In A Camp

ㅤㅤThe fire crackled, sending embers into the night.

ㅤㅤAriston shifted, shoulders stiff and gaze flickering toward him before quickly dropping back to the fire. After a long pause, he spoke—hesitant, thoughtful. "It's like a wolf, isn't it?"

ㅤㅤIason frowned. "What?"

ㅤㅤAriston didn't look up. His fingers traced absent patterns into the dirt. "A wolf that's lived alongside men. It eats the scraps it's given, learns the commands it's taught. It seems tame." He hesitated, then glanced at Iason, something unreadable in his dark eyes. "But the moment it bites the hand that feeds it, you realize it was never tame at all."

ㅤㅤIason's stomach tightened.

ㅤㅤAriston exhaled softly. "That's what it felt like." His voice was quiet, not accusing, just stating a fact. "Like something you thought you controlled... but didn't."

ㅤㅤIason looked at him fully then, studying the sharp mind hidden behind wary eyes. A servant boy—a palace attendant, raised among nobles and warriors but never truly one of them. He had likely learned to listen more than he spoke, to observe more than he acted.

ㅤㅤIason had spent his life training, fighting, bleeding, dying for a war that had devoured everything. But Ariston? He had survived by knowing things. By understanding people.

ㅤㅤAnd now he was trying to understand him.

ㅤㅤIason turned his gaze back to the fire. The hunger still coiled beneath his skin, waiting, watching. Like a wolf.

ㅤㅤAriston didn't know the truth. Not yet.

ㅤㅤAnd Iason wasn't ready to tell him.

ㅤㅤHe flexed his fingers, watching the way the firelight cast long, sharp shadows against his knuckles. The hands of a warrior. The hands of a killer that has snapped a man's neck like kindling. Had torn through flesh as if it were nothing. He knew what they were capable of.

ㅤㅤ"What happens when... when you go feral again?"

ㅤㅤIason looked at his hands.

ㅤㅤSteady. Strong.

ㅤㅤ"I don't know."

ㅤㅤAriston tensed. He didn't move, but Iason could feel it—the readiness, the instinctive coil of something prepared to run.

ㅤㅤBut where could he go?

ㅤㅤThe Greeks were still out there, sweeping through the ruins for anything worth taking. So he couldn't go back. And, if he stayed in the wilderness a wild animal would easily prey on someone weakened already. He wouldn't get the chance to be afraid—maybe for a moment. But he would simply die.

ㅤㅤAnd they both knew it.

ㅤㅤIason exhaled. "I won't hurt you." He hesitated. "Not again."

ㅤㅤAriston's gaze flickered up, searching his face, reading something there Iason couldn't see.

ㅤㅤ"You don't sound sure."

ㅤㅤIason forced himself to meet the boy's eyes. "I'm not."

ㅤㅤAriston flinched.

ㅤㅤHis throat bobbed as he swallowed, his knuckles white where he gripped his knees.

ㅤㅤBut he didn't move away.

ㅤㅤThe fires crackled, filling the space between them. The night stretched on, thick with smoke and the ghosts of the dead.

ㅤㅤThen, finally—softly—Ariston spoke.

ㅤㅤ"Where are you going?"

ㅤㅤIason froze. He hadn't thought that far ahead. Hadn't let himself think about it. Until now, there had only been one goal: Survive. But now, survival wasn't enough. He needed answers. He needed to know what he had become.

ㅤㅤThere was only one place he could go.

ㅤㅤA dangerous place. A desperate place.

ㅤㅤ"An island." His voice was steady, resolved. "The island of Circe."

ㅤㅤAriston frowned. "Circe? The witch?"

ㅤㅤIason nodded. "She knows magic. Real magic. Some say she can turn men into beasts, bend them to her will."

ㅤㅤAriston frowned once again, his dark brows drawing together. His fingers traced absent patterns against the fabric of his tattered tunic—mimicking Iason's gesture on the dirt ground—as if turning the thought over in his mind. "And you think she can... undo whatever this is?"

ㅤㅤHis voice held no mockery, no disbelief—only wariness. Caution. The same instinct that made a servant step lightly around nobles, that taught him to measure the weight of his words before speaking. He wasn't questioning Iason out of doubt, but out of necessity. Because if this so-called sorceress couldn't fix whatever had happened, then what? What would he be traveling toward?

ㅤㅤIason's made a fist, his knuckles white with tension. "If anyone can, it's her."

