Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Intro

He remembered very little of his past life.

He remembered the ship. He remembered his mother — her soothing words and kisses; her gentle touches as she sang him to sleep. That was all he thought about when he tried to reminisce about her. That was the last memory he had of his mother. He was conflicted. He questioned himself everyday.

Did he want to remember his background?

No.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to put his past behind him; to push the memories away. But they always came back. He was always tormented by the dreams of his mother's death.

Did he remember her name?

No.

No matter how hard he tried, he could never remember her name. No matter how many times he thought back, he could never bring back her image. He could never recollect how she looked like.

All he saw was a hazy figure, singing softly to him, and bathed in a slight golden glow.

Did he know his father?

No.

Did he want to know him?

No, and he never would. His pater had killed her. His father had caused the storm. And he hated him for that. He hated him so so much.

He had seen just four summers when it happened. [A/N: This means he was four years old. Also, pater means father]. He couldn't recollect where they had been headed. He just remembered the wooden vessel which had been carrying them, with its white sails and crew. The famous storyteller Atticus had been on the ship at the time, and the boy remembered laughing and listening to the stories he had to tell. The greek raconteur had left before the storm had happened and he had never seen or heard of him ever again.

They had been on the ship for three days and three nights. It was on the third day that it happened. His mater had been recounting the story of how she met his father to him. She had been telling him the tales and the stories of the great ruler and god of the sea — Poseidon.

Yes, that was his name. He still couldn't understand why his father had created a tempest so huge. But it had killed his mother. It had killed her.

The storm was unexpected. It came from nowhere. It was so sudden and so frightening and he remembered finding refuge in his mater's arms as the sky darkened. The winds began whipping at the sails and the yells from the crew and passengers intensified as the waters began tipping the ship.

He had buried his head into her arms, and she shielded him from the spray of water. The thunder had boomed and the lightning had struck. Lightning so powerful that it tore the mast of the ship into pieces.

It ripped the sails off the vessel and the ship began to sink.

He had jumped out of her bosom, and he had began to whimper and cry. His eyes had welled up with tears and he had heard her soothing voice once again. "It's going to be okay, Perseus. It's going to be fine. Your father is going to protect us."

He didn't. It wasn't okay. It wasn't fine. His father did not come to their aid.

He had wanted to ask how his father would protect them when his father was the one causing the storm. Poseidon was the ruler of the seas wasn't he? He was the storm-bringer. Only he would be able to make a tempest so huge. Instead, he had turned back to his mother and his tiny hands had found hers.

She had rubbed circles on the back of his hand slowly, and he remembered feeling at peace. They were still as statues. All movement and sounds faded from his ears. The world died around him.

It was just him and his mater.

The gigantic wave had risen from the waters. The ship had moved forward, unable to stop. All around him, the passengers were wailing. A lot of people had been thrown overboard. The wave would submerge the ones left. They would all die.

His mother had turned to him, tears leaking from her eyes. She had bent to his level, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm so sorry, Perseus." Her voice was pained. "I love you so so much. Never forget that."

He had nodded numbly, unable to stop his own tears from falling. Even though his four year old mind couldn't comprehend what was happening, he had known that nothing would ever be the same anymore. And then the wave crashed into the ship.

His mother was torn away from him at the impact. The water took her away. His father's domain killed her.

He had tried to reach for her. He wept, struggling again the might of the seas to get to her. Finally, he had given up. He watched on, unmoving as the water surrounded him.

And then the darkness took over.

-Line Break-

His eyes had parted open and he leaped back in shock. He had blinked once, then twice and looked up slowly, taking in his surroundings.

He was on a sort of Island...he was on a beach.

Two figures had been peering curiously at him. It was these two who had made him what he was now. They were the ones who had given him a new home. He remembered squinting to see them properly. The man was bathed in gold, his golden hair and his golden eyes had made him difficult to look at. He was so bright.

The woman by his side had looked older, with blonde hair and bright silver eyes. His eyes had widened in shock and even before he popped the question he had known the answer to it.

"Where am I? Who are you?'

The man had smiled. His smile was warm. He had felt the hot aura emanating from him. The woman next to him had soft eyes. He felt the warmth seep through him.

"You are on Delos, my child," she answered. "And I am Leto. This is my son-"

"Apollo," he had finished for her, eyes wide with awe.

"Yes," The man's deep baritone voice made him want to cower in fear. But he hadn't done that. He had met those gold eyes with his own bright green ones and waited for the god to continue. He hadn't bowed, hadn't shown any reverence.

"What's your name?" The god questioned.

His lips had parted open and he had said it. "Perseus."

His eyes had welled up with tears at that. The memories flooded into his head. He had fallen onto his knees and had sobbed his eyes out as the two immortals watched on. His mother was dead. She was gone.

"What is wrong, child?" He felt the arms engulf him and buried his head into her shoulder. The titaness had run her hand through his hair soothingly. Almost like his mother did.

"She...s- she's dead," he had hiccuped.

At the time, He hadn't noticed Leto exchange a glance with her son. "Don't worry," The mother of Apollo had said, her voice soft. "You're in safe hands now, Perseus."

-X-

He had lived with the two immortal deities for a year. Perseus had told them his story. He had told them about his father and his mother. Even now, ten years later, He still couldn't understand why they had decided to let him stay; but all the same, he had been grateful.

Apollo became a father to him. He had filled that space in his heart. He had taken the position of the fatherly figure in his life. He still missed his mother but he wouldn't have taken back anything that happened. Leto became his new mother. She had taken care of him. Her warm aura and soft voice had made him feel like he was with his mater once again.

It was at the end of the year that she approached him. And told him it was time to leave.

"Perseus," Leto had said, her eyes downcast. "Apollo and I have discussed it and...you can't live with us anymore."

He had been shocked into silence. He didn't speak. He didn't utter a word.

"You deserve a real family. A place you can be yourself. A place where you can live with people who care about you."

He had simply nodded, and enquired softly. 'When am I leaving?'

"Tomorrow," Leto said sadly. "Apollo shall take you there."

He had nodded once again, engulfing her in a hug. "I'm going to miss you, Perseus."

'I'll miss you too," He had said, blinking back tears. In the single year he had spent on the island, he had grown closer to Apollo and Leto. Closer than he had ever been to anyone. He would always remember the Titaness of motherhood and what she and her son had done for him.

He would leave the island of Delos the next day. A new chapter of his life was beginning. His name would forever be in the history books.

He would go to the city of Troy.

And there, His story would begin.

Chapter Text

PERSEUS' eyes flickered open. The young five year old blinked and then rubbed his eyes, trying to force the sleepiness away. His gaze travelled across the city they were approaching.

The boy looked on in awe as they crossed the ramparts and flew into the city of Troy. His bright green eyes were wide with amazement as he soaked in everything laid before him. From the chariot in the sky he could see all that was going on below him. He could make out the people and animals; he could see the shops and buildings. The city was surrounded by huge white walls, which they had just passed. He'd heard of them from his mother. Poseidon had built the walls of the city when he was exiled to the mortal world by his brother the sky god, Zeus.

The boy frowned with distaste, pushing all thoughts of the god of the sea from his head. Even though it had been a year since his mater's death, he still hadn't forgiven his father for what he had done. He despised him so so much.

"Perseus." The voice made him look up. "You woke up just in time. We're here."

Apollo sent a warm smile in his direction and the young child beamed at him, all worries and hatred for his father forgotten. He rose from his seat at the back of the golden chariot and moved forward to stand near the god of the sun. Apollo held the reins of his chariot firmly, his warm gold eyes fixed on the horizon.

"The city is beautiful."

"It is," Apollo answered, a smile playing on his lips.

"Am I going to see you again?" The boy questioned, tilting his head to the side.

"Of course," Apollo grinned. "I'm the patron god of this city so I'm here quite a lot. I'll even take you with me back to Delos so you can see Mother again sometime."

Perseus smiled in satisfaction. "I think I would like that. I miss her already."

The god of the sun didn't answer, choosing to remain quiet. A comfortable silence settled over them and Perseus found himself leaning into the god's side. Although Apollo said he would visit, he didn't know when that would be. He sighed, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He was going to have a new family from this day.

Perseus watched, apprehension flooding through him as a huge palace came into view. Was he going to live there? Was Apollo giving sending him to the royals? The little boy bit his lip. He knew Leto and Apollo wanted the best for him. He knew they would probably want him to live in comfort and relaxation.

He licked his tiny lips as Apollo rode the sun past the Royal Palace. They continued flying forward, past the hills and forests, past the fields and the beautiful city plains. They flew on until the got to the outskirts of the town. Perseus pressed himself deeper into the god's side as the chariot began descending on the green hills. He could see a hut a few feet away from them and his small mind guessed that was where he would be living.

He watched on as the fiery horses of the sun settled onto the ground.

"Alright, it's time to go." Apollo dropped his reins, reaching down to grab him. "Your new home awaits."

Perseus smiled slightly, allowing the immortal to carry him out of the chariot. They began making their way to the hut on the hill, talking as they went. He looked up when he heard the sound of a door creaking open.

The demigod child blinked in surprise as a fairly young man walked out of the hut. He wore a grey chiton which reached his knees. His sandals looked new, a sign that he was from a wealthy home. His hair was dark with streaks of grey running through it, although he couldn't have seen more than thirty summers. He had dark, dry and tanned skin. His eyes were friendly and his smile warm and infectious. Perseus found himself grinning at him. The man held a staff, like the shepherds from the boy's old home used to do and he walked with a slight limp. His left leg was unmoving and he dragged himself forward with the long wooden pole. The young child realized the man was crippled.

The man approached them, his eyes twinkling.

"Lord Apollo," His head dipped in what the boy reckoned was a bow. "Welcome back."

"Anchises," Apollo greeted the man like they were old friends. He motioned to Perseus with his hand. "This is the boy I was speaking about. Perseus."

Perseus smiled shyly, waving at the man called Anchises. Anchises' voice was kind as he addressed the son of Poseidon. "You are welcome to Troy, Perseus. You are going to love it here."

He nodded, green eyes examining his surroundings. He felt a hand fall on his shoulder and Apollo squeezed his shoulder gently. "Take care of him, Anchises. He's a good lad."

"I will," the shepherd nodded to the god of the sun. "I shall make sure he is comfortable enough. He's going to feel at home. Lord Hermes dropped off Aeneas a day ago on Aphrodite's command and I have a feeling they are going to be inseparable."

Aeneas? Who is Aeneas? Perseus' thoughts went wild as he tried to figure out who the man was referring to.

"That's good, then," Apollo's hands left his shoulder and settled on his dark unruly hair. He played with the dark locks of Perseus' hair, weaving them around his fingers. "I have seen his future. He is going to accomplish great things. He is going to be the greatest hero this city has ever seen. Make sure he doesn't come to harm, Anchises."

Perseus' brow furrowed in confusion. He didn't understand half the things Apollo had just said.

"I'll do my best, Lord Apollo."

He watched on with curiosity as the man hobbled around with his stick. He turned so he was facing the hut. His voice was carried down the valley surrounding the hills. "Aeneas, child, would you mind coming out for a bit?"

"Coming, Father!"

Perseus heard the sound of running and the footsteps got closer and louder. A boy burst out of the hut, a wide smile plastered onto his face, He seemed to be the same age as Perseus. His eyes had the same twinkle Anchises' did. He was lean, with curly black hair and softly oxen brown eyes.

The boy paused as he advanced, blinking in surprise. He moved forward slowly, uncertainty flashing through his eyes. When he got to them, he dropped into a bow. "Lord Apollo."

The god smiled at the boy, obviously pleased that he had been recognized by someone so young. "Rise, child."

He obliged, moving to stand next to his father. "Why have you called me here, pater?"

Anchises motioned with his free hand to Perseus and Apollo. "Phoebus Apollo wishes for me to take in this child, Perseus. He shall be living with us from now."

"Oh…okay," The boy smiled.

Perseus felt excitement flood through him again at the prospect of having a brother. He guessed that was what Aeneas would become to him after his stay started. Perseus watched as the son of Anchises moved away from his father and approached him. He beamed at him, pearly white teeth flashing.

Like it happened with the boy's father, Perseus found himself smiling back at Aeneas. He had only just arrived but he was already feeling warm and welcome.

He had a feeling he was going to enjoy living in the city of Troy.

-X-

According to Aeneas, his father was a distant cousin of the king, Priam. He was one of the 'Lords' of the city, but spent most of his time in the fields, looking after the sheep and crops although it was the servants and peasant's work. Anchises had said Hermes had delivered Aeneas to his doorsteps the day before. As Perseus recalled the shepherd-nobleman's words, Aeneas had confirmed that he was indeed the son of the goddess Aphrodite. He had lived with river nymphs on Mount Ida from the time he had been born and had only been brought back to his father Anchises after five summers (the day before) by Hermes, the messenger god who visited Apollo on Delos sometimes. Perseus' questions concerning Anchises were answered by his son, who seemed more than willing to share his life story (which he'd only learned the day before) after the shepherd-nobleman had shown Perseus to his room.

Aphrodite had been placed under a spell by Zeus and had fallen in love with Aeneas' father and she bore him a son. When the spell was broken, she made him swear an oath not to tell anyone, then took Aeneas to the nymphs of the mountain. She had named him Aeneas, which meant grief so that the whole world would know that she did not love his father and had been compelled by the powers of the king of Olympus. About one summer ago, which was the time where Perseus' own mater had died, Anchises had been drunk and had spilled the secret, for which he had been blasted with a lightning bolt belonging to Lord Zeus. He had survived, of course, but he had been left crippled from the blast.

They exchanged stories, with Aeneas telling him of his encounters with the gods of Olympus, and Perseus revealing his godly heritage. He had told the son of love about his mother and how she was taken away by the sea. He told him about how he met the god of the sun and the Titaness of motherhood after washing up on the Island of Delos.

It was hard to tell whose story was more impressive.

Eventually, the topic of conversation changed to other things. Anything apart from the gods of Olympus. Soon, they were laughing and chuckling and the boy of five summers felt like he'd know the son of Anchises forever.

Before he went to his room, Aeneas said, "I know you just got here, Perseus, and you have to settle in first, but would you like to go explore the city with me tomorrow?"

Perseus beamed. "Of course." Both of them were new to Troy and Perseus was itching to see all the things he'd viewed from the sky on land. Aeneas smiled back easily, his white teeth flashing. "Goodnight, then."

Perseus bid the brown-eyed boy goodnight and retired to his new bed. That night, as he drifted off to sleep, he thanked Apollo and Leto for deciding to send him to Troy.

XMX

Three years later…

He had seen eight summers now. He was eight years old.

His memories of his life before meeting Apollo and Leto were distant and hazy. He couldn't recall what his mother looked like, or where they had lived before the ship. He had not known any other place since Apollo had delivered him on Anchises' doorstep. But he was okay with that. He had no complaints and he was satisfied with his new life.

He was in love with the city. His city. He loved Troy, with its high walls and beautiful palaces and buildings. He loved the wonderfully carved temples of Apollo and Artemis found in the city. The sky is always blue, the sun always a bright golden hue, as if Apollo was smiling down at him; watching over him. The grass was green, everything flawless. He loved to walk the forests with his brother Aeneas, scaling the huge trees, looking at the various animals. He loved his father Anchises' stories about the great heroes of old and he loved Apollo's visits. He had been to Delos three times since he had arrived in Troy three years before.

Most of the people of the city knew of him as Anchises' son. He had told no one about his birth father, Poseidon, who the Trojans also respected because of the wall he built. Neither had he told anyone about his close relationship with Apollo and Leto. He didn't want to be treated differently from the other boys. They would all start fawning over him if they found out he had lived with their patron god for a year and that the god in question was practically like a second father to him. Apollo's visits every month entailed training Perseus, both physically and mentally. Even though he was young, he still knew a lot of things the King's advisors didn't. Apollo was training him and his brother Aeneas to be scholars; to read and write and excel at everything they did and win every argument. To know the gods and the goddesses, what they liked and didn't. What they would kill for.

When his eighth summer had come, he had started training with the patron god of Troy, to the immense delight of his father Anchises. Apollo had said he was a fast learner. His skills with the sword were his strong point, although he was learning a new thing about sword fighting every day.

He knew Apollo was very busy, performing his duties as a god. But somehow, the Olympian managed to find time for Perseus, and he was glad he had met the god.

His brother Aeneas was not a warrior. Like their father Anchises, he was a peaceful man (boy?) and wanted nothing to do with war and weapons. But Apollo had said he needed to learn to defend himself. Perseus had frozen at Apollo's words, a subtle hint of what was to come. "You have to learn to fight, Aeneas. War and death don't care if you don't know how to wield a sword. They'll swoop down on you either way, like a tidal wave and before you know it, you're on the banks of the Styx."

And so Aeneas had joined him, but only because Anchises had also insisted as if he also knew what Apollo was referring to.

"Keep your head in the game, Perseus," Apollo's voice drawled from in front of him. He barely managed to duck a slash from the god's golden sword and sidestepped at another thrust. "If this was the battlefield, you would be dead by now."

Perseus caught Aeneas rolling his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. "But it's not, Lord Apollo. It hasn't been for a while."

Apollo forced out a laugh, and Perseus' eyes narrowed, trying to see through his second-father who was more like an older brother as he grew. He didn't understand why Apollo was so serious in their training. He was only eight, after all. He'd heard from his father that most of the boys in Troy didn't start training until they'd seen twelve summers.

"Another point to note: Never get distracted or lost in your thoughts when fighting. That could be your last mistake."

Perseus suddenly dived forward, making to slash at the god's feet. Apollo jumped up, avoiding the strike and brought his sword down as if to cleave through Perseus' neck. His arm reacted before he had time to think, blocking the blow with his sword. Apollo pressed forward, gritting his teeth as Perseus let out a huff. The god finally pushed him back and Perseus cursed, spinning on his heel and trying to slice at Apollo's chest as he did so. The golden sword parried Perseus' strike, and the blade hit the base of Perseus'. Apollo twisted, putting his whole weight in a downward thrust.

And Perseus' sword clattered out of his hand.

He was breathing heavily, his face and hair damp with sweat as he glanced at Apollo and his own sword on the ground. Aeneas was silent, his eyes wide. Perseus understood. That technique—that move—it was spectacular. Finally, Perseus spoke, "You have got to teach me that."

Apollo broke into a smile. "All in good time, Perseus. You aren't there yet."

He folded his arms, letting a fake scowl grace his face at being bested. He let out another huff. "Fine. Are we done here, then?"

"We are," Apollo confirmed. "You're getting better every day, Perseus. So are you, Aeneas." His brother came to stand beside him and Perseus felt his chest swell with pride. It wasn't everyday Apollo complimented them.

"I'll be back at sunset for your other lessons. Tell your father I wish to speak to him when I return."

"We will," Aeneas responded.

"See you later, Apollo," Perseus said. A smile in his direction. He felt a warmth surround him—a note of goodbye—as Apollo faded into light, with the words. "Goodbye, boys."

-X-

AENEAS grabbed his brother by his wrist, pulling him along while running through the forest and let out a laugh. "What's with the face, Perseus?"

"It's nothing," Perseus shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. The brown-haired boy could tell his voice had broken through his brother's thoughts. He slowed down, letting go of Perseus' hand, and bumped him with his shoulder. "Don't think too hard on Apollo's words. There's no need to lose sleep over them. He's always speaking in riddles."

Perseus simply nodded at Aeneas's words, his shoulders sagging as he let out a small puff of relief. He smiled at Aeneas. "You're right. As usual." They both burst out laughing. Aeneas tried to keep with his brother as they walked. Even though he had only seen eight summers and they were both the same age, the way Perseus carried himself always made him seem older. Every time Aeneas glanced at his brother, he remembered Apollo's words on his first day in Troy. Perseus was destined for great things. And Aeneas…well, he was sure he would get a job as a guard or something when he grew up.

They continued trekking through the woods until they finally got to the city proper. Aeneas and Perseus walked side by side, talking as they walked and laughing as they went. The sun above them seemed to brighten and Aeneas couldn't help but smile slightly. Even when busy, Apollo was watching. He had to thank Perseus for that. The only real encounter he had had with mythical beings was his stay with the nymphs of Mount Ida. He'd never even seen his mother before.

Not once.

And he didn't know how to feel about that.

He glanced around as they passed by the Temple of Jove, or Zeus as the Greeks called him. For about the millionth time in his life, he stared in awe at it and felt a sense of pride enter his chest. The city was magnificent. And it was his.

"Remind me again," Perseus spoke up from beside him, "Why father decided to live at the edge of the city, and so, so far from any human life?"

Aeneas chortled. "You can ask him when we get there." They entered the market and Aeneas felt around his tunic, checking if his pouch was still there. Even in a great city like Troy, there was no telling what the children and beggars would do to survive. His father and Apollo had drilled it into them. No letting your guard down when in crowded places.

"Hey!" A voice cut through the several noises of the market centre. "Stop!" Beside him, Perseus froze. Aeneas' sighed and turned slightly to face his brother, then let out a loud oomph as someone slammed into him. He felt his foot slip from underneath him, then he was falling to the ground.

-X-

HECTOR groaned, rubbing the back of his head in annoyance. His eyes fluttered open as he cursed under his breath. The thief had escaped before he could get to them and now the nice market lady wouldn't be getting any money to feed her family. A frown settled onto his face as he looked ahead, trying to spot the clumsy idiot who had caused him to fall. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the two boys a few metres ahead of him, with one rubbing his head and the other chuckling under his breath. Hector forced himself to stand, and then strode towards them.

"The least you could have done was apologize, you know," The one on the left drawled, eyes narrowing as Hector stopped in front of them. Hector scrutinized them, eyeing the cheeky one slightly. They both looked about a year or two younger than him, and the one who had just spoken had dark black hair and deep sea-green eyes. The one by his side had brown hair and similarly brown eyes.

Brown-hair elbowed Green-eyes in the ribs and hissed. "Quiet, Perseus."

So he was the smart one.

"What?" Perseus barked, rolling his eyes. "He bumped into you first, Aeneas."

"He's the Prince, you idiot."

Hector's eyes narrowed. That was how it always was. He's the Prince. It wasn't as if he asked to be the heir of the trojan throne. And he hated that people treated him differently because of that. "And said prince is standing right in front of you, you know." He finally spoke up.

"He's sorry," Aeneas apologized for Perseus.

Hector scowled. "You made the thief get away."

"We're sorry for that too," Aeneas said. Hector's eyes snapped over to the green-eyed boy, Perseus. He was quietly looking the first Prince of Troy up and down as if gauging where to stick the knife at his side into. Hector waved his hand, dismissing the apology. "It's nothing. I'll get a description of him and find him again. Somehow."

"Well, we'll be going now," Aeneas spoke again. "Excuse us, Prince Hector." The brown-haired boy took Perseus by the hand and began leading him away. Hector didn't know why he did it, but he blurted, "Please, it's Hector. Just Hector."

XMX

Two Summers Later…

The next time they saw Hector was two summers later. Perseus was on his way to the northern edge of the city, a smile on his face as he was greeted by people, both young and old. He smiled slightly again. Five summers living in Troy and he still couldn't get enough of it. He waved at a few children as they walked past, bobbing his head in greeting. Perseus walked on, head held high like Apollo and his father had thought him and continued marching in the direction of the Coliseum. He was certain Aeneas would be around there somewhere. His brother had taken to doing some very odd jobs around the city, and for the life of him, Perseus couldn't figure out why. He frowned as he heard the voice floating through the air.

"Hey! Let go of me!" Aeneas. That was Aeneas, and he was in trouble. Before he could process it, Perseus was running, his hand reaching moving to his side. In a swift motion, he was armed and the ten summer old boy was ready to bash his brother's attacker's teeth in.

"Where's your bodyguard, Aeneas?' A voice taunted. "Scared because Perseus isn't here to protect you? Or did you think you could run away from our fight today?"

He gritted his teeth at the laughter that followed. Achates. That prat had been terrorizing Aeneas and Perseus since Perseus had stopped him from beating up another kid a while back. He was going to kill him if he dared to harm his brother.

Perseus skidded to a stop in front of them, letting his anger consume him at the sight of Aeneas being held by two boys, who looked about three summers older than them. And standing before them was the blond-haired bully himself. Perseus took a menacing step forwards as Achates told another joke at Aeneas' expense.

"Let him go." The voice was immaculate and collected, although there was a hard edge to it.

Perseus stopped in shock as another person walked in. Hector looked just like he had the day they had met him. There was a cloak covering his figure, but Perseus could see the kingly robes underneath them. Dark black hair fell in ringlets around his face and stopped at his neck, jutting out like the back end of a cockerel. There was a diadem on his head, and Perseus could see it very clearly, although it was partially covered by his dark hair. And his eyes were hard as he took in the scene before him.

The boys immediately let go of Aeneas, who scrambled away quickly. He glanced around and Perseus frowned when Aeneas turned pale at seeing him.

"Now scram," Hector said, again in that cool, collected voice. Even Achates seemed to be quivering in his tunic. The blond-haired boy sneered at Aeneas one last time, before taking off after his friends, who had ran before Hector could complete his sentence.

Perseus visibly relaxed when the bullies were gone, then turned rigid again when Hector's gaze turned on him. Aeneas walked towards Perseus slowly, rubbing his nape sheepishly. "You weren't supposed to see that."

Perseus sent him a small glare as he remembered Achates' words about a fight. His expression said I'll deal with you later. Moving his gaze from his brother, he stalked towards Hector, keeping his eyes on the Prince of Troy who had scared Achates and his friends away.

"Thank you," He said, sticking out a hand. A pregnant pause.

"Anytime," Hector nodded, his shoulders sagging as he exhaled and took Perseus' hands.

Perseus turned again, to scold Aeneas, then stopped as Hector said, "Would you like to come with me? I can help you nurse Aeneas' bruises. The ones he's very desperately trying to hide."

Perseus spun slowly, eyes narrowed. Then he laughed slightly when he heard Aeneas sputter and saw Hector smirk. The word spilled out of his mouth before he could think it through. "Sure."

-X-

Two summers later…

AENEAS laughed as Hector shoved him good-naturedly. Perseus shook his head and bit his lip as if trying to prevent himself from joining them. Finally, his always-too-serious brother laughed, clutching his sides. Aeneas danced out of Hector's way again, backing away so he was close to the lake; a way to escape if Hector attacked.

He ducked under another swing and from the corner of his eye, saw Perseus jumping off the boulder he had been on.

"That's enough, guys," Perseus said, walking towards them. "Hector, get over yourself. Aeneas, please stop taunting him."

Hector folded his arms, but grinned, stepping away from Aeneas. Aeneas laughed at his brother's words. If this had been two summers ago, Perseus wouldn't have even said a word to the Prince of Troy. Since that fateful day he had challenged Achates in the hopes of getting him off their backs, Hector, Aeneas and Perseus had been inseparable. Perseus and Hector had nursed Aeneas' bruises while scolding him for trying to pick a fight, and the son of King Priam had seen them again the next day, asking them to accompany him and his cousins into the forest to help the commander of the army while he was hunting.

From then, they had done everything together. Aeneas and Hector had instantly become close, but Perseus…it took a while for him to trust the Heir of Troy.

"Aeneas, if you're done daydreaming, we have places to be," Hector drawled, letting his hands fall to his side. Aeneas shook his head to clear his thoughts. His friend spoke slowly, his words calculating. He wasn't outspoken, but when he lost his temper…Aeneas had seen firsthand how bad he could get. He wasn't sure Achates' ego had recovered yet.

"He's right," Perseus said, his lips curling in distaste as he continued. "We have to get to lyre practice with the other boys. And then we must practice weaponry after." A smile appeared on his face.

Aeneas' eyes lit up at the mention of lyre practice. They were being taught the art of music, in honour of Phoebus Apollo, their patron god. The lessons had started when all the boys in Troy their age had seen twelve summers. There were others who had already been practicing, like Hector, and Aeneas and Perseus had joined the lessons when they were twelve. Aeneas had received a lyre—a delicate, beautiful thing—from his mother, Aphrodite. Well, technically, she hadn't brought it to him personally. Apollo had.

Aeneas had never wanted to be a warrior. He didn't know why he had to practice weaponry. He wanted to be a musician; to serenade the city with his voice and his music. Hector and Perseus…well, they were made for war. They were serious about learning how to fight, so they could defend the city when they were needed. And Aeneas felt like a coward for not wanting to do the same.

"And we lost him again." Hector chuckled.

"I'm always wondering where the Hades he gallivants off to in his daydreams," Perseus shook his head. "Come on, Aeneas, we'll be late."

He snapped out of his thoughts, laughing. "Sorry, sorry, let's go."

XMX

They walked to the fields, where the other boys already were. Aeneas frowned when he noticed Achates and his cronies. He spotted a few others with who he was familiar and waved. Perseus took a seat on the ground, grunting as he did so. They had passed by their hut on the outskirts to get their lyres and then had accompanied Hector to the palace (although the did not enter) for his. Aeneas took a seat next to his brother, and Hector sat on his other side. The chattering stopped when he did. The boys were all gawking at Hector in a mixture of hate, awe and envy. They were jealous of him—jealous of Aeneas and Perseus for being friends with him—but they were too scared to voice their opinions.

Aeneas glanced down at his lyre. It had been crafted by Hephaestus himself, made from materials he did not know. The strings were beautifully made and when he played, the sound which came out was heavenly, as Hector had once told him. Perseus fiddled with his golden lyre, waiting patiently for their instructor, Chromius, to arrive. His lyre had been a gift from Apollo's mother Leto. He had received it after going for his yearly visit to the Island of Delos. Hector's instrument was just as beautiful, although this was the second lyre he had used since their lessons began. The first was destroyed, its strings snapped.

He heard the instructor before he saw him. Chromius walked into the fields and Aeneas straightened, waiting for him to start. The boys, who had started chattering again, stopped.

"Welcome again, boys," Chromius said in greeting. "It's nice to see you decided to return after our first lesson."

From beside Aeneas, Perseus muttered, "Like we had a choice. Gods forbid we decide we have better things to do in life."

"I heard that, Perseus," Chromius arched an eyebrow. Perseus flushed, muttering a small sorry.

"Okay, so who can help us remember exactly what we did two days ago?" Aeneas wanted to raise his hand. But he also didn't want to be the butt of Achates' jokes. "Anyone want to play?" Chromius rephrased his sentence. When everyone remained silent, he sighed. "How about you, Hector?"

Aeneas had to force himself not to laugh. Everyone knew Hector's hands were calloused and burly from using weapons from such a young age. They were somewhat like Perseus', although his brother's were less rough and burly. Each time Hector tried to play, the strings of his instrument snapped. Aeneas had lost count of how many times they had been replaced.

"Uh, sure," Hector said, turning red. Perseus elbowed Aeneas, shooting him a look to stop him from laughing. Hector placed a hand on his strings and Aeneas could see him gulp. He played a tune—which was so bad Aeneas cringed—and Chromius held up a hand for him to stop. The instructor sighed, turning, and Aeneas turned to Hector, silently showing him how to play the tune they had studied two days before.

Hector silently mouthed his thanks and Aeneas bobbed his head in response. Chromius turned back to them and said, "Aeneas, why don't you show them how it's done."

"Alright." He leaned forward, his hands moving across the strings as he played a tune. His brow furrowed in concentration as he stuck his tongue out and played, pouring his heart into the song. After a while, he stopped. There was a loud silence when he was done and Aeneas blinked as he looked up. Hector was staring at his fingers in awe, while Perseus looked proud. The other boys had expressions similar to Prince Hector's.

Aeneas smiled silently to himself and enjoyed the rest of the lesson.

-X-

PERSEUS rolled his eyes at Opheltius' words. Their music lessons had ended hours ago and he had silently thanked all the gods he knew. He had seen Aeneas enjoying himself, but he hadn't. He disliked music so much Apollo had had to blackmail him to actually use the lyre Leto had gifted him.

"If you have a problem with my lessons, Perseus, you should say something," The instructor spoke, voice hard. Perseus heard a couple of snickers from behind him. Apollo's lessons were far better than this trash. But training was training. And he wanted to be prepared for whatever Apollo and the gods had planned for him.

He remained silent as Opheltius breezed on, "The spear is to be an extension of your body. You are to move in tandem with it, it must be part of you." Perseus badly wanted to say Can we get on with it?

"Prince Hector here has been training since he was old enough to wield a knife." Opheltius motioned to his friend. Perseus could feel the prince roll his eyes. "Could you show these boys how it's done?"

"With pleasure," Hector stepped forward. "Who am I to fight?"

"Perseus," Opheltius grinned widely. Perseus snorted silently. He really hated the old soldier. And it looked as if the feeling was mutual. Hector's eyes widened as Perseus stepped forward, shrugging. He'd been training with a god for four summers. He was sure he could give Hector a fairly good battle, friend or not.

And Hector knew it. Aeneas had divulged most of their secrets to Hector when the son of Priam had found them training in the forest with Apollo. Hector knew about their godly descents, their closeness with the patron god and everything else. But he hadn't treated them differently for it, and Perseus appreciated it.

"Well, Hector, let's see how good you are," Perseus smirked slightly. "You ready?"

"Of course," Hector smiled back. "Always am."

Both of them moved to Opheltius and took a spear each. The steel weapon was longer than Aeneas, which was saying something and Perseus snickered silently at the thought. Hector walked towards a huge table, where the weapons were laid out, with Perseus on his heels. Perseus scanned the table, looking for a shield to go with his spear. He spotted a huge round bronze one at the end of the table and made his way to it. Grabbing the piece of weaponry which had a sun plastered on it, he slung it over his arm.

Perseus was aware of the other boys staring at them. Most of them knew how well he fought without weapons. But Hector had been training for a long time and he was sure they would be exchanging coins and placing bets on who would win.

He and Hector moved towards the centre of the circle the boys had formed. Opheltius was standing next to the weapons-table, his eyes narrowed and his gaze on Perseus. The Prince of Troy moved to Perseus' other side and dipped his head.

"May the best man win."

"He will," Perseus smirked, slipping into a defensive position.

"Begin," The instructor's voice rang through the fields.

XMX

HECTOR attacked first. That probably wasn't the brightest move but he had been thought not to let his enemies get close enough to get under his guard. His spear shot out from his side, heading straight for Perseus' chest as he raced for his friend. Perseus sidestepped his thrust, spinning slightly and swinging his spear fluidly. Hector would have been dead had it not been for his fast reflexes. He ducked under Perseus' spear and kicked out with his leg, hoping to catch his friend off balance.

Perseus danced out of his way and Hector cursed under his breath. He was at a serious disadvantage. Perseus was far more skilled because he trained with an Olympian. Hector shot up, thrusting again at the dark-haired boy.

Their spears met in a flurry of sparks. He lost track of the time as they spun and fought, trying to get under each other's guards. Hector was too focused to even marvel. No one had been able to keep him locked in combat for as long as Perseus had done. He hissed slightly as the business end of his friend's spear nicked through his armour and sliced flesh. He blocked the next strike with his shield, then feinted a thrust to the left.

Perseus laughed at the ploy, and moved backwards, out of range. He was enjoying himself. Hector could see it. Both of them were panting and sweaty, but Perseus' eyes were lit with a fire that Hector never saw unless they were duelling. He attacked again with a roar and got lost in his thoughts as he tried to best his friend.

After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Opheltius' voice cut through their fight. "That's enough, boys."

Hector paused in his onslaught on Perseus, who had gone on the defensive, and stepped away. Perseus did the same, dropping both the shield and spear. Hector hadn't even heard the murmuring from the other boys when it had begun, being too focused on his fight. Perseus was still smiling as Opheltius said, "Well, that was…interesting."

"Yes, I'm sure you're very surprised," Perseus said, shooting their instructor an innocent look. Hector smiled slightly as he moved to his friend. "That was good. I really enjoyed it."

"Likewise," Perseus grabbed his hand and pulled him in a hug.

"Alright, Perseus, Hector," Opheltius spoke. "Join the others. When you're done, everyone choose a partner."

-X-

PERSEUS smiled slightly as he and Aeneas trained. He enjoyed battle so much it was bad. But he didn't see it that way. He remembered Apollo's words. He was destined for something great. He would do anything to protect his people.

To protect the City of Troy.

Chapter Text

Four years later…

HECTOR ran a hand through his dark hair, groaning in impatience. The Prince of Troy leaned on the wall, shutting his eyes and waiting. His sisters had been pestering him for ages. They had asked to go out of the palace—to accompany him into the forest. He had refused, but then his mother, Queen Hecuba, had stepped in and ordered him to take them along, for some reason he still didn’t know yet. He let his head fall into his hands. If he had known they would take this long to get ready he would’ve risked disobeying his mother’s orders.

The door to Cassandra’s chambers creaked open and he let out a loud sigh of relief. His friends had probably been waiting long. All because his sisters were intent on seeing the trees and flowers. He scowled as Cassandra breezed out of her room, her long golden hair billowing around her. She was in a white gossamer dress, which fell to her feet and onto her brown sandals. Her head was crowned with a golden circlet. Hector’s dark eyes met his sister’s and he said, “Where’s Creusa?”

“Here I am.” He turned at the soft voice of his other sister, who was two years younger than he was. He folded his arms and said, “What, were both of you having beauty pageants in your chambers or something?” He was unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Oh, don’t be so grouchy, brother,” Cassandra’s hard voice made him roll his eyes. “We are ready, we can go now.”

He grunted in response, eyes shifting to take in the sight of Creusa as she appeared next to Cassandra. She was dressed more simply—a white peplos underneath a brown cloak similar to the one Hector was wearing. He handed Cassandra the cloak he had been holding and waited for her to don it. When his sister was done, he led them towards the palace gates.

“We’re not going to be out long, mind you,” Hector said decisively. “I’m going to the lake to meet Aeneas and Perseus and you aren’t to complain because we’ll be walking the entire way. I didn’t fetch horses.”

“I don’t mind,” Cassandra said, shrugging. “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

Both Hector and Creusa snorted at her words, seeing whom they were coming from. The ends of his lips pulled up in a smile as they walked out. “They can’t,” Hector finally said. “Now follow me. I know a shortcut.”

-X-

AENEAS glanced up from the scroll he was reading when he heard the footsteps. A smile was already forming on his lips as he spoke. “Took you long enough, Hec—“ His smile fell when his best friend walked into the clearing, two extremely beautiful girls at his heels. He blinked in surprise as he recognised them. Princesses Cassandra and Creusa, Hector’s younger sisters. Cassandra was younger by a year and Creusa by two. Which meant Creusa was his age. Sixteen. Aeneas’ eyes fluttered over them as he took in the sight of the two oldest daughters of Priam. Cassandra glanced at him, her eyes a little condescending, then looked around the clearing, as if searching for someone. Aeneas looked towards Creusa and their eyes met. His breath hitched.

She was beautiful.

Aeneas couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had light brown hair which fell below her shoulders. Her dark eyes were much like Hector’s and Aeneas couldn’t look away. She was in a brown cloak, which covered the white peplos she was wearing and nothing about her clothes indicated she was of royal descent. But he could tell it was so, just by the way her chin was held up high, her doe eyes full of confidence as she gave him a once-over.

“If you two are done making bedroom eyes at each other, I would like to make some introductions here,” Hector drawled, a smirk forming on his lips.

Aeneas blushed, then hurled his quill at the heir to the Trojan throne. “Shut up, you arse.”

“Where’s Perseus?” Hector inquired.

“Here,” The voice of his brother made Aeneas turn. He had been so engrossed in the scroll Apollo had given him that he hadn’t even realised Perseus had disappeared from his side. His brother was bare-chested, rising out of the lake and Aeneas snickered silently when both Cassandra and Creusa blushed. Perseus looked seemingly dry and Aeneas’ eyes widened in warning. His brother’s eyes flickered over to him and Aeneas motioned towards the girls with his head. Perseus’ eyes widened and he dove back into the water.

His brother had always refused to use his abilities over water. But sometimes, he lost focus, like what had just happened. Aeneas was sure the princesses would have asked why he had come out of a lake perfectly dry.

He glanced back at them. Cassandra’s mouth was hanging open and he heard a splash. Aeneas guessed that Perseus was coming out, wet this time, and the princess was admiring his well-built brother.

Aeneas turned again as Perseus pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “I was just taking a dip in the…lake.“

He cocked his head as he took in the sight of the two girls. Perseus glanced down at his shirtless form. Aeneas silently thanked Apollo that his brother had swam with his strides. “What the Hades?” He heard Perseus silently curse.

“Maybe you should get your tunic on, then I’ll explain why I had to come over with these two,” Hector said, jerking a hand in his sister’s direction, “who, by the way, are going to keep on wishing those strides are off too if you keep on giving them such a nice view.”

Aeneas snickered.

“Shut up, Hector,” Perseus said, blushing slightly. “Aeneas, toss me my tunic.”

Aeneas glanced around him, located the grey piece of clothing, and tossed it to his brother, who put it on like all the demons of Tartarus were after him.

Although it became wet soon after, clinging to his skin and giving the girls more to watch.

“That’s definitely not better,” Hector plopped onto the ground, motioning to his sisters to sit next to him. Aeneas’ eyes followed Creusa as she took a seat. Perseus walked towards them from the bank of the lake, moving to lie on the grass next to Aeneas.

“Alright, what’s going on?” The sea-green eyed boy asked.

“They wanted to see the trees and flowers,” The prince droned monotonously, rolling his eyes.

“No, we wanted to get out of the palace,” Creusa corrected. Aeneas blinked at her soft voice. He saw her glance at him, then turn away slightly, a smile playing on her lips.

“Yes, you get out of the palace every day and we’re stuck wearing dresses and looking pretty,” Cassandra said, brushing her golden hair out of her eyes.

“But you’re girls,” Perseus said, snorting. “Shouldn’t you enjoy wearing dresses and looking pretty? Besides, it doesn’t look like you have to put much effort into it.” Cassandra blushed at the obvious compliment which might have been Perseus’ very lame attempt at flirting, in Aeneas’ opinion.

“Well, yes, but being cooped up in the palace is suffocating,” Creusa replied, lifting her shoulders in a shrug as if that was answer enough. Cassandra nodded her agreement, glancing at Perseus once again. They continued talking animatedly for a while, with Hector making jokes at Perseus’ expense and Creusa eyeing Aeneas from her spot next to her brother and sister. Finally, Perseus let out a small huff of air, standing. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Who wants berries?”

“I do,” Cassandra’s eyes lit up. “Are you going to pick berries? I’ve always wanted to do that.” The unspoken question hung in the air.

“Sure,” Perseus shrugged, offering Cassandra his hand. Her pale and slender fingers slid into his palm and he hauled her up. “Just stick by my side. This forest is dangerous.”

“Have fun, you two,” Hector said, smiling mischievously. “And don’t do anything mother wouldn’t approve of, Cassandra.” His sister made a rude un-princess-like gesture to him at the same time Perseus said, “Screw you.” Hector burst out laughing and Aeneas couldn’t help but join him. Creusa chuckled silently at his side. It was enjoyable seeing his normally detached brother ruffled by Hector’s words. Cassandra and Perseus’ fading footsteps made him turn back to his scroll.

“What’s that?” Creusa questioned, leaning closer to see the piece of parchment. He shrugged, trying to keep the blush off his face as he got a whiff of roses and honeysuckle. He had never been this close to a girl before and his senses were going into overdrive.

“Nothing much,” He managed. “Just a story about the heroes of old.”

“Oh, can I see?’ She asked. He turned slightly so she could see Apollo’s scroll. It had in it fighting techniques, stories of gods and monsters and the weapons of the heroes. Aeneas had been reading about a man named Orpheus. A really sad, depressed man.

“It’s really detailed,” Creusa noted, eyes soaking in the words written in the Trojan language. “Where did you get it?”

“A friend of my father's,” He said, trying not to give any sign that he was lying. Creusa [A/N: For God’s sake, autocorrect. Stop…autocorrecting Creusa to creases!] nodded slightly and sat up straight. “Tell me Aeneas, what’s it like, in the city?” He blinked at the sudden question, then nodded in understanding. She had probably never been into the city-proper before.

“Well—“

“I am feeling extremely left out of this conversation,” Hector said, his voice light and teasing.

“That’s because you weren’t invited to join us,” Aeneas pointed out, rolling his eyes and at the same time, Creusa scoffed at her brother and said, “Sod off, Hector.” Aeneas grinned at the princess and her choice of words, and said, “Well, I could tell you about the city but what’s the fun in that?”

He stood, offering her a hand. He tried to keep calm and silently prayed to his absentee mother to aid him. “Let me show you.” Creusa smiled, clearly liking his sudden boldness. She took his hand and he hauled her up.

“I think I would like that. Very much.”

“Can I come?” Hector asked, innocently. “I can be a very good chaperone, you know.”

“Go bother Perseus and Cassandra instead,” Aeneas suggested, glaring at Hector. He turned to Creusa. “Come on.” He tried not to feel giddy as they walked away, her hand still in his.

-X-

PERSEUS laughed at what Cassandra had said. He had thought she would be snotty and rude like most princesses were said to be, but she wasn’t, and it was nice talking to her. Most of the conversation was about Hector and his toe-rag ways. They spoke about inconsequential things, laughing as they talked and walked. Her eyes lit up when they spoke of the city and the temples and he felt sad for her—sad, that she had only ever seen Troy from her chamber’s balcony.

They had forgotten about the berries, finding their conversation a lot more interesting. Perseus and Cassandra had spoken, without the titles, without the status and he found that she was really easy to talk to, which he was glad about. He listened as she talked and he found himself being drawn into her dark doe eyes.

“Watch out, you’ll—“ He slammed into a tree and Cassandra laughed. “Hit that tree.”

“Ow,” Perseus rubbed his head in pain, biting his bottom lip. Cassandra giggled, walking to him. She came to a stop in front of him, and he caught a whiff of lavender. He stood a head taller than her and Perseus’ throat bobbed as he realised how close she was. Cassandra raised a hand to his forehead. “Does it hurt?” She asked, voice low. Her hand went to his now dry hair.

Perseus bit his lip again, and replied, “Not anymore.”

Cassandra’s eyes flickered to his. He didn’t know what was happening. Just that he wanted it to happen. His hands wrapped around her waist and Perseus silently cursed at Aeneas’ mother. Cassandra’s hand went to his neck. He leaned in closer. His heart was thumping. He was nervous.

He’d only just met her and now he was about to kiss her? Aphrodite’s work, surely.

But he didn’t care. Perseus leaned forward, and connected their lips.

-X-

HECTOR got the shock of his life when he walked into a dense section of the forest. “What the Hades?” His eyes were wide, mouth hanging open as Perseus and Cassandra jumped away from each other. He tried to regain his composure, tried to let the surprise slip away.

“What did I say about this?” He folded his arms, eyes narrowing.

“Not to do it,” Cassandra mumbled, looking everywhere but his face. Perseus' hair was unruly and sticking out in odd places.

“I’m so disappointed in you,” Hector tried to keep from smiling. “Both of you.” He could see Perseus roll his eyes as he tried to tame his hair.

“Come on, Cassandra,” Hector motioned to her. “We have to get back home.”

“You’re such a killjoy, you know that?” His sister hissed. Finally, Hector couldn’t keep it in. He laughed. “Come on, sister. We really do have to go. We’re going to have to find Aeneas and Creusa first though. They ambled off into the city proper.”

“I’ll come with,” Perseus said. “Aeneas and I also have to get home.”

Hector shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go.”

[A/N: Now we know Hector was one of the first cock-blocks in history, lol]

Two weeks later…

HECTOR ducked underneath Perseus’ swing and kicked at him, trying to knock him down. The green-eyed boy leaped over his foot and brought his sword down in an arc. Hector blocked the strike with his round shield and pushed, sending Perseus sprawling. The prince knew he couldn’t best Perseus. He was just too good.

Aeneas, who was watching and fiddling with his lyre, said, “Why are we doing this again?”

“I don’t see you in that ‘we’,” Perseus called as he launched himself at Hector again. “All you’ve done is sit on your arse.”

“I find it quite comfortable here,” Aeneas shot back. Hector met Perseus’ attacks with his own. The son of Anchises had forced him into defending and his onslaughts were so precise and quick that Hector had a hard time keeping up.

“Why didn’t Cassandra and Creusa come with you today?” Hector heard Aeneas ask. He dodged a slash and leaped forward, managing to cut Perseus’ tunic with a twist of his sword. His sisters had been accompanying him to the lake ever since that day his mother had basically forced him to take them along.

“Mother wanted to have a word,” Hector replied, going on the offence this time. “Why, do you miss them? Creusa is quite taken with you, you know. And Cassandra seems to fancy Perseus, for some reason I can’t understand.”

When Aeneas remained silent, Hector turned to glance at him, hoping to catch a blush. That was his mistake. In a minute, Perseus was upon him, his sword arm moving so quickly that Hector couldn’t see him. He disarmed the prince of Troy and knocked him off his feet in one fluid motion. Perseus placed his sword at Hector’s neck and smiled widely at his triumph. “Do you yield?”

“Do you even need to ask?” Hector groaned. Bested again.

He heard clapping and laughing a few seconds later. The Prince sat up as Perseus sheathed his sword and caught sight of his two sisters, making their way towards them. They were flanked by at last a dozen guards and Hector forced himself to stand. “You can go now,” He said, motioning to the guards, who turned without question. Cassandra and Creusa came to a stop before them.

“Hello,” Creusa smiled. Hector felt Aeneas come up next to him. Well, it was time to start third-wheeling again, wasn’t it?

“Welcome,” Perseus’ voice was cheery. Hector spotted a blush on Cassandra’s cheeks as the five of them made their way towards the edge of the lake. Perseus sat and Cassandra sat at his side. Hector sat between Creusa and Aeneas, just to see how his friend would react.

Aeneas didn’t look too pleased.

“So, what’s up with you two?” Perseus asked, dipping his bare feet into the water. “What did your mother need to talk about that was so important?”

“She said…” Creusa started, then blushed, quickly glancing at Aeneas, then turning again. “She said she and Father will be selecting husbands for us soon.”

Perseus and Aeneas blinked. Hector was equally shocked. “What?” The prince choked. “Marriage? But—“

“We came of age a few years ago, Hector,” Cassandra said quietly, tilting her head to the side. “It was to be expected. I just didn’t…it wasn’t supposed to be this soon.” Hector’s expression softened and he squeezed his sister’s hand.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Perseus said finally, as always, being the first to recover from hearing shocking news.. “For now, you’re not married. You don’t know who your husbands will be yet. We’re going to show you every inch of Troy before marriage happens.” Hector nodded his agreement. Creusa looked at Perseus gratefully.

“Well, how’s your training been going?” Creusa asked the three boys. “I heard from Father that he might be holding a tournament to inaugurate you lot into the army.”

“Well that would be nice,” Perseus said. Hector nodded his agreement. And just like that, the conversation shifted.

-X-

PERSEUS and Cassandra held hands as they walked through the woods. Ever since that day in the trees—that day he’d kissed her—he couldn’t get her out of his head. They had never actually been alone since; Hector had made sure of that. But now they’d managed to slip away from his brother, the prince and his sister. He didn’t like the new talk of marriage but he tried his best to keep it out of his head.

Perseus took a deep breath. The air was humid and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was going to happen. He didn’t know what, though. And that worried him. He and Cass had been talking for next to thirty minutes now and then had slipped into silence, each deciding to enjoy the other’s company instead of speaking.

Suddenly the Princess stiffened, stopping short. Perseus glanced at her, arching an eyebrow questioningly. Cassandra’s eyes had glazed over.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. She didn’t move.

“Do you hear that?” Cassandra inquired, head tilting to the side.

His brow furrowed. ‘Hear what?” The forest was almost silent. All he heard was her soft breath, along with the sound of the lake.

“The music,” she replied. “Can’t you hear the music?”

“What?” He bit his lip in confusion. Had she gone mad?

Cassandra didn’t answer. Before he could blink she was running—running away from him. Running through the trees, faster than he’d expected of her, entering a part of the forest he had never dared to go into.

“Cassandra! Wait!” He charged after the Princess of Troy, trying to catch up with her. But somehow, she was faster. She kept ahead of him and he lost her after a few minutes.

And then he heard the scream.

Horror. Pain. Anger. He could detect those three emotions from the loud shriek which reverberated across the forest. And he knew exactly whom it belonged to. His eyes widened as he followed the sound, heart pounding, forcing his feet to go faster. What was happening? Had she been attacked?

He burst into a clearing, eyes roaming, trying to locate the daughter of Priam. His eyes widened further when he spotted her, curled in on herself, in the centre of the clearing, shivering and shaking. She was rocking, eyes wide and crazed. Her clothes were torn and her hair was mussed up. Her brown cloak was in a heap beside her. Tears were running down her face and she was muttering incoherently.

“Cassandra!” He panted, moving towards her. Perseus bent slightly, falling onto his knees next to the princess. His hands reached out and he took hers in his. The girl flinched at his touch. “Cass,” He repeated, calling her by the name she’d asked him to. “What in Apollo’s name happened?” The princess stiffened at the name of his mentor and tried to pull away. Perseus got a sick feeling in his gut. Why had she reacted that way to Apollo’s name? “Who did this to you? Was Apollo here?”

She didn’t stop shivering. But she nodded. She bent slightly, looking away from him. He had to strain to hear her next words. “A-Apollo was here,” She managed. “He gave me a curse for refusing him.” And then she cackled. “He cursed me!” Her eyes began to twitch. Then she said in a loud, scratchy voice, while laughing manically, “Woe! Woe to Troy! The blood shall flow like an endless river and the city shall crumble when the one from the mountain comes forth!” Then she laughed again. Perseus turned rigid. What the hades had Apollo done? Perseus licked his lips as she went back to mumbling. He tried to digest her words again. He tried to make sense of it. But the Apollo he knew would never do anything like that. Perseus refused to believe his mentor would curse a seventeen-year-old girl out of the blue like that.

He pursed his lips, clutching Cassandra’s hand tighter. She had been cursed, definitely. She had seen something. Apollo had taught him how to recognise the signs of curses. And they were all flashing before his eyes. “It’s going to be alright, Cass. I’m here. Nothing’s going to happen to—“

“What the Hades did you do to my sister?” Hector’s snarl made Perseus start. He turned just as a fist slammed into his jaw and sent him sprawling. Pain swept across his face and he groaned slightly, eyes fluttering shut. A gasp came from a voice he recognised as Creusa’s and then he heard the pattering of feet. Perseus knew she was running to her sister, who was screaming her earlier words about woe to Troy again.

His eyes flew open and he spotted Hector, stalking towards him, face filled with rage. Aeneas was white and kneeling next to Creusa, who was trying hard to calm her sister. Perseus spat out blood, glaring at the Prince of Troy as he came. “I did nothing and you know it.” He paused for breath, then said, in a quieter voice. “She told me Apollo cursed her.”

“What?” Hector stopped, expression changing to one of horror. “What do you mean Apollo cursed her?”

“She just took off and I tried to get to her but she was too fast. I lost her and then I heard a scream and I found her like this.” He knew Hector was trying to tell if it was the truth. But Hector also knew that Perseus would never lie. Not in a situation like this.

“Why would—“ The prince choked. “Why would Apollo do that?” The rage still wasn’t off his face. Creusa flinched at his voice and Perseus spotted Aeneas’ hand on her shoulder. Perseus took a step forward. Hector moved in his way. “What if you’re trying to mislead me?”

Perseus was hurt. Hurt that his friend would even entertain such a notion. “Would I lie to you?” Perseus gritted his teeth when Hector didn’t move. “You can ask her yourself.” Hector narrowed his eyes, taking a step forward.

“Stop it!” Creusa shouted. She was crying. “Stop it, both of you! Perseus is telling the truth! He’s cursed her. Just like he said he would!”

“What?” Hector spun on her.

“He-he propositioned her….” Creusa said, blinking back tears. “Last night. She told me about it at dawn.” Hector ran a hand through his hair in distress. “And she-she refused him.” Perseus’ eyes widened. What the hell had Apollo been thinking? He glanced at Cassandra. This must have been Apollo’s revenge. Creusa began sobbing and Aeneas pulled her into an embrace.

“You need to get her to the palace,” Perseus spoke, moving forward. “I’ll deal with Apollo…I’ll make him pay.”

The Prince didn’t respond. He moved towards his sisters and Aeneas, bending slightly and placing his hands on Cassandra’s shoulders. He slowly lifted her up, murmuring slightly. “Come on,” He said finally. “Let’s get you home.”

Aeneas and Creusa rose too, his brother supporting the other princess. Perseus watched as the four began making their way out of the clearing. Aeneas shot him a look over his shoulder as if asking if it was okay to go with them. Perseus nodded to him, his eyes hard.

Apollo had done this. And Apollo was going to pay.

-X-

AENEAS pursed his lips as he watched Creusa and Hector lead their sister into the palace. He’d been friends with Hector for a long time but he’d never stepped foot into the home of the royals. He shook his head, trying to keep his thoughts of Hector attacking Perseus out of his head. Sure, they occasionally bickered and fought but it never got as extreme as this. Aeneas could read Hector like a book though. He knew the prince just wanted someone to blame. He couldn’t take it up with Apollo—He’d be incinerated. But Perseus was mortal like Hector was. And he had been there when it happened. Or something like that.

He couldn’t understand why Apollo would do such a thing. Their mentor—the god they thought wasn’t like the others—had cursed a princess just for refusing his offer to go to bed with him. Aeneas couldn’t wrap his head around it. He sighed, making to turn and trek back to the forest to find his brother.

“I want to speak to you, Aeneas,” The voice made him stop in his tracks and he spun again as King Priam walked out of the Palace gates.

He dropped into a bow, making sure to keep his head down. “My King.”

“Rise.” Priam motioned to him with his hand. Aeneas stood uncertainly, soaking in the appearance of the man he only saw on city gatherings. Black hair, slowly turning grey. Wrinkles spread across his face. His robes were regal like Hector’s often were and his dark sandals were immaculate. “Follow me,” He ordered.

Aeneas didn’t dare question him. He licked his lips, waiting for the King to start speaking as they walked into the palace. When he finally did, Aeneas flinched. “Hector just told me what happened in the forest.”

Aeneas didn’t miss a beat. He replied quickly, heart hammering in his chest. “Perseus isn’t at fault. He didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t.”

Priam let out a small sigh. “I know. Good Anchises raised you both. I know neither you nor Perseus would attack a woman.” Aeneas visibly relaxed. But then he stiffened at Priam’s next words.

“I wish for you to marry my daughter Creusa.” The casual way he uttered that statement made Aeneas blink. “What?”

“I want you to get married to my daughter,” King Priam said again. Aeneas’ eyes had widened. He had to try not to look too surprised as a barrage of thoughts and emotions slammed into his head. He had known this day would be coming. He had known his father had already been thinking about getting Perseus and himself married. He just hadn’t thought it would be into the royal family. They had seen sixteen summers now. Like Cassandra had said before, they had all come of age ages ago. Aeneas was at a loss for words. He liked Creusa—a lot, actually. Talking to her felt natural. He didn’t have to pretend around her. But marriage? They’d known each other for just two weeks.

When it was certain he was too stunned to respond, King Priam continued, “It’s kind of funny actually. I approached your father first. Both you and Perseus are good lads. I heard from Opheltius that you’re even better warriors than Hector.” Aeneas was still in shock. He hadn’t been aware that their instructor complimented them, even behind their backs. “Perseus was to marry Cassandra. She wished it to be so,” Priam said. “But after what has happened today…” The distress in Priam’s voice made Aeneas frown. He was right. If she had indeed been cursed by Apollo, then no one would want to marry her. Anchises wouldn’t allow Perseus to marry her, even if he wanted to. Cassandra would probably never have a husband.

“You are a great warrior, Aeneas. You are wise. You are of age. I know you would be able to look after my daughter.”

Aeneas finally got the courage to speak, still unable to believe what was happening. Everything was going too fast. But, if the king wanted him to marry his daughter, who was he to argue? If his father had also agreed, then the wedding would take place, whether he liked it or not.

Creusa was nice, smart and beautiful. And Aeneas had a sneaking suspicion she had known he was to wed her. He also guessed that King Priam had been the one to ask Hecuba to tell them to accompany Hector to meet them daily. He felt a rush of excitement.

Aeneas finally replied, “It would be an honour to wed your daughter.” He dipped his head in a bow.

Soon after, he took his leave.

-X-

PERSEUS swung wildly, and if Apollo had been mortal, the slash would have cut his arm clean off his body. But he was a god and he managed to avoid the strike. The boy launched into a flurry of hacks and stabs, trying so hard to physically harm the god of the sun. Trying to hurt him like he had hurt Cassandra.

Perseus could see Apollo didn’t want to fight him. The god didn’t want to attack him. And that made him angrier. He fought tooth and nail, trying to land a hit. Trying to avenge the Princess of Troy. But Apollo just dodged and spun away from the reach of his blade.

“How could you?” Perseus yelled, swinging with so much force that the flat of his blade slammed into Apollo’s arm. “You knew I liked her!” The god had the dignity to look guilty. But he didn’t fight back. Perseus leaped forward, bringing his sword down in an arc over his head. Apollo blocked the strike and pushed him back.

“Why did you do it?” Perseus asked, panting. When Apollo didn’t answer, he roared. “Why did you curse her?!”

He was disgusted. He was revolted, hurt and angry. Disgusted that the patron of the city had asked a girl just a year older than Perseus—and whom he fancied—to go to bed with him. Hurt that the god he looked up to had done such a thing to him. Angry that his mentor had cursed Cassandra for refusing him.

“She insulted me,” Apollo’s voice was cold. It was the first time he’d heard him use that tone. And it felt like he was talking to a stranger.

“She insulted your pride!’ He shot back.

“I gave her a gift,” Apollo hissed. “I allowed her to see the future.”

“Just so you could woo her,” Perseus spat out. ‘Which you shouldn’t even have done in the first place.” Apollo’s eyes burned gold. He was glowing in anger. But Perseus knew he’d never strike him down. Not if he wanted to avoid Leto and Artemis’ wrath.

“She made me a promise and she broke it. The girl you like so much is a thankless wench,” Apollo snarled. “She used me. I am a god, Perseus. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Well keep your reputation, then,” Perseus hissed. “Because I know who you really are now. And I never want to see you again.”

Two months later…

HECTOR frowned, folding his arms and tilting his head to the side. It had been two months since Cassandra’s curse. He had heard about Creusa being promised to Aeneas a while after they had led Cassandra to the Priest of Apollo, to confirm the curse. He felt bad for lashing out at Perseus when it had happened. He’d just needed someone to blame—and he regretted blaming his brother-in-arms. But he hadn’t had the chance to apologise—not when Perseus didn’t even want to see his face.

It had been two months. Aeneas and his sister were to be married in seven days. He felt glad; he was happy that one of his best friends was going to be part of his family. He supposed Aeneas would be moving into the palace after the wedding. Hector’s father would expect no less. He licked his lips. He had also heard from Creusa that Cassandra would have married Perseus. But then Apollo had interfered. Hector wasn’t sure he could offer any prayers to their patron god anymore.

It had been two months since Hector had last seen Perseus. Aeneas had told him Apollo hadn’t shown his face since that day. They both trained on their own, without the guidance of the god of the sun. Aeneas had said it would be better if he continued staying away —wait for Perseus to cool down. Hector sighed, glancing towards the sea.

He didn’t know how he had ended up there, but somehow he’d ambled across the city and to the docks. He also knew what was coming. Or more specifically, who.

His parents were really in the matchmaking mood that year. He’d just seen eighteen summers and now it was time to get married. Apparently, it was wedding season. He supposed he should be grateful. They’d allowed him to stay unwed for a long time, while he should have gotten married years before. Three weddings had been planned. One was cancelled. The other two were to happen on the same day.

Hector wouldn’t even get to know his future wife before they were married.

Her name was Andromache. It was a beautiful name, really, and although he had known the day was coming, he had been extremely shocked when his father had informed him. Gifts had been sent. The General himself, with Priam’s head advisor had gone to offer them and ask for the girl’s hand in marriage on Hector’s behalf. The marriage would be one of convenience. It would seal an alliance with Andromache’s kingdom, King Priam had said. They were just the final pieces in a deal made by two kings. It would be good for Troy. Andromache’s father, King Eetion ruled a vast and powerful land, known as Cicilian Thebes. Having them as allies was beneficial.

When Priam had mentioned Troy, Hector hadn’t argued. He wanted his city to prosper. He wanted to give it his best—to be the best king the city had ever seen. Getting married to a girl he’d never really met before wasn’t a problem. But he hoped she wouldn't be stuck up and rude. And he did hope they would get along.

“What’s with the face?” He hadn’t even heard Aeneas come up from behind him, too lost in his thoughts to do so.

“Thinking about the wedding,” He simply replied.

Aeneas snorted. “Mine or yours?”

Hector mock-glared at him. At least Aeneas had gotten the chance to know Creusa better. Since he’d heard he’d be married to the second oldest daughter of Priam, they had both been meeting each other, getting to know each other well. By the end of the first month, they were closer than before. By the end of the second, Hector had even caught Aeneas snogging his sister.

He still cringed whenever the memory came up.

He wished his wedding wasn’t in seven days. He wished he could get more time to know his future wife before the wedding took place.

“Look, there’s no need to worry so much,” Aeneas said, voice soft. He didn’t turn to face Hector and they both stared out at the sea.

“Easy for you to say,” Hector snorted. “Creusa’s head over heels in love.”

Aeneas blushed slightly, punching Hector in the arm. He laughed at his friend. Aeneas continued, “There’s no need to worry about the type of person Andromache will be. You’ll only know when they get here. And besides, she can’t be that bad.” He cracked a smile. Aeneas was always the best person to go to for advice. He always knew exactly what to say. He was right. Hector didn’t need to worry. At least, not now. He would find out soon enough. “Of course, she could be fifty. And with wrinkles. Or maybe too short for you. Then you’d have to bend when she wants to—“

Hector smacked his friend in the head, rolling his eyes. Aeneas laughed. The prince cracked a smile.

“I think you’re going to get your wish, though,” Aeneas’ voice held an emotion Hector couldn’t place.

“Why?” He finally looked at his curly haired friend.

“Because the ships are here,” He stated, pointing out to the sea, where five massive vessels were almost at the docks. “Andromache is coming.”

-X-

PERSEUS didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know what to think. His childhood had just been swept away from him and he wondered where he had gone wrong. He would still be living with Anchises, while Aeneas got married to Princess Creusa. Everything was happening too quickly for his liking.

Aeneas had felt guilty about being happy while Perseus was on the outs with Hector and Apollo. So much so, that Perseus basically had to force him to go out and see Creusa at the palace each day. Hector was also getting married on the same day as Aeneas. His brother and friend-he-was-still-mad-at were both moving into another phase of their lives. And he had been left behind. He was always left behind.

His birth father had left him with his mater.

And then his mater had left him alone in this world.

Leto had left him years ago, saying he needed a real family.

Apollo had betrayed his trust and hadn’t shown for two months. Not even to apologise.

Now two of the most important people in his life were moving on with theirs. Without him.

But he was happy for them. He sighed, sheathing the sword at his side. He’d taken to training in the fields behind their small residence and then hunting wild beasts in the forests. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair. Perseus’ ears suddenly picked up the sound of footsteps. He stiffened, hands going to his side and turned, drawing his weapon as he did so.

“Pater.” He nodded to Anchises, sheathing his sword again. The man smiled slightly, hobbling over to him.

“Perseus,” His father said his name, coming to a stop next to him. “What’s bothering you? You look like your favourite child just died.” Perseus glanced at his feet. He’d told Anchises all Apollo had done. He’d told him everything he felt. And in those two months he had spent without seeing Hector or Apollo or properly speaking to Aeneas, Anchises had been his rock. But he’d refused to have him marry someone who was cursed by the gods. Partly because Apollo had ordered that Cassandra become a priestess in his temple. Which made Perseus hate the sun god even more.

“It’s just…” He sighed, trailing off. “I just…I have a lot of things on my mind.”

“You need not fret about Cassandra becoming a priestess. Surely, there are other girls in Troy suitable to be your wife.” His father paused, then said, “It doesn’t matter that Hector and your brother are getting married now, you know. It doesn’t have to worry you too much.” Perseus looked up, pawing his feet on the ground. As always, Anchises could see right through him. He’d noticed that the problem with Cassandra and Apollo was the least of his worries. He could see that Perseus was worried about drifting away from his brother and friend. His father had been there to support him when Apollo’s betrayal had hit hard. And then Hector and Aeneas had been betrothed. It just stung. He was happy. Glad, even, that they were happy. But he felt…forgotten.

“Will this feeling ever go away?’ He bit his lip. “Everyone I’ve known has always left me behind. I don’t think…I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it this time.”

Anchises smiled softly. “You are god-born, son. You will be able to handle whatever life throws at you. You three have been friends for over four summers now. A bond like that doesn’t just disappear due to marriage.”

His father’s words were reassuring. But Perseus still wasn’t convinced. “I’m afraid…” Afraid that he would lose the two most important people in his life. Afraid that they would move on while he was left in the dust. Perseus felt so…empty these days. The absence of Hector and Apollo from his life for two months and his short clipped conversations with Aeneas had made him feel so…lonely.

Perhaps isolating himself hadn’t been such a good idea.

“No matter what happens—no matter the situation—you three shall always be brothers.”

“He’s right, you know,” A voice spoke from behind Anchises. Perseus’ brow creased. How hadn’t he heard them sneaking up to him and his father? He glanced at Aeneas and Hector, the latter who was dressed in princely robes. Perseus instantly guessed why they were there.

Aeneas nodded at Hector’s words. “No matter what happens, Perseus, we’ll always be brothers. It doesn’t matter that we’ll be married soon.”

“And I’m sorry for being an arse when we last met,” Hector said, his voice pained. “I shouldn’t have attacked you.”

Finally, Perseus found his voice. “You shouldn’t have,” He agreed. Hector flushed. The prince knew how hard it was for Perseus to let go of a grudge.

“I’m sorry too,” Perseus started. “For ignoring you for two months.” He paused, then said, “She’s here, isn’t she?”

Aeneas nodded. ‘We came to fetch you.”

Hector looked nervous. He was bouncing on his feet, which he only did when he was worried about something. The Prince huffed, then said, “Yeah, we’re not meeting my future wife without you.” Perseus was silent for a while, then said, “You two go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

Aeneas looked unsure. “Are you certain?” Perseus’ brother inquired.

He nodded. “I’ll come. I promise.”

-X-

AENEAS glanced behind them, trying to spot his brother through the throngs of people who had flocked to the docks to see their future queen. Andromache and her ships had arrived a few minutes ago but Hector and Aeneas hadn’t met her yet. They’d dashed to Aeneas’ home when they’d seen the ships and had been lucky to find his father having a heart-to-heart with Perseus.

Now that they knew what he’d been worried about, Aeneas felt guilty. Perseus thought they would drift apart when they got married. They would have royal duties and duties to the families they would start and he was afraid they would not have time for each other.

“He’s still not here?” Hector asked, glancing at Aeneas. He looked wounded—he was hurt, that his friend hadn’t wanted to come with them to meet Hector’s soon-to-be bride. And Aeneas knew he was even more worried that Perseus wouldn’t show. At a time like this, they needed all the support they could get. And only the three of them could give it to one another. Aeneas sighed, shaking his head in answer.

Hector slumped.

“Don’t worry too much,” Aeneas said. “Perseus will be here. I know he will.” He tried to sound as believable as possible. But he knew Hector knew he was just saying that to make him feel better. Aeneas glanced at the docks, where the people of Cicilian Thebes were descending from their ships. He could see servants and soldiers, lugging huge chests and gifts from the massive ships. He observed them for a while, then glanced behind him again.

Perseus still wasn’t there.

Aeneas sighed, turning to look at the ships again when he heard Perseus’ voice. “Already given up on me, have you?” He broke into a grin as his brother came to stand at his left. From Aeneas’ right, Hector let out a huge sigh of relief. “Gods, what the Hades is wrong with you, Perseus? I thought you wouldn’t show.”

Perseus rubbed his nape sheepishly as Aeneas also tossed him a questioning glance. His green-eyed brother answered. “Sorry, I just had to gather my thoughts.”

Aeneas sorted, then replied, “You’ve been doing that for two months now, brother. Whenever is it going to end?”

Hector laughed and Perseus rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Aeneas. “You’re—“

“Oh, gods,” Hector’s surprised voice cut Perseus short. Aeneas looked towards his friend and turned to look in the direction Hector was staring.

‘Do you think that’s her?” Perseus asked, drawing a breath. Aeneas cocked his head to the side. There were three women, getting off the ship, closely followed by about a dozen soldiers in full armour. Behind them came a man, with whitish-grey hair in white robes. The King of the Cicilian Thebans.

Aeneas focused on the girls. Two of them were veiled, as was the custom for married women. The third was the only one whose face was on full display. She had dark black hair which fell around her face in ringlets and angular features. Her high cheek bones were accentuated with her pale skin and she wore a white gossamer dress, with a diadem on her forehead. She looked lithe and was slim and wore dark brown sandals.

Aeneas looked at Hector. He took note of the unease on his friend’s face. “Don’t panic,” Perseus spoke, his voice a low whisper. Aeneas squeezed the Prince’s shoulder reassuringly and said, “It’s going to be fine.”

Aeneas heard footsteps behind them and the three turned. The royal family was making its way to them. He caught sight of King Priam, Queen Hecuba, whose face was veiled and behind them, their many, many children. Aeneas smiled when he saw Creusa. Cassandra was nowhere to be seen, though. But Perseus could see her twin brother, Helenus. The likeness was uncanny. Aeneas noticed Perseus’ jaw harden. The ruling family of Troy came to a stop in front of Aeneas, Perseus and Hector. The three dropped into a bow before the King and his wife.

“Rise,” King Priam motioned to them. They obeyed. “Come, Hector, Aeneas. We must welcome the future queen of Troy and her family.” A few heartbeats of palpable silence as Aeneas realised what the king had said. Or more specifically, what he had implied.

“What about Perseus, father?” Hector asked, brows furrowed. Aeneas saw his brother tense. But he did not speak.

“He is not a member of the royal family,” Priam said, arching an eyebrow. The rest was clearly decipherable. Not like Hector was. Not like Aeneas would be in seven days.

“He’s my friend,” The heir to the throne spoke indignantly. “I’m not meeting Princess Andromache without him.”

King Priam was silent for a while. Aeneas, Hector and Perseus waited with bated breath.

“Fine then,” The king said. “All of you, join us. We meet the Thebans immediately.” He marched forward, passing them. Aeneas, his brother and Hector stepped in line, next to Creusa.

A new chapter of their lives began that afternoon. As they walked, Aeneas swore a silent oath to himself. He would make sure no one was left behind.

Chapter Text

HECTOR stiffened when they got to the Cicilian Thebans. His eyes flitted over to the unveiled girl between the two women. She was beautiful, he couldn’t deny that. But that didn’t matter—because he didn’t want to get married. The three Thebans bowed before the royal family and when Hector’s father motioned for them to rise, the girl lifted her head and her eyes met his.

He was drawn into her deep and clouded gaze and he found himself admiring her bright green eyes. He shook his head and looked away.

“Welcome to Troy,” King Priam said, his voice hardly welcoming. “We hope you will enjoy your stay here. Where is your father, Princess?”

The girl’s lips parted to speak and Hector saw a flash of pearly white teeth. She didn’t get the chance to, however, because at that moment Hector’s father caught sight of King Eetion, descending from the massive ship, a young man in robes and his guards behind him. “Ah, there he is,” Priam said.

The king walked over to them, his head held high. Hector took note of his appearance—curly grey hair, a trimmed beard and robes which would make even King Priam jealous. Eetion bowed to Hector’s parents when he stopped next to his daughter and the two veiled women.

“It’s good to see you again, King Priam,” The man rose from his display of respect for the King of the land. “It has been long.”

“Far too long, in my opinion,” Hector’s father said. “Welcome to my homeland. Let us go to the palace. We shall celebrate your arrival with a feast.”

As the two kings led the procession back to the Palace, Hector glanced at his sides and then sighed in relief.

“We are not going anywhere, Hector,” Perseus reassured. “We’ll be with you till the end.” Aeneas gave him a subtle nod of agreement and as he walked behind his future wife and her family, the Heir Apparent couldn’t help but feel grateful that he had met them all those summers ago.

-X-

PERSEUS bit his tongue to keep his gasp inaudible. It was his first time in the palace and he couldn’t help but feel a little overwhelmed. The place had been decked out in the finest luxuries and filled with items of the absolute best quality. While it wasn't so unpleasant, per se, there was the lingering trace of sheer foreignness that made Perseus want to pass out.

He smiled in Aeneas and Hector’s directions, happy that his brother and friend would be getting the best life had to offer. As they marched to the grand hall, his eyes flickered around, trying to spot her—trying to see if she was alright. He barely noticed when Creusa moved from Aeneas’ side and came to a stop next to him.

“You’re looking for Cassandra, aren’t you?”

He jerked a bit at her voice, then chewed on his bottom lip. Was he so easy to read? Shaking his head, he replied contradictingly, “Maybe.” Creusa shot him a look of pity and he glanced down. He hated pity, perhaps more than he hated Apollo at that moment. Cassandra was a friend—and she could have been something more if his sodding mentor hadn’t interfered.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I just want to see if she’s doing well.”

“She is,” Creusa said, and that alone seemed to lift a weight off his shoulders. “She will probably be at the feast today.” She scanned the procession and frowned. Perseus followed her line of sight and his lips curled downwards when his eyes met that of Prince Helenus, Cassandra’s twin brother.

“He blames you, you know,” Creusa spoke softly, guilt evident in her voice. “It would be wise not to approach Cassandra if Helenus is around.” Perseus snorted at that. He could best Hector at swordplay within ten or fifteen minutes. And what's more, Hector was the most skilled fighter in Troy, after Perseus himself, that is. How long did Helenus think he would last?

He glanced at his side, spotting his brother’s gaze, and then turned towards his prospective sister-in-law. “Aeneas really likes you, you know.”

Creusa blushed, looking down. He could see the smile playing on her lips. “Congratulations on your marriage, in advance. I’m happy for you both, really.” Creusa’s smile widened and she nodded a silent thanks to him, then moved away with a whisper of, “Enjoy the feast.”

XMX

He caught sight of her when she walked into the room.

The feast was in full swing but Perseus had barely touched any of his food. Hector had been forced to sit next to his future wife and although he was nervous at first, they were now engaged in an animated conversation. Creusa and Aeneas continued making shy bedroom eyes at each other, thinking none had seen their intertwined hands under the table.

He felt like he was fading into the background but then he remembered that the two boys would do anything for him. They deserved happiness and he had to be happy for them.

Cassandra looked fine enough. She wasn’t the shaking twitching mess she had been when he had found her in the clearing all those weeks ago.

Her smile looked forced though, and Perseus frowned when he saw the fire dancing in her eyes. His mind briefly played back her crazed and maniacal expression from that day and he bit his lip, pushing the disturbing image out of his head. He stood from his place at the table, making his way to Cassandra, walking slowly but firmly.

He knew Hector, Creusa and Aeneas saw him. But none asked questions. Perseus was almost near her when her brother Helenus came to a stop in front of Cassandra. He caressed her cheek, then they began talking in low voices. Perseus scowled. He just wanted to talk.

Helenus was manoeuvring Cassandra away from him, but then she pulled away from his grip, spotting Creusa in the throngs of people. Perseus could see that she wanted to go to her sister. She suddenly glanced in his direction and their eyes met. She took a step towards him, a shy smile lighting her face. Then her features contorted into a grimace of pain, and she let out an ear-shattering scream that made him wince and grit his teeth.

Before he could move she was laughing maniacally, twitching and tearing her skin with her nails. Her eyes were wide, suddenly bloodshot and crazed. She was pulling out her hair, ripping at her dress and cackling.

All eyes were on her. All were quiet. The room was silent, her screams resonating throughout the chamber. Helenus was trying to calm his sister, trying desperately to keep her quiet. But he was failing.

Cassandra’s voice was scratchy and hoarse. But he could hear her all the same. “He approaches! The forgotten son shall return! One moon hence the tides shall bring him in. Love and War together shall come. Death he shall bring... and Blood”—she wailed. “— The apple’s golden blood…”

She trailed off, as if out of breath. Then her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed, right into her brother’s arms.

-X-

AENEAS glanced towards the field as he waited for Apollo’s sun chariot to make its way across the sky. It was seven days after the feast yet he could not get Cassandra’s words out of his head. What made it worse was that she had had an episode right after seeing Perseus’ face. His brother had been reserved and quiet since they had left the palace.

He shook his head, trying to think of better things. Aeneas would leave their home that morning. He would leave good Anchises and Perseus. He would move into the palace after the wedding ceremony was over, with Hector, who had come to find that marrying Andromache wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice Perseus come out of their father’s small hut behind him. Perseus took a seat on the grass next to Aeneas, then bumped his shoulder with his.

“What’s wrong?”

Aeneas did not mince his words. He glanced at his brother, the emotion shining in his eyes and let out a breath, saying, “I’m afraid.”

Perseus’ gaze softened and he glanced towards the dawn sky, catching a glimpse of the rosy hands of Eos with his gifted eyes. He turned back to Aeneas, then said, “There’s no need to be, brother. Creusa likes you a lot.”

“I know that, but it’s just…” He took in a shaky breath. “When we get married we’ll be expected to start a family and believe me, I want to but, it’s all happening too fast.” Perseus placed a hand on his curly haired brother’s shoulder. He remained silent, letting Aeneas pour out all his worries and stress.

“When I move into the palace, I’ll be expected to do all these princely stuff and have these royal duties and…” He glanced at Perseus, the anguish written on his face. “I don’t know if I’m up for it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to meet their expectations.”

Perseus pursed his lips, then finally spoke. “Like I said, before, Aeneas, Creusa likes you, you like her. It’ll all run smoothly. Besides, you wouldn’t be getting married to her if Priam didn’t think you were up for it. And you’ll be with Hector and Creusa in the palace. They’ll support you, just like I’ve been doing all these years. They’ll help you navigate your way through your new life. And if you ever need another shoulder to lean on I’ll be right here, where I’ve always been.” Aeneas found it ironic that his brother who had been drowning in his insecurities for almost two months was the one who was comforting him now.

“Nothing much will change when you move into the palace. You’ll adjust soon. Come on, you’re Aeneas, the son of Aphrodite and Anchises. You’re my brother. We’ve bested whatever came our way these past eleven years together. We’re going to overcome this phase too. Together, and this time, with Hector’s help.”

Aeneas smiled slightly. Perseus always knew how to cheer him up and get rid of his doubts and insecurities. He enveloped his brother in a hug and for the first time since they saw thirteen summers, Perseus didn’t resist. “Thank you.” Aeneas released him, then stood, walking back into the hut.

As he went away, he failed to notice the sorrowful and defeated expression the other boy wore.

-X-

PERSEUS looked up at the crackling sound. He frowned, hardly letting out a peep when he spotted the immortal standing before him.

“Did Apollo send you here to ask for forgiveness on my behalf? Because I’m not giving it.” He glanced away, barely noticing the sun chariot soaring across the sky.

The goddess of the hunt cocked her head to the side and studied him with calculating silver eyes. He couldn’t help but shiver as she continued examining him.

Artemis’ lips parted and the regal voice of his mentor’s sister reached his ears. “Because of you, boy, my brother has been moping around and whining on Delos like a wounded animal. And yes, he did send me here. You two have a lot to talk about.”

Perseus sighed, the ends of his lips pulling up in a smile at the familiar endearing word, boy. “I suppose you’re going to kidnap me now, aren’t you?”

“Quite correct, Perseus,” Artemis flashed him a sly grin, which he had seen only twice out of all the eighteen times he had met her on his visits to Delos. He didn’t resist when she grabbed him. He shut his eyes as he felt his body melting and sighed again.

It was time to meet Apollo.

XMX

They reappeared on the edge of the Island. It was daytime and the waves were hitting the sand. Perseus scowled at the water and hurriedly marched away from it immediately Artemis dropped his hand.

“Is this going to take long?” He folded his arms. “I have a wedding to attend.”

The goddess rolled her eyes at him and said, “And I have a beast to capture. Come on.”

Perseus followed, albeit reluctantly, keeping his head down. Sure, he got to see Artemis again after almost a year of silence from her end. And he would meet Leto too, which was a bonus, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to see goldilocks.

Not yet, at least.

They got to the pavilion and temple in about three minutes and Perseus scowled when he saw Apollo. But his frown didn’t last long. A grin stretched across his face when he caught sight of the titaness seated next to the god of the sun.

He had missed her.

The two deities looked up at the approaching footsteps. Apollo blanched when he saw Perseus but Leto smiled widely, standing up from her seat to greet Perseus.

“Perseus,” Apollo’s eyes were narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

The green-eyed boy frowned and suddenly it all made sense to him. Turning to Artemis, he hissed, “You tricked me!”

“Mother’s idea, actually,” Artemis shrugged. “Apollo is still very angry.”

He glared at her and turned back to stare accusingly at Leto. His gaze shifted back to Apollo, who was looking at him with a burning glare.

“I suppose we would have still talked it out eventually,” The god finally admitted, shrugging. He took in a breath and then stood silently, watching Perseus.

The tension in the air could be sliced with a knife.

“He doesn’t expect me to apologise, does he?” Perseus whispered in Artemis’ direction. She shrugged. He knew Apollo had heard him but the god gave no reaction.

“It’s been two months,” Leto spoke up. “I think you both have to apologise to each other.”

“Cassandra is barking mad because of him. I’m not going to—”

“Perseus…” Leto gave him a warning stare.

Grumbling under his breath, he mumbled, “Fine. I’m sorry.”

Apollo snorted. “That’s it? I—”

“Apollo!” Leto smacked her son at the back of his head. “Apologise. Now.” He rolled his eyes and muttered a hurried sorry under his breath.

Perseus arched an eyebrow. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you. I still don’t want to see your face.”

“Well that’s too bad,” Apollo smirked. “Because you’ll be seeing me in the sky every single day till you’re old.”

Artemis huffed and said, “Boys.”

“And I still don’t want to train with you.” Perseus ignored the goddess and tried to keep from smirking.

“Well, you don’t have a choice, because there’s something big coming up and—”

“I don’t really care,” Perseus stuck out his tongue in a very mature way, cutting Leto short.

“You’re going to train with Apollo, Perseus. That’s final,” Leto said, the tone of her voice leaving no room for argument.

“But mater—” He whined, betrayal flashing in his eyes as he used the endearing term to try to get her to change her mind.

“Like I said. It’s final.” Perseus shot her an unamused look and spoke to Apollo again. “Can you at least heal Cassandra? She started spewing some nonsense about someone from the mountain and war and death when she saw my face.”

The silence which settled over them was deafening. Apollo exchanged a glance with his sister, who narrowed her eyes. Leto sighed, reaching out to grab Perseus’ hands. “It cannot be done, Perseus. The curse is permanent, and it may scare you, but it shall be beneficial in the years to come.”

He pulled his hands from hers, nodding in defeat. After a few moments he said, “Can you take me back now? I’ll be late for the ceremony.”

“Wait just a bit.” Apollo stepped forward, waving his hands. “Your brother and friend are getting married. I think you deserve some new clothes, no?”

“What are—” He didn’t get a chance to argue. Before he knew it he was dressed in royal purple robes, which had gold trimmings. His hair was still unruly but a golden circlet adorned his head and sandals were at his feet. His waist was cinched with a golden rope and gold vambraces sat on his forearms.

He frowned at Apollo, whose eyes pleaded with him to accept his silent pacification gift. Perseus sent him a small nod and turned back to Artemis. “Take me back. Now.”

She glared at him, then grabbed him by his ear, twisting it. “No one orders me around, Perseus. I thought you would know this by now.”

“Ow!” He yelped. “Let go of me, Arty—”

“Do not follow in Apollo’s footsteps!” Artemis bellowed. “My name is not Arty!”
Perseus wrenched himself away from her grasp and took off, chuckling. “Sure, Arty. Whatever you say.”

With a snarl of distaste, she was chasing after him, while Apollo and Leto watched from their spots in the pavilion. Perseus raced for the beach, laughing as he ran.

It was no surprise when he slammed into the woman who had appeared on the seashore.

Perseus looked up, groaning and rubbing his head. He fell into silence suddenly, eyes wide as he drank in the sight before him. She looked about his age, with long black hair tied in a ponytail, which fell to her waist. She had bright silver eyes, much like Artemis’, but yet very different. She had angular features, with pale pink lips which complimented her equally pale skin. The girl was dressed in a silver and white peplos which was semi-covered with a black cloak. She looked like the moon, coming out from behind the clouds of the night sky.

She was the most regal and beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Artemis came to a stop next to him. “Selene. You’re early.” Perseus’ eyes widened further. Selene? The only Selene he knew was the Titaness of the moon.

She was examining him, much like Artemis had done before. Scrutinising his features, like she was trying to see through him. She turned back to Artemis, then said, “I’ll wait for you to take the mortal back to Troy. Then we can join the hunters later.”

Artemis nodded her agreement and reached down to grab Perseus. He didn’t even realise they were fading away till Selene’s bright silver eyes vanished from his view.

-X-

HECTOR ran a hand through his hair, anxiety eating him up. Aeneas paced up and down in his chambers, worry evident in his features. The door to Hector’s room swung open and his mother marched in.

“We cannot wait any longer, boys,” Queen Hecuba said decisively. “We have to proceed with the ceremony.”

“But Perseus isn’t here yet,” Aeneas argued.

“I’m not going to marry Andromache if he’s not with us,” Hector said, his tone equally determined.

“Oh, that’s touching and all but we have a wedding to start. Get off your sorry arses and go get married, you wankers.” The voice made Hector turn to the other entrance of his room. He felt relief flood through him as Perseus marched in. Hector barely took note of his friend’s appearance, his eyes widening when he heard a scoff.

Lady Artemis cocked her head and said, “Apollo will be here to pick you up tomorrow, Perseus. I’ll see you soon.” She vanished into mist.

They elapsed into shocked silence. Perseus grinned at them and wrapped his arms around both Hector and Aeneas when he neared them. “What are you still wasting time for? Did you not hear me?”
Queen Hecuba watched on, marvelling silently at the bond the three almost-adults shared. It was strong, wonderful—unbreakable, even. So strong they refused to get married in the absence of Perseus.

Aeneas and Hector began to move and Perseus rolled his eyes, muttering, “Twats.”

-X-

Three weeks later…

AENEAS sat up with a jerk, glancing around him, eyes wide. He inhaled when he realised Creusa was not by his side and he was not on his bed in their shared chamber in the Palace of Troy. Around him, he could see several scattered and littered bodies of men and boys, who were also stirring.

It took him a second to realise what had happened. Or more like what was happening. He stood, taking a step. He had to find Perseus and Hector.

XMX

HECTOR groaned as he sat up. His head was pounding and squinted, trying to see in the semi-darkness. He turned to his left, muttering, “Andromache?” There was no response. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he swallowed uneasily. He could see the other males around him, each of them waking and sitting up in the snow.

Instantly it hit him. He had to find Perseus and Aeneas. He had heard his father and the generals discussing this. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon…

XMX

PERSEUS swore silently as he looked around him. He jumped to his feet, making the snow rise a little. His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight around him. Males of all ages were coming to their senses, standing and glancing around in confusion, in the darkness.

Apollo had told him it was coming. It was why he had been training so vigorously for three weeks. He vaguely remembered one of Hector’s sisters saying King Priam planned to inaugurate the young men of Troy into the army.

He was prepared and ready. Perseus bent and plucked out a small knife from his boot as he remembered Apollo’s instructions. He had to fight and kill his way to the top of Mount Ida. The men who reached the apex and rang the bell in five days, without dying, of course, would be made elite and important figures in the army. He took his first step, ready to participate in the rite of passage that would initiate him into adulthood and the army too.

He would reach the top. But first, he had to find Hector and Aeneas. Together, they would enter the next phase of their lives.

Together, they would overcome the Tournament of Ida.

-X-

HECTOR wiped the blood from his face using the sleeve of his tunic. He didn’t know how long had passed since they had been dumped at the forests around the Mountain of Troy. All he knew was that he had killed. A lot.

He was somewhat grateful that Perseus had been advising them not to go to bed without a hidden weapon. Perhaps his friend had known what was coming, but had not been allowed to tell them. He pursed his lip, moving away from the bloodied body soiling the snow with its presence.

He didn’t know who exactly the boy was but the pang of guilt was still strong. He couldn’t wait to become King, so he could finally abolish this cruel practice. He didn’t think the court officials realised that the tournament just sent the young men of Troy to early deaths. It made those who did not enjoy war—but could be useful in other areas—die senselessly.

Hector briefly wondered how his brother-in-law was doing. He glanced around him, knowing that he needed to climb the mountain. They only had five days to reach the top and then the survivors would be categorised into the Trojan Army. Those who reached the apex were considered elite fighters, whilst those who didn’t but climbed the mountain nonetheless would be second-level soldiers. The others who didn’t reach the mountain at all but survived anyway would become foot soldiers.

Hector narrowed his eyes when he heard the footsteps. It was almost evening and he wanted to avoid a confrontation with anyone he would eventually have to kill. And he had to eat too and find a place to spend the night. Turning, he gazed up at the mountain again, and took off, towards the top.

-X-

AENEAS tightened his grip on the knife, wishing he had a more reliable weapon. He wasn’t like Perseus and Hector who could fight with any weapon they were given (well, except the bow and arrow, for Perseus). He relied solely on his twin swords, gifts from his mother when he saw fifteen summers, but a heated night with Creusa just before he had been kidnapped and dumped below Ida had made him forget to strap the sword at his thigh before bed.

He let out a huff of air. From his position on the thick branch of the tree, he could see all the snow and earth below him. He knew it wasn’t safe—there were creatures and monsters somewhere in the forests below the mountain. He had heard not less than five screams on the first day. It was the second morning now and he had heard a lot more than five throughout the night.

He was so lost in his thoughts he did not see the boys appear from behind him. He only noticed their presence when a poorly aimed arrow soared past him, nicking his ear as it went and slicing a line clean through the side of his hair. He spun so quickly that he tumbled off the branch and fell into the snow with a loud thud.

Achates and the other boys surrounded him quickly, their eyes glinting in the morning mist. They weren’t really boys anymore, seeing as most were older than him but Aeneas had a hard time calling anyone who was associated with the excuse-of-a-nephew of one of the Generals of the army men.

He heard the blond boy laugh and Aeneas sent a scathing glare in Achates’ general direction.

“Grab him,” Achates ordered two of the boys. (Men(?), Men-Boys (?) He really didn’t care). “I want to see him try to resist while I carve his heart out.”

Aeneas barely had time to react, his chest and head suddenly pounding in alarm. Two pairs of arms were hauling him up and he felt his knife clatter to the ground.

“You’re a shite excuse for a prince and you know that, right?” Achates said, a grin plastered on his face as he bent to pick the weapon from the snow.

“I can’t believe they chose you,” He said with sudden force. “Weak Aeneas, the son of even weaker Anchises.” It took a few seconds for Aeneas to understand. He was jealous.

He felt anger and fury burn through him and he scoffed at Achates’ words. “You are a fool if you think you can insult the House of Anchises and get away with it.” His eyes were narrowed and his brain was running, trying to come up with a plan to get out of this sticky situation.

“What are you going to do?” Achates sneered. “Perseus isn’t here to protect you. Neither is Hector.” Aeneas scowled. He was sick and tired of people all around him thinking he was weak, just because he preferred to sort things out with his voice and not his fist.

He hated the fact that people saw him as nothing compared to his brother and the heir apparent. He hated the fact that they thought their words could bring him on his knees just because he did not raise his fist. He hated the fact that he was scorned and seen as a delicate object just because he was the son of the love goddess.

He didn’t know what pushed him to kick Achates in the groin.

Next thing he knew the boy had bent over in pain and was groaning. Aeneas elbowed the boy on his left, hard, tearing his left hand away from his grasp. Without giving anyone a chance to react he slammed his freed hand into the boy on his right, sending him stumbling. Aeneas bent and grabbed his knife from beside Achates, slipping into a stance when the boys drew weapons.

He hadn’t killed anyone since he had woken. He’d met a lot of people but he had simply knocked them out. His mind vaguely wandered to the gash on his side, which he had received a few hours ago. It had stopped burning but his sudden movements had made it act up again.

“Kill him!” Achates let out, still clutching his crotch.

The boys surged forward and Aeneas narrowed his eyes, then ran to meet them.

-X-

PERSEUS jerked awake at the scream which had resonated across the mountainside. It was the third day and he was almost halfway up the mountain. He had stopped when he found a cave, hewn into the side of the mountain and after making sure it wasn’t already occupied, he had decided to rest.

It wasn’t his intent to fall asleep. But after keeping awake for a good part of two days, he really couldn’t blame his body. He rubbed his eyes to chase away Hypnos and then felt around for his knife. The scream had been close. Anguished and scared, and close.

Perseus warily made his way to the entrance of the cave. He stepped out, then cursed. Fuck, he had overslept. He could tell it was almost midday and if he wanted to meet Aeneas and Hector soon, he couldn’t waste any time.

For two days he had been fighting men and monsters and he was bruised, bloodied, injured and battered but it would all be worth it when they were rewarded at the end. His father would be proud, he would be proud, and he would finally be able to do something for Troy when he was in the army.

Perseus inhaled when he heard another cry of pain. It was closer this time and he took a step. He had to go. He had to run before whatever monster was rampaging the mountainside caught up with him.

XMX

It did not take long for the wild boar to catch up with him. Perseus cursed Tyche when he heard the laboured breathing and wild grunts behind him. He had started running when he realised the beast was after him but he hadn’t gotten very far.

After a while, he just decided to face it head on.

He had fought wild centaurs, mountain lions, a couple of snake-women and a lot more monsters from the infested forest two days before. He had wrestled a serpent when he’d climbed a tree to pick fruits and he had been living on melted snow and pieces of fruit for two days. He was spent but he was positive he would be able to take down the beast. He skidded to a stop and turned.

Perseus gulped when he saw the sheer size of the wild boar. How the hell was he supposed to battle with that with just a knife?

He exhaled and murmured, “Gods help me.” Perseus was royally screwed. And once again had only his shite luck to blame.

-X-

HECTOR was reunited with one of his best friends on the third day. He was haggard, his robes torn to shreds and he was sleep deprived, thirsty and hungry. But they had less than 48 hours to reach the mountain top, according to his portable miniature sundial.

He had spent a total of two days searching while he scaled the mountain, trying to find the two brothers. His searches had proven futile and he had killed his way up the mountain, trying not to feel guilty for riding men and women of Troy of their children. (To be fair, he didn’t attack if they didn’t. And he only killed those that tried to kill him). Sure, he loved the thrill battle gave him and he enjoyed holding the weapons in his hands. He would also readily kill any enemy of Troy.

But the boys were citizens and not enemies of his city. He had grown up with some of them. A few of his brothers were probably also on the mountain and he feared for their lives.

He gritted his teeth when he heard the yell of pain and the animalistic squeal which followed. He would recognise that voice anywhere.

Hector took off in a run, towards the general direction of Perseus’ voice. His eyes widened in shock when he skidded to a stop between two trees. He arrived just in time to see Perseus, soaring through the sky and slamming into a tree, his knife dropping to the ground. The bloody git was bleeding from scratches on his chest, and arms, apparently not realising that he couldn’t take on a boar the size of the palace with a knife the size of a weed. A few feet away from him was the monster which had had all the boys on this side of the mountain running.

Hector saw the boar preparing to charge. His friend was still on the ground, no doubt woozy and distorted from his trip through the sky. It took Hector a few seconds to realise that Perseus would not be able to move in time.

He would be crushed under the giant boar, demigod or not.

Before he knew it Hector was running, yelling as he did to confuse the beast. His plan worked and the boar turned for a split second, giving Hector the chance to hurl his weapon. The knife nailed the overgrown swine right in its left eye and it let out a loud and anguished squeal.

Without wasting time Hector raced for Perseus’ battered form, cursing the other boy under his breath. He came to a stop next to him, then bent on his knees, wrapping his arms around Perseus to haul him up.

“Hector?”

“Yes, it’s me,” He replied hurriedly, already moving towards a path between the trees.

“Where’s my brother?” Clearly, Perseus was still dazed. Hector pursed his lips and his eyes flickered over to the pig running in circles and squealing in pain.

“I don’t know,” He replied. “But we have to get out of here. You’re injured.”

Perseus blinked. Once, twice. The third time he let out a stuttered breath. “I can see that.” Hector accidentally stepped on his foot as they passed through the trees, away from the monstrous threat. “And feel that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hector rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing but a few scratches. You’ll live.”
Together, they disappeared into the trees and snow, Hector searching for Aeneas as they went.

-X-

AENEAS was saved by Hector and Perseus on the last day.

He was so tired he could barely walk. He had killed someone for the first time that morning and the horror that came afterwards had been emptying his stomach into the snow.

He had been tempted to end Achates and his goons the day he had met them on the mountainside, but he hadn’t been able to, mainly because the blond coward had pleaded for his life after all his friends were knocked out.

Aeneas let out a huff of air, clutching his sides. The boy he had killed in the morning would have stabbed him in the heart if Aeneas had not reacted quickly and plunged his knife in his neck. He knew who the boy was. He had met him a few times over the years as they trained in combat, music and other areas. He had been a pretty decent fighter and he had managed to slice through Aeneas’ already torn tunic, leaving a cut across his arm.

Aeneas shook his head to clear his thoughts, moving forward with slow steps. Dawn was approaching and he had given up all hope of meeting his brother and Hector. He had just about an hour to get to the apex of the mountain. He hoped they had already succeeded and would be waiting for him.

“There he is!” The voice made him spin around suddenly and his eyes went wide when he spotted the boys running in his direction. “Kill him now!” It was Achates once again and Aeneas cursed himself for sparing him all those days ago.

He should have known that people like Achates never changed.

He hobbled forward faster, hoping to get as far away as possible. But he knew he couldn’t. They were running and he was too injured to even stand properly. Aeneas bared his teeth when they surrounded him. He glanced around, trying to find an escape route.

Why couldn’t Achates leave him alone?

Aeneas forced himself to speak, trying not to let the despair show through. He knew was too battered to handle them all at once. “Are you here for another beatdown?”

Achates scowled at him, his lips curling. “You got lucky that time, Aeneas. It won’t happen again.”

“Are you sure about that?” Aeneas felt relief suddenly flood him when he heard Hector’s voice. He spun, then saw both the heir apparent and his brother, coming out from behind the trees and bushes.

“Hector,” Achates snarled, eyeing him. “Perseus.”

“Yes, those are our names,” Perseus cocked his head to the side, sizing up his enemy. “It’s nice to see you haven’t forgotten them, Achates.”

Aeneas could see they were spent and just as injured as he was. But they were still standing, despite the blood staining their bodies and clothes.

“I can kill you both without needing to pay the price later,” Achates sneered. He turned to Hector. “Daddy Dearest can’t have my head because the rules are very clear.”

Hector sneered back, but didn’t give any response. “Keep deluding yourself,” Perseus replied instead. Aeneas turned to Perseus and Hector and grinned. “It’s nice to see you finally showed. Ten drachma that he’ll be begging at our feet in six minutes.”

“I don’t think so. It’ll probably be three,” Hector shook his head.

“Or half a minute,” Perseus shrugged, smiling. With a yell of anger, Achates hurled himself at Aeneas, and all hades broke loose.

-X-

PERSEUS relished the feeling of the wind whipping around him as he battled side by side with the two boys he had practically grown up with. He laughed loudly, dodging under a sword and slamming his knife into his attacker’s head. He pulled his arm away, catching a glimpse of Aeneas dodging a wide strike from Achates’ sword and slipping under his guard to slice at his chest.

He heard the clash of weapons right next to him and his eyes widened when Hector pushed away another of Achates’ friends, who would have stabbed him through his side. “Keep your head in the game, Perseus!” Hector dodged a swing, then decked a guy in the face, while Perseus slid under his friend, jumping up and blocking a strike headed for Hector’s head.

Achates and Aeneas clashed again and Perseus made to go help his brother, but then Aeneas’ head whipped towards him, the concentration and anger clear on his face. “No! He’s mine.”

Perseus nodded silently, then spun when he felt a presence behind him. He dodged under a spear and kicked out in an arc with his feet, sending a burly boy tumbling to the ground. He shot up again and parried a strike for his neck, jabbing another boy in the chest with his elbow.

A sundial rolled to the ground when Hector flipped over Perseus, then knocked the last boy standing out. He was vaguely aware of Achates falling to the ground beside Aeneas, clutching a wounded shoulder. Perseus studied the small contraption on the ground, which he knew belonged to Hector. He hadn’t been aware of the time that they had left or how long they had been fighting.

“We’ve got to move. Five minutes till dawn, then the Tournament is over.”

Achates groaned in the snow. “Let’s go!” Aeneas said frantically, grabbing Perseus and Hector by their arms. “I can see the bell from here! We’ll make it!”

Perseus' chest was pounding as they hobbled and jogged up the mountain.

He felt pride and joy erupt in him when they neared the top. He could see the sun, rising in the distance. Relief flooded him when the apex came into view. The three scrambled towards the gigantic bell.

“Together!” Hector said, panting.

“Together,” Aeneas and Perseus repeated. They reached out…

They were the only ones to complete the Tournament of Ida that year.

Chapter Text

PERSEUS arched an eyebrow when the god of the sun suddenly appeared out of thin air in front of him. He sent a confused glance towards Apollo and then said, “What are you doing here?”

Apollo pursed his lips. True, they had apologised and were not at each other’s throats any longer, but they weren’t where they used to be with each other. He still considered Apollo to be his older brother, but it would take some time to get over the horrible thing he had done. 

“What, can't I come here to congratulate you on your success?” Apollo questioned, a smile lighting his face.

“I never said that but—”

“Artemis and mother send their regards,” Apollo cut him short. There were a few heartbeats of questionable silence, then Apollo said, “I’m really proud of you, you know. I’ve seen all the great things you’ll do and how much you’ll accomplish. This was the first one.”

He wanted to ask. He wanted to know if he would make a difference. But he knew all the rules that went with seeing the future. Apollo couldn’t say. “Thanks, I guess?” Perseus breathed out. He would be summoned to the palace the next day, according to Hector. And he might be moving in, with quarters of his own in the soldiers' barracks. He and Aeneas and Hector would be given their positions in the army the next morning.

He didn’t know whether to feel excited or nervous. Perseus licked his bottom lip, then said to Apollo, “This is all thanks to you, you know. You trained me well.”

“Of course I did,” Apollo snorted. “I’m Apollo. I do everything well.”

Perseus rolled his eyes. They weren’t there yet, but it had been three months. They would, soon enough.

“I’ll be going with Aeneas back to the top of Ida in a few days. Aphrodite has finally decided to meet him and he’ll need your support.” The seriousness was back in Apollo’s voice. Perseus did not ask why Hector wasn’t coming along. It was a bit complicated, but he knew gods didn’t appreciate the presence of uninvited mortals. Even Apollo had only allowed Hector to gaze upon him once, when the prince discovered their secret training sessions. He hadn’t struck him down because he was close to Perseus and his brother.

“Alright. Come fetch me when you’re ready,” Perseus said, glancing up towards the sky. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Goodbye, Perseus,” Apollo’s voice was tinged with sadness as he gazed at the boy who would see seventeen summers in one week to come. He saw him in his visions—he saw what Perseus would lose and he saw how it would all end. 

He knew he and Leto should never have gotten attached. If Zeus got wind of his family’s actions, Apollo, Leto and Artemis would be punished for breaking the ancient laws and interacting with a mortal without Zeus’ permission. But Perseus was...something else. Apollo wished he could do something to change the possible future he had seen. It would all be coming soon. It would all end.

Soon.

-X-

HECTOR was kneeling before the throne and he was vaguely aware of Perseus and Aeneas doing the same at his left and right respectively. He felt a deep sense of pride envelope him, along with the stares and whispers of the people of Troy who had gathered at the palace for the day to watch the ceremony. He had watched with Aeneas as all the three hundred survivors of the Tournament had been categorised into the Trojan Army and it was finally their turn.

He did not hear what his father had said. His heart was thumping and all he could feel was the sense of accomplishment and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was glad that they had done it. And they had done it together. Hector stood when he heard his father say, “Rise.” Beside him, his best friends did the same.

Hector could see the pride shining in his father and mother’s eyes as he lifted his head. He barely registered as they were each presented with a set of armour—Trojan armour which officially stated that they were a part of the army, after eighteen years of Hector training to do so. 

He heard his father’s voice resonate throughout the city centre. “I give you the three new Lokhagi of the Trojan Army! Prince Hector, the heir to the throne, Anchises, my son-in-law and his brother Perseus, son of Anchises!” 

A resounded applause broke out among the people of Troy. Hector felt his lips pull up in a smile. Finally, another step into their adulthood had been taken. They were captains of the Trojan Army and he knew that it wouldn’t be soon before they started rising through the ranks. They would make it to the top soon. And they would do it together. 

-X-

AENEAS did not know how to feel. He wasn’t sure whether to be apprehensive or excited that after almost seventeen years of his life he was finally going to meet his mother in person. Sure, she sent him gifts through Apollo often and yes, he knew it was her who had helped him win Creusa’s love. But she had never even bothered to meet him and tell him how proud she was or anything.

It wasn’t that he cared about it too much. He was far too old to be sad over the fact that he had grown up without a mother’s love to soothe his skin. He had gotten used to just his father and brother, along with Hector. Even now he was married and he didn’t think he needed Aphrodite in his life. He had Creusa, after all. 

He didn’t want to know why she wanted to meet him. He guessed that she had something to ask of him and he did not know how to feel about that. He knew gods only meddled in mortal lives when they needed something done. Just like Apollo and Perseus. The god obviously knew something about Perseus' future and Aeneas had found out a long time ago that Apollo was just trying to nudge events to go in the way he had foreseen. 

Aeneas pursed his lips. Apollo had come to fetch him a few days after their induction into the army and they were currently on their way to the barracks to find Perseus. Aeneas’ thoughts drifted over to the ceremony they had partaken in. Perseus had moved out of their father’s house into the army barracks soon after that, by order of the King. The barracks were just a few metres away from the palace and Aeneas and Hector often snuck out of the palace to meet with Perseus when they weren’t too busy with royal duties. 

Aeneas looked up when he heard the footsteps. He glanced to his side and instead of seeing the god's preferred form, he found a man in silver armour, not unlike the one Perseus and Aeneas had been given after the ceremony. And which they were wearing. Aeneas knew that it was Apollo in a mortal disguise, trying not to draw the attention of the others who were not of godly descent. He glanced to the source of the footsteps and smiled at his approaching brother. 

“Are you ready?” Perseus nodded tensely. Apollo took hold of them by their shoulders and Aeneas felt himself melt into dust as they flashed away. It was the first time he had done so and when he felt his feet touch the ground he immediately released the contents of his stomach into a clump of bushes. Aeneas was feeling so dizzy and distorted he barely realised they were not alone.

Perseus had come to his side and had placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. He didn’t say anything, though the son of Aphrodite knew he had his brother’s silent support. Aeneas blinked to clear away the uneasy feeling, then glanced around. His mouth fell open.

Something was going on. Something big. Aeneas’ eyes flicked across the entire terrain. He recognised the place; he had grown up here, after all, with the nymphs. He heard Perseus gasp from next to him, as if just realising what was happening.

They were in the presence of the gods of Olympus. 

He could see about sixteen godly beings, surrounding a man who knelt before them. Aeneas caught sight of a bearded man in blue and white robes, with a circlet adorning his head. He had dark hair and sky blue eyes, and arcs of lightning were dancing around him. Zeus.

Next to him was another man, cleanly shaven, wearing similar blue robes, although darker. He had deep green eyes which reminded Aeneas of Perseus, and leaned against a three-pronged trident. Aeneas heard Perseus hiss and glare at Apollo. It took him a few seconds to realise who that was.

“Don’t worry,” Apollo murmured. “They do not know you are here. I’ve cloaked your auras.” Aeneas’ brow furrowed. Hadn’t his mother asked for him? Why cloak their auras, then? Had Apollo been lying?

He shook his head, scanning the congregation of gods. He could see a woman with blonde hair the colour of wheat—Demeter, and he caught sight of an auburn-haired twelve-year-old glaring at everyone else. Artemis, for sure. The great god Ares wore blood red and black armour, and Aeneas could feel the waves of anger even from where he was standing. He saw Hephaestus, the lame god, who was tinkering with something or the other, then Hermes, zipping around in the sky, Hestia, silently watching her family and Dionysus, drinking from a chalice of wine. 

The auras and power emanating from these gods made Aeneas want to kneel. He shook those thoughts from his head, eyes widening in surprise at the six people he had missed.

There was a brown-haired man in white wedding robes, standing near a woman who looked like a water nymph—lithe, elfish and with a bluish tint on her skin. Between them stood a boy with silky blond hair which fell to his shoulders and bright blue eyes. He looked too beautiful to be human, although he seemed to be just a few years younger than Aeneas.

“Thetis and her new husband, Peleus. Between them is their son, Achilles.” A chill swept through Aeneas at Apollo’s words. He knew the myth. 

They had all heard of the ravishment of Thetis fourteen years ago, by Peleus, on the order of Zeus. Both Poseidon and the King had fallen for the nymph but a prophecy had warned that her son would be greater than his father. They had led Peleus to a cave and told him he could marry Thetis if he caught her and…

Aeneas shuddered. Clearly, the gods hadn’t kept their promises. Thetis had bore a son, Achilles, and now, fourteen years later, the gods' promise to Peleus was being fulfilled. 

Aeneas gazed once more at the spectacle unfolding before them. There was a woman, in a white gossamer dress with peacock feathers trailing behind her. She was speaking in a serene voice, holding tightly to a staff that had a lily seated on the top.

“I promise you dominion and kingship of Asia Minor and all of Europe, if you give me the golden apple,” Hera said, her words directed to the other boy standing between the gods. The boy had dark raven hair and brown eyes, exactly like Hector’s. He was dressed like a cowherd, and his expression told Aeneas he was extremely conflicted. He didn’t seem to be as old as Aeneas and Perseus. What exactly was going on?

“Listen not to her, Paris.” A woman in silver battle armour stepped forward. She held a giant silver spear and a shield which had the monstrous face of a gorgon on it. She pulled off her helmet and black hair fell. Her piercing grey eyes met those of the boy, Paris. “I will give you infinite wisdom and unearthly prowess in battle once I have the apple as mine.” Paris’ facial expression betrayed his thoughts. He didn’t seem to enjoy the idea of battle skills and wisdom.

“Ignore them, my dear boy,” The silky, somewhat familiar voice made Aeneas start. His mother glided forward, reaching out to cup Paris’ cheek. “We all know who this apple should go to. Surely the fairest among the gods must be the goddess of love and beauty herself.”

Aeneas studied his mother. Blood red lips, red hair which cascaded down her shoulders and a revealing white peplos that showed a little too much cleavage. She had a heart-shaped face, beautiful pearly skin and her eyes seemed to be exactly like Creusa’s. She wore dark sandals and her nails were as red as her lips. She was ethereal. Unearthly. Regal and godly. She was his mother. 

She was love. 

“I promise you the hand in marriage of the most beautiful girl on this earth. Helen of Sparta shall be yours if you give the apple to me.” Aeneas could see the desire light up in Paris’ eyes.

He bowed. He did not even think through the offer.

“Of course, my Lady. You are right. The fairest among the goddesses is Aphrodite and therefore, she deserves the golden apple.” He handed the golden fruit in his hand to Aphrodite. 

There was a growl of anger from Athena and a huff from Hera. “You will regret this, mortal,” Hera sneered in an angry whisper. Both goddesses dissolved into mist. Thetis and her son melted into a sea breeze which wafted up Aeneas’ nose. One by one, the gods of Olympus disappeared in flashes of light, leaving behind Aphrodite and Paris.

There were a few heartbeats of silence. Then Apollo stepped forward. “Well, that was quite a show, wasn’t it?”

-X-

PERSEUS watched the gods with little interest. He barely heard what the three regal goddesses were arguing about. His mind was in a world of its own, playing back the conversation he had had with Helenus and his sister Cassandra a day ago. This time, she hadn’t started rambling when she sighted him.

He scowled slightly, remembering their words. He had been inside the palace, running an errand for the Polemarchos, the army’s Supreme General (of course, King Priam was still in charge, but the Polemarchos had the highest authority in the army, after him), who had taken a liking to him. After his job was done, he stopped by Hector’s and Aeneas’ chambers and spoke with them for a while. On his way out he had been stopped by the twin children of Priam.

Apparently Helenus also had a gift for divining the future, given to him by Apollo a while after Cassandra’s curse. Perseus’ gaze drifted to the god by their side. What was his motive?

“We know you’re going to Ida tomorrow,” Helenus had said. Perseus remembered the prince warning him not to go. He hadn’t looked like he wanted to kill Percy. He just seemed concerned, for whom, Perseus did not know. Helenus had said he should stop Aeneas from going too. According to Helenus, what or rather, who they came back with would destroy the city of Troy. Soon.

He hadn’t believed the prophet. But now he was contemplating. Perseus ran a hand through his hair, a million thoughts and possibilities appearing before his mind's eye. He glared at the ground. His thoughts drifted to the conversation he had had with Cassandra after she had urged her brother to allow them to speak in private.

“I’m never going to get married, Perseus. I’ve seen it. And I need you to see it too. I’ll be alright.” 

She had known that he was blaming himself for her curse. And she had reassured him as best as she could. She had asked if they could remain friends and he had agreed with a nod, unable to even speak. 

He sighed, then looked up just in time to see the boy give the apple to Aphrodite. Then the gods disappeared into light and mist. 

Apollo moved towards Aphrodite and Paris and Perseus spurred his feet to follow, grabbing Aeneas’ hand and pulling him along. 

“Apollo,” The goddess’ voice was silky and seductive. She glanced behind the sun god and her eyes met Perseus’ for a fraction of a second. Her eyes were bright silver. He frowned. Aphrodite looked away from him and smiled.

She moved towards Aeneas, saying, “My son.” She dropped the apple on the ground.

Aeneas’ face was expressionless but he did not resist when Aphrodite pulled him away from them. Perseus’ faced the cowherd, cocking his head to the side. 

“Paris, the mortal cowherd. It’s good to see you once again,” Apollo greeted the boy. Perseus thought he looked a lot like Hector. The likeness was uncanny. 

“Likewise, Lord Apollo,” The mortal bowed. The boy was gifted with clear sight, then. He turned to Perseus. “I am Paris. Others call me Alexander. I am the son of Agelaus.” Perseus examined him with a frown. His name meant the Protector of Men. 

“Perseus,” He finally replied. “Son of Anchises of Troy.”

Perseus’ eyes drifted over the apple the goddesses had been arguing about, rolling towards them. He reached down to pick it up, catching sight of the inscription in greek. He easily translated it. “For the fairest.”

This was what the gods were arguing about? He felt a deep sense of anger and fury flare inside him. He didn’t know who it was directed to. He turned to glare at Paris, wanting nothing more but to punch him in the face. And he did not know why.

“I’ll be taking that,” Apollo reached out, plucking the apple from Perseus’ grasp. He examined it with a critical eye, then let out a breath. “Of course. Eris.”

“Who?” Paris enquired. 

“The apple belongs to the goddess of discord. She wasn’t invited to the wedding.” Perseus nodded in understanding, remembering a lesson from Apollo, years ago. The apple’s powers were dark and promoted discord and violence. 

Perseus looked towards Aeneas and his mother. His brother’s face was neutral but from his body language, Perseus could see he was uncomfortable. Aphrodite was running a hand through his hair and cupping his face, speaking with urgency in hurried dulcet tones.

After a while, Aeneas broke away from her and began walking in their direction. He stopped a few feet away from Apollo. “We have to get back to Troy now.” He sent a sideways glare at Paris. “And you’re coming.”

“What?” Perseus blanched, his word being echoed by Paris. He heard Apollo sigh. 

“I’ll explain later,” Aeneas waved it aside. “Come on.”

Perseus tried to spot Aphrodite, but the goddess had disappeared and so had the apple in Apollo’s hands. He barely noticed the god reaching out to grab him. Aeneas placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Take my hand, son of Priam,” Apollo reached out to Paris. Perseus felt another chill run up his spine. What? Had he heard correctly? What had Apollo said? 

He barely had time to question the god, however, because he grabbed Paris by the hand and they melted into the sunlight.

-X-

HECTOR looked up when Aeneas marched into his father’s throne room, closely followed by Perseus and another soldier in silver armour. The soldier was leading a boy of about fifteen summers into the throne room, where his father’s court was in full swing.

Hector looked down at them from his throne on the raised dais. Aeneas was supposed to be next to him, with Perseus in the stands but the two had seemingly vanished that morning. 

“What is the meaning of this?” King Priam stood from his throne, a look of barely controlled anger flashing in his eyes.

“I carry an urgent message from the goddess Aphrodite,” Aeneas stated, his voice hard. He came to a stop at the foot of the throne and knelt. “I wish to speak with you in private, your highness.”

King Priam narrowed his eyes. Hector looked towards the silver soldier. He thought he saw a flash of gold in his eyes. Apollo. 

It seemed as though his father saw it too because he said, “The court shall have a break for an hour. I shall return when the goddess’ message has been delivered. Come, Aeneas.”

The noblemen and the court officials dispersed, muttering. Hector made his way towards Perseus and Aeneas. The latter turned his head to the cowherd who looked extremely out of place. “Follow me, Paris.” 

The boy did not argue. He seemed to be meek and quite young. Aeneas marched after King Priam and past Hector without so much as a glance. 

As he neared Perseus, he heard, “What did you mean by the son of Priam?”

“I meant what I said,” Apollo replied in hushed tones. “He is a child of the King, just like Hector is. Except, it was prophesied that he would bring…” He paused as if trying to find the right words. “...great misery to Troy. So he was sent away to Ida, to be killed.” Hector’s eyes narrowed in confusion.  

“The one from the mountain,” Perseus sounded...afraid. “The one Cassandra was referring to?”

“Yes. But—”

“What do you mean great misery?” Hector came to a stop in front of them.

Apollo’s eyes narrowed. He turned to face Hector. “You’ll find out soon, Heir Apparent. Patience is a virtue.” He turned back to Perseus, tilting his head to the side. “Do not let my words worry you too much. Not now, at least. I must go.” Without giving Hector a chance to ask more questions, he said, “Goodbye, Perseus.”

The sun god dissolved into dust.

“What was that about?” Hector queried. “And where did you go?”

“Ida,” Perseus answered, although a frown was etched on his face. “I still do not fully comprehend what is going on.” 

Aeneas and Hector’s father had disappeared from the audience chamber. Perseus continued, “Aphrodite wanted to see Aeneas. There was an argument between the gods of Olympus and apparently, the cowherd who came with us, is your brother.”

Hector felt his blood still. “What?”

“His name is Paris,” Perseus went on. “The Protector of Men. Cassandra speaks of him often. She sees him.” He paused. “According to Apollo, he’s the one she referred to as the Man from the Mountain.”

“I-I don’t understand.” Hector had never believed Cassandra’s words and he did not think he ever would. They were simply the ramblings of a madwoman, which was what his sister had been reduced to, and that was what everyone else—except Perseus—thought. 

“Neither do I,” Perseus shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out what is happening in an hour’s time.” 

Hector didn’t reply. Instead, he gazed at the doors through which Aeneas, King Priam and Paris had gone.

-X-

AENEAS followed the wide-eyed Paris and the sombre King Priam back into the audience chamber one hour later. He was still scowling, at nothing in particular, and he couldn’t push down the rush of anger he was feeling. He remembered his mother’s words when she was done lavishing him with praises and buttering him up so he would accept her request.

“Take the boy to Troy. Go to King Priam and tell him his son has returned. He is to make him a member of his household once more and treat him as his own. Tell him that Paris, the one he sent to be killed years ago—the Champion of Aphrodite—has come home.” 
It wasn’t about the fact that Hector had another brother, who had been sent to Ida to be killed upon his birth because of a prophecy. No, it was because Aphrodite had only wanted to see Paris, not him. Sure, he had somehow anticipated that, and gods don't usually contact mortals unless they could be of use in some way. But she referred to Priam’s new son as her champion. And it stung.

It has to be you who informs Priam. Not anyone else.

He had been trying to get his mother’s attention—her acknowledgement—since he could talk. But did she care? No, she did not. She had spoken of how proud she was of him and how he would accomplish great things but her words had been forced. She had said that things would be happening soon and he would be seeing her more often but he didn’t believe that.

He was basically an errand boy. He did not understand why she could not send Apollo or Perseus or any other person to send Priam’s son back to him. He could see the court officials move to take their seats once again.

Aeneas moved to take a seat directly below the dais, and he looked up to catch Hector’s confused glance. He looked away. All Priam’s male children who were of age were present in the court and behind the Army Commander, Perseus stood, holding a large spear. He had become somewhat of a personal assistant to the Polemarchos, Alexandros.

“I have an announcement to make,” Priam’s voice boomed through the throne room. All went silent. 

King Priam stood. “After nearly fifteen years, my son, Paris, has been returned to me,” He motioned towards the cowherd-prince who stood shyly beside Aeneas’ throne. “I am sure we all remember the prophecy given by Herophile the Priestess of Apollo years ago.” There was murmuring. A lot of it. Aeneas let out a stuttered breath. He was sure all the King’s children and the younger court officials were confused. 

“However, the gods have seen fit to return Paris, my son to me,” Priam stated. “He shall be given the title of Prince and he shall become a member of the House of Priam once more. Is there anyone who objects to the will of the gods?” 

The whispers had stopped. No hand was raised.

“It has been decided, then,” Priam said, although he did not look pleased. “I give you, Paris, Prince of Troy.”

-X-

PERSEUS glanced around him, inhaling the scent of the morning. He was glad he could finally be away from the heated and hectic nature of Troy. Aeneas was clearly affected by his meeting with his mother.

Hector had been busy these days since he had been charged with ensuring that Prince Paris integrated himself well into the royal lifestyle. His duties to Andromache and the throne also took up most of his time.

The son of Anchises also rarely saw his father these days. 

Perseus had been busy with his duties to the armies of Troy. He had been assisting Alexandros and training whenever he found the time. 

It was a welcome surprise when Apollo had appeared two weeks after the introduction of Paris and then whisked him to Delos, to visit his mater Leto. Yes, the god had dumped him on the Island and then left for a council meeting but Perseus had spent the afternoon speaking with Leto about his new life and the like.

A few hours later, Apollo had come to pick him up and then proceeded to dump him in the forests of Troy so he could find his way back to the barracks. He knew it wasn’t intentional but he was getting tired of picking leaves from his hair.

Perseus idly played with the hilt of his sword as he walked. He allowed his mind to roam and thought of all the things that had happened in the last year alone. He was finally seventeen and Aeneas would soon be following. He remembered the celebration he, Aeneas and Hector had had, three days after his birthday, when the two had finally gotten some free time. 

Perseus continued walking, smiling to himself as he went. Sure, their lives were different now and things kept happening each day but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. They wouldn’t allow something as trivial as lack of time to break the bond they had.

He stopped when he heard the low growl. Instantly his sword was out and the son of Anchises slipped into a stance.

“Who’s out there?” His armour was bulky and he cursed, knowing it would be a liability if a battle was to come. He heard a rustle in the bushes and a light laugh, then the patterning of many feet.

“He’s good, this one,” A male voice emanated from behind him. He spun. 

“I bet that’ll make him even tastier.” It was female this time. Perseus’ eyes widened when three lions marched out of the shadows of the trees, closely followed by the female lioness he had heard. Talking lions, with golden fur, feline features and golden eyes. Leonte. 

The word flashed in his mind and he bit his lip, clutching tighter onto his sword. 

“A demigod,” The first male lion’s lips peeled open. The eerie, humanlike ways they moved made him shiver. “I thought I smelled one.”

“I smell both Poseidon and Apollo on him,” Another said as they prowled closer, growling. “Tasty, I bet.”

Perseus’ eyes narrowed and he stepped back, making sure to remain silent. It wasn’t the first time he had faced mythical monsters. But Leonte were smart and they could kill as easily as they could morph into humans. 

The four great lions circled him, eyes glinting with the prospect of spilling demigod blood. They bent and he saw each of them prepare. He slipped a knife into his free hand, trying to keep a levelled head.

He steeled his nerves as the first of the Leonte pounced.

-X-

SELENE was flying above the city of Troy when she heard the roars. She peered down from her path in the skies, cocking her head to the side. Her grip on the reins of her chariot was steady and she barely noticed Nyx retreating after spreading her cloak of night around the entire world. 

Night had fallen and Selene was riding towards the east to meet with her brother Helios. She had just passed by Artemis in the moon and Her brow creased when she spotted the features of the mortal who had almost made her lose her footing all those months ago on Delos.

Artemis and her brother Apollo often spoke of the mortal when they met Selene and her brother. Selene had wanted to meet the mortal boy, seeing how the twin deities held him in high regard. 

She remembered how Lord Zeus had commanded her and Helios to hand over the reins of their chariots to Artemis and Apollo a few millennia after the two were born, as a gift for their 1000th birthday. She had not complained; already the mortals had started thinking of the children of Leto as the gods of the Luminaries. It did not matter to Selene though. Artemis often invited her to hunt with her in the woods, because there was simply nothing else to do, now they had no godly duties.

Selene had often thought about how it would be to fade. However, Artemis and Apollo were constantly making sure she and her brother were engaged in something so that did not happen. Whether it was out of guilt or not, Selene did not know.

She observed with keen interest as the man (Perseus was his name) fought four Leonte ferociously. She saw him duck under a lion paw and slash with precision, nicking his attacker under the eye. He dodged another strike which would have torn out his throat and danced out of the Leonte’s reach. 

Selene winced in pain when the third leapt forward, roaring and cutting through Perseus’ armour, slicing down and creating three huge gashes on his back. He yelled in pain, and backhanded the Leonte, sending it sailing away.

Selene was heavily impressed he was still standing. She watched, extremely interested, as the Leonte shifted into their human forms and began to attack the raven-haired man. She took the time to properly examine him and she liked what she saw. He was well built, with the look of a soldier, broad shoulders and chest, and rightly proportioned arms. He was nimble on his feet and his bright green eyes flashed with anger as he battled off the monsters.

They became a blur of light and shadows, dancing under the moonlight and trying very hard to kill the other. They were mere wisps of sword against claw and knife and she marvelled at the agility and swiftness the man possessed. He had gotten hit a few times, yes, but he took out two of the Leonte in ten minutes.

She saw Perseus, though haggard and battered, with a crazed grin on his face. He was enjoying himself, she could see. He advanced on the last monster and soon, only a pile of ashes and fur remained.

As Selene continued on her path to the East, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she would be seeing more of the green-eyed man named Perseus.

Chapter Text

PARIS looked around him in awe and astonishment. If he had been told four months ago that he would be living the life of a prince soon he would never have believed it. But here he was, an actual son of King Priam, living the life he was born for.

He had found out the exact prophecy which had caused him to be sent away and although it had troubled him for quite a while, he was past it now. He had fallen in love with the city and he would never do anything to bring about its destruction like the Prophecy had said.

He pursed his lips. If he had not granted the god Ares that laurel wreath in the bull competition, he would never have drawn the attention of the gods of Olympus. He wouldn’t have been asked to judge the three goddesses and grant one of them the apple. He wouldn’t have been taken back to Troy by his brother-in-law, Aeneas. In short, he wouldn’t have been a prince.

And Oenone would not have left him.

A deep scowl marred his features as he thought back to the argument he had had with the river nymph a few days after his reinstatement as a prince. He had gone back to his old home to inform his father—the man who had raised him—and had encountered his lover once more.

But Oenone did not matter, because he would be getting married to the most beautiful woman on earth, Helen of Troy. Paris knew she was married to the King of Sparta—that was why he was on this expedition in the first place. Aphrodite had made him a promise and he knew she would not go back on her word.

Paris glanced around him, pulling himself out of his thoughts. The ship was sailing on smoothly, the waters gentle—Poseidon was in a good mood, then. Paris caught sight of Perseus, his brother Hector and the Polemarchos, Alexandros, exiting a room close to the captain’s chambers.

The three were deep in conversation and Paris saw them glance once or twice in his direction. Paris and his two brothers Hector and Deiphobus had been sent on a diplomatic mission to Sparta, on the order of King Priam to make friendly ties with the Graeceans. Hector was there to learn how to lead delegations, as he was going to be doing so when he was King, and Alexandros was there to guide him. Perseus had accompanied both men, along with a squadron of about twenty or thirty soldiers, including Paris himself and Deiphobus, whom Priam had ordered to go along. Paris had a sneaking suspicion that Alexandros and his father were grooming Perseus to succeed the Polemarchos, just as Hector would take over from King Priam.

He did not doubt that all this was the work of Aphrodite—sending him to the Greek polis so he would be able to see his intended. He smiled to himself, turning back to look over the edge of the ship and into the still waters.

-X-

PERSEUS scowled at the water as he continued, ruminating over his thoughts. It was the first time since his mother had died that he had been at sea. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible would happen on this journey.

Sure, he loved the water. But he hated its master. He just hoped Poseidon would not notice his presence and aura for as long as he continued to be on the ship. He hadn’t wanted to go on this journey, but his devotion and loyalty to Hector and the Head General had made him do so.

And the words of Cassandra four nights prior had solidified his decision to go along.

They had been travelling for almost four days, on their way to Sparta on the order of the King. He and Hector had spent most of their time together, training and discussing the methods he would use once he offered the gifts of gold and a treaty.

He silently studied the new prince and cocked his head to the side as he did. Since the start of the journey, Paris had seemed oddly excited, as if anticipating something big. Cassandra’s warning reverberated in Perseus’ head and he frowned once more. He could also hear grunts and laughs from the rear of the ship as Hector duelled with his silent and reserved brother, Deiphobus. The fourth born of Priam was a few years younger than Perseus’ himself, but he was spirited and good at battle.

Perseus' thoughts drifted to their days in Troy. He had been going to the forest more often to seek out more monsters and battling them, to let off the stress and pressure which came with his job. He had felt as though he were being watched every time…

He rarely saw Aeneas these days and he missed his brother dearly. He had been slowly adjusting to the military and royal life, training each day and attending court sessions. Hector had started learning the art of warfare and politics and ruling the kingdom. He rarely had time for either Perseus or Aeneas these days. But they had been going on several military campaigns and battles and with the death of the older, more experienced officers, they had been rising through the ranks, slowly but surely. Perseus and his two companions were now antisyntacmatarkhis—Lieutenant Colonels.

