Chapter Text
Black.
The sound of nickering, the clump of hooves, fabric against a high wind and clatter of metal fades in slowly. Until it begins to fill the room, surrounding them in the darkness. The scents filter in through the environmental system: horses, sweat, dry earth and the distant smell of rot. The vents make a faint hiss as the air begins to warm from the station standard to a scorching Grecian summer.
They wait with bated breath as a voice begins to speak from all around them.
“The sun does rise upon the shores of Troy, the once great city blessed by the gods. Its walls strong. Its people proud. For nine long years, its walls have weathered all the armies of Greece. The bonds of men all called by the mighty Agamemnon, son of Atreus the skillful horselord, to retrieve the great beauty, Helen, daughter of Zeus and wife of Menelaus, from her capture. The towns surround laid wast-”
A gruff voice cuts in, “Julian, are we gonna have to listen to all of it?”
“What?” A gentler voice replies.
“Where upon they retrieved the great beauty, Chryseïs-”
A disgruntled sigh.
“Computer, pause program. Could you repeat that, Miles?”
The impatient male voice rises into the darkness again, “I said, you’re not going to make me listen to the whole bloody Iliad for this?”
The softer man’s voice sighs, “Of course not, Miles. It’s just the introduction. If we don’t listen, how will we understand our roles?”
“I know the story, Julian.”
“I didn’t know you’ve read the Iliad, Miles.”
“I wasn’t aware that was necessary for a bloody holo, Jules.”
“There are twenty-four books-”
“I’ve seen the film!”
“It differs radically from-”
“I’m not Garak, Julian. I don’t need the whole feckin’ monologue about some git who slew some git who slew someone else. Can we just get on with it?”
Another sigh, “Computer, skip introduction.”
The computer beeps an affirmative. A moment passes.
The searing light of a warm summer day at midday activates. The sight of it is blinding after the dark introduction, the contrast jarring. They blink dizzily and try to acclimate and take in their surroundings.
Beneath the unforgiving artificial sun, Dr Julian Bashir and Chief Miles O’Brien stand in rough-hewn chitons and leather sandals, which do little to protect their skin from the harsh wind and harsher sun. Their exposed arms and legs feel chill and heat compete against each other as the elements wage war upon their flesh. They stand upon a hilltop, cast in drying grass, that sloped steeply into the Aegean Sea. Following that curve down, sits hundreds of crude tents, all brimming with activity, like papules upon the diseased. A squat stone wall follows the perimeter of the tents, further surrounded by a deep trench set with spikes. Far off, at the edge of the camp, dozens of large hollow ships lie like beached whales upon the shore.
In the distant beach side of the camp, two crowds of people clamour and clash against each other. They writhe in a desperate tug-of-war over the narrow entrance inside, while still others seem to be tearing with their bare hands against the stones. The waves of the ocean lap at the hulls of the ever-threatened boats, the water frothing red around the men.
It is far, far away but still the roar of battle is carried upon the swift wind, up into their hilltop retreat. The distant sound of screaming horses, of wailing men, of metal against metal, all rise like distant thunder up the slope and into waiting ears. It carries with it the familiar tang of carnage.
Their camp sits undisturbed. A large group of men sits around a dozen fires, roasting meat upon spits as they watch the gruesome show below. Their weapons and armour lie beside them, as though the ghost of long dead lover, forgotten. Not a soul speaks as they watch.
“The brave, strong Greeks fought like lions about the ship of Protesila-”
“Computer, pause audio for duration of story,” Miles interrupts.
“Miles-”
“I’m not going to listen to someone blather on about a story I already know!” Miles snaps, “It’s no fun.”
Julian eyes him in displeasure, “If we’re talking about ‘no fun’, I don’t see why I need to be Achilles!”
Miles rolls his eyes, “What? The fastest soldier in the army? Do I really look like I fit the description, Julian?”
“No..but ….well, it’s just…”
“What, Julian?”
A moment passes as Julian deliberates before, finally, he sighs in defeat, “It’s nothing, Miles. Don’t worry about it.”
“Look, don’t give me that,” Miles says, his ears turning faintly red the way they did whenever he is ever in a vaguely emotional situation, “Clearly something’s bothering you, I don’t want-”
“It’s fine, Miles,” Julian says firmly, “Let’s just have fun. Look here comes a messenger.”
Miles looks concerned but, seeing the defiant look in Julian’s eyes, keeps his mouth firmly shut. Instead, he turns. They stand together silently as they watch an elderly man help support a limping figure up towards their camp. It is slow going – despite the man’s fit, broad build, a thick bandage is wrapped around his muscular thigh. Blood and sweat drip down those muscular thighs as they shake in strain.
Tension rises like flood water. Julian and Miles watch the approaching figures, of Nestor and Odysseus, and wait for their games to begin.