ㅤㅤHe didn't look at Ariston as he spoke. Instead, he stared into the fire, watching the way the ember pulsed like dying stars. He wanted to believe it. Needed to. But beneath the certainty in his words, doubt gnawed at him. Circe was powerful—stories whispered her name like a warning, like a curse—but that didn't mean she'd help him,

ㅤㅤDidn't mean she wouldn't see him as something worth destroying.

ㅤㅤThe fire crackled between them, filling the silence. Ariston shifted, his arms curling around his knees, posture small but thoughtful. After a moment, he exhaled. "Then let's hope she wants to help."

ㅤㅤIason flexed his fingers, feeling the unnatural strength in them, the way his body no longer felt entirely his own.

ㅤㅤ"I think she'll want to know what I am."

ㅤㅤAriston let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "And if she doesn't?"

ㅤㅤSilence.

ㅤㅤ"Then I'll find another way. I don't know yet. Until then, we'll head for Circe's island."

ㅤㅤA long silence stretched between them. The fire popped, sending a lone ember drifting into the wind. Finally, Ariston shifted. His posture loosened—not completely, but enough.

ㅤㅤ"I'll go with you," he said.

ㅤㅤIason blinked. He had expected resistance, hesitation, anything but that. "You don't have to." Ariston ducked his head slightly, his hands twisting in his lap. "I—" 

ㅤㅤ"You just have to join me until we find you a place to work, a living" Iason cut in, mistaking the boy's hesitation for reluctance. "You don't have to come with me to Circe."

ㅤㅤAriston hesitated again, then shook his head. "Yes, I wouldn't last a day alone out here." His voice was quiet, edged with uncertainty. "The Greeks could still be hunting us. And..." His fingers brushed his throat, his shoulders shrinking inward.

ㅤㅤIason's stomach twisted. Wait.

ㅤㅤHis body tensed. His mind raced back to the way his own skin had crawled, to the unnatural strength coiling beneath his flesh. He pushed himself up slightly, eyes narrowing, yet wide. "You feel something, don't you?" His voice was sharp. "You're changing!"

ㅤㅤAriston's head snapped up, alarm flashing across his face. "What? No!"

ㅤㅤIason leaned closer, his pulse quickening. "Your throat—you keep touching it. Are you feeling anything strange? Heat? Pain?" He swallowed hard. "Hunger?" Ariston flinched, recoiling. "Gods, no! I just—" He shook his head rapidly, as if shaking off the accusation itself. "I just wanted to know if what you did to me has... side effects." He hesitated, then added, "Like rabies."

ㅤㅤIason stared at him, searching for any sign of deception. He found none. Slowly, his shoulders sagged, tension easing just slightly. "You're sure."

ㅤㅤ"Yes." Ariston's voice was firm for a change, but his fingers still lingered near his throat, uncertain. "I just... I don't know what you are, what this is. I need to know."

ㅤㅤIason's stomach twisted.

ㅤㅤ'So do I.'

ㅤㅤAriston hesitated, then exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "What are you?" He looked up at Iason, eyes wide, confused—like he hadn't expected to put minds into words. He corrected himself with a quiet, almost broken laugh. "No—who are you?"

ㅤㅤIason dwelled at the question. Who was he now? The words almost felt foreign as they left his lips. "Iason. A soldier of Troy." he let out a slow breath, staring into the fire as he spoke. "My father was a blacksmith. He taught me how to shape iron before I could even lift a hammer. I was supposed to take over his forge one day." His jaw tensed. "But I chose war instead."

ㅤㅤHe paused, the weight of the past pressing down on him. "I was meant to marry a Greek woman. It was arranged—a beneficial match for both our families. Her father was a merchant, and steady supplies from my father's forge would have secured their business. In return, we would have had wealth, stability." He let out a breath, barely a ghost of a laugh. "I met her once. She had kind eyes." A humorless smile flickered at his lips, and then vanished just as quickly. "But that will never come true now."

ㅤㅤThe fire crackled between them, the only sound in the heavy silence that followed. Ariston watched him carefully, his expression unreadable.

ㅤㅤIason clenched his fists. "Now, I don't know what I am." He looked down at his hands, noticing the slight tremor in his fingers. "But I know I'm not the same."

ㅤㅤAriston swallowed, his throat bobbing. He looked away, staring into the fire once more, as if searching for an answer there. And yet, while Iason had become something unrecognizable—even to himself—Ariston knew exactly what he was. He had always known.

