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k-nayee · 5 months ago

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CHAPTER 1. CHAINS AND PROMISES

❝A single choice can become the foundation of a story yet to be told.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

Countdown: 22 years remaining

The hall felt colder than usual.

Penelope's sandals scuffed lightly against the stone as she followed her siblings, her heart pounding louder with each step.

Her father's summons rarely boded well—especially for her.

The eleven year old kept her head low, her eyes fixed on the slightly frayed hem of her sister's dress. The minor imperfection briefly distracting her from spiraling thoughts if only for a moment.

'He'll say it again...' Penelope thought bitterly. 'That I'm not beautiful like Helen. Not useful enough.'

Whether it was her appearance, her demeanor, or her very existence; she had learned long ago that Icarius would never look at her the way he did her brothers and sister.

She wasn't Polyphontes: the embodiment of Spartan strength.

She wasn't Thoas: sharp and quick-tongued with their father's easy approval.

And she certainly wasn't Iphthime: the youngest who carried their father's favor as effortlessly as the morning dew from a night of rain.

No. Penelope was something else entirely. Something...lesser. At least that's what Icarius made her feel.

The groan of the great doors brought her back to reality. They swung open, revealing Icarius seated at the head of the room.

His imposing figure on the ornate chair he occupied, his dark eyes scanning his children with the precision of a blade as they filed in.

Penelope lingered at the back where she hoped—no, prayed his attention would bypass her entirely.

"Look up girl."

She flinched. The command was sharp and unyielding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Swallowing hard, Penelope raised her head, forcing her eyes up to meet her father's. His expression was the same as always: cold, assessing, and utterly unimpressed.

A lump formed in her throat but she willed herself to stay silent.

"Come closer."

The words were simple but they might as well have been an executioner's call.

Her legs felt like stone as she forced them to move forward. Each step brought her closer to the judgment she feared, her stomach twisting with every inch she closed between them.

When she stopped beside her siblings, she dared not to look directly at him. Instead she let her gaze fall somewhere—anywhere—else.

And that was when she saw you.

You stood a few feet away, dwarfed by the guard who held your shoulder with an iron hand. Your clothes were little more than rags, torn and stained, clinging to your body.

Your skin gleamed faintly under the dim light, a rich tone unlike anything Penelope had seen in Sparta. Your hair was wild and untamed in a way that gave you an almost otherworldly appearance.

But it wasn't just your appearance that struck her.

It was the way you stood trembling with your eyes glued to the floor. You were so young—far too young to be here—and yet you carried the weight that no child should bear.

Her heart ached unexpectedly with a pang of something she couldn't quite name. Pity? Anger?

"The last of her kind," Icarius's voice snapped her attention back. "A spoil of war from the recent raid."

There was no pity in his tone, only a flat recitation of facts. "Her people didn't fare well on the voyage—weak constitution, sickness....who knows? Most threw themselves overboard in defiance. Cowards. This one barely survived."

Penelope's stomach churned as she glanced at you again. Your smaller hands gripped each other tightly as though clinging to the last shred of safety you had.

"An exotic, no doubt about it. A novelty." Icarius continued with a wave of his hand. "She can be a personal servant if any of you want her."

Penelope's breath hitched. Distaste coiled in her chest at the very idea of forcing someone so young into servitude.

She clenched her fists, her pulse quickening as anger warred with fear. Refusal hovered on her tongue but she knew better than to speak against her father.

"And if none of us want her?" Iphthime asked lightly, her voice devoid of concern. She spoke as casual as if she were discussing a garment.

Icarius shrugged. "Then she'll be sent to the nearest brothel. There's always demand for something...unusual."

The words hit Penelope like a slap. A brothel. For a child?

You couldn't have been no older than seven. The very thought made her chest tighten with disgust.

Polyphontes chuckled darkly. "Well at least she'd be useful for something. I suppose I could pay a visit to the brothel in a few years."

His eyes flicked to you, lingering in a way that made Penelope's stomach turn. Thoas simply smirked, adding nothing but his silent approval.

Penelope felt like she couldn't breathe as her heart pounded in her chest. This wasn't right. This wasn't fair.

Before she knew what she was doing, the words tumbled out of her mouth.

"I'll take her!"

The room fell still. All eyes turned to her, and for a moment, she regretted speaking.

But the image of you—trembling, terrified—was etched into her mind. She couldn't take it back.

Icarius's lips curled. "You?" he asked, the word laced with disdain. "What use do you have for a servant? You hardly need one."

Penelope opened her mouth to reply but nothing came. Her mind raced, searching for an answer that wouldn't sound like disobedience.

Before she could stammer a response Iphthime chimed in.

"I have more than enough servants Father," she says with a sweet smile. "so I certainly don't need another. And I doubt Polyphontes or Thoas are interested in training her properly. Let Penelope have her. What harm would it bring?"

Icarius's scowl deepened. Thoas gave a dismissive shrug and even Polyphontes seemed disinterested now, crossing his arms and stepping back.

Narrowed eyes lingering on Penelope, Icarius finally sighed.

"Fine," he said curtly. "Do as you will. But remember—this is your burden now. Do not expect me to intervene when it becomes more trouble than it's worth."

The words stung but Penelope forced herself to nod. She lower herself and offered a hand.

"Come with me," she said gently.

You hesitated, your wide eyes searching hers for something—trust perhaps. Slowly, you reached out, hand slipping into hers.

As Penelope led you away from the hall, she felt the weight of her decision settle on her shoulders. She didn't know what this would mean for her future or yours. But one thing was certain:

She wouldn't let you face it alone.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The air was thick as Penelope closed the door to her room.

She glanced at you, standing just inside the doorway like a statue, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

The flickering light of the oil lamp accentuated the tension in your posture, your gaze fixed on the floor as if meeting her eyes would invite punishment.

"This is where you'll stay until your own room is finished," Penelope said gently, gesturing around the royal bedchamber.

She pointed out to the makeshift bed pitifully located in a corner. "It's not much...but it's safe."

You say nothing.

"I'm Penelope," she tries again, forcing a cheerful tone that felt foreign on her lips. "What's your name?"

The silence stretched on—heavy and stifling. Penelope shifted uncomfortably, unsure on how to bridge the chasm of fear and mistrust between you.

"You...um...you can sit if you'd like?" she offered, gesturing to the cushioned bench near the room's window.

Still nothing. You didn't even lift your head.

She could see the tension in the way your shoulders hunched, the way your fingers fidgeted against the fabric of what could be called a dress.

Penelope sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. She felt helpless. How could she make this easier for you?

Then an idea struck causing the daughter of Icarius' eyes to lighten.

"Wait here!" she said, her movements swift as she crossed the room toward a wooden chest near her bed.

But as she passed by, you flinched, shrinking back instinctively as though expecting a blow.

Penelope froze mid-step. Her expression softened. "I won't hurt you," she said, her voice as tender as she could muster. "I promise."

She continued to the chest, this time moving slower, careful not to startle you further. Lifting the lid, she retrieved a small handmade harp.

It was simple; its wood worn from years of use yet showing signs of care. The faint scent of cedar wafting from it evoked memories from years ago.

Penelope returned to the center of the room cradling the harp as though it were a treasure. "This," she began softly, "was my mother's. She gave it to me before she...left back to sea. It's old but it still plays."

She walked over to the bench and settled onto the cushioned seat. Her fingers brushed lightly over the strings, plucking a tentative note.

The sound was soft and hesitant at first, but as she found her rhythm, a gentle melody filled the room.

It was a lullaby her mother used to sing, each note carrying warmth and the promise of safety.

Penelope was so lost in the music that she didn't notice you move. It wasn't until she felt the soft weight of your head against her knee did she startle.

She glanced down as her fingers freeze mid-strum.

You had crept closer and settled on the floor beside her. Though your gaze remained averted, your smaller frame leaned into hers, seeking comfort in her presence.

A soft smile tugged at Penelope's lips. She resumed playing, her fingers gliding over the strings with renewed purpose.

The melody wove around the two of you—a fragile connection forming in the quiet harmony.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Penelope's heart didn't feel so heavy.

══════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚═══════════════

Countdown: 18 years remaining

The warm glow of lanterns lit the garden below, casting a soft golden light over the gathered nobles.

Laughter and music floated into the night air as it mingled with the scent of jasmine. From the balcony above, Penelope watched the festivities, her hands resting on the cold stone railing. The chill seeped into her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the scene below.

This sight should have filled her with joy—it was her fifteenth birthday after all. Instead, a hollow ache spread through her chest.

She had smiled all evening, curtsied when expected, and thanked everyone who had offered their well-wishes. She played the perfect host just as she had been taught.

But now, with no one to watch, her mask slipped. Her smile fell away and was replaced by the weight of exhaustion and sorrow.

'I should be happy,' she thought bitterly as her grip on the railing tightened. But the truth was she didn't feel like celebrating.

Her mother's absence had grown into a permanent void, the grief lingering like a shadow that never fully left.

And her father....his coldness had only worsened. Once distant but tolerable, he was now bitter and cruel—especially when he drank.

Below, a group of soldiers moved through the courtyard, their armor catching the light as they sparred for the amusement of the guests.

Penelope's gaze lingered on them, watching the rhythm of their movements—the clash of swords, the precision of their footwork. There was strength in their actions, something she deeply envied.

Though she had always wanted to be strong, strength wasn't something her father wanted girls in the family to do despite Spartan customs. Her place was within these palace walls, where her lessons focused on embroidery and courtly manners.

Any dreams of wielding a sword were dismissed as childish fantasies.

"Penelope!"

The sharp and slurred voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Her father's voice.

She turned slowly, her heart sinking as she caught sight of him stumbling onto the balcony. Icarius' face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot, and the acrid smell of wine clung to him like a second skin.

"There you are," he said, his words was laced with venom. "Hiding away while the rest of us celebrate your useless birth. Typical."

"Father," she began cautiously. "You've had too much to drink. Perhaps it would be best if—"

"Don't you dare tell me what's best!" he roared, his steps unsteady as he advanced toward her. She instinctively stepped back causing her heel to hit the base of the railing.

"You've been nothing but a burden since the day you were born," Icarius spats. "A curse sent by the Fates to torment me. I should've rid myself of you long ago."

Penelope's breath caught in her throat as his words sank in. Memories she had long buried surged to the surface, unbidden—the icy embrace of the sea swallowing her, her mother's desperate cries echoing as the waters had cradled her back to life.

"You already tried," she said through trembling lips, her voice barely above a whisper. Icarius stopped, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at her.

"What did you just say?" he growled.

"You threw me into the Sea," Penelope continued, her fear battling with the sudden surge of defiance. "Because you hated me—thought I was unworthy of the life I was given."

His face darkened, the weight of her words only fueling his rage. "And by Zeus I should've succeeded!" he bellowed. "The Sea made it her prison for saving you! A punishment for defying me—to protect you when she should have let you drown—is a price I've paid every day since."

"She paid for your sins," Penelope retorted as tears welled in her eyes. "The Sea took her back to the waters she came from, and they warned you didn't they? That if you ever tried again, you would be the one to drown."

Icarius's face twisted with rage. He suddenly lunges at her, grabbing her arm with bruising force and pushed her closer to the edge.

Shoving her back against the railing. "What do I care now?" he hissed. "She's gone, Fates have already taken everything from me. What more can they do? I'm not afraid of their wrath—not anymore."

His drunken rage and grief mingled as he leaned in closer, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're no daughter of mine. You've brought me nothing but misery and loss. And tonight...I'll finally be free of you."

"Father please!" Penelope cried. The cold stone of the railing pressed against her back, her heels slipping as she fought for balance.

Her heart pounded wildly as the darkness of the abyss loomed behind her, ready to swallow her whole.

Just as Icarius raised his hand to deliver the final push—

"My Lord!"

A voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Icarius froze, his grip loosening just enough for Penelope to wrench free.

She stumbled away, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her wide eyes snapping toward the source.

There you stood there at the doorway, your expression unreadable but your posture firm.

"Lady Iphthime has sent me to fetch you," you said, bowing slightly. "She requires your attention for an urgent matter."

Icarius turns to you with a glare, his body swaying as if caught between his drunken fury and your calm interruption. "She can wait," he slurs.

You didn't move. "She insisted my Lord. Something about the guests...." You inclined your head respectfully, forcing a light tone of urgency in your words. "and the wine running low."

That seemed to get his attention. He steps back with a huff.

"Tch. Women and their dramatics," he mutters, staggering toward the doorway. He shoves past you and stumble back into the palace.

As he disappears inside the air seemed to grow still.

His parting words—slurred and bitter—hang heavy in the night: "Lucky...the Fates must pity you after all."

You waited until the sound of his footsteps faded completely before stepping onto the balcony.

Penelope collapsed to her knees. Her breaths came in shallow gasps as silent sobs wracked her frame and tears blurred her vision.

Her body trembled from the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her hands clutching her gown as though trying to hold herself together.

You moved carefully to her side. You didn't speak at first, giving her the space to release the flood of emotions she had clearly been holding back for years.

"I-I thought..." Her voice broke the silence as fresh tears spilled over. "He was going to—"

"I know," you murmured. "But you're safe now."

For a long moment she didn't speak. The silence between you was heavy, punctuated only by her uneven breaths.

"Why..." She finally whispers "Why does he hate me so much? What have I done to deserve this?"

You hesitated as you searched for the right words. There wasn't much one could say to erase years worth of hurt inflicted by a man who should have protected her. But you try anyway.

"It's not your fault..." you said softly. "It's his anger—his fear. He blames because he's too weak to face them himself."

Her lip trembled and she lowered her head. "Weak," Penelope repeated almost bitterly. "I hate that word."

You leaned back against the cool stone railing with her and simply stare out into the night starry sky.

"Where I come from," you began, your voice steady but tinged with emotion, "we don't let men like him decide our worth. My village...it was led by women. Strong women. Our mothers, our sisters, our aunts—they were our protectors. They trained from the time they could hold a sword. They listened to each other, respected each other."

Penelope's eyes widened, her tears momentarily forgotten. "Like the Amazons?" she breathlessly asked with a tinge of wonder.

You smiled faintly. "Something like that," you admitted. "It wasn't perfect, but it was...beautiful. The kind of place where no one could make you feel small because you're a woman."

She could only stare at you as her mind turned over the possibilities. "Why have you never told me this before?"

Your smile faded. "Because...your family took it from me," the words came out heavier than you intended. But you forced yourself to meet her eyes. "I didn't want to burden you with my pain."

Her heart ached and she reached for your hand. "I'm so sorry."

You shook your head, squeezing her fingers gently. "Don't be. I've made my peace with it. But tonight..." You leaned closer, your voice firm with resolve. "Tonight I want you to do something for me."

She blinked. "What?"

"I want you to promise me you won't ever let anyone make you feel powerless again. You don't have to be a damsel my Lady. You can be strong."

Her brows furrowed. "How many times must I tell you to quit calling me that? For the last—"

"Penelope," you interrupt with a playful eyeroll. "If you're willing, I can help you. We'll train in secret. No one will know—not your father, not anyone. You don't have to stay defenseless."

Her lips quivered, the dullness in her eyes replaced by something brighter. Hope.

"Do you mean that?" she whispered.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Of course I would. You have more strength than you realize. You just need to trust yourself."

She suddenly throws her arms around you, holding you tightly.

No words were spoken. They weren't needed.

With the Moon and stars as witness, a quiet promise was forged—one that would bind you together through the trials to come.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

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CHAPTER 5. NOBODY'S GOODBYE

❝The forest has no rules; only those who adapt may claim its spoils.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

That night, the campfire crackled as the men gathered around, their voices carrying over the soft hum of the forest. The dancing flames casted flickering shadows on their faces as they spoke of glory and ambition.

"When I win Athena's favor," one man declared, his chest puffed with bravado, "I'll become the greatest warrior in Athens. The Gods themselves will know my name."

"Athena's warriors live lives of honor," another added reverently. "To serve her is to serve wisdom and strength. There's no greater purpose."

"I mean imagine it! Athena herself, choosing you to join her warriors in Athens. Training under her guidance...becoming a legend in the making."

Odysseus leaned back with a sharp grin. "Some of us don't need to imagine. I've already got one foot in her good graces."

The group erupted into a mix of laughter and groans, but your thoughts were elsewhere. The mention of Athena's warriors had struck a chord.

You'd assumed the reward was wealth or a title—something tangible you could use to free Penelope from her father's grip.

But this?

Leaving for Athens, becoming a servant of the Goddess...It complicated everything.

The very idea of exchanging one form of servitude for another left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Odysseus suddenly turns his focus to you, his expression thoughtful. "What about you Nobody? What would you do if you won?"

You hesitated, the question catching you off guard. Deciding on a simple shrug you force a smile. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

His eyes narrowed slightly as if sensing your unease, but he didn't press the issue.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the fire, his usual grin returning. "Well whatever happens, it'll be one hell of a story."

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

It didn't take long for the camp to settle down. At this point the fire burned low, embers glowing like tiny stars against the dark of the pit.

Odysseus was sprawled near you, his breathing slow and steady in sleep as the surrounding men's snores filled the air, mingling with the distant sounds of the forest.

Unable to sleep you lay on your back and star up at the canopy of stars. Restlessness and doubt gnawed at you, so much you grabbed your hunting spear and slipped into the forest.

The moon hung high as you wandered through the foliage. The stillness of the night was a sharp contrast to the chaos in your mind.

Each step was deliberate, the soft crunch of leaves beneath your sandals grounding you as you retraced your steps to the traps you had set earlier.

You hoped the routine would calm your racing thoughts.

Promise of freedom from Sparta's chains now seemed like a double-edged sword; its consequences cutting deeper the more you considered them.

The idea itself and possibility started to unravel the certainty you had when you first boarded the shi—

A sharp squeal pierced the night air.

Your heart leapt as you sprinted toward the sound, low branches snagging at your clothes as you pass. Breaking through the underbrush you stumbled into a clearing—and there it was.

The Erymanthian boar.

It stood in the clearing; a hulking mass of muscle and ferocity, its dark bristling fur glinting in the moonlight. It was enormous—easily three times the size of a normal boar—with tusks that curved like ivory scythes.

With red eyes that burned with a wild almost divine rage, it thrashed and squealed against the bindings of your trap. The ropes you had carefully woven held fast, now digging into the creature's thick neck and powerful legs.

Every movement sent tremors through the earth, the stakes creaking as they fought to remain anchored in the ground. The sheer presence was overwhelming—an undeniable reminder that it wasn't a mere animal but a creation of Athena herself.

Your breath hitched as you stood there spear in hand. The boar's squeals cut through the night air, a mix of rage and pain that made your pulse quicken.

This was it.

You took a tentative step closer, your legs trembling despite your resolve. Time seemed to slow, the edges of the clearing fading into darkness as your focus sharpened on the beast before you.

This was your chance.

Your fingers tightened around the spear, your knuckles whitening. You could almost see it: the world opening up to you.

The riches...the glory...the chance to leave Sparta—to leave behind the life that held you in its suffocating grip. A life beyond these chains, beyond the nightmares of your past.

With this kill it could all be yours. You could be free.

But as you raised the spear a cold thought washed over you.

If you killed the boar what would it mean for Penelope? Would Athena's favor extend to her as well or would she be left behind still trapped under her father's rule?

Could you abandon her?

Yes, killing the boar might secure your future—but at what cost? Could you truly leave Penelope behind, force her into a life she'd never chosen?

Just the thought alone made your stomach churn.

Your chest tightened, your vision blurring slightly as a lump formed in your throat. The spear in your hands felt heavier now, almost too heavy to lift.

The boar thrashed again, and the trap groaned under the strain, the ropes digging into its flesh as it tried to break free.

Your dream of freedom had always included Penelope—her laughter, her quiet strength, her presence beside you as you left this life behind together.

But now, standing here with your chance so close, you realized something terrible: If you took this kill you couldn't take her with you.

Suddenly—as if sensing your inner turmoil—the boar stilled, it's crimson gaze locked onto yours.

Your grip loosened.

You stepped back.

"Go," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Get out of here."

With one final thunderous lurch the boar broke free. Its massive form barreled through the clearing, disappearing into the dense forest with a cacophony of snapping branches and heavy footfalls.

You could only stand there frozen, the spear in your hand now useless. The clearing was eerily silent—save for the distant rustling of the boar retreating into the night.

Your chest heaved as the reality of your decision sank in. The chance was gone, slipping away like smoke through your fingers.

And yet, deep in your heart, you felt a strange bittersweet relief.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

When you returned to the campsite the fire had died down to ashes.

Odysseus lay sprawled near the edge, his curls messy and his mouth slightly open as he snored softly.

As you began packing your few belongings, he shifted slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before falling silent again.

You paused, your gaze lingering on his sleeping form. And to your surprise you felt a pang of sadness. For all his arrogance and mischief you had grown fond of the Ithacan prince.

Knowing this would be the last time your paths would cross made your heart heavy.

Your gaze dropped to your bracelet as the sudden feeling of leaving something of yourself behind appeared.

For a moment you hesitated, running your fingers over the familiar leather worn smooth from years of wear.

It was the first gift Penelope had given you, a symbol of the bond that had carried you through so much.

With a soft huff through your nose, you slip the bracelet off and place it gently beside his head, the leather glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Leaning closer, you allowed a faint smile to touch your lips. "My name's ____ by the way," you whispered softly.

Staying long enough to commit the sight of him to memory, you finally stand and turn toward the shoreline.

You cast one last glance at the camp; at the men who wouldn't miss you, at the boy who might, and then you disappear into the shadows.

The path back was quiet, the rugged terrain of Mount Erymanthos illuminated by the faint light of the waning moon.

As you approached the waiting ships—meant for those who quit and were ready to leave—you felt the weight of your decision settle over you.

You didn't look back.

══════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚═══════════════

The journey back to Sparta was uneventful; the monotony of travel giving you too much time to think.

By the time the palace walls came into view, a dull ache had settled in your chest, a mixture of relief and apprehension.

The campaign had returned just ahead of you—a stroke of luck really, as it gave you the perfect cover for your sudden reappearance.

You stayed near the rear, letting the soldiers boisterous energy carry you forward, their laughter and camaraderie filling the air as they dispersed into the courtyard.

Every sound—the clank of armor, the murmur of servants rushing to and fro—felt sharper now after your time away.

As the crowd thinned from soldiers unloading supplies and goods, a flash of movement caught your eye.

"____!"

You barely had time to react before Penelope rushed toward you, her face lighting up with a smile so radiant it momentarily eased the knot in your chest.

Her long black hair flowed behind her, the sunlight seeming to dance across the delicate embroidery of her peach colored dress.

She stopped just short of throwing her arms around you, her noble demeanor reining in her excitement. But her eyes sparkled as she clasped your hands tightly. "You're back! How was the campaign? Are you hurt? Was it exciting?"

Her voice was a mix of relief and curiosity and you felt a pang of guilt at how easily you could lie to her.

"I'm fine Penelope," you said with a smile. "And the campaign? Well..." You paused, searching for the right words. "It was...eventful."

Penelope's gaze swept over you, her sharp eyes catching every detail

You could practically see her mind working, cataloging everything about your appearance. And then her brow furrowed.

"Wait." She tilted her head slightly, her tone shifting from excitement to confusion. "Where's your bracelet?"

Instinctively, you glanced down at your wrist, the absence of the leather braid feeling far more significant now than it had when you'd left it behind.

Penelope raised her own wrist, the matching bracelet glinting softly against her skin. "It's gone?" her tone was both concerned and dismayed. "What happened?"

You forced a chuckle, waving off her worry with what you hoped was convincing nonchalance. "Oh that? It broke."

Penelope's frown deepened. "Broke? How?"

You quickly cobbled together a plausible story with enough animation to mask your discomfort.

"There was this drunk soldier on the ship," you began, gesturing dramatically. "He tripped over his own feet and grabbed me to stop from falling overboard. Took the bracelet with him when he went down."

Penelope eyes widened. "Did he—did he survive?"

You nodded quickly. "Oh yes! Pulled him right back up. But the bracelet...well..." You shrugged. "It didn't make it."

Her shoulders relaxed and she let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank the Gods you weren't hurt. But—oh! ____...that bracelet was the first thing I ever made for you."

A pang of guilt twisted in your chest, but you masked it with a sheepish smile. "I know Penelope. I'm sorry. It just couldn't be helped."

Before she could press further, a nearby soldier, overhearing your conversation, chimed in with a confused expression.

"Wait a second," he said, scratching his head. "You were with the campaign?"

Your heart stopped.

The soldier furrowed his brow, his gaze darting between you and Penelope. "I don't remember se—"

"Anyway!" you interrupted loudly, grabbing Penelope's arm and steering her away from the soldier before he could say more. "You'll never guess who I met during the campaign!"

Penelope blinked, her confusion quickly replaced by curiosity. "Who?"

You grinned, leaning closer as if sharing a juicy secret. "Iphicles," you said, drawing out the name for effect.

Penelope gasped. "The brother of Hercules? Truly?" Her eyes lit up again at the new-found gossip.

You eagerly nod. "He was part of the group for a while. Didn't stay long though. Bowed out early, said it wasn't worth his time."

Penelope's laugh was light and musical. "That sounds about right. What was he like?"

"Oh you know," you said with a chuckle. "Tall, broad-shouldered, more muscles than common sense. He tried to trap a boar and ended up falling into his own pit. I'll tell you more later."

By the time you reached the quieter halls of the palace Penelope was fully engrossed in your story. She hung on every word, her earlier concerns about your bracelet forgotten.

Her laughter echoed off the stone walls as you recounted a particularly ridiculous anecdote involving Iphicles's failed attempt to climb a tree to escape a wild goat.

But as the tale wound down a familiar pang of guilt crept in.

The truth of your journey—the boar, the decision to leave it alive, the bracelet left behind with Odysseus—weighed heavily on your mind.

