Antithesis of Aristeia
an excerpt

There was a sound of chains on the other side of the door and the locking mechanism being turned, and then the door opened.

“Patroclus,” Agamemnon said, in the old tongue, and managed to sound more than a little pleased.

“Agamemnon,” Patroclus replied similarly, although he sounded more bemused than anything else. “Why are you on my doorstep?” The final word was actually spoken in English rather than their mother tongue, simply because there was no exact translation for what Agamemnon was currently standing on.

“Most likely for the same reason you currently have a doorstep,” Agamemnon quipped, a little nastier now. Honestly, what sort of idiotic question was that? No, he simply wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. The former Argive king resisted the urge to roll his eyes—it was unbecoming of a ruler, after all, to sink so low in the presence of his subordinates.

“Come in, then, so you won’t be on my doorstep,” Patroclus said, saving himself some grace, and stepping aside to let in his former lord.

“Your humble abode is just that, Patroclus: humble.” Agamemnon couldn’t resist this statement. We have mentioned that he never shared a particularly good bond with the other man, yes?

“I would like to think it is better than what you are living in,” Patroclus commented, although not a snide trace was to be found in his tone. “My lord,” he added quickly, before Agamemnon could say anything further concerning the man’s impropriety. Agamemnon considered it anyway, but found that perhaps Patroclus was telling the truth: having his own place certainly seemed a step up from living in a motel, although a very small step indeed. He looked around with a little distaste.

The place was small, dimly lit, and the wallpaper was smudged with no longer identifiable smears of what appeared to be dust accumulation, possibly mud, oil, and what may or may not be dried blood. The lighting was too dim to tell. Otherwise, however, Agamemnon had to admit that Patroclus had done as well as he could given the circumstances: the kitchen stove was free of grease, the dining table was wiped clean, and the two small chairs were not terribly dirty at all. The floor appeared as if it had been cleaned obsessively with bleach, so that the tiles didn’t look too terribly old, despite the fact that they were cracking and the cement flooring underneath was showing in the odd patches here and there. There was a narrow, dark hallway that led to, Agamemnon assumed, a small living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom.

“Will you join me in breaking fast?” Patroclus asked, peering at Agamemnon a little anxiously, as if awaiting his pronouncement on his habitation. Agamemnon grunted his assent.

As the younger man busied himself in the kitchen, Agamemnon sat down and rested himself a while. It wasn’t that he was weary—well, okay, he was just a little tired: he had only slept a few hours, after all, and then had walked a ways in the cold, but gods damn it he had fought in many battles in his prime! And it didn’t appear as if he had actually gotten much older at all, at least not from the point at which he had died. Small comforts.

“How long have you been here?” Patroclus attempted at small talk began as bacon was sizzling in a fry pan.

“About an hour.”

The other man’s backed was turned to him, but Agamemnon suspected that Patroclus was rolling his eyes or making faces because he snorted and said: “That’s not what I meant.”

Agamemnon narrowed his eyes, although he knew the other man couldn’t see. “About two years now. I gained consciousness up near Troy.” He used the English name for it, in case Patroclus decided to play dumb and tease him about traveling over the sea or something.

One of the first things Agamemnon had done, after getting to his bearings in this new place, was to take a look at a map. Contemporary maps no longer had those ancient cities, but some snooping around in a library in a different town had gained results: the librarian had found a map of the ancient world, the world as it had been in his time, and overlaying that on a contemporary map had told him exactly how far away he was from home. Some extra reading and inquiries later, he’d also discovered exactly how far away in time he was from home.

“The gods mock us,” Patroclus murmured, although the comment seemed a stray thought rather than a concrete expression. “I awoke near Troy as well, but came here instead.”

“You thought it would bring you closer to home,” Agamemnon accused.

“Yes,” Patroclus said, wistfulness in his voice.