𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 17. A KING'S FOLLY

❝Beware the fury of a patient (wo)man.❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

War on Troy: Year 8

Months of recovery had been both a blessing and a curse.

The injury—courtesy of Pandarus’ arrow—had robbed you of your strength, confining you to the Greek camp while the war raged on.

Every movement reminded you of your limitations; the stiff pull of scar tissue across your chest, the subtle thrum of pain when you twisted too sharply.

And though you hated the forced idleness the time allowed you to focus on strategy and planning—a skill you had honed long before you ever picked up a sword.

Now maps and scrolls covered every surface of your tent. Marked with lines and annotations in your hand, they depicted troop movements, choke points, and possible routes to weaken Troy.

You poured over them daily, refining and updating your plans as new reports came in from the battlefield.

Today the camp was quiet. Most of the commanders—Penelope, Polites, Diomedes, Eurylochus, even Achilles and Patroclus—were away either fighting or managing supplies.

That left you alone with Briseis and Chryseis who had become your frequent companions.

Briseis, now sixteen, had grown into a confident and capable young woman. Her sharp wit and fierce determination made her a force to be reckoned with.

Chryseis, at eighteen, had shed much of the timidness that once defined her. Though still reserved, she carried herself with a quiet strength, her resolve shining through in the small acts of defiance she had learned from Briseis—and from you.

Together they filled your days with warmth and a sense of purpose, pulling you out of the dark spirals of frustration that often accompanied your confinement.

Briseis was perched on a stool across from you as she polished a dagger with meticulous care. She glanced up occasionally, her bright eyes full of questions while watching you scrawl on a fresh sheet of parchment.

“So,” she began, breaking the silence, “what’s the plan this time? Another brilliant strategy to outmaneuver Hector?”

You smirked without looking up. “Something like that.”

Chryseis sat nearby as she organize a small pile of medicinal herbs she had collected from the camp’s stores. You noticed the way her gaze lingered on you in concern.

“Does it ever get easier?” she asked softly, her voice tinged with hesitation.

You paused, setting your quill aside to meet her gaze. “What do you mean?”

Chryseis glanced at Briseis then back to you. “Fighting. Losing people. Knowing there’s no end in sight.”

The question hung in the air. Briseis stilled, dagger forgotten as she turned her attention to you.

You leaned back in your chair. “No. It doesn’t get easier.”

Chryseis looked down, her hands tightening around the herbs.

“But,” you continued firmly, “it doesn’t mean you stop. You find reasons to keep going. People to protect....a home to return to. And when you can’t find a reason? You make one.”

Briseis grin lightened the mood. “See Chryseis? That’s why she’s our fearless leader.”

You rolled your eyes but a small smile tugged at your lips.

The sound of a distant horn interrupted the moment, drawing all three of your attention. Though it was a signal from the battlefield it carried no urgency—likely news of another skirmish.

Briseis rose swiftly. “I’ll go see if there’s any word on Achilles.”

Chryseis followed, gathering the herbs she had organized into a pouch. “I’ll check the infirmary. They might need help.”

You watched them go, a sense of pride swelling in your chest. They had both come so far since you first met them—Briseis the spirited survivor and Chryseis the quiet fighter.

They reminded you of yourself in some ways even if their paths had been far different.

Their growth brought a flicker of hope to the bleakness of war. If they could rise above their circumstances, perhaps there was a chance for all of you to endure.

The hope was short-lived.

Reports filtered in over the following days of Achilles’ relentless campaigns. The towns of Pedasus and Antandrus had fallen under his hand, their resources stripped to sustain the Greek forces.

Trojan allies, including the Mysians and Carians, had been overrun, their armies scattered or destroyed. Yet the Trojans refused to falter.

Reinforcements from Glaucus and Sarpedon bolstered their supply lines while Hector’s unyielding strength kept the Greeks from gaining the upper hand.

Even now, months after your injury, the war was at a standstill—a brutal tug-of-war that left both sides battered and bloodied and no closer to glory.

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

War on Troy: Year 9

Life at this point had become a rhythm of monotony—a grueling repetition that stretched the spirit thin.

Days blended together with no decisive victories, only the endless sound of swords clashing, soldiers groaning, and the heavy stench of blood and sweat that clung to the air.