Penelope's matching bracelet flashed against her wrist as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, a bittersweet reminder of what you'd left behind.

"You've been so quiet," she said suddenly, concern lacing her voice. "Are you sure everything is alright?"

"I'm fine," you quickly force a smile. "Just tired from the trip. But enough about me—how have things been here?"

Penelope's face lit up as she launched into a detailed account of palace life in your absence. Grateful for the distraction you listened intently.

Though a part of you remained distant—lost in the memory of the bracelet resting beside Odysseus as you walked away from Mount Erymanthos.

And so as Penelope spoke, you resolved to keep your secret buried. Athena's test, the boar, and the quiet promise left unspoken—they would remain your own.

Your time on the island was a chapter you would carry alone; a memory to be tucked away and revisited in the quiet moments of reflection.

For now your place was here beside her, in the familiar halls of Sparta, where duty and loyalty called you home.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 8. REPRIEVE BEFORE THE STORM

❝When all seems lost, it is the smallest hands and strongest hearts that guide us home.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

Countdown: 0 years and 2 months remaining

The sun was warm and gentle as it bathed the courtyard in golden light; the gentle hum of bees and rustling of leaves painting a serene backdrop.

You sat on a cushioned bench cradling baby Telemachus as he blinked lazily at the world around him.

His tiny hand curled instinctively around your finger causing you to coo more over him, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small.

He was mesmerizing—a perfect blend of his parents.

Dark unruly curls framed his cherubic face as his honey-brown eyes glinted in the sunlight—well...most of them. There, in his left iris, a splash of vibrant blue stood out against the brown like a shard of the Aegean sky—Odysseus's unmistakable mark on his son.

"Look at you," you murmured, brushing a gentle finger across his impossibly soft cheek. "You're going to grow into a strong one little Prince. Just like your mother."

The sound of wood striking wood drew your attention. Across the courtyard, Penelope was sparring lightly with a wooden staff, her movements sharp and deliberate.

She wore a simple chiton tied high to allow freedom of movement, her dark hair pinned back with golden cuffs that caught the sunlight with each turn of her head.

Her strikes were slower than usual, almost as if testing the strength of her recovering body. Yet every swing carried the precision and grace that defined her—each step calculated, her posture perfectly aligned.

Still you frowned, unable to keep your concern at bay.

"You know," you raise your voice just enough for her to hear, "you don't have to train like you're preparing for war. You just had a baby less than a month ago. Your body needs time to recover."

Penelope paused mid-swing, her chest rising and falling as she turned to face you. A single eyebrow arched and a faint smirk curved her lips.

"Are you telling me I should be resting?" she asked teasingly, though her tone carried a challenge that was hard to ignore.

"I'm suggesting you take it slow," you replied, adjusting your hold on Telemachus as he let out a soft coo. "Ithaca can survive without you wielding a sword for a little while longer."

Penelope chuckled, planting the tip of the practice blade against the ground and leaning on it. "Perhaps, but I've never been one to sit idle," She shifted her weight, the staff creaking faintly under her hand. "Besides, I'm older than you. I think I know my limits better than most."

You snorted, brushing a hand lightly over Telemachus' soft curls, marveling at their softness. "Hardly. And if I recall, age doesn't excuse recklessness."

Her lips twitched, her usual composure breaking just enough to let a smile peek through. "Recklessness?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Coming from the person who once fell into the river trying to prove they could fish with their bare hands?"

"That was one time!" you shot back indignantly.

"Uh-huh," she said, her smirk widening. "And how many times have I pulled you out of trouble now? Five? Six?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide the grin tugging at your lips. "Fine. If you must, Queen Penelope," you said with an exaggerated bow of your head. "But if you pull something, don't come crying to me."

Penelope laughed warmly, the sound filling the courtyard, warm and unrestrained. It softened her sharp edges, momentarily chasing away the weight of responsibility she always seemed to carry.

Sheathing the wooden blade back in its rack, she walks over to you, her gaze softening as she looks at Telemachus. She kneels beside you, reaching out to brush a finger over his tiny hand that still clung to your own.

Her touch was feather-light—almost reverent, and her honeyed eyes softened as they lingered on her son. "He looks so much like Odysseus," she says fondly, her smile tinged with a trace of longing.

Before you could respond the doors to the courtyard burst open with a loud thud, shattering the peace.

A man stumbles in panting. His short wavy hair clung damply to his forehead and his spectacles sat askew on his nose threatening to slip off entirely.

His tunic was rumpled—one shoulder slipping slightly—as he braced himself against the doorway, his chest heaving as though he'd sprinted across the entire palace grounds.

"Penelope!" he gasped, his voice cracking with urgency.

Your brows furrowed at the casual use of her name. Very few dared to address the Queen of Ithaca so directly, even fewer without a proper title.

Penelope, however, immediately straightened from her position as her expression shifted to one of concern. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—a softening in her eyes that only occurred when someone she trusted was in trouble.

"Polites?" she asked, taking a measured step forward. "What's wrong? I thought you were with Odysseus."

You cast her a questioning glance, your arms instinctively tightening around the baby nestled against your chest causing the babe to stir slightly.

Penelope caught your look and offered a faint apologetic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"____, this is Polites," she explained, nodding toward the disheveled man. "One of Odysseus's closest allies—his childhood friend actually. You'd have met him sooner if you'd joined us on our honeymoon voyage. He was part of the crew on the ship."

Her lips quirked into a smile and she raised a teasing eyebrow. Still holding Telemachus, you shot her a scathing glare.

"And be forced to watch you and Odysseus suck faces the entire time?" you retorted. "No thank you. It was bad enough hearing him brag nonstop about how he 'won' you."

Penelope blinked as her smirk faltered. But you didn't stop there. A wicked grin tugged at your lips as you leaned into the opportunity.

"Honestly it's a miracle I didn't lose my appetite," you said, your voice dripping with faux annoyance. "He wouldn't shut up about how he, a younger man, managed to win over a Queen older than him. How it was such a pity that men her age—or even older—couldn't compete for her favor. He said they couldn't match his charm, his wit, his everything." You paused for dramatic effect. "'The cusp of adulthood,' I think he called it at the time."

Penelope froze.

Her teasing mask, so carefully maintained, cracked just enough for you to catch the faint pink rising in her cheeks.

"He—" she started, her voice uncharacteristically strained, "he did not—"

"Oh but he did," you cut in, savoring the rare sight of her flustered. Penelope, Queen of Ithaca, student of the God of War Ares, was struggling to form a coherent sentence.

Her lips parted as if to reply but she quickly snapped them shut again, her cheeks deepening in color. It was as if a memory of Odysseus's shameless boasting had appeared in her mind.

Your grin sharpened and you couldn't resist twisting the knife just a little more. "It's alright Penelope," you said in mock reassurance. "He's very proud of you. And himself of course. You should hear the way he talks about it to anyone who'll listen."

Penelope let out a mortified groan as she presses a hand to her face—as if that might somehow erase her blush. "You're insufferable...just as he is," she muttered, though there was no venom in her words.

Your lips curled into a victorious smirk. Rarely did you get the upper hand in your playful sparring with Penelope. But when you did, the retribution was all the sweeter.

With a contented sigh, you finally turned back to Polites who had been surprisingly standing there silently throughout the entire exchange.

Polites seemed frozen in place. His shoulders rigid as if he'd been turned to stone. Already flushed from exertion, the faint sunlight streaming into the courtyard illuminated the deep berry-red flush that crept across his cheeks.

He was staring. His wide amber-colored eyes fixated on you.

It was almost comical, the way he seemed unable to decide where to look, his expression an odd mix of awe and panic.

They flickered from your face to Telemachus, then back again—almost as if committing every detail to memory; the curl of your hair, the tilt of your head, the way you cradled the newborn.

His chest rose and fell with a tremor that betrayed his nervousness.

"You're awfully quiet," you remarked dryly, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "Don't tell me you have something to add to Odysseus's tales of conquest."

The sharpness of your tone jolted him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. "Uh—n-no! Not at all!" he stammered, shaking his head so vigorously that his glasses slipped lower on his nose. "I—um—Odysseus may have...mentioned a thing or two..."

"Polites!" Penelope says snaps as she sends him a warning look, her blush still faintly visible.

"Right! Yes! Back to—uh—why I'm here," he said hurriedly, practically tripping over himself as he tried to steer the conversation back on track. "My name—it's Polites!"

"I already know who you are," you said curtly, cutting him off before he could launch into a rambling introduction.

Polites hesitated before letting out a weak defeated "Right," straightening his posture as best as he could, the Kefalonian born soldier adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand.

The action gave him a brief semblance of control as he cleared his throat and turned fully toward the Queen in what you assumed was meant to be in confidence.

It didn't last long. He couldn't resist sending one more nervous glance in your direction only to cause his composure to falter again.

"Well um," he began gesturing vaguely as though the words might materialize if he waved his hands enough. "It was the uh, hunt! The celebratory hunt for Prince Telemachus! We—uh—Odysseus and I—we were out on the hunt you see and uh..."

Polites trailed off, his eyes darting around as if searching for the right thing to say. "We were setting traps—hare traps really," he added quickly, as if this clarification was of vital importance. "The thing about hares is that they're quite clever. Did you know Ithaca has over—"

"Polites." Penelope's voice was sharper this time, cutting through his rambling like a whip. "Focus. What happened?"

"Right! Yes! Focus!" he echoed as though trying to rein in his scattered thoughts. "So um the rookies—the new recruits—they were...uh messing around. Fooling with the arrows at the campsite—you know, trying to show off their aim. Which, by the way, was terrible. I mean their form? Absolutely abysmal—no discipline in their stances, no understanding of how to nock an arrow properly..."

He trailed off upon catching the pointed looks on both your and Penelope's faces. Realizing he'd strayed again he started speaking faster now, as if rushing to get the words out before his nerves got the better of him.

"And one of them—Zeus help him—let an arrow loose!" Polites blurted, his hands flailing in a panicked gesture. "It—it was headed straight for me but Odysseus—he—he pushed me out of the way."

The air seemed to still.

Your breath hitched, a cold knot forming in your stomach. "...What?"

"Odysseus pushed me out of the way," he repeated in a shaky voice. "And he...he took the arrow instead."

Penelope's honey-brown eyes widened in shock. For the first time in years she looked genuinely taken aback.

Polites flinched at your combined reactions; his hands waving frantically in an attempt to explain. "H-he's alive!" he said quickly, his voice pitching higher in his panic. "The arrow hit his leg—it's bad but he's alive. They're bringing him back now!"

You released a shaky breath as the tightness in your chest loosened ever so slightly. Beside you, Penelope's expression shifted, the initial shock giving way to a steely determination.

"Where?" she asked, her voice low but firm.

"Almost at the gates," Polites replied, his voice still trembling. "I—I ran ahead to tell you."

Penelope's jaw tightened, her expression unreadable as she turned toward the palace gates. "____," she said softly, her voice calm but commanding. "Take Telemachus inside. I need to meet him."

You hesitated, torn between instinct to protect her and duty to the child in your arms. "Be careful," you murmured.

She didn't reply.. Her focus was already fixed on the horizon, her steps purposeful as strode away. Polites lingered for a moment, casting you a nervous glance before scurrying after her.

As you turned back toward the palace, Telemachus' small weight pressed against your chest, you couldn't shake the unease curling in your gut.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The soft golden light of midday streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the spacious chamber.

You sat on a cushioned bench near the balcony, cradling Telemachus in your arms as a gentle breeze wafted in, carrying with it the scent of blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

The rhythmic chirping of distant birds blended harmoniously with the infant's soft coos, creating an air of serenity that belied the tension brewing beyond these walls.

Eryna, the wet nurse, stood nearby with her hands folded neatly in front of her. She hovered as if ready to assist, though she rarely needed to. Telemachus seemed to prefer your arms and Eryna had grown accustomed to allowing you to handle him most of the time.

As you rocked the baby gently, his eyes began to flutter close as he dozed off. "You're just like your father," you whispered with a silent huff of laughter. "Except you actually sleep quietly."

Your musings were interrupted by the quiet creak of the chamber door. You glanced over your shoulder to see Penelope standing there, her hand still on the doorframe.

Her face was pale, her features drawn with an exhaustion that went beyond mere lack of sleep. Her shoulders, always held high and proud, slumped just slightly, as if the weight of the world had grown too heavy.

And her eyes—usually sharp and calculating—were clouded with something heavy...something that made your chest tighten instinctively.

"Penelope," you said softly, adjusting Telemachus in your arms as you rose to greet her.

Eryna, catching the unspoken weight in the room, gave a respectful bow and quietly left without a word.

Penelope walked further in, her steps slow and deliberate. She didn't look at you at first, her gaze fixed on the floor as if the act of lifting her head was too much to bear.

When she reached the chair beside yours, she sank into it, her elbows resting on her knees as she buried her face in her hands. Your stomach twisted. It wasn't often that Penelope let her composure crack.

And when she did, it was never a good sign.

"What is it?" you asked gently, though you already suspected the answer.

The Spartan born Queen took a shaky breath, lowering her hands just enough to let them rest on her knees. "The arrow...it missed anything vital," she started slowly, her voice steady but brittle. "But it tore through the muscle and tendon. It's bad—he'll have a permanent limp."

She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line as her hands grip her knees. "By the time they got him back to the palace the wound had already started to fester. It wasn't as bad as it could've been but..."

Her voice cracked slightly as she trailed off and she shook her head.

"But he won't be able to lead in the war," you finished for her. She nods, unable to verbally answer.

You sat there for a moment, the gravity of the situation pressing down on you.

Odysseus sidelined by an injury. The man who was supposed to lead in the war to come. A permanent limp. A festering wound.

The implications churned in your mind, but it was the sight of Penelope—her hands trembling slightly, her breath shallow—that hurt the most.

"Where is he now?" you asked finally, your voice quieter than before.

"In the throne room," she said, leaning in the chair and closing her eyes briefly from the emotional tax of the day so far. "The council is pressing him for answers and plans, discussing what to do next."

Penelope lets out a soft bitter laugh—though it lacked any humor. "Meanwhile here I am: doing nothing but thinking about how close I came to losing him."

You nodded slowly as your mind raced with thoughts of what the council might suggest. Another leader? A delay in joining the war effort?

None of the options seemed promising.

Your gaze drift to Telemachus who had drifted into a peaceful slumber, his tiny chest rising and falling with each soft breath. Gently pressing a kiss to his forehead you rise to your feet.

"Eryna," you called softly.

The wet nurse reentered swiftly, her expression curious yet attentive. Cradling the babe as if he were the most precious treasure in the world, you passed Telemachus to her, your hands lingering for a moment as you adjusted the linen wrap around him.

"He likes to be swayed gently," you said softly, transferring him into her arms with practiced care. "And make sure to hum—he loves that. It helps him settle when he fusses. I won't be long."

Eryna nodded, offering a small smile as her arms adjust to support the baby Prince. "Of course my Lady."

Behind you Penelope's brows furrowed. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with both curiosity and exhaustion.

You turned back to her with a bright mischievous smile as your hands rest on your hips. "Why we're going to the throne room of course."

Penelope blinked. "...What?"

"To discuss all this war of Troy business," you replied breezily, your tone deceptively light. "Odysseus needs answers doesn't he? And since I know you're not going to sit here and let the council push him around without a fight, we might as well go together."

Penelope stared at you, her lips parting as if to argue. But no words came. Instead she let outs a quiet laugh and a shake of her head as she rose to her feet.

"You're...impossible," she muttered, though the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"That's why you keep me around," you shot back with a grin, already heading for the door.

As Penelope followed you out of the nursery the weight in her steps seemed a little lighter. The worry hadn't left her entirely—how could it?

But for the first time that day, you thought you saw a flicker of hope in her eyes.

58 notes · View notes

k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 3. ATHENA'S CHALLENGE

❝It is not the blade that shapes destiny but the hand that wields it.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The sparring session had gone longer than usual.

You stood shoulder to shoulder with Penelope, both of you panting from the exertion of your nightly routine. Sweat dripped down the side of your face as the sun's first rays began to stretch across the horizon.

Your arms ached, muscles trembling from overuse—but the satisfied burn in your limbs made you smile.

"Enough for tonight," Penelope whispered firmly. She tucked a stray braid behind her ear as she breath ragged yet steadily.

You nodded, panting as you dropped to one knee to catch your breath. The coolness of the grass beneath you was a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the practice sword in your hand.

Around you the secret clearing, just outside the palace walls, was bathed in hues of purple and gold; a hidden refuge away from the heavy gaze of duty and expectation.

Penelope crouched beside you, her expression softening as she glanced at the sword in your hand.

"You're getting better," she said with a faint smile. "Soon you won't need to butter up the soldiers for practice tips anymore."

You laughed though the sound came out weaker than intended. "And lose the free ego boost they give me? Never."

Her smile widened briefly before she pushed herself to her feet, brushing dirt and grass from her tunic.

"Come on. The guards will be changing shifts soon. If we're caught out here again..." She trailed off, but the weight of the unspoken consequences hung in the air.

You didn't need reminding. The punishment for wandering beyond the palace walls without permission would fall harder on you than on her.

You were just a servant after all—a servant who had no business training in secret alongside a Spartan prince's daughter.

Rising to your feet, you followed her back toward the palace, careful to tread softly as the two of you slipped through the secret entrance hidden behind a crumbling section of the outer wall.

The path was second nature: each step carefully calculated, each breath measured to avoid detection.

Penelope's movements were precise, her grace as a noblewoman seamlessly blending with the agility of the warrior she was becoming.

You followed closely, your senses sharp and your heart pounding in rhythm with your hurried steps.

When you reached the servants' quarters Penelope hesitated. Her hand on the doorframe as she glanced back at you with furrowed brows.

"Be careful today," she said quietly. "I don't trust him."

She didn't have to name her father for you to understand. You offered her a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine. Go on."

With a final nod, she slipped inside, disappearing into the labyrinth of corridors that made up the palace.

You waited a moment longer, scanning your surroundings before stepping inside yourself.

The familiar scent of stone and polished wood greeted you as you made your way to your small bed in the shared room, changing quickly into the plain garments of a servant.

It was a transformation both physical and mental; you shed the role of Penelope's confidante and sparring partner to become her obedient attendant.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The day unfolded as usual.

By mid-morning you were at Penelope's side, arranging her hair and adjusting her gown as she prepared for a small gathering in the main hall.

Her expression was composed, the perfect mask of a dutiful daughter. Though you could see the tension in her shoulders.

"Does it look acceptable?" she asked, her tone devoid of the warmth she reserved for your private moments together.

"More than acceptable," you replied softly, stepping back to admire your work. "You'll outshine them all."

A faint smile touched her lips but it didn't reach her eyes.

With a graceful nod she left and you prepared yourself for your next task—tending to the soldiers during their midday combat session.

The clang of swords clashing filled the air, accompanied by the barked commands of the training general.

You moved among the soldiers with practiced ease, a clay jug of water balanced on your hip.

"Water anyone?" your voice called out cutting through the noise. Several soldiers turned your way, their expressions brightening.

"Don't spoil us too much," one of the younger soldiers teased as you approached with the water jug. "We might start fighting over who gets to see you."

You rolled your eyes but your grin gave you away. "Careful now or I'll start charging you." you replied, pouring water into his outstretched cup.

As the men laughed, your attention was drawn to a pair of soldiers standing a little apart from the rest, their conversation hushed but intense.

You moved closer under the guise of offering them water, straining to catch their words.

"...Athena's test," one of them said. "The Erymanthian boar—said to be monstrous. A beast even seasoned hunters would hesitate to face. But the reward..."

The other soldier whistled softly. "Riches beyond imagining. Enough to buy a small kingdom they say."

Your heart skipped a beat. Athena's test? A boar? Vast riches?

You kept your expression neutral, pouring water into their cups as though you hadn't heard a thing.

"Do you really think it's true?" the first soldier asked.

"About the gold? Who knows. Men wouldn't risk their lives if there wasn't something worth fighting for."

The conversation moved on but the words lingered in your mind.

Riches beyond imagining. Enough to buy a small kingdom. The possibilities swirled in your thoughts, each more enticing than the last.

If you could claim the prize, everything would change. Penelope could finally escape her father's control.

She'd be free—free to live without fear of a forced marriage, without the constant shadow of Icarius looming over her.

And you...you could leave too.

You'd no longer have to live under the thumb of a household that valued you only for your beauty and your servitude. The thought was intoxicating.

That evening, as you prepared to leave the courtyard, the beginnings of a plan took root in your mind: You would take the test. You would kill the boar and claim the riches. But Penelope couldn't know.

She would never agree to such a dangerous scheme.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

By afternoon you found your opportunity.

Soldiers were preparing for a mild campaign, their gear being loaded onto carts near the palace gates.

It wasn't uncommon for you to be assigned as a wine bearer during such events; your exotic looks often made you a favored choice for such duties.

It was a role you had played before—especially at lavish events hosted by Icarius himself.

When the evening came and the sun began dipping below the horizon, you were in Penelope's chambers helping her with her hair.

She sat before her vanity, her reflection serene but distant as if lost in thought.

"You seem quiet tonight," you said, brushing a stray curl into place.

Penelope met your gaze in the mirror, her expression softening. "Just tired. Father's been...demanding."

You didn't press her further, knowing the weight of her words. Instead, you mustered the courage to set your plan in motion.

"I've been ordered to accompany the soldiers for their campaign tomorrow," you said casually, keeping your tone light.

Her hands stilled on the hem of her nightgown. "Ordered? Why? You've never mentioned it before."

"Wine duty," you replied with a shrug and force a playful smile. "You know how much your father loves showing me off at these things."

Penelope's frown deepened, and for a moment you worried she might protest.

"Do you have to go?" she asked quietly, her voice laced with concern.

Your heart clenched but you nodded. "It's not for long. Just a few days. I'll be back before you even notice I'm gone."

"I can't go against Father's wishes. So just—" She sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. "be careful."

You hesitated, then leaned down to press a reassuring kiss to the top of her head. "Always."

As she climbed into bed, you tucked the blankets around her, your heart heavy with guilt. But it was necessary.

This wasn't just about you—it was about Penelope, about her freedom, her future.

Once she was asleep you slipped out of her chambers and made your way to your own quarters. It was nearing dusk when your preparations were complete.

Your small satchel held everything you could manage: a few plain garments, hard bread, some dried figs, a stolen waterskin, and a carefully hidden knife.

The sound of soldiers bustling near the gates had masked your movements. Their leaving for campaign, crates of supplies, and clinking armor provided the perfect cover.

Common to see servants moving about during such times to fetch items or following orders; you had played that role expertly, head bowed and demeanor meek as you slipped unnoticed past the guards.

With the gates behind you and the endless horizon ahead, the weight of your decision settled on your shoulders.

The gravel path beneath your sandals crunched with every step taken as the palace became a silhouette in the distance.

You would face the boar, no matter the risk.

And you would win.

══════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚═══════════════

The route to Gytheio was treacherous in parts—dry fields and rocky hills as far as the eye could see.

Occasional distant bleating of goats and cries of hawks circling above; the landscape was otherwise eerily quiet.

You paused only briefly to sip from your waterskin or take a nibble of your food stash; heat from the sun of the day and cool reprieve from the moon of the night were your only telling of the passing of time.

Two days...

Two days of walking on foot.

The sandals on your feet—once sturdy—now felt thin, the sharp pebbles on the ground a reminder of how far you've gone.

By the time Gytheio's sprawling port came into view your legs felt like lead. The smell of salt and brine hit you first, strong and stinging after hours of dry dusty air.

The port was alive with movement: fishermen hauling nets, vendors shouting over one another, and travelers haggling for passage aboard ships.

An overwhelming but welcomed cacophony. Much easier to blend in.

Keeping to the edges of the bustling market, you scanned for a ship heading north along the coast until a modest vessel caught your eye.

Its crew was busy loading crates of salted fish and the deck was crowded.

Your heart raced as you approached, the sailor at the gangplank gave you a once-over, his gaze lingering on your skin.

The baggy cloth you wore—a threadbare tunic and trousers that pooled slightly at your ankles—helped mask your figure along with the thick sash tied around your waist to made you look weaker than you were.

It wasn't the first time you'd relied on this disguise. Dressed like this, you were often mistaken for a young boy. You'd learned to wield that misconception to your advantage; using it to move unnoticed or to deflect unwanted attention.

"Need passage?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

You nodded. "To the western coast."

He scratched his chin. "Can't promise comfort, but we leave at first light."

"I'll sleep on the deck," you said, glancing toward the ship. "Just get me there."

You handed over the few coins you had snagged before leaving, your fingers trembling as he tucked them into his pouch.

He shrugged and gestured for you to board. "Suit yourself."

The gangplank creaked beneath your feet stepping aboard. It wasn't luxury, but it was freedom.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The ship rocked gently beneath your feet, the rhythmic creaking of its wooden beams blending with the distant cries of seagulls and waves against the hull.

Wind tugged at your loose clothes, the fabric brushing against your skin as the air smelled of salt and damp wood.

You had boarded the ship without incident—unnoticed amidst the soldiers and seasoned travelers.

As the clouds slowly moved across the clear sky, you leaned on the ship's railing, gazing out at the endless stretch of blue sea.

It was then your mind churned with a mix of anticipation and unease. Yes, you knew the plan was reckless.

But the thought of the riches and what they could mean for you and Penelope was too alluring to resist.

If you succeed, you could finally free her from her father's oppressive grip, from the looming threat of a forced marriage.

The vision of a life far from the palace, far from the shadows of power and control was worth the risk.

A burst of laughter drew your attention. Nearby, a group of passengers had gathered, their animated conversation louder than the ship's hum.

Among them was a man with the confident bearing of a King. His armor gleamed under the sun as his voice carried easily over the crash of waves.

"A boar," he says with a smirk. "Athena's test they call it. I thought it might be fun to try my hand at it. What's life without a little danger, eh?"

