Teddy slides down onto the seat, impressed by the spear but hasty to take over the oars. He watches Achilles as he speaks. Achilles is always a compelling speaker, his choice of words and intensity easy to pay attention to. In this moment, though, the determination and grief and fury battling in his expression aches somewhere deep in Teddy's chest.
Teddy knows the story already, not that they're prepared to address that with Achilles. A lot of people do, of course. They've always been a reader, eager to read the sources of adaptations or find absolutely everything out on a new topic of interest, ordering things from other libraries when they had to. They'd used Ancient Epics for one of two pre-1700s requirements; the first day of class, their professor, head of Classics and extremely pleased with having a class every year packed half full of lit majors, had walked in and intoned Sing, Goddess, of the rage of Achilles instead of opening with making sure everyone was in the right room, calling role, saying hello.
But it's different to hear it from Achilles. Sure it's not the sort of anecdote she might hear from a friend from home -- though it makes Teddy think about how many of the kids from her town join the military from high school, how it's maybe not that different at all from feelings they might share -- but the loss and regret is fresh in his tone, not filtered through retellings of retellings and compared between translations.
And then Nanaue goes flying over the boat, shouting BLESS YOU and despite the terrifying closeness of the leviathan and Nanaue's predicament, Teddy can't help a slightly hysterical laugh. It's cut off as Achilles' spear hits true, straight in the eye of the giant squid-like animal. It makes Teddy's stomach roil even as they know it makes absolute sense.
The leviathan roars, a deep gutteral sound that turns Teddy's blood cold, and flails, tentacle whipping toward them. Or...him, because Achilles is already diving into the roiling water.
"Achill--" she shouts, trailing off with the uselessness of it, instead scrambling on feet and hands toward the prow and the long knife -- which she's pretty sure is really meant for cutting rope or nets free of tangle, or maybe gutting fish. The tentacle misses her as she tumbles flat with the waves the creature's creating, but it's not trying to get herm; it's trying to wrap around, or maybe just submerge, the boat. Teddy turns, any remaining bad feelings about killing these things wiped from her mind in the need to survive this, and just hacks at the tentacle, dark blood spurting from it and splattering her; it fights her for a moment but finally withdraws, the end nearly severed and hangign uselessly.
Teddy looks around desperately, grabbing for the oars and throwing all her weight against them, charging the skiff toward the body of the beast, searching the water. "Achilles? Nanaue?"
They do sing, then, partly to distract themself, partly to get the oars on beat; partly in the hopes that it really will help everyone work together. It might be the most gritted-teeth rendition of The Bonny Ship The Diamond anyone has ever heard, but it gets them moving.
musing on too-young military losses; gross cutting up of squid?
Teddy knows the story already, not that they're prepared to address that with Achilles. A lot of people do, of course. They've always been a reader, eager to read the sources of adaptations or find absolutely everything out on a new topic of interest, ordering things from other libraries when they had to. They'd used Ancient Epics for one of two pre-1700s requirements; the first day of class, their professor, head of Classics and extremely pleased with having a class every year packed half full of lit majors, had walked in and intoned Sing, Goddess, of the rage of Achilles instead of opening with making sure everyone was in the right room, calling role, saying hello.
But it's different to hear it from Achilles. Sure it's not the sort of anecdote she might hear from a friend from home -- though it makes Teddy think about how many of the kids from her town join the military from high school, how it's maybe not that different at all from feelings they might share -- but the loss and regret is fresh in his tone, not filtered through retellings of retellings and compared between translations.
And then Nanaue goes flying over the boat, shouting BLESS YOU and despite the terrifying closeness of the leviathan and Nanaue's predicament, Teddy can't help a slightly hysterical laugh. It's cut off as Achilles' spear hits true, straight in the eye of the giant squid-like animal. It makes Teddy's stomach roil even as they know it makes absolute sense.
The leviathan roars, a deep gutteral sound that turns Teddy's blood cold, and flails, tentacle whipping toward them. Or...him, because Achilles is already diving into the roiling water.
"Achill--" she shouts, trailing off with the uselessness of it, instead scrambling on feet and hands toward the prow and the long knife -- which she's pretty sure is really meant for cutting rope or nets free of tangle, or maybe gutting fish. The tentacle misses her as she tumbles flat with the waves the creature's creating, but it's not trying to get herm; it's trying to wrap around, or maybe just submerge, the boat. Teddy turns, any remaining bad feelings about killing these things wiped from her mind in the need to survive this, and just hacks at the tentacle, dark blood spurting from it and splattering her; it fights her for a moment but finally withdraws, the end nearly severed and hangign uselessly.
Teddy looks around desperately, grabbing for the oars and throwing all her weight against them, charging the skiff toward the body of the beast, searching the water. "Achilles? Nanaue?"
They do sing, then, partly to distract themself, partly to get the oars on beat; partly in the hopes that it really will help everyone work together. It might be the most gritted-teeth rendition of The Bonny Ship The Diamond anyone has ever heard, but it gets them moving.