𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 29. ABSENCE OF THE DEPARTED

❝Grief can be a burden but also an anchor. You'll get used to the weight...how it holds you in place❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The first light of dawn crept into Penelope’s tent casting faint golden stripes across the canvas.

She lay motionless on the bed, unfocused eyes staring upward as if the answer to her restless thoughts was hidden somewhere in the ceiling above.

Despite being fully dressed for the day—her tunic neatly fastened, her belt cinched at her waist—Penelope made no move to rise.

Her mind felt like it was being pulled in a thousand directions; each thought louder than the last, and yet somehow it all felt like nothing.

She exhaled softly as her gaze drifted toward the empty space beside her.

Ever since you had moved out of her tent and into Achilles’ after his death, the nights had become longer and quieter. She hadn’t realized how much she had relied on the simple comfort of your presence—the late-night whispers, the quiet laughter shared in the darkness, the small moments that reminded her of your youth together in Sparta.

Now there was only silence.

Penelope rolled onto her side, her hand stretching out to grasp at the familiar worn cloth beside her. She pulled it close to bury her face into the deep red folds of Odysseus’ war cloak.

She inhaled deeply, hoping—futilely—to catch even the faintest trace of his scent. She knows it had been years since he had given it to her. Still, she clung to it, as if sheer will alone could bring him back.

Her heart ached with the memory of him: the sharp curve of his cunning smile, the way his blue and brown eyes would glint when he had an idea he knew she wouldn’t approve of (but manages to charm her into agreeing anyway), the feel of his dark curly hair slipping between her fingers.

Even with him being younger and shorter than her, his presence always felt larger, his personality filling any space they shared, leaving no room for doubt or fear. A pang of unrelenting longing struck her chest.

She missed him....She missed them both.

But before she could let herself drown in that ache—

"Captain!" The panicked shout snapped her from her thoughts.

Penelope bolted upright.

In one swift motion, she snatched Odysseus’ cloak, slinging it over her shoulders as she strode out of the tent. Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline sharpening her senses as she scanned the camp for the source of call.

She didn’t have to look far.

Polites was running toward her with a sense of urgency. Eurylochus followed closely behind, his usual stoic demeanor now tinged with something far apprehensive.

“Captain!” Polites repeats with a gasp. His amber colored eyes were wide with alarm as he continued to try and catch his breath.

"What happened?" Penelope sharply asks.

“A-ajax the Great never returned last night,” he stammers. “After the duel for Achilles’ armor. The soldiers—they said they saw him uh...making a scene! Shouting as he stormed off into the distance. Said he was furious, humiliated by losing—” Polites hesitates, his gaze flickering nervously. “To well...you.”

Penelope’s brows knitted together. She hadn’t thought much of Ajax storming off after the duel. He was prideful, sure, but a loss wasn’t uncommon in war.

“And?”

Polites swallowed hard. “..and when he didn’t return last night, Menelaus sent soldiers to find him. They...” His voice faltered causing Eurylochus to step forward and finish.

"They found him this morning," the impassive man said quietly. “He buried the hilt of his sword into the ground and fell on it. Killed himself.”

Penelope could only stare, disbelief anchoring her in place.

Ajax the Great—one of the most formidable warriors among them—brought low by the shame of losing to her...a woman. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“That’s not the only news.”

Though quiet, Eurylochus' words carried a weight that immediately set Penelope on edge.

Just as he began to speak, another shout, this time more high-pitched and desperate, ripped through the morning air.

“Penelope!”

All three of them turned just in time to see Briseis sprinting toward them. Her face was ashen, her eyes wide with terror. In her hands she clutched something tightly against her chest; a crumpled parchment that fluttered in the breeze.

“____!” Briseis blurted out, barely able to catch her breath as she stumbled to a halt before them. “She’s missing!”

Penelope’s heart plummeted. “What?”

Briseis nods frantically. “I went to her tent this morning but she wasn’t there. She’s...she’s gone!”

“Apparently some Ithacan soldiers at the docks saw her.” Eurylochus stepped in. “Said she was preparing a small boat on the shore. They thought nothing of it—she told them Agamemnon had sent her on a task.”

Penelope’s mind raced, her thoughts spinning faster than she could grasp. You wouldn’t have just left. Not without telling her.

Briseis thrusts the crumpled parchment toward her with trembling hands. “I found this in the tent. Half-charred...almost like she tried to destroy it. It’s addressed to Agamemnon.”

Penelope’s fingers tightened around the letter, her breath coming in short bursts.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

And you were at the heart of it.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The council tent was a chaotic mess.

