𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 21. THE WRATH OF ACHILLES

❝Revenge is a confession of pain❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The shouts were deafening.

Your eyes shot open, the sharp noise of frantic voices accompanied by the heavy rhythm of soldiers stomping across the ground ripping you from your slumber.

Disoriented, you pushed yourself upright, clutching the blanket to your chest as your heart raced. The space next to you was empty, the furs and blankets tossed carelessly to the side.

“Achilles?” you called, voice still rough with sleep. Though deep down you already knew he wouldn’t answer.

You barely had time to process the situation before moving, throwing the blanket aside and scrambling for the nearest clothes. Your hands shook as you grabbed whatever fabric was within reach and slipped it on without a thought.

The pre-dawn sky was the first thing you saw upon stepping out the tent, the rising sun casting a surreal glow over the bustling camp.

Soldiers were everywhere; some stumbling out of their tents with disheveled hair and bleary eyes, others already fully armed and shouting orders as they rushed to and fro.

The air was thick with tension—the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

Grabbing the arm of the nearest soldier sprinting past, your grip was firm as you forced him to look at you. “What’s going on?” you demand urgently. “Did the Trojans attack?”

The man you stopped turned out to be Lycomedes, his grizzled face lined with both age and weariness. His eyes widened briefly before a slow grin spread across his lips. “Well...I’ll be,” he drawled, letting out a low whistle. “And here me and the boys was wondering where you’ve been all night. Guess ya been busy.”

It took you a moment to realize what he was implying, and when you did, your stomach dropped.

He gestured lazily toward the sleeve of your tunic—the sleeve of Achilles’ tunic—and your neck flushed with heat. You glanced down at yourself, realizing too late that in your haste you had thrown on his clothes instead of your own.

The fabric was loose on you, the faint scent of the man still clinging to it.

“Lycomedes,” you snapped, pulling the oversized sleeve back into place. “Focus. What’s going on?”

“Relax I’m getting there.” He chuckles while holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Though,” he adds, giving a pointed glance at the untamed mess of your hair and the collar of the tunic, where bruises and blossoms of purple trailed down your neck and further under the fabric, “you might want to check a mirror next time.”

Heat rushed to your face as you took a step back huffing, “Lycomedes!”

“Alright alright, no need to get defensive,” he said, though the glint in his eyes didn’t fade. The humor quickly drained from his face however, replaced by something far more serious.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted with furrowing brows. “But from what I’ve heard—and it’s mostly Agamemnon’s men shouting, so take it with a grain of salt—Achilles...he left the camp. Marched toward the Trojans. Alone.”

Dread washed over you, your breath catching. “What?”

Lycomedes nods grimly. “Yeah. He didn’t wait for anyone—didn’t even rally the Myrmidons. Just grabbed his chariot and we—”

Whatever Lycomedes was about to say next was drowned out by the sound of thunderous hoofbeats.

Both of your heads snapped toward the noise in time to see soldiers scrambling to clear a path. Awe and confusion coating their faces, the crowd parted like a sea, allowing a single chariot to emerged.

Achilles stood at its helm the front.

Gone was the warmth and passion he'd shown you mere hours ago. In their place was a mask of cold fury, his icy eyes fixed straight ahead as his chariot thundered forward.

But it wasn’t the sight of Achilles that sent a chill down your spine—it was what was tied to the back of the chariot, dragging behind it in the dirt.

A body.

Your breath hitched. The figure was barely recognizable, the face swollen and battered beyond recognition. But the armor—the bronze and gold armor—was unmistakable.

“Hector...”

The name left your lips in a breathless whisper, horror twisting through you like a blade. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the grisly sight: the lifeless body of the Trojan Prince bouncing against the uneven ground as the chariot sped past toward the center of the camp.

“I’ll be damned,” Lycomedes muttered beside you, his voice a mix of disbelief and grim satisfaction. “He really got the son of a bitch.”

You barely heard him. Your mind was spinning as you struggled to process what you were seeing.

Hector was dead.

Achilles had killed him. And not just that—he was desecrating the Prince’s body in a display so brazen it would send shockwaves through both the Greek and Trojan camps.

Your knees felt weak at the realization.

This wasn’t just a personal victory for Achilles; it was a statement, a declaration of war that would ripple across the battlefield and beyond. The Trojans would never forgive this.

And the Gods...

The Gods would not take kindly to this act of defiance.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The morning sun hung low in the sky as you adjusted the straps of your armor, the cool metal pressing firmly against your skin.

Fully dressed now in your own gear, you made your way to the center of the camp, the soreness lingering in your gait with every step—a constant reminder of Achilles’ earlier...vigor.

Your lips twitched into a grimace as a soft curse slipped from your thoughts. 'Damn him.'

The clamor of voices grew louder with each step. Lords, generals, and soldiers crowded the central clearing; their heated conversations spilling over each other in waves of tension.

