𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 14. THE WEIGHT OF PRIDE

❝Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

War on Troy: Year 5

Two years have passed since Briseis joined the Greek camp, five since the start of the Trojan war itself. 

The air all around was heavy—not just with the usual stench of war and unwashed bodies, but with something darker. A creeping weight that settled over the men like a shadow.

It wasn’t exhaustion from battles or the malaise that came with endless stalemates. It was something deeper, something rotting at the core of the Greek army.

You sat just outside the war tent, the rough fabric of your cloak pulled tighter around your shoulders as a chilly wind swept through the camp.

The sun, though high did little to warm the earth, and the usual din of soldiers sharpening weapons or boasting of exploits felt muted.

The men were quieter now, their gazes wary as they avoided one another as though afraid to acknowledge what was happening.

“Doesn’t feel right, does it?” Patroclus’ voice broke through the silence. He was crouched nearby, his sharp eyes scanning the soldiers milling about.

“No,” you replied, your voice quieter than usual. “It doesn’t.”

Patroclus didn’t press further. He knew you well enough by now to recognize when you were lost in thought.

Instead, he turned his attention to Briseis, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground as she attempted to fix a knot in the leather cord of her sandal.

“Need help little sparrow?” Patroclus asked, his teasing tone earning a glare from the young girl.

“No,” she snapped, though there was no real heat in her voice. “I can do it myself.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange.

Briseis, now fourteen, was bold—almost brash at times, her confidence growing with each passing day. She had grown under Achilles’s tutelage, her slight frame showing the faint outline of muscle from hours of training she had taken with surprising enthusiasm.

“She’s getting good at tying knots,” Patroclus remarked with mock seriousness, leaning back on his hands. “Give her another year and she might even best me at it.”

Briseis rolled her eyes but grinned, the corners of her mouth quirking upward despite herself. “I’ll best you at more than knots.”

“That’s the spirit,” you murmured while watching the exchange with a faint smile. It was moments like this that gave you reprieve from the endless struggles of war.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew your attention, your body instinctively tensing.

You turned to see Agamemnon approaching, his figure unmistakable even from a distance. He carried himself with his usual arrogance, his golden cloak billowing behind him as though it alone could announce his presence.

But it wasn’t the King of Mycenae that held your attention—it was the girl trailing behind him.

She was a stark contrast to Briseis.

Where Briseis had grown stronger, more vibrant, she looked as though the life had been drained from her.

Her pale skin seemed almost translucent in the midday sun, and her shoulders were hunched, her movements hesitant.

She wore a beautiful dress, its fine embroidery a cruel juxtaposition to her downcast gaze and trembling hands. Around her neck was a jeweled choker—its chain trailing to Agamemnon’s hand as though she were a prize to be paraded.

Patroclus stiffened beside you, his easygoing demeanor evaporating in an instant. Even Briseis’ smile faltered as her gaze dropped to the ground.

Agamemnon strode past without so much as a glance in your direction as he dragged the young girl along as though she were an afterthought.

She stumbled slightly, the chain pulling taut, but he didn’t slow. Your jaw tightened as you watched the scene unfold, your hands curling into fists at your sides.

“Her name is Chryseis. She’s the daughter of one if Apollo’s priests, Chryses.” Briseis whispered suddenly, her words so soft they were almost lost to the wind.

You turned to her sharply. “What?”

Briseis glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot. Her voice was steadier this time, though it still carried an edge of hesitance.

“I’ve heard the men talking.” she murmured. “She was taken from Apollo’s temple during a raid.”

Your stomach churned at her words. The pieces clicked into place with a sickening finality. The illness spreading through the camp—it all made sense now.

“Foolish,” Patroclus muttered, his tone dark. “To desecrate a God’s temple...to steal from one of the most revered deities? Agamemnon’s arrogance knows no bounds.”

You didn’t respond as your mind raced.

The sickness had started slow, barely noticeable amidst the chaos of war. But it was spreading now, its shadow growing longer with each passing day.

And if Briseis was right—if Apollo’s wrath was to blame—then the consequences could be catastrophic.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The war tent was filled with tension as the Greek leaders gathered for the meeting. The usual boasting and camaraderie were absent, replaced by grim faces and quiet murmurs.

Penelope stood at the head of the table, her expression composed but unyielding. You were by her side, your gaze sharp as you scanned the area.

The air buzzed with frustration over the war’s progress—or lack thereof.

Raids on Trojan towns had bolstered the Greek supplies, but Hector, along with Aeneas and Sarpedon, had launched devastating nighttime assaults on the Greek camps, damaging morale and resources.

Though the fortifications held strong—a testament to the ingenuity of the Greek engineers. As the discussion shifted to strategy, Diomedes suddenly spoke up, his booming voice cutting through the silence.

“We have more pressing matters than Trojan reinforcements,” he said gravelly. “This sickness spreading through the camp cannot be ignored.”