You recognized him immediately: Iphicles, a minor hero often—overshadowed by his more famous brother Heracles.

Despite his less illustrious reputation, he carried himself with an air of bravado. Almost as if desperate to prove himself.

Before the others could reply a voice flits through the air. "Fun? You mean another chance to fail spectacularly and remind everyone why you're always in your brother's shadow?"

The group's laughter faltered, their expressions shifting to awkwardness and unease. Iphicles's confident smirk hardened into a scowl as he turned toward the source of the comment.

A boy—appearing to be the same age as you—casually leaned against the many crates. His wiry scrawny and unruly dark hair giving him the look of a stray cat that had wandered into the wrong territory.

Yet despite his slight build, he moved with an easy cocky confidence. As if the entire world amused him.

He looked like trouble.

"Who are you to speak?" Iphicles demanded low and dangerously.

The boy grinned, unbothered by the tension. "Oh no one important," he said, shrugging. "Just someone who knows better than to play hero when the odds are stacked against him."

You found yourself watching the exchange with reluctant curiosity. The boy's blunt tongue and the way he seemed utterly unfazed by Iphicles's growing anger caught your attention.

His words, while biting, carried a cleverness that hinted at a mind far sharper than his scruffy appearance suggested.

"You're lucky I have bigger concerns than a whelp like you," Iphicles growled before turning back to his group and moving someplace else on the ship.

An older soldier—more daring and clearly more experienced in battle to not cower before Iphicles—laughed. "You've got a mouth on you. I'll give you that."

The boy shrugged unbothered. "Just calling it like I see it."

Another soldier, a burly man with a scar running down his arm frowned. "Iphicles is still a son of Zeus," the scarred man reminded gruffly.

"And Heracles is still his older brother," the boy countered. "What's your point? That he's good at being second-best?"

The older man laughs once again and claps the boy on the back, his gruff voice carrying a hint of approval. "Careful now. He might just knock you overboard if you keep on smearing his name."

"Then he'll prove my point. Heracles wouldn't waste the effort."

The laughter this time was louder, though some glanced nervously toward where Iphicles was presumably resting.

You frowned. His presence stood out against the hardened warriors around him—his youthful energy, his easy confidence.

"Who's that?" you asked one of the sailors passing by in a forced low voice.

The man glanced toward the boy and snorted. "Some brat of a King from a small island in the Ionian Sea. Says he's here for the challenge, but I'd wager he's more interested in showing off than hunting Athena's beast."

Your stomach tightened at the mention of the Goddess.

You'd been careful not to speak of your true purpose to anyone. The idea of competition hadn't crossed your mind until now.

As if sensing your scrutiny, the boy turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes locking onto yours. His grin widened—lazy and wolfish—as he gave you a small nod in greeting.

You stiffened and quickly averted your gaze. Your heart beating faster—not out of fear but out of annoyance.

Of all the people to notice you...it had to be him.

Deciding to move away from the railing, you soon found a quieter spot on the deck near the barrels of supplies and settled onto an overturned crate with a sigh.

The salty breeze tugged at your hair as you stared out at the horizon while trying to gather your thoughts.

"You know," a familiar voice drawled, "it's not polite to stare."

You whip around to find the boy standing a few feet away with his arms crossed.

With him closer you can make out his eye color—well colors. They were...different; a striking blue on the left and warm brown on the right.

His grin was still there, playful and teasing like he knew something you didn't.

"I wasn't staring," you said flatly, hoping he'd take the hint and leave.

"Hmm," he hummed, tapping his chin as though considering your words. "Maybe not. But you looked interested. Couldn't help but notice."

You rolled your eyes and turned your attention back to the waves. "I'm not interested. Go bother someone else."

He chuckled and stepped closer. "Now why would I do that? You're far more entertaining than those louts."

"I'm not."

"That's exactly what someone entertaining would say."

You cross your arms. "You're very annoying you know that?"

"So I've been told." His grin didn't falter, but his gaze flicked to your wrist, where a braided leather bracelet peeked out from your sleeve.

"Nice bracelet," he said, tilting his head as he studied it. "Where'd you get it?"

You immediately yanked your sleeve down and cover it. "None of your business." your tone was harsher now.

"Woah, easy there. Didn't mean to offend."

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression shifting slightly. It wasn't predatory nor was it entirely teasing.

If anything it was...curious.

"You're unusual," he said finally, his tone more thoughtful. "But in a good way. Pretty even...for a boy."

Your head snapped up, your glare hot. He met your gaze with a raised brow and a smirk that dared you to retort.

But when you didn't speak he held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to bite my head off. Don't want you throwing me overboard."

He takes a step back and bows theatrically. "Odysseus of Ithaca, Son of Laertes if you must know," he said, his voice dripping with mock grandeur. "And you are...?"

You barely sent a glance out the corner of your eye, still staring out at the open sea. "I don't have one." The lie slipped easily past your lips.

His grin sharpened, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Everyone has a name. But if you want to be Nobody I won't argue. Nice to meet you Nobody."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and walked away, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of sailors and soldiers like he belonged there.

You watched him go, your irritation simmering beneath the surface.

There was something about him—something too clever, too perceptive. You made a mental note to avoid him as much as possible.

Whatever Odysseus of Ithaca wanted, it didn't matter. You had bigger things to focus on—bigger risks to take.

So let him play his games with the others.

There was a test that awaited you. One you wouldn't let anyone—least of all him—get in your way.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 2. THE FOX AND THE FLAME

❝Even among the unpolished stones, a rare gem can shine brightest.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

Countdown: 16 years remaining

The courtyard bustled with life in the golden warmth of mid-morning.

Metallic clinks of swords meeting shields was accompanied by the rhythmic crunch of boots against the dry earth.

Soldiers—some seasoned and hardened, others still fresh-faced and eager—were sparring in pairs; each clash a testament to their discipline.

It was a place alive with energy—where strength and skill were on full display.

You stood at the edge of it all with a jug of water balanced carefully in your hands. Beads of sweat glistened on your brow, though not from exertion.

The summer heat was oppressive and unrelenting; tempered only by the occasional breeze that stirred the scents of sweat, leather, and oiled metal.

A playful grin spread across your lips as you approached the soldiers, your steps light and purposeful.

The worn hem of your chiton swished around your legs, the sun catching the vibrant undertones of your skin, drawing more than a few lingering glances.

"Thirsty boys?" you called while tilting the jug invitingly.

Heads turned. First one soldier, then another, until a dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on you.

Some even paused mid-swing in sparring to glance your way, their expressions ranged from amused to openly appreciative.

"You know we are," teased a soldier named Lycomedes; a man in his late twenties with a crooked smile that revealed a missing tooth. "But don't think we don't know your game. You bring the water and we teach you tricks, eh?"

You giggled, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you handed him a cup. "You wound me Lycomedes. Can't I simply care for our brave protectors without an ulterior motive?"

A wiry soldier named Andron laughed as he wiped sweat from his brow, his fingers brushing yours when reaching for a cup.

"Careful lads. She's got the eyes of a fox and the tongue of a bard. Flatter her too much and she'll have ya doing her chores while she steals your heart!"

"Steal your hearts?" you repeated, feigning offense as you tipped the jug to fill the cup. "I'd never dream of such a thing. Now chores on the other hand..."

The soldiers laughed, the sound mingling with the clang of practice swords.

"You're trouble that's what you are," Lycomedes said with a widening grin. "But we wouldn't have it any other way."

You simply grin in response, moving through the group, pouring water as you felt a familiar warmth settle over you.

These men—so fierce on the battlefield—softened in your presence; their gruff exteriors melting away under the weight of your charm.

"Hey Orion," you sweetly call out one of the newer recruits' name, your lashes fluttering coyly. "You mind showing me that move again? You know, the one where you disarmed Theras yesterday."

The young boy flushed under your gaze but quickly put up a front of confidence. "You mean this?" In a flash, his hand darted out, catching the hilt of his practice sword.

With a swift flick of his wrist he mimed a move that sent his imaginary opponent's weapon flying.

You clapped your hands, eyes wide with mock admiration. "So fast! You'll have to show me step by step. How else am I to defend myself against ruffians?"

"Ruffians? You're more likely to charm them into surrender." Orion teased with a smirk.

The banter continued light and teasing as you continue to pass out water and absorb every tidbit of advice they offered.

Each time they demonstrated a move you mimicked it, sometimes with surprising accuracy, sometimes drawing laughter with your exaggerated failures.

It was in these moments that you thrived—a delicate dance of innocence and cunning, endearing yourself to the grizzled warriors who couldn't resist your infectious spirit.

As you spun around to refill another cup, the sound of soft footfalls on stone drew your attention to the walkway above the courtyard.

Penelope.

The sun caught the intricate embroidery of her lilac gown as she walked ahead with her head held high; a vision of serene authority.

Her long dark hair framed her face with strays of elegant braids decorated throughout.

She carried herself like a Queen in waiting—untouchable, unshakable.

Beside her, Iphthime was the picture of youthful exuberance. She gestured animatedly as she spoke, her voice carrying faintly on the breeze.

She too was radiant; the quintessential Spartan beauty with features soft and delicate.

You couldn't help but marvel at the contrast between the sisters.

Penelope, ever composed, seemed like a marble statue come to life while Iphthime was fire that drew others to her warmth.

"Little fox!" Andron barked, jolting you back to the present.

"She's distracted by loftier sights," Lycomedes teased, following your gaze to the walkway. "Can't say I blame her."

You grinned unashamed. "Lady Penelope moves like she's stepping through the stars. How could anyone look away?"

Before he could reply further, Andron tapped your shoulder. "Come on! Show me what you've learned. Let's see if Lycomedes has been teaching you anything useful or if you're just collecting compliments."

A wooden practice sword was tossed your way. Eager to prove yourself, you stepped forward and caught it.

It was heavier than you expected, the weight causing you to stumble slightly as you squared your shoulders.

A few nearby soldiers formed a loose circle, their laughter and cheers encouraging you as you mimicked the stances they demonstrated.

And even though your form was far from perfect the soldiers still clapped and cheered as you managed a somewhat decent swing.

"Not bad for someone your size," Andron teased, ruffling your hair.

"Give me a year," you retorted puffing out your chest. "I'll be better than all of you."

For a moment you forgot the weight of the world beyond the courtyard.

Here—surrounded by the clang of steel and the warmth of camaraderie—you felt almost invincible.

Above, Penelope lingered at the edge of the walkway, her sharp eyes observing the scene below. Iphthime had moved ahead, but Penelope stayed.

Her expression unreadable. Was she annoyed by your antics? Amused? It was impossible to tell.

You caught her gaze and offered a quick playful salute with your sword.

For a moment her face remained impassive. Then, just barely, the corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

You turn back as other soldiers took turns showing you techniques.

Some were practical—basic footwork and defensive maneuvers—while others were purely for show, meant to impress and amuse.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The air was different at night.

It is when the heat of the day gave way to the cool caress of the evening breeze. When the moon hung high, casting silver light across the cobblestone and grass.

In a hidden clearing just outside the palace walls, you and Penelope stood face-to-face, wooden practice swords gripped tightly in your hands.

"So," Penelope began, a smirk tugging at her lips, "what did you learn today?"

You grinned, twirling your practice sword with exaggerated flair. "Something new," you replied. "Let's see if it works on you."

Her smirk widened. "Confidence suits you. But don't forget, I've beaten you every time."

"There's a first time for everything," you shot back, lunging forward.

The clash of wood against wood echoed through the clearing as she parried your strike, her movements quick and precise.

It went on like this for what felt like hours—quips and counters, blades clashing in a rhythm that neither of you wanted to break.

"Again," Penelope said firmly, her chest rising and falling with exertion.

Stray strands of her dark hair stuck to her forehead, loosened from the braid that hung down her back.

You smile sharpened as you raise your sword. "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to bruise your pride any more than I already have tonight."

"Don't flatter yourself," she shot back, adjusting her stance. "I'm still ahead by six wins this week."

"Only because you cheat," you teased, sidestepping her feint as her blade sliced through the air just shy of your shoulder.

"I do not cheat!" she snapped, eyes narrowing.

"You distract me with all your noblewoman grace," you said, parrying her next swing. "It's unfair. How's a humble servant like me supposed to concentrate?"

"Maybe try focusing instead of running your mouth!" she countered, driving forward with a quick jab that caught you off guard.

The tip of her wooden blade hit your side, eliciting a grunt as you staggered back. Penelope grinned triumphantly but her moment of victory was short-lived.

"Nice one," you said, shifting your stance and lunging forward with speed that surprised even you.

Your blade tapped her shoulder, and she stumbled slightly, her grin fading into a scowl.

Recovering swiftly, Penelope lunges, her strikes swift and precise. You barely dodged, twisting your body to avoid the sharp edge of her practice sword.

"That move again?" you taunt as you step back just out of her reach. "You've done it three times already tonight. Maybe I haven't done as good of a job on reciting the soldiers' lessons."

Her laugh was soft but carried an edge. "Very funny."

She surged forward again. Each swing forced you to retreat, your feet scuffing against the cool stone.

You parried as best you could, gritting your teeth as the force of her blows reverberated through your arms.

"Not bad," Penelope admitted, her eyes gleaming in the torchlight. "But you're leaving your left side wide open."

You grinned, taking advantage of her momentary distraction. With a quick pivot you ducked under her guard and swept her legs out from under her.

She hit the ground with a startled gasp, her sword skittering away.

Standing over her with your practice sword pointed at her chest, you couldn't resist a triumphant smirk. "Wide open you say?"

Penelope's glare melted into a begrudging smile. "Beginner's luck," she muttered, accepting your hand as you helped her to her feet.

You both stood there drenched in sweat, your chests heaving as you stood apart panting and grinning, the tension of the match giving way to camaraderie.

"That's a draw," Penelope said reluctantly, falling to the ground with a huff.

"A draw?" you echoed, feigning shock as you toss sword aside and collapsed onto the cool grass beside her. "That's practically a win for me. You never let me get this close."

"Don't let it go to your head," she replied, sitting beside you and wiping her brow with the edge of her tunic. "You're only improving because I'm an excellent spar partner."

You laughed, leaning back on your hands as you looked up at the stars. The silence between you was comfortable, the kind born of shared struggle and trust.

After a moment of silence, Penelope suddenly pulls a small leather-bound book from her satchel. "Here. This just arrived in the library. Thought you'd want first dibs."

Your eyes lit up as you snatched it from her hands and run your fingers over the embossed cover. "A treatise on naval strategy?" you breathed, flipping through the pages. "Penelope you spoil me."

"Hardly," Penelope replied as she lean back on her hands. "You're the only one who reads half these things anyway."

Ever since that fateful night on the balcony, your lives had followed this unspoken rhythm.

By day, Penelope is the perfect noblewoman—poised, graceful, and dutiful. She endures Icarus's wrath without complaint, bearing the weight of the family's expectations as a good daughter should.

At night, however, everything changes.

The confines of nobility fall away; replaced by the freedom of sparring, learning, and growing.

Penelope would bring books and scrolls from the library, teaching you to read and write in stolen moments.

And in return you share what you've learned from the soldiers—new techniques, strategies, and stories of battles long past.

With only the Moon and Stars as witness, the two of you practiced. Every parry, every strike, every strategic maneuver was tested and refined in your moonlit sessions.

Over time Penelope's strikes had grown sharper, her movements more deliberate. Her body—once slender and delicate, now bore the lean muscles of a warrior.

You, on the other hand, had discovered a deep love for the art of strategy.

The battles you read about became puzzles to solve, the lessons from the soldiers a foundation for crafting your own mock skirmishes.

You'd recreate famous conflicts for you and Penelope to fight through, testing each other's minds as well as your bodies.

Your efforts did not go unnoticed.

"Mind if I join you?" A deep voice calls out from the shadows, startling you and Penelope from your nightly lessons.

You both break away and stand next to each other with hardened faces. Though it was hard to see, you could make out a tall form wearing a baggy cloak.

"Who are you?" Penelope demanded, her sword raised defensively. "Show yourself."

The deep voice chuckled. "No need for such hostility." Stepping into the light, it was revealed to be an old man with a rugged face and eyes that gleamed like molten gold.

"I am simply a mere traveler," he said, his voice deep and wispy. "A mere traveler who couldn't help but notice such dedication."

"Leave," you said sharply, stepping in front of Penelope as he takes another step. "This isn't your concern."

The man chuckled once again, his gaze flicking between the two of you. "Fiery and bold. I like that." He looked to Penelope. "Would you care to indulge me in a match?"

Penelope hesitates, glancing at you before ultimately nodding. "If you think you can keep up," she said boldly despite the wariness in her eyes.

Knowing her say is final, you simply take a step back, hands gripped on your sword and eyes lingering on the man in case of sudden movements.

A gleeful smile decorated his wrinkled face as he yanks off his cloak to reveal a sword of his own attached to his hip.

"Ready when you are~" the old man teases. He grabs the sword and gives it a couple of experimental swings as he moves into a relaxed stance.

The sparring match that followed was brutal.

Penelope met his challenge head-on, her sword flashing in the pale moonlight as she lunged, parried, and struck.

But the old man was on a level neither of you could have anticipated.

His strikes came with blinding speed, movements so fluid they seemed almost supernatural.

Within moments Penelope was on the defensive, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she fought to keep up.

Every time her blade met his and the force of the impact rattled through her arms she held firm.

And even when the old man's strikes sent her sprawling, her body hitting the dirt with a sickening thud, she picked herself up without hesitation.

Her determination blazed like a fire, the spark in her eyes refusing to be extinguished.

"You've got spirit," the man remarked mid-swing, his voice even and composed despite their fierce exchange.

Penelope gritted her teeth, blocking another attack. "You'll need more than that to break me."

You stood at the edge as you watched. It took everything in you not to intervene. Your fists clenched as instincts screamed at you to protect her, but you knew better.

Penelope wouldn't forgive you for stepping in.

Minutes bled into what felt like hours, the sounds of their clashing swords echoing in the stillness of the night.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the old man laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Enough," he said, stepping back and letting his sword fall to. His tone was laced with approval, his sharp eyes fixed on Penelope as she staggered to her feet. "You've proven yourself."

Before either of you could react it happened.

With a flash of golden light, the old man's began to shift. His weathered figure melted away; instead replaced by a towering man draped in bronze and crimson.

His armor gleamed with an otherworldly glow, the intricate carvings on his breastplate depicting battles long forgotten.

A crimson cape billowed behind him heavy and regal as if carried by an invisible wind. In his hand he held a spear, its golden tip gleaming as if forged from the stars themselves.

His helmet was a masterpiece—sharp edges and a darkened visor that made the faint molten color of his eyes glow even more.

Every inch of him exuded power, violence, and an indomitable presence that seemed to fill the courtyard.

You felt your breath hitch as you took in the sight of the God standing before you.

"Ares," you whispered, the name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

The God's fiery gaze flicked to you, and for a moment the weight of his attention was almost unbearable.

But then he smiled—a sharp wolfish grin that sent a thrill of both fear and exhilaration through you.

"You've caught my attention, Penelope," he said, his voice a deep rumbling growl. "You fight with the heart of a warrior—a flame that refuses to be extinguished, no matter how the odds are stacked against you. I see potential in you girl. The kind of potential that could carve legends."

Penelope straightened, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten as she met his gaze.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and though her chest still heaved from exertion, her expression was resolute.

"You've impressed me," Ares continued. "And that is no small feat."

His voice softened slightly, though it lost none of its authority. "From this night on, you are my student. I will make you into the warrior you were born to be. Your fire will burn brighter under my guidance."

Penelope's lips parted in shock, but before she could respond, Ares turned his gaze to you.

"And you," his eyes narrow slightly. "You have not gone unnoticed either."

You froze, your mind racing as he continued.

"Your strategies, your cunning...you see battle not as a brute's game—but as a puzzle to be solved. And yet you are no stranger to the fight itself. That kind of balance, that kind of brilliance, is rare."

His gaze flickered with something unreadable—pride perhaps, or frustration. "But I cannot claim you. Someone else has their eyes on you already."

Confusion decorated your face. "Who?"

As if in answer, a faint rustling came from the trees bordering the wall.

You turned your head just in time to see a massive owl perched on a high branch, its feathers a soft mix of whites and browns.

Its golden eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, locking onto you with an eerie intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

The owl tilted its head, watching you in complete silence, its presence both unsettling and oddly comforting.

"That," Ares voice pull your attention back to him, "is your answer." He let out a low, almost amused chuckle. "Athena does not let her favorites go unnoticed."

The owl flapped its wings once before vanishing into the darkness, leaving you staring after it.

"But the choice is yours," Ares continued. "Athena may favor intellect and cunning, but war is not fought with the mind alone. If you ever wish to know what it truly means to harness power, to embrace your spirit as a warrior...you will come to me."

His gaze shifted back to Penelope, the fire in his eyes burning brighter.

"For now I have my student," he declared, his voice ringing with finality. "I look forward to seeing what you are capable of Penelope of Sparta, Daughter of Icarius."

With a sharp slam of his spear against the ground, his form shimmered once more and disappeared, leaving the clearing in silence.

Penelope let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her legs nearly giving out as she sank onto the ground.

You could only stand there still staring at the spot where Ares had vanished.

The words he had spoken, the promise of guidance, and the unspoken challenge from Athena all swirled together in your thoughts.

"Well," Penelope said finally, her voice shaky but filled with a faint trace of humor, "I guess that means we both have some decisions to make."

You managed a weak smile, your gaze flicking once more to the treetops where the owl had been.

The Gods were watching....

And the path ahead was growing more complicated with every step.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

Ⅰ Songs and Chapters

Warrior M.List

Previous | Next

˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・The Chains That Bind Us・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚

❝Freedom is the ultimate test of character—not the absence of chains, but the strength to break them, no matter the cost.❞

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

In the shadows of Sparta, servitude, ambition, and rebellion converge.

A competition for Athena's favor promises freedom, but the journey tests the resolve of those who dare to dream.

Through trials of cunning, strength, and sacrifice, bonds are forged and broken.

Secrets unravel, destinies are rewritten, and the fire of resistance begins to burn.

As the dust settles, the once-enslaved find the strength to challenge the Gods and the chains that bind them.

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

0.1 — Chains and Promises

Elastic Heart by Sia

Rise Up by Andra Day

0.2 — The Fox and the Flame

Survivor by Destiny's Child

Battle Symphony by Linkin Park

0.3 — Athena's Challenge

Glory and Gore by Lorde

The Other Side by Ruelle

0.4 — Bonds in the Fire

Team by Lorde

Battle Cry by Imagine Dragons

0.5 — Nobody's Goodbye

All I Want by Kodaline

Way Down We Go by Kaleo

0.6 — A Fight for Her

My Love by Sia

King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men

0.7 — Gates of Fate

Run by Snow Patrol

Home by Phillip Phillips

0.8 — Reprieve Before the Storm

Control by Zoe Wees

The Night We Met by Lord Huron

0.9 — The Bronze Sentinel

Unstoppable by Sia

Soldier by Fleurie

55 notes · View notes

k-nayee · 1 month ago

Text

CHAPTER 46. THE CHOICE KEPT

❝Even the weaver’s thread cannot measure the fire in a mortal’s heart❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅴ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

All turned to Agamemnon.

He sat reclined in his chair, fingers tapping against the arm of his chair.

The Ithacan Queen straightened, eyes narrowing at the unreadable expression on the High King's face. Because the way he said it was not a concession.

It was a verdict.

“____ acted with arrogance,” he continued, cool and bitterly. “She defied what must happen. And the Gods don’t smile on mortals who forget where they stand.”

His words hung like smoke in the air.

“I mean think about it.” He looked to the others. “She was too soft. Too gentle. Broke under the weight of a mother’s tears.” A pause. “Honestly after all these years of war you would think she'd known better.”

Penelope stepped forward sharply as a flush rise to her cheeks. “Watch your tongue.”

Agamemnon only smirked. “Why? I’m just pointing out the truth. And clearly this isn’t just about gender.” His gaze dragged lazily toward her. “After all you didn’t hesitate to let go of that baby, did you? You knew the price of legacy. Grew up with power on your shoulders. You know what it means to preserve a throne.”

Penelope felt her breath catch—not because he was right, but because a part of her, a quiet shameful part, understood.

But she would not show it.

“As for your Second,” The Mycenae King went on, flicking his fingers as if brushing dust from his lap, “she’s nothing. Not a Queen. Not a Princess. Hell not even a Lady. She was given that title like a child is given a ribbon. Not because of blood, but because she could fight.”

He let that sink in, letting his voice drop low with a cruel smile. “____ doesn’t carry the burden of bloodlines or Gods. Doesn't understand what it means to let go nor does she care to. Because she was born at the bottom—a peasant. ”

He said it like an insult and somehow like a praise.

“She’s an anomaly. A perfect weapon. A beast of war. Nothing more. Not one of us.” His eyes swept the room, catching the bristling stares of Diomedes, Neoptolemus, even Nestor and the boy Ajax.

“And what do you do with a beast? You direct it. Harness it. Or put it down when it disobeys.”

That made more than a few heads snap his way.

Agamemnon only pressed forward, voice growing louder. “She was lucky. The Gods spared her. Fine. Let’s take that mercy and use it properly. Kill the Trojan Prince.”

He stood to his feet with finality.

“She defied Fate and the Gods—they watched. They allowed her to live, perhaps to test our judgment. So?” He turned to the table again, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “Let us pass the test. Show the Gods we understand. That we’re not defiant. That we’ll clean up her mess.”

Murmurs surged.

“Ajax was right about one thing—time favors the young. We grow older, slower. And when peace has settled in our bones, he will rise, and he will remember. So I say this again: kill him now.”

Agamemnon raised his arms theatrically. “Better mercy now than vengeance later. Can we not agree on that?”

