𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 15. THE WEIGHT OF WRATH

❝Good actions give strength to ourselves and inspire good actions in others.❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The makeshift altar stood on the shoreline, framed by the golden hues of the setting sun. Its construction was simple but reverent—a platform of driftwood and smooth stones covered with cloths of turquoise and gold salvaged from past raids.

You stood at the center of the gathering as you adjusted the hem of your dress—a flowing, pure white robe that hugged your form and shimmered faintly in the fading light.

The garment had been another spoils of war, intended for noble use but now serving a much higher purpose. Its elegance contrasted with the raw brutality of the world around you, and its snugness for sure didn’t escape the notice of certain individuals.

“You clean up well,” Achilles mused loudly. “Stunning if I must say. Can't imagine what you'll look like on your wedding day.”

Patroclus chuckled softly beside him. “You mean our wedding day Achilles?” he corrected teasingly, his voice low and laced with amusement. “I believe she’d look perfect with both of us.”

You shoot them both a glare over your shoulder while ignoring the warmth in your face. “This is a sacred ceremony,” you remind, though your voice held a hint of exasperated humor. “Behave or you’ll end up sacrificed yourselves.”

Achilles laughed at y your threat. “A noble death if its at your hand,” he coos. “I’ll make sure to look good for you even then.”

Before another word could be said Penelope cuts in with a sharp glance. “Enough flirting boys,” she said coolly as she adjusts one of the bowls with graceful efficiency. “She has a job to do.”

Polites was not far behind with a ceremonial vessel in hand. “Some of us are trying to work here.” He muttered as he passed by, shooting a glare toward Achilles and Patroclus.

Achilles raised his hands in mock surrender but the grin never left his face. “Noted.”

As preparations continued the group settled into a rhythm. Penelope focused on the placement of the offerings, Polites ensured everything was perfectly aligned, and even Diomedes helped light the torches.

The altar began to transform from a makeshift structure into a site worthy of divine attention.

Now all you had to do was wait for Briseis to retrieve the offering. The fourteen year old had been insistent to be the one to go and you had thought little of it at the time.

“Over here!”

All heads turned toward the voice from across the shoreline and froze at the sight. Briseis was guiding the pure white bull you had chosen for the ceremony, its coat gleaming like fresh snow in the fading sunlight.

The bull had been a deliberate choice after being found unharmed weeks ago during a raid—a rarity given the usual priorities of destruction and spoils. Upon first laying eyes on the creature, you were immediately brought to mind the story of Poseidon and King Minos of Crete and the unfortunate creation of the Minotaur.

Knowing this, you decided to keep the bull as a precaution in the event it might one day be used in a time of dire need. And by fate's luck, the precaution was very needed.

But it wasn’t the bull that captured your attention—it was the girl walking beside her: Chryseis.

The sixteen-year-old moved cautiously, her hands gripping the rope tightly as she also guided the bull forward.

She looked different here away from Agamemnon’s oppressive presence. Her face held a touch of color, her features softer and more youthful as though freed—if only briefly—from the weight of her suffering.

The group exchanged glances. You stepped forward addressing Briseis first. “What’s this?”

Briseis met your gaze with a faint smile. “She wanted to help,” she said simply.

Chryseis’ gaze flicked to you then away.

“I...would like to pray,” she said, her words halting but earnest. “Even if Poseidon is not my father’s God, I wish to...to show my gratitude. For those who have been kind to me.”

There was a pause before Briseis quickly added, “I told her about you. About what you’ve done for me.”

Your gaze bounced between the two girls. Something in Chryseis’ expression—a mix of fear and hope—spoke volumes. She was here because she trusted Briseis, and because Briseis trusted you.

“How did you manage this?” you asked Briseis, lowering your voice slightly.

She shifted on her feet but didn’t falter. “I paid some of Agamemnon’s men. Promised them I’d speak to you and Achilles about transferring them to our troops—yours or his.” Her voice dropped further. “They smuggled her out while he was...drunk.”

Your jaw tightened at the thought but you were satisfied. “And she’s been speaking with you?”

Briseis nodded. “Whenever we had the chance. She told me everything—how Agamemnon took her, how...he treats her. I couldn’t just leave her there.”

You studied the teen for a second longer then glanced back at Chryseis. The girl was still standing by the bull, her fingers trembling slightly as she stroked its side. There was a quiet bravery in her that made you soften.

“Alright,” you said gently. “She can stay.”

As the group prepared to begin the ceremony Chryseis hesitantly approached the altar. She introduced herself formally, her words slow but deliberate.