For nine years the siege on Troy had dragged on. And now the arrival of spring Demeter’s touch brought a cruel juxtaposition: blossoms emerged from the earth vibrant and fragrant, birds sang in the mornings, and the fields surrounding the camp glimmered with new life.

Yet within the Achaean encampment death lingered like a shadow.

Sitting in your tent you exhaled deeply, the familiar ache of weariness settling into your bones. The faint hum of activity outside drifted through the thin canvas wall, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal or barked orders.

War felt like an eternal gamble, each day’s skirmish tilting the odds without ever declaring a winner. And as you stared at the map spread across your table, your thoughts drifted to the state of the Achaean forces.

Apollo’s plague had ravaged the camp for three relentless years. Soldiers fell to it by the dozens while those who recovered were shadows of their former selves, their strength drained and their will dulled.

The Achaean army had been weakened by divine wrath.

A sudden burst of movement interrupted your reflection. The flap of your tent was thrown open and Chryseis burst in, her face alight with a joy so rare it momentarily dispelled the somber atmosphere.

“He’s here!” she exclaimed with excitement. “My father...he’s come!”

You rose quickly, her enthusiasm pulling you from your thoughts. Chryseis’ usually composed demeanor was gone and replaced by unrestrained elation.

You followed her as she nearly ran toward the center of the camp, weaving through clusters of soldiers and tents. At the heart of it all stood Chryses.

The priest for Apollo's golden and white robes shimmered in the sunlight, their intricate embroidery glinting like sacred fire. His face, though lined with age and weariness, bore the unmistakable dignity of a man of faith.

His dark streaked with silver hair was tied back neatly as his brown eyes mirrored the warmth and strength you often saw in Chryseis. When his gaze landed on his daughter his expression softened, seeming as though years fell away from his weary visage.

Two servants struggling to carry the weight of a large gilded chest followed close behind him. When Chryses gestured toward it they moved to place it before the assembly.

The lid creaked open revealing an impressive collection of gold coins, precious gems, and ornate trinkets—a King’s ransom and then some.

“I have come for my daughter,” Chryses declared, his voice carrying a lithe of desperation. “Every coin, every jewel, every ounce of wealth I could spare over the years...all to see my daughter returned to me.”

The camp fell silent as soldiers and generals alike turned their attention to the priest’s words. His plea hung heavy in the air, a flicker of hope cutting through the gloom.

Chryses continued as stepped closer to the gathered men. “I have prayed to Apollo every day asking for mercy. I have begged him to spare your lives despite your actions. I come now with this offering—not for me but for all of you. Return my daughter and Apollo will relent. The sickness that plagues your army will cease. The dead will stop piling up.”

The Greek lords exchanged glances, some nodding with a sense of urgency, others whispering their agreement. But one man remained unimpressed.

Agamemnon sneered. He rose slowly, his armor catching the light and strode forward.

“You dare to demand terms from me priest?” he spat with disdain. “Your daughter was taken as a spoil of war—as is my right. Do not think that your trinkets or God will change that.”

The air grew thick with tension as Chryses’s face tightened. “Do not dishonor the Gods, King of Mycenae. Apollo’s patience is not infinite.”

Agamemnon’s lip curled in derision. “I am not afraid of Apollo or your empty threats. Take your gold and go.”

Chryses straightened, his hands shaking with fury as he stared at the arrogant King.

“Then may Apollo’s wrath be upon you!” his voice boomed like thunder. “When you are begging for mercy, remember this moment.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, his robes billowing as he disappeared into the shadows of the camp.

The plague worsened.

Within days of Chryses’s departure the sickness transformed into a deadly scourge. Soldiers fell by the dozens, their bodies wracked with fever and boils. Even generals weren’t spared.

The once-proud Greek arm that had stood united against Troy was now crumbling under the weight of Apollo’s vengeance.

By the time a week had passed the death toll was catastrophic. The air reeked of sickness and despair, the cries of the dying echoing through the camp.

Agamemnon could no longer deny the devastation. Though it wasn't until the meeting where the camp’s most respected leaders had gathered to turn their scorn on him did he truly relented.

When Chryses returned to the camp his expression was unreadable as a glimmer of satisfaction shone in his eyes.

The atmosphere was starkly different from his first visit. The soldiers, once dismissive, now parted to let him pass, their faces pale with fear and desperation.

This time Agamemnon’s tone was begrudging but conciliatory. “I have wronged you,” he admitted, each word forced from his lips like pulling teeth. “Take your daughter to appease your God.”

