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serindranaTitle: Laocoon
Rating: PG-13 (for violence only, yet again o.O)
Spoilers: Um. If you don't know about "Greeks bearing gifts," then you might need to get some help.
Word Count: 1033
Characters: Laocoon, Sinon, Antiphantes, Thymbraeus, and the twins of Tenedos.
Summary: Laocoon has a bad, bad day.
Notes: I wrote this a while ago, finally got around to editing it. It's based off of the passage in Book II of the Aenied, when Laocoon dies - all my details are based off of that (and the way I translated it), not from anything in the Odyssey. So yes. XD
I am a huge, huge geek.
Laocoon
You don't understand: how could these men, these comrades whom you fought with, alongside, for ten long years, how could they be so deluded? Is their need for peace really so great that they lie to themselves, trick themselves into believing that the horse is truly a gift?
Is seeing some of the children - yours among them - play on the beach, among the waves that brought the Achaean threat, really that great of an enticement?
You've made your point. You struck the horse with all your might, old tight muscles bunching and releasing with epic force as you drove your spear through the air. It pierced the side, penetrating all the way into the belly. You had hoped that the force of the blow would prove something, anything. All you needed was a scream, a groan of pain.
But the dreaded Achaeans that lie within the womb of this wooden monstrosity are too well-trained. Ten long years forged the strongest of metals, toughened minds and bodies alike. Whoever is inside wouldn't be there if they would whimper at the slightest pain.
That was all you could do. That and call them all fools; ridicule them for their stupidity; enlighten them as to what this 'gift' must be.
"Whatever it is," you said, raising your voice above the murmur of the crowd and the crashing of the waves, "I fear Greeks, even those bearing gifts."
The spear flew, the wood echoed and groaned. Nothing. Nothing at all.
So you stepped back, watched in utter disbelief as your dearest friends turned off their minds and opened their hearts to this deceiver, this Sinon, who stumbled from the surrounding land, claiming betrayal. He threw himself upon their mercy, begged their patience as he explained how the Greeks had left without him. It matched up nicely with sentry reports, explained the echoing emptiness of the shore. They had left behind Sinon, abandoned him.
He bathed them in the words they wanted to hear. His lies caressed them, stirred them, proved to them that this was all what it seemed.
The decision was made; the horse was to be brought in, the walls knocked down. There was nothing left for you to do but sacrifice a bull to Neptune, desperately seeking help in protecting your home.
You don't understand: you watch the bloody crests of serpentine monsters, two of them, a perfect twining pair, rise above the waves. You see their path laid out before them as if Cassandra had lent you her hysterical eyes for a moment in time. There, sitting in the sand and digging holes towards the center of the earth are your sons, Antiphantes, Thymbraeus, both blithely unaware of the scaled monsters that streak towards them. It is only when the cry finally goes up along the beach that they look up. Your blood-soaked axe drops to the sand. The dry ground sucks up the moisture - a day is much too long for it to go without being whetted with lost life after these ten long years.
Everything moves so slowly for the next few moments. The two serpents rise from the waves and begin to pull their bodies across the sand with a dry, dangerous shifting sound. Antiphantes looks up first, screaming in that young, high voice of his. Scales wrap around his legs, pinning him in place while the snake winds up around his chest. Thymbraeus manages to backpedal, but slips and falls. The remaining monster engulfs him in a writhing mass of shining keratin, pushing down. You can hear their cries as they struggle for life.
You do the only thing you know how to do now, after so long. You grab the discarded weapons of nearby Trojans and rush for the shore. Warrior instinct takes over, paternal rage drives you over the burning ground. The closer you get, the clearer the sound of crunching bone becomes.
You know before the snakes look up and the screaming fades that they are dead.
Thymbraeus died first, you are sure. He was frailer than his brother, built for a time before war. Antiphantes had held such promise in his eyes, eyes that already held the cast of a great warrior. The haunting thoughts of what might have been assault all of your sense in the scent of blood, the sight of their broken bodies. You almost forget the two serpents even as they leave their victims and approach you. You are alone before their hissing onslaught, your brothers in arms scattered across the shore in an effort to run, preserve themselves.
Slowly, so slowly, you focus on the snakes. Your hand, tendons pressing starkly against tanned olive skin, tightens on the hilt of your sword. You begin to raise it in defense. But the first snake, Antiphantes' murderer, lashes out with it's hard, thin tail, connecting sharply with your wrist. Reflexively, you drop the blade. The dagger in your left hand suffers the same fate, and then the snakes are on you, embracing, coiling, tightening. One wraps clockwise, the other counter; both wind up your legs, wrap once each around your chest, and circle a final time around your neck. Your strong hands rise to your throat, trying to pry their bodies away, to catch the few breaths you need, you think you need, to push these creatures off of you. But the coils around your chest press down, pushing the life from your lungs. Your hands slip and give. Droplets of blood, the blood of your sons, drips down onto your face, your cheek, stains your beard and the ceremonial bands on your robes. Those hissing mouths drip venom, burn you with its fire. The sound and feeling of your ribs and legs breaking cracks in your ears.
With the last ounce of breath in your body, you scream. You scream loud and long, crying towards the heavens. From your throat wells the sound of a failed sacrifice, a bull escaping with the axe wound still weeping blood. Your suffering is immense; thoughts of your actions, thoughts of the gods' retribution break down your mind in those final moments. You see what is to be. Troy is to fall.
