𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 28. HONOR BEYOND DEATH

❝Courage, above all things, is the first quality of a warrior.❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The last remnants of the funeral games lingered as warriors shifted, murmured, and braced themselves for the final words of the evening.

The sky had darkened into rich shades of purple and deep blue, the first stars barely visible above the flickering light of the assembled fires.

From his raised platform Agamemnon stood tall, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd. His golden cloak gleamed in the torchlight, his posture proud, exuding the authority of the Mycenaean Kking.

“This marks the official end of the funeral games,” he declared in a tone crafted for command. “In honor of Achilles we have gathered not only to test our strength, but to remind ourselves of why we fight. To ready our spirits for what lies ahead. The war is not yet won—yet let this day serve as proof of what we are capable of.”

Achilles’ death had cast a long shadow over the camp. But today had been a distraction, a way to redirect the sorrow into something they could grasp.

Even among those who had suffered losses today, there was an unspoken understanding that this grand display of skill and endurance had been necessary.

Nearing the end of his speech, Agamemnon prepared to close the evening when—

“Who will receive the armor Hephaestus forged for Achilles?”

It was Epeius who had spoken, a look of anticipation and thoughtfulness decorating the towering soldier's face.

You stiffened as a low wave of anticipation roll through the assembly.

Your grip on the golden urn tightened, fingers pressing into the cool metal. The flames of his funeral pyre had barely faded into embers and already they were grasping for the remnants of him like scavengers picking at a corpse.

A slow breath hissed between your teeth as you willed yourself to remain still, to keep your face blank. But beneath your skin rage coiled like a snake.

You knew Achilles’ armor was more than just protection. It was power...legacy...recognition. You understood whoever bore it would stand apart from the rest—becoming more than a soldier in this war.

And yet the sheer audacity of it all made your stomach twist.

A single figure stepped forward.

Ajax the Great.

The murmuring waned as the son of Telamon moved with certainty, standing tall as his voice rang out across the gathered warriors. “I will take it.”

Silence followed.

No one challenged him.

That was until...

“No. I will take it.”

Your head snapped to the source.

Penelope.

She had risen from her seat, standing tall as her expression set unwavering. There was no hesitation in her stance—no trace of doubt. For the briefest moment her eyes flickered to yours.

A discreet nod.

A silent acknowledgment.

Warmth spread through your chest. She had noticed. 

Ajax turned toward Penelope fully now, arms crossed as he looked Penelope up and down. "You? What business does a woman have fighting for a man's armor? Does Ithaca lack blacksmiths?"

Whispers waft through the spectators. Some chuckled at his jab, others waited in anticipation for Penelope’s response. 

Her lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. “A blade does not ask what lies between your legs before it cuts down another,” she says smoothly. "So why should armor care who wears it?"

The laughter that followed was not at her expense. Even you found yourself smirking at the sharpness of her words.

Ajax the Great scowled. "You didn’t answer the question woman."

Penelope shrugs. "There are plenty of reasons I might need Achilles’ armor." She taps her chin in mock thought. "Perhaps I’ll win it for my husband," she ignores Ajax’s derisive snort, "or perhaps for my son. He's nearly ten after all—practically a man in his own right.”

Ajax’s scowl deepened. “This is a waste of time.” He turns to face the watching crowd. “This is Achilles’ armor! A warrior’s prize! He would want it to be worn by the strongest among us—”

“That is exactly what we shall determine.”

The voice that cut through the noise was smooth. Thetis.

All eyes turned to the Sea Nymph.

“This armor,” she said, “was forged by Hephaestus himself. A gift to my son, wrought by divine hands. It will not be decided by mere words.” Her gaze flickered between Ajax and Penelope. “If you both seek it, then it shall be earned in combat.”

A silence stretched through the field. No one dared to argue; not even Ajax who clenched his jaw and gave a firm nod. “Very well “But under one condition: if we fight for armor then we fight without it. No shields, no protection. Only skill and strength.”

It made sense in its own way. They were fighting for armor—it was only fitting they face each other vulnerable.

Penelope’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stared unflinching. Finally, she nods.

“I accept.”

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The sun had dipped lower in the sky by the time they stood across from each other. They were clad in simple tunics, their weapons in hand the only thing between them.

Field cleared, the crowd formed a ring of eager spectators, soldiers whispering their wagers and debating whether Penelope had any chance at all against Ajax the Great.

You watched from the podium with a tense face.

Penelope had fought before. She was skilled, quick, intelligent. But Ajax was a different kind of opponent—a wall of muscle and unrelenting power. If he got one clean hit in...

Your thoughts were cut short as the horn sounded.

Ajax lunged first.

Penelope dodged, twisting away from his strike like a shadow slipping through fingers. Her feet barely touched the ground as she moved fluidly, untouchable.

