𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 26. A WARRIOR'S FAREWELL

❝The brave die never, though they sleep in dust: Their courage nerves a thousand living men❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The sun rose slowly over the horizon causing golden rays to spill across the land like a reluctant promise of a new day.

Though its warmth was comforting, it did little to soothe the chill that had settled into Penelope’s chest. The soft clip of horse hooves against the hardened dirt was the only sound as she approached the outskirts of the camp, her lips pressed into a firm line.

Three days since Achilles’ death...

Three days since a hole had been carved through the Greek forces.

The camp was quiet—unusually so. Soldiers moved with somber efficiency, their voices hushed, their faces shadowed by grief. The Ithacan Queen herself had been quiet too.

She gripped the reins tighter, her jaw set. Beside her rode Eurylochus—ever silent, ever stoic; his presence a reminder of their shared duty.

They had just returned from a diplomatic envoy to Troy where King Priam had promised a truce for mourning—a gesture Penelope knew to be as much about respect as it was necessity. But even with this progress she couldn’t shake the weight that clung to her.

Because in those three days, she hadn’t seen you.

Not since the battle.

The image of you that day haunted her. She had been stationed with the Ithacan troops in the back ranks, holding the rear as the battle raged ahead.

Word of Achilles' death spread like wildfire carried by panicked messengers and soldiers alike.

At first she hadn’t believed it.

Achilles was invulnerable, untouchable. The Prince of Pthia had been more than a man—he was an unstoppable and unrelenting force. To hear that Paris’ arrow, guided by Apollo, had struck his mortal heel seemed impossible.

But as the whispers spread and became louder and more frantic, the truth of it began to sink in.

Her thoughts had immediately gone to you.

Without hesitation she mounted the nearest horse, barking orders at Eurylochus and Polites to take temporary command as she rode toward the front lines.

Every gallop carried her closer to the carnage, and with it her dread deepened. When she arrived she saw nothing but bodies. The stench of iron and sweat filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t the sight of the corpses that stopped her breath.

It was you.

Your axe was gripped tightly in your bloodied hands, its edge dripping crimson as you slaughtered Trojans with an almost inhuman fury, each swing of your weapon a death sentence for anyone who dared cross your path.

The rage in your eyes was something Penelope had never seen; something so raw and primal that it sent a chill down her spine. You were a storm—a relentless force of destruction that seemed unstoppable.

And the Trojans? They ran.

Despite their numbers they fled back toward the safety of their city walls out of sheer terror. And even when they reached the gates you didn’t stop.

Penelope had watched stunned as you struck the gates with the butt of your axe. The sound reverberated across the battlefield, a deep booming echo that sent shudders through the Greek and Trojan ranks alike.

“Paris! Murderer of Achilles!” Your voice rung out as you called for the Trojan Prince. “FACE ME!”

When no answer came you struck the gates again, the wood shaking beneath your rage.

From the towers above the Trojans watched with their bows and spears ready. Penelope had expected them to fire—to strike you down as you outside their walls. But then she saw it and understood why they didn’t.

Above you hovered the faint but unmistakable sigil of Ares. The glowing mark of the war God pulsed faintly in the air.

Too afraid of what divine retribution might come if they harmed you, the Trojans dared not to fire. Instead they waited from the safety of their walls for you to tire out. But you didn’t.

Not until the sun had set.

Penelope had called your name then despite the lump in her throat. Your eyes didn’t seem to focus on her. They were distant, far away as though you weren’t entirely there.

You said nothing.

You simply walked past her and others who had gathered, your steps slow and heavy as your axe hung limply in your hand, its blade dragging along the ground.

She remembered the moment they realized where you were going—back to where Achilles’ body lay. His golden armor seemed dull now, his lifeless form surrounded by the remnants of the battle he had fought so fiercely.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she watched you kneel beside him, your forehead brushing against his silent and still. She could feel the grief radiating from you in a suffocating cloud that seemed to settle over the entire field.