And then he moved—smooth and calculated. He adjusted the hem of his cloak and looked around the tent, hands on his hips. “Well?” he asked. “Shall we put it to a vote?”

He lifted one arm.

“Raise your hands if you agree.”

And they did.

One by one, hands rose into the air. Not all. But too many.

Some avoided Penelope’s eyes. Others didn’t even try.

The Daughter of Icarius' stared, stunned. Her throat tightened, the heat of rage crackling just beneath her skin. “You’re sick,” she hissed.

Agamemnon turned to her, brows raised. “I suppose you could call this an...epidemic of reason perhaps.” He smirked. “At least it’s catching eh?”

He gave a slow stretching sigh, cracking his knuckles with dramatic ease. The picture of smug authority. “Ah well. Seems it falls to me then.”

Penelope’s snarl rose like a storm from her throat. “You take one fucking step.” She was already reaching for her sword, her fingers brushing the hilt—

Hands grabbed her from behind.

Strong. Familiar.

She turned her head in fury and saw Menelaus. “Why?” she snapped, trying to yank free. “Why?!”

His face was pinched with regret, almost apologetically. “My brother may be many things. But on this...he’s right.”

Penelope recoiled as if struck.

Menelaus swallowed hard, gaze flicking around then to the ground as his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I just got her back, Penelope.”

Helen.

“You know what she means to me. I can’t lose her again. Not now. Not in ten years. Not ever. Only until old age takes us.”

Around them the others were being restrained.

Diomedes wrestling against two grown men, Neoptolemus spitting curses as three held him back alongside Nestor. Even Ajax was being gripped by the collar by a Commander, his little fists flailing uselessly but fiercely.

Agamemnon made a show of stepping in front of Penelope. His hand reached—mockingly slow—and took her sword.

Aionios...

He turned it over in his hand with a hum. “Not bad. Fine craftsmanship,” he mused. “Well-balanced. Sharp. I’ll give you that.”

“Don’t you dare,” Penelope spat. “Get your filthy hands off my weapon.”

Agamemnon smiled. “You should be grateful. At least you’ll get to say your sword ended the war twice—first for Troy and second for what was left of it.”

He turned toward the exit.

Penelope's chest heaved, her eyes burning.

You had gone through hell to save that child. You nearly died—died—and clawed your way back from the edge just to keep him breathing.

And now? Now they were going to undo it.

Just like that.

She struggled harder. “Let me go—” But Menelaus held firm.

Agamemnon raised his voice slightly as he neared the entrance whistling idly. “So the baby's in the medical tent right?” He reached out, fingers curling around the flap of the tent like he had every right and power. “Eh I'll find it. Shouldn’t be too fa—”

“Take... one more... step.”

Penelope’s heart stuttered.

That voice.... that tone....

Agamemnon stood frozen. Standing just beyond him, backlit by the pale eerie light of the day—there you were.

Your frame was hunched. Bandages wrapped around your chest, shoulder, head, and abdomen; all of them already soaked through from reopened wounds.

You looked like death resurrected by rage alone.

Both hands gripped the handle of your axe despite the tremble. The curved blade was pressed flush against Agamemnon’s throat, the edge brushing his Adam’s apple with the softness of a kiss.

Penelope could barely see your face beneath the mess of bandages and grime—but your eyes.

Gods.

They were wild. Wide and burning in a way she had never seen in you before—not in war, not in grief.

Aionis slip from the King's grasp, the polished blade hitting the floor with a loud clang.

“Now now,” Agamemnon raised both hands in surrender, flinching before stopping himself. “N—no need to get frisky—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” your voice was ragged, half-broken and barely human. Still, it carried through the tent like a battle cry.

He backed up instinctively, step by step, retreating from your steel as you stalked forward—bleeding, breaking, but still moving.

The entrance flap fluttered closed behind you and everyone stared in silence.

You were standing. After a fall no one should have survived. Holding a weapon no one should have lifted in your condition.

"You really think I’m going to let you kill that baby?" you rasped.

No one in the tent spoke.

"Over. My. Dead. Body," you snarled. "Will you ever bring that idea to reality."

The silence broke in Agamemnon’s throat, a tremor of disbelief, of something that almost resembled fear. “I—I thought—the Gods...I—I thought you were—”

“You thought I was what?!” you snapped, pressing the axe tighter. “Laid out? Broken? Out of the game? Incapable of dealing with your schemes?”

You leaned in.

“Well I’m not. I’m here. And I’ve had it.”

His jaw flexed. You saw the way his eyes darted, looking for support—and found none.

“This is the second time,” you muttered. “The second time you’ve pushed me to my limit Agamemnon. Must there be a third before you finally meet the end of my blade? Are you that eager to test your how far your thread goes?”

Agamemnon opened his mouth, but no words came. Only a dry swallow.

“The Trojan Prince will live,” you declared. “I do not care who disagrees. I will walk into exile alone with him if I must. Vanish into the sea, raise him in the woods or the caves or the frozen North. If none of you will stand for this child, I will.”

Your gaze found Penelope. “I swore to protect him, and I intend to keep that promise.”

The words echoed. Sharp. Final.

You gave a cold smile, teeth tinged pink with blood.

“Maybe that’s the peasant in me?”

Agamemnon gave a shaky laugh. “Y-you—uh...you heard that?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t exactly quiet.”

You looked around—at Kings and Generals and godsdamned war Commanders—and raised your axe just slightly.

“So. A new vote: Does the Trojan Prince live...or does the King of Mycenae die?”

The tent was silent.

Not one hand raised. Not a word uttered. No one moved.

“Nothing? No answers? No takers?” you give a mock shrug. “Well then...”

You draw your axe back. “Guess I’ll do it myself—”

Agamemnon dropped to his knees with a scream.

“WAIT! Wait!! I give—I give!! Fine! Keep the fucking brat! I don’t care anymore! Just—don’t kill me! I’ve survived this long—Gods please! I can’t die like this! Do you know how embarrassing it would be to say I died on the last day of the Trojan war?!”

You stared down at him.

Pathetic. Groveling. A man who wielded power like a club now begging at the feet of the one he thought he could break.

You scoffed.

“I wasn’t going to kill you.” You stepped back, lowering your axe. “But thanks for making it official. No take-backies~”

Straightening—barely—you scanned the room once more. Pain crawled beneath your skin like fire ants, but you kept your face composed.

“Gentlemen...ladies,” you gave a nod toward the trio of women present, “Storm’s coming soon. Might be time to board your ships and go while there's still time.”

And with that you turned. You limped away, one foot dragging, every step more agonizing than the last. But you didn’t stop. Not until you were out of sight.

You made it only a few more steps before your body gave out completely, crashing to the dirt, axe falling beside you with a heavy thud.

The pain hit all at once in ripping waves.

Your breath came short, teeth clenched as the world spun. You began to weep silent tears you couldn’t stop. Not from sadness. Not from fear.

From relief. 'He's safe...'

Then—footsteps.

Several.

Voices muffled, and then sharp.

“She’s down!”

You forced your head up, vision swimming—and saw sandals first, then shapes.

“What in the Gods’ names were you thinking?! You shouldn’t even be out of bed!” Penelope dropped to her knees beside you, her hands already moving to lift you frantically. “Where are Thetis and Oenone? Eurylochus and Polites?!”

Neoptolemus on the other side of you, takes your arm gently, guiding your weight across his shoulder. “Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You barely heard them. Your lips trembled. “S...snuck out... when they went to get supplies...” Your words slurred. “Gotta... get back... before they find out...”

You groaned, eyes fluttering as you leaned heavily into Neoptolemus. “...Thetis gonna kill me.” You coughed with a wince. “Might’ve... undone...lot of her healing...”

The two royals share a look—equal parts horror and exasperation.

“Captain!”

A sharp cry from down the path makes the group turn.

Eurylochus, storm-faced and grim, came striding toward the group with Polites hurrying behind—arms full with a babbling baby boy wrapped in linen.

“____'s not in the tent!” Polites called in panic. “She’s gone—we checked everywhere—”

He stopped mid-sentence the moment his eyes locked onto you.

Your head lolled as you blinked drowsily. You raised a weak hand. “Heeeey…”

Eurylochus stopped a few feet away, eyes darting from you... the medical tent distance away... then back to you. He could only blink.

Penelope gives a thin breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” she brush hair from your sweaty forehead. “We found her.”

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The sun hung low in the Trojan sky, swollen and red as if it too had bled its share of war.

Penelope stood on a raised wooden platform built from scavenged planks and hastily nailed beams—nothing grand, nothing ceremonial.

It was just high enough for her voice to carry. Just high enough for the six hundred Ithacan soldiers gathered below in solemn formation to see the grief heavy in her shoulders and resolve set into her jaw.

Wind lifted the ends of her red cloak, snapping it gently behind her like a warning flag, but her face remained still.

'They deserve to know...'

Eurylochus stood to her left, arms folded tightly across his chest, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk.

On her right stood Polites, hands clasped behind his back, the bundle he held of the infant Prince now passed safely to the care of Oenone in the rear of the medical tent.

Penelope's breath trembled.

She could feel the eyes of every man on her. Some bore the leather armor of returning veterans, others the fresh scars of the siege, their helmets tucked under their arms.

These were men she had grown beside in battle. Men she knew would carry this war home to the island that waited across the sea.

But not all of them would be leaving yet.

Penelope stepped forward.

The wooden platform creaked softly under her feet but she held firm. The wind tugged at strands of hair freed from her braid, and for a moment, the only sound was the crash of the distant waves.

“There has been an incident,” she began. Her voice wasn’t loud—but it didn’t need to be. Every soldier listened. “You’ve likely heard fragments of it already. The fall. The baby. The confrontation in the council tent.”

A ripple moved through the crowd. Murmurs. Nods. Uneasy shifts of stances.

“Our Second-in-Command....she survived the fall.” A breath of relived disbelief moved through the men like a ripple through still water.

“She lives,” Penelope said again. “But she will not be returning to Ithaca with us.”

Shock spread like a pulse.

The sound that followed was outrage laced in confusion: Shouts of protest. Voices demanding more. Cries of disbelief, of anger, of heartbreak.

One of their own—one of their fiercest—was being left behind?

Penelope’s mouth opened again—but no words came. For a moment, just a moment, her throat locked up.

Eurylochus stepped forward before the silence grew too sharp. “She’s not strong enough,” he said. “Not yet. The fall broke her. She’s been put back together, but the journey across open sea—even a stormless day—would tear her apart again. If she were forced to move with us now, she wouldn’t survive the first week.”

The crowd grew quiet again.

Eurylochus looked to Penelope. She stepped forward again, eyes sweeping over the field of faces.

“I’m asking too much. I know that. You’ve given a decade. You've lost friends. Brothers. You have wives waiting. Parents. Sons and daughters who haven’t even learned your names yet.”

She inhaled sharply. “You deserve peace. You deserve home.” Her gaze casts down, voice softer this time—almost vulnerable.

“But I want to stay. Just one more year. I want her to have a fighting chance.”

Her hands shook as they curled into fists.

“She gave everything for us—for me—for that child. And I would rather live one more year in this ruined land than leave her behind on the edge of it.”

The words broke like a dam inside her.

“And if any of you...if you choose to leave, I’ll send you with blessings. With no shame. No guilt. You’ve earned your peace.”

Silence.

Thick. Cracking. Painful.

And then—

“What's one more year?” a deep, familiar voice called out.

All heads turned.

Lycomedes.

He stepped forward from the crowd—broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, his armor worn like a second skin.

The man had served her father once, back when Penelope was still learning how to tie her own sandals. She knew every scar across his face by heart. He had always laughed like the Gods couldn’t kill him.

Now, he grinned.

“Besides,” he added, loud and clear, “we could use the rest. Train up. Maybe pick up a new skill or two—finally impress my wife when I get back.”

A smattering of laughter broke out. Tension cracked just slightly.

Then another soldier stepped out.

“Not going without her,” he said simply. “She saved my life during the siege. Pulled me out of a burning ditch when everyone else had fled.”

Another voice shouted agreement.

“I say we owe her! After all she’s done? She earned this.”

“Aye!” another chimed in. “She would’ve done the same for us—and already has!”

“Give the woman her year!” someone else bellowed.

And then the noise swelled. One voice. Then ten. Then hundreds until all six hundred men were shouting, stomping, grinning, laughing.

Penelope felt her breath catch, barely able to form the words in her mouth.

Eurylochus clapped a firm hand on her shoulder, a rare smile of his own tugging at the edge of his lips. Polites beamed outright, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

And Penelope?

She finally smiled back.

She looked out over her army—not one that followed her by blood or by politics—but by choice. “Thank you...”

The wind carried the words away.

But it didn’t matter.

They’d already been heard.

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k-nayee · 5 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 4. BONDS IN THE FIRE

❝Even in the heart of competition unlikely bonds can be forged in the fire of necessity.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅰ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The boat lurched slightly as it scraped against the rocky shore of the northern Peloponnesian coast, the men aboard shifting and bracing themselves against the motion.

The mainland loomed before you; its rugged mountains rising sharply into the mist, with dense forests sprawling at their base.

Cries of unseen birds ominously pierced the salty air, mingling with the rustling of leaves in the distance. Stepping off the ship, you took a moment to look around and gather your bearings.

The competition was simple in theory: whoever killed Athena's magical boar first would earn her favor along with the promised riches.

But as you scanned the other contestants it was clear that this was no simple hunt.

Some carried weapons—blades and bows gleaming in the light streaming through the canopy—while others hefted nets and traps over their shoulders.

Tensions were high, but the promise of glory was enough to keep most in check.

You lingered on the outskirts, semi-independent but not entirely alone. A few men from the ship, familiar enough to offer some semblance of safety, had formed a loose group nearby.

You stayed within earshot as they argued over the best way to track the boar. Though their plans was passionate, it seemed disorganized at best.

"That's not how you do it," came a voice from your left. Odysseus, the scrawny boy with the quick tongue, stood near a crude trap set up by one of the older men.

The trap—a clumsily constructed snare—was little more than a pile of rope and broken branches. Odysseus regarded it with an expression of exaggerated pity.

"You call this a trap?" he asked, crouching to prod at it with a stick. "Even a blind boar could see through this."

The older man—one of Iphicles' companions—lip curled. "You've got a lot of nerve for someone who barely looks strong enough to hold a spear."

Odysseus grinned completely unbothered. "And you've got enough muscle to crush a tree branch, yet somehow you still managed to ruin this poor excuse for a snare. Fascinating."

The gathered men exchanged uneasy glances.

Odysseus, for all his wit, had a knack for making enemies. It wasn't hard to see why; his arrogance grated on nerves already worn thin by the tension of the hunt.

You turned your attention back to your own preparations, setting up a small camp near the edge of the forest.

Despite your irritation with Odysseus' antics you couldn't deny a grudging respect for his confidence. He was bold—reckless even—but there was an intelligence in his words that hinted at a deeper cunning.

Still, you kept your distance, content to let him deal with the consequences of his audacity.

As night fell the forest transformed.

The shadows deepened and the air grew heavy with humidity. Fires dotted the shoreline where groups of men had gathered, their voices low and wary.

You sat on the fringes of one such group, listening more than speaking. Your hands busy sharpening one of the many crude spears you'd fashioned earlier.

The scent of charred wood mixed with the earthy tang of damp leaves as the firelight painted shifting patterns across the men's faces.

Sticking to the group was safer, but every glance in your direction reminded you that you didn't belong here—not really.

And then there was him.

"Let me guess," Odysseus drawled from a campfire near yours, he was perched on a log with infuriating ease. "You thought digging a hole and tossing in a few leaves would fool a beast blessed by Athena?"

The man he was addressing bristled, his weathered face darkening as he tightened his grip on the axe in his lap. "The pit was deep enough. It should've worked."

"For what? Catching squirrels?" Odysseus replied as sharp as the blade strapped to his hip. "I doubt even a rabbit would fall for that."

The laughter that followed was hesitant, nervous. Some of the younger men chuckled, while the older ones shifted uncomfortably, their pride stung.

You glanced up from your work, narrowing your eyes at Odysseus.

It wasn't hard for the Ithacan Prince to make himself the center of attention; but it wasn't always to his advantage.

Like now.

"Watch your tongue boy," the older man growled dangerously. "You're not as clever as you think."

Odysseus didn't flinch. If anything his grin widened. "You're right," he said lightly. "Just more clever than you."

The tension in the clearing grew thick enough to cut. You caught the furtive glances exchanged among the men—the unspoken resentment brewing beneath their forced camaraderie.

Odysseus was young, too sharp for his own good, and entirely too comfortable challenging men twice his age.

"Idiot," you muttered under your breath. Shaking your head, you placed your now finished spear down and left to find another stick to wilt.

It was during your search near the forest-line that you overhead it.

"He's a problem that boy," one of the men muttered, his voice low but laced with venom. "Thinks he's smarter than the rest of us."

"We can't let him win," another added. "If he's outsmarted us this far, what's stopping him from outsmarting the boar? He's a liability."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

A pause. Then a gruff reply. "If he's smart enough to talk his way out of traps, let's see if he's smart enough to survive on his own."

Your stomach tightened. It didn't take a genius to understand what they were planning.

They were going to get rid of Odysseus.

'Let him deal with it,' a small voice in your mind whispered. 'He brought this on himself.'

But another voice, louder, countered. 'He won't last alone.'

As much as his arrogance annoyed you—the thought of standing by while he was ambushed didn't sit right.

With a quiet sigh, you left the talking men and slipped into the shadows of the forest.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

You found Odysseus perched on a low rock beyond the edge of camp.

He didn't seem surprised when you approached, though his brows lifted slightly in curiosity. "You've got an interesting habit of showing up uninvited," he remarked.

"Get up," you said curtly. "You're in danger."

His grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Before you could answer the sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. Panic jolted through you as you stepped back into the shadows, leaving Odysseus exposed on the rock.

You held your breath as four burly men emerged from the trees, their expressions cold and determined. "Well well," one of them sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "The little genius—all by himself."

Odysseus scanned the quartet, his body tensing as he kept his eyes on the axe one of the men held.

"Gentlemen." he began, his tone light but cautious. "Look I know I'm charming, but if you wanted alone time you could've just asked."

"Shut up," another of the men snarled as he steps closer.

As they closed in a whistle cut through the air. A handmade spear struck the ground just inches from one of the men's feet, the impact causing all four to recoil in alarm.

"That's enough," you commanded, your voice ringing out from the shadows. You emerged slowly, your other spear ready to throw.

The men turned toward you, their expressions shifting from aggression to confusion.

"Stay out of this," one of them growled.

You ignored him and moved to stand beside Odysseus. Your grip on the spear was loose but deliberate, the moonlight casting shadows across your face.

"You're wasting your time," you said coolly. "Athena's boar is out there, yet you're here picking fights with children. Pathetic."

One of the men took a step forward. "Careful boy. You're out of your depth."

"Maybe," you said evenly, your gaze steady. "But it'll be hard to pass Athena's test with a spear through your foot."

The threat hung in the air. The man hesitated, his anger warring with uncertainty.

Finally, with a muttered curse, he turned and stalked back toward the camp. The others followed reluctantly, throwing you and Odysseus dark looks as they disappeared into the trees.

For a moment the two of you stood in silence. Then Odysseus let out a low whistle, running a hand through his curls. "Impressive. Didn't think anyone would bother saving me."

You crossed your arms, your glare sharp. "Don't flatter yourself. I just hate wasting time."

His grin returned though it was softer now. "Still you saved my life. That deserves a thank you doesn't it?"

You shrugged as you step past him. "Try not to need saving again. Next time I might not bother."

"Wait." He caught your wrist, his fingers brushing against the braided bracelet hidden beneath your sleeve. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied your face, something flickering in his expression.

"What?" you snapped, yanking your hand free.

His grin returned, but it was bigger now, more curious. "You're full of surprises aren't you? For a boy you're—"

You cut him off with a glare that could've turned him to stone. His words faltered, his confidence cracking as realization dawned in his eyes. "Wait a second..."

"You're usually smarter than this," you said, your tone laced with teasing as you stepped closer, invading his space just enough to make him fluster. "Or do you only have book sense?"

He blinks. "I—well—you—"

"A girl?" you finished for him with an raised eyebrow. "Congratulations. You finally figured it out."

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"In my defense," he began, "you've done a good job hiding it. Not that I'm unobservant. I mean anyone could have...."

"Missed it entirely?" you finished for him, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Then again can't fault you too much. Common sense is hard to come by these days."

He sputtered again making you chuckle despite yourself. Brushing past him, you make your way back to the campfires. "Good night Odysseus. Try not angering anyone else yeah?"

He turned to watch you go, his expression a mix of confusion and admiration. "Good night...Nobody."

══════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚═══════════════

The sun filtered through the dense canopy as the camp stirred to life.

Men muttered curses under their breath as they realized Odysseus had survived the night unscathed—much to their irritation.

Odysseus, for his part, seemed entirely gleeful. He shot them a toothy grin—one that was more provocation than pleasantry as he stretched his arms lazily. "Morning gentlemen! Sleep well?"

"You're still here," one of the older men grumbled, his tone incredulous.

"Surprised?" Odysseus replied as casually toss a stone into the dirt. "If I'd know better, I'd say you're hurt I didn't fall into your little attack—but we both know it wasn't clever enough to catch me."

A few grumbled in response, but no one dared challenge him outright. Instead most turned away with mutters under their breath.

You bit back a smirk, appreciating his ability to remain so annoyingly confident. Odysseus caught your eye and his grin widened as he gestured for you.

"Come on Nobody," he called out rising to his feet. "Let's check those traps of yours. The ones everyone laughed at."

You scowled but didn't argue and followed him into the forest.

For the rest of the morning you and Odysseus used the time checking traps, walking through the forest in companionable silence.

The ones you had set the day you arrived on Mount Erymanthos were simple but effective—pitfalls covered with foliage, snares woven from sturdy vines, and sharpened stakes buried in soft earth.

He occasionally made observations about the terrain or suggested adjustments to your setups. Despite his arrogance, there was a genuine cleverness to his input that you found difficult to dismiss.

At one point, as you crouched to inspect a snare, you caught Odysseus watching you. "What?" you didn't bother to hide the irritation in your voice.

"Nothing," he said with a shrug, though his tone carried a teasing edge. "Just wondering why someone like you bothers with all this. You're clearly smart enough to do something else."

You rolled your eyes and returned to your work. "Not everything's about being smart Odysseus. Sometimes it's just about surviving."

"Yeah but what's the fun in that?" he gives you a cat-like smirk as you adjusted one of the snares, your fingers brushing against the worn ropes, "I mean for someone who's so skilled at this, you're awfully quiet about your past. Mysterious even."

"And yet you're not quiet enough about yours. It's a wonder you haven't talked the boar into surrendering."

He chuckled, leaning against a nearby tree. "Touché. But come on! Can't blame me for being curious. You've got that...aura about you. Like there's more to your story than you let on."

You glanced at him, debating whether to respond. Finally, with a small sigh, you tugged up your sleeve to reveal your leather bracelet.

The simple braid was worn but sturdy, its craftsmanship hinting at care and precision.

A faint smile tugged at your lips as a memory surfaced— a younger Penelope weaving the strands together as she hummed a tune.

"It was a gift," you said softly. "From someone special. They made it for me when I first started...working for them."

He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his mismatched eyes. "Sounds important."

"It is," you replied, the fondness in your tone unmistakable.

Before the conversation could deepen, a distant sound broke the moment. It was faint but distinct—a rustle in the underbrush followed by a low grunt.

Your heart quickened as you exchanged a look with Odysseus. Both of you reached for your weapons, the earlier conversation forgotten.

"The boar," he whispered, excitement laced in his words.

You nod as you grip your spear tightly. Together, you moved cautiously toward the sound, your steps deliberate and silent.

Unfortunately for you both, the source of the disturbance proved to be nothing more than a bird taking flight.

Frustration gnawed at you but there was no time to dwell on it. The hunt would continue and the stakes were only growing higher.

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k-nayee · 2 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 43. LAST MERCY OF WAR

❝There is no greater cruelty than forcing a mother to become a weapon❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅴ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

Penelope stood rigid.

She stared into the crib before her, disbelief rooting her to the floor—her chest tightening with something dangerously close to dread.

A baby.

His tiny chest rose and fell with each shrill cry; his face was flushed, fists curling in the air as if grasping at something just beyond his reach.

He was so small. So helpless.

“An infant…” The words softly fell from her lips as though speaking them aloud would make them any less real. Her heart pounded as she forced herself to speak louder, though her voice was no steadier. “My mission...is to kill an infant?”

The absurdity of it lodged itself in her throat thickly.

This was a child. A boy who had yet to even speak his own name.

“What sort of imminent threat does he pose that I cannot avoid?”

A gust of wind swept through the open chamber's window—the torches flickered wildly at the sudden draft as a blur of movement pulled her gaze toward the balcony.

There, perched upon the stone railing, was a creature of such magnificent presence that the air itself seemed to tighten around it: a giant eagle, its plumage a pristine shade of white.

It sat motionless and regal; its molten-gold eyes—reflective, searing—bored into her with an familiar intensity that made her stance straighten.

Zeus.

This is the son of none other than Troy’s very own Prince Hector. The eagle’s head tilted ever so slightly, almost as if peering into the very depths of her soul. Grandson to King Priam. Next heir to the throne: Astyanax of Troy.

The babe's wailing had tapered off into quiet uncertain hiccups. As if sensing Penelope's presence, his wide impossibly blue eyes fixed upon her.

There was no fear in them. No understanding of what stood before him—of what she had been sent here to do. Only quiet curiosity, unknowing innocence.

Zeus’ voice curled deeper into her skull.

Know that he will grow from a boy to a young man, an avenger. One fumed with rage as you are consumed by age...

A searing pain shot through her chest—the vision.

If you don’t end him now, you’ll have no one left to save.

