slave had been allowed serve gentlemen.
"Please, sir, there's something I must show you," the slave said.
"Not now, boy," Khurshid said shortly, leaning back and shaking his couchmate, the nearest of the envoys. "Mehrzad - Mehrzad! There's something wrong -"
The boy put importunate hands upon him. "Sir." Before Khurshid could rebuke him or shake him off he felt a strange fog creep over his mind; it seemed all at once as if the world had receded and there was nothing of import. He looked at the youth in dull bewilderment as he took Khurshid's hand and smiled beguilingly.
"You've found something worth a moment's regard in this pigsty!" Mehrzad chuckled. "Such a friendly lad!"
"Won't you come with me, sir?" the boy said, tugging gently at Khurshid's hand. His fingers stroked Khurshid's, tracing round the ring that had been his father's before grasping his wrist loosely.
"Go on," Mehrzad laughed. "You're as well to take the bird that has alighted in your hand as wait for the women. European women have faces like horses, anyway." He held out his cup. "More wine before you go, boy."
The youth near sprinted to the side table to catch up the nearest jug of wine, and was back before Khurshid could catch his wits. "You won't want water with it, will you, sir?" he asked, filling the waiting cup to the brim.
"Is this not a celebration amongst friends? It is not a time for watered wine," Mehrzad said, settling back. "Run along, boy, and leave Khurshid with a more pleasant expression upon his face."
Khurshid found the boy tugging him up from the couch and pulling him along. He slid Khurshid's arm about his waist and looked down and away as if he were ashamed; shamed or not, he seemed determined in his efforts to get them both from the room. Macedonian hill nobles glared at them, muttering insults under their breath they thought Khurshid couldn't understand. Persian pigfucker, he heard but the boy pulled him away. Outside the room the boy dropped his pretence of shamed compliance and seized Khurshid's arm in a strong grip.
"Quick, quick!"
"Don't think I'll reward such forwardness," Khurshid said, finding it hard to concentrate on why it was he had felt foreboding. The boy shot him an irritated glance and hurried him past the guards at the door, who leaned upon their great spears and laughed at what they took to be drunken lust. It had been raining, he thought dimly, looking in some dismay at the mud outdoors. Could the barbarians not keep even their king's courtyard clean?
"The stables are this way," the boy said, and led him along by the hand. Khurshid felt less and less as if he was weighted down with knowledge of coming evil, and curled his fingers about the boy's. He wasn't bad looking, he supposed; the flame-coloured hair was interesting at least, and his hands weren't those of a peasant. The lad probably hoped to find himself a more civilised master and wanted to show he was worth buying. Khurshid looked about him as they slipped into the stables - one of the stalls was empty, it would do. It didn't have straw strewn upon the floor, but that was all right; it was cold, Khurshid had no intention of lying down. He pulled the boy closer for a kiss.
"Not now," the boy snapped, pushing him back.
Khurshid covered his surprise with a scowl. "What? Look, there's no point being shy -"
"You listen to me, sir," the boy said. "I got you out here to save you, not to have you screw me." He looked about. "Which is your horse?" Almost before Khurshid had glanced towards his gelding's stall the boy was there, coaxing the bridle on. "They're killing the Persians, you know. Or will be in a moment. I saw it in the prince's mind. He'll dress his friends as veiled women and have them cut your friends' throats."
"What?" Khurshid said. He stepped back cautiously. The boy hadn't looked mad -
"I'm not mad," the boy said with a narrow grin, putting tack on another horse. "Or if I am, it's the same sort of madness you have. We need to go. You know that - you felt it before it has even started. I saw that in your mind."
Khurshid stared at him. "What are you?" he asked as the boy led out the horses.
"The Macedonians came on my village at my cousin's wedding," the boy said. "We were dancing, and the girls were singing to the bride -" He stopped. "Everyone I know is dead, or a slave, or ravished," he went on. "It's a lucky one of us to whom only one of those applies." He threw the reins of Khurshid's horse to him. "As to what I am, I'm not dead. And I'd like to remain so. Quick! You can't go back, they'll kill you!" He glared at Khurshid in exasperation. "Stop looking at me like that! You know something is wrong!"
Khurshid did. The heavy feeling was upon him once more now that his mind was clear, and he felt ill as he looked back at the king's house. "Why did you go through that charade? Why worry about getting me out here?"
"You know what will happen before it happens," the boy shrugged. "It seemed to me that would be useful in keeping me alive. We must leave, now. They'll have to kill all your servants and conceal everything you brought with you, they'll come to the stables soon."
He put his hands upon the horse's withers and leapt up, sitting easily on the beast, though it had to be taller than he was used to. Khurshid could see he was a warrior's son. This was not, he thought, a slave looking for a new master. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Selefkos. I already know yours. Mount!"
Khurshid jumped up, and looked angrily back at the brightly lit house. The feeling of wrongness overwhelmed him, and he urged his horse into a trot down the road that would take them from Pella. One man could do nothing, he thought. All he could offer his friends was vengeance. As they passed the last of the houses he and Selefkos looked over their shoulders as if they had heard something call out too loudly to be denied, then resolutely set their faces forward once more.
By the time the screams and fighting had died down in the king's house they were far into the shelter of the dark forest.