And then you rose.

Without a word you began walking back toward the camp. When you reached Achilles’ tent you entered without a glance back. You hadn’t emerged since.

Penelope exhaled deeply, the memory fading as she returned to the present. She dismounted Pedasus and ran a hand along his mane. The animal shivered beneath her touch, releasing a soft snort of satisfaction.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing.

“Captain!”

Turning at the call she spots Polites and Briseis approaching. Their faces a mix of exhaustion and focus from the weight of the past days; Polites’ spectacles reflecting the soft morning light while Briseis has a frown of quiet determination.

Polites was the first to speak. “The funeral preparations are nearly complete. Treasures, armor, and offerings have been prepared.”

Penelope nods. “Good. Priam sends his condolences and has promised a truce. The Trojans recognize Achilles’ greatness even in death. Let us honor that promise.”

Briseis, her expression softer, stepped forward.  “Lady Thetis and her sisters finished their mourning song,” she adds, her voice faltering slightly. “Now they’ve begun preparing him for the pyre.”

Eurylochus dismounts from his horse in time to hear the news causing a snort to leave him. “Took them long enough,” he mutters dryly. “Day and night they kept singing. You’d think they were preparing a God for burial, not a man.”

Briseis heads snap toward him. A sharp glare decorated the teen's face, her lips pressed together in clear irritation as she let her gaze drag up and down his figure with deliberate judgment.

Eurylochus merely raised an unimpressed brow at her, unbothered.

“Anyways” Briseis huffs, her tone clipped as she turns back to Penelope causing her face to soften, “she still hasn’t moved from his tent. Says she doesn’t want to be there when they light the fire.”

At that Penelope releases a knowing but weary sigh.

Of course.

Of course you would refuse.

She had seen it after Patroclus' death—the way Achilles had locked himself away, shutting out the world. Now history repeated itself. Only this time it was you drowning in grief behind those tent flaps.

It was so cruel; the way Fate forced you to love men doomed to die.

Penelope shakes off the thought and straightens her shoulders. “I’ll go talk to her,” she announced firmly.

Polites and Briseis’ relief was evident while Eurylochus merely shrugged.

With that, the four dispersed, each returning to their duties. Penelope turned toward Achilles’ tent as the murmurs and movement of the Greek camp surrounded her.

The air was thick with smoke and salt as the scent of burning offerings filled her lungs.

Soldiers moved about with jaded purpose; some gathering wood for the pyre burning, others ensuring the funeral rites were upheld. Some men drank in silence as they stare off at sea, while others whispered amongst themselves hushed with mourning.

Diomedes and Menelaus could be seen standing off in the distance deep in discussion, no doubt already shifting their focus to the war that remained. Even in grief the fight did not stop.

As she neared Penelope paused. The tent stood silent, its entrance closed. Brushing her hands down her tunic as a way to gather her resolve, she takes a steadying breath.

Just as she gathered her composure the flap of the tent opened revealing Thetis flanked by three sea nymphs. The immortal women moved with an ethereal grace, their presence like the softest touch of ocean waves against the shore.

Penelope's lips part in muted acknowledgment as Thetis approached.

“Queen of Ithaca,” she greets warmly, though there was a weight behind her voice. She gesture delicately to the three women beside her. “These are my sisters of the sea—Naiads who have sung for my son.”

Penelope’s eyes flickered over each of them. Each nymph carried small bowls or jars of oil, their hands folded reverently as they all dipped their heads slightly in unison.

Penelope, in return, offered a respectful nod. 

Thetis studied her for a moment before exhaling softly. “We came to prepare him,” she murmured, her eyes drifting toward the tent with a wistful look. Her voice grew softer, almost fragile. “But...there was little left to do.”

Penelope furrowed her brow slightly, unsure of what she meant. Thetis simply gave her a faint smile, the corners of her lips trembling.

“She had already done everything,” The mother of Achilles said thick with emotion. “He was washed, anointed with oil, and wrapped in the finest linen.” She paused as though the words themselves hurt to speak. “Every brush, every touch....”

