𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 12. ECHOES OF VALOR

❝In war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

War on Troy: Year 1

Dawn brought the Greek fleet upon Troy's shoreline.

The sea was calm, its surface reflecting the fiery orange and gentle pink of the rising sun.

As the distant silhouette of the city of Troy loomed, towering walls casted long shadows over the lands—a fortress both intimidating and tantalizing.

Ships landed with startling efficiency as soldiers disembarked, their boots crunching against the sand as they swiftly began organizing into units. 

Banners unfurled in the morning breeze, the Ithacan emblem standing tall among the myriad of insignias of the Greek forces assembling.

You stood at the helm as the ship’s crew completed their final tasks. Beside you, Penelope’s gaze was fixed on the shoreline, her expression unreadable but her posture unyielding.

News of Ares’ fiery intervention and chilling promise to Agamemnon had spread like wildfire and silenced any talk about Penelope’s leadership or your role as Second-in-Command. 

Gone were the murmurs of doubt about a woman leading in war. Instead, the energy was honed in on the true enemy: Troy.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Midday brought blood.

By the time the sun had climbed high into the sky, the battlefield outside Troy’s walls had become a crucible of chaos.

The Greek envoy arrived at the gates of Troy shortly after dawn, their demands delivered with the weight of inevitability. They asked for Helen, her stolen treasures, and the dignity of Menelaus to be restored.

The answer came swift and resolute: refusal.

From behind the walls King Priam’s messengers declared Troy’s defiance in no uncertain terms. They would neither return Helen nor yield to the will of the Greeks.

And so, the war began in earnest.

Greeks had charged with fervor, but the Trojans met them with equal force—their soldiers fighting with a tenacity born of defending their homes and families.

Clashes of bronze on bronze echoed through the air, a symphony of chaos punctuated by the cries of the wounded and dying.

Ithaca’s forces—joined by smaller contingents of Kefalonian and Spartan warriors—fought with unmatched ferocity, proving to be a sharp edge of the Greek assault.

Penelope stood at the forefront, her blade a blur of motion as she cut down enemies with ruthless precision. Her movements were calculated and fluid, each strike purposeful.

Beside her, you directed the soldiers with tactical brilliance, your voice carrying over the din of battle. “Hold the left flank!” you shouted, pointing toward a vulnerable gap in the Greek lines.

The chaos was relentless. A young soldier fell near your position, his hand clutching his side as blood seeped through his fingers.

Your stomach twisted as you caught his wide, panicked gaze. For a moment his face blurred, replaced by another from a distant memory—a boy from your village who had fallen to raiders years ago.

“Get him out of here!” you barked, snapping back to the present. A pair of soldiers scrambled to carry the injured fighter to safety.

Resistance was heavy but your forces pushed forward, inching ever closer to Troy’s walls.

By day’s end it was clear—the Ithacan forces had come the closest to breaching Troy’s defenses.

Respect bloomed where once there was doubt. Whispers of admiration spread among the Greek ranks, the respect for you and Penelope growing with each passing hour.

Dissent and doubt had no room in the wake of your triumphs.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Evening brought a change in pace.

The Greeks regrouped, tending to their wounded and preparing for the next day’s assault.

You were near the encampment when Polites approached, his expression a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. “Commander,” he began, addressing you, “there’s someone who requested an audience with head of Ithaca’s forces.”

You turned, your brow arching in question. “Someone?”

Polites gestured toward a figure standing at the edge of the camp.

He was striking.

He had russet skin that gleamed faintly under the setting sun, short tightly curled hair and vivid blue eyes that stood out against his complexion.

His armor bore a subtle retaining of the Greek aesthetic while being marked with flourishes that hinted at individuality.

The stranger stepped forward, a disarmingly warm smile on his lips as he gave a slight bow. “Patroclus of Phthia,” he introduced smoothly.

You narrowed your eyes, your mind rifling through your knowledge of Greek names and lineages. “Patroclus,” you repeated. “No name of importance comes to mind.”

Patroclus’ grin widened. “Caught me,” he admitted in an unbothered tone. “Allow me to clarify. I hail from Opus originally, though my time there was…cut short.”

Recognition sparked. Opus. The name and its connection came rushing back to you.

“Ah,” you said, your tone shifting to one of cautious understanding. “The exile.”

He chuckled with an edge of self-deprecation in his voice. “Guilty. Unsavory reasons and all. But,” he continued, his tone growing lighter, “I’m here for a good cause. Same as you I suspect—scouting potential dangers.”

You studied him. His demeanor was charming (almost too much so), and yet there was something in his stance—a subtle tension, a readiness—that contradicted his casualness.

“And what danger,” you asked slowly, “led you to seek us out?”

Patroclus’ eyes gleamed with amusement. “None yet. But I make it a habit to meet the competition.”