The raven-haired boy sighed, turning away. He had been seeing more of Apollo and slowly, as the months crept past, they were repairing their fractured friendship. He tried to shake himself out of the memories and thoughts, glancing towards the horizon instead.

His conversation with Cassandra forced its way into his head once more.

“Do not go on this expedition, Perseus,” Her eyes were flashing dangerously; crazily, even.

“It is my duty to protect your brother and General Alexandros, and that is what I must do,” He said, shaking his head. “I cannot shirk my responsibilities.”

She looked down sadly, as though she had seen he would refuse her plea. “Fine, then,” She said. “Go. But keep an eye on Paris. Do not trust him, and stop him before he does something which—”

“I’ll make sure he does nothing to harm Troy, Cassandra,” He saw, brow furrowing. “I’ll keep him in check.”

Cassandra smiled, grateful that at least one person in the city believed her.

He shook his head, his hand finding its way to his sword. He had nothing better to do. Might as well go join Hector and Deiphobus.

-X-

HECTOR tried to calm his erratically beating heart. He had never led a delegation to any city before and he was panicking, although he was trying not to show it. He saw that Perseus was also looking uneasy as he walked in tandem with Alexandros and Paris. Hector fiddled with a small knife at his side, examining the servants who lugged a multitude of gifts in the direction of the palace.

It had taken them three weeks to get to Greece and the city-state of Sparta. On their arrival a few minutes ago, they had been welcomed by the General of the Spartan armies and a couple of buff soldiers.

Hector had no doubt he could take them easily if something went wrong, but he did not want to test his luck. He was a bit insulted that the King, Menelaus, had not come out to see them himself.

As they were escorted to the huge and imposing palace, Hector could feel the gazes of the spartans on their small party. He kept his eyes fixed on their destination, head held high and paying no heed to the gawking people.

They continued walking in silence, and finally, they came to stop before two huge bronze gates. The spartans were favoured by the gods, he could tell. He had passed at least two milk fountains on their way, and he had seen a couple of skeletal horses which he knew came from the god Ares. In the city square, a statue of the war god was chained to the ground, two dragons at its sides.

With a single gesture from the General, the gates swung open. Hector took in a gulp of air, then put a step forward, into the royal palace of Sparta, the city of war.

XMX

HECTOR did not go on his knees. He simply dipped his head and mid-section in a small bow to the royals seated on the dais, while all those around him except his brothers went on one knee in reverence. Hector studied Menelaus as he said, “Rise.”

The King was about a decade older than Hector himself, with mousy brown hair and a bushy beard. He was dressed in red and gold robes, and Hector faintly thought his own purple robes pale in comparison.

The King was heavily and well built, if not a bit stocky and short, but he looked every bit like a King and a warrior. “Welcome to Sparta,” Menelaus spoke, his deep voice reverberating throughout the audience chamber. “It is a pleasure to have you grace my city.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hector stepped forward. “I have heard so much about Sparta and her conquests, and I wished to see for myself.” Menelaus nodded, and Hector continued. “I come bearing gifts from my father, King Priam of Troy, and offer a treaty of peace, trade and friendship, between our two nations.”

Menelaus seemed surprised but pleased. “I am delighted to hear this,” He said. “Your offer of peace and friendly relations will be decided upon in three days. You are welcome to stay in Troy for as long as you wish.”

Hector bowed once more, then said, “On behalf of the polis of Troy, I thank you for your hospitality.”

Menelaus nodded once more. Hector’s eyes flickered away from the King and then widened. She was honestly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even more beautiful than his lovely wife Andromache. She had plump red lips and curly blonde hair which fell around her in ringlets. Her robes were immaculate, as were all her other features. Her expression was one of childlike innocence and Hector had to force himself to tear his eyes away.

He cleared his throat, catching Menelaus’ smirk. The Spartan ruler stood, then said, “Odysseus, why don’t you escort our guests to the chambers we arranged for their arrival.”

-X-

PARIS’ heart was thumping loudly in his chest. He had been staring at the woman seated at Menelaus’ side for so long, unable to get her beauty out of his head. Her eyes were perfect, her lips too—Gods, she was perfect. He smiled to himself once more.

Helen of Troy had met his gaze a few times while Hector spoke with King Menelaus. He had seen the curiosity in her gaze and he couldn’t help but feel pleased. He felt sorry for himself as they were led out of the audience chamber by a sandy-haired, doe-eyed man who had also been on a throne next to Menelaus.

Odysseus, if Paris had heard correctly. Paris had heard of him, the King of Ithaca, married to Helen’s cousin, Penelope. The new prince walked slowly behind their party, not noticing that Hector and Perseus were engaged in deep conversation with the Ithacan.

He admired the beauty of the palace as they walked—it was just like its queen. It could not compare to Troy, no, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

“This shall be Prince Paris’ chambers,” The voice of Odysseus cut through Paris’ reverie. “I hope you enjoy your stay in my brother-in-law’s kingdom.” Paris bobbed his head in a nod and pushed open the door Odysseus had gestured to.

He knew they would be there for a while. He had overheard Alexandros saying they would spend a week in the city-state, to establish the treaty of trade and friendship between Troy and Sparta. He had a week to make Helen fall for him.

As Paris closed the door of his chambers, he was aware of the sea-green eyes boring into him, narrowed in suspicion. He looked up, and sent another small nod, but this time in Perseus’ direction. Then he shut the door.

XMX

PARIS got the shock of his life when the silky but regal voice calling his name reached his ears. He spun from the door, then glanced around anxiously, only relaxing when he caught sight of the woman in his bed.

But then he frowned. He knew the voice, but the appearance was different. Aphrodite was disguised as a mortal servant, wearing a simple short and low-necked chiton, which displayed an almost indecent length of her legs and ample cleavage. He felt himself turning red, then looked down, dropping into a bow.

“Lady Aphrodite,” He tried to keep his throat from clogging up. The majestic laughter caused him to look up once again.

“There is no need to be shy, young Paris,” Aphrodite stood from the bed. “Rise.”

He followed her commands and waited for her to speak.

“I see you have met Helen earlier today?” When he nodded, she smiled. “You are smitten with her, no? Your aura is enough indication. Do not fret, Paris. She shall be yours soon.”

“What must I do to ensure that she is, my lady?” He queried, tilting his head to the side.

“Four days hence, you must leave Sparta. Eros and I have already worked our magic. She will come to you in four days, under my spell. Be prepared to run for your lives. You must leave with your brothers, and Perseus, along with the others, if you manage to alert them in time. Otherwise, take only those three. The soldiers are replaceable and unimportant.”

Paris felt adrenaline pump through his veins. He pursed his lips and smiled at the goddess. “I thank you for your kindness, my lady. I will forever be in your debt.”

Aphrodite waved his words away and then melted into the form of a dove, flying out of the open window.

-X-

PERSEUS fiddled with his knife as he listened. It had been four days and to him, the delegation was going pretty well. Hector was excited that he had nearly accomplished his mission but Perseus couldn’t help but feel a little anxious.

He was reminded of Cassandra’s warning each time he looked at Paris and he had kept the prince in sight at all times. That particular morning, Perseus had been more nervous than usual. He had been around the grounds of the Palace with Hector and Alexandros, being given a tour by the man, Odysseus.

Perseus liked him. He had a good sense of humour, although his arrogance was irritating. He was wise too, and he could see that the man had Athena’s favour. Odysseus and Hector had hit it off and were discussing wars and battles and other stuff Perseus did not deem interesting. He had walked alongside them, his mind absent. After their tour, evening had come and Menelaus had held a feast to celebrate the acceptance of the treaty.

After a few hours of friendly chatter with Menelaus, Hector had asked for leave to retire to bed. Perseus had stood to follow, along with Paris and Alexandros. A guard moved to escort them back.

They had walked in silence for a few minutes, passing through the dark passages of the palace. Night had fallen and Perseus could see the full moon through a few open windows they passed.

“Oh, I must have left my sword back at the feast hall,” Paris muttered absentmindedly. “I must go retrieve it.”

Perseus could hear the lie coming from Paris' voice. He could also see it, seeing as the sword in question was hanging at Paris’ side. Hector and Alexandros did not seem to notice though. Paris retreated silently.

“Excuse me,” Perseus said after a few minutes. “I’ll join you both at Prince Hector’s chambers.”

He pivoted, his hand going to his sword and stalked down the passageway. He silently cursed the new prince. He had a lot to learn—if he was going to lie, it should have at least been believable.

Shaking his head, he silently traced his way back in the direction they had come from. He heard the voices a few minutes later.

The voice was female and light. “You came.”

“Of course I did,” He heard the voice of the Prince. “Who can resist a request from a pretty face like yours, Helen?”

Perseus’ eyes widened. No…

Paris wouldn’t. Especially not when they were trying to solidify the alliance between Troy and Sparta. Perseus’ chest constricted, as though a giant hand had wrapped around his body and squeezed.

“Please, I beg you, take me away from this wretched place,” Queen Helen pleaded. “I hate it here. My husband does not treat me well.”

“Do not worry, my love,” Paris said. “You will be free of him soon. Midnight. Meet me at the port. I will take you to Troy with me.”

“Thank you. I love you,” Helen’s voice was dripping with emotion, and Perseus heard something which sounded like a wet kiss. “I must return to the feast, before my absence is noticed.”

“Goodbye, Helen,” Paris said. “Do not forget. Midnight.”

Perseus turned and hastily retreated before either of the two came out of the small passage. A frown marred his face as he went. Was this what Cassandra was referring to? Yes. He was certain. If Helen and Paris ran, Menelaus would follow them to Troy.

And Death and War would come along with him.

XMX

PERSEUS pulled the cloak tighter over himself. He stood a few metres away from Paris’ chambers, hidden in a small alcove in the wall. He was prepared to fight the son of Priam if it meant stopping him from running with Helen.

He heard the faint sound of a door creaking open. It was midnight, then. The sound of footsteps was barely audible and Perseus stepped out hastily. He drew his sword and levelled it at the prince, a scowl on his features.

“Perseus. W-what—”

“Do you think I am a fool, Paris?” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you know what will happen if you steal Helen from her husband?”

The Prince’s surprise morphed into anger. “You heard, then.”

“I did,” Perseus agreed. “I cannot allow you to endanger the lives of my people.”

“I am their Prince,” Paris said, angered. “I would do nothing to harm Troy.”

“I am not inclined to believe that, seeing what you plan to do,” He bit back. “Go back to your chambers, Paris.”

The boy scowled. “I order you to drop your weapon, son of Anchises. If you want to make it back home in one piece, you will come with me, as Aphrodite commanded. Fetch Hector and Deiphobus. You can rouse the soldiers and Alexandros if there is time.”

Perseus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “I will not—”

“It is an order from Aphrodite herself and from a Prince of Troy. You will heed to me and do as I say,” Paris’ lips curled. “Unless you want your dear father to be unfortunately exiled out of Troy? Believe me, I can influence Father enough to make it happen. Your position as Lieutenant Colonel? That can vanish too.”

Perseus glared, fury coursing through him. He did not want to do as Paris said. But he was a prince—a representative of the throne. He hesitated. Aphrodite had ordered it, but that still didn’t make it right. Perseus knew what kind of implications listening to the Prince would bring.

“Obey my command,” Paris sneered. “It is your duty.”

He couldn’t give in. But Paris was right. The first thing they were taught in the Army was obedience before complaint. And the Prince was threatening his father, along with his position.

Perseus couldn’t allow that to happen. No harm had to come to his father. Without another word, he stalked past the son of Priam, shouldering him as he went.

Paris had made a permanent enemy that night. He would regret blackmailing Perseus.

-X-

HECTOR’s eyes widened in shock and panic as he watched the giant spear sail through his mentor’s chest. The Supreme General, Alexandros fell to the ground with a yell of pain. The spear protruded out of his chest and his eyes were wide and glassy.

“Bring them back to me!” He heard the roar of King Menelaus, who had killed the head of the Army (directly under Priam) right in front of Hector. “I don’t care if they're dead or alive! Bring back my wife!”

“We must move!” Perseus’ voice broke him out of his shock. “Or else they will kill us too!”

It was only by Perseus’ guidance that they reached the ship. Hector did not know what in Apollo’s name was happening. He had been roused by his friend a few minutes ago, saying they had to get to the port, urgently. But Perseus hadn’t mentioned that they would be fleeing for their lives and stealing the Queen of Sparta.

“Move, men! Move the bloody ship!” Paris’ voice tore through the night as the soldiers hurried to set sail.

“What’s going on?” Hector came to a stop at the starboard side. Bells were ringing, lights flashing and men yelling. He could see hundreds of Spartans, racing or the port. Spears and arrows sailed through the air and one or two cut through a few men.

“Your brother,” Perseus snarled. “Smitten. In love with the Queen herself. She asked him to take her to Troy. And he says Aphrodite sanctioned it!”

“What?!” Hector felt rage fill him. He spun, making a move towards his brother. “PARIS!” He thundered.

He barely took notice of the woman on the ship. He came to a stop in front of his brother, rearing back and slammed his fist into Paris’ face.

“How dare you?!” He raged. “Do you know what you have done?!” He couldn’t describe the emotions coursing through him. Fear, anger, fury, rage. He wanted to throttle Paris and throw him off the ship.

The shouts and lights from Sparta were dimming as the men rowed them away. The port faded in the distance.

Hector narrowed his eyes, heaving in a breath. “The General of Troy’s armies is dead because of you.” He saw Paris gulp. “Menelaus will chase after us because of you.” He studied the boy before him, trying to calm himself.

“You will be punished as I see fit when we arrive back at Troy,” He hissed. “Get out of my sight.”

-X-

MENELAUS exchanged a stricken and furious glance with Odysseus. He was mad. He had allowed the Trojans to come—he had shown them hospitality. And they repaid him by stealing his wife?!

A savage snarl ripped through his throat. “Send word to Agamemnon in Mycenae,” He forced the words out, clenching tighter to his second-best spear. “Rally the Kings of Greece. It is time to fulfil the promise they made to my father-in-law and I all those years ago.”

Odysseus nodded subtly. Menelaus gazed at the horizon. He would call forth all of Greece. He would make sure the Trojans paid.

He would kill Paris, son of Priam, with his own hands.

-X-

ACHILLES laughed. He spun on his feet, narrowly dodging the spear which would have impaled him had he been a second slower. He was bathed in the golden glow of the sun, and his bright blue eyes shone with the adrenaline and excitement which filled him each time he duelled.

He narrowly dodged another strike and laughed once more, drawing his sword as he did. He shot forward, slamming the pommel of his sword into his instructor’s gut. Seriously, did his father think this man was a challenge? Achilles knew he could take on both this man and twenty more at the same time.

His instructor doubled over with a loud oomph, then Achilles was up in a flash, slamming his elbow into the man’s back. The armoured soldier dropped to the ground, flat on his face. Achilles placed his foot on his back.

“Yield?” He queried.

The man cursed slightly, then nodded--or at least, tried to. Achilles lifted his foot, sheathing his sword as he did so. He smiled when he heard the clapping. Achilles brushed his hair out of his eyes, his smile widening when he spotted his spy.

“Patroclus!” He began to make his way to the boy, his best friend.

Patroclus looked impressed, although Achilles saw a flash of anxiety pass through his eyes.

“You’re early,” He smiled. “I wasn’t expecting you for another half an hour.”

“I know,” Patroclus’ smile fell off his face. “But King Peleus sent me.”

Achilles’ smile faded too. His father only sent for him when it was urgent, or there was some business he wanted to discuss.

“Do you know what he wants me for?”

“No idea.” Patroclus bit his lip. “But he seemed grave. You’d better go.”

“Alright. Are you busy after? We’re to meet up with Chiron in an hour. Don’t be late,” Achilles reminded.

“I won't,” Patroclus said. “I shall go prepare our bags.”

Achilles nodded. Patroclus frowned in his direction, the older boy’s worry shining on his face. Achilles sent him a smile of reassurance, then began to make his way to his father’s audience chamber.

It seemed like hours but after only a few minutes, he stood before the ageing King of Phthia. Achilles dropped into a bow, saying, “You asked to see me, Father?”

“I did.” The king arose from his throne, approaching his only son. Achilles stood upright at a motion from his father.

“As you know, we have visitors,” The King began. Achilles frowned. Yes, he did know they had visitors. Two men, Odysseus and Diomedes, kings in their own right, had paid a visit to their kingdom, although he didn’t know for what.

He simply nodded, and his father ploughed on. “They came to ask you to aid them in battle. Against the Trojans.”

Achilles stepped back with a start. His lips parted and his eyes widened. Shock and surprise filled him and he was pretty sure his heart stopped beating for an instant. After a few seconds, he shook his head to clear away the surprise. Sure, he knew he was a great warrior--he heard that every day--but a war?

His heart began to thump. For years, that was all he had ever dreamed of. He wanted to show the world his skills. He wanted to be known as Greece’s greatest. He felt a mountain of emotions and thoughts slam into him and his frown deepened.

A single question came to him. “Why?”

His father sighed. “A prophecy. One which foretells that Menelaus and his brother will only be successful if aided by the Prince of Phthia. Their forces must assemble on Aulis in a week.” Achilles was no fool. He knew of the conflict that had arisen between Troy and all the kingdoms of Greece, over the fairest woman in the land.

But a prophecy which had spoken of him? He had heard nothing of that.

“I asked them to wait, so I could speak with you. After all, it is your life and your decision, not mine.” He paused for effect. “Think carefully, son. You might die if you pursue this conquest, for war, even in honour of a woman favoured by the gods, is still war.” He stopped again, then said, “Or you might achieve great things.”

He tried to still his erratic heartbeat and blanket his thoughts, but they pushed through. Would he die if he went?

Would he be allowed to go at all if he wanted to?

What would he gain by aiding the King of Sparta?

What if he didn’t get another chance to prove himself to the world?

The last thought incensed him, and determination filled his veins. “I want to--”

He was cut short by the sharp sound which filled the empty throne room. A deep scent of the ocean filled his lungs and Achilles’ eyes widened further. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a month.

“Mother,” He breathed.

Thetis glided over to him, totally disregarding Achilles’ father. He knew she only came because of him. She hated his father, if what Chiron had said was to be believed.

“You shall not go to Aulis,” She bared her teeth at him and Achilles narrowed his eyes. She was glowing with divine power and looking as ethereal and mystical as a godly being should be.

“Why?” He questioned, stepping away from her.

“You shall perish if you do. Fame and eternal glory shall be yours, but you shall perish,” The bite in her voice made him flinch. His mother was never this hard on him. “I shall not stand by and watch my only son die at the hands of a lowly mortal.”

“But Matera--” The indignance in his voice was clear.

“My decision is final,” Thetis’ eyes flashed with power and if it wasn’t for the simple fact that she was his mother, Achilles would have attacked her from the anger which filled him at that moment.

“Father!” He turned to the King. “I want to go!”

His father’s lips parted to speak. But his mother cut him short. “It seems you did not hear me. You shall die if you aid the greeks. And you will not. I won’t allow it!”

Achilles wanted to argue. He wanted to fight. He wanted to do something. But he could only watch as his mother reached out for him, grabbing his shoulder. He felt himself begin to melt into the ocean mist.

“Where are you taking me?” He snarled.

“Skyros.” That was the last thing he heard before the blackness engulfed him.

-X-

PERSEUS tilted his head to the side, taking in his surroundings. He knew what he was doing was risky. He knew he would be killed if he was caught.

But he had volunteered for this job, and he was not going to back out now. He released a breath, fingering the hilt of his sword for reassurance that it was still there. He walked cautiously through the gates of the Palace of Skyros. It had been two months since the incident in Sparta, and all the kingdoms of Greece were lining up against his country.

His anxiety was to be expected. He knew Skyros was aligned with Mycenae. But it was a centre of trade and one could hear news from all around the world, just by mingling with the people at the docks and the market. He had heard a lot, actually, and he knew his report would most likely frighten those back home.

When they had returned to Troy, Aphrodite had appeared, to stop Priam from punishing Paris. Now the sodding git was married to an already married woman, just because it was the will of the goddess.

Perseus could now see why Aeneas had gotten mood swings and anger management issues when he had interacted with his mother.

He knew Menelaus and his brother Agamemnon were amassing an army to take back Helen and destroy his city. He knew they needed the help of Achilles, son of Thetis, who had gone missing two months prior. And he knew Achilles was in Skyros--in the palace to be exact--thanks to information from Apollo.

His thoughts drifted to the developments in Troy. Priam had known what would happen when Paris brought back Helen. So he had had Hector replace Alexandros as Commander of the Trojan forces. Then he had asked him to pick generals and advisors to aid him with the city defences.

Of course, Aeneas and Perseus were among the six selected, including Helenus, Deiphobus, Polydorus and Paris. New blood replaced the old, the former generals and advisors having either retired or died after the army’s several conquests.

Hector had felt he was not ready, although Perseus knew he was more than. The leadership skills which Hector had were inferior to none and Perseus knew he would support his friend through the storm.

He was broken out of his reverie by the guard who had been accompanying him to see the King.

“Announcing, Perseus, ambassador of Apollo!” The doors to the King’s court swung open and he strode through.

Like he had said, it was risky.

He had been tasked by Hector to get information from Skyros about the happenstances in Greece, and he had succeeded in that. Now he needed to find the whereabouts of Achilles like Hector had ordered.

He needed to kill him.

He had no reservations against assassinations and murder. Sure, he was still young, but he had seen as much blood and death as any other man had. More than most, in fact, especially considering the Tournament of Ida.

But he was in the lion’s den right now and every move he made had to be calculated. He had to kill the son of Thetis before he became a threat to the Kingdom of Troy as the Prophecy had predicted.

Perseus’ eyes fluttered around the room. He had come up with the false title while on the voyage to Skyros--He would meet with the King, convince him to tell him of Achilles’ whereabouts on the guise that he was on a mission to retrieve a quiver of arrows the god had left on the Island once before.

It was smart and cunning, not quite his forte, he knew, but it would be effective, especially with Apollo backing him on this mission.

Perseus dropped down to a bow as he came to a stop in front of the less-than-grand throne.

“Rise, ambassador of Apollo,” The King spoke. He did. “You are...quite young, to be a priest of the gods.”

“I am,” He agreed. “But I have lived in the temple of Athens since my birth and I am more than qualified to serve Lord Apollo.”

“Tell me,” Lycomedes leaned forward on his throne. The king was rather unappealing--wrinkles, grey balding head, sagging gut and a grey robe which might have once been white. He would surely win MVP for most grubbiest King of the year.

“What does the god Apollo wish to reveal to me?”

Perseus looked around. There were many court officials, old men and soldiers, noblewomen and maids. But his eyes fell on one--he had sensed the aura immediately he had stepped into the audience chamber.

She had bright red hair, almost as bright as Aphrodite’s, with startling blue eyes. A weird but not rare combination. She looked to be a lady-in-waiting but the intensity of her gaze made him deduce that she was so much more. His sharp ocean eyes caught sight of the wisps of blond sticking out from beneath the mop of red.

Bingo.

Perseus looked around once more, turning to face the king. “My Lord’s message is only for your ears, King Lycomedes. No mere mortal must be allowed to hear the words of the mighty Apollo. I request that you allow me to speak with you in private.”

“Your request shall be deliberated on. Two days hence, I will hear the words of the sun. For now, ambassador, you shall enjoy the wonders Skyros had to offer and be at home in my palace. This court is adjourned.”

Perseus knew he wasn’t going to wait for two days. The job would be done that night. Then he would call on Apollo for help and escape the confines of the palace.

Bowing once more to the king, he allowed himself to be led away from the unenticing throne.

XMX

PERSEUS silently crept up the passageway, towards the direction of Princess Deidamia’s chambers, where he knew the lady-in-waiting was. He fiddled with his knife hilt, making sure he was ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.

The son of Anchises could hear nothing as he walked. The palace was dead and the faint light of the torches which illuminated the passage was what made him see. He slowed down as he neared the youngest princess’ chambers, hearing low voices whispering in the night.

His thoughts drifted to two months ago when he had heard the whispers of Paris and Helen. Surely Thetis' son, only of fifteen summers, couldn’t be involved with the princess.

He narrowed his eyes, coming to a stop at a bend in the passage. Down the left bend was the Princess’ room. He heard the faint sound of a door opening and then shutting.

“All done for the night, Pyrrha?” Perseus risked a peek. The deep voice of the single guard at the door had stopped the redhead lady-in-waiting.

“Yes. My Lady’s needs and wants have been satisfied. She is in Morpheus’ hands now.” Perseus cringed at the high falsetto. He also cringed at the words. The double meaning which accompanied them made him want to choke. Achilles was having an affair with the Princess of Skyros? Interesting.

“Well then, goodnight,” The guard bade her farewell. He seemed oblivious to what Achilles had meant.

Perseus ducked into a niche as Achilles, or rather, Pyrrha, made his way towards his own chambers, away from the Princess’ room.

Perseus waited for him to disappear behind a bend before he followed him. As he came to a stop at another curve, he saw the hems of a pale pink dress disappear. He followed.

Perseus silently slid across the walls, tailing the disguised boy until they stopped in front of an archway. It was then that he realised something was wrong. He had done his research. And this wasn’t Achilles’ chamber.

“You can come out now, ambassador of Apollo,” The boy’s voice made him freeze. How had he known he was there?

There was no use hiding, then. Perseus stepped out of the shadows, drawing his knife. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Pyrrha.”

“Likewise, son of Anchises,” The blue-eyed half-mortal grinned. Perseus started. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You think my mother didn’t warn me that you would be coming to kill me?”

Perseus recovered quickly, arching a brow. “Your mother is very...invested in your life. So much that she hides you from battle, like a little child. She probably knows how easily you would fall to my blade or that of my comrades if you were to venture to Troy.”

Achilles snarled, drawing a gleaming knife from his waist. His blue eyes filled with rage. Perseus slipped into a stance.

“I shall end you, son of Anchises. And then I’ll deliver your bones to your father myself.”

-X-

ACHILLES surged forward, knives flashing. He let loose a roar and raised the weapon to stab his enemy. Perseus sidestepped the attacks, spinning nimbly on his feet. He ducked low to slash at Achilles’ chest.

The younger warrior darted back, narrowly avoiding the blade. He bent, kicking out to sweep Perseus off his feet. The son of Anchises leaped into the air, then brought his knife downwards in an overhead strike. Achilles rolled out of the way and the blade struck the ground. The blond boy jumped up, shooting out with his weapon and drawing a deep gash into Perseus’ calf. Achilles smiled. He had drawn first blood.

The man hissed in pain and barely controlled rage then stabbed downwards.

Had it not been for his impenetrable skin, he would have been dead. The golden dagger slammed into his back, making him grunt. It hurt like hell, but he was satisfied, at least, when the dagger shattered into fragments. Perseus cursed as the shards ricocheted away from him.

He swore loudly, backing away. Achilles grinned, standing. His eyes flickered over to Perseus’ last weapon, and he noticed his hold on it tightening. He licked his lips, then shot forward.

They clashed in a flurry of sparks, their weapons slamming into each other. Perseus flipped his weapon then slashed upward, but once again, Achilles ducked. Then he reared forward, slamming his head into Perseus’. The man grunted, and the son of Thetis spun around, delivering a solid right hook into Perseus’ face. He heard the distinct sound of a bone cracking.

Achilles pulled away, waiting, alert. “Come at me,” He panted out.

“Sod off,” Perseus growled out.

This time, the clang their weapons made was louder. They hacked, stabbed, clashed and tried to chop each other to pieces. Achilles’ gift saved him so many times--uncountable times. Perseus had caught him with his dagger so many times. If he did not have iron skin, he would have been six feet under thirty minutes ago.

The ferocity at which they fought and dodged each other’s strikes was amazing. They were at equal strength, parrying and dancing around each other, panting with exertion, trying so hard to lop off each other’s heads. They reared away from each other when it seemed none was winning.

“Who sent you?” Achilles snarled. He knew the answer. He just needed to be sure.

Perseus did not dignify him with a response. Achilles frowned. How many more people would be sent after him?

“I want--”

“Who’s there?” The voice made him jerk around. Perseus froze. A guard. Achilles swore to himself, then glanced around.

“I will get to Troy, once I escape this place. And I will kill you when I do.”

The dark-haired man arched an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that, Graecus.” He moved forward, but Achilles was quicker. The son of Thetis ducked away, just as Perseus hurled his knife. Achilles gasped when it swept past his heel, brushing with it a gush of wind. His eyes were wide, but he spurned his feet into action. He inhaled, racing down the passage and leaving his attacker in the darkness.

-X-

PATROCLUS tilted his head to the side, scanning the port with suspicion. Two moons. It had been two moons since he had last seen Achilles and he was so frustrated, he could kill someone.

He had gone to King Peleus’ chamber, seeking out the golden-haired prince. Only to be told he had been taken away by his mother. Taken away by the same deity who had tried to shut down Patroclus’ friendship with Achilles.

Patroclus pursed his lips. It had taken two weeks for the King to finally give in to Patroclus’ pleas and tell him where Achilles had been taken. And he had instantly boarded a ship and headed to Skyros.

He began walking forward, away from the ship. Skyros was a small little kingdom. It was dainty and filled with a lot of humble homes. Patroclus’ gaze travelled around him as he walked. He could see men, women and children, going about their businesses, playing games, selling and doing all sorts of things. Yes, Skyros was well-known, for it was one of the largest centres of trade in all of Greece.

In fact, Patroclus could see several merchant ships docking at the harbour. He narrowed his eyes slightly when he caught sight of a man alighting from one of the vessels. He looked familiar…

Patroclus started, blinking. Hadn’t that been Odysseus? He blinked once more. The space he’d been staring at was vacant. No, it couldn’t be the King of Ithaca. He had been present when King Peleus had told Odysseus and his companions that Achilles would not join the quest. He had seen them leave; had seen them being told that Thetis had taken Achilles to an unknown place.

Patroclus shook off his worry, then looked around once more. There was a huge palace in the distance, and if his perceptions about Thetis were right, then that was where his friend was.

He clenched his fist, then marched forward, in the direction of the court of King Lycomedes of Skyros. But first, he had to go through the market.

XMX

ACHILLES narrowed his eyes at the man who stood next to the princess. Perseus, the ambassador who had tried to kill him. He hadn’t revealed all his secrets. Not yet. But Achilles knew he was just biding his time.

He had to get away from Skyros. He knew the man couldn’t kill him, but he had almost succeeded in piercing his heel. And Achilles knew that Perseus did not know about his weak spot. Yet the fact that he had almost died shook him to the core.

Princess Deidamia was deep in conversation with the ambassador of Apollo as they walked. Perseus hadn’t spared Achilles a single glance since that night, two days prior. When the princess had announced that she was going out of the palace, her father had asked that she show Perseus around the Island.

They were nearing the market now, and Achilles could see the numerous travellers flocking around the city square. He risked another glance at Perseus. Achilles cursed when their eyes met. The man passed him a shadow of a smirk.

“This is the market,” The dark-eyed princess motioned to the square. The guards behind them had lagged behind a bit.

“Shall we go in? I would like to see a bit of Skyros before I must leave,” Perseus said, voice questioning and formal.

“If you wish it,” The Princess said, signalling to Achilles and the guards to follow. They walked into the busy market of the polis.

Achilles had gotten used to the market in his two-month stay in Skyros. He knew the stores and other stuff because he often accompanied the princess on her excursions outside the palace. There were always about twenty guards trailing them, today being no exception, so none dared to come near them, making him remain silent for the whole journey.

Achilles’ eyes drifted to his left, then widened. That was new. He could see several tables, lined up, with several goods laid on them. Fruits, vegetables, antiques, even weapons. Where had they come from?

He eyed the two men standing next to the collection, calling out for customers. Achilles sighed, glancing longingly at the sword. He could be on Aulis by now, preparing to lead his forces against Troy.

But no. His matera had to coop him up on this Island. She-

He was broken out of his thoughts by the loud scream which ripped through the market. Achilles tensed. Then he heard more screams, yells and shouts. People scattered, running helter-skelter.

Achilles cursed when he heard the loud order, “Attack! Kill everyone and breach the palace!”

“Princess!” It was one of the guards. “We must leave, now!”

“Pyrrha!” Deidamia called his false name. “Come!”

The screams and pattering of feet got louder. Achilles felt adrenaline pump through his veins. He did not think; he just did.

Suddenly he was racing down the crowded road, towards the tables filled with goods and weapons. He was vaguely aware of his red wig falling off, but he did not care. He kicked off his sandals and hitched his dress to his knees. Achilles leaped onto the first table, flipping midair and landing on his feet.

Golden strands fell into his eyes.

He ran down the table, kicking off fruits, clothes and dresses. If he could just get to the swords…

His heart was pumping. He skidded to a stop before the weapons and grabbed one, unsheathing it out of its scabbard with the skill of a master swordsman.

“Achilles!” He heard the familiar voice and his head whipped to the side. His eyes widened. Patroclus? What was he doing there?

“Enough!” A loud voice rang out through the market. “Put away your weapons, boys. We found him.”

Achilles blinked as the market stilled. The crowd parted ways and a troop of men marched forward, led by...Odysseus?

Achilles frowned in confusion.

The men came to a stop in front of him. “What a lovely dress you have, Achilles,” Diomedes grinned at him. Achilles studied the black-haired king with suspicion. How had they known where he was.

“What--”

Suddenly Odysseus tensed in front of him. “You!” He snarled. Achilles turned. The King of Ithaca was glaring at Perseus. “It’s a Trojan!” Achilles heard the gasps and the shinks of swords being drawn. “Kill him!”

Perseus had left the Princess’ side. His hand was moving to his own weapon, but there was no fear on his face. He looked grim, but hardly scared.

The crowd surged forward, several swords glinting in the sunlight. Achilles stood, watching as they converged around the ambassador. He was aware of Patroclus leaping onto the table to join him.

Suddenly a brilliant white light flared in the marketplace. Achilles shut his eyes, cursing. They flew open once more when the light had died down. And then they widened. A goddess stood next to Perseus, silver eyes shining, white hair cascading down her shoulders. No words could describe her appearance.

She was perfection.

“Stand back, mortals,” Her voice was ethereal. “Another step and I shall smite you all.”

The market was quiet. The goddess reached out and grabbed Perseus by his shoulder. He didn’t look surprised, at all. In another bright flare of white light, they had disappeared.

Odysseus did not look amused. He growled, turning back to Achilles. “Prepare yourself. We leave for Aulis at dawn.”

-X-

PERSEUS stumbled away from Selene when they landed in the forests of Troy. Her gaze was on him as he regained his bearings and his eyes widened at the familiarity of it. She was the one who had been watching him. “You saved me,” He said. “Thank you.”

Selene tilted her head to the side, regarding him. “Your skills with weapons are good, I’ll give you that. Better than the average demigod. But even you can’t take on a whole city and survive.”

He blinked. “Teach me, then.” He cursed himself afterwards for blurting it out. Selene’s eyes narrowed. Perseus gulped, then said, “Teach me to be better.”

Her silver eyes bored into him. “I shall think about it. Your archery does need some work. A lot of it.”

Perseus cracked a smile. “I know.”

Selene released a huff of air. “Go back to the city. Tell the King what has conspired. Tell him, they are coming.”

Perseus nodded, turning grim once more. “I will.”

Chapter Text

A/N: Hello! It’s been so long and I apologise for that. I would like to welcome you all to chapter six of Excidium Troiae. It’s been a while so excuse me if my writing and characterisation are a bit different, I don’t fully remember everything in the story. If you haven’t, check out my new work, The Guardians, along with the old ones: The Hunters of the Sun and The Dissonant Notes of Fate. Enjoy the story. This ARC will probably be extremely long, I guess, because it’s going to mainly focus on the journey the Achaeans made to Troy and the nine years of war, before I bring in the events of the Iliad and other sources. Enjoy!

P.S—This chapter is mainly from Achilles’ point of view, as will many of the chapters involving the Greeks shall be. Until he dies, of course.

ACHILLES’ feet hit the sand and he instantly looked around in anticipation. Behind him, Odysseus and Diomedes were jumping down from the massive ship that had docked on the Island. Achilles glanced behind him and saw the fifty ships he had led to Aulis, each of them full of soldiers, with said warriors pouring out of the vessels.

The son of Thetis felt a presence next to him and he turned to acknowledge his best friend Patroclus with a nod. It had taken them next to two weeks to get to the meeting place set by the High King of Tiryns but Achilles was ready for battle, and he was anxious to get locked in combat with the man, Perseus, once more.

“Come,” Odysseus’ voice broke him out of his musings. “We must head to the command centre. Agamemnon will be waiting, as will Menelaus.”

He scanned the campsite as they walked. There were thousands of soldiers, their armour varying, which told him that a lot of the kings had already arrived. Men were already training, setting up tents, or mingling with one another and the air seemed electrified with anticipation. Each and every one of them knew that at any moment they would be sailing to the city of Troy to lay waste to it and retrieve the Queen of Sparta, Helen.

He looked up when the men around him halted, signalling that they had arrived at their destination. The tent was the largest one so far, grand and huge, and it was bustling with activity. Several men wearing majestic armour and robes and talking with one another. Achilles saw a few head turn towards them as Odysseus said, “This is the command tent. The High King has been expecting you.” The demigod acknowledged this with a nod.

Odysseus led them through the men and kings and finally through the entrance of the tent. His eyes roamed around, and he grudgingly nodded in awe, for the inside of the tent was much more magnificent than what was seen outside.

It was arranged like the court of a king and currently none of the many seats were occupied, except the throne in the centre. A burly man with a beard stood next to the one in the throne. The seated King was a bit roundish but well-muscled and huge. He wore bright armour, and had black hair with streaks of grey running through it. A large golden crown adorned his head and he was running a hand through his beard.

“King Agamemnon,” Odysseus moved forward and bowed stiffly to the High King of Mycenae. “Achilles and his fleet have arrived.”

“That is good,” The man in the throne answered.

His gaze flickered to Achilles, eyebrow arched. He turned back to Odysseus. “This is him?”

“Yes,” The other king nodded. “We found him on Skyros, where he had been hidden away by his mother Thetis.”

The High King scoffed and Achilles felt raw unfiltered rage soar through him. He clenched his jaw as Agamemnon said, “So, you have finally come to serve, boy. After months of making us wait and hiding among the women.”

He responded, voice scathing and hard, “I am here of my own wishes, Agamemnon. I never made an oath to your brother to help in a case where his bride was taken.” He paused. “And I serve no man. I am also of royalty and my father’s kingdom does not fall under your jurisdiction. I can leave anytime I please. You would do well to remember that.”

The room was silent. He glanced to his side. Diomedes wore a look of astonishment. Patroclus looked some-what proud. He turned back to the High King and the man, who was obviously his brother, Menelaus. Odysseus and the King of Sparta looked impressed. Achilles folded his arms when he saw the rage in Agamemnon’s eyes. But he didn’t care. He was a child of a goddess and he would not be disrespected by any mortal, king or not.

He heard a throat being cleared and Menelaus spoke up. “I apologise on behalf of my brother, Prince Achilles, and you have my gratitude for journeying so far to help us.”

He nodded, accepting the apology. The King of Argos, Diomedes, stepped forward. “Have all the Kings reported yet? Are we ready to sail to Troy?”

Agamemnon still looked angry and a vein was pulsing on his forehead but he answered through gritted teeth, “Cinyrus of Cyprus promised fifty ships. However, he brought just one real ship and forty-nine made of clay.” He turned to Odysseus. “He did not fulfil his oath. What do you suggest we do about him?”

“Leave him be,” The wise king said. “The oath was made on the Styx and the gods. They shall handle him. We are not to interfere.”

The High King nodded, and his gaze slid back to Achilles and a look of indifference settled on his face. “Make yourself at home. We shall meet here with all the kings and commanders once Eos rises. And then we shall sail to Troy the day after.”

Achilles nodded his acceptance. “Come,” Menelaus walked towards him. “I shall show you around the camp. Your soldiers are at the northwest side; a spot was reserved for you.”

“Alright,” He said, motioning to the burly man to lead the way. As he marched away from the command tent with Patroclus and Menelaus, he couldn’t help but feel glad. He would finally be able to prove himself to the gods, his mother and the entirety of Greece.

-X-

ACHILLES watched as the throat of the bull was slit. Two men held it over the altar they had built and the blood dripped down and surrounded the stones. The prince was still, watching with bated breath, eyes narrowed.

Around him were kings and soldiers, each of them staring at the man who held the staff in the centre of the circle they had made around the altar. They stood at the edge of the forests, waiting, watching as the sacrifice was performed.

“Oh, great son of Leto,” Calchas, the seer who was to accompany them on the journey to Troy raised his hands. His eyes were shut and he held his staff high. “Bestow upon me once again your majestic gift of foresight. We ask that you show us a sign of what is to happen. We offer this sacrifice, and call on your name, Lord Apollo!” He went silent again. Achilles’ eyes flickered to the altar. The blood still dripped, flowing freely like a small river.

And then he saw the snake. Gasps and murmurs came from the men as they spotted it too—a green cobra, slithering down the altar, forming from the blood. Achilles’ eyes went wide at the display of power. He watched in awe and shock as the snake slithered away from Calchas. It made its way to a plane tree, hissing as it went. Men took tentative steps back in apprehension.

Achilles watched as the serpent climbed up the tree. He glanced up, and spotted the sparrow’s and three baby birds in a nest on it. The cobra got closer, closer, until it was standing over the mother bird and hissing. It reared back, forked tongue snaking out, and then lunged forward.

A few seconds later there was no sign of the birds. The demigod watched in amazement as the cobra melted into dust.

As if on cue shouts and murmurs swept through the crowd. The warrior prince kept his eyes focused on Calchas, who was silently muttering something. Finally, his eyelids flew open.

“Our prayers have been answered, and a sign was sent,” He called, voice travelling down the beach. “The city of Troy shall fall. But only after ten years of war.” Achilles stilled. This time the shouts reached a crescendo. Men and kings spoke in loud voices with each other, murmuring, complaining, or talking about how long they would be away from their families.

He felt someone bump his shoulder and the boy turned. Patroclus had a look of serious contemplation on his face. Without turning to look at him, the former Prince of Opus said, “You know what this means, right?”

“I do,” Achilles answered, turning back to stare at the altar. They were both silent for many minutes. Finally, he said, “We’re not going home anytime soon.”

At this his closest friend and confidant turned to him. His eyes were thoughtful and wise as ever as he said, “We never might.”

-X-

ACHILLES inhaled the fresh morning air, fingers drumming on the shaft of his spear. The ship sailed smoothly across the waters, and the afternoon sun was bright and oppressive. He was already wearing his armour, golden, immaculate. He was battle-ready, and he could not wait to set foot on Trojan soil.

He heard the call from Menelaus’ ship a few moments later, and then turned to his advisor, Phoenix, saying, “They have spotted the land of Troy. We must dock with the others.
“Do we engage them in battle immediately, then?” Phoenix asked.

Achilles shook his head, saying, “That is not my decision to make. Agamemnon and his brother shall say if we are to fight when we land.” He paused. “For now, spread the word across the ships. Every Myrmidon must hear that we are close to Ilios.”

“As you wish, My Prince,” Phoenix bowed, then marched away. Achilles shut his eyes, sending a silent prayer to his mother. He knew he should be cautious and probably afraid, but he just couldn’t help but feel expectant. Now, he could finally test out his skills in a real battle, and not against men who had been ordered not to kill him.

His mother was worried for him, yes. She was still against him going with the other Greeks to Troy, but they had arrived. It was done. There was nothing that could stop him now.

The ship hit sand a few minutes later. Achilles leaped down from the prow and his feet hit the ground. Around him the other soldiers did the same. He spotted Ajax the Greater, King of Telamon, organising his troops. He saw the old king Nestor’s ship dock on the land. He could see Odysseus already drawing a sword, hundreds and hundreds of men following his lead as they descended from the ships. Diomedes, Philoctetes, Agamemon and Menelaus were all marching to each other. The other commanders and kings were also walking to meet them. Achilles turned, caught sight of Phoenix and called to him, “Organise the men into troops of a hundred each. I shall be right back.”

The man nodded and then the son of Thetis was moving, falling in step next to the Telamonian Ajax. They converged in a circle, serious and hard expressions on their faces.

“Are you sure this is Troy?” Odysseus spoke first. He sounded doubtful.

“Of course it is,” Agamemnon scoffed. “There is a huge mountain in the distance, and it matches the description of Ilios we were given by Calchas.”

“Good then,” Achilles spoke up, fingers moving to drum on the shaft of his spear once more. “What now? Do we attack the city? Do we set up camp and wait for them to come to us?”

“We attack first, right now,” Diomedes said. “They are expecting us, yes, but if we are quick, we can breach the walls before they are ready.”

“We can—”
King Nestor cut Ajax the Lesser off, voice grave. “I’m afraid we have lost the element of surprise.” Achilles looked towards him questioningly. The man simply pointed towards the valley in the distance. The demigod turned, squinting, trying to see what exactly the King of Pylos was referring to.

He swore loudly when he spotted the army marching towards them. They were many, armed to the teeth, and advancing quickly. “They’re coming,” Menelaus said, drawing a sword.

“Go, ready your troops!” Agamemnon ordered. “Pick up your arms! To war!”

-X-

THE BATTLE seemed to be never-ending. Achilles fought savagely, his heart thumping, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He stabbed through the chest of an enemy soldier, ducked underneath the swing of a broadsword and sliced off the head of his assailant.

The warrior sidestepped a thrust from a spear and hacked at his attacker with his sword. Around him shouts, screams and yells resonated. Weapons clashed, bodies slumped and heads fell.

He sheathed his sword, quickly unstrapping his spear from behind him. He jabbed forward, catching a soldier in the throat. The battle raged around him, the screams of death morbid and frightful. But he wasn’t scared. He thrived in the battle, spinning his spear and slamming its end into someone’s helmet. The man grunted, falling downwards. Achilles spun his spear once more and rammed its head into the enemy’s chest.

He pulled it out once more and with a loud yell led his army into the fray. They clashed with the Trojans, the demigod creating a path of bodies as he surged forward. His hand moved of its own accord, his spear ending the lives of many. He parried a strike for his head and spun around, slamming his foot into the chest of an enemy.

With quick precision he swung his shield, bashing in the head of two enemy soldiers. The prince jumped off the ground then, and with a yell thrust his spear through the head of another. They didn’t stand a chance. The demigod spotted a man being run through by an enemy soldier. He recognised him—King Thersander. The King slumped down and suddenly Diomedes was there, kneeling next to him. Achilles landed on the ground next to them and out of nowhere the bloody spear slammed into his shoulder.

He grunted as it shattered on impact, the force behind it pushing him back a few inches. “What—How?” The attacker sounded almost terrified. Achilles looked up, taking in the sight of the enemy soldier. Disappointment flooded through him. It wasn’t Perseus the Trojan. Instead, this man had a scraggly beard and he wore a circlet of gold on his forehead. He was dressed like a king, in golden intricate armour and his weapon and breastplate were bejewelled.

“King Priam,” Achilles smirked. “Come out to play, have you?”

This time the man looked confused. Then realisation seemed to dawn on him. He opened his mouth to speak but then the son of Peleus struck, swinging his spear. He let out a yell, slamming the butt of the weapon into the King’s head. Priam let out a groan of pain and backtracked. The man swung his sword in a wide arc and Achilles blocked it with his spear. Hurriedly, his opponent retreated. Achilles watched as a green vine formed out of the sand on the ground, rising steadily. Frowning, he surged forward. Priam’s foot caught the vine and he fell over, making Achilles stop in shock at the ridiculousness of the situation. He glanced around, just in time to see the purple eyed man vanish from sight. Dionysus.

Pushing the weird and sudden appearance of a god away from his mind, he jabbed his spear forward. A scream of pain rippled across the battlefield as his blessed weapon pierced through the King’s thigh. He cried out in agony, dropping onto his back.

“No!” The man grunted. “You are mistaken!” Achilles raised his spear to deliver the killing blow. “I am not Priam of Troy!” The King cried out. “I am Telephus! This isn’t Ilios! My kingdom is Mysia!”

The son of Thetis paused. His eyes widened in realisation. Horror filled him. No…No, it couldn’t be possible. How could they have made such a terrible mistake?

“I swear to all the gods of the heavens!” Telephus yelled, clutching his bloodied thigh. “I swear it on the Styx.” Above them thunder boomed.

Achilles lowered his spear. He had to make a decision, and fast. Did they keep on fighting and kill the Mysians? Or did he have to stop this before it got worse? In a split second he made a decision. He had to stop them. He couldn’t allow them to massacre thousands because of a mistake Agamemnon made. “STOP!” Spinning, he yelled. “STOP! THIS IS A MISTAKE!”

Several of the Greeks and Mysians paused in their attacks. Achilles yelled out once more. “This isn’t Troy! There’s been a terrible mistake!” His voice swept across the battlefield, somehow amplified. The fighting seemed to seize. Everyone was staring at him, the Mysians with confusion. Achilles panted. “This isn’t Troy. This land is Mysia! Not Ilios!”

“Kill them all!” The yell came from behind him. He spun, incredulous as Telephus stood, supporting himself on his own spear. “You come to my town ill-informed and think you can kill my men without any retribution?! Kill them all!” He repeated the order and several men took up the cry.

Achilles swore, ducking under the blade of a sword. He spun away from a spear and raised his shield to avoid an onslaught of arrows.

“Retreat!” He looked up in surprise. The call had come from the Greeks—Odysseus, to be exact. “Back to the ships!” Their army was crumbling. The Mysians were fighting with renewed vigour, slaying men and battering through their ranks.

Achilles didn’t want to run. He had offered for the men to stop and go. But Telephus, the stupid king, had ordered for the battle to be continued. It was on his head if his men fell. But he could recognise a losing battle when he saw one. Several of the Greek men were falling, screams and cries of pain were erupting at several sides of the battlefield. Achilles saw Patroclus being pressed by three men at once and with a cry he raced towards him.

He cut down men as he ran, slashing through throats and piercing through hearts. He withdrew a knife from his belt and hurled it. The weapon sank into the throat of one of Patroclus’ attackers. His friend was battered and bloody but he stabbed through the chest of another man.

Achilles ran the last one through. “We must leave now!” Patroclus cried out. “We have to go!”

He didn’t argue this time. Grabbing onto the black haired boy he took off towards the ships in the distance.

The Mysians chased as the Greeks turned tail and ran. They raced towards their ships and when Achilles and Patroclus finally fell onto the deck several arrows were being fired at them.

“Go!” He shouted to Phoenix. “Go!”

The rowing started an instant later as they raced away from Mysia. Achilles fell to the ground finally, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Blood coated his body and he pursed his lips, cursing the Kings for making such a stupid decision. He didn’t like how his first battle had turned out. They had made a mistake now but next time…next time would be Troy.

-X-

THE STORM had come out of nowhere. Rain fell, pattering against the side of the ship. Thunder boomed and lightning fell towards the sea. The waters swished and splashed with anger. The waves were huge. The gods were angry.

Achilles held on to a rope, blinking rapidly. Water fell into his eyes and the wind was howling, making his ears hurt. He couldn’t see any of the others anywhere. He couldn’t see anything. Inky blackness clouded his vision, and he was cold. He was freezing in his armour.

He could hear yells and cries and he could make out the outlines of a few ships in the darkness. The moon was clouded as the storm raged on. The rain came down, threatening to break the ship into two. The vessel rocked and Achilles collapsed onto his knees. He swore loudly, praying to his mother to protect him and all his fifty ships full of men—men who were hoping to return to their families soon.

He heard a yell, and then something smacked him in the head and everything went dark.

-X-

HECTOR smiled at Andromache as they walked past through the market. His wife was honestly beautiful, and every day, when he remembered how he had been hesitant to get married to her eight years ago, he laughed. He was twenty-seven now, and now that his preparation and studies to be King had concluded, it was left with the most crucial part—running the army as the Polemarchos after Alexandros’ death, and familiarising himself with the people.

"Have you seen Anchises' boy lately?” The voice belonged to a market woman, who was in deep conversation with another. He glanced at them in curiosity.

“Which one? Perseus or Aeneas?”

“Why, both of them are making a name for themselves, I hear!” The first woman said. Hector raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t been aware his friends were subject to the gossips of the marketwomen.

“You are right,” The other woman smiled. “Why, if I were younger I would have petitioned old Anchises to allow me to marry one of them. But alas, Aeneas is already married.”

“But the other one, Perseus,” The first woman continued. “He’s a good lad, that one! Helped me with my washing the other week! And he’s the most eligible bachelor in Troy as of now!”

“Say,” The other one started. “Why ever isn’t he married yet? He came of age years ago!”

“I do not know,” The first woman waved it away. “But he shall be soon. You should see how the girls stare at him when he goes past!”

“Well, Aeneas is still a better option, in my opinion!”

“That is true! The kingship suits him. And his claim to Dardania is strong. Apparently the populace is quite fond of their new King."

"You mean their women are fond of their new 'Lord’.” They both giggled. Shaking his head, he exchanged a glance with his wife as they moved on.

“It’s nice to see that they people have relaxed enough to gossip about Perseus and Aeneas,” Andromache chuckled.

Hector smiled in response. That might have been true for the people, but he could never let his guard down. Even now that he was supposed to be relaxing, he was stiff, checking for any sign of unrests and keeping his eyes trained on the docks in the distance. His thoughts drifted to his friends. He didn’t know where Perseus was. It had been a few hours since he had last heard from his best friend, but perhaps the son of Anchises was busy dealing with the gods and getting information of the Greeks.

Hector frowned. Thinking about them made him feel uneasy inside. For years they had waited and waited for the attack to come. It never had. Perseus had told them that the Greeks had been scattered back to their homelands by the gods. But Hector was sure that wouldn’t last. They would try to regroup again. Menelaus would not allow Helen to live peacefully with his brother Paris. Hector scowled as he thought of the upstart. Because of Paris and Aphrodite, the citizens had been living in fear for years.

The Greeks could come at anytime and Hector had never relaxed fully—not once, since they had arrived from Sparta eight years ago. Even when Aeneas had been crowned King of Dardania five years ago, or when Perseus had been promoted to Brigadier General a month before.

He smiled at the thought of his friends. Perseus had been working hard since he had returned from Skyros with news about Achilles. He had stressed upon the importance of being ready for the enemy. He remembered clearly the words of his best friend, “If any of the warriors there are half as good as the son of Thetis is, then we’re all screwed.”

And so Hector had decided to take charge of the activities of the army, after seeking his father’s approval.

“What’s on your mind, Hector?” Andromache asked, clearly sensing his unease.

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m just thinking about Perseus and Aeneas. And the Greeks. And how much things have changed.” And changed, they had. Aeneas visited on special ceremonies and sacred days. He sometimes came to stay for a while, with Creusa. But he already had a kingdom to run and he couldn’t afford to be away from Dardania often.

Perseus was always busy with Apollo and Artemis and his training. They had all been living in relative peace for a while. But it wouldn’t be long before the Achaeans came for Helen.

“It’s nice to see you again, Ophion!” A voice broke him out of his thoughts. Frowning, he glanced towards its source. There were two men—traders, by the looks of it, meeting at the docks next to a ship and embracing eagerly. Troy had halted trade for a while since Helen’s arrival. It was only when they were certain about where they allegiances of the surrounding towns lay that they had opened up their gates for trade once more.

“Yes, it has been far too long,” The man, Ophion said. Hector continued walking, arm interlocked with Andromache’s.

He waved at a man and smiled at another woman. Andromache followed his lead, greeting a fisherman and waving at another woman.

For now, all they could do was wait.

-X-

THE SON OF THETIS frowned as his feet touched the ground of Aulis eight good years later. He couldn’t imagine how far his life had gone since the first time he had docked on this Island. He scanned the terrain, then smiled when he recognised a few faces of the men coming his way.

Ever since the storm had scattered them eight years ago on their way to Troy, he hadn’t heard from the kings and commanders he had met on this very Island. At least, not until a few weeks ago when Menelaus and Agamemnon began summoning them all once more.

He sent a nod to Odysseus, then turned to watch his soldiers and advisors stream out of the ships he had led to the Island. Patroclus was there, his friend looking older and a bit more taller than the last time they had been here. They had just had an argument a few minutes ago and the boy would not meet the now twenty-three summer old warrior’s eyes.

Phoenix was there too, giving the battalion leaders instructions on where to set up camp and ready their armour and weapons. Achilles smiled sadly, thinking about how his life had gone downhill immediately he had landed on Skyros.

He had been forced to marry Deidemeia, and his mother hadn’t answered any of his prayers to stop the wedding, on the orders of the Olympian Council. He scowled, then turned away from the ships. Sure, he was eager to finally venture into battle against Troy. But seeing the High King of Mycenae wasn’t something he was looking forward to. Given the choice, he would pick running through icy water naked. He really hated the old git. But still, Agamemnon had reunited them all again. And this time he would make sure there wasn’t a repeat of Mysia.

He turned to his side, spotting Phoenix, and said, “I shall be right back.” Without waiting for an answer the Prince ventured away.

As he passed through the Greek camp he was greeted by several soldiers and kings, many of whom Achilles didn’t recognise. The ones he did he greeted back with respect and sometimes friendliness. He waved to Diomedes and then nodded to old Nestor as he passed.

Lesser Ajax called his name and the son of Thetis raised his hand in greeting. He continued walking until he reached the centre of the camp, where the command tent had been set up. It looked exactly like it had years prior.

He spotted the beggar a few seconds later and vaguely wondered why exactly one was on the Island and how he had gotten there. The man was dressed in torn and sullied rags, head low and back bent. He lurked near the tent, glancing down the whole time.

Achilles’ eyes narrowed. Which king would have brought a beggar with them to war?
“Who are you?”

The man looked down, not answering. Achilles’ voice turned hard as he repeated, “Who are you?”

The beggar bowed. “I wish you no harm. I wanted to speak to—” And then he recognised the voice. Instantly he was drawing a sword and levelling it against King Telephus’ chest. Reaching out the prince pushed back the King’s hood.

“What are you doing here?” He snarled. “Why were you lurking around the command tent?”

Telephus’ hands were raised in surrender. He was white, pale and sickly. He looked sleep-deprived and tired. “I mean you no harm!” He said again. “I—” He was cut off by the sound of the tent flap being pulled open. Agamemnon stepped out, closely followed by Menelaus and Telamon Ajax. Achilles could already see several kings surrounding them.

“What is the meaning of this?” Agamemnon sounded enraged. “Why are you attacking a beggar, Prince of Phthia?”

“Why is there a beggar on Aulis in the first place?” Odysseus sounded confused. “The Island is a deserted one.”
“It’s not a beggar,” Achilles spoke, pushing his sword closer to the man. “This is King Telephus of Mysia. The man who ordered us to be killed eight years ago before the storm scattered us all.”

There were gasps and then weapons were being drawn. “No!” Telephus yelled. “I didn’t come here to cause any harm! I need your help.”
“You tried to have us killed by your army. We lost good men that day,” Diomedes held his spear tighter. “Why would we help you?”

“I shall lead you Troy,” The man promised, lowering his hands. “You cannot get there without a guide.” There were murmurs from the soldiers around Achilles. He frowned. Telephus was right. They had already gotten lost once.

“What is your price?” Agamemnon asked.

Telephus reached for his rags and pushed away the piece of cloth covering his thigh. Achilles winced when he spotted the sore blistering red wound on the flesh. It was festering and probably infected and was still dripping with blood through hastily wrapped bandages.

“What?” Menelaus sounded disgusted and shocked at the same time. “How did that come to be?”

Telephus looked up, eyes narrowing. “The weapon of the leader of the Myrmidons caused this years ago. Achilles injured me with his spear.” The prince lowered his sword in shock.

“And it hasn’t healed since?” Nestor sounded incredulous and disbelieving.

Telephus shook his head. “The oracle of Apollo told me that he who caused it must heal it.” He faced Achilles. Every head turned to stare at him and he took another step back in shock. “But—I have no medical experience.”

“I need bits of metal from your spear to be placed on the wound to heal it.” Telephus paused, then said, “In return, like I previously offered, I will lead you to Troy.”

Achilles was silent. They needed the guide but he couldn’t trust Telephus. Not after he had ordered for them not to be let go. “I swear on the Styx that I shall not harm any of you while with you and I shall hold up my end of the bargain.”

Relief and satisfaction filled him. Nodding, he said, “Come, then. I shall help you.”

-X-

PERSEUS ducked under a swing from the silver blade, cursing to himself. If he had been any slower he would have been decapitated by now. He jumped up almost instantly, swinging his sword as he went. Another silver knife blocked his strike and with strength only a god—or a goddess, in this case—could possess, Artemis pushed back.

“That’s not fair at all,” He called.

“Battle’s never fair, Perseus,” She smiled coldly, silver eyes glinting. And then she launched herself off the ground. It was all he could do to duck as her boot struck the earth, leaving an indent of her footprint in the spot he’d been before. Swearing once more he sidestepped as she hurled her knife, making her throw go wide.

And then he jumped forward, slashing with his sword. The moon goddess blocked his strike, then pushed him back again. Without warning she ducked low, swinging her foot underneath him. He was fast though. The son of Anchises jumped up, avoiding the limb and landed a few feet away. But Artemis was faster. She leaped towards him, and they clashed in a flurry of the sparks. Silver met his golden blade and they each tried to push the other away. “You’re cheating,” He said accusingly.

“Of course I am,” She admitted. “Just because Apollo asked me not to injure you does not mean I can’t have a little fun.”

As if on cue, they reared back from one another, and clashed once more. It was hardly a fair battle, but she was holding back, that much he could see. They slashed at each other, jabbing, stabbing and parrying strikes. They spun around each other in a sort of dance, hacking and dodging, ducking and slashing. It was exhilarating and it made his heart pump as they fought, like they had started doing since news had come about the Greeks rallying at Aulis. Apollo had stopped training him—he’d thought him everything he knew. His mentor had then asked Artemis to pick up where they’d left off, and although she had hesitated at first, after a lot of persuasion from her brother, the maiden goddess had accepted.

“You’re not giving it your all, though,” He complained. “I want to get better, not be given a pity fight.” Her eyes flared with silver light as anger filled her and the demigod smiled, at the fact that he had managed to rile her up.

Artemis attacked him with renewed vigour in a flurry of jabs and well-thought slashes. She was so fast she became a silver and white blur, making his vision hazy. Soon enough he was littered with small cuts. He could never defend against her when she got like this. He raised his spear to attack but then her foot slammed into his wrist making the sword fall. He cursed, ducking under another swing at his head.
The goddess knew though. She always did. Laughing, slammed her knee into his face and he toppled onto the ground.

Pain spread across his face as he cried out and clutched his nose. His hands came back bloody. He opened his eyes to see the auburn haired immortal standing above him. She stood like that each time she beat him in combat, since she started training him at seventeen summers. He was twenty-five now, and in all that time, he had defeated her just five times.

“You did that on purpose,” She accused.

“Maybe,” He groaned.

“And now you’re hurt,” She continued.

He snorted. “And who’s fault is that?”

The girl rolled her eyes and held out a hand for him. He took it and allowed her to haul him up. “Thanks,” He grunted. “It still hurts, though.”

“Don’t be such a boy,” She said. “I’ll get Apollo to help you.”

“You could’ve not done it in the first place,” He reminded.

The moon deity smiled, although it wasn’t apologetic. “Come on, then,” She said. “We must continue your archery practice.”

This time he groaned out loud. He hated archery, so so much, and learning with Artemis was torture. Even after eight years he had never gotten the hang of it. Often, he cursed Apollo for asking her to teach him. He remembered telling Selene to do the same, all those years ago. But she hadn’t returned since she had saved him from Skyros, and he hadn’t heard from her since. He wished he could see her again.

He cocked his head to the side. When he had left the palace tonight Hector—who had been promoted to Polemarchos after the death of Alexandros eight years ago, for the purpose of preparing for war—had been rounding up training with the other soldiers.

Aeneas was away, as he had been since five years ago, when he had been given kingship over Dardania by Priam. Perseus had heard from him just the previous night though, and although he missed his brother dearly, he was happy for him.

In a span of eight years he, Perseus had risen through the ranks of the army and was now a general—one of the lowest of them, a Taxiarhos (Brigadier General) and Hector had mentioned something to him about a promotion two weeks ago. “Are you coming or not?” Artemis sounded exasperated and he was broken out of his musings by her voice.

All in all, things had been good. After that day in Skyros, Troy had long since been preparing for war. They had heard of the Greeks amassing at Aulis eight years ago and everyone had been waiting expectantly for their arrival. But it had never come. Apollo had informed him that Poseidon and Zeus had scattered the fleet because the Greeks had attacked another land mistaking it for Troy and had killed nearly a thousand men.

The goddess snapped her fingers in front of him suddenly, saying, “What exactly is going on in that mortal head of yours?”

He laughed shortly, then said, “It’s nothing, let’s go.” His nose still throbbed, yes, but he had gotten used to the pain. Soon, Apollo would heal him and the cycle would continue at night again.

His thoughts drifted to his family. His father was doing well, as was Leto on Delos. He visited them both often. Artemis came by a lot too, because of their training, and Apollo, yes, they would never get past what his mentor had done to Cassandra, but the Princess hadn’t had an episode in nearly eight years. She was good.

Nevertheless, although he had forgiven Apollo, he would never forget.

He was cut off from his thoughts once more when the air in front of him solidified. A familiar figure took shape before him and Artemis. She was taller now, clearly in adult form, but even though he hadn’t seen her since she’d saved his life, he would remember those eyes anywhere. She still had luscious black hair, and those bright silver eyes which seemed to bore into his soul. She was dressed in a chiton similar to Artemis’—white, but covered in a black cloak.

She looked surprised to see him.

“Oh, Perseus,” Selene said. “It’s been a while.”

He snorted. “Eight years isn’t exactly just a while, Lady Selene.”

She laughed, and he found himself smiling at the sound. “I’m sorry for not returning like I promised. Lord Zeus spotted me at Skyros and summoned me to remind me of the ancient laws and of how easily he could strip me from my immortality if I interfered in mortal lives again.” Her lips were pursed.

Artemis frowned. “How come you never told me of this, Selene? And how did you know to find me here?”

“Zoë told me you were around this area,” The Titaness answered. “And I did not wish to worry you.”

“I hope Father didn’t—“

“He tried nothing,” Selene waved it aside. “I wanted to know if you’ve heard from Apollo lately? I need to speak with him. Urgently.” Perseus didn’t know why he felt a bit disappointed that she wasn’t there to see him.

As though drawn by Selene’s words, said sun god shimmered into existence in front of them, glowing golden. Instantly Perseus took note of his expression—he looked grave.

“Apollo,” Selene turned to face him. “Good. You’re here. We need to—”

He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he looked Perseus straight in the eye. “The Greeks are coming.”

A/N: I hope I haven’t strayed too much from how their characters were before. I also hope you enjoyed it. Tell me what you think.

-TripleHomicide.

Chapter Text

A/N: Welcome to chapter seven of ARC II of Perseus: Excidium Troiae. Enjoy. 

P.S—This chapter is short.

PERSEUS watched from his spot in the trees, eyes narrowed and squinted, trying to catch sight of the son of Thetis who had wanted to kill him in Skyros. He saw Achilles, standing near the beach next to a dark haired boy and another brown haired middle-aged man. The son of Thetis looked older now. If Perseus’ calculation was correct then Achilles was exactly twenty-three summers. His eyes roamed the entire terrain, and he frowned when he saw Odysseus and Menelaus deep in conversation. Those were the only ones he recognised—although they were a bit older—and none else.

“Are you sure I can’t burn their ships right now?” He questioned, voice low. The son of Anchises glanced to the side, eyebrow arched questioningly at the god of the sun.

“No,” Apollo said, voice hard. “You cannot interfere. Zeus has granted them safe passage to Troy because they offered the correct sacrifices and prayed to us all for a good voyage.”

“But,” Perseus bit his bottom lip, his hold on the tree branch tightening. “You told me that you had a plan to delay them. How can we do this if we’re not allowed to interfere?” He demanded.

“Be patient,” Apollo advised. “Artemis said she has something in mind. If we play our cards right they’ll never get to Troy.” He wasn’t satisfied with the god’s answer, but it was the best he would get and he knew it. He would just have to wait and see what exactly happened. 

He watched as the Greeks all moved towards their ships. They were a lot, far more than the Trojan army, and that was saying something. Immediately Apollo had informed him of the second gathering, the green eyed man had told Hector and Priam. As of now, Troy was sending messages to several of the surrounding cities and all of her allies. That included his brother. Aeneas would be returning home with an army which could match Troy’s in size. Several of his city’s allies would also be coming. Hopefully, they would be enough to combat the might of the Graeceans.

He squinted once more to see properly. The son of Anchises could make out the fair haired Achilles, now at the prow of one of his ships, shouting orders to men down below. In a matter of minutes the ships were ready to sail. He scowled. If Apollo and Artemis were going to do anything it had to be now.

The sails were raised, the oars began moving. He tensed in the leaves, ready to spring into action. The ships moved. And then lurched to a stop. Perseus relaxed, then turned to glance at the sun god. “What did Artemis do?”

“I stopped the winds,” The goddess in question appeared next to her brother in harsh silver light. “Father cannot punish me because it is well in my rights to do so. I’ve been wronged by Agamemnon and the slight cannot go unpunished.”

Perseus nodded his approval, then asked, “What did he do though?” 

“The filthy mongrel killed one of my sacred deer,” The moon goddess snarled, and he could already feel the anger pulsing around her. “I cannot let that stand.”

The dark haired Trojan grinned. The twin gods were crafty, that much was certain. Artemis was killing two birds with one stone. He could see some of the Greeks backtracking, others trying to row forward but unable to move. After what seemed like hours, all the ships were back at the beach. The frustration on Achilles’ face was visible, and Perseus beamed at the sight. Several others looked thoughtful, and more seemed confused. The Kings and commanders met, just a few feet away from Perseus and the two gods.

“What is the meaning of this?” One man asked in visible anger. “We keep getting derailed and held back.”

“The gods are not pleased with us,” Achilles spoke up. “Obviously. Someone has done something to offend them. First that storm eight years ago, now this.”

“But who?” Menelaus looked exasperated. “We made sure to perform all the necessary sacrifices this time. We—”

“The sacrifices were performed to perfection,” A voice spoke up. “But a particular goddess is angry. And with only one of us.” 

“That’s Calchas,” Apollo whispered. “He’s a prophet of mine. A seer to be exact. Artemis, has the message been sent?”

“Yes,” The silver eyed goddess nodded in response.

“Lady Artemis has been offended by you, Agamemnon,” Calchas motioned to the man with the brightest armour and biggest crown. 

“What?” The High King looked taken aback and Perseus grinned once more. 

“The maiden goddess has refused to allow the winds to move until she has been appeased,” Calchas continued. “You offended her by killing a sacred deer of hers a few months ago, and the only way we can get to Troy now is if you sacrifice to her your daughter.” The man paused. “Iphigenia.”

Perseus’ felt as though his heart had stopped. Ice filled his bones. Horror engulfed him and he almost fell out of the tree as he turned sharply to the twin archers. “What the—”

“There’s someone here!” Achilles’ voice cut him off. Perseus swivelled on the branch just in time to see a spear sailing towards him. Swearing, Apollo grabbed his shoulder and they dissolved into golden mist.

They reappeared in the forests of Troy, the place where Perseus and Artemis used for their training, and instantly he tore his shoulder away from the god of the sun and stared at the two deities in disgust.

“How?” He demanded. “How can you have a father sacrifice his own daughter?!”

Artemis’ eyes flashed silver and she stepped forward. “That’s the whole idea. Do not get angry at me when you do not have all the information, Perseus. I—” 

“Peace, sister,” The golden god held out a hand, stopping the man-hating goddess. Apollo moved to him, looking tentative. 

“Listen, Perseus,” He began. “Agamemnon is a father. No father would crave war so much that he would sacrifice his own daughter for it. That’s the plan. We give them an impossible decision to make, and as he won’t sacrifice Iphigenia, the winds will never pick up and they will never sail for Troy.”

“They’ll never be able to go back home either!” Perseus snapped. He didn’t know why he was so angry. But still, killing one’s own family member was an abomination. It was the worst sin anyone could commit. Even if Agamemnon did it to appease Artemis, the rest of the gods would strike him down for it. The idea was a good one, if he was being honest, but it was being implemented on an assumption that Agamemnon loved his daughter, which they couldn’t really be certain of. It didn’t matter if he was her father or not. At that thought, his mind strayed to Poseidon.

He scowled. Sure, he was happy that Troy would be safe for a few more weeks or perhaps forever, if they’re plan worked. But another part of him—the part that stood for everything good, his moral side, was against the entire thing.

“Yes, well, they should have thought of that before they decided to gather and try to attack my city,” Apollo began glowing. “Calm yourself, Perseus. I will update you on the situation in a few days. For now, head back to the palace. Aeneas has arrived, and Hector is waiting for news.”

Artemis shot him an unreadable look and vanished into silver. Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he began the trek back towards the palace of Troy. 

-X-

AENEAS stood on the balcony, lips pursed, eyes roving around the entire city. It had been next to five years since King Priam had given him the Kingdom north of Troy to rule after his cousin without heirs had died. Sure, Dardania was great. But Troy would always be home. Since he’d taken dominion of the city, he only visited Perseus, Hector and the rest of the royal family on special occasions. 

He glanced down from the balcony when he heard footsteps approaching the palace gates. Aeneas smiled when he saw his brother. It had been so long since he had seen him. They kept in contact through letters and visits, and immediately he had been sent the message that the Greeks were on their way a day ago, he had thundered down the mountain path and come back home, thousands of the soldiers under his command following. 

He spun, and hurried out of the room and through the corridors. After a few minutes of rushed walking he bumped into his brother at an archway near Hector’s room.

A grin lit up his face, and he rushed forward, grabbing Perseus and pulling him into a tight embrace. Since the time he had become a prince eight or nine years ago, Priam had been preparing him to take over the leadership of Dardania. He had never gotten enough time to spend with his brother, and Hector was almost always busy. They had been apart for a while, yes, but he knew that their bond would never be broken. 

Perseus returned the hug, his hold tighter than Aeneas’, body tense. When they finally pulled away from each other, his brother said, “Aeneas, I was just on my way to your chambers.”

“I know,” He told him. “I saw you from the balcony.”

“I missed you,” Perseus admitted. He held Aeneas at shoulder length, taking him in. “You look different.” It was true. He was taller now, and a bit more muscular than before. He guessed that came with ageing though. It had been a while, after all. 

“Good or bad different?” He asked.

“Great,” Perseus laughed. And then he frowned, as though he had suddenly remembered something. “Where’s Hector?”

“Right here,” The Polemarchos rounded the corner and came towards them. “I was dining with Andromache. A guard told me you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I have a lot of things to tell you,” Aeneas’ brother said. “But we need somewhere private.”

“My chambers are okay,” Aeneas suggested, brow furrowing in worry. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what exactly had made his brother so dishevelled. But although he wanted to spend as much time as he could with Perseus and Hector, there was war on the horizon, and they couldn’t be seen dallying about instead of preparing. “Creusa is out with Cassandra and Hecuba in the city-proper.”

“Good,” The green eyed man said. “Come.” Aeneas didn’t have to lead the way. Even after all that time, his brother still remembered the way to his chambers in Troy, and it seemed that Hector did too.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” He said when they got to the room. Perseus made a beeline for the bed. Hector collapsed on the ground, and Aeneas moved to sit near the window.

He smiled as Perseus buried his head into a pillow and groaned. Hector ran a hand through his hair, looking tired and worn. Being with each other, that was the only time they could be themselves. There were no rules, no codes of conduct, and no prying court officials looking to find fault with whatever they said. 

“What’s got your panties in such a nasty twist, Perseus?” Hector asked, laying his back on the rug.

“I was just on Aulis, with Apollo and Artemis. And the Greeks.” Aeneas turned stiff, head snapping over to his brother. Hector sat up in alarm.

“What happened?”

“That’s what I was going to tell you, dunderhead,” Perseus rolled his eyes. “Apollo and Artemis made a plan to stop them. They sent a message through a seer that the winds would not move to allow them to sail here as long as Agamemnon’s daughter Iphigenia still lives. The High King killed Artemis’ sacred deer and so they told the Greeks that unless he sacrifices his daughter to Artemis, they won’t be sailing anywhere.”

Aeneas was silent as he took in the information. He sighed, now knowing what exactly was making Perseus scowl and frown so much. If he was being totally honest, he wasn’t really surprised. The gods made stupid decisions and plans all the time. This time was no different. He exchanged a glance with Hector. 

“I mean,” Hector began. “It’s a good idea, isn’t it? A father would never sacrifice his own daughter. Aside from loving her—if he does, that is—the rest of the gods would strike him down.”

“That’s exactly what Apollo said,” Perseus agreed. 

“And he’s right,” Aeneas spoke up. “You shouldn’t let it bother you too much. Troy is safe and that’s what matters, right?”

“Right,” Perseus muttered. “But still, for some reason I can’t explain, it bothers me that they’re going to such lengths—“

“They’re doing it for us, Perseus,” Aeneas told him. “Their method might be wrong but they just want Troy protected from the Achaeans.” He faced his brother. Perseus looked as though he had been given something bitter to eat. Aeneas sighed. If this had happened eight years ago he would have been against it as much as Perseus was. But he was a King now, and since he had started ruling over Dardania with Creusa, he had had to change, and make a lot of decisions he didn’t like. But they had all been necessary decisions, just like this one, even though it seemed a bit extreme.

“Look, enough about the Greeks,” Hector admonished. “They’ve already stolen most of our time with training hard to prepare for their arrival. There’s no need for them to take away what little more we have to ourselves. It’s been a while. Let’s stop thinking about war. Let’s talk.”

Perseus smiled ruefully. “Yeah, it’s been a while since we did that.”

“Right,” Aeneas nodded, then turned to his brother. “So, what’s new?”

“I heard about something from Deiphobus,” Hector spoke up, grinning like a child. “Is it true you and Polyxena have been making the palace beds creak?”

A look of indignation passed over Perseus’ face as he yelled, “No!” Hector and Aeneas burst out laughing. His green eyed brother had turned scarlet, and he sounded genuinely horrified at the suggestion and Aeneas found himself laughing harder. They spent the rest of the day talking, laughing, and hiding away from the pressures of war and life.

-X-

ACHILLES paced inside his tent. It had been a good while since he had thrown that spear at the tree. And yet, no matter how many prayers and sacrifices they had made, the gods hadn’t answered. Calchas had remained adamant that the only way to sail to Troy was to get Iphigenia sacrificed. The men got impatient. There were calls of going back home, but whenever they had tried, the winds had stopped once more. It was annoying that the gods kept toying with them and delaying them in this way.

Finally, after several meetings and deliberations and arguments, Agamemnon had agreed to bring in his daughter. It was sickening, that his hand had been forced in such a way. Achilles had been against the entire thing. Sure, he wanted to get to Troy, but killing an innocent girl?

That he was against.

And to top it off, they had sent a message to Tiryns telling Iphigenia that she was to come with Odysseus so she would be married to Achilles. The son of Thetis was angry that he was being implicated in such a matter. He continued pacing, and he barely heard Patroclus calling his name.

“Prince Achilles,” The soldier which appeared in the entrance of his tent was foreign, dressed in the bronze gear with a sigil he recognised as belonging to Menelaus’ soldiers. “The ship has arrived.”

Achilles nodded, pursing his lips. He turned to Patroclus and said, “Come.” Together they made their way towards the beach. When Achilles got there most of the army was present. Calchas stood next to the altar which had been waiting for Iphigenia’s arrival since Odysseus had set sail weeks before. He saw the said Ithican King, standing next to a fair haired maiden and Agamemnon. The girl was beautiful, and had bright green eyes, and the plumpest lips he had ever seen. She wore a white peplos and brown sandals. Her head was bowed.

“Achilles,” Odysseus spotted him and waved. “You’re here.”

“Of course,” He nodded. However badly he disliked what was going on, he knew it would be improper to miss such an occasion. 

“Okay, then,” Lesser Ajax called. “Everything is ready?”

“Yes,” Calchas nodded. He turned to Menelaus and Odysseus. “Seize her.”

Iphigenia stiffened and cried out when four soldiers swarmed her. She let out a scream as they began dragging her towards the altar. “Father! Father, what is going on?”

Achilles frowned and glanced away, where he met Patroclus’ eyes. His friend looked disgusted. Iphigenia’s screams fell on deaf ears, although the entire beach was silent. “Father! Help me!” Agamemnon stared at her, jaw clenched. He moved forward, grabbing an axe from a soldier standing nearby

“Lay her on the altar!” Calchas ordered.  

The men slammed a screaming and struggling Iphigenia onto the rocks. She shouted and the Prince winced slightly. As the men held down the now sobbing princess, Calchas raised his hands.

“Artemis! Goddess of maidens! Protector of the young! We have come to you on our knees, we beg your forgiveness on behalf of our brother Agamemnon! We pray for your mercies and ask that you allow us passage off this Island. Take this offering, a young maiden, as a sign of our loyalty to the gods and to you!”

He lowered his hands. Achilles glanced up. The sky had darkened considerably. Clouds covered the sun. Calchas motioned to the High King and he lifted the weapon. Iphigenia let out a last blood-curdling scream. The axe came down.

Suddenly the wind picked up and a blur of silver dashed past Achilles. He barely saw the figure as it streaked past the axe bearer, faster than humanly possible. Bright light engulfed the beach and Achilles had to shut his eyes. 

When the light died down and he opened his eyes, there was blood on the altar. 

But there was no sign of the young woman. Just a very dead brown deer, where Princess Iphigenia had been before.

-X-

PERSEUS scowled at Apollo. The god had the decency to look ashamed. “I-I didn’t know they would actually go through with it.”

Scoffing, the son of Anchises turned. He could see the Greeks well enough, from his spot in the sun chariot. They were silent, obviously in shock at what they had just seen. 

“Where will Artemis take her?”

“I don’t know,” Apollo glanced away. “But she can’t go home now. She will join the hunters or become a priestess of my sister.”

Perseus ran a hand through his hair. If Artemis hadn’t intervened when she did… He didn’t want to think of what might have happened. He pursed his lips and turned back to the golden god. “What now?” Apollo was silent, eyes shut, head tilted to the side. Finally, his eyelids peeled open and he sighed.

“Zeus commands that Artemis and I allow the Greeks to pass,” He told the demigod. “He’s angry with our interference.”

“Take me home, then,” The green eyed soldier demanded. “I must warn the others. It won’t take long for the Greeks to reach Troy from here.”

“You’re right,” Apollo acknowledged with a nod. “There is no delaying them. Not anymore.” He was correct. Perseus could already see the Achaeans packing up their tents and belongings. Soldiers were already streaming onto the ships.

“We have to go. Now.”

-X-

ACHILLES stood at the side of his ship, looking out into the ocean. The waves were steady and the entire place was silent and eerie. The winds had picked up immediately the sacrifice had been made and hurriedly all of them had boarded their vessels.

They were coming for Troy.

Achilles was confused. He didn’t understand exactly what had happened on the Island. Several of the men had come up with their own theories—some that the girl had turned into an animal, others that a god had intervened, and a few were saying Iphigenia had never arrived at all.

But Achilles knew what he had seen and he was more inclined to agree with the second option. Sighing to himself, he leaned onto the wood. The wind was blowing softly, sending his hair floating around his face. It was soothing.

“You must enjoy these moments while it lasts,” He stiffened, and then relaxed, recognising the voice. The warrior turned and spotted his mother, standing behind him. She looked timeless, the familiar blue hue of her skin was the same as it had always been. Her hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders.

“Mother,” He smiled tightly. 

“Achilles,” She reached for him. When they broke the hug, she asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

His face hardened. “We’ve been over this, mother. I must.”

“You speak as though you do not have a choice,” Thetis said, voice soft. “You can still turn back.”

“I do not wish to,” He told her.

“I know,” She sighed. “I suppose I cannot change your mind.” His mother paused. “But I can give you some advice. When you see land, do not kill King Tenes of Tenedos, even though he is an ally of the Trojans. He is a son of Apollo and the Olympian shall strike anyone who kills the king down. Make sure it is not you.”

“Alright,” He nodded acceptingly. “I’ll do well to ask any king who attacks me his name before killing him.” At his mother’s expression, he laughed. “Do not fret, mater.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll not kill Tenes. I promise.”

She nodded, seemingly relieved by his answer. “I wish you luck, my son,” The nymph said. “May the gods go with you.” 

XMX

THEY DOCKED ON an Island for supplies a week later. Achilles didn’t know what the name was. And he didn’t particularly care.

Each of the kingdoms sent someone. Almost none of the Kings chose to go, but he didn’t care about that either. He wanted to feel the earth beneath his feet once more. He was sick of seeing the blue calm sea for a week straight. After putting Phoenix in charge he had met up with the other representatives from the other ships.

“You’re Achilles, right?” A gruff voice said at his shoulder. He turned, an eyebrow arched at the man speaking to him. He had black hair and a grubby beard and he wore no armour, just a bow and a quiver on his shoulder, over his white chiton.

“I am,” Achilles nodded. Most of the men had already departed. They had determined that the Island was empty, but it was full of food and water and they would be refilling for the journey ahead.

“You’re with me, then,” The man acknowledged. “Agamemnon asked that I accompany you. I am Prince Philoctetes of Meliboea.” Achilles narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand what game the High King was playing now, but he did recognise the name.

Philoctetes had been a friend of Heracles the Great. He had even inherited the hero’s bow and arrows…which must be what the man was armed with right now. 

“Alright, then,” He accepted. “We have three hours to gather the supplies.” The man nodded and turned. Together, they made their way into the forest, each clutching onto several empty sacks.

XMX

ACHILLES plucked a very red apple from a tree and tossed it into his sack. They both worked in relative silence, gathering fruits and vegetables and refilling the many water skins they had brought along. They came across many of the other men. A few were hunting for meat, others searching for herbs, and many others finding fruits and vegetables. 

“Hey,” Philoctetes called to him. “I need your help over here!” Achilles turned. The hunter held a particularly large fruit in his hands. “Could you hold open my sack while I put this in?”

“Sure.” He moved next to the prince and grasped the bag. Achilles watched in mild boredom as the man placed the fruit inside.

“Thank—ARGH!” The son of Thetis shot up in shock, hand moving to his sword and darting towards the other man. “What’s wrong?” He asked, glancing around for any sign of an enemy.

“Snake,” Philoctetes hissed out. Achilles’ eyes flickered around. He saw the long body of a serpent disappearing under a bush. Achilles swore and bent, examining the wound on the man’s heel. It was bleeding and surrounded with a green but transparent liquid—venom. 

“We need to get you back to the ships,” He told him. Philoctetes gritted his teeth and nodded. Allowing the man to lean on him, he led him back to the ships in the distance.

-X-

ACHILLES glanced at the shore in the distance, clenching his jaw. This was it. They were finally here. It had been almost three weeks since they had set sail. He remembered everything that had stood against them in their attempt to get to Troy. First the ten-years-of-war news, then Mysias, the storm, then the sacrifice. And then Philoctetes had been bitten. He frowned as he remembered what had happened.

They had tried to heal the snake bite but it hadn’t been possible. And then the wound had begun festering and smelling and Odysseus had advised them all to abandon the hunter on Lemnos. Achilles had been against it and he scowled when he remembered the argument he’d had with Odysseus then, and Agamemnon later. In the end he had been outvoted and they had left Philoctetes behind. A different man had taken charge of his troops. 

They had kept travelling for days, and then finally had spotted Troy. The previous night they docked on a nearby Island. And then Calchas had given the prophecy that was currently bothering Achilles. He remembered the seer’s words clearly. 

The first man to step foot on Trojan soil shall be the first to die in battle.

He frowned, sighing to himself. They would just have to figure this out when they got there. Troy was just a few feet away and Achilles inhaled, swinging his spear. He turned and nodded to Patroclus and Phoenix, grabbing his shield and strapping it to his arm.

They had come. Troy would fall. 

A/N: :)

Chapter Text

A/N: Hello, this is chapter eight. Enjoy. If you haven’t, check out the Hunters of the Sun, and The Guardians, and The Dissonant Notes of Fate. As usual, I hope you have a great read. 

PERSEUS strapped his shield to his arm, inhaling deeply. He couldn’t afford to be afraid. He couldn’t baulk. Not now. Not when the Greeks were steadily approaching the Beach. The ships had been spotted on the horizon about an hour ago, and since then the city had been a flurry of activity, shouts and preparations for war.

He hadn’t even gotten the time to speak with Hector or wish Aeneas good-luck when the order had come that the Generals were to prepare their troops and meet at the beach. As a recently promoted Stratigos, he was part of these Generals, and it had taken him just about fifteen minutes to make sure all the three-thousand men in his battalion were ready. And then he had retreated into his own barracks to fetch his armour—armour Apollo had had crafted for him. It was beautiful. Intricate. It was made of celestial bronze, like the god had explained, but it wasn’t heavy as he’d expected. Moving around in it was quite easy and it came with a golden shield and a spear long enough to pierce through four men at once. His sword hung at his side, and he had strapped his helmet to his waist also. 

He was placing his hands into the vambraces when he felt her presence.

Selene manifested from the shadows and air, a dull silver glow announcing her presence. As usual, she looked ethereal and majestic, dark hair cascading down her shoulders, bright eyes full of wisdom and beauty. He inclined his head in greeting at her arrival, and then smiled hesitantly. “Selene. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Well, I heard something about a war,” She shrugged. “Why, did you not wish me to be here?”

He shook his head. “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Seeing you is a surprise, but a welcome one.”

She nodded, eyes lighting up with amusement. And then she tilted her head to the side. “Make sure to stay safe out there.”

He frowned. “It’s war, Lady Selene. I can’t make any promises. And besides, no mere soldier can best me in battle. I’ve been trained by gods.”

She rolled her eyes. “I have no doubt that many of the men on the Greek side shall run at the sight of you. But you’re still going to have to fight against renowned heroes—like Diomedes, and Odysseus and—“

“Achilles,” He finished for her. “I’ve fought him off before. Even though he has impenetrable skin, he can still be beaten. I just need to find out how to do that.”

“And you will,” She nodded. The Titaness smiled. “Good luck, Perseus. And may the gods be with you.” Without waiting for him to answer, she melted into a fine silver mist, and vanished from view.

-X-

HECTOR drummed his fingers against the shaft of his spear in anticipation. He stood at the head of the entire Trojan army. Thousands of men were behind him, each silent, each waiting in anticipation. The ships were almost at the beach. From their elevated spot on the hillside, Hector could see the men—kings and Commanders at the prows of their ships. Many were dressed in armour befitting gods, but what caught his sight was the fair haired man standing next to another who Hector recognised as Odysseus.

That was Achilles. Hector couldn’t help but feel nervous. If what Perseus had said about this iron-skinned demigod was true, then it would be almost impossible to beat him. But Troy was depending on him, and he couldn’t let his city down. His father had put all his faith in him, to lead their armies and that of their allies to success against Agamemnon and his forces. Hector stood next to the five Generals he himself had handpicked on the order of his father. Perseus stood next to him, hand resting on the sword at his side. He looked calm enough, but his eyes betrayed his expectancy and slight nervousness.

This wasn’t the first war or battle they had seen, no. Over the years the fighting had been plenty. But this…This was different. This was several kingdoms—thousands upon thousands of men, Kings and heroes coming onto them, threatening their way of life because of one woman. 

Aeneas was at his other side, tense, waiting, a circlet with an insignia on it over his head, signifying his Kingship over Dardania. it completed his armour and made him look every bit the King he was. Hector glanced backwards. The beach was far from the city and the palace, but he could make out the figures on the balcony, watching as they waited for the Achaeans. His family was there—Andromache, Creusa, Cassandra, his many younger brothers and sisters, his mother and his father. The older advisors and priests and court officials also watched from next to them. Helen stood next to the coward, Paris. Hector scowled. His brother should be fighting with them, not hiding away in the security of the palace. But he had refused to fight, probably for fear of his life.

Deiphobus, Hipponus, Helenus, Perseus, and Aeneas were his Generals—the army would answer directly to the five of them in the coming war. The rest of his brothers who were of age were leading other battalions and troops. Several of their allies from the neighbouring countries had arrived in time, including Tenes from Tenedos, Eetion, Andromache’s father, Mynes of Lyrnessus, Pandarus of Zelia, Ascanus from Phrygia, Glaucus of Lycia, Memnon from Ethiopia, Phorcys, and several others. More were yet to come and Hector hoped against hope that that wouldn’t become a problem.

He prayed to the gods that their summoned forces would be enough to combat the Greeks and defend their city. 

He watched, with narrowed eyes as the first ship touched the sand. There was an intake of breath from next to him, one from Aeneas.

Prince Hector licked his lips, flexing his finger muscles to get ready. He squinted to see. The Greeks had all perched on the edge of the beach, but…none of them were coming. None of them were getting off. The men at the prows—commanders—seemed to be discussing amongst each other. Finally, one of them, Odysseus, it looked like, threw down his flat rectangular shield. Without a second to waste he leaped down from his ship and landed onto it. That seemed to spark a reaction from the Greeks. 

Another man came down, wielding a sword and a shield. “Do we move?” Aeneas asked.

“Not yet,” Hector murmured. Now, several Greeks came down, each of them roaring. In a matter of seconds the ships had emptied and thousands of soldiers raced for them, screaming. They were disorganised as they ran, no clear formation visible, and Hector narrowed his eyes as he saw them coming.

“Do we move?” Aeneas repeated, voice harsh.

“Not yet,” Hector insisted, shaking his head. He just had to wait…

“Hector…” Perseus called his name in warning.

“Now!” He swung his spear and yelled, “Forward!” 

Their army surged forward. Hector led Troy as they crashed against the first of the soldiers. He reared back, dodging a slice from a spearhead. The son of Priam swung his foot in the sand, sending a stream of dust into the air. His attacker—the first man who had landed after Odysseus—backtracked with a cry as he was blinded. Hector let out a roar and thrust his spear through the man’s heart. Without waiting to see what happened he was pulling it free again. He dodged a strike from a sword and swung around, slamming his spear into his attacker’s face.

He leaped off the ground, swinging in the air and came down, jabbing his spear through the helmet of another man. He dropped down dead. Hector could hear the cries and screams already resonating across the battlefield. Men fell, heads rolled and blood flowed. Hector tried to clear his thoughts as he fought. He dodged a strike and stabbed through a man’s thigh with his spear. And then he slammed the bloodied end into another man’s shield, piercing it and impaling him in the chest.

He could see Aeneas, ploughing his way through men with twin swords, making a path towards Odysseus. Perseus was on his left, slashing and decapitating men like a maniac. He fought like he was mad, and blood dripped down his sword and shield. His best friend tore through men like they were rubber, cutting through armour, tearing throats and ending the lives of many. Perseus was heading for one of the larger men on the battlefield. A King, no doubt. He could see Menelaus, locked in combat with Deiphobus. Hipponus was duelling a dark haired man—Diomedes. Hector dodged another strike and spun to duck a sword. He dropped low to avoid a foot and shot to his feet again, impaling the assailant in the chest. 

He spun, catching sight of the brown haired man approaching Perseus. Narrowing his eyes he reared back and hurled his spear forward. The spear sailed true, tearing through the chest of the soldier. Perseus spun as if he knew and swiftly decapitated the man. Hector sent him a nod and then joined the battle once more. 

The fighting went on for what seemed like hours, but he couldn’t have been sure. The sun burnt against his back. Dried blood coated Hector’s skin. He swung his sword expertly, slicing through a man’s throat. He blocked an attack with his shield and slashed through the attacker’s neck. Their forces met again and again, men dropped like flies, blood soaked the sand. Suddenly Hector cried out. A gash had opened up on his bicep, where a sword had struck it. He spun, cursing, and sliced off the head of the soldier who attacked him. 

After a while his mind shut down and his body started working on its own, cutting down men, killing enemies and slicing through armour.

The fighting got savage. Hector glanced around in worry. Trojan bodies littered the ground. And they were a lot more than the Greek ones. Blood flowed freely. Men were cut down in front of his eyes. They were trying, but it wasn’t enough. They were losing the beach; they were being pushed back. 

He continued fighting. He led his men against the might of Greece, but their lines
 were being pushed back, and even he could see it. “Hector!” Aeneas called his name. “We have to retreat.” Even as he said it, he dodged under a strike from a sword. They were losing, and that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

Hector could hear screams, and as he fought, he continued seeing flashes of golden armour and blond hair—the son of Thetis. He was the reason they were losing. He continued fighting, trying to kill as many of the enemy he could as they continued being pushed back. 

And then they were at the edge of the sand.

He heard the yell then. Spinning, his eyes widened when he saw the sword coming his way. It was the fabled warrior himself—Achilles. Hector leaned back to avoid his strike, and then reared forward. Their swords met.

“Achilles,” He grunted out. “I have heard a lot about you.”

“Yes, of that I have no doubt,” The man bared his teeth. “How is your little friend doing, Prince Hector? The ambassador of Apollo?”

“Oh, you remembered,” A voice to his left started the son of Thetis, giving Hector the opportunity to push him back. He slashed forward, but out of nowhere a shield appeared, cutting him off. Achilles faced his friend. “Perseus.”

“The one and only,” Perseus said. A scowl adorned his face as he swung his sword. “Here for a rematch?”

“It would be a pleasure,” The demigod hissed. He slipped into a stance. Perseus sent Hector a look which said, I can deal with this. He bent into a stance similar to Achilles’.

Suddenly a horn blared across the battlefield. Hector looked up in shock. The sun was setting. He saw the golden chariot come down from the sky, and then heard a muttered curse from his side, from Perseus. 

“It is Sundown,” Apollo’s voice boomed across the battlefield. “The gods have asked me to deliver a message. All fighting ceases when the sun sets. Both sides must treat their wounded and bury their dead. Anyone who goes against this rule shall be punished. That is the will of Olympus.” His golden eyes flashed as they flickered across the battlefield—the Greeks had pushed their forces all the way back, away from the beach, and so close to the walls. Too close for comfort. Without another word Apollo melted into mist.

“You’re lucky this time, Perseus,” Achilles said, sheathing his sword. “Tomorrow, by afternoon, you shall be dead.”

“We’ll see,” Perseus placed his sword into his sheath. “I will find a way to kill you, Achilles. No matter how long it takes.”

-X-

AENEAS was tired. He sipped wine from a goblet quietly as the court officials and commanders and kings argued. He was sporting a rather morbid injury, a cut to his side. Hector had a similar one on his arm, and although Aeneas’ was bandaged and seemed to be healing, it hurt like Hades. Aeneas glanced at his side, where his brother was seated. Perseus was glaring, at the curly haired prince seated opposite him—Paris. The idiot didn’t have the decency to look ashamed. All this was happening because of him.

The King of Dardania sipped from his goblet again. “We can still stop this!” Deiphobus was shouting. “Too many good Trojan men lost their lives today! Just give them back Helen.” He whirled on his brother. “Do you want your own selfish desires to be the reason many more sons, husbands and fathers are killed?”

“Deiphobus is right,” Hector drawled. “This senseless death can be stopped.”

“No,” Paris spoke. “Helen doesn’t want to go back to Menelaus, and neither do I want her to.”

“You think we care about what you want, boy?” A court official, Ennmons snarled. “My son died out there today, and you want your precious wife by your side so more people shall die?”

“Enough,” Priam raised a hand. The years had not been kind to him. Priam was a strong man, yes, but now he was old, and time was taking a toll on him. “We must—“

The doors to the courtroom swung open. A soldier marched in, and bowed. “Sire, there are some people here to see you, just at the gates.”

Priam’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“King Menelaus of Sparta and King Odysseus of Ithaca,” The soldier kept his head down. “They have come to barter.” Murmuring broke out among them. Aeneas sat straight. 

“Are you sure this is not a ruse to get in here?” He asked. 

“Have they been checked for weapons?” Helenus asked. 

The soldier didn’t answer, telling them all what his answer was. Everyone was silent. Finally, Priam said, “Bring them in. But first—“

“Don’t worry,” Hector spoke. “Perseus, could you check them for weapons? Make sure they’re not a threat to anyone. And escort them in here yourself.”

“Of course,” His brother nodded, and then disappeared through the door. The wait was annoying and made Aeneas even more tired. After what seemed like hours, Perseus finally emerged, closely followed by Menelaus and Odysseus, and about thirty Trojan guards.

“I didn’t know that you think we’re so dangerous that you’ll need thirty men to handle us, King Priam,” Odysseus spoke up, smiling, although his eyes betrayed his true emotions. They had both cleaned up, and bore no sign of the recent battle. 

“One can never be too cautious,” Perseus spoke up, eyes narrowed. 

“Enough,” Priam repeated. “Come forth.” The two men walked forward, heads held high, every bit of the Kings they were reflected in their walk alone. Finally, they stood at the bottom of the dais. 

“What is the purpose for your…, visit,” Priam spoke up. Aeneas pursed his lips in anticipation.

Odysseus spoke up. “We have come to barter with you, King Priam. We see no need for more people to die. We can end this here and now. We just ask for Helen to be returned to her husband and her kingdom, and the forces of Greece shall leave you in peace. We—“

“No!” Paris shot to his feet, eyes blazing. “Helen is my wife! She asked to come with me!”

“She was bewitched by Aphrodite,” Odysseus said, eyes narrowing. “We all know that is true. She does not really love you and you must let her go. Needles bloodshed can stop.”

“Helen is not leaving these walls,” Paris insisted.

“Sit down, Paris,” Hector snarled. “That is not your decision to make.”

The Prince glared at his brother hatefully, but sat. “Go on,” Hector turned to the two delegates. 

“We have no wish to see Troy harmed,” Menelaus spoke. “Just give Helen back, and all shall be good—“ Aeneas tuned them out as they continued debating. He scowled to himself, staring into his goblet. Perseus had returned to his side some time ago, and his brother wore the same expression. Aeneas didn’t like how they referred to Helen as though she was a prize—an object—that could be claimed by anybody who pleased. Talk of trading her…it made him sick. He also wanted to punch Paris in the face for refusing to let her go and break his mother’s spell.

He continued ignoring the conversation, until he heard, “No. We’re not giving Helen back.” Aeneas looked up in shock. The words had come from old Priam and he could see the surprise etched on Hector’s face.

“Father, what—“

“A goddess ordered her to be brought here,” Priam reminded. “She prevented us from returning Helen eight years ago. What makes you think that she will stand idle if we try again?”

Aeneas’s mouth fell open. Odysseus sounded cherry, but had an edge to his voice as he said, “Is that your final decision?” There were a few heartbeats of silence, and then, “Yes.”

“Very well,” Menelaus said. “Tomorrow, bright and early, we shall meet in battle once more.”

Aeneas buried his head in his hands. They were fools, the lot of them. And Paris was the most foolish amongst them all.

-X-

PERSEUS huffed in frustration, leaning on the tree. He couldn’t sleep. No matter how much he tried, Hypnos just wasn’t coming for him. He had seen so much blood that day, and he was so angry that Paris and Priam had refused to allow Helen to be returned to her husband. He was sick of it all. He hated the fact that the son of Priam was so selfish. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The son of Anchises slid down the tree. 

“Perseus,” Her voice made him look up, and his heart bounced a bit at the sight of her. 

“Selene,” Her name fell out of his lips like a prayer. “You’re here again.”

“I am,” She acknowledged. “I was passing overhead, and I saw you. I could sense your distress from the heavens.”

He snorted, but didn’t respond. “Tell me, then,” She said softly, taking a seat in the grass next to him. “What is bothering you?”

“It’s just,” He sighed, hesitating. “They could have ended this. They could have given Helen back.”

“But they didn’t, did they?” Selene said quietly. He shook his head. People he knew, people he trained with in the army, had died today. And instead of stopping it, Priam and Paris were refusing to give Helen back. 

He turned to face Selene, his eyes wide and angry. “They could have stopped the bloodshed. People died, and they chose themselves. We lost the beach, Selene! The Greeks are almost unstoppable as long as Achilles continues to fight alongside them! And yet, Paris chose himself over Troy.” He hated the fact that they were risking the lives of thousands of civilians, just because of Paris. 

Selene tilted her head to the side. “I-It’s just not fair. Do you know, Paris wasn’t even fighting today! He hid behind his mother’s skirts like a child! He was safe in the palace!” He stood. “It’s not fair that he doesn’t get to see what’s happening on the battlefield too. It’s not fair that he gets to sit on the sidelines while the rest of Troy dies for him and his sickly obsession with a married woman!”

“People have lost husbands, sons, and fathers!” He continued, eyes flashing. “And he sits there, refusing to let Helen go—refusing to end this!” For a second his eyes glowed green and he saw Selene look at him in mild surprise. He blinked and the glow disappeared. Perseus continued huffing, but his anger wasn’t as great as it had been before. He inhaled, trying to control himself.

“But all is fair in love and war,” Selene said, standing. “And this case includes both. Nothing will be fair, Perseus. Nothing ever is.” She reached out hesitantly, and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re going to have to learn to endure. You must be strong. Paris is a coward, but you, you are something else entirely. Fight for your city, Perseus. Do not let the cravings of a child prevent you from doing everything you can to protect your home—to protect the people you love.” Her eyes flashed silver. “You mustn’t break down now. This is war, and death is inevitable. You might not be able to influence the decisions made in the court of Priam. You might have no say in the choices the Royals make. But you can turn the tide in the field of battle. You can protect Troy, as long as you’re determined.”

He looked down, and Selene reached forward, grabbing his chin and turning it to her slowly. “Tell me you’ll fight. Tell me you’ll give it all you’ve got.”

He mumbled something under his breath. “Louder,” She said harshly. 

“I’ll fight,” He said, voice hard, determination filling him.. 

She was silent for a few seconds, and then she said, “Good.” Without another word, she melted into silver dust and was gone.

XMX

PERSEUS scowled at the lines of Greek soldiers from his spot in the trees. Below him the Trojans were forming their own ranks. It was a few minutes to dawn and he pursed his lips as he waited. Finally, a golden light flared from beside him and Apollo formed from it. Perseus turned to the sun god, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice, “You called for me?”

“I did,” Apollo agreed. “Mother asked to wish you good luck.” Perseus frowned, but nodded. 

“Why did you stop the fighting last night?” He narrowed his eyes as he asked. “I could have taken Achilles.”

“One of you would have died had you continued to fight him,” Apollo cocked his head to the side. “I saved your life. You weren’t ready.”

“Then tell me,” He began. “Tell me how to beat him.”

“I do not know yet,” Apollo shook his head. “But I will find out. And when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Perseus turned back to the lines of soldiers below him. “Alight, then. I have to go.”

“I know,” His mentor said, quietly. Perseus was moving down the path when Apollo called, “Have you eaten?”

He turned in confusion. “What?”

“Did you eat last night?” The god pressed. Perseus’ brow furrowed. Why would Apollo want to know if he’d eaten or not. 

“No,” He said slowly.

The god nodded, and waved his hand. “Catch.” Suddenly there was an apple sailing to him through the sky. He grabbed it. Perseus looked up, but Apollo had disappeared. Shrugging to himself, he took a bite of the reddish-gold apple and continued walking down the path, eating as he went.

XMX

THE FIGHTING felt a lot more real this time. They had lost the beach, and the Greeks were so close to the city walls it was discouraging. But they had to fight—they had to protect the thousands of people who lived in Troy, even if it was at the expense of their own lives. Perseus dodged a strike from an enemy soldier. He raised his hand in a slash, and cut out the man’s throat.

Perseus slaughtered men as he went, stabbing through soldiers, cutting down any who dared cross his path. He felt a rush of energy inside him—he felt powerful and invincible. He didn’t know why, but he felt as though he could take on every one in the Greek army and win. He cut a steady path through the Greeks, fighting ferociously. He could see Hector a few feet away from him, his spear sliding through breastplates and his shield bashing heads in. Aeneas was at his right, his twin swords flashing as he fought.

Perseus ducked under a swing from a sword and sidestepped another strike. He spun, slamming his shield into his attacker’s head. The man, dark haired, fell to his knees in pain. Perseus ended him quickly, lobbing off his head. The battle raged on. They were still too close to the city walls and it was then that he started to search for Achilles. He listened as he fought, his sword ending the lives of many. He could hear screams—loud screams, of pure terror, coming from a place next to the walls. Perseus swore to himself and moved towards that direction.

He dodged under a swing, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the man’s chest. Without waiting he ran him through. Perseus sidestepped a thrust from a spear as he went, and with a roar he cut it into half and drove his sword through the man’s heart. The screams were getting closer now, and when he finally fought his way near the walls, he spotted the ferocious battle going on. Achilles was going head to head with a man—a boy, really, who hardly looked seventeen. Perseus recognised him from training—Cycnus. They clashed, sword against sword, stabbing at each other, slashing, hacking and trying to tear each other apart.

Cycnus was littered with injuries, but Achilles looked fine, refreshed even. Perseus heard a roar and then Cycnus raised his hand. Shock engulfed him as spears of water formed out of thin air. With another roar, Cycnus waved his hand and the water spears shot towards the son of Peleus. Perseus heard a shout from beside him and jerked to attention. He spun, just in time to see a sword coming at him. But he was too slow. Suddenly another sword appeared out of nowhere, blocking the strike. And then a spear tore through the man’s chest from behind.

“Perseus,” Hector snapped his name. “Stop getting distracted!”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Aeneas turned to him. Both men, like him, were soaked with blood and breathing heavily. 

“What?” Hector asked him. Perseus just turned back to the battle, where Cycnus was forming more water spears.

“No way,” Aeneas murmured.

“A son of Poseidon?” Hector demanded. “How?”

“I don’t know,” Perseus shook his head. “But we have to help him.” He watched Achilles dodge and duck all the projectiles. He cut through several more as he raced for Cycnus. In a second Perseus shot after him, Hector and Aeneas following. He was racing for them, urging his feet to go faster. Achilles got to Cycnus, and the two were exchanging blows. But even from where he was, he could see that his newfound brother was being pushed back under Achilles’ onslaught.

He tried to run faster. If he was too late…

Perseus slowed to a stop when he saw the son of Thetis run Cycnus through with his sword. The soldier spat out blood, and fell to his knees. Achilles ripped his sword out of Cycnus’ chest and Perseus’ brother fell limp, onto the ground. 

XMX

HE DIDN’T know what overcame him then. The wind whistled in his ears and he let out a loud roar. Perseus jumped off the ground, hurling away his shield. He swung his sword midair and brought it down in an overhead strike, intending to cut the fair haired man in two. Achilles swore, then blocked his strike. Perseus landed on the ground, eyes alight with fury. He yelled again and clashed with the Prince.

Sparks exploded from the meeting of their swords. Achilles gritted his teeth, trying to push him back, but Perseus was angry. And he wouldn’t allow anyone else to die at the hands of this demigod. Not anymore. He bared his teeth and pushed Achilles back with all his might. The son of Thetis stumbled back, surprise on his face.

Perseus lashed at him again, and they met, slashing, stabbing at each other. He parried a strike and returned one of his own, but although his sword connected with the man’s skin, it didn’t have an impact. Achilles grinned and they continued battling. Soldiers stopped around them, and people watched as their two forces clashed. They slammed into each other, dancing around one another, trading blows and stabs. They continued spinning around each other, dodging hacks and slashing, battling with the force of thousand men. 

Perseus sidestepped a thrust to his side and slammed his elbow in Achilles’ face. The man grunted and glared at him, eyes lighting with anger. With a roar they clashed once again. Achilles avoided most of his strikes and as they continued fighting, they both tried desperately to land a hit. Achilles couldn’t get past his guard, and Perseus couldn’t penetrate his skin. Suddenly the son of Thetis bent and slashed forward. Perseus was too slow. He felt mild pain flash across his torso as Achilles’ sword cut a gash in his skin through his armour.

The wind was howling now, whistling, like bells. Perseus suddenly felt very dizzy and he shook his head, gritting his teeth to fight back the pain. He heard a gasp of surprise from in front of him and looked up. Achilles stood, stock still, eyes trained on Perseus’ torso. Shock and astonishment were written on his face. Perseus’ eyes travelled to his enemy’s sword—gold ran down the blade, mixing with the red blood of the men Achilles had previously killed. The son of Anchises narrowed his eyes. He reached out, touching his chest tentatively.

It was sticky, and it felt like blood. So why…

He drew his hand back and stared. His blood was gold. The blood of immortals fell down his hand. 

A/N: So, in one universe (The Dissonant Notes of Fate), Percy has lost his immortality and is a mortal Titan. In another universe (The Guardians), Percy is a semi-immortal demigod tormented by the gods and forced to do their dirty work. In another (The Hunters of the Sun), he’s an Immortal being who is way too Overpowered now that I think about it (Will probably have to work on that in the future). And, in this universe, our resident protagonist has been unknowingly made immortal. I really have to dial down the immortality stuff lol. I hope you enjoy them all anyway. 

Chapter Text

A/N: Well, here’s chapter nine. This arc is going to be exactly nine chapters long and I hope you’ll all enjoy it. Stay safe, happy reading, and have a great day/night.

PERSEUS staggered up the hill, teeth gritted, hand at his side. He could already feel the wound closing, and the harsh evening wind brushing against his injury didn’t even sting. No wonder he had felt so powerful during the start of the second battle. He stormed up the path, ignoring the glare of the moon above him and the lights coming from the Greek camp at the beach as the Achaeans buried their dead and performed funeral rites. Below him, in the city, the same thing was being done. He finally came to a stop under the tree he had met the god at that morning, and sure enough, Apollo leaned on the trunk, waiting expectantly for him.

Anger filled him and his vision turned hazy. Before he knew what he was doing he had jumped onto Apollo, knocking him onto the ground, and was whaling on him with his fists. The god made no move to defend himself, and Perseus threw everything into his blows. He put in all his frustration, his anger, his fury, and slammed his closed fists into the god of the sun. They went on like that for minutes, the sun god motionless, Perseus seeping with emotions as he punched and punched and punched. Finally, panting, he peeled himself off Apollo. The immortal deity slowly rose from the ground. He was bruised and bleeding ichor but he didn’t look fazed. He waved his hand, causing both of their injuries to disappear.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Perseus yelled. “You did this to me!”

“I did,” Apollo said, with no remorse in his voice. “I had my reasons.” 

“You had your reasons?” He bellowed. “You had your reasons for turning my life upside down? Just like you had your reasons for cursing the only girl I ever liked because she would not go to bed with you?!” Apollo looked unperturbed. 

Perseus ran a hand through his hair and snarled. “What were you thinking?” He turned to glare at the sun god. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?!”

Apollo inhaled, then began, “I had a vision.” Perseus cut him off, not even trying to hide the rage he was feeling. 

“A vision?” He yelled in disbelief. His fists shook and he glared even more ferociously. “You made me immortal because of a vision?!” At his words, he felt power course through him, fuelled by his anger. Clouds gathered above them and thunder boomed. The ground beneath him began to shake, rumbling like an earthquake was being created just by his screams at the god of the sun. The ground rumbled, but his feet were planted steadily on the earth, just like Apollo’s. He let out a roar of frustration, barely hearing the yells of fear and surprise coming from the city down below, or the Greek camp by the beach. This time the son of Zeus stumbled. “You—“

“You would have died,” The god snapped, cutting him off and momentarily stunning Perseus with his sudden aggression. “You would have died today by Achilles’ blade had I not given you Hera’s apple!” He paused, righting himself. Perseus felt shock engulf him as the son of Leto’s words sunk in.

Apollo continued, “Look, I know, that ever since Cassandra…we haven’t been the same. We’ll never be the same, and I’ve come to accept that. I know, you’re probably starting to see me as some sort of manipulator and villain in your life. You think that I’m a bad person. I took your choices away from you and I took away something that could have made you really happy.” He glanced up, towards the heavens. “But you have to understand.” The god came closer, eyes narrowing, a finger burying itself in Perseus’ chest. “You—You are destined for great things. You are going to save a lot of people one day. I saw that the second you landed on Delos. Whatever I do, whatever choice I make about you, by Hades, even for you—it’s so that you will be happy, and so that you will survive this war.”

He began fading into mist. “I don’t care about how you see me now, Perseus. As long as you’re safe, and as long as Fate is satisfied and your destiny is fulfilled…I shall keep doing what I’m doing.” Without waiting for him to answer, the god of the sun melted and vanished from view. 

Perseus collapsed on the ground then, making the earthquake seize. A heavy weight seemed to settle on him. All the anger, all the rage and fury, seemed to seep out of him. His mind played back to his time, growing up together with Aeneas, his father, meeting Hector. He had thought they would be with them forever…in life and in death. But…no.

His wrath was replaced by grief as the implications and realisation of what would happen dawned on him. He could never grow old now. He could never die. He would continue to live while everyone he knew went to the Underworld, and he could never be with them. He would be burdened with watching ages of mortals and heroes and people go by, while he remained the same…forever and ever. 

He cried then, unknowingly. He was still, on his knees, staring vaguely at the horizon, a blank look in his eyes as the tears fell onto the earth, clouding his vision so he barely noticed as a familiar dark haired Titaness landed on the ground next to him. 

-X-

SELENE did not know why she kept on returning to the city of Troy. Maybe it was because of that boy—Perseus. He was a man now, actually, and there were several things about him which might be the reason for her watching him from the skies each day.

 He was morally upright, handsome, ferocious in battle. But it wasn’t that that kept drawing her to him. It was something she didn’t know. Something she didn’t understand. If anyone asked, she could not give them a solid reason as to why she kept lingering around the city at all times. Maybe she just wanted to catch a glimpse of Anchises’ son. But what was so special about him? Although she had asked herself many times, she still did not have an answer. 

Shaking her head, she watched from her chariot as he exchanged words with a familiar god—Apollo. They argued, and with her Titan hearing, she took in every single word they were saying. It didn’t take her long to put two and two together and when Apollo vanished from view, she watched as Perseus collapsed on the ground and began staring at the Greek camp in the distance. Her eyes were wide with shock as she realised what exactly had happened. 

The world of the gods would be in disarray because of this. Olympus would be in chaos. Someone had been made immortal, without the knowledge or consent of Zeus. 

There was a bleak expression on Perseus’ face, vague and barely-there. But he was crying, that much was visible. She didn’t know why she smiled sadly at that. He was crying, not like the soldier he was, but like a child that had been separated from its mother, and something about that seemed endearing to her. 

Perseus continued crying, barely making a sound, and Selene realised then. No matter how tough he acted on the battlefield, no matter how many opponents he took on, he was just a man. And men were broken little things, except that Perseus was perhaps more broken than others. He continued to cry. He was—had been, actually—just human. And it made her feel angry on his behalf, that Apollo had stolen such a thing as his mortality from him—the very thing that gave reason for his existence. Just like Selene had questioned her existence when her domains had been taken from her, he was questioning his very self now. All because of Apollo.
She would never pretend to understand how in Gaea’s name mortals survived with such tiny life spans. But no one, human or not, should have such a big decision made on their behalf, without their consent. To her, being immortal was a gift. But to him, clearly, it was not.
 
She knew, that perhaps, had it been any other mortal they would have been overjoyed by the fact that they would live forever. But Perseus wasn’t just any other mortal. He was different. He was wise and calculating and he obviously saw more demerits to being immortal than benefits. 

She pulled her chariot down toward the forest and jumped out from inside it, right in front of him. She slowly lowered herself onto the ground so she was level with the son of Anchises. She could see the pain reflected in his eyes as he looked up at her in confusion. Selene had never before done this—she knew not how to comfort those in emotional agony. Give her a wound and she could treat it. Give her a beast and she could kill. But this—this was out of her area of expertise. Nonetheless, she whispered his name. He didn’t respond, choosing to stare blankly at her while tears streamed down his face.

Selene reached out hesitantly. She wrapped her arms around him and drew him to her. Without a sound he leaned into her, head resting on his shoulder.

They stayed that way for a long, long time.

-X-

ACHILLES rolled his eyes lazily as he heard the raised voices of his comrades. Honestly, they were annoyingly loud. An earthquake had just ended a few hours prior and he didn’t feel like listening to the childish voices of the others. He didn’t think he could stand another second in the command tent. They had been there for what seemed like hours—since the ending of the second battle about five hours ago. 

“We can’t breach the walls,” Diomedes was saying, shaking his head. 

“Yes, we can,” Agamemnon argued. “We just have to fight till we get there—“

“We tried that today,” Odysseus sounded frustrated. “Those walls were built by Apollo and Poseidon. They will not come down easily! Many lives shall be lost if we attempt this.”

“We can take them,” Ajax boomed. “All we need are catapults, and onagers—“

Achilles scoffed silently in his seat and tuned out the sound of their voices. As he sat, his mind drifted to the battle he had had with Perseus just a few hours before. He didn’t understand how that had come to be. They had fought in Skyros, and Perseus had bled red. The day before, when they had landed on Troy, he had seen a cut on Perseus’ neck—it had been red too. So how, how in the name of the gods had this happened? Was the son of Anchises favoured by the gods? Was he chosen by them in some way to stop the Greeks? Achilles pursed his lips. 

He would need to find some answers, and seek out a way to pull out Perseus from this war. The battleground was equal now. Achilles couldn’t be injured apart from through his heel, which was always covered in leather. Perseus however was immortal and couldn’t be killed at all. Hades, it wasn’t an even battlefield. Not at all.

Perseus couldn’t be killed. But Achilles could. If the two of them continued clashing long enough for Perseus to keep him distracted, the other Trojans could push back his allies. If they met again in battle, there was no telling who exactly would win. Not when they were both practically invincible. If he did not challenge Perseus too, the man would definitely slay a lot of soldiers on the Greek side. Just like Achilles had done with the Trojans in the first two battles, Perseus could decimate the Greek forces. Maybe his new immortality even came with extra powers.

Achilles frowned, and then jerked upright when he heard his name. He glanced around the table, where all the commanders stared at him expectantly. “What?” He asked in irritation.

“I asked for your thoughts on the matter,” Agamemnon curled his lips. “Or do you want to be left in whatever fantasyland you were in just now?”

He bared his teeth. Honestly, Agamemnon’s face was looking so appealing to his fist. “What exactly are we talking about here?” he asked, while attempting to reign in his anger.

“We’re trying to decide what to do next,” Odysseus spoke up. “Obviously trying to breach the walls would not work, as we would instantly be pushed back. Agamemnon asked for your opinion.” Achilles was silent for a few minutes, thinking through every possibility. He had to come up with something witty, a plan worthy of Athena herself. He thought for a few minutes, and finally, he spoke. “Troy is dependent on its allies for food, supplies, trade, and soldiers for war, right?”

Agamemnon snorted, and said, “They are. But how does that—“

“We cannot advance on the city right away, Odysseus is right,” He shook his head. “It would be a futile effort. So we besiege any and all towns and cities surrounding it—supporting them. We cut off their food supply, take control of the armies of their allies, force them out of the walls if we can. And when that’s all done, we move on to the city itself and find a way to get in.”

His eyes flickered across the room. “We build a wall to protect this encampment too. When Troy is surrounded some of us find a way to enter the city and open the gates for the rest of the army. But first, we have to take control of their surroundings.”

“Are you suggesting we divide and conquer?” Diomedes looked sceptical. 

“It could work,” Nestor spoke up. “It is a good plan.”

“I agree,” Palamedes said. “I’m for it.”

“But we’ll be separated. Weaker,” Menelaus argued. “And far easier to defeat.”

“It’s a risk we must take,” Achilles insisted. He stood up, glancing at each and everyone. “This is war, after all. It’s all about risks.”

“Where do you suggest we attack first, then?” Lesser Ajax asked.

Achilles grinned, leaning forward. “Dardania.”

-X-

ARTEMIS landed next to the two figures seated in silence underneath the shadow of the tree. To say she was surprised to see Selene there would be an understatement. But her friend had taken what seemed like a liking to Perseus, and she wasn’t in any position to question why Selene kept seeking him out. Not after what had just happened.

Pursing her lips, she moved forward, slowly. Perhaps he wouldn’t even want to see her. Maybe he would take out his anger on her. She had never felt this much sympathy for any man. But Perseus—he was different. He was like a younger brother to her. The green eyed man glanced up when he heard her footsteps, as did Selene. Both stared at her in expectancy, although there was a little acceptance and defeat in Perseus’ eyes. 

“Is it true?” Artemis asked. She had been told by the gods observing the battle. She had been informed of what Apollo had done and she had asked him herself. He had told her, given her his reasons for doing it, even. And then he had run, to hide from their father’s wrath. She didn’t even know where he was now.

Zeus had called a meeting on Olympus and had raged and raged. But it was done. They couldn’t force Perseus to pull out of the war, and they couldn’t kill him for what had happened. They couldn’t even reverse the immortality.

She had heard all of this, but she wouldn’t believe it until she saw it. Selene was silent, eyes narrowed. Artemis had the decency to look ashamed. If it had been under different circumstances, perhaps Perseus would have been happy. But this was a war, and even she knew that dying protecting someone or something, that was the greatest honour a hero could achieve. But Perseus would never get that.

Personally, she cared not for mortal lives—except those of the people closest to her; like Perseus, and her semi-immortal hunters, and her priestesses and worshippers. Their lives were short, and passed by in the blink of an eye, yes, but even she, the almighty goddess of the moon, sometimes pondered what it felt like to be mortal. She wondered what it would feel like to have something to live and die for. She wondered how it would feel like to have a purpose and see it fulfilled, and then rest in the safety of Elysium. Being mortal gave endless possibilities—you were aware that you could die any second, and so you fought for life. But now, Perseus would never have that. He had lost the very thing that made him human. 

Perseus didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted his body a little, and Artemis caught sight of the gold which spread down his armour. She had heard, but she couldn’t keep herself from feeling shocked. 

“Apollo shall be found, and punished by father,” She stood straighter. “I know that isn’t any consolation—“

“You’re right,” His voice was hoarse but had an edge to it. “It isn’t.”

Artemis bit her lip. If it had been any other person she would have struck them down for cutting her short. “Look, I know nothing I say will change what Apollo did. But, I will make sure he is punished on your behalf. I hope that shall make you hate him a little bit less.” He glanced up, a glare forming on his face, as though to say, Nothing can make me stop hating Apollo.

Artemis sighed. “The Greeks just finished planning their next course of action. They’re separating, and plan to cut off your food, weapons, armour and soldier supply. They’re going to conquer the islands and cities around Troy, and then advance when the entire region is theirs. You’ll be short of allies if that happens, and Dardania is first.” She paused. “You have to inform the armies and Kings. Tell Hector. Stop the siege.”

Perseus didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at the side, fixing his eyes on a blade of grass next to her. Artemis took that as a sign. Sighing to herself, she vanished from view, back into her moon chariot in the sky. 

-X-

PERSEUS turned to Selene then, flushing as he realised how close they were. He pulled away from her, not understanding why he suddenly felt embarrassed at the fact that the Titaness had seen him cry. 

“It’s not like I saw you naked, Perseus,” She admonished, standing. “There’s no need to be shy.”

He smiled hesitantly, and wiped his eyes. He hadn’t even realised he had been shedding tears until she had come. Selene’s grin faded and she moved closer, seriousness in her voice. “How do you feel?”

“Like I can take on the entire Greek army,” He muttered. And that was the problem. He sighed. 

“There’s nothing I can do, is there?” He glanced up at her, pursing his lips. The son of Anchises wanted to feel hopeful. That maybe, someone, Zeus or another god or something, could reverse what had been done to him. Selene shook her head sadly and he felt as though an anvil had been dropped on him. “The effects of the apple are permanent.” 

Perseus sighed, forcing himself not to break down again. He took in a deep breath, feeling the calmness wash over him. There was nothing he could do. Whatever had been done to him…it was final.

He wanted to curl up in a ball and hide. He wanted to continue raging, and crying. He didn’t want to give up, or accept it, just like that. He didn’t want to be immortal. But Artemis had given him valuable information. That was the only good thing that had come out from this entire thing.

“Telling you to accept it and move on would be cruel,” Selene murmured, shaking her head. “I truly am sorry for what you have lost, although I do not understand it.”

He smiled at her. He didn’t know why she had come, or why she had done what she had—comforted him. But he was grateful for it. And yes, she was right. It would be downright wicked to tell him that. But although he hated to admit it, that was exactly what had to be done. He wasn’t a child, and he felt as though there was no more anger, or fight in him. It was time to accept what he was now, and use it to help his city. 

He would never forgive Apollo for this. He would always despise the god of the sun. But for now, he would put it behind him. He would fight for Troy. He turned to the Titaness. “Thank you. Thank you for coming here tonight. I am much obliged to you.” 

She nodded, and said, “Do not let it worry you too much, Perseus. Some view immortality as a blessing, but more see it as a curse. Do not despair for thinking the latter. There will be light at the end of the tunnel. A silver lining to this situation.” She turned away from him and began moving to her chariot. He watched her go. When she had settled inside it, Selene turned back to him, murmuring, “There always is.” And then she disappeared from view. 

-X-

ACHILLES folded his arms as he waited by the edge of the water. In a few seconds his mother rose out of the depths, and began making her way to him. She stopped a few feet away and smiled. “I saw what you did today.” Pride enveloped him and he nodded. “It was good. We pushed the Trojans off the beach and killed a lot of their soldiers.”

Thetis sighed, and Achilles forged on. “But one of them—a General of their army, Perseus.” He paused, looking her in the eye. “He worries me.”

“He should,” His mother told him. “You must not take him as an idle threat. For if care is not taken, he shall be the end of you.” Achilles blanched. His mother’s words were just heightening his anxiety. Thetis continued, “He is immortal now, through the will of his mentor Apollo. He cannot be killed. But should any harm befall him the two children of Leto and their mother, along with the Titaness Selene shall call down the fury of the heavens on the one who is the cause of it.” 

Achilles frowned. That complicated things.

“If he keeps fighting, the Trojans could win,” He said. “He could kill me.”

“He could,” Thetis agreed. “You must tread cautiously around him. And his brother, Aeneas. Do not touch him either. The gods have forbidden it.”

Achilles frowned. What was so special about Perseus and his brother that the gods favoured them in such a way? “But, aren’t they simply mortals?” He queried. Or weren’t, in Perseus’ case. His mother laughed, startling him.

“Gods, no. Those two are anything but mortal. Aeneas is a son of the goddess Aphrodite.” At his scoff, the nymph glared. “He is not to be taken lightly. He might not like war, but it is a necessary evil in his eyes and he would kill any which threaten his home and family.”

“I leave to attack Dardania at dawn,” He bit his lip. “Are you saying I cannot kill him?”

“No,” She said harshly. “Do not kill him. You would be struck down by the Olympians!”

He sighed. “What of Perseus?” Achilles finally asked. “What is he?”

“A son of Poseidon,” Thetis announced. “I felt it when I watched the battle today. It is why he reacted badly to your killing his brother.” Achilles wasn’t even surprised anymore. So it meant that the kid who had formed the water spears was Perseus’ brother. “And I suppose Poseidon would also strike me down should I hurt his son?” He asked wryly.

“He does not know of him,” Thetis shook her head. “He believes him dead.” Achilles frowned. Everything about the two men was mysterious. 

He was silent for a few minutes. So it meant Aeneas and Perseus were off limits. He remembered Calchas’ words, that Troy would fall after ten years. But maybe, just maybe, he could end this before it got bad. Turning back to his mother, he asked, “Could you arrange a meeting between me and Helen? I need to speak with her.” Thetis looked confused, but nodded. “Just before daybreak, you shall meet me here.” 

“Alright,” He nodded. 

-X-

AENEAS was stumbling towards his chamber when he heard the voices. He was still in shock, still reeling from what they had witnessed on the battlefield. Perseus had been made immortal and he didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know whether he should be crying or whooping with joy. His head hurt from overthinking it. After they had returned from battle and he and Hector had calmed down their panicking friend, he had stalked away towards the woods and Aeneas and Hector hadn’t followed, because they knew exactly what he was going to do.

Perseus preferred to grieve in private. He never made them see him cry, unless he couldn’t hide it. But he was going to seek out Apollo, and Aeneas knew that his brother would not appreciate him following after him and stopping him. Hell, he wanted to go after the sun god himself. He wanted to deck him so hard he flew into next summer. But he just hadn’t been able to get his feet moving. He had been waiting at the entrance to the palace for hours, but when Perseus didn’t show, Hector had told him to go to bed—Creusa was probably worried. Both of them had left.

Aeneas ran a hand through his hair as he walked. And then he stilled, recognising the first voice. He drew his sword and began following it to its source. He stopped behind a narrow passageway leading to Paris’ room.

“You know that this isn’t right,” Achilles whispered. “Bewitched or not, you should see that your decision to stay in Troy is going to end up with thousands dead.”

“I do not love Menelaus,” Helen replied in the same low voice. “I am not coming back. Leave from here before I call the guards.”

Aeneas frowned. What was going on? How had Achilles breached the walls? Or was this some sort of sleep-deprived hallucination? 

“Helen,” Achilles sighed. “I don’t know what spell you have been put under, but even if you will not come with Menelaus, come with me. None of them would dare stand against me. The war would be ended.” He paused. “Think it over.” Aeneas heard a small gasp of surprise, and his eyes widened. He stepped out of his hiding spot just in time to see Achilles pull away from Helen, the latter with her hands on her lips. He had kissed her. Disgust filtered through him as he began stalking forward. 

“Aeneas,” Helen muttered his name in shock. Ignoring her, he made his way steadily to Achilles. He was almost near the fair-haired man when a faint blue light enveloped him. And then he vanished from view. 

Aeneas blinked in surprise, frowning. He glanced around him in mild confusion, wondering how he had come to be there. He turned to Helen, brow creasing. Why was he in a dark corridor with his brother-in-law's wife? “What’s going on?” He enquired. “Why are we here?

She looked a bit surprised, but then smiled, although it seemed forced. “It was nothing. We simply met on our way to our chambers,” She glanced up at him. “It happened just now. How do you not remember?”

“I—“ He paused. He couldn’t help but feel that he was forgetting something other than that. Something big. “Never mind. I must go.” He hurriedly made his way out of the corridor and towards his own chambers.

