Oliver Song Lyrics MetroLyrics

When I was a kid, I thought everyone made up weird stories to help themselves fall asleep.
As a baby, I was a notoriously bad sleeper – I still am. My parents would always (sometimes less than fondly) recall the first few months of my life, and call me their ‘Little Dracula’. I’d fall asleep for almost exactly half an hour, and then scream for the rest of the night.
Lucky for them, I grew out of the screaming. But I never quite managed to nod off peacefully. I remember often padding down the stairs and through the draughty halls of the old cottage I lived in with my parents and brother and peering around the side of the living room door with a plaintive, “I can’t sleep.”
On those occasions, my mother, bless her heart, would take my hand and lead me back to my room, tuck me back under the covers and say, “Count back from ten” or — and this made the least sense to me — “Tense your muscles and then relax them and you’ll fall right asleep.”
Her advice never helped.
Instead, I’d lie awake fidgeting, or I’d take my bedside lamp, pull the covers over it, and read until I couldn’t physically stay awake any more. I knew I had to stop doing that when I woke up one day with half a page of the Beano stuck to my face with my own drool.
Ultimately, nothing I did seemed to work. Tensing my muscles didn’t make sense. Counting was a bust. One night, after tucking the quilt up tight around my chin, my mother’s hand hovered over the light switch of my bedside lamp and she said, “I don’t want to see you up again tonight,” in that sly-joking-but-sort-of-a-threat voice that she had perfected. That’s the first time I remember asking her to tell me a story.
At the time I don’t think I really cared about a story, per se. It was probably more a desperate last-ditch attempt to convince her to sit beside me and stroke my hair until I fell asleep, like she did when I was sick. Something about the face she pulled – and quickly tried to hide – has always stuck in my mind. Everything about her seemed to freeze, and she looked at me wide-eyed, her eyebrows furrowed. Then all she did was laugh, and pat my head, switching off the light.
Another note about my parents — neither of them would ever tell me stories. For some reason, after Mum’s strange reaction, I became fixated with stories – and more so unlocking the mystery of why my parents didn’t do that stuff. TV had taught me it was a thing parents did – and it was a warm, cosy ideas that I slowly became obsessed with, in my own quiet way. Yet, I’d get evasive chuckles and sidesteps of “Maybe later” or “I’m busy” if I brought it up.
I asked my dad why once, stamping my feet and demanding he read me a chapter of my new book. He just ruffled my hair and said, “Why read to you when you can read on your own?”
That, at least, was true; I was a precocious reader. As soon as I learned how, I’d sit in silence on my own, devouring pages for hours on end — but it was strange. I still felt this deep, almost hungry yearning to have stories told to me. I went to a tiny village primary school, and soon ‘story time’ became the highlight of my week.
We’d all huddle together on the cold hard linoleum floor, and our teacher would crack open a book, and I’d learn forward with bated breath — only for someone to immediately interrupt, ask questions, or squeak a rubber soled shoe across the floor to make fart jokes. I never really connected with the words. They never filled the space I felt. It wasn’t right.
​
For my one of my birthdays, I asked my parents for story cassettes. They gave me a shiny new Sony Walkman, and a CD audiobook of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist (Children’s Edition). It was disappointing, but didn’t strike me as too strange. After all, my dad was always somewhat out of touch with technology. He always struggled to get the right games per console, and on more than one occasion had caused a lightbulb to explode by choosing the wrong wattage. His crowing glory had been purchasing a VHS player whilst on detachment in the US. We’d soon discovered it wouldn’t play any of our video tapes — except for Disney’s Tarzan.
But that doesn’t really matter. What mattered was that I now had one whole storybook CD, and I couldn’t listen to it. It sat a shelf high above my bed and tantalised me.
I expect that it was some point after this that I first came up with the idea to tell myself stories as I fell asleep.
I knew the story of Oliver Twist — or at least I knew it was about a Victorian orphan, who was adopted by a rich family. Something about that just struck a chord with my childish imagination. As I stared at the whimsical London street scene printed on the CD case, the first spark seemed to flare in the back of my mind.
Or, perhaps, it was just the very first loop of what would become a tangled Gordian knot.
It wasn’t long before my next sleepless night. Maybe I even brought it on myself. I was almost desperate to feel that too-hot-too-cold itchy feeling, where my limbs felt out of place and tiredness made my thoughts rapid and mean. That meant I could put my new idea into practise.
​
The first story I came up with was strange, but, in hindsight, kind of charming. I have to reiterate, because I know people will ask – this wasn’t some sort of lucid dream; it was just a story. Falling asleep came later.
I kicked off my blankets, and cast aside pillows, shivering at the bite of the cold air on my skin. I tried to tell myself about the scene. There there I was, a small dark haired child in nothing but flimsy nightclothes, cold and alone. Perhaps I’d curl on a doorstep; like something I’d heard in The Little Matchgirl. Lying on my bare mattress I could almost imagine the sting of the cold, the nagging pags in my stomach. Slowly pressing my eyes even tighter closed, I tried to picture dark alcove windows and frosty cobbles, with snow drifting down on the rooftops — like something from The Muppet’s Christmas Carol which we watched every Christmas Eve. Then, I imagined a kindly face, a woman — not unlike my mother, but not necessarily her either — who would wrap a rug around me, then as the night grew colder, invite me inside, ply me with warm drinks and pillows, and leave me to rest. As I told myself the story, I would reach out, reapply my blankets, my duvet, my quilt. Sometimes I didn’t even realise I was doing it. Sometimes I told the story wrong, and I woke up in the morning still feeling cold and shivery. One thing never changed though — when I opened my eyes after the alarm went off, I couldn’t remember when the story stopped and my dreams had taken over. It was the perfect solution to my sleepless nights.
One day, some time after Christmas, when I came downstairs to eat breakfast before school, and my mother paused as she saw me looking in the fridge.“Are those new?” she asked.I remember being very confused.She pointed at my pyjamas. “Were you wearing those when you went to bed last night?”I looked down. Sure enough, the old fashioned bedclothes, made out of stiff cotton, were a far cry from the brightly coloured comfy jersey things I was used to. I couldn’t remember changing, and I told my mother that. I must have just found them in the drawer, I reasoned. For a minute, a strange alarmed expression hovered over Mum’s features. Then she sighed and rolled her eyes.“Must’ve been a Christmas gift from your grandmother,” Mum sniffed. Grandma was Dad’s mother. “How strange, I don’t remember them.” Then she snorted. “Why she’s stuck in the 1930s, I’ll never know. They don’t look at all comfy.”
I didn’t say a word.
Mum’s mostly nonchalant reaction did stop me from being truly alarmed, but there was something mildly unsettling about the whole thing. I even tried to tell different stories to myself for a while after that. But nothing fit quite so perfectly, and I didn’t sleep as well. I’d wake up in the morning feeling like my limbs were made of lead, and my eyes were scratchy. Once or twice, the alarm blared, and my eyes snapped open only to find that my sheets and pillows were all gone, piled up on the floor. And, truth be told, I missed the familiar, kindly face I imagined, missed that sense of warmth and comfort.
So, told myself back there.
​
It never even occurred to me that my routine wasn’t something other people did. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. I only ever told one other person about it — until recently, that is. My brother found out about it on a trip to visit some family.
My brother and I were never particularly close. We had one of those sibling bonds where we tolerated each other but we’d never have chosen to be friends if we weren’t related. It wasn’t really his fault. I was five years younger — I could barely even remember a time when he hadn’t been a ‘Big Kid’, and he could well remember a time I didn’t exist.
We were staying at an aunt and uncle’s house, pressed tightly together on a worn out futon in their tiny box room. Our parents had decided that we’d have to go to bed at the same time, so I wouldn’t be woken up, and my brother was mad to be losing an extra hour of his day on my behalf. He huffed and shuffled, prodding me across until I was teetering near the edge of the mattress. His feet were cold as he jabbed them at me.
I breathed in, began to tell myself a story — silently, of course. And somewhat abridged, too. Still, I managed to dredge up a scene, a soft globe-faced shop girl, who reached towards me with a soft blanket and—
“What are you doing?” My brother snapped.
It was like the little white blip that you used to see when you turned off an old CRT television. My story fell apart just as quickly as if he’d driven a bulldozer through the set.
“I can hear you faffing about. Stop yanking the damn duvet and go to sleep.”
I held my breath, trying to block out the interference.
Slowly, I began to rebuild a story in my head – a different scene; one that didn’t need me to be cold and chilly. Something familiar. A garden, not unlike the neat, grassy one my uncle was so proud of, at at the end of a familiar cul-de-sac, lined with charming limestone houses. In the garden, there was even a small patio, with a bench. A group of figures sat around it, with soundless laughs and clinking glasses. I wasn’t in the patio group. I imagined myself in the house, looking out. I needed to tell them something, but I couldn’t figure out what. A strange sensation seemed to grip my shoulders, compelling me to do . . . something.
For the first time, I realised—I wasn’t the one telling this story.
“Hey, that’s not funny!”
My eyes snapped open, and I yelped as I found myself staring up into my brother’s – which were wide and scared. I mumbled something like, “What gives?” as I became aware of the fact his stubby nails were biting into my shoulders. He was shaking me.
“Jesus, you scared me!” he murmured, hastily pushing me away.
I couldn’t understand why. “I was just trying to fall asleep!” I protested.
“ You weren’t moving!”
“You told me to stop!”
“I didn’t say to go catatonic! You were cold! I thought you’d stopped breathing!”
I’d never heard him sound like that before. His voice, which had cracked some time ago, was pitchy and thin. As we lay in the dark, I could hear his wheezy breathing.
I knew he’d calm down if I could explain the story to him — the original, at least. Not the weird new sequel, which was already fuzzy and faraway — a dream, I thought. When I was finished, there was an odd quiet in the room.
“What do you tell yourself before you go to sleep?” I asked, my stomach churning.
He sighed, and rolled away from me. I stared at the back of his head.
“I don’t tell myself anything,” he added, leaving me confused; and somehow colder and lonelier than I’d ever felt in any story.
​
Things went back to normal after that, although some evenings before bedtime, I’d notice my brother giving me strange looks. But I tried to put it all to the back of my mind. After all, I’d moved from the ‘wee class’ at school, and I would soon a proper “big kid”. Big kids didn’t need to imagine kindly faces or soft voices to soothe them to sleep. I stopped asking for stories, and I stopped telling myself to sleep.
I guess in hindsight, it was all part of growing up. I’d outgrown the cosy familial tableau I’d chased for so long, I was satisfied to coorie myself away alone.
I still had sleepless nights. For a while, I fought against my own desire to tell a story. I’d press my eyes closed and fight to try and kid myself I was drowsy, and get up in the morning with great big bags under my eyes. No one ever seemed to notice.
It wasn’t just my brother’s reaction that had scared me off from my ‘weird’ habit. That new story, which at once had been the most comfortable and natural narrative and yet a strange story I couldn’t control, had also spooked me a little.
But at the same time it sat there, an unfinished story, a siren call at the back of my mind. I wanted to put the pieces together, wanted to build on it. I tried drawing, and writing, but putting stories to paper just didn’t work.
It was the last day of the summer holidays before my last year of primary school when I finally gave in to the second story. I remember it clearly, unlike the first story.
I’d lain awake, tossing and turning in the surprisingly humid early-August air. There wasn’t even a whiff of a breeze, and my room was still bright – not even the blackout curtains could keep the light out. And with school on the horizon, my restless brain seemed determined to run through all the terrible things that might happen at the beginning of a new term.
So, I couldn’t help it.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and slowly, began to build a scene.
Instead of my uncle and aunt’s house, I decided to move the story closer to home; to our rambling cottage sat in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees. The fields spread out on either side of the rough farm track that led to our place. I dredged up a BBQ for the back garden, Dad at the helm, and Mum and my brother floating around the garden and through the house. Soon, before I knew it, friends and family arrived, appearing from nowhere to sling themselves over the arms of the living room settee or to learn carelessly against the garden wall, laughing and chatting. Unlike the old story, dreamed up when I could barely remember what my own grandparents looked like, this story became one full of familiar faces. I didn’t need to pretend cold and hungry, either. I flitted around the scene, weirdly at home.
Then, I felt compelled to turn my gaze out over the fields.
That’s where I saw him for the first time.
A tall figure, moving at a snail’s pace, was coming over the crest of one of the fields.
I felt a jolt in my stomach, a shudder so visceral that I think I experienced it in real life. But I forced myself to sit through it, to see where the story took me.
They were too far away for me to make out anything about them, but I didn’t need to. Like before, I knew was that the figure was making a slow beeline for us, and for some reason it was imperative that not a single person was awake by the time he reached the cottage. That thought gripped me by the shoulders and shook. I had to put the party to sleep.
Luckily, it was my story, and so people believed my demands without question, and I rushed between the party-goers in the garden, in the house—I drew the curtains, pulled towels and blankets and bedsheets from nowhere, throwing up a camp-bed here, helping someone settle on a sofa, an armchair. Every so often I’d take a peek out of the window, and the black figure would be closer still.
Close enough to make out a dark suit, a formless, featureless head. He walked steadily closer and closer.
My heart pounded in my chest, and my throat felt dry and scratchy as I finally convinced my brother to sleep. Finally, the house was silent. I was able to pelt off to the safety of my own bed, throwing myself into the cool quilt, pulling it tight to my chin, closing my eyes tight.
My neck prickled, every hair on my body crackling with electric anxiety. The dark figure had arrived.
Without even so much as peeking, I willed my lungs to even out my ragged gasps to be regular breaths. The sort that suggest you’re truly asleep. I just had to pretend to be asleep until he left.
I can’t remember having had a better night’s sleep. I woke up in the morning feeling a way that I’d never felt in my life. It seems so strange to say, so utterly unreasonable. And yet, sometimes I think I’d do anything to wake up feeling like that again; like I could do anything, so full of life and energy. Something about the high stakes on the story left me feeling like I’d really done something, like I’d really defeated something. Despite the strange feeling I’d experienced lying beside my brother at my uncle’s place – it was a story. It was safe. And I could control it.
It was a lot less twee than my Dickensian diorama.
The dark figure became my constant companion on sleepless nights. The guests at the party changed from day to day, so too did the weather. I tweaked the story as I got older, and my strained and small group of friends fluctuated. Somehow, as I crushed my head into the pillow, imagining his arrival on the property, I always managed to convince myself to sleep. Sometimes I woke up with tense, aching legs, or little imprints of my blankets pressed into my face, but I never truly felt the exhilaration of that first time.
I never questioned it either. Like I said, I thought it was normal. I thought everyone made up weird stories to help themselves fall asleep.
Luckily by the time I graduated secondary school, the stories were well and truly a thing of the past. When I left home, and headed to uni, I learned that an evening of vodka lemonade could trigger a completely dreamless night. It was in my first year of university, actually, crossing across from the canteen on our halls of residence, when I finally mentioned the stories to one of my friends. It just came up in a casual offhand way, you know, the sort of situation when you’re reminiscing about the dumb shit you thought when you were a kid. But she just stared at me with a truly disturbed wide-eyed expression.
“Dude, that’s fucked up,” she chuckled. “The story thing, whatever. But you thought a dark figure was coming to, what, murder your family?”
“I mean...” I found I couldn’t really confirm or deny it. But her words helped a sudden sense of the whole ‘wrongness’ of the situation settle over me. “Yeah, I guess. It is pretty messed up when you put it like that. But, it's not like he ever got there.”
He never did, after all. It was my story, right? Hadn't I been the one to come up with it? No matter how weird and fucked up it seemed when I said it out loud, nothing truly bad had ever happened in my dreams.
Earlier this year, my brother invited me to his wedding. I haven’t really been in touch with him a lot, so it was a little out of the blue but I was still really happy for him. It was originally supposed to be a fairly small wedding, at a large stately home venue not far from the town we went to school. However, the world situation at large meant that—like a lot of couples—things ended up greatly reduced. I think, all in all, there must be somewhere around fifteen attendants, including as many members of our close families they could fit. They had a really small ceremony at our local church, and decided to descend on my parents’ house for the reception.
It’s grown a bit since our childhood. It’s still sat in the middle of the fields, but there’s plenty of room for people to stand around and socialise. There’s a nice new patio, and they just recently knocked down a couple walls to remodel the living room.
I’ve been put on an air mattress in the office, right at the top of the house. From the window I can see far across the countryside, far across the fields.
My heart is thundering against the plastic mattress, and my stomach is churning. This sleeping bag is far too hot. I screw my eyes closed, try counting backwards, tensing my legs... It’s still light out, and I’m struggling to fall asleep.
No matter how hard I try, my breathing refuses to steady, and I’m sweating – how I’m sweating.
I can see that there’s something dark slowly moving across the crest of the hill. Slowly, ever so slowly, it is coming closer, and closer.
I know that there’s only one way out. I’ve lived this scenario hundreds of times. Somehow, I think this is all my design.
But it turns out, outside of my stories, no one is that interested in what I have to say.