Chryseis stepped forward hesitantly. When Chryses opened his arms she flew into them, burying her face in his chest.

He held her tightly, his fingers cradling the back of her head. “My daughter,” he whispered as tears streamed down his cheeks. “You are safe.”

Chryseis sobbed against his chest as the fear and separation melted away in his embrace. For the first time in years, father and daughter were reunited, their joy a beacon of light amidst the darkness of war.

Soldiers watched in silence, some averting their eyes out of respect while others struck by the raw emotion of the moment.

Chryses turned to the gathered generals. “I thank you for this. Apollo will keep his word. The sickness will lift.”

For a moment hope seemed to bloom in the camp....

“I will return Chryseis,” Agamemnon drawls as he stood at the center of the gathering. “Only if Briseis is given to me as compensation.”

...until it didn't.

The words hung in the air like a curse.

You felt your blood run cold before the fury ignited in your veins.

“What?!” Achilles’ voice thundered as he stepped forward. “You dare make such a demand after the disgrace you’ve already brought upon this army?”

“Watch your tone,” Agamemnon sneers, his gaze flicking dismissively to the enraged warrior.

Achilles took another step forward, his presence almost suffocating as he loomed over the King. Patroclus, standing just behind him, gripped his shoulder, his own expression a mixture of disbelief and tightly restrained anger.

“You insult the Gods, disrespect your allies, and now you think you can take what is ours?” He gestured toward Briseis who stood a few paces behind him, her wide eyes darting between the men. “She is not a thing to be traded Agamemnon. Have you no sense of honor?”

“Honor? Do not speak to me of honor Achilles. You prance about this camp as if you are a King.” Agamemnon’s face twisted into a smug grin. “Perhaps this will remind you where your place truly lies.”

“And what of her place?” you snapped stepping in. The dull throb of your healing wound was nothing compared to the fiery rage bubbling within you. “She is no prize to be bartered.”

Agamemnon’s gaze shifted to you and his sneer deepened. “Oh how the loyal dog of Ithaca love to bark. Do not think your injury excuses insolence.”

“You’ll hear more than barking if you so much as touch her,” you shot back, your hand falling to the hilt of your dagger.

Before the tension could erupt into violence a soft but firm voice broke through the chaos.

“It's okay.”

Briseis stepped forward, her head held high despite the tears shimmering in her eyes. Her voice was steady even when the weight of her decision was clear in every syllable. “I...will go.”

“Briseis no!” Achilles protests as he turns to her with desperation. Patroclus’s hand fell from his shoulder, his expression one of deep sorrow.

You moved closer. “We can fight for you, protec—”

“I know,” she interrupts gently. “But the war is more important than me. If my sacrifice can keep us united then so be it.”

Achilles’ fists clenched at his sides till his knuckles went white. “This isn’t unity. This is cowardice disguised as leadership.”

Briseis reached up, her small hand resting briefly on his forearm. “You taught me to stand tall no matter the circumstances. Let me show you I’ve learned.”

The lump in your throat was hard to swallow as you watched her turn to Patroclus. He met her gaze with a fatherly tenderness, his lips pressed into a firm line to keep from trembling.

Reaching out, he brushes a stray strand of hair from her face before stepping back, unable to watch as she walked away.

Achilles spun on his heel and stormed off. The force of his departure made the men around him stumble back, his fury almost tangible.

“Achilles!” Patroclus calls out. He glances back at Briseis one last time before he disappears into the crowd after him.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The farewell was bittersweet.

Chryseis, now free, made her way to each of the companions who had shown her kindness. She hugged Penelope, Polities, and Diomedes; her whispered words of gratitude too soft to hear.

When she reached Nestor the elder offered her a kind smile and pat on the shoulder. Finally, she turned to Briseis and you.

“I owe you both,” she said, her voice filled with emotion. To Briseis she adds, “Tell Achilles and Patroclus goodbye for me. I’ll never forget what you all did for me.”`

The two young women embraced tightly, their shared bond clear in the way they clung to each other. It was then you noticed the matching braided bracelets on their wrists—a small but poignant symbol of the connection they had forged.

The sight tugged at something deep within you as it a reminded you of your own bracelets with Penelope.

When Chryseis hugged you last her grip was firm, almost as if she were drawing strength from the moment. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

You watched as she mounted a horse and rode off with her father, their forms growing smaller as they disappeared into the distance.