 -X-

HECTOR pursed his lips as he glanced down the hill from the city gates and towards the beach. It seemed as if the Greeks were packing up. They were loading their ships with their belongings, although the building of the wall was still being done. But the Heir Apparent knew they were not leaving because they were tired of the fighting. If Perseus’ information was true (And of course, it was), things were about to get bad. All their allies had to return to their respective kingdoms and fight back against the Greeks’ attempts to capture them.

He glanced at his side, where his best friend stood. There was something different about him now. Something ethereal. Hector supposed it had to do with the immortally. He sighed. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it, and how to handle it. Him and Aeneas had comforted a distraught Perseus before he had stormed towards the hills the night before. But now, he seemed…accepting. Resigned to the fact that he was immortal, and nothing could change. Hector smiled sadly. The Greeks and their stupid war and his stupid brother Paris had ruined everything. 

Now, with the departure of their Greeks and all their allies, both of his brothers in everything but blood were also leaving. Hector had given Perseus permission to go. If Artemis was to be believed, and Dardania was truly going to be the first to be attacked, its King needed to be there to defend it. And who better to aid him than his own brother? Aeneas turned to face him and Hector smiled sadly. It would probably be a long while before they saw each other again. He reached forward, pulling the King of Dardania into a hug.

“Stay safe,” Hector murmured. “Please.”

“I’ll try,” Aeneas squeezed and then let go. “You too.”

Perseus came forward then, and threw his arms around Hector. He held him tight and Hector said, “Make sure you return in one piece.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” He squeezed once more, and pulled away. “I’ll be back immediately we’re sure Dardania is safe.”

“Just…remember one thing,” Hector began. “You’ll outlive us now. You won’t join us in the Underworld. But that changes nothing. You are still the same, and so are we.”

Aeneas nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t matter what colour your blood is. Red or gold, we’ll forever be brothers, all three of us. And nothing can change that.” Perseus sent both of them a grateful smile, although it seemed a little sad. Hector pulled him into a hug again. 

“Nothing changes,” He said again. “And don’t you dare forget.” Perseus nodded once more, before throwing himself onto the saddled horse that had been prepared for him. Aeneas followed his lead. There were thousands of men behind them, some on horses, others on foot. 

Aeneas turned to face them and shouted, voice reverberating across the earth. “It is time to leave! Prepare to fight immediately when we arrive!” The men roared in approval, and a shout of “Dardania!” was started among their ranks, and spread out quickly through the troops. Aeneas smiled, and turned to face Hector, expression slipping into seriousness. 

“Take care of Creusa for me,” He said. Hector nodded. He watched his two best friends spurn their horses into action and take off up the hill. 

They disappeared from view a while later, lingering hugs the only thing left of the two brothers in the city of Troy. 

A/N: Well, here’s that. Perseus will never truly accept what Apollo has done to him. But, he will move on, however fast that may be. He has to, because they’re at war. Better than being a sissy and crying about it all the time, IMO. Hope you enjoyed it. 

-TripleHomicide. 

Chapter Text

A/N: So, there isn’t much in history about the first nine years of war. Most of the sources choose to talk about the events of the Iliad, leading up to Achilles’ death, and after it. But I find that just skipping forward ten years is a bit detrimental to the story I’m trying to build up. And so, using the vague information from the Cypria (first work of the Epic Cycle), I’m going to be recreating the events of the first nine years of war, in four chapters. 

After chapter fourteen, the story in the Iliad will serve as Arc III of Excidium Troiae, in my own version, of course. While publishing these chapters of Arc II, I’m working on the next arc of The Guardians. Hunters of the Sun has to stay on hold for a little while longer, I’m afraid. Hopefully I can finish these arcs of these stories and publish my newest work—To Conquer the Darkness, before I have to leave for boarding school in April. Enjoy the chapter!

PS—If you haven't’ please please check my profile on fanfiction . net, there’s a poll I need answers to, and it closes tomorrow. 

-TripleHomicide.

ACHILLES folded his arms as he listened to the news the scout had brought back. Patroclus was at his side, looking worried and a bit nervous. Achilles nodded to the soldier and waved his hand, telling him that he was dismissed. Finally, the Prince turned to his best friend and said, “I think we can attack now.”

Patroclus nodded, although his worried glance did not fade. They had arrived in Dardania about two days ago, and since then he had been sending out scouts to check out the terrain. Aeneas and Perseus had somehow found out about the plan of the Greeks, and they had arrived in the city just a few hours before Achilles, in time for them to spread out thousands of Trojan and Dardanian soldiers around the city gates in anticipation for Achilles’ arrival. He had been shocked to see the two brothers there when they had camped a distance away, but he knew now not to underestimate them.

They had friends in the right places—the gods—even more so than he, and since one was immortal and killing the other was forbidden by the council, they would be a formidable foe to contend with. But he wasn’t one to run in the face of danger. He might not be able to kill them, but he would be taking Dardania. He had to show the other Greeks that his plan was a good one—failing at the first try would discourage them all, and they would be too scared to try to take the other cities around Ilios. 

He sighed in frustration. Aeneas had retreated into his city to speak to the people, but Perseus was still keeping watch at the gates. He hadn’t left his spot since they had arrived, and that worried Achilles.

It had been Patroclus who came up with the idea, and now, they were camped a few feet away from the farms surrounding Dardania—specifically where Aeneas’ cattle were kept. “We steal the cattle now,” Achilles nodded. “When Achilles and Perseus see me here, they shall come. And when they do, you attack the city with Phoenix.” He saddled his horse, and jumped onto it. At that, the men he had selected assembled around him. 

“Wait,” The voice made him turn. He arched an eyebrow when he spotted Calchas, moving towards him from among the soldiers. The seer had insisted on coming with him, and so far he hadn’t seen anything of importance. But maybe, now…

“What is it, Calchas?” Patroclus asked. 

“I just had a vision,” The prophet stopped in front of them. “There is a boy on the farm, a child, really, who has barely seen twelve summers. He is the youngest son of Priam and the brother of Aeneas’ wife.” Achilles frowned. How did that help them, exactly? “He takes care of the cattle and sheep when the cowherd Eurytion is not present. I saw, that if he is allowed to reach twenty summers, Troy shall never fall. He shall drive away our forces, and aid the immortal son of Anchises in killing you, Achilles.” The son of Thetis paled, pursing his lips. “You must slay him.”

A child, who posed a threat to the victory of the Achaeans. He had known that something like this would likely happen. Women and children suffered the most in war, and although he did not like it, if what Calchas said was true, the boy was an even bigger threat than Aeneas, Perseus or Hector. He scowled to himself, suddenly angry that he had to make such a decision. But he couldn’t allow the boy to kill him. He glanced up to Calchas, and nodded, “I’ll do it.” He paused. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

“What does the boy look like?” Patroclus stepped in.

“He has hair darker than night, and the bluest eyes you will ever see,” The seer told them. “He should not be hard to miss. But you must kill him. If he escapes today…” He trailed off.

Achilles was starting to hate this man more and more. First, he had said there would be ten years of battle before Troy fell. He had almost had Agamemnon sacrifice his own daughter. Then he had supported Odysseus when he had said Philoctetes had to be left on Lemnos. And now, he was telling Achilles to commit child-slaughter, because of a vision he had seen. Something which they had no proof of.

He sighed. It would not do well to think of such matters. Aeneas would come when news reached him of his cattle being stolen and his farmers slaughtered. Perseus would follow just to see and fight Achilles again. And then, Patroclus would storm the city and take it from them, while Achilles distracted and captured the two brothers. It was a smart plan, and he prayed to the gods that it would work. He turned to nod to his friend, saying, “Be safe.” He had already informed Phoenix and his other advisors and lieutenants of the plan. The army would be following Patroclus and Phoenix to take Dardania, while two hundred Myrmidons went with him to serve as a distraction.

“You too,” Patroclus looked up at him. “We shall move immediately we hear them coming.”

“Good,” He acknowledged. Without another word, he kicked his steed at the side and they were racing down the hill and towards the farms, his two hundred soldiers following behind him.

-X-

AENEAS cursed to himself as he raced towards the farms. When the news had come, he had wanted to go immediately. The farmers were innocent, and most of them could not defend themselves. How could Achilles think of targeting them in this way? He had thought the man respectable and dignified, but clearly he was not, if he was willing to kill unarmed men. What was worse was that his brother-in-law, a young boy who Priam had entrusted to him and Creusa, Troilus, was there, at Aeneas’ own portion of the farms, looking over his cattle.

If any harm came to the Prince of Troy…

Aeneas swore once more and ordered his horse to move faster with a loud, “Hiya!” The five hundred men he had taken with him were also on horseback, leaving many more back at the city to defend it. He had wanted to amass all his forces to get to Achilles, but Perseus had easily seen through the ploy and had decided to stay back at the city, along with most of the army. Whoever tried to take it while Aeneas was away would meet an unpleasant end. He sped down a path and then up a hill, the thunderous sound of the horses following him. He had to protect the innocents, return Troilus back to his city, and make sure his sheep were not taken—the animals were worth a lot of money, and Dardania’s finances would be depleted if he allowed them to be taken. 

He skidded to a stop at the hill overlooking the farm, and glanced around. They had clearly been here. He looked down, where he could see several men in bronze armour, less than two hundred, in fact—which meant Perseus had been correct in his assessment— roaming around the fields and killing anything that breathed. His own farm was relatively untouched, but even from where he was, he could see the fair haired warrior prince riding towards it on a white steed. “Let’s go!” Aeneas ordered. “Kill them all, but do not challenge Achilles. He is mine!” With a deafening roar, he charged down the mountain side, followed closely by his soldiers.

-X-

PERSEUS waited patiently at the ramparts, arms behind his back. Beside him stood three of the Generals of the Dardanian army, Sergestus, Acmon, and Palinurus, and lining up the entire ramparts were several archers, bows and arrows primed. They were silent as they watched the terrain down below. Aeneas had left a few minutes ago with a quarter of their forces, on Perseus’ advice. The rest of the army was currently just outside the gates, waiting in expectancy for what Perseus knew was coming. He would not pretend to know Achilles in and out, no, but the son of Thetis and Perseus’ own best friend, Hector, were similar. 

They were both great strategists and they both thrived in battle. Knowing Hector for as long as he had—nearly fifteen years, now—he knew, that all great warriors thought alike. Predicting the move Achilles would make had been easy, and now all they had to do was wait. Trying to determine what the distraction would be had been hard, though, but the overconfident arse had solved that for them, and he had sent Aeneas on his way with enough men to take down Achilles’ force. If the Prince of Pythia wanted to take Dardania, he would send the bulk of his army to the city.

Which was exactly what he was doing. Perseus’ eyes narrowed when he saw the lines of soldiers marching towards the city gates, led by a familiar dark haired man with stubble along his jaw—Achilles’ friend, Patroclus, the one from Skyros. 

“You were right,” Acmon snorted in disbelief. “They came.”

“Of course,” Perseus said. “You know what to do, then. Make sure they don’t breach the walls. I’ll handle their commander.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t take orders from anyone but the King,” Sergestus commented. “But you have proven to be insightful, Perseus. Do what you do best, then.” Without another word they turned, to rush down to join the men, obviously. Perseus waited for a while, waiting, waiting, for the enemy to get closer. He unlatched his spear from his back, and took aim. Shutting one of his eyes, he bent the spear so it was primed at the commander’s chest. 

With a silent word of prayer to Leto, he hurled the weapon. It pierced through the air, sailing through the atmosphere, and Perseus watched as it neared the dark haired man. But then at the last second Patroclus veered to the right on his steed, and the spear cut through one of the soldiers behind him. Perseus swore to himself, and drew his sword. 

“Fire at will,” He ordered. At the command, several arrows were released into the sky, and he watched as they tore through men, slowing down Achilles’ forces. 

He was immortal now, and there was no doubt the message had been spread through the Achaean forces. They would be steering clear of him. He didn’t like it, but he had to use that to his advantage. Achilles’ men would not get Dardania. 

Not today, not ever. 

-X-

ACHILLES swore to himself when Aeneas jumped down from his horse. He tore his sword out of the chest of the child, who collapsed, trying to ignore the broken and horrified expression the son of Priam wore in death. The King had brought about five hundred men, but there was no sign of his brother amongst them. Quickly, he readied himself for battle. Fighting Aeneas without killing him would be tasking, but he could manage it. The sounds of battle were loud, but they did not distract him. He had already had the sheep of the Dardanian king transported away from the farm, and now all he had to do was to keep the Dardanian forces occupied. 

But where was Perseus? Had the son of Anchises chosen to remain at the city to defend it? If that was true, then it meant Patroclus was walking to his death. Panic flooded Achilles and he cursed to himself again as Aeneas charged him. He ducked under the first swing of the man. How had Perseus known what he would plan? Achilles raised his sword and parried another strike, before spinning and slashing at Aeneas’ neck. The King was fast. With expert movement, he leaned back, making the blade slice through air.

Aeneas backtracked, and Achilles took that opportunity to launch himself forward. He was met by two crossed blades, and he gritted his teeth in annoyance as they both tried to push each other back. Ultimately, Achilles succeeded, and the man went stumbling. He took advantage of his unbalance then, diving forward and attacking quickly and precisely. But Aeneas had expected this. With equal swiftness he parried all his strikes, and blocked all his attacks. Achilles was at a disadvantage and he knew it—Aeneas carried no shield, which made his defence lower, but he held two swords which made moving easier for him. If he decided to go on the offensive, Achilles would have a hard time. His own shield was large and cumbersome, and it was slowing him down.

He swiped upwards with his shield arm, but the son of Aphrodite dodged underneath the bronze addition to his armour, and slammed his shoulder into Achilles’ torso, sending him flying. He landed in a heap in the grass, and swearing to himself, removed the shield. He jumped onto his feet just a second later, and just in time to block a strike from the dark eyed King of Dardania.

They fought for what seemed like hours, exchanging blows, dodging strikes and attacks, slashing at each other. But Aeneas knew not of his weak spot, and was simply hitting any bit of flesh he could find, which was proving to be a futile exercise. Achilles had already dotted the King with cuts and slashes, not enough to be fatal, but enough to slow him down considerably. They kept on battling, each of them fighting for dominance in their duel. Achilles ducked under a wild swing but was too slow to avoid the blade of the second sword slamming into his cheek. It stung.

Eyes lighting up with fury, he attacked with a roar. Aeneas parried his first strike, and dodged his second, but Achilles feinted a strike to his side and when the man made to move, he slashed at his side, opening up his armour and leaving the skin bloodied and cut. Aeneas grimaced, but ignored the injury.

“Why did you kill Troilus?” The man finally demanded. “He was not part of this war! He was just a child!”

“It was necessary!” Achilles shot back, not quite sure why he was defending himself. “Had he seen twenty summers, he would have led Troy to victory and seen to my death!”

“I shall see to your death!” Aeneas bellowed in anger. “Me, and Perseus, and Hector and every Trojan who you have wronged by taking the life of an innocent child! Every one shall jubilate when the gods strike you down! I do not care when, or where it happens, but I shall watch you die, and I shall revel in the fact that it was someone of my city—my home, which you try to take from us—who brought your end!” Rage lit up in Achilles, and he raced forward, yelling. Aeneas let out a roar and charged, swords glinting in the sunlight. They clashed again, and the fighting continued. 

-X-

PERSEUS whirred around the soldier, and slashed sideways with his sword. The head of the man fell and his body slumped. Around him the soldiers of Achilles were being repelled. He laughed loudly, and quite maniacally, driving his sword through the chest of an oncoming enemy. He ducked low under the thrust of a spear and sliced upwards, cutting it into two. And then he rose, spinning and slamming his newly acquired spear into the man’s helmet, sending him crumpling.

Perseus and the three Generals had kept the line of men. The Greeks fought in a disorganised unit, and not like a group, as him and the rest of the soldiers had been taught to do. They came in droves, and so far, only the first line of Trojan and Dardanian soldiers had been pushed back, merging with the second line. Perseus stood at the head of it all, fighting back any enemy that came too close, with both his sword and spear. If they got past him, then the soldiers would cut them down. The Achaeans were losing, and they could see it. Perseus finally turned, and yelled out a command, ordering the first three lines to join the fray.

He led them into battle against the Myrmidons; warriors who supposedly could not be killed easily. But many fell under the weight of his blade, and many more were left injured and dying as he swept his spear around. He ducked low under the swing of a lance and sidestepped another blow. Looking up, he blocked the next strike and scowled. It was the dark haired man who he had tried to kill when they had begun charging for Dardania. Patroclus. 

“Achilles seeks to take control of my brother’s city, and he doesn’t come himself to do it?” He scoffed. “Did he think we would not see through his little ploy to get us away from the gates?” The man didn’t answer, instead choosing to glare at him. Perseus returned the expression, and they met in battle.

The fight was a ferocious one. They traded blows, hacks and jabs, and he dodged all the strikes of the man. However good Achilles was, this man, along with most of his army, paled in comparison. His moves were sloppy at best, and slow. Besting him would not be a difficult task. He spun, sweeping dust into the air with his foot. Patroclus yelled out when he was blinded, and Perseus took that opportunity to kick him onto the ground. With a laugh of satisfaction, he raised his sword above his head, determined to see the end of this man.

Patroclus was blinking a lot, trying to open his eyes but to no avail. He could feel that his death was near, for he kept attempting to scramble back. Perseus brought his sword down.

Only to be intercepted by another sword. It was an older man. Aged, but well built. Patroclus’ eyes peeled open and he gasped in relief. “Phoenix—“

“We are being overwhelmed!” The man, Phoenix yelled. “Call for a tactical retreat!” The man turned his attention back to Perseus, who had narrowed his eyes. They both pushed against each other, swords grinding against each other as he tried to unbalance the man. The son of Anchises watched as Patroclus scrambled to his feet. “Retreat!” The man yelled “Fall back!” 

Scoffing to himself, he muttered, “Cowards.”

Phoenix swore at him, and suddenly ripped himself away, causing Perseus to fall forward in surprise. He face planted in the ground, but quickly looked up, only to find the enemy racing away from him at unimaginable speed. Cursing, he stood. Perseus watched on as soldiers dashed past him in pursuit of the Achaeans. Arrows from the ramparts rained down on the Myrmidons, cutting down a lot more as they attempted to leave. He smirked to himself. Achilles would never get Dardania. Not as long as he lived.

-X-

AENEAS sighed to himself, as the body of Troilus was burnt to ashes. Beside him stood his brother, as sombre as ever. Achilles hadn’t tried to attack again. In fact, he had seen the men of the Phthian retreating and after several days of checking around the terrain for anyone who stayed behind, he had finally decided his city was safe. Creusa was to return home that day, but he couldn’t even think about what he would tell her. That her youngest brother, a boy who had been like a son to them, had been slaughtered simply because Achilles was scared of death?

He snorted to himself. The fire was slowly dying down, and the ashes were being carried by the wind. He didn’t know which city Achilles and his warriors would try to take next, but should they attempt to return to Dardania, he would be ready. He was cut off from his musings by the voice of Acmon. “My Lord,” The General bowed. “The Queen has reached here safely.”

Aeneas nodded, and said, ‘Thank you for informing me. Where is she?”

“In your chambers, My Lord,” The man said. Aeneas bobbed his head once more. He had to tell her what had happened…she would grieve for her brother, but they would get over his death, together, and he would avenge Troilus, one way or another. He turned to glance at his brother, and the green eyed man waved and said, “Go to her.” Aeneas smiled appreciably and was gone. 

He had hoped to be well dressed when he would see her, but with everything that had been going on…He sighed. He was still in his armour, and he was beginning to grow a beard. He frowned at the thought. Such a thing suited Hector, who looked amazing with his cleanly shaven beard, but Aeneas preferred to look well groomed, unlike his barbarian of a best friend. Smiling to himself sadly at the thought of him, he continued his journey towards his chambers. 

He found her seated on the bedside, her head bowed. She looked up when she heard him coming, and said softly. “Is it true?” 

He nodded, and swallowed. Creusa sighed sadly, and he moved to sit next to her. “I promise you,” He murmured, taking her hand. “I shall not make his death be in vain. I’ll see to it that he is avenged.” She nodded, and then glanced at him. 

“I didn’t expect to have such bad news handed to me on my arrival,” She whispered, leaning on him. “I would have waited, if I had known—“

“But you couldn’t have,” He told her. “What is it you want to tell me? I would prefer any good news over what’s happening now.” She looked up at him, and he was reminded again of the reason he loved his wife so much. He smiled at her, and prompted. “Go on.”

She glanced away, and then back at him. “I—I’m expecting.” Instantly he froze. His heart seemed to stop beating, blood freezing, and his eyes widened as shock engulfed him. Creusa looked at him, trying to gauge his reaction. He glanced down at her belly, and then back at her face. And then a grin spread out on his face and he crashed into her, wrapping his arms around her.

“I’m going to be a father!” He sounded incredulous, and he laughed with pure ecstasy. Creusa joined in and that alone sent all thought of Troilus out of his mind. He couldn’t believe…He had been waiting so long…

He was going to have a child. He was going to be a father! “Oh, my gods,” He pulled away, eyes still wide. “You’re sure? I’m—“

“Yes, Aeneas,” She rolled her eyes. “We’re going to be parents.” He beamed at her, and pulled her into a hug once more. 

Sure, there was a war going on, and sure men were being killed left and right. But he would protect his child from it all. He would lay down his life for them, and he would make sure they never saw what happened in this stupid war. He would fight for them. He would fight for his family. He pulled away once more and grinned.

After all, nothing screamed hope more than the expectancy of a new life.

-X-

PERSEUS sat on the edge of the ramparts, smiling to himself and lost in thought. He was going to be a bloody uncle. A grin threatened to break his face in half, and he almost forgot about the war, Apollo, and his immortality. He was going to be an uncle! He was so distracted, he barely heard the sound signalling a deity had flashed in behind him.

“I see you have overcome your grief, then,” Selene’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to face her, and the smile on his face was a genuine one. “Creusa and my brother are expecting their first child,” He explained. Selene smiled at him, and said, “Well, congratulations, then.”

A sudden thought hit him, and he tilted his head to the side, asking, “Do you have any children?”

The Titaness gazed at the horizon wistfully. “Once, I did. I loved a man, a lot, and asked Lord Zeus to make him ageless and deathless in sleep. By him I had fifty daughters.” His eyes widened. That was a lot of children to have by one man. “And they have long since passed, as did their father, once Zeus’ spell was broken a few millennia ago.” She glanced at him. “But enough about me. I came here to check up on you. How did your first week of immortality treat you?”

At that his expression soured and he glanced away. If he was being totally honest, he tried not to think about it. Sure, there were so many benefits of being immortal. But the disadvantages were much, much more in his opinion. He sighed, then glanced at his side, where the black haired deity now stood, gazing towards the sky. 

“I suppose it's been fine,” He said quietly. “Although I find I do not need to sleep anymore. Or eat.”

“But old habits die hard,” She told him. “And you still do those things?”

“Yes,” He nodded. 

Selene looked thoughtful and turned to face him. “Do not worry. It gets better.” She passed, then said, “But, I am inclined to believe you are using it to get an advantage in the war?”

He snorted, then said, “Yes, of course. I would be a fool not to.” 

“Good,” She nodded. They sat in silence for what seemed like hours. Finally, she said, “I’d better go, then. You seem well. Next time we meet, I hope you are better.”

She began melting into silver mist but then he spoke up, mind whirring, emotions slamming into him as he stared at the being that had comforted him when everything had gone sideways. “Thank you,” He whispered.

She cocked her head to the side in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You listened,” He replied simply. “You were there. You’re a great friend, Selene.”

“Friend?” She looked even more confused and he laughed lightly at her expression. 

“Yes, friend,” He jumped down and turned to face her. “You can’t have seen me cry and not be my friend. It’s unacceptable.”

She grinned. “Well, I suppose that’s fair.”

“It is,” He told her. She smiled, “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“See you.” When he blinked, she was gone.

-X-

HECTOR had been celebrating the news he had received from Aeneas when the call for help had come. Dardania had been protected, his sister was going to bear a child, and his friend was coping well with immortality. Hades, even Achilles had been repelled and had left. Things were good, even with the war at their doorstep. But that train of thought had been shattered just that morning, when a messenger from Pedasus had brought news that the cunning King of Ithaca was on his way there.

His father had instructed him to go at once. And after a message had been sent to Perseus, he had led half of his army to Pedasus to help defend it. They had arrived at the city a few minutes earlier and on his command, Hector had led the army into the fray. He tore through men as he ran, slicing off heads and limbs, stabbing at anything that looked like an enemy. Men gave him a wide berth as he went, most of them scared to be killed at his hand. But a few were stupid enough.

Hector dodged under a spear and sidestepped another thrust. He jabbed his sword into the shoulder of the man and wrenched it out, before slitting a line in his throat. He heard another yell, and glanced to his sides, where three men were coming for him. They attacked at once and using a move he had been taught by Perseus, he disarmed the first and sliced his head off. He parred a strike from the second and kicked him back, before running him through. Suddenly he grunted in pain. The third warrior had sliced a gash through his armour, and his side was bleeding profusely. 

Swearing at the man, he sidestepped another blow, and slammed his elbow into his attacker. Without waiting, he drove his sword into the fallen man’s back. 

Hector could tell they were losing. His reinforcements had come a little too late, and the Greeks had pushed the Pedasians all the way to their gates. Agamemnon was there, being pressed by King Altes and at least five men at the entrance to the city. Odysseus, Athena’s favoured, was slicing through soldiers with a broadsword as large as Hector’s arm, and bashing heads in with his shield. Hector didn’t think—he raced the other way, heading to the King of Ithaca. 

Odysseus saw him coming and laughed, “Prince Hector! It has been a while, hasn’t it? I have heard much about your conquests since you ran from Sparta.” He swung his sword.

“All good things, I hope?,” Hector readied himself.

“Oh, yes,” Odysseus nodded. “I almost feel sorry that I have to kill you.” At that, they both shot forward. They met, sword against sword, sparks lighting at the contact. Hector pushed the man back, and swung his sword. Odysseus ducked under his attack, and jabbed at him. But Hector anticipated this, and sidestepped. The King ducked lower, attempting to sweep his feet from beneath him, but Hector dove over the limb, and spun, landing on the ground behind him.

Odysseus laughed. He turned, slashing at Hector, but the son of Priam ducked low, avoiding the blow. Sudden pain hit him, from his injured side, and he clutched his wound. Odysseus didn’t miss the opportunity. He kicked out, sending Hector onto his back. With another mad laugh, the King raised his sword to end him. Cursing, he rolled to the side, just in time to avoid the blow, and slashed sideways with his blade. Odysseus cried out in pain as Hector’s weapon tore through his calf.

Hector jumped to his feet, backtracked and grinned at the grimace on the dark haired man’s face. 

“You fight well,” Odysseus told him. “But one of us shall die here today.”

Hector scoffed, and the two met in battle once more. There was no telling who was better. They battled, exchanging blows, trading slashes and stabs, jabbing at each other, and blocking strikes. Neither of them were able to land another hit, but Hector would not be letting him get past into Pedasus. He was so occupied with his own fight that he did not notice Achilles until it was too late. 

The fair haired warrior soared past them on a white horse, a grin plastered on his face. Hector was startled into inaction. Odysseus took that opportunity to knock his sword out of his hand, and dashed after the Phthian. “To the walls!” Achilles’ cry rang out across the battlefield. As if on cue, all the soldiers of Achilles, Agamemnon and Odysseus raced for the walls of Pedasus. The broken body of King Altes lay on the ground, being trampled by the many warriors headed for the city. Some were already climbing the ramparts, and the gates were opening steadily. Hector swore to himself, grabbing his spear from behind him. He stood still, taking aim.

He couldn’t hit any of his soldiers and allies, but if he aimed it right…

He let the spear go, and it sailed through the air, tearing through the back of a soldier close to Achilles. The man fell, but the fair haired prince didn’t stop. He was the first to go through the gates of the city, closely followed by Odysseus and the High King. Almost all their soldiers went in after them. Several of the Pedasians and Trojans were pursuing. But the gates were already closing, and Hector felt despair set in as he darted forward to join his men at the gates.

They had lost Pedasus to the Greeks. And he had a feeling that that was only the beginning. 

Chapter Text

A/N: Well, three more chapters of this arc, and then I’ll be heading over to the Guardians.  I hope you all enjoy. 

P.S—This chapter will be short, and mostly in Perseus’ POV.

PERSEUS slashed through the neck of an enemy soldier. Leaning forward, he spun around on his horse, and kicked out at the man below him. With expert swiftness he manoeuvred himself back onto the horse and slashed through the neck of another. He knew exactly who he was going for. The city of Antandrus had been overrun, but if he could get inside the gates and stop Ajax, he might just be able to save the people and the King. 

It had been four years since Dardania. Four years of endless fighting. Four years of slaughtering men, four full years of winning, and most times losing their battles. They could never be certain. Over those four years, he had gone to so many places, all of them around Troy, and if he was being truly honest, the plan the Greeks had adopted was working. Aeneas had stayed at Dardania after that first attack, but Perseus had gotten a distress call from Hector, and had left his brother. 

He had arrived too late. Achilles, Odysseus and Agamemnon had taken Pedasus, and they had barely escaped with their lives. After that, everything had been a flurry of activity—there was fighting almost every day, and calls for help had been coming from almost every kingdom around Troy. Achilles had besieged six of them already, but Perseus and Hector had managed to save three from being captured—four, if you included his brother’s kingdom. It all seemed to be useless, though, because Achilles and the Achaeans continued their rampage across the area, killing innocents and soldiers, taking control of kingdoms and sometimes falling back when Perseus and Hector arrived to help. The number of times he and the fair haired demigod had crossed blades in those four years were uncountable. 

But the war was starting to take a toll on him—on all of them. Hector was thirty-one now, Aeneas twenty-nine. And yet he was twenty-five. Perseus would always be twenty-five. And even with his immortality, he sometimes got so tired. He couldn’t imagine what the others were going through.

The son of Anchises hadn’t even been there when his nephew, Ascanius, had been born. But he had gotten the message, though, and that night, him and Hector had feasted and celebrated. After killing several hundred filthy Greeks, of course. Getting used to immortality had been hard, and he hadn’t seen Apollo or Artemis since that night four years prior, but he was glad to keep it that way.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he continued riding towards the city gates. As he went, he cut down men, and the mortals fell to his blade easily. He tore through throats and his horse trampled many underfoot. He glanced to the side when he felt another presence next to him, and turned to find Hector, a glare on his face. “We’re losing!” His friend called. “We have to push them back!”

And Hector was right. They couldn’t afford to lose any more allies to the assault of the Achaeans. They couldn’t let Troy be crippled in this way. Antandrus had been under siege for about four month now, and they had lost a lot of valuable soldiers defending it. Soldiers who had families back home. Soldiers that were irreplaceable. He couldn’t allow their sacrifices to go in vain. 

“Then we must hurry,” He yelled back. “If we can push Ajax and his Generals back, his soldiers will retreat!” 

“Good idea,” Hector answered, and his horse went dashing forward. He spun his spear as he rode, tearing through the chests of men, thrusting into their shoulders and sweeping them off their feet. Perseus followed behind him, a scowl on his face, cutting down the men who escaped Hector’s path of fury. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach the city gates, and they dashed through them. Soldiers fell all around them as they rode towards the palace. Civilians were being set upon by many enemy soldiers. The Trojan warriors and Antandrusians were also fighting back ferociously. But Perseus knew it would all be for naught if the King was killed. His soldiers and people would fall into panic and crumble, and the four months they had spent defending the city from Ajax would be wasted. 

He charged after his best friend as they got to the Palace. The gates were wide open and Perseus swore. Several men were fighting here, trying to defend the Palace from the Telamonian soldiers, but Perseus could see the giant of a man barrelling through their ranks, creating a path of blood and bodies as he went.

“Ajax!” Hector called out.

The man spun, his mace swinging in his hand as he slammed the head of another man in. He roared in answer to Hector’s call, and Perseus watched as Hector flipped himself off the horse he was seated on. He landed in front of the King of Telamon, and the horse went careening into enemy soldiers. Hector thrust his spear forward with a yell. Perseus watched the burly man parry the strike with his mace. Hector was smaller and a lot more nimble than Ajax. The man was too big to easily avoid strikes, and Perseus knew Hector would take advantage of that. 

He pulled on the reins of his horse, slicing through the chest of a nearby soldier. He spun his steed again, and jumped off. As the horse continued racing, he ran alongside it, his sword arm outstretched, cutting through unsuspecting men. He launched himself back onto his horse, and sheathed his sword. Expertly, he swung his spear off his back, and thrust it through an enemy chest. He glanced around the battlefield. Cries and yells of pain were resonating across the terrain. Blood made the ground sticky and wet, and bodies were piling up. 

But Ajax’s forces were being pushed back. At the sight of him and the Heir Apparent of Troy, their soldiers were fighting harder than ever. He grinned through his helmet, and jabbed through another soldier. A third tried to attack him with a lance, but Perseus batted it away and run him through. “Chase them away! Burn their ships!” He yelled out the order.

The Trojan and Antandrusian soldiers yelled out a battle cry and the fighting continued in earnest. Perseus slew several men as he rode for their ships, pushing back against the Telemonians. He suddenly heard a bellow behind him and turned to glance at the gates. Ajax was being carried away by two men, while Hector fought off three. The King of Telamon was injured, a large gash spreading from his ribs to his waist, soaking his leather armour with blood and staining the ground. Perseus grinned. 

He took aim, reaching backwards, and hurled his spear. It sailed through the body of the soldier nearest to Hector and his friend shouted a loud thanks before lopping off the head of the first man, and tearing through the chest of another. Perseus turned again, slamming the butt of his spear into an oncoming soldier. 

“Push them back!” He roared. “Kill them all!” 

The answering cry was louder this time, and his and Hector’s soldiers fell on Ajax’s like bees on pollen. They slaughtered them, cutting throats, felling men, and pushing the line of enemy soldiers, back, and back, where their ships were docked. Perseus followed after them on his horse, cutting down anyone who survived the onslaught. He saw Ajax’s men pull their King onto the first of the ships. The defenders of Antandrus continued racing after the now retreating men. Perseus let out a laugh when the ships began moving away from the shore. He heard a cry of delight from next to him and turned to grin at Hector, on his white horse.

They had done it. Antandrus was safe.

For now.

-X-

HECTOR and Perseus got the distress call from Aeneas three years after they had driven the Telamonian forces away from Antandrus. They had stayed behind in the city for two weeks, only to make sure that the Achaeans would not return. And they hadn’t. Hector knew that was because Ajax was probably still recovering from the wound he had inflicted on him. 

It wasn’t a surprise that the Greeks were trying to take Dardania again. Achilles had failed in doing so the first time, and there was no doubt that he would try again. But Aeneas’ letter had been grave indeed—not only had Achilles come, he had brought along Argives led by Diomedes, and Spartans, the ruthless warriors led by King Menelaus. Hector and Perseus had set off almost immediately, and since that time, two days had passed. 

Now, they stood on a hill overlooking the city, and there was a ferocious and bloody battle going on below them. Hector could see Aeneas, twin swords flashing as he cut down men. He was making a path towards Achilles, and almost every enemy soldier who stood in his way was slaughtered.

“We can’t let them have Dardania,” Hector heard a whisper beside him. He turned to glance at his dark haired friend. His brow was furrowed, and worry was present in his eyes. “My nephew and your sister are in there. We have to push them back.”

“Achilles won’t take kindly to losing a second time. And there are thrice as much soldiers now,” Hector told him.

Perseus snorted. “Who cares about Achilles? He can rot in Hades. And Aeneas can handle him. He might be invincible, but if he wanted my brother dead, he would have done it the last time they met. And we are as many as them. We can push them back.”

“You’re right,” Hector admitted. There were whispers coming from behind them. The men were getting restless.

“Diomedes is getting closer to the gates,” Perseus motioned towards the bloodied battlefield. 

“I don’t think talking with help matters,” Hector snorted.

“Fine, then,” Perseus rolled his eyes. “Deal with Menelaus. I’ll handle Diomedes.” Hector nodded, and unsheathed his sword. 

“I’ll lead half the army to their backs,” He said. “You lead the other half to the city gates to help Aeneas’ men.”

“You know what to do when we get there,” He turned to his soldiers. “Drive back the enemy! Defend each other’s lives. Don’t die if you can help it!” There was a laugh from Perseus, and then Hector turned back to the battle. He started running then, racing towards the battleground, his cry resounding across the battlefield. His soldiers took up the battle cry, and they followed him down the hill, and into the fray.

XMX

HECTOR dodged the strike from the burly man. The muscles Menelaus had gave him the advantage of having more power behind his swings, but he was still far larger than Hector, and Hector could avoid all his attacks easily. He ducked under another slash, and Menelaus growled in frustration. 

“You’re going to have to lose a bit of weight if you want to land a hit,” Hector mocked. 

The King snorted. “At least I am not on the losing side of this war.” With that, he struck again, and this time, Hector raised his sword to block. He backtracked just as quickly, and spun, swinging his sword. Menelaus parried his strike, and attempted to slam his fist into Hector’s face. Quickly, he leaned back, and the man’s face contorted in anger. Hector ducked to the side as he thrust forward, and slashed at the King’s side with his sword. And then he spun on his heel, sending dirt flying into the air. His foot connected with Menelaus’ helmet, sending him tumbling onto the ground. 

He grunted in pain, and Hector dove forward, driving his sword down. But Menelaus, large as he may have been, did not want to die. He rolled to the side and shot to his feet, slicing upwards. Hector felt the blade nick the side of his cheek as he backtracked. Pain flared in his face and he grimaced. Menelaus bellowed a battle cry and darted forward, and the battle continued.

-X-

AENEAS dodged under a slash from the double edged blade of the fair haired warrior. Achilles grunted in frustration, eyes flickering across the battlefield. Aeneas had sent for reinforcements from Troy, and his heart had leapt in joy when he had seen Hector and his brother charging into battle. But Achilles clearly wasn’t liking that new development. He grinned, dodging another slash.

They had been fighting for minutes now, and even though he did not like it, he knew that Achilles was holding back, for some reason. If he had wanted Aeneas dead, the King of Dardania knew his fighting would be more aggressive and precise. But Achilles was fighting as though he was being restrained, and Aeneas did not understand.

He wouldn’t ask for a reason though. He knew he wouldn’t like it if his question made Achilles aware of his lackadaisical fighting. But he couldn’t worry himself with the man. His sloppy fighting might just be the reason for him protecting his city for a second time, from the Achaeans. 

-X-

PERSEUS sidestepped a thrust from a spear. Expertly, he slashed the weapon into two. Diomedes backtracked, shock evident on his face. Perseus grinned. He launched himself forward, and the King of Argos had just enough time to draw his sword and parry the strike. The son of Anchises didn’t give him a second to find his footing.

He attacked him ferociously and in an animalistic manner, cutting, slashing and attempting to run him through. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he continued his onslaught. Ridding the Achaeans of one of their most influential leaders would go such a long way in winning the war. If only he could find an opening. But even though he was at a disadvantage, Diomedes’ defence never broke. He blocked Perseus’ surely fatal strikes, although he was still being pushed back. Finally, he saw an opening, and with a yell of triumph, drove his sword through Diomedes’ shoulder.

The King cried out in pain and took several steps backwards. Perseus was about to continue pressing him when about ten Argive soldiers came at him, as though it had been rehearsed. He cut down the first quickly, blocked a strike from the second, and pushed him back. He sidestepped another strike from a third, and slashed upwards, only to have his attack blocked by another.

Perseus leaped back to avoid a strike, and suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his arm. There was a gash there, and golden blood was flowing. Pain spread down it. He gritted his teeth, and swung at the attacker, cutting his head clean off. He struck another in the head and sliced through his neck, dodging a second strike from another soldier. They continued like that, him cutting down any that came his way, dodging their strikes, and parrying their blows. There were too many, and Diomedes was nowhere to be found, now. Like the coward that all the Achaeans were, he had run. The soldiers all pressed him at the same time, forcing him onto the defensive. He snarled in annoyance. Expertly, he swung his sword, cutting off the weapon arm of one of the men. His attacker cried out in horror and collapsed. Perseus grinned, only to yell in raw pain when he felt a sword being driven into him from behind.

Agony flared up his back and he cried out again as the sword was dug in deeper. Suddenly the pain receded, and he heard a cry. His head swam, and black spots danced in front of his eyes. His body was wracking and spasming with discomfort and anguish, but he managed to turn to see what was happening. Soldiers around him were collapsing into heaps of bodies and blood, while a blur of silver and black raced around him, cutting them down. Finally, they were all dead, and Selene came to a stop in front of him. There was worry in her eyes, and her brow was furrowed as she reached out for him.

Perseus smiled, although it seemed more like a grimace, and he bared his teeth to keep from crying out. “I’m starting to think you enjoy saving my arse every time something like this happens.”

She snorted. “Of course I do,” She wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “Who else would have the time and energy to do so?” He grinned at her. Selene flashed them away from the battlefield, and they reappeared in a cave. The last thing he saw was the Titaness laying him down on a bed, and leaning over him worriedly. And then the darkness took over.

-X-

PERSEUS awoke to the sound of singing. He blinked in mild confusion and surprise, glancing around him. Where was he? And how had he gotten here? He frowned, and then suddenly the memories from the day before filled his mind. Aeneas, and Diomedes, and the soldiers. And…

“Selene.” She was seated a few feet away from him, sharpening what looked like a silver sword on a whetstone. 

“You’re awake,” She smiled, dropping the weapon and the singing. 

“You saved me,” He said, sitting up. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” She waved it aside. “You’re the only mortal…friend I have had in millennia. Did you think I would allow you to die so easily?”

“I’m immortal,” He pointed out.

“True,” She shrugged. “But immortals can still be injured, and maimed, and sometimes,” She paused. “Sometimes they don’t heal. I couldn’t allow that to happen to you.”

He grinned, good-naturedly. Even though it had been seven good years, Selene still found the concept of having mortal friends a weird one. But he had no problem being friends with her. Ever since Apollo’s…trick, she had been there. She was who he went to when he needed to vent. She was who he went to when he wanted advice, or when he felt like the pressures of the war were breaking him into two. She was always there for him, and someway, somehow, he found these little acts of kindness far more appreciable than anything Apollo had done for him or in his interest. 

Selene didn’t make his choices for him. Selene didn’t take away things that made him happy. She didn’t force him to do things he didn’t want to.

She listened, and she had helped him so much over the past seven years; giving him information on the Greek plans, and sometimes sending a silver hawk to aid him in battle. This time…today had been the only time she had interfered herself. Yes, it was also the only time he had been stabbed through the back before, but no one cared about that.

“Thank you,” He repeated, attempting to sit up. He winced when he felt a jab of pain in his back, and then turned to her questioningly.

“You’ll heal,” The dark haired woman reassured. “You’ll just have to rest for a while.”

He nodded, and then a sudden panic flared inside him. “The battle—“

“Diomedes is injured, as is Menelaus. But Hector got a nasty cut in his leg,” She told him. “He’s being treated by the Dardanian healers. Aeneas got out unscathed.”

“So that means—“

“They pushed back the Achaeans,” She nodded. “Chased them off Dardanian territory.”

He grinned, thanking all the gods that they had succeeded. He turned back to the Titaness. “I’ll have to get back, then,” Perseus told her. “Or would you prefer I stay. I know you enjoy my company.” His voice had turned teasing at the end and she scoffed at him.

“I was simply waiting for you to wake. Now, you can go.”

He mock-frowned at her, allowing her to take hold of his arm. “You’ll miss me.”

“I doubt that,” She snorted. With those words, they melted into silver ash, and reappeared inside a familiar room—an infirmary. Perseus glanced around, catching sight of the two people closest to him. 

Aeneas shot up at his sudden appearance, eyes lighting up in relief. Hector shuffled in his cot, grinning. “You’re okay,” His brother sighed in relief. “A soldier told me you got stabbed.”

“I’m immortal,” He reminded them. “Relax.”

His brother glared at him, although it didn’t last long. He seemed too relieved to be angry. The Dardanian King turned to Selene, who was still holding on to his arm. “Thank you so much,” He told her. “I am in your debt.”

She nodded, then turned to face Perseus. “Heal, and rest. No fighting for at least a week.”

He passed her an incredulous look, at which she smirked. “I’m serious. I’ll tie you down to one of these beds if I have to.”

Hector muttered something which sounded suspiciously like, “Kinky,” And he heard Aeneas choke down laughter. He rolled his eyes at them, turning back to Selene. “Fine. I’ll see you soon?”

“You will,” She promised. Without another word, she melted into mist and vanished from view. Perseus turned back to the two other men, who were staring at him. “What?” The two exchanged a glance, and smirked.

-X- (Warning, slightly mature scene upcoming. Not a lemon, but not good if you’re below 13. Skip if you want to, to the A/N).

PERSEUS ran a hand through his hair as he walked through the dark passages. It had been two years since Dardania, and since then, everything had been a flurry of battles and fighting. The Achaeans had been waging war against them for nine good years, now. Nine years of endless fighting, sieges, killing and manslaughter. 

Nine years of getting used to being immortal.

Aeneas was still in his kingdom, but he had left after a week of healing, as had Hector. Them being injured hadn’t put a stop to Achilles’ rampage, and in that period, the son of Thetis had captured at least three more cities around Troy. It was disconcerting. In the two years that had passed, The Achaeans had taken control of many more cities, but Perseus and Hector had both prevented the capture of several more. 

All the city-states that had been taken had been evacuated by the soldiers and the citizens who had survived. They had all fled to Troy.

He and Hector had separated a year after the events at Dardania, and although they had been communicating often and had met while defending several cities, they hadn’t met up for nearly three months.

He was with half the Trojan army, at Lyrnessus, a city which Achilles had been laying siege to for nearly a month. He and Deiphobus had joined the fighting with half the Trojan forces two weeks before, and although they had all been trying, he knew that Achilles would succeed if he continued pressing them as hard as he was. 

The son of Thetis had come, with Palamedes, and Greater Ajax, and almost every day, Perseus crossed blades with all three of them. He sighed, continuing his walk through the corridors.

There were about five hundred soldiers keeping watch at the gates of the city, and Perseus had been among them just a few minutes ago, before Prince Deiphobus had asked him to get some rest for the next day. He hadn’t wanted to leave the soldiers, but he was tired, and although he did not need the sleep, it would be a welcome change from staying up on guard duty all night.

He turned a corner, and let out a light yelp when he bumped into someone. He heard a cry of surprise, and then he was backtracked, muttering, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

The voice which responded was a feminine one, and his eyes widened as she said, “No need to apologise, General. The fault is all mine.”

He squinted to see in the darkness, trying to identify the girl who stood next to the doorway in the dark. He could make out the clearly feminine jawline, the dark curly hair, and her pale skin, visible in the darkness. And then it hit him.

“Princess Briseis,” He bowed. “I did not know it was you.”

“Oh, get up, Perseus,” She rolled her eyes at him. 

He stood straighter, and asked, “What are you doing out of bed this late, if I may ask?”

She let out a small sigh, and said, “I could not sleep.” 

“Night terrors?” He cocked his head to the side. He couldn’t see her very well but he could imagine her nodding. They were silent for a few seconds, and then she spoke up. “I’d like to thank you.” Her voice was a whisper in the darkness.

“For?” He arched an eyebrow. 

He felt her draw closer to him, and he turned stiff. The Princess of Lyrnessus leaned forward, and whispered slowly into his ear, “You are the bravest, and most handsome man I have ever seen. You and your soldiers have defended my uncle’s Kingdom. Everyday I watch the battle from the balcony, trying to get a glimpse of you fighting.”

He felt a shiver climb down his spine and he whispered back, “I hope my skills are not a disappointment.”

“Oh, far from.” And then her finger was underneath his chin, tilting his head so he was facing her. And she smashed her lips onto his.

He didn’t know what came over him then. Perhaps it was some sort of Aphrodite magic, or perhaps he was the one who wanted to do it, because in the next second, he was kissing her back, just as passionately. He shifted slightly and pressed her against the door. He could feel her body, flush against his, as her hands went straight to his hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist, their lips moving in sync.

He licked her bottom lip, asking for permission and she allowed him to slip his tongue into her mouth. Their tongues played a battle of tonsil tennis, fighting for dominance as they continued kissing, pressed up against the door of her chambers.

He could feel desire lighting up inside him, and she let out a soft moan as he bit her lip. Her hands roamed his hair, making him feel like he was melting. Briseis’ hands moved to his shoulders and he felt her undo the clasps that held his armour together. His breastplate fell around him, and he groaned out loud, breaking the kiss for a few seconds.

“What are we doing, Princess?” He asked.

“What does it look like?” Her voice was hoarse from the kissing, and he managed to ask, “Are you sure?”

She was panting, gasping for air as she whispered, “I am.”

He needed no other confirmation. His hands roamed her bare back as he undid the strings that held her nightgown together. He felt her, every inch of her, pressed up against his now bare chest. His fingers left her body, fumbling for the doorknob to her chambers. He pushed it open with a grunt, and then their lips met once more.

He kissed her ferociously as they stumbled into the chambers, kicking their clothes inside with him. Without turning, he slammed the door shut, using his foot. Briseis continued undoing his armour as they went, pushing off his gauntlets, removing his grieves, ripping his cloak off his shoulder and tossing his helmet aside. 

He tore off her undergarments as they neared the bed, and with another long kiss, they fell, in a flurry of cushions and limbs. 

A/N: Well. That’s the closest you’ll get to a lemon from me. I shall never write one of those. For those who skipped to the A/N, all you need to know is that Briseis and Perseus have a (quite-sudden) one-night stand before she is captured by Achilles. The story is still going to be Selene/Perseus, although as you can see, it’s going to be a bit slow, and he shall have some flings before they get together (eventually). But for now, they’re just friends, although one of them might want something more. I think we can all guess who lol.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and the next. Thanks for reading. 

Chapter Text

A/N: Well, here is chapter twelve of Excidium Troiae. I hope you enjoy it. It will be short. And now, we are nearing the end of the events of the Cypria.

HE SAT UP with a small start of surprise at the large explosion which rocked the walls of the palace. Beside him, Briseis stirred, and then sat up when another blast resounded across the city. Perseus swore, pulling himself out of bed. Panic filled him as screams tore through the air. There was smoke filling the atmosphere, and he could see several fires starting. Muttering to himself, he raced to the balcony of the Princess’ window, and then let out a cry of surprise. 

It was dawn, and there were several screaming people below them, in the streets. But what was horrifying was the number of soldiers swarming into the city, through a break in the city walls—the Achaeans had blasted it to bits, and their soldiers were coming in droves. He swore once again, eyes widening. How had he slept through all this? He cursed, then said to the princess, “Get to your family! The walls have been breached.” There was worry on her face, but she nodded and hurriedly threw some clothes on, before dashing out of her chambers. 

Perseus could hear the screams getting louder, and the cries of pain and fear coming from below him. Another blast sounded throughout the city, and he cursed, hurriedly placing on his breastplate. His hands were fumbling, and after several failed attempts, he gave up and threw ona simple tunic instead. How had he gotten so distracted? Why hadn’t he expected this? He quickly placed on his vambraces, and grabbed his sword from the ground. He raced back to the window, and glanced downwards.

He could see Achilles, making his way towards the palace, a grin on his face. He was flanked by Ajax and Palamedes, and they slaughtered anyone and anything that came in their way. He spotted several Trojans and people of Lyrnessus, trying to put up a resistance, but the Greek soldiers were quick, precise and ruthless, cutting down anyone they saw—women, children, and soldiers alike.

“Someone find General Perseus!” He heard a loud voice ring out and he cursed once more, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The son of Anchises spun on his heel, and raced out through the open doors. His heart pounded and anxiety flooded him as he raced through corridors and passages. The palace hadn’t been breached yet, but it was only a matter of time. As he ran, he saw several people—servants, soldiers, even a few slaves, bustling around, screaming in panic, or generally running. The chaos was intimidating, and he forced his feet to move faster. 

After what seemed like hours but was only minutes, he finally burst through the main gates, and took in the disaster that had struck the city.

There was rubble and debris spread out all around him. Broken and bloodied bodies were strewn on the ground, and blood was flowing on the ground, interlocking and snaking towards the city gates. Soldiers fought soldiers, Achaeans against Trojans and Lyrnessians. There were several large holes in the city wall, and the gates had been ripped open. It looked as though a giant had stepped on the walls and taken out a chunk of the city, although he knew it was just the work of an onager or catapult. He snarled, fury filling him. The Greeks hadn’t waited for the sun to even come up. The sky was still orange, and just half of Apollo’s chariot was visible. He swung his sword, and leaped into action.

Perseus slashed his sword at the nearest enemy soldier, lopping his head clean off. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and with a roar he charged, slamming into another man. The man went stumbling, and with a growl he spun, slicing through his breastplate. Another man charged at him, and he ducked under his swing, slamming his elbow into his opponent’s face. Perseus rose quickly, and ran him through.

He glanced around him. At his appearance, the fight was continuing in earnest—although many of the soldiers on their side had fallen, several more Achaeans were being killed, and he grinned at that. There was still hope. He dashed forward, cutting through the chest of a man. He sidestepped a thrust from another and slashed at him, cutting off his shoulder. Without hesitation, he drove his weapon through him. Perseus parried a block from a sword and pushed the attacker back, spinning on his heel to avoid a spear. He grabbed it out of the ground, and hurled it back where it came from.

Without waiting to see if it had hit the target, he continued fighting. The battle was the bloodiest one yet. Civilians were being killed left and right, and there was no order in the fighting. The city was being torn down. Women were being raped, and his blood boiled every time he came across such a thing. He cut off the heads of all soldiers he found involved, and cut down several more who came in his way. Children were running, but the Achaeans didn’t care. They killed everyone who ran towards them, or away from them, regardless of their age. Perseus clashed with a burly man and gritted his teeth as he tried to push him back. He backtracked as the man sliced at his head, and then darted forward, slamming his fist into the enemy’s face. Using the first few seconds of surprise, he drove his blade through the heart of the man.

He continued on his rampage, tearing through armour and skin, sloshing through blood and jumping over bodies. He parried a strike meant for his head, and pivoted on his heel, before turning again and driving his sword through the man. 

The son of Anchises turned towards the nearest fighting men and darted forward. His sword arm whipped out and he slashed off the head of the enemy. Perseus exhaled loudly, turning to the man decked in Trojan garbs. He could see the gratitude shining in his eyes. “Where is Deiphobus?” He inquired. 

“There,” The man pointed to the left with his sword. Perseus’ eyes followed and he growled out when he spotted the Prince of Troy. He was going head to head with a familiar fair haired man—Achilles. But that wasn’t the outrageous thing. Palamedes and Ajax were both helping Achilles, the three of them pushing back Hector’s brother.

Without waiting he shot towards them. His sword whipped through the air as if on instinct as he ran, slicing through men, cutting off limbs, tearing through armour. He finally skidded to stop in front of Palamedes, raising his sword just in time to block a surely fatal strike from the Greek. Deiphobus sighed in relief, and Perseus pulled back, with lightning speed, before driving his sword through the shoulder of the man. Palamedes choked out a cry, pulling back hurriedly, clutching his shoulder.

“Where the Hades were you?” Deiphobus panted out.

“Asleep,” He replied simply. 

“Deal with them,” Achilles swung his sword, speaking to Ajax without turning to him. “Use all your soldiers even if you must. Kill the mortal. Perseus can still be tired out even if he still cannot be killed.” He snorted at that. 

“What, you’re too weak to handle us yourselves?”

Achilles smirked. “I would, but I’ll be too busy taking control of Lyrnessus. And I can’t be in two places at once.”

Perseus scowled, and Achilles dashed away. He made to follow, but out of nowhere, three soldiers blocked his path. Perseus clenched his jaw, watching as the son of Thetis killed his way to the city gates. 

He was back to back with Deiphobus and the Prince’s grip on his sword was tight as several more soldiers surrounded them. Ajax was the closest, and the King was smirking boldly, at the fact that they had been surrounded. He swung his mace and slipped into a stance. Perseus tightened his hold on his own weapon. Things were about to get even more bloody.

-X-

ACHILLES exhaled, wiping the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. He glanced around. He was the first to have reached the Palace gates, and with his entry, several other Achaean soldiers followed. They were storming the palace now, but he had only one destination—The Throne Room. With a blank expression, he continued moving. He had already sent out instructions for when the Palace was taken. The royal family was his, and all soldiers and men were to be killed. Anyone else who put up a resistance was to die. The women and children could be taken as spoils of war—slaves—to be exact.

He stormed through the corridors. He didn’t know exactly where the Throne room was, but he would find it. His men, along with Palamedes’ and Ajax’s were scattered throughout the palace and he passed by several of them as he went. He made a turn, and spotted a flash of white as a servant darted into an alcove. He strode there purposefully, reaching out and grabbing the person. It was a brown haired child, with wide eyes full of fear. 

“Show me the Throne room,” He barked. 

The boy’s eyes turned wide and brimmed with tears. “P-please don’t kill me.”

Achilles felt a pang in his chest, and he pushed it down just as quickly. He hated doing all these things. But this was war, and it was necessary. “Lead me to the Throne Room and I shall make sure your life is spared.” The boy nodded eagerly, and said, “O-okay. F-follow me.”

He kept his sword in sight as he followed the child. The boy led him through passageways, and corridors. Outside and around him, the screams and yells and cries of pain were just getting louder. He hoped that Ajax and his men would be able to deal with Perseus and Hector’s brother. It would be unfortunate if the Telamonian were to fall. The boy finally came to a stop, and stuttered out, “H-here.” Achilles glanced around. “Just around the bend.” He peered out and spotted the four soldiers standing in front of giant golden doors. He glanced back at the child and muttered, “Go on, then.”

The boy shot him a grateful look, and darted away. Achilles exhaled. Including the four guards, there were probably about four princes behind those doors. Princes who knew how to fight. They would all die. 

He stepped out of hiding then, swinging his sword, and charged at the four guards.

They sprung into action almost immediately. Achilles dodged under the first strike of a sword, running the man through. He ripped out his sword, parrying a slash, and twisted his arm, disarming the guard. With a laugh, he spun, slashing through his neck. He felt a dull pain in his arm, and glanced to the side. One of them had struck at it, and Achilles frowned, turning to the guard. How stupid could these men get? It had been nine years. Surely, they would know that he was basically indestructible now. He flicked his wrist, cutting through the armour of the man and piercing his heart. Achilles turned back to face the last guard.

There was fear in his eyes—fear he could see through the helmet. He grinned and shot forward. The man didn’t even put up a fight. He was dead in three seconds. 

Achilles panted, and turned back to the doors. He could hear the faintest movement behind it, and he moved forward without hesitating. The Prince pushed open the golden doors. He didn’t have time to look around before three men leaped at him.

He leaned back, avoiding the first strike, and then darted forward, slicing the Prince’s head clean off. He heard a cry come from one side of the room, but he couldn’t stop. Achilles raised his sword just in time to block a strike. He suddenly ducked, avoiding the strike of a sword from behind. He rolled aside, and leaped up, watching as a horrified second Prince pulled out his sword from the gut of his brother. Achilles grimaced, and shot forward, running the last of them through.

“No!” The shriek came from the same place the cry had come from, and he finally turned. His breath hitched. There were three figures cowering in the corner of the throne room. The first was an older looking woman. The second was the King, Euenus. But the third…it was a girl. A beautiful, dark haired girl. She had pale skin, pink lips and her brown eyes were filled with fear and agony. She was wearing nothing but a flimsy nightdress, through which he could see… things you usually would not see from a lady. She was obviously a princess. 

“Surrender now, and your lives will be spared,” He managed, tearing his eyes away from the girl to the King.

Fury passed through the man’s eyes, and he shot forward. “You killed my son, and my nephews. You have slaughtered my people and my soldiers! And you think I shall go peacefully?!” His last words were a bellow, and Achilles grimaced at the loud noise. And then he sighed, shrugging, “Have it your way, then.”

The man shot forward with a roar, and  the son of Thetis sidestepped the first thrust from a spear. He allowed the King to barrel past, flicking his wrist just in time to drive his sword through the side of King Euenus. 

He heard another loud shriek, and then footsteps, louder ones, as several men streamed into the Throne Room. Achilles moved forward, listlessly, towards the two women. He came to a stop in front of them. They were both shivering, probably out of fear. He reached out, and saw the girl wince, eyes widening. He slid his finger under her chin, and tilted her head upwards. She had stopped shaking, and was looking him in the eyes.

“What is your name, beautiful one?” He asked in a low voice. Her beauty was enrapturing. 

She bit her lip. “B-Briseis,” She stuttered out.

He smiled at her, stepping back. “Beautiful name. I like it.”

-X-

PERSEUS clutched his side, gritting his teeth. The ichor gushed out, and he snarled in pain. There were bodies strewn around, including Deiphobus’ unconscious form, but thankfully, the Prince was not dead. Ajax had injured him after he and the Trojan Prince had killed all the man’s soldiers, and then proceeded to run towards the palace. Night was falling, and the Greeks had captured the city. 

“Retreat!” Perseus yelled out. They had lost the battle. They had lost the city, and the only thing left to do was leave. He tightened his hold on his side, glancing towards the Palace gates. The place was swarming with Greeks, and he knew if they did not leave, they would be killed, or taken as slaves. He couldn’t let that happen. He reached down with one hand, smacking Deiphobus on the head. The prince stirred, but did not wake. Perseus growled in frustration, slapping him harder.

Hector’s brother sat up quickly, eyes flickering around. “We lost,” He said. 

“I know,” Perseus replied. “We must leave.”

Already, the survivors on their side were streaming out of the gates. Soldiers were supporting each other, escorting civilians out, and hurriedly carrying away the injured. For now, most of the Greek soldiers were storming the palace. It would be better to get away from the city when they were distracted.

“That is another of our allies down,” Deiphobus groaned out, standing. “We shall lose at this rate! We can’t allow them to take over the city!”

“We have lost,” Perseus bit out, harshly. “Lyrnessus has been taken. If we stay, you shall die. You must learn to pick your battles, and for now, a tactical retreat is the best option for us, and our troops.”

Deiphobus looked like he wanted to argue, but after a while he sighed and said, “Come then.” Hurriedly, they made their way to the city gates. Perseus allowed the Prince to lean on his shoulder as they walked hurriedly from Lyrnessus. He couldn’t help the despair and sorrow which suddenly filled him. He was immortal now, gods. He should be able to do something to stop Achilles. He sighed to himself as they climbed up a hill, after the several men, women and children. They had discussed this beforehand. In case the city was overrun, they would run, to the forests, and to Troy. 

He had thought they wouldn’t need to put that plan into action. 

Him and the Prince covered their retreat, cutting down any who tried to stop them from escaping. 

And then suddenly, heard a shrill cry come up from the city and spun, letting go of Deiphobus, who swore at him. His eyes widened as he stared at the city gates they had just passed through. Achilles stood there, with a smile on his face. Next to him were Ajax, Palamedes, and…Briseis. Horror filled him. He had forgotten about her, and her family. 

The girl was being held by three soldiers, struggling and weeping. And then her eyes met his.

“Perseus!” She cried. “Save me!” 

He took a step forward, and then cried out when he felt a hand clamp around his wrist. He turned to glare at the Prince of Troy. Deiphobus glared right back. “Let me go,” Perseus snarled. “I have to help her.”

“Lyrnessus has been taken. If you go back down there, you die. You told me to learn to pick my battles, and now I am telling you the same. You suggested a tactical retreat. Now follow your own orders, Stratigos.” His eyes burned. It stung, having his own words thrown at him like that. But Deiphobus was right. He could do nothing now.

He could hear Briseis shrieking. He knew what would happen to her. She would be given to the bravest of the soldiers—Achilles, no doubt—as a spoil of war. Sorrow and loss filled him. What they had done the previous night had just been surprising although a welcomed occurrence. And although they were nothing to each other—there had been no strings attached—he still felt bad that he hadn’t even thought of her in their retreat. As he turned away from the city and hurried into the forests with the Trojan Prince, he swore an oath to himself. He would make sure he saved Briseis—no matter what it took.

-X-

HECTOR crossed swords with King Agamemnon once again. Hypoplacian Thebes (sometimes Cicilian Thebes) was being defended by the Thebans, the Trojans, and the soldiers from Pedasus who had escaped the siege of their city. The High King had not come alone. Somewhere in the city, Hector’s brother Helenus, and Andromache’s father King Eetion was battling Idomeneus, and leading the soldiers to push back the Achaeans. Hector had no doubt that they would succeed. In battles like these, during the absence of the Greeks’ best fighter, Achilles, the Achaean forces were almost always defeated. 

When Achilles was there, however, it was Perseus who dealt with him. Hector pushed the large king back, spinning to slash at him. Agamemnon blocked his strike, hefting his shield forward, but Hector was fast. He dodged under it, and then shot up, flipping through the air. As he did so, he slammed his foot into the High King’s shield, sending him stumbling. 

“Kill them all!” His voice rang out through the battlefield, and several other soldiers took up the cry. They fought with more vigour, cutting down swathes of men, decimating the Greek forces, and pushing their lines away from the city gates, and towards their ships in the distance. Hector was already bloodied, bruised and cut in several places, but they were not serious injuries, and he would heal. But for now, the Theban land had to be protected. He darted forward to Agamemnon, but the King had recovered, and blocked his blow with his shield. Hector snarled at this, and quickly went on the offensive. 

He littered the King with cuts as he slashed, hacked, and stabbed, forcing the man to backtrack quickly, and attempt to block his attacks with his shield. Agamemnon was sweating, and whenever he tried to raise his shield or sword, Hector batted it down, fighting ferociously. 

“Retreat!” The voice belonged to one of the Achaeans, and he could already see some stumbling to get away from the battleground. 

Hector spun his blade and attacked, knocking Agamemnon’s sword out of his hand. 

“I shall have your head, son of Priam,” The King snarled.

“I look forward to that day,” Hector grinned savagely. “We shall see whose head is mounted on a spike.” The King let out another snarl, spun on his heel, and raced into the throngs of soldiers. Just like the coward he was. Hector let him go. He stood, still as several men, soldiers, from his own side, charged after the fleeing Greeks. They ran, cutting down anyone who was too slow, chasing them to their vessels. 

After what seemed like hours, he returned to the palace. The Greeks were gone, but he would still be waiting. They might return. 

Hector bumped into Helenus a few minutes later, on his way to the throne room. His brother’s face looked grave, and he seemed to be worried about something. “Brother,” Helenus said, coming to a stop before him.

Hector frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Cassandra’s twin looked conflicted, but then, he said, “Your father-in-law was killed in battle. Along with all of his sons.” His voice was quiet, and low. Hector felt ice fill his veins as shock engulfed him. Andromache…

“Where is his body?” He whispered softly. He had to return to Troy now, if only to be with his wife. 

“The Throne room,” Helenus said. “Come.”

He followed his brother solemnly, hands feeling heavy. This war…it was taking everything away from them. He hated it.

“Help!” A voice startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see an old man, racing through a corridor to him. The man held a staff, and had white hair. He was dressed in the golden and white garbs of a priest of Apollo. “Help me!” His voice was bordering on desperation.

“What’s wrong?” Hector asked worriedly, grabbing the man before he could fall. “What’s happened?”

“My daughter,” The man gasped out. “They took Chryseis! THEY TOOK MY DAUGHTER!” Hector exchanged a confused but anxious glance with Helenus. Things were getting bad.

-X-

ACHILLES stood next to Patroclus on the now burnt orchard. His mind was whirring with thoughts, but mainly about the girl, Briseis, who had been given to him as a war prize. He was to return to Troy in a few days, and she would be going with him. He didn’t know why, but she just wouldn’t leave his head. Even when he had fought and taken control of Priam’s orchard a few hours ago, he hadn’t really been focused on the battle. The year was drawing to a close, and he remembered Calchas’ prophecy, that Troy would fall in the tenth year.

It was almost time. It was happening. 

“Are you alright?” Patroclus asked tentatively.

Achilles turned to him, and forced a smile on his face. “Of course I am. Why?”

“I asked you a question a few minutes ago,” His best friend noted. “And you still haven’t given me an answer.”

Achilles cursed himself for being so absent minded. Around him, the soldiers were packing up for the night. They would leave the orchard in the morning. “What was it?”

Patroclus sighed. “We have three prisoners from this recent battle,” He told him. “I asked what must be done with them.”

Achilles thought for a few seconds, before saying, “Sell them, on Lemnos. We need money for grain, and to pay the blacksmith for the armour repairs he does for the army.”

His friend looked doubtful. “Are you sure? One of them is a son of Priam. Lycaon.”

“It doesn’t matter,” He folded his arms. “He shall bring in more money.”

“Okay, then,” Patroclus nodded. “It shall be done.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Achilles drifting back into deep thought once more. They had secured enough of the cities around Troy to shorten their food, soldiers and water supply. Agamemnon would no doubt call all the leaders and their men back to the Trojan beach soon. His mother’s words floated into his thoughts, then. Her warning, all those years ago, that he would die if he went to war resurfaced. As he stood, surrounded by dying trees and ashes, he couldn’t help but think that something bad was coming…and not for him alone.

-X-

SELENE shimmered into existence next to him. He stood underneath a large oak tree, hands behind his back, staring into the distance. Below them, the survivors of the battle of Lyrnessus were preparing to rest for the night. It would still be a few days before they reached Troy. The Titaness’ eyes found his, and he turned to pass her a small smile, although it looked more like a grimace. Sometimes it was like this, and other times, he was smiling. No matter what he was feeling, she met up with him every night, after a battle.

“We lost,” His voice was soft. “Achilles and the Greeks succeeded.” At that, something flickered in his eyes, and what she saw…He was broken, inside. 

“I know,” She murmured back. “But you cannot give up hope, Perseus.”

“I know,” He repeated her words and turned to her, voice turning bitter. “I know. But it’s—it’s hard. I could have saved her.”

“Saved who?” Confusion filled her.

“Briseis,” The dark haired man sighed. “She was a niece of the King. And now, she’s been taken as a slave by Achilles and his men.”

“Did you know her well, then?” Selene tilted her head to the side. 

At that, he flushed, and realisation dawned on her. Selene didn’t know where the sharp jab of pain came from, or why a sudden bitterness filled her mouth. She tried to keep from scowling. “Oh.”

“Yes,”  He looked at her. “I’m immortal, Selene. You say it’s a gift. But what’s the point of it, if I can’t use this gift to help those who need it? What’s the point if I can’t save those who call for aid? What’s the point of being immortal if everyone around me keeps dying to stupid iron-skin Achilles and his men?!” Unfiltered rage was in his eyes, and Selene pushed all erratic thoughts out of her head. The war was taking a toll on everyone…Perseus more than most. She didn’t have the time to be jealous about whatever he got up to with mortal women.

“You don’t always have to be the hero, Perseus,” She said. “Sometimes, you can’t save everyone. Such is life. Such is war. People die everyday, and no matter what happens, you have to keep trying. You can’t forget everything that’s going on around you, no. But you just have to keep hitting at them. You have to keep fighting. Find a weak spot, and hit them there. Dismantle their forces. Take down their commanders. And don’t give up.” She paused, reaching out, and grabbing his shoulders. “That is what a leader would do, and a leader is what you are.”

His eyes were blazing now, and she forged on. “You just have to remember. Being immortal doesn’t mean you have to be the one to win this war for Troy. It doesn’t mean you have to be the one to carry all the burden. It means, you have to learn to let go. You have to learn to share with others when it becomes too much. Such is the burden of immortality. Letting go is the hardest part, but you have to learn to keep going, even if everything seems dark.” Her voice reduced into a whisper. “Heroes are made by the paths they choose. Not the power they have.”

They stood in silence, and then he nodded, slowly. A sad smile spread on his lips as he regarded her. “I think I’m going to have to pay you for the therapy sessions. They’re certainly increasing in number.” She laughed, and suddenly, he was leaning forward. His lips brushed against her cheeks, and her eyes widened in shock. The peck was a short one, sweet and chaste, and then just as quickly as it had started, he pulled away. 

Selene blinked rapidly. Without thinking, she flashed away, and reappeared in her chariot overhead. 

What had just happened? She glanced down, where Perseus was still standing, underneath the tree, holding his head in his hands. She could hear his groan, even from above, and she smiled. And then horror filled her. Why was she smiling? Had she liked it? Why had he done that?

As she sat in her chariot, her mind filled with several thoughts, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling, no matter how hard she tried to keep the corners of her lips from pulling up. What was wrong with her? They were just friends. He had literally slept with another woman, for Kronos’ sake. But what was wrong with him, bashing another person, and then coming to kiss her? 

Did she like him? Was she developing feelings for the son of Anchises? Was she overthinking things?

Conflicted, she grabbed the reins of her chariot, and rode into the night, thoughts of what had just happened filling her mind.

A/N: Well, that was sudden. Head over to The Guardians of Greece, formerly known as the Guardians. There’s an update waiting.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hello. So, this is the thirteenth chapter of Perseus: Excidium Troiae. Enjoy. 

HECTOR stood next to the Gates of Troy, hands behind his back in anticipation. He had been waiting, for days, for the arrival of his two best friends and his brothers, along with all their allies who had survived the raids of Achilles on their lands. Most of them were already in Troy, but a few were yet to come. He knew they would be there soon. He could see the Greek camp from where he stood, but he could not see what was going on inside it. Their wall was huge—they had been building for ten years, and now their encampment was enclosed and out of view. He sighed to himself. It had been hectic in Troy since his arrival from his father-in-law’s land a week ago. 

The Achaeans had returned, all of them reunited in the same spot once more, after nine years. Hector knew that one way or another, things were coming to an end. Sooner or later, one of them would fall. But he would do whatever he could—would give up his life—so Troy could go on. He heard the horses then, and looked up. Relief filled him when he spotted the steeds racing towards the city gates. Seated on them were Perseus, and his brother Deiphobus. It had been so long since he had seen either of them, and he found a smile lighting up his features. 

Behind them came men, most of them in armour, but a few, about a hundred, wore normal clothes of commoners. “Let them through,” He motioned to the guards behind him. The city gates swung inwards, and Deiphobus charged through, followed by the soldiers and civilians coming in after him. Hector saw Perseus stop his horse opposite him, waiting for all the people to make their way into the city. Troy was the safest place in the entire region now, although no one knew how long that would remain so. His eyes travelled to his best friend as the gates swung shut.

Perseus looked bad. There were bags under his eyes, which told Hector that he had not been sleeping much. He knew the man did not need it now, but rest was important when fighting in a war. He waited for the horse to draw to a stop next to him and Perseus hopped down, sending him a tired smile.

“It’s good to see you again,” Hector spoke, moving forward. He wrapped his arms around Perseus, and the green eyed man returned his hug earnestly. 

“Is Aeneas here yet?” His friend queried, pulling away. 

Hector shook his head. The curly haired son of Aphrodite would arrive soon. Hector just hoped he came in time for the battle that was coming. 

“Let’s go in, then,” Hector motioned towards the city. “You look like you haven’t slept in days. The Greeks are still preparing, and you need rest.”

“I’m fine, Hec,” Perseus rolled his eyes at him. “I don’t need to sleep now. You remember that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” He snorted. “But you still look as though you could drop dead at any moment. Immortal or not.” The son of Anchises opened his mouth to argue, but Hector cut him off, glaring at him sternly. “I’m not taking no for an answer, you stubborn arse. Let’s go. I order it”

A glare spread on Perseus’ face, and he nodded, conceding defeating. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

Hector scoffed, and grabbed on to Perseus’ hands. He pulled him towards the gates, a smile on both their faces.

-X-

AENEAS sat next to his brother and Hector in his chambers at Troy. It was dark out, and he had just arrived at the city a few hours prior. He had been travelling for a while, and he knew he should be resting in preparation for the next day’s events, but he would never pass up an opportunity to be with Hector and Perseus. 

“And then I kissed her,” Perseus was saying. His eyes were wide, as though he himself couldn’t believe the words he was saying. There was shock on his features, and Aeneas knew that the same expression was on his face. Hector looked unsurprised. 

“She literally told you she would tie you to the bed sometime ago,” The Heir Apparent reminded. “I think her intentions were pretty clear. Perhaps she won’t be bothered.” Aeneas choked, trying to hold back a laugh.

“It’s not funny,” Perseus shot him a glare. “I haven’t seen Selene since then. I—“

“You think it might have ruined whatever weird friendship the two of you have got going on,” Aeneas spoke up. Perseus nodded, a frown marring his features.

“Relax, Perseus,” Hector sighed. “It wasn’t even a real kiss. You’re getting worked up over a peck to the cheek. People do it all the time. And she’ll come to you soon if she wants to.”

“But what if she doesn’t?” His brother rubbed his temples. “I’m such an idiot, aren’t I? Gods, I’ll never be able to look her in the eyes again. Why did I even do that?” He glanced up. “She must think me such a man-whore. I had just told her I’d slept with another woman, and then I kissed her.” He groaned, head falling into his hands.

“Perseus,” Hector’s tone was hard. “She hasn’t even tied you to that bed yet. Relax. She will come, even if it’s just to clear the air.” This time, Aeneas burst into laughter.

“It’s refreshing seeing you flustered over something as simple as a peck,” The Dardanian King smirked. 

Hector snorted. “It’s a good change from that ghastly and morbid I’m-fighting-in-a-war attitude he’s been airing for the past nine years now.” 

Aeneas laughed. His eyes flickered to the window. He could see the Greek wall, and in front of the makeshift gates they had made. Just seeing those large blocks reminded him of the death and carnage that was coming. Of the war they would be going to fight tomorrow. They might die, or they might live. He would leave that choice up to the gods. But tomorrow…tomorrow, he would fight. He would fight to defend his home. But for now…for now, he would spend all the time he could with his brother and best friend. 

XMX

THEY ATTACKED with the rise of the sun. The Greek were not expecting them so early, and Aeneas grinned to himself as he cut down a soldier racing towards him. He ducked under a swing from a broadsword, and his arms moved swiftly, stabbing one sword through his assailant’s chest, and then lopping his head off with another swing. He sidestepped a thrust from a spear, and leaped forward, slashing through the man as he went. He could hear screams of terror, and cries of pain, as several men were cut down. They fought for hours and hours, and the day stretched on with endless death and carnage on both sides, just like he had expected the night before.

Somewhere at his left, Perseus was tearing through men. It seemed as though he had forgotten about the Selene incident, because he wasn’t getting distracted, and he fought like a monster, as usual. He killed men left and right, tearing through armour, severing limbs, and making a path of blood and bodies as he pushed forward towards the wall. Achilles wasn’t present, and Aeneas wasn’t sure if that was a bad or good thing. But at his right, Hector and his brothers were charging towards the Greek walls. 

Achaeans fell all around him, and cries of anger and rage were coming from the Trojan side as they fought, pushing back the lines of the Greeks. Aeneas surged forward, running a man through. He dodged underneath a strike from a sword, and slashed through the soldier’s neck. He continued fighting savagely, tearing through enemy lines, his arms swinging around him as finally, he cut down the men standing before him quickly. Aeneas heard a yell and pivoted on his heel, raising his sword just in time to cross blades with a man. He gritted his teeth in annoyance. They were so close to the Greek walls…so close.

With a yell, he pushed back the man and leaped forward, swinging for his head. The man ducked, and Aeneas swore, dodging another strike. He launched himself into the air, spinning and bringing his foot down. It knocked the man’s sword out of his hand and with a yell, Aeneas drove his swords through the soldier’s chest. He was battered, and tired, and bloodied, although most of it did not belong to him. But his heart was brimming with hope…Hope that they could end this. They could breach the Greek walls, and then burn their ships. They could kill their commanders, and end everything.

With a roar, he charged towards the Greek encampment.

-X-

PERSEUS jumped through the hole they had made through the walls. There were Trojans all around him, shouting at their success in bringing the Greek’s protection down. He was grinning to himself, all thoughts of the Titaness he hadn’t seen for days at the back of his head. His eyes flickered around the beach, and hope bloomed in his chest. The Greek camp was in chaos. Men, Achaeans, lay dead on the sand. The ships were burning in the distance, and soldiers and Kings ran helter-skelter, as Trojan soldiers swarmed the encampment. 

He spotted his brother and Hector battling side by side against about five soldiers, and Perseus swore to himself, before racing towards them. He swung his sword as he got closer, lopping off the head of one of the men. He heard a gasp of surprise from his side, and without wasting time, he ran the Greek through with his sword. He spun, to cut more of them down, but Hector and Aeneas had already completed the task.

“We could have handled that,” Aeneas said, rolling his eyes. 

“I know,” Perseus grinned.

“We need to move,” Hector’s voice was hard. “Achilles hasn’t been seen in battle. We need to find him, and find a way to kill him.”

“He has iron skin,” Aeneas reminded them. Suddenly, he darted forward, and drove his sword through someone behind Perseus. The green eyed man turned in surprise, slipping into a stance. They couldn’t afford to get distracted. 

“Come on, then,” He said. “Let’s go.” They went off together. Fires burned around them. Screams ripped through the air, and blood soaked the sand. Bodies filled up the water as Perseus and Aeneas followed behind Hector. They cut down men as they went, ending lives, defending each other, and checking all the tents as they went. It seemed to take hours, but finally, after much blood and jumping off dead bodies, they spotted the tents next to the water, which seemed a bit isolated from the rest.

“It has to be that one,” Aeneas said. 

“I’m sure it is,” Hector bore an expression of determination. “We can end this.” 

Perseus nodded to them. Together, they charged towards the tents of Achilles and the Myrmidons.

XMX

THEY STORMED through the first tent, swords swinging. Before them, two men jumped out of their seats, surprise on their faces. They were unarmored, and when Perseus glanced at the table they had been seated at, incredulousness filled him. 

“A board game,” He glanced up at Achilles, an eyebrow arched. “You were playing a board game while your men got massacred outside your tent?”

“What?” Achilles looked astonished, as though he hadn’t quite realised what was happening in the Greek camp. Perseus glanced at the other man, overly large and giant-like. Greater Ajax, the King of Telamon. He shook his head at the son of Thetis. “Never mind,” He swung his sword. “You die today.”

They leaped forward, then, the three of them. Hector jumped for Ajax with a roar, and Perseus made for the fair haired demigod, Aeneas at his side. Achilles let out a loud curse, darting to the side. Perseus brought his sword down in a strike, but the blond haired Prince was fast. He grabbed a sheathed knife from his bedside and blocked Perseus’ strike. Beside him Ajax and Hector were going head to head, overturning tables, clashing again and again, sword against sword. Aeneas dashed in front of Perseus, swinging his blades, and Achilles dodged the first, and leaned away from the second.

Perseus raced for him once again, hurling his shield as he ran. The warrior prince swore once again, and jumped out of the way of the oncoming shield. But Perseus was quick. He ran forward, slashing at Achilles’ neck. The Greek raised his arm quickly, blocking the strike. He spun on his heel as Aeneas came at him with his sword, narrowly avoiding them. Perseus’ brother attacked once more, stabbing at Achilles’ chest with one blade, and attempting to lop his head off with the other. Both swords impacted against Achilles’ skin, but the prince only grimaced as they glanced off.

Perseus surged forward, swinging for the man’s arm. Achilles dove to the side, only for Aeneas’ swords to come at him again. He blocked the Dardanian King’s strike, but then Perseus moved, bringing his sword down in an overhead slash. Achilles pushed Aeneas back, and dove away. He heard a yell of pain from behind him, and spun, to see Ajax clutching his side as Hector pulled away. He turned back to his own fight. Aeneas and Achilles were going head to head, fighting each other ferociously, the Prince dodging most of his strikes, and Aeneas trying to penetrate his skin. Perseus grinned to himself. They could actually win this thing. He raced forward, to join the fray.

Achilles sidestepped to avoid a strike from Aeneas’ sword, and when his brother struck again, he blocked with his knife. Perseus vaguely wondered why he wasn’t going for the kill, but he pushed the thought out of his head and attacked. His sword bounced off Achilles’ skin at contact, making the man hiss at him, spinning to attack. But Aeneas was there, though, slashing at Achilles chiton. The cloth ripped from his back and he cried out, but his skin was still intact, and there was no blood.

Perseus swore to himself and jumped forward to attack once more.

Only to be met midway by a glowing spear. 

He backtracked in shock as the spear was thrusted forward, and his eyes widened when he realised who wielded it. He had seen her once before, all those years ago, during the ‘Paris and the golden apple’ fiasco. Athena stood majestically before him, eyes glowing with fury. and ethereal light. Behind him, Aeneas was still going head to head with Achilles, although he kept trying to move to join Perseus. At his side, Ajax tumbled through the tent, tearing it away from its nails and bringing in the noise and screams of battle from outside. 

“Achilles is not to die today, Son of Anchises,” The goddess said, swinging her spear. “But you…you are lucky Lord Zeus has allowed you to live this long. But no more. You were not meant to be. Your immortality was a slight against Olympus, and both you and Apollo shall pay for it. Your time has come. Immortality granted from Hera’s apple might be permanent, but that does not mean I cannot make you fade.” 

He gritted his teeth. “You’re talking as though I had a choice in this, Lady Athena. I never wanted immortality. But I won’t allow you to prevent me from defending my home.” He slipped into a stance, and for a second, his eyes glowed green. Shock rippled across Athena’s face, but she covered it up quickly with indifference. 

“So be it, then,” She adjusted her shield, and charged. 

XMX

HER first thrust was blocked by two silver knives. Selene shimmered into existence before Perseus, and his eyes widened in surprise, but his heartbeat suddenly quickened at her appearance. The dark haired titaness pushed Athena back, and the goddess stumbled away from her. 

“How dare you interfere?” Athena snarled.

“I shall not allow you to take him to The Void for a matter he did not have a say in,” Selene’s eyes were glowing, pure white, as she took in the goddess before her. She turned to Perseus, for just a split second, saying, “Go help your brother.” He stared for a second in shock as Selene turned back to Athena, shouting, “Go!” 

At that he dove into action, swinging his sword as he went. Achilles held a sword now, along with his knife, and he and Aeneas were trading blows quickly and ferociously. Hector was still fighting Ajax, and the tent around them had been obliterated. Perseus jumped forward, swinging his sword for Achilles’ head. Shock rippled through him for a second time as a different weapon blocked his strike. The god Hermes pulled back, and swung his staff for Perseus’ head. He was about to duck when another sword, golden in colour, intercepted Hermes’ weapon.

“Apollo,” He stared at his former mentor in surprise. He hadn’t seen the god in years—almost a full decade, and now, suddenly, here he was, coming to help him after turning him immortal against his will? “Go!” Apollo shouted, without turning to face him. “Save Aeneas’ life.”

He nodded silently, and dashed for his brother. This time, he wasn’t stopped. He swung at Achilles’ shoulder, sword slamming into it, with the intent to rip off his arm. The man cried in pain, but the blade glanced off. Aeneas slashed at Achilles’ neck, but again, the sword bounced away. “Are you okay?” His brother panted out. 

“Yeah,” He dodged a strike from a furious fair haired demigod, and backtracked as the knife came for him. He was too slow, however. The blade nicked him in the side, opening a small cut and making him wince as ichor flowed out. Achilles spun suddenly and parried Aeneas’ strike. Quick as lightning, his foot shot out and slammed into Aeneas’ gut, making him grunt and sending him flying. 

“I will kill you all!” Achilles roared. Perseus scoffed, and then attacked once more. He feinted a slash at Achilles’ left, and the demigod fell for it, diving away. Swiftly, Perseus switched up and slashed at the man’s hands, knocking his blade into his wrist and sending his sword flying. Behind him Aeneas came once more, slamming his sword into Achilles’ other hand. The son of Thetis cried out in pain and dropped his knife. Perseus laughed, and swept forward, sword point aimed at Achilles’ heart.

His blade was blocked by a blue, pulsing trident. 

Poseidon stood before the beaten Prince of Phthia, eyes glowing with an eerie bluish green light.

-X-

“YOU,” Perseus hissed, unable to stop himself.

Poseidon tilted his head in confusion. “I don’t think we've met before.” He narrowed his eyes. “But you…you do look familiar…No matter. Achilles is not to be killed.” Around them, the battle raged, but for Perseus, it seemed like everything had come to a standstill. 

This man…this god, had stolen everything from him. He was the cause of his mother’s death—his mother, whom he had not even grown up to know. His mother who he had lost almost all memory of. He had lost his home, and his family, because of Poseidon and his stupid storm. He had never been acknowledged by the Olympian in any way. He hadn’t even checked to see if he had survived the destruction of that ship thirty years ago. And now, here he was again, ruining his chances at finally killing the bastard prized fighter of the Greeks.

“I look familiar?” He snarled. Anger filled his veins, and fury, raw, unimaginable fury coursed through him. He hated Poseidon, so so much. “That’s all you have to say?!”

The god looked surprised at his apparent hatred, pulling back a little. Perseus bared his teeth at him. 

“I—“ The Lord of the seas narrowed his eyes, and stared. And then his eyes widened, as realisation dawned on him. Astonishment made a home on his face, mixed with disbelief.

“You—Are you a son of mine?” 

Perseus laughed—he actually laughed, maniacally. And then he replied, unable to keep the hatred from oozing into his voice. “I am the son of Anchises. You will never be—have never been—my father. I despise you. You killed my mother in that storm thirty years ago, you bastard. And I’m going to bloody kill you for it!”

With that, he leaped forward, slashing his sword at the neck of the Olympian god of the seven seas.

-X-

AENEAS dodged a slash from the knife of the fair haired warrior. Achilles was angry now, that much was certain. But Aeneas was worried for his brother. So many gods were appearing to take him down, and his heart had almost leaped out of his chest when Poseidon had appeared. Hector was still battling with Ajax, and now Patroclus, at the same time. Athena and Selene were fighting like the deities they were, destroying everything with a clash of their weapons. Apollo and Hermes went head to head. And Perseus was fighting like an animal, savagely, furiously, with his biological father.

He raised his sword to stab at the warrior, but Achilles sidestepped and rushed forward, slamming his elbow into Aeneas’ outstretched arm. He cried out and dropped the weapon quickly. Achilles swung at him with the knife once more, and Aeneas backtracked, narrowly avoiding the strike. 

“I’ll kill you,” Achilles' eyes blazed. “I don’t care what the gods say, I’ll kill you right now.” He dodged under another wild slash, and spun, kicking out and pushing the man away. Achilles slid through the sand, swearing. Aeneas moved forward then, slashing at him. But the man was fast. He dodged, and slammed a fist into Aeneas’ chest. He doubled over in pain and Achilles punched him in the face, sending him reeling back. Aeneas grunted in pain and sidestepped as the man came at him again. But Achilles slammed his elbow into his face, and slashed at his chest. Aeneas gasped in pain, dropping to his knees. Blood flowed out of his quickly forming wound. 

Achilles grinned at him. “It ends now, King of Dardania. You have been an impossibly frustrating foe to face. But all men must die one day.” He heard a yell from behind him, a shout from Hector as he saw what was happening. Aeneas tried to stand, but pain flickered in his chest and he fell back to his knees. He heard a cry from Perseus, and saw his brother push past Poseidon towards him.

Achilles brought his sword down in an arc, and Aeneas prepared for the inevitable.

Only for a sword to break Achilles' strike. The son of Anchises looked up in surprise. Achates gave out a war cry and pushed Achilles back, sending him flying through the sand. Quickly, his former-bully turned to him. There was worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?” The man asked.

Aeneas couldn’t let go of his surprise. “You saved me.”

“Would you have preferred me to let you die?” Achates rolled his eyes. “We aren’t children anymore, Aeneas. You are a King, and one of the best fighters we have. We need you, and your troops. You don’t die anytime soon. Not under my watch.” He blinked in surprise. Achates went on. “Childhood vendettas are past now. Like I said, we aren’t children any longer.” He held out his hand. Aeneas stared in hesitation. “We’re bloody thirty-five, Aeneas. Are you going to accept my help or cling to some stupid children’s feud.”

He smiled, and reached out. Achates pulled him up and Aeneas muttered a small thanks. 

At that moment, Perseus pulled up next to him. “Brother. You’re hurt?”

“We must—“ A scream cut Aeneas off. They turned, just in time to see Achilles coming for them. But then he stopped short, and was hurled through the air by an invisible force. 

“All of you, stop it now,” A heavenly voice cut through the fighting. Gods lowered their weapons, slowly. Soldiers pulled away from each other. Aeneas looked up. Descending from the heavens was a woman, with long black hair, oxen coloured eyes, and an elegant face. She wore a white flowing gossamer dress, and held a staff topped with a lily. Draped on her shoulders was a cloak of peacock feathers. 

“Hera,” Perseus muttered from beside him. 

“Lord Zeus commands that this battle ceases,” Hera announced. “Night has fallen, and the dead must be buried and injured treated. Trojans, return to your city immediately. There shall be no more bloodshed!” Her eyes turned to where Aeneas and his allies stood. She looked all the gods in the eye. “As for you all…Zeus shall deal with you on Olympus. Your interference shall not go unpunished.” 

Aeneas heard a cry of outrage from Achilles. They had been close. So close to ridding the Achaeans of two of their greatest allies. But they had failed. They had failed once more.

A/N: Well…the next chapter is the last of ARC II. Also, please, please, please. I need more feedback from The Guardians of Greece.

Chapter Text

A/N: So, this is the last chapter of ARC II of Perseus: Excidium Troiae. Now the Cypria is officially done with.

I know this took long. I didn’t intend to return back to writing fanfiction after my abrupt (and planned) disappearance. But someone told me to give it this one last shot. I’ve unpublished the guardians because it didn’t really get the support I’d hoped it would, and that was partly my fault. I’ll take it up again soon, but only when all corrections have been made.

Updates won’t be constant. I have a life. I have obligations. I honestly don’t care anymore if you don’t like the story or if you have a problem. You can fuck off. Find another fanfiction to waste your life with. Stop reading. My writing isn’t the best, I know, but keep your opinions to yourself unless it contributes positively to the story. And mind your own fucking business…

I’m in a bad mood and I might come off as a bit aggressive but tbh I couldn’t care less.

(Unedited–from 5 months ago)

ACHILLES stood next to the many Kings and commanders of the Achaean forces as Odysseus’ ship sailed away. Things were getting bad. After the previous day’s event, when the Trojans had almost succeeded in killing him and decimating the Greek forces, the entire encampment had been in disarray. Achilles was bruised all over, but several of the soldiers, hundreds of them, in fact, along with many Kings and commanders had been killed. The Trojans and their allies had burnt down the Blacksmith’s workstation, and about four of their ships. Their medic tent was ashes now, and their food tents had also been destroyed. They were out of grain, and meat, and fruits, and Achilles hadn’t eaten the whole day. No one had.

“Are you sure he’ll be successful?” He turned to glance at Nestor.

The old wise King frowned, then answered, “Of that we can be sure. Odysseus is crafty and resourceful. If he does not succeed, we have no chance of beating the Trojans. We will all die of starvation before the final confrontation.” It had been a unanimous decision, to have the King of Ithaca sail to Thrace to get grains and food to sustain their forces. Achilles sighed to himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the day prior. Gods had fought amongst themselves, immortals had wrecked the battlefield, just to protect Perseus, or to stop him from finding a way to kill Achilles. He pursed his lips. This war was just getting complicated with each day that passed.

“We must prepare for his return, then,” Achilles said. “Bury our dead, hold the funeral games, and reorganise our forces. And then we attack when Odysseus comes.”

“You are right,” Nestor nodded. “Let us go, then. Much must be done before we can face the forces of Ilium again.”

XMX

ODYSSEUS returned in three days. The Trojans didn’t wait, and the Greeks had been surviving on fish and sea water since then. Achilles was honestly getting tired of it. Even though he was invincible, he still needed food for energy, and eating fish for three days wasn’t exactly his definition of an energy provider. In those three days, Hector, Perseus, and Achilles had been fighting harder than ever. Their recent victory had boosted their confidence, because although they hadn’t breached the walls since that time, they had come close to doing it again. Many times.

Several Achaeans had fallen to their onslaught, even though no gods had shown up to fight for the Trojans, and eventually, the Trojans had taken back their beach.

Achilles stood expectantly at the edge of the water, with several soldiers and Commanders. It was night time, and he could see the ships as they approached. Hope bloomed in his chest when the vessels finally hit the sand. He glanced up, hoping to catch sight of the curly haired King. Odysseus appeared at the prow of the ship and jumped down. Achilles stared at him, and as he did, a frown formed on his face. The King had defeat in his eyes.

“Well?” Agamemnon stepped forward. “Where is the grain?”

Odysseus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I did not find some,” He finally said. “There was no grain.” Achilles felt despair set in. If men continued dropping dead because of starvation, they would all have to pull out of the war, and return to their various cities. He clenched his jaw, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. And then he heard the scoff. “Of course you did not get grain.” The son of Thetis glanced up in surprise. It was Palamedes, approaching Odysseus, anger on his face. “You witless, tactless man. Are you so stupid that you could not find simple grain to feed the army?” He sounded enraged and Achilles watched in shock as Odysseus’ face closed off. His eyes turned cold and he glared at Palamedes.

“I suppose you think you can do better,” His voice was icy.

Palamedes sneered, “Of course I can. I can do everything better than you.”

Achilles’ snorted at that. Gods, was the hunger so bad that it was driving even the Kings mad? Odysseus looked livid. Everyone had narrowed or wide eyes, and waited with bated breath for the response of the Ithacan. “Fine, then,” Odysseus hissed out. “I did not find any grain. But if you’re so smart, why don’t you go find it instead. Let’s see how well you fare.” With that he spun away from the other Kings, and stormed towards his ship.

XMX

ACHILLES swore to himself as he took off his gauntlet, many days later. The battle had been a bloody one, and a losing one too. He had faced off against Hector this time, and although he had left the Heir injured, he had been too weak to do more. He was about to take off his other gauntlet when Patroclus raced through the tent flap. Achilles spun to him, about to speak, when he saw the frenzied expression his best friend wore.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, brow creasing.

“The soldiers,” Patroclus panted. “The soldiers are rebelling. They want to leave.” Horror flooded him and his eyes widened. Swearing once more he yelled, “Come on,” and took off towards the beach. The fair haired prince raced there as quickly as he could, forcing his feet faster. When he reached the edge of the water, he saw the soldiers, all of them, loading up the ships. Agamemnon and several of the kings were being held at sword point, Odysseus, Nestor, Diomedes and Lesser Ajax included. They were being restrained as their own men loaded the remaining supplies, food, and themselves onto the ships.

No…He let out a breath, glancing around him in shock. He could already see about three soldiers coming at him, weapons drawn.

“STOP!” He yelled out. At his order, it seemed as though the men halted in their actions. Several of them drew their swords, as though to fight him, but Patroclus stepped in front of him with a glare on his face and they moved back. Achilles swore to himself, for what seemed like the millionth time that day. He couldn’t let them leave. They couldn’t go. Not when they were so close. Not when the war would end in a year. He lifted a hand and said, “Stop! Don’t go!”

A soldier, decked in Spartan armour, said, “No! We won’t take orders from any of you any longer! We’ve been fighting Agamemnon’s war for nearly ten years. We haven’t seen our wives and children for so long!”

“We’re tired of dying for Agamemnon and Menelaus,” Another man snarled. “We’re sick of this and we’re leaving!” Shouts of approval came from all around. Achilles inhaled sharply, as another man shouted, “For years and years, we’ve been fighting, and Troy still stands. We didn’t make an oath to Menelaus to fight with him when Helen is taken! If you want her back, you’re all going to have to bloody do it yourselves!” Another wave of approving yells. The son of Thetis steeled his nerves, trying to keep his breath steady. He reached out for his sword slowly, and removed it from its sheath. The men tensed.

Achilles dropped his sword into the sand. “Look, I get it! We’ve all been fighting, and we’re all tired. We’re all sick of this war. But remember what Calchas promised all those years ago. Troy will fall! One more year, and it will all be over!”

“How are we supposed to keep this going for one year? We’ve been getting slaughtered daily!” The voice came from a soldier on a ship.

“We’re not fighting for Menelaus, or Helen, or Agamemnon! I also never made any such oath! But here I am!” He paused, looking around. “We’re here to win! We’re here to fight, because our motherland has been slighted. We’re here for the glory this will bring, and we’re here because the future generations shall remember every last one of you, for the efforts you all put in this war.”

“We’re here, not to die senselessly, but to fight back, because that is what we do. That is who we are! Have you heard of the heroes like Heracles or Theseus or Jason, running from a battle?! You, Spartans, you are the greatest warriors known to the entirety of Greece. Ithacans, you’re led by the craftiest and smartest of men. Argives, you are favoured by the goddess of wisdom herself! This is not Agamemnon’s war! This is our war! And we cannot leave until we win!” He paused. “Warriors are remembered for their feats and for the number of people they kill. But us///we’ll be remembered because we helped out a man who was wronged by another. We’ll be remembered because we returned what was stolen from Greece! Wearing a crown doesn’t make us greater than you. We might lead the charge into battle, and we might fight against the mightiest of Troy, but we’re all just mortal. Like you, we can die. Some of us die everyday.”

He paused. “Look. The truth is that we cannot win this war without you all. Alone, just us leaders against the Trojans and their allies? We would be killed before we reached the beach. The truth of it all, is that leaders need soldiers to survive. Leaders need soldiers to watch their backs. Leaders need brave men like you to fight when they’re down! Without you, we are nothing, even though most of us never want to acknowledge the fact.”

Murmurs had started spreading throughout the ranks of the soldiers. Achilles felt hope bloom in his chest. They seemed to be deliberating and discussing among themselves. Finally, one of them raised a hand. Achilles watched as the men surrounding his fellow Kings and commanders stepped away. He saw Menelaus shoot him a grateful look. “You raise a valid argument and salient points. The soldiers have acknowledged your words, godborn. We shall fight,” One of the men said for them all. “But only for another year. When the tenth year is over, we are leaving, whether we’ve won, or not.”

Achilles nodded to them, finally exhaling in relief. They had just dodged a rather large problem.

XMX

PALAMEDES returned a few days later with the grain. The encampment was full of celebration that night. People ate to their fill, and sung, and danced, after a long day of fighting. The only person who wasn’t happy was Odysseus, but no one could be blamed for that.

Achilles was wandering through the sand next to the beach when he heard the voices. The men had fallen asleep around midnight, and although he had tried, he couldn’t bring himself to enter Hypnos’ realm. And so he had just been walking around the beach, thoughts about the war racing through his head.

“Just go down,” One of the voices said. “I’ll pull you up when you find the gold.” Instantly he perked, eyes flickering across the terrain. But there was no one on the beach. He glanced around once more, and then another voice said, “I have a rope. Just tie it around your waist. Don’t worry.”

“Are you quite sure about this?” He recognised the voices now. Diomedes and Palamedes. Narrowing his eyes, he turned towards the trees in the distance. It was a sort of forest, an extension to the ones which surrounded Troy. He quietly made his way to the edge of the trees, and peered into the darkness. He could see both men, standing next to the edge of something round, like a well. They were speaking in whispers, and Diomedes was helping Palamedes tie something around his waist—the rope they had been talking about.

He watched, eyes squinted as Palamedes slowly stood on the edge of the well. Diomedes was holding the rope around his hands, and Palamedes said, “I’ll tug it when I see the gold.”

“Okay, then,” Diomedes nodded his head in agreement. Achilles tilted his head in confusion. What was going on? What gold were they referring to? Palamedes jumped into the well, and Diomedes held it tight, slowly lowering him down. Achilles heard a rustle in the trees, and then Odysseus materialised from behind the leaves. “Good work, my friend,” Odysseus nodded, with a smile on his face. “Now he can pay for what he did to my son, and for humiliating me.”

Achilles’ lips formed in a small ‘O’ as he realised what was going on. “Diomedes!” It was Palamedes’ voice. “Diomedes, what's going on? Was that Odysseus?”

“Of course it’s me, bastard,” Odysseus stopped next to the well. “You disgraced me, in front of everyone. You almost had me kill my son all those years ago. And you think I’ve forgotten?”

“Diomedes! Stop him!”

“He’s right, you know,” The Argive king said. “You are a bastard.”

“Menelaus and Agamemnon will find out! Someone will notice I’m gone!”

“Not if they don’t find a body,” Odysseus withdrew a knife from his side. “And I’ll make sure they find the fake message from that Trojan soldier and the false payment the Trojans will give you for betraying them. They shall all believe Diomedes and I. And you won’t be there to argue your case. Because dead men tell no tales, no matter what the stories may say.” Achilles’ eyes widened. He knew he should move, and that he should help, but Odysseus and Diomedes were right. Palamedes was sort of a dick. He stood, watching, as Odysseus placed the knife on the rope.

“I’ll see you in Hades, King Palamedes.” With that, he sliced through the knife and Palamedes fell to his death, with a strangled scream.

-X-

PERSEUS sat next to Selene at the ramparts. She had appeared out of the mist just a few seconds ago, after days of not hearing from her since she had saved his life, again. He didn’t know why his heart jumped lightly at the sight of her, but he smiled, nonetheless. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

Her answering smile was hesitant, as she said, “So was I. But…we need to talk.”

“We do,” He nodded. “You saved my life. Thank you. Again.”

“Not about that,” She shook her head at him. Her eyes showed her confusion, as though she did not quite know how she had ended up there. “You know what I want to talk about.”

His face burned gold at that, ichor rushing there, mind flashing back to what had happened all those weeks ago. It wasn’t as though the peck had been anything bad…it was a friendly gesture. Or was it? Did he want it to mean something more? Bloody Hades, he didn’t know.“I’m sorry,” He said automatically. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“Be quiet,” She rolled her eyes. “Let me talk.”

His lips closed, and although he was silent, he motioned to her to go on. “I don’t know why,” Selene started, standing straighter. “But you intrigue me, Perseus. I can’t explain it. You interest me, in a way no mortal has before, except perhaps my late husband.” She pursed her lips. “I kept watching you from my chariot each night, which is why I was able to save you at Skyros.”

Perseus couldn’t hide his smile, and in an attempt to break the awkward atmosphere, said, “So you were stalking me.”

She growled at him, “This is serious, Perseus.”

He laughed at her expression. “Fine, fine. I know what you’re trying to say. I would have been dead a long, long time ago had I not met you.”

“Of course,” She nodded, quite seriously. “I was stupid to rush away like I did after out talk. I apologise if I somehow offended you. You are a good mortal. A good friend. One of my very best. Again, I’m sorry for causing any confusion, and for staying away for as long as I did.”

His eyes widened. He saw the message she was trying to convey. Gods he was daft. All this fuss and awkwardness over a simple peck on the cheek? Friends did it all the time, didn’t they? He couldn’t count the number of times he had pecked Creusa. He didn’t know why he was overreacting, or why disappointment filled him when she called him one of his best friends. Finally, Perseus spoke up. “I should be apologising. What I did was uncalled for. It happened in the heat of the moment. My emotions were all over the place and I’m sorry it happened at all. It was just a kiss on the cheek. It meant nothing.”

She blinked owlishly at him. “Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.”

The son of Anchises smiled uneasily at her. His companion nodded to him, and began turning into dust. “I suppose I’ll see you soon.” He watched her go, and sighed to himself when she winked out of existence.

-X-

HECTOR was waiting for his wife at their bed. It was night time, and he had just left Perseus at the ramparts, and escorted Aeneas to his chambers. Creusa and Andromache had been seeing his mother, for some very important meeting, of which he had not been aware of, and after so long of being without his wife, he wasn’t about to go to sleep without her. Not again.

He perked when he heard the doors being opened. Andromache walked in silently, and he rose from their bed to meet her with a hug and a kiss. “How was your meeting with Mother?”

“Quite…enlightening,” She smiled at him. But there was something different about it. She looked overjoyed, and ecstatic about something. He could feel the happiness radiating off her.

“What happened?” He asked, holding her shoulders. He took her in, and smiled. She was honestly so beautiful.

She beamed at him. “Hector…I just found. I mean, I suspected, but…” She paused, and then said, “I’m…expecting.”

The first thing that hit him was shock. And then joy, pure unfiltered euphoria filled him. He didn’t realise he was hugging her tightly until she told him to let go. Happiness, mixed with surprise, and pride, and ecstasy filled his veins as he hugged his wife once more. And then he pulled away, eyes flickering to her belly. He smiled widely. He felt as though his grin would break his face into two.

“You’re serious?” He finally managed.

“Of course I am,” She laughed. “We’re going to be parents.”

He beamed. “I should tell Mother and Father about Scamandrius. I—“

Andromache reeled back from him, shaking his head, horror plastered on her face. “Never. Why would you want to name a child after a river?!” He turned to mock-glare at her, and her incensed expression faded as she laughed once more. “It could be a girl. And besides, your mother already knows.”

“Then Scamandria,” He threw his hands up, announcing it. “Please say yes.” He turned to her, a smile still on his face.

She shook her head at his antics. “Fine, fine. If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Scamandrius,” He jumped up in delight, whooping. “But,” Andromache cut him off. “Everyone will just call him Astyanax, so it won’t matter.”

He boomed with laughter, and turned to her, gathering her up in his arms. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“I know,” She kissed his nose. “Believe me, I know.”

-X-

AENEAS smiled to himself as Creusa made her way towards their bed. “Well,” He came out from his hiding place. “You’re late.”

“Aeneas,” She turned, huffing. “You scared me.”

He laughed, moving to place his hands on her waist. “How was your day?”

“Quite ghastly,” She placed her arms around his neck. “You?”

“The usual,” He placed a kiss on her nose. “You know I can’t go to bed without you.”

“I’m sorry,” She sighed. He could feel her, pressed up against him and he smiled, moving to plant a kiss on her mouth. She returned his kiss eagerly, and he licked her bottom lip. She let out a small moan and he took the chance, trailing his mouth down her neck, to that favourite spot of hers at the juncture of her throat and collarbone that always had her mewling. They pulled away for air, and he surged forward, re-capturing her lips and marauding the cavern of her mouth with his tongue. His entire being lit on fire as she scrabbled her hands against the fabric of his evening robes and ground her hips into him. He was in a haze of bliss with Creusa raking her nails against his scalp, tongues tangling deliciously. Her kisses became more softer and languid and he allowed her to take the lead.

They were so invested he didn’t hear the door open before it was too late. “Father, mother, what are you doing?” They sprung apart quickly, a gasp coming from both of them. Aeneas jumped and whirred on his son, eyes wide. “Ascanius! What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Their son’s eyes were wide. “What were you doing?”

“It was nothing, honey,” Creusa stood from the bed, and Aeneas blinked, wondering how she had gotten there. She flung the top part of her robes back on. Hades, when had he gotten it off? “You can come sleep with us.”

Aeneas watched silently, a bit miffed that he had been denied a night of pleasure. But a smile formed on his face as his ten year old son crawled onto the bed, and into his mother’s lap. “Come join us, Father!” He grinned at Ascanius, and moved onto the bed next to them. He prayed to the gods that nothing would ever separate his family. Not this war, not death…Nothing.

That night, he fell asleep soundly next to his wife, with his son nestled between them.

A/N: Alright, so this ARC is officially done with. Basically a few changes will happen in the next chapters. I’ve realised that I’m basically rewriting the original story with a different narrator. And I’ve also seen that Perseus knowing about the gods and the unearthly things happening has to give him some sort of incentive to try to change things. The whole reason the war happened was thanks to stupidity and ignorance, neither of which Perseus is. So, my point is, things will change. The underlying plot will be the same. Perseus won’t be a little bitch anymore, bending to the will of the gods. And maybe the Trojans will come out on top this time. We’ll see.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hello. Wow, this feels weird. It’s been so long since I sat down to type something. How’re you all? I know, it’s been a while, and most of you probably thought I was dead. But I’m here now, for I don’t know how long. But it’ll really be a while before you hear from me again after New Years. But I think by August I should be available, and chapters will be more constant. I haven’t abandoned any of my stories, currently published or in the safety of my Google docs. So, don’t lose hope, and thanks for sticking beside me for this long.

Anyway, to continue this story you’ve all been waiting for, I had to reread the previous chapters (I forgot everything about everything, lol). And, I’m going to admit, I was a bit disappointed in myself. Flat characterisation, weird and subpar dialogue, and not a lot of flow. The story felt a bit rushed and I want to rewrite it, badly. But I don’t have time for that now, so maybe August? I’m going to try hard to make this story much more readable and worth your attention. I really do hope my writing has improved, but be warned, it may also have declined due to my lack of practice, idk. But anywhere, here’s the next arc of this story, and I hope you enjoy.

P.S — I’ve been working on several one-shots while I’ve been away, and once I’m done typing them all, I’ll be pumping out at least once a week, hopefully. We’ll see.

ACHILLES, the fair haired warrior prince, pursed his lips thoughtfully as the soldiers led an old man into Agamemnon’s command tent. They sat at a round table in the middle of the structure, all the Kings and commanders of the Achaeans, debating and discussing their next course of action. Truth be told, the son of Thetis was bored. He didn’t know how long they’d been in the meeting for, but he was hungry, and tired, and he was sick of all these men and fighters and he wanted to go to bed.

But he sighed to himself, glancing upwards as the guards retreated and the old man bowed. The talk of war ceased, slowly dimming around the table as one by one, the leaders of Greece realised the other presence in the room, and turned in their seats to face him. Achilles had been dimly aware of the guard who had arrived a few minutes prior and whispered into Agamemnon’s ear. He hadn’t been close enough to hear the exchange, but the High King had nodded curtly—well, as much as one could do without a neck—and the guard had bustled out again. Achilles guessed, correctly, that they had come to inform the King of the arrival of the man.

“Speak, then,” Agamemnon flicked his wrist at the old man. “Tell us why you sought to interrupt our meeting, Herald of Apollo.”

Achilles couldn’t stop his mind, as he remembered a fierce battle, and a green eyed man who had gone by that same alias before trying to kill him, a long time ago. Unwillingly, the corners of his lips pulled up and he shook his head, grimacing. For a decade, he had clashed constantly, again and again, with this man, this son of Poseidon. Two men, perhaps not so different from each other. God-born, hailing from the raging sea itself. Immortal, invincible, one more so than the other. Both forces to be reckoned with. Both, without whom this war would have ended a decade ago.

Perhaps in another life, they would have been good friends. Maybe even best friends.

The Prince grimaced again, stilling his wandering thoughts and focusing on the task at hand. Palamedes’ replacement met his eyes from the other side of the table, and nodded. Achilles nodded back, then glanced away. He hadn’t bothered to learn the other man’s name, just glad that he was less of a bastard than his former King. It had been a while since their last battle. The Trojans, after continuously battering them had decided to pull back, for reasons of their own. They had come close, again and again, to breaching the walls a second time. But every time, again and again, Achilles and his comrades had beat them back, but with considerable effort. The fair haired man was drawn out of his personal musings as the priest bowed low. Agamemnon motioned for him to rise.

The man was withered, ancient, with curly grey hair and an equally grey beard. His eyes were turquoise coloured, and he was dressed in gold and white robes, the edges sandy, leaning on a golden, intricately carved staff topped with a golden laurel wreath. Achilles knew it wasn’t fake.

“My Kings, may the gods who watch over us all grant you victory in your conquest of Ilius. May the hand of Jove, sire of men and gods, be with you to sack the city, and return you safely to your homes.” There were pleased murmurs from around Achilles as the men received the Priest’s blessings. The old man, still leaning on his staff, cleared his throat. “I am Chryses, My Lord. I have come—“ He stuttered, then dropped to his knees before the table, bowing his head in supplication. “You have my daughter, My Lord. I have come to plead, to beg you to free her, and accept this gift, this ransom and all my wealth, in honour of the son of Olympus, Phoebus Apollo. I—“

Achilles swore silently to himself, pushing his chair backwards and shooting a glance at Agamemnon. The High King’s face had darkened considerably, and the blue eyed man could see a vein pulsing. Achilles made to stand, to move to the front of the table. For whatever reason, no medium of the gods could be treated as such, allowed to lie prostate before lesser men. Even if said lesser man was the High King of most of Greece. No matter how many evils he had committed, Achilles still honoured Olympus. He began to move, but Odysseus beat him to it, grabbing hold of the man and helping him rise, slowly. Satisfied, the son of Thetis turned to face the Sons of Atreus at the held of the table, and folded his arms. Menelaus was drumming repeatedly on the wooden table with his fingers. He looked tired, bags under his eyes. Achilles was sure he didn’t look much different.

His gaze shifted to Agamemnon. The King saw him looking, and growled, “Sit.”

On a normal day, he would have argued. He would have insulted Agamemnon for daring to speak to him in such a way, but he honestly didn’t have the time or the energy for that. Running a hand though his hair, he eased himself into the cushioned chair beside him, and leaned forward on his elbows. At his right, Diomedes was at attention, eyes trained on Agamemnon, waiting for the refusal they knew was coming. The Kings were murmuring among themselves, Nestor on the right hand of Agamemnon whispering lowly to the Mycenaean.

At his left, Greater Ajax leaned back in his seat, popping a grape into his opened mouth. When he was done chewing, he drawled, “I think we should listen to him, Agamemnon. Take the sceptre, release the girl.” Achilles and several of the men around him nodded their approval.

The fat turd only shot them a glare. “This is my personal matter, unrelating to the war at hand; and arguing homesick fools have no say in my affairs. You will do well to remember that.” Most of the men stiffened. Agamemnon’s lips curled as he faced the old man, who was leaning on Odysseus for support. “The girl, Chryseis—“ The old man nodded, eagerly. Agamemnon bared his teeth. “She was a spoil of war. She was captured, rightfully, with no foul play. We all have spoils of war. After every conquest, they are divided, and she ended up with me by the will of the gods. I do not see why I must let her go.” He paused. “Take him away. I do not want to see you tarrying about in this place or around my ships, or it shall not end well with you. Your daughter is mine now, to use as I see fit. She will grow old away from her home, warming my bed in Tiryns. Your sceptre and wreath will earn you nothing. Leave.”

As though on cue, two guards stepped in through the tent flap and hurriedly came to grab on to the old man by his arms. Odysseus let go of him, shooting him an apologetic glance. The old man bowed his head and did not speak further, allowing himself to be dragged outside. The tent was quiet once more, and Achilles shook his head. Stupid. Agamemnon was stupid. But he frowned, remembering his own spoil of war, waiting for him in his chambers. Agamemnon raised a good point, loathe as he was to admit it.

“Offending a priest of the gods isn’t a good idea, Agamemnon,” Odysseus said, quietly. But a silent fire roared in his eyes as he shook his head. “Neither is insulting your comrades. We’re the ones who’ll watch your back in battle. You would do well to remember that.”

As silent as a wraith, Athena’s favoured slipped out of the tent. One by one, the council of kings dispersed, traipsing into the open air of the beach, silent as shadows but as furious as the flames of Apollo which Agamemnon had no doubt just poured onto them.

~ • ~

PERSEUS tilted his head back, lips slightly parted as the scent of salt water assaulted his nostrils. He shut his eyes, inhaling, trying to calm his frayed nerves. The waves roared behind him, and the man exhaled, eyelids peeling open to take in the beach they were on. It was an unoccupied section of it, unsullied by Graeceans and far behind the barriers the Trojans had made when they’d taken back their beach. He was nervous, yes, and as much as he hated the sea, as much as he hated Poseidon, the water rejuvenated him, always. Made him calm.

His thoughts strayed to his deadbeat dad. “Are you one of mine?”

He scoffed, loudly. Are you one of mine. Poseidon didn’t even know he existed. Perseus recalled, involuntarily, the battle he had had against the god of the seas, all those days ago. All his fury, his rage, held on to for decades, everything he had kept within him, burst out from the box he had locked them in. He had lost control, and he had unleashed himself on the master of the oceans. When Poseidon had at last realised, he had blatantly refused to attack, only lifting his weapon to keep Perseus from touching him. But that hadn’t stopped him; he’d continued, until the god had turned tail and melted into mist. Still refusing to fight him.

Coward.

Bastard.

Perseus felt his stomach churn, and behind him, the waves roared angrily, as though in answer to the tug he’d felt in his gut. He started, then glanced at the beach. Was that…? Before he could think further on it, he heard the groan, and saw the old man hobble out of the forest. Beside him, Hector visibly relaxed. Aeneas let out a huff of approval, standing and dusting the sand off his armour. They stood at attention, waiting, as finally, Chryses reached them on the small stretch of sand. By the dejected air around him and the certainly visible lack of girl, Perseus guessed the meeting hadn’t gone as planned.

Hector frowned as the man stopped, and Aeneas moved forward, offering his arm to Chryses. The old priest took it gratefully, leaning on Aeneas. And then he shook his head. “You were right, Prince Hector. Agamemnon refused to bargain with me.”

The Heir Apparent sighed, then said, “Agamemnon is an old fool.” He met Chryses’ eyes, and tilted his head to the side. “Do not fret. I shall make sure your daughter is returned to you.”

Perseus, behind his two friends, cleared his throat. They turned to him, and he scratched his neat beard, before asking. “What of Briseis? Did you see her? Is she safe?”

Hector’s frown deepened, and Aeneas’ face softened. The old priest nodded. “She resides in Achilles’ personal tent. She was outside as I passed. Shackled, but preparing a meal for the warrior prince.”

Perseus didn’t know how to feel. He supposed he should be glad she was safe. But she was also definitely warming the Prince’s bed. At least no harm had come to her. His green eyes latched onto his brother as the oxen eyed man spoke. “I have an idea. To save Chryseis.” Hector motioned for him to continue. Aeneas shifted on his feet as the old man leaned more into him. “Godly intervention. Maybe—“

“Surely, you’re not suggesting Apollo gets involved are you?” Perseus arched a brow.

Aeneas pursed his lips, before nodding. “Chryses is his priest, after all.”

Hector let a few seconds pass, before saying, “It is a good idea. Maybe our only course of action now.”

“It’s not like we can storm the Greek camp or anything ourselves,” Perseus rolled his eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s too dangerous,” Chryses shook his head. “They would kill you before you made it past the perimeter.”

He flashed a wolfish grin at the old man. “Good thing I’m immortal, then.”

“You’re not sneaking into the enemy camp, Perseus,” Hector folded his arms. “Immortal or not, if you’re captured, it won’t end well for you, or for us.”

“What, you don’t trust my abilities?” He narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t trust your emotions,” Hector barked. “Not in this situation. You’ll try to get Briseis out, and confront Achilles inevitably, and gods know even you can’t hold out against all those skilled warriors. Not alone, at least.” Perseus snorted. Hector was a brute, insulting him like that. But his friend was right. He knew him too well.

“Lord Aeneas is right,” Chryses stood straighter. “Apollo is my patron. He has not failed me before—“ Perseus interrupted, muttering, “Well, that’s surprising.” “—And he’ll not fail me now.”

His brother shot his an exasperated glance. “Perseus. None of us here claim to like Apollo, or his methods. But let him try.” He scowled, and turned when he felt Hector’s hands on his shoulder.

The Prince’s face had softened. “Please. If Apollo doesn’t work, we can find a way to infiltrate the camp.”

Perseus sighed, then shrugged. “Fine.” The dark haired man waved at them. “Do it, then.” He folded his arms, and Hector nodded, squeezing, and letting go. The curly haired man motioned to Chryses. “After you.”

The man nodded, and shaking, extracted himself from Aeneas’ arms. He slowly dropped to his knees, leaning on his staff and facing the beach. Perseus’ throat bobbed as he watched Chryses shakily raise his staff. Aeneas came to stand beside them in the sand, and whispered. “After this, we have to question him. He entered the Greeks camp, and came out alive. None of our other scouts did. We’ll need his knowledge to make further plans and maybe construct a map.”

“You’re right,” Perseus nodded grudgingly. “But let’s see what Apollo does about this.”

The god hadn’t made a reappearance again, since that time on the beach when he’d saved Perseus’ life. After ten years of silence, Apollo had stepped in. Perseus was curious, if he was being honest. He wanted to see what Apollo would pull next. Chryses exhaled. “O god of the sun, it is I, your humble servant. Oh, Phoebus Apollo, Protector of Ilius, Protector of men, fair haired and fair judge. I have always adorned your shrine and offered you sacrifices. I have always followed your will and proclaimed your words and warnings to the people. Grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Achaeans, for they have disrespected me, and your power. Show your mighty hand, and return my daughter to me.”

Perseus rolled his eyes, huffing, as Chryses slumped down. Aeneas was there, grabbing on to the man before he could collapse into the sand. The green eyed warrior shifted on his feet as the breeze swept through his hair and the salt sprayed on them once more, waves hitting the rock. Nothing. The air was still, the sky clear and the gulls calling to one another as they sailed across the narrow sea. Classic Apollo. After two minutes, Hector scoffed, “Well, that was a colossal waste of time.” Chryses crumpled in on himself, no doubt holding back tears. But there was still hope for his daughter. If only Hector would allow him…

“I told you,” Perseus’ brow creased. “We should make preparations—“

“Look,” Aeneas held out a hand to quiet them. It was no wonder his brother had spotted it first, with his keen eyes and his godly sight. The Dardanian King pointed upwards. The sea churned behind them as they followed Aeneas’ line of sight. Perseus’ gaze landed on the golden hawk, soaring through the sky. It seemed to have materialised from thin air, flapping huge wings. Perseus swore he could hear the beating of said wings from his spot on the rocky shore. His armour weighed down on him and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as the hawk trained its gaze on them, then cocked its head to the side. It let out a shriek of outrage, then flapped away.

Perseus snorted. He knew why the god had come. Not for Chryses or Troy or anything, but for him. Specifically to shame him, and prove him wrong. Apollo was proud. Hades, he gave pride a new meaning. He certainly wouldn’t react kindly to Perseus openly doubting him in front of his own Priest and the two other men. Bigot.

They followed the god as he sailed through the air, high above the Greek camp beyond the trees. Perseus grimaced as Apollo shifted mid-flight. His wings extended into arms, claws morphing into feet. His crown of feathers dissolving into windswept blond hair. He was sporting a neatly shaved beard now, and dressed in gold and white robes, decked with armour worthy of the god he was. Blinding, golden armour. Apollo stretched a hand, floating midair, and his bow materialised in his grasp. He drew back the line and an arrow shimmered into existence. Even from where he was standing, he could feel the power rolling off the god, the death radiating from the single arrow he was about to fire. Chryses cried out in joy. Beside him, Hector shuddered, grip on his sword tightening.

“Arrow of death.” Below him, Aeneas murmured. The breeze brushed past his long curly hair. His brother in all but blood stood, wonder and a bit of fear creeping into his eyes. “Apollo’s about to rain death onto the Greek camp.”

“A plague,” Perseus surmised. “He’ll hit them with a plague until they give back Chryseis.” Okay, he was impressed.

Apollo’s gaze shifted, then locked onto them, lonely on the beach. It should have been impossible, but Perseus saw his gold eyes blaze. Apollo grinned, mockingly and maniacally, at them from the skies. There was nothing human about his smile. Hector’s gaze shifted downwards, unable to look unto the immortal. Aeneas swallowed, then blinked, choosing to focus on the trees instead. But Perseus felt the corners of his lips pull upwards, an answering grin stretching his face. The waves shrieked behind him. But there was nothing friendly in his smile. Not for Apollo. Not anymore. Just acknowledgement. Respect.

Apollo inclined his head, and then released his arrow.

And death followed, to swallow the Greek camp whole.

~ • ~

NINE DAYS. For nine days, Apollo fired arrow after arrow on their camp, from his position in the clouds. Nine days, nine nights. He hovered, striking them down, firing leisurely, seeming almost bored. Achilles slowly peeled himself off his bed, and stretched. He blinked, to chase away the sleep and glanced around. The warrior tuned out the sounds of death coming from around him. The cries and moans of the people, the dying and the diseased. Apollo had sent a plague of death onto them, onto their animals, and their slaves. For nine days, everything had come to a standstill.

The Trojans hadn’t attacked, most likely because they knew of their predicament and didn’t want to contract anything. He didn’t know which sort of diseases had swept over them, but everyone they touched…well, that was the end for the unfortunate man. Achilles’ eyes fixed on the pale skinned woman in his sheets. She was sleeping soundly and he felt a smile spread on his face, chasing his erratic thoughts away and softening his expression. Briseis was beautiful. Her shackles lay at the foot of his bed, and he frowned at them. He hated that she had to wear those during the day, even if it was for her own safety. In a camp full of men, those shackles were more liberating than a skeleton key.

His thoughts strayed back to the matter at hand. The dream he had just woken up from.

The High Queen Hera, appearing to him, urging him to call a meeting. To do what needed to be done.

Achilles moved to put on some clothes, passing Briseis and planting a tender kiss on her forehead. She smiled in her sleep, and he grinned. He was happy that she felt safe enough around him to smile, even after all he had done against her Kingdom and family. It had taken a while. She had hated him at the start. Had raged, and tried to escape at every moment. But after a few weeks, she had relaxed. Those long, tumultuous weeks where he’d promised her that no harm would befall her and he would not touch her without her consent.

The prince moved to the tent flap and poked his head out. Sure enough, Phoenix stood on guard outside. “Morning, Phoenix,” He called. The General straightened, and Achilles’ eyes flitted to the cloth around his face. That was what they had come to. Covering up against the plague. They couldn’t run into Troy, and they couldn’t risk carrying the diseases back with them to Greek soil. Phoenix’ response was barely audible through his makeshift nose mask, but Achilles waved it aside. “Call an assembly, would you? Get all the Kings in the Command Tent. Immediately.”

“It shall be done, My Lord,” Phoenix bowed, and bustled away. Achilles moved back inside, and moved to the mannequin which bore his armour and tunic. He began strapping it on, slowly, and thought of what he would say to the contingent of greek kings currently gathering at his behest. They had to get to the root of the problem. They had offered many sacrifices, killed all the animals which they could spare to appease the god Apollo.

But the sun would not be won over. Day after day, he had burned brightly overhead, almost too bright to look at, radiating pure power and anger as his arrows of death hit mark after mark, never missing. Achilles did not know why Agamemnon was still alive. It was he, after all who had slighted the Olympian. Perhaps Apollo knew that if Agamemnon fell, the Greek forces would be scattered into chaos, leaderless. Perhaps Zeus had banned him from taking down the key players in this game they were in. This dance which had taken away so much from them all. Achilles didn’t know. He wouldn’t dare presume he knew the will of the gods, or what drove them. But he was glad he was still alive, and as he finally draped his white cloak over his shoulders, he exhaled.

Agamemnon had to return Chryseis. Hera had implied as much. That was the only way the Father of Medicine would then be pacified. But Agamemnon was a stubborn brute. Achilles knew he wouldn’t listen. Not unless his hand was forced. He stormed out of the tent, and instantly two soldiers fell into step behind him. He glanced back, at a just returned Phoenix, and Patroclus, who sent him a reassuring smile. Achilles smiled back at his best friend, then turned forward to focus at the task which lay before him. Convincing the son of Atreus to let the girl go.

The three men walked, through the sand, weaving through tents. The air was putrid, and smelled of sick. Achilles’ stomach rolled. He could smell death, all around him. His eyes flickered across the camp, then landed on the hill of bodies at the very edge of the beach. Still growing. Already rotting.

Soon to pass on to the Underworld, like they had been doing for all the others who had come before them these nine days.

They passed by the newly constructed medic tent, and Achilles grimaced when the crying reached his ears. Grown men, in so much pain and terror, knowing they could not be saved. Men who had fought and killed and survived for ten years, fighting to see their families again. All of them, reduced to sobbing, decaying messes as death swallowed them whole. He shook his head, cursing Agamemnon’s name once more. “We’re here,” Patroclus muttered. Achilles glanced up as he neared the tent, its entrance guarded by two Spartan warriors. Menelaus’ men. He could hear the shouting from inside. “You guys wait out here,” Achilles nodded to the men, then marched inside.

He was the last to arrive, but it seemed the meeting was already underway. The Kings were roaring at each other, arguing, debating and screaming. Agamemnon sat, rubbing his temples in annoyance as around the table, the wardens of Greece slammed fists into the wood and fought amongst one another. Achilles cleared his throat, a hand on his sword. The men paid him no heed. He turned to the herald beside him and inclined this head. The servant nodded, then in a booming voice, proclaimed, “Announcing Prince Achilles, Son of King Peleus and Heir Apparent to the Throne of the Myrmidons of Phthia.” The shouting dimmed slightly, like a drunk man coming down from his high, and slowly, the blond man ambled towards his reserved seat between Diomedes and Ajax. As he neared his seat, the talking ceased. But tensions were running high, and Achilles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Gods above, is this what you lot have become?” He took a seat. “A writhing mess of squabbling children?”

“Oh, get on with it, Goldilocks,” Agamemnon rolled his eyes. “You arrive late to your own meeting?”

Achilles refused to take the bait. His chest rose, then fell. “You all know why we’re here. But I don’t see what there is to argue about. Our men are dying. Give it two more days, and we’ll be following them to Hades. You’ve offended a god, Agamemnon, so get off your high horse, and do what you know is right.” He bared his teeth at the High King.

“There is no fairness to this,” Agamemnon’s eyes blazed. “Why must I be the one to give up my war prize? When you all have two, maybe even five, warming your beds and your cocks all evening.”

“Oh, come off it, brother,” Menelaus’ hands enclosed into fists on the table. “Don’t be stupid. There will be others. The war is yet to end. She is not the only one you have, either.”

“I am not giving up the girl,” Agamemnon pounded his own fist into the table. “Apollo can—“

“Careful,” Diomedes warned.

“He still flies high above us,” Odysseus said, ever so calmly. “It would be wise to watch your words.” Agamemnon’s nostrils flared. But he remained quiet. Achilles released a sigh.

“It is not a matter of fairness, or who you’re bedding. This is about your pride, Agamemnon,” He added as much ice to his words as he could muster. “And if you’re fine with Thanatos coming for you and your soldiers because of it, then fine by me. But not my men. Not my people.” He clenched this jaw. “This isn’t about you and what you want.”

“He’s right,” Lesser Ajax picked his nails with a small knife, his legs crossed. “Our men are dying. And we’re all going to die soon. You either hand over the girl to her father or I walk away.”

“You wouldn’t dare—“ Agamemnon couldn’t stop the shock on his face as Nestor, his most trusted counsellor, shook his head and cut him off. “He’s right. Release the girl or my people fight no more.”

“I’ve been missing home lately, anyway,” Diomedes drawled from beside Achilles. “I wouldn’t mind cutting this expedition short, to be honest.” Agamemnon snarled.

“Okay,” Odysseus’ assessing and calculating voice came to their ears before a full on riot could explode around the table. “Okay, I have an idea. Agamemnon is right, in his own twisted and selfish ways,” He rolled his eyes. “But we cannot allow this to continue. I suggest a vote.”