“Competition?” Your voice was flat, your expression carefully neutral.

Patroclus gestured broadly toward the battlefield. “As Second-in-Command of the Myrmidons,” he explained. “It’s only polite to meet our counterparts, wouldn’t you agree?”

You let out a soft hum, your lips curling faintly. “How polite of you,” you said dryly. “I’ll be sure to let my Captain know of your…courtesy.”

Patroclus inclined his head, his smile never faltering. “Please do.”

A tense silence stretched between you as the weight of his words settled. Polites shifted uncomfortably beside you, his eyes darting between the two of you, uneasy with the charged atmosphere.

The air seemed to hum with unspoken tension as you sized each other up—a battle of wits and will conducted in silence.

Finally, Patroclus broke the silence with a lighthearted chuckle. “I must admit,” he said, “the tales of Ithaca’s Second-in-Command hardly do you justice. But…” His eyes narrowed playfully. “You’re far more guarded than I anticipated.”

Your smirk sharpened. “And you’re exactly as insufferable as I expected.”

Patroclus laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Fair enough. It seems I’ve chosen my sparring partner wisely.”

Polites cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly relieved the exchange hadn’t escalated further. “Shall I…leave you to it?”

“No need,” you said, your eyes never leaving Patroclus. “We’re done here.”

Patroclus’ grin didn’t waver. Just as he open his mouth to respond—

“____.”

You turn at the call of your name to see Penelope striding toward you with purpose.

The scarlet fabric of the cloak she wore shimmered faintly in the sunlight, the gold cuffs in her war braids glinting with each step as she came to stop beside you.

Her expression was unreadable, but her presence was unmistakable—regal, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

“Is everything all right?” She asked, her sharp eyes cutting toward Patroclus who was already watching her.

He straightened, a glimmer of mischief in his striking blue eyes. He offers a light bow. “Based on the cloak and sword, I presume I have the honor of addressing Queen Penelope of Ithaca?”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her demeanor unchanging. “State your name and purpose,” she commanded.

The man huffed softly before giving a more formal bow this time. “Patroclus of Opus,” he said smoothly. “Second-in-Command to the son of Peleus, Ach—”

“Patroclus!”

A loud booming voice interrupted. All heads turned to see a figure bounding toward your group.

He was tall—commanding, though not quite Godlike— with tanned skin that spoke of countless hours under the sun. His golden-blond hair caught the light, falling in a wild yet somehow deliberate cascade over his shoulders.

Broad shoulders and rippling muscles that spoke of dedication to combat, his ruggedly handsome features held a boyish charm that made his grin seem almost mischievous.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, clapping a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder. The force of it would have staggered anyone else, but Patroclus remained steady, his expression softening in a way that felt far too familiar.

You recognized that look—it was the same fondness seen often exchanged between Odysseus and Penelope.

“Patroclus,” the golden-haired man continued, “you’ve been holding out on me. Ithaca sends troops to the war and you neglect to mention the company they’ve brought along?”

Patroclus gestured toward you and Penelope, his smile quirking at the corners. “May I present my captain—Achilles of Phthia. Captain, these are the leaders of the Ithacan forces—Queen Penelope and her Second-in-Command.”

Achilles wasted no time taking stock of his audience. His piercing gaze swept over Penelope first, lingering on the red cloak draped over her shoulders. Recognition flickered in his eyes as he took in the sword at her hip—a symbol of Odysseus’ legacy.

Then his attention shifted to you, and his grin widened into something wolfish, sharpening as though he’d stumbled upon an unexpected treasure.

“So,” Achilles began, his voice carrying a blend of humor and confidence. “This is what Odysseus sends in his stead—a Queen and her second. A bold move even for him” He huffed with a shake of his head. “Though I must admit it’s not a disappointing one.”

You raise an eyebrow, your arms crossing as you regard him with an air of detached amusement. “Flattery will get you nowhere, son of Peleus,” you quipped.

Achilles chuckled, undeterred by your boldness. “Flattery? No, that was simply an observation.”

“She’s sharp.” Patroclus notes as if to back up his captain’s words.

Achilles laughed again. “A rare combination isn’t it? Ithaca clearly has an eye for talent. Though I’d wager you’re not just talented, but dangerous too.”

You snorted unimpressed. “Careful Achilles. You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like a poet.”

“Oh I leave the poetry to Patroclus,” Achilles replied smoothly, casting a playful glance at his companion. “But even he’d agree you’d inspire quite the verse.”

Patroclus hummed thoughtfully as though contemplating something. “She’d make a fine muse,” he mused, his smile turning sly. “Or perhaps...more.”

“Indeed.” he agreed, his gaze moving to you briefly before he shifted his focus to the group as a whole now.