“My father is Chryses, a priest of Apollo. I...I know my prayers may not be heard by Poseidon but if I can do anything to help—” She faltered, her eyes darting to you. “I would like to try.”

You smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. “The Gods hear sincerity regardless of where it comes from. You’re welcome here.”

Briseis stood beside her while offering a reassuring nod. Achilles and Patroclus, who had been watching with uncharacteristic silence, exchanged glances. Of course Achilles couldn’t help himself.

“Doesn’t she look radiant?” he said with a smirk, gesturing toward you. “Like a Goddess.”

Patroclus leaned against his Captain as he grinned. “I was thinking the same.”

You rolled your eyes in exasperation. “If you two don’t shut up...”

“Yeah yeah sacrifice us if we keep on,” Achilles quipped, earning a snort from Patroclus.

Polites, who had been standing nearby, shot them both a glare as he steps closer as if to shield you from their antics. “Do they ever stop?”

“Not likely,” Penelope chimes dryly. She hands you the ceremonial blade, her fingers brushing yours briefly.

With the group gathering around the altar the atmosphere grew solemn. You lifted your arms slowly, palms facing outward as your voice broke the stillness.

“Poseidon, Earth-Shaker, Ruler of the Deep, we stand humbly upon the sands of your domain.”

Penelope stepped forward with a silver basin in her hands. She dipped her fingers into the sacred water it held, droplets shimmering as she let them fall upon the bull’s head.

“We honor you with this offering,” you continued. “A creature of purity, strength, and beauty. May it please you and may it ease the tremors of this earth and the storm of battle we now face.”

Polites and Eurylochus, standing tall and solemn as sentinels, exchanged brief glances before resuming their vigil.

“For your grace,” you intoned, your voice softening, “we seek safe passage, the strength of your tides, and the unyielding will to endure what lies ahead.”

Briseis knelt beside Chryseis, her hand resting lightly on the girl’s back as she guided her through the motions of the ritual. Chryseis trembled but whispered her own prayers, her words too soft to be heard, her lips moving in a quiet harmony with yours.

Achilles and Patroclus, usually irreverent, now stood shoulder to shoulder with their gazes fixed on you. There was no jest in their expressions now—only an unspoken acknowledgment of the sacred weight of the moment.

You took a step closer to the altar and lift the ceremonial blade high causing its edge to get caught the last rays of the sun. The bull stood calm, its breathing deep and even, as if it too felt the significance of its role.

“Poseidon, who shakes the seas and steadies the earth....accept this offering. Lend us your strength, and let your favor carry us to victory!”

Lowering the blade to the bull’s throat, you paused, glancing briefly at each member of the group. They bowed their heads in unison as their breaths bated in silent unity.

“For what we do, we do in your honor,” you finished barely above a whisper. With a swift motion the blade met flesh.

The bull collapsed gracefully. Blood pooled quickly, staining the white cloth beneath it as it dripped into the shallow trench dug into the sand.

Waves seemed to rise and fall in time with the act, their actions now imbued with something deeper—something sacred.

The group remained silent as you lowered the blade, each member still bowing their head in respect until you spoke again.

“It’s done,” you said softly, your voice carrying over the sound of the ocean. “May Poseidon hear us, and may his mercy guide us.”

The waves crashed against the shore as if answering your call.

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

Weeks had passed since the tense meeting where you confronted Agamemnon. War had its rhythm—a steady grim cadence of strategies laid, battles fought, and losses tallied.

Yet amidst the familiar chaos a silent specter loomed over the Greek camp: the sickness.

It spread subtly with men falling ill one by one, their strength sapped till the point of unable to lift their swords or stand at their posts. Fevered murmurs carried tales of the dead piling up, their lifeless forms buried hastily outside camp to avoid further contamination.

As for Agamemnon, his paranoia grew with every passing day. He barked orders with increasing ferocity, his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness.

But the oddity—the cruel irony—was that not everyone succumbed to the sickness. Troops under Penelope, Achilles, Diomedes, and Nestor remained untouched.

Not one fell ill. Not one faltered.

Their vigor seemed almost divine, a stark contrast to the pallor spreading through the rest of the army. If anything they seemed stronger, sharper, and more resilient. Even their animals thrived while others’ grew lethargic or sickly.

It was an unspoken divide, a rift that no one dared to voice aloud.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The fires crackled softly at the heart of the Greek camp, the soft glow illuminating the aftermath of another hard-fought battle.

You sat on a rough-hewn log near the center of the camp's fire, the remnants of the fight still clinging to your body. Dirt streaked your face as traces of blood—your own and your enemies’—smudged the edges of your armor.