Thetis’ divine composure faltered. Her sea-green eyes glistened, her lips trembled into something bittersweet. “She takes care of him so well. Even now.”

Then, with a small breath, Thetis blinked away her grief. Her expression melted into something unreadable as she cleared her throat softly. “There is still much to do. Preparations to complete.”

Without another word she began walking away, the three nymphs trailing after her like ripples following a stone cast into water. Their movements poised yet heavy with sorrow.

Penelope watched them go before turning back to the tent. Steeling herself once more, she enters.

It was dim inside.

A handful of candles were scattered around, their glow weak against the darkness. The heavy scent of oils—myrrh, frankincense, and lavender—clung to the air, mingling with the lingering salt of the sea.

After a few blinks Penelope’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. Everything was immaculate—almost unnervingly so. The tent had been cleaned with meticulous care; the furs neatly arranged, weapons sharpened, armor polished and set aside.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Achilles.

His body was wrapped in pristine white linen as he rested atop of the freshly made bed. Wrapped from the neck down, his face the only thing left uncovered, his features peaceful as though he were merely resting.

It is clear to see he had been tended to with devotion—swathed in finery fit for a King. Yet it was the sight beside him that made Penelope’s throat tighten.

You sat at the head of the bed quiet. With a small ivory comb in hand, you gently ran it through Achilles’ golden locks, smoothing each strand with a precision so careful and tender it nearly broke her. 

“Everything is nearly ready.” Penelope finally spoke, her voice quiet but steady.

You didn’t react.

“When the sun reaches its highest point in the sky,” she continued, stepping closer, “the pyre will be lit.”

Your fingers faltered for a split second—barely noticeable. Then you resumed, brushing carefully as if you hadn’t heard her. A weak hum left your lips. Acknowledgment, but nothing more.

Penelope exhaled through her nose. She had expected this.

She took a step forward. “You should be there when it happens.”

You didn’t answer.

“A grand celebration in his honor,” she pressed gently. “He wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

Still nothing.

Penelope studied you, her eyes never straying. “He would want you there standing beside him one last time.”

That made you pause. Your fingers stilled completely.

She saw the way your shoulders tensed, the slight tremble in your hands, the tightening of your jaw as you stared down at him. She saw the war happening inside of you—the way your grief clashed and threatened to consume you entirely.

“He’s gone,” you whispered barely above a breath. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Penelope moved to stand at the foot of the bed, her gaze soft but firm. “It does,” she counters. “You of all people know it does.”

You still didn’t look at her. Instead you chose to focus on Achilles’ hair, almost as though you were trying to imprint every strand and texture into your memory.

“He fought for his name to be remembered. For the world to know who he was. Don’t let the last thing he sees of you be your absence in his farewell.”

A shuddered breath left you.

You didn’t answer.

But for now, Penelope didn’t need you to.

“I’ll see you there,” she says softly.

With that, she slips out of the tent, leaving you alone once more in the flickering candlelight.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The Greek encampment stood still as thousands gathered. The sky above was bright and clear, the sun dipping lower as the funeral of Achilles was carried out in full.

They had just finished their recitations; laments sung in mourning, praise spoken of his heroism, and voices raised to celebrate the life of a warrior who had been more than mortal.

Flames licked hungrily at the wooden structure devouring the gold-stitched linens, weapons, and offerings of wine and oil. Around him sacrificed animals laid in careful arrangement, the Myrmidons shedding their locks to throw to the flames—all gifts meant to honor the greatest warrior Greece had ever known.

The fire roared with life, orange and red embers dancing, reflecting in the eyes of every warrior gathered. The heat rippled through the air and yet no one moved—not yet.

At the forefront of the assembly stood Agamemnon clad in ceremonial armor. Customary for the leader of the Greeks to speak at the final send-off, his posture was stiff with the weight of his position.

