𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 13. FORGED IN BATTLE

❝In the crucible of war, friendships become unbreakable bonds.❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

War on Troy: Year 3

Two years had passed since the Greeks’ arrival at Troy. The days blurred into a monotonous cycle of skirmishes and strategies, both sides locked in a bloody stalemate.

Neither side had gained an upper hand, and though you and Penelope had done all within your power to tip the scales, the walls of Troy still stood firm against the Achaean assault.

Much of that resilience came from their champions. Hector, Paris, and Aeneas; the unyielding pillars of Trojan defense.

Their leadership on the battlefield was unparalleled.

On more than one occasion you had caught glimpses of them amidst the chaos of battle: Hector, wielding his spear like a force of nature; Paris, his arrows deadly and precise; Aeneas, orchestrating the Trojan ranks with a strategist’s precision.

Unfortunately there was never time to linger. Every fleeting glance was followed by the clash of Trojan steel and the need to fight for survival.

The Ithacan forces had held their own under Penelope’s leadership. Your strategies with her commands were brilliant, and her ability to inspire unwavering.

Yet the sheer size and strength of Troy’s army—and the aid of their Gods—had stymied even the best of plans.

Amidst the ceaseless struggle, Achilles and Patroclus had found new ways to irritate and amuse you. Their flirtations had become a constant backdrop to the war, their teases ranging from playful to shameless.

“Another flawless strike.” Patroclus’ voice broke through the roar of the battlefield, his tone rich with mock admiration. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to impress me.”

You didn’t bother to look up from where you stood, your sword buried deep in the chest of a fallen Trojan. “Flawless would mean no blood on my armor,” you replied dryly. “Which means you’re not paying attention.”

From the corner of your eye you saw Achilles approach, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a beacon. “Oh he’s paying attention,” he said with a grin, his voice booming with laughter. “Trust me.”

You sighed, pulling your blade free with a sharp tug. “Don’t you two have your own battles to fight?”

“Consider this one ours,” Achilles said, leaning casually on his spear. His green eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s not every day we get to see such beauty and strength in action.”

“And yet here you are. Every day.”

Patroclus chuckled, stepping closer with a mock look of seriousness. “What can we say? You’re irresistible.”

You’d rolled your eyes but there was no malice in it. For all their antics, you knew they respected your boundaries—and perhaps even admired your loyalty to the Ithacan Royals.

That didn’t stop them from trying though.

When Penelope finally permitted Achilles to take you along on a campaign to raid nearby towns and disrupt Troy’s supply chains, it had almost felt like a reprieve from their constant attention.

Almost.

The campaign was brutal. Each raid was a calculated blow to Troy’s resources, a necessary evil in the grand scheme of war.

Achilles led his men with ruthless efficiency, dismantling supply lines and leaving destruction in their wake. But the aftermath of these raids was where the ugliness of war truly revealed itself.

Towns were left in ruins, their people broken and desperate while women were taken as spoils of war, a grim reminder of the cost of victory.

Among the Ithacan forces such acts were rare.

Perhaps it was respect for you and Penelope, or perhaps it was fear of the sharp consequences you had made abundantly clear.

You had learned to keep your head down in these moments, knowing that drawing attention to every injustice could spark discord among the already volatile Greek forces.

But there were times when you could not—would not—stay silent.

“Leave her alone,” you snarled at a soldier who had cornered a terrified woman during one raid.

The man had sneered, his grip tightening on the woman’s arm. “What’s it to you?”

Without hesitation, you’d drawn your sword and leveled it at his throat. “Try me.”

The look in your eyes must have been enough because he’d released the woman and backed away, muttering curses under his breath.

You had used your sword more than once, standing between a trembling woman and the leering eyes of a soldier. You had struck without hesitation when a man became too rough, his grip leaving bruises on skin that had already suffered enough.

Some whispered about you after those moments. Others grew wary.

The whispers turned into warnings and the warnings turned into fear. It was well known among your men that to cross you in such matters was to risk a swift and brutal end.

“Stay away from the women,” you had overheard one Myrmidon soldier mutter to another during the aftermath of a raid. “She'd gut a man for less.”

The other soldier had nodded, his expression grim. “Saw what she did to one of Agamemnon’s men. Didn’t even flinch.”

They were right. You hadn’t.

Your sword had been swift, your anger sharper. The man had dared to test you, his drunken laughter turning to screams as your blade found its mark.

You didn't care about his rank nor the consequences.

War was chaos, and if anyone thought that gave them free rein to harm the innocent, they would find themselves at the mercy of your fury.

Achilles, however, remained unbothered by your actions. If anything his respect for you seemed to grow, his teasing remarks often accompanied by genuine admiration.

“You’re terrifying,” he’d said, his lips curling into a grin as you cleaned the blood from your blade.

“And you’re lucky I’m on your side,” you’d replied, your tone cutting but your eyes steady.

The campaign continued—and while the strain of war weighed heavy on your shoulders, you found a strange solace in the determination to endure and to win.

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

The camp was quieter than usual, the absence of Achilles and the majority of the Myrmidons lending an uneasy stillness to the air.