The departure of Chryseis had left the camp eerily quiet. A quiet that was shattered by Agamemnon’s bark of command.

“Briseis! To me!”

Briseis stiffened but obeyed, her movements stiff and mechanical.

As she reached Agamemnon, his hand shot out, yanking her roughly by the hair. A rippled moved through the onlookers as he spat cruelly, “You’ve grown far too comfortable among men haven’t you? Perhaps I’ll remind you of your place.”

The world tilted.

All you could see was him—his smug face twisted with contempt as he yanked the young teen's head back, spitting venomous words that echoed in your mind like a war drum.

The anger in your chest burned white-hot, an eclipsing reason until...Something snapped.

You moved before you even realized it.

Your feet carried you across the distance in a blur as your hand reached for your dagger. By the time Agamemnon noticed your approach it was too late.

Your shoulder collided with his chest. He released a harsh grunt as you drove him to the ground, the sheer force of the impact knocking the wind out of him.

The generals and soldiers alike all froze from surprise.

You didn’t stop.

Knees pinned his chest as you straddled him, the weight of your anger beard down like a physical force. His face twisted in pain and his mouth opened in a wheezing gasp for air.

Your dagger was already at his throat, the edge biting into his skin with enough force to draw blood and force him to remain still.

The sounds around faded, voices distant and meaningless as your own breathing filled your ears. The sight of Briseis—her wide, tearful eyes—flashed in your mind.

“Touch her again,” you hissed with suppressed rage, “and I swear I’ll kill you.”

Agamemnon’s eyes were wide, darting around as if searching for someone to intervene. He tried to speak but your blade shifted, pressing against his Adam’s apple causing him to choke on his words.

Your hands trembled with a mix of fury and adrenaline as your eyes locked onto Agamemnon’s with wide and almost deranged with shaking pupils.

“I have grown tired of these games Agamemnon.” Your voice shook in rage as you leaned in closer. “You call yourself a King? A leader? You’re a coward Agamemnon. Nothing more than a pompous coward hiding behind a title.”

“Get...off me,” Agamemnon wheezed, his hands finding purchase on your thighs as he attempted to push you away.

Your lips curled into a humorless smile. “Why? So you can spew more of your pathetic insults? Or maybe so you can hurt her again?” The edge of your dagger nicked his throat again causing another bead of blood to drip and stain his tunic.

“You’re mad!” he gasped. “You—”

“You think this is madness?” Your voice dropped to a deadly whisper, a cold smile twitching at the corners of your lips. “I’ll show you madness if you touch even a single strand of her hair after tonight.”

Shouts erupted. But none dared to come too close.

“If I find out you’ve dishonored her in any way,” you continued, the blade pressed harder against his throat causing even more blood to slip down his skin. “I will hunt you down. I’ll drag you to Hades myself if I have to Agamemnon.”

The King’s face went deathly pale. His eyes darted around again, his once overbearing arrogance reduced to defeated silence.

“To make sure you are thrown into the darkest pits of the Underworld...where not even the Gods will hear your screams.”

“____ please,” you hear Briseis’ plea through the haze. “Don’t do this.”

With the sound of her voice grounding you, your grip on the dagger slowly loosens.

You take in a shuddering breath as Diomedes appears, his strong hands gripping your shoulders firmly but not harshly.

“That's enough,” he says gently. “Let him go.”

Your breathing was uneven as you glanced down at Agamemnon, his face a mix of fear and humiliation. You finally pull the dagger away.

The Mycenae King coughed and sputtered as you climbed off him. He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly as he pressed a shaking hand to the shallow cuts on his neck.

“Do remember what I said Agamemnon.” Your cold voice breaks the silence. “If I find out you’ve so much as laid a finger on her, I’ll make sure your name is erased from history. Do you understand me?”

He stares at you, his jaw tight, before giving a single jerky nod. The camp remained eerily quiet as he stalked off, his soldiers trailing behind him like shadows.

Briseis stood a few paces away. She opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it again, instead giving you a small nod before turning to follow Agamemnon to his tent.

You stayed rooted to the spot as the realization what had just transpired settling over you like a storm cloud. Without a word you turned and strode away, ignoring the murmurs that followed in your wake.

It wasn’t until you reached the edge of the camp, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore in your ears, did you allow yourself to exhale.

For now it was over.