Silence.

Odysseus wasn’t deterred. “We are a council of kings. We are allies in this never ending war. And though you might be our leader, Agamemnon, we are not simply here to do your bidding, especially with all our lives on the line.”

“This is nonsense,” The High King hissed, angrily. But Achilles knew that the man could see the wisdom in Odysseus’ words. The High King passed Menelaus a scathing glare. “Even my own blood speaks against me. How can I expect anyone on this table to do so?”

“Well, My King,” Odysseus grinned mockingly. “What’s it going to be?”

Agamemnon’s vein pulsed. And then his gaze landed on Achilles and his lips curled. The Prince shook his head in warning; he knew that the King was looking for someone to blame. The man exhaled, then stood. He burned holes into Achilles’ head with his stare, before his gaze shifted to the other Greeks. One by one, Agamemnon stared each of them down. “I really have no allies on this table, do I?”

“If you gave us the respect we deserve, perhaps that would not be so,” Achilles piped, narrowing his eyes at the other man.

“Fine then,” The son of Atreus shook his head. “Chryseis will be returned with a squadron of my men to her father immediately. Odysseus, you shall go along with them.” He paused. Achilles felt relief fill him. He had done it. They were saved. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess Hera. “But—“ The fair haired warrior rolled his eyes. Trust this bastard to have another thing up his sleeve. “As compensation, I will be taking your own war prize, Achilles. Permanently.” Achilles stilled. And then his head swam.

“What?” He wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

Achilles felt his blood roar, rushing to his head, his eyes crossing as he drew himself out of his seat slowly—as he realised what exactly Agamemnon was saying. His heart stuttered in his chest. And then rage replaced his shock. Furious, Achilles drew his sword and levelled it at the Mycenaean King. “You have no right to do that. You do not touch Briseis.”

“I am the High King,” Agamemnon reminded. “And over here, even if you do not bow to me, I am still the leader of this exercise. You all answer to me.”

“Touch her and you die,” His voice was low, but venomous.

“Fallen in love with the slave girl, have we?” Agamemnon taunted.

“Brother…” Menelaus warned.

“I don’t think a civil war is the best thing for us right now,” Abantes grimaced.

“Would anyone deny me this?” Agamemnon asked around the table. “To stand against me now, twice. I would not forget.” Silence. Nothing. Even Odysseus looked down.

Achilles saw stars dance across his eyes and he had to hold on to the table to keep upright. Agamemnon clapped. Two men, Argive soldiers, marched in. The High King kept his eyes on Achilles as he said, “Fetch me the slave girl from Prince Achilles’ tent. She is to be well guarded across the camp to my own tent. Immediately.” Baiting him, Achilles realised. Daring him. The two men bowed and hurried out.

He had made a promise. He would not see it broken. Achilles sheathed his sword, and without a word, spun on his heel then darted out of the tent.

He ran into Phoenix and Patroclus outside, and they fell into step behind him once more as he marched towards his own tent. This time he ignored the scent of death and decay. His fury pushed him, his hair billowing around his face as he stormed through the camp and towards his sleeping quarters. “Achilles,” Patroclus’ voice was hard. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Not until Patroclus asked a second time. He tore his eyes aware from the tent they were steadily approaching, and fixed his wrath-filled gaze onto his best friend. “They’re going to take her away. For Agamemnon. I must protect her.” Patroclus swore. The scream reached them a second later, and Achilles quickened his footsteps. He drew his sword as they approached and behind him so did his companions. He could feel the attention of the camp on them, and was dimly aware of the fact that the High King and most of the others had stormed out after him, right on his heels.

They drew to a stop in front of his tent as the men appeared from inside, five of them, the two Agamemnon had ordered hauling a screaming Briseis outside. She was still naked, and his eyes danced around her body for any sign of injury. The redness of her right cheek made Achilles’ heart swell in anger. He levelled his sword at the men. “Let her go.” Briseis sobbed.

“Achilles,” Odysseus called. “A civil war—“

“I don’t care about a civil war,” He whirled to snarl at the other man. “I will kill every Argive in front of me if you don’t order them to let her go.” The men had drawn weapons, and Achilles locked his gaze onto Agamemnon.

The King’s mouth twitched. “You kill any of my men, I will butcher yours.” Another rush of blood. “You might be unkillable, son of Peleus. But your men are not.”

“Achilles,” Diomedes moved forward as though to placate him. A scathing glare sent him backwards.

Achilles’ mind whirled. They couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow them to take her. Agamemnon’s eyes glinted dangerously. “Who do you think would win, then?” He taunted. “If a civil war were to break out. More than half of these men are oath bound to me.” He was right. Achilles couldn’t stand against 50 city-states and win. He’d be the only Myrmidon left standing. And that was if they didn’t find out how he could be killed. He tried to keep from panicking. He tried to come up with a solution. The man felt the sea breeze waft through his nose. Mother help me, he thought.

Enough of this nonsense. An idea sparked to life, and Achilles lowered his weapon. He turned, fully to face Agamemnon, even as Briseis sobbed and the hands on her body tightened. Pain roiled in his stomach. Achilles tossed his sword at Agamemnon’s feet. “Okay,” He swallowed. Behind him, Patroclus, glaring at everyone, didn’t lower his weapon. Neither did Phoenix. “Okay, you can take her.” Across the tents, the waves roared. “Take her, Agamemnon, and I will fight no more.” The effect of his words were instantaneous, rippling across the gathered lines of men. Even Patroclus looked shocked. Agamemnon recoiled.

“Take her and you lose this war,” He cocked his head to the side. “My men and I are going home.” They needed him. They wouldn’t risk what his departure would mean. The High King scowled and Achilles exhaled. “It’s your call.”

Agamemnon was silent, no doubt the rusted gears in his head turning. And then he spoke. “Well, then. Have a safe journey, and a nice life.” He whirled on his feet, and behind him, Briseis cried out as the men made to follow.

Achilles didn’t stop them. He watched, sword in the dust, a storm raging inside him, as one by one, the Kings dispersed. He watched, as Agamemnon took his heart away from him, her shoulders sagged, resigned to her fate.

~ • ~

HE WENT ON his knees in the sand, and the salt from the sea sprayed onto him. He welcomed it. “Mother,” His voice cracked. He felt her, then. That otherworldly presence, that godly aura. The scent of the sea intensifying. She looked beautiful, and younger than him. Her hair fell in ringlets around her face, skin tinted blue, gossamer dress billowing in the breeze. But her eyes were rimmed red; she had been crying.

“Mother,” He repeatedly hoarsely. “What ails you?”

She reached out, touching his cheek. He leaned into her touch. “It is nothing, my dear. I worry for you, that is all. You have something to ask of me?”

He nodded, sharply. “Agamemnon…today, he took away someone very dear to me.”

Thetis smiled sadly, “I saw.”

“I need you,” He clutched her hands, and squeezed. “I need you to help me, mother.” He lifted his face to the sky, finding it empty. Apollo was gone. Chryseis was gone. “Agamemnon insulted me today. It must not go unpunished. Plead to Jove on my behalf. Ask Zeus to bring the Greeks to the breaking point. Let him show them what happens when I do not fight their battles. Let Agamemnon know that he needs me.”

Thetis squeezed back. “You could go home, my son. You said you would go home.”

“You know I did not mean it,” He whispered. “Please.” He paused. His eyes shone with tears. “Let them bring her back.”

Thetis sighed, resignation taking over her features. “Alright. Okay. I shall try.”

“Thank you.” But she was already gone, dissolving into salt and allowing the breeze to carry her away to sea. Achilles leaned into the ghost of her touch, and then buried his head into his hands.

~ • ~

PERSEUS inclined his head when he felt the stifling power appear from beside him. Selene’s hair was unbound, and his lips parted as he took her in. Eyes glowing, black hair cascading down her face, wrapped in a black cloak. Her pink lips curled up in a smile. “You called for me?”

The man nodded grimly. “I did. I knew screaming your name in my head at odd hours would work.” She let lose a laugh, and was it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, like jingling bells. He turned back towards the seas, to hide his red face. Selene did things to him he didn’t think she would understand. Hades, neither did he. Even after they’d cleared the air over the peck he’d given her all those months ago.

“I’m a son of Poseidon,” He said, still staring at the waves. Getting to the matter at hand.

“You are,” She acknowledged. “And this is relevant because?”

He shot her a small exasperated look. Her face remained blank, but he could see the amusement dancing in her eyes. “Okay, go on, Perseus.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner,” He shook his head. He was dumb. He was bloody dumb. And he could have ended this years ago. “You know…you know what happened to my mother. You know about my…feelings for Poseidon.” Selene’s power flared as she nodded, and she motioned for him to continue.

“I need you to find me a teacher,” He turned to face the titaness, locking his gaze onto her. His green eyes blazed. “It’s time to embrace my heritage. I need to learn my powers. I need to find out why my father did what he did.”

He saw realisation dawn on her, as she also came to see the plan that had been forming in his mind for the past nine days. The Greek camp lay right on the beach, with a wall blocking them out of view, surrounding the encampment. With their food stores, ships, tents, men, all in the camp. With their backs to the ocean, his greatest power. His greatest enemy.

“So you’ll gain control of the raging sea,” Selene said, quietly, impressed. He faced her, nodding grimly.

“And then use it crush every last one of them.”

A/N — Well, I think 6.5k words is a lot to put myself back out there. I hope you enjoyed reading. Tell me what you think.

Happy Holidays!

Chapter Text

A/N: Surprisingly, the previous chapter took me just a day to construct. I’ve read the Iliad, and is it just me who find it weird that the gods are referred to by their roman names when Rome hasn’t even been founded yet? Oh well. I do hope the previous chapter was good. But yeah, here’s chapter sixteen <3

PERSEUS leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the still waters before him. The lake refused to move. He groaned, rolling his eyes and falling back into the leaves and soil behind him. It was still dark, but, unable to sleep, the son of Anchises had left his quarters and ambled into the forest. To try to set his plan in motion — at least, before Selene arrived with whoever she thought could aid him. He pursed his lips, mind drifting. He was…he was a son of the sea god. His lips curled at the thought alone, but he pushed away the bitterness which threatened to envelope him.

Decades had passed. He had been holding on to his grief and anger for a long time. He had moved on, somehow. Learnt to live with it. But he had never forgotten. Never forgiven.

Perseus sighed, shutting his eyes and trying to recall…anything. Her. His mother. The image that popped up in his mind was blurry, frayed at the edges. He couldn’t remember her face. Just the sweet voice, singing him to sleep. Those arms, wrapping around him as the water swallowed them whole.

Enough.

Why didn’t the water respond to him?

Well, he hadn’t ever tried before, had he? He did have powers, didn’t he? Perseus frowned. Again, a theory he’d never tested. He had some distant memories, of swimming in lakes and coming out dry, those early days in the forests with his two best friends. Did that count? He’d never actively willed the water to do anything. Gods, this was useless. He’d never be able to. Sitting up, he stretched out a hand. Wouldn’t hurt to try again. But maybe he hadn’t inherited any powers from his birth father.

No. He had. He remembered, ten years back, when he’d realised what Apollo had done to him. He’d caused an earthquake, unwittingly. Hades, he hadn’t even realised it. He did have powers, then. Maybe they were just dormant? Locked away because he had refused his true heritage for next to so long. Maybe Selene’s friend would be able to help. Perseus bit his lip and concentrated. His eyelids fluttered, and he tried, so hard, to bring back that gut-wrenching pain he’d felt on the beach all those days ago. He had to try. He couldn’t give up. Not when he could use this power to decimate the Achaean forces with a flick of his wrist. He couldn’t let such an opportunity slip between his fingers.

He hadn’t told Hector or Aeneas about his idea. Better to not give them any false hope, in case his plan never came to fruition. Besides, he would prefer to see the shock rippling on their faces if he was able to use the raging sea to conquer their enemies.

The green eyed man felt it then, a slight tug, and his outstretched arm wobbled. His gaze locked onto the still lake before him. Slowly, a grin stretched across his features as a thin line of water rose from the lake. Perseus shifted his arm to the left. The water mimicked his movement, curling around itself. He wiggled his fingers, swearing to himself. The water rippled. His forehead was already beaded with perspiration.

“A good start for someone who claims to have never wielded the might of the seas before.” The voice made him jerk, and over the lake the water turned limp and cascaded back into the lake. Perseus turned his head slowly, his surprise fading when he spotted the familiar dark haired immortal behind him. But she wasn’t alone though, and neither was she the one who had spoken. No, today Selene had come with a companion. The dark haired man slowly rose, then dropped down to his knees in reverence, head down. “I’m sorry, I did not feel your arrival. You surprised me, Lady —.”

“Galateia,” The woman inclined her head. “Oh, get up Perseus.” He slowly rose to his feet, eyes drifting to Selene first. She looked as beautiful as ever, ethereal, even. Her hair was free again, and he had to admit, he liked it this way. Her silver eyes glinted, and she wore an intricate set of silver and white armour, underneath a black cloak. She nodded to him in greeting, and then he pulled his eyes to the newcomer. She had hair as dark as the night sky above them. Her eyes were bright green, much like his, her skin pearly, lips blood red. A small circlet adorned her head. It seemed to be made of kelp. She had angular features and wore a shimmering white gossamer dress lined with blue and green. The smell of the ocean hit him, making Perseus wobble on his feet. Her skin had a slight bluish hue, and there were…gills on her neck.

“Perseus,” Selene moved forward. “You asked for me to get you a teacher. This is Galateia, she’s a —“

“Nereid,” He breathed. Perseus met the gaze of the water spirit. “It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lady.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” She grinned, showing razor and shark-like teeth. “I’ll admit I’ve been dying to meet the son of Poseidon who has caused my sister Thetis and her spawn so much trouble this past decade.”

Selene snorted. “Apparently Thetis won’t stop talking about you.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Is that a good thing?”

“She’s Achilles’ mother,” Selene adjusted her cloak. “She’s probably trying to find ways to kill you.”

“Oh,” He pursed his lips, eyes darting back to Galateia. The immortal being laughed at his expression. “Do not worry, young one. No one knows of my presence here today, except for us.”

“That’s good,” He nodded. His gaze drifted back to the Titaness. “Thank you.” He couldn’t stop the immense gratitude that enveloped him or the warm feeling which seemed to wrap around his head. He felt woozy.

“You’re welcome,” She smiled, a small smile which she rarely showed, even to him. Galateia was still observing him, and the demigod swallowed, allowing her scrutiny. He was dimly aware of Selene moving away from them to the trees, and leaning against a trunk. She observed, eyes trained on both of them. The nereid’s eyes glinted. “Okay. You want to learn to use your powers.” He nodded. Her lips parted and she spoke, her voice sliding over him like music. “You want to hear the song of the waves. You want to be one with the seas.” His head bobbed once more.

“And yet,” the Nereid walked around him in a slow circle. “And yet, you despise your father. You shun your heritage and scorn your blood.” She bared her teeth as he stiffened. “That must be rectified, son of of Poseidon.”

“Anchises is my father,” He frowned at the woman.

She barked out a laughter, inhumane. Was this really the best person Selene could get? He tossed her a look over his shoulder, and she smirked at him. Perseus turned back to the woman, who had stopped in front of him. She leaned forward. “Your blood says differently, god-born.” He could feel her breath fanning his face.

“And so do I,” He clenched his jaw, refusing to lean backwards. Refusing to give in.

“You’ll not be able to access the full might of your power unless you let go,” She warned. “Let bygones be bygones.”

“If Poseidon wants my forgiveness he should come and beg me for it himself.”

“Oh, when I start with you, we’ll see who’ll be doing the begging,” She pulled away, laughing. “Baby steps, Perseus.” The woman paused. “I will teach you what you wish to know. I will show you how to bend the sea to your will. But you must listen, and you must obey.”

“Two things I’m definitely not good at,” He said, dryly. “But I’ll try.” Perseus heard Selene laugh. Galateia echoed the sound. Hers hit him like a roaring wind over a churning sea.

“Oh I like you,” She nodded, approval shining in her eyes. “You and I are going to have so much fun together.”

~ • ~
AENEAS sat at the head of their forces at they marched to meet the Achaeans on the plain in front of the city walls. The Greeks were fast approaching, but even from far away, he could see that their numbers had dwindled, though not too considerably. Apollo’s plagues had worked, and the Greeks had lost about a quarter of their forces to pestilence. He could see them forming lines, their Kings and commanders at the front. He spotted Menelaus, Agamemnon. He saw Greater and Lesser Ajax. Old Nestor, ferocious in battle despite his age, Abantes, Menestheus of Athens, Odysseus and Agapernor of Arcadia. All the usual front liners who were still standing.

But no Achilles.

Aeneas frowned to himself. What was the Prince of Phthia playing at this time?

Beside him, Hector rode on his valiant steed, his jaw clenched, face hard. Aeneas caught Perseus’ eye at their friend’s other side. Perseus raised a brow in question, and Aeneas’ frown deepened. His brother looked tired, a wondrous feat for immortals, surely. But there were bags under his eyes, although the fire in his gaze was still burning bright. Beside Perseus rode Paris.

It was the Prince’s first time on a battlefield, and Aeneas could feel the nervousness rolling off him in waves. For ten years Paris had lounged back in Troy as the other Princes and Generals did his fighting for him. He was older now, but no less of a bastard, and the Prince had raged and whined when Hector’s father had declared that he was to go with them that day. All of the King’s court had just watched him throw a hissy fit. But there was nothing to be done about it. Aeneas quite agreed with Priam. It made no sense that good noble men died while the cause of their predicament lounged in bed with his stolen wife and watched the battles from the Palace Balcony.

The allies of Troy were arranged neatly around the Trojan soldiers themselves, following behind their commanders, swords aloft and spears thirsting for blood. His own Dardanian forces were behind him, led by his generals Archilochus and Acamas, two extremely skilled warriors who would lay down their lives for him. Lycaon’s son Pandarus of Telea rode at the right flank with Deiphobus, Hector’s own brother. Helenus rode at the left flank with Adrestus and Amphius, the Princes of Adrestria, high in the mountains. Aeneas spotted Asius, Hippothous, and Peirous, the only General from Cicilian Thebes who had escaped with his men all those years back during the siege. His eyes continued roving across the roughly fifteen thousand strong army that followed behind them, eyes landing on the last of the generals, Sarpedon and Glaucus of Lycia. The Greek army had been reduced to about ten thousand, from the twenty thousand warriors that had come with them ten years back.

Numbers made his head hurt, so Aeneas decided not to distract himself any longer.

“Achilles is not amongst the men,” Hector noted.

“Yeah,” Aeneas nodded. “I noticed.”

“What do you think he’s planning this time?” The Heir Apparent glanced at him, a sour expression on his face. Aeneas knew what worried him. Andromache was still very much heavily pregnant, and Hector was worried for his family. The son of Aphrodite placed a hand on his armoured shoulder and squeezed.

“Something bad, of course,” Perseus piped. “Just leave him to me. If he shows, that is.”

“He will,” Hector seemed sure. “I don’t think it’s like Achilles to miss a fight.”

“Maybe today we’ll be lucky,” The green eyed demigod murmured.

They continued to watch in silence. Beside Perseus, Paris drummed on the pommel of his sword with his fingers. “Maybe I can end this,” He muttered. The curly haired Prince turned so he could face Hector. “Brother, I have an idea.”

“Let’s hope it gets you killed,” Perseus snarked.

Paris ignored him, choosing instead to roll his eyes. He said, “I can fight Menelaus.”

At this, even Aeneas laughed. “What? No you can’t, Paris.”

“I can,” He said, adamantly.

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose, but didn’t scoff, like Perseus did. “And what, brother, do you hope to achieve by this?”

“A challenge. A fight to the death. Whoever wins takes Helen and ends this madness.”

“Menelaus will kill you,” Hector told him, quietly. “No matter how much you irk me, I cannot watch you die. You are my brother.” Aeneas smiled slightly at that. But Paris shook his head.

“Better me than any of you. All of you.” His bottom lip quivered. He was afraid. Aeneas didn’t know where this sudden spike of bravery was from, but it made him despise Prince Paris a bit less. Even if he was the one who started all this.

“Ten years, Paris,” Perseus voiced, in an equally low voice. “You could have ended this ten years ago.”

“I was…afraid. I still am,” He admitted, meeting the General’s eyes. Aeneas had always had a weak heart, and at Paris’ words it softened. “But I’m tired. I’m…I’m tired of all of this.” He met Hector’s eyes once more. “Please. brother. Trust me. I’ll kill him. Just let me try.”

Hector looked torn. He bit his lip, and turned to glance at Aeneas for his counsel. The Dardanian King studied the younger Prince. And then he nodded at Hector. His best friend sighed, then shut his eyes. “Very well.” His eyelids flickered open and he exhaled, his hold on the reins of his horse tightening. Hector spurred his horse into action and slowly, it descended down the hill and into the centre of the plain. “Give the order to hold off for now.”

Beside him, Perseus motioned to their men with his fingers, and about a dozen of them of them nocked arrows into their wooden bows. Covering for Hector, as he approached the lines of the enemy. Aeneas’ unease increased, and beneath him his horse skittered. Hector had raised his hand as he rode forward, and at the enemy lines, Agamemnon raised a fist at his men to stop them from shooting when he realised that Hector wanted to speak. With the silence of the two forces, his voice was audible and loud. “Trojans and Achaeans, thus says Alexander my brother, through whom this quarrel has come about. He bids the Trojans and Greeks lay their armour upon the ground, while he and Menelaus fight here, and now. A fight to the death for Helen and all her dowry. He who shall be victorious and prove himself the better man shall take the woman and all she has, to bear them to his own home, and the rest of us, both Greeks and Trojans, shall make a solemn oath not to harm the other party. We each go to our homes. We end this now.”

The Achaeans were silent. Aeneas leaned forward in his saddle, watching, waiting. He breathed out, feeling his nerves fraying. Menelaus, Odysseus and Agamemnon had met and were discussing amongst themselves. If they refused to accept, Hector was directly in shooting range. But then Menelaus trotted forward in his bronze chariot, pulled by two horses with razor sharp teeth. “And now,’ he boomed, voice carrying across the terrain, “hear me too, for I was the one who was wronged, and it is my wife who was taken. It seems we are about to go home any ways. Our parting is at hand, and we have each suffered heavy losses to our people for my quarrel with Paris and for the slight against the House of Atreus. I shall fight him. He who shall die shall die, and the others fight no more. But first, sacrifices. A white ram and a black ewe, and a third for the sire of men and gods, Lord Zeus. And may you bid Priam to come, to swear this covenant himself.” He paused, eyeing Hector. “For his sons are ill to trust, and I would be more at ease that way.”

Murmuring, from both sides of the beach. Aeneas slumped down in relief when Hector turned, and slowly galloped towards them.

Paris had turned white.

When Hector reached them, he placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Go forth, then. And may the gods be with you.” Paris nodded jerkily, and kicked his horse in the side. Slowly, he moved, and Aeneas felt pity for the young son of Priam as he rode, onward, embracing the oncoming death.

~ • ~
HE LEANED forward once more when Menelaus jumped out of his chariot. The other man was burly and bulky. He towered over Paris, his dark hair tied in a ponytail, his bushy beard hiding much of his face. But there was fury in his eyes, as he finally came face to face with Paris. The King of Sparta wore blood red armour, a complete intricate set, a circlet on his forehead. His meaty hands were clasped around a spear which was twice the size of Hector’s brother. A sword hang at his side and a rectangular shield was latched to his other arm.

Paris wasn’t going to win this.

Beside Aeneas, Hector groaned, “Oh, gods.”

“This was a bad idea,” Perseus admitted. “He’ll be butchered.”

Aeneas, ever the voice of reason, said, “And then the war ends.” He didn’t like his own words, it made his mouth feel sour. But Paris had been right. Surprisingly, he had spoken with honour and valour. And what he had said was purely truth. Aeneas really did hope he came through, though. Or else all his mother’s efforts on the son of Priam would have been wasted. And the champion she had picked over him would be dead.

The son of Aphrodite scoffed internally. Some champion. Paris hadn’t even seen battle before. Over the years, Aeneas had come to accept that Paris was his mother’s favoured. But it still didn’t stop his bitterness, as he recalled that she had only deigned to see him when she needed him to deliver the Prince safely to his father. Maybe Paris’ death wouldn’t be so bad after all. He stilled in his seat, swearing to himself. What was he thinking? Paris was his brother-in-law. No matter how much he disliked him, he was doing the noble thing now. Even though Menelaus would shred him to pieces. He knew it was hopeless, but still. They had to put some faith in Paris. He had gods watching over him. Maybe he would come through.

Maybe he would survive.

Hector’s father and about twenty guards were returning from the middle of the plain, where they had just treated with Agamemnon and his men. The covenant had been made.

“I shouldn’t have let him go,” Hector murmured.

“It was his choice,” Perseus shrugged. “You couldn’t have stopped him.”

Menelaus and Paris met, and Aeneas was vaguely aware that Helenus had gotten some of his men and had already began offering the sacrifices the Spartan had requested, on the plain. In a matter of minutes, he was done communicating with the gods and the other Prince motioned for the two royals to continue. Aeneas watched, eyes trained on the scene before him. Paris’ bronze armour was one of the best Troy had to offer. He had a bow and quiver slung over his shoulders, and a sword at his belt. A circle shield with a sun emblazoned on its surface was linked to his arm. His spear quivered in his hand.

Aeneas saw Menelaus utter a few inaudible words to the son of Priam, and then he charged.

The entire field was silent.

Menelaus swung his spear for Paris’ head, and the younger man threw up his shield up, catching the blow. But the force behind it was enough to send him backtracking in the sand, and then Menelaus was on him again, attempting to run him through. But whereas the Spartan had brute force and strength to rival many, Paris was smaller and faster, and so he sidestepped. But the Greek anticipated this and slammed his shield into Paris. The prince stumbled and tripped over his feet. Menelaus roared and drove his spear downwards, but then suddenly the spearhead fell off, impaling the ground beside Paris’ head.

Hector gasped.

Perseus bared his teeth. “Interference.”

The Spartan bellowed, and Paris rolled aside just as the King drew his sword. The Trojan mimicked his movement, ditching his spear, and Menelaus charged him. They clashed, bronze against bronze, in a flurry of sparks, and then reared away from one another. Aeneas watched with bated breath as they met once again. The clang of metal against metal filled the air, and Menelaus gritted his teeth and with brute force, hurled Paris away from him. The young prince sailed through the air and slammed into the ground. Hector winced.

Menelaus stalked forward, sword arm outstretched. Aeneas couldn’t hear what he said, but he was sure it was something along the lines of ‘We end this today, scum.’

Paris scuttled back, too dazed to stand on his feet and the Greek King swung his sword. But the most amazing thing happened then, and Aeneas’ eyes widened as the metal drooped and split into three, like a banana peel. Gods. Perseus swore from beside him. Menelaus yelled out in outrage. “Oh, great King Zeus, why you do and your court protect him so? Why do you stand against my House and prevent my victory?” Above them, the air crackled. Menelaus turned to Paris. “No matter. You die today.”

He stalked forward.

Hector shut his eyes, but Aeneas could only watch. Horror was plastered on his face as he beheld the well built warrior grab Paris by the horsehair plume of his helmet. And begin to drag him back towards the Greek lines.

Paris struggled. He writhed and kicked. His lips were parted in a scream but no sound came out. Fear shone through his eyes as he clawed at something—his neck.

“The helmet latch,” Perseus’ eyes were wide. “It’s choking him.”

Hector’s eyelids fluttered. Aeneas squinted so he could see properly, just as the latch broke and Menelaus hurled Paris into the greek lines. Or at least, attempted to. The son of Priam, choking, sobbing, scrambled away. Then he got on his feet and ran, like all the demons of Hades were after him. Menelaus snarled as the lone helmet went airborne and drew two knives from his side. He was too slow to chase after Paris. And Hector was shaking his head in disappointment as his brother raced for the Trojan lines.

But they couldn’t offer him sanctuary. Not after the oath. The fight had to end. One of them had to concede. One of them had to die.

Menelaus let lose a shout and hurled his knives. They sailed true, ripping through the air, as though carried by a godly force, whirling straight for Paris’ back, and if Aeneas squinted properly, he could see a shimmering barely visible armoured figure—a woman—behind the Spartan King. Pallas Athena. And then he saw her behind him, a blur of flowing red hair, glowing blue eyes, a hand with skin as smooth as milk, also shimmering, also barely visible. Aphrodite appeared and she grabbed Paris by the scruff of his tunic and whisked him away, in a cloud of pink light and howling wind. Plucked him from the jaws of death, just as Menelaus’ knives impaled the sand where Paris had been standing before.

~ • ~

AENEAS stiffened in his saddle. At the other side of the terrain, the Greeks were roaring in outrage, weapons out, shouting and screaming bloody murder. Menelaus looked furious, as he wiped sweat off his brow. Aeneas watched as Agamemnon raised his fist once more, and the lines of Greek soldiers quietened. The High King rode forward in his chariot, slowly. His eyes were burning, and beside the Dardanian King, Hector frowned. The Heir Apparent kicked his horse in the side, and began to move towards the sons of Atreus.

Perseus swore under his breath and spurned his horse into action, Aeneas following his lead not a second later. His eyes were trained on the two Achaean brothers who stood side by side, murmuring in low voices to themselves. Hector’s back was ramrod straight, and around them, the wind was still howling, pushing Aeneas’ hair into his eyes. Together, they descended down the hill, the tension in the air only increasing as the two armies faced each other and watched with bated breath.

Finally, Hector raised a hand. They stopped, only a few feet away from the two leaders of their enemies.

Agamemnon’s stare was hard, lips in a thin line as he said, “Your brother turned tail and ran.” Conveniently leaving out the fact that he had been aided by an Olympian.

Hector nodded, sharply. “I cannot speak for Paris, or praise his actions. He is a coward. But by all rights, he lost.”

Menelaus studied them. “I would have killed him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hector spoke. “If Paris died or not. He forfeited the battle when he tried to escape.”

“I want his head,” The Spartan bared his teeth. “And I want you to honour your oath.”

“We will give you Helen, and all the wealth that came with her,” The dark eyed Prince said. “And per the agreement we made, Paris’ life is in your hands. The war is over.” His voice cracked at his last words, and Aeneas frowned at the sand. He couldn’t imagine being put in the position Hector was in, thanks to Paris. He couldn’t imagine having to willingly give up his brother to Thanatos. Even if he had hated him.

Except, Perseus would never allow such a thing to happen. He wasn’t a coward. And Aeneas could never hate him.

Thoughts continued to swim in his head as Hector and the Kings continued to speak. He had given Paris the benefit of the doubt. He had told them to trust him. To have faith. And Paris had ran.

Usually, he was a very good judge of character. But in this case…

Agamemnon pulled the reins of his chariot and the horses neighed, rearing. The King’s brother jumped in, and they began to turn. The Warden of Mycenae looked at them appraisingly, and tilted his head in acknowledgement to Hector. “You will make a fine king someday.”

Hector didn’t bother with a response. Aeneas wrapped his hands around his own reins again, ready to pivot and move back to the Trojan lines. Just as he turned, he saw Pandarus nock an arrow. He saw the shimmering form of Aegis-bearing Athena once more. His eyes widened, and the son of Aphrodite released a string of curses as Priam’s grandson fired.

The projectile cut through the air, and sailed past him, the fletching rubbing his cheek as it went. As it soared, and landed right at Menelaus’ turned back.

~ • ~
THE EFFECT WAS instantaneous. A ripple in the Greek lines, a roar from Agamemnon, the two armies surging forward, writhing, screaming masses of men and steel, the devils kept at bay by the Treaty unleashing themselves onto the battlefield. Aeneas drew one of his swords in an instant, his brain reacting before he could fully process what was going on. Hector, full-blown panic etched on his face swore and grabbed his spear, spinning it in his hands and raising his shield arm to block a strike from an oncoming lance. Perseus was already in action, his horse rearing and his sword coming down in an arc of destruction and death.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” Hector bellowed. But the armies had already met. The fighting was already going on in earnest. To call for a retreat now was to call for defeat. The Greeks would not let them go. They would chase them back till they trampled them underfoot and destroyed the walls of their beloved city. From the corner of his eyes he could see Pandarus on his horse, a surprised look on his face as if he was awakening from a dream. Just as Diomedes drove a spear through his neck and hurtled away on his horse.

Aeneas’ instinct took over, one hand still on the reigns of his horse, the other flipping his sword in his hand. An oncoming Graecian with wild eyes swung for him from atop a horse. Aeneas leaned to the side to avoid the strike and twisted in his saddle, swinging his arm to slice off the man’s wrist. The enemy’s shriek was cut off by his sword in his throat. Aeneas tore out his weapon, just in time to parry another strike, and pushed back his attacker in Hector’s waiting spear. He nodded to his friend and shouted, ‘Hiya!’ and then he was shooting down the battlefield, cutting down men as he went, his sword working as though it had a mind of its own. He trampled the Greeks, slicing off limbs, and lopping off heads.

The wind whistled in his ears, tearing across his face. Aeneas’ eyes were burning and his blood was rushing. Bloody gods. Interfering in every bloody thing. Causing problems for all of them. He pulled back the reins of his horse, making it neigh and whirl to the side as a spear whirled through the air and impaled a soldier behind him. The battlefield was already running with blood. He could hear screams and cries. The air smelt of iron, and the demigod was already panting with exertion. He turned his horse, making to race back to Hector and Perseus once more. He was surrounded by bodies already, both Trojan and Greek, and the atmosphere was filled with sounds of metal against metal. Aeneas’ blood was rushing, his head swimming. Arrows were being fired from both sides of the fray, and he had to raise his sword to cut off a few which would have ended him.

His steed was already galloping, and he was still fighting, ferociously, his mind on nothing but the oncoming enemies. He glanced around, and then his eyes locked on the King, Diomedes, cutting through men at his left. Making a path towards him. Diomedes held a sword and a shield, and the soldiers coming up against him stood no chance. He spotted Aeneas looking and waved with his sword, before sticking it through a Trojan soldier’s neck. Aeneas swore and began to gallop towards the king.

Diomedes threw back one of his assailants and darted forward to meet him. As he moved, Aeneas let out a roar, raising his sword to meet the Greek in combat. As they got close, he slashed. Diomedes ducked under his swing, and still running, sliced at the flank of Aeneas’ horse. The noble steed reared and Aeneas yelped as it came crashing down. He rolled over the ground and got to his feet as Diomedes sliced downward, narrowly avoiding the strike which would have taken off his head. Aeneas was breathing heavily, layered with sweat. His hair was matted and sticking to his head, but he drew his second sword.

Diomedes grinned at him, and charged.

They clashed, sword against sword, Aeneas’ breath turning laboured as Diomedes bared his teeth at him. There were no words exchanged. No taunts, nothing. Aeneas pushed back with all his strength and the man went stumbling. He dashed forward, attacking quickly and ferociously, swords a blur of bronze in front of him. But Diomedes was fast. He raised his shield in an instant, and Aeneas’ sword slammed into it with enough force for a ripple of pain to shoot through his arm. But he didn’t relax. As Diomedes backtracked Aeneas slammed his sword forward again, and again, each of his strikes being parried by the King’s sword or shield.

Diomedes attempted to run him through but then Aeneas reacted quickly, his right sword blocking the strike. He twisted his arm and Diomedes’ sword fell out of his hand. The man swore and leaped back as Aeneas slashed at him once more. The other king panted, eyes darting around. And then he shot forward. Aeneas waited for him to come, and readied himself as Diomedes plucked two fallen swords from the dead bodies around them. The battle raged and thundered, the sun steadily rising in the sky.

They collided once more, and then reared away, then clashed, then pushed each other back. Then they met once more, in a flurry of hacks, stabs, slashes, fighting with a savagery which even Aeneas wouldn’t understand later. He blocked, parried, stabbed, and dodged, hacked and sliced. They littered each other with cuts, they blocked off their swords with their vambraces. His armour saved him more than twice.

Diomedes was a skilled fighter. He was favoured by the gods, and Aeneas’ arms were beginning to shake under his assault. They couldn’t keep up with this forever. He released a breath through his parted lips as Diomedes shifted on his feet to attack his left flank.

Aeneas realised his mistake too late as he moved to block. The King pivoted on his heel and slashed at his arm, tearing a huge gash through his skin. Aeneas let out a yelp as Diomedes’ other hand came and smashed into his back, sending him sprawling. Aeneas twisted and raised his sword to parry the strike he knew was coming, but the push had startled and dazed him, and Diomedes smacked one of of his swords out of his hand. Aeneas righted himself on his feet, still panting. They darted for each other more.

But he was tired. This time, he didn’t last long. With two swords, Diomedes had the upper hand, and without a shield Aeneas couldn’t defend all his sides as once. He tried. Diomedes struck quickly and precisely, harshly, and his best efforts were in vain as pain shot through his wrist and his weapon went clattering to the ground. Swearing, the man stepped back and Diomedes smiled to himself, moving to attack once more.

A feminine hand clutching a long sword seemed to appear out of thin air, and Diomedes’ swords slammed onto the weapon. Some unseen force sent the king back, throwing him a few feet. Aeneas’ eyes widened as red hair fell out of a helmet, a woman in a white gossamer dress and a bronze breastplate appearing before him. Vambraces lined her wrists, and the goddess Aphrodite twisted her sword and turned to give him a nod. Her eyes flashed with power. Creusa’s eyes. And then she turned back again to his enemy, who looked uncertain and shifted on his feet.

“Goddess,” Diomedes spoke, finally. “You are not to interfere in the matters of mortals.”

“When it comes to matters concerning my son,” Aphrodite looked ethereal, and her voice was like a cascading waterfall. She tilted her head to the side, studying Diomedes like he was an insect she could crush underfoot. He probably was, to her. “Not even Jove can keep me from interfering.” His heart stuttered, a flurry of emotions wrapping around him, too fast to recognise.

Diomedes frowned and fear flashed in his eyes. “Very well.” Releasing a breath, he charged the goddess of love.

It was the most beautiful thing Aeneas had ever seen.

Aeneas watched, starstruck as his mother fought. It wasn’t really a fight. Diomedes stood no chance. Not against an immortal goddess. She danced around him, eyes blazing, clothes billowing around her. Her hair was flowing in the wind as she lazily blasted the mortal back with bits of power and cut him up with lazy flicks of her sword. Her silver, beautiful weapon was like an extension of her body, as she quickly disarmed Diomedes, sometimes on the ground, sometimes hovering. Aeneas was aware of some others stopping to observe the battle. In a matter of two minutes Diomedes was weaponless, his chest rising and falling.

Aphrodite stood over him, a sword on his neck. With a flick of his wrist the king was on his knees. “Lady Love,” Diomedes’ voice shook. Aeneas blinked, and moved forward slowly to join his mother. The battle was slowly picking up around him. He could see Perseus, bloodied and huffing, riding towards him. Hector was somewhere to his left, his heavy roar reaching Aeneas’ ears. “I beg you to spare my life. Forgive me, for daring to raise arms against a goddess. Forgive me for my impudent tongue and my proud heart which thought it could stand against you.”

Aphrodite looked at him through powerful eyes. Eyes through which Aeneas could see the difficulty immortals faced, trying to understand his kind. “Your life is not mine to claim, mortal. And my son is not yours to kill. Raise your sword against Aeneas again and I don’t care what gods speak for you. I will strike you down.”

Diomedes hung his head. Aphrodite shot him a glance, and Aeneas couldn’t stop the small smile which spread across his face. Aphrodite reached for him and he felt himself being to unravel, that same feeling from all those years back when Apollo had flashed them to Ida. He didn’t see Diomedes till it was too late.

The King shot to his feet, a small knife in his hand and Aphrodite let out a small gasp as he sliced at her outstretched hand. His blade slashed through her godly palm and Aeneas’ eyes widened as ichor fell, right before Aphrodite’s magic spirited both mother and son away.

A/N: Here’s another chapter. Not as long as I would have like but yeah. Enjoy.

Chapter Text

A/N: Here’s another chapter. If things go as planned, I should be able to complete this arc before January. Leave a few reviews if you can <3

PERSEUS slowed his horse to a small trot as he neared Diomedes, his heart rate slowing. He was tired, battered and bloody. The blood which coated him wasn’t his though, and Perseus had been more worried for his brother. He had sensed the godly presence almost immediately, and then from across the battlefield he had seen Aeneas and Diomedes fighting, and then seen the appearance of the goddess of love. He’d gotten there just as Aeneas had been taken away with his mother.

Now, he slowly approached Diomedes, who had picked up his fallen swords. The man whirled on his feet to join the fray once more, and then stilled, stumbling back in surprise. On top of his horse, Perseus imitated the enemy king, stiffening as the air condensed in front of the other man. The other immortal, golden clad, and fair haired, flicked a wrist and Diomedes went flying into the sand.

Apollo barely spared Perseus a glance, but then the air beside him contorted once more and a bulky strong-looking man appeared. He wore blood red armour, a helmet in the shape of a boar and an assortment of weapons hung from his belt. His cloak was red too, and Perseus could hear screams from the battle rising, as though the fighting had been turned up by several hundred thousand notches. Blood red eyes landed on him and the god Ares gave him a blood curdling smile of greeting.

Perseus was stuck in his seat. He didn’t dare speak.

He’d only seen this god once, and even then he’d been too drunk on anger at Poseidon’s presence on Ida to fully take note of him. Ares’ power was oppressive, and even now Perseus felt like he was choking. His eyes blurred and beneath his skin his ichor boiled and roared. Anger shot through his spine, at the presence of the two gods, at the interference, at Pandarus, and Paris, and all the gods-dammed men in this sea of death and carnage trying to destroy his city.

He shook his head, tightening his grip on his sword. It was the power of Ares. Influencing his thoughts and emotions. He was an immortal. He needed to learn how to tune out the effect of the gods.

Perseus sent a nod of recognition to the god, and Ares’ gaze slid off him back to Diomedes, a glare settling on his face. Apollo waved his hand once more and an unseen force jerked Diomedes back to his feet.

“Bold of you to injure an Olympian goddess,” The son of Zeus looked scornful, his expression thunderous. “You are lucky Aphrodite did not smite you where you stand.”

“What, you’ve come to fight her battles for her?” Diomedes bared his teeth at them. He glanced at Perseus, then back to the two gods.

“I will cut out your tongue,” Ares’ voice was like nails across stone. “And then I will cut off your head and present it to Aphrodite myself.”

Diomedes straightened, and Perseus leaned forward in his saddle. Behind the Greek, the air was shimmering, and then with an ear-splitting sound which made Perseus wince, the goddess Athena appeared hovering behind him. She looked regal, godly. And as those piercing grey eyes locked on him, Perseus straightened, feeling her looking at him—into him—gaze roving across his figure, and goosebumps spread on his skin. It felt as though a thousand little spiders were crawling across his body. Apollo’s lips curled.

The pressure in the air was overwhelming. Perseus felt his vision blacken, and he shook his head again to focus.

“Sister, why do you stand against us?”

“The mortal has my favour,” Athena’s voice sounded like a thousand horses racing to battle. “I stand behind him.”

“Then you shall watch him die,” Apollo’s heavy voice made him cringe. The golden god turned to Ares. “End this.”

“Gladly,” Ares grinned and stretched out his hand. A sword, golden, and intricate and inlaid with jewels appeared in his hand. It was huge, larger than even Perseus, but the god held it with ease. Blood seeped from the hilt across the blade. Athena’s eyes glowed from beneath the face guard of her helmet and beneath her Diomedes straightened, whatever power that was holding him being torn away. The mortal slipped into a stance, ready for the god of war. Across the terrain, Perseus met Apollo’s eyes. “Good luck,” The sun god spun on his heels, and slowly rose off the ground. His bow appeared in his hand and Perseus watched his fire into the sea of men.

A battleground of gods.

This place wasn’t safe for anyone now. Not if the Olympians got involved.

Perseus’ head snapped down just as Ares and Diomedes collided. Just in time to see the goddess Athena spearing towards him, a savage expression on her face, her shield Aegis right in front of her. Beneath him his horse reared, fear rippling through it at the face of Medusa, and Perseus felt the same fear shoot through his spine. He heard screaming, then one word, over and over again, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,FUCK! And it sounded like it was coming from his horse.

Surprise replaced his fear, even as he felt himself slip from the saddle. Perseus felt the breath knocked out of him as he collapsed on the ground and the horse bolted away. He scrambled onto the heel of his palms, swearing as Athena let out a roar and raised her spear to impale him. A curse left his lips.

The clang with resounded in front of him sent a shockwave searing across the battlefield. The god who had appeared before him twisted his weapon—a blue trident, and Athena’s spear cracked into half. The goddess roared in outrage, hovering back. Perseus scrambled to his feet, backtracking a bit too. The battle seemed to fade around him. His heart stuttered, and his head swam. He could see Apollo, firing craters into the enemy, Ares and Diomedes, still doing battle, a man with a grey travellers cloak and angular features clutching a caduceus and tearing down Trojans—Hermes. Above him, he heard a roar, and Perseus felt his chest stop as a giant dragon—a bronze giant dragon appeared from thin air and belched fire on the fighting warriors. He heard a laugh from the heavens, the hairs on his arms rising as Hephaestus’ beast let out another roar. Apollo shot upwards, a blur of gold, a volley of arrows accompanying him.

“You don’t touch my son, Athena,” Poseidon’s voice made his blood curl—it sounded just like the roaring wind and raging seas that had consumed his old life when he was four summers.

The goddess glowed. “He’s an anomaly. He must not exist.”

“You’re not perfect, goddess,” Poseidon whirled his trident in his hand. “You shouldn’t expect everyone else to be.”

Perseus snarled. “I can fight my own battles.”

The goddess laughed. “See, Poseidon. He does not acknowledge you. You called for the destruction of Troy at today’s council meeting. Why change your tongue now?”

“Just because I want this blasted city gone doesn’t mean I want my son gone along with it,” Poseidon thundered. He spared Perseus a glance and the demigod glared at him. He could see it. The resemblance. The god was young looking, with sea green eyes, windswept raven black hair and a cleanly shaved beard. He looked exactly like his father—if he preferred blue coral armour and radiated obscene amounts of power.

“Fuck you,” Perseus panted.

“We need to talk,” Poseidon’s voice turned pained. “Please.”

“Take your talk and shove it up your—“

“Enough,” Athena boomed. “Stand aside, Poseidon.” The sea god slipped into a stance. Athena flicked her wrist and a new spear appeared in her hand. “Very well.” Poseidon shot him another glance as Athena charged. And then he launched himself off the ground and collided with the daughter of Jove in a blast of power.

Perseus stood, stock-still, as he watched the battle go to chaos around him.

He heard a roar, and then started as Diomedes plunged a sword into Ares chest. With a cry, the god exploded into red and vanished. The mortal was panting, and weaponless, and before Perseus could attack the man was running, away from the battling gods. Perseus heard another scream them, and he made to turn, but then beneath him a vine sprouted, and his foot caught in it, sending him off balance.

Perseus swore, cursing Dionysus’ name, and then suddenly the scream was cut short. He freed his foot and turned, to find Selene, her hair being swept by the roaring wind as she flicked her wrist and three oncoming Greek soldiers turned to dust. Perseus saw Hector appear, on foot, locked in battle with Odysseus, Ajax and Menestheus. Without turning, Selene barked at him. “Get your head into the game, Perseus. Your friend needs your help.”

Around him the gods continued their skirmishes, burning mortals and creating craters in the earth wherever their powers landed. Apollo had the dragon distracted, and Perseus spared a glance at Athena and Poseidon, still at it, uncaring for any around them.

“Okay,” He spurned his feet into action. Hector needed him. “Let’s go.”

~ • ~

HECTOR was panting when he finally managed to injure Odysseus and sent the man stumbling aside. Before he could attack to end him, the King of Ithaca was swallowed by the mass of soldiers. Ajax had disappeared into the throng of warriors, right after the Titaness Selene had come with Perseus, ripping up his side with a sword longer than Hector’s arm. He heard a boom, and Hector glanced up as Athena threw Poseidon into the intermixed armies.

Hector didn’t understand Athena’s fixation on taking Perseus off the board. Maybe because he was too powerful—too unpredictable—to be a pawn. Perseus and the King of Athens were fighting, and somewhere to Hector’s left Selene cut through Greek soldiers who dared to come close to any of them, a blur of silver and white.

The gods would destroy them all. Hector swore as debris rained down on them, loud explosions ringing in his ears. Their powers ran unchecked, raging, swallowing everything whole. He couldn’t even tell who was winning. He didn’t even know if everyone could see the immortal beings destroying the plain. Not everyone had the sight.

Hector breathed out and slashed at a man coming at him, his sword tearing through the man’s neck.

“FALL BACK!” The call rang through the shattered Trojan lines as Hephaestus’ dragon belched another ball of fire. As a silver arrow from below—Artemis— and a golden arrow from above tore through the metal, throwing the god out of the sky and blasting the dragon to shrapnel. Above them, Poseidon grabbed Athena by the horsehair on her helmet and they burst into light and vanished. Far across the terrain, battle raging around them, Diomedes and one of Hector’s allies Glaukos, sat on the bloodied ground. They seemed to be speaking about something.

Hector frowned, then raised his sword to parry another strike and kill his assailant. “FALL BACK!” He whirled around in a circle, dodging a stray arrow and trying to find out where the call was coming from. Anger pulsed through his veins when he saw his own men, turning, fleeing, pivoting and bolting for the gates.

They couldn’t escape. Not now. The Greeks would chase them down and that would be end of it.

“STOP!” His voice rang out across the battlefield. He saw Perseus spin and hurl a knife which sailed true and tore through the neck of a man coming up behind Hector. Even as the man died, the Prince turned and met another sword midair, twisting and driving his sword through another Greek. His voice was too low. No one could hear him over the loud din of the battlefield. Panic flared through him as Hector continued fighting, and he heard Perseus call, “What are they doing?”

Hector swore in response, trying to get closer to his friend. He didn’t know where Aeneas was, but he hoped his friend was still alive. “We can’t surrender!” Hector boomed. “We have to stop the rout!”

He was back to back with Perseus now, and together they danced around each other, skewering any soldiers coming close. Perseus cursed, and a cheer ran up through the Greek lines as several Trojans ran.

“Selene!” The immortal behind him called. Hector cut through a man before he could raise his spear. He risked a glance behind him to catch the Titaness bolting through the armies towards them. Wherever she passed, Greeks collapsed, dead, no doubt by the ancient power emanating from her. She came to a stop next to them, barely looking out of breath, her face hard and mortal blood staining her blade.

Perseus spoke rapidly and quickly. “Our forces are fleeing. Do you think you could somehow amplify Hector’s voice so he can stop them?” The silver eyed woman raised an eyebrow. But then she nodded, gaze shifting to Hector. It felt like a thousand tiny nails had pricked his eyes and pain shot into Hector’s head, making him gasp. Selene’s power, barely controlled, roiling, arched through him, winding around his mind and his body like a coiling serpent. And then it lunged, sinking phantom fangs into him.

Hector’s eyes turned blurry and he gritted his teeth. He was barely aware of Perseus watching his back as he pushed through the pain. His head pounded, and with a small groan, Hector straightened. Gods, how could Perseus always stand to be around so many immortal beings all the time? Perseus was immortal, he reminded him. But he was not. Hector’s lips parted and then he spoke, the volume of his voice shocking even him. “TROJANS!” The sound was foreign, even though it was his own, but Hector ignored the ringing bells in his mind and forged on. “STAND AND FIGHT! PUSH AGAINST THE ACHAEANS. YOU LEAVE AND WE LOSE THIS WAR.” He paused, even as the pain got searing, looking around to see his men standing their ground, clashing with the Greek lines once more. “ANY MAN WHO RUNS IS A DESERTER AND HIS LIFE IS FORFEIT!” Hector plunged his sword into an oncoming Greek soldier and roared, “FOR TROY!” There was an answering roar from around him as the Trojans fought with increased ferocity.

Hector felt Selene pull away from him, her power uncoiling, her presence wrenching itself out of his mind. He fell to his knees, panting, exerted, his hair matted with sweat beneath his helmet.

Around him the battle raged, the sun steadily moving across the sky. The fight seemed to have taken forever.

Hector heard Perseus make a surprised sound and glanced up, still panting, like a fish out of water. Selene and his friend were still around him, moving in circles and destroying anything that dared to come close. “Artemis,” Perseus’ voice made Hector’s eyes flicker around the terrain until he spotted the auburn haired goddess, darting towards them and cleaving through men as she went. She skidded to a stop in front of Selene, her knives bloodied, but her appearance immaculate like her Titan counterpart, and Hector dipped his head in acknowledgement. Artemis’ presence was possibly more sharp and powerful than Selene’s, and it made him feel like he was in a small box, being squeezed around all sides. The goddess inclined her head at him, lips curling. Hector tried not to feel offended, remembering that she was man-hating.

Then she turned back to the two immortals before her. “Father bids us to leave the battlefield to the mortals, Selene. The effect of our power is too great and the repercussions for interfering will be heavy. We continue to fight, and there will be no Trojan or Achaean by nightfall.” Selene nodded knowingly, and the goddess’ eyes flickered over to him. “Prince Hector. I think you’d want to leave the battlefield for a bit.”

He couldn’t stop the question from falling from his lips. “Why? I can fight. I’m not seriously injured—“

“It’s not about you, boy,” Artemis snapped. “Your wife has gone into labour.” Hector stilled. The noise of the battle died down.

And then roaring, in his ears. He blinked, furiously, struggling to his feet, as Selene turned to Perseus and placed a hand on his cheek, telling him to stay safe. The Titaness and the goddess, an odd pair, melted into silver dust and ashes, vanishing from view. He saw another flash from within the battle, and then one from the skies, and then a few more, and then the battle was one of mortals once more.

Hector’s vision was clouded, and he glanced around him in a panic, eyes transfixed to the city walls. So far away. He dodged a strike coming for him and Perseus cleaved the man’s head off. Hector looked around him, conflicted. His men—

But his wife. He turned to Perseus. “I have to—“

“Don’t worry, brother,” Perseus released a sharp and heavy breath. “I’ll hold the fort here. Go to her.” Relief flooded his veins and he crushed his best friend into a hug. Perseus patted his back and then shoved him off, dashing to join the fray again. The Trojan Prince whirled on his feet and with newfound vigour, began killing his way back to the city.

When he got to the city gates he passed through hurriedly, through past the squadron of guards they’d had behind the heavy doors in case everything went to shit. Hector flew through the streets, urging his feet to go faster and faster. Andromache was supposed to have at least two full months more. The baby coming this early…he wasn’t exactly sure what that meant for either of them. Andromache’s worry and panic for him, probably from watching the battle, had broken her water, and now the baby was coming! Hector bolted through the market, through the city square. The back lines of his armies had been carting the dead into the city, and he winced at the piling hill of death he passed.

But Hector didn’t stop. He plucked his helmet off his head and ran, panting, cursing his stupid armour for weighing him down. He passed temples, the market, shops, roads, and as he went he saw people offering sacrifices, slaughtering bulls, women and children offering prayers to the same gods who had almost decimated them on the battlefield. But Hector called at them to continue, encouraging the sacrifices, patting them on the back as he went. But his goal still burned in his mind, and when he got to the palace gates, the Prince bolted through without a word to the guards.

He heard it almost immediately. The screaming, the shouting and cursing. Hector pounced on a servant and ordered her to lead him to the chambers where he knew his wife was, the sound of her suffering resonating throughout the entire palace. They hurriedly walked through passages and pathways, and Hector felt his anger and panic surging, when it seemed to take forever to get to Andromache. As they turned a corner, the hairs on his arms rose, and Hector’s nose wrinkled—the air was sticky with blood. He deserted his companion servant and dashed forward, bursting through the doorway.

Andromache, legs spread, tears running down her face, in a simple tunic, let out a loud cry and sobbed, pushing. Hector’s heart shattered. Her eyes found his, and his name fell off her lips like a prayer, and he moved to her as she let out another push. His wife was drenched in blood, the white sheets turned red and the room was a whirlwind of activity. She was surrounded by midwives and servants, and physicians, and his mother, looking frayed, stood behind Andromache, hands on her shoulders, bent and muttering words of encouragement to the future Queen. Creusa knelt in the blood beside her sister-in-law, worry on her face, clutching one of Andromache’s hands as the woman sobbed. He saw Cassandra, muttering to herself beside the open window, and going totally ignored. Several of his sisters were around too, helping out the servants, and as Hector slid to the ground beside Andromache, his eyes latched on to Aeneas, who was kneeling beside him, his wife clutching Aeneas’ hand like a vice. The son of Aphrodite nodded to him and Hector sent him an answering bob.

Hector felt gratitude engulf him—at least Aeneas had been here, even if he hadn’t. At least his family was here, and Andromache had someone. His wife uttered his name again, her eyes fluttering, face filled with sweat. The dark haired man nodded, a cry bubbling in his throat as he leaned forward, placing a hand on Andromache’s arm. He kissed her forehead, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m here, I came as soon as I heard.” She made to answer, but then let out another sharp cry of pain. Blood pooled beneath her and Hector winced, continuing to whisper. “You can do this. I’m here, I’m here, Andromache.” His eyes roved across the room—he could see a shimmering form behind the head midwife, and Hector sent a small prayer of supplication to Eilytheia, the goddess of childbirth.

Andromache sobbed.

“I see a head!” The midwife yelled. “The baby’s coming!”

Hector cried out in ecstasy, saying, “You can do this, Andromache.”

“We’re here,” Aeneas echoed. “Push.” She cried as her chest heaved, and the future Queen pushed with all her might. A cry filled the air—a baby’s cry—and a smile broke out on Andromache’s face as the midwives went to work, getting the baby out, cleaning it up. Her head fell back in the pillow, and tears leaked out of her face. Hector sniffed, his eyes blurring, and he placed his head across her chest, his own tears falling as he squeezed. “You did it. I love you. I love you.” He continued to murmur his words like a mantra, even Aeneas let go of her hands and they found his.

Hector’s wife smiled and he turned to his best friend, mouthing a thanks to him, and then, laughing, turned to Andromache, running his hand across her face and hair, squeezing her hand. And across the city walls, on the large plain, the battle continued.

~ • ~

HECTOR kissed the baby on the head, before looking up at Aeneas, waiting for him in the doorway. Astyanax was a cute little bubbly thing, even though he was early, and he’d given Hector such a giant jump scare. Andromache was sleeping, and Hector smiled at her as he passed his heir to the midwife beside him. They were safe. They would make it.

He thanked all the gods that both his wife and son had survived their ordeal, and he thanked Lady Artemis for giving him the heads up.

When he got closer to Aeneas, his friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations.” Hector gave him a ghost of a smile and nodded as they meandered through the passageways and towards the palace gates. The battle was still raging, although the sun was about to dip.

“How did you know she was in labour?” Hector cocked his head to the side in question. And so Aeneas recounted what had happened, with Diomedes and Aphrodite, and them reappearing in the palace. He told Hector about the conversation they’d had, about how much she cared for him no matter how little she showed it. Well, she had showed it plenty today, Hector told him. Aphrodite had sensed it when Andromache had gone into labour and Aeneas had gone to her.

As they walked, Hector groaned, placing his head on Aeneas’ shoulder. He was tired. He was hungry, and he wanted to curl up beside Andromache and their baby and sleep till the world ended. But they had a battle to win. He just had to survive till nightfall. Aeneas’ arm came up around his shoulder, and for a second Hector wondered how his friend had become so tall. He smiled silently to himself, in the crook of Aeneas’ neck. “I can feel you smiling like a garden statue, Hector,” His friend rumbled, and he barked out a laugh, pulling himself away.

“How’s Perseus?” The son of Aphrodite asked.

“Managing,” Hector shrugged. “Rattled. A couple more gods showed up after you left.” They continued to walk and this time Hector supplied Anchises’ biological son with information on what he had missed. His bones were itching to join the fray again. As they neared the palace entrance, Hector caught sight of his brother turning the corner towards them, in a golden robe which suggested he’d been in bed. His mood shifted.

Anger flared inside him and Hector bared his teeth at Paris and snarled. “You coward.”

Paris started in surprise, then looked down. Hector stalked towards the other man, Aeneas on his heels. When he got near him he poked the prince in his chest with his finger. “Can you hear what you’ve done, Paris?” His brother didn’t answer, refusing to meet his eyes, and Hector’s anger increased tenfold. “First you steal Helen and bring an entire continent on our heels to destroy us all. And then you turn your back on your word and run from a battle. A battle which YOU suggested!”

Paris’ head snapped up in outrage. “What, would you have preferred I died out there?”

Hector recoiled, and only Aeneas’ solid arm on his shoulder steadied him. “You,” he hissed. “Are the most selfish, ball-less human being I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.” He scoffed. “Today you made me feel embarrassed to be related to you.” He turned to the oxen eyed man at his side. “Come on. Let’s get back to it.”

Aeneas nodded, and they moved towards the palace doors once more. As they made to slip through, Paris spoke up, voice shaking. “What can I do to help? How can I atone for my sins?”

Hector studied him, disgust coiling inside him. But Paris looked genuine, and he sighed, shaking his head. “You can start by actually helping us win this thing.”

~ • ~

THEY HAD WON the battle only about an hour later, with the notable absence of the interfering gods. Ajax had made a reappearance, and he and Hector had still been locked in battle when the sun had set. They had parted then, a promise in each of their eyes. But not tonight. Aeneas and Hector had entered the skirmish together, and upon their arrival, the Trojans had roared and fought as one, reforming lines, with Perseus at the forefront, pushing and pushing until the Greeks had conceded the plain.

Paris had arrived when they’d backed the Achaeans towards the beach, firing arrow after arrow with surprisingly deadly accuracy from atop a brown horse from the palace stables. Menelaus had been making a beeline for him when darkness set in and the two armies fell back.

Now, Hector and his friends sat in a seemingly endless meeting where they debated what should be done. Priam’s advisors and the war council argued and shouted at each other, and Hector rolled his eyes from his spot beside his father. The amount of times they had had this conversation was uncountable. And nothing ever came of it. Perseus was tapping the ground impatiently with his foot as he sat, and Hector made a mental note to inquire about his friend’s secretive excursions to the woods whenever he was free. It was funny how Perseus thought Hector didn’t notice.

Aeneas was dozing slightly, his eyelids fluttering. Hector’s brothers and Generals seemed like they would follow any second now as they watched the older court argue and dispel any suggestions before they could be properly thought into. Paris had the sense to guiltily stare hard into the table, as the noise raised to a crescendo.

“After what happened today, I don’t think Menelaus and Agamemnon would be just satisfied with taking Helen and her dowry and leaving,” One of the advisors pointed out. His eyes burned into Paris. “Not when the Oathbreaker—“

“The Oathbreaker is dead,” Perseus barked. “Diomedes made short work of Pandarus at the start of the battle.”

“Be that as it may, the Prince was the reason the Oath was made, and the reason the oath was broken—“ At last, his brother pounded his fist into the table.

“I know this is my fault,” Paris hissed. “I don’t need a reminder every twenty seconds, thank you.” He glared at the man, but the advisor held his ground. Hector was impressed. Paris forged on. “I am ready to give back all the wealth I took along with my wife from Sparta. I will even give everything I have. All my lands and cattle and riches. But not Helen…I love her, and I am not prepared to let her go.”

Hector shook his head, but he knew that if their roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have been able to give up Andromache either. Not when he was in love with her.

But Helen’s spell had been broken. Priam had told Hector alone that Helen had begged to be returned to her true husband, to end all the madness. Paris needed to learn that the best way to show someone you loved them was to let them go.

“Then do not bother to speak at all, then, princeling,” the advisor stated. “This war cannot end now. Not how we hoped. It can only end in bloodshed and carnage, like all wars do.” He looked Paris deep in the eye. “Your blind love will bring destruction upon us all.”

~ • ~
PERSEUS shivered at her breath on her neck, and relaxed, breathing out when Galateia pulled away. He swallowed as she grinned at him again, showing those teeth which looked like they could tear his throat out in one fluid movement. The nereid shook her head. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“I’m trying my best,” Perseus gritted his teeth.

“Before we started this morning, I told you you must listen,” she snarled at him. “And I did not mean to me.”

“The water can’t talk, Galateia,” He arched a brow.

“No,” she shook her head. “You refuse to hear.”

Perseus held back his urge to roll his eyes. They had been in the forest beside the lake for about three hours now, with the nereid teaching Perseus how to control the water. Or at least, attempting to. All he had to do was conjure a whirling ball of water.

That was what Galateia referred to as the basics. He scoffed underneath his breath, wishing Selene was nearby so she could distract him, even a little bit. Perseus flushed. He wasn’t a child anymore. He knew when he liked someone, and yes, he definitely had to address his growing feelings for the Titaness. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he focused on the still waters beneath him. “Let the lake communicate with you,” His instructor said. “You managed a ribbon of water this morning. What’s stopping you now?”

Perseus grounded out, “I don’t know.” It was like his mind was hitting a blockade, repeatedly, whenever he tried to conjure up more water. He felt like he was slamming against a wall over and over again. He clenched his jaw, concentrating, willing the lake to rise. Anything. Just a bloody water sphere. Sweat lined his brow.

Gods, he couldn’t do it.

“Perhaps nothing can come of this,” The nereid mused. “Perhaps this is a fruitless effort.”

“No,” He snapped. And then relaxed. “Please.”

“Then listen,” She barked.

Perseus inhaled. The lake was silent, still. As though waiting for something. He needed to do this. He couldn’t fail. As much as he hated it, he had the sea in his veins. And the sea didn’t like to be restrained.

The raven haired man shut his eyes. Around him he felt the forest go silent. The moonlight shone down upon them, a sign that Artemis watched from above. He felt warm. The light was encouraging. And then Perseus reached out. He felt around for any sign of the water, like Galateia had instructed. He could feel it, in the air around him, deep in the ground, in the lake stretching before him. His ichor roared in his veins, and he released another breath. Listen, she had said.

And so he did. The water was straining. The lake writhing internally beneath it’s still surface. It wanted freedom. And he could offer it.

He knew this lake. It was his. He was part of it. He had spent almost all this youth submerged beneath the surface. He just needed the lake the lake to remember.

Perseus tilted his head to the side, reaching out to the water and willing it to listen to him too. Salt water was more of Poseidon’s forte, but clearwater worked too. Perseus felt the power coiling in him, tentatively, seeping through, bit by bit. Eyes still closed, he reached out with invisible phantom hands and dipped them into the water, cupping them into his palms, shaping the water, forming a ball, a sphere. And then he breathed out, and relaxed.

Galateia let out a small cry of surprise and approval, and his eyes flickered open. Perseus stared.

Before him, the entire lake had risen, and formed next to a thousand spheres of water. Galateia laughed out loud, but even that couldn’t drown the ringing in his ears. He had done it.

“Good,” His teacher grinned. “Now, I want to see you merge them into one.” He turned to her and nodded, determination and—was that hope?—filling him.

He could do this.

A/N—Another one, whew. I think I’m actually getting back into this story thing. Tell me what you think. Happy Holidays!

~TripleHomicide.

Chapter Text

A.N—Okay, question. And please, please, please, tell me what you think I should do. Don’t ignore this author’s note, I need your input.

Who do you think should win the war? Greeks or Trojans? Should I go according to the stories or switch it up?

“YOU ARE AWARE that the body is made of roughly more liquid—water—than anything else?” His mentor’s words made him raise a brow and shake his head. No, he didn’t know that. But he supposed it made more sense now. Perseus motioned for Galateia to continue, and the sea nymph continued walking in circles around him as she spoke. “In order to control the water, you need to awaken the connection that lies between both of you.”

She spoke of the water like it was a sentient being. But after the many lessons they had had over the past week, he understood what she meant. Finally. They had moved their lessons away from the lake and now stood on the beach, the wind making his eyes water, the sound of the waves soothing, like background music. For the past week, after he had used two days to conquer the lake, Galateia’s lessons had consisted of submerging him underneath the roaring sea. And leaving him there for hours on end.

He didn’t know what that was supposed to accomplish, but he didn’t question her. The one rule the nereid had given him was to listen and obey. And as much as he wanted to hasten whatever it was they were doing, he didn’t want to anger the immortal any more than he had to. Sometimes she came below with him, and he had once asked how she managed to come on the land. She had only smiled knowingly and said someone big owed her a favour. And Perseus didn’t think he wanted to confirm if it was who he thought it was.

“That’s what we started with,” Galateia nodded. “The next step was maintaining this connection. Keeping the pathway open and strengthening the link.”

Again, he nodded. The nereid humphed. “You know, if you accepted your father…if you forgave him, then this would not be necessary. Your power would rise of its own accord, from where you unconsciously locked it away for years.” Perseus didn’t answer. They’d had this conversation many times before. And he wasn’t in the mood to revisit the topic.

She sighed in defeat. “Okay, Perseus. If you refuse to see reason I shall leave you to it.”

Perseus finally spoke. “What do we have to do today, then?”

Galateia’s lips curled up in a smile, revealing her shark teeth. “I want you to raise the sea.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Lift the ocean,” She motioned with her hand. “Like this.” With a flick of her wrist, the water in front of them rose, a full wave, towering above them. Perseus stiffened, stock-still, his mind being assaulted by memories. A roaring wind, a wave, larger than this one. A ship destroyed.

He could see the sea floor, and from the beach he could hear the shouts of Trojans and Achaeans alike as Galateia released her grip on the waves and it cascaded down.

Salt water sprayed onto him.

No. He couldn’t do it.

“Something else,” Perseus rasped, his voice shaking. He tore his eyes away from the water. This was what he wanted to do to the Greek camp. But he shook his head. Not now. He would freeze, he would falter, and loose control and the water would take him away too. “Something different.”

“No,” She frowned. “We have learnt to move the water. You have learnt to from orbs and shapes and all that nonsense. But the sea is a destructive force. And you are the Destroyer. Perseus. This is what it means.” She motioned to the water.

“Please,” He shook his head.

“You wish to end your enemies, and you are scared of a little wave?”

He winced at her taunting voice. Galateia scoffed at him. “You refuse to embrace your heritage, refuse to meet your father, and yet you want his domain to bend to your will—“

“Galateia,” Selene’s powerful but calm voice filled the clearing as she appeared in a swirl of mist behind the nereid. Perseus panted in relief at seeing her, blinking hard. He didn’t know what had come over him. “You push too far.”

“How does he expect to drown the Greeks when he’s afraid of his own power?” The immortal snapped.

“Peace, cousin,” Selene held up a hand. She passed Perseus a glance, and his cheeks flushed. Selene turned back to the daughter of Oceanus. “Is there really nothing else you can teach?”

Galateia rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe I skipped a few steps. Like water solidification and hydro genesis and ice control and healing and summoning storms and earthquakes, mist travel…” She trailed off, seemingly listing the things she had to teach him. Perseus, his composure now regained, exchanged an exasperated glance with Selene.

He cleared his throat. “Any of those. The wave…later. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” Galateia, looking thoroughly displeased, nodded.

Selene shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. She faced Perseus, making his heart stutter. Okay, this was getting serious. “I have to visit my brother today, but I will be back by tomorrow. Try not to get maimed while I’m gone, please.”

“No promises,” He smirked at her. Selene rolled her eyes at him and with a wave, vanished into mist. Perseus turned to Galateia, who had been studying them with an eyebrow raised. “What?” The demigod arched an eyebrow.

Smiling to herself, the nereid said, “Nothing. Okay, no wave. But did you know you can talk to sea creatures and horses?”

~ • ~

THE GODS HADN’T showed for an entire week, and Perseus knew it was because Zeus was angry and had raged about their interference during the battle seven days prior. He trudged through the sand and towards the field of bonfires, a perplexed expression making a home on his face after a rather confusing but enlightening conversation with a couple of hammerhead sharks. As he walked, Perseus grimaced. Even from where he was, he could hear the chatter of the sea creatures in the vast ocean which surrounded them. He’d need to learn to tune them out.

Unlocking the ability had been very easy, surprisingly, and he had felt very uncomfortable when he heard the fishes calling him, “The Lost Lord.” They had been oddly reverent and had made him feel like a celebrity. A very uncomfortable one, to be honest. He couldn’t believe he had gone more than thirty years without the endless drone of creatures whispering in his ear. As he entered the camp, Perseus heard a neigh, then blinked in surprise when the words registered in his mind, ‘Something different about the Lost Lord.’

‘Yeah,’ Another neigh. ‘Do you think he can hear us now?’

Perseus laughed to himself. His friends would call him mad. Running his hand through his head, the son of Anchises sent a small wave to the two brown horses and heard one of them nicker, ‘Oh, shit.’

Oh, shit was right. Had they been calling him the Lost Lord for thirty-something odd years? Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

He shook his head and continued moving. As he marched towards his own tent, Perseus was greeted by several passing soldiers and generals. The fires burned low, but a lot of the men were still awake. The previous day they had pushed the Greeks all the way back to their wall and inside. And on Aeneas’ advice Hector had ordered they set up camp on the beach. So by first light they would be there, waiting, before the Greeks crawled out of their encampment. So they would hit them immediately Apollo awakened, hard and fast, and ram that bloody wall to the ground.

He spotted his two best friends in front of Hector’s tent and made a beeline for it. He had probably missed the war council. Frowning grimly to himself, Perseus hurried his footsteps.

~ • ~

ACHILLES perked when he heard the footsteps. It wasn’t through any will of his, but instinct, and he turned, a frown making its home on his face when he noticed who was coming. He stood at the beach, right underneath the prow of one of his ships—ships on which his men had resided on for the past week, making preparations to leave. Waiting for his word.

Achilles made his displeasure known and he smiled internally when Odysseus winced at the look in his eyes. Ajax lumbered alongside the wise king, and Achilles’ own General, Phoenix, marched in front of them with two heralds clutching a wooden box, white cloak billowing behind him. Achilles shot the older man a questioning glance, and Phoenix had the decency to look apologetic. The soldier bowed. “My Lord, these men sought an audience with you,” He shot Odysseus a small glare. “They would not take no for an answer.”

The King of Ithaca smiled slightly but Achilles’ frown hardened into a harsh glare. He wasn’t smiling with anyone here. He waved his hand to Phoenix, and the man straightened. The Phthian Prince spoke, voice harder than his expression. “What do you want?”

Odysseus clapped his hands and the two men placed the chest on the ground. The curly haired man popped open a few latches, and Ajax threw open the head of the box. Achilles stared, from the box of riches to the men he had called friends, who had all watched, useless and unwilling to support him as Agamemnon threatened his men and carted his lover away.

He shot them an unimpressed look.

Odysseus cleared his throat, and began addressing him with that silver tongue, no doubt the reason he was the one leading this embassy. Achilles scoffed beneath his breath. “Agamemnon has realised his errors, Prince Achilles—“

“Took him long enough,” Phoenix muttered. Odysseus shot him a look. Achilles didn’t have time for useless embassies. But he wanted to see how this would pan out.

“The High King has seen that he was wrong,” Ajax spoke, an arm resting on his sword pommel. “For a week, since you withdrew from the fighting, we have conceded every battle, lost every inch, even with gods aiding us. We have been routed, pushed back to the walls and into the camp. At first light tomorrow the Trojans will attack and we will be subdued. Our numbers are dwindled, our men are tired. The gods do not interfere anymore and yet the Trojans continue to hit us with a force we have not seen these past ten summers.”

“What our friend is trying to say,” Odysseus cleared his throat. “Is that you were right, and Agamemnon was wrong. He offers you Briseis, and this chest of riches with more to come, if only you and your men join us on the frontlines once more. Forgive the old fool, he knew not what he was doing. His decisions have cost us greatly. But no more. Agamemnon apologises for offending you and the House of Peleus. You will have your girl, if you bring the Myrmidons and help us end this war once and for all.”

Achilles sighed to himself, raising an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

The Ithacan nodded, stepping back. “Yes.”

“Very well. Tell Agamemnon this. If he wants my forgiveness—if he wants me to participate in this war again, he’s going to have to come to me himself. And beg.”

~ • ~

PERSEUS’ exasperation quickly turned to shock, and then anger as the guard who had burst into their war council finished relaying his information. Beside him, Hector looked stricken, and Perseus cursed the Greeks. A few hours had gone by, and they had been discussing the best ways to bring the Achaeans down since he had returned from his training with Galateia. During the meeting, Hector had sent a scout—a swift footed Trojan soldier named Dolon—into the Greek camp.

None of the others they had sent before had ever come back alive, and Dolon did not disappoint. The son of Anchises scowled at what the news the messenger had brought meant for them. Dolon had been caught and killed, and had most likely given out information on them. Along with that, King Rhesus, one of their newer allies from Thrace, and about twelve of his men had been butchered, and his legendary horses stolen. They all knew it could only be the work of the Greeks at the other side of the beach.

“Okay, meeting adjourned,” Hector waved his hand. “Everyone gather here two hours before first light. We’ll go over the strategy one more time.”

There were murmurs, and nods of assent. Perseus remained where he stood, and at his side, Aeneas collapsed into his chair. The Heir Apparent rubbed his temples in frustration.

Fatherhood suited Hector. Granted, it had taken a toll on him—on each of them, whenever they went back into the palace. He doubted his friend was getting much sleep, with his newborn screaming his lungs out every few minutes. Perseus smiled fondly at the memory of Astyanax, and took a seat on the table. The worry that came with having an extra person to think about during battle was beating down on Hector as the days went by. But it also made his fighting more…vigorous. Ruthless. He had a son to protect now and he was doing everything he could to make sure Astyanax would never see this war.

Already, Aeneas’ own ten year old boy, Perseus’ nephew Ascanius, was taken with his new cousin, and spent hours in Hector and Andromache’s room with his mother and aunt, swooning over the baby as the two armies clashed outside the city walls. Perseus was knackered, but he forced himself to say, “It could have been worse. Whoever snuck into the camp could have come while we were asleep and offed either of you.”

“Rhesus was an important ally, Perseus,” Hector threw himself into his seat.

“Not more important to this war than you are,” He countered. His green eyes were full of weary as he said, “We’re almost through with this. Tomorrow, gods-willing, perhaps we can end everything. They’re backed to their camp. We hit them before they can get out, break the walls, maybe kill a few kings in the process.” He was tired of the Greek commanders. No matter how many they killed more seemed to take their place. It was the godly favoured ones like Odysseus and Diomedes—who had eluded death so many times—who vexed him the most.

“They’re expecting us,” Aeneas pointed out.

“We can still work around that,” Perseus insisted.

Hector groaned. “Enough of this war talk. We’ve been discussing this for hours now. Something different. Something else, please.”

Perseus frowned at them, but shook his head and leaned back in his seat. Hector was right. This war…it had been too long. He couldn’t remember a day in the past decade where he had just sat and…lived. He hadn’t really been able to breathe well since the first ship had hit the beach ten years prior. Since Odysseus had thrown his shield onto the sand and jumped down from the sea vessel which carried the Achaeans.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Aeneas piped. He was scratching his beard—something which, Perseus realised with a start, he hadn’t noticed before. Aeneas usually preferred to be clean-shaven. It pained him that none of them had any time to tend to their own appearances anymore. “Why are you in the forest or on the beach every time the sun sets?”

“Or coming from there every time the sun rises?” Hector queried, a perfect brow arched.

Perseus shifted in his seat, looking perplexed, and Aeneas barked out a laugh. “Did you really think you were being subtle about it?”

“Yes,” He cringed. “Maybe?”

“Anything we should know, then?” Hector inquired, leaning forward. “Any new developments with your lady love?”

Perseus rolled his eyes at the teasing grin on Hector’s face. “First, she’s not mine. Second, I don’t—“ He faltered.

Aeneas grinned. “Go on.”

“Blast you both,” He growled after a few seconds of laughable silence. “It has nothing to do with that.”

“Are you sure?” Hector teased. “You and Lady Selene haven’t been—“

“I’ve been learning how to use my powers, okay?” He cut off the son of Priam, hopefully to divert his attention from the red which was spreading across his cheek. The mood changed and Perseus winced. He probably shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. He studied Hector, then Aeneas—both looked surprised and astonished.

“Your powers,” Aeneas said carefully. “As in, Poseidon’s?”

The Heir frowned, drawing circles on the table with his index finger. “I thought you hated Poseidon.”

“I did,” Perseus shrugged. “I do. But…I didn’t want to say anything…”

“Hey,” Hector reached out and took his hand. The Prince squeezed. “We’re not judging. You had your own reasons for keeping this to yourself. If you want to forgive Poseidon, that’s your call. If you want to accept your powers, I don’t see why we should have a problem with that either.”

“Yeah,” Aeneas nodded. “You’re immortal. You can’t ice him out forever. At some point, you were going to have to let go.” Their words hit him sharply, making his chest feel like he had been ran over by a minotaur. Perseus scowled. These idiots jumped to conclusions way too often. But gods, they were lovable idiots. With friends like these, who needed armies?

“It’s not about forgiving Poseidon,” He said with a scoff. “I got an idea a while back. See, the Greeks are backed by the sea. If I can learn to command it—“

“You can flood their camp,” Aeneas was the first to realise. He looked surprised. Impressed, even. Perseus felt warmth envelope him. “Destroy their ships and their armies.”

“Drown the men and end the fighting,” Hector blinked in shock. And then he let out a loud laugh—a whoop of delight and launched himself at Perseus in his chair. “You’re brilliant, Perce! This—Wow!” He was crushed in a mass of muscles and armour as Hector hugged him, and Perseus coughed out a laugh, shoving the Prince off his body. “Any progress?”

Perseus cocked his head to the side and said sheepishly. “Well, I can shape water—not into anything solid yet. But I’m getting there. I can control it alright. I established the connection a few days ago.”

Aeneas grinned. “That’s great.”

Perseus perked, and added, “And I can talk to horses and fish!”

His two friends stared at him. And then they burst into laughter, all thoughts of what faced them come morning vanishing from the tent and from their minds.

~ • ~

THEY STOOD in straight lines facing the Greek’s wall, waiting for the first rays of the sun to hit the sand. After a night full of wine and meat and talking with his friends, Perseus was feeling well rested and alive, even though he had not had any sleep for next to a week. Truth be told, he didn’t need it. One of the perks of being immortal, he supposed. His shifted in his horse, then glanced up when he heard the noise.

A caw. Perseus frowned as a crow sailed through the air above the Trojan lines. What god or goddess was going to interfere this time? Crows were evil creatures. Ill-omens. Perseus felt uneasiness pool in his gut. And then he stiffened as another loud CAW! rang out from his left. A second crow darted through the air, seemingly out of nowhere and began flying in a circle around the lines of the army. Around them, men were murmuring lowly. Perseus and Aeneas exchanged a glance as a third, then a fourth crow joined the first two. In a matter of minutes seven of the birds flew high above them, flying in a circle.

Like a crown.

Perseus felt his uneasiness grow. A feast for crows. Seven crows. The number was sacred. That didn’t bode well.

“Hector,” His brother said. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

The Heir Apparent looked conflicted. To move back was to concede defeat and give the Achaeans breathing space. To move forward was to ignore the bad omen circling their heads as they stood. Hector bit his lip. At the east, the first rays of the sun broke through. The son of Priam exhaled, then said, “Sound the horn. We attack now.”

Aeneas didn’t argue further. Perseus drew his sound as the herald blasted the horn and the men picked up arms. His horse nickered from beneath him, ‘Ugh! Another day of messing up my nails in blood and gore. These humans—“

Perseus chortled and rubbed the flank of the steed. “It’s alright. It’ll be over soon.”

Impossibly, he felt the black stallion stiffen. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, boss. I—‘

“Don’t call me boss. Or the lost Lord or any of that nonsense. It’s Perseus.” As one, the army surged forward, and the horse began to trot, then gallop towards the Greek lines hastily being formed at the other side of them. “What’s your name?”

“Blackjack,” The horse neighed. “It’s Blackjack, boss.”

Perseus laughed as the horse thundered across the terrain, right beside Hector and Aeneas. They probably couldn’t hear him over the roar of the soldiers, and that was good. “Okay, Blackjack. Let’s go do some killing.” The horse neighed, and bolted forward.

~ • ~

THEY FOUGHT until they broke the Greek’s gate and shattered a portion of their wall. Perseus pounded through the destroyed iron atop Blackjack, sword in one hand, a spear in the other. He had clamped himself around the horse like a vice, and only that and his trust in the horse kept him steady. His whirling spear pierced through throats as he went, his sword cutting off limbs and heads. Blackjack thundered through the blood and jumped over bodies and destroyed tents.

The day’s battle had gone fast. Quick, precise and hard like they had planned. Hector rode at the other side of the terrain in his chariot, hurling spears as he rode past, towards the Greek ships docked on the shore. A horde of Trojan men followed him and Aeneas, who held two sword aloft and cut down men from the safety of his white mare. Apollo burned brightly overhead, and as the hours had dragged on, they had fought and clashed with their enemies again and again, the Trojans moving as one unit, breaking through the gates and the walls and then wrecking havoc in the camp.

They’d met some resistance when they had entered. The Greeks had held their line behind their walls, and it had taken next to two full hours before they had broken the lines of defence and the battered Achaeans had scattered. Men groaned and screamed and roared around him, women—slaves—ran around, trying to find refuge. Perseus’ eyes burned with exertion. But he had to find her. Briseis would be with Achilles, and as he had torn himself away from his friends, they hadn’t asked any questions, knowing where he was headed.

So far, no gods had showed up to meddle.

Perseus heard a cry from amidst the merged lines of Trojans and Greeks somewhere to his left. Then he felt it—that power, familiar and yet distant. Barely more than a memory—lashing through the Trojan lines, cutting down men. He had spoken too soon. With a yell, Perseus pulled the reins of his horse and manoeuvred Blackjack, throwing his spear as he did so into the chest of an oncoming Greek soldier. Dread pooled inside him, and in his war-focused mind, somewhere down below, he knew who he would meet when he went forth.

But that didn’t stop him. Still swinging, he dashed forward. Around him tents burned, fire engulfing men and wood. And then there was a call from the soldiers as the strange godly power lashed out, a shockwave following it almost immediately. Trojans were thrown back, and more than two dozen melted into dust from the force behind the blast. “FALL BACK! FALL BACK!” Perseus gritted his teeth. The Trojans were being routed, and the Greeks let out a loud roar, the presence of the god fuelling them and making them fight harder than ever.

If Poseidon was trying to win his favour, battling against his city wasn’t giving him any points.

Finally, Perseus tore through the throng of soldiers and drew Blackjack to a stop. The man looked exactly like he had the last time, with flowing dark raven hair, bright sea green eyes and that damned neat beard. He wore that same blue armour, with grieves and vambraces, expensive looking sandals and a collection of knives hanging from his side. A white cloak billowed around him. In one hand, he held the pulsing greenish-blue trident from before. His helmet rested in the crook of his other arm. Poseidon met his eyes as he came. And Perseus’ scowl deepened. He saw himself in the other immortal.

The resemblance was uncanny. He felt as though he was just a clone. A carbon copy of the god of the seas.

His scowl deepened. Poseidon had been waiting for him.

“If you thought killing my men was going to get my attention,” He called, bringing Blackjack to a stop. “You were right. But I’m possibly even more angry with you now.”

“I support the Achaeans,” Poseidon cocked his head to the side. “I hate your city, to be honest. It holds bad memories for me, from my time as a mortal, when my brother cast me off Olympus.” He paused. “But no harm will befall you, whichever side you are on. Not from any other god. I have made sure of that.”

“Gee, thanks,” He snarked. “Great timing. Though, I wonder, where were you when I needed that protection all those years ago—“

“It wasn’t me,” Poseidon cut him short. The god grimaced, and Perseus stilled on his horse. He couldn’t have heard right. The pain in Poseidon’s eyes…he knew he looked like that whenever something went wrong. There was regret shining there too. Nervously, the immortal brushed his hair from his eyes and Perseus stared on, dumbfounded. He felt the surprise, and then hard heart-piercing shock hit him almost instantaneously. The battle seemed so distant now, and the wind was whipping in his ears, the sand forming a sort of barrier around the two men—a cocoon, shielding them from prying eyes.

“What?” His voice was steely, as he regained his composure. Ice. “You think you can come and lie to my face after killing my mother and —“

“I didn’t kill her,” Poseidon snapped. And then he relaxed. He took a step forward and Perseus recoiled, Blackjack rearing beneath him. Poseidon licked his lips and stepped back. “I’m sorry.” The god looked hurt, wrecked. “I’m sorry,” He repeated. “Sally was the best woman I knew.” Perseus was shaking. His mind was reeling, and he blinked, furiously, pushing back the tears threatening to fall. Maybe it was all the sand. His fingers curled around his sword. Her name. He finally had her name. His mouth felt raw, like he had just ingested an entire goblet of the sand whipping around them. His gaze latched on to the sea king’s face.

He knew immediately what he saw there. He had seen it many times—in the furtive glances between Aeneas and Creusa. Whenever Hector and Andromache held hands beneath a table. His own expression, whenever he gazed upon his ethereal companion, Selene.

Poseidon had been in love with his mother. And he regretted letting her go.

“Who?” His voice cracked.

The god looked up at him, and again, Perseus saw through him. He was just like the immortal, and not just in his looks. He couldn’t hide his emotions any better than Poseidon could. He could see the hope flickering in the god’s eyes. And he looked too devastated to stamp it out before Perseus saw.

Or maybe he wanted him to see it.

Poseidon’s grip on his trident tightened. “My wife, Amphitrite. She found out about Sally. She sent our children—Triton, Rhode and Kympoleaia. She distracted me with court affairs that day. They caused the storm. They destroyed the ship.”

Perseus deflated, curling in on himself. Blackjack said something, but he couldn’t hear him, not above the roar in his ears. A roar he knew didn’t come from the wind.

Poseidon took a step, then a few more, and then he was closer than he had been, standing at Blackjack’s left flank and looking up at him. Perseus was sure it was the first time the god had had to look up to anything or anyone. Poseidon reached out tentatively, and he placed a hand on the side of the horse. Perseus didn’t have it in him to pull the reins and back away. Not at the broken expression which had found a home on the god’s face. Which no doubt was mirrored on his own.

“I loved your mother, so so much,” Poseidon whispered. “And I am sorry I could not save her.” Perseus didn’t respond. He took in a stuttered breath. Curse him, this bloody god, coming when he was in the middle of a battle and disorienting him after killing his men. As though encouraged by his silence, the green eyed god forced on. “Do you remember where you were going on that voyage?”

He locked eyes with Poseidon then—his father, and saw it. The extended hand, the prayer for peace between them finally. The plea for forgiveness. He shook his head.

“I told her I would build a palace of gold for her on the beach of Thebes,” The other man murmured. “I told her I would make you both immortal.” His voice cracked. “Your mother wasn’t selfish. I pushed her into it. I told her it would be better for you.” He faced Perseus. “In a way, her death was my fault.” Perseus let go of the reins and wiped a tear which had escaped. He would not cry. Not in front of Poseidon.

“You can cry,” The god said, softly. “I won’t judge.”

He was grown man. He sniffed, running a hand through his hair to quell his sea of emotions. Now was not the time. Perseus faced Poseidon once more. “You never looked for me.”

“I tried,” He looked up to the skies. Perseus was sure he could see him blink back tears. Poseidon exhaled. This…this broken dam of emotions. This sob fest. It just wouldn’t do. “I swear I tried. They told me you were dead. I looked. For so many years I looked, because I loved your mother. But I never found you.” Not hard enough, the thought echoed in his head. As though he had heard it, the ruler of the seas shook his head. “How could I have found you when you were shielded? Your aura clouded, by that interfering bastard Apollo, and his sister and their mother. I tried.” Perseus swallowed. He hadn’t known Apollo had done that. But this time, he understood, and he didn’t blame the god or his family. They had done it for his own protection, even if he hadn’t known it then. And it had come back to bite him in the arse.

Poseidon continued. “Even at the start of this war, I watched often. But I couldn’t have known. I sometimes wondered. But it never occurred to me that you were Sally’s—“ His voice broke at the name. “It wasn’t until we met in battle that I realised. And I’m sorry.”

Even in such an impossible situation, he burst out laughing. Perseus didn’t think he had ever heard anyone use so many sorry’s in less than fifteen minutes. Poseidon took his hand off the horse. “I want to…” He swallowed. Saying this…admitting this would mean forgiving Poseidon. It would mean he had let go of his hatred. It would mean letting go of his anger. Three decades of anger, festering, growing and writhing inside him. It meant he wasn’t blaming the other immortal anymore.

But then Hector’s words hit him. He recalled Aeneas’ advice, the night before. They had been right.

Perseus looked at this man. This god. His father. And finally, he released a breath. “I want to know more about her.”

“I want to know more about you,” Poseidon’s response was instant. But he stepped away. “I know…you still need time. I will give that to you.” Perseus nodded. He felt that the god would know when he was ready. When the time came, he would be there.

Above them the clouds darkened. Thunder boomed. “My brother grows angry,” Poseidon rolled his eyes. “For you sake, I am pulling out of this war. I will see you soon, I hope.” Perseus bobbed his head, short, quick. As the god vanished into a sea spray, his last words hit Perseus, and a memory resurfaced, from the darkest depths of his mind—a glowing presence over a cradle, a soft hand with a shining blue vambrace.

‘I love you.’

The wind died and the sand stilled. And it all fell down, in a ring around him.

~ • ~

HE WASN’T QUITE sure how he had gotten back to their camp and past the enemy lines once more. Hector stood at the edge of their camp, bathed in moonlight, his hands behind him. He didn’t know where Aeneas was, or where Perseus had gone, but he himself had just returned from the city after seeing his wife and son.

The Trojans had been routed, the appearance of Poseidon on the battlefield scaring many of his soldiers and giving the Greeks the upper hand. He hadn’t seen Perseus after the call to retreat had come from Helenus, but he could only assume that his friend had met his father once more. Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. They had come so close today…so close to ending things. But his mind was still on the omen they had received before the battle. The crows still soared overhead, their caws sending involuntary shivers down his spine. Hector bit his lip in frustration.

Helenus hadn’t known what it meant—he hadn’t seen anything of importance. Just that whatever was coming was bad, and Hector couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut whenever one of the blasted birds released the cursed sound. Perhaps it had been a signal from one of the gods about Poseidon’s coming meddling. That was plausible, because they had been driven back, essentially losing their upper hand although the Greeks had been too battered to give chase to the city walls.

Now, their enemies were hastily rebuilding their camp walls and restructuring the gate. It wouldn’t hold.

Come dawn, Hector and his men would pound them down again, and slaughter everything that stood against them.

He perked when he heard the footsteps, and Hector looked up. The prince deflated when he saw the old man coming towards him. One of his fathers advisors, a seer—Polydamas. The man hobbled towards him and Hector nodded to him in acknowledgement.

“Greetings, my Prince,” Polydamas said. The son of Priam gave him a forced smile. “Your thoughts are heavy, and your hands even more so.” Gee, what gave him away? Hector wished he could roll his eyes.

“Today’s battle was taxing,” was all the explanation he gave. “Tomorrow will be different.”

The Heir Apparent eyed the old man. “Did father send you? Anything you want from me?”

“I came to warn you.” Hector frowned. And he motioned to the man to continue. Polydamas’ eyes clouded, and Hector could swear the temperature dropped just a bit. “I have seen…things. Things I dare not speak of. Things I cannot change. But you…you are the future of our city, Prince Hector. You are Troy. And if you continue pushing…” Hector’s eyelids fluttered. Uneasiness grew inside him. What was the man implying? His mouth tasted bitter, but Polydamas continued. “Achilles will kill you if you continue hitting the Greeks as hard as you are. Heed my warning, Hector, and draw back from the front lines for a few weeks.”

Hector’s breath stuttered. His mind whirled. He couldn’t describe the emotion which overtook him.

Slowly, he blinked. And then blinked again. Despair slowly seeped into him.

The gods were so cruel.

Polydamas continued. “Leave the fighting to your friends and brothers. Stay with your wife and your son. Do not give Thanatos the chance to come for you.”

Hector swallowed. He felt the heaviness settle on him then. “I can’t,” His voice was hoarse. “You said it yourself…I am the future of the city. If—If I don’t fight, the men will lose morale.” He paused. “The Greeks will overpower us.”

“If you continue to fight, you will die, Hector,” Polydamas snapped, clearly tired of beating about the bush. He reached out and grabbed the Prince’s arm, making him wince and cry out. The seer’s grip was tight, and Hector couldn’t wrench his arm away. “Listen to me. The crows were for you. In a few days you will provide them with a feast. Do not give them that chance.” His eyes flashed and Hector mustered enough strength to yank his hand away.

His blood was roaring in his veins. Horror and…that was fear, rolling through his gut at the man’s words. His chest felt heavy. It couldn’t be true. Not now. Not now.

He had just become a father…he couldn’t. Fuck. He couldn’t die. He felt the denial setting in. His wife needed him. His son…His friends. Hector’s hands shook as he clasped them together.

But Troy needed him more.

Sometimes, he hated his selflessness.

“I have heard you, Polydamas,” Hector forced a grim smile onto his face. “I’ll try to be careful.” The man hung his head. He bowed and hobbled away, shaking his head as he went.

Now more than ever, Hector needed Aeneas and Perseus. But where were they? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell them…they would try to keep him from fighting. They would imprison him if it came to it. He didn’t want to place the burden of this knowledge on anyone. Hector’s bottom lip wobbled.

When he was sure the old seer was gone, the Prince of Troy sank onto his knees.

And wept.

~ • ~
PERSEUS felt her shimmer into existence at around midnight beside him. He glanced at her, his heart stuttering once more, and then turned to look back towards the horizon. Towards the sea. Galateia had just left about an hour earlier, promising to be back at dawn, after teaching him how to create and use weapons out of water and ice. He was tired, both physically and mentally, from the events of the battle that day.

Selene shifted on her feet in the sand, hair whipping around her perfectly structured face.

“You’re early,” He murmured.

The Titaness waved him aside. “Helios is annoying. Much like Apollo. I am surprised I lasted as long as I did.” Against all the odds, Perseus laughed. Selene’s face softened and her eyes met his. Those beautiful silver eyes, which made him feel like he was combusting and reforming all at the same time.

When had his feelings for her become so…aggressive? When had it become this serious?

Her lips pulled down in a frown as she said, “Also, I sensed your distress. And I could not bear to let you go through whatever it is alone.” Her hand reached out and she took his. Warmth bloomed across his fingertips. Gods, he felt like a teenager, touching a girl for the first time. But Selene wasn’t just any girl. She was his closest friend and confidant. She was his rock. She had helped him get through so much. She was always there.

If someone had told him twenty summers prior that he would fall in love with the ethereal and immaculate presence he had slammed into on Delos that day he would have laughed and called them crazy.

Was that what this was?

Was he in love with her?

But he didn’t know her feelings. All that time back, after the peck, she had said she was glad they were just friends. Had that changed now?

Her very presence had chased away all his thoughts about Poseidon and Sally. Surely, that wasn’t normal.

“If you want to talk about it,” Selene whispered. “I am right here.”

Perseus faced her fully. He squeezed her hands. He had been looking at her too long, but then, she had been looking back, and he felt like they were both trying to say something the other couldn’t hear, though he could be imagining it. His heart was loud and her tranquil eyes were swallowing him whole.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Oh, Perseus,” She shook her head. “After all you have been through…You deserve the world.” He almost didn’t see it. But then she leaned forward, lifting herself off her feet.

Around him, the waves seemed to still. Perseus’ breath stuttered and he leaned in. Selene connected their lips, slowly, sagely, and he felt the warmth spread through every part of him, his hands leaving hers. One went to cup her face in his palm, the other to rove through her hair. Selene’s hands wrapped around his neck, and as he closed his eyes, he realised how much taller than her he was. She tilted her head up, and their contact sent fire racing through his body.

The kiss was tentative. Slow. Her lips were soft, and gods, she was magnificent.

They didn’t need air, and he could have continued all night. But Perseus pulled away, and a small smile stretched across his face as his hands slid into hers. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now,” He admitted.

“I got tired of waiting for you,” Selene smiled, good naturedly.

Perseus’ smile grew and he turned back towards the sea. “Poseidon didn’t kill my mother.”

She squeezed his hand. “That’s good to know. What are you going to do about it?”

“He apologised,” Perseus shifted. “He said he tried to look for me…after the wreckage. He thought I was dead. He wanted to make my mother immortal, and he wants to get to know me. What do you think I should do?” He shot off detail after detail, in a hurry to get the information off his chest.

Selene faced the waves. “You have an eternity to answer that question. You’re both immortal. You’re not going anywhere.” She paused. “All you wanted from Poseidon was acknowledgement and an apology. You have both now.” He snorted. “But,” she shook her head, a small tentative smile spreading on her face. “I think, that deep down,” Selene placed a hand on his chest, “Inside here, you want to forgive him. You want to let go of it all.” Her voice was soft, and her hands pressed onto his chest, making his ichor roar. “Follow your heart, Perseus.”

He nodded. She was right. She was always right. Perseus raised a hand. He was the son of Sally. He was the son of Anchises.

But he was also born of the sea.

And maybe, finally accepting Poseidon as his father wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Before him, the waves rose, steadily. He felt a soothing tug in his gut.

‘Long ago, in a kingdom long since burned to ash,’ The words unconsciously surfaced in his mind. ‘There lived a boy, who loved his people very much…’ Before them, the sea rose, roaring, powerful. Unrestrained. The wave ascended, and Perseus smiled.

His name was Perseus, son of Poseidon. And he would not be afraid.

A.N—Last line courtesy of Throne of Glass. Amazing series, to be honest. Tell me what you think about this chapter. I feel like I could have done it better. Merry Christmas, everyone! ❤️

Chapter Text

A/N— Here it comes, the chapter I know everyone has been waiting for…Patroclus’ deception. Even I am waiting to see how I’ll spin this lol. Just writing as I go, and praying it turns out good. Penny for your thoughts?

Also, quite surprisingly, a lot of you responded to my previous A/N and offered suggestions. After thoroughly reading through each one, I came to find that the majority of you wonderful readers proposed that Troy must fall, and personally, I agree, because it opens up more possibilities for the story to continue, either following the Odyssey or Aeneid or making Perseus a wanderer with Selene. And for those who asked, no I don’t know if I’ll be continuing this up to Uncle Rick’s storyline in the modern world, but I’ll give it a thought. I wish I could reply to every single one of your comments but time is a luxury I can’t afford right now. The reviews were much appreciated, though.

Anyways, Enjoy! <3

ACHILLES watched from the prow of his ship at the far edge of the camp as the Trojans stormed through the hastily repaired gates once more. They were thundering across the beach, gutting Greeks, killing soldiers, and destroying tents, like they had done they day before. This time the fight had reached the ships, and Achilles watched unmoved as his allies’ vessels were put to the torch. Served them right.

Beside him, Patroclus stood, watching uneasily, and shifting on his feet. Achilles could tell his friend was against his decision not to fight. Patroclus couldn’t bear the thought of watching their friends get slaughtered from the safety of their ships, and he had told Achilles as much. But the Prince had reminded the other man of the slight to their Kingdom. It was about Briseis, yes, but it was also about respect. Or the lack of it. Agamemnon was a brute, and until he learnt how important the Prince of Phthia was to his war, Achilles wouldn’t lift a finger to help him.

Patroclus wasn’t content with his answer, and Achilles could still feel his awry emotions flying everywhere. A look of grim horror was plastered on his closest companion’s face as they watched the god Apollo fire craters into the Greek forces from his chariot, where no doubt Zeus had sent him to aid their enemies in response to Poseidon’s interference the day before. The only way to stop Patroclus from joining the fray, short of ordering him to stand down, was promising him that if the fight reached their own ships, they would defend themselves. And that was only if Hector and his companions refused to accept his withdrawal—which he would inform them of should they appear—and attacked anyway.

Achilles could see them; the Prince of the great city, in his bronze chariot, hurling spears into men as he hurtled through the Greek lines. Aeneas, Aphrodite’s son, swords whipping around him and slicing through men and commanders and kings in a whirlwind of anger and power. Achilles vaguely recalled that Aeneas was a demigod…he had to have some degree of power. Every god-born did. Achilles’ own powers were dormant and diluted, given that his mother was a nereid and he had never bothered to train himself. He probably couldn’t even do as much as a son of Poseidon could…

His hooded eyes shifted to the surge of power he felt from the centre of the battlefield, and there he found him—his greatest enemy, Perseus. The dark haired immortal man sat atop a black horse, one hand on a sword that was cutting through the Achaean soldiers. He rode without reins or a saddle, and Achilles frowned. But surprisingly, Perseus was stable, barely even wobbling on the steed. His other arm was in the sky and Achilles’ eyes narrowed as the green eyed warrior flicked his wrist.

Around him, the air seemed to condense, folding in on itself until about twelve spears of ice formed from nowhere. Patroclus swore, and with another flick of his wrists, Perseus sent the ice spears sailing through the sky and tearing through throats and breastplates. Achilles whistled in appreciation. He had only seen such a display of power once, about ten years back when they had first attacked Ilios. Another son of Poseidon, his face nothing worth remembering, his name a distant memory. But Achilles had cut him down easily, even then. Perseus was another problem.

For one, he couldn’t kill him. And now, with the sudden appearance of these…powers…it would be like doing battle with a god.

Achilles sent a silent prayer for whoever was unfortunate enough to clash with the other demigod.

“Achilles,” His name on Patroclus’ lips made him turn to his best friend. The grimace which had adorned the mousy haired man’s face had turned into a look of determination and righteous anger. “You have to help them.”

“Patroclus,” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m getting bored of this conversation.”

“They’re dying out there!” The other man snapped. “And you are okay with kicking back and watching them—our allies—perish?”

“Until Agamemnon comes to apologise, yes,” He said, truthfully, with a shrug. Patroclus had known him since they were children. He knew that Achilles had a hard head. And he also knew that whatever he set his mind to do, nothing or no one could hope to change his decision. “I cannot let Agamemnon’s insult go unanswered. You were a Prince once, you should understand this.”

Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Please. You and I both know this isn’t about any injury to Phthia. This is about you, and your wounded pride.” Achilles scowled at him. Patroclus’ words had hit home. But like his friend had said, his hubris was his fatal flaw, and right now, said pride had enveloped his lust for war and greatness. He wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t fight. And perhaps Patroclus was a fool for trying to make him do otherwise.

“There’s no point in arguing with me, Patroclus,” Achilles told him, eyebrows knitting. “You know your orders. I’ve made my decision.” He made to move away, but the brown eyed man grabbed his bicep and whirled him around to face him.

“Please.” Patroclus’ eyes held pain, and his grip was tight. “I told you what Nestor said to me. They need us.” The son of Thetis arched a brow and eyed the hand on his arm. He didn’t really enjoy hitting his friend unless it was a friendly duel, but Patroclus was starting to irritate him. Around them, the sounds of battle rose and fell. “Please. At least, if you won’t go,” He hesitated, “Lend me your armour and your chariot. I’ll pretend to be you. I’ll defend the ships. I’ll rout the Trojans and get them away.”

The warrior prince met his friend’s eyes and saw the plea in them. Patroclus was fed up with sitting on the sidelines. But he couldn’t do anything until Achilles ordered it so. He could tell him no; force him to stand down. But his eyes shifted to the fighting below them, the flames which consumed two ships to his far left. His companion was right. He had been away from the fighting for so long. If he made a sudden appearance now, the Trojans would panic, and flee. Even if it wasn’t him beneath the helmet. They wouldn’t know that. A whirlwind of ideas and emotions bombarded him, thoughts roving through his mind as he weighed the pros and cons of what Patroclus was suggesting.

Perseus would be ready for him. And Patroclus would be in danger.

But Achilles couldn’t bear to look into his friend’s eyes and refuse him again. And maybe, if he allowed it, this once, and Agamemnon saw how fast the Trojans ran, he would realise that he really needed to apologise and Achilles’ anger would be sated. He exhaled. “Fine.” The Prince set his hand on Patroclus’, and squeezed. “Okay. I’ll lend you my armour. But you have to promise me not to pursue them past our wall. Let them run.” His friend nodded, eagerly, the light and determination filling his eyes once more. Achilles felt his hardness thaw, resignation and acceptance filled him. He really didn’t like it when Patroclus was mad at him. He couldn’t bear to be at loggerheads with him for too long.

“Come on,” The young prince shook his head. “I’ll get the men ready. Just make sure to remember one thing,” Unease surfaced in him, a shapeless, writhing monster, clawing at the walls of his gut, his throat and his chest. “If you see Hector, Aeneas or Perseus, you turn and run, like all of Nyx’s daimons are after you, got it?”

Patroclus slipped into seriousness and nodded. “Understood.”

~ • ~

EVERYTHING went to hell when Achilles drove his spear through Zeus’ son, Sarpedon, bringing an end to the bolts of lightning which had been raining down onto the Greek ships. The effects of his appearance could be felt even from where Perseus fought, at the other side of the battlefield. Men writhed and screamed and Trojans turned and dropped weapons and bolted. Perseus bared his teeth. They would really need to work on their men’s confidence. But after the destruction Achilles had wrought on their city for ten years, Perseus didn’t really blame them for running. There was no call for retreat, but all the same, men hurled themselves through the gates to get away, and Perseus could see Aeneas being carried away by the hurricane of fleeing warriors.

Achilles wore that brilliant armour of his, one hand on the reins of his chariot, the other on a spear that he drove through several men, thundering across the lines in front of the ship. Behind him streamed the Myrmidons, his men. They had been missing in action for a little over a week, for whatever reasons of theirs. But it seemed like the Phthian had gotten tired.

The mice had come out to play.

Resolve hardening, Perseus murmured his instructions to Blackjack, and the horse launched itself through the throngs of people. The Greeks were fighting furiously, as though awakening from slumber. A cry of outrage was coming from the Trojan lines as the reinforced Achaeans slaughtered them. Perseus had to stop this madness. He sliced through the breastplate of an oncoming enemy, and was about to run another one through when a spear tore through the Greek’s neck. Hector appeared in his chariot behind him, panting with exertion. His eyes were darting in the direction Perseus had been headed, where Achilles and his men were skewering any nearby Trojan in their defence of their burning ships.

“Fall back,” The Prince ordered. “We need to go.”

“I can get him, Hec,” Perseus barked. “I’ll cover the retreat, if you want.”

“No, Perseus,” Hector snapped, spear piercing another nearby soldier. “We have to leave now! Our men are in disarray.”

“Hector,” Perseus growled, sword whipping around and cutting through a neck. “I—“

“That’s an order, General,” Hector’s voice was hard, unmoving. “Now come on!” Anger surged through him but he couldn’t argue. As Hector dove away on his chariot, Perseus snarled to himself and patted Blackjack’s flank. The horse whirled around instantly and they dashed through the racing soldiers, after his Prince.

As they soared through the gates, Perseus glanced behind him. As he had expected, Achilles was giving chase, his twin horses cursing as they raced faster and faster. Maybe Hector had a plan?

Doubtful, seeing how skittish the heir had been as he gave the order. Perseus followed his men through the beach, up the hills and towards the city. Already a few had gotten to the gates, and from his spot behind the lines, Perseus could see Aeneas and their allies trying to organise their forces. Behind him came a slew of Greek soldiers; he could see Menelaus atop a brown horse, beside his brother Agamemnon. Odysseus and Diomedes raced at the left flank, Idomeneus and Nestor, darting towards them at the right, Ajax and the Athenian King, leading their men behind them. And Achilles, a roar on his lips at the head of it all.

He urged Blackjack to go faster, and when they finally pulled up beside Hector, Perseus’ eyes scanned his friend’s face. Hector looked anxious. Something was worrying him. Something was wrong. Perseus made a mental note to query him later. Right now, they needed to find a way to get the Greeks off their backs. “I need you to organise the men, Perseus,” Hector’s voice reached him over the roar of the wind. Their eyes met and Perseus saw the raw emotion behind them. Something was going to happen.

The Prince continued, “Help Aeneas mobilise them and defend the walls.”

“Hector, what’s wrong?” He shouted over.

His friend—his brother—sent him a look. A look full of regret, and a plea.

A goodbye, Perseus realised with shock, as the other man said, “Can I trust you to do this?”

Perseus throat bobbed, and he nodded. That was all the confirmation Hector needed, and as Perseus came to a stop next to the lines of Trojan soldiers, the Heir Apparent whirled his chariot around. Above them, the sun glowed bright, scorching and burning as Apollo descended in a whirlwind of gold and air. The god of medicine and archery landed on his knees in front of the oncoming Greek lines. Apollo held out his hand and Perseus watched, his back straight, as the Greek soldiers stopped.

He couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged, but he realised what was going on. Apollo was buying them time. Perseus patted Blackjack’s neck and turned the horse around, his voice carrying across the wind, “Charioteers and riders, to me!” Instantly the men obeyed, those in chariots and those atop horses converging behind him in neatly arranged lines. At the other side of the terrain, Aeneas rose his hand in greeting and Perseus sent him a wave in return. His brother had already organised what was left of their troops into battle lines, stretching from the far end of the walls to where Perseus stood at the other end.

Apollo was saying something to the Achaeans and as Hector got to him, Perseus rose his sword. “We have fought the Myrmidons before. We have triumphed over them before. Leave Achilles to me, and do what you do best! FOR TROY!” His roar was carried across he plain and Perseus shot down the terrain, the roaring force of Ilios behind him. In answer, the Greeks surged forward to meet them, and Perseus ordered Blackjack to head towards the god and the Prince.

Whatever was going on with Hector, he was going to find out.

~ • ~
HECTOR KNEW HE WAS GOING TO DIE. His heart hammered in his chest as he rode, and he tried to keep his expression stable and the roaring in his blood down as he charged Achilles. Behind him he could hear Aeneas and Perseus, and several thousands of Trojan soldiers charging down behind him. He spun his spear in his hand and grabbed his shield. The Greeks were charging for him, and Hector cut down the first man to reach him. Achilles’ horses were wild, trampling men in their path, making straight for Hector.

He had seen him approaching, then.

The lines clashed once more and the sun blazed from above them.

As he neared the other warrior, Hector sent a silent prayer to the gods. To protect his wife, and his son, and his best friends. And then he hurled his spear.

Achilles leaned to the side and avoided the blow, like Hector had anticipated. But what he didn’t see coming was the Phthian Prince stumbling over his feet and tripping out of the chariot. Hector’s eyes narrowed. Had his inactivity made Achilles’ prowess diminish? No, that couldn’t be. One didn’t lose sure-footedness after just a week of sitting out the fighting. Hector’s thoughts were interrupted by the roar from the helmeted warrior as he charged him, drawing a sword. The Prince of Troy drew his own weapon, and as Achilles drew closer, he swung down.

But the Greek was smart, and fast. He dodged under the blow, his sword arm coming down instead on the reins which Hector held. Hector swore as his horses reared and he lost control. The chariot wobbled, and the curly haired warrior dove out as both horses and chariot were overturned and crashed into a couple of oncoming soldiers. Panting, Hector got to his feet. In front of him the leader of the Myrmidons paced, swinging his weapon. Waiting. Brown eyes flashed.

No, that wasn’t right.

Achilles’ eyes were blue.

Hector didn’t have any time to think over it as the son of Thetis charged him. He dodged underneath the first slash and sidestepped to avoid another, spinning around and kicking his opponent in the chest. Achilles stumbled back and then Hector was on him, his sword swinging for the man’s arm. A shield rose, and the force of his strike sent a ripple of pain through Hector’s arm. Achilles dove for him again with his sword and Hector raised his own shield to block, before slicing at Achilles’ side.

Expertly, the other man blocked the blow, twisting and jumping out of Hector’s reach. Achilles bared his teeth at him and surged forward, sword flashing. He let loose a roar and raised the weapon to stab at Hector. The prince sidestepped the attack, spinning nimbly on his feet. He ducked low to slash at Achilles’ chest.

The younger warrior darted back again, narrowly avoiding the blade. What the Hades was Achilles playing at? Why was he toying with Hector in this way? Alarm bells were ringing in his mind. Achilles was here. He was going to die, he was going to die, HE WAS GOING TO DIE, HE WAS…

He bent quickly, kicking out to sweep Achilles off his feet. The son of Thetis leaped into the air, then brought his sword downwards in an overhead strike. Hector rolled out of the way and the blade struck the ground. His arm shot out and he sliced at the Greek’s calf. Achilles wasn’t fast enough. Hector’s weapon tore through his grieves…and tore through his skin. Hector started with surprise as Achilles swore and stumbled on his feet, away from him.

He had drawn blood.

Hector rose slowly to his feet, about to question what he had just seen when Achilles dove for him with a yell. Their weapons slammed into each other and Hector gritted his teeth when he caught the shining brown eyes behind the helmet. This wasn’t Achilles. “Who are you?” He snarled, ripping himself away. “And what the hell is Achilles playing at?”

The man just bared his teeth and sailed to attack him again, and Hector rose his shield to deflect the blow. But it never came. Another sword interrupted the imposter’s, and a muscled arm reached out to shove him backwards. Hector shot his saviour a look of gratitude, expecting Perseus—he had seen him coming towards them—but he was instead met with the scowling face of Euphorbos, one of his trusted Generals and allies. The man was blond and bearded, with piercing blue eyes and he looked like he was hewn of rock. Swinging his sword, he slipped into a stance, “You didn’t look like you needed help, but I want at him. He killed my brother, and he’s going to pay.”

Hector shook his head. “That’s not Achilles.”

“But he wears his armour,” Euphorbos grunted. The other man exchanged a glance with Hector. “I’ll enjoy hurting Achilles the same way he hurt me.” The son of Priam nodded. He spun his sword as the fake Achilles scoffed and said, “I can hear you, you know.”

“Good,” was all Hector said before he charged.

Euphorbos darted to the side as Hector went on the offence, stabbing at the armed imposter, who blocked with his shield. Hector’s general slashed at his side, but the enemy rose his sword and parried the blow. But instantly, Hector was on him, knocking the shield away and tearing at the man’s arm. His sword cut through flesh and the dark eyed soldier cried out as Euphorbos hurled him backwards.

Right into a waiting sandal.

The man’s back connected with the immaculate feet of the god Apollo, and the sun deity pushed, sending him sprawling into the sand. Apollo looked as regal as ever, the power rolling off him in waves. Hector felt his skin grow hot. Apollo let out a laugh. A loud, soothing thing, like the notes of a lyre. The usually jovial and friendly god looked amused. Amused and dangerous. Golden eyes glinted as he leaned down, to the man slowly picking himself off the ground. Fear rolling in his eyes as he saw he was surrounded by a god, a prince and a general.

“Surely, my dear Patroclus,” Apollo’s soft voice addressed the imposter. “You didn’t think you could pose as god-born and get away with it, did you?” Hector blinked in understanding. Of course, it all made sense.

Achilles wasn’t here.

Hector wasn’t going to die today.

Patroclus swallowed. “My quarrel is not with you, Lord Apollo. Let us mortals settle our differences without your interference.”

Hector winced as the air crackled with power. Apollo’s voice was dangerously low. “You dub me a meddler. You attack my city, and you want me to sit by idle.” He flicked his wrist and a sword materialised in his hand. “No matter. I have seen your fate, Patroclus. Your journey ends here. You die today.” With that, the god of the sun launched himself at the mortal. Hector watched, stunned and in a bit of awe as Apollo dove around the imposter, almost too fast to be seen. He was a blur of gold as he quickly disarmed Patroclus, slicing his sword out of his hand.

“Come on!” Euphorbos roared, throwing himself into the fray. Hector was right behind him as Patroclus drew a knife.

But he couldn’t defend himself forever.

Apollo flicked his wrist and the shield on Patroclus’ arm went flying. As one, they surrounded Patroclus, like vultures converging on the dead; crows around a carcass, and pounced.

Euphorbos slashed at Patroclus’ neck. The man raised his arm to defend with a yell, but then Hector was there, slicing at his shoulder and causing Achilles’ friend to drop his weapon and scream. He didn’t care. He tuned it out as Apollo sliced at Patroclus’ already injured calf. Euphorbos darted forward and drew a knife. Patroclus spun in a confused circle, his arm raised as he collected and deflected a blow from Hector on his vambrace. He kicked the sand into Apollo’s face but the god laughed and the sand hurled itself back into Patroclus’ eyes, making him shout and stumble back. Euphorbos slammed his knife into Patroclus’ side.

It wasn’t a fight.

It was an execution.

Patroclus screamed as Hector slammed the butt of his sword into his helmet, denting it.

Blood was dripping from the warrior, pooling around his feet. The wind whipped through Hector’s hair. “Fuck you, all,” Patroclus swore through the pain, gritting his teeth. Euphorbos delivered a solid right hook into the Greek’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Apollo appeared behind him, drawing his sword in an arc and ripping the tendons behind Patroclus’ kneecaps. The man released a scream of pain which tore through the battlefield, dropping onto his knees. Tears streamed out of his helmet. His body was shaking with pains Hector was sure was unimaginable.

But he didn’t care. He wanted to get Achilles back. He wanted to show the man what pain was. He wanted him to suffer, like Hector’s city had suffered at his hands for ten years.

Apollo laughed. “You wanted to come here, to fight us, against Achilles’ own orders. Because you wanted to prove yourself worthy to him. Worthy of his love. For years and years you have pined over your best friend, hoping he saw the way you always looked at him. Foolish. The lot of you mortals.” Patroclus hung his head. Apollo stepped back, his eyes meeting Hector’s. The air seemed to still around him as the god nodded. Hector swallowed. “Your folly was your undoing, Patroclus.” Hector stepped forward, grabbing Patroclus by his chin. In a fluid movement, he raised the other man’s head and drew his sword across his neck.

He wouldn’t realise the implications of what he had done until it was too late.

~ • ~

WHEN PERSEUS finally reached his friend, Achilles was already dead. Perseus’ eyes were wide. Hector had done it. Hector had finally accomplished what they had all been trying to do since the war had started ten summers ago.

On his way to his Prince, Perseus had been held back, by the teeming mass of soldiers who wanted to kill him. He’d gotten distracted, only catching glimpses of the ferocious fight happening across from him when there was a lull in his own continuous battles. But the Greeks weren’t giving him much breathing space, and Perseus had already made short work of two of the four captains of the Boeotians. He’d injured Abantes, another good Greek commander, and Sthenelus, who was one of Diomedes’ generals. He had lost count of the number he had killed, but the battle was still ongoing, and when he had caught glimpses and flashes of gold, along with the sudden spike in power, Perseus knew that Apollo was there, and Hector would at least be safe for the time being.

Now, his eyes flickered to his best friend. “Are you sure he’s really dead?”

“Yes,” Hector’s eyes were hooded and dark. “But it’s not Achilles, if that’s what you were hoping.”

Something died inside the son of Poseidon. “No?”

“Patroclus,” Hector licked his lips, glancing around. As though searching for the god who had aided them, but Apollo was already gone. “Come, Perseus. Help me get the armour off.”

“What?” Perseus arched an eyebrow. Hector hadn’t ever stripped a soldier off his armour when he felled him. What was going on with his best friend?

“We can sell it,” Hector shrugged. “Gods know we need the money. The royal coffers can’t hold us up anymore. With a piece like this…” Perseus didn’t need much convincing about that. He slid off Blackjack and silently ordered the horse to get back to the safety of the city walls. He knew Blackjack could manage it.

“I’ll watch your backs,” Euphorbos supplied from beside him. “Just keep his body intact. I want it.” Before he could ask what for, the blond haired general had already darted away. Perseus knelt in the sand and began to help Hector take off the breast piece. Dead dark eyes stared up at him. Hector’s face was closed off as he removed the dented helmet.

“Hec,” Perseus whispered. “What’s eating you up?”

The prince smiled slightly, then shook his head. “Later. Now is not the time.”

Perseus gave him a dubious nod. He needed Aeneas. If anyone could get the curly haired royal before him to get down his walls, it would either be Aeneas—who’s descent helped him understand emotions better than Perseus did—or Hector’s own wife. Finally, battle still raging around them, Perseus peeled off the vambraces—the last of the armour. He glanced at Hector. “How do you propose we get this back to the city? It’s pure gold.”

“Good thing I found a chariot, then,” Aeneas rode towards them in a golden chariot driven by one of the soldiers, bloodied and exhausted, but alive, and Perseus was grateful for that. He sent his brother a smile. Aeneas always knew when he was needed. “Figured you’d need it when I saw you desecrating Achilles’ body.”

Perseus shot him an exasperated look. Okay, sometimes his brother’s righteousness irked him. But the son of Aphrodite rolled his eyes in response and deadpanned, “So, Achilles died pretty easily.”

“Not Achilles,” Hector stood, and Perseus followed his movement. They hauled the armour into the chariot. “I’ll explain later,” Hector shook his head.

“That’s an awful lot of explanations for later, Hector,” Perseus arched a brow. Hector shot him a look and Perseus rolled his eyes, backing away. Hector was right, as always. Now was just not the time. Perseus’ eyes were drawn to a scream from behind them. They whirled, readying weapons and slipping into stances. Aeneas swore, and Perseus’ eyes widened as Menelaus drove his spear through Euphorbos’ chest. The fair haired general slumped down, eyes unseeing.

“Give me the armour,” The King of Sparta called. “Give me Achilles’ body and we’ll be on our way!”

“Aeneas, get out of here,” Hector ordered. Perseus frowned. They didn’t know. The Greeks didn’t know that goldilocks wasn’t the one who had led them. Perseus could see Odysseus, making his way towards them. Gods, he wished that man would just drop dead. The Ithacan’s presence was getting annoying, and Perseus wanted to run him through, no matter what friendly relations they had had in the past. Behind him Aeneas and the armour dashed away and Menelaus snarled in frustration, spinning his spear.

“I want the body, then,” The King boomed. “And maybe I won’t kill you.”

“Good luck,” Hector called. And then he charged. Perseus ran a hand through his hair, spinning his sword in his grasp. He glanced at the sky. Nightfall seemed so far away.

Selene seemed so far away.

No matter. Hector needed his help.

As Odysseus pushed himself out of the crowd of people, Perseus pushed all his racing thoughts to the back of his mind. And then he launched himself into the skirmish, green eyes flashing with power.

~ • ~
“I’M SORRY.” The words felt like a punch to the gut and Achilles recoiled, doubling over. His vision turned blurry. His head felt heavy. But he wasn’t really sure that was what he had heard. They were lying. They were trying to trick him into fighting again. The son of Peleus held on to the mast of the ship tightly, and swallowed. He blinked, furiously. But his eyes betrayed him, and he felt the first of the tears fall. Achilles’ mouth felt bitter and shakily, he wobbled on his feet.

It wasn’t possible. They were lying.

Agamemnon was a liar and a cheat and Menelaus was his brother. What made him any different?

Achilles ran a hand through his hair frantically, trying to get a rein on his emotions. He wouldn’t accept this. Patroclus wasn’t dead. Patroclus, who had been at his side since he was ten summers, would not leave him just like that. Achilles’ eyes shifted to Odysseus, trying to find the tell in the King’s eyes. But the Ithacan looked at him with pity, and Achilles felt grief rear inside him. It was clawing at his throat, his eyes and he sank onto his knees. Patroclus.

Gods, Patroclus. It just couldn’t be true.

“Get out,” Achilles barked. He couldn’t see them through his tears. He didn’t want to see them. “Get the Hades out.”

“We thought it was you,” Menelaus said softly, placing a hand on Achilles’ shoulder. He wanted to shove him off. But he couldn’t lift his hand. He felt the heavy, oppressive feeling of anguish sit on his chest and press him down. Misery shrouded him and Achilles put his head in his hands, and released a gut-wrenching sob. His body shook, his head ached, but he didn’t care.

Achilles wept.

Patroclus was gone.

Patroclus was dead.

Memories slammed into his head. Climbing the hills to get to Chiron. Learning to ride the horses together. His first time sparring. Agony whirled inside him and he felt his despair growing. Menelaus squeezed his shoulder and that possibly made him cry more. “I tried…” The Spartan hesitated. “Your chariot is safe. I tried to get your armour back. But the Dardanian King carted it away.”

He didn’t care about the chariot or the armour. His best friend was dead.

Achilles tried to regain his composure. But then it hit him again. Patroclus had gone to Hades.

He chocked, but forced himself to ask, “The—the body…”

“We couldn’t get to it,” Odysseus shook his head sombrely.

The most important question came from his lips then, and Achilles shakily asked, “Wh—who killed him?”

Menelaus and Odysseus exchanged a glance. Achilles felt a chill settle over him. His chest rose and fell slowly. “Who killed him?” His voice was low and quiet now. Dangerous. A cold fury filled the son of Thetis. His eyes glinted.

“Patroclus was set upon by the god Apollo, the General Euphorbos and Prince Hector,” Odysseus listed off slowly. “But…it was the Prince who cut his throat.”

Achilles felt a laugh bubble in his throat and burst out of his lips. Hector? Hector had killed Patroclus. He laughed, tears falling out of his eyes. The fair haired warrior placed his head in his hands and laughed. He felt his mind fraying and his head pulsing. He couldn’t feel anything anymore. Black spots danced across his vision. Patroclus was dead. Patroclus was dead and Hector was going to pay.

His eyes widened and his body shook as he rocked back and forth. He didn’t care. He didn’t care if anything happened to him. But Hector was going to pay. Hector had to die.

“I’m going to carve his heart out,” Achilles ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him and avenge Patroclus,” He wiped his tears. “I swear it on the Styx.”

~ • ~
HECTOR’S HEART STILLED when he heard his name roared from the Greek walls. His head snapped up and his breath stuttered. He knew exactly who that voice belonged to. Hector tried to push back the feeling of panic which tried to engulf him as his gaze focused on the figure in a simple white tunic at the beach. It was Achilles.

It was his death.

He swallowed.

Achilles was bathed in gold, glowing with a brilliance no mortal should possess. Hector could see the shimmering giant form of Pallas Athena behind him, bathing the demigod in godly light. Achilles’ face was tear streaked and hard. Hatred was etched on his face. Anger, and the rage of a thousand daimons. His hair was in disarray, but the warrior didn’t seem to care. From his spot at the ramparts, Hector watched as Achilles screamed his name again, his fury and grief resonating across the battlefield.

A promise.

Hector winced once more as Achilles continued to prowl the Greek wall, screaming bloody murder. His murder. His gaze flickered to the battle beneath him, where Perseus and their allies battled with the Greek forces. The sun was high in the sky—it was almost midday. He had gone in to see his son and Andromache, and now, it was time to join the fray again. Hector sent a silent prayer to the gods. He knew how erratic the gods were. But now more than ever, he needed their protection.

From his spot above the fight, Hector could see soldiers carting carting Patroclus’ body away, Menelaus leading them by carving a path to their camp through the endless fighting.

Hector heard the click of heels on stone and turned. Something in him died when he saw Polydamas marching towards him. The seer had a serene expression on his face as though the battle happening below was music played from the strings of a harp. Hector nodded jerkily in acknowledgement to the advisor.

“Here to warn me of my death again?” He asked wryly.

The man passed him an expression Hector couldn’t read. “You killed Patroclus.”

“I did.” There was no point in denying it. His fate was already sealed anyway.

“You can still protect yourself, My Prince,” Polydamas’ voice was low and full of warning. “Leave the battle to your friends. Retreat deep into the castle. If necessary, leave this madhouse. Run far away with your family.”

Hector shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t, Polydamas. I can’t desert my people…my friends.”

“Then you are a fool,” The man shook his head. “A fool for refusing to be selfish. Noble, but foolish nonetheless.”

“Be that as it may,” Hector placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Even if I die today, I will die fighting, alongside my brothers.” He steeled his nerves and shrugged. “There is no better way to go.”

“Perhaps you should tell them, then,” Polydamas’ head snapped to him.

“And place an unnecessary burden on their shoulders?” He laughed shakily. “I would think not.” He knew what Aeneas would say, and how Perseus would shake him furiously if he knew. You are not unnecessary. He didn’t want to leave them.

“You are too selfless, Prince Hector,” Polydamas began to hobble away. “It will be your undoing.”

Hector watched him go. And then he descended down, himself, and into the battle.

~ • ~
HE STOOD UNMOVING as Patroclus’ body was wrapped. Achilles’ heart ached. He didn’t have the heart to carry out the burial rites. Not now. Not until Hector was in the ground. His bottom lip wobbled, the threat of his grief coming up to swallow him whole once more.

The battle had been forfeited, once more. And so Patroclus’ death had been for nothing. Achilles placed his hand in his head and exhaled. And then he trudged slowly into his tent behind him.

The Trojans had camped on the plain at nightfall, waiting, like a snake preparing to launch itself, to sink their fangs into the Greeks once more.

But he wouldn’t allow that. He was going to avenge his brother. He had no armour now. But come morning, he knew his mother would appear with the set she had gone to ask Hephaestus to commission for him. His mother had been crying when he had last spoken to her. They had cried together. Deep within him, he knew she wept for him. His death was imminent, he supposed. But he didn’t care. As long as Patroclus was avenged, he would be okay with joining his best friend in the Underworld.

He slowly opened the flap of the tent and marched inside.

He needed to converse his energy for tomorrow. He didn’t know how he would kill Hector yet. But he would do it. He didn’t really care which method he used.

Achilles glanced up and started, and then he felt a warmth replace his sorrow and anger. His hard exterior cracked, and her name fell from his lips as he made his towards her, seated on his bed.

“Achilles,” Briseis murmured. She stood as he got close and engulfed him in her arms. Achilles placed his head in the crook of her neck and sobbed. She was back. She was healthy. She was unharmed.

“Did he touch you?” He began. “Did—“

“Achilles,” Her voice was soft. Her hair was untied, and her clothes were new. He barely noticed the chests of gold occupying the other side of the tent. Briseis placed a hand on his chest. “I heard about…Patroclus.” Instantly the weight of what had happened seemed to collapse on him, her presence which had chased his thoughts away seeming irrelevant. Briseis placed her head on his chest and murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Achilles was silent for a few heartbeats, and his arms tightened around her. “No, I am. I should have come for you sooner. I should have—“

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” She pulled away. “That was in the past. You did what you could—“

“Not enough,” He said, bitterly. “Whatever I do is never enough. It wasn’t for Patroclus.”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t on you.”

“Wasn’t it?” He quipped.