The air inside was thick with murmurs and hushed panic; the scent of unwashed bodies and lingering wine from the night before mingling with the acrid bite of burning torches.

Generals, Kings, and Commanders had gathered hastily, many still shaking off the haze of sleep. Some were in varying states of dress—half-buckled armor, wrinkled tunics, or sleeping robes hastily thrown over bare chests.

At the center stood Diomedes. Already fully armored, his jaw clenched as he addressed the room in attempt to impose some order over the rising panic.

“This is serious!” The King of Argos barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs. “Ajax the Great was one of our strongest allies. His death is not just a personal loss; it’s a blow to our entire force.”

His words barely had time to settle before Agamemnon released a body-shaking yawn.

“By the Gods Diomedes” he groans, voice thick with irritation as he rubbed at his temples. “you dragged us out of bed for this? The fool is dead. It could’ve waited until midday."

The Mycenaean King sat slouched in his chair; the thin woolen tunic of his sleepwear crumpled and crooked on his broad shoulders, his face bearing the deep lines of someone pulled too soon from his bed.

Diomedes’ eyes narrowed dangerously. “This isn’t a trivial matter. Ajax was a major ally—”

Agamemnon waved him off with a lazy flick of his wrist. “How much of an ally could he have been if he was weak enough to take his own life? Over a little embarrassment no less?” His lip curled into a sneer as he chuckles darkly. “Good luck getting him an honorable burial. To the birds I say.”

Diomedes grits his teeth, about to lash out again when the tent’s entrance burst open with a sudden force that sent the flap whipping against the poles.

"WHERE IS HE?!"

Penelope storms in, her eyes wild as they scanned the gathered men like a hawk hunting prey until they locked onto the Agamemnon.

She strode forward without hesitation.

Before anyone could react, she drew Aionios—Ithacan blade glinting in the torchlight as she leveled it directly at Agamemnon’s throat.

Men jolted in their seats. Some flew to grab their weapons, others simply watch with wide eyes.

But no one dared to move.

“Penelope!”
“Stand down!”

Diomedes and Menelaus shouted in unison, both stepping forward with raised hands in a futile attempt to de-escalate the situation.

Agamemnon blinked, the sleep momentarily clearing from his eyes as he stared at the blade hovering dangerously close to his skin. For a heartbeat it seemed he finally grasped the seriousness of the situation—until he yawned again.

“What now?” he mutters, sounding more annoyed than threatened, tone dripping with boredom. He leans back slightly as if her rage was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Penelope says nothing. Instead, she reaches into her cloak and throw the crumpled paper directly into his face, the paper bouncing off and landing at his feet.

“You know,” she hissed venomously. “What have you done? Why have you sent her away?”

Agamemnon lazily glances at it, gaze flicking back to Penelope before releasing a cruel snort. "Careful Queen of Ithaca. You might wrinkle that pretty forehead of yours." He raises a single finger at that, gently pushing the blade to the side as though it were a mere twig in his way.

"Penelope stand down." Diomedes speaks up, hand hovering near Penelope’s arm, though he knew better than to touch her while she was this volatile. "We’ll get answers, but not like this."

Turning to Agamemnon, Diomedes’ patience wore thin. "And you. Try not to goad the person holding a blade to your throat."

The Commander of the Greeks waved him off dismissively. "Oh please. I’ve become desensitized to death threats from women. Why at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if I met my end at the hands of my own wife with all the times she said she would! Ha!”

When he saw that no one was laughing—not even Menelaus—the smirk faltered.

The King sighs dramatically. "Fine. If you must knoooow," he drawled as he leisurely picks at a loose thread on his tunic, "your dear Second-in-Command came to me for help."

Penelope’s grip on her sword tightened, the blade lowering slightly but her posture remaining rigid. “Help?” she repeats icily. “What kind of help? Tell me what you two were conversing about.”

Agamemnon’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

"Ah, that I can’t say." He taps the side of his nose mockingly. "Promised me not to breathe a word of it to anyone. Not even to her beloved Captain."

Diomedes’ brow shot up, disbelief plain on his face. "And you actually agreed to that?"

Agamemnon gave a lazy shrug. “I promised on the River Styx. And as much as I dislike being told what to do, I dislike angering the Gods even more. A stake like that surpasses even my distaste for her.”

The room fell into tense silence, the weight of his words settling like a heavy shroud over those gathered.

Penelope’s jaw clenched upon realizing she’d get no answers from him. With a sharp breath she lowers Aionios.

“Enough of this.” Diomedes speaks, sensing the wanning of tension. “With the funeral games over the truce is done. The Trojans will move soon—we’ve already spotted spies on the outskirts observing our camp. We can’t afford to lose focus now.”