Piece by piece you unfastened the plates, wincing slightly at the soreness in your shoulders and the ache in your side. Each removed piece landed with a dull thud beside you.

Briseis sat nearby, wide-eyed and breathless, her hands working quickly as she wiped your weapons clean with a damp cloth.

“And then what happened?” she asked, her voice tinged with awe. “Did you really take down three men at once like Polites said?!”

You chuckled. “Polites has a talent for storytelling. It was two, not three. And one of them was already half-dead.”

Briseis huffed, clearly unsatisfied with your modesty and returned to cleaning the blade.

On the edge of the firelight Chryseis hovered hesitantly. She had been freer of late with Agamemnon bedridden from his illness.

Without his oppressive gaze looming over her, she seemed lighter, less haunted. But the shadows of her captivity lingered, visible in the way she avoided eye contact for too long and her tendency to shrink away from sudden movements.

She approached tentatively, clutching a small bundle of bandages and ointments. “Did you get hurt?” she asked softly.

You shook your head. “Just a few scrapes. Nothing worth fussing over.”

Still Chryseis edged closer, her hands gentle as she dabbed at a shallow cut on your forearm. The contrast between her timid presence and Briseis’ growing boldness didn’t escape you.

While Briseis had found her place in the chaos, Chryseis remained a forever wary shadow.

The camp was quieter than usual. The majority of troops recovering from the sickness still sweeping through the Greek forces.

Only the bannermen of Ithaca, Myrmidons, Argives, and Pylians had fought today; their strength bolstered by Poseidon’s favor. The battle had been grueling but the Greek forces had prevailed—thanks in no small part to their leadership.

You leaned back slightly, intending to humor Briseis with a few embellished tales of the day’s events when a hoarse yell shattered the relative calm.

“YOU!”

You turned to see Agamemnon staggering toward you. His pallid skin gleamed with sweat in the firelight, his tunic clinging to his trembling frame as his eyes burned with feverish intensity.

It was clear to see each step was not only unsteady but took tremendous effort. And yet, it seemed his rage was enough to propel him forward.

Chryseis stiffened as her face drained of color. Hands tightened around the bundle of bandages, she instinctively moved behind you, her body shrinking as if she could disappear entirely.

You rose to your feet despite the protest of your muscles. The soreness in your body bit at you but you forced yourself to stand tall before subtly shifting between Agamemnon and Chryseis to block his view of the frightened girl.

His delirium fueled gaze was wild. “This…this is your doing!” his voice cracked with fury. “This...this plague, this sickness—all of it!”

Your brows rose slightly. “My doing?” you repeated, calmy folding your arms across your chest. “Interesting theory Agamemnon. Care to elaborate?”

“Do not mock me!” he bellowed as he stumbled closer. The soldiers nearby exchanged glances, unsure whether to intervene. “You and that accursed Ithacan wench! You’ve poisoned this camp—undermined me!”

You kept your expression blank despite your fingers itching for the weight of your sword. “You’re mistaken,” you said evenly. “We’ve done nothing but fight to keep this camp standing.”

“Lies!” he roared, swaying dangerously as he pointed a trembling finger at you. “You think I don’t see it? You—both of you—plotting against me, turning my men against me. This sickness—this is punishment for your insolence!”

A firm voice suddenly cuts through.

“Enough.”

All eyes turned as Penelope stepped into the circle of firelight. She moved with grace, her posture taunt and her gaze sharp. The faint flicker of irritation in her expression was tempered by an air of unshakable authority.

Agamemnon turned to her. “You...” he hissed.

“Yes me,” Penelope replied evenly. She stopped beside you. “Perhaps instead of shouting baseless accusations, you should consider the possibility that your own arrogance has brought this upon us.”

Agamemnon’s lips curled into a sneer. “You dare—”

“How dare I?” Penelope interrupted, her voice rising. “How dare you defy the Gods by taking what was not yours? You defiled Apollo’s temple, stole his priest’s daughter, and now you wonder why the Gods have turned against you?”

Eyes dart between the two leaders.

Agamemnon’s face contorted in rage and humiliation, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his blade as if ready to lash out.

Before he could respond a shadow shifted behind him.

Achilles emerged from the edge of the shadows, his usual casual swagger noticeably absent. His eyes burned with a quiet intensity.

“King Agamemnon,” Achilles said, his voice deceptively calm. “Perhaps you should heed Queen Penelope’s words. You’re making quite the scene for a man too weak to stand properly.”

Agamemnon turned sharply toward the blond warrior, his fury momentarily redirected. “Ah the lion himself,” he sneered. “And what would you know Achilles? You spend more time in leisure than at the front lines. Perhaps if you fought more and dallied less we wouldn’t be losing ground!”