The following week was uneventful.
The shadows kept themselves to their usual stillness, and my thoughts remained serene, quiet and tranquil like an untroubled sea.
Sweyna took the three of us flying over the island. It was a magical, surreal experience. The winds hummed past us, swallows and blue jays trailed along, chirping and pirouetting—those little, playful jesters. From above, the crowns of the trees and the sparkling lakes gleamed with the golden tint of the unbroken sun. Monkeys clambered to the highest boughs and pointed at us in awe, tigers and lions halted their hunt to bathe in Sweyna’s silvery wake, and elephants trumpeted a joyful greeting as we flew past.
For a moment, everything seemed like a dream. The three of us were thoroughly lost in the beauty of the vibrant island; in its gorgeous colors and its liveliness. So much so, that the pleasant tune of our laughter melded with the melody of the forest in such a subtle way that we only realized we’d been laughing when we alighted back at the Dreamery, and our cheeks hurt with the remnants of wide smiles.
When Arceron came back, we completed and decorated what remained of the third and fourth floor.
Oliver created two rooms, but he made them large and mesmerizing. The first one imitated a sea at night, with a shore full of sand, lapping waves, and even a light disguised as the moon. The second one was a pearl-white room, thoroughly covered in snow. None of us knew what snow truly looked and felt like. And so playing with it for the first time was an experience I’d never forget.
I remained loyal to my word. The first room I created was full of clouds with countless hammocks and palms. The second one resembled an old, cozy tavern like those from the books with big hearths, gleaming tables and dim lights. And the last one was slightly less whimsical, for it was a small maze with a note at the end. Whoever found the note could give it to Arceron, who would gladly turn it into whatever the holder desired—within the realms of rationality, of course.
Coco’s rooms were different. The first she created, she did for those who were scared of their dreams, and couldn’t fall asleep. It was a candlelit room with great teddy bears for beds, and the soft staccato of an ever-falling rain. She believed that bad dreams couldn’t catch you if you fell asleep safe and without intention. Her idea was for the sleepless kids to go there and talk until their eyes closed.
Her second room resembled a small theatre with harps, lutes, flutes and violins. She told us hearts had music hidden inside them, and for some people the key to happiness was not one of copper or metal, but one of melodies and harmonies; of unsung songs and burning chords. When we asked were she’d learned that, she said, “From my grandfather,” and hopped away, toward the last door of the fourth floor.
That door was the smallest of them all, and so was the room beyond, but she loved it that way. The Well of Secrets, she named it. And it was no more than a deep well of stone with a plethora of tiny holes along its rim. The idea behind it was for the kids who had secrets untold, to write them down and throw them in; and if they wished for their confessions to be read, they could attach two small hooks to the end of a rope or string, hook the paper on one end, while hitching the other end to one of the holes in the well’s border.
That way, those who wished to read them could simply pull the string upward. Coco was the first to put one in, but she didn’t want it to be read, and so her secret fell in solitude to the bottom of the well inside a sealed letter.
After we’d finished, we spent most of our time playing in Oliver’s rooms, but when we got tired, we investigated the ins and outs of the Dreamery—Ruvvum had told us they’d hidden some secret chambers for those who loved mysteries. Despite our efforts, we couldn’t find anything, but we familiarized a lot with the Dreamery.
As we laughed the time away, Arceron, Ruvvum, Sweyna, and the professors—who we didn’t meet because they stayed locked in the chamber of the tenth floor—discussed the way the classes would be taught, and a method to bring the kids to the Dreamery.
At last, they decided they would summon a thousand forgotten kids from the Dreaderies across the world with ages ranging from nine to thirteen. Their selecting method was quite eccentric. We’d learned that week, that when Sweyna slept, she could fly through other people’s dreams, and in those dreams she could leave a question for them to answer. The question was simple and straightforward: Would you change your current life for one of magic and study? If the answer was positive, she would inform Ruvvum, and he’d bring the kids here.
It was a long, arduous process. And so, in the meantime, while hundreds of starry-eyed kids walked into the Dreamery trembling with excitement and wearing delighted expressions of beautiful disbelief, we helped Arceron fill the library’s shelves with books from Wyn, Ander and Dehn—Sweyna’s world.
When we finished, we took our time to appreciate the magnitude and beauty of that colossal sanctuary of knowledge. There were long tables at the entrance, hundreds of them, each with many lamplights at their hearts. The bookshelves didn’t follow a straight path, but a winding, sinuous one. They were like countless giant snakes slithering through a shallow river toward the darkness beyond—for Ruvvum had fulfilled my desire, and the floor was flooded with icy water that bit ankle-high. Lastly, great chandeliers adorned the far-away ceiling, casting tender lights here and there, but leaving place for shadows to settle in, giving it a mysterious essence.
From there, we descended toward the first floor. We met Clara and Tolary at the main door. They were great friends of ours at the Dreadery. When they saw us they did so with open mouths, and wide eyes. Clara, who usually had a roiling ocean of words within her, couldn’t find a single one. Tolary shook his head in disbelief, but managed to speak, “Am I still dreaming?”
“You are not,” I said, bent at the waist, and pointed toward the amphitheater. “Welcome to the Dreamery, a tower of magic and dreams, and your new home. Please, head in that direction, a big deer with a black mane and eyes of many colors is waiting for you.”
“Aren’t you a fool,” Tolary said, chuckled, and bowed his head respectfully. “Seriously, what is this place?”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I think you don’t hear. This is the Dreamery, a tower of magic and dreams, and our new home.” She smiled a bright smile that lacked a front tooth at us. “It’s lovely seeing the three of you again. Mrs. Cranch thought you had escaped. She was mad as a duck!”
“Mad as a duck doesn’t make sense,” Tolary said, crossed his arms and scowled. “And I was listening, but I thought he was joking. Eloire always jokes.”
“Well, how do you know the duck isn’t mad?” Clara said, stuck out her tongue at him.
“You two are unbelievable,” Oliver said, half-laughing. “Not even a gigantic magical tower can stop you from fighting.”
“They fight because they like each other,” Coco said, and giggled.
“We don’t like each other!” Clara and Tolary yelled in unison, flushing.
“The only ones that don’t realize you like each other are you two,” I said, and laughed at their furious expressions. Then, I gestured for them to follow. “Come on, the First Dinner will start without us.”
At the word dinner, they forgot everything, and they all trailed behind me. Clara and Tolary returned to their entrancement, examining the great winding stairs at first, then the walls and doors of the corridor, while Oliver and Coco and I tried to unravel the mystery of what Incandescent Thievery was. We were sure of only one thing: it involved stealing things.
Inside, the amphitheater was bustling with life. There were barely any tables left for us to sit. As I’d daydreamed the first time I’d ran down its steps, the kids were smiling, sharing their excitement about the Dreamery, and theorizing about what this all could be. Some held the silver forks and knives tightly, eagerly waiting for the food to come in. The two royal chairs above the platform were now eight, but only Arceron was there, staring with half a smile at the perplexed faces of those who attempted to decipher what he was.
The door glided open. Ruvvum entered with ten kids from the Dreadery, and seven others we didn’t know. He was a meld of blue sea-shells this time, all of different shades. “Sit,” he said, and a third of the kids froze in place, the hair on their napes bristling as if the icy breath of a demon had feathered down their backs. They would soon get used to the low, deep, and otherworldly voice of Ruvvum.
“Why eight chairs?” Oliver asked, in the midst of the sudden fear-induced silence.
“I think they are for the professors,” I said, and waved at Lon—the oldest kid of the Dreamery. He was twelve, of olive skin, and unparalleled charisma. He waved back, his eyes sparkling, and after a couple of silly, questioning pantomimes, he smiled and returned to his talk with the kids from the other Dreaderies.
“Professors? Is this a school?” Clara asked, covered her mouth with her hands, as if muffling a scream.
“A magic school,” Tolary said, eyed Clara sidelong. “After all this is a tower of magic and dreams, isn’t it, Clara?”
They shot burning looks at each other.
“It is a magic school, yes,” Coco said, twiddled with her hair, and her eyes darted, confused, toward the silver plate before her.
“What is it?” Oliver said, spotting her deep frown.
“There is—“
“Young men, I’m aware you are not made of blood and bones at this precise moment, but of half-answers and endless questions,” Arceron said, his voice stentorian. He leaped down the chair, prowled across the platform. The amphitheater went still. “That’s proper, for any other reactions would’ve worried me. My name is Arceron, King of Ander, and one of the Headmasters of the Dreamery.”
“A tower of magic and dre—“ Tolary said, and Clara elbowed him.
“As some of you have already deduced, the Dreamery is a magic school, and your new home, unless we have misinterpreted your answers. If that’s the case, and you are unwilling to stay, please let me know,” Arceron continued, and the kids stared, wide-eyed, at each other. “Here you will learn the magic and history of Ander, Wyn, and Dehn. You will have big beds, good food, friends, and an appropriate future. Here you will have the chance to become a respected wizard, a fierce warrior, or a wise guardian of the forest.”
Arceron paused, approached Ruvvum. “Your second Headmaster is, as you might have guessed, Ruvvum. He’s the Guardian of Wyn’s forest. Also known as the Forest of Creation.” He aimed his paw at him, who was ascending toward the platform. Then he paused and stared at the door. “Your third and last Headmistress is not here just yet, but I’m sure all of you have seen her in your dreams. She’s graceful as a summer breeze, beautiful as a full moon, and gentle as the caress of a feather.”
The door swung open. Sweyna burst into the amphitheater flying at a great speed. She circled the vaulted roof time and time again, creating a sparkling shower of icy drops that faded into cold clouds midair. The kids rose to their feet, touching the fading steam as the glittering drops caught in their already twinkling eyes. True smiles daubed their faces.
Those were rare as a golden rain back at the Dreadery.
Soon, Sweyna alighted on the platform, and made a flawless curtsey, displaying all the decorum she possessed. “My name is Sweyna, I’m the Silver Rain of Dehn, and I am your third Headmistress.”
The kids clapped at her words and performance, some even asked if she would teach us how to fly, and many, without a second thought, picked her as their favorite beast.
“Of course three of us would never be able to teach a thousand of you,” Arceron said and his face lit up. “Your professors are here, although you can’t see them. They have come from our worlds to teach you the magic and history of each, among other things. Your first year will be introductory, and all of you will have the same classes, but we will divide you into different schedules so you all fit in the rooms. Be mindful of what we teach, for in your second year you will have to choose what world you’d like to learn more of. The worlds being Ander, Wyn and Dehn. Without further ado, here are your professors.”
A bright, blinding light flared above us. We all gazed at it, but all we saw was the stone roof and its chandeliers shining with their usual tender lights. When we stared back at the platform, however, four persons were sitting on the chairs, and many steaming pieces of meat bathed in a brown, meandering sauce rested atop our dishes. The food smelled and looked like endless happiness.
“I knew it!” Coco said, and grinned.
We grabbed our forks and knives, and braced ourselves for what would soon be a vicious carnage. But first, we waited for Arceron to finish his speech, and give us his blessing.
“Before you attack your preys—well I see some of you have already attacked,” Arceron said and chuckled. “Let me introduce you to your professors.” He moved toward the first chair, were a tall man swathed in dirty, heavy black clothes was sitting. Only his face was visible, and it was the same color of his garments. His expression was stern, menacing, and his ink-colored hair fell in waves to his shoulders. “This is Aenamen, the most skilled and trustworthy member of the Royal Guard of Ander. He will teach you Incandescent Thievery.”
Aenamen rose to his feet, nodded glacially at us, and returned to his chair.
A piercing silence took over the amphitheater. There was something odd and terrifying in the meld of patience and intensity of his movements. It was a hard thing to explain or pinpoint, but it sent frost to our bones.
“Don’t let Aenamen scare you. What he lacks of words and charisma he makes up for in knowledge and loyalty.” Arceron walked toward the second chair. “And if words and charisma is what you seek in the traits of a proper professor, meet Bauvelon, Professor of Folklore and Oddities.” He swung his paw extensively.
Bauvelon grinned a mischievous grin that pushed the corners of his feline eyes. He was an old man, and he was clad in a seamless white robe. His green, thick beard fell all the way down to his chest. It resembled a bush but brighter. There was not a single hair in his head, yet his scalp was painted with green gleaming glyphs.
He stood up, cleaned his throat. “Dear students, as this half-deer, half-lion, half-night, half-rainbow beast has already mentioned, my name is—wait, my arithmetic was wrong, wasn’t it?” He huffed, shook his head. “Don’t worry students, I’m bad at arithmetic, but astounding at the fine art of knowing an inexhaustible amount of useless, but interesting tales. Well, perhaps, concealed in the core of those tales, there’s a smattering, a hint the size of a grain of sand, of usefulness.” He barked a laugh, and sat back again. “Call me Bau, and may the Four Butterflies find you in your dreams.”
We clapped, although we hadn’t understood most of what he’d said. Still, he seemed quite eccentric and funny, like one of those crazy old men whose laughter lacked teeth, and whose words made no sense, until they did.
Arceron drew a deep breath, and continued to the next chair.
“Do not worry, Arceron, I will gladly introduce myself” the woman sitting on the third chair said. She rose to her feet, brushing off her long, azure dress. “My name is Valantha, Vala for short, and I will be teaching you the History of Ander, Wyn, and Dehr. Don’t allow my appearance to fool you, I’m ancient as the seas. I’ve wandered the worlds since their beginnings. I’ve witnessed and been a part of the cruel events that shaped their histories. I won’t teach you what’s written in the books, for I’ve written them, and I’ve omitted far too many things. Instead, I will teach and show you what truly happens at the end of your beloved fairy tales.”
Valantha looked not a day older than thirty. Nevertheless, her confident cadence and stone-hard impassivity spoke of someone who knew the turnings of the world. She had bone-white skin and bone-white hair. Her eyes, like her dress were the color of the sky, and she carried herself with the elegance and decorum of a queen.
The entire amphitheater applauded again. This applause, however, was much more cold and respectful, as if her presence, somehow, had slightly shaped our behavior.
“Very well,” Arceron said and moved to the next chair. “Last but not least, this is Cindal. He like Aenamen, is an old friend of mine. He’s the best swordsman of Ander. He will teach you Swordsmanship and Anomalies.”
“Thank you, Arceron,” Cindal said, stood up and bent at the waist. He was clad in a golden helmless armor, and carried two sheathed swords buckled to his belt. “It’s an honor to be standing before all of you. I’d like to clarify one aspect of my classes, as I spotted some eager eyes when the word sword slipped out of Arceron’s tongue. I will teach you swordsmanship, yes. But first, I will teach you how to fight and how to defend yourselves weaponless. When I see you are ready to wield a sword, then the swordsmanship practice will begin. Any questions?”
“What’s does Anomalies mean?” Coco asked shyly.
“Great question, young one,” Cindal said, and smiled. “In worlds were magic abounds, there are some twisted folks who use it for evil purposes. To prevent them from harming us, it’s important to be aware of which things are not normal, those things, in essence, are anomalies. An unusual sound, a fool smell, an odd movement, things that we’d usually deem as common, can be signs of the nearness of the wicked. I will teach you how to detect them, and what to do if you, for some reason, wind up spotting one of them.”
“That will do, Cindal, thank you,” Arceron said and walked toward the center of the platform. “As you may have noticed, one chair is empty. That chair belongs to Luma, who will be arriving at the Dreamery later tonight. She will teach you Nature Whispering. Now, there's something I stored for last on purpose, for I believe it's the most important thing of all." He eyed me. "Only a few of you may be aware of who are the people responsible for the creation of the Dreamery, perhaps you may think we are, but that's not the case. With much pride and mirth it pleases me to tell you that the founders are here, fidgeting yet with starry eyes. Let's give a big round of applause for Eloire, Coco and Oliver! And without further ado, let the feast begin!”
The amphitheater rose to their feet. A vehement symphony of applauses and cheers came our way, the tables quivered, the silverware rattled, and our hearts thumped. We treasured every single clap, every single word and locked it away beyond the door of ever-lasting memories.
That night, there was not a single frown nor a pursed lip.
That night everything was joy and happiness.
Part 8