Agamemnon scoffed from his place at the table, his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s the chill in the air,” he said dismissively. His voice carried the tone of a man accustomed to command. “Common enough for this time of year. The nights grow colder; men grow weaker. It’s the nature of war. We’ll endure.”

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed as you studied Agamemnon. His casual dismissal grated against the rising anxiety in the tent and you couldn’t hold back your tongue any longer.

“Oh?” you drawled, your voice cutting through the gathering. All eyes turned to you, and you didn’t miss the flicker of irritation in Agamemnon’s gaze.

You tilted your head as a wry smile curl your lips. “And it has nothing to do with your defiling of the God of Medicine and Light's temple? Stealing the daughter of one of his priests no less.” You clicked your tongue in mock disapproval, shaking your head.

Agamemnon’s composure faltered for a split second before he quickly regained it, though a faint flush crept up his neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said sharply, his voice tinged with defensiveness.

“Don’t you?” you shot back. “Word spreads quickly my King. You took Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, from Apollo’s temple. Desecrating sacred ground, stealing a priest’s child. Do you truly believe the God of Plagues would let that go unanswered?”

Murmurs rippled through the tent.

Some of the lords exchanged alarmed glances while others murmured in disbelief. Achilles leaned forward slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched the exchange.

Even Penelope, ever composed, arched a brow, her sharp gaze cutting to Agamemnon.

The Mycenae King's eyes darted nervously, but he quickly masked his discomfort with bluster. “T-this is nonsense! The Gods meddle where they please, but this sickness is no divine punishment. We have more important matters—”

“More important than stopping a plague?” Penelope interrupted sharp and cuttingly. “Ignoring the possibility of Apollo’s wrath is a dangerous gamble. If this sickness spreads unchecked we’ll lose more men to disease than to battle. Or do you intend to lead an army of corpses?”

You pressed the point further. “We’ve all heard of the little love Poseidon has for Apollo. Troy reveres the healing God, their temples shining with offerings while his rival—Poseidon—watches from the shadows. Use that rivalry to our advantage. A ceremony to honor the God of Sea’s protection could turn his favor to our fleets. A shield against Apollo’s wrath.”

The suggestion hung in the air for a moment. A few generals exchanged glances, the wheels of possibility turning behind their eyes.

Even Diomedes, who had been leaning against the edge of the table with a skeptical look, straightened slightly as he considered your words.

But Agamemnon’s laughter cut through like a blade—cold and condescending. “And what then? Shall we anger Athena? Or Hera? Do you truly believe that aligning ourselves with Poseidon will win us favor while spurning the Gods who have guided us this far? Shall we invite even more chaos into this war?”

His voice carried, the weight of his authority swaying the wavering opinions. You narrowed your eyes, your jaw tightening as his argument took root.

“Chaos?” you repeated, incredulous. “As if Apollo has not already brought chaos to our camp? As if more of your pride will not doom us further? A prayer—an offering, costs us nothing but time. Yet it may save us from being consumed.”

Agamemnon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. His gaze locked with yours, a battle of wills waging between you.

He could see the cracks forming in his support, see the men weighing your words against his, and that knowledge only seemed to deepen his stubborn resolve.

“It is a distraction,” he insists. “We are here to fight, not to appease every whim of every God. This sickness will run its course as all things do. We must focus our strength on Troy—not on the winds of divine discontent.”

The shift in the room was palpable.

Agamemnon’s carefully chosen words—rooted in pragmatism and veiled self-preservation—were enough to sway the hesitant. The murmurs of agreement grew louder, and the weight of his authority carried the moment.

Your jaw clenched as frustration simmered beneath your calm exterior. Penelope placed a steady hand on your forearm, a subtle gesture to remind you of the bigger picture, even as her expression remained stoic.

You glanced at the gathered leaders, at the faces of those who now sided with Agamemnon, and bit back the sharp retort rising to your lips.

Prideful as he was, Agamemnon had succeeded in turning the tide in his favor—for now.

You instead decided to focus your gaze on the map before you, studying the markings as if willing them to distract you from the boiling anger within.

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow.” Penelope began, her calm voice cutting through the remaining tension. “Until then, prepare your men.”

Agamemnon was the first to leave amongst the generals and leaders filing out.

He yanked Chryseis forward with a rough tug of her jeweled chain as he stormed out causing the girl stumbled to keep pace, her head still bowed, her expression blank.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you forced yourself to look away.“Arrogant bastard,” you muttered under your breath, barely audible.

Finally, without looking at your Captain, you said, “I’m going to check on the men. Need some air.”

Penelope didn’t respond, but you caught the faintest incline of her head in your peripheral vision. With that, you turned on your heel and stepped out of the tent into the cool night air.

The sun had long since set and the camp was alive with the flicker of torches lining the walkways, their warm glow casting long shadows on the worn paths.

The hum of activity—the distant laughter, the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic clang of hammers repairing armor—filled the air as you began your walk toward the Ithacan quarters.