Achilles’ temporary quarters were spacious for a war tent, yet the silence that hung between you and the young girl made it feel stiflingly small.

You sat on a low bench near a pile of furs, the battered leather bracelet Odysseus had given you resting in your lap. Your fingers worked diligently, re-threading the worn edges with care.

Beside you on a makeshift table lay a book Achilles had brought back from a raid, its spine cracked from wear but the words within invaluable.

The Art of War—a rarity that he had smugly handed to you, declaring, “A treasure for my war maiden.” His grin had been insufferable (as always).

You had rolled your eyes, muttering about how his priorities needed work, but secretly you cherished the gesture.

The quiet sound of fabric shifting made you glance up briefly. Briseis sat across the tent on a pile of cushions, her small frame curled in on itself.

At twelve she looked even younger, her wide eyes darting nervously to you, then away when she thought you might notice.

You had of course. You always did.

Without lifting your gaze from the bracelet, you broke the silence. “You’ve been staring for a while now.”

Briseis flinched at your words, her pale hands twisting in her lap as her cheeks flushed. “I-I’m sorry,” she murmured barely above a whisper.

You softened slightly and leaned back against one of the wooden beams supporting the tent. Setting the bracelet aside, you turned your full attention to her.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you said gently. “But if you have something to say, speak plainly. I prefer honesty over silence.”

She hesitated, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress tightly. When she finally spoke, her words were shaky, but her tone carried a faint edge of defiance.

“How...how do you do it?” she asked, her accent—Trojan, unmistakable—lending a melodic lilt to her words. “How can you fight alongside them? The men who…do this.” Her voice cracked and her gaze dropped to her lap.

The question struck you like a blade but you forced your voice to remain steady. “What exactly do you mean by ‘this’?”

Briseis’ head snapped up, her eyes wet with unshed tears and burning with anger.

“This!” she cried, her voice rising. “The raids. The killing. The taking. The way they look at us as if we’re nothing. How can you stand beside them and pretend you’re not like them?”

The words were like a slap. Her trembling frame, her furious tears, her small fists clenched in helpless rage—it was too familiar.

Your chest tightened as anger—directed at the men who had made her suffer and perhaps at yourself—bubbled beneath your skin.

But you held it in, taking a steadying breath before speaking. “You think I don’t know pain?” your voice was low and quiet, carring a weight that made Briseis look up.

Her tear-streaked face met your hardened gaze as you leaned forward, your elbows resting on your knees.

“Do not presume to think you know me girl,” you said, each word measured. “I know exactly what it means to be a woman in a world like this. A world where men measure your worth by what’s between your legs.”

Briseis recoiled as though struck, her eyes widening at the bitterness in your tone, but she didn’t look away.

“I fight,” you continued, your voice gaining an edge, “because I’ve been where you are. Because I’ve seen what happens when no one stands between them and their prey.”

You stood abruptly, brushing past her and motioning for her to follow. “Come with me.”

Reluctantly, Briseis rose and followed, her steps faltering as she moved into your shadow.

Together you stepped out of the tent and into the camp. The camp buzzed with activity as men milled about, their laughter and banter punctuated by the sharp clang of weapons being cleaned or repaired.

But as you strode through the rows of tents, Briseis began to notice a change.

Men who had been jeering at a group of captured women fell silent when they saw you. Their postures stiffened, and some even stepped away from the women, avoiding your gaze.

A few more abandoned whatever they were doing, their faces darkening as they retreated from your path.

Briseis clung close behind you as she held you tighter. “They’re…afraid of you,” she whispered.

“They should be,” you replied flatly.

Briseis glanced up at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion. “But why? You’re…”

“A woman?” you finished for her, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Exactly.”

You stopped near a group of soldiers sharpening their blades. The men immediately quieted, their eyes darting to you before returning to their work.

“You see this?” you said, your voice soft but cold. “It's not because they respect me, but because they know I won’t hesitate to end them if they cross me.”

Her lips parted, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.

“I can’t stop all of them,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I can’t undo the horrors they’ve committed or save every innocent caught in their path. But in my presence, they know better.”

Briseis’ gaze dropped to the ground, her shoulders slumping. “It’s not enough,” she whispered. “It doesn’t change what they’ve done.”

“No,” you agreed. “It doesn’t. But life isn’t fair Briseis. In a world where even Goddesses are forced below their male counterparts, what power do mortal women have?”

Your bitter laugh made her flinch, but you didn’t apologize. You couldn’t.

“I fight because it’s the only way to survive,” you continued. “Because if I don’t, I’ll never see the people I love again. And if that means carrying the weight of their sins so be it. They’ll answer to Hades eventually.”

You turned your gaze toward the horizon, the setting sun casting long shadows over the camp. Your voice grew softer, almost empty. “The bloodshed. The screams. The slaughter of innocents. I hear it all Briseis. I see it all. And I’ll see it again if it means making it home.”

Briseis shivered, her wide eyes fixed on your distant stare, her mind conjuring images of her father’s tales of warriors who had seen too much.

For a moment she said nothing, her small hands clenching at her sides as if searching for strength. Then softly she asked, “How do you bear it?”

You looked down at her, your expression softening. “You don’t,” you said simply.