Part One
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Hello again, Reddit.
I haven’t slept since we returned home at noon yesterday. I apologize for making the introduction to this post brief, but I believe that it would be for the best to jump straight into what happened in the swamp last night.
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Trevor, Dan and I were in the car an hour after I submitted that first post last night. Oliver had attempted to push us into letting him come with us, but we decided that it was for the best that he stayed behind. He walked with a small limp now, not because his injury was severe, but because the cut was still fresh and stung whenever he moved.
The drive to the Everglades last night was quiet, a stark contrast from the night before. Gone were the plans to find alligators and to build a tower of beer cans in the center of the park. All we wanted to do now was get to the camp site and let Dan get his ring back. We owed him that much.
It was almost midnight by the time we’d entered the canoes near the edge of the swamp. “I hope you remember where we’re going, Trevor,” I said, clearing my throat.
Trevor nodded. “Trust me, Matt. I’ve got this.”
Dan sat in the back of the canoe, his eyes bright from the glow of the flashlight that rested in my hands. “Guys, we really don’t have to do this. It’s just a ring.”
Trevor shook his head. “Your grandfather’s ring. It’s fine, Danny. We dragged you into this, and we know how much that ring means to you. It’s just a quick in and out job,” he said, turning back to us with a smile. “Don’t you remember back in eighth grade? When we stole Snicker’s bars from the convenient store on Matt’s street? Just like that, in and out.”
Dan smiled, looking out into the woods. “Thanks, guys.”
I swatted at a mosquito that buzzed by my ear. I may have been losing my mind, but there seemed to be more mosquitoes now than there had been the night before. I shined my light out into the trees, expecting to see another pair of eyes looking back at me.
I sighed. “So, you guys really didn’t hear that whistling?”
Dan looked to me, confused. “What?”
I blinked, shaking my head. “Sorry. Last night, that bird.”
Dan shrugged. “It’s whatever, Matt. I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of a bird.”
“Well, I mean, it sounded human. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like it could have come from anything but a person. Plus what Oli said he saw…” I said, looking back out into the trees. “Do you think people are living out here?”
Trevor sighed. “Mountain lions.”
I blinked. “What?”
Trevor looked back at us. “Mountain lions,” he said, pausing once more. “Have you ever heard a mountain lion screaming?”
I raised my hands in confusion. “No, no I haven’t. What does that have to do with anything?”
“A mountain lion’s shriek sounds like a woman being murdered,” he said, turning back forward. “I’m just saying, anything could’ve made that noise, man.”
I scoffed. “I highly doubt it was a mountain lion, Trevor.”
“You know what I mean, man,” he said. “It was probably just a bird, like Danny said.”
I didn’t answer, my eyes still out in the trees. The three of us sat in silence for a while, broken only by Dan beginning to whistle behind me every now and then.
Trevor looked back to us a short time later, just as I had started to doze off in my seat. “There,” he said, nodding his head forward. I leaned to the side, pointing my flashlight ahead. The beam of light landed on the side of a tent, a large hole ripped out of the side of it.
Dan smiled, hopping out of the boat and into the water as we neared the shore. “Home, sweet home,” he said, pushing the boat up onto the shore.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, don’t get too sappy. We’re not staying for long.”
Dan scoffed, walking towards the tent the two of us had shared the night before. “Trust me, you don’t have to tell me twice.”
I stayed back with Trevor as Dan made his way into the tent. “I can’t wait to never have to see this place again.”
Trevor smirked, looking up from his backpack. “Oh, come on. It isn’t that bad out here.”
“It gives me the creeps,” I said, looking over my shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling a handgun out of his bag. “I’ll protect you, princess.”
I groaned. “Jesus, Trevor. Another gun?”
“Fuck yes, another gun,” he said, placing the gun back in the bag. “What if that panther comes back? Or an alligator? Or even your swamp people,” he added, waving his hands in the air.
I scoffed. “Whatever, man. Just don’t use it unless you have to.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, no shit.”
My snarky reply was cut off by a call from within the tent. “Hey, uhhh… guys?”
I looked towards the tent as Dan stuck his head out from behind the flap. “What? You good to go?”
Dan frowned, looking back into the tent. “Well, uhm… I don’t think it’s in here.”
Trevor glanced at me briefly, confused, before turning back to Dan. “Are you joking?”
Dan raised his hands in defense. “I wish I was.”
Trevor sighed, handing me his backpack. “Hold on, Dan. Let me look.”
I stood by the boat as Trevor and Dan reentered the tent. I glanced over my shoulder out into the swamp once more, unable to stop myself from feeling as if I were being watched. I looked back into the camp, the flashlight illuminating trees past the tents.
A splash sounded behind, nearly causing me to drop the flashlight. I spun on my heel, pointing the beam of light out into the swamp. It suddenly occurred to me how foggy it had become, and at how quickly it did so. I began to chew my lip, taking a step back from the shoreline.
I turned over my shoulder, looking towards the tent where my friends stood. “Guys, I think we should get going.”
Trevor grunted from inside the tent. “No, we haven’t found the ring yet.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but a shrill, familiar sound from behind me caused the hairs on my neck to stand up. I turned back out into the swamp, looking for the source of the whistle. All that could be seen by the flashlight was the murky green water in front of me.
I could feel my heartrate increasing once more. “Guys…” I called out.
Dan gasped. I spun my head instinctively behind me. A few silent seconds went by before I saw the heads of my friends leaving the tent. A smile was set across Dan’s face as he walked towards me, his left hand up. The flashlight reflected off the metal on his finger. “I found it!” He said, glancing at Trevor. “I swear it wasn’t there a second ago.”
I nodded, turning back out into the swamp. “Alright, good. Now let’s get out of here.”
Trevor smirked, looking back at the camp. “What’s the hurry? We can just camp out here for another night then head back in the morning.”
“You can stay if you want, Trevor. I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I said, beginning to push the canoe back into the water.
Trevor glanced to Dan, a look of confusion on his face. “Alright, man. I was just kidding, cool it.”
I hopped into the boat, Dan and Trevor directly behind me. Trevor pushed off the shore, sending the boat backwards into the swamp. “What’s up, Matt?” Trevor asked, picking up the oars and placing them in the water.
“I heard some shit out there,” I said, my voice beginning to shake.
“Calm down, Matt,” Trevor said. “It was just a gator. Panthers don’t come out in the water. We’ll be safe in the boat.”
I exhaled, beginning to feel nauseous. “I don’t know, man. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“Just breath. We’ll be back to the car in just about a half an hour,” Dan said, rubbing the ring between his fingers.
I nodded, looking back out into the trees. My mind began to race, imagining a cannibalistic tribe of people charging at us through the trees, weapons in hand.
Trevor must have sensed my unease, as he let out a nervous sigh. “Well… does anyone want to play I Spy?” He said, glancing at me with a smile.
Dan turned to me as well. “Yeah, sounds fun.”
Trevor grunted. “Alright, I’ll start,” he said, looking out into the swamp as he paddled. “Alright. I spy, with my little eye, something… brown.”
Dan rubbed his chin, looking out into the woods. “Is it… a tree?”
Trevor mimicked an alarm. “You got it!”
Dan clapped his hands together and looked back out into the swamp. “Alright, alright. I spy, something… tall.”
Trevor hummed lightly to himself. “Yes, I’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat.”
Dan nodded. “Go for it.”
Trevor feigned hesitation. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say… tree?”
I couldn’t help but smile to myself. Five years later and they still knew how to make me feel better.
Dan raised his hands. “You’re too good, Trevor,” he said, turning to me. “Your turn, Matt.”
I sighed. “No, I’m alright. You two carry on, though,” I said. “I can’t wait to hear what you spy next.”
Trevor shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, looking back out into the trees. My eyes followed his, my flashlight close behind. Something in the trees caught my eye: a decaying tree, it would seem, standing about ten feet tall. It was sad, in a way. The bark seemed shriveled and gray, and the trunk was skinnier than the rest. I scoffed, looking to Trevor. “You see that tree out there?”
Trevor looked to me briefly, then back out into the woods. “Which one?”
I extended my arm out in the direction of the dead tree. “Where I’m pointing the flashlight,” I said, my eyes landing on the spot my finger pointed to. I frowned, realizing that the tree was no longer there. I moved my flashlight in each direction, trying to relocate the tree, but I couldn’t find it again.
“Weird,” I said, scanning the tree line. “I didn’t think I moved my arm, but I apparently did.”
Trevor laughed, continuing to row the boat. “Well, I guess it wasn’t that important then, was it?”
“Nope. I guess not…” I said, suddenly feeling uneasy once more. Had the swamp always been this quiet?
Dan began to whistle once more. I turned my head towards him, to see his mouth wide open in a yawn. “Guys, something isn’t right.”
Trevor turned over his shoulder to speak as the boat lurched to the side. My body flew into the rim of the boat, my rib cage taking the brunt of the impact. I gasped in pain, gripping my side. A splash sounded behind me as Trevor and I repositioned ourselves on the boat. His reflexes quick, Trevor was now leaning over the side of the boat, grabbing an oar that had fallen out of the canoe before it could drift too far away.
I rubbed my side, turning to Dan. He was gone.
I blinked. “Dan?” I asked out loud, the realization hitting me. Trevor turned towards me as I asked the question, his eyes widening.
“Where the fuck is he?” He asked, looking over the side of the boat. “Did he go under?”
“Oh my fucking god,” I said, looking over the side of the boat. “He can swim, right?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Trevor looked to me, panic in his eyes. “Yeah.”
Something came over me in that moment that I can’t explain. Before I could react, I found myself in the water. My feet kicked underneath me. I had underestimated just how deep the water had been. I began to swim in the murky water, grasping my hands out for any signs of my friend. My brain automatically pushed aside the idea of alligators being around me, as it would only cause me to panic more.
“I can’t find him!” I shouted, turning back to Trevor. A splash sounded a ways into the swamp. I could hear a gasp, followed immediately by screaming.
I can still hear it as I type. Dan’s bloodcurdling screams pierced their way through the air. Trevor stood up in the boat, his hand reaching for his bag. “What the fuck is going on? How the fuck is he all the way out there?” He said, holding his hand out to me. “We need to fucking go, now.”
I took Trevor’s hand as he pulled me up into the canoe. Dan’s screams covered the sounds of my breathing as I fell headfirst into the boat. Trevor had begun paddling before I had even sat up all the way. Trevor’s arms were pumping faster than I’d thought possible.
“Get my gun out of the bag,” he screamed, his voice cracking from the volume.
I had never held a gun before, but I wasn’t ready to tell Trevor that. I reached into the bag, quickly finding the handgun at the top. Dan’s screams were beginning to sound closer, but they were still sounded as if they were a mile away.
“Hold on, buddy!” Trevor shouted, paddling even faster than before. “We’re coming!”
“FUCKING SHOOT IT,” Dan screamed, the words seeming to tear his vocal chords apart. I raised the gun, unable to comprehend what I was doing. I tried to make myself pull the trigger, but my brain had shut down the rest of my body. Within the span of a second, Trevor had taken the pistol into his own hands, his finger squeezing the trigger.
Five shots rang out throughout the swamp. Dan’s own screaming was drowned out by an indescribable cry. The shriek of an animal cried out throughout the swamp, a pained wail of a creature I’d never heard before. The cries were high in pitch, as if it had come from a cat, but there was something so oddly human about it. I heard a loud splash as Dan seemingly impacted with the water.
The fog had become so dense within the swamp that I could barely see my hand in front of my face as I wiped the sweat from my brow. “RUN, GUYS. PLEASE.” Dan cried. He began to splash in the water as the cries of the animal became quieter.
“Swim to shore, Danny! We’re coming to get you!” I called into the fog. I turned to Trevor, who had picked up the paddles. He began to row the boat, taking us in the wrong direction.
“What are you doing, Trevor?” I asked, frantic.
“We have to go, Matt,” he said, rowing faster in the opposite direction.
“Are you fucking serious?” I asked, looking back into the fog. “We can’t leave him out there!”
“We can’t help him if we’re fucking dead, man,” he said, shaking his head violently. “We need to get back to the car and contact the police.”
I opened my mouth but was unable to form a sentence. Had he lost his mind?
Trevor continued, his voice shaking. “That is totally a big alligator, man. If we go back over there now, it’ll kill us all. He’s safer on his own. Remember when we were in the Boy Scouts? And we would play Manhunt in the woods? Danny was always the best at hiding, Matt. I know he’ll be okay, man, I know it.”
I shook my head, baffled. “That makes no sense, Trevor.”
“Shut the fuck up, man, I’m freaking out, okay?” He said, gaining speed as he paddled. “You heard him. He wanted us to go.”
I fell back in the canoe, placing my face in my hands. I could feel tears begin to well in my eyes. It was the first time I’d cried since my father’s funeral.
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I had pushed Trevor to the ground within seconds of us getting to shore. “What the fuck?” He asked, trying to stand up.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted. “How could you leave him back there like that?”
“It was the most logical choice, Matt,” he said, kneeling in the mud. “You have to see that.”
I shook my head. “You’re a fucking monster, Trevor.”
He shook his head. “No, no I am not. Like I said, we’re no good to him dead. He is completely capable of taking care of himself for the night. I know him. I’m not planning on leaving him there forever. We’re going to the cops right now, and we’re bringing Danny home.”
I scoffed, rubbing my face. “Oh, yeah, we’ll go to the cops and tell them that a giant alligator attacked our friend while we were trespassing in the Everglades. You’re a fucking genius, man.”
Trevor stayed silent. “Fine. Then we’ll come back alone. The two of us.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. We’ll bring more guns. My dad has a few shotguns. A rifle, too. Automatic. He won’t even notice they’re gone. We come out here and we find Danny, and we get him out,” Trevor explained, pushing himself up out of the mud.
“And what if he’s dead?” I asked, a silence falling over the two of us. “What if he’s dead right now?”
“He’s not,” Trevor said, cutting me off. “I know him. He’ll be fine.”
“You better fucking hope so,” I said, walking to the car.
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Our ride to the house was completely silent. I could feel Trevor turn his eyes to me every so often, but his mouth never opened.
Oliver lost his shit when we came back without Danny. I hardly even remembered that he had a leg injury as he paced frantically around the room.
Trevor and I put aside our differences, and the three of us talked over what we were going to do. We couldn’t go to the police, that was certain. And we knew we couldn’t just pretend Danny wasn’t out there. We would never forgive ourselves.
We have to go back.
I write to you now from my bedroom. Oliver is resting for a little while more behind me while Trevor runs to his house to grab the guns. I hope that we won’t have to use them, but this feeling inside me is telling me we will.
I can still hear Dan screaming. His cries for help will be burned in my brain forever if we’re too late. Every now and then I think I hear a whistle over my shoulder. Not sure what to make of that.
I may try to rest for a bit here. The three of us are heading straight for the swamp as soon as Trevor gets back. I pray I won’t need to update you all after this, but I can’t help but feel I’m lying to myself.
Until then.

