So I'm going to write some of my AUs up because why not aye?

Early October, Dartmoor. I've never enjoyed the harsh season; mostly because of the rampent deseise that swipes through the village every year. And every year I great it like my old foe and enter the battle that became routine.

I walk outside and I'm met with a sharp winter breeze. It whistles it's arrival, bellowing it's curses to anyone who cares to listen. The cobblestone streets seem so quite this time of year - occasionally I'd pass someone leaving one of the quaint Tudor buildings. I waved, giving my morning contribution as I passed.

'Morning,'

'Haha, Morning Dr. Menoetius. Of to another day in the shop?'

'Yes, not much of a puzzle is it?'

'Not really!' The man concluded with a bellow of laughter. I returned it the best I could before leaving him with my blessings.

'Oh- and don't worry about saying Dr. Menoetius, sir. Patroclus suits me fine.'

Of course, my parting request was met with another bout of laughter.

I got to my shop sooner than later, and stood outside it for a moment. 'Philotheos,' the sign read 'Friend of the Gods,'. But my admiration for the sign that lay over the door lasted almost as long as it took me to enter.

I soon set to work. Apothecaries took more preparation then people believe every morning - I fact I looked to emphasize to ungrateful customers. Not exactly like those were common.

The ticking off my cuckoo clock was the only thing tracking the time that passed. I ran my hand along every counter, through every box, checking and rechecking what herbs I had, where they were, that quanties I had to spare.

'Dammit,' I concluded when the cuckoo clock announced the arrival of 8AM. 'Of all times to run low on tansy.'

Still, I couldn't despair now. 30 minutes would be soon gone and I still had to mix the herbs nessary for those who lived in the village. For now I snuck the empty or half full vials with the label tanacetum vulgare under the counter. Not many asked after herbs that they could not see - and the amount on the shelves should keep me going until I can restock.

I soon got to mixing the herbs, placing the ground herbs into small envelopes. I placed them on the counter fanned out so each of the names were legible.

8:30 came upon me just too late to cut me off. I turned the sign on the door too announce the opening of the store.

Not 10 minutes had passed before the bell chimed too announce a costumer - but my eyes had been fixed on the door so I did not need the sound of cheap bird song to realise. Although I could already feel a smile creep over my face. I didn't have to recognised the chocolate features of my "costumer" too know who'd arrived.

'Good morning Briseis! You've beaten your record today; 10 minutes on the dot,'

My comment was met with a laugh that carried with it the flight of thousand butterflies. That was how her father had described it at least, and I couldn't help but agree.

'Yes, good morning Dr. Menoetius, seems I've ran out of plantain. Mind selling me some?'

I laughed once again - I often did with Briseis - and reached for the bottles labeled plantago major. Despite it's comical name it was a very useful herb, a must for any apothecary of my time. And one we were almost always had low stocks of.

'You just love the taste,' I laughed. 'But that being said I'll still give it to you.'

As I measured the dried herb out Briseis ran me through all the happenings in the village. Iphigenia had caught a cold - I'll be seeing her later then I'd concluded from that - Helen was rumoured to be having an affair, Deidama had fallen in love again, Odysseus had gotten drunk last night and proclaimed his love for his wife a humiliating amount of times the night below. And the funniest part of it (according to Briseis) was how Penelope had reacted.

Just when I was about to inquire into that line of mystery, the topic was enthusiastically changed. 'Oh - have you heard about Achilles?'

'Come again?'

'The musician! You can't honestly be telling me you haven't!'

'I can't say I have, apologies,'

She sighed at my inadequacy. 'Gosh, I knew you were deciated to your studies but this amount of naivety is honestly impressive. He plays the lyre, Pat, and I've heard his voice sounds like the song of the sweetest nightingale when he sings! And he'll be passing though here of all places!'

I could only laugh at her enthusiasm. I had never been enthralled at the prospect of his skill - or of any musician's - but I was willing to listen none the less. I'd never heard the lyre, and at the time I'd declared too myself I was content with the lyracy of Briseis' morning hellos and afternoon goodbyes.

Unbeknownst to me, in the coming months I'd come very familiar with every note that trailed from that apparent stranger's tongue. And that would all start that week - with an odd request from the innkeeper.