Achilles’s brow twitched, his mask threatening to crack. “Careful,” he said evenly. “I’d hate for your tongue to get you in trouble you can’t handle.”

The tension was suffocating but Agamemnon wasn’t finished. His eyes flicked back to you and his sneer became downright toxic.

“And you—the Ithacan Royals' pet project aren’t you? A stray plucked from the gutter.” he spat, his words dripping with malice. “You should’ve been sold to a brothel long ago. It’s where you belong, not here pretending to be a warrior. Penelope was a fool to keep you. Just like she’s a fool to think she can lead anything other than a loom!”

Briseis gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Chryseis froze, her grip on your tunic tightening to the point her knuckles turned white.

The words hit like a slap but you stood unmoving while Penelope’s eyes blazed with barely restrained fury.

But Achilles?

He didn’t even speak. His jaw tightened, and without a word, he reached down and picked up your sword—the one Briseis had just cleaned moments before.

The blade gleamed in the firelight as he held it in his hands, testing its weight with unnerving calmness.

“You forget yourself Agamemnon,” Achilles said as he glared with an intensity that made even seasoned soldiers step back. “You forget that the very hands holding the lines for you, the reason we’ve made it this far belong to women.”

Firelight glinting off his golden hair, his eyes burning with a fierce unrelenting anger.

“Women who have carried this war on their backs while you’ve sat on your throne of arrogance. Women who have bled, fought, and sacrificed in ways you’ll never understand.”

He took a step forward.

“A Queen. Someone who has done more for this war than you ever will in a hundred lifetimes. And yet you speak as if she is beneath you—as if her name sullies your wretched tongue.”

Another step.

“And ____. You dare to call her a stray...to say belongs in a brothel? That she’s pretending to be a warrior?!” his voice became cold as steel. “But maybe that’s what terrifies you. That a woman—a woman you insult—has more honor and strength in her than you could ever dream of. She's worth ten of you!”

His voice rose with each word, his fury breaking free like a dam giving way. By the time he reached the final step Achilles’ roar cut through the camp like a battle cry:

“AND I WILL MAKE SURE YOU NEVER FORGET IT!”

With a sudden fluid motion, Achilles lifted your sword high above his head, the blade catching the flickering light of the fires as if it burned with his wrath.

His intention was unmistakable—he was seconds away from bringing the blade down and beheading Agamemnon where he stood.

The camp was frozen in stunned silence as soldiers and generals alike  were too shocked to react. Agamemnon’s eyes widened in terror, his pale face seeming to drain of what little color it had left.

Just as Achilles swung the sword—

A metallic clang shattered the moment.

Diomedes had stepped forward, his own blade intercepting Achilles’s strike at the last possible moment. The force of the collision sent sparks flying into the night air.

“Stop!” Diomedes' voice cuts through the chaos like a whip.

The sheer strength of the impact skewed your sword to the side, the blade veering just inches from Agamemnon’s neck causing the King to stumble back and land unceremoniously on the ground.

“Stand down Achilles!” Diomedes barked, his tone sharp and commanding.

Achilles snarled as he glared at Diomedes. For a moment it seemed as though he might push forward regardless, his wrath consuming any sense of reason.

But the King of Argos was unfazed.

“You’ve made your point,” he continued, his blade still pressed against Achilles'. “There’s no honor in this. Let it go.”

The words seemed to pierce through Achilles’s rage. Slowly, he lowers the sword. His body still radiated tension but the blade dropped to his side.

Agamemnon, still on the ground, scrambled to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. He pointed a shaking finger at Achilles, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “You—this...this is treason!”

“Enough,” Diomedes cut him off. “You’re unwell Agamemnon. Return to your tent and rest before you embarrass yourself further.”

Agamemnon looked ready to retort but thought better of it. Face dark with humiliation, he turns on his heel and staggered off, his steps unsteady as he disappeared into the camp.

Achilles stood motionless as he watched him retreat, his breathing still heavy with the remnants of his anger. Diomedes clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Save it for the battlefield,” he said quietly.

Achilles nodded but his gaze was now focused on you. He hands the weapon back to you without a word, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he stepped back.

With that, he turned and walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the flickering shadows of the campfires.

Diomedes lets out a long breath, sheathing his blade as he turned to you and Penelope. “Get some rest. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

You could only nod, the heat of the moment lingering in your chest.

As the camp returned to its uneasy rhythm, you exchanged a glance with Penelope, her lips pressed into a thin line but her eyes filled with unspoken relief.

And as the fires burned low, the weight of what had just transpired settled heavily over the night.