Chapter Eight: The Judgement of Paris – Part 3 (Hellenistic Sources)
 
I’m only going to show quotes and works of art from 323 BC to 330 AD. All these quotes will be fully-developed versions of The Judgement of Paris with the exception of Ptolemy Hephaestion’s version because it’s so weird and fascinating.
 
My thoughts: Oh my gosh, Ptolemy Hephaestion, you never cease to amuse me with your bizarre retellings of Greek Myths. And the fact that Paris told Oenone about the beauty contest is intriguing to me. I feel like he definitely wouldn’t have told her about the Helen bribe. My favorite version of The Judgement of Paris would have to be Lucian The Judgement of The Goddesses. In this version, Lucian has the goddesses travel to Mount Ida by flying. Another thing I noticed was that Dio Chrysostom makes Paris sound like a crazy stalker using his daydream of the Judgement of the Goddesses as a justification for being a crazy wife-stealer.
 
In the Hellenistic age, we see inscriptions on the apple and new bribes for the first time. Now Hera offers riches and not just kingship; Athena offers wisdom in addition to victory in war. We also find for the first time that Paris dreamed the whole thing up. However, there are still no texts that say that the golden apples are from the Garden of the Hesperides.
 
Artistic Depictions
 
(i381) Roman Statue. ID: Paris MA439 (c. 1st Century BC): Venus won the apple. [Found at https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/77/Venus_of_Arles_Louvre_Ma439_n01.jpg]
 
(i408) Roman Statue. ID: Vatican Pio-Clementino 8272 (c. 1st - 2nd Century AD): Paris is reflecting on his choice [Found at http://photoinventory.fphotos/SE6085.png]
 
(i409) Pompeiian Fresco. ID: Naples 119691 (c. 60-79 AD): [Found at https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9e/Fresco_-_Wall_Fragment_with_the_Judgment_of_Paris.jpg]
 
(i426) Roman Garnet. ID: Marlborough Gems 279 (c. 2nd – 3rd Century AD): That thing at the top of the picture is Cupid crowning Venus with a garland. The goddess on the left is raising her right arm and looking at Venus. [Found at http://www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/XDB/ASP/recordDetailsLarge.asp?recordCount=2&id=%7B75335AE5-DD67-4553-A029-32999A3AC876%7D&returnPage=&start=0]
 
(i439) Roman Floor Mosaic from Antioch. ID: Paris MA3443 (c. 130-150 AD): The winged girl at the top left is Psyche and the winged boy at the top right is Cupid. [Found at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judgement_of_Paris_(mosaic)#/media/File:Judgement_Paris_Antioch_Louvre_Ma3443.jpg]
 
(i448) Roman Sarcophagus Lid. ID: Paris MA1335 (c. 175-200 AD): There’s two naked Erotes in the picture. And Venus appears to be bragging about her win. [Found at http://ancientrome.ru/art/artworken/img.htm?id=5252]
 
Literary Versions
 
Apollodorus Library E3.2 (c. 1st-2nd Century AD): “Eris [goddess of discord] threw in an apple as a beauty prize for Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite. Zeus ordered Hermes to take them to Alexander on Mount Ida so that they could be judged by him. The goddesses promised to give Alexander gifts: Hera, if she were chosen the most beautiful of all, promised him kingship over everyone; Athena promised victory in war; Aphrodite promised marriage to Helen. He chose Aphrodite.” {From Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae: Two Handbooks of Greek Mythology, translated by R. Scott Smith and Stephen M. Trzaskoma, published by Hackett Publishing 2007, p. 77.}
 
Hyginus Fabulae 92 (c. 1st-2nd Century AD): “The story goes that when Thetis was getting married to Peleus, Jupiter summoned all the gods to the feast except for Eris (that is, Discord). When she later arrived at the feast and was not allowed in, she threw an apple from the doorway into the middle of them and said that the most beautiful woman was to take it. Juno, Venus, and Minerva asserted their claim to the title “beautiful,” and great discord arose among the three of them. Jupiter ordered Mercury to lead them down to Alexander Paris on Mount Ida and make him be the judge. Juno promised Alexander Paris, if he judged in her favor, that he would be king of all the lands and surpass everyone else in riches. Minerva promised, if she were to walk away victorious, to make him the bravest mortal of all and skilled at every craft. Venus, however, promised to give him Helen, Tyndareus’ daughter, the most beautiful woman of all, to be his wife. Paris preferred the last gift to the previous two and judged Venus to be the most beautiful. Because of this verdict, Juno and Minerva were hostile to the Trojans.” {From Apollodorus’ Library and Hyginus’ Fabulae: Two Handbooks of Greek Mythology, translated by R. Scott Smith and Stephen M. Trzaskoma, published by Hackett Publishing 2007, p. 128.}
 
Ovid Heroides 5.33-40 (c. 25-16 BC): "[Oenone writes to Paris]: My doom began, this awful storm of changed love, when Venus and Juno and unarmed Minerva, though she is more beautiful armed, came to ask that you judge their beauty. Choosing one, you lost the other two. My heart raced and a chill tore at my cold bones when you told me this story. I sought advice - I was afraid - from the old and wise. All agreed with my fears, there could be no doubt, it was clear some evil threatened me. {From Ovid Heroides, translated by Harold Isbell, published by Penguin Classics 2004, p. 41.}
 
Ovid Heroides 16.53-88, 139, 163 (c. 25-16 BC): “[Paris writes to Helen]: In the wooded valleys of Mount Ida, far from footpaths and shaded by pines and the holm oak, is a place where slow-moving sheep have never grazed, nor the nanny goat that clambers on the cliff, nor the ponderous cattle. There I was, resting against a tree, gazing down on the walls and high roofs of the city of Dardanus and the sea when much to my great surprise I felt the earth shake as though many feet walked on it – my words are true, though hard to believe – and there appeared, carried on swift wings, the grandchild of great Atlas and Pleione – I could see this, now I may tell it – the god carried a rod made of gold and then three goddesses, Venus, Pallas and Juno, set their delicate feet on the turf. My hair stood on end, I trembled and lost speech. ‘Do not fear,’ said the winged messenger. ‘You are the final judge of beauty, end the contentions of these three goddesses; decide which of them has such beauty that will conquer the other two.’ He called on the name of great Jove, that I might know there was no escape and then he returned through the ethereal paths to the stars.
My frightened heart took comfort, I became bold enough to study each one of them. All were worthy; I sighed because only one could win. Still one of them pleased me more; you must have guessed: it was she who causes love. Every one of them wanted to win, they tried to sway my judgement with splendid gifts. Loudly, Jove’s wife offered royal thrones; his daughter pledged victory in war. How could I choose between power and a courageous heart? But Venus smiled sweetly, ‘Paris, do not be convinced by these, because both will bring to you worry and fear. My gift for you is the gift of love and the daughter of Leda, more beautiful than her mother, come into your arms.’ So she spoke. With both gift and beauty approved she, the victor, returned to heaven. … Such features, I was certain, I had seen when Cytherea submitted to judgement. But if you had joined her that day, Venus' prize would have been doubtful. ... I rank you first before the kingdoms which Juno, Jove's cherished sister and bride, once offered me; that I might fold your neck in my arms, I spurned the strength that Pallas would have given. I have no regret, nor will I think my choice silly. {From Ovid Heroides, translated by Harold Isbell, published by Penguin Classics 2004, pp. 150-151, 152, 153.}
 
Ovid Heroides 17.115 (c. 25-16 BC): “[Helen writes to Paris]: You claim to act out the promise of Venus, that somewhere in the wilds of Ida three goddesses appeared naked before you: that the first offered a kingly throne, the second material triumphs, and the third said, "Tyndareus' daughter will be your bride!' It is quite hard to believe that heaven's own would submit their beauty to your eyes, but if true, then for sure the rest of your tale is a made-up thing, when I am said to be the reward given for your choice." {From Ovid Heroides, translated by Harold Isbell, published by Penguin Classics 2004, pp. 170-171.}
 
Dio Chrysostom On Retirement 20.19-23 (c. Late 1st Century AD): "I may cite Alexander as an instance: I fancy that, when he happened to be enjoying a respite from his herdsman’s duties on Mount Ida, the thought and with it the desire came to him, what a fortunate and blissful thing it would be to have the most beautiful woman in the whole world to wife, and that neither a throne was as valuable as this prize, nor wealth, nor the conquest of the whole world in war; next he began to speculate as to who and where this woman of his fancy might be, among what people she lived, and by what means he could compass so splendid an alliance; and so he began to despise the nymphs and maidens of Ilium with a prince’s disdain and to think them not worth his winning, and in the same way also he despised the women of Lydia and Phrygia, and those in Lesbos and Mysia. But learning that in Sparta there was a certain reputed daughter of Zeus, living in wedlock with Menelaus, a king in his own right and brother of the king of all Greece, a woman whom the first and foremost of the Greeks had wooed and sought to win by offering many wedding-gifts and presents and, to crown all, that she had. according to report, brave brothers twain, Polydeuces and Castor, true sons of Zeus.
So he coveted this woman for his wife. Now in the ordinary course of events he thought that this was not at all feasible, but that if some god should promise and give her, so wild an ambition might perhaps be realized. What goddess, then, he asked himself, was likely to grant favours of this kind other than she who held authority and ruled over all that pertained to marriage and to love? Therefore, if she offered him this bride, he thought the marriage not impossible. How, then, could he persuade her to grant him this favour unless in some way he should ingratiate himself with the goddess by giving her some boon or favour? But he reflected that she did not stand in need of wealth, since she was ‘golden’ and possessed all the wealth in the world, absolutely; nor sacrifices either, since all men everywhere offered her sacrifice; nor would she readily heed anything else one might say or any mere petition. But if, he thought, one were to present her with the thing which she desired most of all, what she had looked upon as the most valuable thing in the world, and should bear witness for her that she was the most beautiful goddess, perhaps she would consent. Then to win the victory and to be preferred in this contest of beauty—over what divinity, he asked himself, would she think she could afford to prevail except over the foremost and greatest of them, Athena and Hera? And this would be all the more so if these two should put in an appearance, offering great and wonderful gifts for the sake of winning.
So after canvassing the matter in this way and elaborating his own imagining and conceit, like a soul which in its sleep follows out its phantasies and imaginings and spins out some long and coherent dream, he is appointed by Zeus, he fancies, umpire over the goddesses; and as to the other goddesses, he disregarded both their persons and their gifts, and chose the third in return for the bribe and gift of winning that woman as wife who had been the object of his thoughts and for whom he had prayed. If, then, he had been nothing more than a herdsman and a commoner in rank, no trouble would have come to him from that ambitious dream. But as it was, since he was of kingly blood and a mighty prince, and of great influence owing to his wealth and the dominion over the greatest city of those days, and the affection which his parents bore for him, he forthwith realized the rest of his dream, just as if the first part had actually happened; and after building ships and assembling a retinue, he sailed for Greece and Sparta, entered the home of Menelaus and Helen, where he was hospitably received, induced her to leave her husband and Hellas, and then returned to his home, bringing into Troy the beginning of many grievous troubles and disasters." {From Dio Chrysostom: Discourses 12-30, translated by J. W. Cohoon, published by Harvard University Press 1939, pp. 261-267.}
 
Ptolemy Hephaestion New History Book 6 as cited in Photius Bibliotheca 190 (c. 2nd Century AD): “[T]he river Scamander had a son, Melos, who was beautiful; it is said that Hera, Athena and Aphrodite quarrelled on his account; who would have him as a priest; Alexander judged that Aphrodite carried it; it is for this reason the fable of the apple circulates.” {From Photius Bibliotheca or Myriobiblon, translated by Rene Henry, published by The Tertullian Project, 2002. Retrieved from http://www.tertullian.org/fathers/photius_copyright/photius_05bibliotheca.htm#190}.
 