“Achilles.” His name on her lips sounded like a prayer. Her eyes shone with love. And Achilles felt the warmth engulf him again. Briseis was…something else. She placed both of her hands on his face and drew him close so their foreheads were touching. In that moment, their breaths mingling, he felt like he could tell her anything. He could place his life in her hands. He loved her, and she loved him. She would carry his burdens with him. Patroclus might be gone but Achilles wasn’t alone.

He kissed her.

Softly, at first, and sweet. Their lips slanted around each other and she let out a breathy groan as his arms pulled her even closer. Briseis would be there. She would be his rock.

He pulled away, blinking, and licked his lips. “I missed you,” she whispered. “Every night and every day, I thought of you. I—“

“I’m here now,” He took her hands, and squeezed. “I’m here now.” There were things he needed to get off his chest. So many secrets. So many things he couldn’t bear to keep hidden anymore. Things not even Patroclus had known. He was overcome with feeling as he looked into her dark eyes. He could tell her. Everything that ever bothered him. He loved her. “Briseis…I…I have something to tell you.”

Her brow creased, but with her nod, he directed them onto his bed.

He didn’t notice the shimmering form of a red haired goddess blinking out of existence from his tent with a smile.

~ • ~
HIS MOTHER HELPED him strap on his armour. They didn’t speak. Her face was still tear-streaked as she adjusted the straps of his imperial gold breastplate. Achilles adjusted first the vambrace on his left hand and then the one on his right. His heart thundered in his chest. But he felt light. At least someone out there knew now. Someone he trusted with his life.

Briseis watched with a small heavy smile from the tent flap. Achilles smiled back at her, although he was sure it was more of a grimace. His mother’s nimble fingers worked behind him and Achilles stood still, until she finally drew back. The armour Hephaestus had crafted was beautiful. Worthy of a god. It was made from imperial gold, and his giant round gold shield was etched with impressions of the war over the past decade—engravings of the enemies Achilles had slain and the men he had conquered. He was grateful for it.

There were golden grieves along with a new pair of sandals, and a white cape which billowed in the wind behind him. His helmet was also golden, radiating power, with the white horsehair plume on it standing straight. He clutched a spear in his arm. Solid gold, but light and wieldable. With a long piercing spearhead. There was a sword at his belt, golden and bejewelled, sharp. Knives adorned his biceps and his waist. He was ready. Achilles waved to Briseis and made his way to the front of their section of the camp where Phoenix stood waiting, with a servant readying his chariot.

As he neared them, his horses Balius and Xanthos skittered and neighed, and Achilles nodded grimly to Phoenix, coming to a stop before the noble steeds. They shifted on their hooves, and the son of Thetis raised a hand to Xanthos’ head. They were uneasy, Achilles realised. He ran his hand soothingly down the brown horse’s snout. And then suddenly Achilles stiffened when he felt the foreign presence invade his mind.

“You go to kill the Trojan Prince today,” The voice was harsh and animalistic. It resonated in his mind making him wince. Achilles went to grab his head but couldn’t move his hand from his horse’s snout. And then his eyes widened when it hit him.

“Xanthos?” He asked cautiously.

The horse skittered and neighed. “You are destined to fall in a few days, My Prince! If you kill Hector your life is forfeit. Not even the gods can save you! A being stronger than any on this battlefield, and a guided arrow. They shall mark the end of your days. Your rage and pride shall be your downfall!”

Achilles swore, and tried to wrench his arm away. It came free and he cursed again as he stumbled on his feet. Phoenix shot him a worried expression, and approached, but Achilles held up his hand to stop him. His fingers went to his temple and he shook his head. He had imagined it. Animals didn’t speak.

“Let’s head out,” Exhaling, he pulls the reins on his emotions. It was nothing. Even if Xanthos had spoken, his mother had warned him already, years before. He had come to terms with this. He did not fear Thanatos.

But doubt crept up inside him and Achilles swallowed, quelling any straying thoughts. First, Hector. Then everything else came second. He would think about the rest later. “It’s almost morning. Come.” Achilles moved jerkily to his chariot and jumped inside.

~ • ~

PERSEUS swung his sword as the two forces clashed in battle for the millionth time that decade. He gritted his teeth, making sure to keep Aeneas and Hector in his periphery. He could see Achilles, thundering up the path and towards them in his chariot, shining in his new armour with the brilliance of a thousand suns.

Perseus heard a rumble from the above him and risked a glance upwards. He swore as Blackjack reared upwards.

The sky tore open.

Around him men screamed and blades clashed. Perseus’ own ichor roared as the gods descended among the mortals, in all their glory, power engulfing the terrain, their presence almost too much for even him. He watched, mouth open as the great Olympians waged war amongst themselves, not even trying to hold back their might.

Lord Zeus had lifted the ban on the interference.

And all hell broke lose.

Chapter Text

A/N—So, this is the final chapter of this arc. I hope you enjoy it. I’ll decide where and how I want this story to end before I upload the next chapter (probably some time late next year). Leave a few reviews if you can! Have a great 2024 guys! ❤️

HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG they had been fighting for. Perseus’ heart was thundering, and around him the wind was roaring as power surged and slammed into the two armies which had met at sunrise. The fighting was going on in earnest, and he had lost count of how many people he had killed now. His sword and his hands were stained with blood. His armour was dented and he had lost his helmet a long while ago. He was battered, bruised and bleeding ichor in several places where the Greek soldiers had somehow managed to land a few hits.

But he gritted his teeth and fought through the pain. Around him the soldiers clashed, the armies sliding at each other, hacking and rearing, each man fighting furiously to survive till nightfall. Around him Perseus felt another spike of power and swore, glancing up and tearing his sword out of the chest of another soldier.

The gods would destroy them all.

Above them, the deities which ruled the world collided, flashes of power and their overbearing presence making the air stifling. He saw Artemis, in a silver chariot drawn by deer, soaring through the sky and releasing arrows with dead accuracy into the fighting mass of men, leaving craters and ashes wherever they landed. Another chariot crossed her path, this one golden and drawn by bright brown horses with fiery manes. The steeds belched fire as they careened through the sky. Apollo released his golden arrows of death into the Greek lines, decimating their forces and leaving piles of the dead wherever his projectile hit.

They were trying to help, Perseus realised, raising his shield to block a strike and whirling himself around to slice at his assailant’s chest. But if they didn’t get a hold of their powers, they would kill them all.

His gaze drifted across the terrain, where Aeneas fought with unimaginable prowess and speed. He felled men as he moved, almost too fast for Perseus to see, like a machine made by Hephaestus. Behind him, Perseus could see the goddess Aphrodite, red hair flowing in the sky, guiding Aeneas’ hand and flicking her wrists to draw the life out of any who her son’s blade missed. There was an increase in the screaming to his left, where a river winded throughout the plain. A giant brown boar was charging through the lines of men, tusks piercing any who were close enough, spears and arrows bouncing off its hide. Perseus felt his negative feelings swell inside him to the point of bursting, but quelled them almost immediately, ducking under a wild slash and cutting off a man’s head in the process.

The god Ares rampaged in boar form, tearing down men, whether Greek or Trojan, and leaving a path of damaged bodies in his wake. There was another loud scream from somewhere to his left, and Perseus swore as Aegis-bearing Athena swooped down, her shield causing all the men around her to turn and bolt. But as they ran, the goddess hurled a spear and it sailed towards Agenor, one of the Trojan Generals. The man wouldn’t have enough time to duck. Perseus parried a strike which was coming for his right flank and twisted, disarming his attacker and smashing his shield into his nose. In a fluid movement, he drove the blade through the gut of the Greek soldier, whirling around to check on his companion at the other side of the battle.

Agenor was still standing, but around him men fell like flies into screaming messes of death as two immortals in two blood red chariots circled the goddess Athena. Perseus glanced around, catching the look of desperation several of the men wore. He felt a foreign emotion spike inside him—fear. And Perseus raised his arm to deflect another blow when the second feeling ripped through him, clawing at his insides and making him stumble back. The blow went wide, but as the panic engulfed him, Perseus’ attacker launched himself forward—a simple soldier, really—and slapped the weapon out of his hand.

Perseus swore, backtracking and cursing Phobos and Deimos, both of whom were now circling the wisdom goddess. The soldier’s eyes were alight with surprise. He hadn’t expected to disarm Perseus that quickly, or easily. The man charged.

Perseus’ head swivelled up when the sky ripped open once more and another figure streaked downwards.

Poseidon landed in a crater behind the Greek soldier and thrusted his trident forward. Perseus watched in mild shock as the three prongs of the godly weapon ripped through skin and bone in the man’s neck. The soldier’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped onto the ground. The green eyed man eyed the sea god before him. Poseidon looked exactly the same as he had when they’d last met. And then he laughed under his breath. Poseidon had looked the same for nearly three thousand years.

“You said you’re pulling out of the war,” He tilted his head in acknowledgement. It was an odd feeling, viewing the god in front of him and not being overcome by rage and sorrow and bloodlust. He supposed it would take some getting used to.

“I was watching from the heavens,” Poseidon smiled, tentatively. His fingers were drumming on the trident he now leaned on, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them. He was nervous. “I came to help.”

“I can handle myself,” Perseus said, shortly. The immortal before him grimaced and the Trojan rolled his eyes. A sour taste filled his mouth, but he managed to force the words out, like he was ripping a disease out of his core. “Thanks, though.”

Poseidon’s eyes lighted, and he shifted on his feet. Like their previous meeting, they were encased in swirling wind as the battle raged around them, keeping them from interfering gods and mortals. “I…” Perseus had never seen a god stumble over his words. He smirked to himself. The sight was a welcome one. Even if he had let go of his anger, that didn’t mean he was going to make things easy for the god of the seas. But then again, he had also never seen a god trying as hard as Poseidon was to win another’s favour. A demigod child, at that. From the old stories, that was unheard of.

“I brought you a gift,” Poseidon managed.

“Oh?” He arched a brow.

Accepting a gift from Poseidon meant accepting Poseidon himself. He steeled his nerves. Maybe this was going too fast. Maybe he had forgiven the elder god too easily. He had to let him work for it.

Poseidon cleared his throat and then, with his free hand, flicked his wrist. A small round blue thing appeared between his fingers. It looked simple, ancient and battered. It seemed to be a coin.

“You want to fix your relationship with me by buying your way through it?” Perseus asked dryly. “I’m flattered, but that doesn’t look like much and I’m sure I’m worth more than a rock, Poseidon.” Said god coughed, and it looked like he was suppressing a laugh. The brother of Zeus stretched out his hand and motioned for him to take it. “It’s the currency we use down in my kingdom under the sea.”

Perseus swallowed. This…this was a big step, even if it was just a rock-coin thing. He thought back, to the events of the last few weeks. He thought back to Selene’s words, about listening to his heart.

Exhaling, Perseus reached out and took the coin. On one side was a laurel wreath fashioned from kelp. Beneath it were inscriptions in a language Perseus didn’t bother to try to understand. He turned it over. A side profile of Poseidon. The demigod snorted. Poseidon was trying to hide a small smile. “I think you’ll like this. Toss it.” His brow creased, but he didn’t question it. He flicked the coin upwards. As it came down, the switch happened, and a look of surprise overcame his wariness as a sword landed in his grip. Perseus felt his hackles going down at the sight. It was beautiful. Intricately crafted, hewn from celestial bronze.

A weapon fit for gods.

Perseus held a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a leather-wrapped grip, and a flat hilt riveted with gold and coral blue studs. It felt balanced…it felt right.

"The sword has a long and tragic history," Poseidon told him. "It belonged to one of Artemis’ handmaidens. Her name is Zoë Nightshade, a daughter of the Titan Atlas. She joined the hunt after being wronged by Heracles and tossed it into the sea, unable to look at it without being reminded of the life she left behind. It made its way to me.” The god eyed him as he turned the sword in his grasp, totally enraptured by its simple beauty. “It’s name is Anaklusmos.”

"Riptide," He said, slowly.

"The sword is celestial bronze. Forged by the Cyclopes, tempered in the heart of Mount Etna, cooled in the River Lethe. It's deadly to monsters, to any creature from the Underworld, provided they don't kill you first, which they cannot. It will destroy any mortal it touches, rip their souls from the bodies which anchor them to this world.” Perseus nodded, appreciatively.

“Now, flip it again.” He did so, and the coin landed in his palm.

“Thank you,” The demigod looked at his…father, with genuine gratitude in his eyes. Poseidon nodded. “But what if I lose it?” He cocked his head to the side. “I can’t very well keep track of this little thing forever.”

"You can't," The god shrugged. “It is enchanted. It will always appear whenever you need it. If you lose the coin, it will reappear on your finger. Try it."
He was wary, but he threw the grey coin as far as he could, into the mass of men around him. He watched it disappear, swallowed by the screaming men and bloodied bodies.
"It may take a few moments," Poseidon glanced around, then back at him. "Now check your hands.” Perseus glanced down, and started in surprise when he spotted the golden ring forming onto the index finger of his left hand. Where a stone or jewel should have sat was the pebble-like Atlantean coin.

“Okay, that’s cool,” He admitted, using a finger to dislodge the coin and toss it into the air. He grabbed the sword before it fell.

“I’m…glad you like it,” The sea god began to turn away.

“Hey,” Perseus called. He swallowed. “You…you can…you can come by tonight. You know where to find me?”

The corners of his lips pulled up in a grin and smile lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. Poseidon nodded, and then vanished in a spray of mist.

~ • ~

PERSEUS darted towards where the screaming was loudest.

It was where Achilles would be, after all. Hector had gotten lost somewhere in the fray, and he had lost sight of Aeneas too. But Perseus cut a path through the soldiers to get to the river which winded across the terrain and down the hills. He spotted the fair haired warrior then, glowing, roaring and cutting down men like they were fish. Achilles’ sword moved like a scythe through fields of rice, and Perseus swore. The demigod was angry, and in his anger, he was decimating their forces. He had to stop him.

The Prince of Phthia let out a primal roar of rage and leaped out of his chariot and into the Skamandros river beneath them. Men charged him, but Achilles was too fast. He spun in the water, a whirlwind of death and destruction, and around him, men fell like flies. Perseus twisted his new sword in his hand and studied the scene before him. Achilles had filled the river with bodies. The water was tinted red, and Perseus felt a deep anger thrum through him—his and the river’s—at the desecration. As he made to step into the flowing water, Achilles grabbed hold of one Trojan by the neck and drove his sword into his chest. And then, eyes blazing, he hurled the screaming man away.

The soldier landed in the water with a thud, and just as Perseus himself fell into the water, he felt the river rushing to a particular spot in front of Achilles and then condense and whirl into a figure. A surge of power rushed into him at contact with the water, and he felt his cuts and bruises close, healing themselves. That was new.

The newcomer was blue, and almost eight feet tall. He had bull horns and a ring through his nostrils and he wore nothing but a simple loincloth. A full beard framed his face. Perseus stared. The river spirit.

Skamandros growled and said, “You defile my river with your machinations, godling.” His voice was like the rushing waves of the river. “You dare to violate me with blood from lowly mortals?” Around him, the Trojans who had surrounded Achilles in the river stilled and then bolted away in fear. The river was almost bursting with bodies and full of blood.

Achilles’ lips curled at the interference, “This is war, river god. Things like this happen.”

Skamandros’ nostrils flared. “Then your death will be another mishap in this endless war of you foolish mortals.” He flicked his wrists and Perseus felt the river, more powerful than ever, rise. And then it shot towards a wide eyed Achilles, whirling and whipping as it went, tanged red and wanting revenge against the man who had befouled it. Just before the water touched the son of Thetis, a whirlwind of flames swarmed into existence in front of it and Achilles let out a cry of surprise, stumbling back as the water was absorbed by the flames of Hephaestus.

The god appeared in a chariot above them as steam shot into the air. His chariot, golden, intricate and huge, was pulled by five flying metal pegasi, and the god which occupied it waved another hand and the fiery tornado hurled itself at Skamandros. The river god snarled, raising a fist and the water rose to absorb the flames.

“Olympian,” Skamandros greeted. “You protect this mortal. You interfere and break the ancient laws. I am within my rights to strike him down.”

The smoke cleared and Perseus had a chance to view the god. He had long black hair tangled in knots. His face was full of soot but his eyes shone with intelligence. He had a crooked, ugly nose and his skin looked like it had been assaulted with hot water. His chin was shifted slightly and one jaw was larger than the other. He was hunched in his seat, a hump resting on his back and as Hephaestus smiled, Perseus caught sight of mismatched teeth.

The stories hadn’t done Hephaestus’ looks justice. Perseus fought the urge to recoil.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” The god pulled the reins of his chariot, his voice crawling over Perseus’ skin, hard and heavy like a hammer slamming into metal. Without wasting much time, he charged the river.

Perseus leaped into action then, ignoring the smell of blood in the air, jumping over bodies and diving out of the way of Hephaestus’ chariot. He made a beeline for Achilles, who was coughing behind the steam, catching a breath. Perseus grinned to himself. Even if the water was polluted and nearly destroyed, he still had the upper hand. Inside here, he was in charge. With that, Perseus swung Anaklusmos and dove for the warrior Prince of Phthia, ichor roaring inside him.

~ • ~

THEY WERE LOSING. Perseus had been so absorbed in his fight with Achilles that he hadn’t realised that they were losing. He didn’t know what surge of valour had suddenly gone through the Greek lines but they fought, furiously, until the Trojans turned tail and ran. The call for retreat sailed through the lines and men bolted back for the city gates like all the demons of Hades were coming for them. Perseus stood on dry ground now, the lines of Greek and Trojans hauling him away, thundering up the terrain and towards the city.

When Achilles had figured out that he couldn’t beat him in the water, the demigod had hopped out instantly, and Perseus hadn’t bothered to follow when he darted away from the fight in his chariot. He’d entered the fray once more, and had crossed blades with Ajax and Menestheus. He’d seen a dark haired goddess—Eris—tearing through the Greek lines and laughing maniacally. He’d seen gods hurling each other into the ground and into the sky and fragments of their power breaking the minds and bodies of the fighting men around them.

It was horrendous.

Perseus stood behind the lines of fleeing Trojan soldiers. He saw the gates being hurled open to receive the men. He saw Aeneas appear on the ramparts next to Andromache and Creusa. He couldn’t see Hector, but he prayed his friend was safe. He had to cover their retreat. The son of Poseidon dove into the oncoming Greek lines, his sword tearing through tendons and armour like they were water. Anaklusmos felt like an extension of his own body and his vision blurred, air roaring around him as he skewered any enemy soldier that dared to cross his path. He glanced around, dodging a strike to his flank and slicing off the wrist of his attacker. He parried another blow and twisted, disarming the Greek and dragging his sword across his throat. Amidst the screams coming from him, Perseus heard a roar from the Greek lines.

He ducked low under a blow and drove his sword through a man’s gut. Panting with exertion, Perseus rose and looked around him wildly. The men had almost made it inside.

The son of Poseidon’s eyes caught the golden haired warrior hurtling forward, after the running lines of Trojan men. Achilles screamed Hector’s name again and Perseus winced. Hearing his friend’s name from the lips of this bloodthirsty prince…it didn’t bode well with him. But Hector had killed Patroclus. And Achilles was in grief. Grief usually made men go mad and scream other Prince’s names. Perseus didn’t think much of it. He darted away from the converging soldiers around him and towards the Achaean prince.

He spotted Apollo before either of them saw him. The god materialised somewhere in front of him and dove for Achilles. Perseus’ eyes widened. Apollo was dressed in the standard and armour of a Trojan general.

He was buying them time.

The god’s golden hair was a mousy brown now. He looked shorter and bulkier, but Perseus had been around that power for some twenty something odd years. He would recognise it anywhere.

Achilles spotted the disguised god before Apollo got to him and launched himself forward, no doubt unaware of who he faced. Apollo’s golden sword slammed into Achilles’. Perseus swore, spinning Anaklusmos in his grasp as he ran for them. Achilles reared away from Apollo and attacked again, in a series of strikes and well aimed slices. But Apollo was fast. He dodged and parried and blocked and his hair whipped around him as he defended against Achilles’ attacks. None of them were giving ground, and none of them were overpowering the other.

In his mortal disguise, Apollo was limited. But the god tried. He pushed back Achilles with strength which should have been impossible, and the demigod was sent flying. Achilles landed on his feet and his head whipped up in rage. He leaped off the ground and that was when Perseus acted.

He intercepted the son of Thetis, their swords meeting in a furious blow. Perseus gritted his teeth. Achilles was sweating, but he didn’t look tired. His still burning anger was fuelling him, and he bared his teeth and snarled as he tried to dislodge Perseus and throw him back. When it seemed that none could do so, they both reared away from each other. And then spinning, clashed once more. This time it was more fluid, as Achilles dove for Perseus’ right flank. He rose Anaklusmos to parry the blow and sent his free hand flying in a fist. It connected with Achilles’ jaw, sending the other man stumbling.

And then Perseus launched himself forward, striking quickly and fluidly, hacking and slashing and parrying blows. Achilles fought with equal ferocity, ducking and stabbing and trying to slice off his limbs. Perseus pulled back a bit but the man attacked again, only to be blocked by a golden sword.

Apollo hurled him away again.

Perseus eyed the god. His face was hard, his eyes glowing. He nodded at the demigod and pulled back. Behind them, the Greeks were still giving chase and his people were still flooding through the gates. They would make it, but only if Achilles wasn’t able to get to the Trojans in time.

It didn’t require much thinking, and Perseus nodded back, a silent agreement. For this, for Troy, he was willing to let go. He was willing to set aside his conflicted feelings about Apollo. They would work together, as they had been doing since he was four. They would fight side by side once more.

Apollo had taught him everything he knew.

Apollo had been a brother to him.

And maybe, if he had managed to find it in him to forgive Poseidon…maybe Apollo was worth exonerating too.

But not today. Not yet. Today they were just comrades; they were just partners. Perseus reached out and grabbed Apollo’s free hand. The god’s eyes softened and he squeezed. Perseus squeezed back and turned to the now panting Phthian stalking for them.

They attacked as one, swords whirling, power flashing and light engulfing them. Achilles swung for Perseus’ head with a yell and the demigod parried, twisting his sword. The other man spun and drawing a knife, slashed at Apollo’s neck. Apollo dodged the blow and slashed at Achilles’ side. His strike bounced off, sending him stumbling. But then Perseus was there, slicing at Achilles’ arm. The blow glanced off, the force behind it making him backtrack a few steps. Instantly Apollo was there, leaping off the ground and bringing his weapon down in an overhead strike. Achilles raised a hand to block with a grunt and Perseus moved, sliding his foot in the earth and knocking Achilles off balance. The demigod hit the ground and rolled before Apollo’s sword collided with the earth.

Before Achilles could recover, they shot at him.

The next few minutes were indescribable. They fought, three beings of immense power, swords whirling and clashing, limbs moving, in a dance of death. The wind was roaring as they spun around each other, whirling and blocking and striking and trying to run each other through. If it hadn’t been for Achilles’ iron skin, he would have been dead already. And if it hadn’t been for Apollo, Perseus would have had a sword in his chest three times already. They watched each other’s back, fighting like a well oiled machine, communicating with their eyes and reading each other’s movements before the other made it.

Even after these ten years of silence, Apollo knew him well.

Achilles didn’t stand a chance, iron skin or no.

The fight could have lasted for hours. They could have gone on, wrecking havoc on the battlefield until Achilles tired out. Apollo struck at Achilles’ side but the prince sidestepped, and Perseus launched himself at the Greek, his sword whipping in an arc towards the blond’s chest. Achilles snarled and raised a hand to parry to blow. With a burst of strength, he hurled Perseus back and threw the knife in his free hand towards him. The green eyed man felt the blade sink into his flesh a second later and pain ripped through his shoulder. He let out a small yell of surprise as Achilles parried a few blows from Apollo and drove his sword into the god’s gut.

Apollo grunted.

And then he laughed. Achilles’ eyes widened as the god’s disguised burned through. Then a small grin spread on his face. He looked like a madman. “I should’ve known,” The Phthian shook his head.

“You should’ve,” Apollo shrugged. He flicked his wrist and Achilles went flying into the sand. The god grimaced as he drew the sword from his chest. With a look of disdain, he hurled the weapon away and glanced towards the injured son of Anchises. Perseus clenched his jaw. Achilles hadn’t resurfaced, and his hand went to the knife in his shoulder. Pain laced through his body, travelling down his chest and arm as he wrapped his fingers around the blade. He wrenched it out with a small cry. Ichor spurted out.

Apollo winced, and then said, “Guess I should fix that.” Behind him, the panting warrior prince was standing. Perseus released a breath. His eyes flickered over the the city walls. The last of the Trojans dove inside and the city gates began closing. The Greeks were too close.

“Fix that first,” He motioned to the racing army of Achaeans. Apollo looked towards them in interest. “I can do both,” He shrugged. Achilles was stalking towards them, his hands shaking in barely controlled rage.

Apollo snapped his fingers. Perseus felt his wound seal. Warmth spread through his shoulders. At the other side of the plain, the first line of Greek soldiers slammed into an invisible wall—a barrier. The Trojan Gates slammed shut. Apollo waved his hands and Perseus felt himself beginning to unravel. The god was transporting him away. “Perseus!” Achilles called. “When I’m done with your friend Hector—when I pluck out his eyes and deliver his head to your doorstep—I will find a way to kill you! I will kill you!” It was a promise. Perseus’ ichor chilled at the threat to Hector, and Apollo frowned. He didn’t have time to retort, though. He felt his form burst into dust and Achilles faded from view.

~ • ~

“WHERE’S HECTOR?” Aeneas inquired, some of the fear in him dissipating when Perseus appeared a few feet away on the battlements. His brother looked knackered and was turning a bit green from the godly transport. Speaking of gods…Aeneas’ eyes flickered around the battlefield. This level of death and destruction…in all the ten years they’d been fighting, today was the worst. But thankfully, the gods had gone, Apollo being the last of them. He didn’t know when, or how, but maybe Zeus had called them back and now they were on equal footing once more.

“What?” Perseus coughed, coming to stand next to him. “I thought he entered the city with you and the men.” Aeneas felt something in him plummet. Worry gnawed at his gut. The son of Aphrodite was saved from answering by his wife, who shook her head. “He didn’t. No one’s seen him since the battle.”

Astyanax let out a small gurgle from Andromache’s arms. The new mother looked anxious, as she faced them. “Something is wrong. Something has been wrong with him for a few days. He won’t tell me what it is.”

“You noticed it too?” Aeneas frowned. He’d been meaning to ask Hector. But with these back to back battles and always strategising, he hadn’t gotten the time.

“So did I,” Perseus murmured. “He promised to tell me later.” Their gazes went back to the terrain beneath them, where the Greeks had stopped a good distance from the gates. Achilles was moving to the front lines, easily identified by his glowing imperial gold armour. Aeneas felt his unease grow.

“I…” Andromache trailed off, squeezing her son. Her bottom lip wobbled. “He made it, though, didn’t he? He’s alive. Maybe he went back to the palace.”

Aeneas shook his head. The first thing he had done while watching Perseus and Apollo distract Achilles had been to send a page to find the Prince in the city. Hector wasn’t inside. They remained silent. The line of nobles stretched from one end of the city walls to another, and a few were visible from the balconies of the palace. Watching, waiting to see what the Greeks did next. It wasn’t nightfall, and this was the first time the Trojans had been defeated before the sun dipped. The Achaeans could still attack if they wanted. Breach the walls with siege towers if they could construct them in time. Destroy the gates. Priam’s hand shook in Hecuba’s.

“Shit,” Perseus swore, eyes widening. Aeneas’ heart stopped as he followed Perseus’ line of sight.

Achilles held a sword in his hand, and was stalking forward, a look of fury etched on his face. Aeneas’ eyes slid down, and Andromache let out a small gasp as Hector stepped out of the shadows of the gate, sword drawn. Aeneas blinked in alarm and Creusa swore colourfully. Perseus made a choking sound, a look of realisation dawning on his face.

The city gates were shut. Hector stood alone, against the entirety of Greece. Against Iron-skinned Achilles of Phthia, who had been calling for his death since he has sliced open Patroclus’ neck.

~ • ~

PERSEUS had never felt so stupid. Not as much as Hector was being right now, but stupid nonetheless. His voice ripped out of his throat as he yelled at his friend. “Hector! Get back in here! Don’t do anything foolish!” Below them, his best friend stiffened. Hecuba let out a small cry and Priam shook.

“Hector!” His mother called. “Hector, please!”

But the curly haired Prince didn’t turn. He marched forward, filled with purpose and determination. Marching straight for Achilles.

“He’ll kill him,” Aeneas sounded frantic. “For Patroclus. He’ll kill Hector!” Astyanax let out a loud wail which pierced through the air.

“I’m going down there,” Perseus swore. He drew his sword, ready to hurl himself off the wall to help his friend. Aeneas drew a knife, more than ready to join him. Astyanax let out another wail.

This time, Hector stopped. The Prince turned. Perseus’ heart clenched. He whirled around, but…he couldn’t move. He gritted his teeth, struggling against the invisible bonds which held him in place. Gods. The gods were interfering. He was locked in place.

Hector’s eyes shone with tears. But he smiled. Andromache let out a wrecked sound from beside them. Achilles screamed Hector’s name, and Perseus’ feet wobbled as he tried to break free. Cursed gods. What was the meaning of this? Why were they so meddlesome? He gritted his teeth, his eyes burning. He hated how the gods could control him with a flick of their wrists. It shouldn’t have been possible. He was immortal. He was half a god. They should not be able to dictate whatever he wanted to do with his own body. Perseus snarled.

But it was possible, his mind argued. He was an anomaly, like Athena had said. A shadow of a god. An immortal without domains. That was why he was still able to fight in this war. The ancient laws didn’t apply to him; no laws governing the other gods did. It made sense that other immortal deities were able to control him. He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t one of the mortals either. He was somewhere in between, an inconsistency. He could walk among the immortals, but he was just a human with ichor in his veins, to them. He just had the curse of living forever, but everything else about him and his life was as mortal as his brother beside him.

He had to…he had to help. But Hector met his gaze. The Prince shook his head, the plea burning in his eyes. Hector glanced down the line of nobles once more and Perseus realised he was watching and allowing their images to burn themselves into his mind. His parents. His best friends. His siblings. His wife and son. The Prince smiled wider. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed.

Perseus’ heart broke. A goodbye.

This was a goodbye.

Tears burned in Perseus’ eyes.

Hector was going to die. And he had known for a while.

~ • ~
HECTOR WASN’T SURE if his heart was still beating. It definitely wasn’t whole. He felt shattered. The look he had seen in Perseus and Aeneas’ eyes…Andromache’s broken expression…

The Prince bit his lip and drew his sword. He felt the fear filling him as Achilles drew closer. This was stupid. He was stupid.

But he was going to die anyway. The seer had seen it. And he would rather face Thanatos head on than allow him to pluck him from the battlefield unawares. He swallowed, feeling the thrum in his veins, the agony ripping through his body as his son let out another wail behind him. He didn’t want Astyanax to see this. He didn’t want any of them to see this.

But if they had to, he would make sure his son only remembered a hero. He would make sure he died with honour, and with dignity. He couldn’t change it. Not if the fates had already spun the threads. Hector felt blood in his mouth. He’d bitten too hard, and now he watched, stiff, as Achilles stopped a few feet away from him.

He was scared.

He was fucking scared of dying. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to go home. He wanted to hold his son. He wanted to kiss his wife and drink with his best friends. Emotions coiled through him and Hector blinked back his tears. He felt fury at the Fates for cutting his life short just when everything seemed to be looking up. Despair as he watched the fair haired warrior take him in. Sorrow, that he was leaving all that mattered behind. But he stamped them down. He couldn’t cry. Not in front of Achilles. He needed to hold on. He needed to keep the Greeks busy until nightfall.

Hector hated Polydamas then, for telling him what was to come. No man should ever know their fate.

He had thought he was dauntless.

But he was afraid. He was afraid of death. He wanted to drop his sword and run.

But he wasn’t a coward. Now, more than ever, Hector knew he had to be brave.

For his parents and siblings, who would watch him be cut down. For his brothers, Perseus and Aeneas, more blood than his own family. For the woman he loved more than his own self and the son she had given him.

Achilles spoke. “Prince Hector. Come to die at last?” He said it more as a statement than a question. And that scared him. But Hector pushed his fear back to the deepest recess of his mind and scoffed. Achilles shook his head. “You killed my best friend.”

“This is war, Achilles,” The Prince held his head high. But his voice was soft. “It happens. People die.”

The blond man barked out a laugh. “I guess you’re right. And you’re next in line.” With that, he launched himself off the ground.

Achilles swung his sword in a powerful blow for Hector’s head. The Prince reacted instantly, raising his sword to parry the blow. The iron skinned warrior leaped aside as Hector twisted and attempted to stab him. In a heartbeat, they clashed once more, gold against bronze, the sound of metal colliding ringing in Hector’s ears. His blood was roaring as the reared away and attacked once more. Hector dodged a blow and spun on his feet, swinging for Achilles’ neck. Achilles raised his arm and Hector’s strike bounced off his vambrace, then he sliced upwards with his weapon.

The curly haired Prince sidestepped the blow and gritting his teeth, pushed Achilles back. Without waiting another second, the son of Thetis leaped for him. Hector heard a gasp from the ramparts, as he spun away from the swinging blade. He brought his own sword in an arc to slash at Achilles’ chest, and his weapon collided with the breastplate. Instantly he pulled back and they clashed once more, in a whirlwind of limbs and sword.

The wind whistled in his ears and he let out a loud roar. Sparks flew where their sword met, then Hector backtracked, panting. He couldn’t keep this up. Not if he couldn’t find a way to kill the demigod. Achilles snarled and jumped off the ground for him. He swung his sword midair and brought it down in an overhead strike, intending to cut the Prince of Troy in two. Hector swore, then blocked his strike. Achilles landed on the ground, eyes alight with fury. He yelled again and collided with the Prince.

Sparks exploded from the meeting of their swords. Achilles gritted his teeth, trying to push him back, but Hector was desperate. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to fucking die. He bared his teeth and pushed Achilles back with all his might. The son of Thetis stumbled back, surprise on his face.

Hector lashed at him again, and they met, slashing, stabbing at each other. He parried a strike and returned one of his own, but although his sword connected with the man’s skin, it didn’t have an impact. Achilles grinned and they continued battling. Soldiers stopped around them, and people watched as the two forces clashed. They slammed into each other, dancing around one another, trading blows and stabs. They continued spinning around each other, dodging hacks and slashing, battling with the force of thousand men.

Hector sidestepped a thrust to his side and slammed his fist in Achilles’ face. The man grunted and glared at him, eyes lighting with anger. With a roar they met once again. Achilles avoided most of his strikes and as they continued fighting, they both tried desperately to land a hit. The son of Thetis couldn’t get past his guard, and Hector couldn’t penetrate his skin. He exhaled furiously, his head swimming. Just a bit more. Just a bit more time till nightfall. Achilles dove at Hector’s throat and the son of Priam moved to block but the blow didn’t come. It was a feint. Hector’s eyes widened when suddenly the son of Thetis bent and slashed forward with swiftness and harshness. He was too slow. As he cried out, he felt mild pain flash across his torso—Achilles’ sword cut a gash in his skin through his armour.

The wind was howling now, whistling, like bells. Hector suddenly felt very dizzy and he shook his head, gritting his teeth to fight back the pain. He heard a cry from the ramparts and looked up, instinctively. Andromache had tears streaming down her face and Hector’s heart broke.

He barely recovered his wits enough to duck as Achilles struck again with a mad laugh. Blood streamed down his breastplate. His chest was burning, but Hector spun, trying to sweep the Phthian off his feet. Achilles danced away from him and struck at his neck but Hector raised his sword and hurled him away. His arm was wobbling. His head was matted with sweat and he was panting heavily. Achilles barely looked winded. He grinned at Hector, maniacally. “I hope you said your goodbyes.”

Hector didn’t bother to answer. He slid into a stance, but then Achilles didn’t attack. The blond haired man swept his foot in the sand and Hector let out a yelp as the dust swam into his face and eyes, clouding his vision. Swearing, he stumbled back. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t see and he was going to die. Panic surged in him. He couldn’t see but he heard Achilles dart forward as he tried to blink the sand out of the eyes. He heard cries and screams from battlements.

A sharp pain wracked his body as a blade was dug into his side. His sword was knocked out of his hand. A slice at his back. He was pushed to his knees. All in less than three seconds. Hector felt the dust clear from his eyes. He was panting hard.

Achilles stood before him, a sword at his throat.

The Prince’s eyes flickered to his family. Gods keep them safe. Hades take his spirit.

His eyes flickered back to Achilles. “You cheated.”

“All’s fair in war,” Achilles grunted.

Hector sighed. He didn’t know which breath would be his last. “Get it over with.”

“I will,” The Prince stepped in closer. “This is for Patroclus.”

“Perseus and Aeneas will find a way to kill you,” His eyes burned bright. He felt the emotions welling up inside him. His time had come. There was no escaping this now.

He was glad he had met them.

He had lived a good life. Not a full one, but a good life nonetheless.

“They’ve been trying for ten years,” Achilles sneered.

Hector looked the Prince dead in the eyes. “Grief makes men do stupid things. My brothers will kill you.” He felt the blade draw blood in his throat. His eyes moved back to the ramparts. His gaze locked on his parents. He would miss them. He loved them. He loved them all. He felt the sharp pain of a sword sliding across his throat. He felt his breath stutter and blood spill down his throat. His vision swam and his head pounded. He swore he could see a black cloaked figure diving for him from atop the ramparts.

Hector took in his family once more. His Kingdom. His son. He had to be brave. He needed to remember, where he was going. He hoped he made Elysium.

He was the son of Hecuba and Priam.

He was brother to Perseus and Aeneas and Creusa and Cassandra and all his many siblings.

He had fought alongside and against gods and men.

He had protected his Kingdom for ten years.

He had travelled far and wide to keep those he loved safe.

He was a father.

He was a husband.

He was the Heir Apparent to the Throne.

He had made mistakes and enemies.

He had made friends.

But he was ready to go.

His name was Hector. He was a Prince. And he would not be afraid.

His eyes met that of Perseus, and then moved to Aeneas. Blood was swimming in his lungs, his throat, his mouth. But his lips moved, although not a sound came out. “I love you—“

His eyes flickered shut.

And then everything went black.

~ • ~

AENEAS had thought he knew grief. He’d seen people die. He’d seen people succumb to illness. He’d managed all that really well. But he couldn’t describe the feeling which ripped through him now, as Achilles let out a roar of victory. As Hector’s eyes shut for the last time. He couldn’t watch as the body slumped to the side and hit the ground. As Andromache screamed his name and his son wailed, although he couldn’t possible know what was going on.

Aeneas sank onto his knees. Andromache sobbed. He felt the tears coming, and he did nothing to stop them. He felt a sob wrench itself out of his throat. He felt his chest constrict, his breaths coming short as he put his head in his hands. He watched Achilles tie Hector’s body to the back of his chariot. Aeneas had watched a piece of him get torn away. A piece he could never get back. The tears came again, his eyes latched on Hector’s body, and this time, pain came with them, hot and sharp in his chest. He clutched the hilt of his knife in his fist, desperate for the relief it offered, the protection from the pain of every memory clawing inside him like an animal.

Creusa put her arms around his shoulders, but her embrace only made the pain worse, and he couldn’t look at her, because she had Hector’s eyes and Hector was dead. He was gone, he was gone, he was dead and he wasn’t coming back. She hugged him like her brother used to do, when they first became friends, uncertain at first, but then stronger, more confident, more sure of himself and of Aeneas. It reminded him that no embrace will ever feel the same again, because no one would ever be like him again, because Hector was gone. It couldn’t be true. Hector was gone. He was gone and another sob wrenched itself out of his throat at the thought. They had promised. They had promised to never leave anyone behind. But he was gone and he—he was dead and Aeneas felt so broken and his best friend was dead.

He was gone, and crying felt so useless, so stupid, but it was all he could do. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears away. Creusa held him upright and didn’t say a word for a long time, lost in her own sorrow. Lost, like her brother was.

~ • ~

HE WAS TOO NUMB, TOO DISTRACTED to stop him as Achilles rode away on his chariot, dragging Hector’s body behind him.

Apollo once taught him how to identify it when a god created an illusion in front of him. He taught him, as the god of truth, how to identify and manoeuvre himself out of a web of lies which looked so real it would deceive any other person. And this had to be a lie, an illusion, because Hector was still alive, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed with laughter and wine, somewhere in the palace. His large and solid body was full of power and strength, waiting for them at the doors to the palace.

Hector was still alive, he wouldn’t leave Perseus here alone. Hector was smart. He wouldn’t stand outside the gates alone to face a warrior he knew he couldn’t beat. Not without backup.

Hector was their best friend, and he wouldn’t walk to his death when it meant leaving behind this wife and his son. He wouldn’t leave his brothers, and he wouldn’t not tell them he knew he was going to die and it had been wrecking him for days.

“No,” Perseus said, shaking his head. His bottom lip wobbled. His head was swimming. Maybe he was just dizzy. Where was Hector? He had to find him. He would take Perseus to a physician. “No, there’s got to be some mistake.” Andromache cried harder from beside him. Hecuba had buried her head in Priam’s arms, unable to look away as Achilles drove past the wall for the second time, dragging that body—that imposter—behind him. Desecrating and destroying the corpse of the man who had been posing as Perseus’ own best friend.

He felt his eyes well up with tears and he blinked furiously, slamming his fist against the stone. He was free again, the force of Olympus’ powers gone from his body. He was dreaming. He was dreaming and if he pinched himself hard enough he would wake up and Hector would be in his chambers, Aeneas wouldn’t be crying and he would begin preparing to meet Selene in front of the beach.

But then another thought hit him, and he clenched his jaw to keep from screaming. He should have known. He should have known what was eating up Hector. He should have bullied him until he told. He should have gotten it out of him right there on the battlefield two days prior. It was his fault. It was always his fault. His best friend was dead and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hurl himself off the city walls.

Of course Hector would stay behind to fight Achilles.

Of course he would.

Selfish bastard, waiting behind so he could fight Achilles all by himself. If Hector had known he was going to die he would have accepted it and faced it head on. He wouldn’t cower unless in the privacy of his chambers, and he wouldn’t tell them, selfless fool that he was, only so they wouldn’t be burdened and worried for him. Perseus’ chest ached.

From beside him, Helenus and Paris yelled something, probably to stop Achilles, who had gone round the city wall three times already and was circling for a fourth. The body behind him was dusty and unrecognisable and bloodied and just couldn’t be Hector. To Perseus, their voices sounded muffled, like he had submerged his head underwater. The details of Achilles’ face had also become difficult to see, the world smearing together into dull colours. Everything was numb, and he didn’t know what feeling was roiling in him then. He couldn’t see and Hector was dead.

All he could do was stand still. He felt like if he just stood still, he could stop it from being true. He could pretend that everything was all right, tune out everyone and go see Hector at the palace. Deiphobus hunched over, unable to support his own grief, and Cassandra embraced him, and all Perseus was doing was standing still. Andromache was clutching to their son. Perseus’ godson. She was wailing, but he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see what colour her skin was, only smell the tears in the air.

He blinked away his tears and sat down on the ground, right in the middle of the ramparts. His breaths were coming in short, his chest heaving, remembering Achilles’ threat not an hour ago. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t breath and his friend was dead and he was felt like a whale had slammed itself onto his chest as he placed his head in his hands.

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could push his tears back into his skull. No crying, he chastised himself. There was no need to cry. Hector wasn’t…Hector was dead. His thoughts waged a war in his head, the hopeful side of him still clinging to the thought that his brother was safe. But he knew it wasn’t true. A sob escaped from his throat and he clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle it. Perseus knew that if he let a little of the emotion out, all of it would come free, and it would never end.

And so he sat, everything a blur around him, as Achilles rode by, dragging Hector’s body behind him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

~ • ~
WHEN HECTOR HAD first bumped into Aeneas that day in the markets, Perseus had thought he was a right git for throwing his brother off his feet and then expecting him to apologise for it. But Hector had been chasing after a thief, noble and selfless at even such a young age, and there was a fire which had burned in his eyes when he’d told them to discard his royal status and call him just by his name.

That was when Perseus had realised he was someone worthy of the throne which had been handed to him at birth.

Hector had stood before them, narrowed eyes and gangly limbs and an upturned mouth.

He had looked stern, and friendly, the only person Perseus had ever met who could combine the two and still manage to look good and scary and likeable.

He had looked like someone Perseus wouldn’t mind befriending.

He hadn’t realised how much it would hurt when it was all taken away.

~ • ~
BUT THAT HADN’T BEEN the first time he’d ever set eyes on the Prince of Troy. He’d seen Hector several times, at city gatherings, and a few times through the streets. He had seen him, but not really, because even though Anchises was a royal, his father had pulled away from the royal family after his injury and they had lived rather secluded lives.

But he’d seen Hector fully, that day he’d saved Aeneas from Anchises.

He’d seen all the good that made him stand up for others, and the bad that allowed him to lord his post over the bullies and threaten their leader. He had seen the hardness in his eyes as Achates and the boys had ran, and the flames dancing in his gaze as he and Perseus laughed at Aeneas’ expense afterwards.

He supposed a fire which burned that bright was not meant to last.
~ • ~

THEY RODE IN A SIMPLE little wagon, pulled by two simple donkeys. Perseus knew it was Hermes who sat in the driver’s seat, and Priam, head in his hands opposite him. The King looked sombre, but he hadn’t argued when they had said they would come along. He didn’t seem to have much fight left in him anyways. Perseus also didn’t bother to question how Priam had gotten a favour from the travelling god. But Hector deserved it. As much as he hated Olympus for stopping him from saving his friend, he didn’t have it in him to attack the messenger god.

Beside him Aeneas held his hands, so tight Perseus was sure there was no ichor flowing there. But his brother’s face was streaked with tears. His eyes were red and Perseus didn’t know what to say; he didn’t want to lie because it wouldn’t be alright and Hector was dead.

He glanced outside, barely reacting when he realised they had crossed into the Greek encampment. He knew Hermes had worked some magic, but even his senses were dulled and he couldn’t tell what exactly made them go unnoticed. But they wound across the beach, through tents and men and soldiers and animals, making their way to the far side of the camp, where Achilles’ men were.

Hermes drew the wagon to a stop in front of the largest tent and Perseus stood. He pulled Aeneas upward gently, and Priam hobbled out. Slowly, they walked. His skin felt cold, his heart beating mechanically in his chest. Aeneas clutched onto him like a vice. They followed the god and the king into the tent. Perseus didn’t look around. His mind wouldn’t register it anyway.

But he spotted Briseis, seated on the bed, and she started when she saw him.

And he saw Achilles, in a simple tunic beside her, his head in his hands.

Priam stepped forward and Achilles raised his head when he heard the sound. He looked desolate and lost.

Perseus wanted to crush his skull in.

“How did you get in?” Achilles rasped.

“They had a little help,” Hermes waved his caduceus in his hands, a serious expression plastered on his face. Perseus hadn’t interacted with the god before but he didn’t particularly want to.

“Lord Hermes,” Achilles stood. His eyes flickered to Perseus and Aeneas in the background.

Priam’s voice was hoarse from crying as he said, “My Lord Achilles, favoured by all the gods in heaven, son of the divine Thetis,” Priam sank to his knees. No one made a move to stop him. “I have come for my son. I…Please,” His voice broke, “Please let me have his body, so we may honour him and he may pass on from this world.”

Achilles inclined his head. He looked pained. His voice was soft as he said, “Why would I do that? Hector killed my best friend.”

Aeneas stepped forward. “And you have killed ours. Your camp celebrates his death and my city mourns. You have taken everything from us,” His voice was hard and sharp like glass. “Let us send Hector away. The right way. You’ve tarnished his body already.” Perseus stiffened at the spike of power. It seemed to be coming from his brother. Perseus blinked. His voice. There was something in Aeneas’ voice. “Bring his body out from wherever you dumped it after your rampage. Let us bury him.” His voice broke. “Please.”

Charm-speak. Apollo had mentioned this in passing to him once.

Perseus watched Achilles’ eyes glaze over. A vein thrummed in his head. Aeneas was charm-speaking Achilles.

The Prince’s voice was still soft as he bent and pulled Priam to his feet slowly. “I didn’t dump his body. I mourn for Hector too. I mourn Patroclus. I mourn for us all. In another life, I feel we would have all been good friends.”

Perseus didn’t care about another life. He wanted to tear Achilles’ throat out. But he couldn’t speak. Was this how Achilles had felt when he’d lost Patroclus?

The Prince nodded, still in whatever daze Aeneas’ voice had placed him in. “But very well. Give me a minute.”

He marched out of the tent, throwing Perseus a glance as he went. Briseis stood when he had exited the tent. “You have to take me with you,” She said hurriedly. “I heard about cousin Hector.” Perseus started. He hadn’t known they were cousins. And he had to admit, in the chaos of the past few weeks he had forgotten Briseis. The girl took Priam’s hands and squeezed. Then she whispered, “Please take me with you.” Her eyes darted to the flap of the tent as she whispered, “I—I know how you can kill him.” Perseus perked. He exchanged a glance with Aeneas, words about to tumble out of his lips when Achilles marched inside once more.

He was followed by an older looking man, carrying Hector like a groom carried a bride. Aeneas let out a wrecked sound. Priam sobbed and Perseus felt his heart constrict in his chest.

Hector…

Where his friend had had curly black hair, there were only tufts left. His face and body were marred and bloody with cuts. His jaw was broken, his skin looking cold. His lips were chapped and his eyes were shut. Dust clouded his body; he’d been dragged seven times around the city walls. He was…mutilated. Destroyed. Unrecognisable. He wore no armour, only a simple brown tunic. His wrist went bent in an odd way and through the dirt stuck to his form, Perseus could see his kneecap was broken. His shoulder was dislocated and his face…Perseus saw nothing of his best friend.

But it was Hector.

Even Hermes let out a disgusted sound.

“Thank you,” Priam sobbed. “Thank you, Achilles.” The prince waved him off, looking muddled.

Aeneas’ throat bobbed. “We want Briseis too.”

That snapped him out of his stupor. Achilles straightened and said, “No—“

“She comes with us,” Aeneas put more force in his words and Perseus felt the power coiling around them in the room. “Briseis comes with us.” Did his brother know what he was doing? He’d spent an awful lot of time with Aphrodite this past week, after all. Maybe she had taught him some tricks?

Achilles’ eyes glazed over and he nodded, blinking slightly.

“Okay. Okay, you can have her.” The girl let out a small heave.

Perseus’ eyes latched on to the corpse. He stepped forward tentatively, reaching out. The man passed the dead warrior into Perseus’ outstretched arms. He wrapped his hands around Hector’s cold, cold body. He would never see the warmth in his gaze. He would never feel his solid hand against his, squeezing, and he would never find reassurance in Hector’s eyes again.

He held his best friend close to his chest and blinked back tears, swallowing to keep his breathing in check.

Hermes shook his head in pity. Perseus watched as the god waved his hands and linen wrappings sheathed themselves around Hector’s body. The last line covered his closed eyelids.

Something in Perseus broke for the millionth time. It was final. It was real. Hector was really dead.

“Come on,” Aeneas murmured. He had to hold the raven haired man by the elbow, leading Perseus outside, back to their wagon. He didn’t bother to look behind to see Achilles’ reaction.

Priam hobbled into the wagon first, and then Briseis. His brother was next, and then Aeneas helped Perseus gently lift Hector inside, before he jumped in. Hermes took the reins once more and they were off.

Perseus and Aeneas held Hector across each other, and he felt his brother wrap an arm around his shoulders. His chest heaved and he leaned downwards, placing his head on Aeneas’ shoulder. He felt tears drop into his hair. His own tears slid out of his eyes. He didn’t stop them. Instead, he reached out and took Aeneas’ hand. They had lost a friend. They had lost a brother. But they had each other, and Hector would be put to rest. Hector would be at peace, and that was all that really mattered.

Perseus wept.

~ • ~

LATER THAT NIGHT, Perseus stood at the city walls, alone. The moon shone overhead, and his heart was aching. Below, the city mourned Hector, and fires were burning. Aeneas had long since retired with Creusa, still mad with grief. He didn’t know where Briseis had gone. His mind was too muddled to care. Perseus’ face was marred with dried tears.

He felt her before he saw her, and the son of Poseidon turned to face the Titaness of the moon. Her face was soft, and her eyes full of pity. He didn’t mind. She was there. She was there and that was all that mattered.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Selene drew close, placing a hand on his shoulder. Perseus’ shoulders shook as she drew him close. He placed his head in the crook of her neck. But he had ran out of tears. He had none left to cry. The raven haired general wrapped his arms around Selene, sniffing. She smelt like cinnamon and moon lace, and he inhaled, her scent calming his frayed nerves.

Selene pulled away and took his face in her hands. “Achilles?” He nodded numbly. He loved how she didn’t ask if he was okay. He wasn’t. He didn’t think he would ever really be. She was just there. She was there and her presence was comfort enough.

“I’m sorry,” She murmured. She pulled him into an embrace once more. “Hector was a good man.” Selene rested her head on his chest, and his arms slid over her waist.

“I’m sorry too,” He shook his head. “He was. He was a better man than I could ever hope to be.”

She squeezed his sides. His voice was hoarse and scratchy from crying. Perseus gazed towards the horizon, where he could see the Greek fires burning. They were mourning their dead, too. But they were also celebrating.

Celebrating the fact that Hector was gone.

It made him furious.

“The Achaeans,” he swallowed. “Because of them I lost my mortality. Their war destroyed whatever relationship Apollo and I were trying to salvage.” He sounded broken, but he didn’t mind. Selene had seen all parts of him already, both broken and whole. “Ten years ago, Achilles killed a brother I never even knew I had. The Greeks have brought so much misery and pain to my people…my city.” His eyes blurred with tears and his voice wobbled as he said, “And now they’ve taken away my best friend. They’ve handed my brother over to Thanatos.”

Selene turned him so he was facing her. Her hands slid up to his face and her smooth warm fingers wiped his tears away. Her silver eyes burned bright as they met his. “What are you going to do about it?”

Perseus reached out and took her hands. He squeezed. Her expression incensed him and his voice turned hard. Selene was right. He couldn’t just talk. He couldn’t let them get away with this. He couldn’t let Hector’s murderers go scot free.

“I’m going to make them pay,” Perseus murmured, pulling away from her. He looked back towards the horizon. He hated them. He hated them all.

He felt a familiar tug in his gut. He raised a hand, calling the water from across the terrain. He felt it answer him, and with a flick of his wrist, the sea rose in the largest wave he had ever seen. Selene let out a small sound of approval. Perseus’ eyes burned when he heard the horrified screams from the Greek camp.

This was for Hector.

He snapped his fingers, and the water surged forward, and the sea swallowed the Greek camp whole.

LONG ASS A/N UPCOMING—

Damn, that’s a lot of words. I hope you liked it. Leave a review, please. Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning any of my stories, and this one is top priority for now.

So, we see Perseus, finally getting Riptide from Poseidon. They’re getting somewhere, no matter how hard or slow they may be going. Poseidon’s love for Sally drives him to look out for their son, and Perseus is trying to get past his anger and accept the olive branch his father is offering. The first step was accepting the sword, and I promise their relationship is going to progress from here. Again, we get a look at Apollo and Perseus working together to distract Achilles, setting aside all their complicated feelings for each other. Perseus has forgiven Poseidon somehow, and maybe it’s time he stopped giving the sun god the cold shoulder too. We’ll see how it goes. Next, we see how Perseus handles Hector’s death. There’s a whole lot of denial. Perseus blames himself for not recognising the signs sooner. He’s in shock for most of it, and then the grief sets in but we see our resident son of Poseidon reining in his emotions until they get Hector’s body back. Next, we see his anger and his quick action against the Achaeans. How will Perseus cope with Hector’s death? How will he get past blaming himself? How murderous will he get in his quest for revenge? I also don’t know the answers to any of that lol.

I also want to delve deeper into his immortality and his growing hatred for the Olympians and their meddling, which is something I hinted at in a few scenes. I’ll explore this more in the coming arc, I promise.

Next, there’s Hector. Our prince is out of the story for now, I guess. Hector knew he was going to die. He was afraid. He was fucking terrified. But he was too selfless and it killed him. Because if he’d told his friends, they could have found a way to beat Achilles together. They could have helped him escape. They could have delayed his death, even. Hector stood tall even in the face of death. He went to meet his demise on his own terms, even though he was scared out of his mind. I think that shows how brave he was, even if it was suicidal. Hector was wrecked, knowing he was going to die, and although all his friends saw his silent cry for help, none of them acted on it. He had his faults. He kept secrets. But I wanted to show how knowing one’s fate destroyed a person, like it did to Hector, eating him up and ruining him until he drove himself into Achilles’ hands. I hope these few chapters portrayed that well enough. Hector’s friends didn’t come to his aid even when they saw the sign something was wrong, which shows how people get so wrapped up in their own lives they don’t see when someone close to them is hurting.

Again, there was Aeneas. This arc really didn’t do him much favours. He didn’t really get a lot of POVs, and I’m going to change that in the next arc. There are a lot of questions about Aeneas. How does he suddenly know charm-speak? How much time exactly has he been spending with Aphrodite and how’s that going to affect things in the coming chapters? Why is the goddess suddenly so interested in him? We’ll see, soon enough. Aeneas couldn’t keep his emotions in check. As a son of Aphrodite, Hector’s death hit him hard. Emotions hit him harder than everyone else, I suppose. How will Aeneas cope? What part will he play in Achilles’ definitely coming death?

So, Apollo. Next arc will answer a few burning questions we all have. Will Perseus and Apollo reconcile again? Why is Apollo so interested in Troy? We don’t see Athena jumping to fight in any of Athens’ battles in the old stories. Why is Apollo so interested in Perseus? What did he see all those years ago about what Perseus would accomplish? Why did he give Perseus the golden apple? Why did he and Leto and Artemis hide Perseus from Poseidon? Why did he allow Hector to kill Patroclus? I promise, your questions will be answered. Feel free to PM me any more that you have.

Last, there’s Selene. So Selene threw caution to the wind and kissed Perseus a few chapters back. They have feelings for each other. They’re in a relationship now, I suppose. She’s his rock, she’s his confidant, his saviour in battle, but I want to expand on her character more, flesh her out a bit and make her more than just his therapist, and that means giving Selene a few more POVs in the coming arcs. We’ll see how she’ll manage Perseus’ anger and grief, how she’ll deal with the Fall of Troy, the oncoming creation of Rome (which spells doom for her and Helios), and how exactly Zeus feels about a Titan interfering in the mortal lives, even though the Olympians are essentially doing the same.

Over the few months I’ll be away I’ll be thinking over where I want this story to go and sorting out how to continue and tie up all the loose ends. I hope I can create something beautiful enough for all of us.

Happy new year, everyone! ❤️

-TripleHomicide

Chapter Text

GUESS WHO’S BACK?

AENEAS had never felt emptier. Quite literally, in fact. He had cried so much in the past few hours alone that he didn’t think there were any more tears left to shed. It was disconcerting, but now he just sat at the edge of the balcony, looking down at the vast kingdom before him, dotted with little fires and figures in black; the air pierced every few seconds by wailing and shrieking. Troy was in a state of perpetual misery, and again, Aeneas felt that deep aching within him, a kind of sorrow that threatened to wrap its bony hands around his neck and drag him into an endless black hole of torment.

Aeneas let out a sigh. Oh, Hector. He missed him. It hadn’t even been a week, but he missed him so much. Hector and Perseus had been his family. They had been his world. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now that half of it had been torn away. But his brother-in-law had died a worthy death. Wherever Hector had gone, Aeneas knew he would be glad, at least, that he had gone down fighting, protecting what he loved, sacrificing himself for the good of Troy—for the good of Aeneas himself.

But still, it hurt. Hector going forward to meet Achilles when—in that big golden heart of his—he had known he was going to die? It was equivalent to the late Crown Prince driving a sword into Aeneas’ own chest and then twisting it in to bury it deeper so it tore through his armour and came out the other side. He didn’t even know how he would begin to move past this. He couldn’t. Deep inside him, he knew it would be near impossible.

He had come to his chambers with his wife next to three hours ago, unable to stand the endless anguish and agony that came with watching Priam cry into his hands or Hecuba try and maintain her composure as Hector’s body was lit on fire. Unable to watch, without having a nervous breakdown, as Hector slowly burnt into ashes, passing from this world into the next. Watching the fire, it felt like his own heart and soul had been torched alongside it. He couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t stop crying silently, then. And talking about his best friend in front of the thousands of Trojans in the past tense…it had destroyed him. It didn’t help that Perseus, when he arrived, had only just sat before the fiery pyre, sobbing into the earth. Aeneas couldn’t bring himself to speak to him, too overwhelmed by his own grief. So he paid his respects, and then he left.

He hoped Hector got the message he had placed on his burning remains, wherever he was. He prayed Hades had mercy on his soul and then tried to go to sleep.

But for some reason, Hypnos insisted on eluding him that evening. Because how could he sleep peacefully, knowing that as the last of his ashes spread across the wind, Hector had appeared on the bank of the Styx, had paid the ferryman, and then gone to face judgment?

And so he had gone to his balcony, to stare dejectedly at the city he loved so much and the monsters from across the sea who threatened to pull it down to the ground. They were celebrating, that much was clear. Mourning, too, but across the dunes, if he concentrated hard, Aeneas knew he would hear the jingling of beads and tambourines and peals of laughter.

There was no laughter left within the city walls.

Aeneas didn’t think he would laugh again, ever.

They made his blood boil, those Greeks. It also made another wave of his grief slam into him without remorse, knocking his breath away and making his lungs collapse. Aeneas felt his eyes pool with fresh tears. He’d been wrong, then. A wretched sob escaped his lips. Was this how much it had hurt? When Perseus woke at four summers alone on a random island and realised his mother had died at his father’s hand? Would he be forced to look every day at the little things around him—like the knife strapped to his thigh, gifted to him by his best friend—or even the big ones, like his wife, without seeing her older brother in her face and her eyes, the very man who had introduced them and made sure their union had happened?

Hades, he and Hector had even wed on the same day.

Oh, Hector. Blasted, foolhardy, headstrong git. Fair, worthy, brave Hector.

Aeneas buried his head into his hands. His throat burned. “How could you, Hector? How could you leave us like this?” For next to ten years, he had seen comrades, friends, brothers and his own soldiers fall around him in battle. But it had never hit so close to home. Nobody had warned him, ever, that it would hurt so much that he would feel like letting go of the balustrade and plummeting to his death to be rid of the endless depth of pain he had tripped and fallen into.

The demigod sniffed. He was a grown man. He shouldn’t be sobbing like a child.

Hector deserved more. Hector deserved to be celebrated, his greatness and his bravery proclaimed throughout all the kingdoms of the world. He needed to be permanently etched into the tomes of history so that progeny would remember the valiant Prince who had held the reins of his kingdom, keeping it from falling apart at the seams when mongrels like Achilles and the Achaeans had threatened to rip it to shreds.

He felt a hand on his shoulder then, and stiffened, as her scent, vanilla and roses, assaulted his nostrils. His grief had made him lax.

How had he not sensed her arrival?

Aeneas tilted his head slightly to face her, his visage no doubt unworthy of her blood running through his veins. He was dirty, sleep-deprived and wrecked. His mother’s lips pulled up in a sad smile as the King of Dardania gave her a forlorn look in response.

“Aeneas,” Her voice washed over him smoothly, sounding like tingling bells, chasing away his sorrows and beating down his feelings of utter desolation. Aphrodite looked as beautiful as ever, red hair bright and burning, eyes glinting in the moonlight. She was dressed in all-black robes of mourning, accentuated with gold jewellery, the bright cherry red of her lips stark against her gossamer skin.

“I cannot bear it anymore, mater,” He rasped, his dam threatening to spill once more, and she sighed, pulling him in close and burying his head into her gown. “It hurts.”

“I know,” She said, soothingly.

“He’s dead.” It sent a new wave of pain and realisation, making him shudder.

“I know,” she murmured, running a soothing hand through his hair.

“He was my best friend.”

“I know, Aeneas. Death is quite an ugly thing.” His mother paused, then offered the most logical explanation to the raging sea of emotions surging through him, “And for someone of your heritage, as my son, your emotions are…heightened—they always have been. You feel things, so much more than the world around you.” Her presence and aura writhed around him, slowly soothing his aching heart and mending his frayed nerves.

Aeneas shook his head. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to feel this immeasurable pain anymore. But he knew that even without Aphrodite’s blood, it wouldn’t hurt any less.

The goddess continued, “You must be strong, Aeneas. You must work at moving on and recovering. You cannot keep this grief forever.”

“I tire of all this, mother. How can I stay strong,” He murmured, “When Hector is gone? When my foundation has been swept out from beneath me?” He could feel the tears leaking into her black peplos, and it was a surprise that she did not pull away. He could not recall a time that he had ever been this close to his mother—that they had ever spoken so freely like this. It hurt, that it had taken his best friend’s demise for his mother to care about his wellbeing.

The curly-haired man felt her take his head out of her dress, and her hands slid down his hair to his cheeks, pulling his head up until her ever-changing eyes were boring into his. “You have to, Aeneas. You cannot fight your emotions, but you can work with them. Your emotions are your power. You learn how to control them, and find Poseidon’s son Perseus. Together you must battle your grief. You need to be strong, Aeneas. Not just for yourself. For Hector, too. So you both can avenge him, by killing Achilles.”

“I will kill Achilles,” Aeneas pulled his head away, then gazed at the horizon, towards the beach. “I promised Hector. I promised Priam. We’ll kill him.” He paused, sniffing and wiping away his tears, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. “Briseis says she knows a way. But I do not know how we would even get close enough. I, for one, have no powers to aid me. Not like Perseus does.”

Aphrodite stiffened, and Aeneas watched with interest and mild sluggish confusion as her eyes blazed. Her aura became almost suffocating. Her next words showed that she felt insulted. “Do not be a fool, Aeneas.”

He arched a brow at her. Well, as well as a wretched-looking, tearful, crestfallen man could. But he couldn’t help the way his heart stung at her words. “You are even more powerful than that boy you call brother could ever hope to be. What runs through your veins can destroy cities, Aeneas. You can level mountains, end and start wars.” She pulled away, waving her hand in the general direction of the camp of those Grecian scum, delicately. “You can make even the great son of Thetis—that Achilles, bow at your feet. Do not think, even for a second, that you are weak, or useless.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust, as though affronted that he could even fathom such unreasonable things.

“Great pep-talk,” He said wearily, burying his head into his hands. “But it does not change the facts of the matter.”

“If only you knew,” She shook her head. Aeneas glared at the goddess and demanded scornfully, his sorrow momentarily replaced by irritation, “What is it, then? This power I have never seen or used before?”

“And who says that is so?” The incarnation of love shot back. “You are my son, Aeneas. How do you think you got Achilles to release Hector’s body? How do you think he let you go with the love of his life, that servant princess? What, you figured it was out of the goodness of his heart?” Her voice was condescending; for once, Aeneas was sick of it.

He scoffed at her. “I find myself tired of your riddles, mother.”

“This,” Her hands held him again, moving to his neck. A red fingernail traced his skin. “This is the most powerful weapon you could ever wield.”

“My throat,” He pulled away from her, shuffling across the railing.

“Your voice, Aeneas,” Aphrodite was cross. He could tell as much, as she rolled her eyes at him. His doubt grew at her words. He did not have the time to break away from his mourning to play her silly games of ‘guess the power.’

“It is called charm-speak. Whatever you say, people do. Whatever you whisper, people follow. It takes hold of minds, wills and actions. You can control man and monster alike, should you learn to wield it. Maybe with time, even gods.”

It took a lot of effort not to fall off the balcony.

Aeneas turned his head to face her, dubiously. “What you’re saying I’m telepathic? Like a witch?”

“Like a mind controller,” She corrected. “I can teach you, Aeneas. I can show you how to reduce men like Achilles to nothing, with just your tongue.”

“Something I imagine you’re good at,” He shot her a condescending look.

“That’s wildly inappropriate,” She grumbled. Aeneas observed his mother. She looked like she was being honest. But he knew Aphrodite, not as much as he’d like to, but he knew her all the same. She was a manipulator, like all the gods before her. Like all the men who played dress-up and called themselves kings. Like Apollo. Like Odysseus and Agamemnon.

Like Zeus, or Jove or whatever he went by these days.

Gods never offered to help mortals unless they got something in return. The question burning at the back of his mind made its way to the tip of his tongue and forced itself out of his throat. “But why?”

Aphrodite had the gall to look thrown off by his question. Aeneas let loose a small laugh, shaking his head. His heart ached, whether out of grief or surprise at his stupidity, he couldn’t tell. What had he been thinking, baring himself to her like he’d done?

“Why now, Mother? I’m almost an old man. You’ve had next to thirty-six summers to get involved, yet you never did. You never even spoke to me until you needed something.” That old, disgusting wound ripped open in him once more. He had thought it had been buried. He thought he had gotten over it. But he’d been wrong. His anger bubbled as he continued, “You reached out when you wanted Paris delivered to Troy.” Aphrodite shook her head, and he could tell that even she knew, now, that his woes were about more than her poor parenting. “I know gods have this whole uninvolved shit going on. I get it. But Paris? You chose him as your champion, Aphrodite. Why come to me now? What do you hope to gain?”

She drew back, but Aeneas continued glaring at her. The love goddess shook her head once more, dazedly. “Aeneas, there are ancient laws forbidding direct interference in mortal lives. Especially when said mortals are your own blood. The repercussions—“

“Fuck the repercussions,” He snarked. “That didn’t stop you gods from joining the battle so many times already. That didn’t stop you from laying waste to my men and the Achaeans. That didn’t stop Apollo from making Perseus immortal and meddling in our lives since we were four!”

But still, no matter how much he hated the god of the sun, at least Apollo had been there. And even though she had saved his life on the battlefield a few times, Apollo had basically raised him. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t think a few well-timed swoops made up for it. It didn’t cancel out.

“I love you, Aeneas,” Aphrodite said breathily. She looked uncomfortable. Aeneas didn’t think she had ever been confronted about something like this in her long immortal life. “You know that, right?”

His face darkened. “I’m afraid you can’t seduce your way out of this one.”

The redhead barked out a small laugh and clambered daintily up the balcony railing so they were both hanging off the intricately designed marble, then looked sideways at her son. They both faced the dark dreadful night and the mourning city. Aeneas sighed, feeling his anger diffusing as quickly as it had appeared. “I know, Mother. I know you love me. I just wish you knew how to show it more.”

The redheaded woman leaned down into him. Aphrodite exhaled, and Aeneas continued, “You left me. On Ida with nymphs, until I was four. Your heavy shame about bedding my father is the reason he’s crippled. You sent gifts, sure. Through Apollo. But no swords and no number of lyres can replace you.” His voice was sad. Melancholic. “I needed a mother. I needed you, and you were never there.” Aphrodite patted his knees awkwardly and sombrely. She still looked ethereal and windswept seated on the parapets. He didn’t know how she managed it.

“I am sorry you feel this way,” she told him, quietly. “But let no one say I do not care for my children. However self-centred people proclaim me to be, I care. I have watched you, Aeneas, every single moment I could. From the moment you were conceived, I knew you were made for incredible things. You are my greatest source of pride in this era. Maybe not counting my reflection but still—“ He laughed. Aphrodite managed a smile. “I named Paris my champion because Aeneas…You are more than any champion I could ever hope to have. You are my son.” She looked up at him. “I called you to deliver him to Troy because I trust you. I trusted you to deliver him safely. I trusted you to teach him all you knew. I am here now because I want to help you fulfil your destiny. I want to guide you on the path to greatness.” He eyed her. She looked sincere enough.

“The ancient laws…I have been threatened so many times for nudging things in your favour. I am sorry that you could not see them. Ida was the only place I could watch you without the other gods coming for my head. And truly, your father’s condition saddens me greatly. But it could not have been helped. And I sent you gifts…I did not know they would make the pain of my absence more felt.” A lone tear ran down his cheek. Aeneas laughed, wiping it away. Gods, he was always crying these days. His mother wiped his tears away with her soft hands.

“You are god-born, Aeneas. My ichor made you. One day, if you and your brother win this war, you will expand the city of Troy worldwide. If the Fates decide to be cruel and Troy is lost, you will escape, I will ensure it. You will travel many lands, and sire a line as great as the heroes of old. Your descendants will dominate the world. They will be greater than Troy, than even Greece and the Achaeans. Their empire will stand for thousands and thousands of years.”

Aphrodite’s eyes blazed. “History will remember you, Aeneas, and through you, they will remember me. Because you are a part of me, and I am a part of you.” His heart burned, her words stoking the embers of a fire which had slowly been dying out and turning them into roaring flames.

Aeneas heard a loud rumble and glanced at the beach to see the sea rise, about to swallow the Greek camp.

Perseus was angry. Perseus was acting.

It was his time to act too.

“Remember, Aeneas. Love is the most powerful force of all. Love started this war and launched a thousand ships to your shores. Love conquers Death, war, and every evil nasty thing from Pandora’s pithos. When you feel weak and useless, remember that I am with you, always and forever. And remember, love can either save the world…or burn it to ashes.” As she faded into mist, her words echoed in his mind.

And Perseus’ wave came crashing down.

BREAK

PERSEUS staggered back in mild shock as he felt the weight of the sea wrenched from his grasp. It wasn’t shock that his wave had been stopped no; it was the suddenness of it all. The way his hold on his power had just…paused. His surprise came fast, shooting up from his chest before his eyes narrowed and he glared at the Greek camp. Before he could even fathom a response to the blatant disregard for his power, the water was pushed back to its boundaries, even though the screams of the Achaeans did not cease.

Perseus clenched his fist. He had thought he was strong enough to drag them all to a watery Hades. But now there was someone else, showing him that although he was Poseidon’s son, the sea was not just his to command.

He needed to get stronger.

So he could prove them wrong.

So he could drown the Greeks and end Troy’s sorrows once and for all.

Selene had stiffened beside him, and a surprisingly long string of swears escaped her lips as she exchanged a glance with Perseus. They both turned back to the shore and Perseus could just make out the three figures standing at the banks of the ocean, clothes and hair billowing around them. One seemed to wear a crown of crabs—clearly female. The second woman had a bluish tint to her skin. The third was male, and he held a smaller version of Poseidon’s trident.

They all seemed to be looking at him. Their eyes seemed to glow. Whether with anger or a show of power or both, he could not tell.

“It seems your father’s wife has taken a stance in this war,” Selene observed. “I imagine Thetis called for the help of her sister and nephew.”

“No surprise there,” Perseus kept his posture rigid as hatred bubbled inside him, gaze still trained on the intruding deities. As one, they all turned, and meandered through the sea, sinking deeper as they went. “You think this would be a good time to try again? I can still do it, I think.”

“Definitely not,” Selene shook her head. “They would just keep retaliating, locking you in an endless game of cat and mouse.” No matter how much the reality of the situation angered him, Perseus could tell she was right. He watched, as his mother’s killer and her compatriots sunk back into the depths.

Then he allowed his shoulders to fall and sank onto the stone wall. He was more drained than he’d expected. From the mourning, then the anger and now the outrageous use of his gifts. “I’ll have to meet with Galateia. Learn more. So next time Amphitrite can’t stand in my way.” And there would be a next time.

“Of course,” Selene nodded, leaning down next to him. They were quiet for a bit, and he reached out, taking her left hand in his right. His mind was racing, with thoughts, ploys, ideas, and memories. Memories of every excruciating second he had spent with the late Crown Prince. Memories of his best friend. His dead friend.

The Greeks were racing about, doing gods-knew-what, and the green-eyed man felt Selene’s gaze shift to him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Depressed,” He chuckled. “Angry, mostly. At the Greeks. At Hector. At Amphitrite. Myself.” The list was long. But it always ended with him.

“You know it’s not your fault, Perseus,” She clenched his hand in hers.

“But it is,” His breathing stuttered. “Don’t you see? It is my fault. Because I was so absorbed in my own issues, I didn’t see my brother was hurting.”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” She said, fiercely. “You could not have stopped it, if it was the will of the fates. You know that. So do not go blaming yourself and spiralling into that self-loathing you’re so fond of. I will not allow it.”

His face softened and he looked down at her hands, gripping his like a vice.

Selene soldiered on, “You know what Hector would have wanted? He would have wanted you to get up, from the depths of your grief. He wouldn’t have wanted you blaming yourself for every single mishap. Hector would have told you to get your head out of the bloody sand and fight to save the city he died for. Because that is who you are, Perseus; that is why I love you. You always get up again. And this outrage cannot go unanswered.”

He laughed hollowly, “You’re extra wild tonight,” He kissed her hand. “Alright. I promise I won’t break. And you’re right. Hector doesn’t deserve this. His name should be screamed to the world from every bloody mountain. He should be celebrated. And he should be avenged.”

Selene nodded. Perseus looked at her again for the millionth time that night. He had been looking, but he hadn’t really been seeing.

This Titaness was his world. She was his rock. Being with her made him unravel in the best ways possible, and she was always there to put him back together again. She was always there for him and his people, and he had taken her for granted for far too long. It ended tonight.

Hector’s passing had reminded him of a scary thing. Immortal or not, death was always hovering. Whether falling in battle or fading into nonexistence, it was one and the same. And right then, he didn’t care about the battles awaiting him or the many Greeks screaming for his head across the dunes. Selene was now. Selene was always. Selene was his forever.

Overcome by emotion, he pulled her into a tight embrace. She squeezed him back, with probably even more strength than he did her. He buried his head into her hair, inhaling her, wanting this moment to last forever. But she pulled away.

“Did I hear you say you love me?” The man took her face in his hands, voice lilting teasingly.

“I was wondering when you would bring that up,” She smiled innocently. Perseus laughed. It was funny how he still had it in him to laugh after everything that had happened. But this woman before him brought out just the best in him. And he wouldn’t change her for the world. He was about to speak when she raised a hand, silencing him.

“One more thing,” Selene told him. “I have an idea, that will help Troy in the coming battles. I can call in a favour from some…work friends.”

He tilted his head to the side. “I’m listening.”

She told him her plans and ideas, and Perseus pulled her closer.

“What would I do without you?” He shook his head. Her plan was unbelievable but it might just work.

“Probably die in a hundred thousand different artful ways,” Selene teased.

“I love you,” He kissed her then, sweetly, soft. His heart had been burning for her from the moment he had seen her that fateful day on Delos. But he had been refusing to listen. No more. “I’m sorry it took me my whole life to realise it. I love you, Selene.” Because Hector had passed, and no matter how much he had cried, how hard it hurt, his best friend had managed to teach him one last thing. He was done waiting. From now on, he was snatching this bloody life by its golden horns. He was taking all immortality had to offer. He would kill Achilles. He would save Troy.

He would live, and through him, Hector would live too. Through him, his people would be eternal.

BREAK

THE AMAZONS arrived a week later as Selene had promised.

They came through the mountain passes, the day after Hector’s funeral games had ended. However unexpected, they were a welcome surprise, and he was sure Selene received almost three thousand sacrifices and praises that day alone.

Perseus stood behind King Priam at the table of the royal family as the amazons dined on fine wine and all the delicacies Troy could offer in the Great Hall. His eyes travelled to the vacant seat beside Priam’s and he winced. Hector had left a hole in all their hearts, and it didn’t matter how long had passed; he knew that hole would never be full again.

He stole a glance at his brother, who sat sombrely beside his wife, picking at his food, and Perseus’ expression softened. Aeneas had sought him out the day after the funeral, and this time there had been no sobbing. There had only plotting and planning. Now more than ever, they both needed to be strong. For each other. He wished he could be standing beside the son of Aphrodite, so he could put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. So he could tell him that even if Hector was gone, he, Perseus was never going anywhere. Literally.

But his duty came first. And right now, his duty was to see that the Royal family, Queen Penthesileia, and her entourage were well guarded. The green-eyed man scanned the room once more. The amazons were mighty warriors. Famed and fabled for their exploits throughout the world. Renowned for their beauty and their callousness on the battlefield. It was exactly like Selene had promised. And hopefully, they would be enough to turn the tide of this bloody war they were in.

They were a rather noisy bunch, Perseus mused to himself.

Whereas Artemis’ hunters were reserved and hated men with every fibre of their being, the Amazonians were cavorting freely with the Trojans, open and welcoming after a long week of travel. He had expected some distrust of men from them. After all, not more than two decades ago, Heracles had deceived their Queen Hippolyta, stolen her belt and caused her death at her younger sister Penthesileia’s hand, a mere wisp of a girl then. But the son of Zeus’ antics clearly hadn’t birthed a hatred for his species in their hearts. They were not opposed to a bit of fun, it seemed.

Amidst the music, Perseus wondered what Selene had done for these women which could warrant her uprooting them from their homes and bringing them to battle. He supposed he would ask her later. His thoughts drifted again to the Queen seated next to Hecuba and on Aeneas’ left. She was still clad in the celestial bronze armour of her people, with her helmet placed,—rather rudely, he thought— on the dining table. A gold knife lay on her lap and her white cloak was draped on the chair beside her. In her free hand, she held a knife, twirling it idly and occasionally impaling it into the fine wood like those Anglo-Saxon barbarians at the edge of the known world were said to do.

But the Queen was not a savage. No, Ares’ daughter carried herself with as much grace as any of the ladies in Priam’s court. Her eyes flickered across the room as she answered a question from Deiphobus, and met his. She took a spoonful of food and smiled at him. Perseus tried not to look too alarmed. However demure she appeared, that smile, those eyes…Penthesileia was a lioness, grinning at her prey before she devoured it.

As she turned back to her food, Perseus smiled silently to himself, sending a prayer of thanks to Selene for her resourcefulness. He knew, that any warrior on the battlefield come dawn would rue the day they clashed swords with the lioness of Amazon. He had a feeling they were going to be great friends.

BREAK

HE MET WITH Galateia a few hours past midnight, at their usual spot far away from the Greek camps. For the past week, he’d been ramping up his skills, with her help, pushing himself to his limits, training with Selene and the Nereid. The water almost felt like part of him now, a sort of extension of his body. It felt…natural. He was of the sea, and after spending so much time refusing his heritage, suddenly having all his senses improved, feeling all the water in the air around him was almost overwhelming.

Galateia had been mad with glee when they had met seven days prior. She was proud, that her pupil had been able to lift the whole sea off the ground. And she had whispered that his father had been watching at that moment—even more proud than she was—that he had managed it. Now, all he needed to learn was how to summon the ocean’s power to do his will without tiring out completely. Had he been a normal demigod, the effort would have probably killed him or weakened him severely. But he was immortal, and technically, he should have no limit.

Galateia had droned on about how her sister Thetis had called for Poseidon’s help once the entire ocean floor had realised what Perseus meant to do. However, though his father had made it known to the world that he supported the Greeks, he refused to stand in his estranged son’s way. He hadn’t meddled, and Perseus respected him for that. But he also hadn’t done much to stop his wife, who had been spurned into action by her hatred for Perseus and Thetis’ manipulative words.

The dark-haired man took a wild guess that Galateia did not like her sisters very much.

However, the Nereid had also informed him that Poseidon had banned his family from touching Perseus in any way, lest they face his wrath. Perseus didn’t know how to feel about that. He could fight his own battles without Poseidon. But, it made the immortal hate his father a bit less.

“Perhaps if you’re done stewing gloomily, you can calm the hurricane so we can move on with our lessons.” Galateia’s drawl pulled him out of his river of thoughts. Perseus’ eyes peeled open slowly and he blinked, before uncrossing his legs. He tilted his head to the side, watching her and willed the hurricane he had generated to die. The waves and the winds came to a standstill around him, and the son of the sea rose out of the water.

“What was the point of this lesson anyway?” He inquired. “I don’t see how being able to cause a hurricane would help me if we’re not fighting next to the sea.”

“Well, obviously, it won’t,” the nereid rolled her eyes. “But you’re not learning for this war alone. You’re immortal. Do the mathematics.” She paused. “And that is why you’re going to learn how to start a rainstorm and an earthquake. Then we can move on to mist travel.”

He nodded at her, mentally preparing and fortifying his mind and body for the exertion he was about to be put through. But he didn’t care. He had to grow stronger. For his people. For Hector.

“But,” Galateia ambled towards him, kicking up sand as she did so. “I am just a simple Nereid. There is only so much I can teach you.”

She motioned towards the sea, and Perseus narrowed his eyes at her. Galateia gave him a smirk. “I think it’s time for the real deal.” He watched in mild surprise as a figure rose from the depths of the ocean. His carbon copy, except older, harder, and with a tentative look on his face. He wore his usual armour and held the glowing trident. Perseus exchanged a look with his teacher, arching a brow. “Seriously?”

“This is as serious as you’ll ever see me, honey,” She folded her arms.

Perseus snorted, then turned to face his…father. Poseidon stopped a few feet away. “Your friend Hector was a good man. I am sorry for your loss, Perseus.”

His fingers unconsciously moved to the ring the sea god had gifted him before. The coin felt warm to the touch. “Yeah,” He murmured, a deep sadness filling him. “You and me both.”

Poseidon nodded. “Last time we spoke, you said I could come find you.”

“I did,” He remembered.

“I’m here now,” The sea god stood straighter. “And I want to help you.” He nodded at his father. This was a big step. But it was a step he was willing to take. Anything for Hector. Anything for Troy. “When do we start? So I can see how far you’ve gotten?” The deity asked.

Perseus didn’t know when Galateia left. But as he tossed his coin and caught Riptide in his grasp, he laughed darkly. “How about now?” With that, he swung his sword and charged.

BREAK

ANOTHER RAGING BATTLE. Another endless day of fighting. Another day Achilles and the Achaeans threatened their home.

Perseus drove his sword through one of his assailants and pulled the reins on BlackJack quickly, making the horse rear back to avoid an errant spear. The equestrian clopped the attacking Greek in the forehead, before letting loose a couple of colourful slurs. The battleground was a blur of gold and blood. Blood everywhere. His own weapons and body were splattered with it as he continued to cut down and cut through enemy lines.

As he continued to search for the man he’d been hunting since the battle had started at dawn.

Perseus’ eyes roved across the battlefield for what seemed like the millionth time. He saw Helenus and Deiphobus, fighting back to back against a sea of Greek kings. He saw Paris, firing arrow after arrow into enemy lines from atop a white steed. He saw Aeneas surrounded by his Dardanian men, cutting down Achaeans artfully like they were sheaves of wheat. Aeneas was trying to make his way to him as they had planned. So they could creep up on Achilles, who had darted away each time they attempted to approach and then gotten lost in the fighting.

He also saw the Amazons, tearing through Greek lines, blurs of gold and hair and weapons, glowing with the blessings of Artemis and Ares, fighting ferociously and killing Greek men with relish. They were truly turning the tide of the battle, and during the first onslaught, it had taken garnering and orders from Menelaus to get their soldiers to stand their ground when the Amazons had appeared. The female warriors were known to have never lost a battle—except against Dionysus and his fanatics.

Penthesileia was the most impressive among them. She had been in a chariot drawn by skeleton horses at the beginning of the battle, probably courtesy of Ares her father. But now she was on the ground, mowing down Greeks with shouts of glee as they ran, swinging a lance expertly in one hand and a knife in the other. None dared to cross her path. She had already taken down several of the Greeks’ best men and would continue to do so until nightfall. Save Achilles, Perseus did not know anyone amongst the devils from across the sea who could beat Otrera’s daughter.

He kept galloping through the men locked in combat, driving his celestial bronze weapon through breastplates, lopping off heads, and cutting through tendons. The field was littered with blood and bodies—but thankfully no gods—and his ears kept ringing with screaming and wailing. Roars of the men and women around him, shouts of terror, choking—it was maddening. He scanned the terrain again and then bit his lip as he realised what he was unconsciously searching for, his mind temporarily diverting from his Achilles hunt.

Or rather, who.

Hector wasn’t here. Hector would never be here again. The sooner he understood that, the better it would be for all of them. His friend might not be around, but he knew who was.

“BlackJack,” Perseus shouted over the din of the battle. “I want you to get back to the Palace!”

On it, boss. The horse didn’t put up an argument. He started to turn and Perseus raised his sword to slice through a stray arrow, before spinning his wrist and shearing through the neck of an oncoming attacker on horseback. He concentrated, hard, calling to the moisture around and inside him. He ordered his body fluids to bend to his will, to dissolve, to part and carry him deep into the Greek lines.

It only took a few seconds, and that gut-wrenching feeling surfaced; then he had disintegrated, the feeling of floating off BlackJack’s back making him feel highly uncomfortable and simultaneously giddy. But then finally he felt himself solidifying, first his feet then his legs then his torso and finally his head. He raised his shield just in time to block a blow from a sword and stabbed downward into the gut of the Greek before him. “Sorcery…” The man moaned before dying. Perseus scoffed, pulling his sword out and bashing the hilt into another’s head.

His sudden appearance had startled the Greeks and they scrambled away from him, screaming. The son of Anchises guffawed, and launched himself into their ranks. Fools, all of them. He would kill all hundreds of thousands of these men to get to Achilles, whatever part of the damn battlefield he was hiding on.

As he clashed swords with one of the men, he bared his teeth and snarled, “Where is Achilles?”

“I’ll never tell you, I—“ His words ended in a gurgle as a lance protruded out of his throat. Perseus reared back as the lance continued to move forward, ducking just in time for it to pierce through the breastplate of a man who had crept up on him.

“I had that,” He frowned at Penthesileia.

“Of course you did,” She grinned maniacally, spinning on her heel and throwing dirt into the air. She proceeded to skewer three soldiers coming up before them. Perseus dove into the fray, fighting earnestly in a blur of gold, blue and red, the air pierced by the metallic tang of blood and sparks from metal against metal. “However accomplished you may be, part of Lady Selene’s request consists of ensuring you stay unharmed during the battle, so a thank you would be great.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. Of course, Selene would pull something like this. If she couldn’t be there herself, she would find other ways to fulfil her role as his saviour in his times as a warrior-in-distress.

“Sure thing, princess,” The Queen barked. She licked a drop of blood from her lips.

“I need to find Achilles,” He called as they came back to back, spinning, slashing and hacking simultaneously as wave after wave of men attacked them. “Seen him around?”

“Can’t say I have,” She managed to shrug as she buried her knife into a man’s groin. “Though I reckon he’ll be where the Greeks are losing ground most. That’s with my warriors on the left wing.”

“That’s at the other side of the field,” He bared his teeth, twisting his sword deeper into another Greek general.

“I heard you’re a son of Poseidon,” Penthesileia panted.

“Relevance?”

“Achilles is in a chariot. Get his horses to drag him towards you. They could also rampage and destroy a couple Greek lines in the process,” She whirled around him, hurling her knife and it sailed through the wind, before burying itself into a man coming behind him.

“You’re oddly good at this bodyguard job,” He snarked. “And that’s…a good idea.”

As he blocked a strike on his shield, he exhaled, freeing his mind. He suddenly felt an array of diverse thoughts, curses and screams fill his head. Damn, these equestrians were noisy. Perseus gritted his teeth, pushing back on the enemy soldier and kicking him in the chest then diving forward to smack him across the face with his shield. He proceeded to drive his sword into his gut.

Listen to me, He projected his thoughts across the battlefield, hoping they resonated in the minds of all the horses. All of you, I hope you can hear me.

His mind was suddenly bombarded with yells of adoration and neighs of Yes, Lord.

I want every horse on this battlefield to stop moving. The order was swift, fast.

Perseus knew it was working when he heard shouts of outrage and yells of confusion from the storm of people around. If you’re fighting for the Trojans, I want you all to get back to the palace, but before that, kill as many Greeks as you can. There were neighs of response as the horses burst into action around them. If you’re on the Greek side bearing a chariot, flip it over, now. Get rid of those reigns and break as many heads with those iron hooves as you can. Then make your way to the Trojan Gates. I’ll see to it that you’re well received.”

There was chaos and carnage on the battlefield. Men were thrown from their chariots. Horses stampeded over their owners. Perseus tuned them out.

He sheathed his sword into another gut, and as he sent the thought out, his lips moved in sync with his mind, “Xanthos and Balios. Bring Achilles to me.”

A/N: I’M A BIT RUSTY, SO…THOUGHTS?

Chapter Text

I APPRECIATE THE WARM WELCOME, GUYS. ENJOY!

PERSEUS felt himself reforming and solidifying beneath the fig tree near the forest’s edge, the exact location he had in mind. This mist travel thing really came in handy. There was a permanent frown etched on his face as he began to march down the hill and towards the seashore. The battle had ended about an hour before, but as he approached the sea, the salty tang in the air refreshed him and chased away his weariness.

His ploy with the horses had been a success; an even greater one than he’d imagined. Now, the Greeks had next to no steeds left, and the Trojans had bolstered the number of equestrians in their possession. Xanthos and Bailos—who, unfortunately, remained with Achilles—had come through. They’d thundered down the battlefield towards Perseus and Penthesileia, oblivious to the panic and screaming from Achilles’ charioteer. Just as they’d come—just as the golden hair had come into view—Achilles had launched himself out of the chariot and into the fray, making Perseus’ efforts and that of Achilles’ own horses useless.

With the daughter of Otrera beside him, they’d begun cutting a path towards where they had seen him land, but then nightfall had hit just as suddenly, forcing both sides to draw back. The Trojans had then camped where they’d drawn a line during the battle, taking back most of their own land.

Perseus silently cursed his luck. Achilles knew they had Briseis. Achilles also knew Briseis knew his weakness. He wouldn’t be rushing into any battle with Perseus or Aeneas anytime soon. Not if he valued his life. Silently, the green-eyed man made a vow to himself. His next fight with Achilles would be the bastard’s last.

He owed it to Hector, and to every Trojan behind the walls whom the son of Thetis had brought sorrow to.

As he neared the water’s edge, he spotted the other man materialising from thin air. With him came another wave of salty air, and Perseus felt his shoulders dropping and his hackles falling. Poseidon turned to face him, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes crinkled, smile lines appearing around them. Perseus gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

They still walked on eggshells around each other, even though they were now on good terms. Forgiving his father didn’t mean it was easy to be chummy with him. But, they had an eternity to sort that out. An eternity to get their relationship on its feet, and frankly, Perseus wasn’t in any hurry. Poseidon cared for him, that much was clear. At least now, they were both putting in some effort.

“You fought well today,” His father greeted.

“Thanks,” He shrugged. “But it was nothing. Your gifts aided me for most of it.”

“Yes, yes, I saw how you got the horses to cause mayhem during the battle. Quite a nice trick, if I do say so myself.” Perseus turned away to hide his flushing skin and exhaled. But it felt nice, to hear compliments from Poseidon’s lips; a fact he could no longer deny. He turned back to the sea god.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What?” The deity looked confused.

“You wish to see Troy destroyed. You side with the Greeks. Yet you train me and equip me with powers so I can wipe them out. That, if I’ve ever seen one, is a major conflict of interest.”

His older double laughed, then gave him a wry smile. “I do hate Troy, I won’t deny that. It hurts an immortal’s pride, to be turned human and forced to labour under one for ten years. Add getting swindled out of payment by said human and being forced to watch his kingdom flourish thanks to your free labour, and you tend to get a bit grumpy.”

Perseus snorted. “That was Zeus’ fault. And Hector’s great, great, great grandfather or something.”

“Exactly,” Poseidon inched closer. “And you are my son. We’ve had this conversation a few times already, have we not? No matter how much I want to see those walls destroyed, I won’t fight for Greece anymore. Not if it means having to fight you. I won’t stand in the way of your happiness. Not after everything that happened with your mother.”

Perseus grimaced. He wanted to ask about her. He wanted to know her. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“Alright, enough small talk,” The god shrugged, swinging his trident out of the sand. “I’ve pulled out of the war. I’m helping my son learn his powers. Whatever you choose to do with that is your decision to make.”

Perseus swallowed, overcome with emotion. “Thank you.” Poseidon’s expression softened, and he simply nodded.

“Today will be our last ‘learning’ lesson,” The god told him. “Galateia has taught you a lot more than I expected. You only need more practice, which is what we’ll be doing from now on, and you’ll be exceptional soon. Today, I’m going to teach you how to cause earthquakes.” He buried his trident in the sand and began leisurely ambling around Perseus. “Watch this.”

The demigod watched attentively as his father took another step. Slowly, the earth around him began to shake. The sound was low at first but then it rose to a crescendo as the very beach began to shake. Perseus stumbled and let out a small shocked sound. He remembered causing an earthquake—unintentionally—a few years ago. He remembered feeling so drained after that. Poseidon made it look effortless.

The god smiled at him. “The trick to this is quite simple.” He stood still on the sand, the salt air swirling around him as he prepared to teach Perseus the secrets of harnessing the earth’s energy. The immortal demigod licked his lips in anticipation.

“Feel the pulse of the world beneath your feet,” his father instructed, his voice resonating like the deep ocean currents. “Imagine the tectonic plates as colossal, interlocking puzzle pieces, shifting and grinding against one another. With each movement, they store immense energy, like a bowstring pulled taut,” Poseidon explained, his trident shimmering as he grabbed it from the sand. He demonstrated how to focus that energy, channelling it through his trident and sending waves of force rippling into the ground. The earth quaked in response, a deep rumble echoing through the rocks. Once more, Perseus couldn’t help but nod in respect at the sea god’s strength and power.

“Now, it’s your turn,” Poseidon encouraged, watching as Perseus concentrated. With an exhale, the Polemarchos of Troy closed his eyes, concentrating, trying to attune himself to the subtle vibrations of the earth. “Draw upon the earth’s natural rhythms. Let your will connect with its strength. Visualize the energy building, then release it with intention.” As Perseus focused, he felt his power course through him, his mind focused, his body alert and his fists clenched. He sent a silent command searing through his veins and into the earth. He ordered it to submit and bow to his power, and he felt the ground respond to him. In his mind, he imagined energy in the earth building, stacking up on each other to explode, and the vibrations intensified beneath him. With another breath, he unclenched his fists and demanded silently that the earth stop holding back.

The results were instantaneous.

With a boom, a shockwave erupted around him, sending sand flying and the earth roared with vibrations searing through the ground and causing it to shake uncontrollably. The sound was like white noise in his ears. He and the armoured immortal stood stock still as the earth trembled around them.

“Control is key,” Poseidon warned, his gaze steady. Perseus’ eyelids peeled open and he watched the high god approach. The sea raged behind them, the wind whipping their hair and clothes around them in response to the earth’s quaking. Shouts were coming from the beach and the Trojan camps. But he didn’t stop. The green-eyed god placed a hand on Perseus’ shoulder. He stiffened at the contact but relaxed just as quickly. This was his father and maybe it was time to start getting used to this.

“An uncontrolled quake can wreak havoc, but a well-directed one can shift the very landscape,” Poseidon said, sharply. “Now, I want you to visualize the Greek camp. Destroy their walls. Now.” He envisioned Achilles’ tents in his mind. He saw Menelaus’ and Agamemnon and the kings seated in a war council. He saw the soldiers burying their dead and eating around campfires. An image of their wall seared into his mind, quickly constructed, not as strong as it had been ten years prior. With a roar, Perseus released the power he was holding back, ordering the sand beneath the gates to shift and quake.

There were more screams and he slid to his knees, veins thrumming. Poseidon slid down next to him, and said, “The sea does not like to be restrained, Perseus. And you know how the sea and earth are connected, more than anyone. However, you must balance your power with precision. Understanding that true mastery lies not just in unleashing force, but in guiding it with purpose and wisdom…that is where true power lies. That’s what makes you mine.” The power was overwhelming him. But he ordered the tremors around him to stop and focus on the Greek camp alone. The rumbling was distant now. The winds died. Finally, gritting his teeth, Perseus wrenched back his control over the earth. He was panting, sweating, and tired. But he let out a laugh as the intensity of the tremors slowed. Poseidon grinned at him. Slowly, the earth stopped moving.

Green eyes bored into his. “You’re a natural,” Poseidon’s eyes were positively lit with pride. Perseus released a stuttered breath and awkwardly patted Poseidon’s back. Poseidon hadn’t just taught him a new power today. He’d given him something else. “Thank you,” He breathed out. His father nodded, and Perseus could feel his smile widening.

He’d given him hope. He’d shown him he could win this if only he got stronger. And that was something to be thankful for.

BREAK

AENEAS frowned to himself, then to his mother. Above them, the moon hung high in the sky, its eerie glow lighting up the temple they were in. Statues of his mother adorned the walls, next to tapestries of the many stories he’d heard of her. Roses and flower petals were strewn about the central altar. The hearth burned low, and there were about seven of his mother’s priestesses bustling about and preparing the temple for the morning prayers, oblivious to their presence. In a few hours, they would be back on the battlefield, and although Aeneas knew the necessities of the lessons his mother had offered him, he really did not appreciate her dragging him out of his tent on the plain when he’d barely gotten two hours of sleep.

Their war council had stretched on long into the night, and after a few words with his brother, Perseus had gone to meet Poseidon for his nightly training sessions. It pleased Aeneas, truly, that both their parents were at least now showing interest in their lives. Better late than never, he supposed. And it made him glad to see his brother finally letting go of that anger that had encompassed him for as long as they had been brothers. Perseus was healing. Aeneas just wished Hector was there to see it.

Some time had passed, but still, it didn’t alleviate the pain he felt each time a thought of his best friend crossed his mind. But he had to keep on living. He had to push forward, and if Aphrodite’s lessons were the way to see Hector avenged, he would grab it and hold on to it with strength to rival Heracles’. Aphrodite’s clothes, a bright white and gold gossamer dress, billowed in the wind. Without looking at him, she began her tutoring.

“Today, my dear,” she started, her voice a soothing melody, “We will explore the art of charmspeak.” The goddess stepped forward, her presence radiant and enchanting. “This power allows you to sway the hearts and minds of those around you. It’s more than mere persuasion; it’s a way to forge connections and inspire loyalty.” As she spoke, the surrounding flower petals seemed to shimmer, eager to partake in their divine lesson.

“To master this art, you must first understand your own heart. Your feelings must resonate authentically, or your words will fall flat.”

Aeneas crossed his arms, brow furrowed in contemplation. “But, Mother,” he replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty, “This power…is it right to influence others like this? What if I force them to act against their will? There’s a fine line between guidance and manipulation, you know.”

Aphrodite regarded him with a mixture of pride and concern. “Oh, Aeneas, your instincts are commendable, but this power is not about just coercion. It’s about evoking genuine emotions. You can stir courage in the frightened and hope in the despondent. It can be a light in dark times.” She gestured toward a nearby priestess, who was humming to herself as she dusted one of the statues. “Feel her essence. When you speak with sincerity and compassion, you can heal as much as you can persuade. Remember, charmspeak is about connection, not conquest.”

“Now, watch,” Aphrodite instructed, her tone a mix of encouragement and authority. Her eyes fixed on the woman, and Aphrodite, voice jingling, called, “Come here, would you?” At once the woman stopped and turned on her heel. The priestess had a dazed look on her face, eyes glazed as she marched towards them. The king of Dardania started as he realised it was the same expression Achilles had worn when he had gone with Priam and Perseus and demanded Hector’s body. None of the other priestesses seemed to notice a thing.

Then she began to approach them in the darkness.

Aphrodite made it look effortless.

“You’re right, Aeneas, it is effortless.” He glared at her accusingly—she’d pried into his mind. “Charmspeak allows the speaker to convince someone else to do or get whatever they want. The strength of the command depends on the tone and emotion of the speaker’s voice, as well as their skill with it. And most of those gifted with it do not realise they’re using it until much, much later, and although they don’t try to put any power in their words, the effects are the same, just not as powerful.” The man frowned. If that was so…how many decisions had he unknowingly influenced others around him to make?

Something sinister and akin to guilt bubbled inside him.

“However, charmspeak wears off eventually and the person has no recollection of why they did anything you asked or what they were even told to do.”

“And you say it’s not coercion,” He stated dryly. His moral compass was definitely pointing him away from all this. How would he be able to do any of this without feeling guilty later? As he watched, the priestess stopped. Aphrodite’s hold on her slipped away, and the woman looked around him in genuine confusion. She probably still could not see them. Shaking her head, she backtracked and went back to work.

Aphrodite shrugged. “Now, you try.” He didn’t want to. But this was necessary.

Aeneas stepped forward, feeling the warmth of divine energy coursing through him. He focused on one of the handmaidens—a different one, far away, summoning the words to inspire her confidence. His voice was loud and pierced through the silence of the night. He focused his thoughts and efforts on that one woman and pushed away the gnawing feeling in his gut. “Take off all your jewellery and place them on the altar as an offering.” As he spoke, he felt a pulse of energy resonate within him, weaving through the air like a gentle current. To his amazement, the maiden’s demeanour shifted; her posture straightened, and her eyes sparkled for a bit, then glazed. He watched, dumbstruck, as the woman began by taking off the ring on her finger. Around them, all the other priestesses did the same. Aeneas swore. He’d overshot, it seemed. All the women looked natural and unaffected enough, apart from the dazed expressions. But the synchronisation of their movements made them look almost lifeless. Undead.

Aeneas didn’t like it.

“Charmspeak can be negated through a number of ways. It has a diminished effect on other charm-speakers. People with strong wills are largely unaffected, and the more powerful the being, the stronger their resistance,” His mother continued to instruct him.

“So how do you explain Achilles?” Aeneas frowned. “Or is he less strong-willed than I gave him credit for?”

“Oh, he’s plenty powerful,” Aphrodite gave him a smile like a Cheshire cat. “If he and his mother didn’t irk me so much, I wouldn’t mind tasting that—“

“Mother!”

“Kidding, kidding,” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know who birthed you with that stick up your arse but it definitely wasn’t me.”

He snorted in response, his attention never wavering from the cluster of priestesses placing their jewellery onto the altar.

“You’re a natural, Aeneas,” His mother slipped back into seriousness. “Achilles was grieving. That’s why it was so easy to manipulate him.”

“Noted,” He nodded. “Anything else I need to know.”

“Yes, actually,” She tilted her head to the side as they studied the women. “If someone is aware of a person’s ability to charm speak, then it will have a reduced effect as they will be on guard in case they are subjected to it. Creatures of chaos are also harder to…influence.” She turned to face the curly-haired man. “I would advise you to keep this power to yourself.”

“Perseus and Creusa know about it already,” He shrugged.

Aphrodite nodded in understanding. “No one else, got it?”

“Sure,” He understood the logic in her words. The fewer people knew, the better for all of them.

They focused once more on the priestesses, who had started singing songs of adoration. His mother positively glowed. A creeping unease settled in Aeneas’s chest when he realised they were still under his influence, and giving the offering. The gold on the altar began to melt. “This feels wrong,” he murmured, watching as the maidens turned toward them, expressions blissful yet vacant, as if they were puppets dancing to his strings.

Aphrodite’s gaze softened as she stepped beside him, sensing the turmoil within. “You’re at war, my dear, sweet Aeneas. And in a war, the choices we make can be painful,” she said gently. “You wield a power that can either uplift or diminish. Your heart must guide you—know when to use this gift for good and when to step back.” He nodded slowly, grappling with her words. At that moment, he realized that in a world filled with conflict and strife, the line between manipulation and inspiration was often blurred. Acceptance washed over him; he understood, then, that sometimes, difficult decisions had to be made for the sake of love and survival. For the sake of his homeland. This new power… was the ace up his sleeve. No one would see it coming. And this was war, he reminded himself. And in war, there were casualties.

He would just add the damage this power would do to his already long list.

BREAK

ACHILLES let out a ragged breath, gritting his teeth as his horses careened out of the path he’d set them on, once again. It was getting infuriating, really, because he always had to jump out to avoid a crash and now he had to protect himself from men and horses. He could only think of a few people who could make that happen, and he didn’t like any of them currently. As though practised, he launched himself off the chariot and flipped over one Trojan soldier, quickly spinning on his heel when he landed and driving his sword through the man’s back.

The son of Thetis dove into the fray instantly, blocking, dodging, parrying strikes and slashing off limbs, stabbing through armour and clashing with enemy soldiers in a flurry of blades, limbs and sparks. The battle raged around him as wave after wave of men met with screams and roars. Blood and bodies littered the ground, men and women wailed and cried. Armours were shredded, swords were bent, and lances pierced through the skin. He was a miniature whirlwind of destruction and gold, bashing heads in and cutting them off. But his mind was a hurricane.

The Trojans were winning.

For the past few weeks, ever since the death of their beloved Prince Hector, the devils had been fighting with renewed vigour, pushing back the Achaeans and taking back their territory.

But Achilles didn’t regret it. Not one bit. Even if it meant they would keep on losing, he would still drag that knife over Hector’s throat. He would still have avenged his best friend.

It didn’t help that the famed Amazons had joined the enemy side, though. Thanks to the warriors of Ares, the Greeks were now more battered than ever. They were ferocious fighters, even better than most of the men on both sides. He’d killed his fair share of them, though and as he spun around and sliced arrows and spears from the air, his thoughts strayed once more to the loss which had gnawed at him for more than seven days.

Not only had he lost Patroclus all those weeks ago, but a few days after that, he’d somehow been convinced by Perseus and Aeneas of all people, to give up Briseis! Briseis, the one person he had cared for, maybe even more than his late best friend. He knew she’d had an affair with Perseus before he’d captured her and he couldn’t bear to think of her in his arms once more. It hurt him to think that she was gone and until they managed to breach those walls, he would never see her again.

Also, she knew his secret.

Briseis, not counting his mother, was the one person who knew how he could be killed.

So yes, maybe that was another major reason for his growing concern.

As stupid and delusional as it seemed, he had to trust her. He had to believe that she loved him enough to respect what they had had. He had to trust that she would not give his enemies his weakness. The alternative…no, he would not even think it. If he did, then it meant that all they’d been through—all they had done for each other and the promises they’d made—meant nothing. But then again, she had gone willingly with Aeneas, and so maybe, everything had been a farce and he had been too stupid and lonely to see through it.

The battle was full of carnage, and chaos reigned free. He stepped into a puddle of blood and ducked under a wide swing, before shoving his sword through a breastplate.

The screams around him intensified as death descended on them all. Panting, he turned to block a strike and slammed his shield into his attacker’s face. He sidestepped as a horse skittered past, clopping men in the head and chest. Achilles swore and scanned the battlefield. A horse meant Perseus and Aeneas were nearby.

He knew they had been hunting him down for countless battles. He himself was itching to send them to Hades to join their friend. For what Hector had done to him, Achilles would repay him a hundredfold. But, whether it was bad luck or some deity’s influence, every single day, he’d managed to somehow avoid meeting them in combat. In some ways, it was good. But he was ready to face them. He had known what he was inviting on himself once he had avenged Patroclus.

And if Briseis had revealed his secret, then he was well and truly screwed. And although he would not say it out loud, he knew that she probably already had, whether she loved him or not.

Not that he minded, not really.

He knew he was going to die soon.

He’d been warned, but he had still killed Hector anyway.

It did not bother him like it was supposed to.

His mother had told him he would die if he came to Troy. He’d been warned that killing Hector was signing up for his own demise. But Achilles had achieved what he’d set out to do. He had wreaked havoc on Troy. He had brought honour to the House of Peleus. He had avenged the death of his friend. He had made a name for himself. And if he was going down, he would do so in a blaze of glory. And he would take Aeneas and as many Trojans and Amazons with him as he could.

Death was something he had come to terms with a long time ago, even before this decade-long war had begun. He would never be forgotten, and for him, that was enough. But if what the gods had said was true and his death was imminent, the only possible explanation was that in giving up Briseis—in telling her his secret—he had orchestrated his own passing. And it stung because he had really believed that what they had had was real.

An ear-shattering roar pierced through his mind, pulling him out of his reverie. Achilles glanced around in time to catch sight of a gold-clad figure—an Amazon—shearing through Greek soldiers like she was cutting bread. Her lance danced in her hand as she spun, artfully, with grace and ferocity worthy of a queen, chopping off arms, blocking strikes, and weaving through ranks of Greek soldiers like a lioness decimating a herd of sheep.

It took him a few seconds to realise she was cutting a path towards him. He parried an attack on his shield as the woman got closer. Gods, she was unstoppable.

She was also devastatingly beautiful.

He scowled at the intrusive thought. But yes, he was not wrong. It was such a pity she was fighting on the Trojan side.

A huge pity that he’d have to kill her too.

Achilles spun once more, raising his shield just in time to catch the lance which ricocheted off it and impaled one of his soldiers. The woman skidded to a stop before him and he inhaled sharply. She was bloodied and helmetless. Her hair billowed in the wind, dark and wavy. She had a bright golden tan and the craziest dark eyes he’d ever seen, which seemed to glow blood red in the sunlight—the blessing of Ares. Her armour was immaculate, gold and adorned with jewels. A shield hung off her left arm and she quickly drew an intricate sword to replace the lance, in her right. Her full pink lips pulled up in a crazed smile.

“We meet at last. Achilles,” Her voice washed over him, making him blink once, then twice. Damn. “Lion cub of Phthia.”

“And you are…” The question hung in the air as he began circling her. She took a step and also started moving. A laugh escaped those beautiful lips.

“I don’t know, who do you think?” The woman arched a brow. When he did not answer, she continued, “You’re quite skilful at running. You’ve infuriated my compatriots to no end, these past few days.”

“Running?” He scoffed. “The only running I want to do is with my sword, right through Perseus and his brother’s chests.” As if that would do any damage. He shook his head. Gods, Perseus’ immortality was a problem. He was a hopeless enigma and Achilles knew that as long as he was around, it would be very, very difficult to win this war. The man was like a dog latched onto his ankle which refused to stop biting.

“Oh, they’ll be here soon, don’t worry about that,” The Amazon bared her teeth. “The pleasure of killing you is theirs. I’m just here to keep you from running again. Even I tire of chasing you around this battlefield sometimes, and most of my popularity comes from chasing pretty men with my lance.”

Achilles burned with anger. Did they really think he was running? However beautiful this woman was, her words made him want to sew her pretty lips shut. He spotted the ring on her finger then, the sigil of the amazons catching the light and blazing gold. “You’re Queen Penthesileia, aren’t you?”

“Correct for a stab wound in the heel,” She grinned menacingly. Achilles started, taking a step back. Then he glowered. So much for his love and endless trust in Briseis. They knew.

“Oh, don’t worry, lion cub,” The Queen spun her sword. “Like I said. I’m not going to kill you.”

“You’re going to wish you did,” He snarked, slipping into a stance.

“Let’s see, shall we?” A peculiar thrill coursed through his veins—a mix of anger, rivalry, and undeniable attraction.

As they squared off, the tide of battle momentarily ceased for those around them. Soldiers paused, some wounded and others intrigued by the sight of them—eager to witness a clash of Titans.

The battlefield stretched wide, a grim tapestry of fallen warriors and swirling dust, where the scent of sweat and blood hung heavy in the air. Amongst the chaos, Achilles and Penthesileia circled each other, each a lion in their own right. The tension crackled as they regarded one another, and he remembered every story he had heard of the Queen of the Amazons. She had given even some of his Myrmidons nightmares. He bared his teeth.

With a sudden roar, Penthesileia lunged forward, her sword glinting ominously in the light. She aimed for Achilles's heart, the tip arcing through the air like a striking serpent. But Achilles was swift; he sidestepped, his footwork flawless, and brought his sword down in a counterstrike, the blade whistling through the air. Penthesileia pivoted gracefully, catching his blow with the face of her shield, the clash ringing out like a bell amidst the cacophony of war.

“Not bad for a lion cub,” she taunted, eyes gleaming with exhilaration as she pushed back against his strength. She spun low, aiming to sweep his legs out from under him, but Achilles leapt back, vaulting over her attack with a predatory grace. As he landed, he slashed horizontally, his blade slicing through the space where she had been only a heartbeat before.

“Quick on your feet, but I’m just warming up,” he replied, a menacing grin breaking through his fierce concentration. They circled each other like wolves, each waiting for the other to make a mistake.

Penthesileia advanced again, thrusting her sword forward in a rapid flurry of strikes. The tip flickered with deadly precision as she aimed for his shoulder, then his midsection. Achilles blocked each attack with his own weapon, the sound of metal on metal resonating like a symphony of violence. He could feel the strength behind her thrusts, each one pushing him back, testing his resolve.

With a feint, she drew him in, then twisted her body, the sword in her hand spinning as she aimed for his knee. Achilles, anticipating her move, pivoted on his heel, raising his sword to deflect her weapon at the last moment. The force of their clash sent vibrations through his arm, but he pushed through, countering with an upward slash aimed at her torso.

The Queen ducked just in time, the blade whistling over her head, and retaliated with a fierce upward thrust, her sword slicing through the air. Achilles barely sidestepped, the tip slamming into his side and bouncing off. She was toying with him. She knew how to kill him, and yet, she chose to play with him like he was a mouse trapped between her paws. He hissed at the pain but pressed on, the thrill of death heightening his senses.

With rapid precision he lunged at her, shield first, and as she danced away his sword arched out, slicing through her bicep. First blood. Penthesileia snarled, then dove forward. Their swords clashed once more.

“Careful now, my queen,” he said through gritted teeth, his heart racing as he realised how close she was. “I wouldn’t want to soil my armour with your blood.”

With a laugh, she twirled away, spinning back into a defensive stance. “Quite the gentleman, aren’t you?”

They clashed again, blades meeting in a frenzy of motion—up, down, left, and right—each strike more powerful than the last. Achilles moved with the grace of a panther, his muscles coiling and releasing with every calculated movement. He ducked low, rolling to the side to evade her thrust and came up behind her, swinging his sword in a wide arc. But Penthesileia was prepared; she spun around, her blade a blur as she caught his sword mid-swing, the force of their meeting sending shockwaves through both their arms. She pressed forward, closing the distance, and Achilles felt her breath warm against his skin as she aimed a series of quick strikes at his torso. He deflected each one with agility, feeling the exhilaration of their duel pulse through him. As they clashed once more, swords locked, he saw her eyes spark. She was enjoying this.

Bitch.

Achilles swore as she sent her shield slamming into his face and stumbled back. He recovered just in time to block a strike and laughed, dancing away.

Okay, maybe he was enjoying this too.

As the fight wore on, their bodies glistened with sweat and dust, the air thick with the scent of battle. They exchanged a flurry of blows, each strike a testament to their skill. Achilles, powerful and relentless, pushed her back, his strikes becoming bolder, more aggressive. He aimed for her shoulder, and she countered with a precise jab to his side, their movements an intricate dance. Their blades met with a violent clash, and the world around them faded to a blur. Each strike was a test, a game of wits and strength, both warriors dancing on the precipice of death. As Achilles parried, he felt exhilaration surge through her veins; this was not just battle, but a tempest of passion. “Is that all you’ve got, Goldy?” Penthesileia taunted, dodging a fierce blow that would have felled lesser men.

“Not even close,” he replied mockingly, pushing her back with a powerful thrust, his heart pounding with adrenaline. With every clash, they began to weave a tapestry of battle and intimacy, the tension electrifying the air. Then, in a moment of reckless abandon, they closed the distance. Their weapons clashed in a flurry, blades crossing, the heat of their bodies radiating. Each was locked in a battle of wills, a struggle for dominance, and Achilles swore he could feel it as a spark ignited between them. It was overwhelming and it seared through his blood, making him forget where he was in that instant. The heat from the sun was unbearable and his eyes darted to her lips.

He would never know what pushed him to do it.

Maybe a trick from Aphrodite or Eros. Maybe he was just tired of the fighting, and the loss of Briseis had left him aching, that he could not ignore whatever attraction he was feeling towards the Queen. Maybe, as they fought—as his mind slowly came to terms with Briseis’ betrayal—some primal thing in him pushed him into it. Or perhaps his mind subconsciously hatched the plan once the fighting started. He could not tell. Whatever it was, in that heated moment, Achilles surrendered to an instinct beyond combat.

Dropping his shield, he grabbed the Amazon Queen by her face and drew her into a kiss, lips crashing into hers. Penthesileia let out a surprised and outraged sound, but then she was kissing him back, earnestly. It was wild, desperate, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the world around them faded away. The kiss was fierce and chaotic, a wild fusion of desperation and longing that spoke of battles fought and the weight of the world on their shoulders. Her shield clanged onto the ground and her free hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He responded with a fervour that shocked them both, deepening the kiss as if they could siphon strength from the moment.

Tasting the metallic tang of blood and sweat, they lost themselves in the connection, their shared animosity melting away like snow under a blazing sun. Each heartbeat thundered in Achilles’ chest, echoing the turmoil of their worlds colliding. For those fleeting seconds, it felt like they were no longer enemies…nothing but two souls yearning for something more than the war that surrounded them, defying fate in a kiss that spoke of both danger and undeniable passion.

And then the battle pierced his ears again. Achilles’ eyelids fluttered open and his heart stuttered. Slowly, he raised his arm.

And drove his sword through Penthesileia’s chest.

The Queen gasped, pulling away, her eyes widening in shock. “What—” she stumbled over her words, sliding down onto her knees, but the words faded as her breath quickened, life ebbing from her.

Achilles felt a deep sorrow envelop him. He shut his eyes, turning away. He was stupid. He was so stupid, for allowing himself to be distracted like that.

If only they were not on opposite sides. If only they could have been more than just soldiers in a war that was not theirs.

And he cursed the gods for this fate they had given him—both of them, as he twisted the sword deeper into her. Blood gurgled at her lips. Around them, the Trojans and Amazons descended into a frenzy. “Well…played…” Penthesileia trailed off, eyes fluttering shut. Achilles slid onto his knees, into the gunk and the blood and the bodies. She was just another to add to the pile, he reminded himself.

It should not have hurt as much as it did.

By the gods, he was sick and tired of it all. He had just lost his best friend. A woman he had loved had revealed his secret to his worst enemies. And now he had just used trickery and deception to kill another, who, though shrouded in danger, had drawn him in like a moth to a flame.

Her body went limp as he lay her down slowly into the ground. “I’m so sorry,” He whispered. As he watched her chest stop moving, the battlefield rushed back in, the chaos around them stark and unforgiving. Achilles was aware of several amazons thundering towards him. He saw Perseus and Aeneas slide to a stop a few feet away. Disbelief clouded their expression as Penthesileia’s blood stained the earth.

He ripped his sword out of her chest, brutally and turned to face the oncoming storm. The cacophony of war resumed, but for Achilles, all that remained was the haunting beauty of what could have been, lost in battle.

BREAK

AENEAS jumped slightly in his chair, a small sound escaping his lips as Perseus banged his hand on the table. “I don’t get how or why he keeps running!” His brother was livid. Since they’d stumbled on the gruesome scene on the battlefield…Aeneas scowled to himself. He still could not believe it. Right after the bastard had turned to face them, the crowd of surrounding soldiers had swarmed him, and they had lost Achilles in the ensuing melee once more. The Amazons had continued to fight valiantly, screaming bloody murder and surrounding their fallen queen. Trojans had joined them eagerly, but the Achaeans had been roused by Achilles’ depraved and cold-blooded killing of their enemy.

“He killed Penthesileia!” His brother’s voice was furious and yet, full of disbelief. “He has to be put down, Now.”

“Yes,” The king of Dardania looked up. “But raging about it isn’t going to send Achilles to Hades, brother. We have to be smart about this.”

“And to be fair,” Paris popped in, “The plan was for her to keep Achilles in one place long enough for you to get there to end it. You were—“

“I would think before finishing that statement if I were you, Prince,” Perseus snarled at him. Paris shrunk back in his seat, glowering.

“Are we sure she did not try to kill him?” Antianera, Penthesileia’s successor and the Amazon’s interim queen barked. “It is not in our ways to wait for a man to take all the glory for a kill. Maybe Queen Penthesileia attempted and when she failed, she was cut down.” She stared accusingly at Briseis, the only other female in the room, and forged on. “Maybe your little slave princess here fed us lies and got our Queen slaughtered!”

“Penthesileia trusted me,” Perseus scowled. “She understood the significance of killing Achilles to my brother and me. As I am sure you all do.” His voice was hard, eyes piercing through each person in the room.

Perseus pursed his lip. “As selfish as it may be, Achilles was not hers to kill.”

“And now she lies with our ancestors because of that!” Antianera snarled right back, banging the table. “He killed our Queen. The Amazons might not have had the right before, but they do now. And I still believe your Princess is lying!”

Aeneas rubbed his temples and gritted his teeth. The war council had been dragging on for hours. They were all angry, and tired, and a burning flame which had been leading them towards victory had been snuffed out thanks to tricks and golden-haired manwhores. Yes, several eyewitnesses reported that Achilles and the Queen had been particularly…mouthy, at the end of their little duel.

“Briseis,” Aeneas spoke her name, concentrating on her aura and commanding her will to submit to his. He felt a twinge of guilt, but the son of Anchises pushed it away. This was a necessary evil, and the sooner he accepted that, the better for all of them. “Tell us again, how can we kill Achilles?” Around him, everyone waited and watched with bated breath.

Briseis looked indignant but it flickered away quickly as her expression was replaced by a dazed one. Aeneas hoped no one noticed. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Perseus’ lips curl. There was a reason he trusted the girl’s words, and it was happening right in front of him. Her back straightened and she said, “I have told you, so many times already. Achilles’ only weak spot is the heel of his right foot. He loved me. He used to confide in me. Why would I lie?”

“Maybe because you are also in love with him and you do not wish to see him dead?” Helenus leaned forward, eyes narrowed accusingly.

“Hey, lay off,” Perseus pounded his fist on the table again, making several of the gathered men jolt in their seats. “I trust Briseis, and if she says that’s how we can kill him, then that’s how we kill him, got it? She isn’t lying.”

There were grunts and sounds of disapproval. Aeneas knew what was going on in their heads. They all thought Perseus was a little desperate in their quest to avenge Hector—willing to believe anything. It didn’t help that everyone knew he and Briseis had been…intimate once before. Their small task force had been established after Hector’s funeral rites, to make plans and try to find ways to send Achilles packing straight to Tartarus. So far, their only problem had been locating the Prince of Phthia, and frankly, Aeneas was getting tired of chasing him around the battlefield.

He scanned the room once more. Deiphobus looked annoyed and disapproving. Helenus’ gaze was still trained on Briseis. The princess sat ramrod straight, but Aeneas could tell she was nervous. Antianera played with a small knife on the table, eyes burning for vengeance. Paris was sharpening an arrow with a small knife. Perseus still paced up and down, a thoughtful frown on his face, his fists clenching and unclenching. Aeneas himself sat before a very empty goblet of wine.

They were the only ones in the whole kingdom who knew how Achilles could be killed. And so far, they had been able to do nothing with that knowledge. It irked him to no end that Hector’s killer still roamed around freely. Achilles needed to go. And Aeneas was tired of waiting for him to play into their hands.

“We’re not going to be able to do this at close range,” He pursed his lips. An idea had been had been burning at him for a while. Perseus was not going to like it. But it would get the job done. “I have a plan. I don’t know if it’ll work, though.”

Perseus’ eyes burned as he locked eyes with his brother. Whatever they were going to do, it had to be soon. And they’d have to do it together. “Go on,” The green-eyed man gestured.

“We’re going to need Apollo’s help…and an arrow.”

Chapter Text

ACHILLES barely noticed as he trudged back into the Greek camp. His heart and hands heavy, the warrior Prince barely glanced up as he made his way through the camp and towards his own tent. It was nighttime, ending another day of endless fighting and useless death. Specifically, Penthesileia’s. He absentmindedly drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, his mind barely registering the screams and wails of agony which pierced the air as he passed the medic’s tent.

So much death, so much carnage.

Had it all been worth it? Had all of this been worth the glory and the fame he had craved for so long? The death of his best friend, the betrayal of his lover, his murder of the Amazon Queen and even his own impending departure from Earth. Ever since his mother’s stunt at the Styx—making him invulnerable, thinking she had outsmarted the Fates—it didn’t take brains to know his life would not be easy. He had known the cost of this glory he sought and he had come anyway. Maybe he was stupid, and his mother had been right. Perhaps he should have stayed on Phthia. Things would have been different.

Patroclus would still be alive.

But he would not have met Briseis. Even though she had betrayed him, he had loved her. He had fought for her.

He would not have made friends.

He would not have had the opportunity to fight alongside and against the greatest heroes of their age. He would not have crossed swords with a fierce warrior queen who had tempted him with her danger. And the fates were cruel for making it play out like it did, but that was just how it was.

He was here now. He was going to die soon. And then it would all end. All the pain and the loss and suffering.

As he passed a small campfire, he made a turn, shaking his head and mumbling to himself, “Oh, Penthesileia. If only things were different—“

Achilles heard a chorus of laughter. His head moved up slightly, and his feet slowly drew to a stop. There were men—soldiers—seated around the flames, eating from bowls and roasting something on a spit. Fish, probably. That was all they seemed to eat these days.

“The whore queen?” One of the men spoke. He was looking directly at Achilles. “That was one powerful duel, man. That bitch had it coming, I’ll say.”

“What?” There was whistling in his ears. Achilles frowned at them.

“I mean, really. Bloody brilliant, you are! She’s killed a lot of us, see. Everyone who’s ever fought her died. But then she couldn’t resist. She wanted to have a taste! A whore, even on the battlefield! The stories about all those Amazons are true. We saw her, y’know. Mouthing the Hades right off you. Probably aching for a good poun—“ Achilles had had enough. He did not know how or why he reacted the way he did. His blood rushed to his head and the Prince drew his sword rapidly, slashing upwards.

“Penthesileia was a million times the warrior any of you could ever hope to be.” He let out a scoff before turning on his heel as the now headless corpse collapsed to the ground. Shouts of outrage erupted behind him. But Achilles did not care. He continued to march angrily towards his tent, heart pounding in anger. How could that nobody disrespect the dead Queen in such a horrid way? He deserved to burn in the darkest parts of Hades.

But, a voice reminded him, he had also dragged Hector’s body—a Crown Prince—around Troy and refused to give it back.

Achilles was the worst type of man there was. A hypocrite. There wasn’t a big difference between them at all. This war, and everything it had come with…it had tainted him. It had turned him into a monster; and corrupted his soul. There was no salvation for him. It hurt that he had not seen it happening sooner—that he had let it happen. The Prince of Phthia sighed as he finally saw his tent. Phoenix stood guard outside, ever the loyal soldier. The son of Thetis did not miss the way his eyes moved to the bloodied blade, then back to the Prince’s face. Achilles smiled slightly at him as he passed, although he was sure it looked more like a grimace. In the past decade, this man had been his father, his advisor and his friend. Phoenix knew him, maybe even more than his actual father did. Achilles paused as he opened the tent flap.

“I’m about to die, dear old Phoenix,” He said wistfully. “Any day from now, I’ll be no more.”

“My Lord,” The older man pursed his lips. “Do not speak with such misery. Nothing will happen to you. Not under my watch.”

“Oh, Phoenix,” He shook his head, then patted him on the shoulder. “It is the will of the fates, and not even you can stand in their way.” The man looked troubled, but he did not argue with Achilles. Perhaps he saw the sea of emotions raging through him—the turmoil in his mind. “Get me some parchment and ink, would you? I need to write a few letters home. And two to Skyros. And have one of the men fetch Calchas. I fear I may have killed one of ours and am in dire need of ritual purification before the gods smite me.”

Phoenix’s brow wrinkled. He placed a hand to his chest and bowed to Achilles, before departing.

As the golden-haired lion of Greece stepped into his tent, he smiled wryly. He could not help but feel that the next time he saw this place, he would be on another plane of reality.

BREAK

PERSEUS’s eyelids fluttered in the darkness as he let out a small exhale. Selene brushed a few strands of hair from his face and planted a kiss on his forehead. He let out another content sigh and Selene smiled, drawing back. “Are you sure about this? I know how much killing Achilles means to you.”

He was silent for a few heartbeats before he nodded—well, as much as he could with his head in his lover’s lap. They were in his chambers in the palace, just a few hallways away from Aeneas and Creusa. “Yes, I am. Aeneas is smart and I trust him. You know between you and my brother, you both do 90 per cent of my thinking for me.” He laughed. “And as much as I might not like it, he’s right. Killing Achilles in close combat is going to be impossible. He knows that we’re aware now, thanks to Briseis.”

“How do you think she is? Briseis, I mean. If she truly loved Achilles, I find it hard to believe she would sell him out like that.” Admittedly, it was something which had not escaped them. But with Aeneas’ growing powers, he trusted that the information was accurate. He told Selene as much.

“Briseis…well, she’s a complex case, if I’m being honest,” He spoke. “For the longest time, I felt terrible about leaving her behind—“ He glanced up and saw the immortal’s raised eyebrow, which made him chuckle under his breath. “We were intimate for a night, Sel. It was a very long time ago; it meant nothing. And you know that was when you and I were both still denying whatever feelings we had for each other.”

“That’s true,” She smirked. “But for her sake, let’s hope she’s over it.”

“Even if she does,” He said, matter-of-factly. “No one under Apollo’s sun compares to you.”

“Oh Mother Rhea, who knew under all that ‘warrior’, there’s a lovesick starfish?” She teased.

“And it’s all yours,” He whispered. Selene stroked his cheek.

“Briseis was safe under Achilles’ care,” He ploughed on, with an exhale, eyelids fluttering at the motions of her fingers. “I think she might have developed some sort of syndrome or something, where she thought she was in love with him. But he was her captor. He destroyed her home. No matter how much she cared for him, I do not think it was easy for her to forget that. Maybe she was just faking it, for her survival. It did not take much cajoling to get her to tell us what she knew. Aeneas’ charmspeak helped too.”

“Right,” She nodded, leaning back on his pillows. “Do you think this—Achilles’ death—will finally bring you peace?” Her voice was quiet now, and barely pierced the evening stillness.

Perseus shut his eyes. He had been thinking about it, he would not lie. But he didn’t much like the answer he’d arrived at. “Hector, maybe. It’ll bring his spirit peace. Andromache too. And his parents.”

“But not you,” Selene murmured. She was glowing slightly, and Perseus smiled to himself despite the morbid conversation, snuggling deeper into his little glow-in-the-dark lady love.

“Not me,” He agreed. “I don’t think I’ll ever find peace until the Greeks are gone and everyone I love is safe.”

“Mhmm,” Her fingers traced his jawline. “You think killing Achilles would ensure that?”

“It certainly takes us closer to the goal, if that’s what you mean,” He replied lowly, voice raspy. “Achilles is a beacon of hope for the Greeks. If he’s off the board, we might just win this thing.”

“Your powers and Aeneas’ seem to be tipping the playing field in your favour,” The Titaness agreed. “You might just win this thing.”