Giving Agamemnon one last seething glare, Penelope sheaths her sword with a harsh scrape of metal. “I’ll gather my men,” she spats, her voice low but filled with intent.

With that, she turns on her heel and strides out of the tent, leaving behind a suffocating silence in her wake.

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

The clash of swords and screams of the wounded echoed across the battlefield; the air thick with the scent of sweat and blood.

The walls of Troy loomed in the near distance, their towering shadows stretching across the blood-soaked earth. From atop those walls Trojan archers perched like vultures, their arrows poised and eyes trained on the skirmish below.

Penelope’s voice cut through sharp and commanding as she shouted orders to her troops. "Push forward!" she barks, her voice hoarse from hours of battle but no less fierce. "Don't give them an inch!"

Five days...five grueling days since your disappearance.

And she had felt the weight of each one like an anchor dragging her deeper into frustration and worry. The absence gnawed at her; a silent specter in every encounter, every restless night.

True to Agamemnon’s cruel words, Ajax the Great's burial had been one of mere obligation. Had it not been for Penelope’s relentless insistence the man wouldn’t have been buried at all. His resting place was a modest pile of stones—a stark contrast to the honor he might have once deserved.

The battles had grown increasingly violent.

What started as petty skirmishes had grown into fierce battles, each clash more brutal than the last. The Trojans, despite their losses, fought like men possessed.

Penelope had thrown herself into today's fight with a fervor that surprised even her—it becoming the only thing that keeps the gnawing worry at bay. But even as her blade struck down one Trojan after another, her mind remained painfully aware of your absence.

The distraction nearly cost her. A tall and brutal enemy soldier surged from the side, his raised blade aiming for her unguarded back with deadly precision.

But before the steel could meet flesh, it was intercepted.

The Trojan’s head snapped back, a gurgled cry escaping his throat as an axe cleaved clean through his neck, sending his lifeless body crumpling to the ground.

Penelope’s breath hitched. She recognized that weapon instantly.

Her eyes darted upward and there you were—perched atop Pedasus. Your form was haloed by the sunlight that cut through the smoky haze of war, a playful smile tugged at your lips as you looked down at her.

"What is this Captain? Need me to keep you alive now?" you teased.

Penelope could only stare, her mind struggling to reconcile the sight of you—whole, alive, here.

Those around perked up upon noticing your sudden appearance.

Soldiers who had been on the brink of exhaustion now roared, their cries of battle blending with cheers. Your name spread through the lines like wildfire causing a shift almost instantly. The Greeks pressed forward, driving the Trojans back now that their morale surged.

Penelope, heart both relieved and irritated, shoots you a mock scowl as she dusted herself off. "You certainly know how to make an entrance. Mind telling me where the hell you’ve been?" she mutters dryly, though her voice lacked any real bite.

You dismount from Pedasus with a graceful hop, patting the horse’s flank before sending him back toward the Greek camp. The steed trotted off without resistance as if understanding your silent command.​​​

"Oh you know," you began, that cat-like gleam in your eye impossible to miss. "just a little errand."

The conversation went on even as the two of you moved back into the thick of battle, talking as if you were discussing plans over wine. "While I was...recuperating in Achilles’ tent, I received a letter."

Penelope’s brow furrowed as your blades cut through Trojans with effortless precision.

"From Chryseis," you continued. "She’s grown—twenty now...followed her father's footsteps to became a Priestess of Apollo. She runs a temple that serves as a dual-haven for war survivors, inspired by what we’ve done—protecting the weak...” You trailed off, your eyes glinting with something unreadable.

Penelope’s expression softened slightly as she parried an incoming spear.

“She shared a prophecy that came to her during prayer,” You ducked under a Trojan’s swing, your axe finding its home in his side. “Said Troy cannot fall without the bow of Heracles.”

That made Penelope falter slightly as the revelation sank in. Her gaze flicked toward the looming walls of Troy then back to you.

“Wait,” she muttered as her blade pierced another enemy. “Isn’t the bow in Philoctetes’ possession? As in the same Greek hero Agamemnon convinced the others to abandon on Lemnos because of a festering snake bite? That Philoctetes?”

You chuckled. “The very same.”

The rhythm of your movements remained synchronized, two warriors moving as one.

"After I got the letter," you explained between swings. "I knew time was short. So I sent word to Agamemnon and explained the prophecy. Somehow managed to convince that arrogant bastard to grant me diplomatic leave sealed with his own stamp.”

Penelope arched a brow as she sliced through a Trojan shield. "And? Did you get it?"