The sound was almost deafening, but it wasn’t until you stepped through the crowd, weaving between broad shoulders and shifting feet, that you caught sight of the cause of it all.

There he was.

Achilles sat perched on a small wooden bench as he sharpened the edge of his spear. The steady scrape of the whetstone against the bronze tip cut through the noise, creating an almost rhythmic backdrop to the commotion around him. His face was impassive, eerily calm, though the rigid line of his jaw betrayed the simmering fire beneath the surface.

At his feet just inches away was Hector’s body.

The once-proud Trojan Prince was sprawled carelessly in the dirt. His armor had been stripped, his dark hair matted with blood, his body riddled with wounds from where he had been pierced and dragged.

This was no burial. This was a display—a trophy.

And yet Achilles sat there undisturbed as if the scene before him were nothing more than a mundane occurrence.

The generals were already surrounding him.

Among those gathered you recognized Menelaus. The King of Sparta was pacing furiously, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His sharp eyes darted between Hector’s body and Achilles as his lips twisted into a scowl.

Beside him stood Nestor, the oldest and wisest of the Greek generals, his white beard shifting as he muttered quiet words to Diomedes, who stood stiffly with his arms crossed, his piercing gaze fixed on Achilles.

You caught fragments of their words as you stepped closer: concern, outrage, warnings about the consequences of what he’d done.

“How can you be so cavalier about this?” Menelaus voice was harsh with disapproval as it carried above the others. “You’ve done something no man—no warrior—should dare to do.”

“You’ve brought shame to us!” Agamemnon barked, his face red with indignation. “Desecrating the body of a Prince—this is sacrilege!”

But Achilles remained unbothered as he continued to sharpen his spear. “It was necessary.” he says flatly.

“Necessary?” Diomedes repeated stiff with restrained anger. “What part of that was necessary?”

At that Achilles’ hand paused. The whetstone hovered mid-scrape as he slowly lifts his gaze to meet Diomedes’, his eyes blank.

Voice sharp and unyielding, he repeats once more, “It was necessary.”

The crowd fell silent at the weight of his words, their gazes flicking nervously between the furious Diomedes and the stoic Achilles.

But when you stepped through the ring of men, breaking the tense standoff, something shifted.

Achilles’ eyes softened the second he saw you. His rigid posture eased ever so slightly as a faint almost smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The whetstone resumed its motion, but slower this time, as his focus remained fixed on you.

The brief of calm didn’t last.

“Ah, so you've finally arrived” your stomach twists when Agamemnon steps forward, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he addressed you with a sneer. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into your lover here.”

Your jaw tightened at his words, but before you could respond, Agamemnon’s gaze shifted back to Achilles. “Tell him how foolish he’s been,” he continued. “Tell him what his actions have done. What this means for us. What the Gods will think of this. Of him!”

“I already told you,” Achilles cuts through the tension like a blade. “It was necessary.”

“Necessary,” Agamemnon spat, mockingly imitating Achilles’ tone. “Oh really? Was chasing Hector around Troy's walls—three fucking times—necessary? Was dragging his body across the battlefield, all the way back to camp necessary? He’s a Prince! Royalty! Have you lost your mind?”

Achilles stood abruptly, his spear clattering to the ground as he roared, “IT WAS NECESSARY!” His eyes blazed with fury as he took a step forward, the full force of his rage bearing down on Agamemnon. “Patroclus promised Hector's death would come at the end of my blade and I fulfilled that promise.”

Silence fell like a heavy curtain, the weight of his words settling over the camp.

Even Agamemnon, for all his bluster, faltered under the sheer intensity of Achilles’ gaze.

It was Penelope who finally broke the quiet. “Despite the risk...” she began, “it was for the best. Word says the Trojan camp are in disarray. Hector was their shining star. Without him they're crumbling—forcing them to scramble and delay their next attack.”

Diomedes nodded stiffly, face still tense but slightly less severe. “Good,” he said. “That gives us time to regroup. Perhaps even launch a surprise attack while they’re reeling.”

His gaze moved to Achilles causing the expression to harden again. “But you,” he points a finger at the son of Peleus, “for what you’ve done...there will be consequences.”

Achilles arched a brow as his lips curl into a faint smirk. “Consequences?” he echoed mockingly, though his tone remained casual. “What would you have me do Diomedes? Weep for Hector? Sing songs of his glory? Offer his body back to Troy with a bow on top?”

“You will do as I say!” Diomedes snapped firmly. “For the rest of the day you are confined to your tent. No battles. No skirmishes. Nothing.”

Achilles’ brow twitched, but he shrugged, his nonchalant demeanor returning. “No problem.” But then his voice dropped—colder than before. “Under one condition: It remains here. It will not be buried, nor returned to to Troy. It stays where it belongs—with me.”

He didn’t even refer to Hector by name, instead calling him “it,” a blatant display of disrespect that made even the most hardened soldiers shift uncomfortably.