“No,” The word slipped from her lips unbiddenly. Her head moved before she could stop herself, refusing...denying. “No. I could raise him as my own.”

He will burn your house and throne...

“O-or send him far away from home!” she countered as the desperation clawed its way up.

He’ll find you wherever you go...

“I’ll...I'll make sure his past is never known.” Her fingers dug into the palms of her hands, nails pressing into flesh.

Penelope of Ithaca had done terrible things in the name of the Gods; she had taken lives without question—trusted their will was law.

But this?

The Gods will make it known...

The gravity of destiny too great to bear.

Penelope’s knees gave out. She barely noticed the impact as she knelt, hands pressed against the cool marble.

“Please…” The plea was raw with anguish as her head lifts toward the eagle. “I’d rather bleed than this. I’m begging you please.”

The wind howled. A nonexistent storm raging in the distance. But the God did not bend.

You cannot avoid this. It is the will of fate, as well as the will of the Gods...

“Please don’t make me do this.” Her voice was barely there now, so hallow even the baby seemed to sense it. “I can’t—”

NO!

The sky released a deafening roar; Zeus’ voice a lightning bolt, sharp and merciless. What is set in fate is a will that must be done.

The eagle did not move. It did not falter, even when the thunder cracked so violently that the very walls shook.

The blood on your hands is something you won’t lose...

Penelope looked through blurred vision, shuddering as the eagle began spread its great wings in prepare to take-off. The sheer force of it sent another gust of wind rushing through the chamber, snuffing out any remaining flames inside.

...all you can choose is whose.

With those final parting words, the eagle took flight.

Each powerful flap carried it higher and farther; the roll of thunder fading with every beat of the divine creature’s wings until, at last, it was but a speck.

The world was quiet now.

The only sound that remained was the soft cooing of the infant boy in the crib.

For a long time Penelope didn't move. Every breath she took was shallow and unsteady.

Despite being honed from years of war, her body was unmoored—adrift in a sea she could not navigate. Even her legs felt foreign as she finally pushed herself to her feet.

A war had ended...a city had fallen.

And yet here she stood: in a nursery untouched by the violence that had torn through Troy’s streets.

Her sight cleared only when she reached the cradle.

Looking down she could only stare at the infant Prince: big round eyes that owlishly blinked up at the ceiling, dark curling hair that framed his cherubic face, light olive-toned skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Astyanax was his father’s son—there was no mistaking it.

He looked just like baby version of Hector...a baby version of the man who, years from now, would run a blade through her chest.

Penelope reached out before she could stop herself.

Her fingers hovered for just a second before brushing against his cheek. He flinched at the touch; wriggling feet stilling as he turned his gaze fully on her.

And then—

He smiled.

Ithaca's Captain breath was caught in her throat.

It was a wide and gummy smile—the kind of smile only an infant could make. His entire face lit up with it, tiny fingers stretching toward her as though he had been waiting for her.

Penelope's eyes stung as she let out a shaky exhale.

Carefully, she wraps the blanket snugly around him, her hold on him unsure before she lifts him from the crib.

He squirmed slightly at first, searching for a place to settle before he nestled against her as if he belonged there. His head came to rest against the cool metal of her armor, warm against the battle-worn steel.

She had seen children before—even carried one.

But never like this. Never with the knowledge that she was meant to kill them.

"You know..." Voice cracking, the words were almost difficult to push out. "The more I look into your eyes, the more I can't help but think of my son."

Telemachus.

Her little boy.

The son she had left behind in Ithaca, not even a year old, to participate in a war that had taken ten years of her life and all of his.

His first words... His first steps... His first tooth...

Gone. She had missed it all.

And for what?

She clenched her jaw to force herself to focus. Though that quickly changes when a soft gurgle pulled her from the spiraling thoughts.

Astyanax shifted in her arms, pushing free from his swaddled blanket. Stretching a hand toward her face— toward her helmet—giggling as his fingers grazed the metal.

Penelope's heart broke.

No wonder he was so welcoming.

The dented steel of her war helmet covered most of her face, hiding the woman beneath the armor. To him she must have reminded him of Hector.

The one he had been truly waiting for....the father who would never come.

Something inside her cracked.

'Would this action haunt my days? Even more than lives I had taken before?' The thought flickered through Penelope's mind like a firelight. She had killed—so many times she had long since stopped counting.

But those were warriors.

Men with swords. Men who shouted her name in hatred. Men who swung back with every intent to end her first.

That was war. That was survival. And that was easy.

But this?

Was this the price? Was this really what the Gods demanded of her?

The question made bile rise as she squeezed her eyes shut.

It was useless though. Even in darkness she couldn’t escape it.

She turned toward the open archway leading to the balcony. When she stepped outside the wind brushed against her, carrying the scent of smoldering wood and blood from the scene laid out before her like a broken tapestry: Troy.

Even in the daylight the city looked draped in shadow.

Fires still raged in far corners, their embers glowing like dying stars scattered across as smoke lingered between the demolished buildings like a specter of what had once been.

Troy had fallen—the Kingdom lost to the hands of fate.

And yet...

In her arms one piece of it remained.

Penelope pressed a hand against Astyanax’s back when he tries to follow her gaze. "Close your eyes," she murmured, rocking him softly as she pulls the edge of his blanket up to shield his sight. "Spare yourself the view."

She wasn’t sure who she was speaking to—him or herself.

Another gust of wind swept across the balcony, sharper this time, causing the Greek Royal to rest her cheek against the crown of his head.

"Who am I kidding..." She turns her away from the destruction, moving until her back press against the stone wall of the balcony's railing. Allowing her legs to buckle, she lowers herself to the ground, the weight of the moment threatening to crush her.

Penelope curls over the infant as if she could shield him from the outside world. "How could I hurt you?"

Her helmet felt suffocating at this point. In one swift motion she yanks it off and casts it aside without another thought, the heavy metal rolling slightly before settling in the dust.

She looks back down at Astyanax now fully visible to him. The newborn paused, blinking up to study her for the first time. He smiles once again.

A big toothless grin as if he had deemed her safe—as if she were someone he could trust. Penelope almost couldn’t bear his gaze.

So much...

She had given up so much to the whims of Gods and Kings.

Her youth: traded for survival. Her time: stolen by the fight between men. Her hands: now stained with the blood of enemies and allies alike—blood that would never wash away no matter the amount of water used.

Her mind began to drift to what it would mean if she turned away now.

Could she risk it? Could she spare this boy, knowing that one day he would grow into a the same fury his father had once wielded?

Her family and Kingdom would pay the price for her mercy...everything she had bled to protect. It would all burn just as Troy had.

Penelope bowed her head and inhaled deeply.

In her arms the last heir of Hector’s legacy stirred, his small fingers brushing against the metal of her armor.

The Gods had given her a choice. But the longer she stared down at the little one in her arms, the more she found herself wondering:

'Was it ever a choice at all?'

At first it was just a sting in the back of her eyes—a familiar burn she had learned long ago to ignore. This time she couldn’t stop it. The air her lungs drew in felt like she was drowning; stuttering and catching.

And then the tears came.

As each one fell the dam inside cracked wider. She could no longer hold back what had been pressing at the edges of her soul for far too long. The grief... the exhaustion... the guilt... the homesickness.

It all surged forward like a wave, relentless and merciless.

“I’m…” Penelope barely managed to stutter through the sobs, body instinctively curling in on itself as she held tight to the baby with one arm, the other braced against the cold stone wall of the balcony. “I’m just...trying to go ho–ome...”

It didn’t matter how many years she spent from what she's known; the Queen fought—spilled blood across this cursed land just to see the shores of her home with ____.

To feel the arms of her husband after a decade of cold nights. To see her son in the flesh beyond more than just a memory.

And yet here she was, unsure if she could still see the line where right ended and ruin began.

Astyanax blinked up at her.

The cooing that had once filled the air faded when a few salty droplets land on his face. His face scrunched in response, tiny nose wrinkling as a disgruntled grunt leaves him.

Penelope froze at that, breath hitching mid-sob as a watery laugh slips past her lips. She let her fingers trail over his cheeks, gently wiping the tears she had accidentally shared with him.

Her sobs shifted into sniffles. “Sorry,” she whispered. “...I’m not usually like this. Didn't mean to let you see me like that.”

Leaning her head back, she lifts her chin upward, eyes drawn to the sky.

Blue. Vast. And cruelly beautiful.

White clouds drifted in lazy wisps overhead. Birds, dark specks in the distance, soared away, fleeing from the sounds of chaos with wings unburdened.

She stared for a long time, letting the world blur again—this time not with tears, but with thought.

‘...When does a comet become a meteor?’ Her eyes narrowing as though it might offer her answers. ‘…When does a candle become a blaze?’

She lowered her head and looked at the child again. His attention had not left her this entire time.

Penelope closed her eyes, drawing in another breath as she forced herself to quiet the war that raged within.

She was a Queen. A wife. A mother.

Now?

Now she was something else.

'...When does one become a monster?'

When she opened her eyes again they were no longer clouded. They were cold. Unflinching. Resigned.

Without speaking she shifted the baby into the crook of one arm, her free hand moving to her helmet and slipping the cold bronze back on. The world darkened through the slits of the visor.

She was no longer Penelope. Not a mother. Not a wife. Not a Queen who gently led for her citizens.

She was a hand of the Gods.

And the Gods had given her a command.

'...When does a comet become a meteor?'

Hand securing the baby's blanket around him, she stood to her feet, the golden embroidery still faintly smelling of perfume from the palace halls. Fit for royalty. Fit for a legacy.

It would be his only shroud.

Astyanax let out a small confused whimper as she lifted him higher by the fabric's gathered edge. His blue eyes blinked at her, searching for any source of comfort.

Penelope gave him none.

Stepping forward, the stone railing pressed into her waist as she extend her arm over the palace's edge, nothing but the blanket keeping him from plummeting.

One drop...

One final act....

And this war would truly be over.

'...When does the reason become the blame?'

Penelope looks down to they city below when commotion suddenly arose.

Greek soldiers had begun to gather in the courtyard upon catching sight of her grim ritual. Some roared in approval while others clapped or jeered.

It was spectacle to them. A moment of brutal poetry to close the curtain on Troy’s long fall.

Amid the armored men and captured citizens a figure broke free. Barefoot, wild-eyed, and draped in torn golden robes; her limbs flailed as she stumbled forward, trying to reach the palace steps before being dragged back by a soldier’s grip.

Lady Andromache. It had to be.

The woman’s mouth moved furiously, her screams silent from this height. But Penelope didn’t need the words. She could feel them.

Astyanax whimpered louder now as if sensing something was wrong. His little cries had turned desperate, legs kicking weakly against the fabric holding him.

Penelope’s grip tightened as the chants thundered louder in her ears. “Drop him!” “Finish it!”

She did not tremble. She did not cry.

She was unyielding.

'...When does one become a monster?'

Penelope looked at him one last time. The infant Prince. The last breath of Troy.

He looked back at her, blue eyes shimmering with confusion. He didn’t know why but he was afraid. He didn’t understand what he was losing.

Troy would never forgive her, not for her transgression against their future King. And perhaps even Telemachus would not, knowing she had taken the life of a child that could have easily been him.

It didn't matter. Cause even if they had forgiven, she would never forgive herself.

"Forgive me…" The confession left in whisper before—

“PENELOPE WAIT!”

A breathless scream cracked through the air like a whip. The nursery doors crash open, slamming against the walls with a resounding BANG causing Penelope’s heart to leap.

She startles, head snapping around in time to see you—framed by the firelit hallway, ash clinging to your skin as you heaved.

You looked terrified.

Your eyes were wide with disbelief and panic, hand reaching out as if you could somehow physically stop what was already in motion.

“Penelope please,” your voice quiver with urgency. “Just think about what you’re doing. You don’t have to do this. There’s still time.”

She didn’t speak. She simply stared, arm still suspended over the edge.

You take another step forward. “There’s another way—there has to be. We are not like them Penelope. You are more than this. We both are.”

The sincerity in your voice, the sheer desperation that cracked through your words—seemed to reached her for just a moment. Her head bowed, shoulder dipping as the tremble returned.

You saw it.

Hope filled your heart as you took another step. Then another. And another. You were closing the distance, pulse roaring in your ears like a battle drum.

Almost there...

It was then, just a few feet away, did Penelope head slowly lift up. And through the slits of her visor you saw something that made your stomach drop.

You saw it in her eyes, the way they hardened again. The way her body seemed to lock back into place like a machine winding back into function.

“I’m just human,” is all Penelope said. Calm and hollow.

She lets go.

21 notes · View notes

k-nayee · 1 month ago

Text

CHAPTER 47. THE STILLNESS AFTER THUNDER

A/n: ah! Arc Five is officially done! Hopefully I can whip up and finish writing out the rest of Arc Six. Which also means I have to set up the aesthetics etc up for Act Two (which is gonna take some time)😮‍💨 sorry if I was a little late with publishing this one🫣 to make up for it I made the chapter twice as long as usual!! Alright y'all see you in a little, and remember to take care of yourselves!

❝Even after the Gods leave the field, it is the mortals who must carry the weight of the silence that follows❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅴ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The fabric above you was white—but not clean. Age and war had left their signature in the stains that spread like fingerprints on parchment.

You stare at them, letting your gaze blur slightly, trying to find patterns in the fading spots that had seeped into the canvas.

It was always the same ceiling.

No matter how often you drifted off, no matter how long your body gave into sleep—when you woke that blank stained white greeted you like a silent friend.

The bed beneath you did little to help the pain your body carried. Bruises bloomed across your skin like ink, fading and deepening in inconsistent hues.

Your limbs ached with the dull throb of overuse and injury, feeling far too heavy to move.

You were the only one in the tent. That fact had settled into you over the past few hours—maybe longer.

Time didn’t behave the same when you kept dipping in and out of consciousness, when dreams folded over memory and reality unraveled thread by thread.

But it was clear now: No other beds. No rows of groaning soldiers.

Just you.

And that really wasn’t comforting.

Around you tables lined the perimeter, cluttered with open clay jars and bronze tools still stained from their last use. Clean bandages were stacked in careless bundles in one corner while a wide shallow basket overflowed with bloodied cloths sat on the other; some dried to a crisp curl, others still dark and fresh.

The stink was metallic. Old with the sharp tang of some herbal salve—maybe thyme and vinegar—and something sickly sweet beneath it like rotting honey.

The effort of staying awake was...irritating to say the least.

You don't even remember much after the council tent. Just flickers: someone shouting, your knees giving out, the overwhelming exhaustion crashing over you like a tide. Then nothing.

When you’d finally come to, sometime earlier—how long ago now? Hours? A day?—you found Thetis already standing over you with crossed arms.

“You could’ve died,” she’d hissed harshly. “Do you understand that? Your recklessness...” And yet her hands were gentle as she replaced the bloodied bandages. “I should let you rot in here for the stunt you pulled.”

You hadn’t said anything. What could you say? There was no denying it. You'd left when you shouldn’t have. And now here you were; a mess of stitched wounds and dull pain.

Thetis hadn’t lingered. She left not long after, muttering something about needing air or patience (or both). In her place Oenone had arrived—quiet, serene, with hands that moved carefully.

Her voice had been soft, eyes full of worry that didn’t patronize. She hadn’t scolded. Just told you things, grounding you back to the world like stakes in shifting earth.

“The storm’s still there,” she’d said, dabbing at a cut on your temple. “Hasn’t worsened. But hasn’t moved on either.”

Her hands were cool. Steady.

“And most of the Greeks have begun boarding their ships. The Spartans left this morning. Others too—Thessalians, Aeolians.” the linens over your shoulder are adjusted, pillow fluffed. “Though some have stayed. Ithaca remains. So do the Myrmidons, Argos, Pylos... and the Mycenaeans.”

The last name she'd said with a note of surprise. You could understand why. After everything you'd half expected them to be the first to go.

Sleep took you again in shallow intervals during her tending to you, tugging you down only to release you minutes later. And each time you woke the tent ceiling was the same—blank, white, unmoving.

You'd count the lines and creases in attempt to anchor your drifting thoughts. But the mind is a stubborn thing. It wouldn’t stay still; rolling over memories you didn’t want, lingering on question you weren’t ready to ask:

What now?

But before your mind could fall too deep into that swirling unknown...

“You’re awake.”

You didn’t jerk upright. You couldn’t. But your eyes flicked toward the tent’s entrance, vision still a little foggy—the familiar forms enough to bring a twinge of warmth to your chest.

Diomedes and Nestor.

The two Kings' outlines were solid against the pale light like statues cut from dusk. Both wore smiles, restrained and touched with weariness.

Diomedes stood tall in his usual effortless way, his armor stripped away for more travel-worthy garments, the crest of Argos glinting faintly from the clasp at his shoulder. Beside him Nestor wore similar clothing—the older man emitting a kind of calm dignity carved from decades of battle and loss.

You tried your best to return one, though it was more a twist of your lips than anything else.

“Well,” you murmured hoarsely, “I’d get up and greet you properly but...” You shifted your hand weakly to gesture at the state of your body, wrapped and bound in linen and exhaustion, “...as you can see, I’m a little indisposed.”

That earned a huff of amusement from Diomedes, Nestor only shaking his head fondly.

Stepping fully inside, Diomedes knelt beside the bed without hesitation, knee touching the packed earth floor as Nestor remained standing, hands clasped behind him, the picture of elder statesmanship.

“My men and I are finished with preparations,” Nestor speaks up after a moment's silence. “The ships are waiting just past the bluff. We leave on the next tide.”

The King of Pylos gaze softened as he looked down at you. There was something fatherly in the way he did it.

“I don’t know if I’ve said this before,” he continued, “but if the Gods had seen fit to give me a daughter such as you...I’d be proud.”

His aged hand reached out and gave yours a gentle pat. “The Gods made you wild, yes. But they also made you strong. I wish you peace child—and the kind of future you’ve more than earned.”

You managed to hold his gaze, throat tightening with an emotion you didn’t quite want to name. A part of you weren’t ready for all of them to leave.

He gave you one more nod of farewell then stepped back with the slow grace of someone who knew this was goodbye. When he turned and walked away, he didn’t look back. The flap rustled behind him.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding before your gaze slowly drifted back toward Diomedes—only to find he hadn’t moved an inch.

He was still there, kneeling by your side, watching you with that strange expression of his.

You raised an eyebrow weakly. “Uh oh. What’s that look for? Did I do something again?”

A single breath of a laugh escaped him as he shook his head. “You always do this,” he said, almost more to himself than to you. “Always trying to joke your way out of the serious things.”

Your mouth twitched. “Is it working?”

“No,” he said simply. “Not this time.”

His tone shifted—something in it grounding, heavier. Not angry. Just full. Full of years and weight and truth.

“You’ve always been like this,” he began. “Since the beginning. Reckless. Stubborn. Rush forward when you should wait. Hell even spit in the faces of Kings and warriors alike.”

You opened your mouth to protest and say something sarcastic when he suddenly holds up a hand.

“But,” his voice was softer now, “it worked for you. Gods only know how...but you do. You’ve saved more lives than you’ve endangered. You’ve turned madness into strategy, and fury into fire none of us could match. I’ve fought beside heroes—Achilles. Odysseus. Ajax the Great.” He paused, searching your face. “But fighting alongside you has been one of the greatest honors of my life.”

Diomedes bows his head in true Argive fashion. “Thank you,” he said simply.

You could feel the sting in your eyes then. Blinking quickly, you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Careful Diomedes,” you said in a teasing lilt, “a man like you speaking like that while kneeling at my bedside? Sounds dangerously close to a confession. You keep going and I might not let you leave.”

That did it.

His eyes crinkled just slightly as he leaned closer, enough for you to catch the faint scent of leather and olive oil lingering on him.

“You know,” his voice was warm with flirtation and something else buried just beneath it, “the Kingdom of Argos has always been progressive. Two Queens wouldn’t be frowned upon if it ever came to that.”

You blinked.

He chuckled low, pleased by your reaction, a devilish twinkle in his eye, “And I have no doubt Aegialia would adore you upon meeting. Possibly more once she sees what kind of trouble you get into.”

And just like that the air shifted.

Heat bloomed somewhere in your chest, dangerous and dizzying, creeping upward, flushing under your skin and prickling behind your ears.

“Oh?” It’s all you manage to say. Unsure if you were asking yourself the question as much as him.

“Yeah...” Diomedes breathed. His eyes—those heavy-lidded, storm-colored eyes—dipped just enough to make the space between you feel impossibly small.

He leaned in closer still, close enough to see the tension along his jaw slacken, to catch the way his gaze drop to your lip—

“____!!”

The tent flap burst open with a high-pitched yelp of excitement and urgency, tearing the intimacy like a shattered amphora.

Diomedes jerked back just in time to avoid being tackled by the blur that hurled itself into the room.

Ajax the Less.

The boy's small frame was still marred by fading bruises and wrapped bandages, but whatever pain lingered in his muscles clearly hadn’t dulled his spirit. His eyes—wide and filled with panic, joy, and desperation all at once—locked onto you.

“____!!” the boy shrieked again, louder this time, voice cracking with emotion. “You’re awake! You’re okay—you’re really okay!!” He practically launched himself onto you, arms throwing themselves around you in a tight uncoordinated hug.

“I’m sorry I scolded you about the arrow that one time—I was only yelling because Briseis was watching and I wanted to sound brave and not dumb—I didn’t mean it really! Please don’t die okay? I’ll—I’ll bring you some honey bread or—or maybe I’ll stay here with you instead—”

Your lips parted, your eyes struggling to keep up with the sheer velocity of his speech before the shock melted into something warmer. Softer.

Ajax's face was buried just under your chin, nearly sobbing and babbling into your collarbone as flaring pain washes over your side. You winced, quickly tightening your jaw and schooling your features. You didn’t want him to see.

But someone else did.

Diomedes had already risen to his feet, gaze flicking from you to the boy’s fiercely clinging form. “Ajax.”

The boy didn’t move.

“Ajax.”

This time it was sharper.

Ajax blinked, eyes round and wet and far too big for his battered face.

“You can’t throw yourself on her like that,” The Son of Tydeus lightly reminds. “She’s hurt.”

The guilt hit Ajax like a chariot wheel.

“I—I didn’t mean to—!” he gasped, looking from Diomedes to you with panicked fluttering movements. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—I’m sorry! I wasn’t trying to hurt—I was just—!”

“Hey,” you broke through his rapid apologies. “Hey it's alright.”

Your hand—still a bit shaky but steady enough—came up to ruffle his hair. “I’ve survived worse. Just....maybe next time warn me before you tackle-hug.”

Ajax sniffles as he leans back into your hold. “I thought...I just—I don’t want you to be gone,” he mumbled, looking down.

You give him an affectionate smile. “I’m not gone kiddo. And I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it.”

Relief seemed to paint the young Prince's face as he nodded quickly, swallowing hard like he was trying not to cry again.

Behind Diomedes simply watched the entire exchange with a look you couldn't quite place—between fondness and awe. With careful hands, he reach down and scoop Ajax up from where he’d half-draped himself over your middle.

The boy squawked in surprise. “Hey! She said I was fine!”

“You were not fine,” Diomedes countered, adjusting Ajax like he weighed no more than a loaf of bread. “You nearly flattened a wounded soldier. You’re lucky she likes you.”

“I’m very likable,” Ajax defended, response muffled by Diomedes’ shoulder.

You couldn’t stop the chuckle that bubbled up even through the lingering ache. “You are,” you agreed.

He beamed at that.

“Although,” you suddenly add, “I did hear a little rumor going around....”

Ajax’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Rumor? What kind of rumor?”

“Oh nothing really,” you gave an exaggerated tsk as you fixed him with a mock-accusatory look. “Just that certain Prince of Locris has taken quite a brave and dare say romantic gesture. Something about taking the hand of the Priestess of Troy?”

The color drained from Ajax’s face then returned tenfold.

“WHAT?!” His eyes bulged as if you'd just told him the Gods themselves were eavesdropping. “W-who told you that?!” He sputtered.

“Not to mention poor Briseis,” you continued, resting your cheek against your pillow as if settling in for gossip, “what will she do now that her loyal little shadow has decided to run off and become the hero of another girl’s tale?”

The sound Ajax made was somewhere between a squeak and a gasp.

“I didn’t—It wasn’t— I said that to protect her!” He looked wildly between you and Diomedes. “That’s all! I swear—I didn’t want her to be hurt anymore! That’s all it was! A-and I wasn’t even thinking about Briseis—I mean I was, but only because she was watching and—”

You couldn't help the laughter that spilled.

“Relax, I was only teasing. I know what you did. You did what someone needed to do. That’s what counts.” A grin pulls at your lips, “Good job.”

That made Ajax stand a little taller, chest puffing out like a miniature soldier reporting for duty, pride glowing in his flushed face as if your praise had lit a torch inside him.

Diomedes simply watched the entire exchange with that same rare fondness in his eyes, quiet smile playing at his lips.

“____.” A voice suddenly calls from the tent entrance causing you, Ajax, and Diomedes to all turned at once.

Standing in the entryway was Neoptolemus. The sunlight behind him turned his silhouette golden, his green eyes catching the flicker of candlelight inside the tent.

He stepped forward, nodding once to Diomedes in respectful acknowledgment. The King of Argos gave you a final unreadable look and then dipped his head.

“Until next time,” he said before stepping past the young hero, slipping through the flaps and into the sunlight.

Neoptolemus took his place beside Ajax, one hand gently resting on the boy’s shoulder. “Have you prepared your supplies for the departure? The Myrmidons are nearly boarded.”

Ajax jerked back as if the thought had struck him with clarity. “Oh no—I forgot!”

Neoptolemus' brow lifted ever so slightly. “I hope that doesn’t include the dagger Captain Penelope had given you.”

“No no I have that—!” Ajax’s head whipped back and forth as if trying to locate invisible bags. “But—I left Antilochus’ wooden horse collection on Nestor’s ship! Do you think I can still get it?!”