You didn’t get far before a familiar voice called out behind you.

“____!”

You turned to see Polites jogging toward you. A smile curved your lips as you slowed down to let him catch up. “Polites,” you greeted warmly as he stopped before you, slightly out of breath. “What brings you here?”

Polites adjusted his glasses and offered a faint smile in return. “I could ask you the same,” he said, his tone light but curious. “Where are you off to?”

You tilted your head. “Same as always,” you lightly explained as he fell into step beside you “Routine rounds, just making sure everything is in order.”

For a while neither of you spoke, choosing to move in comfortable silence. Though there was a weight to it that you couldn’t quite place.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Polites stealing glances at you, his head dipping quickly each time you turned in his direction. A soft chuckle almost escaped you but you held it back for his sake.

His usual composure when around other soldiers was nowhere to be found. His hand brushed absently against the hilt of his sword, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm, while his other hand fiddled with the edge of his tunic.

It wasn’t like Polites to be so fidgety, but the slight pink tint blooming across his nose was telling. He was flustered.

A small smile creeps on your face but you keep it hidden enough to avoid embarrassing him. The poor man was working himself into knots; opening his mouth as though to speak only to close it again just as quickly.

Each failed attempt seemed to make him more determined despite the words he sought refusing to come. It was almost endearing the way he struggled.

Out of kindness you decided to pretend not to notice and let him grapple with his nerves in peace. Instead you focused on the glow of the torches and the soft crunch of dirt beneath your sandals.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silent deliberation, Polites took a breath and parted his lips parting as he seemed ready to speak—

“Well...isn't this a rare sight.”

The familiar teasing tone of Patroclus cut through making you and Polites both stop walking. Odysseus' childhood friend stiffens at the interruption, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword as he cast an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

Patroclus approached with his usual casual stride as a mischievous grin tugs at his lips. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us,” he added, his voice laced with mock disappointment.

Briseis darted ahead of him, her smaller frame illuminated by the flickering torchlight. She reached your side quickly, her wide smile as bright as ever.

“You’re not avoiding us are you?” she asked playfully, her tone so innocent it made you chuckle despite yourself.

Polites’ expression darken as Patroclus came to a stop a few paces away. The soldier’s hand dropped from his sword hilt, but his posture remained tense, his back rigid as though bracing for whatever quip the Myrmidon would throw next.

“Ah Polites.” Patroclus’s grin widened as his gaze flicked between the two of you. “Always so serious. Lighten up will you? It’s a beautiful night.”

Polites’ only response was a curt nod, his lips pressing into a thin line as he adjusted his glasses. His frustration was evident though he made no move to voice it.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, his usual composure unraveling under the weight of Patroclus’ playful taunts.

Before you could intervene Achilles appeared. He said nothing at first, his green eyes taking in the scene with a knowing glint.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said finally, his tone calm but edged with subtle amusement. “Don’t tease too much. You’ll scare them off.”

Patroclus smirked but stepped back slightly, though the mischievous glint in his eyes didn’t fade. “Fine fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But I still say you’d look stunning in that ceremonial dress for Poseidon.”

The comment was aimed at you, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Is that all you think about?” you asked dryly, though your tone carried no real bite.

Polites, however, bristled visibly. His lips thinned further and his hand twitched as though he were considering drawing his sword after all.

Before the tension could escalate further the sound of approaching footsteps drew everyone’s attention. Turning, you saw Penelope approaching while being flanked by Diomedes, Eurylochus, and Nestor.

The sight of them together was striking and enough to make your brows furrowing in mild confusion. Penelope’s eyes met yours and she sighed. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said with an amused huff. “They insisted.”

You could only stare as you wait for her to elaborate.

It was Diomedes who stepped forward, his towering frame and commanding aura drawing the focus of everyone present. His sun-bronzed skin glowed faintly in the torchlight, and his long dark locs framed his rugged yet approachable face.

“To hell with Agamemnon’s dismissal,” he said simply, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate around you. “We’ve decided to proceed with the ceremony for Poseidon whether he likes it or not.”

You blinked, taken aback by his straightforwardness.

Diomedes continued, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I always knew Agamemnon was a coward at heart. Hesitation was my own failing for not speaking out earlier, not yours.”

The weight of his words hung in the air and you found yourself momentarily speechless.

“You’ve proven your judgment time and again—you and Penelope,” Diomedes continued, his warm eyes meeting yours directly. “I, for one, am done doubting it.”

Nestor, the elder general, stepped forward with a measured nod. “Wisdom doesn’t always come with age...I’ll admit when I’ve been blind. Your plan for Poseidon is a sound one and we would be fools not to heed it.”

Penelope moved closer, her hand brushing lightly against your arm. “This is your call,” she said softly. “We trust you.”

Glancing around at the faces surrounding you, you finally release a breath, a slow smile spreading across your lips.