"Achilles: Son of Peleus, terror of Troy." he began, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. "No man—no God—has fought as he has fought. No warrior has led as he has led."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered, solemn nods exchanged among the ranks.

"The Fates have called him home and so we must give him the send-off he deserves," he announced. "Let us not drown in grief. Let the Myrmidons, the Kings, the warriors of Greece compete in his honor!"

Words practiced and authoritative, the King of Mycenae continues. "To ensure that his name is...never...."

Agamemnon's words trail off as his gaze drifted beyond the gathered soldiers, his expression faltering as though he had forgotten what he was meant to say next.

Standing among the generals in the front, Penelope furrowed her brows and turned her head to follow his gaze as others did the same, murmurs stirring at the disruption.

A hush fell over the assembly as warriors stepped aside, making way for the lone figure who walked toward the burning pyre.

It was you. A ghostly vision of elegance and quiet devastation.

The firelight shone against the white of your long dress, its flowing fabric shifting with each step. The same dress Achilles had once teased you about all those years ago still clung to you like a second skin—ethereal and pure against the backdrop of death and flame.

Your face was passive, not cold, but distant. Upon your head rested a crown of violet-blue petals that contrasted against the cascade of your unbound hair. They were hyacinths—the flower of grief...of remembrance.

But it was not the dress, nor the flowers, nor even the solemnity in your features that left them breathless.

It was what you carried nestled against your chest. A silver urn.

Patroclus’ ashes.

You approached the burning pyre, your footsteps muffled against the sand. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to still in your presence.

Agamemnon's expression twisted as he stepped forward. His mouth parted to protest, but before he could a firm hand clamped down on his arm.

Menelaus.

The Spartan King shook his head once. "Let her," he murmured low enough for only Agamemnon to hear. "This is not our place."

Agamemnon’s lips pressed into a line to make his distaste evident. But ultimately he relented, exhaling sharply he steps back.

You came to stand at the very edge of the pyre. The heat rolled over you—hot enough that others had instinctively taken a step back.

Your gaze found Thetis where she stood at the edge of the gathering with an unreadable expression. Even surrounded by her sea nymphs, she looked utterly alone, watching the flames consume her son.

Lifting a hand to your chest, you bowed your head in homage and respect.

“Lady Thetis,” you spoke gently. “Your son was the greatest warrior to walk these lands. His name will not be forgotten. His victories, his strength, his honor—it will live on in the stories told, in the warriors who still fight in his name.”

A pause.

Your grip on the urn tightened. “This...is not a day for mourning. Not for Achilles.”

The silence was absolute.

“He would not want us to weep for him. He would not want sorrow, or silence, or...grief.” you continued, lifting your chin, voice gaining in strength. “Not in weeping. Not in silence. He would want us to honor him.”

Turning your attention back to the pyre, your fingers curled around the lid. Without hesitation you twisted it open.

Fine white ash caught in the wind as you tipped the urn forward, scattering Patroclus’ remains into the inferno over Achilles. Patroclus and Achilles have rejoined; returning to another as they had been in life.

The moment stretched; heavy...sacred.

Then, with a deep inhale, you turned fully to face the Greeks. “He was a warrior,” you declared unwaveringly. “And warriors deserve a warrior’s farewell.”

Raising an arm, your fingers curl into a fist before opening your palm toward the sky.

“On with the games!”

A beat of silence.

Then—

A roar.

The ground trembled beneath the force of the soldiers’ cheers; thousands of voices rising in unison, a declaration, an acceptance of the tribute. Shields clashed, fists pounded against chests, weapons lifted into the air.

The energy had shifted. Mourning turned into something else.

You let the sound wash over you, let it fill the hollow ache in your chest. As the crowd surged with new energy your eyes sought out a familiar figure.

Penelope stood amidst the Greek fighters. Her dark curls shifted in the breeze, her expression quiet and warm as she met your gaze with a smile touching her lips.

You give her a single nod.

She returns it.

And with that, the funeral games began.