Before she could respond, the sound of boisterous laughter broke the tension.

“Ah! My two favorite women bonding!” A familiar voice rang out. You turned to see Achilles striding toward you.

The Son of Peleus was grinning like a fool, a sack of loot from the day’s raid slung over his shoulder.

Briseis shrank slightly behind you, but you rolled your eyes. “I’ll gut you one day, Achilles,” you muttered.

“And ruin all the fun?” he replied with mock horror. “Never.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unwelcome as he peered at Briseis. “You’re making an excellent mother for our daughter you know,” he teased, earning a sharp glare from you.

You rolled your eyes, flipping him a gesture that made him laugh even harder. “Go find a new hobby,” you snapped despite your tone lacking true venom.

Turning back to Briseis, you extended a hand. “Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s head back. I’ll teach you a few tricks with a knife—something to make the men think twice.”

Her hesitation melted as she placed her hand in yours. Smaller fingers tightening around yours, a hint of a smile flickered across her face.

Achilles watched you both with a soft expression, his grin never left.

In the fading light of the camp, you led Briseis back toward the tent, a strange but not unwelcome reminder that even in war, there were moments of light.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The tension in the main camp was almost palpable.

A week had passed since your return, and in that time, the mood had shifted to a simmering unease.

Word of reinforcements summoned by Priam had spread quickly, casting a shadow over the Greek forces.

The arrival of Sarpedon and the Lycians, along with Thracian contingents, had bolstered Troy’s defenses, making every step forward feel like wading through mud.

It was early afternoon and the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea mingled with the earthiness of the camp.

The faint clang of smiths hammering weapons and the murmur of soldiers in the distance formed a subdued backdrop as you sat with Penelope and a handful of other Greek leaders around a rough wooden table strewn with maps and battle reports.

“Skirmishes along the River Scamander have left us at a standstill,” Ajax the Great grumbled as he leaned heavily on the table.

His broad shoulders were tense, his voice tinged with frustration. “Hector and Aeneas lead their forces with precision. We can’t seem to break their line.”

“Diomedes and I have held them off,” Penelope said, her tone calm yet firm, “but it’s a temporary solution. We need to adapt or we’ll lose ground faster than we gain it.”

She stood tall at the head of the table, her red cloak falling in perfect folds, the gold cuffs in her braids catching the faint sunlight streaming through the tent.

Her presence was magnetic, her authority unquestioned.

You leaned back in your chair, your arms crossed as your gaze flickered between the map and the leaders. “It’s not just their defenses. Priam’s reinforcements have shifted the balance. Sarpedon isn’t a fool and the Lycians fight with strategy, not brute force.”

Nestor, the elder general, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “And the Thracians?”

“They’re relentless,” your fingers tapped idly on the armrest. “But they lack discipline. They’re manageable if we can isolate them.”

Penelope nodded as she scanned the map. “Then we focus on breaking their cohesion. Ajax and Diomedes, you’ll coordinate with our forces along the Scamander. Distract Hector and Aeneas—pull their attention away from the Lycians.”

Ajax grunted in approval, his massive hand curling into a fist as he studied the map. Diomedes, seated beside him, gave a curt nod.

As the discussion continued a soft laugh drifted from a nearby tent. You glanced up, your brow arching slightly at the sound.

Patroclus.

The man had clicked with Briseis almost immediately upon your return. He treated her like a daughter, doting on her with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his role as a warrior.

She was embarrassed by his attentions, her cheeks often pink with flustered protests, but the light in her eyes told you she welcomed the care.

“Patroclus has been a surprising addition,” Penelope said softly, noticing your brief distraction.

“He’s good for her,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “She’s been through enough. It’s...good that she has someone like him.”

“Kinda like us,” Penelope adds, her gaze steady as it met yours.

The words lingered between you, unspoken memories shared in the quiet weight of her tone.

Before the conversation could deepen, a messenger arrived, his face pale and drawn. “Captain Penelope,” his voice was tight with urgency. “New reports from the Scamander.”

Penelope’s gaze sharpened as she took the scroll and unrolled it swiftly. Her brow furrowed as her eyes scanned the words. “More counterattacks,” she murmured. “And Hector…he’s pushing closer to our supply lines.”

You stood, stepping closer to read over her shoulder. The tension in her posture was mirrored in your own as you processed the information. “We need to act fast,” you said, your tone low. “If we lose those lines, we lose everything.”

Penelope nodded, her jaw tightening. “Then let’s make sure we don’t.”

The meeting dissolved into action, leaders dispersing to relay new orders and strategize. Penelope turned to you, her eyes sharp but filled with unspoken trust. “We’ll discuss the details tonight. For now see to the troops.”

You gave a curt nod, your hand brushing briefly against hers—a fleeting moment of connection before you strode off into the heart of the camp.

As you passed by the tents, you spotted Patroclus crouched near a small fire, Briseis perched on a log beside him.

He was showing her something—likely another one of his stories or teachings—and her laughter, though quiet, was genuine. For a second the weight of duty was replaced by a flicker of something worth fighting for.

Then, with a steadying breath, you turned back to your task, the sounds of war creeping back into focus.