The Prince of Scyros' gives a faux look of thought. “You might make it in time. If you run.”

That was all Ajax needed.

“NESTOOOOORRRRR!” he screamed, already twisting on his heel. “WAIT DON’T LEAVE YET!”

The tent flap didn’t stand a chance. He tore through it like a storm, his small figure barely a blur as he bolted into the afternoon light.

“I DIDN'T GET A CHANCE TO GET ANTILOCHUS' HORSE COLLECTION! I DIDN’T MEAN TO—WAIT, KING NESTORRRR!”

You listen as his little voice fade into the background with every step he takes.

Neoptolemus turned toward you again. “He’s getting faster.”

You let your head fall back with a groan. “And louder.”

That earned a chuckle from the blonde. He doesn't say anything at first—just watches you, like he's still trying to decide what to say next.

“You know," he finally breaks the silence, "you gave us all quite a scare with that jump...”

You grin, tossing your head in mock defiance. “Had to keep you all on your toes somehow.”

The corners of his mouth twitched before frowning; the weight of unspoken thoughts shadowing his youthful face. Then, without word, kneels down beside the bed—same as Diomedes had.

There’s a hesitation in him, the kind that only shows when someone is trying to translate feeling into words.

Before you can ask his hand reaches for yours. He takes it gently like it’s something sacred. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t cling. Simply held on like it anchored him.

“I’m really glad I got to meet you. You and Penelope—you’ve both done so much for this war. More than anyone will ever give you credit for.” His fingers brushed over your knuckles. “I’m honored,” he said. “To have followed your lead.”

There’s a sting behind your eyes from the sincerity of his words. You give a deep inhale, trying to force some levity into your tone.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” you said, light but watery. “What would Oenone think? Seeing you tearing up like that?”

Neoptolemus' head dipped slightly with a laugh, brushing at the corner of his eye with a thumb as he averts them.

Though the smile fades when he sees the abrupt change behind your expression.

“But seriously,” you tell him plainly. “I adore ya kid, really do. But just because you are the son of my lover and carry his legacy—you’re still you. Which means you’ve got your own debts to settle.”

His jaw shifted, wince flitting across his face before he nodded. “Yeah...the temple,” he said.

You raised a brow. “I’m not playing.”

“I know.” He looked down briefly. “I will. I swear it. I’ll make the offering when we stop in Locris to drop off Ajax.”

You smiled back. “Good answer.” Feeling the moment ebb you let his hand go. Just in time too, as the canvas of the tent rustled at the entrance.

“Am I interrupting something sappy?” That voice—dry, teasing, unmistakable—belonged to her.

Briseis stepped inside with a confident saunter only someone her age could pull off and still make graceful. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, her eyes full of unrepentant mischief as they bounced between you and Neoptolemus.

The Prince blinked and quickly scrambled to his feet, wiping any remaining evidence from his eyes and face with the back of his hand.

“You—uh...you weren’t supposed to see that.” he stammered.

Briseis smirked. “Relax. I’m not gonna tell anyone the great Neoptolemus cried a little. Well...not unless you cry again anyway.”

He looks down at her with a smile, accepting the tease with grace. “It was an honor to have met you.”

Briseis tilted her head, letting the sass drain just a little from her grin. “Likewise. Keep making a name for yourself—just as your father did.”

Neoptolemus gave a faint bow of his head. “And you better keep raising hell wherever you land. And keep training—who knows? Maybe next time we cross paths we’ll spar for real. I won’t go easy on you either.”

“Oh for sure,” Briseis shoots back, grin turning feral. “I’ve got the training of Achilles, Patroclus, Penelope, and her—” she nods toward you “—in my bones now. So I’m definitely gonna whoop your ass.”

Neoptolemus shakes his head as he gives a mock salute. “I’ll look forward to it.” With one last glance of unspoken gratitude to you, he slips from the tent and back into the sun.

That leaves only the two of you.

Briseis stands there for a moment, the tension in her frame melting away as she crosses the room and lowers herself onto the edge of your bed.

One of her hands reach up, gently brushing through the tangles in your hair. She smoothed a few strands back with the kind of care you used to give her.

“You probably already know,” she traces the ends of your hair with her thumb, “that I’m getting ready to leave. To go to Mycenae.”

You stiffen. She sees it on your face and quickly lifts a hand.

“And before you get mad and start rattling off at the mouth—just trust me. I know what I’m doing.” Her smile is shaky but brave. Like she was daring you to trust her even if it scared you to death. “I learned from the best after all.”

You want to protest. Gods know you do. But something in her voice stops you.

“I never would’ve made it without you,” she says, barely above a whisper now. “Everything I am, I owe to you. You made me believe I was more than just a spoil of war.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. Not yet.

“To keep fighting. Even when it was just me. Even when it was quiet. You made me fight for myself.”

Briseis leaned in and rested her forehead gently against yours. “I love you,” she whispered.

Your throat felt thick and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

That's when you realize...maybe it’s time to let her go. Not because she’s leaving you, but because she’s finally ready to stand on her own.

Footsteps. A pause. Then tent flap lifts without another second to waste.

Penelope.

Her expression shifted the moment her eyes landed on Briseis—a warm smile curving at her lips. The same kind of smile the Ithacan Queen reserved only for those who earned it.

Briseis rose to her feet with a smile of her own, brushing invisible dust from her skirt before turning to face her. She didn’t blink. She didn’t waver.

“I want to thank you as well...” Briseis began, voice steadier now as she addressed you both. She glanced between you and Penelope. “if neither of you came into my like...I might’ve crumbled. Stayed broken. But you made sure I didn't. Showed me that I had a say in who I became.”

Penelope stepped forward, placing a hand on Briseis’ shoulder. She pulls the teen into her arms for a brief but firm hug, her chin brushing lightly against Briseis’ crown.

“You made yourself into who you are,” Penelope whispered against her hair. “We just gave you the sword.”

Briseis’ jaw trembled just faintly. You saw it. Penelope saw it. No one said anything about it.

That’s what made it sacred.

But of course peace never lasted long in a camp of Kings.

“BRISEIS!”

The thundering sound of approaching footsteps hammered the earth, cutting through the stillness like a rusted spear. “Where in the Gods’ name is that woman?!” a thunderous voice bellowed from outside.

The volume alone sent a sigh through your nose. You felt your expression flatten before he even got close.

“BRI—” The voice cut off as the tent flap was yanked aside so hard the seams groaned. And there he was.

Agamemnon.

The King of Mycenae stood there with his eternal scowl already primed for fury. That is until he actually saw the room.

You.

Penelope.

Briseis.

The hard angles of his face blanked as if slapped by the mood he’d just stomped into; spine straightening immediately like a soldier being inspected. His eyes flicked from Penelope to you, avoiding your stare too obviously before finally landing on Briseis.

“I was just…” he clears his throat with a forced casualness that made you want to roll your eyes, “looking for you. The ships are ready to go.” His voice dipped slightly—softer now. “I-if you’re ready that is.”

You could see it: the stiffness in his neck, the too-eager smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like ropes pulled taut when he accidentally met your gaze again.

Briseis didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh?” She clasped her hands behind her back with mock innocence. “I don’t know. Are you begging Agamemnon?”

He blinked. Once. Then again.

“Hmmm...I guess,” she hums with playful sarcasm. “Since you’re so desperate for me to leave with you, I suppose I could start getting ready.”

A vein visibly pulsed in Agamemnon’s temple, nailed smile still plastered across his face.

“Hope I’m not interrupting~” A second head appeared in the tent opening.

Oenone.

The Freshwater nymph stepped inside, her bare feet silent against the ground, the scent of fresh rain trailing behind her.

Her presence was calm and graceful, hands already adjusting the satchel situated on her hip. A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth at the sight of her, Penelope giving her a nod of greeting.

Oenone returns it, brushing a strand of water-slick hair from her cheek. “I’ve left the balms, root mixes, and binding linen on the center table. Wound salves are in the back with the lotus tincture—be careful not to mix it with the poppy or she’ll be dreaming for days. Thetis will return every four weeks to check on the progress.”

Your brow lifted slowly. “You’re not going with Neoptolemus?”

Oenone turned her head toward you with an almost sly smile. “No. I’m not.”

Then she stepped forward and stood beside Briseis who was already grinning. “I’ll be in Mycenaean Kingdom for a while to keep an eye on things. I’ll reunite with him in Phthia after I'm done.” Her tone sharpened slightly as she sent a sidelong glance at the Mycenaean King.

Agamemnon stuttered. “W-what?!” he snapped too quickly. Then, realizing his misstep, he cleared his throat again and smoothed his voice with a diplomatic lilt. “That’s...quite a bit of extra travel. Seems unnecessary. There’s no need to—”

“It won’t take long,” Oenone interrupted sweetly, her smile now veering into something far more dangerous. “Perks of being able to travel by freshwater. The Achelous bends kindly when I ask.”

You could almost hear the sound of the High King grinding his molars together. He pursed his lips so tightly they turned a shade paler than the salt in his beard.

“How...wonderful,” he muttered, gritted smile.

He didn’t wait for a reply—didn’t dare invite another one.

With a stiff pivot, he stalked out of the tent, barking orders at the poor unfortunate souls who happened to be in his path, as if each syllable might help him reclaim a fraction of his pride.

It would not.

Still wearing that playful glint in her eye, Briseis steps to your bed, leaning down to give a kiss to your temple. “Take care of yourself alright?” she murmured as she pulled away.

Oenone followed with a bow toward you and Penelope, placing a cool hand on your forehead. “We’ll see each other soon,” she said gently. “Rest while you still can.”

With that, they both turned, slipping from the tent with one last backward glance, the flap falling shut behind them.

And then, at last, it was quiet.

Truly quiet.

Just you and Penelope now.

Honey brown eyes downcast, they fixed on a knot in the ties of her sandals as if searching for the right words on the ground.

Her hands fidgeted—thumb brushing across palm, fingers twisting the edge of the worn leather bracelet only to release it again.

The silence stretched, then buckled.

“The Ithacan soldiers,” Penelope began thinly and too casual. “they...they've decided to stay for a while. A year actually. Remain on the shores—close enough, you know, just in case. To give you time to heal.”

You could hear the tremor she tried to hide beneath that veneer of news-delivering. Her eyes still hadn’t met yours.

“They thought it was... it made sense. That if we left now it’d feel wrong. Like we were abandoning something. Like we were leaving you. But...”

Her voice caught. She shook her head as if trying to rid the mounting weight of emotion. You saw the moment when her composure cracked—her hand paused mid-gesture then dropped.

“And I k-keep thinking back to that moment. When I was holding the baby. When I—” Her voice broke. “I threw him. Gods help me, I—”

“Penelope.”

You said her name quietly. Just once. But it was enough.

She froze.

Her eyes were already misting when she finally looked at you, lashes clumped together with unshed tears. Raw, wide, filled with guilt.

You gave her a crooked smile. Not mocking. Not bitter. Just tired. And kind.

“It’s okay.”

You tilt your head back and stare up at the ceiling. The same ceiling you’d stared at through sickness and fever, dreams and waking.

“To be honest...I was a little mad at you when you did it. No—more than a little. I was furious. Hurt. Angry.” You didn’t look at her. Not yet. “But then I thought about what Agamemnon had said back in the council tent.”

You heard the sharp inhale beside you.

“He was wrong,” Penelope said immediately, voice rising despite the emotion straining her throat. “He’s an ass and he’s wrong—”

“No,” you cut her off again. “Not about everything.”

You turned slightly, just enough to see her from the corner of your eye.

“He said I wasn’t like the rest of you. That I didn’t understand Fate...Legacy. That I didn’t have the same weight on my shoulders.” You smiled faintly, eyes distant. “And he was right. I don’t. I never did.”

Your voice softened. Became almost a whisper.

“I wasn’t born into royalty. I didn’t grow up with prophecy whispering in my cradle. All I ever knew...was that I was taken from far lands to be the handmaiden of Lady Penelope of Sparta. And now, Queen of Ithaca. That is my world. ” You turned your head to fully meet her gaze, your smile spreading further, a glimmer of memory flickering there. “And that’s okay.”

Penelope didn’t move at first, her expression caught somewhere between breaking and rebuilding.

Then she stepped forward, moving slowly until she was kneeling at your side, just as Diomedes and Neoptolemus had done before her.

“I’m sorry,” the words nearly catch in your throat. “If what I did—jumping off that balcony, challenging the council—if it’s causing problems for the fleets, for the soldiers...I’m sorry.”

You looked at her, really looked, and your smile—worn, bruised, but unmistakably yours—broke wider. “But I meant what I said in the council tent. I meant it. And I won’t back down from that.”

Penelope’s hand found yours without hesitation. She took it firmly and squeezed as her other hand came up to cup your knuckles, enclosing your fingers like a vow.

“I wouldn’t want you to.”

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Polites made his way through the thinning Greek encampment, the Prince of Troy nestled in the crook of his arm. The infant babbled incoherently, waving one pudgy hand in the air while the other gripped the edge of Polites’ tunic with surprising strength.

Around them soldiers moved with practiced urgency. Packs were slung over shoulders, armor cinched one final time, sails unfurling in the wind.

Already many of the ships had become little more than dark smudges on the sea’s shimmering horizon—only a handful remaining, bobbing against the tide.

The only banners still standing were Ithaca’s and a few stragglers—Kingdoms lingering either out of duty or uncertainty.

Polites adjusted the child’s weight in his hold and picked up his pace when he spotted Eurylochus near the far edge of the docks speaking with King Diomedes.

The two men stood side-by-side observing the cluster of Argive soldiers ushering the last of their captives aboard—the broken remains of Troy’s once-proud court.

Eurylochus turned at the sound of approaching footsteps. His gaze flicked to Polites, then to the child in his arms, one thick brow arching with slow suspicion. “Polites? What are you doing here?”

Diomedes stepped forward before Polites could answer, peering down at the child with a quizzical smile. There was something unexpectedly gentle in the way his eyes softened.

“Well now,” the Argive King murmured. He reaches out, calloused fingers finding the baby’s cheek and pinching it lightly. “Aren’t you a little charmer? Gods above he’s adorable. Far too sweet for the world he’s been left in.”

Eurylochus grunted in response before glancing sideways at Polites. “Adorable or not, that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Polites hesitated. He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, looking down at the child nestled against his chest, then back at the men.

His mouth opened but no words came. He looked almost sheepish, unsure of how to phrase what he had come to d—

“Astyanax?” A strained voice called out, barely audible over the waves and the shouting men.

All three men turned at once.

Down the line of captives being marched toward Diomedes' ships, a woman had frozen mid-step. She stood defeated in the hold of the soldiers flanking her.

Lady Andromache.

Her eyes widened when she saw the child in Polites' arms. She pushed forward causing the chains bounded on her to clink, desperation overtaking her posture. “My son—please let me go—that’s my son!”

The guards at her sides tightened their grip, holding her back as she thrashed, her voice rising into panic.

Diomedes raised a hand. “Let her pass.”

The soldiers obeyed instantly and released.

Andromache stumbled from their grasp, nearly falling to her knees before catching herself with unsteady feet. Her steps slowed when she neared the trio, her shoulders curling inward.

Polites stepped forward with kind eyes as he gently extended the babe to her.

No words needed.

Andromache all but collapsed into the Prince.

She pulled him into her arms with a sound between a sob and a prayer, her hands trembling as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent like it might anchor her to this world.

The baby, oblivious to the weight of the moment, giggled. He reached up to pat her cheeks, cooing as if sensing her pain and wanting only to see her smile.

“I managed to speak with ____ just before she fell back asleep.” Polites finally spoke. “She asked that.... that he be given this chance. To say goodbye. Properly.”

Andromache looked up through her tear-lined lashes. She clutched Astyanax tighter, shaking her head with disbelief and reverence. “Thank you,” she rasped. “Thank you. Gods.... thank you.”

The men stood in silence, letting the mother and child occupy the space without intrusion, watching a scene unfold that none of them felt worthy to witness.

After a long moment Diomedes exhaled deep and grimly.

“There are few cruelties worse than this,” he muttered. “To tear a babe from his mother. It’s monstrous.” He looked to Polites and Eurylochus, his gaze hardening. “Surely... surely she could remain, at least until your voyage home?”

Both Ithacan men stiffened.

Eurylochus’ jaw clenched. Polites looked away, the guilt already written across his face.

“She can’t,” It was Eurylochus who answered. “It was one of the last conditions. For the Prince’s life....No prisoners of war are to travel with Ithaca. Not a single one.”

The quiet that followed was suffocating.

Diomedes’ face darkened. “Agamemnon.” He spat the name like venom. “He’ll twist the knife even in victory. Anything to make someone else miserable.”

“No,” Andromache spoke up softly. She didn’t look up, eyes still locked on her son. “Even if I could stay, it would not be right. My presence would only make it worse. Others would whisper, suspect. They’d fear what I might say to him in the dark.”

Her fingers brushed through his dark curls. “Better I am gone. Better he is free to grow without my shadow.”

No one argued. No one could.

She forced herself to stand, tears still clinging to her lashes as she placed one last kiss to the baby’s head. Pulling a small golden locket from around her neck, she presses it into Polites' hand.

“There’s a carving inside. One of me. One of Hector.” she said. “No matter where he goes...he’ll know we loved him.”

It was time.

The Widow of Prince Hector passed Astyanax back into Polites awaiting arms as the guards returned. This time she did not resist.

Looking back one last time, she memorized the lines of the infant boy's face as he began to squirm and fuss, his little arms reaching for her as she was led away.

His cries turned louder as the distance widened. But Andromache didn’t turn. She couldn’t.

She only walked.

Diomedes followed without another word, his hand resting briefly on the duo shoulders as he passed.

Eurylochus stepped to Polites' side as he held the screaming infant close, murmuring soft nothings in an effort to soothe him. But there was no calming this.

Together, the two men watched as the Argive ships pulled from the docks—white sails flapping like mournful wings in the wind—leaving the two Ithacans standing there on the shore, watching as a mother was taken from her child.

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k-nayee · 2 months ago

Text

⚔️ACT ONE⚔️

Warrior M.List

Previous | Next

°✩₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊⋆｡°✩₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊ Before the story begins. ⋆｡°✩₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊⋆｡°✩₊˚ ੈ✩

There are no songs for the forgotten.

✧༚༄༚˚⟡༚༄༚✧

No hymns stitched in golden thread for the ones who serve in silence. No legends for the those born in shadows, pressed under duty's thumb and men's hunger for power.

✦ ─── ༺༻ ─── ✦

But there should be.

There should be an entire epic sung for those taken in the night. For daughters unseen in their own halls, for bloodlines shattered by conquest and named novelty by men with too many rings.

This is their story too.

Before the war drums echoed through Troy... Before ships touched shorelines in the name of vengeance... Before Achilles carved his name into legend amongst Kings...

✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆༉

There were two girls. One born of marble and pressure, whose spine never broke even when many tried. The other torn from defiance and fire, a living remnant of what a Kingdom tried to erase.

Penelope. And you.

This is not a tale that begins in glory. It begins in silence. In the cold breath of a palace of father who never wanted her. In the muted still breath of a child barely alive.

✦⃝ ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ✧

This is not just a story of heroes and monsters. It is the memory of what came before. Of blood. Of breath. Of choice. Of defiance.

Of women who refused to be forgotten.

Before the crown. Before the suitors. Before the Gods dared look down and name her useful.

There was only silence. And the shape of it...carved into two girls.

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k-nayee · 4 months ago

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CHAPTER 26. A WARRIOR'S FAREWELL

❝The brave die never, though they sleep in dust: Their courage nerves a thousand living men❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅲ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The sun rose slowly over the horizon causing golden rays to spill across the land like a reluctant promise of a new day.

Though its warmth was comforting, it did little to soothe the chill that had settled into Penelope’s chest. The soft clip of horse hooves against the hardened dirt was the only sound as she approached the outskirts of the camp, her lips pressed into a firm line.

Three days since Achilles’ death...

Three days since a hole had been carved through the Greek forces.

The camp was quiet—unusually so. Soldiers moved with somber efficiency, their voices hushed, their faces shadowed by grief. The Ithacan Queen herself had been quiet too.

She gripped the reins tighter, her jaw set. Beside her rode Eurylochus—ever silent, ever stoic; his presence a reminder of their shared duty.

They had just returned from a diplomatic envoy to Troy where King Priam had promised a truce for mourning—a gesture Penelope knew to be as much about respect as it was necessity. But even with this progress she couldn’t shake the weight that clung to her.

Because in those three days, she hadn’t seen you.

Not since the battle.

The image of you that day haunted her. She had been stationed with the Ithacan troops in the back ranks, holding the rear as the battle raged ahead.

Word of Achilles' death spread like wildfire carried by panicked messengers and soldiers alike.

At first she hadn’t believed it.

Achilles was invulnerable, untouchable. The Prince of Pthia had been more than a man—he was an unstoppable and unrelenting force. To hear that Paris’ arrow, guided by Apollo, had struck his mortal heel seemed impossible.

But as the whispers spread and became louder and more frantic, the truth of it began to sink in.

Her thoughts had immediately gone to you.

Without hesitation she mounted the nearest horse, barking orders at Eurylochus and Polites to take temporary command as she rode toward the front lines.

Every gallop carried her closer to the carnage, and with it her dread deepened. When she arrived she saw nothing but bodies. The stench of iron and sweat filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t the sight of the corpses that stopped her breath.

It was you.

Your axe was gripped tightly in your bloodied hands, its edge dripping crimson as you slaughtered Trojans with an almost inhuman fury, each swing of your weapon a death sentence for anyone who dared cross your path.

The rage in your eyes was something Penelope had never seen; something so raw and primal that it sent a chill down her spine. You were a storm—a relentless force of destruction that seemed unstoppable.

And the Trojans? They ran.

Despite their numbers they fled back toward the safety of their city walls out of sheer terror. And even when they reached the gates you didn’t stop.

Penelope had watched stunned as you struck the gates with the butt of your axe. The sound reverberated across the battlefield, a deep booming echo that sent shudders through the Greek and Trojan ranks alike.

“Paris! Murderer of Achilles!” Your voice rung out as you called for the Trojan Prince. “FACE ME!”

When no answer came you struck the gates again, the wood shaking beneath your rage.

From the towers above the Trojans watched with their bows and spears ready. Penelope had expected them to fire—to strike you down as you outside their walls. But then she saw it and understood why they didn’t.

Above you hovered the faint but unmistakable sigil of Ares. The glowing mark of the war God pulsed faintly in the air.

Too afraid of what divine retribution might come if they harmed you, the Trojans dared not to fire. Instead they waited from the safety of their walls for you to tire out. But you didn’t.

Not until the sun had set.

Penelope had called your name then despite the lump in her throat. Your eyes didn’t seem to focus on her. They were distant, far away as though you weren’t entirely there.

You said nothing.

You simply walked past her and others who had gathered, your steps slow and heavy as your axe hung limply in your hand, its blade dragging along the ground.

She remembered the moment they realized where you were going—back to where Achilles’ body lay. His golden armor seemed dull now, his lifeless form surrounded by the remnants of the battle he had fought so fiercely.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she watched you kneel beside him, your forehead brushing against his silent and still. She could feel the grief radiating from you in a suffocating cloud that seemed to settle over the entire field.

And then you rose.

Without a word you began walking back toward the camp. When you reached Achilles’ tent you entered without a glance back. You hadn’t emerged since.

Penelope exhaled deeply, the memory fading as she returned to the present. She dismounted Pedasus and ran a hand along his mane. The animal shivered beneath her touch, releasing a soft snort of satisfaction.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing.

“Captain!”

Turning at the call she spots Polites and Briseis approaching. Their faces a mix of exhaustion and focus from the weight of the past days; Polites’ spectacles reflecting the soft morning light while Briseis has a frown of quiet determination.

Polites was the first to speak. “The funeral preparations are nearly complete. Treasures, armor, and offerings have been prepared.”

Penelope nods. “Good. Priam sends his condolences and has promised a truce. The Trojans recognize Achilles’ greatness even in death. Let us honor that promise.”

Briseis, her expression softer, stepped forward. “Lady Thetis and her sisters finished their mourning song,” she adds, her voice faltering slightly. “Now they’ve begun preparing him for the pyre.”

Eurylochus dismounts from his horse in time to hear the news causing a snort to leave him. “Took them long enough,” he mutters dryly. “Day and night they kept singing. You’d think they were preparing a God for burial, not a man.”

Briseis heads snap toward him. A sharp glare decorated the teen's face, her lips pressed together in clear irritation as she let her gaze drag up and down his figure with deliberate judgment.

Eurylochus merely raised an unimpressed brow at her, unbothered.

“Anyways” Briseis huffs, her tone clipped as she turns back to Penelope causing her face to soften, “she still hasn’t moved from his tent. Says she doesn’t want to be there when they light the fire.”

At that Penelope releases a knowing but weary sigh.

Of course.

Of course you would refuse.

She had seen it after Patroclus' death—the way Achilles had locked himself away, shutting out the world. Now history repeated itself. Only this time it was you drowning in grief behind those tent flaps.

It was so cruel; the way Fate forced you to love men doomed to die.

Penelope shakes off the thought and straightens her shoulders. “I’ll go talk to her,” she announced firmly.

Polites and Briseis’ relief was evident while Eurylochus merely shrugged.

With that, the four dispersed, each returning to their duties. Penelope turned toward Achilles’ tent as the murmurs and movement of the Greek camp surrounded her.

The air was thick with smoke and salt as the scent of burning offerings filled her lungs.

Soldiers moved about with jaded purpose; some gathering wood for the pyre burning, others ensuring the funeral rites were upheld. Some men drank in silence as they stare off at sea, while others whispered amongst themselves hushed with mourning.

Diomedes and Menelaus could be seen standing off in the distance deep in discussion, no doubt already shifting their focus to the war that remained. Even in grief the fight did not stop.