Ajax snarled, striking again, this time anticipating her dodge. His sword barely grazed her shoulder as she pivoted, bringing her own blade up in a swift counterstrike that forced him to take a step back.

She was fast. He was strong. The fight became a dance of power and precision. You barely breathed, watching as she ducked, weaved, countered, struck.

But Ajax was relentless. He pushed forward, his brute strength forcing her back step by step.

Then—

A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd.

His blade cut a clean precise strike across her cheek, just beneath her left eye. The blood beaded then spilled.

A hush fell over the spectators.

Penelope stilled, her free hand brushing against her cheek, feeling the warm trickle of blood against her skin.

Something shifted.

You saw it in her eyes. A spark of fury...a deep primal thing. Her stance changed as a snarl ripped from her throat, her grip tightening around the hilt of her sword.

Penelope lunged.

Her movements turned ruthless, calculated and unforgiving. She went on the offensive, driving him back and forcing him to defend, stumble, and falter.

Then, in a blur—

She sent him sprawling to the ground; his sword flying away out of his reach as she disarmed him with the tip of her blade pressed against his throat.

A silence thick as storm clouds settled over the camp.

Penelope's chest heaved, her grip tight, her eyes wild with heat. So much you thought she might strike the final blow.

Her fingers twitched.

She was going to do it.

"Penelope!"

She froze at the call of her name, her blade hovering at his neck for one long dangerous second before she pulled away. She turned her head toward you.

“The winner,” your voice rang out firmly, “is Penelope of Ithaca.”

No one moved. Then crowd erupted: cheering, shouting, pounding fists against shields.

But Ajax the Great? His expression darkened as he stared at the ground with clenched fists, his entire body trembling with rage.

Penelope exhaled slowly as she pull her sword back. She extends a hand to help him up but he slaps it away. Fury coats his features as he gets up and storms past her, shoving aside soldiers as he went.

You sighed. Typical.

Handing the urn gently to Thetis, you descended from the podium, approaching Penelope with a smile. "Congratulations, Queen of Ithaca."

Briseis and Ajax the Less practically bolted to her side, their eyes shining with admiration. "That was amazing!" Briseis gushed while Ajax beamed. "You’re even better than I imagined!"

Penelope, still bleeding from her wound, merely smiled, inclining her head at them in thanks.

That was when Polites and Eurylochus appeared from the crowd.

Polites, ever excitable, clapped his hands together. "Captain that was incredible! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ajax look so furious."

Eurylochus was much calmer as he gave a single nod of approval. "Impressive."

At that you took your chance. With a smooth motion you gestured between them all and spoke in one breath. "Ajax the Less this is Polites and Eurylochus. Polites and Eurylochus, this is Ajax the Less. Everyone knows each other? Great."

Briseis, ever perceptive, caught on quickly. She cut off Ajax’s incoming questions with a cheerful smile. "Come little warrior," she place a hand on his shoulder. "I could use some help cleaning up after the festivities. Would you mind lending me a hand?"

Ajax the Less blinks. Any thoughts he had immediately disappears as his face flushes a light pink. "O-of course! I’d love to help!" And just like that, he was gone—trailing after her without another thought like a love-sick puppy.

Eurylochus snorts.  "If I didn’t know any better," he muses dryly, "I’d think that was Polites and Commander ____."

Polites, completely unprepared, let out a strangled squawk. His face went beet red. "Wh-what?! I—that's not even—what are you even talking about?!"

Eurylochus simply arch an unimpressed brow.

Polites scrambled for an excuse, his eyes darting around wildly before suddenly perking up and looking in a random direction. "Huh! What was that?" He cupped a hand around his ear, pretending to hear some distant call. "You need me? And Eurylochus too? Alright!"

With that, he latches onto the taller man’s arm and practically drags him away in a frantic retreat. As they walked you could see Polites animatedly scolding Eurylochus, huffing and waving his hands in frantic gestures.

Penelope watched the scene unfold with a shake of her head as a smile played at her lips.

"Well Second-in-Command," she turns to you, her voice light with amusement. "Lead the way."

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The warm glow of countless candles flickered against the fabric walls of Achilles’ tent. The space was immaculate—untouched except for the absence of the body that once lay upon the bed.

Penelope entered at your silent urging, her movements careful, gaze scanning over the familiar room. You gesture toward the bed and wordlessly invite her to sit.

She hesitates briefly before lowering herself onto the soft pelts with a quiet sigh as you made your way to the corner where your mystical messenger bag lay.

The large leather satchel sagged from the pull of gravity, otherwise it looked empty as if it had never been stuffed from years' worth of who knows what. She watches with thinly veiled amusement as you crouched down, undoing the clasp before plunging an arm inside.

“So this is where all of your things went,” she teases in attempt to break the quiet.