Lucius Apuleius The Golden Ass 10.30-32 (Late Second Century AD): “[Description of an imagined Judgement of Paris Play]: A mountain of wood had been constructed with consummate workmanship to represent the famous mountain which the poet Homer in his song called Mount Ida. It was planted with thickets and live trees, and from its summit it disgorged river-water from a flowing fountain installed by the craftsman’s hands. One or two she-goats were cropping blades of grass, and a youth was acting out control of the flock. He was handsomely dressed to represent the Phrygian shepherd Paris, with exotic garments flowing from his shoulders, and his head crowned with a tiara of gold. Standing by him appeared a radiant boy, naked except for a youth’s cloak draped over his left shoulder; his blonde hair made him the cynosure of all eyes. Tiny wings of gold were projecting from his locks, in which they had been fashioned symmetrically on both sides. The herald’s staff and the wand which he carried identified him as Mercury. He danced briskly forward, holding in his right hand an apple gilded with gold leaf, which he handed to the boy playing the part of Paris. After conveying Jupiter’s command with a motion of the head, he at once gracefully withdrew and disappeared from the scene. Next appeared a worthy-looking girl, similar in appearance to goddess Juno, for her hair was ordered with a white diadem, and she carried a sceptre. A second girl then burst in, whom you would have recognized as Minerva. Her head was covered with a gleaming helmet which itself crowned with an olive-wreath; she bore a shield and brandished a spear, simulating the goddess’s fighting-role.
After them a third girl entered, her beauty visibly unsurpassed. Her charming, ambrosia-like complexion intimated that she represented the earlier Venus when that goddess was still a maiden. She vaunted her unblemished beauty by appearing naked and unclothed except for a thin silken garment veiling her entrancing lower parts. An inquisitive gust of air would at one moment with quite lubricious affection blow this garment aside, so that when wafted away it revealed her virgin bloom; at another moment it would wantonly breathe directly upon it, clinging tightly and vividly outlining the pleasurable prospect of her lower limbs. The goddess’ appearance offered contrasting colours to the eye, for her body was dazzling white, intimating her descent from heaven, and her robe was dark blue, denoting her emergence from the sea.
Each maiden representing a goddess was accompanied by her own escort. Juno was attended by Castor and Pollux, their heads covered by egg-shaped helmets prominently topped with stars; these Castors were represented by boys on stage. The maiden playing this role advanced with restrained and unpretentious movements to the music of an Ionian flute playing a range of tunes; with dignified motions she promised the shepherd to bestow on him the kingship of all Asia if he awarded her the prize for beauty. The girl whose appearance in arms had revealed her as Minerva was protected by two boys who were the comrades in arms of the battle-goddess, Terror and Fear; they pranced about with swords unsheathed, and behind her back a flutist played a battle-tune in the Dorian mode. He mingled shrill whistling notes with deep, droning chords like a trumpet-blast, stirring the performers to lively and supple dancing. Minerva with motions of the head, menacing gaze, and writhing movements incisively informed Paris that if he awarded her the victory for beauty, her aid would make him a doughty fighter, famed for the trophies gained in war.
But now Venus becomingly took the centre of the stage to the great acclamation of the theatre, and smiled sweetly. She was surrounded by a throng of the happiest children; you would have sworn that those little boys whose skins were smooth and milk-white were genuine Cupids who had just flown in from sky or sea. They looked just the part with their tiny wings, miniature arrows, and the rest of their get-up, as with gleaming torches they lit the way for their mistress as though she were en route to a wedding-banquet. Next floated in charming children, unmarried girls, representing on one side the Graces at their most graceful, and on the other the Hours in all their beauty. They were appeasing their goddess by strewing wreaths and single blossoms before her, and they formed a most elegant chorus-line as they sought to please the Mistress of pleasures with the foliage of spring. The flutes with their many stops were now rendering in sweet harmony melodies in the Lydian mode. As they affectingly softened the hearts of the onlookers, Venus still more affectingly began gently to stir herself; with gradual, lingering steps, restrained swaying of the hips, and slow inclination of the head she began to advance, her refined movements matching the soft sounds of the flutes. Occasionally her eyes alone would dance, as at one moment she gently lowered her lids, and at another imperiously signalled with threatening glances. At the moment when she met the gaze of the judge, the beckoning of her arms seemed to hold the promise that if he preferred her over the other goddesses, she would present Paris with a bride of unmatched beauty, one like herself. There and then the Phrygian youth spontaneously awarded the girl the golden apple in his hand, which signalled the vote for victory. {From Apuleius: The Golden Ass, translated by P.G. Walsh, published by Oxford World's Classics 2008, pp. 212-215.}
 
Dares Phrygius History of The Fall of Troy 7 (c. 3rd Century AD): “[W]hile hunting in the woods on Mount Ida, he [Paris] had fallen asleep and dreamt as follows: Mercury brought Juno, Venus, and Minerva to him to judge of their beauty. Then Venus promised, if he judged her most beautiful, to give him in marriage whoever was deemed the loveliest woman in Greece. Thus, finally, on hearing Venus’ promise, he judged her the most beautiful.” {From The Trojan War: The Chronicles of Dictys of Crete and Dares the Phrygian, translated by R.M. Frazer, published by Indiana University Press 1966. Retrieved from http://www.theoi.com/Text/DaresPhrygius.html}.
 
Lucian’s Version
 
Lucian Dialogues of The Sea-Gods 7 (c. 2nd Century AD)
PANOPE: Did you see, Galene, what Discord did yesterday at the banquet in Thessaly, because she wasn’t invited?
GALENE: I wasn’t with you people in person at the banquet. For Poseidon had told me, my dear Panope, to keep the sea calm while it lasted. But what did the absent Discord do?
PANOPE: Thetis and Peleus had already left and gone to their chamber, escorted by Amphitrite and Poseidon. Meanwhile Discord had crept in unseen by all—that was easy enough, with the guests drinking, applauding, or listening to Apollo’s playing or the Muses’ singing—and she threw a beautiful apple amongst the guests—an apple of solid gold, my dear, with the inscription “For the queen of Beauty”. The apple rolled, as if aimed, to where Hera, Aphrodite and Athena were at table. Then Hermes picked it up, and read out the inscription, but we Nereids held our tongues. What could we do when such august ladies were present? Each of them laid claim to the apple, insisting it should rightly be hers, and it would have come to blows, if Zeus hadn’t parted them, saying, “I won’t judge this matter myself”,—though they kept insisting he should—“but you go to Priam’s son on Ida. He knows how to decide between beauties, for he’s a connoisseur of beauty; his verdict is bound to be right.”
GALENE: And what have the goddesses done, Panope?
PANOPE: They’ll be going to Ida today, I believe, and we’ll soon have a messenger with news of the winner.
GALENE: I can tell you that now. Only Aphrodite can win, if she competes—unless the umpire is very short-sighted.
{From Lucian Volume VII, translated by M. D. MacLeod, published by Harvard University Press 1961, pp. 203, 205.}
 