As she neared Penelope paused. The tent stood silent, its entrance closed. Brushing her hands down her tunic as a way to gather her resolve, she takes a steadying breath.

Just as she gathered her composure the flap of the tent opened revealing Thetis flanked by three sea nymphs. The immortal women moved with an ethereal grace, their presence like the softest touch of ocean waves against the shore.

Penelope's lips part in muted acknowledgment as Thetis approached.

“Queen of Ithaca,” she greets warmly, though there was a weight behind her voice. She gesture delicately to the three women beside her. “These are my sisters of the sea—Naiads who have sung for my son.”

Penelope’s eyes flickered over each of them. Each nymph carried small bowls or jars of oil, their hands folded reverently as they all dipped their heads slightly in unison.

Penelope, in return, offered a respectful nod.

Thetis studied her for a moment before exhaling softly. “We came to prepare him,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the tent with a wistful look. Her voice grew softer, almost fragile. “But...there was little left to do.”

Penelope furrowed her brow slightly, unsure of what she meant. Thetis simply gave her a faint smile, the corners of her lips trembling.

“She had already done everything,” The mother of Achilles said thick with emotion. “He was washed, anointed with oil, and wrapped in the finest linen.” She paused as though the words themselves hurt to speak. “Every brush, every touch....”

Thetis’ divine composure faltered. Her sea-green eyes glistened, her lips trembled into something bittersweet. “She takes care of him so well. Even now.”

Then, with a small breath, Thetis blinked away her grief. Her expression melted into something unreadable as she cleared her throat softly. “There is still much to do. Preparations to complete.”

Without another word she began walking away, the three nymphs trailing after her like ripples following a stone cast into water. Their movements poised yet heavy with sorrow.

Penelope watched them go before turning back to the tent. Steeling herself once more, she enters.

It was dim inside.

A handful of candles were scattered around, their glow weak against the darkness. The heavy scent of oils—myrrh, frankincense, and lavender—clung to the air, mingling with the lingering salt of the sea.

After a few blinks Penelope’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Everything was immaculate—almost unnervingly so. The tent had been cleaned with meticulous care; the furs neatly arranged, weapons sharpened, armor polished and set aside.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Achilles.

His body was wrapped in pristine white linen as he rested atop of the freshly made bed. Wrapped from the neck down, his face the only thing left uncovered, his features peaceful as though he were merely resting.

It is clear to see he had been tended to with devotion—swathed in finery fit for a King. Yet it was the sight beside him that made Penelope’s throat tighten.

You sat at the head of the bed quiet. With a small ivory comb in hand, you gently ran it through Achilles’ golden locks, smoothing each strand with a precision so careful and tender it nearly broke her.

“Everything is nearly ready.” Penelope finally spoke, her voice quiet but steady.

You didn’t react.

“When the sun reaches its highest point in the sky,” she continued, stepping closer, “the pyre will be lit.”

Your fingers faltered for a split second—barely noticeable. Then you resumed, brushing carefully as if you hadn’t heard her. A weak hum left your lips. Acknowledgment, but nothing more.

Penelope exhaled through her nose. She had expected this.

She took a step forward. “You should be there when it happens.”

You didn’t answer.

“A grand celebration in his honor,” she pressed gently. “He wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

Still nothing.

Penelope studied you, her eyes never straying. “He would want you there standing beside him one last time.”

That made you pause. Your fingers stilled completely.

She saw the way your shoulders tensed, the slight tremble in your hands, the tightening of your jaw as you stared down at him. She saw the war happening inside of you—the way your grief clashed and threatened to consume you entirely.

“He’s gone,” you whispered barely above a breath. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Penelope moved to stand at the foot of the bed, her gaze soft but firm. “It does,” she counters. “You of all people know it does.”

You still didn’t look at her. Instead you chose to focus on Achilles’ hair, almost as though you were trying to imprint every strand and texture into your memory.

“He fought for his name to be remembered. For the world to know who he was. Don’t let the last thing he sees of you be your absence in his farewell.”

A shuddered breath left you.

You didn’t answer.

But for now, Penelope didn’t need you to.

“I’ll see you there,” she says softly.

With that, she slips out of the tent, leaving you alone once more in the flickering candlelight.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The Greek encampment stood still as thousands gathered. The sky above was bright and clear, the sun dipping lower as the funeral of Achilles was carried out in full.

They had just finished their recitations; laments sung in mourning, praise spoken of his heroism, and voices raised to celebrate the life of a warrior who had been more than mortal.

Flames licked hungrily at the wooden structure devouring the gold-stitched linens, weapons, and offerings of wine and oil. Around him sacrificed animals laid in careful arrangement, the Myrmidons shedding their locks to throw to the flames—all gifts meant to honor the greatest warrior Greece had ever known.

The fire roared with life, orange and red embers dancing, reflecting in the eyes of every warrior gathered. The heat rippled through the air and yet no one moved—not yet.

At the forefront of the assembly stood Agamemnon clad in ceremonial armor. Customary for the leader of the Greeks to speak at the final send-off, his posture was stiff with the weight of his position.

"Achilles: Son of Peleus, terror of Troy." he began, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. "No man—no God—has fought as he has fought. No warrior has led as he has led."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered, solemn nods exchanged among the ranks.

"The Fates have called him home and so we must give him the send-off he deserves," he announced. "Let us not drown in grief. Let the Myrmidons, the Kings, the warriors of Greece compete in his honor!"

Words practiced and authoritative, the King of Mycenae continues. "To ensure that his name is...never...."

Agamemnon's words trail off as his gaze drifted beyond the gathered soldiers, his expression faltering as though he had forgotten what he was meant to say next.

Standing among the generals in the front, Penelope furrowed her brows and turned her head to follow his gaze as others did the same, murmurs stirring at the disruption.

A hush fell over the assembly as warriors stepped aside, making way for the lone figure who walked toward the burning pyre.

It was you. A ghostly vision of elegance and quiet devastation.

The firelight shone against the white of your long dress, its flowing fabric shifting with each step. The same dress Achilles had once teased you about all those years ago still clung to you like a second skin—ethereal and pure against the backdrop of death and flame.

Your face was passive, not cold, but distant. Upon your head rested a crown of violet-blue petals that contrasted against the cascade of your unbound hair. They were hyacinths—the flower of grief...of remembrance.

But it was not the dress, nor the flowers, nor even the solemnity in your features that left them breathless.

It was what you carried nestled against your chest. A silver urn.

Patroclus’ ashes.

You approached the burning pyre, your footsteps muffled against the sand. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to still in your presence.

Agamemnon's expression twisted as he stepped forward. His mouth parted to protest, but before he could a firm hand clamped down on his arm.

Menelaus.

The Spartan King shook his head once. "Let her," he murmured low enough for only Agamemnon to hear. "This is not our place."

Agamemnon’s lips pressed into a line to make his distaste evident. But ultimately he relented, exhaling sharply he steps back.

You came to stand at the very edge of the pyre. The heat rolled over you—hot enough that others had instinctively taken a step back.

Your gaze found Thetis where she stood at the edge of the gathering with an unreadable expression. Even surrounded by her sea nymphs, she looked utterly alone, watching the flames consume her son.

Lifting a hand to your chest, you bowed your head in homage and respect.

“Lady Thetis,” you spoke gently. “Your son was the greatest warrior to walk these lands. His name will not be forgotten. His victories, his strength, his honor—it will live on in the stories told, in the warriors who still fight in his name.”

A pause.

Your grip on the urn tightened. “This...is not a day for mourning. Not for Achilles.”

The silence was absolute.

“He would not want us to weep for him. He would not want sorrow, or silence, or...grief.” you continued, lifting your chin, voice gaining in strength. “Not in weeping. Not in silence. He would want us to honor him.”

Turning your attention back to the pyre, your fingers curled around the lid. Without hesitation you twisted it open.

Fine white ash caught in the wind as you tipped the urn forward, scattering Patroclus’ remains into the inferno over Achilles. Patroclus and Achilles have rejoined; returning to another as they had been in life.

The moment stretched; heavy...sacred.

Then, with a deep inhale, you turned fully to face the Greeks. “He was a warrior,” you declared unwaveringly. “And warriors deserve a warrior’s farewell.”

Raising an arm, your fingers curl into a fist before opening your palm toward the sky.

“On with the games!”

A beat of silence.

Then—

A roar.

The ground trembled beneath the force of the soldiers’ cheers; thousands of voices rising in unison, a declaration, an acceptance of the tribute. Shields clashed, fists pounded against chests, weapons lifted into the air.

The energy had shifted. Mourning turned into something else.

You let the sound wash over you, let it fill the hollow ache in your chest. As the crowd surged with new energy your eyes sought out a familiar figure.

Penelope stood amidst the Greek fighters. Her dark curls shifted in the breeze, her expression quiet and warm as she met your gaze with a smile touching her lips.

You give her a single nod.

She returns it.

And with that, the funeral games began.

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k-nayee · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 18. A MORTAL'S LAMENT

A/n: eek! last installment for Arc Ⅱ! y'all know the roll - won't upload again for a lil bit to finish up on the next Arc. love love LOVE the comments and views i've been getting, great to see my fellow EPIC fans out here. pls don't be shy to share your thoughts and see ya soon!🥰

❝And perhaps it is the greater grief after all—to be left on earth when another is gone❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅱ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The days stretched on like an eternity, each dawn bringing fresh reports of Trojan advancements.

Two weeks had passed since Chryseis had been returned to her father. Two weeks since Briseis had been dragged to Agamemnon’s side.

In that time, the camp had become a pot of tension and whispered discontent.

Penelope and Diomedes had been unyielding in their punishment. One month without stepping onto the battlefield. No skirmishes, no glory, no purpose.

You understood their reasoning—to some extent—but that didn’t make the restriction any less grating.

Despite your confinement, Briseis managed to find her way to you during the late nights or early mornings. Her visits were a small solace in an otherwise maddening existence.

Though she bore the weight of her circumstances with grace, her spirit remained unbroken.

True to his word Agamemnon hadn’t laid a hand on her. But his barbs—cutting, vile insults—were frequent.

Briseis’ defiance was a quiet triumph; she only needed to mention your name and Agamemnon’s sneering would falter, his words dissolving into tense silence.

You’d always smirk when she recounted those moments.

The camp was not so fortunate. Achilles had withdrawn entirely, his fury at Agamemnon’s actions burning too brightly to be quenched by reason.

For two weeks the Prince of Myrmidons had refused to fight, and the ripple effects of his absence had grown catastrophic.

Captains and commanders were in near-constant uproar. Without Achilles’s presence Hector’s strength seemed unstoppable, his brilliance on the battlefield becoming a legend in real-time.

Whispers of doom hung heavy in the air. Hector’s forces, bolstered by divine favor, had pushed the Greeks back toward their ships and close to burning them.

The Trojan raids had nearly decimated the fleet—Ajax, Diomedes, and Penelope barely managing to stave off complete disaster even together.

It seemed the Gods themselves seemed to mock the Greeks, their loyalties clear in the endless string of setbacks. Morale plummeted further with every fresh loss.

It was Patroclus who approached you that morning, his face shadowed with worry and exhaustion. You had been leaning against the edge of your tent, absently watching the camp stir to life when he arrived.

“You’ve heard?” he asked, his tone weighed down by the obvious.

You nodded. “Hector’s driving us into the sea. If this keeps up we’ll be retreating home with our tails between our legs.”

Patroclus winced at the harsh truth. “Achilles won’t budge. I’ve tried everything. Nestor has tried. Even Briseis has pleaded with him in her own way.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve managed to get his blessing to lead the Myrmidons into battle, but only under strict conditions. He’s made me swear to stop at the ships and go no further. I’ll wear his armor to intimidate the Trojans, but…”

“But you know it’s not enough,” you finish for him, your eyes narrowing. “Hector won’t stop at the ships.”

The Myrmidons Second-in Command's gaze met yours, his desperation laid bare. “We need Achilles. Not just for his strength, but for what he inspires in the men. They’re losing hope.”

A long silence stretched between you as the weight of his words settled.

Finally Patroclus exhaled, his voice dropping as though sharing a secret. “If I push further...if I fight Hector maybe—”

“Don’t.” Your sharp tone cut him off mid-thought. Your expression softened slightly, but your words remained firm. “Don’t go further than what you’ve been allowed. Achilles gave you his blessing for a reason, and you’d do well to heed his warning—even if you think it might do some good.”

He blinked at you before a crooked smile pulled at his lips. With a playful roll of his eyes he muttered, “That’s exactly what he said.”

Despite the lightness of his words the shadow in his expression betrayed his stubbornness. You wanted to press further—to shake sense into him.

But you knew his resolve was set.

“Fine,” you relent, your tone losing its edge. “If you’re going to be reckless, at least be safe. And…” You paused, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. “I guess I can go and try to speak with Achilles myself.”

Patroclus’ smirk softened into something more genuine, the gratitude in his eyes unspoken but obvious. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you replied with a wry smile. “I’m about to do the impossible.”

As he walked away, you lingered for a moment, staring at the distant horizon where the Trojan banners loomed like a taunt. Gathering your resolve, you made your way toward Achilles’ tent.

The structure loomed ahead, its entrance flanked by his closest guards.

Silent as you passed, their stoic faces betraying no emotion, simply stepping aside to let you in without question. The air inside the tent was thick with shadows, the flickering candlelight barely illuminating the interior.

Achilles lay cocooned in his blankets. His head just peeking out as he stared blankly at the tent wall.

The weight of his stillness filled the space. He didn’t so much as flinch when you stepped inside, letting the flap fall closed behind you.

"Is this what the mighty Prince of Myrmidons has been reduced to?" your tone was laced with teasing mockery as you stepped closer. "Hiding in his blankets like a sulking child?"

No response. Not even a twitch.

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes as you studied him. “Really? Not even a grunt? Gods, you must be worse off than I thought.”

Still nothing.

Sighing you move toward the bed and sit down at the edge near his head. His form shifted slightly under the weight of your presence, but he remained curled up, his face turned away.

Without thinking you slid a hand under his head, gently lifting to rest him upon your thighs. Achilles let out a soft exhale but didn’t resist, his eyes flickering shut as though the simple act of touch brought him solace.

Your fingers found their way to his hair, tangling in the golden strands as you began to lightly comb through them. The soft texture glided between your fingers and the tension in his body visibly ebbed.

The only sound heard was the quiet rustling of fabric as the Myrmidon leader sank further into the comfort of your lap. His breathing steadied, his features relaxed.

A fleeting smile tugged at the corner of your lips at the sight—this massive, fearsome warrior reduced to something so...human.

After a few minutes you broke the silence. “Is it Briseis?” you asked softly.

His face tightened almost imperceptibly, the faintest pout forming on his lips. The action was so juvenile you almost laughed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you hum dryly. “She’ll be fine you know. Agamemnon wouldn’t dare lay a finger on her after what I did.”

That earned a reaction. His lips twitched and one eye cracked open to give you a pointed look. “I heard,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Nearly took the bastard’s head off.”

You smirked. “Nearly? I call that self-restraint.”

Achilles chuckled softly, but the sound was short-lived. He shifted slightly, the mirth fading as quickly as it had come. “It’s not just that,” he admitted. “It’s everything. This war, these people...I’m tired of it all.”

His voice was raw, tinged with something that sounded dangerously close to defeat. Your fingers paused in his hair.

“So that’s it?” your tone was sharp enough to cut. “You’re just going to let Hector run rampant—let Agamemnon destroy everything...because you’re tired?”

Achilles frowned but didn’t answer. Instead, he reached up and grabbed your hand, pulling it down to rest against his hair once again.

“The war will go on with or without me,” he said quietly. “Let Agamemnon handle it. Maybe he’ll finally get the death he deserves.”

You stared at him, your frustration mounting. “And what about the rest of us? Do we deserve to be trampled because you’ve decided to throw a tantrum?”

His eyes snapped open at that—green and piercing. The two of you lock gazes, the air between you charged with unspoken tension.

Then without warning Achilles smirked. “You’re feisty when you’re angry,” his voice dipped into a teasing drawl. “You know you could always stay here. Sleep in my bed. That’d make me feel a lot better.”

Your jaw dropped, the sheer audacity of the man leaving you speechless. “Are you serious?!” you demanded before pulling your hand back as you moved to stand.

But Achilles was faster.

With surprising swiftness, he wrapped an arm around your waist and dragged you back onto the bed with him, his sheer strength making escape impossible.

“Achilles!” you hissed as you struggled against his hold. “Let me go!”

He grinned up at you unbothered by your squirming. “Nope. You’re too comfy. Stay.”

The two of you wrestled, twisting and turning as you tried to break free, your indignant huffs mingling with his laughter.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The voice froze you both in place. Your head snapped up to see Patroclus standing at the entrance of the tent, his expression caught somewhere between shock and amusement.

“I...what?” you stammered, your face heating as you realized the position you were in.

Patroclus’ wide eyes quickly narrowed into a grin, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. “Well if I’d known being sad got you into our bed, I’d have tried it sooner.”

Your face burned hotter and you immediately started to stammer a response, but Achilles (ever the opportunist), took the chance to roll onto his back, taking you with him.

You let out a startled yelp as his arms pinned you against his bare chest. The heat of him makes your face burn in realization.

“Achilles!” you shriek. “Are you naked under there?!”

“Possibly,” he grins up at you, his tone far too smug. “Why? Does it bother you? Nothing you haven’t seen I bet.”

You took a deep breath as you glared down at him while trying to muster whatever dignity you had left. “You are impossible,” you snapped.

He smirked up at you, golden hair splayed out like a halo on the pillow beneath him. “Admit it—you love it.”

“Shut up!” you snapped, your hands smacking against his chest as your embarrassment reached new heights.

Patroclus, meanwhile, could only stand there and watch with a fond smile. He walks over to the bed, his russet skin glowing faintly in the dim candlelight as he leans down.

Without warning he presses a kiss to Achilles’ lips. The sight made your breath hitch.

When he pulls away Achilles’ cheeks were dusted pink and his eyes dazed.

Using your distraction, Patroclus turns to you before reaching out to gently cradle your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His vivid blue eyes held yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race.

“I have to go,” he said softly. “Try not to cause too much trouble while I’m gone.”

You blinked, flustered and overwhelmed. Opening your mouth to respond, the words caught in your throat as he leaned in.

For a second you thought he might kiss you. But just as his lips were about to brush yours, he shifted, pressing a kiss to your forehead instead.

Your mind went blank.

By the time you managed to recover Patroclus had already stepped away making you realize he was wearing Achilles' armor. The bronze gold metal gleamed faintly in the dim light.

“Keep the bed warm for me!” he called over his shoulder, his voice laced with teasing as he made his way out the tent.

You let out a strangled sound, grabbing the nearest pillow and hurling it after him. Sadly for you the soldier dodged it with a laugh of his own.

Achilles laughed, his hands still resting on your hips as you sat atop him. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and playful. “He’ll be back before you know it.”

The tent goes silent except for the distant sounds of the camp preparing to battle—horses whinnying, men shouting, weapons clanging.

“So,” Achilles breaks the quiet with a purr, his voice laced with amusement. “What do you want to do while we wait for Patroclus to come back? We’ve already got one position down. Maybe just lose a few layers of clothes and—”

“As if!” you snapped, glaring down at him. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in bed with—”

“Where is ____?”

The voice from outside the tent was firm and insistent. Your head snapped toward the sound just as Patroclus’ cheerful and mischievous tone followed.

“Oh she’s in Achilles’ tent!”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, you didn’t even have time to process the words before the tent flap was yanked open.

Eurylochus and Diomedes stood in the doorway, their gazes flicking from Achilles—grinning smugly beneath you—to your utterly mortified expression.

Their eyes traveled to the scene: you straddling Achilles, your hands braced on his bare chest, his hands still casually resting on your hips as covers are wrapped around both your waists.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Eurylochus blinked, his lips parting as though to speak but no words came out.

Achilles, however, was positively beaming. “Ah gentlemen!” he said, his voice filled with mock innocence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tried to scramble off him, but his arms tightened around your waist, holding you firmly in place. His grin widened as you shot him a furious glare.

“T-this isn’t what it looks like!” you sputtered, your voice higher than you would have liked.

Diomedes raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks exactly what it looks like.”

You opened your mouth, searching desperately for some way to salvage the situation but Achilles beat you to it. “There’s no need for explanations,” he says breezily as he rest his head back against the pillow. “We were just…getting comfortable.”

Your hands curled into fists, your face burning hotter than the noonday sun. “Achilles,” you growled through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

The blond warrior only chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Why? I think they’re enjoying the show.”

Eurylochus cleared his throat, his expression torn between exasperation and disbelief. “If you’re quite done…Captain Penelope requests your help on something.”

Right as Achilles reluctantly releases his hold you scrambled off him, tugging at your tunic in a vain attempt to smooth it. You send him one last glare as Diomedes gave a pointed cough to draw your attention.

“I suggest you make yourself presentable,” he said dryly.

Eurylochus nods, his lips twitching as though he were holding back a laugh. “And maybe next time, choose a less...hectic time for your comfort.”

Face buried in your hands, you groan loudly as Achilles’ laughter rang out behind you.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The low-hung sun in the sky casted long fragmented shadows across the camp.

Each step you took felt heavier than the last, though you refused to slow. The pounding of your racing heart was so loud it drowned out the sounds of the bustling camp.

Soldiers blurred past as you weaved through the narrow paths, their faces indistinct against the swirl of panic clouding your mind. 'Let this be nothing.'

The words repeated like a mantra, your panic rising with every step closer to the Myrmidon section of the camp as your injury throbbed with every movement.

It didn’t matter. You couldn’t stop.

Not when the urgent summons had come so unexpectedly.

The weight in the air shifted as you entered their domain. The usually proud and fearsome soldiers were subdued, their postures heavy with exhaustion and something darker—mourning.

Some tended to wounds in silence, their faces pale and grim, while others sat hunched over their weapons, hands shaking as they cleaned blood from the blades.

The sight only twisted the knot in your chest tighter.

When Achilles’ tent came into view you didn’t hesitate, your legs pushing faster despite the ache. The lack of guards at the entrance barely registered in your mind as you reached to throw open the flap.

Just as you did out stepped Eurylochus and Nestor. You froze mid-step, your gaze locking onto their faces.

Eurylochus’ expression was a blank mask, his lips pressed into a thin line. Nestor wasn’t much better; his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight.

“Eurylochus? Nestor?” you called in concern. “Were you summoned too?”

The two men froze for a moment, exchanging a quick glance before turning to you.

Eurylochus could only shake his head wordlessly and move past you in a brisk pace. Nestor lingered just long enough to place a gentle, almost apologetic hand on your shoulder before following after him.

Confusion bubbled in your chest as you turned to watch their retreating figures. “Wait—” you called again, but your words died on your lips as the tent flap shifted once more.

Penelope, Diomedes, and Polites emerged this time; their faces caught somewhere between surprise and discomfort at the sight of you.

“____” Polites was the first to break the tense silence. “What are you doing here?”

You raised a brow at his reaction. “I was summoned by a runner. Why else would I be here?”

A low curse escaped Diomedes as his jaw tightened. You caught a fragment of his words as he leaned toward Penelope, “I told them not to send for her.”

“What?” you asked, your tone sharp. “What does that mean? Why wouldn’t—”

“____!”

Before you could question him the broken cry of your name reached your ears.

You barely had time to turn before Briseis burst through the tent flap with tears streaming down her red face. She flung herself into your arms, her body trembling as she clutched at you like a lifeline.

“Y-You’re here,” she sobbed, “Oh Gods you’re here.”

Confusion took hold as you wrapped an arm around to steady her. “Briseis!” you exclaimed, holding her tightly as she buried her face in your shoulder. “Are you okay?! What happened?”

She could barely get a word out, her tears choking her voice into incomprehensible blubbering.

“Briseis,” you try again, quieter now, but the girl only shook her head against you, unable to form the words.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, your own panic began to build as you glanced around for answers—but the camp surrounding Achilles’ tent offered none.

There were few soldiers nearby, and those who were avoided looking in its direction like it was the plague.

“Polites?” your voice break the silence as you looked over Briseis’ shaking form. “What is this? What is going on?”

Polites hesitated as if searching for the right words. “Maybe it’s...not the right time for you to go inside.”

“And why not?” you shot back. Gently coaxing Briseis into Penelope’s waiting arms, the older woman cradled the girl with soothing words as she buried herself into the Queen's embrace.

With Briseis momentarily settled you turned back to the tent. But before you could open the flap of the entrance completely, Diomedes moved swiftly, his hand closing over yours.

His grip was firm but not forceful, his face etched with something that looked like regret. “Don’t,” he said softly. “This isn’t something you should see.”

Even Penelope, who usually had no qualms about speaking her mind, remained silent with pursed lips. Though the look in her eyes echoed Diomedes’ and Polites' sentiment.

Frustration flared in your chest.

“I have every right to know what’s going on,” you snapped, pulling your hand free. “For the last time I was summoned here, so it must be important. Now I'm not leaving until someone tells me what in the Hades is—”

“Let her.”

Low, dull, and hollow; a voice slices through the tense air silencing everyone in an instant.

Your breath hitched as you turned toward the sound. You knew that voice.

Ignoring the others you pulled the flap open, your gaze sweeping the dim interior. Shadows danced in the flickering candlelight, and at first, the space seemed empty.

But then you saw him—slumped in the corner half-hidden in the darkness. Achilles sat motionless, his head resting back against the tent's post.

The faint glow of candlelight illuminated his face; his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as they stared blankly at the far wall. Faint streaks of dried tears glistened on his flushed cheeks.

Even his golden hair hung disheveled over his forehead, his hands resting limply in his lap as though drained of all strength.

“Achilles,” you breathed, your worry spiking as you took a step inside. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He didn’t respond at first, his shoulders rising and falling with a shallow breath. Then, barely above a whisper, he said two words that sent a chill down your spine.