The son of Anchises felt hope bloom in his chest. It was an odd and foreign feeling. He had not had hope in him since he had watched his best friend cut down in front of his very eyes. But they really could do this. They could rout the Greeks, he was sure of it.

Ten years.

For ten years, they had been fighting this never-ending war, and he for one, was sick of watching his friends die around him every day. He was sick of worrying if his brother and his city were going to see another sunrise. He was sick of the endless pattern of grief, torment and loss.

“But after that,” Selene’s brows drew together. “What next?”

“All I want to do—” He reached up, gently cupping Selene’s face in his free hand and drawing her lips to meet his. As they broke away, he continued, “—Is kiss you like this, and stay in this room for a full week—“ He kissed her chin. “And let you ravish me until neither of us can walk.” Her lips brushed his, but then she pulled away, eyes alight with mirth. Perseus sank back into her lap, grumbling. She was such a tease.

She laughed at him. “Is that a promise?”

“Oh, yes, definitely on my to-do list,” He answered, smirking up at her.

The dark-haired woman smiled at him. “Good thing we have an eternity, then.” Her hands went back to roving his hair, and Perseus smiled into her belly. They lay there for a while in a comfortable silence, just listening to the sounds of their breathing. It soothed him, feeling her torso rise and fall. That was what he loved about her. With Selene, there were no pretences. He was not the General of the Trojan army. He was not an immortal demigod and she was not a Titaness. They didn’t need to talk, even. They just were.

His eyelids fluttered once more as Hypnos slowly drew him into his embrace.

“How do you think Andromache and Astyanax are faring?” Selene mumbled quietly into the night air, drawing him from sleep’s bosom.

“Andromache is…wrecked,” He whispered back. “And as for Astyanax, I think he’s far too young to understand what’s going on.” It did all sorts of things to him when he went to see the bereaved family and Hector’s son was always crying for his dad. “But Creusa and Hecuba spend all their time with them. I think Achilles’ death will clear things up for Andromache the most.”

“I imagine the pain they are going through will not be easily forgotten though,” Selene said. “A mother should never have to bury her child. Or a wife her husband.”

“Yeah,” He agreed. Then a frown settled on his face as he remembered something. “What about you? Your…children,” He paused. “Do they know..about us?”

Selene’s lips pulled up in a slight smile. “Some. I have not seen all fifty of them together in a long time. The ones that do know cannot wait to meet you.”

Oh. He had forgotten that tiny detail. Fifty. Damn. “You should have mentioned. I’m open to meeting them anytime.” She laughed, and the sound washed over him. He always loved it when Selene laughed. “Anyway, fifty is a huge number.” He looked up, meeting her eyes—still the same, after all this time. “Open to having more?”

The Titaness seemed to consider the question. Perseus’ heart thundered in his chest. “I wouldn’t mind. Not if it’s you.” She leaned down and kissed him. “You’ll be a great father.”

“Let’s hope so,” He exhaled, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Watching Astyanax and Aeneas’ son grow up had been…something. He loved them both. He was the favourite uncle, of course, and he himself wanted to be a dad for the longest time. But not with this war looming over their heads. He could not damn a child by bringing them into this painful existence. Not now, at least. But maybe later, with Selene… just maybe. “Once this whole thing blows over.”

“It will.” The lightness in the room was replaced by a stifling seriousness. “It has to let up someday, doesn’t it?” He nodded his assent numbly. Oh, how he hoped she was right. He was bloody tired.

“This war…” He looked up at the ceiling. His thoughts and feelings crowded him, emotions whirling in him until he felt like he was flooding. “This war has taken…everything from us. All of us. I don’t think I even remember who I was before it all started.”

Selene smiled in the dark. “I do. You are still the same headstrong, loyal, reckless hero you always were, and always will be. The only difference is you grew up.” Something bloomed in his chest. A warmth spread through him.

“A bit too quickly,” He murmured. “But yeah.” Perseus took her hand and intertwined their fingers. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“I know,” The other immortal squeezed his hand. “My children would be pleased to meet you once this war is over. But—“

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” He held up his free hand. “Promise.”

“Not that,” She shook her head. “My sister Eos, I asked for her help.”

“And?”

“Her son should arrive with the dawn, with an army. He’s a demigod, like you. He’s one of Ethiopia’s Generals, over in Africa.” Perseus sat up in the bed. “His name is Memnon, and I believe with his aid, along with the Amazon’s continued support, the Trojan army should have enough manpower to overcome the Greeks. I give it a week, tops.”

“That’s amazing, Selene,” He pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. She hugged him back, patting his back at the enthusiasm. “You’ve done a lot for Troy. For me.” He pulled back and slammed his lips on hers in a searing kiss. When they broke apart, he laughed. “I love you.”

She chuckled, pulling away. “I love you too, but don’t be too happy yet. Another thing I almost forgot; My brother comes from Sicily in a few days.” Perseus blanched. “Helios wants to meet you.”

BREAK

THE DAY’S FIGHTING had been even more brutal than usual. For the first time since Hector’s death, Perseus was focused on pushing towards the Greek camp on the beach and not hunting down Achilles on the battlefield. He fought back to back with his brother, dodging slashes, cutting down men and running his sword through their enemies. Alongside them rode the Amazons, under the banner of their new queen, who fought with as much ferociousness as her predecessor. Penthesileia’s death had awoken a beast within the female warriors, and they would not be sated until the plain flooded with the blood of the Achaeans.

Their plan was a simple one. Sooner or later, they would stumble upon Achilles. Everything had to seem natural, or else he would bolt once more. And they could not allow that.

There were screams of terror coming from the left flank of the Achaeans, and Perseus grinned maniacally to himself as a chariot thundered down the plain, pulled by four fire-breathing horses, quite similar to Apollo’s. Memnon, the leader of the Ethiopian contingent, carried one of the Greek princes aloft with his spear—Antilochus, Nestor’s son, it seemed. The man was dead, and the General let loose another roar as he hurled him off his golden spear. The outcry was carried up by the thousands of men who had joined the fight from Africa.

The reinforcements were well-needed. The Greek forces were thinning, he could see. A few more days of pushing, and they would have the entire plain. The Achaeans would be forced back to their camp and Perseus would summon an earthquake—even larger than the one he had used to destroy their gates—to bury them underground. Then he would summon another wave of the sea to drown whatever survivors were left behind. He would rid Troy of this problem, once and for all.

But before that, Achilles had to go.

Perseus barely reacted as blood sprayed on him. He tore his sword out of the throat of his assailant and raised his shield just in time to catch an axe. With an expert manoeuvre, he twisted his arm and drove his sword through the attacker’s midgut. Aeneas was at his side in an instant, swords swinging, and he fluidly chopped the man’s head off. They wove around each other like a well-oiled machine, watching each other’s backs, tearing through the Greek lines with little effort.

After ten years of fighting beside one another, it felt natural, as he blocked a sword headed for Aeneas’ head. His brother spun low and came up behind him, crossing his swords in an x to intercept a stray arrow. They were monstrous, unforgiving and beastly, slicing off arms, and dodging lances and arrows amidst the screams and the blood. The horses rammed into Greek soldiers, sending them flying.

The Greeks had gotten smart—in the days since his first stint with the equestrians, they had long since begun to forgo the convenience of riding into battle. Now, the Trojans controlled almost all the horses on the plain. If they kept this up, in a few days the Greeks would be decimated. Achilles’ absence from the fighting had brought them to their knees all those weeks ago. His death would send them reeling—leaving them open and confused enough for Troy to land the killing blow on their forces.

A group of Greeks had surrounded them. Corpses littered the ground around the two brothers. Perseus exchanged a glance with Aeneas. His ichor thrummed in his veins. The thrill of battle sent adrenaline sparking through him. He pursed his lips. When this war was over, he did not know how what he would do with himself. He would have to rediscover who he was without the threat of daily battles hanging over his head each morning. But Selene would be there to guide him. He had hope that he would be okay.

Aeneas’ forehead wrinkled. The Greeks inched closer. Perseus shifted his foot and stepped into a puddle of blood. His brother’s voice rose over the din of the battle, and Aeneas cried out, “Run each other through with those weapons!” He felt his heart stop as his brother bent the will of the dozen Achaeans around him. Perseus himself felt the urge, to drive his sword into Aeneas…no, that was his brother speaking. Aphrodite’s son did not know the extent of the power he wielded. Perseus fought off the nagging in his mind to obey his will. Aeneas’ power rolled off him in waves and the son of Anchises felt his lips pull up in a proud smile as the men, weak-willed as they were, offered no resistance. They spun on each other and stabbed with gusto and glazed expressions.

It was not a pretty sight.

Aeneas was panting as the soldiers around them collapsed. Perseus reached out and gripped him by the elbow. It was certainly not the first time he had seen the King of Dardania use his godly gifts, but that did not mean it got any less eerie. “You’re amazing,” He shouted.

“Thanks, I try,” Aeneas grinned wryly. His hands shot out from his side and a knife sailed out of his grip and into the chest of an oncoming Greek king. The man collapsed a few feet away.

Another platoon of Greeks was closing in on them. Trojans, Amazons and Achaeans alike were locked in combat all over the battlefield. The sun burnt high and bright, as though every eye on Olympus was focused on them, which was probably the case. The soldiers charged.

Perseus felt an idea come to his mind and instinctively waved his sword arm, imagining what he wanted to happen and bending the moisture around him to his will. He felt the water in the pools of blood respond to his command and with another wave of his hand, the blood rose, then separated, then crystallised until there were a dozen spears of blood surrounding them. Sweat ran down his back.

“Seems like you’ve got your own tricks up your sleeve,” Aeneas noted, sliding into a defensive stance. He blocked the first blow and with his other sword’s pommel, made a man’s helmet sink in.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Perseus conceded. He ducked underneath another swing and flicked his wrist. The spears sailed through the air and Perseus guided them towards their targets effortlessly. He grinned as they tore through the shields and breastplates of their assailants. Several Greeks lay impaled and very much dead around them.

“Great work,” Aeneas huffed, hurling another throwing knife into a man pressing an Amazon back. “We need to—“

There was a roar from a few feet away. Heads snapped up. Aeneas and Perseus exchanged a glance. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the overturned chariot and the skittering flaming horses. Memnon, Eos’ son, was locked in combat with another warrior. Achilles.

He looked older than the last time they had seen him. Haggard, and worn. But his golden armour still shone through the blood and gore. His eyes were sunken and his face gaunt, but still every bit as regal as it had been, even beneath that disguise on Skyros. His golden hair billowed in the wind as he spun and delivered two quick slashes into Memnon’s breastplate. The man barely had any time to defend himself, before Achilles was driving a sword through his heart. Aeneas’ eyes widened. Perseus swore. In a heartbeat, they were dashing towards the General and the Prince.

Thunder rumbled overhead, although the sky was clear. The sun flared in anger. The fiery horses neighed and bolted off into the throng of fighting men. Perseus sliced the arm of a man who was approaching them. Aeneas delivered a killing blow to another who came in their path. They continued making their way towards the fallen man and the lion of Phthia, slicing through Achaeans, wading through blood and jumping over bodies.

Perseus felt his ichor boil. What was it with this bastard and killing all their leaders and allies?

Achilles spun and shoved his weapon through one of the Ethiopians who had charged him. He ducked under a swing from an Amazon and raised his weapon to lop off her arm. His other hand held a small knife which he drew across the woman’s throat. Perseus grimaced as a memory assaulted his mind. He remembered the same motion, the same Achaean, but a different curly-haired enemy. Aeneas yelled and charged Achilles.

Perseus skidded to a stop next to Memnon, checking. The man was dead. He had not known the other demigod that well—they had only met once when the battle had brought them back to back after the Ethiopian army had charged into the fray. But Memnon was Selene’s nephew. He had been a glorious fighter. He had gone down with honour. Perseus’ head pounded and with a yell, he launched himself at the golden-haired Achaean.

Achilles pivoted, meeting Aeneas’ first strike with his sword. The impact sent a wave of dust rolling off the ground, but Aeneas held his ground, teeth gritted with effort. “You’re going to pay for what you did,” The King promised.

“Are you going to talk me to death, then?” The man snarked.

They bounced away from each other, but then Perseus was there, two hands gripped on Riptide, his shield forgotten on the ground. He clashed with Achilles, a yell escaping his lips. His head and heart thrummed with anger at this man. This man, who had striven for ten years to take everything away from him. No more. No bloody more. Achilles died today. Perseus leaned back as the man brought his knife arching through the sky. He spun on his heel, dodging low and slashing at the other man’s gut.

But Achilles was fast. He doubled back just as quickly, bringing his sword down in an overhead strike. Perseus leapt aside, his mind playing back to their first fight, all those years back in Skyros. Aeneas launched himself over his bent form, twin swords flashing in the sunlight. He and Achilles collided, and the force of Aeneas’ strike sent the man backtracking. The lion of Greece and the king of Dardania met in a flurry of metal, celestial bronze and sparks. Aeneas dodged a wide strike from Achilles’ sword and sidestepped a blow from the knife. His arm shot up to slam the hilt of his blade into Achilles’ jaw but the Phthian leaned back, right as Perseus joined the fray.

The son of Poseidon slashed at Achilles’ arm but his blade bounced off, the momentum of his blow making Achilles grunt. Fury clouded his vision as he jabbed low. But Achilles leaped up and the sword cut through the air where the heel was before. Aeneas’ sword blocked a strike which would have slammed into Perseus’ head and with a burst of strength, his brother sent Achilles flying.

Aeneas was at his side in that instant, his face hard and angry, “Get a grip, Perseus. Don’t let your anger get in the way. You’re getting sloppy!” He bared his teeth but nodded. Aeneas was right. For this to work, he needed to be levelheaded. This was far too important to screw up.

They glanced up just in time to see Achilles charging them again and bounced to meet him head-on.

It was a collision which would never be forgotten by the history books.

Around them, the entire world faded until it was only Perseus, Achilles and Aeneas. They danced around each other like wraiths, weaving a tapestry of anger, grief and death. They exchanged powerful blows which would have signalled the end for lesser men, sparks and flames flying when metal met metal. Blood and ichor roared through Perseus’ ears. Achilles, as weak as he looked, was holding his own. But he could not fight them together and hope to win.

Achilles swung low with a powerful arc aimed at Perseus’ legs, but the son of Poseidon executed a quick sidestep, the blade narrowly missing him. He countered with a thrust of his own, aiming for Achilles’ arm which held the knife. The blade slammed into impenetrable skin, and Achilles yelled in pain, releasing his blade. Quick as lightning, Aeneas was there, grabbing the knife midair and slamming it into Achilles’ side. The metal blade bent on impact, but the damage had been done. With equally fast reflexes, Perseus brought his knee up and slammed it into Achilles’ face, sending him reeling backwards with a grunt. Aeneas jumped up and delivered a quick roundhouse which sent Achilles tumbling to the ground.

As one, they leapt at him once more. Achilles snarled and spat out blood from his mouth, rolling to his feet. He rotated his body and brought his sword up to block their blows and three swords collided with his, the force sending a shockwave rippling through Perseus’ arm. He danced back and Aeneas pushed forward, swinging his swords in a high arc. The legendary warrior whirled, deflecting the blow with a swift horizontal motion of his sword.

“Aeneas, get down!” With a similar trick as the one he’d done with the blood, Perseus summoned the perspiration off their respective bodies and formed several tiny blades of moisture. He felt that familiar tug in his gut; it was lighter now, though. His powers barely required any effort anymore. He was immortal, and there was no burnout for him. As his brother dropped to the ground he released the projectiles towards Achilles. The man’s eyes widened as the spears sailed towards him. The blue-eyed warrior expertly danced out of the way, sword flashing in the sunlight as he cut down several of the weapons and manoeuvred his way through the onslaught, hair whipping in the wind. Above them, thunder rumbled.

Zeus was watching.

Perseus barely noticed the sky darkening.

Aeneas attacked again and lunged at Achilles with a rapid thrust aimed at his side. Achilles reacted with remarkable reflexes, stepping back and redirecting Aeneas’ strike away with a calculated flick of his wrist. As thunder boomed once more around them, Achilles spun and sliced at Aeneas. Perseus felt his heart stop when he saw it. His brother’s left hand—still clutching the sword—from his wrist to his fingers, separated from the rest of his arm. Aeneas cried out and stumbled back, narrowly dodging a killing blow from Achilles’ weapon.

Enraged, Perseus dove forward, intercepting another strike. He snarled at Achilles, pushing him back. Perseus turned back to his brother, worry etched on his face. “You alright?”

Aeneas gritted his teeth. His blood was leaking rapidly out of the stub where his wrist used to be. The raven-haired man felt his heart stutter. He hated seeing his brother in pain. But Aeneas gripped his arm and said, “I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Achilles laughed from a few feet away. “You’ll bleed out before you manage to kill me. Why not make this quick?”

“You’re going to regret this,” Perseus snarled. “All of it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Golden boy’s eyes glinted. “Make me.”

Achilles darted forward, moving in and out of range. With his one working hand, Aeneas moved to meet him. Perseus dove into the fray a split second later, and the three warriors collided once more. Achilles feinted an attack towards Aeneas, drawing him into a defensive posture before swiftly redirecting his weapon towards Perseus. The move caught him off guard, forcing him to raise his sword just in time to block the incoming strike. Before he could react Achilles had drawn another small blade and jabbed it into his side. Perseus let out a gasp of pain and stumbled back, just as Aeneas drew a fatal line with his sword, across Achilles’ neck. But of course, it was useless. The Achaean scowled and twisted away, hand moving towards his throat to rub the forming bruise.

Perseus growled and pulled out the offending weapon. Bitch. With precision, he hurled it at Achilles, just as Aeneas pivoted to deliver a sharp upward strike towards Achilles’ chin. The prince barely ducked in time, and Perseus watched as the knife bounced off one of Achilles’ heels. He spun, rage filling his eyes, and then scoffed. “Good try.”

The sons of Anchises attacked once more and Perseus swiped at Achilles’ head as Aeneas slashed at his arm. A rush of air sailed over him where the blades passed, as the expert warrior slid underneath Perseus’ blow and spun in the sand to avoid Aeneas’. Without warning, Lightning arched through the sky and slammed into a fallen body on the ground a distance away. Dust and debris clouded the air as they clashed again. Perseus darted around Achilles, seeing an opportunity to flank him. He feinted to the left, drawing the blond man’s attention, then quickly moved right, thrusting his blade into Achilles’ exposed side. The warrior, ever aware, caught his blow with his gauntlet and pushed Perseus back with otherwordly strength.

Aeneas attacked again, swinging low, aiming to unbalance Achilles. The Achaean, anticipating the move, jumped to avoid the strike but was caught off guard when Aeneas immediately followed with an upward arc. The sword connected with Achilles’ knee, sending him off balance, but he quickly regained his footing and retaliated with a spinning attack, sword arcing through the air to lop off Aeneas’ head. His brother would not be able to react in time. Perseus dove forward and raised his arm to block the blade, which bounced off his own gauntlet. He was littered with cuts and bruises. Ichor slowly inched down his armour. Aeneas didn’t look much better. His injury was still bleeding.

“You have to cauterize that,” Perseus barked at his brother, bringing his sword up to stab Achilles’ torso. The man jumped away. “Get back to the medic tent!’

“Later,” Aeneas panted. His face was screwed up in pain. “We stick to the plan.”

“Aeneas—“

He was cut off by a familiar shout from a few feet away. Another arc of lightning slammed into the ground. The prone body…Memnon. The General of the Ethiopian army suddenly sat up with a scream as lightning seared his body. He shook as the force of Jove’s power burned through him, his voice resonating across the battlefield. Perseus saw blue and Aeneas swore, shielding his eyes.

“What—“ His brother was cut off by a yell from Achilles.

“Never mind that,” Perseus adjusted his stance. From the corner of his eye, he saw Memnon’s eyelids flutter open. His eyes were glowing. And he was very much alive. “Impossible,” Aeneas muttered. But it wasn’t. Whatever was happening with Memnon, now was not the time to think about it.

Achilles raced for them.

He was fueled by his rage, and his rage made him aggressive. As he closed the distance, Perseus met him with a series of rapid strikes. Achilles’ body absorbed most of the blows, and the immortal demigod himself dodged a few hits. He countered with a series of quick thrusts, forcing Achilles to retreat momentarily. Aeneas capitalized on this, rushing in with a powerful downward strike.

Anticipating the move, Achilles sidestepped and spun to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade as it struck the ground. He whirled around and delivered a solid right hook into Aeneas’ jaw sending him stumbling. Perseus slammed the hilt of his sword into Achilles’ head at the same time the warrior drove his fist into Perseus’ gut. The three men reared away from one another, grunting in pain, but each quickly regained his composure. Achilles’ eyes narrowed with determination.

Perseus had known it would not be easy. But they needed to get going. He exchanged a glance with Aeneas and together they charged, Perseus leading the assault while Aeneas flanked Achilles. Aeneas struck high, aiming for his head, while Perseus aimed low, targeting his legs. The dual attack forced Achilles to split his defences once more and in that split second, Aeneas’ sword connected with his shoulder while Perseus’ blade swept under, knocking him off balance.

Before he could fall, Perseus grabbed Achilles by his golden locks and slammed his head into his. Achilles swore as Perseus let go, but Aeneas was there, grabbing his head and forcing him to look into his eyes. “You’re going to pursue us to the Scaean Gates. Chase us like your life depends on it because it does. Chase, Achilles.”

Perseus could see the way his brother was exerting himself, forcing every bit of power and energy he had into that command. Achilles was disoriented, but the Polemarchos had no doubt that should he try to get to Achilles’ heel, the Graecean would react quickly and defend himself. The dance of death would go on forever.

Aeneas let go of Achilles and turned back to his brother, nodding. Perseus grabbed him by the elbow, and together, they took off running.

Towards the Scaean gates.

BREAK

ACHILLES grunted as he ran, past the thousands of soldiers screaming for his head. Past the Amazons who wanted to see him dead. Past the Ethiopians whose leader he had struck down what seemed like hours ago. He dodged horses and spears. He spun away from swords and lances. He needed to get to them. Perseus and Aeneas. Cowards. Bastards, taking off mid-fight.

Wherever they went he would follow, until he sent one or both of them to join their friend Hector.

His heart pounded in his chest. Blood rushed to his head and adrenaline pounded through his veins. He tore across the plain like he was weightless, his sword arm moving of its own free will and protecting him from any assailant which came his way. In the back of his mind, something nagged. Trap…it might be a trap. Perseus and Aeneas, however stupid they were, were not known to run from any battle.

But then an overwhelming feeling washed over him and he shook the thought away. No, he had to keep chasing them. He had to pursue them until they were dead.

He was bruised all over. His armour was shredded, and his head was pounding. His hair stuck to his head, matted with sweat and blood. But still, Achilles kept running. He could see them—Perseus, with his dark hair, bolting towards the city, and Aeneas, minus one hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Achilles felt a brief bolt of satisfaction hit him. He had done that. Aeneas would always look at his stump, and remember that it was Achilles who had taken his hand away. He felt some sort of sick joy at that. Aeneas would never forget.

Even if he died today.

And deep inside him, he realised what was happening. He was running towards his death.

But would he stop?

No. Achilles shut his eyes and exhaled. Whatever was coming, whatever they had planned, he was done. He was done with this war. He was done with the lies, the backstabbing, the endless cycle of pain and death and fighting. He would meet Patroclus again, and that was enough for him. It had to be. He would embrace death, because all his life, death had followed him, loyally, at his side every step of the way. He had been marked from the moment his mother had tried to cheat Fate. Death was not something he feared, no. In some ways, Thanatos was one of the only friends he had left.

Achilles continued to run, eyelids fluttering open. He would go down swinging. They would kill him today, but he would not make it easy for them. “Goodbye, Mother,” He murmured. A tear leaked from his eyes, and he prayed the message would get to her. “I love you.”

It would be an honour to die at Perseus’ and Aeneas’ hands. And he would not have it any other way. No one else was worthy.

He was the Prince of Pthia.

The son of Peleus the Argonaut, and Thetis of the sea.

He was the lion of Greece.

He was the bane of the Trojans.

He was the anointed of the gods of Olympus.

Above all, he was the greatest hero of their age.

Above all, he was Achilles.

And he would never be forgotten.

BREAK

AENEAS watched as his brother whirled, sword raised, just in time to catch a blow from Achilles. They were at the gates, and although the son of Aphrodite had not expected the golden-haired prince to catch up to them that quickly, he was more than ready to end it there and then. Around them, the battle raged. Men and women alike fell, heads rolled and the earth soaked up more blood than it had seen in weeks. There was a shrill ringing in Aeneas’ ears and his arm was on fire.

He was a hand short, and he was in excruciating pain. But that did not matter. He would fight through this, with his brother, like they had fought through everything life had thrown at them.

Perseus hurled Achilles back and the warrior landed on his feet a few steps away. He seemed to have overcome his earlier disarray, the exertion of the race barely evident on his perfect face. Oh, how Aeneas would relish watching the light drain out of his eyes, once and for all. He wanted to hold Achilles’ head beneath the sea and choke him to death. He wanted to see him suffer.

It was something they had considered, but then getting him close enough to the ocean with Perseus around would have been a major problem. Achilles was daft, but not stupid, and it was a risk Aeneas and their small task force were not willing to take. He bared his teeth to stifle a groan as another wave of pain arched from the stump which used to be his wrist. His blood was leaking out rapidly and making him feel woozy; it was a wonder he had not passed out yet. As the Prince dove for them again, Aeneas shot into action, his one useful hand acting as though it had a mind of its own.

He parried the blow meant for Perseus’ head, and twisted his blade to the left, giving his brother the clear opportunity to launch a punch at Achilles’ nose. A crack resounded across the battlefield and their enemy stumbled back. But Aeneas was sharp, and he quickly struck again, smacking the flat of his blade on Achilles’ wrist. He’d expected the man to let go, but no, Achilles was much too smart to release his weapon. He regained his footing and slashed at Aeneas’ sword arm. The blade narrowly missed him.

They were all exhausted. Weariness hung over the three like a heavy wet blanket, stifling them and squeezing every bone in their bodies.

“This is it, Achilles,” Perseus called. “You’ve lived far too long for my liking. You’ve had a good run.” They clashed once more, blades screeching against each other, and then bounded apart.

“So I have,” Achilles nodded, chest heaving. A strange emotion flickered in his eyes.

“You’ll die today,” Aeneas told him as they met in battle. They danced around one another, the three of them exchanging blows, trading slashes, parrying and dodging until they were a whirlwind of blood, ichor and celestial bronze.

“I know,” Achilles shrugged, backtracking. “My mother predicted my death before I came to Troy.”

“Yet here you are,” Perseus bit.

“Here I am,” Achilles agreed. “I’m going to die by your hand, both of you. I think we’ve all known for a while, haven’t we?”

“Let’s not make this any harder than it is, then.”

“What, you want me to go out begging for mercy?” He laughed, but it was not humorous. “You’re going to have to earn my death, idiots.” Aeneas exchanged a glance with Perseus. The sun burned hot above them. Blazing, and almost making the perspiration on his brow evaporate. From the corner of his eye, he spotted two figures, barely noticeable, on the ramparts of the city wall beside the gates. Achilles drew what seemed like the millionth small knife, this time from behind his calf. He slipped into a stance. “Perhaps in another life, we four would have been great friends.”

“Perhaps,” Perseus conceded.

“Or maybe you would just be your usual self and still kill our best friend,” Aeneas barked.

“Like he killed mine?”

Aeneas scowled. Achilles gave them a sad smile. Behind that smile, Aeneas saw several things. Determination. Resignation. Satisfaction. But not defeat. Never defeat. There was still a fire burning in Achilles. A fire they were about to douse. A light they were about to shut down.

“Don’t worry,” He said. “I understand, for all is fair in love and war. I’ll send your regards to Hector once we meet.”

As though on cue, the three of them leapt for one another.

Aeneas darted forward and feinted to the left, making the son of Peleus follow instinctively, but at the last second pivoted on his heel and slashed at Achilles’ neck. Right behind him was Perseus, aiming a jab at Achilles’ ribs. The prince ducked low behind Aeneas’ strike and expertly sidestepped Perseus’ in a single fluid motion, quickly rising. With his momentum he delivered a sharp kick to Perseus’ chest, sending him flying, and his knife tore through the air towards the king of Dardania. Aeneas barely had time to dodge the strike, before Achilles followed with two more. Twin slashes drew themselves across his bicep, cutting through skin. Aeneas hissed and backhanded the Achaean, the force of his blow making him fall on his arse.

Then his brother was there, sword tearing through the air and slamming into Achilles’ throat. The Greek choked, but the blade bounced off harmlessly, not shattering, but also not doing any damage. Achilles raised his feet and slammed them into Perseus’ chest, sending him flying. Aeneas made to stomp on Achilles’ sword arm but the demigod had already rolled aside, and his hand swung out, flinging sand into the son of Aphrodite’s eyes. Swearing, Aeneas backtracked quickly. His brother was at his side in an instant, the sand barely bothering him, and Aeneas heard the telltale signs of battle as Perseus engaged Achilles, their blades clashing. He blinked furiously, and finally, the dust cleared, just in time for him to spot Achilles being pushed back, pressed by Perseus’ expertly calculated slashes, hacks and jabs. Perseus was livid, but—Aeneas, recognised proudly—he was channelling his anger into his fighting, blocking all the man’s attacks, parrying strikes and holding off slashes. He was retaliating against the Achaean’s strikes with precise movements of his own, whacking Achilles back like he was a straw dummy, and pressing hard on him until he was stumbling on his own feet.

And then Achilles got a lucky jab in, tearing through Perseus’ breastplate and tracing ichor down his chest.

It irked Aeneas how unhurt Achilles looked, apart from the purpling bruises he was sporting.

He quickly moved to help, taking Perseus’ place and attacking Achilles tirelessly. Ignoring their respective pain, the two brothers fought side by side, flanking Achilles and pushing him towards the wall. He was cornered, forced to dodge from every side, parry from every angle. They were still too far away. Too far out of range.

Gritting his teeth, Aeneas slashed at Achilles’ abdomen as Perseus thrust his sword into the warrior’s right flank. Achilles snarled and leaned back to avoid Aeneas’ blow, and his sword arm shot upwards to block Perseus’. As quick as one of the bolts Zeus had thrown onto the battlefield, his knife arm was airborne and with a roar Achilles spun, bronze blade slashing Perseus in the face. The son of Poseidon cried out and fell back, free hand moving to cup his left eye. Aeneas swore and knocked the knife out of Achilles’ hand. He slammed his foot into the man’s chest, pushing him back.

There. Right there.

Aeneas risked a glance at Perseus and winced. Ichor was flowing through Perseus’ hand, which still lay on his eye. Whatever the bastard had done, it wasn’t good.

With a growl, he pounced on Achilles, but the man was ready for him. As Aeneas slammed his full weight onto the Achaean, Achilles drove his sword into his gut.

Aeneas gasped. He heard Perseus scream in pain. Or anger. He could not tell.

His blood roared in his head.

Aeneas barely felt it as Achilles turned them so he was straddling him. The man above him looked broken. Exhausted. But his eyes shone with victory.

The son of Aphrodite winced as his vision swam. Pain—unbearable, searing pain—arched through his torso. His eyelids flickered towards the ramparts, which Achilles’ back was facing. Everything happened in a split second. The whole world halted around him.

He saw the arrow released from the top of the city walls.

He gasped in pain, back arching as Achilles twisted the sword in deeper.

He saw the glowing golden apparition beside the shooter as the sun crested in the sky and burnt brighter than ever before.

He saw the projectile soar through the sky, piercing the air with little resistance, whirling on its axis as it darted for its sole target.

Aeneas watched as the arrow tore through Achilles’ heel. He watched the Lion of Greece arc above him, a small gasp leaving his bloodied lips. He watched as his body jerked and the man threw his head back.

Whistling filled his ears.

He saw the acceptance filter into Achilles’ eyes. He saw Death swoop down for them both, wings blowing dust around them.

“You…fought…well…” He watched as the hero released a last stuttered breath, his chest sinking.

Aeneas watched, stricken, and darkness crept into his vision. Above him, Achilles’ eyes rolled back in his head. There was peace on his face. He was going to see Patroclus again.

The body slumped on him and the whole world rushed back in.

Aeneas collapsed back into the sand, pain tearing through his innards. He saw Paris at the ramparts, a grim expression on his face, his left fist raised in victory; a tribute to his fallen brother the Crown Prince. He saw Perseus race towards him, one side of his face a golden bloodied mess, his hands shaking. He sank onto the ground beside them, and barked, in a panic, “Aeneas! Aeneas, don’t you dare shut your eyes!”

“We killed him,” He croaked. “Achilles is dead.” Perseus’ gaze moved to the sprawled body lying on top of his brother. He raised his arm, and Aeneas noticed that in his grip was the same knife which had injured him, stained with the ichor of his immortal demigod brother. His knife sailed down and tore through flesh, joining the arrow and sinking until the hilt slammed into flesh. The body remained motionless. Perseus did not waste time. He rolled Achilles’ body off his brother. “Just making sure.”

Aeneas managed a weak grin. “We did it,” He said. His head swam. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

“Yes,” Perseus agreed, hands moving to grip Aeneas’. “It’s going to be alright, brother. I’m here. You’re fine. We’re both fine.”

The last thing the son of love saw was the god Apollo descending from the ramparts towards them.

And then the blackness swallowed him whole.

Chapter Text

HE LAY IN A COT IN THE palace’s private infirmary, a peaceful expression on his face. But Perseus’ one working eye fluttered open when the door slammed shut. He let out an exasperated sigh and pulled himself up in a sitting position.

Apollo continued to walk inside, his feet barely touching the ground. Finally, he came to a stop in between the two cots, glancing sadly at a still-unconscious Aeneas before turning his focus back on Perseus.

“You alright?” Apollo placed a hand on the edge of his cot.

“I’ll live,” He grunted. The god of the sun motioned to his face, half of which had been bandaged thickly until just the night before. He was shirtless, his chest, arms and abdomen equally covered in white. It had been a few days since Achilles had fallen, and he had been confined to this bed ever since. “Come to check on my brother?”

“I came to check on you, actually,” Apollo told him, golden eyes glinting. “Aeneas will live. He’s very lucky I got to him in time but he’s out of critical condition, don’t worry.”

“His hand…it’s damaged permanently,” Perseus murmured, turning to look at his unconscious brother. “But you’re right. He’s alive, and that’s all that matters. We both are. Thank you, I guess?”

“No problem. But you…” Apollo hesitated. “How do you feel?” He brushed his golden hair out of his eyes.

“Apollo,” Perseus fixed him with a tired look. “I’m permanently blind in one eye, bruised and leaking gold through my bandages. How do you think I feel?”

The Olympian chuckled lightly. “Right. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix your eye.”

Perseus swallowed. He had lost all feeling at that side of his face since the battle. But, it was worth it. “A small price to pay for finally bringing Achilles down.” His fingers moved to touch the skin on his face. “Besides, I think a scar would suit me quite well, don’t you?” Apollo pursed his lips at Perseus’ deflection. But the son of the sea god snuggled down into the bed. The past few days had been a whirlwind. He and his brother had missed whatever battles had been fought, but Deiphobus—who had taken command of the army—had been to see him each day, and from the looks of things, the Achaeans were so disoriented by the loss of their greatest warrior that they were falling, steadily.

After Apollo had descended from the ramparts, Perseus remembered him flashing them into the infirmary, then working his magic. He’d been able to heal Aeneas of his wounds, but it was only after he was certain his brother was going to live that Perseus had also allowed himself to be treated (read: Apollo had to knock him out).

Aeneas hadn’t even blinked since, and it was only by the steady rising and falling of his chest that Perseus knew he was still alive. Their father had come to see them right after Perseus had risen, weeping and sobbing about how proud of them he was. It had taken all of his willpower to stay strong for Anchises because the gods knew the old man would break down if even Perseus showed him how wrecked he was by everything. He couldn’t do that to his father.

His green eye moved past Apollo and into the large cot opposite him. Next to Aeneas slept his son Ascanius, curled into his dad’s side. The child held him like he was afraid if he let go Aeneas would vanish with the wind. His fingers rested on the bandaged stump where a hand used to be. Neither stirred as Apollo moved to lean on the wall. Creusa was also passed out in a chair beside Aeneas’ cot, her face screwed up with pain, tormented even in her dreams. She looked wretched, still in her nightdress, and Perseus knew she hadn’t left since they had been brought in. He knew what she was going through. The fear she was feeling…he owed Apollo now because he was very sure he’d have lost his brother too if not for him.

His hand moved to his abdomen, which was stained with dried ichor. Moving hurt, and although Apollo had closed all open wounds and taken away most of the internal damages, the pain still felt fresh, and along with the left side of his face, he would be adorned with several new scars all over his body. But he did not mind. He would wear them with honour. His scars were symbols of everything he had been through to get to where he was.

He has a single one now, running from his forehead, through his eyebrow and down to his cheek. As for his eye, it was as milky white as cataracts and when he had worked up the nerve to look at his reflection, even he had been a bit pertubed. But it would be alright. He was fine, really. Just a bit battered.

Along with the sun god’s tricks, Perseus vaguely remembered Apollo flying him over to the shore when he was barely conscious, and leaving him submerged for hours.

Now, all that was left was waiting for his body to bounce back to normal. He was immortal, and so it was happening quite quickly, and he’d be back on the battlefield in no time.

Andromache and her son had come with Hecuba on the second day of his confinement.

Perseus’ heart ached for the widow. She was as much his friend as Creusa or Cassandra was, and he hated what the Greeks had put her through by murdering her husband. She hadn’t been able to say much. But he had held her hand, and they had stayed in silence for a while. And that was enough. His brother Hector’s killer was dead and perhaps now Andromache could sleep easy. But Perseus knew that each morning when she rose to the shining sun and saw the empty bed beside her, a cloud would block out all the light in her life. Andromache would never be the same. But she had their son, Astyanax. Maybe his nephew would be able to get her to smile again. Someday.

“How’s Memnon doing?” Perseus glanced back at Apollo, trying to pull himself out of the well of gloomy thoughts.

“Holding the fort while you’re away,” Apollo folded his arms. “Having another immortal warrior on our side is a great morale boost.”

“Thank the gods Zeus owed Eos that favour, then,” The demigod grunted. He didn’t know how to react to having another immortal running around his city. But Memnon was an excellent fighter, and Apollo was right. His powers might not have been spectacular, but an extra immortal demigod leading Troy and her allies? It was unconventional, but he wasn’t complaining. It was a wonder the Achaeans were still lurking around.

“Oh, a lot of them weren’t too happy,” Apollo grinned wryly. “Athena, most of all. But like you, Memnon is not a god, a Titan or a giant. Like you, his immortality was gained in through cutting corners—“ Perseus snorted at that, “—And so the ancient laws do not apply. An exquisite loophole and an amazing turn of events for all of us.” When the god explained what had happened to Selene’s nephew, Perseus was taken aback. But since then, he had come to see how much Zeus had knowingly or unknowingly helped them, to the chagrin of his fellow gods.

“Right,” Perseus met the god’s eyes. “Now, are you ready to finally get on with why you’re actually here, Apollo?”

The deity arched a brow. “Sometimes it scares me how well you know me.”

“Friends close, enemies closer and all that.”

“Haha, You’re a riot,” Apollo rolled his eyes. He was silent for a bit, before piping, “I saw things a while ago. Just a few days into the future. Into one of the possible futures. And I came to warn you.”

“I swear if you tell me Achilles will magically be resurrected—“

“Gods, nothing of the sort,” He shuddered. “It has something to do with your brother.”

Perseus sat straighter, eyes narrowing. “Apollo…I thought you said he’s fine.” His voice was tinged with warning.

“For now.”

His breath seemed to lodge in his throat. After everything, after Hector, he didn’t know what he would even do with himself if Aeneas was killed.

“Elaborate,” Perseus growled.

Apollo’s gold eyes burned into him, but his hackles were still raised, teeth gritted. The son of Leto rolled his eyes. “If I hadn’t been on the battlefield, Aeneas would have died. I was but a variable in the entire tapestry the Fates wove, and I fear another variable has come into play. Another pawn, ignored for far too long, has crept near the edge of the board…too close to the king. Too close to you.”

He wanted to squeeze Apollo’s throat. “Could you try not to speak in riddles for once? Gods.” But he knew what Apollo was saying, whether he wanted to admit it or not. This was his story…whatever happened from now, it all lay on his shoulders. The Fates were playing a dangerous game.

“I speak of Ajax the Greater, of Telamon. Should he continue to live, he will murder Aeneas in his next battle.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Perseus’ fingers clenched into fists as he slowly soaked in the new information. “I’ll kill him first.” They both knew how important his brother was. To Troy. To them all.

“We will,” Apollo agreed. “Aeneas isn’t going anywhere, for now, so we have time. But I thought I’d give you a bit of a heads-up first. I have a plan, actually.” As rocky as their relationship was, Perseus knew that Apollo had helped them as much as he had hurt them, and these days he seemed more inclined to do the former. To accomplish anything, he had to trust Apollo. The god continued to speak, laying out his plan before Perseus. It was brilliant, actually, but a little harsh. He didn’t care though. Ajax would harm his brother, and he couldn’t allow such a thing to happen.

After a few minutes of terse planning, Perseus nodded in appreciation. “I’ll come to you when I’m fully healed, I guess. Then we’ll get to work.”

“Alright,” Apollo said. “Rest well.”

“Not until my brother is safe.”

“Fair enough,” The god peeled himself off the wall. A vacant look appeared in his eyes before he shook his head and said, “I followed up with Hermes and my uncle in the Underworld. I thought you might want to know. Hector got Elysium, of course. No rebirth for him; he’s alright with waiting, I guess. Thetis’ son got the same at first. But the Fates put in a word with Hades, and he’s been sentenced to guarding the Banks of the River Styx to prevent anyone from willingly going in…from repeating the Curse of Achilles.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” He asked wryly.

“Yeah, crazy, I know,” Apollo laughed lightly. “But…Achilles’ heel was his only weakness. It was a weight his mother forced upon him, and as much as his invulnerability protected him, it was his undoing. And his punishment…his eternity, or whatever, is atoning for his mother’s sin and stopping other heroes from repeating the same mistakes.”

“They used him as an example,” Perseus summarised. He pursed his lips. Achilles had been his arch-enemy. But he didn’t deserve to be punished for Thetis’ actions. Not for eternity. It wasn’t fair. But, as dark as it would seem, Perseus was glad that he wasn’t in Elysium with Hector.

“Fate can be cruel,” Apollo shrugged. “Achilles’ punishment will stop his story from ever happening again.”

“Oh well,” Perseus shrugged in his cot. He had lost enough sleep over the Prince of Phthia when he’d been alive. No more.

“I’ll be leaving now,” The god patted his shoulder. “You have other visitors, it seems.”

As Apollo vanished into the morning mist, a familiar ethereal scent filled the room. Aeneas and his family were still out cold. Ascanius was snoring slightly. Selene reappeared in the position Apollo had been just a few moments before. “I hope I didn’t chase off anyone important.”

“Definitely not,” He leaned up and she smiled, following and connecting their lips in a welcome kiss. Selene pulled back, then her hands were on his face. “How’re you feeling, Perseus?”

“You know, I’m getting tired of that question,” He sighed, leaning into her touch. “But since it’s you, I’ll excuse it. I’m doing okay.”

She laughed, her hand travelling up to his hair. Selene adored his hair. It was one of the things she seemed to love about him. “I just mean, are you healed enough to walk yet?”

“Maybe if I tried, yeah,” He pressed back into the pillows. “I didn’t expect to see you until nightfall.”

“I’m not nocturnal, silly,” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“Only the former moon goddess,” He deadpanned.

She snorted.

Selene came every night and left before Apollo’s rays hit the earth. She would snuggle next to him in the infirmary bed, wrapping him in her arms, and for those few hours, the pain was almost non-existent. Her eyes focused on his. Perseus knew she was worried about how he’d handle the loss of half of his sight. He had tried to be reassuring, but deep down, he knew it would take some getting used to. His head felt heavy where the bandage used to be, and trying to see with his one working eye was straining. He hated it. But he would have to adjust.

“I know what you’re thinking,” He took her hands. “I’ll be fine, Sel.”

“I trust you will,” Selene murmured, squeezing hard. His brow furrowed. The son of the sea had already promised himself that he would not allow the blindness to become a liability to his army. They needed him at his best, and that’s where he was going to be. For Selene. For his brother.

“Besides,” The Titaness stood straighter, eyes filled with a teasing light. “I think that scar makes you look quite sexy.”

“Oh?”

“Please, don’t make me barf.” The voice took out any reply from his mouth as Perseus turned to the doorway. The temperature in the room seemed to rise. Ascanius shuffled in his bed but did not wake. Perseus heard Selene gasp lightly in surprise as another immortal stepped into the room, seemingly from thin air.

He had curly dark brown hair the colour of chestnuts, and a well-trimmed beard, with elfish-looking ears and a pointed, familiar nose. He was easily taller than Perseus, and perhaps fitter, with well-defined muscles and two broadswords slung over his back. He was tan, and wore gold and brown armour over a simple chiton, intricate, as though designed by Hephaestus himself. The breastplate was etched with depictions of wars, day and night, the sun, and a chariot arching over the sky. There were several more Perseus couldn’t make out. Gauntlets braced his forearms, and a white cloak was strapped to his shoulders. He was complete with grieves, and brown sandals.

But all that wasn’t what had shocked Perseus into silence.

There were flames, real, actual living little fires, dancing across his skin, his armour, even his hair. But he didn’t seem to notice them. His eyes glowed orange with the colour of a campfire. He reminded Perseus of Apollo, if Apollo was thrown into a bonfire, grew up a few aeons and then was doused in brown paint.

“Brother,” Selene looked surprised. “I did not expect you until tomorrow.”

The former Titan of the Sun ignored his sister. His eyes slid over to Perseus, prone and weak in his bed. He tried not to squirm at the burning gaze. “Helios. Hello.”

Selene’s older brother had a frown on his face. He gave Perseus a once over, and grunted, “Sick scar.”

“Thanks, just got it a few days ago.”

And then he was approaching till he stood at the other side of the bed. The immortal leaned down. “Helios…” Selene’s voice had a hint of warning. Perseus flexed his jaw and met the Titan’s eyes. He knew the first impression counted, and although he hadn’t intended to meet his lover’s brother while beaten down and recovering, there was nothing to do now apart from attempt not to get burnt to ashes.

“Relax, Sister,” He glanced at Selene. “I’ve only come to deem if this demigod is worthy of your affections.” He said the word like it was the worst insult he could think of, and Perseus had to physically try hard not to let his offence show on his face.

“I don’t need you to deem anything, Helios.”

He ignored her again, eyes narrowing as he took in the son of Poseidon. Perseus’ throat bobbed. He held back a wince as Helios’ eyes burned brighter. And then, finally, a maniacal grin stretched across the other man’s face. “I will not pretend to understand my sister’s choice in men or why she insists on tying herself to just one.” He arched a brow at Selene, who folded her arms indignantly, then continued, “But if she chose you, then you must be a special one. I look forward to finding out what makes that so and getting to know the one who has stolen dear Selene’s heart.” Perseus made to nod, but then Helios’ voice invaded his mind, sharp, hard and brutal. “Hurt her, and I will break every single bone in your body and throw you into the pit of Chaos.” As quickly as it had appeared, his presence sank away.

“I’ll take your word for it,” He nodded sombrely.

Selene rolled her eyes as Helios stood straight, “I have to admit, even I was intrigued by your most recent battle. Most of the celestial couldn’t take their eyes off you three. You are gifted warriors, you and your brother and it’s been a while since I went against a formidable opponent. Especially a former mortal.” The invitation was clear.

“It would be an honour to cross swords with you, Helios,” He nodded. “I hope we can grow to be great friends.”

The Titan snorted. “Don’t bet on it.”

Selene lay a hand on her brother’s shoulder and shot Perseus an apologetic look. She turned back to the flaming deity. “If you’re quite done, I think you should leave. Give Perseus a bit of time to recover.”

“You just want me gone so you can go on trying to eat each other’s faces off,” Her brother teased, and for a moment, he wasn’t the intimidating flaming warrior anymore. Just an over-protective, smiling older sibling and Perseus sighed to himself. He’d had his fair share of that with Hector. Gods, he missed him. Helios pulled Selene in for a quick hug, and then he was gone as suddenly as he appeared, taking away the overbearing temperature with him.

“Sorry about him,” Selene walked back to his side. “He can be a bit extra sometimes.”

“I like him,” Perseus shrugged.

“Give it a few days,” The Titaness snorted. “You’ll be singing a different tune.”

He chuckled, and Selene bent to kiss him again. “I have to go. Business to attend to.”

“Alright,” He nodded. “See you tonight?”

“Always.”

As Selene vanished into the mist, Perseus’ eyes moved to a bloodied blade which was leaning on the side of his bed. A sword which had brought him so much sorrow. He had one last thing to do.

BREAK

“HECTOR.” His voice was low and sad, barely a whisper and his emotions mirrored in the serenity of the ocean spreading before him. It was nightfall, and Selene placed a peck on his cheek before vanishing into the evening mist. She had brought him here, and she understood that this was something he needed to do alone.

He was calm; satisfied. The rage and agony he had been carrying with him since that fateful day weeks ago when he had lost a part of himself to Achilles, had all but dissipated.

Achilles was dead, and now Hector was avenged. He could rest, and maybe soon, so could Perseus. He’d fulfilled his oath.

“Brother,” he murmured. “We did it.” He was still too weak to stand, and so Selene had deposited him in the sand, his knees brought up to his chest. The waves lapped at his feet, and a warm and cosy feeling was creeping through him at the sensation. It almost felt like Hector was right there beside him.

Great gods, he missed him.

He missed Hector so badly, and it hurt, waking up every single day since and learning, once again, that his best friend would no longer laugh, fight or love alongside him. Not in this world, at least. It pained him even more because he was immortal, and it meant he would never see Hector again unless he journeyed into Hades’ realm or sampled necromancy. It was on days when the memories hit hardest—days like this—that he wished he was normal. So, at the end of it all, he would still be with his family and friends. He loved Selene with everything within him. He wanted to be with her always and forever.

He couldn’t have both.

But coming to terms with his immortality had not been easy, and sometimes, he couldn’t help but think of his immortality as a curse and nothing more. He would watch his world die and fade into nothingness forever. But he would be the same—static, never-changing and everlasting. At least he and Selene were together now, and he would forever be glad that Fate had at least honoured one of his wishes. But he would miss everything else—everyone else.

“It took us a while,” Perseus inclined his head as the ocean breeze wafted across his nose. He knew the ocean was not the first place Hector would come to for comfort. He had contemplated going to the forests or the apex of Mount Ida. But they held too many memories, and he didn’t think he could bear any more pain. “Achilles did us so much damage before we could take him down. The Amazon Queen is dead. Aeneas is down a hand. But he’ll live. He’s still kicking—still fighting—and even though he doesn’t need either of us to protect him anymore, I know you wish you could have been here to do just that. I know it’s what you expected me to do in your stead, and I did a horrid job.” He sighed.

“Astyanax is doing well, and Andromache is coping. She is getting better, I guess. So is your mother. The King and I have been spending some time together, actually. With Aeneas. I think it’ll take a bit for him to move past it all, and he asks us to tell him stories of you every day. Don’t tell anyone, but I think you were his favourite.” He chuckled, blinking rapidly to prevent himself from crying. “Still trying to get Paris to return Helen. Maybe you can haunt him into agreeing with me?” Perseus coughed. “Anyway, Selene and I are getting really serious, really fast. Apollo and I are healing, too, I guess. Soon, maybe he’ll be ready to give us answers for everything.” He paused, breath stuttering. “And I’m doing okay, I guess. I really, really miss you, idiot. It’s hard, Hec, and I know you’d probably give me some bullshit about time healing my wounds, but it won’t. I’ll go on with the pain and on without you, and it will take an eternity before I’m okay again. But I also know you’d want me to live, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Achilles is with Hades now,” His voice was low. “I’m sure you heard through Ghost Gossip Weekly or whatever, but yeah. He’ll never hurt anyone anymore.” He felt a phantom squeeze on his shoulder, and Perseus leaned into the ghostly touch. “I offer you this.” He held up his hand, wrapped around the sword from before.

Achiles’ sword wrenched from his cold, lifeless fingers. It shone with Perseus’ ichor and was stained with Aeneas’ blood, along with that of the thousands Achilles had killed. Hector’s.

“A token. To show you my oath has been fulfilled. A reminder, to you and us. We will remember you always. And we will keep you and Troy alive in our hearts.” He struggled to his feet, and raised the sword to the heavens, silently praying that the messenger god deliver his gift and his words. Perseus watched as the sword slowly disintegrated before his eyes.

It would get to Hector. He was sure of it.

The demigod smiled at the skies, and he felt the warmth fill him once more.

And then the phantom hand was gone, his shoulders were suddenly chilly.

Hector was gone.

The air was suddenly filled with a tangy salty scent.

Perseus glanced to the seas, mild surprise filling him as his older photocopy rose out of the depths. Poseidon nodded in greeting as he made his way onto the shore. He smiled warmly.

The Trojan demigod attempted a smile but failed miserably as his father stopped next to him and turned to face the ocean, planting his glowing blue-green trident into the sand. His aura pulsed gently, washing over Perseus and chasing away the remnants of his pain. He suddenly felt refreshed. But he could sense the pity rolling off the high god. Pity was something he didn’t think he could take right now.

But thankfully, Poseidon didn’t speak. They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, his father’s presence anchoring him against the raging waves of grief that threatened to sweep him into a sea of mourning once more. It was done. Achilles was dead. But Perseus didn’t think he would ever stop mourning Hector. But this moment at the seashore, this offering, perhaps it would bring him closure. Hector’s chapter was closed, and from now on, he had to at least try and respect that.

They watched as the tides rose and fell, as the crabs climbed rocks and the waves lapped against the shore. The breeze was calm and salty, and although there would be a raging battle in just a few hours, Perseus had never felt more at peace. Even if it was just a temporary feeling. He knew that wherever he was, his brother was smiling down at him.

The one-eyed demigod spared the Olympian beside him a glance, then turned back to the sea. Poseidon cleared his throat, “I wanted to come and see you sooner. But I suppose I guessed you would wind up here eventually.”

He grunted in response, grateful that Poseidon hadn’t mentioned the brutal scar, which still ached.

“Congratulations on your victory against Achilles. I know…this war has not been easy on you. You have lost so much, but gained even more, and…” He paused, turning his head to study Perseus. “I am proud of you. Your mother would be too.”

He was silent. Poseidon was right. But that wasn’t what his mind had latched onto. “Tell me about her,” He murmured.

The son of Kronos cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“My mother,” He flexed his jaw muscles. “Sally. I don’t remember much.”

Poseidon smiled, his expression softening. The corner of his eyes crinkled. The Olympian looked as though he had been swept away to a happier place, and Perseus could see the love in his eyes, even after all these years.

“Your mother was the best woman in the world,” He whispered. Perseus smiled internally. He doubted Amphitrite would appreciate that. But Poseidon was a god, and Perseus understood that immortals fell in love more than once. Everyone did. And the subsequent times were just as passionate and as painful as the first. He’d experienced it first-hand with Cass, and maybe he’d been on the way there with Briseis. But Selene…He burned for her. When he saw her each day and night, his skin grew hot. And when he saw her in his dreams, he went up in flames.

Poseidon…it looked like Sally had lit him on fire.

“She deserved that golden palace I promised her beside the beach. She deserved so much more than me.”

“You must have really loved her, then,” He put his hands behind his back.

“I did,” The elder god nodded, melancholy swallowing the joy off him. “Much more than you’ll ever know.”

Perseus believed him.

The warrior swallowed. His chest felt heavy, but he tried hard to keep his emotions in check. His voice was sombre as he said, “I wish I looked like her a bit, at least. So maybe I would know what she looked like.”

“Sally was beautiful. She had curly hair, the brightest brown I’d ever seen. And her eyes, brown like her hair…ordinary, really. But so full of life. So full of fire.” He faced his son, finally. “You have her lips, you know. And her nose.” His fingers drew up to his mouth and Perseus sighed sadly. Poseidon reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. He squeezed, then let his hand fall.

“We met in Thebes. She had no family there, and she was the lady-in-waiting of the Princess. The royal family had visited the beach to offer burnt offerings to me.” He got a far-away look in his eyes. “Your mother was a tough one, I’ll admit. I disguised myself as a palace guard. We started off as friends, and when I professed love for her—when I told her who I really was—she rejected me, quite a number of times. But I was too smitten to give up. She…she loved me too. But she’d heard the stories, of what Hera did to Zeus’ mistresses. She wanted nothing to do with me.”

“What changed her mind?”

“I never asked,” He shrugged. “I managed to reassure her that Amphitrite wasn’t Hera—wasn’t vindictive. I’d never been more wrong. When Sally finally returned my love, we had you, just a few months later. I stayed as long as I could.”

They were silent for a bit, then Perseus popped, “What was she like? What did she like?”

Poseidon laughed, and it was so nostalgic and despondent that Perseus felt like going against his better judgment and giving the man a hug. “Sally was the fiercest mortal woman I’ve ever fallen for. She was a loyal friend…the best, actually. I guess you got that from her. She didn’t take nonsense from anyone, not even me. She allowed me to play to her on the lyre, even though everyone knows I’m terrible at it. Whenever we could, we escaped to the forests and the beach.” He sighed, “Oh, how She adored the beach. She loved art, too.”

“Art?”

“Sally was a free spirit,” Poseidon explained. “She loved to write about the things she saw and heard. The princess made sure her personal servants were educated, see. And Sally, she loved to create worlds with her words and dive into them. She would sculpt, paint, and write poetry in her free time. Most of you, sometimes me. Us.” His smile turned pained. “I had to leave when you saw two or three summers. My kingdom had suffered without me. The sea needed a ruler, and my brother Jove disapproved of how much time I had spent away from the celestial. And so I left, even though I didn’t want to.” He looked down at the sand. Perseus didn’t speak. He pursed his lips instead and continued staring out to sea.

“Leaving you and your mother is my biggest regret. I will carry my grief and my guilt over her death for eternity. Amphiritre and our children surprised me. She almost never cared about my affairs. Perhaps because she was sure I would always come back. But with Sally…I think she was afraid I would leave the sea to dry—she was afraid I would leave her for the entirety of your and Sally’s mortal lifespans.”

Perseus swallowed. Amphitrite had been jealous. But his mother hadn’t deserved that. He hadn’t deserved that. And yet, despite the Nereid’s meddling, here he was.

“You…you found me, though,” He told Poseidon quietly. “I think she would have appreciated that, even if it took you a few decades.” He turned to face the lord of the waves and placed a hand on Poseidon’s bicep. “And besides, I’m immortal now too. So whether my stepmother likes it or not, I think I’m here to stay. We carry that grief together…Father.”

He was being mature, which was unusual. But he understood. It was what needed to be done.

“Together,” Poseidon nodded. He looked relieved, inclining his body forward slowly, and wrapped his arms around Perseus.

The Trojan stiffened but then slowly relaxed into the embrace, pulling his father closer and tightening his arms around him. He let out a small laugh, patting Poseidon on the back. His father was different from the other gods. Perseus knew expressions of emotions didn’t come easy to them. But the man was trying to be different, and for now, that was enough. No matter how much hatred he had carried for the earthshaker, he was glad that he got to do this, finally, now.

“I think your matera would have loved the man you grew up to be,” The god murmured in his ear.

“I think she would have been proud of you, too,” He said, then buried his head into the crook of Poseidon’s neck. Around them, the sea seemed to roar to life, surging upwards and thrumming in approval.

Because he would not fight Poseidon anymore. He did not despise him. He had grown. He had forgiven.

Because at long last, he had finally come home.

BREAK

TWO DAYS LATER, Perseus stood at the edge of the sun chariot, eyes narrowed as he watched the happenings down below. And boy, was it a lot.

Apart from the sword, he hadn’t had the time or the wish to strip Achilles of his armour, and Perseus wasn’t a monster—however much he’d hated the git, he also hadn’t deemed it necessary to desecrate the body the way Hector’s had been. Add the fact that his brother had also been on the brink of death, and it had not even crossed his mind.

And now, the Achaeans, still holding their funeral games for the lion of Phthia, were hosting competitions to choose a man to award Achilles’ armour to.

Beside him, Apollo shifted. They were high in the sky, and it was only by some godly magic that he was able to see so far down. But Ajax needed to be dealt with. Especially since Aeneas had woken up for a few minutes that morning. In some days, he’d be back on the battlefield.

The Greek Camp was full of life. However battered the recent battles had made them, they had reconstructed a scantily made wall—more of a barricade, really. They were still numerous enough to be a problem, although their numbers had dwindled considerably. They were like a fly that kept buzzing.

The funeral games were in full swing, both Greeks and Trojans calling a truce to bury their dead. Apollo had informed him that Achilles’ ghost had appeared in the camp a few nights before, demanding to be cremated where his best friend had been. Thetis and almost all her sisters had come to mourn him, along with the muses, and even now, traces of their wails and songs fluttered to the heavens above.

“I hear Helios is in town,” The Olympian spared him a glance.

Perseus arched a brow but nodded. “Yes, in fact. Swell guy. He’s like an overbearing mother hen.” A small smirk took over his lips. He knew Helios had probably heard him, and Selene’s brother wouldn’t be too happy. But he was a great brother to the Titaness, and Perseus was certain he would be an even better friend to him.

Apollo chuckled. “A trait he shares with my sister, then. Tell him I’ll come see him soon.”

“Really?” He said, dryly. “Because Helios seems to be under the impression that you’re avoiding him.”

“Only because he almost killed me last we met,” Apollo rolled his eyes. “I still think he’s not over the fact that Father had them relinquish their domains to us.”

“Or maybe he’s just mad you were boning his daughter,” Perseus snarked. Apollo grinned, and he found himself with a small smile on his own face. This was nice. This was new. And being angry at Apollo for so long, it felt okay to just be. It would be a while before they got back to where they used to be. But, baby steps.

His ears perked as he heard shouting from down below. Perseus gazed down, smile fading quickly. His lips pursed as he watched the scene unfold beneath them.

Ajax slammed a fist into Odysseus’ face, sending the Ithacan reeling. Athena’s favoured snarled and then pounced on him, screaming obscenities and sending them both tumbling to the ground. He began to pummel the Telemonian into a pulp. Ajax kneed Odysseus in the gut and flipped them over until he was on top. His large meaty fist slammed into the man beneath him. Perseus winced as he heard a nose crack.

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Positive,” The Lightbringer leaned forward. “Aphrodite’s working her magic from Olympus. Their emotions will be boiling until Dionysus does his thing.”

“And why, pray tell, is your brother helping us again?” Apollo’s plan was a solid one. But Perseus knew enough about the gods to know they always had their own agendas.

“He owes me,” Was the simple explanation.

“And we don’t even have to do anything?” The son of Anchises frowned. “Seems a bit too easy.”

“It’s not,” Apollo replied, shortly. “Just be silent for once Perseus. Don’t argue, just watch.” He scoffed under his breath, a bit miffed at the berating. But Perseus listened anyway. He focused his attention back on the Greek camp which spread out from beneath them.

Greater Ajax and Odysseus the crafty were locked in combat, trying their best to beat each other to death. They dove around each other, Ajax using his strength and size to deliver powerful strikes, and Odysseus using his speed and agility to block, dodge and strike back with equal ferociousness. Ajax was a wall of muscle and fury as he aimed a powerful right hook at Odysseus. But the other man, swift and agile, sidestepped at the last moment, evading the blow with practised grace. Ajax’s fist connected with nothing but air, and he stumbled forward slightly. Seizing the opportunity, Odysseus moved in close, aiming a sharp elbow at Ajax’s ribs. The blow landed, and the gigantic man quickly retaliated with a sweeping backhand. A crowd was beginning to form around them, but no one stepped forward to intercept the fight, which definitely hadn’t been on the program list for the funeral games. Even from a distance, the son of Anchises could feel the tension in the air. The soldiers were murmuring lowly.

Perseus knew—they were fighting over the armour. Aphrodite was doing a brilliant job; but then, she would do anything to ensure Aeneas lived.

Odysseus barely managed to duck, and they were circling each other like animals. Odysseus, relentless, darted in with quick jabs. But the mountain man stood his ground, absorbing the hits like a boulder. Perseus had to applaud them; the fight was certainly an entertaining one. Ajax lunged forward, grabbing Odysseus by the shoulder, and hurled him away. Or at least attempted to. Odysseus twisted his body, freeing himself quickly enough to land a quick, desperate strike. Ajax staggered.

The hand-to-hand combat seemed to end when Odysseus swiped his feet under the Telamonian, sending him tumbling, before slamming Ajax back with his boot. He placed a foot on the other King’s throat.

The two warriors were surrounded by what seemed like the entire camp. But no one made to stop them. Odysseus was panting. “Does anyone wish to challenge my bid for Achilles’ armour still?” He pressed down on Ajax’s neck. Perseus could see the fallen man’s eyes burning with fury and humiliation as he struggled beneath the Ithacan’s foot. Odysseus stood straight, looking around as though daring anyone to talk. None did. “I thought so.”

“And now…” Apollo trailed off, and Perseus leaned forward more when Ajax began to laugh. Odysseus took his foot off in confusion, backing away.

Perseus smiled slightly to himself as he saw it began to happen. He knew Dionysus had come through. He watched with a mix of horror and dark satisfaction, as Ajax, the indomitable giant, began to unravel. There was a wildness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—a dark, feverish gleam that chilled Perseus to the bone as the man staggered to his feet. Something inside him had cracked, deep in his mind, spreading like a storm through his thoughts.

Ajax took a step forward, his fists clenched, eyes turning wild and unfocused as if battling phantoms only he could see. A snarl twisted his face, but Perseus could not find it in him to pity his brother’s possible murderer. Ajax began to pace, his body tense and trembling, muttering to himself as the weight of the wine god’s curse settled in—as Ajax the Greater slowly went mad.

He screamed. Perseus knew he had snapped, then, as Odysseus barked, “Go to your tent, Ajax. Have a rest. I won. It’s over.”

The weight of the insult, the humiliation made him growl. Losing to Odysses had been one thing, but the whispers that had followed, the jeers that were sure to come—the questioning of his strength by the other Kings…it would and had crushed something vital in him. Perseus saw it happening: the proud, towering figure of Ajax crumbling as if a fire had consumed him from within, leaving only a shell and a dangerous, desperate rage. The unbreakable shield, the King of Telamon, had shattered.

“Great work, Dionysus,” Apollo muttered, watching seriously. Perseus had to agree. But then, something else was gnawing at him.

“I think a Mad King is worse than an idiot one, Apollo,” He told the god. “And more likely to kill my brother.”

“Oh, you have such little faith, darling,” Apollo grinned as he looked at him. “Dionysus’ madness doesn’t just hit you and leave you to your devices, no. Watch.”

They focused their attention back to the Achaeans.

Ajax was storming away from Odysseus, slamming through the crowd. He was still muttering, biting his nails, running a hand through his hair. Men parted around him, uneager to be in his path of destruction. Perseus continued to watch as Ajax walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Until he was far, far away from the crowd of people. Until he stood before the large pen full of cattle—the Greek food store.

Ajax released another wretched scream. He wasn’t himself. Perseus inhaled sharply as the man drew his large broadsword. “Oh, gods. This is devious, Apollo. You didn’t tell me this part of the plan.”

“Like it?” Apollo smirked. “Two pegasi, one spear. Ajax goes mad and destroys the Greek’s food supply. Then we deal with Ajax.” As if on cue, the giant King launched himself into the pen, and the slaughtering began.

Perseus watched, transfixed, as Ajax, roaring, butchered the animals. They were panicking, running around, impaling each other. But they couldn’t escape. The man was a monster. He continued cutting through necks, muscles and tendons as though they were butter, wrenching off horns, driving his sword through dewlaps. He was a whirlwind of madness and destruction.

After what seemed like hours, the last of them fell.

Blood soaked the sand. The carcasses were spread over the entire pen. Piling. Perseus continued watching. Slowly, the men were appearing. Soldiers, commanders, and Kings were coming to see what all the ruckus and commotion were about. Their murmurs were loud, their shock apparent. They surrounded the pen, and horror had blanketed the entire Greek camp.

Ajax sat on his knees amongst the carcasses. He was panting, leaning against his bloodied broadsword. The man himself was covered in blood and matted in sweat. His hair had come undone. His eyes, were still crazed and unseeing.

And then, as though a switch had been flipped, he gasped.

He looked around, his own terror filling him. Perseus focused. Ajax let out a choking sound, as though he could not believe what was happening. He was looking around at the carcasses, at the men, and then his gaze slid to the blood on his hands. The King let out another wretched sound. His hand moved to his bloodied hair.

“What…have I done?”

Greater Ajax looked up to the heavens. Agamemnon was approaching the pen, looking completely appalled. It was definitely nowhere near what the giant himself was feeling. “Gods forgive me…I am…no longer worthy.” He raised his sword.

“Is he going to…” He did not need to complete his sentence. Apollo nodded.

Perseus did not look away. He couldn’t, really. His single eye fixed on the camp as Ajax fell on his sword. He did not blink as the king ran himself through. He watched, unfazed as the life left the Mad King.

Crisis averted. “Well,” Perseus breathed. “That was something.”

“Right,” Apollo stood straighter. “Now, for the real reason I brought you here.”

“I really should have seen that coming,” The demigod grunted.

“You should have,” The golden god agreed. “Now keep watching.”

Perseus turned back to the crowd of Greeks, and Apollo’s ultra-sight-and-hearing gift kicked in. A man was hobbling out of the throng of people, leaning on a staff for support. Perseus remembered him, from Aulis, so long ago. Calchas, the old seer.

“What’s your lackey up to now?” He eyed Apollo. “What did you reveal to him?”

“Reveal?” Apollo frowned. “Perseus, that’s not how this works. I don’t control what the Lady Ananke and the Fates choose to show to me or to my acolytes. I am but a conduit, through which my priests can peer into the Master plan of the Morai. Does that make sense to you?”

“Of course, it doesn’t,” He rolled his eyes. They focused on the camp once more. Calchas was addressing the crowd, and Perseus tuned his ears to hear what was going on.

“I have seen it, the gods have revealed to me a great secret,” Calchas announced to the Achaean people. “Troy and her allies will not fall.”

There was a collective gasp from the people. Perseus found himself mirroring their actions. “But..” Of course, there was a but. Calchas ploughed on, “The city can only be destroyed if we recover the arrows of Heracles from Philoctetes on Lemnos. They will allow us to incapacitate the greatest of Troy’s warriors. The arrows will give us victory.” In the aftermath of Ajax’s mad spree, the Greeks were scared. They were losing. And whatever Calchas was saying, whether true or false, it was a ray of hope, and they clutched on to it in a resounding and answering roar.

“Tell me he’s lying,” Perseus turned to his companion.

Apollo frowned, and shook his head, “I’m afraid I’ve seen it too.”

“You could have just told me instead of dragging me onto the sun, Apollo.”

“I wanted you to see for yourself,” The god said. “Because I’ve seen a lot of futures, Perseus. None of them are great. But there’s still hope. We can still save my city.”

“We have to get the arrows first, then,” Perseus summed.

“Glad you caught on,” Apollo moved to take the reins of the chariot. “Took you long enough.” He snorted. “Alright, we’re done here. I’ll drop you off?”

He nodded, his resolve hardening. It was time to hop back into action.

BREAK

He barged into the room he’d asked their small task force to meet in. Deiphobus, Helenus, Antainera and Paris all turned when the doors slammed shut. He didn’t acknowledge the fact that Aeneas was still unconscious. Perseus moved to the head of the table and leaned forward, placing his fists on the varnished wood.

“Alright, guys, new mission. We’re going to Lemnos.”

Chapter Text

FIVE MORE CHAPTERS AND THIS STORY WILL BE OFFICIALLY COMPLETED!! ENJOY, AND LEAVE A REVIEW!

The prow of the small boat hit the sand with as little noise as possible. Perseus hopped out silently, landing with a thump on the sand. Behind him followed the two brothers, Deiphobus and Paris, far less subtle than he had been.

Getting to Lemnos had been tricky. They’d had to leave at night, under the cover of the darkness so the Achaeans did not suspect anything was amiss. But the journey had been a swift one—especially with the push he’d used his powers to give the boat, and in a matter of hours they had arrived at the small deserted island of Lemnos. The son of Poseidon turned to his two companions and said in a whisper, “Alright, you guys remember the plan?”

Deiphobus nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Paris looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t say a word.

Perseus would have been okay with having just his brother as backup. Paris was a bit sceptical about their mission and needling him with questions. But Aeneas still hadn’t woken up, and as efficient as Deiphobus was, this wasn’t a one-man job. And as much as he disliked Priam’s wayward son, he needed all the help he could get, especially since he didn’t know which of the Kings the Achaeans had sent on this little expedition.

“Let’s move in.”

They darted up the dunes and into the cover of the trees. Helios had pleasantly offered to scout ahead earlier, and by the information he’d returned with, they knew where to find this Philoctetes and his magical arrows. Perseus hoped they had beaten the Greeks to the island, but he knew it was just wishful thinking. A fight was imminent, but he was pretty confident that their enemies wouldn’t be escaping with those arrows that evening.

As silent as wraiths, they moved through the shadows and trees, dashing towards the centre of the island. The moon was absent tonight, and he knew it was because Apollo had asked his sister to take a break, only to allow their mission to go on in total darkness. The Achaeans would not know what had hit them. Finally, after what felt like hours of running, they emerged from the forest and on the outskirts of what seemed to be a small farm. Perseus quickly scanned their surroundings.

There was a mud hut a few yards away and a small lagoon right beside it. His guess had been right—they were on a farm, and he could see several vegetables and plants arranged in neat little rows and stacks around the hut. It seemed Philoctetes hadn’t been idling about at all since the Achaeans had abandoned him all those years back. If the Fates were kind tonight, things would go as planned. Apollo had given him a brief history of good old Phil—he was some Greek King who had been left behind because he’d had a festering, smelly wound from a snake bite. It was a wonder he was still alive. But, hopefully, he’d still be injured, and killing him would not be much of a hassle.

He heard a shuffle at his right and turned to glare at Paris, who shifted and motioned to the hut with his head. Perseus followed his line of sight and they watched as three men walked out of the dark hut. He tried to identify them, but the darkness of the Island proved more of a hindrance in this endeavour. The men were arguing loudly, no doubt thinking they were alone on the island as they set about building a campfire.

Perseus strained to hear what words were being exchanged, a frown on his lips. The more he watched, the more something seemed off to him. None of the three figures were limping or crippled. They all walked…well, normally. In a matter of minutes, there was a roaring flame a distance from the hut. The men sat around it, and Perseus heard Deiphobus swear slightly as the orange glow of the campfire lighted up the faces.

Odysseus the Crafty and his trusty companion, King Diomedes of Thrace, were helping the other man set a skinned deer on a spit above the flames. The man had dark, roughish hair and the bushiest beard Perseus had ever seen. He was dressed in an assemblage of animal skins, with a quiver of arrows slung on his back and a bow around his torso. In a fluid movement, the man set the weapons on the ground beside a log. So, Philoctetes.

“Hundred drachma that’s what we came for,” Deiphobus whispered.

Perseus grunted in reponse. He was aching to pounce, but first, they needed to see what exactly was going on here.

“And why, do you think I would aid you in any way?” Phil was saying as he started to roast the meat.

“Well, Philoctetes,” Odysseus gestured to the farm around them. “Certainly you don’t want to live out the rest of your days here on this lonely Island, do you?”

“Your silver tongue isn’t going to work here, Odysseus,” Phil chuckled. “I’ve come to like my life down here. After you convinced the rest of my comrades to abandon me.” His tone was sharp and hard.

Diomedes winced, “Alright, well, Odysseus regrets and apologises for that, I’m sure. No need to get harsh, we’re all friends here.”

“Are we?” Phil arched a bushy brow. “You left me to die. I owe you nothing.”

“We did, and we were wrong,” Odysseus set his hands on his knees. “We see that now, and we need you.”

“No, you don’t think you were wrong, Odysseus,” The man said, gruffly. “You’re here because you need me and Heracles’ arrows. The snake bite would have killed me, and you knew it.”

“Well it didn’t, did it?” The Ithacan barked. “You’re healed now, right?”

“No thanks to you, my so-called ‘friends’.”

“Look, boys,” Diomedes cut the conversation before Odysseus could quip back. “We are grateful to your friend Machaon for healing you. But the gods themselves sent us here. At least hear us out.” Phil scoffed.

“Right,” Odysseus said. “You joined us on our way to Troy, because like all of us, you had an oath to keep. You sought glory, and fame, and riches. Well, dear old Philoctetes, now’s your chance.”

“What makes you think I’m still the same man I was then?”

“You were Heracles’ dearest friend back in the day,” Odysseus leaned forward. “The Spirit of a Hero doesn’t just die because of some dreary few years spent on a lonely Island. You itch for the thrill of a good battle. Tell me I’m lying. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have bothered keeping the arrows for all these years.”

Philoctetes shuffled. “Now a good time to attack?” Paris whispered. Perseus motioned for him to wait.

“I wouldn’t part with the arrows,” Phil grunted. “Which is all you’re here for, if we’re being honest.”

“We know you’re a package deal, Philoctetes,” Diomedes reassured. “And that’s why we asked for your assistance first and not your weapons.”

“I mean, they were a gift from Heracles the Great,” Odysseus shrugged. “I wouldn’t leave them here to wither into ashes, definitely. If the greatest hero in all of Greece gave me his weapons, you know what I’d do? I’d use them so I could prove I was worthy of them. I’d perform exploits with those arrows. I’d carry his legacy with them until my dying days.”

Perseus frowned. Odysseus was certainly deserving of his nickname. He was a silver-tongued fox.

The son of Poseidon raised a hand. At the signal, Paris notched an arrow. Perseus let his hand fall and at the same time, Paris released the projectile. It sailed through the air sharply, and a yell rang out through the night sky as the arrow pierced Diomedes in his sword arm. The Achaeans shot to their feet with cries of panic. “Good luck,” Perseus whispered. Without wasting another second, Diomedes launched himself out of the trees, drawing his sword. Paris followed, hot at his heels.

Perseus hoped they would be okay. Paris wasn’t the best at close combat, but he was okay, and hopefully, tonight all his training with Hector would pay off.

Odysseus snarled in outrage and drew his weapon.

“You led Trojans to my doorstep?” Phil sounded miffed as he drew one of the knives attached to his belt.

“I’d take the credit, but they couldn’t have known about this,” The King of Ithaca slipped into a stance. Diomedes cried out as he wrenched the arrow out of his arm. He bared his teeth and drew a sword. Perseus stiffened as they clashed.

Deiphobus swung high for Odysseus’ head, but the man ducked and jabbed at the Trojan’s midsection. The son of Priam sidestepped and slammed his elbow into Odysseus’ neck, sending him right into the ground. Perseus watched as Hector’s younger brother dodged a knife aimed at his neck and caught another on his gauntlet. Deiphobus struck hard with his own weapon and slashed at Phil’s chest. Meanwhile, Paris continued to fire arrow after arrow in quick succession as he raced after Diomedes. The injured king snarled as he slowly inched forward, slashing the projectiles out of the air. Paris shifted and shot at Odysseus as the other man tried to rise, nailing him in the calf and sending him to his knees with a yelp. Just as quickly, he dropped his bow and drew a sword, raising it in time to block Diomedes’ strike.

Now was the time.

With just a thought, Perseus melted into mist. He reappeared behind the fighting men, impossibly near the campfire. Perseus dove for the quiver full of arrows.

It felt normal in his hands. What the Hades made them so special?

Before he could mist away, a sharp and surprising pain erupted in his back, making him drop the quiver in surprise and turn. Phil spun another knife and hurled it at Deiphobus this time, who barely had time to duck before Odysseus tackled him to the ground. The Island king turned his attention to Perseus. Swearing, the son of Anchises scanned the ground for the quiver of arrows as he dug the knife out.

“Looking for this?” Diomedes called. The Thracian waved the quiver and grinned.

Immediately, his eyes sought the other Prince. Paris was groaning and clutching his head, which was bleeding. Perseus bared his teeth, “Gimme that.”

“Don’t think so,” Diomedes darted aside, and before the demigod could follow, a boulder-sized man slammed into him from behind. He fell on his face with a cry, instantly struggling to free himself. Phil grunted as he slammed another knife into Perseus’ flank, making the demigod cry out in pain. His ichor gushed out, and the Achaean gasped in shock, stilling momentarily and giving Perseus enough leverage to rise and throw Philoctetes off him. As the king fell, Perseus spun on his heel and dug out the offending knife before hurling it at Phil’s falling form.

Without waiting to see the results of his attack, he was chasing after Diomedes. He passed Odysseus and Deiphobus, grappling in the sand, and as he slid to a stop to help, the Prince shouted, “Go!” And then Perseus was bolting again. Diomedes was almost at the trees when another figure slammed into him, sending both of them flying. The quiver of arrows rolled in the dirt as Paris began to whale the Thracian king with punches.

Perseus lunged forward, snatching up the quiver from the ground. From beneath Paris, Diomedes cursed, kneeing the Trojan prince in the gut and pushing him off. He darted up and charged with a powerful swing aimed at Perseus. The immortal sidestepped, and the sword slashed through his black cloak, narrowly missing his arm. Diomedes yelled and swung again, and from the corner of his eye, Perseus spotted Deiphobus racing towards them. He blocked the blow with his gauntlet and thrust the quiver towards Hector’s brother, who caught it mid-air.

“Get to the boat!” He shouted, quickly summoning his sword and deflecting another strike. The plan to mist travel in and out with the quiver had gone promptly to shit. And, short of abandoning his friends, Perseus wasn’t sure how to get the quiver away from the three Achaean kings. Metal clanged loudly, the sound tearing through the silent night.

Deiphobus grinned and nodded, but his moment of victory was short-lived. As Diomedes pushed Perseus back, his eyes caught sight of another figure, quickly approaching. “Watch out!” But it was too late. Philoctetes took advantage of Deiphobus’ distraction, quickly nocking an arrow—one of Paris’ used ones—in his bow, and fired. The shot wasn’t fatal, but it was enough to force Deiphobus to drop the quiver with a grunt, clutching his shoulder in pain.

The islander darted for the arrows, but as Perseus hurled Diomedes with a grunt, Paris was there, moving in to snatch the quiver before Philoctetes could get to it. He grinned and broke into a run. “Catch me if you can, old fox!”

But he hadn’t even gone three feet before another figure barrelled into him from the left. Odysseus tackled Paris to the ground, panting, “Careful what you wish for, lad.” The campfire reflected off his intelligent eyes, and for a moment, Perseus saw them grapple in the dirt, each clawing for possession of the stupid arrows. He had to help. Swearing to all the gods, old and new, Perseus raced for the fighting men. Just as Odysseus wrested the quiver free, Philoctetes was there and yanked him back to his feet. “Don’t get cosy!” He barked. “We have to get out of here!” He slammed a foot into Paris’ gut, making the Prince double in pain and groan in the grass.

Perseus was almost at them when he was wrenched back and thrown into a patch of tomatoes. Diomedes had quickly caught up, and he wiped a trail of blood from his lips. “You think?”

Snarling, Perseus hopped up and rejoined the fray, batting the Thracian aside with his blade. He blocked a knife from Phil and slammed the pommel of his sword into his nose, sending him reeling. Before Athena’s favoured could move, Perseus seized the quiver and spun around him, blade slicing through his side. It was a wonder all the arrows were still inside. Some sort of enchantment, probably.

He swung it back over his shoulder with a triumphant laugh. “See you later, Odysseus!”

He grabbed Paris by the arm and hauled him to his feet. Perseus began to run, dragging the other man towards Deiphobus, who was clutching his bloodied shoulder, eyes screwed up in pain.

“I’m going to take out your other eye, Perseus!” Odysseus called, racing forward. Perseus, still holding Paris, turned, just in time to receive a brutal punch to his ribs, making him double over. Philoctetes darted forward, quick on Odysseus’ heels, and made to grab the arrows from the quiver. Before he could pull away, Perseus delivered a right hook into Odysseus’ face, and the man went reeling. Paris, with a burst of strength, grabbed the quiver and bolted away, towards the trees.

Perseus made to follow, but then Diomedes was there, grabbing him and slamming him into the ground. The king straddled him, hands moving to tighten around his neck. Perseus gasped for air, eyes daring around. He caught sight of Phil, nocking an arrow…one with a familiar fletching.

Philoctetes had managed to grab a single one from the quiver.

Perseus slammed his knee into Diomedes’ groin, and the hands went slack. He pushed the king off just as Philoctetes fired the arrow.

It sliced through the skin at the same time Paris reached his brother Deiphobus—at the same time, the older Prince’s warning pierced the night air.

“No!” Perseus went white as the arrow tore through Paris’ throat.

The prince fell.

Dead.

Perseus yelled and slashed dove to his feet, driving his sword straight through Philoctetes’ heart. The man’s eyes went wide and with a snarl, the son of Anchises twisted the blade in deeper. Odysseus swore rapidly, stumbling to his feet. Diomedes groaned, rolling aside.

The air was filled with the iron tang of blood. From the border of the trees, Deiphobus called, “Perseus, we have to go!”

Perseus wrenched his sword out as Phil’s eyes fluttered closed. He shot a glare at Odysseus and pivoted on his heel, racing towards Priam’s son.

“Get, up, Diomedes,” Odysseus barked. “We have to go after him!” He heard shuffling, then chasing. Deiphobus held a very dead Paris in his arms. Perseus huffed, hearing the Greeks closing in.

And then suddenly he felt hands around him, a rush of wind and then he was airborne.

The demigod started in surprise and then relaxed when he noticed who had swept down from the heavens to their rescue. Selene held him bridal-style as though he weighed nothing, a worried expression on her face. “You okay?” They were streaking through the sky at unimaginable speeds, and he could see a dust of silver left in her wake.

“Yeah,” He panted. “Great timing, but my friends—“

“Are okay,” Helios pulled up beside them, also airborne, and leaving behind him a trail of fire. He held Deiphobus and Paris by their cloaks. The living prince, eyes wide and lips shut in shock waved the quiver in his hands. Behind them, the island of Lemnos was rapidly growing smaller.

Perseus exhaled, “Thanks.”

“You know I’ll always come to you,” Selene said, seriously.

“I won’t—“ Helios chipped in.

The Titaness rolled her eyes and ploughed on, “But you have to stop putting yourself in dangerous situations.”

“My whole life is a dangerous situation,” He said, wryly.

“Touché.”

They continued arching through the sky, until finally, Perseus spotted the city walls come into view. In a matter of minutes, Selene and Helios dropped them on the ramparts.

“Your friend bled out all over my sandals,” Helios wrinkled his nose.

“He’s dead, brother,” Selene set Perseus down on the ground. “They tend to do such things.”

Impossibly, the immortal only seemed more irked. “Oh, the things I do for love.” Helios made a face.

Deiphobus cleared his throat. He slid down to the ground beside Paris’ still bleeding body. The prince clenched his jaw and handed the quiver to Perseus. “Do what you must. I have to inform the family, and get his funeral rights underway.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Deiphobus,” Perseus patted his friend on the shoulder.

The Prince shrugged, reaching out to take Paris into his arms. He rose to his feet, carrying him in the same fashion Perseus himself had been flown from Lemnos. The arrow was still lodged in the dead Prince’s throat. “Paris had no love for or from me. Or from you either, Perseus,” He shook his head. “It’s a pity he’s dead, truly. Father will be wrecked to lose another one of us, after…after what happened to Hector. And maybe it’s our fault, for dragging him along. But his foolishness is what got us into this whole mess of a war in the first place.”

Perseus silently agreed. “Maybe now we can still have the peaceful way out. Return Helen.”

Deiphobus chuckled with a shake of his head. “You really think returning Helen is still the whole point of this war?”

“No,” The son of Poseidon admitted after a heartbeat. It was much, much more than that now.

“Helen is the loveliest woman in creation,” Deiphobus was saying as he began to walk away. “Maybe with Paris gone…” He trailed off and disappeared down a corner.

Perseus watched him grow. Paris was dead, and here his brother was, already thinking about taking his wife. Oh, well. He shrugged and turned to find Helios and Selene, with thoughtful and faraway expressions on their faces. “I’ll never understand mortals and their selfishness,” Helios was shaking his head. “Prometheus did something when he made you lot, and it wasn’t anything good.”

“They’re not all bad,” Selene gave the demigod a secret smile, which Perseus returned. She looked at her brother, a perfect brow raised. “Pandora and the gods are to blame for how most of them turned out.”

Helios snorted. “Even still.”

Sighing, Perseus raised the quiver. All that trouble, just for a handful of arrows. “What’s so special about these anyway? Apollo didn’t say.”

“Centaur blood,” Selene frowned, eyes narrowing. “Heracles dipped them in centaur blood, which makes them lethal to mortals, and excruciatingly painful and poisonous to immortals.”

“Which could allow the Greeks to incapacitate me and Memnon,” He guessed. “Take us out of the fight. Wonder who gave them that idea.”

“Athena, definitely,” Helios snorted. “She thinks she’s so smart, whispering to the mortals and making them do her bidding.”

He frowned and then snorted as it hit him. “She spoke to Calchas,” Perseus realised out loud. “Made him think he’d communed with the Fates or Apollo or something.’’ The wisdom goddess really didn’t like him. If he was being honest, he thought her hatred was illogical and a little far-fetched. He wasn’t the first mortal to be made everlasting by the gods. Perhaps most of her disdain stemmed from her hatred for his father and her support of the Achaeans.

“Exactly,” Helios nodded. He turned to his sister. “You picked a smart one this time.”

Perseus rolled his eyes at the teasing. “How do we destroy them?”

“Brother, if you’re done being an ass,” The former moon deity motioned to the arrows. Grumbling, Helios took the quiver from Perseus. His eyes blazed to light with orange flames. Fire coated his hand, quickly surrounding the quiver, incinerating it and burning the arrows to ashes.

“There. Gone.”

“Thanks,” Perseus nodded in appreciation. His gaze drifted to the city spread out beneath him. Every day it was in mourning. He sighed. It had to end.

He had to end it.

BREAK.

IT WAS MERE DAYS AFTER PARIS’ death that the fighting began.

Priam’s sons—it didn’t matter if they were already married or not—were always arguing, stalking the poor girl in the hallways, and punching each other at court. It was preposterous. Chief among them were Helenus and Deiphobus, and as of now, Perseus could not tell who was more stupid. He’d just come from checking up on Aeneas, who, since that morning days before, had not yet returned to the land of the living.

It was nearing a week now, and Perseus was getting worried.

It didn’t help that he’d had to break up several brawls between brothers trying to prove themselves worthy of a Greek woman, who was most likely in love with Menelaus again now that Paris was dead. He snorted to himself as he continued to walk towards the throne room. Paris had been an idiot, gods bless his soul, but he had fancied himself in love. And people did stupid things for love.

His mourning period wasn’t even over yet, and here his siblings were, eager to wed his wife. If Perseus were him, he’d be rolling in his grave.

As he passed a balcony, he heard shouting. Perseus huffed under his breath, wondering what was happening once again. The sounds seemed to be coming from the courtyard, and there were a gaggle of palace maids leaning over the balcony, watching what was going on below and giggling to themselves. At other windows and balconies of the palace, people peeked down, also drawn by the ruckus. Perseus shouldered his way through the servants, muttering excuses politely and trying to get to the front.

He stopped with a start when he caught sight of the figures circling each other below.

Deiphobus and Helenus looked like hungry wolves, swords drawn, moving in a circle and dipping in offensive stances. Perseus swore under his breath, ignoring the chattering maids around him. He hadn’t realised it had gone this far—were they really going to fight for Helen’s hand?

Did Helen even want this?

He should probably go down there before they did something stupid.

But, as worried as he was, Perseus had to admit he also wanted to see how this would end. The war was at a standstill for now, with both sides calling a truce to bury their dead. Perseus knew the Achaeans really wanted the cease-fire so they could get those arrows. But with the death of Prince Paris, the truce was much-needed on their side so the city could mourn the death of another of Priam’s beloved sons. Everything was dreary and stilted, and maybe the brothers would be some nice entertainment.

He’d hop in and stop them before things got too serious. Perseus glanced around. Deiphobus and Helenus had certainly drawn an audience. Advisors, court officials, priests, servants, and even Priam and his royal family, scattered about the palace, watching through their balconies and windows and doors. A few soldiers were littered around the courtyard, along with some of Priam’s daughters and their maids. But none moved to stop the brothers. He could feel the raw tension in the air.

Deiphobus raised his sword and pointed to a balcony on his left. Perseus followed his blade and noticed Helen standing alone amidst flowers and marble. She looked conflicted and stricken.

Trapped.

“This is for you, O fair Helen. My brother thinks himself worthy of your affection because he bears the male form of your name.” This drew out laughter from their audience. Perseus cracked a smile. “Today I’ll prove to you, and everyone gathered here that he’s not.”

Helenus grunted in reply. Perseus pursed his lips. Cassandra’s brother was a good fighter, but not as good as Deiphobus. This was asking for trouble. “Dearest Helen. You deserve someone as intelligent and caring as you are. Not a brute who delights in murdering little boys on the battlefield.”

“No, you deserve someone strong enough, powerful enough, to take care of you and protect you from the Achaeans,” Deiphobus called to the widow. “Someone like the new Heir Apparent? Someone like me.”

Helenus scoffed and lunged. Deiphobus launched himself forward to meet him in battle. Perseus could tell what this was really about—and it was not just a woman…it was a clash between two brothers torn apart by pride, ambition and fate. Maybe this had been building up for a while now, and the two were just using Helen as a means to release their frustrations on each other.

Neither of them noticed Paris’ widow cry out, hand moving to her cover her mouth in horror, and dash back into her chambers. On his own balcony, Perseus snorted. The brother’s faces were lit by the low sun casting long shadows over the courtyard. As they clashed, the sound of metal on metal filled the courtyard. Priam’s knuckles were tight on the marble at the other side of the palace as they bounded apart. But he didn’t stop them. Everyone seemed to accept that these two needed to get it out of their system.

Deiphobus, broad-shouldered and fierce, gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles white as he sneered at his brother. “A seer thinks he’s fit to hold a warrior’s prize?” He spat. “What use is your gift of sight if you always have to be begged to wield a blade?”

Helenus didn’t flinch, and Perseus had to give him credit for that. “War isn’t the only path to strength, brother. And you don’t deserve her. But if this is the only way to make you see reason, then so be it.”

Deiphobus lunged, sword glinting in the fading light as he aimed a sweeping strike at Helenus. Helenus sidestepped just in time, his movements fluid and precise, as if he’d already seen this play out in a vision. He struck out with his own sword, catching Deiphobus across the ribs with surprising force and tearing through his armour. A collective gasp rang out through the courtyard. Several soldiers moved, and Perseus himself was tempted until the Prince held up a fist, ordering them to stay back.

He held his breath, as Deiphobus recovered quickly, bringing his sword down in a powerful arc that Helenus barely managed to deflect. Then he went on the offensive, pushing his brother back with barely controlled rage. “Give it up, little brother,” Deiphobus growled. “You don’t belong on the battlefield, or at the side of the fairest in the land. Go back to your temple, and to your visions.”

“I’m fighting for her,” Helenus’ gaze hardened, parrying a strike. “Just as much as you are.”

With a sudden burst of strength, he swung his sword low, sweeping Deiphobus off balance. The second son stumbled, but his reflexes were quick. He twisted, swinging the hilt of his sword toward Helenus’ temple. The blow connected, and Cassandra’s twin staggered, nearly dropping to one knee.

Perseus watched as Helenus steadied himself, blood trickling down the side of his face. He took a deep breath, gripping his sword tighter as he rose, face set with quiet fury. He could see the strain in his stance, and he tensed to jump down and intercept them. Helenus charged again, reckless now, his movements wild with frustration. Deiphobus waited, grinned, timing it perfectly, and at the last moment, drove his sword forward. It was a feint, and as Helenus dodged, the other prince moved to slam the hilt of his sword into his wrist. Helenus yelped and dropped his sword, and just as quickly Deiphobus backhanded him, sending him reeling. The dark-haired prince darted forward again, sliding Helenus off his feet. Before the blond son could fall, Deiphobus grabbed him by the head and connected his skull with his knee.

Perseus winced.

Definitely a broken nose. Okay, time out. Bracing himself, he jumped off the balcony and into the courtyard.

The immortal landed with a thump on his feet, and called, “Enough! You boys have had your fun. Let him go, Deiphobus.” The heir apparent scoffed, and with a grunt, raised his brother high, then slammed the seer into the dirt. Helenus grunted as the air was knocked out of him. Brushing himself off, Deiphobus stepped away. He scanned the courtyard, “I think we all see who is to marry Helen now! Not this dickless seer, that’s for certain. Any objections?”

Perseus rolled his eyes as he came to a stop beside the Prince. “Are you quite done humiliating your younger brother?” He moved and reached out to help Helenus up, but the seer swatted his hand away and stumbled to his feet.

“I hate you,” He hissed, glaring icily at his brother. His gaze slid to Perseus. “All of you.”

“But what did I do?” Perseus frowned with indignance.

The prince replied him with a scoff and pivoted on his heel, before marching away. Perseus frowned and shook his head, turning to Deiphobus with a glare, “See what you’ve done?”

The warrior prince shrugged indifferently, sheathing his sword. Huffing, Perseus pinched the bridge of his nose. Around them, people were shuffling away, whispering and murmuring. It was going to be a busy day. There was a wedding to plan, it seemed.

BREAK

HE WAS ON WHAT seemed to be a mountain path, dusted in snow. Aeneas blinked owlishly as his senses kicked in and he tried to identify where he was. He could see vast fields and a city a few ways behind him—Troy. What was he doing out of Troy? The place looked familiar like he had been there before…And then it kicked it. Ida. He was going up Mount Ida.

Aeneas heard footsteps crunching the snow in front of him. He glanced up in slight surprise. Who would be travelling in such perilous times? And more pressing, how had he gotten out of his bed in the infirmary and onto a bloody mountain? He glanced at himself. He was in the same clothes, so short of an out-of-body excursion, Aeneas didn’t have any explanation for this.

He paused.

Wait.

Perhaps the gods had sent him a dream.

Apollo had taught them about such things, once, a long time ago. He couldn’t recall ever being in one though. But…yes, that had to be the answer. He was dreaming.

The footsteps got louder, and Aeneas continued to watch warily for whoever was approaching. He noticed a blond head, brown eyes, and an angry expression—Helenus. Cassandra’s twin, dressed in travelling robes covered by a brown servant’s cloak, marched on the path. In one hand, he held a large oak staff. In the other, he carried a sac across his shoulders.

Aeneas frowned. What was his brother-in-law up to? Surely, Helenus wasn’t running from the war? The son of Aphrodite was confused. Priam’s son was many things, but Helenus wasn’t a coward. Aeneas tried to call out but found he couldn’t. It felt as though a block of tar had been dropped into his throat. He reached out and then blinked in surprise when he spotted the six fingers on his hand.

Yep. Dreaming.

Helenus breezed by without sparing him a glance, and Aeneas realised he probably couldn’t see him.

The son of Priam continued to march up the mountain, and Aeneas darted to follow. If he couldn’t speak to him, perhaps he could follow Helenus and find out why he’d landed in this dream. Was this evening happening in real-time? Or was it a vision of the past? Future? Or was it just something his addled brain had cooked up?

He would soon find out.

Aeneas continued to follow as Helenus walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Finally, the sun dipped on the horizon, and night fell. In the cool night breeze, Helenus stopped at a fairly large ledge and set up camp there. There was a cave in the mountain, and Aeneas watched as the prince began setting up to spend the night. Time trickled by slowly, and he was beginning to get bored. Helenus was trying to start a campfire in front of the cave, but failing miserably.

What exactly was the point of all this? Which of the gods had brought him here? Was it his mater? Or Apollo?

Just as Aeneas was contemplating hurling himself off the ledge to wake up, he heard a curse, and then shuffling in the snow. Instantly he perked, and if he could have made a sound, he would have gasped. But he could only watch—and so watch he did.

Aeneas felt mild horror fill him as a familiar Greek king pounced on Helenus from seemingly thin air, barely giving the Trojan enough time to fight back before he slammed a rock into his head.

Odysseus the Ithacan panted from Helenus’ prone body and threw a sac off his back. He produced a long twine of rope, and set about tying Helenus up.

Now, Aeneas was interested.

Where had Odysseus come from? Where was Helenus going? What the bloody Zeus did anything mean anymore?

Finally, Odysseus was done, and he propped the man up on the mountain wall. A glint filled Odysseus’ eyes as he smacked Helenus once, then twice, and then a third time. The prince started awake, attempting to move, but finding himself very much bound. Aeneas felt worry grow in him—Odysseus wouldn’t let Helenus leave alive after he got what he wanted.

And he couldn’t speak or try to stop him; they couldn’t see him.

“What’s a pretty prince like you doing out here all by your lonesome?” Odysseus asked an eyebrow arched.

Helenus spat at him.

“Okay, sure,” The King wrinkled his nose. “No pleasantries got it. Here’s the deal. You answer my questions, you live. You get the rest.”

“I’ll never help Grecian scum like you—“ Odysseus silenced him with a slap. Aeneas winced.

Helenus coughed, “How did you get here? How did you find me?”

“Had help from a certain wisdom goddess,” Odysseus stood, drawing a knife from his side. “Ready to cooperate?” Helenus glared hatefully at the man. But Aeneas knew that as much as the Prince hated the Greeks, he wanted to live even more.

“I got into a fight with my brother,” Helenus said, reluctantly. His eyes pierced arrows into Odysseus. “My family took his side. He weds Helen by dawn, and he humiliated me in front of the entire palace. So I left.”

Odysseus scoffed. “You Trojans. Never going to stay and fight, are you? Always running, hiding and playing tricks. Your feelings were hurt so you desert your city? Shameful.” Aeneas found himself, for the first and probably only time, in agreement with Athena’s favourite mortal.

“What do you want from me?” Helenus snarked. “Kill me, or begone, demon.”

“Oh I wish I could,” Odysseus slid into the snow. “But first, I have some questions for you. I have it on good authority that you’re some kind of seer.”

“What’s it to you? Yours get too rusty?”

“I want to know how we can win this war,” Odysseus’ voice turned hard. “How we can finally end this and take Troy down.”

“You want my help destroying my own home?” Helenus frowned. “I might have squabbled with my brother, but that doesn’t mean I want him or anyone in that city dead. You’ll have better luck trying to seduce a cow.”

“Oh?” Odysseus’ hand shot forward, and he grabbed Helenus by the wrist. He wrenched the hand up and brought it close to his face. Helenus swallowed, and Aeneas had the feeling he was trying to remain calm, not let his fear bleed through the mask of indifference. “Tell me, Prince Helenus…which finger do you like the most?”

Aeneas blanched.

Helenus didn’t answer. Odysseus grinned maniacally. “Oh, well.” He slashed. Helenus cried out as his left little finger dropped into the snow. His eyes were wide with pain. His forehead was beaded with sweat, which seemed impossible, given the snow.

“How do we end Troy, seer?” Odysseus wasn’t here to play, it seemed. “I know you have looked. I know you see several outcomes. Several futures. I want the one which leads Greece to victory.”

Helenus didn’t speak. His teeth were gritted. Odysseus clenched his jaw. His knife moved to Helenus’ left eye. “You’ve seen your friend Perseus, haven’t you? I can stab your eye out, Helenus. It’ll be painful. You won’t die, and I’ll take out your other eye right after.”

“I am blessed by Apollo,” Helenus scoffed. “I have the eyes of the divine. Take these if you want. Detach me from the realms of mortality.”

Odysseus growled. Aeneas could see he was getting fed up, and silently he applauded Helenus. With a jerk of his hand, his knife slashed through his skin, and Helenus doubled over with a scream as Odysseus sliced through his eye. Blood coated the side of his face rapidly. Odysseus grunted, grabbing Helenus by his hair. He yanked his head back and placed his knife at his throat. Aeneas wanted to tackle him. He could feel the anger in him rising steadily.

“Ready to take me seriously now?”

Helenus laughed through his pain. “Go to Hades.”

Odysseus snarled and his knife moved to Helenus’s crotch. His laughter died in his throat. Odysseus’ voice turned into a very low, dangerous whisper, “Enough games, Prince. Tell me what you’ve seen or so help me—“ His grip on the knife tightened and Helenus cried out. The son of Aphrodite felt horror replace his fury.

“Okay!”

Aeneas sagged, partly in disappointment, the other part in relief. Helenus was panting. “Okay. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Odysseus scoffed but didn’t take his knife away. “Should have started with that.” Aeneas, again, had to agree. Men, after all, would always be men.

“First, to get Troy to fall,” Helenus swallowed, pausing. His one working eye burned with hatred. Aeneas felt a deep sorrow fill him. In the few minutes he’d been awake last time, he had seen Perseus with a scar running down his face and a single eye remaining. He’d thought he had been dreaming, but now Odysseus’ words had confirmed it. And here was Helenus, no different. These Achaeans and their blinding kink.

“Go on, Prince,” Odysseus barked. “We don’t have all day.”

“Promise that you’ll honour your word,” Helenus’ throat bobbed. “That you’ll let me go unharmed.” Odysseus rolled his eyes, but Helenus glared at him.

“Fine. I swear on the Styx not to harm you once you tell me what I need to know.”

Aeneas jerked as thunder boomed overhead.

“Your turn,” The Ithacan told him, “Swear that you’re being truthful and everything you tell me from now is with full honesty.” Aeneas felt his skin tighten as Helenus repeated the words. There was another blast from Zeus overhead.

“Alright,” Helenus rolled his neck. “Give me a minute.” He lifted his head to the night sky, and then gasped, throwing his head back. Aeneas shifted on his feet as the Prince’s eyes burned gold. In a minute he sagged once more against Odysseus.

“Great parlour trick,” The king grinned.

“Shut up,” Helenus inhaled. “There are three things you must do to defeat my people. The city will not fall while it holds the Palladium.”

“What—“

“Figure it out.”

Helenus shifted in the snow. “The safety of Troy depends on the Palladium’s presence. It makes it Holy, and untouchable. Much like Poseidon’s walls.” Odysseus frowned, but nodded, motioning for him to move on.

“Next, the bones of Pelops, the rival of Elis, have to be brought on Trojan soil.” Helenus sounded bitter, as though he couldn’t believe what was happening. Aeneas couldn’t either. A slow-building panic was rising in him.

“Right,” Odysseus nodded. “That all?”

Helenus gritted his teeth.

“The last thing needed to be done…” He trailed off. Aeneas was stiff, watching with bated breath. “Is bring Achilles’ son Neoptolemus from Skyros. Let him join your foolish war.” Odysseus looked taken aback. Then he was nodding, slowly, at the same time Aeneas began shaking his head. The Achaean sheathed his knife, a smile threatening to break his face into two. “See, that wasn’t so hard, now was it.”

“Bastar—“

Aeneas sat up with a jerk, eyelids flying open.

He was panting, his hair matted with sweat, heart beating rapidly. A surge of panic coursed through him. Aeneas’ gaze went to a figure, still asleep in the bed beside him—his son, Ascanius. He swore silently to himself. This was bad. This was bad.

He had to warn them.

He had to stop them.

Or else Troy was going to fall.

Chapter Text

A.N: For those of you who think the 2v1 leading to Achilles’ death was a bit unrealistic and didn’t meet expectations, this is for you.

I see where you’re coming from, but I got exactly what I was going for with that scene. The only reason it may seem as though Achilles did them more damage is because he was invulnerable at the time, and so basically sustained no injuries. If you read carefully enough, you would notice that had he been without his iron skin, he would have been dead before the fight truly began, due to being tag-teamed. And gentle reminder, Perseus might be immortal, but immortals can still be severely injured and disabled, like Hephaestus was, so, no I don’t think it’s wrong or unusual for Perseus to have lost his eye in the fight against his mortal enemy. And Aeneas, despite being a demigod, is also still very mortal, and with the blood loss from his wrist and the stab wound, let’s be real here, he shouldn’t have survived that. Another reminder, Achilles didn’t walk away from that fight, despite his iron skin saving him from injury. Anyway, it’s great that I’m hearing all your thoughts and it’s great that you all enjoy the story so much. Appreciate the love!

-TripleHomicide.

AENEAS fiddled with the hem of the chiton which his wife had had tailored for him to cover his stump, his thoughts racing in his skull like war horses. He was a bit anxious if he was being honest, and perhaps this had been a mistake. But it wasn’t for no reason that one of the gods had kept him asleep for days and allowed him to see Helenus’ torture session with the Greek king Odysseus. Whatever deity was playing at their side, he was grateful for the information.

Upon rising, he’d come to find that yes, Helenus had indeed deserted the city, and so that meant he’d been dreaming in real-time. He was glad to be alive, and glad that his wife and son had kept at his side for as long as they had. But, he also knew that he had had more rest than any of his comrades for the entirety of the war, and he was healed enough to hop back into action. If Helenus’ prophecies were to be believed, they were in dire trouble.

His brother had been in to see him the morning he’d left, and the son of Aphrodite had barely escaped another coma-inducing hug. Aeneas frowned as he remembered catching Perseus up to speed about his dream and then falsely promising to let him handle it alone while he rested. But his brother should have known by now that Aeneas wouldn’t be able to sit idle and leave all the stress on his shoulders.

He knew which of the prophecies Perseus would target first, and his guess had been right. His brother had ordered strict guard rotations around the citadel to guard the Palladium; then he had vanished from the Palace, eastward towards Skyros, probably to assassinate Achilles’ spawn. Aeneas snorted to himself. Even dead, the Phthian was still a pain in the scrotum. With two of the prophecies being handled, he had launched into action to deal with the third—he knew the Greeks would not wait, and neither would he.

And so barely a day after waking, Aeneas had sought out the demi-titan Memnon and together they’d picked out a handful of Trojans, Ethiopians and Amazons and procured passage to the Island of Pisa from the other side of the harbour. The only people who knew about this top-secret mission were Priam, his trusted sons, and of course, Aeneas’ own family. The fewer people who knew about these prophecies, the better for all of them. He couldn’t bear to leave his wife and son once again, but with what was going on, this was just something that needed to be done.

His hand moved to raise the hood and place it over his face. His companions were already hooded and draped in cloaks over their armour, no doubt itching with anticipation of what was to come. The barge slowly ploughed on through the water, and Aeneas swallowed as the Island of Pisa came into view. He wasn’t sure how exactly they were going to get the bones.

Hades, he didn’t even know where they were buried.

They were pressed for time—the Achaeans had already had a head start, and Aeneas feared that perhaps they had already beaten them to the bones. But then again, most of their hastily constructed plan hinged on the Greeks finding the bones first and doing all the grunt work.

They just needed to get to Pisa in time to intercept the Achaeans before they left.

“Hello,” Memnon pulled up beside him, his voice hard, face stony as usual. He had been an admirable aid to the war effort, and although Aeneas had only fought beside him once before, he knew Memnon was capable—it helped that he was immortal, too. Both points made him the best partner in this operation, especially with the absence of Perseus.

“I can tell you are worried,” Memnon tilted his head in the cloak. Around them, soldiers were milling around, sharpening weapons, steering the boat and generally getting ready to murder a couple of foreign invaders.

“That obvious?” He queried in a low voice.

“A bit,” Memnon’s accent was thick. The moon was high in the sky, and its light made the Ethiopian’s sword glint. “Do not worry, King Aeneas. The plan is a flawless one. And I communed with my mother before our departure. She will hold off the dawn until our mission is done.”

“That’s quite generous of her,” Aeneas nodded slightly. Memnon’s words got him thinking again. With everything that had been going on for the past decade, he sometimes forgot he himself was a king, and he had a territory and people waiting earnestly for his return, with a regent—one of his many brothers-in-law—seated on his throne and probably getting way too comfortable.

All the more reason to finish this as soon as possible.

“Indeed it is,” Memnon agreed. “However, I fear I must ask you this…how sure are you about these prophecies—this dream?”

Aeneas hesitated. He was glad that Memnon and several of the soldiers had agreed to leave with him at such short notice and with barely any explanation. Of course, they would be sceptical. “I would not draw you away from the fighting if it was not so,” Aeneas finally admitted. “You’ve done a lot to help us.”

“It is my honour to fight alongside legendary heroes such as yourself and your brother,” Memnon intoned. “And do not forget, I have attained immortality from this little expedition.” He chuckled. “You would get no complaints from me.”

The curly-haired man frowned. Memnon, it seemed, was very enthusiastic about his newfound immortality.

Perseus had always made it seem like…a burden. Like the entire sky had been hauled off Atlas and thrown on his shoulders. In some ways, he understood his brother. At first, it had been hard to, but then he had seen what immortality had done to Perseus. As much as it had saved him from certain death many times, it had also taken something from him. Something he could never get back. And someday, maybe Memnon would come to see that. Especially when he remained timeless, and the world fell apart around him. Aeneas wondered how the gods had survived it for all these aeons.

They stood in silence for a few heartbeats, and then Aeneas finally dignified the General with an answer, “Everyone thinks they want to live forever.”

“Don’t you?”

“No,” Aeneas laughed like it was the silliest joke he had ever heard. “Definitely not.”

“Knowing there’s an end—that’s what makes the rest of our short lives worth living,” He told the Ethiopian. “That’s what connects us and makes us brave, even when we have no reason to be. Because we have something to fight for.”

“Rather insightful of you,” Memnon’s expression turned thoughtful.

Aeneas smiled sadly to himself, “Just something I picked up from watching my brother all these years.”

“And does Perseus? Know what he’s fighting for, I mean.” The boat rocked steadily, making Aeneas sway on his feet.

“I think he’s still figuring that one out,” Aeneas admitted. He exhaled. “But he’ll get there. I believe in him.”

“I think my aunt’s consort,” Memnon grunted as he said it, “Has made this war his entire world. I won’t pretend to know either of you or anything about your lives. But the gods have survived as immortals for this long. As much as immortality is a curse, it’s a blessing too. It just depends on how you look at it—what you choose to do with it.”

“Fair enough,” Aeneas shrugged. “I think Perseus is slowly starting to see that, after…after Hector. And after this war, I hope Selene can help him find another purpose. One that’s not so wrapped in death and destruction. One where no gods pull at his strings from the shadows.”

Memnon nodded in acknowledgement. His focus shifted to the sea, and as he spoke, he was once again the hardened bear of a man who led the Ethiopian contingent. “The Island is in view.”

“Great,” Aeneas reached for his swords and then paused, remembering he was limited to a single sword arm now. Damn.

Pursing his lips, he drew the single sword. He’d just have to learn to live with it.

“Soldiers,” Memnon called to their squadron of warriors. “Prepare yourselves for battle.” There were grunts and sounds of acknowledgement as the Trojans, Amazons and Ethiopian men, about sixteen in number, armed themselves.

Aeneas took in a big gulp of air. “Alright, guys,” His voice carried into the night. They were still far away enough from the Island to avoid detection. “You know your duty. Our primary target is to get the bones. Stealth would serve us better tonight. However, I know we cannot get the bones without a fight. Chase the Achaeans away. If it is possible, we leave no survivors. Clear?”

There were assenting salutes and murmured acknowledgements.

Aeneas prepared himself, waiting, watching.

As the got closer he spotted the large vessel docked on the Island, banners billowing lightly in the wind. Familiar ones—Nestor’s. It seemed the old king had sent one of his many sons to retrieve the bones.

Silently, the large boat hit the sand.

Aeneas clambered out quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The warriors behind him followed, as quiet as ghosts. With Aeneas at their head, they made their way towards the Greek ship. They would lie in wait in the trees on that side of the beach.

It didn’t take long for them to get to their destination. Aeneas spotted a lone figure on the ship, standing still, and waiting—impatiently, might he add—for whatever men had ventured onto the Island. With a signal from Memnon, they were scaling the trees around the ship, as skilful and silent as monkeys.

The demigod found himself on a large branch, leaning against the trunk for support. They had to get to the bones—destroy them, if possible. They would burn the bones to ashes—right after turning the Greek men into empty husks of flesh and bones. The man on the ship began pacing the deck. Aeneas heard a twitter from his left, almost indistinguishable from that of a bird.

He glanced at Memnon, the source of the sound. On another tree, Eos’s son motioned with his head southward. Aeneas frowned and followed his line of sight. Yes—there. He spotted them, the Contingent of Achaean soldiers, marching in small packs back towards their ship. They were about thirty in number and covered in dust from head to foot. About four of them were lugging a semi-large sac towards the ship. He could see a white ivory-coloured thing poking out of a hole in the side—a bone.

Aeneas held up an arm. He heard the distinct sound of bows being nocked with arrows.

He watched silently, chest rising and falling. His heart thundered.

Not now.

Not now…

They were too far out of range.

He waited. Memnon made another loud twitter. Aeneas ignored him and waited. Now.

He closed his fingers into a fist.

Sixteen arrows were fired simultaneously from the cover of the trees.

They rained down on the Greeks like hail and brimstone, and screams and surprised shouts pierced the air as arrows tore through armour and flesh. The men holding the sac dropped it, dead.

“Move in!” Aeneas barked. He leapt to the ground from the branch and charged the disoriented Achaean force, whose number had been cut down drastically. The rest of them scattered, diving for cover behind rocks and shrubs, and raising shields in panic. Aeneas, his one hand gripping his sword tightly, led the charge, fierce determination etched into his face, while Memnon, towering and strong, strode beside him with an air of quiet indestructibility.

Thunder boomed overhead, the low pitter-patter of rainfall following right after.

His sword tore through a throat before the Achaean had the time to react. Several of the Greek men were pulliing out weapons, but Aeneas’ soldiers were fierce, sharp and brutal. The Greeks, overcoming their surprise, quickly fought back, arranging themselves into a neat little organised phalanx. “Hold the line!” One man, obviously the commander, shouted. “Guard the bones!” But his words were drowned out in the clash of swords and the rapidly increasing intensity of the rainfall.

Droplets soaked Aeneas’ cloak.

He sidestepped a lunge from a Greek and swung his sword with lethal precision, his strength undeterred by the missing hand. Despite the handicap, he cut down one, then another, his gaze locked down on the sack of bones. These remains meant the difference between life and death for his people—a relic they couldn’t allow to fall into Greek hands.

Alongside him, Memnon advanced, cutting through the Greeks with a terrifying calm, their weapons seemingly toothpicks against his might. Aeneas had seen him fight once, and it seemed in the time he had been asleep, Memnon had made himself the object of an Achaean’s worst nightmare. Lines broke as he led their soldiers through them. Greeks scattered in his wake. Each foreign devil soldier who approached him fell back in horror, their best strikes leaving his bleeding ichor like Perseus, but very much unfazed.

Then, a particularly mouthy Greek was shouting, “We need to get to the ship! Now!” He pointed to the large vessel just a few feet away. The man from before was firing arrows into the battle, and so far, as Aeneas did a quick headcount, he noticed that the assailant had managed to take down two of his. There were about five men already on the ship, though—they had probably been below decks. It seemed Odysseus and his Greeks had learnt since their last expedition on an Island. They had been prepared to face Trojan interference after what had happened with the arrows. Two soldiers were joining the archer and releasing projectiles through the rain. Aeneas swatted one out of the sky as it neared him.

The other three men began lowering a ramp and releasing sails.

Lightning flashed, and Aeneas let out a yell of outrage as Jove illuminated the beach before them. Two of the Achaeans were moving, the sack in between them, weaving together through the battlefield, and although the number of Greeks had dwindled, there was still enough locked-in combat with his own forces to leave them unchallenged. He shouted an order to get the sack, his voice a clarion call above the storm. With unyielding force, Aeneas battered his way through the Greeks, intent on intercepting the men before they reached the ship.

One clashed with him, and their swords locked as thunder crashed overhead. With only one hand, Aeneas fought with almost supernatural agility, forcing him back with each brutal blow. Memnon was charging beside him, pushing towards the bones. His sword clashed with the enemy’s, and expertly, he twisted, then disembowelled him on the spot. But, despite their efforts, some of the Greeks had gotten to their ramp.

They scrambled up the ship, only a dozen or so who had made it out of the fight. Aeneas slew the man in front of him. His nostrils flared in mild frustration as he watched them.

This was far from over.

He broke into a sprint as the ramp began to rise, and with a prayer to his mother and a yell to rival Achilles’ scream for Hector’s head, Aeneas launched himself off the sand just as the ropes were released.

He landed on the closing ramp and slid down onto the deck, panting.

The Greeks spun around, horrified to see him on board. One raised a sword—the commander—and signalled for the others to hold their ground. Aeneas scoffed and charged.

He fought furiously, filled with all the pent-up energy from lying useless in bed for over a week, his body and blood burning for the release of battle, his every swing filled with the fury of Troy. He cut down two men in quick succession and parried a block from another before twisting underneath him and hauling him overboard. His eyes locked on the sack of bones, still heavily guarded and held by three men this time. The Greeks had been foolish to think they could escape.

Aeneas pressed them back, crossing swords with one man while the other two backed away towards the edge of the ship. Their swords clanged in the storm’s fury, the ocean churning around them. He lunged, dodging underneath a wild swing and grabbing the collection of bones. But an elbow slammed into his face and then a knife pierced through his thigh.

He cried out and gritted his teeth, ignoring the flare of pain. They were closing in around him now, like sharks around a bleeding man. One, then two, then four, then six. He continued to block blows, favouring his injured leg, slashing at swords and batting back spears. The men with the sack had engaged him too, and here they were, at the edge of the ship, with the son of Aphrodite wondering how the tables had suddenly been turned on him.

And then the ship lurched, sending him stumbling. Aeneas barely kept his feet, raising his sword to slash through a man’s throat. He grabbed at the sack, narrowly missing, and had to rear back to avoid being impaled on a spear. And then he heard the voice booming over the waves. “Aeneas! Jump, now!”

He risked a glance to the shore, and his heart soared—there he was, Memnon, catching his eye just as he pulled back his arm, preparing an arrow carrying their contingency plan.

The arrow burned green—a fire Aeneas had never seen but had heard many stories of. He swore and stumbled back, then hurled himself off the side of the ship and into the water as Memnon’s arrow flew, striking the hull of the vessel.

The Greeks had only a moment to react before the ship erupted in a surge of green flames just as Aeneas hit the surface of the water and sank. Heat singed his back, his ears were ringing from the sound of the explosion. The water boiled.

Aeneas held his breath for all of ten seconds before he broke through the surface. The ship—or what remained of it, was still burning, even on the water, green flames reflecting in the moon’s light. Some were carried off into the sky. The blast had sent splintered wood and debris hurtling across the water, the eerie green glow lighting the waves. Men and wood vanished in the inferno, and within moments, the entire ship was engulfed.

And yet, the fire would not stop burning.

Aeneas watched, in mild awe as the flames cast an unnatural light across the beach. He could see the remaining of his force, also starstruck at the wonders of Greek fire.

And then another blast sounded as the Greek fire touched the waves at the other side of the ship. It seemed alive, sentient, even. Roaring with a thirst to engulf every single thing in its path, despite the rain. Whatever Greek had concocted this monster, he deserved to burn in his creation.

Wherever Memnon had gotten this amazing fire from, it didn’t seem to discriminate. It would engulf them and their boat, too, if they did not move off the island fast enough.

Okay, it was time to go.

That sack had definitely not escaped those flames.

He began to swim towards the shore. But then as he moved, the demigod caught sight of something—a faint, almost otherworldly gleam. His heart surged with realisation; a bone, still whole, had survived the flames and had been launched far far away from the Greek fire. He heard a shout, from Memnon, but Aeneas ignored it and changed course. He pushed through the debris with determination, eyes burning with the heat behind the fire. He could not leave it to chance—he had to get the bone closer to the flames.

But then Aeneas spotted something, dark and massive, darting beneath the waves. Before he could reach the glimmering bone, a figure rose from the water—a green-skinned man glowing with the light of the flames. He had dark flowing hair and the murkiest green eyes Aeneas had ever seen. Beneath him whipped a large tail with two fins—he was a merman. Aeneas stilled as realisation dawned on him. He knew who this was. He knew the stories. The man reared back, and Aeneas caught sight of that massive, powerful, scaled bare torso. He wore a band on his bicep and another gauntlet on his opposite forearm. In his hands, he held a large conch horn, glowing with power.

Triton, son of Poseidon, had come to play.

The Prince of the Seas smirked at him and Aeneas felt his blood chill. He met Aeneas’ gaze, eyes cold and unyielding, before reaching out, clasping the bone in one hand. Triton pulled his horn to his lips and blew.

Around them, the rain seemed to still. The waves stopped gushing. The Greek fire was snuffed out suddenly, as though the very wind keeping it burning had been called away.

Then, with a flick of his twin tails, Triton vanished into the depths, taking the relic along. Aeneas swallowed.

He knew who Poseidon and his family supported, and it wasn’t the Trojans.

He knew where that shoulder bone was going.

A failure, then.

Watching the merman’s shimmering trail disappear, Aeneas felt a surge of both fury and resignation. He turned and swam towards the shore, the taste of salt and smoke on his tongue.

No matter.

This wasn’t over yet.

BREAK

PERSEUS slid out from the chariot as it touched the ground. The field around them was deserted, except for a lone horse grazing several hundreds of feet away. The sound of crickets filled the night sky, and the glow of Selene’s chariot lighted up the farm. Perseus adjusted his cloak around himself, looking up at the two occupants of the chariot. “Thanks for the ride,” He called. Selene leaned down and kissed him goodbye.

“May Mother Gaia be with you.” Her eyes were worried, and he shot her a small smile, even though he knew it would do nothing to chase away her anxiety. Selene frowned. “I wish I could help.”

“You know you can’t,” Helios piped from beside her. “You’ve been interfering in these matters for far too long, sister.”

Perseus agreed. “He’s right. I’ll be fine, Selene. I’ll be cautious.”

“The last time you were here I had to abandon my chariot in the skies and dive down to save you,” She said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

Perseus rolled his eyes playfully. “Okay, mom. I’ll be extra careful.”

Helios laughed. “Come now, Selene. Perseus is an adult. He can take care of himself.”

“I’m also immortal,” He added, pulling the hood of his cloak over his eyes. “If that helps.”

“Fine,” She moved back to take the reins of the chariot. “If you need me, just say my name. I’ll hear you, and I’ll come for you.”

“Alright.” Perseus watched as Selene tugged at the reins of her ride. The horses began to move, and then the chariot was in the sky. He waved at it as it went, and then, when he could see it no longer, turned his attention back to the earth. The demigod inhaled deeply, gazing at the sleeping city sprawling beneath him. Skyros.

It had been a long while.

He bit his lips as his thoughts strayed to his last expedition to this Island, before even the start of the war—the first time he had met Achilles, disguised as a young girl. Those had been much simpler times. The last time he’d been here, he had posed as an ambassador of Apollo. He had tried to kill Achilles, who had been secretly seeing Princess Deidamia. He’d deceived the King Lycomedes, and he had fought a squadron of Greeks led by his good friends Odysseus and Diomedes.

He wondered if any of the people of the King’s court remembered him—it had been more than a decade, after all. He had changed. He was sure they had too. Achilles had left the Princess with a son born out of wedlock—a bastard, something people in this part of the world despised more than the citizens of Troy. In some ways, he related this kid. They were both bastards, born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And if the gods were on his side, no one would even notice if this Neoptolemus boy was killed.

But internally, he knew that it was just wishful thinking. The child was the son of one of the greatest demigods of the century. Lycomedes, if Perseus’ memory was right, would hold on to him in hopes of a potential alliance with Phthia and King Peleus. He would not thrust the boy into the street—not with the fame and glory that came with Achilles’ name. The most obvious place to start would be the palace. He just prayed that Odysseus had not already retrieved the child.

Perseus knew that the Ithacan king was being aided by the goddess Athena, much like Apollo and Selene had stood behind him the entirety of this war. By his guess, Odysseus was already on the Island, had already had an audience with the King, and had already requested and/or demanded Neoptolemus’ presence on the battlefield. He would have left for Skyros even before Aeneas had risen and told Perseus of his dreams.

He frowned as his thoughts strayed to his brother. He hoped Aeneas didn’t do anything stupid while he was away. He had told him he would deal with it, and he hoped his brother had enough faith in him to stay in bed recovering.

Perseus fiddled with his ring as he began to move.

He walked with caution through the fields, and into the city proper. There was hardly anyone about. A handful of drunk guards here, a couple of late-night revellers there. Perseus avoided all of them, hood covering most of his face, his head down. He used only the darkest paths available and the emptiest streets. Finally, after minutes of rushed walking, he spotted the palace gates and slipped through just as the guards changed shifts.

It was all quite easy, really. He hadn’t expected anything else from a city like Skyros, given how their whole thing was tourists and trade. He supposed that was why Thetis had figured she could keep her son here all those years back. Hidden in plain sight.

Perseus slipped into the audience chamber unopposed.

It was almost too easy.

Wait.

Of course.

Athena had probably alerted Odysseus, and either the man was long gone, or this was a trap.

Perseus pursed his lips as he passed through a familiar doorway and into the palace itself. Scones of low-burning flames lined the walls. Tapestries hung high on the stone, and drowsy guards were posted on every corner. His first course of action would be to find a guard or servant to give him the information he needed. That would be tricky, given the time, but not impossible. Perseus moved like a shadow through the dimly lit halls of the palace, his heart steadying with each calculated step. The air was thick with the scent of freshly polished marble and the distant murmur of guards patrolling the corridors. He ducked behind a tapestry depicting legendary battles, holding his breath as footsteps echoed closer. The guards were blissfully unaware of the intruder in their midst, their conversations filled with bravado and wine rather than the tension of vigilance.

He glanced at the intricate patterns woven into the fabric, a stark reminder of the wealth around him, but his focus was purely on the task at hand.

With poise, he slipped away from the tapestry and made his way to a narrow staircase at the end of the corridor. The stone steps spiralled upward, their rough edges a stark contrast to the opulence surrounding him. He remembered, that Skyros was the hub of trade and gossip. Their riches might purchase their new art, but their palace was old, a testament to how long the small island had stood.

Every grind of the stone stairs under his weight was a reminder of the need for silence. As he ascended, he could hear the hushed discussions of guards just above, their voices drifting down like ghosts in the night. He paused, listening intently, and waited for a lull in their conversation before making his final ascent. He heard steps, signalling a change in direction. The guards took their conversations with them.

At the top, he found himself in a dimly lit passage with more tapestries, windows and closed doors.

And then…Bingo.

Perseus grinned to himself when he spotted the young girl in the white clothes with fair hair; her head burnt as she hurried down the passageway. She rounded a corner, and Perseus silently darted after her. In a matter of steps he was right behind her and his hands shot out and wrapped around the girl’s mouth and throat. The girl tried to scream but it was muffled by his palm, and he pressed down harder and pushed them into a nearby alcove.

He cornered her into the wall.

Perseus saw the fear in her eyes, and he flicked his sword into existence with his finger and replaced the hand on her throat with his blade. She looked down like she wanted to scream again, and Perseus’ lips stretched into a thin line. “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t want to,” His voice was gruff. “But I’m going to take off my hand. A sound from you, and I’ll take your throat along with it.”

The girl shook, and tears were beginning to form in her eyes. She nodded earnestly. Perseus inched back slowly and raised his hand.

She didn’t even squeak.

“Alright, I just have a few questions,” He whispered. “Answer me honestly and you’ll be on your way.”

Again, she nodded.

“Right,” Perseus relaxed. “Has there been any envoy of Greece here today and are they still in town?”

“K-k-king-g-g,” She was stuttering, and Perseus found that somewhere quite deep inside him, he felt sorry for being the cause of her fear. “King Odysseus of Ithaca.” She inhaled, trying to compose herself. “He arrived this morning and had an audience with the King.”

“He’s still here?” Perseus arched a brow. “Where’s he sleeping?”

“G-g-guest quarters,” She swallowed. “At the eastern wing of the palace.”

“Okay,” Perseus nodded. “What about Deidamia’s son, Neoptolemus? Where are his quarters?”

“Prince Pyrrhus?” She looked taken aback by his question. Perseus pressed the blade of his sword deeper. The woman’s eyelids fluttered and she rushed out, “The same wing. The farthermost corner, with the silver windows and ruby curtains.”

“Thank you,” Perseus smiled beneath his hood. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The woman didn’t respond. “Which wing of the palace are we now?”

“North,” she said quietly, eyeing his sword. He nodded, then raised the blade from her neck. She sagged against the wall.

“Alright.” His sword shifted back into its ring form with a thought. “What’s your name, girl?”

“I-“ She swallowed. “Aelia.”

“Alright, Aelia,” He took a step back. “You’re going to go back to your own quarters. You’re going to forget you ever saw me. You’re going to bury that urge rising in you to go screaming to the nearest guards. That clear?”

“Y-yes,” The maid nodded. “Of course.”

“If I find that you betrayed me, Aelia,” Perseus took another step back. “It won’t be hard for me to find you again.”

He pivoted on his heel and darted back to the steps. Hopefully, that would be enough to cow the maid into silence until his mission was done. He disliked that he had had to resort to such measures, but desperate times, he supposed. Perseus shot up the stairs to another floor, identical to the one below.

With a careful glance around, Perseus approached a small window, its glass panes trimmed with gold. He pushed it open quietly, the metal creaking ever so slightly but remaining masked by the distant footsteps below. The night air rushed in, cool and invigorating, as he hoisted himself onto the ledge. From his vantage point, the palace rooftops stretched out before him, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon. He scanned the area, noting the guards positioned along the perimeter, their movements routine and predictable. With a final breath, Perseus then leapt onto the rooftop. The transition was seamless; he dove into a roll, absorbing the impact and coming up with fluid grace.

His feet barely made any noise, and Perseus continued to move in the shadows atop the roofs, making his way to the Prince’s chambers. He moved swiftly, using the surrounding architecture to his advantage, avoiding the guards patrolling below. It was as if the rooftops had whispered secrets to him, guiding his path effortlessly towards his goal while leaving no trace of his presence. Finally, he spotted the aforementioned corner of the east wing of the castle, with a row of silver windows. Another calculated jump and he stood above it on a stone rooftop.