“Many of the men have expressed their...let’s say astonishment at women leading troops into war. Though I say if they’re so easily unsettled,” he shrugs, “perhaps they shouldn’t be here at all. Brawn and strength aren’t the only qualities that matter. We warriors value strength, wit…and beauty.”

His eyes moved to Patroclus, lingering for the briefest of moments. The faintest trace of a smile softened his features—a moment between the two men.

The fleeting exchange didn’t go unnoticed by you even in its subtlety. It was clear to see their dynamic was more than mere camaraderie; it carried a weight of affection and trust that transcended the battlefield.

Achilles returned his attention to the group, his smile growing once more as he added, “After all, even audacity itself can be far more lethal than brute force.” His gaze drifted back to you, his expression both teasing and appraising. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You tilt your head as you regard him. “Perhaps. But audacity can also be a weakness if misused.”

Patroclus glance at Achilles. “I like her already,” he said, the words carrying a hint of genuine admiration beneath the jest.

Achilles’ eyes sparkled as he leaned slightly closer as though sharing a secret. “So do I,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make the words feel intimate despite the company.

Polites, who had been silent until now with a steadily darkening expression, suddenly cleared his throat loudly. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he gave Achilles a pointed look. “Perhaps you should focus on the war at hand, not Ithaca’s forces.”

Achilles turned his attention to Polites, his grin never wavering. “Ah the watchdog,” he teased. “Fiercely protective I see. Admirable, truly. I can respect that.”

Polites bristled slightly but said nothing.

You suppressed a laugh. “Polites calm down. They're harmless.” you said lightly. “For now.”

“Harmless?” Achilles repeated with mock offense, his hand pressing to his chest. “You wound me. I assure you my intentions are entirely noble.”

“Entirely,” Patroclus echoed with a sly grin.

Before the exchange could continue, Penelope stepped forward, positioning herself squarely between you and the two men.

Achilles blinked. His grin faltered for a split second before he recovered, the edges of his smile softening into something more genuine.

“Ah,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Apologies my Queen. We didn’t mean to overstep, simply admiration I assure you.”

Penelope didn’t waver. For a moment the tension between her and Achilles seemed to hum in the air, a silent understanding passing between them.

You, meanwhile, fought the urge to smile at her protective stance.

Achilles and Patroclus’ flirtation might have been harmless—even entertaining—but Penelope’s subtle display of possessiveness was undeniably gratifying.

“Tempting,” you said dryly, letting a faint smile tug at your lips. “but I think I’ll pass. My place is here.”

“A shame,” Achilles mused, his tone still light. “But I suppose Ithaca’s finest must remain loyal.”

Patroclus’ smile lingered as he glanced between you and Penelope with a knowing look. “Loyal indeed,” he murmured, stepping back slightly as though recognizing the unspoken dynamic.

Penelope’s presence seemed to shift subtly beside you. She gave Achilles a pointed look, her own smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps you should focus on your captaincy rather than Ithaca’s Second-in-Command.”

Achilles chuckled, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Noted my Queen.”

As the two men took their leave, Polites shifted awkwardly beside you, his expression caught between irritation and something unknown.

“Don’t pout Polites,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

“I’m not pouting,” he grumbled, his arms crossing defensively.

But you caught the way his sight lingered on the retreating figures of Achilles and Patroclus, his brow furrowed as though weighing their intentions.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The battlefield was chaos—clashing swords, guttural cries, and the metallic tang of blood hanging thick in the air.

Dust and smoke stung your eyes as you surveyed the fray. The lines of Ithacan soldiers, intermixed with those of other Greek allies, surged forward in disciplined waves against the Trojans.

You darted between soldiers, your movements sharp and purposeful as you directed formations. Penelope's orders had been clear and you ensured they were executed with precision.

Yet, as you maneuvered through the thick of the fight, it was impossible to ignore the two figures who always seemed to gravitate toward you—Achilles and Patroclus.

“You should consider stepping back for a moment,” Patroclus quipped, his tone light even as his blade cleaved through a Trojan soldier. “Can’t have Ithaca’s finest getting scratched now can we?”

You threw him a pointed glance as you wipe sweat from your brow. “Ithaca’s finest has survived worse. Worry about yourself Patroclus.”

Achilles, a few steps away, dispatched another enemy with terrifying efficiency. He turned toward you, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

“The battlefield is no place for hesitation,” he said, his voice carrying over the clamor. “But when it’s you, it’s hard not to act.”

You rolled your eyes despite your heart giving an involuntary lurch. “I don’t need protecting,” you replied sharply. “I’m here to fight, not be coddled.”

Achilles’ lips quirked into the faintest smile. “Noted.”

Despite your irritation you couldn’t deny that their presence had its benefits. Their skills in combat were unparalleled, and their instincts—apparently overprotective when it came to you—were razor-sharp.