“My fault.”

Your chest tightened. “What?” your voice faltered. “Achilles...what do you mean?”

His lips moved soundlessly as he muttered under his breath. You stepped closer, straining to hear the words that spilled from him like a broken mantra.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have let him...should’ve stopped him…”

As you stepped further inside, the others retreated, leaving you alone with Achilles.

A soft brush against your hand made you pause. Turning, you saw Penelope lingering just beyond the tent flap, her hand rested lightly on yours.

She didn’t say a word but the gesture spoke volumes. Giving you a nod, she gently guides Briseis to join Diomedes and Polites as they moved out of sight.

Now alone with the Prince of Phthia, you shift your attention back to him, taking slow deliberate steps as you ignore the way your heart hammers against your ribs.

“Achilles,” you call softly.

He didn’t respond.

“Achilles,” you try again, firmer now. “Wha—”

You froze mid-step as your eyes caught a glimpse of something beside the bed. It was barely visible beneath the folds of a blanket.

Your breath stuttered as your gaze traveled downward, the details sharpening with each agonizing second.

A still figure lay on the floor shrouded in simple white garb. Two silver coins rested over closed eyes, their cold gleam catching the dim candlelight.

The sight made your stomach churn violently.

Eyes that had always looked at you with warmth and fondness were now hidden—lifeless and unmoving. Skin, once rich with a warm sun-kissed glow, had faded to a pale ashen hue, the life drained from it.

“Achilles,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “No…”

He didn’t look at you, his gaze still fixed on the wall as his muttered words repeated like a broken chant. “Shouldn’t have let him go…it’s my fault…my fault…”

You couldn’t tear your eyes away as you took a shaky step forward, the tears welling up and spilling over no matter how hard you tried to stop them.

Knees buckling, you sank to the floor, your hands reaching as you hesitate just inches away.

You wanted to touch, to confirm that this wasn’t real, that the cold skin would somehow spark back to the warmth you remembered. But the sight of the hands folded neatly over his chest stopped you.

They looked rigid, devoid of the gentle gestures you had come to know—the way they'd ruffle Briseis’ hair, clap Achilles on the shoulder, or hold a spear with effortless strength.

You clutch at the fabric of your clothes as the weight of reality crashed over you.

“Patroclus?”

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k-nayee · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 27. ASHES AND HONOR

❝In death, as in life, they inspire us to feats of greatness.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅲ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The sounds of competition filled the air.

With the breeze of mid-day carrying the scent of sweat, sand, and burnt offerings from the funeral pyre still smoldering in the distance; cheers rose and fell with each event, an energy both celebratory and mournful woven through it all.

You sat atop a grand podium as the golden urn nestled carefully in your lap—its weight both physical and metaphorical. Within it rested the mixed ashes of Achilles and Patroclus, bound together in death as they had been in life.

Your fingers absently traced the edges of the urn, its metal cool beneath your touch despite the warmth of the sun.

Beside you was Thetis.

She sat in solemn grace, her sea-green eyes distant yet filled with something unreadable. Saying little throughout the day, the divine woman merely watched as the games played on before her.

The decision to name you as the overseer of the games had been unanimous. After Patroclus' death, you had been Achilles' closest companion—the one who had stood beside him in battle, who had held his lifeless body as his legend came to an end.

Even the most hardened Greeks knew that if Achilles had lived he would have surely wedded you. And if Fate had been cruel enough to deny that, then at the very least it was right that you be the one to oversee his final honors.

Each event had been a fierce display of strength, skill, and the rivalry that thrived among the Greek forces.

The Chariot Race had been the most exhilarating so far. Dust had barely settled as Diomedes crossed the finish line, his chariot flying past his competitors with Athena’s blessing securing his victory.

Eumelus, who had been favored to win, suffered a misfortunate accident where his chariot broke apart on the course resulting in the battered and bruised warrior a special prize to ease the sting of his loss.

The Boxing Match was nothing short of brutal. Epeius was one of the few you had the pleasure of sparring with over the years. Though the man was built like a mountain, his actions outside of fighting proved him to be a pacifist at heart—tending to the injured in his free time to even mending the rips in the clothing of his fellow troops.

Unfortunately for his opponent in this event, he reminded many why he is known for his strength to begin with, knocking the poor Mycenae soldier out with a single devastating blow.

The Wrestling Match had been an unexpected delight for the crowd as Penelope had stepped forward to challenge. The two had gone toe-to-toe.

Where Ajax relied on his overwhelming strength, Penelope countered with sheer intelligence and strategy. In the end, the match was declared a stalemate that earned them both equal honors.

Now, the fourth event was set to begin—The Footrace. Competitors had already begun stepping forward, standing before you and Thetis in a line of acknowledgment as they did before each event.

You scanned their faces as they bowed their heads in greeting, your mind only half-present as you gave the customary nod of approval. As the competitors made their introductions, a small figure shuffled forward from the line, emerging from behind the much larger warriors.

You blinked in surprise.

A boy.

His reddish-brown hair was shaggy mess as he wore a tunic slightly too large for his slender frame. He was strapped in simple sandals, his small feet barely kicked up dust as he stepped forward.

Realizing all eyes were on him, he stood stiffly in place, his small hands clenched at his sides as he swallowed hard, his starstruck eyes darting between you and Penelope before bravely lifting his chin.

Nestor suddenly stepped forward to place an aged hand on the shoulder of the boy. “I see you’ve noticed our youngest competitor,” he mused warmly. “This is Ajax; Prince and Heir of Locris, Son of Oileus.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. 'Another Ajax?'

You straightened slightly in your seat to get a better look, the weight of attention causing his cheeks to flush further.

Sensing your silent question, Nestor continued. “His father had evaded conscription to the War on Troy for years. But after the death of Patroclus, the Greeks scoured every corner for any remaining fighters who could aid the cause. They sought out King Oileus thinking he would join them.”

A pause.

“But the King…declared himself too old. So, he sent his son in his place.”

You stared at the boy.

His son? The poor Prince looked no older than eight.

This was a child who should have been at home learning to wield wooden swords against practice dummies—not standing before those who had spent the last ten years bathing in blood.

You glanced at Nestor, your expression unreadable. “And what did the Greeks do when they realized who had arrived?”

Nestor sighed, the weight of time heavy in his voice.

“He was—is too young. The generals agreed he was not yet ready for battle, so he was placed under my care to continue his studies and train.”

You nodded in understanding, your eyes flickering toward the boy once more.

Nestor hesitated before adding, “My son, Antilochus, took him under his wing.” His voice softened, grief creeping into the edges of it. “He taught him well. Would have been proud to see him run today.”

That gave you pause.

Antilochus....

A soft, almost apologetic smile tugged at your lips. You knew what that meant.

Antilochus had perished in the same battle that had claimed Achilles—died sacrificing himself to save Nestor when Memnon’s son, Ptolemaeus, had descended upon the old Greek King.

You could almost see him: Antilochus beaming with pride as he guided Ajax, treating him as a little brother. And now? He was gone.

A familiar ache pressed into your chest.

You exhaled quietly before shifting your gaze back to the young boy with a softened gaze. “You wish to compete?” you finally ask.

He hesitates for for only a second before nodding, squaring his shoulders as if to make himself seem taller. "Y-yes my Lady," he said, voice small but steady.

A quiet hum left your lips as you studied him. There was fire in his eyes; a hunger for recognition, for a chance to prove himself despite his age.

You glanced at Nestor who gave you a patient look. Then, your gaze drifted to Penelope, who watched with faint amusement and crossed arms as if she already knew what you were about to say.

A slow smile pulled at your lips.

"Then you shall run," you said simply.

A flash of delight spread across the boy’s face. He bowed his head quickly, stepping back into the line of competitors with a barely-contained grin.

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before shifting back to Nestor.

"I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to simply call him Ajax when we already have one." You tilted your head toward the much larger Ajax standing a few paces away. "We’ll need to differentiate them somehow."

At that, the older Ajax lets out a small scoff. "Shouldn't be difficult to tell the difference with his size," he mused, arms crossed over his broad chest.

A thoughtful hum left you.

"Then let it be known," you said, voice carrying over, "that from this day forth, he shall be called Ajax the Less. And you? Ajax the Great."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. Even older Ajax gave an approving nod as if acknowledging the names to be fitting.

Young Ajax perked up in excitement, his lips parting slightly before he quickly bowed his head. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

You inclined your head in response before motioning toward the runners. “Let the race begin!”

The boy was fast.

Surprisingly so.

As soon as the footrace commenced, Ajax the Less darted forward with an agility that shocked many. He was quick—his light frame allowing him to weave through his competitors with ease, feet seeming to barely touch the ground.

His pace was matched only by Penelope whose longer strides carried her forward effortlessly. The two of them ran neck and neck, kicking up dust as they sprinted, neither willing to relent.

Your lips twitched in amusement as you watched the spectacle unfold.

Thetis, seated beside you, leaned in slightly. "Your Captain is quite skilled," she murmured, watching Penelope with a hint of approval.

You exhaled a quiet laugh. "She is Ithaca’s Queen for a reason."

Down on the field the race was reaching its climax. The men roared in excitement as Ajax the Less pushed himself harder, his arms pumping as he ran, determination written across his face.

But then just as victory seemed within his grasp—

A loose strap on his sandal caught his foot.

He tumbled forward, sand and dust kicking up around him as he fell.

The boy scrambled, trying to push himself up, but it was too late—Penelope had already crossed the finish line. Disappointment flashed across his face as his small hands clenched into fists against the ground.

To his surprise Penelope turned back. A hush settled over the field as she walked over, kneeling down to offer her hand.

“Come now,” she with an easy grin, voice light with amusement. “I had to use every ounce of my energy just to keep up with you. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Ajax blinked up at her with stunned admiration. "You really mean that?" his voice was hushed as if afraid to believe it.

Penelope chuckled. "Of course."

A grin slowly stretched across his face as he took her hand. She helped him to his feet, brushing some of the dirt off his shoulders.

The sight of the young boy standing beside one of Greece’s most formidable warriors—one towering over the other—earned a round of applause and laughter.

Up on the podium Thetis sighed. "Most would have left him in his despair."

You smiled faintly, watching as the boy beamed, standing a little taller now despite his loss.

"Yes," you murmured, "but Penelope is not most."

You suddenly gestured for Ajax to come forward. “Come. Sit with us.”

He stood frozen, eyes darting between you, the podium, and the imposing figure of Thetis beside you. Then, with all the excitement of a child barely containing himself, he rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hurried up the steps.

He dropped into the other seat beside you, his hands gripping the armrests as he tried to compose himself, his wide snaggle-toothed smile a welcome sight.

And so, the games continued.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Diomedes and Ajax the Great had just finished stepping forward to greet you with a respectful nod, turning their attention to the temporary arena for the next event—Armed Combat.

"Pay attention," you offer little Ajax a slight smirk. "There is much to learn, even when it is just a contest for recognition and prizes."

The boy nodded so fervently his curls bounced.

As the contenders prepared for the dual a familiar voice called your name.

Briseis.

She weaved through the gathered men and up the steps, sliding into the space beside you with an easy grace.

“I thought you’d want an update,” she whisper. “Mostly just small things; the men are still drinking and a few fights broke out, the usual.” Then her lips curled slightly in amusement. “And of course you know I just had to find some...gossip.”

You snorted. "What have you heard now?"

Briseis grinned. "Oh nothing too scandalous this time—though I did hear that some of the older generals are grumbling about how unfairly young and beautiful their Ithaca's Commander is."

You rolled your eyes while Thetis outright laughed.

Before you could respond the teen gaze trailed over to Ajax the Less, seeming to finally register his presence.

“Oh?” Briseis quirked a brow, folding her arms as she studied the wide-eyed child sitting stiff as a board. “And who is this?”

He visibly short-circuited.

The poor boy turned the color of a ripe pomegranate. His mouth opened but no words escaped, only a choked sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough. He stared at Briseis as though she had descended from Olympus itself.

An unimpressed but amused look sat on the eighteen year old's face. “Charming. And what is your name little one?"

Ajax the Less swallowed thickly.

"I—uh—y-you—" He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration before blurting, "Ajax! Ajax the Less!"

Thetis nudges you lightly, her amusement clear as she whispered, "Your new little shadow might be in love."

You hummed in agreement as the horn sounded across the camp. The has match started.

Diomedes and Ajax the Great was fierce; both showcasing raw strength and years of skill honed in battle. The clash of metal rang out as the two men circled each other, their movements calculated and sharp.

Even from your vantage point you could see the tension behind each swing and parry. Diomedes was quick and precise; a man blessed by Athena herself. Ajax had sheer power; each of his swings carried enough weight to cleave a man in two if landed properly.

The dual stretched longer than expected—neither willing to surrender an inch of ground. Blades met time and time again, sweat beginning to glisten on their brows.

But in the end there would be no victor. Before either could be seriously wounded the fight was halted and both men were awarded prizes in honor of their prowess.

Penelope, deciding to sit out the rest of the games and joined the podium, leans back in her seat. "Finally," she mutters. "I was beginning to think they'd die of exhaustion before admitting defeat."

You smirked. "You sound disappointed."

"I would have won in half the time."

Briseis laughed from the space beside you she had squeezed into, pressing close in the already cramped chair. "Oh? Then perhaps you should have competed."

"Perhaps I should have."

The next few events passed quickly.

Sixth event—Discus Throw—ended with Polypoetes securing victory. Penelope scoffed at the result.

"You could have bested him easily," she commented, shooting you a sideways glance.

You grinned at her praise. "How fortunate for them I chose not to participate..."

Archery was the seventh event. An event that proved to be frustrating for the Queen of Ithaca.

Penelope let out a long-suffering sigh as she watched the competitors fumble with their shots. "You or Odysseus could have won this blindfolded. To be frank it's pathetic. Gods! How are they this bad?!"

"They're trying their best," Briseis says, though her amused smirk betrayed her true feelings.

"Well their best is dreadful," Penelope huffs. "I should go down there and teach them myself." She points toward a competitor who loosed an arrow that barely grazed the target. “Look at that! It’s as if he’s afraid the bowstring will bite him.”

You had to bite back laughter.

The eighth and final event was the Spear Throw.

And honestly? It was less a competition and more a formality. As Commander of the Greek forces, Agamemnon was given the victory out of respect for his position.

You, Briseis, and Penelope were less than thrilled.

Briseis wrinkled her nose while Penelope scoffed. "How convenient."

You merely exhaled, choosing to remain silent rather than indulge your irritation.

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k-nayee · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER 25. THE PRICE OF VENGENCE

❝Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅲ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The battlefield was chaos.

Screams of pain and fury mingled with the clang of steel and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the blood-soaked earth. You weaved through it all; your double-headed war axe dripping crimson as you cut down any Trojan unfortunate enough to cross your path.

The sun was high and brutal as it casted its glare over the field of battered shields and armor. Dust hung thick in the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood.

Recent victories over the brutal slaying of Penthesilea emboldened the Greeks with unrelenting determination—so much it had driven the Trojans back inside their city walls by sunset.

Fueled by the scent of imminent triumph they had even decided to camp close to Troy, fires flickering defiantly against the horizon.

The faint sight of Greek banners swaying in the distance had loomed over the walls of Troy like a forewarning. The proximity itself was an deliberate intimidation tactic that spoke volumes: the war was nearing its conclusion.

Yet, to everyone’s shock, the Trojans had rallied.

You could hardly believe it when you and the other Greeks, standing atop the ridge at dawn, spotted their banners rising from the city gates. The Trojans were assembling, a determined force spilling from the safety of their walls to meet you in battle once more.

It defied reason.

Were they suicidal? Desperate? Or was this some last act of defiance, a refusal to die caged like animals? Whatever their reason they fought with a ferocity that rivaled even the Myrmidons.

But so did you.

Swinging your axe in a silver arc it splits a Trojan soldier’s breastplate causing a spray of blood that flecked your cheeks. Bodies crumpled in your wake as you pressed forward, paving the way for the Greek forces advancing behind you.

Penelope had granted you permission to join the frontlines once more. She had heard of you on the front lines yesterday—your ability to hold ground and inspire those around you: “Prove yesterday wasn’t luck.”

Through the maelstrom of violence you could see Achilles ahead flashing like a beacon.

He was a whirlwind of death; his spear flashing like a bolt of lightning as he cut down any Trojan in his path. His savagery was unmatched, his movements fluid and deadly as the corpses of his enemies piled at his feet.

The air turned syrupy.

Your next breath stuck in your throat as the battlefield froze—a spear halted mid-thrust, a drop of blood suspended in air, Achilles’ sword glinting motionless above a crumpled foe.

Protect him...

Confusion gripped you at the ethereal voice filling your head, your movements halting as though you’d been pulled underwater.

“Thetis?” you breathed, your gaze darting around, though her presence was nowhere to be seen.

Protect him... Thetis urges again. His heel. Let no blade touch it. No arrow. No stone.

A vision flickered behind your eyes: Achilles falling, an arrow lodging in his ankle, Paris holding a bow as the Apollo’s sigil hovers above him.

Stop. It.

Time snapped back.

You lunged before your lungs finished emptying. With gritted teeth you drove your axe into the chest of a Trojan soldier lunging toward you, your focus sharper than ever.

Achilles. You had to reach him.

You surged forward, hacking your way through the enemy ranks, Thetis’ words echoed in your mind as your eyes darted constantly to Achilles who was still pushing ahead, oblivious to the growing danger around him.

It was then that you noticed something—an unsettling pattern. Many of the Trojans seemed to aim their strikes toward Achilles’s lower body, their spears and swords targeting his legs and ankles.

Each attack was intercepted either by Achilles himself or by the swift intervention of his immortal horses Xanthos and Balius. It was clear that these weren’t random strikes.

They were deliberate....calculated.

A cold sweat broke out on your brow. Thetis was right.

Rage burned in your chest as you let out a feral war cry, your voice tearing through the chaos of battle. With renewed determination you trampled down anyone who dared approach.

Blood coated your face and armor as you carved a path through the fray, your axe cleaving through flesh and bone with brutal precision the closer you neared.

Achilles was a blur of golden hair and blood-streaks as he moved effortlessly. A Trojan lunged at his flank, spear aimed low—too low—and you were already moving, your axe severing the man’s wrist before he could strike.

Achilles turned at the sound, his piercing eyes meeting yours. A grin spread across his face, wolfish and unshaken by the chaos around him.

“There you are my wife!” he quips with mock affection. “Fighting so fiercely by my side. Should we celebrate with a feast after this? Or would a kiss suffice?”

Despite the fear thrumming in your veins you couldn’t help but huff in exasperation. “Just keep your focus,” you snapped as you swung at another approaching Trojan.

Achilles smiles, his sword flashing as he struck down an enemy soldier.

“Careful,” he murmured, suddenly too close, his breath warm against your ear as he parried a stray javelin. “People will think you actually like me.”

You didn’t grace him with a reply; your heart clenching at the ease he displayed in the face of such peril.

For a fleeting moment the two of you fought side by side seamlessly as you cut through the enemy ranks. You could feel the weight of Thetis’ warning pressing down on you,

Tightening your grip on your axe, you resolved that you couldn’t let your guard falter—not even for a second.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Achilles’ laughter was still in your ears. Blood streaked his jaw, his eyes alight with the madness of a man who’d never tasted fear.

The Greeks had pushed the Trojans so far back that the walls of Troy not far behind them.

Your attention on him shatters when a shadow loomed over him. From the corner of your eye you saw the figure approaching—tall, commanding, and unmistakably regal.

The man moved with the authority of a King and the strength of a warrior. His armor glinted gold under the sun, his ebony skin shimmered with sweat from the heat of battle. In his hand he held a spear that gleamed wickedly.

“Achilles!”

He turned just in time to block the strike aimed at his head.

Their weapons clashed, the force of the impact sending shockwaves through the air. “Memnon,” Achilles growled as his grin dropped with a look of fierce determination.

The King of Ethiopia.

Even you had heard tales of Memnon—the son of Eos Goddess of the dawn and Tithonus a mortal Prince. Known as one of the Trojans’ greatest champions, Memnon was said to rival Achilles in both strength and skill.

His arrival on the battlefield meant only one thing: Troy was throwing everything it had left into this war.

Deciding it was best to leave Achilles to handle the fight you shifted your focus back to the surrounding Trojans. If Memnon occupied Achilles then it was up to you to ensure no Trojan soldiers could exploit his distraction.

You cut through the enemies with precision, your axe a blur of silver and gold as you fought your way through the throng. The clash of weapons and the roar of battle faded into the background as you stole glances at Achilles and Memnon’s duel.

Their battle was ferocious, both of them moving with speed and power that was nearly inhuman. Spears clashed, shields splintered, and dust rose around them like a storm.

The duel seemed to last an eternity; each warrior matching the other blow for blow in deadly and calculated strikes. Unfortunately for the Trojans, the son of Peleus was a Demigod whose very being was honed for war.

With a final devastating strike he drove his spear into Memnon’s chest.

The Ethiopian King staggered, his face a mask of shock as he collapsed to the ground, his blood pooling around him like a dark tide.

Achilles stood over him as he stared down at the fallen warrior. He then raised his spear, letting out a roar of victory that sent chills through friend and foe alike.

Your triumph was short-lived.

As the Trojans reeled from the loss of their champion your eyes darted across the battlefield. That was when you spotted him.

Paris.

The Trojan Prince stood not far from the battle’s edge, his infamous bow in hand with an arrow already notched and drawn. The golden string glinted under the sun as he took aim, his sharp gaze on Achilles.

But it wasn’t just Paris that made your blood run cold.

On the lone tower of Troy’s walls a faint shimmer caught your eye. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but as you squinted the outline of a figure became clear—taller than mortal limits, a God-like being wreathed in aura like molten gold that pulsed with divine energy.

Though no features were discernible you didn’t need to see them to know.

“Apollo...” you whispered as your heart dropped.

The arrow loosed.

You were moving before it cleared the bow.

Your axe moved on instinct, swinging upward in a desperate arc resulting in the weapon to shatter upon impact. Splinters rained down as you caught the returning arrowhead and whirled to bury it in a Trojan’s ribs.

There was no time to breathe. Paris was already preparing another shot.

You clenched your teeth and moved closer. “Achilles!”

Achilles didn't hear you. Of course not. He was knee-deep in slaughter, singing some bawdy tavern song as he fought.

“Achilles fall back—”

A sudden, unnatural force slammed into you from the side.

You went down hard, teeth rattling as your axe flew from your grip and landed several feet away. Your head whipped around to see it was a Greek soldier—one of Diomedes’ men—who had tackled and pinned you down.

But something was wrong. His eyes glowed with a sheen of gold, his strength far beyond the average man.

“Mortal meddler.” A otherworldly voice, full of warmth yet somehow spoken coldly slithered from his throat. “Did you think to rob me of this triumph? To steal the glory of his death?”

“Apollo,” you hissed as you struggled in his grip.

The possessed soldier simply grinned. “You think to defy fate?” His voice was laced with divine mockery, his fingers closing on your windpipe. “His thread is cut. Yours will follow.”

You thrashed, clawing at the soldier’s face, but Apollo’s grip held. Achilles’ golden helm bobbed in your periphery, drifting farther away. Paris notched another arrow.

'No. No. NO!!' Your scream tore raw—“Achilles!”—but the battlefield swallowed it whole. The possessed soldier laughed, gold ichor dripping from his nostrils.

Adrenaline surged through your veins; your eyes spot the axe lying just out of reach. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to get to it. To do something...anything.

And then you felt it.

A strange vibration bloomed in your chest, spreading outward like a pulse of energy. It traveled down your arm and into your hand which were outstretched toward the axe. Your axe shuddered.

The sensation was unfamiliar—raw, wild, and unrelenting.

Then....silence.

The roar of clashing armies vanished. No screams. No ringing. Just the beating of your heart and the vibration now humming in your teeth. Your vision tunneled; the axe, the arrow, Achilles fighting, his heel exposed.

Your fingers twitched. The vibration sharpened to a scream. Breath hitched, a single word slipped from your lips, unbidden and unconscious:

“Epíklēsis.”

The axe leaped.

It erupted from the ground in a spray of dirt, hurtling toward your palm as if reeled by the Gods themselves. Cracking into your grip the force shuddered up your arm as you swung blindly with a roar.

The blade bit deep. The soldier’s head toppled, his golden eyes dimming as Apollo’s presence snapped away like a severed cord.

Your mind raced, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Thetis never mentioned this.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Shaking the thought away, you scrambled to your feet as the sounds around rushed back, ignoring the axe's strange warmth.

Your eyes locked onto Achilles. He was still fighting, his spear striking down enemy after enemy with brutal efficiency.

Paris released the arrow.

You ran forward with every ounce of strength you had. The battlefield blurred around you as you pushed through the bodies, slashing and shoving, your mind screaming one desperate command: Get to him.

But you weren’t fast enough.

It struck.

The arrow buried itself in Achilles’s heel.

Your breath hitched as the world seemed to freeze. Achilles staggered, his spear and shield slipping from his hands as pain contorted his face.

“ACHILLES!” you released a heartbreaking scream.

His head turned (seeking you instinctively) and your gazes locked. He smiled. Not a smirk, but something softer....truer.

Then he fell.

You don’t remember crossing the distance. Only the bodies—so many bodies—hewn apart by your axe. By the time you reached him his skin was already cooling.

The Prince of Phthia, Leader of the Myrmidons lay motionless—his golden hair splayed across the dirt, his chest unnervingly still. No wound but that damned arrow embedded in his tendon, the fletching stained with Apollo’s sigil.

You drop to your knees beside him before dragging him onto your lap, fingers pressed to his throat as if you could bring a pulse back.

But it was too late. He was gone.

A scream tore from your throat, a sound that echoed across the battlefield.

Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, was dead.

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