ㅤㅤ"I'm no one," he murmured at last. "Just a servant. A palace rat." He exhaled, shaking his head. "I've spent my life being overlooked. Cleaning floors, fetching water, running errands no one else would do. That's all I've ever been."

ㅤㅤHis fingers continued to curl against his knees, his hands had gone numb for some time. "I was in the palace when it fell," he said, voice quieter now, strained. "I saw it happen. The screaming, the fires. People running—some fighting, some hiding. The Greeks tore through the halls like beasts let loose from their chains. I saw my master get cut down right in front of me." His breath hitched slightly, but he forced himself to continue. "I hid. I don't know how long. Long enough to hear the city die."

ㅤㅤIason remained silent, listening, sympathizing. He understood the weight of loss, the way it clawed at a person, leaving something hollow in its wake.

ㅤㅤAriston let out a breath, shaking his head. "I'm not like you," he said, finally looking up. "You were meant to be someone. A soldier, a husband. I was meant to be nothing. And yet—" he hesitated, shifting his gaze back to the fire, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain. "I'm still here."

ㅤㅤIason studied him for a long moment. Then, he reached for a small branch and nudged the fire, sending embers soaring into the night cold air. "Maybe that means something," he said, but he didn't look Ariston in the eye when he saw in his peripheral that Ariston perked up at his reply.

ㅤㅤThe night stretched on, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, but also—perhaps—a fragile understanding.

ㅤㅤTwo weeks.

ㅤㅤThat was how long it had been since Troy burned. Since the city's walls, once thought unbreakable, had crumbled into rubble. Since they had slipped away under Greek eyes, before being pursued into the wilderness. They left behind a world of ash and ghosts.

ㅤㅤTwo weeks of walking. Of hiding. Of silence stretching between them, both heavy and necessary—never knowing if someone was looking for them.

ㅤㅤThe wood snaps as the fire eats and consumes, and tiny sparks from the campfire were surrounded by the dark night. Smoke curled upward, vanishing into the dark canopy above. The scent of roasting meat mixed with the earth's damp musk, a reminder of the rain that had passed through earlier that afternoon. The ground was still soft beneath them, the mud dried just enough to leave faint imprints where they sat.

ㅤㅤIason hunched over the flames, slowly turning a skinned rabbit on a spit. His movements were practiced, methodical. Hunt, clean, cook. A necessary rhythm. He had done it countless times before, and yet now, it felt heavier—like everything else since Troy.

ㅤㅤAcross from him, Ariston sat cross-legged, idly dragging a stick through the dirt. He wasn't drawing anything in particular, just tracing uneven lines, his mind elsewhere. His tunic, once finely woven and suited for a palace servant, was now torn at the edges, dirtied beyond recognition. His face had lost the hollow sharpness it had carried when Iason first found him—he was eating better, resting more—but the wary stiffness never quite left his posture.

ㅤㅤThis was their pattern now.

ㅤㅤIason hunted. Ariston gathered.

ㅤㅤThey ate in silence.

ㅤㅤAnd when night fell, Ariston pretended not to notice when Iason flinched, his fingers twitching toward his eye.

ㅤㅤIt had been nearly two weeks—or more now, it was unknown—since they left Troy behind. In that time, at least after their last conversation on the topic, Iason had not once spoken of it again. And not once had Ariston dared to bring it up.

ㅤㅤThe fire popped, breaking the quiet. Ariston shifted in his seat—a dead tree log—glancing toward the half-cooked rabbit before finally speaking. "So. Circe."

ㅤㅤIason grunted.

ㅤㅤ"Still don't know where she is."

ㅤㅤAnother grunt.

ㅤㅤAriston huffed, tossing his stick into the fire. Sparks scattered. "If you don't start answering me with real words, I'm going to start thinking that you somehow ate your own tongue."

ㅤㅤIason smirked faintly, tearing a strip of meat from the rabbit and handing it over to the boy. Ariston accepts it without hesitation, but instead of eating almost immediately, he hesitated for a moment, glancing at the piece of meat in his hands.

ㅤㅤThen, softly, with the smallest trace of dry humor, he murmured, "I should be thanking you, shouldn't I? I used to serve food, not receive it."

ㅤㅤIt was half a joke, half truth.

ㅤㅤIason's smirk faded. For a moment, he considered a reply, something dismissive or reassuring. But Ariston had already torn a bite from the meat, chewing as if the words hadn't meant anything at all.

ㅤㅤThey weren't quite friends.

ㅤㅤBut familiarity had settled between them, rough and uncertain, like a badly-stitched wound.