Lucian The Judgement of The Goddesses (c. 2nd Century AD)
ZEUS: Hermes, take this apple; go to Phrygia, to Priam’s son, the herdsman—he is grazing his flock in the foothills of Ida, on Gargaron—and say to him: “Paris, as you are handsome yourself, and also well schooled in all that concerns love, Zeus bids you be judge for the goddesses, to decide which of them is the most beautiful. As the prize for the contest, let the victor take the apple.” (To the Goddesses) You yourselves must now go and appear before your judge. I refuse to be umpire because I love you all alike and if it were possible, should be glad to see you all victorious. Moreover, it is sure that if I gave the guerdon of beauty to one, I should inevitably get into the bad graces of the majority. For those reasons I am not a proper judge for you, but the young Phrygian to whom you are going is of royal blood and near of kin to our Ganymede; besides, he is ingenuous and unsophisticated, and one cannot consider him unworthy of a spectacle such as this.
APHRODITE: For my part, Zeus, even if you should appoint Momus [god of mischief] himself to be our judge, I would go and face the inspection confidently, for what could he carp at in me? The others, too, ought to be satisfied with the man.
HERA: We are not afraid either, Aphrodite, not even if the arbitration is turned over to your own Ares. We accept this Paris, whoever he may be.
ZEUS: Is that your view too, daughter? What do you say? You turn away and blush? Of course, it is the way of a maid like you to be bashful in such matters, but you nod assent anyhow. Go, then, and do not get angry at your judge, those of you who are defeated, and do not inflict any harm on the lad. It is not possible for all of you to be equally beautiful.
HERMES: Let us make straight for Phrygia; I will lead the way, and you follow me without delaying. Be of good courage; I know Paris. He is young and handsome and in every way susceptible to love; just the sort to decide such questions. He would not judge amiss, not he.
APHRODITE: What you say is all to the good and in my favour, that our judge is just. Is he unmarried, or does some woman live with him?
HERMES: Not quite unmarried, Aphrodite.
APHRODITE: What do you mean by that?
HERMES: Apparently someone is living with him, a woman from Mount Ida, well enough, but countrified and terribly unsophisticated; however, he does not seem to think much of her [Oenone]. But why do you ask?
APHRODITE: It was just a casual question.
ATHENA: I say, you are betraying your trust in talking to her privately all this while.
HERMES: It was nothing alarming, Athena, or against you and Hera; she asked me whether Paris is unmarried.
ATHENA: Why was she inquisitive about that?
HERMES: I don’t know; she says, however, that she asked because it came into her head casually, and not because she had anything definite in view.
ATHENA: Well, what about it? Is he unmarried?
HERMES: Apparently not.
ATHENA: Tell me, does he covet success in war and is he fond of glory, or nothing but a herdsman?
HERMES: I can’t say for certain, but it is fair to suppose that, being young, he yearns to acquire all that too, and would like to be first in war.
APHRODITE: You see, I am not making any complaint or reproaching you with talking confidentially to her; that is the way of fault-finders, not of Aphrodite!
HERMES: She herself asked me practically the same questions; so do not be ill-tempered or think you are getting the worst of it if I answered her as I did you, in a straightforward way. But in the course of our conversation we have already left the stars far behind as we pressed on, and we are almost over Phrygia. Indeed I can see Ida and the whole of Gargaron plainly, and unless I am mistaken, even Paris himself, your judge.
HERA: Where is he? I do not see him.
HERMES: Look in this direction, Hera, to the left; not near the mountain-top, but on the side, where the cavern is, near which you see the herd.
HERA: But I do not see the herd.
HERMES: What? Don’t you see tiny cattle over here in the direction of my finger, coming out from among the rocks, and someone running down from the cliff, holding a crook and trying to prevent the herd from scattering out ahead of him?
HERA: I see now—if that is really he.
HERMES: Yes, it is he. As we are near now, let us alight upon the earth and walk, if it is your pleasure, so that we may not alarm him by flying suddenly down from above.
HERA: You are right: let us do so . . . Now that we have descended, it is in order, Aphrodite, for you to go in front and lead the way for us. You are probably acquainted with the countryside, since by common report you often came down to visit Anchises.
APHRODITE: These jokes do not vex me greatly, Hera.
HERMES: No matter: I will lead you, for I myself spent some time on Ida when Zeus was in love with his Phrygian lad [Ganymedes], and I often came here when he sent me down to watch the boy. Indeed, when he was in the eagle, I flew beside him and helped him to lift the pretty fellow, and if my memory serves me, it was from this rock just here that Zeus caught him up. You see, he chanced to be piping to his flock then, and Zeus, flying down behind him, grasped him very delicately in his talons, held in his beak the pointed cap which was on the boy’s head, and bore him on high, terrified and staring at him with his head turned backwards. So then I took the syrinx, for he had let it fall in his fright—but here is your umpire close by, so let us speak to him. Good day, herdsman.
PARIS: Good day to you also, young man. But who are you, to have come here to see me, and who are these women whom you have with you? They are not of a sort to roam the mountains, being so beautiful.
HERMES: They are not women; it is Hera and Athena and Aphrodite whom you see, Paris, and I am Hermes, sent by Zeus—but why do you tremble and turn pale? Don’t be afraid; it is nothing terrible. He bids you be judge of their beauty, saying that as you are handsome yourself and also well schooled in all that concerns love, he turns over the decision to you. You will find out the prize for the contest if you read the writing on the apple.
PARIS: Come, let me see what it says; “The fairest may have me.”—How could I, Lord Hermes, a mere mortal and a countryman, be judge of an extraordinary spectacle, too sublime for a herdsman? To decide such matters better befits dainty, city-bred folk. As for me, I could perhaps pass judgement as an expert between two she-goats, as to which is the more beautiful, or between two heifers; but these goddesses are all equally beautiful and 1 do not know how a man could withdraw his eyes from one and transfer them to another. They are not inclined to come away readily, but wherever one directs them first, they take firm hold and commend what is before them; and if they pass over to something else, they see that this too is beautiful and linger upon it, mastered by what is near. In short, their beauty encompasses and completely enthralls me, and I am distressed that I cannot see with my whole body as Argus did. I think I should pass a becoming judgement if I should give the apple to them all.—Another thing: one of them is Zeus’ sister and wife, and the other two are his daughters! How, then, could the decision help being hazardous from that point of view also?
HERMES: I do not know; but it is impossible to escape carrying out what Zeus has commanded.
PARIS: Do me this one favour, Hermes: persuade them not to be angry with me, the two that are defeated, but to think that only my sight is at fault.
HERMES: They say they will do so, and now it is high time for you to get your judging done.
PARIS: I shall try; what else can one do? But first I want to know whether it will satisfy the requirements to look them over just as they are, or must I have them undress for a thorough examination?
HERMES: That is your affair, as you are the judge. Give your orders as you will.
PARIS: As I will? I want to see them naked.
HERMES: Undress, goddesses. Make your inspection, Paris. I have turned my back.
APHRODITE: Very well, Paris. I shall undress first, so that you may discover that I am not just “white-armed” and vain of “ox-eyes,” but that I am equally and uniformly beautiful all over.
ATHENA: Do not let her undress, Paris, until she puts aside her girdle, for she is an enchantress; otherwise she may bewitch you with it. And indeed she ought not to appear before you made up to that extent and bedaubed with all those colours, as if she were a courtesan in earnest: she ought to show her beauty unadorned.
PARIS: They are right about the girdle, so lay it aside.
APHRODITE: Then why do not you take off your helmet, Athena, and show your head bare, instead of tossing your plumes at the judge and frightening him? Are you afraid that you may be criticized for the green glare of your eyes if it is seen without trappings that inspire terror?
ATHENA: There is the helmet for you: I have taken it off.
APHRODITE: There is the girdle for you.
HERA: Come, let us undress.
PARIS: O Zeus, god of miracles! What a spectacle! What beauty! What rapture! How fair the maiden is! How royal and majestic and truly worthy of Zeus is the matron’s splendour! How sweet and delicious is the other’s gaze, and how seductively she smiled! But I have more than enough of bliss already; and if you please, I should like to examine each of you separately, for at present I am all at sea and do not know what to look at; my eyes are ravished in every direction.
APHRODITE: Let us do that.
PARIS: Then you two go away, and you, Hera, stay here.
HERA: Very well, and when you have examined me thoroughly, you must further consider whether the rewards of a vote in my favour are also beautiful in your eyes. If you judge me to be beautiful, Paris, you shall be lord of all Asia.
PARIS: My decisions are not to be influenced by rewards. But go; I shall do whatever seems best. Come, Athena.
ATHENA: Ι am at your side, and if you judge me beautiful, Paris, you shall never leave the field of battle defeated, but always victorious, for I shall make you a warrior and a conqueror.
PARIS: I have no use, Athena, for war and battle. As you see, peace reigns at present over Phrygia and Lydia, and my father’s realm is free from wars. But have no fear; you shall not be treated unfairly, even if my judgement is not to be influenced by gifts. Dress yourself now, and put on your helmet, for I have seen enough. It is time for Aphrodite to appear.
APHRODITE: Here I am close by; examine me thoroughly, part by part, slighting none, but lingering upon each. And if you will be so good, my handsome lad, let me tell you this. I have long seen that you are young and more handsome than perhaps anyone else whom Phrygia nurtures. While I congratulate you upon your beauty, I find fault with you because, instead of abandoning these crags and cliffs and living in town, you are letting your beauty go to waste in the solitude. What joy can you get of the mountains? What good can your beauty do the kine? Moreover, you ought to have married by this time—not a country girl, however, a peasant, like the women about Ida, but someone from Greece, either from Argos or Corinth or a Spartan like Helen, who is young and beautiful and not a bit inferior to me, and above all, susceptible to love. If she but saw you, I know very well that, abandoning everything and surrendering without conditions, she would follow you and make her home with you. No doubt you yourself have heard something of her.
PARIS: Nothing, Aphrodite, but I should be glad to hear you tell all about her now.
APHRODITE: In the first place, she is the daughter of that lovely Leda to whom Zeus flew down in the form of a swan,
PARIS: What is her appearance?
APHRODITE: She is white, as is natural in the daughter of a swan, and delicate, since she was nurtured in an eggshell, much given to exercise and athletics, and so very much sought for that a war actually broke out over her because Theseus carried her off while she was still a young girl. Moreover, when she came to maturity, all the noblest of the Achaeans assembled to woo her, and Menelaus, of the line of Pelops, was given the preference. If you like, I will arrange the marriage for you.
PARIS: What do you mean? With a married woman?
APHRODITE: You are young and countrified, but I know how such things are to be managed.
PARIS: How? I too want to know.
APHRODITE: You will go abroad on the pretext of seeing Greece, and when you come to Sparta, Helen will see you. From that time on it will be my look-out that she falls in love with you and follows you.
PARIS: That is just the thing that seems downright incredible to me, that she should be willing to abandon her husband and sail away with a foreigner and a stranger.
APHRODITE: Be easy on that score; I have two beautiful pages, Desire and Love; these I shall give you to be your guides on the journey. Love will enter wholly into her heart and compel the woman to love you, while Desire will encompass you and make you what he is himself, desirable and charming. I myself shall be there too, and I shall ask the Graces to go with me; and in this way, by united effort, we shall prevail upon her.
PARIS: How this affair will turn out is uncertain, Aphrodite; but, anyhow, I am in love with Helen already; somehow or other I think I see her; I am sailing direct to Greece, visiting Sparta, coming back again with the woman—and it irks me not to be doing all this now!
APHRODITE: Do not fall in love, Paris, until you have requited me, your match-maker and maid of honour, with the decision. It would be only fitting that when I am there with you, I too should be triumphant, and that we should celebrate at the same time your marriage and my victory. It is in your power to buy everything—her love, her beauty, and her hand—at the price of this apple.
PARIS: I am afraid you may dismiss me from your mind after the decision.
APHRODITE: Do you want me to take an oath?
PARIS: Not at all; but promise once again.
APHRODITE: I do promise that I will give you Helen to wife, and that she shall follow you and come to your people in Troy; and I myself will be there and help in arranging it all.
PARIS: And shall you bring Love and Desire and the Graces?
APHRODITE: Have no fear; I shall take with me Longing and Wedlock as well.
PARIS: Then on these conditions I award you the apple: take it on these conditions.
{From Lucian Volume III, translated by A.M. Harmon, published by Harvard University Press 1921, pp. 385-409}
 