Grinning like a cat who’d caught a bird, you whipped of your cloak with dramatic flourish.

The massive bow of Heracles gleamed against your back; its golden inlays shimmering with an otherworldly light, the wood almost seeming to hum with latent power.

An impressed smirk tugged at Penelope's lips. “Convincing him must’ve been fun.”

You gave a mock bow as you struck down another opponent, your grin never fading. “Took some work. Philoctetes was still bitter about being abandoned. But lucky for me, Ithaca had no part in that. And so with a little promise and healing salve for that nasty bite...bam. Here we are.”

Penelope gave you a suspicious glance “What kind of promise?”

“Oh nothing...” Your grin became wolfish at this point. “just have to wait and see.”

Before she could press further clamor erupted. The Trojans were pushed so far back that the walls of Troy now loomed directly behind them, the towering structures casting long shadows over the ground.

"IS THIS ALL THE MIGHTY GREEKS HAVE LEFT?!"

You and Penelope turned toward the sound, your gazes settling on Paris as he stood atop the walls.

It seems even with his people cornered and bloodied, the Trojan Prince’s arrogance remained undeterred. His bow was slung lazily over his shoulder, his golden armor gleaming in the light as if mocking the blood and dirt-streaked warriors below.

"PATHETIC!" he spats. "YOUR GREATEST HERO LIES BENEATH THE EARTH AND STILL YOU FOOLS MARCH TO YOUR DEATHS!"

Penelope’s chest heaved with exertion, her eyes narrowing in pure disdain as she watched the Prince continue his jeers. "Funny he thinks himself untouchable," she mutters.

You hummed in agreement as your gaze never left Paris. His voice grated against your skin like a dull blade, but it wasn’t until his next words that something in you snapped.

"ACHILLES FELL LIKE THE COWARD HE WAS!!" Paris bellowed. He lifts his arms wide as if to invite the Gods themselves to hear his blasphemy. "TELL ME GREEKS—HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW YOUR SO-CALLED INVINCIBLE WARRIOR DIED WITH AN ARROW IN HIS HEEL LIKE A WOUNDED DEER?!"

Penelope’s eyed widened before she snapped her head toward you. The light in your eyes had vanished completely, instead replaced by something cold.

Your fingers flex around the hilt of your axe as you eerily look at her with a blank expression. "Hold this for me," you say casually while offering it out to her.

Accepting the weapon, Penelope barely had time to react before you were already in motion.

You unslung the Bow of Heracles from your shoulder smoothly, the colossal weapon catching the fading sunlight as you pulled it free. From the thick leather pouch at your hip you pulled the last single arrow in its holder.

Penelope instinctively took a small step back as the arrow caught the light. A dark oily sheen coated the iron tip—the unmistakable sign of Hydra venom. The liquid wafted death, the arrow seeming to quiver as though the weapon itself thirsted for blood.

You moved with fluid precision, your body shifting seamlessly into a perfect stance. Penelope was instantly reminded of Odysseus—her husband's form exactly like yours with a bow in hand. But there was something different about you.

Something more deadly.

Your lips curled into a sneer at Paris' arrogant tirade. "Does he ever shut the fuck up?" Notching the arrow on its string, you pull the back until it goes taunt before releasing with a sharp twang.

The arrow sliced through the air faster than any mortal eye could follow, the sounds of battle fading into an unnatural silence as the arrow neared its mark with unerring precision.

"YOU THINK HIDING BEHIND YOUR DEAD HEROS WILL SAVE YOU?!" Paris lifts his chin in mockery. "I'LL SEND EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU TO HADES. THAT WAY YOUR PRECIOUS ACHILLES CAN—"

He never finished.

The Trojan Prince's body jerked mid-sentence, his mouth still open as no sound emerged. For a moment he just stood there with confused expression crossing his face as his hands instinctively dropped to his groin.

His eyes widened.

He looks down and there it was—the arrow embedded deep in his groin. The projectile had slipped perfectly through the small slit in his armor, the shaft quivering as the venom began to seep into his veins.

For a heartbeat there was nothing.

Then, Paris let out a piercing, high-pitched scream till the point his voice cracked from the sheer pain. "MY DICK!"

His howls and shrieks echoed off the walls of Troy like a twisted symphony.

"OH GODS MY DICK! WHO SHOT ME IN THE DIIIIIICK!"

Greek and Trojan alike stared in stunned silence as the grotesque scene unfolded before them: Paris was hopping in place with both hands cupped between his legs, his face contorted in agony as he continued to wail like a wounded animal.

"Ah," A sweet and satisfied smile pull at your lips as you watched him flail. "that’s much better."