Rating: PG-13 (for violence only, yet again o.O)
Spoilers: Um. If you don't know about "Greeks bearing gifts," then you might need to get some help.
Word Count: 1033
Characters: Laocoon, Sinon, Antiphantes, Thymbraeus, and the twins of Tenedos.
Summary: Laocoon has a bad, bad day.
Notes: I wrote this a while ago, finally got around to editing it. It's based off of the passage in Book II of the Aenied, when Laocoon dies - all my details are based off of that (and the way I translated it), not from anything in the Odyssey. So yes. XD
I am a huge, huge geek.
Laocoon
You don't understand: how could these men, these comrades whom you fought with, alongside, for ten long years, how could they be so deluded? Is their need for peace really so great that they lie to themselves, trick themselves into believing that the horse is truly a gift?
Is seeing some of the children - yours among them - play on the beach, among the waves that brought the Achaean threat, really that great of an enticement?
You've made your point. You struck the horse with all your might, old tight muscles bunching and releasing with epic force as you drove your spear through the air. It pierced the side, penetrating all the way into the belly. You had hoped that the force of the blow would prove something, anything. All you needed was a scream, a groan of pain.
But the dreaded Achaeans that lie within the womb of this wooden monstrosity are too well-trained. Ten long years forged the strongest of metals, toughened minds and bodies alike. Whoever is inside wouldn't be there if they would whimper at the slightest pain.
That was all you could do. That and call them all fools; ridicule them for their stupidity; enlighten them as to what this 'gift' must be.
"Whatever it is," you said, raising your voice above the murmur of the crowd and the crashing of the waves, "I fear Greeks, even those bearing gifts."
The spear flew, the wood echoed and groaned. Nothing. Nothing at all.
So you stepped back, watched in utter disbelief as your dearest friends turned off their minds and opened their hearts to this deceiver, this Sinon, who stumbled from the surrounding land, claiming betrayal. He threw himself upon their mercy, begged their patience as he explained how the Greeks had left without him. It matched up nicely with sentry reports, explained the echoing emptiness of the shore. They had left behind Sinon, abandoned him.
He bathed them in the words they wanted to hear. His lies caressed them, stirred them, proved to them that this was all what it seemed.
The decision was made; the horse was to be brought in, the walls knocked down. There was nothing left for you to do but sacrifice a bull to Neptune, desperately seeking help in protecting your home.
You don't understand: you watch the bloody crests of serpentine monsters, two of them, a perfect twining pair, rise above the waves. You see their path laid out before them as if Cassandra had lent you her hysterical eyes for a moment in time. There, sitting in the sand and digging holes towards the center of the earth are your sons, Antiphantes, Thymbraeus, both blithely unaware of the scaled monsters that streak towards them. It is only when the cry finally goes up along the beach that they look up. Your blood-soaked axe drops to the sand. The dry ground sucks up the moisture - a day is much too long for it to go without being whetted with lost life after these ten long years.
Everything moves so slowly for the next few moments. The two serpents rise from the waves and begin to pull their bodies across the sand with a dry, dangerous shifting sound. Antiphantes looks up first, screaming in that young, high voice of his. Scales wrap around his legs, pinning him in place while the snake winds up around his chest. Thymbraeus manages to backpedal, but slips and falls. The remaining monster engulfs him in a writhing mass of shining keratin, pushing down. You can hear their cries as they struggle for life.
You do the only thing you know how to do now, after so long. You grab the discarded weapons of nearby Trojans and rush for the shore. Warrior instinct takes over, paternal rage drives you over the burning ground. The closer you get, the clearer the sound of crunching bone becomes.
You know before the snakes look up and the screaming fades that they are dead.
Thymbraeus died first, you are sure. He was frailer than his brother, built for a time before war. Antiphantes had held such promise in his eyes, eyes that already held the cast of a great warrior. The haunting thoughts of what might have been assault all of your sense in the scent of blood, the sight of their broken bodies. You almost forget the two serpents even as they leave their victims and approach you. You are alone before their hissing onslaught, your brothers in arms scattered across the shore in an effort to run, preserve themselves.
Slowly, so slowly, you focus on the snakes. Your hand, tendons pressing starkly against tanned olive skin, tightens on the hilt of your sword. You begin to raise it in defense. But the first snake, Antiphantes' murderer, lashes out with it's hard, thin tail, connecting sharply with your wrist. Reflexively, you drop the blade. The dagger in your left hand suffers the same fate, and then the snakes are on you, embracing, coiling, tightening. One wraps clockwise, the other counter; both wind up your legs, wrap once each around your chest, and circle a final time around your neck. Your strong hands rise to your throat, trying to pry their bodies away, to catch the few breaths you need, you think you need, to push these creatures off of you. But the coils around your chest press down, pushing the life from your lungs. Your hands slip and give. Droplets of blood, the blood of your sons, drips down onto your face, your cheek, stains your beard and the ceremonial bands on your robes. Those hissing mouths drip venom, burn you with its fire. The sound and feeling of your ribs and legs breaking cracks in your ears.
With the last ounce of breath in your body, you scream. You scream loud and long, crying towards the heavens. From your throat wells the sound of a failed sacrifice, a bull escaping with the axe wound still weeping blood. Your suffering is immense; thoughts of your actions, thoughts of the gods' retribution break down your mind in those final moments. You see what is to be. Troy is to fall.