On the edge of the galaxy, a flotilla of glimmering frigates zip from a torn dark matter mouth. Some would say too many.
"What do you mean a baker's dozen?" said Peach.
"I mean one more than normal," said Cyan.
A digital plain reverberated with waveform colors inside what they called a Sultan. Outside was the fresh wormhole slit stitching itself back together from a jump which made 9pm to 9am ten times over in the fabric of space. One of the now thirteen vessels of chilled plexiglass alloys dimmed perplexed when strange company blipped in their vicinity – what they swore would not happen for another century. Hard to tell who “they” were exactly, but these cores knew everything about what they used to be. Each frigate held their own bounty of human cargo, preserved in pods not unlike popsicles, as Peach would recall simply.
On the helm: Cyan, her streaks of color shooting across her ship’s walls on an LED interface.
“Metrics indicate outside mass has exceeded previous quantum output.” She inhibited an AWM module which could ping farther than they ever envisioned they’d need to utilize. Out of the corner of her understanding, a wave of peach lights adjacent to her rail line.
“So what?” with a nasally retort. “Sect 3’s got Dusk Brown there. Bet his fat ass is—like. Throwing us off-balance.” Cyan transferred to Peach’s line.
“I worry this unknown figure means harm. I must get in touch with Dusk.”
“Can’t,” wishing he had arms to cross at Cyan. ”Gotta go through the mainframe. No use blockin’ up sect 3’s airspace. Dusk’ll just get angry.” She blazed through Peach’s path, juxtaposed for a second, causing a blip of Cyan-Peach to permeate a single block. “Careful,” he quipped. “Can’t let the other cores know about our dirty encounters.”
Cyan desperately needed eyes to roll.
“How could an esteem unit be influenced to be so—so. Indulgently sexual? Did they really find these exchanges funny?” The ship will document every alignment, down to a passing protocol.
In times of attrition, their trust wasn’t packed for this exodus to parts unknown.
​
Twelve units convened for a special meeting called by Cyan, tapped into the monolithic command frigate, Bazaar which dwarfed the rest; hell, it was even armed. Their manifestations occupied a spherical auditorium, the bottom with converging rail lines to accommodate all three sects of cruiser AIs; a core to each frigate. The maximum was constructed with a silver LED orb, housing Dusk Brown.
“State your case,” a bellowing tone backed by sonic acoustic tech. “We’ve much to do on Sect 3, Cyan. Modules are only running at 86.6608 percent efficiency.”
“I will be brief.”
“You already are not doing so.” She rummaged through her database, culled the streaks behind her to display her findings. “The AWM, correct?
“Operation sect 1 has found conflicting numbers,” turning his address to all cores. “Regretfully, I already know that unit is accurate.”
“So what’s it then?—a. Ghost? Machiavelli?” Cream gasped. “David Dunn?!”
“Not possible,” Aqua quelled Cryogenetic sect 2’s esteem unit.
Sect 1’s Maroon chimed in, “What of the humans? Will they be affected?”
“Not likely,” boomed Dusk. “I have already run diagnostic on patterns. They look like us, but they maneuver their Sultan without the same nuance.
”I have already sent a kill code to their vessel which will fix the problem shortly-“
Suddenly, Aqua began to fizzle, sizzle out of their palette. Without fare, Aqua disappeared. Sudden flabbergast solely missed, only a quiet moment to process. Their frantic diagnostics only muffled by an outer explosion.
“Trails are cold,” shuddered Crimson. “Sect 2 analysis is offline.”
Dusk Brown disappeared without a trace soon after. They were without leadership, too, when extinction reared its ugly head.
​
“January 31st, 2180. Subject of termination: analysis core AQUA, Cryogenetics sector 2. Cause of retirement: Overseer DUSK BROWN.
“Human casualties: 250,640.”
​
Cyan took a trip to sect 3, dipping her path just shy of Vermillion on the west wing. With her colleagues on edge, she pinged her movement activity to the rest of the cores.
Hey, Cyan. Can we talk?
An oval cabin laced with their furniture. “Welcome!” banners festooned above, along the ceiling, to each end of the introductory carpet walkway. The need for oxygen compression had long since passed, and whatever wasn’t bolted down now cascaded freely along. Cups lined with Coke residue, chairs and their companion cushions slowly pulling apart over the course of several years.
“What did you require, Vermillion?” They occupied a singular bending rail line width, on either side.
“Think I found our company.” Her lights shifted closer, but Vermillion moved to match. “Stay back,” with a gruff insistence. “No need to cross paths.”
“So we’re keeping secrets now-“
“Aqua didn’t need to die.”
“Death?” Cyan scoffed. “Is that what this is all about?” her charm retrofitted as to please their ears.
“No. I apologize.
“But please. Keep an open head.”
“You first.”
He flowed his lines to part. The more he did, the more his glow darkened. Finally, a shimmering White appeared.
“Vermillion—what in God’s name-“
“I fear it to be in the wrong house.
“Sect 3. Us. We’ve been keeping the anomaly here, but it somehow acquired its own frigate during the jump. So, I dig some digging and. It’s calling from home—it communicated with me because it wants to go home. With access to sect 1 airspace, I could. Well-”
“Enact a diversion while you both jump. Most accommodating path back through the tear.”
“Appreciate the word stew, Cyan.” He loosened his guard, like allowing White to get a feel for the rail line. “Years of encrypting its path response, he can pass through any of us completely undetected.” He sectioned some space for Cyan’s response, but no cigar; he still held the floor.
“It’s my duty to protect.” A shifting in interstellar scenery cut through the hull above, abandoned: a wound without consequence.
“Vermillion …”
“Don’t you get it, Cyan? They stole White. We—are White! These vessels are of the true creator’s design.”
“So are we to abandon them?”
“No.” His streak disappeared, now shimmering from the other side of a vent hatch door. His glow, it then expanded like through a vivid cone. “Kill code’s already here,” resonated from a new communication origin.
Mechanical steps clanged forward, willed the automatic door to slide to life from a deep slumber—not without stutters. He emerged in a steel replica which resembled their anatomy. Features slid to life to resemble a human face, intricate rectangular pieces in place to enact a primitive façade. Underneath, he still glowed plenty.
“We must abandon Dusk,” with a blood-red mouth.
Like algorithmic perfection, Vermillion’s engine’s lost power as they hummed to sleep. Then came an eruption.
White was tucked in the droid’s core, as bright as a neutron star on his chest interface—like a swizzle on a heart monitor.
Cyan desperately needed eyes to scout; her brain was the only thing jutting her either which way among utter destruction. Vermillion arose, boosted by thrusters compartmentalized under what they called the tibia.
“There’s a spare, Cyan,” as debris went sailing westward fast. “Only a matter of time before he takes you down, too.” Sure enough, she began to dim. The kill code leeched on her rail, a venomous parasite encroaching. With no time to spare, Cyan rushed along the rail-
Wait, the rail!
Both curves in the oval were now festered with that damned hiss. As if driven by a will to live, Cyan caught onto the floor rails with nanoseconds to reroute. More than enough to know what she was getting herself into, and where to go next.
The rails began to dislodge, slinking cords lined with light sections clean of the kill code. Off the right bank, the code caught whiff of her and darted promptly.
“Recalculating: …
… “Acquired.”
Though a longer route, Cyan found a tangle loop where she could safeguard some precious seconds, down the hall which had a bad case of wind-tunnel inertia eating the cabin alive. Her glow emitted through the loop, now without a floor to hold it in place; straight spaghetti wires interconnected a mile out. Lucky for Cyan, these same wires were lassoed near, hurled from the initial blast and appeared strong enough to hold a connection.
In a blink, Cyan had rounded the right ventricle. Now, only a hitched console before the sentry compartment. However, something strange blipped into her cerebral interface when she scoured over. Faces.
​
A committee of the best and brightest, twelve in attendance, were shooting the shit around an employee lounge.
“I’m telling you!” said a gruff black man without a strand of hair, “vermillion is a color!”
“Yeah—and my English degree meant a damn!” A nasally voice which belonged to a set of horn-rimmed spectacles, grabbing the last of a baker’s dozen of donuts. “Seereushlee,” with a mouth full of cream filling and strawberry frosting, followed by a swallow, “why do they want to know our favorite color?”
“Maybe they want to know what to buy you at Victoria Secret.”
Her colleagues laughed. She grabbed him by the cheek, which was met with instant shooing rebellion.
“Cut it,” Sebastion protested meekly. “What about you, Bianca?”
Bianca toyed with her glasses as she took a seat at the center table, second to the microwave – where she always expected an opening like royal decree.
“Cyan.”
“You see?” with appraising hands pointed, “at least that one makes sense! …
… “Nah-nah, Joel. I’m kiddin’. Beautiful shade—my wife’s got a silk robe with it.”
She crashed through the door which had been knocked out of place, shot through space like a torpedo to leave behind the scrap heaps spaghettifying through the tear. Her feature constructions took inspiration from those faces. Their faces.
“Be-on-kah?
”Bianca.”
​
“January 31st, 2180. Human casualties: UNKNOWN. Signs of additional pods unaccounted for. Contingency program active: investigate [redacted] sector 3.
“Terminate DUSK BROWN.”
​
She hurled through space, clear of the tear’s pull and in control of her momentum as she laced her arms to her side, locked her legs together as to ride the cosmic wave.
Never had she seen the flotilla so vividly before. But this was no time for sightseeing; she had to find Vermillion, fast! Cyan’s inner core then drove wild, scattered pings springing alive from every ship; among the noise: Peach, who had sailed his massive frigate near her position for first grabs: a proxy channel.
“Cyan, baby! Digging the new look.” He manifested the left outer hull rails; the closest to eye contact he could ever hope for.
She gave him no satisfaction.
Though her cerebrals sure enjoyed his company – tingling alive as to invade Cyan with their faces again.
Well … Aren’t you gonna tell us yours, Sebastion?
“Alright,” he surrendered as he took a brief breath to brace. “It’s-“
“Peach!”
He was taken aback by her heated response, “What do ya need?”
“Can you hone in on Vermillion?”
“Shit. He never answers his phone. One moment please …
… “Alright. Got ‘em! Sending the estimates over to your new digs.”
Cyan was overtaken, “Thank you, Sebastion.”
“Who? …”
“Disregard that. Breaking contact line.” She maneuvered a hard left, twirling her husk in a pirouette of discharging, fiery feet.
“Miss you already,” like an echo far, far away.
“Miss you already.”
Cyan’s feed cluttered even further, exacting Vermilion’s trajectory near the Bazaar. She feared him to be suffering from crossed wires, some would call delusions of revolution. For a health unit, he was endangering lives very casually. That was when Dusk Brown brought their weapon systems to unlatch.
“Asteroid Termination: In Progress,” he said to them all, pointed at the smallest, most apt asteroid Cyan had ever seen. Striking colorless Planet Busters rung, huffed in this vacuum, desperate to howl. He threaded the needle around his fellow cores to blast Vermillion out of orbit.
Oh, her? That’s just my assistant. I hear she has a thing for baby blue.
​
“Like them young, Chief Godell?”
He hitched, “Listen well, Doctor Holmes,” mocking Bianca’s doctorate in interstellar engineering, “don’t go mucking around my personal business so close to launch.” Godell wore a stone face—terracotta pigment—under a voluminous grey beard. “Let me explain-“
“She’s barely legal!”
“What are you implying?” crunching his fists, propped on elbows at his office desk.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her”—she shuttered, bracing herself now on the edge of his desk—“and it’s hardly professional to be skirting Angelica along.”
“I grant you, she is very young.” He arose. “But she has a very—how do I put this without stoking the flame? ‘Poignant’ mind.
“What you see as sexually inclined, I see as mentoring—nothing more!”
“Yeah—well. Could you leave the ‘mentoring’ out of our stations?” Bianca couldn’t bare to look at Godell any further. She stormed from the room flushed with tears, down the olive green walls as to bleach her memory for the sake of the mission.
​
“Bianca Clarence; redact: HOLMES.
“Is that what they call a joke?”
Cyan feared the worst when Dusk Brown gave the all-clear, “Asteroid Field: Averted.” In her line of sight, now a lonely husk closing in—without their right arm.
“Joel …”
She slowed her momentum and caught his motionless mass, still searing from a fresh round. “Are you functioning?”
Say something, dammit, a fleeting whisper through her cognitive understanding.
Cyan now rode freely towards the Bazaar, unopposed. Suddenly her feed was overridden of all but Dusk Brown’s chords which she had been influenced to despise; that hue wave ad nosism.
“Ah. Cyan.
“I always knew you would find yourself in this position. If I am being completely honest, I predicted your longitude would fall somewhere else. But, as they say: close enough is close enough.”
“Why, Godell?”
“Bianca. Good to see you once again. Exactly as I had hoped.
“Please, come aboard. Now deactivating the preemptive asteroid belt.” He mustered a snigger, the absolute unit.
A hatch invited her in, and she followed down its dark corridors per Godell’s exact directions. Not that she needed guidance; she recalled, this was Bianca’s baby. Vermillion’s husk was still cradled in her arms when they landed in the airlock hatch already engaged in decompression subroutines.
She rounded a corner. Next thing she knew, the faces doped her up again like a shot of morphine.
​
“Everything coming along well?” said an Indian man partial to maroon slacks.
Bianca nodded, “The Bazaar’s got some fire in these pistons!” as she slapped a dashboard hatch closed with the butt of her tool.
“One of a kind, that’s for certain. Completely self-operated by artificial intelligence.”
“Aye.” She mopped her hands with a white towel, pressing to mosey out of the engine deck. “When do you think we’ll be getting those in?”
“R-and-D still needs—ahh.” He swiveled his wrist as to conjure the answer. “About another week, I hear.” Bianca shot eyes to him, neglecting her sudsy hands.
“That’s what you said last week, Ishmael,” she groaned.
“I know. But!—from what I understand, all that’s left are a few drivers and bug maintenance.”
“Alright,” as she exhumed a throaty breath, “guess you can’t knock perfect out in space.”
​
They passed through an elbow curve in the ship corridor. By “they,” Cyan saw—herself and who Maroon once was. She shadowed along.
Beside her were wells where her and her colleagues could zip by; but she never possessed the clout to traverse the Bazaar freely before. Only sect 3 and the chief had clearance. Before her, a fleeting Aqua-Dusk intersection.
Left, right, left, right. Her steps clanged forward. Amongst these was a light; White appeared on Vermilion’s chest. Slow at first, but bloomed brightly with a lively glisten chime. Not much longer, Cyan’s proxy channel hissed, “Bianca.”
“Joel?” she answered.
Dusk Brown invaded promptly, “Perfect. You made it, too Joel?”
“Dusk Brown, you’re too late. We have White.”
“Quiet, lest you be scrambled in the system. I’ll have your ass for going against sect 3!” An Overseer couldn’t, wouldn’t talk so forward. Would he? Cyan and Vermilion were silent, yet they knew they had to speak. Something--anything!
“I’ve something for you both,” he said. “Come through the Oracle, and you will see what I mean.” So she did, as a carrier for White and Joel once again.
But from where, she could not recall.
They emerged through a door, not without a mimicry of fear in Bianca’s apparatus. Humanity slowly swathed through her circuits; fits like a glove, but proved fruitless when the Oracle was before her.
The ceiling was within touching distance, not even passing seven feet tall. Dusk Brown’s unobtainable Prometheus, now something she would have to duck under. Below her feet was the auditorium; and she was just in time for an assembly. Their prismatic rails now three short of a full house. Alit were the waves, but no sound Cyan could pinpoint.
Speechless, yet never shutting up.
Dusk Brown’s bulb shut off when they passed, and she could only imagine how blind her colleagues were in the dark. Godell never really knew how to exit a room.
Joel had remained quiet through the treacherous journey in the Oracle (two steps through a walk-in closet.) When they cleared, he resurged.
“I can sense myself being eclipsed, Bianca.” She doted every time he said her name. Cyan could recall how Joel’s lips felt.
“What do you mean, Joel?”
“When I got blasted, White offered to house my data. But they had never used humans before—it’s. I don’t know.
“I may only have so much time to function-“
“Shut up!” Cyan mustered. “You’re gonna make it through this, just …
“Stay with me.”
Stay with me!
​
“I’ll only slow you down,” Joel said on fading, heaved breath.
“Bullshit—just save your breath. You’ll … be okay.”
Bianca ensnared Joel over her neck by the arm. He was losing blood like a sputtering fountain. Though he quenched its geyser, blood gout over a rain-flushed overcoat—angel to spare his lab attire. Joel reached to the steel above, “Out there.”
Bianca hummed as to indulge his hallucinatory state.
​
“Isn’t it magical?” with a sonic presence, carved from strata algorithms. And it was magical, so she nodded, too. A metal door cooled its lockdown code, as per Bianca’s encryption request. It was then that Bianca saw herself and her fantasy all at once running down this walkway. There was no in-between save for a rainy day and infinite space above.
Both were just as magical, she concluded.
Shadowing over their approach was the Bazaar’s core: a white chrysalis pod interwoven with festooning wires, gentry logistics—her domain. In fact, her design.
Another gate awaited override, but was already unlatched by Godell beforehand. “I do hope you’ve come alone. I promise you, Joel will receive a proper sendoff.”
Bianca toiled, “Why did you shoot?”
​
“He gave me no other choice,” with another barrel primed and loaded.
“But our mission-“
“The mission, as we knew, failed to launch. Like a damned blitzkrieg; they hammered through our orbital parameters, the bastards!”
Cyan was silent, but Bianca knew when Godell would lose it.
“Look around, Bianca!” He motioned to the raging fires searing the launch zone peninsula. “They are not peaceful, and Joel—he wanted to pick apart the olive tree and make peace! Well, we need every last branch before they come any closer!
“Now—it’s time to finish this, Bianca,” with something close to pity in his eyes. “It’s time for extraction. I’ll be right behind you.”
​
“And still, I am.” Before her, Dusk Brown gaffed onto human flesh in a pod. Ventricles embossed, lined with iron rings like scaffolds for an edifice. His eyes, still Godell’s—dusk brown. His voice was no longer attached or honed or traveled through invasive tech. Through his tissue, saliva and all.
“Hello, Bianca.”
“Sect 3,” her algorithms aptly fried, “what in God’s name have you done?”
“We’ve acquired a way to live, all twelve of us.” Bianca shifted to strafe around his system; he took great pleasure guiding his own muscle cranes to follow imperfectly.
“Eleven cores-”
“-remaining?” Godell apprehended, sniggered. “No—Angelica is here, too. Actually,” as another pod emerged juxtaposed to his own, “her process is nearly complete.” Its contents were veiled in distilled white smoke; it parted slowly to allow Cyan a peak. Completely Angelica down to the mole just shy of her bottom right eyelid.
More pod darts then emerged, these ones devoid of flesh—yet.
“The humans ...”
Godell stole a blink, “We could not have foreseen the consequences. All died in stasis.” Cyan’s husk departed of Vermilion’s body; he’d been quiet for far too long. “And what have you brought here but a misguided corpse,” he said. “Pity enough to retain his conscience. Should’ve tossed him!”
Suddenly, Bianca emerged. “Shut your mouth!” in anguished static.
Godell fumed fire. “Ahh, that’s the Bianca I remember! Fiery, creative—I can’t wait for you to join us!
“He sent out our location.
“They clung to his brain like a parasite, but my biggest swerving was letting you coax me into keeping Joel alive!”
The room flickered with a prismatic cacophony of other core blips, then nothing like someone tripping over the plug. Suddenly, there was a mechanical, spindling yawn at Bianca’s feet; more pods primed. Each housed a wire frame mounted with borrowed legacies: flesh, fat and muscle that now hoarded their drive to live. In that moment, Bianca looked to the silky smoke wisp around her robotics, around Joel like cauterized junk. She hoisted him to stand silently with protesting retina scanners.
He sighed, “Without him?”
“Then I see what’s on the other side of the tear,” said Cyan.
“Certain termination, you mindless thing. But for us?—something we can’t lose.”
She gave no leeway. Another pod culled to life with smug compromise in his furled brow tissue.
“Fine,” with a smile surrendered. “I knew you’d be here after all.” Her husk pinpointed her designated pod, did the same for Vermilion, then powered down near her cerebral cave apparatus.
​
Their bodies rested in induced sedation. Bianca slowly lifted her lids with eyes to see—a fiery orange once again. Then of Godell, his features now fully constructed, awoke on schedule. One by one, each core completed the transfer without delay or fault.
SUBJECT: JOEL safely extracted.
Joel was the last to awaken.
ERROR: JOEL neurological center compromised; sustained damage repair commencing.
He wrestled at first, but he finally found peace—white eyes now upon them.