Perseus inched down the stone wall and onto the window’s edge.

With a small shove, the silver and glass slid inward, carrying in a draft of air and cloaked demigod.

Perseus landed with a small thump inside the gigantic room.

It was dark, but even he could see the wealth and the opulence the bastard Prince lived in.

So much for shunning lowborn children.

But then, this prince wasn’t lowborn, really. Just unlucky that his parents had both been a secret at the time, unmarried and had not yet discovered the life-saver called pulling out. Gods knew it had come in handy more than a few times for him before Selene. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, holding back a grimace at their absurdity.

Perseus crept gently towards the large four-poster bed. He silently drew a knife from his side, cringing slightly when the blade scraped against the scabbard. He paused. No movement, yet. Perseus continued to walk, on the tips of his toes this time, until finally, he stood at the edge of the bed.

There was a figure in the bed, wrapped in large cloths and buried in pillows. Perseus saw wisps of hair in the darkness from beneath the covers.

He raised his knife.

And brought it down in an arc.

Almost suddenly, the covers were thrown back. Perseus barely had any time to react before another knife was slicing through the air and burying into his gut. He stumbled back with a loud gasp and then doubled over in pain as several spikes of pain erupted in his back.

Another knife sliced again, but he mustered enough strength and blocked the strike with his own before darting aside and pivoting to glance behind him. His eyes widened beneath his hood as he ripped out the blade from his abdomen. Perseus pressed his palm into his clothes to stem the bleeding. With his other hand, he dug out the offending arrows which had been shot into his back.

Behind him, clutching hard to a cross-bow and reloading it for another shot was a short muscular boy, not even sixteen summers by the looks of it. He had a familiar sharp nose, and hair so fair it was golden, cascading down his head in curls. His blue eyes pierced through the darkness, alight with fury, and he was dressed in a dark chiton. There was no mistaking it. It was as though Achilles had been reborn. This was definitely his son, Neoptolemus. It seemed he had come from the large closet.

Perseus froze.

So who—

Swearing, he danced away from reach as the figure in the bed attacked again, launching out of the pillows and slashing at him with a sword. Odysseus attacked once more, and Perseus barely had enough time to react, blocking the strike. Ichor seeped from his wound. Damn it, there was no water nearby.

He dodged another strike and jabbed his sword at Odysseus’ flank, but the man shifted and narrowly avoided his blade. Perseus spun the sword in his hand rapidly, and cut down another bolt from the crossbow. Neoptolemus dropped the weapon and drew his own sword.

It seemed they had been waiting for him.

“Enough!” The son of Achilles called. “The guards are already on their way, Perseus!”

Of course, they knew it was him too.

Odysseus slashed at his head, and Perseus wove away from the reach of his blade. The Ithacan glanced at the son of Achilles and glared at Perseus again. “Pleading will not stop this one. Only fighting; he does not discriminate between tongue and sword.”

“Your guards will not stop me either,” He called, swishing his sword in the darkness. The glow of all the weapons lighted up the room, but only barely. Odysseus dashed forward again and Perseus met him in a flurry of blows and slashes. In moments, he had Odysseus flying back into the bed.

Neoptolemus dove in almost immediately and Perseus crossed swords with him, hand still pressed into his wound. Neoptolemus lunged forward, the weapon singing through the air as it aimed straight for Perseus’ heart. But Perseus was quicker, sidestepping and relying on his agility to evade the blow, his own sword flicking out in a defensive arc. The two met in a clash of bronze, bright sparks flying against the shadows as they struggled for dominance. Neoptolemus, fueled by the relentless bloodline of Achilles, pressed the attack, his strikes purposeful and fierce, each swing intended to breach Perseus' defences. But in a lucky jab, Perseus had him reeling and stumbling over his feet.

Odysseus stood straighter beside the bed, and Perseus actually laughed, throwing back his hood. No need for it now.

“You fight like your father,” He called. “But I believe you’ll be easier to kill, won’t you?”

The Prince bared his teeth. Perseus scoffed. Could the fates be more cruel? Get rid of one cocky golden-haired lion, and they him replaced with another.

Odysseus tensed to attack, but Perseus arched a brow at him and he stilled. “What exactly did you plan to happen here, Odysseus? What type of ambush was this meant to be? You can’t kill me. It would have been better to escape from the city before I arrived.”

The Ithacan king shook his head and smiled with malice. “Did you think the wisdom goddess did not think of that, Perseus?”

His words made the demigod frown. Whatever they were planning couldn’t be good. But, they could not kill him. And no injury would last permanently apart from physical disfiguring. No matter. He had a mission to complete.

The Prince of Skyros readied his blade. “I’ll make you regret what you did to my father.”

“What, the father who abandoned you your entire lifetime?” He snorted. “Your father who didn’t even know you existed while he still lived?” A look flashed on the kid’s face—a look he knew all too well, from his years spent questioning and hating Poseidon.

With a yell of outrage, Neoptolemus charged. Odysseus was right behind him. They collided in the centre of the room, the clash of their blades reverberating through the silence of the castle. He could hear the pitter-patter of running guards. He had to be quick.

Expertly the three warriors drew back and then clashed once more in a whirlwind of sparks and gold.

With every blow, the sound echoed like a thunderclap in the chamber, reverberating off the walls and rattling the remnants of grandeur hidden in the darkness. Perseus, employing his experience in battling gods and monsters, countered each attack with precision, his movements fluid as he danced around the onslaught. He sought to exploit Neoptolemus’ brute strength, waiting for the right moment to strike. As Neoptolemus wound up for another powerful swing, Perseus stepped back, allowing the momentum to carry the blow past him and used the moment to thrust forward, landing a quick jab that nicked Neoptolemus’ shoulder. Perseus reacted quickly, using the flat of his blade to slam into the back of the boy’s head, and sending him tumbling into the darkness.

Odysseus was right behind him, his sword aimed for a downward thrust. Perseus braced himself, deflecting the weapon with a quick flick of his own blade, the clash echoing around them. With a quick pivot, he shifted to the side, using the Ithacan’s momentum against him and sending him reeling. The two warriors circled each other like wolves, each aware of the other’s abilities, analysing and calculating. And then Neoptolemus was back, launching himself right into the range of his blade, and Perseus had to dodge a wild strike which would have taken off his head.

He would have still been alive, but just a detached head. He shuddered at the thought.

As they squared off against one another, he was taken back, to more than ten years ago, to a very similar opponent, and a very first battle with a certain gold-haired demon.

As the fight continued, darkness crept deeper into the room, the glow from their blades struggling against the advancing shadows. Neoptolemus lunged again, but this time, Perseus was prepared. He sidestepped and countered with a sweeping kick that knocked the prince off balance. Seizing the opportunity, Perseus raised his sword, striking a shallow but serious blow to Neoptolemus' side. Breathing heavily, Neoptolemus stumbled back, cursing under his breath, blood trickling from his wound. He was a good fighter, much like his lord father before him. But he was still just a boy—a man-child and nowhere near the warrior Achilles had been. He was rash, headstrong, and full of anger. It would be the death of him.

In that moment of hesitation, Neoptolemus looked into Perseus' eyes, filled with a mixture of determination and respect. “You fight well,” he grunted, anger and admiration intertwining.

“Better than you know,” Perseus replied, his voice steady.

Odysseus darted into the fray, once again fighting to disarm Perseus, moving like an enraged viper. Still clutching his sword, the son of Poseidon danced around the two men attacking him, blocking strikes from both sides, simultaneously parrying off hard blows and catching slashes on his cloak which would have injured him—or worse. Then they separated from one another once more, panting heavily. The tension in the room swelled again as they all steadied themselves for the next round, knowing that the outcome of this clash could tip the scales in their ongoing battle. Still, the guards had not come.

Typical.

With renewed vigour, they charged, their swords clashing and ringing through the air as the shadows enveloped them once more. The Achaean king landed a blow on Perseus’ thigh, creating another streak of gold through his clothes. The immortal hissed in pain, but he blocked a jab from Odysseus and drove his sword into the man’s shoulder, and the King fell to the ground in pain. Perseus slashed through Odysseus’ gut and rammed a fist into Neoptolemus’ face, and the boy fell back with a yell of surprise and pain.

Now. This was his chance; the opening he had been waiting for.

He lunged forward, sword raised to lop off the boy’s head.

And then froze, sword arm dropping to his side.

His eyes widened and Perseus gaped, stumbling back in shock. This…what…how?

“Really, Perseus?”

The ghost of Achilles stood in between the son of Anchises and his golden-haired son. “Surprised to see me?”

Perseus blinked owlishly. Of course, this would happen. What rotten luck.

“I mean, I was quite surprised to feel this tug—this pull from the mortal realm,” Achilles advanced, and Perseus eyed the apparition. What god was behind this little parlour trick this time? He could see Neoptolemus righting a broken nose behind the spirit.

“You’re supposed to be stuck guarding the Styx,” the demigod frowned.

Achilles tilted his head. He looked the same as he had always looked—fierce, godly and regal. But he was glowing, and he was greyish and devoid of colour. He had no marks of his final battle. No scar, except the little arrow present at the heel of his left foot.

“So I am,” The fallen hero acknowledged. “But you see Perseus. You’re here to kill my son. This—“ He motioned around them, gesturing at the dark.

“This just won’t—“ Achilles paused, and then a wolfish grin erupted on his face. “Do.”

Almost immediately, Perseus felt it. A sharp, stinging pain as a blade slid into his back. A burning sensation as Odysseus grabbed his shoulder from behind and dug the knife in harder. He gasped and fell to his knees.

“It’s oddly satisfying, watching you suffer,” Achilles chuckled lightly. Perseus bit back a yell of pain as the Ithacan pushed him into the ground. And then Odysseus wasn’t there anymore. He heard an exchange.

“Take care of my son, friend,” Definitely Achilles. “Stay safe, Pyrrhus. Make me proud.” A string of responses he couldn’t hear, then,

“We have to go.”

The pain was spreading through his back.

“Are you sure?” Neoptolemus, sounding dubious. “Won’t he—“

“The job is done,” Odysseus snapped. “Athena’s poison will work its course. We have to leave, now.” He heard footsteps. He heard thumps, and then his mind processed it as another wave of pain forced his eyes to clamp shut.

The words were bouncing hard in his head. Poison. The pain was almost instantaneous—a result of his realisation.

Perseus struggled to his feet, hand instinctively flying to the wound in his back. Then he staggered, and the agony radiated through him, making him bite his lip. What was this? The level of pain was nothing new, but the creeping sensation in his head and body truly alarmed him. As he stumbled, the world around him began to warp and shimmer. Shadows lengthened, twisting into grotesque forms that clawed at the edges of his vision.

Heart pounding, he tried to shake off the encroaching haze, but it clung to him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. He could feel it—the poison surging through his veins, a dark fluid seeping into his very essence. It was as if the warmth of life was being drained from him, replaced by an icy chill that coursed through his limbs. His thoughts, once sharp and clear, began to blur. Fragments of memories flitted through his mind—images of his brother, the laughter of his best friend Hector, the ethereal glow of Selene—but they felt distant, like echoes from a place he could no longer reach.

Perseus fought to maintain his grip on reality, but his body betrayed him. Muscles weakened, and he collapsed to his knees, struggling against the unfurling darkness that sought to ensnare him. Panic surged within him as he gasped for breath, each inhalation a struggle against the weight of despair closing in around him. “No…” he whispered, a barely audible plea, as he fought against the encroaching shadows that threatened to consume not just his body, but also the very spirit that defined him.

He struggled to keep his eyes open.

It seemed Odysseus and Athena had won this round. Shit.

Perseus felt his face connect to the ground. He heard the door slam open and numerous guards pour in. He gritted his teeth. His throat was closing up. Struggling against the lead-like feeling trying to drown him, he managed a small whisper, one last plea, one last name, “Selene.”

Suddenly the room was filled with silver light.

And then everything went dark.

BREAK

SELENE raced into the cavern as fast as her feet could carry her. Helios was hot on her heels, the morning glow of his former chariot glinting off his armour before they were swallowed by the darkness. The glow of the flames from his skin lighted up the cave, and Selene’s gaze shifted to the still figure in her arms. He was burning up, almost like her, the midday sun. His skin was pale, and if not for the fact that she had seen him bleed gold multiple times, she would have assumed he was just moments away from being taken by Thanatos. She could see veins popping up at his neck, black and pulsing.

Poison.

She hadn’t felt this in an extremely long time—millenia, in fact. It felt almost foreign, but she could almost taste it in her mouth.

Fear.

She didn’t like it.

Her heart was pounding. And she was sweating. She was a Titaness. She did not sweat.

But Perseus was the love of her life. She knew that he was impossible to kill. But it felt like she was losing him already. Immortals could not die, but they could be damaged, disfigured, forced into eternal sleep, incapacitated and in pain for the rest of their eternal life. Perseus moaned from her shoulders. Selene gritted her teeth as they plunged deeper into the cave. “Phoebe!” The pain in her voice was mirrored in its intensity.

“Phoebe!” Selene roared her aunt’s name, and the sound resonated throughout the cave.

She felt the shift in the atmosphere almost immediately. Felt it as her aunt’s presence bled into the tunnel. Selene and Helios raced harder, until finally they burst into a large chamber—almost bare, except for the bear-skinned rug on the ground and the numerous torches lining the walls. Selene was panting, and as much as she tried to rein in the myriad of emotions threatening to overwhelm her, she could not stop the fear as it seared through her immortal body. She almost sagged in relief when she saw her—Phoebe the Titaness, seated cross-legged in the centre of the room on the rug. Her long fair hair was tied in a bun, and her eyes, milky white and all-seeing, latched onto Selene and her brother as they came to a stop before her. Phoebe was old, but still beautiful, wearing a simple brown cloak over a peplos. Surrounding the bear-skinned rug in a ring were leaves and flowers of all kinds, forming some sort of pattern throughout the cavern.

“We need your help, Aunt,” Helios grunted. “Some sort of poison—“

“Bring him here,” Phoebe’s voice was soft yet full of command. Selene could almost see the endless power rolling off her still form. She inched forward, and gently set the demigod at her aunt’s feet. Perseus groaned and arched his back. Phoebe’s milky whites turned down. The corners of her lips pulled down in a frown and she leaned forward. “I sense my grandson around him. But there is sign of another—how is that so?”

“He’s a son of Poseidon,” Helios bent. “And Apollo’s ward. Got stabbed in the back by a sort of poison knife. Do you think you can help him?”

Selene slid to her knees beside him, her hands moving to brush the hair from his head. He was burning up, his sweat felt red hot. Phoebe’s frown deepened. “Did you try placing him in water? That usually works with children of the sea.”

“First thing I did,” Selene said. “Didn’t work.” The first few minutes after finding Perseus had been fresh in her mind. Throwing off his cloak, unlatching his belts and boots and loosening his chiton, jumping off her chariot and falling into the sea with him. She had gotten wet to save him.

It hadn’t worked.

“Alright,” Phoebe pursed her lips. The Titaness placed hands on Perseus’ chest and then recoiled in shock with a low gasp.

Selene sat straighter, “What is it?”

“How did you say he was poisoned?” Her voice was sharp. Demanding.

“Stab wound,” Helios waved the offending blade. “You know what the poison is?”

“Snake venom,” Phoebe’s said. “Python’s.”

Selene felt her heart drop into her gut. “What? How did a mortal get hold of Python’s venom?” Everyone knew of him, the great serpent, which Apollo had hunted endlessly for aeons. The venom was lethal.

“That matters not,” Phoebe began to unlace his clothes. Selene’s eyes found the black veins again, rapidly racing across his body. They were all over—his arms, his chest, his neck. Her fear surged once more as Perseus groaned. Phoebe began to move with a sense of urgency that belied her usual grace. She gathered rare herbs and petals, her shimmering hair cascading around her like a waterfall of stars. Selene took Perseus’ hand in hers and squeezed. She had to be strong. She was not losing him too—not like she had lost Endymion. The former moon goddess felt her brother’s hand on her shoulders, and she leaned into his touch. She would have crumbled without his support.

Selene could feel the darkness of Python's venom coursing through Perseus’s veins as he lay on the stone floor, his breath shallow and laboured. The shadows around them pulsed with energy as Phoebe worked quickly, waving her hand and making a pestle grind a collection of herbs in a single bowl. Her movements resonated with the desperation of the situation. Selene and her brother watched as their aunt closed her eyes, calling upon the innate powers that made her one of the most renowned healers in the history of the world. The power she had transferred to her daughter Leto, then her grandson Apollo and his child Asclepius. Threads of energy flowed from her fingertips, intertwining with the ingredients she had so hastily collected. The soft glow illuminated the darkness, as she whispered an incantation that reverberated through the chamber. The air became charged with ethereal vibrations, swirling around her, amplifying the Titaness’ thoughts as she concentrated fiercely on the antidote. Selene’s heart raced, knowing that time was a luxury they could not afford. As Phoebe poured the shimmering mixture into a small vial, Selene felt the weight of the moment pressing upon her.

With great care, the elder immortal approached Perseus, her hands trembling slightly as she tilted the amber liquid to his lips. “For the light to pierce through the shadows,” she murmured, and Selene saw her brow crease in concentration as her aunt channelled her energy into Perseus, willing the antidote to work its magic. The brightness around her surged, and the younger Titaness squeezed Perseus’ hand tighter. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her mouth suddenly ran dry. She could feel the poison fighting against Phoebe’s antidote, but the elder Titaness remained resolute, and her hand moved to hold Perseus’ head while the other was placed on his chest. Phoebe’s healing magic filtered through her fingertips into the Trojan demigod. Selene cringed as he groaned again, and Helios’ hand on her shoulder tightened. Perseus shuddered in Phoebe’s grasp. A scream tore through his lips.

And then he stilled. Selene saw the black veins, slowly retracting, slowly narrowing, drawing back.

Fighting the poison.

She sagged in relief.

“Thank you,” the silver-eyed immortal nodded to her aunt. “Thank you, Phoebe.”

The woman relaxed, and once again, she sat cross-legged on her bear-skinned run. Phoebe was silent for a few moments. Helios retracted his hand as Selene moved to gently place Perseus down on the rug. His chest rose and fell steadily now. She could see the ichor rushing back towards his skin. “You are in love with this demigod,” Phoebe tilted her head slowly, her white eyes studying Selene.

She hesitated, then nodded. “I am. And I am eternally in your debt for helping me save him.”

“He would not have died,” Phoebe waved it aside. “But Python’s venom would have left him in pain and torment for eternity.” A conflicted look crossed her face, then vanished.

Helios caught it almost immediately and demanded, “What is it?”

Phoebe pursed her lips. Selene shifted in her seat. She studied the other woman, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She was good at reading people, and right now she could see that Phoebe had something to say, but was not sure how to. “I—I saw something.”

It was the first time she had seen her aunt stutter.

Phoebe sighed. “When I touched him. The poison wasn’t the only thing I saw.”

The silence was palpable.

“If the fires of Troy extinguish and its heroes are laid to rest, the light of Helios shall wane, and yours, dear niece, shall glow shall dim in the twilight until both are extinguished forever,” Phoebe’s voice was mournful. “The rise of a new empire amidst the ruins shall be the harbinger of your end.’’

Selene felt her ichor run cold.

The meaning of the Titaness of Propechy’s speech hit her. She swallowed.

If Troy fell, then they would fade.

They would be gone—forever.

Chapter Text

A/N: For those of you with endless and frankly annoying issues with my writing or characterisation, please (not really) gtfo. There’s the door. No one’s forcing you to read this lol. For the rest of you, have fun.

PERSEUS woke up in his bed.

His entire body ached, and a groan escaped his lips. Daylight filtered through the curtains, lighting up his chambers. He could hear the tell-tale sounds of battle, which meant that however long he had been out, the cease-fire was over, and the siege of Troy was back in full swing.

“Hey,” A voice said from beside him. Selene. Perseus shifted in his bed, eyes flickering to his side, where his lover lay. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her silver eyes were full of relief. “Feeling alright?”

Perseus exhaled, “Good enough, I guess. What happened?’

“Odysseus and Athena did,” Selene’s voice was hard and tinged in anger. “Python poison.” He remembered the pain, the knife in his back. Perseus gritted his teeth. That meant he had failed.

“Shit.”

“Shit is right,” Selene agreed. “Neoptolemus and Odysseus got away.”

The sounds of fighting seemed to intensify. Perseus shifted once more beneath the covers. It felt awkward being in bed with his girlfriend when his soldiers and friends were fighting for their lives just outside of the city walls. “How’s the fight going?”

Selene hesitated, “Well…they’re having a harder time than usual. Neoptolemus has joined the fighting—killed your ally Eurypylus.”

“Is Memnon not at the front lines any longer?” His brow creased.

Selene pursed her lips, “Deiphobus holds the fort for now. It seems Memnon and your brother went on an expedition of their own to retrieve the bones of Pelops from Pisa.”

Perseus’ frown deepened. “What? My brother is supposed to be in bed recovering.”

“I think I’ve had enough time to, don’t you?” The voice came from the door. Perseus and Selene glanced up, and he felt a surge of anger and indignation fill him. Aeneas trudged in, looking for all the world as though he had just crawled out of the depths of Tartarus. He was dressed in a cloak and covered in soot. “Hello, Selene.” The Titaness acknowledged him with a nod of her head.

“Aeneas,” Perseus said. “What the Hades?”

His brother winced. “Please, brother, not today. I came to check if you were back. It seems we are both very weary, and both had very sour missions.”

“You weren’t supposed to have any missions,” He said, scowling at Aeneas. “You almost died, Aeneas. You lost a hand. You should be resting. I told you I would handle it.”

The other man snorted. “Did handling it include getting bedridden? What ever happened to you?”

“You first,” The immortal demigod folded his arms. Beside him, Selene also looked at his brother expectantly.

Aeneas sighed and then collapsed in one of the cushioned chairs in the room. “Memnon and I took a small battalion to retrieve the bones. It was going quite well. We exploded their ship with Greek fire. And most of the bones were destroyed. But there was one piece which survived—a shoulder blade. Triton got to it before I could. I assume he got it back to the Achaeans.”

Perseus felt his blood run cold. He ran a hand through his hair. “Triton?”

“You’re sure you saw him?” Selene inquired. “From my understanding, Poseidon has banned further interference from the seas.”

“He has,” The Polemarchos agreed. This was disturbing. It meant Amphitrite and her brood were still actively fighting him, still searching for a way to bring him down. “He forbade interference in my life. Aeneas’ mission had nothing to do with me. Not directly.” They had found a loophole. Help the Achaeans win, Troy was destroyed, and so, essentially, was he. The aching in his body seemed to intensify.

“Well, he got away, and the Achaeans have a bone of Pelops from Pisa,” Aeneas dropped his face into his hands. “We were so close.” Perseus watched him. His brother was a fool. Why did he have to keep endangering himself like that? Finally, Aeneas sighed. “Your turn.”

“He was stabbed by a knife poisoned with the venom of the Great Snake Python,” Selene answered for him. “Neoptolemus escaped.”

“What?” Aeneas sat straighter. “Brother, are you quite alright?”

“Been better,” He shrugged. “Selene and Helios handled it.” The Titaness nodded in agreement.

“So,” Selene looked between the two brothers. Something was off about her. He could see it in the stiffness of her back, in the way her right hand was running through his hair more than usual, and the way the fingers of her left were drumming on her thigh. She was nervous about something. He filed it in the back of his head for enquiry when Aeneas was gone. Perseus hated seeing her worried—especially when he was the source of her anxiety. “What I’m hearing is…” Selene continued, “Both of your missions were failures, and now the Achaeans have a bone of Pelops from Pisa, and Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, fights on their front lines.”

The son of Poseidon looked at her again. Selene looked almost…afraid. Impossible. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. Selene was never afraid. He took her hand, stilling her bouncing fingers. “Hey, you alright?”

The woman smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Perseus’ lips pulled down in a frown. The Titaness beside him leaned down and planted her lips on his. When she pulled away, her smile looked lighter—real. “I’m fine.”

Aeneas cleared his throat from his seat in his chair. “I’m going to order an increase in security around the Palladium. Then see my family, and join the battle before it ends. Maybe I can help turn it around.” He stood and marched to the door.

“Aeneas,” Perseus’ voice was hard. “I don’t want you on the battlefield.”

“I said I’m fine, Perseus,” His brother was insistent on being stubborn.

“No, I don’t think you are,” Perseus leaned forward. “Aeneas. You jumped out from one life-threatening situation to another. Achilles almost killed you. Bastard took your hand.”

“And he took your eye,” Aeneas helpfully pointed out.

“I’m immortal, you idiot,” The raven-haired man told him. “Losing my eye would not, and did not, kill me. Losing your hand almost did. I spent a week not knowing if you’d ever wake up. Your wife and son slept at your bedside for more than that, waiting for you to open your eyes. Apollo and I orchestrated Ajax’s death so you wouldn’t be in danger when you rejoin the fighting. And the first thing you do when you’re awake is go off on a journey to some deserted Island and almost get killed again?”

Aeneas stopped at the door. He turned to glance back at his brother. Perseus allowed some of his worry to show on his face. Beside him, Selene tilted her head to the side, “You should listen to your brother, Aeneas. The war is far from over. Your son and your wife are always waiting anxiously for your return. You should go be with them for now.”

He could see the gears turning in his brother’s head. Aeneas hesitated, then nodded, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am.”

“The war can wait a couple of days, can’t it?” Perseus said, gently.

“I guess,” Aeneas sighed. “I just…I want to be useful.”

“Go be useful to your family, brother,” The son of Poseidon gave him a ghost of a smile. Aeneas nodded, and with a wave, he vanished through the doorway.

Perseus turned to glance at Selene once more. The sombre expression had settled on her face again, as though his brother leaving had drained everything out of her. “Selene,” He murmured. “I know something is bothering you.”

The deity beside him sighed, and flopped into his pillows, grumbling, “Sometimes I hate how well you’re able to read me.”

A laugh escaped his lips. “And here I thought I was doing a good job.”

Selene smiled, but it did not last long. She squeezed his hands. “I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you. You have enough on your shoulders as it is.”

“I can take it,” His expression mirrored hers, chasing away all signs of laughter. Something was bothering her, and he’d be damned if he didn’t get to the bottom of it. “You know I’ll keep digging until you tell me.” He poked her side.

Her hand in his hair stilled, and then she sagged against him. His free arm went to wrap around her. Selene licked her lips. “When my brother and I came for you, we took you to our Aunt Phoebe.”

“Phoebe? Apollo’s grandmother? The Titan of—“

“Yes, Prophecy and Mystery, yes,” Selene nodded. “The very same. She told Helios and me something once you were out of danger.” Selene hesitated, and then ploughed on, “It was a prophecy, of sorts. The fall of Troy would lead to the rise of a new empire from its ashes. Helios and I will fade from existence when this new empire is birthed.”

Perseus felt his blood run cold.

For the first time in his life, it seemed he did not have anything to say. His brain seemed to have short-circuited. The son of Anchises blinked owlishly, once, twice. Perhaps he was hallucinating. His lips peeled open but he could not form any words. Selene looked apologetic. “I should not have told you. It would only bring more worry—“

“What?” Perseus regained the ability to speak. His voice was hoarse. “Tell me you’re joking.”

His lover shook her head sombrely. “I wish I was.”

Perseus could hear his heart hammering in his chest. No. Phoebe was lying. Immortals didn’t just fade out of the blue. Kingdoms had risen and fallen into ashes, and Selene and Helios had survived through them all. What made this new one any different?

“We were supposed to have an eternity,” He rasped. Suddenly the aching in his body seemed to deepen.

“We do,” Selene took his other hand in hers. “We will. All you have to do is win.” Perseus swallowed. This was serious now. It had never been a joke before, admittedly. But now Selene and Helios were on the line. He could not let that happen. He had to end the war as soon as possible.

“I will,” He promised. “Just give me a few days. None of them will survive.” A fiery sort of determination and a cold sense of fear seemed to barrel into him simultaneously. He pulled her down into a bone-crushing hug. “I am not losing you, Selene.”

“I know,” She hugged him back just as fiercely. “I love you, alright? Whatever happens—“

“Don’t you dare finish that statement,” He said in the crook of her neck. Selene chuckled lightly.

When they pulled away, Perseus reached out and gently brushed away some of the hair from her eyes. She looked beautiful. He was so lucky to have her, and he would be damned if anyone thought they could take her away from him. He had sacrificed being with his family when he’d been made immortal. The one silver lining was that they got to be forever. If he lost that, too—then there really would be nothing worth living for.

“Besides,” Perseus frowned. “Apollo told me something about there being many possible outcomes and futures. Phoebe probably saw just one.”

“Right,” The Titaness of the moon smiled. Perseus kissed her, then, as though their entire world was about to come crashing down. As though it would be the last time he felt her lips on his. Because now nothing was certain. Because it just might be.

BREAK

AENEAS gazed up to the sky a few days later, pursing his lips and trying to tune out the sounds of the battle outside. There was a strange feeling inside him—a tension he felt, roiling and weaving in the pit of his gut and making him want to heave its contents into the bushes. Was this how they felt? The people of Troy, each day, waiting, watching, not knowing what was going on outside, as the Greeks continued to lay siege to their ports and their beach and their livelihoods—not knowing if the brave men fighting for their survival outside their god-built walls would hold out for just another day?

He didn’t like it.

Perseus and Selene had been right, of course. He needed to be with his family for a bit.

But it felt selfish, all the same, walking now with them through the streets of the city, ambling through the nearly-empty roads, passing groups of scared citizens offering prayers to gods who had taken sides in this war…he hated being on the other side of the wall. Not when they needed him out there. He hated the itchy feeling in him, the pulse of warning, the racing heartbeat, just waiting for something bad to happen or for the men to return with good news.

Deiphobus, Memnon and Antianera led their soldiers from sunrise to dusk against the devils from across the oceans, pushing back on the Achaean lines until they broke, forcing them back towards their encampment. But still, every day it was not enough.

“I know you wish you were out there, father,” Ascanius spoke up, and Aeneas glanced down at his son. He smiled to himself. The boy was growing rapidly. He was almost past Aeneas’ waist now, and he still could not tamp down the pride he had felt since the night before when he’d decided to humour Ascanius in a mock battle and see how far he’d come. He would be the finest of warriors, someday.

“I do,” Aeneas ruffled his hair. “I wish I was helping. But you’re important too.” He glanced sideways at his wife. “Both of you.” Creusa smiled, then leaned her head on his as they continued walking. Her fingers around his bicep tightened. Behind them trailed Helen, arm-in-arm with Andromache. A bevy of soldiers and ladies-in-waiting took the rear. One closest to Andromache held baby Astyanax in her arms.

Aeneas glanced around at the street their little party had arrived on. A few more turns, and they would be back safely in the palace. They had just left the city square, where the Palladium was safely guarded by a squadron of Trojan soldiers.

The roads of their beloved city, a once vibrant tapestry of life, were now overshadowed by the harrowing spectre of siege. The sun hung low in the sky, its light filtered through a haze of smoke and despair, casting an eerie glow over the stone buildings that fought to retain their dignity against the looming threat of destruction. The cobblestones, once polished from the hurried steps of merchants and children, now cracked and deserted, stained with the grime of desperation.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood from the battlefield across the walls. Each breath felt like an intrusion, a reminder of the suffering Aeneas was currently hiding from. In the distance, he could hear the melancholy cries of women lamenting losses too great to bear, their voices threading through the harsh sounds of distant clashing swords and the anguished roars of men locked in battle. Amidst the mourning were cries of worship and appellations to the gods of Olympus.

To Aeneas’ left, a fountain that once danced joyfully with crystal clear water now stood still, its basin murky and filled with the remnants of discarded vows – coins, flowers, and tokens of hope, all left to succumb to decay. The statues that adorned this square, ever watchful, had become grim sentinels to their plight; their stone gazes rendered sorrowful by the passage of time and destruction. Market stalls, which were once vibrant with the colours of fruits and wares, stood eerily abandoned. Everyone was indoors.

Everyone was afraid.

The only times the streets were full these days were when a Prince died and they were in mourning. Too much of that had been happening lately. Aeneas’s heart ached for Paris and his father.

The sweet smell of ripe figs and bread had long since vanished, replaced by the sharp odour of smoke from nearby fires and the earthy scent of churned-up dirt.

As they kept walking, he caught the fleeting figures of desperate souls slipping through the shadows and women closing their shutters quickly. Beggars appeared sparsely at different vantage points, although there were barely any people out and about to beg from. With every distant sound of clashing bronze and iron, Aeneas felt a deep constriction in my chest, knowing his people fought for survival just beyond his sight. His heart ached for them—they were brave, but no doubt they were afraid. There was a symphony of courage and fear echoing in their hearts. The clamour of battle was a cacophony of resolve and desperation, dampening even the spirits of the usual dancers on the streets and chasing them away from their very livelihood.

He had not realised how bad the fighting had affected the people.

In this beleaguered city, hope flickered like a dying flame, wavering in the breeze of despair. Yet, amid this chaos, there was a glimmer of strength within their walls—a determination to stand firm, to defend their home, and to kindle that flame even in the darkest hours. As he gazed around upon the battered streets, Aeneas felt a surge of resolve. He could not let this city fall. It was a fortress of the spirit, and beneath its scars lay the heart of a people who refused to surrender.

But it had been going on for far too long.

The war had drained everything from their city. All he wanted, more than anything, was to give it life once again.

They continued walking down the streets, and from beside him, Creusa spoke. “I miss when things were simpler. When all we had to worry about was when the next forest adventure would be.”

Aeneas chuckled, although there was not much mirth in his laugh. “Right. Those were good times.” Behind them, Helen and Andromache were murmuring something quietly.

He hated how much things had changed. He hated that his son had been born and grown up in this version of Troy—all he had known since were death and war.

The demigod sighed to himself. He just wanted a better life for his son. For all of them. They turned another corner, and it was the same story—barely empty streets, beggars, low melancholic musicians. They were almost at another bend when Aeneas heard a hoarse voice call, “O, son of Aphrodite, blessed by all the gods,” it was one of the beggars, wrapped in a dirty old cloak and slumped against the wall of a shut-down bakery. He looked as though a gust of wind would blow him deeper into the wall. Beside him was a similarly dressed beggar, covered in clothes and leaning on a wretched-looking staff against the wall. “Have mercy on your humble servants,” The first continued, “Spare some coins for us, Lord Aeneas.”

Aeneas exchanged a glance with his wife. He glanced behind him, and one of the servants rushed forward, hands outstretched with a pouch of gold seated between her fingers.

Aeneas plucked the pouch from her hand and glanced back at the men. One of them raised his head, and Aeneas caught a wisp of curly brown hair and a scruffy beard before the hood of the man’s cloak covered him again. A sharp gasp erupted behind him—from Helen.

He turned to glance at the newly-wed woman, but then Ascanius was tugging at his sleeve. Aeneas looked back down at him, and his son said, “Let me, father.” With a smile, he obliged, handing the bag of coins to Ascanius. The curly-haired prince bounded over to the beggars, “Here.” He dropped it into the second man’s outstretched hand. “Get yourselves something to eat. Remember the graciousness of the House of Aeneas and Aphrodite.”

“Thank you,” The second man’s voice was deep and gruff. “Your s—servants shall forever be in your debt.”

Aeneas nodded and then they were on the move again, turning corners, and traipsing down streets. The palace grew nearer and nearer.

It was only moments later that Helen let out another gasp.

This time everyone turned. Their moving train paused, and Aeneas passed Helen a questioning glance. Diomedes’ new wife—a surprise when he’d returned, definitely—smiled shakily. “I—I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my bracelet.”

“Oh?” The demigod frowned. “You have several more, surely—“

“No, no,” Helen shook her head. Her voice shook, and she met his eyes, “It—it was a gift from Paris, see. I can’t leave without it.”

Aeneas pursed his lips. He exchanged a glance with Creusa and then looked up again. Andromache nodded slightly. Aeneas looked around them, “Surely one of the servants can—“

“Oh, it’s no bother, really,” Helen gave him a watery smile. “I’ll just backtrack a street and look around.”

The king sighed. Helen was unhappy. She’d been tricked by his mother into running away with Paris and abandoning her loving husband. She’d been taken to a foreign land and had started a war as a result. She had the blood of millions on her hands. Then her new husband had died and his brother had immediately stepped in to take his place, as though she was some object to be passed around. He pitied her.

“Alright,” Aeneas conceded. “But do try to be quick to catch up with us.”

“I’ll come along,” Andromache said, “Help you look.” Aeneas saw a brief flash of hesitation on Helen’s face, but then she was nodding and it was gone.

“Alright, then.” The pair broke away from the party, and four guards trailed a respective distance behind them.

Aeneas frowned to himself again, and they continued on their path towards the palace. After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps hurrying towards them. Once again, Aeneas paused. Helen and Andromache were back. The former waved her wrist, showing off a beautiful silver-gold bracelet. She seemed relaxed, but Aeneas could still read the worry in her eyes. She was under a lot of pressure.

“Great,” Aeneas gave her a small smile. “Let’s get going.”

He continued walking, and the others followed. Finally, the palace gates came into view. Aeneas shifted to the side and allowed the women and children to pass, then the servants and lastly the guards. As he was walking through the gates last, his thoughts began, once again, to dance in his head.

Aeneas couldn’t shake the feeling that something tragic loomed over the city. They had already lost a bone of Pelops and failed to assassinate Neoptolemus.

His thoughts drifted to Helen, the woman whose beauty had ignited the war that now battered their city. As she walked in front of him, the Princess turned to glance outside the palace gates, craning her head as though searching for something. Her expression was a haunting mixture of worry and despair. She seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, burdened not only by the guilt that came with the chaos surrounding her but also by the strained relations among the Trojan families. From what Aeneas had heard, the fighting that had ensued after poor Paris’ death had been brutal.

Aeneas could see how the fear of everything going on gnawed at her, even as her resolute spirit struggled to maintain composure. The city around them was crumbling from the Achaean’s pressure, and the King of Dardania could not help but feel like everything was slipping away. Aeneas tightened his jaw, recalling the beggars he had seen just a few minutes ago. They had crouched in the shadows of the bakery, their ragged forms a stark contrast to the majestic city—the remnants of what life once thrived here. He felt an acute pang of sorrow for them—people who had already lost so much in the turmoil of war, their displacement a constant reminder of the fragility of life. After the Greeks had taken control of most of the territories around the city, all the refugees fled to Troy, and most of them ended up on the streets.

The couple of coins he’d given them were a poor consolation for the suffering they endured.

As he walked, Aeneas mused about the dissonant notes of fate that wove through the streets of Troy like a vengeful spirit. Each stone he’d seen held stories of glory and loss, of lovers torn apart and families shattered. So many people had lost brothers, fathers, and lovers to this war. The once proud city had become a ghostly reminder of what it had been, and he lamented the loss of not just lives but the very essence of what it meant to be Trojan. He pondered what lay ahead. The whispers of treachery floated in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of smoke from the distant fires of war. Aeneas knew that the struggle was far from over. The pain etched into Helen's features reminded him that despite the violence and discord, hope flickered like a candle threatened by the wind—fragile yet persistent. Perhaps, in the end, it would take more than warriors on the battlefield to salvage their home; instead, it would require the courage to stand together, to uplift and heal what had been broken. His heart ached with unspoken determination.

He would fight for Troy, for his family, for the future that hung in the balance. The empty streets may now echo with silence, but he was resolute that they would one day resound with life and laughter once more.

Those beggars on the streets would one day be able to return to their homes, without—

Aeneas stopped with a small gasp as the realisation dawned on him. Curly hair. Dark eyes. That beard.

Those beggars. Home.

A cold unsettling feeling descended on him and Aeneas swore loudly, pivoting on his heel. He suddenly remembered where he had seen them before, and another string of colourful curses escaped his lips. His eyes widened. The beggars. Curly-haired, dressed in rags. Helen’s gasp. Shit.

Great gods, he was a fool.

“Soldiers, with me,” Aeneas yelled. “Sound the alarm, we have intruders—“

“What?” Creusa called. “Aeneas—“

The palace whirred to life. Around him, soldiers and guards converged. Aeneas darted to his wife and planted a kiss on her forehead, “Get the kids inside. No time to explain! Stay hidden, and stay safe!” In the distance, he heard the rumbling sound of an explosion, then shouts and screams. He grabbed hold of a running guard and barked, “Get a message to my brother Perseus. Tell him to get to the citadel. It’s an emergency.”

Then he was going again, racing through the gates.

Because he had been a fool, and he should have seen it earlier. The sound of fighting seemed louder now—it wasn’t outside the walls but in the city. In the streets.

They had been right under his nose, and he had given them a bloody sac of coins. He’d passed them, and it hadn’t even occurred to him and he was going to be the reason they got whatever it was they’d come for.

Aeneas drew his sword with his one free hand. He had to stop them. He had to get to Odysseus and Diomedes before they got to the Palladium.

BREAK

WHEN AENEAS descended on the street, half of his soldiers on guard duty at the citadel were bleeding out on the cobblestones. He saw the two beggars, no longer dressed in their rags and cloaks but sporting their usual armour, and tearing through the Trojan soldiers like they were rag dolls. Aeneas’ blood boiled, and again, he mentally facepalmed at how daft he had been.

“Odysseus!” Aeneas snarled, drawing his sword. As the King of Ithaca slashed through the breastplate of the nearest soldier, Diomedes hurled back another. The Achaeans turned, and the son of Anchises swore loudly as Odysseus passed him a shit-eating grin from the square’s steps. The palladium, marble and gleaming in the sunlight, was right behind him. Diomedes tipped the small statue with his elbow, and the other Greek king grabbed it before it could hit the floor.

The statue was so minute it fit right under Odysseus’ arm. Aeneas surged forward as their reinforcements swarmed the citadel.

When he got to the centre of the square, the two kings, cloaked in rags and cunning, with the Palladium under Odysseus’ arm, were fighting through the battalion of soldiers Aeneas had brought along. When he got closer he slashed at Diomedes’ neck, but the King quickly drew back and raised his own sword to counter the blow. As his soldiers surrounded Odysseus, Aeneas exchanged quick blows with the Thracian.

The demigod, amidst the fighting, heard the thundering of horse hooves. His brother and BlackJack reared into the city centre, sword drawn.

“Shit!” Odysseus hissed. Aeneas, with an expert manoeuvre, slashed across Diomedes’ gauntlet and jabbed at his side. The beggar-king barely had any time to react before he darted forward again, slamming the pommel of his sword into the Thracian’s nose. Diomedes stumbled into Odysseus, but Athena’s favoured grabbed him by the arm before he could fall. Perseus thundered down the street.

Before Aeneas could move to intercept them again, Odysseus had pivoted on his heel and was dragging Diomedes through the squadron of soldiers attacking them. The two kings were fast and skilled, and they ploughed through the Trojans and killed like a battering ram. Aeneas cursed and sped after them.

“Stop them!” he roared.

A glance at his brother revealed a shared determination, but Aeneas felt the weight of hopelessness bear down on them like the heavy air before a storm. They charged forward from opposite sides, but the narrow streets were teeming with unsuspecting Trojan soldiers, and Perseus’ horse and their soldier’s presence was more of a hindrance than an advantage. The more he tried to get closer to the fleeing Greeks, the more injured and dead soldiers they left in his path.

Odysseus moved with a predator's grace, while Diomedes acted as his shield, pushing through the throng as if they were ghosts. Aeneas felt the eyes of the city upon him, a mixture of fear and fury flooding his veins. He ducked and weaved, but the soldiers were a wall, and the two crafty Greeks slipped past like shadows against the sun.

“Aeneas, we can’t lose them!” Perseus shouted, slipping down from his horse and bolting into the fray, but Aeneas was already aware of the futility.

They were too late.

With one final burst of speed, he reached the corner of the street just in time to see the Greeks vanish into the alleys beyond.

The Palladium was gone, and with it, the last shred of hope that Troy might withstand the wrath of the Greeks. The weight of their failure settled heavily within him as he turned to Perseus, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

Perseus’ eyes filled with silent resolve as he caught up with his brother, “We can still get them.” He raced past Aeneas and down the alley. Aeneas panted with frustration. He couldn’t believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, swearing colourfully. How could he have been so dumb? How had two mortal men fought against about twenty soldiers and won? He pursed his lips as Perseus reappeared again, looking thunderous. He shook his head. Aeneas’ heart fell.

They would have to regroup and find another way to protect their city. But for now, defeat stung like a bitter poison. He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked to meet up with Perseus. His brother had a pained look on his face, and Aeneas felt bad because his brother was supposed to be healing, and he had brought him out of the infirmary to watch them fail in live-action.

Perseus placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Aeneas huffed, “It’s all my fault. I saw them. I let them—“

“You did your best,” His brother shook his head. “Now we have to get back, reground, scour the city. They couldn’t have gone far..”

Aeneas nodded, pursing his lips, “Alright, let’s get back to the soldiers.” Something was roiling in his gut, and he felt as though his breakfast was about to come rushing up. The Greeks were planning something. Things were getting bad. Really bad.

BREAK

PERSEUS marched across the dunes two days later, burning with determination.

They had failed.

It was past midnight, and as he stalked through the tents and towards the Greek encampment, he felt his blood boiling within him. Apollo had sent a message via hawk from Olympus—a simple piece of parchment that had combusted in his hands upon reading— just the day before, informing him that Zeus had banned further interference in the war once again. None of the gods or Titans were supposed to directly do anything to implicate the turn-out of the war, and although the High god had only helped them in the past, Perseus was annoyed at his sudden rash decision.

But they had been successful in the past without the gods, and he prayed they would be able to do it once again.

He tried not to think about the fact that all of Helenus’ prophecies had come to pass. They had retrieved the arrows from Lemnos, but they had lost Paris in the process.

They had nearly succeeded in destroying the Bones of Pelops, but Triton had interfered and gotten a shoulder blade to the Achaeans.

He had almost killed Neoptolemus, but Odysseus and Athena had interfered once again.

And again, Odysseus and Diomedes, who seemed to have taken Achilles’ thorn-in-his-side position in his life, had managed to steal the Palladium from right under their noses, with help from Helen, if Aeneas’ suspicions were true. She had seen them and refused to say anything. Perseus bared his teeth. For two days, the fighting had been going on nonstop, and for two days, he and Aeneas had gone back to the frontlines. The Achaeans fulfilling the prophecies had been a morale boost for their side because they had been fighting more ferociously than ever.

They were at a stalemate now, and nothing short of a miracle could tip the scales in Troy’s favour once more.

And he was nothing if not a miracle-worker.

Apollo’s words were ringing in his head as he continued walking, towards the hastily built wall.

‘Don’t trust anyone, nothing is as it appears.’

He could not help but hope that the next time he crossed paths with his unrequited benefactor, it would be under better circumstances.

Perseus knew he had to do something. He had to end this endless tirade before the Greeks actually succeeded in harming his city. For two days, he had been fighting, and from the way the Greeks had suddenly picked up their spirits, he knew they were planning something. They had been planning something ever since they had tried to get Philoctetes and the arrows. He just wished he knew what it was.

But it did not matter now. He was tired of this. He had to end this before something horrible happened.

Perseus did not know what he would do with himself if he lost his city. And the thought of losing Selene as a result of that…it made him feel as though a serpent had crawled through his pores and was silently snaking up inside him and spewing venom on all his organs. Enough was enough. He had the power to end this now, and if his father’s family tried to interfere again, he would just keep pushing, until one of them tired out and gave up.

Perseus gritted his teeth. Selene was his world, and he would be damned if he allowed something to happen to her.

He stopped just a few feet away from the Achaean wall.

It was enough.

He was done, and so were the Greek invaders.

Perseus stood, watching the giant wall protecting the sprawling Greek camp which had grown like a rash on his home for these many years.

The sounds of the crackling of campfires echoed in the distance, a painful reminder of the threat looming over his beloved Troy. His heart raced, caught in a tumultuous whirlwind of determination and doubt. He was the son of fair Anchises, and noble Sally, and Leto the eternal mother.

But he was also the son of Poseidon—he wielded powers that could alter the very fabric of the earth. The responsibility that came with such gifts weighed heavily on him tonight. He inhaled the cool night air, grounding himself as he wrestled with the urgency of his mission. The cries of his people reverberated in his mind, calling him to act. Selene’s words rattled in his head. This meant so much more now. There was more than just his city at stake.

There was no moment spent deliberating. He could not let the Achaeans gain the upper hand with the fulfillment of Helenus’s prophecy; he needed to protect his home and the love of his life, no matter the cost. Closing his eyes, Perseus reached deep within, feeling the energy of the earth pulse beneath him. It thrummed with potential, alive and beckoning him to tap into its ancient power. He envisioned the camp before him—the soldiers preparing for battle, their excitement oblivious to the impending disaster that he was about to unleash. The thought of the chaos he was about to create made his heart thump. If he lost control he could end up levelling his city too.

But this was the only way.

The energy swirled within him, intertwining with the essence of the land. It was both invigorating and terrifying. He needed to focus, to channel the power coursing through his veins without hesitation. His gut clenched and a gasp escaped his lips as he felt the vibrations resonate through the ground. The soil beneath him responded, trembling as he concentrated. With every breath, he gathered the energy until it coiled tightly within him, urging him to release it. With a resolute heart, Perseus unleashed the earthquake.

The ground convulsed violently, sending shockwaves rolling outward. The very earth beneath the Greek camp erupted, rising and falling like a beast awakening from slumber. As the tremors shook the camp, Perseus felt a visceral mix of exhilaration and dread. If this failed again, they were screwed. But he could do it. He had to do it.

For Selene.

He let out a yell as the earthquake drained the power out of him and he called for chaos. Behind him, he could hear surprised gasps and shouts from the Trojans’ camp.

The demigod’s face contorted with rage, and he stood resolute against the backdrop of a dark sky. This was enough. These people had taken enough.

Brandishing his sword with another shout, Perseus struck the ground with a forceful thrust, channelling his fury into the very earth beneath him.

The minor tremors evolved rapidly into violent shakes. The earth groaned and heaved, and fissures opened, swallowing entire sections of the camp. He could see it all in his mind’s eye—tents, once neatly aligned, crumpling like paper, their wooden stakes snapping like twigs. Campfires were extinguished as cauldrons of boiling water overturned, adding steam and confusion to the chaos. Sentries, running helplessly, their cries drowned out by the rumbling deafening noise of the shifting earth, supplies being buried, and weapons scattered, making defence impossible. Even the mightiest of warriors, powerless, clutching at anything stable as the ground betrayed them.

It was a different kind of satisfaction, knowing what was going on behind those walls.

Those walls…Perseus gritted his teeth. Rage filtered in, quickly replacing his momentary glee. This would be their end.

The earthquake, relentless in its destruction, surged to a crescendo with Perseus at its epicentre. Boulders rolled like marbles across the uneven terrain, crushing anything in their path. The once solid ground now seemed liquid, undulating with waves of seismic energy. His rage was an unstoppable cataclysm, a vivid testament to his divine heritage and unyielding power.

His eyelids fluttered closed, and Perseus exhaled.

For Selene.

For Troy.

His ears ached as the earthquake rumbled loudly. The walls thundered down.

Perseus’ eyes flew open.

The Greek camp, now a ruin of splintered wood and torn canvas, lay in stark contrast to the calm, raging figure of the son of Poseidon, who had summoned the very earth to convey his wrath.

Perseus grinned. It was done.

BREAK

AENEAS slid off the horse mere seconds after he pulled it to a stop. His surprise was immediate, and his eyes flickered to his brother, standing in the ruins.

The entire Greek camp lay before them in waste.

He had heard the earthquake from the Trojan camp across the plain, and instantly, he knew who was responsible. When it had subsided, he and the others had thundered across the sand to see what was going on.

As Aeneas approached the desolate site where the Greek camp once thrived, he was struck by a profound sense of shock and disbelief. The scene before him was one of utter devastation. Tattered remnants of tents flapped in the gentle breeze, and shattered weapons lay scattered across the ground like the broken dreams of warriors long gone. The air was thick with the heavy silence of abandonment, amplifying the eerie stillness that had settled over the beach.

But it was not his brother or the total anarchy that caught his attention.

It was the bodies—or rather, the lack of.

The Greek camp was empty.

The earthquake should have killed them all. There should have been blood, and body parts and disembowelled and dismembered men strewn around like straw dummies. But it was just…nothing.

They had left. They had left before the moon had crested high in the sky. There were no ships on the shore.

There was no single sign of life or death.

Aeneas was yet to decide if that was a good thing.

He came to a stop beside Anchises’ other son, and his breath caught in his throat.

Amid this ghostly panorama, something loomed large, its wooden body casting a long, dark shadow over the ruins. It stood there, an ominous and solitary sentinel, seemingly untouched by the chaos that had consumed everything else. The thing’s presence felt almost mocking, a chilling reminder of the cunning of the Achaeans they had fallen prey to many times before.

It looked like a horse.

It was a masterful feat of craftsmanship, standing tall and imposing against the ruins of the camp. Its towering frame was carved from the finest timber, each plank meticulously shaped and fitted together to create a sturdy structure. The wood, weathered by time and elements, bore intricate carvings that depicted scenes of legend and victory, dazzling yet simultaneously filling him with trepidation.

The horse’s head was sculpted with remarkable precision, its eyes wide and expressive, gleaming as though they held secrets within. The mane, made from tightly bound lengths of rope, flowed down its neck in a series of graceful waves, adding to the lifelike appearance of the beast. The ears were pricked forward in a display of alertness and cunning, capturing the essence of a noble steed ready for battle.

The body of the horse was colossal, its broad chest and powerful haunches designed to convey an image of strength and invincibility. Large, sturdy wheels were hidden beneath its hooves, granting it the mobility to be moved anytime.

It looked like something which had formed right out of the mind of the great Pallas Athena.

Every surface of the horse was carefully adorned with subtle decorations—scrolls of ivy, engravings of vines and blossoms, lending an air of artistry and reverence to the construct.

Like the wisdom goddess, it appeared both majestic and menacing.

Breathtaking.

Aeneas’s heart raced with unanswered questions as he cautiously stepped forward, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of life. How had this horse escaped Perseus’ earthquake? He could hear the murmuring and whispers from the host of Trojan soldiers. What was going on?

It was then that he noticed a lone soldier standing near the remains of what might have been a command tent. The soldier’s armour was weathered, and his face was etched with the weariness of someone who had seen too much. Holding his spear with a weary grip, he appeared to be the last vestige of a vanished army.

The soldier’s presence, stark and solitary against the backdrop of ruins, only deepened the mystery. Aeneas couldn’t fathom what had transpired here — how the formidable Greeks had seemingly vanished, leaving behind a desolate landscape of destruction and a single, haunting reminder of their skill, which had sought to use to bring his home to its knees. He felt a chill run down his spine as he took in the scene, realising that the answers he sought might be as elusive as the ghosts of the past battles that lingered in the air.

The son of Aphrodite watched, still in shocked silence, as Deiphobus and a couple of men surrounded the soldier. The questions hung in the air. How had this man survived? Where had their enemies vanished to?

Just hours before they had battled the Achaeans.

They had fought more earnestly than ever.

What had changed?

Perseus’ eyes were wide beside him. Aeneas and his brother exchanged a glance.

“It seems our friends left us a present,” The immortal demigod cleared his throat. They stood in the shadow of the construction, and Aeneas couldn’t find it in him to respond. He swallowed.

As though on cue, they both turned to look at the immaculate horse.

Chapter Text

A/N: FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DON’T KNOW, THE ROUGH TRANSLATION OF EXCIDIUM TROIAE IS ‘’OUT OF TROY’’ SO I GUESS THAT SHOULD TELL YOU HOW THIS ENDS, SHOULDN’T IT?

PERSEUS ran a frustrated hand through his hair, trying to shut out the loudness of the council room. His head hurt, and he could swear someone had amplified all the voices in Priam’s audience chamber. He sat at attention next to his brother Aeneas, his other hand clenching and unclenching around the spear he held. Beside him, the son of Aphrodite looked equally miffed at the proceedings, which had been going on endlessly for what seemed like hours.

The immortal demigod cleared his throat amidst the shouting. There was no sign that anyone had heard.

He pounded the spear into the ground. This time, the audience chamber was silenced. Perseus looked them over—all the kings and allies from the territories surrounding Troy, all the royals and courtiers in Priam’s service, the Amazon leaders and the Ethiopians, and then lastly, all the many sons of the King, still dressed for battle, still bouncing with anxiety, as though the Achaeans were going to burst through their gates any minute.

“I think we should burn it,” His voice boomed through the chamber, the intensity carrying his words to the farthest corners. “I destroyed the Greek camp. Why not finish the job?”

“I agree,” Aeneas backed him up almost instantly, leaning forward in the seat. “We must wipe away every remnant of their influence from our island. From our city.”

“The Greeks are gone,” one of Priam’s courtiers, Polydamas, argued. The soldier Sinon admitted as much. The soldiers mutinied and left.”

“He’s right,” one of the Amazons piped. From our understanding, it’s not something they have not done before—or tried to.”

“This time, there was no Achilles to stop them,” Another courtier spoke. Perseus was getting quite annoyed. Priam’s court officials hadn’t been with them on the battlefield. They didn’t know the Greek host like he did. After everything they had gone through to bring Troy down—after a decade and more of fighting and being away from their home, he didn’t believe they would just up and leave without finishing the job, much less leave behind a present. And he found it quite suspicious that they had left a soldier behind to tell them all this.

Perseus’ voice was hard and brutal as he said, “The Achaeans have been fighting us for ten years. They’ve killed our sons, our brothers and our fathers. They’ve taken almost every surrounding territory, which is why most of you are even here in the first place. Athena had stood solidly behind them for these years, pushing us against our walls, using trickery and cunning to support Odysseus and fulfil prophecies which signal our doom. They just brought in the son of their most prized fighter hoping he can take us down. Do you really believe they would just leave us with gifts?”

His voice was condescending. He hated that this was even an ongoing discussion. How foolish could they be? How stupid were these men and women?

“He speaks true,” Deiphobus supported from his spot beside Priam. “The final decision rests on your shoulders, father. But Perseus is right. I think we are all too anxious and weary for this war to be over, and so we are jumping to accept this happenstance even though it seems so good to be true.”

“Exactly,” Aeneas was scowling. “Something smells fishy here—no offence to my brother—but I vote for destroying that stupid wood carving.” Perseus snorted.

He turned to gaze at the King. Priam looked…haunted, and the son of Anchises supposed that Deiphobus was right. The king had seen much carnage, and everyone was just eager for this to end. They had scouted the whole Island, and there had been no sign of the Greeks apart from the soldier Sinon, whom they had left behind. The horse still stood on their shores, menacing and beautiful, hauntingly looking upon their city walls. It was taking everything within him to restrain himself and not call a gigantic wave to rip the ‘gift’ to shreds.

One of Priam’s sons bared his teeth from the other side of the room. “This is madness. This horse is a symbol of our victory. Can’t you see? We won. We chased them away. They rebelled against their leaders and if Odysseus and his band of merry kings did not want to be left behind with no army, they would have had no choice but to go along without a fight.”

“Right,” An older Ethiopian, Memnon’s second, said, “The horse is a trophy. It shows the end of this long and arduous war. I call to bring it into the city.”

“It’s a trick,” Antaneira pounded her spear into the ground, “Every man worth his salt can see that. It’s suspicious, and we know the Greeks for their cunning and deceit. This horse doesn’t get built in a day. To construct something this big they had to have been planning it for months. This is no simple mutiny.”

Perseus was about to chip in when another voice, another prince, Gorgythion, popped, “It could be a gift from the gods. Maybe Athena? It is far too intricate and magnificent to have been crafted by human hands.”

“Right,” He said dryly, one green eye locking on the offending prince, “Because the goddess who has been trying to murder us for a decade will just up and deliver a package for us to decorate our ballroom with.”

The son of Priam shrugged, “I’m just saying, if this really is a gift from the gods, refusing it would be disrespectful and blasphemous, and we’d be invoking Athena’s wrath. We’ll be screwed either way.”

Aeneas scoffed loudly. One of the advisors, Priam’s distant cousin, cut in, his voice harsh and loud, “I must disagree, my King. The sudden disappearance of the Achaeans from the battlefield with no clear reason could be a tactical manoeuvre. The horse might be part of a larger ploy we know nothing of.”

At this, were was a burst of voices, and Perseus groaned to himself, burying his head in his hands. Could these people be more daft? It was not arguing that had kept them alive for this long. It was action and beating back every threat to their lives with intelligence, ferociousness and a sprinkle of godly interference. They were shouting, each of them trying desperately to be heard over the others and Priam was looking around at his court, confused, old and torn.

“Perhaps the gods have shifted their favour onto us!” One priest yelled. “Is that so hard to believe? To accept the horse would mean aligning with divine will, and securing further support from Olympus.”

“No!” Deiphobus banged his fist on the armrest of his throne. “This horse may be divine, but I still call trickery. It’s a ruse, to get us to believe they have left and strike back at us when we lower our guard. It’s a plan worthy of the wisdom goddess herself, and we know who she backs in this endeavour. We cannot fall for Achaean deception!”

“Maybe it is a test,” Priam’s brother spoke up from where he lounged down the row, “There have been tales and myths in which the gods deceive we mortals to create a precedent for suspicion. The horse might be a manifestation of divine guile to test us for hubris…if we are too proud to accept a symbol of surrender from the Grecian devils, they could punish us for it.”

“No,” Aeneas boomed, “There is no one closer to the gods than my brother Perseus. If he says we should destroy it, then I think you should be listening.”

He glanced back at his brother with a nod of appreciation. Aeneas pursed his lips and nodded back before turning to face Priam, “Given the long siege and the various strategies employed by the Achaeans, thorough examination and outright rejection of foreign objects would be a more prudent approach to ensuring the city’s safety. We take everything with a grain of salt. We are careful. It’s how we’ve survived this long.”

Perseus picked up from where he left off, trying not to let his anger bleed through his words, “The horse is silent. Its appearance after years of fighting and the coinciding vanishing of the enemy could signal a supernatural setup. Such abrupt changes in war scenarios are historically marked by divine interventions. Selene and Apollo said to trust nothing, and I think this is what they meant. Jove might have banned interference days before, but with something of this magnitude, it’s been going on for months and so yes, I would definitely say this counts as meddling.”

“Or, bringing the horse into the city and dedicating it to Athena could be an act of appeasement—“ It was Achates’ father, draped in gold and dripping in jewellery, “We can honour the goddess and gain her protection or blessings for the future.”

They weren’t listening. Perseus bit his lip, trying not to let his frustration show. No matter what arguments he brought up, they wouldn’t listen. Because he was just the Polemarchos—his place wasn’t in court. He held no sway here, and neither did Priam’s sons or any of the other war generals pushing against this. The old men who sent them to the slaughterhouse outside their gates each morning were holding the reins of this meeting.

“I agree,” another official said, voice hoarse, “Who says this is from the Achaeans anyway? Perseus himself destroyed the camp with the powers of the earthshaker. What, apart from a gift from the other gods, could survive that? Perhaps this is a token of the gods’ pronouncement that the war should end. After endless conflict, a miraculous gift could be the gods’ way of endorsing peace.”

Memnon, from his honourary seat a few feet away, cleared his throat, “I would not pretend to understand your customs in this foreign land. But doesn’t a gift of this magnitude require proper rituals and examinations as per divine expectation? Rushing to accept the horse without due rituals might displease the gods. Personally, I think it must be destroyed.”

“Bringing the horse within the city walls would symbolically demonstrate our strength and show confidence in our victory,” another argued, “I think this war has made us warier than we should be. We should show confidence in our victory. Mock the retreating enemy.”

“Agreed,” Another official, Antenor, spoke. “The populace is growing war-weary. Longing for a sign of peace and triumph. Accepting the horse could placate and unify the citizens in a moment of communal celebration. I say we bring it in.” The majestic hall, adorned with tapestries, now hummed with discussions and angry voices, fluctuating between cautious curiosity and angry resistance.

“No—“ Deiphobus’ younger brother, Pammon, was about to speak when a loud bang sounded through the room. Perseus jerked in his seat.

The heavy bronze doors burst open. The force of the entry startled the gathered nobles, and all eyes turned toward the figure at the entrance. Perseus felt something constrict in his chest. It was Cassandra, the prophetess and daughter of Priam, her appearance dishevelled and her expression wild—a usual look for the cursed princess. Her once beautiful features, now shadowed by the weight of unheeded visions, conveyed the urgency of her motions as she stumbled into the audience chamber. He stood.

“Stop!” she cried, her voice echoing through the hall with a haunting resonance. Her eyes, full of turmoil, darted around the room, locking onto the faces of those who had gathered. Perseus heard Aeneas swear. Murmurs broke out in the room. In everyone’s mind’s eye, she saw only doom and devastation, her clairvoyant gift a relentless curse. They were wondering how the Mad girl had escaped the confines of her quarters. Perseus scowled.

“The horse—it is no gift from the gods!” Cassandra’s voice trembled with desperation. Her hair, once neatly braided many, many years back, now hung in tangled locks, and her garments were in disarray as if she had torn at them in her endless torment. “It holds our death in it! The Achaeans have not fled; they are here, hidden, waiting to strike!”

The courtiers exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions a mixture of pity, scepticism, and discomfort. A few laughs. Perseus frowned. For years, they had grown accustomed to Cassandra’s dark prophecies, her words always true yet forever disregarded, a cruel joke from Apollo who cursed her with foresight that no one would believe—except him. He was the only one who believed Cassandra, because he knew what had happened to her. But no one would listen.

A bitter taste entered his mouth. She was saying the Greeks were still around. Still in hiding.

“She is mad,” whispered one advisor to another.

“Always seeing shadows where there are none.”

Perseus cringed.

King Priam, his face lined with the agony of war and the sorrow of fatherhood, raised his hand to silence the murmurs. “Cassandra,” he said gently, though the weight of his weariness was evident, “you must rest. Your mind is troubled by the wrath of the gods.”

“Father, no!” Cassandra pleaded, stepping closer. Her eyes, wide with a frantic intensity, pleaded with those around her. “I see it all so clearly—the flames, the blood, the screams. They will butcher us in our sleep if we bring that cursed horse within our walls.”

He felt a cold fear enrapture him. Perseus glanced around. Surely they would listen to reason. There was no logic behind the horse. She spoke true—it would be their end if he allowed them to bring it in.

But her words fell on deaf ears, her visions dismissed as the ravings of a mind fractured by divine cruelty. He could see it, in each face his eye skittered across. The court turned away from her, their decision seemingly set as they resumed their deliberations, speaking of victory and divine favour, or destruction and burning the ‘gift.’

Cassandra’s shoulders slumped as the bitterness of despair settled over her. She looked around the room one last time, and Perseus swore he could see her heart breaking anew. Her eyes met his. They pooled with tears, and Perseus made to step forward, but then she whirled around, and with a final, anguished cry, fled from the court, her haunting warnings lingering in the air like an unacknowledged omen.

He felt anger filter into him then—these madmen, trying to justify this abrupt victory, trying so hard to be right, just because they were afraid. He knew Apollo’s curse would solidify their resolve—once Cassandra had prophecied it, none would believe her. They would do the exact opposite, and bring ruin to them all.

“Enough!” He banged his spear on the ground, and the court silenced once more, “You are all fools if you think bringing this horse into the city is a good idea. You have twelve hours to make a decision. But if you choose wrong, I’m still going destroy this horse, whether you want me to or not. I’ll crush it under a wave. You know where to find me when you come to your senses.” He knew he wasn’t really giving them a choice, but Perseus did not care. Pivoting on his heel, he marched out of the throne room right after the crazy princess and her omens of doom.

BREAK

THE SUN hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the sprawling beach. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and the distant cries of seagulls. Aeneas stood on a plateau overlooking the Greek encampment, which lay in shambles beneath him. Their little meeting had migrated from the palace audience chamber onto the beach, and now there were Trojan officials and their allies milling about in the sand, all eyes locked on the gigantic horse, but none daring to get any closer. Perseus had not shown, but Aeneas knew he was just a breath away from summoning a wave to crush the wooden animal. His brother had gone to find Cassandra, and frankly, Aeneas agreed with his sentiments one hundred per cent.

He bit his lip, fingers pawing on the hilt of this sword at his side. Beside him stood Memnon, also gazing towards the shore. The Ethiopian scratched his beard in thought, and said, “Your people are hard-headed fools.” Aeneas glanced at him. “No offence.”

“None taken,” He shrugged. “I agree. Anyone with sense would see that this is a set-up.”

Beneath them, the officials were gathering around the King as he prepared to make his decision. The son of Aphrodite bounced on his heels slightly, looking down in worry. As Deiphobus had said earlier, the final decision rested on Priam’s shoulders. He just hoped Hector’s father would not make a stupid one. He also hoped the gods would respect Lord Zeus’s decision not to interfere and not whisper any fallacies into Priam’s ears. He knew the gods just loved doing that.

Aeneas watched from his position atop the hill as Priam raised a hand to catch everyone’s attention. The king was getting on in years. He looked tired and frail, and personally, the demigod did not believe that he should still be in charge of the administration of their city. But with Hector’s passing there really wasn’t anyone well-suited to take his place. The late crown prince had been the one who’d been trained all his life to be the next King, after all. None of the other princes, not even Deiphobus, had what it took.

Aeneas smiled sadly. Had Hector been around he would have given the order to destroy the horse as soon as Perseus’ earthquake was over, and no one would have dared to question him. The loss of his best friend gnawed at him, and Aeneas exhaled to release the pressure he felt building up in his chest.

Priam cleared his throat, and the murmuring and whispers stilled.

Aeneas watched with bated breath. The sea was silent behind them, still, as though waiting in anticipation for what Priam’s decision was going to be. The breeze wafted across the sand dunes. Priam tried to straighten, and his voice carried across the entire beach.

“I know there have been some disagreements about what to be done with this horse,” Hector’s dad began. “But remember that I am the King, and my word is law. And I—I have decided that we shouldn’t—“

“Burn it to the ground!” A loud scream tore through the silence of the beach, and Aeneas’ head whipped towards the source in surprise. “Beware Greeks who bear gifts!”

His eyes widened as he spotted the priest who had spoken, moments before he hurled a spear towards the giant horse. His gaze trailed after the projectile as it tore through the air, and right as it got close enough to touch the horse, the spear seemed to bounce on an invisible forcefield and ricochetted away and into the sea. Gasps echoed through the throng of people. Aeneas swore and recoiled in shock.

“We need to get Perseus,” Memnon spoke up beside him, voice tinged in worry. “Maybe he can put an end to this madness. Destroy it quickly so they don’t have a chance to make any sort of choice at all.”

“Right,” Aeneas bit his lip and whirled around. He motioned to one of the soldiers hanging about and sent him off with a quick message to the palace. Then he turned his attention back to the shore.

Laocoön, a tall and imposing figure draped in priestly robes, stood resolute by the shore, his eyes burning with defiance. Beside him, his two young sons stood, looking unsure and wary. One of them handed him another spear. The priest of Apollo began to march forward. And then Aeneas felt his gut drop as his eyes moved to the sea behind Apollo’s ambassador.

There was an ominous tide swelling in the distance.

“Laocoön!” Priam’s advisor, Antenor, barked, “What is the meaning of this? You dare interrupt your king?”

Before the priest could speak up, more gasps swept through the crowd. All of a sudden, the tranquil sea was beginning to churn violently as if possessed by a malign force. Aeneas’ eyes narrowed. Whatever was going on, he had to stop it before it got worse. “Come on,” He said. The demigod hurried down the hill, with Memnon hard on his heels. And then he skidded to a stop, shock planting his feet into the ground.

The Ethiopian general paused beside him.

Aeneas released a colourful string of curses once again, and this time the crowd scattered with screams. Laocoön and his sons whirled around, and one of them collapsed to the ground with a shriek.

From the roiling waves emerged two monstrous sea serpents, their scales glistening like obsidian in the fading light. Green eyes glowed with intelligence, and Memnon stepped back as fangs dripped scalding venom into the sand. With terrifying speed, they cut through the water, their eyes blazing with a feral, otherworldly hunger. Aeneas took several steps back.

Laocoön’s eyes widened in horror. He yelled for his sons to run, but it was too late. The serpents lunged from the surf, their massive bodies unfurling with deadly grace. One serpent seized Laocoön’s eldest son, wrapping around his small frame and lifting him high into the air. The boy’s screams pierced the heavens, echoing with a chilling clarity over the beach. Horror filled Aeneas, and his lips fell open as he stared in amazement.

The second serpent snaked its way toward Laocoön and his younger son. Laocoön brandished his spear, attempting to fend off the beast, but his efforts were in vain. The serpent coiled around his arm, the crushing force rendering him powerless. Desperation and agony etched across his face as he struggled against the unyielding grip, as he and the boy were wrapped in the vice-like monster.

The serpents constricted tighter, their immense power inexorably draining the life from their prey. Laocoön’s sons fell silent first, their bodies limp in the deathly embrace. Laocoön himself met a similar fate, his eyes searching the sky as if begging the gods for mercy that would never come. In his final moments, his defiant roar faded into a rasping whisper carried away by the wind. As the serpents slithered back into the depths from where they’d come from, their brutal task complete, the beach fell into an eerie silence. The bodies of Laocoön and his sons lay lifeless on the sand, a grim testament to the divine wrath they had incurred. Far off, the Trojans watched in stunned silence, the horrific sight searing an indelible mark in their memories.

Aeneas stood still, even after the serpents disappeared beneath the depths. His heart was beating so loudly he thought Memnon could hear it too.

He heard the thundering of hooves and barely managed to glance back in time to see Perseus bolt past him on Blackjack.

“The—the gods have spoken!” Antenor’s voice resonated throughout the beach. “Olympus demands we take the horse into the city!”

“What—“ Perseus slid off his horse. “Is that the decision you’ve come to? I told you what would happen if you chose wrong.”

Aeneas regained his senses and jogged to his brother. “You wish to incur the wrath of the gods on us all!” Another official hissed. “King Priam, your commander forgets his place.”

“My place is making sure this city is safe,” Perseus thundered, “All of you step away so I can do my bloody job.”

“Brother,” Aeneas called, his voice tinged with warning. “Let’s not be hasty.” He knew Zeus had banned interference. He also knew that whichever god—whether Poseidon or his wife or even Athena—had sent the serpents was risking the High King’s anger to send them a message. Which meant this was no joke. He didn’t want Perseus on the receiving end of any god’s ire. Athena had already tried severally to ruin him.

“You were not here, Perseus,” Deiphobus, who had been staunchly supporting them in the throne room, stepped forward, hesitantly, “Laocoön attacked the horse. His spear was deflected. Then the gods struck him and his sons down for it.”

“We have to take it in,” another official insisted, “Or we’ll all be next. The sea snakes will kill us all! Athena will strike us down!”

Aeneas frowned, watching as Perseus stilled. He knew what was going on in his brother’s mind. There had never been a world where Athena and Poseidon had worked together for something, apart from when they had supported the Achaeans at the beginning of this war. And Poseidon had stepped to the sidelines. Whoever had sent the serpents, it wasn’t the earthshaker—he wouldn’t risk Perseus’ anger. Not when they had just recently patched things up.

“Sea snakes?” His brother scoffed. “That’s just Amphitrite and her children trying to scare you. Triton, maybe. Athena could have conscripted their assistance to pull off this trick.”

“You speak of mights and maybes,” Another courtier called. “This was a sign. If we try to destroy it—if we do not take the gift into the city, we will all end up like Laocoön. We saw him killed, Perseus. Not all of us have the blessing of immortality, which allows us to spit in the faces of gods and carouse with titans.”

Perseus’ nostrils flared. He stepped forward menacingly, and behind them the waves churned.

“Enough,” Priam’s voice cut through the murmuring. “This—I have changed my mind. It had been my intention to have the horse destroyed. However, in light of recent events, it is not a stretch to see that the horse is a gift from the gods.” Aeneas saw Memnon begin to shake his head. “Laocoön was killed for dishonouring them.”

“What is your decision, father?” Deiphobus enquired.

“We bring the horse into the city,” Priam announced. “We dedicate the gift to Athena. We have won, the Achaeans have fled. And this is a symbol of our victory from the gods themselves.”

“This is the wrong choice, Priam,” Perseus warned.

“We shouldn’t let our fear corner us into this, Father,” Aeneas spoke too. Whoever was behind the serpents had succeeded in scaring the king into accepting the gift.

“The snakes were a bad omen,” Priam shook his head. “My decision is final.”

Murmurs and conversation broke out in the gathering of the king’s court once again. Perseus made to move forward, but then Antenor was there again, impeding his path, swaddled in his gold and jewellery. “The word of the king is law. Fight this, and you dishonour him. The war is won. We can have you thrown out for your insolence, Perseus.”

Aeneas drew his sword as a rush of anger seared through him. Around him, he heard the telltale sounds of other men mirroring his actions. How dare he—

His brother raised a hand, and the curly-haired demigod barred his teeth and stopped in his tracks, choosing instead to glare at the official. Perseus locked an icy gaze on Antenor and said, “Better Out of Troy than Troy in ashes.”

“Alright, everyone, down! Sheath your swords. Antenor,” Deiphobus stepped in between them, hands raised. His face was hard, and his eyes shining with anger. He snarled at the advisor, “Back down.” The old man glared. “Now.” Priam’s confidante stepped back sluggishly.

The prince turned back to the one-eyed demigod, “Step away from this, Perseus. Don’t make it difficult.”

“Don’t do something you’ll come to regret,” Perseus said, darkly.

“Why is it so hard for you to accept that we’ve won?”

“Because nothing ever comes that easy,” Aeneas stepped forward, sword still in hand.

“I know the gods,” Perseus shook his head. “This is a bad idea, Deiphobus. Listen to me.”

Priam stepped forward, past his bevy of courtiers and sons. He gave them a sad smile, and his hands came to rest on Perseus and Aeneas’s shoulders. “You have both defended this city with everything you have. Hector would be proud of what you’ve accomplished. I could not have asked for better friends for my son.” He squeezed Aeneas’s shoulder. “Or a better son-in-law. Go home, Perseus. You’ve done your part. Both of you. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

“I’ll not accept that until I’ve crushed the skulls of Agamemnon and Menelaus beneath my two feet.” Perseus took a respectful step back.

Priam drew away. He shook his head. “This war has made it so we cannot even accept a victory when it stares us in the face.”

“Athena,” Perseus leaned forward. “If you’re listening,” he hissed, “Get the Hades out of my King’s head.”

“Perseus,” Aeneas barked. He reached forward and yanked his brother back. “There’s a better way to go about this.”

He could feel the eyes of the court on them. They stood beneath the shadow of the horse—it was menacing, dark, blocking out the sun. It felt like the shadow was warping around them all, draining every bit of fight from his people. Aeneas pursed his lips. Beside him, Memnon shifted on his feet, as though getting ready to launch into a fight with the very men he had travelled the world to come to protect.

Priam shook his head sadly. He motioned Antenor forward with his hand. “Get the men to wheel the horse into the city. We make the announcement tonight. We proclaim to the city our victory, and we celebrate the retreat of the Achaeans.”

Antenor bowed low. “As you command, my King.”

Around them, the crowd was dispersing. Men were turning back to the horse. Soldiers were preparing to carry it off through the gates. Aeneas swallowed. He could not help but feel that they were making a mistake. This horse…wherever it was from, it felt off. Its aura was evil. Looking at it chilled him to the bone. Perseus could not destroy it with his wave now—not with so many people around; he would just end up killing them all.

Aeneas stood in a small circle beside his brother and Memnon. Antianera made her way over and joined their little meeting. It was amazing how their little task force had been cut in half in less than five moons. The dark-skinned man was looking up worriedly at the horse. Then he glanced back at Perseus. “Your father sent us quite a message today.”

“It wasn’t him,” Perseus shook his head. “But you’re right. The fact that he allowed it to happen is message enough.” His eyes flickered to his brother. “An omen.”

“I do not like it,” Memnon pursed his lips. “If your people really believe they have won this war, then there is no reason for mine to stay.”

“I agree,” Antianera nodded, “If they truly do plan on bringing that horse into the city, the Amazons leave immediately.”

“Be gone before nightfall, then,” Aeneas told them. “Priam’s court will be offended if you do not stay for the festivities, though.”

“I think after helping save their city, they can cut us some slack,” The new Queen snorted. “This horse is as much a threat as a gift. The message those serpents sent doesn’t really leave them much of a choice.”

“All we can do now is watch the horse,” Perseus said thoughtfully, “But if it’s taken away from the beach I don’t know how else I can smash it to smithereens.”

“We’ll find a way,” Aeneas promised. He turned to Memnon and clapped him on the shoulder, “Safe journey, my friend. May the gods be with you, and may our paths align once again someday.”

“Hopefully under better circumstances,” The son of Eos nodded to him, then his brother, and then he was gone.

Perseus shook Antianera’s hand and managed a quick smile despite the dire situation. “You’ve helped us a lot. Penthesileia could not have asked for a better replacement.”

“I think we all would have preferred it greatly if she hadn’t needed one,” The woman smiled back. “But it has been an honour fighting at your side. Both of you.” Aeneas bobbed his head sombrely.

When the woman was gone, his brother turned to him. A flicker of desperation crossed his eyes as the horse began to move. The corners of his lips pulled down in a frown. “Aeneas…what do we do?”

He thought. Hard. Maybe this was a sign of surrender from the Achaeans. Maybe this was a sign of victory from the Olympians. Maybe the gods were threatening them with retribution if they did not take the horse into the city.

Perhaps it was all a part of some greater scheme by Odysseus the trickster and his allies.

Perhaps they were just around the corner, on another island, waiting for them to lower their guard. But how did the horse fit into all that? What did taking a wooden carving into their city achieve?

An idea flickered to life in his mind. It was a long shot but it could get them some answers.

“Come with me,” Aeneas told his brother. “I have a plan.”

BREAK

THE DIM LIGHT of the torch flickered against the cold stone walls of the prison cell, casting eerie shadows that accentuated the tension in the room. Outside, the faint sounds of revelry could be heard—Troy’s citizens were celebrating their apparent victory, blissfully unaware of the danger looming. Perseus tried to stamp down his anger at the fact that the horse stood at the city gates, inside, and the people were dancing around it.

Aeneas and Perseus made their way through the corridors of the prison, each step echoing with the revelling city’s distant sounds. Perseus clenched his jaw, clearly vexed. “Celebrations? Now? When we still know so little?” he muttered angrily. “Fools, the lot of them.”

Aeneas maintained his composure, as usual, his focus on the task ahead. “We need to stay calm, Perseus. Let’s get what we can from Sinon. Then we can deal with the horse when the city sleeps.” The son of Poseidon nodded.

Entering the dim cell, they found Sinon in chains, his eyes hollow yet calculating, leaning against the stone wall. “Alright, bastard, start talking,” Perseus snarked, slamming the door behind him. “What are you up to? What’s the deal with the horse? Talk or so help me—“

“Brother,” The brown-eyed king beside him cut him short. “Relax. Let me handle this.” Sinon looked up at them, eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. Aeneas knelt next to him, his face filled with an almost brotherly concern. “Sinon, we understand the war has taken its toll on everyone. But let us help you. Tell us about the horse. Was it made by the gods or your men? Tell us why your people left you behind. And you will not suffer before you die.”

Sinon looked pained as he met Aeneas’ eyes. “My Lord, I swear, by all that’s holy, the horse is a gift. It’s an offering to Athena, to make amends for failing to see this war through, to appease her so she does not strike them down on their journey home. It’s a symbol of our surrender, not a trick.” Perseus snorted.

He stepped forward, his eyes blazing with restrained fury. He was just so tired of all the tricks and all the lies. “Do you take us for fools, Sinon?” he slammed his fist against the wall so hard the sound echoed through the cell. “You expect us to believe that after all the deceit and destruction? My people are out there celebrating while there could be Greeks hiding at our doorstep! The soldiers mutinied and left you behind to die? Bull. Why lie for them?”

Aeneas gave Perseus a warning glance but then turned back to Sinon, his voice softening. “Help us understand, Sinon. If it truly is a gift, why were you left behind?”

Sinon’s eyes darted from Aeneas to Perseus and back, and the immortal could not tell if he was faking the shaking or not. He looked terrified.

Good.

“They left me because I spoke against the plan to desecrate this sacred gift by leaving it for Trojans to find. I was punished for my loyalty to the gods, not for any deceit. I spoke out against the leaders of the mutiny because I foolishly thought we must stay to finish what we started; what the gods ordained. I called them cowards and deserted. I would have been killed had Lord Menelaus not convinced them that leaving me to suffer at your hands was a worse fate.” The bitterness in his voice was evident.

Perseus, not buying a word, stepped even closer, casting a long shadow over Sinon. “Loyalty?” he scoffed. “Right. And instead of running you stayed near the horse like a good little soldier till we arrived and conveniently picked you up. Why should we believe any word you’re saying?” Everyone knew Achaeans were the biggest liars in the known world.

Sinon swallowed hard, maintaining his desperate facade. The demigod would have rolled his eyes had he still possessed both of them. “I have no home to return to,” he croaked. “Let the horse in. It will bring you favour with the gods, victory, and peace. Athena will seek no vengeance. Paris is dead. His insult has been paid tenfold. She got what she wanted. Consecrate the horse to her and she will bless you abundantly.” They were talking about someone who had tried to kill him not more than a week before, and Perseus found that rather doubtful.

Aeneas, ever the model of patience, tried a final time. The raven-haired man could tell that his brother wasn’t falling for the lies either. “If what you say is true, and this horse is a gift, then swearing on it should be easy for you. Will you?”

Sinon hesitated, then nodded vigorously. “Yes, I swear it. By Athena and all the gods, it is a gift. I swear that we left the horse for the Trojans to find and dedicate to Athena.” Perseus’ brow creased. He exchanged a glance with his brother. Aeneas shrugged. They both turned back to the Greek, who still stood in one piece.

Aeneas rose to his feet, unsure now. The son of Poseidon remained unconvinced, his anger flaring anew as the sounds of celebration outside grew louder. “This is a waste of time, Aeneas. Our people are celebrating a victory they haven’t yet won. We need to make a decision.”

“We need more information, brother,” Aeneas insisted, his eyes never leaving Sinon’s face. “Sinon, tell us who brought the idea of this horse. When did you start to construct it?”

Sinon hesitated, “King Odysseus, my lords. The Greeks hoped to leave something that would grant them safe passage home when they still had hope of winning this war. It was always meant as an offering to Athena. She helped us the most. We began constructing it months ago. And when the soldiers—“

Perseus, his patience thinning, lunged at Sinon, grabbing him by the collar. He didn’t believe him. Not one bit. “You’re a very clever liar, Sinon.”

Aeneas quickly intervened, prying Perseus’ hands off the captive. “We need him alive and talking, brother.” He then turned back to the man. “Go on.”

Sinon, struggling for breath, continued his performance. Perseus had to hand it to him, he was a great actor. He glared daggers into the man’s head as he continued to speak, “The soldiers mutinied, and they figured the horse must serve its purpose, whether the war was won or not. The horse is a sacred offering, designed to end the bloodshed and bring peace between our peoples. It will show your mercy and our surrender.”

Aeneas sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And if we don’t take it in? What then, Sinon? If the Greeks truly are gone, what do the gods care for our response?”

“Their ultimate fate lies with the gods now,” Sinon said, a glint of desperation in his eyes. “Your rejection could reignite the war, bringing further destruction. They have put their faith in the divine. If Athena tells Odysseus to bring them back, he will. And this time they will crush you.” His green eye burned a hole into Sinon’s head.

Perseus paced the small cell, agitation growing with every word. He stopped abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at Sinon. “You’re playing a dangerous game, man. One wrong word and your life is forfeit. Why should we trust you over our own instincts and caution?” He knew he was repeating himself with the questions. But he was doing it on purpose. He wanted Sinon confused. He wanted him to dig a hole in his lies and trip over himself in his story. And if that didn’t work, he was going to employ some rusty torture tactics to get what he wanted.

Aeneas reached out and gently touched Perseus’ arm, trying to calm him. “Patience, Perseus. Fear often leads men to say foolish things. We need to discern the truth from the lies, not be driven by our anger.”

Perseus clenched his fists, his knuckles white. “The city celebrates while potential danger lurks at our gates. This farce must end.”

Aeneas saw the mounting tension and knew they needed another tactic. “Let’s step outside for a moment, Perseus.” He motioned towards the cell door and, although reluctant, Perseus consented. Aeneas was the levelheaded brother. He would listen to him.

Outside, the sounds of laughter and music were still audible, a grim reminder of the city’s unawareness. Aeneas spoke softly, “We need to decide our next move carefully. If Sinon is lying, we condemn our people to death. If he tells the truth and we act in haste, we might destroy our salvation.”

Perseus sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I understand, Aeneas. But his words sound too polished, too rehearsed. We cannot afford to be naive. You know it’s not the truth.”

“I agree, you’re right, but we can’t act out of anger and fear either,” Aeneas replied. “We need a plan that doesn’t rely solely on his word.”

The two returned to the cell, facing Sinon once more. Aeneas spoke first, and Perseus folded his arms, watching. “Tell me, Sinon, are your people lurking anywhere about? Waiting for us to lower our guard?”

“Even if they were, how would they get past the wall?” The captive rasped. “I don’t know. They’ve been trying for ten years.” He sighed. “We were all just tired. Everyone just wanted to go home.” He looked exhausted as he sagged against the stone.

Aeneas sighed, then said, “We’ll test your commitment, Sinon. Show us you are truthful. Swear on the River Styx.”

Sinon’s head snapped upwards and eyes widened briefly, then he nodded resolutely. “I swear on—on the River Styx that they left the horse so the Trojans would dedicate it to Athena.”

Perseus folded his arms, scrutinising the Achaeans’ every move. His chains rattled as he shifted on the ground. A frown settled on his face. Tension hung heavy in the air as the sounds of festivities outside pierced the solemn silence. “There’s something about oaths on the river and choice of words…” Aeneas trailed off.

Perseus pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re getting nowhere with this.”

“You’re right,” His brother agreed after a few heartbeats. They walked out of the cell. “The horse is already inside. The best we can do is get it out and smash it on the rocks by the beach. With or without Priam’s help.”

“If we get it to the shore I can just swallow it up,” Perseus shook his head. “We’re not going to be able to haul it out by ourselves. Not with that size. Not when the entire city is dancing around it like it’s a war trophy.”

Aeneas was silent as they walked. They passed a group of guards, and Perseus could hear them laughing, punching each other. Drunk. He wrinkled his nose. “I always thought I’d grown up in a city of intelligence. But here we are, and everyone has run mad.”

Aeneas harrumphed, and then after a few beats of terse silence, said, “I have an idea. My men from Dardania are still here. I’ll get them to be on the alert. The celebration can’t go on forever. Once the revelry is over and everyone is drunk, the city will sleep. My men and I will haul the horse out before dawn to the beach and you can destroy it then.”

Perseus thought it over. It was a solid plan. Their footsteps echoed across the stone. “And Priam?”

“He’ll get over it. They’ll all get over it,” Aeneas shrugged. “The gods will also just have to deal with it, and we can shove their opinions right up their asses.”

“I like it,” Perseus agreed.

“Okay,” His brother clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, then. I’ll send for you when we’re ready to move.”

He nodded and then gave him a quick hug. And then Perseus spun and headed to his own chambers. He needed to contact Selene and get an update on whatever was going on on the celestial side of things.

BREAK

PERSEUS LAY ON THE LARGE FLUFFY BED IN HIS MODEST QUARTERS, his mind wandering between the anticipation of finally seeing Selene and a gnawing sense of unease. The festivities in Troy had reached a fever pitch mere hours ago, and now the city lay in a drunken stupor, their walls and hearts unguarded. He hated it. He had how lax everyone was being. He hated feeling that something was wrong, especially since Sinon had been a dead end and Selene was late, which she never was. He hated that the horse hung over them at the edge of their city, looking down like it was about to topple and crush them all beneath it.

The demigod glanced up toward the moonlit sky, hoping to see a flicker of movement—a sign of Selene. She had promised to meet him as the night deepened, but the hours passed by with only the company of shadows. That only served to make his anxiety rise a hundredfold. He couldn’t fail her. He couldn’t fail Troy. Not when her existence was on the line.

Battling sleep, Perseus kept one ear attuned to the sounds around him, waiting for his brother Aeneas’ summons. It would just be a few minutes now because a blanket seemed to have been tossed over the city, and even the most drunken soldiers were asleep. They had agreed to move the enormous wooden horse beyond the city walls once the revelry waned. However, this particular night did not feel right. Aeneas was taking too long, and Perseus was tempted to go to the horse himself and do something—anything—about it. Waiting felt like signing on for disaster.

He heard a distant shuffle and slowly sat up in his cushions. Each minute that trickled by intensified his sense of foreboding, and the stillness of the night felt oppressive. His thoughts wandered back to the wooden horse brought into the city—a symbol of Greek surrender, or so it was believed. Was it really a gift, or had their pride and arrogance clouded their judgment, making them refuse to see reason? Apollo had said to trust nothing. This seemed so out of the blue…if only he could figure out what it meant.

As the first few sounds of wood creaking reached Perseus’s ears, he felt a cold dread prickling his skin. Slowly rising he moved to his windows, then stiffened. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the large vessel beside the gates—the wooden construction that was inching forward, slowly.

The horse was coming alive.

Maybe it was Aeneas? He’d better get down there.

But then Perseus narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the darkness.

There was no one around the horse. No soldier, no brother of his, and no contingent of Dardanians waiting to wheel it out of the gates. The horse was moving, not by any man’s commands, but seemingly of its own volition. He straightened, senses sharp and body tense. Then, he saw them—figures dropping down, appearing from thin air.

Shit.

No—the men were dropping down from within the bloody horse. Perseus swore loudly, the shock which enveloped him was instant and had him recoiling from his windows.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

Greeks. Silent, lethal, and numerous.

Time seemed to slow as the realisation struck him like a thunderbolt: this was no gift. His people had been foolish—his people had been played. He had been even more stupid. Waiting had been a mistake.

This was death encased in hollow magnificence. Heart pounding, Perseus staggered back, nearly losing his footing. His first instinct was to call out, to shout a warning, but words caught in his throat, choked by surprise.

Panic surged, irrational and potent, as he saw more Greeks emerge, their eyes gleaming in the darkness with a deadly determination. In their midst, he recognised Sinon, bustling about, rallying men. How had he gotten out?

And then the screaming began.

Perseus bolted out of his chambers, heart pounding. He didn’t even throw on his armour.

His mind raced. Their ‘victory’ had become a funeral pyre, and the Greeks were the encompassing flames.

He had to find Aeneas and rally the Trojans from their stupor to fight, but as he ran through the palace gates the weight of the situation pressed down on him. The sharp clash of swords, the cries of men caught unawares in their sleep; the very air was already thick with the scent of death and a burning, bitter smoke.

The Achaeans had swept into the city.

Desperation clawed at Perseus as he stumbled through the passages, as he passed the windows and saw the city below him, now engulfed in chaos. Anguish and regret mingled with a steely resolve—to fight, and protect. Troy couldn’t fall. They could push back. They could still defend themselves. They could still fight. They had to.

The urge to scream filled his throat. He flicked his ring, and his sword flared to life. He had to fight. For Selene. For Troy.

Every step, every breath, every hurried beat of his heart was a testament to one irrefutable truth—the nightmare had only just begun, and dawn might never come to see a free Troy again.

Chapter Text

A/N: The Siege of Troy is about to go down—a chapter more, then an epilogue. I love y’all for sticking around. This chapter may be very graphic. Reader’s discretion is advised.

PERSEUS stood atop the crumbling parapet of the watchtower, the acrid stench of burning timber and flesh searing his nostrils. The copper tang of blood was so thick in the air that he could almost taste it. Below him, the once-great city of Troy was dying. Flames licked hungrily at the heavens, devouring the city’s proud towers and mansions, their glow painting the sky a hellish orange. Screams of the wounded and the dying echoed, a symphony of despair. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles ached, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a squadron of Achaeans dead at his feet.

The waning moon, once a beacon of hope for a better tomorrow, now cast a cruel, mocking light on the crumbling walls of Troy. His heart was pounding like a war drum. The once-impregnable city, a symbol of Trojan might, was now a wounded beast, bleeding and gasping for air.

The walls shook beneath his feet as another section of Troy’s mighty defences collapsed. A Greek horde, monstrous and unrelenting, had opened a gate, spilling a flood of armoured warriors into the streets. They moved like a tide of death, cutting down everything in their path. Perseus’s gaze locked onto a young Trojan soldier who fought desperately against two Greek warriors. His spear thrust was parried—he was drunk, and the next moment, a sword cleaved through his neck, sending his head tumbling into the dust. Blood sprayed in an arc, mingling with the ash that blanketed the ground like snow.

They had descended on the city like Thanatos. He didn’t know how Sinon had escaped, he didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of the fact that the Achaeans could be hiding inside the horse. But here they were, and all the fighting and battling he had done to get to this part of the city seemed fruitless when they had already torn the gates off their hinges.

The Greek assault was relentless. A tidal wave of armoured warriors, their shields glinting in the sunlight, surged forward. The thunder of their war cries echoed through the city, a chilling dirge that sent shivers down Perseus's spine. He could see the fear in the eyes of his fellow Trojans, a fear that had slowly consumed him as he passed by so many of them on his way to the watchtower.

The first wave of Greek soldiers from the belly of the horse had been the worst, pouring into the city like a plague. The once-peaceful streets were now a battlefield, a macabre dance of life and death. The air was thick with the stench of blood and smoke, the cries of the wounded and the dying, and the screams of Trojan citizens who had been too drunk and too deep in sleep and revelry to put up much of a fight.

His chest felt tight, each inhale a laborious effort that threatened to unravel him completely. The light of the moon now barely pierced the billowing smoke that loomed over the city like a shroud of despair. Below, the city he once knew teemed with chaos. His stomach lurched as he surveyed the scene—carnage, death, and utter destruction.

The clang of swords and the screams of the dying filled the air, a symphony of agony and despair. Perseus’s hands trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. The Greeks had breached Troy’s mighty defences, their relentless assault reducing once-proud structures to rubble. The scent of blood and burning wood was overwhelming, suffusing the air with a palpable sense of doom.

Perseus’s chest tightened. His vision blurred. A roaring filled his ears, drowning out the chaos below. Breathe, he told himself. But the air felt like fire, and his lungs betrayed him. The city was falling, and with it, so was every bit of him—the shock seemed to block his ability to think, or even to move. The initial adrenaline which had allowed him to fight his way to the watchtower was gone, replaced by a mad rush of horror. Images of his family flashed before his eyes: his brother Aeneas, proud and unyielding, being sliced open; his sister-in-law Creüsa lost in the flood of fleeing Trojans, his nephew Ascanius, his laughter a faint memory. Hector’s wife Andromache and his godson Astyanax, surrounded by leering faces and sharp swords. He had to find them. All of them. His father, Anchises, crippled, unable to move…he had to find his father.

A blast of heat tore through him as an explosion erupted nearby—a storehouse, its supplies igniting in a fiery bloom. The blast threw bodies into the air like broken dolls, their limbs twisted unnaturally. Perseus staggered, clutching at a wall for support. His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself upright. This was not the time to falter.

Below, a woman stumbled out of a burning house, clutching a screaming child to her chest. A Greek soldier advanced on her, spear poised. Perseus bellowed, his voice raw and desperate. The soldier hesitated for a heartbeat, and in that moment, Perseus hurled his sword. It spun end over end, striking the Greek in the throat. The man collapsed, gurgling on his own blood. But the woman did not look back. She ran, disappearing into the inferno.

He felt a sob convulse through his body, but he clenched his jaw, forcing it back down. This was not the moment for weakness. Yet, the realisation that they were losing, that Troy was lost, clawed at his heart with merciless sharpness. Perseus could feel the edges of a panic attack closing in on him like the tightening grip of a vice. His vision blurred, not from tears but from the encroaching haze of anguish and hopelessness.

Gasping for breath, he forced his thoughts away from the distress and destruction and towards his family. His brother—he had to find his brother. Distant memories flashed through his mind, moments of laughter and camaraderie that now seemed from another lifetime. He had to protect him and the rest of their family—he had to get them out of this nightmare.

With a final, shuddering breath, Perseus pushed himself away from the parapet, his eyes scanning the grim tableau below. He would fight as many Greeks as he could, buying precious moments for his loved ones and anyone else to escape. He darted down the watchtower stairs. Each step felt leaden, but he forced himself to move forward. Each life he saved would be a small defiance against the overwhelming tide of Greek invaders.

The streets below were a maze of chaos, but he navigated them with the singular focus of a man driven by desperation. Everywhere he turned, scenes of horror met his gaze—friends and comrades falling under the blades of the enemy, buildings collapsing, flames climbing hungrily skyward.

His sword was gone, but Perseus didn’t care—it would return. He streaked down the broken paths of the city, stepping over rubble and corpses, his mind racing.

Find Aeneas.

Rally what’s left.

Protect the family.

His hands trembled uncontrollably. The weight of failure pressed on him, suffocating, but he could not give in.

As he rounded a corner, the son of Poseidon froze. A street he had walked a thousand times as a boy was unrecognizable. Bodies piled high, their faces twisted in agony, some still clutching weapons, others clutching each other. The ground was slick with blood, making every step treacherous. A horse, its entrails spilling from a gaping wound, screamed and thrashed before collapsing and the sounds of its agony in death pierced him to the very core. Perseus felt bile rise in his throat.

It was one thing to see his enemies dead in front of him by the thousands. But this—this he couldn’t take. Not his people.

The demigod watched in horror as the Greek soldiers slaughtered them. The once-vibrant city was now on its way to becoming a ghost town, its beauty marred by destruction. The once-proud Trojans were now reduced to desperate, frightened souls, their hopes and dreams shattered.

A wave of despair washed over the son of Anchises as it finally hit him. Troy was doomed. The city, the people, and the way of life he had known, were all slipping away. He felt a surge of anger, a rage that threatened to consume him. He wanted to fight, to kill, to avenge his people. But he knew it was futile. They were too late.

A single tear rolled down Perseus's cheek. He had to act. He had to find his brother, protect his family, and save as many people as he could. With a heavy heart, he exhaled and ran into the chaos of the road, and as his hand flicked his ring, his sword reappeared, raised high and ready to face the inevitable.

He clenched his teeth and forced himself forward. Each step felt heavier, the enormity of their loss crushing him. The city was not just dying—it was being annihilated. He could see it in the faces of the Greeks, their frenzied slaughter more than conquest. This was vengeance.

A Greek soldier spotted him and charged, sword raised. Perseus snatched a spear from a fallen comrade and sidestepped the attack, driving the weapon into the man’s gut. The soldier’s eyes widened in shock as blood bubbled from his lips. Perseus yanked the spear free and let the body fall. His heart thundered in his chest, but his mind was sharper now, his purpose clear.

He turned his face to the palace on the horizon, the last stronghold of his people. There, his brother would be fighting, desperate to hold the line or whatever defence the palace had rallied. And there, Perseus knew, was his final duty. Not to Troy—not anymore. Troy was gone. His duty was to his blood, to his family. To Hector’s. To save them because he could not even die trying, and that made it all the more worse.

A scream tore from his throat, a primal roar that shook the panic from his bones. Perseus sprinted toward the heart of the chaos, toward the dying embers of a city that had once been immortal. His sword arm was ready, his hope fragile, but his rage burned bright. The Greeks would pay for every life they took, every stone they toppled. He would see to it.

The immortal’s vision blurred as tears streamed down his face from his one green eye. He felt broken. He had seen too much and endured too much. The city, his city, was dying, and he was powerless to stop it. A sob escaped his lips as he turned to face the relentless onslaught of the Greek invaders.

A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He couldn't afford to break down. He had a duty, a responsibility. He had to protect his family and his people. With a renewed sense of purpose, he wiped away his tears and readied his sword.

He charged into the fray, his blade a blur of steel. He fought with a ferocity born of desperation, each strike a testament to his rage and sorrow. The Greek soldiers fell before him, their blood staining the ground. But for everyone he felled, ten more took their place. He dodged strikes, parried blows, lopped off heads and hands and drove his sword and spear into hearts and throats. But it made no difference. The entire Achaean army they had thought gone was back, and back with a vengeance.

As he fought, he scanned the battlefield, searching for anyone he knew. Maybe Aeneas had also run out here from the palace like he had? He needed his brother's strength, his guidance. But Aeneas was nowhere to be seen. Perseus's heart sank. A dark thought filtered into his mind. Had he fallen, too?

The weight of desperation threatened to consume him once more. But he pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand. No. He had to believe his brother was alive. He had to believe Aeneas was somewhere—hopefully in the palace—holding the forte there. His brother was resourceful; he could take care of himself.

Perseus knew had to survive; he had to fight. He had to protect the innocent, to avenge the fallen.

He let out another scream, a tormented bellow, and called into the chaos, his voice resonating throughout the entire section of the city as he fought. “This is your Polemarchos Perseus.” He tore his sword out of a shield and planted his spear into a chest. “If you can hear me, get up and fight! They might take our city, but they can’t break our spirits. We have beaten them before, and we can do so again! Fight for your friends and family with courage and determination, and we will pull through!” He cut through a throat, and a head collapsed at his feet. Blood sprayed onto his face. The Greeks were too many, everywhere, blurring his vision, filling every inch of the city like a disease. He saw the men—the soldiers who had been celebrating just hours prior, stumbling through the streets, answering his call. He saw the panic in their faces, the hopelessness, the resignation. But they had answered, and even though they were nowhere near enough, they had come, and together, they formed a desperate defence, surging into the skirmish and fighting, not to win anymore but to survive and hold back the tide of Greek invaders.

But it was a losing battle. The Greeks were too many, too strong.

He had failed. He had failed them all. Hector. Aeneas. Troy. Helios. Selene. His breath stuttered.

He couldn’t save them. But he could still fight. He would not die. He could still fight, and even after everyone around him fell, he would fight, and he would kill every single one of them until they drained every bit of ichor from his body. Until the effort burned him out.

Perseus’s heart pounded like a drum in his chest as the world crumbled around him. He clung to this one decision, full of unyielding resolve: he would save those he could and fight until every last Achaean was dead, even if it took him days to do it.

With another yell, he swept into the throng of warriors, his eye burning with the fury of a thousand gods.

BREAK

AENEAS could not stand the screaming.

It came from everywhere, every place, all at once. His ears were roaring with blood and his heart trying to beat out of his chest. He was drenched in sweat and full of anxiety, and his head was pounding so hard it felt like it was about to burst.

It was his fault. He should have moved the horse —he should have done something to destroy it when he had had the chance. He was supposed to have gotten Perseus, and his men had been waiting for his word to move the horse out of the city. But he’d fallen asleep in the war chamber. He’d passed out from exhaustion by the will of Hypnos, and it had felt like some sort of sick joke when the first explosion had shaken him awake. The barrage of emotions slamming into him almost felt too overwhelming—fear, despair, panic, resignation.

His city was being levelled to the ground.

He was a failure. He had failed them all when he should have been trying to save Troy—but there was nothing left to save now.

As he fought through the never-ending army, he tried to force back tears. They were going to die. The Achaeans had outsmarted them, and nothing could rescue them now from this ugly fate. He had failed Hector. He’d been useless, unable to protect the city his friend had cherished. He hated himself for it.

Aeneas sliced off an oncoming man’s arm. He whirled past a spear and elbowed another in the face, sending him careening into the stone and blood.

There was so much blood.

Everywhere. The walls were bleeding. They seeped into his sandals and his feet. The screaming intensified with every corner of the palace he turned. The bodies piled up, first one, then two, then five until they were littered everywhere and he had to physically restrain himself from puking. These were people he knew. People he had grown up with. People who had looked up to him.

And with every passing hallway, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t actively checking to see if any of the fallen were his wife or his son.

He had to find them—Creüsa, and Ascanius. His family. He couldn’t…no, he forbade his mind from thinking any such thoughts. The horror that had completely engulfed him as the invasion surged on was nothing compared to the spikes of pure unbridled fear which pierced his heart each time he passed a collection of fresh bodies in the palace corridors. They had taken the palace quickly—almost too quickly, as though they had had internal help. He couldn’t think of it now—he didn’t even know how they had gotten into the city, except that it had something to do with the horse his people had insisted on dragging into their home.

Aeneas shook with anger, and agony, and panic, and he tried not to join the chorus of screaming voices as laughter bounced off the stone walls and was thrown towards him. Laughter, from the sick Achaeans as they broke down every wall, lit everything on fire and toppled the mighty city to the ground. So many dead, so many deceived.

They hadn’t even seen it coming. Everyone had been either drunk or asleep.

All their soldiers were too pissed and plastered to put up much of a fight. His Dardanians were lost in the fray, and his family wasn’t in their chambers. He couldn’t bear the thought that something had happened to them. He had to find them. He had to get them out. He had to protect his son, and his wife, and find his brother. Oh, gods. Oh, gods, they could be dead.

He knew Perseus could take care of himself. He knew no one could kill him. But that thought did nothing to tamp down the bile that surged in his throat, the red-hot panic that threatened to drag him under the sea of blood and bodies piling up around him. Aeneas continued to run, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He rocked on his feet as a blast sounded through the palace. He was bleeding, he was dazed, and he was littered with cuts and shallow wounds and covered in soot and debris.

Ashes rained down on their city amidst the fiery arrows and the giant blazing rocks being hurled at the palace. His people were dying. His people were gone, and it took every bit of strength in his bones not to lie on the ground, give up and just die. But he had already failed them once. He could not give up without finding his family. Gods, his father—his father was somewhere in this insanity, and he was crippled, and he wouldn’t be able to run.

Tears ran down Aeneas’s face as he barreled into a group of Achaeans curving down the same passageway. With a defiant yell, he darted into their midst and began to hack, slice and stab at them until only armour and blood remained. He couldn’t believe it. How had they been so stupid? How had he allowed them to win?

“Mother,” Aeneas’ voice was raspy and hollow, “Please. Please, if you’re hearing this, help me.”

He was desperate, his spirit aching, his mind focused on finding his family, but his body fixed on taking as many Achaeans to the grave before he joined them.

They could not be allowed to get away with this. Their army was numerous, but the Trojans had beaten them so many times before. They could do it again.

As he waded through debris and bodies, he shook his head. They had been caught unawares. There was no saving them. There was no fighting back.

He had never thought he would see this day. The palace was alight with the flames which reached towards the sky, as though trying to touch Olympus itself. There was rubble and debris everywhere, on every corner. Doors lay broken off their hinges, blood seeped underneath doorways. Statues and relics were strewn across the ground, defiled, and desecrated. It was pure and utter destruction. Body parts lay at almost every corner, children, women—clothes torn and horrified expressions on their faces as they were abused to death, men, soldiers, horror in their eyes as their heads were separated from their bodies.

The mania of the Achaeans was unparalleled.

He hated it. He hated them. He would make them pay until they drove him through the ground and into the darkness of Hades.

Aeneas gritted his teeth. His eyes roamed the passage—light…he could see light.

He raced towards the light and burst through an archway, into one of the many courtyards in the palace. The place was unrecognizable. The gardens were aflame, statues and benches toppled and broken, and the dead littered every inch of the courtyard—servants, maids, pages and guards. It was as though the Achaeans, like a very angry wave, had swept into the courtyard and swallowed up everything in their path.

Heat singed the hairs off his skin. The demigod felt as though his armour was melting into his body. He heard a scream and raised his sword just in time to block a strike from a particularly crazed Greek bearing a familiar banner—the banner of Achilles. Phthians. Aeneas’ heart thumped with rage as he dodged another blow and swiped the man’s head clean off. There were many Phthians in the courtyard, still locked in battle with stumbling soldiers, some chasing after women struggling to avoid the bodies. He heard a sob coming from an alcove as another cornered two children.

The depravity of it all sickened him, and Aeneas wanted to heave onto the cobblestones once more.

But then more Greeks had spotted him, and he saw the wave of frenzy as it swept across their company, as one by one they finished off their targets and turned to face him. The king of Dardania heard a cry, loud, pleading, and his eyes moved to the other side of the courtyard, where the altar of the High god Zeus stood. He saw Priam—battered, dirty, bruised and bleeding, on his knees, hugging the altar, cowering behind it.

The first of the Greeks roared and charged him. Aeneas dove under the swing and dodged another errant blade before sliding his own beneath one man’s helmet, killing him instantly. He narrowly dodged a blow to his chest and slashed off the wrist of another Pthian, but then pain flared in his thigh as a lance sliced him, and Aeneas stabbed through the chest of his attacker. They were surrounding him, but his eyes immediately moved back to Priam and to the short blond-haired warrior approaching him with sick fascination and slowed movements.

He looked familiar but—it couldn’t be.

Achilles was dead.

That meant—

Neoptolemus swung his sword as he came before Priam. “Please—“ The king begged. Begged. Aeneas’ heart shattered into a million little pieces.

They had been reduced to this. To nothing. A shudder ran through his body as he caught a blow on his gauntlet and drove his sword into his attacker’s gut. The Phthian banner fell to the ground. The Achaeans were too many. He would die.

He couldn’t die.

Not without finding his family. Not without trying to save them first.

The choices flashed before him—attempt to fight and save his king—the father of his best friend, and face certain death. Or run, like a coward, underserving of his name and his title, but stand a chance at finding the ones dearest to him. A tear ran down his face.

Aeneas pivoted on his heel, kicking away a Grecian that lay limp on the ground. He shoved another and darted back the way he had come. “He’s getting away!”

“After him!” He heard a laugh—Neotolemus’. The sound echoed through the burning courtyard, and it seemed to fill the whole passageway.

“Please! I’ve taken refuge at the altar of Jove—“ Priam’s voice was cut short, and Aeneas winced, shutting his eyes as he raced through the blazing passage. He envisioned Achilles’ son’s sword coming down. He envisioned the head separating from the body and rolling onto the floor, mouth still agape, eyes still begging and full of agony. He saw the body slump down beside the altar of the king of the Heavens—the altar where even criminals who sought refuge were meant to be pardoned. His king, his second father, torn down at the feet of a bastard. Another tear traced his cheeks.

Aeneas wiped away his tears as he ran.

He was a coward. He was a coward, and they were all doomed. Aeneas turned another corner and then spotted a curly-haired figure emerging from a burning room far down. He was hanging on to the hand of a familiar woman with strawberry blonde hair. His heart soared, “Creüsa! Ascanius!”

Aeneas forced his feet to move faster and dashed towards them.

BREAK

PERSEUS stumbled into the burning palace and raced for his brother’s room instantly. He had seen many horrible things in his long lifetime. He had fought gods and monsters. He had killed many men and laid waste to hordes of Greek warriors at a time. But the barbarity that met him in the passageways through the palace made him want to stop and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. So many dead…so many dying. Everything—everyone—just…gone.

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop to try to come to terms with the severity of their situation, otherwise, he would not be able to move again. His feet felt like lead, his mouth full of ash. He was drenched in blood, mostly red, a little gold, and his lungs were thumping as though he had run the entire course of the sea and back.

The son of Poseidon huffed, and thundered down another path, skidding over the blood, jumping over moaning bodies. The ashes and dust in the air threatened to choke him. He had left more bodies in his wake as he headed to his brother’s room—there were so many Achaeans crawling the halls…so many Greeks prowling around their city—his city, murdering his people, and gods, Gaea, he just prayed his brother and father weren’t part of them.

The walls were splattered with blood.

It hurt his eyes—everywhere was red.

It shattered his heart.

Everything was broken.

Another explosion shook the palace. Heat singed his face as he bolted past a courtyard on fire. Screams bounced off the walls. He jumped over a broken marble bust of the first king of Troy, then turned another corner. Perseus swore suddenly, dodging quickly and avoiding a blow to his head. He drove his sword into the heart of an enemy soldier and quickly ripped it out. The man’s companions yelled in outrage and surrounded him.

The fight was a short one. He was quick, he was brutal, he was effective, and he left them dead in the flames then dashed down the path again. Glass bit the soles of his feet as he ran, and his sword created sparks as it dragged across the ground. He swore in frustration, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to scream. Where was Aeneas?

He had to find his father. Anchises couldn’t walk, dammit!

The demigod turned another corner and skidded to a stop when he heard the screaming.

It was different from the other ones—it was closer. Familiar.

Perseus choked back a cry and raced up a flight of stairs. He tore down the stone hall. It was coming from a collection of chambers just around the corner. Helen’s.

Another scream.

The son of Poseidon burst through the large doors, sword at the ready. The sight before him chilled him to the bone, and he could have sworn his heart stopped momentarily. The screaming was coming from a woman, bloodied, huddled in a corner, her brown hair a rat’s nest. There were two guards, dead a few feet from the doors. There was a third man, dressed in his nightrobe, arms separated from his body, blood pouring from his crotch and a wound in his gut.

Deiphobus.

Horror made bile rise into Perseus’ throat, but he stepped forward immediately he caught sight of the two figures, standing above the cowering girl.

“Menelaus!” The roar left his throat dry and hoarse.

The Spartan King, bloodied and grinning, whirled, sword coming down from where it had been laid on Briseis’ neck. Beside him stood Helen, face a chilling, unmoving mask. But her eyes…those eyes burnt with hatred. For a moment there, surrounded by all the blood and loss, Perseus did not see the most beautiful mortal woman in the world.

He saw a wife, who had been separated from her husband for years because of a goddess’s promises.

He saw a woman who had yearned for her home since her kidnapper had died, the spell broken.

He saw the witch who had launched a thousand ships to the shores of their city and made sure it burned to the ground.

“You…” He rasped. He didn’t know how it hadn’t occurred to him sooner. He didn’t know how he hadn’t realised what had been going on under his very nose for so long. He was an idiot, and Helen had played all of them for fools. “You released Sinon from his prison tonight. Made sure he got to the horse and gave them the go-ahead.”

Helen swallowed. Her eyes flickered away, unable to meet the intensity of his gaze.

“You helped Odysseus and Diomedes get the Palladium,” He took another step forward. “When they infiltrated the city as beggars.”

Menelaus levelled his sword in front of him as Perseus stepped closer. The man growled, “Take another step and it’s your last, half-blood.”

Perseus laughed. It was cold. Chilling. He felt a rush of hatred sear through him, overwhelming, ecstatic, burning. He was going to kill them. He was going to kill them all. Every single one of them. He would watch the blood drain from their bodies and laugh until he drove every Achaean into the ground. Helen took a hurried step backwards. Briseis whimpered in the corner. Her hair was soaked in blood. Menelaus looked on warily, and then his wife’s hand rested on his bicep.

“You can’t kill him,” She sounded afraid. Perseus bared his teeth. Afraid was right.

“Damn right, you can’t.”

Perseus took another step forward, raising his sword. Menelaus eyed him for a second and barked, “Run.”

Before he could make a sound they pivoted and darted through an open door on the left. Perseus started and then swore loudly, and tried to follow. Cowards. The lot of them! He would find them and he would drive his knives through their eyes and rip their lungs out of their chest.

Then Briseis whimpered from the corner again.

Perseus felt something unclench in his heart as he stopped. Menelaus had been about to kill her, and Helen was going to stand by and watch it happen. Bitch.

He turned towards her and bent until he was level with the girl. She was shaking so much, and there was a trail of blood falling down her chin. Her hair was soaked in red from a wound on her head.

“Briseis,” Perseus reached out and cupped her face in his hands. She was sobbing. “Briseis, pull yourself together. You’re not dead yet. Breathe!”

She shut her eyes and shook with the force of her tears. She released a breath, then another, then stilled almost completely. But her voice shook as she said, “They won.”

It was burning on his lips. The urge to tell her, ‘not yet’. But he didn’t want to give her any false hope. Perseus shook his head. “You’re alive, Briseis, and that’s what matters. You’re a fighter.” She shook in his hands. “So get up, Briseis. Get up so you can fight another day.” He tried not to sound too harsh. But now, more than ever was not the time for her—or anyone—to break down. Briseis looked him in the eye, and shuddered, “I can’t.”

“You can, Briseis. You have survived so much already, and you can survive this too,” He said, furiously. Perseus ripped a knife from its scabbard on his thigh. He hurriedly pressed it into her hands. They shook, but her fingers clasped around its hilt. The one-eyed demigod put his hands around her and hauled her to her feet. “Hey,” He tilted her chin until she was looking straight into his green and whites. “Hey. You’re strong. You can get through this. But I need you to do something for me first.”

“W—what is it?”

“Find my brother,” He said. “I have to try to get as many people as I can out of this hell we’re all in. I have to kill the Greeks and stop this. But I need you to find Aeneas. Use the knife to protect yourself until you get to him. Then he’ll do the rest. Tell him to get to the mountains if he can.”

“What if—“

“If you don’t find him in the next thirty minutes, I want you to find the safest place in this palace and hide: under a pile of dead bodies, under a broken statue, in the temple of any of the gods,” He clasped her shoulders tightly. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

She choked. Then she was nodding, furiously, wiping her tears with her ash-coated forearms.

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I can do it,” She said.

Perseus nodded. He felt horrible. He was probably sending her off to her death. But she could not come with him. Not when he was going to challenge the Achaeans head-on. He could not fight and protect them both. A pit opened up in his gut, and Perseus raced through the open doorway, where Menelaus and Helen had disappeared.

He had Grecians to kill. Perseus shut his eyes and prayed, perhaps for the first time in summers, to gods who had stopped listening a long time ago.

BREAK

THEY WERE AT THE BACK OF THE PALACE and Aeneas could not differentiate between his city and a slaughterhouse.

They stood at the edge of the palace gardens, his heart a chaotic tangle of dread and disbelief. The firelight painted the ruins of Troy in harsh reds and golds, flickering against the dark sky like the last breath of a dying world. The cries of men, and the screams of women and children, filled the air, mingling with the crackle of flames devouring the once-proud city. His sword was heavy in his grip, but it wasn’t the weight of bronze that wore him down—it was the weight of grief, of loss, of a future that was slipping with every passing moment just beyond his reach.

Aeneas felt as though the very ground beneath his feet had been pulled out from under him. The cacophony of the burning city, the screams of the dying and the victorious alike, seemed distant and unreal compared to the sudden, agonizing void in his chest as he glanced around, trying, praying, for an escape, for a hiding place, for something—anything.

He stood at the edge of the burning garden, his heart gripped by a wild, unbearable pain that was both physical and primal. The flames rose higher, licking the night sky as Troy crumbled to ash and dust. The city was almost nothing now but ruins—its walls, once so proud, now collapsed under the weight of war. Around him, the cries of the dying and the clash of bronze seemed to echo in a grotesque symphony of destruction.

The night was an inferno.

His legs burned with the effort of running, his breath ragged as his wife clutched his arm with her hands. The paths paving through the gardens of Troy were a mess of chaos—fire, smoke, the sharp clang of weapons, the screams of the dying, and the desperate cries of those trying to escape the collapsing city. Parts of the walls had fallen, the main gates had been breached, and now the world around him was unravelling.

Troy was dying, and Aeneas felt its death in his bones.

“Stay close,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. He pushed them forward, through the burning hedges. His eyes never left the path ahead, scanning for danger, but his heart beat only for the woman at his side, the woman who had given him a life, a family, a future. He had to get them out. He had to—he couldn’t lose them now.

Not when everything else was being torn apart.

Not when he didn’t know where his brother was, or if his father was still alive.

He glanced down at Ascanius, his small son clinging to his wife, innocent eyes wide with terror. His bottom lip was wobbling, and Aeneas could tell he wanted to cry but was holding back his tears for their sake. The child’s hands were wrapped around Creüsa’s neck like a lifeline. It should have been a peaceful night, a night for stories and quiet dreams. Instead, the city burned around them.

Creüsa, ever the steadying presence, squeezed his bicep and gave him a fleeting smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. Aeneas had seen that smile before. It was the one she gave him when she tried to reassure him when the weight of the world bore down too heavily. He wanted to hold onto it, to believe it. He wished more than ever, that he still had both his hands, so he could hold them both more securely, and be reassured that they were not going anywhere. Instead, his free hand was left to hold on to his sword, his wife was latched on to his mutilated other, and his son was clutching on for dear life at his place on her hip.

They ran.

They ran as they had never ever run before, like hellhounds from hades were hot on their tail. They stumbled out of the gardens and into the city-proper, tearing through the burning streets. The closest exit was the Scaean gates, and he prayed to his mother that the Achaeans had not made it there yet.

It seemed people had gotten the same idea. The streets were teeming with Trojans—men, women, children—sobbing, weeping, crying and running for the gates. He could hear laughter nearby—the Achaeans were close.

Then came the cry.

A loud, guttural scream—a sound like everything Aeneas had been hearing this evening. He turned to see a man falling, his throat cut, blood spilling across the cobbled path as he was hurled from a burning house. Greek soldiers swarmed the building and Creüsa let out a panicked cry. Aeneas swore colourfully and he heard Ascanius take in a sharp breath of horror. He hated that his son was seeing this.

He hated that he was powerless to stop it.

Panic exploded in the crowd, a hundred bodies surging in every direction. People shoved, tripped, and cried out for help. The earth beneath Aeneas’s feet trembled and he let out a yell as a torrent of bodies swept over them.

He felt it when her hands were ripped off his arm, and he shouted in terror as the sea of writhing bodies dragged them apart.

“Aeneas!” Creüsa screamed, her voice shrill with fear.

The world seemed to move in slow motion, yet it was all happening so fast. Aeneas twisted, trying to keep her close, but the crowd swallowed them whole. Her hand slipped from his bicep, and he reached desperately, but it was already too late. Ascanius cried, “Father!” And Aeneas’ dropped his sword and grabbed his son with his hand, before pulling him forward with all his might. The boy was sobbing now, terrified, as he lay in Aeneas’ arms, and the son of Aphrodite panicked, looking around again.

Creüsa’s face was there for a heartbeat—her eyes wide with fear, her mouth opening to call his name—but then she was lost in the mass of fleeing people, just as quickly as she had appeared. The crowd surged, and Aeneas’s heart leapt in his chest as he struggled to see her through the chaos, as he held his baby boy close to his chest to shield him from the stampede.

In the midst of all the chaos, Creüsa was gone—vanished.

“No! Creüsa!”

He could still see her face, her eyes wide with fear, as they’d tried to flee together. The terror, the urgency in her touch, as if she too knew the end was nigh. Then—just like that—she’d been swallowed by the chaos, lost among the tide of bodies. He had called her name again, his voice a broken, desperate thing that only the winds of war answered. But no answer came.

Creüsa.

He had been too slow, too surprised by the stampede, too distracted by the fight for survival, by the collapse of their world. The people were still swarming around him, the city itself was crumbling, an entire civilisation turning to ash, and yet, all he could think about was her—her, the woman who had borne him a son, the woman whose love had anchored him when everything else was falling apart.

Aeneas’s heart faltered, the scene replaying in his mind again. He had watched her, for those fleeting moments, trying to push through the crush of bodies, the fire, the smoke. And then—nothing. She was just gone.

In the chaotic surge of bodies all around him, he had lost sight of her. One moment she was there, her hand tightly gripping his bicep, her presence a sliver of hope amidst the carnage. The next, she was gone, swallowed by the ravenous crowd that tore at the heart of Troy, as merciless as the flames that licked at the city walls.

His breath hitching with panic, Aeneas called out her name until his throat was raw, his voice a cracked echo against the night’s violence. His eyes, wild with desperation, scanned the throng, searching for any sign of her—the glimmer of her hair, the flash of her clothing—but she was nowhere to be seen.

No.

He pushed forward, trying to force his way through the bodies, but they were too many, too desperate. He called her name, but his voice was lost in the sea of sound—no one heard him. His mind raced, a frenzied panic overtaking his chest, the need to find her nearly suffocating him, the mass of people nearly suffocating his sobbing son. He fought through the masses, his muscles burning, but the crowd only pressed tighter, separating him further from his love. He cursed himself once again—if he had had both hands he would have been able to hold them both close.

And then finally he burst through the crowd, panting, crying, tears running down his face, mixing with his blood and sweat.

He screamed, “CREÜSA!” and his voice was shrill, his heart was cracking, and he wanted to curl up and die.

But there was nothing.

His breath was ragged, his legs unsteady. He stumbled forward, unsure of his path, and Ascanius’ tears soaked through his chest. The cries of his people sounded muffled, distant—voices swallowed by the magnitude of his loss. He had to keep moving. There was no choice now. But even as his feet carried him away from the wreckage, his soul remained tethered to the memory of Creüsa’s face, her hands reaching for him, her voice lost in the storm.

Aeneas searched, calling her name into the chaos of scattering Trojans as Achaeans swept into the road, his voice swallowed by the smoke and confusion. He stopped underneath a house balcony to catch his breath and hide from the laughing Greeks. The world seemed to split in two—his body frozen, rooted to the spot, yet his soul pulled in a dozen directions at once, torn between the need to find her and the imperative to protect his son.

Suddenly, the heavens seemed to split open. A bright, blazing star shot across the sky, its brilliance momentarily overriding the inferno below. Its arc was a strange, calming presence as if the gods were watching and, perhaps, mourning with him.

Aeneas stilled, his body frozen, following its fiery trail with his eyes. It seemed an omen, a sign of something greater, or perhaps a cruel reminder that even the Olympians could not save him from his grief. What was he now? A man torn between the living and the dead, between duty and despair. It was a strange, painful certainty. The gods are with us— or they are abandoning us.

And Creüsa was gone too.

The most important part of him that had tied him to Troy—his wife, his anchor in this storm of destruction—had slipped away into the abyss. Aeneas was empty, hollow, his entire being shredded by the loss. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even feel the tears that blurred his vision as the world crumbled around him.

The shooting star burned white-hot, cutting through the smoke of Troy's funeral pyre like a blade of divine fire. Aeneas blinked, caught between the terror of the night and a strange, impossible hope. He thought it was a sign, some blessing or curse from the gods. But the light, like everything else, was fleeting. It vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving only the bitter scent of ashes in the air.

“Father,” Ascanius sniffled, “Mother’s gone?”

“Oh, Ascanius,” He crushed his son into a hug and sobbed into the crook of his neck.

He was walking again, stumbling around like a blind man—and that was what he was now, without Creüsa, or his brother, or his father or even Hector. But he didn’t answer his son. Because he had to believe she was alive.

He had to believe she was safe, that like him, she had fought her way out of the stampede, and they had just been separated momentarily.

She knew where they were headed, maybe she would meet him there.

He sniffed and pulled himself back until he was staring into his son’s eyes, “She’ll find us. Your mother loves you, and she’ll find us again. We’ll get out of this together.” Aeneas shut his eyes as the tears fell and hurried towards a corner. He made the bend, heart heavy.

And then suddenly, he crashed into someone. Ascanius yelped, and Aeneas was recoiling, instantly remembering he was without his sword now, but then also recalling he was armed with knives everywhere. He drew one from his thigh and levelled it in front of him.

The person cried out, and the king of Dardania felt his shoulders slump. He sagged in relief as he recognised her.

Briseis. Then his heart drowned again in sorrow. Not his wife.

Her face was drawn, her eyes wide with the same hollow fear that had consumed the entire city. She was pale, her face filled with the terror of the night, but there was something else in her gaze, something bigger than her fear. She was bloodied, shaking, and as wretched-looking as everybody else in the city.

“Aeneas,” She sounded out of breath, and she started sobbing, “Oh, you don’t know how glad I am to see you. Your brother sent me—”

“Perseus?” he adjusted Ascanius on his hip. “Is he alright? Where is he? Is—“

“He said—“ She shuddered, trying to compose herself, wipe her tears and simultaneously skewer him with the knife she was waving. “He said to tell you to get to the Mountains. He’ll find you there. He’s trying to get as many survivors out as he can and maybe find your father. He said he’s going to kill the Achaeans and stop this.”

Aeneas’ heart soared at the words because if anyone stood a chance against all those men, it was Perseus. “Oh, thank the gods.” His voice was raspy. He heard another scream and looked around in panic, “We have to keep moving. It’s not safe.”

He took off, and Briseis took her place at his side. He felt a pang in his chest—that was Creüsa’s place. As they ran, he looked over the woman and began, “We have to get to the Scaean gates—“ They rounded a corner, and he swore as he spotted a roaring Greek charging them. The knife had left his hand before he could think and lodged in the enemy’s throat. They raced past burning buildings and shattered glass. Women and children lined the streets, dead, in all sorts of gruesome positions, all their clothes ripped off and their faces fixed in horror, gaping wounds staring up at them, made as they had been defiled until they dropped dead. Aeneas felt the bile rise in his throat, and he pushed Ascanius’ face into his neck.

“We can’t,” Briseis panted, trying to keep up. “I’m from there—the Greeks, they’re everywhere. We—“

Before he could come to terms with that, she let out a shriek, and Aeneas’ breath caught as a shadow seemed to fall over Ascanius’s head on his shoulder. The son of Anchises watched in silent horror as his son’s hair caught fire—bright and hot, as if the flames of Troy itself had taken root within him.

He let go of him in surprise, and Ascanius landed on his feet with a yelp, dirt-streaked face looking up to meet Aeneas’ instantly in confusion.

The demigod stumbled forward, reaching for his son, his hands trembling. "Ascanius.” His voice cracked, hoarse with panic. "No, no—"

But Briseis was quick, pulling him away from the child with a strength that seemed unearthly in the face of such terror. Her eyes met his, and there was no comfort there—only the same grief-stricken understanding of what it meant to lose everything.

“Do not touch him, Aeneas,” Briseis said, her voice shaking. “T-The gods protect him. This is not the end for him. Look. ”

But Aeneas’s mind was spiralling, and all he could see was the fire, the strange, unnatural glow surrounding his son.

Flames licked the edges of Ascanius’s curls, trailing upward like a crown of fire. And then he saw what the woman was speaking of. The hair did not burn—no, it flickered, glowing with ethereal light, as if the flames were nothing more than a strange and unearthly halo. Aeneas’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, to brush the flames away, but there was no heat. His son was untouched by the fire.

The boy looked confused, and amidst his tears, choked out, “What is it, father? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His throat was closed. He could not understand it. Tears trailed down his face.

It was a sign. A sign from the gods. Maybe his mother? But what did it mean?

Aeneas’s heart pounded in his chest, a surge of fear and confusion flooding him. He looked up to the night sky and screamed, “What does it mean? What are you trying to tell me?!”

His son took a step back in shock, and Aeneas’ eyes shifted back to his hair. The fire burned brighter, but the flames did not touch him. The boy was unharmed, untouched by the destruction that had claimed everything Aeneas knew.