Still, you felt a twinge of annoyance each time they deflected a blow meant for you or inserted themselves into your battles.

Like now.

A Trojan soldier charged at you, his spear aimed with lethal precision. You sidestepped smoothly, your own weapon arcing toward him.

Before you could strike, Achilles’ shield slammed into the man, sending him sprawling.

“I had that!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“I’m sure you did,” Achilles replied, not missing a beat as he turned to engage another foe.

Nearby, Patroclus dispatched the last of a small group of enemies before turning back to you. “You’ll thank us later,” he said, offering a cheeky grin. “When you’re not nursing a wound.”

You shot him a glare but said nothing, instead throwing yourself back into the battle. You didn’t need them to shield you; you had proven your capability time and time again.

And yet their attentions never waned, their protective instincts flaring whenever you were within reach.

Later, as the battle waned and the Greeks regrouped, you found yourself at the edge of the camp away from the bustling soldiers, sharpening your blade near the fire.

“You’re always so focused.”

You look up briefly to see a thoughtful Patroclus taking a seat beside you before returning to your work. “Focus keeps you alive.”

Achilles appeared not long after, dropping onto the other side of you with his signature grin.

“You know too much focus is no good right?” he said teasingly. “Come join us for a drink. Or a sparring match. Something to remind you there’s more to life than war.”

You raised an eyebrow, not even glancing his way as you continued your task. “And you think drinking or sparring with you will help me relax?”

Patroclus chuckled. “Relax? No. But it might make things more interesting.”

“Interesting isn’t what I’m aiming for,” you replied dryly.

Achilles pressed a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” you shot back.

“So much fiery, so much bite...” Patroclus leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know there’s always room for one more.”

The whetstone stilled against your blade as you turned to meet his gaze.

“For what?”

Achilles smirked, gesturing between himself and Patroclus. “For us. Imagine it—Achilles, Patroclus, and the legendary second of Ithaca. A trio unlike any other.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, but before you could respond a shadow fell over the group.

Penelope stood there, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable, though the sharpness in her eyes spoke volumes.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked, her tone calm and edged with steel.

Achilles and Patroclus exchanged a look before the Prince gave a shrug. “Simply in need of her insight,” he said. “We’re planning an attack near the western ridge. We believe her strategies have proven…effective.”

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m sure my Second-in-Command has more pressing matters than aiding you with your skirmishes,” she said coolly.

Achilles met her gaze evenly. “Of course,” he replied, though his tone held a hint of challenge. “But perhaps a brief consultation wouldn’t hurt.”

You suppressed a sigh, sensing the tension between them. “I’ll take a look,” you said, stepping forward to diffuse the situation. “But only briefly. We’ve got our own plans to finalize.”

Patroclus’ grin widened as he pulled out and handed you a small sketch of the ridge. “We knew we could count on you.”

Penelope’s eyes burned into your back as you studied the map with displeasure practically radiating off her. She didn’t say anything; the slight tension in her posture told you everything you needed to know.

Before you could dwell on the thought, a distant horn broke the peace, its mournful note slicing through the quiet camp causing any ease from earlier to evaporate.

An Ithacan runner emerged from the shadows, breathless and wide-eyed. “My Queen, my Lady! News about a truce! A duel has been arranged—Menelaus against Paris. They say it will decide the war.”

You exchanged a sharp look with Penelope while Achilles and Patroclus straightened.

“When?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tension thrumming in the air.

“Right now,” the runner replied, his chest still heaving. “The Trojans—”

Another horn blast cut him off, louder and more urgent this time. Moments later Polites sprinted into view, his face pale and his voice hoarse. “Menelaus has been shot!”

“What?” you demanded.

“Pandarus,” Polites spat, his disgust evident. “He broke the truce. The Gods…Athena—they say she manipulated him. Menelaus is wounded.”

Patroclus’ face darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “How bad is it?”

“Not fatal,” Polites assures him. “But it’s enough to shatter the truce.” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the ground. “This...will not end quietly.”

Achilles’ jaw tightened as his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Fools,” he muttered coldly. “A duel meant to end the war and they couldn’t even hold to their own terms.”

You glance at Penelope, the unspoken decision passing between you in a heartbeat.

“All right then,” you said, gripping the handle of your sword. “Polites, ready the men. We march at first light.”

Penelope nodded. “Send word to Diomedes and the others. We’ll need every fighter we have.”

Achilles didn’t wait for further instructions. “Patroclus with me,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “If war is what they want...” His words hung ominously in the air unfinished.

The Opuntian-born firmly nods before following Achilles into the shadows.

Now buzzed with activity of preparations for battle, fires burned brighter, casting long shadows over the Greek banners rippling in the wind.

The time for calm had passed.

War was about to reignite.