ㅤㅤThe sun hung high, its heat pressing down on the clearing. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air, mingling with the distant trickle of a stream. Birds rustled in the trees, their songs sharp against the stillness.

ㅤㅤIt had been three days since. Ariston stumbled back, breathless, his wooden sword slipping from his grip. His arms ached from the repeated strikes, his fingers raw from holding on too tightly. He barely had time to recover before Iason stepped forward again, his own blade lowered, but his stance still poised for another strike.

ㅤㅤ"You're dropping your guard," Iason said, voice flat.

ㅤㅤAriston groaned, dragging an arm across his sweat-damped forehead. "I don't have a guard."

ㅤㅤ"That's the problem."

ㅤㅤIason rolled his shoulders, his real sword—sharp, heavy, and well-worn—glinting in the midday sun. Compared to it, the wooden sword in Ariston's trembling hands looked like something a child would play with. And maybe, once, it would have been. But not now.

ㅤㅤA weapon was still a weapon. And in this world, Ariston needed to know how to use one.

ㅤㅤ"Again," Iason ordered, shifting back into position.

ㅤㅤAriston hesitated, his grip tightening around the wooden blade. His palms were slick, his knuckles aching. "I still don't get why you're making me do this." Iason lifted an eyebrow. "Because you're going to get killed otherwise."

ㅤㅤAriston let out a quiet, breathless laugh—one that wasn't quite humor, but something softer. "You've been keeping me alive just fine." There was truth in it. He knew he wouldn't have made it this far without Iason. And yet, there was still an unspoken weight to those words, something still uneasy settled in his chest.

ㅤㅤIason didn't soften. "You want to depend on me forever?" Ariston's fingers twitched around the wooden sword. He dropped his gaze, staring at the dirt beneath his feet. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he could learn, that he could be strong.

ㅤㅤBut the truth was—he wasn't sure.

ㅤㅤHe was no soldier. He had spent his life in the palace, fetching water, scrubbing floors, serving men who had fought and bled for Troy. He had seen warriors—real warriors—cut down in battle, men far stronger than him. What chance did he have? Further, he had seen the way Iason had moved—too fast, too strong, tearing through men as if they were nothing.

ㅤㅤHis grip tightened, knuckles pale. "I... don't know."

ㅤㅤIt was barely a whisper. But Iason heard it.

ㅤㅤA long silence stretched between them, heavy as a blade's edge. Then, it was broken, Iason exhaled through his nose, forcing his own grip to loose. He wasn't sure if it was frustration or something else entirely curling in his chest.

ㅤㅤ"The spear suits you better anyway."

ㅤㅤAriston blinked. "What?"

ㅤㅤIason gestured toward the wooden sword in his hands. "You hold that like you're trying to stab someone, not cut them. It's not wrong. However, a sword isn't just a blade—it's an extension of your arm. But a spear?" He sheathes his own sword, stepping over to pick up a long, sturdy branch from the ground, weighing it in his grip. "A spear is about reach. Control. A boy your size could hold off three men if he knew how to use one."

ㅤㅤAriston frowned, shifting the stick between his hands. "But—" He paused, seeming to have something in mind. "Isn't the sword the real weapon of a warrior?"

ㅤㅤIason let out a dry chuckle. "That's just a story nobles tell themselves." He spun the branch in his grip, planting the base into the dirt. "Swords are a last resort. Every soldier knows that. On the battlefield, a sword is what you draw when your spear breaks—when the fight is already too close, too desperate."

ㅤㅤAriston's brows knitted together. "Then why does everyone talk about swords?"

ㅤㅤ"Because only the rich can afford them," Iason said simply. It clicked when Ariston made the connection. "A blacksmith can make ten spears with the iron it takes to forge one sword. And in battle, a man with a spear will kill a man with a sword before he ever gets close enough to use it." He tilted his head, watching the boy. "And you? You're fast. You don't have the strength to overpower a man, but with a spear, you wouldn't need to."

ㅤㅤAriston straightened slightly. "Is that... so?"

ㅤㅤ"A man can kill another man through any means. A child with a goal can too." Iason talked as if he was reminiscing. What could Ariston expect, it was a decade of war that Iason endured and survived.

ㅤㅤAriston straightened slightly. Encouraged. Motivated.

ㅤㅤIason twirled the branch once, then held it out toward him. "Try to hit me."

ㅤㅤAriston spared the 'spear' a look—just for a moment.

ㅤㅤThen, gripping the shaft with intent, he stepped forward and struck.