Without looking up you huffed. “Can you blame me? A tent this big—this luxurious? I’d be a fool not to take advantage.” Even in your playful tone the somberness didn't go unnoticed.

She said nothing, simply watching as you dug deeper, your frustration evident as you muttered curses under your breath. At one point you fully bent forward, nearly disappearing into the bag, legs sticking up behind you as you rummaged with your entire upper body inside.

Then, suddenly—“Aha!”

You popped back up, hair slightly disheveled but victorious. In your grasp was a small clay jar, its sides wrapped in linen strips to secure the precious balm within.

Penelope’s brow lifted. “Is that—”

“Ambrosial salve,” you confirmed, walking toward her. “Fast healing...no scars.”

Sitting beside her on the cot, you uncorked the jar causing the rich sweet scent of ambrosia and oils to immediately fill the space. The substance inside was a smooth golden color with the texture of cooled olive oil.

"You’re really taking this seriously," Penelope mused as you dipped your fingers into the jar to scoop out some of the cool salve.

You hummed, focusing on the cut beneath her left eye. The wound wasn’t deep, but it stood out against her sun-kissed skin—an ugly reminder of her fight with Ajax.

"You’re the one being serious about your face," you countered as you brush gently over the cut, spreading the salve in careful strokes. "Since when do you care about scars?"

Penelope let out a quiet laugh, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "You're right, I never did before," she admits, her gaze dropping to her lap.

"I just..." She exhales as her voice grows soft. "I just want to look as close as I was before I left Ithaca. A part of me fears that if I don't...I’ll be unrecognizable to Odysseus."

Your paused at her confession.

"Penelope..."

She lifts her gaze, honey-colored eyes searching yours.

You brush the last bit of salve over her skin before setting the jar aside. "No matter how you look," you murmured, "Odysseus will always recognize you...always love you."

Her lips parted slightly, a flicker of emotion crossing her face—something fragile, something almost vulnerable. Then, without a word, she leaned forward. She press her forehead against yours, her breath warm and even.

The two of you sat there as the world outside nothing more than a distant hum.

Neither of you spoke.

There was no need to.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

You walked alone along the shoreline, the cool sands shifting beneath your bare feet as the night stretched infinitely above you; an endless canvas of dark indigo punctuated by scattered stars as each one burned steady and bright.

In your arms carried the urn. A modest thing in comparison to the men it held—a golden vessel etched with the marks of heroism, a resting place for the ashes of Achilles and Patroclus. It was warm against your skin as if it still carried the lingering presence of those who once laughed and fought beside you.

The massive form of the Tumulus loomed ahead like a silent sentinel. Built high and towering, even from a distance it would be seen by sailors for generations to come.

You let out a slow breath as you kneel before it. Setting the urn down beside you, fingers trace over the cool metal before you dug your hands into the sand.

The grains were coarse beneath your fingertips as you worked, pushing through dirt and pebbles, creating a hollow space deep enough without disturbing the structure. With a final pause, you lift the urn to your lips and press a heartfelt kiss onto its surface before gently placing it into the earth.

Your hands moved slowly as you pushed the sand back into place until there was no evidence of what now lay beneath. But you knew. And that was enough.

For a while you simply sat there, staring at the freshly disturbed earth, feeling the exhaustion of weeks—years—settle into your very bones.

"The Greeks are preparing to fight again," you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "Troy kept their promise—they let us mourn. But the war isn’t over. It never was."

You swallowed as you force a watery smile. "You would have loved the celebration they threw for you Achilles. You always did love a spectacle." Your laughter was fragile like glass barely holding together. "Your name will be sung for eternity, I have no doubt of that."

A lump formed in your throat causing your voice to grow quieter. "And Patroclus...I know you two are together again. You probably haven’t let go of each other since the moment you reunited."

The thought should have brought you comfort. Instead your breath hitched and the quiet laugh that had slipped past your lips morphed into something else. Your hands clenched into the sand as your shoulders trembled, your body wracked with sobs.

The weight of everything crashed into you at once—the grief, the loss, the cruel hand of Fate that had ripped them from the world. For a while the only sounds heard was the distant crash of waves and the broken cries spilling from you.

Then, a breeze swept through the shore, warm and fleeting, brushing against your tear-streaked cheeks like the ghost of a touch. A presence—something you could not see but could feel.

You stilled, lifting your gaze to the sky. The stars blurred through the film of your tears, shimmering like distant lanterns. The moon’s glow seemed softer now as if watching over you.

Taking a deep shaky breath, you closed your eyes and push the grief down even when the tears didn’t completely cease. When you opened them again your gaze fell to the base of the Tumulus.

“Although it may not be at yours nor Patroclus' hands..."

Your jaw clenched, a look determination and revenge fills your heart.

"Troy will fall."