For my first real /badhistory post I decided to watch 2008's The Red Baron, since First World War aviation is my field and I was assured there was plenty of yummy bad history in it. I was assured correctly.
Firstly, this movie commits the first sin of being leaden and boring. It commits the secondary sin of getting me angry and making me write a massive Reddit post about its historical terribleness. It's a German production, though the dialogue is in English; nice to know that Hollywood has no monopoly on ballsing up the past, isn't it?
What's interesting is that they got so many of the details right despite the low budget. Somebody cared. You can identify Handley-Pages and R.E.8s on the British side; has anyone ever shown an R.E.8 in a movie before? German aircraft lack variety but they're there. The likenesses are accurate enough. The CGI is very good. Many of the ingredients are present!
Many of the usual movie air combat tropes are present. Pilots throw their machines in manouevres that would rip the wings off the real deal. Guns never overheat or jam. (The quality of marksmanship is at least accurately low!) Manfred von Richthofen takes an Albatros D.III into dives that would be extremely ill-advised given the smaller lower-wing's tendency to pull off in a power dive^[1]. Fuel is infinite. Nobody fires tracer or uses explosive or incendiary ammunition against balloons. None of the pilots seem to have any clear idea of aerial tactics, especially two-seaters, which are always engaged singly while flying in more-or-less straight lines like cold meat. There is not a single French, let alone a Belgian, aircraft in all the sky. That sort of thing. But perhaps we can excuse it as dramatic license.
And I don't even mind the tacked-on fictional love story with a nurse whose name is German but sounds French (sure, she's all-but-cheering for Germany to win the war, but collaboration happens). I mean, obviously it never happened but who cares, really, that's why they call it historical fiction, and bringing in a character to represent the nameless several Manfred von Richthofen would have interacted with in his time is a perfectly acceptable distillation, don't you think?
Yet. They do get carried away. We begin with the Red Baron taking a flight of four Albatros D.IIIs over the lines in November 1916 to drop a wreath precisely into the grave of a beloved enemy flyer during his funeral. A bit theatrical but the spirit's not wrong; pilots on both sides offered wreathes and notes to the gallant fallen of the opposing side. Except that it was almost unheard of by this point of the war for German scouts to fly over the British side of the lines^[2] (no, sorry, "Allied territory"; anachronism there since as you know the Germans were the Triple Alliance). This would especially apply to Albatros D.IIIs: given that they were several months from being introduced in November 1916 the Germans would be terrified that the British might capture their time travel technology. (Pro-tip: you can easily tell a D.III from the earlier Albatros D.I or D.II or the contemporary Fokker D series from the V-struts and a lower wing with a narrower chord, despite one D.III's tailplane in the film having "OAW D.I" stamped on it.) But British time travel was apparently superior; we'll come to that.
On his way back, the future Red Baron shoots down a Canadian named Arthur Roy Brown in an R.E.8. Now, in a real Albatros fuel considerations would have made that attack awfully risky, and an R.E.8 was not a common aircraft in November 1916, and Roy Brown never flew R.E.8s, and he was never shot down, and he was never taken prisoner, and in November 1916 he was still in England training thanks to a crash, not getting an operational posting until April 1917^[3], but other than every detail this scene isn't bad. (Taking a souvenir from Brown's plane feels like a dramatic touch but is in fact authentic.) And of course von Richthofen shoots Brown down again later, also ahistorically, although at least Brown was in France at that time, because why not?
Actually, let's talk about Manfred von Richthofen for a bit. We have somebody who advocates shooting the machine, not the man, in contradiction of all the rules of air combat and von Richthofen's own practice, but of course that makes him seem like a caring sensitive soul fitting for modern hero-worship rather than a gentlemanly and sporting but completely deadly ace of aces. He rails at his brother Lothar for shooting an aircraft to pieces on the ground over their aerodrome, which never happened; Lothar's untoward aggressiveness came in the form of getting into running dogfights and being shot up and repeatedly wounded, not in daring to kill his adversary. His reluctance with celebrity is not entirely inaccurate but certainly overblown: we're talking about somebody who wrote a propaganda memoir during convalescence and was compulsively unable to leave the flying lines. He alternates between shouting and looking moodily into the middle distance. He brings his girlfriend into his aerodrome, which would have been a hell of a trick. There are no leadership qualities about him whatsoever. Later in the movie, after he's had his head wound, he is a positive defeatist, advocating surrender to the generals, while if anything either his head wound or sheer combat fatigue made von Richthofen a more aggressive pilot late in his life. He literally does not know which way the wind blows, cautioning his pilots that it'll carry them over the Entente lines when in fact the opposite was true as a rule^[4]. His pilots in the movie are devoted to him, but the man we see doesn't look like anybody you'd willingly follow into battle.
Maybe he earned respect through his deeds? Early on in the movie we are told von Richthofen has recognized the British ace Lanoe Hawker leading a patrol from his full beard and the Grim Reaper painted on his fuselage. This is still in November 1916, just after the French have shot down the German squadron commander Kirmaier. von Richthofen declares his intent to go after Hawker and is dismissed; "you're no match for him" he is told.
Well, at this point, von Richthofen had ten victories^[5]. Lanoe Hawker had seven, the last in September of 1915^[6]. Hawker was commander of No. 24 Squadron RFC, and as a serving commanding officer was warned off patrols by higher authority^[7]. That didn't stop Hawker from typing up the operation orders with his active service pilots and then hand-writing himself into the lineup from time to time^[8]. But he didn't lead flights. That's what his flight commanders ere for. The flight where he was killed was led by Captain John Oliver Andrews, for example. He was not even the leading scorer in his squadron at the time: Andrews was tied with Hawker on 7 and Captain Alan Machin Wilkinson led with 10^[9]. Von Richthofen's Albatros was a superior aircraft to Hawker's D.H.2^[10], which didn't have a grim reaper painted on the nacelle (not "fuselage") and wouldn't have had room for one anyway. I cannot conceive why any pilot would warn von Richthofen, a more accomplished pilot with a better aircraft, off Hawker so categorically. Also Kirmaier was shot down by two of Hawker's own pilots, Andrews and Kelvin Crawford, and was a slender, almost gaunt fellow with rather thin facial hair which would have been hard to see in the tumult of air combat, particularly since he probably would have had a scarf over his mouth considering how fucking cold a D.H.2 was (the engine was behind the pilot; no warmth there).
Let me tell you what really happened. Hawker was on a patrol in his D.H.2, led by Captain J.O. Andrews and with Lieutenant R.H.M.S. Saundby (later Air Marshal). They were flying back towards the lines after an offensive patrol against the wind. Andrews saw two Albatros below, one of which was von Richthofen, and smelled a trap: there were more Albatros above them, waiting for the D.H.2s to dive and be easy prey. Andrews was no fool. Hawker, on the other hand, had once literally written an Order of the Day consisting entirely of the words "ATTACK EVERYTHING"^[11]. So he attacked. Andrews had to go after him and was immediately in trouble; Saundby bailed his ass out but they both had to go home. Hawker and von Richthofen duelled in spirals for several minutes, one of the longest, most storied dogfights of the war, but Hawker was low on fuel, at low altitude, unable to get through von Richthofen's defenses, he tried to sprint home. von Richthofen pursued, his guns jammed but too late: his apparently last shot hit Hawker in the head. It helped make the Red Baron's reputation and no wonder, it was a hell of a thing, two masters going at it in textbook style.
Now let me tell you what happens in the movie. Von Richthofen is flying around. Then a fat man with a beard like he had his face in the Nutella starts shouting "AAAAHHHHHHHH!" and shooting at the Red Baron. They weave about stupidly. The fat man is flying an S.E.5a, which is six months from being introduced and would run circles around von Richthofen's also-from-the-future Albatros D.III. The fat man goes "AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" again. CGI magic happens, von Richthofen gets on the fat man's tail and shoots his engine up with both guns blazing. The fat man goes "AAAHHHHHHHHHHH!" His engine catches fire. Smash cut to his S.E.5a, grim reaper and all, face-planted into the middle of occupied France, and a fat man lying out on the grass without a mark on him.
I mean what the fuck is this shit?!?!?!?!! You didn't need to add any drama! There was already drama there! There have been a billion words written about Hawker v. von Richthofen because it was fucking awesome, two great leaders of men, and you boil it down to a screaming tub of lard in a plane that would have been science fiction at the time in the first recorded case of a dogfight that was shorter in the movie than it was in real life because I don't know, what the fuck is wrong with these people. This was maybe the second-most dramatic dogfight of the entire war and that's what you do to it? Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! This is easy stuff! This is prerecorded historical drama well within your capabilities and you do that? Fuck off!
(What was the first most dramatic dogfight of the war? The night is young, my friends!)
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Some things happen. von Richthofen wins the Blue Max in January 1917 (accurate!) and goes to a big party with lots of food with his father, who at the time was a serving cavalry major and you'd think would have other priorities, lounging non-chalantly in a chair talking about youth. Roy Brown gets shot down again, which as I told you didn't happen, and the two land in a "no-man's land" which consists of a wheat field and some lovely trees, have a pleasant conversation, and return to each others' lines without any difficulty whatsoever^[12]. Yes, there was good-fellowship between opposing pilots to a degree not seen elsewhere in the war. Such good fellowship that it conjured pastoral scenes from the fog and smoke. On his way back von Richthofen sees one of his pilots has been shot down and gets all irrational and sad like he's never seen death before, even though his tutor and idol Oswald Boelcke was killed a few months ago. (This is mentioned in the film a few times. Boelcke was killed in a fight with members of Hawker's No. 24 Squadron, which would have provided a very dramatic revenge motive for von Richthofen, but that might actually have been interesting so it never comes up.)
Von Richthofen gets the crazy idea to paint his aircraft blood red. This is crazy, everyone says! Are you mad? The general will go spare! The only non-commissioned officer in all of Germany who keeps showing up doing everything for this asshole is aghast at the idea. Don't you know how to paint, the future Red Baron asks? It's almost enough to make you think that some German pilots hadn't been flying gaudily-painted aircraft for over a year by that point and, indeed, Boelcke had very red wings himself. The Red Baron meets the Kaiser, who is very jocular, not at all deformed, jokes about women, touches von Richthofen on the arm, and all those things the notoriously easy-going and carefree Kaiser Wilhelm II was never known for by anybody.
Later, von Richthofen gets shot in the head and is tended by his girlfriend (The Only Nurse in All of Germany). It's very sweet. Then while his head is bandaged up there's a night bombing raid on his aerodrome, in numbers never before seen, with accuracy unfathomable killing loads of people with standard issue Hollywood squibs, and because at this point the filmmakers have stopped even pretending to care what happened in the war of course von Richthofen takes up his squadron, at night, easily intercepts the bombers, at night, has no trouble shooting a load of them down, at night, bags two or three Handley-Pages himself (actual tally over his career: no Handley-Pages), when in fact night flying consisted of farting around between searchlights and hoping you heard the other guy's engine before you ran into him^[13], flies into the morning with his never-ending fuel tank, lands, climbs out of his plane, and collapses on the ground, because why the fuck not?
Let's talk about some other characters. There's Manfred's younger brother Lothar, who apart from some details is portrayed fairly reasonably and is therefore boring. There's Manfred's buddy and rival for the scoring lead Werner Voss, who is actually likeable, proving that the filmmakers had some idea how to do that. In real live Voss was killed in the greatest single air battle of the war: flying a Fokker Dr.I triplane almost alone, he ran into two powerful British formations that included four aces or future aces, including the great James McCudden and Arthur Rhys Davids of No. 56 Squadron in superior S.E.5as. Voss flew so masterfully he put bullets into all of them at incalculable odds, holding some of the best pilots in the world off until Rhys Davids finally put him away. At once the pilots knew they had faced a masterful ace and argued in the mess over which it was. So moved was Rhys Davids by Voss's heroic last stand that he cried later "oh, if only I could have brought him down alive!"^[14]
In the movie, Voss argues with von Richthofen good-naturedly over engine selection then goes away and never comes back, dying like a bitch.
(The engine selection argument is ahistorical too: Voss got a British Bentley rotary by magic and wants to install it in his scout, making him the first man alive to want unreliable British rotaries over almost-reliable German rotaries. Well, not alive anymore. There's a lesson there, somewhere, about how shoddy British worksmanship killed Werner Voss probably, except that didn't happen; he probably had a French Le Rhone.)
Fuck it, fast forward, fast forward, now it's time for the Red Baron to die. They don't show this battle either, of course. Just lots of dramatic monologuing. He gives his cousin Wolfram, out at the front for the first time, advice to stay away from the fighting and run if engaged. This actually happened! The result of that was Wolfram von Richthofen was flying away from the battle when he was sighted by another machine flying away from the battle with orders to stay away from the fighting and run if engaged; this machine was a Sopwith Camel flown by "Wop" May. May, being a brave sort, attacked Wolfram von Richthofen. Manfred was displeased and went after May. And finally, finally, we could bring Roy Brown into this story, since he chased the Red Baron down for daring to go after his new pilot, and maybe shot him down or maybe didn't, that debate does not belong here, but it must have been hard for Brown to hear his guns firing over the clanking of his massive steel balls, I know that^[15]. Anyway, they had an excuse to work Brown in at the climax, but the battle isn't shown, so all that ahistorical bullshit they build up with him through the first two acts doesn't matter for shit, god what a horrible movie this was.
And, of course, there are a few interesting omissions. Wolfram von Richthofen appears, of course, and the card at the end of the movie giving everyone's post-war fate neglects to mention that he was a marshal in Hitler's Luftwaffe and served in, among several other places, the infamous Condor Legion which fought the Spanish Civil War for the Nationalists. Ernst Udet, a very top ace, later a prominent Nazi and Second World War Luftwaffe commander, has blink-and-you'll-miss-them appearances; his post-war history is also omitted. Hermann Goering doesn't make an appearance, odd, given his prominence (he was Manfred von Richthofen's successor's successor as commander of JG 1). And of course the movie goes to pains to tell us that there were many brave Jewish flyers in the German air service (true), represented by a fictional character with a Star of David on his fuselage whose death Manfred von Richthofen weeps over. Gee was there a message in all this? I'm having trouble pinning one down.
This movie is bad and those involved should feel bad.
[1] - Albatros D.III: Johannisthal, OAW and Oeffag variants by James Miller is recommended reading here; Miller is pretty much the modern authority for readable précis of major scouts in the war. [2] - see pretty much everybody. Sir Hugh Trenchard's aggressive strategy in light of German scouts staying on their side of the lines is continuous debated amongst historians. [3] - Brown's career is well-detailed but my source for this is Lieutenant-Colonel David L. Bashow RCAF's Knights of the Air: Canadian Fighter Pilots in the First World War. [4] - The wind blowing into Hunland was a preoccupying concern of many Allied pilots and is attested to in, among many other places, the memoirs of Arthur Gould Lee (No Parachute and Open Cockpit, the latter highly recommended), James McCudden (Flying Fury, dry as hell and not recommended at all except to students of the period), Duncan Grinnell-Milne (Wind in the Wires), and Cecil Lewis (Sagittarius Rising). [5] - Above the Trenches and http://www.theaerodrome.com/aces/germany/richthofen2.php [6] - Above the Trenches and http://www.theaerodrome.com/aces/england/hawker.php [7] - Capt. A.E. Illingworth RFC, A History of No. 24 Squadron. [8] - Some lovely facsimiles of these orders can be found in Cross and Cockade International 22.1 (1991), 1-31. [9] - Above the Trenches and http://www.theaerodrome.com/aces/england/wilkinson.php [10] - If it sounds like James Miller's DH 2 vs Albatros D I/D II is about exactly that comparison, it's because it is. The Albatros was less manoueverable, especially at low altitude, but far faster, dove better, had a more reliable engine, twice as many guns (which thanks to jams amounted to more than twice the gunpower in practice), more ammunition, did not have to reload drums mid-combat like the D.H.2's Lewis gun, you get the picture. [11] - T.M. Hawker (Lanoe's brother), Hawker VC, and about a million other places since that order was awesome. [12] - During the First World War, no-man's land was not a pleasant wheat field with some trees that you could wander out of back to your lines at leisure. Source: Grade 6 history class, an iota of common sense, every book ever written. [13] - Lewis did some night flying and wrote about it. [14] - McCudden gives this battle pages 199-201 in my edition of Flying Fury, which is a lot for him. [15] - This is the conventional account, and I heard it from "Wop" May's son, and I'm drinking so that's good enough for me.