Briseis gripped his arm, her voice trying and failing to remain steady. "It is a sign, Aeneas. A sign from the gods. They have not abandoned you—not completely. You must protect him. The boy is your future."

For a moment, he wanted to scream. He wanted to rail against the heavens, to curse them for taking her from him, for taking everything from him. But there was no time. The battle raged on, and the gods, indifferent as ever, seemed only to mock his pain with this. It felt like a mark—like a sign that Ascanius was meant for something greater, that he was a future Aeneas could not see. But what of him? What of his wife, his people, his city, all gone in a single night? He didn’t know how he would even find her again.

He pulled Ascanius close, feeling the warmth of the child’s fiery hair against his skin, yet untouched by the flame. His son, the future of Troy, the last hope of a people who had given everything. Aeneas’s chest tightened, and for a moment, his grief threatened to crush him entirely.

But here, amidst the ruins of his world, was his son—a promise of the future when the present seemed bleak and unforgiving. His heart swelled with a fierce protectiveness, overshadowing his grief just long enough to give him purpose.

As the ruins of Troy loomed around them, as the city crumbled to dust, he whispered, barely above a breath, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for yelling. It’s alright. We have to go.” He would survive for his son. For his mother, for Troy. For all he had lost. His son hugged him back tightly.

And as the night closed in around him, the sky still alight with the dying embers of a civilisation falling, Aeneas found the strength, somehow, to take another step forward, as long as it led out of Troy.

He tore his gaze from the bloodied ground and looked into Briseis’, finding strength and resolve mirrored there. In that moment, through the pain and the promise of what was to come, Aeneas felt both the weight of the world and the hope that endured within it. His heart ached for Creüsa, but he knew he had to survive—for his father, for his people, and most of all, for Ascanius. The flames of Troy raged behind them, but they would not be his end. He was destined to rise from these ashes, just as the city would one day rise anew. He remembered it now, the conversation with his mother, all those months ago.

“Take him,” Briseis said, breathing heavily. “We’ve got to leave this place. Find another way out.”

His heart ached as he looked at his son. The boy was trembling, but his eyes were wide, bright with a mixture of fear and wonder. It was the look of a child caught in the middle of something too vast, too impossible to understand. Aeneas felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce need to shield his son from this cruel world, this war, this night of death. For his mother, wherever she was.

The grief that hit him then was too much, unbearable, but there was no time to mourn. He gathered Ascanius into his arms, cradling the boy close, the small body shaking against him. The fire on the boy’s head flickered out as quickly as it had come, leaving only the smell of smoke and a cold, unspoken warning.

Behind him, the flames of Troy rose ever higher, consuming everything—the lives of his friends, his family, his hopes. And ahead of him, a future unknown stretched out, a road paved in sorrow, struggle, and blood.

But there was one thing he knew with all his heart. He could not, would not, lose his son. Not now. Not ever.

For the first time in his life, Aeneas felt the weight of his duty, not just as a warrior or a leader, but as a father.

With one final glance toward the burning city of Troy, the city that had been home, the city that had witnessed his rise and his fall, Aeneas cradled Ascanius in his arms. This place had been his home, his hope, his past, his present. It was no longer a place of memories.

It was ash and death.

There was no future here.

But Ascanius—his son—was his future. And Aeneas would carry him into that future, no matter the cost. His brother and father would find him again. Creüsa would find him again.

With one final, aching breath, he turned away from the streets and fled into the night, Briseis at his side and the weight of a shattered world on his shoulders.

BREAK

PERSEUS stumbled into the temple, one of the last ones which stood. It was Athena’s, and he did not miss the irony of his situation as he wiped the blood from Anaklusmos on the sleeve of his tunic. He hadn’t been able to find Menelaus or his traitor wife, and he hadn’t been able to find his father, either, at his old home. He had run into a lot of people on his way—killed a lot of Achaeans to save them—but every exit from the city was blocked, and they had been penned in like cattle.

He didn’t know what the point of rescuing his people was if he couldn’t even find a way out for them. His only solution had been to get them to the untouched temples. Everyone was running, disoriented, scared, and the Greeks still swarmed the city, killing everything that moved or breathed funny. Memnon and Antianera had been smart to depart when they had.

Perseus huffed loudly, scanning his new surroundings. Most of the temples had already been destroyed by the all-consuming fire and the mania of the Achaeans, and Perseus was not even sure how his feet had carried him to this one in the first place. But he had to check if it was safe and untouched before he led any of the nearby citizens inside. He hurried deeper into the temple, mind whirring with thoughts. He had to find a way for them to get out—all his adventures through the city had to be worth something.

The forests, maybe, or a secret passage no one knew about? He wanted to pull out his hair. The only person who might know any secret exits—Hector—was long dead and short of flying, Perseus did not know how he would manage to get anyone out. He knew how to mist-travel, yes, but carrying people along was another thing, and he didn’t think he could do that without turning them all to sea spray. The son of Poseidon heard a crunch beneath his feet.

And then he stopped. Perseus’ eyes widened and he let out a horrified cry as he recoiled, staring into the eyes of a beheaded man—a priest—on the ground beneath him. He’d stepped on the dead man’s wrist.

Perseus cursed. The temple was supposed to be safe. The temples were sacred, and anyone who took refuge there had to be spared, or else—

A manic laugh escaped him and the demigod ran a hand through his hair. Who was he kidding? These were Achaeans. They knew nothing of sanctity.

His eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, and Perseus felt something lodge in his throat. Dead. They were all dead—mutilated, with grotesque expressions fixed on their faces as they had drawn their last breaths. Whatever had swept through here had been…evil. The gods’ sacred dwelling places had been defiled from when this madness had begun, by men and flames, and none had stepped in to do anything. Did he really expect any reaction when their own priests fell?

Athena had orchestrated this night. Athena had deceived them all. And a large piece of him wanted to help whatever Greek battalion had done this, and topple this temple to the ground.

He was about to move when the scream sounded through the night.

The hairs on the back of his head stood and suddenly he was running, his heart thundering and his head thumping; because he knew that scream, and he knew that voice and he had already failed her so many times before. Today, he refused to fail her again.

He skidded to a stop at the back entrance of the temple, where the grand statue of Pallas Athena stood, shrouded by flames and fighting soldiers. And there he saw her—his first love, Cassandra; his best friend’s sister; the mad prophetess, bent over the feet of the statue as a familiar Achaean king—Lesser Ajax—had his way with her, laughing.

The first thing Perseus saw was red.

The first emotion which filled him was disgust. Then the horror, then the fury, bombarded him all at the same time, and it was happening so fast he felt like a vein in his head had exploded. A scream of outrage ripped itself out of his throat as Cassandra let out another pitiful cry, pleading, begging for him to stop, writhing against her captor. Her eyes were glassy and broken. Ajax pressed a knife into her neck to draw blood, and she stilled. He was rolling back his eyes in ecstasy, pulling her hair back like she was a common whore.

His senses went into overdrive and he was running, dashing for the Greek king, an overwhelming sense of rage and frenzy mingling in his mind and body.

The soldiers came from nowhere, swords and spears bloodied from the massacre of Athena’s priests, unhinged looks in their eyes, eager to devour.

He was hungrier.

Perseus slid beneath a sword and ran a man through. He pivoted on his heel and cut down another. He blocked a blow on his gauntlet and drove his sword through the helmet of a third. He was a whirlwind of destruction and it was only a few seconds before they all lay dead at his feet.

Ajax laughed—harsh, mocking, filled with malice. Perseus' breath caught in his chest and he was running again, driven by an unyielding sense of justice, his every sinew screaming with the urgency to save Cassandra.

Cass met his gaze, her eyes wide with terror, her body trembling beneath his. Ajax's hands were gripping her with a force that left no room for mercy. He was still going at it as though he didn’t realise he was about to die.

The sacred statue of Athena loomed overhead, desecrated by Ajax’s vile act, its divine presence marred by the brutality unfolding at its feet.

There was a rush in his ears. “Ajax!" he roared. Perseus charged.

The Achaean looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. His eyes focused on Perseus, and he sneered, “Always around to ruin the fun, aren’t you?”

Time seemed to slow down as he ran for them. A sickening slash echoed through the night; the unmistakable sound of a life being taken. A knife slid over a pale neck.

Blood spurted from the wound, spraying across the statue of the wisdom goddess.

"No!” He screamed.

Cass’ body went still, her wide eyes frozen in terror. Perseus skidded to a stop as shock rippled through him, his chest tight with a fury he could barely control. Ajax had struck—had taken her life in that instant, with no remorse, as if she were no more than an object to him.

He felt the horror fill him, the denial, and Cassandra let out a ragged breath, eyes rolling back in her head. The king released her and she slumped down onto the feet of the statue, lifeless.

Her fate had been sealed by the hands of monstrosity. Said monstrosity deftly put himself away with a sickening grin.

Perseus launched himself forward, rage clouding his vision, an angry cry ripping itself from the deepest pits of his body.

Ajax was strong, but he was stronger, and he was just so angry; these people had taken everything and everyone from him, and it hurt.

In that instant, the skies seemed to grow darker, as though the very gods were turning their eyes away from the battlefield. Ajax stepped back, his chest heaving with excitement, but also fear as he swung a sword. He knew, deep down, that there would be consequences for what he had done. Perseus was going to crush him.

The Trojan swung his sword in a powerful blow for Ajax’s head. The king reacted instantly, raising his knife to parry the blow. The one-eyed warrior leapt aside as Ajax twisted and attempted to stab him. In a heartbeat, they clashed once more, bronze against bronze, the sound of metal colliding ringing in Perseus’s ears. His ichor was roaring as they reared away and attacked once more. Ajax dodged a blow and spun on his feet, grabbing a sword and swinging for Perseus’ neck. Perseus raised his arm, and the strike bounced off his vambrace; then, he sliced upwards with his weapon.

He caught the man in the chest and Lesser Ajax let out a cry, glancing down in surprise.

It was all the demigod needed to get an advantage, and he kicked out, hard, sending the Grecian onto his back. Lesser Ajax scrambled up, eyes blown wide, realisation dawning on him that he was going to die. Good.

He brought his sword in an arc to slash at Ajax’s chest, and his weapon collided with the man’s side, making him grunt in pain and leak red. Instantly he pulled back and they clashed once more, in a whirlwind of limbs and sword.

The wind whistled in his ears, and he let out a loud roar. Sparks flew where their swords met; then Ajax was backtracking, panting hard, losing. Perseus knew the man couldn’t keep this up. The immortal snarled and jumped off the ground for him. He swung his sword midair and brought it down in an overhead strike, intending to cut the king in two. Ajax swore, then blocked his strike, feebly. Perseus landed on the ground, eyes alight with fury. He yelled again and collided with the king, sending his fist flying into Ajax’s face.

The Greek king stumbled with a yelp and Perseus attacked him again, slamming his elbow into his jaw. Ajax fell to the ground. His face was bloodied and his nose, broken. The man let out a sick laugh. Perseus saw red. He raised his sword. For Cassandra. It would do nothing to avenge her, but he had to try, at least. A tear escaped his single eye as his anger and grief burned through him.

The son of Poseidon brought his sword down.

Before the tip could touch the warrior beneath him he felt a rush of air—a wall of wind—slam into him and send him careening off the sick fuck, sending him flying and slamming him into the base of Athena’s statue. Perseus groaned and sat up furiously, locking eyes on the interruption. He stilled.

It was the wisdom goddess herself.

Athena stood majestic between him and Ajax. She wore a bronze breastplate, a gilded skirt and sandals. Her arms were lined with vambraces, and a helmet nestled atop her head with a red horsehair plume, designed to resemble the head of an owl. Brown hair was visible from beneath it, and from the face guard, intelligent grey eyes pierced into his soul. A cloak billowed in the wind, purple and immaculate. She held in her hands a spear, almost as large as her, and a huge round shield with a screaming gorgon head rearing at him mockingly.

“You.” Perseus struggled to his feet, hissing at the ache in his body. His rage seeped out, replaced by the broken feeling of loss at the sight of her, the master planner. “Are you happy now, Athena?” His throat was hoarse from shouting. Tears blurred his vision. “You won. You’ve taken everything from me. Everything!” He pointed his sword at the blinking bastard still on the ground beneath her. “Let me at least have this.”

Athena shifted, and he could feel her aura, pressing him down even from where she stood. This woman, who had tried to kill him so many times, just because her pride would not allow her to forgive his city for Paris’ slight with Eris’ apple. This woman, who had hated him for no reason other than the long rivalry she had with his father—he abhorred her, with every bit of his being.

Her voice was regal, and carried through the temple, “He is not yours to kill. You have far better things to do with your time this night, don’t you?”

Perseus laughed, spreading his arms, “Look around you. The Achaeans have taken all the better things and burned them to the ground. Look at the barbarity you support. Look at the madness you’ve brought on us all!” He stalked forward until he was just a few steps in front of her. Athena’s nose wrinkled. He saw something flash in her eyes—regret—and his laugh intensified as something cracked in his mind.

“He is not yours to kill,” She repeated, voice cold and hard.

“He killed Cassandra—he defiled her!” He pointed furiously at her statue, soiled with the blood of a ruined girl. Athena’s aura flared. “These are the people you have backed against us and aided to ruin us today! Men who murder sacred priests and destroy the sanctity of the maidens you claim to be patron of!”

The goddess stared him down. “Ajax desecrated my temple. He killed my priests. I have my own plans for him. Your friend will be avenged. The death you would give him is nothing compared to the punishment he’ll receive at my hands.” She glared through her helmet. “He is not. Yours. To. Kill.”

His single eye burned a hole into her helmet. “Let. Me. Pass.”

Athena bared her teeth at him, and said, “You are wasting your own time here, Perseus. Head to your father’s temple. Your family awaits you there. Or you can stand in the way of a goddess’ retribution, and see where that would end you.”

Hatred burned through him. He wanted to attack her. He wanted to kill her. But even he knew that he could not go toe-to-toe with the goddess of warfare and wisdom. Not today. Not in this battered state. Not when Aeneas and his family were still desperately searching for a way out and needed his help.

Athena did not look like she would be budging anytime soon. The city burned behind her, and Ajax had the sense to stay put, fear fixed onto his face.

“I won’t forget this,” He lowered his sword angrily. “I’ll never forget any of it, goddess.” He spat the word like it was the worst insult he could think of. One way or another, he would make her regret it. Everything. One day. One day she would weep because Troy would have her revenge. If any of them survived this, their descendants would make Athena suffer for eternity.

She scoffed at him.

His gaze trailed to the lifeless body of Cass, the sudden silence around him louder than any cry for vengeance. In that moment, he understood that victory against Ajax was hollow, and justice, if it existed at all, was far more complicated than the sword could ever resolve. It wouldn’t bring her back. It wouldn’t avenge any of the suffering she had endured in her short, miserable life. She was gone, and she was yet another person he had failed that evening.

Perseus swallowed and pivoted on his heel. He dashed into the darkness, heart and hands heavy. And the burning city swallowed him whole.

A/N: So this was supposed to be a full chapter on the siege of Troy but it was getting way too long and I decided to split it into two. See you here, same time next week. I’d love to hear what you think! Have a great month!

(And for those of you who might have a problem with anything at all, kindly fuck off. Like I said before, Excidium Troiae roughly translates to ‘Out of Troy’ and so there was actually no need for me to debate who would win this war, and I think you all knew that. Just because they are losing doesn’t mean Perseus or Aeneas are stupid, slow, or useless or whatever bs you kids like to say these days. That’s just the way it has to be. If it’s not your cup of tea, please excuse us. For the rest of you dedicated readers, Enjoy!)

Chapter Text

A/N: So, here we have arrived at the final chapter. This story was very, very hard to write, and I almost dropped it more than a few times. There were a lot of positive reviews and a few admittedly valid concerns and disagreements. First, with the way Perseus forgave Apollo so quickly in the first few chapters, which I hope to be able to rectify someday, and second, in my attempts at trying not to make the Trojans seem so dumb as the story progressed. Personally, I always thought the Trojans were stupid for bringing that horse in, and writing that bit of the story in a way which doesn’t make the characters seem just as stupid as the stories say was hard, and I’m not entirely sure I was successful in that. However, the ‘bad plot’ some of you are moaning about is literally beating off the original myths so go complain to Homer and Virgil if you can’t take it.

Again, I really don’t like saying this and sounding rude, but if you have a problem with the story, why bother yourself to read it at all up to 30 mf chapters??? I don’t get some of you ngl. Save yourself the trouble and let those who love it keep reading? If you don’t have a nice review or some constructive criticism for me, don’t say anything at all? Like, it’s not so hard lol. I write because I enjoy it and I love storytelling—this story wasn’t meant to please any of you, keep that in mind.

I hope you all enjoyed the story so far. In hindsight, writing this from a Trojan perspective when they were so obviously going to lose and trying to make the characters seem competent was a headache I brought on myself. However, I’m still learning, and if I do happen to continue writing any more fanfictions, I hope both my writing and I would be better. I love that I got to share this with you guys and I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter the same way I enjoyed writing it [not really, it’s so long ugh]

Happy reading!

The night had descended like a shroud, thick and suffocating. The walls of Troy—his beloved city, the pride of his fathers—now lay in ruin, torn apart by the ruthless fury of the Greeks. Smoke billowed from every corner, blotting out the stars, the air heavy with the stench of burning flesh and charred earth. Aeneas moved through the streets, his armour battered, his limbs weary from the endless battles and the effort of carrying his son through the haze. His mind was a storm of confusion, his heart heavy with grief, but still, his feet carried him onward.

He had been fighting with everything he had, his every strike filled with the weight of his duty, his every breath a reminder of how much there was to lose. But as the cries of the dying filled the night and the flames of Troy consumed the very bones of the city, something within him broke. He had already lost so much. He didn’t know the whereabouts of his father, his comrades had fallen, and now, the Achaeans were still sweeping through the city, penning the survivors in.

No place was safe.

In the distance, he saw the Nothern gates—broken, smouldering. His heart raced with a desperate need to find his family, to find Creüsa, his beloved wife, if she was even still alive. No. He refused to entertain even a second of that. The thought of her, their son Ascanius, and the life they had had just a few hours prior was all that kept him moving. He had to find a way out. Somehow.

Beside him ran Briseis, huffing and puffing with every turn they took. They had tried three of the four gates and if this one also proved impenetrable…Aeneas didn’t want to think of it.

They came to a stop next to a broken fountain and crawled behind the wall of a broken building, on the street which led up to the Northern gates. This was the nearest and easiest exit to the Mountains, where his brother Perseus had promised to find him with their father and any other survivors he might find.

His eyes caught sight of a scattered battalion of Greeks, laughing merrily around the gates, ploughing through burning houses and murdering the Trojans that had managed to escape their first wave.

“Father,” Ascanius’ voice was low in his ears. He was shaking so badly. “Father, I’m scared.”

Aeneas ran a hand through the boy’s hair and kissed the top of his head. He hated this. He hated that his son would have nightmares of this day for the rest of his life. “I know, Ascanius,” He whispered back. “I am too.”

Briseis sent him a pitiful look. “It’s not safe,” She moaned in distress. “We’ll be caught before we’re even halfway to the gates. Even if we do manage to pass through, we’ll be chased down.”

She was terrified, and rightly so. The night had been the longest in all of Aeneas’ long years. He had never wanted to wake up from a nightmare so badly. The siege had stretched out for what seemed like days, but he knew that not even two hours had passed since the Achaeans had invaded. “Keep your head on, Briseis,” He told her sharply. He didn’t like how she was scaring his son. “I’m going to scout ahead. Watch Ascanius, alright? And scream if you need help.”

Both she and his son looked like they wanted to protest. But then the woman thought better of it and nodded sombrely. Aeneas gently passed his child into her arms. He tried not to feel as though it was the last time he might see them both. Ascanius’ lips wobbled, but he blinked back his tears furiously. He tried to smile reassuringly, and then he was gone.

The demigod crept along the debris and the ruins. He needed statistics. He knew he could take them and fight his way out the gates if they were just foot soldiers and few in number. But what then? They would just chase them down. The Achaeans were here to massacre them, and it would be foolish to believe that just by getting out the gates, they would be safe.

“Aeneas,” a voice whispered, barely audible above the roar of the chaos, but unmistakably familiar.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat. He turned sharply, searching the smoke-filled air, but there was nothing. His eyes darted, scanning the ruins for a sign. “Creüsa?” he called out, his voice rough and raw, trembling with a mix of hope and dread. He knew calling out was like sending out a flare of his location. But if she was here…

“Aeneas…” The voice came again, softer this time, like a wind brushing through his soul. And then, through the haze of smoke and flame, he saw her.

She stood before him, both of them hidden by the fallen buildings, a pale figure, her form flickering like a candle in the wind and the haze of the glaring fires. It was Creüsa—his Creüsa, safe and sound. Alive.

But as he looked, he felt his gut drop. Aeneas stood.

It was his Creüsa, but not as he remembered her. Her hair, once fair, now shimmered silver, like moonlight caught in a storm. Her eyes were distant, wide and filled with sorrow. Eerily familiar. But they were not the eyes of the woman he had loved. They were the eyes of something beyond, something lost between life and death. A line of blood trailed down the side of her head. His eyes moved to the blood staining the side of her peplos.

“Creüsa…” He whispered her name like a prayer, stepping toward her out of his hiding place, his chest tight with emotion. His hand reached out, trembling, desperate to touch her, to hold her again, but his fingers passed through her like air, like smoke. Something broke inside him.

“Aeneas…” she said again, her voice like the softest of sighs, but her tone firm, unyielding. “You must listen to me.”

“Creüsa, no…” His voice cracked, the weight of his grief threatening to collapse him. “No. Tell me this doesn’t mean what I’m thinking.”

Her answering smile was sad, but reassuring, and he felt his insides rot. “No…I failed you. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save you from the crowd, from the Greeks—”

Her form flickered again, a sharp, painful light dancing around her figure as she spoke, “There was nothing you could have done. It is not your fault I was lost in the stampede. The gods had already decided, Aeneas. You must not dwell on what cannot be undone. I… I have accepted it.”

Aeneas’s breath caught in his throat. He reached for her again, his hand trembling with the need to hold her, to feel her warmth, to somehow make sense of the agony that clutched his heart. “But I could have saved you,” he choked, his voice breaking under the weight of the loss. “I should’ve been faster, stronger. I promised I’d always protect you… and now, you're gone. Alone. I couldn’t keep my promise.” He could feel the tears, threatening to break forth and reduce him to nothing.

Her gaze softened with a sorrowful understanding, yet there was a strength in her presence—an otherworldly strength that held him in place, forcing him to confront what he did not want to accept. “No, Aeneas,” she said gently, her voice as soft as the wind in the trees. “You are not to blame. The gods have their plans. My death was part of it. It is my time. But it is not yours. Your journey is not over.”

He shook his head violently, his tears falling freely now, streaking down his grimy face. “My journey… my journey was here, Creüsa. With you, with Ascanius. With Perseus and Hector. How am I supposed to leave this behind? How can I go on without you?”

Her form flickered again, her presence growing fainter as the wind swirled through the broken gates of Troy, carrying with it the bitter scent of burning. “You must go, Aeneas. You must leave this place. Troy is lost. Our people are lost. There is nothing left here for you.”

He stumbled back, his heart shredding in his chest. “I—we’re trying. But there’s no way. We hoped to cut through the mountains and get home, to Dardania but—”

“It is gone, Aeneas,” she interrupted, her voice now a steady force, clear and sharp, cutting through his denial. “Dardania is no more. The Greeks have destroyed it all before they came here. They left no survivors. There is nothing left of our city, nothing but ruins and memories.” He took in a sharp intake of breath. It was all too much—losing two cities in a single night. And he hadn’t been there for his people either. How much more would he have to endure? “Do you not see it, Aeneas?” Creüsa said, gently, “You must find a way. You are not abandoning your people, for they are already gone—you are saving your son. You must save him.”

Her words crashed over him like waves against the shore, tearing apart the walls he had built around his heart. For a long moment, he said nothing. The weight of it all—of Troy’s destruction, of his wife’s death, of his own failure to protect them—nearly crushed him. He could feel the bitter sting of betrayal from the gods, the loss of everything he had fought for. Her words pulled forth another memory, words, exchanged with his mother on a balcony months ago.

“But what about you?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “What about us?”

Her eyes—those hollow, ethereal eyes—seemed to soften with an infinite sadness. “I am no more, Aeneas. But you, you must live. For me. For Ascanius. For the future. There is a kingdom waiting for you in Hesperia. A new life. A new purpose.”

Aeneas’s heart trembled at the thought. A kingdom. A new life. Could he truly leave behind all he had known, all he had loved? Could he step into the unknown just because the gods decreed it to be so?

“You will find your destiny from there, Aeneas,” Creüsa continued, her voice now a soothing balm against the raw pain of his heart. “You will find a new queen. And in her, you will find a new life—one that will honour Troy’s legacy. But you cannot do this if you remain here, drowning in the ashes of what was. You must go.”

Aeneas closed his eyes, his head spinning, his heart breaking anew. He wanted to scream, to fight against this fate that seemed to be pulling him away from everything he had known, but there was no denying it. No escaping it. “There will be no other Queen for me but you.”

She smiled. “You must live again, Aeneas. And to live, you must first learn to love.”

Everything hurt. He couldn’t bear to hear her words. Not so soon. “You must go,” She said, again. “Get to the Temple of Poseidon. Perseus will find you there. So will your salvation.”

He nodded, numbly. He had to go. And yet… he could not find it in himself to let go.

“I… I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I don’t want to leave you, Creüsa.” He paused, the memories of the city, of their love, of their son all flooding his mind.

“You are not leaving me, Aeneas,” she whispered back. “You are carrying me with you. In your heart, in your soul. And I will always be with you. But your future lies ahead, not behind.”

Her form began to fade, flickering like a dying flame, and Aeneas’s heart screamed at the sight. “Creüsa! Don’t leave me. Please…”

Her smile was sad, but it was there—faint but strong, like the flicker of a dying star. “You must go. For him. For Ascanius.” She exhaled, “I love you.”

And with that, she was gone, her presence dissipating into the smoke and the flames, leaving Aeneas standing alone in the ruins of Troy.

For a long moment, he stood still, his chest heaving with the weight of what had just occurred, the weight of everything he had lost. But then, slowly, he straightened, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “I love you, Creüsa,” He murmured. “And I’m sorry.” The son of Aphrodite drew in on some inner strength and made his way back to Briseis and his son. Aeneas looked down at Ascanius, eyes blown wide with fear and anticipation, and then at Briseis, who stood at his side, trepidation and sorrow still painted on her face.

With a deep, ragged breath, he whispered, “We leave now. I’ve found a way. Let’s get to Poseidon’s temple.” Briseis didn’t argue. Aeneas bent and swept his son into his arms, and they backtracked the way they had come.

But as he walked into the night, a single tear slid down his cheek.

BREAK

In the midst of the chaos, Perseus found himself standing alone in the sacred temple of Poseidon. He had just arrived less than a second ago, still burning with anger, and grief over Athena, and Cassandra, and the looting, pillaging and murdering going on around him. The temple walls were broken and burning, and he could not even feel his father’s presence in the ruins.

The air was thick with the echoes of destruction, and he felt an almost overwhelming sense of loss weighing on his heart. As he lingered next to the front steps in contemplation, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted his solitude. Perseus turned, readying his sword to strike, but then sagged almost instantly. Relief filled him to the brim and then he was dropping his weapon and sweeping the newcomers in bone-crushing hugs.

It was Aeneas, his brother; he was alive and safe, and Perseus felt his heart swell as he laughed through the tears threatening to spill down his face. His brother looked broken, but happy to see him, and he crushed him into another embrace so tight Ascanius began to squirm between them. They both laughed, and Perseus pulled away first.

“Thank the gods you’re okay,” He murmured.

“You don’t know how worried I’ve been,” Aeneas said, sniffing.

The immortal’s eye flickered to Briseis, standing a few ways behind them. “Thank you.”

She nodded numbly.

Perseus glanced around worriedly. The siege was still in full swing and nowhere was safe. They couldn’t be standing in the open like this. “Come on,” He took Ascanius’ hand and squeezed. Perseus could feel the younger boy shaking. Whatever had happened in Troy that night was something no child should have to witness. Aeneas nodded and they made their way through broken pillars and statues, going deeper into the ruins of the temple. Perseus looked his brother over. He looked worse for wear. Wrecked.

“Where’s Creüsa?” A worried expression settled onto his face. Something flickered on Ascanius’ face, and Perseus’ heart dropped into his stomach.

No…if she wasn’t here, that meant—

Perseus met Aeneas’ eyes, and his brother shook his head morosely. He seemed to shudder with sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” He said honestly, reaching out to squeeze Aeneas’ shoulder. His brother nodded in silent understanding of their shared grief.

“I never thought it would end like this,” The son of Poseidon murmured, his voice low, almost to himself.

Aeneas nodded, his gaze distant, staring at the ruins around them where the flames of Troy were now nothing but embers, scattered in the wind. “None of us did. But what’s done is done.”

The words hung heavy in the air, neither of them daring to speak of the city’s fall more directly. It was a bitter truth Perseus could yet accept.

They came to a stop beside his father’s altar, and the demigod touched the ornate carvings, before letting out a sigh. It felt cold beneath his fingertips. “We have to find—“

He was cut off by a sharp gasp from Briseis. The raven-haired man glanced towards her in worry and then recoiled in shock when he noticed what stood before her. Or rather, whom.

It was as though he had been conjured by the very sorrow that lingered between him and Aeneas. The air grew cold, and the shadow of his best friend materialised from thin air. Aeneas took a step back in surprise, almost bumping into his son. Ascanius dove behind Perseus’ legs, eyes open wide in terror.

Hector.

The greatest prince of Troy, their best friend, stood before them, his spectral form bathed in an ethereal light. His face was as noble and proud as ever, but his eyes… those eyes were hollow as he looked around them, taking in the manifestation of their failure to protect the home he had entrusted into their hands—the ruins. His body was no longer the mortal one they had seen fall on the blood-soaked sands of the battlefield, but the ghost of a warrior, at peace yet bound to the ruins of the city he loved.

Aeneas took a step forward, and Perseus felt his dam break. A single tear slid down his face through the grime and blood. His legs wobbled, threatening to send him to his knees. Briseis looked terrified, cowering behind the altar.

Aeneas broke the silence first, voice shaking, “Hector... Is it truly you?”

Perseus, too, staggered forward, his heart in his throat. A whirlwind of emotions stirred up in him. His breath misted as it left his lips. “Hector. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t—”

Hector’s ghost smiled, a sadness in his gaze. “Yeah, it’s me. I have come to say what I could not in life. And to give you both the peace you need.” Perseus wanted to sob. How could the fates toy with them in this way? How could they be so cruel?

The two men, warriors and brothers who had bled for their city, stared at the shade of their friend, their prince, their brother. Aeneas choked on the words he could not speak, and Perseus felt the weight of his own failures press down on him.

Hector had always been the soul of Troy, the anchor that kept them all together, and he was gone. He had been gone for so long, and seeing him again, here, dredged up in him feelings and emotions of grief, loss, and anger at his friend’s death and the destruction of his city.

“We failed,” Perseus whispered. “We failed you, Hector. We couldn’t save Troy. We couldn’t save you.”

Hector’s ghost shook his head softly, his voice a balm against their guilt. “Don’t be silly, Perseus. You did not fail me. You never did. Troy’s fate was sealed the moment the gods turned their eyes away from us by allowing that horse to stand. And my death was not your fault, nor was it a defeat.” He floated forward, wisps of smoke peeling off his spectral body. Hector looked on the verge of tears. The prince gave them a watery smile. “Gods, I miss you guys so much.”

“We miss you too,” Aeneas croaked. “So much that it hurts. I’m so sorry, Hector.”

Hector stepped closer to them, his presence a gentle force that calmed their raging hearts. “My death was my destiny,” he said. “It was always meant to be. And in the end, it is not failure to die for a cause you believe in. It is an honour. Troy may fall, but our deeds live on, as do our memories. I do not blame you, nor should you blame yourselves.” He reached out, and his ghostly hands tried to hold onto both Perseus’ and Aeneas’ faces. The son of Poseidon shuddered as he felt the ghostly presence. “You avenged me. That was enough.”

The brothers were silent for a long moment, the weight of Hector’s words sinking deep within them. There was no solace in the fall of Troy, no comfort in the ruins that surrounded them, but there was something else—a truth that Hector’s spirit brought with him, something they had not dared to consider.

“Then what are we to do?” Perseus finally asked, his voice shaky. His prince’s words resonated deep within him. He wanted nothing more than to hug him, hold him, and listen to him say it would all be alright again. “Troy is dead. The gods have forsaken us. Fate has forsaken us.”

Hector’s eyes softened. “You must live, Perseus. You, Aeneas, and all who remain. Troy may fall, but her blood flows in all of us. You cannot mourn her forever. Move on, find new lives. Lead the survivors. Help them rebuild; save our city’s dreams, not its ashes.”

Perseus bowed his head, his chest tight. The night had taken so much from him. He had been a hero, but now, in this moment of loss, he felt nothing but emptiness. Yet Hector’s words stirred something deep within him—an ember of hope that he did not know he still had.

That was the wonder that was Hector, his best friend, the oasis in every desert. He was always the rock they stood upon—always there to tell them there was a way out. Another tear escaped his eye. Aeneas nodded and smiled through his tears at the fallen comrade.

“Wait,” His brother started, eyes widening in horror. “Andromache and Astyanax—I—have you seen them, in the Underworld?”

Hector shook his head, his tone growing quieter, “No. No, I haven’t. I’ve been searching.”

“It means they’re still alive,” Perseus said, his tongue feeling ashen. It meant Hector’s family was still somewhere, mixed in all this chaos.

“Then we have to find them,” Aeneas said solemnly. “It’s the least we can do.”

“The Greeks are not merciful,” Hector agreed, “I would like nothing more for them to live. But—“

“Hector,” Perseus reached out to take his hand, but it sailed right through. He winced, hands falling limply to his side. “If Andromache and Astyanax are alive, I will find them. I swear it.”

“If it is their fate to—“

“We don’t know that,” Aeneas shook his head. “We can’t know without trying.”

Hector swallowed. “Alright.” He nodded, “If you cannot…please, don’t blame yourselves. But…I trust you.”

Perseus nodded, a solemn promise in his eyes. As much as Hector was trying not to build up any false hope, Perseus could tell that he wanted his family to live. It didn’t matter if the prince would see them should they fall. His son was a baby, and he deserved a chance at life—a life better than this. Hector would wish to spare his wife from the horrors the Achaeans would inflict on her before finally killing her.

His best friend exhaled, “I just—I don’t want them to suffer. Any more than they already have.”

Hector’s words seemed to fuel him, lighting up a burning fire within the one-eyed soldier. “I swear, Hector. I will see to it that they are safe.” He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. Andromache and Asytanax should have been among the ones he sought out first but in the chaos of the evening, he had forgotten about them. He was a horrible friend. All he had been worried about was finding Aeneas and his father and getting his own family out when Hector’s should have also been a priority. He had sworn to protect them after the prince’s death, and he hadn’t been able to.

Not when they needed him most.

Hector’s ghost looked at them both with gratitude, his form beginning to fade into the night. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you. Troy may fall, but its spirit will live through you both. You are my brothers, my family, and I am so grateful I got to share this life with you.” He glanced at Aeneas, and said, “I will wait for you, Aeneas. However long it takes you to get here, I will wait.” Perseus ached all over. It hurt, knowing he would not be reunited with them ever; not in a death he could not have. Hector smiled at him knowingly, and Perseus smiled back. “Be strong, Perseus.” He nodded, numbly. The appearance of their dead brother had reduced him to a mess. But Hector was right. He had to be strong. Because wherever Hector or Aeneas went, he would carry them in his heart and his memories, forever.

The fallen prince leaned down and beamed at Ascanius, who had been looking up at him wide-eyed the entire conversation. “Goodbye, nephew. Be brave. Take care of your dad and uncle for me, alright?” Ascanius nodded, still in awe. “Be good so you can get out safely.”

“There is no way to escape the city. Every exit is blocked,” Aeneas spoke up. “We’ve tried.”

Hector straightened and glanced around, his form beginning to flicker and vanish in the wind, “You have another visitor and I do not wish to keep her waiting. She’s here to help with that. Remember, I will be with you.” He beamed at them, a tear falling from his left eye. “Always and forever.”

And then he was gone.

Perseus felt a sense of overwhelming loss settle over him. But amid that was also the unmistakable feeling of peace. He glanced at Aeneas, and slung his arm over his brother’s, giving him a slight squeeze. The fall of Troy could not be undone, but they had each other. Together, they would carry on the legacy of their city, and the spirit of Hector would live on through their actions.

“Well, that was simply beautiful,” A female voice echoed through the darkness, pulling him out of his thoughts. A woman materialised right where Hector had been, beside the altar of Poseidon. Perseus reached for his sword but then relaxed when he noticed who it was. Red hair fell around her in ringlets, and even in a simple black cloak with gold trims, the goddess Aphrodite still looked breathtaking.

“Mother,” Aeneas moved forward to meet her, extracting himself from Perseus’ arms.

“Oh, my son,” Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry I took so long. It took a lot of effort for us to convince Jove to let us interfere and help out.” Ascanius looked up in wonder at his grandmother. She waved at him and blew him a kiss, making the boy hide his face further behind his uncle’s legs.

“Us?” Perseus questioned gruffly. If she was referring to Athena, Perseus did not think the wisdom goddess had done much helping. And she had still been meddling, even during Jove’s ban. Surely, the other gods knew that.

Aphrodite looked him over, and smiled wryly, “Yes, us.”

Then he heard it, the sound of hooves, the tell-tale nickering, and the huff of a very excited and familiar horse. The black stallion burst through the debris and into the ruins, cantering towards them, “Hey, boss! Miss me?”

Perseus had never been happier to see an animal. Blackkack came to a stop beside his father’s altar and neighed. Ascanius let out a surprised yelp and Briseis took a few tentative steps back. Perseus beamed, wiping away his tears and approaching the horse. “Gods, yes. It’s so good to see you, Blackjack.” He patted the horse’s flank and turned to Aphrodite for an explanation.

“Your father sends his regards,” The love goddess shrugged. “And this gift with a few…modifications.”

Blackjack neighed again and leaned forward. Perseus heard the signs of bones shifting and then recoiled, swearing as a pair of midnight black wings sprouted from the horse’s side. Briseis cried out, and Ascanius went, “Whoa.”

“What—“

“Looks like I’m a Pegasus now, boss!” Blackjack cantered around excitedly. “I can fucking fly!”

Perseus glanced at his father’s altar and smiled to himself. Of course, he would pull something like this. Thank you, he mentally said to Poseidon. He felt a warmth inside him in response. A pegasus. That was crazy. But Poseidon was a god, and this wasn’t beyond him.

“Andromache and her son are in the topmost tower of the castle,” Aphrodite told him. “The horse will get you there quickly. If there are no other interruptions you’ll be there in time to save them.”

“Thanks,” Perseus nodded. He glanced at the altar. “Both of you.”

“What about me?” Aeneas questioned. “How do I help?”

“Help?” Aphrodite snorted in the most dignified way possible. “I told you once that was Troy to fall I would get you out. I am here to do just that.”

“You know a way out?” Briseis asked in a small voice.

Aphrodite looked at her once, smiled to herself as though she knew a secret, and then nodded. “I do. I can lead you there, Aeneas. It will take you to the mountains and out of this place. If you follow the mountain path you should come to the other side of the island, where a ship will be waiting on the beach. But you have to come with me now.”

“But—“

“Aeneas,” Perseus stepped in front of his brother. His mind whirred at the implication of the goddess’ words. She could get them out. She knew an exit. He did not trust the Olympians, but right now, there was no other option. He would have to give Aphrodite the benefit of the doubt, and he knew she would go to any lengths to ensure Aeneas and Ascanius were safe. “Please, go with her. I can deal with this.”

His brother looked between him, then his son, who looked on with intelligent eyes and wise silence. Then his gaze flickered over to his mother. Aphrodite, for the first time since Perseus had met her, spoke with a sense of urgency, “Your father is currently unable to move, but I know where you can find him. He’s in my temple with a whole crowd of people. That’s the only temple left standing, and everyone in the city still alive is making their way there now or is already in hiding behind my altars. Should the Achaeans reach it before we do, they will slaughter all of them, good Anchises included. If you dally here, they will slaughter you too.” Her frown deepened, but that did nothing to mar her beauty. “I made you a promise, Aeneas. I need you to listen to me so I can keep it.”

He stared into Perseus’ face, and the son of Poseidon nodded at his brother. If Aphrodite could get his entire family out safe, he would be in her debt forever. She cared for Aeneas, and Perseus knew she would protect him. He looked at Aeneas pleadingly, his eye begging the curly-haired idiot to listen, for once and let him do the grunt work, “I’ll find you. I promise. Just get Father out of here.”

Aeneas shuddered under the weight of the decision, and then finally nodded, lips downcast. He didn’t look too happy to be separating again, but Perseus knew his brother was aware he could take care of himself. His father and any other survivors were paramount. Perseus sent him a reassuring smile and pulled Aeneas into an embrace. The other man hugged him back fiercely. The son of Poseidon made a silent oath to himself; he would do all he could to make sure this would not be the last time they saw each other. He would fight tooth and nail to find them again.

The immortal demigod ruffled Ascanius’ hair, then moved to the horse.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Aeneas’ voice was tinged with worry.

“I am,” He climbed atop Blackjack. “Stay safe, okay?”

“You too,” Aeneas bent and swooped Ascanius into his arms. He turned to look back at Perseus. His eyes said everything his lips could not.

“This isn’t a goodbye,” Perseus told him, trying to assuage his anxiety. “Just a see you later.”

“Alright,” His voice was soft. “See you later, then.”

Perseus leaned forward and whispered into Blackjack’s ear, “Come on, bud. Let’s go.” With one last wave at the rag-tag group, he turned upon his horse. They galloped through the ruins and the burning city and then lifted off the ground.

BREAK

The air was thick with smoke, acrid and clinging to Aeneas’ lungs as though the dying breath of Troy itself sought to drag him down as he ran. Around him, the city fell in screams and shudders, the great walls crumbling under relentless fire and Greek fury. His steps faltered as exhaustion gnawed at his limbs, but a weight far heavier than fatigue pressed on his chest.

Troy was a graveyard now, and so many people he knew were among its dead.

A clap of thunder shattered his thoughts, splitting the night with a roar so primal it stilled the wailing for one fleeting moment. Aeneas froze, his blood cold and his body trembling with the effort he’d been exerting on it for the past hour. Above, the heavens opened, a rift in the black clouds revealing a single, piercing star—a bolt of lightning. It shone like a beacon, unyielding against the inferno. An omen. Jove was not happy about something.

Before he could draw another breath, Aphrodite had turned and was motioning for them to hurry. Even as she ran ahead of him, she seemed ethereal, her radiance untainted by the filth of the world she dashed through. She turned again, and her gaze locked onto Aeneas, and his heart seized at the divine force in her eyes—ancient, powerful, yet filled with a mother’s concern. She was a vision of both salvation and command, her presence undeniable.

And she had come. She had come for him.

Beside him Briseis huffed, and holding on to his hand Ascanius tried to keep up wearily.

They reached her temple, its grand columns now fractured and its sacred fires dimmed to embers. But it looked mostly intact, and far, far away, he saw his home—the palace—wrecked beyond recognition. The demigod squinted towards the burning sky, hoping maybe he could make out the flying black steed which carried his brother. He prayed Perseus would be safe. He was immortal, yes, but there were far worse things than death, and he did not wish any on his brother.

They followed his mother through a side entrance, and Aeneas felt something inside him melt as he took in the sight—the people, nearly forty of them, huddled around the altar and statues.

Forty people.

That was all that was left of his city, when before they had been hundreds of thousands strong.

He felt a sour taste on his tongue but pushed back the feeling and began to walk inside, eyes roving across the entire temple.

Within, a huddled group of survivors clung together, their faces streaked with soot and fear. Sailors, soldiers, women, children. Aeneas saw some of the mighty nobles of Troy sat shoulder to shoulder with trembling commoners, stripped of all pretence in the shadow of death. He recognised a few of them—Achates stood warily at the front, looking exhausted but still clutching a spear. He passed Aeneas a small welcoming smile, a light in this dark situation. Aeneas also saw Misenus, his Dardanian trumpeteer, and Sergestus, another of his men. There were Ilioneus and Nautes, a palace courtier and a priest respectively. And there, at the centre of the group, leaning against a cracked altar, was Anchises, his dear father. His chest caved in.

Aeneas staggered at the sight of his father. The old man’s face, once so strong and unyielding, was pale and drawn, his eyes dulled with pain. His crippled legs were stretched before him, useless in this hour of need. Yet he held himself upright, clutching a staff in one hand and reaching out with the other as Aeneas approached.

“Father…” The word escaped Aeneas like a sob, and he fell to his knees beside Anchises. He was aware of his mother hanging about at the entrance of the temple, unseen so far. There were twitters and murmurs of surprise and shock from the crowd of people around. The sight of his father, his confidant, his mentor, broke something in him anew again as they embraced. For the first time that night, the weight of everything—of Creüsa, of Troy, of his own loss—pressed so heavily upon him that he thought he might break. He bowed his head, his hands gripping Anchises’ shoulders as though his father’s presence was the only thing anchoring him to life.

Anchises’ hand found his son’s face, trembling but firm. “Aeneas,” he rasped, his voice rough yet steady, “You’ve come. My son… you’re alive, thank the gods.” He smiled as tears poured down his face. “Oh, and Ascanius, my boy!” Anchises kissed the top of his grandson’s head, and Ascanius beamed. The old man looked up, his smile falling, “Where—where are Creüsa and Perseus?”

Tears spilt down Aeneas’ face, leaving streaks in the grime. “Perseus has gone to find Hector’s wife and son. And Creüsa…I failed her, Father,” he choked. “She’s gone. I couldn’t…” His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead against Anchises’ shoulder, his body wracked with silent sobs. The crowd around them was watching, but Aeneas didn’t care. He tried to remember the words of both Hector and Creüsa’s ghosts. But it was just so hard to stop crying.

Seeing his father again, alive and safe, amidst all this chaos, had done things to him, unravelling the bandages Hector and his wife had tried to place around his internal wounds. The son of Aphrodite felt a hand on his shoulder, then a squeeze, and he glanced up—it was Achates, and Aeneas’ own sorrow was reflected in those eyes that had seen too much—lost too much. Aeneas managed a sad smile.

Anchises cupped the back of his son’s head, his own eyes misting. His gaze moved back to his father. “You carry the burden of a city, Aeneas,” Good Anchises said softly. “Do not let grief devour you. Troy may fall, but our blood must endure. Creüsa’s sacrifice should ensure that.”

Aeneas nodded, though his heart felt torn asunder. His gaze fell to the boy at his side—Ascanius, his son, his only hope now. He pulled the child close, brushing soot from his tear-streaked face. The boy clung to Aeneas’ arm, his small body trembling from exhaustion.

“We need to move. I know a way out,” Aeneas said hoarsely. His eyes moved back to the way they had come, where Aphrodite had been watching their reunion with unveiled interest. No one else seemed to notice her, yet. Aeneas wondered if their party were the only ones who could see her. “But we need to move now. The Achaeans are coming.”

“Tell us what we need to do,” Anchises said.

Aeneas scanned the crowd, all looking fearful, scared for their lives, expectant.

Then he turned to Achates, his former bully, now his longtime companion. He had saved Aeneas’ life once, and he was the most capable warrior amongst the soldiers present. He picked up his son, rising, and turned to the blond warrior. “Can you take him? Carry him along?” Achates looked thrown off for a second but then nodded in confusion. He placed Ascanius into the other man’s arms, brushing a hand over the boy’s hair one last time. “Protect him. No matter what happens to me. Promise me.”

Achates nodded solemnly. “I will keep him safe,” he vowed, his voice steady.

Aeneas turned back to Anchises, his resolve hardening. “Come, Father,” he said, his voice stronger now. “I will carry you.”

“What—,” Anchises protested weakly, “No—“ but Aeneas was already moving. He knelt, bracing himself under his father’s weight, and hoisted Anchises onto his back. The old man gasped, his hands gripping his son’s shoulders tightly. Aeneas gritted his teeth against the strain, his knees nearly buckling, but he refused to falter. Achates looked on in understanding, adjusting Ascanius on his hip. Aeneas smiled at his son, and the child smiled back.

“You are my strength now,” Anchises whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He patted Aeneas’ shoulder.

The demigod swallowed and then staggered beneath the weight towards his mother. Aphrodite looked on, eyes sparkling with something—pride. “I’ve had many children in my long life, Aeneas.” She beamed at him. “You are by far my favourite.”

“Thanks,” he grunted. Whatever that meant now. The surrounding crowd finally noticed the goddess, and there were sparks of conversation and gasps. The people bowed and Aphrodite positively glowed, motioning for them to stand.

His mother adjusted her cloak and Aeneas shifted beneath his father. He looked her dead in the eye. “Alright, Mother. We’re ready to follow.”

BREAK

The son of Poseidon gripped the black mane of the pegasus tightly, his knuckles pale as the wind howled in his ears. The world below blurred—a tapestry of orange, red and black, smeared like paint across the earth. If only he had been able to do this when Troy had still stood. It would have been a breathtaking view.

It hurt that he was already referring to his home in the past tense.

Perseus’ heartbeat thundered louder than the wind, louder even than the rhythmic beat of Blackjack’s new wings. Each stroke lifted him higher, away from the safety of the ground and deeper into the storm-ridden realm of Zeus; closer to the tower where the last fragments of his best friend hid.

He shouldn’t be here. The skies were Jove’s domain, an air charged with danger and warning. The clouds crackled with latent energy, the faint scent of ozone filling his nose. A rumble echoed in the distance—not quite thunder, not quite wrath—but close enough to set his nerves on fire. Each instinct screamed for him to turn back, to descend before he dared offend his uncle further.

But he had been daring gods since he was four. He wasn’t about to stop now.

The exhilaration was intoxicating, a siren song too sweet to resist. He could feel the connection to Blackjack in his bones, like the pull of the tide. He could feel the horse’s heart beating beneath him. The stallion’s movements were an extension of his own, a rhythm he instinctively understood. It was as though the sea itself had sprouted wings, defying the heavens.

Perseus could not help but smile, despite himself. Despite the loss, and the chaos. He had never felt more…free. A laugh escaped him.

The sound was raw and defiant.

Too much. This night had been too much, and flying atop Blackjack felt like it had all been a horrible nightmare and he was about to wake up any moment now. The air tasted sharp and wild, like freedom. Poseidon’s gift had made him a trespasser, yes, but he felt unstoppable. Beneath him, Blackjack let out a triumphant whinny, his breath forming steam in the heat of the burning city.

Then a bolt of lightning tore through the sky, searing bright and furious, a reminder of the danger. It was so close, just a hair’s breadth, really.

Zeus was watching. Perseus swallowed hard, his grip tightening. But the high god would not strike him down—not today.

Below, the city crumbled under the onslaught of Greek forces, its streets a labyrinth of flames and despair. The cries of the helpless rose like a dirge, guiding his sharp gaze to a young boy trapped beneath a fallen beam. Blackjack dove without hesitation, Perseus leaping from the horse mid-flight to heave the beam aside. “Run to Aphrodite’s temple!” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos, before lifting back onto Blackjack and taking off again.

Moments later, he spotted a mother clutching an infant, cornered by armed soldiers. Perseus descended like a thunderbolt, his sword flashing in arcs of silver as he dispatched their attackers. Without a word, he helped her to her feet, his expression steeled with urgency. “Aphrodite’s temple,” he said firmly, pointing to the path. Before she could thank him, he was aloft again. His final rescue came as he spied an elderly man struggling to climb a crumbling wall to escape the blaze. Perseus and Blackjack dove down and he reached out, snatching the man off the walls and lifting him onto the horse. They settled away from the flames, and he said, “Aphrodite’s temple is your only sanctuary now. Go!” The old man babbled some thanks and ran.

Perseus turned his gaze back to the inferno, determined to save whoever he could before the city fell entirely. But he was even more determined to save his sister-in-law and his nephew.

He could see the tower in the distance, and Perseus leaned down to whisper in Blackjack’s ear, “You set me right down, then you fly high into the skies, got it? Hang around. I’ll whistle if I need you.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

The pegasus surged forward, his wings slicing through the smoke with a power that blew the flames in the other direction. Then he dove down.

The courtyard was a storm of chaos and fire when Perseus landed, Blackjack’s hooves scraping against the blood-slicked stone. His smile fell, the smell of death and blood filling his nostrils and reminding him that no, this horror show was far from over, and his temporary pleasure had been just that—temporary.

The immortal’s sword gleamed in the flickering flames as the din of screams, clashing steel, and collapsing stone filled the air. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh assaulted him, but Perseus pressed forward, his senses sharp despite the carnage surrounding him. The place was swarming with Greek soldiers, carving their way through what remained of the inhabitants of the palace, pulling the very building off the ground.

Above him, the tower swayed.

Perseus swore, promptly slid off his pegasus, and dove into the fray. Blackjack swooped into the sky.

He fought like a demon, his talk with Hector and the gift from Poseidon filling him with a new drive, chasing away all his exhaustion. Perseus tore through the animals that had invaded his home, cutting a path towards the tower where he knew Hector’s family was being assaulted. He would have flown directly to it, but there was no landing space, and he would have to climb up nearly a hundred steps to get to the room at the top.

The word of his arrival spread like wildfire. Before he had taken ten steps he was surrounded by several Achaeans, screaming for blood.

His skin glinted under the blood-red sky. Perseus tightened his grip on his sword, the blade gleaming with the savage light of his fury, dripping with blood he had already spilt. He was outnumbered, but he had no intention of retreating. He shuffled on his feet, eyes darting up to the tower. Someone had set fire to the base. He heard a scream. He had to be quick.

The first wave of Achaeans struck like a tide. Perseus ducked under the arc of a spear and slammed his fist into the wielder’s face, shattering bone. He spun, his word cutting a wide arc, and two more Greeks fell, their armour splitting like ripe fruit. The weight of their bodies slowed their comrades, giving Perseus a precious heartbeat to advance. He drove forward, his fist battering another soldier off balance, his blade finding a gap in the next man’s cuirass.

The battalion pressed harder, attempting to encircle him. Perseus’ sharp eye caught the glint of a spear aimed at his side. He pivoted, letting the tip glance off his tunic, and drove his sword upward into the attacker’s exposed neck. Blood sprayed hot across his face, but the immortal did not flinch. They were fools, for even attempting their luck against him, when everyone and their mothers knew he could not be killed. Another Greek came at him with a wild swing. Perseus sidestepped and countered with a savage slash, the force of his strike cutting through the man’s shield arm.

The Greeks began to falter. They were men from various cities—he saw some with different insignia’s; Ithaca’s, Thrace, Phthia, Mycenae, Sparta, and Athens. None of them stood a chance. Their tightly packed formation was breaking apart under the sheer ferocity of Perseus’ assault. They were crying out as they met his blade, and he was a blur of bronze and crimson, his movements fluid as a river yet as unyielding as a hurricane. Perseus parried a downward slash, locked the attacker’s blade with his own, and twisted, sending the weapon clattering to the ground before driving his sword through the man’s chest.

A spearhead grazed his thigh, drawing a line of gold. Perseus grunted but didn’t slow. He grabbed the shaft and yanked it forward, pulling its wielder into range. A swift knee to the gut sent the man sprawling, and Perseus ended him with a yell and a downward stab.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins and the demigod narrowed his eye as shields locked together, spears bristling outward. Another scream resonated through the courtyard, bringing Perseus’ attention to its source.

Through the smoke and flame, two figures emerged, trembling yet defiant, being herded like cattle to the centre of the courtyard for execution. Hecuba, the once-proud queen of Troy, her face streaked with ash and tears, stood clutching Laodice, her daughter. The girl’s wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Perseus from afar, desperate for salvation. Something thundered in his chest. The fight had been going on for too long. He had to be quick, or else—

“Please!” Hecuba rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Perseus, help us!”

Before he could answer, a thunderous crash echoed from the tower above. A wailing cry carried over the destruction—Andromache and her son, Astyanax, surrounded on all sides by marauding Achaeans. He saw Andromache’s face appear in the window, only to be yanked back. Then a man toppled through the glass, screaming.

Perseus swore, then dove into the fighting again. In minutes he had made quick work of the contingent around him and was diving for Hecuba and the princess.

They were equally just as surrounded, with the men leering and preparing to end their lives. Charging into their formation would be suicide for a lesser man.

But he was Perseus.

He looked around quickly and spotted a fallen javelin as he ran. With a burst of speed, he scooped it up. An Achaean commander had thrown Laodice onto her knees and was unbuckling his belt. A surge of anger seared through Perseus and he hurled the javelin. The weapon sailed true, piercing through the Greek wall and striking the man right in the chest. There was a ripple of confusion and indignation as he slumped to the ground. Laodice screamed as blood spurted onto her face.

A wave of Greek soldiers swarmed like a tide of death. With an earth-shaking roar, Perseus charged. His blade danced like silver lightning, cleaving through armour, flesh, and bone with supernatural precision. The pockets of Trojan soldiers still locked in battle around them screamed in support. Shields splintered, helmets caved, and the courtyard became an altar of vengeance. One by one, they fell. Perseus fought like a man possessed. Blood slicked the ground, turning it into a treacherous slippery battlefield. His own wounds bled freely but he barely felt them. As he neared the two women he grabbed Laodice by her arm and hauled her to her feet. Then he was pushing both of them away from the fighting, towards the base of the tower. Achaeans pursued them hotly. A head landed at his feet, from the top of the tower—A greek soldier.

There were Trojan guards up there, fighting to protect Hector’s family. Good. They would have to buy him some time. He prepared to whistle and call for Blackjack to haul the women away.

Laodice clung to Hecuba, her sobs echoing through the growing carnage as they came to a stop. “Mother,” she choked, “there’s no escape. No hope. Troy is gone. Everything is gone!!”

“No,” Hecuba hissed, her voice trembling with rage and sorrow. Her nails dug into her daughter’s shoulders. “We are not gone. We cannot be gone!” He had never seen the queen not put together before—dishevelled. It was unnerving.

Perseus turned and drove his sword into the nearest Greek. A shrill whistle escaped his lips. The demigod stiffened as he felt a vibration surge beneath him, and turned. The ground beneath them trembled; Laodice’s knees buckled. A deafening crack split the air. Perseus recoiled in shock as the earth groaned like a wounded beast, and before his horrified eyes, the stones beneath Hecuba’s daughter began to crumble. He struggled to take the reins of the earth beneath him—to tell it to stop, but it resisted even his push. He let out a gasp. “Mother!” Laodice screamed, her hand clawing at the empty air as a chasm opened beneath her. Hecuba lunged, her fingers grazing her daughter’s hand—then she was gone, swallowed by the earth.

“No!” Hecuba’s scream tore through the courtyard, louder than the clamour of battle. Perseus winched, and his own shock threatened to pull him under. The Achaeans were closer now, and he blocked another strike that would have taken his Queen’s head, quickly overcoming his surprise. Her cries warped into something inhuman, a guttural howl that chilled even the immortal demigod to the core. He could see a dark shadow hurlting for them from the sky—Blackjack. Perseus turned in time to see Hecuba’s body contort, her form twisting unnaturally. Her limbs lengthened, black fur sprouting where the skin had been. Her face stretched into a monstrous snout, and her eyes burned red with unholy fire.

The Queen of Troy was no more.

In her place stood a massive hellhound, its jaws slavering, its growl shaking the stones beneath it. The Greeks froze, their weapons trembling in their hands. But before they could react, the air grew colder, and shadows gathered like a storm. Perseus backed away, more in shock than in fear. He couldn’t make sense of anything he was seeing. His eyes widened.

Behind the hellhound, a giant figure materialized. She was more shadow than flesh, her three heads shifting in and out of form—one wreathed in flames, another pale as the moon, and the third a black void that consumed the light around it. Then she was a horse, a dog, and a lion all at once. Then it shifted into a girl, a woman and a crone. Her name popped into his head immediately, and Perseus slid into a fighting stance. Hecate. The goddess of witchcraft, night, and crossroads loomed over the battlefield, her presence suffocating. In her right hand, she held two torches, lit with purple flames.

In the sky, Blackjack reared backwards and took off in the other direction.

The Greeks faltered, stepping back as fear rippled through their ranks. The hellhound—Hecuba—lowered her head and vanished into the shadows, leaving only silence in her wake. Perseus’ heart broke and a cry escaped his lips. But she was gone. There was nothing left for her here. Hecate’s three ever-changing faces turned toward Perseus, her gaze piercing through him. She lifted a hand and he clenched his jaw, prepared for the worst. But then the screaming came from behind him, and he whirled on his heel to find the Greek men, burning in purple fire, screaming and wailing and turning to ash. He turned back to the goddess in shock. The three heads smiled eerily at him.

Then as swiftly as she appeared, the goddess melted into the darkness, leaving the courtyard drenched in blood and dread.

Perseus panted. And then he jerked as another scream resonated through the courtyard. A baby’s wail pierced the night.

Astyanax.

The son of Poseidon spun his sword and bolted up the flight of stairs, heart heavy.

BREAK

Aphrodite led them into the south side of the palace. The building was already crumbling, and in ruins, and they had had to dodge and backtrack and slip away from so many Achaeans it felt like they were in a horror play. But his mother was steadfast, and Aeneas followed resolutely behind her until they finally came to a stop beside the entrance into Priam’s audience chamber.

Behind him, the people were wary, frustrated and exhausted. But he was their last hope, and they had all followed diligently and without question. Ascanius was tucked into Achates’ side, his eyes fixed on his grandmother, and the other man himself could not take his gaze off the beauty goddess. Aeneas did not care what the people thought, or how they were looking at his mother like she was a saviour descended from the heavens. She was basking in the attention, and Aeneas grunted, shifting beneath the weight of his father and signalling her to move on. The sounds of fighting and laughter, amidst celebration and screaming were filling the air around them.

Aeneas hated that he could not save more people. Already about twelve more had joined them on the way. But it would never be enough.

Aphrodite waved a hand and a grinding noise filled the air. The wall beside the door began to shudder. The stone trembled, and Aeneas watched pensively as it shifted every-so-slowly, until a gaping dark hole stood before them. The goddess turned, and said, “This is another entrance to the royal crypts. Follow me.”

The people shifted behind them. Aeneas could sense their hesitation, and he felt his father tense on his shoulders. The weight was crushing, but he gritted his teeth. He would carry Anchises until they got to safety, or he died from exhaustion. He would make sure his father escaped this nightmare. He would make sure they made it out—for Creüsa, for his son, and for Hector. “Come on,” Aeneas growled. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

Aphrodite plunged into the dark passage, and Aeneas darted in after her. Briseis was right on his heels, then Achates, and then the others were piling in, walking in twos and hurrying after the immortal deity, hands around the little household statues of the gods they had managed to escape with. Aeneas’ heart thrummed in his chest as he followed, anxiety and anticipation eating away at him, his head aching from all the crying and screaming, his body begging for respite. But he forged on, although every step felt like he was walking through cement. His feet felt like lead, and his father’s weight pressed him down, drawing beads of sweat onto his forehead. His armour was hot, and sticking to his body. His hair was matted, and his sweat mixed with the blood, ash and grime covering his body, adding to Aeneas’ displeasure.

But still, he followed. Still, he pushed on.

Because there was nothing he could do now except that. Because he had to go, and he felt horrible for leaving his city behind, but he had to go.

Troy was gone. Troy was gone and it was time to say goodbye.

Every step felt final; agonizing. Every grunt took something from him.

Behind them the wall slid back into place with the same grinding noise.

The passage was dark, but Aphrodite’s figure was glowing, lighting up the path. The walls were lined with urns, the ashes of Troy’s kings watching in silence, as though giving them strength, urging them on. Behind each pot of ashes was a giant stone statue of their owner. Aeneas’ gaze flickered past the most recent one—Paris’. The prince’s eyes seemed to follow him as he went. And then there was Hector, large and imposing, warm and dead. The statue did not do his friend much justice. But Hector seemed to smile down at him, and Aeneas got the strength to carry on. He tried not to look at the urn holding his friend’s ashes. He tried not to remember what it had been like coming down here every day after his death, and weeping till he had nothing left to give.

It was a tragedy, that Priam himself, and his other children would not have the chance to join their family in their crypts. And these ashes would remain hidden here until the end of time. He wanted to pick Hector’s with him. But his best friend had loved the city, and he deserved to rest with the place he had died defending.

Vaguely, Aeneas wondered where his mother was leading them. The crypts were sealed; it was a long path leading from the statues of the most recently dead and ending at the feet of first king of the land. There was only one entrance he knew of—a small room behind Priam’s throne in the audience chamber, which opened up right where they’d come from—in front of the statue of Paris. Only members of the royal family knew of the crypt’s existence. He didn’t know how Aphrodite had made a doorway into the same position at a different side of the palace, but he wasn’t about to question her.

She had not failed him so far. She had come, albeit a bit later than expected. Aphrodite was his mother, and despite how much time it had taken him to forgive her initial neglect, he trusted her with his life.

They continued walking, and everyone was silent, as though stricken dumb by grief. The tension was thick in the air, and Aeneas gripped his father’s thighs tightly as he led them. Finally, after what seemed like hours of walking, the sound of the fighting and wailing seemed to fade, bit by bit, until it was no more. The city seemed too distant, and Aeneas had never felt so separated from it before. Aphrodite came to a stop and raised her hand. The people stilled behind him. Aeneas turned. He could see the emptiness of their eyes, reflecting the horror of everything witnessed that night, even little Ascanius.

His mouth tasted bitter.

The air was damp and cold, carrying the scent of roses and vanilla, a wide disparity from the blood and death they had just come out of. But still, Aeneas did not feel safe. Not until he could not feel it anymore.

His body screamed for respite, his heart ached with loss, and his mind reeled with the enormity of what he had lost—what they had all lost. Yet he would carry his father and his people out of Troy. He felt as though he bore the weight of the world itself—a weight he could never abandon. The fate of the last blood of Troy rested in his hands.

He met his mother’s eyes one more time. Behind her towered the largest of the stone statues—the first king of his beloved city, ancient, resolute, solidified with age. Aphrodite waved her hands and the stone creaked. The grinding noise filled the cavern again. The statue was shifting, moving to the side behind the urn of ashes, until it finally ground to a stop. Another gaping dark hole opened up in front of them. A cold breeze wafted through.

Aphrodite held up her hands and twin torches appeared in her grip. Her face was majestic as she said, “The royal family had this passage made for a moment just like this, a very, very long time ago. Over time that knowledge was lost to them because it was never used—no enemy that faced Troy ever got in.” She paused. “It will lead you directly out of the city and into a cave atop Mount Ida, far away from here. Once you are safe, descend the mountain down to the other side and get to the beach; there will be a ship waiting, to take you away.”

Aeneas nodded, and stood to the side, calling, “Alright, you heard her. Let’s go.” Briseis went in first, taking one of the torches with a bow. Then the others were following, swiftly and full of murmured thanks, until Achates took up the rear. Anchises grunted from atop Aeneas, “Thank you, Aphrodite.”

The goddess looked up, at the man she had denied since the morning after she had bedded him. She had no love for his father, he knew. But still, she was grateful that the end result had been him. She nodded, then focused back on Aeneas.

“Go,” she said, voice tinged with pride. “This is the path the fates have chosen for you. Carry your people forward. Let Troy live in your blood.”

Aeneas nodded. His hands shook, but he inhaled, trying not to think about the weight of it all. This was it—this was the end; or rather, a new beginning. Aphrodite leaned forward and handed the other torch to his father. She planted a kiss on Aeneas’ cheek. “I love you, my son. And I will be with you, always.”

“Always,” He repeated. His throat felt tight. He could envision the ruins of his home above them—the flames licking at the sky, the echoes of battle growing distant. Aeneas stepped into the darkness.

Atop his back he was carrying his father.

In his hands he held his son’s future.

In his heart he held his wife’s sacrifice.

In his will he held the hope of his brothers.

And within him he held the shattered pieces of his soul.

Aeneas walked away from Troy.

And he did not look back.

BREAK

Perseus staggered through the crumbling corridors of Troy’s dying palace, his breath laboured and ragged. Ahead of him raced Andromache, clutching her wailing baby to her chest and trying not to fall. He had gotten her out of the tower, but before he could summon Blackjack again, the Achaeans had swarmed, crazy for blood. They had been forced to run, and he needed to get them to a balcony or something so the flying horse could get to them.

The air was thick with ash and smoke, carrying with it the acrid stench of fire and the metallic tang of blood. The world was falling apart—Troy had already fallen apart—and he was running out of time. Behind him, the shouts of Achaean soldiers rang out like hunting horns, growing louder with every breathless second.

Ahead of him, Andromache clutched Astyanax tightly to her chest, the boy’s small face pressed into her shoulder, muffling his terrified sobs. Her hair was wild, tangled with ash and sweat, but she moved with desperate purpose, her eyes fixed on the broken path before them. Perseus followed, his grip tightening on the sword in his hand, ready to end any life that impeded their movement.

He turned a corner, and the floor beneath him buckled violently, nearly throwing him into a collapsing column. Dust filled the air, choking his lungs, and for a moment, he could barely see. A window shattered beside him.

And then he saw her.

Through the newly created jagged gap in the palace wall, the scene below blazed into focus: Polyxena, bound to a blackened stake in the middle of the courtyard. Her white nightdress was stained with dirt and blood, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Around her, the flames licked hungrily at the base of the pyre, glowing orange against the bruised sky.

A ring of Achaeans surrounded her, their spears raised like the teeth of a cage. At the centre of it all was Diomedes, standing tall with a torch in his hand. His face was grim, his jaw set—his eyes alight with cruelty and resolve.

Polyxena did not scream. She stood silently, her head held high, though her shoulders trembled. She was looking up—not at the heavens, but at him, through the broken wall. Her gaze pierced through the chaos, finding Perseus where he stood above her, frozen. Her lips moved, forming silent words that he could not hear but felt deep in his soul.

“Remember me.”

His heart clenched. He recalled stolen kisses in dark passageways, brushes of skin against each other as they walked opposite ways in the days of his youth when life had been simpler. It had been after Cass, but before Briseis and Selene.

“Perseus!” Andromache’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and urgent. She had stopped at the end of the corridor, Astyanax still clinging to her like a lifeline. “We have to go!”

He tore his eyes away from Polyxena, his chest heaving. The walls groaned around him, and a massive crack split the floor between him and Andromache. The Achaeans were pulling the castle to the ground. The flames were consuming everything. She reached out for him, her face pale with fear. “Perseus!”

But the pyre below roared louder, the flames rising higher. Perseus turned back to the gap, his breath caught in his throat as the firelight danced across Polyxena’s face. She was no longer looking at him; her head was bowed, her eyes closed as if in prayer. The smoke curled around her like a serpent, and the heat shimmered in the air, distorting her figure.

And then came the war cries.

Neoptolemus and his men burst through the collapsing corridor, their swords and shields gleaming with the blood of Troy’s defenders. Behind them was Odysseus, moving with calculated precision, his gaze sweeping the scene like a predator sizing up its prey. Perseus tightened his grip on his sword, his body tensing as the first of the Achaeans charged toward him.

Andromache screamed as Neoptolemus’ men surged forward, their blades raised. Perseus met them head-on, his sword slicing through the air in desperate arcs. He fought with everything he had, every strike fueled by rage and desperation, but the numbers were overwhelming.

He turned back toward the gap in the wall. Polyxena was still there, the flames now licking at the hem of her dress. Her lips were moving again, and for one agonizing moment, he thought she was calling his name.

He wanted to jump down and save her. He wanted to fight these bastards off and protect his best mate’s family. But he could not be in two places at once.

The gods were cruel, so cruel, to put him here, now, in this moment where there was no right answer.

He could turn back to Andromache and Astyanax, fight through the ambush and try to lead them to safety. If he didn’t, they would be cut down, and the last heir of Troy would die screaming in his mother’s arms.

But Polyxena—innocent Polyxena—was being consumed by fire, her sacrifice the final insult to a city already bleeding out. He could leap into the courtyard, fight his way through Diomedes’ men, and free her. He could save her.

But he couldn’t do both.

“Perseus!” Andromache’s voice was raw now, her free hand reaching for him as Astyanax cried out in terror.

Below, Polyxena opened her eyes, and they met his one last time. There was no blame in them, no accusation. Only quiet acceptance.

He plunged into the fray, his sword slashing through Neoptolemus’ men as he fought them off, preventing any access to Andromache. But his eyes kept darting back to the courtyard below, where the flames were rising higher, and Polyxena’s figure was becoming obscured by the smoke.

“No!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

But it was too late. The pyre erupted into a pillar of fire, swallowing Polyxena whole. Her scream finally came, a sound that pierced through the chaos and seared itself into Perseus’ soul.

The walls shuddered again, the palace groaning under its own weight. Perseus stood frozen between the two worlds, his heart tearing itself apart. His feet moved on instinct, carrying him backwards—toward Andromache, toward Astyanax, away from Polyxena, and the bloody encumbrance of it all. He let lose a sound of defiance, of heartbreak, of fury at the gods who had placed this burden upon him.

Andromache’s cries pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see Neoptolemus advancing on them, his blade gleaming. Astyanax clung to his mother, his small body trembling.

Perseus cried out again, his voice raw, and moved faster. He grabbed onto her hand and hauled her forward, and then they were racing, away from Odysseus, away from Neoptolemus, away from the ruinous and disastrous complexity of it all. They bounded up a flight of crumbling steps, towards where Aeneas’ old chambers had been—he would get to the balcony from there. He would call for Blackjack. He would save them. He had to. But Polyxena’s face burned in his mind, her final plea echoing in his ears.

He could not save them all. The gods had made sure of that.

But he would try until he released his fading breath.

BREAK

The palace shuddered with a deafening groan, stone splitting and splintering as Troy’s death knell echoed through its ancient halls. Perseus ducked under a collapsing beam, his heart pounding, sweat and ash streaking his face. Andromache’s screams tore through the chaos, louder than the collapse of walls, louder even than the cries of the Achaeans around him. Astyanax sobbed in her arms as Neoptolemus surged toward them, his bloodstained sword raised high.

He didn’t know how they had caught up. He didn’t know how they’d been cut off just when the chambers were a walking distance away. Part of the wall had fallen, and the wind blew ash and blood into the crumbling passageway. Behind them were boulders and debris, collapsed from the ceiling above, blocking any sort of escape.

Perseus hurled himself into the path of the brute, his blade meeting Neoptolemus in a clash that reverberated up his arm. The force of the blow sent sparks flying, but Perseus stood firm, his face twisted with rage.

"You won’t touch them!" he snarled, his voice raw.

Neoptolemus grinned, cruel and confident, his muscles taut as he drove Perseus back with a flurry of strikes. The son of Achilles fought like a predator, every blow relentless, every step pushing Perseus closer to the edge of frustration. But Perseus held his ground, blocking and countering with precision. He would not let a child hinder his mission. He would kill them all. He could kill them all.

But even he knew that he was one man. He could not hold them off long enough. If even one got past his guard, Andromache was dead. They had their backs to the blocked boulders, and short of fighting and killing all the soldiers, there was no other way out.

Behind him, Andromache stumbled till her back was to the collapsed wall, clutching Astyanax tightly. But the Achaean soldiers closed in. “Perseus!” she screamed, her voice fractured with terror.
The battle was chaos—a blur of blades and shouts. Perseus lunged, his sword carving a shallow gash across Neoptolemus’ arm. The boy roared in pain and anger, his next strike wild and powerful, and Perseus dodged the blow effectively, backhanding the child and sending him stumbling into the walls.

He crossed swords with Odysseus, hacking, slashing, and dodging. He blocked a strike on his gauntlet and hurled the man away. Perseus let out a yell and he felt a familiar tug in his gut. The blood on the stones rose, and several spears shot into the crowd, tearing through armour and throats. But still, they kept coming.

A scream from behind him drew his attention—Neoptolemus had gotten behind him while he’d been distracted, and grabbed Andromache. She fought like a cornered lioness, her nails raking at her captor’s face, her cries a cacophony of rage and desperation. Astyanax screamed, his small hands flailing toward his mother. She punched him in the nose and the man went stumbling backwards into his guards.

The palace trembled violently, the floor beneath them cracking as massive stones rained from above. Perseus barely managed to dodge a falling column, his body aching.

"You're too late, Perseus," Neoptolemus hissed, his voice dripping with venom as he regained his footing. "Troy is ash, and its people are nothing. You are nothing.” He heard a wail from the baby, and the son of Achilles laughed again, mockingly, “Oh, Princess Andromache. Your city is gone, your husband is dead. Surrender yourself to me and you will not have to die alongside it. Your son will not have to die with it.”

Hector’s widow clutched the baby tighter, and spat, “You’re going to have to kill us first.”

Perseus was panting, his chest rising and falling with the effort it was taking to simply breathe in the chaos. Beside him, the wall was crumbling, and a hole larger than he was had opened up. Perseus positioned his sword in front of his body and took a step backwards, standing staunchly in front of the family of his best friend.

“And if you want to get to them you’re going to have to kill me first,” He bared his teeth. “And we all know how that’ll end up for you.”

It was a staring contest between Perseus, Neoptolemus, and Odysseus, with Andromache and her baby behind him, and an army of Achaeans behind the other two. He wasn’t ready to budge, and neither were they. Perseus’ fingers danced on the hilt of his sword, and he clenched his jaw. His immortality didn’t mean he was omnipotent or had eternal stamina. Sooner or later, he would tire. They were numerous. They could dance around him until daybreak if need be. Until he collapsed from exhaustion.

Perseus was about to attack when he heard it— a cry from below, familiar, loud, and in so much pain.

“Perseus!” His name, agony present in the voice—a voice he had grown up with. Aeneas. No—how? “Help!” Then mocking laughter.

His brother’s voice drew his attention, and for a split second, Perseus’ head snapped to the side, towards the hole in the wall, the source of the sound.

It was the only moment Neoptolemus needed.

Before he knew what was happening he felt hands on him, precise and targeted, a forceful push, and then he was stumbling forward. “What—“ His surprised cry was cut off by another set of hands on him—larger, and burlier, Odysseus, taking advantage of his disorientation. Before Perseus knew what had happened he’d been grabbed and hurled through the hole in the wall.

Perseus heard Andromache’s scream, cutting him out of his shock, and a yell escaped him. He glanced down, and saw the fast approaching floor, the fires and the soldiers, the dying and the wounded, looking up from below in surprise. Swearing in panic, Perseus tucked and rolled as he landed on the ground, his body absorbing the impact, and then he rose to his feet instantaneously, searching, anywhere, for Aeneas.

Before he could react or form a coherent thought, he was surrounded by a contingent of Greek soldiers, and the son of Poseidon looked up to the hole when he heard another scream, which chilled him to his very bones.

“My son! No! Please—“ Andromache was cut off and Neoptolemus suddenly stood in front of the hole, holding on to Astyanax by the foot. The bay flailed and wailed, and Neoptolemus laughed. Perseus felt horror crawling up his spine, and he bellowed, “Don’t you dare—“

“Let all of Troy watch,” Neoptolemus announced with a grin, “As its future falls!”

He breathed sharply.

A rush of wind swept around him.

Time seemed to slow.

Perseus vanished into mist the moment Neoptolemus released Astyanax.

The baby’s scream tore through the night like a death knell, silencing even the chaos of the battle below, sending shockwaves of defeat to every Trojan still alive. The boy fell, his cries resonating across the entire palace grounds, and Andromache’s answering shriek followed right behind him. Perseus appeared right beneath the window, his body solidifying from the spray of water. Everything happened so fast, yet at a snail’s pace, and a cry tore itself out of his throat as he reached out to grab the baby, his desperation transcending thought, his hands reaching—too late. No!

His fingers were still reforming into solid when Astyanax sailed through them and crashed onto the ground in front of him, and he coagulated beside the dead infant on the blood-soaked ground. The cries abruptly cut off. The sound of Astyanax’s body striking the ground was a final, brutal punctuation to the destruction of Hector’s bloodline.

The world stilled.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

He stumbled forward, his knees hitting the ground beside the lifeless body of the boy. His hands trembled as he reached out, taking hold of the boy and cradling Astyanax in his arms. The child’s wide, unseeing eyes stared up at the sky, and Perseus felt something inside him shatter.

Perseus stared at the broken body of Hector’s son, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He knelt, his hand trembling as it hovered over the body. A roar of anguish erupted from him, shaking the earth beneath the Greeks' feet.

The immortal surged to his feet, his grief turning into unbridled fury. The ground beneath him trembled as his power erupted, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the earth. The palace shifted.

Astyanax was dead.

“Hector’s bloodline has ended!” Achilles’ son roared. There was an answering cry of victory from the assembled Achaeans.

Perseus vanished into mist almost immediately and reappeared behind the bastard prince, swinging. A bronze sword connected with his, and Odysseus pushed back with a grunt. Tears leaked out of his single eye as he regained his footing and slashed again. “How could you?” He snarled. “He was a baby!” He swung again for Odysseus, his sword slashing across his chest, but not deep enough to cause any substantial damage. The Ithacan stumbled aside and Perseus launched himself for the son of Achilles. “A baby!” His sword cleaved into Neoptolemus’ gauntlet, and the prince let out a cry of pain. Perseus was about to swing for his head when he darted aside, just as a tide of soldiers swarmed him.

Beside the wall Andromache was on her knees, sobbing pitifully, shaking in her bloodied robes. Odysseus called, “It had to be done, Perseus! Lest the boy grow and try to avenge his father’s death.”

The demigod spat at him. He shook in fury. “You bastard! He was a baby. He was just a baby!” The soldiers closed in.

Perseus fought like a man possessed, cutting through the ranks with reckless abandon. His sword found flesh again and again, but the Achaeans seemed endless, their bodies closing around him like vultures circling a dying beast. He saw Odysseus, beside Achilles’ bastard, and then Andromache was just a few feet away from him, sobbing into her hands.

The son of Poseidon fought faster, whirling all the blood around him in tandem with his sword, like a very sharp rope, cutting down the endless army of men.

The walls of Troy’s palace groaned again, the ceiling above him crumbling. A massive stone beam crashed down inches from where he fought, flattening two men.

Andromache was crying, and Neoptolemus’ laugh bounded through the passageway.

It sparked an anger inside Perseus.

Heat seared through the passage.

The flames had reached them.

The demigod was aware of the crying mother behind him. He was aware of the Ithacan king raising his sword to join the fray. He was aware of Diomedes below them, leading men up a column of stairs to serve as reinforcements. The whole palace shook again. Perseus roared, power thrumming through his veins. He felt the blood coursing through Neoptolemus’ body and jerked his wrist, sending the man flying and slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch.

And then he heard another shriek and spun.

In the chaos of the fighting, Odysseus had crept behind him and the men. Athena’s favoured held Hector’s bride close to him, his sword at her throat. His eyes glinted, but a frown marred his face. Perseus huffed, his heart falling. No.

Why couldn’t he—why did nothing ever work out? He had just wanted to save them.

“Stand down, Perseus,” Odysseus called, voice flat and emotionless. “Hector’s son might be dead but that does not mean his wife has to join the boy.”

“You…” He shook, bringing his sword down. Perseus scanned the situation. He could mist travel. He could fight. But it wouldn’t matter. Before he got there Odysseus would have cut her throat. Andromache would be dead. The Ithacan began to move, against the wall, and Perseus moved alongside, keeping him and every man in the room in his sight. Odysseus inched against the stone until he stood beside Neoptolemus. Perseus shifted on his feet and Andromache gasped as the blade dug into her neck, drawing blood.

“I know you’re thinking you can take us all,” Odysseus taunted. “But your immortality doesn’t mean you are invincible or infallible, Perseus. We have the numbers and the weapons and the hostage. You can be slowed and restrained. Do the statistics. You aren’t all-powerful. Before you take half of us down she’ll be dead.” He paused, looking Perseus dead in the eye. “And your strength means nothing if you cannot protect the ones you love.”

Perseus felt desperation claw at him. His heart began to thunder, and his chest rose and fell with fury, and agony, at the situation they were in. “Get out of Troy, Perseus,” Odysseus advised. “There is nothing left for you here.”

Andromache’s eyes flickered everywhere, the fear in them latching at his heart. He couldn’t leave her. He couldn’t leave her to them. Not after Astyanax. He couldn’t fail at that too.

Perseus watched as Odysseus and his men began to inch away. He panted, as slowly, they crept back through the passage, Andromache shaking in Odysseus’ arms, and he met her eyes one final time.

“I’ll find you!” Perseus roared, “I’ll find you, Andromache!”

The Achaeans began to run as the ceiling started to fall. Perseus launched after them just as Odysseus pushed the widow into Neoptolemus’ arm, and they took off down the burning passageway. “Stop him!” The Phthian called to the men.

The weight of his failures pressed down on him but he couldn’t think about that or the fact that beneath them, his godson lay dead in the ashes, and barbarians were carting away his sister-in-law. Odysseus and Neoptolemus disappeared into the chaos, taking Andromache with them. Several of their men stood behind and tried to impede his path, but Perseus leapt at them, ferociously tearing through their ranks. He fought on, his roars shaking the battlefield, but the Greeks didn’t aim to kill him. They pinned him down, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm his strength. But he pressed through until they all lay dead at his feet.

Perseus huffed and stared down the path Odysseus and Neoptolemus had taken.

He swung his sword and plunged into the flames after them.

BREAK

He was exhausted.

He was grief-stricken.

And he was furious.

The demigod followed the trail of destruction throughout the palace. When the veil of ash and fire began to thin, Perseus emerged from the wreckage, his chest heaving, his muscles burning with exertion. The ground beneath him was a mosaic of shattered stone and blackened timbers, a battlefield painted with the blood of his people. His ears rang with the chaos of Troy’s final night—the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, and the crackling of flames devouring everything in their path.

Ahead, a path of carnage stretched into the palace grounds, littered with the bodies of Trojans who had dared to stand. Perseus recognized the savage efficiency of the slaughter—it was Neoptolemus’ handiwork. The young warrior carved through the remnants of Hector’s city with a brutality that rivalled his father’s, leaving ruin in his wake. Perseus pressed on, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes aflame with wrath.

“Andromache,” he muttered his voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a thousand promises. “Hold on.”

The trail led deeper into the heart of the palace, where the destruction grew even more savage. Here, the Greeks had made their final stand, overwhelming the last defenders in a frenzy of bloodlust.

Perseus stepped over the broken body of a Trojan soldier, his heart pounding as he spotted a fragment of fabric snagged on the splintered edge of a beam. It was torn from Andromache’s dress.

His breath caught, and for a moment, the overwhelming tide of grief threatened to drown him. But then the rage took hold, surging through his veins like molten fire. He would not let her be lost—not her, not Hector’s last living legacy.

The sounds of the Achaeans drew him forward, their jeering laughter echoing off the palace walls. When Perseus reached the clearing, the sight that greeted him stopped his heart. Andromache was there, struggling in the iron grip of Neoptolemus, her hair dishevelled, her face streaked with soot and tears. The prince dragged her forward with one hand, his other gripping a bloodstained sword.

Perseus roared, the sound splitting the air like a thunderclap. Every head turned toward him, and for a moment, the battlefield seemed to still.

“It’s him,” one of the Greeks murmured, his voice tinged with both fear and awe.

Neoptolemus, however, was unshaken. He grinned, his teeth bared like a wolf savouring its prey. “You’re too late, Perseus,” he called out, his voice carrying across the expanse. “Your strength won’t save her now. Troy is mine, and so is she.”

Perseus moved like a storm, his feet pounding the ground as he charged. The first line of soldiers scrambled to intercept him, their weapons raised, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. His fists shattered shields, his strikes sent men flying, and his presence alone turned courage to dust.

But for every man he felled, two more took his place. Odysseus barked orders, his voice sharp and commanding. The Greeks closed in, their spears and swords gleaming in the firelight. Perseus fought like a man possessed, his every motion a testament to his divine bloodline, but even he could not be everywhere at once.

“Stop him!” Neoptolemus shouted, dragging Andromache toward the far side of the clearing. “He cannot save her if he’s buried beneath a mountain of soldiers.”

Perseus surged forward, his gaze locked on Andromache, but the Greeks swarmed him. Spears struck his immortal flesh, glancing off but slowing his advance. Blades nicked at his arms and legs, the sheer weight of numbers threatening to pull him down. For every soldier he defeated, more poured in from the shadows. Diomedes’, Menelaus’, Nestor’s, Ajax’s, even Agamemnon’s. They were uncountable.

In the distance, Andromache screamed his name, her voice cutting through the din. Perseus roared again, his power spilling out in waves that shook the ground beneath their feet. The palace trembled, stone cracking under the force of his fury, and for a brief moment, the Greeks hesitated.

But it was enough for Neoptolemus. He turned and disappeared into the labyrinth of the palace with Andromache in tow, leaving only the echoes of his mocking laughter behind.

BREAK

As the first pale fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, the city of Troy burned. The flames roared like wild beasts, devouring stone and wood alike, their crackling fury drowning out the cries of the dying. Perseus stood amidst the wreckage, a solitary figure of defiance, his chest heaving as smoke and ash filled his lungs. Every inch of his immortal body was marked by the long hours of unending combat—scratches and wounds marred his tan skin, blood stained his hands, and exhaustion weighed down his every movement. Yet he fought on, the determination in his eyes brighter than the fires around him.

His frame was battered, his spirit burdened. The once-proud city, with its towering walls and golden halls, was now a smouldering graveyard. Fires licked at the shattered remains of homes and temples, and the cries of the dying mingled with the triumphant shouts of the Achaeans. Perseus found himself drowning in the weight of a thousand failures.

His hands gripped his sword with a strength that belied the cracks forming in his resolve. He had fought for hours without pause, cutting through countless Greeks like a storm unleashed. Each swing of his blade was a declaration of defiance, each enemy felled a small retribution for the horrors inflicted on his people. Yet for every foe he struck down, a dozen more surged forward, their spears and arrows raining upon him in an unrelenting tide.

His body bore the toll of the battle. His breaths came ragged and uneven, each one searing his lungs like fire. His muscles screamed for a reprieve, his movements slower than they had been at the night’s onset. Blood—his golden one and that of others—streaked his tunic, turning its grey sheen into a grim testament to the slaughter.

Troy, the city of legends, had fallen. Its proud walls—walls that had withstood ten years of siege—had crumbled under the relentless assault of the Achaeans. The streets ran red with blood, and the anguished screams of its people rose like a dirge to the heavens. Perseus, sword in hand, had fought through it all: the burning palace, the collapsing towers, the unceasing tide of enemies. Every strike of his blade was a silent promise to those who had fallen. He would not let them be forgotten. He would avenge them all. He would fight until the number of Greek dead equalled the Trojan lifeless.

But even he was beginning to falter. His strikes, once precise and devastating, now carried the weight of exhaustion. Each movement felt slower, as though the very air around him resisted his efforts. His breaths were laboured, rasping against the unyielding pressure in his chest. He could not remember the last time he had stopped to rest—or if he even could.

His resolve to kill every Achaean in the city still burned in his mind, pushing him forward, and filling him with the strength he needed. He couldn’t give up.

This was what he had decided to do once he’d accepted there was no way to stop the invasion. He had tried to save so many along the way—people that mattered to him—and had failed miserably. And now he could do nothing else but try to avenge them.

By now, Aeneas and whatever survivors he had met should have escaped the city. Aphrodite had promised. But he didn’t know. He had heard his brother back in the palace. He’d been in pain, and when Perseus had fallen he hadn’t even had the time to check for Aeneas’s presence—whether he was being attacked or already amongst the numerous dead. Astyanax’s fall had distracted him and everything else after had confused and jilted him so much that the son of Poseidon hadn’t even had the time to think of anything else.

By now, Andromache was being tied up in chains, the prize of a war he had lost, and a city he had failed to protect.

By now, Selene’s and Helios’s path to non-existence was building gradually, and he did not know when it would stop or when they would leave him. It had been his job to prevent that, and he had never felt more useless.

Perseus fought his way down the smouldering palace grounds, cutting down any Greek soldier who dared to challenge him. His blade moved like a vengeful storm, slicing through shields and armour as though they were made of parchment. But for every man he struck down, ten more seemed to take their place.

Perseus gritted his teeth and raised his sword, cutting through the soldiers with an almost mechanical precision. It was as though every single king in Achaean ranks had sent their men to fight him. Hundreds of thousands of men swarmed him from all sides.

His strikes were less graceful now, more desperate, fueled by a grim determination to take as many of them with him as he could. He was no longer fighting to save Troy; Troy was gone. He fought now for vengeance, for the slim chance that his wrath might carve some measure of justice from the ashes.

First, he would tear down the armies. And then he would find the big players—Agamemnon and his brother Menelaus, Odysseus, Nestor, and Diomedes. Neoptolemus. Wherever they were hiding, or pillaging, or killing, he would find them. Then he would rip them apart.

With a growl, he swung his sword and attacked.

As he fought, he clenched his jaw. He could see the cowardice in their eyes, the fear that kept them from closing the distance. He swung his sword again, the force of the strike sending a nearby soldier sprawling, but his arm trembled with the effort. His strength, once boundless, now felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

He thought of Selene, her luminous presence like a distant star in his memory.

He missed her.

He had failed her.

But even still, he could feel her, like a phantom hand on his shoulder, lending him her strength, filling him and keeping him from crashing. Because even though Troy was gone, he was hers, no matter how long they had left. Selene, wherever she was, was pushing him on, lending her support, like always. The thought tore at him as much as the loss of Hector’s family. How could he even take from her, knowing that he had not even been able to prevent whatever Phoebe’s prophecy meant for her? How many more could he fail before even his godlike endurance crumbled under the weight?

He wished he was with Selene, then. But she hadn’t shown up that night, even though she had meant to before the chaos. He was starting to think something was already wrong.

And then, through the chaos, a sound pierced the air—a child’s cry. Perseus’ heart tightened. He turned toward the source for a brief second, slicing open a throat as he did so, eye scanning the rubble until it found a collapsed section of the palace wall. Flames danced across the stones, and beyond them, he saw a woman, clutching a child to her chest. She was surrounded, her back pressed against a fragment of the wall as Ancaeus, the King of Arcadia, strode forward with his men.

The scene sparked something in him, the memory of his best friend’s baby being hurled from the palace walls into the flames below.

Perseus lunged toward them, but his path was blocked by a sudden deluge of Greeks. He roared in frustration, his sword cleaving through the first of them, but they pressed in closer, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm him. Above the din of battle, he heard the old man’s mocking voice.

“Take the girl, and kill the child,” The king sneered, his voice dripping with cruelty. Perseus’s chest tightened. He knew what would happen to any of the stragglers. He knew how war slaves were treated, and how the women would end up, and the despair of the situation drove him forward as the men surrounded the dirt-streaked woman.

Perseus fought harder, his desperation lending him strength. He was so close—he could see the fear in her eyes, the way her son clung to her, too young to understand what was happening. It reminded him too much of the family he had lost just hours prior. He struck down another soldier, then another, his path slowly clearing. But just as he was about to break through, a blinding light exploded around him.

The demigod stumbled, disoriented, as the light consumed his vision. The Achaeans around him cried out in surprise.

Apollo—he could feel the god’s presence in the way the air seemed to hum with power. “No!” Perseus roared, swinging his sword wildly, but it met only empty air. The voice came next, loud and clear.

“Your fight is not here, Perseus,” Apollo said, his tone calm and infuriatingly detached. “You cannot change what is destined.”

The god’s power wrapped around him like chains, pulling him away from the wall, away from the men. He fought against it, his feet digging into the ground, but it was like trying to stop the tide of the ocean. The haze of light grew brighter, hotter, almost burning, and a scream ripped up out of his throat.

As quickly as it had come, the light suddenly vanished, and Perseus’ vision cleared.

He stood alone outside Troy, atop a nearby hill, the city’s burning silhouette rising against the horizon like a cruel mockery of what it had once been.

Perseus staggered forward, his sword slipping from his grasp to land with a hollow thud in the sand. He fell to his knees, his hands clutching the earth as though it could anchor him to reality. His heart thundered in his chest, a tempest of rage, grief, and despair. He had been pulled from the fight—not by the Greeks, not even by any of the gods who supported the demons from across the sea, but by something deeper, more insidious —one he had called friend.

“Apollo,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with fury. The god’s blinding light had robbed him of his chance to fight, to take down the enemies amidst the ruins of the city he had sworn to defend. He could feel an explosion coming, the anger building inside him, the grief overwhelming him, the pain chasing away any semblance of rationality.

The breeze lifted his hair as he looked back toward Troy, its walls crumbling beneath the relentless onslaught of the Achaeans. Somewhere within those flames, Hector’s bloodline was extinguished, and Andromache was lost.

Somewhere in that bloodlust, Aeneas and his father were probably dead.

Somewhere in that chaos, Selene’s fading had been set in motion, each ember a whisper of her diminishing essence.

He screamed, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, raw and unrelenting. The heavens seemed to shudder under the weight of his anguish, but no answer came. He had fought the will of the gods, defied fate itself, and battled men and monsters, and yet, it had been for nothing.

Troy had fallen.

The people he had sworn to protect were gone. His strength, his immortality, had been nothing but hollow gifts—tools that could not overcome the inevitability of destiny.

He felt the sun god when he materialised in front of him, golden and resolute.

Apollo appeared before him, his golden form untouched by the destruction. “It is done,” the god said simply.

Perseus looked up, his eye burning with tears. “You let this happen,” he said, his voice a broken whisper. Something had cracked, somewhere deep within him, and he could feel his very self unravelling. “You let them die. Your city.” He swallowed. “Why did you take me away?”

Apollo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Troy’s fall was always written.” His words slammed into the demigod like a battering ram. “You should have guessed that by now. You are a force, Perseus, but even you cannot stand against fate.”

Perseus closed his eyes, the weight of his failures pressing down on him like the ruins of the city he could not save. As the sun rose higher, its light banishing the shadows, he knew one truth: Troy was gone, and so too was everything he had fought for. Yet within the ashes, his rage simmered, a spark that refused to die.

“You should have left me to avenge them,” He rasped.

“Don’t be foolish, Perseus,” Apollo said, his voice sharp but laced with pity. "Did you mean to waste your immortality there, buried beneath mortal rubble and squabble?”

Perseus looked up, his face streaked with tears and soot and his body shaking with anger. “Why did you make me abandon them, Apollo? I could have saved—“

“There was no one left to save!” Apollo snapped. He stalked forward. “This was not abandonment, Perseus! It was survival. You are Troy’s legacy now, and you must carry it forward!”

“Legacy?” He snarled, standing. “Our legacy died with Astyanax! Our legacy died with Andromache! My brother is somewhere in the city, when Aphrodite promised to lead him out! Our legacy died with him and all the people he was supposed to find and escape with!”

“Aeneas isn’t dead,” Apollo shook his head. “He’s very much alive and very much safe. He wasn’t in the city. It wasn’t him you heard.”

The realisation hit him then, sudden, immediate and hard, like a hammer to the head. Perseus staggered back, running a hand through his hair. “It was you?” He hissed. “You tricked me so Odysseus could push me. Why?” The anger in his voice was laced with the pain of betrayal. His wounds from the battle had already closed, and healed.

“Because, Perseus,” Apollo gestured with his hands. “You have a greater role to play in this world’s future. Beyond Troy. You are not a saviour, Perseus—you are a herald. Troy had to fall so something greater could rise. Your purpose was not to save this city but to ensure its soul lives on. The bloodline of Troy had to end with Hector’s son or the great Empire would never rise.” Perseus felt the anger and the shock pouring into him, as Apollo continued, his expression laced with pain and pity, as though begging for him to understand. “You can’t fight fate, Perseus. I delayed your actions because the future demanded it.”

Perseus launched himself at Apollo before he could process what he was doing. An anguished cry escaped him as he raised his fist to slam it into Apollo’s face. But the god vanished and Perseus punched empty air, staggering into the grass.

Apollo’s voice came from a few ways behind him. “Your wrath serves no purpose now, Perseus. The city’s fate was sealed the moment Paris chose love over reason. Fate demands this ending, and no amount of power will change it. The Fates and the gods have spoken, and even you cannot defy us.”

“Fuck you!” Perseus snarled. He whirled and leapt for Apollo again, tears blurring his vision. But once again, Perseus punched empty air. He let out a wretched sob, “I made an oath to Hector. I failed, Apollo! Because you couldn’t stop interfering!”

“You think this failure defines you?” Apollo barked back. “No, Perseus, it frees you. Troy’s light is gone, but you and your brother remain to bear its memory. To fall with it would have been a waste of all that you are meant to become. You should be thanking me.”

“What I’m meant to become?” He let out a laugh, a sick, choking, thing, amid his tears, and Perseus shook his head, roaring, “WHAT I’M MEANT TO BECOME?”

He stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest with Apollo, a hand poking into the god’s sternum. “I was meant to be Troy’s protector! But you took that away from me! You took everything away from me! You’re just a sick fuck who thinks taking away my choices since I was four is something to be grateful for! You cursed the first woman I ever loved! You made me immortal and told me it was to save my life and now you interfere again to kill my nephew and you think I should be THANKING YOU?”

Apollo scoffed, “It always goes back to that apple doesn’t it?” He bared his teeth, eyes glinting gold. “Yes, I cursed Cassandra even though I knew you loved her, just the same way I knew you would forgive me eventually. Yes, I gave you the apple. Why do you think I did that, Perseus? For myself?” He stepped aside. “Even I am not that selfish.”

“Then tell me why, you bastard,” He wiped his tears and snarled. “Tell me the fuck why!” Perseus flicked his ring and his sword flickered into existence. “Or else our swords can do the talking because I am sick of you!”

“Everything I did, I did to keep you tied to the mortal realm, because that is where your strength is most needed!” Apollo yelled.

“Oh, because making me immortal is the best way to keep me human!” He raged back. “You’re going to have to do better than that or so help me—“

“You are a unique force among demigods, Perseus,” The sun god positively glowed. “From the moment the fates washed you upon our shores I saw what you would do—who you would become. I told you this, all those years ago. I told you I knew your future, and I would keep doing what I was doing to ensure it played out exactly the way it was supposed to. I saw how you would balance the whims and flaws of the Olympians with the struggles of mortals.”

“That gives you no right!” He screamed, voice hoarse. “A vision you had when I was four gave you no right to screw me over the way you did, Apollo!”

“I am a god,” Apollo barked back. “I make the rights!”

Perseus swung his sword blindly, but again, the sun god vanished and appeared behind him.

Apollo raised his hand and Perseus went flying into the grass. “Cursing Cassandra ensures you would remain disillusioned with the celestial. I told you it was because she insulted me, which she did. But that was never the main reason. The emotional scar made you grow up exactly the way you were supposed to. Tricking you into eating the apple bound you to eternal life—but not to Olympus. Unlike us, you retained your mortal emotions, empathy, and your ability to relate to humanity. So you would always be present to act as a mediator between gods and men, even as mortal empires rise and fall. So you would always be there to guide the mortal realm and defend the world in the same way you led the defence of Troy.”

Perseus stumbled to his feet, shaking his head and letting out a laugh, “I never wanted this, Apollo! I never asked for any of it! You Olympians play with mortals like we are pieces on a game board. You interfere for your own gains and call it fate. I hate you.”

“I made you who you are,” Apollo snarled at him, frustrated that he wasn’t seeing it from his point of view. “I made you because I saw, Perseus! You will guide this world into a golden era! I saw how you would be the bridge between gods and mortals. Olympus needs you, even if we fear you. Humanity needs you, even if they curse you. I saw that you are not a weapon of the gods, but a guardian of men! So attack me all you want but I did what I did so the entire world would be better off! So You would be better off!”

He continued, like a crazed man on heat, “Your immortality and suffering were not punishments, Perseus, but preparations! I interfered, I saved your life, I broke you down, and I built you up. I made sure you went through trials and I gave you resources to make sure you would pass through them and come out greater. Gold owes its brilliance to fire, for only through flames can it be refined. So too did I forge you by the trials that sought to consume you, so you would emerge stronger and purer with each blaze."

Perseus shook his head, the shock, the grief, the horror of everything filling him at once. He wanted to sob. He wanted to scream. And he wanted to run Apollo through.

“Why do you think Selene was on Delos that day?” The god stated.

Perseus stiffened. Apollo shook his head, frowning, “I saw, Perseus. I saw how much you two would come to mean to each other. I saw her fading when the new empire rose. I saw how much it would drive you to be your own person, and tread the path the Fates set for you. I saw how everything I did for you would shape you into a protector of humanity rather than a meaningless pawn of the gods.”

“Pawn of the gods?” he repeated, shock rippling from his entire body. “No, you just want a pawn for yourself!” Apollo was a great actor.

Apollo had tricked him for years. He had helped him and torn him down and Perseus hated him, more than anything.

Everything they had been through, everything they had done together, and he had never once suspected—this.

“It is your destiny, Perseus,” Apollo exhaled. “I am simply a hand that carries out the will of the Fates and allows humankind to peek into their plans. You cannot defy them.”

“I can damn well try,” Perseus bared his teeth and attacked. He hadn’t gotten three feet when his body seized. Apollo flicked his wrist and Perseus dropped to his knees like a sack of rocks. Fury raced through him. He struggled against invisible bonds as Apollo approached, and Perseus felt hatred, and abhorrence like he had never felt before, rush through him from his head down to his feet.

“I did it for you, Perseus,” The golden god raised a hand. “And the world is better off for it. If you listen to me, you’ll see—”

He laughed, tears springing at the corner of his eye again, “You told me once that there were different futures. You told me the choices we made determined which one came to pass. And you took all those choices from me, Apollo. You didn’t do anything for me. You did it for yourself.” In the god’s mind, he had done it for the good of the world. In his mind he was right, and Perseus was being stubborn. But after Troy, after the war, after losing everything, after all the meddling of the Olympians…he didn’t care if the world was better off. He didn’t care about whatever Apollo had seen.

The god’s face softened, “Perseus—“

He just hated him. Perseus spat at Apollo’s feet. “Fuck you.”

Apollo was about to speak when a blast of air lifted him off his feet and hurled him away like a ragdoll. Perseus felt the binds loose as Selene and Helios appeared in front of him, her dark hair glowing with silver light and his flames shrouding his body. Selene’s voice sent a surge of relief and hope through him.

“Leave him alone, Apollo. This foolishness must end.”
Helios stalked towards Apollo, eyes blazing with the power of a thousand suns, and instantly, Selene had dropped down beside him, a worried expression on her face. She reached out to cup his cheek and Perseus leaned into her touch, trying not to break down at the enormity of everything that had gone down that evening and morning alone. “Are you alright?”

“How—“ He swallowed, still shaking. “Yes. I—“

“Perseus!” Apollo called, rising from the grass. “You have to listen to me! I don’t mean you any harm!”

“Step closer and you’ll be leaving here with more than a few shattered bones, Apollo,” Helios barked.

Selene exhaled, “I would have come sooner, I’m sorry. I could hear you calling my name and all I wanted to do was come down and help you. I couldn’t when you were in Troy—Apollo called in a favour with his father and Zeus had us kept on Olympus. I couldn’t find you or zero in on your location.”

“He knew,” Perseus shook his head, throat bobbing in anguish. “He knew that if you were with me I could have stopped the Achaeans. You would have fought by my side.”

He clutched her hands in his. “Troy is gone, Sel. I failed and you’ll fade—“

“Hey,” She squeezed his hands. “Not now, Perseus. That’ll only burden you. I’m still here, now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—“

“A lot has been placed on your shoulders tonight, Perseus,” Selene’s voice was soothing. She pulled him into a hug. In front of them, Apollo circled Helios like a hawk, desperation clawing its way onto his face.

“Perseus—“

“Get out of here before I get angry, Apollo,” Selene said flatly, her voice resonating across the entire terrain. Apollo scanned the situation and swallowed, “This isn’t over, Perseus. You cannot avoid this conversation forever.”

His eyes burned gold, then he folded in upon himself and vanished in a blast of golden light.

Perseus exhaled, body trembling under the weight of everything that had transpired. “Thank you,” He murmured into Selene’s hair.

The battle was over. Troy had fallen, and with it, everything he had fought for—the city, his comrades, and his own sense of purpose. His immortal form bore no physical wounds anymore, but the scars etched deep into his soul rendered him broken. He clenched his fists against her dress and stared at the green earth, untouched by the horrors of the city just a few miles away, his shoulders shaking as he fought back the tears that clawed at his throat.

Selene’s dark hair caught the pale, fractured light of the sun. She pulled him closer, her arms wrapping around him in a protective embrace, a fragile shield against the encroaching despair. Perseus didn’t resist. He couldn’t. She whispered his name—soft, steady, and full of unwavering love—and again, the dam burst. A raw, guttural sob tore from his lips as he buried his face into her shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric of her cloak.

"I tried," he choked, his voice breaking. "I tried so hard, Selene. I thought I could save them. I thought I could save us." The enormity of it all pressed down on him—the weight of promises he could not keep, the haunting echoes of the dead, and the bitter truths Apollo had revealed. "Apollo… he said it was all meaningless. I would never have been able to stop it. I was meaningless.”

Selene's hand moved gently through his dark, matted hair, her touch grounding him even as his world spiraled. "You are not meaningless," she said firmly, though her voice quivered. "You are not what he says you are. You are more than Apollo’s games, Perseus. You always have been."

Nearby, Helios stood silently, his golden gaze fixed on the ruins of the once-great city. His presence, radiant and sombre, carried a quiet understanding of the weight Perseus bore. He said nothing, his pensive demeanour speaking volumes. He had seen ages of triumph and tragedy, but even he could not dismiss the profound cruelty of this moment.

Perseus looked up at him, his vision blurred with tears. "Was there ever any hope?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Or was it all doomed from the start?"

Helios' expression softened, though his answer did not come immediately. "Hope," he said slowly, "is not a promise of victory. It is a light you carry through the darkest paths. And even in defeat, Perseus, you carried it well."

The words, though kind, did little to ease the ache in Perseus' chest. He clung tighter to Selene, his sobs softening but not ceasing. For now, all he could do was grieve, held together only by the woman who refused to let him fall completely apart.

A/N: Watch out for the epilogue. Sorry for the delay, and Happy Holidays, guys! ❤️

Chapter Text

The golden halls of Olympus stretched beyond mortal comprehension. Around the central hearth, the Olympian council loomed like a storm cloud—immortal faces aglow with divine power and ancient judgment.

In the hushed throne room, the gods had gathered in solemn assembly, oppressive and imposing. Pillars of polished ivory and shimmering gold reached toward a sky painted with the light of eternal dusk. The Olympians sat in their splendour, their forms both radiant and daunting, as the heavens themselves brought to life.

There was the High god Zeus—though in the part of the world Troy used to be, they called him Jove— the King who had subtly aided the Trojan people throughout the war and yet had remained aloof for most of the entire affair, his fingers drumming against his master bolt. Beside him was High Queen Hera, his sister-wife, one of the goddesses Paris had insulted all those years ago.

Poseidon sat on his own throne at Zeus’ right hand, green eyes full of ancient wisdom, expression pensieve. He knew what this meeting was about—or rather, whom. It didn’t matter. Whatever they decided, he would stand by his newly-found son till the end.

Beside him sat Apollo, glowing and seething with silent anger. Perseus just didn’t understand. If only he stopped to listen. If only he would stop being so selfish, for once. The sun god was frustrated. He had done everything right. He had made it play out the way it was supposed to. And yet Perseus refused to see it the way he did. No matter. Someday, he would understand, when he was older.

Next to Apollo was the war god Ares, who had been above the battlefield that was Troy many, many times before. It had been the war of the century; full of death, carnage and utter barbarity—sensational. The best he had seen in all his many years if he was to be honest. Ares was bursting with power at the influx of carnage the fall of Troy had caused. It was a pity the Greeks had won, anyway. But it had been fun while it lasted.

The blacksmith Hephaestus—the crafter of Achilles’ armour—tinkered with something in his lap, barely giving his family a second glance. It was sad, that so much had been lost with the city and the war. Armour, jewels, and gifts he had crafted himself for both Greek and Trojan families. His fellow gods didn’t understand the loss; they didn’t appreciate such things. In his own opinion, this entire war had been a very sordid affair, really, something he could not pretend to understand—mortals were always so complex and emotional. Give him a machine any day of the week and he would be in paradise.

At his side sat the god Hermes, the messenger. This meeting was sudden and unexpected, and he impatiently drummed his fingers against his throne’s armrest. He had been doing his job—in the middle of spreading the word to all the known world—that the great Trojan War had finally ended—gods and mortals alike. The spillover of the war into the godly realm was no longer to be feared—it had come to an end. The Achaeans were going home. He let out a huff of exasperation, internally grumbling about how difficult his family made it to do a single job these days.

On the last seat was the wine god Dionysus, sipping from a goblet and looking bored out of his mind—he had been a demigod like Perseus about eighty years before and had had mortals worship him a spot on Olympus, quite literally. He understood the fear of his fellow gods—most hadn’t appreciated his ascent—though he didn’t see the relevance. Perseus wasn’t half the menace he had been back in the day.

At the other side of the company, an unfamiliar goddess wearing a wreath of wheat and green gowns the colour of grass sat beside the Queen. The goddess, Demeter. At her feet bloomed flowers of all colours.

Beside her sat Artemis, her silver gaze locked on the mortal realm far beneath them, where she had had to leave her hunters. She hated being away from them for more than an hour, especially in these morbid times. But once the fall of the city had begun it was unavoidable. This meeting was about Perseus, the only mortal man she perhaps, did not outright despise currently (surprisingly, she seemed to find at least one every couple hundred years). She had had male friends before, and both of them had had tragic lives. Perseus was no different. Within her, she held a trace of sympathy, for all he had lost. It didn’t help that her mother was always worried sick for him.

Next to the virgin goddess sat Aeneas’ mother, Aphrodite. Her focus also lay on the mortal plane beneath them, and her heart was heavy as she observed her son’s progress. She would have preferred it had Troy survived. But this setback would not hinder Aeneas, she knew. He would grow bigger and brighter than ever, and she would always be, because of him.

Beside Aphrodite was Athena, in the same garbs as before, her face hard and her pride great, an owl perched on her shoulder. She remembered the promise he had made her—one day she would pay, for everything she had done against his city, for trying so many times to eradicate him, for stopping him from killing Ajax. Silently, the goddess scoffed. Perseus was a force to be reckoned with. But she was Pallas Athena. And no newly minted immortal would scare her with big words she had invented herself. Perseus had just been a large and hardheaded obstacle. Breaking obstacles apart was her favourite pastime. Now Paris’ insult had been paid a hundredfold. However, the barbarity of the Achaeans had disgusted her, and apart from Odysseus, they had all lost favour in her eyes. She would be ridding the world of more than a few of them soon enough.

At the centre of the room, a small child—a girl—tended to the flames of the chamber hearth, ignoring the looming gods above her. Hestia, the goddess of the hearth. She could sense the myriad of emotions in the room. Tonight, the hearth burned low, as though the tension in the room was stamping it down. Hestia sighed. She just hated it when the family didn’t get along.

Zeus’s thunderous gaze fixed upon the glowing hearth in the centre of the room. Around him, the Olympians murmured, their voices rising and falling like waves crashing upon jagged cliffs.

At the head of the assembly, the king rose, his voice a thunderclap softened into words. “I call this meeting to Order.” There was silence. “The time has come for the Council to decide what must be done with Perseus, the general of Troy and my brother’s son.”

Immortals were made and born all the time. What made him different? Why weren’t they querying Memnon? Why was Olympus worried? The thoughts were flitting through many minds in that room. Some thought this was unnecessary. Others wanted him brought to heel. All would share their views.

“The council has been assembled today because the Trojan War has ended. Perseus was an unpredicted… surprise during this affair, and most of the Council thinks the boy is too much of a loose cannon.”

“Right,” Poseidon drawled. “Or maybe, brother, could it be that you fear the power and influence Perseus has in the mortal plane? And you fear I will make of him a weapon to come for your throne?”

“Again, brother,” Zeus arched a perfect eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be the first time you tried.”

“Perseus must be rewarded for his actions and his loyalty and bravery,” Poseidon said. “Not brought up as a topic before the council for judgment like a common criminal.”

“He committed no crimes,” Aphrodite spoke up to the assembly of gods. “He should not be judged for simply defending his home.”

“The affairs of the mortal realm greatly influence us too,” Hera leaned forward. “You know this, Aphrodite. Perseus was a boon to the Trojans, but the war was so devastating that it bled into the godly side of things. Had he not been present, it would not have dragged on as long as it did. Domains were affected, and gods battled against one another. Interference and meddling went unchecked and unpunished. Several ancient laws were tossed out the window.”

“None of which was Perseus’ fault,” Hermes piped with a shrug. “You cannot expect a man who was doing his job—a former mortal, nonetheless—to understand the inner workings of Olympus.”

“He’s dangerous,” Athena declared, her voice sharp and precise. She stood rigid, her spear clutched tightly in one hand as though expecting an argument to erupt at any moment. “He’s already proven that. A creature of his power, carrying his grievances, cannot be left unchecked. You saw what he did during the sack of Troy—what he almost did. He defied Apollo, cursed my name, and nearly tipped the scales of the war by sheer force of will. What happens when that rage is turned on us?”

Hera, seated beside Zeus, inclined her head. “Athena is right. Perseus has always been a wild card, but now he’s a wild card with nothing left to lose. He hates the Achaeans for the destruction of Troy, and we all know he blames us just as much as he blames them.” Her tone dripped with undisputable logic. “Do we wait for him to grow bold enough to challenge Olympus itself?”

“I disagree,” Apollo interjected smoothly, leaning forward on his throne. The sunlight around him dimmed as he spoke, his golden hair glowing faintly in the ambient light. “Perseus is not our enemy. He’s simply... lost. Confused. Everything he’s done has been out of loyalty—to his people, to his ideals. He’s no different from any mortal trying to navigate the chaos we sow among them.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across his fellow gods. “He’s a weapon I moulded from scratch. One that can be guided, if we wield him correctly.”

“You mean ‘used,’” Artemis snapped from her place opposite her brother. Her silver eyes narrowed. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? You put him through the fire at Troy, burned away everything he cared about, and now you want to forge him into a tool for your ambitions. It’s cruel, even by your standards. Mother will not be pleased.”

Apollo’s golden eyes met his sister’s unflinchingly. “And what would you have me do? Leave him to languish in his grief? Let him become the monster Athena fears?” He shook his head. “Perseus has a role to play in the mortal world. He always has. It’s why Sally bore him, why the Fates haven’t severed his thread, why I made him immortal, why I cursed his girlfriend. He’s not just a survivor of Troy; he’s its legacy—him and Aeneas. He carries the weight of the future on his shoulders, whether he likes it or not.”

“He needs to be reined in,” Athena banged her spear on the ground. “As I have been saying ever since Apollo gave him immortality without the knowledge of the council.”

“I say we take it away,” Hera called. “It has done it before—to Poseidon and Apollo, centuries ago. You have the power, husband. You can do it again. That solves the problem.” Hera had been a staunch supporter of the Achaeans during the entirety of the war, for Paris’ slight against her. It made sense that she would want him gone.

Poseidon’s trident struck the marble floor with a deafening crack, silencing the rising voices. “Enough!” he boomed, his sea-green eyes fierce. “You speak of Perseus as though he’s some mindless beast to be tamed. Have you forgotten who he is? He is my son. He fought for Troy because he believed in something greater than himself. You don’t see that because you’ve never cared to look. To you, he’s just another pawn on your divine chessboard.”

Athena’s lips curled into a thin smile. “And yet, he’s proven himself to be more than a pawn. That’s exactly why we’re here, Uncle. No one is questioning his strength or his convictions. We’re questioning his control.”

Poseidon stepped forward, his voice low and seething. “You’re questioning his loyalty to Olympus. And I’m telling you now: if you cast him aside, if you treat him as a threat, you’ll make him one. Perseus doesn’t want to fight us. But if you push him, if you brand him an enemy, he will fight, and none of us—not even Zeus—will be able to stop him.”

Zeus stirred at this, his thunderous voice cutting through the chamber. “You overestimate him, brother.”

“No,” Poseidon replied coldly. “I know my son. He’s immortal, like we are. He doesn’t fear death, and he doesn’t fear us. He grows stronger with each passing day. Do you think his hatred for the Achaeans is any different from the bitterness he holds toward those of us who betrayed him? He’s already lost everything—what more do we have to take from him?”

Artemis stood. “Perseus was instrumental in the shaping of the mortal world these past few decades. He was raised by my mother and a man Apollo deemed noble. He is not a destroyer or a threat, but a builder of legacies.”

“I have seen what he does for the world, Father,” Apollo shook his head. “I have seen how instrumental he will be to the survival of both Olympus and the mortal realm. It would be in our best interest to keep him around.”

Hera arched a brow, her voice calm and calculated. “Then what do you propose, Apollo? Poseidon? That we let him roam the mortal world unchecked? That we simply hope he doesn’t turn his anger on Olympus?”

Poseidon’s jaw tightened. “I propose that we treat him with the respect he deserves. He is not a threat unless you make him one. Give him time to grieve, to find his purpose again. If you force his hand now, you’ll turn him into the very weapon you fear.”

“Time?” Athena scoffed. “He’s everlasting. He has all the time in the world. And in that time, he could become something far more dangerous than we’ve ever faced. His unpredictability remains a reason to worry. Without trickery, he would have won the war against the entire host of Greece. An immortal of his power with no ties to anyone but himself is too much of a risk we must not be willing to take. The wisest choice of action would be to—“

“There is no wisest choice of action here,” Poseidon raised a hand to silence her. “Zeus, if you hold any sort of respect for me, allow me this. Let my son descend into the depths with me. He will be my lieutenant. The storms of the ocean are never still. My family might disagree but they will come to accept it. I will ensure he causes no trouble to you or anyone.” The king seemed to be considering this option, but then one of his children spoke up.

“Or, you could make him a god, Father,” Hermes piped in nonchalantly. “Like you did with Heracles. Like you did with so many others before him. Let him live. You all know he deserves it.”

Zeus frowned at his son, and shook his head thoughtfully, “That would only make him more powerful, not ensure his loyalty to the council.”

“What do you possibly think a scrawny thing like him could do to us?” Demeter wrinkled her nose. “He’s much too underfed. I say give the boy some cereal before making any life-altering decisions.”

“Hermes’ idea is nonsense," Athena declared, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "A god? Him? Do not forget who he is, dear council. Do not forget how his actions turned us against one another, made us pick sides, and almost ripped Olympus in half and pieces. Shall we elevate such a creature to godhood?"

A silence fell, broken only by the faint sound of Artemis rising to her feet. Her silver tunic gleamed, and her twin brother Apollo stood with her, both radiating celestial light. “Do not talk about Perseus that way,” Apollo barked. In his own sick, twisted way, he cared for Perseus like a baby brother, and he had done everything for him. Athena wanted to see him gone, and that stood against everything Apollo had been working for since the demigod had washed up at his feet all those years ago.

Artemis, bow in hand, gestured from her throne, "He is stronger than you know; any of you. He could be of much use to the ranks of Olympus and to the mortals. I see his potential as much as his torment. It is time we end this cycle of punishing and fearing heroes instead of acknowledging them.”

“Let him be the hand that guides,” Hestia murmured loudly, looking up from the fire, “Not the sword that shatters.” There was silence in the room, until—

“I say we need a sword of our own to do some shattering,” Ares leaned forward. “Olympus hasn’t had a champion since Heracles from decades ago. He seems competent enough.”

“I must agree,” Hephaestus grunted, looking up from the small mechanical spider he was crafting. It skittered down his hand, raced down his throne and began making its way to Athena. She glared at Hephaestus and raised her hand, and the spider stopped, going up in a small blaze of fire. The craftsman continued, “The boy is one of the few mortals—well, beings, in general, I would consider crafting armour for. He would do well as a champion.”

“Let’s all just drink some wine, and celebrate the end of this horrendous war,” Dionysus grumbled. “Where’s the damn after-party?”

The council erupted into argument. Poseidon’s voice boomed in defence of Perseus’ free will. Hermes whispered slyly to Dionysus, who laughed in amusement. Demeter folded her arms, disapproving of the entire affair. Ares pushed on his agenda of a champion, but really, he just wanted a new punching bag and an able warrior to go toe-to-toe with. The debate raged for hours—or perhaps days; time was malleable in Olympus, so it was impossible to tell.

Finally, Zeus raised his hand, silencing the room once more. His gaze was heavy, his face lined with a weariness that came from ruling for centuries. “Enough. We will not destroy Perseus or put a leash around his neck. Nor will we exile him back to the mundane life of a mortal, or elevate him to godhood as some of you might wish.” His eyes flicked to Athena and Hera before settling on Poseidon.

“Let it be known,” Zeus continued, “that Perseus is to be watched. Closely. He may act freely among mortals for now, but the moment he becomes a threat to Olympus, we will act. Poseidon, you claim to know your son. If he turns against us, it will be your responsibility to bring him to heel.”

Poseidon’s grip on his trident tightened, but he nodded. “You have my word.”

Zeus turned his attention to Apollo. “You, too, have had a hand in shaping Perseus’ fate. If you see so much potential in him, then guide him. But know this, Apollo: if he falters, the blame will fall on you.”

Apollo inclined his head, though his golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Understood.”

As the gods flashed out of the chamber, Artemis lingered, her gaze fixed on her brother. “You think you’ve won, don’t you?”

Apollo smiled faintly. “I think I’ve ensured Perseus has a chance. That’s all I care about.”

“And if he turns against us because of you? He’ll never forgive you for everything you’ll done?”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

BREAK

The hill overlooking the ruins of Troy was still, a place where the echoes of gods and men no longer lingered. Perseus stood amid the silence, a lone figure, statuesque and hollow as if the ashes of the city had seeped into his very being. Selene and Helios watched him from a few feet behind. Neither spoke. What could be said to a man who had lost everything, yet could never truly die?

He had wanted to see it, one last time, before they finally left.

Perseus stood motionless, staring at the horizon where Troy had once stood proud, now reduced to rubble. Around him, the last remnants of the Trojan survivors had scattered to the winds, their once-bright future burned to ash.

Selene came closer to him, her silver eyes watching his face, her fingers brushing his arm gently. Helios, towering and golden in the evening light, leaned silently against his chariot, his lips pressed into a grim line.

Perseus’ voice broke the silence, his words soft but sharp. “Do you feel it?”

Selene tilted her head. “Feel what?”

“Their absence,” Perseus murmured, the weight of loss heavy in his tone. “So many voices silenced. So many lives extinguished. And for what? So Athena could gloat? So Apollo could prove he was always the better man?”

Helios let out a long sigh. “It’s the way of gods and mortals. The gods play, and mortals pay. That’s how it’s always been.”

Perseus clenched his fists, his knuckles white. “Not anymore. Not while I still exist. They will pay, Helios—Athena, Apollo, the Achaeans—every one of them who had a hand in this. They took my home, my people, my faith. I’ll make sure they regret it.”

Selene stepped closer, resting her palm on his chest. “And what will that make you? Will you become what they are? You’ve seen what vengeance does to gods, Perseus. It twists and ruins. Don’t let it consume you.”

Perseus stared at her for a long moment. “I won’t be consumed, Selene. But I won’t forgive. I can’t forgive this.”

Without a word, the demigod turned and knelt. He scooped up a handful of the earth—the Trojan soil. For a moment, his hand trembled, but then his fingers closed tightly around it. When he stood, his movements were deliberate, purposeful—a man forcing himself to move forward when every fibre of his being wanted to remain frozen in grief.

“I cannot mourn anymore,” Perseus said finally, his voice calm but brittle, like the surface of ice. He turned to Selene, whose silver eyes reflected his pain. “I have wept for Troy. I have screamed for its people. But my tears and my rage will not bring it back. All I have now is my name, my blood, my brother and my will—and I will not waste them.”

Her hand brushed his shoulder. “I know.”

The son of Poseidon looked past her, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sea met the sky. “I will rebuild.” His voice hardened, and for the first time since Troy fell, there was a spark of life in his words. “Myself, and my people. I will make the gods regret the day they let this happen. They will not erase me. They will not erase us.”

Helios raised an eyebrow, a faint frown tugging at his lips. “Bold words for a man who has nothing left but ashes.”

Perseus turned to him, his one eye gleaming like steel. “Ashes are all you need to start a fire.”

Helios and Selene exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. The Titan of the sun finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I hope we will be here to see it.”

Perseus frowned. “We’ll find a way, Helios.” He met Selene’s eyes. “Prophecies aren’t always direct. There’s always a loophole.”

His lover’s eyes softened, her gaze flickering to the sky. “The world is changing, Perseus. We have made our peace with that.” Should his people thrive, should they become great again, it would mean the end for them. His emotions raged and battled within him.

Helios smirked faintly, though there was no joy in it. “Not tomorrow, not next year, maybe not even the next century. But one day we will be gone. Time catches even us, brother.”

Selene smiled sadly, brushing a hand along his cheek. “When that day comes, Perseus, you’ll still be here. You’ll still endure, as you always have. But know this: we won’t truly leave you. You carry us, as you carry all who have been lost.”

She planted a chaste kiss on his cheeks, and Perseus’ eyelids fluttered as he was overwhelmed with emotion. She squeezed his hand tightly. “I will not fade today. But the shadows grow longer, and the world forgets the old ways. Until the end, I will guide you. The moon wanes, Perseus, but it does not disappear. While you walk this earth, my light will endure.”

He nodded, numbly, and Helios sounded his agreement, "Even the sun dies, but its light is eternal.” He looked the demigod dead in the eye. “Be their light, Perseus."

Perseus turned away, the weight of their words pressing against him. Even in immortality, loss was inevitable. He wanted to swear to find a way to help them. But he could not make another promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He would fight for Selene, and for however long they had. He would never stop fighting for them. Even if he was the single thing tying them to the earth he would do everything within his power to ensure they didn’t leave. But now, he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

They stood in silence for hours, perhaps days. It was hard to tell.

As the sun rose over the ruins of Troy, Helios climbed into his chariot.

Selene stood beside Perseus, her hand slipping into his.

“What will you do now?” her brother asked.

Perseus’ gaze was steady. “I’ll find Aeneas. He’s the last piece of Troy that still lives.” He trailed off, a faint, sad smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at Selene. She would be beside him. And together, with Aeneas, they would be enough.

Selene rested her head on his shoulder, and for a moment, there was peace. For the first time in days, Perseus felt a faint warmth in his chest. “And when we find him?”

He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time, he felt ready to face it.

In the distance, the ruins of Troy smouldered, a testament to the gods’ cruelty and men’s hubris. But in Perseus’ heart, a new fire burned—one that would light the way for a new legacy, one that even the gods could not extinguish.

The green-eyed man turned to her, his gaze steady. “Then we show the gods what mortals can do—even the immortal ones.”

Helios let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You truly mean to defy Olympus, don’t you?”

“No,” Perseus said, his voice calm but laced with iron determination. “I mean to outlast them.”

BREAK

Later that night, as the moonlight bathed Mount Helicon, Poseidon rose from the sea, his form shimmering with divine authority.

Perseus arose inside the cave he was sharing with Selene for the evening before they started searching for his brother the next day.

He could feel his father’s presence, and without wasting time, he misted down to the beach.

For a long moment, father and son stared at each other. There was no hatred between them now, only understanding, and perhaps a bit of love—two beings bound by blood and loss. Perseus pulled his father into a deep hug and buried his head into his shoulder. He would have cried, but there were no tears left to give.

“You are treading dangerous waters, my son,” Poseidon said quietly as they drew apart. “The Olympians are watching you.”

“They always have,” Perseus replied. “And they will see what I become.”

Poseidon’s expression darkened. “You walk a fine line, Perseus. Do not make yourself their enemy. You may be immortal, but even immortals can be broken.”

Perseus took a step away, his fists clenched. “If the Olympians fear me, let them. Some of them have reason to. But I will not waste my eternity dancing to their whims. Not anymore.”

The god of the sea sighed, but there was a glimmer of pride in his gaze. “Then I will stand by you. But be warned—your path will not be easy.”

“Was it ever?” Perseus replied, his voice softer. Poseidon shook his head.

Together, they turned to face the sea and watched silently as the waves lapped against the shore.

BREAK

Far from the ruins of Troy, a lone ship rocked gently on the waves, its sails full of the sea breeze. Aeneas stood at the prow, his eyes scanning the horizon. Beside him were his father, Anchises, leaning heavily on his staff; his young son, Ascanius, clutching his hand; his now loyal companion, Achates, standing steadfast at his side; and the slave-princess Briseis.

The survivors were few—a handful of men, women and kids who carried the legacy of Troy on their weary shoulders. The future was uncertain, the sea ahead vast and unforgiving. Yet, in Aeneas’ heart, there burned a fragile ember of hope.

“Do you think he’ll come?” Achates asked, breaking the silence.

Aeneas’ gaze didn’t waver. “He’ll come. He’s Perseus. He always comes.”

The words felt hollow, but Aeneas clung to them like a lifeline. His brother was more than a man—he was a force, an immortal storm who had defied gods and men alike. If anyone could rise from the ashes of Troy, it was Perseus.

As the ship drifted into the unknown, Aeneas closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer to the gods. Not for victory, not for vengeance, but for the strength to rebuild.

He was going to need it.

A/N: So with this, we draw the curtains on this story, Perseus: Excidium Troiae. Whew. I’m so glad it’s over, ngl. This was a hard write, but I didn’t regret any second of it. Look out for the next book in the series, Perseus: Ortus Romae.

And on New Year's Eve, I’ll be posting one of those one-shots I release yearly, titled; A Storm in A Teacup. Watch out for it, and Happy Holidays!!!

Chapter Text

Hello guys,

This is just to inform you all that the sequel, Perseus: Ortus Romae is up. Give it a look and tell me what you think! The title of the story translates to Perseus: The Rise (or birth) of Rome, and it follows the journey of the survivors of the sack of Troy, based on Virgirl's Aeneid, up to the formation of Rome. I hope you enjoy it!

https://archiveofourown.info/works/65524738/chapters/168670348

Much love,

TripleHomicide.