Diomedes’ lips thinned. After a spell of tense silence, he gave a curt nod. “Fine,” he said. “But let’s make this clear: Any more reckless decisions like this and even your title as the greatest warrior won’t protect you.”

With that Diomedes turned, barking orders to the surrounding soldiers. The camp began to disperse, the crowd thinning as men returned to their duties.

But you couldn’t move. Your eyes remained fixed on Achilles who had already picked up his spear and resumed sharpening it as if nothing had happened.

Your feet itched to step forward to say something—anything. But a heavy weight held you back. Duty perhaps. Or fear.

“____!” The call of your name jolts you from your thoughts. Turning, you saw Polites weaving through the dissipating crowd, his face set in a serious expression.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries as he approached, instead diving straight into updates.

“We need to reposition the Ithacan forces near the eastern ridge,” he began in a clipped tone. “The Trojans have been setting up defenses in the lower valley, and if they advance overnight—”

He stops abruptly, his voice trailing off as his gaze settled on you. His brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side, studying you with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

“Are...are you alright?” The sharpness was replaced with genuine caution and concern.

Caught off guard, you blinked. “What? Yeah of course I’m fine. Why?”

Polites didn’t answer right away. Instead his eyes flicked over you, his expression growing more puzzled. His hand hesitated mid-air before finally gesturing to his own neck. “It’s just…there’s something on your neck.”

Your body went rigid; hand instinctively flying up to brush against the skin where you knew the aggressive love marks were hidden—or so you thought.

Apparently your armor hadn’t done a good enough job concealing the evidence.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, your voice a little too high-pitched. “It’s probably just a scratch from yesterday's battle.”

Polites raised a skeptical brow, his head tilting further as if to get a better look. “A scratch?” he repeats faintly. “Looks more like—”

“Polites!” You nearly choked out causing the poor man to jump.

“Y-yes?”

Heat floods your cheeks as you stepped back “Just—lead me to the situation,” you sputtered, trying to regain some semblance of control. “The Trojans. The Ithacan forces. Focus!”

A sudden laugh drew your attention before he could respond. You turned to see Achilles watching you from a his seat, his lips curled into a sly smirk. He’d been observing the exchange the entire time—his amusement clear.

You shot him a glare, your embarrassment only deepening when he raised a brow and tilted his head as if silently daring you to come over.

Instead you turned back to Polites and grab his hand in haste. It wasn’t intentional,  just the closest thing of him you as you began to stormed off, dragging him behind you

But for a split second—just one fleeting moment—Polites froze. His wide eyes darted to where your hand clasped his, your fingers curling firmly around his palm.

'Oh Gods.'

It was as though the world had stopped for him.

The noise of the camp—the shouts, the murmurs, the clattering of weapons—faded...to nothing.

His face flushed a deep crimson, the tint creeping all the way to his ears, as a dreamy, almost dazed expression overtook his features. His lips parted slightly, and for that brief second, he looked utterly blissful.

'She’s holding my hand. She’s holding my hand....She’s actually holding my hand!'

It was like something out of the dreams he never dared to admit he had. A moment so surreal it nearly swept him away entirely. His steps slowed slightly as his mind wandered into dangerous territory. 'Maybe—'

Then, as if struck by lightning, Polites blinked rapidly. Reality crashed back down on him like a collapsing tent.

Wait. No. What was he doing?

He shook his head abruptly, his spectacles slipping slightly on his nose as a nagging thought from earlier had resurfaced

'Is it true? Are they—? No no she couldn’t…would she?' His face grew impossibly redder at the thought, his hand growing clammy in yours. He stole a glance at your embarrassed expression, trying to make sense of what he was feeling: confusion, longing, and, admittedly, a spark of jealousy.

"Commander," he starts tentatively, the crack in his voice betraying his nerves. "About what King Agamemnon said earlier of you being Achilles' lover..."

The moment you heard it your grip on his hand tightened involuntarily. For just a fraction of a heart beat, panic flickered, but you smothered it quickly with practiced ease.

You didn’t even glance back at him. “Drop it Polites.” Your command firmly.

"But—"

"I said drop it. That’s an order" Your voice came out sharper than intended.

You could already feel the heat crawling up your neck as Achilles’ laughter—low, rich, and maddeningly amused—echoed even louder from the distance, teasing your already frayed composure.

Refusing to look in his direction did nothing. You knew he was watching. And you knew he was enjoying this far more than he had any right to.

Polites, startled by the sudden change in your tone, pouted slightly but didn’t resist as you dragged him along.

Your pace quickened with each step, trying—and failing—to ignore the sound of Achilles’ laughter burning in your ears.

For a moment Polites wanted to protest. But then he stopped once his eyes fell back down at your intertwined hands.

A smile ghosted his lips before he quickly schooled his expression back to neutral. He didn’t know what to think; about you...about Achilles...about any of it.

But one thing was certain: his heart wasn’t going to stop pounding any time soon.